UC-NRLF 
 

I PUT MY ARMS AROCND HER. 
 
 [See Page 470 
 
A. 
 
 BY 
 
 CONSTANCE FENBIORE WOOLSON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY C. S. RE1NHART 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRAXKLIX SQUARE 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1882, by 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 . . All right* resierv$< ; 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 "I PUT MY ARMS ROUND HER" Frontispiece. 
 
 THE GIRL PAUSED AND REFLECTED A MOMENT" . To face Page 18 
 
 "AS SHE BENT OVER THE OLD VOLUME" 42 
 
 LOIS HlNSDALE o 62 
 
 "AND IT ENDED IN THEIR RACING DOWN TO 
 GETHER" 84 
 
 " ALARMED, HE BENT OVER HER" 104 
 
 " SHE SAT THERE HIGH IN THE AlR WHILE THE 
 
 STEAMER BACKED OUT FROM THE PIERS" . . " 120 
 
 "YOU KNOW I TOO MUST GO FAR AWAY" 132 
 
 TlTA LISTENING 136 
 
 "DEAR ME! WHAT CAN BE DONE WITH SUCH A 
 
 YOUNG SAVAGE ?" 152 
 
 IN THE WOODS 186 
 
 "HE TOOK HIS BEST COAT FROM HIS LEAN VA 
 LISE" , " 208 
 
 "HE WAS MERELY NOTING THE EFFECT" 226 
 
 " SHE BATHED HER FLUSHED CHEEKS" " 234 
 
 "SHE STARTED SLIGHTLY" " 254 
 
 " SHE BURIED HER FACE TREMBLINGLY IN HER 
 
 HANDS" " 262 
 
 "ANNE DREW A CHAIR TO THE BEDSIDE, AND 
 SAT DOWN WITH HER BACK TO THE MOON- 
 
 LIGHT" " 284 
 
 M11990 
 
iv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 "WHILE HER MAID WAS COILING HEB FAIR 
 
 HAIR" TofacePage 308 
 
 " IT is, OR SHOULD BE, OVER THERE" " 328 
 
 "Miss Lois SIGHED DEEPLY" " 350 
 
 " JULY WALKED IN FRONT, WITH HIS GUN OVER 
 
 HIS SHOULDER" 374 
 
 "SHE TRIED TO RISE, BUT HE HELD HER ARM 
 
 WITH BOTH HANDS" , . 386 
 
 " WEAK, HOLDING ON BY THE TREES" " 392 
 
 "SAW HER SLOWLY ASCEND THE HOUSE STEPS" " 408 
 
 " ANNE, STILL AS A STATUE" " 432 
 
 "HE ROSE, AND TOOK HER COLD HANDS IN HIS" 460 
 
 HE OBEYED WITHOUT COMMENT" 498 
 
 " THE SECOND BOAT, WHICH WAS FARTHER UP 
 
 THE LAKE, CONTAINED A MAN" 514 
 
 "HE REACHED THE WINDOWS, AND PEEPED 
 
 THROUGH A CRACK IN THE OLD BLIND".... " 530 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing boy ; 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy. 
 
 The youth who daily farther from the East 
 Must travel, still is Nature s priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day." 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 * It is but little we can do for each other. We accompany the youth 
 with sympathy and manifold old sayings of the wise to the gate of the 
 arena, but it is certain that not by strength of ours, or by the old say 
 ings, but only on strength of his own, unknown to us or to any, he must 
 stand or fall." EMERSON. 
 
 "DOES it look well, father 2" 
 "What, child!" 
 
 "Does this look well? 1 
 
 William Douglas stopped playing for a moment, and 
 turned his head toward the speaker, who, standing on a 
 ladder, bent herself to one side, in order that he might 
 see the wreath of evergreen, studded with cones, which 
 she had hung on the wall over one of the small arched 
 windows. 
 
 " It is too compact, Anne, too heavy. There should be 
 sprays falling from it here and there, like a real vine. 
 The greenery, dear, should be either growing naturally 
 upward or twining; large branches standing in the cor 
 ners like trees, or climbing vines. Stars, stiff circles, and 
 set shapes should be avoided. That wreath looks as 
 though it had been planed by a carpenter." 
 
 1 
 
ANNE. 
 
 "Ah, "said William Douglas, something 1 which made 
 you think of a smile, although no smile was there, pass 
 ing over his face, "it looks like her work; it will last a 
 long time. Arid there will be no need to remove it for 
 Ash- Wednesday, Anne; there is nothing joyous about it." 
 
 " I did not notice that it was ugly," said the girl, try 
 ing in her bent posture to look at the wreath, and bring 
 ing one eye and a portion of anxious forehead to bear 
 upon it. 
 
 "That is because Miss Lois made it," replied William 
 Douglas, returning to his music. 
 
 Anne, standing straight again, surveyed the garland 
 in silence. Then she changed its position once or twice, 
 studying the effect. Her figure, poised on the round of the 
 ladder, high in the air, was, although unsupported, firm. 
 With her arms raised above her head in a position which 
 few women could have endured for more than a moment, 
 she appeared as unconcerned, and strong, and sure of her 
 footing, as though she had been standing on the floor. 
 There was vigor about her and elasticity, combined un 
 expectedly with the soft curves and dimples of a child. 
 Viewed from the floor, this was a young Diana, or a 
 Greek maiden, as we imagine Greek maidens to have been. 
 The rounded arms, visible through the close sleeves of 
 the dark woollen dress, the finely moulded wrists below 
 the heavy wreath, the lithe, natural waist, all belonged 
 to a young goddess. But when Anne Douglas came 
 down from her height, and turned toward you, the idea 
 ^ vanished. Here was no goddess, no Greek ; only an 
 American girl, with a skin like a peach. Anne Doug 
 las s eyes were violet-blue, wide open, and frank. She 
 had not yet learned that there was any reason why she 
 should not look at everything with the calm directness of 
 childhood. Equally like a child was the unconsciousness 
 of her mouth, but the full lips were exquisitely curved. 
 Her brown hair was braided in a heavy knot at the back 
 of her head ; but little rings and roughened curly ends 
 stood up round her forehead and on her temples, as 
 though defying restraint. This unwritten face, with its 
 
ANNE. 3 
 
 direct gaze, so far neutralized the effect of the Diana-like 
 form that the girl missed beauty on both sides. The 
 usual ideal of pretty, slender, unformed maidenhood 
 was riot realized, and yet Anne Douglas s face was more 
 like what is called a baby face than that of any other girl 
 011 the island. The adjective generally applied to her 
 was "big." This big, soft-cheeked girl now stood irreso 
 lutely looking at the condemned wreath. 
 
 The sun was setting, and poured a flood of clear yel 
 low light through the little west windows; the man at 
 the organ was playing a sober, steadfast German choral, 
 without exultation, yet full of a resolute purpose which 
 defied even death and the grave. Out through the east 
 ern windows stretched the frozen straits, the snow-cov 
 ered islands, and below rang out the bugle. "It will be 
 dark in a few moments," said Anne to herself; "I will 
 do it." 
 
 She moved the ladder across to the chancel, mounted 
 to its top again, and placed the wreath directly over the 
 altar, connecting it deftly with the numerous long lines 
 of delicate wreathing woven in thread-like green lace- 
 work which hung there, waiting for their key-stone a 
 place of honor which the condemned wreath was to fill. 
 It now crowned the whole. The little house of God was 
 but an upper chamber, roughly finished and barren ; its 
 only treasure was a small organ, a gift from a father 
 whose daughter, a stranger from the South, had died 
 upon the island, requesting that her memorial might be 
 music rather than a cold stone. William Douglas had 
 superintended the unpacking and placing of this gift, and 
 loved it almost as though it had been his- own child. In 
 deed, it was a child, a musical child one who compre 
 hended his varying moods when no one else did, not even 
 Anne. 
 
 "It makes no difference now," said Anne, aloud, car 
 rying the ladder toward the door; " it is done and ended. 
 Here is the ladder, Jones, and please keep up the fires all 
 night, unless you wish to see us frozen stiff to-morrow." 
 
 A man in common soldier s uniform touched his cap 
 and took the ladder. Anne went back. Now for one 
 
4 ANNE. 
 
 final look, father," she said, "and then we must go home; 
 the children will be waiting." 
 
 William Douglas played a few more soft strains, and 
 turned round. "Well, child," he said, stroking his thin 
 gray beard with an irresolute motion habitual with him, 
 and looking at the small perspective of the chapel with 
 critical gaze, so you have put Miss Lois s wreath up 
 there ?" 
 
 Yes ; it is the only thing she had time to make, and 
 she took so much pains with it I could not bear to have 
 her disappointed. It will not be much noticed." 
 
 "Yes, it will." 
 
 "I am sorry, then; but it can not be moved. And to 
 tell the truth, father, although I suppose you will laugh 
 at me, / think it looks well." 
 
 It looks better than anything else in the room, and 
 crowns the whole," said Douglas, rising and standing by 
 his daughter s side. " It was a stroke of genius to place 
 it there, Anne." 
 
 "Was it ?" said the girl, her face flushing with plea 
 sure. "But I was thinking only of Miss Lois." 
 
 "I am afraid you were," said Douglas, with his shad 
 owy smile. 
 
 The rough walls and beams of the chapel were deco 
 rated with fine spray-like lines of evergreen, all pointing 
 toward the chancel; there was not a solid spot upon 
 which the eye could rest, no upright branches in the cor 
 ners, no massed bunches over the windows, no stars of 
 Bethlehem, anchors, or nondescript Greek letters ; the 
 whole chapel was simply outlined in light feathery lines 
 of green, which reached the chancel, entered it, played 
 about its walls, and finally came together under the one 
 massive wreath whose even circle and thick foliage held 
 them all firmly in place, and ended their wanderings in 
 a restful quiet strength. While the two stood gazing, 
 the lemon-colored light faded, and almost immediately 
 it was night ; the red glow shining out under the doors 
 of the large stoves alone illuminated the room, which 
 grew into a shadowy place, the aromatic fragrance of 
 the evergreens filling the warm air pungently, more 
 
ANNE. 5 
 
 perceptible, as fragrance always is, in the darkness. 
 William Douglas turned to the organ again, and began 
 playing the music of an old vigil. 
 
 "The bugle sounded long ago, father," said Anne, 
 "It is quite dark now, and very cold; I know by the 
 crackling noise the men s feet make across the parade- 
 ground." 
 
 But the father played on. Come here, daughter, " he 
 said; "listen to this waiting, watching, praying music. 
 Do you not see the old monks in the cloisters telling the 
 hours through the long night, waiting for the dawn, 
 the dawn of Christmas ? Look round you ; see this dim 
 chapel, the air filled with fragrance like incense. These 
 far-off chords, now ; might they not be the angels, sing 
 ing over the parapet of heaven ?" 
 
 Anne stood by her father s side, and listened. Yes, " 
 she said, "I can imagine it. And yet I could imagine it 
 2, great deal better if I did not know where every bench 
 was, and every darn in the chancel carpet, and every 
 mended pane in the windows. I am sorry I am so dull, 
 father." 
 
 "Not dull, but unawakened." 
 
 "And when shall I waken ?" pursued the girl, accus 
 tomed to carrying on long conversations with this dream 
 ing father, whom she loved devotedly. 
 
 4 God knows ! May He be with you at your waken 
 ing!" 
 
 "I would rather have you, father; that is, if it is not 
 wicked to say so. But I am very often wicked, I think," 
 she added, remorsefully. 
 
 William Douglas smiled, closed the organ, and, throw 
 ing his arm round his tall young daughter, walked with 
 her down the aisle toward the door. 
 
 "But you have forgotten your cloak," said Anne, run 
 ning back to get it. She clasped it carefully round his 
 throat, drew the peaked hood over his head, and fastened 
 it with straps of deer s hide. Her own fur cloak and cap 
 were already on, and thus enveloped, the two descended 
 the dark stairs, crossed the inner parade-ground, passed 
 Under the iron arch, and made their way down the long 
 
6 ANNE. 
 
 sloping path, cut in the cliff-side, which led from the lit 
 tie fort 011 the height to the village below. The ther 
 mometer outside the commandant s door showed a tem 
 perature several degrees below zero; the dry old snow 
 that covered the ground was hardened into ice on the top, 
 so that boys walked on its crust above the fences. Over- 
 head the stars glittered keenly, like the sharp edges of 
 Damascus blades, and the white expanse of the ice-fields 
 below gave out a strange pallid light which was neither 
 like that of sun nor of moon, of dawn nor of twilight. The 
 little village showed but few signs of life as they turned 
 into its main street ; the piers were sheets of ice. 
 
 Nothing wintered there ; the summer fleets were laid 
 up in the rivers farther south, where the large towns 
 stood on the lower lakes. The shutters of the few shops 
 had been tightly closed at sunset, when all the inhabited 
 houses were tightly closed also; inside there were cur 
 tains, sometimes a double set, woollen cloth, blankets, or 
 skins, according to the wealth of the occupants. Thus 
 housed, with great fires burning in their dark stoves, and 
 one small lamp, the store-keepers waited for custom until 
 nine o clock, after which time hardly any one stirred 
 abroad, unless it was some warm-blooded youth, who de 
 fied the elements with the only power which can make 
 us forget them. 
 
 At times, early in the evening, the door of one of these 
 shops opened, and a figure entered through a narrow 
 crack; for no islander opened a door widely it was giv 
 ing too much advantage to the foe of his life, the wea 
 ther. This figure, enveloped in furs or a blanket, came 
 toward the stove and warmed its hands with deliberation, 
 the merchant meanwhile remaining calmly seated ; then, 
 after some moments, it threw back its hood, and disclosed 
 the face of perhaps an Indian, perhaps a French fisher 
 man, perhaps an Irish soldier from the barracks. The 
 customer now mentioned his errand, and the merchant, 
 rising in his turn, stretched himself like a shaggy dog 
 loath to leave the fire, took his little lamp, and prepared 
 , to go in quest of the article desired, which lay, perhaps, 
 hoyond the circle of heat, somewhere in the outer dark 
 
ANNE. 7 
 
 ness of the dim interior. It was an understood rule that 
 no one should ask for nails or any kind of ironware in 
 the evening : it was labor enough for the merchant to find 
 and handle his lighter goods when the cold was so intense. 
 There was not much bargaining in the winter; people 
 kept their breath in their mouths. The merchants could 
 have made money if they had had more customers or 
 more energy; as it was, however, the small population 
 and the cold kept them lethargically honest. 
 
 Anne and her father turned northward. The southern 
 half of the little village had two streets, one behind the 
 other, and both were clogged and overshadowed by the 
 irregular old buildings of the once-powerful fur company. 
 These ancient frames, empty and desolate, rose above the 
 low cottages of the islanders, sometimes three and four 
 stories in height, with the old pulleys and hoisting ap 
 paratus still in place under their peaked roofs, like gallows 
 ready for the old traders to hang 1 themselves upon, if 
 they came back and saw the degeneracy of the furless 
 times. No one used these warehouses now, no one prop 
 ped them up, no one pulled them down ; there they stood, 
 closed and empty, their owners being but so many dis 
 couraged bones under the sod ; for the Company had dis 
 solved to the four winds of heaven, leaving only far-off 
 doubtful and quarrelling heirs. The little island could 
 not have the buildings ; neither could it pull them down. 
 They were dogs in the manger, therefore, if the people 
 had looked upon them with progressive American eyes ; 
 but they did not. They were not progressive ; they were 
 hardly American. If they had any glory, it was of 
 that very past, the days when those buildings were full 
 of life. There was scarcely a family on the island that 
 did not cherish its tradition of the merry fur-trading 
 times, when "grandfather" was a factor, a superintend 
 ent, a clerk, a hunter; even a voyageur had his impor 
 tance, now that there were no more voyageurs. Those 
 were gay days, they said ; they should never look upon 
 their like again: unless, indeed, the past should come 
 back a possibility which did not seem so unlikely on 
 the island as it does elsewhere, since the people were 
 
8 ANNE. 
 
 plainly retrograding-, and who knows but that they might 
 some time even catch up with the past ? 
 
 North of the piers there was only one street, which ran 
 along the water s edge. On the land side first came the 
 fort garden, where successive companies of soldiers had 
 vainly fought the climate in an agricultural way T red 
 coats of England and blue-coats of the United States, with 
 much the same results of partially ripened vegetables, 
 nipped fruits, and pallid flowers; for the island summer 
 was beautiful, but too short for lusciousness. Hardy 
 plants grew well, but there was always a persistent pre 
 ference for those that were not hardy like delicate beau 
 ties who are loved and cherished tenderly, while the 
 strong brown maids go by unnoticed. The officers wives 
 made catsup of the green tomatoes, and loved their weak 
 ling flowers for far-away home s sake ; and as the Indians 
 brought in canoe-loads of fine full-jacketed potatoes from 
 their little farms on the mainland, the officers could af 
 ford to let the soldiers do fancy-work in the government 
 fields if it pleased the exiled ladies. Beyond the army 
 garden was the old Agency house. The Agency itself 
 had long been removed farther westward, following the 
 retreating, dwindling tribes of the red men farther toward 
 the Rocky Mountains ; but the old house remained. On 
 its door a brass plate was still fixed, bearing the words, 
 "United States Agency." But it was now the home of 
 a plain, unimportant citizen, William Douglas. 
 
 Anne ran up the path toward the front door, thinking 
 of the children and the supper. She climbed the uneven 
 snow-covered steps, turned the latch, and entered the 
 dark hall. There was a line of light under the left-hand 
 door, and taking off her fur-lined overshoes, she went in. 
 The room was large ; its three windows were protected by 
 shutters, and thick curtains of red hue, faded but cheery ; 
 a great fire of logs was burning on the hearth, lighting 
 up every corner with its flame and glow, and making the 
 poor furniture splendid. In its radiance the curtains 
 were damask, the old carpet a Persiaii-hued luxury, and 
 the preparations for cooking an Arabian Nights dis 
 play. Three little boys ran forward to meet their sister ; 
 
ANNE. 
 
 9 
 
 a girl who was basking in the glow of the flame looked 
 up languidly. They were odd children, with black eyes, 
 coal-black hair, dark skins, and bold eagle outlines. The 
 eldest, the girl, was small a strange little creature, with 
 braids of black hair hanging down behind almost to her 
 ankles, half-closed black eyes, little hands and feet, a low 
 soft voice, and the grace of a young panther. The boys 
 were larger, handsome little fellows of wild aspect. In 
 fact, all four were of mixed blood, their mother having 
 been a beautiful French quarter-breed, and their father 
 William Douglas. 
 
 "Annet, Annet, can t we have fried potatoes for sup 
 per, and bacon ?" 
 
 "Annet, Annet, can t we have coffee?" 
 
 " It is a biting night, isn t it ?" said Tita, coming to her 
 sister s side and stroking her cold hands gently. "I 
 really think, Annet, that you ought to have something 
 substantielle. You see, I think of you ; whereas those 
 howling piggish bears think only of themselves." 
 
 All this she delivered in a soft, even voice, while Anne 
 removed the remainder of her wrappings. 
 
 "I have thought of something better still," said Will 
 iam Douglas s eldest daughter, kissing her little sister 
 fondly, and then stepping out of the last covering, and 
 lifting the heap from the floor "batter cakes !" 
 
 The boys gave a shout of delight, and danced up and 
 down on the hearth ; Tita went back to her corner and 
 sat down, clasping her little brown hands round he? 
 ankles, like the embalmed monkeys of the Nile. Her 
 corner was made by an old secretary and the side of the 
 great chimney; this space she had lined and carpeted 
 with furs, and here she sat curled up with her book or 
 her bead- work all through the long winter, refusing to 
 leave the house unless absolutely ordered out by Anne, 
 who filled the place of mother to these motherless littles 
 ones. Tita was well satisfied with the prospect of batter 
 cakes; she would probably eat two if Anne browned 
 them well, and they were light and tender. But as for 
 those boys, those wolf-dogs, those beasts, they would 
 probably swallow dozens. "If you come any nearer, 
 
10 ANNE. 
 
 Louis, I shall lay open the side of your head, " she an 
 nouiiced, gently, as the boys danced too near her hermit 
 age; they, accustomed alike to her decisions and her 
 words, danced farther away without any discussion of 
 the subject. Tita was an excellent playmate sometimes ; 
 her little moccasined feet, and long braids streaming be 
 hind, formed the most exciting feature of their summer 
 races ; her blue cloth skirt up in the tops of the tallest 
 trees, the provocative element in their summer climbing. 
 She was a pallid little creature, while they were brown ; 
 small, while they were large ; but she domineered over 
 them like a king, and wreaked a whole vocabulary of 
 roughest fisherman s terms upon them when they dis 
 pleased he A One awful vengeance she reserved as a last 
 resort : when they had been unbearably troublesome she 
 stole into their room at night in her little white night 
 gown, with all her long thick black hair loose, combed 
 over her face, and hanging down round her nearly to 
 her feet. This was a ghostly visitation which the boys 
 could not endure, for she left a lamp in the hall outside, 
 so that they could dimly see her, and then she stood and 
 swayed toward them slowly, backward and forward, with 
 out a sound, all the time coming nearer and nearer, until 
 they shrieked aloud in terror, and Anne, hurrying to the 
 rescue, found only three frightened little fellows cower 
 ing together in their broad bed, and the hairy ghost gone, 
 
 " How can you do such things, Tita? 1 she said. 
 
 " It is the only way by which I can keep the little dev 
 ils in order," replied Tita. 
 
 "Do not use such words, dear." 
 
 "Mother did," said the younger sister, in her soft calm 
 voice. 
 
 This was true, and Tita knew that Anne never im 
 pugned the memory of that mother. 
 
 "Who volunteers to help ?" said Anne, lighting a can 
 dle in an iron candlestick, and opening a door. 
 > "I," said Louis. 
 
 "I, "said Gabriel. 
 
 "Me too," said little Andre. 
 
 They followed her, hopping along together, with arms 
 
ANNE. 11 
 
 interlinked, while her candle shed a light on the bare 
 walls and floors of the rooms through which they passed, 
 a series of little apartments, empty and desolate, at the 
 end of which was the kitchen, inhabited in the daytime 
 by an Irishwoman, a soldier s wife, who came in the 
 morning before breakfast, and went home at dusk, the 
 only servant William Douglas s fast-thinning purse could 
 afford. Anne might have had her kitchen nearer what 
 Miss Lois called the "keeping-room" ; any one of the five 
 in the series would have answered the purpose as well as 
 the one she had chosen. But she had a dream of fur 
 nishing them all some day according to a plan of her 
 own, and it would have troubled her greatly to have used 
 her proposed china closet, pantry, store-room, preserve 
 closet, or fruit-room for culinary purposes. How often 
 had she gone over the whole in her mind, settling the 
 position of every shelf, and deliberating over the pattern 
 of the cups ! The Irishwoman had left some gleams of 
 fire on the hearth, and the boys immediately set them 
 selves to work burying potatoes in the ashes, with the hot 
 hearth-stone beneath. " For of course you are going to 
 cook 111 the sitting-room, Annet," they said. " We made 
 all ready for you there; and, besides, this fire is out." 
 
 "You could easily have kept it up, "said the sister, 
 smiling. "However, as it is Christmas-eve, I will let 
 you have your way." 
 
 The boys alertly loaded themselves with the articles 
 she gave them, and went hopping back into the sitting- 
 room. They scorned to walk on Christmas-eve; the 
 thing was to hop, and yet carry every dish steadily. 
 They arranged the table, still in a sort of dancing step, 
 and sang together in their shrill childish voices a tune of 
 their own, without any words but " Ho ! ho ! ho !" Tita, 
 in her corner, kept watch over the proceedings, and in 
 haled the aroma of the coffee with indolent anticipation. 
 The tin pot stood on the hearth near her, surrounded by 
 coals ; it was a battered old coffee-pot, grimy as a camp- 
 kettle, but dear to all the household, and their principal 
 comforter when the weather was bitter, provisions scarce, 
 or the boys especially troublesome. For the boys said 
 
J2 ANNE. 
 
 they did not enjoy being especially troublesome; they 
 could not help it any more than they could help having 
 the measles or the whooping-cough. They needed cof 
 fee, therefore, for the conflict, when they felt it coming 
 on, as much as any of the household. 
 
 Poor Anne s cooking utensils were few and old ; it was 
 hard to make batter cakes over an open fire without the 
 proper hanging griddle. But she attempted it, neverthe 
 less, and at length, with scarlet cheeks, placed a plateful 
 of them, brown, light, and smoking, upon the table. 
 "Now, Louis, run out for the potatoes; and, Tita, call 
 father." 
 
 This one thing Tita would do ; she aspired to be her 
 father s favorite. She went out with her noiseless step, 
 and presently returned leading in the tall, bent, gray- 
 haired father, her small brown hand holding his tightly, 
 her dark eyes fixed upon him with a persistent steadiness, 
 as if determined to isolate all his attention upon herself. 
 William Douglas was never thoroughly at ease with his 
 youngest daughter; she had this habit of watching him 
 silently, which made him uncomfortable. The boys he 
 understood, and made allowances for their wildness ; 
 but this girl, with her soft still ways, perplexed and 
 troubled him. She seemed to embody, as it were, his 
 own mistakes, and he never looked at her little pale face 
 and diminutive figure without a vague feeling that she 
 was a spirit dwelling on earth in elfish form, with a half- 
 developed contradictory nature, to remind him of his past 
 weakness. Standing at the head of the table, tall and 
 straight, with her nobly poised head and clear Saxon 
 eyes, his other daughter awaited him, and met his gaze 
 with a bright smile ; he always came back to her with a 
 sense of comfort. But Tita jealously brought his atten 
 tion to herself again by pulling his hand, and leading 
 him to his chair, taking her own place close beside him. 
 He was a tall man, and her head did not reach his elbow, 
 but she ruled him. The father now asked a blessing; he 
 always hesitated on his way through it, once or twice, as 
 though he had forgotten what to say, but took up the 
 thread again after an instant s pause, and went on. 
 
ANNE. 13 
 
 When he came to the end, and said "Amen," he always 
 sat down with a relieved air. If you had asked him 
 what he had said, he could not have told you unless you 
 started him at the beginning, when the old formula 
 would have rolled off his lips in the same vague, mechan 
 ical way. The meal proceeded in comparative quiet ; the 
 boys no longer hummed and shuffled their feet; they 
 were engaged with the cakes. Tita refrained from re 
 marks save once, when Gabriel having dropped buttered 
 crumbs upon her dress, she succinctly threatened him 
 with dismemberment. Douglas gazed at her helplessly, 
 and sighed. 
 
 "She will be a woman soon," he said to his elder 
 daughter, when, an hour or two later, she joined him in 
 his own apartment, and drew from its hiding-place her 
 large sewing-basket, filled with Christmas presents. 
 
 "Oh no, father, she is but a child," answered Anne, 
 cheerfully. As she grows older these little faults will 
 vanish." 
 
 "How old is she ?" said Douglas. 
 
 "Just thirteen." 
 
 The father played a bar of Mendelssohn noiselessly on 
 the arm of his chair with his long thin fingers ; he was 
 thinking that he had married Tita s mother when she was 
 hardly three years older. Anne was absorbed in her 
 presents. 
 
 1 See, father, will not this be nice for Andre ? And 
 this for Gabriel ? And I have made such a pretty doll 
 for Tita." 
 
 "Will she care for it, dear ?" 
 
 Of course she w r ill. Did I not play with my own 
 dear doll until I was fourteen years old yes, almost fif 
 teen ?" said the girl, with a little laugh and blush. 
 
 And you are now 
 
 " I am over sixteen." 
 
 "A great age," said Douglas, smoothing her thick 
 brown hair fondly, as she sat near him, bending over her 
 sewing. 
 
 The younger children were asleep up stairs in two old 
 bedrooms with rattling dormer windows, and the father 
 
14 
 
 and elder daughter were in a small room opposite the 
 sitting-room, called the study, although nothing was 
 ever studied there, save the dreams of his own life, by 
 the vague, irresolute, imaginative soul that dwelt there 
 in, in a thin body of its own, much the worse for wear. 
 William Douglas was a New England man of the brood 
 ing type, sent by force of circumstances into the ranks 
 of United States army surgeons. He had married 
 Anne s mother, who had passionately loved him, against 
 the wishes of her family, and had brought the disin 
 herited young bride out to this far Western island, 
 where she had died, happy to the last one of those 
 rare natures to whom love is all in all, and the whole 
 world well lost for its dear and holy sake. Grief over 
 her death brought out all at once the latent doubts, hesi 
 tations, and strange perplexities of William Douglas s 
 peculiar mind perplexities which might have lain dor 
 mant in a happier life. He resigned his position as army 
 surgeon, and refused even practice in the village. Med 
 ical science was not exact, he said ; there was much pre 
 tense and presumption in it; he would no longer counte 
 nance deception, or play a part. He was then made 
 postmaster, and dealt out letters through some seasons, 
 until at last his mistakes roused the attention of the new 
 officers at the fort ; for the villagers, good, easy-tempered 
 people, would never have complained of such trifles as a 
 forgotten mail-bag or two under the counter. Super 
 seded, he then attended nominally to the highways ; but 
 as the military authorities had for years done all that was 
 to be done on the smooth roads, three in number, includ 
 ing the steep fort hill, the position was a sinecure, and 
 the superintendent took long walks across the island, 
 studying the flora of the Northern woods, watching the 
 birds, noticing the clouds and the winds, staying out late 
 to experiment with the flash of the two light-houses from 
 their different distances, and then coming home to his 
 lonely house, where the baby Anne was tenderly cared 
 for by Miss Lois Hinsdale, who superintended the nurse 
 all day, watched her charge to bed, and then came over 
 early in the morning before she woke. Miss Lois adored 
 
Al&E. 
 
 15 
 
 the baby ; and she watched the lonely father from a dis 
 tance, imagining all his sadness. It was the poetry of 
 her life. Who, therefore, can picture her feelings when, 
 at the end of three years, it was suddenly brought to her 
 knowledge that Douglas was soon to marry again, and 
 that his choice was Angelique Lafontaine, a French 
 quarter-breed girl ! 
 
 Angelique was amiable, and good in her way ; she was 
 also very beautiful. But Miss Lois could have borne it 
 better if she had been homely. The New England wo 
 man wept bitter, bitter tears that night. A god had come 
 down and showed himself flesh ; an ideal was shattered. 
 How long had she dwelt upon the beautiful love of Dr. 
 Douglas and his young wife, taking it as a perfect exam 
 ple of rare, sweet happiness which she herself had missed, 
 of which she herself was not worthy ! How many times 
 had she gone up to the little burial-ground on the height, 
 and laid flowers from her garden on the mound, whose 
 stone bore only the inscription, " Alida, wife of William 
 Douglas, aged twenty -two years." Miss Lois had wished 
 to have a text engraved under this brief line, and a date ; 
 but Dr. Douglas gently refused a text, and regarding a 
 date he said: "Time is nothing. Those who love her 
 will remember the date, and strangers need not know. 
 But I should like the chance visitor to note that she was 
 only twenty-two, and, as he stands there, think of her 
 with kindly regret, as we all think of the early dead, 
 though why, Miss Lois, why, I can not tell, since in go 
 ing hence early surely the dead lose nothing, for God 
 would not allow any injustice, I think yes, I have about 
 decided in my own mind that He does not allow it." 
 
 Miss Lois, startled, looked at him questioningly. He 
 was then a man of thirty-four, tall, slight, still notice 
 able for the peculiar refined delicacy of face and manner 
 which had first won the interest of sweet, impulsive Alida 
 Clanssen. 
 
 "I trust, doctor, that you accept the doctrines of Holy 
 Scripture on all such subjects, " said Miss Lois. Then she 
 felt immediately that she should have said of the 
 Church" ; for she was a comparatively new Episcopalian, 
 
16 ANNS. 
 
 having been trained a New England Presbyterian of the 
 severest hue. 
 
 Dr. Douglas came back to practical life again in the 
 troubled gaze of the New England woman s eyes. Miss 
 Lois," he said, turning the subject, "Alida loved and 
 trusted you ; will you sometimes think of her little 
 daughter ?" 
 
 And then Miss Lois, the quick tears coming, forgot all 
 about orthodoxy, gladly promised to watch over the baby, 
 and kept her word. But now her life was shaken, and 
 all her romantic beliefs disturbed and shattered, by this 
 overwhelming intelligence. She was wildly, furiously 
 jealous, wildly, furiously angry jealous for Alida ssake, 
 for the baby s, for her own. It is easy to be humble when 
 a greater is preferred; but when an inferior is lifted high 
 above our heads, how can we bear it ? And Miss Lois 
 was most jealous of all for Douglas himself that such a 
 man should so stoop. She hardly knew herself that 
 night as she harshly pulled down the curtains, pushed a 
 stool half across the room, slammed the door, and purpose 
 ly knocked over the fire-irons. Lois Hinsdale had never 
 since her birth given way to rage before (nor known the 
 solace of it), and she was now forty-one years old. All 
 her life afterward she remembered that night as some 
 thing akin to a witch s revel on the Brocken, a horrible 
 wild reign of passion which she trembled to recall, and 
 for which she did penance many times in tears. "It 
 shows the devil there is in us all," she said to herself, and 
 she never passed the fire-irons for a long time afterward 
 without an unpleasant consciousness. 
 
 The limited circle of island society suggested that Miss 
 Lois had been hunting the loon with a hand-net a North 
 ern way of phrasing the wearing of the willow ; but if 
 the New England woman loved William Douglas, she 
 was not conscious of it, but merged the feeling in her love 
 for his child, and for the memory of Alida. True, she 
 was seven years older than he w r as : women of forty-one 
 can answer whether that makes any difference. 
 
 On a brilliant, sparkling, clear June morning William 
 Douglas went down to the little Roman Catholic church 
 
ANNE. 17 
 
 and married the French girl. As he had resigned his 
 position in the army some time before, and as there was 
 a new set of officers at the fort, his marriage made little 
 impression there save on the mind of the chaplain, who 
 had loved him well when he was surgeon of the post, and 
 had played many a game of chess with him. The whole 
 French population of the island, however, came to the 
 marriage. That was expected. But what was not ex 
 pected was the presence there of Miss Lois Hinsdale, sit 
 ting severely rigid in the first pew, accompanied by the 
 doctor s child a healthy, blue-eyed little girl, who kiss 
 ed her new mamma obediently, and thought her very 
 sweet and pretty a belief which remained with her al 
 ways, the careless, indolent, easy- tempered, beautiful 
 young second wife having died when her step-daughter 
 was eleven years old, leaving four little ones, who, ac 
 cording to a common freak of nature, were more Indian 
 than their mother. The Douglas family grew poorer ev 
 ery year ; but as every one was poor there, poverty was 
 respectable ; and as all poverty is comparative, they al 
 ways esteemed themselves comfortable. For they had 
 the old Agency for a home, and it was in some respects 
 the most dignified residence on the island ; and they had 
 the remains of the furniture which the young surgeon 
 had brought with him from the East when his Alida was 
 a bride, and that was better than most of the furniture in 
 use in the village. The little stone fort on the height 
 was, of course, the castle of the town, and its command 
 ant by courtesy the leader of society ; but the infantry 
 officers who succeeded each other at this distant Northern 
 post brought little with them, camping out, as it were, in 
 their low-ceilinged quarters, knowing that another sea 
 son might see them far away. The Agency, therefore, 
 preserved an air of dignity still, although its roof leaked, 
 its shutters rattled, although its plastering was gone here 
 and there, and its floors were uneven and decayed. Two 
 of its massive outside chimneys, clamped to the sides of 
 the house, were half down, looking like broken columns, 
 monuments of the past ; but there were a number left. 
 The Agency originally had bristled with chimneys, which 
 
18 ANNE. 
 
 gave, on a small scale, a castellated air to its rambling 
 outline. 
 
 Dr. Douglas s study was old, crowded, and comfortable: 
 that is, comfortable to those who have consciousness in 
 their finger-ends, and no uncertainty as to their feet ; the 
 great army of blunderers and stumblers, the handle-ev- 
 ery thing, knock-over-every thing people, who cut a broa.d 
 swath through the smaller furniture of a room whenever 
 they move, would have been troubled and troublesome 
 there. The boys were never admitted; but Tita, who 
 stepped like a little cat, and Anne, who had a deft direct 
 aim in all her motions, were often present. The comfort 
 of the place was due to Anne ; she shook out and arranged 
 the curtains, darned the old carpet, re-covered the lounge, 
 polished the andirons, and did all without disturbing the 
 birds wings, the shells, the arrow-heads, the skins, dried 
 plants, wampum, nets, bits of rock, half -finished drawings, 
 maps, books, and papers, which were scattered about, or 
 suspended from the walls. William Douglas, knowing 
 something of everything, was exact in nothing : now he 
 stuffed birds, now he read Greek, now he botanized, now 
 he played on the flute, now he went about in all weathers 
 chipping the rocks with ardent zeal, now he smoked in 
 his room all day without a word or a look for anybody. 
 He sketched well, but seldom finished a picture ; he went 
 out hunting when the larder was empty, and forgot what 
 he went for; he had a delicate mechanical skill, and made 
 some curious bits of intricate work, but he never mended 
 the hinges of the shutters, or repaired a single article 
 which was in daily use in his household. 
 
 By the careful attention of Anne he was present in the 
 fort chapel every Sunday morning, and, once there, he 
 played the organ with delight, and brought exquisite 
 harmonies from its little pipes ; but Anne stood there be 
 side -him all the time, found the places, and kept him 
 down to the work, borrowing his watch beforehand in 
 order to touch him when the voluntary was too long, or 
 the chords between the hymn verses too beautiful and in 
 tricate. Those were the days when the old buckram- 
 backed rhymed versions of the psalms were steadfastly 
 
"THE GIRL PAUSED AND REFLECTED A MOMENT. 
 
ANNE. 19 
 
 gwen out at every service, and Anne s rich voice sang, 
 with earnest fervor, words like these : 
 
 " His liberal favors he extends, 
 To some he gives, to others lends ; 
 Yet when his charity impairs, 
 He saves by prudence in affairs," 
 
 while her father followed them with harmony fit for an 
 gels. Douglas taught his daughter music in the best sense 
 of the phrase; she read notes accurately, and knew no 
 thing of inferior composers, the only change from the 
 higher courts of melody being some of the old French 
 chansons of the voyageurs, which still lingered on the 
 island, echoes of the past. She could not touch the ivory 
 keys with any skill, her hands were too much busied with 
 other work; but she practiced her singing lessons as she 
 went about the house music which would have seemed 
 to the world of New York as old-fashioned as Chaucer. 
 
 The fire of logs blazed on the hearth, the father sat 
 looking at his daughter, who was sewing swiftly, her 
 thoughts fixed upon her work. The clock struck eleven. 
 
 " It is late, Anne." 
 
 Yes, father, but I must finish. I have so little time 
 during the day." 
 
 "My good child," said Douglas, slowly and fondly. 
 
 Anne looked up ; his eyes were dim with tears. 
 
 "I have done nothing for you, dear," he said, as she 
 dropped her work and knelt by his side. I have kept 
 you selfishly with me here, and made you a slave to those 
 children." 
 
 " My own brothers and my own little sister, father." 
 
 Do you feel so, Anne ? Then may God bless you for 
 it! But I should not have kept you here." 
 
 "This is our home, papa." 
 
 "A poor one." 
 
 " Is it ? It never seemed so to me." 
 
 "That is because you have known nothing better." 
 
 " But I like it, papa, just as it is. I have always been 
 happy here." 
 
 " Really happy, Anne ?" 
 
 The girl paused, and reflected a moment. (t Yes," she 
 
gO ANNE. 
 
 said, looking into the depths of the fire, with a smile, "I 
 am happy all the time. I am never anything 1 but happy. " 
 
 William Douglas looked at her. The fire-light shone 
 on her face ; she turned her clear eyes toward him. 
 
 Then you do not mind the children ? They are not 
 a burdensome weight upon you ?" 
 
 * Never, papa ; how can you suppose it ? I love them 
 dearly, next to you." 
 
 And will you stand by them, Anne ? Note my 
 words: I do not urge it, I simply ask." 
 
 Of course I will stand by them, papa. I give a promise 
 of my own accord. I will never forsake them as long as I 
 can do anything for them, as long as I live. But why do 
 you speak of it ? Have I ever neglected them or been un 
 kind to them ?" said the girl, troubled, and very near tears. 
 
 No, dear ; you love them better than they or I deserve. 
 I was thinking of the future, and of a time when" he 
 had intended to say, "when I am no longer with you," 
 but the depth of love and trust in her eyes made him hes 
 itate, and finish his sentence differently "a time when 
 they may give you trouble," he said. 
 
 "They are good boys that is, they mean no harm, 
 papa. When they are older they will study more." 
 
 "Will they?" 
 
 " Certainly ," said Anne, with confidence. "I did. 
 And as for Tita, you yourself must see, papa, what a re 
 markable child she is." 
 
 Douglas shaded his face with his hand. The uneasy 
 sense of trouble which always stirred within him when 
 he thought of his second daughter was rising to the sur 
 face now like a veiled, formless shape. The sins of the 
 fathers," he thought, and sighed heavily. 
 
 Anne threw her arms round his neck, and begged him 
 to look at her. Papa, speak to me, please. What is it 
 that troubles you so ?" 
 
 "Stand by little Tita, child, no matter what she does. 
 Do not expect too much of her, but remember always her 
 her Indian blood, "said the troubled father, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 A flush crossed Anne s face. The cross of mixed blood 
 
ANNE. 21 
 
 in the younger children was never alluded to in the fam 
 ily circle or among 1 their outside friends. In truth, there 
 had been many such mixtures on the island in the old 
 times, although comparatively few in the modern days to 
 which William Douglas s second marriage belonged. 
 
 " Tita is French," said Anne, speaking rapidly, almost 
 angrily. 
 
 "She is more French than Indian. Still one never 
 knows." Then, after a pause: "I have been a slothful 
 father, Anne, and feel myself cowardly also in thus shift 
 ing upon your shoulders my own responsibilities. Still, 
 what can I do ? I can not re-live my life ; and even if I 
 could, perhaps I might do the same again. I do not 
 know I do not know. We are as we are, and tenden 
 cies dating generations back come out in us, and confuse 
 our actions." 
 
 He spoke dreamily. His eyes were assuming that 
 vague look with which his children were familiar, and 
 which betokened that his mind was far away. 
 
 You could not do anything which was not right, 
 father," said Anne. 
 
 She was standing by his side now, and in her young 
 strength might have been his champion against the whole 
 world. The fire-light shining out showed a prematurely 
 old man, whose thin form, bent drooping shoulders, and 
 purposeless face were but Time s emphasis upon the slen 
 der, refined, dreamy youth, who, entering the domain of 
 doubt with honest negation s and a definite desire, still wan 
 dered there, lost to the world, having forgotten his first 
 object, and loving the soft haze now for itself alone. 
 
 Anne received no answer : her father s mind had pass 
 ed away from her. After waiting a few moments in si 
 lence she saw that he was lost in one of his reveries, and 
 sitting down again she took up her work and went on 
 sewing with rapid stitches. Poor Anne and her poor 
 presents ! How coarse the little white shirts for Louis 
 and Andre ! how rough the jacket for Gabriel ! How 
 forlorn the doll! How awkwardly fashioned the small 
 cloth slippers for Tita ! The elder sister was obliged to 
 make her Christmas gifts with her own hands ; she had 
 
22 ANNE. 
 
 no money to spend for such superfluities. The poor doll 
 had a cloth face, with features painted on a flat surface, 
 and a painful want of profile. A little before twelve the 
 last stitch was taken with happy content. 
 
 Papa, it is nearly midnight ; do not sit up very late," 
 said the daughter, bending to kiss the father s bent, brood 
 ing brow. William Douglas s mind came back for an 
 instant, and looked out through his clouded eyes upon 
 his favorite child. He kissed her, gave her his usual 
 blessing, "May God help the soul He has created!" and 
 then, almost before she had closed the door, he was far 
 away again on one of those long journeyings which he 
 took silently, only his following guardian angel knew 
 whither. Anne went across the hall and entered the 
 sitting-room; the fire was low, but she stirred the em 
 bers, and by their light filled the four stockings hanging 
 near the chimney-piece. First she put in little round 
 cakes wrapped in papers ; then home-made candies, not 
 thoroughly successful in outline, but well-flavored and 
 sweet; next gingerbread elephants and camels, and an 
 attempt at a fairy; lastly the contents of her work-bas 
 ket, which gave her much satisfaction as she inspected 
 them for the last time. Throwing a great knot, which 
 would burn slowly all night, upon the bed of dying coals, 
 she lighted a candle and went up to her own room. 
 
 As soon as she had disappeared, a door opened softly 
 above, and a small figure stole out into the dark hall. 
 After listening a moment, this little figure went silently 
 down the stairs, paused at the line of light underneath the 
 closed study door, listened again, and then, convinced that 
 all was safe, went into the sitting-room, took down the 
 stockings one by one, and deliberately inspected all their 
 contents, sitting on a low stool before the fire. First 
 came the stockings of the boys ; each parcel was unroll 
 ed, down to the last gingerbread camel, and as deftly en 
 wrapped again by the skillful little fingers. During this 
 examination there was not so much an expression of in 
 terest as of jealous scrutiny. But when the turn of her 
 own stocking came, the small face showed the most pro 
 found, almost weazened, solicitude. Package after pack- 
 
x v< 
 
 ANNE. 23 
 
 age was swiftly opened, and its contents spread upon tha 
 mat beside her. The doll was cast aside with contempt, 
 the slippers examined and tried on with critical care, and 
 then when the candy and cake appeared and nothing- 
 else, the eyes snapped with anger. 
 
 The little brown hand felt down to the toe of the stock 
 ing: no, there was nothing more. "It is my opinion," 
 said Tita, in her French island patois, half aloud, "that 
 Annet is one stupid beast." 
 
 She then replaced everything, hung the stockings on 
 their nails, and stole back to her own room ; here, by the 
 light of a secreted candle-end, she manufactured the fol 
 lowing epistle, with heavy labor of brains and hand: . 
 "Cher papa, I hav dreemed that Sant Klos has hare- 
 ribbans in his pak. Will you ask him for sum for your 
 little Tita ?" This not seeming sufficiently expressive, she 
 inserted "trez affecsionay" before " Tita," and then, fold 
 ing the epistle, she went softly down the stairs again r and 
 stealing round in the darkness through several unused 
 rooms, she entered her father s bedroom, which commu 
 nicated with the study, and by sense of feeling pinned 
 the paper carefully round his large pipe, which lay in its 
 usual place on the table. For William Douglas always 
 began smoking as soon as he rose, in this way nullifying, 
 as it were, the fresh, vivifying effect of the morning, 
 which smote painfully u})on his eyes and mind alike ; in 
 the afternoon and evening he did not smoke so steadily, 
 the falling shadows supplying of themselves the atmos 
 phere he loved. Having accomplished her little manoeu 
 vre, Tita went back up stairs to her own room like a small 
 white ghost, and fell asleep with the satisfaction of a suc 
 cessful diplomatist. 
 
 In the mean time Anne was brushing her brown hair, 
 and thoughtfully going over in her own mind the mor 
 row s dinner. Her room was a bare and comfortless 
 place; there was but a small fire on the hearth, and no 
 curtains over the windows ; it took so much care and wood 
 to keep the children s rooms warm that she neglected her 
 own, and as for the furniture, she had removed it piece 
 by piece, exchanging it for broken-backed worn-out arti- 
 
 i- 
 
 
 
24 ANNE. 
 
 cles from all parts of the house. One leg- of the bed 
 stead was gone, and its place supplied by a box which 
 the old-fashioned valance only half concealed ; the look 
 ing-glass was cracked, and distorted her image; the 
 chairs were in hospital and out of service, the young mis 
 tress respecting their injuries, and using as her own 
 seat an old wooden stool which stood near the hearth. 
 Upon this she was now seated, the rippling w y aves of her 
 thick hair flowing over her shoulders. Having at last 
 faithfully rehearsed the Christmas dinner in all its 
 points, she drew a long breath of relief, rose, extinguish 
 ed her light, and going over to the window, stood there 
 for a moment looking out. The moonlight came gleam 
 ing in and touched her with silver, her pure youthful 
 face and girlish form draped in white. May God bless 
 my dear father," she prayed, silently, looking up to the 
 thick studded stars; u and my dear mother too, wher 
 ever she is to-night, in one of those far bright worlds, 
 perhaps." It will be seen from this prayer that the 
 boundaries of Anne Douglas s faith were wide enough 
 to include even the unknown. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "Heap on more wood! the wind is chill; 
 But let it whistle as it will, 
 We ll keep our Christmas merry still. 
 The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; 
 The hall was dressed with holly green; 
 Forth to the wood did merry -men go, 
 To gather in the mistletoe." WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 t CA.N you make out what the child means ?" said 
 Douglas, as his elder daughter entered the study early 
 on Christmas morning to renew the fire and set the 
 apartment in order for the day. As he spoke he held 
 Tita s epistle hopelessly before him, and scanned the zig< 
 zag lines. 
 
ANNE. 25 
 
 "She wants some ribbons for her hair," said Anne, 
 making out the words over his shoulder. "Poor little 
 thing ! she is so proud of her hair, and all the other girls 
 have bright ribbons. But I can not make ribbons," she 
 added, regretfully, as though she found herself wanting 
 in a needful accomplishment. "Think of her faith in 
 Santa Klaus, old as she is, and her writing to ask him ! 
 But there is ribbon in the house, after all," she added, sud 
 denly, her face brightening. Miss Lois gave me some 
 last month ; I had forgotten it. That will be the very 
 thing for Tita; she has not even seen it." 
 
 (But has she not, thou unsuspicious elder sister ?) 
 
 "Do not rob yourself, child, "said the father, wearily 
 casting his eyes over the slip of paper again. What 
 spelling ! The English is bad, but the French worse." 
 
 That is because she has no French teacher, papa ; and 
 you know I do not allow her to speak the island patois, 
 lest it should corrupt the little she knows." 
 
 "But she does speak it; she always talks patois when 
 she is alone with me." 
 
 "Does she ?" said Anne, in astonishment. " I had no 
 idea of that. But you might correct her, papa." 
 
 " I can never correct her in any way," replied Douglas, 
 gloomily ; and then Anne, seeing that he was on the 
 threshold of one of his dark moods, lighted his pipe, 
 stirred the fire into a cheery blaze, and wenjt out to get a 
 cup of coffe for him. For the Irish soldier s wife was 
 already at work in the kitchen, having been to mass in 
 the cold gray dawn, down on her two knees on the hard 
 floor, repentant for all her sins, and ref ulgently content 
 in the absolution which wiped out the old score (and 
 left place for a new one). After taking in the coffee, 
 Anne ran up to her own room, brought down the ribbon, 
 and placed it in Tita s stocking ; she then made up the 
 fire with light- wood, and set about decorating the walls 
 with wreaths of evergreen as the patter of the little boys 
 feet was heard on the old stairway. The breakfast table 
 was noisy that morning. Tita had inspected her ribbons 
 demurely, and wondered how Santa Klaus knew her fa 
 vorite colors so well. Anne glanced toward her father, 
 
26 ANNE. 
 
 and smiled ; but the father s face showed doubt, and did 
 not respond. While they were still at the table the door 
 opened, and a tall figure entered, muffled in furs. Miss 
 Lois!" cried the boys. "Hurrah! See our presents, 
 Miss Lois." They danced round her while she removed 
 her wrappings, and kept up such a noise that no one 
 could speak. Miss Lois, viewed without her cloak and 
 hood, was a tall, angular w r omaii, past middle age, with 
 sharp features, thin brown hair tinged with gray, and 
 pale blue eyes shielded by spectacles. She kissed Anne 
 first with evident affection, and afterward the children 
 with business-like promptitude; then she shook hands 
 with William Douglas. I wish you a happy Christ 
 mas, doctor," she said. 
 
 " Thank you, Lois," said Douglas, holding her hand in 
 his an instant or two longer than usual. 
 
 A faint color rose in Miss Lois s cheeks. When she 
 was young she had one of those exquisitely delicate com 
 plexions which seem to belong to some parts of New 
 England; even now color would rise unexpectedly in 
 her cheeks, much to her annoyance : she wondered why 
 wrinkles did not keep it down. But New England 
 knows her own. The creamy skins of the South, with 
 their brown shadows under the eyes, the rich colors of 
 the West, even the calm white complexions that are 
 bred and long retained in cities, all fade before this faint 
 healthy bloom on old New England s cheeks^ like winter- 
 apples. 
 
 Miss Lois inspected the boys presents with exact atten 
 tion, and added some gifts of her own, which filled the 
 room with a more jubilant uproar than before. Tita, in 
 the mean while, remained quietly seated at the table, eat 
 ing her breakfast; she took very small mouthfuls, and 
 never hurried herself. She said she liked to taste things, 
 and that only snapping dogs, like the boys, for instance, 
 gulped their food in a mass. 
 
 "I gave her the ribbons; do not say anything," whis 
 pered Anne, in Miss Lois s ear, as she saw the spectacled 
 eyes turning toward Tita s corner. Miss Lois frowned, 
 and put back into her pocket a small parcel she was tak- 
 
ANNE. 27 
 
 ing out. She had forgiven Dr. Douglas the existence of ! 
 the boys, but she never could forgive the existence of Tita. 
 Once Anne had asked about Angelique. I was but a 
 child when she died, Miss Lois," said she, " so my recol 
 lection of her may not be accurate ; but I know that I 
 thought her very beautiful. Does Tita look like her ?" 
 
 "Angelique Lafontaine was beautiful in her way," 
 replied Miss Lois. " I do not say that I admire that way, 
 mind you." 
 
 And Tita?" 
 
 Tita is hideous." 
 
 Oh, Miss Lois !" 
 
 She is, child. She is dwarfish, black, and sly." 
 
 I do not think she is sly," replied Anne, with heat. 
 "And although she is dark and small, still, sometimes 
 
 That, for your beauty of sometimes ! " said Miss Lois, 
 snapping her fingers. " Give me a girl who is pretty in 
 the morning as well as by candle-light, one who has a 
 nice, white, well-born, down-East face, and none of your 
 Western-border moiigrelosities !" 
 
 But this last phrase she uttered under her breath. She 
 was ever mindful of Anne s tender love for her father, 
 and the severity with which she herself, as a contempo 
 rary, had judged him was never revealed to the child. 
 
 At half past ten the Douglas family were all in their 
 places in the little fort chapel. It was a bright but bit 
 terly cold day, and the members of the small congrega 
 tion came enveloped in shaggy furs like bears, shedding 
 their skins at the door, where they lay in a pile near the 
 stove, ready for the return homeward. The military 
 trappings of the officers brightened the upper benches, 
 the uniforms of the common soldiers filled the space be 
 hind ; on the side benches sat the few Protestants of the 
 village, denominational prejudices unknown or forgotten 
 in this far-away spot in the wilderness. The chaplain, the 
 Reverend James Gastoii a man who lived in peace with 
 all the world, with Pere Michaux, the Catholic priest, and 
 William Douglas, the deist gazed round upon his flock 
 with a benignant air, which brightened into affection as 
 Anne s voice took up the song of the angels, singing, 
 
28 ANNE. 
 
 amid the ice and snow of a new world, the strain the 
 shepherds heard on the plains of Palestine. 
 
 "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, 
 good-will toward men, "sang Anne, with all her young 
 heart. And Miss Lois, sitting with folded hands, and 
 head held stiffly erect, saw her wreath in the place of hon 
 or over the altar, and was touched first with pride and 
 then with a slight feeling of awe. She did not believe 
 that one part of the church was more sacred than anoth 
 er she could not ; hut being a High-Church Episcopalian 
 now, she said to herself that she ought to ; she even had 
 appalling visions of herself, sometimes, going as far as 
 Rome. But the old spirit of Calvinism was still on the 
 ground, ready for many a wrestling match yet; and 
 stronger than all else were the old associations connected 
 with the square white meeting-house of her youth, which 
 held their place undisturbed down below all these upper 
 currents of a new faith. William Douglas was also a 
 New-Englander, brought up strictly in the creed of his 
 fathers ; but as Miss Lois s change of creed was owing to 
 a change of position, as some Northern birds turn their 
 snow-color to a darker hue when taken away from arctic 
 regions, so his was one purely of mind, owing to nothing 
 but the processes of thought within him. He had drift 
 ed away from all creeds, save in one article : he believed 
 in a Creator. To this great Creator s praise, and in wor 
 ship of Him, he now poured forth his harmonies, the pur 
 est homage he could offer, "unless," he thought, " Anne 
 is a living homage as she stands here beside me. But 
 no, she is a soul by herself; she has her own life to live, 
 her own worship to offer; I must not call her mine. 
 That she is my daughter is naught to me save a great 
 blessing. I can love her with a human father s love, 
 and thank God for her affection. But that is all." 
 
 So he played his sweetest music, and Miss Lois fervent 
 ly prayed, and made no mistake in the order of her pray 
 ers. She liked to have a vocal part in the service. It 
 was a pleasure to herself to hear her own voice lifted up, 
 even as a miserable sinner ; for at home in the old white 
 meeting-house all expression had been denied to her, the 
 
ANNE. 29 
 
 small outlet of the Psalms being of little avail to a person 
 who could not sing. This dumbness stifled her, and she 
 had often said to herself that the men would never have 
 endured it either if they had not had the prayer-meetings 
 as a safety-valve. The three boys were penned in at Miss 
 Lois s side, within reach of her tapping finger. They had 
 decided to attend service on account of the evergreens 
 and Anne s singing, although they, as well as Tita, be 
 longed in reality to the flock of Father Michaux. Anne 
 never interfered with this division of the family; she 
 considered it the one tie which bound the children to the 
 memory of their mother ; but Miss Lois shook her head 
 over it, and sighed ominously. The boys were, in fact, 
 three little heathen ; but Tita w r as a devout Roman Cath 
 olic, and observed all the feast and fast days of the Church, 
 to the not infrequent disturbance of the young mistress of 
 the household, to whom a feast-day was oftentimes an oc 
 casion bristling with difficulty. But to-day, in honor of 
 Christmas, the usual frugal dinner had been made a ban 
 quet indeed, by the united efforts of Anne and Miss Lois ; 
 and when they took their seats at the table which stood 
 in the sitting-room, all felt that it held an abundance fit 
 even for the old fur-trading clays, Miss Lois herself hav 
 ing finally succumbed to that island standard of compar 
 ison. After the dinner was over, while they were sitting 
 round the fire sipping coffee the ambrosia of the North 
 ern gods, who find some difficulty in keeping themselves 
 warm a tap at the door was heard, arid a tall youth en 
 tered, a youth who was a vivid personification of early 
 manhood in its brightest form. The warm air w^as stirred 
 by the little rush of cold that came in with him, and the 
 dreamy and drowsy eyes round the fire awoke as they 
 rested upon him. 
 
 "The world is alive, then, outside, after all," said Miss 
 Lois, briskly straightening herself in her chair, and tak 
 ing out her knitting. "How do you do, Erastus ?" 
 
 But her greeting was drowned by the noise of the boys, 
 who had been asleep together on the rug in a tangled 
 knot, like three young bears, but now, broadly awake 
 again, were jumping round the iiew r -comer, displaying 
 
30 ANNE. 
 
 their gifts and demanding admiration. Disentangling 
 himself from them with a skill which showed a long ex 
 perience in their modes of twisting, the young man made 
 his way up to Anne, and, with a smile and bow to Dr. 
 Douglas and Miss Lois, sat down by her side. 
 
 "You were not at church this morning/ said the girl, 
 looking at him rather gravely, but giving him her hand. 
 
 "No, I was not; but a merry Christmas all the same, 
 Annet," answered the youth, throwing back his golden 
 head with careless grace. At this moment Tita came 
 forward from her furry corner, where she had been lying 
 with her head on her arm, half asleep, and seated herself 
 in the red light of the fire, gazing into the blaze with soft 
 indifference. Her dark woollen dress was brightened 
 by the ribbons which circled her little waist and knotted 
 themselves at the ends of the long braids of her hair. 
 She had a string of yellow beads round her neck, and on 
 her feet the little slippers which Anne had fashioned for 
 her with so much care. Her brown hands lay crossed on 
 her lap, and her small but bold-featured profile looked 
 more delicate than usual, outlined in relief like a little 
 cameo against the flame. The visitor s eyes rested upon 
 her for a moment, and then turned back to Anne. 
 " There is to be a dance to-night down in one of the old 
 warehouses," he said, "and I want you to go." 
 
 "A dance ."cried the boys; "then we are going too. 
 It is Christmas night, and we know how to dance. See 
 here." And they sprang out into the centre of the room, 
 and began a figure, not without a certain wild grace of 
 its own, keeping time to the shrill whistling of Gabriel, 
 who was the fifer and leader of the band. 
 
 Miss Lois put down her knitting, and disapproved, for 
 the old training was still strong in her; then she remem 
 bered that these were things of the past, shook her head 
 at herself, sighed, and resumed it again. 
 
 " Of course you will go," said the visitor. 
 
 "I do not know that I can go, East, " replied Anne, 
 turning toward her father, as if to see what he thought. 
 
 "Yes, go," said Douglas "go, Annet." He hardly 
 ever used this name, which the children had given to 
 
ANNE. 31 
 
 their elder sister a name that was not the French An 
 nette, "but, like the rest of the island xmtois, a mispro 
 nunciation An net, " with the accent on the first syl 
 lable. "It is Christmas night," said Douglas, with a 
 faint interest on his faded face ; "I should like it to be a 
 pleasant recollection for you, Aniiet." 
 
 The young girl went to him; he kissed her, and then 
 rose to go to his study; but Tita s eyes held him, and he 
 paused. 
 
 "Will you go, Miss Lois ?" said Anne. 
 
 "Oh no, child," replied the old maid, primly, adjusting 
 her spectacles. 
 
 "But you must go, Miss Lois, and dance with me," 
 said East, springing up and seizing her hands. 
 
 "Fie, Erastus! for shame! Let me go," said Miss 
 Lois, as he tried to draw her to her feet. He still bent 
 over her, but she tapped his cheek with her knitting-nee 
 dles, and told him to sit down and behave himself. 
 
 "I won t, unless you promise to go with us," he 
 said. 
 
 "Why should you not go, Lois ?" said Douglas, still 
 standing at the door. The boys want to go, and some 
 one must be with them to keep them in order." 
 
 "Why, doctor, imagine me at a dancing party!" said 
 Miss Lois, the peach-like color rising in her thin cheeks 
 again. 
 
 "It is different here, Lois; everybody goes." 
 
 "Yes; even old Mrs. Kendig," said Tita, softly. 
 
 Miss Lois looked sharply at her; old Mrs. Kendig was 
 fat, toothless, and seventy, and the active, spare New 
 England woman felt a sudden wrath at the implied com 
 parison. Griselda was not tried upon the subject of her 
 age, or we might have had a different legend. But Tita 
 looked as idly calm as a summer morning, and Miss Lois 
 turned away, as she had turned a hundred times before, 
 uncertain between intention and simple chance. 
 
 "Very well, then, I will go," she said. "How you 
 bother me, Erastus !" 
 
 "No, I don t, "said the youth, releasing her. "You 
 know you like me, Miss Lois; you know you do." 
 
32 ANNE. 
 
 "Brazen-face!" said Miss Lois, pushing him away. 
 But any one could see that she did like him. 
 
 "Of course I may go, father ?" said Tita, without stir 
 ring, but looking at him steadily. 
 
 "I suppose so," he answered, slowly; "that is, if Eras- 
 tus will take care of you." 
 
 "Will you take care of me, Erastus ?" asked the soft 
 voice. 
 
 "Don t be absurd, Tita; of course he will, "said Miss 
 Lois, shortly. He will see to you as well as to the oth 
 er children." 
 
 And then Douglas turned and left the room. 
 
 Erastus, or Rast, as he was called, went back to his 
 place beside Anne. He was a remarkably handsome youth 
 of seventeen, with bright blue eyes, golden hair, a fine 
 spirited outline, laughing mouth, and impetuous, quick 
 movements; tall as a young sapling, his figure was al 
 most too slender for its height, but so light and elastic 
 that one forgave the fault, and forgot it in one look at 
 the mobile face, still boyish in spite of the maturity giv 
 en by the hard cold life of the North. 
 
 Why have we not heard of this dance before, Eras 
 tus ?" asked Miss Lois, ever mindful and tenacious of a 
 dignity of position which no one disputed, but which was 
 none the less to her a subject of constant and belligerent 
 watchfulness one by which she gauged the bow of the 
 shop-keeper, the nod of the passing islander, the salute of 
 the little half-breed boys who had fish to sell, and even 
 the guttural ejaculations of the Chippewas who came to 
 her door offering potatoes and Indian sugar. 
 
 " Because it was suggested only a few hours ago, up at 
 the fort. I was dining with Dr. Gaston, and Walters 
 came across from the commandant s cottage and told me. 
 Since then I have been hard at work with them, decora 
 ting and lighting the ball-room." 
 
 "Which one of the old shells have you taken ?" asked 
 Miss Lois. I hope the roof will not come down on our 
 heads." 
 
 We have Larrabee s ; that has the best floor. And 
 as to coming down on our heads, those old warehouses 
 
ANNE. 33 
 
 are stronger than you imagine, Miss Lois. Have you 
 never noticed their great beams ?" 
 
 I have noticed their toppling fronts and their slant 
 ing sides, their bulgings out and their leanings in," re 
 plied Miss Lois, nodding her head emphatically. 
 
 * The leaning tower of Pisa, you know, is pronounced 
 stronger than other towers that stand erect," said Rast. 
 That old brown shell of Larrabee s is jointed together 
 so strongly that I venture to predict it will outlive us all. 
 We might be glad of such joints ourselves, Miss Lois." 
 
 "If it will only not come down on our heads to-night, 
 that is all I ask of its joints," replied Miss Lois. 
 
 Soon after seven o clock the ball opened: darkness 
 had already lain over the island for nearly three hours, 
 and the evening seemed well advanced. 
 
 "Oh, Tita!" said Anne, as the child stepped out of her 
 long cloak and stood revealed, clad in a fantastic short 
 skirt of black cloth barred with scarlet, and a little scar 
 let bodice, "that dress is too thin, and besides 
 
 "She looks like a circus-rider," said Miss Lois, in dis 
 may. "Why did you allow it, Anne ?" 
 
 "I knew nothing of it," replied the elder sister, with a 
 distressed expression 011 her face, but, as usual, not re 
 proving Tita. "It is the little fancy dress the fort ladies 
 made for her last summer when they had tableaux. It 
 is too late to go back now ; she must wear it, I suppose ; 
 perhaps in the crowd it will not be noticed." 
 
 Tita, unmoved, had walked meanwhile over to the 
 hearth, and sitting down on the floor before the fire, was 
 taking off her snow-boots and donning her new slippers, 
 apparently unconscious of remark. 
 
 The scene was a striking one, or would have been such 
 to a stranger. The lower floor of the warehouse had 
 been swept and hastily garnished with evergreens and all 
 the flags the little fort could muster; at each end on a 
 broad hearth a great fire of logs roared up the old chim 
 ney, and helped to light the room, a soldier standing 
 guard beside it, and keeping up the flame by throwing on 
 wood every now and then from the heap in the corner 
 near by. Candles were ranged along the walls, and lan- 
 
 3 
 
34 ANNE. 
 
 terns hung from the beams above; all that the island 
 could do in the way of illumination had been done. The 
 result was a picturesque mingling of light and shade as 
 the dancers came into the ruddy gleam of the fires and 
 passed out again, now seen for a moment in the paler 
 ray of a candle farther down the hall, now lost in the 
 shadows which everywhere swept across the great brown 
 room from side to side, like broad-winged ghosts resting 
 in mid-air and looking down upon the revels. The mu 
 sic came from six French fiddlers, four young, gayly 
 dressed fellows, and two grizzled, withered old men, and 
 they played the tunes of the century before, and played 
 them with all their might and main. The little fort, a 
 one-company post, was not entitled to a band ; but there 
 were, as usual, one or two German musicians among the 
 enlisted men, and these now stood near the French fid 
 dlers and watched them with slow curiosity, fingering 
 now and then in imagination the great brass instruments 
 which were to them the keys of melody, and dreaming 
 over again the happy days when they, too, played with 
 the band." But the six French fiddlers cared nothing 
 for the Germans; they held themselves far above the 
 common soldiers of the fort, and despised alike their 
 cropped hair, their ideas, their uniforms, and the strict 
 rules they were obliged to obey. They fiddled away with 
 their eyes cast up to the dark beams above, and their 
 tunes rang out in that shrill, sustained, clinging treble 
 which no instrument save a violin can give. The 
 entire upper circle of society was present, and a sprink 
 ling of the second ; for the young officers cared more for 
 dancing than for etiquette, and a pretty young French 
 girl was in their minds of more consequence than even 
 the five Misses Macdougall with all their blood, which 
 must have been, however, of a thin, although, of course, 
 precious, quality, since between the whole five there 
 seemed scarcely enough for one. The five were there, 
 however, in green plaided delaines with broad lace col 
 lars and large flat shell-cameo breastpins with scroll-work 
 settings : they presented an imposing appearance to the 
 eyes of all. The father of these ladies, long at rest from 
 
ANNE. 35 
 
 his ledgers, was in his day a prominent resident official of 
 the Fur Company ; his five maiden daughters lived on in 
 the old house, and occupied themselves principally in re 
 membering him. Miss Lois seated herself beside these 
 acknowledged heads of society, and felt that she was in 
 her proper sphere. The dance-music troubled her ears, 
 but she endured it manfully. 
 
 "A gay scene," she observed, gazing through her 
 spectacles. 
 
 The five Misses Macdougall bowed acquiescence, and 
 said that it was fairly gay; indeed, rather too gay, ow 
 ing to more of a mingling than they approved; but no 
 thing, ah! nothing, to the magnificentTentertainments of 
 times past, which had often beeii^described to them by 
 their respected parent. (They never seemed to have had 
 but one.) 
 
 "Of course you will dance, Anne?" said Rast Pro- 
 nando. 
 
 She smiled an assent, and they were soon among the 
 dancers. Tita, left alone, followed them with her eyes 
 as they passed out of the fire-light and were lost in the 
 crowd and the sweeping shadows. Then she made her 
 way, close to the wall, down to the other end of the long 
 room, where the commandant s wife and the fort ladies 
 sat in state, keeping up the dignity of what might be 
 called the military end of the apartment. Here she 
 sought the brightest light she could find, and placed her 
 self in it carelessly, and as though by chance, to watch 
 the dancers. 
 
 k Look at that child, " said the captain s wife. What 
 an odd little thing it is !" 
 
 "It is Tita Douglas, Anne s little sister," said Mrs. 
 Bryden, the wife of the commandant. I am surprised 
 they allowed her to come in that tableau dress. Her 
 mother was a French girl, I believe. Dr. Douglas, you 
 know, came to the island originally as surgeon of the 
 post." 
 
 "There is Anne now, and dancing with young Pro- 
 nando, of course," said the wife of one of the lieutenants. 
 
 Dr. Gaston thinks there is no one like Anne Douglas, " 
 
36 ANNE. 
 
 observed Mrs. Bryden. "He has educated her almost 
 entirely; taught her Latin and Greek, and all sorts of 
 things. Her father is a musical genius, you know, and 
 in one way the girl knows all about music ; in anoth 
 er, nothing at all. Do you think she is pretty, Mrs. 
 Cromer ?" 
 
 Mrs. Cromer thought Not at all ; too large, and un 
 formed in every way." 
 
 "I sometimes wonder, though, why she is not pretty," 
 said Mrs. Bryden, in a musing tone. "She ought to be. " 
 
 1 I never knew but one girl of that size and style who 
 was pretty, and she had had every possible advantage of 
 culture, society, and foreign travel; wore always the 
 most elaborately plain costumes works of art, in a 
 Greek sort of way ; said little ; but sat or stood about in 
 statuesque attitudes that made you feel thin and insigni 
 ficant, and glad you had all your clothes on," said Mrs. 
 Cromer. 
 
 "And was this girl pretty ?" 
 
 "She was simply superb," said the captain s wife. 
 "But do look at young Pronando. How handsome he 
 is to-night !" 
 
 "An Apollo Belvedere," said the wife of the lieuten 
 ant, who, having rashly allowed herself to spend a sum 
 mer at West Point, was now living in the consequences. 
 
 But although the military element presided like a court 
 circle at one end of the room, and the five Misses Mac- 
 dougall and Miss Lois like an element of first families at 
 the other, the intervening space was well filled with a mot 
 ley assemblage lithe young girls with sparkling black 
 eyes and French vivacity, matrons with a shade more of 
 brown in their complexions, and withered old grandams 
 who sat on benches along the walls, and looked on with 
 a calm dignity of silence which never came from Saxon 
 blood. Intermingled were youths of rougher aspect but 
 of fine mercurial temperaments, who danced with all 
 their hearts as well as bodies, and kept exact time with 
 the music, throwing in fancy steps from pure love of it 
 as they whirled lightly down the hall with their laughing 
 partners. There were a few young men of Scotch descent 
 
ANNE. 37 
 
 present also, clerks in the shops, and superintendents of 
 the fisheries which now formed the only business of the 
 once thriving frontier village. These were considered 
 by island parents of the better class desirable suitors for 
 their daughters far preferable to the young officers who 
 succeeded each other rapidly at the little fort, with at 
 tachments delightful, but as transitory as themselves. 
 It was noticeable, however, that the daughters thought 
 otherwise. Near the doorway in the shadow a crowd of 
 Indians had gathered, while almost all of the common 
 soldiers from the fort, on one pretext or another, were in 
 the hall, attending to the fires and lights, or acting as 
 self-appointed police. Even Chaplain Gaston looked in 
 for a moment, and staid an hour ; and later in the even 
 ing the tall form o f Pere Michaux appeared, clad in a 
 furred mantle, a black silk cap crowning his silver hair. 
 Tita immediately left her place and went to meet him, 
 bending her head with an air of deep reverence. 
 
 "See the child how theatrical !" said Mrs. Cromer. 
 
 "Yes. Still, the Romanists do believe in all kinds of 
 amusements, and even ask a blessing on it." said the lieu 
 tenant s wife. 
 
 "It was not that it was the little air and attitude of 
 devoutness that I meant. See the puss now !" 
 
 But the puss was triumphant at last. One of the 
 younger officers had noted her solemn little salutation in 
 front of the priest, and now approached to ask her to 
 dance, curious to see what manner of child this small 
 creature could be. In another moment she was whirling 
 down the hall with him, her dark face flushed, her eye s 
 radiant, her dancing exquisitely light and exact. She 
 passed Anne and East with a sparkling glance, her small 
 breast throbbing with a swell of satisfied vanity that al 
 most stopped her breath. 
 
 "There is Tita," said the elder sister, rather anxiously. 
 "I hope Mr. Walters will not spoil her with his flattery." 
 
 "There is no danger; she is not pretty enough," an 
 swered East. 
 
 A flush rose in Anne s face. " You do not like my lit 
 tle sister," she said. 
 
38 ANNE. 
 
 "Oh, I do not dislike her," said Rast. "I could not 
 dislike anything that belonged to you" he added, in a 
 lower tone. 
 
 She smiled as he bent his handsome head toward her 
 to say this. She was fond of Rast ; he had been her daily 
 companion through all her life ; she scarcely remember 
 ed anything in which he was not concerned, from her 
 first baby walk in the woods back of the fort, her first 
 ride in a dog-sledge on the ice, to yesterday s consultation 
 over the chapel evergreens. 
 
 The six French fiddlers played on ; they knew not fa 
 tigue. In imagination they had danced every dance. 
 Tita was taken out on the floor several times by the of 
 ficers, who were amused by her little airs and her small 
 elfish face : she glowed with triumph. Anne had but few 
 invitations, save from Rast ; but as his were continuous, 
 she danced all the evening. At midnight Miss Lois and 
 the Misses Macdougall formally rose, and the fort ladies 
 sent for their wrappings : the ball, as far as the first cirr 
 cle was concerned, was ended. But long afterward the 
 sound of the fiddles was still heard, and it was surmised 
 that the second circle was having its turn, possibly not 
 without a sprinkling of the third also. 
 
ANNE. 39 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Wassamequin, Nashoonon, and Massaconomet did voluntarily sub- 
 mit themselves to the English, and promise to be willing from time to 
 time to be instructed in the knowledge of God. Being asked not to 
 do any unnecessary work on the Sabbath day, they answered, It is 
 easy to them ; they have not much to do on any day, and can well 
 take rest on that day as any other. So then we, causing them to un 
 derstand the articles, and all the ten commandments of God, and they 
 freely assenting to all, they were solemnly received ; and the Court 
 gave each of them a coat of two yards of cloth, and their dinner; and 
 to them and their men, every one of them, a cup of sack at their de 
 parture. So they took leave, and went away." Massachusetts Colo 
 nial Records. 
 
 DR. G ASTON sat in his library, studying a chess pro 
 blem. His clerical coat was oid and spotted, his table 
 was of rough wood, the floor uncarpeted ; by right, Pover 
 ty should have made herself prominent there. But she 
 did not. Perhaps she liked the old chaplain, who showed 
 a fine, amply built person under her reign, with florid com 
 plexion, bright blue eyes, and a curly brown wig very 
 different in aspect from her usual lean and dismal retinue ; 
 perhaps, also, she stopped here herself to warm her cold 
 heart now and then in the hot, bright, crowded little 
 room, which was hers by right, although she did not claim 
 it, enjoying it, however, as a miserly money-lender en 
 joys the fine house over which he holds a mortgage, rub 
 bing his hands exultingly, as, clad in his thin old coat, 
 he walks by. Certainly the plastering had dropped from 
 the walls here and there ; there was no furniture save the 
 tables and shelves made by the island carpenter, and one 
 old leathern arm-chair, the parson s own, a miracle of 
 comfort, age, and hanging leather tatters. But on the 
 shelves and on the tables, on the floor and on the broad 
 window-sills, were books ; they reached the ceiling on the 
 shelves; they wainscoted the walls to the height of sev- 
 
40 ANNE. 
 
 eral feet all round the room ; small volumes were piled 
 on tli narrow mantel as far up as they could go without 
 toppling over, and the tables were loaded also. Aisles 
 were kept open leading to the door, to the windows, and 
 to the hearth, where the ragged arm-chair stood, and 
 where there was a small parade-ground of open floor; but 
 everywhere else the printed thoughts held sway. The 
 old fire-place was large and deep, and here burned night 
 and day, throughout the winter, a fire which made the 
 whole room bright; add to this the sunshine streaming 
 through the broad, low, uncurtained windows, and you 
 have the secret of the cheerfulness in the very face of a bar 
 ren lack of everything we are accustomed to call comfort. 
 
 The Reverend James Gaston was an Englishman by 
 birth. On coming to America he had accepted a chap 
 laincy in the army, with the intention of resigning it as 
 soon as he had become sufficiently familiar with the ways 
 of the Church in this country to feel at ease in a parish. 
 But years had passed, and he was a chaplain still ; for ev 
 idently the country parishes were not regulated according 
 to his home ideas, the rector s authority yes, even the 
 tenure of his rectorship being dependent upon the 
 chance wills and fancies of his people. Here was no dig 
 nity, no time for pleasant classical studies, and no approv 
 al of them ; on the contrary, a continuous going out to 
 tea, and a fear of off ending, it might be, a warden s wife, 
 who very likely had been brought up a Dissenter. The 
 Eeverend James Gaston therefore preferred the govern 
 ment for a master. 
 
 Dr. Gaston held the office of post chaplain, having been, 
 on application, selected by the council of administration. 
 He had no military rank, but as there happened to be 
 quarters to spare, a cottage was assigned to him, and as 
 he had had the good fortune to be liked and respected by 
 all the officers who had succeeded each other on the lit 
 tle island, his position, unlike that of some of his brethren, 
 was endurable, and even comfortable. He had been a 
 widower for many years ; he had never cared to marry 
 again, but had long ago recovered his cheerfulness, and 
 had brought up, intellectually at least, two children 
 
ANNE. 4i 
 
 whom he loved as if they had been his own the boy 
 Erastus Pronaiido, and Anne Douglas. The children re 
 turned his affection heartily, and made a great happiness 
 in his lonely life. The girl was his good scholar, the boy 
 his bad one ; yet the teacher was severe with Anne, and 
 indulgent to the boy. If any one had asked the reason, 
 perhaps he would have said that girls were docile by na 
 ture, whereas boys, having more temptations, required 
 more lenity ; or perhaps that girls who, owing to the con 
 stitution of society, never advanced far in their studies, 
 should have all the incitement of severity while those 
 studies lasted, whereas boys, who are to go abroad in the 
 world and learn from life, need no such severity. But 
 the real truth lay deeper than this, and the chaplain him 
 self was partly conscious of it; he felt that the founda 
 tions must be laid accurately and deeply in a nature like 
 that possessed by this young girl. 
 
 " Good-morning, uncle," said Anne, entering and put 
 ting down her Latin books (as children they had adopted 
 the fashion of calling their teacher "uncle"). "Was 
 your coffee good this morning ?" 
 
 "Ah, well, so-so, child, so-so," replied the chaplain, 
 hardly aroused yet from his problem. 
 
 Then I must go out and speak to to what is this 
 one s name, uncle ?" 
 
 Her name is here, I have it written down Mrs. 
 Evelina Crangall," said the chaplain, reading aloud from 
 his note-book, in a slow, sober voice. Evidently it was a 
 matter of moment to him to keep that name well in his 
 mind. 
 
 Public opinion required that Dr. Gaston should employ 
 a Protestant servant; no one else was obliged to con 
 form, but the congregation felt that a stand must be made 
 somewhere, and -they made it, like a chalk line, at the 
 parson s threshold. Now it was very well known that 
 there were no Protestants belonging to the class of serv 
 ants on the island who could cook at all, that talent being 
 con fined to the French quarter-breeds and to occasional 
 Irish soldiers wives, none of them Protestants. The poor 
 parson s cooking was passed from one incompetent hand 
 
42 ANNE. 
 
 to another lake-sailors wives, wandering emigrants, 
 moneyless forlorn females left by steamers, belonging to 
 that strange floating population that goes forever travel 
 ling up and down the land, without apparent motive save 
 a vague El-Dorado hope whose very conception would be 
 impossible in any other country save this. Mrs. Evelina 
 Crangall was a hollow-chested woman with faded blue 
 eyes, one prominent front tooth, scanty light hair, and 
 for a form a lattice-work of bones. She preserved, how 
 ever, a somewhat warlike aspect in her limp calico, and 
 maintained that she thoroughly understood the making 
 of coffee, but that she was accustomed to the use of a 
 French coffee-pot. Anne, answering serenely that no 
 French coffee-pot could be obtained in that kitchen, went 
 to work and explained the whole process from the begin 
 ning, the woman meanwhile surveying her with suspi 
 cion, which gradually gave way before the firm but plea 
 sant manner. With a long list of kindred Evelinas, 
 Anne had had dealings before. Sometimes her teachings 
 effected a change for the better, sometimes they did not, 
 but in any case the Evelinas seldom remained long. They 
 were wanderers by nature, and had sudden desires to vis 
 it San Francisco, or to go down the river to Newerleens." 
 This morning, while making her explanation, Anne made 
 coffee too. It was a delicious cupful which she carried 
 back with her into the library, and the chaplain, far away 
 in the chess country, came down to earth immediately in 
 order to drink it. Then they opened the Latin books, and 
 Anne translated her page of Livy, her page of Cicero, and 
 recited her rules correctly. She liked Latin ; its exactness 
 suited her. Mrs. Bryden was wrong when she said that 
 the girl studied Greek. Dr. Gastoii had longed to teach 
 her that golden tongue, but here William Douglas had 
 interfered. Teach her Latin if you like, .but not Greek, " 
 he said. " It would injure the child make what is call 
 ed a blue-stocking of her, I suppose and it is my duty to 
 stand between her and injury." 
 
 "Ah! ah! you want to make a belle of her, do you ?" 
 said the cheery chaplain. 
 
 I said it was my duty ; I did not say it was my wish," 
 
\ 
 
ANNE. 43 
 
 replied the moody father. "If I could have my wish, | 
 Anne should never know what a lover is all her life long." 
 
 What ! you do not wish to have her marry, then ? 
 There are happy marriages. Come, Douglas, don t be 
 morbid." 
 
 "I know what men are. And you and I are no 
 better." 
 
 "But she may love." 
 
 Ah ! there it is ; she may. And that is what I meant 
 when I said that it w r as my duty to keep her from making 
 herself positively unattractive." 
 
 "Greek need not do that," said Dr. Gaston, shortly. 
 
 It need not, but it does. Let me ask you one ques 
 tion : did you ever fall in love, or come anywhere near 
 falling in love, with a girl who understood Greek ?" 
 
 "That is because only the homely ones take to it," re 
 plied the chaplain, fencing a little. 
 
 But Anne was not taught Greek. After Cicero she 
 took up algebra, then astronomy. After that she read 
 aloud from a ponderous Shakspeare, and the old man cor 
 rected her accentuation, and questioned her on the mean 
 ings. A number of the grand old plays the girl knew al 
 most entirely by heart ; they had been her reading-books 
 from childhood. The down-pouring light of the vivid 
 morning sunshine and the up-coming white glare of the 
 ice below met and shone full upon her face and figure as 
 she bent over the old volume laid open on the table before 
 her, one hand supporting her brow, the other resting on 
 the yellow page. Her hands were firm, white, and beau ~ 
 tifully shaped strong hands, generous hands, faithful 
 hands; not the little, idle, characterless, faithless palms 
 so-common in America, small, dainty, delicate, and shape 
 less, coming from a composite origin. Her thick hair, 
 brown as a mellowed chestnut, with a gleam of dark red 
 where the light touched it, like the red of November oak 
 leaves, w r as, as usual, in her way, the heavy braids break 
 ing from the coil at the back of her head, one by one, as 
 she read on through Hamlet. At last impatiently she 
 drew out the comb, and they all fell down over her shoul 
 ders, and left her in momentary peaye. 
 
44 ANNE. 
 
 The lesson was nearly over when East Pronando ap 
 peared ; he was to enter college a Western college on 
 .one of the lower lakes early in the spring-, and that 
 prospect made the chaplain s lessons seem dull to him. 
 Very likely they will not teach at all as he does ; I shall 
 do much better if I go over the text-books by myself," he 
 said, confidentially, to Anne. " I do not want to appear 
 old-fashioned, you know." 
 
 "Is it unpleasant to be old-fashioned ? I should think 
 the old fashions would be sure to be the good ones," said 
 the girl. "But I do not want you to go so far beyond 
 me, Rast ; we have always been even until now. Will 
 you think me old-fashioned too when you come back ?" 
 
 Oh no ; you will always be Anne. I can predict you 
 exactly at twenty, and even thirty: there is no doubt 
 about 2/ow." 
 
 "But shall I be old-fashioned ?" 
 
 Well, perhaps ; but we don t mind it in women. All 
 the goddesses were old-fashioned, especially Diana. You 
 are Diana." 
 
 "Diana, a huntress. She loved Endymion, who was 
 always asleep, "said Anne, quoting from her school-girl 
 mythology. 
 
 This morning Rast had dropped in to read a little 
 Greek with his old master, and to walk home with Anne. 
 The girl hurried through her Hamlet, and then yielded 
 the place to him. It was a three-legged stool, the only 
 companion the arm-chair had, and it was the seat for the 
 reciting scholar ; the one who was studying sat in a niche 
 on the window-seat at a little distance. Anne, retreating 
 to this niche, began to rebraid her hair. 
 
 "But she, within within singing with enchanting 
 tone, enchanting voice, wove with a with a golden shuttle 
 the sparkling web," read Rast, looking up and dreamily 
 watching the brown strands taking their place in the long 
 braid. Anne saw his look, and hurried her weaving. 
 The girl had thought all her life that her hair was ugly 
 because it was so heavy, and neither black nor gold in 
 hue; and Rast, following her opinion, had thought so 
 too : she had told him U was, many a time. It was char- 
 
ANNE. 45 
 
 acteristic of her nature that while as a child she had ad 
 mired her companion s spirited, handsome face and curl 
 ing golden locks, she had never feared lest he might not 
 return her affection because she happened to be ugly ; she 
 drew no comparisons. But she had often discussed the 
 subject of beauty with him. "I should like to be beauti 
 ful," she said; "like that girl at the fort last summer." 
 
 "Pooh! it doesn t make much difference," answered 
 East, magnanimously. "I shall always like you." 
 
 "That is because you are so generous, dear." 
 
 "Perhaps it is," answered the boy. 
 
 This was two years before, when they were fourteen 
 and fifteen years old ; at sixteen and seventeen they had 
 advanced but little in their ideas of life and of each other. 
 Still, there was a slight change, for Anne now hurried the 
 braiding; it hurt her a little that Bast should gaze so 
 steadily at the rough, ugly hair. 
 
 When the Greek was finished they said good-by to the 
 chaplain, and left the cottage together. As they crossed 
 the inner parade-ground, taking the snow path which led 
 toward the entrance grating, and which was kept shov 
 elled out by the soldiers, the snow walls on each side ris 
 ing to their chins, Bast suddenly exclaimed : Oh, Annet, 
 I have thought of something ! I am going to take you 
 down the fort hill on a sled. Now you need not object, 
 because I shall do it in any case, although we are grown 
 up, and I am going to college. Probably it will be the 
 last time. I shall borrow Bert Bryden s sled. Come 
 along." 
 
 All the boy in him was awake ; he seized Anne s wrist, 
 and dragged her through first one cross-path, then anoth 
 er, until at last they reached the commandant s door. 
 From the windows their heads had been visible, turning 
 and crossing above the heaped-up snow. "East, and 
 Anne Douglas," said Mrs. Bryden, recognizing the girl s 
 fur cap and the youth s golden hair. She tapped on the 
 window, and signed to them to enter without ceremony. 
 "What is it, Bast ? Good-morning, Anne ; what a color 
 you have, child!" 
 
 "Bast has been making me run," said Anne, smiling, 
 
46 ANNE. 
 
 and coming toward the hearth, where the fort ladies were 
 sitting- together sewing, and rather lugubriously recalling 
 Christmas times in their old Eastern homes. 
 
 "Throw off your cloak," said Mrs. Cromer, "else you 
 will take cold when you go out again." 
 
 "We shall only stay a moment, "answered Anne. 
 
 The cloak was of strong dark blue woollen cloth, close 
 ly fitted to the figure, with a small cape ; it reached from 
 her throat to her ankles, and was met and completed by 
 fur boots, fur gloves, and a little fur cap. The rough 
 plain costume was becoming to the vigorous girl. "It 
 tones her down, " thought the lieutenant s wife ; she real 
 ly looks quite well." 
 
 In the mean while East had gone across to the dining- 
 room to find Bert Bryden, the commandant s son, and 
 borrow his sled. 
 
 And you re really going to take Miss Douglas down 
 the hill !" said the boy. "Hurrah ! I ll look out of the 
 side window and see. What fun ! Such a big girl to go 
 sliding!" 
 
 Anne was a big girl to go ; but Hast was not to be with 
 stood. She would not get on the sled at the door, as he 
 wished, but followed him out through the sally-port, and 
 round to the top of the long steep fort hill, whose snowy 
 slippery road- track was hardly used at all during the win 
 ter, save by coasters, and those few in number, for the vil 
 lage boys, French and half-breeds, did not view the snow 
 as an amusement, or toiling up hill as a recreation. The 
 two little boys at the fort, and what Scotch and New Eng 
 land blood there was in the town, held a monopoly of the 
 coasting. 
 
 "There they go!" cried Bert, from his perch on the 
 deep window-seat overlooking the frozen. Straits and the 
 village below. Mamma, you m ust let me take you down 
 now; you are not so big as Miss Douglas." 
 
 Mrs. Bryden, a slender little woman, laughed. "Fan 
 cy the colonel s horror," she said, "if he should see me 
 sliding down that hill ! And yet it looks as if it might be 
 rather stirring," she added, watching the flying sled and 
 its load. The sled, of island manufacture, was large and 
 
ANNE. 47 
 
 sledge-like; it carried two comfortably. Anne held on 
 by Rast s shoulders, sitting behind him, while he guided 
 the flying craft. Down they glided, darted, faster and 
 faster, losing all sense of everything after a while save 
 speed. Reaching the village street at last, they flew across 
 it, and out on the icy pier beyond, where East by a skill 
 ful manosuvre stopped the sled on the very verge. The 
 fort ladies were all at the windows now, watching. 
 
 "How dangerous!" said Mrs. Bryden, forgetting her ad 
 miration of a moment before with a mother s irrelevant 
 rapidity. Albert, let me never see or hear of your slid 
 ing on that pier ; another inch, and they would have gone 
 over, down on the broken ice below! 1 
 
 "I couldn t do it, mamma, even if I tried," replied 
 Master Albert, regretfully; "I always tumble off the sled 
 at the street, or else run into one of the warehouses. Only 
 Rast Pronaiido can steer across slanting, and out on that 
 pier." 
 
 I am very glad to hear it, " replied Mrs. Bryden ; but 
 your father must also give you his positive commands on 
 the subject. I had no idea that the pier was ever at 
 tempted." 
 
 " And it is not, mamma, except by Hast," said the boy. 
 "Can t I try it when I am as old as he is ?" 
 
 " Hear the child !" said Mrs. Cromer, going back to her 
 seat by the fire ; one would suppose he expected to stay 
 here all his life. Do you not know, Bert, that we are only 
 here for a little while a year or two ? Before you are 
 eighteen months older very likely you will find yourself 
 out on the plains. What a life it is !" 
 
 The fort ladies all sighed. It was a habit they had. 
 They drew the dreariest pictures of their surroundings and 
 privations in their letters homeward, and really believed 
 them, theoretically. In truth, there were some privations ; 
 but would any one of them have exchanged army life for 
 civilian ? To the last, thorough army ladies retain their 
 ways; you recognize them even when retired to private 
 and perhaps more prosperous life. Cosmopolitans, they 
 do not sink into the ruts of small-town life; they are nev 
 er provincial. They take the world easily, having a plea- J 
 
48 ANNE. 
 
 sant, generous taste for its pleasures, and making- light of 
 the burdens that fall to their share. All little local rules 
 and ways are nothing to them : neither here nor anywhere 
 are they to remain long. With this habit and manner 
 they keep up a vast amount of general cheeriness vast in 
 deed, when one considers how small the incomes some- , 
 times are. But if small, they are also sure. 
 
 "East Pronando is too old for such frolics, I think," 
 said Mrs. Rankin, the lieutenant s wife, beginning anoth 
 er seam in the new dress for her baby. 
 
 He goes to college in the spring ; that will quiet him," 
 said Mrs. Bryden. 
 
 What will he do afterward ? Is he to live here ? At 
 this end of the world this jumping-off place ?" 
 
 "I suppose so; he has always lived here. But he be 
 longs, you know, to the old Philadelphia family of the 
 same name, the Peter Pronandos." 
 
 Does he ? How strange ! How did he come here ?" 
 
 He was born here : Dr. Gaston told me his history. 
 It seems that the boy s father was a wild younger son of 
 the second Peter, grandson, of course, of the original Pe 
 ter, from whom the family derive all their greatness and 
 money. This Peter the third, only his name was not Pe 
 ter, but John (the eldest sons were the Peters), wandered 
 away from home, and came up here, where his father s 
 name was well known among the directors of the Fur 
 Company. John Pronando, who must have been of very 
 different fibre from the rest of the family, liked the wild 
 life of the border, and even went off on one or two long 
 expeditions to the Red River of the North and the Upper 
 Missouri after furs with the hunters of the Company. 
 His father then offered him a position here which w^ould 
 carry with it authority, but he curtly refused, saying that 
 he had no taste for a desk and pen like Peter. Peter was 
 his brother, who had begun dutifully at an early age his 
 life-long task of taking care of the large accumulation of 
 land which makes the family so rich. Peter was the 
 good boy always. Father Peter was naturally angry 
 with John, and inclined even then to cross his name off 
 the family list of heirs; this, however, was not really 
 
ANNE. 49 
 
 done until the prodigal crowned his long course of mis 
 deeds by marrying the pretty daughter of a Scotchman, 
 who held one of the smaller clerkships in the Company s 
 warehouses here only a grade above the hunters them 
 selves. This was the end. Almost anything else might 
 have been forgiven save a marriage of that kind. If 
 John Pronando had selected the daughter of a flat-boat 
 man on the Ohio River, or of a Pennsylvania mountain 
 wagoner, they might have accepted her at a distance 
 and made the best of her. But a person from the rank 
 and file of their own Fur Company it was as though a 
 colonel should marry the daughter of a common soldier 
 in his own regiment: yes, worse, for nothing can equal 
 the Pronando pride. From that day John Pronando was 
 simply forgotten so they said. His mother was dead, 
 so it may have been true. A small sum was settled upon 
 him, and a will was carefully drawn up forever exclud 
 ing him and the heirs he might have from any share in 
 the estate. John did not appear to mind this, but lived 
 on merrily enough for some years afterward, until his 
 sweet little wife died ; then he seemed to lose his strength 
 suddenly, and soon followed her, leaving this one boy, 
 Erastus, named after the maternal grandfather, with his 
 usual careless disregard of what would be for his advan 
 tage. The boy has been brought up by ouf good chap 
 lain, although he lives with a family down in the village ; 
 the doctor has husbanded what money there was careful 
 ly, and there is enough to send him through college, and 
 to start him in life in some way. A good education he 
 considered the best investment of all." 
 
 "In a fresh-water college ?" said Mrs. Cromer, raising 
 her eyebrows. 
 
 * Why not, for a fresh-water boy ? He will always 
 live in the West." 
 
 "He is so handsome," said Mrs. Rankin, "that he 
 might go Eastward, captivate his relatives, and win his 
 way back into the family again." 
 
 "He does not know anything about his family," said 
 the colonel s wife. 
 
 "Then some one ought to tell him." 
 4 
 
50 ANNE. 
 
 Why ? Simply for the money ? No : let him lead 
 his own life out here, and make his own way," said Mrs. 
 Bryden, warmly. 
 
 "What a radical you are, Jane!" 
 
 No, not a radical ; but I have seen two or three of the 
 younger Pronandos, of the fourth generation, I mean, 
 and whenever I think of their dead eyes, and lifeless, 
 weary manner, I feel like doing what I can to keep East 
 away from them." 
 
 "But the boy must live his life, Jane. These very 
 Pronandos whom you describe will probably be sober and 
 staid at fifty : the Pronandos always are. And Rast, aft 
 er all, is one of them." 
 
 " But not like them. He would go to ruin, he has so 
 much more imagination than they have." 
 
 " And less stability ?" 
 
 "Well, no ; less epicureanism, perhaps. It is the solid 
 good things of life that bring the Pronandos back, after 
 they have indulged in youthful wildness : they have no 
 taste for husks." 
 
 Then the colonel came in, and, soon after, the sewing 
 circle broke up, Mrs. Cromer and Mrs. Rankin returning 
 to their quarters in the other cottages through the walled 
 snow-paths. The little fort was perched on the brow of 
 the cliff, overlooking the village and harbor; the win 
 dows of the stone cottages which formed the officers 
 quarters commanded an uninterrupted view of blue water 
 in summer, and white ice-fields in winter, as far as the 
 eye could reach. It could hardly have withstood a bom 
 bardment ; its walls and block-houses, erected as a defense 
 against the Indians, required constant propping and new 
 foundation-work to keep them within the requirements of 
 safety, not to speak of military dignity. But the soldiers 
 had nothing else to do, and, on the whole, the fort looked 
 well, especially from the water, crowning the green height 
 with buttressed majesty. During eight months of the 
 year the officers played chess and checkers, and the men 
 played fox -and -geese. The remaining four months, 
 which comprised all there was of spring, summer, and 
 autumn, were filled full of out-door work and enjoyment; 
 
ANNE. 51 
 
 summer visitors came, and the United States uniform took 
 its conquering place, as usual, among the dancers, at the 
 picnics, and on the fast-sailing fishing-boats which did 
 duty as yachts, skimming over the clear water in whose 
 depths fish could be seen swimming forty feet below. 
 These same fish were caught and eaten the large lake 
 trout, and the delicate white-fish, aristocrat of the fresh 
 water seas; three-quarters of the population were fisher 
 men, and the whole town drew its food from the deep. 
 The business had broadened, too, as the Prairie States 
 became more thickly settled, namely, the salting and 
 packing for sale of these fresh-water fish. Barrels stood 
 on the piers, and brisk agents, with pencils behind their 
 ears, stirred the slow-moving villagers into activity, as 
 the man with a pole stirs up the bears. Fur-bearing 
 animals had had their day ; it was now the turn of the 
 creatures of the deep. 
 
 * * Let us stop at the church-house a moment and see 
 Miss Lois," said Hast, as, dragging the empty sled be 
 hind him, he walked by Anne s side through the village 
 street toward the Agency. 
 
 " I am afraid I have not time, Rast." 
 
 "Make it, then. Come, Annet, don t be ill-natured. 
 And, besides, you ought to see that I go there, for I have 
 not called upon Miss Lois this year." 
 
 "As this year only began last week, you are not so 
 very far behind, " said the girl, smiling. Why can you 
 not go and see Miss Lois alone ?" 
 
 " I should be welcome, at any rate; she adores me." 
 
 "Does she, indeed!" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Douglas, she does. She pretends other 
 wise, but that is always the way with women. Oh! I 
 know the world." 
 
 "You are only one year older than I am." 
 
 "In actual time, perhaps; but twenty years older in 
 knowledge." 
 
 "What will you be, then, when you come back from 
 college ? An old man ?" 
 
 "By no means; for I shall stay where I am. But in 
 the mean time you will catch up with me." 
 
54 ANNE. 
 
 New England, having long ago chased out, shot down, 
 and exterminated all her own Indians, had become peace 
 ful and pious, and did not agree with these Western 
 carriers of shot-guns. Still, when there were no more 
 Indians to come to this island school, it was of necessity 
 closed, no matter which side v/as right. There were still 
 numbers of Chippewas living on the other islands and on 
 the mainland ; but they belonged to the Eoman Catho 
 lic faith, and were under the control of Pere Michaux. 
 
 The Protestant church a square New England meet 
 ing-house, with steeple and bell was kept open during 
 another year ; but the congregation grew so small that 
 at last knowledge of the true state of affairs reached the 
 New England purses, and it was decided that the minis 
 ter in charge should close this mission, and go south 
 ward to a more promising field among the prairie settlers 
 of Illinois. All the teachers connected with the Indian 
 school had departed before this all save Miss Lois and 
 her aunt; for Priscilla Hiiisdale, stricken down by her 
 own intense energy, which had consumed her as an in 
 ward fire, was now confined to her bed, partially para 
 lyzed. The New England woman had sold her farm, 
 and put almost all her little store of money into island 
 property. "I shall live and die here," she had said; 
 I have found my life-work. " But her work went away 
 from her; her class of promising squaws departed with 
 their pappooses and their braves, and left her scholar- 
 less. 
 
 "With all the blessed religious privileges they have, 
 here, besides other advantages, I can not at all understand 
 it I can not understand it," she repeated many times, 
 especially to Sandy Forbes, an old Scotchman and ferv 
 ent singer of psalms. 
 
 "Aweel, aweel, Miss Priscilla, I donnot suppose ye 
 can," replied Sandy, with a momentary twinkle in his old 
 eyes. ; . 
 
 While still hesitating over her future course, illness 
 struck down the old maid, and her life-work was at last 
 decided for her: it was merely to lie in bed, motionless, 
 winter and summer, with folded hands and whatever 
 
ANNE. 55 
 
 resignation she was able to muster. Niece Lois, hitherto 
 a satellite, now assumed the leadership. This would 
 seem a simple enough charge, the household of two 
 women, poor in purse, in a remote village on a Northern 
 frontier. But exotics of any kind require nursing and 
 vigilance, and the Hinsdale household was an exotic. 
 Miss Priscilla required that every collar should be starch 
 ed in the New England fashion, that every curtain should 
 fall in New England folds, that every dish on the table 
 should be of New England origin, and that every clock 
 should tick with New England accuracy. Lois had 
 known no other training; and remembering as she did 
 also the ways of the old home among the New Hampshire 
 hills with a child s fidelity and affection, she went even 
 beyond her aunt in faithfulness to her ideal ; and although 
 the elder woman had long been dead, the niece never 
 varied the habits or altered the rules of the house which 
 was now hers alone. 
 
 "A little New England homestead strangely set up 
 here on this far Western island, William Douglas had 
 said. 
 
 The church house, as the villagers named it, was built 
 by the Presbyterian missionaries, many of them laboring 
 with their own hands at the good work, seeing, no doubt, 
 files of Indian converts rising up in another world to call 
 them blessed. When it came into the hands of Miss Pris 
 cilla, it came, therefore, ready-made as to New England 
 ideas of rooms and closets, and only required a new ap 
 plication of white and green paint to become for her an 
 appropriate and rectangular bower. It stood near the 
 closed meeting-house, whose steeple threw a slow-moving 
 shadow across its garden, like a great sun-dial, all day. 
 Miss Lois had charge of the key of the meeting-house, and 
 often she unlocked its door, went in, and walked up and 
 down the aisle, as if to revive the memories of the past. 
 She remembered the faith and sure hope that used to fill 
 the empty spaces, and shook her head and sighed. Then 
 she upbraided herself for sighing, and sang in her thin 
 husky voice softly a verse or two of one of their old psalms 
 by way of reparation. She sent an annual report of the 
 
56 ANNE. 
 
 condition of the building to the Presbyterian Board of 
 Missions, but in it said nothing of the small repairs for 
 which her own purse paid. Was it a silent way of mak 
 ing amends to the old walls for having deserted their 
 tenets ? 
 
 "Cod-fish balls for breakfast on Sunday morning, of 
 course," said Miss Lois, "and fried hasty-pudding. On 
 Wednesdays a boiled dinner. Pies on Tuesdays and Sat 
 urdays." 
 
 The pins stood in straight rows on her pincushion; 
 three times each week every room in the house was swept, 
 and the floors as well as the furniture dusted. Beans 
 were baked in an earthen pot on Saturday night, and 
 sweet-cake was made on Thursday. East Pronando often 
 dropped in to tea on Thursday. Winter or summer, 
 through scarcity or plenty, Miss Lois never varied her es 
 tablished routine, thereby setting an example, she said, to 
 the idle and shiftless. And certainly she was a faithful 
 guide-post, continually pointing out an industrious and 
 systematic way, which, however, to the end of time, no 
 French-blooded, French-hearted person will ever travel, 
 unless dragged by force. The villagers preferred their 
 lake trout to Miss Lois s salt cod-fish, their savory stews 
 and soups to her corned beef, their tartines to her corn- 
 meal puddings, and their eau-de-vie to her green tea ; they 
 loved their disorder and their comfort ; her bar soap and. 
 scrubbing-brush were a horror to their eyes. They wash 
 ed the household clothes two or three times a year : was 
 not that enough ? Of what use the endless labor of this 
 sharp-nosed woman with glasses over her eyes at the 
 church-house ? Were not, perhaps, the glasses the con 
 sequences of such toil ? And her figure of a long lean 
 ness also ? 
 
 The element of real heroism, however, came into Miss 
 Lois s life in her persistent effort to employ Indian serv 
 ants. The old mission had been established for their con 
 version and education ; any descendant of that mission, 
 therefore, should continue to the utmost of her ability the 
 beneficent work. The meeting-house was closed, the 
 school-house abandoned, she could reach the native race 
 
ANNE. 57 
 
 by no other influence save personal ; that personal influ 
 ence, then, she would use. Through long years had she 
 persisted, through long years would she continue to per 
 sist. A succession of Chippewa squaws broke, stole, and 
 skirmished their way through her kitchen with various 
 degrees of success, generally in the end departing sudden 
 ly at night with whatever booty they could lay their hands 
 on. It is but justice to add, however, that this was not 
 much, a rigid system of keys and excellent locks prevail 
 ing in the well-watched household. Miss Lois s con 
 science would not allow her to employ half-breeds, who 
 were sometimes endurable servants; duty required, she 
 said, that she should have full-blooded natives. And she 
 had them. She always began to teach them the alphabet 
 within three days after their arrival, and the spectacle of 
 a tearful, freshly caught Indian girl, very wretched in 
 her calico dress and white apron, worn out with the ways 
 of the kettles and brasses, dejected over the fish-balls, and 
 appalled by the pudding, standing confronted by a large 
 alphabet on the well-scoured table, and Miss Lois by her 
 side with a pointer, was frequent and even regular in its 
 occurrence, the only change being in the personality of 
 the learners. No one of them had ever gone through the 
 letters; but Miss Lois was not discouraged. Patiently 
 she began over again she was always beginning over 
 again . And in the mean time she was often obliged not 
 only to do almost all the household work with her own 
 hands, but to do it twice over in order to instruct the new 
 comer. By the unwritten law of public opinion, Dr. 
 Gaston was obliged to employ only Protestant servants ; 
 by the unwritten law of her own conscience, Miss Lois 
 was obliged to employ only Indians. But in truth she 
 did not employ them so much as they employed her. 
 
 Miss Lois received her young friends in the sitting- 
 room. There was a parlor with Brussels carpet and 
 hair-cloth sofa across the hall, but its blinds were closed, 
 and its shades drawn down. The parlor of middle-class 
 households in the cold climate of the Northern States 
 generally is a consecrated apartment, with the chill at 
 mosphere and much of the solemnity of a tomb. It may 
 
58 ANNE. 
 
 be called the high altar of the careful housewife; but 
 even here her sense of cleanliness and dustless perfec 
 tion is such that she keeps it cold. No sacred fire burns, 
 no cheerful ministry is allowed ; everything is silent and 
 veiled. The apartment is of 110 earthly use nor heaven 
 ly, save perhaps for ghosts. But take it away, and the 
 housewife is miserable ; leave it, and she lives on content 
 edly in her sitting-room all the year round, knowing it is 
 there. 
 
 Miss Lois s sitting-room was cheery ; it had a rag-carpet, 
 a bright fire, and double-glass panes instead of the heavy 
 woollen curtains which the villagers hung over their 
 windows in the winter curtains that kept out the cold, 
 but also the light. Miss Lois s curtains were of white 
 dimity with knotted fringe, and her walls were freshly 
 whitewashed. Her framed sampler, and a memorial pic 
 ture done with pen and ink, representing two weeping- 
 willows overshadowing a tombstone, ornamented the high 
 mantel-piece, and there were also two gayly colored china 
 jars filled with dried rose-leaves. They were only wild- 
 brier roses; the real roses, as she called them, grew but 
 reluctantly in this Northern air. Miss Lois never loved 
 the wild ones as she had loved the old-fashioned cinna 
 mon-scented pink and damask roses of her youth, but she 
 gathered and dried these leaves of the brier from habit. 
 There was also hanging on the wall a looking-glass tilted 
 forward at such an angle that the looker-in could see only 
 his feet, with a steep ascent of carpet going up hill behind 
 him. This looking-glass possessed a brightly hued picture 
 at the top, divided into two compartments, on one side 
 a lovely lady with a large bonnet modestly concealing 
 her face, very bare shoulders, leg-of-mutton sleeves, and 
 a bag hanging on her arm ; on the other old Father Time, 
 scythe in hand, as if he was intended as a warning to the 
 lovely lady that minutes were rapid and his stroke sure. 
 
 Why do you keep your glass tilted forward so far that 
 we can not look in it, Miss Lois ?" East had once asked. 
 
 Miss Lois did it from habit. But she answered : " To 
 keep silly girls from looking at themselves while they are 
 pretending to talk to me. They say something, and then 
 
ANNE. 
 
 59 
 
 raise their eyes quickly to see how they looked when they 
 said it. I have known them keep a smile or a particular 
 expression half a minute while they studied the effect 
 ridiculous calves !" 
 
 " Calves have lovely eyes sometimes," said Rast. 
 
 "Did I say the girls were ugly, Master Pert ? But the 
 homely girls look too. " 
 
 " Perhaps to see how they can improve themselves." 
 
 Perhaps, " said the old maid, dryly. Pity they nev 
 er learn !" 
 
 In the sitting-room was a high chest of drawers, an old 
 clock, a chintz-covered settle, and two deep narrow old 
 rocking-chairs, intended evidently for scant skirts ; on an 
 especial table was the family Bible, containing the record 
 of the Hinsdale family from the date of the arrival of the 
 Mayfloicer. Miss Lois s prayer-book was not there ; it was 
 up stairs in a bureau drawer. It did not seem to belong 
 to the old-time furniture of the rooms below, nor to the 
 Hinsdale Bible. 
 
 The story of Miss Lois s change from the Puritan to the 
 Episcopal ritual might to-day fill a volume if written by 
 one of those brooding, self-searching woman-minds of 
 New England those unconscious, earnest egotists who 
 bring forth poetry beautiful sometimes to inspiration, 
 but always purely subjective. And if in such a volume 
 the feelings, the arguments, and the change were all re 
 presented as sincere, conscientious, and prayerful, they 
 would be represented with entire truth. Nevertheless, 
 30 complex are the influences which move our lives, and 
 so deep the under-powers which we ourselves may not 
 always recognize, that it could be safely added by a man 
 of the world as a comment that Lois Hinsdale would 
 never have felt these changes, these doubts, these con 
 flicts, if William Douglas had not been of another creed. 
 For in those days Douglas had a creed the creed of his 
 young bride. 
 
 " Miss Hinsdale, we have come to offer you our New- 
 Years good wishes," said East, taking off his cap and 
 making a ceremonious bow. "Our equipage will wait 
 outside. How charming is your apartment, madam I 
 
60 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 And yourself how Minerva-like the gleam of the eye, 
 the motion of the hand, which 
 
 "Which made the pies now cooling in the pantry, 
 East Pronando, to whose fragrance, I presume, I owe the 
 honor of this visit." 
 
 Not for myself, dear madam, but for Anne. She has 
 already confided to me that she feels a certain sinking 
 sensation that absolutely requires the strengthening in 
 fluence of pie." 
 
 Anne laughed. " Are you going to stay long ?" she 
 asked, still standing at the doorway. 
 
 "Certainly," replied East, seating himself in one of the 
 narrow rocking-chairs; " I have a number of subjects to 
 discuss with our dear Miss Lois." 
 
 Then I will leave you here, for Tita is waiting for me. 
 I have promised to take them all over to Pere Michaux s 
 house this afternoon." 
 
 Miss Lois groaned two short abrupt groans on differ 
 ent keys. 
 
 "Have you ? Then I m going too," said East, rising. 
 
 " Oh no, East; please do not," said the girl, earnestly. 
 When you go, it is quite a different thing a frolic al 
 ways." 
 
 "And why not?" said East. 
 
 " Because the children go for religious instruction, as 
 you well know ; it is their faith, and I feel that I ought 
 to give them such opportunities as I can to learn what it 
 means." 
 
 "It means mummery!" said Miss Lois, loudly and 
 sternly. 
 
 Anne glanced toward her old friend, but stood her 
 ground firmly. I must take them , " she said ; " I prom 
 ised I would do so as long as they were children, and 
 under my care. When they are older they can choose 
 for themselves." 
 
 1 To whom did you make that promise, Anne Douglas ?" 
 To Pere Michaux." 
 And you call yourself a Protestant !" 
 Yes; but I hope to keep a promise too, dear Miss 
 Lois." 
 
ANNE. 61 
 
 " Why was it ever made ?" 
 
 " Pere Michaux required it, and father allowed it." 
 
 Miss Lois rubbed her forehead, settled her spectacles 
 with her first and third fingers, shook her head briskly 
 once or twice to see if they were firmly in place, and then 
 went on with her knitting. What William Douglas al 
 lowed, how could she disallow ? 
 
 Rast, standing by Anne s side putting on his fur gloves, 
 showed no disposition to yield. 
 
 "Please do not come, Rast," said the girl again, lay 
 ing her hand on his arm. 
 
 "I shall go to take care of you." 
 
 "It is not necessary; we have old Antoine and his 
 dogs, and the hoys are to have a sled of their own. We 
 shall be at home before dark, I think, and if not, the moon 
 to-night is full." 
 
 "But I shall go," said Rast 
 
 "Nonsense !" said Miss Lois. Of course you will not 
 go; Anne is right. You romp and make mischief with 
 those children always. Behave now, and you shall come 
 back this evening, and Anne shall come too, and we will 
 have apples and nuts and gingerbread, and Anne shall 
 recite." 
 
 " Will you, Annet ? I will yield if you promise." 
 
 " If I must, I must," said Anne, reluctantly. 
 
 "Go, then, proud maid; speed upon your errand. 
 And in the mean time, Miss Lois, something fragrant 
 and spicy in the way of a reward now would not come 
 amiss, and then some music." 
 
 Among the possessions which Miss Lois had inherited 
 from her aunt was a small piano. The elder Miss Hins- 
 dale, sent into the world with an almost Italian love of 
 music, found herself unable to repress it even in cold New 
 England; turning it, therefore, into the channel of the 
 few stunted psalms and hymns and spiritual songs of 
 the day, she indulged it in a cramped fashion, like a 
 full-flowing stream shut off and made to turn a mill. 
 When the missionary spirit seized her in its fiery whirl 
 wind, she bargained with it mentally that her piano 
 should be included ; she represented to the doubting eld- 
 
62 ANNE. 
 
 er that it would be an instrument of great power among 
 the savages, and that even David himself accompanied 
 the psalms with a well-stringed harp. The elder still 
 doubted ; he liked a tuning-fork ; and besides, the money 
 which Miss Priscilla would pay for the transportation 
 of "the instrument" was greatly needed for boots for 
 the young men. But as Miss Priscilla was a free agent, 
 and quite determined, he finally decided, like many 
 another leader, to allow what he could not prevent, 
 and the piano came. It was a small, old-fashioned instru 
 ment, which had been kept in tune by Dr. Douglas, and 
 through long years the inner life of Miss Lois, her hopes, 
 aspirations, and disappointments, had found expression 
 through its keys. It was a curious sight to see the old 
 maid sitting at her piano alone on a stormy evening, 
 the doors all closed, the shutters locked, no one stirring 
 in the church-house save herself. Her playing was old- 
 fashioned, her hands stiff; she could not improvise, and 
 the range of the music she knew was small and narrow, 
 yet unconsciously it served to her all the purposes of 
 emotional expression. When she was sad, she played 
 "China"; when she was hopeful, "Coronation." She 
 made the bass heavy in dejection, and played the air in 
 octaves when cheerful. She played only when she was 
 entirely alone. The old piano w T as the only confidant 
 of the hidden remains of youthful feeling buried in her 
 heart. 
 
 East played on the piano and the violin in an untrain 
 ed fashion of his own, and Anne sang; they often had 
 small concerts in Miss Lois s parlor. But a greater en 
 tertainment lay in Anne s recitations. These were all 
 from Shakspeare. Not in vain had the chaplain kept 
 her tied to its pages year after year; she had learned, 
 almost unconsciously, as it were, large portions of the 
 immortal text by heart, and had formed her own ideals 
 of the characters, who were to her real persons, although 
 as different from flesh-and-blood people as are the phan 
 toms of a dream. They were like spirits who came at 
 her call, and lent her their personality ; she could identi 
 fy herself with them for the time being so completely, 
 
LOIS HINSDALE. 
 
ANNE. 63 
 
 throw herself into the bodies and minds she had con 
 structed for them so entirely, that the effect was startling, 
 and all the more so because her conceptions of the char 
 acters were girlish and utterly different from those that 
 have ruled the dramatic stage for generations. Her 
 ideas of Juliet, of Ophelia, of Eosalind, and Cleopatra 
 were her own, and she never varied them ; the very ear 
 nestness of her personations made the effect all the more 
 extraordinary. Dr. Gaston had never heard these reci 
 tations of his pupil ; William Douglas had never heard 
 them ; either of these men could have corrected her errors 
 and explained to her her mistakes. She herself thought 
 them too trifling for their notice ; it was only a way she 
 had of amusing herself. Even East, her playmate, found 
 it out by chance, coming upon her among the cedars one 
 day when she was Ophelia, and overhearing her speak 
 several lines before she saw him ; he immediately consti 
 tuted himself an audience of one, with, however, the per 
 emptory manners of a throng, and demanded to hear all 
 she knew. Poor Anne ! the great plays of the world had 
 been her fairy tales; she knew no others. She went 
 through her personations timidly, the wild forest her 
 background, the open air and blue Straits her scenery. 
 The audience found fault, but, on the whole, enjoyed the 
 performance, and demanded frequent repetitions. After 
 a while Miss Lois was admitted into the secret, and dis 
 approved, and was curious, and listened, and shook her 
 head, but ended by liking the portraitures, which were in 
 truth as fantastic as phantasmagoria. Miss Lois had 
 never seen a play or read a novel in her life. For some 
 time the forest continued Anne s theatre, and more than 
 once Miss Lois had taken afternoon walks, for which her 
 conscience troubled her : she could not decide whether it 
 was right or wrong. But winter came, and gradually 
 it grew into a habit that Anne should recite at the church- 
 house now and then, the Indian servant who happened 
 to be at that time the occupant of the kitchen being 
 sent carefully away for the evening, in order that her eye 
 should not be guiltily glued to the key-hole during the 
 exciting visits of Ophelia and Juliet. Anne was always 
 
6 4 ANNE. 
 
 reluctant to give these recitations now that she had an 
 audience. Out in the woods, " she said, I had only the 
 trees and the silence. I never thought of myself at all." 
 
 But Miss Lois and I are as handsome as trees ; and as 
 to silence, we never say a word," replied East. " Come, 
 Aiinet, you know you like it." 
 
 "Yes ; in in one way I do." 
 
 "Then let us take that way," said Hast. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Sounding names as any on the page of history Lake Winnipeg; 
 Hudson Bay, Ottaway, and portages innumerable ; Chipeways, Gens de 
 Terre, Les Pilleurs, the Weepers, and the like. An immense, shaggy, 
 but sincere country, adorned with chains of lakes and rivers, covered 
 with snows, with hemlocks and fir-trees. There is a naturalness in this 
 traveller, and an unpretendingness, as in a Canadian winter, where life 
 is preserved through low temperature and frontier dangers by furs, and 
 within a stout heart. He has truth and moderation worthy of the father 
 of history, which belong only to an intimate experience ; and he does 
 not defer much to literature." THOIIEAU. 
 
 IMMEDIATELY after the early dinner the little cavalcade 
 set out for the hermitage of Pere Michaux, which was on 
 an island of its own at some distance from the village 
 island ; to reach it they journeyed over the ice. The boys 
 sled went first, Andre riding, the other two drawing : they 
 were to take turns. Then came old Antoine and his dogs, 
 wise-looking, sedate creatures with wide-spread, awkward 
 legs, big paws, and toes turned in. Rene and Lebeau 
 were the leaders ; they were dogs of age and character, 
 and as they guided the sledge they also kept an eye to 
 the younger dogs behind. The team was a local one; 
 it was not employed in carrying the mails, but was used 
 by the villagers when they crossed to the various islands^ 
 the fishing grounds, or the Indian villages on the main 
 land. Old Antoine walked behind with Anne by his side : 
 she preferred to walk. Snugly ensconced in the sledge 
 in a warm nest of furs was Tita, nothing visible of her 
 small self save her dark eyes, which were, however, most 
 of the time closed : here there was nothing- to watch. The 
 
ANNE. 65 
 
 bells on the dogs sounded out merrily in the clear air: 
 the boys had also adorned themselves with bells, and 
 pranced along like colts. The sunshine was intensely 
 bright, the blue heavens seemed full of its shafts, the 
 ice below glittered in shining lines; on the north and 
 south the dark evergreens of the. mainland rose above the 
 white, but toward the east and west the fields of ice ex 
 tended unbroken over the edge of the horizon. Here 
 they were smooth, covered with snow ; there they were 
 heaped in hummocks and ridges, huge blocks piled against 
 each other, and frozen solid in that position where the 
 wind and the current had met and fought. The at 
 mosphere was cold, but so pure and still that breathing 
 was easier than in many localities farther toward the 
 south. There was no dampness, no strong raw wind; 
 only the even cold. A feather thrown from a house-top 
 would have dropped softly to the ground in a straight 
 line, as drop one by one the broad leaves of the sycamore 
 on still Indian summer days. The snow itself was dry ; 
 it had fallen at intervals during the winter, and made 
 thicker and thicker the soft mantle that covered the wa 
 ter and land. When the flakes came down, the villagers 
 always knew that it was warmer, for when the clouds 
 were steel-bound, the snow could not fall. 
 
 "I think we shall have snow again to-morrow," said 
 old Antoine in his voyageur dialect. "Step forward, 
 then, genteelly, Kene. Hast thou no conscience, Le- 
 beau ?" 
 
 The two dogs, whose attention had been a little distract 
 ed by the backward vision of Andre conveying something 
 to his mouth, returned to their duty with a jerk, and the 
 other dogs behind all rang their little bells suddenly as 
 they felt the swerve of the leaders back into the track. 
 For there was a track over the ice toward Pere Michaux s 
 island, and another stretching off due eastward the patli 
 of the carrier who brought the mails from below ; besides 
 these there were no other ice-roads; the Indians and 
 hunters came and went as the bird flies. Pere Michaux s 
 island was not in sight from the village; it was, as the 
 boys said, round the corner. When they had turned this 
 
66 ANNE. 
 
 point, and no longer saw the mission church, the little 
 fort, and the ice-covered piers, when there was nothing 
 on the shore side save wild cliffs crowned with ever 
 greens, then before them rose a low island with its hare 
 summer trees, its one weather-beaten house, a straight 
 line of smoke coming from its chimney. It was still a 
 mile distant, but the boys ran along with new vigor. No 
 one wished to ride ; Andre, leaving his place, took hold 
 with the others, and the empty sled went on toward the 
 hermitage at a fine pace. 
 
 "You could repose yourself there, mademoiselle," said 
 Antoine, who never thoroughly approved the walking 
 upon her own two feet kept up nay, even enjoyed by 
 this vigorous girl at his side. Tita s ideas were more to 
 his mind. 
 
 But I like it, " said Anne, smiling. It makes me feel 
 warm and strong, all awake and joyous, as though I had* 
 just heard some delightful news." 
 
 " But the delightful news in reality, mademoiselle one 
 hears not much of it up here, as I say to Jacqueline." 
 
 Look at the sky, the ice-fields ; that is news every day, 
 newly beautiful, if we will only look at it." 
 
 Does mademoiselle think, then, that the ice is beau 
 tiful?" 
 
 "Very beautiful," replied the girl. 
 
 The cold air had brought the blood to her cheeks, a 
 gleaming light to her strong, fearless eyes that looked the 
 sun in the face without quailing. Old Antoine caught the 
 idea for the first time that she might, perhaps, be beautiful 
 some day, and that night, before his fire, he repeated the 
 idea to his wife. 
 
 "Bah!" said old Jacqueline; "that is one great error 
 of yours, my friend. Have you turned blind ?" 
 
 "I did not mean beautiful in my eyes, of course; but 
 one kind of beauty pleases me, thank the saints, and that 
 is, without doubt, your own," replied the Frenchman, 
 bowing toward his withered, bright-eyed old spouse with 
 courtly gravity. But men of another race, now, like 
 those who come here in the summer, might they not think 
 her passable ?" 
 
AXXE. 67 
 
 But old Jacqueline, although mollified, would not ad 
 mit even this. A good young- lady, and kind, it was to be 
 hoped she would be content with the graces of piety, since 
 she had not those of the other sort. Religion was all- 
 merciful. 
 
 The low island met the lake without any broken ice 
 at its edge ; it rose slightly from the beach in a gentle 
 slope, the snow-path leading directly up to the house door. 
 The sound of the bells brought Pere Michaux himself 
 to the entrance. "Enter, then, my children," he said; 
 "and you, Aiitoine, take the dogs round to the kitchen. 
 Pierre is there." 
 
 Pierre was a French cook. Neither conscience nor con 
 gregation requiring that Pere Michaux should nourish 
 his inner man with half-baked or cindered dishes, he en 
 joyed to the full the skill and affection of this small-sized 
 old Frenchman, who, while learning in his youth the 
 rules, exceptions, and sauces of his profession, became 
 the victim of black melancholy on account of a certain 
 Denise, fair but cold-hearted, who, being employed in a 
 conservatory, should have been warmer. Perhaps De 
 nise had her inner fires, but they emitted no gleam to 
 ward poor Pierre ; and at last, after spoiling two break 
 fasts and a dinner, and drawing down upon himself the 
 epithet of "imbecile," the sallow little apprentice aban 
 doned Paris, and in a fit of despair took passage for 
 America, very much as he might have taken passage for 
 Hades via the charcoal route. Having arrived in New 
 York, instead of seeking a place where his knowledge, 
 small as it was, would have been prized by exiled French 
 men in a sauceless land, the despairing, obstinate little 
 cook allowed himself to drift into all sorts of incongruous 
 situations, and at last enlisted in the United States army, 
 where, as he could play the flute, he was speedily placed 
 in special service as member of the band. Poor Pierre ! 
 his flute sang to him only "Denise! Denise!" But the 
 band-master thought it could sing other tunes as well, 
 and set him to work with the score before him. It was 
 while miserably performing his part in company with six 
 placid Germans that Pere Michaux first saw poor Pierre, 
 
68 ANNE. 
 
 and recognizing a compatriot, spoke to him. Struck by 
 the pathetic misery of his face, he asked a few questions 
 of the little flute-player, listened to his story, and gave 
 him the comfort and help of sympathy and shillings, to 
 gether with the sound of the old home accents, sweetest 
 of all to the dulled ears. When the time of enlistment 
 expired, Pierre came westward after his priest : Pere Mi- 
 chaux had written to him once or twice, and the ex-cook 
 had preserved the letters as a guide-hook. He showed 
 the heading and the postmark whenever he was at a loss, 
 and travelled blindly on, handed from one railway con 
 ductor to another like a piece of animated luggage, un 
 til at last he was put on board of a steamer, and, with 
 some difficulty, carried westward ; for the sight of the 
 water had convinced him that he was to be taken on 
 some unknown and terrible voyage. 
 
 The good priest was surprised and touched to see the 
 tears of the little man, stained, weazened, and worn with 
 travel and grief ; he took him over to the hermitage in 
 his sharp-pointed boat, which skimmed the crests of the 
 waves, the two sails wing-aiid-wing, and Pierre sat in the 
 bottom, and held on with a death-grasp. As soon as his 
 foot touched the shore, he declared, with regained fluency, 
 that he would never again enter a boat, large or small, 
 as long as he lived. He never did. In vain Pere Mi- 
 chaux represented to him that he could earn more mon 
 ey in a city, in vain he offered to send him Eastward and 
 place him with kind persons speaking his own tongue, 
 who would procure a good situation for him ; Pierre was 
 obstinate. He listened, assented to all, but when the 
 time came refused to go. 
 
 Are you or are you not going to send us that cook 
 of yours ?" wrote Father George at the end of two years. 
 "This is the fifth time I have made ready for him." 
 
 "He will not go," replied Pere Michaux at last; "it 
 seems that I must resign myself." 
 
 " If your Pere Michaux is handsomer than I am," said 
 Dr. Gaston one day to Arme, "it is because he has had 
 something palatable to eat all this time. In a long course 
 of years saleratus tells." 
 
ANNE. 
 
 Cv) 
 
 Pere Michaux was indeed a man of noble bearing; hia 
 face, although benign, wore an expression of authority, 
 which came from the submissive obedience of his flock, 
 who loved him as a father and revered him as a pope. 
 His parish, a diocese in size, extended over the long point 
 of the southern mainland ; over the many islands of the 
 Straits, large and small, some of them unnoted on the map, 
 yet inhabited perhaps by a few half-breeds, others dotted 
 with Indian farms ; over the village itself, where stood the 
 small weather-beaten old Church of St. Jean ; and over 
 the dim blue line of northern coast, as far as eye could 
 reach or priest could go. His roadways were over the 
 water, his carriage a boat ; in the winter, a sledge. He 
 was priest, bishop, governor, judge, and physician; his 
 word was absolute. His party-colored flock referred all 
 their disputes to him, and abided by his decisions ques 
 tions of fishing-nets as well as questions of conscience, 
 cases of jealousy together with cases of fever. He stood 
 alone. He was not propped. He had the rare leader s 
 mind. Thrown away on that wild Northern border ? 
 Not any more than Bishop Chase in Ohio, Captain John 
 Smith in Virginia, or other versatile and autocratic pio 
 neers. Many a man can lead in cities and in camps, 
 among precedents and rules, but only a born leader can 
 lead in a wilderness where he must make his own rules 
 and be his own precedent every hour. 
 
 The dogs trotted cheerfully, with all their bells ring 
 ing, round to the back door. Old Pierre detested dogs, 
 yet always fed them with a strange sort of conscientious 
 ness, partly from compassion, partly from fear. He could 
 never accustom himself to the trains. To draw, he said, 
 was an undoglike thing. To see the creatures rush by 
 the island on a moonlight night over the white ice, like 
 iogs of a dream, was enough to make the hair elevate it 
 self. 
 
 f Whose hair ?" East had demanded. Yours, or the 
 logs 1 ?" For young Pronando was a frequent visitor at 
 the hermitage, not as pupil or member of the flock, but 
 is a candid young friend, admiring impartially both the 
 priest and his cook. 
 
70 ANNE. 
 
 Hast tliou brought me again all those wide-mouthed 
 dogs, brigands of unheard-of and never-to-be-satisfied 
 emptiness, robbers of all things ?" demanded Pierre, ap 
 pearing at the kitchen door, ladle in hand. Antoine s 
 leathery cheeks wrinkled themselves into a grin as he 
 unharnessed his team, all the dogs pawing and howl 
 ing, and striving to be first at the entrance of this do 
 main of plenty. 
 
 "Hold thyself quiet, Rene. Wilt thou take the very 
 sledge in, Lebeau ?" he said, apostrophizing the leaders. 
 But no sooner was the last strap loosened than all the 
 dogs by common consent rushed at and over the little 
 cook and into the kitchen in a manner which would have 
 insured them severe chastisement in any other kitchen 
 in the diocese. Pierre darted about among their gaunt 
 yellow bodies, railing at them for knocking down his 
 pans, and calling upon all the saints to witness their ra 
 pacity ; but in the mean time he was gathering togeth 
 er quickly fragments of whose choice and savory quali 
 ties Rene and Lebeau had distinct remembrance, and the 
 other dogs anticipation. They leaped and danced round 
 him on their awkward legs and shambling feet, bit and 
 barked at each other, and rolled on the floor in a heap. 
 Anywhere else the long whip would have curled round 
 their lank ribs, but in old Pierre s kitchen they knew 
 they were safe. With a fiercely delivered and eloquent 
 Selection from the strong expressions current in the Paris 
 of his youth, the little cook made his way through the 
 Snarling throng of yellow backs and legs, and emptied 
 his pan of fragments on the snow outside. Forth rush 
 ed the dogs, and cast themselves in a solid mass upon 
 the little heap. 
 
 "Hounds of Satan ?" said Pierre. 
 
 "They are, indeed," replied Antoine. "But leave 
 them now, my friend, and close the door, since warmth is 
 a blessed gift." 
 
 But Pierre still stood on the threshold, every now and 
 then darting out to administer a rap to the gluttons, or 
 to pull forward the younger and weaker ones. He pre 
 sided with exactest justice over the whole repast, and 
 
ANNE. 71 
 
 ended by bringing into the kitchen a forlorn and drear 
 ily ugly young animal that had not obtained his share 
 on account of the preternaturally quick side snatchings 
 of Lebeau. To this dog he now presented an especial 
 banquet in an earthen dish behind the door. 
 
 If there is anything I abhor, it is the animal called 
 dog, "he said, seating himself at last, and wiping his 
 forehead. 
 
 That is plainly evident, " replied old Antoine, gravely. 
 
 In the mean time, Anne, Tita, and the boys had thrown 
 off their fur cloaks, and entered the sitting-room. Pere 
 Michaux took his seat in his large arm-chair near the 
 hearth, Tita curled herself on a cushion at his feet, and 
 the boys sat together on a wooden bench, fidgeting un 
 easily, and trying to recall a faint outline of their last 
 lesson, while Anne talked to the priest, warming first one 
 of her shapely feet, then the other, as she leaned against 
 the mantel, inquiring after the health of the birds, the 
 squirrels, the fox, and the tameeagle, Pere Michaux s com 
 panions in his hermitage. The appearance of the room 
 was peculiar, yet picturesque and full of comfort. It was 
 a long, low apartment, the walls made warm in the win 
 ter with skins instead of tapestry, and the floor carpeted 
 with blankets ; other skins lay before the table and fire as 
 mats. The furniture was rude, but cushioned and dec 
 orated, as were likewise the curtains, in a fashion unique, 
 by the hands of half-breed women, who had vied with 
 each other in the work ; their primitive embroidery, 
 whose long stitches sprang to the centre of the curtain 
 or cushion, like the rays of a rising sun, and then back 
 again, was as unlike modern needle-work as the vase-pic 
 tured Egyptians, with eyes in the sides of their heads, are 
 like a modern photograph ; their patterns, too, had come 
 down from the remote ages of the world called the New, 
 which is, however, as old as the continent across the seas. 
 Guns and fishing-tackle hung over the mantel, a lamp 
 swung from the centre of the ceiling, little singing-birds 
 flew into and out of their open cages near the windows, 
 and the tame eagle sat solemnly on his perch at the far 
 end of the long room. The squirrels and the fox were 
 
72 
 
 visible in their quarters, peeping out at the new-comers ; 
 but their front doors were barred, for they had broken 
 parole, and were at present in disgrace. The ceiling was 
 planked with wood, which had turned to a dark cinna 
 mon, hue ; the broad windows let in the sunshine on three 
 aides during the clay, and at night were covered with 
 heavy curtains, all save one, which had but a single 
 thickness of red cloth over the glass, with a candle behind 
 which burned all night, so that the red gleam shone far 
 across the ice, like a winter light-house for the frozen 
 Straits. More than one despairing man, lost in the cold 
 and darkness, had caught its ray, and sought refuge, with 
 a thankful heart. The broad deep fire-place of this room 
 was its glory : the hearts of giant logs glowed there : it was 
 a fire to dream of 011 winter nights, a fire to paint on can 
 vas for Christmas pictures to hang on the walls of barren 
 furnace-heated houses, a fire to remember before that 
 noisome thing, a close stove. Round this fire-place 
 were set like tiles rude bits of pottery found in the vicin 
 ity, remains of an earlier race, which the half-breeds 
 brought to Pere Michaux whenever their ploughs upturn 
 ed them arrow-heads, shells from the wilder beaches, 
 little green pebbles from Isle Royale, agates, and frag 
 ments of fossils, the whole forming a rough mosaic, 
 strong in its story of the region. From two high shelves 
 the fathers of the Church and the classics of the world 
 looked down upon this scene. But Pere Michaux was 
 no bookworm; his books were men. The needs and 
 faults of his flock absorbed all his days, and, when the 
 moon was bright, his evenings also. There goes Pere 
 Michaux," said the half-breeds, as the broad sail of his 
 boat went gleaming by in the summer night, or the sound 
 of his sledge bells came through their closed doors ; "he 
 has been to see the dying wife of Jean," or "to carry 
 medicine to Francois." On the wild nights and the dark 
 nights, when no one could stir abroad, the old priest 
 lighted his lamp, and fed his mind with its old-time nour 
 ishment. But he had nothing modern ; no newspapers. 
 The nation was to him naught. He was one of a small 
 but distinctly marked class in. America that have a dis* 
 
ANNE. 73 
 
 taste for and disbelief in the present, its ideals, thoughts, 
 and actions, and turn for relief to the past ; they repre 
 sent a reaction. This class is made up of foreigners like 
 the priest, of native-horn citizens with artistic tastes who 
 have lived much abroad, modern Tories who regret the 
 Revolution, High-Church Episcopalians who would like 
 archbishops and an Establishment, restless politicians who 
 seek an empire in all, a very small number compared 
 w r ith the mass of the nation at large, and not important 
 enough to be counted at all numerically, yet not without 
 its influence. And not without its use too, its members 
 serving their country, unconsciously perhaps, but power 
 fully, by acting as a balance to the self -asserting blatant 
 conceit of the young nation a drag on the wheels of 
 its too-rapidly speeding car. They are a sort of Mordecai 
 at the gate, and are no more disturbed than he was by be 
 ing in a minority. In any great crisis this element is 
 fused with the rest at once, and disappears ; but in times 
 of peace and prosperity up it comes again, and lifts its 
 scornful voice. 
 
 Pere Michaux occupied himself first with the boys. 
 The religious education of Louis, Gabriel, and Andre 
 was not complex a few plain rules that three colts could 
 have learned almost as well, provided they had had speech. 
 But the priest had the rare gift of holding the attention 
 of children while he talked with them, and thus the three 
 boys learned from him gradually and almost unconscious 
 ly the tenets of the faith in which their young mother 
 had lived and died. The rare gift of holding the atten 
 tion of boys O poor Sunday-school teachers all over the 
 land, ye know how rare that gift is ! ye who must keep 
 restless little heads and hands quiet while some well- 
 meaning but slow, long-winded, four-syllabled man ad 
 dresses the children. " It is sometimes the superintendent, 
 but more frequently a visitor, who beams through his 
 spectacles benevolently upon the little flock before him, 
 but has no more power over them than a penguin would 
 have over a colony of sparrows. 
 
 But if the religion of the boys was simple, that of Tita 
 was of a very different nature ; it was as complex, tor- 
 
74 ANNE. 
 
 tuous, unresting, as personal and minute in detail, as 
 some of those religious journals we have all read, diaries 
 of every thought, pen-photographs of every mood, won 
 derful to read, but not always comfortable when translated 
 into actual life, where something less purely self -engross 
 ed, if even less saintly, is apt to make the household 
 wheels run more smoothly. Tita s religious ideas per 
 plexed Anne, angered Miss Lois, and sometimes wearied 
 even the priest himself. The little creature aspired to be 
 absolutely perfect, and she was perfect in rule and form. 
 Whatever was said to her in the way of correction she 
 turned and adjusted to suit herself; her mental ingenui 
 ty was extraordinary. Anne listened to the child with 
 wonder ; but Pere Michaux understood and treated with 
 kindly carelessness the strong selfism, which he often en 
 countered among older and deeply devout women, but 
 not often in a girl so young. Once the elder sister asked 
 with some anxiety if he thought Tita was tending toward 
 conventual life. 
 
 * Oh no, " replied the old man, smiling ; anything but 
 that." 
 
 But is she not remarkably devout ?" 
 As Parisiennes in Lent." 
 But it is Lent with her all the year round." 
 That is because she has not seen Paris yet." 
 But we can not take her to Paris," said Anne, in per 
 plexity. 
 
 "What should I do if I had to reply to you always, 
 mademoiselle ?" said the priest, smiling, and patting her 
 head. 
 
 "You mean that I am dull ?" said Anne, a slight flush 
 rising in her cheeks. I have often noticed that peo 
 ple thought me so." 
 
 I mean nothing of the kind. But by the side of your 
 honesty we all appear like tapers when the sun breaks in, " 
 said Pere Michaux, gallantly. Still, Anne could not help 
 thinking that he did think her dull. 
 
 To-day she sat by the window, looking out over the ice. 
 The boys, dismissed from their bench, had, with the sa 
 gacity of the dogs, gone immediately to the kitchen. The 
 
ANNE. 75 
 
 soft voice of Tita was repeating something which sound 
 ed like a litany to the Virgin, full of mystic phrases, a se 
 lection made by the child herself, the priest requiring no 
 such recitation, but listening, as usual, patiently, with his 
 eyes half closed, as the old-time school-teacher listened to 
 Wirt s description of Blennerhasset s Island. Pere Mi- 
 chaux had no mystical tendencies. His life was too busy ; 
 in the winter it was too cold, and in the summer the sun 
 shine was too brilliant, on his Northern island, for mysti 
 cal thoughts. At present, through Tita s recitation, his 
 mind was occupied with a poor fisherman s family over 
 on the mainland, to whom on the morrow he was go- 
 ing to send assistance. The three boys came round on 
 the outside, and peered through the windows to see wheth 
 er the lesson was finished. Anne ordered them back by 
 gesture, for they were bareheaded, and their little faces 
 red with the cold. But they pressed their noses against 
 the panes, glared at Tita, and shook their fists. It s 
 all ready," they said, in sepulchral tones, putting their 
 mouths to the crack under the sash, "and it s a pudding. 
 Tell her to hurry up, Annet." 
 
 But Tita s murmuring voice went steadily on, and the 
 Protestant sister would not interrupt the little Catholic s 
 recitation ; she shook her head at the boys, and motioned 
 to them to go back to the kitchen. But they danced up 
 and down to warm themselves, rubbed their little red 
 ears with their hands, and then returned to the crack, 
 and roared in chorus, Tell her to hurry up ; we shall 
 not have time to eat it." 
 
 "True," said Pere Michaux, overhearing this triple 
 remonstrance. " That will do for to-day, Tita." 
 
 " But I have not finished, my father." 
 
 " Another time, child." 
 
 ; I shall recite it, then, at the next lesson, and learn 
 besides as much more ; and the interruption was not of 
 my making, but a crime of those sacrilegious boys, "said 
 Tita, gathering her books together. The boys, seeing 
 Pere Michaux rise from his chair, ran back round the 
 house to announce the tidings to Pierre ; the priest carne 
 forward to the window. 
 
ANNE. 
 
 "That is the mail-train, is it not ?" said Anne, looking 
 at a black spot coming up the Strait from the east. 
 
 "It is due," said Pere Michaux; "but the weather 
 has been so cold that I hardly expected it to-day." He 
 took down a spy-glass, and looked at the moving speck. 
 
 Yes, it is the train. I can see the dogs, and Denis 
 himself. I will go over to the village with you, I think. 
 I expect letters." 
 
 Pere Michaux s correspondence was large. From many 
 a college and mission station came letters to this hermit 
 of the North, on subjects as various as the writers : the 
 flora of the region, its mineralogy, the Indians and their 
 history, the lost grave of Father Marquette (in these 
 later days said to have been found), the legends of the 
 fur-trading times, the existing commerce of the lakes, the 
 fisheries, and kindred subjects were mixed with discussions 
 kept up with fellow Latin and Greek scholars exiled at 
 far-off Southern stations, with games of chess played 
 by letter, with recipes for sauces, arid with humorous 
 skirmishing with New York priests on topics of the day, 
 in which the Northern hermit often had the best of it. 
 
 A hurrah in the kitchen, an opening of doors, a clatter 
 ing in the hall, and the boys appeared, followed by old 
 Pierre, bearing aloft a pudding enveloped in steam, ex 
 haling fragrance, and beautiful with raisins, currants, 
 and citron rarities regarded by Louis, Gabriel, and Andre 
 with eager eyes. 
 
 "But it was for your dinner," said Anne. 
 
 "It is still for my dinner. But it would have lasted 
 three days, and now it will end its existence more honor 
 ably in one," replied the priest, beginning to cut generous 
 slices. 
 
 Tita was the last to come forward. She felt herself 
 obliged to set down all the marks of her various recita 
 tions in a small note-book after each lesson ; she kept a 
 careful record, and punished or rewarded herself accord 
 ingly, the punishments being long readings from some 
 religious book in her corner, murmured generally half 
 aloud, to the exasperation of Miss Lois when she happen 
 ed to be present, Miss Lois having a vehement dislike for 
 
ANNE. 77 
 
 "sing-song." Indeed, the little, soft, persistent murmur 
 sometimes made even Anne think that the whole family 
 bore their part in Tita s religious penances. But what 
 could be said to the child ? Was she not engaged in sav 
 ing her soul ? 
 
 The marks being at last all set down, she took her 
 share of pudding to the fire, and ate it daintily and dream 
 ily, enjoying it far more than the boys, who swallowed 
 too hastily; far more than Anne, who liked the simplest 
 food. The priest was the only one present who appreci 
 ated Pierre s skill as Tita appreciated it. "It is deli- 
 cieux," she said, softly, replacing the spoon in the saucer, 
 and leaning back against the cushions with half-closed 
 eyes. 
 
 "Will you have some more, then ?" said Anne. 
 
 Tita shook her head, and waved away her sister impa 
 tiently. 
 
 "She is as thorough an epicure as I am," said the 
 priest, smiling ; " it takes away from the poetry of a dish 
 to be asked to eat more." 
 
 It was now time to start homeward, and Pere Michaux s 
 sledge made its appearance, coming from a little islet 
 near by. Old Pierre would not have dogs upon his 
 shores ; yet he went over to the other island himself ev 
 ery morning, at the expense of much time and trouble, 
 to see that the half-breed in charge had not neglected 
 them. The result was that Pere Michaux s dogs were 
 known as far as they could be seen by their fat sides, the 
 only rotundities in dog-flesh within a circle of five hun 
 dred miles. Pere Michaux wished to take Tita with him 
 in his sledge, in order that Anne might ride also ; but the 
 young girl declined with a smile, saying that she liked 
 the walk. 
 
 Do not wait for us, sir," she said ; "your dogs can go 
 much faster than ours." 
 
 But the priest preferred to make the journey in compa 
 ny with them; and they all started together from the 
 house door, where Pierre stood in his red skull-cap, bow 
 ing farewell. The sledges glided down the little slope to 
 tin* beach, and shot out on the white ice, the two drivers 
 
78 
 
 ANNE. 
 
 keeping by the side of their teams, the boys racing along 
 in advance, and Anne walking with her quick elastic step 
 by the side of Pere Michaux s conveyance, talking to him 
 with the animation which always came to her in the 
 open air. The color mounted in her cheeks ; with her 
 head held erect she seemed to breathe with delight, and to 
 rejoice in the clear sky, the cold, the crisp sound of her 
 own footsteps, while her eyes followed the cliffs of the 
 shore-line crowned with evergreens savage cliffs which 
 the short summer could hardly soften. The sun sank to 
 ward the west, the air grew colder; Tita drew the furs 
 over her head, and vanished from sight, riding along in 
 her nest half asleep, listening to the bells. The boys 
 still ran and pranced, but more, perhaps, from a sense of 
 honor than from natural hilarity. They were more ex 
 act in taking their turns in the sledge now, and more 
 slow in coming out from the furs upon call ; still, they 
 kept on. As the track turned little by little, following 
 the line of the shore, they came nearer to the mail-train 
 advancing rapidly from the east in a straight line. 
 
 Denis is determined to have a good supper and sleep 
 to-night," said Pere Michaux ; "no camp to make in the 
 snow this evening." Some minutes later the mail-train 
 passed, the gaunt old dogs which drew the sledge never 
 even turning their heads to gaze at the party, but keep 
 ing straight on, having come in a direct line, without a 
 break, from the point, ten miles distant. The young dogs 
 in Antoine s team pricked up their ears, and betrayed a 
 disposition to rush after the mail-train ; then Rene and 
 Lebeau, after looking round once or twice, after turn 
 ing in their great paws more than usual as they walked, 
 and holding back resolutely, at length sat deliberately 
 down on their haunches, and stopped the sledge. 
 
 1 And thou art entirely right, Rene, and thou too, 
 Lebeau, " said old Antoine. To waste breath following 
 a mail-train at a gallop is worthy only of young-dog 
 silliness." 
 
 So saying he administered to the recreant members of 
 the team enough chastisement to make them forget the 
 very existence of mail-trains, while Rene and Lebeau 
 
ANNE. 
 
 79 
 
 waited composedly to see justice done; they then rose in 
 a dignified manner and started on, the younger dogs fol 
 lowing now with abject humility. As they came nearer 
 the village the western pass opened out before them, a 
 long narrow vista of ice, with the dark shore-line 011 each 
 side, and the glow of the red sunset shining strangely 
 through, as though it came from a tropical country be 
 yond. A sledge was crossing down in the west a mov 
 ing speck ; the scene was as wild and arctic as if they had 
 been travelling on Baffin s Bay. The busy priest gave lit 
 tle attention to the scene, and the others in all the win 
 ters of their lives had seen nothing else : to the Bedouins 
 the great desert is nothing. Anne noted every feature 
 and hue of the picture, but unconsciously. She saw it 
 all, but without a comment. Still, she saw it. She was 
 to see it again many times in after-years see it in cities, 
 in lighted drawing-rooms, in gladness and in sorrow, and 
 more than once through a mist of tears. 
 
 Later in the evening, when the moon was shining 
 brightly, and she was on her way home from the church- 
 house with East, she saw a sledge moving toward the 
 northern point. "There is Pere Michaux, on his way 
 home," she said. Then, after a moment, Do you know, 
 East, he thinks me dull." 
 
 " He would not if he had seen you this evening," re 
 plied her companion. 
 
 A deep flush, visible even in the moonlight, came into 
 the girl s face. "Do not ask me to recite again," she 
 pleaded ; " I can not. You must let me do what I feel is 
 right." 
 
 "What is there wrong in reciting Shakspeare ?" 
 
 " I do not know. But something comes over me at 
 times, and I am almost swept away. I can not bear to 
 think of the feeling." 
 
 "Then don t," said East. 
 
 "You do not understand me." 
 
 "I don t believe you understand yourself; girls sel- 
 lorn do." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Let me beg you not to fall into the power of that 
 
80 ANNE. 
 
 uncomfortable word, Annet. Walters says women of the 
 world never use it. They never ask a single question." 
 
 "But how can they learn, then ?" 
 
 "By observation," replied young- Pronando, oracu 
 larly. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " It was Peboan, the winter ! 
 
 From his eyes the tears were flowing 
 
 As from melting lakes the streamlets, 
 
 And his body shrunk and dwindled 
 
 As the shouting sun ascended ; 
 
 And the young man saw before him, 
 
 On the hearth-stone of the wigwam, 
 
 Where the fire had smoked and smouldered, 
 
 Saw the earliest flower of spring-time, 
 
 Saw the miskodeed in blossom. 
 
 Thus it was that in that Northland 
 
 Came the spring with all its splendor, 
 
 All its birds and all its blossoms, 
 
 All its flowers and leaves and grasses." 
 
 LONGFELLOW. The Sony of Hiawatha. 
 
 ON this Northern border Spring came late came late, 
 but in splendor. She sent forward no couriers, no hints 
 in the forest, no premonitions on -the winds. All at once 
 she was there herself. Not a shy maid, timid, pallid, hes 
 itating, and turning back, but a full-blooming goddess 
 and woman. One might almost say that she was not 
 Spring at all, but Summer. The weeks called spring 
 farther southward showed here but the shrinking and 
 fading of winter. First the snow crumbled to fine dry 
 grayish powder; then the ice grew porous and became 
 honeycombed, and it was no longer safe to cross the 
 Straits ; then the first birds came ; then the far-off smoke 
 of a steamer could be seen above the point, and the village 
 wakened. In the same day the winter went and the sum 
 mer came. 
 
 On the highest point of the island were the remains of 
 an old earth-work, crowned by a little surveyor s station, 
 like an arbor on stilts, which was reached by the aid of a 
 ladder. Anne liked to go up there on the first spring 
 
ANNE. 81 
 
 day, climb the ice-coated rounds, and, standing on the 
 dry old snow that covered the floor, gaze off toward the 
 south and east, where people and cities were, and the 
 spring ; then toward the north, where there was still only 
 fast-bound ice and snow stretching away over thousands 
 of miles of almost unknown country, the great wild 
 northland called British America, traversed by the hunt 
 ers and trappers of the Hudson Bay Company vast 
 empire ruled by private hands, a government within a 
 government, its line of forts and posts extending from 
 James Bay to the Little Slave, from the Saskatchewan 
 northward to the Polar Sea. In the early afternoon she 
 stood there now, having made her way up to the height 
 with some difficulty, for the ice-crust was broken, and 
 she was obliged to wade knee-deep through some of the 
 drifts, and go round others that were over her head, 
 leaving a trail behind her as crooked as a child s through 
 a clover field. Reaching the plateau on the summit at 
 last, and avoiding the hidden pits of the old earth-work, 
 she climbed the icy ladder, and stood on the white floor 
 again with delight, brushing from her woollen skirt and 
 leggings the dry snow which still clung to them. The 
 sun was so bright and the air so exhilarating that she 
 pushed back her little fur cap, and drew a long breath 
 of enjoyment. Everything below was still white-cover 
 ed the island and village, the Straits and the mainland ; 
 but coming round the eastern point four propellers could 
 be seen floundering in the loosened ice, heaving the por 
 ous cakes aside, butting with their sharp high bows, and 
 then backing briskly to get headway to start forward 
 again, thus breaking slowly a passageway for themselves, 
 and churning the black water behind until it boiled white 
 as soap-suds as the floating ice closed over it. Now one 
 boat, finding by chance a weakened spot, floundered 
 through it without pause, and came out triumphantly 
 some distance in advance of the rest; then another, 
 wakened to new exertions by this sight, put on all steam, 
 and went pounding along with a crashing sound until her 
 bows were on a line with the first. The two boats left 
 behind now started together with much splashing and 
 
 6 
 
82 ANNE. 
 
 sputtering 1 , and veering toward the shore, with the hope 
 of finding a new weak place in the floe, ran against hard 
 ice with a thud, and stopped short ; then there was much 
 backing out and floundering round, the engines panting 
 and the little bells ringing wildly, until the old channel 
 was reached, where they rested awhile, and then made 
 another beginning. These manoauvres were repeated 
 over and over again, the passengers and crew of each 
 boat laughing and chaffing each other as they passed and 
 repassed in the slow pounding race. It had happened 
 more than once that these first steamers had been frozen 
 in after reaching the Straits, and had been obliged to 
 spend several days in company fast bound in the ice. 
 Then the passengers ar>d crews visited each other, climb 
 ing down the sides ot the steamers and walking across. 
 At that early season the passengers were seldom pleasure- 
 travellers, and therefore they endured the delay philo 
 sophically. It is only the real pleasure-traveller who 
 has not one hour to spare. 
 
 The steamers Aime now watched were the first from 
 below. The lower lakes were clear; it was only this 
 northern Strait that still held the ice together, and kept 
 the fleets at bay on the east and on the west. White- 
 winged vessels, pioneers of the summer squadron, waited 
 without while the propellers turned their knife-bladed 
 bows into the ice, and cut a pathway through. Then 
 word went down that the Straits were open, all the fresh 
 water fleet set sail, the lights w r ere lit again in the light 
 houses, and the fishing stations and lonely little wood 
 docks came to life. 
 
 "How delightful it is!" said Anne, aloud. 
 
 There are times when a person, although alone, does 
 utter a sentence or two, that is, thinks aloud ; but such 
 times are rare. And such sentences, also, are short ex 
 clamations. The long soliloquies of the stage, so con 
 venient in the- elucidation of plot, do not occur in real 
 life, where we are left to guess at our neighbor s motives, 
 untaught by so much as a syllable. How fortunate for 
 Dora s chances of happiness, could she but overhear that 
 Alonzo thinks her a sweet, bigoted little fool } but wants 
 
ANNE. 
 
 83 
 
 that very influence to keep him straight, nothing less 
 than the intense convictions of a limited intelligence and 
 small experience in life being of any use in sweeping him 
 over with a rush by means of his feelings alone, which is 
 what he is hoping for. Having worn out all the pleasure 
 there is to be had in this world, he has now a mind to try 
 for the next. 
 
 What an escape for young Conrad to learn from 
 Honoria s own passionate soliloquy that she is marry 
 ing him from bitterest rage against Manuel, and that 
 those tones and looks that have made him happy are 
 second-hand wares, which she flings from her voice and 
 eyes with desperate scorn ! Still, we must believe that 
 Nature knows what she is about ; and she has not as yet 
 taught us to think aloud. 
 
 But sometimes, when the air is peculiarly exhilarating, 
 when a distant mountain grows purple and gold tipped as 
 the sun goes down behind it, sometimes when we see the 
 wide ocean suddenly, or come upon a bed of violets, we 
 utter an exclamation as the bird sings : we hardly know 
 we have spoken. 
 
 "Yes, it is delightful," said some one below, replying 
 to the girl s sentence. 
 
 It was Rast, who had come across the plateau unseen, 
 and was now standing 011 the old bastion of the fort 
 beneath her. Anne smiled, then turned as if to de 
 scend. 
 
 "Wait; I am coming up," said Rast. 
 
 "But it is time to go home." 
 
 "Apparently it was not time until I came," said the 
 youth, swinging himself up without the aid of the ladder, 
 and standing by her side. What are you looking at ? 
 Those steamers ?" 
 
 "Yes, and the spring, and the air." 
 
 "You can not see the air." 
 
 "But I can feel it; it is delicious. 1 wonder, if we 
 should go far away, Rast, and see tropical skies, slow 
 rivers, great white lilies, and palms, whether they would 
 seem more beautiful than this ?" 
 
 " Of course they would; and we are going some day. 
 
84 ANNE. 
 
 We are not intending to stay here on this island all our 
 lives, I hope." 
 
 But it is our home, and I love it. I love this water 
 and these woods, I love the flash of the light-houses, and 
 the rushing sound the vessels make sweeping by at night 
 under full sail, close in shore." 
 
 "The island is well enough in its way, but there are 
 other places; and I, for one, mean to see the world," said 
 young Pronando, taking off his cap, throwing it up, and 
 catching it like a ball. 
 
 "Yes, you will see the world," answered Anne ; "but 
 I shall stay here. You must write and tell me all about 
 it." 
 
 "Of course," said Rast, sending the cap up twice as 
 high, and catching it with unerring hand. Then he 
 stopped his play, and said, suddenly, "Will you care 
 very much when I am gone away ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Anne; "I shall be very lonely." 
 
 "But shall you care?" said the youth, insistently. 
 You have so Uttle feeling, Annet ; you are always cold. " 
 
 "I shall be colder still if we stay here any longer," 
 said the girl, turning to descend. East followed her, and 
 they crossed the plateau together. 
 
 "How much shall you care?" he repeated. "You 
 never say things out, Annet. You are like a stone." 
 
 "Then throw me away," answered the girl, lightly. 
 But there was a moisture in her eyes and a slight tremor 
 in her voice which East understood, or, rather, thought 
 he understood. He took her hand and pressed it warm 
 ly ; the two fur gloves made the action awkward, but he 
 would not loosen his hold. His spirits rose, and he be 
 gan to laugh, and to drag his companion along at a rapid 
 pace. They reached the edge of the hill, and the steep 
 descent opened before them; the girl s remonstrances 
 were in vain, and it ended in their racing down together 
 at a break-neck pace, reaching the bottom, laughing and 
 breathless, like two school-children. They were now on 
 the second plateau, the level proper of the island above 
 the cliffs, which, high and precipitous on three sides, 
 sank down gradually to the southwestern shore, so that 
 
"AND IT ENDED IN THEIR RACING DOWN TOGETHER." 
 
ANNE. 85 
 
 one might land there, and drag a cannon up to the old 
 earth work 011 the summit a feat once performed by 
 British soldiers in the days when the powers of the Old 
 World were still figiiting with each other for the New. 
 How quaint they now seem, those ancient proclamations 
 and documents with which a Spanish king grandly meted 
 out this country from Maine to Florida, an English queen 
 divided the same with sweeping patents from East to 
 West, and a French monarch, following after, regranted 
 the whole virgin soil on which the banners of France were 
 to be planted with solemn Christian ceremony! They 
 all took possession ; they all planted banners. Some of 
 the brass plates they buried are turned up occasionally 
 at the present day by the farmer s plough, and, wiping 
 his forehead, he stops to spell out their high-sounding 
 words, while his sunburned boys look curiously over his 
 shoulder. A place in the county museum is all they are 
 worth now. 
 
 Anne Douglas and Rast went through the fort grounds 
 and down the hill path, instead of going round by the 
 road. The fort ladies, sitting by their low windows, saw 
 them, and commented. 
 
 "That girl does not appreciate young Pronando," said 
 Mrs. Cromer. "I doubt if she even sees his beauty." 
 
 " Perhaps it is just as well that she does not," replied 
 Mrs. Rankin, " for he must go away and live his life, of 
 course; have his adventures." 
 
 " Why not she also ?" said Mrs. Bryden, smiling. 
 
 " In the first place, she has no choice; she is tied down 
 here. In the second, she is a good sort of girl, with 
 out imagination or enthusiasm. Her idea of life is to 
 marry, have meat three times a week, fish three times, 
 lights out at ten o clock, and, by way of literature, Miss 
 Edgeworth s novels and Macaulay s History of Eng 
 land." 
 
 "And a very good idea," said Mrs. Bryden. 
 
 "Certainly, only one can not call that adventures." 
 
 "But even such girls come upon adventures some 
 times," said Mrs. Cromer. 
 
 "Yes, when they have beauty. Their beauty seems 
 
86 
 
 often to have an extraordinary power over the most poet 
 ical and imaginative men, too, strange as it may appear. 
 But Anne Douglas has none of it." 
 
 " How you all misunderstand her!" said a voice from 
 the little dining-room opening into the parlor, its door 
 way screened by a curtain. 
 
 " Ah, doctor, are you there?" said Mrs. Bryden. " We 
 should not have said a word if we had known it." 
 
 "Yes, madam, I am here with the colonel; but it is 
 only this moment that I have lifted my head to listen to 
 your conversation, and I remain filled with astonish 
 ment, as usual, at the obtuseness manifested by your sex 
 regarding each other." 
 
 "Hear! hear!" said the colonel. 
 
 " Anne Douglas," continued the chaplain, clearing his 
 throat, and beginning in a high chanting voice, which 
 they all knew well, having heard it declaiming on vari 
 ous subjects during long snow-bound winter evenings, 
 "is a most unusual girl." 
 
 "Oh, come in here, doctor, and take a seat; it will be 
 hard work to say it all through that doorway," called 
 Mrs. Bryden. 
 
 "No, madam, I will not sit down, "said the chaplain, 
 appearing under the curtain, his brown wig awry, his 
 finger impressively pointed. "I will simply say this, 
 namely, that as to Anne Douglas, you are all mistaken." 
 
 "And who is to be the judge between us ?" 
 
 "The future, madam." 
 
 " Very well; we will leave it to the future, then," said 
 Mrs. Bryden, skillfully evading the expected oration. 
 
 "We may safely do that, madam safely indeed; the 
 only difficulty is that we may not live to see it." 
 
 " Oh, a woman s future is always near at hand, doctor. 
 Besides, we are not so very old ourselves." 
 
 True, madam happily true for all the eyes that rest 
 upon you. Nevertheless, the other side, I opine, is like 
 wise true, namely, that Anne Douglas is very young." 
 
 "She is sixteen; and I myself am only twenty," said 
 Mrs. Rankin. 
 
 "With due respect, ladies. I must mention that no* 
 
ANNE. 87 
 
 one of you was ever in her life so young as Anne Doug 
 las at the present moment." 
 
 " What in the world do you mean, doctor ?" 
 
 4 "What I say. I can see you all as children in my 
 mind s eye," continued the chaplain, unflinchingly ; 
 * pretty, bright, precocious little creatures, finely finish 
 ed, finely dressed, quick-witted, graceful, and be witching. 
 But at that age Anne Douglas was a 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 "A mollusk," said the chaplain, bringing out the word 
 emphatically. 
 
 And what is she now, doctor ?" 
 
 "A promise." 
 
 " To be magnificently fulfilled in the future ?" 
 
 That depends upon fate, madam ; or rather circum 
 stances." 
 
 "For my part, I would rather be fulfilled, although 
 not perhaps magnificently, than remain even the most 
 glorious promise," said Mrs. Rankin, laughing. 
 
 The fort ladies liked the old chaplain, and endured his 
 long monologues by adding to them running accompa 
 niments of their own. To bright society women there is 
 nothing so unendurable as long arguments or disserta 
 tions on one subject. Whether from want of mental 
 training, or from impatience of delay, they are unwilling 
 to follow any one line of thought for more than a minute 
 or two; they love to skim at random, to light and fly 
 away again, to hover, to poise, and then dart upward 
 into space like so many humming-birds. Listen to a cir 
 cle of them sitting chatting over their embroidery round 
 the fire or 011 a piazza; no man with a thoroughly mas 
 culine mind can follow them in their mental dartiiigs 
 hither and thither. He has just brought his thoughts 
 to bear upon a subject, and is collecting what he is go 
 ing to say, when, behold ! they are miles away, and ho 
 would be considered stupid to attempt to bring them back. 
 His mental processes are slow and lumbering compared 
 with theirs. And when, once in a while, a woman ap 
 pears who likes to search out a subject, she finds herself 
 out of place and bewildered too, often a target for the 
 
88 ANNE. 
 
 quick tongues and light ridicule of her companions. If 
 she likes to generalize, she is lost. Her companions nev 
 er wish to generalize ; they want to know not the gener 
 al view of a subject, but what Mrs. Blank or Mr. Star 
 thinks of it. Parents, if you have a daughter of this 
 kind, see that she spends in her youth a good portion of 
 wery day with the most volatile swift-tongued maidens 
 /ou can find ; otherwise you leave her without the cur 
 rent coin of the realm in which she must live and die y 
 and 110 matter if she be fairly a gold mine herself, her 
 wealth is unavailable. 
 
 Spring burst upon the island with sudden glory ; the 
 maples showed all at once a thousand perfect little leaf 
 lets, the rings of the juniper brightened, the wild larches 
 beckoned with their long green fingers from the height. 
 The ice was gone, the snow was gone, no one knew 
 whither ; the Straits were dotted with white sails. Blue 
 bells appeared, swinging on their hair-like stems where 
 late the icicles hung, and every little Indian farm set to 
 work with vigor, knowing that the time was short. The 
 soldiers from the fort dug in the military garden under 
 the cliff, turning up the mould in long ridges, and paus 
 ing to hang up their coats on the old stockade with a 
 finely important air of heat : it was so long since they had 
 been too warm ! The little village was broad awake now ; 
 there was shipping at the piers again, and a demand for 
 white-fish ; all the fishing-boats were out, and their half- 
 breed crews hard at work. The violins hung unused on 
 the walls of the little cabins that faced the west, for the 
 winter was ended, and the husbands and lovers were off 
 on the water : the summer was their time for toil. 
 
 And now came the parting. East was to leave the isl 
 and, and enter the Western college which Dr. Gaston had 
 selected for him. The chaplain would have sent the boy 
 over to England at once to his own alma mater had it 
 been possible ; but it was not possible, and the good man 
 knew little or nothing of the degree of excellence possessed 
 by American colleges, East or West. Harvard and Yalo 
 *3> and old Columbia would not have believed this ; yet it 
 was true. 
 
ANNE. 89 
 
 Rast was in high spirits; the brilliant world seemed 
 opening before him. Everything in his life was as he 
 wished it to be ; and he was not disturbed by any realiza 
 tion that this was a rare condition of affairs which might 
 never occur again. He was young, buoyant, and beauti 
 ful; everybody liked him, and he liked everybody. He 
 was going to set sail into his far bright future, and he 
 would find, probably, an island of silver and diamonds, 
 with peacocks walking slowly about spreading their gor 
 geous feathers, and pleasure-boats at hand with silken sails 
 and golden oars. It was not identically this that he 
 dreamed, but things equally shining and unattainable 
 that is, to such a nature as his. The silver and diamond 
 islands are there, but by a law of equalization only hard- 
 featured prosaic men attain them and take possession, 
 forming thereafterward a lasting contrast to their own 
 surroundings, which then goes into the other scale, and 
 amuses forever the poverty-stricken poets who, in their 
 poor old boats, with ragged canvas and some small ballast 
 of guitars and lutes, sail by, eating their crusts and laugh* 
 ing at them. 
 
 I shall not go one step, even now, unless you promise 
 to write regularly, Annet," said Rast, the evening before 
 his departure, as they stood together on the old piazza of 
 the Agency watching for the lights of the steamer which 
 was to carry him away. 
 
 " Of course I shall write, Rast; once a week always." 
 
 "No; I wish no set times fixed. You are simply to 
 promise that you will immediately answer every letter I 
 write." 
 
 "I will answer; but as to the time I may not always 
 be able " 
 
 "You may if you choose; and I will not go unless 
 you promise," said Rast, with irritation. "Do you want 
 to spoil everything, my education and all my future ? I 
 would not be so selfish, Annet, if I were you. What is it 
 I ask ? A trifle. I have no father, no mother, no sister ; 
 only you. I am going away for the first time in my life, 
 and you grudge me a letter!" 
 
 "Not a letter, Rast, but a promise; lest I might not be 
 
90 ANNE. 
 
 able to fulfill it. I only meant that something might 
 happen in the house which would keep me from answer 
 ing within the hour, and then my promise would be brok 
 en. I will always answer as soon as I can." 
 
 "You will not fail me, then ?" 
 
 The girl held out her hand and clasped his with a 
 warm, honest pressure ; he turned and looked at her in 
 the starlight. "God bless you for your dear sincere 
 eyes!" he said. "The devil himself would believe 
 you." 
 
 "I hope he would," said Anne, smiling. 
 
 What with Miss Lois s Calvinism, and the terrific pic 
 ture of his Satanic Majesty at the death-bed of the wick 
 ed in the old Catholic church, the two, as children, had 
 often talked about the devil and his characteristics, Rast 
 being sure that some day he should see him. Miss Lois, 
 overhearing this, agreed with the lad dryly, much to 
 Anne s dismay. 
 
 "What is the use of the devil?" she had once de 
 manded. 
 
 "To punish the wicked," answered Miss Lois. 
 
 "Does he enjoy it?" 
 
 "I suppose he does." 
 
 * Then he must be very wicked himself ?" 
 
 "He is." 
 
 "Who created him ?" 
 
 "You know as well as I do, Anne. God created him, 
 of course." 
 
 "Well," said the child, after a silence, going as usual 
 to the root of the matter, " I don t think /should have 
 made him at all if I couldn t have made him better." 
 
 The next morning the sun rose as usual, but Rast was 
 gone. Anne felt a loneliness she had never felt before 
 in all her life. For Rast had been her companion ; hard 
 ly a day had passed without his step on the piazza, his 
 voice in the hall, a walk with him or a sail ; and always, 
 whether at home or abroad, the constant accompaniment 
 of his suggestions, his fault-findings, his teachings, his 
 teasiiigs, his grumblings, his laughter and merry non 
 sense, the whole made bearable nay, even pleasant by 
 
ANNE. 91 
 
 the affection that lay underneath. Anne Douglas s na- / 
 ture was faithful to an extraordinary degree, faithful to I 
 its promises, its duties, its love; but it was an intuitive! 
 faithfulness, which never thought about itself at all. 
 Those persons who are in the habit of explaining volumi 
 nously to themselves and everybody else the lines of ar 
 gument, the struggles, and triumphant conclusions reach- 
 ad by their various virtues, would have considered this 
 girl s mind but a poor dull thing, for Anne never ana 
 lyzed herself at all . She had never lived for herself or in 
 herself, and it was that which gave the tinge of coldness 
 that was noticed in her. For warm-heartedness general 
 ly begins at home, and those who are warm to others are 
 warmer to themselves ; it is but the overflow. 
 
 Meantime young Pronando, sailing southward, felt 
 his spirits rise with every shining mile. Loneliness is 
 crowded out of the mind of the one who goes by the myri 
 ad images of travel ; it is the one who stays who suffers. 
 But there was much to be done at the Agency. The boys 
 grew out of their clothes, the old furniture fell to pieces, 
 and the father seemed more lost to the present with ev 
 ery day and hour. He gave less and less attention to the 
 wants of the household, and at last Aime and Miss Lois to 
 gether managed everything without troubling him even 
 by a question. For strange patience have loving women 
 ever had with dreamers like William Douglas men who, 
 viewed by the eyes of the world, are useless and incom 
 petent; tears are shed over their graves oftentimes long 
 after the successful are forgotten. For personally there 
 is a sweetness and gentleness in their natures which make 
 them very dear to the women who love them. The suc 
 cessful man, perhaps, would not care for such love, which 
 is half devotion, half protection; the successful man 
 wishes to domineer. But as he grows old he notices that 
 Jane is always quiet when the peach-trees are in bloom, 
 and that gray-haired sister Catherine always bends down 
 her head and weeps silently whenever the choir sings 
 " Rockingham" ; and then he remembers who it was that 
 died when the peach-trees showed their blossoms, and who 
 it was who went about humming " Rockingham," and 
 
92 ANNE. 
 
 understands. Yet always with, a slow surprise, and a 
 wonder at women s ways, since both the men were, to his 
 idea, failures in the world and their generation. 
 
 Any other woman of Miss Lois s age and strict prudence, 
 having general charge of the Douglas household, would 
 have required from Anne long ago that she should ask her 
 father plainly what were his resources and his income. 
 To a cent were all the affairs of the church-house regu 
 lated and balanced ; Miss Lois would have been unhappy 
 at the end of the week if a penny remained unaccounted 
 for. Yet she said nothing to the daughter, nothing to 
 the father, although noticing all the time that the small 
 provision was no larger, while the boys grew like reeds, 
 and the time was at hand when more must be done for 
 them. William Douglas s way was to give Anne at the 
 beginning of each week a certain sum. This he had done 
 as far back as his daughter could remember, and she had 
 spent it under the direction of Miss Lois. Now, being 
 older, she laid it out without much advice from her men 
 tor, but began to feel troubled because it did not go as far. 
 "It goes as far," said Miss Lois, "but the boys have gone 
 farther." 
 
 Poor little fellows! they must eat." 
 
 And they must work." 
 
 But what can they do at their age, Miss Lois ?" 
 
 Form habits," replied the New England woman, 
 sternly. In my opinion the crying evil of the country 
 to-day is that the boys are not trained ; educated, I grant 
 you, but not trained trained as they were when times 
 were simpler, and the rod in use. Parents are too ambi 
 tious ; the mechanic wishes to make his sons merchants, 
 the merchant wishes to make his gentlemen ; but, while 
 educating them and pushing them forward, the parents 
 forget the homely habits of patient labor, strict veracity 
 in thought and action, and stern self-denials which have 
 given them their measure of success, and so between the 
 two stools the poor boys fall to the ground. It is my opin 
 ion," added Miss Lois, decisively, "that, whether you 
 want to build the Capitol at Washington or a red barn, 
 you must first have a firm foundation," 
 
ANNE. 93 
 
 "Yes, I know," replied Anne. "And I do try to con 
 trol them." 
 
 "Oh, General Putnam! you try!" said Miss Lois. 
 " Why, you spoil them like babies." 
 
 Anne always gave up the point when Miss Lois reverted 
 to Putnam. This Revolutionary hero, now principally 
 known, like Romulus, by a wolf story, was the old maid s 
 glory and remote ancestor, and helped her over occasion 
 al necessities for strong expressions with ancestral kind 
 ness. She felt like reverting to him more than once that 
 summer, because, Rast having gone, there was less of a 
 whirlwind of out-door life, of pleasure in the woods and 
 on the water, and the plain bare state of things stood clear 
 ly revealed. Anne fell behind every month with the 
 household expenses in spite of all her efforts, and every 
 month Miss Lois herself made up the deficiency. The 
 boys were larger, and careless. The old house yawned 
 itself apart. Of necessity the gap between the income 
 and the expenditure must grow wider and wider. Anne 
 did not realize this, but Miss Lois did. The young girl 
 thought each month that she must have been unusual 
 ly extravagant ; she counted in some item as an extra ex 
 pense which would not occur again, gave up something 
 for herself, and began anew with fresh hope. On almost 
 all subjects Miss Lois had the smallest amount of patience 
 for what she called blindness, but on this she was silent. 
 Now and then her eyes would follow Anne s father with a 
 troubled gaze ; but if he looked toward her or spoke, she 
 at once assumed her usual brisk manner, and was even 
 more cheerful than usual. Thus, the mentor being si 
 lent, the family drifted on. 
 
 The short Northern summer, with its intense sunshine 
 and its cool nights, was now upon them. Fire crackled 
 upon the hearth of the Agency sitting-room in the early 
 morning, but it died out about ten o clock, and from that 
 time until five in the afternoon the heat and the bright 
 ness were peculiarly brilliant and intense. It seemed as 
 though the white cliffs must take fire and smoulder in 
 places where they were without trees to cover them ; to 
 climb up and sit there was to feel the earth burning un- 
 
94 ANNE. 
 
 der you, and to be penetrated with a sun-bath of rays 
 beating straight down through the clear air like white 
 shafts. And yet there was nothing resembling the low 
 land heats in this atmosphere, for all the time a breeze 
 blew, ruining the Straits, and bearing the vessels swift 
 ly on to the east and the west on long tacks, making the 
 leaves in the woods flutter on their branchlets, and keep 
 ing the wild-brier bushes, growing on angles and points 
 of the cliff, stretched out like long whip-cords wreathed 
 in pink and green. There was nothing, too, of the still 
 ness of the lowlands, for always one could hear the rust 
 ling and laughing of the forest, and the wash of the wa 
 ter on the pebbly beach. There were seldom any clouds 
 in the summer sky, and those that were there were nev 
 er of that soft, high-piled white downiness that belongs 
 to summer clouds farther south. They came up in the 
 west at evening in time for the sunset, or they lay along 
 the east in the early morning, but they did not drift over 
 the zenith in white laziness at noontide, or come together 
 violently in sudden thunder-storms. They were sober 
 clouds of quiet hue, and they seemed to know that they 
 were not to have a prominent place in the summer pro 
 cession of night, noon, and morning in that Northern 
 sky, as though there was a law that the sun should have 
 uninterrupted sway during the short season allotted to 
 him. Anne walked in the woods as usual, but not far. 
 East was gone. East always hurried everybody; left 
 alone, she wandered slowly through the aisles of the arbor 
 vitse on the southern heights. The close ranks of these 
 trees hardly made what is called a grove, for the flat green 
 plats of foliage rose straight into the air, and did not arch 
 or mingle with each other ; a person walking there could 
 always see the open sky above. But so dense was the 
 thickness on each side that though the little paths with 
 which the wood was intersected often ran close to each 
 other, sometimes side by side, persons following them had 
 no suspicion of each other s presence unless their voices 
 betrayed them . In the hot sun the trees exhaled a stron g 
 aromatic fragrance, and as the currents of air did not 
 penetrate their low green-walled aisles, it rested there, al- 
 
ANNE. 95 
 
 though up above everything was dancing along butter 
 flies, petals of the brier, waifs and strays from the forest, 
 borne lakeward on the strong breeze. The atmosphere in 
 these paths was so hot, still, and aromatic that now and 
 then Anne loved to go there and steep herself in it. She 
 used to tell Miss Lois that it made her feel as though 
 she was an Egyptian princess who had been swathed in 
 precious gums and spices for a thousand years. 
 
 Over on the other side of the island grew the great 
 pines. These had two deeply worn Indian trails leading 
 through them from north to south, not aimless, wandering 
 little paths like those through the arbor vitse, but one 
 straight track from the village to the western shore, and 
 another leading down to the spring on the beach. The 
 cliffs on whose summit these pines grew were high and 
 precipitous, overlooking deep water ; a vessel could have 
 sailed by so near the shore that a pebble thrown from above 
 would have dropped upon her deck. With one arm 
 round an old trunk, Anne often sat on the edge of these 
 cliffs, looking down through the western pass. She had 
 never felt any desire to leave the island, save that some 
 times she had vague dreams of the tropics visions of 
 palm-trees and white lilies, the Pyramids and minarets, as 
 fantastic as her dreams of Shakspeare. But she loved 
 the island and the island trees ; she loved the wild larches, 
 the tall spires of the spruces bossed with lighter green, 
 the gray pines, and the rings of the juniper. She had a 
 peculiar feeling about trees. "When she was a little girl 
 she used to whisper to them how much she loved them, 
 and even now she felt that they noticed her. Several 
 times since these recent beginnings of care she had turn 
 ed back and gone over part of the path a second time, 
 because she felt that she had not been as observant as 
 usual of her old friends, and that they would be grieved 
 by the inattention. But this she never told. 
 
 There was, however, less and less time for walking in 
 the woods ; there was much to do at home, and she was 
 faithful in doing it: every spring of the little household 
 machinery felt her hand upon it, keeping it in order. 
 The clothes she made for Tita and the boys, the dinners 
 
96 ANNE. 
 
 she provided from scanty materials, the locks and latches 
 she improvised, the paint she mixed and applied, the 
 cheerfulness and spirit with which she labored on day 
 after day, were evidences of a great courage and un 
 selfishness ; and if the garments were not always success 
 ful as regards shape, nor the dinners always good, she 
 was not disheartened, hut bore the fault-findings cheer 
 fully, promising to do better another time. For they all 
 found fault with her, the boys loudly, Tita quietly, but 
 with a calm pertinacity that always gained its little point. 
 Even Miss Lois thought sometimes that Anne was care 
 less, and told her so. For Miss Lois never concealed her 
 light under a bushel. The New England woman believed 
 that household labor held the first place among a woman s 
 duties and privileges ; and if the housekeeper spent four 
 teen hours out of the twenty-four in her task, she was 
 but fulfilling her destiny as her Creator had intended. 
 Anne was careless in the matter of piece-bags, having 
 only two, whereas four, for linen and cotton, colors and 
 black materials, were, as every one knew, absolutely ne 
 cessary. There was also the systematic halving of sheets 
 and resewing them at the first signs of wear somewhat 
 neglected, and also a particularity as to the saving of 
 string. Even the vaguely lost, thought-wandering fa 
 ther, too, finding that his comforts diminished, spoke of 
 it, not with complaint so much as surprise ; and then the 
 daughter restored what he had missed at any sacrifice. 
 All this was done without the recognition by anybody that 
 it was much to do. Anne did not think of it in that way, 
 and no one thought for her. For they were all so ac 
 customed to her strong, cheerful spirit that they took 
 what she did as a matter of course. Dr. Gastoii under 
 stood something of the life led at the Agency ; but he too 
 had fallen into a way of resting upon the girl. She took 
 a rapid survey of his small housekeeping whenever she 
 came up to his cottage for a lesson, which was not as often 
 now as formerly, owing to her manifold home duties. 
 But Pere Michaux shook his head. He believed that 
 all should live their lives, and that one should not be a 
 slave to others ; that the young should be young, and that 
 
ANNE. 97 
 
 some natural simple pleasure should be put into each 
 twenty-four hours. To all his flock he preached this 
 doctrine. They might he poor, but children should be 
 made happy ; they might be poor, but youth should not 
 be overwhelmed with the elders 1 cares; they might be 
 poor, but they could have family love round the poorest 
 hearthstone ; and there was always time for a little plea 
 sure, if they would seek it simply and moderately. The 
 fine robust old man lived in an atmosphere above the sub 
 tleties of his leaner brethren in cities farther southward, 
 and he was left untrammelled in his water diocese. Priv 
 ileges are allowed to scouts preceding the army in an In 
 dian country, because it is not every man who can be a 
 scout. Not but that the old priest understood the mys 
 teries, the introverted gaze, and indwelling thoughts that 
 belong to one side of his religion ; they were a part of his 
 experience, and he knew their beauty and their dan 
 gers. They were good for some minds, he said; but it 
 was a strange fact, which he had proved more than once 
 during the long course of his ministry, that the minds 
 which needed them the least loved them the most dearly, 
 revelled in them, and clung to them with pertinacity, 
 in spite of his efforts to turn them into more practical! 
 channels. 
 
 In all his broad parish he had no penitent so long-wind 
 ed, exhaustive, and self-centred as little Tita. He took 
 excellent care of the child, was very patient with her small 
 ceremonies and solemnities, tried gently to lead her 
 aright, and, with rare wisdom, in her own way, not his. 
 But through it all, in his frequent visits to the Agency, 
 and in the visits of the Douglas family to the hermitage, 
 his real interest was centred in the Protestant sister, 
 the tall unconscious young girl who had not yet, as 
 he said to himself, begun to live. He shook his head 
 often as he thought of her. "In France, even in Eng 
 land, she would be guarded," he said to himself; "but 
 here ! It is an excellent country, this America of theirs, 
 for the pioneer, the New-Eiiglander, the adventurer, and 
 the farmer; but for a girl like Anne ? No." And then, 
 if Anne was present, and happened to meet his eye, she 
 
 7 
 
98 ANNE. 
 
 smiled back so frankly that he forgot his fears. After 
 all, I suppose there are hundreds of such girls in this 
 country of theirs," he admitted, in a grumbling way, 
 to his French mind, "coming up like flowers every 
 where, without any guardianship at all. But it is all 
 wrong, all wrong." 
 
 The priest generally placed America as a nation in the 
 hands of possessive pronouns of the third person plural ; 
 it was a safe way of avoiding responsibility, and of be 
 ing as scornful, without offending any one, as he pleased. 
 One must have some outlet. 
 
 The summer wore on. Rast wrote frequently, and 
 Anne, writing the first letters of her life in reply, found 
 that she liked to write. She saved in her memory all 
 kinds of things to tell him: about their favorite trees, 
 about the birds that had nests in the garden that season, 
 about the fishermen and their luck, about the unusual 
 quantity of raspberries on the mainland, about the boys, 
 about Tita. Something, too, about Bacon and Sir Thomas 
 Browne, selections from whose volumes she was now 
 reading under the direction of the chaplain. But she 
 never put down any of her own thoughts, opinions, or 
 feelings : her letters were curious examples of purely im 
 personal objective writing. Egotism, the under-current 
 of most long letters as of most long conversations also, 
 the telling of how this or that was due to us, affected 
 us, was regarded by us, was prophesied, was commended, 
 was objected to, was feared, was thoroughly understood, 
 was held in restraint, was despised or scorned by us, and 
 all our opinions on the subject, which, however import 
 ant in itself, we present always surrounded by a large 
 indefinite aureola of our own personality this was entire 
 ly wanting in Anne Douglas s letters and conversation. 
 Perhaps if she had had a girl friend of her own age she 
 might have exchanged with her those little confidences, 
 speculations, and fancies which are the first steps toward 
 independent thought, those mazy whispered discussions 
 in which girls delight, the beginnings of poetry and ro 
 mance, the beginnings, in fact, of their own personal in 
 dividual consciousness and life. But she had only East* 
 
ANNE. 99 
 
 and that was not the same thing. East always took the 
 lead ; and he had so many opinions of his own that there 
 was no time to discuss, or even inquire about, hers. 
 
 In the mean time young Pronarido was growing into 
 manhood at the rate of a year in a month. His handsome 
 face, fine bearing, generous ways, and incessant activity 
 both of limb and brain gave him a leader s place among 
 the Western students, who studied well, were careless in 
 dress and manner, spent their money, according to the 
 Western fashion, like princes, and had a peculiar dry 
 humor of their own, delivered with lantern-jawed solem 
 nity. 
 
 Young Pronando s preparation for college had been 
 far better than that of most of his companions, owing to 
 Dr. Gaston s care. The boy apprehended with great ra 
 pidity apprehended perhaps more than he comprehend 
 ed : he did not take the time to comprehend. He floated 
 lightly down the stream of college life. His comrades 
 liked him ; the young Western professors, quick, uncere 
 monious, practical men, were constantly running against 
 little rocks which showed a better training than their own, 
 and were therefore shy about finding fault with him ; and 
 the old president, an Eastern man, listened furtively to 
 his Oxford pronunciation of Greek, and sighed in spite oi 
 himself arid his large salary, hating the new bare white- 
 painted flourishing institution over which he presided 
 with a fresher hatred the hatred of an exile. For there 
 was not a tree on the college grounds : Young America 
 always cuts down all his trees as a first step toward civil 
 ization ; then, after an interregnum, when all the kings 
 of the forest have been laid low, he sets out small saplings 
 in whitewashed tree-boxes, and watches and tends them 
 with fervor. 
 
 Rast learned rapidly more things than one. The 
 school for girls, which, singularly enough, in American 
 towns, is always found flourishing close under the walls 
 of a college, on the excellent and heroic principle, per 
 haps, of resisting temptation rather than fleeing from it, 
 was situated here at convenient distance for a variety of 
 strict rules on both sides, which gave interest and excite- 
 
100 ANNE. 
 
 ment to the day. Every morning- Miss Corinna Haws and 
 her sister girded themselves for the contest with fresh- 
 rubbed spectacles and vigilance, and every morning the 
 girls eluded them; that is, some of the girls, namely, 
 Louise Ray and Kate and Fanny Meadows, cousins, ri 
 vals, and beauties of the Western river-country type, 
 where the full life and languor of the South have fused 
 somewhat the old inherited New England delicacy and 
 fragile contours. These three young girls were all in 
 terested in handsome Hast in their fanciful, innocent, 
 sentimental way. They glanced at him furtively in 
 church on Sunday; they took walks of miles to catch a 
 distant glimpse of him ; but they would have run away 
 like frightened fawns if he had approached nearer. 
 They wrote notes which they never sent, but carried in 
 their pockets for days ; they had deep secrets to tell each 
 other about how they had heard that somebody had told 
 somebody else that the Juniors were going to play ball 
 that afternoon in Payne s meadow, and that if they could 
 only persuade Miss Miriam to go round by the hill, they 
 could see them, and not so very far off either, only two 
 wheat fields and the river between. Miss Miriam was 
 the second Miss Haws, good-tempered and near-sighted. 
 That the three girls were interested in one and the 
 same person was part of the pleasure of the affair ; each 
 would have considered it a very dreary amusement to be 
 interested all alone. The event of the summer, the com 
 et of that season s sky, was an invitation to a small party 
 in the town, where it was understood that young Pro- 
 nando, with five or six of his companions, would be pres 
 ent. Miss Haws accepted occasional invitations for her 
 pupils, marshalling them in a bevy, herself robed in pea- 
 greeii silk, like an ancient mermaid: she said that it gave 
 them dignity. It did. The stern dignity and silence 
 almost solemn displayed by East s three worshippers when 
 they found themselves actually in the same room with 
 him were something preternatural. They moved stiffly, 
 as if their elbows and ankles were out of joint; they 
 spoke to each other cautiously in the lowest whispers, 
 with their under jaws rigid, and a difficulty with their 
 
ANNE. : 101 
 
 labials ; they moved their eyes carefully eveiy where S, 
 toward the point where he was standing, yet knew exact 
 ly where he was every moment of the time. When he 
 approached the quadrille which was formed in one corner 
 by Miss Haws s young ladies, dancing virginally by them 
 selves, they squeezed each others hands convulsively 
 when they passed in "ladies chain," in token of the 
 great fact that he was looking on. When, after the 
 dance, they walked up and down in the hall, arm in arm, 
 they trod upon each other s slippers as sympathetic per 
 ception of the intensity of his presence on the stairs. 
 What an evening ! How crowded full of emotions ! Yet 
 the outward appearance was simply that of three shy, 
 awkward gL ls in white muslin, keeping close together, 
 and as far as possible from a handsome, gay-hearted, fast- 
 talking youth who never once noticed them. O the im 
 aginative, happy, shy fancies of foolish school-girls ! It 
 is a question whether the real love which comes later 
 ever yields that wild, fairy-like romance which these early 
 attachments exhale ; the very element of reality weights 
 it down, and makes it less heavenly fair. 
 
 At the end of the summer Rast had acquired a deep ex 
 perience in life (so he thought), a downy little golden 
 mustache, and a better opinion of himself than ever. The 
 world is very kind to a handsome boy of frank and spirit 
 ed bearing, one who looks as though he intended to 
 mount and ride to victory. The proud vigor of such a 
 youth is pleasant to tired eyes ; he is so sure he will suc 
 ceed! And most persons older, although knowing the 
 world better and not so sure, give him as he passes a smile 
 and friendly word, and wish him godspeed. It is not 
 quite fair, perhaps, to other youths of equal merit but 
 another bearing, yet Nature orders it so. The hand 
 some, strong, confident boy who looks her in the face 
 w r ith daring courage wins from her always a fine starting- 
 place in the race of life, which seems to advance him far 
 beyond his companions. Seems ; but the end is far away. 
 
 Rast did not return to the island during the summer 
 vacation ; Dr. Gaston wished him to continue his studies 
 with a tutor, and as the little college town was now ra- 
 
102 ANNE. 
 
 dianp. with -a t mild yammer gayety, the young man was 
 willing to remain. He wrote to Anne frequently, giving 
 abstracts of his life, lists of little events like statistics in 
 a report. He did this regularly, and omitted nothing, 
 for the letters were his conscience. When they were 
 once written and sent, however, off he went to new 
 pleasures. It must be added as well that he always 
 sought the post-office eagerly for Anne s replies, and 
 placed them in his pocket with satisfaction. They were 
 sometimes unread, or half read, for days, awaiting a con 
 venient season, but they were there. 
 
 Anne s letters were long, they were pleasant, they were 
 never exciting the very kind to keep ; like friends who 
 last a lifetime, but who never give us one quickened 
 pulse. Alone in his room, or stretched on the grass un 
 der a tree, reading them, Rast felt himself strongly car 
 ried back to his old life on the island, and he did not re 
 sist the feeling. His plans for the future were as yet 
 vague, but Anne was always a part of his dream. 
 
 But this youth lived so vigorously and fully and hap 
 pily in the present that there was not much time for the 
 future and for dreams. He seldom thought. What oth 
 er people thought, he felt. 
 
ANNE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "Into the Silent Land! 
 
 Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 
 Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 
 And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 
 
 Who leads us with a gentle hand 
 
 Thither, thither, 
 
 Into the Silent Land? 
 
 "0 Land, Land, 
 
 For all the broken-hearted, 
 The mildest herald by our fate allotted 
 Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 
 To lead us with a gentle hand 
 To the land of the great Departed 
 Into the Silent Land!" 
 
 LONGFELLOW. From the German. 
 
 EARLY in September William Douglas failed suddenly. 
 From taciturnity he sank into silence, from quiet into 
 lethargy. He rose in the morning, but after that effort 
 he became like a breathing statue, and sat all day in his 
 arm-chair without stirring or noticing anything. If they 
 brought him food he ate it, but he did not speak or answer 
 their questions by motion or gesture. The fort surgeon 
 was puzzled ; it was evidently not paralysis. He was a 
 new-comer on the island, and he asked many questions 
 as to the past. Anne sincerely, Miss Lois resolutely, de 
 nied that there had ever been any trouble with the brain ; 
 Dr. Gaston drummed on the table, and answered sharply 
 that all men of intellect were more or less mad. But 
 the towns-people smiled, and tapped their foreheads signif 
 icantly; and the new surgeon had noticed in the course 
 of his experience that, with time for observation, the 
 towns-people are generally right. So he gave a few 
 medicines, ordered a generous diet, and looking about 
 him for some friend of the family who could be trusted, 
 selected at last Pere Michaux. For Miss Lois would not 
 treat him even civilly, bristling when he approached like 
 
104 ANNE. 
 
 a hedge-hog; and with her frank eyes meeting his, he 
 found it impossible to speak to Anne. But he told Pere 
 Michaux the true state of his patient, and asked him to 
 break the tidings to the family. 
 
 "He can not live long," he said. 
 
 " Is it so ?" said Pere Michaux. "God s will be done. 
 Poor Anne!" 
 
 An odd lot of children he has in that ramshackle old 
 house of his," continued the surgeon. "Two sets, I 
 should say." 
 
 "Yes; the second wife was a French girl." 
 
 "With Indian blood?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 I thought so. Who is to have charge of them ? The 
 boys will take to the woods, I suppose, but that little Tita 
 is an odd specimen. She would make quite a sensation 
 in New York a few years later." 
 
 " May she never reach there!" said the old priest, fer 
 vently. 
 
 " Well, perhaps you are right. But who is to .have the 
 child?" 
 
 "Her sister will take charge of her." 
 
 Miss Aime ? Yes, she will do her best, of course ; she 
 is a fine, frank young Saxon. But I doubt if she under 
 stands that elfish little creature." 
 
 "She understands her better than we do," said the 
 priest, with some heat. 
 
 Ah ? You know best, of course ; I speak merely as 
 an outsider, " answered the new surgeon, going off about 
 his business. 
 
 Pere Michaux decided that he would tell Anne herself. 
 He went to the house for the purpose, and called her out 
 on the old piazza. But when she stood before him, her 
 violet eyes meeting his without a suspicion of the tidings 
 he brought, his heart failed him suddenly. He compre 
 hended for the first time what it would be to her, and, 
 making some chance inquiry, he asked to see Miss Lois, 
 and turned away. Anne went in, and Miss Lois came 
 out. The contrast between the priest and the New Eng 
 land woman was more marked than usual as they stood 
 
ALARMED, HE BENT OVER HER. 
 
ANNE. 10 5 
 
 there facing each other on the old piazza, he less com 
 posed than he ordinarily was on account of what he had 
 to tell. But it never occurred to him for a moment that 
 Miss Lois would falter. Why should she ? He told her. 
 She sank down at his feet as though she had fallen there 
 and died. 
 
 Alarmed, he bent over her, and in the twilight saw 
 that she was not dead ; her features were working strange 
 ly ; her hands were clinched over her breast ; her faded 
 eyes stared at him behind the spectacles as though he 
 were miles away. He tried to raise her. She struck at 
 him almost fiercely. "Let me aloiie,"she said, in a 
 muffled voice. Then, still lying where she fell, she threw 
 up her arms and wailed once or twice, not loudly, but with 
 a struggling, inarticulate sound, as a person cries out in 
 sleep. Poor old Lois ! it was the last wail of her love. 
 But even then she did not recognize it. Nor did the 
 priest. Pale, with uncertain steps and shaking hands, 
 yet tearless, the stricken woman raised herself by the aid 
 of the bench, crossed the piazza, went down the path and 
 into the street, Pere Michaux s eyes following her in be 
 wilderment. She was evidently going home, and her 
 prim, angular shape looked strangely bare and uncover 
 ed in the lack of bonnet and shawl, for through all the 
 years she had lived on the island she had never once 
 been seen in the open air without them. The precision 
 of her bonnet strings was a matter of conscience. The 
 priest went away also. And thus it happened that Anne 
 was not told at all. 
 
 When, late in the evening, Miss Lois returned, grayly 
 pale, but quiet, as she entered the hall a cry met her 
 ears and rang through the house. It had come sooner 
 than any one expected. The sword of sorrow, which soon 
 er or later must pierce all loving hearts, had entered 
 Anne Douglas s breast. Her father was dead. 
 
 He had died suddenly, peacefully and without pain, 
 passing away in sleep. Anne was with him, and Tita, jeal 
 ously watchful to the last. No one else was in the room 
 at the moment. Pere Michaux, coming in, had been the 
 first to perceive the change. 
 
106 ANNE. 
 
 Tita drew away quickly to a distant corner, and kneel 
 ing down where she could still see everything that went 
 on, began repeating prayers ; hut Anne, with a wild cry, 
 threw herself down beside her dead, sobbing, holding his 
 hand, and calling his name again and again. She would 
 not believe that he was gone. 
 
 Ah, well, many of us know the sorrow. A daughter s 
 love for a kind father is a peculiarly dependent, cling 
 ing affection ; it is mixed with the careless happiness of 
 childhood, which can never come again. Into the fa 
 ther s grave the daughter, sometimes a gray-haired wo 
 man, lays away forever the little pet names and memor 
 ies which to all the rest of the world are but foolishness. 
 Even though happy in her woman s lot, she weeps con 
 vulsively here for a while with a sorrow that nothing 
 can comfort; 110 other love so protecting and unselfish 
 will ever be hers again. 
 
 Anne was crushed by her grief ; it seemed to those who 
 watched her that she revealed a new nature in her sor 
 row. Dr. Gaston and Pere Michaux spoke of it to each 
 other, but could find little to say to the girl herself; she 
 had, as it were, drifted beyond their reach, far out on an 
 unknown sea. They prayed for her, and went silent 
 ly away, only to come back within the hour and meet 
 again on the threshold, recognizing each other s errand. 
 They were troubled by the change in this young creature, 
 upon whom they had all, in a certain way, depended. 
 Singularly enough, Miss Lois did not seem to appreciate 
 Anne s condition : she was suffering too deeply herself. 
 The whole of her repressed nature was in revolt. But 
 faithful to the unconscious secret of her life, she still 
 thought the wild pain of her heart was "sorrow for a 
 friend." 
 
 She went about as usual, attending to household tasks 
 for both homes. She was unchanged, yet totally changed. 
 There was a new tension about her mouth, and an un 
 wonted silence, but her hands were as busy as ever. 
 Days had passed after the funeral before she began to 
 perceive, even slightly, the broken condition of Anne. 
 The girl herself was the first to come back to the present, 
 
ANNE. 107 
 
 in the necessity for asking one of those sad questions 
 which often raise their heads as soon as the coffin is borne 
 away. "Miss Lois, there are bills to be paid, and I 
 have no money. Do you know anything of our real in 
 come ?" 
 
 The old habits of the elder woman stirred a little ; but 
 she answered, vaguely, "No." 
 
 "We must look through dear papa s papers," said 
 Anne, her voice breaking as she spoke the name. He 
 received few letters, none at all lately ; whatever he had, 
 then, must be here." 
 
 Miss Lois assented, still silently, and the two begun 
 their task. Anne, with a quivering lip, unlocked her 
 father s desk. William Douglas had not been a relic- 
 loving man. He had lived, he had loved ; but memory 
 was sufficient for him ; he needed no tokens. So, amid a 
 hundred mementos of nature, they found nothing per 
 sonal, not even a likeness of Anne s mother, or lock of 
 her curling brown hair. And amid a mass of miscella 
 neous papers, writings on every philosophic and imagina 
 tive subject, they found but one relating to money some 
 figures jotted down, with a date affixed, the sum far from 
 large, the date three years before. Below, a later line was 
 added, as if (for the whole was vague) so much had gone, 
 and this was the remainder; the date of this last line 
 was eight months back. 
 
 Perhaps this is it, " said Anne ; perhaps this is what 
 he had." 
 
 "I m sure I don t know," said Miss Lois, mechanically. 
 
 They went on with the search, and at last came to a 
 package tied in brown paper, which contained money; 
 opening it, they counted the contents. 
 
 "Three hundred and ten dollars and eighty-five cents," 
 said Anne. 
 
 Miss Lois took a pen and made a calculation, still with 
 the manner of a machine. That is about what would be 
 left by this time, at the rate of the sums you have had, 
 supposing the memorandum is what you think it is," she 
 said, rubbing her forehead with a shadowy imitation of 
 her old habit. 
 
108 ANNE. 
 
 " It is a large sum," said Anne. 
 
 Nothing more was found. It appeared, therefore, that 
 the five children of William Douglas were left alone in 
 the world with exactly three hundred and ten dollars and 
 eighty-five cents. 
 
 Dr. Gaston and Pere Michaux learned the result that 
 day ; the story spread through the village and up to the 
 fort. "I never heard anything so extraordinary in my 
 life," said Mrs. Cromer. "That a man like Dr. Douglas 
 should have gone on for the last four or five years delib 
 erately living on his capital, seeing it go dollar by dollar, 
 without making one effort to save it, or to earn an income 
 a father with children ! I shall always believe, after 
 this, that the villagers were right, and that his mind was 
 affected." 
 
 The chaplain stopped these comments gruffly, and the 
 fort ladies forgave him on account of the tremor in his 
 voice. He left them, and went across to his little book- 
 clogged cottage with the first indications of age showing 
 in his gait. 
 
 "It is a blow to him; he is very fond of Anne, and 
 hoped everything for her," said Mrs. Bryden. "I pre 
 sume he would adopt her if he could; but there are the 
 other children." 
 
 They might go to their mother s relatives, I should 
 think," said Mrs. Rankin. 
 
 * They could, but Anne will not allow it. You will 
 see." 
 
 "I suppose our good chaplain has nothing to bequeath, 
 even if he should adopt Anne ?" 
 
 No, he has no property, and has saved nothing from 
 his little salary ; it has all gone into books, " answered the 
 colonel s wife. 
 
 Another week passed. By that time Dr. Gaston and 
 Pere Michaux together had brought the reality clearly 
 before Anne s eyes ; for the girl had heretofore held such 
 small sums of money in her hands at any one time that 
 the amount found in the desk had. seemed to her large. 
 Pere Michaux began the small list of resources by pro 
 posing that the four children should go at once to theii? 
 
ANNE. 109 
 
 uncle, their mother s brother, who was willing to receive 
 them and give them a home, such as it was, among his own 
 brood of black-eyed little ones. Anne decidedly refused. 
 Dr. Gastoii then asked her to come to him, and be his 
 dear daughter as long as he lived. 
 
 I must not come with them, and I can not come with 
 out them," was Anne s reply. 
 
 There remained Miss Lois. But she seemed entirely 
 unconscious of any pressing necessity for haste in regard 
 to the affairs of the little household, coming and going 
 as usual, but without words ; while people round her, with 
 that virtuous readiness as to the duties of their neighbors 
 which is so helpful in a wicked world, said loudly and 
 frequently that she was the nearest friend, and ought 
 to do Here followed a variety of suggestions, which 
 amounted in the aggregate to everything. At last, as 
 often happens, it was an outside voice that brought the 
 truth before her. 
 
 And what are you thinking of doing, dear Miss Lois, 
 for the five poor orphans ?" asked the second Miss Mac- 
 dougall while paying a visit of general condolence at the 
 church-house. 
 
 "Why, what should I do ?" said Miss Lois, with a faint 
 remembrance of her old vigilant pride. "They want 
 nothing." 
 
 They want nothing ! And not one hundred dollars 
 apiece for them in the wide world !" exclaimed Miss Jean. 
 "Surely you re joking, my dear. Here s Dr. Gaston 
 wishing to take Anne, as is most kind and natural ; but 
 she will not leave those children. Although why they 
 should not go back to the stratum from which they came 
 is a mystery to me. She can never make anything of 
 them: mark my words." 
 
 Miss Jean paused ; but whether Miss Lois marked her 
 words or not, she made no response, but sat gazing straight 
 at the wall. Miss Jean, however, knew her duty, and did 
 it like a heroine of old. "We thought, perhaps, dear 
 Miss Lois, that you would like to take them for a time," 
 she said, seeing that Anne has proved herself so obsti 
 nate as to the other arrangements proposed. The village 
 
HO ANNE. 
 
 has thought so generally, and I am not the one to hide it 
 from you, having been taught by my lamented parent to 
 honor and abide by veracity the most precise. We could 
 all help you a little in clothing them for the present, and 
 we will contribute to their support a fish now and then, 
 a bag of meal, a barrel of potatoes, which we would do 
 gladly right gladly, I do assure you. For no one 
 likes to think of Dr. Douglas s children being on the 
 town. " 
 
 The homely phrase roused Miss Lois at last. "What 
 in the world are you talking about, Jean Macdougall ?" she 
 exclaimed, in wrath. "On the town! Are you clean 
 daft ? On the town, indeed ! Clear out of my house this 
 moment, you lying, evil-speaking woman!" 
 
 The second Miss Macdougall rose in majesty, and drew 
 her black silk visite round her. "Of whom ye are speak 
 ing, Miss Hinsdale, I knaw not," she said, growing Scotch 
 in her anger; "but I believe ye hae lost your wits. I 
 tak my departure freely, and not as sent by one who 
 has strangely forgotten the demeanor of a leddy." 
 
 With hands folded, she swept toward the door, all the 
 flowers 011 her dignified bonnet swaying perceptibly. 
 Pausing on the threshold, she added, As a gude Chris 
 tian, and a keeper of my word, I still say, Miss Hinsdale, 
 in spite of insults, that in the matter of a fish or two, or a 
 barrel of potatoes now and then, ye can count upon the 
 Macdougalls. " 
 
 Left alone, Miss Lois put on her shawl and bonnet with 
 feverish haste, and went over to the Agency. Anne 
 was in the sitting-room, and the children were with 
 her. 
 
 "Anne, of course you and the children are coming to 
 live with me whenever you think it best to leave this 
 house," said Miss Lois, appearing on the threshold like an 
 excited ghost in spectacles. You never thought or 
 planned anything else, I hope ?" 
 
 "No," said Anne, frankly, "I did not at least for the 
 present. I knew you would help us, Miss Lois, although 
 you did not speak." 
 
 "Speak! was there any need of speaking?" said the 
 
ANNE. HI 
 
 elder woman, bursting into a few dry, harsh sobs. You 
 are all I have in the world, Anne. How could you 
 mistrust me ?" 
 
 " I did not," said Anne. 
 
 And then the two women kissed each other, and it was 
 all understood without further words. And thus, through 
 the intervention of the second Miss Macdougall (who 
 found herself ill rewarded for her. pains), Lois Hinsdale 
 came out from the watch-chamber of her dead to real 
 life again, took up her burden, and went on. 
 
 Anne now unfolded her plans, for she had been obliged 
 to invent plans: necessity forced her forward. "We 
 must all come to you for a time, dear Miss Lois ; but I 
 am young and strong, and I can work. I wish to ed 
 ucate the boys as father would have wished them ed 
 ucated. Do you ask what I can do ? I think that is, 
 I hope that I can teach. "^ Then, in a lower voice, she 
 added, "I promised father that I would do all I could for 
 the children, and I shall keep my promise." 
 
 Miss Lois s eyes filled with tears. But the effect of the 
 loving emotion was only to redden the lids, and make 
 the orbs beneath look smaller and more unbeautif ul than 
 before. 
 
 For to be born into life with small, inexpressive eyes 
 is like being born dumb. One may have a heart full of 
 feeling, but the world will not believe it. Pass on, then. 
 Martha, witli your pale little orbs; leave the feeling to 
 Beatrice with her deep brown glance, to Agnes with her 
 pure blue gaze, to Isabel with hers of passionate splendor. 
 The world does not believe you have any especial feelings, 
 poor Martha. Then do not have them, if you can help 
 it and pass on. 
 
 "I have been thinking deeply," continued Anne, 
 "and I have consulted Dr. Gastoii. He says that I have 
 a good education, but probably an old-fashioned one; at 
 least the fort ladies told him that it would be so consider 
 ed. It seems that what I need is a polish of modern 
 accomplishments. That is what he called it. Now, to 
 obtain a teacher s place, I must have this, and I can not 
 obtain it here." She paused; and then, like one who 
 
112 ANNE. 
 
 rides forward on a solitary charge, added, I am going to 
 write to Miss Vanhorn." 
 
 " A dragon!" said Miss Lois, knitting fiercely. Then 
 added, after a moment, "A positive demon of pride." 
 Then, after another silence, she said, sternly, " She broke 
 your mother s heart, Anne Douglas, and she will break 
 yours." 
 
 " I hope not," said .the girl, her voice trembling a little ; 
 for her sorrow was still very near the surface. "She is 
 old now, and perhaps more gentle. At any rate, she is 
 my only living relative, and to her I must appeal." 
 
 How do you ktiow she is alive ? The world would be 
 well rid of such a kicked fiend," pursued Miss Lois, quot 
 ing unconsciously frorn-Anne s forest Juliet. 
 
 "She was living lastTyJaiv for father spoke of her." 
 
 "I did not know he eveV spoke of her." 
 
 "Only in answer to m ^questions; for I had found 
 her address, written in mother* * handwriting, in an old 
 note-book. She brought up myraother, you know, and 
 was once very fond of her." v/ 
 
 "So fond of her that she killed he"r. If poor Alida 
 had not had that strain upon her, she might have been 
 alive at this day," said Miss Lois. 
 
 Anne s self-control left her now, and she began to 
 sob like a child. "Do not make it harder for me than it 
 is, " she said, amid her tears. I must ask her ; and if she 
 should consent to help me, it will be grief enough to 
 leave you all, without these cruel memories added. She 
 is old : who knows but that she may be longing to repair 
 the harm she did ?" 
 
 "Can the leopard change his spots?" said Miss Lois, 
 sternly. "But what do you mean by leaving us all? 
 What do you intend to do ?" 
 
 I intend to ask her either to use her influence in ob 
 taining a teacher s place for me immediately, or if I am 
 not, in her opinion, qualified, to give me the proper mas 
 ters for one year. I would study very hard ; she would 
 not be burdened with me long." 
 
 "And the proper masters are not here, of course ?" 
 - "No; at the East." 
 
^ AJSNE. 113 
 
 Miss Lois stopped in the middle of a round, took off her 
 spectacles, rolled up her knitting- work slowly and tightly 
 as though it was never to be unrolled again, and pinned 
 it together with decision ; she was pinning in also a vast 
 resolution. Then she looked at Anne in silence for sev 
 eral minutes, saw the tear-dimmed eyes and tired, anxious 
 face, the appealing glance of William Douglas s child. 
 
 " I have not one word to say against it," she remark 
 ed at last, breaking the silence ; and then she walked 
 out of the house and went homeward. 
 
 It was a hard battle for her. She was to be left with 
 the four brown-skinned children, fo^ftlbm she had al 
 ways felt unconquerable aversioA/raShile the one child 
 whom she loved Anne was foo,/&7rar away. It was a 
 revival of the bitter old feeli^gf against Angelique Lafon- 
 taine, the artful minx wh<4y[afl entrapped William Doug 
 las to his ruin. In teuth,0toowever, there had been very 
 little art about Angefkp!^; rror was Douglas by any means 
 a rich prey. RH \xP^eii always attribute wonderful 
 powers of strategptiJ a successful rival, even although by 
 the same ratio thjj reduce the bridegroom to a condition 
 approaching idiocy ; for anything is better than the sup 
 position that he was a free agent, and sought his fate from 
 the love of it. 
 
 The thought of Anne s going was dreadful to Miss Lois ; 
 yet her long-headed New England thrift and calculation 
 saw chances in that future which Anne did not see. 
 " The old wretch has money, and no near heirs," she said 
 to herself; "why should she not take a fancy to this 
 grandniece ? Anne has no such idea, but her friends 
 should, therefore, have it for her." Still, the tears would 
 rise and dim her spectacles as she thought of the part 
 ing. She took off the gold-rimmed glasses and rubbed 
 them vigorously. "One thing is certain," she added, 
 to herself, as a sort of comfort, Tita will have to do her 
 mummeries in the garden after this." 
 
 Poor old Lois ! in these petty annoyances and heavy 
 cares her great grief was to be pressed down into a sub 
 dued under-current, no longer to be indulged or made 
 much of even bv herself. 
 
114 ANNE. 
 
 Anne knew but little of her grandaunt. William 
 Douglas would not speak of what was the most bitter 
 memory of his life. The address in the old note-book, 
 in her mother s unformed girlish handwriting, was her 
 only guide. She knew that Miss Vanhorn was obstinate 
 and ill-tempered; she knew that she had discarded her 
 mother on account of her disobedient marriage, and had 
 remained harsh and unforgiving to the last. And this 
 was all she knew. But she had no choice. Hoping, 
 praying for the best, she wrote her letter, and sent it on 
 its way. Then they all waited. For Pere Michaux had 
 been taken into the conference also, and had given hearty 
 approval to Anne s idea so hearty, indeed, that both the, 
 chaplain and Miss Lois looked upon him with disfavor. 
 What did he mean ? He did not say what he meant, but 
 returned to his hermitage cheerfully. Dr. Gaston, not 
 so cheerfully, brought out his hardest chess problems, 
 and tried to pass away the time in mathematical com 
 binations of the deepest kind. Hiss Lois, however, had 
 combinations at hand of another sort. No sooner was 
 the letter gone than she advanced a series of conjectures 
 which did honor even to her New England origin. 
 
 The first was that Miss Vanhorn had gone abroad: 
 those old New-Yorkers were " capable of wishing to ride 
 on camels, even"; she added, from habit, "through the 
 eye of a needle." The next day she decided that paral 
 ysis would be the trouble : those old New-Yorkers were 
 often stricken down in that way, owing to their high 
 living and desperate wine-bibbing." Anne need give 
 no more thought to her letter; Miss Vanhorn would 
 not be able even to read it. The third day, Miss Van- 
 horn would read the letter, but would immediately throw 
 it on the floor and stamp on it: those old New-Yorkers 
 4 had terrible tempers," and were "known to swear like 
 troopers even on the slightest provocation." The fourth 
 day, Miss Vanhorn was mad ; the fifth day, she was mar 
 ried; the sixth, she was dead: those old New-Yorkers 
 having tendencies toward insanity, matrimony, and 
 death which, Miss Lois averred, were known to all the 
 world, and indisputable. That she herself had neve* 
 
ANNE. 
 
 115 
 
 been in New York in her life made no difference in her 
 certainties : women like Miss Lois are always sure they 
 know all about New York. 
 
 Anne, weary and anxious, and forced to hear all these 
 probabilities, began at last to picture her grandaunt as 
 a sort of human kaleidoscope, falling into new and more 
 fantastic combinations at a moment s notice. 
 
 They had allowed two weeks for the letter to reach 
 the island, always supposing that Miss Vanhorn was not 
 on a camel, paralyzed, obstinate, mad, married, or dead. 
 But on the tenth day the letter came. Anne took it 
 with a hand that trembled. Dr. Gaston was present, 
 and Miss Lois, but neither of them comprehended her 
 feelings. She felt that she was now to be confronted 
 by an assent which would strain her heart-strings al 
 most to snapping, yet be ultimately for the best, or by 
 a refusal which would fill her poor heart with joy, al 
 though at the same time pressing down upon her. shoul 
 ders a heavy, almost hopeless, weight of care. The two 
 could not enter into her feelings, because in the depths 
 of their hearts they both resented her willingness to leave 
 them. They never said this to each other, they never 
 said it to themselves ; yet they both felt it with the un 
 conscious selfishness of those who are growing old, espe 
 cially when their world is narrowed down to one or two 
 loving young hearts. They did not realize that it was 
 as hard for her to go as it was for them to let her go ; 
 they did not realize what a supreme effort of courage 
 it required to make this young girl go out alone into 
 the wide world, and face its vastness and its strange 
 ness ; they did not realize how she loved them, and how 
 every tree, every rock of the island, also, was dear to 
 her strongly loving, concentrated heart. 
 
 After her father s death Anne had been for a time pas 
 sive, swept away by grief as a dead leaf on the wind. 
 But cold necessity came and stood by her bedside silent 
 ly and stonily, and looked at her until, recalling her 
 promise, she rose, choked back her sorrow, and returned 
 to common life and duty with an aching but resolute 
 heart. In the effort she made to speak at all it was no 
 
116 ANNE. 
 
 wonder that she spoke quietly, almost coldly; having, 
 after sleepless nights of sorrow, nerved herself to bear 
 the great change in her lot, should it come to her, could 
 she trust herself to say that she was sorry to go ? Sor 
 ry ! when her whole heart was one pain ! 
 The letter was as follows : 
 
 "GRANDNIECE ANNE, I did not know that you were 
 in existence. I have read your letter, and have now to 
 say the following. Your mother willfully disobeyed me, 
 and died. I, meanwhile, an old woman, remain as strong 
 as ever. 
 
 " While I recognize no legal claim upon me (I having 
 long since attended to the future disposal of all my prop 
 erty according to my own wishes), I am willing to help 
 you to a certain extent, as I would help any industrious 
 young girl asking for assistance. If what you say of 
 your education is true, you need only what are called 
 modern accomplishments (of which I personally have 
 small opinion, a grimacing in French and a squalling in 
 Italian being not to my taste) to make you a fairly well 
 qualified teacher in an average country boarding-school, 
 which is all you can expect. You may, therefore, come 
 to New York at my expense, and enter Madame Moreau s 
 establishment, where, as I understand, the extreme of 
 everything called accomplishment is taught, and much 
 nonsense learned in the latest style. You may remain 
 one year ; not longer. And I advise you to improve the 
 time, as nothing more will be done for you by me. You 
 will bring your own clothes, but I will pay for your 
 books. I send no money now, but will refund your 
 travelling expenses (of which you will keep strict ac 
 count, without extras) upon your arrival in the city, which 
 must not be later than the last of October. Go directly 
 to Madame Moreau s (the address is inclosed), and re 
 member that you are simply Anne Douglas, and not a 
 relative of your obedient servant, 
 
 . KATHARINE VANHORN." 
 
 Anne, who had read the letter aloud hi a low voice, 
 
ANNE. 117 
 
 now laid it down, and looked palely at her two old 
 friends. 
 
 "A hard letter," said the chaplain, indignantly. 
 "My child, remain with us. We will think of some 
 other plan for you. Let the proud, cold-hearted old wo 
 man go." 
 
 "I told you how it would be," said Miss Lois, a bright 
 spot of red on each cheek-bone. She was cruel to your 
 mother before you, and she will be cruel to you. You 
 must give it up." 
 
 "No," said Anne, slowly, raising the letter and repla 
 cing it in its envelope ; " it is a matter in which I have no 
 choice. She gives me the year at school, as you see, and 
 there are the children. I promised father, and I must 
 keep the promise. Do not make me falter, dear friends, 
 for I must go." And unable longer to keep back the 
 tears, she hurriedly left the room. 
 
 Dr. Gastoii, without a word, took his old felt hat and 
 went home. Miss Lois sat staring vaguely at the win 
 dow-pane, until she became conscious that some one was 
 coming up the path, and that " some one" Pere Michaux. 
 She too then went hurriedly homeward, by the back way, . 
 in order to avoid him. The old priest, coming in, found 
 the house deserted. Anne was on her knees in her own 
 room, sobbing as if her heart would break ; but the walls 
 were thick, and he could not hear her. 
 
 Then Tita came in. Annet is going away," she said, 
 softly ; she is going to school. The letter came to-day. " 
 
 So Miss Vanhorn consents, does she ? Excellent I ex 
 cellent!" said Pere Michaux, rubbing his hands, his eyes 
 expressing a hearty satisfaction. 
 
 "When will you say Excellent! excellent! about 
 me ?" said Tita, jealously. 
 
 "Before long, I hope," said the priest, patting her 
 small head. 
 
 " But are you sure, mon pere ?" 
 
 Well, yes, " said Pere Michaux, on the whole, I am. " 
 
 He smiled, and the child smiled also ; but with a deep 
 quiet triumph remarkable in one so young. 
 
118 ANNE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ** To all appearance it was chiefly by Accident, and the grace of 
 Nature." CARLYLE. 
 
 IT was still September ; for great sorrows come, graves 
 are made and turfed over, and yet the month is not out. 
 Anne had written her letter immediately, accepting her 
 grandaunt s offer, and Pere Michaux gave her approval 
 and praise; but the others did not, could not, and she 
 suffered from their silence. It made, however, no change 
 in her purpose ; she went about her tasks steadily, toiling 
 all day over the children s clothes, for she had used part 
 of the money in her hands to make them comfortable, 
 and part was to be given to Miss Lois. Her own gar 
 ments troubled her little ; two strong, plain black gowns 
 she considered amply sufficient. Into the midst of all 
 this swift sewing suddenly one day came East. 
 
 " Why did I do it?" he said, in answer to everybody. 
 u Do you suppose I was going to let Annet go away for 
 a whole long year without saying even good-by ? Of 
 course not." 
 
 "It is very kind," said Anne, her tired eyes resting 
 on his handsome face gratefully, her sewing for the mo 
 ment cast aside. Her friends had not been overkind to 
 her lately, and she was deeply touched by this proof of 
 attachment from her old playmate and companion. Hast 
 expressed his affection, as usual, in his own way. He did 
 not say that he had come back to the island because he 
 wished to see her, but because he knew that she wished to 
 see him. And Anne willingly agreed. Dr. Gaston, as 
 guardian of this runaway collegian, gave him a long 
 lecture on his escapade and its consequences, his interrupt 
 ed studies, a long train of disasters to follow being pic 
 tured with stern distinctness. East listened to the ser 
 mon, or rather sat through it, without impatience : he had 
 a fine sunny temper, and few things troubled him. He 
 
ANNE. 119 
 
 seldom gave any attention to subtleties of meaning, or 
 under-currents, but took the surface impression, and an 
 swered it promptly, often putting to rout by his direct 
 ness trains of reasoning much deeper than his own. So 
 now all he said was, i I could not help coming^ sir, be 
 cause Annet is going away; I wanted to see her." And 
 the old man was silenced in spite of himself. 
 
 As he was there, and it could not be helped, East, 
 by common consent of the island, was allowed to spend 
 several days unmolested among his old haunts. Then 
 they all began to grow restive, to ask questions, and 
 to speak of the different boats. For the public of small 
 villages has always a singular impatience as to anything 
 like uncertainty in the date of departure of its guests. 
 Many a miniature community has been stirred into heat 
 because it could not find out the day and hour when Mrs. 
 Blank would terminate her visit at her friend s mansion, 
 and with her trunk and bag depart on her way to the 
 railway station ; and this not because the community has 
 any objection to Mrs. Blank, or any wish to have her 
 depart, but simply because if she is going, they wish to 
 know when, and have it settled. The few days over, 
 Hast himself was not unwilling to go. He had seen 
 Anne, and Anne was pressed with work, and so con 
 stantly threatened by grief that she had to hold it down 
 with an iron effort at almost every moment. If she kept 
 her eyes free from tears and her voice steady, she did all 
 she could; she had no idea that Bast expected more. 
 Rast meanwhile had learned clearly that he was a re 
 markably handsome, brilliant young fellow, and that the 
 whole world was before him where to choose. He was 
 fond of Anne; the best feelings of his nature and the as 
 sociations of his whole boyhood s life were twined round 
 her ; and yet he was conscious that he had always been 
 very kind to her, and this coming back to the island on 
 purpose to see her that was remarkably kind. He was 
 glad to do it, of course ; but she must appreciate it. He 
 began now to feel that as he had seen her, and as he 
 could not in any case stay until she went, he might as 
 well go> He yielded ? therefore, to the first suggestion of 
 
120 ANNE. 
 
 the higher powers, saying-, however, frankly, and with 
 real feeling, that it was hard to bid farewell for so long a 
 time to his old playmate, and that he did not know how 
 he could endure the separation. . As the last words were 
 spoken it was Rast who had tear -dimmed eyes; it was 
 East s voice that faltered. Anne was calm, and her calm 
 ness annoyed him. He would have liked a more demon 
 strative sorrow. But as he went down the long path 011 
 his way to the pier where the steamboat was waiting, the 
 first whistle having already sounded, he forgot every 
 thing save his affection for her and the loneliness in 
 store for him after her departure. While she was 011 
 their island she seemed near, but New York was another 
 world. 
 
 Down in the shadow of the great gate there was an 
 ancient little cherry-tree, low and gnarled, which thrust 
 one crooked arm across the path above the heads of the 
 passers-by. As Rast approached he saw in the dusky 
 twilight a small figure perched upon this bough, and rec 
 ognized Tita. 
 
 "Is that you, child ?" he said, pausing and looking up. 
 She answered by dropping into his ar"ms like a kitten, and 
 clinging to him mutely, with her face hidden on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " What an affectionate little creature she is, after all !" 
 he thought, stroking her dark hair. Then, after saying 
 good -by, and giving her a kiss, he disengaged himself 
 without much ceremony, and telling her to be a good girl 
 and mind Miss Lois during the winter, he hurried down to 
 the pier, the second whistle summoning all loiterers on 
 board with shrill harshness. Tita, left alone, looked at 
 her a^ms, reddened by the force with which she had re 
 sisted his efforts to unclasp them. They had been press 
 ed so closely against the rough woollen cloth of his coat 
 that the brown flesh showed the mark of the diagonal 
 pattern. 
 
 "It is a hurt," she said, passionately "it is a hurt." 
 Her eyes flashed, and she shook her small fist at the re 
 treating figure. Then, as the whistle sounded a third 
 time, she climbed quickly to the top of the great gates, and 
 
SHE SAT THERE HIGH IN THE AIR WHILE THE STEAMER BACKED OUT 
 FROM THE PIERS." 
 
ANNE. 121 
 
 sat there high in the air while the steamer backed out 
 from the piers, turned round, and started westward 
 through the Straits, nothing now save a moving line of 
 lights, the short Northern twilight having faded into 
 night. 
 
 When the long sad day of parting was at last over, and 
 everything done that her hands could find to do in that 
 amount of time, Anne, in her own room alone, let her 
 feelings come forth ; she was the only watcher in the old 
 house, every other eye was closed in sleep. These mo 
 ments alone at night, when she allowed herself to weep 
 and think, were like breathing times ; then her sorrows 
 came forth. According to her nature, she did not fear or 
 brood upon her own future so much as upon the future 
 of the children ; the love in her heart made it seem- to 
 her a bitter fate to be forced to leave them and the isl 
 and. The prospect of the long journey, the city school, 
 the harsh aunt, did not dishearten her; they were but 
 parts of her duty, the duty of her life. . It was after mid 
 night ; still she sat there. The old shutters, which had 
 been rattling for some time, broke their fastenings, and 
 came violently against the panes with a sound like the 
 report of a pistol. 
 
 "The wind is rising," she thought, vaguely, as she 
 rose to fasten them, opening one of the windows for the 
 purpose. In rushed the blast, blowing out the candle, 
 driving books and papers across the floor, and whirling 
 the girl s long loosened hair over her face and round 
 her arms like the coils of a boa-constrictor. Blinded, 
 breathless, she hastily let down the sash again, and peer 
 ed through the small wrinkled panes. A few stars were 
 visible between the light clouds which drove rapidly 
 from north to south in long regular lines like bars, giving 
 a singular appearance to the sky, which the girl recog 
 nized at once, and in the recognition came back to pres 
 ent life. "The equinoctial," she said to herself; "and 
 one of the worst. Where can the Huron be ? Has she 
 had time to reach the shelter of the islands ?" 
 
 The Huron was the steamer which had carried East 
 away at twilight. She was a good boat and stanch. But 
 
122 ANNE. 
 
 Anne knew that craft as stanch had been wrecked and 
 driven ashore during these fierce autumn gales which 
 sweep over the chain of lakes suddenly, and strew their 
 coasts with fragments of vessels, and steamers also, from 
 the head of Superior to the foot of Ontario. If there was 
 more sea-room, vessels might escape ; if there were better 
 harbors, steamers might seek port; in a gale, an ocean 
 captain has twenty chances for his vessel where the lake 
 captain has one. Anne stood with her face pressed 
 against the window for a long time ; the force of the wind 
 increased. She took her candle and went across to a side 
 room whose windows commanded the western pass : she 
 hoped that she might see the lights of the steamer coming 
 back, seeking the shelter of the island before the worst 
 came. But all was dark. She returned to her room, and 
 tried to sleep, but could not. Dawn found her at the 
 window, wakeful and anxious. There was to be no sun. 
 that day, only a yellow white light. She knelt down and 
 prayed ; then she. rose, and braided anew her thick brown 
 hair. When she entered the sitting-room the vivid rose 
 freshness which always came to her in the early morning 
 was only slightly paled by her vigil, and her face seem 
 ed as usual to the boys, who were waiting for her. Be 
 fore breakfast was ready, Miss Lois arrived, tightly 
 swathed in a shawl and veils, and carrying a large basket. 
 
 "There is fresh gingerbread in there," she said; "I 
 thought the boys might like some ; and it will be an ex 
 cellent day to finish those jackets, Anne. No danger of 
 interruption. " 
 
 She did not mention the gale or Hast; neither did 
 Anne. They sat down to breakfast with the boys, and 
 talked about thread and buttons. But, while they were 
 eating, Louis exclaimed, "Why, there s Dr. Gaston !" 
 and looking up, they saw the chaplain struggling to keep 
 his hat in place as he came up the path sideways, fight 
 ing the wind. 
 
 He should just have wrapped himself up, and scudded 
 before it as I did," said Miss Lois. 
 
 Anne ran to open the door, and the old clergyman 
 came panting in. 
 
ANNE. 12 3 
 
 " It is such a miserable day that I thought you would 
 like to have that dictionary, dear; so I brought it down 
 to you," he said, laying the heavy volume on the table. 
 
 " Thanks. Have you had breakfast ?" said Anne. 
 
 Well, no. I thought I would come without waiting 
 for it this morning, in order that you might have the 
 book, you know. What ! you here, Miss Lois ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I came to help Anne. We are going to 
 have a good long day at these jackets," replied Miss Lois, 
 briskly. 
 
 They all sat down at the table again, and Gabriel was 
 going to the kitchen for hot potatoes, when he spied an 
 other figure struggling through the gate and driving up 
 the long path. "Pere Michaux!" he cried, running to 
 open the door. 
 
 In another moment the priest had entered, and was 
 greeting them cheerfully. "As I staid in town over 
 night, I thought, Anne, that I would come up and look 
 over those books. It is a good day for it ; there will be 
 no interruption. I think I shall find a number of vol 
 umes which I may wish to purchase." 
 
 "It is very kind ; I shall like to think of my dear fa 
 ther s books in your hands. But have you breakfasted ?" 
 
 No, the priest acknowledged that he had not. In truth, 
 he was not hungry when he rose ; but now that he saw 
 the table spread, he thought he might eat something aft 
 er all. 
 
 So they sat down again, and Louis went out to help 
 Gabriel bring in more coffee, potatoes, and eggs. There 
 was a good deal of noise with the plates, a good deal of 
 passing to and fro the milk, cream, butter, and salt; a 
 good deal of talking on rather a high key ; a great many 
 questions and answers whose irrelevancy nobody noticed. 
 Dr. Gaston told a long story, and forgot the point; but 
 Miss Lois laughed as heartily as though it had been acute 
 ly present. Pere Michaux then brought up the vener 
 able subject of the lost grave of Father Marquette ; and 
 the others entered into it with the enthusiasm of resur 
 rectionists, and as though they had never heard of it be 
 fore. Miss Lois and Dr. Gaston even seeming to be pitted 
 
124 A1S T NE. 
 
 against each other in the amount of interest they showed 
 concerning the dead Jesuit. Anne said little ; in truth, 
 there was no space left for her, the others keeping up so 
 brisk a fire of phrases. It was not until Tita, coming 
 into the room, remarked, as she warmed her hands, that 
 breakfast was unusually early, that any stop was made, 
 and then all the talkers fell upon her directly, in lieu of 
 Father Marquette. Miss Lois could not imagine what 
 she meant. It was sad, indeed, to see such laziness in so 
 young a child. Before long she would be asking for 
 breakfast in bed! Dr. Gaston scouted the idea that it 
 was early; he had often been down in the village an 
 hour earlier. It was a fine bracing morning for a walk. 
 
 All this time the high ceaseless whistle of the wind, 
 the roar of the water on the beach, the banging to and fro 
 of the shutters here and there on the wide rambling old 
 mansion, the creaking of the near trees that brushed its 
 sides, and the hundred other noises of the gale, made the 
 room seem strange and uncomfortable; every now and 
 then the solid old frame-work vibrated as a new blast 
 struck it, and through the floor and patched carpet puffs 
 of cold air came up into the room and swept over their 
 feet. All their voices were pitched high to overcome 
 these sounds. 
 
 Tita listened to the remarks addressed to her, noted 
 the pretense of bustle and hearty appetite, and then, turn 
 ing to the window, she said, during a momentary lull in 
 the storm, " I do not wonder that you can not eat, when 
 poor East is somewhere on that black water." 
 
 Dr. Gaston pushed away his plate, Miss Lois sat staring 
 at the wall with her lips tightly compressed, while Anne 
 covered her face with her hands to keep back the tears 
 Pere Michaux rose and began to walk up and down the 
 room ; for a moment, besides his step, there was no sound 
 save the roar of the storm. Tita s words had ended all 
 pretense, clothed their fear in language, and set it up in 
 their midst. From that moment, through the long day, 
 there was no more disguise ; every cloud, every great wave, 
 was watched, every fresh fierce blast swept through four 
 anxious hearts. They were very silent now, and as the 
 
ANNE. 125 
 
 storm grew wilder, even the boys became awed, and curl 
 ed themselves together on the broad window-seat, speak 
 ing in whispers. At noon a vessel drove by under bare 
 poles; she seemed to be unmanageable, and they could 
 see the signals of the sailors as they passed the island. 
 But there was no life-boat, and nothing else could live in 
 that sea. At two o clock a large bark came into view, 
 and ran ashore on the reef opposite ; there she lay, pound 
 ing to pieces for two hours. They saw the crew try to 
 launch the boats; one was broken into fragments in a 
 moment, then another. The third and last floated, filled 
 with humanity, and in two minutes she also was swamp 
 ed, and dark objects that they knew were men were suck 
 ed under. Then the hull of a schooner, with one mast 
 standing, drove aimlessly by, so near the shore that with 
 the glass they could see the features of the sailors lashed 
 to the pole. 
 
 " Oh ! if we could but save them !" said Anne. How 
 near they are !" But even as she spoke the mast fell, and 
 they saw the poor fellows drown before their eyes. 
 
 At four the Huron came into sight from the western 
 pass, laboring heavily, fighting her way along inch by 
 inch, but advancing. Thanks be to the Lord for this !" 
 said the chaplain, fervently. Pere Michaux took off his 
 velvet cap, and reverently made the sign of the cross. 
 
 " Twouldn t be any harm to sing a hymn, I guess," 
 said Miss Lois, wiping her eyes. Then Anne sang the 
 " De Profimdis." Amid the storm all the voices rose to 
 gether, the children and Miss Lois and the two priests 
 joining in the old psalm of King David, which belongs 
 to all alike, Romanist and Protestant, Jew and Christian, 
 bond and free. 
 
 " I do feel better, " said Miss Lois. But the steamer is 
 still far off." 
 
 "The danger will be when she attempts to turn," said 
 Pere Michaux. 
 
 They all stood at the windows watching the boat as she 
 rolled and pitched in the heavy sea, seeming half the time 
 to make no headway at all, but on the contrary to be 
 beaten back, yet doggedly persisting. At five o clock 
 
126 AJS^E, 
 
 she had reached the point where she must turn and run 
 the gauntlet in order to enter port, with the gale striking 
 full upon her side. Every front window in the village 
 now held gazing faces, and along the piers men were 
 clustered under the lee of the warehouses with ropes and 
 hooks, waiting to see what they could do. The steamer 
 seemed to hesitate a moment, and was driven back. 
 Then she turned sharply and started in toward the piers 
 with all steam on. The watchers at the Agency held 
 their breath. For a moment or two she advanced rap 
 idly, then the wind struck her, and she careened until 
 her smoke-stacks seemed almost to touch the water. The 
 boys cried out; Miss Lois clasped her hands. But the 
 boat had righted herself again by changing her course, 
 and was now drifting back to her old station. Again 
 and again she made the attempt, now coming slowly, now 
 with all the sudden speed she could muster ; but she nev 
 er advanced far before the lurch came, throwing her on 
 her side, with one paddle-wheel in the air, and straining 
 every timber in her frame. After half an hour of this 
 work she drew off, and began to ply slowly up and down 
 under the partial shelter of the little island opposite, as 
 if resting. But there was not a place where she could 
 cast anchor, nor any safety in flight ; the gale would out 
 last the night, and the village harbor was her best hope. 
 The wind was increasing, the afternoon sinking into 
 night; every one on the island and on board also knew 
 that when darkness fell, the danger, already great, would 
 be trebled. Menacing and near on every side were long 
 low shore-lines, which looked harmless enough, yet held 
 in their sands the bones of many a drowned man, the 
 ribs of many a vessel. 
 
 "Why doesn t she make another trial ?" said Dr. Gas- 
 ton, feverishly wiping his eyeglasses. There is no use 
 in running up and down under that island any longer." 
 
 "The captain is probably making everything ready 
 for a final attempt," answered Pere Michaux. 
 
 And so it seemed, for, after a few more minutes had 
 passed, the steamer left her shelter, and proceeded cau 
 tiously down to the end of the little island, keeping as 
 
ANNE. 127 
 
 closely in shore as she could, climbing 1 each wave with her 
 bows, and then pitching down into the depth on the oth 
 er side, until it seemed as if her hind-quarters must be 
 broken off, being too long to fit into the watery hollows 
 under her. Having reached the end of the islet, she 
 paused, and slowly turned. 
 
 "Now for it," said Pere Michaux. 
 
 It was sunset-time in pleasant parts of the land ; here 
 the raw, cold, yellow light, which had not varied since 
 early morning, giving a peculiar distinctness to all ob 
 jects near or far, grew more clear for a few moments 
 the effect, perhaps, of the after-glow behind the clouds 
 which had covered the sky all day unmoved, fitting as 
 closely as the cover upon a dish. As the steamer start- 
 ed out into the channel, those on shore could see that 
 the passengers were gathered on the deck as if prepared 
 for the worst. They were all there, even the children. 
 But now no one thought any more, only watched; no 
 one spoke, only breathed. The steamer was full in the 
 gale, and on her side. Yet she kept along, righting her 
 self a little now and then, and then careening anew. It 
 seemed as though she would not be able to make head 
 way with her one wheel, but she did. Then the island 
 ers began to fear that she would be driven by too far out ; 
 but the captain had allowed for that. In a few seconds 
 more it became evident that she would just brush the end 
 of the longest pier, with nothing to spare. Then the 
 men on shore ran down, the wind almost taking them 
 off their feet, with ropes, chains, grappling-irons, and 
 whatever they could lay their hands on. The steamer, 
 now unmanageable, was drifting rapidly toward them on 
 her side, the passengers clinging to her hurricane-deck 
 and to the railings. A great wave washed over her 
 when not twenty feet from the pier, bearing off several 
 persons, who struggled in the water a moment, and then 
 disappeared. Anne covered her eyes with her hands, 
 and prayed that Hast might not be among these. When 
 she looked again, the boat was fastened by two, by ten, 
 by twenty, ropes and chains to the end of the pier, bows 
 on, and pulling at her halters like an unmanageable 
 
128 
 
 steed, while women were throwing their children into 
 the arms of those below, and men were jumping madly 
 over, at the risk of breaking their ankle-bones. Any 
 thing to be on the blessed shore! In three minutes 
 a hundred persons were on the pier, and Rast among 
 them. Anne, Dr. Gaston, Pere Michaux, Miss Lois, and 
 the children all recognized his figure instantly, and the 
 two old men started down through the storm to meet him, 
 in their excitement running along like school-boys, 
 hand in hand. 
 
 Rast was safe. They brought him home to the Agency 
 in triumph, and placed him in a chair before the fire. 
 They all wanted to touch him, in order to feel that he was 
 really there, to be glad over him, to make much of him ; 
 they all talked together. Anne came to his side with 
 tender affection. He was pale and moved. Instinctive 
 ly and naturally as a chi]d turns to its mother he turned 
 to her, and, before them all, laid his head down upon her 
 shoulder, and clung to her without speaking. The eld 
 ers drew away a little; the boys stopped their clamor. 
 Only Tita kept her place by the youth s side, and frown 
 ed darkly 011 the others. 
 
 Then they broke into a group again. Rast recovered 
 himself, Dr. Gaston began to make puns, and Pere Mi 
 chaux and Miss Lois revived the subject of Father Mar- 
 quette as a safe ladder by which they could all come down 
 to common life again. A visit to the kitchen was made, 
 and a grand repast, dinner and supper combined, was pro 
 posed and carried into effect by Miss Lois, Pere Michaux, 
 and the Irish soldier s wife, the three boys acting as 
 volunteers. Even Dr. Gaston found his way to the dis 
 tant sanctuary through the series of empty rooms that 
 preceded it, and proffering his services, was set to toast 
 ing bread a duty he accomplished by attentively burn 
 ing one side of every slice, and forgetting the other, so 
 that there was a wide latitude of choice, and all tastes 
 were suited. With his wig pushed back, and his cheery 
 face scarlet from the heat, he presented a fine contrast to 
 Pere Michaux, who, quietly and deliberately as usual, was 
 seasoning a stew with scientific care, while Miss Lois, 
 
ANNE. 129 
 
 beating eggs, harried the Irish soldier s wife until she 
 ran to and fro, at her wits end. 
 
 Tita kept guard in the sitting-room, where Anne had 
 been decisively ordered to remain and entertain Rast; 
 the child sat in her corner, watching them, her eyes nar 
 rowed under their partly closed lids. Hast had now re 
 covered his usual spirits, and talked gayly ; Anne did not 
 say much, but leaned back in her chair listening, thank 
 fully quiet and happy. The evening was radiant with 
 contentment ; it was midnight when they separated. The 
 gale was then as wild as ever ; but who cared now wheth 
 er the old house shook ? 
 
 Rast was safe. 
 
 At the end of the following* day at last the wind ceased : 
 twenty-two wrecks were counted in the Straits alone, 
 with many lives lost The dead sailors were washed 
 ashore on the island beaches and down the coast, and 
 buried in the sands where they were found. The friends 
 of those who had been washed overboard from the steamer 
 came up and searched for their bodies up and down the 
 shores for miles ; some found their lost, others, after days 
 of watching in vain, went away sorrowing, thinking, 
 with a new idea of its significance, of that time when 
 the sea shall give up her dead." 
 
 After the storm came halcyon days. The trees now 
 showed those brilliant hues of the American autumn 
 which as yet no native poet has so strongly described, no 
 native artist so vividly painted, that the older nations 
 across the ocean have fit idea of their splendor. Here, 
 in the North, the scarlet, orange, and crimson trees were 
 mingled with pines, which made the green of the back 
 ground; indeed, the islets all round were like gorgeous 
 bouquets set in the deep blue of the water, and floating 
 quietly there. 
 
 Rast was to return to college in a few days. He was 
 in such gay spirits that Miss Lois was vexed, although 
 she could hardly have told why. Pere Miehaux, how 
 ever, aided and encouraged all the pranks of the young 
 student. He was with him almost constantly, not re 
 turning to the hermitage at all during the time of his 
 
 9 
 
130 . ANNE. 
 
 stay ; Miss Lois was surprised to see how fond he was of 
 the youth. 
 
 "No one can see East a moment alone now," she said, 
 complaiiiingly ; " Pere Michaux is always with him." 
 
 " Why do you want to see him alone ?" said Tita, from 
 her corner, looking up for a moment from her book. 
 
 Don t you know that it is rude to ask questions ?" said 
 Miss Lois, sharply. But although she gave no reasons, 
 it was plain that for some reason she was disappointed 
 and angry. 
 
 The last day came, the last afternoon; the smoke of 
 the coming steamer could be seen beyond the blue line 
 of the point. No danger now of storm; the weather 
 would be fair for many days. Pere Michaux had pro 
 posed that Anne, Hast, and himself should go up to the 
 heights behind the house and watch the sunset hues for 
 the last time that year; they were to come back to the 
 Agency in time to meet Dr. Gaston and Miss Lois, and 
 take tea there all together, before the steamer s departure. 
 Tita announced that she wished to go to the heights also. 
 
 "Come along then, Puss," said East, giving her his 
 hand. 
 
 They set out through the garden, and up the narrow 
 winding path ; but the ascent was steep, and the priest 
 climbed slowly, patising now and then to take breath. 
 East staid with him, while Anne strolled forward ; Tita 
 waited with East. They had been sitting on a crag for 
 several minutes, when suddenly East exclaimed : Hallo ! 
 there s Spotty s dog ! he has been lost for three days, the 
 scamp. I ll go up and catch him, and be back in a mo 
 ment." While still speaking he was already scaling the 
 rocks above them, not folio wing the path by which Anne 
 had ascended, but swinging himself up, hand over hand, 
 with the dexterity and strength of a mountaineer; in a 
 minute or two he was out of sight. Spotty s dog was a 
 favorite in the garrison, Spotty, a dilapidated old Irish 
 soldier, being his owner in name. Spotty said that the 
 dog had " followed" him, when he was passing through 
 Detroit ; if he did, he had never repeated the act, but had 
 persistently gone in the opposite direction ever since. But 
 
ANNE. 131 
 
 the men always went out and hunted for him all over the 
 island, sooner or later finding- him and bringing him back ; 
 for they liked to see him dance on his mournful hindr 
 legs, go through the drill, and pretend to be dead feats 
 which once formed parts of his repertoire as member of 
 the travelling canine troupe which he had deserted at De 
 troit. It was considered quite an achievement to bring 
 back this accomplished animal, and Rast was not above 
 the glory. But it was not to be so easy as he had imag 
 ined : several minutes passed and he did not return, Spot 
 ty s dog having shown his thin nose and one eye but an 
 instant at the top of the height, and then withdrawn them, 
 leaving 110 trace behind. 
 
 "We will go up the path, and join Anne," said Pere 
 Michaux ; we will not wait longer for Rast. He can 
 find us there as well as here." 
 
 They started; but after a few steps the priest s foot 
 slipped on a rolling stone ; he lost his balance, and half 
 fell, half sank to the ground, fortunately directly along 
 the narrow path, and not beyond its edge. When he at 
 tempted to rise, he found that his ankle was strained : he 
 was a large man, and he had fallen heavily. Tita bound 
 up the place as well as she could with his handkerchief 
 and her own formed into a bandage ; but at best he could 
 only hobble. He might manage to go down the path to 
 the house, but evidently he could not clamber further. 
 Again they waited for Rast, but he did not come. They 
 called, but 110 one answered. They were perched half 
 way up the white cliff, where no one could hear them. 
 Tita s whole face had grown darkly red, as though the 
 blood would burst through; she looked copper-colored, 
 and her expression was full of repressed impatience. Pere 
 Michaux, himself more perturbed and angry than so 
 slight a hurt would seem to justify, happening to look at 
 her, was seized with an idea. "Run up, child," he said, 
 and join Anne ; do not leave her again. Tell her what 
 has happened, and mind what I say exactly, Tita do 
 not leave her." 
 
 Tita was off up the path and out of sight in an instant. 
 The old priest, left to himself, hobbled slowly down the 
 
13 2 ANNE. 
 
 hill and across the garden to the Agency, not without 
 some difficulty and pain. 
 
 Anne had gone up to the heights, and seated herself in 
 good faith to wait for the others ; Rast had gone after the 
 dog in good faith, and not to seek Anne. Yet they met, 
 and the others did not find them. 
 
 The dog ran away, and East after him, down the north 
 path for a mile, and then straight into the fir wood, where 
 nothing can be caught, man or dog. So Rast came back, 
 not by the path, but through the forest, and found Anne 
 sitting in a little nook among the arbor vitse, where there 
 was an opening, like a green window, overlooking the 
 harbor. He sat down by her side, and fanned himself 
 with his hat for a few moments, and then he went down 
 to find Pere Michaux and bring him up thither. But by 
 that time the priest had reached the house, and he re 
 turned, saying that he saw by the foot-marks that the old 
 man had for some reason gone down the hill again, leav 
 ing them to watch their last sunset alone. He threw him 
 self down by Anne s side, and together they looked 
 through their green casement. 
 
 "The steamer has turned the point," said Anne. 
 
 They both watched it in silence. They heard the even 
 ing gun from the fort. 
 
 "I shall never forgive myself, Rast, for having let you 
 go before so carelessly. When the gale began that night, 
 every blast seemed to go through my heart." 
 
 "I thought you did not appear to care much," said 
 Rast, in an aggrieved tone. 
 
 Did you notice it, then ? It was only because I have 
 to repress myself every moment, dear, lest I should give 
 way entirely. You know I too must go far away far 
 away from all I love. I feel it very deeply." 
 
 She turned toward him as she spoke, with her eyes full 
 of tears. Her hat was off, and her face, softened by 
 emotion, looked for the first time to his eyes womanly. 
 For generally that frank brow, direct gaze, and imper 
 sonal expression gave her the air of a child. Rast had 
 never thought that Anne was beautiful; he had never 
 thought of himself as her lover. He was very fond of 
 
YOU KNOW I TOO MUST GO FAR AWAY. 
 
ANNE. 133 
 
 her, of course ; and. she was very fond of him ; and he 
 meant to be good to her always. But that was all. Now, 
 however, suddenly a new feeling came over him ; he re 
 alized that her eyes were very lovely, and that her lips 
 trembled with emotion. True, even then she did not turn 
 from him, rather toward him ; but he was too young him 
 self to understand these indications, and, carried away by 
 her sweetness, his own affection, and the impulse of the 
 moment, he put his arm round her, and drew her toward! 
 him, sure that he loved her, and especially sure that she 
 loved him. Poor Anne, who would soon have to part 
 with him dear Anne, his old playmate and friend ! 
 
 Half an hour later he came into the Agency sitting- 
 room, where the others were waiting, with a quick step 
 and sparkling eyes, and, with the tone and manner of a 
 young conqueror, announced, "Dr. Gaston, and all of 
 you, I am going to marry Aniiet. We are engaged." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Shades of evening, close not o er us, 
 
 Leave our lonely bark awhile; 
 Morn, alas ! will not restore us 
 Yonder dear and fading isle. 
 Though neath distant skies we wander, 
 
 Still with thee our thoughts must dwell: 
 Absence makes the heart grow fonder 
 Isle of beauty, fare thee well !" 
 
 THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. 
 
 "WE are engaged." 
 
 Dr. Gaston, who was standing, sat down as though 
 struck down. Miss Lois jumped up, and began to laugh 
 and cry in a breath. Pere Michaux, who was sitting 
 with his injured foot resting on a stool, ground his hands 
 down suddenly on the arms of his chair with a sharp dis 
 pleasure visible for an instant on his face. But only for 
 an instant ; it was gone before any one saw it. 
 
 "Oh, my darling boy!" said Miss Lois, with her arms 
 round Rast s neck. "I always knew you would. You 
 are made for each other, and always were. Now we shall 
 
13 4 ANNE. 
 
 have you both with us always, thank the Lord !" Then 
 she sobbed again, and took a fresh and tighter hold of him. 
 * I ll take the boys, dear ; you need not be troubled with 
 them. And Til come over here and live, so that you and 
 Aimet can have the church-house ; it s in much better re 
 pair ; only there should be a new chimney. The dearest 
 wish of my heart is now fulfilled, and I am quite ready 
 to die." 
 
 East was kind always; it was simply impossible for 
 him to say or do anything which could hurt the feelings 
 of any one present. Such a course is sometimes contra 
 dictory, since those who are absent like wise have "their feel 
 ings ; but it is always at the moment agreeable. He kiss 
 ed Miss Lois affectionately, thanked her, and led her to 
 her chair; nor did he stop there, but stood beside her 
 with her hand in his until she began to recover her com 
 posure, wipe her eyes, and smile. Then he went across 
 to Dr. Gaston, his faithful and early friend. 
 
 "I hope I have your approval, sir ?" he said, looking 
 very tall and handsome as he stood by the old man s 
 chair. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the chaplain, extending his hand. 
 "I was I was startled at first, of course; you have 
 both seemed like children to me. But if it must be, it 
 must be. Only make her happy, East ; make her happy. " 
 
 "I shall try, sir." 
 
 Come, doctor, acknowledge that you have always ex 
 pected it," said Miss Lois, breaking into permanent sun 
 shine, and beginning to wipe her spectacles in a business 
 like way, which showed that the moisture was ended for 
 the present. 
 
 "No yes ; I hardly know what I have expected," an 
 swered the chaplain, still a little suffocated, and speaking 
 thickly. " I do not think I have expected anything." 
 
 Is there any one else you would prefer to have Rast 
 marry ? Answer me that." 
 
 "No, no; certainly not. " 
 
 "Is there any one you would prefer to have Anne 
 marry ?" 
 
 "Why need she marry at all?" said the chaplain, 
 
ANNE. 135 
 
 boldly, breaking through the chain of questions clos 
 ing round him. "I am sure you yourself are a bright 
 example, Miss Hinsdale, of the merits of single life." 
 But, to his surprise, Miss Lois turned upon him. 
 "What! have Anne live through my loneliness, my 
 always-being-misunderstood-ness, my general sense of a 
 useless ocean within me, its breaking waves dashed high 
 on a stern and rock-bound coast?" she said, quoting ve 
 hemently from the only poem she knew. Never !" 
 
 While Dr. Gaston was still gazing at her, East turned 
 to Pere Michaux. I am sure of your approval, " he said, 
 smiling confidently. "I have had no doubt of that." 
 "Haven t you?" said the priest, dryly. 
 " No, sir: you have always been my friend." 
 And I shall continue to be, " said Pere Michaux. But 
 he rose as he spoke, and hobbled into the hall, closing 
 the door behind him. 
 
 Tita was hurrying through the garden on her way from 
 the heights ; he waited for her. 
 
 "Where have you been ?" he asked, sternly. - 
 The child seemed exhausted, her breath came in pant 
 ing gasps ; her skirt was torn, her hair streaming, and the 
 dark red hue of her face was changed to a yellow pallor. 
 "I have run and run, I have followed and followed, I 
 have listened with my ear on the ground ; I have climbed 
 trees to look, I have torn a path through bushes, and I 
 have not found them," she said, huskily, a slight froth on 
 her dry lips as she spoke, her eyes bright and feverish. 
 
 They are here, " said Pere Michaux ; they have been 
 at home some time. What can you have been about, An- 
 gelique ?" 
 
 "I have told you," said the child, rolling her apron 
 tightly in her small brown hands. I followed his track. 
 He went down the north path. I traced him for a mile ; 
 then I lost him. In the fir wood. Then I crept, and 
 looked, and listened." 
 
 "You followed East, then, when I told you to go to 
 Anne! Enough. I thought, at least, you were quick, 
 Tita; but it seems you are dull dull as an owl," said the 
 priest, turning away. He hobbled to the front door and 
 
136 ANNE. 
 
 sat down on the threshold. After all my care, " he said 
 to himself, " to be foiled by a rolling- stone !" 
 
 Through the open window he heard Miss Lois ask 
 where Anne was. "Did she not come back with you, 
 East ?" 
 
 Yes, but she was obliged to go directly to the kitchen. 
 Something about the tea, I believe." 
 
 " Oh no; it was because she did not want to face us, * 
 said Miss Lois, archly. "I will go and bring her, the 
 dear child !" 
 
 Pere Michaux smiled contemptuously in the twilight 
 outside ; but he seemed to have recovered his equanimity 
 also. "Something about the tea!" he said to himself. 
 "Something about the tea !" He rose and hobbled into 
 the sitting-room again with regained cheerfulness. Miss 
 Lois was leading in Anne. " Here she is," said the old 
 maid. I found her ; hiding, of course, and trembling. " 
 
 Anne, smiling, turned down her cuffs, and began to 
 light the lamp as usual. I had to watch the broiling of 
 the birds, " she said. You would not like to have them 
 burned, would you ?" 
 
 Pere Michaux now looked thoroughly happy. "By 
 no means, "he replied, hobbling over and patting her on 
 the head "by no means, my dear." Then he laughed 
 contentedly, and sat down. The others might talk now ; 
 he was satisfied. 
 
 When the lamp was lighted, everybody kissed Anne 
 formally, and wished her happiness, Pere Michaux going 
 through the little rite with his finest Parisian courtesy. 
 The boys added their caresses, and Gabriel said, "Of 
 course now you won t go away, Aniiet ?" 
 
 "Yes, dear, I must go just the same," said the sister. 
 
 "Certainly," said Pere Michaux. "Erastus can not 
 marry yet; he must go through college, and afterward 
 establish himself in life." 
 
 "They could be married next spring," suggested Miss 
 Lois: "we could help them at the beginning." 
 
 Young Pronando is less of a man than I suppose, if he 
 allows any one save himself to take care of his w T ife," said 
 Pere Michaux, sententiously. 
 
ANNE. 137 
 
 " Of course I shall not," said Rast, throwing back his 
 handsome head with an air of pride. 
 
 That is right ; stand by your decision, " said the priest. 
 "And now let us have tea. Enough has happened for 
 one day, I think, and Rast must go at dawn. He can 
 write as many letters as he pleases, but in real life he 
 has now to show us what metal he is made of; I do not 
 doubt but that it will prove pure ore." 
 
 Dr. Gaston sat silent ; he drank his tea, and every now 
 and then looked at Anne. She was cheerful and con 
 tented; her eyes rested upon Rast with confidence; she 
 smiled when he spoke as if she liked to hear his voice; 
 but of consciousness, embarrassment, hesitation, there 
 was not a trace. The chaplain rubbed his forehead again 
 and again, and pushed his wig so far back that it looked 
 like a brown aureole. But if he was perplexed, Miss Lois 
 was not ; the happy old maid supplied all the conscious 
 ness, archness, and sentimental necessities of the occasion. 
 She had kept them suppressed for years, and had a large 
 store on hand. She radiated romance. 
 
 While they were taking tea, Tita entered, languid and 
 indifferent as a city lady. No, she did not care for any 
 tea, she said ; and when the boys, all together, told her 
 the great news, she merely smiled, fanned herself, and said 
 she had long expected it. 
 
 Miss Lois looked up sharply, with the intention of con 
 tradicting this statement, but Tita gazed back at her so 
 calmly that she gave it up. 
 
 After Pere Michaux had left her in the hall, she had 
 stolen to the back door of the sitting-room, laid her ear 011 
 the floor close to the crack under it, and overheard all. 
 Then, trembling and silent, she crept up to her own room, 
 bolted the door, and, throwing herself down upon the 
 floor, rolled to and fro in a sort of frenzy. But she was a 
 supple, light little creature, and made no sound. When 
 her anger had spent itself, and she had risen to her feet, 
 those below had no consciousness that the ceiling above 
 them had been ironed all over on its upper side by the 
 contact of a fierce little body, hot and palpitating wildly. 
 
 Pere Michaux threw himself into that evening with 
 
138 ANNE. 
 
 all the powers he possessed fully alert ; there were given 
 so many hours to fill, and he filled them. The young 
 lover Rast, the sentimental Miss Lois, the perplexed old 
 chaplain, even the boys, all gave way to his influence, 
 and listened or laughed at his will. Only Tita sat apart, 
 silent and cold. Ten o clock, eleven o clock it was cer 
 tainly time to separate. But the boys, although sleepy and 
 irritable, refused to go to bed, and fought with each oth 
 er on the hearth-rug. Midnight; the old priest s flow of 
 fancy and wit was still in full play,- and the circle un 
 broken. 
 
 At last Dr. Gaston found himself yawning. "The 
 world will not stop, even if we do go to bed, my friends," 
 he said, rising. "We certainly ought not to talk or list 
 en longer to-night." 
 
 Pere Michaux rose also, and linked his arm in Rast s. 
 "I will walk home with you, young sir," he said, cor 
 dially. Miss Lois, we will take you as far as your gate. " 
 
 Miss Lois was willing, but a little uncertain in her 
 movements ; inclined toward delay. Would Anne lend 
 her a shawl ? And, when the young girl had gone up 
 stairs after it, would Rast take the candle into the hall, 
 lest she should stumble 011 her way down ? 
 
 "She will not stumble," said Pere Michaux. "She 
 never stumbled in her life, Miss Lois. Of what are you 
 thinking ?" 
 
 Miss Lois put on the shawl ; and then, when they had 
 reached the gate, "Run back, Rast, "she said; "I have 
 left my knitting." 
 
 "Here it is, "said the priest, promptly producing it. 
 " I saw it 011 the table, and took charge of it." 
 
 Miss Lois was very much obliged ; but she was sure she 
 heard some one calling. Perhaps it was Anne. If Rast 
 
 " Only a night-bird," said Pere Michaux, walking on. 
 He left Miss Lois at the church-house; and then, linking 
 his arm again in Rast s, accompanied him to his lodg 
 ings. "I am going to give you a parting present," he 
 said "a watch, the one I am wearing now. I have an 
 other, which will do very well for this region." 
 
 The priest s watch was a handsome one, and Rast was 
 
ANXE. 139 
 
 still young enough to feel an immense satisfaction in 
 such a possession. He took it with many thanks, and 
 frankly expressed delight. The old priest accompanied 
 his gift with fatherly good wishes and advice. It was 
 now so late that he would take a bed in the house, he 
 thought. In this way, too, he would be with Hast, and 
 see the last of him. 
 
 But love laughs at parsons. 
 
 Pere Michaux saw his charge to bed, and went to bed 
 himself in an adjoining room. He slept soundly; but 
 at the first peep of dawn his charge was gone gone to 
 meet Anne on the heights, as agreed between them the 
 night before. 
 
 O wise Pere Michaux ! 
 
 The sun was not yet above the horizon, but Anne was 
 there. The youth took her hands in his, and looked at 
 her earnestly. He was half surprised himself at what he 
 had done, and he looked at her again to see how it had hap 
 pened. All his life from earliest childhood she had been 
 his dearest companion and friend ; but now she was his be 
 trothed wife, would she be in any way different ? The sun 
 came up, and showed that she was just the same calm, 
 clear-eyed, and sweet- voiced. What more could he ask ? 
 
 "Do you love me, Annet ?" he said more than once, 
 looking at her as though she ought to be some new and 
 only half -comprehended person. 
 
 " You know I do," she answered. Then, as he asked 
 again, " Why do you ask me ?" she said. "Has not my 
 whole life shown it?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, growing more calm. "I believe 
 you have loved me all your life, Annet." 
 
 "I have," replied the girl. 
 
 He kissed her gently. I shall always be kind to you, " 
 he said. Then, with a half -sigh, "You will like to live 
 here?" 
 
 " It is my home, Hast. However, other places will not 
 seem strange after I have seen the great city. For of 
 course I must go to New York, just the same, to learn to 
 be a teacher, and help the children : we may be separated 
 for years." 
 
140 ANNE. 
 
 " Oh no ; I shall he ahle to take care of you all before 
 long," said East, grandly. "As soon as I have been 
 through college I shall look about and decide upon some 
 thing. Would you like me to be a lawyer ? Or a sur 
 geon ? Then there is always the army. Or we might 
 have a farm." 
 
 "There is only Frobisher s." 
 
 Oh, you mean here on the island ? Well, Frobisher s 
 would do. We could repair the old house, and have a 
 pony-cart, and drive in to town." Here the steamer 
 sounded its first whistle. That meant that it would start 
 in half an hour. Hast left the future and his plans in 
 mid-air, and took Anne in his arms with real emotion. 
 "G-ood-by, dear, good-by," he said. "Do not grieve, or 
 allow yourself to be lonely. I shall see you soon in 
 some way, even if I have to go to New York for the 
 purpose. Remember that you are my betrothed wife now. 
 That thought will comfort you." 
 
 Yes, " said Anne, her sincere eyes meeting his. Then 
 she clung to him for a few moments, sobbing. "You 
 must go away, and I must go away," she said, amid her 
 tears: "nothing is the same any more. Father is dead, 
 and the whole world will be between us. Nothing is the 
 same any more. Nothing is the same." 
 
 "Distance is nothing nowadays," said the youth, 
 soothing her ; "I can reach you in almost no time, 
 Aniiet." 
 
 Yes, but nothing is the same any more ; nothing ever 
 will be the same ever again, "she sobbed, oppressed for 
 the first time in her life by the vague uncertainties of 
 the future. 
 
 "Oh yes, it will," said her companion, decidedly. "I 
 will come back here if you wish it so much, and you shall 
 come back, and we will live here on this same old island 
 all our lives. A man has but to choose his home, you 
 know." 
 
 Anne looked somewhat comforted. Yet only part of 
 her responded to his words; she still felt that nothing 
 would ever be quite the same again. She could not bring 
 back her father; she could not bring back their long hap- 
 
ANNE. 141 
 
 py childhood. The door was closed behind them, and 
 they must now go out into the wide world. 
 
 The second whistle sounded another fifteen minutes 
 gone. They ran down the steep path together, meeting 
 Miss Lois on her way up, a green woollen hood on her 
 head as a protection against the morning air. 
 
 " You will want a ring, my dears," she said, breathless 
 ly, as she kissed them "an engagement ring; it is the 
 custom, and fortunately I have one for you." 
 
 With a mixture of smiles and tears of delight and ex 
 citement, she took from a little box an old-fashioned 
 ring, and handed it to East. 
 
 It was your mother s, dear, " she said to Anne ; your 
 father gave it to me as a memento of her when you were 
 a baby. It is most fit that you should wear it. " 
 
 East examined the slender little circlet without much 
 admiration. It was a hoop of very small rubies placed 
 close together, with as little gold visible as was possible. 
 "I meant to give Ahnet a diamond, "he said, with the 
 tone of a young duke. 
 
 "Oh no, Hast," exclaimed the girl. 
 
 "But take this for the present," urged the old maid. 
 You must not let her go from you without one ; it would 
 be a bad sign. Put it on yourself, East ; I want to see 
 you do it." 
 
 East slipped the circlet into its place on Anne s finger, 
 and then, with a little flourish which became him well, he 
 uncovered his head, bent his knee, and raised the hand 
 to his lips. 
 
 "But you have put it on the right hand," said Miss 
 Lois, in dismay. 
 
 It does not make any difference, " said East. And 
 besides, I like the right hand; it means more." 
 
 East did not admire the old-fashioned ring, but to Anne 
 it was both beautiful and sacred. She gazed at it with 
 a lovely light in her eyes, and an earnest thoughtf ulness. 
 Any one could see how gravely she regarded the little cer 
 emony. 
 
 When they came back to the house, Dr. Gaston was al 
 ready there, and Pere Michaux was limping up the path 
 
14 2 ANNE. 
 
 from the gate. He caught sight of East and Anne to 
 gether. "Check!" he said to himself. "So much for 
 being a stupid old man. Outwitted yesterday by a roll 
 ing stone, and to-day by your own inconceivable dullness. 
 And you gave away your watch did you ? to prevent 
 what has happened ! The girl has probably bound herself 
 formally, and now you will have her conscience against 
 you as well as all the rest. Bah !" 
 
 But while thinking this, he came forward and greet 
 ed them all happily and cheerfully, whereas the old chap 
 lain, who really had no especial objection to the engage 
 ment, was cross and silent, and hardly greeted anybody. 
 He knew that he was ill-tempered, and wondered why 
 he should be. Anything unexpected is apt to disturb 
 the mind," he remarked, apologetically, to the priest, tak 
 ing out his handkerchief and rubbing his forehead vio 
 lently, as if to restore equanimity by counter-circulation. 
 But however cross or quiet the others might be, Miss Lois 
 beamed for all ; she shed forth radiance like Roman can 
 dles even at that early hour, when the air was still chill 
 and the sky gray with mist. The boys came down stairs 
 with their clothes half on, and then Rast said good-by, 
 and hurried down to the pier, and they all stood together 
 on the old piazza, and watched the steamer back out into 
 the stream, turn round, and start westward, the point of 
 the island soon hiding it from view. Then Dr. Gaston 
 took his unaccountable ill temper homeward, Pere Mi- 
 chaux set sail for the hermitage, Anne sat down to sew, 
 and only Miss Lois let every-day life take care of itself, 
 and cried on. 
 
 " I know there will be no more storms," she said ; "it 
 isn t that. But it is everything that has happened, Anne 
 dear: the engagement, and the romance of it all !" 
 
 Tita now entered : she had not appeared before. She 
 required that fresh coffee should be prepared for her, and 
 she obtained it. For the Irish soldier s wife was almost 
 as much afraid of her as the boys were. She glanced at 
 Miss Lois s happy tears, at Anne s ruby ring, at the gen 
 eral disorder. 
 
 " And all this for a mere boy !" she said, superbly. 
 
ANNE. 143 
 
 Miss Lois stopped crying from sheer astonishment. 
 "And pray, may I ask, what are you ?" she demanded. 
 
 "A girl ; and about on a line with the boy referred to," 
 replied Miss Tita, composedly. "Anne is much too old." 
 
 The boys gave a laugh of scorn. Tita turned and look 
 ed at them, and they took to the woods for the day. Miss 
 Lois cried no more, but began to sew ; there was a vague 
 dread in her heart as to what the winter would be with 
 Tita in the church-house. "If I could only cut off her 
 hair!" she thought, with a remembrance of Samson. 
 " Never was such hair seen on any child before." 
 
 As Tita sat on her low bench, the two long thick braids 
 of her black hair certainly did touch the floor ; and most 
 New England wx>men, who, whether from the nipping 
 climate or their Roundhead origin, have, as a class, rather 
 scanty locks, would have agreed with Miss Lois that such 
 a mane" was unnatural on a girl of that age indeed, 
 intolerable. 
 
 Amid much sewing, planning, and busy labor, time flew 
 on. Dr. Gaston did not pretend to do anything else now 
 save come down early in the morning to the Agency, 
 and remain nearly all day, sitting in an arm-chair, some 
 times with a book before him, but hardly turning a page. 
 His dear young pupil, his almost child, was going away. 
 He tried not to think how lonely he should be without her. 
 Pere Michaux came frequently ; he spoke to Tita with a 
 new severity, and often with a slight shade of sarcasm in 
 his voice. Are you not a little too severe with her ?" ask 
 ed Miss Lois one day, really fearing lest Tita, in revenge, 
 might go out on some dark night and set fire to the house. 
 He is my priest, isn t he, and not yours ? He shall 
 order me to do what he pleases, and I shall do it," answer 
 ed the small person whom she had intended to defend. 
 
 And now every day more and more beautiful grew the 
 hues on the trees ; it was a last intensity of color before 
 the long, cold, dead-white winter. All the maple and 
 oak leaves were now scarlet, orange, or crimson, each 
 hue vivid ; they died in a glory to which no tropical leaf 
 ever attains. The air was warm, hazy, and still the 
 true air of Indian summer; and as if to justify the term, 
 
144 ANNE. 
 
 the Indians on the mainland and islands were busy bring 
 ing potatoes and game to the village to sell, fishing, cut 
 ting wood, and begging, full of a tardy activity before the 
 approach of winter. Anne watched them crossing in 
 their canoes, and landing on the beach, and when occa 
 sionally the submissive, gentle-eyed squaws, carrying 
 their little pappooses, came to the kitchen door to beg, she 
 herself went out to see them, and bade the servant give 
 them something. They were Chippewas, dark-skinned 
 and silent, wearing short calico skirts, and a blanket 
 drawn over their heads. Patient and uncomplaining by 
 nature, they performed almost all the labor on their small 
 farms, cooked for their lords and masters, and took care 
 of the children, as their share of the duties of life, the hus 
 bands being warriors, and above common toil. Anne 
 knew some of these Chippewa women personally, and 
 could talk to them in their own tongue ; but it was not 
 old acquaintance which made her go out and see them 
 now. It was the feeling that they belonged to the island, 
 to the life which she must soon leave behind. She felt 
 herself clinging to everything to the trees, to the white 
 cliffs, to the very sunshine like a person dragged along 
 against his will, who catches at every straw. 
 
 The day came at last ; the eastern-bound steamer was at 
 the pier; Anne must go. Dr. Gaston s eyes were wet; 
 with choked utterance he gave her his benediction. Miss 
 Lois was depressed; but her depression had little oppor 
 tunity to make itself felt, on account of the clamor and 
 wild behavior of the boys, which demanded her constant 
 attention. The clamor, however, was not so alarming as 
 the velvety goodness of Tita. What could the child be 
 planning ? The poor old maid sighed, as she asked her 
 self this question, over the life that lay before her. But 
 twenty such lives would not wear out Lois Hinsdale. 
 Pere Michaux was in excellent spirits, and kept them all 
 in order. He calmed the boys, encouraged Anne, cheer 
 ed the old chaplain and Miss Lois, led them all down the 
 street and on board the boat, then back on the pier again, 
 where they could see Anne standing 011 the high deck 
 above them. He shook the boys when they howled iu 
 
ANNE. 145 
 
 their grief too loudly, and as the steamer moved out into 
 the stream he gave his arm to Miss Lois, who, for the mo 
 ment forgetting everything save that the dear little baby 
 whom she had loved so long was going away, burst into 
 convulsive tears. Tita sat on the edge of the pier, and 
 watched the boat silently. She did not speak or wave her 
 handkerchief ; she shed no tears. But long after the oth 
 ers had gone home, when the steamer was a mere speck 
 low down on the eastern horizon, she sat there still. 
 
 Yes, Anne was gone. 
 
 And now that she was gone, it was astonishing to see 
 what a void was left. No one had especially valued or 
 praised her while she was there ; she was a matter of course. 
 But now that she was absent, the whole life of the village 
 seemed changed. There was no one to lead the music on 
 Sundays, standing by the organ and singing clearly, and 
 Miss Lois s playing seemed now doubly dull and mechan 
 ical. There was no one going up to the fort at a certain 
 hour every morning, passing the windows where the fort 
 ladies sat, with books under her arm. There was no one 
 working in the Agency garden ; no one coming with a 
 quick step into the butcher s little shop to see what he 
 had, and consult him, not without hidden anxiety, as to 
 the possibility of a rise in prices. There was no one sew 
 ing on the piazza, or going out to find the boys, or sail 
 ing over to the hermitage with the four black-eyed chil 
 dren, who plainly enough needed even more holy in 
 struction than they obtained. They all knew everything 
 she did, and all her ways. And as it was a small commu 
 nity, they missed her sadly. The old Agency, too, seemed 
 to become suddenly dilapidated, almost ruinous ; the boys 
 were undeniably rascals, and Tita a little minx. " Miss 
 Lois was without doubt a dogmatic old maid, and the 
 chaplain not what he used to be, poor old man fast break 
 ing up. Only Pere Michaux bore the test unaltered. 
 But then he had not leaned upon this young girl as the 
 others had leaned the house and garden, the chaplain as 
 well as the children : the strong young nature had in one 
 way supported them all. 
 
 Meanwhile the girl herself was journeying down the 
 10 
 
146 ANNE. 
 
 lake. She stood at the stern, watching- the island grow 
 distant, grow purple, grow lower and lower on the surface 
 of the water, until at last it disappeared ; then she covered 
 her face and wept. After this, like one who leaves the 
 vanished past behind him, and resolutely faces the fu 
 ture, she went forward to the bow and took her seat there. 
 Night came on; she remained on deck through the even 
 ing : it seemed less lonely there than among the passen 
 gers in the cabin. She knew the captain ; and she had 
 been especially placed in his charge, also, by Pere Mi- 
 chaux, as far as one of the lower-lake ports, where she 
 was to be met by a priest and taken to the eastern-bound 
 train. The captain, a weather-beaten man, past middle 
 age, came after a while and sat down near her. 
 
 "What is that red light over the shore-line?" said 
 Anne to her taciturn companion, who sat and smoked 
 near by, protecting her paternally by his presence, but 
 having apparently few words, and those husky, at his 
 command. 
 
 "Fire in the woods." 
 
 " Is it not rather late in the season for a forest fire ?" 
 
 "Well, there it is," answered the captain, declining 
 discussion of the point in face of obvious fact. 
 
 Anne had already questioned him on the subject of 
 light-houses. Would he like to live in a light-house ? 
 
 No, he would not. 
 
 But they might be pleasant places in summer, with 
 the blue water all round them: she had often thought 
 she would like to live in one. 
 
 Well, he wouldn t. 
 
 But why ? 
 
 Resky places sometimes when the wind blew : give him 
 a good stiddy boat, now. 
 
 After a time they came nearer to the burning forest. 
 Anne could see the great columns of flame shoot up into 
 the sky ; the woods were on fire for miles. She knew that 
 the birds were flying, dizzy and blinded, before the terri 
 ble conqueror, that the wild-cats were crying like chil 
 dren, that the small wolves were howling, and that the 
 more timid wood creatures were cowering behind fallen 
 
ANNE. 147 
 
 trunks, their eyes dilated and eai^s laid flat in terror. 
 She knew all this because she had often heard it de 
 scribed, fires miles long in the pine forests being frequent 
 occurrences in the late summer and early autumn; but 
 she had never before seen with her own eyes the lurid 
 splendor, as there was no unbroken stretch of pineries on 
 the Straits. She sat silently watching the great clouds 
 of red light roll up into the dark sky, and the shower of 
 sparks higher still. The advance-guard was of lapping 
 tongues that caught at and curled through the green 
 wood far in front ; then came a wall of clear orange-col 
 ored roaring fire, then the steady incandescence that was 
 consuming the hearts of the great trees, and behind, the 
 long range of dying fires like coals, only each coal was 
 a tree. It grew late ; she went to her state-room in order 
 that the captain might be relieved from his duty of guard. 
 But for several hours longer she sat by her small window, 
 watching the flames, which turned to a long red line as 
 the steamer s course carried her farther from the shore. 
 She was thinking of those she had left behind, and of 
 the island ; of East, and her own betrothal. The betroth 
 al seemed to her quite natural ; they had always been to 
 gether in the past, and now they would always be togeth 
 er in the future ; she was content that it was so. She 
 knew so little of the outside world that few forebodings 
 as to her own immediate present troubled her. She was 
 on her way to a school where she would study hard, so as 
 soon to be able to teach, and help the children ; the boys 
 were to be educated one by one, and after the first year, 
 perhaps, she could send for Tita, since Miss Lois never un 
 derstood the child aright, failing to comprehend her pecul 
 iar nature, and making her, poor little thing, uncomfort 
 able. It would be a double relief to Miss Lois as well as 
 Tita. It was a pity that her grand-aunt was so hard and 
 ill-tempered ; but probably she was old and infirm. Per 
 haps if she could see Tita, she might take a fancy to the 
 child ; Tita was so small and so soft-voiced, whereas she, 
 Anne, was so overgrown and awkward. She gave a 
 thought of regret to her own deficiencies, but hardly a 
 sigh. They were matters of fact which she had long ago 
 
148 ANNE. 
 
 accepted. The coast fire had now faded into a line of 
 red dots and a dull light above them; she knelt down 
 and prayed, not without the sadness which a lonely 
 young traveller might naturally feel on the broad dark 
 lake. 
 
 At the lower-lake port she was met by an old French 
 priest, one of Pere Michaux s friends, who took her to 
 the railway station in a carriage, bought her ticket, 
 checked her trunk, gave her a few careful words of in 
 struction as to the journey, and then, business matters 
 over, sat down by her side and talked to her with en 
 chanting politeness and ease until the moment of depart 
 ure. Pere Michaux had arranged this: although not of 
 their faith, Anne was to travel all the way to New York 
 in the care of the Roman Catholic Church, represented 
 by its priests, handed from one to the next, and met at the 
 entrance of the great city by another, who would cross 
 the river for the purpose, in order that her young island 
 eyes might not be confused by the crowd and turmoil. 
 At first Dr. Gaston had talked of escorting Anne in per 
 son ; but it was so long since he had travelled anywhere, 
 and he was so absent-minded, that it was evident even 
 to himself that Anne would in reality escort him. Miss 
 Lois had the children, and of course could not leave 
 them. 
 
 "I would go myself if there was any necessity for it," 
 said Pere Michaux, "but there is not. Let me arrange it, 
 and I promise you that Anne shall reach her school in 
 safety; I will have competent persons to meet her all 
 along the route unless, indeed, you have friends of your 
 own upon whom you prefer to rely ?" 
 
 This was one of the little winds which Pere Michaux 
 occasionally sent over the self-esteem of his two Protest 
 ant companions : he could not help it. Dr. Gaston frown 
 ed : he had not an acquaintance between New York and 
 the island, and Pere Michaux knew it. But Miss Lois, 
 undaunted, rushed into the fray. 
 
 " Oh, certainly, it would be quite easy for us to have 
 her met by friends on the way," she began, making for 
 the moment common and Protestant cause with Dr. 
 
ANNE. 149 
 
 Gaston ; "it would require only a few letters. In New 
 England I should have my own family connections to 
 call upon persons of the highest respectability, de 
 scendants, most of them, of the celebrated patriot Israel 
 Putnam." 
 
 "Certainly," replied Pere Michaux. "I understand. 
 Then I will leave Anne to you." 
 
 But unfortunately, as Anne is going to New York, 
 not Boston, my connections do not live along the route, 
 exactly," continued Miss Lois, the adverb standing for a 
 small matter of a thousand miles or so; "nor," she add 
 ed, again admitting Dr. Gaston to a partnership, can we 
 make them." 
 
 "There remain, then, the pastors of your church," sai* 1 
 the priest. 
 
 Certainly the pastors. It will be the simplest thing 
 in the world for Dr. Gaston to write to them ; they will be 
 delighted to take charge of any friend of ours." 
 
 The chaplain pushed his wig back a little, and murmur 
 ed, " Church Almanac." 
 
 Miss Lois glanced at him angrily. "I am sure I do 
 not know what Dr. Gaston means by mentioning Church 
 Almanac in that way," she said, sharply. "We know 
 most of the prominent pastors, of course. Dr. Shepherd, 
 for instance, and Dr. Dell." 
 
 Dr. Shepherd and Dr. Dell, who occasionally came up 
 to the island during the summer for a few days of rest, 
 lived in the lower -lake town where Anne s long rail 
 way journey began. They were not pastors, but rectors, 
 and the misuse of the terms grated on the chaplain s 
 Anglican ear. But he was a patient man, and accus 
 tomed now to the heterogeneous phrasing of the Western 
 border. 
 
 "And besides," added Miss Lois, triumphantly, "there 
 is the bishop !" 
 
 Now the bishop lived five miles farther. It was not 
 evident, therefore, to the ordinary mind what aid these 
 reverend gentlemen could give to Anne, all living, as 
 they did, at the western beginning of her railway jour 
 ney ; but Miss Lois, who, like others of her sex, possessed 
 
150 ANNE. 
 
 the power (unattainable by man) of rising above mere 
 logical sequence, felt that she had conquered. 
 
 " I have no bishops to offer," said Pere Michaux, with 
 mock humility; "only ordinary priests. I will there 
 fore leave Anne to your care, Miss Lois yours and Dr. 
 Gaston s. " 
 
 So the discussion ended, and Miss Lois came off with 
 Protestant colors flying. None the less Pere Michaux 
 wrote his letters ; and Dr. Gaston did not write his. For 
 the two men understood each other. There was no need 
 for the old chaplain to say, plainly, I have lived out of 
 the world so long that I have not a single clerical friend 
 this side- of New York upon whom I can call" ; the priest 
 comprehended it without words. And there was no need 
 for Pere Michaux to parade the close ties and net-work 
 of communication which prevailed in the ancient Church 
 to which he belonged ; the chaplain knew them without 
 the telling. Eacli understood the other; and being men, 
 they could do without the small teasing comments, like 
 the buzzing of flies, with which women enliven their 
 days. Thus it happened that Anne Douglas travelled 
 from the northern island across to the great city on 
 the ocean border in the charge of the Roman Catholic 
 Church. 
 
 She arrived in New York worn out and bewildered, and 
 having lost her sense of comparison by the strangeness 
 and fatigue of the long journey, she did not appreciate 
 the city s size, the crowded streets, and roar of traffic, but 
 regarded everything vaguely, like a tired child who has 
 neither surprise nor attention to give. 
 
 At length the carriage stopped ; she went up a broad 
 flight of stone steps ; she was entering an open door. 
 Some one was speaking to her; she was in a room where 
 there were chairs, and she sank down. The priest who 
 had brought her from the other side of the river was ex 
 changing a few words with a lady ; he was going ; he was 
 gone. The lady was coming toward her. 
 
 "You are very tired, my child,-" she said. "Let me 
 take you a moment to Tante, and then you can go to your 
 room." 
 
ANNE. 151 
 
 "To Tante r <" said Anne. 
 
 " Yes, to Tante, or Madame Moreau, the principal of 
 the school. She expects you." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "Manners not what, but how. Manners are happy ways of doing 
 things; each once a stroke of genius or of love now repeated and 
 hardened into usage. Manners require time ; nothing is more vulgar 
 than haste." EMEESON. 
 
 MADAME MOREAU was a Frenchwoman, small and old, 
 with a thin shrewd face and large features. She wore a 
 plain black satin gown, the narrow skirt gathered in the 
 old-f ashioiied style, and falling straight to the floor ; the 
 waist of the gown, fastened behind, was in front plait 
 ed into a long rounded point. Broad ruffles of fine lace 
 shielded her throat and hands, and her cap, garnished 
 with violet velvet, was trimmed with the same delicate 
 fabric. She was never a handsome woman even in youth, 
 and she was now seventy-five years of age ; yet she was 
 charming. 
 
 She rose, kissed the young girl lightly on each cheek, 
 and said a few words of welcome. Her manner was af 
 fectionate, but impersonal. She never took fancies ; but 
 neither did she take dislikes. That her young ladies were 
 all charming young persons was an axiom never allowed 
 to be brought into question ; that they were simply and 
 gracefully feminine was with equal firmness established. 
 Other schools of modern and American origin might 
 make a feature of public examinations, with questions by 
 bearded professors from boys colleges ; but the establish 
 ment of Madame Moreau knew nothing of such innova 
 tions. The Frenchwoman s idea was not a bad one ; good 
 or bad, it was inflexible. She was a woman of marked 
 character, and may be said to have accomplished much 
 good in a mannerless generation and land. Thorough 
 ly French, she was respected and loved by all her Amer- 
 
152 ANNE. 
 
 lean scholars ; and it will be long ere her name and mem 
 ory fade away. 
 
 Miss Van horn did not come to see her niece until a 
 week had passed. Anne had been assigned to the lowest 
 French class among the children, had taken her first 
 singing lesson from one Italian, fat, rosy, and smiling, 
 and her first Italian lesson from another, lean, old, and 
 soiled, had learned to answer questions in the Moreau 
 French, and to talk a little, as well as to comprehend 
 the fact that her clothes were remarkable, and that she 
 herself was considered an oddity, when one morning 
 Tante sent word that she was to come down to the draw 
 ing-room to see a visitor. 
 
 The visitor was an old woman with black eyes, a black 
 wig, shining false teeth, a Roman nose, and a high color 
 (which was, however, natural), and she was talking to 
 Tante, who, with her own soft gray hair, and teeth which 
 if false did not appear so, looked charmingly real beside 
 her. Miss Vanhorn was short and stout ; she was muf 
 fled in an India shawl, and upon her hands were a pair of 
 cream-colored kid gloves much too large for her, so that 
 when she fumbled, as she did every few moments, in an 
 embroidered bag for aromatic seeds coated with sugar, 
 she had much difficulty in finding them, owing to the 
 empty wrinkled ends of the glove fingers. She lifted a 
 gold-rimmed eye-glass to her eyes as Anne entered, and 
 coolly inspected her. 
 
 "Dear me! dear me!" she said. Then, in execrable 
 French, "What can be done with such a young savage 
 as this ?" 
 
 "How do you do, aunt?" said Anne, using the con 
 ventional words with a slight tremor in her voice. This 
 was the w r oman who had brought up her mother her 
 dear, un remembered mother. 
 
 " Graiidaunt," said Miss Vanhorn, tartly. " Sit down; 
 I can not bear to have people standing in front of me. 
 How old are you ?" 
 
 " I am seventeen, grandaunt." 
 
 Miss Vanhorn let her eyeglass drop, and groaned. 
 4 Can anything be done with her ?" she asked, closing 
 
DEAR ME, WHAT CAN BE DONE WITH SUCH A YOUNG SAVAGE?" 
 
ANNE. 153 
 
 her eyes tightly, and turning toward Tante, while Anne 
 flushed crimson, not so much from the criticism as the 
 unkindness. 
 
 " Oh yes," said Tante, taking the opportunity given by 
 the closed eyes to pat the young girl s hand encouraging 
 ly. Miss Douglas is very intelligent ; and she has a fine 
 mezzo-soprano voice. Signor Belzini is much pleased 
 with it. It would be well, also, I think, if you would al 
 low her to take a few dancing lessons." 
 
 "She will have no occasion for dancing," answered 
 Miss Van horn, still with her eyes closed. 
 
 k It was not so much for the dancing itself as for 
 grace of carriage," replied Tante. "Miss Douglas has a 
 type of figure rare among American girls." 
 
 " I should say so, indeed !" groaned the other, shaking 
 her head gloomily, still voluntarily blinded. 
 
 "But none the less beautiful in its way," continued 
 Tante, unmoved. " It is the Greek type." 
 
 "I am not acquainted with any Greeks, " replied Miss 
 Vanhorn. 
 
 You are still as devoted as ever to the beautiful and 
 refined study of plant life, dear madame," pursued Tante, 
 changing the current of conversation. "How delight 
 ful to have a young relative to assist you, with the fresh 
 and ardent interest belonging to her age, when the flowers 
 bloom again upon the rural slopes of Haarderwyck !" As 
 Tante said this, she looked off dreamily into space, as if 
 she saw aunt and niece wandering together through 
 groves of allegorical flowers. 
 
 She is not likely to see Haarderwyck, " answered Miss 
 Vanhorn. Then, after a moment s pause a pause which 
 Tante did not break she peered at Anne with half-open 
 eyes, and asked, abruptly, " Do you, then, know anything 
 of botany ?" 
 
 Tante made a slight motion with her delicate withered 
 old hand. But Anne did not comprehend her, and an 
 swered, honestly, "No, grandaunt, I do not." 
 
 "Bah!" said Miss Vanhorn; "I might have known 
 without the asking. Make what you can of her, ma- 
 dame. I will pay your bill for one year: no longer. 
 
154 ANNE. 
 
 But no nonsense, no extras, mind that." Again she 
 sought a caraway seed, pursuing it vindictively along 
 the bottom of her bag, arid losing it at the last, after all. 
 
 "As regards wardrobe. I would advise some few 
 changes, " said Tante, smoothly. It is one of my axioms 
 that pupils study to greater advantage when their 
 thoughts are not disturbed by deficiencies in dress. Con 
 formity to our simple standard is therefore desirable." 
 
 It may be desirable ; it is not always, on that account, 
 attainable," answered Miss Vanhorn, conveying a final 
 ly caught seed to her mouth, dropping it at the last mo 
 ment, and carefully and firmly biting the seam of the 
 glove finger in its place. 
 
 "Purchases are made for the pupils with discretion 
 by one of our most experienced teachers," continued 
 Tante. 
 
 "Glad to hear it," said her visitor, releasing the glove 
 finger, and pretending to chew the seed which was not 
 there. 
 
 "But I do not need anything, Tante," interposed 
 Anne, the deep color deepening in her cheeks. 
 
 "So much the better," said her graiidaunt, dryly, 
 "since you will have nothing." 
 
 She went away soon afterward somewhat placated, 
 owing to skillful reminiscences of a favorite cousin, who, 
 it seemed, had been one of Tante s "dearest pupils" in 
 times past; "a true Vanhorn, worthy of her Knicker 
 bocker blood." The word " Neeker-bo-ker, " delicately 
 comprehended, applied, and, what was more important 
 still, limited, was one of Tante s most telling achieve 
 ments a shibboleth. She knew all the old Dutch names, 
 and remembered their intermarriages ; she was acquainted 
 with the peculiar flavor of Huguenot descent ; she compre 
 hended the especial aristocracy of Tory families, whose 
 original property had been confiscated by a raw republic 
 under George Washington. Ah ! skillful old Tante, 
 what a general you would have made ! 
 
 Anne Douglas, the new pupil, was now left to face the 
 school with her island-made gowns, and what courage 
 she could muster. Fortunately the gowns were black 
 
ANNE. 155 
 
 and severely plain. Tante, not at all disturbed by Miss 
 Vanhoni s refusal, ordered a simple cloak and bonnet for 
 her through an inexpensive French channel, so that in 
 the street she passed unremarked ; but, in the house, ev- 
 ery-day life required more courage than scaling a wall. 
 Girls are not brutal, like boys, but their light wit is pit 
 iless. The Southern pupils, provided generously with 
 money in the lavish old-time Southern way, the day 
 scholars, dressed with the exquisite simplicity of North 
 ern school-girls of good family, glanced with amusement 
 at the attire of this girl from the Northwest. This girl, be 
 ing young, felt their glances; as a refuge, she threw her 
 self into her studies with double energy, and gaining 
 confidence respecting what she had been afraid was her 
 island patois, she advanced so rapidly in the French class 
 es that she passed from the lowest to the highest, and was 
 publicly congratulated by Tante herself. In Italian her 
 progress was more slow. Her companion, in the class of 
 two, was a beautiful dark-eyed Southern girl, who read 
 musically, but seldom deigned to open her grammar. 
 The forlorn, soiled old exile to whom, with unconscious 
 irony, the bath-room had been assigned for recitations 
 in the crowded house, regarded this pupil with mixed ad 
 miration and despair. Her remarks on Mary Stuart, rep 
 resented by Alfieri, were nicely calculated to rouse him 
 to patriotic fury, and then, when the old man burst forth 
 in a torrent of excited words, she would raise her soft 
 eyes in surprise, and inquire if he was ill. The two girls 
 sat on the bath-tub, which was decorously covered over 
 and cushioned ; the exile had a chair for dignity s sake. 
 Above, in a corresponding room, a screen was drawn 
 round the tub, and a piano placed against it. Here, all 
 day long, another exile, a German music-master, with lit 
 tle gold rings in his ears, gave piano lessons, and Anne 
 was one of his pupils. To Signor Belzini, the teacher of 
 vocal music, the drawing-room itself was assigned. He 
 was a prosperous and smiling Italian, who had a habit 
 of bringing pieces of pink cream candy with him, and ar 
 ranging them in a row on thje piano for his own refresh 
 ment after each song. There was an atmosphere of per- 
 
156 ANNE. 
 
 fume and mystery about Belzini. It was whispered that 
 he knew the leading opera-singers, even taking supper 
 with them sometimes after the opera. The pupils ex 
 hausted their imaginations in picturing to each other the 
 probable poetry and romance of these occasions. 
 
 Belzini was a musical trick-master ; but he was not ig 
 norant. When Anne came to take her first lesson, he 
 smiled effusively, as usual, took a piece of candy, and, 
 while enjoying it, asked if she could read notes, and gave 
 her the "Drinking Song" from Lucrezia Borgia as a 
 trial. Anne sang it correctly without accompaniment, 
 but slowly and solemnly as a dead march. It is probable 
 that "II Segreto" never heard itself so sung before or 
 since. Belzini was walking up and down with his plump 
 hands behind him. 
 
 "You have never heard it sung ?" he said. 
 
 "No," replied Anne. 
 
 "Sing something else, then. Something you like 
 yourself." 
 
 After a moment s hesitation, Anne sang an island ballad 
 in the voyageur patois. 
 
 "May I ask who has taught you, mademoiselle ?" 
 
 " My father, " said the pupil, with a slight tremor in 
 her voice. 
 
 "He must be a cultivated musician, although of the 
 German school," said Belzini, seating himself at the piano 
 and running his white fingers over the keys. "Try 
 these scales." 
 
 It was soon understood that "the islander" could sing 
 as well as study. Tolerance was therefore accorded to 
 her. But not much more. It is only in "books for the 
 young" that poorly clad girls are found leading whole 
 schools by the mere power of intellectual or moral suprem- 
 .acy. The emotional type of boarding-school, also, is sel 
 dom seen in cities ; its home is amid the dead lethargy of 
 a winter-bound country village. 
 
 The great event in the opening of Anne s school life was 
 her first opera. Tante, not at all blinded by the country 
 garb and silence of the new. pupil, had written her name 
 with her own hand upon the opera list for the winter. 
 
ANNE. 157 
 
 without consulting Miss Vanhorn, who would, however, 
 pay for it in the end, as she would also pay for the 
 drawing and dancing lessons ordered by the same auto 
 cratic command. For it was one of Xante s rules to cul 
 tivate every talent of the agreeable and decorative order 
 which her pupils possessed; she bathed them as the pho 
 tographer bathes his shadowy plate, bringing out and 
 "setting," as it were, as deeply as possible, their colors, 
 whatever they happened to be. Tante always attended 
 the opera in person. Preceded by the usher, the old 
 Frenchwoman glided down the awkward central aisle of 
 the Academy of Music, with her inimitable step, clad in 
 her narrow satin gown and all her laces, well aware 
 that tongues in every direction were saying : There is 
 Madame Moreau at the head of her school, as usual. 
 What a wonderful old lady she is !" While the pupils 
 were filing into their places, Tajite remained in the aisle 
 fanning herself majestically, and surveying them with a 
 benignant smile. When all were seated, with a grace 
 ful little bend she glided into her place at the end, the 
 motion of sitting down and the bend fused into one in a 
 manner known only to herself. 
 
 Anne s strong idealism, shown in her vivid although 
 mistaken conceptions of Shakspeare s women, was now 
 turned into the channel of opera music. After hearing 
 several operas, she threw herself into her Italian songs 
 with so much fervor that Belzini sat aghast; this was 
 not the manner in which demoiselles of private life should 
 sing. Tante, passing one day (by the merest chance, of 
 course) through the drawing-room while Anne was sing 
 ing, paused a moment to listen. "Ma fille,"she said, 
 when the song was ended, tapping Anne s shoulder affa 
 bly, "give 110 more expression to the Italian words you 
 sing than to the syllables of your scales. Interpretations 
 are not required." The old Frenchwoman always put 
 down with iron hand what she called the predominant 
 tendency toward too great freedom" sensationalism in 
 young girls. She spent her life in a constant struggle 
 with the American " jeune fille." 
 
 During this time Rast wrote regularly; but his letters, 
 
158 ANNE. 
 
 not being authorized by Miss Vanhorn, Anne s guardian, 
 passed first through the hands of one of the teachers, and 
 the knowledge of this inspection naturally dulled the 
 youth s pen. But Anne s letters to him passed the same 
 ordeal without change in word or in spirit. Miss Lois and 
 Dr. Gaston wrote once a week ; Pere Michaux contented 
 himself with postscripts added to the long, badly spelled, 
 but elaborately worded epistles with which Mademoiselle 
 Tita favored her elder sister. It was evident to Anne 
 that Miss Lois was having a severe winter. 
 
 The second event in Anne s school life was the gaining 
 of a friend. 
 
 At first it was but a musical companion. Helen Lor- 
 rington lived not far from the school; she was one of 
 Tante s old scholars, and this Napoleon of teachers espe 
 cially liked this pupil, who was modelled after her own 
 heart. Helen held what may be called a woman s most 
 untrammelled position in life, namely, that of a young 
 w r idow, protected but not controlled, rich, beautiful, and 
 without children. She was also heir to the estate of an 
 eccentric grandfather, who detested her, yet would not al 
 low his money to go to any collateral branch. He de 
 tested her because her father was a Spaniard, whose dark 
 eyes had so reprehensibly fascinated his little Dutch 
 daughter that she had unexpectedly plucked up courage 
 to marry in spite of the paternal prohibition, and not 
 only that, but to be very happy also during the short por 
 tion of life allotted to her afterward. The young Spanish 
 husband, with an unaccountable indifference to the wealth 
 for which he was supposed to have plotted so persevering* 
 ly, was pusillanimous enough to die soon afterward, leav 
 ing only one little pale-faced child, a puny girl, to inherit 
 the money. The baby Helen had never possessed the 
 dimples and rose tints that make the beauty of childhood; 
 the girl Helen had not the rounded curves and peach-like 
 bloom that make the beauty of youth. At seventeen she 
 was what she was now; therefore at seventeen she was 
 old. At twenty-seven she was what she was then ; there 
 fore at twenty-seven she was young. 
 
 She was tall, and extremely, marvellously slender; yet 
 
ANNE. 159 
 
 her bones were so small that there were no angles visible 
 in all her graceful length. She was a long woman ; her 
 arms were long, her throat was long, her eyes and face 
 were long. Her form, slight enough for a spirit, was as 
 natural as the swaying grasses on a hill-side. She was as 
 flexible as a ribbon. Her beauties were a regally poised lit 
 tle head, a delicately cut profile, and ja remarkable length 
 of hair ; her peculiarities, the color of this hair, the color 
 of her skin, and the narrowness of her eyes. The hue of 
 her hair was called flaxen ; but it was more than that 
 it was the color of bleached straw. There was not a 
 trace of gold in it, nor did it ever shine, but hung, when 
 unbound, a soft even mass straight down below the knee. 
 It was very thick, but so fine that it was manageable ; it 
 was never rough, because there were no short locks. The 
 complexion which accompanied this hair was white, with 
 an uiider-tint of ivory. There are skins with under-tints 
 of pink, of blue, and of brown ; but this was different in 
 that it shaded off into cream, without any indication of 
 these hues. This soft ivory-color gave a shade of fuller 
 richness to the slender straw-haired woman an effect in 
 creased by the hue of the eyes, when visible under the long 
 light lashes. For Helen s eyes were of a bright dark un 
 expected brown. The eyes were so long and narrow, 
 however, that generally only a line of bright brown look 
 ed at you when you met their gaze. Small features, 
 narrow cheeks, delicate lips, and little milk-white teeth, 
 like a child s, completed this face which never had a red 
 tint, even the lips being but faintly colored. There were 
 many men who, seeing Helen Lorrington for the first 
 time, thought her exquisitely beautiful ; there were others 
 who, seeing her for the first time, thought her singular 
 ly ugly. The second time, there was never a question. 
 Her grandfather called her an albino; but he was nearly 
 blind, and could only see the color of her hair. He could 
 not see the strong brown light of her eyes, or the soft 
 ivory complexion, which never changed in the wind, the 
 heat, or the cold. 
 
 Mrs. Lorrington was always dressed richly, but after a 
 fashion of her own. Instead of disguising the slender- 
 
160 ANNE. 
 
 ness of her form, she intensified it ; instead of contrasting 
 hues, she often wore amber tints like her hair. Amid all 
 her silks, jewels, and laces, there was always supreme her 
 own personality, which reduced her costumes to what, 
 after all, costumes should be, merely the subordinate cov 
 erings of a beautiful woman. 
 
 Helen had a clear, flute-like voice, with few low notes, 
 and a remarkably high range. She continued her lessons 
 with Belzini whenever she was in the city, more in order 
 that he might transpose her songs for her than for any 
 instruction he could now bestow. She was an old pupil 
 of his, and the sentimental Italian adored her; this ador 
 ation, however, did not prevent him from being very 
 comfortable at home with his portly wife. One morning 
 Helen, coming in for a moment to leave a new song, 
 found Anne at the piano taking her lesson. Belzini, al 
 ways anxious to please his fair-haired divinity, motioned 
 to her to stay and listen. Anne s rich voice pleased her 
 ears ; but she had heard rich voices before. What held 
 her attention now was the girl herself. For although 
 Helen was a marvel of self-belief, although she made her 
 own peculiar beauty an object of worship, and was so sat 
 urated with knowledge of herself that she could not take 
 an attitude which did not become her, she yet possessed 
 a comprehension of other types of beauty, and had, if not 
 an admiration for, at least a curiosity about, them. In 
 Anne she recognized at once what Tante had also recog 
 nized unfolding beauty of an unfamiliar type, the curves 
 of a nobly shaped form hidden under an ugly gown, above 
 the round white throat a beautiful head, and a singular 
 ly young face shadowed by a thoughtfulness which was 
 very grave and impersonal when compared with the 
 usual light, self-centred expressions of young girls faces. 
 At once Helen s artistic eye had Anne before her, robed 
 in fit attire ; in imagination she dressed her slowly from 
 head to foot as the song went on, and was considering 
 the question of jewels when the music ceased, and Belzini 
 was turning toward her. 
 
 I hope I may become better acquainted with this rich 
 voice," she said, coming back gracefully to the present. 
 
ANNE. 161 
 
 May I introduce myself ? I should like to try a duet 
 with you, if you will allow me, Miss " 
 
 " Douglas," said Belzini; "and this, mademoiselle, is 
 Mrs. Lorrington." 
 
 Such was the beginning. 
 
 In addition to Helen s fancy for Anne s fair grave face, 
 the young girl s voice proved a firmer support for her 
 high soprano than it had ever obtained. Her own circle 
 in society and the music classes had been searched in 
 vain more than once. For she needed a soprano, not 
 a contralto. And as soprani are particularly human, 
 there had never been any lasting co-operation. Anne, 
 however, cheerfully sang whatever Belzini put before 
 her, remained admiringly silent while Helen executed 
 the rapid runs and trills with which she always decora 
 ted her part, and then, when the mezzo was needed again, 
 gave her full voice willingly, supporting the other as 
 the notes of an organ meet and support a flute after its 
 solo. 
 
 Belzini was in ecstasies; he sat up all night to copy 
 music for them. He said, anxiously, to Helen: "And 
 the young girl ? You like her, do you not ? Such a 
 voice for you! 1 
 
 "But I can not exactly buy young girls, can I ?" said 
 Mrs. Lorrmgton, smiling. 
 
 More and more, however, each day she liked "the 
 young girl" for herself alone. She was an original, of 
 course ; almost an aboriginal ; for she told the truth ex 
 actly upon all occasions, appropriate or inappropriate, and 
 she had convictions. She was not aware, apparently, of 
 the old-fashioned and cumbrous appearance of these last- 
 named articles of mental furniture. But the real secret 
 of Helen s liking lay in the fact that Anne admired her, 
 and was at the same time neither envious nor jealous, 
 and from her youth she had been troubled by the sure 
 development of these two feelings, sooner or later, in all 
 her girl companions. In truth, Helen s lot ivas enviable ; 
 and also, whether consciously or unconsciously, she had 
 a skill in provoking jealousy. She was the spoiled child 
 of fortune. It was no wonder, therefore, that those of 
 
 11 
 
162 ANNE. 
 
 her own sex and age seldom enjoyed being with her: 
 the contrast was too great. Helen was, besides, the very 
 queen of Whim. 
 
 The queen of Whim ! By nature ; which means that she 
 had a highly developed imagination. By the life she had 
 led, having never, save for the six short months of her hus 
 band s adoring rule, been under the control, or even advice, 
 of any man. For whim can be thoroughly developed only 
 in feminine households : it is essentially feminine. And 
 Helen had been brought up by a maiden aunt, who lived 
 alone. A man, however mild, demands in a home at least 
 a pretense of fixed hours and regularity ; only a house 
 hold of women is capable of no regularity at all, of chan 
 ging the serious dinner hour capriciously, and even giving 
 up dinner altogether. Only a household of women has 
 sudden inspirations as to journeys and departures within 
 the hour ; brings forth sudden ideas as to changes of route 
 while actually on the way, and a going southward in 
 stead of westward, with a total indifference to supper. 
 Helen s present whim was Anne. 
 
 " I want you to spend part of the holidays with me," 
 she said, a few days before Christmas. Come on Mon 
 day, and stay over New-Year s Day." 
 
 " Oh, I can not," said Anne, startled. 
 
 Why not ? Tante will consent if I ask her ; she al 
 ways does. Do you love this crowded house so much that 
 you can not leave it ?" 
 
 " It is not that. But 
 
 But you are shy. But Miss Vanhom might not like 
 it. You do not know Aunt Margaretta. You have no 
 silk gown. Now let me talk. I will write to Miss Van- 
 horn. Aunt Margaretta is as gentle as a dove. I am 
 bold enough for two. And the silk dress shall come from 
 me." 
 
 "I could not take that, Mrs. Lorrington." 
 
 Because you are proud ?" 
 
 No ; but because I would rather not. It would be 
 too great an obligation." 
 
 "You repay me by your voice a thousandfold, Anne. 
 I have never had the right voice for mine until now; 
 
ANNE. 163 
 
 and therefore the obligation is on my side. I do not 
 speak of the pleasure your visit will give me, because I 
 hope to make that mutual. But say 110 more. I intend 
 to have my way." 
 
 And she had her way. "I have always detested Miss 
 Vanhorn, with her caraway seeds, and her malice," she 
 explained to Tante. "Much as I like Anne for herself 
 alone, it will be delicious also to annoy the old dragon by 
 bringing into notice this unknown niece whom she is 
 hiding here so carefully. Now confess, Tante, that it 
 will be delicious." 
 
 Tante shook her head reprovingly. But she herself 
 was in her heart by no means fond of Miss Vanhorn; 
 she had had more than one battle royal with that ven 
 erable Knickerbocker, which had tested even her cele 
 brated suavity. 
 
 Helen s note was as follows : 
 
 "DEAR Miss VANHORN, I very much wish to persuade 
 your charming niece, Miss Douglas, to spend a portion 
 of the holidays with me. Her voice is marvellously 
 sweet, and Aunt Margaretta is most anxious to hear it ; 
 while / am desirous to have her in my own home, even 
 if but for a few days, in order that I may learn more of 
 her truly admirable qualities, which she inherits, no 
 doubt, from your family. 
 
 I trust you will acid your consent to Tante s, already 
 willingly bestowed, and make me thereby still more your 
 obliged friend, 
 
 "HELEN KOOSBROECK LORRINGTON." 
 
 The obliged friend had the following answer : 
 
 " Miss Vanhorn presents her compliments to Mrs. Lor- 
 rington, with thanks for her note, which, however, was 
 an unnecessary attention, Miss Vanhorn claiming no au 
 thority over the movements of Anne Douglas (whose re 
 lationship to her is remote), beyond a due respect for the 
 rules of the institution where she has been placed. Miss 
 Vanhorn is gratified to learn that Miss Douglas s voice is 
 
164 ANNE. 
 
 already of practical use to her, and has the honor of re 
 maining Mrs. Lorrington s obliged and humble servant. 
 "MADISON SQUARE, Tuesday" 
 
 Tears sprang to Anne s eyes when Helen showed her this 
 note. 
 
 Why do you care ? She was always a dragon ; for 
 get her. Now, Anne, remember that it is all understood, 
 and the carriage will come for you on Monday." Then, 
 seeing the face before her still irresolute, she added: " If 
 you are to have pupils, some of them may be like me. 
 You ought, therefore, to learn how to manage me, you 
 know." 
 
 You are right, " said Anne, seriously. " It is strange 
 how little confidence I feel." 
 
 Helen, looking at her as she stood there in her island 
 gown, coarse shoes, and old-fashioned collar, did not 
 think it strange at all, but wondered, as she had wonder 
 ed a hundred times before, why it was that this girl did 
 not think of herself and her own appearance. And you 
 must let me have my way, too, about something for you 
 to wear," she added. 
 
 "It shall be as you wish, Helen. It can not be oth 
 erwise, I suppose, if I go to you. But I hope the time 
 will come when I can do something for you." 
 
 Never fear ; it will. I feel it instinctively. You will 
 either save my life or take it one or the other; but I am 
 not sure which." 
 
 Monday came; and after her lonely Christmas, Anne 
 was glad to step into Miss Teller s carriage, and be taken 
 to the home on the Avenue. The cordial welcome she 
 received there was delightful to her, the luxury novel. 
 She enjoyed everything simply and sincerely, from the 
 late breakfast in the small warm breakfast-room, from 
 which the raw light of the winter morning was carefully 
 excluded, to the chat with Helen over the dressing-room 
 fire late at night, when all the house was still. Hel 
 en s aunt. Miss Teller, was a thin, light-eyed person of 
 fifty -five years of age. Richly dressed, very tall, with a 
 back as immovable and erect as though made of steel, 
 
ANNE. 165 
 
 and a tower of blonde lace on her head, she was a per 
 sonage of imposing aspect, but in reality as mild as a 
 sheep. 
 
 "Yes, my dear," she said, when Anne noticed the tint 
 ed light in the breakfast-room ; "I take great care about 
 light, which I consider an influence in our households 
 too much neglected. The hideous white glare in most 
 American breakfast-rooms on snowy winter mornings has 
 often made me shudder when I have been visiting my 
 friends ; only the extremely vigorous can enjoy this sharp 
 contact with the new day. Then the aesthetic effect: 
 children are always homely when the teeth are changing 
 and the shoulder-blades prominent ; and who wishes to see, 
 besides, each freckle and imperfection upon the counte 
 nances of those he loves ? I have observed, too, that even 
 morning prayer, as a family observance, fails to counter 
 act the influence of this painful light. For if as you 
 kneel you cover your face with your hands, the glare will 
 be doubly unbearable when you remove them; and if 
 you do not cover your brow, you will inevitably blink. 
 Those who do not close their eyes at all are the most com 
 fortable, but I trust we would all prefer to suffer rather 
 than be guilty of such irreverence." 
 
 "Now that is Aunt Gretta exactly," said Helen, as 
 Miss Teller left the room. When you are once accus 
 tomed to her height and blonde caps, you will find her 
 soft as a down coverlet." 
 
 Here Miss Teller returned. "My dear," she said, anx 
 iously, addressing Anne, " as to soap for the hands what 
 kind do you prefer ?" 
 
 "Anne s hands are beautiful, and she will have the 
 white soap in the second box on the first shelf of the store 
 room the rose; not the heliotrope, which is mine," said 
 Helen, taking one of the young girl s hands, and spread 
 ing out the firm taper fingers. See her wrists ! Now 
 my wrists are small too, but then there is nothing but 
 wrist all the way up. " 
 
 "My dear, your arms have been much admired," said 
 Miss Margaretta, with a shade of bewilderment in her 
 voice. 
 
166 ANNE. 
 
 "Yes, because I choose they shall be. But when I 
 spoke of Anne s hands, I spoke artistically, aunt." 
 
 " Do you expect Mr. Blum to-day? 1 said Miss Teller. 
 
 "Oh no," said Helen, smiling. "Mr. Blum, Anne, is 
 a poor artist whom AuntGretta is cruel enough to dislike. " 
 
 "Not on account of his poverty," said Miss Margaretta, 
 
 but on account of my having half-brothers, with large 
 families, all with weak lungs, taking cold, I may say, at 
 a breath a mere breath; and Mr. Blum insists upon 
 coming here without overshoes when there has been a 
 thaw, and sitting all the evening in wet boots, which 
 naturally makes me think of my brothers weak families, 
 to say nothing of the danger to himself." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Blum is not coming. But Mr. Heathcote 
 is." 
 
 "Ah." 
 
 "And Mr. Dexter may." . 
 
 " I am always glad to see Mr. Dexter," said Aunt Mar 
 garetta. 
 
 Mr. Heathcote did not come ; Mr. Dexter did. But 
 Anne was driving with Miss Teller, and missed the 
 visit. 
 
 "A remarkable man," said the elder lady, as they sat 
 at the dinner table in the soft radiance of wax lights. 
 
 "You mean Mr. Blum?" said Helen. "This straw- 
 colored jelly exactly matches me, Anne." 
 
 "I "mean Mr. Dexter," said Miss Teller, nodding her 
 head impressively. "Sent through college by the boun 
 ty of a relative (who died immediately afterward, in the 
 most reprehensible way, leaving him absolutely nothing), 
 Gregory Dexter, at thirty-eight, is to-day a man of mod 
 ern and distinct importance. Handsome you do not 
 contradict me there, Helen ?" 
 
 "No, aunt." 
 
 "Handsome," repeated Miss Teller, triumphantly, 
 "successful, moral, kind-hearted, and rich what would 
 you have more ? I ask you, Miss Douglas, what would 
 you have more ?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Helen. "Anne has confided to ma 
 nothing. Long live Gregory Dexter! And I feel sure, 
 
ANNE. 167 
 
 too, that he will outlive us all. I shall go first. You 
 will see. I always wanted to be first in everything 
 even the grave." 
 
 "My dear!" said Miss Margaretta. 
 
 "Well, aunt, now would you like to be last? Think 
 how lonely you would be. Besides, all the best places 
 would be taken," said Helen, in business-like tones, tak 
 ing a spray of heliotrope from the vase before her. 
 
 New- Year s Day was, in the eyes of Margaretta Teller, 
 a solemn festival ; thought was given to it in June, pre 
 paration for it began in September. Many a call was 
 made at the house on that day which neither Miss Marga 
 retta, nor her niece, Mrs. Lorrington, attracted, but rather 
 the old-time dishes and the old-time punch on their din 
 ing-room table. Old men with gouty feet, amateur anti 
 quarians of mild but obstinate aspect, to whom Helen was 
 " a slip of a girl," and Miss Margaretta still too youthful 
 a person to be of much interest, called regularly on the 
 old Dutch holiday, and tasted this New- Year s punch. 
 They cherished the idea that they were thus maintaining 
 the "solid old customs," and they spoke to each other in 
 moist, husky under-tones when they met in the hall, as 
 much as to say, "Ah, ah ! you here ? That s right that s 
 right. A barrier, sir a barrier against modern innova 
 tion !" 
 
 Helen had several friends besides Anne to assist her in 
 receiving, and the young island girl remained, therefore, 
 more or less unnoticed, owing to her lack of the ready, 
 graceful smiles and phrases which are the current coin 
 of New- Year s Day. She passed rapidly through the dif 
 ferent phases of timidity, bewilderment, and fatigue ; and 
 then, when more accustomed to the scene, she regained 
 her composure, and even began to feel amused. She 
 ceased hiding behind the others; she learned to repeat 
 the same answers to the same questions without caring 
 for their inanity; she gave up trying to distinguish 
 names, and (like the others) massed all callers into a 
 constantly arriving repetition of the same person, who 
 was to be treated with a cordiality as impersonal as it was 
 glittering. She tried to select Mr. Dexter, and at length 
 
168 ANNE. 
 
 decided that he was a certain person standing near Helen 
 a man with brown hair and eyes ; but she was not sure, 
 and Helen s manner betrayed nothing*. 
 
 The fatiguing day was over at last, and then followed 
 an hour or two of comparative quiet ; the few familiar 
 guests who remained were glad to sink down in easy- 
 chairs, and enjoy connected sentences again. The faces 
 of the ladies showed fine lines extending from the nostril 
 to the chin ; the muscles that had smiled so much were 
 weary. 
 
 And now Anne discovered Gregory Dexter ; and he 
 was not t^ie person she had selected. Mr. Dexter was a 
 tall, broad-shouldered man, with an appearance of per 
 sistent vigor in his bearing, and a look of determination 
 in his strong, squarely cut jaw and chin. His face was 
 rather short, with good features and clear gray eyes, 
 which met the gazer calmly; and there was about him 
 that air of self-reliance which does not irritate in a large 
 strong man, any more than imperiousness in a beautiful 
 woman. 
 
 The person with brown eyes proved to be Mr. Heath- 
 cote. He seemed indolent, and contributed but few 
 words to the general treasury of conversation. 
 
 Mr. Blum was present also; but on this occasion he 
 wore the peculiarly new, shining, patent-leather boots 
 dear to the hearts of his countrymen on festal occasions, 
 and Miss Teller s anxieties were quiescent. Helen liked 
 artists ; she said that their ways were a proud assertion 
 that a ray of beauty outvalued all the mere utilities of the 
 world." 
 
 "Are bad boots rays of beauty ?" inquired Miss Marga- 
 retta. 
 
 Yes. That is, a man whose soul is uplifted by art 
 may not always remember his boots ; to himself, no doubt, 
 his feet seem winged." 
 
 "Very far from winged are Blum s feet," responded 
 Miss Margaretta, shaking her head gravely. "Very, 
 very far." 
 
 Late in the evening, when almost all the guests had de 
 parted, Helen seemed seized with a sudden determination 
 
ANNE. 169 
 
 to bring Anne into prominence. Mr. Dexter still linger 
 ed, and the artist. Also Ward Heathcote. 
 
 Anne, will you sing now ? First with me, then 
 alone ?" she said, going to the piano. 
 
 A bright flush rose in Anne s face ; the prominent blue 
 eyes of the German artist were fixed upon her; Gregory 
 Dexter had turned toward her with his usual prompt at 
 tention. Even the indolent Heathcote looked up as 
 Helen spoke. But having once decided to do a thing, 
 Anne knew no way save to do it; having accepted Hel 
 en s generous kindness, she must now do what Helen ask 
 ed in return. She rose in silence, and crossed the bright 
 ly lighted room on her way to the piano. Few women 
 walk well ; by well, is meant naturally. Helen was grace 
 ful ; she had the lithe shape and long step which give a 
 peculiar swaying grace, like that of elm branches. Yet 
 Helen s walk belonged to the drawing-room, or at best 
 the city pavement ; one could not imagine her on a coun 
 try road. Anne s gait was different. As she crossed the 
 room alone, it drew upon her for the first time the full at 
 tention of the three gentlemen who were present. Blum 
 stared gravely. Dexter s eyes moved up to her face, as 
 if he saw it now with new interest. Heathcote leaned 
 back on the sofa with an amused expression, glancing 
 from Anne to Helen, as if saying, "I understand." 
 
 Anne wore one of Helen s gifts, a soft silk of pale gray, 
 in deference to her mourning garb ; the dress was high 
 over the shoulders, but cut down squarely in front and 
 behind, according to a fashion of the day. The sleeves 
 came to the elbow only ; the long skirt was severely plain. 
 They had taken off their gloves, and the girl s beautiful 
 arms were conspicuous, as well as her round, full, white 
 throat. 
 
 The American Venus is thin. 
 
 American girls are slight; they have visible collar 
 bones and elbows.* When they pass into the fullness of 
 womanhood (if they pass at all), it is suddenly, leaving 
 no time for the beautiful pure virginal outlines which 
 made Anne Douglas an exception to her kind. Anne s 
 walk was entirely natural, her poise natural ; yet so per- 
 
170 ANNE. 
 
 feet were her proportions that even Tante, artificial and 
 French as she was. refrained from the suggestions and 
 directions as to step and bearing which encircled the oth 
 er pupils like an atmosphere. 
 
 The young girl s hair had been arranged by Helen s 
 maid, under Helen s own direction, in a plain Greek knot, 
 leaving the shape of the head, and the small ear, exposed ; 
 and as she stood by the piano, waiting, she looked (as Hel 
 en had intended her to look) like some young creature 
 from an earlier world, startled and shy, yet too proud 
 to run away. 
 
 They sang together ; and in singing Anne recovered her 
 self-possession. Then Helen asked her to sing without 
 accompaniment a little island ballad which was one of her 
 favorites, and leading her to the centre of the room, left 
 her there alone. Poor Anne ! But, moved by the one 
 desire of pleasing Helen, she clasped her hands in simple 
 child-like fashion, and began to sing, her eyes raised 
 slightly so as to look above the faces of her audience. 
 It was an old-fashioned ballad or chanson, in the patois of 
 the voyageurs, with a refrain in a minor key, and it told 
 of the vanishing of a certain petite Marie, and the sorrow 
 ing of her mother a common-place theme long drawn 
 out, the constantly recurring refrain, at first monotonous, 
 becoming after a while sweet to the ear, like the wash of 
 small waves on a smooth beach. But it was the ending 
 upon which Helen relied for her effect. Suddenly the 
 lament of the long-winded mother ended, the time 
 changed, and a verse followed picturing the rapture of 
 the lovers as they fled away in their sharp-bowed boat, 
 wing and wing, over the blue lake. Anne sang this as 
 though inspired ; she forgot her audience, and sang as 
 she had always sung it on the island for East and the 
 children. Her voice floated through the house, she 
 shaded her eyes with her hand, and leaned forward, 
 gazing, as though she saw the boat across the water, 
 and then she smiled, as, with a long soft note, the song 
 ended. 
 
 But the instant it was over, her timidity came back 
 with double force, and she hastily sought refuge beside 
 
ANNE. 171 
 
 Helen, her voice gone, in her eyes a dangerous nearness 
 to tears. 
 
 There was now an outburst of compliments from Blum ; 
 but Helen kindly met and parried them. Mr. Dexter 
 began a few well-chosen sentences of praise ; but in the 
 midst of his fluent adjectives, Anne glanced up so beseech 
 ingly that he caught the mist in her eyes, and instantly 
 ceased. Nor was this all ; he opened a discussion with 
 Miss Teller, dragging in Heathcote also (against the lat- 
 ter s will), and thus secured for Anne the time to recover 
 herself. She felt this quick kindness, and was grateful. 
 She decided that she liked him ; and she wondered wheth 
 er Helen liked him also. 
 
 The next morning the fairy-time was over ; she went 
 back to school. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " There are three sorts of egoists : those who live themselves and let 
 others live ; those who live themselves and don t let others live ; and 
 those who neither live themselves nor let others live." 
 
 "With thoughts and feelings very simple but very strong." TOCR- 
 
 GCENIEFF. 
 
 THE winter passed. The new pupil studied with dili 
 gence, and insisted upon learning the beginnings of piaiio- 
 playing so thoroughly that the resigned little German 
 master with ear-rings woke up and began to ask her wheth 
 er she could not go through a course of ten years or so, 
 and become a real blayer, not like American blayers, who 
 vant all to learn de same biece, and blay him mit de loud 
 pedal down." Sometimes Helen bore her away to spend 
 a Sunday ; but there were no more New- Year s Days, or 
 occasions for the gray silk. When together at Miss 
 Teller s, the two sat over the dressing-room fire at night, 
 talking with that delightful mixture of confidence and 
 sudden little bits of hypocrisy in which women delight, 
 and which undress seems to beget. The bits of hypocrisy, 
 however, were all Helen s. 
 
 She had long ago gathered from Anne her whole simple 
 history; she was familiar with the Agency, the fort, Miss 
 
172 ANNE. 
 
 Lois, Pere Michaux, Dr. Gaston, East, Tita, and the boys, 
 even old Antoine and his dogs, Rene and Lebeau. Anne, 
 glad to have a listener, had poured out a flood of details 
 from her lonely homesick heart, going back as far as her 
 own lost mother, and her young step-mother Angelique. 
 But it was not until one of these later midnight talks 
 that the girl had spoken of her own betrothal. Helen 
 was much surprised the only surprise she had shown. 
 "I should never have dreamed it, Crystal!" she exclaim 
 ed. "Never!" (Crystal was her name for Anne.) 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because you are so young." 
 
 * But it often happens at my age. The fort ladies were 
 married at eighteen and nineteen, and my own dear 
 mother was only twenty." 
 
 "You adore this Rast, I suppose ?" 
 
 "Yes, I like him." 
 
 Nonsense ! You mean that you adore him. " 
 
 "Perhaps I do," said Anne, smiling. "I have no 
 ticed that our use of words is different." 
 
 And how long have you adored him ?" 
 
 "All my life." 
 
 The little sentence came forth gravely and sincerely. 
 Helen surveyed the speaker with a quizzical expression in 
 her narrow brown eyes. No one adores all one s life, " 
 she answered. Then, as Anne did not take up the chal 
 lenge, she paused, and, after surveying her companion in 
 silence for a moment, added, There is no time fixed as 
 yet for this marriage ?" 
 
 "No; Rast has his position to make first. And I my 
 self should be better pleased to have four or five years to 
 give to the children before we are married. I am anx 
 ious to educate the boys." 
 
 Bon !" said Helen. All will yet end well, Virginie. 
 My compliments to Paul. It is a pretty island pastoral, 
 this little romance of yours; you have my good wishes." 
 
 The island pastoral was simple indeed compared with 
 the net- work of fancies and manoeuvres disclosed by Hel 
 en. Her life seemed to be a drama. Her personages 
 were masked under fictitious names ; the Poet, the Haunt- 
 
ANNE. 17 5 
 
 ed Man, the Knight-errant, the Chanting Tenor, and the 
 Bishop, all figured in her recitals, to which Anne listen 
 ed with intense interest. Helen was a brilliant story-tell 
 er. She could give the salient points of a conversation, 
 and these only. She colored everything, of course, ac 
 cording to her own fancy ; but one could forgive her that 
 for her skillful avoidance of dull details, whose stupid 
 repetition, simply because they are true, is a habit with 
 which many good people are afflicted. 
 
 The narrations, of course, were of love and lovers: it 
 is always so in the midnight talks of women over the 
 dying fire. Even the most secluded country girl will on 
 such occasions unroll a list as long as Leporello s. The 
 listener may know it is fictitious, and the narrator may 
 know that she knows it. But there seems to be a fascina 
 tion in the telling and the hearing all the same. 
 
 Helen amused herself greatly over the deep interest 
 Anne took in her stories; to do her justice, they were 
 generally true, the conversations only being more dra 
 matic than the reality had been. This was not Helen s 
 fault ; she performed her own part brilliantly, and even 
 went over, on occasion, and helped on the other side. But 
 the American man is not distinguished for conversation 
 al skill. This comes, not from dullness or lack of ap 
 preciation, but rather from overappreciation. Without 
 the rock-like slow self-confidence of the Englishman, the 
 Frenchman s never-failing wish to please, or the idealiz 
 ing powers of the German, the American, with a quicker 
 apprehension, does not appear so well in conversation 
 as any one of these compeers. He takes in an idea so 
 quickly that elaborate comment seems to him hardly 
 worth while ; and thus he only has a word or two where 
 an Englishman has several well-intentioned sentences, 
 a Frenchman an epigram, and a German a whole cloud 
 of philosophical quotations and comments. But it is, 
 more than all else, the enormous strength which ridicule 
 as an influence possesses in America that makes him 
 what he is; he shrinks from the slightest appearance of 
 "fine talking," lest the ever-present harpies of mirth 
 should swoop down and feed upon his vitals. 
 
174 ANNE. 
 
 Helen s friends, therefore, might not always have rec 
 ognized themselves in her sparkling- narratives, as far as 
 their words were concerned ; but it is only justice to them 
 to add that she was never obliged to embellish their ac 
 tions. She related to Anne apart, during their music 
 lessons, the latest events in a whisper, while Belzini gave 
 two minutes to cream candy and rest ; the stories became 
 the fairy tales of the school-girl s quiet life. Through 
 all, she found her interest more and more attracted by 
 "the Bishop," who seemed, however, to be anything but 
 an ecclesiastical personage. 
 
 Miss Vanhorn had been filled with profound astonish 
 ment and annoyance by Helen s note. She knew Helen, 
 and she knew Miss Teller : what could they want of Anne ? 
 After due delay, she came in her carriage to find out. 
 
 Tante, comprehending her motive, sent Anne up stairs 
 to attire herself in the second dress given by Helen a 
 plain black costume, simply but becomingly made, and 
 employed the delay in talking to her visitor mellifluously 
 on every conceivable subject save the desired one. She 
 treated her to a dissertation 011 intaglii, to an argument 
 or two on architecture, and was fervently asking her 
 opinion of certain recently exhibited relics said to be 
 by Benvenuto Cellini, when the door opened and Anne 
 appeared. 
 
 The young girl greeted her grandaunt with the same 
 mixture of timidity and hope which she had shown at 
 their first interview. But Miss Vanhorn s face stiffened 
 into rigidity as she surveyed her. 
 
 "She is impressed at last," thought the old French 
 woman, folding her hands contentedly and leaning back 
 in her chair, at rest (temporarily) from her labors. 
 
 But if impressed, Miss Vanhorn had no intention of 
 betraying her impression for the amusement of her ancient 
 enemy ; she told Anne curtly to put on her bonnet, that 
 she had come to take her for a drive. Once safely in the 
 carriage, she extracted from her niece, who willingly an 
 swered, every detail of her acquaintance with Helen, and 
 the holiday visit, bestowing with her own eyes, mean 
 while, a close scrutiny upon the black dress, with whose 
 
ANNE. 175 
 
 texture and simplicity even her angry annoyance could 
 find 110 fault. 
 
 "She wants to get something out of you, of course," 
 she said, abruptly, when the story was told ; Helen Lor- 
 riiigton is a thoroughly selfish woman. I know her well. 
 She introduced you, I suppose, as Miss Vanhorn s niece ?" 
 
 Oh no, grandaunt. She has no such thought." 
 
 "What do you know of her thoughts I You continue 
 to go there ?" 
 
 " Sometimes, on Sundays when she asks me." 
 
 Very well. But you are not to go again when com 
 pany is expected ; I positively forbid it. You were not 
 brought down from your island to attend evening parties. 
 You hear me ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Perhaps you are planning for a situation here at 
 Moreau s next winter ?" said the old woman, after a pause, 
 peering at Anne suspiciously. 
 
 " I could not fill it, grandaunt; I could only teach in a 
 country school." 
 
 At Newport, or some such place, then ?" 
 I could not get a position of that kind." 
 Mrs. Lorrington could help you." 
 I have not asked her to help me." 
 I thought perhaps she had some such idea of her 
 own," continued Miss Vanhorn. "You can probably 
 prop up that fife-like voice of hers in a way she likes ; 
 and besides, you are a good foil for her, with your big 
 shoulders and bread-and-milk face. You little simpleton , 
 don t you know that to even the most skillful flirt a wo 
 man friend of some kind or other is necessary as back 
 ground and support ?" 
 
 " No, I did not know it," said Anne, in a disheartened 
 voice. 
 
 "What a friend for Helen Lorrington! No wonder 
 she has pounced upon you ! You would never see one 
 of her manoeuvres, although done within an inch of you. 
 With your believing eyes, and your sincerity, you are 
 worth your weight in silver to that straw-faced mermaid. 
 But, after all, I do not interfere. Let her only obtain a 
 
176 ANNE. 
 
 good situation for you next year, and pay you back m 
 more useful coin than fine dresses, and I make no objec 
 tion." 
 
 She settled herself anew in the corner of the carriage, 
 and began the process of extracting a seed, while Anne, 
 silent and dejected, gazed into the snow-covered street, 
 asking herself whether Helen and all this world were 
 really as selfish and hypocritical as her grandaunt rep 
 resented. But these thoughts soon gave way to the pre 
 dominant one, the one that always came to her when 
 with Miss Vanhorn the thought of her mother. 
 
 "During the summer, do you still live in the old coun 
 try house on the Hudson, grandaunt ?" 
 
 Miss Vanhorn, who had just secured a seed, dropped it. 
 * I am not aware that my old country house is anything 
 to you, " she answered, tartly, fitting on her napping glove- 
 fingers, and beginning a second search. 
 
 A sob rose in Anne s throat ; but she quelled it. Her 
 mother had spent all her life, up to the time of her mar 
 riage, at that old river homestead. 
 
 Soon after this, Madame Moreau sent out cards of invi 
 tation for one of her musical evenings. Miss Vanhorn s 
 card was accompanied by a little note in Xante s own 
 handwriting. 
 
 * The invitation is merely a compliment which I give 
 myself the pleasure of paying to a distinguished patron 
 of my school" (wrote the old French lady) . There will 
 be nothing worthy of her ear a simple school-girls con 
 cert, in which Miss Douglas (who will have the kind as 
 sistance of Mrs. Lorrington) will take part. I can not 
 urge, for so unimportant an affair, the personal presence 
 of Miss Vanhorn ; but I beg her to accept the inclosed card 
 as a respectful remembrance from 
 
 " HORTENSE-PAULINE MOREAU." 
 
 "That will bring her," thought Tante, sealing the mis 
 sive, in her old-fashioned way, with wax. 
 She was right ; Miss Vanhorn came. 
 Anne sang first alone. Then with Helen. 
 
ANNE. 177 
 
 "Isn t that Mrs. Lorrington ?" said a voice behind 
 Miss Vanhorn. 
 
 Yes. My Louise tells me that she has taken up this 
 Miss Douglas enthusiastically comes here to sing with 
 her almost every day. " 
 
 " Who is the girl ?" 
 
 Miss Vanhorn prepared an especially rigid expression 
 of countenance for the item of relationship which she 
 supposed would follow. But nothing came ; Helen was 
 evidently waiting for a more dramatic occasion. She 
 felt herself respited; yet doubly angry and apprehen 
 sive. 
 
 When the song was ended, there was much applause 
 of the subdued drawing-room kind applause, however, 
 plainly intended for Helen alone. Singularly enough, 
 Miss Vanhorn resented this. " If I should take Anne, 
 dress her properly, and introduce her as my niece, the 
 Lorrington would be nowhere," she thought, angrily. 
 It was the first germ of the idea. 
 
 It was not allowed to disappear. It grew and gather 
 ed strength slowly, as Tante and Helen intended it should ; 
 the two friendly conspirators never relaxed for a day their 
 efforts concerning it. Anne remained unconscious of 
 these manoeuvres ; but the old grandaunt was annoyed, 
 and urged, and flattered, and menaced forward with so 
 much skill that it ended in her proposing to Anne, one 
 day in the early spring, that she should come and spend 
 the summer with her, the children on the island to be 
 provided for meanwhile by an allowance, and Anne her 
 self to have a second winter at the Moreau school, if she 
 wished it, so that she might be fitted for a higher posi 
 tion than otherwise she could have hoped to attain. . 
 
 " Oh, grandaunt!" cried the girl, taking the old loose 
 ly gloved hand in hers. 
 
 "There is no occasion for shaking hands and grand- 
 aunting in that way, " said Miss Vanhorn. If you wish 
 to do what I propose, do it ; I am not actuated by any 
 new affection for you. You will take four days to con 
 sider ; at the end of that period, you may send me your 
 answer. But, with your acceptance, I shall require the 
 
 12 
 
178- ANNE. 
 
 strictest obedience. And no allusion whatever to your 
 mother." 
 
 "What are to be my duties ?" asked Anne, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "Whatever I require," answered the old woman, 
 grimly. 
 
 At first Anne thought of consulting Tante. But she 
 had a strong under-current of loyalty in her nature, and 
 the tie of blood bound her to her grandaunt, after all : she 
 decided to consult no one but herself. The third day 
 was Sunday. In the twilight she sat alone on her nar 
 row bed, by the window of the dormitory, thinking. It 
 was a boisterous March evening ; the wildest month of 
 the twelve was on his mad errands as usual. Her thoughts 
 were on the island with the children ; would it not be 
 best for them that she should accept the offered allow 
 ance, and go with this strange grandaunt of hers, endur 
 ing as best she might her cold severity ? Miss Lois s 
 income was small ; the allowance would make the little 
 household comfortable. A second winter in New York 
 would e"nable her to take a higher place as teacher, and 
 also give the self-confidence she lacked. Yes; it was 
 best. 
 
 But a great and overwhelming loneliness rose in her 
 heart at the thought of another long year s delay before 
 she could be with those she loved. East s last letter was 
 in her pocket ; she took it out, and held it in her hand for 
 comfort. In it he had written of the sure success of his 
 future; and Anne believed it as fully as he did. Her 
 hand grew warmer as she held the sheet, and as she re 
 called his sanguine words. She began to feel courageous 
 again. Then another thought came to her : must she tell 
 Miss Vanhorn of her engagement ? In their new condi 
 tions, would it not be dishonest to keep the truth back ? 
 " I do not see that it can be of any interest to her," she 
 said to herself. Still, I prefer to tell her. " And then, 
 having made her decision, she went to Tante. 
 
 Tante was charmed with the news (and with the suc 
 cess of her plan). She discoursed upon family affection 
 in very beautiful language. You will find a truo well- 
 
ANNE. 179 
 
 spring of love in the heart of your venerable relative," 
 she remarked, raising- her delicate handkerchief, like the 
 suggestion of a happiness that reached even to tears. 
 Long, long have I held your cherished grandaunt in a 
 warm corner of my memory and heart." 
 
 This was true as regarded the time and warmth ; only 
 the latter was of a somewhat peppery nature. 
 
 The next morning Helen was told the news. She 
 threw back her head in comic despair. The old dragon 
 has taken the game out of my hands at last, "she said, 
 and ended all the sport. Excuse the title, Anne. But 
 I am morally certain she has all sorts of vinegarish names 
 for me. And now am I to congratulate you upon your 
 new home ?" 
 
 "It is more a matter of duty, I think, than congratu 
 lation, " said Anne, thoughtfully. And next, I must tell 
 her of my engagement." 
 
 "I wouldn t, if I were you, Crystal." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " She would rather have you free." 
 
 " I shall be free, as far as she is concerned." 
 
 Do not be too sure of that. And take my advice do 
 not tell her." 
 
 Anne, however, paid no heed to this admonition ; some 
 things she did simply because she could not help doing 
 them. She had intended to make her little confession 
 immediately ; but Miss Vanhorn gave her no opportunity. 
 "That is enough talking," she said. "I have neuralgia 
 in my eyebrow." 
 
 "But, grandaunt, I feel that I ought to tell you." 
 
 Tell me nothing. Don t you know how to be silent ? 
 Set about learning, then. When I have neuralgia in 
 my eyebrow, you are to speak only from necessity ; when 
 I have it in the eye itself, you are not to speak at all. 
 Find me a caraway, and don t bungle." 
 
 She handed her velvet bag to Anne, and refitted the 
 fingers of her yellow glove: evidently the young girl s 
 duties were beginning. 
 
 Several days passed, but the neuralgia always pre 
 vented the story. At last the eyebrow was released, and 
 
180 ANNE. 
 
 then Anne spoke. "I wish to tell you, grandaunt, be 
 fore I come to you, that I am engaged engaged to be 
 married." 
 
 " Who cares ?" said Miss Vaiihorn. "To the man in 
 the moon, I suppose; most school-girls are." 
 
 "No, to 
 
 "Draw up my shawl," interrupted the old woman. 
 "7 do not care who it is. Why do you keep on telling 
 me?" 
 
 "Because I did not wish to deceive you." 
 
 Wait till I ask you not to deceive me. Who is the 
 boy?" 
 
 "His name is Erastus Pronando," began Anne; 
 "and" 
 
 "Pronando?" cried Katharine Vaiihorn, in a loud, 
 bewildered voice " Pronando ? And his father s name ?" 
 
 "John, I believe," said Anne, startled by the change 
 in the old face. "But he has been dead many years." 
 
 Old Katharine rose ; her hands trembled, her eyes flash 
 ed. You will give up this boy at once and forever," she 
 said, violently, "or my compact with you is at an end." 
 
 How can I, grandaunt ? I have promised 
 
 I believe I am mistress of my own actions ; and in 
 this affair I will have no sort of hesitation," continued 
 the old woman, taking the words from Anne, and tap 
 ping a chair back angrily with her hand. Decide now 
 this moment. Break this engagement, and my agree 
 ment remains. Refuse to break it, and it falls. That is 
 all." 
 
 "You are unjust and cruel," said the girl, roused by 
 these arbitrary w r ords. 
 
 Miss Vanhorn waved her hand for silence. 
 
 "If you will let me tell you, aunt 
 
 The old woman bounded forward suddenly, as if on 
 springs, seized her niece by both shoulders, and shook her 
 with all her strength. "There!" she said, breathless. 
 Will you stop talking ! All I want is your answer 
 yes, or no." 
 
 The drawing-room of Madame Moreau had certainly 
 never witnessed such a sight as this. One of its young 
 
ANNE. 181 
 
 ladies shaken yes, absolutely shaken like a refractory 
 child ! The very chairs and tables seemed to tremble, and 
 visibly hope that there was no one in the salon des eleves, 
 behind. 
 
 Anne was more startled than hurt by her grandaunt s 
 violence. I am sorry to displease you, " she said, slowly 
 and very gravely ; but I can not break my engagement. " 
 
 Without a word, Miss Vanhorn drew her shawl round 
 her shoulders, pinned it, crossed the room, opened the 
 door, and was gone. A moment later her carriage roll 
 ed away, and Anne, alone in the drawing-room, listened 
 to the sound of the wheels growing fainter and fainter, 
 with a chilly mixture of blank surprise, disappointment, 
 and grief filling her heart. "But it was right that. I 
 should tell her," she said to herself as she went up stairs 
 "it was right." 
 
 Right and wrong always presented themselves to her 
 as black and white. She knew no shading. She was 
 wrong ; there are grays. But, so far in her life, she had 
 not been taught by sad experience to see them. 4 It wets 
 right," she repeated to Helen, a little miserably, but still 
 steadfastly. 
 
 "I am not so sure of that," replied Mrs. Lorrington. 
 "You have lost a year s fixed income for those children, 
 and a second winter here for yourself ; and for what ? 
 For the sake of telling the dragon something which does 
 not concern her, and which she did not wish to know." 
 
 But it was true." 
 
 "Are we to go out with trumpets and tell everything 
 we know, just because it is true ? Is there not such a 
 thing as egotistical truthfulness ?" 
 
 "It makes no difference," said Anne, despairingly. 
 "I had to tell her." 
 
 "You are stubborn, Crystal, and you see but one side 
 of a question. But never fear ; we will circumvent the 
 dragon yet. I wonder, though, why she was so wrought 
 up by the name Pronando ? Perhaps Aunt Gretta will 
 know." 
 
 Miss Teller did not know ; but one of the husky-voiced 
 old gentlemen who kept up the "barrier, sir, against 
 
182 ANNE. 
 
 modern innovation," remembered the particulars (musty 
 and dusty now) of Kate Vanhorn s engagement to one of 
 the Proiiandos the wild one who ran away. He was 
 younger than she was, a handsome fellow (yes, yes, he 
 remembered it all now), and "she was terribly cut up 
 about it, and went abroad immediately. " Abroad great 
 panacea for American woes! To what continent can 
 those who live "abroad" depart when trouble seizes them 
 in its pitiless claws ? 
 
 Time is not so all-erasing as we think. Old Katharine 
 Vanhorn, at seventy, heard from the young lips of her 
 grandiiiece the name which had not been mentioned in 
 her presence for nearly half a century the name which 
 still had power to rouse in her heart the old bitter feeling. 
 For John Pronando had turned from her to an unedu 
 cated common girl a market-gardener s daughter. The 
 proud Kate Vanhorn resented the defection instantly ; she 
 broke the bond of her betrothal, and sailed for England 
 before Pronando realized that she was offended. This 
 idyl of the gardener s daughter was but one of his passing 
 amusements; and so he wrote to his black-browed god 
 dess. But she replied that if he sought amusement of 
 that kind during the short period of betrothal, he would 
 seek it doubly after marriage, and then it would not be 
 so easy to sail for Europe. She considered that she had 
 had an escape. Pronando, handsome, light-hearted, and 
 careless, gave up his offended Juno without much heart 
 ache, and the episode of Phyllis being by this time fin 
 ished, he strayed back to his Philadelphia home, to em 
 broil himself as usual with his family, and, later, to fol 
 low out the course ordained for him by fate. Kate Van- 
 horn had other suitors ; but the old wound never healed. 
 
 "Come and spend the summer with me, "said Helen. 
 "I trust I am as agreeable as the dragon." 
 
 " No ; I must stay here. Even as it is, she is doing a 
 great deal for me; I have no real claim upon her," re 
 plied Anne, trying not to give way to the loneliness that 
 oppressed her. 
 
 Only that of being her nearest living relative, and 
 natural heir." 
 
ANNE. 183 
 
 "I have not considered the question of inheritance, 1 
 replied the island girl, proudly. 
 
 I know you have not ; yet it is there. Old ladies, 
 however, instead of natural heirs, are apt to prefer un 
 natural ones cold-blooded Societies, Organizations, and 
 the endless Heathen. But I am in earnest about the sum 
 mer, Crystal: spend it with me." 
 
 "You are always generous to me," said Anne, grate 
 fully. 
 
 No ; I never was generous in my life. I do not know 
 how to be generous. But this is the way it is : I am rich ; 
 I want a companion ; and I like you. Your voice sup 
 ports mine perfectly, and is not in the least too loud a 
 thing I detest. Besides, we look .well together. You 
 are an excellent background for me ; you make me loo k 
 poetic ; whereas most women make me look like a car 
 icature of myself of what I really am. As though a 
 straw-bug should go out walking with a very attenuated 
 grasshopper. Now if the straw-bug went out always with 
 a plump young toad or wood-turtle, people might be found 
 to admire even his hair-like fineness of limb and yellow 
 transparency, by force, you know, of contrast." 
 
 Anne laughed ; but there was also a slight change of 
 expression in her face. 
 
 "I can read you, Crystal," said Helen, laughing in her 
 turn. "Old Katharine has already told you all those 
 thingssweet old lady! She understands me so well! 
 Come; call it selfishness or generosity, as you please; 
 but accept." 
 
 "It is generosity, Helen; which, however, I must de 
 cline." 
 
 It must be very inconvenient to be so conscientious," 
 said Mrs. Lorrington. "But mind, I do not give it up. 
 What ! lose so good a listener as you are ? To whom, 
 then, can I confide the latest particulars respecting the 
 Poet, the Bishop, the Knight-errant, and the Haunted 
 Man ?" 
 
 U I like the Bishop, "said Anne, smiling back at her 
 friend. She had acquired the idea, without words, that 
 Helen liked him also. 
 
184 ANNE. 
 
 The story of Miss Vaiihorn s change was, of course, 
 related to Tante : Anne had great confidence both in the 
 old Frenchwoman s kindness of heart and excellent judg 
 ment. 
 
 Tante listened, asked a question or two, and then said : 
 u Yes, yes, I see. For the present, nothing more can be 
 done. She will allow you to finish your year here, and 
 as the time is of value to you, you shall continue your 
 studies through the vacation. But not at my New 
 Jersey farm, as she supposes; at a better place than that. 
 You shall go to Pitre." 
 
 "A place, Tante?" 
 
 "No; a friend of mine, and a woman." 
 
 Mademoiselle Jeanne- Arm an de Pitre was not so old as 
 Tante (Tante had friends of all ages) ; she was about fifty, 
 but conveyed the impression of never having been young. 
 * She is an excellent teacher, " continued the other French 
 woman, "and so closely avaricious that she will be glad 
 to take you even for the small sum you will pay. She 
 is employed in a Western seminary somewhere, but al 
 ways returns to this little house of hers for the summer 
 vacation. Your opportunity for study with her will be 
 excellent ; she has a rage for study. Write and tell your 
 grandaunt, ma fille, what I have decided." 
 
 " Ma fille" wrote; but Miss Vanhorn made no reply. 
 
 Early in June, accompanied by "monsieur," Anne 
 started 011 her little journey. The German music master 
 said farewell with hearty regret. He was leaving also ; 
 he should not be with Madame Moreau another winter, he 
 said. The Italian atmosphere stifled him, and the very 
 sight of Belziiii made him " dremble vit a er-righteous er- 
 rage." He gave Anne his address, and begged that she 
 would send to him when she wanted new music ; "music 
 vort someding." Monsieur Laurent, Anne s escort, was 
 a nephew of Tante s, a fine-looking middle-aged French 
 man, who taught the verbs with a military air. But it 
 was not so much his air as his dining-room which gave 
 him importance in the eyes of the school. The " salle a 
 manger de monsieur" was a small half-dark apartment, 
 where he took his meals by himself. It was a mysterious 
 
ANNE. 185 
 
 place ; monsieur was never seen there ; it was not known 
 even at what hour he dined. But there were stories in 
 whispered circulation of soups, sauces, salads, and wines 
 served there in secret, which made the listeners hungry 
 even in the mere recital. They peered into the dim little 
 room as they passed, but never saw anything save a brown 
 linen table-cloth, an old caster, and one chair. It was 
 stated, however, that this caster was not a common caster, 
 but that it held, instead of the ordinary pepper and mus 
 tard, various liquids and spices of mysterious nature, de 
 lightfully and wickedly French. 
 
 In less than an hour the travellers reached Lancaster. 
 Here monsieur placed Anne in a red wagon which was in 
 waiting, said good-by hastily (being, perhaps, in a hurry 
 to return to his dining-room), and caught the down train 
 back to the city. He had lived in America so long that 
 he could hurry like a native. 
 
 The old horse attached to the red wagon walked slow 
 ly over a level winding road, switching his tail to and fro, 
 and stopping now and then to cough, with the profundity 
 which only a horse s cough possesses. At last, turning 
 into a field, he stopped before what appeared to be a frag 
 ment of a house. 
 
 "Is this the place ?" said Anne, surprised. 
 
 " It s Miss Peter s," replied the boy driver. 
 
 The appearance of Mademoiselle Pitre in person at the 
 door now removed all doubt as to her abode. I am glad 
 to see you," she said, extending a long yellow hand. 
 "Enter." 
 
 The house, which had never been finished, was old; 
 the sides and back were of brick, and the front of wood, 
 temporarily boarded across. The kitchen and one room 
 made all the depth ; above, there were three small cham 
 bers. After a while, apparently, windows and a front 
 door had been set in the temporary boarding, and a fiight 
 of steps added. Mademoiselle had bought the house in 
 its unfinished condition, and had gradually become an 
 object of great unpopularity in the neighborhood because, 
 as season after season rolled by, she did nothing more to 
 her purchase. What did she mean, then ? Simple com- 
 
186 ANNE. 
 
 ment swelled into suspicion ; the penny-saving old maid 
 was now considered a dark and mysterious person at 
 Lancaster. Opinions varied as to whether she had com 
 mitted a crime in her youth, or intended to commit one 
 in her age. At any rate, she was not like other people 
 in the country a heinous crime. 
 
 The interior of this half -house was not uncomfortable, 
 although arranged with the strictest economy. The chief 
 room had been painted a brilliant blue by the skillful 
 hands of mademoiselle herself; there was no carpet, but 
 in summer one can spare a carpet ; and Anne thought 
 the bright color, the growing plants and flowers, the gay- 
 ly colored crockery, the four white cats, the sunshine, 
 and the cool open space unfilled by furniture, quaintly 
 foreign and attractive. 
 
 The mistress of the house was tall and yellow. She 
 was attired in a black velvet bodice, and a muslin skirt 
 whereon a waving design, like an endless procession of 
 spindling beet roots, or fat leeches going round and 
 round, was depicted in dark crimson. This muslin was 
 secretly admired in the neighborhood ; but as mademoi 
 selle never went to church, and, what was worse, made 110 
 change in her dress on the Sabbath-day, it was consider 
 ed a step toward rationalism to express the liking. 
 
 Anne slept peacefully on her narrow bed, and went 
 down to a savory breakfast the next morning. The old 
 Irish servant, Nora, who came out from the city every 
 summer to live with mademoiselle, prepared with skill 
 the few dishes the careful mistress ordered. But when 
 the meal was over, Anne soon discovered that the care 
 ful mistress was also an expert in teaching. Her French, 
 Italian, music, and drawing were all reviewed and criti 
 cised, and then Jeanne-Armande put on her bonnet, and 
 told her pupil to make ready for her first lesson in botany. 
 
 " Am I to study botany ?" said Anne, surprised. 
 
 "All study botany who come to me," replied Jeanne- 
 Armande, much in the tone of Lasciate ogni speranza voi 
 ch entrate." "Is that all the bonnet you have ? It is 
 far too fine. I will buy you a Shaker at the shop." And 
 with her tin flower case slung from her shoulder, she start- 
 
IN THE WOODS. 
 
ANNE. 187 
 
 ed down the road toward the country store at the corners ; 
 here she bought a Shaker bonnet for her pupil, selecting 
 one that was bent, and demanding a reduction in price 
 in consequence of the "irreparable injury to the fibre of 
 the fabric." The shop-keeper, an anxious little man with 
 a large family, did his best to keep on good terms with 
 "the foreigner 1 privately, and to preserve on other occa 
 sions that appearance of virtuous disapproval which the 
 neighborhood required of him. He lived haunted by a 
 fear lest the Frenchwoman and her chief detractors should 
 meet face to face in the narrow confines of his domain ; 
 and he had long determined that in case of such event he 
 would be down in the cellar drawing molasses an oper 
 ation universally known to con sume time. But the sword 
 of Damocles does not fall ; in this instance, as in others, 
 mademoiselle departed in safety, bearing Anne away to 
 the woods, her face hidden in the depths of the Shaker. 
 
 Wild flowers, that seem so fresh and young, are, singu 
 larly enough, the especial prey of old maids. Young 
 girls love the garden flowers ; beautiful women surround 
 themselves with hot-house hues and perfumes. But who 
 goes into the woods, explores the rocky glens, braves 
 the swamps ? Always the ardent-hearted old maid, who, 
 in her plain garb and thick shoes, is searching for the 
 delicate little wild blossoms, the world over. 
 
 Jeaiine-Armaiide had an absorbing love for flowers, a 
 glowing enthusiasm for botany. She now taught Anne 
 the flower study with what Tante would have called a 
 rage." More than once the pupil thought how strange 
 it was that fate should hav.e forced into her hands at 
 this late hour the talisman that might once have been 
 the key to her grandaunt s favor. It did not occur to 
 her that Tante was the Fate. 
 
 Letters had come from all on the island, and from East. 
 Regarding her course in telling Miss Vanhorn of her en 
 gagement, Miss Lois wrote that it was quite unneces 
 sary," and Dr. Gaston that it was "imprudent." Even 
 East (this was hardest to bear) had written, While I am 
 proud, dearest, to have your name linked with mine, still, 
 I like better to think of the time when I can come and 
 
188 ANNE. 
 
 claim you in person, in the face of all the grandaunts 
 in the world, who, if they Jmeiv nothing, could not in the 
 mean time harass and annoy you." 
 
 Pere Michaux made no comment. Anne looked through 
 Tita s letters for some time expectantly, but no message in 
 his small, clear handwriting appeared. 
 
 The weeks passed. The pupil learned the real kind 
 ness of the teacher, and never thought of laughing at 
 her oddities, until Helen came. 
 
 For Helen came : on her way home from her grandfa 
 ther s bedside, whither she had been summoned (as usual 
 two or three times each year) "to see him die." 
 
 "Grandpapa always recovers as soon as I enter the 
 door," she said. "I should think he would insist upon 
 my living there as a safeguard ! This time I did not even 
 see him he did not wish me in the room ; and so, having 
 half a day to spare, I decided to send my maid on, and 
 stop over and see you, Crystal." 
 
 Anne, delighted and excited, sat looking at her friend 
 with happy eyes. " I am so glad, glad, to see you !" she 
 said. 
 
 "Then present me to your hostess and jailer. For I 
 intend to remain overnight, and corrupt the household." 
 
 Jeanne-Armaiide was charmed with their visitor ; she 
 said she was "a lady decidedly as it should be." Helen 
 accompanied them on their botany walk, observed the 
 velvet bodice and beet- root muslin, complimented the 
 ceremonious courses of the meagre little dinner, and did 
 not laugh until they were safely ensconced in Anne s 
 cell for the night. 
 
 But, Crystal, " she said, when she had imitated Jeanne- 
 Armande, and Anne herself as pupil, with such quick 
 and ridiculous fidelity that Anne was obliged to bury her 
 face in the pillow to stifle her laughter, I have a pur 
 pose in coming here. The old dragon has appeared at 
 Caryl s, where Aunt Gretta and I spent last summer, and 
 where we intend to spend the remainder of this ; she is 
 even there to-night, caraway seeds, malice, and all. Now 
 I want you to go back with me, as my guest for a week 
 or two, and together we will annihilate her." 
 
^ ANNE. 189 
 
 "Do not call her by that name, Helen." 
 
 Not respectful enough ? Grand Llama, then ; the 
 double 1 scintillates with respect. The Grand Llama 
 being present, I want to bring you on the scene as a 
 charming, botanizing, singing niece whom she has 
 strangely neglected. Will you go ?" 
 
 "Of course I can not." 
 
 "You have too many principles; and, mind you, prin 
 ciples are often shockingly egotistical and selfish. I 
 would rather have a mountain of sins piled up against 
 me on the judgment-day, and a crowd of friends whom I 
 had helped and made happy, than the most snowy empty 
 pious record in the world, and no such following." 
 
 "One does not necessitate the other," said Anne, after 
 her usual pause when with Helen : she was always a little 
 behind Helen s fluent phrases. One can have friends 
 without sins." 
 
 "Wait and see," said Helen. 
 
 In the morning the brilliant visitor took her departure, 
 and the half -house fell back into its usual quietude. Anne 
 did not go with Helen ; but Helen avowed her purpose of 
 bringing her to Caryl s yet, in spite of fate. I am not 
 easily defeated," she said. "When I wish a thing, it al 
 ways happens. But, like the magicians, nobody notices 
 how hard I have worked to have it happen." 
 
 She departed. And within a week she filled Caryl s 
 with descriptions of Jeanne- Armande, the velvet bodice, 
 the beet-root skirt, the blue room, the white cats, and the 
 dinner, together with the solitary pupil, whose knowledge 
 of botany was something unparalleled in the history of 
 the science. Caryl s was amused with the descriptions, 
 and cared nothing for the reality. But when Miss Van- 
 horn heard the tale, it was the reality that menaced her. 
 No one knew as yet the name of the solitary pupil, nor 
 the relationship to herself ; but of course Mrs. Lorrington 
 was merely biding her time. What was her purpose ? 
 In her heart she pondered over this new knowledge of 
 botany, expressly paraded by Helen ; her own eyes and 
 hands were not as sure and deft as formerly. Sometimes 
 now when she stooped to gather a flower, it was only a 
 
190 ANNE. ^ 
 
 leaf with the sun shining on it, or a growth of fungus, 
 yellowly white. "Of course it is all a plan of old Ma 
 cau s," she said to herself. "Anne would never have 
 thought of studying botany to gain my favor ; she hasn t 
 wit enough. It is old Moreau and the Lorrington to 
 gether. Let us see what will be their next step." 
 
 But Helen merely decorated her stories, and told no 
 thing new. One day some one asked: "But who is this 
 girl ? All this while you have not told us ; nor the place 
 where this remarkable half -house is." 
 
 "I am not at liberty to tell," replied Helen s clear 
 even voice. "That is not permitted at present." 
 
 Miss Vanhorn fidgeted in her corner, and put up her 
 glass to catch any wandering expressions that might be 
 turning in her direction ; but there were none. She 
 is giving me a chance of having Anne here peaceably," 
 she thought. If, after a reasonable time, I do not accept 
 it, she will declare war, and the house will ring with my 
 hard-heartedness. Fortunately I do not care for hard- 
 heartsdness." 
 
 She went off on her solitary drive ; mistook two flowers ; 
 stumbled and hurt her ankle ; lost her magnifying-glass. 
 On her way home she sat and meditated. It would be 
 comfortable to have young eyes and hands to assist her. 
 Also, if Anne was really there in person, then, when all 
 the duets were sung, and the novelty (as well as difficul 
 ty) over, Mrs. Lorrington would be the first to weary of 
 her protegee, and would let her fall like a faded leaf. 
 And that would be the end of that. Here a sudden and 
 new idea came to her : might not this very life at Caryl s 
 break up, of itself, the engagement which was so obnox 
 ious ? If she should bring Anne here and introduce her 
 as her niece, might not her very ignorance of the world 
 and crude simplicity attract the attention of some of 
 the loungers at Caryl s, who, if they exerted themselves, 
 would have little difficulty in effacing the memory of that 
 boy on the island ? They would not, of course, be in earn 
 est, but the result would be accomplished all the same. 
 Anne was impressionable, and truthfulness itself. Yes, 
 it could be done. 
 
ANNE. 19! 
 
 Accompanied by her elderly maid, she went back to 
 New York ; and then out to the half -house. 
 
 "I have changed my mind," she announced, abruptly, 
 taking her seat upon Jeanne- Armande s hard sofa. You 
 are to come with me. This is the blue room, I suppose ; 
 and there are the four cats. Where is the bodiced wo 
 man? Send her to me; and go pack your clothes im 
 mediately." 
 
 "Am I to go to Caryl s where Helen is?" said Anne, 
 in excited surprise. 
 
 "Yes; you will see your Helen. You understand, I 
 presume, that she is at the bottom of all this." 
 
 " But do you like Helen, grandaunt ?" 
 
 " I am extremely fond of her," replied Miss Vanhorn, 
 dryly. "Eun and make ready; and send the bodiced 
 woman to me. I give you half an hour; no longer." 
 
 Jeanne- Armande came in with her gliding step. In her 
 youth a lady s footfall was never heard. She wore long 
 narrow cloth gaiters without heels, met at the ankles by 
 two modest ruffles, whose edges were visible when the 
 wind blew. The exposure of even a hair s-breadth rim 
 of ankle would have seemed to her an unpardonable im 
 propriety. However, there was no danger; the ruffles 
 swept the ground. 
 
 The Frenchwoman was grieved to part with her pupil ; 
 she had conceived a real affection for her in the busy 
 spot which served her as a heart. She said good-by in 
 the privacy of the kitchen, that Miss Vanhorn might not 
 see the tears in her eyes ; then she returned to the blue 
 room and went through a second farewell, with a dignity 
 appropriate to the occasion. 
 
 "Good-by," said Anne, coming back from the doorway 
 to kiss her thin cheek a second time. Then she whisper 
 ed: "I may return to you after all, mademoiselle. Do 
 not forget me." 
 
 "The dear child!" said Jeanne- Armande, waving her 
 handkerchief as the carriage drove away. And there was 
 a lump in her yellow old throat which did not disappear 
 all day. 
 
192 ANNE. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Those who honestly make their own way without the aid of fortu 
 nate circumstances and by the force of their own intelligence. This 
 includes the great multitude of Americans." 
 
 GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 
 
 "He is a good fellow, spoiled. Whether he can be unspoiled, is 
 doubtful. It might be accomplished by the Blessing we call Sorrow." 
 
 WHEN the two travellers arrived at Caryl s, Helen was 
 gone. Another telegraphic dispatch had again sum 
 moned her to her frequently dying grandfather. 
 
 "You are disappointed," said Miss Vanhorn. 
 
 "Yes, grandaunt." 
 
 "You w r ill have all the more time to devote to me," 
 said the old woman, with her dry little laugh. 
 
 Caryl s was a summer resort of an especial kind. Per 
 sons who dislike crowds, persons who seek novelty, and, 
 above all, persons who spend their lives in carefully avoid 
 ing every thing and place which can even remotely be 
 called popular, combine to make such nooks, and give 
 them a brief fame a fame which by its very nature must 
 die as suddenly as it is born. Caryl s was originally a 
 stage inn, or "tarvern," in the dialect of the district. 
 But the stage ran no longer, and as the railway was 
 several miles distant, the house had become as isolated 
 as the old road before its door, which went literally no 
 where, the bridge which had once spanned the river hav 
 ing fallen into ruin. Some young men belonging to those 
 New York families designated by Tante as Neeker-bo- 
 kers" discovered Caryl s by chance, and established them 
 selves there as a place free from new people, with some 
 shooting, and a few trout. The next summer they 
 
ANNE. 193 
 
 brought their friends, and from this beginning had swift 
 ly grown the present state of things, namely, two hundred 
 persons occupying the old building and hastily erected 
 cottages, in rooms which their city servants would have 
 refused with scorn. 
 
 The crowd of summer travellers could not find Caryl s ; 
 Caryl s w r as not advertised. It was not on the road to 
 anywhere. It was a mysterious spot. The vogue of such 
 places changes as fantastically as it is created ; the people 
 who make it take flight suddenly, and never return. If 
 it exist at all, it falls iuto the hands of another class ; and 
 there is a great deal of wondering (deservedly) over what 
 was ever found attractive in it. The nobler ocean beach 
 es, grand mountains, and bounteous springs will always 
 be, must always be, popular ; it is Nature s ironical meth 
 od, perhaps, of forcing the would-be exclusives to content 
 themselves with her second best, after all. 
 
 CaryFs, now at the height of its transient fame, was 
 merely a quiet nook in the green country, with no more 
 attractions than a hundred others ; but the old piazza was 
 paced by the little high-heeled shoes of fashionable wo 
 men, the uneven floors swept by their trailing skirts. 
 French maids and little bare-legged children sported in 
 the old-fashioned garden, and young men made up their 
 shooting parties in the bare office, and danced in the 
 evening yes, really danced, not leaving it superciliously 
 to the boys in the rackety bowling-alley, which, re- 
 floored, did duty as a ball-room. There was a certain 
 woody, uncloying flavor about Caryl s (so it was assert 
 ed), which could not exist amid the gilding of Saratoga. 
 All this Miss Vanhorii related to her niece on the day of 
 their arrival. " I do not expect you to understand it, " she 
 said; " but pray make no comment ; ask no question. Ac 
 cept everything, and then you will pass."" 
 
 Aunt and niece had spent a few days in New York, 
 en route. The old lady was eccentric about her own at 
 tire ; she knew that she could aff ord to be eccentric. But 
 for her niece she purchased a sufficient although simple 
 supply of summer costumes, so that the young girl made 
 iier appearance among the others without attracting es 
 
 13 
 
194 ANNE. 
 
 pecial attention. Helen was not there ; no one identified 
 Miss Douglas as the rara avis of her fantastic narrations. 
 And there was no surface sparkle about Anne, none of 
 the usual girlish wish to attract attention, which makes 
 the eyes brighten, the color rise, and the breath quick 
 en when entering a new circle. 
 
 That old woman of the world, Katharine Vanhorn, 
 took no step to attract notice to her niece. She knew 
 that Anne s beauty was of the kind that could afford to 
 wait; people would discover it for themselves. Anne 
 remained, therefore, quietly by her side through several 
 days, while she, not unwilling at heart to have so fresh a 
 listener, talked on and instructed her. Miss Vanhorn was 
 not naturally brilliant, but she was one of those society 
 women who, in the course of years of fashionable life, 
 have selected and retained for their own use excellent bits 
 of phrasing not original with themselves, idiomatic epi 
 thets, a way of neatly describing a person in a word or 
 two as though you had ticketed him, until the listener 
 really takes for brilliancy what is no more than a thread- 
 anfl-needle shop of other people s wares. 
 
 "Any man," she said, as they sat in the transformed 
 bowling-alley "any man, 110 matter how insignificant 
 and unattractive, can be made to believe that any woman, 
 no matte*- how beautiful or brilliant, is in love with him, 
 at the expense of two looks and one sigh." 
 
 But who cares to make him believe ?" said Anne, with 
 the unaffected, cheerful indifference which belonged to 
 her, and which had already quieted Miss Vanhorn s fears 
 as to any awkward self-consciousness. 
 
 "Most women." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 To swell their trains, " replied the old woman. * Isa 
 bel Varce, over there in blue, and Rachel Bannert, the 
 one in black, care for nothing else." 
 
 " Mrs. Bannert is very ugly," said Anne, with the calm 
 certainty of girlhood. 
 
 "Oh, is she?" said Miss Vanhorn, laughing shortly. 
 "You will change your mind, my Phyllis; you will 
 learn that a dark skin and half-open eyes are superb." 
 
ANNE. 195 
 
 "If Helen .was here, people would see real beauty," 
 answered Anne, with some scorn. 
 
 They are a contrast, I admit ; opposite types. But we 
 must not be narrow, Phyllis ; you will find that people 
 continue to look at Mrs. Baimert, no matter who is by. 
 Here is some one who seems to know you." 
 
 Mr. Dexter, " said Anne, as the tall form drew near. 
 " He is a friend of Helen s." 
 
 Helen has a great many friends. However, I hap 
 pen to have heard of this Mr. Dexter. You may present 
 him to me I hope you know how." 
 
 All Madame Moreau s pupils knew how. Anne per 
 formed her task properly, and Dexter, bringing forward 
 one of the old broken-backed chairs (which formed part 
 of the "woody and uncloying flavor" of Caryl s), sat 
 down beside them. 
 
 I am surprised that you remembered me, Mr. Dexter," 
 said the girl. You saw me but once, and on New- Year s 
 Day too, among so many." 
 
 "But you remembered me, Miss Douglas." 
 
 "That is different. You were kind to me about the 
 singing. It is natural that I should remember." 
 
 And why not as natural that I should remember the 
 singing ?" 
 
 Because it was not good enough to have made any es 
 pecial impression," replied Anne, looking at him calm 
 ly with her clear violet eyes. 
 
 It was at least new I mean the simplicity of the lit 
 tle ballad," said Dexter, ceasing to compliment, and speak 
 ing only the truth. 
 
 "Simplicity!" said Miss Vanhorn: "I am tired of it. 
 I hope, Anne, you will not sing any simplicity songs 
 here ; those ridiculous things about bringing an ivy leaf, 
 only an ivy leaf, and that it was but a little faded flower. 
 They show an extremely miserly spirit, I think. If you 
 can not give your friends a whole blossom or a fresh 
 one, you had better not give them any at all." 
 
 i Who was it who said that he was sated with poetry 
 about flowers, and that if the Muses must come in every 
 where, he wished they would not always come as green- 
 
196 * 
 
 grocers ?" said Dexter, who knew perfectly the home of 
 this as of every other quotation, but always placed it in 
 that way to give people an opportunity of saying, Charles 
 Lamb, wasn t it?" or "Sheridan?" It made conversation 
 flowing. 
 
 "The flowers do not need the Muses," said Miss Van- 
 horn "slatternly creatures, with no fit to their gowns. 
 And that reminds me of what Anne was saying as you 
 came up, Mr. Dexter ; she was calmly and decisively ob 
 serving that Mrs. Bannert was very ugly." 
 
 A smile crossed Dexter s face in answer to the old wo 
 man s short dry laugh. 
 
 "I added that if Mrs. Lorrington was here, people 
 would see real beauty," said Anne, distressed by this be 
 trayal, but standing by her guns. 
 
 Miss Vaiihorn laughed again. "Mr. Dexter particu 
 larly admires Mrs. Baimert, child, "she said, cheerfully, 
 having had the unexpected amusement of two good laughs 
 in an evening. 
 
 But Anne, instead of showing embarrassment, turned 
 her eyes toward Dexter, as if in honest inquiry, 
 
 "Mrs. Bannert represents the Oriental type of beauty," 
 he answered, smiling, as he perceived her frank want 
 of agreement. 
 
 "Say creole, "said Miss Vanhorn. "It is a novelty, 
 child, which has made its appearance lately ; a reaction 
 after the narrow-chested type which has so long in Amer 
 ica held undisputed sway. We absolutely take a quad 
 roon to get away from the consumptive, blue-eyed saint, 
 of whom we are all desperately tired." 
 
 New York city is now developing a type of its own, 
 I think, " said Dexter. You can tell a New York girl at 
 a glance when you meet her in the West or the South. 
 Women walk more in the city than they do elsewhere, 
 and that has given them a firm step and bearing, which 
 are noticeable." 
 
 To think of comparisons between different parts of this 
 raw land of ours, as though they had especial character 
 istics of their own !" said Miss Vanhorn, looking for a 
 seed. 
 
ANNE. 19? 
 
 "You have not travelled much in this country, I pre 
 sume," said Dexter. 
 
 "No, man, no. When I travel, I go abroad." 
 
 "I have never been abroad," answered Dexter, quietly. 
 "But I can see a difference between the people of Massa 
 chusetts and the people of South Carolina, the people 
 of Philadelphia and the people of San Francisco, which 
 is marked and of the soil. I even think that I can tell 
 a Baltimore, Buffalo, Chicago, Louisville, or St. Louis 
 family at sight." 
 
 "You go to all those places?" said Miss Vanhorn, half 
 closing her eyes, and speaking in a languid voice, as if 
 the subject was too remote for close attention. 
 
 "Yes. You are not aware that I am a business man." 
 
 "Ah ? What is it you do ?" said the old woman, who 
 knew perfectly Dexter s entire history, but wanted to hear 
 his own account of himself. 
 
 k I am interested in iron ; that is, I have iron mills, 
 and other things." 
 
 " Exactly ; as you say other things. Does that mean 
 politics ?" 
 
 "Partly," said Dexter, smiling. 
 
 "And oil?" 
 
 "No. I have never had any opportunity to coin gold 
 with the Aladdin s lamp found in Pennsylvania. There 
 is no magic in any of my occupations ; they are all regu 
 lar and commonplace." 
 
 "Are you in Congress now?" 
 
 "No; I was only there one term." 
 
 "A bore, isn t it?" 
 
 "Not to me." 
 
 "Congress is always a riot," said Miss Vanhorn, still 
 with her eyes closed. 
 
 "I can not agree with you," said Dexter, his face tak 
 ing on one of its resolute expressions. "I have small 
 patience with those Americans who affect to be above any 
 interest in the government of the country in which they 
 live. It is their country, and they can no more alter that 
 fact than they can change their plain grandfathers into 
 foreign noblemen." 
 
198 ANNE. 
 
 "Dear me! dear me!" said Miss Vanhorn, carelessly. 
 " You talk to me as if I were a mass-meeting-." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Dexter, his former manner 
 returning. I forgot for the moment that no one is in 
 earnest at Caryl s. " 
 
 "By-the-way, how did you ever get in here?" said 
 Miss Vanhorn, with frank impertinence. 
 
 "I came because I like to see all sides of society," he 
 replied, smiling down upon her with amused eyes. 
 
 "Give me your arm. You amount to something," 
 said the old woman, rising. "We will walk up and 
 down for a few moments ; and, Anne, you can come too." 
 
 "I am almost sure that he is Helen s Knight-errant," 
 thought Anne. "And I like him very much." 
 
 A niece of Miss Vanhorn s could not of course be slight 
 ed. The next day Isabel Varce came up and talked a 
 while ; later, Mrs. Bannert and the others followed. 
 Gregory Dexter was with aunt and niece frequently ; and 
 Miss Vanhorn was pleased to be very gracious. She talk 
 ed to him herself most of the time, while Anne watched 
 the current of the new life round her. Other men had 
 been presented to her ; and among them she thought she 
 recognized the Chanting Tenor and the Poet of Helen s 
 narratives. She could not write to Helen ; the eccentric 
 grandfather objected to letters. Fools and women clog 
 the mails," w T as one of his favorite assertions. But al 
 though Anne could not write, Helen could smuggle let 
 ters occasionally into the outgoing mail-bags, and when 
 she learned that Anne was at Caryl s, she wrote imme 
 diately. "Have you seen Isabel Varce yet ?" ran the let 
 ter. And Rachel Bannert ? The former is my dearest 
 rival, the latter my deadliest friend. Use your eyes, I 
 beg. What amusement I shall have hearing your de 
 scriptions when I come ! For of course you will make 
 the blindest mistakes. However, a blind man has been 
 known to see sometimes what other people have never 
 discovered. How is the Grand Llama ? I conquered her 
 at last, as I told you I should. With a high pressure of 
 magnanimity. But it was all for my own sake; and 
 now, behold, I am here ! But you can study the Bishop, 
 
ANNE. 199 
 
 the Poet, the Tenor, and the Knight-errant in the flesh ; 
 how do you like the Knight ?" 
 
 "This place is a prison," wrote Helen, again; "and I 
 am in the mean time consumed with curiosity to know 
 ivhat is going on at Caryl s. Please answer my letters, 
 and put the answers away until I come ; it is the only 
 method I can think of by which I can get the aroma of 
 each day. Or, rather, not the aroma, but the facts ; you 
 do not know much of aromas. If facts were a divine 
 thing to Frederick the Great (Mr. Dexter told me that, of 
 course) , they are certainly extremely solemn to you. Tell 
 me, then, what everybody is doing. And particularly 
 the Bishop and the Knight-errant." 
 
 And Anne answered the letters faithfully, telling every 
 thing she noticed, especially as to Dexter. . Who the 
 Bishop was she had not been able to decide. 
 
 In addition to the others, Ward Heathcote had now 
 arrived at Caryl s, also Mr. Blum. 
 
 In the mean time Miss Vanhorn had tested without 
 delay her niece s new knowledge of botany. Her face 
 was flushed and her hand fairly trembled with eagerness 
 as she gave Anne her first wild flower, and ordered her to 
 analyze it. Would she blunder, or show herself dull 
 and incompetent ? One thing was certain : no pretended 
 zeal could deceive old Katharine she knew the reality too 
 well. 
 
 But there was no pretense. Anne, honest as usual, 
 analyzed the flower with some mistakes, but with real in 
 terest ; and the keen black eyes recognized the genuine 
 hue of the feeling, as far as it went. After that initia 
 tion, every morning they drove to the woods, and Anne 
 searched in all directions, coming back loaded down with 
 spoil. Every afternoon there followed analyzing, press 
 ing, drying, and labelling, for hours. 
 
 "Pray leave the foundations of our bridge intact," 
 called Isabel Varce, passing on horseback, accompanied 
 by Ward Heathcote, and looking down at Anne digging 
 up something on the bank below, while at a little dis 
 tance Miss Vanhorn s coupe was waiting, with the old 
 lady s hard face looking out through the closed window. 
 
200 ANNE. 
 
 Anne laughed, and turned her face, glowing- with rose* 
 color, upward to look at them. 
 
 "Do you like that sort of thing ?" said Isabel, pausing, 
 having noted at a glance that the young girl was attired 
 in old clothes, and appeared in every way at a disad 
 vantage. She had no especial malice toward Anne in this ; 
 she merely acted on general principles as applied to all 
 of her own sex. But even the most acute feminine minds 
 make mistakes on one subject, namely, they forget that 
 to a man dress is not the woman. Anne, in her faded 
 gown, down on the muddy bank, with her hat off, her 
 boots begrimed, and her zeal for the root she was digging 
 up, seemed to Ward Heathcote a new and striking crea 
 ture. The wind ruffled her thick brown hair and blew 
 it into little rings and curls about her face, her eyes, un 
 flinching in the brilliant sunshine, laughed back at them 
 as they looked over the railing; the lines of her shoul 
 der and extended arms were of npble beauty. To a wo 
 man s eyes a perfect sleeve is of the highest importance;! (jw 
 it did not occur to Isabel that through the ugly, baggy, 
 out-of-date sleeve down there on the bank, the wind, 
 sturdily blowing, was revealing an arm whose outline silk 
 and lace could never rival.; Satisfied with her manoeu 
 vre, she rode on : Anne certainly looked what all women 
 would have called " a fright." 
 
 Yet that very evening Heathcote approached, recalled 
 himself to Miss Vanhorn s short memory, and, after a few 
 moments of conversation, sat down beside Anne, who 
 received him with the same frank predisposition to be 
 pleased which she gave to all alike. Heathcote was not 
 a talker like Dexter; he seemed to have little to say at 
 any time. He was one of a small and unimportant class 
 in the United States, which would be very offensive to 
 citizens at large if it came in contact with them ; but it 
 seldom does. To this class there is no city in America 
 save New York, and New York itself is only partially 
 . endurable. National reputations are nothing, politics 
 nothing. Money is necessary, and ought to be provid 
 ed in some way ; and generally it is, since without it this 
 class could not exist in a purely democratic land. But 
 
AXXE. 201 
 
 it is inherited, not"Viade. It may be said that simply 
 the large landed estates acquired at an early date in the 
 vicinity of the city, and immensely increased in value 
 by the growth of the metropolis, have produced this class, 
 which, however, having no barriers, can never be perma 
 nent, or make to itself laws. Heathcote s great-grand 
 father was a landed proprietor in Westchester County ; 
 he had lived well, and died at a good old age, to be suc 
 ceeded by his son, who also lived well, and died not so 
 well, and poorer than his father. The grandson increased 
 the ratio in both cases, leaving to his little boy, Ward, 
 but a small portion of the original fortune, and departing 
 from the custom of the house in that he died early. The 
 boy, without father, mother, brother, or sister, grew up 
 under the care of guardians, and, upon coming of age, 
 took possession of the remnant left to him. A good 
 portion of this he himself had lost, not so much from ex 
 travagance, however, as carelessness. He had been 
 abroad, of course, and had adopted English ways, but 
 not with any violence. He left that to others. He pass 
 ed for good-natured in the main; he was not restless. 
 He was quite willing that other men should have more 
 luxuries than he had a yacht, for instance, or fine horses ; 
 he felt no irritation 011 the subject. On the other hand, 
 he would have been much surprised to learn that any one 
 longed to take him out and knock him down, simply as an 
 insufferable object. Yet Gregory Dexter had that long 
 ing at times so strongly that his hand fairly quivered. 
 
 Heathcote was slightly above middle height, and w r ell 
 built, but his gait was indolent and careless. Good fea 
 tures unlighted by animation, a brown skin, brown eyes 
 ordinarily rather lethargic, thick brown hair and mus 
 tache, and heavy eyebrows standing out prominently 
 from the face in profile view, were the items ordinarily 
 given in a general description. He had a low-toned voice 
 and slow manner, in which, however, there was no af 
 fectation. What was the use of doing anything with 
 any particular effort ? He had no antipathy for persons 
 of other habits; the world was large. It was noticed, 
 however (or rather it was not noticed), that he generally 
 
202 ANNE. 
 
 got away from them as soon as he "quietly could. He 
 had lived to be thirty-two years old, and had 011 the 
 . whole enjoyed life so far, although he was neither es 
 pecially important, handsome, nor rich. The secret of 
 this lay in one fact : women liked him. 
 
 What was it that they found to like in him ? This was 
 the question asked often in irritation by his brother man. 
 And naturally. For the women themselves could not 
 give a reasonable reason. The corresponding side of life 
 is not the same, since men admire with a reason ; the wo 
 man is plainly beautiful, or brilliant, or fascinating round 
 whom they gather. At Caryl s seven or eight men were 
 handsomer than Heathcote ; a number were more brill 
 iant; many were richer. Yet almost all of these had dis 
 covered, at one time or another, that the eyes they were 
 talking to were following Heathcote furtively ; and they 
 had seen attempts that made them tingle with anger all 
 the more so because they were so iiifinitesimally delicate 
 and fine, as became the actions of well-bred women. One 
 or two, who had married, had had explained to them 
 elaborately by their wives what it was they (in their free 
 days, of course) had liked in Heathcote elaborately, if 
 not clearly. The husbands gathered generally that it 
 was only a way he had, a manner ; the liking was half 
 imaginative, after all. Now Heathcote was not in the 
 least imaginative. But the women w r ere. 
 
 Manly qualities, good hearts, handsome faces, and great 
 er wealth held their own in fact against him. Marriages 
 took place in his circle, wedding chimes pealed, and 
 brides were happy under their veils in spite of him. 
 Yet, as histories of lives go, there was a decided bal 
 ance in his favor of feminine regard, and no one could 
 deny it. 
 
 He had now but a small income, and had been obliged 
 to come down to a very simple manner of life. Those 
 who disliked him said that of course he would marry 
 money. As yet, however, he had shown no signs of ful 
 filling his destiny in this respect. He seldom took the 
 trouble to express his opinions, and therefore passed as 
 having .none; but those who were clear-sighted knew 
 
ANNE. 203 
 
 better. Dexter was one of these, and this entire absence 
 of self-assertion in Ward Heathcote stung him. For 
 Dexter always asserted himself; he could not help it. He 
 came in at this moment, and noted Heathcote s position 
 near Anne. Obeying 1 an impulse, he crossed the room 
 immediately, and began a counter-conversation with Miss 
 Vanhorn, the chaperon. 
 
 "Trying to interest that child," he thought, as he 
 listened to the grandaunt with the air of deferential at 
 tention she liked so well. With eyes that apparently 
 never once glanced in their direction, he kept close watch 
 of the two beyond. "She is no match for him," he 
 thought, with indignation; "she has had no experience. 
 It ought not to be allowed." 
 
 But Dexter always mistook Heathcote; he gave him 
 credit for plans and theories of which Heathcote never 
 dreamed. In fact, he judged him by himself. Heath 
 cote was merely talking to Anne now in the absence of 
 other entertainment, having felt some slight curiosity 
 about her because she had looked so bright and contented 
 on the mud-bank under the bridge. He tried to recall 
 his impression of her on New-Year s Day, and determined 
 to refresh his memory by Blum ; but, in the mean time, 
 outwardly, his manner was as though, silently of course, 
 but none the less deeply, he had dwelt upon her image 
 ever since. It was this impalpable manner which made 
 Dexter indignant. He knew it so well ! He said to him 
 self that it was a lie. And, generally speaking, it was. 
 But possibly in this case (as in others) it was not so much 
 the falsity of the manner as its success which annoyed the 
 other man. 
 
 He could not hear what was said ; and the words, in 
 truth, were not many or brilliant. But he knew the sort 
 of quiet glance with which they were being accompanied. 
 Yet Dexter, quick and suspicious as he was, would nev 
 er have discovered that glance unaided. He had learned 
 it from another, and that other, of course, a woman. 
 For once in a w T hile it happens that a woman, when 
 roused to fury, will pour out the whole story of her 
 wrongs to some man who happens to be near. No man 
 
204 ANNE. 
 
 does this. He has not the same need of expression ; and, 
 besides, he will never show himself at such a disadvan 
 tage voluntarily, even for the sake of comfort. He 
 would rather remain uncomforted. But women of strong 
 ^feelings often, when excited, cast wisdom to the winds, 
 and even seem to find a desperate satisfaction in the 
 most hazardous imprudences, which can injure only them 
 selves. In a mood of this kind, some one had poured out 
 to Gregory Dexter bitter testimony against Heathcote, 
 one-sided, perhaps, but photographically accurate in all 
 the, details, which are so much to women. Dexter had 
 listened with inward anger and contempt ; but he had 
 listened. And he had recognized, besides, the accent of 
 truth in every word. The narrator was now in Austria 
 with a new and foreign husband, apparently as happy as 
 the day is long. But the listener had never forgotten 
 or forgiven her account of Heathcote s method and man 
 ner. He said to himself that he despised it, and he did 
 despise it. Still, in some occult way, one may be jealous 
 of results attained even by ways and means for which 
 one feels a righteous contempt; and the more so when 
 one has a firm confidence in his own abilities, which have 
 not yet, however, been openly recognized in that field. 
 In all other fields Gregory Dexter was a marked type of 
 American success. 
 
 As the days moved slowly on, he kept watch of Heath- 
 cote. It was more a determination to foil him than in 
 terest in Anne which made him add himself as a third 
 whenever he could unobtrusively ; which was not often, 
 since Miss Vanhorn liked to talk to him herself, and 
 Anne knew no more how to aid him than a nun. After 
 a while Heathcote became conscious of this watchful 
 ness, and it amused him. His idea of Dexter was "a 
 clever sort of fellow, who has made money, and is am 
 bitious. Goes in for politics, and that sort of thing. 
 Talks well, but too much. Tiresome." He began to de 
 vote himself to Anne now in a different way; hitherto he 
 had been only entertaining himself (and rather languid 
 ly) by a study of her fresh naive truthfulness. He had 
 drawn out her history ; he, too, knew of the island, the 
 
ANNE. 205 
 
 fort, and the dog trains. Poor Anne was always elo 
 quent on these subjects. Her color rose, her words came 
 quickly. 
 
 "You are fond of the island, 1 he said, one evening, as 
 they sat on the piazza in the moonlight, Dexter within 
 three feet of them, but unable to hear their murmured 
 words. For Heathcote had a way of interposing his 
 shoulder between listeners and the person to whom he 
 was talking, which made the breadth of woollen cloth as 
 much a barrier as a stone wall ; he did this more frequent 
 ly now that he had discovered Dexter s watchfulness. 
 
 "Yes," said Anne, in as low a voice as his own. Then 
 suddenly, plainly visible to him in the moonlight, tears 
 welled up and dropped upon her cheeks. 
 
 She had been homesick all day. Sometimes Miss Van- 
 horn was hard and cold as a bronze statue in winter; 
 sometimes she was as quick and fiery as if charged with 
 electricity. Sometimes she veered between the two. To 
 day had been one of the veering days, and Anne had 
 worked over the dried plants five hours in a close room, 
 now a mark for sarcastic darts of ridicule, now enduring 
 an icy silence, until her lot seemed too heavy to bear. She 
 had learned to understand the old woman s moods, but 
 understanding pain does not make it lighter. Released 
 at last, a great wave of homesickness had swept over 
 her, which did not, however, break bounds until Heath- 
 cote s words touched the spring ; then the gates opened and 
 the tears came. 
 
 They had no sooner dropped upon her cheeks, one, two, 
 three, than she was overwhelmed with hot shame at hav 
 ing allowed them to fall, and with fear lest any one 
 should notice them. Mr. Heathcote had seen them, that 
 was hopelessly certain ; but if only she could keep them 
 from her grandaunt ! Yet she did not dare to lift her 
 handkerchief lest its white should attract attention. 
 
 But Heathcote knew what to do. 
 
 As soon as he saw the tears (to him, of course, totally 
 unexpected; but girls are so), he. raised his straw hat, 
 which lay on his knee, and, holding it by the crown, be 
 gan elaborately to explain some peculiarity in the lin- 
 
206 ANXE. 
 
 ing (he called it South American) invented for the occa 
 sion, at the same time, by the motion, screening her face 
 completely from observation on the other side. B ut Anne 
 could not check herself; the very shelter brought thicker 
 drops. He could not hold his hat in that position for 
 ever, even to look at Brazilian linings. He rose suddenly, 
 and standing in front so as to screen her, he cried, "A 
 bat! a bat!" at the same time making a pass with his 
 hat as though he saw it in the air. 
 
 Every one on the piazza rose, darted aside hither and 
 thither, the ladies covering their heads with their fans and 
 handkerchiefs, the men making passes with their hats, as 
 usual on bat occasions; every one was sure the noxious 
 creature flew by. For a number of minutes confusion 
 reigned. When it was over, Anne s cheeks were dry, and 
 a little cobweb tie had been formed between herself and 
 Heathcote. It was too slight to be noticed, but it was 
 there. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Le hasard sait ce qu il fait !" French Proverb. 
 
 THE next day there was a picnic. No one wished to go 
 especially save Isabel Varce, but no one opposed her wish. 
 At Caryl s they generally followed whatever was sug 
 gested, with indolent acquiescence. Miss Vanhorn, how 
 ever, being a contrary planet revolving in an orbit of 
 her own, at first declined to go; there were important 
 plants to finish. But Mr. Dexter persuaded her to change 
 her mind, and, with Anne, to accompany him in a cer 
 tain light carriage which he had ordered from the next 
 town, more comfortable than the Caryl red wagons, and 
 not so heavy as her own coupe. Miss Vanhorn liked to 
 be comfortable, and she was playing the part also of lik 
 ing Gregory Dexter ; she therefore accepted. She knew 
 perfectly well that Dexter s light carriage" had not come 
 from the next town, but from New York ; and she smiled 
 at what she considered the effort of this new man to con 
 ceal his lavishness. But she was quite willing that he 
 
ANNE. 207 
 
 should spend his money to gain her favor (she having 
 already decided to give it to him), and therefore it was 
 with contentment that she stepped into the carriage 
 a model of its kind on the morning of the appointed day, 
 and put up her glass to watch the others ascending, by a 
 little flight of steps, to the high table-land of the red 
 wagons. Mr. Heathcote was on horseback ; he dismount 
 ed, however, to assist Mrs. Bannert to her place. He 
 raised his hat to Anne with his usual quiet manner, but 
 she returned his salutation with a bright smile. She 
 was grateful to him. Had he not been kind to her ? 
 
 The picnic was like most picnics of the sort heavy 
 work for the servants, languid amusement, not unmixed 
 with only partially concealed ennui, on the part of the 
 guests. There was but little wandering away, the par 
 ticipants being too few for much severance. They stroll 
 ed through the woods in long-drawn links ; they went to 
 see a view from a knoll ; they sang a few songs gently, 
 faint pipings from the ladies, arid nothing from the men 
 (Blum being absent) save the correct bass of Dexter, 
 which seemed very far down indeed in the cellars of mel 
 ody, while the ladies were on the high battlements. 
 The conversation was never exactly allowed to die out, 
 yet it languished. Almost all would rather have been at 
 home. The men especially found small pleasure in sit 
 ting on the ground ; besides, a distinct consciousness that 
 the attitude was not becoming. For the American does 
 not possess a taste for throwing himself heartily down 
 upon Mother Earth. He can camp; he can hunt, swim, 
 ride, walk, use Indian clubs, play base-ball, drive, row, sail 
 a yacht, or even guide a balloon ; but when it comes to 
 grass, give him a bench. 
 
 Isabel Varce, in a Avonderful costume of woodland 
 green, her somewhat sharp features shaded by a shep 
 herdess hat, carried out her purpose the subjugation of 
 a certain Peter Dane, a widower of distinction, a late ar 
 rival at Caryl s. Mrs. Bannert had Ward Heathcote by 
 her side, apparently to the satisfaction of both. Other 
 men and women were contented or discontented as it hap 
 pened ; and two or three school-girls of twelve or thirteen 
 
208 ANNE. 
 
 really enjoyed themselves, being at the happy age when 
 blue sky and golden sunshine, green woods and lunch on 
 the grass, are all that is necessary for supreme happiness. 
 There was one comic element present, and by mistake. 
 A reverend gentleman of the kind that calls everybody 
 "brother" had arrived unexpectedly at Caryl s; he was 
 journeying for the purpose of distributing certain thin 
 pamphlets of powerfully persuasive influence as to gen 
 eral virtue, and as he had not been over that ground for 
 some years, he had no suspicion that Caryl s had changed, 
 or that it was any more important than Barr s, Murphy s, 
 Allen s, and other hamlets in the neighborhood and pos 
 sessive case, with whose attributes he was familiar. Old 
 John Caryl had taken him in for a night or two, and 
 had ordered the unused school-house at the cross-roads to 
 be swept out for a hamlet evening service ; but the hamlet 
 could not confine the Reverend Ezra Sloane. His heart 
 waxed warm within him at the sight of so many per 
 sons, all well-to-do, pleasant to the eye, and apparently 
 not pressed for time. He had spent his life in minister 
 ing to the poor in this world s goods, and to the workers 
 who had no leisure ; it was a new pleasure to him simply 
 to be among the agreeable, well-dressed, and unanxious. 
 He took his best coat from his lean valise, and wore it 
 steadily. He was so happy in his child-like satisfaction 
 that no one rebuffed him, and when he presented himself, 
 blandly smiling, to join the picnic party, no one had the 
 heart to tell him of his mistake. As he climbed com 
 placently into one of the wagons, however, stiff old Mrs. 
 Bannert, on the back seat, gave John Caryl, standing at 
 the horses heads, a look which he understood. The Rev 
 erend Ezra must depart the next morning, or be merged 
 conclusively merged in the hamlet. His fate was 
 sealed. But to-day he disported himself to his heart s 
 content ; his smiling face was everywhere. He went 
 eagerly through the woods, joining now one group, now 
 another ; he laughed when they laughed, understanding, 
 however, but few of their allusions. He was restlessly 
 anxious to join in the singing, but could not, as he did 
 not know their songs, and he proposed, in entire good 
 
"HE TOOK HIS BEST COAT FROM HIS LEAN VALISE. 
 
ANNE. 209 
 
 faith, one or two psalms, giving them up, however, im 
 mediately, when old Mrs. Bannert, who had taken upon 
 herself the task of keeping him down, remarked sternly 
 that no one knew the tunes. He went to see the view, 
 and extending his hand, said, in his best manner, "Be 
 hold ! brethren, is there not hill, and dale, and mountain, 
 and valley, and river?" As he said "river" he closed 
 his eyes impressively, and stood there among them the 
 image of self-complacence. The wind blew out his black 
 coat, and showed how thin it was, and the wearer as well. 
 
 "Why is it always a thin, weakly man like that who 
 insists upon calling people brethren ?" said Heathcote, 
 as they stood a little apart. 
 
 Because, being weakly, we can not knock him down 
 for it, as we certainly should do if he was stronger," said 
 Dexter. 
 
 But it was especially at lunch that the Eeverend Ezra 
 shone forth ; rising to the occasion, he brought forth all 
 the gallant speeches of his youth, which had much the 
 air of his grandfather s Green Mountain musket. Some 
 of his phrases Anne recognized : Miss Lois used them. 
 The young girl was pained to see how out of place he 
 was, how absurd in his well-intentioned efforts ; and she 
 therefore drew him a little apart, and strove to entertain 
 him herself. She had known plain people on the island, 
 and had experienced much of their faithful goodness and 
 generosity in times of trouble ; it hurt her to have him rid 
 iculed. It came out, during this conversation, that he 
 knew something of botany, and on the strength of this 
 passport she took him to Miss Vaiihorn. The Reverend 
 Ezra really did understand the flora of the district, through 
 which he had journeyed many times in former years on 
 his old mare; Miss Vanhorn s sharp questions brought 
 out what he knew, and gave him also the grateful sen 
 sation of imparting valuable information. He now ap 
 peared quite collected and sensible. He mentioned, after 
 a while, that an orchid grew in these very woods at some 
 distance up the mountain an orchid which was rare. 
 Miss Vaiihorn had never seen that particular orchid in 
 its wild state ; a flush rose in her cheek. 
 
 14 
 
210 ANNE. 
 
 1 We can drive out to-morrow and look for it, grand- 
 aunt," said Anne. 
 
 "No," replied Miss Vanhorn, firmly; "that orchid 
 must be found to-day, while Mr. Mr. 
 
 "Sloane," said the minister, affably. 
 
 " while Mr. Stone is with you to point out the exact 
 locality. I desire you to go with him immediately, Anne ; 
 this is a matter of importance." 
 
 "It is about two miles up the mountain," objected the 
 missionary, loath to leave the festival. 
 
 "Anne is not afraid of two short miles," replied the old 
 woman, inflexibly. "And as for yourself, Mr. Doane, 
 no doubt you will be glad to abandon this scene of idle 
 frivolity." And then the Reverend Ezra, a little startled 
 by this view of the case, yielded, and sought his hat and 
 cane. 
 
 This conversation had taken place at one side. Mr. 
 .Dexter, however, talking ceremoniously with old Mrs. 
 Bannert, overheard it, and immediately thought of a plan 
 by which it might be made available for his own purposes. 
 The picnic had not given him much satisfaction so far; it 
 had been too languid. With all his effort, he could not 
 quite enter into the continuous indolence of Caryl s. 
 True, he had taken Anne from Heathcote, thus checking 
 for the moment that gentleman s lazy supremacy, at least 
 in one quarter ; but there were other quarters, and Heath- 
 cote was now occupying the one which Dexter himself 
 coveted most of all, namely, the seat next to Rachel Ban 
 nert. Rachel was a widow, and uncomfortably depend 
 ent upon her mother-in-law. The elder Mrs. Bannert was 
 sharp-eyed as a hawk, wise as a serpent, and obstinate as 
 a hedge-hog ; Rachel as soft-voiced and soft-breasted as a 
 dove ; yet the latter intended to have, and did in the end 
 have, the Bannert estate, and in the mean time she 
 "shared her mother-in-law s home." There were vary 
 ing opinions as to the delights of that home. 
 
 Dexter, fretted by Heathcote s unbroken conversation 
 with Rachel, and weary of the long inaction of the morn 
 ing, now proposed that they should all go in search of the 
 orchid ; his idea was that at least it would break up exist- 
 
ANNE. 2U 
 
 ing proximities, and give them all something to do. 
 Lunch had been prolonged to the utmost extent of its 
 vitality, and the participants were in the state of nerve 
 less leaves in Indian summer, ready to float away 011 the 
 first breeze. They strolled off, therefore, all save the eld 
 er ladies, through the wood, led by the delighted Ezra, 
 who had that " God-bless-you-all-my-friends" air with 
 which many worthy people are afflicted. The appar 
 ent self-effacement effected by good-breeding, even in the 
 wicked, is certainly more agreeable to an ordinary world 
 than the unconscious egotism of a large class of the good. 
 
 After a quarter of an hour the woodman s trail they 
 were following turned and went up the mountain-side. 
 No one save Anne and the missionary had the slightest 
 intention of walking two miles to look for a flower, but 
 they were willing to stroll" on for a while. They came 
 to the main road, and crossed it, making many objections 
 to its being there, with its commonplace daylight, after 
 the shade, flickering sunbeams, and vague green vistas 
 of the forest. But on this road, in the dust, a travelling 
 harp-player was trudging along, accompanied by a wizen 
 ed little boy and a still more wizened monkey. 
 
 Let us carry them off into the deepest woods, and 
 have a dance," said Isabel. " We will be nymphs and 
 dryades, and all sorts of woodland things." 
 
 It is difficult to dance on uneven ground, in the middle 
 of the day, to the sound of an untuned old harp, and a 
 violin held upside down, and scraped by a melancholy 
 boy. But Isabel had her way, or rather took it, and they 
 all set off somewhat vaguely for "the deepest woods," 
 leaving the woodman s path, and following another 
 track, which Isabel pronounced such a dear little trail 
 it must lead somewhere." The Reverend Ezra was dis 
 turbed. He thought he held them all under his own 
 guidance, when, lo ! they were not only leaving him and 
 his orchid without a word of excuse, but were actually 
 departing with a wandering harpist to find a level spot 
 on which to dance ! 
 
 " I I think that path leads only to an old quarry," he 
 said, with a hesitating smile. 
 
212 ANNE. 
 
 But no one paid any attention to him, save Anne, who 
 had paused also, uncertain what to do. 
 
 "We will get the orchid afterward, Miss Douglas," 
 said Dexter. "I promise that you shall have it." 
 
 "But Mr. Sloane," said Anne, glancing toward the de 
 serted missionary. 
 
 " Come with us, dominie," said Dexter, with the ready 
 good-nature that was one of his outward characteristics. 
 It was a quick, tolerant good-nature, and seemed to be 
 long to his hroad, strong frame. 
 
 But the dominie had a dignity of his own, after all. 
 When he realized that he was forsaken, he came for 
 ward and said quietly that he would go up the mountain 
 alone and get the orchid, joining them at the main-road 
 crossing on the way back. 
 
 As you please, " said Dexter. And I, for one, shall 
 feel much indebted to you, sir, if you bring back the 
 flower, because I have promised Miss Douglas that she 
 should have it, and should be obliged to go for it my 
 self, ignorant as I am, were it not for your kindness." 
 
 He raised his hat courteously, and went off with Anne 
 to join the others, already out of sight. 
 
 " I suppose he does not approve of the dancing," said 
 the girl, looking back. 
 
 But Dexter did not care whether he approved or disap 
 proved; he had already dismissed the dominie from his 
 mind. 
 
 The path took them to a deserted stone-quarry in the 
 side of the hill. There was the usual yawning pit, floor 
 ed with broken jagged masses and chips of stone, the 
 straight bare wall of rock above, and the forest greenery 
 coming to the edge of the desolation on all sides, and 
 leaning over to peep clown. The quarrymen had camp 
 ed below, and the little open space where once their lodge 
 of boughs had stood was selected by Isabel for the dan 
 cing floor. The harpist, a small old man clad in a grimy 
 velveteen coat, played a waltz, to which the little Italian 
 boy added a lagging accompaniment; the monkey, who 
 seemed to have belonged to some defunct hand-organ, 
 sat on a stump and surveyed the scene. They did not all 
 
ANNE. 213 
 
 dance, but Isabel succeeded in persuading a few to move 
 through a quadrille whose figures she improvised for 
 the occasion. But the scene was more picturesque when, 
 after a time, the dull partners in coats were discarded, 
 and the floating draperies daiicea by themselves, join 
 ing hands in a ring, and circling round and round with 
 merry little motions which were charmingly pretty, like 
 kittens at play. Then they made the boy sing, and he 
 chanted a tune which had (musically) neither begin 
 ning nor end, but a useful quality of going on forever. 
 But whatever he did, and whatever they gave him, made 
 no difference in his settled melancholy, which the monk 
 ey s small face seemed to caricature. Then they danced 
 again, and this time Dexter took part, while the other 
 coated ones remained on the grass, smoking. It ended 
 in his waltzing with them all in turn, and being over 
 whelmed with their praises, which, however, being lev 
 elled at the heads of the others by strongly implied com 
 parison, were not as valuable as they seemed. Dexter 
 knew that he gained nothing by joining in that dance; 
 but where there was something to do, lie could not resist 
 doing it. When the waltz was over, and the wandering 
 musicians sent on their way with a lavish reward of sil 
 ver, which the monkey had received cynically as it was 
 placed piece by piece in his little paw, Isabel led off all 
 the ladies "to explore the quarry," expressly forbidding 
 the others to follow. With an air of great enjoyment 
 in their freedom and solitude the floating draperies de 
 parted, and the smokers were left under the trees, con 
 tent, on their side also, to have half an hour of quiet. 
 Mr. Peter Dane immediately and heartily yawned at full 
 width, and was no longer particular as to the position 
 of his legs. In truth, it was the incipient fatigue on the 
 face of this distinguished widower which had induced Is 
 abel to lead off her exploring party ; for when a man is 
 over fifty, nothing is more dangerous than to tire him. 
 He never forgives it. 
 
 Isabel led her band round to an ascent, steep but not 
 long; her plan was to go up the hill through the wood, 
 and appear on the top of the quarry, so many graceful 
 
214 ANNE. 
 
 figures high in the air against the blue sky, for the indo 
 lent smokers below to envy and admire. Isabel was a 
 slender creature with a pale complexion ; the slight col 
 or produced by the exercise would be becoming. Rachel, 
 who was dimpled, "never could climb"; her "ankles" 
 were not strong. " (And certainly they were very small 
 ankles for such a weight of dimples.) The party now 
 divided itself under these two leaders; those who were 
 indolent staid with Rachel; those who were not afraid 
 of exercise went with Isabel. A few went for amuse 
 ment, without motive ; among these was Anne. One went 
 for wrath ; and this was Valeria Morle. 
 
 It is hard for a neutral-faced girl with a fixed opinion 
 of her own importance to learn the lesson of her real in 
 significance, when removed from the background of home, 
 at a place like Caryl s. Valeria was there, mistakenly 
 visiting an aunt for two weeks, and with the calm securi 
 ty of the country mind, she had mentally selected Ward 
 Heathcote as her knight for the time being, and had be 
 stowed upon him in consequence several little speeches 
 and smiles carefully calculated to produce an impression, 
 to mean a great deal to any one who was watching. But 
 Heathcote was not watching; the small well-regulated 
 country smiles had about as much effect as the twitterings 
 of a wren would have in a wood full of nightingales. 
 Miss Morle could not understand it; had they not slain 
 their thousands, nay, ten thousands (young lady s com 
 putation), in Morleville ? She now went up the hill in 
 silent wrath, glad to do something and to be away from 
 Heathcote. Still, she could not help believing that he 
 would miss her ; men had been known to he very much 
 interested in girls, and yet make no sign for a long time. 
 They watched them from a distance. In this case Va 
 leria was to have her hopes realized. She was to be 
 watched, and from a distance. 
 
 The eight who reached the summit sported gayly 
 to and fro for a while, now near the edge, now back, 
 gathering flowers and throwing them over, calling down 
 to the smokers, who lay and watched them, without, how 
 ever, any burning desire especially visible on their coun- 
 
ANNE. 215 
 
 tenaiices to climb up and join them. Valeria, with a 
 stubborn determination to make herself in some way 
 conspicuous, went to the edge of the cliff, and even 
 leaned over ; she had one arm round a young tree, 
 but half of her shoes (by no means small ones) were over 
 .the verge, and the breeze showed that they were. Anne 
 saw it, and spoke to Isabel. 
 
 "If she will do it, she will," answered Isabel; "and 
 the more we notice her, the more she will persist. She is 
 one of those dull girls intended by Nature to be always 
 what is called sensible. And when one of those girls 
 takes to making a fool of herself, her idiocy is colossal." 
 
 But Isabel s philosophy did not relieve Anne s fear. 
 She called to Valeria, warningly, " You are very near the 
 edge, Miss Morle ; wouldn t it be safer to step back a little ?" 
 
 But Valeria would not. They were all noticing her 
 at last. They should see how strong her nerves were, 
 how firm her poise. The smokers below, too, were now 
 observing her. She threw back her head, and hummed a 
 little tune. If the edge did not crumble, she was, in 
 truth, safe enough. To a person who is not dizzy, five 
 inches of foot-hold is as safe as five yards. 
 
 But the edge did crumble. And suddenly. The 
 group of women behind had the horror of seeing her 
 sway, stagger, slip down, frantically writhe on the verge 
 half an instant, and then, with an awful scream, slide over 
 out of sight, as her arm was wrenched from the little tree. 
 Those below had seen it too. They sprang to their feet, 
 and ran first forward, then round and up the hill be 
 hind. 
 
 For she had not slipped far. The cliff jutted out slight 
 ly a short distance below the verge, and, by what seemed 
 a miracle, the girl was held by this second edge. Eight 
 inches beyond, the sheer precipice began, with the pile of 
 broken stones sixty feet below. Anne was the first td 
 discover this, reaching the verge as the girl sank out of 
 sight ; the others, shuddering, put their hands over their 
 eyes and clung together. 
 
 "She has not fallen far, 11 cried Anne, with a quick and 
 burning excitement. "Lie still. Valeria," she called 
 
216 ANNE. 
 
 down. "Close your eyes, and make yourself perfectly 
 motionless; hardly breathe. We will save you yet. " 
 
 She took hold of the young tree to test its strength, at 
 the same time speaking rapidly to the others. "By ly 
 ing down, and clasping that tree trunk with one arm, 
 and then stretching over, I can just reach her hand, I 
 think, and seize it. Do you see ? That is what I am go 
 ing to try to do. I can not tell how strong this tree is ; 
 but there is not a moment to lose. After I am down, 
 and have her hand, do anything you think best to secure 
 us. Either hold me yourselves or make ropes of your 
 sacques and shawls. If help comes soon, we can save 
 her." While still speaking, she threw herself down 
 upon the edge, clasped one arm strongly round the tree 
 trunk, and stretching down sideways, her head and 
 shoulder over the verge, she succeeded in first touching, 
 then clasping, the wrist of the girl below, who could not 
 see her rescuer as she lay facing the precipice with closed 
 eyes, helpless and inert. It was done, but only two girls 1 
 wrists as a link. 
 
 The others had caught hold of Anne as strongly as they 
 could. 
 
 "No, "said Isabel, taking command excitedly; "one 
 of you hold her firmly, and the rest clasp arms and form 
 a chain, all sitting down, to that large tree in the rear. 
 If the strain comes, throw yourselves toward the large 
 tree." 
 
 So they formed a chain. Isabel, looking over, saw 
 that the girl below had clasped Anne s wrist with her own 
 fingers also a strong grasp, a death-grasp. If she slipped 
 farther, Anne must slip too. 
 
 All this had not taken two minutes scarcely a min 
 ute and a half. They were now all motionless; they 
 could hear the footsteps of the men hurrying up the hill 
 behind, coming nearer and nearer. But how slow they 
 were! How long! The men were exactly three min 
 utes, and it is safe to say that never in their lives had 
 they rushed up a hill with such desperate haste and en 
 ergy. But women expect wings. 
 
 Heathcote and Dexter reached the summit first. There 
 
ANNE. 217 
 
 they beheld five white-cheeked women, dressed in various 
 dainty floating fabrics, and adorned with ferns and wild 
 flowers, sitting- 011 the ground, clasping each others hands 
 and arms. They formed a line, of which the woman at 
 one end had her arm round a large tree, and the wo 
 man at the other round the body of a sixth, who was half 
 over the cliff. A seventh and free person, Isabel, stood 
 at the edge, her eyes fixed on the heavy form poised along 
 the second verge below. No one spoke but Isabel. She 
 has caught on something, and Anne is holding her," she 
 explained, in quick although low tones, as if afraid to 
 disturb even the air. But while she was speaking the 
 two men had gone swiftly to the edge, at a little distance 
 below the group, and noted the position themselves. 
 
 "Let me " began Dexter. 
 
 No, you are too heavy, " answered Heathcote. You 
 must hold me." 
 
 "Yes," said Isabel. "Quick! quick!" A woman in 
 a hurry would say " Quick !" to the very lightning. 
 
 But if men are slow, they are sure. Heathcote stretch 
 ed himself down carefully on the other side of the little 
 tree, but without touching it, that being Anne s chief sup 
 port, and bearing his full weight upon Dexter, who in 
 turn was held by the other men, who had now come up, 
 he seized Valeria s arm firmly above Anne s hand, and 
 told Anne to let go her hold. They were face to face ; 
 Anne s forehead was suffused with red, owing to her 
 cramped position. 
 
 I can not; she has grasped my wrist," she answered. 
 
 Let go, Miss Morle, " called Heathcote. I have you 
 firmly; do you not feel my hand ?" 
 
 But Valeria would not ; perhaps could not. 
 
 "Some of you take hold of Miss Douglas, then," call 
 ed Heathcote to the men above. "The girl below will 
 not loosen her hold, and you will have to draw us all 
 up together." 
 
 "Ready ?" called the voices above, after an instant. 
 
 "Ready," answered Heathcote. 
 
 Then he felt himself drawn upward slowly, an inch, 
 two inches; so did Anne. The two downward-stretched 
 
218 ANNE. 
 
 arms tightened ; the one upward-lifted arm began to rise 
 from the body to which it belonged. But what a weight 
 for that one arm ! Valeria was a large, heavy girl, with 
 a ponderous weight of bone. In the position in which 
 she lay, it seemed probable that her body might swing 
 over the edge, and almost wrench the arm from its socket 
 by its weight. 
 
 Stop, " said Heathcote., perceiving this. The men 
 above paused. Are you afraid to support her for one 
 instant alone, Anne ?" he asked. 
 
 No, " murmured Anne. Her eyes were blood-shot ; she 
 saw him through a crimson cloud. 
 
 "Keep me firmly," he called out, warningly, to Dexter. 
 Then, letting go his first hold, he stretched down still 
 farther, made a slight spring forward, and succeeded in 
 grasping Valeria s waist. " Now pull up, and quickly," 
 he said, panting. 
 
 And thus, together, Valeria firmly held by Heathcote, 
 the two rescuers and the rescued were drawn safely up 
 from danger to safe level again. Only a few feet, but 
 all the difference between life and death. 
 
 When the others looked down upon the now uncover 
 ed space, they saw that it was only the stump of a slen 
 der cedar sapling, a few inches in height, and two little 
 edges of rock standing up unevenly here and there, which 
 had formed the parapet. A person might have tried all 
 day, with an acrobat s net spread below for safety, to 
 cling there, without success; Valeria had fallen at the 
 one angle and in the one position which made it possi 
 ble. Two arms were strained, and that was all. 
 
 Isafoel was white with nervous fear ; the others showed 
 traces of tears. But the cause of all this anxiety and 
 trouble, although entirely uninjured and not nervous (she 
 had not seen herself), sat smiling upon them all in a sweet 
 suffering-martyr way, and finally went down the hill with 
 masculine escort on each side apotheosis not before at 
 tained. Will it be believed that this girl, fairly well ed 
 ucated and in her sober senses, was simpleton enough to 
 say to Heathcote that evening, in a sentimental whisper, 
 "How I wish that Miss Douglas had not touched me!" 
 
ANNE. 219 
 
 There was faint moonlight, and the simpering expression 
 of the neutral face filled him with astonishment. Dex 
 ter would have understood : Dexter was accustomed to all 
 varieties of women, even the Valeria variety : but Heath- 
 cote was not. All he said, therefore, was, " Why ?" 
 
 "Because then you alone would have saved me," mur 
 mured Valeria, sweetly. 
 
 "If Miss Douglas had not grasped you as she did, we 
 might all have been too late," replied Heathcote, looking 
 at her in wonder. 
 
 "Ah, no; I did not slip farther. You would have 
 been in time," said the belle of Morleville, with what she 
 considered a telling glance. And she actually convinced 
 herself that she had made an impression. 
 
 "I ought not to have done it, of course, Louisa, "she 
 said to her bosom-friend, in the privacy of her own room, 
 after her return to Morleville ; "but I really felt that he 
 deserved at least that reward for his great devotion to 
 me, poor fellow !" 
 
 And why couldn t you like, him, after all, Valeria 
 dear ?" urged Louisa, deeply interested, and not a little 
 envious. 
 
 "I could not I could not," replied Valeria, slowly and 
 virtuously, shaking her head. "He had not the prin 
 ciples I require in a man. But I felt sorry for him." 
 
 Oh, ineffable Valerias ! what would life be without you ? 
 
 Dexter had been the one to offer his arm to Anne when 
 she felt able to go down the hill. At the main-road cross 
 ing they found the Reverend Mr. Sloane faithfully sitting 
 on a dusty bank, with the orchid in his hand, waiting for 
 them. It seemed to Anne that a long and vague period 
 of time had passed since they parted from him. But she 
 was glad to get the orchid ; she knew that no slight ex 
 traneous affair, such as the saving of a life, would excuse 
 the absence of that flower. Rachel Bannert had chafed 
 Heathcote s strained arm with her soft hands, and ar 
 ranged a sling for it made of her sash. She accompanied 
 him back to the picnic ground. It was worth while to 
 have a strained arm. 
 
 Miss Vanhorri considered that it was all nonsense, and 
 
220 ANNE. 
 
 was inclined to reprove her niece. But she had the or 
 chid ; and when Dexter came up, and in a few strong 
 words expressed his admiration for the young girl s cour 
 age, she changed her mind, and agreed with him, al 
 though regretting "the display." 
 
 " Girls like that Morle should be manacled," she said. 
 
 And I, for one, congratulate myself that there was, 
 as you call it, a display a display of the finest resolu 
 tion I have ever seen in a young girl," said Dexter, warm 
 ly. Miss Douglas was not even sure that the little tree 
 was firm ; and of course she could not tell how long it 
 would take us to come." 
 
 "They all assisted, I understand," said Miss Vanhorn, 
 impassively. 
 
 They all assisted afterward. But not one of them 
 would have taken her place. Miss Morle seized her 
 wrist immediately, and with the grasp of a vise. They 
 must inevitably have gone over together." 
 
 "Well, well; that is enough, I think," said Miss Van- 
 horn. "We will drive home now," she added, giving 
 her orders as though both the carriage and its owner were 
 her own property. 
 
 When she had been assisted into her place, and Anne 
 had taken her seat beside her, Heathcote, who had not 
 spoken to his fellow-rescuer since they reached level 
 ground, came forward to the carriage door, with his arm 
 in its ribbon sling, and offered his hand. He said only a 
 word or two ; but, as his eyes met hers, Anne blushed 
 blushed suddenly and vividly. She was realizing for 
 the first time how she must have looked to him, hanging 
 in her cramped position, with crimson face and wild fall 
 ing hair. 
 
ANNE. 221 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "So on the tip of his subduing tongue 
 All kinds of arguments and questions deep." 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " What is the use of so much talking ? Is not this wild rose sweet 
 without a comment ?" HAZLITT. 
 
 EARLY the next morning Miss Vanhorn, accompanied 
 by her niece, drove off on an all-day botanizing expedi 
 tion. Miss Vanhorn understood the worth of being miss 
 ed. At sunset she returned; and the girl she brought 
 back with her was on the verge of despair. For the old 
 woman had spent the hours in making her doubt herself 
 in every possible way, besides covering her with ridicule 
 concerning the occurrences of the day before. It was 
 late when^they entered the old ball-room, Anne looking 
 newly youthful and painfully shy ; as they crossed the 
 floor she did not raise her eyes. Dexter was dancing 
 with Rachel, whose soft arms were visible under her 
 black gauze, encircled with bands of old gold. Anne was 
 dressed in a thick white linen fabric (Miss Vanhorn hav 
 ing herself selected the dress and ordered her to wear it), 
 and appeared more like a school-girl than ever. Miss 
 Vanhorn, raising her eye-glass, had selected her position 
 011 entering, like a general on the field : Anne was placed 
 next to Isabel on the wooden bench that ran round the 
 room. And immediately Miss Varce seemed to have 
 grown suddenly old. In addition, her blonde beauty 
 was now seen to be heightened by art. Isabel herself did 
 not dream of this. Hardly any woman, whose toilet is 
 a study, can comprehend beauty in unattractive unfash 
 ionable attire. So she kept her seat unconsciously, sure ^ 
 of her Paris draperies, while the superb youth of Anne, / 
 heightened by the simplicity of the garb she wore, re 
 duced the other woman, at least in the eyes of all the! 
 men present, to the temporary rank of a faded wax doll. 
 
222 ANNE. 
 
 Dexter soon came up and asked Anne to dance. She 
 replied, in a low voice and without looking up, that she 
 would rather not ; her arm was still painful. 
 
 " Go," said Miss Vaiihorn, overhearing-, " and do not be 
 absurd about your arm. I dare say Miss Morle s aches 
 quite as badly." She was almost always severe with her 
 niece in Dexter s presence : could it have been that she 
 wished to excite his sympathy ? 
 
 Anne rose in silence ; they did not dance, but, after walk 
 ing up and down the room once or twice, went out on the 
 piazza. The w T indoAvs were open : it was the custom to sit 
 here and look through at the dancers within. They sat 
 down near a window. 
 
 I have not had an opportunity until now, Miss Doug 
 las, to tell you how deeply I have admired your wonderful 
 courage," began Dexter. 
 
 "Oh, pray do not speak of it," said Anne, with in 
 tense embarrassment. For Miss Vaiihorn had harried 
 her niece so successfully during the long day, that the girl 
 really believed that she had overstepped not only the 
 edge of the cliff, but the limits of modesty as well. 
 
 "But I must," said Dexter. "In the life I have lived, 
 Miss Douglas, I have seen women of all classes, and sever 
 al times have been with women in moments of peril on 
 the plains during an Indian attack, at the mines after an 
 explosion, and once on a sinking steamer. Only one 
 showed anything like your quick courage of yesterday, 
 and she was a mother who showed it for her child. You 
 did your brave deed for a stranger ; and you seem, to my 
 eyes at least, hardly more than a child yourself. It is 
 but another proof of the innate nobility of our human 
 nature, and I, an enthusiast in such matters, beg you to 
 let me personally thank you for the privilege of seeing 
 your noble act." He put out his hand, took hers, and 
 pressed it cordially. 
 
 It was a set speech, perhaps Dexter made set speeches ; 
 but it was cordial and sincere. Anne, much comforted 
 by this view of her impulsive action, looked at him with 
 thankfulness. This was different from Miss Vanhorn s 
 itlea of it; different and better. 
 
ANNE. 223 
 
 4 I once helped one of my little brothers, who had fall 
 en over a cliff, in much the same way," she said, with a 
 little sigh of relief. I am glad you think it was ex 
 cusable." 
 
 * Excusable ? It was superb, " said Dexter. And per 
 mit me to add, too, that I am a better judge of heroism 
 than the people here, who belong, most of them, to a 
 small, prejudiced, and I might say ignorant, class. They 
 have no more idea of heroism, of anything broad and lib 
 eral, or of the country at large, than so many canary- 
 birds born and bred in a cage. They ridicule the mere 
 idea of being in earnest about anything in this ridiculous 
 world. Yet the world is not so ridiculous as they think, 
 and earnestness carries with it a tremendous weight some 
 times. All the great deeds of which we have record have 
 been done by earnest beliefs and earnest enthusiasms, 
 even though mistaken ones. It is easy enough, by care 
 fully abstaining from doing anything one s self, to main 
 tain the position of ridiculing the attempts of others; but 
 it is more than probable in fact it is almost certain that 
 those very persons who ridicule and criticise could not 
 themselves do the very least of those deeds, attain the very 
 lowest of those successes, which afford them so much en 
 tertainment in others." 
 
 So spoke Dexter ; and not without a tinge of bitterness, 
 which he disguised as scorn. A little of the indifference 
 to outside opinion which characterized the very class of 
 whom he spoke would have made him a contented, as he 
 already was a successful, man. But there was a surface 
 of personal vanity over his better qualities which led him 
 to desire a tribute of universal liking; and this is the 
 tribute the class referred to always refuses to the person 
 who appears to seek it. 
 
 "But, in spite of ridicule, self-sacrifice is still hero 
 ic, faith in our humanity still beautiful, and courage 
 still dear, to all hearts that have true nobility," he 
 continued. Then it struck him that he was general 
 izing too much, feminine minds always preferring a 
 personal application. "I would rather have a girl 
 who was brave and truthful for my wife than the most 
 
224 ANNE. 
 
 beautiful woman on t?arth," lie said, with the quick, 
 sudden utterance he used when he wished to appear im 
 pulsive. 
 
 l But beautiful women can be truthful too," said Anne, 
 viewing the subject impartially, with no realization of 
 any application to herself. 
 
 " Can, but rarely are. I have, however, known that 
 is, I think I now know owe," he added, with quiet em 
 phasis, coming round 011 another tack. 
 
 "I hope you do," said Anne; "and more than one. 
 Else your acquaintance must be limited." As she spoke, 
 the music sounded forth within, and forgetting the sub 
 ject altogether, she turned with girlish interest to watch 
 the dancers. 
 
 Dexter almost laughed aloud to hiime?f in his shad 
 owed corner, she was so unconscious. He had not 
 thought her beautiful, save for the perfection of her 
 youthful bloom ; but now he suddenly began to dis 
 cover the purity of her profile, and the graceful shape 
 of her head, outlined against the lighted window. His 
 taste, however, was not for youthful simplicity; he pre 
 ferred beauty more ripened, and heightened by art. 
 Having lived among the Indians in reality, the true 
 children of nature, he had none of those dreams of ideal 
 perfection in a brown skin and in the wilderness which 
 haunt the eyes of dwellers in cities, and mislead even 
 the artist. To him Eachel in her black floating laces, 
 and Helen Lorrington in her shimmering silks, were far 
 more beautiful than an Indian girl in her calico skirt 
 could possibly be. But Aime was certainly very fair 
 and sweet. 
 
 "Of what were you thinking, Miss Douglas, during 
 the minutes you hung suspended over that abyss ?" he 
 asked, moving so that he could rest his head on his hand, 
 and thus look at her more steadily. 
 
 Anne turned. For she always looked directly at the 
 person who spoke to her, having none of those side glances, 
 tableaux of sweeping eyelashes, and willful little motions 
 which belong to most pretty girls. She turned. And 
 now Dexter was surprised to see how she was blushing, 
 
ANNE. 225 
 
 so deeply and slowly that it must have been physically 
 painful. 
 
 "She is beginning to be conscious of my manner at 
 last," he said to himself, with self-gratulation. Then he 
 added, in a lower voice, "/ was thinking only of you; 
 and what a brutal sacrifice it would be if your life should 
 be given for that other!" 
 
 " Valeria is a good girl, I think," said Anne, re 
 covering herself, and answering as impersonally as 
 though he had neither lowered his voice nor thrown 
 any intensity into his eyes. "However, none of the 
 ladies here approach Helen Mrs. Lorrington ; and I 
 am sure you agree with me in thinking so, Mr. Dex- 
 -ter." 
 
 " You are loyal to your friend." 
 
 "No one has been so kind to me; I both love her and 
 warmly admire her. How I hope she may come soon ! 
 And when she does, as I can not help loving to be with 
 her, I suppose I shall see a great deal more of you" said 
 the girl, smiling, and in her own mind addressing the 
 long-devoted Knight-errant. 
 
 "Shall you?" thought Dexter, not a little piqued by 
 her readiness to yield him even to her friend. "I will 
 see that you do not long continue quite so indifferent," he 
 added to himself, with determination. Then, in pursu 
 ance of this, he decided to go in and dance with some 
 one else ; that should be a first step. 
 
 I believe I am engaged to Mrs. Bannert for the next 
 dance," he said, regretfully. "Shall I take you in ?" 
 
 "No; please let me stay here a while. My arm re 
 ally aches dully all the time, and the fresh air is plea 
 sant." 
 
 "And if Miss Vanhorn should ask ?" 
 
 M Tell her where I am." 
 
 "I will," answered Dexter. And he fully intended to 
 do it in any case. He liked, when she was not with him, 
 to haye Anne safely under her grandaunt s watchful vig 
 ilance, not exactly with the spirit of the dog in the man 
 ger, but something like it. He was conscious, also, that 
 he possessed the chaperon s especial favor, and he did not 
 
 15 
 
226 ANNE. 
 
 intend to forfeit it; he wished to use it for his own pur 
 poses. 
 
 But Rachel marred his intention by crossing it with one 
 of her own. 
 
 Dexter admired Mrs. Bamiert. He could not help it. 
 When she took his arm, he was for the time being hers. 
 She knew this, and being piqued by some neglect of Heath- 
 cote s, she met the other man at the door, and made him 
 think, without saying it, that she wished to be with him 
 a while on the moon-lit piazza ; for Heathcote was there. 
 Dexter obeyed. And thus it happened that Miss Van- 
 horn was not told at all ; but supposing that her niece was 
 still with the escort she had herself selected, the fine-look 
 ing owner of mines and mills, the future Senator, the 
 "type of American success," she rested mistakenly con 
 tent, and spent the time agreeably in making old Mrs. 
 Bannert s life a temporary fever by relating to her in de 
 tail some old buried scandals respecting the departed 
 Baiinert, pretending to have forgotten entirely the chief 
 actor s name. 
 
 In the mean while Heathcote, sauntering along the pi 
 azza in his turn, came upon Anne sitting alone by the 
 window, and dropped into the vacant place beside her. 
 He said a few words, playing with the fringe of Rachel s 
 sash, which he still wore, "her colors, "some one remark 
 ed, but made no allusion to the occurrences of the previous 
 day. What he said was unimportant, but he looked at 
 her rather steadily, and she was conscious of his glance. 
 In truth, he was merely noting the effect of her head and 
 throat against the lighted window, as Dexter had done, 
 the outline being very distinct and lovely, a profile framed 
 in light ; but she thought it was something different. A 
 painful timidity again seized her ; instead of blushing, she 
 turned pale, and with difficulty answered clearly. " He 
 does not praise me," she thought. "He does not say 
 that what I did yesterday was greater than anything 
 among Indians and mines and oil sinking steamers. He 
 is laughing at me. Graiidauiit was right, and no doubt 
 he thinks me a bold, forward girl who tried to make a 
 sensation." 
 
HE WAS MERELY NOTING THE EFFECT." 
 
ANNE. 227 
 
 Heathcote made another unimportant remark, but 
 Anne, being now nervously sensitive, took it as having a 
 second meaning. She turned her head away to hide the 
 burning tears that were rising; but although unshed, 
 Heathcote saw them. His observation was instantane 
 ous where women were concerned ; not so much active 
 as intuitive. He had no idea what was the matter with 
 her : this was the second inexplicable appearance of tears. 
 But it would take more than such little damp occasions 
 to disconcert him ; and rather at random, but with sympa 
 thy and even tenderness in his voice, he said, soothingly, 
 " Do not mind it," "it" of course representing whatever 
 she pleased. Then, as the drops fell, "Why, you poor 
 child, you are really in trouble," he said, taking her hand 
 and holding it in his. Then, after a moment: " I do not 
 know, of course, what it is that distresses you, but I too, 
 although ignorant, am distressed by it also. For since 
 yesterday, Anne, you have occupied a place in my mem 
 ory which will never give you up. You will be an image 
 there forever." 
 
 It was not much, after all ; most improbable was it that 
 any of those who saw her risk her life that day would soon 
 forget her. Yet there was something in the glance of his 
 eye and in the clasp of his hand that soothed Anne inex 
 pressibly. She never again cared what people thought 
 of her "boyish freak" (so Miss Vanhorn termed it), but 
 laid the whole memory away, embalmed shyly in sweet 
 odors forever. 
 
 Other persons now came in sight. "Shall we walk ?" 
 said Heathcote. They rose ; she took his arm. He did 
 not lead her out to the shadowed path below the piazza ; 
 they remained all the time among the lights and passing 
 strollers. Their conversation was inconclusive and uii- 
 momentous, without a tinge of novel interest or brill 
 iancy ; not one sentence would have been worth repeat 
 ing. Yet such as it was, with its few words and many 
 silences which the man of the world did not exert him 
 self to break, it seemed to establish a closer acquaintance 
 between them than eloquence could have done. At least 
 it was so with Anne, although she did not define It. 
 
228 ANNE. 
 
 Heathcote had no need to define ; it was an old story with 
 him. 
 
 As the second dance ended, he took her round, as 
 though by chance, to the other side of the piazza, where 
 he knew Rachel was sitting with Mr. Dexter. Here he 
 skillfully changed companions, simply by one or two of 
 his glances. For Rachel understood from them that he 
 was bored, repentant, and lonely; and once convinced 
 of this, she immediately executed the manoeuvre herself, 
 with the woman s usual means of natural little phrases 
 and changes of position, Heathcote meanwhile standing 
 passive until it was all done. Heathcote generally stood 
 passive. But Dexter often had the appearance of exert 
 ing himself and arranging things. 
 
 Thus it happened that Miss Vanhorn saw Anne re-enter 
 with the same escort who had taken her forth. 
 
 Another week passed, and another. Various scenes in 
 the little dramas played by the different persons present 
 followed each other with more or less notice, more or 
 less success. One side of Dexter s nature was complete 
 ly fascinated with Rachel Bannert with her beauty, 
 which a saint-worshipper would have denied, although 
 why saintliness should be a matter of blonde hair re 
 mains undiscovered ; with her dress and grace of manner ; 
 with her undoubted position in that narrow circle which 
 he wished to enter even while condemning perhaps 
 merely to conquer it and turn away again. His rival with 
 Rachel was Heathcote ; he had discovered that. He was 
 conscious that he detested Heathcote. While thus secret 
 ly interested in Rachel, he yet found time, however, to 
 give a portion of each day to Anne ; he did this partly 
 from policy and partly from jealous annoyance. For 
 here too he found the other man. Heathcote, in truth, 
 seemed to be amusing himself in much the same way. If 
 Dexter waltzed with Rachel, Heathcote offered his arm to 
 Anne and took her out on the piazza ; if Dexter walked 
 with Anne there, Heathcote took Rachel into the rose- 
 sceiited dusky garden. But Dexter had Miss Vanhorn s 
 favor, if that was anything. She went to drive with 
 him and took Anne ; she allowed him to accompany them 
 
ANNE. 221) 
 
 on their botanizing- expeditions ; she talked to him, and 
 even listened to his descriptions of his life and adventures. 
 In reality she cared no more for him than for a Choctaw ; 
 no more for his life than for that of Robinson Crusoe. 
 But he was a rich man, and he would do for Anne, who 
 was not a Vanhorn, but merely a Doug-las. He had 
 showed some liking for the girl; the affair should be en 
 couraged and clinched. She, Katharine Vanhorn, would 
 clinch it. He must be a very different man from the di 
 agnosis she had made up of him if he did not yield to her 
 clinching. 
 
 During these weeks, therefore, there had been many 
 long conversations between Anne and Mr. Dexter ; they 
 had talked on many subjects appropriate to the occasion 
 Dexter was always appropriate. He had quoted pages 
 of poetry, and he quoted well. He had, like Othello, re 
 lated his adventures, and they were thrilling and true. 
 Then, when more sure of her, he had turned the conver 
 sation upon herself. It is a fascinating subject one s self ! 
 Anne touched it timidly here and there, but, never having 
 had the habit or even the knowledge of self-analysis, she 
 was more uncomfortable than pleased, after all, and in 
 clined mentally to run away. She did not know herself 
 whether she had more imagination than timidity, wheth 
 er conscientiousness was more developed in her than 
 ideality, or whether, if obliged to choose between saving 
 the life of a brother or a husband, she would choose the 
 former or the latter. Dexter had to drag her opinions of 
 her own character from her almost by main strength. 
 But he persisted. He had never known an imaginative 
 young girl at the age when all things are problems to her 
 who was not secretly, often openly, fascinated by a sym 
 pathetic research into her own timid little characteris 
 tics, opening like buds within her one by one. Dexter s 
 theory was correct, his rule a good one probably in nine 
 ty-nine cases out of a hundred; only Anne was the 
 hundredth. She began to be afraid of him as he came 
 toward her, kind, smiling, with his invisible air of suc 
 cess about him, ready for one of their long conversations. 
 Yet certainly he was as pleasant a companion as a some- 
 
230 ANNE. 
 
 what lonely young 1 girl, isolated at a place like Caryl s, 
 could wish for; at least that is what every one would 
 have said. 
 
 During- these weeks there had been 110 long talks with 
 Heathcote. Miss Vanhorn did not ask him to accompany 
 them to the woods ; she did not utter to him the initiative 
 word in passing which gives the opportunity. Still, there 
 had been chance meetings and chance words, of course 
 five-minute strolls on the piazza, five-minute looks at the 
 sunset or at the stars, in the pauses between the dances. 
 But where Heathcote took a minute, Dexter had, if he 
 chose, an hour. 
 
 Although in one way now so idle, Anne seemed to her 
 self never to have been so busy before. Miss Vanhorn 
 kept her at work upon plants through a large portion of 
 each day, and required her to be promptly ready upon 
 all other occasions. She barely found time to write to 
 Miss Lois, who was spending the summer in a state be 
 twixt anger and joy, veering one way by reason, the oth 
 er by wrath, yet unable to refrain entirely from satisfac 
 tion over the new clothes for the children which Miss 
 Vanhorn s money had enabled her to buy. The allow 
 ance was paid in advance ; and it made Anne light-heart 
 ed whenever she thought, as she did daily, of the com 
 forts it gave to those she loved. To East, Anne wrote in 
 the early morning, her only free time. East was now 
 on the island, but he was to go in a few days. This 
 statement, continually repeated, like lawyers notices of 
 sales postponed from date to date, had lasted all summer, 
 and still lasted. He had written to Anne as usual, until 
 Miss Vanhorn, although without naming him, had tartly 
 forbidden "so many letters." Then Anne asked him to 
 write less frequently, and he obeyed. She, however, con 
 tinued to write herself as before, describing^ her life at 
 Caryl s, while he answered (as often as he was allowed), 
 telling of his plans, and complaining that they were to be 
 separated so long. But he was going to the far West, 
 and there he should soon win a home for her. He count 
 ed the days till that happy time. 
 
 And then Anne would sit and dream of the island : she 
 
ANNE. 231 
 
 saw the old house, East, and the children, Miss Lois s thin, 
 energetic face, the blue Straits, the white fort, and the 
 little inclosure on the heights where were the two graves. 
 She closed her eyes and heard their voices ; she told them 
 all she hoped. Only this one more winter, and then-she 
 could see them again, send them help, and perhaps have 
 one of the children with her. And then, the year after 
 But here Miss Vanhorn s voice calling her name broke 
 the vision, and with a sigh she returned to Caryl s again. 
 
 Helen s letters had ceased; but Anne jotted down a 
 faithful record of the events of the days for her inspec 
 tion when she came. Eumors varied at Caryl s respect 
 ing Mrs. Lorrington. Now her grandfather had died, 
 and left her everything; and now he had miraculously 
 recovered, and deeded his fortune to charitable institu 
 tions. Now he had existed without nourishment for 
 weeks, and now he had the appetite of ten, and exhibited 
 the capabilities of a second Methuselah. But in the mean 
 time Helen was still absent. Under these circumstances, 
 Anne, if she had been older, and desirous, might have col 
 lected voluminous expressions of opinion as to the qual 
 ities, beauty, and history, past and present, of the absent 
 one from her dearest friends on earth. But the dearest 
 friends on earth had not the habit of talking to this young 
 girl as a companion and equal ; to them she was simply 
 that " sweet child," that "dear fresh-faced school -girl," 
 to whom they confided only amiable platitudes. So 
 Anne continued to hold fast undisturbed her belief in her 
 beautiful Helen that strong, grateful, reverent feeling 
 which a young girl often cherishes for an older woman 
 who is kind to her. 
 
 One still, hazy morning Miss Vanhorn announced her 
 programme for the day. She intended to drive over to 
 the county town, and Anne was to go with her six miles 
 of the distance, and be left at a certain glen, where there 
 was a country saw-mill. They had been there together 
 several times, and had made acquaintance with the saw- 
 miller, his wife, and his brood of white-headed children. 
 The object of the present visit was a certain fern the 
 Camptosorus, or walking-leaf which Miss Vanhorn had 
 
232 ANNE. 
 
 recently learned grew there, or at least had grown there 
 within the memory of living botanists. That was enough. 
 Anne was to search for the plant unflinchingly (the pres 
 ence of the mill family being a sufficient protection) 
 throughout the entire day, and be in waiting at the main- 
 road crossing at sunset, when her grandaunt s carriage 
 would stop on its return home. In order that there 
 might be no mistake as to the time, she w r as allowed to 
 wear one of Miss Vanhorn s watches. There were four 
 teen of them, all heirlooms, all either wildly too fast in, 
 their motions or hopelessly too slow, so that the gift was 
 an embarrassing one. Anne knew that if she relied upon 
 the one intrusted to her care, she would be obliged to 
 spend about three hours at the crossing to allow for the 
 variations in one direction or the other which might er 
 ratically attack it during the day. But her hope lay in 
 the saw-miller s bright-faced little Yankee clock. At 
 their early breakfast she prepared a lunch for herself in 
 a small basket, and before Caryl s had fairly awakened, 
 the old coupe rolled away from the door, bearing aunt 
 and niece into the green country. When they reached 
 the wooded hills at the end of the six miles, Anne de 
 scended with her basket, her digging trowel, and her tin 
 plant case. She was to go over every inch of the saw- 
 miller s ravine, and find that fern, living or dead. Miss 
 Vanhorn said this, and she meant the plant; but it sound 
 ed as if she meant Anne. With renewed warnings as 
 to care and diligence, she drove on, and Anne was left 
 alone. It was ten o clock, and a breathless August day. 
 She hastened up the little path toward the saw-mill, glad 
 to enter the wood and escape the heat of the sun. She 
 now walked more slowly, and looked right and left for 
 the fern; it was not there, probably, so near the light, 
 but she had conscientiously determined to lose no inch 
 of the allotted ground. Owing to this slow search, half 
 an hour had passed when she reached the mill. She had 
 perceived for some time that it was not in motion ; there 
 was no hum of the saw, 110 harsh cry of the rent boards : 
 she said to herself that the miller was getting a great log 
 in place on the little cart to be drawn up the tramway. 
 
ANNE. 233 
 
 But when she reached the spot, the miller was not there ; 
 the mill was closed, and only the peculiar fresh odor of the 
 logs recently sawn asunder told that but a short time be 
 fore the saw had been in motion. She went on to the 
 door of the little house, and knocked; no one answered. 
 Standing on tiptoe, she peeped in through the low win- 
 do w, and saw that the rooms were empty, and in that 
 shining order that betokens the housewife s absence. Re 
 turning to the mill, she walked up the tramway ; a bit 
 of paper, for the information of chance customers, was 
 pinned to the latch: " All hands gone to the sirkus. Home 
 at sunset. " She sat down, took off her straw hat, and con 
 sidered what to do. 
 
 Three hundred and sixty-four days of that year Saw- 
 miller Pike, his wife, his four children, and his hired 
 man, one or all of them, were on that spot ; their one ab 
 sence chance decreed should be on this particular August 
 Thursday when Anne Douglas came there to spend the 
 day. She was not afraid ; it was a quiet rural neighbor 
 hood without beggars or tramps. Her gran daunt would 
 not return until sunset. She decided to look for the fern, 
 and if she found it within an hour or two, to walk home, 
 and send a boy back on horseback to wait for Miss Van- 
 horn. If she did not find it before afternoon, she would 
 wait for the carriage, according to agreement. Hanging 
 her basket and shawl on a tree branch near the mill, she 
 entered the ravine, and was soon hidden in its green re 
 cesses. Up and down, up and down the steep rocky 
 sides she climbed, her tin case swinging from her shoul 
 der, her trowel in her belt; she neglected no spot, and 
 her track, if it had been visible, would have shown itself 
 almost as regular as the web of the geometric spider. Up 
 and down, up and down, from the head of the ravine to 
 its foot on one side : nothing. It seemed to her that she 
 had seen the fronds and curled crosiers of a thousand 
 ferns. Her eyes were tired, and she threw herself down 
 on a mossy bank not far from the mill to rest a moment. 
 There was 110 use in looking at the watch ; still, she did it, 
 and decided that it was either half past eleven or half 
 past three. The remaining side of the ravine gazed at 
 
234 ANNE. 
 
 her steadily ; she Imew that she must clamber over every 
 inch of those rocks also. She sighed, hathed her flushed 
 cheeks in the brook, took down her hair, and braided it 
 in two long school-girl braids, which hung down below 
 her waist ; then she tied her straw hat to a branch, pinned 
 her neck-tie on the brim, took off her linen cuffs, and 
 laid them within together with her gloves, and leaving 
 the tin plant case and the trowel on the bank, started on 
 her search. Up and down, up and down, peering into 
 every cranny, standing on next to nothing, swinging 
 herself from rock to rock ; making acquaintance with sev 
 eral very unpleasant rock spiders, and hastily construct 
 ing bridges for them of small twigs, so that they could 
 cross from her skirt to their home ledge in safety ; find 
 ing a trickling spring, and drinking from it ; now half 
 way down the ravine, now three-quarters; and still no 
 walking-leaf. She sat down on a jutting crag to take 
 breath an instant, and watched a bird on a tree branch 
 near by. He was one of those little brown songsters that 
 sing as follows : 
 
 .: 
 
 Seeing her watching him, he now chanted his little an 
 them in his best style. 
 
 "Very well," said Anne, aloud. 
 
 "Oh no; only so-so," said a voice below. She look 
 ed down, startled It was Ward Heathcote. 
 
ANNE. 235 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "From beginning to end it was all undeniable nonsense; but Hot 
 necessarily the worse for that." NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 HEATHCOTE was sitting under a tree by the brook- 
 side, as though he had never been anywhere else. 
 
 "When did you come ?" said Anne, looking down from 
 her perch. 
 
 "Fifteen minutes or so ago," he answered, looking 
 up from his couch. 
 
 " Why did you come ?" 
 
 "To see you, of course." 
 
 " No ; I can not believe that. The day is too warm." 
 
 " You, at any rate, look cool enough." 
 
 "It is cool up here among the rocks ; but it must be 
 intense out on the high-road." 
 
 "I did not come by the high-road." 
 
 " How, then, did you come ?" 
 
 "Across the fields." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Miss Douglas, were you born in New Hampshire t 
 As I can not call all this information you require up 
 hill, I shall be obliged to come up myself." 
 
 As he rose, Anne saw that he was laden with her din 
 ner basket and shawl, her plant case and trowel, and 
 her straw hat and its contents, which he balanced with 
 exaggerated care. " Oh, leave them all there," she call 
 ed down, laughingly. 
 
 But no, Heathcote would not; he preferred to bring 
 them all with him. When he reached her rock, he grave 
 ly delivered them into her hands, and took a seat beside 
 her, fanning himself with his hat. 
 
 ".And now, how does it happen that you are here ?" re 
 peated Anne, placing her possessions in different niches. 
 
 You insist ? Why not let it pass for chance ? No 2 
 Well, then, by horseback to Powell s: horse loses shoe; 
 
238 ANNE. 
 
 half lost in the deep moss ; but there ! Heathcote had not 
 moved; but the shrinking little plant happened to have 
 placed itself exactly on a line with his idle eyes. 
 
 " It is unfair that you should find it without stirring-, 
 while I have had such a hard climb all in vain," said 
 Anne, carefully taking up the little plant, with sufficient 
 earth and moss to keep it comfortable. 
 
 " It is ever so," replied her companion, lazily, watching 
 the spirals of cigar smoke above his head: "wait, and in 
 time everything will come to you. If not in this world, 
 then certainly in thfe.next, which is the world I have 
 selected for my own best efforts." 
 
 When the fern was properly bedded in the tin case, 
 and the cover closed, Anne sat down for a moment to rest. 
 
 "When shall we have lunch ?" asked the smoker. 
 
 "Fowl" 
 
 * Yes ; I am bitterly hungry. " 
 
 * But you said you were only going to stay a short time." 
 
 " Half an hour longer." 
 
 " What time is it now ?" 
 
 "I have 110 idea." 
 
 "You can look." 
 
 "I refuse to look. Amiability has its limit." 
 
 I had intended to walk home, if I found the f em in 
 time," said Anne. 
 
 "Ah? But I think we are going to have a storm. 
 Probably a thunder-storm," said Heathcote, languidly. 
 
 How do you know ? And what shall we do ?" 
 
 "I know, because I have been watching that little 
 patch of sky up there. As to what we shall do we can 
 try the mill." 
 
 They rose as he spoke. Anne took the plant case. I 
 will carry this, "she said; "the walking-leaf must be 
 humored." 
 
 So long as I have the dinner basket I remain sweet- 
 tempered," answered Heathcote. 
 
 She put 011 her hat, but her neck-tie and cuffs were gone. 
 
 "I have them safe," he said. "They are with the 
 potatoes." 
 
 Reaching the mill, they tried the door, but found it se 
 
ANNE. 239 
 
 curely fastened. They tried the house door and windows, 
 with the same result. Unless they broke several panes 
 of glass they could not gain entrance, and even then it 
 was a question whether Heathcote would be able to thrust 
 inward the strong oaken stick above, which held the sash 
 down. 
 
 "Do mount your horse and ride home," urged Anne. 
 1 I shall be safe here, and in danger of nothing worse 
 than a summer shower. I will go back in the ravine and 
 find a beech-tree. Its close, strong little leaves will keep 
 off the rain almost entirely. Why should both of us be 
 drenched ?" 
 
 " Neither of us shall be. Come with me, and quickly, 
 for the storm is close upon us. There is a little cave, or 
 rather hollow in the rock, not far above the road ; I think 
 it will shelter us. I, for one, have no desire to be out in 
 your summer shower, and ride home to Caryl s after 
 ward in a limp, blue-stained condition." 
 
 How long will it take us to reach this cave ?" said 
 Anne, hesitating. 
 
 " Three minutes, perhaps." 
 
 "I suppose we had better go, then, "she said, slow 
 ly. "But pray do not take those things. They will all 
 have to be brought down again." 
 
 "They shall be," said Heathcote, leading the way to 
 ward the road. 
 
 It was not a long climb, but in some places the ascent 
 was steep. A little path was their guide to the cave" 
 a hollow in the ledge, which the boys of the neighbor 
 hood considered quite a fortress, a bandit s retreat. A 
 rude ladder formed the front steps of their rock nest, and 
 Anne was soon ensconced within, her gray shawl making- 
 a carpet for them both. The cave was about seven feet 
 in depth, and four or five in breadth ; the rock roof was 
 high above their heads. Behind there was a dark, deep 
 little recess, blackened with smoke, which the boys had 
 evidently used as an oven. The side of the hill jutted 
 out slightly above them, and this, rather than the seven 
 feet of depth possessed by the niche, made it possible that 
 they would escape the rain. 
 
240 ANNE. 
 
 The cave was in an angle of the hill. From Heath- 
 cote s side part of the main road could be seen, and the 
 saw-mill; but Anne, facing the other way, saw only the 
 fields and forest, the sparkle of the little mill-stream, and 
 the calmer gleam of the river. One half of the sky was 
 of the deepest blue, one half of the expanse of field and 
 forest golden in the sunshine. Over the other half hung 
 a cloud and a shadow of deep purple-black, which were 
 advancing rapidly, although there was not, wher3 the 
 two gazers sat, so much as a breath of stirred air. 
 
 "It will soon be here," said Heathcote. "See that 
 white line across the forest ? That is the wind turning 
 over the leaves. In the fields it makes the grain look 
 suddenly gray as it is bent forward." 
 
 "I should not have known it was the wind," said 
 Anne. " I have only seen storms on the water." 
 
 " That yellow line is the Heliport plank-road; all the 
 dust is whirling. Are you afraid of lightning ?" 
 
 "Shall we have it?" 
 
 "Yes; here it is." And, with a flash, the wind was 
 upon them. A cloud of dust rose from the road below; 
 they bent their heads until the whirlwind had passed by 
 on its wild career down the valley. When, laughing 
 and breathless, Anne opened her eyes again, her hair, 
 swept out of its loose braids, was in a wild mass round 
 her shoulders, and she barely saved her straw hat, which 
 was starting out to follow the whirlwind. And now 
 the lightning was vivid and beautiful, cutting the blue- 
 black clouds with fierce golden darts, while the thun 
 der followed, peal after peal, until the hill itself seemed 
 to tremble. A moment later came the rain, hiding both 
 the valley and sky with its thick gray veil : they were 
 shut in. 
 
 As Heathcote had thought, the drops only grazed their 
 doorway. They moved slightly back from the entrance ; 
 he took off his hat, hung it on a rock knob, and inquired 
 meekly if they might not now have lunch. Anne, who, 
 between the peals, had been endeavoring to recapture her 
 hair, and had now one long thick braid in comparative 
 order, smiled, and advised him to stay his hunger with 
 
ANNE, 241 
 
 the provisions in his own pockets. He took them out and 
 looked at them. 
 
 "If the boys who use this hole for an oven have left 
 us some wood, we will roast and toast these, and have a 
 hot lunch yet," he said, stretching back to search. Light- 
 Ing a match, he examined the hole ; the draught that blew 
 the flame proved that it had an outlet above. Boys know 
 something, after all. And here is their wood-pile," he 
 said, showing Anne, by the light of a second match, a 
 cranny in the rock at one side neatly filled with small 
 sticks and twigs. The rain fell in a thick dark sheet 
 outside straight down from the sky to the ground with a 
 low rushing sound. In a minute or two a tiny blue flame 
 flickered on their miniature hearth, went out, started 
 again, turned golden, caught at the twigs, and grew at 
 last into a brisk little fire. Heathcote, leaning on his el 
 bow, his hands and cuffs grimed, watched and tended it 
 carefully. He next cut his quarter loaf into slices, and 
 toasted or rather heated them on the point of his knife- 
 blade ; he put his two potatoes under hot ashes, like two 
 Indian mounds, arranged his pinch of salt ceremonious 
 ly upon a stone, and then announced that he had pre 
 pared a meal to which all persons present were gener 
 ously invited, with a polite unconsciousness as to any 
 covered baskets they might have in their possession, or 
 the supposed contents of said receptacles. Anne, having 
 finished the other long braid and thrown it behind her, 
 was now endeavoring to wash her hands in the rain. 
 In this attempt Heathcote joined her, but only succeeded 
 in broadening the grimy spots. The girl s neck-tie and 
 cuffs were still confiscated. She was aware that a linen 
 collar, fastened only with a white pin, is not what custom 
 requires at the base of a chin, and that wrists bare for 
 three inches above the hand are considered indecorous. 
 At least in the morning, certain qualities in evening air 
 making the same exposure, even to a much greater ex 
 tent, quite different. But she was not much troubled ; isl 
 and life had made her indifferent even to these enormities. 
 
 The rain did not swerve from its work ; it came down 
 steadily; they could not see through the swift lead -color- 
 
 16 
 
242 ANNE. 
 
 ed drops. But, within, the little cave was cheery in the 
 fire-light, and the toasted bread had an appetizing fra 
 grance. At least Heathcote said so ; Anne thought it was 
 burned. She opened her basket, and they divided the 
 contents impartially half a biscuit, half a pickle, half 
 an apple, and a slice and a half of cake for each. The po 
 tatoes were hardly warmed through, but Heathcote in 
 sisted that they should be tasted, "in order not to wicked 
 ly waste the salt." Being really hungry, they finished 
 everything, he stoutly refusing to give up even a crumb of 
 his last half -slice of cake, which Anne begged for on the 
 plea of being still in school. By this time they were full 
 of merriment, laughing and paying no attention to what 
 they said, talking nonsense and enjoying it. Amie s 
 cheeks glowed, her eyes were bright as stars, her brown 
 hair, more loosely fastened than usual, lay in little 
 waves round her face ; her beautiful arched lips were 
 half the time parted in laughter, and her rounded arms 
 and hands seemed to fall into charming poses of their 
 own, whichever way she turned. 
 
 About three o clock the veil of rain grew less dense ; 
 they could see the fields again ; from where he sat, Heath 
 cote could see the road and the mill. 
 
 Can we not go now ?" said Anne. 
 
 By no means, unless you covet the drenching we 
 have taken so much care to escape. But by four I think 
 it will be over." He lit a cigar, and leaning back 
 against the rock, said, Tell me some more about that 
 island; about the dogs and the ice." 
 
 "No," said Anne, coloring a little; "you are laugh 
 ing at me. I shall tell you no more." 
 
 Then he demanded autocratically that she should sing. 
 * I choose the song you sang on New- Year s night ; the 
 ballad." 
 
 And Anne sang the little chanson, sang it softly and 
 clearly, the low sound of the rain forming an accompany 
 ment. 
 
 "Do you know any Italian songs ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Please sing me one." 
 
ANNE. 243 
 
 She sang one of Belzinrs selections, and remembered to 
 sing it as Tante had directed. 
 
 " You do not sing that as well as the other; there is 
 no expression. However, that could hardly be expected, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "Yes, it could, and I know how. Only Tante told me 
 not to do it," said the girl, with a touch of annoyance. 
 
 "Tante not being here, I propose that you disobey." 
 
 And Anne, not unwillingly, began ; it had always been 
 hard for her to follow Tante s little rule. She had heard 
 the song more than once in the opera to which it be 
 longed, and she knew the Italian words. She put her 
 whole heart into it, and when she ended, her eyes were 
 dimmed with emotion. 
 
 Heathcote looked at her now, and guardedly. This was 
 not the school-girl of the hour before. But it was, and 
 he soon discovered that it was. Anne s emotion had been 
 impersonal ; she had identified herself for the time being 
 with the song, but once ended, its love and grief were 110 
 more to her her own personality as Anne Douglas than 
 the opera itself. 
 
 "Curious!" thought the man beside her. 
 
 And then his attention was diverted by a moving ob 
 ject advancing along the main road below. Through 
 the rain he distinguished the light buggy of Gregory 
 Dexter and his pair of fine black horses. They had ev 
 idently been under shelter during the heaviest rain-fall, 
 and had now ventured forth again. Heathcote made no 
 sign, but watched. Anne could not see the road. Dex 
 ter stopped at the mill, tied his horses to a post, and then 
 tried the doors, and also the door of the miller s little cot 
 tage, peering through the windows as they had done. 
 Then he went up the ravine out of sight, as if searching 
 for some one. After five minutes he returned, and 
 waited, hesitating, under a tree, which partially protect 
 ed him from the still falling drops. Heathcote was 
 now roused to amusement. Dexter was evidently search 
 ing for Anne. He lit another cigar, leaned back against 
 the rock in a comfortable position, and began a desultory 
 conversation, at the same time watching the movements 
 
244 ANNE. 
 
 of his rival below. A sudden after-shower had now come 
 up one of those short but heavy bursts of rain on the de 
 parting edge of a thunder-storm, by which the unwary 
 are often overtaken. Dexter, leaving his tree, and seizing 
 the cushions of the buggy, hurried up the tramway to 
 the mill door again, intending to force an entrance. 
 But the solid oak stood firm in spite of his efforts, and the 
 rain poured fiercely down. Heathcote could see him 
 look upward to the sky, still holding the heavy cushions, 
 and his sense of enjoyment was so great that he leaned 
 forward and warmly shook hands with Anne. 
 
 " Why do you do that ?" she asked, in surprise. 
 
 "I remembered that I had not shaken hands with you 
 all day. If we neglect our privileges, the gods take them 
 from us," he answered. And then he had the exquisite 
 pleasure of seeing the man below attempt to climb up to 
 one of the small mill windows, slip down twice, and at 
 last succeed so far as to find footing on a projecting 
 edge, and endeavor to open the stubborn sash, which 
 plainly would not yield. He was exerting all his strength. 
 But without avail. It was a true dog-day afternoon, 
 the rain having made the air more close and lifeless than 
 before. The strong draught up the chimney of their cave 
 had taken the heat of the small fire away from them; 
 yet even there among the cool rocks they had found it 
 necessary to put out the little blaze, as making their niche 
 too warm. Down below in the open valley the heat was 
 unbroken ; and to be wet and warm, and obliged to exert 
 all one s strength at the same time, is hard for a large man 
 like Gregory Dexter. The rain dripped from the roof di 
 rectly down upon his hat, and probably, the looker-on 
 thought with glee, was stealing down his back also. At 
 any rate he was becoming impatient, for he broke a pane 
 of glass and put his hand through to try and reach the 
 sash-spring. But the spring w T as broken ; it would not 
 move. And now he must be growing angry, for he 
 shivered all the panes, broke the frame, and then tried 
 to clamber in ; the cushions were already sacrificed down 
 on the wet boards below. But it is difficult for a broad- 
 shouldered heavy man to climb through a small window, 
 
ANNE. 245 
 
 especially if he have no firm foot-hold as a beginning. 
 Heathcote laughed out aloud now, and Anne leaned for 
 ward to look also. 
 
 "Who is it ?" she said, as she caught sight of the strug 
 gling figure. At this moment Dexter had one knee on the 
 sill and his head inside, but he was too broad for the space. 
 
 " He is caught! He can neither get in nor out," said 
 Heathcote, in an ecstasy of mirth. 
 
 "Who is it ?" said Anne again. 
 
 "Dexter, of course; he is here looking for you. 
 There ! he has slipped he is in real danger ! No ; he has 
 firm hold with his hands. See him try to find the edge 
 with his feet. Oh, this is too good !" And throwing back 
 his head, Heathcote laughed until his brown eyes shone. 
 
 But Anne, really alarmed, held her breath ; then, when 
 the struggling figure at last found its former foot-hold, she 
 gave a sigh of relief. We must go down, " she said. 
 
 " And why, Miss Douglas ?" 
 
 "Did you not say he had come for me ?" 
 
 * That was a supposition merely. And did not I come 
 for you too ?" 
 
 "But as he is there, would it not be better for us to 
 go down ?" 
 
 "Have we not done well enough by ourselves so far ? 
 And besides, at this late hour, I see no object in getting a 
 wetting merely for his sake." 
 
 " It is not raining hard now." 
 
 "But it is still raining." 
 
 She leaned forward and looked down at Dexter again ; 
 he was standing under a tree wiping his hat with his 
 handkerchief. 
 
 "Please let me go down," she said, entreatingly, like 
 a child. 
 
 "No," said Heathcote, smiling back, and taking her 
 hand as if to make sure. "Do you remember the even 
 ing after the quarry affair, Anne 2 and that I took your 
 hand, and held it as I am doing now ? Did you think me 
 impertinent ?" 
 
 "I thought you very kind. After that I did not mind 
 what grandaunt had said." 
 
246 ANNE. 
 
 And what had she said ? But no matter ; something 
 disagreeable, without doubt. Even the boys who frequent 
 this retreat could not well have grimier hands than we 
 have now : look at them. No, you can not be released, 
 unless you promise. " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Not to go down until I give you leave: I will give it 
 soon." 
 
 "I promise." 
 
 With a quiet pressure, and one rather long look, he 
 relinquished her hand, and leaned back against the rock 
 again. 
 
 "I wonder how Dexter knew that you were here ?" 
 
 " Perhaps he met grandaunt. I heard him say that 
 he was going to Heliport to-day." 
 
 That is it. The roads cross, and he must have met 
 her. Probably, then, he has her permission to take you 
 home. Miss Douglas, will you accept advice ?" 
 
 "I will at least listen to it," said Anne, smiling. 
 
 "When the rain stops, as it will in a few minutes, go 
 down alone. And say nothing to Mr. Dexter about me. 
 Now do not begin to batter me with that aggressive truth 
 fulness of yours. You can, of course, tell Miss Vanhorn 
 the whole ; but certainly you are not accountable to Greg 
 ory Dexter." 
 
 " But why should I not tell him ?" 
 
 "Because it is as well that he should not know I have 
 been here with you all day," said Heathcote, quietly, but 
 curious to hear what she would answer. 
 
 " Was it wrong ?" 
 
 It was a chance. But he would think I planned it. 
 Of course I supposed the miller and his family were here. " 
 
 "But if it was wrong for you to be here when you 
 found them absent, why did you stay ?" said Anne, look 
 ing at him gravely. 
 
 "The storm came up, you know; of course I could not 
 leave you. Do not look so serious ; all is well if we keep 
 it to ourselves. And Miss Vanhorn s first command to 
 you will be the same. She will look blackly at me for a 
 day or two, but I shall be able to bear that. Take my ad- 
 
ANNE. 24T 
 
 vice; to Dexter, at least, say nothing." Then, seeing 
 her still unconvinced, he added, "On my own account, 
 too, I wish you would not tell him. " 
 
 " You mean it 2" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I will not," she answered, raising her sincere 
 eyes to his. 
 
 Heathcote laughed, lightly lifted her hand, and touch 
 ed the blue- veined wrist with his lips. You true-heart 
 ed little girl !" he said. "I was only joking. As far as 
 I am concerned, you may tell Dexter and the whole world. 
 But seriously, on your own account, I beg you to refrain. 
 Promise me not to tell him until you have seen Miss Van- 
 horii." 
 
 "Very well; I promise that," said Anne. 
 
 " Good-by, then. The rain is over, and he will be go 
 ing. I will not show myself until I see you drive away. 
 What good fortune that my horse was tied out of sight ! 
 Must you carry all those things, basket, tin case, and all ? 
 Why not let me try to smuggle some of them home on 
 horseback ? You would rather not ? I submit. There, 
 your hat has fallen off; I will tie it on." 
 
 "But the strings do not belong there," said Anne, 
 laughing merrily as he knotted the two blue ribbons with 
 great strength (as a man always ties a ribbon) under her 
 chin. 
 
 "Never mind; they look charming." 
 
 "And my cuffs?" 
 
 "You can not have them; I shall keep them as souve 
 nirs. And now have you had a pleasant day, Anne ?" 
 
 "Very," replied the girl, frankly. 
 
 They shook hands in farewell, and then she went down 
 the ladder, her shawl, plant case, and basket on her arm. 
 Heathcote remained in the cave. When she had reached 
 the ground, and was turning to descend the hill, a low 
 voice above said, "Anne." 
 
 She glanced up; Heathcote was lying on the floor of 
 the cave with his eyes looking over the edge. "Shake 
 hands," he said, cautiously stretching down an arm. 
 
 "But I did." 
 
248 ANNE. 
 
 " Once more." 
 
 She put down her shawl, plant case, and basket, and, 
 climbing one round of the ladder, extended her hand; 
 their finger-tips touched. 
 
 "Thanks," said the voice above, and the head was 
 withdrawn. 
 
 Dexter, after doing what he could to make the buggy 
 dry, was on the point of driving away, when he saw a 
 figure coming toward him, and recognized Anne. He 
 jumped lightly out over the wheel (he could be light on 
 occasion), and came to meet her. It was as they had 
 thought ; he had met Miss Vanhorn, and learning where 
 Anne was, had received permission to take her home. 
 
 I shall not be disappointed after all, " he said, his white 
 teeth gleaming as he smiled, and his gray eyes resting 
 upon her with cordial pleasure. He certainly was a fine- 
 looking man. But too large for a mill window. Fortu 
 nately mill windows are not standards of comparison. 
 
 It has been raining a long time ; where did you find 
 shelter ?" he asked, as the spirited horses, fretted by stand 
 ing, started down the moist brown road at a swift pace. 
 
 "In a little cave in the hill-side above us," answered 
 Anne, conscious that at that very moment Heathcote was 
 probably watching them. She hesitated, and then, in 
 spite of a distinct determination not to do it, could not 
 help turning her head and glancing backward and up 
 ward for a second behind her companion s broad shoul 
 ders. In answer, a handkerchief fluttered from above ; 
 he was watching, then. A bright flush rose in her cheeks, 
 and she talked gayly to Dexter during the six-mile drive 
 between the glistening fields, over the wet dark bridge, 
 and up to the piazza of Caryl s, where almost every one 
 was sitting enjoying the coolness after the rain, and the 
 fresh fragrance of the grateful earth. Rachel Baniiert 
 came forward as they alighted, and resting her hand ca 
 ressingly 011 Anne s shoulder, hoped that she was not 
 t,i re d and were they caught in the rain ? and did they 
 observe the peculiar color of the clouds ? and so forth, 
 and so forth. Rachel was dressed for the evening in 
 black lace over black velvet, with a crimson rose in her 
 
ANNE. 249 
 
 hair; the rich drapery trailed round her in royal length, 
 yet in some way failed to conceal entirely the little foot 
 in its black slipper. Anne did not hurry away; she 
 stood contentedly where she was while Rachel asked all 
 her little questions. Dexter had stepped back into the 
 buggy with the intention of driving round himself to the 
 stables ; he had no desire to expose the wrinkled condi 
 tion of his attire to the groups on the piazza. But in that 
 short interval he noted (as Rachel had intended he 
 should note) every detail of her appearance. Her only 
 failure was that he failed to note also, by comparison, the 
 deficiencies of Anne. 
 
 When he was gone, being released, Anne ran up to her 
 room, placed the fern in water, and then, happening to 
 think of it, looked at herself in the glass. The result was 
 not cheering. Like most women, she judged herself by 
 the order of her hair and dress ; they were both frightful. 
 
 Miss Vanhorn, also caught in the storm, did not return 
 until late twilight. Anne, not knowing what she would 
 decree when she heard the story of the day, had attired 
 herself in the thick white school-girl dress which had been 
 selected 011 another occasion of penance the evening 
 after the adventure at the quarry. It was an inconven 
 ient time to tell the story. Miss Vanhorn was tired and 
 cross, tea had been sent up to the room, and Bessmer was 
 waiting to arrange her hair. "What have you been do 
 ing now?" she said. "Climbing trees? Or breaking 
 in colts ?" 
 
 Anne told her tale briefly. The old woman listened, 
 without comment, but watching her closely all the time. 
 
 "And he said to tell you, said Anne, in conclusion, 
 "but not to tell Mr. Dexter, unless you gave me permis 
 sion." 
 
 " Mr. Dexter alone ?" 
 
 "Mr. Dexter or any one, I suppose." 
 
 Very well ; that will do. And Mr. Heathcote is 
 right ; you are not to breathe a word of this adventure 
 to any one. But what fascination it is, Anne Douglas, 
 which induces you to hang yourself over rocks, and climb 
 up into caves. I can not imagine ! Luckily this time you 
 
250 ANNE. 
 
 had not a crowd of spectators. Bring me the fern, and 
 But what, in the name of wonder, are you wearing ? Go 
 to your room immediately and put on the lavender silk." 
 
 " Oh, grandaunt, that ?" 
 
 " Do as I bid you. Bessmer, you can come in now. I 
 suppose it is ordered for the best that young girls should 
 be such hopeless simpletons!" 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " No summer ever aime back, and no two summers ever were alike. 
 Times change, and people change ; and if our hearts do not change as 
 readily, so much the worse for us." NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 " But, ah ! who ever shunn d by precedent 
 The destined ills she must herself assay?" 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 WHEN Miss Van horn and her niece entered the ball 
 room, late in the evening, heads were turned to look at 
 them; for the old woman wore all her diamonds, fine 
 stones in old-fashioned settings, and shone like a little 
 squat-figured East Indian god. Anne was beside her, 
 clad in pale lavender an evening costume simply made, 
 but more like full dress than anything she had yet worn. 
 Dexter came forward instantly, and asked her to dance. 
 He thought he had never seen her look so well so much 
 like the other ladies ; for heretofore there had been a 
 marked difference a difference which he had neither 
 comprehended nor admired. Anne danced. New invi 
 tations came, and she accepted them. She was enjoying 
 it all frankly, when through a window she caught sight 
 of Heathcote on the piazza looking in. She happened 
 to be dancing with Mr. Dexter, and at once she felt nerv 
 ous in the thought that he might at any moment ask her 
 some question about the day which she would find diffi 
 culty in answering. But she had not thought of this un 
 til her eyes fell on Heathcote. 
 
 Dexter had seen Heathcote too, and he had also seen 
 her sudden nervousness. He was intensely vexed. 
 Could Ward Heathcote, simply by looking through a 
 
ANNE. 251 
 
 window, make a girl grow nervous in that way, and a 
 girl with whom he, Dexter, was dancing ? With in 
 ward angry determination, he immediately asked her to 
 dance again. But he need not have feared interference ; 
 Heathcote did not enter the room during the evening. 
 
 From the moment Miss Vanhorn heard the story of 
 that day her method regarding her niece changed entire 
 ly; for Mr. Heathcote would never have remained with 
 her, storm or no storm, through four or five hours, unless 
 he either admired her, had been entertained by her, or 
 liked her for herself alone, as men will like occasionally 
 a frank, natural young girl. 
 
 According to old Katharine, Anne was not beautiful 
 enough to excite his admiration, not amusing enough to 
 entertain him ; it must be, therefore, that he liked her to 
 a certain degree for herself alone. Mr. Heathcote was 
 not a favorite of old Katharine s, yet none the less was 
 his approval worth having, and none the less, also, was 
 he an excellent subject to rouse the jealousy of Gregory 
 Dexter. For Dexter was not coming forward as rapidly 
 as old Katharine had decreed he should come. Old Kath 
 arine had decided that Anne was to marry Dexter ; but 
 if in the mean time her girlish fancy was attracted toward 
 Heathcote, so much the better. It would all the more 
 surely eliminate the memory of that fatal name, Pronan- 
 do. Of course Heathcote was only amusing himself, but 
 he must now be encouraged to continue to amuse himself. 
 She ceased taking Anne to the woods every day; she 
 made her sit among the groups of ladies on the piazza in 
 the morning, with worsted, canvas, and a pattern, which 
 puzzled poor Anne deeply, since she had not the gift of 
 fancy- work, nor a talent for tidies. She asked Heathcote 
 to teach her niece to play billiards, and she sent her to 
 stroll 011 the river-bank at sunset with him under a white 
 silk parasol. At the same time, however, she continued 
 to summon Mr. Dexter to her side with the same dictato 
 rial manner she had assumed toward him from the first, 
 and to talk to him, and encourage him to talk to her 
 through long half -hours of afternoon and evening. The 
 old woman, with her airs of patronage, her half-closed 
 
252 ANNE. 
 
 eyes, and frank impertinence, amused him more than any 
 one at Caryl s. With his own wide, far-reaching plans 
 and cares and enterprises all the time pushing each oth 
 er forward in his mind, it was like coming from a world 
 of giants to one of Lilliputians to sit down and talk with 
 limited, prejudiced, narrow old Katharine. She knew 
 that he was amused ; she was even capable of understand 
 ing it, viewed from his own stand-point. That made no 
 difference with her own. 
 
 After three or four days of the chaperon s open ar 
 rangement, it grew into a custom for Heathcote to meet 
 Anne at sunset in the garden, and stroll up and down 
 with her for half an hour. She was always there, be 
 cause she was sent there. Heathcote never said he would 
 come again ; it was supposed to be by chance. But one 
 evening Anne remarked frankly that she was very glad he 
 came; her grandaunt sent her out whether she wished 
 to come or not, and the resources of the small garden 
 were soon exhausted. They were sitting in an arbor at 
 the end of the serpentine walk. Heathcote, his straw 
 hat on the ground, was braiding three spears of grass 
 with elaborate care. 
 
 "You pay rather doubtful compliments," he said. 
 
 I only mean that it is very kind to come so regularly. " 
 
 "You will not let even that remain a chance ?" 
 
 "But it is not, is it?" 
 
 "Well, no," he answered, after a short silence, "I can 
 not say that it is." He dropped the grass blades, leaned 
 back against the rustic seat, and looked at her. It was 
 a great temptation; he was a finished adept in the art 
 of flirtation at its highest grade, and enjoyed the pastime. 
 But he had not really opened that game with this young 
 girl, and he said to himself that he would not now. He 
 leaned over, found his three spears of grass, and went on 
 braiding. But although he thus restrained himself, he 
 still continued to meet her, as Miss Vanhorn, with equal 
 pertinacity, continued to send her niece to meet him. 
 They were not alone in the garden, but their conversa 
 tion was unheard. 
 
 One evening tableaux were given : Isabel, Rachel, and 
 
ANNE. 253 
 
 others had been admired in many varieties of costume and 
 attitude, and Dexter had been everything from Richard 
 the Lion-hearted to Aladdin. Heathcote had refused to 
 take part. And now came a tableau in which Anne, as 
 the Goddess of Liberty, was poised on a barrel mounted 
 on three tables, one above the other. This airy elevation 
 was considered necessary for the goddess, and the three 
 tables were occupied by symbolical groups of the Seasons, 
 the Virtues, and the Nations, all gathered together un 
 der the protection of Liberty on her barrel. Liberty, be 
 ing in this case a finely poised young person, kept her 
 position easily, flag in hand, while the merry groups were 
 arranged on the tables below. When all was ready, the 
 curtain was raised, lowered, then raised again for a sec 
 ond view, Anne looking like a goddess indeed (although a 
 very young one), her white-robed form outlined against 
 a dark background, one arm extended, her head thrown 
 back, and her eyes fixed upon the outspread flag. But at 
 the instant the curtain began to rise for this second view, 
 she had felt the barrel broaden slightly under her, and 
 knew that a hoop had parted. At the same second came 
 the feeling that her best course was to stand perfectly mo 
 tionless, in the hope that the staves would still support 
 her until she could be assisted down from her isolated 
 height. For she was fifteen feet above the stage, and 
 there was nothing within reach which she could grasp. A 
 chill ran over her; she tried not to breathe. At the 
 same moment, however, when the sensation of falling was 
 coming upon her, two firm hands were placed upon each 
 side of her waist from behind, very slightly lifting her, as 
 if to show her that she was safe even if the support did 
 give way beneath her. It was Heathcote, standing on the 
 table below. He had been detailed as scene-shifter (Ra 
 chel, being behind the scenes herself, had arranged this), 
 had noticed the barrel as it moved, and had sprung up 
 unseen behind the draperied pyramid to assist the goddess. 
 No one saw him. When the curtain reached the foot 
 lights again he was assisting all the allegorical person 
 ages to descend from their heights, and first of all Liber 
 ty, who was trembling. No one knew this, however, save 
 
254 
 
 himself. Rachel, gorgeous as Autumn, drew him away 
 almost immediately, and Anne had no opportunity to 
 thank him until the next afternoon. 
 
 "You do not know how frightful it was for the mo 
 ment," she said. "I had never felt dizzy in my life be- 
 fore. I had nothing with which I could save myself, 
 and I could not jump down on the tables below, because 
 there was no footing : I should only have thrown down 
 the others. How quick you were, and how kind! But 
 you are always kind." 
 
 " Few would agree with you there, Miss Douglas. Mr. 
 Dexter has far more of what is called kindness than I 
 have, "said Heathcote, carelessly. 
 
 They were sitting in the same arbor. Anne was silent 
 a moment, as if pondering. "Yes," she said, thought 
 fully, I believe you are right. You are kind to a few ; 
 he is kind to all. It would be better if you were more 
 like him." 
 
 "Thanks. But it is too late, I fear, to make a Dexter 
 of me. I have always been, if not exactly a grief to my 
 friends, still by no means their pride. Fortunately I have 
 no father or mother to be disturbed by my lacks ; one 
 does not mind being a grief to second cousins." He 
 paused; then added, in another tone, "But life is lonely 
 enough sometimes." 
 
 Two violet eyes met his as he spoke, gazing at him 
 so earnestly, sincerely, and almost wistfully that for an 
 instant he lost himself. He began to speculate as to the 
 best way of retaining that wistful interest; and then, 
 suddenly, as a dam gives way in the night and lets out the 
 flood, all his good resolutions crumbled, and his vagrant 
 fancy, long indulged, asserted its command, and took its 
 own way again. He knew that he could not approach 
 her to the ordinary degree and in the ordinary way of 
 flirtation ; she would not understand or allow it. With 
 the intuition which was his most dangerous gift he also 
 knew that there was a way of another kind. And he 
 used it. 
 
 His sudden change of purpose had taken but a moment. 
 "Lonely enough," he repeated, "and bad enough. Do 
 
^r 7~J i ^ 
 
 . cTT ^ - " 
 
ANNE. 255 
 
 you think there is any use in trying to be better ? 7 He 
 spoke as if half in earnest. 
 
 " We must all try," said the girl, gravely. 
 
 "But one needs help." 
 
 "It will be given." 
 
 He rose, walked to the door of the arbor, as if hesita 
 ting, then came back abruptly. " You could help me," 
 he said, standing in front of her, with his eyes fixed upon 
 her face. 
 
 She started slightly, and turned her eyes away, but 
 did not speak. Nor did he. At last, as the silence grew 
 oppressive, she said, in a low voice: "You are mistaken, 
 I think. I can not." 
 
 He sat down again, and began slowly to excavate a 
 hole in the sand with the end of his cane, to the conster 
 nation of a colony of ants who lived in a thriving village 
 under the opposite bench, but still in dangerous proxim 
 ity to the approaching tunnel. 
 
 I have never pretended to be anything but an idle, use 
 less fellow, r he said, his eyes intent upon his work. But 
 my life does not satisfy me always, and at times I am 
 seized by a horrible loneliness. I am not all bad, I hope. 
 If any one cared enough but no one has ever cared." 
 
 "You have many friends," said AAne, her eyes fixed 
 upon the hues of the western sky. 
 
 "As you see them. The people here are examples of 
 my friends." 
 
 You must have others who are nearer. " 
 
 "No, no one. I have never had a home." He looked 
 up as he said this, and met her eyes, withdrawn for a 
 moment from the sunset; they expressed so much pity 
 that he felt ashamed of himself. For his entire freedom 
 from home ties was almost the only thing for which he 
 had felt profoundly grateful in his idle life. Other boys 
 had been obliged to bend to the paternal will ; other fel 
 lows had not been able to wander over the world and 
 enjoy themselves as he had wandered and enjoyed. But 
 he could not help going on now. 
 
 "I pretend to be indifferent, and all that. No doubt 
 I succeed in appearing so that is, to the outside world. 
 
256 ANNE. 
 
 But there come moments when I would give anything 
 for some firm belief to anchor myself to, something high 
 er and better than I am." (The tunnel was very near 
 the ants now.) "I believe, Miss Douglas, I can not help 
 believing, that you could tell me what that is." 
 
 "Oh no; I am very ignorant," said Anne, hurriedly, 
 returning to the sunset with heightened color. 
 
 But you believe. I will never make a spectacle of 
 myself; I will never ask the conventional questions of 
 conventional good people, whom I hate. You might in 
 fluence me But what right have I to ask you, Anne ? 
 Why should I think that you would care ?" 
 
 "I do care," said the low voice, after a moment, as if 
 forced to answer. 
 
 "Then help me." 
 
 * How can I help you ?" 
 
 Tell me what you believe. And make me believe it 
 also." 
 
 "Surely, Mr. Heathcote, you believe in God ?" 
 
 "I am not sure that I do." 
 
 She clasped her hands in distress. "How can you 
 live!" she cried, almost in tears. 
 
 Again Heathcote felt a touch of compunction. But 
 he could not makdBiimself stop now ; he was too sincere 
 ly interested. 
 
 "There is no use; I can not argue," Anne was saying. 
 If you do not feel God, I can not make you believe in 
 him." 
 
 "Tell me how you feel ; perhaps I can learn from you." 
 
 Poor Anne ! she did not know how she felt, and had 
 no words ready. Undeveloped, unused to analysis, she 
 was asked to unfold her inmost soul in the broad garish 
 light of day. 
 
 "I I can not," she murmured, in deep trouble. 
 
 "Never mind, then," said Heathcote, with an excel 
 lent little assumption of disappointment masked by af 
 fected carelessness. l Forget what I have said ; it is of 
 small consequence at best. Shall we go back to the 
 house, Miss Douglas ?" 
 
 But Anne was struggling with herself, making a des- 
 
ANNE. 257 
 
 perate effort to conquer what seemed to her a selfish and 
 unworthy timidity. "I will do anything I can," she 
 said, hurriedly, iii.a low voice. 
 
 They had both risen. "Let me see you to-morrow, 
 then." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It is a beginning," he said. He offered his arm 
 gravely, almost reverently, and in silence they returned 
 to the house. It seemed to Anne that many long minutes 
 passed as they walked through the garden, brushed by 
 the roses on each side : in reality the minutes were three. 
 
 For that evening meteors had been appointed by the as 
 tronomers and the newspapers. They were, when they 
 came, few and faint ; but they afforded a pretext for being 
 out on the hill. Anne was there with Mr. Dexter, and 
 other star-gazers were near. Heathcote and Rachel, 
 however, were not visible, and this disturbed Dexter. In 
 spite of himself, he could never be quite content unless 
 he knew where that dark-eyed woman was. But his in 
 ward annoyance did not affect either his memory or the 
 fine tones of his voice. No one on the hill that night 
 quoted so well or so aptly grand star-like sentences, or 
 verses appropriate to the occasion. 
 
 1 When standing alone on a hill-top during a clear 
 night such as this, Miss Douglas," he said, "the roll of 
 the earth eastward is almost a palpable movement. The 
 sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of the 
 stars past earthly objects, or by the wind, or by the sol 
 itude ; but whatever be its origin, the impression of rid 
 ing along is vivid and abiding. We are now watching 
 our own stately progress through the stars." 
 
 " Hear Dexter quote," said Heathcote, in his lowest un 
 der- tone, to Rachel. They were near the others, but, in 
 stead of standing, were sitting on. the grass, with a large 
 bush for background ; in its shadow their figures were con 
 cealed, and the rustle of its leaves drowned their whispers. 
 
 Hush ! I like Mr. Dexter, said Rachel. 
 
 I know you do. You will marry that man some day. " 
 
 " Do you say that, Ward ?" 
 
 An hour later, Anne, in her own room, was timidly 
 17 
 
258 ANNE. 
 
 adding the same name to her own petitions before she 
 slept. 
 
 The next day, and the next, they met in the garden 
 at sunset as before, and each time when they parted she 
 was flushed and excited by the effort she was making, 
 and he was calm and content. On the third afternoon 
 they did not meet, for there was another picnic. But as 
 the sun sank below the horizon, and the rich colors rose 
 in the sky, Heathcote turned, and, across all the merry 
 throng, looked at her as if in remembrance. After that 
 he did not see her alone for several days : chance obstacles 
 stood in the way, and he never forced anything. Then 
 there was another unmolested hour in the arbor ; then an 
 other. Anne was now deeply interested. How could she 
 help being so, when the education of a soul was placed in 
 her hands ? And Heathcote began to be fascinated too. 
 
 By his own conversion ? 
 
 August was nearly over. The nights were cool, and 
 the early mornings veiled in mist. The city idlers 
 awakened reluctantly to the realization that summer was 
 drawing to its close; and there was the same old sur 
 prise over the dampness of the yellow moonlight, the dull 
 look of the forest ; the same old discovery that the gold 
 en-rods and asters were becoming prominent in the de 
 parture of the more delicate blossoms. The last four 
 days of that August Anne remembered all her life. 
 
 On the 28th there occurred, by unexpected self -ar 
 rangement of small events, a long conversation of three 
 hours with Heathcote. 
 
 On the 29th he quarrelled with her, and hotly, leaving 
 her overwhelmed with grief and surprise. 
 
 On the 30th he came back to her. They had but three 
 minutes together on the piazza, and then Mr. Dexter join 
 ed them. But in those minutes he had asked forgiveness, 
 and seemed also to yield all at once the points over 
 which heretofore he had been immovable. 
 
 On the 31st Helen came. 
 
 It was late. Anne had gone to her room. She had 
 not seen Heathcote that day. She had extinguished the 
 candle, and was looking at the brassy moon slowly ris- 
 
ANNE. 259 
 
 ing above the trees, when a light tap sounded on her 
 door. 
 
 "Who is it?" she said. 
 
 "Helen, of course," answered a sweet voice she knew. 
 She drew back the bolt swiftly, and Mrs. Lorrington came 
 in, dressed in travelling attire. She had just arrived. 
 She kissed Anne, saying, gayly : Are you not glad to 
 see me ? Grandfather has again recovered, and dismissed 
 me. I spend my life on the road. Are you well, Crys 
 tal ? And how do you like Caryl s ? No, do not light 
 the candle; I can see you in the moonlight, all draped 
 in white. I shall stay half an hour 110 longer. My 
 maid is waiting, and I must not lose my beauty-sleep. 
 But I wanted to see you first of all. Tell me about your 
 self, and everything. Did you put down what happened 
 in a note-book, as I asked you ?" 
 
 Yes ; here it is. But the record is brief only names 
 and dates. How glad I am to see you, Helen ! How 
 very, very glad ! It seemed as if you would never come. " 
 She took Helen s hands, and held them as she spoke. 
 She was very deeply attached to her brilliant friend. 
 
 Helen laughed, kissed her again, and began asking 
 questions. She was full of plans. "Heretofore they 
 have not staid at Caryl s in the autumn, "she said, "but 
 this year I shall make them. September and part of Oc 
 tober would be pleasant here, I know. Has any one 
 spoken of going ?" 
 
 "Mrs. Bannert has, I think." 
 
 "You mean my dearest friend Rachel. But she will 
 stay now that I have come ; that is, if I succeed in keep 
 ingsomebody else. The Bishop has been devoted to 
 her, of course, and likewise the Tenor; the Haunted Man 
 and others skirmish on her borders. Even the Knight- 
 errant is not, I am sorry to say, above suspicion. Who 
 has it especially been ?" 
 
 "I do not know; every one seems to admire her. I 
 think she has not favored one more than another." 
 
 "Oh, has she not?" said Mrs. Lorrington, laughing. 1 
 " It is well I have come, Crystal. You are too innocent 
 to live." She tapped her cheek as she spoke, and then 
 
260 ANNE. 
 
 turned her face to the moonlight. And whom do you 
 like best ?" she said. "Mr. Dexter ?" 
 
 "Yes, "said Anne; "I like him sincerely. And you 
 will find his name very often there," she added, looking 
 at the note-book by Helen s side. 
 
 Yes, but the others too, I hope. What J want to know, 
 of course, is the wicked career of the Knight-errant." 
 
 But is not Mr. Dexter the Knight-errant ?" 
 
 "By no means. Mr. Dexter is the Bishop; have you 
 not discovered that ? The Knight-errant is very decided 
 ly some one else. And, by-the-way, how do you like 
 Some One Else that is, Mr. Heathcote ?" 
 
 " Mr. Heathcote !" 
 
 "It is not polite to repeat one s words, Crystal. But 
 I suppose you do not like him; and half the time, I 
 confess, he is detestable. However, now that I have 
 come, he shall behave better, and I shall make you like 
 each other, for my sake. There is just one question I 
 wish to ask here : has he been much with Rachel ?" 
 
 No yes yes, I suppose he has, " murmured Anne, sit 
 ting still as a statue in the shadow. The brassy moon 
 had gone slowly and coldly behind a cloud, and the room 
 was dim. 
 
 "You suppose ? Do you not know ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know he has." She stopped abruptly. She 
 had never before thought whether Heathcote was or was 
 not with Rachel more than with others ; but now she be 
 gan to recall. "Yes, he has been with her," she said 
 again, struck by a sudden pang. 
 
 "Very well ; I shall see to it, now that I am here," said 
 Helen, with a sharp tone in her voice. He will perhaps 
 be sorry that I have arrived just at the end of the season 
 the time for grand climaxes, you know; but he will 
 have to yield. My half -hour is over ; I must go. How 
 is the Grand Llama ? Endurable ?" 
 
 "She is helping the children; I am grateful to her," 
 replied Anne s voice, mechanically. 
 
 " Which means that she is worse than ever. What a 
 dead-alive voice you said it in ! Now that I am here, I 
 will do battle for you, Crystal, never fear. I must go. 
 
ANNE. 261 
 
 You shall see my triumphal entrance to-morrow at break 
 fast. Our rooms are not far from yours. Good-night." 
 She was gone. The door was closed. Anne was alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " You who keep account 
 Of crisis and transition in this life, 
 Set down the first time Nature says plain no 
 To some yes in you, and walks over you 
 In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all begin 
 By singing with the birds, and running fast 
 With June days hand in hand ; but, once for all, 
 The birds must sing against us, and the sun 
 Strike down upon us like a friend s sword, caught 
 By an enemy to slay us, while we read 
 The dear name on the blade which bites at us." 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 IT is easy for the young to be happy before the deep feel 
 ings of the heart have been stirred. It is easy to be good 
 when there has been no strong- temptation to be evil ; easy 
 to be unselfish when nothing is ardently craved ; easy to 
 be faithful when faithfulness does not tear the soul out of 
 its abiding-place. Some persons pass through all of life 
 without strong temptations; not having deep feelings, 
 they are likewise exempt from deep sins. These pass 
 for saints. But when one thinks of the cause of their 
 faultlessness, one understands perhaps better the meaning 
 of those words, otherwise mysterious, that "joy shall be 
 in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over 
 ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance." 
 
 Anne went through that night her first real torture ; 
 heretofore she had felt only grief a very different pain. 
 
 Being a woman, her first feeling, even before the con 
 sciousness of what it meant, was jealousy. What did 
 Helen mean by speaking of him as though he belonged to 
 her ? She had never spoken in that way before. Al 
 though she Anne had mistaken the fictitious titles, 
 still, even under the title, there had been no such open 
 appropriation of the Knight-errant. What did she mean ? 
 
262 ANNE. 
 
 And then into this burning- jealous anger came the low- 
 voiced question, asked somewhere down in the depths of 
 her being, as though a judge was speaking, " What is 
 it to you?" And again, What is it to you?" She 
 buried her face tremblingly in her hands, for all at once 
 she realized what it was, what it had been, unconscious 
 ly perhaps, but for a long time really, to her. 
 
 She made no attempt at self-deception. Her strongest 
 trait from childhood had been her sincerity, and now it 
 would not let her go. She had begun to love Ward 
 Heathcote unconsciously, but now she loved him con 
 sciously. That was the bare fact. It confronted her, it 
 loomed above her, a dark menacing shape, from whose 
 presence she could not flee. She shivered, and her breath 
 seemed to stop during the slow moment while the truth 
 made itself known to her. "O God!" she murmured, 
 bursting into tears ; and there was no irreverence in the 
 cry. She recognized the faithlessness which had taken 
 possession of her unawares, it is true, yet loyal hearts 
 are not conquered so. She had been living in a dream, 
 and had suddenly found the dream reality, and the actors 
 flesh and blood one of them at least, a poor wildly loving 
 girl, with the mark of Judas upon her brow. She tried 
 to pray, but could think of no words. .For she was false to 
 East, she loved Heathcote, and hated Helen, yet could not 
 bring herself to ask that any of these feelings should 1 e 
 otherwise. This was so new to her that she sank down 
 upon the floor in utter despair and self-abasement. She 
 was bound to East ; she was bound to Helen. Yet she had, 
 in her heart at least, betrayed them both. 
 
 Still, so complex is human nature that even here in 
 the midst of her abasement the question stole in, whis 
 pering its way along as it came, "Does he care for me ?" 
 And "he" was not East. She forgot all else to weigh, 
 every word and look of the weeks and days that had 
 passed. Slowly she lived over in memory all their con 
 versations, not forgetting the most trivial, and even 
 raised her arm to get a pillow in order that she might 
 lie more easily ; but the little action brought reality again, 
 and her arm fell, while part of her consciousness drew 
 
" SHE BURIED HER FACE TREMBLINGLY IS HER HANDS. 
 
ANNE. 263 
 
 off, and sat in judgment upon the other part. The sen 
 tence was scathing;. 
 
 Then jealousy seized her again. She had admired Hel 
 en so warmly as a woman, that even now she could not 
 escape the feeling. She went over in quick, hot review 
 all that the sweet voice and delicate lips had ever said con 
 cerning the person veiled under the name of Knight-er 
 rant, and the result was a miserable conviction that she 
 had been mistaken ; that there was a tie of some kind- - 
 slight, perhaps, yet still a tie. And then, as she crushed 
 her hands together in impotent anger, she again realized 
 what she was thinking, and began to sob in her grief like 
 a child. Poor Anne ! she would never be a child again. 
 Never again would be hers that proud dauntless confidence 
 of the untried, which makes all life seem easy and secure. 
 And here suddenly into her grief darted this new and 
 withering thought : Had Heathcote perceived her feeling 
 for him? and had he been playing upon it to amuse him 
 self? 
 
 Anne knew vaguely that people treated her as though 
 she was hardly more than a child. She was conscious of 
 it, but did not dispute it, accepting it humbly as something 
 some fault in herself which she could not change. 
 But now the sleeping woman was aroused at last, and she 
 blushed deeply in the darkness at the thought that while 
 she had remained unconscious, this man of the world had 
 perhaps detected the truth immediately, and had acted as 
 he had in consequence of it. This was the deepest sting 
 of all, and again hurriedly she went over all their con 
 versations a second time ; and imagined that she found in 
 dications of what she feared. She rose to her feet with 
 the nervous idea of fleeing somewhere, she did not know 
 where. 
 
 The night had passed. The sun had not yet risen, but 
 the eastern sky was waiting for his coming with all its 
 banners aflame. Standing by the window, she watched 
 the first gold rim appear. The small birds were twitter 
 ing in the near trees, the earth was awaking to another 
 day, and for the first time Anne realized the joy of that 
 part of creation which knows not sorrow or care; for 
 
ANNE. 263 
 
 off, and sat in judgment upon the other part. The sen 
 tence was scathing 1 . 
 
 Then jealousy seized her again. She had admired Hel 
 en so warmly as a woman, that even now she could not 
 escape the feeling. She went over in quick, hot review 
 all that the sweet voice and delicate lips had ever said con 
 cerning the person veiled under the name of Knight-er 
 rant, and the result was a miserable conviction that she 
 had been mistaken; that there was a tie of some kind-- 
 slight, perhaps, yet still a tie. And then, as she crushed 
 her hands together in impotent anger, she again realized 
 what she was thinking, and began to sob in her grief like 
 a child. Poor Anne ! she would never be a child again. 
 Never again would be hers that proud dauntless confidence 
 of the untried, which makes all life seem easy and secure. 
 And here suddenly into her grief darted this new and 
 withering thought : Had Heathcote perceived her feeling 
 for him? and had he been playing upon it to amuse him 
 self? 
 
 Anne knew vaguely that people treated her as though 
 she was hardly more than a child. She was conscious of 
 it, but did not dispute it, accepting it humbly as something 
 some fault in herself which she could not change. 
 But now the sleeping woman was aroused at last, and she 
 blushed deeply in the darkness at the thought that while 
 she had remained unconscious, this man of the world had 
 perhaps detected the truth immediately, and had acted as 
 he had in consequence of it. This was the deepest sting 
 of all, and again hurriedly she went over all their con 
 versations a second time ; and imagined that she found in 
 dications of what she feared. She rose to her feet with 
 the nervous idea of fleeing somewhere, she did not know 
 where. 
 
 The night had passed. The sun had not yet risen, but 
 the eastern sky was waiting for his coming with all its 
 banners aflame. Standing by the window, she watched 
 the first gold rim appear. The small birds were twitter 
 ing in the near trees, the earth was awaking to another 
 day, and for the first time Anne realized the joy of that 
 part of creation which knows not sorrow or care; for 
 
264 ANNE. 
 
 the first time wished herself a flower of the field, or a 
 sweet-voiced bird singing his happy morning anthem on 
 a spray. There were three hours yet before breakfast, 
 two before any one would be stirring. She dressed her 
 self, stole through the hall and down the stairs, un 
 bolted the side door, and went into the garden ; she long 
 ed for the freshness of the morning air. Her steps led 
 her toward the arbor; she stopped, and turned in anoth 
 er direction toward the bank of the little river. Here 
 she began to walk to and fro from a pile of drift-wood to 
 a bush covered with dew-drops, from the bush back to 
 the drift-wood again. Her feet were wet, her head ached 
 dully, but she kept her mind down to the purpose before 
 her. The nightmare of the darkness was gone; she now 
 faced her grief, and knew what it was, and had decided 
 upon her course. This course was to leave Caryl s. 
 She hoped to return to Mademoiselle at the half-house, 
 and remain there until the school opened if her grand- 
 aunt was willing. If her grandaunt was willing there 
 came the difficulty. Yet why should she not be willing ? 
 The season was over ; the summer flowers were gone ; 
 it was but anticipating departure by a week or two. 
 Thus she reasoned with herself, yet felt all the time by 
 intuition that Miss Vanhorn would refuse her consent. 
 And if she should so refuse, what then ? It could make 
 no difference in the necessity for going, but it would make 
 the going hard. She was considering this point when she 
 heard a footstep. She looked up, and saw Ward Heath- 
 cote. She had been there some time ; it was now seven 
 o clock. They both heard the old clock in the office 
 strike as they stood there looking at each other. In half 
 an hour the early risers would be coming into the garden. 
 Anne did not move or speak ; the great effort she had 
 made to retain her composure, when she saw him, kept 
 her motionless and dumb. Her first darting thought had 
 been to show him that she was at ease and indifferent. 
 But this required words, and she had not one ready ; she 
 was afraid to speak, too, lest her voice should tremble. 
 She saw, standing there before her, the man who had 
 made her forget Rast, who had made her jealous of Hel- 
 
ANNE. 265 
 
 en, who had played with her holiest f eelings, who had de 
 ceived and laughed at her, the man whom she hated ? 
 No, no whom she loved, loved, loved : this was the des 
 perate ending. She turned very white, standing motion 
 less beside the dew-spangled bush. 
 
 And Heathcote saw, standing there before him, a young 
 girl with her fair face strangely pale and worn, her eyes 
 fixed, her lips compressed; she was trembling slightly 
 and constantly, in spite of the rigidity of her attitude. 
 
 He looked at her in silence for a moment ; then, 
 knocking down at one blow all the barriers she had 
 erected, he came to her and took her cold hands in his. 
 "What is it she has said to you ?" he asked. 
 
 She drew herself away without speaking. 
 
 "What has Helen said to you? Has she told you 
 that I have deceived you ? That I have played a part ?" 
 
 But Anne did not answer ; she turned, as if to pass him. 
 
 "You shall not leave me," he said, barring the way. 
 "Stay a moment, Anne ; I promise not to keep you long. 
 You will not ? But you shall. Am I nothing in all 
 this ? My feelings nothing ? Let me tell you one thing : 
 whatever Helen may have said, remember that it was all 
 before I knew you." 
 
 Anne s hands shook in his as he said this. "Let me 
 go, "she cried, with low, quick utterance; she dared not 
 say more, lest her voice should break into sobs. 
 
 "I will not," said Heathcote, "until you hear mo 
 while I tell you that I have not played a false part with 
 you, Anne. I did begin it as an experiment, I confess 
 that I did ; but I have ended by being in earnest at leact 
 to a certain degree. Helen does not know me entirely ; 
 one side of me she has never even suspected." 
 
 "Mrs. Lorringtoii has not spoken on the subject," 
 murmured Anne, feeling compelled to set him right, but 
 not looking up. 
 
 "Then what has she said about me, that you should 
 look as you do, my poor child ?" 
 
 "You take too much upon yourself," replied the girl, 
 with an effort to speak scornfully. Why should you 
 suppose we have talked of you ?" 
 
266 ANNE. 
 
 " I do not suppose it ; I know it. I have not the heart 
 to laugh at you, Anne: your white face hurts me like a 
 sharp pain. Will you at least tell me that you do not 
 believe I have been amusing myself at your expense 
 that you do not believe I have been insincere ?" 
 
 I am glad to think that you were not wholly insincere. " 
 
 "And you -will believe also that I like you like you 
 very, very much, with more than the ordinary liking ?" 
 
 " That is nothing to me." 
 
 Nothing to you ? Look at me, Anne ; you shall look 
 once. Ah, my dear child, do you not see that I can not 
 help loving you ? And that you love me also ?" As he 
 spoke he drew her close and looked down into her eyes, 
 those startled violet eyes, that met his at last for one 
 half-moment. 
 
 Then she sprang from him, and burst into tears. 
 "Leave me," she said, brokenly. "You are cruel." 
 
 "No; only human," answered Heathcote, not quite 
 master of his words now. I have had your confession 
 in that look, Anne, and you shall never regret it." 
 
 I regret it already, " she cried, passionately ; "I shall 
 regret it all my life. Do you not comprehend ? can you 
 not understand? I am engaged engaged to be mar 
 ried. I was engaged before we ever met." 
 
 " You engaged, when I thought you hardly more than 
 a child!" He had been dwelling only upon himself and 
 his own course; possibilities on the other side had not oc 
 curred to him. They seldom do to much-admired men. 
 
 " I can not help what you thought me," replied Anne. 
 At this moment they heard a step 011 the piazza ; some one 
 had come forth to try the morning air. Where they 
 stood they were concealed, but from the garden walk 
 they would be plainly visible. 
 
 "Leave me," she said, hurriedly. 
 
 "I will; I will cross the field, and approach the house 
 by the road, so that you will be quite safe. But I shall 
 see you again, Anne. " He bent his head, and touched her 
 hand with his lips, then sprang over the stone wall, and 
 was gone, crossing the fields toward the distant turnpike. 
 
 Anne returned to the house, exchanging greetings as 
 
ANNE. 267 
 
 she passed with the well-preserved jaunty old gentleman 
 who was walking up and down the piazza twenty-five 
 times before breakfast. She sought her own room, 
 dressed herself anew, and then tapped at her grandaunt s 
 door; the routine of the day had her in its iron grasp, 
 and she was obliged to follow its law. 
 
 Mrs. Lorrington came in to breakfast like a queen : it 
 was a royal progress. Miss Teller walked behind in amia 
 ble majesty, and gathered up the overflow ; that is, she 
 shook hands cordially with those who could not reach 
 Helen, and smiled especially upon thoso whom Helen 
 disliked. Helen was robed in a soft white woollen ma 
 terial that clung closely about her ; she had never seem 
 ed more slender. Her pale hair, wound round her small 
 head, conveyed the idea that, unbound, it would fall to 
 the hem of her dress. She wore 110 ornaments, not even 
 a ring on her small fair hands. Her place w r as at some 
 distance from Miss Vanhorn ? s table, but as soon as she 
 was seated she bowed to Anne, and smiled with marked 
 friendliness. Anne returned the salutation, and wonder 
 ed that people did not cry out and ask her if she was dy 
 ing. But life does not go out so easily as miserable 
 young girls imagine. 
 
 " Eggs ?" said the waiter. 
 
 She took one. 
 
 "I thought you did not like eggs," said Miss Vanhorn. 
 She was in an ill-humor that morning because Bessmer 
 had upset the plant-drying apparatus, composed of bricks 
 and boards. 
 
 "Yes, thanks," said Anne, vaguely. Mr. Dexter was 
 bowing good-morning to her at that moment, and she 
 returned the salutation. Miss Vanhorn, observing this, 
 withheld her intended rebuke for inattention. Dexter 
 had bowed on his way across to Helen ; he had finished 
 his own breakfast, and now took a seat beside Miss Teller 
 and Mrs. Lorrington. At this instant a servant entered 
 bearing a basket of flowers, not the old-fashioned coun 
 try flowers of Caryl s, but the superb cream-colored roses 
 of the city, each on its long stalk, reposing on a bed of 
 unmixed heliotrope, Helen s favorite flower. All eyes 
 
268 ANNE. 
 
 coveted the roses as they passed, and watched to see 
 their destination. They were presented to Mrs. Lorring- 
 ton. 
 
 Every one supposed that Dexter was the giver. The 
 rich gift was like him, and perhaps also the time of its 
 presentation. But the time was a mistake of the servant s ; 
 and was not Mrs. Lorrington bowing her thanks ? yes, 
 she was bowing her thanks, with a little air of con 
 sciousness, yet with openness also, to Mr. Heathcote, who 
 sat by himself at the end of the long room. He bowed 
 gravely in return, thus acknowledging himself the sender. 
 
 "Well," said Miss Vanhorn, crossly, yet with a little 
 shade of relief too in her voice, "of all systematic co 
 quettes, Helen Lorrington is our worst. I suppose that 
 we shall have no peace, now that she has come. How 
 ever, it will not last long." 
 
 "You will go away soon, then, grandaunt?" said 
 Anne, eagerly. 
 
 Miss Vanhorn put up her eyeglass ; the tone had be 
 trayed something. "No," she said, inspecting her niece 
 coolly; "nothing of the sort. I shall remain through 
 September, perhaps later." 
 
 Anne s heart sank. She would be obliged, then, to go 
 through the ordeal. She could eat nothing ; a choking 
 sensation had risen in her throat when Heathcote bowed 
 to Helen, acknowledging the flowers. * May I go, grand- 
 aunt ?" she said. " I do not feel well this morning." 
 
 "No; finish your breakfast like a Christian. I hate 
 sensations. However, 011 second thoughts, you may go," 
 added the old woman, glancing at Dexter and Helen. 
 You may as well be re-arranging those specimens that 
 Bessmer stupidly knocked down. But do not let me find 
 the Lorrington in my parlor when I come up; do you 
 hear ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Anne, escaping. She ran up stairs to her 
 own room, locked the door, and then stood pressing her 
 hands upon her heart, crying out in a whisper: "Oh, 
 what shall I do ! What shall I do ! How can I bear it !" 
 But she could not have even that moment unmolested: 
 the day had begun, and its burdens she must bear. 
 
ANNE. 26 g 
 
 Bessmer knocked, and began at once tremulously about 
 the injured plants through the closed door. 
 
 "Yes, "said Anne, opening it, "I know about them. 
 I came up to re-arrange them." 
 
 It wouldenter been so bad, miss, if it hadenter been 
 asters. But I never could make out asters ; they all seem 
 of a piece to me," said Bessmer, while Anne sorted the 
 specimens, and replaced them within the drying-sheets. 
 Every fall there s the same time with em. I just dread 
 asters, I do; not but what golden-rods is almost worse." 
 
 " Anne," said a voice in the hall. 
 
 Anne opened the door; it was Helen, with her roses. 
 
 "These are the Grand Llama s apartments, I suppose," 
 she said, peeping in. "I will not enter; merely gaze 
 over the sacred threshold. Come to my room, Crys 
 tal, for half an hour; I am going to drive at eleven." 
 
 "I must finish arranging these plants." 
 
 "Then come when you have finished. Do not fail; 
 I shall wait for you." And the white robe floated off 
 down the dark sidling hall, as Miss Vanhorn s heavy foot 
 made itself heard ascending the stairs. When Bessmer 
 had gone to her breakfast, to collect what strength she 
 could for another aster-day, Anne summoned her courage. 
 
 " Grandaunt, I would like to speak to you," she said. 
 
 And I do not want to be spoken to ; I have neuralgia 
 in my cheek-bones." 
 
 " But I would like to tell you" 
 
 " And I do not want to be told. You are always get 
 ting up sensations of one kind or another, which amount 
 to nothing in the end. Be ready to drive to Updegraff s 
 glen at eleven; that is all I have to say to you now." 
 She went into the inner room, and closed the door. 
 
 "It does not make any difference," thought Anne, 
 drearily; "I shall tell her at eleven." 
 
 Then, nerving herself for another kind of ordeal, she 
 went slowly toward Helen s apartments. 
 
 But conventionality is a strong power : she passed the 
 first fifteen minutes of conversation without faltering. 
 
 Then Helen said: "You look pale, Crystal. What is 
 the matter?" 
 
272 ANNE. 
 
 might have learned something more; but she did not 
 question, she relied upon her own sagacity. It is a dis 
 pensation of Providence that the old, no matter how 
 crowded their own youth may have been, always forget. 
 What old Katharine now forgot was this : if a man like 
 Gregory Dexter is conspicuously devoted to one woman, 
 but always in the presence of others, making no attempt 
 to secure her attention for a few moments alone here and 
 there, it is probable that there is another woman for 
 whom he keeps those moments, and a hidden feeling 
 stronger than the one openly displayed. Rachel never 
 allowed observable devotion. This, however, did not 
 forbid the unobserved. 
 
 Grandaunt, " began Anne, as the carriage rolled along 
 the country road. Her voice faltered a little, and she 
 paused to steady it. 
 
 "Wait a day," said Miss Vanhorn, with grim sarcasm ; 
 then there will be nothing to tell. It is always so with 
 girls." 
 
 It was her nearest approach to good-humor : Anne took 
 courage. "The summer is nearly over, grandaunt " 
 
 "I have an almanac." 
 
 and, as school will soon begin 
 
 " In about three weeks." 
 
 " I should like to go back to Mademoiselle until then, 
 if you do not object." 
 
 Miss Vanhorn put up her eyeglass, and looked at her 
 niece ; then she laughed, sought for a caraway-seed, and 
 by good luck found one, and deposited it safely in the 
 tight grasp of her glittering teeth. She thought Anne 
 was jealous of Mr. Dexter s attentions to Helen. 
 
 "You need not be afraid, child," she said, still laugh 
 ing. If you have a rival, it is the Egyptian, and not 
 that long white creature you call your friend." 
 
 "I am unhappy here, grandaunt. Please let me go." 
 
 "Girls are always unhappy, or thinking themselves 
 so. It is one of their habits. Of course you can not go ; 
 it would be too ridiculous giving way to any such child 
 ish feeling. You will stay as long as I stay." 
 
 " But I can not. I must go." 
 
ANNE. 273 
 
 " And who holds the authority, pray ?" 
 
 " Dear grandaunt, do not compel me," said Anne, seiz 
 ing- the old woman s hands in hers. But Miss Vanhorn 
 drew them away angrily. 
 
 What nonsense !" she said. Do not let me hear an 
 other word. You will stay according to my pleasure 
 (which should be yours also), or you forfeit your second 
 winter at Moreau s and the children s allowance." She 
 tapped on the glass, and signaled to the coachman to drive 
 homeward. " You have spoiled the drive with your ob 
 stinacy ; I do not care to go now. Spend the day in your 
 own room. At five o clock come to me." 
 
 And at five Anne came, 
 
 "Have you found your senses ?" asked the elder wo 
 man, and more gently. 
 
 "I have not changed my mind." 
 
 Miss Vanhorn rose and locked the door. * You will 
 now give me your reasons," she said. 
 
 "I can not." 
 
 " You mean that you will not." 
 
 Anne was silent, and Miss Yanhorn surveyed her 
 for a moment before letting loose the dogs of war. 
 In her trouble the girl looked much older ; it was a 
 grave, sad, but determined woman who was standing 
 there to receive her sentence, and suddenly the inquisitor 
 changed her course. 
 
 "There, there," she said; " never mind about it now. 
 Go back to your room ; Bessmer shall bring you some 
 tea, and then you will let her dress you precisely as I 
 shall order. You will not, I trust, disobey me in so 
 small a matter as that ?" 
 
 "And may I go to-morrow ?" 
 
 We will see. You can not go to-night, at any rate ; 
 so do as I bid you." 
 
 Anne obeyed ; but she was disappointed that all was 
 not ended and the contest over. For the young, to wait 
 seems harder than to suffer. 
 
 Miss Vanhorn thought that her niece was jealous of Hel 
 en in regard to Dexter, and that this jealousy had opened 
 her eyes for the first time to her own faithlessness ; being 
 
 18 
 
274 . ANNE. 
 
 conscientious, of course she was, between the two feelings, 
 made very wretched. And the old woman s solution of 
 the difficulty was to give Dexter one more and perfect op 
 portunity, if she, Katharine Vanhorn, could arrange it. 
 And there was, in truth, very little that old Katharine 
 could not arrange if she chose, since she was a woman 
 not afraid to use on occasion that which in society is the 
 equivalent of force, namely, directness. She was capa 
 ble of saying, openly, Mr. Dexter, will you take Anne 
 out on the piazza for a while ? The air is close here," 
 and then of smiling back upon Rachel, Isabel, or who 
 ever was left behind, with the malice of a Mazarin. 
 Chance favored old Katharine that night once and again. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " That which is not allotted, the hand can not reach, and what is 
 allotted will find you wherever you may be.- You have heard with what 
 toil Secunder penetrated to the land of darkness, and that, after all, he 
 did not taste the water of immortality." SAADI. 
 
 " When a woman hath ceased to be quite the same to us, it mat 
 ters little how different she becomes." WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 THE last dance of the season had been appointed for 
 the evening, and Mrs. Lorrington s arrival had stimu 
 lated the others to ordain "full dress"; they all had one 
 costume in reserve, and it was an occasion to bring all 
 the banners upon the field, and the lance also, in a last 
 tournament. Other contests, other rivalries, had existed, 
 other stories besides this story of Anne ; it never happens 
 in real life that one woman usurps everything. That this 
 dance should occur on this particular evening was one 
 of the chances vouchsafed to old Katharine and her 
 strategy. 
 
 For the fairest costume ordered for Anne had not been 
 worn, and at ten o clock Bessmer with delight was ask 
 ing a white-robed figure to look at itself in the glass, while 
 on her knees she spread out the cloud of fleecy drapery 
 that trailed softly over the floor behind. The robe was of 
 
ANNE. 275 
 
 white lace, and simple. But nothing could have brought 
 out so strongly the rich, noble beauty of this young face 
 and form. There was not an ornament to break the out 
 line of the round white throat, or the beautiful arms, 
 bared from the shoulder. For the first time the thick 
 brown hair was released from its school-girl simplicity, 
 and Anne s face wore a new aspect, as young faces will 
 under such changes. For one may be sorrowful, and 
 even despairing, yet at eighteen a few waving locks will 
 make a fair face fairer than ever, even in spite of one s 
 own determined opposition. 
 
 When they entered the ball-room, the second chance 
 vouchsafed to old Katharine came to meet them, and no 
 strategy was necessary. For Mr. Dexter, with an un 
 wonted color on his face, offered his arm to Anne imme 
 diately, asking for that dance, and as many dances be 
 sides as you can give me, Miss Douglas." 
 
 All who were near heard his words; among them 
 Rachel. She looked at him with soft deprecation in her 
 eyes. But he returned her gaze directly and haughtily, 
 and bore Anne away. They danced once, and then went 
 out on the piazza. It was a cool evening, and presently 
 Miss Vanhorn came to the window. " It is too damp for 
 you here, child, " she said. If you do not care to dance, 
 take Mr. Dexter up to see the flowers in our parlor; and 
 when you comedown, bring my shawl." 
 
 "Mr. Dexter does not care about flowers, I think," 
 answered Anne, too absorbed in her own troubles to be 
 concerned about her graiidaunt s open manoeuvre. She 
 spoke mechanically. 
 
 "On the contrary, I am very fond of flowers," said 
 Dexter, rising immediately. "And I particularly thank 
 you, Miss Vanhorn, for giving me this opportunity to 
 admire them." He spoke with emphasis, and bowed as 
 he spoke. The old lady gave him a stately inclination 
 in return. They understood each other ; the higher pow 
 ers were agreed. 
 
 When Anne, still self-absorbed and unconscious, enter 
 ed the little parlor, she was surprised to find it brightly 
 lighted and prepared, as if for their reception. The red 
 
276 ANNE. 
 
 curtains were closed, a small fire crackled on the hearth, 
 the rich perfume of the flowers filled the warm air; in 
 the damp September evening the room was a picture of 
 comfort, and in the ruddy light her own figure, in its 
 white lace dress, was clearly outlined and radiant. 
 "Here are the flowers," she said, going toward the table. 
 Dexter had closed the door ; he now came forward, and 
 looked at the blossoms a moment absently. Then he 
 turned toward the sofa, which was covered with the same 
 red chintz which hung over the windows to the floor. 
 
 * Shall we sit here awhile ? The room is pleasant, if 
 you are in no hurry to return." 
 
 " No, I am in no hurry," replied Anne. She was glad 
 to be quiet and away from the dancers; she feared to 
 meet Heathcote. Mr. Dexter always talked ; she would 
 not be obliged to think of new subjects, or to make long 
 replies. 
 
 But to-night Mr. Dexter was unusually silent. She 
 leaned back against the red cushions, and looked at the 
 point of her slipper; she was asking herself how long 
 this evening would last. 
 
 "Miss Douglas," began Dexter at length, and some 
 what abruptly, " I do not know in what light you re 
 gard me, or what degree of estimation you have con 
 ferred upon me ; but Here he paused. 
 
 " It is of no consequence," said Anne. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I mean," she said, rousing herself from her abstrac 
 tion, "that it does not matter one way or the other. 
 I am going away to-morrow, Mr. Dexter. I see now that 
 I ought never to have come. But how could I know ?" 
 
 "Why do you go?" said her companion, pausing a 
 moment also, in his own train of thought. 
 
 "I have duties elsewhere," she began; then stopped. 
 * But that is not the real reason," she added. 
 
 "You are unhappy, Miss Douglas; I can always read 
 your face. I will not obtrude questions now, although 
 most desirous to lift the burdens which are resting upon 
 you. For I have something to ask you. Will you listen 
 to me for a few moments ?" 
 
ANNE. 277 
 
 " Oh. yes," said Anne, falling back into apathy, her 
 eyes still on the point of her slipper. 
 
 "It is considered egotistical to talk of one s self," be 
 gan Dexter, after a short silence ; but, under the circum 
 stances, I trust I may be pardoned." He took an easier 
 attitude, and folded his arms. "I was born in New 
 Hampshire. " (Here Anne tried to pay attention ; from 
 this beginning, she felt that she must attend. But she 
 only succeeded in repeating, vaguely, the word New 
 Hampshire ?" as though she had reasons for thinking it 
 might be Maine.) 
 
 "Yes, New Hampshire. My father was a farmer 
 there; but when I was five years old he died, and my 
 mother died during the following year. A rich relative, 
 a cousin, living in Illinois, befriended me, homeless as 
 I was, and gave me that best gift in America, a good 
 education. I went through college, and then found my 
 self penniless. My cousin had died without a will, and 
 others had inherited his estate. Since then, Miss Doug 
 las, I have led a life of effort, hard, hard work, and bit 
 ter fluctuations. I have taught school ; I have dug in 
 the mines; I have driven a stage; I have been lost in 
 the desert, and have lived for days upon moss and berries. 
 Once I had a hundred thousand dollars the result of in- 
 tensest labor and vigilance through ten long years and 
 I lost it in an hour. Then for three days, shovel in 
 hand, I worked on an embankment. I tell you all this 
 plainly, so that if it, or any part of it, ever comes up, 
 you will not feel that you have been deceived. The lead 
 ing power of my whole life has been action ; whether for 
 good or for ill action. I am now thirty-eight years old, 
 and I think I may say that I am no worse than other 
 men. The struggle is now over ; I am rich. I will 
 even tell you the amount of my fortune " 
 
 " Oh no," said Anne, hurriedly. 
 
 "I prefer to do so," replied Dexter, with a formal 
 gesture. "I wish you to understand clearly the whole 
 position, both as regards myself and all my affairs." 
 
 "Myself and all my affairs," repeated itself buzzing- 
 ly in Anne s brain. 
 
278 ANNE. 
 
 My property is now estimated at a little more than a 
 million, and without doubt it will increase in value, as 
 it consists largely of land, and especially mines." 
 
 He paused. He was conscious that he had not succeed 
 ed in controlling a certain pride in the tone of his voice, 
 and he stopped to remedy it. In truth, he was proud. 
 No one but the man who has struggled and labored for 
 that sum, unaided and alone, knows how hard it is to win 
 it, and how rare and splendid has been his own success. 
 He has seen others go down on all sides of him like grain 
 before the scythe, while he stood upright. He knows of 
 disappointed hopes, of bitter effort ended in the grave; of 
 men, strong and fearless as himself, who have striven des 
 perately, and as desperately failed. He was silent for a 
 moment, thinking of these things. 
 
 "It must be pleasant to have so much money," said 
 Anne, sighing a little, and turning her slipper point slight 
 ly, as though to survey it in profile. 
 
 Dexter went on with his tale. He was as much for the 
 moment absorbed in himself as she was in herself; they 
 were like two persons shut up in closely walled towers 
 side by side. 
 
 "For some years I have lived at the East, and have 
 been much in what is called society in New York and 
 Washington," he continued, " and I have had no cause 
 to be dissatisfied with the reception accorded to me. I 
 have seen many beautiful faces, and they have not entire 
 ly withheld their kindness from me. But Miss Doug 
 las, young girls like romance, and I have, unfortunate 
 ly, little that I can express, although I believe that I have 
 at heart more true chivalry toward women than twenty 
 of the idle blase men about here. But that had been bet 
 ter left unsaid. What I wish to say to you is this : will 
 you be my wife ? Anne, dear child, will you marry me ?" 
 He had ended abruptly, and even to himself unexpected 
 ly, as though his usually fluent speech had failed him. 
 He took her hand, and waited for her answer, his face 
 showing signs of emotion, which seemed to be more his 
 own than roused by anything in her. 
 
 Anne had started back in surprise; she drew her hand 
 
ANNE. 279 
 
 from his. They were both gloved ; only the kid-skins had 
 touched each other. " You-are making a mistake, she 
 said, rising. "You think I am Mrs. Lorrington." 
 
 Dexter had risen also; an involuntary smile passed 
 over his face at her words. He took her hand again, and 
 held it firmly. 
 
 "Do you not suppose I know to whom I am talking ?" 
 he said. "I am talking to you, Anne, and thinking 
 only of you. I ask you again, will you be my wife ?" 
 
 "Of course not. You do not love me in the least, 
 and I do not love you. Of what are you dreaming, Mr. 
 Dexter ?" She walked across the little room, and stood 
 between the windows, the red light full upon her. A 
 brightness had risen in her eyes ; she looked very beauti 
 ful in her youthful scorn. 
 
 Dexter gazed at her, but without moving. You are 
 mistaken," he said, gravely. " I do love you." 
 
 " Since when ?" asked the sweet voice, with a touch of 
 sarcasm. Anne was now using the powers of conceal 
 ment which nature gives to all women, even the young 
 est, as a defense. Mr. Dexter should know nothing, should 
 not be vouchsafed even a glimpse, of her inner feelings ; 
 she would simply refuse him, as girls did in books. 
 And she tried to think what they said. 
 
 But the man opposite her was not like a man in a 
 book. "Since six o clock this evening," he answered, 
 quietly. 
 
 Anne looked at him in wonder. 
 
 " Do you wish to hear the whole ?" he asked. 
 
 1 No ; it is nothing to me. Since you only began at 
 six, probably you can stop at twelve," she answered, still 
 with her girlish scorn perceptible in her voice. 
 
 But Dexter paid no attention to her sarcasm. " I will 
 tell you the whole when you are my wife," he said. 
 "Let it suffice now that at the hour named I became 
 aware of the worthlessness and faithlessness of women ; 
 and I speak God s truth, Anne even at that bitter mo 
 ment I fell back upon the thought of you as a safeguard 
 a safeguard against total disbelief in the possibility of 
 woman s fidelity. I knew then that I had revered you 
 
280 m ANNE. 
 
 with my better self all the while that, young- as you are, 
 I had believed in you. I believe in you now. Be my 
 wife ; and from this instant I will devote all the love in 
 me and I have more than you think to you alone." 
 He had crossed the room, and was standing beside 
 her. 
 
 Anne felt at once the touch of real feeling-. "I am 
 very sorry, "she said, gently, looking up into his face. "I 
 should have said it at first, but that I did not think you 
 were in earnest until now. I am engaged, Mr. Dexter; I 
 was engaged before I came here." 
 
 " But," said Dexter, " Miss Vanhorn " 
 
 "Yes, I know. Grandaunt does not approve of it, 
 and will not countenance it. But that, of course, makes 
 no difference." 
 
 He looked at her, puzzled by her manner. In truth, 
 poor Anne, while immovably determined to keep her 
 promise to Hast, even cherishing- the purpose, also, of 
 hastening the marriag-e if he wished it, was yet so ineffi 
 cient an actress that she trembled as she spoke, and re 
 turned his g-aze through a mist of tears. 
 
 "You ivish to marry this man, I suppose I am ignor 
 ant of his name ?" he asked, watching her with atten 
 tion. 
 
 His name is Erastus Pronando ; we were children 
 together on the island," she answered, in a low voice, 
 with downcast eyes. 
 
 "And you wish to marry him ?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 Gregory Dexter put another disappointment down 
 upon the tablets of his memory a disappointment and a 
 surprise ; he had not once doubted his success. 
 
 In this certainty he had been deceived partly by Miss 
 Vanhorn, and partly by Anne herself; by her unstudied 
 frankness. He knew that she liked him, but he had 
 mistaken the nature of her regard. He could always 
 control himself, however, and he now turned to her kind 
 ly. He thought she was afraid of her aunt. "Sit down 
 for a few minutes more," he said, "and tell me about 
 it. Why does Miss Vanhorn disapprove ?" 
 
ANNE. 281 
 
 "I do not know, " replied Anne ; "or, rather, I do know, 
 but can not tell you. Never mind about me, Mr. Dexter. 
 I am unhappy ; but no one can help me. I must help my 
 self." 
 
 "Mr. Pronando should esteem it his dearest privilege 
 to do so," said Dexter, who felt himself growing- old and 
 cynical under this revelation of fresh young love. 
 
 "Yes," murmured Anne, then stopped. "If you will 
 leave me now, "she said, after a moment, "it would be 
 very kind." 
 
 I will go, of course, if you desire it ; but first let me 
 say one word. Your aunt objects to this engagement, and 
 you have neither father nor mother to take your part. 
 I have a true regard for you, which is not altered by the 
 personal disappointment I am at present feeling; it is 
 founded upon a belief in you which can not change. 
 Can I not help you, then, as a friend ? For instance, 
 could I not help Mr. Pronando merely as a friend ? I 
 know what it is to have to make one s own way in the 
 world unaided. I feel for such boys I mean young men. 
 What does he intend to do ? Give me his address." 
 
 "No," said Anne, touched by this prompt kindness. 
 "But I feel your generosity, Mr. Dexter; I shall never 
 forget it." Her eyes filled with tears, but she brushed 
 them away. "Will you leave me now?" she said. 
 
 Would it not be better if we returned together ? I 
 mean, would not Miss Vanhorn notice it less ? You 
 could excuse yourself soon afterward." 
 
 k You are right. I will go down with you. But first, 
 do I not show " she went toward the mirror. 
 
 "Show what ?" said Dexter, following her, and stand 
 ing by her side. "That you are one of the loveliest 
 young girls in the world as you look to-night, the love 
 liest ?" He smiled at her reflection in the mirror as he 
 spoke, and then turned toward the reality. "You show 
 nothing," he said, kindly; "and my eyes are very ob 
 servant." 
 
 They went toward the door ; as they reached it, he 
 bent over her. "If this engagement should by any 
 chance be broken, then could you not love me a little, 
 
282 ANNE. 
 
 Anne only a little ?" he murmured, looking into her 
 eyes questioningly. 
 
 "I wish I could," she answered, gravely. "You are 
 a generous man. I would like to love you." 
 
 " But you could not ?" 
 
 "I can not." 
 
 He pressed her hand in silence, opened the door, and 
 led the way down to the ball-room. They had been ab 
 sent one hour. 
 
 Blum, who was standing disconsolately near the en 
 trance, watching Helen, came up and asked Anne to 
 dance. Eeluctaiit to go to her grandaunt before it was 
 necessary, she consented. She glanced nervously up and 
 down the long room as they took their places, but Heath- 
 cote was not present. Her gaze then rested upon anoth 
 er figure moving through the dance at some distance down 
 the hall. Mrs. Lorrington in her costume that evening 
 challenged criticism. She did this occasionally it was 
 one of her amusements. Her dress was of almost the 
 same shade of color as her hair, the hue unbroken from 
 head to foot, the few ornaments being little stars of 
 topaz. Her shoulders and arms w T ere uncovered; and 
 here also she challenged criticism, since she was so 
 slight that in profile view she looked like a swaying 
 reed. But as there was not an angle visible anywhere, 
 her fair slenderness seemed a new kind of beauty, which 
 all, in spite of sculptor s rules, must now admire. Ra 
 chel called her, smilingly, " the amber witch." But Is 
 abel said, "No ; witch-hazel; because it is so beautiful, 
 and yellow, and sweet." Rachel, Isabel, and Helen al 
 ways said charming things about each other in public : 
 they had done this unflinchingly for years. 
 
 Miss Vanhorn was watching her niece from her com 
 fortable seat on the other side of the room, and watching 
 with some impatience. But the Haunted Man was now 
 asking Anne to dance, and Anne was accepting. After 
 that dance she went out on the piazza for a few moments ; 
 when she returned, Heathcote was in the room, and 
 waltzing with Helen. 
 
 All her courage left her before she could grasp it, and 
 
ANNE, 383 
 
 hardly knowing what she was doing, she went directly 
 across the floor to Miss Vanhorn, and asked if she might 
 go to her room. 
 
 Miss Vanhorn formed one of a majestic phalanx of old 
 ladies. "Are you tired ?" she asked. 
 
 "Very tired," said Anne, not raising her eyes higher 
 than the stout waist be fore her, clad in shining black satin. 
 
 "She does look pale," remarked old Mrs. Bannert, sym- 
 pathizingly. 
 
 " Anne is always sleepy at eight or nine, like a baby," 
 replied Miss Vanhorn, well aware that the dark -eyed 
 Rachel was decidedly a night-bird, and seldom appeared 
 at breakfast at all ; " and she has also a barbarous way 
 of getting up at dawn. Go to bed, child, if you wish ; 
 your bowl of bread and milk will be ready in the morn 
 ing." Then, as Anne turned, she added: "You will be 
 asleep when I come up ; I will not disturb you. Take a 
 good rest." Which Anne interpreted, "I give you that 
 amount of time: think well before you act." The last 
 respite was accorded. 
 
 But even a minute is precious to the man doomed to 
 death. Anne left the ball-room almost with a light 
 heart: she had the night. She shut herself in her room, 
 took off the lace dress, loosened her hair, and sat down 
 by the window to think. The late moon was rising ; 
 a white fog filled the valley and lay thickly over the riv 
 er ; but she left the sash open the cool damp air seemed 
 to soothe her troubled thoughts. For she knew and de 
 spised herself in the knowledge that the strongest feel 
 ing in her heart now was jealousy, jealousy of Helen 
 dancing with Heathcote below. Time passed unheeded , 
 she had not stirred hand or foot when, two hours later, 
 there was a tap on her door. It was Helen. 
 
 "Do not speak, "she whispered, entering swiftly and 
 softly, and closing the door; "the Grand Llama is com 
 ing up the stairs. I wanted to see you, and I knew that 
 if I did not slip in. before she passed, I could not get in 
 without disturbing her. Do not stir; she will stop at 
 your door and listen." 
 
 They stood motionless ; Miss Vanhorii s step came along 
 
284 ANNE. 
 
 the hall, and, as Helen had predicted, paused at Anne s 
 door. There was no light within, and no sound ; after a 
 moment it passed on, entered the parlor, and then the 
 hedroom beyond. 
 
 "If Bessmer would only close the bedroom door," 
 whispered Helen, we should be quite safe. " At this mo 
 ment the maid did close the door; Helen gave a sigh of 
 relief. I never could whisper well, " she said. Only 
 cat-women whisper nicely. Isabel is a cat-woman. Now 
 when it comes to a murmur a faint, clear, sweet murmur, 
 I am an adept. I wonder if Isabsl will subdue her wid 
 ower ? You have been here long enough to have an 
 opinion. Will she ?" 
 
 "I do not know, "said Anne, wondering at her own 
 ability to speak the words. 
 
 And I do not care ! I am tired, Crystal : may I lie 
 on your bed ? Do close that deathly window, and come 
 over here, so that we can talk comfortably," said Helen, 
 throwing herself down on the white coverlet a long 
 slender shape, with its white arms clasped under its head. 
 The small room was in shadow. Anne drew a chair to 
 the bedside and sat down, with her back to the moonlight. 
 
 "This is a miserable world," began Mrs. Lorrington. 
 Her companion, sitting with folded arms and downcast 
 eyes, mentally agreed with her. 
 
 "Of course you do not think so," continued Helen, 
 "and perhaps, being such a crystal-innocent, you will 
 never find it out. There are such souls. There are also 
 others ; and it is quite decided that I hate Rachel Ban- 
 nert, who is one of them." 
 
 Anne had moved nervously, but at that name she fell 
 back into stillness again. 
 
 Rachel is the kind of woman I dread more than any 
 other," continued Helen. "Her strength is feeling. 
 Feeling! I tell you, Crystal, that you and I are capable 
 of loving, and suffering for the one we love, through long 
 years of pain, where Rachel would not wet the sole of her 
 slipper. Yet men believe in her ! The truth is, men are 
 fools: one sigh deceives them." 
 
 "Then sigh," said the figure in the chair. 
 
"ANNE DREW A CHAIR TO THE BEDSIDE AND SAT DOWN, AVITH HKR 
 BACK TO THE MOONLIGHT." 
 
ANNE. 285 
 
 " No; that is not my talent: I must continue to be my 
 self. But / saw her on the piazza with Ward to-night ; 
 and I detest her." 
 
 " With Mr. Heathcote ?" 
 
 Yes. Of course nothing would be so much to her 
 disadvantage as to marry Ward, and she knows it; he 
 has no fortune, and she has none. But she loves to make 
 me wretched. I made the greatest mistake of my life 
 when I let her see once, more than a year ago, how things 
 were." 
 
 "How things were?" repeated Anne that common 
 place phrase which carries deep meanings safely because 
 unexpressed. 
 
 "Of course there is no necessity to tell you, Crystal, 
 what you must already know that Ward and I are in a 
 certain way betrothed. It is an old affair: we have 
 known each other always." 
 
 "Yes," said the other voice, affirmatively and steadily. 
 
 "Some day we shall be married, I suppose: we like 
 each other. But there is no haste at present : I think 
 we both like to be free. Heigh-ho ! Do you admire 
 this dress, Crystal ?" 
 
 " It is very beautiful." 
 
 "And yet he only came in and danced with me once!" 
 
 "Perhaps he does not care for dancing," said Anne. 
 She was accomplishing each one of her sentences slowly 
 and carefully, like answers in a lesson. 
 
 Yes, he does. Do not be deceived by his indolent 
 manner, Crystal; he is full of all sorts of unexpected 
 strong likings and feelings, in spite of his lazy look. Do 
 you think I should be likely to fall in love with a stick ?" 
 
 Anne made no reply. 
 
 "Do you ?" said Helen, insistently, stretching out her 
 arms, and adjusting the chains of topaz stars that decked 
 their slenderness. 
 
 Anne leaned forward and drew down her friend s hands, 
 holding them closely in her own. "Helen," she said, 
 " tell me: do you love Mr. Heathcote ?" 
 
 " What is love ?" said Mrs. Lorrington, lightly. 
 
 "Tell me, Helen." 
 
286 ANNE. 
 
 "Why do you wish to know ?" 
 
 " I do wish to know." 
 
 "Ward Heathcote is not worth my love." 
 
 "Is he worth Rachel Bannert s, then?" said Anne, 
 touching the spring by which she had seen the other 
 stirred. 
 
 "Rachel Bannert!" repeated Helen, with a tone of 
 bitter scorn. Then she paused. Anne, you are a true- 
 hearted child, and I will tell you. I love Ward Heath- 
 cote with my whole heart and soul." 
 
 She spoke in clear tones, and did not turn away or hide 
 her face; she lay looking up at the moonlight on the 
 rough white wall. It was Anne who turned, shivering, 
 and shading her eyes with her hand. 
 
 "I love him so much," Helen continued, "that if he 
 should leave me, I believe I should die. Not suddenly, 
 or with any sensation, of course. I only mean that I 
 should not be able to live." 
 
 Again there was silence. Then the clear soft voice 
 went 011. 
 
 "I have always loved him. Ever since I can remem 
 ber. Do not be shocked, but I loved him even when I 
 married Richard. I was very young, and did it in a 
 sort of desperate revenge because he did not, would not, 
 care for me. I was not punished for my madness, for 
 Richard loved me dearly, and died so soon, poor fellow, 
 that he never discovered the truth. And then it all be 
 gan over again. Only this time Ward was different." 
 
 Another silence followed. Anne did not move or speak. 
 
 " Do not be unhappy about me, child," said Helen at 
 last, turning on her arm to look at her companion; "all 
 will come right in time. It was only that I was vexed 
 about this evening. For he has not seemed quite himself 
 lately, and of course I attribute it to Rachel : her deadly 
 sweetness is like that of nightshade and tube-roses com 
 bined. Now tell me about yourself: how comes on the 
 quarrel with the Llama ?" 
 
 " I hardly know." 
 
 I saw you stealing away in your white lace with 
 Gregory Dexter this evening, " pursued Helen. He was 
 
ANNE. 287 
 
 as agreeable as ever this morning. However, there it is 
 again ; just before six, Nightshade strolled off toward the 
 ravine to see the sunset (one sees the sunset so well from 
 there, you know, facing the east), and Dexter seemed also 
 to have forgotten the points of the compass, for he fol 
 lowed her." 
 
 "Then it was Mrs. Bannert, " said Anne, half uncon 
 sciously. 
 
 "It is always- Mrs. Bannert. I do not in the least 
 know what you mean, but it is always Mrs. Baimert. 
 What did he say about her ?" 
 
 "Of course I can not tell you, Helen. But I really 
 thought it was you." 
 
 What should I have to do with it ? How you play 
 at cross-purposes, Crystal ! Is it possible that during all 
 this time you have not discovered how infatuated our 
 Gregory is with Rachel ? Ward is only amusing him 
 self ; but Gregory is, in one sense, carried away. How 
 ever, I doubt if it lasts, and I really think he has a warm 
 regard for you, a serious one. It is a pity you could 
 not- 
 
 Anne stopped the sentence with a gesture. 
 
 "Yes, I see that little ring," said Helen. "But the 
 world is a puzzle, and we often follow several paths be 
 fore we find the right one. How cold your hands are! 
 The nights are 110 longer like summer, and the moon is 
 Medusa. The autumn moon is a cruel moon always, re 
 minding us of the broken hopes and promises of the lost 
 summer. I must go, Crystal. You are pale and weary ; 
 the summer with the Llama has been too hard. I believe 
 you will be glad to be safely back at Moreau s again. But 
 I can not come over now and tell you romances, can I ? 
 You know the personages, and the charm will be gone. 
 To-morrow I am going to ride. You have not seen me in 
 my habit ? I assure you even a mermaid can not com 
 pare with me. Do you know, I should be happy for life 
 if I could but induce Rachel to show herself once on horse 
 back by :ny side : on horseback Rachel looks excuse the 
 word, but it expresses it sploshy. The trouble is that 
 she knows it, and will not go; she prefers moonlight, a 
 
288 ANNE. 
 
 piazza, and sylphide roses in her hair, with the back 
 ground of fluffy white shawl." 
 
 Then, with a little more light nonsense, Helen went 
 away went at last. Anne bolted the door, threw her 
 self down upon her knees beside the bed, with her arms 
 stretched out and her face hidden. There had been but 
 this wanting to her misery, and now it was added : Helen 
 loved him. 
 
 For she was not deceived by the flippant phrases which 
 had surrounded tne avowal : Helen would talk flippantly 
 on her death-bed. None the less was she in earnest when 
 she spoke those few words. In such matters a woman 
 can read a woman : there is a tone of voice which can 
 not be counterfeited. It tells all. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " What is this that them hast been fretting and fuming and lament 
 ing and self-tormenting on account of ? Say it in a word : is it not be 
 cause thou art not happy ? Foolish soul ! what act of Legislature was 
 there that thou shouldst be happy ? There is in Man a higher than Hap 
 piness ; he can do without Happiness, and instead thereof find Blessed 
 ness. This is the everlasting Yea, wherein all contradiction is solved." 
 CARLYLE. 
 
 AFTER an hour of mute suffering, Anne sought the 
 blessed oblivion of sleep. She had conquered herself; 
 she was exhausted. She would try to gain strength for 
 the effort of the coming day. But nothing avails against 
 that fever, strong as life and sad as death, which we call 
 Love, and which, in spite of the crowd of shallower feel 
 ings that masquerade under and mock its name, still re 
 mains the master-power of our human existence. Anne 
 had no sooner laid her head upon the pillow than there 
 rose within her, and ten times stronger than before, her 
 love and her jealousy. She would stay and contest the 
 matter with Helen. Had he not said, had he not look 
 ed And then she caught herself back in an agony of 
 self-reproach. For it is always hard for the young to 
 learn the lesson of human weakness. It is strange and 
 
ANNE. 289 
 
 humiliating to them to discover that there are powers 
 within them stronger than their own wills. The old 
 know this so well that they excuse each other silently; 
 but, loath to shake the ignorant faith of innocence, they 
 leave the young to find it out for themselves. The whole 
 night with Anne was but a repetition of efforts and lapses, 
 followed toward morning, however, by a struggling re 
 turn to self-control. For years of faithfulness even as a 
 child are not thrown away, but yield, thank Heaven! a 
 strength at last in times of trial; else might we all go 
 drown ourselves. At dawn, with tear-stained cheeks, 
 she fell asleep, waking with a start when Bessmer 
 knocked and inquired if she was ill. Miss Vanhorn had 
 gone down to breakfast. 
 
 "Please send me some coffee," said Anne, without 
 opening the door. "I do not care for anything else. 
 I will be ready soon." 
 
 She dressed herself slowly, swallowing the coffee. But 
 youth is strong ; the cold bath and the fresh white morn 
 ing dress made her look as fair as ever. Miss Vanhorn 
 was waiting for her in the little parlor. Bessmer was 
 sent away., and the door closed. The girl remained stand 
 ing, and took hold of the back of a chair to nerve her 
 self for the first step along the hard, lonely road stretch 
 ing out before her like a desert. 
 
 " Anne," began Miss Vanhorn, in a magisterial voice, 
 " what did Mr. Dexter say to you last evening ?" 
 
 "He asked me to be his wife." 
 
 * I hardly expected it so soon, although I knew it 
 would come in time," said the old woman, with a swallow 
 of satisfaction. "Sit down. And don t be an idiot. 
 You will now listen to me. Mr. Dexter is a rich man ; 
 he is what is called a rising man (if any one wants to 
 rise); he is a good enough man also, as men go. He 
 has no claim as regards family ; neither have you. He 
 is a thorough and undiluted American; so are you. He 
 will be a kind husband, and one far higher in the world 
 than you had any right to expect. On the other hand, 
 you -will do very well as his wife, for you have fair abil 
 ity and a pretty face (it is of course your pink and white 
 
 19 
 
290 ANNE. 
 
 beauty that has won him), and principles enough for 
 both. Like all people who have made money rapid- 
 ly, he is lavish, and will deny you nothing ; he will 
 even allow you, I presume, to help one and all of that 
 colony of children, priests, old maids, and dogs, up on 
 that island. See what power will be put into your hands ! 
 You might labor all your life, and not accomplish one- 
 hundredth part of that which, as Gregory Dexter s wife, 
 you could do in one day. 
 
 " As to your probable objection the boy-and-girl en 
 gagement in which you were foolish enough to entangle 
 yourself I will simply say, leave it to time ; it will break 
 itself. How do you know that it is not, in fact, broken 
 already ? The Pronando blood is faithless in its very 
 essence," added the old woman, bitterly. "Mr. Dexter 
 is a man of the world. I will explain it to him myself ; 
 he will understand, and will not urge you at present. 
 He will wait, as I shall, for the natural solution of time. 
 But in the mean while you must not off end him ; he is 
 not at all a man whom a woman can offend with im 
 punity. He is vain, and has a singularly mistaken idea 
 of his own importance. Agree to what I propose 
 which is simple quiescence for the present and you 
 shall go back to Moreau s, and the allowance for the 
 children shall be continued. I have never before in 
 my life made so many concessions; it is because you 
 have had at times lately a look that brings back 
 Alida," 
 
 Anne s lips trembled; a sudden weakness came over 
 her at this allusion to her mother. 
 
 " Well ?" said Miss Vanhorn, expectantly. 
 
 There was a pause. Then a girl s voice answered : " I 
 can not, grandaunt. I must go. " 
 
 "You may go, I tell you, back to Moreau s on the 1st 
 of October." 
 
 " I mean that I can not marry Mr. Dexter." 
 
 " No one asks you to marry him now." 
 
 " I can never marry him." 
 
 Why ?" said Miss Vanhorn, with rising color. " Be 
 careful what you say. No lies." 
 
ANNE. 291 
 
 " I I am engaged to East." 
 
 "Lie number one. Look at me. If your engage 
 ment was ended, then would you marry Mr. Dexter ?" 
 
 Anne half rose, as if to escape, but sank back again. 
 "I could not marry him, because I do not love him," 
 she answered. 
 
 "And whom do you love, that you know so much 
 about it, and have your do not and can not so prompt 
 ly ready ? Never tell me that it is that boy upon the isl 
 and who has taught you all these new ways, this falter 
 ing and fear of looking in my face, of which you knew 
 nothing when you came. Do you wish me to tell you 
 what I think of you ?" 
 
 "No, "cried the girl, rushing forward, and falling on 
 her knees beside the arm-chair ; tell me nothing. Only 
 let me go away. I can not, can not stay here ; I am too 
 wretched, too weak. You can not have a lower opinion 
 of me than I have of myself at this moment. If, you 
 have any compassion for me for the memory of my mo 
 thersay no more, and let me go." She bowed her head 
 upon the arm of the chair and sobbed aloud. 
 
 But Miss Vanhorn rose and walked away. " I know 
 what this means," she said, standing in the centre of the 
 room. " Like mother, like daughter. Only Alida ran 
 after a man who loved her, although her inferior, while 
 you have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is 
 simply laughing at you. Don t you know, you fool, that 
 Ward Heathcote will marry Helen Lorrington the wo 
 man you pretend to be grateful to, and call your dearest 
 friend ? Helen Lorrington will be in every way a suit 
 able wife for him. It has long been generally under 
 stood. The idea of your trying to thrust yourself be 
 tween them is preposterous I may say a maniac s 
 folly." 
 
 "I am not trying: only let me go," sobbed Anne, still 
 kneeling by the chair. 
 
 "You think I have not seen," continued Miss Van- 
 horn, her wrath rising with every bitter word ; but I 
 have. Only I never dreamed that it was as bad as this. 
 I never dreamed that Alida s daughter could be bold and 
 
292 ANNE. 
 
 immodest worse than her mother, who was only love- 
 mad." 
 
 Anne started to her feet. "Miss Vanhorn," she said, 
 I will not hear this, either of myself or my mother. 
 It is not true." 
 
 "As to not hearing it, you are right; you will not 
 hear my voice often in the future. I wash my hands of 
 you. You are an ungrateful girl, and will come to an 
 evil end. When I think of the enormous selfishness you 
 now show in thus throwing away, for a mere matter 
 of personal obstinacy, the bread of your sister and bro 
 thers, and leaving them to starve, I stand appalled. 
 What do you expect ?" 
 
 " Nothing save to go." 
 
 "And you shall go." 
 
 "To-day?" 
 
 "This afternoon, at three." As she said this, Miss 
 Vanhorn seated herself with her back toward Anne, and 
 took up a book, as though there was no one in the room. 
 
 "Do you want me any longer, grandaunt ?" 
 
 "Never call me by that name again. Go to your 
 room ; Bessmer will attend to you. At two o clock I will 
 o ee you for a moment before you go." 
 
 Without a reply, Anne obeyed. Her tears were dried 
 as if by fever ; words had been spoken which could not be 
 forgiven. Inaction was impossible ; she began to pack. 
 Then, remembering who had given her all these clothes, 
 she paused, uncertain what to do. After reflection, she 
 decided to take with her only those she had brought 
 from the half-house ; and in this she was not actuated by 
 any spirit of retaliation, her idea was that her grandaunt 
 would demand the gifts in any case. Miss Vanhorn was 
 not generous. She worked steadily ; she did not wish to 
 think ; yet still the crowding feelings pursued her, caught 
 up with her, and then went along with her, thrusting 
 their faces close to hers, and forcing recognition. Was 
 she, as Miss Vanhorn had said, enormously selfish in thus 
 sacrificing the new comfort of the pinched household on 
 the island to her own obstinacy ? But, as she folded the 
 plain garments brought from that home, she knew that it 
 
ANNE. 293 
 
 was not selfishness ; as she replaced the filmy ball dress 
 in its box, she said to herself that she could not deceive 
 Mr. Dexter by so much even as a silence. Then, as she 
 wrapped the white parasol in its coverings, the old burn 
 ing-, throbbing misery rolled over her, followed by the 
 hot jealousy which she thought she had conquered ; she 
 seized the two dresses given by Helen, and added them to 
 those left behind. But the action brought shame, and she 
 replaced them. And now all the clothes faced her from 
 the open trunks ; those from the island, those which East 
 had seen, murmured, "Faithless! Helen s gifts whisper 
 ed, "Ingratitude!" and those of her grandaunt called 
 more loudly, "Fool!" She closed the lids, and turned 
 toward the window; she tried to busy her mind with 
 the future: surely thought and plans were needed. She 
 was no longer confident, as she had been when she first 
 left her Northern island ; she knew now how wide the 
 world was, and how cold. She could not apply at the 
 doors of schools without letters or recommendations; 
 she could not live alone. Her one hope began and end 
 ed in Jeaniie-Armande. She dressed herself in trave 1 
 ling garb and sat down to wait. It was nearly noon, 
 probably she would not see Helen, as she always slept 
 through the morning after a ball, preserving by this 
 changeless care the smooth fairness of her delicate com 
 plexion. She decided to write a note of farewell, and 
 leave it with Bessmer; but again and again she tore up 
 her beginnings, until the floor was strewn with frag 
 ments. She had so very much not to say. At last 
 she succeeded in putting together a few sentences, which 
 told nothing, save that she was going away; she bade 
 her good -by, and thanked her for all her kindness, 
 signing, without any preliminary phrases (for was she 
 "affectionately" or "sincerely" Helen s "friend" ?), mere 
 ly her name, Anne Douglas. 
 
 At one o clock Bessmer entered with luncheon. Evi 
 dently she had received orders to enter into no conversa 
 tion with the prisoner ; but she took the note, and prom 
 ised to deliver it with her own hands. At two the door 
 opened, and Miss Varihorn came in. 
 
294 ANNE. 
 
 The old woman s eye took in at a glance the closed 
 trunks and the travelling dress. She had meant to try 
 her niece, to punish her ; but even then she could not be 
 lieve that the girl would really throw away forever all 
 the advantages she had placed within her grasp. She sat 
 down, and after waiting a moment, closed her eyes. 
 "Anne Douglas," she began, "daughter of my misguid 
 ed niece Alida Clanssen, I have come for a final decision. 
 Answer my questions. First, have you, or have you not, 
 one hundred dollars in the world ?" 
 
 "I have not." 
 
 "Have you, or have you not, three brothers and one 
 sister wholly dependent upon you ?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "Is it just or honorable to leave them longer to the 
 charity of a woman who is poor herself, and not even a 
 relative?" 
 
 "It is neither." 
 
 "Have I, or have I not, assisted you, offered also to 
 continue the pension which makes them comfortable ?" 
 
 "You have." 
 
 "Then," said the old woman, still with her eyes closed, 
 * why persist in this idiotic stubbornness ? In offending 
 me, are you not aware that you are offending the only 
 person on earth who can assist you ? I make no prom 
 ises, as to the future; but I am an old woman now, one 
 to whom you could at least be dutiful. There I want 
 110 fine words. Show your fineness by obeying my 
 wishes." 
 
 "I will stay with you, grandaunt, willingly, gladly, 
 gratefully, if you will take me away from this place." 
 
 "No conditions," said Miss Vanhorn. "Come here; 
 kneel down in front of me, so that I can look at you. 
 Will you stay with me here, if I yield everything con- 
 cerning Mr. Dexter ?" She held her firmly, with her 
 small keen eyes searching her face. 
 
 Anne was silent. Like the panorama which is said 
 to pass before the eyes of the drowning man, the days 
 and hours at Caryl s as they would be, must be, unroll 
 ed themselves before her. But there only followed the 
 
ANNE. 295 
 
 same desperate realization of the impossibility of remain 
 ing; the misery, the jealousy; worse than all, the self- 
 doubt. The misery, the jealousy, she could perhaps bear, 
 deep as they were. But what appalled her was this new 
 doubt of herself, this new knowledge, that, in spite of all 
 her determination, she might, if tried, yield to this love 
 which had taken possession of her unawares, yield to cer. 
 tain words which he might speak, to certain tones of his 
 voice, and thus become even more faithless to East, to 
 Helen, and to herself, than she already was. If he would 
 go away but she knew that he would not. No, she 
 must go. Consciousness came slowly back to her eyes, 
 which had been meeting Miss Vanhorn s blankly. 
 ." I can not stay," she said. 
 
 Miss Vaiiliorn thrust her away violently. "I am 
 well paid for having had anything to do with Douglas 
 blood, " she cried, her voice trembling with anger. Get 
 back into the wilderness from whence you came ! I will 
 never hear your name on earth again . She left the room. 
 In a few moments Bessmer appeared, her eyes red 
 dened by tears, and announced that the wagon was wait 
 ing. It was at a side door. At this hour there was no 
 one on the piazzas, and Anne s trunk. was carried down, 
 and she herself followed with Bessmer, without being 
 seen by any one save the servants and old John Caryl. 
 
 " I am not to say anything to you, Miss Douglas, if you 
 please, but just the ordinary things, if you please," said 
 Bessmer, as the wagon bore them away. You are to 
 take the three o clock train, and go wherever you please, 
 she said. I was to tell you." 
 
 "Yes, Bessmer; do not be troubled. I know what to 
 do. Will you tell grandaunt, when you return, that I 
 beg her to forgive what has seemed obstinacy, but was 
 only sad necessity. Can you remember it ?" 
 
 "Yes, miss; only sad necessity," repeated Bessmer, 
 with dropping tears. She was a meek woman, with a 
 comfortable convexity of person, which, however, did not 
 seem to give her confidence. 
 
 "I was not to know, miss, if you please, where you 
 bought tickets to," she said, as the wagon stopped at the 
 
296 ANNE. 
 
 little station. I was to give you this, and then go 
 right back." 
 
 She handed Anne an envelope containing- a fifty-dollar 
 note. Anne looked at it a moment. "I will not take 
 this, I think ; you can tell grandaunt that I have money 
 enough for the present, " she said, returning it. She gave 
 her hand kindly to the weeping maid, who was then driv 
 en away in the wagon, her sun-umbrella held askew over 
 her respectable brown bonnet, her broad shoulders shaken 
 with her sincere grief. A turn in the road soon hid 
 even this poor friend of hers from view. Anne was 
 alone. 
 
 The station-keeper was not there ; his house was near 
 by, but hidden by a grove of maples, and Anne, standing 
 on the platform, seemed all alone, the two shining rails 
 stretching north and south having the peculiarly solitary 
 aspect which a one-track railway always has among 
 green fields, with no sign of life in sight. No train has 
 passed, or ever will pass. It is all a dream. She walked 
 to and fro. She could see into the waiting-room, which 
 was adorned with three framed texts, and another placard 
 not religiously intended, but referring, on the contrary, 
 to steamboats, which might yet be so interpreted, name 
 ly, "Take the Providence Line." She noted the drearily 
 ugly round stove, faded below to white, planted in a 
 sand-filled box ; she saw the bench, railed off into single 
 seats by iron elbows, and remembered that during her 
 journey eastward, two, if not three, of these places were 
 generally filled with the packages of some solitary fe 
 male of middle age, clad in half-mourning, who remain 
 ed stonily unobservant of the longing glances cast upon 
 the space she occupied. These thoughts came to her me 
 chanically. When a decision has finally been made, 
 and for the present nothing more can be done, the mind 
 goes wandering off on trivial errands ; the flight of a bird, 
 the passage of the fairy car of thistle-down, are sufficient 
 to set it in motion. It seemed to her that she had been 
 there a long time, when a step came through the grove: 
 Hosea Plympton. or, as he was called in the neighbor 
 hood, Hosy Plim was unlocking the station door. Anne 
 
ANNE. 297 
 
 bought her ticket, and had her trunk checked ; she hoped 
 to reach the half-house before midnight. 
 
 Hosy having attended to his official business with dig 
 nity, now came out to converse unofficially with his one 
 passenger. "From Caryl s, ain t you ?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Anne. 
 
 "Gohr to New York?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I haven t yet ben to that me4ropo-lis," said Hosy. 
 "On some accounts I should admire to go, on others not. 
 Ben long at Caryl s ?" 
 
 "Yes, some time." 
 
 My wife s cousin helps over there ; Mirandy s her 
 name. And she tells me, Mi randy does, that the heap 
 of washing over to that house is a sight to see. She 
 tells me, Mirandy does, that they don t especial dress up 
 for the Sabbath over there, not so much even as on other 
 days." 
 
 "That is true, I believe." 
 
 "Sing lar," said the little man, "what folks 11 do as 
 has the money ! They don t seem to be capable of en- 
 j ying themselves exactly; and p r aps that s what Prov 
 idence intends. We haven t had city folks at Caryl s 
 until lately, miss, you see ; and I confess they ve ben a 
 coiitinooal study to me ever since. Tis amazin the ways 
 the Lord 11 take to make us contented with our lot. 
 Till I see em, I thought em most downright and all ev- 
 erlastin to be envied. But now I feel the ba m of com 
 fort and innard strengthenin when I see how little they 
 know how to enj y themselves, after all. Here s the train, 
 miss." 
 
 In another moment Anne felt herself borne away 
 away from the solitary station, with its shining lines of 
 rails ; from the green hills which encircled Caryl s ; from 
 the mountain-peaks beyond. She had started on her 
 journey into the w T ide world. 
 
 In darkness, but in safety, she arrived at the half- 
 house, in the station-keeper s wagon, a few minutes be 
 fore midnight. A light was still burning, and in re 
 sponse to her knock Jeanne - Armande herself opened 
 
298 ANNE. 
 
 the door, clad in a wrapper, with a wonderful flannel cap 
 on her head. She was much astonished to see her pu 
 pil, but received her cordially, ordered the trunk brought 
 in, and herself attended to the beating down, of the sta 
 tion-keeper s boy to a proper price for his services. She 
 remarked upon his audacity and plainly criminal ten 
 dencies ; she thoroughly sifted the physical qualities of 
 the horse ; she objected to the shape of the wagon ; and 
 finally, she had noted his manner of bringing in the 
 trunk, and shaving its edges as well as her doorway, and 
 she felt that she must go over to the station herself early 
 in the morning, and lodge a complaint against him. 
 What did he mean by But here the boy succumbed, 
 and departed with half-price, and Jeanne- Armaiide took 
 breath, and closed the door in triumph. 
 
 "You see that I have come back to you, mademoiselle," 
 said Anne, with a faint smile. Shall I tell you why ?" 
 
 Yes ; but no, not . now. You are very weary, my 
 child ; you look pale and worn. Would you like some 
 coffee ?] 
 
 "Yes," said Anne, who felt a faint exhaustion steal 
 ing over her. " But the fast-day coffee will do." For 
 there was one package of coffee in the store-room which 
 went by that name, and which old Nora was instructed 
 to use on Fridays. Not that Jeanne- Armaiide followed 
 strict rules and discipline; but she had bought that cof 
 fee at an auction sale in the city for a very low price, 
 and it proved indeed so low in quality that they could 
 not drink it more than once a week. Certainly, therefore, 
 Friday was the appropriate day. 
 
 "No," said the hostess, "you shall have a little of the 
 other, child. Come to the kitchen. Nora has gone to 
 bed, but I will arrange a little supper for you with my 
 own hands." 
 
 They went to the bare little room, where a mouse would 
 have starved. But mademoiselle was not without re 
 sources, and keys. Soon she "arranged" a brisk little 
 fire and a cheery little stew, while the pint coffee-pot 
 sent forth a delicious fragrance. Sitting there in a 
 wooden chair beside the little stove, Anne felt more of 
 
ANNE. 299 
 
 home comfort than she had ever known at Caryl s, and 
 the thin miserly teacher was kinder than her graiidaunt 
 had ever been. She ate and drank, and was warmed; 
 then, sitting by the dying coals, she told her story, or 
 rather as much of it as it was necessary mademoiselle 
 should know. 
 
 "It is a pity," said Jeanne- Armande, "and especially 
 since she has no relative, this grandaunt, nearer than 
 yourself. Could nothing be done in the way of renew 
 al, as to heart-strings ?" 
 
 " Not at present. I must rely upon you, mademoiselle ; 
 in this, even Tante can not help me." 
 
 "That is true; she can not. She even disapproved of 
 my own going forth into the provinces," said Jeanne- 
 Armande, with the air of an explorer. "We have dif 
 ferent views of life, Hortense Moreau and I ; but there ! 
 we respect each other. Of how much money can you 
 dispose at present, my child f 
 
 Anne told the sum. 
 
 "If it is so little as that, " said Jeanne- Armande, "it 
 will be better for you to go westward with me immedi 
 ately. I start earlier than usual this year ; you can take 
 the journey with me, and share expenses ; in this way we 
 shall both be able to save. Now as to chances : there is 
 sometimes a subordinate employed under me, when there 
 is a press of new scholars. This is the autumn term : 
 there may be a press. I must prepare you, however, for 
 the lowest of low salaries," said the teacher, her voice 
 changing suddenly to a dry sharpness. I shall present 
 you as a novice, to whom the privilege of entering the 
 institution is an equivalent of money." 
 
 "I expect but little," said Anne. "A beginner must 
 take the lowest place." 
 
 On the second day they started. Jeanne- Armande was 
 journeying to Weston this time by a roundabout way. 
 By means of excursion tickets to Valley City, offered for 
 low rates for three days, she had found that she could (in 
 time) reach Weston via the former city, and effect a sav 
 ing of one dollar and ten cents. With the aid of her 
 basket, no additional meals would be required, and the 
 
300 ANNE. 
 
 money saved, therefore, would be pure gain. There was 
 only one point undecided, namely, should she go through 
 to Valley City, or change at a junction twenty miles 
 this side for the northern road ? What would be the sav 
 ing, if any, by going on ? What by changing ? No one 
 could tell her ; the complication of excursion rates to Val 
 ley City for the person who was not going there, and the 
 method of night travel for a person who would neither 
 take a sleeping-car, nor travel in a day car, combined 
 themselves to render more impassive still the ticket 
 sellers, safely protected in their official round towers 
 from the rabble of buyers outside. Regarding the main 
 lines between New York and Weston, and all their 
 connections, it would be safe to say that mademoiselle 
 knew more than the officials themselves. The remain 
 der of the continent was an unknown wilderness in her 
 mind, but these lines of rails, over which she was obliged 
 to purchase her way year after year, she understood 
 thoroughly. She had tried all the routes, and once she 
 had gone through Canada; she had looked at canal-boats 
 .meditatively. She was haunted by a vision that some 
 day she might find a clean captain and captain s wife 
 who would receive her as passenger, and allow her to 
 cook her own little meals along shore. Once, she ex 
 plained to Anne, a Sunday-school camp-meeting had re 
 duced the rates, she being apparently on her way thither. 
 She had always regretted that the season of State fairs 
 was a month later : she felt herself capable of being on her 
 way to all of them. 
 
 But now, whether to go on to Valley City, or to leave 
 the train at Stringhamptoii Junction, is the question I can 
 not decide," she said, with irritation, having returned dis 
 comfited from another encounter with a ticket-seller. 
 
 "We reach Weston by both routes, do we not ?" said 
 Anne. 
 
 Of course ; that follows without saying. Evidently 
 you do not comprehend the considerations which are 
 weighing upon me. However, I will get it out of the 
 ticket agent at New Macedonia," said mademoiselle, ris 
 ing. "Come, the train is ready." 
 
ANNE. 301 
 
 They were going only as far as New Macedonia that 
 night; mademoiselle had slept there twice, and intend 
 ed to sleep there again. Once, in her decorous maiden 
 life, she had passed a night in a sleeping-car, and never 
 again would her foot "cross the threshold of one of those 
 outrageous inventions." She remembered even now 
 with a shudder the processions of persons in muffled 
 drapery going to the wash-rooms in the early morning. 
 New Macedonia existed only to give suppers and break 
 fasts; it had but two narrow sleeping apartments over 
 its abnormal development of dining-room below. But 
 the military genius of Jeanne - Armande selected it on 
 this very account ; for sleeping-rooms where no one ever 
 slept, half-price could in conscience alone be charged. 
 All night Anne was wakened at intervals by the rushing 
 sound of passing trains. Once she stole softly to the un 
 curtained window and looked out; clouds covered the 
 sky, no star was visible, but down the valley shone a 
 spark which grew and grew, and then turned white and 
 intense, as, with a glare and a thundering sound, a lo 
 comotive rushed by, with its long line of dimly light 
 ed sleeping-cars swiftly and softly following with their 
 unconscious human freight, the line ending in two red 
 eyes looking back as the train vanished round a curve. 
 
 "Ten hours sleep, "said mademoiselle, awaking with 
 satisfaction in the morning. I now think we can sit 
 up to-night in the Valley City waiting-room, and save the 
 price of lodgings. Until twelve they would think we 
 were waiting for the midnight train ; after that, the night 
 porter, who comes on duty then, would suppose it was 
 the early morning express." 
 
 "Then you have decided to go through to Valley 
 City ?" asked Anne. 
 
 "Yes, since by this arrangement we can do it without 
 expense." 
 
 Two trains stopped at New Macedonia for breakfast, 
 one eastward bound from over the Alleghanies, the other 
 westward bound from New York. Jeanne- Armande s 
 strategy was to enter the latter while its passengers were 
 at breakfast, and take bodily possession of a good seatj 
 
302 ANNE. 
 
 removing, if necessary, a masculine bag or two left there 
 as tokens of ownership ; for the American man never 
 makes war where the gentler sex is concerned, but re 
 treats to another seat, or even to the smoking-car, with 
 silent generosity. 
 
 Breakfast was now over ; the train-boy was exchanging 
 a few witticisms with the pea-nut vender of the station, 
 a brakeman sparred playfully with the baggage porter, 
 and a pallid telegraph operator looked on from his win 
 dow with interest. Meanwhile the conductor, in his stiff 
 official cap, pared a small apple with the same air of fix 
 ed melancholy and inward sarcasm which he gave to all 
 his duties, large and small; when it was eaten, he threw 
 the core with careful precision at a passing pig, looked 
 at his watch, and called out, suddenly and sternly, "All 
 aboard!" The train moved on. 
 
 It was nine o clock. At ten there came into the car a 
 figure Anne knew Ward Heathcote. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " Man is a bundle of contradictions, tied together with fancies." 
 PERSIAN PROVERB. 
 
 " The might of one fair face sublimes my love, 
 For it hath weaned my heart from low desires. 
 Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires. 
 Forgive me if I can not turn away 
 From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, 
 For they are guiding stars, benignly given 
 To tempt my footsteps to the upward way." 
 
 MICHAEL AXGELO. 
 
 DIRE was the wrath of Helen Lorrington when, hav 
 ing carefully filled the measure of her lost sleep, she sent 
 a little note across to Anne, and answer was returned 
 that Miss Douglas was gone. 
 
 Mrs. Lorrington, with compliments to Miss Vanhorn, 
 then begged (on a card) to be informed ivhere Miss Doug 
 las was gone. Miss Vanhorn, with compliments to Mrs. 
 Lorrington (also on a card), returned answer that she 
 
303 
 
 did not know. Mrs. Lorrington, deeply grieved to dis 
 turb Miss Vanhorn a second time, then requested to be 
 avored with Miss Douglas s address. Miss Vanhorn, 
 with assurances that it was no disturbance, but always 
 a pleasure to oblige Mrs. Lorrington, replied that she did 
 not possess it. Then Helen waited until the old coupe 
 rolled away for an afternoon drive, its solitary occupant 
 inside, her profile, visible between the two closed glass 
 .windows like an object mounted for a microscope, and 
 going across, beguiled the mild Bessmer to tell all she 
 knew. This was not much ; but the result was great aii- 
 ger in Helen s mind, and a determination to avenge the 
 harsh deed. Bessmer did not know causes, but she knew 
 actions. Anne had been sent away in disgrace, the maid 
 being forbidden to know even the direction the lonely 
 traveller had taken. Helen, quick to solve riddles, solved 
 this, at least as far as one side of it was concerned, and 
 the quick, partially correct guesses of a quick-witted wo 
 man are often, by their very nearness, more misleading 
 than any others. Mr. Dexter had been with Anne during 
 the evening of the ball ; probably he had asked her to 
 be his wife. Anne, faithful to her engagement, had 
 refused him; and Miss Vanhorn, faithful to her cruel 
 nature, had sent her away in disgrace. And when Hel 
 en learned that Mr. Dexter had gone also gone early 
 in the morning before any one was stirring she took it 
 as confirmation of her theory, and was now quite sure. 
 She would tell all the house, she said to herself. She 
 began by telling Heathcote. 
 
 They were strolling in the garden. She turned toward 
 the little arbor at the end of the path. 
 
 " Not there," said Heathcote. 
 
 "Why not? Have you been there so much with 
 Rachel ?" said his companion, in a sweet voice. 
 
 "Never, I think. But arbors are damp holes." 
 
 Nevertheless, I am going there, and you are going 
 with me." 
 
 As you please. " 
 
 Ward, how much have you been with Rachel ?" she 
 asked, when they were seated in the little bower, which 
 
304 % ANNE. 
 
 was overgrown with the old-fashioned vine called mat 
 rimony. 
 
 " Oh!" said Heathcote, with a sound of fatigue in his 
 voice. "Are we never to have an end to that sub 
 ject?" 
 
 "Yes; when you make an end." 
 
 " One likes to amuse one s self. You do." 
 v " Whom do you mean now ?" said Helen, diverted from 
 her questions for the moment, as he intended she should 
 be. 
 
 To tell the truth, Heathcote did not mean any one; 
 but he never hesitated. So now he answered, promptly, 
 "Dexter." He had long ago discovered that he could 
 make any woman believe he was jealous of any man, no 
 matter whom, even one to whom she had never spoken; 
 it presupposed that the other man had been all the time 
 a silent admirer, and on this point the grasp of the fem 
 inine imagination is wide and hopeful. 
 
 "How like you that is ! Mr. Dexter is nothing to me." 
 
 "You have been out driving with him already, " said 
 Heathcote, pursuing his advantage; "and you have not 
 been out with me." 
 
 "He has gone; so we need not quarrel about him." 
 
 "When did he go?" 
 
 "Early this morning. And to show you how unjust 
 you are, he went because last evening Anne Douglas re 
 fused him." 
 
 "Then he was refused twice in one day, "said Heath 
 cote. "Mrs. Bannert refused him at six." 
 
 i How do you know ?" 
 
 "She told me." 
 
 " Traitorous creature !" 
 
 "Oh no; she is an especial I may say confidential- 
 friend of mine." 
 
 " Then what am I ?" 
 
 "Not a friend at all, I hope," said the man beside her. 
 "Something more." He was pulling a spray of vine to 
 pieces, and did not, look up ; but Helen was satisfied, and 
 smiled to herself brightly. She now went back to Anne. 
 " Did you know poor Anne was gone too, Ward ?" 
 
ANNE. 305 
 
 4 Gone !" said Heathcote, starting. Then he controlled 
 himself. " What do you mean ?" he asked. 
 
 1 I mean that Miss Vanhorn cruelly sent her away 
 this afternoon without warning, and with only a little 
 money; Bessmer was not even allowed to inquire what 
 she intended to do, or where she was going. I have been 
 haunted ever since I heard it by visions of the poor child 
 arriving in New York all alone, and perhaps losing her 
 way: she only knew that one tip-town locality near 
 Moreau s." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that no one knows where she has 
 gone ?" 
 
 "No one. Bessmer tells me that the old dragon was 
 in one of her black rages. Mr. Dexter was with Anne for 
 some time in the little parlor during the ball last evening, 
 and Miss Vanhorn had the room made ready, as though 
 she expected him. Here are the few lines the poor child 
 left for me : they are constrained, and very unlike her ; 
 but I suppose she was too troubled to choose her words. 
 She told me herself only the day before that she was 
 very unhappy." 
 
 Heathcote took the little note, and slipped it into an 
 inner pocket. He said nothing, and went on stripping 
 the vine. 
 
 "There is one thing that puzzles me," continued Hel 
 en. " Bessmer heard the old woman say, violently, You 
 have thrown yourself at the feet of a man who is simply 
 laughing at you. Now Anne never threw herself at any 
 man s feet unless, indeed, it might be the feet of that 
 boy on the island to whom she is engaged. I do not know 
 how she acts when with him." 
 
 " It is a pity, since Bessmer overheard so much, that 
 while she was about it she did not overhear more, " said 
 Heathcote, dryly. 
 
 You need not suspect her : she is as honest as a cow, 
 and as unimaginative. She happened to catch that sen 
 tence because she had entered the next room for some 
 thing ; but she went out again immediately, and heard no 
 more. What I fear is that Miss Vanhorn has dismissed 
 her entirely, and that I shall not see her again, even at 
 
 20 
 
306 ANNE. 
 
 Moreau s. In the note she says that she will send me 
 her address when she can, which is oddly expressed, is it 
 not ? I suppose she means that she will send it when 
 she knows where she is to be. Poor child ! think of her 
 to-night out in the hard world all alone 1" 
 
 "I do think of her." 
 
 "It is good of you to care so much. But you know 
 how much attached to her I am." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "She is an odd girl. Undeveloped, yet very strong. 
 She would refuse a prince, a king, without a thought, and 
 work all her life like a slave for the man she loved, who 
 ever he might be. In truth, she has done what amounts 
 to nearly the same thing, if my surmises are correct. 
 Those children 011 the island were pensioned, and I pre 
 sume the old dragon has stopped the pension." 
 
 "Have you no idea where she has gone ?" 
 
 "Probably to Mademoiselle Pitre at Lancaster, on 
 the Inside Road; I stopped there once to see her. It 
 would be her first resource. I shall hear from her, of 
 course, in a few days, and then I shall help her in 
 every way in my power. We will not let her suffer, 
 Ward." 
 
 "No." 
 
 Then there was a pause. 
 
 "Are you not chilly here, Helen ?" 
 
 "It is damp," said Mrs. Lorrington, rising. She al 
 ways followed the moods of this lethargic suitor of hers 
 as closely as she could divine them ; she took the ad 
 vance in every oblique and even retrograde movement 
 he made so swiftly that it generally seemed to have orig 
 inated with herself. In five minutes they were in the 
 house, and she had left him. 
 
 In what was called the office, a group of young men 
 were discussing, over their cigars, a camping party ; the 
 mountains, whose blue sides lay along the western sky, 
 afforded good hunting ground still, and were not as yet 
 farmed out to clubs. The men now at Caryl s generally 
 camped out for a few weeks every year; it was one of 
 their habits. Heathcote, with his hands in the pockets 
 
ANNE. 307 
 
 cf his sack-coat, walked up and down, listening. After 
 a while, "I think I ll go with you," he said. 
 
 "Come along, then, old fellow; I wish you would." 
 
 " When are you going ?" 
 
 To-morrow morning early. " 
 
 "By wagon?" 
 
 "Train to the junction; then wagons." 
 
 How long shall you stay ?" 
 
 "A week or two." 
 
 "I ll go," said Heathcote. He threw away his cigar, 
 and started toward his room. Helen was singing in 
 the parlor as he passed ; he paused outside for a moment 
 to listen. Every one was present save Anne and Greg 
 ory Dexter ; yet the long room wore to him already the 
 desolate and empty aspect of summer resorts in Septem 
 ber. He could see the singer plainly ; he leaned against 
 the wall and looked at her. He liked her; she fitted 
 into all the grooves of his habits and tastes. And he 
 thought she would marry him if he pushed the matter. 
 While he was thus meditating, a soft little hand touched 
 his arm in the darkness. " I saw you," said Rachel, in a 
 whisper, "and came round to join you. You are looking 
 at Helen ; what a flute-like voice she has ! Let us go out 
 and listen to her on the piazza." 
 
 Mr. Heathcote would be delighted to go. He hated 
 that parlor, with all those people sitting round in a row. 
 How could Rachel stand it ? 
 
 Rachel, with a pathetic sigh, answered, How could she 
 do as she wished ? She had no talent for deception. 
 
 Heathcote regretted this ; he wished with all his heart 
 that she had. 
 
 His heart was not all his to wish with, Rachel suggest 
 ed, in a cooing murmur. 
 
 He answered that it was. And then they went out 
 on the piazza. 
 
 Helen missed Rachel, and suspected, but sang on as 
 sweetly as ever. At last/however, even Rachel could not 
 keep the recreant admirer longer. He went off to his 
 room, filled a travelling bag, lit a cigar, and then sat 
 down to write a note : 
 
308 ANNE. 
 
 "DEAR HELEN, 1 have decided suddenly to go with 
 the camping party to the mountains for a week or two; 
 we leave early in the morning. I shall hope to find you 
 still here when I return. W. H." 
 
 He sealed this missive, threw it aside, and then began 
 to study a railway guide. To a person going across to 
 the mountains in a wagon, a knowledge of the latest time 
 tables was, of course, important. 
 
 The next morning, while her maid was coiling her fair 
 hair, Mrs. Lorringtoii received the note, and bit her lips 
 with vexation. 
 
 The hunting party drove over to the station soon after 
 six, and waited there for the early train. Hosy sold them 
 their tickets, and then came out to gain a little informa 
 tion in affable conversation. All the men. save Heath- 
 cote were attired in the most extraordinary old clothes, 
 and they wore among them an assortment of hats which 
 might have won a prize in a collection. Hosy regarded 
 them with wonder, but his sharp freckled face betrayed 
 no sign. They were men, and he was above curiosity. 
 He ate an apple reflectively, and took an inward inventory : 
 "Hez clothes that I wouldn t be seen in, and sports em 
 proud as you please. Hats like a pirate. The strangest 
 set of fellers !" 
 
 As the branch road train, with a vast amount of self- 
 important whistling, drew near the junction with the 
 main line, Heathcote said carelessly that he thought he 
 would run down to the city for a day or two, and join 
 them later. There was hue and cry over this delin 
 quency, but he paid his way to peace by promising to 
 bring with him on his return a certain straw -packed 
 basket, which, more than anything else, is a welcome 
 sight to poor hard-worked hunters in a thirsty land. The 
 wagons rolled away with their loads, and he was left to 
 take the southern-bound express. He reached the city late 
 in the evening, slept there, and early the next morning 
 went out to Lancaster Station. When he stepped otf 
 the train, a boy and a red wagon were in waiting; no< 
 thing else save the green country. 
 
WHILE HKR MAID WAS COILING HER FAIR HAIR. 
 
ANNK 309 
 
 Does a French lady named Pitre live in this neigh 
 borhood?" he inquired of the boy, who was holding the 
 old mare s head watchfully, as though, if not restrained, 
 she would impetuously follow the receding train. This 
 was the boy witfy whom Jeanne- Armande had had her 
 memorable contest over Anne s fare. Here was his 
 chance to make up from the pockets of this stranger 
 fair prey, since he was a friend of hers the money lost 
 on that field. 
 
 " Miss Peters lives not fur off. I can drive you there 
 if you want ter go." 
 
 Heathcote took his seat in the wagon, and slowly as 
 possible the boy drove onward, choosing the most round 
 about course, and bringing the neighborhood matrons to 
 their windows to see that wagon pass a second time with 
 the same stranger in it, going no one knew where. At 
 last, all the cross-roads being exhausted, the boy stopped 
 before the closed half -house. 
 
 "Is this the place ? It looks uninhabited," said Heath- 
 cote. 
 
 " T always looks so; she s such a screw, she is," replied 
 Eli, addressed as "Li" by his friends. 
 
 Heathcote knocked; no answer. He went round to 
 the back door, but found no sign of life. 
 
 There is no one here. Would any one in the neigh 
 borhood know where she has gone ?" 
 
 "Mr. Green might, over to the store," said Li. 
 
 "Drive there." 
 
 "I ve got to meet the next train, but I ll take you as 
 fur as the door ; tain t but a step from there to the station. 
 And you might as well pay me now," he added, careless 
 ly, "because the mare she s very fiery, and won t stand." 
 Pocketing his money double price he drove off, ex 
 ultant. It was a mile and a half to the station, and a 
 hot, cloudless morning. 
 
 Heathcote made acquaintance with Mr. Green, and ask 
 ed his question. There was no one in the shop at the 
 moment, and Mr. Green responded freely that he knew 
 Miss Peters very well ; in fact, they were old friends. She 
 had gone to Valley City had, in fact, left that very 
 
310 ANNE. 
 
 morning in the same red wagon which had brought the 
 inquirer to his door ; he, Green, looking out by chance, 
 had seen her pass. What did she do in Valley City ? 
 Why, she taught in fact, kept school. She had kept 
 school there for ten years, and he, Green, was the only 
 one in the neighborhood who knew it, since she Miss 
 Peters wasn t much liked about there, perhaps on ac 
 count of her being a Papist. But in such matters, he, 
 Green, was liberal. Did she have any one with her? 
 Yes, she had ; in fact, Miss Douglas same young lady as 
 was there the fore part of the summer. No, they warn t 
 going to stop at all in New York ; going right through 
 to the West. Hoped there was no bad news ? 
 
 "No," replied Heathcote. 
 
 But his monosyllable without details convinced the 
 hearer that there was, and before night the whole neigh 
 borhood was humming with conjecture. The darkest of 
 the old suspicions about mademoiselle s past were now 
 held to have been verified. 
 
 Heathcote walked back to the station over the red clay 
 road, and looked for that boy. But Li had taken care to 
 make good his retreat. By the delay two trains were 
 missed, and he was obliged to wait ; when he reached the 
 city it was two o clock, and it seemed to him that the pave 
 ments had never exhaled such withering heat. His rooms 
 were closed ; he went to the hotel, took a bath, took two, 
 but could not recover either his coolness or his temper. 
 Even after dinner he was still undecided. Should he 
 go westward to Valley City by the ten o clock train ? or 
 wait till morning ? or throw it all up and join the other 
 men at the mountains ? It was a close evening. Anne 
 was at that moment on the ferry-boat. 
 
 Mademoiselle had carefully misled her friend Mr. 
 Green ; so great was her caution, so intricate her ma 
 noeuvres, that she not only never once told him the truth, 
 but also had taken the trouble to invent elaborate fictions 
 concerning herself and her school at Valley City every 
 time she closed the half-house and bade him good-by. 
 The only person who knew where she really was was 
 the Roman Catholic priest who had charge of the mission 
 
ANNE. 3H 
 
 church at the railway - car shops three miles distant ; 
 to this secret agent was intrusted the duty of walking 1 over 
 once a week, without exciting the notice of the neigh 
 borhood, to see if the half -house remained safe and un 
 disturbed. For this service mademoiselle paid a small 
 sum each week to the mission ; and it was money well 
 earned. The priest, a lank, lonely, sad-eyed young Irish 
 man, with big feet in low shoes, came down the track 
 once in seven days to Lancaster, as if for a walk, taking 
 the half-house within his varying circuit, and, with the 
 tact of his nation and profession, never once betraying 
 his real object. On this occasion Jeanne- Ar man de had 
 even showed Mr. Green her tickets to Valley City: what 
 could be surer ? 
 
 At sunset, in the city, the air grew cooler, a salt breeze 
 came up the harbor from the ocean, tossing bluely out 
 side. Heathcote decided to take another glass of wine, 
 and the morning train. To the mountains ? 
 
 The next day he was somewhat disgustedly eating 
 breakfast at New Macedonia ; and going through the cars 
 an hour later, came upon Anne. He had not expected 
 to see her. He was as much surprised as she was. 
 
 Why had he followed her ? He could hardly have 
 given a clear answer, save perhaps that he was accustom 
 ed to follow his inclinations wherever they led him, with 
 out hinderance or question. For there existed no one in 
 the world who had the right to question him ; and there 
 fore he was without the habit of accounting for what he 
 did, even to himself. It may, perhaps, be considered re 
 markable that, with such a position and training, he was, 
 as a man, no worse than he was ; that is, that he should 
 foe so good a fellow, after all, when he had possessed such 
 unlimited opportunities to be a bad one. But natural re 
 finement and fine physical health had kept the balance 
 from swaying far; and the last-named influence is more 
 powerful than is realized. Many a man of fine mind 
 even genius is with the dolts and the brutes in the great 
 army of the fallen, owing to a miserable, weak, and dis 
 appointing body. Of course he should have learned, ear 
 ly in life, its deficiencies, should have guarded it, with- 
 
312 ANNE. 
 
 held it and himself from exertions which to his neigh 
 bor are naught ; but he does not always learn, this lesson. 
 The human creature who goes through his allotted course 
 with vigorous health and a physical presence fine enough 
 to command the unconscious respect of all with whom 
 he comes in contact has no conception of the humili 
 ations and discouragements, the struggles and failures, 
 which beset the path of his weak-bodied and physically 
 insignificant brother. Heathcote, indolent as he was, 
 had a superb constitution, for which and of which, un 
 gratefully, he had never thought long enough to be 
 thankful. 
 
 But why was he following Anne ? 
 
 She had told him of her engagement. Even if he 
 could have broken that engagement, did he wish to break 
 it ? He said to himself that it was because his chivalry, 
 as a man, had been stirred by the maid s story of Miss 
 Vaiihorn s harsh words words which he had at once con 
 strued as an allusion to himself. Was he not partially, 
 perhaps wholly, responsible for her banishment ? But, 
 even if this were true, could he not have acted through 
 Helen, who was by far the most fitting agent ? Instead 
 of this, here he was following her himself 1 
 
 Why? 
 
 Simply because of one look he had had deep down into 
 violet eyes. 
 
 He had not expected to find her so soon. In truth, he 
 was following in rather a purposeless fashion, leaving 
 much to chance, and making no plans. They had gone 
 to Valley City ; he would go to Valley City. Perhaps he 
 should meet her in the street there ; or perhaps he should 
 leave a letter ; perhaps he should do neither, but merely 
 turn round, his impulse satisfied, and go home again. 
 There was no need to decide now. He was on the way ; 
 that was enough. And more than enough. 
 
 Then, suddenly, he saw her. 
 
 She was sitting next the aisle. He put out his hand ; 
 she gave hers, and mechanically mentioned his name to 
 mademoiselle, who, helmeted in her travelling bonnet 
 surmounted by a green veil, presented a martial front to 
 
ANNE. 313 
 
 all beholders. There was 110 vacant place near; he re 
 mained standing. 
 
 "How fortunate that I have met you!" he said, with 
 conventional cordiality. ; The day promised to be in 
 tolerably long and dull." 
 
 Mademoiselle, who at a glance had taken in his appear 
 ance from head to foot as only a Frenchwoman can, in 
 quired if he was going far, in a voice so harmonious, cam- 
 pared with the bonnet, that it was an agreeable surprise. 
 
 "To Valley City," replied Heathcote. 
 
 "We also are going to Valley City," said Jeanne- Ar- 
 mande, graciously. t: It is a pity there happens to be 
 no vacant place near for monsieur. If some of these good 
 people Here she turned the helmet toward her neigh 
 bors behind. 
 
 "Pray do not give yourself any trouble," said Heath- 
 cote. "I was on my way to the last car, hoping to 
 find more air and space. If I am so fortunate as to find 
 there two vacant seats, may I not return for you ? It will 
 be a charity to my loneliness." 
 
 "And a pleasure, monsieur, to ourselves," said made 
 moiselle. 
 
 He bowed his thanks, and glanced again at Anne. 
 She had not spoken, and had not looked at him since her 
 first startled glance. But Jeanne- Armande was gracious 
 for two; she was charmed to have a monsieur of such 
 distinguished appearance standing in the aisle by their 
 side, and she inwardly wished that she had worn her sec 
 ond instead of her third best gloves and veil. 
 
 "Mrs. Lorrington misses you sadly," said Heathcote 
 to the silent averted face, more for the sake of saying 
 something than with any special meaning. 
 
 A slight quiver in the downcast eyelids, but no answer. 
 
 "She hopes that you will soon send her your address." 
 
 "It is uncertain as yet where I shall be," murmured 
 Anne. 
 
 "I thought you were to be at Valley City ?" 
 
 She made no reply, but through her mind passed the 
 thought that he could not know, then, their real destina 
 tion. He had been speaking in a low voice; mademoi- 
 
314 ANNE. 
 
 selle had not heard. But he could not carry on a conver 
 sation long with a person who would not answer. I 
 will go to the last car, and see if I can find those seats," 
 he said, speaking to mademoiselle, and smiling as he 
 spoke. She thought him charming. 
 
 As soon as he turned away, Anne said : Please do not 
 tell him that ours are excursion tickets, mademoiselle. 
 Let him think that our destination is really Valley City." 
 
 "Certainly, if you wish it," replied Jeanne- Armande, 
 who had a sympathy with all mysteries; this little speech 
 of Anne s gave a new spice to the day. He is one of the 
 circle round your gran daunt, probably ?" 
 
 "Yes ; I met him at Caryl s." 
 
 A most distinguished personage ; entirely as it should 
 be. And did I not overhear the name of the charming 
 Mrs. Lorriiigton also ?" 
 
 "He is a friend of Helen s. I think, I am not sure, 
 but still I think that they are engaged," said Anne, 
 bravely. 
 
 " And most appropriate. I do not know when I have 
 been more comforted than by the culture and manner of 
 that elegant friend of yours who sought you out at my 
 little residence ; I hope it may be my fortunate privilege 
 to entertain her there again. From these two examples, 
 I am naturally led to think that the circle round your 
 grandauiit is one adjusted to that amiable poise so agree 
 able to the feelings of a lady." 
 
 Anne made no reply; the circle round her grandauiit 
 seemed to her a world of dark and menacing terrors, from 
 which she was fleeing with all the speed she could sum 
 mon. But, one of these terrors had followed her. 
 
 Presently Heathcote returned.. He had found two va 
 cant seats, and the car was much better ventilated than 
 this one ; there was no dust, and no one was eating ei 
 ther pea-nuts or apples ; the floor was clean ; the cover 
 ing of the seats seemed to have been recently renewed. 
 Upon hearing the enumeration of all these advantages, 
 mademoiselle arose immediately, and "monsieur" was 
 extremely attentive in the matter of carrying shawls, 
 packages, and baskets. But when they reached the car, 
 
ANNE. 315 
 
 they found that the two seats were not together; one 
 was at the end, the other separated from it by the aisle 
 and four intervening places. 
 
 I hoped that you would be kind enough to give me 
 the pleasure of being with you by turns, " said Heathcote, 
 gallantly, to mademoiselle, since it was impossible to 
 find seats together." As he spoke, he placed Jeanne- 
 Armande in one of the seats, and Anne in the other; and 
 then gravely, but with just the scintillation of a smile in 
 his brown eyes, he took his own place, not beside Anne, 
 but beside the delighted Frenchwoman, who could scarce 
 ly believe her good fortune to be real until she found 
 him actually assisting her in the disposal of basket, shawl, 
 bag, India-rubber shoes, and precious although baggy um 
 brella. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " Philip. Madam, a day may sink or save a realm. 
 Mary. A day may save a heart from breaking, too." TENNYSON. 
 
 MR. HEATHCOTE retained his place beside mademoiselle 
 through a whole long hour. She had time to get over her 
 fear that he would go away soon, time to adjust her pow 
 ers, time to enlarge, and to do justice to herself and sever 
 al subjects adapted elegantly and with easy grace to the 
 occasion. In her hard-working life she had seldom en 
 joyed a greater pleasure. For Jeanne-Armande had good 
 blood in her veins ; the ends of her poor old fingers were 
 finely moulded, and there had been a title in the family 
 long ago in Berri. And when at last monsieur did go, 
 it was not hastily. The proper preliminaries were spok 
 en, the first little movement made, and then, later, the 
 slow rising, as if with reluctance, to the feet. Jeanne- 
 Armande was satisfied, and smiled with honeyed gra- 
 ciousness, as, after another moment s delay, he bowed 
 and went back to the place behind, where Anne was sit 
 ting. 
 
 In truth, Heathcote had not been unwilling to take 
 the hour himself; it was not necessary to talk Jeanne- 
 
316 ANNE. 
 
 Armande would talk for two. The sight of Anne had 
 been unexpected ; he had not decided what he should say 
 to her even at Valley City, much less here. After an 
 hour s thought, he took his place beside her. And re 
 marked upon the beauty of the day. 
 
 Dexter would have said something faultless, and all 
 the more so if he had wished to disguise his thoughts. 
 But all Heathcote said was, "What a lovely day !" 
 
 "Yes," replied Anne. In her mind surged to and fro 
 one constant repetition : " Ah, my dear child, do you not 
 see that I can not help loving you ? and that you love 
 me also ?" "Do you not see that I can not help loving 
 you ? and that you love me also ?" 
 
 "They improve things, after all," said Heathcote. 
 The last time I went over this road the train-boy was a 
 poor little cripple, and therefore one couldn t quite throw 
 his books on the floor." This was in allusion to the 
 progress of a brisk youth through the car for the pur 
 pose of depositing upon the patient knees of each pas 
 senger a paper-covered novel, a magazine or two, and a 
 song-book. 
 
 " And that you love me also," ran Anne s thoughts, 
 as she looked out on the gliding fields. 
 
 There Was a silence. Then Heathcote moved nearer. 
 
 " Anne," he said, in a low tone, "I was very much 
 disturbed when I found that you had gone. From the 
 little I was able to learn, I fear you were harshly treat 
 ed by that hard old woman who calls herself your aunt." 
 
 11 Not according to her view of it," said Anne, her face 
 still turned to the window. 
 
 " I wish you would look at me, instead of at those stu 
 pid fields," said Heathcote, after a moment, in an ag 
 grieved tone. " Here I have escaped from Caryl s under 
 false pretenses, told dozens of lies, spent a broiling morn 
 ing at a hole of a place called Lancaster, melted myself 
 in the hot city, and bought tickets for all across the con 
 tinent, just for the chance of seeing you a moment, and 
 you will not even look at me." 
 
 But she had turned now. "Did you go out to the 
 half-house ?" sh^ said, with a little movement of surprise. 
 
ANNE. 317 
 
 "Yes, "he answered, immediately meeting- her eyes, 
 and holding them with his own. (They had not precisely 
 the kind of expression which is appropriate to the man 
 who has decided to perform the part of "merely a kind 
 friend." But then Heathcote always looked more than 
 he said.) 
 
 "I am very sorry, "she murmured "I mean, sorry 
 that you have followed me." 
 
 "Why are you sorry? You do not know how dis 
 tressed I was when Mrs. Lorrington told me." 
 
 "Helen!" said Anne, her eyes falling at the sound of 
 the name. 
 
 "She does not know where I am; no one knows. 
 They think I have gone to the mountains. But I could 
 not be at peace with myself, Anne, until I had seen you 
 once more. Do you remember the last time we met, that 
 morning in the garden?" She made a mute gesture 
 which begged for silence; but he went on: "I can nev 
 er forget that look of yours. In truth, I fear I have done 
 all this, have come all this distance, and in spite of my 
 self, for another." 
 
 There was no one behind them ; they had the last seat. 
 Anne w r as thinking, wildly, "Oh, if he would but speak in 
 any other tone say anything else than that !" Then she 
 turned, at bay. Mrs. Lorrington told me that you were 
 engaged to her," she said, announcing it quietly, al 
 though her face was very pale. 
 
 Did she ? It is partly true. But I love you, Anne. " 
 
 The last words that Ward Heathcote had intended to 
 speak, when he took that seat beside her, he had now 
 spoken ; the last step he had intended to take he had now 
 taken. What did he mean ? He did not know himself. 
 He only knew that her face was exquisitely sweet to him, 
 and that he was irresistibly drawn toward her, whether 
 he would or no. "I love you," he repeated. 
 
 What could be said to such a plain, direct wooer as 
 this ? Anne, holding on desperately to her self-posses 
 sion, and throwing up barriers mentally, made of all her 
 resolutions and duties, her pride and her prayers, drew 
 away, coldly answering: "However you may have for- 
 
318 ANNE. 
 
 gotten your own engagement, Mr. Heathcote, I have not 
 forgotten mine. It is not right for you to speak and for 
 me to hear such words." 
 
 " Right is nothing," said Heathcote, "if we love each 
 other." 
 
 "We do not," replied Anne, falling into the trap. 
 
 "We do; at least I do." 
 
 This avowal, again repeated, was so precious to the 
 poor humiliated pride of the woman s heart within her 
 that she had to pause an instant. "I was afraid you 
 would think," she said, blushing brightly "I was afraid 
 you would think that I I mean, that I can not help be 
 ing glad that you 
 
 "That I love you ? I do. But just as truly as I love 
 you, Anne, you love me. You can not deny it." 
 
 4 I will not discuss the subject. I shall soon be mar 
 ried, Mr. Heathcote, and you 
 
 "Never mind me; I can take care of myself. And 
 so you are going to marry a man you do not love ?" 
 
 "I do love him. I loved him long before I knew you ; 
 I shall love him long after you are forgotten. Leave 
 me; I will not listen to you. Why do you speak so to 
 me ? Why did you follow me ?" 
 
 "Because, dear, I love you. I did not fully know it 
 myself until now. Believe me, Anne, I had 110 more 
 intention of speaking in this way when I sat down here 
 than I had of following you when I first heard you had 
 gone ; but the next morning I did it. Come, let every 
 thing go to the winds, as I do, and say you love me ; for 
 I know you do." 
 
 The tears w r ere in Anne s eyes now ; she could not see. 
 "Let me go to mademoiselle," she said, half rising as if 
 to pass him. " It is cruel to insult me." 
 
 "Do not attract attention; sit down for one moment. 
 I will not keep you long; but you shall listen to me. In 
 sult you ? Did I ever dream of insulting you ? Is it an 
 insult to ask you to be my wife ? That is what I ask now. 
 I acknowledge that I did not follow you with any such 
 intention. But now that I sit here beside you, I realize 
 what you are to me. My darling, I love you, child as 
 
ANNE. 319 
 
 you have seemed. Look up, and tell me that you will be 
 my wife." 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Why?" said Heathcote, not in the least believing 
 her, but watching the intense color flush her face and 
 throat, and then die away. 
 
 "I shall marry East. And you will marry Helen." 
 
 " As I said before, I can take care of myself. The ques 
 tion is you. As he spoke he looked at her so insistently 
 that, struggling- and unwilling, she yet felt "herself com 
 pelled to meet his eyes in return. 
 
 "Helen loves you dearly," she said, desperately. 
 
 They were looking full at each other now. "in the 
 close proximity required by the noise of the train, they 
 could see the varying lights and shadows in the depths 
 of each other s eyes. The passengers faces were all turn 
 ed forward ; there was no one on a line with them ; vir 
 tually they were alone. 
 
 "I do not know what your object is in bringing in 
 Mrs. Lorrington s name so often, " said Heathcote. She 
 does not need your championship, I assure you." 
 
 "How base to desert her so !" 
 
 " Not any more base than to marry a man you do not 
 love," replied Heathcote. "I hardly know anything 
 more base than that. But marry me, my darling," he 
 added, his voice softening as he bent toward her,"and 
 you shall see how I will love you." 
 
 "You said I could go," said the girl, turning from 
 him, and putting her hand over her eyes. 
 
 "You may go, if you are afraid. *But I hardly think 
 you a coward. No; let us have it out now. Here you 
 are, engaged. Here I am, half engaged. We meet. Do 
 you suppose I wish to love you ? Not at all. You are by 
 no means the wife I have intended to have. Do you wish 
 to love me ? No. You wish to be faithful to your en 
 gagement. In a worldly point of view we could not do 
 a more foolish deed than to marry each other. You have 
 nothing, and a burden of responsibilities ; I have very lit 
 tle, and a much heavier burden of bad habits and idleness. 
 What is the result? By some unknown enchantment 
 
320 ANNE. 
 
 I begin to love you, you begin to love me. The very 
 fact that I am sitting here to-day conclusively proves the 
 former. I am as fond of you as a school-boy, Anne. In 
 truth, you have made me act like a school-boy. This is 
 a poor place to woo you in ; but, dear, just look at me 
 once, only once more." 
 
 But Anne would not look. In all her struggles and 
 all her resolutions, all her jealousy and her humiliation, 
 she had made no provision against this form of trial, 
 namely, that he should love her like this. 
 
 "Oh, go, go; leave me," she murmured, hardly able to 
 speak. He gathered the words more from the movement 
 of her lips than from any sound. 
 
 "I will go if you wish it. But I shall come back," he 
 said. And then, quietly, he left her alone, and returned 
 to Jeanne- Armaiide. 
 
 The Frenchwoman was charmed; she had not expect 
 ed him so soon. She said to herself, with a breath of sat 
 isfaction, that her conversation had fallen in fit places. 
 
 Alone, looking at the hills as they passed in procession, 
 Anne collected her scattered resolves, and fought her bat 
 tle. In one way it was a sweet moment to her. She 
 had felt dyed with eternal shame at having given her 
 love unsought, uncared for ; but he loved her even if 
 only a little, he loved her. This was balm to her wound 
 ed heart, and diffused itself like a glow; her cold hands 
 grew warm, her life seemed to flow more freely. But 
 soon the realization followed that now she must arm her 
 self in new guise to resist the new temptation. She must 
 keep her promise. She would marry East, if he wished 
 it, though the earth were moved, and the hills carried 
 into the midst of the sea. And Heathcote would be far 
 happier with Helen; his feeling for herself was but a 
 fancy, and would pass, as no doubt many other fancies 
 had passed. In addition, Helen loved him ; her life was 
 bound up in him, whether he knew it or no. Helen had 
 been her kindest friend ; if all else were free, this alone 
 would hold her. "But I am glad, glad to the bottom of 
 my heart, that he did care for me, even if only a little," 
 she thought, as she watched the hills. "My task is now 
 
ANNE. 321 
 
 to protect him from himself, and and what is harder, 
 myself from myself. I will do it. But I am glad I am 
 glad." Quieted, she waited for his return. 
 
 When he came she would speak so calmly and firmly 
 that his words would be quelled. He would recognize the 
 uselessness of further speech. When he came. But he 
 did not come. The hills changed to cliffs, the cliffs to 
 mountains, the long miles grew into thirty and forty, yet 
 he did not return. He had risen, but did not come to her ; 
 he had gone forward to the smoking-car. He had, in 
 truth, caught the reflection of her face in a mirror, and 
 decided not to come. It is not difficult to make resolu 
 tions ; there is a fervidness in the work that elevates and 
 strengthens the heart. But once made, one needs to ex 
 ercise them, otherwise they grow cold and torpid on one s 
 hands. 
 
 Jeanne- Armande, finding herself alone, barricaded her 
 seat with basket and umbrella, so as to be able to return 
 thither (and perhaps have other conversations), and came 
 across to Anne. 
 
 "A most accomplished gentleman!" she said, with ef 
 fusion. " Mrs. Lorriiigton, charming as she is, is yet to 
 be herself congratulated. He has even been in Berri," 
 she added, as though that was a chief accomplishment, 
 " and may have beheld with his own eyes the chateau of 
 my ancestors." Rarely indeed did Jeanne- Armande al 
 lude to this chateau: persons with chateau ancestors 
 might be required to sustain expenses not in accordance 
 with her well-arranged rules. 
 
 "Where does this train stop ?" asked Anne, with some 
 irrelevance as to the chateau. 
 
 At Centerville, for what they call dinner ; and at 
 Stringhampton Junction in the evening. It is the fast 
 express." 
 
 "Do we meet an eastward-bound train at Center 
 ville ?" 
 
 "I presume we do; but we shall not get out, so the 
 crowd in the dining-room will not incommode us. The 
 contents of my basket will be sufficient. But if you wish 
 a cup of coffee, it will be eight cents. There is a species 
 
 21 
 
322 ANNE. 
 
 of German cake at Centerville, remarkably filling for the 
 price. They bring- them through the cars." 
 
 " What time is it now ?" 
 
 "About half past twelve ; we reach Centerville at two. 
 What age has Monsieur Heathcote, my dear ?" 
 
 " Thirty- two or thirty-three, I believe." 
 
 "A gentleman of independent fortune, I presume ?" 
 
 "He is independent, but, I was told, not rich." 
 
 "The position I should have supposed," said mademoi 
 selle. "What penetrating eyes he possesses; penetrat 
 ing, yet soft. There is something in his glance, coming 
 from under those heavy brows, which is particularly mov 
 ing one might almost say tender. Have you observed 
 it?" 
 
 Yes, Anne had observed it. 
 
 Jeanne- Armande, protected as she supposed from in 
 discretion by the engagement to the charming Mrs. Lor- 
 rington, rambled on, enjoying the real pleasure of being 
 sentimental and romantic, without risk, cost, or loss of 
 time, on this eventful day. 
 
 "I wish you could have seen Mr. Dexter, mademoi 
 selle, " said Anne, making an effort to turn the tide. He 
 is considered handsome, and he lias a large fortune " 
 
 "But not inherited, I presume," interposed mademoi 
 selle, grandly. " Mr. Heathcote, as I understand, lives 
 upon his paternal revenues." 
 
 If Heathcote had been there, he might have answered 
 that he tried to, but never succeeded. He was not there, 
 however; and Anne could only reply that she did not 
 know. 
 
 " He has undoubtedly that air," said Jeanne- Armande, 
 faithful to her distinguished escort, and waving away 
 all diversions in favor of unknown Dexters. l Do you 
 know when they are to be married ?" 
 
 "No," said Anne, drearily, looking now at the cliffs 
 which bounded the narrow valley through which the 
 train was rushing. 
 
 "Let us hope that it will be soon; for life is short at 
 best. Though not romantic by nature, I own I should 
 be pleased to possess a small portion of the wedding cake 
 
ANNE. 323 
 
 of that amiable pair, " pursued Jeanne- Armande, fixing 
 her eyes upon the suspended lamp of the car, lost in sen 
 timental reverie. 
 
 "I think I will buy a newspaper," said Anne, as the 
 train-boy came toward them. 
 
 "Buy a paper? By no means," said mademoiselle, 
 descending hastily to earth again. I have yesterday s 
 paper, which I found on the ferry-boat. It is in good 
 order; I smoothed it out carefully; you can read that." 
 She produced it from some remote pocket, and Anne 
 took refuge in its pages, while Jeanne- Armande closed 
 her eyes under the helmet, no doubt to meditate further 
 on the picture of felicity she had called up. 
 
 Anne felt all the weariness of long suspense. It was 
 one o clock ; it was half past one ; it was nearly two ; still 
 he did not appear. Even mademoiselle now roused her 
 self, looked at her watch, and in her turn began to ask 
 where he could be ; but she had the comfort of asking it 
 aloud. 
 
 The speed was now perceptibly slackened, and the 
 brakeman announced at the door: " Cen ter ville. 
 Twen timinets for dinner," in a bar of music not unlike 
 a hoarse Gregorian chant. At this instant Heathcote en 
 tered from the next car. 
 
 "Ah! there he is," said mademoiselle, with satisfac 
 tion. Do you think he will partake of a little taste with 
 us ?" He joined them, and she repeated her question in 
 the shape of a modest allusion to the contents of her 
 basket. 
 
 " No, thanks; I shall go out and walk up and down to 
 breathe the air. But first, will you not go with me, and 
 see what they have ? Perhaps we might find something 
 not altogether uneatable." 
 
 Mademoiselle declined, with her most gracious smile. 
 She would content herself with the contents of her bas 
 ket ; but perhaps Anne 
 
 The eastward-bound train was in, drawn up beside 
 them. 
 
 "Yes, "said Anne, "I should like to go." Then, as 
 soon as they were in the open air, I only wish to speak 
 
326 ANNE. 
 
 The flattered Frenchwoman consented, and as he fol 
 lowed her he gave Anne a glance which said, "Check." 
 And Anne felt that it was "check" indeed. 
 
 He had no intention of troubling her ; he would give 
 her time to grow tired. 
 
 But she was tired already. 
 
 At last, however, he did come. They were in plain 
 sight now, people were sitting behind them ; she could 
 not childishly refuse to let him take the vacant place be 
 side her. But at least, she thought, his words must be 
 guarded, or people behind would make out what he said, 
 even from the motion of his lips. 
 
 But Heathcote never cared for people. 
 
 "Dear, "he said, bending toward her, "I am so glad 
 to be with you again !" After all, he had managed to 
 place himself so that by supporting his cheek with his 
 hand, the people behind could not see his face at all, 
 much less make out what he said. 
 
 Anne did not reply. 
 
 * * Won t you even look at me ? I must content myself, 
 then, with your profile." 
 
 "You are ungenerous," she answered, in a tone as low 
 as his own. "It will end in my feeling a contempt for 
 you." 
 
 "And I never felt so proud of myself in all my life 
 before. For what am I doing ? Throwing away all my 
 fixed ideas of what life should be, for your sake, and glad 
 to do it." 
 
 "Mr. Heathcote, will you never believe that I am in 
 earnest ?" 
 
 "I know very well that you are in earnest. But I 
 shall be equally in earnest in breaking down the bar 
 riers between us. When that Western lover of yours is 
 married to some one else, and Mrs. Lorrington likewise, 
 then shall we not be free ?" 
 
 " Helen will never marry any one else." 
 
 "Why do you not say that Mr. Pronando never will ?" 
 
 "Because I am not sure, "she answered, with sad hu 
 mility. 
 
 "Are you going to tell him all that has happened ?" 
 
ANNE. 32? 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And leave the decision to him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You will put yourself in a false position, then. If 
 you really intend to marry him, it would be safer to tell 
 liim nothing, " said Heathcote, in an impartial tone. No 
 man likes to hear that sort of thing, even if his wife tells 
 it herself. Though he may know she has loved some 
 one else, he does not care to have it stated in words ; 
 he would rather leave it disembodied." Anne was look 
 ing at him ; a sudden pain, which she did not have time 
 to conceal, showed itself in her face as he spoke. "You 
 darling child !" said Heathcote, laughing. "See how you 
 look when I even speak of your marrying any one save 
 me!" 
 
 She shrank back, feeling the justice of his inference. 
 Her resolution remained unchanged; but she could not 
 withstand entirely the personal power of his presence. 
 She gazed at the afternoon sunshine striking the mount 
 ain-peaks, and asked herself how she could bear the long 
 hours that still lay between her and the time of release 
 release from this narrow space where she must sit be 
 side him, and feel the dangerous subtle influence of his 
 voice and eyes. Then suddenly an idea came to her, 
 like a door opening silently before a prisoner in a cell. 
 She kept her face turned toward the window, while rap 
 idly and with a beating heart she went over its possibili 
 ties. Yes, it could be done. It should be done. With 
 inward excitement she tried to arrange the details. 
 
 Heathcote had fallen into silence ; but he seemed quite 
 content to sit there beside her without speaking. At last, 
 having decided upon her course, and feeling nervously 
 unable to endure his wordless presence longer, she began 
 to talk of Caryl s, Miss Vanhorn, mademoiselle, the half- 
 house anything and everything which possessed no 
 real importance, and did not bear upon the subject be 
 tween them. He answered her in his brief fashion. If 
 she wished to pad the dangerous edges of the day with a 
 few safe conventionalities, he had no objection ; women 
 would be conventional on a raft in mid-ocean. The aft- 
 
328 ANNE. 
 
 ernoon moved on toward sunset. He thought the con 
 test was over, that although she might still make objec 
 tion, at heart she had yielded; and he was not unwilling 
 to rest. Why should they hurry ? The whole of life 
 was before them. 
 
 As night fell, they reached Stringhampton Junction, 
 and the great engine stopped again. The passengers hast 
 ened hungrily into the little supper-room, and Heathcote 
 urged mademoiselle to accompany him thither, and taste 
 a cup of that compound found at railway stations called 
 Japan tea. Jeanne -Armande looked half inclined to 
 accept this invitation, but Anne, answering for both, said : 
 " No ; we have all we need in our basket. You can, how 
 ever, if you will be so kind, send us some tea." This de 
 cision being in accordance with Jeanne -Armande s own 
 rules, she did not like to contravene it, in spite of the 
 satisfaction it would have given her to enter the supper- 
 room with her decorous brown glove reposing upon such 
 a coat sleeve. Heathcote bowed, and went out. Anne 
 watched his figure entering the doorway of the brightly 
 lighted supper-room, which was separated by a wide space 
 from the waiting train. Then she turned. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," she said, her burning haste contrast 
 ing with her clear calm utterance of the moment before, 
 "I beg you to leave this train with me without one in 
 stant s delay. The peace of my whole life depends upon 
 it." 
 
 " What can you mean ?" said the bewildered teacher. 
 
 "I can not explain now; I will, later. But if you 
 have any regard for me, any compassion, come at once." 
 
 * But our bags, our 
 
 "I will take them all." 
 
 "And our trunks they are checked through to Val 
 ley City. Will there be time to take them off?" said 
 Jeanne-Armaiide, confusedly. Then, with more clear 
 ness, " But why should we go at all ? I have no money 
 to spend on freaks." 
 
 "This is Stringhampton Junction; we can cross here 
 to the northern road, as you originally intended, " explain 
 ed Anne, rapidly. "All the additional expense I will 
 
V IT IS, OR SHOULD BE, OVER THERE." 
 
ANNE. 329 
 
 pay. Dear mademoiselle, have pity on me, and come. 
 Else I shall go alone." 
 
 The voice was eloquent ; Jeanne-Armande rose. Anne 
 hurried her through the almost empty car toward the rear 
 door. 
 
 " But where are we going ?" 
 
 " Out of the light, answered Anne. 
 
 They climbed down in the darkness on the other side 
 of the train, and Anne led the way across the tracks at 
 random, until they reached a safe country road-side be 
 yond, and felt the soft grass under their feet. 
 
 "Where are we going ?" said the Frenchwoman again, 
 almost in tears. "Monsieur Heathcote what will he 
 think of us ?" 
 
 "It is from him I am fleeing," replied Anne. "And 
 now we must find the cross-road train. Do you know 
 where it is ?" 
 
 "It is, or should be, over there," said Jeanne-Armande, 
 waving her umbrella tragically. 
 
 But she followed: the young girl had turned leader 
 now. 
 
 They found the cross-road train, entered, and took their 
 seats. And then Anne feverishly counted the seconds, 
 expecting with each one to see Heathcote s face at the 
 door. But the little branch train did not wait for supper ; 
 the few passengers were already in their places, and at 
 last the bell rang, and the engine started northward, 
 but so slowly that Anne found herself leaning forward, 
 as though to hasten its speed. Then the wheels began 
 to turn more rapidly clank, clank, past the switches; 
 rumble, rumble, over the bridge ; by the dark line of the 
 wood-pile ; and then onward into the dark defiles of the 
 mountains. They were away. 
 
330 ANNE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 "How heavy do I journey on the way 
 
 When what I seek, my weary travel s end, 
 Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, 
 
 Thus far the miles are measured from my friend. " 
 
 Shakspeare s Sonnets. 
 
 IN the mean time Ward Heathcote was in the supper- 
 room. After selecting- the best that the little country 
 station afforded, and feeing a servant to take it across 
 to the train, he sat down to eat a nondescript meal with 
 some hunger. 
 
 The intelligent mulatto boy who carried the waiter 
 consumed as many minutes as possible in his search for 
 the two ladies in that car, on the right-hand side oppo 
 site the fourth window," who, plainly, were not there. 
 He had the fee in his pocket, there would not be anoth 
 er, and the two suppers" were paid for. It was decided 
 ly a case for delay. He waited, therefore, until the warn 
 ing bell rang, and he was then encountered in hot haste 
 hurrying to meet his patron, the waiter still balanced 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 "No ladies there, sah. Looked everywhere fur em, 
 sah." - 
 
 There was no time for further parley. Heathcote 
 hurried forward, and the train started. They must be 
 there, of course ; probably the cars had been changed or 
 moved forward while the train was waiting. But al 
 though he went from end to end of the long file of car 
 riages, he found no one. They were under full headway 
 now ; the great engine did not need gradual beginnings. 
 He could not bring himself to ask questions of the pass 
 engers whose faces he remembered in the same car ; they 
 would open upon him a battery of curiosity in return. 
 He went to the rear door, opened it, and looked out ; the 
 two grime-encircled eyes of a brakeman met his gravely. 
 
ANNE. 331 
 
 He stepped outside, closed the door, and entered into con 
 versation with the eyes. 
 
 Yes, he seed two ladies get off ; they come out this here 
 end door, and climbed down on the wrong 1 side. Seem 
 ed to he \n a hurry. Didn t know where they went. 
 Called after em that that warn t the way to the dining- 
 room, and the young one said, "Thanks, "but didn t say 
 no more. Was they left behind ? No, train didn t stop 
 this side of Valley City; but the gentleman could tele 
 graph back, and they could come on safe and sound in 
 the morning express. Twarn t likely they d gone north 
 by the little branch road, was it ? Branch connects a,t 
 Stringhampton for the Northern Line. 
 
 But this suggestion made no impression upon Heath- 
 cote. Mademoiselle lived in Valley City; he had seen 
 her tickets for Valley City. No, it was some unlooked- 
 for mistake or accident. He gave the brakeman a dollar, 
 and went back into the car. But everything w T as gone 
 bags, shawls, basket, cloak, bundle, and umbrella, all the 
 miscellaneous possessions with which mademoiselle was 
 accustomed to travel; there had been, then, deliberation 
 enough to collect them all. He sat down perplexed, and 
 gradually the certainty stole coldly over him that Anne 
 had fled. It must be this. 
 
 For it was no freak of the Frenchwoman s; she had 
 been too much pleased with his escort to forego it willing 
 ly. He was deeply hurt. And deeply surprised. Had 
 he not followed her to ask her to be his wife ? (This 
 was not true, but for the moment he thought it was.) 
 Was this a proper response ? 
 
 Never before had he received such a rebuff, and after 
 brooding over it an hour in the dismal car, it grew into 
 an insult. His deeper feelings were aroused. Under his 
 indolence he had a dominant pride, even arrogance of 
 nature, which would have astonished many who thought 
 they knew him. Whether his words had or had not been 
 the result of impulse, now that they were spoken, they 
 were worthy of at least respect. He grew more angry as 
 the minutes passed, for he was so deeply hurt that he took 
 refuge in anger. To be so thwarted and played upon 
 
332 ANNE. 
 
 he, a man of the world by a young- girl; a young 
 girl regarding whom, too, there had sprung up in his 
 heart almost the only real faith of his life ! He had be 
 lieved in that face, had trusted those violet eyes, he did 
 not know how unquestioiiingly until now. And then, 
 feeling something very like moisture coming into his 
 own eyes, he rose, angry over his weakness, went for 
 ward to the smoking car, lit a cigar, and savagely tried 
 to think of other things. A pretty fool he was to be on 
 a night train in the heart of Pennsylvania, going no one 
 knew whither. 
 
 But, in spite of himself, his mind stole back to Anne. 
 She was so different from the society women with whom 
 he had always associated ; she had so plainly loved 
 him. Poor, remorseful, conscientious, struggling, faith 
 ful heart ! Why had she fled from him ? It did not oc 
 cur to him that she was fleeing from herself. 
 
 He arrived at Valley City at eleven o clock, and had 
 the very room with gaudy carpet he had pictured to him 
 self. The next morning, disgusted with everything and 
 out of temper as he was, he yet so far postponed his re 
 turn journey as to make -inquiries concerning schools for 
 girls one in particular, in which a certain Mademoiselle 
 Pitre had been teaching French and music for several 
 years. The clerk thought it must be the Young Ladies 
 Seminary." Heathcote took down the address of this es 
 tablishment, ordered a carriage, and drove thither, in 
 quiring at the door if Mademoiselle Pitre had arrived. 
 
 There was no such person there, the maid answered. 
 No ; he knew that she had not yet arrived. But when 
 was she expected ? 
 
 The maid (who admired the stranger) did not take it 
 upon herself to deny his statement, but went away, and 
 returned with the principal, Professor Adolphus Bittin- 
 ger. Professor Bittinger was not acquainted with Made 
 moiselle Pitre. Their instructress in the French language 
 was named Blanchard, and was already there. Heath- 
 cote then asked if there were any other young ladies 
 seminaries in Valley City, and was told (loftily) that there 
 were not. No schools where French was taught ? There 
 
ANNE. 333 
 
 might be, the professor thought, one or two small estab 
 lishments for clay scholars. The visitor wrote down the 
 new addresses, and drove away to visit four day schools 
 in succession, sending a ripple of curiosity down the 
 benches, and exciting a nutter in the breasts of four 
 French teachers, who came in person to answer the inqui 
 ries of monsieur. One of them, a veteran in the profes 
 sion, who had spent her life in asking about the loaf 
 made by the distant one-eyed relative of the baker, an 
 swered decidedly that there was no such person in Val 
 ley City. "Monsieur" was beginning to think so him 
 self; but having now the fancy to exhaust all the possi 
 bilities, he visited the infant schools, and a private class, 
 and at two o clock returned to the hotel, having seen al 
 together about five hundred young Americans in frocks, 
 from five years old to seventeen. 
 
 According to the statement of the little shop-keeper at 
 Lancaster, mademoiselle had been teaching in Valley City 
 for a number of years : there remained, then, the chance 
 that she was in a private family as governess. Heathcote 
 lingered in Valley City three days longer on this gover 
 ness chance. He ate three more dinners in the comfort 
 less dining-room, slept three more nights in the gaudy 
 bedroom, and was at the railway station five times each 
 day, to wit, at the hours when the trains arrived from the 
 east. If they had waited at Stringhampton until he had 
 had time to return to New York, they would be coming on 
 now. But no one came. The fourth day opened with 
 dull gray rain ; the smoke of the manufactories hung over 
 the valley like a pall. In the dining-room there was a 
 sour odor of fresh paint, and from the window he could see 
 only a line of hacks, the horses standing in the rain with 
 drooping heads, while the drivers, in a row against an op 
 posite wall, looked, in their long oil-skin coats, as though 
 they were drawn up there in their black shrouds to be 
 shot. In a fit of utter disgust he rang for his bill, or 
 dered a carriage, and drove to the station : he would take 
 the morning train for New York. 
 
 Yet when the carriage was dismissed, he let the ex 
 press roll away without him, while he walked to and fro, 
 
334 ANNE. 
 
 waiting for an incoming- train. The train was behind time ; 
 when it did come, there was no one among- its passengers 
 whom he had ever seen before. With an anathema u pon 
 his own folly, he took the day accommodation eastward. 
 He would return to New York without any more senseless 
 delays. And then at Stringhampton Junction he was the 
 only person who alighted. His idea was to make in 
 quiries there. He spent two hours of that afternoon in the 
 rain, under a borrowed umbrella, and three alone in the 
 waiting-room. No such persons as he described had been 
 seen at Stringhampton, and as the settlement was small, 
 and possessed of active curiosity, there remained no room 
 for doubt. There was the chance that they had followed 
 him to Valley City an hour later on a freight train with 
 car attached, in which case he had missed them. And 
 there was the other chance that they had gone northward 
 by the branch road. But why should they go northward ? 
 They lived in Valley City, or near there; their tickets 
 were marked "Valley City." The branch led to the 
 Northern Line, by which one could reach Chicago, St. 
 Louis, Omaha, the wilderness, but not Valley City. The 
 gentleman might go up as far as the Northern Line, and 
 inquire of the station agent there, suggested the String 
 hampton ticket-seller, who balanced a wooden tooth-pick 
 in his mouth lightly, like a cigarette. But the gentle 
 man, who had already been looking up the narrow line of 
 wet rails under his umbrella for an hour, regarded the 
 speaker menacingly, and turned away with the ironical 
 comment in his own mind that the Northern Line and 
 its station agent might be what amounted to Calvinized 
 before he sought them. 
 
 The night express came thundering along at midnight. 
 It bore away the visitor. Stringhampton saw him no 
 more. 
 
 In the mean time Anne and her companion had ridden 
 on during the night, and the younger woman had ex 
 plained to the elder as well as she could the cause of 
 her sudden action. It was not right that I should hear 
 or that he should speak such words." 
 
 "He had but little time in which to speak them," 
 
ANNE. 335 
 
 said Jeanne-Armande, stiffly. He spent most of the 
 day with me. But, in any case, why run away ? Why 
 could you not have repelled him quietly, and with the 
 proper dignity of a lady, and yet remained where you 
 were, comfortably, and allowed me to remain as well ?" 
 
 "I could not," said Anne. Then, after a moment, 
 "Dear mademoiselle," she added, "do not ask me any 
 more questions. I have done wrong, and I have been 
 very, very unhappy. It is over now, and with your help 
 I hope to have a long winter of quiet and patient labor. 
 I am grateful to you; you do not know how grateful. 
 Save those far away on the island, you seem to me now 
 the only friend I have on earth." Her voice broke. 
 
 Jeanne-Armande s better feelings were touched. My 
 poor child !" she said, pityingly. 
 
 And then Anne laid her head down upon the French 
 woman s shoulder, and sobbed as if her heart would break. 
 
 They reached Weston the next day. The journey 
 was ended. 
 
 Mademoiselle selected new lodgings, in a quarter which 
 overlooked the lake. She never occupied the same rooms 
 two seasons in succession, lest she should be regarded as 
 "an old friend," and expected to make concessions ac 
 cordingly. On the second day she called ceremoniously 
 upon the principal of the school, sending in her old-fash 
 ioned glazed card, with her name engraved upon it, to 
 gether with a minute Paris" in one corner. To this im 
 portant personage she formally presented her candidate, 
 endowing her with so large a variety of brilliant qualities 
 and accomplishments that the candidate was filled with 
 astonishment, and came near denying them, had she not 
 been prevented by the silent meaning pressure of a gaiter 
 that divined her intention, and forbade the revelation. 
 Fortunately an under-teacher was needed, and half an 
 hour later Anne went away, definitely, although at a very 
 small salary, engaged. 
 
 She went directly home, locked her door, took paper 
 and pen, and began to write. "Dear Rast," she wrote. 
 Then, with a flood of remorseful affection, "Dear, dear 
 Hast." Her letter was a long one, without break or hes- 
 
336 ANNE. 
 
 itation. She told him all save names, and asked him to 
 forgive her. If he still loved her and wished her to be 
 his wife, she was ready ; in truth, she seemed almost to 
 urge the marriage, that is, if he still loved her. When 
 the letter was completed she went out and placed it in a 
 letter-box with her own hands, coming home with a con 
 science more free. She had done what she could. The 
 letter was sent to the island, where East still was when 
 she had heard from him the last time before leaving 
 Caryl s ; for only seven days had passed since then. 
 They seemed seven years. 
 
 A day later she wrote to Miss Lois, telling of Miss Van- 
 horn s action, her new home and change of position. She 
 said nothing of her letter to East or the story it told ; she 
 left that to him to relate or not as he pleased. In all 
 things he should be now her master. 
 
 When this second letter was sent, she asked herself 
 whether she could write to Helen. But instantly the 
 feeling came surging over her that she could not. In ad 
 dition there was the necessity of keeping her new abode 
 hidden. No one knew were mademoiselle was, and the 
 younger woman had now the benefit of that carefully 
 woven mystery. She was safe. She must not disturb 
 that safety. 
 
 To one other person she felt that she must write, name 
 ly, Miss Vanhorn. Harsh as had been the treatment she 
 had received, it came from her mother s aunt. She 
 wrote, therefore, briefly, stating that she had obtained a 
 teacher s place, but without saying where it was. This 
 letter, inclosed in another envelope, was sent to a friend 
 of Jeanne- Arrnande in Boston, and mailed from that city. 
 Anne had written that a letter sent to the Boston address, 
 which she inclosed, would be immediately forwarded to 
 her. But no reply came. Old Katharine never forgave. 
 
 The school opened ; the young teacher had a class of 
 new scholars. To her also were given the little brothers 
 who were allowed to mingle with the flock until they 
 reached the age of eleven, when they were banished to 
 rougher trials elsewhere ; to these little boys she taught 
 Latin grammar, and the various pursuits in the imper- 
 
ANNE. 337 
 
 feet tense of those two well-known grammar worthies, 
 Caius and Balbus. Jeanne-Armande had not failed to 
 proclaim far and wide her candidate s qualifications as to 
 vocal music. "A pupil of Belzini," she remarked, with 
 a stately air, "was not often to be obtained so far inland." 
 The principal, a clear-headed Western woman, with a 
 keen sense of humor, perceived at once (although smiling 
 at it) the value of the phrase. It was soon in circulation. 
 And it was understood that at Christmas-time the pupil 
 of Belzini, who was not often to be obtained so far inland, 
 would assume charge of the music class, and lift it to a 
 plane of Italian perfection hitherto unattained. 
 
 The autumn opened. Anne, walking on the lake shore 
 at sunset, saw the vessels steal out from port one by one, 
 and opening white sails, glide away in the breeze of 
 evening silently as spirits. Then came the colored leaves. 
 The town, even in its meanest streets, was now so beau 
 tiful that the wonder was that the people did not leave 
 their houses, and live out-of-doors altogether, merely to 
 gaze ; every leaf was a flower, and brighter than the 
 brightest blossom. Then came a wild storm, tearing the 
 splendor from the branches in a single night ; in the 
 morning, November rain was falling, and all was deso 
 late and bare. But after this, the last respite, came In 
 dian summer. 
 
 If there is a time when the American of to-day recalls 
 the red-skinned men who preceded him in this land he 
 now calls his own, it is during these few days of stillness 
 and beauty which bear the name of the vanished race. 
 Work is over in the fields, they are ready for their win 
 ter rest ; the leaves are gone, the trees are ready too. 
 The last red apple is gathered ; men and the squirrels 
 together have gleaned the last nut. There is nothing 
 more to be done; and he who with a delicate imagination 
 walks abroad, or drives slowly along country roads, finds 
 himself thinking, in the stillness, of those who roved over 
 this same ground not many years ago, and tardily gath 
 ering in at this season their small crops of corn beside 
 the rivers, gave to the beautiful golden-purple-hued days 
 the name they bear. Through the naked woods he sees. 
 
 22 
 
338 ANNE - 
 
 them stealing, bow in hand ; on the stream he sees their 
 birch-bark canoes ; the smoke in the atmosphere must 
 surely rise from their hidden camp fires. They have 
 come back to their old haunts from the happy hunting 
 grounds for these few golden days. Is it not the Indian 
 summer ? The winter came early, with whirling snow 
 followed by bitter cold. Ice formed ; navigation was over 
 until spring. Anne had heard from Dr. Gaston and Miss 
 Lois, but not from East. For Rast had gone ; he had start 
 ed on his preliminary journey through the western coun 
 try, where he proposed to engage in business enterprises, 
 although their nature remained as yet vague. The chap 
 lain wrote that a letter addressed to Erastus in her hand 
 writing had been brought to him the day after the youth s 
 departure, and that he had sent it to the frontier town which 
 was to be his first stopping-place. Erastus had written 
 to her the day before his departure, but the letter had of 
 course gone to Caryl s. Miss Vanhorn, without doubt, 
 would forward it to her niece. The old man wrote with 
 an effort to appear cheerful, but he confessed that he 
 missed his two children sadly. The boys were well, and 
 Angelique was growing pretty. In another year it would 
 be better that she should be with her sister ; it was some 
 what doubtful whether Miss Lois understood the child. 
 
 Miss Lois s letter was emphatic, beginning and ending 
 with her opinion of Miss Vanhorn in the threefold char 
 acter of grandaunt, Christian, and woman. She was 
 able to let out her feelings at last, unhindered by the now- 
 withdrawn allowance. The old bitter resentment against 
 the woman who had slighted William Douglas found 
 vent, and the characterization was withering and pictur 
 esque. When she had finished the arraignment, trial, 
 and execution, at least in words, she turned at last to the 
 children ; and here it was evident that her pen paused and 
 went more slowly. The boys, she hoped (rather as a last 
 resort) , were good-hearted. " She had but little trouble, 
 comparatively, with Tita now ; the child was very attent 
 ive to her lessons, and had been over to Pere Michaux at 
 his hermitage almost every other day. The boys went 
 sometimes ; and Erastus had been kind enough to accorn- 
 
ANNE. 339 
 
 pany the children, to see that they were not drowned. 
 And then, dropping the irksome theme, Miss Lois dipped 
 her pen in romance, and filled the remainder of her let 
 ter with praise of golden-haired Rast, notsomuchbecau.se 
 she herself loved him, as because Anne did. For the old 
 maid believed with her whole heart in this young affec 
 tion which had sprung into being under her fostering 
 care, and looked forward to the day when the two should 
 kneel together before Dr. Gaston in the little fort chapel, 
 to receive the solemn benediction of the marriage service, 
 as the happiest remaining in her life on earth. Anne 
 read the fervid words with troubled heart. If Rast felt 
 all that Miss Lois said he felt, if he had borne as impa 
 tiently as Miss Lois described their present partial sepa 
 ration, even when he was sure of her love, how would he 
 suffer when he read her letter ! She looked forward fe 
 verishly to the arrival of his answer ; but none came. The 
 delay was hard to bear. 
 
 Dr. Gaston wrote a second time. Rast had remained 
 but a day at the first town, and not liking it, had gone 
 forward. Not having heard from Anne, he sent, inclosed 
 to the chaplain s care, a letter for her. With nervous 
 haste she opened it ; but it contained nothing save an ac 
 count of his journey, with a description of the frontier 
 village "shanties, drinking saloons, tin cans, and a 
 grave-yard already. This will never do for a home for us. 
 I shall push on farther. " The tone of the letter was affec 
 tionate, as sure as ever of her love. Rast had always 
 been sure of that. She read the pages sadly ; it seemed 
 as if she was willfully deceiving him. Where was her let 
 ter, the letter that told all ? She wrote to the postmaster 
 of the first town, requesting him to return it. After some 
 delay, she received answer that it had been sent westward 
 to another town, which the person addressed, namely, 
 Erastus Pronando, had said should be his next stopping- 
 place. But a second letter from Rast, sent also to the 
 chaplain s care, had mentioned passing through that very 
 town without stopping "it was such an infernal den"; 
 and again Anne wrote, addressing the second postmaster, 
 and asking for the letter. This postmaster replied, after 
 
340 ANNE. 
 
 some tardiness, owing to his conflicting engagements as 
 politician, hunter, and occasionally miner, that the letter 
 described had been forwarded to the Dead-letter Office. 
 This correspondence occupied October and November; 
 and during this time Hast was still roaming through the 
 West, writing frequently, but sending no permanent ad 
 dress. Now rumors of a silver mine attracted him ; now 
 it was a scheme for cattle-raising ; now speculation in lands 
 along the line of the coming railway It was impossible 
 to follow him and in truth he did not wish to be follow 
 ed. He was tasting his first liberty. He meant to look 
 around the world awhile before choosing his home : not 
 long, only awhile. Still, awhile. 
 
 The chaplain added a few lines of his own when he 
 sent these letters to Anne. Winter had seized them; 
 they were now fast fettered ; the mail came over the ice. 
 Miss Lois was kind, and sometimes came up to regulate 
 his housekeeping; but nothing went as formerly. His 
 coffee was seldom good ; and he found himself growing 
 peevish at least his present domestic, a worthy widow 
 named McGrlathery, had remarked upon it. But Anne 
 must not think the domestic was in fault ; he had reason 
 to believe that she meant well even when she addressed 
 him on the subject of his own short-comings. And here 
 the chaplain s old humor peeped through, as he added, 
 quaintly, that poor Mistress McGlathery s health was far 
 from strong, she being subject to "inward tremblings," 
 which tremblings she had several times described to him 
 with tears in her eyes, while he had as often recom 
 mended peppermint and ginger, but without success ; on 
 the contrary, she always went away with a motion of the 
 skirts and a manner as to closing the door which, the 
 chaplain thought, betokened offense. Anne smiled over 
 these letters, and then sighed. If she could only be with 
 him again with them all ! She dreamed at night of the 
 old man in his arm-chair, of Miss Lois, of the boys, of Tita 
 curled in her furry corner, which she had transferred, in 
 spite of Miss Lois s remonstrances, to the sitting-room of 
 the church-house. Neither Tita nor Pere Michaux had 
 written ; she wondered over their new silence. 
 
ANNE. 341 
 
 Anne s pupils had, of course, exhaustively weighed 
 and sifted the new teacher, and had decided to like her. 
 Some of them decided to adore her, and expressed their 
 adoration in bouquets, autograph albums, and various 
 articles in card-board supposed to be of an ornamental 
 nature. They watched her guardedly, and were jeal 
 ous of every one to whom she spoke; she little knew 
 what a net-work of plots, observation, mines and coun 
 termines, surrounded her as patiently she toiled through 
 each long monotonous day. These adorations of school 
 girls, although but unconscious rehearsals of the future, 
 are yet real while they last ; Anne s adorers went sleep 
 less if by chance she gave especial attention to any other 
 pupil. The adored one meanwhile did not notice these lit 
 tle intensities ; her mind was absorbed by other thoughts. 
 
 Four days before Christinas two letters came ; one was 
 her own to East, returned at last from the Dead-letter 
 Office ; the other was from Miss Lois, telling of the seri 
 ous illness of Dr. Gastoii. The old chaplain had had a 
 stroke of paralysis, and Rast had been summoned ; fortu 
 nately his last letter had been from St. Louis, to which 
 place he had unexpectedly returned, and therefore they 
 had been able to reach him by message to Chicago and a 
 telegraphic dispatch. Dr. Gaston wished to see him ; the 
 youth had been his ward as well as almost child, and there 
 were business matters to be arranged between them. 
 Anne s tears fell as she read of her dear old teacher s dan 
 ger, and the impulse came to her to go to him at once. 
 Was she not his child as well as East ? But the impulse 
 was checked by the remainder of the letter. Miss Lois 
 wrote, sadly, that she had tried to keep it from Anne, 
 but had not succeeded : since August her small income 
 had been much reduced, owing to the failure of a New 
 Hampshire bank, and she now found that with all her 
 effort they could not quite live on what was left. Very 
 nearly, dear child. I think, with thirty dollars, I can 
 manage until spring. Then everything will be cheaper. 
 I should not have kept it from you if it had not happened 
 at the very time of your trouble with that wicked old 
 woman, and I did not wish to add to your care. But 
 
342 ANNE. 
 
 the boys have what is called fine appetites (I wish they 
 were not quite so fine ), and of course this winter, and 
 never before, my provisions were spoiled in my own cel 
 lar." 
 
 Anne had intended to send to Miss Lois all her small 
 savings on Christmas-day. She now went to the princi 
 pal of the school, asked that the payment of her salary 
 might be advanced, and forwarded all she was able to send 
 to the poverty-stricken little household in the church- 
 house. That night she wept bitter tears ; the old chap 
 lain was dying, and she could not go to him ; the children 
 were perhaps suffering. For the first time in a life of 
 poverty she felt its iron hand crushing her down. Her 
 letter to Hast lay before her ; she could not send it now 
 and disturb the last hours on earth of their dear old 
 friend. She laid it aside and waited waited through 
 those long hours of dreary suspense which those must bear 
 who are distant from the dying beds of their loved 
 ones. 
 
 In the mean time East had arrived. Miss Lois wrote 
 of the chaplain s joy at seeing him. The next letter con 
 tained the tidings that death" had come ; early in the morn 
 ing, peacefully, with scarcely a sigh, the old man s soul 
 had passed from earth. Colonel Brydeii, coming in soon 
 afterward, and looking upon the calm face, had said, 
 gently, 
 
 " Then steal away, give little warning, 
 
 Choose thine own time; 
 Say not good-night, but, in some brighter clime, 
 
 Bid me good-morning." 
 
 When Anne knew that the funeral was over, that an 
 other grave had been made under the snow in the little 
 military cemetery, and that, with the strange swiftness 
 which is so hard for mourning hearts to realize, daily life 
 was moving on again in the small island circle where 
 the kind old face would be seen no more, she sent her 
 letter, the same old letter, unaltered and travel- worn. 
 Then she waited. She could not receive her answer be 
 fore the eighth or ninth day. But on the fifth came 
 two letters ; on the seventh, three. The first were from 
 
ANNE. 343 
 
 Miss Lois and Mrs. Bryden : the others from Tita, Pere 
 Michaux, and East. And the extraordinary tidings they 
 brought were these : Hast had married Tita. The little 
 sister was now his wife. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " A slave had long worn a chain upon his ankle. By the order of 
 his master it was removed. Why dost thou spring aloft and sing, 
 slave ? Surely the sun is as fierce and thy burden as heavy as before. 
 The slave replied : Ten times the sun and the burden would seem 
 light, now that the chain is removed. 1 " From tlw Arabic. 
 
 Miss Lois s letter was a wail : 
 
 * MY POOR DEAR OUTRAGED CHILD, What can I say to 
 you ? There is no use in trying to prepare you for it, 
 since you would never conceive such double-dyed black 
 ness of heart ! Tita has run away. She slipped off clan 
 destinely, and they think she has followed Rast, who left 
 yesterday on his way back to St. Louis and the West. 
 Pere Michaux has followed her, saying that if he found 
 them together he should, acting as Tita s guardian, insist 
 upon a marriage before he returned ! He feels himself re 
 sponsible for Tita, he says, and paid no attention when I 
 asked him if no one was to be responsible for you I My 
 poor child, it seems that I have been blind all along; I 
 never dreamed of what was going on. The little minx 
 deceived me completely. I thought her so much im 
 proved, so studious, while all the time she was meeting 
 Erastus, or planning to meet him, with a skill far beyond 
 "my comprehension. All last summer, they tell me, she 
 was with him constantly; those daily journeys to Pere 
 Michaux s island were for that purpose, while /supposed 
 they were for prayers. What Erastus thought or meant, 
 no one seems to know ; but they all combined in declaring 
 that the child (child no longer !) was deeply in love with 
 him, and that everybody saw it save me. My New Eng 
 land blood could not, I am proud to say, grasp it ! You 
 know, my poor darling, the opinion I have ahvays had 
 concerning Tita s mother, who slyly and artfully in- 
 
344 ANNE. 
 
 veigled your honored father into a trap. Tita has there 
 fore but followed in her mother s footsteps. 
 
 That Erastus has ever cared, or cares now in the 
 least, for her, save as a plaything, I will never believe. 
 But Pere Michaux is like a mule for stubbornness, as you 
 know, and I fear he will marry them in. any case. He 
 did not seem to think of you at all, and when I said, 
 Anne will die of grief! he only smiled yes, smiled 
 and Frenchly shrugged his shoulders! My poor child, 
 I have but little hope, because if he appeals to Erastus s 
 honor, what can the boy do ? He is the soul of honor. 
 
 " I can hardly write, my brain has been so overturned. 
 To think that Tita should have outwitted us all at her age, 
 and gained her point over everything, over you and over 
 East poor, poor East, who will be so miserably sacrificed ! 
 I will write again to-morrow ; but if Pere Michaux carries 
 out his strange Jesuitical design, you will hear from him 
 probably before you can hear again from me. Bear up, 
 my dearest Anne. I acknowledge that, so far, I have 
 found it difficult to see the Divine purpose in this, unless 
 indeed it be to inform us that we are all but cinders and 
 ashes; which, however, I for one have long known." 
 
 Mrs. Bryden s letter: 
 
 " DEAR ANNE, I feel drawn toward you more closely 
 since the illness and death of our dear Dr. Gaston, who 
 loved you so tenderly, and talked so much of you during 
 his last days with us. It is but a short time since I wrote 
 to you, giving some of the messages he left, and telling of 
 his peaceful departure ; but now I feel that I must write 
 again upon a subject which is painful, yet one upon 
 which you should have, I think, all the correct details 
 immediately. Miss Hinsdale is no doubt writing to you 
 also; but she does not know all. She has not perceived, 
 as we have, the gradual approaches to this catastrophe 
 I can call it by no other name 
 
 "When you went away, your half-sister was a child. 
 With what has seemed lightning rapidity she has grown 
 to womanhood, and for months it has been plainly evi 
 dent that she was striving in every way to gain and hold 
 the attention of Erastus Pronando. He lingered here 
 
ANNE. 345 
 
 almost all summer, as you will remember; Tita follow 
 ed him everywhere. Miss Hinsdale, absorbed in the cares 
 of housekeeping, knew nothing of it ; but daily, on one 
 pretext or another, they were together. Whether Eras 
 tus was interested I have no means of knowing; but that 
 Tita is now extremely pretty in a certain style, and that 
 she was absorbed in him, we could all see. It was not 
 our affair; yet we might have felt called upon to make it 
 ours if it had not been for Pere Michaux. He was her 
 constant guardian. 
 
 Erastus went away yesterday in advance of the mail- 
 train. He bade us all good-by, and I am positive that he 
 had no plan, not even a suspicion of what was to follow. 
 We have a new mail-carrier this winter, Denis being con 
 fined to his cabin with rheumatism. Tita must have 
 slipped away unperceived, and joined this man at dusk 
 on the ice a mile or two below the island ; her track was 
 found this morning. Erastus expected to join the mail- 
 train to-day, and she knew it, of course; the probability 
 is, therefore, that they are now together. It seems hard 
 ly credible that so young a head could have arranged its 
 plans so deftly ; yet it is certainly true that, even if East 
 wished to bring her back, he could not do so immediately, 
 not until the up-train passed them. Pere Michaux start 
 ed after them this morning, travelling in his own sledge. 
 He thinks (it is better that you should know it, Anne) that 
 Erastus is fond of Tita, and that only his engagement to 
 you has held him back. Now that the step has been taken, 
 he has no real doubt but that Rast himself will wish to 
 marry her, and without delay. 
 
 "All this will seem very strange to you, my dear child ; 
 but I trust it will not be so hard a blow as Miss Hins 
 dale apprehends. Pere Michaux told me this morning in 
 so many words: Anne has never loved the boy with 
 anything more than the affection of childhood. It will 
 be for her a release. He was convinced of this, and went 
 off on his journey with what looked very much like glad 
 ness. I hope, with all my heart, that he is right. " Then, 
 with a few more words of kindly friendship, the letter 
 ended. 
 
346 ANNE. 
 
 The other envelope bore the rude pen-and-ink postmark 
 of a Northwestern lumber settlement, where travellers 
 coming down from the North in the winter over the ice 
 and snow met the pioneer railway, which had pushed its 
 track to that point before the blockade of the cold began. 
 
 Tita s letter: 
 
 DEEREST SISTER, You will not I am sure blaime your 
 little Tita for following the impulse of her hart. Since 
 you were hear I have grown up and it is the truth that 
 Bast has loved me for yeers of his own accord and be 
 cause he could not help it deerest sister who can. But 
 he never ment to break his word to you and he tryed not 
 to but was devowered by his love for me and you will for 
 give him deerest sister will you not since there is no more 
 hope for you as we were married by Pere Michaux an 
 hour ago who approved of all and has hartily given us 
 his bennydiction. Since my spiritual directeur has no 
 reproche you will not have enny I am sure and remain 
 your loving sister, ANGELIQUE PRONANDO." 
 
 "P. S. We go to Chicago to-day. Enny money for 
 close for me could be sent to the Illinois Hotel, where 
 my deerest husband says we are to stay. A. P." 
 
 Pere Michaux s letter : 
 
 "DEAR ANNE, It is not often that I speak so bluntly 
 as I shall speak now. In marrying, this morning, your 
 half-sister Angelique to Erastus Pronando I feel that I 
 have done you a great service. You did not love him with 
 the real love of a nature like yours the love that will 
 certainly come to you some day; perhaps has already 
 come. I have always known this, and, in accordance with 
 it, did all I could to prevent the engagement originally. 
 I failed; but this day s work has made up for the failure. 
 
 Angelique has grown into a woman. She is also very 
 beautiful, after a peculiar fashion of her own. All the 
 strength of her nature, such as it is, is concentrated upon 
 the young man who is now her husband. From child 
 hood she has loved him ; she was bitterly jealous of you 
 even before you went away. I have been aware of this, 
 but until lately I was not sure of Hast. Her increasing 
 beauty, however, added to her intense absorbed interest in 
 
ANNE. 347 
 
 him, has conquered. Seeing- this, I have watched with 
 satisfaction the events of the past summer, and have even 
 assisted somewhat (and with a clear conscience) in their 
 development. 
 
 Erastus, even if you had loved him, Anne, could not 
 have made you happy. And neither would you have 
 made him happy; for he is quick-witted, and he would 
 have inevitably, and in spite of all your tender humility, 
 my child, discovered your intellectual superiority, and in 
 time would have angrily resented it. For he is vain ; his 
 nature is light ; he needs adulation in order to feel con 
 tented. On the other hand, he is kind-hearted and affec 
 tionate, and to Tita will be a demi-god always. The 
 faults that would have been death to you, she will never 
 see. She is therefore the fit wife for him. 
 
 "You will ask, Does he love her? I answer, Yes. 
 When he came back to the island, and found her so dif 
 ferent, the same elfish little creature, but now strangely 
 pretty, openly fond of him, following him everywhere, 
 with the words of a child but the eyes of a woman, he 
 was at first surprised, then annoyed, then amused, inter 
 ested, and finally fascinated. He struggled against it. 
 I give him the due of justice he did struggle. But Tita 
 was always there. He went away hurriedly at the last, 
 and if it had not been for Dr. Gaston s illness and his 
 own recall to the island, it might not have gone farther. 
 Tita understood this as well as I did , she made the most 
 of her time. Still, I am quite sure that he had no sus 
 picion she intended to follow him ; the plan was all her 
 own. She did follow him. And I followed her. I 
 caught up with them that very day at sunset, and an 
 hour ago I married them. If you have not already for 
 given me, Anne, you will do so some day. I have no 
 fear. I can wait. I shall go on with them as far as 
 Chicago, and then, after a day or two, I shall return to 
 the island. Do not be disturbed by anything Miss Lois 
 may write. She has been blindly mistaken from the be 
 ginning. In truth, there is a vein of obstinate weakness 
 on some subjects in that otherwise estimable woman, for 
 which I have always been at a loss to account." 
 
348 ANNE. 
 
 Ah, wise old priest, there are some things too deep for 
 even you to know ! 
 
 Rast s letter was short. It touched Anne more than 
 any of the others : 
 
 "What must you think of me, Annet? Forgive me, 
 and forget me. I did try. But would you have cared 
 for a man who had to try ? When I think of you I scorn 
 myself. But she is the sweetest, dearest, most winning 
 little creature the world ever saw ; and my only excuse 
 is that I love her. E. P." 
 
 These few lines, in which the young husband made 
 out no case for himself, sought no shield in the little 
 bride s own rashness, but simply avowed his love, and 
 took all the responsibility upon himself, pleased the eld 
 er sister. It was manly. She was glad that Tita had a 
 defender. 
 
 She had read these last letters standing in the centre of 
 her room, Jeanne- Armaiide anxiously watching her from 
 the open door. The Frenchwoman had poured out a glass 
 of water, and had it in readiness; she thought that per 
 haps Anne was going to faint. With no distinct idea of 
 what had happened, she had lived in a riot of conjecture 
 for two days. 
 
 But instead of fainting, Anne, holding the letters in 
 her hand, turned and looked at her. 
 
 "Well, dear, will you go to bed ?" she said, solicitously. 
 
 " Why should I go to bed ?" 
 
 I thought perhaps you had heard had heard bad 
 news." 
 
 "On the contrary," replied Anne, slowly and gravely, 
 " I am afraid, mademoiselle, that the news is good even 
 very good." 
 
 For her heart had flown out of its cage and upward as 
 a freed bird darts up in the sky. The bond, on her side 
 at least, was gone ; she was free. Now she would live a 
 life of self-abnegation and labor, but without inward 
 thralldom. Women had lived such lives before she was 
 born, women would live such lives after she was dead. 
 She would be one of the sisterhood, and coveting nothing 
 of the actual joy of love, she would cherish only the ideal, 
 
ANNE. 349 
 
 an altar-light within, burning forever. The cares of each 
 day were as nothing now : she was free, free ! 
 
 In her exaltation she did not recognize as wrong the 
 opposite course she had intended to follow before the 
 lightning fell, namely, uniting herself to one man while 
 so deeply loving another. She was of so humble and 
 unconscious a spirit regarding herself that it had not 
 seemed to her that the inner feelings of her heart would 
 be of consequence to East, so long as she was the obedi 
 ent, devoted, faithful wife she was determined with all 
 her soul to be. For she had not that imaginative egotism 
 which so many women possess, which makes them spend 
 their lives in illusion, weaving round their every thought 
 and word an importance which no one else can discern. 
 According to these women, there are a thousand innocent 
 acts which "he" (lover or husband) "would not for an 
 instant allow," although to the world at large "he" ap 
 pears indifferent enough. They go through long turmoil, 
 from which they emerge triumphantly, founded upon 
 some hidden jealousy which "he" is supposed to feel, so 
 well hidden generally, and so entirely supposed, that per 
 sons with less imagination never observe it. But after 
 all, smile as we may, it is only those who are in most re 
 spects happy and fortunate wives who can so entertain 
 themselves. For cold unkindness, or a harsh and brutal 
 word, will rend this filrny fabric of imagination immedi 
 ately, never to be re woven again. 
 
 Anne wrote to East, repeating the contents of the old 
 letter, which had been doomed never to reach him. She 
 asked him to return the wanderer unopened Avhen it 
 was forwarded to him from the island ; there was a depth 
 of feeling in it which it was not necessary now that he 
 should see. She told him that her own avowal should 
 lift from him all the weight of wrong-doing ; she had first 
 gone astray. "We were always like brother and sister, 
 East; I see it now. It is far better as it is." 
 
 A few days later Pere Michaux wrote again, and in 
 closed a picture of Tita. The elder sister gazed at it curi 
 ously. This was not Tita ; and yet those were her eyes, 
 and that the old well-remembered mutinous expression 
 
350 ANNE. 
 
 still lurking about the little mouth. Puzzled, she took 
 it to mademoiselle. "It is my little sister," she said. 
 " Do you think it pretty ?" 
 
 Jeaniie-Armande put on her spectacles, and held it 
 frowningly at different distances from her eyes. 
 
 " It is odd," she said at last. Ye es, it is pretty too. 
 But, for a child s face, remarkable." 
 
 "She is not a child." 
 
 "Not a child?" 
 
 "No; she is married," replied Anne, smiling. 
 
 Mademoiselle pursed up her lips, and examined the 
 picture with one eye closed. "After all," she said, "I 
 can believe it. The eyes are mature." 
 
 The little bride was represented standing; she leaned 
 against a pillar nonchalantly, and outlined on a light 
 background, the extreme smallness of her figure was clear 
 ly shown. Her eyes were half veiled by their large droop 
 ing lids and long lashes ; her little oval face looked small, 
 like that of a child. Her dress was long, and swept over 
 the floor with the richness of silk: evidently Pere Mi- 
 chaux had not stinted the lavish little hands when they 
 made their first purchase of a full-grown woman s attire. 
 For the priest had taken upon himself this outlay ; the 
 "money for close," of which Tita had written, was pro 
 vided from his purse. He wrote to Anne that as he was 
 partly responsible for the wedding, he was also responsi 
 ble for the trousseau ; and he returned the money which 
 with great difficulty the elder sister had sent. 
 
 "She must be very small," said mademoiselle, musing 
 ly, as they still studied the picture. 
 
 She is ; she has the most slender little face I ever saw. " 
 
 Tita s head was thrown back as she leaned against the 
 pillar; there was a half-smile on her delicate lips; her 
 thick hair was still braided childishly in two long braids 
 which hung over her shoulders and down on the silken 
 skirt behind ; in her small ears were odd long hoops of 
 gold, which Pere Michaux had given her, selecting them 
 himself on account of their adaptation to her half-Orient 
 al, half -elfin beauty. Her cheeks showed no color; there 
 were brown shadows under her eyes. On her slender 
 
MISS LOIS SIGHED DEEPLY. 
 
ANNE. 351 
 
 brown hand shone the wedding- ring-. The picture was 
 well executed, and had been carefully tinted under Pere 
 Miehaux s eye : the old priest knew that it was Rast s best 
 excuse. 
 
 Now that Anne was freed, he felt no animosity toward 
 the young husband ; on the contrary, he wished to ad 
 vance his interests in every way that he could. Tita was 
 a selfish little creature, yet she adored her husband. She 
 would have killed herself for him at any moment. But 
 first she w r ould have killed him. 
 
 He saw them start for the far West, and then he return 
 ed northward to his island home. Miss Lois, dishearten 
 ed by all that had happened, busied herself in taking care 
 of the boys dumbly, and often shook her head at the fire 
 when sitting alone with her knitting. She never open 
 ed the old piano now, and she w r as less stringent with 
 her Indian servants ; she would even have given up quiet 
 ly her perennial alphabet teaching if Pere Michaux had 
 not discovered the intention, and quizzically approved it, 
 whereat, of course, she was obliged to go on. In truth, 
 the old man did this purposely, having noticed the change 
 in his old antagonist. He fell into the habit of coming to 
 the church-house more frequently to teach the boys, he 
 said. He did teach the little rascals, and taught them 
 well, but he also talked to Miss Lois. The original found 
 ers of the church-house would have been well astonished 
 could they have risen from their graves and beheld the 
 old priest and the New England woman sitting on op 
 posite sides of the fire in the neat shining room, which 
 still retained its Puritan air in spite of years, the boys, and 
 Episcopal apostasy. 
 
 Regarding East s conduct, Miss Lois maintained a grim 
 silence. The foundations of her faith in life had been 
 shaken ; but how could she, supposed to be a sternly prac 
 tical person, confess it to the world confess that she had 
 dreamed like a girl over this broken betrothal ? 
 
 "Do you not see how much happier, freer, she is?" 
 the priest would say, after reading one of Anne s letters. 
 "The very tone betrays it." 
 
 Miss Lois sighed deeply, and poked the fire. 
 
354 ANNE. 
 
 If a girl, no matter how light of heart and frivolous, a 
 silence and soberness came over her for a moment, and 
 her eyes grew wistful. If a woman, one who had loved, 
 no matter how hard and cold she had grown, a warmer 
 heart came back to her then, and tears rose. What was 
 it ? Only a few men dressed in the holiday uniform these 
 towns-people had often seen ; men many of whom they 
 knew well, together with their shortcomings and weak 
 nesses, whose military airs they had laughed at ; men 
 who, taken singly, had neither importance nor inter 
 est. What was it, then, that made the women s eyes 
 tearful, and sent the great crowd thronging round and 
 after them as though each one had been crowned king ? 
 What made the groups on the steps and piazzas of each 
 house keep silence after they had passed, and watch them 
 as long as they could distinguish the moving lines ? It 
 was that these men had made the first reply of this town 
 to the President s call. It was because these holiday 
 soldiers were on their way to real battle-fields, where 
 balls would plough through human flesh, and leave 
 agony and death behind. The poorest, dullest, soldier 
 who w r as in these ranks from a sense of loyalty, how 
 ever dim and inarticulate it might be, gave all he had r 
 martyr or saint never gave more. Not many of the 
 gazing people thought of this ; but they did think of death 
 by bayonet and hall as the holiday ranks marched by. 
 
 Down through the main street went the little troop, and 
 the crowd made a solid wall on the sidewalk, and a mov 
 ing guard before and behind. From the high windows 
 above, the handkerchiefs of the work-girls fluttered, while 
 underneath from the law offices, and below from the door 
 ways,, men looked out soberly, realizing that this meant 
 War indeed real and near War. 
 
 By another way, down the hill toward the rail way - 
 station, rattled the wheels of an artillery company ; also 
 a little holiday troop, with holiday guns shining bright 
 ly. The men sat in their places Avith folded arms; the 
 crowd, seeing them, knew them all. They were only 
 Miller, and Sieberling, and Wagner, and others as famil 
 iar; six months ago a month ago they would have 
 
ANNE. 355 
 
 laughed inexhaustibly at the idea of calling Tom Miller a 
 hero, or elevating Fritz Wagner to any other pedestal 
 than the top of a beer barrel. But now, as they saw 
 them, they gave a mighty cheer, which rang through the 
 air splendidly, and raised a hue of pride upon the faces 
 of the artillerymen, and perhaps the first feeling in some 
 of their hearts higher than the determination not to 
 "back out," which had been until then their actuating 
 motive. The two shining little guns rattled down the 
 hill; the infantry company marched down behind them. 
 The line of cars, with locomotive attached, was in wait 
 ing, and, breaking ranks, helter-skelter, in any way and 
 every way, hindered by hand-shaking, by all sorts of in 
 congruous parting gifts thrust upon them at the last mo 
 ment by people they never saw before, blessed by excited, 
 tearful women, made heart-sick themselves by the sight 
 of the grief of their mothers and wives, the soldiers took 
 their places in the cars, and the train moved out from 
 the station, followed by a long cheer, taken up and re 
 peated again and again, until nothing but a dark speck 
 on the straight track remained for the shouters to look 
 at, when they stopped suddenly, hoarse and tired, and 
 went silently homeward, pondering upon this new thing 
 which had come into their lives. The petty cares of the 
 day were forgotten. "War is hideous; but it banishes 
 littleness from daily life." 
 
 Anne, brought up as she had been in a remote little 
 community, isolated and half foreign, was in a measure 
 ignorant of the causes and questions of the great strug 
 gle which began in America in April, 1861. Not hers the 
 prayerful ardor of the New England girl who that day 
 willingly gave her lover, saw him brought home later 
 dead, buried him, and lived on, because she believed that 
 he had died to free his brother man, as Christ had died 
 for her. Not hers the proud loyalty of the Southern girl 
 to her blood and to her State, when that day she bade 
 her lover go forth and sweep their fanatical assailants 
 back, as the old Cavaliers, from whom they were descend 
 ed, swept back the crop-eared Puritans into the sea. 
 
 Jeaniie-Armande was not especially stirred ; save by 
 
354 ANNE. 
 
 If a girl, no matter how light of heart and frivolous, a 
 silence and soberness came over her for a moment, and 
 her eyes grew wistful. If a woman, one who had loved, 
 no matter how hard and cold she had grown, a warmer 
 heart came back to her then, and tears rose. What was 
 it ? Only a few men dressed in the holiday uniform these 
 towns-people had often seen ; men many of whom they 
 knew well, together with their shortcomings and weak 
 nesses, whose military airs they had laughed at ; men 
 who, taken singly, had neither importance nor inter 
 est. What was it, then, that made the women s eyes 
 tearful, and sent the great crowd thronging round and 
 after them as though each one had been crowned king ? 
 What made the groups on the steps and piazzas of each 
 house keep silence after they had passed, and watch them 
 as long as they could distinguish the moving lines ? It 
 was that these men had made the first reply of this town 
 to the President s call. It was because these holiday 
 soldiers were on their way to real battle-fields, where 
 balls would plough through human flesh, and leave 
 agony and death behind. The poorest, dullest, soldier 
 who was in these ranks from a sense of loyalty, how 
 ever dim and inarticulate it might be, gave all he had : 
 martyr or saint never gave more. Not many of the 
 gazing people thought of this ; but they did think of death 
 by bayonet and hall as the holiday ranks marched by. 
 
 Down through the main street went the little troop, and 
 the crowd made a solid wall on the sidewalk, and a mov 
 ing guard before and behind. From the high windows 
 above, the handkerchiefs of the work-girls fluttered, while 
 underneath from the law offices, and below from the door 
 ways, men looked out soberly, realizing that this meant 
 War indeed real and near War. 
 
 By another way> down the hill toward the railway, 
 station, rattled the wheels of an artillery company ; also 
 a little holiday troop, with holiday guns shining bright 
 ly. The men sat in their places with folded arms; the 
 crowd, seeing them, knew them all. They were only 
 Miller, and Sieberling, and Wagner, and others as famil 
 iar; six months ago a month ago they would have 
 
ANNE. 355 
 
 laughed inexhaustibly at the idea of calling Tom Miller a 
 hero, or elevating Fritz Wagner to any other pedestal 
 than the top of a beer barrel. But now, as they saw 
 them, they gave a mighty cheer, which rang through the 
 air splendidly, and raised a hue of pride upon the faces 
 of the artillerymen, and perhaps the first feeling in some 
 of their hearts higher than the determination not to 
 "back out," which had been until then their actuating 
 motive. The two shining little guns rattled down the 
 hill; the infantry company marched down behind them. 
 The line of cars, with locomotive attached, was in wait 
 ing, and, breaking ranks, helter-skelter, in any way and 
 every way, hindered by hand-shaking, by all sorts of in 
 congruous parting gifts thrust upon them at the last mo 
 ment by people they never saw before, blessed by excited, 
 tearful women, made heart-sick themselves by the sight 
 of the grief of their mothers and wives, the soldiers took 
 their places in the cars, and the train moved out from 
 the station, followed by a long cheer, taken up and re 
 peated again and again, until nothing but a dark speck 
 on the straight track remained for the shouters to look 
 at, when they stopped suddenly, hoarse and tired, and 
 went silently homeward, pondering upon this new thing 
 which had come into their lives. The petty cares of the 
 day were forgotten. War is hideous ; but it banishes 
 littleness from daily life." 
 
 Anne, brought up as she had been in a remote little 
 community, isolated and half foreign, was in a measure 
 ignorant of the causes and questions of the great strug 
 gle which began in America in April, 1861. Not hers the 
 prayerful ardor of the New England girl who that day 
 willingly gave her lover, saw him brought home later 
 dead, buried him, and lived on, because she believed that 
 he had died to free his brother man, as Christ had died 
 for her. Not hers the proud loyalty of the Southern girl 
 to her blood and to her State, when that day she bade 
 her lover go forth and sweep their fanatical assailants 
 back, as the old Cavaliers, from whom they were descend 
 ed, swept back the crop-eared Puritans into the sea. 
 
 Jeanne -Arrnande was not especially stirred ; save by 
 
356 ANNE. 
 
 impatience impatience over this interference with the 
 prosperity of the country. It might injure property (the 
 half -house), and break up music classes and schools! 
 What sympathy she felt, too, was with the South ; but she 
 was wise enough to conceal this from all save Anne, since 
 the school was burning with zeal, and the principal al 
 ready engaged in teaching the pupils to make lint. But 
 if Jeanne- Armande was lukewarm, Miss Lois was at fe 
 ver heat ; the old New England spirit rose within her like 
 a giant when she read the tidings. Far away as she was 
 from all the influences of the time, she yet wrote long 
 letters to Anne which sounded like the clash of spears, 
 the call of the trumpet, and the roll of drums, so fervid 
 were the sentences which fell of themselves into the war 
 like phraseology of the Old Testament, learned by heart 
 in her youth. But duty, as well as charity, begins at 
 home, and even the most burning zeal must give way 
 before the daily needs of children. Little Andre was not 
 strong; his spine was becoming curved, they feared. In 
 his languor he had fallen into the habit of asking Miss 
 Lois to hold him in her arms, rock with him in the old 
 rocking-chair, and sing. Miss Lois had not thought that 
 she could ever love those children" ; but there was a soft 
 spot in her heart now for little Andre. 
 
 In June two unexpected changes came. Little Andre 
 grew suddenly worse ; and Jeanne- Armande went to Eu 
 rope. A rich merchant of Weston, wishing to take his 
 family abroad, engaged mademoiselle as governess for 
 his two daughters, and French speaker for the party, at 
 what she herself termed "the salary of a princess. 1 The 
 two announcements came on the same day. Jeanne- Ar 
 mande, excited and tremulous, covered a sheet of paper 
 with figures to show to herself and Anne the amount of 
 the expected gain. As she could not retain her place in 
 the school without the magic power of being in two places 
 at once, the next best course was to obtain it for Anne, 
 with the understanding that the successor was to relin 
 quish it immediately whenever called upon to do so. As 
 they were in the middle of a term, the principal accepted 
 Miss Douglas, who, although young, had proved herself 
 
ANNE. 357 
 
 competent and faithful. And thus Anne found herself 
 unexpectedly possessed of a higher salary, heavier duties, 
 and alone. For Jeanne- Armande, in the helmet bonnet, 
 sailed on the twentieth of the month for England, in com 
 pany with her charges, who, with all their beauty and 
 bird-like activity, would find it impossible to elude made 
 moiselle, who would guard them with unflinching vigi 
 lance, and, it is but fair to add, w r ould earn every cent of 
 even that "salary of a princess" (whatever that may be) 
 which had attracted her. 
 
 Before mademoiselle departed it had been decided that 
 in consequence of little Andre s illness Miss Lois should 
 close the church-house, and take the child to the hot springs 
 not far distant, in Michigan, and that Louis and Gabriel 
 should come to their elder sister for a time. The boys 
 were to travel to Weston alone, Pere Michaux putting 
 them in charge of the captain of the steamer, while Anne 
 w r as to meet them upon their arrival. Miss Lois wrote 
 that they were wild with excitement, and had begged all 
 sorts of farewell presents from everybody, and packed 
 them in the two chests which Pere Michaux had given 
 them knives, cord, hammers, nails, the last being "a 
 box-stove, old and rusty, which they had actually tak 
 en to pieces and hidden among their clothes." Jeaime- 
 Armande went away on Monday; the boys were to ar 
 rive on Saturday. Anne spent all her leisure time in 
 preparing for them. Two of the little black- eyed fellows 
 were coming at last, the children who had clung to her 
 skirts, called her "Annet,"and now and then, when 
 they felt like it, swarmed up all together to kiss her, like 
 so many affectionate young bears. They were very dear 
 to her part of her childhood and of the island. The day 
 arrived ; full of expectation, she went down to meet the 
 steamer. Slowly the long narrow craft threaded its way 
 up the crooked river; the great ropes \rere made fast, the 
 plank laid in place; out poured the passengers, men, wo 
 men, and children, but no Louis, no Gabriel. Anne 
 watched until the last man had passed, and the deck 
 hands were beginning to roll out the freight ; then a voice 
 spoke above, "Is that Miss Douglas?" 
 
o58 ANNE. 
 
 She looked up, and saw the captain, who asked her 
 to come 011 board for a moment. I am very much 
 troubled, Miss Douglas," he began, wiping his red but 
 friendly face. "The two boys your half-brothers, I be 
 lieveplaced in my care by Pere Michaux, have run 
 away." 
 
 Anne gazed at him in silence. 
 
 "They must have slipped off the boat at Hennepin, 
 which is the first point where we strike a railroad. It 
 seems to have been a plan, too, for they managed to have 
 their chests put off also." 
 
 "You have no idea where they have gone ?" 
 
 "No; I sent letters back to Hennepin and to Pere 
 Michaux immediately, making inquiries. The only clew 
 I have is that they asked a number of questions about the 
 plains of one of our hands, who has been out thttt way." 
 
 "The plains!" 
 
 "Yes; they said they had a sister living out there." 
 
 A pai-n darted through Anne s heart. Could they have 
 deserted her for Tita ? She went home desolate and dis 
 heartened ; the empty rooms, where all her loving pre 
 parations were useless now, seemed to watch her satiri 
 cally. Even the boys did not care enough for her to think 
 of her pain and disappointment. 
 
 Pere Michaux had had no suspicion of the plan : but 
 he knew of one dark fact which might have, he wrote to 
 Anne, a bearing upon it. Miss Lois had mysteriously 
 lost, in spite of all her care, a sum of money, upon which 
 she had depended for a part of the summer s expenses, 
 and concerning which she had made great lamentation ; 
 it had been made up by the renting of the church-house ; 
 but the mystery remained. If the boys had taken it, bad 
 as the action was, it insured for a time at least their safe 
 ty. The priest thought .they had started westward to 
 join Hast and Tita, having been fascinated by what they 
 had overheard of East s letters. 
 
 The surmise was correct. After what seemed to Anne 
 very long delay, a letter came ; it was from Hast. The 
 night before, two dirty little tramps, tired and hungry, 
 with clothes soiled and torn, had opened the door and 
 
ANNE. 359 
 
 walked in, announcing that they were Louis and Gabriel, 
 and that they meant to stay. They had asked for food, 
 but had fallen asleep almost before they could eat it. With 
 their first breath that morning they had again declared 
 that nothing should induce them to return eastward, ei 
 ther to the island or to Anne. And Hast added that he 
 thought they might as well remain; he and Tita would 
 take charge of them. After a few days came a letter from 
 the boys themselves, printed by Louis. In this document, 
 brief but explicit, they sent their love, but declined to re 
 turn. If Pere Michaux came after them, they would run 
 away again, and this time no one should ever know 
 where they were, "exsep, purhaps, the Mormons. 1 1 With 
 fchis dark threat the letter ended. 
 
 Pere Michaux, as in the case of Tita, took the matter 
 into his own hands. He wrote to Rast to keep the boys, 
 and find some regular occupation for them as soon as pos 
 sible. Anne s ideas about them had always been rather 
 Quixotic ; he doubted whether they could ever have been 
 induced to attend school regularly. But now they would 
 grow to manhood in a region where such natural gifts as 
 they possessed would be an advantage to them, and where, 
 also, their deficiencies would not be especially apparent. 
 The old priest rather enjoyed this escapade. He consider 
 ed that three of the Douglas children were now, on the 
 whole, well placed, and that Anne was freed from the 
 hampering responsibility which her father s ill-advised 
 course had imposed upon .her. He sailed round his wa 
 ter parish with brisker zeal than ever, although in truth 
 he was very lonely. The little white fort was empty ; 
 even Miss Lois was gone ; but he kept himself busy, and 
 read his old classics on stormy evenings when the rain 
 poured down on his low roof. 
 
 But Anne grieved. 
 
 As several of her pupils wished to continue their music 
 lessons during the vacation, it w T as decided by Miss Lois 
 and herself that she should remain where she was for the 
 present ; the only cheer she had was in the hope that in 
 autumn Miss Lois and the little boy would come to her. 
 But in spite of all her efforts, the long weeks of summer 
 
360 ANNE. 
 
 stretched before her like a desert; in her lonely rooms 
 without the boys, without mademoiselle, she was pursued 
 by a silent depression unlike anything she had felt before. 
 She fell into the habit of allowing herself to sit alone in 
 the darkness through the evening brooding upon the past. 
 The kind-hearted woman who kept the house, in whose 
 charge she had been left by mademoiselle, said that she 
 was "homesick." 
 
 "How can one be homesick who has no home?" an 
 swered the girl, smiling sadly. 
 
 One day the principal of the school asked her if she 
 
 j would go on Saturdays for a while, and assist those who 
 
 j were at work in the Aid Rooms for the soldiers hospitals. 
 
 ! Anne consented languidly; but once within the dingy 
 walls, languor vanished. There personal sorrow seemed 
 
 ! small in the presence of ghastly lists of articles required 
 for the wounded and dying. At least those she loved 
 were not confronting cannon. Those in charge of the 
 rooms soon learned to expect her, this young teacher, a 
 stranger in Weston, who with a settled look of sadness on 
 her fair face had become the most diligent worker there. 
 She came more regularly after a time, for the school had 
 closed, the long vacation begun. 
 
 On Sunday, the 21st of July, Anne was in church ; it 
 was a warm day ; fans waved, soft air came in and played 
 around the heads of the people, who, indolent with sum 
 mer ease, leaned back comfortably, and listened with 
 drowsy peacefulness to the peaceful sermon. At that 
 very moment, on a little mill-stream near Washington, 
 men were desperately fighting the first great battle of the 
 war, the Sunday battle of Bull Run. The remnant of 
 the Northern army poured over Long Bridge into the cap 
 ital during all that night, a routed, panic-stricken mob. 
 
 The North had suffered a great defeat ; the South had 
 gained a great victory. And both sides paused. 
 
 The news flashed over the wires and into Weston, and 
 the town was appalled. Never in the four long years that 
 followed was there again a day so filled with stern aston 
 ishment to the entire North as that Monday after Bull 
 Run. The Aid Rooms, where Anne worked during her 
 
ANNE. 361 
 
 leisure hours, were filled with helpers now; all hearts 
 were excited and in earnest. West Virginia was the field 
 to which their aid was sent, a mountain region whose 
 streams were raised in an hour into torrents, and whose 
 roads were often long sloughs of despond, through which 
 the soldiers of each side gloomily pursued each other by 
 turns, the slowness of the advancing force only equalled 
 by that of the pursued, which was encountering in front 
 the same disheartening difficulties. The men in hospi 
 tal on the edges of this region, worn out with wearying 
 marches, wounded in skirmishes, stricken down by the 
 insidious fever which haunts the river valleys, suffered 
 as much as those who had the names of great battles 
 wherewith to identify themselves; but they lacked the 
 glory. 
 
 One sultry evening, when the day s various labor was 
 ended, Anne, having made a pretense of eating in her 
 lonely room, went across to the bank of the lake to watch 
 the sun set in the hazy blue water, and look northward 
 toward the island. She was weary and sad : where were 
 now the resolution and the patience with which she had 
 meant to crown her life ? You did not know, poor Anne, 
 when you framed those lofty purposes, that suffering is 
 just as hard to bear whether one is noble or ignoble, good 
 or bad. In the face of danger the heart is roused, and in 
 the exaltation of determination forgets its pain ; it is the 
 long monotony of dangerless days that tries the spirit 
 hardest. 
 
 A letter had come to her that morning, bearing a Bos 
 ton postmark ; the address was in the neat, small hand 
 writing of Jeanne- Armande s friend. Anne, remember 
 ing that it was this Boston address which she had sent to 
 her grandaunt, opened the envelope eagerly. But it was 
 only the formal letter of a lawyer. Miss Vanhorii had 
 died, on the nineteenth of June, in Switzerland, and the 
 lawyer wrote to inform "Miss Anne Douglas 1 that a cer 
 tain portrait, said in the will to be that of Alida Clans- 
 sen," had been bequeathed to her by his late client, and 
 would be forwarded to her address, whenever she request 
 ed it. Anne had expected nothing, not even this. But 
 
362 ANNE. 
 
 an increased solitariness came upon her as she thought of 
 that cold rigid face lying under the turf far away ic 
 Switzerland the face of the only relative left to her. 
 
 The sun had disappeared; it was twilight. The few 
 loiterers on the bank were departing. The sound of car 
 riage wheels roused her, and turning she saw that a car 
 riage had approached, and that three persons had alight 
 ed and were coming toward her. They proved to be the 
 principal of the school and the president of the Aid Soci 
 ety, accompanied by one of her associates. They had 
 been to Anne s home, and learning where she was, had 
 followed her. It seemed that one of the city physicians 
 had gone southward a few days before to assist in the reg 
 imental hospitals on the border; a telegraphic dispatch 
 had just been received from him, urging the Aid Society 
 to send without delay three or four nurses to that fever- 
 cursed district, where men were dying in delirium for 
 want of proper care. It was the first personal appeal 
 which had come to Weston ; the young Aid Society felt 
 that it must be answered. But who could go ? Among 
 the many workers at the Aid Rooms, few were free; 
 wives, mothers, and daughters, they could give an hour 
 or two daily to the work of love, but they could not leave 
 their homes. One useful woman, a nurse by profession, 
 was already engaged ; another, a lady educated and re 
 fined, whose hair had been silvered as much by affliction 
 as by age, had offered to go. There were two, then ; but 
 they ought to send four. Many had been asked during 
 that afternoon, but without success. The society was at 
 its wits end. Then some one thought of Miss Douglas. 
 
 She was young, but she was also self-controlled and 
 physically strong. Her inexperience would not be awk 
 wardness ; she would obey with intelligence and firmness 
 the directions given her. Under the charge of the two 
 older women, she could go if she would ! 
 
 It would be but for a short time two weeks only ; at 
 the end of that period the society expected to relieve these 
 first volunteers with regularly engaged and paid nurses. 
 The long vacation had begun ; as teacher, she would lose 
 nothing ; her expenses would be paid by the society. She 
 
ANNE. 363 
 
 had seemed so interested ; it would not be much more to 
 go for a few days in person ; perhaps she would even be 
 glad to go. All this they told her eagerly, while she stood 
 before them in silence. Then, when at last their voices 
 ceased, and they waited for answer, she said, slowly, look 
 ing from one to the other: "I could go, if it were not for 
 one obstacle. I have music scholars, and I can not af 
 ford to lose them. I am very poor." 
 
 "They will gladly wait until you return, Miss Doug 
 las," said the principal. "When it is known where you 
 have gone, you will not only retain all your old scholars, 
 but gain many new ones. They will be proud of their 
 teacher." 
 
 " Yes, proud !" echoed the associate. Again Anne re 
 mained silent; she was thinking. In her loneliness she 
 was almost glad to go. Perhaps, by the side of the suf 
 fering and the dying, she could learn to be ashamed of be 
 ing so down-hearted and miserable. It was but a short ab 
 sence. "Yes, I will go, "she said, quietly. And then 
 the three ladies kissed her, and the associate, who was of 
 a tearful habit, took out her handkerchief. "It is so 
 sweet, and so so martial!" she sobbed. 
 
 The next morning they started. Early as it was, a lit 
 tle company had gathered to see them off. The school 
 girls were there, half in grief, half in pride, over what 
 they were pleased to call the "heroism" of their dear 
 Miss Douglas. Mrs. Green, Anne s landlady, was there 
 in her Sunday bonnet, which was, however, but a poor 
 one. These, with the principal of the school and the oth 
 er teachers, and the ladies belonging to the Aid Society, 
 made quite a snowy shower of white handkerchiefs as 
 the train moved out from the station, Anne s young face 
 contrasting with the strong features and coarse complex 
 ion of Mary Crane, the professional nurse, on one side, 
 and with the thin cheeks and silver hair of Mrs. Barstow 
 on the other, as they stood together at the rear door of the 
 last car. Good-by ! good-by !" called the school-girls in 
 tears, and the ladies of the Aid Society gave a shrill lit 
 tle feminine cheer. They were away. 
 
364 ANNE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " When we remember how they died 
 In dark ravine and on the mountain-side, . . 
 
 How their dear lives were spent 
 By lone lagoons and streams, 
 In the weary hospital tent, .... 
 
 ... .it seems 
 Ignoble to be alive !" 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 THE three nurses travelled southward by railway, 
 steamboat, and wagon. On the evening- of the third day 
 they came to the first hospital, having been met at the 
 river by an escort, and safely guided across a country fair 
 with summer and peaceful to the eye, but harassed by 
 constant skirmishing the guerrilla warfare that deso 
 lated that border during the entire war. The houses they 
 passed looked home-like and quiet ; if the horses had been 
 stolen and the barns pillaged, at least nothing of it ap 
 peared in the warm sunshine of the still August day. 
 At the door of the hospital they were welcomed cordial 
 ly, and within the hour they were at work, Anne timid 
 ly, the others energetically. Mary Crane had the worst 
 cases; then followed Mrs. Barstow. To Anne was given 
 what was called the light work; none of her patients 
 were in danger. The men here had all been stricken 
 down by fever ; there Avere no wounded. During the 
 next day and evening, however, stories began to come to 
 the little post, brought by the country people, that a battle 
 had been fought farther up the valley toward the mount 
 ains, and that Hospital Number Two was filled with 
 wounded men, many of them lying on the hard floor 
 because there were not beds enough, unattended and suf 
 fering because there were no nurses. Aime, who had 
 
ANNE. 365 
 
 worked ardently all day, chafing- and rebelling in spirit at 
 the sight of suffering which could have been soothed by 
 a few of the common luxuries abundant in almost every 
 house in Westoii, felt herself first awed, then chilled, by 
 this picture of far worse agony beyond, whose details 
 were pitilessly painted in the plain rough words of the 
 country people. She went to the door and looked up the 
 valley. The river wound slowly along, broad, yellow, 
 and shining ; it came from the mountains, but from where 
 she stood she could see only round-topped hills. While 
 she was still wistfully gazing, a soldier 011 horseback rode 
 up to the door and dismounted ; it was a messenger from 
 Number Two, urgently asking for help. 
 
 "Under the circumstances, I do not see how I can re 
 fuse," said the surgeon of Number One, with some annoy 
 ance in his tone, because none of my men are wound 
 ed. People never stop to think that fever is equally 
 dangerous. I was just congratulating myself upon a lit 
 tle satisfactory work. However, I shall have to yield, I 
 suppose. I can not send you all ; but I ought to spare 
 two, at least for some days. Mary Crane of course can do 
 the most good ; and as Miss Douglas can not be left here 
 alone, perhaps it would be best that she should go with 
 Mary." 
 
 "You retain Mrs. Barstow here ?" asked Anne. 
 
 "Yes; I have, indeed, 110 choice. You are too young 
 to be retained alone. I suppose you are willing ? (Wo 
 men always are wild for a change !) Make ready, then ; 
 I shall send you forward to-night. " The surgeon of Num 
 ber One was a cynic. 
 
 At nine o clock they started. The crescent of a young 
 moon showed itself through the light clouds, which, low 
 as .mist, hung over the valley. Nothing stirred ; each 
 leaf hung motionless from its branchlet as they passed. 
 Even the penetrating sing-song chant of the summer in 
 sects was hushed, and the smooth river as they followed 
 its windings made no murmur. They were in a light 
 wagon, with an escort of two mounted men. 
 
 "If you go beyond Number Two, you ll have to take to 
 horseback, I reckon," said their driver, a countryman, 
 
36G ANNE. 
 
 who, without partisan feeling as to the two sides of the 
 contest, held on with a tight grip to his horses, and im 
 partially "did teaming" for both. 
 
 "Is there still another hospital beyond?" inquired 
 Anne. 
 
 Yes, there s Peterson s, a sorter hospital ; it s up in the 
 mountains. And heaps of sick fellers there too, the last 
 time I was up." 
 
 "It does not belong to this department," said Mary 
 Crane. 
 
 "I reckon they suffer pooty much the same, no mat 
 ter where they belong," replied the driver, flicking the 
 wheel reflectively with his whip-lash. "There was a 
 feller up at Number Two the other day as hadn t any 
 face left to speak of; yet he was alive, and quite peart." 
 
 Anne shuddered. 
 
 "There now, hold up, won t you?" said Mary Crane. 
 "This young lady ain t a real nurse, as I am, and such 
 stories make her feel faint." 
 
 "If she ain t a real nurse, what made her come ?" said 
 the man, glancing at Amie with dull curiosity. 
 
 " Twas just goodness, and the real downright article 
 of patriotism, I guess," said the hearty nurse, smiling. 
 
 "Oh no," said Anne ; " I was lonely and sad, and glad 
 to come." 
 
 "It doos kinder rouse one up to see a lot of men hit in 
 all sorts of ways, legs and arms and everything flying 
 round," remarked the driver, as if approving Anne s se 
 lection of remedies for loneliness. 
 
 They readied Number Two at dawn, and found the 
 wounded in rows upon the floor of the barn dignified by 
 the name of hospital. There had been no attempt to 
 classify them after the few beds were filled. One poor 
 torn fragment of humanity breathed his last as the nurses 
 entered, another an hour later. Mary Crane set herself 
 to work with ready skill ; Anne, after going outside two 
 or three times to let her tears flow unseen over the sor 
 rowful sights, was able to assist in taking care of two 
 kinds of cases those who were the least hurt and those 
 who were beyond hope, the slightly wounded and the 
 
ANNE. 36? 
 
 dying-. One man, upon whose face was the gray shadow 
 of death, asked her in a whisper to write a letter for him. 
 She found paper and pen, and sat down beside the bed 
 to receive his farewell message to his wife and children. 
 And tell little Jim he must grow up and be a comfort 
 to his mother," he murmured ; and then turning his quiet 
 gaze slowly upon the nurse : His mother is only twenty- 
 two years old now, miss. I expect she ll feel bad, Mary 
 will, when she hears." Poor young wife! The simple 
 country phraseology covered as much sorrow as the finest 
 language of the schools. During the night the man died. 
 
 The new nurses remained at Number Two six days. 
 Anne s work consisted principally in relieving Mary 
 Crane at dawn, and keeping the watch through the early 
 morning hours while she slept ; for the head surgeon and 
 Mary would not allow her to watch at night. The sur 
 geon had two assistants ; with one of these silent old men 
 (they were both gray-haired) she kept watch while the sun 
 rose slowly over the hill-tops, while the birds twittered, 
 and the yellow butterflies came dancing through the open 
 doors and windows, over the heads of the poor human 
 sleepers. But Number Two had greater ease now. The 
 hopelessly wounded were all at rest, their sufferings in 
 this life over. Those who were left, in time would see 
 health again. 
 
 On the seventh day a note came to the surgeon in 
 charge from the temporary hospital at Peterson s Mill, 
 asking for medicines. If you can possibly spare us one 
 or two nurses for a few days, pray do so. In all my ex 
 perience I have never been so hard pushed as now," 
 wrote the other surgeon. " The men here are all down 
 with the fever, and I and my assistant are almost crazed 
 with incessant night-work. If we could be relieved for 
 one night even, it would be God s charity. " 
 
 The surgeon of Number Two read this note aloud to 
 Anne as they stood by a table eating their hasty break 
 fast. " It is like the note you sent to us at Number One," 
 she said. 
 
 "Oh no; that was different, /never send and take 
 away other people s nurses," said Dr. Janes, laughingly. 
 
368 ANNE. 
 
 "I should like to go," she said, after a moment. 
 
 1 You should like to go ? I thought you were so 
 much interested here." 
 
 So I am ; but after what I have seen, I am haunted 
 by the thought that there may be worse suffering beyond. 
 That is the reason I came here. But the men here are 
 more comfortable now, and those who were suffering 
 hopelessly have been relieved forever from earthly pain. 
 If we are not needed, some of us ought to go." 
 
 But if we pass you on in this way from post to post, 
 we shall get you entirely over the mountains, and into 
 the Department of the Potomac, Miss Douglas. What 
 you say is true enough, but at present I refuse. I simply 
 can not spare you two. If they should send us a nurse 
 from Rivertown as they promised, we might get along 
 without you for a while; but not now. Charity, you 
 know, begins at home." 
 
 Anne sighed, but acquiesced. The surgeon knew best. 
 But during that day, not only did the promised nurse from 
 the Rivertown Aid Society arrive, but with her a volun 
 teer assistant, a young girl, her face flushed with exalta 
 tion and excitement over the opportunity afforded her to 
 help and comfort our poor dear wounded heroes." The 
 wounded heroes were not poetical in appearance; they 
 were simply a row of ordinary sick men, bandaged in va 
 rious ways, often irritable, sometimes profane ; their 
 grammar was defective, and they cared more for tobacco 
 than for texts, or even poetical quotations. The young 
 nurse would soon have her romance rudely dispelled. 
 But as there was good stuff in her, she would do useful 
 work yet, although shorn of many illusions. The other 
 woman was a professional nurse, whose services were 
 paid for like those of Mary Crane. 
 
 " Noiv may we go ?" said Anne, when the new nurse 
 had been installed. 
 
 Dr. Janes, loath to consent, yet ashamed, as he said 
 himself, of his own greediness, made no long opposition, 
 and the countryman with the non-partisan horses was 
 engaged to take them to Peterson s Mill. For this part 
 of the road no escort was required. They travelled in 
 
ANNE. 369 
 
 the wagon for ten miles. Here the man stopped, took the 
 harness from the horses, replaced it with two side-saddles 
 which he had brought with him, drew the wagon into a 
 ravine safely out of sight, effaced the trace of the wheels, 
 and then wiping his forehead after his exertions, an 
 nounced that he was ready. Anne had never been on 
 horseback in her life. Mary Crane, who would have 
 mounted a camel imperturbably if it came into the line of 
 her business, climbed up sturdily by the aid of a stump, 
 and announced that she felt herself "quite solid." The 
 horse seemed to agree with her. Anne followed her ex 
 ample, and being without physical nervousness, she soon 
 became accustomed to the motion, and even began to im 
 agine how exhilarating it would be to ride rapidly over a 
 broad plain, feeling the wind on her face as she flew along. 
 But the tw r o old brown horses had no idea of flying. 
 They toiled patiently every day, and sometimes at night 
 as well, now for one army, now for the other ; but no 
 thing could make them quicken their pace. In the 
 present case they were not asked to do it, since the road 
 was but a bridle-path through the ravines and over the 
 hills which formed the flank of the mountains they were 
 approaching, and the driver was following them on foot. 
 The ascents grew steeper, the ravines deeper and wilder. 
 
 " I no longer see the mountains," said Anne. 
 
 " That s because you re in em," answered the driver. 
 
 At night-fall they reached their destination. It was 
 a small mountain mill, in a little green valley which 
 nestled confidingly among the wild peaks as though it 
 was not afraid of their roughness. Within were the fe- 
 .ver patients, and the tired surgeon and his still more tired 
 assistant could hardly believe their good fortune when the 
 two nurses appeared. The assistant, a tall young medi 
 cal student who had not yet finished growing, ^ made his 
 own bed of hay and a coverlet so hungrily iii a dusky 
 corner that Anne could not help smiling ; the poor fel 
 low was fairly gaunt from loss of sleep, and had been 
 obliged to walk up and down during the whole of the 
 previous night to keep himself awake. The surgeon, 
 who was older and more hardened, explained to Mary 
 24 
 
370 ANNE. 
 
 Crane the condition of the men, and gave her careful di 
 rections for the night; then he too disappeared. Anne 
 and Mary moved about softly, and when everything was 
 ready, sat down on opposite sides of the room to keep 
 the vigil. If the men were restless, Mary was to attend 
 to them ; Anne was the subordinate, merely obeying 
 Mary s orders. The place was dimly lighted by two can 
 dles set in bottles ; the timbers above were festooned with 
 cobwebs whitened with meal, and the floor was covered 
 with its fine yellow dust. A large spider came slowly 
 out from behind a beam near by. and looked at Anne ; at 
 least she thought he did. He was mealy too, and she fell 
 to wondering whether he missed the noise of the wheel, 
 and whether he asked himself what all these men meant 
 by coining in and lying down in rows upon his floor to 
 disturb his peacef uliiess. At sunrise the surgeon came 
 in, but he was obliged to shake the student roughly be 
 fore he could awaken him from his heavy slumber. It 
 was not until the third day that the poor youth lost the 
 half-mad expression which had shone in his haggard face 
 when they arrived, and began to look as though he was 
 composed of something besides big jaws, gaunt cheeks, 
 and sunken eyes, which had seemed to be all there was 
 of him besides bones when they first came. 
 
 The fever patients at Peterson s Mill were not Western 
 men, like the inmates of Number One and Number Two ; 
 they belonged to two New York regiments. Mary Crane 
 did excellent work among them, her best; her systematic 
 watchfulness, untiring vigilance, and strict rules shook 
 the hold of the fever, and in many cases routed the dismal 
 spectre, and brought the victims triumphantly back to 
 hope of health again. 
 
 One morning Anne, having written a letter for one of 
 the men, was fanning him as he lay in his corner ; the 
 doors were open, but the air w^as sultry. The man was 
 middle-aged and gaunt, his skin was yellow and lifeless, 
 his eyes sunken. Yet the surgeon pronounced him out 
 of danger ; it was now merely a question of care, patience, 
 and nourishment. The poor mill-hospital had so little for 
 its sick ! But boxes from the North were at last beginning 
 
ANNE. 371 
 
 to penetrate even these defiles ; one had arrived during 
 the previous night, having been dragged on a rude sledge 
 over places where wheels could not go, by the non-parti- 
 saii horses, which were now on their patient way with a 
 load of provisions to a detachment of Confederates camp 
 ed, or rather mired, in the southern part of the county. 
 The contents of that box had made the mill-hospital 
 glad ; the yellow - faced skeleton whom Anne was fan 
 ning had tasted lemons at last, and almost thought he was 
 in heaven. Revived and more hopeful, he had been talk 
 ing to his nurse. "I should feel easier, miss, if I knew 
 just where our captain was. You see, there was a sort of 
 a scrimmage, and some of us got hurt. He wasn t hurt, 
 but he was took down with the fever, and so bad that we 
 had to leave him behind at a farm - house. And I ve 
 heard nothing since." 
 
 " Where was he left far from here ?" 
 
 "No; sing lerly enough, twas the very next valley to 
 this one. We went in half a dozen directions after that, 
 and tramped miles in the mud, but he was left there. 
 We put him in charge of a woman, who said she d take 
 care of him, but I misdoubt her. She was a meaching- 
 looking creature." 
 
 Probably, then, as you have heard nothing, he has re 
 covered, and is with his regiment again," said Anne, with 
 the cheerful optimism which is part of a nurse s duty. 
 
 "Yes, miss. And yet perhaps he ain t, you know. I 
 thought mebbe you d ask the surgeon for me. I m only 
 a straggler here, anyway ; the others don t belong to my 
 regiment. Heathcote was the name ; Captain Ward 
 Heathcote. A city feller he was, but wuth a heap, for all 
 that." 
 
 What was the matter with the nurse that she turned so 
 pale ? And now she was gone ! And without leaving the 
 fan too. However, he could hardly have held it. He 
 found his little shred of lemon, lifted it to his dry lips, 
 and closed his eyes patiently, hardly remembering even 
 what he had said. 
 
 Meanwhile Anne, still very pale, had drawn the sur 
 geon outside the door, and was questioning him. Yes, 
 
372 ANNE. 
 
 he knew that an officer had been left at a farm-house 
 over in the next valley ; he had been asked to ride over 
 and see him. But how could he ! As nothing had been 
 heard from him since, however, he was probably well by 
 this time, and back with his regiment again. 
 
 "Probably" the very word she had herself used when 
 answering the soldier. How inactive and cowardly it 
 seemed now ! " I must go across to this next valley, " she 
 said. 
 
 "My dear Miss Douglas!" said Dr. Flower, a grave, 
 portly man, whose ideas moved as slowly as his small fat- 
 encircled eyes. 
 
 * I know a Mr. Heathcote ; this may be the same per 
 son. The Mr. Heathcote I know is engaged to a friend 
 of mine, a lady to whom I am much indebted. I must 
 learn whether this officer in the next valley is he." 
 
 " But even if it is the same man, no doubt he is doing 
 well over there. Otherwise we should have heard from 
 them before this time," said the surgeon, sensibly. 
 
 But Anne did not stop at sense. "It is probable, but 
 not certain. There must be no room for doubt. If you 
 will ride over, I will stay. Otherwise I must go." 
 
 "I can not leave; it is impossible." 
 
 " Where can I procure a horse, then ?" 
 
 "I do not think I ought to allow it, Miss Douglas. 
 It is nearly fifteen miles to the next valley; of course 
 you can not go alone, and I can not spare Mary Crane to 
 go with you." The surgeon spoke decidedly; he had 
 daughters of his own at home, and felt himself responsi 
 ble for this young nurse. 
 
 Anne looked at him. "Oh, do help me!" she cried, 
 with an outburst of sudden emotion. "I must go ; even 
 if I go alone, and walk every step of the way, I must, 
 must go!" 
 
 Dr. Caleb Flower was a slow man ; but anything he 
 had once learned he remembered. He now recognized 
 the presence of what he called one of those intense im 
 pulses which make even timid women for the time being 
 inflexible as adamant." 
 
 "You will have to pay largely for horses and a guide," 
 
AXXE. 373 
 
 he said, in order to gain time, inwardly regretting mean 
 while that he had not the power to tie this nurse to her 
 chair. 
 
 I have a little money with me. " 
 
 "But even if horses are found, you can not go alone; 
 and, as I said before, I can not spare Mary. 
 
 "Why would not Diana do ?" said Anne. 
 
 "Diana!" exclaimed Dr. Flower, his lips puckering as 
 if to form a long whistle. 
 
 Diana was a middle-aged negro woman, who, with her 
 husband, July, lived in a cabin near the mill, acting as 
 laundress for the hospital. She was a silent, austere wo 
 man ; in her there was little of the light-heartedness and 
 plenitude of person which generally belong to her race. 
 A devout Baptist, quoting more texts to the sick soldiers 
 than they liked when she was employed in the hospital, 
 chanting hymns in a low voice w r hile hanging out the 
 clothes, Diana had need of her austerity, industry, and 
 leanness to balance July, who was the most light-hearted, 
 lazy, and rotund negro in the mountains. 
 
 "But you know that Mary Crane has orders not to 
 leave you ?" said Dr. Flower. 
 
 "I did not know it." 
 
 " Yes; so she tells me. The ladies of the Aid Society 
 who sent her arranged it. And I wish with all my heart 
 that our other young nurses were as well taken care of !" 
 added the surgeon, a comical expression coming into his 
 small eyes. 
 
 "On ordinary occasions I would not, of course, in 
 terfere with these orders, " said Anne, but 011 this I must. 
 You must trust me with Diana, doctor Diana and July. 
 They will take good care of me." 
 
 "I suppose I shall have to yield, Miss Douglas. But 
 I regret, regret exceedingly, that I have not full authori 
 ty over you. I feel it necessary to say formally that 
 your going is against my wishes and my advice. And 
 now, since you will have your own way in any case, I 
 must do what I can for you." 
 
 An hour later, two mules were ascending the mount 
 ain-side, following an old trail; Anne was on one, the 
 
374 ANNE. 
 
 tall grave Diana on the other. July walked in front, 
 with his gun over his shoulder. 
 
 "No danjah hyah," he assured them volubly; "sol 
 diers doan come up dis yer way at all. Dey go draggin 
 long in de mud below always; seem to like em." 
 
 But Anne was not thinking of danger. "Could we 
 not go faster by the road?" she asked. 
 
 " Spec s we could, miss. But wudn t darst to, ef I 
 was you." 
 
 No, no, miss, " said Diana. Best keep along in dese 
 yere woods; dey s safe." 
 
 The hours were endless. At last it seemed to Anne as 
 if they were not moving at all, but merely sitting still in 
 their saddles, while a continuous procession of low trees 
 and high bushes filed slowly past them, now pointing up 
 ward, now slanting downward, according to the nature 
 of the ground. In reality they were moving forward, 
 crossing a spur of the mountain, but so dense was the fo 
 liage of the thicket, and so winding the path, that they 
 could not see three feet in any direction, and all sense of 
 advance was therefore lost. Anne fell into a mental 
 lethargy, which was troubled every now and then by that 
 strange sense of having seen particular objects before 
 which occasionally haunts the brain. Now it was a tree, 
 now a bird ; or was it that she had known July in some 
 far-off anterior existence, and that he had kicked a stone 
 from his path in precisely that same way ? 
 
 It was late twilight when, after a long descent still 
 shrouded in the interminable thicket, the path came out 
 suddenly upon a road, and Anne s eyes seemed to herself 
 to expand as the view expanded. She saw a valley, the 
 gray smoothness of water, and here and there roofs. 
 July had stopped the mules in the shadow. 
 
 "Can you tell me which house it mought be, miss?" 
 he asked, in a low, cautious tone. 
 
 "No, " replied Anne. "But the person I am trying to 
 find is named Heathcote Captain Heathcote. We must 
 make inquiries." 
 
 "Now do be keerful, miss," urged July, keeping Anne s 
 
"JULY WALKED IN FRONT, WITH HIS GUN OVER HIS SHOULDER." 
 

ANNE. 375 
 
 mule back. "I ll jes go and peer roun a bit. But you 
 stay hyar with Di." 
 
 " Yes, miss," said Diana. " We ll go back in de woods 
 a piece, and wait. July 11 fin out all about em." 
 
 Whether willingly or unwillingly, Anne was obliged, 
 to yield; the two women rode back into the woods, and 
 July stole away cautiously upon his errand. 
 
 It was ten o clock before he returned ; Anne had dis 
 mounted, and was walking impatiently to and fro in the 
 warm darkness. 
 
 "Found em, miss, 1 said July. "But it s d ar cross 
 de valley. Howsomever, valley s safe, dey say, and you 
 can ride right along ober." 
 
 " Was it Mr. Heathcote f said Anne, as the mules trot 
 ted down a cross-road and over a bridge, July keeping up 
 with a long loping run. 
 
 "Yes, miss; Heathcote s de name. I saw him, and 
 moughty sick he looked." 
 
 " What did he say ?" 
 
 " Fever s in him head, miss, and didn t say nothing. 
 Senses clean done gone." 
 
 Arm ft had not thought of this; it changed her task at 
 once. He would not know her ; she could do all that was 
 necessary in safety, and then go unrecognized away. 
 * What will he say ?" she had asked herself a thousand 
 times. Now, he would say nothing, and all would be 
 simple and easy. 
 
 "Dis yere s de place, 11 said July, pausing. 
 
 It was a low farm-house with a slanting roof; there 
 was a light in the window, and the door stood open. 
 Anne, springing from her saddle, and followed by Diana, 
 hastened up the little garden path. At first there seemed 
 to be no one in the room into which the house door open 
 ed ; then a slight sound behind a curtain in one corner 
 attracted her attention, and going across, she drew aside 
 the drapery. The head moving restlessly to and fro on 
 the pillow, with closed eyes and drawn mouth, was that 
 of Ward Heathcote. 
 
 She spoke his name; tlie eyes opened and rested upon 
 her, but there was no recognition in the glance. 
 
376 ANNfe 
 
 " Bless you! his senses has been gone for days," said 
 the farmer s wife, coming up behind her and looking at 
 her patient impartially. "He don t know nobody no 
 more n a day-old baby !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " Love is not love 
 
 Which alters when it alteration finds, 
 Or tends with the remover to remove: 
 Love s not Time s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
 Within his bending sickle s compass come : 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
 But bears it out even to the edge of doom." 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 "WHY did you not send across to the hospital at the 
 mill?" said Anne. "Dr. Flower, receiving no second 
 message, supposed that Captain Heathcote had recovered." 
 
 "Well, you see, I reckon I know as much about this 
 yer fever as the doctors do as never had it," replied Mrs. 
 Redd. "The captain couldn t be moved ; that was plain 
 as day. And we hadn t a horse, nuther. Our horse and 
 mules have all been run off and stole." 
 
 Mrs. Redd was a clay-colored woman, with a figure 
 which, cavernous in front, was yet so rounded out behind 
 that if she could have turned her head round she would 
 have been very well shaped. Her knowledge of the fe 
 ver was plainly derived from personal experience ; she ex 
 plained that she had it "by spells," and that " Redd he 
 has it too, " and their daughter Nancy as well. Redd he 
 isn t to home now, nor Nancy nuther. But Redd he ll 
 be back by to-morrow night, I reckon. If you want to 
 stay, I can accommodate you. You can have the loft, 
 and the niggers can sleep in the barn. But they ll hav.e 
 to cook for themselves. I shall be mighty glad to have 
 some help in tending on the captain ; I m about wore out. " 
 
 Mrs. Redd did not mention that she had confiscated the 
 sick man s money, and hidden it safely away in an old 
 tea-pot, and that all her knowledge of arithmetic was at 
 
K. ft. Fletcher. 
 
 ^ANNE. 377 
 
 work keeping- a daily account of expenses which should 
 in the end exactly balance the sum. She had no inten 
 tion of stealing the money certainly not. But of course 
 her just account" must be paid. She could still work at 
 this problem, she thought, and earn something as well 
 from the new-comers, who would also relieve her from 
 all care of the sick man : it was clearly a providence. In 
 the glow of this expected gain she even prepared supper. 
 Fortunately in summer her kitchen was in the open air, 
 and the room where Heathcote lay was left undisturbed. 
 
 Anne had brought the hospital medicines with her, 
 and careful instructions from Mary Crane. If she had 
 come upon Heathcote before her late experiences, she 
 would have felt little hope, but men whose strength had 
 been far more reduced than his had recovered under her 
 eyes. Diana was a careful nurse ; July filled the place of 
 valet, sleeping on straw on the floor. She ordered down 
 the bed-curtains and opened all the windows ; martial law 
 regarding air, quiet, and medicines was proclaimed. The 
 sick man lay quietly, save for the continued restless mo 
 tion of his head. 
 
 " If we could only stop his slipping his head across and 
 back in that everlasting way, I believe he d be better 
 right off," said Mrs. Redd. 
 
 "It done him good, pears to me," said July, who al 
 ready felt a strong affection in his capacious vagabond 
 izing heart for the stranger committed to his care. " Yo 1 
 see, it kinder rests his mind like." 
 
 "Much mind he s got to rest with!" said Mrs. Redd, 
 contemptuously. 
 
 With her two assistants, it was not necessary that Anne 
 should remain in the room at night, and she did not, at 
 least in personal presence ; but every half -hour she was 
 at the top of the stairway, silently watching to see if 
 Diana fulfilled her duties. On the third day the new 
 medicines and the vigilance conquered. On the fifth day 
 the sick man fell into his first natural slumber. The 
 house was very still. Bees droned serenely. There was 
 no breeze. Anne was sitting on the door-steps. Ought 
 I to go now before he wakens ?" she was thinking. But 
 
378 ANNE. 
 
 I can not until the danger is surely over. He may not 
 recognize me even now." She said to herself that she 
 would stay a short time longer, but without entering the 
 room where he was ; Diana could come to her for orders, 
 and the others must not allude to her presence. Then, 
 as soon as she was satisfied that his recovery was certain, 
 she could slip away unseen. She went round to the 
 back of the house to warn the others ; it was all to go 
 on as though she was not there. 
 
 Heathcote wakened at last, weak but conscious. He 
 had accepted without speech the presence of Diana and 
 July, and had soon fallen asleep again, "like a chile." 
 He ate some breakfast the next morning, and the day pass 
 ed without fever. Mrs. Redd pronounced him convales 
 cent, and declared decisively that all he needed was to 
 * eat hearty. " The best medicine now would be " a plen 
 ty of vittals." In accordance with this opinion she pre 
 pared a meal of might, carried it in with her own hands, 
 and in two minutes, forgetting all about the instructions 
 she had received, betrayed Anne s secret. Diana, who 
 was present, looked at her reproachfully : the black skin 
 covered more faithfulness than the white. 
 
 "Well, I do declare to Jerusalem I forgot!" said the 
 hostess, laughing. "However, now you know it, Miss 
 Douglas might as well come in, and make you eat if she 
 can. For eat you must, captain. Why, man alive, if you 
 could see yourself ! You re just skin and rattling bones." 
 
 And thus it all happened. Anne, afraid to lay so much 
 as a finger s weight of excitement of any kind upon him 
 in his weak state, hearing his voice faintly calling her 
 name, and understanding at once that her presence had 
 been disclosed, came quietly in with a calm face, as though 
 her being there was quite commonplace and natural, and 
 taking the plate from Diana, sat down by the bedside 
 and began to feed him with the bits of chicken, which 
 was all of the meal of might that he would touch. She 
 paid no attention to the expression which grew gradually 
 in his feeble eyes as they rested upon her and followed 
 her motions, at first vaguely, then with more and more 
 of insistence and recollection. 
 
ANNE. 379 
 
 "Anne ?" he murmured, after a while, as if question 
 ing with himself. It is Anne ?" 
 
 She lifted her hand authoritatively. Yes, " she said ; 
 f but you must not talk. Eat. " 
 
 He obeyed ; but he still gazed at her, and then slowly he 
 smiled. "You will not run away again ?" he whispered. 
 
 "Not immediately." 
 
 " Promise that you will not go to-night or to-morrow." 
 
 "I promise." 
 
 And then, as if satisfied, he fell asleep. 
 
 He slept all night peacefully. But Anne did not once 
 lose consciousness. At dawn she left her sleepless couch, 
 and dressed herself, moving about the room cautiously, so 
 as not to awaken the sleeper below. When she was ready 
 to go down, she paused a moment, thinking. Raising 
 her eyes, she found herself standing by chance opposite 
 the small mirror, and her gaze rested half unconsciously 
 upon her own reflected image. She drew nearer, and 
 leaning with folded arms upon the chest of drawers, look 
 ed at herself, as if striving to see something hitherto 
 hidden. 
 
 We think we know our own faces, yet they are in real 
 ity less known to us than the countenances of our ac 
 quaintances, of our servants, even of our dogs. If any 
 one will stand alone close to a mirror, and look intently 
 at his own reflection for several minutes or longer, the 
 impression produced on his mind will be extraordinary. 
 At first it is nothing but his own well-known, perhaps 
 well-worn, face that confronts him. Whatever there 
 may be of novelty in the faces of others, there is certain 
 ly nothing of it here. So at least he believes. But after 
 a while it grows strange. What do those eyes mean, 
 meeting his so mysteriously and silently ? Whose mouth 
 is that ? Whose brow ? What vague suggestions of 
 something stronger than he is, some dormant force which 
 laughs him to scorn, are lurking behind that mask ? In. 
 the outline of the features, the curve of the jaw and chin, 
 perhaps he notes a suggested likeness to this or that ani 
 mal of the lower class a sign of some trait which he was 
 not conscious he possessed. And then those strange 
 
380 ANNE. 
 
 eyes ! They are his own ; nothing- new ; yet in their 
 depths all sorts of mocking meanings seem to rise. The 
 world, with all its associations, even his own history also, 
 drops from him like a garment, and he is left alone| 
 facing the problem of his own existence. It is the old 
 riddle of the Sphinx. 
 
 Something of this passed through Anne s mind at that 
 moment. She was too young to accept misery, to gener 
 alize on sorrow, to place herself among the large percent 
 age of women to whom, in the great balance of popula^ 
 tion, a happy love is denied. She felt her own wretch 
 edness acutely, unceasingly, while the man she loved was 
 so near. She knew that she would leave him, that he 
 would go back to Helen ; that she would return to her 
 hospital work and to Weston, and that that would be the 
 end. There was not in her mind a thought of anything 
 else. Yet this certainty did not prevent the two large 
 slow tears that rose and welled over as she watched the 
 eyes in the glass, watched them as though they were the 
 eyes of some one else. 
 
 Diana s head now appeared, giving the morning bul 
 letin: the captain had slept "like a cherrb," and was al 
 ready " mos well." Anne went down by .the outside 
 stairway, and ate her breakfast under the trees not far 
 from Mrs. Redd s out-door hearth. She told July that she 
 should return to the hospital during the coming night, 
 or, if the mountain path could not be traversed in the 
 darkness, they must start at dawn. 
 
 "I don t think it s quite fair of you to quit so soon," 
 objected Mrs. Redd, loath to lose her profit. 
 
 "If you can find anyone to escort me, I will leave you 
 Diana and July," answered Anne. "For myself, I can 
 not stay longer." 
 
 July went in with the sick man s breakfast, but came 
 forth again immediately. He wants yo" 1 to come, miss. " 
 
 "I can not come now. If he eats his breakfast obedi 
 ently, I will come in and see him later," said the nurse. 
 
 "Isn t much trouble bout eating," said July, grinning. 
 " Cap n he eats like he mos star.ved." 
 
 Anne remained sitting under the trees, while the two 
 
ANNE. 381 
 
 black servants attended to her patient. At ten o clock he 
 was reported as "sittiii up in bed, and powerful smart." 
 This bulletin was soon followed by another, "Him all 
 tired out now, and gone to sleep." 
 
 Leaving directions for the next hour, she strolled into 
 the woods behind the house. She had intended to go but 
 a short distance, but, led on by her own restlessness and 
 the dull pain in her heart, she wandered farther than 
 she knew. 
 
 Jacob Redd s little farm was on the northern edge of the 
 valley; its fields and wood-lot ascended the side of the 
 mountain. Anne, reaching the end of the wood-lot, open 
 ed the gate, and went on up the hill. She followed a lit 
 tle trail. The trees were larger than those through which 
 she had travelled on the opposite side of the valley ; it 
 was a wood, not a thicket; the sunshine was hot, the 
 green silent shade pleasant. She went on, although now 
 the trail was climbing upward steeply, and rocks appear 
 ed. She had been ascending for half an hour, when she 
 came suddenly upon a narrow, deep ravine, crossing from 
 left to right ; the trail turned and followed its edge ; but 
 as its depths looked cool and inviting, and as she thought 
 she heard the sound of a brook below, she left the little 
 path, and went downward into the glen. When she 
 reached the bottom she found herself beside a brook, 
 flowing along over white pebbles ; it was not more than a 
 foot wide, but full of life and merriment, going no one 
 knew whither, and in a great hurry about it. A little 
 brook is a fascinating object to persons unaccustomed to 
 its coaxing, vagrant witcheries. There were no brooks 
 on the island, only springs that trickled down from the 
 cliffs into the lake in tiny silver water-falls. Anne fol 
 lowed the brook. Absorbed in her own thoughts, and 
 naturally fearless, it did not occur to her that there might 
 be danger even in this quiet forest. She went round a 
 curve, then round another, when what was that ? She 
 paused. Could he have seen her ? Was he asleep ? Or 
 dead ? 
 
 It was a common sight enough, a dead soldier in the 
 uniform of the United States infantry. He was young, 
 
382 ANNE. 
 
 and his face, turned toward her, was as peaceful as if he 
 was sleeping ; there was almost a smile on his cold lips. 
 With beating heart she looked around. There were 
 twisted broken branches above on the steep side of the ra 
 vine; he had either fallen over, or else had dragged him 
 self down to be out of danger, or perhaps to get water 
 from the brook. The death-wound was in his breast ; she 
 could see traces of blood. But he could not have been 
 long dead. It had been said that there was no danger in 
 that neighborhood at present ; then what was this ? Only 
 one of the chances of war, and a common one in that re 
 gion : an isolated soldier taken off by a bullet from be 
 hind a tree. She stood looking sorrowfully down upon 
 the prostrate form; then a thought came to her. She 
 stooped to see if she could discover the identity of the 
 slain man from anything his pockets contained. There 
 was no money, but various little possessions, a soldier s 
 wealth a puzzle carved in wood and neatly fitted togeth 
 er, a pocket-knife, a ball of twine, a pipe, and a ragged 
 song-book. At last she came upon what she had hoped 
 to find a letter. It was from the soldier s mother, full 
 of love and little items of neighborhood news, and end 
 ing, " May God bless you, my dear and only son!" The 
 postmark was that of a small village in Michigan, and the 
 mother s name was signed in full. 
 
 One page of the letter was blank; with the poor sol 
 dier s own pencil Anne drew upon this half sheet a sketch 
 of his figure, lying there peacefully beside the little brook. 
 Then she severed a lock of his hair, and went sadly away. 
 July should come up and bury him ; but the mother, far 
 away in Michigan, should have something more than the 
 silence and heart-breaking suspense of that terrible word 
 "missing." The lock of hair, the picture, and the poor 
 little articles taken from his pockets would be her great 
 est earthly treasures. For the girl forgets her lover, and 
 the wife forgets her husband; but the mother never for 
 gets her dear and only son. 
 
 When Anne reached the farm-house it was nearly four 
 o clock. July s black anxious face met hers as she 
 glanced through the open door of the main room ; he was 
 
ANNE. 383 
 
 sitting near the bed waving a long plume of feathers back 
 ward and forward to keep the flies from the sleeping face 
 below. The negro came out on tiptoe, his enormous patch 
 ed old shoes looking like caricatures, yet making no more 
 sound, as he stole along, than the small slippers of a wo 
 man. "Cap en he orful disappointed cause you worn t 
 yere at dinner-time," he whispered. "An Mars Redd, 
 Mis Redd s husband, you know, him jess come home, and 
 they s bote gone cross de valley to see some pusson they 
 know that s sick ; but they ll be back fore long. And Di 
 she s gone to look fer you, cause she was moughty on- 
 easy bout yer. An she s been gone so long that Pm 
 moughty oneasy bout Di. PYaps you seen her, miss ?" 
 
 No, Anne had not seen her. July looked toward the 
 mountain-side anxiously. "Cap en he s had em broth, 
 and taken em medicine, and has jess settled down to a 
 good long sleep ; reckon he won t wake up till sunset. If 
 you ll allow, miss, I ll run up and look for Di." 
 
 Anne saw that he intended to go, whether she wished 
 it or not: the lazy fellow was fond of his wife.* She 
 gave her consent, therefore, on the condition that he 
 would return speedily, and telling him of the dead soldier, 
 suggested that when Farmer Redd returned the two men 
 should go up the mountain together and bury him. Was 
 there a burial-ground or church-yard in the neighbor 
 hood ? 
 
 No; July knew of none; each family buried its dead 
 on its own ground, " in a corner of a meddar. " He went 
 away, and Anne sat down to keep the watch. 
 
 She moved the long plume to and fro, refraining from 
 even looking at the sleeper, lest by some occult influence 
 he might feel the gaze and waken. Mrs. Redd s clock in 
 another room struck five. The atmosphere grew breath 
 less ; the flies became tenacious, almost adhesive ; the heat 
 was intense. She knew that a thunder-storm must be 
 near, but from where she sat she could not see the sky, 
 and she was afraid to stop the motion of the waving fan. 
 Each moment she hoped to hear the sound of July s re 
 turning footsteps, or those of the Redds, but none came. 
 Then at last with a gust and a whirl of hot sand the still- 
 
884 ANNE. 
 
 ness was broken, and the storm was upon them. She ran 
 to close the doors, but happily the sleeper was not awak 
 ened. The flies retreated to the ceiling", and she stood 
 looking at the black rushing rain. The thunder was not 
 loud, but the lightning was almost incessant. She now 
 hoped that in the cooler air his sleep would be even deep 
 er than before. 
 
 But when the storm had sobered down into steady soft 
 gray rain, so that she could open the doors again, she heard 
 a voice speaking her name : 
 
 "Anne." 
 
 She turned. Heathcote was awake, and gazing at her, 
 almost as he had gazed in health. 
 
 Summoning all her self-possession, yet feeling drearily, 
 unshakenly sure, even during the short instant of cross 
 ing the floor, that no matter what he might say (and per 
 haps he would say nothing), she should not swerve, and 
 that this little moment, with all its pain and all its sweet 
 ness, would, for all its pain and all its sweetness, soon 
 be gone, she sat down by the bedside, and taking up the 
 fan, said, quietly : 
 
 I am glad you are so much better. As the fever has 
 not returned, in a week or two you may hope to be quite 
 strong again. Do not try to talk, please. I will fan you 
 to sleep." 
 
 "Very well," replied Heathcote, but reaching out as he 
 spoke, and taking hold of the edge of her sleeve, which 
 was near him. 
 
 "Why do you do that?" said his nurse, smiling, like 
 one who humors the fancies of a child. 
 
 To keep you from going away. You said you would 
 be here at dinner, and you were not." 
 
 I was detained. I intended to be here, but 
 
 She stopped, for Heathcote had closed his eyes, and she 
 thought he was falling asleep. But no. 
 
 "It is raining," he said presently, still with closed 
 eyes. 
 
 Yes ; a summer shower." 
 
 Do you remember that thunder-storm when we were 
 in the little cave ? You are changed since then." 
 
ANNE. 385 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 4 Your face has grown grave. No one would take you 
 for a child now, but that clay in the cave you were hard 
 ly more than one." 
 
 "You too are changed," she answered, turning the con 
 versation from herself ; you are thin and pale. You 
 must sleep and eat. Surrender yourself to that duty for 
 the time being." She spoke with matter-of-fact cheerful 
 ness, but her ears were strained to catch the sound of 
 footsteps. None came, and the rain fell steadily. She 
 began to dread rain. 
 
 Heathcote in his turn did not reply, but she was con 
 scious that his eyes were open, and that he was looking 
 at her. At last he said, gently, 
 
 "/should have placed it there, Anne." 
 
 She turned; his gaze was fixed upon her left hand, 
 and the gold ring given by the school-girls. 
 
 " He is kind to you ? And you are happy ?" he con 
 tinued, still gazing at the circlet. 
 
 She did not speak ; she was startled and confused. He 
 supposed, then, that she was married. Would it not be 
 best to leave the error uncorrected ? But could she suc 
 ceed in this ? 
 
 "You do not answer," said Heathcote, lifting his eyes 
 to her face. " Are you not happy, then ?" 
 
 "Yes, I am happy," she answered, trying to smile. 
 "But please do not talk; you are not strong enough for 
 talking." 
 
 I hope he is not here, or expected. Do not let him 
 come in here, Anne: promise me." 
 He is not coming." 
 
 He is in the army, I suppose, somewhere in the 
 ne ghborhood ; and you are here to be near him ?" 
 No." 
 
 Then how is it that you are here ?" 
 I have been in the hospitals for a short time as nurse. 
 But if you persist in talking, I shall certainly leave you. 
 Why not try to sleep ?" 
 
 " He must be a pretty sort of fellow to let you go into 
 the hospitals," said Heathcoto, paying no heed to her 
 
386 ANNE. 
 
 threat. "I have your fatal marriage notice, Anne; I 
 have always kept it." 
 
 You have my marriage notice ?" she repeated, startled 
 out of her caution. 
 
 "Yes. Put your hand under my pillow and you will 
 find my wallet ; the woman of the house has skillfully 
 abstracted the money, "but fortunately she has not con 
 sidered a newspaper slip as of any value." He took the 
 case from her hand, opened it,- and gave her a folded 
 square paper, cut from the columns of a New York jour 
 nal. Anne opened it, and read the notice of the marriage 
 of Erastus Pronando, son of the late John Pronando, 
 Esquire, of Philadelphia, and Angelique, daughter of the 
 >late William Douglas, surgeon, United States Army." 
 
 The slip dropped from her hand. Pere Michaux must 
 have sent it," she thought. 
 
 "It was in all the New York and Philadelphia pa 
 pers for several days," said Heathcote. "There seemed 
 to be a kind of insistence about it." 
 
 And there was. Pere Michaux had hoped that the 
 Eastern Pronandos would see the name, and, moved by 
 some awakening of memory or affection, would make in 
 quiry for this son of the lost brother, and assist him on 
 his journey through the crowded world. 
 
 "I did not know that Anne was a shortening of 
 Angelique ; I thought yours was the plain old English 
 name. But Helen knew; I showed the notice to her." 
 
 Anne s face altered ; she could not control the tremor 
 that seized her, and he noticed it. 
 
 " Are you not married then, after all ? Tell me, Anne, 
 tell me. You can not deceive; you never could, poor 
 child; I remember that well." 
 
 She tried to rise, but he held her arm with both hands, 
 and she could not bring herself to use force against that 
 feeble hold. 
 
 Why should you not tell me what all the world is free 
 to know?" he continued. "What difference does it 
 make ?" 
 
 "You are right; it makes no difference, " she answer 
 ed, seating herself, and taking up the fan again. " It is 
 
u SHE TRIED TO RISE. BUT HE HELD HER ARM WITH BOTH HA.NDS." 
 
ANNE. 
 
 387 
 
 of no especial consequence. No, I am not married, Mr. 
 Heathcote. Aiigelique is the name of my little sister Tita, 
 of whom you have heard me speak ; we first called her 
 Petite, then Tita. Mr. Pronando and Tita are married." 
 
 "The same Pronando to whom you were engaged ?" 
 
 "Yes. He is 
 
 "Oh, I do not care to hear anything about him. Give 
 me your hand, Anne. Take off that ring." 
 
 "No ; it w r as a present from my pupils," she said, draw 
 ing back with a smile, but at the same time an inward 
 sigh of relief that the disclosure was over. "They " 
 
 "If you knew what I suffered when I read that no 
 tice!" pursued Heathcote, without heeding her. "The 
 world seemed all wrong then forever. For there was 
 something about you, Anne, which brought out what 
 small good there was in my worthless self, and young as 
 you were, you yet in one w T ay ruled me. I might have 
 borne the separation itself, but the thought that any 
 other man should call you wife was intolerable to me. 
 I had I still have it a peculiar feeling about you. In 
 some mysterious way you had come to be the one real 
 faith of my life. I was bitterly hurt and angry when 
 you ran away from me ; but angry as I was, I still 
 searched for you, and would have searched again if 
 Helen had not But never mind that now. If I have 
 loved you, Anne, you have loved me just as dearly. And 
 now you are here, and I am here, let us ask no more 
 questions, but just be happy." 
 
 But, " said the girl, breathlessly, Helen ?" Then 
 she stopped. 
 
 Heathcote was watching her. She tried to be calm, but 
 her lips trembled. A little skill in deception now, poor 
 Anne, would have been of saving help. Heathcote still 
 watched her in silence watched her until at last she turn 
 ed toward him. 
 
 "Did you not know," he said, slowly meeting her eyes 
 "did you not know that Helen was married ?" 
 
 "Married ? And not to you ?" 
 
 There was a perceptible pause. Then he answered. 
 "Not to me." 
 
388 ANNE. 
 
 A silence followed. A whirl of conflicting feelings 
 filled Anne s heart ; she turned her face away, blushing 
 deeply, and conscious of it. "I hope she is happy," she 
 murmured at last, striving to speak naturally. 
 
 "I think she is." Then he stretched out his hands 
 and took hers. "Turn this way, so that I can see you," 
 he said, beseechingly. 
 
 She turned, and it seemed to him that eyes never be 
 held so exquisite a face. 
 
 My darling, do you love me ? Tell me so. If I was 
 not a poor sick fellow, I should take you in my arms and 
 draw your sweet face down upon my shoulder. But, 
 as it is " He moved nearer, and tried to lift himself 
 upon his elbow. 
 
 There was a feebleness in the effort which went to 
 Anne s heart. She loved him so deeply! They were 
 both free now, and he was weak and ill. With a sudden 
 impulse she drew nearer, so that his head could rest on 
 her shoulder. He silently put out his hand ; she took it in 
 hers ; then he closed his eyes as if content. 
 
 As for Anne, she felt an outburst of happiness almost 
 too great to bear; her breath came and went so quickly 
 that Heathcote perceived it, and raising her hand he press 
 ed it to his lips. Still he did not open his eyes, or speak 
 one word further to the blushing, beautiful woman whose 
 arm was supporting him, and whose eyes, timid yet lov 
 ing, were resting upon his face. If he had been strong, 
 she would never have yielded so far. But nothing ap 
 peals so powerfully to a woman s heart as the sudden 
 feebleness of a strong man the man she loves. It is so 
 new and perilously sweet that he should be dependent 
 upon her, that her arm should be needed to support him, 
 that his weak voice should call her name with childish 
 loneliness and impatience if she is not there. And so 
 Anne at last no longer turned her eyes away, but looked 
 down upon the face lying upon her shoulder a face 
 worn by illness and bronzed by exposure, but the same 
 face still, the face of the summer idler at Caryl s, the 
 face she had seen during those long hours in the sunset 
 arbor, in the garden that morning, the face of the man 
 
ANNE. 389 
 
 who had followed her westward, and who now, after long 
 liopeless loneliness and pain, was with her again, and her 
 own forever. A rush of tenderest pity came over her 
 as she noted the hollows at the temples, and the dark 
 shadows under the closed eyes. She bent her head, and 
 touched his closely cut hair with her lips. 
 
 " Do not," said Heathcote. 
 
 She had not thought that he would perceive the girlish 
 little caress; she drew back quickly. Then he opened 
 his eyes. It seemed almost as if he had been trying to 
 keep them shut. 
 
 "It is of no use," he murmured, looking at her. 
 "Kiss me, Anne. Kiss me once. Oh, my darling ! my 
 darling !" And with more strength than she supposed 
 him to possess, he threw his arms round her, drew her 
 lovely face down to his, and kissed her fondly, not once, 
 but many times. 
 
 And she, at first resisting love s sweet violence, at last 
 yielded to it ; for, she loved him. 
 
 The rain still fell; it was growing toward twilight. 
 Footsteps were approaching. 
 
 " It is Diana," said Anne. 
 
 But Heathcote still held her. 
 
 " Please let me go," she said, smiling happily. 
 
 Then tell me you love me. " 
 
 "You know I do, Ward," she answered, blushing deep 
 ly, yet with all the old honesty in her sincere eyes. 
 
 * Will you come and say good-night to me if I let you 
 go now?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Her beautiful lips were near his; he could not help 
 kissing her once more. Then he released her. 
 
 The room Avas dim. Opening the door, she saw Diana 
 and July coming through the shed toward her, their 
 clothes wet and streaked with red clay. Diana explain 
 ed their long absence gravely. July had not been able 
 to restrain his curiosity about the dead soldier, and when 
 he finally found his wife, where she was searching for 
 "miss," they were both so far up the mountain that he 
 announced his intention of going to "find the pore fel- 
 
390 ANNE. 
 
 low anyway," and that she might go with him or return 
 homeward as she pleased. 
 
 "Sence he would go, it was better fo me to go too, 
 miss," said the black wife, glancing at her husband with 
 some severity. "An while we was about it, we jess 
 buried him." 
 
 The sternly honest principles of Diana countenanced 
 no rifling of pockets, no thefts of clothing; she would 
 not trust July alone with the dead man. Who knew 
 what temptation there might be in the shape of a pocket- 
 knife ? Without putting her fears into words, however 
 for she always carefully guarded her husband s dignity- 
 she accompanied him, stood by while he made his exam 
 ination, and then waited alone in the ravine while he went 
 to a farm-house a mile or two distant and returned with 
 two other blacks, who assisted in digging the grave. The 
 rain pattered down upon the leaves overhead, and at last 
 reached her and the dead, whose face she had reverently 
 covered with her clean white apron. When all was 
 ready, they carefully lowered the body to its last resting- 
 place, first lining the hollow with fresh green leaves, ac 
 cording to the rude unconscious poetry which the negroes, 
 left to themselves, often display. Diana had then kneel 
 ed down and "offered a powerfu prayer," so July said. 
 Then, having made a "firs -rate mouii ober him," they 
 had come away, leaving him to his long repose. 
 
 Half an hour later the Eedds returned also. By con 
 trast with the preceding stillness, the little house seemed 
 full to overflowing. Anne busied herself in household 
 tasks, and let the others wait upon the patient. But she 
 did not deny herself the pleasure of looking at him from 
 the other side of the room now and then, and she smiled 
 brightly whenever his eyes met hers and gave back her 
 mute salutation. 
 
 Heathcote was so much better that only July was to 
 watch that night ; Diana was to enjoy an unbroken 
 night s rest, with a pillow and a blanket upon the hay in 
 the barn. July went out to arrange this bed for his wife, 
 and then, as the patient was for the moment left alone, 
 Anne stole down from her loft to keep her promise, 
 
ANNE. 391 
 
 * Good-night," she murmured, bending over him. " Do 
 not keep me, good-night." 
 
 He drew her toward him, but, laughing lightly and 
 happily, she slipped from his grasp and was gone. 
 
 When July returned, there was no one there but his 
 patient, who did not have so quiet a night as they had an 
 ticipated, being restless, tormented apparently by trou 
 bled dreams. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 " My only wickedness is that I love you ; my only goodness, the 
 same." ANONYMOUS. 
 
 "A Durwaish in his prayer said: God, show kindness toward 
 the wicked; for on the good Thou hast already bestowed kindness 
 enough by having created them virtuous. 1 " SAADI. 
 
 ANNE passed the next day in the same state of vivid 
 happiness. The mere joy of the present was enough for 
 her ; she thought not as yet of the future, of next month, 
 next week, or even to-morrow. It sufficed that they were 
 there together, and free without wrong to love each oth 
 er. During the morning there came no second chance 
 for their being alone, and Heathcote grew irritated as the 
 slow hours passed. Farmer Redd esteemed it his duty, 
 now that he was at home again, to entertain his guest 
 whenever, from his open eyes, he judged him ready for 
 conversation ; and Mrs. Redd, July, and Diana seemed to 
 have grown into six persons at least, from their contin 
 uous appearances at the door. At last, about five o clock, 
 Anne was left alone in the room, and his impatient eyes 
 immediately summoned her. Smiling at his irritation, 
 she sat down by the bedside and took up the fan. 
 
 "You need not do that," he said; "or rather, yes, do. 
 It will keep you here, at any rate. Where have you been 
 all day? 1 
 
 They could talk in low tones unheard ; but through the 
 open door Mrs. Redd and Diana were visible, taking down 
 clothes from the line. Heathcote watched them for a mo 
 ment, and then looked at his nurse with silent wistfulness. 
 
392 ANNE. 
 
 "But it is a great happiness merely to be together," 
 said Anne, answering the look in words. , 
 
 "Yes, I know it; but yet Tell me, Anne, do you 
 love me ?" 
 
 You know I do ; in truth, you have told me you 
 knew it more times than was generous," she answered, al 
 most gayly. She was fairly light-hearted now with 
 happiness. 
 
 "That is not what I want. Look at me and tell me; 
 do, dear." He spoke urgently, almost feverishly ; a som 
 bre restless light burned in his eyes. 
 
 And then she bent forward and looked at him with so 
 much love that his inmost heart was stirred. "I love 
 you with all my heart, all my being," she murmured, 
 even the fair young beauty of her face eclipsed by the light 
 from the soul within. He saw then what he had seen be 
 fore how deep was her love for him. But this time there 
 was in it no fear; only perfect trust. 
 
 He turned his head away as if struggling with some hid 
 den emotion. But Anne, recovering herself, fell back 
 into her former content, and began to talk with the child 
 like ease of happiness. She told him of her life, all that 
 had happened since their parting. Once or twice, when 
 her story approached their past, and she made some 
 chance inquiry, he stopped her. " Do not ask questions," 
 he said; "let us rest content with what we have;" and 
 she, willing to follow his fancy, smiled and refrained. 
 He lay silently watching her as she talked. Her faith in 
 him was absolute ; it was part of her nature, and he knew 
 her nature. It was because she was what she was that he 
 had loved her, when all the habits and purposes of his 
 life were directly opposed to it. 
 
 "Anne," he said, "when will you marry me ? * 
 
 "Whenever you wish," she answered, with what was 
 to him the sweetest expression of obedience that a girl s 
 pure eyes ever held. 
 
 Will you go with me, as soon as I am able, and let 
 some clergyman in the nearest village marry us ?" 
 
 "I would rather have Miss Lois come, and little Andre; 
 still, Ward, it shall be as you wish." 
 
? i---=-sr^ 
 " WEAK, HOLDING OX BY THE TREES." 
 
ANNE. 393 
 
 He took her hand, and laid his hot cheek upon it; a 
 moisture gathered in his eyes. " You trust me entirely. 
 You would put your hand in mine to-night and go out 
 into the world with me unquestioning ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Kiss me once, love just once more." His face was 
 altering; its faint color had faded, and a brown pallor 
 was taking its place. 
 
 You are tired, " said Anne, regretfully ; " I have talk 
 ed to you too long." What he had said made no espe 
 cial impression upon her ; of course she trusted him. 
 
 "Kiss me," he said again; "only once more, love." 
 There was a strange dulled look in his eyes ; she missed the 
 expression which had lain there since the avowal of the 
 day before. She turned; there was no one in sight 
 the women had gone to the end of the garden. She bent 
 over and kissed him with timid tenderness, and as her 
 lips touched his cheek, tears stole from his eyes under the 
 closed lashes. Then, as steps were approaching, he turn 
 ed his face toward the wall, and covered his eyes with his 
 hand. She thought that he was tired, that he had been 
 overtaxed by all that had happened, and going out softly 
 she cautioned the others. Do not go in at present ; I 
 think he is falling asleep." 
 
 "Well, then, I ll jest take this time to run across to 
 Miss Pendleton s and git some of that yere fine meal; I 
 reckon the captain will like a cake of it for supper," said 
 Mrs. Redd. And, Di, you go down to Dawson s and git 
 a young chicken for briling. No one need say as how 
 the captain don t have enough to eat yere." 
 
 July was left in charge. Anne took her straw hat, 
 passed through the garden, and into the wood-lot behind, 
 where she strolled to and fro,- looking at the hues of the 
 sunset through the trees, although not in reality conscious 
 of the colors at all, save as part of the great boundless 
 joy of the day. 
 
 She had been there some time, when a sound roused 
 her ; she lifted her eyes. Was it a ghost approaching ? 
 
 Weak, holding 011 by the trees, a shadow of his former 
 self, it was Ward Heathcote who was coming toward her 
 
394 ANNE. 
 
 as well as he could, swerving 1 a little now and then, and 
 moving unsteadily, yet walking. July had deserted his 
 post, and the patient, left alone, had risen, dressed himself 
 unaided, and was coming to find her. 
 
 With a cry she went to meet him, and drew him down 
 upon a fallen tree trunk. "What can you mean?" she 
 said, kneeling down to support him. 
 
 "Do not," he answered (and the voice was unlike 
 Heathcote s). "I will move along so that I can lean 
 against this tree. Come where I can see you, Anne; I 
 have something to say." 
 
 "Let us first go back to the house. Then you can 
 say it." 
 
 But he only made a motion of refusal, and, startled by 
 his manner, she came and stood before him as he desired. 
 He began to speak at once, and rapidly. 
 
 "Anne, I have deceived you. Helen is married; but 
 I am her husband." 
 
 She gazed at him. Not a muscle or feature had stirred, 
 yet her whole face was altered. 
 
 "I did not mean to deceive you; there was no plan. 
 It was a wild temptation that swept over me suddenly 
 when I found that you were free not married as I had 
 thought ; that you still loved me, and that you did not 
 know. I said to myself, let me have the sweetness of 
 her love for one short day, one short day only, and then I 
 will tell her all. Yet I might have let it go on for a while 
 longer, Anne, if it had not been for your own words this 
 afternoon : you would go with me anywhere, at any time, 
 trusting me utterly, loving me as you only can love. 
 Your faith has humiliated me ; your unquestioning trust 
 has made me ashamed. And so I have come to tell you 
 the deception, and to tell you also that I love you so that 
 I will no longer trust myself. I do not say that I can 
 not, but that I will not. And I feel the strongest self-re 
 proach of my life that I took advantage of your innocent 
 faith to draw out, even for that short time, the proof 
 which I did not need ; for ever since that morning in the 
 garden, Anne, I have known that you loved me. It was 
 that which hurt me in your marriage. But you are so 
 
ANNE. 395 
 
 sweet, so dangerously sweet to me, and I have not been 
 nocustomed to deny myself. This is no excuse ; I do not 
 offer it as such. But remember what kind of a man I 
 have been; remember that I love you, and forgive me." 
 
 For the first time he now looked at her. Still and 
 white as a snow statue, she met his gaze mutely. 
 
 I can say no more, Anne, unless you tell me you for 
 give me." 
 
 She did not answer. He moved as if to rise and come 
 to her, but she stretched out her hand to keep him back. 
 
 You are too weak, " she murmured, hurriedly. Yes, 
 yes, I forgive you." 
 
 "You will wish to know how it all happened," he be 
 gan again, and his voice showed his increasing exhaustion. 
 
 "No ; I do not care to hear." 
 
 "I will write it, then." 
 
 There was a momentary pause ; he closed his eyes. 
 The girl, noting, amid her own suffering, the deathly 
 look upon his face, came to his side. You must go back 
 to the house, " she said. Will my arm be enough ? Or 
 shall I call July?" 
 
 He looked at her; a light came back into his eyes. 
 "Anne," he whispered, "would not the whole world be 
 well lost to us if we could have but love and each other ?" 
 
 She returned his gaze. Yes, " she said, it would if 
 happiness were all." 
 
 " Then you would be happy with me, darling ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Alone with me, and in banishment?" 
 
 "In banishment, in disgrace, in poverty, pain, and 
 death," she answered, steadily. 
 
 "Then you will go with me, trusting to me only?" 
 He was holding her hands now, and she did not withdraw 
 them. 
 
 " No," she answered ; "never. If happiness were all, 
 I said. But it is not all. There is something nearer, 
 higher than happiness." She paused. Then rapidly 
 and passionately these words broke from her: "Ward, 
 Ward, you are far more than my life to me. Do not kill 
 me, kill my love for you, my faith in you, by trying 
 
396 ANNE. 
 
 to tempt me more. You could not succeed; I tell you 
 plainly you could never succeed; but it is not on that 
 account I speak. It is because it would kill me to lose my 
 belief in you, my love, my only, only love !" 
 
 "But I am not so good as you think," murmured 
 Heathcote, leaning his head against her. His hands, still 
 holding hers, were growing cold. 
 
 But you are brave. And you shall be true. Go 
 back to Helen, and try to do what is right, as I also shall 
 try." 
 
 "But you that is different. You do not care." 
 
 " Not care!" she repeated, and her voice quivered and 
 broke. "You knoiv that is false." 
 
 "It is. Forgive me." 
 
 Promise me that you will go back ; promise for my 
 sake, Ward. Light words are often spoken about a brok 
 en heart ; but I think, if you fail me now, my heart will 
 break indeed." 
 
 " What must I do ?" 
 
 "Go back to Helen to your life, whatever it is." 
 
 "And shall I see you again ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "It is too hard, too hard, "he whispered, putting his 
 arms round her. 
 
 But she unclasped them. I have your promise ?" she 
 said. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then I take it." And lightly touching his forehead 
 with her lips, she turned and was gone. 
 
 When July and Diana came to bring back their fool 
 hardy patient, they found him lying on the earth so still 
 and cold that it seemed as if he were dead. That night 
 the fever appeared again. But there was only Diana to 
 nurse him now ; Anne was gone. 
 
 Farmer Redd acted as guide and escort back to Peter 
 son s Mill ; but the pale young nurse would not stop, beg 
 ging Dr. Flower to send her onward immediately to Num 
 ber Two. She was so worn and changed that the sur 
 geon feared that fever had already attacked her, and he 
 sent a private note to the surgeon of Number Two, re^ 
 
ANNE. 397 
 
 commending that Miss Douglas should at once be re 
 turned to Number One, and, if possible, sent northward to 
 her home. But when Anne arrived at Number One, 
 and saw again the sweet face of Mrs. Barstow, when she 
 felt herself safely surrounded by the old work, she said 
 that she would stay for a, few days longer. While her 
 hands were busy, she could think ; as she could not sleep, 
 she would watch. She felt that she had now to learn life 
 entirely anew ; not only herself, but the very sky, sun 
 shine, and air. The world was altered. 
 
 On the seventh morning a letter came; it was from 
 Heathcote, and had been forwarded from Peterson s Mill. 
 She kept it until she had a half-hour to herself, and then, 
 going to the bank of the river, she sat down under the 
 trees and opened it. Slowly ; for it might be for good, or 
 it might be for evil ; but, in any case, it was her last. She 
 would not allow herself to receive or read another. 
 
 It was a long letter, written with pencil upon coarse 
 blue-lined paper. After saying that the fever had disap 
 peared, and that before long he should try to rejoin his 
 regiment, the words went on as follows : 
 
 I said that I would write and tell you all. When you 
 ran away from me last year, I was deeply hurt ; I search 
 ed for you, but could find no clew. Then I went back 
 eastward, joined the camping party, and after a day or 
 two returned with them to Caryl s. No one suspected 
 where I had been. From Caryl s we all went down to 
 the city together, and the winter began. 
 
 "I was, in a certain way, engaged to Helen; yet I 
 was not bound. Nor was she. I liked her: she had 
 known how to adapt herself to me always. But I had 
 never been in any haste ; and I wondered sometimes why 
 she held to me, when there were other men, worth more 
 in every way than Ward Heathcote, who admired her 
 as much as I did. But I did not then know that she 
 loved me. I know it now. 
 
 After our return to the city, I never spoke of you ; 
 but now and then she mentioned your name of her own 
 accord, and I listened. She was much surprised that you 
 did not write to her; she knew no more where you were 
 
398 ANNE. 
 
 than I did, and hoped every day for a letter ; so did I. 
 But you did not write. 
 
 "All this time I do not like to say it, yet it is part of 
 the story she made herself my slave. There was no 
 thing I could say or do, 110 matter how arbitrary, to which 
 she did not yield, in which she did not acquiesce. No 
 word concerning marriage was spoken, even our former 
 vague lovers talk had ceased; for, after you hurt me 
 so deeply, Anne, I had not the heart for it. My temper 
 was anything but pleasant. The winter moved on ; I had 
 no plan ; I let things take their course. But I always 
 expected to find you in some way, to see you again, un 
 til that marriage notice appeared. I took it to Helen. 
 It is Anne, I suppose ? I said. She read it, and an 
 swered, Yes. She was deceived, just as I was." 
 
 Here Anne put down the letter, and looked off over 
 the river. Helen knew that Tita s name was Angelique, 
 and that the sister s was plain Anne. It was a lie direct. 
 But Heathcote did not know it. "He shall never know 
 through me," she thought, with stern sadness. 
 
 The letter went on: "I think she had not suspected 
 me before, Anne I mean in connection with you : she 
 was always thinking of Rachel. But she did then, and 
 I saw it. I was so cut up about it that I concealed no 
 thing. About a week after that she was thrown from 
 her carriage. They thought she was dying, and sent for 
 me. Miss Teller was in the hall waiting ; she took me 
 into the library, and said that the doctors thought Helen 
 might live if they could only rouse her, but that she 
 seemed to be sinking into a stupor. With tears rolling 
 down her cheeks, she said, Ward, I know you love her, 
 and she has long loved you. But you have said nothing, 
 and it has worn upon her. Go to her and save her life. 
 You can. 
 
 "She took me into the room, and went out, closing the 
 door. Helen was lying on a couch ; I thought she was 
 already dead. But when I bent over her and spoke 
 her name, she opened her eyes, and knew me immediate 
 ly. I was shocked by her death-like face. It was all so 
 sudden. I had left her the night before, dressed for a 
 
ANNE. 399 
 
 ball. She whispered to me to lift her in my arms, so that 
 she might die there ; but I was afraid to move her, lest 
 her suffering should increase. She begged with so much 
 earnestness, however, that at last, gently as I could, I lift 
 ed and held her. I am going to die, she whispered, 
 so I need not care any more, or try. I have always 
 loved you, Ward. I loved you even when I married 
 Richard. I thought her mind was wandering; and she 
 must have seen that I did, because she spoke again, and 
 this time aloud. I am perfectly myself. I tell you 
 that I have always loved you ; you shall know it before I 
 die. Miss Teller said, And he loves you also, my dar 
 ling child ; he has told me so. Now, for his sake you 
 will try to recover and be his wife. 
 
 "We were married two days later. The doctors ad 
 vised it, because when I was not there Helen sank rapid 
 ly. I took care of the poor girl for weeks ; she ate only 
 from my hand. As she grew stronger, I taught her to 
 walk again, and carried her in my arms up and down 
 stairs. When at last she began to improve, she gained 
 strength rapidly ; she is now well, save that she will nev 
 er be able to walk far or dance. I think she is happy. It 
 seems a feeble thing to say, and yet it is something I am 
 always kind to Helen. 
 
 ."As for you it was all a wild, sudden temptation. 
 
 " I will go back to my regiment (as to my being in the 
 army, after that attack on Sumter it seemed to me the 
 only thing to do), I will make no attempt to follow you. 
 In short, I will do as well as I can. It may not be very 
 well. W. H." 
 
 That was all. Anne, miserable, lonely, broken-heart 
 ed, as she was, felt that she had in one way conquered. 
 She leaned her head against the tree trunk, and sat for 
 some time with her eyes closed. Then she tore the letter 
 into fragments, threw them into the river, and watched 
 the slow current bear them away. When the last one had 
 disappeared, she rose and went back to the hospital. 
 
 "The clean clothes have been brought in, Miss Doug 
 las, " said the surgeon s assistan t. Can you sort them ?" 
 
 " Yes, * she replied. And dull life moved on again. 
 
400 ANNE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 "0 Toil, Loneliness, Poverty, doing the right makes ye no 
 
 easier. 
 
 THE next morning 1 the new nurses, long delayed, sent 
 by the Weston Aid Society, arrived at Number One, and 
 Mary Crane, Mrs. Barstow, and Anne were relieved from 
 duty, and returned to their Northern home. During the 
 journey Anne decided that she must not remain in Wes 
 ton. It was a hard decision, but it seemed to her inev 
 itable. This man whom she loved knew that her home 
 was there. He had said that he would not follow her ; but 
 could she depend upon his promise ? Even in saying that 
 he would try to do as well as he could, he had distinctly 
 added that it might not be very well. " She must leave 
 no temptation in his path, or her own. She must put it 
 out of his power to find her, out of hers to meet him. 
 She must go away, leaving no trace behind. 
 
 She felt deeply thankful that at the present moment 
 her movements were not cramped by the wants of the 
 children ; for if they had been in pressing need, she must 
 have staid have staid and faced the fear and the danger. 
 Now she could go. But whither ? It would be hard to 
 go out into the broad world again, this time more soli 
 tary than before. After much thought, she decided to 
 go eastward to the half -house, Jeanne- Armande having 
 given her permission to use it. It would be at least a 
 shelter over her head, and probably old Nora would be 
 glad to come and stay with her. With this little home 
 as background, she hoped to be able to obtain pupils in 
 the city, little girls to whom she could be day governess, 
 giving lessons in music and French. But the pupils: 
 how could she obtain them ? Whose influence could she 
 hope for ? She could not go to Tante, lest Helen should 
 
ANNE. 401 
 
 hear of her presence. At first it seemed as if there were 
 no one; she went over and over in vain her meagre list 
 of friends. Suddenly a remembrance of the little German 
 music-master, who had taught classical music, and hated 
 Belzhii, came to her; he was no longer at the Moreau 
 school, and she had his address. He had been especially 
 kind. She summoned her courage and wrote to him. 
 Herr Scheff el s reply came promptly and cordially. I 
 have your letter received, and I remember you entirely. 
 I know not now all I can promise, as my season of les 
 sons is not yet begun, but two little girls you can have at 
 once for scales, though much they will not pay. But 
 with your voice, honored Fraulein, a place in a church 
 choir is the best, and for that I will do my very best en 
 deavor. But while you make a beginning, honored Frau 
 lein, take my wife and I for friends. Our loaf and our 
 cup, and our hearts too, are all yours." 
 
 The little German had liked Anne : this pupil, and this 
 one only, had cheered the dull hours he had spent in the 
 little third-story room, where he, the piano, and the screen 
 had their cramped abode. Anne smiled as she gratefully 
 read his warm-hearted letter, his offer of his cup and his 
 loaf; she could hear him saying it his "gup" and his 
 "loave," and "two liddle girls for sgales, though moche 
 they will not bay." She had written to old Nora also, 
 and the answer (a niece acting as scribe) declared, with 
 Hibernian effusiveness, and a curious assemblage of neg 
 atives, that she would be glad to return to the half -house 
 on Jeanne- Armando s old terms, namely, her living, but 
 no wages. She did not add that, owing to rheumatism, 
 she was unable to obtain work where she was ; she left 
 Anne to find that out for herself. But even old Nora, 
 bandaged in red flannel, her gait reduced to a limp, was a 
 companion worth having when one is companionless. 
 During the interval, Anne had received several letters 
 from Miss Lois. Little Andre was better, but the doctors 
 advised that he should remain where he was through the 
 winter. Miss Lois wrote that she was willing to remain, 
 in the hope of benefit to the suffering boy, and how great 
 a concession this w^as from the careful housekeeper and 
 
 26 
 
4Q2 ANNE. 
 
 home-lover only Anne could know. (But she did not 
 know how close the child had grown to Miss Lois\s heart.) 
 This new plan would prevent their coming 1 to Weston at 
 present. Thankful now for what would have been, under 
 other circumstances, a great disappointment, Anne re 
 signed her position in the Weston school, and went away, 
 at the last suddenly, and evading all inquiries. Mrs. 
 Green was absent, the woman in temporary charge of the 
 lodgings was not curious, and the lonely young teacher 
 was able to carry out her design. She left Weston alone 
 in the cold dawn of a dark morning, her face turned east 
 ward. 
 
 It was a courageous journey ; only Herr Scheffel to rely 
 upon, and the great stony-hearted city to encounter in 
 the hard struggle for daily bread. Yet she felt that she 
 must not linger in Weston; and she felt, too, that she 
 must not add herself to Miss Lois s cares, but rather make 
 a strong effort to secure a new position as soon as pos 
 sible, in order to send money to Andre. She thought that 
 she would be safely hidden, at the half-house. Heathcote 
 knew that Jeanne- Armande was in Europe, and therefore 
 he would not think of her in connection with Lancaster, 
 but would suppose that she was still in Weston, or, if not 
 there, then at home on her Northern island. In addition, 
 one is never so well hidden as in the crowds of a large 
 city. But when she saw the spires, as the train swept 
 over the salt marshes, her heart began to beat: the blur 
 of roofs seemed so vast, and herself so small and alone ! 
 But she made the transit safely, and drove up to the door 
 of the half -house in the red wagon, with Li as driver, at 
 sunset. A figure was sitting on the steps outside, with a 
 large bundle at its feet ; it was Nora. Anne opened the 
 door with Jeanne- Armande s key, and they entered to 
 gether. 
 
 "Oh, wirra, wirra! Miss Douglas dear, and did ye 
 know she d taken out all the furrrniture ? Sure the ould 
 shell is impty." It was true, and drearily unexpected. 
 
 Jeanne- Armande, finding time to make a flying- visit to 
 her country residence the day before she sailed, had been 
 seized with the sudden suspicion that certain articles were 
 
ANNE. 403 
 
 missing 1 , notably a green wooden pail and a window-cur 
 tain. The young 1 priest, who had met her there by ap 
 pointment, and opened the door for her with his key (what 
 mazes of roundabout ways homeward, in order to divert 
 suspicion, Jeanne- Arm ande required of him that day!), 
 was of the opinion that she was mistaken. But no; 
 Jeanne- Armande was never mistaken. She knew just 
 where she had left that pail, and as for the pattern of the 
 flowers upon that curtain, she knew every petal. Haunt 
 ed by a vision of the abstraction of all her household 
 furniture, piece by piece, during her long absence tables, 
 chairs, pans, and candle - sticks following each other 
 through back windows, moved by invisible hands she 
 was seized with an inspiration on the spot : she would sell 
 off all her furniture by public sale that very hour, and 
 leave only an empty house behind her. She knew that 
 she was considered a mystery in the neighborhood ; pro 
 bably, then, people would come to a Mystery s sale, and 
 pay good prices for a Mystery s furniture. Of one thing 
 she was certain no buyer in that region knew how to 
 buy for prices as low as she herself had paid. Her meth 
 od of buying was genius. In five minutes a boy and a 
 bell were secured, in half an hour the whole neighborhood 
 had heard the announcement, and, as mademoiselle had 
 anticipated, flocked to the sale. She attended to all ne 
 gotiations in person, still in her role of a Mystery, and 
 sailed for Europe the next day in triumph, having in her 
 pocket nearly twice the sum she had originally expended. 
 She did not once think of Anne in connection with this. 
 Although she had given her authority to use the half- 
 house, and had intrusted to her care her own key, it seem 
 ed almost impossible that the young girl would wish to 
 use it. For was she not admirably established at Wes- 
 ton, with all the advantages of mademoiselle s own 
 name and position behind her ? 
 
 And thus it was that only bare walls met Anne s eyes 
 as, followed by Nora, she went from room to room, ask 
 ing herself silently what she should do in this new emer 
 gency that confronted her. One door they found locked ; 
 it was the door of the store-room: there must, then, be 
 
404 ANNE. 
 
 something within. Li was summoned to break the lock, 
 and nothing loath, he broke it so well that it was use 
 less from that hour. Yes, here was something- the un-. 
 sold articles, carefully placed in order. A chair, a kitch 
 en table, an iron tea-kettle with a hole in it, and two straw 
 beds the covers hanging on nails, and the straw tied in 
 bundles beneath ; there was also a collection of wooden 
 boxes, which mademoiselle had endeavored, but without 
 success, to dispose of as "old, superior, and well-seasoned 
 kindling-wood." It was a meagre supply of furniture 
 with which to begin housekeeping, a collection conspicu 
 ous for what it lacked. But Anne, summoning courage, 
 directed Li to carry down stairs all the articles, such as 
 they were, while she cheered old Nora with the promise to 
 buy whatever was necessary, and asked her to unpack 
 the few supplies she had herself purchased on her way 
 through the city. The kitchen stove was gone ; but 
 there was a fire-place, and Li made a bright fire with some 
 of the superior kindling-wood, mended the kettle, filled 
 it, and hung it over the crackling flame. The boy enjoy 
 ed it all greatly. He stuffed the cases with straw, and 
 dragged them down stairs, he brought down the chair 
 and table, and piled up boxes for a second seat, he pinned 
 up Anne s shawl for a curtain, and then volunteered to go 
 to the store for whatever was necessary, insisting, how 
 ever, upon the strict allowance of two spoons, two plates, 
 and two cups only. It was all like Robinson Crusoe and 
 The Swiss Family Robinson, and more than two .would 
 infringe upon the severe paucity required by those ad 
 mirable narratives. When he returned with his burden, 
 he affably offered to remain and take supper with them ; 
 in truth, it was difficult to leave such a fascinating scene 
 as two straw beds on the floor, and a kettle swinging 
 over a hearth fire, like a gypsy camp at least as Li im 
 agined it, for that essence of vagrant romanticism is ab 
 sent from American life, the so-called gypsies always turn 
 ing out impostors, with neither donkeys, tents, nor camp 
 fires, and instead of the ancient and mysterious language 
 described by Borrow, using generally the well-known and 
 unpoetical dialect that belongs to modern and American. 
 
ANNE. 405 
 
 ized Erin. At last, however, Li departed ; Anne fastened 
 the door. Old Nora was soon asleep 011 the straw, but not 
 her young 1 mistress, in whose mind figures, added togeth 
 er and set opposite each other, were inscribing themselves 
 like letters of fire on a black wall. She had not expect 
 ed any such outlay as would now be required, and the 
 money she had brought with her would not admit it. 
 At last, troubled and despairing, she rose from her hard 
 couch, went to the window, and looked out. Overhead 
 the stars were serenely shining; her mind went back to 
 the little window of her room in the old Agency. These 
 were the same stars ; God was the same God ; would He 
 not show her a way ? Quieted, she returned to her straw, 
 and soon fell asleep. 
 
 In the morning they had a gypsy breakfast. The sun 
 shone brightly, and even in the empty rooms the young 
 day looked hopeful. The mistress of the house went in 
 to the city on the morning train, and in spite of all lacks, 
 in spite of all her trouble and care, it was a beautiful 
 girl who entered the train at Lancaster station, and 
 caused for a moment the chronically tired business men 
 to forget their damp-smelling morning papers as they 
 looked at her. For Anne was constantly growing more 
 beautiful; nothing had had power as yet to arrest the 
 strong course of nature. Sorrow had but added a more 
 ripened charm, since now the old child-like openness 
 was gone, and in its place was a knowledge of the depth 
 and the richness and the pain of life, and a reticence. 
 The open page had been written upon, and turned down. 
 Riding on toward the city, she was, however, as uncon 
 scious of any observation she attracted as if she had been 
 a girl of marble. Hers was not one of those natures 
 which can follow at a time but one idea ; yet something 
 of the intensity which such natures have the nature of 
 all enthusiasts and partisans was hers, owing to the 
 strength of the few feelings which absorbed her. For 
 the thousand-and-oiie Changing interests, fancies, and im 
 pulses w r hich actuate most young girls there was in her 
 heart no room. It was not that she thought and imagined 
 less, but that she loved more. 
 
406 ANNE. 
 
 Herr Scheffel received her in his small parlor. It was 
 over the shop of a musical instrument maker, a German 
 also. Anne looked into his small show-window while 
 she was waiting for the street door to be opened, noted 
 the great brass tubes disposed diagonally, the accordions 
 in a rampart, the pavement of little music-boxes with 
 views of Switzerland on their lids, and the violins in 
 apotheosis above. Behind the inner glass she saw the in 
 strument maker himself dusting a tambourine. She im 
 agined him playing on it all alone on rainy evenings 
 for company, with the other instruments looking 011 in a 
 friendly w r ay. Here Herr Scheffel s cheery wife opened 
 the door, and upon learning the name, welcomed her 
 visitor heartily, and ushered her up the narrow stairway. 
 
 "How you haf zhanged!" said Herr Scheffel, lifting 
 his hands in astonishment as he met her at the entrance. 
 But not for the vorse, Fraulein. On the gontrary !" He 
 bowed gallantly, and brought forward his best arm-chair, 
 then bowed again, sat down opposite, folded his hands, 
 and was ready for business or pleasure, as she saw fit to 
 select. Anne had come to him hoping, but not expecting. 
 Fortune favored her, however; or rather, as usual, some 
 one had taken hold of Fortune, and forced her to extend 
 her favor, the some one in this instance being the little 
 music-master himself, who had not only bestowed two 
 of his own scholars as a beginning, but had also obtained 
 for her a trial place in a church choir. He now went 
 with her without delay to the residence of the little pu 
 pils, and arranged for the first lesson ; then he took her 
 to visit the contralto of the choir, whose good-will he had 
 already besought for the young stranger. The contralto 
 was a thin, disappointed little woman, with rather a bad 
 temper; but as she liked Anne s voice, and hated the or 
 ganist and tenor, she mentally organized an alliance of 
 fensive and defensive on the spot, contralto, soprano, and 
 basso against the other two, with possibilities as to the 
 rector thrown in. For, as the rector regularly attended 
 the rehearsals (under the mild delusion that he was di 
 recting the choir), the contralto hoped that the new so 
 prano s face, as well as voice, would draw him out of 
 
ANNE. 407 
 
 his guarded neutrality, and give to their side the balance 
 of power. So, being in a friendly mood, she went over 
 the anthems with Anne, and when the little rehearsal 
 was ended, Herr Scheffel took her thin hand, and bow 
 ed over it profoundly. Miss Pratt was a native of Maine, 
 and despised romance, yet she was not altogether dis 
 pleased with that bow. Sunday morning came; the new 
 voice conquered. Aiiiie was engaged to fill the vacant 
 place in the choir. Furniture was now purchased for the 
 empty little home, but very sparingly. It looked as 
 though it would be cold there in the winter. But win 
 ter was not yet come. 
 
 Slowly she gained other pupils; but still only little 
 girls "for the sgales," as Herr Scheffel said. The older 
 scholars for whom she had hoped did not as yet seek her. 
 But the little household lived. 
 
 In the mean while Pere Michaux on the island and Miss 
 Lois at the springs had both been taken by surprise by 
 Anne s sudden departure from Weston. They knew no 
 thing of it until she was safely in the half -house. But 
 poor Miss Lois, ever since the affair of Tita and East, had 
 cynically held that there was no accounting for anybody 
 or anything in this world, and she therefore remained si 
 lent. Pere Michau x divined that there was something be 
 hind; but as Anne offered no explanation, he asked 110 
 question. In truth, the old priest had a faith in her not 
 unlike that which had taken possession of Heathcote. 
 What was it that gave these two men of the world this 
 faith ? It was not her innocence alone, for many are in 
 nocent. It was her sincerity, combined with the pe 
 culiar intensity of feeling which lay beneath the surface 
 an intensity of w r hich she was herself unconscious, but 
 which their eyes could plainly perceive, and, for its great 
 rarity, admire, as the one perfect pearl is admired among 
 the thousands of its compeers by those who have know 
 ledge and experience enough to appreciate its flawless- 
 ness. But the majority have not this knowledge ; they 
 admire mere size, or a pear-like shape, or perhaps some 
 eccentricity of color. Thus the perfect one is guarded, 
 and the world is not reduced to despair. 
 
408 ANNE. 
 
 During these days in the city Anne had thought often 
 of Helen. Her engagements were all in another quarter, 
 distant from Miss Teller s residence ; she would not have 
 accepted pupils in that neighborhood. But it was not 
 probable that any would be offered to her in so fashion 
 able a locality. She did not allow herself even to ap 
 proach that part of the city, or to enter the streets lead 
 ing to it, yet many times she found herself longing to see 
 the house in spite of her determination, and thinking that 
 if she wore a thick veil, so that no one would recognize 
 her, there would be no danger, and she might catch a 
 glimpse of Miss Teller, or even of Helen. But she nev 
 er yielded to these longings. October passed into Novem 
 ber, and November into December, and she did not once 
 transgress her rules. 
 
 Early in December she obtained a new pupil, her first 
 in vocal music. She gave two lessons without any unu 
 sual occurrence, and then Of all the powers that make 
 or mar us, the most autocratic is Chance. Let not the 
 name of Fate be mentioned in its presence ; let Luck hide 
 its head. For Luck is but the man himself, and Fate 
 deals only with great questions ; but Chance attacks all 
 irrelevantly and at random. Though man avoids, ar 
 ranges, labors, and plans, one stroke from its wand de 
 stroys all. Anne had avoided, arranged, labored, and 
 planned, yet on her way to give the third lesson to this 
 new pupil she came suddenly upon Helen. 
 
 On the opposite side a carriage had stopped ; the foot 
 man opened the door, and a servant came from the house 
 to assist its occupant. Anne s eyes by chance were rest 
 ing upon the group. She saw a lady lifted to the pave 
 ment; then saw her slowly ascend the house steps, while 
 a maid followed with shawls and wraps. It was Helen. 
 Anne s eyes recognized her instantly. She was un 
 changed proud, graceful, and exquisitely attired as ever, 
 in spite of her slow step and need of assistance. Invol 
 untarily the girl opposite had paused; then, recovering 
 herself, she drew down her veil and walked on, her 
 heart beating rapidly, her breath coming in throbs. But 
 no one had noticed her. Helen was already within the 
 
"SAW HER SLOWLY ASCEND THE HOUSE STEPS. 
 
ANNE. 409 
 
 house, and the servant was closing the door ; then the foot 
 man came down the steps, sprang up to his place, and the 
 carriage rolled away. 
 
 She went 011 to her pupil s residence, and, quietly as 
 she could, asked, upon the first opportunity, her question. 
 
 "A lady who was assisted up the steps? Oh yes, I 
 know whom you mean; it is Mrs. Ward Heathcote," re 
 plied the girl-pupil. "Isn t she too lovely! Did you 
 see her face ?" 
 
 "Yes. Does she live in that house ?" 
 
 "I am delighted to say that she does. She used to 
 live with her aunt, Miss Teller, but it seems that she in 
 herited this old house over here from her grandfather, 
 who died not long ago, and she has taken a fancy to live 
 in it. Of course I think all her fancies are seraphic, and 
 principally this one, since it has brought her near us. I 
 look at her half the time ; just gaze and gaze !" Cora was 
 sixteen, and very pretty ; she talked in the dialect of her 
 age and set. Launched now on a favorite topic, she rush 
 ed on, while the teacher, with downcast eyes, listened, and 
 rolled and unrolled the sheet of music in her hands. Mrs. 
 Heathcote s beauty ; Mrs. Heathcote s wealth ; Mrs. 
 Heathcote s wonderful costumes; Mrs. Heathcote s ro 
 mantic marriage, after a fall from her carriage; Mrs. 
 Heathcote s husband, chivalrously in the army, with a 
 pair of eyes, Miss Douglas, which, I do assure you, are 
 well, murderously beautiful is not a word to express it! 
 Not that he cares. The most indifferent person ! Still, 
 if you could see them, you would know what I mean." 
 Cora told all that she knew, and more than she knew. 
 The two households had no acquaintance, Anne learned ; 
 the school-girl had obtained her information from other 
 sources. There would, then, be no danger of discovery 
 in that way. The silent listener could not help listening 
 while Cora said that Captain Heathcote had not returned 
 home since his first departure ; that he had been seriously 
 ill somewhere in the West, but having recovered, had im 
 mediately returned to his regiment without coming home 
 on furlough, as others always did, after an illness, or even 
 the pretense of one, which conduct Cora considered so 
 
410 ANNE. 
 
 "perfectly grand" that she wondered "the papers" did 
 not blazon it aloft. " At last even the school-girl s volu 
 bility and adjectives were exhausted, and the monologue 
 came to an end. Then the teacher gave her lesson, and 
 the words she had heard sounded in her ears like the roar 
 of the sea in a storm it seemed as though she must be 
 speaking loudly in order to drown it. But her pupil no 
 ticed nothing, save that Miss Douglas was more quiet than 
 usual, and perhaps more pale. When she went away, she 
 turned eastward, in order not to pass the house a second 
 time the house that held Helen. But she need not have 
 taken the precaution; hers was not a figure upon which 
 the eyes of Mrs. Heathcote would be likely to dwell. In 
 the city, unfashionable attire is like the ring of Gyges, it 
 renders the wearer, if not invisible, at least unseen. 
 
 That night she could not sleep ; she could do nothing 
 but think of Helen, Helen, her once dearly loved friend 
 Helen, his wife. She knew that she must give up this 
 new danger, and she knew also that she loved the danger 
 these chances of a glimpse of Helen, Helen s home, and 
 yes, it might be, at some future time, Helen s husband. 
 But she conquered herself again. In the morning she 
 wrote a note to Cora s mother, saying that she found her 
 self unable to continue the lessons ; as Cora had the man 
 uscript music-books which Dr. Douglas had himself pre 
 pared for his daughter when she was a little girl on the 
 island, she added that she would come for them on Mon 
 day, and at the same time take leave of her pupil, from 
 whom she parted with regret. 
 
 Saturday and Sunday now intervened. At the choir 
 rehearsal on Saturday a foreboding came over her; oc 
 cult malign influences seemed hovering in the air. The 
 tenor and organist, the opposition party, were ominous 
 ly affable. In this church there was, as in many anoth 
 er, an anomalous "music committee," composed appar 
 ently of vestrymen, but in reality of vestrymen s wives. 
 These wives, spurred on secretly by the tenor and organ 
 ist, had decided that Miss Douglas was not the kind of so 
 prano they wished to have. She came into the city by 
 train 011 the Sabbath day ; she was dressed so plainly and 
 
ANNE. 411 
 
 imfashioiiably that it betokened a want of proper respect 
 for the coiig regatioii ; in addition, and in spite of this 
 plain attire, there was something 1 about her which made 
 "the gentlemen turn and look at her. This last was 
 the fatal accusation. Poor Anne could not have dis 
 proved these charges, even if she had known what they 
 were; but she did not. Her foreboding of trouble had 
 not been at fault however, for on Monday morning came 
 a formal note of dismissal, worded with careful polite 
 ness ; her services would not be required after the follow 
 ing Sunday. It was a hard blow. But the vestrymen s 
 wives preferred the other candidate (friend of the organist 
 and tenor), who lived with her mother in the city, and 
 patronized no Sunday trains ; whose garments were nicely 
 adjusted to the requirements of the position, following the 
 fashions carefully indeed, but at a distance, and with 
 chastened salaried humility as well ; who sang correctly, 
 but with none of that fervor which the vestrymen s wives 
 considered so "out of place in a church" ; and whose face 
 certainly had none of those outlines and hues which so 
 reprehensibly attracted "the attention of the gentle 
 men." And thus Anne was dismissed. 
 
 It was a bitterly cold morning. The scantily furnish 
 ed rooms of the half -house looked dreary and blank; old 
 Nora, groaning with rheumatism, sat drawn up beside the 
 kitchen stove. Anne, who had one French lesson to give, 
 and the farewell visit to make at the residence of Mrs. 
 Iverson, Cora s mother, went in to the city. She gave 
 the lesson, and then walked down to the Scheffels lodg 
 ing to bear the dark tidings of her dismissal. The musical 
 instrument maker s window was frosted nearly to the top ; 
 but he had made a round hole inside with a hot penny, 
 and he was looking through it when Anne rang the street 
 bell. It was startling to see a human eye so near, iso 
 lated by the frost-work an eye and nothing more; but 
 she was glad he could amuse himself even after that 
 solitary fashion. Heir Scheff el had not returned from his 
 round of lessons. Anne waited some time in the small 
 warm crowded room, where growing plants, canary- 
 birds, little plaster busts of the great musicians, the piano, 
 
412 ANNE. 
 
 and the stove crowded each other cheerfully, but he did 
 not come. Mrs. Scheffel urged her to remain all night. 
 1 It ees zo beetter cold. " But Anne took leave, promising 
 to come again on the morrow. It was after four o clock, 
 and darkness was not far distant; the piercing wind 
 swept through the streets, blowing the flinty dust before 
 it; the ground was frozen hard as steel. She made her 
 farewell visit at Mrs. Iverson s, took her music-books, and 
 said good-by, facing the effusive regrets of Cora as well 
 as she could, and trying not to think how the money 
 thus relinquished would be doubly needed now. Then 
 she went forth into the darkening street, the door of the 
 w r arm, brightly lighted home closing behind her like a 
 knell. She had chosen twilight purposely for this last 
 visit, in order that she might neither see nor be seen. She 
 shivered now as the wind struck her, clasped the heavy 
 books with one arm, and turned westward on her way 
 to the railway station. It seemed to her that the city 
 held that night no girl so desolate as herself. 
 
 As she was passing the street lamp at the first corner, 
 some one stopped suddenly. Good heavens ! Miss 
 Douglas Anne is that you ?" said a voice. She looked 
 up. It was Gregory Dexter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 "Loke who that. . . .most intendeth ay 
 To do the generous deedes that he an, 
 And take him for the greatest gentleman." 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 "ANNE ! Is it you ?" repeated Dexter. 
 
 "Yes," she replied, having seen that it was impossible 
 to escape, since he was standing directly in her path. 
 Then she tried to smile. "I should not have thought 
 you would have known me in this twilight." 
 
 "I believe I should know you anywhere, even in total 
 darkness. But where are you going ? I will accompany 
 you." 
 
 "I am on my way to X station, to take a train." 
 
ANNE. 413 
 
 * Let me carry those books for you. X station ? That 
 is at some distance ; would it not be better to have a car 
 riage ? Here, boy, run and call a carriage. There will 
 be a half-dollar for you if you make haste." 
 
 He was the same as ever, prompt, kind, and disposed 
 to have his own way. But Anne, who on another occa 
 sion might have objected, now stood beside him unop- 
 posing. She ii as weary, cold, and disheartened, and she 
 u-as glad he was there. He had made her take his arm 
 immediately, and even that small support was comfort 
 ing. The carriage came, they rolled away, Anne lean 
 ing back against the cushions, and breathing in the grate 
 ful sense of being cared for and protected, taken from 
 the desolate and darkening streets which otherwise she 
 must have traversed alone. 
 
 "I only arrived in town to-day," Dexter was saying; 
 "and, on my way to a friend s house where I am to dine, 
 I intended calling upon Mrs. Heathcote. I was going 
 there when I met you. I should have inquired about 
 you immediately, for I have but just seen the account of 
 the disposal of Miss Vanhorn s estate, and was thinking 
 of you. I supposed, Miss Douglas, that you were to be her 
 heir." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "She certainly allowed me to suppose so." 
 
 " I do not think she ever had any such intention," re 
 plied Anne. 
 
 "You are living near the city ?" 
 
 "Yes; at Lancaster. I give lessons in town." 
 
 And you come in and out on these freezing days, and 
 walk to and from the station ? lf 
 
 " It is not always so cold." 
 
 "Very well ; I am going as far as Lancaster with you," 
 said Dexter. "I hope I shall be welcome." 
 
 " Mr. Dexter, please do not." 
 
 But he simply smiled and threw back his head in his 
 old dictatorial way, helped her from the carriage, bought 
 tickets, secured for her the best seat in the car, and took 
 his place beside her ; it seemed to Anne that but a few min 
 utes had passed when they heard "Lancaster, "and step- 
 
414 AiNNE. 
 
 ping out on the little platform, found the faithful Li in 
 waiting, his comforter tied over his ears, and jumping up 
 and down to keep himself warm. Anne had not ordered 
 the red wagon, and he was not therefore allowed to bring 
 it out ; but the little freckled knight-errant had brought 
 himself instead as faithful escort homeward. 
 
 " Is there no carriage here, or any sort of a vehicle ?" 
 said Dexter, in his quick, authoritative way. "Boy, 
 bring a carriage." 
 
 "There ain t none; but you can have the red wagon. 
 Horse good, and wagon first-rate. It 11 be a dollar," 
 answered Li. 
 
 "Go and get it, then." 
 
 The boy was gone like a dart, and in less time than 
 any one else would have taken, he was back with the 
 wagon, and Mr. Dexter (in spite of her remonstrance) was 
 accompanying Anne homeward in the icy darkness. 
 "But you will lose the return train," she said. 
 
 "I intend to lose it." 
 
 When they stopped at the gate, no light was visible ; 
 Anne knocked, but crippled old Nora was long in com 
 ing. When she did open the door, it was a room nearly 
 as cold as the air outside into which the guest was usher 
 ed. As Li was obliged to return with the horse, his will 
 ing hands were absent, and the young mistress of the 
 house went out herself, brought in candles and kindling- 
 wood, and was stooping to light the fire, when Dexter 
 took the wood from her, led her to a chair, seated her des 
 potically, and made the fire himself. Then, standing be 
 fore it, he looked all round the room, slowly and mark 
 edly and in silence ; afterward his eyes came back to her. 
 "So this is where you live all the home you have !" 
 
 "It is but a temporary home. Some day I hope to 
 go back to the island, "replied Anne. 
 
 When you have, by teaching, made money enough to 
 live upon, I suppose. It looks like it here," he said, with 
 sarcastic emphasis. 
 
 "It has not been so cold before," answered Anne. 
 "The house has an empty look, I acknowledge; that is 
 because I supposed it was furnished ; but finding it bare, 
 
ANNS. 415 
 
 I decided to purchase only necessary articles. "What is 
 the use of buying- much for a temporary home ?" 
 
 " Of course. So much better to do without, especially 
 in this weather!" 
 
 "I assure you we have not been uncomfortable until, 
 perhaps, to-night." 
 
 May I ask the amount, Miss Douglas, of your present 
 income ?" 
 
 " I do not think you ought to ask," said the poverty- 
 stricken young mistress, bravely. 
 
 But I do ask. And you will answer. " 
 
 "It has been, although not large, sufficient for our 
 needs," replied Anne, who, in spite of her desire to hide 
 the truth from him, was yet unable to put the statement 
 into the present tense ; but she hoped that he would not 
 notice it. 
 
 On the contrary, however, Dexter answered instantly : 
 1 Has been ? Then it is not now ?" 
 
 "I have recently lost my place in a church choir; 
 but I hope soon to obtain another position." 
 
 And in the mean time you live on hope ? Forgive 
 me if I seem inquisitive and even harsh, Miss Douglas; 
 but you do not realize how all this impresses me. The 
 last time I saw you you were richly dressed, a favorite 
 in a luxurious circle, the reputed heiress of a large for 
 tune. Little more than a year passes, and I meet you 
 in the street at twilight, alone and desolate; I come to 
 your home, and find it cold and empty ; I look at you, 
 and note your dress. You can offer me nothing, hardly 
 a fire. It hurts me, Anne hurts me deeply to think 
 that all this time I have had every luxury, while you 
 have suffered." 
 
 "No, not suffered," she replied. But her voice trem 
 bled. This strong assertive kindness touched her lonely 
 heart keenly. 
 
 "Then if you have not suffered as yet and I am 
 thankful to hear you say it you will suffer ; or rather 
 you might have suffered if I had not met you in time. 
 But never again, Anne never again. Why, my child, 
 do you not remember that I begged you to be my wife 2 
 
416 ANNE. 
 
 Shall she who, if she had willed it, would now have been 
 so near and dear to me, be left to encounter toil and pri 
 vation, while /have abundance ? Never, Anne never !" 
 
 He left his place, took her hand, and held it in his 
 warm grasp. There was nothing save friendly earnest 
 ness in his eyes as they met her upward look, and seeing 
 this, she felt herself leaning as it were in spirit upon 
 him: she had indeed need of aid. He smiled, and com 
 prehended all without another word. 
 
 "I must go on the ten-o clock train, "he said, cheer 
 fully, coming back to daily life again. And before I 
 go, in some way or another, that good Irish goblin of 
 yours must manufacture a supper for me; from appear 
 ances, I should say she had only to wave her broom 
 stick. When I met you I was 011 my way to dine with 
 some friends. What their estimation of me is at this mo 
 ment I am afraid to think ; but that does not make me 
 any the less hungry. With your permission, therefore, 
 I will take off this heavy overcoat, and dine here." As 
 he spoke he removed his large shaggy overcoat a hand 
 some f ur-liiied Canadian garment, suited to his strong fig 
 ure and the bitter weather, appearing in evening dress, 
 with a little spray of fern in his button-hole. "Now," he 
 said, I am going out to plead with the goblin in person." 
 
 "I will go," said Anne, laughing, won from her de 
 pression by his buoyant manner. 
 
 " On the contrary, you will stay; and not only that, 
 but seated precisely where I placed you. I will en 
 counter the goblin alone." He opened the door, went 
 through, and closed it behind him. Soon Anne heard the 
 sound of laughter in the kitchen, not only old Nora s 
 hearty Irish mirth, but Li s shriller voice added to it. 
 For the faithful Li had hastened back, after the old horse 
 was housed, in order to be in readiness if Miss Douglas, 
 owing to her unexpected visitor, required anything. 
 What Dexter said and did in that bare, dimly lighted 
 kitchen that night was never known, save from results. 
 But certainly he inspired both Nora, Li, and the stove. 
 He returned to the parlor, made up the fire with so much 
 skill that it shone out brightly, and then sat down, allow- 
 
ANNE. 417 
 
 ing Anne to do nothing save lean back in the low chair, 
 which he had cushioned for her with his shaggy coat. 
 Before long Li came in, first with four lighted candles in 
 new candlesticks, which he disposed about the room ac 
 cording to his taste, and then, later, with table-cloth and 
 plates for the diniiig-table. The boy s face glowed with 
 glee and exercise ; he had already been to the store twice 
 011 a run, and returned loaded and breathless, but tri 
 umphant. After a while pleasant odors began to steal in 
 from the kitchen, underneath all the inspiring fragrance 
 of coffee. At last the door opened, and Nora herself hob 
 bled in, bringing a covered dish, and then a second, and 
 then a third, Li excitedly handing them to her from 
 the kitchen entrance. When her ambition was aroused, 
 the old Irishwoman was a good cook. It had been 
 aroused to-night by Dexter s largess, and the result was 
 an appetizing although nondescript repast, half dinner, 
 half high-tea. The room was now brightly illuminated ; 
 the fire-light danced on the bare floor. Dexter, standing 
 by the table, tall and commanding, his face full of friend 
 liness, seemed to Anne a personification of kindly aid 
 and strength. She no longer made any objection, but 
 obeyed him smilingly, even as to where she should sit, and 
 what she should eat. His sudden appearance, at the mo 
 ment of all others when everything seemed to have failed, 
 was comfort too penetrating to be resisted. And why 
 should it be resisted ? There was no suggestion in his 
 manner of a return to the old subject ; on the contrary, 
 he had himself spoken of it as a thing of the past. He 
 would not repeat his old request would not wish to re 
 peat it. 
 
 After the repast was over, and Nora and Li were joy 
 ously feasting in the kitchen, he drew his chair nearer to 
 hers, and said, "Now tell me about yourself, and what 
 your life has been since we parted." For up to this time, 
 after those few strong words in the beginning, he had 
 spoken only on general topics, or at least upon those 
 not closely connected with herself. 
 
 Anne, however, merely outlined her present life and 
 position, clearly, but without explanation. 
 
 27 
 
418 ANNE. 
 
 "And Mrs. Heathcote does not know you are here ?" 
 
 She does not know, and she must not know. I have 
 your promise, Mr. Dexter, to reveal nothing." 
 
 " You have my promise, and I will keep it. Still, I do 
 not comprehend 
 
 " It is not possible that you should comprehend. And 
 in addition to keeping my secret, Mr. Dexter, you must 
 tell me nothing of her, or of any of the people who were 
 at Caryl s." 
 
 " It is a great gulf fixed ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He looked at her in silence ; she was quiet and thought 
 ful, her gaze resting on the fire. After a while she said 
 again, "You will remember ?" 
 
 "Yes. I never had the talent of forgetting." 
 
 Soon afterward he went away, with Li as guide. As 
 he took her hand at parting, he said, Are you coming 
 in to the city to-morrow ?" 
 
 "Yes; I must see Herr Scheffel." 
 
 "Will you let me meet you somewhere ?" 
 
 After a moment s hesitation, she answered, "I would 
 rather not." 
 
 * As you please. But I shall come and see you on 
 Wednesday, then. Good-night. " He went out in the in 
 tense country darkness, preceded by Li, who had dis 
 posed his comforter about him in such a manner as to 
 look as much as possible like the shaggy overcoat, which, 
 in his eyes, was fit for the Czar of all the Russias in his 
 diamond crown. 
 
 The next day was even colder. Anne went in to the 
 city, gave one lesson, and then faced the bitter wind 
 on her way down to Herr Seheffel s lodgings. Her 
 heart was not so heavy, in spite of the cold, as it had 
 been the day before, since between that time and this she 
 had heard the cordial voice of a friend. 
 
 The musical instrument maker s window was entirely 
 frozen over, the frost was like a white curtain shutting- 
 him out from the world ; it was to be hoped that he found 
 comfort in playing on his tambourine within. This time 
 Herr Scheffel was, at home, and he had a hope concerning 
 
ANNE. 419 
 
 a place in another choir. Anne returned to Lancaster 
 cheered. As she walked homeward from the railway 
 station down the hard country road, darkness was fall 
 ing-, and she wondered why the faithful Li was not there 
 as usual to meet her. When she came within sight of 
 the half-house, it was blazing- with light ; from every win 
 dow radiance streamed, smoke ascended from the chim 
 neys, and she could see figures within moving about as if 
 at work. What could it mean ? She went up the steps, 
 opened the door, and entered. Was this her barren 
 home? 
 
 Workmen were putting the finishing touches to what 
 seemed to have been an afternoon s labor; Li, in a fever 
 of excitement, was directing everybody. Through the 
 open door Nora could be seen moving to and fro amid 
 barrels, boxes, and bags. The men had evidently re 
 ceived their orders, for as soon as the young mistress of 
 the house appeared they hastily concluded their labors, 
 and, taking their tools, vanished like so many genii of 
 the ring. Anne called them back, but they were already 
 far down the road. Li and Nora explained together that 
 the men and two wagon-loads of furniture had arrived 
 at the door of the half-house at two o clock, and that the 
 head workman, showing Mr. Dexter s card, had claimed 
 entrance and liberty to carry out his orders; he had a 
 rough plan of the rooms, sketched by Dexter, and was to 
 follow his directions. Li and Nora, already warm ad 
 herents, entered into the scheme with all their hearts, and 
 the result was that mademoiselle s little house was now 
 carpeted, and warmed, and filled from top to bottom. 
 The bare store-room was crowded, the cupboards garnish 
 ed ; there were easy - chairs, curtains, pictures, and even 
 flowers tea-roses in a vase. The furniture was perhaps 
 too massive, the carpets and curtains too costly for the 
 plain abode; Dexter always erred on the side of mag 
 nificence. His lavishness had been brought up at Caryl s 
 as a testimony against him, for it was a decided evidence 
 of newness. But on this gloomy freezing winter night 
 no one could have the heart to say that the rich fabrics 
 were not full of comfort both to the eye and touch, and 
 
420 ANNE. 
 
 Anne, sinking- into one of the easy-chairs, uncertain what 
 to do, was at least not at all uncertain as to the comfort 
 of the cushioned back ; it was luxurious. 
 
 Later, in her own room, she sat looking at the unex 
 pected gifts which faced her from all sides. What should 
 she do ? It was not right to force them upon her ; and 
 yet how like him was the lavish quick generosity ! In her 
 poverty the gift seemed enormous ; yet it was not. The 
 little home possessed few rooms, had seemed hardly more 
 than a toy house to the city workmen who had hastily 
 filled it. But to Anne it seemed magical. Books had 
 been bought for her also, the well-proved standard works 
 which Dexter always selected for his own reading. In 
 his busy life this American had not had time to study 
 the new writers; he was the one person left who still 
 quoted Addison. After looking at the books, Anne, open 
 ing the closet door by chance, saw a long cedar case upon 
 the floor ; it was locked, but the key was in an envelope 
 bearing her name. She opened the case ; a faint fra 
 grance floated out, as, from its wrappings, she drew forth 
 an India shawl, dark, rich, and costly enough for a duch 
 ess. There was a note inside the case from Dexter 
 a note hastily written in pencil : 
 
 "DEAR Miss DOUGLAS, I do not know whether this 
 is anything you can wear, but at least it is warm. On 
 the night I first met you you were shivering, and I have 
 thought of it ever since. Please accept the shawl, there 
 fore, and the other trifles, from your friend, Gr. D." 
 
 The trifles were furs sable. Here, as usual, Dexter 
 had selected the costly ; he knew no other way. And 
 thus surrounded by all the new luxury of the room, 
 with the shawl and the furs in her hands, Anne stood, an 
 image of perplexity. 
 
 The next day the giver came out. She received him 
 gravely. There was a look in her eyes which told him 
 that he had not won her approval. 
 
 Of course I do not intend to trouble you often with 
 visits," he said, as he gave his furred overcoat to Li. 
 
ANNE. 42i 
 
 "But one or two may be allowed, I think, from such 
 an old friend." 
 
 "And to such a desolate girl." 
 
 "Desolate no longer," he answered, choosing to ig 
 nore the reproach of the phrase. 
 
 He installed himself in one of the new arm-chairs 
 (looking, it must be confessed, much more comfortable 
 than before), and began to talk in a fluent general way, 
 approaching no topics that were personal. Meanwhile 
 old Nora, hearing from Li that the benefactor of the 
 household was present, appeared, strong in the new rich 
 ness of her store-room, at the door, and dropping a courte 
 sy, wished to know at what hour it would please him 
 to dine. She said "your honor"; she had almost said 
 ; your highness. " Her homage was so sincere that Anne 
 smiled, and Dexter laughed outright. 
 
 "You see I am expected to stay, whether you wish it 
 or not," he said. "Do let me; it shall be for the last 
 time." Then turning to Nora, he said, "At four." And 
 with another reverence, the old w^oman withdrew. 
 
 " It is a viciously disagreeable afternoon. You would 
 not, I think, have the heart to turn out even a dog," he 
 continued, leaning back at ease, and looking at his host 
 ess, his eyes shining with amusement: he w T as reading 
 her objections, and triumphing over them. Then, as he 
 saw her soberness deepen, he grew" grave immediately. 
 "I am staying to-day because I wish to talk with you, 
 Anne," he said. "I shall not come again. I know as 
 well as you do, of course, that you can not receive me 
 while you have no better chaperon than Nora." He 
 paused, looking at her downcast face. You do not like 
 what I have done ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "You have loaded me with too heavy an obligation." 
 
 "Any other reason ?" 
 
 "I can never repay you." 
 
 " In addition ?" 
 
 "It is not right that you should treat me as though I 
 were a child." 
 
422 ANNE. 
 
 " I knew you would object, and strongly; yet I hope 
 to bring- you over yet to my view of the case," said Dex 
 ter. "You say that I have placed you under too heavy 
 an obligation. But pray consider what a slight affair 
 the little gift seems to me. The house is very small; I 
 have spent but a few hundreds ; in all, with the exception 
 of the shawl and furs, not much over five. What is that 
 to an income like mine ? You say you can never repay 
 me. You repay me by accepting. It seems to me a noble 
 quality to accept, simply and generously accept ; and I 
 have believed that yours was a noble nature. Accept, 
 then, generously what it is such a pleasure to me to give. 
 On my own side, I say this : the woman Gregory Dexter 
 once asked to be his wife shall not suffer from want while 
 Gregory Dexter lives, and knows where to find her. This 
 has nothing to do with you; it is my side of the subject." 
 
 He spoke with much feeling. Anne looked at him. 
 Then she rose, and with quiet dignity gave him, as he 
 rose also, her hand. He understood the silent little action. 
 "You have answered my expectation," he said, and the 
 subject was at an end forever. 
 
 After dinner, in the twilight, he spoke again. "You 
 said, an hour or two ago, that I had treated you as 
 though you were a child. It is true; for you were a 
 child at Caryl s, and I remembered you as you were then. 
 But you are much changed ; looking at you now, it is im 
 possible that I should ever think of you in the same 
 way again." 
 
 She made no reply. 
 
 "Can you tell me nothing of yourself, of your person 
 al life since we parted ? Your engagement, for instance ?" 
 
 "It is ended. Mr. Pronando is married; he married 
 my sister. You did not see the notice ?" (Anne s 
 thoughts were back in the West Virginia farm-house 
 now with the folded slip of newspaper.) 
 
 No ; I was in the far West until April. I did not come 
 eastward until the war broke out. Then you are free, 
 Anne ? Do not be afraid to tell me ; I remember every 
 word you said in Miss Vanhorn s little red parlor, and 
 I shall not repeat my mistake. You are, then, free ?" 
 
ANNE. 423 
 
 "I can not answer you. 
 
 ." Then I will not ask ; it all belongs to the one subject, 
 I suppose. The only part intrusted to me the secret of 
 your being here I will religiously guard. As to your 
 present life you would rather let this Herr Scheff el con 
 tinue looking for a place for you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I will not interfere. But I shall write to you now 
 and then, and you must answer. If at the end of a 
 month you have not obtained this position you are hoping 
 for in a church choir, is it not ? you must let me know. 
 Will you promise ?" 
 
 " I promise." 
 
 "And bear in mind this : you shall never be left friend 
 less again while I am on earth to protect you." 
 
 But I have 110 right to 
 
 " Yes, you have; you have been more to me than you 
 know." Here he paused, and looked away as if debating 
 with himself. I have always intended that you should 
 know it some time," he continued; "perhaps this is as 
 good a time as any. Will you listen ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He settled himself anew in his chair, meditated a mo 
 ment, and then, with all his natural fluency, which no 
 thing could abate, with the self -absorption which men of 
 his temperament always show when speaking of them 
 selves, and yet with a certain guarded look at Anne too 
 all the while, as if curious to see how she would take his 
 words, he began : 
 
 You know what my life has been that is, general 
 ly. What I wish to tell you now is an inner phase. 
 When, at the beginning of middle age, at last I had gain 
 ed the wealth I always intended to have, I decided that I 
 would marry. I wished to have a home. Of course, 
 during all those toiling years, I had not been without 
 what are called love affairs, but I was far too intensely 
 absorbed in my own purposes to spend much time upon 
 them. Besides, I had preserved an ideal. 
 
 " I do not intend to conceal or deny that I am am 
 bitious ; I made a deliberate effort to gain admittance into 
 
424 ANNE. 
 
 what is called the best society in the Eastern cities, and 
 in a measure I succeeded. I enjoyed the life ; it was an 
 other world ; hut still, wherever I went it seemed to me 
 that the women were artificial. Beautiful, attractive, 
 women I could not help admiring-, but not like my ideal 
 of what my wife must be. They would never make for 
 me that home I coveted ; for while I stood ready to sur 
 round that home with luxury, in its centre I wanted, for 
 myself alone, a true and loving heart, a heart absorbed in 
 me. And then, while I knew that I wanted this, while I 
 still cherished my old ideal closely, what did I do ? I 
 began to love Rachel Bannert ! 
 
 "You look at me; you do not understand why I speak 
 in that tone. It is as well that you should not. I can 
 only say that I worshipped her. It was not her fault 
 that I began to love her, but it was her fault that I was 
 borne on so far ; for she made me believe that she loved 
 me ; she gave me the privileges of a lover. I never 
 doubted (how could I ?) that she would be my wife in 
 the end, although, for reasons of her own, she wished to 
 keep the engagement, for the time being, a secret. I sub 
 mitted, because I loved her. And then, when I was help 
 less, because I was so sure of her, she turned upon me 
 and cast me off. Like a worn-out glove ! 
 
 "Anne, I could not believe it. We were in the ra 
 vine ; she had strolled off in that direction, as though by 
 chance, and I had followed her. I asked her what she 
 meant: no doubt I looked like a dolt. She laughed in 
 my face. It seemed that she had only been amusing her 
 self ; that she had never had any intention of marrying me ; 
 a comedy of the summer. But no one laughs in my face 
 twice not even a woman. When, at last, I understood 
 her, my infatuation vanished ; and I said some words to 
 her that night which I think she will not soon forget. 
 Then I turned and left her. 
 
 Remember that this was no boy whose feelings she had 
 played with, whose respect she had forfeited ; it was a man, 
 and one who had expected to find in this Eastern society a 
 perfection of delicacy and refinement not elsewhere seen. 
 I scorned myself for having loved her, and for the mo 
 
ANNE. ^ 425 
 
 ment I scorned all women too. Then it was, Anne, that 
 the thought of you saved me. I said to myself that if 
 you would be my wife, I could be happy with your fresh 
 sincerity, and not sink into that unbelieving, disagreeable 
 cynicism which I had always despised in other men. Act 
 ing on the impulse, I asked you. 
 
 "I did not love you, save as all right-minded men love 
 and admire a sweet young girl; but I believed in you; 
 there was something about you that aroused trust and 
 confidence. Besides I tell you this frankly I thought 
 I should succeed. I certainly did not want to be re 
 pulsed twice in one day. I see now that I was misled 
 by Miss Vanhorn. But I did not see it then, and when 
 I spoke to you, I fully expected that you would answer 
 yes. 
 
 You answered no, Anne, but you still saved me. I 
 still believed in you. And more than ever after that 
 last interview. I went away from Caryl s early the next 
 morning, and two days later started for the West. I was 
 hurt through and through, angry with myself, disgusted 
 with life. I wanted to breathe again the freedom of the 
 border. Yet through it all your memory was with me as 
 that of one true, pure, steadfast woman-heart which com 
 pelled me to believe in goodness and steadfastness as pos 
 sibilities in Avomen, although I myself had been so blind 
 ly befooled. This is what you, although unconsciously, 
 have done for me : it is an inestimable service. 
 
 "I was not much moved from my disgust until some 
 thing occurred which swept me out of myself I mean 
 the breaking out of the war. I had not believed in its 
 possibility; but when the first gun was fired, I started 
 eastward at an hour s notice." Here Dexter rose, and 
 with folded arms walked to and fro across the floor. 
 "The class of people you met at Caryl s used to smile and 
 shrug their shoulders over what is called patriotism I 
 think they are smiling no longer." (Here Anne remem 
 bered "After that attack 011 Fort Sumter, it seemed to me 
 the only thing to do") " but" the tidings of that first gun 
 stirred something in my breast which is, I suppose, what 
 that word means. As soon as I reached Pennsylvania, 
 
426 ANNE. 
 
 I went up to the district where my mines are, gathered 
 together and equipped all the volunteers who would go. 
 I have been doing" similar work on a larger scale ever 
 since. I should long ago have been at the front in per 
 son were it not that the Governor requires my presence 
 at home, and I am well aware also that I am worth twen 
 ty times more in matters of organization than I should be 
 simply as one more man in the field." 
 
 This was true. Gregory Dexter s remarkable business 
 powers and energy, together with his wealth, force, and 
 lavish liberality, made him the strong arm of his State 
 throughout the entire war. 
 
 He asked for no comment upon his story; he had told 
 it briefly as a series of facts. But from it he hoped that 
 the listener would draw a feeling which would make her 
 rest content under his friendly aid. And he succeeded. 
 
 But before he went away she told him that while ac 
 cepting all the house contained, she would rather return 
 those of his gifts which had been personal to herself. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 I would rather do it, but I do not know how to ex 
 plain the feeling," she answered, frankly, although her 
 face was one bright blush. 
 
 " If you do not, I. do," said Dexter, smiling, and look 
 ing at her with the beginnings of a new interest in his 
 eyes. As you please, of course, althougft I did try to 
 buy a good shawl for you, Anne. Are you not very 
 poorly dressed ?" 
 
 "Plainly and inexpensively. Quite warmly, how 
 ever." 
 
 But what am I to do with the things ? I will tell 
 you what I shall do : I shall keep them just as they are, 
 in the cedar box. Perhaps some day you will accept 
 them." 
 
 She shook her head. But he only smiled back in 
 answer, and soon afterward he went away. 
 
 The next day she sent the cedar case to his city ad 
 dress. She wrote a note to accompany it, and then de 
 stroyed it. Why should she write ? All had been said. 
 
 Before the month was quite ended, Herr Scheffel sue* 
 
ANNE. 427 
 
 ceeded in obtaining for her a place in another church 
 choir. It was a small church, and the salary was not 
 large, but she was glad to accept it, and more than glad to 
 be able to write to Mr. Dexter that she had accepted it. 
 New pupils came with the new year ; she was again able 
 to send money to Miss Lois, for the household supplies, 
 so lavishly provided, were sufficient for the little family 
 throughout the winter. 
 
 In February, being again in New York, Dexter came 
 out to see her. It was a wild evening ; the wind whistled 
 round the house, and blew the hail and sleet against the 
 panes. Most persons would have remained in the city ; 
 but after one look at Dexter s face and figure, no one ever 
 spoke to him about the weather. Anne had received a 
 long letter from Jeanne- Armande ; she showed it to him. 
 Also one from Pere Michaux. " I feel now," she said, 
 almost as though you were my 
 
 " Please do not say father." 
 
 "Oh no." 
 
 " Brother, then ?" 
 
 "Hardly that." 
 
 "Uncle?" 
 
 "Perhaps; I never had an uncle. But, after all, it is 
 more like Here she stopped again. 
 
 " Guardian jj suggested Dexter; "they are always re 
 markable persons, at least in books. Never mind the 
 name, Anne; I am content to be simply your friend." 
 
 During the evening he made one allusion to the forbid 
 den subject. "You asked me to tell you nothing re 
 garding the people who were at Caryl s, but perhaps the 
 prohibition was not eternal. I spent an hour with Mrs. 
 Heathcote this afternoon (never fear; I kept your secret). 
 Would you not like to hear something of her ?" 
 
 Anne s face changed, but she did not swerve. "No; 
 tell me nothing, " she answered. And he obeyed her wish . 
 In a short time he took leave, and returned to the city. 
 During the remainder of the winter she did not see him 
 again. 
 
ANNE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " The fierce old fires of primitive ages are not dead yet, although we 
 pretend they are. Every now and then each man of us is confronted 
 by a gleam of the old wild light deep down in his own startled heart." 
 
 IN the middle of wild, snowy March there came a 
 strange week of beautiful days. On the Sunday of this 
 week Anne was in her place in the choir, as usual, some 
 time before the service began. 
 
 It was a compromise choir. The dispute between the 
 ideas of the rector and those of the congregation had been 
 ended by bringing the organ forward to the corner near 
 the chancel, and placing in front of it the singers seats, 
 ornamented with the proper devices: so much was done 
 for the rector. To balance this, and in deference to the 
 congregation, the old quartette of voices was retained, and 
 placed in these seats, which, plainly intended for ten or 
 twelve surpliced choristers, were all too long and broad 
 for the four persons who alone occupied them. The 
 singers sat in one, and kept their music-books in the 
 other, and objecting to the open publicity of their position 
 facing the congregation, they had demanded, and at last 
 succeeded in obtaining (to the despair of the rector), red 
 curtains, which, hanging from the high railing above, 
 modestly concealed them when they were seated, and 
 converted that corner of the church into something be 
 tween a booth in a fair and a circus tent. 
 
 Before the service began, while the people were coming 
 in, the contralto pushed aside a corner of the curtain as 
 usual, and peeped out. She then reported to Anne in a 
 whisper the course of events, as follows, Anne not caring 
 to hear, but quiescent : 
 
 "Loads of people to-day. Wonder why? Oh yes, I 
 remember now; the apostolic bishop s going to be here, 
 and preach about the Indians. Don t you love that man ? 
 I do ; and I wish I was an Indian myself. We ll have 
 
ANNE. 429 
 
 all the curtains put back for the sermon. More people 
 coming. I declare it s quite exciting. And I forgot gum- 
 drops on this day of all others, and shall probably be 
 hoarse as a crow, and spoil the duet ! I hope you won t 
 be raging. Oh, do look ! Here s such a swell ! A lady ; 
 Paris clothes from head to foot. And she s going to sit 
 up here near us too. Take a look ?" But Anne declined, 
 and the reporter went on. "She has the lightest hair 
 I ever saw. 1 wonder if it s bleached ? And she s as 
 slender as a paper-cutter." (The contralto was stout.) 
 But I can t deny that she s handsome, and her clothes 
 are stunning. They re right close to us now, and the 
 man s awfully handsome too, come to look at him her 
 husband, I suppose. A pair of brown eyes and such 
 heavy eyebrows ! They 
 
 But the soprano was curious at last, apparently, and 
 the contralto good-naturedly gave up her look-out corner. 
 Yes, there they were, Helen and Ward Heathcote, Mrs. 
 Heathcote and her husband, Captain Heathcote and his 
 wife. Very near her, and unconscious of her presence. 
 Hungrily, and for one long moment, she could not help 
 looking at them. As the light-tongued girl had said, 
 Helen looked very beautiful, more beautiful than ever, 
 Anne thought. She was clad in black velvet from head 
 to foot, and as the day was unexpectedly warm, she had 
 thrown aside her heavy mantle edged with fur, and her 
 slender form was visible, outlined in the clinging fabric. 
 Under the small black velvet bonnet with its single plume 
 her hair, in all its fine abundance, shone resplendent, 
 contrasting with the velvet s richness. One little deli 
 cately gloved hand held a prayer-book, and with the oth 
 er, as Anne looked, she motioned to her husband. He 
 drew nearer, and she spoke. In answer he sought in his 
 pockets, and drew forth a fan. She extended her hand 
 as if to take it, but he opened it himself, and began to fan 
 her quietly. The heat in the church was oppressive; 
 his wife was delicate; what more natural than that he 
 should do this ? Yet the gazer felt herself acutely mis 
 erable. She knew Helen so w^ell also that although to 
 the rest of the congregation the fair face preserved un- 
 
430 ANNE. 
 
 changed its proud immobility, Anne s eyes could read 
 at once the wife s happiness in her husband s attention. 
 
 She drew back. "I can not sing to-day, "she said, 
 hurriedly; "I am not well. Will you please make my 
 excuses to the others?" As she spoke she drew on her 
 gloves. (She had a fancy that she could not sing with 
 her hands gloved.) 
 
 "Why, what in the world began the contralto. 
 But you do look frightfully pale. Are you going to 
 faint ? Let me go with you." 
 
 " I shall not faint, but I must get to the open air as soon 
 as possible. Please stay and tell the others ; perhaps Miss 
 Freeborn will sing in my place." 
 
 Having succeeded in saying this, her white cheeks and 
 trembling hands witnesses for her, she went out through 
 the little choir door, which was concealed by the curtain, 
 and in another moment was in the street. The organist, 
 hidden in his oaken, cell, looked after her in surprise. 
 When the basso came in, with a flower in his mouth, he 
 took the flower out, and grew severely thoughtful over the 
 exigencies of the situation. After a few minutes of hur 
 ried discussion, the basso, who was also the leader, came 
 forth from the circus tent and made a majestic progress 
 to the rector s pew, where sat the lily-like Miss Freeborn, 
 the rector s daughter; and then, after another consulta 
 tion, she rose, and the two made a second majestic pro 
 gress back to the circus tent, the congregation mean 
 while looking on with much interest. When the tenor 
 came, a rather dissipated youth who had been up late the 
 night before, he was appalled by the presence of the lily- 
 like Miss Freeborn, and did not sing as well as usual, 
 Miss Freeborn, although lily-like, keeping him sternly to 
 his notes, and not allowing him any of those lingering lit 
 tle descents after the other singers have finished, upon 
 which he, like many tenors, relied for his principal effects. 
 
 Meanwhile Anne was walking rapidly down the street ; 
 a mile soon lay between her and the church, yet still she 
 hastened onward. She was in a fever, yet a chill as well. 
 Now she was warm with joy, now cold with grief. She 
 had seen him. Her eyes had rested upon his face at last, 
 
ANNE. 431 
 
 and he was safe, lie was well and strong again. Was 
 not this joy enough ? 
 
 And yet he was with Helen. And Helen loved him. 
 
 She had asked him to go back to Helen. He had gone 
 back. She had asked him to do his part in life bravely. 
 And he was doing it. Was not this what she wished ? 
 
 And yet was it so hard to go back to go back to beau 
 tiful Helen who loved him so deeply ? Did his part in 
 life require bravery ? Did he look as though it was a 
 sacrifice, a hardship ? And here she tried to recall how in 
 truth he had looked how, to the eyes of a stranger. He 
 was strong again and vigorous; but beyond that she 
 could think only of how he looked to her the face she 
 knew so well, the profile, the short crisp hair, the heavy 
 eyebrows and brown eyes. He was in citizen s dress; 
 only the bronzed skin and erect bearing betrayed the sol 
 dier. How he would have looked to a stranger she could 
 not tell ; she only knew, she only felt, how he looked to 
 her. "He is at home on furlough," she thought, with 
 gladness, realizing the great joy it was that he should be 
 safe when so many had been taken. And then, in her 
 memory, blotting out all gladness, rose again the picture 
 of the two figures, side by side, and she hurried onward, 
 she knew not whither. It was jealousy, plain, simple, 
 unconquerable jealousy, which was consuming her ; jea 
 lousy, terrible passion which the most refined and intel 
 lectual share with the poor Hottentots, from which the 
 Christian can not escape any more than the pagan ; jea 
 lousy, horrible companion of love, its guardian and tor 
 mentor. God help the jealous ! for they suff er the acutest 
 tortures the human mind can feel. And Anne was jea 
 lous. 
 
 If she had not admired Helen so deeply, and loved her 
 (save for this one barrier) so sincerely, she would not 
 have suffered as she was suffering. But to her Helen 
 had always been the fairest woman on earth, and even 
 now this feeling could not be changed. All Helen s 
 words came back to her, every syllable of her clear, quiet 
 ly but intensely uttered avowal ; and this man, whom she 
 had loved so deeply, was now her husband. 
 
432 ANNE. 
 
 It was nothing new. Why should she feel it, think of 
 it, in this way ? But she Avas no longer capable of think 
 ing or feeling reasonably. Of course he loved her. In 
 his mind she, Anne, was probably but a far-off remem 
 brance, even if a remembrance at all. Their meeting in 
 West Virginia had been a chance encounter ; its impulses, 
 therefore, had been chance impulses, its words chance 
 words, meaning nothing, already forgotten. She, Anne, 
 had taken them as great, and serious, and sincere; and 
 she, Anne, had been a fool. Her life had been built upon 
 this idea. It was a foundation of sand. 
 
 She walked on, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. 
 Where were now the resignation and self-sacrifice,, the 
 crowned patience and noble fortitude ? Ah, yes, but re 
 signation and fortitude were one thing when she had 
 thought that he required them also, another when they 
 were replaced in his life by happiness and content. It is 
 easy to be self-sacrificing when the one we love suffers in 
 companionship with us, and there is no rival. But when 
 there is a rival, self-sacrifice goes to the winds. "He 
 never loved me," was the burning cry of her heart. "1 
 have been a fool a poor self-absorbed, blinded fool. If 
 he thinks of me at all, it is with a smile over my simple 
 credulity." 
 
 Through miles of streets she wandered, and at last 
 found herself again in the quarter where the church stood. 
 A sudden desire seized her to look at him, at them, again. 
 If the service had been long, she would be in time to see 
 their carriage pass. She turned, and hastened toward 
 the church, as anxious now to reach it as she had been be 
 fore to leave it far behind. Now she could see the corner 
 and the porch. No, service was not ended ; carriages 
 were waiting without. She was in time. But as she 
 drew near, figures began to appear, coming from the 
 porch, and she took refuge under the steps of a house 
 opposite, her figure hidden in the shadow. 
 
 The congregation slowly made its dignified way into 
 the street. St. Lucien s had seldom held so large a 
 throng of worshippers. The little sexton hardly knew, 
 in his excitement, where he was, or what his duty, on such 
 
"ANNE, STILL AS A STATUE." 
 
ANNE. 433 
 
 a momentous occasion. At length they appeared, the 
 last of all ; only one carriage was left, and that was their 
 own. Slowly, leaning on her husband s arm, the slen 
 der fair-haired woman came forth ; and Anne, still as a 
 statue, watched with fixed, burning eyes while he threw 
 the velvet cloak round her as they reached the open air, 
 and fastened the clasp. Chance favored the gazer. Hel 
 en had left her prayer-book behind in the pew, and while 
 the sexton went back to look for it, husband and wife stood 
 waiting on the steps in the sunshine. Yes, Heathcote had 
 regained all his old vigor, but his expression was changed. 
 He was graver; in repose his face was stern. 
 
 It seemed as if Helen felt the fixed although unseen 
 gaze, for she shivered slightly, said something, and they 
 began to go down the steps, the wife supported by her 
 husband s arm as though she needed the assistance. The 
 footman held open the carriage door, but Helen paused. 
 Anne could see her slender foot, in its little winter boot, 
 put out, and then withdrawn, as though she felt herself 
 unable to take the step. Then her husband lifted her in 
 his arms and placed her in the carriage himself, took his 
 place beside her, and the man closed the door. In an 
 other minute the sexton had brought the prayer-book, 
 and the carriage rolled away. Anne came out from her 
 hiding-place. The vision was gone. 
 
 Again she walked at random through the streets, un 
 heeding where she was. She knew that she had broken 
 her compact with herself broken it utterly. Of what 
 avail now the long months during which she had not al 
 lowed herself to enter the street or the neighborhood 
 where Helen lived ? Of what avail that she had not al 
 lowed herself to listen to one word concerning them when 
 Mr. Dexter stood ready to tell all ? She had looked at 
 them looked at them voluntarily and long; had gone 
 back to the church door to look at them, to look again 
 at the face for a sight of which her whole heart hungered. 
 
 She had broken her vow. In addition, the mist over 
 her blind eyes was dissolved. He had never loved her; 
 it had been but a passing fancy. It was best so. Yet, oh, 
 how easy all the past now seemed, in spite of its loneliness, 
 
 28 
 
434 ANNE. 
 
 toil, and care ! For then she had believed that she was 
 loved. She began to realize that until this moment she 
 had never really given up her own will at all, but had 
 held on through all to this inward belief, which had made 
 her lonely life warm with its hidden secret light. She 
 had thought herself noble, and she had been but selfish ; 
 she had thought herself self-controlled, and she had been 
 following her own will ; she had thought herself humble, 
 and here she was, maddened by humiliated jealous pride. 
 At last, worn out with weariness, she went homeward 
 to the half-house as twilight fell. In the morning the 
 ground was white with snow again, and the tumultuous 
 winds of March were careering through the sky, whip 
 ping the sleet and hail before them as they flew along ; 
 the strange halcyon sunshine was gone, and a second win 
 ter upon them. And Anne felt that a winter such as she 
 had never known before was in her heart also. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 " eloquent and mightie Death ! thou hast drawn together all the 
 farre-stretched greatnesse, all the pride, crueltie, and ambition of men, 
 and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hie jacet 1" 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 A MONTH passed. Anne saw nothing more, heard no 
 thing more, but toiled on in her daily round. She 
 taught and sang. She answered Miss Lois s letters and 
 those of Pere Michaux. There was no longer any dan 
 ger in writing to Weston, and she smiled sadly as she 
 thought of the blind, self-important days when she had 
 believed otherwise. She now wrote to her friends there, 
 and letters came in return. Mrs. Barstow s pages were 
 filled with accounts of hospital work, for Donelson had 
 been followed by the great blood-shedding of Shiloh, and 
 the West was dotted with battle-fields. 
 
 She had allowed herself no newspapers, lest she should 
 come upon his name. But now she ordered one, and 
 read it daily. What was it to her even if she should 
 come upon his name ? She must learn to bear it, so long 
 
ANNE. 435 
 
 as they trod the same earth. And one day she did come 
 upon it; but it was merely the two-line announcement 
 that he had returned to the front. 
 
 The great city had grown used to the war. There were 
 few signs in its busy streets that a pall hung over the 
 borders of the South. The music teacher on her rounds 
 saw nothing save now and then the ranks of a regiment 
 passing through 011 its way to a train. Traffic went on 
 unchanged; pleasure was rampant as ever. The shrill 
 voice of the newsboy calling the details of the last battle 
 was often the only reminder of the dread reality. May 
 moved onward. The Sclieffels began to make those little 
 excursions into the country so dear to the German heart ; 
 but they could not persuade the honored Fraulein to ac 
 company them. For it was not the real country to which 
 they went, but only that suburban imitation of it which 
 thrives in the neighborhood of New York, and Anne s 
 heart was back on her island in the cool blue Northern 
 straits. Miss Lois was now at home again, and her letters 
 were like a breath of life to the homesick girl. Little 
 Andre was better, and Pere Michaux came often to the 
 church-house, and seemed glad to be with them again. 
 With them again ! If she could but be with them too ! 
 stand 011 the heights among the beckoning larches, walk 
 through the spicy aisles of the arbor vitae, sit under the 
 gray old pines, listening to the wash of the cool blue wa 
 ter below, at rest, afar, afar from all this weariness and 
 sadness and pain ! 
 
 During these days Stonewall Jackson was making one 
 of his brilliant campaigns in the Valley, the Valley of 
 Virginia, the beautiful valley of the Shenandoah. On 
 the last morning in May, while reading the Avar news, 
 Anne found in one corner a little list of dead. And 
 there, in small letters, which grew to great size, and in 
 scribed themselves on the walls of the room, one succeed 
 ing the other like a horrible dream, was the name, Ward 
 Heathcote. " Captain Ward Heathcote, New York. 
 Volunteers." She turned the sheet; it was repeated in 
 the latest news column, and again in a notice on the 
 local page. Captain Ward Heathcote, New York 
 
436 ANNE. 
 
 Volunteers, is reported among the slain," followed by 
 those brief items of birth, age, and general history which 
 appall our eyes when we first behold them on the printed 
 page, and realize that .they are now public property, since 
 they belong only to the dead. 
 
 It was early. She was at home in the half-house. 
 She rose, put on her bonnet and gloves, walked to the 
 station, took the first train to the city, and went to Helen. 
 
 She reached the house, and was denied entrance. Mrs. 
 Heathcote could see no one. 
 
 Was any one with her ? Miss Teller ? 
 
 Miss Teller, the man answered, was absent from the 
 city ; but a telegraphic dispatch had been sent, and she 
 was on her way home. There was no relative at present 
 with Mrs. Heathcote; friends she was not able to see. 
 And he looked with some curiosity at this plainly dress 
 ed young person, who stood there quite unconscious, ap 
 parently, of the atmosphere of his manner. And yet 
 Mr. Simpson had a very well regulated manner, founded 
 upon the best models a manner which had never here 
 tofore failed in its effect. With a preliminary cough, 
 he began to close the door. 
 
 "Wait," said this young person, almost as though she 
 had some authority. She drew forth a little note-book, 
 tore out a leaf, wrote a line upon it, and handed him 
 the improvised card. Please take this to Mrs. Heath 
 cote," she said. " I think she will see me." 
 
 See her see her when already members of the high 
 est circles of the city had been refused ! With a slight 
 smile of superior scorn, Simpson took the little slip, and 
 leaving the stranger on the steps, went within, partially 
 closing the door behind him. But in a few minutes he 
 hastily returned, and with him was a sedate middle-aged 
 woman, whom he called Mrs. Bagshot, and who, although 
 quiet in manner, seemed decidedly to outrank him. 
 
 "Will you come with me, if you please?" she said def 
 erentially, addressing Anne. Mrs. Heathcote would 
 like to see you without delay." She led the way with a 
 quiet unhurrying step up a broad stairway, and opened 
 a door. In the darkened room, on a couch, a white form 
 
ANNE. 43? 
 
 was lying. Bagshot withdrew, and Anne, crossing the 
 floor, sank down on her knees beside the couch. 
 
 "Helen!" she said, in a broken voice; "oh, Helen! 
 Helen!" 
 
 The white figure did not stir, save slowly to disengage 
 one hand and hold it out. But Anne, leaning forward, 
 tenderly lifted the slight form in her arms, and held it 
 close to her breast. 
 
 "I could not help coining," she said. " Poor Helen! 
 poor, poor Helen!" 
 
 She smoothed the fair hair away from the small face 
 that lay still and white upon her shoulder, and at that 
 moment she pitied the stricken wife so intensely that she 
 forgot the rival, or rather made herself one with her ; for 
 in death there is no rivalry, only a common grief. Helen 
 did not speak, but she moved closer to Anne, and Anne, 
 holding her in her arms, bent over her, soothing her with 
 loving words, as though she had been a little child. 
 
 The stranger remained with Mrs. Heathcote nearly two 
 hours. Then she went away, and Simpson, opening the 
 door for her, noticed that her veil w r as closely drawn, so 
 that her face was concealed. She went up the street 
 to the end of the block, turned the corner, and disappeared. 
 He was still standing on the steps, taking a breath of 
 fresh air, his portly person and solemn face expressing, 
 according to his idea, a dignified grief appropriate to 
 the occasion and the distinction of the family he served 
 a family wjiose bereavements even were above the level 
 of ordinary sorrows, when his attention was attracted by 
 the appearance of a boy in uniform, bearing in his hand 
 an orange-brow T ii envelope. In the possibilities of that 
 well-know T ii hue of hope and dread he forgot for the mo 
 ment even his occupation of arranging in his own mind 
 elegant formulas with which to answer the inquiries con 
 stantly made at the door of the bereaved mansion. The 
 boy ascended the steps ; Bagshot, up stairs, with her hand 
 on the knob of Mrs. Heathcote s door, saw him, and 
 came down. The dispatch was for her mistress ; she car 
 ried it to her. The next instant a cry rang through the 
 house. Captain Heathcote was safe. 
 
438 ANNE. 
 
 The message was as follows : 
 
 To Mrs. Ward Heathcote : 
 
 My name given in list a mistake. Am here, wounded, 
 but not dangerously. Will write. W. H. 
 
 " 
 
 It was sent from Harper s Ferry. And two hours later, 
 Mrs. Heathcote, accompanied by Bagshot, was on her 
 way to Harper s Ferry. 
 
 It was a wild journey. If any man had possessed 
 authority over Helen, she would never have been allowed 
 to make it ; but no man did possess authority. Mrs. 
 Heathcote, having money, courage, and a will of steel, 
 asked advice from no one, did not even wait for Miss 
 Teller, but departed according to a swift purpose of her 
 own, accompanied only by Bagshot, who was, however, 
 an efficient person, self-possessed, calm, and accustomed 
 to travelling. It was uncertain whether they would Be 
 able to reach Harper s Ferry, but this uncertainty did 
 not deter Helen: she would go as far as she could. In 
 her heart she was not without hope that Mrs. Heathcote 
 could relax the rules and military lines of even the strict 
 est general in the service. As to personal fear, she had 
 none. 
 
 At Baltimore she was obliged to wait for an answer 
 to the dispatch she had sent on starting, and the answer 
 was long in coming. To pass away the time, she order 
 ed a carriage and drove about the city ; many persons no 
 ticed her, and remembered her fair, delicate, and impa 
 tient face, framed in its pale hair. At last the answer 
 came. Captain Heathcote was no longer at Harper s 
 Ferry; he had been sent a short distance northward to a 
 town where there was a better hospital, and Mrs. Heath 
 cote was advised to go round by the way of Harrisburg, 
 a route easier and safer, if not in the end -more direct as 
 well. 
 
 She followed this advice, although against her will. 
 She travelled northward to Harrisburg, and then made a 
 broad curve, and came southward again, within sight of 
 the green hills later to be brought into unexpected and 
 
ANNE. 439 
 
 long-enduring fame the hills around Gettysburg. But 
 now the whole region was fair with summer, smiling and 
 peaceful; the farmers were at work, and the grain was 
 growing. After some delays she reached the little town, 
 with its barrack-like, white-washed hospital, where her 
 husband was installed under treatment for a wound in 
 his right arm, which, at first appearing serious, had now 
 begun to improve so rapidly that the surgeon in charge 
 decided that he could soon travel northward, and receive 
 what further care he needed among the comforts of his 
 own home. 
 
 At the end of five days, therefore, they started, attend 
 ed only by Bagshot, that useful woman possessing, in 
 addition to her other qualifications, both skill and ex 
 perience as a nurse. 
 
 They started ; but the journey was soon ended. On 
 the llth of June the world of New York was startled, 
 its upper circles hotly excited, and one obscure young 
 teacher in a little suburban home paralyzed, by the great 
 headings in the morning newspapers. Mrs. Heathcote, 
 wife of Captain Ward Heathcote, New York Volun 
 teers, while on her way homeward with her husband, 
 who was wounded in the Shenandoah Valley, had been 
 found murdered in her room in the country inn at Tim- 
 loesville, where they were passing the night. And the 
 evidence pointed so strongly toward Captain Heathcote 
 that he had been arrested upon suspicion. 
 
 The city journals appended to this brief dispatch what 
 ever details they knew regarding the personal history 
 of the suspected man and his victim. Helen s beauty, the 
 high position of both in society, and their large circle of 
 friends were spoken of; and in one account the wife s 
 wealth, left by will unconditionally to her husband, was 
 significantly mentioned. One of the larger journals, 
 with the terrible and pitiless impartiality of the great 
 city dailies, added that if there had been a plan, some 
 part of it had signally failed. " A. man of the ability of 
 Captain Heathcote would never have been caught other 
 wise in a web of circumstantial evidence so close that 
 it convinced even the pastoral minds of the Timloesville 
 
440 ANNE. 
 
 officials. We do not wish, of course, to prejudge this 
 case; but from the half -accounts which have reached us, 
 it looks as though this blunder, whatever it may have 
 been, was but another proof of the eternal verity of the 
 old saying, Murder will out." 
 
 It was the journal containing this sentence which Anne 
 read. She had heard the news of Heathcote s safety a 
 few hours after her visit to Helen. Only a few days had 
 passed, and now her eyes were staring at the horrible 
 words that Helen was dead, and that her murderer was 
 her own husband. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 "All her bright hair streaming down, 
 And all the coverlid was cloth of gold 
 Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white 
 All but her face, and that clear-featured face 
 Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, 
 But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled." 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE NEW YORK " MARS." 
 
 "THE following details in relation to the terrible crime 
 with whose main facts our readers are familiar will be 
 of interest at the moment. They were collected by our 
 special reporter, sent in person to the scene of the tragedy, 
 for the purpose of gathering reliable information concern 
 ing this case, which promises to be one of the causes cele- 
 bres of the country, not only on account of the high po 
 sition and wealth of the parties concerned, but also 011 ac 
 count of the close net of purely circumstantial evidence 
 which surrounds the accused man . 
 
 is a small village on the border-line between Pennsyl 
 vania and Maryland. Legally in Pennsylvania, it pos 
 sesses personally the characteristics of a Maryland village,, 
 some of its outlying fields being fairly over the border. 
 It is credited with about two thousand inhabitants , but 
 
ANNE. 441 
 
 the present observer did not see, during his stay, more 
 than about one thousand, including women and children. 
 Timloesville is 011 a branch railway, which connects 
 with the main line at a junction about thirty miles dis 
 tant. It possesses two churches and a saw-mill, and was 
 named from a highly esteemed early settler (who may 
 perhaps have marched with our great Washington), 
 Judge Jeremiah Timloe. The agricultural products of 
 the surrounding country are principally hay and maize 
 wrongly called corn. The intelligence and morality 
 of the community are generally understood to be of a high 
 order. A low fever prevails here in the spring. 
 
 TIMLOE HOTEL. 
 
 "At the southern edge of the town, on the line of the 
 railway, stands the Tirnloe Hotel, presenting an imposing 
 fagade to the passengers on the trains as they roll by. It 
 is presided over in a highly liberal and gentlemanly man 
 ner by Mr. Casper Graub; it is, in fact, to the genial 
 courtesy of mine host that much of this information is 
 due, and we take this occasion also to state that during 
 all the confusion and excitement necessarily accruing to 
 his house during the present week, the high standard of 
 Mr. Graub s table has never once been relaxed. 
 
 "MR, GRAUB S STORY. 
 
 "An army officer, with his right arm in a sling, arrived 
 at the Timloe Hotel, accompanied by his wife, and a maid 
 or nurse named Bagshot, on the evening of June 10, at 
 six o clock precisely. The officer registered the names 
 as follows : 4 Ward Heathcote, Mrs. Heathcote and maid, 
 New York. He wrote the names with his left hand. A 
 room was assigned to them in the front part of the house, 
 but upon the lady s objecting to the proximity of the 
 trains (generally considered, however, by the majority of 
 Mr. Graub s guests, an enjoyable variety), another apart 
 ment in a wing w r as given to them, with windows open 
 ing upon the garden. The wing is shaped like an L. 
 The maid, Bagshot, had a room in the bend of the L, she 
 too having objected, although later, to the room first asr 
 
442 ANNE. 
 
 signed to her. At half past six o clock they had supper; 
 the lady then retired to her room, but the husband went 
 out, as he said, to stroll about the town. At half past 
 eight he returned. At nine, Bagshot, having been dis 
 missed for the night, went to her own room ; when she 
 left, Captain Heathcote was reading a newspaper, and his 
 wife was writing. It has since been ascertained that this 
 newspaper was the Baltimore Chronos of the 9th inst. 
 At ten o clock exactly Captain Heathcote came down 
 stairs a second time, passed through the office, and stopped 
 to light a cigar. Mr. Graub noticed that he was able to 
 use his left hand quite cleverly, and asked him whether 
 he was naturally left-handed ; Captain Heathcote answer 
 ed that he was not, but had learned the use only since 
 his right arm had been disabled. Mr. Graub, seeing him 
 go toward the door, thought that it was somewhat singu 
 lar that he should wish to take a second walk, and casu 
 ally remarked upon the warmth of the evening. Cap 
 tain Heathcote replied that it was for that very reason he 
 was going out ; he could not breathe in the house ; and 
 he added something not very complimentary to the air 
 (generally considered unusually salubrious) of Timloes- 
 ville. Mr. Graub noticed that he walked up and down 
 on the piazza once or twice, as if he wished to show him 
 self plainly to the persons who were sitting there. He 
 then strolled away, going toward the main street. 
 
 * THE OUTSIDE STAIRWAY. 
 
 " As before mentioned, the second room given to Mrs. 
 Heathcote was in a wing. This wing is not much used ; 
 in fact, at the time, save this party of three, it had no 
 occupants. It is in the old part of the house. A piazza 
 or gallery runs across a portion of the second story, to 
 which access is had from the garden by a flight of wood 
 en steps, or rather an outside stairway. This stairway is 
 old and sagged ; in places the railing is gone. It is pro 
 bable that Mrs. Heathcote did not even see it. But Cap 
 tain Heathcote might have noticed it, and probably did 
 notice it, from the next street, through which he passed 
 when he took his first walk before dark. 
 
ANNE. 443 
 
 "MRS. BAGSHOT S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " As we have seen, Captain Heathcote left the hotel os 
 tentatiously by the front entrance at ten o clock. At 
 eleven, Mrs. Bagshot, who happened to be looking from 
 her window in the bend of the L, distinctly saw him (her 
 candle being out) stealing up by the outside stairway 
 in the only minute of moonlight there was during the 
 entire evening, the clouds having suddenly and strangely 
 parted, as if for that very purpose. She saw him enter 
 his wife s room through one of the long windows which 
 opened to the floor. In about a quarter of an hour she 
 saw him come forth again, close the blind behind him, 
 and begin to descend the stairway. As there was no 
 longer any moonlight, she could only distinguish him by 
 the light that shone from the room; but in that short 
 space of time, while he was closing the blind, she re 
 cognized him beyond the possibility of a doubt. 
 
 "THE NIGHT PORTER S TALE. 
 
 "A little before midnight, all the hotel entrances being 
 closed save the main door, Captain Heathcote returned. 
 As he passed through the office, the night porter noticed 
 that he looked pale, and that his clothes were disordered ; 
 his shirt cuffs especially were wet and creased, as though 
 they had been dipped in water. He went up stairs to his 
 room, but soon came down again. He had knocked, but 
 could not awaken his wife. Would the porter be able 
 to open the door by turning back the key ? His wife was 
 an invalid ; he feared she had fainted. 
 
 "THE TRAGEDY. 
 
 "The night porter a most respectable person of Irish 
 extraction, named Dennis Haggerty came up and open 
 ed the door. The lamp was burning Avithin ; the blinds 
 of the window were closed. On the bed, stabbed to the 
 heart, apparently while she lay asleep, was the body of 
 the wife. 
 
444 ANNE. 
 
 "DUMB WITNESSES. 
 
 " Eed marks were found on the shutter, which are pro 
 nounced by experts to be the partial print of a left hand. 
 On the white cloth which covered the bureau is a slight 
 impression of finger-tips, also belonging to a left hand. 
 These marks are too imperfect to be relied upon in them 
 selves, save that they establish the fact that the hand 
 which touched the cloth and closed the shutter was a left 
 hand. 
 
 "AN IMPROBABLE STORY. 
 
 "Captain Heathcote asserts that he left the hotel at ten, 
 as testified, to smoke a cigar and get a breath of fresh air. 
 That he returned through the garden at eleven, and see 
 ing by the bright light that his wife was still awake, 
 he went up by the outside stairway, which he had pre 
 viously noted, entered the room through the long win 
 dow to tell her that he was going to take a bath in the 
 river, and to get towels. He remained a few minutes, put 
 two towels in his pocket, and came out, going down the 
 same stairway, across the garden, and along the main road 
 to the river. (A track, however, has been found to the 
 river through the large meadow behind the house.) At 
 the bend where road and river meet, he undressed himself 
 and took a bath. The disorder in his clothing and his 
 wet cuifs came from his own awkwardness, as he has 
 but partial use of his right arm. He then returned by the 
 road as he had come, but he forgot the toivels. Probably 
 they would be found on the bank where he left them. 
 
 THE TOWEL. 
 
 "No towels were found at the point named. But at 
 the end of the track through the grass meadow, among 
 the reeds on the shore, a towel was found, and identified 
 as one belonging to the hotel. This towel is stained with 
 blood. 
 
 "THE THEORY. 
 
 "The theory at Timloesville is that Heathcote had 
 no idea that he would be seen when he stole up that out 
 side stairway. He knew that the entire wing was unoc- 
 
ANNE. 445 
 
 cupied : a servant has testified that she told him it was ; 
 and he thought, too, that the maid Bagshot had a room in 
 front, not commanding the garden. Bagshot says that 
 the room was changed without his knowledge, while he 
 was absent on his first walk. He supposed, then, that he 
 would not be seen. He evidently took Mrs. Heathcote s 
 diamond rings, purse, and watch (they are all missing) in 
 order to turn public opinion toward the idea that the 
 murder was for the sake of robbery. He says that a man 
 passed him while he was bathing, and spoke to him; 
 proof of this would establish something toward the truth 
 of his story. But, strangely enough, this man can not be 
 found. Yet Timloesville and its neighborhood are by 
 no means so crowded with inhabitants that the search 
 should be a difficult one. 
 
 It may be regarded as a direct misfortune in the cause 
 of justice that the accused heard any of Bagshot s testi 
 mony against him before he was called upon to give his 
 own account of the events of the evening. And yet his 
 confused, contradictory story is another proof of the in 
 capacity which the most cunning murderers often display 
 when overtaken by suspicion ; they seem to lose all pow 
 er to protect themselves. If Captain Heathcote had de 
 nied Bagshofs testimony in toto, had denied having as 
 cended the outside stairway at all, his chances would 
 have been much brighter, for people might have believed 
 that the maid was mistaken. But he acknowledges the 
 stairway, and then denies the rest. 
 
 "HIS MOTIVE. 
 
 " But how can poor finite man detect so obscure a thing 
 as motive ? He must hide his face and acknowledge his 
 feebleness when he stands before this inscrutable, heavy- 
 browed, silent Fate. In this case, two solutions are offer 
 ed. One, that the wife s large fortune was left by will 
 unconditionally to her husband; the other, that Mrs. 
 Bagshot will testify that there was jealousy and ill feel 
 ing between these two, linked together by God s holy ordi 
 nance, and that this ill feeling was connected with a 
 third person, and that person a woman." 
 
446 ANNE. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE NEW YORK "ZEUS." 
 "Mrs. Heathcote was apparently murdered while 
 asleep. When found, her face wore a natural and sweet 
 expression, as though she had passed from slumber into 
 death without even a sigh. The maid testifies that her 
 mistress always removed her rings at night; it is pro 
 bable, therefore, that they, together with her purse and 
 watch, were on the bureau where the marks of the finger 
 tips were found. 
 
 "~V^e refrain at present from comment upon the close 
 circumstantial evidence which surrounds this case; the 
 strong hand of the law will take hold of it at the proper 
 time, and sift it thoroughly. Meanwhile the attitude of all 
 right-minded persons should be calm and impartial, and 
 the accused man should be held innocent until he is 
 proven guilty. Trial by newspaper is one of the notable 
 evils of our modern American system, and should be 
 systematically discountenanced and discouraged ; when a 
 human life is trembling in the balance, the sensation- 
 monger should be silenced, and his evil wares sternly re 
 jected." 
 
 This negative impartiality was the nearest approach to 
 friendliness which the accused man received from the 
 combined newspaper columns of New York, Baltimore, 
 and Washington. 
 
 The body of poor Helen was brought home, and Miss 
 Teller herself arrayed her darling for her long repose. 
 Friends thronged to see her as she lay in her luxurious 
 drawing-room ; flowers were placed everywhere as though 
 for a bridal the bridal of death. Her figure was visible 
 from head to foot; she seemed asleep. Her still face 
 wore a gentle expression of rest and peace ; her small 
 hands were crossed upon her breast; her unbound hair 
 fell in waves behind her shoulders, a few strands lying on 
 the white skirt far below the slender waist, almost to the 
 feet. The long lashes lay upon the oval cheek ; no one 
 would ever see those bright brown eyes again, and find 
 fault with them because they were too narrow. The lithe 
 
ANNE. 447 
 
 form was motionless; no one would ever again watch it 
 move onward with its peculiar swaying grace, and find 
 fault with it because it was too slender. Those who had 
 not been willing to grant her beauty in life, gazed at her 
 now with tear-dimmed eyes, and willingly gave all the 
 meed of praise they had withheld before. Those who had 
 not loved her while she lived, forgot all, and burst into 
 tears when they saw her now, the delicately featured 
 face once so proud and imperious, quiet forever, grown 
 strangely youthful too, like the face of a young girl. 
 
 Miss Teller sat beside her darling ; to all she made the 
 same set speech : Dear Ward, her husband, the one who 
 loved her best, can not be here. I am staying with her, 
 therefore, until she is taken from us ; then I shall go to 
 him, as she would have wished." For Miss Teller be 
 lieved 110 word of the stories with which the newspapers 
 teemed. Indignation and strong affection supplied the 
 place of whatever strength had been lacking in her char 
 acter, and never before in her life had she appeared as re 
 solute and clear-minded as now. 
 
 During the funeral services, Isabel Varce sat beside Miss 
 Teller, sobbing as if her heart would break. Rachel Ban- 
 nert was next to Isabel. She had looked once at Helen, 
 only once, and her dark face had quivered spasmodical 
 ly; then she also took her seat beside the fair, still form, 
 and bowed her head. All Helen s companions were clad 
 in mourning garb ; the tragedy of this death had invested 
 it with a deeper sadness than belonged to the passing 
 away in the ordinary course of nature of even closer- 
 friends. The old-fashioned mansion was full to over 
 flowing; in the halls and doorway, on the front steps, 
 and even on the pavement outside, men were standing, 
 bare-headed and silent, many distinguished faces being 
 among them ; society men also, who in general avoided 
 funerals as unpleasant and grewsome ceremonials. 
 These had been Helen s companions and friends; they 
 had all liked and admired her, and as she was borne past 
 them, covered with heliotrope, there was not one whose 
 eyes did not grow stern in thinking of the dastard hand 
 that did the cruel deed. 
 
448 ANNE. 
 
 That night, when darkness fell, many hearts remem* 
 bered her, lying alone in the far-off cemetery, the ceme 
 tery we call Greenwood, although no wood made by Na 
 ture s hand alone bears the cold white marble flowers 
 which are found 011 those fair slopes. And when the next 
 morning dawned, with dull gray clouds and rain, there 
 were many who could not help thinking of the beautiful 
 form which had fared softly and delicately all its life, 
 which had felt only the touch of finest linen and softest 
 silk, which had never suffered from the cold or the storm, 
 now lying there alone in the dark soaked earth, with the 
 rain falling upon its defenseless head, and no one near 
 to replace the wet lilies which the wind had blown from 
 the mound. 
 
 But those who were thinking thus were mistaken : some 
 one was near. A girl clad in black and closely veiled 
 stood beside the new-made grave, with tears dropping on 
 her cheeks, and her hand pressed over her heart. There 
 were many mourners yesterday ; there was but one to-day. 
 There were many flowers then ; now there was only the 
 bunch of violets which this girl had brought. She had 
 knelt beside the mound, her head undefended from the 
 rain, and had prayed silently. Then she had risen, but 
 still she could not go. She paced slowly up and down 
 beside the grave, like a sentinel keeping watch; only 
 when she perceived that one of the men employed in the 
 cemetery was watching her curiously, no doubt wonder 
 ing why she remained there in the storm, did she turn 
 away at last, and go homeward again by the long route 
 she had traversed in coming. 
 
 For Anne had not dared to go to the funeral ; had not 
 dared to go to Miss Teller. The hideous sentence in the 
 newspaper had filled her with doubt and vague alarm. 
 It was not possible that she, Anne, was meant ; and yet 
 Bagshot, from whom this as yet unrevealed testimony 
 was to come, saw her on the day she visited Helen, after 
 the tidings of her husband s death. Surely this was too 
 slight a foundation upon which to found her vague alarm. 
 She repeated to herself that her dread was unreasonable, 
 yet it would not down. If the danger had been open, she 
 
ANNE. 449 
 
 could have faced and defied it ; but this mute, unknown 
 something, which was only to be revealed by the power 
 and in the presence of the law, held her back, bound hand 
 and foot, afraid almost to breathe. For her presence or 
 words might, in some way she could not foresee or even 
 comprehend, bring increased danger upon the head of the 
 accused man, already weighted down with a crushing 
 load of suspicion, which grew heavier every hour. 
 
 Suspense supplies a calmness of its own. Anne wen* 
 into the city as usual, gave her lessons, and went through 
 all the forms of her accustomed living, both at home 
 and abroad. Yet all the time she was accompanied by a 
 muffled shape, its ghostly eyes fixed upon her through its 
 dark veil, menacing but silent. It was dread. 
 
 When the hour came, and she knew that the old words 
 were being spoken over Helen : " In the midst of life we 
 are in death: of whom may we seek for succor but of 
 Thee ?" "Before the mountains were brought forth, or 
 ever the earth and the world were made, Thou art God 
 from everlasting." "A thousand years in Thy sight are 
 but as yesterday, seeing that is past as a watch in the 
 night." "And now, Lord, what is my hope ? Truly my 
 hope is even in Thee" she bowed her head and joined in 
 the sentences mutely, present at least in spirit. The next 
 day, while the rain fell sombrely, she went to the distant 
 cemetery: no one would be there in the storm, and she 
 wished to stand once more by Helen s side poor Helen, 
 beautiful Helen, taken from this life s errors forever, 
 perhaps already, in another world, understanding all, re 
 pentant for all, forgiving all. 
 
 There was no one to whom Anne could speak upon the 
 subject which was burning like a constant fire within her 
 heart. And when, a few days later, a letter came from 
 Gregory Dexter, she opened it eagerly : there would be, 
 there must be, comfort here. She read the pages quickly, 
 and her heart stood still. " If I thought that there was the 
 least danger that the secret of this cowardly, cruel deed 
 would not be found out," wrote Dexter, "I should at 
 once leave all this labor in which I am engaged, impor 
 tant as it is, and devote myself to the search for proofs to 
 
 29 
 
450 ANNE. 
 
 convict tlie murderer. Never in my life has my desire for 
 swift, sharp justice been so deeply stirred." 
 
 Anne laid down the letter with a trembling hand. If 
 he "thought that there was the least danger"; then he 
 thought there was none. But so far no one had been 
 apprehended, or even suspected, save Ward Heathcote 
 alone. Did he think, then, that Heathcote was guilty ? 
 Could he think this, knowing him as he did, having been 
 in a certain sense his companion and friend ? 
 
 Dexter had not liked Heathcote personally, but he was 
 capable of just judgment above his personal likings and 
 dislikings, and Anne knew it. She knew that he had 
 examined the testimony impartially. It must be, then, 
 it must be, that there were grounds for his belief. She 
 took her pen and wrote a burning letter a letter of 
 entreaty and passionate remonstrance. And then, the 
 next morning, she burned it : she must not write or speak 
 on the subject at all, not even to him. 
 
 The slow days moved onward like the processions of 
 a dream. But no one noticed any change in the young 
 teacher, who journeyed wearily through the long hours. 
 Old Nora saw the piles of newspapers in her mistress s 
 room, but as she could not read, they betrayed nothing. 
 She would not, besides, have recognized Helen under the 
 name of Heathcote ; the beautiful lady who had visited 
 the half-house in the days of Jeanne-Armande was named 
 Lorrington. The slow days moved on, but not without 
 events. In this case the law had moved speedily. An 
 indictment had been found, and the trial was to take place 
 without delay in the county town of the district to which 
 Timloesville belonged. 
 
 Miss Teller had gone to this town ; the newspapers said 
 that she had taken a house, and would remain during the 
 trial, or as long as Captain Heathcote was confined there. 
 Anne, reading these items, reading the many descriptions 
 of Heathcote, the suggestions regarding the murder, the 
 theories concerning the blunder (for it was conceded that 
 there had been a blunder), asked herself wonderingly if he 
 had no friends left no friends on earth, save herself and 
 Miss Teller ? The whole world seemed to be against him. 
 
ANNE. 451 
 
 But she judged only from the newspapers. There was an 
 other side. This was a small, local, but in one way power 
 ful, minority, which stood by the accused man immov 
 ably. This minority was composed almost entirely of 
 women women high in New York society, Helen s own 
 companions and friends. They formed a determined 
 band of champions, who, without condescending to use 
 any arguments, but simply through their own personal 
 ity, exerted a strong influence, limited, it is true, but des 
 potic. If the case was tried beforehand by the newspa 
 pers, it was also tried beforehand by sweet voices and 
 scornful lips in many New York drawing-rooms. Society 
 resolved itself into two parties those who did and those 
 who did not believe in the guilt of the imprisoned man. 
 Those who did believe were almost all men ; those who 
 did not, almost all women ; the exceptions being a few men 
 who stood by Heathcote in spite of the evidence, and a few 
 women who, having logical minds, stood by the evidence 
 in spite of themselves. 
 
 When the trial began, not only was Miss Teller present, 
 but Mrs. Varce and Isabel, Mrs. Bannert and her daugh 
 ter-in-law, together with others equally well known as 
 friends of Helen s, and prominent members of New 
 York s fashionable society. 
 
 Multomah, the little county town, was excited ; its one 
 hotel was crowded. The country people came in to at 
 tend the trial from miles around ; great lawyers were to 
 be present, there was to be "mighty fine speaking." The 
 gentleman had murdered his wife for the million dollars 
 she constantly carried with her. The gentleman had 
 murdered his wife because she had just discovered that 
 he was already married before he met her, and he was 
 afraid she would reveal the secret. A local preacher im 
 proved the occasion by a sermon decked profusely with 
 Apollyons and Abaddons. It was not clearly known 
 what he meant, or where he stood ; but the discourse was 
 listened to by a densely packed crowd of farming people, 
 who came out wiping their foreheads, and sat down on 
 convenient tombstones to talk it over, and eat their din 
 ners, brought in baskets, trying the case again beforehand 
 
452 ANNE. 
 
 for the five-hundredth time, with texts and Scripture 
 phrases thrown in to give it a Sabbath flavor. 
 
 The New York dailies had sent their reporters ; every 
 evening Anne read their telegraphic summaries of the 
 day s events; every morning, the account of the same in 
 detail. She was not skillful enough to extract the real 
 evidence from the mass of irrelevant testimony with 
 which it was surrounded, the questions and answers, the 
 confusing pertinacity of the lawyers over some little point 
 which seemed to her as far from the real subject as a blade 
 of grass is from the fixed stars. She turned, therefore, to 
 the printed comments which day by day accompanied the 
 report of the proceedings, gathering from them the pro 
 gress made, and their ideas of the probabilities which lay 
 in the future. The progress seemed rapid ; the proba 
 bilities were damning. No journal pretended that they 
 were otherwise. Yet still the able pens of the calmer 
 writers counselled deliberation. There have been cases 
 with even closer evidence than this," they warningly 
 wrote, in which the accused, by some unexpected and 
 apparently trivial turn in the testimony, has been proven 
 clearly innocent. In this case, while the evidence is 
 strong, it is difficult to imagine a motive. Mrs. Heath- 
 cote was much attached to her husband ; she was, besides, 
 a beautiful, accomplished, and fascinating woman. That 
 a man should deliberately plan to murder such a wife, 
 merely in order to obtain possession of wealth which was 
 already practically his, is incredible ; and until some more 
 reasonable motive is discovered, many will refuse to be 
 lieve even the evidence." 
 
 Anne, reading this sentence, felt faint. So far the mys 
 terious testimony to which vague allusion had been made 
 in the beginning had not been brought forward ; the time 
 had been occupied by the evidence concerning the events 
 at Timloesville, and the questioning and cross-questioning 
 of the Timloesville witnesses. A more reasonable mo 
 tive." The veiled shape that accompanied her seemed to 
 assume more definite outline, and to grow from Dread 
 into Fear. And yet she could not tell of what she was 
 afraid. 
 
ANNE. 453 
 
 The days passed, and she wondered how it was that she 
 could still eat, and sleep, and speak as usual, while her 
 whole being 1 was away in that little Pennsylvania town. 
 She did speak and teach as usual, but she did not eat or 
 sleep. Something besides food sustained her. Was it 
 hope ? Or fear ? Oh, why did not all the world cry out 
 that he was not, could not be guilty ! Were people all 
 mad, and deaf, and blind ? She lived on in a suspense 
 which was like a continual endurance of suffocation, 
 which yet never quite attains the relief of death. 
 
 Miss Teller s lawyers labored with skill and vigilance; 
 all that talent nay, more, genius could do, they did. 
 Their theory was that the murder was committed by a 
 third person, who entered Mrs. Heathcote s room by the 
 same outside stairway which her husband had used, after 
 his departure; and they defied the prosecution to prove 
 that they were wrong. In answer to this theory the pro 
 secution presented certain facts, namely: that Heathcote 
 was seen entering by the outside stairway, and that no 
 one else was seen ; that the impressions found there were 
 those of a left hand, and that Heathcote was at the time 
 left-handed ; that a towel, marked with the name of the 
 hotel and stained with blood, was found on the river-bank 
 at the end of a direct trail from the garden, and that the 
 chamber-maid testified that, whereas she had placed four 
 towels in the room a few hours before, there were in the 
 morning but two remaining, and that no others were 
 missing from the whole number owned by the hotel. 
 
 At this stage of the proceedings, Anne, sitting in her 
 own room as usual now in the evening, with one news 
 paper in her hand and the others scattered on the floor by 
 her side, heard a knock on the door below, but, in her ab 
 sorption, paid no attention to it. In a few moments, 
 however, Nora came up to say that Mr. Dexter was in the 
 parlor, and wished to see her. 
 
 Here was an unexpected. trial. She had sent a short, 
 carefully guarded answer to his long letter, and he had 
 not written again. It had been comparatively easy to 
 guard written words. But could she command those 
 that must be spoken ? She bathed her face in cold water, 
 
454 ANNE. 
 
 and stood waiting until she felt that she had called up a 
 calmer expression; she charged herself to guard every 
 look, every word, even the tones of her voice. Then she 
 went down. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 " I can account for nothing you women do, although I have lived 
 among you seventy-five years." WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 As she entered the little parlor, Dexter came forward 
 to meet her. "You are looking very well," he said, 
 almost reproachfully. 
 
 "I am very well," she answered. "And you ?" 
 
 Not well at all. What with the constant and harass 
 ing work I am doing, and this horrible affair concerning 
 poor Helen, I confess that I feel worn and old. It is not 
 often that I acknowledge either. I have been busy in 
 the city all day, and must return to my post on the mid 
 night train ; but I had two or three hours to spare, and so 
 I have come out to see you . Before we say anything else, 
 however, tell me about yourself. How is it with you at 
 present ?" 
 
 Glad of a respite, she described to him, with more de 
 tails than she had hitherto thought necessary, her posi 
 tion, her pupils, and her daily life. She talked rapidly, 
 giving him 110 opportunity to speak; she hardly knew 
 herself as she went along. At last, however, he did break 
 through the stream of her words. " I am glad you find 
 interest in these matters," he said, coldly. "With me 
 it is different; I can think of nothing but poor Helen." 
 
 It was come : now for self-control. All her words fail 
 ed suddenly ; she could not speak. 
 
 Are you not haunted by it ?" he continued. Do you 
 not constantly see her lying there asleep, that pale hair 
 unbraided, those small helpless hands bare of all their jew 
 els poor defenseless little hands, decked only with the 
 mockery of that wedding ring ?" 
 
 He was gazing at the wall, as though it were all pictured 
 there. Anne made no reply, and after a pause he went 
 on. "Helen was a fascinating woman; but she was, or 
 
ANNE. 455 
 
 could be if she chose, an intensely exasperating woman as 
 well. I am no coward ; I think I may say the reverse ; 
 but I would rather be alone with a tigress than with such 
 a woman as she would have been, if roused to jealous fury. 
 She would not have stirred, she would not have raised her 
 voice, but she would have spoken words that would have 
 stung like asps and cut like Damascus blades. No devil 
 would have shown in that kind of torment greater ingenu 
 ity. I am a self-controlled man, yet I can imagine Helen 
 Lorrington driving me, if she had tried, into such a state of 
 frenzy that I should hardly know what I was doing. In 
 such a case I should end, I think, by crushing her in my 
 arms, and fairly strangling the low voice that taunted me. 
 But I could never have stabbed her in her sleep!" 
 
 Again he paused, and again Anne kept silence. But 
 he did not notice it ; he was absorbed in his own train of 
 thought. 
 
 "It is a relief to speak of this to you," he continued, 
 4 for you knew Helen, and Heathcote also. Do you 
 know I can imagine just how she worked upon him ; how 
 that fair face and those narrow eyes of hers wrought their 
 deadly darts. Her very want of strength was an access 
 ory; for if she could have risen and struck him, if she 
 had been capable of any such strong action, the exasper 
 ation would have been less. But that a creature so help 
 less, one whose slight form he had been used to carry 
 about the house in his arms, one who could not walk far 
 unaided that such a creature should lie there, in all her 
 delicate beauty, and with barbed words deliberately tor 
 ment him Anne, I can imagine a rush of madness which 
 might well end in murder and death. But not a plot. 
 If he had killed her in a passion, and then boldly avowed 
 the deed, giving himself up, I should have had some sym 
 pathy with him, in spite of the horror of the deed. But 
 to arrange the method of his crime (as he evidently tried 
 to do) so that he w^ould not be discovered, but be enabled 
 quietly to inherit her money bah ! I almost wish I were 
 the hangman myself ! Out on the border he would have 
 been lynched long ago." 
 
 His listener still remained mute, but a little fold of 
 
456 ANNE. 
 
 flesh inside her lips was bitten through by her clinched 
 teeth in the effort she made to preserve that muteness. 
 
 It seemed to have been a relief to Dexter to let out those 
 strong- words. He paused, turned toward Anne, and for 
 the first time noted her dress. Are you in mourning ?" 
 he asked, doubtfully, looking at the unbroken black of her 
 attire. 
 
 1 It is the same dress I have worn for several months." 
 
 He did not know enough of the details of a woman s 
 garb to see that the change came from the absence of 
 white at the throat and wrists. After Helen s death poor 
 Anne had sewed black lace in her plain black gown ; it 
 was the only mourning she could allow herself. 
 
 The moment was now come when she must say some 
 thing. Dexter, his outburst over, was leaning back in his 
 chair, looking at her. Miss Teller has gone to Multo- 
 mah, I believe," she remarked, neutrally. 
 
 "Yes; singularly enough, she believes him innocent. 
 I heard, while in the city to-day, that the Varces and Ban- 
 nerts and others of that set believe it also, and are all at 
 Multomah * for the moral effect. For the moral effect !" 
 He threw back his head and laughed scornfully. I wish 
 I had time to run up there myself," he added, "to dwell 
 upon the moral effect of all those fine ladies. However, 
 the plain American people have formed their own opin 
 ion of this case, and are not likely to be moved by such in 
 fluences. They understand. This very evening, on the 
 train, I heard a mechanic say, If the jurymen were only 
 fine ladies, now, that Heathcote would get off yet. " 
 
 " How can you repeat such words?" said the girl, blaz 
 ing out suddenly and uncontrollably, as a fire which has 
 been long smothered bursts into sudden and overpower 
 ing flame at the last. 
 
 " Of course it is bad taste to jest on such a subject. I 
 only Why, Anne, what is the matter ?" For she had 
 risen and was standing before him, her eyes brilliant with 
 an expression which was almost hate. 
 
 "You believe that he did it ?" she said. 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "And I do not! You say that Helen taunted him, 
 
ANNE. 457 
 
 that she drove him into a frenzy ; you imagine the scene, 
 and picture its details. Know that Helen loved him with 
 her whole heart. Whatever she may have been to you, to 
 him she was utterly devoted, living upon his words and 
 his smile. She esteemed herself blessed simply to be near 
 him in his presence; and, on that very night, she said 
 that no wife was ever so happy, and that on her knees she 
 had thanked her Creator for that which made her life one 
 long joy." 
 
 Gregory Dexter s face had showed the profoundest won 
 der while the excited girl was speaking, but by the time 
 she ceased he had, in his quick way, grasped something 
 of the truth, unexpected and astonishing though it was. 
 
 You know this ?" he said. Then she wrote to you. " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "On the evening of her death?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Bagshot testifies that when she left the room, at nine, 
 Mrs. Heathcote was writing. Was that this letter to you ?" 
 
 11 1 presume it was." 
 
 "When and how was it mailed? Or rather, what is 
 the date of the postmark?" 
 
 "The next morning." 
 
 Dexter looked at her searchingly. "This may prove 
 to be very important," he said. 
 
 " I know it now." 
 
 "Why have you not spoken before?" 
 
 "To whom could I speak? Besides, it has not seemed 
 important to me until now ; for no one has suggested that 
 she did not love her husband, that she tormented him and 
 drove him into fury, save yourself alone." 
 
 "You will see that others will suggest it also," said 
 Dexter, unmoved by her scorn. " Are you prepared to 
 produce this letter ?" 
 
 "I have it." 
 
 "Can I see it?" 
 
 I would rather not show it. " 
 
 "There is determined concealment here somewhere, 
 Anne, and I am much troubled ; I fear you stand very 
 near great danger. Remember that this is a serious mat- 
 
M ? v> V L 
 
 458 ANNE. 
 
 ter, and ordinary rules should be set aside, ordinary feel 
 ing s sacrificed. You will do well to show me that let 
 ter, and, in short, to tell me the whole truth plainly. Do 
 you think you have any friend more steadfast than my 
 self?" 
 
 " You are kind. But you are prejudiced." 
 
 "Against Heathcote, do you mean ?" said Dexter, a sud 
 den flash coming for an instant into his gray eyes. "Is 
 it possible that you, you too, are interested in that man ?" 
 
 But at this touch upon her heart the girl controlled her 
 self again. She resumed her seat, with her face turned 
 toward the window. " I do not believe that he did it, and 
 you do," she answered, quietly. "That makes a wide 
 separation between us." 
 
 But for the moment the man who sat opposite had for 
 gotten the present, to ask himself, with the same old in 
 ward wonder and anger, why it was that this other man, 
 who had never done anything or been anything- in his 
 life, who had never denied himself, never worked, never 
 accomplished anything why it was that such a man as 
 this had led captive Helen, Rachel, and now perhaps Anne. 
 If it had been a case of great personal beauty, he could 
 have partially accounted for it, and scorned it. But it 
 was not. Many a face was more regularly handsome than 
 Heathcote s; he knew that he himself would be pro 
 nounced by the majority a handsomer, although of course 
 older, man. But when he realized that he was going 
 over this same old bitter ground, by a strong effort of 
 will he stopped himself and returned to reality. Heath- 
 cote s power, whatever it was, and angry as it made him, 
 was nevertheless a fact, and Dexter never contradicted 
 facts. With his accurate memory, he now went back and 
 took up Anne s last answer. You say I believe it. It 
 is true," he said, turning toward her (he had been sitting 
 with his eyes cast down during this whirl of feeling) ; 
 but my belief is not founded upon prejudice, as you seem 
 to think. It rests upon the evidence. Let us go over the 
 evidence together : women, are sometimes intuitively 
 right, even against reason." 
 
 "I can not go over it." 
 
ANNE. 459 
 
 But he persisted. " It would be better," he said, deter 
 mined to draw the whole truth from her, if not in one 
 way, then in another. For he realized how important 
 it was that she should have an adviser. 
 
 She looked up and met his eyes ; they were kind but 
 unyielding. "Very well," she said, making an effort to 
 do even this. She leaned back in her chair and folded 
 her hands: people could endure, then, more than they 
 knew. 
 
 Dexter, not giving her a moment s delay, began im 
 mediately: his object was to rouse her and draw her out. 
 * We will take at first simply the testimony, " he said. I 
 have the main points here in my note-book. We will even 
 suppose that we do not know the persons concerned, but 
 think of them as strangers." He went over the evidence 
 clearly and briefly. Then the theories. "Note, "he 
 said, "the difference. On one side we have a series of 
 facts, testified to by a number of persons. On the other, 
 a series of possibilities, testified to by no one save the pris 
 oner himself. The defense is a theory built to fit the 
 case, without one proof, no matter how small, as a foun 
 dation." 
 
 Anne had not stirred. Her eyes were turned away, 
 gazing into the darkness of the garden. Dexter closed his 
 note-book, and returned it to his pocket. 
 
 "They have advanced no further in the real trial," he 
 said ; "but you and I will now drop our role of strangers, 
 and go on. We know him ; we knew her. Can we think 
 of any cause which would account for such an act ? Was 
 there any reason why Ward Heathcote would have been 
 relieved by the death of his wife?" 
 
 Anne remained silent. 
 
 "The common idea that he wished to have sole control 
 of her wealth will hardly, I think, be received by those 
 who have personally known him," continued Dexter. 
 "He never cared for money. He was, in my opinion, 
 ostentatiously indifferent to it." Here he paused to con 
 trol the tone of his voice, which was growing bitter. 
 "I repeat can you imagine any other reason?" he said. 
 Still she did not answer. 
 
460 ANNE. 
 
 "Why do you not answer? I shall begin to suspect 
 that you do." 
 
 At this she stirred a little, and he was satisfied. He 
 had moved her from her rigidity. Not wishing to alarm 
 her, he went on, tentatively: "My theory of the motive 
 you are not willing to allow ; still, I consider it a possible 
 and even probable one. For they were not happy: he 
 was not happy. Beautiful as she was, rich as she was, I 
 was told, when I first came eastward in the spring, soon 
 after their marriage, that had it not been for that acci 
 dent and the dangerous illness that followed, Helen Lor- 
 rington would never have been Ward Heathcote s wife." 
 
 "Who told you this?" said Anne, turning toward him. 
 
 I did not hear it from her, but it came from her Ra 
 chel Bannert." 
 
 " She is a traitorous woman." 
 
 " Yes; but traitors betray the truth." 
 
 He was watching her closely; she felt it, and turned 
 toward the window again, so that he should not see her 
 eyes. 
 
 Suppose that he did not love her, but had married her 
 under the influence of pity, when her life hung by a 
 thread; suppose that she loved him you say she did. 
 Can you not imagine that there might have been mo 
 ments when she tormented him beyond endurance con 
 cerning his past life who knows but his present also ? 
 She was jealous; and she had wonderful ingenuity. But 
 I doubt if you comprehend what I mean : a woman never 
 knows a woman as a man knows her. And Heathcote was 
 not patient. He is a self-indulgent man a man who 
 has been completely spoiled." 
 
 Again he paused. Then he could not resist bringing 
 forward something else, under any circumstances, to show 
 her that she was of no consequence in the case compared 
 with another person. "It is whispered, I hear, that the 
 maid will testify that there was a motive, and a strong 
 one, namely, a rival; that there was another woman 
 whom Heathcote really loved, and that Helen knew this, 
 and used the knowledge." 
 
 The formless dread which accompanied Anne began 
 
" HE ROSE, AND TOOK HER COLD HANDS IN HIS." 
 
, . 
 
ANNE. 461 
 
 now to assume definite outline and draw nearer. She 
 gazed at her inquisitor with eyes full of dumb distress. 
 
 He rose, and took her cold hands in his. "Child," he 
 said, earnestly, " I beseech you tell me all. It will be so 
 much better for you, so much safer. You are suffering 
 intensely. I have seen it all the evening. Can you not 
 trust me?" 
 
 She still looked at him in silence, while the tears rose, 
 welled over, and rolled slowly down. 
 
 "Can you not trust me ?" he repeated. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "But as you have told me something, w^hy not tell me 
 all?" 
 
 " I am afraid to tell all," she whispered. 
 
 "For yourself?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "For him, then?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He clinched his hand involuntarily as he heard this an 
 swer. Her pale face and agitation were all for him, then 
 for Ward Heathcote ! 
 
 You are really shaken by fear, " he said. I know its 
 signs, or rather those of dread. It is pure dread which has 
 possession of you now. How unlike you, Anne ! How 
 unlike yourself you are at this moment!" 
 
 But she cared nothing for herself, nothing for the scorn 
 in his voice (the jealous are often loftily scornful), and he 
 saw that she did not. 
 
 * Whom do you fear ? The maid ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What can she say?" 
 
 " I do not know ; and yet 
 
 "Is it possible can it be possible, Anne, that you are 
 the person implicated, the so-called rival ?" 
 
 " I do not know ; and it is because I do not know that 
 I am so much afraid," she answered, still in the same low 
 whisper. 
 
 But why should you take this possibility upon your 
 self ? Ward Heathcote is no Sir Galahad, Heaven knows. 
 Probably at this moment twenty women are trembling as 
 
462 ANNE. 
 
 you are trembling, fearing lest they be called by name, 
 and forced forward before the world." 
 
 He spoke with anger. Anne did not contradict him, 
 but she leaned her head upon her hand weariedly, and 
 closed her eyes. 
 
 " How can I leave you ?" he said, breaking into his old 
 kindness again. "I ought to go, but it is like leaving a 
 girl in the hands of torturers. If there were only some one 
 to be with you here until all this is over!" 
 
 "There is no one. I want no one." 
 
 "You puzzle me deeply," he said, walking up and down 
 with troubled anxiety. "I can form no opinion as to 
 whether your dread is purely imaginary or not, because 
 you tell me nothing. If you were an ordinary woman, I 
 should not give much thought to what you say or rather 
 to what you look, for you say nothing ; but you are not or 
 dinary. You are essentially brave, and you have fewer 
 of the fantastic, irrelevant fancies of women than any girl 
 I have ever known. There must be something, then, to 
 fear, since you fear so intensely. I like you, Anne ; I re 
 spect you. I admire you too, more than you know. You 
 are so utterly alone in this trouble that I can not desert 
 you. And I will not. " 
 
 "Do not stay on my account." 
 
 "But I shall. That is, in the city; it is decided. Here 
 is my address. Promise that if you should wish help or ad 
 vice in any way mark that I say, in any way you will 
 send me instantly a dispatch." 
 
 "I will." 
 
 " There is nothing more that I can do for you ?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 * And nothing that you will tell me ? Think well, child. " 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 Then, as it was late, he made her renew her promise, 
 and went away. 
 
 The next morning the package of newspapers was 
 brought to Anne from the station at an early hour as us 
 ual. She was in her own room waiting for them. She 
 watched the boy coming along the road, and felt a sud- 
 deii thrill of anger when he stopped to throw a stone 
 
ANNE. 468 
 
 at a bird. To stop with that in his hand! Old Nora 
 brought up the package. Anne took it, and closed the 
 door. Then she sat down to read. 
 
 Half an hour later, Gregory Dexter received a telegraphic 
 dispatch from Lancaster. "Come immediately. A. D." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 "He was first always. Fortune 
 
 Shone bright in his face. 
 I fought for years ; with no effort 
 
 He conquered the place. 
 We ran ; my feet were all bleeding, 
 
 But he won the race. 
 
 " My home was still in the shadow ; 
 
 His lay in the sun. 
 I longed in vain; what he asked for, 
 
 It straightway was done. 
 Once I staked all my heart s treasure; 
 We played and he won!" 
 
 ADELAIDE PROCTER. 
 
 WHEN the dispatch came, Dexter had not yet seen the 
 morning papers. He ate his breakfast hastily, and on 
 the way to the station and on the train he read them with 
 surprise and a tumultuous mixture of other feelings, 
 which he did not stop then to analyze. Mrs. Bagshot 
 had been brought forward a second time by the prosecu 
 tion, and had testified to an extraordinary conversation 
 which had taken place between Mrs. Heathcote and an 
 unknown young girl on the morning after the news of 
 Captain Heathcote s death in the Shenandoah Valley had 
 been received, parts of which (the conversation) she, in 
 an adjoining room, had overheard. He had barely time 
 to grasp the tenor of the evidence (which was voluminous 
 and interrupted by many questions) when the train reach 
 ed Lancaster, and he found Li in waiting with the red 
 wagon. All Li could tell was that Miss Douglas was go 
 ing on a journey." She was "all ready, with her bon 
 net on." 
 In the little parlor he found her, walking up and down, 
 
464 ANNE. 
 
 as he had walked during- the preceding- evening-. White 
 as her face was, there was a new expression in her eyes an 
 expression of energy. In some way she had reached a pos 
 sibility of action, and consequently a relief. When he had 
 entered, with a rapid motion she closed the doors. Have 
 you read it ?" she said. 
 
 "You mean the new testimony? Yes; I read it as I 
 came out." 
 
 "And you understood, of course, that it was I?" 
 
 " I feared it might be." 
 
 And you see that I must go immediately to Multomah ?" 
 
 " By heavens ! no. I see nothing- of the kind. Rather 
 should you hasten as far away as possible to England, 
 Germany some distant spot where you can safely rest 
 until all danger, danger of discovery, is over." 
 
 " So you believe it also!" cried the girl, with scathing 
 emphasis. "You believe and condemn! Believe that 
 garbled, distorted story ; condemn, when you only know 
 half ! Like all the rest of the world, you are in haste to 
 believe, glad to believe, the worst in haste to join the 
 hue and cry against a hunted man." 
 
 She stood in the centre of the room, her form drawn up 
 to its full height, her eyes flashing. She looked inspired 
 inspired with anger and scorn. 
 
 "Then it is garbled ?" said Dexter, finding time even at 
 that moment to admire her beauty, which had never be 
 fore been so striking. 
 
 It is. And I must go to Multomah and give the true 
 version. Tell me what train to take." 
 
 4 First tell me, Anne ; tell me the whole story. Let me 
 hear it before you give it to the world. Surely there can 
 be no objection to my knowing it now." 
 
 " There is no objection ; but I can not lose the time. I 
 must start." 
 
 A travelling-bag stood on the table beside her shawl 
 and gloves ; the red wagon was waiting outside. He com 
 prehended that nothing would stop her, and took his mea 
 sures accordingly. 
 
 "I can arrange everything for you, and I will, and 
 without the least delay. But first you must tell me the 
 
ANNE. 465 
 
 whole," he said, sitting down and folding his arms. " I 
 will not work in the dark. As to time, the loss of an 
 hour is nothing compared with the importance of gaining 
 my co-operation, for the moment I am convinced, I will 
 telegraph to the court-room itself, and stop proceedings 
 until you arrive. With my help, my name, my influence, 
 behind you, you can accomplish anything. But what 
 could you do alone? You would be misunderstood, mis 
 represented, subjected to doubt, suspicion, perhaps insult. 
 Have you thought of this ?" 
 
 "I mind nothing if I can but save him." 
 
 1 But if you can save him more effectually with my as 
 sistance?" 
 
 "How can that be, when you dislike, suspect him ?" 
 
 "Do you wish to drive me into a rage ? Can I not be 
 just to Ward Heathcote whether I like him or not, suspect 
 him or not ? Yes, even though I believe him to be guilty ? 
 Try me. If I promise to go with you to Multomah to-day, 
 even if I think your presence there will be of 110 avail, 
 will that induce you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I promise." 
 
 Without pausing, she sat down by the table, taking a 
 newspaper from her pocket. You have one, " she said ; 
 please follow me in the one you have. When I saw 
 the notice of his death, I went immediately to Helen. 
 This woman Bagshot testifies that she was in the next 
 room. I am positive that at first both the doors of Helen s 
 room were closed ; Bagshot, therefore, must have slightly 
 opened one of them afterward unobserved by us. There 
 was a curtain hanging partly over this door, but only 
 partly ; she could have opened it, therefore, but slightly, 
 or we should have noticed the change. This accounts for 
 the little that she caught only those sentences that were 
 spoken in an elevated voice, for Helen s room is large. It 
 will shorten the story, I think, if we read the summary on 
 the editorial page." And in a clear voice she read as fol 
 lows : " Our readers will remember that at the beginning 
 of the Heathcote trial we expressed the opinion that until 
 some more probable motive for the deed than the desire 
 
 30 
 
466 ANNE. 
 
 to obtain control of wealth already practically his own was 
 discovered in connection with the accused, the dispassion 
 ate observer would refuse to believe his guilt, despite the 
 threatening- nature of the evidence. This motive ap 
 pears now to have been supplied. In another column 
 parts of a remarkable conversation are given, overheard 
 by the witness Bagshot a conversation between Mrs. 
 Heathcote and an unknown and beautiful young girl, 
 who came to the house on the morning after the announce 
 ment of Captain Heathcote s death in the Shenandoah 
 Valley, and before the contradiction of the same had been 
 received. This young girl was a stranger to the man Simp 
 son, who opened the front door, and Simpson has been in 
 Mrs. Heathcote s service for some time. He testifies that 
 she was denied entrance, Mrs. Heathcote not being able to 
 see any one. She then tore a leaf from her note-book, 
 wrote a line upon it, and requested him to carry it to his 
 mistress, adding that she thought Mrs. Heathcote would 
 see her. As intimate friends had already been refused, 
 Simpson was incredulous, but performed his duty. To 
 his surprise, Mrs. Heathcote sent Bagshot to say that the 
 stranger was to come to her immediately, and accordingly 
 she was ushered up stairs, and the door closed. Upon be 
 ing questioned as to what the line of writing was, Simp 
 son replied that he did not read it. Bagshot, however, 
 testifies that, in accordance with her duty, she cast her eye 
 over it, and that it contained the following words: "Do 
 let me come to you. Crystal." The word Crystal" was 
 a signature, and Mrs. Heathcote seemed to recognize it. 
 Bagshot testifies that the visitor was young and beautiful, 
 although plainly, almost poorly, dressed, and that she re 
 mained with Mrs. Heathcote nearly two hours. Very soon 
 after her departure the telegraphic dispatch was received 
 announcing Captain Heathcote s safety, and then the wife 
 started on that fatal journey which was to end in death. 
 
 " * This woman, Bagshot, so far the most important wit 
 ness in the case, testifies that she heard only parts of the 
 conversation a few detached sentences which were spok 
 en in an elevated tone. But, disconnected as the phrased 
 are, they are brimming with significance. The important 
 
ANNE. 4G7 
 
 parts of her story are as follows : First, she heard Mrs. 
 Heathcote say, " I shall never rest until you tell me all ! 1 
 Second, that she cried out excitedly : You have robbed 
 me of his love. I will never forgive you." Third, that 
 she said, rapidly and in a high, strained voice: "Since 
 he saw you he has never loved me; I see it now. He 
 married me from pity, no doubt thinking that I was near 
 death. How many times he must have wished me dead 
 indeed! I wonder that he has not murdered me." 
 Fourth, that later she said : "Yes, he has borne it so far, 
 and now he is dead. But if he were alive, I should have 
 taunted him with it. Do you hear ? I say I should have 
 taunted him." Fifth (and most remarkable of all), that 
 this stranger made a strong and open avowal of her own 
 love for the dead man, the extraordinary words of which 
 are given in another column. There are several other 
 sentences, but they are unfinished and comparatively un 
 important. 
 
 The intelligent observer will not fail to note the sig 
 nificance of this testimony, which bears upon the case not 
 only by supplying a motive for the deed, but also, possi 
 bly, its immediate cause, in the words of the deeply roused 
 and jealous wife : " I should have taunted him with it. I 
 say I should have taunted him." 
 
 The witness has been subjected to the closest cross- 
 questioning; it seems impossible to confuse her, or to 
 shake her evidence in the slightest degree. Divest her 
 testimony of all comment and theory, and it still remains 
 as nearly conclusive as any evidence, save ocular, can be. 
 She it is who saw the prisoner enter his wife s room by 
 stealth shortly before the murder; she it is who over 
 heard the avow r al of the rival, the rage and bitter jealousy 
 of the wife, and her declaration that if her husband had 
 lived she would have made known to him her discovery, 
 and tatfnted him with it. 
 
 He did live ; the report of his death was a mistake. 
 It is more than probable that the wife carried out her 
 threat. " 
 
 Here Anne paused and laid the newspaper down ; she 
 was composed and grave. 
 
468 ANNE. 
 
 "I will now tell you," she said, lifting- her eyes to 
 Dexter s face, what really occurred and what really was 
 said. As I stated before, upon seeing the announcement 
 of her husband s death, I went to Helen. I wrote upon 
 a slip of paper the line you have heard, and signed the 
 name by which she always called me. As I had hoped, 
 she consented to see me, and this woman, Bagshot, took 
 me up stairs to her room. We were alone. Both doors 
 were closed at first, I know; we supposed that they re 
 mained closed all the time. I knelt down by the low couch 
 and took her in my arms. I kissed her, and stroked her 
 hair. I could not cry; neither could she. I sorrowed 
 over her in silence. For some time we did not speak. But 
 after a while, with a long sigh, she said, Anne, I deceived 
 him about the name in the marriage notice Angelique ; 
 I let him think that it was you. I said, It is of no 
 consequence, but she went on. She said that after that 
 summer at Caryl s she had noticed a change in him, but 
 that she did not think of me ; she thought only of Rachel 
 Bannert. But when he brought her the marriage notice, 
 and asked if it were I, in an instant an entirely new sus 
 picion leaped into her heart, roused by something in the 
 tone of his voice: she always judged him by his voice. 
 From that moment, she said, she had never been free from 
 the jealous apprehension that he had loved me ; and then, 
 looking at me as she lay in my arms, she asked, But he 
 never did, did he? 
 
 "If I could have evaded her then, perhaps we should 
 both have been spared all that followed, for we both suf 
 fered deeply. But I did not know how ; I answered : ; He 
 had fancies, Helen; I may have been one of them. But 
 only for a short time. You were his wife. And then 
 I asked her if her married life had not been happy. 
 
 "Yes, yes, she answered. I worshipped him. And 
 as she said this she began at last to sob, and the first tears 
 she had shed flowed from her eyes, which had been so 
 dulled and narrowed that they had looked dead. But she 
 had not been satisfied, and later she came back to the sub 
 ject again. She did it suddenly; seizing my arm, and lift 
 ing herself up, she cried out quickly that first sentence 
 
ANNE. 469 
 
 overheard by Bagshot I shall never rest until you tell 
 me all! Then, in a beseeching tone, she added: Do not 
 keep it from me. I know that he did not love me as I 
 loved him ; still, he loved me, and I was content. What 
 you have to tell, therefore, can not hurt me, for I was 
 content. Then speak, Anne, speak. 
 
 I tried to quiet her, but she clung to me entreatingly. 
 Tell me tell me all, she begged. When they bring him 
 home, and I see his still face lying in the coffin, I want to 
 stand beside him with my hand upon his breast, and whis 
 per that I know all, understand all, forgive all, if there 
 were anything to forgive. Anne, he will be glad to hear 
 that yes, even in death; for I loved him love him 
 with all my soul, and he must know it now, there where 
 he has gone. With all my imperfections, my follies, my 
 deceptions, I loved him loved him loved him. She be 
 gan to weep, and I too burst into tears. It seemed to me 
 also that he would be glad to hear that sentence of hers, 
 that forgiveness. And so, judging her by myself, I did 
 tell her all." 
 
 She paused, and her voice trembled, as though in anoth 
 er moment it would break into sobs. 
 
 " What did you tell her ?" said Dexter. He was lean 
 ing back in his chair, his face divested of all expression 
 save a rigid impartiality. 
 
 "Must I repeat it?" 
 
 "Of course, if I am to know all." 
 
 " I told her that at Caryl s we had been much together," 
 she began, with downcast eyes; "that, after a while, he 
 made himself seem much nearer to me by by speaking 
 of by asking me about sacred things I mean a religious 
 belief." (Here her listener s face showed a quick gleam 
 of angry contempt, but she did not see it.) "Then, after 
 this, one morning in the garden, when I was in great 
 trouble, he spoke to me in another way. And when I 
 went away from Caryl s he followed me, and we were to 
 gether on a train during one day; mademoiselle was with 
 us. At evening I left the train with mademoiselle: he 
 did not know where we went. At this time I was en 
 gaged to Erastus Pronando. In August of the next sum- 
 
470 
 
 mer I went to West Virginia to assist in the hospitals for 
 a short time. Here, unexpectedly, I heard of him lying 
 ill at a farm-house in the neighborhood ; I did not even 
 know that he was in the army. I went across the mount 
 ain to see if he were in good hands, and found him very 
 ill ; he did not know me. When the fever subsided, there 
 were a few hours during which there was a deception, 
 followed by a confession of the same, and separation. 
 He was to go back to his wife, and he did go back to her. 
 It was because I believed that he had so fully gone back to 
 her or rather that he had never left her, I having been 
 but a passing fancy that I told Helen all. She suspected 
 something ; it was better that she should know the whole 
 should know how short-lived had been his interest in 
 me, his forgetfulness of her. But instead of making this 
 impression upon her, it roused in her a passion of excite 
 ment. It was then that she exclaimed : You have robbed 
 me of his love; I will never forgive you the second 
 sentence overheard by that listening spy. 
 
 Helen, I answered, he did not love me. Do you 
 not see that ? / am the one humiliated. When I saw 
 you with him at St. Lucien s Church, I knew that he loved 
 you probably had never loved any one save you. 
 
 "I believed what I said. But this is what she an 
 swered : It is not true. Since he saw you he has never 
 loved me. I see it now. He married me from pity, no 
 doubt thinking that I was near death. How many times 
 he must have wished me dead indeed ! I wonder that he 
 has not murdered me. 
 
 * This, also, Bagshot heard, for Helen had risen to her 
 feet, and spoke in a high, strained voice, unlike her own. 
 I put my arms round her and drew her down again. She 
 struggled, but I would not let her go. 
 
 " Helen, I said, you are beside yourself. You were 
 his wife, and you were happy. That one look I had in 
 church showed me that you were. 
 
 She relapsed into stillness. After a while she look 
 ed up, and said, quietly, It is a good thing he is dead. 
 
 Hush ! I ans wered ; you do not know what you are 
 saying. 
 
ANNE. 471 
 
 " * Yes, I do. It is a good thing that he is dead, she re 
 peated ; for I should have found it out, and made his life 
 a torment. And I should never have died ; it would have 
 determined me never to die. I should have lived on for 
 ever, an old, old woman, close to him always, so that he 
 could not have you." 1 
 
 "She seemed half mad; I think, at the moment, she 
 was half mad, owing to the shock, and to the dumb grief 
 which was consuming her. 
 
 " * It would have been a strange life we should have led, 
 she went on. I would not have left him even for a mo 
 ment ; he should have put on rny shawl and carried me to 
 and fro just the same, and I should have kissed him al 
 ways when he went out and came in, as though we loved 
 each other. I know his nature. It is O God ! I mean 
 it was the kind I could have worked upon. He was 
 generous, very tender to all women ; he would have yield 
 ed to me always, so far as bearing silently all my torments 
 to the last. 1 " 
 
 Here Dexter interrupted the speaker. " You will ac 
 knowledge now what I said concerning her ?" 
 
 "No," replied Anne; " Helen imagined it all. She 
 could never have carried it out. She loved him too 
 deeply." 
 
 Her eyes met his defiantly. The old feeling that he 
 was an antagonist rose in her face for a moment, met 
 by a corresponding retort in his. Then they both dropped 
 their glance, and she resumed her narrative. 
 
 " It was here that she cried out, Yes, he has borne it 
 so far, and now he is dead. But if he were alive, I should 
 have taunted him with it. Do you hear ? I say I should 
 have taunted him. 1 This also Bagshot overheard. And 
 then She paused. 
 
 And then ?" repeated Dexter, his eyes full upon her 
 face. 
 
 " She grew calmer," said the girl, turning her face from 
 him, and speaking for the first time hurriedly ; she even 
 kissed me. You were always good and true, 1 she said. 
 But it was easy to be good and true, if you did not love 
 him. 1 I suppose she felt my heart throb suddenly (she 
 
472 ANNE. 
 
 was lying in my arras), for she sprang up, and wound her 
 arms round my neck, bringing her eyes close to mine. 
 Did you love him? she asked. Tell me tell me; it 
 will do no harm now. 
 
 "But I drew myself out of her grasp, although she 
 clung to me. I crossed the room. She followed me. 
 Tell me, she whispered ; 1 shall not mind it. Indeed, 
 I wish that you did love him, that you .do love him, for 
 then we would mourn for him together. I can be jea 
 lous of his love for you, but not of yours for him, poor 
 child. Tell me, Anne ; tell me. I long to know that you 
 are miserable too. She was leaning on me: in truth, 
 she was too weak to stand alone. She clung to me in the 
 old caressing way. Tell me, she whispered. But I set- 
 my lips. Then, still clinging to me, her eyes fixed on 
 mine, she said that I could not love ; that I did not know 
 what love meant; that I never would know, because my 
 nature was too calm, too measured. She spoke other de 
 riding words, which I will not repeat ; and then and then 
 I do not know how it came about, but I pushed her 
 from me, with her whispering voice and shining eyes, and 
 spoke out aloud (we were standing near that door) those 
 words those words which Bagshot has repeated." 
 
 "You said those words ?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 " Then you loved him ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Do you love him now ?" 
 
 As Dexter asked this question his eyes were fixed upon 
 her with a strange intentness. At first she met his gaze 
 with the same absorbed expression unconscious of self 
 which her face had worn from the beginning. Then a 
 burning blush rose, spread itself over her forehead, and 
 dyed even her throat before it faded. You have no right 
 to ask that, " she said, returning to her narrative with haste, 
 as though it were a refuge. 
 
 " After I had said those words, there was no more bit 
 terness between us. I think then Helen forgave me. 
 She asked me to come and live with her in her desolation. 
 I answered that perhaps later I could come, but not then; 
 
ANNE. 473 
 
 and it was at this time that she said, not what Bagshot 
 has reported, You can not conquer hate, but, You can 
 not conquer fate. And she added : We two must be to 
 gether, Anne; we are bound by a tie which can not be 
 severed, even though we may wish it. You must bear 
 with me, and I must suffer you. It is our fate. 
 
 " Later, she grew more feverish; her strength was ex 
 hausted. But when at last I rose to go, she went with 
 me to the door. If he had lived, she said, one of us 
 must have died. Then her voice sank to a whisper. 
 Changed or died. she added. And as we are not the 
 kind of women who change, it would have ended in the 
 wearing out of the life of one of us the one who loved the 
 most. And people would have called it by some other 
 name, and that would have been the end. But now it is 
 he who has been taken, and oh ! I can not bear it I can 
 not, can not bear it ! " She paused; her eyes were full 
 of tears. 
 
 "Is that all ?" said Dexter, coldly. 
 
 "That is all." 
 
 Then there was a silence. 
 
 Do you not think it important ?" she asked at last, 
 with a new timidity in her voice. 
 
 "It will make an impression; it will be your word 
 against Bagshot s. The point proved will be that instead 
 of your having separated in anger, with words of bitter 
 ness and jealousy, you separated in peace, as friends. Her 
 letter will be important, if it proves this." 
 
 It does. I have also another a little note telling me 
 of her husband s safety, and dropped into a letter-box on 
 her way to the train. And I have the locket she gave me 
 on the day of our last interview. She took it from her 
 own neck and clasped it round mine a moment before I left 
 her." 
 
 "Did Bagshot know of the existence of this locket?" 
 
 "She must have known it. For Helen said she al 
 ways wore it; and Bagshot dressed her daily." 
 
 Will you let me see it ? And the two letters also, if 
 they are here ?" 
 
 "They are up stairs. I will get them." 
 
474 ANNE. 
 
 What he wished to find out was whether she wore the 
 locket. She came back so soon that he said to himself 
 she could not have had it on there had not been time 
 to remove it ; besides, as he held it in his hand it was not 
 warm. He read the two letters carefully. Then he took 
 up the locket again and examined it. It was a costly 
 trinket, set with diamonds ; within was a miniature, a life 
 like picture of Helen s husband. 
 
 He looked at his rival silently. The man was in prison, 
 charged with the highest crime in the catalogue of crimes, 
 and Dexter believed him guilty. Yet it was, all the same, 
 above all and through all, the face of his rival still of 
 his triumphant, successful rival. 
 
 He laid down the locket, rose, and went over to Anne. 
 
 She was standing by the window, much dejected that 
 he had not been more impressed by the importance of 
 that which she had revealed. She looked up as he came 
 near. 
 
 "Anne, "he said, "I have promised to take you to 
 Multomah, and I will keep my promise, if you insist. 
 But have you considered that if you correct and restate 
 Bagshot s testimony in all the other points, you will also 
 be required to acknowledge the words of that confession ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know it," she murmured, turning toward the 
 window again. 
 
 It can not but be horribly repugnant to you. Think 
 how you will be talked about, misunderstood. The news 
 papers will be black with your name ; it will go through the 
 length and breadth of the land accompanied with jests, 
 and possibly with worse than jests. Anne, look up ; listen 
 to what I am going to say. Marry me, Anne ; marry me 
 to-day ; and go on the witness stand if go you must as 
 my wife." 
 
 She gazed at him, her eyes widened with surprise. 
 
 He took her hands, and began to plead. "It is a 
 strange time in which to woo you ; but it is a strange or 
 deal which you have to go through. As my wife, no one 
 will dare to insult you or to misconstrue your evidence ; for 
 your marriage will have given the lie beforehand to the 
 worst comment that can be made, namely, that you still 
 
ANNE. 475 
 
 love Heathcote, and hope, if he is acquitted, to be his wife. 
 It will be said that you loved him once, but that thi& 
 tragedy has changed the feeling, and you will be called 
 noble in coming forward of your own accord to acknow 
 ledge an avowal which must be now painful to you in 
 the extreme. The unknown young girl will be unknown 
 no longer, when she comes forward as Gregory Dexter s 
 wife, with Gregory Dexter by her side to give her, in the 
 eyes of all men, his proud protection and respect." 
 
 Anne s face responded to the warm earnestness of 
 these words: she had never felt herself so powerfully 
 drawn toward him as at that moment. 
 
 " As to love, Anne," he continued, his voice softening, 
 * do not fancy that I am feigning anything when I say 
 that I do love you. The feeling has grown up uncon 
 sciously. I shall love you very dearly when you are my 
 wife; you could command me, child, to almost any ex 
 tent. As for your feeling toward me marry me, and 
 I will make you love me." He drew her toward him. 
 " I am not too old, too old for you, am I ?" he said, gently. 
 
 " It is not that, " she answered, in deep distress. Oh, 
 why, why have you said this ?" 
 
 "Well, because I am fond of you, I suppose," said 
 Dexter, smiling. He thought she was yielding. 
 
 "You do not understand," she said, breaking from him. 
 You are generous and kind, the best friend I have ever 
 bad, and it is for that reason, if for no other, that I would 
 never wrcmg you by marrying you, because " 
 
 "Because?" repeated Dexter. 
 
 " Because I -still love him." 
 
 "Heathcote?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 His face changed sharply, yet he continued his urging. 
 "Even if you do love him, you would not marry him 
 now." 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "You would not marry him with poor Helen s blood 
 between you ?" 
 
 " It is not between us. He is innocent." 
 
 "But if, after escaping conviction, it should yet be 
 
476 ANNE. 
 
 made clear to you perhaps to you alone that he was 
 guilty, then would you marry him?" 
 
 * No. But the very greatness of his crime would make 
 him in a certain way sacred to me on account of the ter 
 rible remorse and anguish he would have to endure." 
 
 "A good way to punish criminals," said Dexter, bitter 
 ly. To give them your love and your life, and make 
 them happy." 
 
 "He would not be happy ; he would be a wretched man 
 through every moment of his life, and die a wretched 
 death. Whatever forgiveness might come in another 
 world, there would be none in this. Helen herself would 
 wish me to be his friend." 
 
 "For the ultra-refinement of self-deception, give me a 
 woman," said J)exter, with even deepened bitterness. 
 
 "But why do we w r aste time and words ?" continued 
 Anne. Then seeing him take up his hat and turn toward 
 the door, she ran to him and seized his arm. You are 
 not going?" she cried, abandoning the subject with a 
 quick, burning anxiety which told more than all the rest. 
 "Will you not take me, as you promised, to Multomah ?" 
 
 "You still ask me to take you there ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 "What do you think a man is made of?" he said, 
 throwing down his hat, but leaving her, and walking 
 across to the window. 
 
 Anne followed him. " Mr. Dexter," she said, standing 
 behind him, shrinkingly, so that he could not see her, 
 would you wish me to marry you when I love love 
 him, as I said, in those words which you-kave read, and 
 even more ?" Her face was crimson, her voice broken, 
 her hands were clasped so tightly that the red marks of the 
 pressure were visible. 
 
 He turned and looked at her. Her face told even more 
 than her words. All his anger faded ; it seemed to him 
 then that he was the most unfortunate man in the whole 
 world. He took her in his arms, and kissed her sadly. 
 "I yield, child," he said. "Think of it no more. But, 
 oh, Anne, Anne, if it could but have been ! Why does he 
 have everything, and I nothing?" He bowed his head 
 
ANNE. 477 
 
 over hers as it lay on his breast, and stood a moment ; 
 then he released her, went to the door, and breathed the 
 outside air in silence. 
 
 Closing it, he- turned and came toward her again, and 
 in quite another tone said, Are you ready ? If you are, 
 we will go to the city, and start as soon as possible for 
 Multomah." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 "Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity: 
 The deep air listen d round her as she rode, 
 And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. 
 The little wide-mouth d heads upon the spout 
 Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur 
 Made her cheeks flame:. . . .the blind walls 
 Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead 
 Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
 Not less thro all bore up." TENNYSON. 
 
 GREGORY DEXTER kept his word. He telegraphed to 
 Miss Teller and to Miss Teller s lawyers. He thought of 
 everything, even recalling to Anne s mind that she ought 
 to write to her pupils and to the leader of the choir, tell 
 ing them that she expected to be absent from the city 
 for several days. "It would be best to resign all the 
 places at once," he said. "After this is over, they can 
 easily come back to you if they wish to do so." 
 
 It may make a difference, then, in my position ?" said 
 Anne. 
 
 It will make the difference that you will no longer 
 be an unknown personage," he answered, briefly. 
 
 His dispatch had produced a profound sensation of 
 wonder in the mind of Miss Teller, and excitement in the 
 minds of Miss Teller s lawyers. Helen s aunt, so far, had 
 not been able to form a conjecture as to the identity of 
 the mysterious young girl who had visited her niece, and 
 borne part in that remarkable conversation; Bagshot s 
 description brought no image before her mind. The ac 
 quaintance with Anne Douglas, the school-girl at Madame 
 Moreau s, was such a short, unimportant, and now dis 
 
478 . ANNE. 
 
 tant episode in the brilliant, crowded life of her niece that 
 she had forgotten it, or at least never thought of it in this 
 connection. She had never heard Helen call Anne 
 "Crystal/ Her imagination was fixed upon a girl of 
 the lower class, beautiful, and perhaps in her way even 
 respectable "one of those fancies which," she acknow 
 ledged, "gentlemen sometimes have," the tears gather 
 ing in her pale eyes as she spoke, so repugnant was the 
 idea to her, although she tried to accept it for Heathcote s 
 sake. But how could Helen have known a girl of this 
 sort ? Was this, too, one of those concealed trials which 
 wives of "men of the world" were obliged to endure ? 
 
 Neither did Isabel or Rachel think of Anne. To them 
 she had been but a school-girl, and they had not seen her 
 or heard of her since that summer at Caryl s; she had 
 passed out of their remembrance as entirely as out of 
 their vision. Their idea of Helen s unknown visitor was 
 similar to that which occupied the mind of Miss Teller. 
 And in their hearts they had speculated upon the possi 
 bility of using money with such a person, inducing her to 
 come forward, name herself, and deny Bagshot s testi 
 mony point-blank, or at least the dangerous portions of it. 
 It could not matter much to a girl of that sort what she 
 had to say, provided she were well paid for it. 
 
 Miss Teller and the lawyers were waiting to receive 
 Anne, when, late in the evening, she arrived, accompa 
 nied by Mr. Dexter. The lawyers had to give way first 
 to Miss Teller. 
 
 "Oh, Anne, dear child!" she cried, embracing the 
 young girl warmly ; "I never dreamed it w r as you. And 
 you have come all this way to help us ! I do not in the 
 least understand how; but never mind never mind. 
 God bless you !" She sobbed as she spoke. Then seeing 
 Dexter, who was standing at some distance, she called him 
 to her, and blessed him also. He received her greeting in 
 silence. He had brought Anne, but he was in no mood 
 to appreciate benedictions. 
 
 And now the lawyers stepped forward, arranging 
 chairs at the table in a suggestive way, opening papers, 
 and consulting note-books. Anne looked toward Dexter 
 
479 
 
 for directions ; his eyes told her to seat herself in one of the 
 arm-chairs. He then withdrew to another part of the 
 large room, and Miss Teller, having vainly endeavored 
 to heckon him to her side, so that he might be within reach 
 of her tearful whispers and sympathy-seeking finger, re 
 signed herself to excited listening and silence. 
 
 When Anne Douglas appeared on the witness-stand in 
 the Heathcote murder trial, a buzz of-curiosity and sur 
 prise ran round the crowded court-room. 
 
 A young girl !" was the first whisper. Then, Pretty, 
 rather," from the women, and "Beautiful !" from the men. 
 
 Isabel grasped Rachel s arm. Is that Anne Douglas ?" 
 she said, in a wonder-struck voice. "You remember 
 her the sch ool-girl, Miss Vanhorn s niece, who was at 
 Caryl s that summer ? Helen always liked her ; and 
 Ward Heathcote used to talk to her now and then, al 
 though Mr. Dexter paid her more real attention." 
 
 "I remember her," said Rachel, coldly; "but I do not 
 recollect the other circumstances you mention." 
 
 " It is Anne," continued Isabel, too much absorbed to 
 notice Rachel s manner. "But older, and a thousand 
 times handsomer. Rachel, that girl is beautiful !" 
 
 Anne s eyes were downcast. She feared to see Heath 
 cote, and she did not even know in what part of the 
 room he was placed. She remained thus while she was 
 identified by Bagshot and Simpson, while she gave her 
 name, and went through the preliminary forms ; when at 
 last she did raise her eyes, she looked only at the lawyers 
 who addressed her. 
 
 And now the ordeal opened. All, or almost all, of that 
 which she had told Gregory Dexter she was now required 
 to repeat here, before this crowded, listening court-room, 
 this sea of faces, these watching lawyers, the judge, and 
 the dreaded jury. She had never been in a court-room 
 before. For one moment, when she first looked up, her 
 courage failed, and those who were watching her saw 
 that it had failed. Then toward whom did her frighten 
 ed glance turn as if for aid ? 
 
 "Rachel, it is Gregory Dexter," said Isabel, again 
 grasping her companion s arm excitedly. 
 
480 ANNE. 
 
 "Pray, Isabel, be more quiet, "answered Mrs. Bannert. 
 But her own heart throbbed quickly for a moment as she 
 recognized the man who had told her what he thought of 
 her plainly in crude and plebeian Saxon phraseology. 
 
 Anne was now speaking. Bagshot s testimony was 
 read to her phrase by phrase. Phrase by phrase she cor 
 roborated its truthfulness, but added what had preceded 
 and followed. IK this manner all the overheard sen 
 tences were repeated amid close attention, the interest in 
 creasing with every word. 
 
 But still it was evident that all were waiting ; the at 
 titude was plainly one of alert expectancy. 
 
 For what were they waiting ? For the confession of 
 love, to whose " extraordinary words" the New York 
 journals had called attention. 
 
 At last it came. An old lawyer read the sentences 
 aloud, slowly, markedly; while the fall of a feather could 
 have been heard in the crowded room, and all eyes were 
 fastened pitilessly upon the defenseless girl ; for she seem 
 ed at that moment utterly forsaken and defenseless. 
 
 " You say that I can not love, " slowly read the law 
 yer, in his clear, dry voice ; " that it is not in my nature. 
 You know nothing about it. You have thought me a 
 child; I am a child no longer. I love Ward Heathcote, 
 your husband, with my whole heart. It was a delight to 
 me simply to be near him, to hear his voice. When he 
 spoke my name, all my being went toward him. I loved 
 him loved him so deeply that everything else on the face 
 of the earth is as nothing to me compared with it. I 
 would have been gladly your servant, yes, yours, only to 
 be in the same house with him, though I were of no 
 more account in his eyes than the dog on the mat before 
 his door. " 
 
 There was an instant of dead silence after these last pas 
 sionate words had fallen strangely from the old lawyer s 
 thin lips. Then, "Are these your words?" he asked. 
 
 "They are," replied Anne. 
 
 In that supreme moment her glance, vaguely turned 
 away from the questioner, met the direct gaze of the pris 
 oner. Until now she had not seen him. It was but an 
 
ANNE. 481 
 
 instant that their eyes held each other, but in that instant 
 the thronged court-room faded from her sight, and her 
 face, which, while the lawyer read, had been white and 
 still as marble, was now, though still colorless, so transfig 
 ured, so uplifted, so beautiful in its pure sacrifice, that 
 men leaned forward to see her more closely, to print, as it 
 were, that exquisite image upon their memories forever. 
 
 Then the crowd took its breath again audibly ; the sight 
 was over. Anne had sunk down and covered her face 
 with her hands, and Miss Teller, much agitated, was send 
 ing her a glass of water. 
 
 Even the law is human sometimes, and there was now 
 a short delay. 
 
 So far, while the testimony of the new witness had 
 been dramatic, and in its interest absorbing, it had not 
 proved much, or shaken to any great extent the theory 
 of the prosecution. Oil the contrary, more than ever now 
 were people inclined to believe that this lovely young 
 girl was in reality the wife s rival. Men whispered to 
 each other, significantly, Heathcote knew what he was 
 about. That is the most beautiful girl I ever saw in my 
 life; and nothing can alter that." 
 
 But now the tide turned. The examination proceeded, 
 and the two unfinished sentences which Bagshot had re 
 peated were read. Anne corrected them. 
 
 You can not conquer hate, " read the lawyer. 
 
 "Mrs. Heathcote did not say that, "began Anne; but 
 her voice was still tremulous, and she paused a moment in 
 order to control it. 
 
 "We wish to remark here," said one of Miss Teller s 
 lawyers, " that while the witness named Minerva Bagshot 
 is possessed of an extraordinary memory, and while s-he 
 has also repeated what she overheard with a correctness 
 and honesty which are indeed remarkable in a person 
 who would deliberately open a door and listen, in this in 
 stance her careful and conscientious ears will be found to 
 have been mistaken." 
 
 He was not allowed to say more. But as he had said 
 all he wished to say, he bore his enforced silence with 
 equanimity. 
 
 31 
 
482 ANNE. 
 
 "Mrs. Heathcote wished me to come and live with her," 
 continued Anne. She said, not what Mrs. Bagshot has 
 reported, but, You can not conquer fate." 1 And then she 
 added, We two must be together, Anne ; we are bound 
 by a tie which can not be severed, even though we may 
 wish it. You must bear with me, and I must suffer you. 
 It is our fate. " 
 
 This produced an effect ; it directly contradicted the im 
 pression made by Bagshot s phrase, namely, that the two 
 women had parted in anger and hate, the wife especially 
 being in a mood of desperation. True, it was but Anne s 
 word against Bagshot s, and the strange tendency toward 
 believing the worst, which is often seen at criminal trials, 
 inclined most minds toward the elder woman s story. 
 Still, the lawyers for the defense were hopeful. 
 
 The last sentence, or portion of a sentence, was now 
 read : " If he had lived, one of us must have died. " 
 
 It had been decided that Anne should here give all that 
 Helen had said, without omission, as she had given it to 
 Dexter. 
 
 "Yes," she answered; "Mrs. Heathcote used those 
 words. But it was in the following connection. When 
 we had said good-by, and I had promised to come again 
 after the funeral, she went with me toward the door. 
 If he had lived, she said, one of us must have died. 
 Then she paused an instant, and her voice sank. Changed 
 or died, she added. And as we are not the kind of wo 
 men who change, it would have ended in the wearing out 
 of the life of one of us the one who loved the most. 
 And people would have called it by some other name, and 
 that would have been the end. But now it is he who has 
 been taken, and oh ! I can not bear it I can not, can 
 not bear it! " 
 
 She repeated these words of Helen s with such realistic 
 power that tears came to many eyes. Rachel Bannert for 
 the first time veiled her face. All the feeling in her, such 
 as it was, was concentrated upon Heathcote, and Helen s 
 bitter cry of grief, repeated by Anne, had been the secret 
 cry of her own heart every minute since danger first 
 menaced him. 
 
ANNE. 483 
 
 Anne s words had produced a sensation; still, they 
 were but her unsupported words. 
 
 But now something else was brought forward; proof 
 which, so far as it went, at least, was tangible. Anne was 
 testifying that, before she went away, Helen had taken 
 from her own neck a locket and given it to her as a 
 token of renewed affection ; and the locket was produced. 
 The defense would prove by Bagshot herself that this lock 
 et on its chain was round her mistress s neck on the morn 
 ing of that day, and Mrs. Heathcote must therefore have 
 removed it herself and given it to the present witness, 
 since the latter could hardly have taken it from her by 
 force without being overheard, the door being so very 
 conveniently ajar. 
 
 And now the next proof was produced, the hurried note 
 written to Anne by Helen, after the tidings of her hus 
 band s safety had been received. After the writing had 
 been identified as Helen s, the note was read. 
 
 "DEAR ANNE, Ward is safe. It was a mistake. I 
 have just received a dispatch. He is wounded, but not 
 dangerously, and I write this on my way to the train, for 
 I am going to him ; that is, if I can get through. All is 
 different now. I trust you. But I love him too much 
 not to try and make him love me the most, if I possi 
 bly can. HELEN." 
 
 This was evidence clear and decided. It was no longer 
 Anne s word, but Helen s own. Whatever else the list 
 eners continued to believe, they must give up the idea 
 that the wife and this young girl had parted in anger and 
 hate ; for if the locket as proof could be evaded, the note 
 could not. 
 
 But this was not all. An excitement more marked 
 than any save that produced when Anne acknowledged 
 the confession arose in the court-room when the lawyers 
 for the defense announced that they would now bring for 
 ward a second letter a letter written by Mrs. Heathcote 
 to the witness in the inn at Timloesville on the evening 
 of her death her last letter, what might be called her 
 
484 ANNE. 
 
 last utterance on earth. It had been shown that Mrs. 
 Heathcote was seen writing ; it would be proved that a 
 letter was given to a colored lad employed in the hotel 
 soon after Captain Heathcote left the room, and that this 
 lad ran across the street to the post-office and dropped it 
 into the mail-box. Not being able to read, he had not 
 made out the address. 
 
 When the handwriting of this letter also had been 
 identified, it was, amid eager attention, read aloud. The 
 feeling was as if the dead wife herself were speaking to 
 them from the grave. 
 
 " TIMLOESVILLE, June 10, half past 8 P.M. 
 
 " DEAR ANNE, I sent you a few lines from New York, 
 written on my way to the train, but now that I have time, 
 I feel that something more is due to you. I found Ward 
 at a little hospital, his right arm injured, but not serious 
 ly. He will not be able to use it readily for some time ; it 
 is in a sling. But he is so much better that they have al 
 lowed us to start homeward. We are travelling slowly 
 more, however, on my account than his. I long to havo 
 the journey over. 
 
 "Dear Anne, I have thought over all our conversation 
 all that you told me, all that I replied. I am so inex 
 pressibly happy to-night, as I sit here writing, that I can 
 and will do you justice, and tell all the truth the part 
 that I have hitherto withheld. And that is,- Anne, that 
 your influence over him was for good, and that your pain 
 and effort have not been thrown away. You asked him 
 to bear his part in life bravely, and he has borne it; you 
 asked him to come back to me, and he did come back. If 
 you were any other woman on earth, I would never con 
 fess this confess that I owe to you my happiness of last 
 winter, when he changed, even in his letters, to greater 
 kindness ; confess that it was your influence which made 
 him, when he came home later, so much more watchful 
 and gentle in his care of, his manner toward, me. I no 
 ticed the change on the first instant, the first letter, and it 
 made my heart bound. If it had been possible, I should 
 have gone to him then, but it was not. He had rejoined 
 
ANNE. 485 
 
 his regiment, and I could only watch for his letters like 
 a girl of sixteen. When he did come home, I counted 
 every hour of that short visit as so much happiness greater 
 than I had ever known before. For I had always loved 
 him, and now he loved me. 
 
 " Do not contradict me ; he does love me. At least he 
 is so dear to me, and so kind and tender, that I do not 
 know whether he does or not, but am content. You are 
 a better, nobler woman ; yet I have the happiness. 
 
 He does not know that I have seen you, and I shall 
 never tell him. He does not know that / know what an 
 effort he has made. But every kind act and tone goes 
 to my heart. For I did deceive him, Anne ; and if it had 
 not been for that deception, probably he would not now 
 be my husband he would be free. 
 
 "Yet good has come out of evil this time, perhaps on 
 account of my deep love. No wife was ever so thankful 
 ly happy as I am to-night, and on my knees I have thank 
 ed my Creator for giving me that which makes my life 
 one long joy. 
 
 "He has come in, and is sitting opposite, reading. He 
 does not know to whom I am writing does not dream 
 what I am saying. And he must never know: I can not 
 rise to that. 
 
 "No, Anne, we must not meet, at least for the present. 
 It is better so, and you yourself will feel that it is. But 
 when I reach home I will write again, and then you will 
 answer. 
 
 " Always, with warm love, your friend, HELEN." 
 
 During the reading of this letter, the prisoner for the 
 first time sat with his head bowed, his face shaded by his 
 hand. Miss Teller s sobs could be heard. Amie, too, 
 broke down, and wept silently. 
 
 "When I reach home I will write again, and then you 
 will answer." Helen had reached home, and Anne had 
 answered. 
 
486 ANNE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 " The cold neutrality of an impartial judge." BURKE. 
 
 THE jury were out. 
 
 They had been out four hours, but the crowd in the 
 closely packed court-room still kept its ranks unbroken, 
 and even seemed to grow more dense ; for if, here and 
 there, one person went away, two from the waiting- 
 throng of those in the halls and about the doors imme 
 diately pressed their way in to take the vacant place. 
 The long warm summer day was draw ing toward its close. 
 The tired people fanned themselves, but would not go, 
 because it was rumored that a decision was near. 
 
 Outside, the fair green farming country, which came 
 up almost to the doors, stretched away peacefully in the 
 twilight, shading into the grays of evening down the val 
 ley, and at the bases of the hills. The fields were falling 
 asleep; eight o clock sounding from a distant church bell 
 seemed like a curfew and good-night. 
 
 If one had had time to think of it, the picture of the 
 crowded court-room, rising in that peaceful landscape, 
 was a strange one. But no one had time to think of it. 
 Lights had been brought in. The summer beetles, at 
 tracted by them, flew in through the open windows, 
 knocked themselves against the wall, fell to the floor, and 
 then slowly took wing again to repeat the process. With 
 the coming of the lights the crowd stirred a little, looked 
 about, and then settled itself anew. The prisoner s 
 chances were canvassed again, and for the hundredth 
 time. The testimony of Anne Douglas had destroyed the 
 theory which had seemed to fill out so well the missing 
 parts of the story; it had proved that the supposed rival 
 was a friend of the wife s, and that the wife loved her; 
 it had proved that Mrs. Heathcote was devoted to her 
 husband, and happy with him, up to the last hour of her 
 life. This was much. But the circumstantial evidence 
 
ANNE. 487 
 
 regarding the movements of the prisoner at Timloesville 
 remained unchanged ; he was still confronted by the fact 
 of his having been seen on that outside stairway, by the 
 other significant details, and by the print of that left hand. 
 
 During this evening waiting, the city papers had come, 
 were brought in, and read. One of them contained some 
 paragraphs upon a point which, in the rapid succession 
 of events that followed each other in the case, had been 
 partially overlooked a point which the country readers 
 cast aside as unimportant, but which wakened in the minds 
 of the city people present the remembrance that they had 
 needed the admonition. 
 
 But if this conversation (now given in full) was re 
 markable," wrote the editor far away in New York, " it 
 should not be forgotten that the circumstances were re 
 markable as well. While reading it one should keep 
 clearly in mind the fact that the subject of it, namely, 
 Captain Heathcote, was, in the belief of both the speak 
 ers, dead. Had it not been for this belief of theirs, these 
 words would never have been uttered. He was gone 
 from earth forever killed suddenly in battle. Such a 
 death brings the deepest feelings of the heart to the surface. 
 Such a death wrings out avowals which otherwise would 
 never be made. Words can be spoken over a coffin 
 where all is ended which could never be spoken else 
 where. Death brought together these two women, who 
 seem to have loved each other through and in spite of all. 
 One has gone. And now the menacing shadow of a far 
 worse death has forced the other to come forward, and go 
 through a cruel ordeal, an ordeal which was, however, turn 
 ed into a triumph by the instant admiration which all 
 rightly minded persons gave to the pure, noble bravery 
 which thus saved a life. For although the verdict has 
 not yet been given, the general opinion is that this new 
 testimony turned the scale, and that the accused man 
 will be acquitted." 
 
 But this prophecy was not fulfilled. 
 
 Five hours of waiting. Six hours. And now there 
 came a stir. The jury were returning ; they had entered ; 
 they were in their places. Rachel Bannert bent her face 
 
488 ANNE. 
 
 behind her open fan, that people should not see how white 
 it was. Miss Teller involuntarily rose. But as many 
 had also risen in the crowded room, which was not 
 brightly lighted save round the lawyers tables, they pass 
 ed unnoticed. The accused looked straight into the faces 
 of the jurors. He was quite calm ; this part seemed far 
 less trying to him than that which had gone before. 
 
 And then it was told : they had neither convicted nor 
 acquitted him. They had disagreed. 
 
 Anne Douglas was not present. She was sitting alone 
 in an unlighted house on the other side of the little coun 
 try square. Some one walking up and down there, imder 
 the maples, had noticed, or rather divined, a figure at the 
 open window behind the muslin curtains of the dark room ; 
 he knew that this figure was looking at the lights from 
 the court-room opposite, visible through the trees. 
 
 This man under the maples had no more intention of 
 losing the final moment than the most persistent country 
 man there. But being in the habit of using his money, 
 now that he had it, rather than himself, he had posted two 
 sentinels, sharp-eyed boys whom he had himself selected, 
 one in an upper window of the court -room on the sill, 
 the other outside on the sloping roof of a one-story build 
 ing which touched it. The boy in the window was to 
 keep watch ; the boy on the roof was to drop to the ground 
 at the first signal from the sill, and run. By means of 
 this human telegraph, its designer under the maples in 
 tended to reach the window himself, through the little 
 house whose door stood open (its mistress having already 
 been paid for the right of way), in time to hear and see 
 the whole. This intention was carried out as his inten 
 tions generally were. The instant the verdict, or rather 
 the want of verdict, was announced, he left the window, 
 hastened down through the little house, and crossed the 
 square. The people would be slow in leaving the court 
 room, the stairway was narrow, the crowd dense; the 
 square was empty as he passed through it, went up the 
 steps of the house occupied by Miss Teller, crossed the 
 balcony, and stopped at the open window. 
 "Anne ?" he said. 
 
ANNE. 489 
 
 A figure stirred within. 
 
 " They have disagreed. The case will now go over to 
 the November term, when there will be a new trial." 
 
 He could see that she covered her face with her hands. 
 But she did not speak. 
 
 It was your testimony that turned the scale, " he added. 
 
 After a moment, as she still remained silent, I am go 
 ing away to-iiight," he went on; " that is, unless there is 
 something I can do for you. Will you tell me your 
 plans ?" 
 
 "Yes, always," she answered, speaking low from the 
 darkness. Everything concern ing me you may always 
 know, if you care to know. But so far I have no plan." 
 
 4 I leave you with Miss Teller ; that is safety. Miss 
 Teller claims the privilege now of having you with her 
 always." 
 
 " I shall not stay long." 
 
 "You will write to me ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 People were now entering the square from the other 
 side. The window-sill was between them; he took her 
 hands, drew her forward from the shadow, and looked at 
 her in the dim light from the street lamp. 
 
 " It is my last look, Anne," he said, sadly. 
 
 "It need not be." 
 
 "Yes; you have chosen. You are sure that there is 
 nothing more that I can do ?" 
 
 "There is one thing." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 Believe him innocent. Believe it, not for my sake, 
 but for your own." 
 
 " If I try, it will be for yours. Good-by." 
 
 He left her, and an hour later was on his way back to 
 his post at the capital of his State. He was needed there ; 
 an accumulation of responsibilities awaited him. For 
 that State owed the excellence of its w r ar record, its finely 
 equipped regiments, well-supplied hospitals, and prompt 
 efficiency in all departments of public business through 
 out those four years, principally to the brain and force of 
 one man Gregory Dexter. 
 
490 ANNE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 " I have no other than a woman s reason : 
 I think him so because I think him so." 
 
 SHAKSPEAHE. 
 
 SUMMER was at its height. Multomah had returned to 
 its rural quietude ; the farmers were busy afield, the court 
 room was closed, the crowd gone. The interest in the 
 Heathcote case, and the interest in Ward Heathcote, re 
 mained as great as ever in the small circle of which he 
 and Helen had formed part ; but nothing more could hap 
 pen until November, and as, in the mean time, the sum 
 mer was before them, they had found a diversion of 
 thought in discovering an island off the coast of Maine, 
 and betaking themselves thither, leaving to mistaken 
 followers the belief that Caryl s still remained an exclu 
 sive and fashionable resort. Beyond this small circle, 
 the attention of the nation at large was absorbed in a 
 far greater story the story of the Seven Days round 
 Richmond. 
 
 Word had come to Anne from the northern island that 
 the little boy, whose failing health had for so many 
 months engrossed all Miss Lois s time and care, had 
 closed his tired eyes upon this world s pain forever. He 
 would no longer need the little crutch, which they had 
 both grieved to think must always be his support; and 
 Miss Lois coming home to the silent church-house after 
 the burial in the little cemetery on the height, and seeing 
 it there in its corner, had burst into bitter tears. For 
 the child, in his helplessness and suffering, had grown 
 into her very heart. But now Anne needed her that 
 other child whom she had loved so long and so well. 
 And so, after that one fit of weeping, she covered her 
 grief from sight, put a weight of silent remembrance upon 
 it, and with much energy journeyed southward. 
 
 For Anne, Miss Lois, and Miss Teller were now linked 
 
ANNE. 491 
 
 together by a purpose, a feminine purpose, founded upon 
 faith only, and with outlines vague, yet one none the 
 less to be carried out : to go to Timloesville or its neigh 
 borhood, and search for the murderer there. 
 
 Miss Teller, who had found occupation in various small 
 schemes for additions to Heathcote s comfort during the 
 summer, rose to excitement when the new idea was pre 
 sented to her. 
 
 "We must have advice about it," she began; " we 
 must consult Then seeing in the young face, upon 
 whose expressions she had already come to rely, a non- 
 agreement, she paused. 
 
 "The best skill of detectives has already been used," 
 said Anne ; they followed a track, worked from a be 
 ginning. We should follow no track, and accept no be 
 ginning, save the immovable certainty that he was in 
 nocent." She was silent a moment; then with a sigh 
 which was a sad, yet not a hopeless, one, "Dear Miss 
 Teller," she added, "it is said that women divine a truth 
 sometimes by intuition, and against all probability. It 
 is to this instinct if such there be that we must trust 
 now." 
 
 Miss Teller studied these suggestions with respect ; but 
 they seemed large and indistinct. In spite of herself her 
 mind reverted to certain articles of furniture which she 
 had looked at the day before, furniture which was to make 
 his narrow room more comfortable. But she caught her 
 self in these wanderings, brought back her straying 
 thoughts promptly, and fastened them to the main sub 
 ject with a question like a pin. 
 
 " But how could I go to Timloesville at present, when 
 I have so much planned out to do here? Oh, Anne, I 
 could not leave him here, shut up in that dreary place." 
 
 "It seems to me safer that you should not go," re 
 plied the girl; "it might be noticed, especially as it is 
 known that you took this house for the summer. But I 
 could go. And there is Miss Lois. She is free now, and 
 the ch urch-house must be very lonely. The tears sprang 
 again as she thought of Andre, the last of the little black- 
 eyed children who had been so dear. 
 
492 ANNE. 
 
 They talked over the plan. No man being there to 
 weigh it with a cooler masculine judgment, it seemed to 
 them a richly promising one. Anne was imaginative, 
 and Miss Teller reflected Anne. They both felt, how 
 ever, that its accomplishment depended upon Miss Lois. 
 But Anne s confidence in Miss Lois was great. 
 
 I know of no one for whom I have a deeper respect 
 than for that remarkable woman," said Miss Teller, rev 
 erentially. "It will be a great gratification to see her. 1 
 
 "But it would be best, I think, that she should not 
 come here," replied Anne. "I should bid you good-by, 
 and go away ; every one would see me go. Then in New 
 York I could meet Miss Lois, and we could go together to 
 Timloesville by another route. At Timloesville nobody 
 would know Miss Lois, and I should keep myself in a 
 measure concealed ; there were only a few persons from 
 Timloesville at the trial, and I think I could evade them." 
 
 " I should have liked much to meet Miss Hinsdale," 
 said Miss Margaretta, in a tone of regret. But you 
 know best." 
 
 Oh, no, no, " said Anne, letting her arms fall in sudden 
 despondency. I sometimes think that I know nothing, 
 and worse than nothing ! Moments come when I would 
 give years of my life for one hour, only one, of trusting 
 reliance upon some one wiser, stronger, than I who 
 would tell me what I ought to do." 
 
 But this cry of the young heart (brave, but yet so young) 
 distressed Miss Margaretta. If the pilot should lose cour 
 age, what would become of the passengers ? She felt her 
 self looking into chaos. 
 
 Anne saw this. And controlled herself again. 
 
 " When should you start ?" said the elder lady, relieved, 
 and bringing forward a date. Miss Margaretta always 
 found great support in dates. 
 
 "I can not tell yet. We must first hear from Miss 
 Lois." 
 
 "I will write to her myself," said Miss Margaretta, 
 putting on her spectacles and setting to work at once. It 
 was a relief to be engaged upon something tangible. 
 
 And write she did. The pages she sent to Miss Lois, 
 
ANNE. 493 
 
 and the pages with which Miss Lois replied were many, 
 eloquent, and underlined. Before the correspondence 
 was ended they had scientifically discovered, convicted, 
 and hanged the murderer, and religiously buried him. 
 
 Miss Lois was the most devoted partisan the accused 
 man had gained. She was pleader, audience, public opin 
 ion, detective, judge, and final clergyman, in one. . She 
 had never seen Heathcote. That made no difference. 
 She was sure he was a concentration of virtue, and the 
 victim not of circumstances (that was far too mild), but 
 of a "plot" (she wanted to say " popish y " but was re 
 strained by her regard for Pere Michaux). 
 
 Miss Teller saw Heathcote daily. So far, she had not 
 felt it necessary that Anne should accompany her. But 
 shortly before the time fixed for the young girl s depar 
 ture she was seized with the idea that it was Anne s duty 
 to see him once. For perhaps he could tell her some 
 thing which would be of use at Timloesville. 
 
 "I would rather not; it is not necessary," replied 
 Anne. " You can tell me. " 
 
 You should not think of yourself ; in such cases our 
 selves are nothing," said Miss Teller. "The sheriff and 
 the persons in charge under him are possessed of excellent 
 dispositions, as I have had occasion to prove; no one 
 need know of your visit, and I should of course accom 
 pany you." 
 
 Anne heard her in silence. She was asking herself 
 whether this gentle lady had lost all memory of her own 
 youth, and whether that youth had held no feelings which 
 would make her comprehend the depth of that which she 
 was asking now. 
 
 But Miss Teller was not thinking of her youth, or of 
 herself, or of Anne. She had but one thought, one mo 
 tive Helen s husband, and how to save him ; all the rest 
 seemed to her unimportant. She had in fact forgotten it. 
 " I do not see how you can hesitate," she said, the tears 
 suffusing her light eyes, when it is for our dear Helen s 
 sake." 
 
 " Yes," replied Anne; "but Helen is dead. How can 
 we know how can we be sure what she would wish ?" 
 
494 ANNE. 
 
 She seemed to be speaking to herself. She rose, walked 
 to the window, and stood there looking out. 
 
 1 She would wish to have him saved, would she not ?" 
 answered Miss Teller. "I consider it quite necessary 
 that you should see him before you go. For you could 
 not depend upon my report of what he says. It has, I am 
 sorry to say, been represented to me more than once that 
 I have a tendency to forget what has been variously men 
 tioned as the knob, the point, the gist of a thing." 
 
 Anne did not turn. 
 
 Miss Teller noted this obstinacy with surprise. 
 
 "It is mysterious to me that after the great ordeal of 
 that trial, Anne, you should demur over such a simple 
 thing as this," she said, gently. 
 
 But to Anne the sea of faces in the court-room seemed 
 now less difficult than that quiet cell with its one occu 
 pant. Then she asked herself whether this were not an 
 unworthy feeling, a weak one ? One to be put down at 
 once, and with a strong hand. She yielded. The visit 
 was appointed for the next day. 
 
 The county jail with its stone hall; a locked door. 
 They were entering ; the jailer retired. 
 
 The prisoner rose to receive them ; he knew that they 
 were coming, and was prepared. Miss Teller kissed him ; 
 he brought forward his two chairs. Then turning to 
 Anne, he said, "It is kind of you to come;" and for a 
 moment they looked at each other. 
 
 It was as if they had met in another world, in a far 
 gray land beyond all human error and human dread. 
 Anne felt this suddenly; if not like a chill, it was like 
 the touch of an all-enveloping sadness, which would not 
 pass away. Her fear left her ; it seemed to her then that 
 it would never come back. 
 
 As she looked at him she saw that he was greatly 
 changed; her one glance in the court-room had not told 
 her how greatly. Part of it was due doubtless to the ef 
 fects of his wound, to the unaccustomed confinement in 
 the heats of a lowland summer; his face, though still 
 bronzed, was thin, his clothes hung loosely from his 
 broad shoulders. But the marked alteration was in his 
 
ANNE. 495 
 
 expression. This was so widely different from that of 
 the brown-eyed lounger of Caryl s, that it seemed an 
 other man who was standing there, and not the same. 
 Heathcote s eyes were still brown ; but their look was so 
 changed that Gregory Dexter would never have occasion 
 to find fault with it again. His half -indolent carelessness 
 had given place to a stern reticence ; his indifference, to 
 a measured self-control. And Anne knew, as though a 
 prophetic vision were passing, that he would carry that 
 changed face always, to his life s end. 
 
 Miss Teller had related to him their plan, their womans 
 plan. He was strongly, unyieldingly, opposed to it. 
 Miss Teller came home every day, won over to his view, 
 and then as regularly changed her mind, in talking with 
 Anne, and went back to be converted over again. But 
 he knew that Anne had persisted. He knew that he was 
 now expected to search his memory, and see if he could 
 not find there something new. Miss Teller, with a touch 
 ing eagerness to be of use and business-like, arranged pen, 
 paper, and ink upon the table, and sat down to take notes. 
 She was still a majestic personage, in spite of her grief 
 and anxiety; her height, profile, and flowing draperies 
 were as imposing as ever. But in other ways she had 
 grown suddenly old ; her light complexion was now over 
 spread with a net-work of fine small wrinkles, the last 
 faint blonde of her hair was silvered, and in her cheeks 
 and about her mouth there was a pathetic alteration, the 
 final predominance of old age, and its ineffective helpless 
 ness over her own mild personality. 
 
 But while they waited, he found that he could not 
 speak. When he saw them sitting there in their mourn 
 ing garb for Helen, when he felt that Anne too was 
 within the circle of this grief and danger and pain, Anne, 
 in all her pure fair youth and trust and courage, some 
 thing rose in his throat and stopped utterance. All the 
 past and his own part in it unrolled itself before him 
 like a judgment ; all the present, and her brave effort for 
 him ; the future, near and dark. For Heathcote, like 
 Dexter, believed that the chances were adverse ; and even 
 should he escape conviction, he believed that the cloud 
 
496 ANNE. 
 
 upon him would never be cleared away entirely, but that 
 it would rest like a pall over the remainder of his life. 
 At that moment, in his suffering", he felt that uncleared 
 acquittal, conviction, the worst that could come to him, 
 he could bear without a murmur were it only possible to 
 separate Anne Anne both in the past and present from 
 his own dark lot. He rose suddenly from the bench 
 where he had seated himself, turned his back to them, 
 went to his little grated window, and stood there looking 
 out. 
 
 Miss Teller followed him, and laid her hand on his 
 shoulder. "Dear Ward," she said, "I do not wonder 
 that you are overcome." And she took out her hand 
 kerchief. 
 
 He mastered himself and came back to the table. Miss 
 Teller, who, having once begun, was unable to stop so 
 quickly, remained where she was. Anne, to break the 
 painful pause, began to ask her written questions from the 
 slip of paper she had brought. 
 
 "Can you recall anything concerning the man who 
 came by and spoke to you while you were bathing ?" she 
 said, looking at him gravely. 
 
 " No. I could not see him; it was very dark." 
 
 " What did he say ?" 
 
 "He asked if the water was cold." 
 
 "How did he say it?" 
 
 "Simply, Is the water cold ? " 
 
 "Was there any foreign accent or tone, any peculi 
 arity of pronunciation or trace of dialect, no matter how 
 slight, in his voice or utterance ?" 
 
 " I do not recall any. Stay, he may have given some 
 thing of the sound of g to the word said gold, instead 
 of cold. But the variation was scarcely noticeable. 
 Country people talk in all sorts of ways." 
 
 Miss Teller hurriedly returned to her chair, after wip 
 ing her eyes, wrote down "gold" and "cold" in large let 
 ters on her sheet of paper, and surveyed them critically. 
 
 "Is there nothing else you can think of?" pursued 
 Anne. 
 
 No. Why do you dwell upon him ?" 
 
ANNE. 497 
 
 " Because he is the man." 
 
 "Oh, Anne, is he? is he?" cried Miss Teller, with as 
 much excitement as though Anne had proved it. 
 
 "There is no probability,, They have not even been 
 able to find him," said Heatheote. 
 
 "Of course it is only my feeling," said the girl. 
 
 "But what Anne feels is no child s play," commented 
 Miss Teller. 
 
 This remark, made in nervousness and without much 
 meaning, seemed to touch Heathcote; he turned to the 
 window again. 
 
 Will you please describe to me exactly what you did 
 from the time you left the inn to take the first walk until 
 you came back after the river-bath ?" continued Anne. 
 
 He repeated his account of the evening s events as he 
 had first given it, with hardly the variation of a word. 
 
 Are you sure that you took two towels ? Might it 
 not be possible that you took only one ? For then the 
 second, found at the end of the meadow trail, might have 
 been taken by the murderer." 
 
 "No ; I took two. I remember it because I put first 
 one in my pocket, and then, with some difficulty, the oth 
 er, and I spoke to Helen laughingly about my left-hand 
 ed awkwardness." It was the first time he had spoken 
 his wife s name, and his voice was very grave and sweet 
 as he pronounced it. 
 
 Poor Miss Teller broke down again. And Anne began 
 to see her little paper of questions through a blur. But 
 the look of Heathcote s face saved her. Why should he 
 have anything more to bear ? She went on quickly with 
 her inquiry. 
 
 "Was there much money in the purse?" 
 
 I think not. She gave me almost all she had brought 
 with her as soon as we met." 
 
 " Is it a large river ?" 
 
 "Eather deep; in breadth only a mill-stream." 
 
 Then there was a silence. It seemed as if they all felt 
 how little there was to work with, to hope for. 
 
 "Will you let Miss Teller draw on a sheet of paper 
 the outline of your left hand ?" continued Anne. 
 
498 ANNE. 
 
 He obeyed without comment. 
 
 "Now please place your hand in this position, and let 
 her draw the finger-tips." As she spoke, she extended 
 her own left hand, with the finger-tips touching the ta 
 ble, as if she was going to grasp something which lay un 
 derneath. 
 
 But Heathcote drew back. A flush rose in his cheeks. 
 "I will have nothing to do with it," he said. 
 
 " Oh, Ward, when Anne asks you ?" said Miss Teller, in 
 distress. 
 
 , "/do not wish her to go to Timloesville, " he said, 
 with emphasis; " I have been utterly against it from the 
 first. It is a plan made without reason, and directly 
 against my feelings, my wishes, and my consent. It is 
 unnecessary. It will be useless. And, worse than this, 
 it may bring her into great trouble. Send as many de 
 tectives as you please, but do not send her. It is the mis 
 fortune of your position and hers that at such a moment 
 you have no one to control you, no man, I mean, to 
 whose better judgment you would defer. My wishes are 
 nothing to you; you override them. You are, in fact, 
 taking advantage of my helplessness." 
 
 He spoke to Miss Teller. But Anne, flushing a little 
 at his tone, answered him. 
 
 "I can not explain the hope that is in me," she said; 
 "but such a hope I certainly have. I will not be impru 
 dent ; Miss Lois shall do everything; I will be very guard 
 ed. If we are not suspected (and we shall not be ; women 
 are clever in such things), where is the danger ? It will 
 be but but spending a few weeks in the country." She 
 ended hesitatingly, ineffectively. Then, "To sit still and 
 do nothing, to wait is unendurable!" broke from her in 
 a changed tone. " It is useless to oppose me. I shall go. " 
 
 Heathcote did not reply. 
 
 No one is to know of it, dear Ward, save ourselves 
 and Miss Hinsdale," said Miss Teller, pleadingly. 
 
 "And Mr. Dexter," added Anne. 
 
 Heathcote now looked at her. " Dexter has done more 
 for me than I could have expected, "he said. "I never 
 knew him well ; I fancied, too, that he did not like me." 
 
HE OBEYED WITHOUT COMMENT. 
 
ANNE. 499 
 
 " Oh, there you are quite mistaken, Ward. He is your 
 most devoted friend," said Miss Teller. 
 
 But a change in Anne s face had struck Heathcote. 
 " He thinks me guilty," he said. 
 
 "Never! never!" cried Miss Teller. "Tell him no, 
 Anne. Tell him no." 
 
 But Anne could not. "He said " she began ; then re 
 membering that Dexter s words, " If I try, it will be for 
 yours," were hardly a promise, she stopped. 
 
 " It is of small consequence. Those who could believe 
 me guilty may continue to believe it," said Heathcote. 
 But his face showed that he felt the sting. 
 
 He had never cared to be liked by all, or even by many ; 
 but when the blow fell it had been an overwhelming 
 surprise to him that any one, even the dullest farm labor 
 er, should suppose, it possible that he, Ward Heathcote, 
 could be guilty of such a deed. 
 
 It was the lesson which careless men, such as he had 
 been, learn sometimes if brought face to face with the 
 direct homely judgment of the plain people of the land. 
 
 "Oh, Anne, how can you have him for your friend? 
 And I, who trusted him so!" said Miss Teller, with indig 
 nant grief. 
 
 As Mr. Heathcote has said, it is of small consequence, " 
 answered Anne, steadily. Mr. Dexter brought me here, 
 in spite of his his feeling, and that should be more to his 
 credit, I think, than as though he had been one of us. 
 And now, Miss Teller, if there is nothing more to learn, I 
 should like to go." 
 
 She rose. Heathcote made a motion as if to detain her, 
 then his hand fell, and he rose also. 
 
 "I suppose we can stay until Jason Loiigworthy 
 knocks ?" said Miss Margaretta, hesitatingly. 
 
 " I would rather go now, please," said Anne. 
 
 For a slow tremor was taking possession of her; the 
 country prison, w r hich had not before had a dangerous 
 look, seemed now to be growing dark and cruel ; the iron- 
 barred window was like a menace. It seemed to say that 
 they might talk ; but that the prisoner was theirs. 
 
 Miss Margaretta rose, disappointed but obedient; she 
 
500 ANNE. 
 
 bade Heathcote good-by, and said that she would come 
 again 011 the morrow. 
 
 Then he stepped forward. I shall not see you again, " 
 he said to Anne, holding out his hand. He had not of 
 fered to take her hand before. 
 
 She gave him hers, and he held it for a moment. No 
 word was spcrken; it was a mute farewell. Then she 
 passed out, followed by Miss Teller, and the door was 
 closed behind them. 
 
 "Why, you had twenty minutes more," said Jason 
 Longworthy, the deputy, keeping watch in the hall out 
 side. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 " The fisherman, unassisted by destiny, could not catch a fish in the 
 Tigris ; and the fish, without fate, could not have died upon dry land." 
 SAADI. 
 
 ANNE met Miss Lois in New York. Miss Lois had never 
 been in New York before ; but it would take more than 
 New York to confuse Miss Lois. They remained in the 
 city for several days in order to rest and arrange their 
 plans. There was still much to explain which the letters, 
 voluminous as they had been, had not made entirely clear. 
 
 But first they spoke of the child. It was Miss Lois at 
 length who turned resolutely from the subject, and took 
 up the tangled coil which awaited her. Begin at the 
 beginning and tell every word," she said, sitting erect in 
 her chair, her arms folded with tight compactness. If 
 Miss Lois could talk, she could also listen. In the present 
 case she listened comprehensively, sharply, and under- 
 standingly. When all was told "How different it is 
 from the old days when we believed that you and Rast 
 would live always with us on the island, and that that 
 would be the whole," she said, with a long, sad retrospect 
 ive sigh. Then dismissing the past, "But we must do 
 in this disappointing world what is set before us, "-she 
 added, sighing again, but this time in a preparatory way. 
 Anew she surveyed Anne. "You are much changed, 
 
ANNE. 501 
 
 child," she said. Something of her old spirit returned to 
 her. "I wish those fort ladies could see you now /" she 
 remarked, taking off her spectacles and wiping them with 
 a combative air. 
 
 Possessed of Anne s narrative, she now hegan to ar 
 range their plans in accordance with it, and to fit what she 
 considered the necessities of the situation. As a stand 
 point she prepared a history, which, in its completeness, 
 <^ould have satisfied even herself as third person, forget 
 ting that the mental organizations of the Timloesville peo 
 ple were probably not so well developed in the direction of 
 a conscientious and public-spirited inquiry into the affairs 
 of their neighbors as were those of the meritorious New 
 England community where she had spent her youth. In 
 this history they were to be aunt and niece, of the same 
 name, which, after long cogitation, she decided should be 
 Young, because it had a plain, respectable sound. " She 
 herself was to be a widow (could it have been possible that, 
 for once in her life, she wished to know, even if but remin- 
 iscently, how the married state would feel ?), and Anne 
 was to be her husband s niece. Which will account 
 for the lack of resemblance," she said, fitting all the parts 
 of her plan together like those of a puzzle. She had even 
 constructed an elaborate legend concerning said husband, 
 and its items she enumerated with relish. His name, it 
 appeared, had been Asher, and he had been something of 
 a trial to her, although at the last he had experienced re 
 ligion, and died thoroughly saved. His brother Eleazer, 
 Anne s father, had been a very different person, a sort of 
 New England David. He had taught in an academy, 
 studied for the ministry, and died of "a galloping con 
 sumption" a consolation to all his friends. Miss Lois 
 could describe in detail both of these death-beds, and 
 repeat the inscriptions on the two tombstones. Her 
 own name was Deborah, and Anne s was Ruth. On 
 the second day she evolved-the additional item that Ruth 
 was worn out keeping the accounts of an Asylum for the 
 Aged, in Washington which is the farthest thing I can 
 think of from teaching children in New York and I have 
 brought you into the country for your health." 
 
502 ANNE. 
 
 Anne was dismayed. * I shall certainly make some 
 mistake in all this, "she said. 
 
 Not if you pay attention. And you can always say 
 your head aches if you don t want to talk. I am not 
 sure but that you had better be threatened with some 
 thing serious, " added Miss Lois, surveying her companion 
 consideringly. It would have to be connected with the 
 mind, because, unfortunately, you always look the picture 
 of health." 
 
 " Oh, please let me be myself," pleaded Anne. 
 
 Never in the world, " replied Miss Lois. Ourselves ? 
 No indeed. We ve got to be conundrums as well as guess 
 them, Euth Young." 
 
 They arrived at their destination, not by the train, but in 
 the little country stage which came from the south. The 
 witnesses from Timloesville present at the trial had been 
 persons connected with the hotel. In order that Anne 
 should not come under their observation, they took lodg 
 ings at a farm-house at some distance from the village, and 
 on the opposite side of the valley. Anne was not to en 
 ter the village ; but of the meadow-paths and woods she 
 would have free range, as the inhabitants of Timloesville, 
 like most country people, had not a high opinion of pedes 
 trian exercise. Anne was not to enter the town at all ; 
 but Miss Lois was to examine "its every inch." 
 
 The first day passed safely, and the second and third. 
 Anne was now sufficiently accustomed to her new name 
 not to start when she was addressed, and sufficiently in 
 structed in her "headaches" not to repudiate them when 
 inquiries were made ; Miss Lois announced, therefore, that 
 the search could begin. She classified the probabilities 
 under five heads. 
 
 First. The man must be left-handed. 
 
 Second. He must say "gold" for "cold." 
 
 Third. As Timloesville was a secluded village to which 
 few strangers came, and as it had been expressly stated at 
 the trial that no strangers were noticed in its vicinity either 
 before or after the murder, the deed had evidently been 
 committed, not as the prosecution mole-blindedly averred, 
 by the one stranger who ivas there, but by 110 stranger 
 
ANNE. 503 
 
 at all by a resident in the village itself or its neighbor 
 hood. 
 
 Fourth. As the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Heathcote was 
 unexpected, the crime must have been one of impulse : 
 there had not been time for a plan. 
 
 Fifth. The motive was robbery : the murder was proba 
 bly a second thought, occasioned, perhaps, by Helen s stir 
 ring. 
 
 Miss Lois did not waste time. Within a few days she was 
 widely known in Timloesville " the widow Young, from 
 Washington, staying at Farmer Black well s, with her 
 niece, who is out of health, poor thing, and her aunt so 
 anxious about her." The widow was very affable, very 
 talkative ; she was considered an a most excitingly agree 
 able person. But it was strange that she should not 
 have heard of their event, their own particular and now 
 celebrated crime. Mrs. Strain, wife of J. Strain, Esq., 
 felt that this ignorance was lamentable. She therefore 
 proposed to the widow that she should in person go to the 
 Timloe Hotel, and see with her own eyes "the very 
 spot." 
 
 "The effect, Mrs. Young, is curdling," she declared. 
 
 Mrs. Young was willing to be curdled, if Mrs. Straia 
 would support her in the experience. On the next after 
 noon, therefore, they went to the Timloe Hotel, and. were 
 shown over " the very floor" which had been pressed by 
 the footsteps of the murderer, his beautiful wife, and her 
 highly respectable and observing (one might almost say 
 providentially observing 1 ) maid. The landlord himself, 
 Mr. Graub, did not disdain to accompany them. Mr. 
 Graub had attended the trial in person, and he had hard 
 ly ceased since to admire himself for his own perspicuous 
 cleverness in owning the house where such a very distin 
 guished crime had. been committed. There might be 
 localities where a like deed would have injured the pa 
 tronage of an inn ; but the neighborhood of Timloesville 
 was not one of them. The people slowly took in and ap 
 preciated their event, as an anaconda is said slowly to take 
 in and appreciate his dinner-, they digested it at their lei 
 sure. Farmers coming in to town on Saturdays, instead 
 
504 ANNE. 
 
 of bringing- luncheon in a tin pail, as usual, went to the 
 expense of dining- at the hotel, with their wives and 
 daughters, in order to see the room, the blind, and the 
 outside stairway. Mr. Graub, in this position of affairs, 
 was willing to repeat the tale, even to a non-diner. For 
 Mrs. Young was a stranger from Washington, and who 
 knew but that Washington itself might be stirred to a 
 dining interest in the scene of the tragedy, especially as 
 the second trial was still to come ? 
 
 The impression on the blind was displayed ; it was very 
 faint, but clearly that of a left hand. 
 
 "And here is the cloth that covered the bureau," con 
 tinued the landlord, taking it from a paper and spread 
 ing it on the old-fashioned chest of drawers. "It is 
 not the identical cloth, for that was required at the 
 trial, together with a fac-simile of the blind; but I can 
 assure you that this one is just like the original, blue-bor 
 dered and fringed precisely the same, and we traced the 
 spots on it exactly similar before we let the other go. 
 For we knew that folks would naturally be interested in 
 such a memento." 
 
 "It is indeed deeply absorbing," said Mrs. Young. I 
 wonder, now, what the size of that hand might be ? Not 
 yours, Mr. Graub ; yours is a very small hand. Let me 
 compare. Suppose I place my fingers so (I will not touch 
 it). Yes, a large hand, without doubt, and a left hand. 
 Do you know of any left-handed persons about here ?" 
 
 "Why, the man himself was left-handed, " answered the 
 landlord and Mrs. Strain together "Captain Heathcote 
 himself." 
 
 "He had been wounded, and carried his right arm in 
 a sling," added Mr. Graub. 
 
 " Ah, yes," said the widow ; " I remember now. Was 
 this impression measured ?" 
 
 "Yes; I have the exact figures, " replied the landlord, 
 taking out a note-book, and reading the items aloud in a 
 slow, important voice. 
 
 "Did you measure it yourself?" asked the widow. 
 "Because if you did it, I shall feel sure the figures are 
 correct." 
 
ANNE. 505 
 
 "I did not measure it myself," answered Mr. Graub, 
 not unimpressed by this confidence. "I can, however, 
 re-measure it in a moment if it would be any gratification 
 to you." 
 
 It would be immense, " said the widow. Whereupon 
 he went down stairs for a measure. 
 
 I am subject to dizziness myself, but I must hear some 
 one come up that outside stairway," said Mrs. Young to 
 Mrs. Strain during his absence. " Would you do it for 
 me ? I want to imagine the tvhole." 
 
 Mrs. J. Strain, though stout, consented ; and when her 
 highly decorated bonnet was out of sight, the visitor swift 
 ly drew from her pocket the paper outline of Heathcote s 
 hand which Anne had given her, and compared it with 
 the impression. The outlines seemed different ; the hand 
 which had touched the cloth appeared to have been 
 shorter and wider than Heathcote s, the finger-tips broad 
 er, as though cushioned with flesh underneath. Mrs. 
 Strain s substantial step was now heard on the outside 
 stairway. But the pattern was already safely returned 
 to the deep pocket of Mrs. Young. 
 
 " I have been picturing the entire scene," she said, in 
 an impressive whisper when the bonnet re-appeared, "and 
 I assure you that when I heard your footsteps 011 those 
 stairs, goose-flesh rose and ran like lightning down my 
 spine." And Mrs. Strain, though out of breath, consid 
 ered that her services had been well repaid. 
 
 Mr. Graub now returned, and measured the prints with 
 the nicest accuracy. Owing to the widow s compliment 
 to his hands, he had stopped to wash them, in order to give 
 a finer effect to the operation. Mrs. Young requested 
 that the figures be written down for her on a slip of 
 paper, "as a memorial"; and then, with one more ex 
 haustive look at the room, the stairway, and the garden, 
 she went away, accompanied by her friend, leaving Mr. 
 Graub more than ever convinced that he was a very un 
 usual man, 
 
 Mrs. Strain was easily induced to finish the afternoon s 
 dissipations by goir.g through the grass meadow by the 
 side of the track made by the murderer on his way to the 
 
506 ANNE. 
 
 river. They walked "by the side," because the track it 
 self was railed off. So many persons had visited the 
 meadow that Mr. Graub had been obliged to protect his 
 relic in order to preserve its identity, and even existence. 
 The little trail was now conspicuous by the fringing of 
 tall grass which still stood erect on each side of it, the 
 remainder of the meadow having been trodden flat. 
 
 "It ends at the river," said Mrs. Young, reflectively. 
 
 " Yes, where he came to wash his hands, after the deed 
 was done," responded Mrs. Strain. "And what his vi 
 sions and inward thoughts must have been at sech a mo 
 ment I leave you, Mrs. Young, solemnly to consider." 
 
 Mrs. Young then returned homeward, after thanking 
 her Timloesville friend for a "most impressive day." 
 
 "The outlines are too indistinct to be really of much 
 use, Ruth," she said, as she removed her bonnet. "I be 
 lieve it was so stated at the trial, wasn t it ? But if I 
 have eyes, they do not fit." 
 
 Of course not, since it is the hand of another person, " 
 replied Anne. But did you notice, or rather could you 
 see, what the variations were ?" 
 
 A broader palm, I should say, and the fingers short 
 er. The only point, however, which I could make out 
 with certainty was the thick cushion of flesh at the ends 
 of the fingers; that seemed clear enough." 
 
 At sunset they went across the fields together to the 
 point on the river-bank where the meadow trail ended. 
 
 "The river knows all, "said Anne, looking wistfully 
 at the smooth water. 
 
 " They think so too, for they ve dragged it a number 
 of times," responded Miss Lois. "All the boys in the 
 neighborhood have been diving here ever since, I am 
 told ; they fancy the purse, watch, and rings are in the 
 mud at the bottom. But they re safe enough in some 
 body s pocket, you may be sure." 
 
 "Miss Lois," said the girl, suddenly, "perhaps he went 
 away in a boat !" 
 
 "My name is Deborah Aunt Deborah; and I do 
 wish, Ruth, you would not forget it so constantly. In 
 a boat ? Well, perhaps he did. But I don t see how 
 
ANNE. 507 
 
 that helps it. To-morrow is market-day, and I must go 
 in to the village and look out for left-handed men ; they 
 won t escape me though they fairly dance jigs on their 
 right!" 
 
 "He went away in a boat," repeated Anne, as they 
 walked homeward through the dusky fields. 
 
 But the man was no nearer or plainer because she had 
 taken him from the main road and placed him on the 
 river; he seemed, indeed, more distant and shadowy than 
 before. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 "The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant, 
 
 And tilts against the field, 
 And down the listed sunbeam rides resplendent, 
 With steel-blue mail and shield." 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Miss Lois came home excited. She had seen a left- 
 handed man. True, he was a well-known farmer of the 
 neighborhood, a jovial man, apparently frank and hon 
 est as the daylight. But there was no height of impossi 
 bility impossible to Miss Lois when she was on a quest. 
 She announced her intention of going to his farm on the 
 morrow under the pretext of looking at his peonies, which, 
 she had been told, were remarkably fine, for of course 
 I made inquiries immediately, in order to discover the 
 prominent points, if there were any. If it had been 
 onions, I should have been deeply interested in them just 
 the same." 
 
 Anne, obliged for the present to let Miss Lois make the 
 tentative efforts, listened apathetically ; then she men 
 tioned her wish to row on the river. 
 
 "Better stay at home," said Miss Lois. "Then I shall 
 know you are safe." 
 
 "But I should like to go, if merely for the air," replied 
 Anne. "My head throbs as I sit here through the long 
 
508 ANNE. 
 
 hours. It is not that I expect to accomplish anything 5 , 
 though I confess I am haunted by the river, but the mo- 
 tioii and fresh air would perhaps keep me from thinking 
 so constantly." 
 
 "I am a savage," said Miss Lois, "and you shall go 
 where you please. The truth is, Euth, that while I am 
 pursuing this matter with my mental faculties, you are 
 pursuing it with the inmost fibres of your heart." (The 
 sentence was mixed, but the feeling sincere.) "I will go 
 down this very moment, and begin an arrangement about 
 a boat for you." 
 
 She kept her word. Anne, sitting by the window, 
 heard her narrating to Mrs. Blackwell a long chain of 
 reasons to explain the fancy of her niece Ruth for row 
 ing. " She inherits it from her mother, poor child," said 
 the widow, with the sigh which she always gave to the 
 memory of her departed relatives. Her mother was the 
 daughter- of a light-house keeper, and lived, one might say, 
 afloat. Little Ruthie, as a baby, used to play boat ; her 
 very baby-talk was full of sailor words. You haven t 
 any kind of a row-boat she could use, have you ?" 
 
 Mrs. Blackwell replied that they had not, but that a 
 neighbor farther down the river owned a skiff which 
 might be borrowed. 
 
 "Borrow it, then," said Mrs. Young. "They will 
 lend it to you, of course, in a friendly way, and then we 
 can pay you something for the use of it." 
 
 This thrifty arrangement, of which Mrs. Blackwell un 
 aided would never have thought, was carried into effect, 
 and early the next morning the skiff floated at the foot of 
 the meadow, tied to an overhanging branch. 
 
 In the afternoon Mrs. Young, in the farm wagon, ac 
 companied by her hostess, and her hostess s little son as 
 driver, set off for John Cole s farm, to see, in Mrs. Black- 
 well s language, "the pynies." A little later Anne was 
 in the skiff, rowing up the river. She had not had oars 
 in her hands since she left the island. 
 
 She rowed on for an hour, through the green fields, 
 then through the woods. Long-legged flies skated on the 
 still surface of the water, insects with gauzy wings floated 
 
ANNE. 509 
 
 to and fro. A dragon-fly with steel-blue mail lighted on 
 the edge of the boat. The burnished little creature seem 
 ed attracted. He would not leave her, but even when 
 he took flight floated near by on his filmy wings, timing 
 his advance with hers. With one of those vague im 
 pulses by which women often select the merest chance 
 to decide their actions, Anne said to herself, " J will row on 
 until I lose sight of him. " Turning the skiff, she took one 
 oar for a paddle, and followed the dragon-fly. He flew on 
 now more steadily, selecting the middle of the stream. 
 No doubt he had a dragon-fly s motives ; perhaps he was 
 going home ; but whether he was or not, he led Anne s 
 boat onward until the river grew suddenly narrower, and 
 entered a ravine. Here, where the long boughs touched 
 leaf-tips over her head, and everything was still and 
 green, she lost him. The sun was sinking toward the 
 western horizon line ; it was time to return ; but she said 
 to herself that she would come again on the morrow, and 
 explore this cool glen to which her gauzy-winged guide 
 had brought her. When she reached home she found 
 Miss Lois there, and in a state of profound discomfiture. 
 "The man was left-handed enough," she said, "but, come 
 to look at him, he hadn t any little finger at all : chopped 
 off by mistake when a boy. Now the little finger in the 
 impression is the most distinct part of the whole; and so 
 we ve lost a day, and the price of the wagon thrown in, not 
 to speak of enough talking about peonies to last a life 
 time ! There s a fair to-morrow, and of course I must go : 
 more left hands : although now, I confess, they swim 
 round me in a cloud of vexation and peonies, which 
 makes me never want to lay eyes on one of them again ;" 
 and she gave a groan, ending in a long yawn. However, 
 the next morning, with patience and energies renewed by 
 sleep, she rose early, like a phoenix from her ashes, and 
 accompanied Mrs. Blackwell to the fair. Anne, again in 
 her skiff, went up the river. She rowed to the glen 
 where she had lost the dragon-fly. Here she rested on 
 her oars a moment. The river still haunted her. "He 
 went away in a boat," had not been out of her mind since 
 it first came to her. " He went away in a boat," she 
 
510 ANNE. 
 
 thought again. "Would he, then, have rowed up 01 
 down the stream ? If he had wished to escape from the 
 neighborhood, he would have rowed down to the larger 
 river below. He would not have rowed up stream unless 
 he lived somewhere in this region, and was simply going 
 home, because there is no main road in this direction, no 
 railway, nothing but farms which touch each other for 
 miles round. Now, as I believe he was not a stranger, 
 but a resident, I will suppose that he went up stream, and I 
 will follow him." She took up her oars and rowed on. 
 
 The stream grew still narrower. She had been rowing 
 a long time, and knew that she must be far from home. 
 Nothing broke the green solitude of the shore until at 
 last she came suddenly upon a little board house, hardly 
 more than a shanty, standing near the water, with the 
 forest behind. She started as she saw it, and a chill ran 
 over her. And yet what was it ? Only a little board 
 house. 
 
 She rowed past ; it seemed empty and silent. She turn 
 ed the skiff, came back, and gathering her courage, land 
 ed, and timidly tried the door; it was locked. She went 
 round and looked through the window. There was no 
 one within, but there were signs of habitation some com 
 mon furniture, a gun, and on the wall a gaudy picture of 
 the Virgin and the Holy Child. She scrutinized the place 
 with eyes that noted even the mark of muddy boots on 
 the floor and the gray ashes from a pipe on the table. 
 Then suddenly she felt herself seized with fear. If the 
 owner of the cabin, should steal up behind her, and ask her 
 what she was doing there ! She looked over her shoulder 
 fearfully. But no one was visible, no one was coming 
 up or down the river; her own boat was the only thing 
 that moved, swaying to and fro where she had left it tied 
 to a tree trunk. With the vague terror still haunting 
 her, she hastened to the skiff, pushed off, and paddled 
 SAviftly away. But during the long voyage homeward 
 the fear did not entirely die away. " I am growing fool 
 ishly nervous," she said to herself, with a weary sigh. 
 
 Miss Lois had discovered no left-handed men at the fair ; 
 but she had seen a person whom she considered suspicious 
 
ANNE. 5U 
 
 a person who sold medicines. " He was middle-sized," 
 she said to Anne, in the low tone they used when with 
 in the house, and he had a down look a thing I never 
 could abide. He spoke, too, in an odd voice. I suspected 
 him as soon as I laid my eyes upon him, and so just 
 took up a station near him, and watched. He wasn t 
 left-handed exactly," she added, as though he might have 
 been so endowed inexactly; "but he is capable of any 
 thing left-handed, web-footed, or whatever you please. 
 After taking a good long look at him, I went round 
 and made (of course by chance, and accidentally) some 
 inquiries. Nobody seemed to know much about him ex 
 cept that his name is Juder (and highly appropriate in my 
 opinion), and he came to the fair the day before with his lit 
 tle hand-cart of medicines, and went out again, into the 
 country somewhere, at sunset. Do you mark the signifi 
 cance of that, Ruth Young ? He did not stay at the Tim- 
 loe hotel (prices reduced for the fair, and very reasonable 
 beds 011 the floor), like the other traders; but though the 
 fair is to be continued over to-morrow, and he is to be 
 there, he took all the trouble to go out of town for the 
 night." 
 
 "Perhaps he had no money," said Anne, abstractedly. 
 
 "I saw him with my own eyes take in dollars and dol 
 lars. Singular that when country people will buy nothing 
 else, they will buy patent medicines. No : the man knows 
 something of that murder, and could not stay at that ho 
 tel, Ruth Young. And that s my theory." 
 
 In her turn Anne now related the history of the day, 
 and the discovery of the solitary cabin. Miss Lois was 
 not much impressed by the cabin. "A man is better 
 than, a house, any day, " she said. But the thing is to get 
 the man to say cold. I shall ask him to-morrow if he 
 has any pills for a cold in the head or 011 the lungs ; and, 
 as he tells long stories about the remarkable cures his 
 different bottles have effected, I hope, when I once get 
 him started, to hear the word several times. I confess, 
 Ruth, that I have great hopes; I feel the spirit rising 
 within me to run him down." 
 
 Miss Lois went again to the fair, her mission bubbling 
 
512 ANNE. 
 
 within her. At eight in the morning she started ; at nine 
 in the evening she returned. With skirt and shawl be 
 draggled, and bonnet awry, she came to Anne s room, 
 closed the door, and demanded tragically that the broom- 
 switch should be taken from the shelf and applied to her 
 own thin shoulders. "I deserve it," she said. 
 
 "For what ?" said Anne, smiling. 
 
 Miss Lois returned no answer until she had removed 
 her bonnet and brought forward a chair, seated herself 
 upon it, severely erect, with folded arms, and placed her 
 feet on the round of another. "I went to that fair," 
 she began, in a concentrated tone, "and I followed that 
 medicine man; wherever he stopped his hand-cart and 
 tried to sell, I was among his audience. I heard all his 
 stories over and over again ; every time he produced his 
 three certificates, /read them. I watched his hands, too, 
 and made up my mind that they would do, though I did 
 not catch him in open left-handedness. I now tried 
 cold. Have you any pills for a cold in the head ? I 
 asked. But all he said was yes, and he brought out a 
 bottle. Then I tried him with a cold on the lungs ; but 
 it was just the same. What are your testimonials for 
 colds ? I remarked, as though I had not quite made up 
 my mind ; and he thereupon told two stories, but they were 
 incoherent, and never once mentioned the word I was 
 waiting to hear. Haven t you ever had a cold your 
 self ? I said, getting mad. Can t you speak ? And 
 then, looking frightened, he said he often had colds, and 
 that he took those medicines, and that they always cured 
 him. And then hurriedly, and without waiting for the 
 two bottles which I held in my hand tightly, he began to 
 move on with his cart. But he had said gold, Ruth 
 he had actually said gold ! And, with the stings of a 
 guilty, murderous conscience torturing him, he was going 
 away without the thirty-seven and a half cents each 
 which those two bottles cost ! It was enough for me. 
 I tracked him from that moment at a distance, of 
 course, and in roundabout ways, so that he would not sus 
 pect. I think during the day I must have walked, owing 
 to doublings and never stopping, twenty miles. When at 
 
ANNE. 513 
 
 last the fair was over, and he started away, I started too. 
 He went by the main road, and I by a lane, and such work 
 as I had to keep him in sight, and yet not let him see me ! 
 I almost lost him several times, but persevered until he 
 too turned off and went up a hill opposite toward a grove, 
 dragging his little cart behind him. I followed as quick 
 ly as I could. He was in the grove as I drew near, step 
 ping as softly as possible, and others were with him ; 1 
 heard the murmur of voices. I have come upon the 
 whole villainous band, I thought, and I crept softly 
 in among the trees, hardly daring to breathe. Ruth, the 
 voices had a little camp ; they had just lighted a fire ; and 
 what do you think they were ? Just a parcel of chil 
 dren, the eldest a slip of a girl of ten or eleven ! I nev 
 er was more dumfounded in my life. Ruth, that medi 
 cine man sat .down, kissed the children all round, opened 
 his cart, took out bread, cheese, and a little package of tea, 
 while the eldest girl put on a kettle, and they all began 
 to talk. And then the youngest, a little tot, climbed up 
 on his knee, and called him Mammy! This was too 
 much ; and I appeared 011 the scene. Ruth, he gathered 
 up the children in a frightened sort of way, as if I were 
 going to eat them. What do you mean by following 
 me round all day like this ? he began, trying to be brave, 
 though I could see how scared he was. It ivas rather 
 unexpected, you know, my appearing there at that hour 
 so far from town. I mean, said I, to know who and 
 what you are. Are you a woman, or are you a man ? 
 
 Can t you see, said the poor creature, with all these 
 children around? But it s not likely from your looks 
 that you ever had any of your own, so you don t know. 
 She said that," thoughtfully remarked Miss Lois, inter 
 rupting her own narrative, and it has been said before. 
 But how in the world any one can know it at sight is and 
 always will be a mystery to me. Then said I to her, 
 Are you the mother, then, of all these children ? And 
 if so, how came you to be selling medicines dossed up 
 like a man ? It s perfectly disgraceful, and you ought to 
 be arrested. 
 
 No one would buv of me if I was a woman, she 
 33 
 
514 ANNE. 
 
 answered. The cart and medicines belonged to my hus, 
 band, and he died, poor fellow ! four weeks ago, leaving 
 me without a cent. What was I to do ? I know all the 
 medicines, and I know all he used to say when he sold 
 them . He was about my size, and I could wear his clothes. 
 I just thought I d try it for a little while during fair- 
 time for the sake of the children only for a little while 
 to get started. So I cut my hair and resked it. And 
 it s done tolerably well until you come along and nearly 
 scared my life out of me yesterday and to-day. I don t see 
 what on earth you meant by it. 
 
 ".Ruth, I took tea with that family on the hill-side r 
 and I gave them all the money I had with me. I have now 
 come home. Any plan you have to propose, I ll follow 
 without a word. I have decided that my mission in this 
 life is not to lead. But she did say gold for cold," added 
 Miss Lois, with the spirit of " scissors." 
 
 "I am afraid a good many persons say it," answered 
 Anne. 
 
 The next day Miss Lois gave herself up passively to the 
 boat. They were to take courage in each other s presence, 
 and row to the solitary cabin on the shore. When they 
 reached it, it was again deserted. 
 
 " There is no path leading to it or away from it in any 
 direction," said Miss Lois, after peeping through the small 
 window. "The fire is still burning. The owner, there 
 fore, whoever it is, uses a boat, and can not have been 
 long gone either, or the fire would be out." 
 
 " If he had gone down the river, we should have met 
 him," suggested Anne, still haunted by the old fear, and 
 watching the forest glades apprehensively. 
 
 "How do you know it is a 7ie?" said Miss Lois, with 
 grim humor. "Perhaps this, too, is a woman. How 
 ever, as you say, if he had gone down the river, probably 
 we should have met him a * probably is all we have to 
 stand on and the chances are, therefore, that he has gone 
 up. So we will go up. " 
 
 They^ook their places in the skiff again, and the little 
 craft moved forward. After another half-hour they saw, 
 to their surprise, a broad expanse of shining water open- 
 
ANNE. 515 
 
 ing out before them : the river was the outlet of a little 
 lake two miles long-. 
 
 "This, then, is where they go fishing," said Miss Lois. 
 "The Blackwells spoke of the pond, but I thought it was 
 on the other side of the valley. Push out, Euth. There 
 are two boats on it, both dug-outs; we ll row by them." 
 
 The first boat contained a boy, who said, Good-day, 
 mums," and showed a string of fish. The second boat, 
 which was farther up the lake, contained a man. He 
 was also fishing, and his face was shaded by an old 
 slouch hat. Anne, who was rowing, could not see him as 
 they approached; but she saw Miss Lois s hands close sud 
 denly upon each other in their lisle-thread gloves, and 
 was prepared for something, she knew not what. No 
 word was spoken; she rowed steadily on, though her 
 heart was throbbing. When she too could look at the 
 man, she saw what it was: he was holding his rod with 
 his left hand. 
 
 Their skiff had not paused ; it passed him and his dug 
 out, and moved onward a quarter of a mile half a mile 
 before they spoke ; they were afraid the very air would be 
 tray them. Then Anne beached the boat under the shade 
 of a tree, took off her straw hat, and bathed her pale face 
 in the clear water. 
 
 "After all, it is the vaguest kind of a chance," said 
 Miss Lois, rallying, and bringing forward the common- 
 sense view of the case : " no better a one, at this stage, 
 than the peony farmer or my medicine man. You must 
 not be excited, Ruth." 
 
 "I am excited only because I have thought so much 
 of the river, " said Anne. The theory that the man who 
 did it went away from the foot of that meadow in a boat, 
 and up this river, has haunted me constantly." 
 
 Theories are like scaffolding : they are not the house, 
 but you can not build the house without them," said 
 Miss Lois. "What we ve got to do next is to see wheth 
 er this man has all his fingers, whether he is a woman, 
 and whether he says, gold. Will you leave it to me, or 
 will you speak to him yourself? On the whole, I think 
 you had better speak to him: your face is in your favor." 
 
518 ANNE. 
 
 "Whiskey !" she said. "And my money pays for the 
 damnable stuff !" This reflection kept her silent while they 
 returned to the skiff ; but when they were again afloat, she 
 sighed and yielded it as a sacrifice to the emergencies of 
 the quest. Returning to the former subject, she held forth 
 as follows: "It is something, Ruth, but not all. We 
 must not hope too much. What is it? A man lives up 
 the river, and owns a boat; he is left-handed, and has 
 cushions of flesh under his finger-tips : that is the whole. 
 For we can scarcely count as evidence the fact that he is 
 as ugly as a stump fence, such men being not uncommon 
 in the world, and often pious as well. We must do no 
 thing hurriedly, and make no inquiries, lest we scare the 
 game if it is game. To-morrow is market-day; he will 
 probably be in the village with fish to sell, and the best 
 way will be for me to find out quietly who his associates 
 are, by using my eyes and not my tongue. His asso 
 ciates, if he has any, might next be tackled, through their 
 wives, perhaps. Maybe they do sewing, some of them ; 
 in that case, we could order something, and so get to 
 speaking terms. There s my old challis, which I have 
 had dyed black it might be made over, though I was 
 going to do it myself. And now do row home, Ruth ; 
 I m dropping for my tea. This exploring work is power 
 fully wearing on the nerves." 
 
 The next day she went to the village. 
 
 Anne, finding herself uncontrollably restless, went down 
 and unfastened the skiff, with the intention of rowing 
 awhile to calm her excited fancies. She went up the river 
 for a mile or two. Her mind had fastened itself tenacious 
 ly upon the image of the fisherman, and would not loosen 
 its hold. She imagined him stealing up the stairway and 
 leaning over Helen; then escaping with his booty, run 
 ning through the meadow, and hiding it in his boat, pro 
 bably the same old black dug-out she had seen. And then, 
 while she was thinking of him, she came suddenly upon 
 him, sitting in his dug-out, not ten feet distant, fishing. 
 Miss Lois had been mistaken in her surmise : he was not in 
 the village, but here. 
 
 There had not been a moment of preparation for Anne; 
 
ANNE. 519 
 
 yet in the emergency coolness came. Resting on her oars, 
 she spoke: "Have you any fish to-day ?" 
 
 He shook his head, and held up one. " That s all," he 
 said, drawing his hand over his mouth by way of prepa 
 ration for conversation. 
 
 "I should not think there would be as many fish here 
 as in the lake," she continued, keeping her boat at a dis 
 tance by a slight motion of her oars. 
 
 " When the wind blows hard, there s more in the river," 
 he answered. Wind blows to-day. " 
 
 Was she mistaken ? Had he given a sound ofdioth? 
 
 "But the water of the lake must be colder, "she said, 
 hardly able to pronounce the word herself. 
 
 1 ; Yes, in places where it s deep. But it s mostly shaller. " 
 
 "How cold is it? Very cold?" (Was she saying 
 "gold" too?) 
 
 No, not very, this time o year. But cold enough in 
 April." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Cold enough in April," replied the fisherman, his small 
 eyes gazing at her with increasing approbation. 
 
 He had given the sound of g to the c. The pulses in 
 Anne s throat and temples were throbbing so rapidly now 
 that she could not speak. 
 
 "I could bring yer some fish to-morrer, I reckon," said 
 the man, making a clicking sound with his teeth as he felt 
 a bite and then lost it. 
 
 She nodded, and began to turn the boat. 
 
 "Where do you live ?" he called, as the space between 
 them widened. 
 
 She succeeded in pronouncing the name of her hostess, 
 and then rowed round the curve out of sight, trying not to 
 betray her tremulous haste and fear. All the way home 
 she rowed with the strength of a giantess, not knowing how 
 she was exerting herself until she began to walk through 
 the meadow toward the house, when she found her limbs 
 failing her. She reached her room with an effort, and 
 locking her door, threw herself down on a couch to wait 
 for Miss Lois. It was understood in the house that "poor 
 Miss Young" had one of her "mathematical headaches." 
 
520 ANNK 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 " God made him ; therefore let him pass for a man." 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 WHEN Miss Lois returned, and saw Anne s face, she 
 was herself stirred to excitement. You have seen him !" 
 she said, in a whisper. 
 
 "Yes. He is the murderer: I feel it." 
 
 "Did he say gold 1 ?" 
 
 "He did." 
 
 They sat down on the couch together, and in whispers 
 Anne told all. Then they looked at each other. 
 
 "We must work as lightly as thistle-down," said Miss 
 Lois, or we shall lose him. He was not in the village to 
 day, and as he was not, I thought it safer not to inquire 
 about him. I am glad now that I did not. But you are in 
 a high fever, dear child. This suspense must be brought to 
 an end, or it will kill you. " She put her arms round Anne 
 and kissed her fondly an unusual expression of feeling 
 from Miss Lois, who had been brought up in the old-fash 
 ioned rigidly undemonstrative New England manner. 
 And the girl put her head down upon her old friend s 
 shoulder and clung to her. But she could not weep ; the 
 relief of tears was not yet come. 
 
 In the morning they saw the fisherman at the foot of 
 the meadow, and watched him through the blinds, breath 
 lessly. He was so much and so important to them that it 
 seemed as if they must be the same to him. But he was 
 only bringing a string of fish to sell. He drew up his dug 
 out on the bank, and came toward the house with a rolling 
 step, carrying his fish. 
 
 There s a man here with some fish, that was order 
 ed, he says, by somebody from here," said a voice on 
 the stairs. "Was it you, Mrs. Young ?" 
 "Yes. Come in, Mrs. Blackwell do. My niece order 
 ed them : you know they re considered very good for an 
 
ANNE. 521 
 
 exhausted brain. Perhaps I d better go down and look 
 at them myself. And, by-the-way, who is this man ?" 
 
 "It s Sandy Groom ; he lives up near the pond." 
 
 "Yes, we met him up that way. Is he a German ?" 
 
 "There s Dutch blood in him, I reckon, as there is in 
 most of the people about here who are not Marylanders," 
 said Mrs. Black well, who was a Mary lander. 
 
 He s a curious-looking creature, " pursued Mrs. Young, 
 as they descended the stairs. "Is he quite right in his 
 mind ?" 
 
 Some think he isn t ; but others say he s sharper than 
 we suppose. He drinks, though." 
 
 By this time they were in the kitchen, and Mrs. Young 
 went out to the porch to receive and pay for the fish, 
 her niece Ruth silently following. Groom took off his 
 old hat and made a backward scrape with his foot by way 
 of salutation ; his small head was covered with a mat of 
 boyish-looking yellow curls, w T hich contrasted strangely 
 with his red face. 
 
 "Here s yer fish, "he said, holding them out toward 
 Anne. 
 
 But she could not take them : she was gazing, fascina 
 ted, at his hand that broad short left hand which haunt 
 ed her like a horrible phantom day and night. She raised 
 her handkerchief to her lips in order to conceal, as far as 
 possible, the horror she feared her face must betray. 
 
 "You never could abide a fishy smell, Ruth," said Mrs. 
 Young, interposing. She paid the fisherman, and asked 
 whether he fished in the winter. He said no," but gave 
 no reason. He did not, as she had hoped, pronounce the 
 desired word. Then, after another gaze at Anne, he went 
 away, but turned twice to look back before he reached 
 the end of the garden. 
 
 "It can not be that he suspects!" murmured Anne. 
 
 "No; it s your face, child. Happy or unhappy, you 
 can not help having just the same eyes, hair, and skin, 
 thank the Lord !" 
 
 They went up stairs and watched him from the window ; 
 he pushed off his dug-out, got in, and paddled toward the 
 village. 
 
522 ANNE. 
 
 " More whiskey!" said Miss Lois, sitting down and rub 
 bing her forehead. I wish, Ruth Young- I devoutly 
 wish that I knew what it is best to do now /" 
 
 "Then you think with me ?" said Anne, eagerly. 
 
 4 By no means. There isn t a particle of certainty. 
 But I don t deny that there is a chance. The trouble is 
 that we can hardly stir in the matter without arousing 
 his suspicion. If he had lived in the village among other 
 people, it would not have been difficult ; but, all alone in 
 that far-off cabin 
 
 Anne clasped her hands suddenly. "Let us send for 
 Pere Michaux!" she said. "There was a picture of the 
 Madonna in his cabin he is a Roman Catholic. Let us 
 send for Pere Michaux." 
 
 They gazed at each other in excited silence. Miss Lois 
 was the first to speak. " I m not at all sure but that you 
 have got hold of the difficulty by the right handle at last, 
 Anne," she said, slowly, drawing a long audible breath. 
 It was the first time she had used the name since their de 
 parture from New York. 
 
 And the letter was written immediately. 
 
 "It s a long journey for a small chance," said the eld 
 er woman, surveying it as it lay sealed 011 the table. 
 "Still, I think he will come." 
 
 "Yes, for humanity s sake," replied Anne. 
 
 * I don t know about humanity, " replied her companion, 
 huskily ; but he will come for yours. Let us get out in 
 the open air ; I m perfectly tired out by this everlasting 
 whispering. It would be easier to roar. " 
 
 The letter was sent. Four days for it to go, four days 
 for the answer to return, one day for chance. They agreed 
 not to become impatient before the tenth day. 
 
 But on the ninth came, not a letter, but something bet 
 ter Pere Michaux in person. 
 
 They were in the fields at sunset, at some distance from 
 the house, when Anne s eyes rested upon him, walking 
 along the country road in his old robust fashion, on his 
 way to the farm-house. She ran across the field to the 
 fence, calling his name. Miss Lois followed, but more 
 slowly; her mind was in a turmoil regarding his unex- 
 
ANNE. 523 
 
 pected arrival, and the difficulty of making him compre 
 hend or conform to the net- work of fable she had woven 
 round their history. 
 
 The old priest gave Anne his blessing; he was much 
 moved at seeing her again. She held his hand in both of 
 her own, and could scarcely realize that it was he, her 
 dear old island friend, standing there in person beside her. 
 
 "Dear, dear Pere Michaux, how good you are to come !" 
 she said, incoherently, the tears filling her eyes, half in 
 sorrow, half in joy. 
 
 Miss Lois now came up and greeted him. "I am 
 glad to see you," she said. Then, in the same breath: 
 ; Our names. Father Michaux, are Young ; Young please 
 remember." 
 
 "How good you are to come!" said Anne again, the 
 weight on her heart lightened for the moment as she 
 looked into the clear, kind, wise old eyes that met her 
 own. 
 
 " Not so very good," said Pere Michaux, smiling. "I 
 have been wishing to see you for some time, and I think I 
 should have taken the journey before long in any case. 
 Vacations are due me ; it is years since I have had one, 
 and I am an old man now." 
 
 "You will never be old," said the girl, affectionately. 
 
 "Young is the name," repeated Miss Lois, with un 
 conscious appositeness "Deborah and Ruth Young." 
 
 I am glad at least that I am not too old to help you, 
 my child," answered Pere Michaux, paying little heed to 
 the elder woman s anxious voice. 
 
 They were still standing by the road-side. Pere Mi 
 chaux proposed that they should remain in the open air 
 while the beautiful hues of the sunset lasted, and they 
 therefore returned to the field, and sat down under an 
 elm-tree. Under ordinary circumstances, Miss Lois would 
 have strenuously objected to this sylvan indulgence, hav 
 ing peculiarly combative feelings regarding dew ; but this 
 evening the maze of doubt in which she was wandering 
 as to whether or not Pere Michaux would stay in her web 
 made dew a secondary consideration. Remaining in the 
 iields would at least give time. 
 
524 ANNE. 
 
 Pere Michaux was as clear-headed and energetic as 
 ever. After the first few expressions of gladness and sat 
 isfaction, it was not long- before he turned to Anne, and 
 spoke of the subject which lay before them. "Tell me 
 all," he said. " This is as good a time and place as any 
 we could have, and there should be, I think, no delay." 
 
 But though he spoke to Anne, it was Miss Lois who 
 answered : it woulJ have been simply impossible for her 
 not to take that narrative into her own hands. 
 
 He listened to the tale with careful attention, not in 
 terrupting her many details with so much as a smile or 
 a shrug. This was very unlike his old way with Miss 
 Lois, and showed more than anything else could have 
 done his absorbed interest in the story. 
 
 " It is the old truth," he said, after the long stream of 
 words had finally ceased. Regarding the unravelling of 
 mysteries, women seem sometimes endowed with a sixth 
 sense. A diamond is lost oii a turnpike. A man goes 
 along the turnpike searching for it. A woman, search 
 ing for it also, turns vaguely off into a field, giving no 
 logical reason for her course, and finds it." 
 
 But while he talked, his mind was in reality dwelling 
 upon the pale girl beside him, the young girl in whom he 
 had felt such strong interest, for whom he had involun 
 tarily cherished such high hope in those early days on 
 the island. 
 
 He knew of her testimony at the trial ; he had not been 
 surprised. What he had prophesied for her had come in 
 deed. But not so fortunately or so happily as he had 
 hoped. He had saved her from Erastus Pronando for this ! 
 Was it well done ? He roused himself at last, perceiving 
 that Anne was noticing his abstraction; her eyes were 
 fixed upon him with anxious expectation. 
 
 " I must go to work in my own way," he said, strok 
 ing her hair. One point, however, I have already de 
 cided : you must leave this neighborhood immediately. I 
 wish you had never come." 
 
 But she can not be separated from me, " said Miss Lois ; 
 " and of course /shall be necessary in the search I must 
 be here." 
 
ANNE. 525 
 
 " I do not see that there is any necessity at present," re 
 plied Pere Michaux. "You have done all you could, and 
 I shall work better, I think, alone." Then, as the old 
 quick anger flashed from her eyes, he turned to Anne. 
 " It is on your account, child," he said. " I must make 
 you go. I know it is like taking your life from you to 
 send you away now. But if anything comes of this if 
 your woman s blind leap into the dark proves to have 
 been guided by intuition, the lime-light of publicity will 
 instantly be turned upon this neighborhood, and you 
 could not escape discovery. Your precautions, or rather 
 those of our good friend Miss Lois, have availed so far: 
 you can still depart in their shadow unobserved. Do so, 
 then, while you can. My first wish is can not help being 
 that you should escape. I would rather even have the 
 clew fail than have your name further connected with 
 the matter." 
 
 "This is what we get by applying to a man," said 
 Miss Lois, in high indignation. "Always thinking of 
 evil!" 
 
 Yes, men do think of it. But Anne will yield to my 
 judgment, will she not ?" 
 
 "I will do as you think best," she answered. But no 
 color rose in her pale face, as he had expected; the 
 pressing danger and the fear clothed the subject with a 
 shroud. 
 
 Miss Lois did not hide her anger and disappointment. 
 Yet she would not leave Anne. And therefore the next 
 morning Mrs. Young and her niece, with health much 
 improved by their sojourn in the country, bade good-by 
 to their hostess, and went southward in the little stage on 
 their way back to " Washington." 
 
 Pere Michaux was not seen at the farm-house at all ; he 
 had returned to the village from the fields, and had taken 
 rooms for a short sojourn at the Timloe hotel. 
 
 The " Washington," in this instance, was a small town 
 seventy miles distant ; here Mrs. Young and her niece took 
 lodgings, and began, with what patience they could mus 
 ter, their hard task of waiting. 
 
 As for Pere Michaux, he went fishing. 
 
526 ANNE. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE LETTER OF A SUMMER FISHERMAN. 
 
 " I have labored hard, Anne harder than ever before 
 in my life. I thought I knew what patience was, in my 
 experience with my Indians and half-breeds. I never 
 dreamed of its breadth until now! For my task has 
 been the hard one of winning the trust of a trustless mind 
 trustless, yet crafty; of subduing its ever-rising reason 
 less suspicion; of rousing its nearly extinct affections; 
 of touching its undeveloped, almost dead, conscience, and 
 raising it to the point of confession. I said to myself that 
 I would do all this in sincerity ; that I would make my 
 self do it in sincerity ; that I would teach the poor crea 
 ture to love me, and having once gained his tvarped af 
 fection, I would assume the task of caring for him as long 
 as life lasted. If I did this in truth and real earnestness 
 I might succeed, as the missionaries of my Church succeed, 
 with the most brutal savages, because they are in earnest. 
 Undertaking this, of course I also accepted the chance 
 that all my labor, regarding the hope that you have 
 cherished, might be in vain, and that this poor bundle of 
 clay might not be, after all, the criminal we seek. Yet 
 had it been so, my care of him through life must have been 
 the same ; having gained his confidence, I could never 
 have deserted him while I lived. Each day I have labored 
 steadily ; but often I have advanced so slowly that I seem 
 ed to myself not to advance at all. 
 
 I began by going to the pond to fish . We met daily. 
 At first I did not speak; I allowed him to become ac 
 customed to my presence. It was a long time before I 
 even returned his glance of confused respect and acquaint 
 ance as our boats passed near each other, for he had at 
 once recognized the priest. I built my foundations with 
 exactest care and patience, often absenting myself in or 
 der to remove all suspicion of watchfulness or regularity 
 from his continually suspicious mind ; for suspicion, enor 
 mously developed, is one of his few mental powers. - I 
 had to make my way through its layers as a minute blood 
 vessel penetrates the cumbrous leathern hide of the rhi 
 noceros. 
 
ANNE. 527 
 
 "I will not tell you all the details now ; but at last, one 
 morning, by a little chance event, my long, weary, and ap 
 parently unsuccessful labor was crowned with success. 
 He became attached to me. I suppose in all his poor 
 warped life before no one had ever shown confidence in 
 him or tried to win his affection. 
 
 The next step was not so difficult. I soon learned 
 that he had a secret. In. his ignorant way, he is a firm 
 believer in the terrors of eternal punishment, and having 
 become attached to me, I could see that he was debating in 
 his own mind whether or not to confide it to me as a 
 priest, and obtain absolution. I did not urge him; I 
 did not even invite his confidence. But I continued faith 
 ful to him, and I knew that in time it would come. It 
 did. You are right, Anne ; he is the murderer. 
 
 * It seems that by night he is tormented by supersti 
 tious fear. He is not able to sleep unless he stupefies him 
 self with liquor, because he expects to see his victim ap 
 pear and look at him with her hollow eyes. To rid him 
 self of this haunting terror, he told all to me under the 
 seal of the confessional. And then began the hardest task 
 of all. 
 
 For as a priest I could not betray him (and I should 
 never have done so, Anne, even for your sake), and yet 
 another life was at stake. I told him with all the power, 
 all the eloquence, I possessed, that his repentance would 
 never be accepted, that he himself would never be for 
 given, unless he rescued by a public avowal the inno 
 cent man who was suffering in his place. And I gave 
 him an assurance also, which must be kept even if I have 
 to go in person to the Governor, that, in case of public 
 avowal, his life should be spared. His intellect is plain 
 ly defective. If Miss Teller, Mr. Heathcote, and the law 
 yers unite in an appeal for him, I think it will be granted. 
 
 It has been, Anne, very hard, fearfully hard, to bring 
 him to the desired point; more than once I have lost 
 heart. Yet never have I used the lever of real menace, 
 and I wish you to know that I have not. At last, thanks 
 be to the eternal God, patience has conquered. Urged by 
 the superstition which consumes him, he consented to re- 
 
528 ANNE. 
 
 peat to the local officials, in my presence and under my pro 
 tection, the confession he had made to me, and to give up 
 the watch and rings, which have lain all this time buried 
 in the earth behind his cabin, he fearing to uncover them 
 until a second crop of grass should be green upon his vic 
 tim s grave, lest she should appear and take them from 
 him ! He did this in order to be delivered in this world 
 and the next, and he will be delivered; for his crime wa,s 
 a brute one, like that of the wolf who slays the lamb. 
 
 "I shall see you before long, my dear child; but you 
 will find me worn and old. This has been the hardest toil 
 of my whole life." 
 
 Pere Michaux did not add that his fatigue of body and 
 mind was heightened by a painful injury received at the 
 hands of the poor wretch he was trying to help. Unex 
 pectedly one morning Croom had attacked him with a bil 
 let of wood, striking from behind, and without cause, save 
 that he coveted the priest s fishing-tackle, and, in addition, 
 something in the attitude of the defenseless white-haired 
 old man at that moment tempted him, as a lasso-thrower 
 is tempted by a convenient chance position of cattle. The 
 blow, owing to a fortunate movement of Pere Michaux 
 at the same instant, was not mortal, but it disabled the 
 old man s shoulder and arm. And perceiving this, Croom 
 had fled. But what had won his brute heart was the peace 
 ful appearance of the priest at his cabin door early the 
 next morning, where the fisherman had made all ready 
 for flight, and his friendly salutation. Of course I knew 
 it was all an accident, Croom," he said ; "that you did not 
 mean it. And I have come out to ask if you have not 
 something you can recommend to apply to the bruise. 
 You people who live in the woods have better balms than 
 those made in towns ; and besides, I would rather ask your 
 help than apply to a physician, who might ask questions." 
 He entered the cabin as he spoke, took off his hat, sat down, 
 and offered his bruised arm voluntarily to the hands that 
 had struck the blow. Croom, frightened, brought out a 
 liniment, awkwardly assisted the priest in removing his 
 coat, and then, as the old man sat quietly expectant, began 
 
ANNE. 29 
 
 to apply it. As he went on he regained his courage : evi 
 dently he was not to be punished. The bruised flesh ap 
 pealed to him, and before he knew it he was bandaging the 
 arm almost with affection. The priest s trust had won 
 what stood in the place of a heart : it was so new to him to 
 be trusted. This episode of the injured arm, more than 
 anything else, won in the end the confession. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE NEW YORK "ZEUS." 
 
 " Even the story of the last great battle was eclipsed in 
 interest in certain circles of this city yesterday by the tid 
 ings which were flashed over the wires from a remote lit 
 tle village in Pennsylvania. Our readers w T ill easily re 
 call the trial of Captain Ward Heathcote on the charge 
 of murder, the murder of his own wife. The evidence 
 against the accused was close, though purely circumstan 
 tial. The remarkable incidents of the latter part of the 
 trial have not been forgotten. The jury were unable to 
 agree, and the case went over to the November term. 
 
 "The accused, though not convicted, has not had the 
 sympathy of the public. Probably eight out of ten 
 among those who read the evidence have believed him 
 guilty. But yesterday brought the startling intelligence 
 that human judgment has again been proven widely at 
 fault, that the real murderer is in custody, and that he has 
 not .only confessed his guilt, but also restored the rings 
 and watch, together with the missing towel. The chain 
 of links is complete. 
 
 "The criminal is described as a creature of uncouth 
 appearance, in mental capacity deficient, though extraor 
 dinarily cunning. He spent the small amount of mon 
 ey in the purse, but was afraid to touch the rings and 
 watch until a second crop of grass should be growing 
 upon his victim s grave, lest she should appear and take 
 them from him ! It is to ignorant superstitious terror of 
 this kind that we owe the final capture of this grotesque 
 murderer. 
 
 His story fills out the missing parts of the evidence, 
 and explains the apparent participation of the accused to 
 have been but an intermingling of personalities. After 
 
 34 
 
530 ANNE. 
 
 Captain Heathcote had gone down the outside stairway 
 with the two towels in his pocket, this man, Groom, who 
 was passing the end of the garden at the time, and had 
 seen him come out by the light from the lamp within, 
 stole up the same stairway in order to peer into the apart 
 ment, partly from curiosity, partly from the thought that 
 there might he something there to steal. He supposed 
 there was no one in the room, but when he reached the 
 window and peeped through a crack in the old blind, he saw 
 that there was some one a woman asleep. In his cau 
 tion he had consumed fifteen or twenty minutes in cross 
 ing the garden noiselessly and ascending the stairway, 
 and during this interval Mrs. Heathcote had fallen asleep. 
 The light from the lamp happened to shine full on the dia 
 monds in her rings as they lay, together with her purse 
 and watch, on the bureau, and he coveted the unexpected 
 booty as soon as his eyes fell upon it. Quick as thought 
 he drew open the blind, and crept in on his hands and 
 knees, going straight toward the bureau ; but ere he could 
 reach it the sleeper stirred. He had not intended murder, 
 but his brute nature knew no other way, and in a second 
 the deed was done. Then he seized the watch, purse, and 
 rings, went out as he had come, through the window, 
 closing the blind behind him, and stole down the stairway 
 in the darkness. The man is left-handed. It will be re 
 membered that this proved lef t-handedness of the murder 
 er was regarded as a telling point against Captain Heath 
 cote, his right arm being at the time disabled, and support 
 ed by a sling. 
 
 " Croom went through the grass meadow to the river- 
 bank, where his boat was tied, and hastily hiding his spoil 
 under the seat, was about to push off, when he was startled 
 by a slight sound, which made him think that another boat 
 was approaching. Stealing out again, he moved cautious 
 ly toward the noise, but it was only a man batlling at 
 some distance down the stream, the stillness of the night 
 having made his movements in the water audible. Wish 
 ing to find out if the bather were any one he knew, Croom, 
 under cover of the darkness, spoke to him from the bank, 
 asking some chance question. The voice that replied was 
 
" HE REACHED THE WINDOW, AND PEEPED THROUGH A CRACK IN 
 THE OLD BLIND." 
 
ANNE. 531 
 
 that of a stranger ; still, to make all sure, Groom secreted 
 himself at a short distance, after pretending to depart by 
 the main road, and waited. Presently the bather passed 
 by, going homeward ; Groom, very near him, kneeling be 
 side a bush, was convinced by the step and figure that it 
 was no one he knew, that it was not one of the villagers or 
 neighboring farmers. After waiting until all was still, 
 he went to the place where the man had bathed, and 
 searched with his hands on the sand and grass to see if he 
 had not dropped a cigar or stray coin or two : this petty 
 covetousness, when he had the watch and diamonds, be 
 trays the limited nature of his intelligence. He found 
 nothing save the two towels which Captain Heathcote had 
 left behind; he took these and went back to his boat. 
 There, on the shore, the sound of a dog s sudden bark 
 alarmed him ; he dropped one of the towels, could not find 
 it among the reeds, and, without waiting longer, pushed 
 off his boat and paddled up the stream toward home. 
 This singular creature, who was bold enough to commit 
 murder, yet afraid to touch his booty for fear of rousing 
 a ghost, has been living on as usual all this time, within a 
 mile or two of the village where his crime was committed, 
 pursuing his daily occupation of fishing, and mixing with 
 the villagers as formerly, without betraying his secret or 
 attracting toward himself the least suspicion. His nar 
 row but remarkable craft is shown in the long account he 
 gives of the intricate and roundabout ways he selected for 
 spending the money he had stolen. The purse itself, to 
 gether with the watch, rings, and towel, he buried under 
 a tree behind his cabin, where they have lain undisturbed 
 until he himself unearthed them, and delivered them to 
 the priest. 
 
 4 For this notable confession was obtained by the in 
 fluence of one of a body of men vowed to good works, a 
 priest of the Roman Catholic Church. Croom was of the 
 same faith, after his debased fashion, and in spite of his 
 weak mind (perhaps on account of it) a superstitious, al 
 most craven, believer. 
 
 The presence of this rarely intelligent and charitable 
 priest in Timloesville at this particular time may be set 
 
534 ANNE. 
 
 hands. At first he had tried to induce Miss Teller to take 
 it, but she had refused. He had then deeded it all to a 
 hospital for children, in which his wife had occasionally 
 evinced some interest. Society divided itself over this 
 action; some admired it, others pronounced it Quixotic. 
 But the man who did it seemed to care nothing for either 
 their praise or their blame. 
 
 Rachel asked Isabel if she knew where Anne was. 
 
 "The very question I asked dear Miss Teller yester 
 day," replied Isabel. "She told me that Anne had re 
 turned to that island up in the Northwest somewhere, 
 where she used to live. Then I asked, Is she going to 
 remain there? and Miss Teller answered, Yes, but in 
 such a tone that I did not like to question further." 
 
 "It has ended, then, as I knew it would," said Rachel. 
 "In spite of all that display on the witness stand, you see 
 he has not married her." 
 
 "He could not marry her very well at present, I sup 
 pose," began Isabel, who had a trace of feeling in her 
 heart for the young girl. 
 
 But Rachel interrupted her. " I tell you he will never 
 marry her," she said, her dark eyes flashing out upon 
 the thin blonde face of her companion. For old Mrs. 
 Bannert was dead at last, and her daughter-in-law had 
 inherited the estate. Two weeks later she sailed rather 
 unexpectedly for Europe. But if unexpectedly, not cause 
 lessly. She was not a woman to hesitate ; before she went 
 she had staked her all, played her game, and lost it. 
 
 Heathcote had never been, and was not now, a saint; 
 but he saw life with different eyes. During the old care 
 less days it had never occurred to him to doubt himself, 
 or his own good (that is, tolerably good good enough) 
 qualities. Suddenly he had found himself a prisoner be 
 hind bars, and half the world, even his own world, believed 
 him guilty. This had greatly changed him. As the long 
 days and nights spent in prison had left traces on his 
 face which would never pass away, so this judgment pass 
 ed upon him had left traces on his heart which would 
 not be outlived. As regarded both himself and others he 
 was sterner. 
 
ANNE. 535 
 
 Anne had returned with Miss Lois to the island. From 
 New York he wrote to her, " If I can not see you, I shall 
 go back to the army. My old life here is unendurable 
 now." 
 
 No letters had passed between them : this was the first. 
 They had not seen each other since that interview in the 
 Multomah prison. 
 
 She answered simply, Go. 
 
 He went. 
 
 More than two years passed. Miss Teller journeyed 
 westward to the island, and staid a long time at the 
 church-house, during the first summer, making with rev 
 erential respect an acquaintance with Miss Lois. During 
 the second summer Tita came home to make a visit, as 
 tonishing her old companions, and even her own sister, by 
 the peculiar beauty of her little face and figure, and her 
 air of indulgent superiority over everything the poor isl 
 and contained. But she was happy. She smiled some 
 times with such real naturalness, her small white teeth 
 gleaming through her delicate little lips, that Anne went 
 across and kissed her out of pure gladness, gladness that 
 she was so content. Rast had prospered at least he was 
 prospering now (he failed and prospered alternately) 
 and his little wife pleased herself with silks that trailed 
 behind her over the uncarpeted halls of the church-house, 
 giving majesty (so she thought) to her small figure. If 
 they did not give majesty, they gave an unexpected and 
 bizarre contrast. Strangers who saw Tita that summer 
 went home and talked about her, and never forgot her. 
 
 The two boys were tall and strong almost men ; they 
 had no desire to come eastward. Anne must not send 
 them any more money ; they did not need it ; on the con 
 trary, in a year or two, when they had made their for 
 tunes (merely a question of time), they intended to build 
 for her a grand house on the island, and bestow upon 
 her an income sufficient for all her wants. They request 
 ed her to obtain plans for this mansion, according to het 
 taste. 
 
 Pere Michaux was at work, as usual, in his water parish. 
 
534 ANNE, 
 
 hands. At first he had tried to induce Miss Teller to take 
 it, but she had refused. He had then deeded it all to a 
 hospital for children, in which his wife had occasionally 
 evinced some interest. Society divided itself over this 
 action ; some admired it, others pronounced it Quixotic. 
 But the man who did it seemed to care nothing for either 
 their praise or their blame. 
 
 Rachel asked Isabel if she knew where Anne was. 
 
 "The very question I asked dear Miss Teller yester 
 day," replied Isabel. "She told me that Anne had re 
 turned to that island up in the Northwest somewhere, 
 where she used to live. Then I asked, Is she going to 
 remain there? and Miss Teller answered, Yes, but in 
 such a tone that I did not like to question further. " 
 
 "It has ended, then, as I knew it would," said Rachel. 
 "In spite of all that display on the witness stand, you see 
 he has not married her." 
 
 * He could not marry her very well at present, I sup 
 pose," began Isabel, who had a trace of feeling in her 
 heart for the young girl. 
 
 But Rachel interrupted her. " I tell you he will never 
 marry her," she said, her dark eyes flashing out upon 
 the thin blonde face of her companion. For old Mrs. 
 Bannert was dead at last, and her daughter-in-law had 
 inherited the estate. Two weeks later she sailed rather 
 unexpectedly for Europe. But if unexpectedly, not cause 
 lessly. She was not a woman to hesitate ; before she went 
 she had staked her all, played her game, and lost it. 
 
 Heathcote had never been, and was not now, a saint; 
 but he saw life with different eyes. During the old care 
 less days it had never occurred to him to doubt himself, 
 or his own good (that is, tolerably good good enough) 
 qualities. Suddenly he had found himself a prisoner be 
 hind bars, and half the world, even his own world, believed 
 him guilty. This had greatly changed him. As the long 
 days and nights spent in prison had left traces on his 
 face which would never pass away, so this judgment pass 
 ed upon him had left traces on his heart which would 
 not be outlived. As regarded both himself and others he 
 was sterner. 
 
ANNE. 535 
 
 Anne had returned with Miss Lois to the island. From 
 New York he wrote to her, " If I can not see you, I shall 
 go back to the army. My old life here is unendurable 
 now." 
 
 No letters had passed between them : this was the first. 
 They had not seen each other since that interview in the 
 Multomah prison. 
 
 She answered simply, Go. 
 
 He went. 
 
 More than two years passed. Miss Teller journeyed 
 westward to the island, and staid a long time at the 
 church-house, during the first summer, making with rev 
 erential respect an acquaintance with Miss Lois. During 
 the second summer Tita came home to make a visit, as 
 tonishing her old companions, and even her own sister, by 
 the peculiar beauty of her little face and figure, and her 
 air of indulgent superiority over everything the poor isl 
 and contained. But she was happy. She smiled some 
 times with such real naturalness, her small white teeth 
 gleaming through her delicate little lips, that Anne went 
 across and kissed her out of pure gladness, gladness that 
 she was so content. Rast had prospered at least he was 
 prospering now (he failed and prospered alternately) 
 and his little wife pleased herself with silks that trailed 
 behind her over the uncarpeted halls of the church-house, 
 giving majesty (so she thought) to her small figure. If 
 they did not give majesty, they gave an unexpected and 
 bizarre contrast. Strangers who saw Tita that summer 
 went home and talked about her, and never forgot her. 
 
 The two boys were tall and strong almost men ; they 
 had no desire to come eastward. Anne must not send 
 them any more money ; they did not need it ; on the con 
 trary, in a year or two, when they had made their for 
 tunes (merely a question of time), they intended to build 
 for her a grand house on the island, and bestow upon 
 her an income sufficient for all her wants. They request 
 ed her to obtain plans for this mansion, according to heir 
 taste. 
 
 Pere Michaux was at work, as usual, in his water parish. 
 
536 ANNE. 
 
 He had succeeded in obtaining a commutation of the 
 death sentence, in Groom s case, to imprisonment for a 
 term of years, the criminal s mental weakness being the 
 plea. But he considered the prisoner his especial charge, 
 and never lost sight of him. Such solace and instruction 
 as Groom was capable of receiving were constantly giv 
 en, if not by the priest himself, then by his influence; 
 and this protection was continued long after the wise, 
 kind old man had passed away. 
 
 Jeanne- Ar man de returned from Europe, and entered 
 into happy possession of the half-house, as it stood, re 
 furnished by the lavish hand of Gregory Dexter. 
 
 And Dexter ? During the last year of the war he went 
 down to the front, on business connected with a pro 
 posed exchange of prisoners. Here, unexpectedly, one 
 day he came upon Ward Heathcote, now in command of 
 a regiment. 
 
 Golonel Heathcote was not especially known beyond 
 his own division ; in it, he was considered a good officer, 
 cool, determined, and if distinguished at all, distinguish 
 ed for rigidly obeying his orders, whatever they might 
 be. It was related of him that once having been ordered 
 to take his men up Little Reedy Run, when Big Reedy 
 was plainly meant Little Reedy, as everybody knew, 
 being within the lines of the enemy, he calmly went up 
 Little Reedy with his regiment. The enemy, startled 
 by the sudden appearance of seven hundred men among 
 their seven thousand, supposed of course that seventy 
 thousand must be behind, and retreated in haste, a mile 
 or two, before they discovered their error. The seven 
 hundred, meanwhile, being wildly recalled by a dozen 
 messengers, came back, with much camp equipage and 
 other booty, together with a few shot in their bodies, sent 
 by the returning and indignant Confederates, one of the 
 balls being in the shoulder of the calm colonel himself. 
 
 When Dexter came upon Heathcote, a flush rose in his 
 face. He did not hesitate, however, but walked directly 
 up to the soldier. Will you step aside with me a mo 
 ment ?" he said. "I want to speak to you." 
 
 Heathcote, too, had recognized his former companion 
 
ANNE. 537 
 
 at a glance. The two men walked together beyond ear 
 shot; then they paused. 
 
 But Dexter s fluency had deserted him. "You know ?" 
 he said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " It does not make it any better, I fear, to say that my 
 belief was an honest one." 
 
 You were not alone ; there were others who thought 
 as you did. I care little about it now." 
 
 "Still, I I wish to beg your pardon," said Dexter, 
 bringing out the words with an effort. Then, having ac 
 complished his task, he paused. "You are a more fortu 
 nate man than I am than I have ever been, "he added, 
 gloomily. "But that does not lighten my mistake." 
 
 "Think no more of it," answered Heathcote. "I as 
 sure you, it is to me a matter of not the slightest conse 
 quence." 
 
 The words were double-edged, but Dexter bore them in 
 silence. They shook hands, and separated, nor did they 
 meet again for many years. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 " Love is strong as death. Many waters can not quench love, neither 
 can floods drown it." TJie Proverbs of Solomon. 
 
 THE war was over at last ; peace was declared. The last 
 review had been held, and the last volunteer had gone 
 home. 
 
 Two persons were standing on the old observatory floor, 
 at the highest point of the island, looking at the little 
 village below, the sparkling Straits, and the blue line of 
 land in the distant north. At least Anne was looking at 
 them. But her lover was looking at her. 
 
 "It is enough to repay even the long silence of those 
 long years, "he said. 
 
 And others might have agreed with him. For it was a 
 
538 ANNE. 
 
 woman exquisitely and richly beautiful whom he held in 
 his arms, whose tremulous lips he kissed at his pleasure, 
 until, forgetting the landscape, she turned to him with a 
 clinging movement, and hid her face upon his breast. 
 Her heart, her life, her being, were all his, and he knew 
 it. She loved him intensely. 
 
 "Something may be allowed to a starved man," he had 
 said, the first time they were alone together after his ar 
 rival, his eyes dwelling fondly 011 her sweet face. "Do 
 not be careful any more, Anne; show me that you love 
 me. I have suffered, suffered, suffered, since those old 
 days at Caryl s. " 
 
 On this June afternoon they lingered on the height un 
 til the sun sank low in the west. 
 
 "We must go, Ward." 
 
 "Wait until it is out of sight." 
 
 They waited in silence until the gold rim disappeared. 
 Then they turned to each other. 
 
 "Your last day alone; to-morrow you will be my wife. 
 Do you remember when I asked you whether the whole 
 world would not be well lost to us if we could but have 
 love and each other ? We had love, but the rest was de 
 nied. Now we have that also. . . . Anne, I was, and am 
 still, an idle, selfish fellow. Whatever change there has 
 been or will be is owing to you. For you love me so 
 much, my darling, that you exalt me, and I for very shame 
 try to live up to it." 
 
 He looked at her, and she saw the rare tears in his 
 eyes. 
 
 Then he brushed them away, smiled, and offered his 
 arm. " Shall we go down now, Mrs. Heathcote ?" 
 
 They were married the next morning in the little mili 
 tary chapel. Mrs. Rankm was at the fort again, Lieuten 
 ant Rankin being major and in command. The other 
 poor wives who had been her companions there were 
 widows now ; the battle-fields round Richmond were 
 drawn with lines of fire upon their hearts forever. Mrs. 
 Rankin, though but just arrived, left her household gods 
 unpacked to decorate the chapel with wreaths of the early 
 green. Miss Teller and Miss Lois, both in such excitement 
 
ANNE. 539 
 
 that they spoke incoherently, yet seemed to understand 
 each other nevertheless, superintended the preparations at 
 the church-house. 
 
 As a wedding gift, Gregory Dexter sent the same pack 
 age Anne had once returned to him ; the only addition 
 was a star for the hair, set with diamonds. 
 
 " I said that perhaps you would accept these some time" 
 (he wrote). "Will you accept them now? They were 
 bought for you. It will give me pleasure to think that 
 you are wearing them. I have no right to offer you a ring ; 
 but the diamond, in some shape, I must give you, as the 
 one imperishable stone. With unchanging regard, 
 
 "GREGORY DEXTER." 
 
 "You have no objection?" said Anne, with a slight 
 hesitation in her voice. 
 
 No, " answered Heathcote, carelessly ; "it would hurt 
 him too much if we returned them. But what a heavily 
 gorgeous taste he has ! Diamonds, sables, and an India 
 shawl !" 
 
 He had never been jealous of Dexter. Why should 
 he be jealous now ? 
 
 The new chaplain read the marriage service, but Pere 
 Michaux gave the bride away. Not only the whole vil 
 lage was present, but the whole water parish also, if not 
 within the chapel, then without. People had begun to 
 cross from the mainland and islands at dawn, so as to be 
 in time ; the Straits were covered by a small fleet. Miss 
 Teller was the only stranger, save the bridegroom him 
 self. 
 
 Anne was dressed simply in soft white ; she wore no or 
 naments. Mr. and Mrs. Heathcote would not be rich ; on 
 the contrary, they would begin their married life with a 
 straitened income, that is, in worldly wealth. In youth, 
 beauty, and a love so great that it could not be measured 
 in words, the bridegroom was richer than the proudest 
 king. As for the bride, one look in her eyes was enough. 
 
 "I, Anne, take thee, Ward, to my wedded husband, to 
 have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for 
 
540 ANNE. 
 
 worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, 
 to love, cherish, and to ohey, till death us do part, ac 
 cording to God s holy ordinance ; and thereto I give thee 
 my troth." 
 
 " Anne, "said Miss Teller, drawing the new-made wife 
 aside, I want to whisper something. I will not tell 
 Ward men are different. But I want you to know that 
 Helen s grave is covered with heliotrope in Greenwood 
 this morning, and that I am sure she knows all, and is 
 glad." 
 
 THE END. 
 

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