S R L F 
 
 Date due is stairped on charge 
 slip in back of item. 
 
 Material must be returned to 
 
 the unit from "which it 
 
 was checked cut. 
 
 DO NOT REMDVE THIS BAND 
 
 (i) 
 
 UJ 
 
 DO NOT PHdVE THIS BAND 
 
 Southern Regional Library 
 405 Hilgard Avenue

 
 POPULAR NOVELS. 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. Mary J. Holmes. 
 
 1. TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 2. ENGLISH ORPHANS. 
 
 8. HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDES. 
 
 4. 'LENA RIVERS. 
 
 5. MKADOW BROOK. 
 
 6. DOHA DKANE. 
 
 7. COUSIN MAUDE. 
 
 8. MARIAN OKAY. 
 
 9. DAHKNE.SS AND DAYLIGHT. 
 10. HUGH WORTH INGTON. 
 11. CAMERON PRIDE. 
 12. ROSK MATHER. 
 13. KTIIKI.YN'S MISTAKE. 
 14. MILLBANK. 
 15 EDNA BROWNING. 
 1(5. WKST LAWN 
 17. KDITII LYI.K. (New.) 
 
 "Mm. Holmi-K In a peculiarly plc-awim tind fascinating 
 
 writer. >Icr books are Rlwayx ent-rtamin2, mid r-he 
 
 ban the rare faculty <>f Riili:ing the nympathy 
 
 and nffectioriK of hi-r n-diit-r-', and of holding 
 
 their atu-nlion to h T imsrea wilh deep 
 
 and abaortnng iiiU;rc-'t." 
 
 All puhlLhcd uniform with this volume. Prirp $ 1 .50 each 
 and henty/'c< by mail, on iccelpi of price, ly 
 
 O. W. < \ U I.I I ON ,v CO., Piibllheni t 
 New York.
 
 EDITH LYLE. 
 
 MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, 
 
 VUTHOR OF 
 
 TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE LENA RIVERS MEADOW-BROOK MARIAN 
 
 GREY CAMERON PRIDE ETHELYN'S MISTAKE EDNA 
 
 BROWNING WEST LAWN, ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers. 
 
 LONDON: S. LOW & CO. 
 MDCCCLXXVI.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1876, BY 
 DANIEL HOLMES, 
 
 J->MN F. TROW & Son, 
 PRINTERS AND STKRKOTYPILRS, 
 aoi-ai 3 East \itk Street,
 
 TO 
 
 MY ESTEEMED FRIENDS, 
 
 9. 9 iwrt 4mfl $mti$ 9. Jtottfc, 
 
 Editors of the Netu York Wetkly, 
 
 TO WHOM 
 I AM INDEBTED FOR SO MANY KINDNESSES IN THE PAST, 
 
 THIS STORY.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. By Esther Olivia Armstrong 9 
 
 I. , and Call it Abelard 10 
 
 II. Heloise 14 
 
 III. The Day of the Funeral 21 
 
 IV. The Confession 28 
 
 V. Edith Lyle 36 
 
 VI. The Beginning of a New Life 41 
 
 VII. Eleven Years Later 44 
 
 VIII. Mother and Daughter 51 
 
 IX. Godfrey Schuyler 56 
 
 X. Colonel Schuyler 68 
 
 XL Edith's Diary 76 
 
 XII. Edith and her Mother 81 
 
 XIII. Mrs. Barrett's Lodgers 84 
 
 XIV. Colonel Schuyler Returns 87 
 
 XV. Edith's Answer 92 
 
 XVI. Breaking the News 101 
 
 XVII. The Bridal 108 
 
 XVIIL At Oakwood after the Bridal 114 
 
 XIX. The Bridal Days 119 
 
 XX. On the Sea 132 
 
 XXL The Ladies at Schuyler HilL 145 
 
 XXII. The News at Schuyler HilL 149 
 
 XXIII. Mrs. Rogers and Gertie at Hampstead 159 
 
 XXIV. Mrs. Rogers Gets Work 1 72 
 
 XXV. They Come 175 
 
 XXVI. How they Received her 178 
 
 XXVIL After Dinner 189 
 
 XXVIIL One Day in Hampstead 198 
 
 XXIX. The First Sunday in Hampstead 209 
 
 XXX. Company at Schuyler Hill 217 
 
 XXXI. The Church Sociable. 222 
 
 XXXIL Mrs. Rogers Speaks her Mind 230 
 
 XXXIII. The New Life at the Hill 234
 
 viii CONTENT^. 
 
 CHAPTER PAG* 
 
 XXXIV. Mary Rogers. 240 
 
 XXXV. Gertie at the Hill 246 
 
 XXXVI. After Four Years 256 
 
 XXXVII. The Travellers 261 
 
 XXXVIII. Colonel Schuyler Interviews Godfrey 275 
 
 XXXIX. Colonel Schuyler Interviews Gertie 282 
 
 XL. Robert Macpherson Interviews Gertie 288 
 
 XLI. A few Details of that Summer in Hampstead 293 
 
 XLII. The Sail on the River 297 
 
 XLIII. The Course of Love does not Run Smooth 304 
 
 XLIV. Godfrey and Gertie .' 307 
 
 XLV. Robert Macpherson and Colonel Schuyler 313 
 
 XLVI. Godfrey and his Father .*. 315 
 
 XLVII. Waiting 318 
 
 XLVIII. Giving in Marriage 320 
 
 XLIX. Mrs. Doctor Barrett 323 
 
 L. The Storm Gathering 330 
 
 LI. The Storm Bursts 333 
 
 LII. The Battle between Life and Death 343 
 
 LIII. Colonel Schuyler and the Secret 348 
 
 LIV. Husband and Wife 356 
 
 LV. The Search in London 364 
 
 LVI. Gertie 372 
 
 LVII. In New York 375 
 
 LVIII. Gertie and the Story 384 
 
 LIX. The Story in Hampstead 391 
 
 LX. Edith and Gertie- 397 
 
 LXL Godfrey and Gertie 402 
 
 LXII. The Wedding 408 
 
 LXIII. Mary Rogers' Letter to Edith. 411 
 
 LXI V., and Last 419
 
 EDITH LYLE. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 BY ESTHER OLIVIA ARMSTRONG. 
 
 |S I sit here, this bright autumnal morning, and from the 
 window of my room look out upon the river winding 
 its way to the sea, there falls upon my ears the merry 
 chime of bells from the tower of the old gray church, wedding- 
 bells they are, and their echoes float across the water, and up 
 the mountain side, and then die away among the wooded cliffs 
 beyond, where the foliage has just been touched with the Octo- 
 ber frost, and has here and there a gay trimming of scarlet and 
 gold on its summer dress of green. There is a wedding at St. 
 Luke's to-day, and the bridal party is passing now, and I kiss 
 my hand to the beautiful bride, who flashes a smile at me from 
 those wonderful eyes of hers, eyes so like in expression to those 
 of the elder lady who sits beside her, and but for whom that 
 wedding at St. Luke's would never have been. They are gone 
 now from my sight, and only the pealing of the bells is heard in 
 the quiet street, and as I muse upon the strange event which 
 has made the people of our town wild with excitement and curi- 
 osity, and of which I, perhaps, know quite as much as any one, 
 I ask myself, " Why not write out the story, suppressing names, 
 and dates, and localities, and give it to the world, as a proof 
 that real life is sometimes stranger than fiction." 
 
 And so, just as the sound of the marriage-bells dies away 
 among the distant hills, I take my pen to begin a tale which 
 i*
 
 10 AA'D CALL IT ABQLARD. 
 
 will have in it no part of my own life, save as it was sometimes 
 interwoven with the lives of those whose history I write, /am 
 only Esther Armstrong, the village school-mistress, a plain, old- 
 fashioned woman of thirty-five, with no incident whatever in my 
 life worth recording ; and so, with no thought that any one will 
 accuse me of egotism or conceit, I write down 
 
 CHAPTER I., 
 
 AND CALL IT ABELARD. 
 
 JHE Schuylers were of Holland descent, and had mar- 
 ried and intermarried in England and America, and 
 had in their family a title, it was said, and they 
 boasted of their Dutch blood, and English blood, and Ameri- 
 can blood, and, like the famous Miss McBride, " were proud 
 of their money and proud of their pride," and proud to be 
 known as " the Schuylers of New York," who had for so 
 many years kept themselves free from anything approaching to 
 plebeianism, and whose wealth and importance had been steadily 
 on the increase since the first English Schuyler left his ances- 
 tral halls in Lincolnshire across the sea. But the race was 
 gradually dying out, and the only male member of the direct 
 line in America was Colonel Howard, a proud, reticent man, 
 who, a few years before my story opens, had married Miss 
 Emily Rossi ter, a lady fully up to the Schuyler standard of moral 
 and social worth. 
 
 It was trile she brought with her a plain face and a brain not 
 overburdened with ideas, but she added to these the sum of two 
 hundred thousand dollars and an exclusiveness which saw noth- 
 ing outside her own narrow circle of friends. At the time of 
 her marriage her husband, Colonel Howard Schuyler, who loved 
 the fresh grass and the air from the hills better than brick walls 
 and stony pavements, suggested that they should spend a por- 
 tion of the summer at his country-seat on the river, but to this 
 the lady would not listen. Hampstead was too quiet. Her
 
 AND CALL IT ABELARU. IT 
 
 elegant laces, and satins, and diamonds, would be sadly out of 
 place in that rustic neighborhood, she thought ; and so she went 
 first to Europe, and then, season after season, to Newport and 
 Saratoga, and had a cottage at Nahant, and climbed the White 
 Mountains and the Catskills; and tired herself out in her pursuit 
 of happiness, until, at last, broken in health and spirits, she sig- 
 nified a wish to go to Ham'pstead, whexe she could find the rest 
 she needed. ' 
 
 And so one April day Colonel Schuyler came up to our little 
 town with a whole army of workmen, who began. at once their 
 task of tearing down and rebuilding the old house, which had 
 belonged to the Schuylers so long, and which latterly had been 
 unoccupied and gradually going to decay. The house, which 
 was very .large, stood upon an eminence overlooking the town 
 of Hampstead and the river below, and from this fact the place 
 was known as Schuyler Hill, though for years and years not a 
 Schuyler had lived there or manifested the slightest interest in 
 it. There was a time, however, within my mother's memory, 
 when all through the summer months high festival had been 
 held at the old place by the Schuylers, whose graves were now 
 in a little inclosure at the summit of the hill, where the tall 
 evergreens were growing, and where the weather-stained head- 
 stones were, with their quaint devices and eulogies of people 
 dead long before I was born. Sometimes on a bright summer 
 afternoon I used to climb over the low railing into this yard, to 
 gather the roses and sweet-brier which grew there in such pro- 
 fusion, and, seated on the grass, I would muse upon the dead 
 folk who slept below, and wish so much for a return of the days 
 of which my mother had told me, when the great house was full 
 of high-born people, who made the neighborhood so gay, and 
 whose revellings were sometimes prolonged far into the night. 
 
 At last, however, there was a prospect of those days coming 
 back again, and the whole town was alive with wonder and 
 curiosity when it was known that not only was the old house to 
 give way to a new and elegant modern structure, but that the 
 family was really coming there to live a good portion of the 
 year. Hampstead, which had slept so long, was alive now.
 
 12 AALt CALL IT ABELARD. 
 
 1'roperty went up, and the people began to talk of a bank, and 
 a new hotel, and sent a petition that the express trains from 
 Albany should stop there, instead of thundering by on the 
 wings of the wind with a snort and a scream, which I thought 
 was tantalizing and impertinent in the extreme. Great, too, 
 was the excitement and interest with regard to the new house, 
 which, under swift and efficient workmen, grew so rapidly that, 
 early in June, the framework of the tower could be seen above 
 the tree-tops, and was watched eagerly by the curious villagers. 
 " Lady Emily," as her English maid always called her, came 
 up one day to see the place and give some directions with re- 
 gard to certain rooms intended expressly for herself, and with 
 her came little Godfrey, her only son, a brown-eyed, sweet-faced 
 boy not quite six years old. I remember just how they looked 
 as they drove through the town in their open barouche, Lady 
 Emily in her jaunty bonnet, which I thought too small and young 
 for her pale, faded face, and little Godfrey in his velvet suit, 
 with his long hair curling on his neck. He was a pleasant, so- 
 ciable child, and soon made the acquaintance of all the work- 
 men, but was best pleased with Abelard Lyle, the young Eng- 
 lishman who was employed upon the tower, and who at night, 
 when his work was done, made wonderful wagons and carts for 
 the pretty little lad. All day long Godfrey played about the 
 building, and sometimes climbed the highest possible point, and 
 stood watching the men at their work below. Especially was 
 he delighted with the tower where Abelard was ; and one morn- 
 ing, the third after his arrival at Hampstead, he mounted to a 
 timber above the young man's head, where he stood waving his 
 cap and hurrahing to his mother, who was driving leisurely 
 about the grounds in her pony phaeton. She saw him, and with 
 a frantic gesture of her hand motioned him to come clown, 
 while Abelard, too, called aloud to him and warned him of his 
 danger. How it happened Godfrey never could explain. He 
 only knew that he stepped backward and fell, that Abelard 
 c au^ht him by the arm and threw him with a desperate effort 
 upon a nairow platform, where he lay unharmed, while his 
 brave deliverer la)- on the rubbish far below, a crushed, bleed-
 
 AND CALL IT ABELARD. 13 
 
 ing thing ! Only a thing now, no life, no motion, no soul, for 
 that had gone to God ; and they took the limp, insensible ob- 
 ject and laid it upon the grass, which was wet with the blood 
 pouring from the deep wound upon the temple where a sharp 
 stone had struck. Trembling with fear, little Godfrey came 
 down the long ladders and across the piles of boards to the 
 mutilated form upon the grass ; and young as he was, he never 
 forgot the look of the pale, dead face upturned to the summer 
 sun. 
 
 " Oh father ! " he cried, as Colonel Schuyler came up, " he 
 catched me and throwd me onto the board, and tried to hold 
 on himself, but couldn't ; and now he's dead, and I liked him 
 so much ; what shall we do ? " 
 
 They could do nothing but bear the poor youth to his board- 
 ing place near by, where they washed the blood and dirt from 
 his stained face and matted hair, and then began to ask where 
 he came from, and who his relatives were, if he had any. He 
 was an English boy, and had not been long in the country, some 
 one said ; but nobody could tell anything definite concerning him 
 or his friends, until there stepped from the crowd an elderly, 
 dignified woman, whom the people recognized as Mrs. Fordham, 
 a comparative stranger to them all. She, too, was English, and 
 she knew the youth who had lost his own life in his efforts to 
 save another. She had known him on the ship, she said. He 
 had come to America in the same vessel with herself a few 
 months before. If they liked, they could take him to her house 
 and bury him from there, as she was the only acquaintance he 
 seemed to have, and he had sometimes called upon her since 
 coming to Hampstead. To this proposition the matron of 
 the boarding-house assented eagerly. A dead body and a fun- 
 eral were not at all to. her taste, and besides she was not sure 
 as to the pay she might receive for her trouble, and she thanked 
 Mrs. Fordham so cordially, and evinced so strong a desire to be 
 rid of her late boarder, that the matter was arranged at once, 
 and Mrs. Fordham started for home to make ready for the dead 
 man, who had been there only the night before, and had left her 
 so full of life, and health, and hope for the untried future.
 
 14 HELOISE 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HELOISE. 
 
 jF Mrs. Fordham but little was known in Hampstead at 
 that time. She had only been with us since the first 
 of May, and soon after her coming she had said that 
 if she could not have the best society she would prefer to have 
 none ; and as the so-called best society was a little shy of 
 strangers and foreigners, she was left mostly to herself, and 
 was seldom seen except at church, where she was a regular 
 attendant, and where her daughter, a young girl of fifteen or 
 more, attracted much attention by the exceeding beauty of her 
 face, and the delicate refinement of her manner. 
 
 Subsequently we learned more of her history, which was as 
 follows : 
 
 A native of Berwick, in England, she belonged to what might 
 be^called the " higher poor class." A nursery governess in her 
 girlhood, she had come in constant contact with many high- 
 born ladies who visited in the family of her employer, and whom 
 she watched and imitated until there was in her manner a cer- 
 tain dignity and air of cultivation which marked her as different 
 from others in her own rank of life. Exceedingly ambitious, 
 she refused mahy an offer which her companions called good, 
 and at the age of thirty was married to Henry Fordham, a poor 
 curate, whose parish was on the Scottish border among the 
 heather hills. Here, after three years of wedded life, she buried 
 him and returned to her lonely home in Berwick, with one only 
 child, a little girl, whom she called Edith Heloise. 
 
 As the daughter of a clergyman Edith was a born lady, and 
 Mrs. Fordham felt all her old ambition revive, as she thought 
 what her daughter might one day become, a titled lady perhaps, 
 and certainly the mistress of some rich man's home ; and to 
 this end she was carefully secluded from the common people 
 around her. and early taught to think that a brilliant future lay 
 before her if she would follow implicitly the instructions ol her
 
 HELOISE. 15 
 
 mother. From a distant relative Mrs. Fordham had received a 
 small annuity, on which she managed to live very comfortably 
 until Edith, or Heloise, as she preferred to call her, was fifteen, 
 when she determined upon emigrating to America, where her 
 daughter's chances for a high social position were greater than 
 in England. 
 
 In the same vessel with her was Abelard Lyle, a young car- 
 penter from Alnwick, who was also going to seek his fortune in 
 the western world. Arrived at New York he found employment 
 at once on Col. Schuyler's house in Hampstead, whither, at his 
 instigation, Mrs. Fordham removed early in May. She was want- 
 ing a cottage in the country, she said, and Abelard found one for 
 her and persuaded her to take it, and attended himself to fit- 
 ting it up, and stood waiting to welcome her when she came at 
 last to take possession. Mrs. Fordham was very gracious and 
 thanked him for his thoughtfulness, and said he was very good 
 and she should not forget his kind interest in her ; and yet there 
 was in her manner something which he understood, and which 
 made him doubly anxious to please and propitiate her. He 
 was well enough as a friend and adviser, and during the voyage 
 and after their arrival in New York, Mrs. Fordham had found it 
 convenient to call upon him for help whenever she pleased, but 
 she alxvays managed to make him feel how immeasurable was 
 the gulf between him and her daughter, whose servant he might 
 be, but nothing more. 
 
 Heloise was vvondrously beautiful, with an ease and grace 
 about her which would have become a princess. From her 
 father's side she had inherited " good blood," a fact which her 
 mother kept constantly before her mind. And as she talked of 
 the brilliant matches which had been made in the new world and 
 could be made again, Heloise listened, at first quietly, with a 
 peculiar look in her eyes and a bright flush on her cheek. Lat- 
 terly, however, there had been a worried, anxious expression on 
 her face when her mother was talking to her, and on the morn- 
 ing of which I write she had left her coffee untouched and stoleri 
 from the room so as not to hear what her mother was saying of 
 Abelard Lyle. He had called upon them the previous night,
 
 1 6 HELOISE. 
 
 and stayed too long and seemed too much at home, Mrs. Ford- 
 ham thought. 
 
 " He is a fine young man, I know, and I respect him very 
 much," she said ; " but he is only a carpenter, and I do not 
 think it well to be very intimate with him. I saw you give him 
 a rose. I wouldn't do it again, or encourage him to come here." 
 
 Mrs. Fordham was talking to herself now, for Heloise was in 
 the garden, with her face turned toward Schuyler Hill, where 
 the men were already at work. She could hear the sound of 
 their hammers, as stroke after stroke fell upon the heavy tim- 
 bers, and it seemed to her as if. there were a low undertone of 
 music in it all, especially in the strokes which rang out from the 
 tall tower rising above the trees. There was a fascination about 
 that tower ; and all during the morning, while her mother, who 
 had an errand in the village, was away, Heloise sat by the win- 
 dow, where she could see the square frame and the broad-shoul- 
 dered figure upon it. 
 
 Once, when she felt sure the face was turned toward her, she 
 waved her handkerchief, and was rewarded with a flourish in, 
 the air of the right arm, and then she knew that Abelard could 
 see her ; and she sat very still, and applied herself to the ruffle 
 she was hemming, and thought such thoughts as made her 
 cheeks the color of the rose she had given to Abelard the pre- 
 vious night. 
 
 And while she sat there thus, there was the sound of carriage- 
 wheels, and Lady Emily Schuyler drove slowly down the road 
 with her English maid in attendance. Heloise had seen the 
 lady in church the day before, but instead of staring at her as 
 the others had done, had shrunk from view, and was glad that 
 she sat behind the Schuyler pew instead of in front of it. And 
 now, as the carriage came near, she leaned back in her chair to 
 avoid being seen. 
 
 Thus screened from observation, she sat waiting for it to pass, 
 and her heart gave a great thump when she heard it stop 
 directly before the house, while Mrs. Schuyler uttered an excla- 
 mation of delight at the roses growing so profusely in the yard. 
 
 "Oh, Janette, how lovely those roses are! 1 must have
 
 HELOISE. 17 
 
 some for my hair, they will brighten me up at dinner, and I 
 am looking pale and forlorn, and that vexes Colonel Schuyler 
 so. I wonder if there is any one at home." 
 
 " There must be, for both doors and windows are open. 
 Wait while I see." 
 
 And, suiting the action to the word, the maid, Janette, sprang 
 to the ground, and, opening the gate, walked up to the door of 
 the room where Heloise was sitting. 
 
 There was no help for her now. The danger, if danger there 
 was in seeing Mrs. Schuyler, must be met, and Heloise rose at 
 once, and to Janette's explanation that "Lady Emily would like 
 a few of those lovely roses," she bowed assent, and went herself 
 to get them. 
 
 " It may as well come first as last," she thought, and, with- 
 out any covering for her head, she went out into the yard, and, 
 gathering a bunch of the finest flowers, carried them to Mrs. 
 Schuyler, who looked curiously at her, while she expressed her 
 thanks. 
 
 Very curiously, too, Heloise looked at her, thinking it would 
 take more than roses to brighten up that sallow, sickly face, 
 and not much wondering that Colonel Schuyler did not like it. 
 
 "I don't believe she remembered me," she said, as she re- 
 turned to the house and watched the carriage disappearing 
 from view. "And why should she ? " she continued. " She 
 was not at all interested in the matter, and only thought of me 
 as some common girl doing a very foolish thing, I daresay. 
 She looks paler than she did then, and more fretful, too. I 
 wonder if she is happy with all her money ? " 
 
 And Heloise fell to speculating as to whether she could be 
 happy if she were Mrs. Schuyler and lived in that handsome 
 house on Schuyler Hill. It would be a fine thing, no doubt, 
 to have all the money one wanted, and not to be obliged to 
 turn and fix and mend the Sunday dress until there was but 
 little of the original left ; and she tried to fancy herself the 
 mistress of Schuyler Hill, with Colonel Schuyler away and some 
 one else in his place, and her eyes went over the tree-tops to 
 the tall tower and the figure working there.
 
 1 8 HELOISE. 
 
 " Better as it is," she thought, and leaning back in her chair 
 she went off into a pleasant kind of reverie, from which she was 
 roused by the sound of horse's feet, galloping swiftly down the 
 road as if on an errand of life or death. 
 
 The rider was one of the men from Schuyler Hill, and 
 swiftly as he rode Heloise detected a look of terroi on his face 
 and wondered what had happened. 
 
 Involuntarily she glanced again toward the tower, and missed 
 the form she had seen there a short time before. But there 
 was nothing strange in that. She often missed him when he 
 went down for nails or orders from his overseer, and she 
 thought no more of it until an hour later, when her mother 
 came up the walk, looking very red and disturbed, and asking, 
 abruptly : 
 
 " Have you heard of the dreadful accident at the Hill ?" 
 
 Heloise never could explain why it was that she seemed in- 
 tuitively to know that the accident had reference to the only 
 one through whom she could be deeply touched. But she did 
 know it, and her lips were pale as ashes, and trembled in a 
 grieved kind of way as she said : " It is Abelard." 
 
 " Yes ; who told you ? " her mother asked. 
 
 And Heloise replied : 
 
 " No one told me. I knew without telling. Is he much 
 hurt ? Where is he ? " 
 
 And she caught her bonnet from the nail and started for the 
 door. 
 
 " Stop, child. Where are you going ? " Mrs. Fordham 
 said. 
 
 And Heloise replied : 
 
 " Going to Abelard. Didn't you tell me he was hurt ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but, Heloise " and Mrs. Fordham hesitated a little, 
 frightened by the expression on her daughter's face, "you must 
 not go. There is no need ; he will be here soon. I told them 
 to bring him, as we are the only friends he has, and I hurried 
 home to get the front room ready. Abelard is dead ; he fell 
 from the tower and was killed ; there they are now." 
 
 And pointing to the group of men coming slowly down the
 
 HELOISE, 19 
 
 road, Mrs. Fordham hastened to open her best room, and did 
 not see the look of unutterable anguish and horror which came 
 into her daughter's face when she heard the news. 
 
 Heloise did not faint, but she uttered a low, gasping cry, and 
 held fast to the back of a chair, while everything turned dark 
 about her, and she was conscious of nothing except that in the 
 yard there was the tramp of feet as the men came up the walk, 
 bearing the body of him who had left her only the night before, 
 full of life and health. Then she started, and fleeing up the 
 stairs to her own room, threw herself upon the bed, where she 
 lay listening to the sounds below, and trying to realize the full 
 extent of the horror which had come upon her. At last when 
 all was quiet, and the men were gone, she crept to the window 
 and looked out upon the day, which had seemed so bright to 
 her in the early morning, but was so dark and dreary n6w. 
 
 Colonel Schuyler himself wa.s just going through the gate, so 
 occupied with his own thoughts that he nearly stumbled over a 
 little girl who was coming into the yard, and in whom Heloise 
 recognized Phebe Young, the daughter of the woman with whom 
 Abelard had boarded. Heloise was not afraid of Phebe, but she 
 drew back from the window till Colonel Schuyler was out of 
 sight, feeling as if she almost hated him for having built the 
 house where Abelard lost his life. 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and ere Heloise could answer 
 it little Phebe Young came in. She had caught a glimpse of He- 
 loise at the window, and thinking it no harm, had come straight 
 up to her room. 
 
 " Please, miss," she said, laying a paper on the young girl's 
 lap, "we found this under his jacket pinned tight, and ma knew 
 most it corned from your rose bush, for there haint no more 
 like it in Hampstead, and she sent it to you, cause she guesses 
 you liked him some." 
 
 It was the rose Heloise had picked for Abelard and fastened 
 in his buttonhole the night before, when they stood for a moment 
 by the gate, and he told her to watch for him on the morrow as 
 he was to work upon the tower. Now he was dead, and the 
 rose, which had been so fresh and dewy then, was wilted and
 
 20 HELOISE. 
 
 crushed, and right in the centre, upon the pure white petals, was a 
 little drop of blood, or rather the stain of one. Abelard's blood, 
 Heloise knew, and she felt a strange sickness steal over her as 
 she held the faded flower in her hand and gazed upon that bright 
 red spot, the sight of which seemed to stamp a similar mark 
 upon her heart, which ached and throbbed with a new pain. 
 
 "Yes, Phebe, thank you; it was kind in your mother; and 
 now, please go ; my head is aching badly," she said ; and 
 motioning Phebe from the room, she thrust the blood-stained 
 rose into her bosom and went again to her bed, where she lay 
 until her mother came to see what she was doing. 
 
 There were no tears on Heloise's cheeks, no trace of them 
 in her eyes, but her white face told volumes to Mrs. Fordham, 
 who laid her hand on her daughter's hair, saying, kindly : 
 
 " I never knew you cared so much for him. Poor boy, I am 
 so sorry. He looks very natural. Would you like to see him ? " 
 
 " No, mother, not now," was the answer, and that was all 
 that passed between them on the subject of Abelard that 
 day. 
 
 Heloise was very sick with headache and kept her room, and 
 at night her mother brought her toast and tea, and tried to 
 make her eat, and told her how kind the Schuylers were, and 
 what a sweet little boy Godfrey was, and how badly he felt at 
 Abelard's death. He had been to see the body, and his mother 
 had been there, too, and Mrs. Fordham dwelt upon her fine 
 manners and handsome dress, and Godfrey's velvet suit and 
 manly face, until Heloise felt as if she should go mad, and 
 begged her mother to leave her. 
 
 She hated the Schuylers one and all, for through them 
 Abelard had met his death, and she did not dare look into the 
 future or question what it had in store for her. She only felt 
 that all the brightness of her life had been suddenly stricken 
 out, leaving her utterly hopeless and desolate, and long after 
 her mother was asleep in the next room she lay awake wonder- 
 ing what she should do, and if, as she feared, it would be neces- 
 sary for her to tell. And even if it were not necessary, was it 
 right for her to withhold the secret which was torturing her so
 
 THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 21 
 
 cruelly? Was it just to Abelard, and did it not look as if she 
 were ashamed of the past as connected with him ? 
 
 " I am not, darling, I am not ! " she moaned ; " and to-mor- 
 row, when they lower you into the grave, I will, be there, and, 
 in a voice everybody can hear, I'll tell the truth, and face the 
 entire world, mother and all." 
 
 The facing mother was the hardest part of all, and Heloise 
 felt her pulse quicken and her head throb violently as she 
 fancied her mother's look of surprise and anger when she heard 
 the story which she meant to tell at the grave, and, while think- 
 ing how she should combat that anger and reproach, the early 
 summer morning crept into her room, and she heard the 
 watchers with the dead go through the yard into the street, and 
 knew that another day had come. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 jHERE was a great crowd out to attend the funeral of 
 Abelard Lyle, and, long before the hour appointed 
 for the services, Mrs. Fordham's cottage was filled to 
 overflowing, as were also the yard and street in front, and it was 
 with some difficulty the Schuyler family could make their way 
 through the dense mass of people. 
 
 They came late, and little Godfrey had a knot of crape upon 
 his arm, while Mrs. Schuyler wore a black silk, with no shade 
 of color to relieve her sallow face, and she looked, with her 
 high-bred city air, very much out of place, and very much 
 bored, too, as if she wished it well over, and wondered why her 
 nusband should take so much trouble for a poor young man, 
 and an entire stranger. And yet Lady Emily was not without 
 kindly feelings, and she felt very grateful to Abelard Lyle, and 
 very sorry that he should have lost his life in saving that of her 
 son ; and, at her husband's suggestion, she had been to the 
 cottage the day before to see that everything was right, and
 
 22 THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 had spoken civilly to Mrs. Fordhain, and asked for some more 
 roses, saying : 
 
 " I have had some once to-day. I was driving by just before 
 the terrible accident, and saw such a lovely young girl, your 
 daughter, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes, my daughter," Mrs. Fordham replied, a new hope 
 rising within her that through the Schuylers Heloise might 
 make her way to distinction. 
 
 Heloise had a headache, she said, else she would like so much 
 for Mrs. Schuyler to see her, and she thanked her for speaking 
 so kindly of her, and hoped she would call again when the 
 funeral was over. 
 
 To all this Lady Emily pretended to listen and nod assent, 
 and, when she had all the roses she cared for, she said good- 
 morning^and went back to the hotel, where she recounted the 
 particulars of her call to the English maid, with whom she was 
 on very familiar terms. 
 
 " Such assurance," she said, " as that woman has ! Why, 
 she talked to me as if I were her equal, and even asked me 
 to call again. She wanted me to see her daughter, that beau- 
 tiful young girl whom we saw in our drive this morning. Did I 
 tell you that is where they have taken the young man ? I 
 should not be surprised if he were the lover of the girl, only 
 she looked so very young. It seems to me I must have seen 
 her before." 
 
 The appearance of Colonel Schuyler brought to an end the 
 lady's conversation with Janette, and turning to her husband, 
 she asked where they were intending to bury the young man. 
 
 " In our own family lot," was the reply ; and then Lady 
 Emily dropped the flowers she was arranging, and her eyes 
 opened wider than their wont, and fixed themselves upon her 
 husband with a look of incredulity as she said : " Why, Howard, 
 you must be crazy ! Surely there are places enough without 
 putting him there." 
 
 "Yes, I know; but, Emily, consider for a moment, he 
 saved our boy's life, and I feel like paying him every possible 
 respect, and have ordered his grave to be made just under the
 
 THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 23 
 
 pine tree at the far side of the lot. There is room enough 
 between for all the Schuvlers who will ever be buried there." 
 
 Lady Emily knew from experience' that when her husband's 
 mind was made up, it was useless to argue with him, so she 
 said no more, but thought within herself that when her time 
 came to die, she would request that her aristocratic flesh be 
 laid in Greenwood beside the Rossiters, and not on Schuyler 
 Hill, in that little yard where a few gray, time-worn stones 
 marked the last resting-place of such of the Schuylers as were 
 buried there, and where Abelard Lyle was to be taken. Colo- 
 nel Schuyler was in one sense as proud as his wife, but with his 
 pride he had much good sense and genuine kindness of heart. 
 But for Abelard Lyle he would have lost his bright-faced boy, 
 and he felt truly grateful to the young man, and resolved to 
 show him every possible respect. So he ordered the funeral 
 himself, and sent to the cottage a handsome rosewood coffin, 
 and was in and out several times to see that all was right, and 
 when the hour for the services arrived, drove down with his wife 
 and son, and enacted the part of chief, and, indeed, only 
 mourner, for Abelard had no relatives, and Mrs. Fordham was 
 too much afraid of being identified with " that class of people " 
 to admit of any great manifestation of feeling on her part. For 
 the sake of the mother country, and because he had been kind 
 to her on the ship, she had allowed the body to be brought to 
 her house, but she managed to impress every one with the 
 great distance there was between herself and the dead man, 
 who looked so calm and peaceful, and handsome in his elegant 
 coffin, with a half-opened rose upon his breast. Mrs. Fordham 
 had put it there at Heloise's request ; but Heloise herself had 
 taken no part in anything, or even seen the body. She had 
 abandoned the idea of going to the grave and startling the peo- 
 ple with her story, as she had meant to do the previous day. 
 The pain in her head was too great to admit of her sitting up, 
 and during the entire day she never once appeared below, but 
 lay on the bed in her chamber, with her aching head buried in 
 the pillow, and the faded, blood-stained rose hidden away in 
 her bosom. She heard the people as they assembled in the
 
 24 THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 house and yard below, and knew when the Schuylers came by 
 the suppressed hush among the crowd. She heard, too, the 
 clergyman's voice as he read the burial service, and when they 
 carried the body out she arose from her bed and through the 
 half-closed shutters watched the funeral procession as it moved 
 up the road, to the top of Schuyler Hill, where the open grave 
 was waiting for all that was mortal of Abelard Lyle. Heloise 
 could not pray then, her heart was so hard and rebellious, and 
 ached so with a sense of actual pain, and loss, and a horrid fear 
 of what might be in the future ; and once when this fear got the 
 mastery of her she arose, and going to her private drawer, where 
 she kept her hidden treasures, took from it a box, in which she 
 sought for and found, as she supposed, the instrument which 
 was to help her in the hour of need, when she told the world 
 what she must ere long tell. With trembling fingers she un- 
 folded the paper and felt herself grow cold and faint, when she 
 saw that instead of the article which was to prove her innocent 
 and pure, she held only a receipt for goods bought and paid for 
 by her mother in New York. Search as she might, she could 
 not find the document she sought. That was gone, how or 
 where she could not guess until she remembered having burned 
 some waste papers accumulating in her drawer, only a few days 
 before. She had it then and read it over, and supposed she 
 laid it back in the box where she always kept it, but she must 
 have put in its place the receipt which was folded and looked 
 much like it, and burned the only evidence she had that she 
 was not the wicked thing she felt herself to be as she sank upon 
 the floor and wished that she could die. It was terrible to see 
 such grief in one so young, for Heloise, though well grown and 
 tall, was little more than fifteen, and her face when in repose 
 was the face of a child. But it seemed old now, and gray, and 
 pinched with that look of anguish upon it, mingled with some- 
 thing akin to shame, as she crouched upon the floor and whis- 
 pered to herself: 
 
 " What if mother and the world do not believe me ? " Then 
 swift as thought the answer came : " I'll drown myself in the 
 river ; " and titling upright upon the floor, the young girl went
 
 THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 25 
 
 through in fancy with all the sickening details which such a ca- 
 tastrophe would involve. The anxiety of the mother, the alarm, 
 the search for her body, the finding it at last, and the coroner's 
 inquest, where possibly her secret would be discovered and she 
 be disgraced all the same. 
 
 " No, no," she moaned, " better live and fight it out, know- 
 ing I am innocent, than carry a sullied name to a suicide' 
 grave." 
 
 "And lose your soul," something whispered in her ear, mak- 
 ing her start with a new horror as she remembered the hereafter 
 she had in her madness almost forgotten. 
 
 Falling upon her knees, she sobbed, "Lead me not into 
 temptation, but deliver me from evil." 
 
 That was all she could say, but Jesus knew what she meant, 
 knew that she wanted help, and He helped her as He always 
 does when asked aright, and her heart ceased to throb so pain 
 fully, and the hard look left her face, and the tears came to her 
 relief as she said : 
 
 "I know I am innocent, and so does God; and I'll tell 
 mother the truth, keeping nothing back." ^ 
 
 Heloise had risen now, and with trembling hands was binding 
 up her beautiful hair of golden brown, which Abelard had ad- 
 mired so much, and which she, too, knew was wonderful for its 
 brightness and luxuriance. Would she ever care for it again ? 
 -.he asked herself, as she put it away under a net where not even 
 a single curl could find its way to neck or brow, when suddenly, 
 as if it had been a vision, she saw an elegant room which seemed 
 to be at Schuyler Hill, and in that room a lady of marvellous 
 beauty, with a face like her own, save that it was older and more 
 mature, a lady, clad in satin and lace, with jewels in her flow- 
 ing hair and on her snowy neck, and to herself she said : 
 
 " That's I. How came I there ? " 
 
 Then the mist, if mist it was, which had for a moment cloud- 
 ed her mind, lifted, and she was herself again, Heloise Ford- 
 ham, standing in her own humble room and making herself 
 ready for the meeting with her mother, and the confession she 
 meant to make before she slept again.
 
 26 THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 
 
 I was at the funeral and saw Abelard in his coffin, and 
 thought how dreadful it was to die so far from home and have 
 no tears shed for me, for there were none shed for him. 
 Everybody looked sorry, and sober, and shocked, Colonel 
 Schuyler particularly so, and Lady Emily put her fine cambric 
 handkerchief to her eyes when the rector spoke of the noble 
 deed which never could be forgotten by those for whom it was 
 done ; but she did not cry, I know, for I was watching her, and 
 I wanted to shake little Godfrey, who, though he was very 
 subdued and quiet, actually nodded in his high chair before the 
 remarks were over. 
 
 It was a sad funeral and a big funeral, but one void of genu- 
 ine heartache, save as one young heart up-stairs was breaking, 
 and of this I did not then know. 
 
 Although more than two years the junior of Heloise, I per- 
 haps knew her better than any one else. Intimate friends she 
 had not, but between her and myself an acquaintance had 
 sprung up, born of our common love for flowers and rambles 
 by the river side. We had exchanged slips of roses and gera- 
 niums, and talked over the gate of our flower-beds, and once, 
 when caught in a rain-storm, she had taken tea with us and de- 
 lighted us all with her pretty, ladylike manners and soft, gentle 
 speech. I was charmed with her, and having, as I believed, a 
 secret of hers in my possession, I felt greatly interested in her, 
 and when at the funeral I missed her and heard of the sick 
 headache which was keeping her up-stairs, I had my own pri- 
 vate opinion with regard to the cause of that headache, and 
 with all the curiosity of a girl of thirteen, determined upon see- 
 ing her and judging for myself how a girl looked who had lost 
 her lover. Accordingly I lingered after the funeral, and when 
 the people were gone and I had taken several turns in the gar- 
 den I ventured up the stairs to her room and knocked softly 
 at her door. 
 
 " Come in," was spoken in a frightened tone, and I went in 
 and found her standing in the middle of the room, "her hands 
 pressed to her head and her eyes fixed upon the door with an 
 expression of alarm.
 
 THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL. 27 
 
 At sight of me, however, they changed at once, and with a 
 smile she said : 
 
 " Oh, it's you. I thought it was mother." 
 
 " No, she hasn't had time to come back yet," I replied ; and 
 then, touched by the look of her white face, I burst out : " Oh, 
 Heloise, isn't it terrible, and he so young and handsome ? I am 
 so sorry for you." 
 
 " Hush-sh," she said, in a tone of alarm. " Why are you 
 sorry for me ? Why should any one be more sorry for me than 
 for another ? " 
 
 She was gazing fixedly at me, and, impelled by something I 
 could not or did not try to resist, I replied : 
 
 " Because, because I guess he was your beau." 
 
 Heloise' s eyes were almost black now in her excitement, and 
 her voice was husky as she said : 
 
 " You guess he was my beau ! Why do you guess so ? What 
 business have you to guess so ? Tell me, child." 
 
 She seemed many years my senior then, and in obedience to 
 her question I answered : 
 
 " I've seen him look at you just as brother Tom looks at 
 Samantha Blackmer, and he's her beau ; and then I saw him 
 kiss you once down by the river, that time I came upon you 
 suddenly, you remember ; but I never told. He was your 
 beau, wasn't he ? " 
 
 She did not answer for a moment but her lips moved as if 
 she were trying to speak, and at last she said : 
 
 "No, he was not my beau, Ettie (that was my pet name 
 twenty years ago, before I was the village schoolmistress) 
 Ettie, I believe you like me, and I want I want you to, 
 oh, Ettie, if ever people say bad things of me don't you be- 
 lieve them, but stand by me, won't you?" 
 
 She had both my hands in hers, and was looking straight into 
 my eyes with an expression which half-frightened me out of my 
 wits, as I told her I would stand by her, without, however, 
 knowing at all what she meant. I was a little proud to be 
 thus appealed to, and when the fixed expression of her face 
 gave way and the tears began to roll down her cheeks, I cried
 
 28 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 too from sympathy and tried to comfort her and made her lie 
 down upon her bed, and when she was more quiet sat by her 
 until I heard her mother's step below. Then I took my leave, 
 for I was afraid of Mrs. Fordham, whom I met on the stairs, 
 and whose face I fancied looked brighter and more cheerful 
 than faces usually do when returning from a grave. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 j]ELOISE," Mrs. Fordham exclaimed, as she entered 
 her daughter's room. "What is the matter? You 
 look as if you had been sick for years. Can it be you 
 loved him so much ? " 
 
 "Yes, mother; more than you can guess. I'll tell you 
 about it by and by ; to-night, maybe, when I feel stronger. I 
 can't talk now." 
 
 " Would you like me to tell you how well everything passed 
 off at the grave, and how thoughtful Col. Schuyler was ? " Mrs. 
 Fordham continued, and Heloise replied : 
 
 " No, mother, not a word, now nor ever. I can't bear it. I 
 almost hate the Schuylers, and I wish I, too, was dead." 
 
 It was not often that Heloise was thus moved, and her 
 mother looked at her curiously, but she said no more of the 
 Schuylers or Abelard, and busied herself with putting the cot- 
 tage to rights and preparing a tempting little supper for her 
 daughter. But Heloise could not eat, and after the supper was 
 cleared away and her mother had taken her usual seat upon the 
 back porch, she crept to her side, and putting her head in her 
 lap, said entreatingly : 
 
 " Mother, 1 have something to tell you which will surprise 
 and probably offend you. 1 ought to have told it before, but I 
 was afraid and kept putting it off. It was wrong, I know, but 
 it cannot now be helped. Abclard and I were married !"
 
 THE CONFESSION. 29 
 
 " You married to Abelard Lyle ! " Mrs. Fordham exclaimed, 
 starting back as if a serpent had stung her. 
 
 She did not say, " I am glad then that he is dead," but she 
 thought it, and the thought must have communicated itself to 
 Heloise, for she lifted up her head and looked reproachfully in 
 her mother's face, while her lip quivered in a grieved kind 
 of way, but she did not cry, and her voice was steady as she 
 said : 
 
 "Oh, mother, don't speak so to me, as if marrying him was 
 the most disgraceful thing I could do. I loved him so much, 
 and he loved me. It was during the long voyage when I saw 
 so much of him. You know you were sick most of the time, 
 and that left me to him, and he was so kind, and before we 
 reached New York I promised to be his wife some time, and 
 meant to tell you." 
 
 "Why didn't you, then?" 
 
 The tone was harsh and unrelenting in which Mrs. Fordham 
 put this question, and Heloise flushed a little and answered, 
 hurriedly : 
 
 "It was wrong, I know, but you are, you were, forgive me, 
 mother, you are prouder, more ambitious than I am. You 
 think I might marry a nobleman, and I shrank from telling 
 you for fear you would separate us and that time you went to 
 Hoboken and stayed a week with your friend, Abelard persuad- 
 ed me to be married. We could keep it a secret, he said, until 
 he had something beforehand and was in a better position." 
 
 "Umph! As if he could rise to a better position. Child, 
 with your face and manner you might be the first lady in the 
 land, instead of throwing yourself away on a poor carpenter." 
 
 Mrs. Fordham spoke very bitterly, and her eyes had in them 
 a hard, angry look, which roused all the temper there was in 
 the young girl, who answered, hotly : 
 
 " Abelard' s profession was an honorable one. Joseph was a 
 carpenter. Abelard was not to blame for being poor ; one of 
 his sisteis married into as good a family as there is in Scotland, 
 and had lie lived he would have risen above poverty and ob- 
 scurity. America has many avenues for such as he, and I
 
 30 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 should one day have been so proud of him. Oh, my darling, 
 my husband ! " 
 
 The temper was all gone now, and the girl's voice was like 
 a wailing sob as she uttered the name, " My husband," but it 
 did not touch the mother's heart or make her one whit sorry for 
 her child. 
 
 " Where was it ? I mean who married you ? " she asked ; 
 and Heloise replied : 
 
 "A Mr. Calvert, in New York." 
 
 "A dissenter?" was the next question; and Heloise an- 
 swered : 
 
 " Yes, I believe so ; Abelard did not care who it was, so we 
 were married, and he looked in the Directory and found the 
 name of the Rev. Charles Calvert, and persuaded me to go 
 there. I think he was not preaching anywhere, but he could 
 marry us the same, and he did." 
 
 " Without any reference or asking you any questions ? " Mrs 
 Fordham said, and Heloise hesitated a little. 
 
 She did not like to tell that Abelard had represented her as 
 alone in this country, and had given that as a reason for marry- 
 ing so young ; so she evaded the question, and answered : 
 
 "The minister was satisfied, only he said I seemed like a 
 child ; and one of the ladies present said so, too, and asked 
 how old I was. Abelard told her, ' older than I looked,' and 
 that was all they said." 
 
 Heloise paused a moment, and then went on : 
 
 " I have heard since that Mr. Calvert was a half brother of 
 Mrs. Schuyler, who was in the room when we were married, 
 and had little Godfrey with her." 
 
 "Mrs. Schuyler saw you married ! " Mrs. Fordham ex- 
 claimed. "The matter grows worse and worse. Now that 
 Abelard is dead, I hoped it might not be known. You have 
 seen her since, do you think she recognized you ?" 
 
 " I know she did not. She could not have seen me dis- 
 tinctly that night in New York. She was sick, I think ; at 
 all events, she lay upon a couch, and did not get up at all. 
 1 know it was Mrs. Schuyler, because the other lady, Mrs. Cal-
 
 THE CONFESSION. 31 
 
 vert, called her Emily, and the little boy told Abelard his name 
 was Godfrey Schuyler." 
 
 " Have you a certificate of the marriage ? " was Mrs. Ford- 
 ham's next question, and her daughter replied : 
 
 " I did have, and kept it in a box Abelard gave me, but I've 
 lost it. I had it out the other day with some other papers, and 
 thought I put it back, but must have burned it and substituted 
 for it a receipt which looked like it. Oh, mother ! will people 
 think I never was married at all, when they know it ?" 
 
 The girl was crouching at her mother's feet in such an agony 
 of shame and fear that at first she hardly heard what her mother 
 was saying about there being no need for people to know of the 
 marriage. 
 
 " Godfrey is too young to remember it, or he would have 
 recognized Abelard," Mrs. Fordham said ; " and it is not likely 
 the two ladies thought enough of you to keep you in mind a 
 week. There is nothing but Abelard' s peculiar name to make 
 any impression. They might remember that." 
 
 " No, mother." And Heloise lifted her head quickly. " His 
 first name was James, and as he liked that the best, he called 
 himself 'James A. Lyle,' and it was so written in the certificate." 
 
 " Then it never need be known that you made this low mar- 
 riage ! " Mrs. Fordham exclaimed, in a tone of intense 
 relief. 
 
 " Mother ! " and starting up from her crouching posture, 
 Heloise's eyes flashed indignantly as she said, " do you think 
 I am ashamed of my love for Abelard, or that I will consent to 
 act a lie all my life, even if I could do so without detection, 
 which I cannot, for, mother, I have not told you all ; the dread- 
 ful part is to come. I I oh ! I can't speak it. You must 
 know what I mean." 
 
 Heloise was at her mother's feet again, her hands clasped 
 together nervously, and her breath coming in quick, panting 
 gasps, as she whispered the dreadful thing she had to tell, and 
 then fell forward on her face, fainting entirely away. 
 
 For an instant Mrs. Fordham sat like one stunned by a heavy 
 blow, powerless to move or speak ; but her ever-active, far-see
 
 32 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 ing mind was busy, and before she stooped to raise her uncon- 
 scious daughter, she had come to a decision. 
 
 All her hopes for the future should not be thus blasted. H> - 
 daughter should yet ride in the high places of the land, and 
 should never be known to the world as the widow of a carpenter. 
 She repeated the last words sneeringly, and then lifting up her 
 child bore her to the window, where the cool evening air could 
 blow upon her. It was not long ere Heloise came back to con- 
 sciousness, but her face still wore the same white, frightened lor * 
 it had put on when she whispered her secret Ere long, however, 
 the pallid hue changed to a scarlet flush as she listened to her 
 mother's plan, and her fixed purpose to carry it out. They 
 were to leave Hampstead at once and go back to England, 
 where in London they wtmld for a time live in obscurity, un- 
 known to any one save those with whom they were compelled 
 to come in contact. 
 
 " Nobody here will believe in your marriage," she said, as 
 she saw Heloise about to speak, and guessed that it was to 
 oppose her. " Your certificate is lost." 
 
 " Yes, but Mr. Calvert must have a record ; he would re- 
 member," Heloise said, faintly; and her mother replied: "Pos- 
 sibly ; but I do not care to have him remember. I do not wish 
 your marriage known, and it shall not be. Hear me, Heloise, 
 it shall not be, I say." 
 
 " But I cannot live a lie," the poor girl moaned, as she 
 rocked to and fro, with her head bent down, and her whole at- 
 titude one of great mental distress. 
 
 " You forget that you have been living a lie these three 
 months past. It is rather late now to make it a matter of con- 
 science, and I shall not listen to such foolishness. So far as 
 this you may be truthful. In England you may take his name. 
 Lyle is better than Fordham, and for a time you must of course 
 pass for a married woman ; after that, I have not decided." 
 
 There was a hard, implacable expression in Mrs. Fordham's 
 face as she said this, and she looked at that moment as if capa- 
 ble of almost anything which would promote her own ends. 
 Though kind and affectionate in the main she had always kept
 
 THE CONFESSION. 33 
 
 her daughter in a state of rigid obedience, if not subjection to 
 her will, and she had no idea of being thwarted now. Heloise, 
 who understood her so well and knew how useless it was to 
 contend with so strong and fierce a spirit, felt herself powerless 
 to oppose anything, and thus gave a tacit consent at least to her 
 mother's plans. For two or three days, however, she kept her 
 room, and did not go down when Mrs. Schuyler came with little 
 Godfrey, and asked for more of the " lovely roses." 
 
 There was nothing said of Abelard. Lady Emily had forgot- 
 ten him, and had no thought or care for the young girl watching 
 her from the window as she flitted about the rose-bush, in her 
 dainty white morning dress, with its lace and fluted ruffles. She 
 was not pretty at all, but her movements were very graceful, 
 and she made a pleasant picture in the little yard, and Heloise 
 half envied her as she thought how blessed she was in home, 
 and husband, and children she was not ashamed to own. She 
 was waiting now, it seemed, for the colonel, who was to take 
 her for a drive, and who soon came down the road, and stop- 
 ping before the gate asked Mrs. Fordham to come to him for a 
 moment. 
 
 He intended raising a monument to the memory of Abelard 
 Lyle, he said, and he would like to inquire his age, place of 
 birth, and if he had another name than Abelard. Mrs. Ford- 
 ham was sorry she could not give the desired information. In- 
 deed, people were laboring under a misapprehension with re- 
 gard to herself and the young man. He was a mere ship ac- 
 quaintance, but she believed he had a mother and possibly a 
 sister. She had never liked this country much, and was intend- 
 ing to return to England very soon, where she would find his 
 friends or communicate with them in some way. Colonel 
 Schuyler was very kind to be so much interested in the young 
 man. She had liked him, too, so far as she knew him, but she 
 had only done for him what she would do for any of her country- 
 men under similar circumstances. 
 
 Mrs. Fordham spoke loftily and decidedly, and Colonel 
 Schuyler looked at her a little curiously as he said : 
 
 "Ah, indeed ! I am sorry you don't know his age, though 
 2*
 
 34 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 it does not matter much. I wish you good-morning, 
 madam." 
 
 He lifted his hat and was turning away, when from the upper 
 window there came a clear, ringing voice, which said : 
 
 " Colonel Schuyler, I can tell you what you wish to know. 
 He was born in Alnwick, England ; he was twenty-three last 
 March, and his first name was James." 
 
 " Thanks," and Colonel Schuyler started in surprise, both at 
 the voice and the beautiful young face, which looked so eagerly 
 at him for an instant and then was withdrawn from sight. 
 
 " That was a most remarkable face, Emily. Do you know 
 who the young girl is?" Colonel Schuyler asked, as he drove 
 off with his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Schuyler believed it was the daughter of that woman, 
 and she guessed she was rather pretty, though she did not 
 notice her particularly. 
 
 " That class of people do sometimes produce very fine com- 
 plexions and tolerably good features." 
 
 That was the lady's reply, and then she talked of something 
 else, and forgot Heloise entirely. But that night, strangely 
 enough, the colonel dreamed of that window in the cottage 
 round which a honeysuckle was trained, and of a pale, sweet 
 face framed in the net-work of green, and the clear, hazel eyes, 
 which for a moment had looked at him. And, when he woke, 
 he was conscious of a feeling of interest in the young girl, and 
 resolved to make some inquiries concerning her. But the next 
 day he went down to New York to order the monument for 
 Abelard's grave; and when, after an absence of two weeks, he 
 returned to Hampstead, the cottage was shut up, and he 
 learned that Mrs. Fordham had gone to England and taken her 
 daughter with her. 
 
 Remembering what Mrs. Fordham had said to him when he 
 went to make some inquiries concerning Abelard Lyle, he was 
 not as much surprised as the villagers had been when they heard 
 of Mrs. Fordham's intention to give up her pretty cottage and 
 return to her friends. She laid great stress upon her friends, 
 and hinted broadly that the people of Hampstead were not to
 
 THE CONFESSION. 35 
 
 her taste. Nobody cared especially, though many wondered at 
 her fickleness in changing her residence so soon. I was sorry, 
 for I liked Heloise and hated to part with her. Remembering 
 what she had said to me of the dreadful thing which might hap- 
 pen to her, and to which my championship was pledged, I felt 
 disappointed not to have a chance of proving myself her friend, 
 and I told her so when I went to say good-by, and found her 
 in the little room where I had seen her on the day of the 
 funeral. Her eyes were almost black, and there was a peculiar 
 expression in them as she regarded me fixedly for a moment 
 without speaking. 
 
 " Ettie," she said at last, " I deceived you the other day. I 
 told you Abelard was not my beau, and that that was not quite 
 the truth, for though he was not what you meant, he was , I 
 liked him, oh so much, and he liked me, and and oh, Ettie, 
 I am very, very miserable." 
 
 She was sobbing piteously, and I could only smooth her hair 
 by way of comfort as I did not know what to say. 
 
 " Ettie," she began again, when she had dried her eyes, 
 " they say Colonel Schuyler is fixing up the grave and will put 
 a grand monument there. I am thankful to him for that, but 
 after a time he will forget all about it, and grass and weeds will 
 grow where only flowers should be. Ettie, you like me, I 
 think, and will you, for my sake, keep his grave up nice and 
 pretty, and put fresh flowers there in the summer-time ? Put 
 them in this vase ; I give it to you for that ; he bought it for 
 me in New York." 
 
 She placed in my hand a small vase of creamy white, with a 
 band of gold around it, and on its side a bunch of blue forget- 
 me-nots, in the centre of which were two hearts transfixed with 
 a golden arrow. 
 
 " It will make me happy to know this is on his grave when I 
 am so far away," she added ; "and, Ettie, don't tell any one, 
 but last night, when everybody was asleep, I went there and 
 planted a little rose-bush like that tree in the garden, you know. 
 I am sure it will live, for it had a good root, and I want you to 
 water it and nurse it to life, and when they put up the
 
 36 EDITH LYLE. 
 
 stone don't let them trample it down. Will you do this for 
 me ? " 
 
 I promised that I would, and she went on : 
 
 " Some time when I am older and have money I shall come 
 back to see his grave. You'll have it nice for me, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 I promised her again, and then, taking the scissors from the 
 table, she cut from the back of her head one of her long, bright 
 curls, and laying it in my hands bade me keep it as a remem- 
 brance of her. 
 
 " Mother is coming and you must go," she said, with a little 
 shiver, as we heard Mrs. Fordham's voice below, and with a 
 hurried kiss and the whispered words, " Remember about the 
 grave, good-by, I shall see you again some time, and possibly 
 write to you," she pushed me toward the door, and when 1 saw 
 her again she was waving her hand to me from the window of 
 the car which took her away from Hampstead. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 EDITH LYLE. 
 
 jjT was a dark, dreary, January afternoon, and the 
 dreariness and darkness were increased by the dense 
 fog which since noon had settled like a pall over the 
 great city of London, and by a pitiless rain, which, mixing 
 with melting snow, ran in muddy puddles down the gutters 
 and in dirty streams down the windows of the third floor back 
 room of the lodging in Dorset Street, where a very young 
 girl was lying. Her face was whiter than the pillow against 
 which it lay, and in the eyes there was a look of utter helpless- 
 ness, as if all life, and hope, and energy had been crushed out, 
 and there was nothing left but apathy and utter indifference to 
 the future. And yet this was the same face which Colonel 
 Schuyler had seen framed in a net-work of green, and of whose 
 bright beauty he had dreamed, with his lady wife beside him :
 
 EDITH LYLE. 37 
 
 but he would not have known it now. Months of mental 
 anguish and continual combat with the mother's stronger nature, 
 added to days of intense suffering, and homesickness, and long- 
 ing for the dead in that far-off grave in Hampstead, had left 
 their marks on the young girl, until now that the crisis was past 
 she lay quiet and passive in her mother's hands and seemed to 
 assent to whatever the mother proposed. 
 
 That estimable woman had chosen lodgings in Dorset Street, 
 knowing she would be safe there from any one whom her 
 daughter might meet in the future. The name Heloise had 
 been dropped, and she was Edith Lyle now, a young widow, 
 whose husband had died soon after her marriage, and so no sus- 
 picions were excited and no comments made by the few who 
 occasionally saw her stealing up or down the stairs which led to 
 her apartment. Only the housemaid, Mary Stover, was inter- 
 ested in her, or paid much heed to her extreme youth and 
 beauty. And even Mary but seldom came in contact with her, 
 so that Edith hardly knew of her existence, or how much she 
 was in the serving woman's thoughts. Since the birth of her 
 baby, a wee little creature, with masses of golden hair and a 
 look in its blue eyes of the dead, Edith had scarcely thought 
 of anything, but had lain with the child held closely to her 
 bosom, as if fearful of losing it. Baby was now four weeks 
 old, and the impatient Mrs. Fordham could wait no longer, and 
 on the dreary day of which I write she sat by her daughter's 
 side and said to her, in the tone which Edith had never yet had 
 courage to withstand : 
 
 " Edith, you are strong enough now to leave this wretched 
 % place. Baby will be four weeks old to-morrow, and I have 
 everything arranged. I have made particular inquiries about 
 
 the Street Foundling Hospital, and learned that in no other 
 
 place *a.fe the children so well cared for. The matron and 
 nurses are very kind, and the little ones healthy and happy, and 
 in nine cases out of ten are adopted by good families and grow 
 up respectable men and women." 
 
 " But, mother," Edith gasped, while her hold tightened on 
 the little pink fingers which lay on her neck, " I cannot let her
 
 38 EDITH LYLE. 
 
 go. She is mine, truly, lawfully mine, and you shall not 
 take her from me." 
 
 "'Hush, child, you do not know what you are talking about," 
 came impatiently from Mrs. Fordham's lips. "I tell you we 
 cannot be hampered with a child, and it shall be as I say. I 
 know it will be well cared for. I shall keep sight of her, and 
 see that no harm befalls her, and if you ever should wish 
 to claim it, that mark on its bosom is sufficient \o identify 
 it." 
 
 At the mention of the peculiar birth-mark on her child, Edith 
 moaned faintly, and thought of the white rose with the blood 
 stain in the centre, and the awful day when it was brought back 
 to her, and she had laid it next her breaking heart. 'There was 
 a blood-red spot over baby's heart, and Edith knew how it came 
 there, and shuddered and grew sick as she remembered it, and 
 held tighter to the little one whom her mother would wrest from 
 her. At last, wearied with the controversy which was exciting 
 her daughter so much, Mrs. Fordham seemed to give up the 
 contest, but it was only seeming. She was one who never gave 
 up, and what she could not accomplish by fair means she was 
 not too scrupulous to attain by foul Baby must go. It was 
 something in her way, and must be sacrificed; so, when the 
 hour came round for her daughter's medicine, she mixed with it 
 one of the sedative powders which Edith had taken for wakeful- 
 ness when her illness was at the worst. As it had been suc- 
 cessful then so it was now, and she ere long fell into a heavy 
 sleep, which Mrs. Fordham knew from experience would last 
 for several hours. This was her time for action, and going to 
 the bed she stooped to take the child from the arms which held, 
 it so fast. Even in her sleep Edith must have had a dim con- 
 sciousness of the threatened danger, for she held firmly to the 
 little one, while her white lips moaned : 
 
 " No, she is mine ; you cannot have her." 
 
 But for this Mrs. Fordham did not hesitate, and with a firm 
 hand she carefully unclasped the clinging arms and lifted the 
 child from the bed. 
 
 Had it been a gentleman's offspring, and Edith the mistress
 
 EDITH LYLE. 39 
 
 of some luxurious home, she might have felt some love and 
 tenderness for the little creature, which, roused from its sleep, 
 opened its blue eyes and looked into her face. But it was 
 lowly born, a descendant of the Lyles, who lived in obscurity 
 among the heather hiils of Alnvvick, and she steeled her heart 
 against it, and never faltered in her purpose, even when the 
 pretty lips parted and gave forth a sound, which made Edith 
 start and half turn upon her pillow as if about to waken. But 
 the sedative was good, and the young girl slept on, while her 
 mother robed the little one in its best attire, and wrote upon a 
 bit of paper which she pinned upon its bosom : 
 
 " Her name is Heloise, and she is not a child of shame, but 
 of an imprudent marriage, and inherits from her mother, who is 
 a lady, some of the best blood in England." 
 
 " That will save her from a life of servitude ; the high bloods 
 always take such children as these," she said, " and it will be 
 much better so than a drag on us." 
 
 Ten minutes later and she stole softly down the stairs, bear- 
 ing under her cloak a bundle which, when she retraced her 
 steps, was not with her. But it was safe from the chill air of 
 
 the night, for she had rung the bell of Street Hospital, 
 
 and depositing her burden on the steps had retreated swiftly 
 behind a clump of shrubbery until she saw the door opened and 
 the child received into the warmth and light within. The rain 
 had ceased and the fog had cleared away with the going down 
 of the sun, but no one could have recognized her in the dim 
 starlight, with the hood of her water-proof drawn closely over 
 her head, and when she reached the house in Dorset Street she 
 felt as if cut loose from everything which could in any way in- 
 terfere with her ambitious projects. 
 
 Edith had slept soundly, and when at last her mother came 
 and stood beside the bed she lay in the same deep slumber, 
 with a bright flush on her cheeks and her arm still stretched 
 over the spot where but an hour ago a little pink-and-white 
 baby lay. It was gone now, but she did not know it, or dream 
 of the anguish in store for her When she should rouse from the 
 sleep which lasted until near midnight. Then with a sudden
 
 4 o EDITH LYLE. 
 
 start and sense of danger she woke, and sitting up in bed felt 
 for her child under the sheet, on the pillow, under the 
 pillow, on the counterpane, everywhere, but all in vain. 
 Baby was gone, and in a voice husky with fright and terror she 
 called to the figure sitting so motionless by the fire, " Mother, 
 mother, where is baby ? Is she in your lap, mother ? " and, 
 alarmed at Mrs. Fordham's ominous silence, Edith sprang to 
 her side, and with a sensation as if her heart was bursting from 
 her throat, gasped out : 
 
 " Mother, tell me ; what have you done with my child ? " 
 
 And Mrs. Fordham did tell her, while Edith listened like 
 one paralyzed beyond the power to move. Speak she could 
 not at first, for a horrible suffocating sensation in her throat ; 
 but her face was deadly pale and her lips quivered, while the 
 fury of a tigress when bereft of its young glared from her eyes. 
 At last she found her voice, and the words rang through the 
 room with terrible distinctness. 
 
 " Mother, may God's curse fall on you, if a hair of baby's 
 head is harmed, and if, when I am strong and well, and able to 
 cope with you, I fail to find my darling may He turn every 
 happiness I ever hope to Know into sorrow, and blight the 
 dearest earthly wish I may ever have again." 
 
 Then she fell fainting at the feet of her mother, who, if not 
 moved by the denunciation against herself, was alarmed at the 
 deathlike unconsciousness which lasted so long. But youth and 
 health can endure much and live, and Edith came back to life 
 and sense again, but lay utterly prostrate and helpless, with a 
 choking lump in her throat which prevented her from speaking" 
 above the faintest whisper. To move her that day to other and 
 better quarters was impossible, nor did Mrs. Fordham care 
 particularly to do it. No one there would know of the child's 
 absence, for no one ever came into their room except Mary- 
 Stover, who was always quiet and respectful, and who on this 
 day when she brought up warm water for the tea, never spoke 
 or seemed to notice anything. 
 
 Next morning Edith was better, and when Mary came with 
 the breakfast she was bidden to tell her mistress that Mrs.
 
 > 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF A NEW LIFE. 41 
 
 Fordham was going away at once, but would pay the month's 
 rent just the same. 
 
 " Very well, ma'am. I'll tell her when she comes in. She's 
 out marketin' now," was the girl's reply as she left the room; 
 and when Mrs. Jones, the owner of the house, returned, her 
 late lodgers were gone, and Mary handed her the rent for the 
 whole month, as Mrs. Fordham had bidden her to do. 
 
 Mrs. Jones was surprised at the sudden departure of people 
 of whom she had been a little proud, inasmuch as they were 
 above the class which usually stopped with her, but the money 
 for the whole month and the certainty that she knew of other 
 lodgers to take the rooms, kept her quiet, and she merely said : 
 
 " They were in a mighty hurry to be off. Do you know 
 where they are gone ? " 
 
 Mary did not. A handsome carriage had come for them, and 
 madam almost carried the young lady to it, she said, adding : 
 
 " That was a very pretty lass, with the sweetest face I ever 
 saw." 
 
 To this Mrs. Jones assented, and as just then there was a 
 ring, and people were announced looking for rooms, her late 
 tenants passed as completely from her mind as they passed 
 from her surroundings to a new life in a pleasanter part of 
 London. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF A NEW LIFE. 
 
 |HE shock of finding her baby gone, together with the 
 removal from Dorset Street, in her weak state brought 
 on another faint ; and when the carriage stopped 
 bciore the house in the vicinity of Belgrave Square, Edith 
 lay unconscious in the arms of her mother, who carried 
 her up the steps and into the large airy room, where for a time 
 they were to stay until she had decided upon her future course, 
 and her daughter's health was restored. In a few weeks at 
 most they should move again, Mrs. Fordham thought, but in
 
 42 THE BEGINNING OF A NEW LIFE. 
 
 this she was mistaken. Edith did not rally ; the fainting fit was 
 succeeded by a low nervous fever, which lasted for so long that 
 the hedge roses were in blossom, and the breath of early sum- 
 mer was stealing in at her window when she was at last able to 
 walk across the floor. 
 
 " Now, mother," she said one morning, when for the first 
 time in months she was dressed and sitting up. "Now, you 
 must go for baby ; go to-day, will you, or shall I send some 
 one else ? " 
 
 She spoke decidedly, and Mrs. Fordham, who felt that there 
 was a change in her daughter, and that henceforth their rela- 
 tions to each other must be different from what they had here- 
 tofore been, did not oppose her, but answered, readily : 
 
 " I will go myself; " and an hour later she stood again at the 
 
 door of Street Foundling Hospital. She was a clergyman's 
 
 widow, she said, and had come to make inquiries concerning a 
 child named Heloise, which was left there some time in January. 
 Could they tell her anything about it ? 
 
 They could tell her, and they did, and with a throbbing of 
 the heart and a relieved expression on her face, she started 
 home, where Edith was waiting for her. 
 
 " Where is it, mother ? " was the question asked eagerly. 
 
 " Edith, baby is dead. It only lived three weeks, they told 
 me. It was born, it seems, with some affection of the heart, 
 which, under any circumstances, would have ended its life in a 
 short time, the physician said. It had every possible care, and 
 died with little or no pain. I was particular to inquire about 
 that, as I knew you would wish to know. There, there, my 
 child, don't take it so hard," and Mrs. Fordham laid her hand 
 on the bowed head of the sorrowing girl, who was weeping 
 passionately. " It was wrong perhaps to take it from you, and 
 I am sorry now.^I did it. I thought then it was for the best, 
 for a baby would be in our way. Forgive me, Edith, and let 
 us bury the past forever." 
 
 She stooped to kiss her daughter, in whose mind there was no 
 shadow of doubt that what her mother had told her was true. 
 Her baby was dead, and though she mourned for it truly she
 
 THE BEGINNING OF A NE IV LIFE. 43 
 
 knew that it was far better off in heaven than in that hospital, 
 with only strangers to care for it ; and gradually, as the days 
 went by and she felt her strength and health coming back 
 again, the sense of loss and pain which at first had weighed so 
 heavily upon her, began to give way, and more than one of the 
 lodgers in the house noticed and commented upon the great 
 beauty of the young girl, whom they sometimes met upon the 
 stairs or saw sitting by her window. They knew the grave 
 woman dressed in widow's weeds was Mrs. Fordham, and as 
 the young girl was her daughter they naturally supposed her to 
 be Miss Fordham, a mistake which the mother took no pains to 
 rectify ; while Edith, who had suffered so much, began to feel 
 an utter inability to oppose her own will to that of her mother, 
 and when the latter said to her, " It is not necessary for you to 
 explain to others that your name is not Fordham," she pas- 
 sively acquiesced : and thus none of the lodgers ever heard the 
 name of Lyle, or dreamed of that grave across the sea at Schuy- 
 ler Hill, or the dreary room in Dorset Street, and the scenes 
 enacted there. All these were buried in the past, and there 
 was nothing in the way of Mrs. Fordham' s plans, except, 
 indeed, the means to carry them out. 
 
 Once the mother had hoped much from her daughter's voice, 
 which was a fine contralto of great power and compass ; but 
 that hope was gone, for on the dreadful day when, with the 
 fury of a tigress, Edith had invoked Heaven's curse upon her 
 mother if so much as a hair of baby's head was harmed, it 
 seemed as if a hand of iron had clutched her throat with a re- 
 morseless grasp, which had for a time deprived her of her 
 powers of utterance, except in a hoarse whisper. At intervals, 
 even now, she felt the grip of those fingers, and would start 
 suddenly with a sense of suffocation, which soon passed away, 
 and left her breathing free as ever. But the glorious voice did 
 not come back, and though she sometimes sang some sweet, 
 low song, her voice was very weak, and a musical education, 
 so far as singing was concerned, was of course out of the ques- 
 tion ; but for all other branches the best of teachers were pro- 
 cured, and Edith, who possessed .a fondness for books, pro-
 
 44 ELEVEN YEARS LATER, 
 
 gressed so rapidly as to astonish even herself, while her mother 
 would have been perfectly content but for one little annoyance 
 which haunted her continually, and which increased with every 
 succeeding day. Her finances were fearfully low ; nor did she 
 know where aid was to come from. 
 
 Since leaving Dorset Street she had assumed a mode of life 
 far above her means, and she was seriously considering the 
 propriety of taking lodgers herself instead of being lodged, 
 when fortune sent in her way a kind, simple-hearted old man, 
 with less of brains than money, as was proved by his offering 
 himself to Mrs. Fordham, whose comely face and dignified 
 bearing attracted his fancy, and who accepted him at once and 
 became Mrs. Dr. Barrett, with a pleasant home in a quiet part 
 of London, and money enough to supply every comfort of life, 
 as well as some of its luxuries. 
 
 Though twice married Dr. Barrett had never had a child, and 
 his kind, fatherly heart went out at once to Edith, whom he 
 loved and treated as a daughter, and' who spent under his roof 
 the happiest, most peaceful years of her life. 
 
 As it is not my intention to narrate in detail the incidents of 
 those years, during which Edith was first a pupil, then a gover- 
 ness, and then an organist at St. John's, I shall pass over them 
 silently, and take my readers with me to a time when in her 
 full maturity of beauty and grace, such as few women have 
 ever possessed, she stood just on the verge of the brilliant life 
 her mother had so desired for her, and which proved to be so 
 different from anything of which the wily, scheming woman had 
 dreamed. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ELEVEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 |R. BARRETT was dead ; and as with his life the income 
 ceased which had made Mrs. Fordham so comfortable, 
 she was again reduced to the necessity of earning her 
 daily bread, which she did by doing plain sewing, and lctiir vj
 
 ELEVEN YEARS LATER. 45 
 
 t\vo or three rooms of the little cottage, whicli was all her hus- 
 band had left her. 
 
 Edith was not with her. For two years or more she had been 
 the companion of a Mrs. Sinclair, a wealthy invalid, who had ad- 
 vertised for some young person who was a good reader and did 
 not object to sick people. The salary offered was not large, 
 but as there was a prospect of permanency, Edith had an- 
 swered the advertisement in person and been preferred to scores 
 of others, who sought for the place. For six months and more 
 Mrs. Sinclair had been abroad, but she was now in her pleasant 
 home, a few miles from London, and on the summer morning 
 of which I write she lay on the couch in her sitting-room, which 
 opened upon the terrace, where, on a rustic bench beneath the 
 shadow of a maple tree, a young girl was sitting, her white 
 hands holding idly '/e book she was not reading, and her eyes 
 looking far iway, ? if in quest of something never found. That 
 was Edith, whom o.ie would hardly recognize, so entirely changed 
 was she in style, and manner, and general appearance. The 
 bright color which had once been so noticeable was gone, and 
 her complexion was clear and white, and smooth as marble, 
 save when some sudden emotion called a faint color to her 
 cheek. The eyes, too, were darker now, and when kindling 
 with excitement, seemed almost black with the long curling 
 lashes which shaded them. There was also a darker shade on 
 the beautiful golden brown hair, which was coiled in heavy 
 braids around her well-shaped head, and added to her apparent 
 height. Perfect in form and face, graceful in manner, always 
 self-possessed and ready, with the right word in the right place, 
 Edith Lyle was a favorite wherever she went, and, during the 
 two years she had been with Mrs. Sinclair, that lady had learned 
 to love her as a sister, and treated her with all the considera- 
 tion of a friend and equal. And Edith was very happy, save 
 when a thought of the past came over her, and then there would 
 steal into her eyes a look of pain, and the muscles about her 
 mouth would contract, as if she were forcing back words she 
 longed to utter, but dared not. 
 
 Her marriage was still a secret to every one save her mother.
 
 46 ELEVEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 Even Dr. Barrett had known nothing of it until just before 
 he died, when she told him her story, and begged him not to 
 hate her, because it was not earlier told. 
 
 The doctor was surprised, but not angry, and, laying his hand 
 fondly on the young girl's head, he said : 
 
 " Poor child, you have suffered a great deal, and I pity you 
 so much ; but I am not angry, no, no. I reckon your mother 
 is right. She generally is. She's a most wonderful woman for 
 business. You'll get on better as a girl than you would as a 
 widow, that is, you'll be saved a great deal of idle, curious 
 questioning, and make a better match by and by. With that 
 face and that manner of yours, you ought to marry a title ; 
 as Widow Lyle you could not. Had the child lived it would 
 be different ; now it is dead, you had better let matters remain 
 as they are. It will please your mother so, and be quite as well 
 for you." 
 
 This was the doctor's advice, which lifted a heavy load from 
 Edith's mind. Perhaps it was better to keep silent with regard 
 to her marriage, she thought, especially as no one could be 
 harmed by it ; and gradually, as time passed on. she came to 
 think of the past as a horrible dream, from which she had awak- 
 ened to find the horror gone and the sunlight of content, if not 
 of happiness, still shining around her. She, however, preferred 
 her real name, and when she went to Mrs. Sinclair it was as. 
 Edith Lyle, and when that lady on hearing her mother men- 
 tioned as Mrs. Barrett asked how that was, Edith replied : 
 
 " Mother has been married twice. Dr. Barrett was my step- 
 father." 
 
 Thus Mrs. Sinclair had no suspicion of the truth, and soon 
 learned to regard Miss Lyle as more than a mere hired com- 
 panion, and was never long easy when away from her. On the 
 day of which I write, they had returned the previous night after 
 an absence of several months, and, attracted by the freshness 
 of the morning and the beauty of the grounds, Edith had left 
 Mrs. Sinclair to read the pile of letters she found awaiting her, 
 and stolen out to her favorite seat beneath the maples, where, 
 through an opening in the distant trees of the park, she could
 
 ELEVEN YEARS LATER. 47 
 
 catch glimpses of the Thames and the great city with its forest 
 of spires and domes. And as she sat there in her tasteful cam- 
 bric wrapper, with only a bit of blue ribbon at her throat and 
 in her hair, no one who saw her would have dreamed of that 
 tragedy of by-gone years in which she had been so greatly in- 
 terested, and of which she was thinking that June morning, so 
 like that day at Schuyler Hill when the brightness of her life had 
 so suddenly been stricken out. Should she ever go there again, 
 ever see that grave which Ettie had promised to keep against 
 her coming ? Yes. She would go alone some time across the 
 sea, and lay her face upon the grass which covered her lost love, 
 and tell him of the child that died and whose grave she never 
 saw. 
 
 " But I will see it before I go," she said ; " I will find where 
 they laid my little one, and it may be " 
 
 She did not finish the sentence, for just then the silvery stroke 
 of a bell reached her ear and she knew she was wanted within. 
 She found Mrs. Sinclair with many letters lying open before her, 
 and one in her hand which she had evidently just read, and 
 which -seemed to disturb her. 
 
 " I am sorry to call you when I know how fresh and bright 
 it is out doors," she said, as Edith came to her side, "but I find 
 here a letter, written weeks ago, which must be answered at 
 once. It is from my brother " 
 
 "Your brother!" Edith repeated, in some surprise, for that 
 was the first allusion she ha-d ever heard Mrs. Sinclair make to 
 any near relatives. 
 
 "Yes, my half-brother Howard," was the reply. "I've 
 never spoken of him because because, well, there was a kind 
 of coldness between us on account of his wife, whom I did not 
 like. He brought her here when they were first married, and 
 had she been a duchess she could not have borne herself more 
 loftily than she did. I did not think her manners in good taste, 
 and told my brother so ; and as he was in the heyday of his 
 honeymoon and saw nothing amiss in his Emily, we had a little 
 tiff and parted coldly, and I have not seen him since. Regular- 
 ly at the birth of his children he has written to me, and just
 
 48 ELEVEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 before you came he wrote to say that Emily was dead. I an- 
 swered, of course, and said I was sorry for him, and that I 
 should be glad'to see him and his children. There are three 
 of them, and the eldest, a boy, bears my maiden and married 
 name, Godfrey Sinclair Schuyler " 
 
 " Schuyler ! " Edith said, and if possible, her always white 
 face was a shade paler than its wont at the sound of that name. 
 
 But Mrs. Sinclair was intent on her letter, and did not look 
 at her as she replied : 
 
 " Yes, my brother is Howard Schuyler, and his father, who 
 was of English descent, married my mother, Mrs. Godfrey, 
 when I was seven years old, and took us to New York, where 
 mother died when Howard was a baby. I stayed in New York 
 till I was seventeen, and then came back to live with my aunt 
 and have seen but little of Howard since." 
 
 "And does he live in New York !" Edith asked; and Mrs. 
 Sinclair replied : 
 
 " Yes, or rather a little way out, in the town called Hamp- 
 stead, on the Hudson river. He has a beautiful place, I am 
 told, which they call Schuyler Hill." 
 
 " And you have news from him ? " Edith said next, her heart 
 beating rapidly at the lady's reply. 
 
 " Yes. He is in Scotland, it seems, and wrote to know if I 
 could receive him and his son Godfrey about this time, let me 
 see, the i5th of June he said, and this is the i4th. I was to 
 answer at once, and direct to Edinburgh, where he wouM wait 
 my reply. His letter was written ten days ago, and I am so 
 much afraid he has become impatient at not hearing from me, 
 that he will perhaps go directly to the continent without stop- 
 ping here at all. My head feels so badly, would you mind 
 writing a few lines for me, just to say that I am home, and shall 
 be glad to see him?" 
 
 " Certainly not," Edith answered in a voice which did not in 
 the least betray the storm of feeling she experienced at being 
 thus unexpectedly brought face to face as it were with a past 
 she had almost outlived. 
 
 To stay in that room with Mrs. Sinclair while she wrote to
 
 ELEVEN YEARS LATER. 49 
 
 Colonel Schuyler was impossible, and asking permission to 
 withdraw, she went to her own chamber to be alone while she 
 penned a letter which by some one of those subtle emotions or 
 presentiments which none can explain, she felt would influence 
 her whole future life. She could not understand it, nor did she 
 attempt to seek a reason for it, but she felt certain that Colonel 
 Schuyler was the arbiter of her fate, and that with his coming 
 would begin a new era for her, and her hand trembled so at 
 first that she could scarcely hold the pen, and much less write 
 a word. At last she commenced : 
 
 " Oakwood, June i4th, 18 , Colonel Schuyler," and there 
 she stopped, overpowered with the memories which the sight 
 of that name evoked. Once more she stood with her lover at 
 the garden gate, and saw the night fog creeping across the 
 river, and heard in the distance the faint rumble of the fast 
 coming train which had thundered by just as she gave her boy- 
 husband the last good-by kiss, and fastened in his button-hole 
 the rose, which she still carefully preserved together with a 
 silken curl cut from baby's head during the first days of her 
 maternity. 
 
 How every little thing connected with that curl and rose 
 came back to her now, and for an instant she felt faint and 
 sick again, just as she had felt when they brought the dead man 
 in and carried him out again. In her desolation she had said : 
 " I hate the Schuylers," and she almost hated them now, even 
 though she knew them innocent of any wrong to her. Col. 
 Schuyler she remembered as a tall, fine-looking man, and she 
 had him in her mind just as he was when he stood in the garden 
 path and glanced wonderingly up at her as she called out the 
 name and age and birth-place of the poor youth whose memory 
 he wished to honor. That was the only time he had ever seen 
 her, and she had no fear that he would recognize her now. So 
 it was not this which made her tremble as she again took up 
 her pen to bid him come to Oakwood, his sister's country-seat. 
 It was a shrinking from she did not know what, and after the 
 letter was written and approved by Mrs. Sinclair, she L-lt 
 tempted to tear it up instead of giving it to the servant whose
 
 50 ELEVEN YEARS LATER. 
 
 duty it was to post it. But this she dared not do, and the letttf 
 was sent on its way, and as soon as it was possible to receive 
 an answer one came to Mrs. Sinclair, who read aloud at the 
 breakfast table : . 
 
 " DEAR SISTER HELEN : Yours of the i4th received and 
 contents noted. Shall probably be with you the day after you 
 get this. Godfrey will accompany me. 
 
 " Truly, your brother, HOWARD." 
 
 " That is so like Howard," Mrs. Sinclair said. ' Short and 
 crisp and right to the point. One would almost think he had 
 no heart, and yet I know he has, though he is very peculiar in 
 some things, very reserved, and very proud, and a great stickler 
 for justice and honor. Why, I do not suppose he would say 
 or act a thing he did not mean even to save his life or that of 
 his best friend." 
 
 " Yes," Edith said, idly toying with her spoon and feeling a 
 still greater dread of this man of honor, who would not act a 
 lie to save his life. " Yes : how old is he ? " 
 
 " How old ? let me see. I was past eight when he was born, 
 and I am forty-nine ; that makes him almost forty-one ; quite 
 a young man still, and fine looking, too. I dare say he will 
 marry again;" and, glancing across the table at the beautiful 
 lady sitting there, a curious thought sprang into Mrs. Sinclair's 
 mind, which, however, had no echo in Edith's heart. 
 
 She had asked Col. Schuyler's age more for the sake of say- 
 ing something than from any curiosity, and she hardly heard 
 Mrs. Sinclair's reply, so little did she care. His age or personal 
 appearance was nothing to her. It was his presence in the 
 house she dreaded, because it would awaken so many unpleas- 
 ant memories, and take her back to a time she had almost for- 
 gotten in the pain which had come to her during the later years. 
 Mat he was coining to-morrow, and at Mrs. Sinclair's request 
 she herself saw that his room and Godfrey's were made ready, 
 and then at another request from her mistress she practised hei 
 best instrumental pieces, for " Howard used to be fond of mu- 
 sic, and was sure to like Miss Lyle's playing."
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 51 
 
 "Try that little Scotch ballad, please. I thought your voice 
 stronger when you sang it to me last. Strange that it should 
 have left you so suddenly ! What was the cause of it, did you 
 say ? " Mrs. Sinclair asked. 
 
 " A sudden shock to my nerves when I was sick," was 
 Edith's reply, and she felt again the iron fingers on her throat, 
 and that choking sensation as if her heart were leaping from 
 her mouth. 
 
 Mrs. Sinclair was very fond of music, especially of singing, 
 and knowing this, Edith had frequently sang to her some simple 
 ballads which were written so low as to come within the com- 
 pass of her weak voice, but she could not do it now, and excus- 
 ing- herself, she rose from the piano saying she had a headache 
 and needed fresh air. 
 
 " I have not seen mother since my return. She was out the 
 day I called, and if you are willing I would like to go into town 
 this morning ; the ride will do me good." 
 
 Mrs. Sinclair was willing, and accordingly an hour later a 
 handsome carriage stopped before Mrs. Dr. Barrett's gate, and 
 Edith went slowly up the walk toward the open door. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 |HE world had not gone very well with Mrs. Dr. Barrett 
 since her husband's death. Her house was too small 
 to admit of many lodgers, and as those who came 
 were mostly Americans, they did not stop long, and required 
 so much of her that she was glad when they left, hoping 
 to do better the next time. A pain under her left shoulder 
 made it hard for her to sew, and but for Edith's generosity she 
 would have been badly off. Edith was very kind to her, and 
 gave her the larger part of her salary, and Mrs. Barrett was very 
 proud of her daughter, even though that daughter had sorely 
 disappointed her iu not having married or shown any disposition
 
 52 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 to do so, nor, so far as Mrs. Barrett knew, had she received but 
 one offer, and that from so questionable a quarter that a refusal 
 was the only alternative. She had been away from home when 
 Edith called upon her the day following her return from the 
 Continent, but she found the card which Edith left, and when 
 her maid glowingly described the carriage, and the beautiful 
 young lady who came in it, she said, with a great deal of pride, 
 " That was my daughter." 
 
 " And sure she walked as if the ground wasn't good enough 
 for her to step on," was Kitty's mental comment, as she won- 
 dered at the difference between mother and child. 
 
 After that day Mrs. Barrett was constantly expecting Edith, 
 and once she thought of going to Oakwood to see her, but on 
 the occasion of her first and only visit there, Mrs. Sinclair, 
 whose likes and dislikes were very strong, had conceived a great 
 aversion for her, and had intimated to Edith that though she 
 was at liberty to visit her mother when she pleased, it was not 
 desirable that the latter should come often to Oakwood. Know- 
 ing this, Mrs. Barrett did not like to venture, and she remained at 
 home, waiting impatiently for Edith until the morning when she 
 saw at last the well-known carriage at the gate, and Edith coming 
 up the walk. 
 
 How beautiful she was, and how like a princess she looked 
 even in her simple muslin dress and straw hat, with a lace scarf 
 around her graceful shoulders. Everything which Edith wore 
 became her well, and now with a faint flush on her cheeks and 
 a sparkle in her eyes, she had never seemed fairer to the proud 
 mother than when she swept into the house with a grace and 
 dignity peculiarly her own, and put up her lips to be kissed. 
 Mrs. Barrett was glad to see her, and asked her many questions 
 concerning her journey, and admired her dress, and scarf, and 
 boots, and gloves, and asked what they cost, and told about her- 
 self, how she had but one lodger now, and that he found fault 
 with everything, and that the day before she had received ap- 
 plication for rooms from a respectable looking woman, who 
 seemed to belong to the middle or lower class. " Indeed, she 
 said, she had been out to service before her marriage, but that
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 her husband had left her a few shares in the Bank, so that 
 
 she was quite comfortable now." 
 
 " I never thought I would take any one who was not first- 
 class," Mrs. Barrett said, " but my purse is so low that I should 
 have made an exception in favor of Mrs. Rogers if she had not 
 told me her cousin was waiting-maid at Oakwood." , 
 
 " Oh, that is Norah Long," Edith answered indifferently, and 
 her mother continued : 
 
 " It seemed like coming down, to lodge and serve a cousin of 
 Mrs. Sinclair's maid, and when she said she had a little girl 
 about eleven years old, and that she wished her to have a room 
 by herself, I made that an excuse for refusing her. I could not 
 give up my best room to a child, I said, and I did not care to 
 take children, anyway." 
 
 " I think you were very foolish, mother ; if this Mrs. Rogers 
 would pay well, and is respectable, why not take her as soon as 
 another? The child is certainly no objection, and it might be 
 pleasant to have it in the house." 
 
 "Perhaps so, but I did not like the woman's manner. When 
 she asked for the extra room I told her it belonged to my daugh- 
 ter, Miss Lyle, who was travelling with Mrs. Sinclair, of Oak- 
 wood. ' Oh, Miss Lyle,' she said, ' I have heard my cousin 
 speak of her. She is very beautiful, I believe.' I thought her 
 impertinent, and answered, ' People call her so. Can I do any- 
 thing more for you ? ' Even then she did not go, but offered me a 
 shilling more than my price for the rooms. Indeed, she seemed 
 resolved to have them, and only a positive refusal on the ground 
 of not liking to have the child availed to send her away. I 
 never thought I should be reduced so low that the cousin of a 
 servant would insist upon lodging with me," and Mrs. Barrett 
 began to break down a little ; then rousing herself, she said, 
 suddenly, " Edith, will you never marry and raise me out of 
 this ? Did you find no one abroad ? " 
 
 " No one, mother," and Edith flushed to her forehead, while 
 her voice had in it a tone of irritation, as she continued : " How 
 many times must I tell you that I do not go about the country 
 trying to sell myself. I am willing to work for you as long as
 
 54 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 I have strength, but marry I never shall, and probably could 
 not if I would." 
 
 " Yeu, with that face, say you could not marry ! " Mrs. Bar- 
 rett exclaimed. 
 
 And Edith rejoined : 
 
 "The man who would take me for my face alone I do not 
 want, and the man whom I could respect enough to marry must 
 know all my past, and, after knowing it, how many, think you, 
 would care to have me ? " 
 
 There was a gesture of impatience on the part of Mrs. Bar- 
 rett, but, before she could speak, Edith continued : 
 
 " Colonel Schuyler, of Schuyler Hill, is expected at Oakwood 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Colonel Schuyler ! " and Mrs. Barrett was surprised. 
 " How does he happen to come to Oakwood ? " 
 
 " He is Mrs. Sinclair's half-brother. I never knew it until 
 the other day, and Lady Emily is dead, and he is travelling in 
 Europe with Godfrey." 
 
 " Lady Emily dead ! She was a sweet-mannered lady, and 
 young, too. Why, Colonel Schuyler cannot be very old. Not 
 much past forty, I am sure, and he was very fine-looking." 
 
 Edith had risen to go, and did not in the least understand 
 what was in her mother's mind; and buttoning her long gloves, 
 she said : 
 
 " While Colonel Schuyler is there, Mrs. Sinclair's time will 
 be occupied with him, and she will not have so much need of 
 me. I will try to see you oftener. I wish I could take you 
 out of this altogether, mother, for I know how distasteful the 
 life is to you after having known one so much better ; but my 
 salary is not large, and Mrs. Sinclair will never raise it. It is*a 
 principle of hers to give so much and no more. If she were 
 not so kind, I would try for another situation." 
 
 " No, no," the mother said, in some alarm ; " don't leave 
 Oakwood on any account. I've always felt that something would 
 come of your being there. 1 can do very well as I am, only it 
 was humiliating to have that Mrs. Rogers, who had been in 
 service, come to me for rooms, and act as if she were my equal."
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 55 
 
 " I do not see it in that light, mother," Edith said. " If 
 Mrs. Rogers is respectable, and can pay, I advise you to take 
 her. It is far better to have some one permanently, than the 
 changing, floating class you usually have about you. Beside 
 that, it must be pleasanter to have a decent woman in the house 
 than a lot of foreign men of whom you know nothing. Suppose 
 I speak to Norah, and tell her you will take her cousin if she 
 has not ' secured apartments elsewhere ; and if she wants my 
 old room for her child, let her have it. I do not occupy it often, 
 and would rather some nice little girl was in it than any one else. 
 Yes, I think I'll speak to Norah." And without waiting for her 
 mother to object, even if she wished to do so, Edith went has- 
 tily down the walk to the carriage waiting for her. 
 
 She found Mrs. Sinclair asleep, and Norah mending a lace 
 handkerchief for her outside the door. 
 
 " Norah," she said, " has your cousin, Mrs. Rogers, yet suited 
 herself with lodgings ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am. She was just here. You must have met her 
 and the little girl somewhere in the park. You would have no- 
 ticed the child." 
 
 But Edith had been too much occupied with her own thoughts 
 as she drove through the park to see the woman and child sit- 
 ting on a bench beneath the trees, and looking curiously at her 
 as she drove by. 
 
 " No, I met no one," she said ; " but I wish you would see 
 your cousin, and tell her that Mrs. Barrett, of Caledonia Street, 
 No. , will accommodate her with rooms." 
 
 " Two rooms ? " Norah asked. 
 
 And Edith replied : 
 
 "Yes, two rooms, if she likes, and pays in advance." 
 
 " She's sure to do that," Norah answered, quickly ; " and she's 
 able, too. Her man left her well beforehand, and the child has 
 something, too. That's what makes Mary, my cousin, please, 
 so careful of her. She isn't her own, you see ; she's adopted, and 
 has a little money, and Mary worships her as something different 
 from common ones ; and well she may, for a sweeter, prettier 
 lass was never born in England than little Gertie Westbrooke."
 
 56 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 
 
 There was a sound in Mrs. Sinclair's room, and Edith has- 
 tened to remove her hat and scarf so as to be in readiness for 
 the lady when she was needed, and what Norah had said to her 
 of her cousin and the child was scarcely heeded, except, indeed, 
 the name, Gertie Westbrooke, which struck her as very pretty, 
 and twice that day she caught herself repeating it, while in her 
 dreams that night it seemed constantly in her mind ; and when 
 at an early hour she woke from a troubled sleep, her chamber 
 was full of the faint echoes of the name of the little girl who 
 was to occupy her old room and bed in Caledonia Street. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 
 
 |T was the day after Edith's visit to her mother, and 
 taking advantage of the hour when Mrs. Sinclair took 
 her after-lunch nap, she went out with her book into 
 the grounds, and strolled on until she came to a clump of trees 
 at the farthest extremity of the park, where was a little rustic 
 chair. This had always been her favorite resort, the place she 
 sought when she wished to be alone, and here she sat down, 
 ostensibly to read, but really to think, not so much of the past as 
 of the future. That her kind, indulgent mistress, who had been 
 an invalid for so many years, was failing fast, was very apparent to 
 her experienced eyes, and only that morning she had observed 
 that the handkerchief Mrs. Sinclair held to her lips after a 
 paroxysm of coughing had a faint coloring of blood upon it. 
 
 " And where shall I find a home like this when she is gone ? " 
 I'xlith asked herself, sadly. "I might go back to mother and 
 help her with her sewing, and take Kitty's place," she said, 
 shuddering a little as she thought of the small house in Cale- 
 donia Street, so different from the pleasant home which had been 
 hers for more than two years. 
 
 She might go out as a governess again, but when she remem- 
 bered the insult which she had twice received when a governess,
 
 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 57 
 
 once from the young man of the house, who looked upon her as 
 lawful prey, and once from the master, a brutal wretch who 
 could not withstand her beauty, she thought any life preferable 
 to that. Her face and manner were both against her, and if Mrs. 
 Sinclair died, her only safety was in her mother's house. 
 
 "Yes, that will be the end of it," she said, a little bitterly, as 
 she remembered all her mother had hoped for her and what she 
 had once hoped for herself. 
 
 So much was she absorbed in these reflections that she did 
 not at first see the two gentlemen who had entered the Park by 
 a side gate, and were walking slowly up the path, which led 
 directly past the chair in which she was sitting. Two young 
 gentlemen she thought them, for one at least was very young, 
 with a supple, springy grace in every movement, while the 
 other, whose step was quite as rapid, though it had more dig- 
 nity and character in it, could not be old- or even middle-aged, 
 with that fine, erect form, that heavy, silken beard, and wealth 
 of dark brown hair. That it could be Col. Schuylej and his 
 son she never dreamed, for though Mrs. Sinclair had said 
 her brother was not forty-one, Edith, who, like most young 
 people, held forty as an age bordering on antediluvianism, 
 thought of him always as a grayish-haired man, with a stoop, 
 perhaps, and a slow tread, and not at all like this man coming 
 so swiftly toward her, and pointing out something in the Park 
 to his companion. He had evidently been at Oakwood before, 
 for she heard him say : 
 
 " We ought to see the house from this point. This must be 
 a new path since I was here, and yet I remember that little 
 foot-bridge. Your mother and I used often to come down to 
 it ; she liked to see the water falling over the white stones. 
 That was nineteen years ago." 
 
 " Hush-sh, father ! look, there's a young lady sitting in the 
 shadow of those trees," came warningly from the younger man, 
 or boy, and then with a great heart-throb, Edith knew who the 
 strangers were and arose to her feet. 
 
 They were quite up to her now, and both removed their 
 hats and stood with heads uncovered, while the elder said to her : 
 3*
 
 58 GODFREY SCHUYLER 
 
 " I beg your pardon, miss, but will this path take us directly 
 to the house at Oakwood ? I was here many years ago and 
 ought to know the way, but it seems a little strange to me." 
 
 His voice was very pleasant and his manner deferential as 
 he stood looking at her, while Edith replied that the path did 
 lead directly to the house, which could be seen as soon as he 
 reached the slight elevation yonder. Then with eyes cast 
 down she stood waiting for him to pass on, she thinking of 
 that one time when she had spoken to him from the window 
 of the cottage in far-off Hampstead, and he thinking of the 
 marvellous beauty of her face, and wondering who she could be. 
 
 "Some guest at Oakwood, undoubtedly," he thought, and 
 then he put another question to her and said, " Do you know 
 if Mrs. Sinclair is at home this morning ? I am her brother, 
 Colonel Schuyler, from America, and this is my son Godfrey." 
 
 With a bow to both gentlemen Edith replied : 
 
 " Mrs. Sinclair is at home, and is expecting you. I ara Edith 
 Lyle, Mrs. Sinclair's hired companion." 
 
 She said this proudly, and with a purpose not to deceive the 
 gentlemen with regard to her position longer than was nece*- 
 sary. She had so often been spoken to by strangers in just the 
 respectful, deferential tone with which Colonel Schuyler had 
 addressed her, and then had seen the look of unmistakable 
 interest give place to one of surprise and indifference when her 
 real position was known, that she wished to start fair with these 
 guests of her employer, and she was neither astonished nor dis- 
 appointed when she saw the peculiar look she knew co well 
 steal over the grave, proud face of Colonel Schuyler, who 
 bowed as he said : 
 
 " Oh, yes. I knew she had some young person staying with 
 her. Thanks for your directions. We shall find our way now 
 very well. Come, Godfrey." 
 
 But Godfrey was in no particular haste. A beautiful girl was 
 B-ttractive to him under all circumstances, whether the daughter 
 of a hundred earls or the paid companion of his aunt, ajid his 
 manner had not changed one whit when Edith announced her- 
 gelf as his inferior according to the creed of the beau monde.
 
 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 59 
 
 "Come, my son," Colonel Schuyler said again, and then 
 Godfrey passed on with a look at Edith, which plainly meant : 
 " I'd enough sight rather stay with you, but you see it's im- 
 possible." 
 
 It was the old, old story ; contempt from the older ones and 
 impertinence from the younger so soon as she was known for a 
 dependant, Edith thought, and a few hot, resentful tears trickled 
 through the white fingers she pressed to her eyes as the two men 
 walked away and were lost to view over the hill. And yet for 
 once she was mistaken. Colonel Schuyler had felt no contempt 
 for her ; he never felt that for any woman, and the change in 
 his manner, when he found who she was, was involuntary, and 
 owing wholly to his early training, which had built a barrier be- 
 tween himself and those who earned their daily bread ! He had 
 taken Edith for the possible young lady of some noble house, 
 and was disappointed to find her only the companion of his 
 sister, but a lady still, judging from her manners and speech ; 
 while Godfrey would sooner have parted with his right hand 
 than have been'rude to any woman. 
 
 A dress, whether it hung in slatternly folds around a washer- 
 woman, or adorned the daughter of a duchess, was sacred in 
 his eyes, and though in a certain way he had all the pride of the 
 Schuylers and Rossiters combined, it was a pride which prompted 
 him to treat every one kindly. His mother, who had been very 
 fond of him, had done her best to make him understand that, as 
 a Rossiter and Schuyler, it behooved him to demean himself like 
 one worthy of so illustrious a line of ancestry ; but Godfrey 
 did not care for ancestry, nor blood, nor social distinctions, and 
 played with every ragged boy in Hampstead, and sat for 
 hours with old Peterkin the cobbler, and kept little Johnnie 
 Mack at Scnuyler Hill all day when his mother was out work- 
 ing, and the child would have been alone but for this thought- 
 fulness. Everybody knew Godfrey Schuyler, and everybody 
 liked him, especially the middle and poorer classes, to whom 
 he was as the brightness of the morning. 
 
 An intolerable tease, Godfrey was something of a terror to his 
 eldest sister Julia, whose imperious and sometimes insolent man-
 
 60 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 
 
 ners he mimicked and ridiculed, while to Alice Creighton of 
 New York, who he knew had been selected for his wife, he was 
 a perpetual source of joy and annoyance, joy when he treated 
 her with that tenderness and gentleness so natural to him in his 
 intercourse with girls, and annoyance when even with his arm 
 around her waist he mimicked her affected ways and her constant 
 allusions to " when I was abroad." 
 
 In stature Godfrey was tall, with a graceful, willowy form, a 
 bright, though rather dark complexion, soft, laughing blue eyes, 
 with a world of mischief in them, and rich brown hair which 
 clustered in curls about his forehead, and which he parted in 
 the middle until his sister Julia, who did not like it, called him 
 a prig and an ape, while Alice, who did like it, said it was 
 "pretty, and just as the young noblemen wore their hair when 
 she was abroad." That was enough for -Godfrey. If Alice 
 Creighton liked it because she saw it abroad,, he surely would 
 not follow the fashion, and the next morning at breakfast his 
 curly locks were parted on the side very near to his left ear, and 
 a black ribbon bound two or three times around his head to 
 keep his refractory hair in its place. 
 
 " If ever he went abroad he hoped he should not make a 
 fool of himself," he said, and now that he was abroad, he bristled 
 all over with nationality, and wore his country outside as plainly 
 as if he had had placarded on his back, " I am an American, and 
 proud of it, too." 
 
 Nothing was quite equal to New York in his estimation, and 
 he was particularly averse to the rosy, healthy-looking girls 
 whom he everywhere met, and in his first letters to his sisters 
 and Alice he told them they were beauties compared with the 
 Knglish girls; "even if Alice's nose was a pug and Jule's fore- 
 head so low that it took a microscope to find it, and Em's ankles 
 no bigger than a pair of knitting-needles." 
 
 But when he came upon Edith Lyle, in her simple white 
 wrapper, with her perfectly transparent complexion, and the 
 knot of blue ribbon in her golden brown hair, he acknowledged 
 to himself that here at last, even on English soil, was a woman 
 more beautiful than anything he had ever seen across the water,
 
 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 6 1 
 
 and he took off his hat and stood uncovered before her as readily 
 as if she had been the queen. That she was only his aunt's 
 companion, instead of the high-born lady he had at first supposed 
 her to be, made no difference with him. She was a woman, 
 and as he reached the little hill beyond where she was sitting, 
 he turned to look at her again, and said : 
 
 '' By George, father, isn't she a beauty ? " 
 
 Mr. Schuyler knew to whom his son referred, and answered, 
 in his usual grave, quiet way : 
 
 " She had a fine profile, I thought. Yes, certainly, a remark- 
 able profile." 
 
 They were near the house by this time, and in the excitement 
 of meeting with his sister and the long conversation which fol- 
 lowed, Colonel Schuyler hardly thought of Edith again until 
 dinner was announced and she came in with Godfrey. That 
 young man had soon grown tired of listening to talk about peo- 
 ple and things dating back to a time he could not remember, 
 and had sauntered out into the grounds in quest of Edith, who 
 was more to his taste than the close drawing-room and the in- 
 valid on the couch. 
 
 Edith was in the summer-house now, and Godfrey joined her 
 there, and in his pleasant, winning way asked if he was intrud- 
 ing, and if he might come in and occupy one of the chairs, 
 which looked so tempting under the green vines. 
 
 " It was an awful bore to hear old folks talk about a lot of 
 antediluvians," he said ; " and if she did not mind he would sit 
 with her awhile." 
 
 Edith* nodded assent and motioned him to a chair, which he 
 took, and removing his soft hat and brushing back his curls, he 
 said : 
 
 " Now let us talk." 
 
 To talk was Godfrey's delight ; and to Edith's interrogatory : 
 
 " What shall we talk about ? " he replied : 
 
 " Whatever you like ; " and when she rejoined : 
 
 " Tell me of yourself and your home in America," he men- 
 tally pronounced her a fine girl, with no nonsense about her ; 
 and in less than an hour had told nearly all he knew of himself
 
 62 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 
 
 and of his family. They had a splendid place in Hampstead, 
 he said, not so big and rambling as the fine houses in England, 
 but pleasanter every way, and more home-like, with such a fine 
 view of the Hudson and the blue mountains beyond. 
 
 " You have never been in America ? " he said, affirmatively, 
 thus saving Edith the necessity of answering, " and so you do 
 not know how beautiful the Hudson is. Why, it beats the 
 Rhine all to nothing." 
 
 " Have you seen the Rhine ? " Edith asked, smiling at this 
 enthusiastic youth, so wholly American. 
 
 " No," and Godfrey blushed as he met her smile ; " but I've 
 read of it, and heard Alice Creighton rave about it by the 
 hour, and still I know the Hudson is ahead. You ought to see 
 it once in the neighborhood of the Highlands ; the view from 
 our tower is magnificent, with those blue peaks stretching away 
 in the distance, and rising one above the other until I used to 
 think them the stairs which led to Heaven." 
 
 How Edith's heart throbbed as she listened to his description 
 of a place she, too, knew so well, though of her knowledge she 
 dared not give a sign ; and how she longed to question her 
 companion of that grave on the hillside ! But she could not, and 
 as Godfrey evidently expected her to say something, she asked 
 if he had always lived in Hampstead. 
 
 " No ; I was born on Fifth Avenue, in a brown-stone front, 
 so that the first breath I drew was sufficiently stuffy and aristo- 
 cratic ; but I went to the country when I was five or six years 
 old. Father took the old house down and buiit the new one. 
 I never shall forget it, never, for the dreadful thing which hap- 
 pened." 
 
 Edith knew just what was coming, and steeled herself to 
 listen to the details of that tragedy which had colored her 
 whole life. Again the fingers of iron were clutching her throat, 
 while Godfrey told of the young man whom he liked so much, 
 and who had saved another's life at the loss of his own. 
 
 " And when they reached him, the grass was red with blood, 
 and he lay white, and still, and dead." 
 
 Godfrey's voice trembled as he said these words, and he
 
 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 63 
 
 paused a moment in his tale, while Edith clasped her hands 
 tightly together and tried to speak, but could not for the 
 smothered sensation choking and stifling her so. 
 
 " We buried him in our own lot, and bought him a grand 
 monument, and there are many flowers round, the spot," God- 
 frey continued : and then he glanced at Edith, and starting up, 
 exclaimed : " Why, what is the matter ? You are whiter than 
 a ghost. You are not going to faint ? You must not faint ! I 
 don't know what to do with girls who faint. Alice did it once, 
 or made believe, and I kissed her and brought her to quick." 
 
 He did not kiss Edith, but he fanned her with his soft hat 
 until she waved him off, and found voice to say : 
 
 "It is the heat, and your vivid description of that poor 
 fellow's death. Did you tell me he was married ? " 
 
 She asked the question from an intense desire to know if 
 anything had ever been said of herself in connection with the 
 dead. 
 
 " No, he was not married, but there was some talk of an 
 affaire du cceur between him and a young English girl, who went 
 oft" soon after. There's a bug on your dress, Miss Lyle. Why," 
 and, as if it had just occurred to him, Godfrey continued, 
 "your name is the same as his. It cannot be, though, that 
 you were at all related. He lived up near Alnwick. On our 
 way from Scotland, father and I hunted up his friends, a sister 
 and widowed mother, poor but honest women, as the biogra- 
 phers say. The mother lives with her daughter, and we gave 
 them a thousand dollars, and the young woman promised to 
 call her little boy after me. The Governor, that's father, did 
 not quite like it, I guess, but I don't see the harm. Why, I've 
 named three different Dutch babies in Hampstead, all the 
 children of Mrs. Peterkin Vandeusenhisen. Two of them are 
 twins, and I called one Godfrey Schuyler, and the other 
 Schuyler Godfrey, while the third, which happened to be a girl, 
 was christened Alice Creighton, that's a young lady from New 
 York, father s ward, who is at Hampstead a great deal, and so 
 proud ! Yeu ought to have seen her bit of a pug nose go up 
 when she heard the Dutch baby baptized. Why, she nearl/
 
 64 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 
 
 jumped out of her skin when Mrs. Van, as I call her for short, 
 on being asked lor the name, replied : ' Alice Creighton Van- 
 deusenhisen, if you please." The last was a suggestion of my 
 own, by way of making a more striking impression on Alice, 
 because you see, Mrs. Vandeusenhisen had a son, Peterkin, 
 junior, who was in love with Miss Creighton, and used to send 
 her cakes of maple sugar and sticks of molasses candy he made 
 and pulled himself. You ought to see his hands ! The day 
 before the christening I dressed up like a gypsy and deceived 
 the girls and told their fortune, and said Alice would marry a 
 Dutchman, with a long name, like Vanduc something. So 
 complete was my disguise that they did not suspect me, and 
 when Alice heard the name at church, Alice Creighton Van- 
 deusenhisen, she started up as if to forbid the banns, and then 
 catching sight of my face she understood it at once, and was so 
 angry, and when we were home from church she cried and said 
 she hated me and would never speak to me again. But she got 
 over it, and last Christmas sent a wax doll with a squawk in its 
 stomach to her namesake." 
 
 Godfrey had wandered very far from the woman on the 
 heather hills who had called Abelard Lyle her son, and though 
 Edith wished to know something more of her she did not ven- 
 ture to question her companion lest he should wonder at her 
 interest in an entire stranger. She had laughed immoderately 
 at his account of the babies named for himself and Miss Alice, 
 and when he finished she said : 
 
 "You must be very fond of children, I think." 
 "Yes, I am. I'd like a houseful, and when I marry I mean 
 to have enough boys to make a brass band. I told Alice so 
 once, and her nose went higher than it did when she heard the 
 baby's name. She called me a wretch, and an insulting dog, 
 and said she hated boys, and me most of all. I knew she didn't, 
 though, because you see, well, Alice has ten thousand a year, 
 and that will straighten the worst case of turn-up nose in the 
 world. She is an orphan and father is her guardian, and he and 
 mother and Uncle Calvert, that's my half uncle and Alice's, 
 too, put their heads together and thought she'd be a good match
 
 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 65 
 
 for me, and it is rather an understood thing that we will marry 
 some time, but I don't believe we are half as likely to as if they'd 
 said nothing about it. A fellow don't want his wife picked 
 out and brought to him off-hand as Eve was brought to 
 Adam." 
 
 Here Godfrey paused, and rising from his chair shook down 
 his pants, a habit of his when he was interested or excited, and 
 as his sister Julia said, " had talk on the brain." He certainly 
 had it now, for Edith was the first one he had found whom he 
 had cared to talk to since leaving the ship, and after two or 
 three shakes he resumed his seat, and told her of himself par- 
 ticularly ; how he was going to college the next year, if he was 
 home in time, and after that intended to study law and distin- 
 guish himself, if possible." 
 
 "Mother was very proud of me, and hoped great things of 
 me," he said. " 1 do not wish to disappoint her, for though she 
 is dead, I cannot help thinking that she knows about me just 
 the same, and when I am tempted to yield to what you call the 
 small vices, I always feel her thin white hand on my head where 
 she laid it not long before she died, and said, ' Be a good and 
 great man, Godfrey, and avoid the first approaches of evil.' 
 Mother was what they call a fashionable woman, but she was 
 good before she died, and so sure as there is a heaven, so sure 
 she is there, and I've never smoked, nor touched a drop of spir- 
 its, nor sworn a word since she died, and I never mean to 
 either." 
 
 Godfrey's voice was low and tender, and his manner subdued 
 when he spoke of his mother, but very different when he touched 
 upon his sisters and ridiculed Julia's fine lady airs and Emma's 
 readiness to be stiiffed, his definition for believing everything 
 she heard, even to the most preposterous story. They were at 
 Schuyler Hill now, he said, and Alice was there too, studying 
 with their governess, Miss Browning, who, between the three, 
 was awfully nagged, though she was quite as airy and stuck-up 
 as Alice and Jule, and called him "that dreadful boy !" 
 
 " Boy, indeed ! and I most eighteen, and standing five feet 
 len in my socks, to say nothing of this incipient badge of man-
 
 66 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 
 
 hood," and he stroked complacently his chin and upper lip 
 where the beginning of a brown beard was visible. 
 
 How he rattled on, his fresh young face glowing and light- 
 ing up with his excitement, and how intently Edith listened 
 and watched the play of his fine features, and admired his boy- 
 ish beauty ! Surely in him there was nothing but goodness 
 and truth, and as she looked at him she felt glad that his young 
 life was spared, though she could not understand why her hus- 
 band must have been sacrificed for him. Once in her bitterness 
 she had felt that she hated Godfrey Schuyler, but she did not 
 hate him now, and as she walked slowly with him toward the 
 house, she would have given much to have been as fresh, and 
 frank, and open as he was, instead of living the lie she was liv- 
 ing. And to what intent ? What good had the deception 
 ever done her ? What good could it do her, and why continue 
 it longer ? Why not be just what she was, with no concealment 
 hanging over her, and startling her ofttimes with a dread of dis- 
 covery ? Why not tell Godfrey all about herself]^ as he had 
 told her of himself "i Surely, his recent talk with her would 
 warrant such confidence, and why not commence at once a new 
 life by openness and sincerity, even though she lost her place 
 by it? 
 
 " I'll do it and brave my mother, who alone has stood in my 
 way so long," she thought; and she began : " Mr. Schuyler" 
 but before she could say more, he interrupted her with : 
 
 " Don't call me that. I'm too much of a boy. Call me 
 Godfrey, please, unless the name is too suggestive of 'Godfrey's 
 Cordial,' in which case say Schuyler, but pray leave off the Mis- 
 ter till my whiskers will at least cast a shadow on the wall. 
 Whv, I dare say I shall call you by your first name yet. You 
 cannot be much my senior. How old are you, Miss Lyle ? " 
 
 It was a question which a little later in life, when more ac- 
 customed to the world and its usages, Godfrey would not have 
 asked ; but Edith answered unhesitatingly ; " I am twenty- 
 seven." 
 
 " Zounds ! " said Godfrey. " You don't look it. I did not 
 imagine you more than twenty. Why, you might almost be my
 
 GODFREY SCHUYLER. 6^ 
 
 mother ! No, it will never do to call you Edith. Father's 
 eyebrows would actually meet in the centre at such audacity 
 on my part ; that's a trick he has of scowling when disagreeably 
 surprised. Notice it sometimes, please. The only wrinkle in 
 his face is that valley between his eyes.'' 
 
 They were in the hall by this time, and bowing to her voluble 
 acquaintance, Edith passed on to her room, where for half an 
 hour or more she sat thinking of the strange Providence which 
 had brought her so near to her past life, and wondering, too, 
 what the result would be, and if she should tell Godfrey as she 
 had fully intended to do, when he interrupted her with his tide 
 of talk. It did not seem as easy to do it now as it had a little 
 while ago ; the good opportunity was gone and might not 
 return. 
 
 While thus musing the dressing-bell rang, and turning from 
 the window she began to dress for dinner with more interest 
 than usual. Her salary would not allow a very extensive or ex- 
 pensive wardrobe, even if she had desired it, which she did not. 
 Her taste was simple, and she was one of the few to whom every 
 color and style is becoming. Whatever she wore looked well 
 upon her, and in a little country town she would undoubtedly 
 have set the fashion for all. Selecting now from her wardrobe 
 a soft, fleecy, gray tissue, with trimmings of pale blue, her fav- 
 orite color, she tied about her throat a bit of rich lace which 
 Mrs. Sinclair had given her, and wore the pretty set of pink 
 coral, also that lady's gift. It was not often that she curled her 
 hair, but to-day she let two heavy ringlets fall upon her neck, 
 and knew herself how well she was looking, when, at the ring- 
 ing of the second bell, she descended to the hall where Godfrey 
 was waiting for her. He had thought her very handsome in her 
 morning wrapper and garden hat, and when he saw her now he 
 gave a suppressed kind of whistle, and with as much freedom 
 as if she had been Alice Creighton, or one of his sisters, said to 
 her, "Ain't you nobby, though ! " 
 
 It is doubtful if Edith knew just what nobby meant, but she 
 set it down as an Americanism, and knew she was complimented. 
 
 " Allow me," Godfrey said, and offering her his arm, he con-
 
 68 COLONEL SCHUYLER. 
 
 ducted her to the dining-room, where his aunt and father were 
 already assembled. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER. 
 
 |E looked up in some surprise when he saw the couple 
 come in, and the scowl between the eyes, of which 
 Godfrey had spoken, was plainly perceptible. 
 
 " My son is getting very familiar with that girl," was his 
 thought ; but he was very polite to Edith, who sat near to him, 
 and during the dinner he occasionally addressed some remark 
 to her, while his eyes wandered often to her face with a ques- 
 tioning look, which brought a bright color to her cheek, and 
 made her wonder if he was thinking of the young girl who had 
 looked at him from among the vine leaves and told him Abel- 
 ard's name. 
 
 He was not thinking of her ; he was only speculating upon 
 the rare beauty of the face beside him, and trying vaguely to 
 recall where he had seen one like it. 
 
 " In some picture gallery ; a fancy piece, I think," was his 
 conclusion, as with a growing interest in Edith he resolved to 
 question his sister concerning her at the first opportunity. 
 
 As yet he had only talked with Mrs. Sinclair of the past, 
 and all that had come to them both since their last meeting 
 years ago. She had told him of her life and failing health, so ap- 
 parent to him that, as she talked, he had involuntarily taken her 
 thin hands in his, and wished he had come to her sooner ; and 
 then he told her of himself and his children and his wife, who, 
 whatever she might have been while living, had died a good true 
 woman, and gone where neither a Rossiter nor Schuyler is pre- 
 ferred, but only they who have His name upon their foreheads. 
 Of Godfrey he had spoken with all a father's pride for his only 
 son, saying he hoped that this trip would tone him down some- 
 what and make him more of a man and less of a wild, teasing
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER. 69 
 
 boy ; but of Edith he made no mention. Indeed, he had not 
 given her a thought until he saw her come in on Godfrey's arm, 
 when there awoke within him a strange kind of interest in her, 
 and an inexplicable feeling that in some way she was to affect 
 him or his. He supposed her much younger than she was, and 
 noticing Godfrey's evident admiration he inly resolved to leave 
 London very soon and take the lad out of harm's way, if indeed 
 any harm threatened him from this beautiful woman, who fasci- 
 nated and attracted him as well. 
 
 " Sister," he said to Mrs. Sinclair, when dinner was over and 
 they were alone together, " who is this Miss Lyle ? She has a 
 remarkable face." 
 
 Most women have a hobby, and Mrs. Sinclair's was Edith, 
 of whom she was never tired of talking. She had liked her from 
 the first, and two years of intimate acquaintance had only in- 
 creased her fondness for the girl, and for hours she would sit 
 and ring her praises if she could but find a listener. So, now, 
 when her brother said what he did, she began at once : 
 
 " Yes, she is a remarkable person every way. She has been 
 with me more than two years, and I like her better every day. 
 Such a face and figure are rarely seen in this country, and her 
 manners would become a royal princess ; and yet she is only the 
 daughter of a poor curate, who must have made a foolish mar- 
 riage with one not his equal. I cannot endure the girl's mother. 
 I've never seen her but once, and then she impressed me very 
 unfavorably, as if she was not real, you know. Edith must be 
 like her father. He is dead, and the mother takes in lodgers." 
 
 "Ah," and Colonel Schuyler's voice was indicative of disap- 
 pointment, but his next question was: " How old is this girl?" 
 
 "Twenty-seven, I believe," was the reply, "though she 
 looks much younger." 
 
 " Yes, she does. I thought her about twenty," Colonel 
 Schuyler said, and with his fear for Godfrey removed, he arose 
 and joined the young people, who had just come through a side 
 door into the music room. 
 
 " Edith," Mrs. Sinclair called, " play something for my 
 brother."
 
 70 COLONEL SCHUYLER. 
 
 It was Mrs. Sinclair's right to command, Edith's busii.ess to 
 obey, and without a word of dissent she sat down and played, 
 with Godfrey on one side of her and the colonel on the other, 
 both listening with rapt attention to her fine playing, and both 
 admiring the soft, white hands which managed the keys so skil- 
 fully. 
 
 " Edith, dear, sing that pathetic little thing, 
 
 ' I am sitting alone to-night, darling.' 
 
 You can surely manage that, it is written so low," Mrs. Sin- 
 clair said : and rising from the couch where she had been re- 
 clining, she came into the music room, and explained to her 
 brother : " Her f voice is not strong and cannot reach the 
 higher notes. She had a great fright when she was quite young, 
 wasn't it, Edith?" 
 
 "Yes," Edith answered faintly, as she felt the iron hand 
 closing around her throat and shutting down all power to sing 
 even the lowest note. 
 
 " I don't like sitting alone at night, darling. I'd rather have 
 somebody with me, so give us your jolliest piece," Godfrey 
 said, making Edith laugh in spite of herself, and lifting the in- 
 visible hand, so that her voice came back again ; and, at Mrs. 
 Sinclair's second request, she sang : 
 
 " I am sitting alone to-night, darling, 
 
 Alone in the dear old room ; 
 And the sound of the rain, 
 As it falls on the pane, 
 
 Makes darker the gathering gloom. 
 
 " For I know that it falls on a grave, darling, 
 
 A grave 'neath the evergreen shade, 
 Where I laid you away, 
 One bright autumn day, 
 
 When the flowers were beginning to fade." 
 
 Oh, how soft and low and sweet was the voice which sang 
 the song of which Abelard Lyle had been so fond, and there 
 was almost a tear in Godfrey's eye, and the colonel was begin-
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER. 7 1 
 
 ning to look very grave, when the white hands suddenly 
 stopped and fell with a crash among the keys, while Edith 
 gasped, " I can't finish it ; the iron fingers are on my throat, 
 just as they were that dreadful day." 
 
 She evidently did not quite know what she was saying, and 
 her face was deathly pale. 
 
 " You are sick, Miss Lyle ; come into the air ! " Colonel 
 Schuyler said, and leading her out upon the veranda, he mad* 
 her sit down, while Mrs. Sinclair brought her smelling-salts, and 
 Godfrey hovered about disconsolately, remembering the scene 
 in the summer-house, and wondering if she had such spells 
 often. And, having knocked his head against his father's, when 
 they both stooped to pick up Edith's handkerchief, he con- 
 cluded he was de trop, and walked away, saying to himself : " I 
 do belfeve he is hit real hard. Wouldn't it be fun to call that 
 regal creature mother ! " 
 
 He laughed aloud at the idea, but did not think it would be 
 fun, and did not quite believe in his father's being "hit," 
 either ; but when half an hour later he returned and found the 
 Colonel still sitting by Edith, who had recovered herself, and 
 was talking with a good deal of animation, he felt irritated and 
 impatient, and went off to his room and wrote in his "Impres- 
 sions of Europe," a kind of journal he was keeping of his tour, 
 and which he meant to show " the girls," by way of proving 
 that one American could go abroad and not indorse everything 
 he saw, and make a fool of himself generally. His entry that 
 night was in part as follows : 
 
 " Oakwood is a fine old place, with an extensive park, a 
 smoke-house, fine stables, a dog-kennel, and seven servants, to 
 take care of two unprotected females. Edith Lyle, aged 27, is 
 the handsomest woman I ever saw, even in America. Her 
 features are perfect, especially her nose, which might have been 
 the model for the Greek Slave. Not a bit of a pug, and her 
 eyes are large and soft and liquid, as those of the ox-eyed Juno 
 (I like that classical allusion ; it shows reading), while her ears 
 are the tiniest I ever saw, just like little pink sea-shells, and 
 her splendid brown hair, with a shade or two of yellow sunshine
 
 72 COLONEL SCHUYLER. 
 
 in it, rippling back from her smooth white bio\v, just exactly 
 curly enough, and natural, too, I'll be bound. She don't put it 
 up in crimps, not she. Why, what a scarecrow Alice Creighton 
 was, though, that time I caught her with those two forks hang- 
 ing down about her eyes, with a kind of clamp or horse-shoe on 
 them. I like people natural, as I am sure Edith is. I wonder 
 what makes her go off into a kind of white faint all of a sudden. 
 She did it twice to-day, and I would not wonder if she was 
 given to fits. The governor is hit, sure. I never knew him 
 seem as much interested in any one before. The idea of his 
 leading her into the air and then holding those salts to her nose 
 till he strangled her, bah ! " 
 
 And, while Godfrey wrote thus in his journal, his father sat 
 talking to Edith, and wondering to find how much she knew 
 and how sensibly she expressed herself. Colonel Schuyler was 
 not a man of many words, and seldom talked much to any one, 
 but there was something about Edith which interested him 
 greatly, and he sat by her until the twilight began to close around 
 them, and his sister came to warn him against taking cold and 
 exposing Edith, too. Then he went into the house, and, with- 
 out exactly knowing it, felt a little disappointed when she left 
 the room and did not come again. 
 
 Colonel Schuyler kept a journal, too, in which he occasion- 
 ally jotted down the incidents of the day ; and that night, after 
 recounting his arrival at Oakwood and his grief at finding his 
 sister so great an invalid, he added : 
 
 " She is exceedingly fortunate in having secured a most ad- 
 mirable person for her companion. Besides being educated, 
 and refined, and beautiful, Miss Lyle impresses me as a re- 
 markable woman. Yes, as a very remarkable woman." 
 The next night Godfrey recorded : 
 
 " There is nothing quite so foolish as an old man in love ! 
 I wonder if he thinks she can care for him ! and yet he blushed 
 to-day when I found him turning the leaves of her music and 
 listening to her singing. I never knew him listen two minutes 
 to Alice and Jule, and no wonder, such operatic screeches as 
 they make when Professor La Farge is there, and the boys in
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER. 73 
 
 the street stop and mock them. Edith's voice is the sweetest 
 I ever heard, and so sad that it makes a chap feel for his ban- 
 danna. Why, even father told auntie that her singing made him 
 think of poor Emily, meaning my mother ! It is a bad sign 
 when a live woman like Edith Lyle makes a man think of his 
 dead wife. I wonder what she thinks of him ! She looks as un- 
 concerned as a block of marble ; but you can't tell what is in a 
 woman's mind, and widowers are awful. Why, there have been 
 forty women after father already ; but I must say he has be- 
 haved admirably thus far, and never spoken to a bonnet out- 
 side our own family, unless it were to Miss Esther Armstrong, 
 and that is nothing. She is the Hampstead school-ma'am, and 
 has thrashed me more than twenty times." 
 
 In Colonel Schuyler's journal the record was as follows : 
 " I wonder if my dear Emily knows how much Miss Lyle's 
 singing makes me think of her and her grave under the ever- 
 green, where we did 
 
 ' Lay her away, one bright autumn day, 
 When the flowers were beginning to fade.' 
 
 Miss Lyle has a singularly sweet, plaintive voice, and it affects 
 me strangely, for I did not know I cared for music. Emily 
 never sang, and the young ladies at home make Very singular 
 sounds sometimes. It is strange about her losing her voice, or 
 rather her power to reach the higher notes. It must have been 
 a fearful shock of some kind, and she evidently does not like to 
 talk of it ; for, when I questioned her a little and advised her 
 seeing a physician, she seemed disturbed and agitated, and even 
 distressed. Dr. Malcolm at Hampstead would know just what 
 to do for her, and she ought to have medical advice, for she 
 has a remarkable voice, a very remarkable voice." 
 
 When Colonel Schuyler liked a thing, it was remarkable, and 
 when he liked it very much, it was very remarkable ; so, when 
 he wrote what he did of Kdith and her voice, he had passed 
 upon her his highest encomium. 
 
 Four weeks went by, and he still lingered at Oakwood, and 
 on the last day of the fourth week wrote again : 
 4
 
 74 COLONEL SCHUYLER. 
 
 " I fully expected to have been in France before this time, 
 but have stayed on for what reason I hardly know. It is very 
 pleasant here, and my sister's health is such that I dislike to 
 leave her so soon, even though I leave her in excellent hands. 
 Miss Edith is certainly a very remarkable person, and I am 
 more interested in her than I have been in any one since I first 
 met my dear Emily." 
 
 Here the colonel paused, and laying down his pen went back 
 in thought to the time when he was young and first met Emily 
 Rossiter, the proud, pale, light-haired girl, whose two hundred 
 thousand in prospect had made her a belle in society, and 
 little as he liked to own it now that the daisies .were growing 
 above her, had commended her to his consideration. His 
 courtship was short, and wholly void of passion or ecstasy. She 
 knew he was a suitable match and she wished to go abroad, and 
 accepted him readily enough, and they were married without so 
 much as a kiss exchanged between them. He had so far un- 
 bent from his cold dignity as to hold her hand in his own while 
 he asked her to be his wife, but as soon as her promise was 
 given he put it back in her lap very respectfully, and said, 
 "That hand is now mine," and that was the nearest approach 
 to love-making which he reached with Emily. After marriage 
 he was scarcely more demonstrative, though always kind and 
 considerate, and when at her father's death it was found that 
 her fortune was one hundred thousand instead of two, he kept 
 it to himself if he felt any chagrin, and never in a single instance 
 checked her extravagance, but suffered her in everything to 
 have her way. At the last, however, when she stood face to 
 face with death, and her life with him lay all behind, there 
 came a change, and he could yet feel the passionate kiss which 
 the white lips pressed upon his as they called him " dear hus- 
 band." 
 
 " Poor Emily," he said, aloud ; " we were very happy to- 
 gether." 
 
 Just then, upon the terrace below there was the sound of a 
 clear, sweet voice, which thrilled him as Emily's never had., 
 and Edith looked up to the windows of the room adjoining his,
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER. 75 
 
 where Godfrey was calling to her. It was a beautiful face, and 
 as he watched her gliding away among the shrubbery he thought 
 how she would brighten and adorn his house at Schuyler Hill, 
 and how proud he should be of her when his money had arrayed 
 her in the apparel befitting his wife. Every barrier of pride and 
 prejudice and early training had gone down before Edith Lyle's 
 wonderful beauty, and the proud, haughty man was ready to 
 offer her his name and hand on one condition. Her mother 
 could not go with her, and in taking him she must give up her 
 family friends, if indeed she had any besides the. mother. He 
 knew nothing against Mrs. Barrett, but his sister disliked her, and 
 that was enough, if he ignored, as he tried to think he did, the 
 fact that she took in lodgers and sewing. Many highly respecta- 
 ble ladies did that, he knew, but he had a feeling that Edith's 
 mother was not highly respectable, and he doubted if she was a 
 lady even. His sister, when questioned with regard to Edith's 
 family, had reported the mother as a pushing, curious, disagree- 
 able woman, who assumed to be what she certainly was not. 
 | " Edith is not like her in the least, and must inherit her natu- 
 ral refinement and delicacy from her father," Mrs. Sinclair had 
 said, and the colonel was satisfied if one side of the house was 
 comme il faut. 
 
 \ As a Schuyler he could afford to stoop a little, and he felt 
 that it was stooping to marry his sister's hired companion. As 
 far as position was concerned, he might as well take poor, plain 
 Ettie Armstrong, the village schoolmistress, who in point of 
 family was undoubtedly Edith's equal. There was, however, 
 this difference. The people at home could know nothing of 
 Edith's antecedents, save that she was an English girl and the 
 daughter of a curate ; while another fact, which outweighed all 
 else, was her exceeding great beauty and queenly style, which, 
 with proper surroundings and influence, would place her on the 
 highest wave of society. And he was ready to give her the sur- 
 roundings and the influence, and felt a thrill of exultant pride 
 as he saw her in fancy at the head of his table and moving 
 through his handsome rooms, herself the handsomest appendage 
 there.
 
 ?6 EDITirS DIARY. 
 
 " I may as well settle it at once," he thought, and the next 
 day he .found his opportunity and took it, with what success the 
 reader will learn from a page in Edith's diary. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 EDITH'S DIARY. 
 
 OAK WOOD, July i$tA, 18 
 
 IM I dreaming, or is it a reality that Col. Schuyler has 
 asked me to be his wife? He says he thinks I am 
 more beautiful than any woman he has ever seen, and 
 that I would make such a rare gem for his house at Hampstead, 
 and he would surround me with every possible luxury. And 
 in his voice, usually so cold and calm and impassioned, there 
 was a little trembling, and his forehead flushed as he went 
 on io[ state the one condition on which he would do me this 
 honor : 
 
 " My mother must have no part in my grandeur ! She must 
 remain here. If necessary, money should be freely given for 
 her needs, but she could not live with me ! " 
 
 Poor mother, with all her planning and her dreams of my 
 brilliant future she never once thought that when the chance 
 came she would be left out and have neither part nor lot in the 
 question ! What would she say if she knew it, and what will 
 she say when I tell her I refused him ? For I did, and told him 
 it could never be. For a moment, though, weak woman that I 
 am, I was tempted to end this life of dependence and poverty, 
 and take what he offered me ; not his love : he never hinted at 
 such an emotion, and I think that feeling is rare in such natures 
 as his. I doubt if he felt it for the Lady Emily, whom he mar- 
 ried in his May time, and surely now in his October he has no 
 place for foolishness of that kind. He does not love me, but 
 he admires my face and form, and would no doubt be very kind 
 and careful of me, just as he would be kind to and careful of a
 
 EDI7WS DIARY. 77 
 
 favorite horse whose looks depended on such treatment. Ke 
 would hang upon me jewels rare, with silks and laces and 
 satins, and I could wear them and feel my heart break afresh 
 each time I looked from my window across the lawn to that 
 grave under the evergreen where Abelard is lying. I should 
 hear him discussed, and with Colonel Schuyler stand by the 
 mound and listen to a story I know so well, and loathe myself 
 for the lie I was acting, for if I was there as Colonel Schuyler' s 
 wife, my life would be one tissue of falsehood and deceit. He, 
 of all men in the world, would not take me if he knew the 
 truth, and during that interval when I hesitated I had resolved 
 not to tell him ! I would go to him, if I went at all, as Edith 
 Lyle the maiden, and not Edith Lyle the widow. But only for 
 an instant, thank Heaven, did the tempter have me in his con- 
 trol ere I cast him behind me with the resolve that whatever 
 else I might do, I would be frank with the man whom I made 
 up my mind to marry, and as I had not made up my mind to 
 marry Colonel Schuyler, I did not tell him who I was. I only 
 declined his offer, and said it could not be, and when his remark 
 that I did not know what I was doing angered me, I burst out 
 impetuously : 
 
 "I do know what I am doing. I am refusing a match 
 which the world, your world, would say was far above me; but, 
 Colonel Schuyler, poor as I am, and humble in position, I am 
 rich in the feeling which will not let me sell myself for a name 
 and a home. And if I accepted you it would be only for that. 
 I respect you. I believe you to be sincere in your offer, and 
 that you would try to make me happy, but you could not do it 
 unless I loved you, and I do not ; besides " 
 
 Here he stopped me, and took both my hands in his, and 
 seemed almost tender and lovable as he said 
 ' , " Edith, I did not suppose you could love me so soon, but I 
 fiopied you might grow to it when you found how proud I was 
 of you, and how I would try to make you happy." 
 
 "Colonel Schuyler," I interrupted him, "you have talked of 
 your pride in me, and your admiration of me, but you have said 
 nothing of love. Answer me now, please. Do you love me ? "
 
 78 EDITH'S DIARY. 
 
 He wanted to say yes, I know, for his chin quivered, and 
 there was in his face the look of one fighting with some princi- 
 ple hard to be overcome. In his case it was the principle of 
 truth and right, and it conquered every other feeling, and com- 
 pelled him to answer : 
 
 " Perhaps not as you in your youth count love. Our acquaint- 
 ance has been too short for that ; but I can and I will ; only 
 give me a chance. Don't decide now. I will not take it as a 
 decision if you do. Wait till my return from the Continent, and 
 then tell me what you will do. I had hoped to take you 
 with me, and thought that the glories of Rome, seen by me 
 twice before, would gain new interest with your eyes beside me. 
 But my sister needs you ; stay with her during my absence, and 
 try to like me a little, and when I come back I know I can say 
 to you, ' Edith Lyle, I love you.' " 
 
 I was touched and softened by his manner quite as much as 
 by what he said, and I replied to him, gently : 
 
 " Even then my answer must be the same. My love was 
 buried years ago. I have a story to tell you of the past." 
 
 Again those dreadful fingers clutched my throat as I tried to 
 tell him of Abelard, and my dead baby, buried I knew not where. 
 My voice was gone, and my face, which was deadly pale, fright- 
 ened him I know, for he led me to the window and pushed my 
 hair from my brow and said to me : 
 
 " Edith, please do not distress yourself with any tale of the 
 past. You say you have loved and lost that love, and let that 
 suffice. I suspected something of the kind, but you are not less 
 desirable to me. /have loved and lost, and in that respect we 
 are even; so let nothing in the past deter you from giving me 
 the answer I so much desire when I return to Oak wood. God- 
 frey is coming this way. I hear his whistle; so good-night, and 
 Heaven bless you, Edith." 
 
 He pressed my hand and left the room just as Godfrey enter- 
 ed the door in another direction, singing softly when he saw me : 
 
 " She sat by the door one cold afternoon, 
 To hear the wind blow and look at the moon ; 
 So pensive was Edith, my dear, darling Edith."
 
 EDITirS DIARY. 79 
 
 He did not get any farther, for something in his light badin- 
 age jarred upon my feelings just then, and assuming a severe 
 dignity, I said : 
 
 "You mistake the name. I am not Edith. I am Miss 
 Lyle." 
 
 He looked surprised an instant, and then, with a comical 
 smile and a shaking down of his pants, he said : 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Lyle. I meant Kathleen 
 O' Moore, of course, but seeing you at the moment I made a 
 mistake in the name, and no wonder, dazed as I am with a let- 
 ter just received from Alice, who hopes I shall return from my 
 foreign travel greatly improved in mind, and taste, and man- 
 ners, as if the latter could be improved. She sent her picture 
 too. Would you like to see it ? " 
 
 He passed me the carte-de-visite, and I saw the likeness of a 
 girl who he said was only sixteen, but whom I should have 
 taken for twenty, at least, judging from the dress and the ex- 
 pression of the face, which I did not like. It was too super- 
 cilious, if not insolent, to suit me, while the turned-up nose 
 added to the look. And still there was a style about her which 
 marked her as what is called a " high-bred city girl," and I 
 have no doubt she will eventually become a belle, with her im- 
 mense fortune and proud, arrogant demeanor. 
 
 " What do you think of it ? " Godfrey asked ; and feeling 
 sure that with regard to her his feelings could not be wounded, 
 I answered : 
 
 " I do not quite like her expression, and she looks too old for 
 you." 
 
 " Good ! I'll tell her that some time when she is nagging me 
 unmercifully," Godfrey said, adding : " I had a letter from Jule 
 too, with her photograph, and also one of our house and 
 grounds. This is Julia." 
 
 It was the face of a brunette, dark, handsome, but proud 
 and imperious, and I was glad that she was not to be my step- 
 daughter. 
 
 " Jule is handsome, except her ears, which are as big as a 
 palm-leaf fan," Godfrey said, and I replied : 
 
 V
 
 8o EDITWS DIARY. 
 
 "Yes, she is handsome, and will make a brilliant woman." 
 
 " This is our home," he continued, and he put into my hand 
 a large photograph of the house on Schuyler Hill, and a con- 
 siderable portion of the grounds. 
 
 There were the tops of the evergreens, and there was a 
 white stone shining through the green, and I said to Godfrey, 
 
 "Whose monument is that?" 
 
 "That? Let me see. Why, that is young Lyle's, the man 
 who saved my life. You remember I told you about him ? 
 Mother's is farther on and out of sight." 
 
 How faint and sick I felt to have Abelard's grave thus 
 brought near to me, and there was a blur before my eyes, 
 which, for a moment, prevented me from seeing distinctly. 
 Then it cleared away, and I was able to examine the picture 
 and see how the grounds had been improved since that morn- 
 ing when Abelard's blood was on the grass where now the 
 flowers were growing. It was a fine place, and as I looked at 
 it and thought it had been offered me, ay, might yet be mine, 
 if I would take it, did I feel any regret for having refused it ? 
 None whatever. If I were to tell Col. Schuyler everything I 
 should never go there, and if I were to go without telling him 
 my life would be one of wretchedness and hatred of myself. 
 No, better bear with poverty and servitude than live a greater 
 lie than I am living now. So I gave the picture back to 
 Godfrey, and bidding him good-night, came up to my room, 
 where I could be alone, to think over the events of that event- 
 ful day. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM GODFREY'S JOURNAL. 
 
 What a regal creature Edith is ! and I do believe father 
 thinks so too, but that would be an awful match for her. Jule 
 would scratch her eyes out, and if ever I should marry Alice, 
 which I never shall, but if I do, and bring her home to Schuyler 
 Hill, wouldn't I have lively times between step mother and 
 wife ; but that is too absurd to consider for a moment. I wish 
 she was younger or that I was older. Let me see, 'most 
 eighteen from "most twenty-eight, leaves ten. No, that will
 
 EDITH AND HER MOTHER. 8 1 
 
 never do. A man may not marry his grandmother, much less 
 a boy, as Jule calls me in her letter, giving me all sorts of 
 advice, and hoping I will overcome that habit of wriggling, 
 meaning the way I have of shaking down my pants. As if I 
 knew when I did it. Alice's letter was a very good one, only 
 why need she call me "Dear Godfrey" when I'm not her 
 Dear Godfrey, and never shall be. Why, she looks older than 
 Miss Lyle herself in that picture, with her hair stuck on the top 
 of her head like a heathen Chinee. I believe I'll tear the picture 
 up. Miss Lyle did not like it, neither do I, and I will not 
 have it in my possession. I wonder if Miss Lyle would give me 
 hers. I mean to ask her to-morrow." 
 
 He did ask her and received no for his answer, and then tore 
 up Alice's photograph, and packed his valise, and with his father 
 set off for Paris the following day. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 EDITH AND HER MOTHER. 
 
 |ND you refused him ? " 
 
 11 Yes, mother, I refused him." 
 " Are you crazy, child ? " 
 " Not as crazy as I should be to accept him." 
 Edith was sitting with her mother in the little house in Cale- 
 donia Street, when the above conversation took place. It was 
 the day of Col. Schuyler's departure for Paris, and she had 
 driven into town, with permission to stay to tea if she liked. 
 She had not intended to tell her mother what had been said to 
 her by the colonel, but when questioned of him something in 
 her manner excited Mrs. Barrett's suspicion, and in her usual 
 forcible way she wrung from her daughter the fact that Schuyler 
 Hill had been offered to her and refused. To say that Mrs. 
 Barrett was angry would feebly express her emotions. In all 
 her dreams for Edith she had never hoped for anything quite 
 equal to an alliance with Col. Schuyler, and now that she had 
 4*
 
 82 EDITH AND HER MOTHER. 
 
 wilfully thrown the chance away she was exceedingly indignant, 
 and expressed her disapprobation in terms so harsh and bittei 
 that Edith, who seldom felt equal to a contest with her mother's 
 fierce, strong will, roused herself at last and answered back : 
 
 " Mother, you have said enough, and you must stop now and 
 listen to me. You upbraid me for having thrown away the 
 chance for which you have waited so long, and to which you 
 say you have shaped every act of your life since I was born, 
 and you accuse me of ingratitude when you have done so much 
 for me. Mother, for all the real good you have done me I am 
 grateful, and you know how gladly I will work for you so long 
 as I have health and strength to do so, but for the secrecy you 
 have imposed upon me with regard to my past life I do not 
 thank you, and could I go backward a few years, or had my 
 baby lived, I would have no concealments from the world. To 
 me it is no shame that I was once the wife of Abelard Lyle ; 
 the shame is that I try to hide it, and when Colonel Schuyler 
 asked me to be his, the truth sprang to my lips at once, and but 
 for that terrible choking sensation which came upon me when 
 you took baby away, I should have told him all." 
 
 " And ruined your prospects forever," Mrs. Barrett said, an- 
 grily. 
 
 " Yes, ruined them forever so far as Col. Schuyler is con- 
 cerned, but that would have mattered little," Edith answered, 
 proudly. " I have no love for him ; he has none for me. I 
 asked him the question, and he could not tell me yes. His 
 fancy was caught, and he talked of my beauty, and grace, and 
 voice, and culture, and hinted that I was a fitting picture for 
 his handsome home in Hampstead. You saw Lady Emily 
 once. You remember how pale, and sallow, and thin she was. 
 Neither gems nor rich gay clothing could make her fair to look 
 upon, and I have no doubt her husband would be prouder of 
 me than he ever was of her, with all her money and Rossiter 
 blood, that is, if he took me as Edith Lyle, the daughter of an 
 English curate, and nothing more ; but once let him know the 
 truth, as he assuredly must have known it if 1 had for a moment 
 considered his proposition, and think you he would not have
 
 EDITH AND HER MOTHER. 83 
 
 spurned with contempt the widow of a carpenter, and that car- 
 penter his own hired workman ? " 
 
 " Not if he truly loved you," Mrs. Barrett interposed ; and 
 Edith answered impetuously : 
 
 * " But I tell you he does not love me. He only cares for my 
 personal attractions, he would like to show me off as his young 
 English bride, whose family must be ignored, for, mother, he 
 told me that distinctly ; he said he knew nothing of my friends, 
 and did not care to know, as he wished for me alone ; that if I 
 married him, you must stay behind, a mother-in-law always made 
 more or less trouble, and he preferred to have you remain where 
 you are, and if money was needed for your support, it should 
 always be forthcoming in sufficient amount for every comfort." 
 
 " And yet he knows nothing of me to dislike," Mrs. Barrett 
 faltered, her countenance falling, and her eyes having in them 
 a look of disappointment. 
 
 That she was to be set aside and have no part in Edith's 
 grandeur, had never occurred to her, and in fancy she had 
 already crossed the sea and was luxuriously domesticated at 
 Schuyler Hill, as the mother of the mistress and general super- 
 intendent of everything, with plenty of money at her command, 
 and herself looked up to and envied by the very people who 
 had once treated her slightingly, and who would never suspect 
 of having known her as Mrs. Fordham. She looked much 
 older now than she had eleven years ago, and her hair was 
 white as snow, while the deep black she wore constantly was a 
 still more complete disguise. So there was no danger of detec- 
 tion, no link to connect her with the cottage by the bridge 
 where she once lived, or that grave under the evergreen. But 
 all this was of no avail. Col. Schuyler would not have her on 
 any terms, and knowing this she was the more easily reconciled 
 to Edith's decision, until by dint of questioning she learned that 
 the colonel did not consider the matter settled, but would urge 
 his suit again on his return to England. Then her old ambi- 
 tion revived, and with a mother's forgetfulness of self, she 
 thought, " She shall accept him then. I will see her a lady 
 even if I starve in a garret."
 
 84 MRS. BARRETTS LODGERS. 
 
 But she wisely resolved to say no more upon the subject at- 
 present, and Edith had arisen to go, when down the stairs came 
 the patter of little feet, and a sweet, childish voice was heard 
 warbling a simple Scottish ballad, and Edith caught a gleam of 
 bright auburn hair falling under a white cape bonnet, as a young 
 girl went past the window and out upon the walk. 
 * " Whose child is that ? Has Mrs. Rogers come ? " she asked, 
 and Mrs. Barrett answered : 
 
 " She has been here nearly two weeks, and that is little Ger- 
 tie Westbrooke." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 MRS. BARRETT'S LODGERS. 
 
 DRS. ROGERS had received a message from her cousin 
 Norah, which sent her again to Caledonia Street, 
 where she found Mrs. Barrett more civil than before, 
 and more inclined to let her rooms. Some little hesitancy there 
 was, it is true, with regard to the chamber which had been 
 Edith's, and where she now occasionally spent a night. 
 
 " Surely your daughter can sleep with you, and does not re- 
 quire an extra room," Mrs. Barrett said ; and Mrs. Rogers re- 
 plied : 
 
 " I prefer that she should have a room to herself. As I told 
 you before, she is not my child, and I am more particular on 
 that account to bring her up different. She has as good blood 
 in her veins as many a would-be fine lady." 
 
 So Mrs. Barrett gave up the point and prepared Edith's old 
 room for little Gertie, to whom Mary was as devoted as if she 
 Jiad been a scion of nobility. If Mrs. Barrett had cared for 
 Children she would have been interested in Gertie at once, but 
 as it was she did not notice her particularly till she had been for 
 several days an inmate of the house. Then one afternoon, as 
 she sat at her sewing, her ear caught the sound of a sweet voice 
 singing a familiar air. Something in the tone of the voice ar-
 
 MRS. BARRETFS LODGERS. 85 
 
 rested her attention, and carried her back to the time when 
 Edith was young and sang that very song. Moving her chair so 
 that she could command a better view of the back porch where 
 Gertie sat, she noticed for the first time how very pretty she 
 was. She was rather small for her age, and had a round, sweet 
 face, with a complexion like wax, and the clearest, sunniest blue 
 eyes, which seemed fairly to dance when she was pleased, and 
 again were so dreamy and indescribably sad in their expression 
 as if the remembrance of some great sorrow had left its shad- 
 ows in them. The long, thick eyelashes, and heavy arched 
 brows gave them the appearance of being much darker than 
 they really were, and when the lids were raised one was sur- 
 prised to find them just the color of the summer sky on a clear, 
 balmy day. But Gertie's hair was her greatest point of beauty, 
 her bright, wavy hair which in her babyhood must have been al- 
 most red, but which now was auburn, with a shading of gold in 
 it. Taken altogether, she was a very beautiful child, and one 
 whom strangers always noticed and commented upon, and even 
 Mrs. Barrett, as she sat watching her, felt a sudden throb of 
 interest in her, and thought of another little one, who might 
 have called her grandma and made her old age happy. 
 
 " Gertie," she said, after a motnent, " come here, please. I 
 want to talk with you." 
 
 Startled by the voice and a little surprised to be addressed 
 by the cold, quiet woman who had never before evinced the 
 slightest interest in her or scarcely spoken to her, Gertie arose, 
 and coming timidly to Airs. Barrett's side, stood waiting for her 
 to speak. 
 
 " Gertie," Mrs. Barrett began, " have you always lived in 
 London ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, but not with auntie," was Gertie's reply : and 
 Mrs. Barrett continued : " With whom then did you live ? " 
 
 "With my mamma, who died when I was two years old," 
 was the prompt answer; and Mrs. Barrett went on : "Had 
 you no father then ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, but but ; " the child hesitated a little and 
 
 blushed painfully, then added, "he didn't like me much, I
 
 86 MRS. BARRETTS LODGERS. 
 
 guess, and when the new mother came, it was very bad, and 
 so auntie, who isn't my auntie, you know, only she lived there 
 and liked me, took me for her own little girl, and I've been so 
 happy with her, though mamma's house was much bigger and 
 nicer than any we have had since, and there were servants 
 there just as there are at (pakwood, only not so many. But I 
 like living with auntie best." 
 
 Mrs. Barrett was interested now, and was about to question 
 the child further of that home like Oakwood, when Mrs. 
 Rogers appeared and called the little girl away. That after- 
 noon Mrs. Barrett was attacked with a nervous headache which 
 was so severe as to send her to her bed, where she lay with her 
 eyes closed and moaning occasionally, when a light footstep 
 crossed the floor, and a low, sweet voice said : "You are real 
 sick, aren't you ? May I do something for you ? " and before 
 Mrs. Barrett could speak, two soft hands were pressed upon 
 her aching head, which they rubbed and caressed until the 
 throbbing ceased entirely, and the pain was less hard to bear. 
 Gertie was a natural nurse, and she smoothed the lady's pillow, 
 and folded up a shawl and put it away and adjusted the shut- 
 ters to exclude the light and still admit the air, and did it all so 
 quietly and noiselessly that Airs. Barrett would hardly have 
 known she was there. 
 
 " You are very kind," she said, " and I thank you so much, 
 but don't trouble yourself any more. I shall do very well now. 1 ' 
 
 " Oh, I like to take care of you," Gertie answered. " It's 
 funny I know, but you see I make believe I am caring for my 
 grandma. I have one somewhere, auntie says, although I never 
 saw her, and I guess she don't like me very well." 
 
 " Not like you / " Mrs. Barrett exclaimed. " How can she 
 help it ? " 
 
 "You see she don't know me," Gertie answered. "If she 
 did, maybe she would. Do you like me ? " 
 
 The question was put timidly, and the little face was very 
 grave until the answer came, " Yes, very much ; " then it 
 flushed all over, and the blue eyes shone like stars while the 
 warm red lips touched Mrs. Barrett's cheek so lovingly, as Ger-
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER RETURNS. 8^ 
 
 tie exclaimed : " I am so glad. I want to be liked. I want 
 everybody to like me." 
 
 A desire to be loved was a part of Gertie s nature, and with 
 it she seemed to possess the faculty of making everybody love 
 her, even to Mrs. Barrett, who, after that day, was exceedingly 
 kind to the little girl, and ceased to care because she was an oc' 
 citpant of Edith's room. That there was some history connected 
 with her she was sure, but no questioning on her part availed to 
 elicit any more information than had been volunteered during 
 their first interview. Mrs. Rogers must have cautioned Gertie 
 not to talk of her parents and old home, for she was very reti- 
 cent, and answered evasively whenever Mrs. Barrett broached 
 the subject to her, as she did once or twice. 
 
 " Auntie can tell you," was her reply, when asked where her 
 father had lived, and as Mrs. Barrett did not care to talk to 
 Mrs. Rogers, she knew nothing definite of little Gertie West- 
 brooke when Edith came to see her and brought news of her 
 rejection of the colonel. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER RETURNS. 
 
 OAKWOOD, May 2$th, 18 . 
 
 OLONEL SCHUYLER : Your sister, Mrs. Sinclair, 
 is lying very low, and desires to see you as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 "Respectfully, EDITH LYLE." 
 
 This short epistle found Col. Schuyler in Florence, and 
 brought him back to England at once. During the winter and 
 the early spring Mrs. Sinclair had been failing, and when May 
 came, the change in her for the worse was so perceptible that 
 she asked Edith to write for her brother, whom she wished to 
 see once more. To Edith the thought of losing her kind mis- 
 tress was terrible, for, aside from the genuine love she bore the
 
 88 COLONEL SCHUYLER RETURNS. 
 
 lady, she knew that losing her involved also the loss of the home 
 where she had been so happy, and she dreaded to encounter 
 the curious suspicions she would have to meet alone and 
 unprotected. 
 
 " What will you do when I am gone ? " Mrs. Sinclair said to 
 her one day when speaking of her approaching decease, and as 
 Edith made no reply, except to cover her face with her fingers, 
 through which the tears trickled slowly, she went on : " You 
 seem to me like a daughter, and I shrink from the thought of 
 leaving you alone. If it were possible I would make you inde- 
 pendent, but at my death the Oakwood property reverts to a 
 nephew of my husband's, and I cannot control it. I can, 
 however, do something for you, and will. Edith, I have never 
 mentioned the subject to you before, but, was there not, did 
 not my brother offer himself to you last summer when he was 
 here?" 
 
 "Yes," came faintly from Edith; and Mrs. Sinclair con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "And you refused him, subject, I believe, to a reconsidera- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " I refused him, and with no thought of reconsideration on 
 my part. My decision was final," Edith said ; and Mrs. Sinclair 
 continued: 
 
 " It is not for me to dictate in such matters, perhaps, but it 
 seems to me you will do well to think of it again should he 
 renew the matter on his return. It is an offer which any 
 woman should consider seriously before rejecting it. I know 
 he can make you happy, and you would far better be his hon- 
 ored wife even if he is many years your senior, than be cast 
 upon the world with your face and manner as a lure to evil- 
 minded men, who h'old a governess as only fair spoil." 
 
 " I know it ; I know all that, and feel it so keenly," Edith 
 answered, and for an instant there came over her such a feeling 
 of utter loneliness and desolation, and such a shrinking from 
 the future which might be to her what the past had been until 
 she knew Mrs. Sinclair, that she would almost have taken 
 Colonel Schuyler had he been there then.
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER RETURNS. 89 
 
 Smothering her sobs and commanding her voice as well as 
 she could, she continued : 
 
 " I would rather die than meet again what I have met in the 
 families where I was employed before I knew you, but mother 
 is poor and growing old, and I must do something." 
 
 " Why not take the home offered you ? " Mrs. Sinclair asked, 
 while Edith sat motionless as a stone, her face as white as 
 ashes, and that horrid sensation in her throat which kept her 
 from uttering a word. 
 
 When at last she could speak she astonished Mrs. Sinclair 
 by falling on her knees beside the bed, and crying out : 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Sinclair, you do not know, you cannot guess what 
 and who I am, or you would know that could never be. For- 
 give me, I have been an impostor all these years, but now I 
 must speak and tell the whole, and then you shall judge if your 
 proud brother, knowing all, would take me for his bride." 
 
 Twenty minutes passed, and then Edith sat, paler and more 
 motionless, if possible, than before, her hands pressed tightly 
 together, and her eyes cast down as if afraid to meet the won- 
 dering gaze fixed upon her. She had withheld nothing, and 
 Mrs. Sinclair knew the entire story, from the hasty marriage in 
 New York, up to the day when the message came that the 
 little baby was dead. She had -been astonished and shocked, 
 and indignant with the mother rather than with the daughter, 
 who, she readily saw, had been only a' tool in an ambitious, 
 heartless woman's hands, and whom she could forgive for 
 a deception which had wronged no one and in which no 
 one but herself was as yet involved. So, when at last she 
 spoke, her voice was just as kind and gentle as of old, as she 
 said : 
 
 " My poor child, yours is a strange experience for one so 
 young. Truth is always best, and it would have been just as 
 well if it had been confessed at first. I am glad you have told 
 me ; and if my brother asks you again, as I think he will, you 
 must tell him. It may make a difference with him. I do not 
 know. Certainly it would, if withheld till after marriage. That 
 deception he would hardly forgive. Leave me now, please ; I
 
 90 COLONEL SCHUYBER RETURNS. 
 
 am very tired, and you, too, need the open air after your great 
 excitement." 
 
 The next day Col. Schuyler came alone, as Godfrey was in 
 Russia. But Mrs. Sinclair was too weak to talk much, and 
 could only look her pleasure at her brothers presence. Three 
 days after she died, with her head on Col. Schuyler' s bosom and 
 Edith kneeling at her side. Just at the last she had taken the , 
 girl's hand, arid putting it in that of her brother had whis- 
 pered : 
 
 " Take care of her, Howard. She is worthy, and has been 
 like a daughter to me." 
 
 "I will," he answered, emphatically, as his hand closed 
 tightly over that of Edith, who felt as if that hand-clasp bound 
 her to the fate which she had no longer power to resist. 
 
 Immediately after the funeral she returned to her mother's 
 cottage, but before she went Col. Schuyler asked for a private 
 interview, which she granted with a feeling that it was of no use 
 to straggle against what was inevitable. Col. Schuyler had 
 tried to forget her during his travels ; had tried to reason with 
 himself that a poor unknown girl, who was his sister's hired com- 
 panion, was not a fitting match for a Schuyler whose first wife 
 had been a Rossiter. But one thought of the beautiful face, 
 and of the sweet voice which had sung to him in the twilight 
 was sufficient to break down every barrier of pride and make 
 him willing to sacrifice a great deal for the sake of securing her. 
 And so it was that on his return to England he was resolved to 
 renew the offer once made and rejected, and to take no refusal 
 this time. His sister approved his choice, and had sanctioned 
 it with her dying breath, and thus reassured he went to Edith 
 with a feeling of security as to the result of the interview, which 
 manifested itself somewhat in his manner, and made Edith feel 
 more and more how helpless she was, and how certain it was 
 that her secret must be told. 
 
 " Edith," he began in his stiff way, as he took a seat beside 
 her, "just before I left Oakwood last August, I held a con- 
 versation with you which I know you have not forgotten. I 
 asked you to be my wife, and you asked me if I loved you. I
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER RETURNS. 9! 
 
 could not say yes, then, for though I admired and respected, 
 and wanted you, I did not experience any of those ecstatic 
 thrills of which we read in books, and which very young people 
 call love. And even now," he paused a moment and hesi- 
 tated, and a flush spread itself over his face, " even now I 
 may not feel as a younger man would in similar circumstan-' 
 ces ; but when I tell you that you have scarcely been out of 
 my mind for a moment during my absence, that I have dreamed 
 of you night and day, and that in all the world there is nothing 
 I desire so much as I desire you, I think you will be satisfied 
 that if I do not love you as you have imagined you might be 
 loved, I am in a fair way to do so, if I receive a little encour- 
 agement." 
 
 He paused, but Edith did not speak, and sat before him with 
 her long eyelashes cast down and her hands working nervously 
 together. She knew he was sincere, though his wooing was so 
 different from what Abelard's had been, or what Godfrey's 
 would be were he in his father's place. But Godfrey was 
 young, and Abelard had been young, too, and both were differ- 
 ent from this cold, proud man of forty, who had unbent his 
 dignity so much, and who seemed so earnest, and even tender 
 as he went on to tell her of all she had to gain if she would go 
 with him to the home he would make more beautiful than it 
 already was, for her sake. It was a very pleasant picture he 
 drew of the future, but it did not move Edith one whit, because 
 she felt certain that this life could not be hers if she told him 
 all, as she must surely tell him, if he persisted in his suit. She 
 admitted to him that he was not disagreeable to her ; that she 
 found his society pleasant ; that she believed him to be a man 
 of honor, who would try to make her happy ; and when he asked 
 why she hesitated, she opened her lips to tell him, but could 
 not speak the words. 
 
 " I can write them better," she thought, and when she could 
 command her voice, she said to him : " Give me a few days, a 
 week, in which to think, and then I will write you my decision. 
 I know you honor me, and I thank you for it, and believe you 
 sincere, and for that reason, would not for the world deceive
 
 92 EDITfTS ANSWER. 
 
 you. I have something to tell you which I can better put on 
 paper. Let me go now, for I feel like suffocating." 
 
 She spoke slowly and with difficulty, and her face was so 
 white, that Col. Schuyler felt alarmed lest she should faint, and 
 passing his arm around her, led her to the balcony and brought 
 her a glass of water, and laid his hand softly on her hair, and 
 seemed so kind and thoughtful, that for the first time there 
 awoke in Edith's heart a throb of something like affection for 
 this man who might make her so happy. 
 
 "*Oh, if I only could forget the past and accept the life of- 
 fered me," she thought, as an hour later he put her into the 
 carriage which was to take her to her mother's, and then press- 
 ing her hand deferentially, said to her : " I shall await your 
 answer with a great deal of impatience, and shall not consent 
 to receive an unfavorable one." 
 
 He lifted his hat, and the carriage drove away to Caledonia 
 Street, where her mother was expecting her. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 EDITH'S ANSWER. 
 
 |ERTIE WESTBROOKE had gone to the country with 
 Mrs. Rogers for a few weeks, and Edith occupied her 
 old room, and slept in the child's bed, and dreamed 
 strange things which haunted her waking hours, and sent her 
 heart back to the little one lost long ago with a yearning such 
 as she had not felt in years. And with this pain, this sense of 
 loss still clinging to her, she sat down one morning and wrote 
 the story of her life, word for word, keeping nothing back and 
 finishing by saying : 
 
 " If, after knowing all this, you still wish me to be your wife, 
 I will not refuse, but will do my duty faithfully, so help me 
 Heaven !" 
 
 She showed the letter to her mother, who, finding that it was
 
 EDITH'S ANSWER. 93 
 
 useless to oppose her daughter, offered to take it to Oakwood 
 herself. 
 
 " Better so than to trust it to the post," she said. " Besides, 
 it is well for me to be there to answer any questions he may 
 ask, and to take the blame wholly upon myself, as I deserve." 
 
 Edith did not refuse. She was rather glad than otherwise 
 to have her mother go as a kind of mediator between her- 
 self and the man whom she began to find it would be a little 
 hard to lose. Accordingly Mrs. Barrett arrayed herself in her 
 deepest mourning, and with her thick veil drawn over her face, 
 started for Oakwood and asked for Colonel Schuyler. He had 
 passed the four days drearily enough, and in his impatience had 
 more than once resolved to go to Caledonia Street, and claim 
 Edith's answer. But he had promised her not to do so, and he 
 remained at Oakwood in a state of great suspense, until the 
 day when a lady was announced as wishing to see him. 
 
 " It surely cannot be Edith," he thought, as he started for the 
 parlor, where the closely- veiled figure arose and introduced it- 
 self as " Mrs. Dr. Barrett, mother of Miss Lyle." 
 
 Colonel Schuyler was one of the preoccupied kind of men 
 who take little note of what does not directly concern them, 
 and though he must have heard the name of Edith's mother, he 
 had paid no attention to it, or thought strange that it was not 
 Lyle. Now, however, he noticed it, and with only a stiff bow 
 to the lady said : 
 
 "Barrett? Mrs. Barrett? And you Miss Lyle's mother? 
 How is that ? " 
 
 " I have been twice married, and my last husband was Dr. 
 Barrett," was the reply, which satisfied the colonel, who took a 
 seat at some distance from his visitor and waited for her to com- 
 municate her business. 
 
 Evidently it was a little awkward for her to do so, for she hes- 
 itated and fidgeted in her chair and grew very red under her 
 black veil, and wished Colonel Schuyler would not scan her as 
 curiously as he was doing. At last, with a great effort, she began : 
 
 " My daughter has told me all that has passed between you, 
 and I am come with a message from her."
 
 94 EDITHS ANSWER. 
 
 " A message ! " Col. Schuyler repeated, in some surprise ; 
 " I supposed she was to write." 
 
 He did not like this interference by a third person, and that 
 person a woman, whom his sister had described as " pushing 
 and inquisitive," and for whom he had conceived a prejudice 
 without knowing why. She was very deferential, almost cring- 
 ing in her manner, and her voice was apologetic in its tone, as 
 she replied : 
 
 " Yes, I know, she meant to send a letter, and she did com- 
 mence one yesterday, but grew so nervous over it that she 
 finally gave it up, and allowed me to come instead." 
 
 Here she stopped a moment, and her hands worked together 
 restlessly while Col. Schuyler, in haste to know the worst, if 
 worst there were, said stiffly : 
 
 " Well, you are here, then, to say your daughter has refused 
 me ; " and as he spoke the words, he was conscious of a sharp 
 pang which told him how hard such news would be to bear, 
 and when Mrs. Barrett continued, " No, not to tell you that," 
 the revulsion of feeling was so great that, forgetful of his aversion 
 for his prospective mother-in-law, he arose and came near to 
 her, while she continued : 
 
 " Her acceptance depends wholly upon yourself, and how you 
 take the story I am here to tell, and which she could not write. 
 Some years ago, when Edith was very young, scarcely fifteen, 
 she fell in love with a well-meaning, good-looking youth, greatly 
 her inferior in the social scale, though perfectly respectable, I 
 believe. Of course, I opposed it, both on account of her ex- 
 treme youth and because, as the daughter of a clergyman, with 
 good family blood, she ought to do better. Without my knowl- 
 edge, however, they were engaged, and would have been 
 married if he had not been suddenly killed. It was a terrible 
 shock to Edith, and one from which she has never quite re- 
 covered. You know something of that spasmodic affection of 
 her throat which attacks her at times. It came upon her then, 
 and now when an allusion is made to the violent death of any 
 one, or she is over-excited, she experiences the same peculiar 
 sensation, so that I try to keep her as quiet as possible, and
 
 EDITH'S ANSWER. 95 
 
 when I found that writing to you about it, as she felt she must, 
 was affecting her so much, I persuaded her to desist and let me 
 come instead. She is morbidly conscientious, and would not 
 for the world marry you until you knew all about her past life. 
 She loved the young man with such love as very young girls 
 feel ; but that was years ago, and now I do not believe she 
 would marry him if he were living. She bade me tell you 
 everything, and say that if, after hearing it, you still wished her 
 to be your wife, she would do her best to make you happy, 
 stipulating only that no reference shall ever be made to a past 
 which it is her duty and wish to forget." 
 
 Colonel Schuyler was not much given to talking at any time, 
 and he surely had no desire to speak to \i\sfiancee of her dead 
 love. Could he have had his choice in the matter there should 
 have been no dead love between himself and Edith, but when 
 he reflected that he could not offer her his first affection, for 
 that was buried in Emily's grave, he felt that it was not for him 
 to object to this poor, unknown youth who had been obliging 
 enough to die and leave Edith free. A few times he walked 
 up and down the room, then stopping suddenly before the 
 anxious woman, he said, " Your daughter once hinted to me 
 that there was something she must tell me, and as I knew her 
 life must have been pure and innocent as a babe's, I supposed 
 it was a matter of this kind, and am prepared to overlook it, 
 though of course I would rather have been the first to move her 
 maiden heart. I will write her a few lines if you will wait here, 
 and this afternoon or evening I shall see her." 
 
 He bowed himself from the room, leaving Mrs. Barrett in a 
 state of fearful suspense as to what he might write to Edith, and 
 whether her wicked duplicity would at once be discovered. In 
 .'nor desire for Edith's advancement she was willing to do any- 
 thing, and the slight put upon herself was nothing to her now. 
 She- would rather have gone with Edith to her beautiful home if 
 she could, but as she could not she accepted the condition, and 
 was just as eager for Edith to accept the colonel as if she too 
 were to share in the greatness. With Edith she felt almost cer- 
 tain that a full confession of the past would at once end every-
 
 96 EDITH'S ANSWER. 
 
 thing, for Colonel Schuyler would hardly marry the widow of 
 one of his workmen, and she resolved that he should not know 
 it, at least not in time to prevent the marriage. With Edith his 
 wife he could not help himself, and would make the best of it, 
 if by chance it came to his knowledge, she reasoned, and when 
 she started for Oakwood with Edith's letter it was with no in-J 
 tention of giving it to him. She knew just what she would say 
 to him, and she said it, and then waited the result. 
 
 Fifteen minutes went by and then he came back to her, and, 
 handing her a note, said, " This is my message to Miss Lyle. 
 I shall see her this evening and arrange our plans." 
 
 Then he meant to go on with it, and Mrs. Barrett could al- 
 most have fallen at his feet and thanked him for raising her 
 daughter to the position she had sinned so greatly to secure for 
 her, but the colonel's proud, cold manner kept her quiet, and 
 she only said, as she took the note : 
 
 " Thank you, sir ; and please remember not to allude to the 
 past, when you see her. She wished that particularly, it ex- 
 cites her so much." 
 
 " I shall be careful on that point," he said, and with another 
 bow he dismissed her from the room, wondering why he 
 breathed so much freer with that woman gone, and what it was 
 about her which affected him so unpleasantly. 
 
 " I know Edith is not like her in the least," he said, " and I 
 will take care to remove her from that influence as soon as pos- 
 sible. Two weeks will not be too soon for our marriage, and 
 when the Atlantic rolls between us I shall be done with Mrs. 
 Barrett forever." 
 
 Meantime Mrs. Barrett was on her way to London, and con- 
 gratulating herself upon the good luck which had not dried the 
 seal of the note the colonel gave her. Had it been otherwise 
 she would have opened it all the same ; but Satan, whose ser- 
 vant she certainly was, was playing into her hands, and the en- 
 velope held together so slightly that she opened it with per- 
 fect ease, and taking out the letter, read it through with an im- 
 mense amount of satisfaction, as she saw that she could show it 
 to her daughter and not betray herself.
 
 'EDITH'S ANSWER. 97 
 
 " My dear Edith," it began, " do not think I prize you less 
 on account of anything in the past, though of course I would 
 rather that past had never been ; but it is not for me, who have 
 loved and lost a wife, to object because of your early love, whose 
 tragical death affected you so strangely. I trust you will over- 
 come that difficulty in time, and be assured, that both for your 
 sake and my own, I shall never in any way allude to the past, 
 nor is it necessary that I should do so. You have been frank 
 and truthful with me, and I thank you for it, and value you all 
 the more. Had it come to me later, I might have found it 
 harder to overlook than I do now. You are very young, and 
 your concealment from your mother is all I can see for which 
 to blame you in the least. Dear Edith, let it all be as if it 
 never had been, and go with me as my wife. I want you more 
 than ever, and I cannot give you up for a trifle. I will see 
 you to-night and arrange for the wedding, which must take 
 place at once, as I have already been absent too long from 
 home, where I am needed so much, and where there will be a 
 warm welcome for you. 
 
 " Good-by, darling, till to-night. 
 
 " Yours, forever, HOWARD SCHUYLER." 
 
 Had there been anything in this letter to awaken a suspicion 
 in Edith's mind of foul play on the part of her mother, Mrs. 
 Barrett would have unhesitatingly withheld it from her and 
 palmed off some story of her own. But there was nothing, and 
 she hastened home to Edith, whom she found sitting listlessly 
 in her room with Gertie Westbrooke's things everywhere around 
 her, and a look of apathy upon her face, as if she were fully as- 
 sured of the nature of her mother's tidings. She knew Colonel 
 Schuyler could not forgive, and now that the die was cast, and 
 her chance for something better than a governess' life lost for- 
 ever, as she believed, she was conscious of a feeling of pain and 
 weariness, and her heart cried out for what she must not 
 have. 
 
 As her mother entered the room she lifted her eyes languidly, 
 but s.iid nothing until she read the letter, which made her 
 5
 
 98 EDITH'S ANSWERS 
 
 pulse quicken with a new hope and a restful feeling she had not 
 known in years. 
 
 " What did he say to you ? " she asked. " Did you talk with 
 him ? Tell me all about it, please." 
 
 And Mrs. Barrett told her just what it seemed best to tell, 
 and said she had taken the blame upon herself for the secrecy 
 since Abelard's death, and that though he was, of course, sur- 
 prised and shocked, he soon recovered himself, and showed 
 how much he was in love by his readiness to forgive and let the 
 past fade into oblivion. 
 
 To say that Mrs. Barrett's conscience did not disturb her a 
 little as she thus told lie after lie would not be true ; but she had 
 committed herself too far to stop now, and then it was for her 
 interest to prevent any conversation with regard to the past 
 between the Colonel and Edith, and she continued : 
 
 " Oh, one thing more I must tell you. Possibly Colonel 
 Schuyler may have said something of the kind in his letter. He 
 is quite as averse to any allusions to the past as you can be, 
 and said distinctly that he did not wish you to mention the sub- 
 ject to him. He is satisfied, and that is enough." 
 
 Edith did not reply. She was reading the note again, and 
 feeling a little hurt and disappointed that no direct mention had 
 been made of Abelard. 
 
 " He might at least have been generous enough to say how 
 grateful he was to him for having saved Godfrey's life," she said 
 to her mother, who answered : 
 
 "He did say that to me, and spoke very feelingly of him, 
 and was glad he honored his memory as he did ; but you know 
 how proud he is, and must understand that it would grate upon 
 his pride to think his bride elect had been the wife of his 
 servant. I think myself it would be bad taste in him to go to 
 lauding the dead husband of the woman he intends to make his 
 wife. You surely have no desire to praise the Lady Emily, or 
 even to talk of her, and you must give him the same liberty of 
 reticence." 
 
 Edith was silenced and satisfied. If Colonel Schuyler had 
 praised her husband to her mother, that was enough, and she
 
 EDITirS ANSWER. 99 
 
 appreciated the motives which kept him silent to her, and as 
 the day wore on there crept into her heart a feeling of rest, and 
 content, and satisfaction which she had never known before. 
 Colonel Schuyler was a man whom she thoroughly respected 
 and liked, and whom in time she might learn to love if she 
 could overcome the feeling of awe with which his presence 
 inspired her. She knew he would try to make her happy, and 
 she more than once found herself thinking with pleasing antici- 
 pations of the beautiful home beyond the sea and the new life 
 awaiting her. Never since the days when she arrayed herself 
 for the coining of Abelard had she felt as much real interest in 
 her dress as she did now when making herself ready for her 
 lover. Choosing a pretty robe of white which had been made 
 in Paris, she fastened a knot of lavender ribbon at her throat, 
 and placing a white rose in her hair, was ready for him when, 
 he came at last. His wooing of Emily Rossiter had been the 
 stiffest kind of an affair, and this, his second love-making, was 
 stiff and formal too, as became the man. Still there was in iiis 
 manner genuine kindness, and even tenderness, as he took 
 Edith's hands in his, and said : 
 
 "Are these dear little hands mine?" 
 
 " Yes, if you still wish to have them," Edith answered ; and 
 then he bent down and kissed them very devoutly, as if fearful 
 lest his breath should blow them away. 
 
 This was a great advance on his manner with Emily. To her 
 he had merely said " This little hand is mine," and had put 
 it respectfully back into her lap, reserving his right to kiss her, 
 until she was his wife, while in Edith's case he kissed the hands 
 he claimed as his, and held them in his own a little awkwardly, 
 it is true, as if he did not quite know what he was doing, but 
 still held them and looked at them, and turned them over, and 
 thought how shapely and pretty and white they were, and how 
 they would be improved with the jewels he meant to put upon 
 them. And she would be improved, too, with the rich apparel 
 he would give her; and his heart began to swell with pride 
 as he saw in his home, and at his table, and in society, the 
 beautiful bride, who was sure to be a success. And, as he
 
 loo EDITH'S ANSWER, 
 
 talked to her, and watched the color mount into her cheeks, 
 and saw the coy drooping of her eyes, and felt her warm breath 
 upon his face, he was conscious of being moved as he had 
 never been moved before, and his words and tones were almost 
 lover-like as he talked of the future, and all he meant to do 
 to make her happy. And only once was there the slightest 
 allusion to the past, and then Edith said to him : " And you 
 are sure that you do not care for what has made me so un- 
 happy ? " 
 
 " Care ! no. I told you as much in my letter. That is 
 all gone by. Don't let us mention it now, or ever," he said, 
 as he wound his arm around Edith, who felt that she might in- 
 deed forget the past, and take the good offered to her in the 
 new life coming. 
 
 It was late when Col. Schuyler left her that night, and be- 
 fore he went he had arranged everything with that preci- 
 sion which marked all his actions. They were to be married 
 very quietly within the next three weeks, and then, after a short 
 trip into the country, go at once on shipboard, and sail for 
 America. The bridal outfit would come from Paris, whither he 
 would forward his order the next day. He would also write at 
 once to Godfrey, who would join them in time to be present 
 at the ceremony. There were to be no invited guests, and 
 only a simple breakfast at Oakwood. The heir waa there now, 
 but he had offered the hospitality of the house to Col. Schuyler 
 for as long a time as he chose to accept it, and when told of the 
 projected marriage, had asked the privilege of furnishing the 
 breakfast. Thus matters were arranged, and Edith, who had 
 cared and thought for herself so long, was glad to leave every- 
 thing to Col. Schuyler and let him plan and think for her. She 
 was beginning to like him very much, and when he brought her 
 the engagement ring, and she saw the superb diamond on her 
 finger, she felt a throb of pride and quiet exultation that at 
 last the ease and luxury which her fine tastes fitted her to ap- 
 preciate and enjoy were to be hers without stint or limit. 
 That morning, too, a French modiste came and took her meas- 
 ure, and when the second night of her betrothal closed in, the
 
 BREAKING THE NEWS. 
 
 order was on its way to Paris for " an entire outfit for a young 
 bride \vhose wealth would warrant any expenditure." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 BREAKING THE NEWS. 
 
 J1ODFREY returned to Oakwood two weeks before the 
 wedding, and brought with him a young artist, Robeit 
 Macpherson, whom he had found in Rome, and who 
 had accompanied him to Russia. As he had not received his 
 father's letter he was ignorant of the engagement, and Colonel 
 Schuyler blushed like a school-boy, and stammered and hesi- 
 tated, when he tried to tell him. Godfrey had asked for Miss 
 Lyle, and the colonel, after replying that she was with her 
 mother, had continued : 
 
 " My son, you may be surprised, no, you can hardly be sur- 
 prised, knowing her as you do, when I tell you that I am, yes, 
 I am about to, am going to, give you a new mother. Yes," 
 and the colonel walked to the window and spat on a rosebush 
 outside, and wiped his face, and mustering all his courage, added : 
 " Miss Lyle has promised to be my wife, and you will agree 
 with me, I think, that she is a remarkable, yes, a very remark- 
 able woman." 
 
 He had told his story, and waited for Godfrey's reply, which 
 came first -in a low, suppressed whistle, and then in a merry 
 laugh as he jumped up, and giving his pants a violent shake, 
 said: "I agree with you, father; she is a very remarkable 
 woman, or she would not consent to be my mother and Jule's ; 
 My ! won't she pick her eyes out, and Aunt Christine will help 
 her. Why, she meant to have you herself ! " 
 
 " Who, Christine ? " Colonel Schuyler said, aghast at the very 
 idea of wedding a woman whom he detested, even though she 
 was a Rossiter, and the sister of his wife. 
 
 " Yes, she has set her cap at you ever since mother died, 
 and she came up to Hampstead with all her wraps and con-
 
 102 BREAKING THE NEWS. 
 
 founded drugs, and raised Cain generally," Godfrey replied, 
 and his father smiled a pleased kind of smile, and, man-like, was 
 conscious of a new interest in the woman who had " set her cap 
 for him," while at the same time he felt intense satisfaction in 
 thinking of Edith in all her youth and brilliant beauty, and 
 Comparing her with Aunt Christine, whose body was one great 
 receptacle of drugs, and who, Godfrey said, wore two flannel 
 wraps in the summer, and four in the winter, besides shawls and 
 Scarfs innumerable. 
 
 Godfrey's preference was evidently for Edith, and so his 
 father said to him : " You do not object. You like Miss Lyle, 
 I believe." 
 
 " Like her ? Yes, I rather think I do, and if she'd been 
 younger, or I older, I'd have gone for her myself. She's the 
 most splendid woman I ever saw, but, by Jove, I'm sorry for 
 her, though, for what with Aunt Christine, and Alice, and Julia, 
 and Tiffe and Em, she'll have a sorry time." 
 
 The colonel frowned darkly, and his eyebrows almost met 
 together as he answered with great dignity: 
 
 " Everybody in my house must treat my wife with respect ; 
 but, Godfrey, perhaps it may be well in your letter home to 
 speak a good word for Miss Lyle, prepare the way, you know. 
 You have great influence over Julia, or at least over Miss 
 Creighton, which amounts to the same thing. I have written, 
 of course, but would like you to do so, too." 
 
 " Certainly, with pleasure," Godfrey said, and there was a 
 merry twinkle in his saucy eyes as he thought of the '' hornet's 
 nest " he would stir up at home. 
 
 The colonel had that day written to his eldest daughter, 
 Julia, in his usual dignified manner, that he was about to marry 
 Miss Edith Lyle, "a lady of good family, the daughter of a 
 clergyman, the friend and companion of my deceased sister, 
 your late Aunt Sinclair. She possesses many and varied ac- 
 complishments, and is, what I consider, a very remarkable per- 
 son, and I shall expect a kind reception for her, and that all 
 due deference will be paid to her by every member of my house- 
 hold. Break the news to your Aunt Christine, and tell Mrs.
 
 BREAKING THE NEWS. 103 
 
 Tiffe to have the rooms in the south wing made ready for Mrs. 
 Schuyler. I have written to Perry about repairing them, but 
 she must superintend it:" 
 
 This was in part the colonel's letter, while Godfrey's was 
 widely different. 
 
 "We are in for a stepmother, sure," he wrote, "and may as 
 well make the best of it. Try to imagine father in love, will 
 you ? and such a love ! Truly she is ' a very remarkable per- 
 son,' as you will say when you see her. Just think of father's 
 marrying a red-haired woman of forty, with a limp and glass 
 eye, which looks at you with a squint, and a crack in her voice, 
 which sounds like Ettie Armstrong's old piano, and quite as 
 many aches and pains as Aunt Christine herself! But then, 
 she's nice, and I like her ever so much, while the governor, 
 well, it is something wonderful to see how far gone he is ; and 
 I tell you, girls, one and all, that if you do not treat this beauty 
 with proper attention there will be the old Nick to pay ! She 
 will take your breath away at first, for, after all I have said, you 
 have no idea how she looks, and Alice must hold on to her 
 little nose, and Aunt Christine may as well lay in a fresh supply 
 of pills and Crown Bitters, and get her a new galvanic battery. 
 She'll need them all to steady her nerves after the shock the 
 bride will give her. I shall be glad to be home once more, 
 though I do not believe I am greatly improved with foreign 
 travel. I still shake down my pants, and say ' by Jove,' and 
 don't believe I shall be ' so disgusted with 'New York because it 
 looks so new and backwoodsey,' or that I shall constantly quote 
 ' dear, charming Par-ee? In short, 1 am just as much a ' clown 1 
 as ever, but by way of recompense I mean, if I can, to bring 
 you the nicest kind of a travelled chap, Robert Macpherson, 
 whom I met in Rome, and like so much, even if he does part 
 his hair in the middle, and carry an eyeglass, and put perfumery 
 into his bath, and wear ruffled night-shirts buttoned behind. 
 He's a good fellow, with money, and a profession, too. He is 
 an artist, and his father was cousin to Lord Somebody or other, 
 and I mean to persuade him to come to America with me for 
 you girls to pull caps about. So you've something to live for
 
 104 BREAKING THE NEWS. 
 
 besides the new mam-ma, to whom I must pay my respects as 
 soon as I have finished this letter. So no more at present from 
 your brother, 
 
 GODFREY." 
 
 The young scamp chuckled with delight as he read over this 
 letter and thought what a bombshell it would be in the staid 
 household at Schuyler Hill. 
 
 " I haven't written a lie either," he said ; " I only told them 
 to think of father's fancying such a person, and they will think 
 of it, and Aunt Christine will have a fit and swallow more 
 than a quart of her bitters, and take a shock strong enough to 
 knock her down, and Jule's back will be up, and Alice's nose, 
 and Em will cry, and Tiffe will snort her indignation, and 
 there'll be thunder raised generally." 
 
 After these remarks Godfrey folded his letter and shook him- 
 self down, and looked in the glass, and started for Caledonia 
 Street to call upon Edith. He found her at home, look- 
 ing so beautiful as she rose to meet him, with the flush on her 
 cheek, and the new expression of peace and quiet in her eyes, 
 that he was conscious of a sharp pang of regret for the years 
 which lay between them. Then, as he remembered the woman 
 of forty, with the limp and glass eye, and thought of the con- 
 sternation at Schuyler Hill when his letter was received, and the 
 surprise when the bride herself should arrive, he burst into an 
 uncontrollable fit of laughter, while Edith looked wonderingly 
 at him, with a rising color in her cheeks. 
 
 " You must excuse me," he said, as he held her hand in his. 
 "It seems so ridiculous to think of calling you mother." 
 
 " Don't do it, please," Edith replied. " I'd rather you would 
 not. Let me be Edith." 
 
 And so the ice was broken, and Godfrey plunged into the 
 subject at once, in his half-comical, half-serious way. 
 
 " Honestly," he said, " I am real glad you are going home 
 with us. I never liked any one outside of our family as 
 well as I do you, and once I had serious thoughts of making 
 love to you myself! I did, upon my word, but when I sub-
 
 BREAKING THE NEWS. 105 
 
 tracted eighteen from twenty-eight, I said ' no go.' So far as 
 years are concerned that is worse than Aunt Christine and 
 father." 
 
 " Who is Aunt Christine ? " 
 
 " Have I never told you of her ? Well, inasmuch as you are 
 to be one of us, I may as well enlighten you with regard to the 
 individuals whose stepmother you are to be. Aunt Christine is 
 mother's sister, an old maid, whose love died and left her his 
 money. Since mother's death she has been with us a great deal 
 of her time, quarrelling with Mrs. Tiffe, that's the housekeeper, 
 bullying the servants, nagging the governess, and watching 
 to see that father didn't look at a bonnet with matrimony in his 
 eye. You see, she wanted him herself, he forty-one and she 
 forty-six, and looking almost a hundred, with all the drugs and 
 nostrums she takes for her fancied ailments. She has the neu- 
 ralgia, and catarrh, and dyspepsia, and bronchitis, and liver 
 complaint, and doctors for them all, and has her room as full of 
 bottles as an apothecary's shop, and sits with a dish of tar under 
 her nose, and takes galvanic shocks, and has her hair dressed 
 every day, and wears the richest of silk and finest of lace, 
 and really looks splendidly when she is dressed, was handsome 
 once, and is very exclusive and aristocratic, and proud of her 
 Rossiter blood, and will never rest until she knows a person's 
 pedigree, root and branch." 
 
 There were little red spots on Edith's cheeks and neck as 
 she thought of Aunt Christine finding her out, root and branch. 
 But, after all, what did it matter, so long as her husband knew 
 and did not care ? she reflected, and grew calm again, and 
 amused, as Godfrey went on : 
 
 " I like her, of course, for she is very kind to me, but I would 
 not have father marry her for the world. Not that he ever 
 thought of it, though she has ; and the time he rode out with 
 Ettie Armstrong, the schoolmistress, she was so angry, and 
 wondered how he could let himself down, and he a Schuyler, 
 who had married a Rossiter !" 
 
 " Ettie Armstrong ! That's a pretty name," Edith said, while 
 there came before her mind the vision of a dark-eyed girl who 
 5*
 
 Jo6 BREAKING THE NEWS. 
 
 had promised to care for Abelard's grave, and to whom she had 
 confessed her love for the dead. 
 
 " Yes, 'tis a pretty pame," Godfrey said ; " though Ettie her- 
 self is not pretty. She is most an old maid, I guess, and teaches 
 the village school, and thrashed me like fun the summer I went 
 to her, but never hit me a lick amiss. Father rode with her 
 once, a mere happen-so, and Aunt Christine was furious. I 
 say, Edith, except his age, father is a catch, and you a lucky 
 fellow. Why, half the women in New York and Hampstead 
 are after him, and have been ever since mother died. Even at 
 her funeral, when the clergyman, in eulogizing her and telling 
 what a loss she was to her family, asked ' Who is there to fill her 
 place ? ' twenty old maids hopped up " 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey ! " Edith exclaimed, shocked at his levity ; 
 "you should not talk that way." 
 
 Up to this point Godfrey had rattled on as if he had never 
 had a serious thought or known a genuine feeling of affection ; 
 but at Edith's rebuke the whole expression of his face changed 
 instantly. His chin quivered, and his voice trembled, as he 
 said : 
 
 " You think me, no doubt, an unfeeling wretch, who never 
 cared for anybody ; but you mistake me there. I loved my 
 mother so much that I never go to sleep at night without think- 
 ing of her in heaven, and praying, in my poor way, that I may 
 go to her some day ; and I feel Her hand on my head, and hear 
 her dying voice bidding me try to be good ; and I have tried 
 every day. I loved my mother dearly, and the knowing that 
 father will marry again brings her back to me, and I've rattled 
 on like a fool just to keep to keep to keep from crying out- 
 right for the mother who died." 
 
 He was crying now, and Edith cried with him and held his 
 head on her lap, where he involuntarily laid it, while he sobbed 
 out his grief. Nor did she like him less for it. Indeed, the 
 bond between them was stronger than ever, now that she saw 
 how deep his feelings were, and that under his gay exterior was 
 hidden so much genuine affection and sterling worth. As she 
 would have soothed and comforted a brother, she soothed and
 
 BREAKING THE NEWS. 107 
 
 comforted him until the little burst was over, and lifting up his 
 head, he said in his old playful way : 
 
 "There, I've had it out, and cried in your lap anyway. 
 Quite a little tempest, wasn't it? I say, Edith, you are not to 
 think I don't want you to marry father, for I do. I like you 
 ever so much, and I'm going to stand by you through thick and 
 thin, and at first there'll be more thick than thin, for Julia will 
 not be pleased with a stepmother, and Em will follow Julia, 
 and Alice, who is there a great deal, will sniff any way, and 
 Aunt Christine will ride her highest horse; but you are sure to 
 win in the end. Only wear your most queen-like air, and keep 
 a stiff upper lip, and act as if born to the purple, and you'll 
 conquer at last, with the governor and me to uphold you. It's 
 a grand old place, and you'll be happy there. Who is that ? 
 Look quick, do," he exclaimed suddenly, and glancing toward 
 the window Edith saw a cab standing before the gate, and a 
 plainly dressed woman coming up the walk. 
 
 "That is Mrs. Rogers," she said. "She lodges here, but has 
 been absent several weeks. We were not expecting her so soon." 
 
 " Mrs. Rogers," Godfrey repeated. " I don't mean that wo- 
 man. It's the girl in the cab, with the bright hair and blue eyes, 
 and the prettiest face I ever saw. I wish she'd look out again." 
 
 "That must be Gertie Westbrooke, Mrs. Rogers's daughter," 
 Edith said. "She is very pretty, I believe, though I have 
 never seen her distinctly." 
 
 " Pretty ! I should think she was ! Why, she's beautiful. 
 I wish Bob Macpherson could see that face and paint it. He 
 went off this morning to find some friends of his, but he'll be 
 back to the wedding. He is an artist I found in Rome. You 
 are sure to like him. I must go now. Good-by, mother that 
 is to be." 
 
 He kissed her fondly, and then hurried out to see again the 
 face in the cab. Very curiously he gazed at the child, whose 
 little fat hands went up to the eyes, ostensibly to push back the 
 stray locks of auburn hair, but really to hide the blushing face. 
 How pretty they looked as they lay like white rose leaves 
 against the mass of bright wavy hair, and how Godfrey deplored
 
 loS THE BRIDAL. 
 
 the absence of Robert Macpherson, and wished he were him- 
 self a painter as he walked away, carrying with him that image 
 of Gertie Westbrooke, with the shy, timid look on her face, the 
 bright hair veiling her soft blue eyes and the white hands 
 brushing back the hair. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 JARY ROGERS had been in the country for several 
 weeks and had written to Mrs. Barrett that she was to 
 return to London sooner than she had intended, as 
 Gertie was not very well and needed the advice of her physi- 
 cian. To this Mrs. Barrett had at once replied, telling of the 
 approaching marriage and asking Mrs. Rogers to defer her re- 
 turn as long as possible, as Miss Lyle was at home and occu- 
 pying Gertie's room. Accompanying this letter to Mrs. 
 Rogers was one from Norah Long, who also told of the ex- 
 pected marriage of Colonel Schtiyler with Miss Lyle, and the 
 breakfast to be given at Oakwood, and then added that as both 
 the colonel and Miss Lyle wished her to accompany them to 
 America, she had decided to do so, provided her cousin Mary, 
 to whom she was strongly attached, would go too. Colonel 
 Schuyler owned several cottages, he said, and Mary could have 
 one, if she liked, at a low rent. 
 
 Two days before the receipt of this letter Mrs. Rrgers h ul 
 heard of the failure of the bank where her money was invested, 
 and knew that henceforth she must earn her own living. This 
 she could do better in America, and after due reflection she 
 wrote to Norah that she would go, and started for London the 
 next day, intending to take up her abode in the vicinity of Oak- 
 wood until the time for sailing. And that is how the cab came 
 to be standing at Mrs. Barrett's door. Gertie did not alight, 
 but waited while Mrs. Rogers explained to Mrs. Barrett the 
 change in her circumstances and plans, and said that she
 
 THE BRIDAL. 109 
 
 would come in a few days and take her things away. Mingled 
 with Mrs. Barrett's exultation at her daughter's good fortune 
 there had been more than one feeling of loneliness and desola- 
 tion as she thought of being alone in her old age, even if that 
 old age was to be well provided for, as Colonel Schuyler had 
 promised. But there was one comfort left her in little Gertie 
 Westbrooke, whom, with Mary Rogers, she meant to keep as 
 long as possible. She was not fond of children, but no one 
 could resist the bright, sunny little girl who filled the house 
 with so much life and gladness, and whose feet and hands were 
 always ready for some act of kindness. And Mrs. Barrett 
 loved the beautiful child with a strong, intense love, which she 
 could not define, unless it was that the child loved her and 
 hung about her neck with soft caresses and words of love. 
 And now she was going away, and the woman's heart was 
 heavy as lead, and there were traces of tears on her face as she 
 went about her usual work and thought of the desolate future 
 with Gertie Westbrooke gone. 
 
 Owing to Mrs. Sinclair's health Edith had not visited her 
 mother very often during the past year, and had never met 
 Gertie face to face, so she was only sorry for her mother in a 
 general kind of way when she heard that she was to be left 
 alone. She was very much occupied with her own affairs, and 
 Colonel Schuyler and Godfrey took all her leisure time. The 
 colonel came every other day, Godfrey every day, and between 
 them both she had little time for reflection, but was hurried on 
 toward the end, which approached so fast, until at last the very 
 day had come, a soft, warm August day, when the sky seemed 
 to smile in anticipation of the bridal, and the whole earth to 
 laugh for joy. And Edith felt happy and glad and peaceful 
 as she dressed herself for the occasion, and with her mother 
 and Norah Long, her waiting-maid, started for the church near 
 Oakwood, where her bridegroom waited for her, and where just 
 a few of the late Mrs. Sinclair's friends were assembled. Thanks 
 to Godfrey and Robert Macpherson, who had returned from 
 visiting his friends, the little church was decked with flowers, 
 and Edith stood under a canopy of roses as she pledged her
 
 no THE BRIDAL. 
 
 troth a second time, and was made Mrs. Howard Schuyler. 
 Just to the right of the chancel, and where they could command 
 a good view of everything, Mary Rogers sat, and with her 
 Gertie Westbrooke. It was the child's first sight of a wedding, 
 and when that morning Mary had said to her, " Gertie, how 
 would you like to go to church to-day and see Miss Lyle mar- 
 ried ? " she had clapped her hands for joy, and could scarcely 
 eat her breakfast for thinking and talking of the wonderful wed- 
 ding. 
 
 " Don't they sometimes throw a bouquet at the bride's feet? " 
 she asked. 
 
 And when told that they did, she gathered and arranged au 
 exquisite little bouquet, which she tied with a white ribbon, 
 and then, moved by some impulse she did not try to define, 
 she wrote on a slip of paper, in her childish hand : 
 
 " From little Gertie Westbrooke, with her love, and God 
 bless you." 
 
 This she folded and put inside the flowers, saying to herself: 
 
 " She'll know who Gertie Westbrooke is, and maybe speak 
 to me on the ship." 
 
 Gertie was much interested in the beautiful lady, whom she 
 had occasionally seen from the window when Edith came to 
 call upon Mrs. Barrett, and her interest was increased when 
 she heard she was to be married to a gentleman rich enough 
 and grand enough to be a lord, and that she was to see the 
 sight, and then go to America in the same vessel with the bridal 
 pair. 
 
 It was all like a bit of romance, and the little girl's heart beat 
 high, and her cheeks were like carnation, as she arranged her 
 bright hair and twisted a blue ribbon in it, and put on her best 
 muslin dress, and the string of pearl beads a lady had given her 
 at the last Christmas, and then went with Mary to the church, 
 where, with her face all flushed and eager, she stood with her 
 dimpled white arms leaning on the pew railing, her straw hat 
 falling back from her head, and her sparkling blue eyes fixed 
 iij.on the bridal party as it came up the aisle. 
 
 " Look, Bob ! there's the very face 1 told you about, over
 
 THE BRIDAL. in 
 
 there in the corner!" Godfrey whispered to Robert Macpher- 
 son, with a pinch of the arm, which made Bob wince with pain. 
 
 But he saw the face, and started suddenly, it was so like 
 another dear little face lying under the daisies in the English 
 sunshine. The same blue eyes, the same sweet mouth, the 
 same bright, flowing hair he had tried so hard to put upon the 
 canvas, and failed each time he tried, because of the treacher- 
 ous memory, which, good in other things, could not retain with 
 vividness the image of the lost one, loved so passionately and 
 laid away from sight amid so many tears and heart-throbs. 
 
 " The likeness is wonderful," he thought. " I must ascertain 
 who this child is. Schuyler will find her for me." 
 
 The ceremony was commencing now, and all eyes were fixed 
 upon the bride, save those of Robert Macpherson. He looked 
 only at Gertie Westbrooke, who, unconscious of his gaze, 
 stood watching Edith in silent \vonder and admiration, thinking 
 how beautiful she was in her rich bridal robes, and how happy 
 she must be, only the bridegroom was a trifle too old, and dig- 
 nified, and grave, Gertie thought ; and then, as she glanced at 
 the tall, handsome Godfrey, she thought if she were the bride 
 she should prefer him to the father, and she wondered a little 
 at Edith's choice. 
 
 " I require and charge you both that if either of you know 
 any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together, 
 ye do now confess it. Eor be ye well assured that if any per- 
 sons are joined together otherwise than as God's word doth al- 
 low, their marriage is not lawful." 
 
 The clergyman uttered these words with great solemnity, and 
 by mere chance, looked full at Edith, who involuntarily raised 
 her eyes, and felt glad that there was nothing unconfessed on 
 her part. Had there been, she must have shrieked it out even 
 then at the last moment. But Col. Schuyler knew all about 
 that grave at Schuyler Hill ; all about the baby girl who died, 
 and liked her just the same. There was no reason on her part 
 why she should not be his wife, and she met the clergyman's 
 eyes frankly, and felt a thrill of joy and peace even while she 
 wondered if the bridegroom thought of that other bridal, when
 
 112 THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Abelard Lyle stood beside her in Mr. Calvert's parlor, with 
 Emily looking on. And Godfrey had been there too, his first 
 experience of a wedding, perhaps. Had he ever thought of it 
 since ? Would his father ever tell him who the boy-husband 
 was, who the childish bride ? Probably not, and it was just as 
 well. Godfrey had no concern in her past ; only the father 
 was interested, and if he was satisfied, that was sufficient. 
 Thus Edith reasoned to herself, and saw the broad band of gold 
 upon her finger, and felt the pressure of her hand which the 
 colonel gave her, and knew that he was glad because of her, 
 and when it all was over she left the altar as happy as half the 
 brides who embark upon the sea of matrimony, with the uncer- 
 v ain future before them. 
 
 As she turned and passed near Gertie, a bouquet fell at her 
 feet, and the face of the child who threw it was something won- 
 derful to look at as she watched to see if her gift would be ob- 
 served and accepted. It was, for Godfrey and Robert both 
 sprang forward to get it, but Godfrey was the one who picked 
 it up, and turning toward Gertie, he pressed it to his lips, and 
 then, with a sign which Gertie understood, indicated that the 
 bride should have it. 
 
 " Oh, w r asn't it nice, though ! " Gertie said, when she was home 
 again, and talking of the event. " Such a sweet, beautiful lady, 
 only I thought her face was kind of sorry, and Col. Schuyler 
 was a great deal too old. I'd rather have the son, Mr. Godfrey, 
 you call him. His face is smooth and handsome, and his eyes 
 so full of fun. He is the one who looked at me so in the cab 
 at Mrs. Barrett's, and he stared at me to-day, and kissed my 
 flowers, i like Godfrey Schuyler ever so much. Do you be- 
 lieve I'll see him in America ? " 
 
 Mrs. Rogers had listened with a good deal of interest to 
 Gertie's remarks about the wedding, but when she came to 
 Godfrey, and began to speculate upon the probability of seeing 
 him in America, a shadow flitted across her face, and she said : 
 " Gertie, listen a moment. You probably will see Mr. Godfrey 
 Schuyler in Ameria, and perhaps on shipboard, and if he noticed 
 you in the cab and at church, as you say he did, he may try to
 
 THE BRIDAL. 113 
 
 talk to you, but you are not to encourage him. Gentlemen's 
 sons do not talk to girls like you for any good." 
 
 Gertie lifted her great blue eyes to her auntie's face a moment, 
 and then, casting them down, seemed to be thinking for a time, 
 when she said, suddenly : 
 
 " Auntie, wasn't my mother a lady, and wasn't my old home 
 most as big and pretty as Oakwood? " 
 
 " Yes," was the reply ; and Gertie continued : 
 
 "Then why should not a gentleman's son talk to me for 
 good ? " 
 
 " I cannot explain to you now, only seeing you with me, and 
 knowing you are my adopted child, they would naturally place 
 you in my rank ; do you understand ? " Mrs. Rogers said ; and 
 Gertie replied : 
 
 " Yes, but I could tell them;" then after a moment she 
 added : " Auntie, who can I talk to ? You said those children 
 at the farmhouse were not good enough for me- to associate with, 
 and that people like Mr. Godfrey are too good." 
 
 It was a puzzling question, which Mary Rogers could not 
 answer satisfactorily. She had carefully guarded her beautiful 
 child from all contact with children of her own rank, and as she 
 could not hope to find friends in the higher circles, Gertie had 
 led a secluded life and knew very little of young people, and 
 what they did and said. In one sense this made her old, and 
 in other respects she was much more a child than a girl of twelve 
 should be. But the latter character suited Mary, who wished 
 she might keep her darling always as she was now, her very 
 own, with no other love or interest between them. The thought 
 of Godfrey Schuyler jarred upon her painfully, as if through him 
 mischief might come to her pet, and so she raised a note of 
 warning, which Gertie pondered upon the remainder of the day, 
 wondering if she should see him on the ship, and if he would 
 speak to her, and what she should say if he did, and who the 
 man was who parted his hair in the middle, and stared at her 
 quite as hard as Godfrey did, only in a different way, and won- 
 dered what her aunt would say if she knew she had given an 
 old photograph of herself to Abel Browning, the freckled boy at
 
 114 AT OAK WOOD AFTER THE BRIDAL. 
 
 the farmhouse, who cried when she came away, and told her 
 " she was the 'andsomest girl he had ever saw." 
 
 " I just wish I was one thing or the other," the little girl said 
 to herself. "It is real mean to be too good to play with Abel 
 and Bettie Browning, and not good enough to be talked to and 
 looked at by Mr. Godfrey Schuyler." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 AT OAKWOOD AFTER THE BRIDAL. 
 
 |HE wedding breakfast was over, and Edith was in her 
 room with her maid, Norah Long, and her mother, 
 dressing for the short trip she was to make into the 
 country before embarking for her new home. 
 
 There were many beautiful bouquets on her table, and Norah 
 was to keep them for her till she returned, especially the one 
 thrown at her feet bv Gertie Westbrooke. Godfrey had brought 
 this to her and told her whence it came, and she had found the 
 slip of paper hidden in it, and read, " From little Gertie West- 
 brooke, with her love, and God bless you." 
 
 She had received costly gifts that day, but with none had 
 there come a " God bless you," save with this tiny bouquet, and 
 as she placed it herself in water, she whispered : " I do believe 
 it's the only blessing I have had. I'll find the child when I 
 come back, and thank her for it." 
 
 She was dressed at last in her handsome black silk, with her 
 jaunty round hat and feather, which made her look so young 
 and girlish, and then turning to Norah she bade her leave the 
 room, as she wished to be alone with her mother for a few 
 moments. 
 
 "Mother," she said, when the door had closed on Norah, 
 " Col. Schuyler is so kind and generous, he has told me to ask 
 him anything to-day, and he will grant it ; and so I have con- 
 cluded just for once to bring up the past and ask him if, before 
 leaving England, I may find where baby was buried, and order
 
 AT OAKWOOD AFTER THE BRIDAL. 115 
 
 her a grave-stone. You can attend to it, you know, and I shall 
 feel that everything has been done which I ought to do. What 
 do you think of it ? " 
 
 She was buttoning her gloves as she turned toward her 
 mother, but stopped suddenly, struck by the expression of 
 the face which met her eyes, and which she knew meant so 
 much. 
 
 " Do nothing of the kind. Are you crazy, girl ? Never 
 allude to the child, if you wish to be happy." 
 
 Mrs. Barrett spoke rapidly and excitedly ; and with a name- 
 less terror of some threatened danger, Edith asked : 
 
 "Why, mother? Why not mention the child to-day, when 
 he said, ask what I pleased ? Why must I not ? " 
 
 " Because because " and Mrs. Barrett came close to her 
 and whispered : " He don't know there was a child. I did not 
 tell him that." 
 
 "Don't know there \vas a child ! " Edith repeated. "What 
 do you mean ? I wrote it in the letter, all, everything ; if he 
 read it he knows about my baby. Moth ! Moth ! " 
 
 She could not say the whole name, could not articulate 
 another word, for the awful suspicion which flashed upon her, 
 bringing back the hand which clutched her in a death-like 
 grasp, and made her writhe and gasp for breath. 
 
 " Edith, listen to me ; " and Mrs. Barrett spoke sternly. " It 
 is time this folly ended. Do you think I would let you throw 
 away the chance for which I had waited so long? Had Colonel 
 Schuyler known the truth as you wrote it, he would not have 
 married you, and as your mother it was my duty to interfere 
 and save you from the consequences of your rashness. I kept 
 your letter, and told him what I liked. I said you were in love 
 when very young, scarcely fifteen, that the object of your 
 love was greatly your inferior, and that I opposed the affair 
 that in spite of all you were secretly engaged, and would have 
 been married, no doubt, had he not been suddenly killed. I 
 told him, too, that the manner of his death was a fearful shock 
 to your nerves, from which you had not yet recovered, as you 
 now sometimes felt a choking sensation in your throat when
 
 n6 AT OAK WOOD AFTER THE BRIDAL. 
 
 reminded of the past, and asked him never to refer to it if he 
 wished to spare you pain. He promised he would not. He did 
 not ask the name of the young man, nor where he lived ; indeed, 
 he was not at all anxious to discuss the matter, and stopped 
 me before I was quite done by telling me he had heard enough, 
 and that he was satisfied. I think, however, he was annoyed, 
 and you can judge what would have been the result had I 
 given him your letter. Believe me, I acted for the best, and 
 though you can now tell him, if you like, I trust you have too 
 much good sense to do so, or at least will take time to con- 
 sider. You are his wife ; nothing can alter that, and the past 
 cannot in any way affect him, provided he knows nothing of 
 it. To tell him now would be to wound him cruelly, and my 
 advice to you is to let the matter rest, and take the good offered 
 to you." 
 
 Edith made no reply. Indeed, she could not have spoken 
 to have saved her life for the choking, palpitating sensation in 
 her throat, where her heart seemed beating wildly with such 
 throbs of pain as she had never felt before. Gradually as her 
 mother talked she had sank down upon the couch where she 
 lay in a crumpled heap, her face as white as ashes, and her eyes 
 staring wildly like the eyes of one choking to death. And 
 when at last she spoke, it was only in a whisper that she said : 
 
 " Oh, mother, you make me wish I was dead." 
 
 There was the sound of wheels upon the gravelled road, and 
 Col. Schuyler's voice at the door, saying the carriage was 
 waiting. 
 
 " Let it wait ; I cannot go now," Edith gasped, trying in 
 vain to struggle to her feet, and then falling back among the 
 cushions, weak and powerless to help herself. 
 
 Opening the door Mrs. Barrett bade Col. Schuyler enter, and 
 then closing it again drew him quickly into the little dressing- 
 room before he caught sight of Edith lying so still and helpless 
 in her misery. 
 
 " I am sorry, but I suppose she cannot help it," she began, 
 " she is so weak and nervous ; but something I said to her of 
 that early affair, you know, has affected Edith so much as almost
 
 AT OAK WOOD AFTER THE BRIDAL. 117 
 
 to bring on a faint, and she is there on the sofa, unable to sit up. 
 Be very gentle with her, do. It is all my fault." 
 
 For a man to be told that his two hours' bride has fainted 
 because reminded of a former love affair, is not very pleasant? 
 and Col. Schuyler grew hot and cold, and a little annoyed. But 
 he had known all the time that Edith's love in its full extent 
 was yet to be won, and so the humiliation was not nearly so 
 hard, and his voice was very tender and kind as he bent over 
 her, and said : 
 
 " Edith, my darling, it distresses me to see you thus. I had 
 thought, I had hoped, Edith, you are not sorry you are my 
 wife, when I am so glad ? " 
 
 There was something pleading in his tone, and it roused Edith, 
 and sitting up, she said : 
 
 " No, Col. Schuyler, I am not sorry, and Heaven helping me, 
 I'll be a good, true wife to you, but oh oh you must bear 
 with me, and if I am not all, or what you believe nie to be, for- 
 give me, will you? /am not to blame." 
 
 He did not in the least know what she meant, nor did he 
 care. She was excited and nervous, he thought, and he tried 
 to comfort and soothe her, and laid her head on his shoulder 
 and held her closely to him, and told her to calm herself, and 
 motioned Mrs. Barrett away with a gesture of impatience, and 
 when Godfrey came to the door, and said, " Hurry up, or you'll 
 be late," he answered back, " Send the carriage away. We will 
 take the next train. Mrs. Schuyler is suddenly ill and cannot 
 go just yet." 
 
 He had called her Mrs. Schuyler, she was his wife, and a feel- 
 ing of reassurance and quiet began to steal over Edith as she 
 sat with her head on her husband's shoulder and his arm around 
 her waist, and with this feeling came a sensation akin to love 
 for the man who was so kind to her and who had been so de- 
 ceived. But not by her; she was hot to blame, and she meant 
 to tell him all, but not then. It was neither the time nor the 
 place. It should be when they were away alone, before the 
 day was over, and then if he chose to put her from him, and go 
 back without her, he could do so, and she would say it was right.
 
 n8 AT OAKWOOD AFTER THE BRIDAL. 
 
 She grew better rapidly after this decision was reached, and 
 though her face was very pale, and there was a frightened look 
 in her eyes, she met her friends at last with a smile, and gave 
 some laughing excuse for her sudden faintness, said the day 
 was warm, that she had not been well or slept much for weeks, 
 that she was subject to such attacks, but thought it most un- 
 fortunate that she should have one that day of all others. 
 
 She was much better when the time for the next train drew 
 near, but there was a steady avoidance of her mother, who had 
 deceived her so, a coldness of manner which Mrs. Barrett felt 
 but did not mind. So long as her end was obtained she was 
 not scrupulous as to the means. She loved her daughter in her 
 way, and now that she was Mrs. Howard Schuyler she would 
 like to make much of her and be made much of in return, but 
 if Edith was foolish enough to resent the means she had used 
 to place her where she was, she could not help it, and bore her 
 punishment very meekly, and was not at all demonstrative 
 when at last her daughter said good-by to her just as she said 
 it to the others and took her seat in the carnage. 
 
 Col. Schuyler noticed the formal leave-taking, and though he 
 was better pleased to have it thus than he would have been had 
 there been kissing and crying over the woman he secretly dis- 
 liked and distrusted, he was a little surprised, and wondered if 
 it were a feeling of pride born of her elevation which had so 
 soon affected Edith. 
 
 Alas, he little understood her or dreamed of the conflict 
 going on in her mind as she was borne rapidly along the road, 
 through the beautiful English country, to the place where they 
 were to spend the night and where Edith meant to tell him all.
 
 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 119 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 
 
 jINNER was over in the house where they had stopped 
 for the night, and drawing his chair near to the open 
 window of their little parlor, Col. Schuyler sat down 
 to enjoy the sweet summer air, as it came stealing in laden with 
 the perfume of flowers and the freshly-cut hay upon the lawn of 
 the castle near by. Edith was in the dressing-room adjoining, 
 pretending to arrange her hair, but in reality trying to make up 
 her mind how to begin the story she must tell. And how would 
 he receive it ? Would he spurn her at once, or, rather than let 
 the world know of his disgrace, would he keep her with him, a 
 wife merely in name, whom he never could love or respect ? 
 
 "Oh, Father in Heaven," she whispered, "you know I am 
 not to blame in this ; help me to tell him, and incline him to 
 receive it aright." 
 
 Strengthened by this prayer for aid, she gave herself no time, 
 for further hesitation, but going swiftly to her husband's side 
 she laid her hand on his shoulder in an appealing kind of way 
 and said to him, softly : 
 
 " Colonel Schuyler ! " 
 
 During the few hours in which the colonel had had Edith all 
 to himself and felt that she really was his 'own, he had almost 
 fallen in love with her in sober earnest. Before that day he 
 had greatly admired and liked and respected and desired her, 
 but something in the actual possession of her had stirred a 
 deeper feeling in his heart than mere pride in her personal 
 attractions, and when he felt the touch of her hand and heard 
 the sound of her voice, a great throb of delight thrilled through 
 his veins, and drawing her to him he made her sit upon his 
 knee, and smoothing her cheek caressingly, said to her : 
 
 "Don't call me Colonel Schuyler, please. I'd rather be 
 Howard to you, now that you are my wife. It will6eem to 
 lessen the years between us, and I do not want to be so much
 
 120 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 
 
 older than my darling. Call me Howard now, and let me hear 
 how it sounds." 
 
 " Not yet," Edith said ; " not till I have told you something 
 which should have been told before, and which may make a 
 difference." 
 
 She spoke slowly and painfully, and Colonel Schuyler detect- 
 ed signs of choking in her voice, and guessing at once that she 
 wa? thinking of the early lover, said to her, very kindly but firmly : 
 
 "Don't, Edith, please; don't tell me anything which will 
 distress you. I do not wish to hear it. Your mother told me 
 enough, all I care to know, and I am satisfied." 
 
 " But, Howard," she called him thus involuntarily, and there 
 was a world of pathos and pitiful entreaty in her voice, while 
 the eyes she fixed upon him were swimming in tears " but, 
 Howard, mother did not tell you the whole " 
 
 " Then you need not," he answered, quickly. " If you are 
 pure, and good, and true, that is all I ask, and I know you are 
 all of these. I daresay your mother did not tell me as elo- 
 quently as you could have told me how much you loved that 
 man, and how your heart ached for him ; and you wish me to 
 know it all, but I am satisfied. You are my wife, and nothing 
 can make any difference, even if you were his widow, instead 
 of his affianced, though widows are not to my taste. I am satis- 
 fied, and to prove that I am, I do not even care to know his 
 name or where he lived. In fact, I would rather not know it, 
 would rather you should never refer to it again, for it is not a 
 pleasant topic ; and now for the favor you were to ask me on 
 our wedding-day, and which I was to grant even to half my 
 kingdom." 
 
 He spoke playfully and held her closer to him while the hot 
 tears poured over Edith's face. What should she do? Should 
 she tell him in spite of his protest and his assurance that he 
 was satisfied? She could not with the memory of his words, 
 " Widows are not to my taste," still ringing in her ears, and so 
 she let tht opportunity pass, and the only favor she asked was 
 that whoever might come in the future he would have faith in 
 her and believe that she meant to do right.
 
 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 12 1 
 
 " Of course I will, you foolish little girl. You are nervous 
 and tired to-night," he said ; and then, as if struck with a sudden 
 thought, he added : " Only tell me one thing, if that young 
 man had lived and not improved beyond what he was when you 
 knew him, and you had grown to be what you are, could you 
 have loved him now as you did then ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not. I never thought of it in that light," Edith 
 said ; and her husband continued : 
 
 " One question more. Do you believe you can in time love 
 me as well as you did him ? " 
 
 " Yes, Howard, I know I can," Edith spoke quickly, and her 
 arms wound themselves involuntarily around her husband's 
 neck, while for the first time she kissed him unsolicited. 
 
 "Then, my darling," he responded, " there is nothing before 
 us but happiness, if God so wills it, and may He deal by me 
 as I do by you, my precious wife." 
 
 He was growing to love her so fast, and Edith knew it, and 
 felt her misery giving way, and her heart grew light again as it 
 had been when she fancied he knew the whole. 
 
 Edith had known from the first that it was the colonel's plan 
 to visit Alnwick and go over the grand old castle which at this 
 season of the year was open to visitors, and she did not oppose 
 him, though the neighborhood of Alnwick was fraught with sad 
 memories for her as having been Abelard's home. His friends 
 were still living there, she knew from Godfrey, and the first 
 night at the inn where they took rooms was passed in wakeful- 
 ness, with a feeling of oppression and sadness which she could 
 not shake off. Abelard had told her so much of Alnwick and 
 the castle, and had talked of the time when she would visit it 
 with him ; and now, he was dead, and she was there, the wife 
 of another man, with that great secret weighing her down at 
 times and casting a shadow on everything. How she wished 
 she might see his home and the old mother he used to talk of 
 so fondly, and yet when her husband said to her one morning : 
 " Edith, I am going to call on some poor people who live about 
 two miles from here. Perhaps you will like to go with "me when 
 I tell vou who they are," she trembled and grew cold, and
 
 122 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 
 
 scarcely heard a word of the story he told her, and which she 
 knew so much better than he did. " 1 called upon them last 
 summer," he said, " when Godfrey was with me, and it is not 
 necessary that I should go again, but I know it will please them, 
 and I am so happy myself that I feel like conferring happiness 
 on others. Will you go, darling ? They will feel honored if I 
 bring them my young bride." 
 
 "Oh, Howard, no! Please don't ask me. I'd so much 
 rather not," Edith cried, feeling how terrible it would be to go 
 with her husband into the presence of Abelard's mother and 
 hear her talk of him, as she assuredly would. 
 
 She could not do it, and she expressed herself so decidedly, 
 that the colonel looked at her curiously while a cloud passed 
 over his face ; and, without meaning to do so, he seemed dis- 
 pleased and out of sorts. He was not accustomed to have his 
 wishes thwarted, and he had set his heart upon taking his wife 
 with him when he visited the Lyles, and after he had told her of 
 his indebtedness to them, he thought she ought to go out of 
 deference to his wishes. Surely it was not pride which prompted 
 her unwillingness to call upon such people, for what business had 
 she to be prouder than himself, he thought, and he seemed so 
 moody and silent that Edith detected the change in his man- 
 ner at once, and resolving to conquer her own personal feelings, 
 went up to him and said : 
 
 " Howard, I have changed my mind ; I will go with you if 
 you wish it." 
 
 His face cleared as he said : " Thank you, darling, I am 
 very glad, both because I like to have you with me, and be- 
 cause I know the attention will be sure to please those people. 
 Did I tell you of the little boy to whom Godfrey gave his name, 
 when we stopped there last year on our way to Oakwood ? He 
 is always doing such things ; has two or three namesakes at 
 home, a thing of which I do not altogether approve, but in the 
 case of these Nesbits I could not oppose it. Shall we start at 
 once ? It is only two miles distant ; will you walk or ride ? " 
 
 Edith chose to walk, and they set off together across the 
 fresh green fields, and through the quiet, shaded lanes toward
 
 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 123 
 
 the low-thatched cottage where Abelard Lyle was born, and 
 where his mother sat knitting by the door with a placid expres- 
 sion on her calm face, and the sunlight falling on her snowy 
 hair. It would be impossible to describe Edith's emotions as 
 she walked with her husband through the lanes, and fields, and 
 woods where her boy-lover had so often been, and where he 
 lad thought some day to bring her and show her to his mother, 
 and it seemed to her almost as if he was there, moving silently 
 beside her, and once when a leaf rustled at her feet, she started 
 with a nervous cry and clung close to her husband's arm. And 
 yet it was not regret for the dead which thus affected her. Her 
 life with Abelard was like a far-off dream to her now, a thing 
 apart from herself and her present life, and had her husband 
 known, she would not have felt as she did with that secret on 
 her mind, making her breathe quickly, and grow faint and pale 
 when at last the house was reached and she saw for the first 
 time how humble and poor Abelard's home had been. Every- 
 thing pertaining to it, however, was scrupulously neat, and the 
 little grass-plat before the door showed frequent acquaintance 
 with sickle or shears, while the old-fashioned flowers on the 
 narrow border told of good taste in some one. But it was all 
 so small and meagre and poor, and the calico dress of the old 
 lady, knitting on the porch, was faded and patched, and the 
 white kerchief pinned about her neck was darned in several 
 places. She had a fair, sweet old face, with a resemblance to 
 Abelard, Edith thought, when at the sound of their footsteps 
 she looked up with a smile of welcome and inquiry. From 
 having always lived near the border she spoke with a broad 
 Scotch accent, which Edith did not comprehend at first. She 
 was evidently greatly pleased and flattered that Col. Schuyler 
 had come to see her again, and brought his bonny bride, whose 
 hand she held in her own, and into whose face she gazed curi- 
 ously as she bade her welcome, and led her into the house 
 where Mrs. Nesbit, the daughter, sat with her sleeves rolled up 
 combing her long black hair, with a bit of glass before her, and 
 Godfrey Schuyler asleep in his rude cradle. 
 
 Mrs. Nesbit, or Jenny as she was called, was not naturally
 
 124 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 
 
 as refined as her mother, and she kept on combing her hair 
 without any apology, talking rapidly all the time, and saying 
 what an honor she felt it to be for the likes of Col. Schuyler to 
 visit the likes of them, though to be sure he owed them some- 
 thing for her poor brother's death. "You know about that, I 
 s'pose," and she looked at Edith, whose dress she had been 
 closely inspecting between each passage of the comb through 
 her hair. 
 
 Edith nodded in token that she did know. She could not 
 speak ; the room was so small and so close, and the iron fingers 
 held her throat with so firm a clutch that she could only sit per- 
 fectly still and listen while the old story was told again by Col- 
 onel Schuyler, and the mother wept silently, ejaculating now 
 and then, " Oh, my puir bairn, my puir bairn ! " 
 
 Jenny did not cry. She was looking at the bride in her rich 
 apparel, and thinking how proud she was to be so unmoved, as 
 if it was nothing to her how many poor men lost their lives to 
 save that of a Schuyler. And Colonel Schuyler too had similar 
 thoughts with Jenny, and believed it was contempt for these 
 people and their surroundings which kept Edith so silent, in 
 spite of his efforts to draw her into the conversation and make 
 her seem gracious and interested. Alas ! he could not guess 
 what she was enduring as she sat there in Abelard's home, and 
 heard them talking of him and all the incidents concerned with 
 his death. 
 
 "You dinna ken my lad," the mother said to her; "an' so 
 you dinna ken how sair I was for him. Ah, he was a bonny 
 lad and gude." 
 
 Edith nodded, and the old lady went on, now addressing the 
 colonel : 
 
 " A maun who kenned my boy and see him kilt coomed here 
 onc't an' tauld me about it, and said there was a young lass 
 there who moight be Abel's sweetheart ; heard ye tell of her 
 like?" 
 
 No, the colonel had not heard of her, or he had forgotten, and 
 as Edith was not supposed to know anything of the circum- 
 stances she was spared the questioning, and Mrs. Lyle went on
 
 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 125 
 
 to say that if there was such a lass she'd like so much to know 
 something of her. 
 
 " Mayhap," and she turned again to Edith ; " mayhap you'll 
 foind her some day, and if you do wool ye let me know ? " 
 
 Had her life depended upon it Edith could not have spoken, 
 and a nod was her only answer, while her cheeks burned scar- 
 let and the perspiration gathered about her mouth. The 
 colonel was angry, and rose to take leave, while Jenny, who was 
 angry also at what she believed to be the lady's pride, began in 
 a flippant way to say that, poor as they were, they had some 
 grand relatives ; her oldest sister, Dorothea, had married into 
 one of the high Scotch families, where they kept twenty servants 
 and dined at six o'clock. 
 
 " Hoity-toity, Jenny, my lass," said the mother, " what was 
 the good o' that ? Dinna them foine folk turn my Dolly and 
 her maun out o' door and never spake to 'em till he died ? " 
 
 " Yes, mother, but their boy got the money at last, and was 
 here to see us a spell ago, lookin' as foine as any gentleman," 
 Jenny said, and then having given the final twist to her hair, 
 and seeing that their guests were really going, she woke the 
 little Godfrey Schuyler, and took him proudly to Edith, who 
 could and did kiss him ; an act which made amends for much 
 of her silence and seeming haughtiness of manner. 
 
 Had Edith followed out her impulse she would have kissed 
 Abelard's mother, for the sake of the dead son, but after her 
 persistent silence and reserve there could be no excuse for such 
 a proceeding, and so she merely took the withered hand in her 
 own and pressed it hard, managing to say " good-by," and then 
 she passed through the low door, out into the sunshine, like one 
 passing from prison walls into freedom again. 
 
 For a time the colonel was silent, and never spoke a word 
 until they reached the border of the wood through which a path 
 led to Alnwick ; then, as Edith paused a moment and looked 
 back at the thatched roof with the creeper climbing over it, he, 
 too, looked back and said : 
 
 " I am glad my lot was not cast among such people ; I cannot 
 say they are to my taste, especially that garrulous Mrs. Nesbit,
 
 126 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 
 
 with her fine comb and bare arms. The old lady is better, 
 and has a good deal of natural refinement. I think our visit 
 did her good ; such people are always pleased with attention 
 from their betters, and it certainly does us no harm to give it. 
 
 Edith, my dear " He spoke a little sternly now, and his 
 
 face was overcast. " I am sorry you chose to be so quiet and 
 reserved. It would have pleased me better if you had made 
 an effort to be more social with them, and I really owe them so 
 much." 
 
 " Oh, Howard, please forgive me. It was not pride which 
 kept me silent. I wanted to talk, but could not," Edith said, 
 while the tears rained over her face. 
 
 He had made her cry, and he 'was sorry for it at once, and 
 made her sit down beside him on a rude bench by the path, and 
 said he was hasty and had expected too much from her, who 
 could not of course sympathize with his interest in the Lyles. 
 And Edith listened to him, and felt like a felon who is hiding 
 his secret from the world. Why had she not told him that first 
 day of married life with him ? Why had she not shrieked it in 
 his ear and compelled him to hear it ? It had been easier then, 
 sure, than it was now, when so much had happened to make it 
 hard, if not impossible. Yes, impossible, she said to herself, as 
 she remembered the bare arms and the fine comb and the talk- 
 ative Mrs. Nesbit. She could not declare that woman to be her 
 sister-in-law, and she forced the secret still further down into 
 her heart, and when her husband bade her kiss him in token of 
 forgiveness, she kissed him twice, and there was peace between 
 them as they walked arm in arm through the leafy woods and 
 grassy lanes back to their rooms at Alnwick. 
 
 But Edith's mind was not at rest. Thoughts of that white- 
 haired, sweet-faced old lady, knitting in the sunshine, were -con- 
 stantly in her mind. She had been cold, almost rude to her, 
 and she wished to make amends, to leave, if possible, a good 
 impression of herself in Abelard's old home, to have his mother's 
 blessing as a guaranty of happiness in the life before her, and 
 as she lay awake many hours of the night, her thoughts gradu- 
 ally formed themselves into a plan she resolved to carry out.
 
 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 127 
 
 Her husband had been invited to dine at the castle with a party 
 of American gentlemen, who were about to introduce some 
 farming implement to the agent of the estate, who acted as host 
 oh the occasion. As no ladies were included, Edith was to be 
 left .alone for several hours, and she determined to improve the 
 opportunity for redressing any wrong she might have done to 
 Mrs. Lyle. 
 
 It was twelve o'clock before her husband left her, and as 
 soon as he was gone she donned her walking-dress, and set off 
 for the cottage near the wood. Fortunately for her Mrs. Nes- 
 bit was out, but the old lady sat knitting again on the porch, with 
 little Godfrey Schuyler playing near her on the floor. She re- 
 cognized Edith, and seemed both glad and surprised to see her. 
 
 " I wanted to come again," Edith said, sitting down close 
 beside the woman. " I was not feeling well when I was here 
 yesterday, and I could not talk as I wished to do, but I did 
 not mean it for coldness or pride. Colonel Schuyler is so 
 grateful for what your son did for him, and I I am interested 
 in you, too, more even than he can be, and if you like you 
 may tell all about your boy who died in that dreadful manner." 
 
 There were tears in Edith's eyes, and her voice trembled as 
 she spoke, while Mrs. Lyle stopped her knitting and looked 
 curiously at her. She had thought her proud and haughty, and 
 had felt a little hurt by her silence and reserve, while her 
 daughter, in her coarser way, had not hesitated to call her airy 
 and an upstart, wondering who she was to feel so much above 
 them. That she was pretty, even Jenny conceded, while the 
 mother thought her very beautiful and grand. " Fit to be a 
 duchess," was her verdict now, when she saw her again so 
 humble and sweet, apologizing for her reserve of the day before, 
 and asking to hear about her poor dead boy. She liked to talk 
 of him, and once launched upon the subject did not know when 
 to stop, but talked on and on, narrating incidents of his baby- 
 hood, boyhood and early manhood, while Edith listened with 
 hands clasped tightly together and a heart which beat almost 
 audibly. 
 
 "And ye are goin' where he's buried," Mrs. Lyle said to
 
 128 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 
 
 her. "And if ye want an old woman's blessin', maylike you'll 
 keep his grave fresh and clean, and send me a posy from it 
 some day." 
 
 " I will, I promise you I will, and if I can ever tell you about 
 that girl who loved him, I will do so," Edith said vehemently ; 
 and then, impelled by an impulse she could not resist, she con- 
 tinued : " Mrs. Lyle, I want to ask you something which you'll 
 please keep to yourself. You are old, and I am young ; you 
 are good, and I am not, but I want to be, so much. If there 
 was something in your life which you supposed your husband 
 knew, and which, after you were married, you found he did not 
 know, though through no fault of yours, and if you felt almost 
 sure that, had he known it, he would not have married you, and 
 might think less of you now, would you consider it your duty 
 to tell him ? " 
 
 Edith gasped out the words and sat panting with excitement 
 and agitation, while Mrs. Lyle considered for a moment, and then 
 replied in the following words, which I render in good English : 
 
 " Is the something which he don't know a sin, a crime, a 
 wrong to him, or anybody ? " 
 
 "No, not a sin, or wrong, only a mistake," Edith replied; 
 and the woman continued : 
 
 "Would the withholding it now do harm to any one ? " 
 
 " No ; on the contrary, the telling it might cause my husband 
 to think less of me, and make us very unhappy." 
 
 " Then if you meant no wrong, and the telling it can do no 
 good, and might do harm, and no one is interested but yourself, 
 keep it to yourself," Mrs. Lyle said, while Edith felt herself 
 growing light as air. 
 
 It was strange how much comfort she derived from Mrs. Lyle's 
 advice, and how much confidence she felt in the judgment of 
 this woman, whom she had seen but once before. It was almost 
 as if absolution had been granted her for her sins, past, present, 
 and to come, and no religious devotee ever felt lighter and freer 
 after a full confession than Edith did for a few moments after 
 hearing Mrs. Lyle's decision. 
 
 " Thank you, thank you," she said. "You have done me so
 
 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 129 
 
 much good. I have been so miserable, and there was no one 
 whom I could talk with about it. I shall not forget you, Mrs. 
 Lyle, and sometimes I may perhaps write to you, and tell you 
 of my home. And now I must go; but first, will you give me 
 your blessing. I want it so much." 
 
 And kneeling before the old lady Edith bowed her beautiful 
 head, while a hand was laid gently on her shining hair, and a 
 trembling voice said reverently : " Will God bless and keep my 
 bonny child and make her a gude and happy wife, an' gi'e her 
 many bairns to comfort her auld age." 
 
 She was thinking of her Abelard who died, and Edith thought 
 of him too, and there were tears in her eyes as she rose from 
 her knees, and, kissing the white-haired woman who had done 
 her so much good, went out from her presence with a happier, 
 lighter heart than she had known for many a day. 
 
 It was all right, since Abelard' smother had said so and blessed 
 her, and she could be happy now, and when her husband re- 
 turned from the castle he met a very bright, beaming face at the 
 door of his room, and his young wife's arms were round his 
 neck, and his wife herself was on his knee when she told him 
 that she had been again to see Mrs. Lyle, and made ample 
 amends for all yesterday's reserve. She did not tell him of the 
 advice or blessing, but she said : 
 
 "I know I left a good impression, and I promised to write 
 to her some time and tell her of my home. She seems a very 
 nice old lady." 
 
 Col. Schuyler kissed her glowing cheek and called her a con- 
 scientious little puss, and thought how very beautiful she was 
 in her pretty evening dress, with the wild flowers in her hair, 
 and felt himself the most fortunate man in England to possess 
 so much youth and beauty. 
 
 A few days later found them again at Oakwood, where 
 Godfrey met them at the station and saluted Edith as his " mam- 
 ma," while his eyes danced with mischief and fun. He did not 
 tell her of the letter of dismay which had come to him from 
 home in answer to his own, wherein the charms of the new 
 mother had been so graphically described. But he laughed to 
 6*
 
 13 THE BRIDAL DAYS. 
 
 himself every time he thought of it, and what they were pre- 
 pared for, and then thought of the rare type of loveliness whom 
 he teasingly called mam-ma, and to whom he was as attentive 
 as if he had been her lover instead of her step-son. Robert 
 Macpherson was still at Oakwood, and greatly to Godfrey's de- 
 light had decided upon going to America. " The very nicest 
 chap in the world," Godfrey still continued to think him, in 
 spite of the hair parted in the middle, and the night-shirts ruffled 
 and buttoned behind. 
 
 " But something has come over the spirit of his dream," he 
 said to Edith, when talking of him. " Ever since he came from 
 visiting those friends of his he has fits of melancholy and acts a 
 good deal like a man in love, but when I put it to him he denied 
 it indignantly, and said no girl whom he would have would 
 ever marry him, and then he went straight off to see the little 
 Westbrooke who threw you that bouquet, you know. He is 
 wonderfully struck with her, and wants to paint her portrait as 
 a fancy piece, and call it ' La petite sxur ; ' but that Rogers' 
 dame guards her pet like an old she-dragon, and will not let 
 Gertie sit on any account, even though I promised to be present 
 at the sittings and see that fair play was done." 
 
 Edith smiled derisively, and felt that she did not blame Mrs. 
 Rogers for objecting to Godfrey Schuyler, with his saucy eyes 
 and teasing ways, as a protector for her child. The little girl 
 was going out with them, Godfrey said, and maybe Bob could 
 study her a little on the ship. He had made two or three 
 sketches of her already, drawing from his memory, of course, 
 but none of them quite suited him. He must have her sit to 
 him, and he, Godfrey, thought it a shame for that Rogers' 
 woman to be so much afraid of having her protegee looked at 
 by such nice chaps as himself and Bob ! 
 
 Edith had never fairly seen the child whom Robert Macpher- 
 son desired as a model for " La Sceur" but she felt a deep in- 
 terest in her, both for the blessing sent on her bridal day, and 
 because of the strong affection the child had inspired in Mrs. 
 Barrett, who seemed to feel worse at the thought of parting with 
 her than with Edith herself.
 
 THE BRIDAL DA YS. 1 3 : 
 
 The first meeting between mother and daughter had been 
 rather cool and constrained, for Edith had lost confidence in 
 her parent's integrity, and could not help showing it. Still she 
 was about to leave her, and at the last, when she went to say 
 good-by, her manner softened greatly, for in spite of all it was 
 her mother whom she kissed with many tears, and who herself 
 broke down and cried, when the last farewell was said, and 
 Edith went from her door forever. But Mrs. Barrett did not 
 sob as pitifully then as when an hour later Gertie Westbrooke 
 came and hung about her neck so lovingly, and said : 
 
 "I am sorry to leave you alone. I wish you would go to." 
 
 Edith had not said that ; Edith did not wish it, and Mrs. 
 Barrett knew why, but it hurt her none the less, and Gertie's 
 fond regrets and words of love were very dear to her. 
 
 " I shall never forget you, never ; and. maybe, if I am ever 
 married, you shall live with me, and be my grandma," Gertie 
 said, with a dim perception that her friend's heart was sore with 
 a longing to go with her daughter, who did not want her ; and 
 then Mrs. Barrett sobbed aloud, and held the girl close to her 
 bosom, and said : 
 
 " I never thought I could love a child as I love you, little 
 Gertie. I am a hard, wicked woman, no doubt, but I want 
 you to be good, and surely I may pray for that. God bless 
 you, Gertie, and make your life as happy as you are sweet and 
 pure. Good-by." 
 
 She put the child gently from her, and went quickly into her 
 own room, where she could be alone, and 1 am almost certain 
 that the parting with her daughter did not hurt her half as 
 much as the parting with Gertie Westbrooke.
 
 132 ON THE SEA. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ON THE SEA. 
 
 |HEY had been at sea three days, and Edith in her 
 warm wraps and pretty hood was sitting on deck in the 
 large easy-chair her husband had bought in Liverpool 
 for this purpose. Every comfort which ingenuity could de- 
 vise and money pay for he had procured for her in order to 
 make the voyage bearable. One of the largest, most commo- 
 dious staterooms was hers, so that she need not feel too much 
 confined, and when all this did not avail to avert the evils of 
 sea-sickness, he and Norah nursed her assiduously, until she 
 was able to be lifted in his arms and carried upon deck, where, 
 with the fresh breeze blowing in her face, she felt her strength 
 coming back, and thoroughly enjoyed the blue expanse of sky 
 above, and the deep, dark waters beneath, which now were 
 smooth and quiet as a river. The colonel was never sick, and 
 walked the planks from first to last as firmly and steadily as a 
 general at the head of his troops ; but alas for poor Godfrey. 
 During the voyage out he had been perfectly well, even in a 
 storm, and boasted much of his ability to keep so. 
 
 "You have only to exercise your will and you are well 
 enough," he said, with a certain sniff of contempt for the weaker 
 ones who are never seen from port to port. " Pluck is all you 
 need to keep you straight,- even when chairs and tables and 
 shovel and tongs are dancing a cotillon, and raising Ned gen- 
 erally." 
 
 This was Godfrey's opinion, when in his clean, light summer 
 suit he stepped airily on board and gave his hand to Bob Mac- 
 pherson, even then growing pale about the lips and unsteady 
 in his feet. But when they had been out a few hours, and a 
 great lurch came, and the waves broke over the deck, and 
 rolashed Godfrey's clean pants, and dashed the salt spray in his 
 tace, he, too, began to turn white, and feel, as he expressed it, 
 as if the ends of his toes were coining up through his stomach
 
 ON THE SEA. 133 
 
 to pay his throat a visit, and when the toes reached there and 
 showed signs of going still further, the young man succumbed 
 to his fate, and suddenly disappearing from view, went headlong 
 into the room where poor Bob had lain from the first, caring 
 little whether his perfumed hair was parted in the middle or 
 not, or his elaborate night-shirt buttoned before or behind. 
 Personal appearance was nothing in that stateroom where the 
 two young men lay, one in the upper, one in the under berth, 
 and both too sick for more exertion than to groan, when a swell, 
 heavier than usual, sent them rolling on the floor. Regularly 
 each morning Dan went in to see how it fared with them, offer- 
 ing chicken-broth and coffee, and bidding them " keep up their 
 courage and have a little pluck ; it was nothing to what it would 
 be." 
 
 To these consolatory remarks Bob offered no response. He 
 was too nearly crushed to speak, and afraid, withal, to do so, 
 as the least movement raised a tornado in his stomach ; but 
 Godfrey was more demonstrative, and having plunged into bed 
 in his boots, which he had succeeded in getting off and had be- 
 side him, he hurled one at the head of poor Dan, who adroitly 
 dodged it and then graciously adjusted the spittoon, knowing 
 it would be needed after such exertion. And it was ! 
 
 " Talk to me of pluck ! " Godfrey said, between the upheav- 
 ings which nearly burst his throat; "I believe my soul I'm 
 throwing mine up!" and then he lay back upon his pillow, 
 white, quivering and subdued, and took a swallow of the broth 
 and declared it was made of dishwater, and bade Dan clear out 
 and never show himself there again. 
 
 Regularly, twice each day, the colonel visited his son, and 
 made set speeches to him, and bade him try to dress himself 
 and get on deck, where the air would soon restore him. 
 
 " Mrs. Schuyler is there, and nearly well, and she was as bad 
 as you, and worse, for she could not flounce as you do. A lit- 
 tle effort of the will is all that is necessary to set you on your 
 legs." 
 
 Unconsciously, he was quoting Godfrey's own words, and 
 poor Bob ventured a little chuckle, which he paid for afterward,
 
 134 ON THE SEA. 
 
 while Godfrey wished there was no such commandment as the 
 third, so that he might free his mind for once. 
 
 And how, these days, had it fared with little Gertie, the 
 second-class passenger, whose state-room was small and close 
 and hot, for the window had been closed and fastened since the 
 water came in with a dash and wet the little hard bed. Poor 
 Gertie, how the ship tumbled and rolled a'xl tossed, and how 
 she tossed and rolled and tumbled with ", and clutched at 
 everything in her reach, with a feeling that they were tipping 
 over and she was standing on her head. And how the cold, 
 clammy sweat stood on her face and hands, and the dreadful, 
 death-like faintness cre^t from her feet through every nerve, as, 
 with fearful contortions, her stomach tried in vain to relieve it- 
 self, and she fell back, panting and helpless, upon the hard, 
 scant pillow. It was horrible, and the poor child wished so 
 much that she could die, or that the ship would stop for just 
 one minute, and give her time to breathe, even though it were 
 the fetid air, which almost stifled her and made her long so for 
 the hedge-rows and fields of dear old England, now so far away. 
 But Gertie did not die, and the vessel did not stop, and the 
 window was not opened. She was merely second-class, and it 
 was not worth one's while to open and shut windows just for 
 her ; and though Mary Rogers did all she could for her sick 
 child, and brought her many things to tempt her appetite, 
 Gertie turned from them all, and sobbed piteously, " I am so 
 sick, shall we ever get there ? Is everybody sick, and are all 
 the rooms as close and hot and small ? Where is the pretty 
 lady, Mrs. Schuyler ? I wish she'd come and see me. I think 
 I should be better. Would you dare ask her ? " 
 
 Mrs. Rogers did not know whether she dared or not. She 
 would see, she said, and when that afternoon she saw Edith on 
 deck, she ventured upon some trivial remark as the cousin of 
 Norah, and finally spoke of her little girl, who was suffering so 
 much. 
 
 " Oh yes ; Gertie Westbrooke. I remember now. She was 
 to go with us ; and you are Mrs. Rogers, Norah's cousin, and 
 the little girl is very sick and uncomfortable ; I am so sorry
 
 ON THE SEA, 135 
 
 for her. I know just how it feels. Can I do anything for 
 her ? " 
 
 Mary hesitated and then said : 
 
 " She has felt interested in you since the day you were mar- 
 ried. She was there." 
 
 " Yes, and threw me the pretty bouquet," Edith said ; and 
 Mary continued : 
 
 " She talks a great deal of you, and thinks now if you could 
 come and see her it would do her good ; but, ma'am, I told 
 her how it wasn't likely you would or could do that. Our 
 room is very small and close, and the pillows are so hard and 
 poor." 
 
 " I do not believe I can go now ; I am hardly strong 
 . enough," Edith said ; " but I will come some day if she does 
 not get well ; and now carry her this soft shawl ; it will answer 
 for a pillow. I do not need it at all, and Norah shall take her 
 some oranges and wine." 
 
 Mary demurred at the shawl, but Edith insisted, and remem- 
 bered the oranges and wine, which so refreshed the child that 
 she slept soundly that night with Edith's shawl for a pillow, and 
 a dream of Edith in her heart. 
 
 The next day she was better, and Mary took the shawl back 
 to Edith, who was again on deck, with her husband standing 
 beside her. 
 
 " Poor thing," Edith said, kindly ; " I .am glad she is better. 
 Tell her I'll come and see her when I can, and as soon as she 
 is able to be moved I'll have her brought up to my stateroom 
 for a while ; it must be dreadful there with the windows shut 
 and the air so close and confined." 
 
 She glanced at her husband, whose face was overcast. 
 
 " Who is this woman and who is the child you propose mov- 
 ing into our stateroom ? " he asked, stiffly, when Mary was 
 gone ; and Edith replied by telling him what she knew of Ger- 
 tie Westbrooke and her mother. 
 
 Colonel Schuyler could reproach Edith for seeming cold and 
 proud toward the Lyles, to whom he felt that he owed some- 
 thing, but he was far from wishing her to treat people like
 
 I3 6 ON THE SEA. 
 
 Mary Rogers with any show of familiarity. There his pride 
 came in strongly, and he said to her at once : 
 
 " You can send the child any delicacy you choose, and I 
 will see that her window is opened so she can have air, but she 
 must not be brought to our stateroom ; and if she slept on 
 your shawl, as it seems she did, I desire you to give it to her 
 altogether. You surely will never wear it again. Norah ? " 
 
 And he turned to their maid, who stood near : 
 
 " Take this shawl to your cousin's child and tell her Mrs. 
 Schuyler sent it, and wishes her to keep it." 
 
 Norah looked wonderingly at him, while Edith blushed pain- 
 fully, but neither said a word, and after Norah was gone with 
 the shawl Colonel Schuyler continued : " I do not wish to dis- 
 tress you, my dear, or to interfere with your actions unneces- 
 sarily, but I think it just as well not to have too much to do with 
 the lower class unless, as in the case of the Lyles, we are under 
 obligations to them. And as this Rogers child is nothing to us, 
 you are not called upon to visit her. She will soon recover. 
 Such people always do. I'll go now and speak about the 
 window." 
 
 He felt uncomfortable and wished to get away, for he did 
 not quite like the grieved look in Edith's eyes, or the pained 
 expression of her face. Edith herself could not tell why his 
 words hurt her as they did, or why she felt so interested in the 
 sick girl whom she had as yet never seen distinctly. But she 
 was interested in her, and though she did not visit her as she 
 had intended doing, she sent her many delicacies and a pillow 
 from her stateroom, and felt almost as much pleased as Mary 
 Rogers herself when she heard at last that she was better. 
 
 Gertie had been very sick, and her bright color was all 
 gone, and her round cheeks looked thin and wan, when at 
 last Mary dressed her in her warm wrapper, with its facings of 
 pink, and then folding Edith's shawl about her carried her on 
 deck, and propping her up with pillows and cushions made her 
 as comfortable as she could. 
 
 Though pale and worn with marks of suffering on her face 
 and in her soft blue eyes, Gertie was pretty still, and made a
 
 ON' THE SEA. 137 
 
 very attractive picture as she sat in her quiet corner with a 
 book, whose pages she was turning listlessly, when she heard 
 footsteps approaching her, and a voice exclaimed : 
 
 " Hallo, Bob, by George, if there isn't ' La Sceur,' looking like 
 a little ghost ; here, this way ; " and Godfrey Schuyler, who was 
 also better and able to be up, came quickly to her side, followed 
 by Robert Macpherson, who moved more slowly and showed 
 more signs of weakness than the active, restless Godfrey. 
 
 Robert Macpherson had seen and talked with Gertie at her 
 lodgings near Oakwood, and had asked her to sit for her picture, 
 and she had said she would, and a day had been appointed for 
 the sitting, when Mary Rogers interfered and refused in toto, 
 and kept her child so close that neither Robert nor Godfrey saw 
 her again except in her aunt's company or through the window 
 of her room. 
 
 Godfrey, indeed, had only spoken to her once, and that when 
 she sat in the door eating blackberries, her lips and pretty fin- 
 gers stained wi{h the juice, and her bright hair falling about her 
 face. Mrs. Rogers had come upon him then just as he was go 
 ing to make some flattering speech, and called her little girl 
 away, and he had not seen her since until now, when he es- 
 teemed it a great piece of luck to stumble thus upon her with 
 the dragon out of sight. Gertie knew him, and a pleased smile 
 broke over her face and shone in her eyes, when he stopped 
 before her and asked if she had been sick and how she liked the 
 feeling of it. She did not like it at all, and she and Godfrey 
 grew very social and sympathetic as they compared notes, he 
 going far ahead of her, of course, inasmuch as he did not hesi- 
 tate to draw upon his imagination when necessary, while she 
 adhered strictly to the truth, saying only that she felt at times 
 as if she were standing on her head, while he averred that he did 
 stand on his head until he was black in the face. She did not be- 
 lieve him, but she laughed merrily at his droll sayings, and then 
 acquaintance was progressing rapidly when he asked what she 
 was reading, and stooped down beside her to see the title-page. 
 
 Godfrey was very fond of little girls, and this one had inter- 
 ested him greatly from the time he first saw her in the cab on
 
 138 ON THE SEA. 
 
 Caledonia Street, and now as he bent his face so close to hers that 
 his brown curls touched her auburn hair, he could not resist the 
 temptation, but snatched a kiss from her lips ere she was aware 
 of his intention. Though small of stature Gertie was twelve 
 years old, and very womanly in some respects, and at this 
 liberty all her instincts of modesty and propriety awoke within 
 her, and while the hot tears glittered in her eyes, which flashed 
 angrily upon the offender, she said : 
 
 " You stop ! You mustn't ! You shan't ! You have 
 no business to kiss me, Mr. Godfrey, and I am very indig- 
 nant ! " , 
 
 She wiped her lips two or three times, while Godfrey, who 
 considered it a good joke, and was vastly amused at her rage, 
 said to her : 
 
 " Why oughtn't I to kiss a pretty girl like you when I find 
 her all alone ? " 
 
 " Because I am alone," Gertie replied, with a very wise shake 
 of the head. "Because men like you shouldn!t kiss girls like 
 me whom they don't like." 
 
 "But I do like you immensely," Godfrey said, "and think 
 you the prettiest girl I ever saw." 
 
 " Hush ! " Gertie rejoined, with all the dignity of a woman 
 of twenty. "You shall not talk to me like that, and you 
 wouldn't either if I was somebody else." 
 
 " Who, for instance ? " Godfrey asked, and looking him stead- 
 ily in the face, with her clear, honest eyes, Gertie said : 
 
 " Mr. Godfrey, if I were one of your sisters would you have 
 done it ? " 
 
 " Certainly, I have a right to kiss my sister," Godfrey said, 
 and Gertie continued : 
 
 "I don't mean that. I mean if you were somebody else and 
 I was one of your sisters." 
 
 " Still wrong," Godfrey said, " for even if I were somebody 
 else and you my sister I would kiss you many times." 
 
 He would not understand, and Gertie glanced appealingly at 
 Robert Macpherson, who had been listening languidly, while 
 with an artist's interest he attentively studied the little face
 
 ON THE SEA. 139 
 
 which so puzzled and attracted him. As he met her glance he 
 came a step nearer to her, and said : 
 
 " Let me tell you how to put it. Suppose you are my sister ? " 
 
 " You are a gentleman born ? " Gertie asked, while the young 
 man colored to the roots of his hair, and answered : 
 
 " I believe I am." 
 
 " Well, then," and she turned again to Godfrey, " suppose I 
 was his sister and you were yourself, and you found me a sick, 
 tired little girl, sitting by myself, would you have dared to kiss 
 me then ? " 
 
 There was in her manner so much sweetness and dignity 
 withal that languid Bob roused in her behalf, and said : 
 
 " If he did I'd knock him down," while Godfrey, wholly driven 
 to bay, answered humbly : 
 
 " No, Miss Gertie, I would not, and I beg your pardon, and 
 assure you I meant no harm, but really you looked so pretty, 
 so piquant e " 
 
 " You must not tell me that either," Gertie said. " I'm glad 
 if you think me pretty, and glad to have you like me, but you 
 mustn't tell me so. It's very bad, for Auntie Rogers says young 
 men like you never talk to girls like me for good, and I must 
 not let you." 
 
 "What kind of a girl are you, pray ? " Godfrey asked, feeling 
 more and more amused and interested with this quaint little 
 creature, who replied : 
 
 " I am poor, and have not any relatives except a grand- 
 mother, and I don't know where she is. But my mother was a 
 lady, auntie says, and I once lived in a big house with servants, 
 and auntie was my nurse. I don't know where it was or why 
 I left it when mother died. Auntie does not tell me, and she 
 is so kind, and I have forty pounds a year of my own, and 
 maybe I shall learn a trade, or teach school in America, and 
 some time marry respectably, but I'm not the kind of girl for 
 a man like you to kiss and talk to." 
 
 " Gertie, you are a brick ! " came emphatically from the 
 amused Godfrey, who felt a great desire to kiss the full lips 
 again in his admiration of the child.
 
 140 Off THE SEA. 
 
 But he dared not do it. Indeed, there was something about 
 her which inspired him with a respect such as he had never be- 
 fore felt for a girl, and as he told Robert Macphersoh in con- 
 fidence, he wanted to crawl into his boots when, after his asser- 
 tion that she was a brick, she lifted her eyes so wonderingly, 
 and said : 
 
 "I'm a what? " 
 
 " A brick," he answered ; " don't you know what that is ? " 
 
 ".Yes, I know it in its place ; but I don't know what you 
 mean when you give the name to me. Nothing bad, I hope." 
 
 " Certainly not ; it's a compliment. I called you so because 
 I like you and think you smart, clever, you English would say, 
 I suppose." 
 
 And Godfrey began to shake down his pants, and stand first 
 on one foot and then upon the other, in his perplexity how to 
 appear well in the mind of this little girl, who was so young, 
 and innocent, and honest, and yet so old in some things. 
 
 " That's slang, isn't it ? " Gertie asked. 
 
 And he replied : 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it would be called so, but it is very expres- 
 sive. Don't you like slang ? " 
 
 " No, I do not, and I don't see why nice people like you 
 should use it so much." 
 
 " Do I use it so much ? " Godfrey asked. 
 
 And the girl replied : 
 
 " I heard you once at Oakwood, when you did not know I 
 was there in the kitchen, say ' by George,' and ' by Jove,' three 
 times right along, and you called your father the ' governor,' 
 and one of the maids said she supposed it was Yankee slang." 
 
 Godfrey's face was scarlet at this reproof, which he knew he 
 merited, and for a moment he did not know what to say. Soon 
 rallying, however, he said, good-naturedly : 
 
 " I guess I am rather given to slang, the girls at home nag 
 me about it all the time, and I do it to tease them ; but I'll 
 quit it now, by Jo I beg your pardon. I did not know I was 
 &o given to it, and I will reform, by George ! There ! that was 
 to finish up."
 
 ON THE SEA. 141 
 
 And Godfrey laughed heartily at himself, while Gertie, too, 
 joined in the laugh, and thought how handsome he was, and 
 what white, even teeth he had, and hoped he was not angry 
 with her. So when he said to her next : " Gertie, if I really 
 try to reform and quit my slang, will you promise to like me a 
 little ? " she answered quickly : " Yes, and I like you now, 
 some, you know, though I did not like you to stare at me 
 so when I was in the cab at Mrs. Barrett's gate ; but when I 
 saw you in church at the wedding, I thought you very nice, 
 and kept on thinking so until you kissed me, when I was 
 very angry ; but I'm over it now, and you'll never kiss me 
 again." 
 
 That was a fixed fact in her mind, but Godfrey was not so 
 sure of it, and he said to her seriously : 
 
 " Gertie, I am sure you are very good and generous, and I 
 really mean to reform, and I want you to promise me one thing. 
 You are going to Hampstead, I believe ? " 
 
 Yes, Gertie supposed she was, " but," she added, " I shall 
 not see you, of course." 
 
 " Why not ?" he asked, and she replied : 
 
 "Why, don't you know? You are rich and we are poor. 
 You live in the great house, and we are your tenants ; that is, 
 I believe auntie is to rent a cottage of your father, if it is not 
 too high. We cannot give much, for auntie lost her shares in 
 the bank last summer, and now she must 'do fluting and clear- 
 starching and sewing for our living, as she will not touch my 
 forty pounds ; that she says is for my education, and I do so 
 want to learn music. We can live on most nothing, only the 
 rent takes money. Will it be very much ? " 
 
 " No, not much," Godfrey replied, a sudden thought flashing 
 into his mind upon which he resolved to act, but not till he had 
 made his compact with Gertie. 
 
 "You did not let me finish," he said ; " I want to make a 
 bargain with you, which is This : I am to reform, and you are to 
 tell me from time to time if I am improving, and when you 
 really think I am a perfect gentleman, you are to let me kiss 
 you again. Is it a fair bargain ? "
 
 142 ON THE SEA. 
 
 Gertie considered a moment, and then said, with the utmost 
 gravity : 
 
 " Ye-es, I don't believe there would be any harm in it, inas- 
 much as you did it for pay." 
 
 " Then it is a bargain, and I begin from this minute to be a 
 gentleman," Godfrey cried, but his zeal was a little dampened 
 by Gertie's next remark. 
 
 " It may be a long time, Mr. Godfrey, and I'll be grown up, 
 and then it would not be proper at all." 
 
 Here Robert Macpherson burst into a loud laugh and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Better give it up, Schuyler ; the child is too much for you." 
 
 But Godfrey was not inclined to give it up, and said : 
 
 " A bargain is a bargain, Miss Gertie, and I shall claim my 
 reward if it is not until you are a hundred. How old are you, 
 little one?" 
 
 "Twelve going on thirteen. How old are you ?" 
 
 "Eighteen, going on nineteen," was Godfrey's answer, and 
 as he just then saw his father in a distant part of the vessel, he 
 touched his hat and svalked away to set in train the plan he had 
 in his mind for benefiting Gertie Westbrooke. 
 
 She interested him greatly, and he wished to do her good, 
 and joining his father, he said : 
 
 " By the way, father, have you decided which house you will 
 rent to Mrs. Rogers?" 
 
 " Rent to whom ? " Colonel Schuyler asked. " Who is Mrs. 
 Rogers?" 
 
 He had forgotten her for the moment, but when Godfrey ex- 
 plained that she was Norah's cousin, he remembered that some- 
 thing had been said about her having one of his cottages, but 
 he had not decided which one. Why, what did it matter to 
 Godfrey ? 
 
 " It matters this," Godfrey said. " You know my house, 
 which you gave me for my own. Perry wrote me a few days 
 before we sailed that the tenant had left it suddenly, and there 
 was no one in it. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to let it to 
 Mrs. Rogers."
 
 ON THE SEA. 143 
 
 " Certainly, let it to her if you like," the colonel said, pleased 
 to see in his son what he thought a business proclivity, and a 
 wish to make the most of his property. 
 
 He little guessed that it was Godfrey's interest in Gertie 
 which prompted him to wish to see her in his own cottage, the 
 best by far of all the houses known as the Schuyler tenements. 
 It was not new like many of them, but it was very commodious 
 and pretty, with a wealth of vines creeping over the porch, a 
 rose tree near the door, from which Edith herself had plucked 
 the sweet blossoms, and twined them in her hair, for Godfrey's 
 cottage was the very house where Mrs. Fordham once lived, 
 and from which Abelard Lyle was carried to the grave. And 
 Gertie Westbrooke was going there, and Godfrey was already 
 thinking how, as soon as he reached New York, he would tele- 
 graph to Perry to have the house cleaned throughout and put 
 in perfect repair for his new tenants. 
 
 Meantime Robert Macpherson was puzzling himself over 
 Gertie's face and its resemblance to another. 
 
 " How can they be so like, and yet nothing to each other ? " 
 he said, and once, when an opportunity occurred, he questioned 
 the child closely with regard to her antecedents, but elicited 
 little more information than she had . already given Godfrey in 
 his hearing. 
 
 " She was Gertie Westbrooke, born in London, January , 
 1 8 . She had lived for a while in a big house, with her mother, 
 whom she could just remember, and who died when she was two 
 years old, and then a new mother came, who was very cross, 
 and Mary Rogers, her nurse, took her away, and had been so 
 good to her ever since." 
 
 "And your father?" Robert asked. "Where is he? Do 
 you never see him ? " 
 
 " He was cross, too, and drank too much wine," Gertie 
 said ; " and auntie says he's dead, and I guess I hain't any rela- 
 tives now, but a grandmother, and I don't know where she is. 
 I heard auntie tell a woman once that I had a history stranger 
 than a story-book, but when I asked her about it she looked 
 cross, and bade me never listen, and said if there was anything
 
 144 ON THE SEA, 
 
 I ought to know, she would surely tell me. Sometimes when I 
 see grand people, I think, maybe, I am one of them, for I feel 
 just as they act, and could act just like them, if I tried." 
 
 " Maybe you are a princess in disguise," Robert said, laying 
 his hand kindly on the bright flowing hair. " Gertie, do you 
 know you are the very image of the only sister I ever had ? 
 Dorothea was the name, but I called her Dora, and loved her 
 so much." 
 
 " And she died ? " Gertie said, guessing the fact from the 
 tremor in the young man's voice and the moisture in his eyes. 
 
 " Yes, she died, and I have no picture of her, and that is why 
 I wanted you to sit for me. You are so much like her. May- 
 be if you tell your aunt the reason she will allow it when we 
 reach America. I am going to Hampstead, too, for a time, to 
 visit Mr. Godfrey. Will you speak to her about it ? " 
 
 Gertie promised that she would, and kept her word, and 
 Mrs. Rogers said she would see, which Gertie took as an affir- 
 mative reply and reported to the young man, telling him, too, 
 that auntie had forbidden her to talk much with him, and tell- 
 ing Godfrey that he must not come where she was, for auntie 
 did not like it, and said it was " no good." 
 
 " And I didn't tell her, either, that you kissed me ; if I had, 
 she would have been angry, and maybe shut me up in that 
 close, dark stateroom ; but you are never to do it again." 
 
 " No, not till you say you think me a perfect gentleman ; 
 then I shall claim my reward," Godfrey said, laughingly, and 
 as Mary Rogers appeared in view, with the look of a terma- 
 gant on her face, he turned his back on Gertie and pretended 
 to be very intent upon a sail just appearing in the distant 
 horizon.
 
 THE LADIES AT SCHUYLER HILL. 145 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 THE LADIES AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 ]ISS CHRISTINE ROSSITER, aged 46 : Miss Alice 
 Creighton, aged 17; Miss Julia Schuyler, aged 16 ; 
 and Miss Emma, aged 14. These were the ladies 
 who, a good portion of the year, were domesticated at Schuyler 
 Hill, and of whom I will speak in order ; and first of Miss Ros- 
 siter, whose personal appearance and peculiarities Godfrey 
 had of course exaggerated when he talked of her to Edith. 
 She was his mother's sister, and forty-six, and had once been 
 engaged to a young man who left her all his money, and for 
 whom she wore black half a dozen years, during which time 
 she gave herself to the church, and went so far as to think of 
 turning Romanist, and hiding her grief in a convent. But she 
 recovered from that, and being good-looking, and only thirty, 
 with a fortune of half a million, she went back to the world 
 again, and became a belle, for she was a handsome woman, 
 still, and at times exceedingly brilliant and witty, the result, it 
 was whispered at last, of opium-eating in secret. This habit 
 she had contracted during her seclusion, with a view to deaden 
 her grief, and make her sleep at night. And after the grief 
 was over the habit remained, and grew upon her constantly, 
 until now she was never without her vial of the deadly stuff, 
 and her nerves were completely shattered with the poison. 
 
 Exceedingly proud and exclusive, she held herself above the 
 most of her acquaintances, and made them feel that she did, 
 and still exercised over them an influence which would draw 
 every one of them to her side when she wished them to come. 
 
 Few women understood the art of dressing better than she 
 did, and when arrayed in evening costume, with her diamonds 
 and her lace, she was still a very handsome and attractive wo- 
 man, capable of entertaining a roomful of guests, and keeping 
 them delighted with her ready wit and brilliant repartees. She 
 should never marry, she said, and yet more than Godfrey be- 
 7
 
 146 THE LADIES AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 lieved that she had no objection to becoming Mrs. Schuyler 
 second, if only she were asked to do so. Since her sister's 
 death she had spent most of her time at the Hill, giving as an 
 excuse that " Emily's children needed a mother's care so 
 badly," while Howard was always happier to have her there. 
 
 Of this last there might have been two opinions, but the colo- 
 nel was a peaceable man, and always made her welcome, and 
 humored her whims and listened to her advice when he chose 
 to do so, and offered no remonstrance when she appropriated 
 to herself the very be;t and pleasantest room in the house, the 
 one with the bay-window overlooking the river and the moun- 
 tains, and which, as it chanced to be in the south wing, was one 
 of the suite intended for Edith, and which she surrendered, with 
 what reluctance we shall see hereafter. 
 
 Alice Creighton was Col. Schuyler's ward and the niece of 
 the wife of Mrs. Schuyler's half brother, the Rev. John Calvert, 
 who lived in New York, and whose house was properly her 
 home, though she spent much of her time at Schuyler Hill, 
 where her education was progressing under the direction of 
 Miss BroAvning, the governess. Short, fat, and chubby, with 
 light hair and eyes and complexion, and a nose that turned up 
 decidedly, she was not very pretty, save as young, happy girl- 
 hood is always pretty, but she was very stylish, which answered 
 instead of beauty, and made her remarked wherever she went. 
 Whatever was fashionable she wore in the extreme, and at the 
 little church in Hampstead there was on Sundays a great deal 
 of curiosity among the village girls to see the last new style, as 
 represented by Miss Creighton. And after they saw it they 
 copied it as far as was possible, and then found to their surprise 
 that what they had adopted as the latest in the beau-monde, 
 was laid aside for something later by their mirror of fashion. 
 
 She expected to marry Godfrey, for the arrangement had been 
 settled between her father, before he died, and Col. Howard 
 Schuyler ; and Alice acquiesced in it, and looked confidently 
 forward to a time when she would have a house of her own and 
 furnish it as no house in New York had ever yet been furnished, 
 and keep seven servants at least, with horses and carriages, and
 
 THE LADIES A 7' SCHUYLER HILL. 147 
 
 nothing to do from morning till night but enjoy herself, and be 
 envied in doing it. To all this grandeur Godfrey would be a 
 very proper appendage. He was good-looking, and came from 
 a family superior even to her own ; he could be a gentleman 
 when he chose, and would look very nicely beside her in the 
 Park and at the opera, and when she entered the drawing-rooms 
 l>n Fifth Avenue on some festive occasion. 
 
 This was Miss Alice Creighton, as nearly as I can daguerreo- 
 type her at the time of which I write, while Julia Schuyler was 
 much like her in disposition, but different in looks. 
 
 Julia was tall and slender, and a brunette, with clear, olive 
 complexion, high color, sparkling black eyes, and a quantity of 
 glossy, black hair, of which she was very proud, and which she 
 usually wore becomingly, let the fashion be what it might. 
 Some people called her beautiful, but that she could never be 
 with her wide mouth and large ears, but she certainly was hand- 
 some and bright, and could, if she chose, be very agreeable 
 and fascinating, but, except with her equals, she did not often 
 choose, and was known in town as a proud, haughty girl, caring 
 only for herself and the few favored ones belonging to her cir- 
 cle. And yet she taught in Sunday-school, and made dresses 
 and aprons for the poor, and esteemed herself almost a saint, 
 because she once carried with her own hands a dish of soup to 
 poor, old, bedridden Mrs. Vandeusenhisen, whose grandchild 
 was called for Alice at the instigation of the mischievous God- 
 frey. 
 
 Both Julia and Alice went sometimes on errands of mercy, 
 and wore gray cloaks with scarlet facings to the cape, and felt 
 themselves on a par with the sisters of charity, and had a lump 
 of camphor in their pockets to prevent contagion, and asked the 
 little ones if they knew the Creed, and the Lord's Prayer, and 
 the Ten Commandments, affecting great surprise if they did 
 not, and telling them if they did that they ought to be confirmed 
 a; once and grow up respectable citizens. 
 
 Very different from these young ladies was pale-faced, quiet 
 Emma, who believed everybody to be what he seemed, and 
 wished herself as good as Alice and Julia, who were so devout
 
 148 THE LADIES AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 at church, and who read a long chapter every morning and a 
 short psalm every night. Emma did not like to read the Bible, 
 and always glanced ahead to see how long the chapter was, 
 and felt glad when it was ended. And she did not like to visit 
 the poor because as a general thing the close air of the rooms 
 made her sick, and she was always unhappy for a whole day 
 with thinking about them and fancying how she would feel were 
 she also poor. 
 
 And yet of the three girls I liked Emma best, for I knew just 
 how true, and honest, and innocent she was, and that though 
 she too was proud, she tried to overcome her pride, because 
 she thought it wrong, and in her heart had a sincere desire to 
 do just what was right. No one ever called Emma handsome ; 
 her features were too sharp for that, but there was something in 
 her smile and the expression of her soft, dark eyes which made 
 her very attractive, and, as I thought, prettier than Julia herself. 
 
 Take them altogether the ladies at Schuyler Hill were quite 
 distingue in manner and appearance, and we were rather proud 
 to have them with us, for their presence added something of 
 importance to our little town, and gave a certain eclat to our 
 society. Nor was their governess, Miss Helen Browning, much 
 behind in style and personal appearance. Indeed, she prided 
 herself upon manner and good breeding, and knew every point 
 of etiquette, from sitting bolt-upright in her chair, with just the 
 two tips of her boots visible, to eating soup with the side of her 
 spoon, and never on any account allowing her hands to touch 
 the table. 
 
 And now, last of all, comes Mrs. Tiffe, the housekeeper, a 
 dignified, energetic woman of fifty, who wore black silk every 
 day, with pink ribbons in her cap, and who, after several hard- 
 fought battles with Miss Rossiter for the supremacy, had come 
 off victorious, and reigned triumphant at Schuyler Hill, where 
 she feared no one save the colonel himself, and liked no one 
 but Godfrey. He was her idol, and he alone could unlock the 
 mysterious closet under the stairs, and call forth jam, and jelly, 
 and even marmalade, if he liked. Such lunches as she gave 
 the ladies when they were alone, and Godfrey not there to coax,
 
 THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 149 
 
 or the colonel to insist ! A chicken wing and back, with a 
 slice of bread and butter, and possibly a baked apple, if there 
 chanced to be any "standing round" in danger of spoiling; 
 while her breakfasts were delicate and dainty enough for a fairy, 
 or the worst form which dyspepsia ever assumed. " Frugal re- 
 pasts," Godfrey called them ; but for their frugality Mrs. Tiffe 
 nade amends at dinner, which was served with great profusion, 
 and all the elegance the house could command. Nothing was 
 too nice for dinner ; and Mrs. Tiffe, felt her heart swell with 
 pride when she saw her ladies, handsomely dressed, filing into 
 the spacious dining-room, where the table was bright with silver 
 and flowers. To her the Schuylers and Rossiters represented 
 the world, and anybody outside that world, unless it were Miss 
 Creighton, was looked upon with disgust, and barely tolerated. 
 Miss* Christine, it is true, was not a favorite, but she was a 
 Rossiter, and Mrs. Tiffe charged all her faults to the fact that 
 " she was an old maid, and couldn't help being queer," and so 
 endured her quietly when her own wishes were not opposed. 
 
 And this was the household into which the news of Col. 
 Schuyler's second marriage fell like a bombshell in the enemy's 
 camp, wounding each one, and wringing from each one a cry 
 according to her disposition. But for a description of this I 
 must take a fresh sheet and begin another chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 JIT came to them one sultry August morning, when the 
 thermometer was 90 degrees in the shade, and the 
 air was like a furnace even before nine o'clock. 
 Breakfast was very late that morning, and Mrs. Tiffe was 
 furious. She had committed the extravagance of broiled chicken 
 and muffins, which of course were spoiled, and she had herself 
 been up since four o'clock and was in a melting condition, in 
 spite of the thinnest muslin she could find and the coolest
 
 150 THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 garments she could wear. Miss Rossiter had not slept well, 
 and, as was her custom after a restless night, she loitered in bed, 
 and dawdled over her toilet and bath, and took so much time 
 in dressing, that the clock was striking nine when she at last 
 entered the dining-room, followed by the three girls and their 
 governess, all panting and inveighing against the weather, except 
 Emma. She liked it. Naturally chilly and cold, the heat 
 suited her, and her face alone was pleasant and contented as 
 she took her seat at the table and attacked the cold chicken 
 and half-warm, heavy muffins, which her dyspeptic aunt could 
 not eat. 
 
 " Bring me a slice of dry toast," Miss Rossiter said to Mar- 
 tha, the waitress, who, on returning with the toast, brought two 
 letters for Miss Julia, bearing foreign post-marks. 
 
 " From father and Godfrey," Julia said. " Excuse me, please, 
 while I read them." 
 
 Leaning back in her chair she broke the seal of her father's 
 first and read a few lines, then with a start which nearly upset 
 her cup of chocolate, she exclaimed : 
 
 "Oh, horrible, girls! Aunt Christine, listen, father >: 
 
 " Martha, you can go, now," she said suddenly, remember- 
 ing the girl, who departed to the kitchen, where the news was 
 already known, and where the servants stood open-mouthed 
 around Perry, who was reading the letter his master had sent 
 to him. 
 
 " What is it, Julia?" Miss Rossiter asked, when Martha was 
 gone, and Julia, whose eyes had run at lightning speed over 
 the contents of the letter, replied : 
 
 "F'ather is going to be married to a Miss Edith Lyle, Aunt 
 Sinclair's hired companion. You remember he mentioned her 
 once before as living at Oakwood. Hear what he says of her : 
 ' She is a lady of good family, the daughter of a clergyman, 
 the friend and companion of my deceased sister, your late Aunt 
 Sinclair. She possesses many accomplishments, and is what I 
 consider a very remarkable personage.' (How like father 
 that sounds!) 'And I expect that all due deference will be 
 paid to her by every member of my household.' (lie h-is ua-
 
 THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 151 
 
 derscored that.) 'Please break the news to your Aunt Chris- 
 tine, and tell Mrs. Tiffe to see that all the rooms in the south 
 wing are made ready for Mrs. Schuyler. I have written to 
 Perry about refurnishing them, but Tiffe must superintend it a 
 little ' 
 
 " Oh, dreadful, I believe I am going to faint, my hartshorn, 
 Emma, please," Miss Rossiter gasped. 
 
 The hartshorn was found, and two palm-leaf fans were brought 
 into requisition, and then Miss RossiFer spoke again, this time 
 hysterically and in tears. 
 
 " My poor sister, to be so insulted ! A hired companion ! 
 and she was a Rossiter ! Oh, 1 cannot bear it, my poor dis- 
 graced nieces, my heart is breaking for you." 
 
 " But, Aunt Christine, he says she is a lady, the daughter of 
 a clergyman," Emma said, soothingly, hers the only voice 
 raised in defence of the intruder, the interloper, the adven- 
 turess, as Miss Rossiter termed the expected bride. 
 
 Emma's heart had throbbed painfully at the thought of a new 
 mother, but it was natural for her to defend whatever she be- 
 lieved abused, and she spoke up for the unknown Edith, until 
 Julia, who had been reading Godfrey's letter, uttered a cry of 
 bitter anger and scorn, and said, sternly : 
 
 " Hush, Em, you don't know what you are talking about ; a 
 lady, indeed, and the daughter of a clergyman ! A woman of 
 forty, with a limp, and glass eye, and cracked voice, is a nice 
 mother to bring us ! " 
 
 " A wha-at ? " Miss Rossiter gasped, while Alice and Emma 
 both exclaimed simultaneously : " A limp and a glass eye ! 
 What do you mean ? Let me see ; " and looking over Julia' 
 shoulder Alice read aloud what Godfrey had written. 
 
 Godfrey had said, " The sight of her will take your breath 
 away," and in fact the very thought of her did that, and for full 
 a minute after the letter was read there was not a sound heard 
 in the room where the indignant and confounded ladies sat, 
 each staring blankly at the other, and neither able to speak or 
 move. Miss Rossiter was the first to stir, and with a moaning 
 cry, "I cannot bear it," she went into violent hysterics, and
 
 152 THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 Martha was called in, and the poor lady was taken to her room, 
 where she tried, one after another, every bottle of medicine in 
 her closet, but to no effect ; even the Crown Bitters failed, and 
 she sank upon the bed, shivering with cold, and asking for 
 shawls and blankets on that August day, with a temperature of 
 ninety degrees in the shade. 
 
 Perhaps Miss Rossiter herself had not been aware how much 
 Colonel Howard was to her, or how hard it would be to see 
 another woman there in her sister's place. She had too much 
 sense to believe she would ever fill it, yet the first smart had 
 been that of disappointment and a sense of wrong to herself, 
 while the second was a keen pang of mortification and anger, 
 that if he must choose another he had chosen that caricature 
 on womanhood described so graphically by Godfrey. It is true 
 she did not quite believe him literally. Neither did his sisters, 
 who sat in the library with white faces and tearful eyes. Julia 
 was wrathful and defiant, and was already in a state of fierce 
 rebellion against the woman of forty with the crack in her voice. 
 So much she believed, but the limp and glass eye were too 
 thoroughly Godfrey's to be trusted. 
 
 " Probably the woman is lame and wears glasses," she said, 
 when she could trust herself to speak at all, "and perhaps she 
 squints, but I have no faith in the glass eye. Godfrey made 
 that up. Father is not the man to marry such a monster, and 
 then expect us to pay all due deference to her. The idea of 
 my deferring to such a woman. I hate her. I'll poison her, 
 the wretch ! " 
 
 Julia Schuyler was terrible in her wrath, and with that expres- 
 sion in her flashing eyes and about the white quivering lips, she 
 looked equal to anything, and Edith might well have trembled 
 could she have seen the dark-faced girl, who, with clenched fists, 
 threatened to poison her. Julia would not of course acknowledge 
 that she really had murder in her heart, but she felt outraged, 
 and insulted, and disgraced, and as if she must do something to 
 avert the horrible evil threatening them all. But what could 
 she do ? To oppose her will to her father's was like trying to 
 move a mountain of stone with her puny strength. The moun-
 
 THE NEIVS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 153 
 
 tain would not be hurt, and only she would suffer from the at- 
 tempt. 
 
 There was no help, no hope, and when her anger had spent 
 itself she burst into tears and sobbed passionately, just as Emma 
 had done from the first, but with this difference, she cried from 
 wrath and indignant mortification, while Emma's tears were 
 more for the dead mother whose place was to be filled, and 
 whose death it seemed to her now had only been yesterday. 
 
 The governess, who knew that remark of any kind from her- 
 self would be resented as impertinent, wisely said nothing, while 
 Alice, too, was silent, except as she occasionally said to Julia, 
 "It is too bad, and I am sorry for you ; sorry for us all." 
 
 Looking upon Godfrey as her own especial property, Alice 
 felt that whatever affected the Schuylers affected her, and she 
 was sorry accordingly for this thing about to happen, but it did 
 not hurt her as it did Julia and Emma, who must call the strange 
 woman mother, and who wept on until Miss Rossiter sent for 
 them to come to her room together with Miss Creighton. She 
 had taken some brandy, and felt better, though her heart was 
 aching still with a dreary sense of loss, and disappointment, and 
 disgrace, if half Godfrey had written was true, and half was all 
 that any stretch of her imagination would allow her to bejieve, 
 and when the young girls entered the room she said to them : 
 
 " I have sent for you to talk over this dreadful thing, and to 
 say that I do not credit all Godfrey's story. He is a sad boy 
 to exaggerate, you know. Still, let the woman be what she 
 may, we do not want her here where we have been so happy." 
 
 Miss Rossiter's voice faltered a little, but soon recovering 
 herself, she continued : 
 
 " No, we do not want her here ; and I for one declare war, 
 war to the knife /" 
 
 She spoke bitterly now, and her black eyes flashed with con- 
 temptuous scorn. 
 
 "But Aunt Christine," Emma said, "it is father's house, and 
 he will not let you treat her badly." 
 
 " Nor shall I," Miss Rossiter said, loftily ; " I shall let her 
 alone severely, and leave as soon as possible after her arrival 
 7*
 
 154 THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 Nor shall I leave my sister's daughters with the adventuress. 
 I've been thinking it over, and have concluded to rent or buy a 
 place in New York, and set up housekeeping for myself, in 
 which case you will go with me, and leave your father to enjoy 
 life with his low-born bride." 
 
 " Father wrote she was a lady, and Godfrey says we shall like 
 her," Emma quickly interposed, feeling that for herself she pre- 
 ferred staying with the "adventuress" to living with Aunt 
 Christine. 
 
 Julia, on the contrary, was caught with the house in New 
 York. The city was far more to her taste than the dull 
 country, and, with a withering glance at her sister, she 
 said : 
 
 "I'm ashamed of you, Em, that you cannot appreciate 
 auntie's offer, but speak, instead, for that woman. I, for one, 
 am greatly obliged to auntie, and shall go with her to New 
 York?" 
 
 "And I, too, if she will have me. I'd rather live anywhere 
 than at Uncle Calvert's," Alice said; "and I hope the house 
 will be near the Park. Won't it be nice, though?" 
 
 " Yes, I mean to have it nice," Miss Rossiter said, warming 
 into something like enthusiasm as she thought of a home of her 
 own. " I shall furnish it elegantly, and have a reception every 
 week, with little recherche dinner parties for our circle." 
 
 Julia began to be interested, and hoped she should see a 
 little society before she was quite forty, while Alice resolved to 
 be married from that house near the Park, instead of " Uncle 
 Calvert's poky little bandbox down on Washington Square." 
 
 And while the three ladies planned and talked of the new 
 house in the city, each was conscious of a pang as she thought 
 of leaving the delightful place, where was so much of comfort 
 and luxury, with no shadow of care or trouble. And of the three, 
 Miss Rossiter felt it the most keenly. Naturally indolent and 
 fond of her ease, she had enjoyed her sister's house, and hated 
 much to leave it, but the fiat had gone forth. 
 
 There was to be a new mistress at Schuyler Hill, whose name 
 was not Rossiter, and she must go. She settled that point at
 
 THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 155 
 
 once, and then said to the young "girls by way of caution, for 
 pride in her brother-in-law was still strong within her : 
 
 "I think it will be better not to mention Godfrey's letter, 
 that is, not to speak of the woman's personal appearance, 
 which may not be so bad as we fear. Let her show for herself 
 what she is. We must tell, of course, of the expected marriage, 
 but we need say nothing further." 
 
 In this reasonable advice all three of the girls concurred, and 
 yet through some agency it was soon rumored all over Hamp- 
 stead that the new lady of Schuyler Hill was deformed, and 
 homely and poor, and the hired companion of the late Mrs. Sin- 
 clair, and that Miss Rossiter had declared war to the knife, 
 while Julia talked of poison, and Emma cried- day and night and 
 would not be comforted. Who told all this, nobody knew. 
 Possibly it was the governess, and possibly Mrs. Tiffe, who 
 bristled all over those days with importance and secret exulta- 
 tion over her routed and discomfited foe, poor Miss Rossiter. 
 Mrs. Tiffe had had her letter from Col. Schuyler, and Perry, her 
 son, had his also, in which were numerous instructions with regard 
 to the refurnishing of the rooms in the south wing. " All the 
 rooms," the colonel had said, and he was minute in his directions 
 with regard to the corner room with the bay-window overlooking 
 the river and the mountains beyond. This was to be Mrs. 
 Schuyler' s boudoir, or private sitting-room, and was to be fitted 
 up in drab and pale rose pink, while the sleeping-room, which 
 was separated from it by bath-room and dressing-closet, was to 
 be furnished with blue, and the little room beyond, where the 
 colonel kept his books and private papers, was to be green and 
 oak. 
 
 " Let everything be new and in the latest style," the colonel 
 wrote to Perry. " You can get men up from New York who 
 will know just what is needful, while the ladies and your mother 
 will give you the benefit of their advice and good taste, so I 
 shall expect to find everything perfect when I come." 
 
 To Mrs. Tiffe the colonel wrote, saying that from past ex- 
 perience he knew he coukl rely upon her, and hoped she would 
 give the matter her own personal supervision, in which case it
 
 1 56 THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 would be nght. Thus flattered and trusted and deferred to, 
 Mrs. Tiffe espoused the cause of the new wife, and hurrahed for 
 the coining change of government at Schuyler Hill. Anything 
 was preferable to Miss Rossiter, and Mrs. Tiffe cared little 
 whether Edith walked with two crutches or one, provided she 
 freed her from the enemy. 
 
 " My son will obey orders to the letter," she said, crisply, 
 when Julia asked what Perry meant to do. " If the colonel 
 says the south wing must be cleared and refurnished, it will be, 
 and Miss Rossiter may as well vacate to-day as to-morrow. 
 There's no time to be lost in dawdling." 
 
 Now, the corner room, with the wide bay-window, was the 
 room of all others which Miss Rossiter preferred, and she had 
 appropriated it to herself and held possession of it in spite of 
 Mrs. Tiffe' s broad hints that there were other apartments in the 
 house besides the "very best chamber." But she must give it 
 up now, and with many a sigh of regret she saw Kitty gather up 
 her bottles of medicine, her boxes of pills, her wine and her 
 brandy, and galvanic battery, and bear them to another closet 
 on the opposite side of the house, away from the river and 
 mountains, where her only view was the little town, which she 
 detested, and the hill rising darkly behind it. It was hard, and 
 Miss Rossiter felt very much injured and aggrieved, and cried 
 softly to herself, and thought very bitter things of that woman 
 who had brought her to this strait, and for whom the house was 
 being turned upside down. 
 
 Mrs. Tiffe was already at work with her maids in the south 
 wing taking up carpets, removing furniture, washing windows, 
 and in the room just vacated by Miss Rossiter burning coffee, 
 and' sugar, and paper by way of removing the smell of drugs 
 with which the apartment was permeated. But do what she 
 would the faint odor of valerian was still perceptible, making 
 the good woman " sick as a dog," as she expressed it, and bring- 
 ing into requisition as a last experiment burnt feathers, which, 
 combined with the valerian, made the atmosphere of the place 
 unbearable. 
 
 " Paint will do it and nothing else," was Mrs. Tiffe's final
 
 THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 157 
 
 verdict, as she retreated to the open window and leaned out 
 for a breath of pure air. 
 
 Not the slightest interest did either of the ladies show in the 
 changes being made, but Mrs. Tiffe and her son felt themselves 
 equal to the task until it came to selecting carpets, and furni- 
 ture and curtains in New York. Then Perry said some one 
 ought to go with him and not let him take the entire responsi- 
 bility. 
 
 But neither Miss Rossiter, nor Julia, nor Alice, made any 
 response, and the probability was that he would go alone until 
 the morning came, when Emma appeared at breakfast in her 
 walking-dress and announced her intention to accompany 
 Perry. 
 
 " Somebody ought to go for father's sake," she said; "and 
 if no one else will, I must. I shall stop at Uncle Calvert's and 
 get auntie to help me." 
 
 To this there was no open opposition. Miss Rossiter had 
 the toothache and could not talk, while Julia merely raised her 
 eyebrows in token of her surprise ; and Alice said : 
 
 " You are certainly very kind, Em, and forgiving, to be so 
 much interested for that woman." 
 
 " It isn't for that woman ; it's for father, and because 1 
 know he wishes it," Emma replied, as she put on her hat and 
 shawl and started with Perry for New York. 
 
 She was gone three days, and at the' end of that time four 
 men appeared at Schuyler Hill and commenced the work of 
 measuring, repainting and frescoing the rooms intended for the 
 bride. Then in due time came the carpets, and the lambre- 
 quins, and the lace curtains, and the furniture, and more men to 
 see that everything fitted and was as it should be. 
 
 " Handsome enough for the queen herself," Mrs. Tiffe said, 
 when all was done, and she walked complacently through the 
 suite of rooms, sniffing occasionally as she passed the open 
 closet, to see if there lingered yet the faintest approach to va- 
 lerian or drug of any kind. 
 
 There did not. Paint and varnish had killed all that, and the 
 air of the rooms was pure and sweet as the rooms themselves
 
 158 THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 were beautiful and attractive. I used those days to be occa- 
 sionally at the great house, and, as I never presumed upon my 
 acquaintance with the ladies, or tried to force myself upon 
 their notice, they treated me with a good deal of kindness, and 
 seemed to like my society. So when, one Saturday morning 
 after the repairs were finished, I met Miss Julia in the village, 
 and she said, in her usual half-cordial, half-indifferent tone, 
 " What an age it is since you were to see us. Suppose you 
 come round this afternoon, and have a game of croquet, and 
 stay to dinner," I accepted the invitation, and at about 4 P.M. 
 rang the bell at Schuyler Hill. 
 
 I did not suppose I was very early, especially as we were iw 
 play croquet ; but the ladies, who always slept after lunch, were 
 not yet dressed, and so I went with Mrs. Tiffe to the kitchen, to 
 see some jelly she had been making, and which had " come beau- 
 tifully." As I was about returning to the parlor she said to me : 
 
 " Don't you want to see them rooms ? " 
 
 I knew what she meant, and answered that I did. 
 
 Taking me first into the green room, where the oak leaves in 
 the rich velvet carpet looked as if you might pick them up, Mrs. 
 Tiffe opened the doors through, and asked what I thought of 
 the effect. It was beautiful beyond anything I had dreamed. 
 Especially was I delighted ,with the parlor, where the carpet 
 was of that soft chin6 pattern so tasteful and exquisite ; and the 
 furniture was delicate drab, with trimmings of pale rose pink. 
 There were rare pictures on the wall, and curtains of finely- 
 wnought lace before the windows, with lambrequins of rose pink 
 satin to match the furniture, while cushions, and easy-chairs, and 
 ottomans, and inlaid tables, which almost told their price them- 
 selves, were scattered about in such a way as to give the room 
 an air of cosey, home-like comfort as well as elegance. 
 
 How lovely it all was, and how like a dream it seemed to be 
 looking at it, and knowing that it was real and not a mere illu- 
 sion ! Then, as I remembered what I had heard of the bride's 
 deformity and plainness, I thought it such a pity that the occu- 
 pant of these rooms should not be lovely like them, and a fit- 
 ting ornament for so lunch grandeur.
 
 MRS. ROGERS AXD GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 159 
 
 Lady Emily, with her pale, sallow face and expressionless 
 eyes, would have looked better there, I said, or even Miss 
 Rossiter herself, who when dressed and feeling well was still 
 very attractive, and when I went down stairs and found her 
 sitting on the veranda, in her white cambric dress, with the 
 scarlet shawl she wore so much wrapped around her, her glossy 
 black hair becomingly arranged, with a single white flower 
 among the heavy braids, I thought the colonel would have done 
 far better to have taken her than the bride he had chosen. 
 
 We had a very quiet, stupid, six-hand game of croquet, and 
 the dinner was quieter, stupider still, for all the ladies seemed 
 preoccupied and disinclined to talk. Not a word was said of 
 the marriage by any one until I was leaving, when Emma came 
 up to me, and whispered softly : 
 . " They are in New York. We had a telegram this afternoon." 
 
 She did not say who they were, but I pressed her hnd in 
 token of my sympathy, for I knew that they had reference to 
 the new mistress of Schuyler Hill. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 MRS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 JHE voyage, which, owing to adverse winds, had been 
 unusually long, was over, and the names of " Col. 
 Schuyler, lady and maid" were registered at the hotel, 
 where they were to stop for a week or more before going to 
 their home in Hampstead. Macpherson and Godfrey were 
 there also, the latter showing the city to his friend, who cared 
 only for the studios and galleries of paintings. After her hus- 
 band's reproof Edith had made no attempt to see Gertie West- 
 brooke, but she had inquired for her every day and sent many 
 delicacies to her, and once, in the distance, she had seen her 
 shawl wrapped around a little figure which was leaning over 
 the railing, with masses of bright hair, falling beneath the scarlet
 
 160 MRS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 hood, and to herself she said : " That must be Gertie West- 
 brooke." 
 
 But further than that she knew nothing of the child, until she 
 heard Godfrey talking to his father about the cottage Mrs. 
 Rogers was to have. 
 
 " Yes, certainly, I'll ask Mrs. Schuyler," Colonel Schuyler 
 said to some suggestion of Godfrey, and then added, with a 
 laugh : " It seems, Edith, that this child in whom you were so 
 much interested is to be my tenant, or rather Godfrey's, as the 
 cottage is his. He, too, has taken a most unaccountable fancy 
 to the girl, and as I have ordered your suite of rooms to be 
 wholly refurnished, Godfrey has suggested that we let this Mrs. 
 Rogers have as much of the old furniture as will be suitable for 
 that cottage. She has everything to buy, of course, and not 
 much means, I dare say." 
 
 This was just like Colonel Schuyler. He was very generous 
 with his pride, and he really wished to make some amends for 
 his conduct with regard to Gertie and the shawl. Ever since 
 that affair he had felt that he might have acted hastily, while 
 Edith's meek acquiescence with his wishes touched him in a 
 tender point, and now, when the Rogers people came into notice 
 again, he seized the opportunity to do them a favor if possible. 
 
 "They can think they are renting the furniture with the 
 house," he said ; and as Edjth signified her approval without in 
 the least suspecting what cottage it was which was to receive 
 the furniture from Schuyler Hill, the matter was decided, and 
 Mrs. Rogers was told that she would find the house partly fur- 
 nished, a fact which gave her much satisfaction. 
 
 Since the failure of the bank, money had been scarce with 
 her, and as she could not afford to remain long in New York, 
 even at a cheap boarding-house, she started for Hampstead the 
 third day after landing. Godfrey's telegram had been received 
 by Perry, the agent, but there was no time for repairs, nor were 
 they needed, as the house had been well kept up and was clean 
 as soap and water and the hands of the late occupant could 
 make it. At the time of refurnishing Edith's rooms at Schuyler 
 Hill the old furniture had been stored awav, some in the ser-
 
 MRS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 161 
 
 vants' rooms, some in the attic, and some in the barn, but it 
 was brought together according to the colonel's orders, and de- 
 posited in the cottage, where it lay waiting the arrival of the 
 new tenants, concerning whom there was much speculation in 
 our little town. 
 
 I was on my way from school, for I was still the village 
 schoolmistress, and, seeing the door open and people moving 
 about inside, I passed through the gate, and entered the rooms, 
 where I had last seen Heloise Fordham. People called it 
 " Vine Cottage," it was so entirely covered with vines and 
 creepers, and surrounded with flowering shrubs. And a very 
 pretty place it was, too ; for, since it had been Godfrey's, he 
 had taken great pains to keep it up, and beautify the yard and 
 garden, both of which were fashioned a little after the grounds 
 at Schuyler Hill. 
 
 Such a place could not go begging for tenants, but for some 
 reason it had been vacant for five or six weeks, when Godfrey's 
 telegram was received, bidding Perry get it in readiness for Mrs. 
 Rogers. As we have seen, Perry obeyed orders, and, in spite 
 of the wry faces of the young ladies and Miss Christine's remon- 
 strance, he collected the articles named in Colonel Schuyler's 
 dispatch, and carried them to the cottage, where I found them 
 scattered about promiscuously, a half-worn velvet carpet here, a 
 marble table and stand there, and in another place a beautiful 
 rosewood bedstead, bearing the marks of the boy Godfrey's 
 jack-knife, and a handsome bureau, both too tall to stand in 
 any room except the parlor, where they were not wanted. 
 
 " What is all this?" I asked, as I stepped over oil-cloth, and 
 hearth-rug, and curtains. "Who is going to live here ?" 
 
 "A Mrs. Rogers, cousin to the new madame's waiting-maid," 
 Perry replied, with a certain intonation in his voice, which 
 showed me that he had taken his cue from the house on the 
 Hill, and was not inclined to regard with favor the cousin of 
 " madame's waiting-maid." 
 
 "When is Mrs. Rogers expected?" I asked, and he re- 
 plied : 
 
 " She may come any time, but the colonel will not be
 
 162 MRS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 here for two weeks or more. There's the old Harry to pay up 
 there," and he nodded toward the house on the Hill. " I tell 
 you, Miss Rossiter and Miss Schuyler is ridin' their highest 
 horses." 
 
 It was not for me to question him, and so I made him no 
 reply, but improved the opportunity of going through the house 
 where my old friend, Heloise Fordham, used to live, and where 
 I had bidden her good-by with promises to care for that grave 
 on the hillside. And I had cared for it regularly at first, and 
 then as years went by and she neither came to see my work 
 nor sent me any word, 1 gradually began to grow a little lax in 
 my labors, and now it was months since I had thought of it. 
 But I remembered it that morning when I stood in Heloise' s 
 old room, where I had seen her with the tears in her eyes and 
 the tremor in her voice as she talked to me of Abelard, who 
 " was not her beau," and yet very dear to her. There by the 
 window she had stood and cut the long curl of hair and given 
 me the vase for Abelard's grave. 
 
 "And where is the young girl?" I asked myself, "and why 
 has she never written me a line in all these years ? " 
 
 Then as I thought of the neglected grave, I said, aloud : 
 
 " I'll go there to-morrow and see what I can do. It must be 
 sadly overgrown by this time." 
 
 But it rained the next day and the next, and so I did not go, 
 but came each day by the cottage, where at last I saw the new 
 tenants, Mrs. Rogers and little Gertie Westbrooke. 
 
 The child was in the garden close by the fence, and glanced 
 up at me with a look which made me stop instantly to ga/.c at 
 her, while the smile which broke over her face and shone in her 
 blue eyes took me straight through the gate to her side, and be- 
 fore I knew at all what I was doing or why I was doing it, I 
 was talking to her and seeming to myself like one who walks in 
 a dream and sees there things which lie has known and seen be- 
 fore. 
 
 Surely that smile, which came and went so frequently, and 
 that voice so clear, and sweet, and ringing, were familiar to me, 
 and I said to the child :
 
 MRS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 163 
 
 " Have you been here before ? " 
 
 "No, ma'am ; I was born in London. I never was in Airer- 
 ica until now, and yet it's funny that this place seems like home, 
 and my room is just whit I thought it would be. Won't you 
 walk in, please, and see auntie ?" she said, and I followed her 
 into the cottage, where she presented me to the woman there 
 with all the air and grace of one born to the purple. 
 
 "Auntie, Mrs. Rogers ; this lady is, I don't believe I know 
 your name." 
 
 And she turned inquiringly to me. 
 
 I told her who I was, and then inspected Mrs. Rogers curi- 
 ously, and wondered to find her so different from Gertie. She 
 spoke very well and appeared well, but showed at once the 
 class to which she belonged ; nor did she make pretensions to 
 anything else than she really was, a plain, sensible woman, who 
 had come to America to better herself and be near Norah, 
 her cousin. 
 
 She wanted work, she said, and asked what the probabilities 
 were of her obtaining employment in Hampstead, either as 
 plain sewer or dressmaker, or both. Of course, I heard about 
 the lost money in the bank, and received the impression that 
 she had seen better days. Everybody who comes from the old 
 country has, but that was natural, and I liked her on the whole, 
 and thought her a woman of great tact and observation, and 
 promised her my plain sewing and my influence if she pleased 
 me. 
 
 She was very anxious to send Gertie to school at once, she 
 said, and the next day she sat in my schoolroom in her dainty 
 dress of blue, with her white-ruffled apron, and her auburn haii 
 rippling all over her finely-shaped, intellectual head. I walked 
 home with her that night, and found Mrs. Rogers in a great 
 deal of trouble about the bedstead and the bureau, which 
 seemed so out of place in the cottage. 
 
 " Where did they come from ? Did the other tenants use 
 them ? " she asked, and as I did not see fit to enlighten her, 
 she finally determined to store them away in the woodshed un- 
 til Mr. Godfrey came. 4; I am able to furnish a few rooms de-
 
 1 64 MAS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 ct ntly well myself," she said ; and three days after, when I 
 called on my way from school, Gertie took me to her room 
 and asked me how I liked it. 
 
 It was the same Heloise Fordham used to occupy, and 
 it seemed as if she was there again at my side, as I stood 
 looking at the pretty ingrain carpet and the single bed, with 
 sits snow-white draperies, the low chair near the window, and 
 fthe table for Gertie's work, and the swinging-shelf for her 
 books. 
 
 " It is a pretty room," I said, " and it looks as it did when 
 Heloise was here." 
 
 "Who?" Gertie asked, sweeping her hair back from her 
 forehead, just as I had seen Heloise do so many times. "Who 
 did you say used to be here ?" 
 
 " Heloise Fordham, a young girl about my age, or a little 
 older, whose mother occupied this cottage twelve or thirteen 
 years ago," I replied; and Gertie rejoined : 
 
 " Why, that is my name, too ! " 
 
 "Is it?" I asked, and she rejoined : 
 
 "Yes, Gertrude Heloise. I write it Gertrude H. for short. 
 Don't you know ?" 
 
 I did not know, and I had no suspicion of that which, had I 
 known it then, would have taken my senses away, I verily 
 believe. 
 
 " Tell me about your friend," she said. " Was she pretty, and 
 good, and happy ? I like to know who has occupied my room 
 before me. At Stonewark, where we were a few weeks last 
 summer, they said my room was haunted by a girl who killed 
 herself for love. Auntie did hot wish me to sleep there. She's 
 a bit superstitious, but I was not afraid. I liked it, and tried 
 to keep awake nights to see the ghost which threw itself out of 
 the window just at midnight, but I always went to sleep before 
 it came. Where is Heloise, now?" 
 
 I did not know, but, questioned by the eager little girl, I told 
 a part of the story, and then, as she grew interested and begged 
 for " the whole, the very whole," I told it her, thinking there 
 was no harm in telling, as no one could be wronged. Heloise
 
 MRS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 165 
 
 was either married or dead, the latter probably, or she would 
 have written to me, and so it was no matter if I did tell her 
 story and Abelard's to the child who listened so intently, her 
 eyes filling with tears, which rolled down her cheeks when I 
 spoke of the dead man lying on the grass, his face all wet with 
 blood and a withered white rose pressed inside his flannel shirt. 
 I suppose she cried for him, and to a certain extent I dare say 
 she did, though her first words were : " Poor fellow, I'm so glad 
 he didn't let Godfrey be killed." 
 
 This was the first time she had mentioned Godfrey to me, 
 and as I had the impression that she did not know him, I was 
 going to ask her about it when she said, eagerly : 
 
 "And he was the young girl's lover, and she only fifteen; 
 that's funny. I'm twelve, and I should not think of having a 
 beau ; but go on and tell me more, and what they did with him, 
 and what she did, and all of them." 
 
 I told her what they did, and how for a day and a night the 
 body lay in the parlor below, and where they buried it, and 
 about the monument and my promise to keep the grave clean 
 and nice. 
 
 " And have you done it ?" Gertie asked, her cheeks like roses 
 and her eyes as bright as stars. 
 
 I confessed to recent neglect, and said I had not been there 
 once during the summer. 
 
 "Then it's awful by this time," Gertie said. "Let's go and 
 fix it to-morrow, you and I, will you?" 
 
 I promised that I would, and then, as it was growing dark, I 
 bade her good-night, she saying to me in a whisper : 
 
 " I'll not tell auntie about that girl who used to have my room, 
 because if I did I'd have to tell about the body which lay in' 
 the parlor, and she would surely see his ghost. She's afraid of 
 'em, you know. I guess that class always are." 
 
 She spoke of her auntie's belonging to a class different from 
 herself as naturally as possible, and still with no shadow of con- 
 tempt or disrespect in her voice. Mrs. Rogers had always 
 taught her that though she must expect nothing from others on 
 account of it, she was superior to people like herself and Norah,
 
 166 MRS. ROGEKS AND GERTIE AT 11AMPSTEAD. 
 
 and Gertie accepted it as a fact, not knowing exactly whether 
 it was the forty pounds a year or the big house where she used 
 to live, or the dead mother, or the father who would not own 
 her, or the grandmother she had never seen, which gave her the 
 precedence. 
 
 The next day, true to my promise, I took Gertie to the Schuy- 
 ler Cemetery and showed her Abelard's grave. 
 
 "James A. Lyle, born in Alnwick, England, 18 . Died 
 June , 1 8 , aged 23 years. Honor to the dead who died to 
 save another's life," she read aloud, kneeling on the grass before 
 the monument which marked his resting-place. 
 
 " Oh, how nice that is. ' Honor to the dead who died to 
 save another's life,' and that other was Mr. Godfrey," she said. 
 " And Colonel Schuyler put it here. I like him now bettei 
 than I did. I thought he was proud and cold, but there must 
 be good in him. Why, it's a splendid stone, and must have cost 
 as much as, as much as forty pounds." 
 
 Her income was her maximum for an unheard-of sum, and 
 she stood gazing admiringly at the stone, while her busy tongue 
 went on. 
 
 " And this is a pretty yard, with all those old Schuylers buried 
 here. I mean, old really, you know. I don't say it for bad 
 nicknames. They were all old. ' Emily, beloved wife of Col- 
 onel Howard Schuyler, aged 36,' is the youngest of them all, 
 and she was awful old. That must be Colonel Schuyler's first 
 wife, Mr. Godfrey's mother. Was she as pretty, I wonder, as 
 the new lady is ? No, you have not kept the grave up nice ; 
 that girl would feel badly if she saw it. Let's go straight to 
 work and pull up the nasty weeds first ; and look, here's a clump 
 of lovely forget-me-nots down in the grass, and sweet English 
 violets." 
 
 She talked so fast and went so rapidly from one thing to 
 another that I had no chance to say a word, but stood watching 
 her silently as she worked with a will, pulling up the weeds 
 and digging about the flowers which had been making a faint 
 struggle for Irfe in the grass which impeded their growth. 
 Whether she was working for the sjke of the young </\rl He-
 
 MRS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 167 
 
 loise. or because it was Godfrey's life which had been saved by 
 the necessity for that grave, I could not tell. She talked of 
 both, and when her task was done, and flushed and heated with 
 exercise, she sat down to rest, she said : 
 
 " There, Miss Heloise Fordham will feel better now, I hope, 
 and I wouldn't wonder if Mr. Godfrey liked me to be kind to the 
 (man who saved his life. Was she very pretty, Miss Armstrong ? " 
 
 I knew she meant Heloise, although her last remark had been 
 of Godfrey, and I replied : 
 
 " Yes, very pretty. Do you know you look a little like her, 
 only your hair is auburn, and hers was golden brown, while 
 your eyes are blue and hers were a brownish gray." 
 
 " Do I ? Am I like her ? Am I pretty ? Mr. Godfrey said I 
 was," she exclaimed, her face lighting up with a glow which made 
 her, as I thought, the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. 
 
 "You have spoken of Mr. Godfrey several times," I said. 
 " Where did you know him ? " 
 
 " Why, on the ship and in the cab, and in the church when 
 his new mother was married, and everywhere," she replied ; 
 and then, by dint of a few questions adroitly put, I heard nearly 
 all she had to tell of Godfrey, who had stared at her in the 
 cab, and kissed her flowers in church, and herself on shipboard. 
 
 "But he'll never do that again," she said. "I told him it 
 wasn't proper, and he said he wouldn't, until until " her face 
 grew crimson as she continued, " until .1 could say I thought 
 him a perfect gentleman, with no slang or nonsense, and then 
 he is to kiss me again, but that will never be, I reckon." 
 
 She stuck up the toe of her little foot and looked demurely at 
 it while she settled the kissing affair with so much gravity, and 
 I, well, my thoughts did leap into the future and then leaped 
 back again when I remembered Alice Creighton and the proud 
 girls at Schuyler Hill. As if divining something of my thoughts, 
 Gertie asked,. abruptly : " Do you know Mr. Godfrey's sisters? 
 He told me -he had two." 
 
 " Yes, I know them ; they were my pupils last year, when 
 their governess left suddenly," I said ; and she continued : 
 
 "Are they pretty, and shall I ever see them?"
 
 l68 MRS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 I dare say she meant to ask if they would notice her, and as 
 I knew they would not I gave her question another meaning, 
 and replied : 
 
 " They are almost always at church, and the Schuyler pew 
 is the large square one in front. You will be sure to see them 
 there." 
 
 "Yes, I am going next Sunday, but we must sit near the 
 door, I suppose. Still, I shall see them come in, for I mean 
 to be early, and I do hope Mr. Godfrey will be here by that 
 time with the beautiful lady Edith. 
 
 Here was an opportunity I could not let slip, my woman's 
 curiosity was so strong, and so I said : 
 
 "Is Mrs. Schuyler beautiful ? " 
 
 " Yes, I guess she is ; the beautimllest woman I ever saw. 
 Why, she looked like a queen the morning she was married, 
 and more like his daughter than his wife." 
 
 " Have you seen her often ? Were you near her in church ? " 
 I asked in some surprise, unable to reconcile her statement of 
 the new Mrs. Schuyler's beauty, with a rumor which had reached 
 me in a roundabout way concerning her age and personal ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 "Yes, I was very near her in church and threw her some 
 flowers, and I saw her many times at Oakwood, in the grounds 
 where she walked in her pretty white dresses. I did not speak 
 to her, you know. I was some ways off, but I could see how 
 handsome she was, and everybody said so, too." 
 
 Gertie's reply puzzled me, for I knew that the Schuyler Hill 
 ladies were expecting something dreadful in the bride and were 
 preparing themselves accordingly, while Gertie's story seemed 
 to contradict the entire thing. But all 1 had to do was to wait 
 and see for myself, so I asked no more questions, and as the 
 afternoon was drawing to a close, we left the cemetery and took 
 a path homeward, which led near to the great hoi^se on the hill. 
 The ladies were playing croquet on the lawn, and Gertie pulled 
 my dress and whispered : 
 
 "See, there they are, four ladies; which are the sisters, and 
 who are the others ? "
 
 MRS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 169 
 
 I pointed out Julia and Emma Schuyler, and told her the 
 lady in the black dress and scarlet shawl was Miss Rossiter, 
 Godfrey's aunt, and that the light-haired girl, with her hair put 
 up so high, was Miss Alice Creighton from New York, who 
 spent a great deal of time at Schuyler Hill, as the colonel was 
 her guardian. 
 
 " Oh, how I like to play croquet ! Why, if I can only get a 
 ball, I can go clear round the ground the first time. Do you 
 think they would ask us to join them if we went nearer?" she 
 said ; and I replied that I hardly thought they would care to 
 give up that game for the sake of taking us in, while to myself 
 I wondered at her temerity in proposing such a thing. 
 
 I did not know her then as well as I did afterward, for 
 though she could tell Godfrey Schuyler that he must not talk 
 to her because she was poor, in her heart she was a born aris- 
 tocrat, and felt no distinction except the accident of wealth 
 between herself and people like the Schuylers. She never for- 
 got that her mother was a lady, and though she had but forty 
 pounds a year and her auntie was a seamstress, she felt no in- 
 feriority to any one, and expected kindness and attention from 
 all. It was a little singular that of the four ladies in the lawn 
 she should have singled out Alice Creighton as the subject for 
 remark, and not very complimentary remarks either. 
 
 " Why does she wear her hair so high ? " she asked, and when 
 I explained that it was the fashion, she answered : " But it is 
 very ugly, and makes her look so queer. Will Mr. Godfrey 
 like that ? He said mine was pretty in my neck ; " and taking 
 off her white cape sun-bonnet she let her bright, wavy hair fall 
 in masses around her face and down her back. 
 
 " You are a little girl," I said, "and Miss Creighton is seven- 
 teen, and engaged, I guess." 
 
 " Engaged !" she repeated. "That's funny, and she so 
 young. Is it Mr. Godfrey ? " 
 
 I was stooping to button my boot, and did not answer her, 
 while she forgot to put the question again, and clutching my 
 arm, said in a whisper : 
 
 " Look, she is coming here ; this way ; right toward us." 
 8
 
 1 70 MRS. ROGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 " Good-evening, Miss Armstrong," Alice said. " I saw you 
 standing here, and got our governess to take my place, while I 
 came to ask if you know of any one who can do fluting nicely, 
 and plain sewing as well. Adams is sick just when I need her 
 most, and I thought you might know of some one." 
 
 " I do, I know, auntie flutes and sews splendidly," Gertie's 
 voice rang out clear and silvery as a bell, while Alice stared at 
 her superciliously at first ; then curiously ; and turned to me 
 with a questioning look in her haughty eyes. 
 
 1 knew Miss Creighton would never forgive me if I intro- 
 duced her formally to the protegee of one who did fluting and 
 plain sewing, so I merely said : 
 
 " This is Gertie Westbrooke, my pupil, whose auntie lives at 
 Vine Cottage, and will I dare say be glad of your work." 
 
 Gertie bowed, but Alice's head was high as ever, and as she 
 had thrown oft" her hat she did look funny with that little ball 
 of hair perched on the top of her head. But it was fashion- 
 able, and Alice led the fashions in Hampstead, and it was not 
 for me to criticise, though I did mentally compare the two girls, 
 as they stood there side by side, Gertie, with her wealth of 
 auburn hair, on which the setting sunlight fell, her blue eyes 
 opened wide and full of eager interest in the girl who was en- 
 gaged, her simple gingham frock, her pretty frilled white apron 
 and rather coarse shoes ; the whole so different from the ruffled 
 silk, old enough for a woman of twenty-five, the dainty boots of 
 bronze, the profusion of jewelry, the elaborately arranged hair, 
 the small, retrousse nose, and the half-shut sleepy eyes which 
 stared so hard at Gertie, as if she were a new species of the ani- 
 mal kingdom never seen before. 
 
 " Yes, 1 heard Godfrey had some new tenants in his 
 house," Alice said ; " and 1 am glad to know the woman can 
 se\v and flute. I wonder if she does it well ? Did she do 
 this ? " 
 
 And she put out her hand to lift Gertie's apron for inspec- 
 tion. 
 
 But the child took a step backward, and said, with the manner 
 of a cUichess :
 
 MRS. KOGERS AND GERTIE AT HAMPSTEAD. ijl 
 
 " Yes, she did this ; and she sews very well. You can judge 
 Tor yourself by trying her." 
 
 Alice elevated her eyebrows and nose, and I was almost cer- 
 tain the ball on her head took an upward inclination too, but 
 she said nothing except that she would call to-morrow and see 
 the woman. 
 
 " What is her name, did you say ?" 
 
 1 told her Mrs. Rogers ; and with a little nod that she under- 
 stood me, she added : 
 
 " You ought to see the way Miss Christine is in. It's too 
 comical for anything, and would amuse me vastly were it not 
 that I, too, feel vexed, and annoyed, and sorry for the girls. 
 It's too bad to have such a stepmother brought home to them, 
 and I do not blame them for feeling aggrieved. I should 
 rebel, too, to have such a woman thrust upon me." 
 
 Gertie had stood very quietly listening to Miss Creighton, 
 her eyes growing larger and darker, and the blood mounting to 
 her cheeks and brow, which were crimson, as she burst out : 
 
 "It isn't so, Miss Creighton, if by ' such a woman' you mean 
 something bad. It is not so. Lady Edith is beautiful. I 
 know her. I've seen her. She gave me a shawl and sent me 
 things when I was sick." 
 
 Alice, who was or affected to be near-sighted, and carried a 
 glass at her side, raised it to her eyes and inspected this cham- 
 pion of Mrs. Schuyler, saying, with a little laugh : 
 
 " Really, I am glad to meet with one of Mrs. Schuyler's ac- 
 quaintances, and to hear so good an account of her. Pray, do 
 you know her well ? " 
 
 Gertie understood her meaning, and answered, spiritedly : 
 
 " I am not one of her acquaintances. I am nobody but Gertie 
 Westbrooke, but I've seen her many times in the grounds at 
 Oakwood, and when she came to her mother's where we had 
 lodgings, and I know she is good, and pretty, and a lady, and 
 Mr. Godfrey likes her." 
 
 "Do you know Godfrey too? Your circle of friends must be 
 quite extended," was Alice's next remark, to which Gertie did 
 not reply.
 
 17* MRS. ROGERS GETS WORK. 
 
 She was tying on her bonnet, and only gave a quick, angry 
 glance at Miss Creighton as she started to walk away. 
 
 "That's a queer little thing," Alice said, as I stood a mo- 
 ment with her. '- Rather pretty, too, isn't she, with those blue 
 eyes and that bright hair. How she did flame up though in Mrs. 
 Schuyler's defence ! Her account of the lady does not tally 
 with Godfrey's, but then I suppose it was the shawl and the nice 
 things which caught her fancy. Did she say she was a lodger of 
 Mrs. Schuyler's mother? That is something quite new, and 
 worse than the hired companion. Poor Jule and Emma. I 
 really pity them, and they so proud and exclusive." 
 
 " Alice, Alice, come, we want you," came floating across the 
 lawn from Julia Schuyler, and with a quick little nod, such as 
 she always gave me, Miss Creighton went back to her compan- 
 ions, leaving me to think of what Gertie had said about lodging 
 with Mrs. Schuyler's mother, and to feel, it may be, inly glad 
 that the Schuylers were to be punished a little for their arrogance 
 and pride. 
 
 I did not know Edith then. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MRS. ROGERS GETS WORK. 
 
 [ERTIE seemed from the first much interested in the 
 young ladies at the Hill, but with the exception of the 
 night when Alice came across the fields to speak to me, 
 she had only seen them at a distance, while they, absorbed as 
 they were in more important matters, had scarcely thought of 
 the occupants of the cottage. Alice's sewing, however, was 
 peremptory, and as her own seamstress did not come back she 
 resolved at last to call on Mrs. Rogers, and drove, with Emma, 
 to the house, where they found Gertie sitting on the low piazza 
 absorbed in a book and making a very striking picture, with 
 her bright hair falling around her face and neck as her blue 
 eyes looked up at the strangers.
 
 MRS. ROGERS GETS WORK. 1 73 
 
 " Is your mother at home ? " Alice asked ; and the child re- 
 plied : 
 
 " She is not my mother, and she is out just now. Can I tell 
 her anything from you ? " 
 
 " Oh," Alice said, a little impatiently, " that is just my luck. 
 I wanted so much to see her about some plain sewing. Did 
 you say anything to her about it, child ? " 
 
 " My name is Gertie. Yes, ma'am, I told her, and I think 
 she'd like to do it. She's only gone to the village after some 
 molasses. I am expecting her every minute. Will you wait 
 till she comes ? " 
 
 Alice glanced at Emma, who nodded her assent, while Gertie 
 brought them chairs, and then resuming her own, took up her 
 book again and partly opened it. 
 
 " Pray don't let us disturb you," Alice said. " We can en- 
 tertain ourselves. What story are you reading ? " 
 
 " It isn't a story," Gertie replied. "It's Fasquelle, and I'm 
 getting my lesson." 
 
 " Fasquelle ! " Alice exclaimed, in much surprise. " Are 
 you studying French ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; and I've most caught up with the class. Miss 
 Armstrong says I am doing famously. I like it so much, only 
 here is some English which I cannot quite put into French. 
 These en's and ne-gucres bother me. Perhaps you can help 
 me ? " 
 
 And with the utmost sang froid Gertie brought her grammar 
 to Alice, and with her finger indicated the troublesome passage, 
 which Alice rendered for her. 
 
 " She is a queer little thing," Alice thought, as she went back 
 to her chair and her lesson, while Emma mentally pronounced 
 her the most beautiful child she had ever seen. 
 
 Some such thought flitted through Alice's mind, and when the 
 lesson was gone through, and Gertie closed her book, she began 
 to question her by asking how old she was, and where she had 
 lived, and what Mrs. Rogers was to her if she was not her 
 mother. And Gertie told her all she knew of herself and her 
 father and mother, and that she had a grandmother and forty
 
 174 MRS. ROGERS GETS WORK. 
 
 pounds a year. And then she spoke of her aunt's loss in the 
 bank shares, and added : 
 
 " After that, we couldn't lodge any more, because, you see, 
 we are poor, and so we came to America to seek our fortune 
 and be near Norah, Mrs. Schuyler's maid, who is auntie's 
 cousin, you know." 
 
 Here was an opportunity for learning something definite of 
 Edith, and Alice was about to question Gertie when Mrs. Rog- 
 ers appeared, a jug of molasses in one hand and a basket of 
 eggs in the other. She seemed flurried and surprised at sight 
 of the ladies, and asked Gertie why she had not invited them in. 
 
 " We. are better here," Alice said. " We only came on busi- 
 ness. I am wanting some plain sewing done, and called to see 
 if you can do it for me." 
 
 She was civil enough, and Mrs. Rogers, who really wanted 
 work, signified her willingness to do anything she could. Speci- 
 mens of her handiwork were brought forth for examination, and 
 Alice criticised and offered suggestions with the manner of a 
 woman of forty, and finally arranged to try her, provided the 
 price was not too high. That, too, proved satisfactory, and 
 then the young lady arose to take leave, saying : 
 
 " Perhaps you will let your little girl come for the work, to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "No, I will go myself," Mrs. Rogers answered quickly, and 
 added, in an undertone : " it is not as if she were my own child, 
 and in my station in life. She is different, and must be brought 
 up different. I mean she shall have the very best of educations. 
 Do you know of any piano I can rent, or of any place where 
 she can go to practise ? I mean her to take lessons at once." 
 
 Alice stared wonderingly at her, and answered rather haugh- 
 tily that she knew nothing about renting pianos, or places 
 where one could practise. 
 
 "Such airs !" she said to Emma, as they walked home to- 
 gether. " French and music with clear-starching and plain 
 sewing. That girl will be much better off to be brought up to 
 work than to get such notions into her head." 
 
 "Yes, but isn't she pretty?" Emma said, remembering the
 
 THEY COME. I 75 
 
 flowing hair, the soft, blue eyes, and the fair, round face more 
 distinctly than she did Fasquelle, and the airs which had so 
 offended Alice. 
 
 " Pretty enough. Such people often are when young, but 
 they always degenerate sadly." 
 
 'Yes, but she is not like such people," Emma rejoined. 
 " Don't you remember what the woman said ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know. The child has a grandmother and forty 
 pounds a year, but for all that I reckon she is about like Mrs. 
 Rogers, and would much better be learning to sew than play- 
 ing the piano. I wonder if she would not like to practise on 
 your beautiful Steinwav." 
 
 Alice spoke contemptuously, not from any feeling toward 
 Gertie especially, but from contempt for those of her class who 
 aspired to something better. They had no business to be am- 
 bitious ; it was their duty to be content in the station where 
 God had placed them. This was her theory, and she continued 
 to dwell upon it even after she reached home, and made a good 
 deal of fun of the girl with forty pounds a year and a grand- 
 mother, who had asked her help in French, and was going to 
 take music lessons ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THEY COME. 
 
 |JT was the day after the young ladies' visit to Vine Cot- 
 tage and the third week since Mrs. Rogers' arrival in 
 town. I had dismissed my school earlier than usual 
 that afternoon, and at Gertie's request, went with her to the 
 Schuyler Cemetery. She had heard that Mr. and Mrs. Schuv- 
 ler and Godfrey were expected every day, and she wanted to 
 have that grave looking real nice, as she was sure Mr. Godfrey 
 would be pleased to find that somebody had cared for it. So 
 it was for Godfrey's sake that she weeded, and dug, and trimmed, 
 and watered, while I sat watching her, and thinking of another
 
 176 THEY COME. 
 
 young girl, who, years ago, had laid her face in the grass and 
 wept for the dead beneath it. 
 
 Where was she now ? Dead, perhaps, and gone to the lover 
 lost so early ; or it might be that she was married and had for- 
 gotten that far-off grave, which she had bidden me keep till she 
 came back again. I had neglected it of late, but my work was 
 taken from my hands by little Gertie Westbrooke, who had 
 made a miniature garden of the spot, and brought to light and 
 life the flowers I had put there in the summers past and gone. 
 There were clumps of white daisies and blue forget-me-nots, 
 and the sweet English violet, with other hardy roots which bear 
 our northern winters, while the rose brought from Vine Cottage 
 yard had wound itself round the tall monument, and was reach- 
 ing out its arms toward the evergreen which grew near by. 
 There were some violets in blossom now, while, better than all, 
 there was a clump of buds upon the rose tree, the summer's 
 second growth, and Gertie plucked two of them, and gathered 
 some white daisies and blue forget-me-nots, and sitting down 
 upon the grass she made them into a tiny bouquet, with sweet- 
 brier for a background of green, and told me she was going to 
 carry them home and keep them in her room. 
 
 I had shown her the little vase which Heloise Forclham left 
 with me, and she had filled it with flowers that afternoon and 
 brought it to the grave, where, just under the shadow of the 
 rose, it stood a sweet offering to the memory of the dead, who, 
 far away in the other world, knew, perhaps, whose feet were 
 treading the sod above him, and whose the little hands so busy 
 with his grave. 
 
 How pretty my darling was that afternoon, with the flush on 
 her face and the sparkle in her eyes, as, with the bouquet in her 
 hands, she walked with me back to the cottage, where I was 
 going to help her a little in her French ; and how gayly she 
 chattered, sometimes about herself and what she meant to be, 
 and then of the young ladies from the Hill who had called at 
 the cottage the day before. 
 
 " I don't think Miss Creighton very pretty," she said, " though 
 she looks just like the pictures in the fashion books. Miss
 
 THE Y COME. 1 7 7 
 
 Emma is handsomer than she, but neither are half as handsome 
 as Mrs. Schuyler." 
 
 " I believe you think Mrs. Schuyler very pretty," I said, and 
 she replied : 
 
 " Pretty, I guess she is ! She is beautiful, just like a grand 
 duchess." 
 
 " How old is she ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. How old are you, Miss Armstrong?" 
 
 I told her almost twenty-seven, and she exclaimed : 
 
 " That is very old ! I don't think Mrs. Schuyler can be half 
 as old as that. She looks just like a girl. Oh ! oh ! oh ! there 
 she is ! There she is ! Look, look, Miss Armstrong, they 
 come ! they come ! " 
 
 We were very near Gertie's home, and the excited child 
 pointed toward an open barouche which had turned the corner 
 and was just opposite the cottage. I recognized Colonel Schuy- 
 ler at once, but not for an instant did my gaze rest on him ; it 
 wandered to the lady at his side, the peerless creature whose 
 fine-cut face, framed in masses of golden-brown hair, was white 
 and pure as a water-lily, and whose dark eyes scanned eagerly 
 the cottage and its surroundings, and then rested upon Gertie 
 and myself with a curious, wondering look. 
 
 " I mean to throw her this as a welcome," Gertie cried, and 
 the bouquet gathered from Abelard's grave went whirling through 
 the air, and fell directly in Edith's lap } while Gertie snatched 
 her bonnet from her head and shook it toward the carriage, 
 her hair falling in rippling waves around her shoulders, and her 
 face radiant with joy. 
 
 How the lady's eyes gleamed, while the expression of her 
 face and the wondrous smile which wreathed her lips and 
 showed her white, even teeth, I never shall forget. She held 
 the bouquet in her hand, and we heard her distinctly utter the 
 word " thanks," as the carriage went rapidly by. Twice she 
 looked back, the same smile on her face and the same pleased 
 look in her eye, as Gertie kissed the tips of her fingers and 
 threw them toward her. 
 
 " Isn't she beautiful ? " Gertie asked. 
 8*
 
 178 HOW THEY RECEIVED HER. 
 
 " Yes, very beautiful, I replied," as I stood looking after her, 
 and wondering at the opinion so different held of her at Schuy- 
 ler Hill, and wondering, too, what they would think of her when 
 they found what she was like. 
 
 Afterward I heard from one and another what they thought, 
 and said, and did, and will narrate in 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 HOW THEY RECEIVED HER. 
 
 |N their return from the cottage the previous night, 
 Alice and Emma found that during their absence a 
 telegram had come from Colonel Schuyler, who said 
 he should be home the following day, and asked that the 
 carriage might meet him at the station. 
 
 Miss Rossiter, of course, did not sleep a wink, and came 
 down "to breakfast looking frightfully haggard and yellow, while 
 Julia was pale and subdued, and Emma showed traces of tears. 
 It was almost as bad as the day of the first Mrs. Schuyler's 
 funeral, and only Mrs. Tiffe and Perry showed any signs of in- 
 terest in the coming event. 
 
 But as the day wore on the girls brightened up, and Alice 
 and the governess made some bouquets for the dinner table, 
 and put one in Godfrey's room, but none in those of the bride. 
 Flowers were not for her, a woman of forty with a squint and a 
 limp and glasses ! So they only opened the windows of her 
 rooms and let in the soft air of early September, and Emma 
 cried a little as she looked across the lawn to where her mother 
 slept, and wondered if she knew, or knowing, cared that another 
 was in her place. And then she went to her Aunt Christine 
 and told her it was time to dress, and asked if she was coining 
 down. Miss Rossiter had the headache and lay upon the couch, 
 and said she must be excused. She could not meet the woman 
 that night ; she must wait till morning, when she hoped to be 
 stronger and better able to bear it. So Emma dropped the 
 shades and brought the camphor to her aunt and smoothed her
 
 H0 11' THE Y RECEIVED HER. \ 79 
 
 hair a moment, and almost wished she, too, had the headache, 
 and then went to Alice and Julia, who were dressing, and who 
 gave her a meaning look as she entered. 
 
 "What, black this warm day?" Emma exclaimed, as she 
 saw Julia had chosen a plain black grenadine, which, with the 
 simple white band about her neck, gave her the look of one in 
 mourning. 
 
 "Yes, black," Julia replied. " I do not feel like decking 
 myself as for a festival. This is no holiday to us, and Kitty 
 has brought out your plain grenadine for you." 
 
 " And I am horrid in black," Emma said, plaintively ; but she 
 usually submitted to the stronger will of her sister, and so she 
 donned the black dress which made her look so like a nun that, 
 braving Julia's displeasure, she ventured to tie a bit of lavender 
 ribbon in her hair, and was delighted at the effect. 
 
 "Look, isn't it becoming?" she said. " Surely half-mourning 
 is admissible on the occasion of the new mother's advent." 
 
 Even Julia admitted that the effect was good, and as she was 
 herself an ardent lover of dress and had adopted her plain garb 
 more from resentment to the living than respect for the dead, 
 she too tried the effect of lavender, and fastened at her throat 
 a pretty bow of ribbon, which brightened her up wonderfully. 
 Alice, who had nothing to resent, and who wished to be as at- 
 tractive as possible to Godfrey after his long absence, indulged 
 her taste to its fullest extent, and succeeded in getting her 
 hair higher than she had ever gotten it before. Godfrey was of 
 course accustomed to the very latest styles of Parisian hair- 
 dressing, and she did not wish to appear singular to him, she 
 said, when Emma exclaimed : 
 
 ' ; Why, Alice, how funny you do look ! " 
 
 Taken as a whole, she was frightfully and fashionably dressed, 
 and very much pleased with her tout ensemble, and certain she 
 should completely overawe and confound the plain woman of 
 forty, who was momentarily expected. The barouche had been 
 sent for the colonel according to his orders, and Godfrey's 
 buggy had been sent for him. as he might bring a friend with him, 
 his telegram said. But Robert Macpherson was not quite ready
 
 1 80 HO W THE Y RECEIVED HER. 
 
 to leave New York, and preferred coming to the country a few 
 days later. So Godfrey drove home alone, choosing a shorter 
 road than that taken by the barouche, and reaching the house 
 some ten minutes earlier than his father. 
 
 " Oh, girls, girls, there is Godfrey ! " Emma cried, as she 
 caught sight of her brother driving up to the rear of the house ; 
 and rushing out to meet him she threw her arms around him and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 " Why, Emma, you dear little goose," he said, as he bent his 
 tall figure down to kiss her, " what are you crying about ? Sorry 
 to get your scamp of a brother back, eh ? " 
 
 " No, no, Godfrey. I'm so glad to have you, only I dread 
 that woman ! Is she so very horrid ?" 
 
 " Horrid ! Who horrid ? " Godfrey asked, while every 
 muscle of his face twitched with suppressed mirth. " Do you 
 mean the new mother ? You must not mind her looks ; beauty 
 is only skin deep, and she is like a singed cat, better than she 
 looks. You are sure to like her. Ah, Julia, my darling, how 
 like a sister of charity you look ! " he continued, as he released 
 Emma, and kissing his other sister affectionally, he wound an 
 arm around each of the girls, and walked to the house, where 
 Alice was waiting for him, and scanning him curiously. 
 
 " He certainly has improved in looks, and there is quite a 
 foreign air about him, and his clothes are Paris made," she 
 thought, and her spirits rose proportionately as she advanced 
 leisurely to meet him. 
 
 " Ah, Mademoiselle Alice," he exclaimed. " Comment rous 
 portez vous," and kissing her loudly on both cheeks he contin- 
 ued : " Quc pensez-vous de celal Doesn't it smack of foreign 
 travel ? " 
 
 Alice had not quite expected this, but the French delighted 
 her, though she inly pronounced the accent horrid, and the 
 hearty kisses pleased her, even if they were wet and loud, and 
 she blushed very becomingly, and called him a " dear, naughty 
 boy," and kept hold of his hand until he freed it from her, 
 thinking to himself that she was unusually gushing, and not a 
 whit pretty either.
 
 HO W THEY RECEIVED HER. 181 
 
 " By George, Allie," he began, as his eyes rested on her hair. 
 " No, I don't mean that. I've quit slang," he added, with a 
 thought of Gertie Westbrooke ; " but, Allie, what is that on 
 the top of your head ? It looks like the door-knob, and makes 
 me think of that picture of William Tell's boy with the big 
 apple on his head. Got a story above the style this time. 
 Should think you'd take cold in the back of your neck. They 
 don't wear it so in Par-ee." 
 
 And with his light badinage he demolished Alice's hopes of 
 admiration, and struck a blow at the wonderful structure she 
 had spent so much time in rearing. 
 
 " Godfrey, Godfrey," Julia cried in a tremor of distress and 
 agitation as she caught the sound of wheels, and felt that the 
 catastrophe so dreaded was coming at last. " Tell us true, is 
 she so fearfully ugly ? " 
 
 " She's wonderful, and you may as well bring out your smell- 
 ing salts and camphor," Godfrey replied ; and then grasping 
 Julia by the shoulder and calling to his other sister : " Come, 
 Em, and see the elephant," he led the way to the front door, 
 where Edith stood looking eagerly about her, not limping nor 
 squinting, nor ugly, nor old, but a marvellously beautiful woman, 
 with ease and grace in every motion, and no sign of embarrass- 
 ment or awkwardness about her. 
 
 " There was a flush on her cheek and a glitter in her eyes, 
 but otherwise she was calm and self-possessed when her husband 
 took her hand and led her up the steps to the group of aston- 
 ished and bewildered girls, who had looked this way and that, 
 and then, under their breath, had ejaculated, hurriedly : 
 
 "Why what who oh oh Godfrey, Godfrey, you 
 WRETCH ! " 
 
 And that last word embodied Julia's feelings, as, with one 
 glance at her brother, who stood choking with laughter, she 
 went to meet the stranger. 
 
 " Julia, my eldest daughter ; Mrs. Schuyler, your new mother, 
 and I hope you will love each other," the colonel said. 
 
 And then Julia felt her hand taken in one as soft, and small, 
 and perfectly formed as her own, and a sweet voice said, as
 
 1 8 2 HOW THE Y RECEIVED HER. 
 
 if to relieve her from any embarrassment respecting the 
 mother : 
 
 " We will be sisters, I am sure. Kiss me, Julia." 
 
 This was not what the young lady had expected. No thought 
 of kissing had entered her mind. Indeed, she meant to freeze 
 the adventuress by her formality and dignity, and lo, the woman 
 was dictating terms to her, saying they would be sisters and 
 asking for a kiss ! But it was not hard to kiss the smooth, 
 round cheek offered to her, and, when the sweet voice said 
 again, " You will love me, Julia, I am sure, and let me love 
 you," the haughty girl answered involuntarily, " Yes, I will," 
 and then, with a tear actually wetting her eyelashes, stood back 
 to give place to Emma, who, more impulsive than herself, went 
 headlong into the arms which Edith held toward her, and cried 
 like a little child. 
 
 Miss Creighton came next, bowing almost to the ground and 
 offering the tips of her fingers to the lady, who received her 
 just as coldly, though with far more ease and graceful breeding 
 perceptible in her manner. 
 
 They were in the hall by this time, and Mrs. Tiffe stood wait- 
 ing to greet her new mistress, her black silk rustling at every 
 step and her yellow lace showing age and cost, as with her gold- 
 bowed glasses in her hand and her bunch of keys jingling 
 suggestively on the chain at her side, she paid her respects to 
 madame, and thought as she did so how she would like to 
 thrash the scapegrace, Godfrey, who had so misled them. He 
 was choking with laughter just outside the door, where his sis- 
 ters were going through with a pantomime of threatening ges- 
 tures for the trick played upon them. 
 
 " Godfrey Schuyler, how could you ? " Julia began in a whis- 
 per, while Godfrey suddenly remembering that he had not seen 
 his Aunt Christine, stepped back into the hall and asked where 
 she was. 
 
 On being told she had a headache, he said : 
 
 " I must go up and see her," and with a sign for Julia and 
 Alice to follow, he ran up the stairs in the direction of Miss 
 Rossiter's room.
 
 HOW THEY RECEIVED HER. 183 
 
 But Emma was there before them. As soon as the first mo- 
 ment of amazement was over she had gone swiftly to her aunt's 
 chamber, and rushing in unannounced, had exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Christine, she is the most beautiful woman you 
 ever looked upon. It was all a fib he wrote us. She is splen- 
 did and hasn't a bit of a limp nor anything, and looks about 
 twenty. Do get up, auntie, and go to dinner." 
 
 Miss Rossiter was amazed, and sitting up on the side of her 
 bed, was trying to knot her long black hair under her net, 
 while she put some questions to Emma, when the door burst 
 open a second time, and Godfrey himself came in full of life, 
 and health, and vigor, and by his very presence doing more to 
 dissipate the lady's headache than all the drugs in her closet. 
 
 " Hallo, Aunt Christine," he said; "done up in camphor and 
 herbs, as usual? Let's try what a little exercise will do for 
 you." 
 
 And taking her in his arms he waltzed gayly about the room, 
 the girls laughing and the lady protesting and struggling to get 
 free, until .she had danced her hair down and a bright color into 
 her face. 
 
 " There, auntie, you are real handsome now," Godfrey said, 
 as he released her with a hearty kiss, and leading her to the 
 couch, seated himself beside her, with his arm around her waist. 
 " Now, girls, pitch in ; I'm ready for you," he said ; as they 
 began to accuse him of deceit in its most aggravating form, ask- 
 ing how he could do it. 
 
 " Do what ? " he asked. " What are you making such a fuss 
 about ? " 
 
 " I should think you'd ask," Julia replied. " Telling us she 
 was forty and had a glass eye, and a squawk in her voice, and 
 everything else that is bad." 
 
 " I never told you any such thing," Godfrey answered, with 
 great gravity ; and the three girls exclaimed, in chorus : 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey Schuyler ! You did, you did. We have the 
 letter. You wrote, 'Think of father's marrying a woman of 
 forty with a glass eye, and ' " 
 
 " Oh, yes, well, of course, that's a different thing," Godfrey
 
 1 84 HOW THE Y RE CEI VED HER. 
 
 replied. " I did tell you to think of it, I know, and you evi- 
 dently have thought of it, and had a good time at it, but I 
 never said it was so. 1 told you ' she would take your breath 
 away when you saw her,' and she did. You all three opened 
 your eyes and mouths and stared at her as if you never saw a 
 handsome woman before. And .she is handsome, isn't she? 
 Now, confess it, girls ; and say she is the loveliest creature you 
 ever saw " 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey, I do believe you are half in love with her 
 yourself," Alice said, a little reproachfully, and the young man 
 replied : 
 
 "To be sure I am ; and if she had been younger there's no 
 telling what I might have done, but when I subtracted eighteen 
 from twenty-eight, I said to myself, ' that will never do ; a man 
 may not marry his grandmother ; ' and then, Alice, I knew there 
 was a little pug nose over the sea, which would get very red 
 and ugly looking if I did that," he added, mischievously, as he 
 saw the disturbed look on Alice's face, and knew why it was 
 there. 
 
 "Is she tv/ernty-eight ? She does not look it," Emma said, 
 while Julia and Alice declared she did ; and then as women, 
 especially envious ones, will do, they picked her to pieces, from 
 her head to her feet, and putting her together again, decided 
 that though they had seen much finer faces and prettier, too, 
 her tout ensemble was very good, and they were so much re- 
 lieved, as they had expected something horrid, of which even 
 the villagers would make fun. 
 
 " Wait till you see her in her dinner dress," Godfrey said. 
 "I tell you her gowns are elegant, Paris made, too. I've seen 
 them. I know. I've travelled." (This with a wink at Alice.) 
 " And that reminds me, Jule and Em, why are you rigged out 
 in black, this warm, pleasant day ? You look as if you were in 
 mourning. I believe you did it on purpose too, but I tell you 
 she is stunning in her dinner costumes, and if you don't wish to 
 be thrown quite in the shade, I'd take off those black things, 
 and put on something fluffy and light and airy and becoming ; 
 and you, auntie, certainly do not mean to stay mewed up here
 
 HOW THEY RECEIVED HER. 185 
 
 on toast and oatmeal, while we are at dinner. Take a big 
 drink from every bottle in the closet, and if that don't do, try 
 some of your lightning. I'll fix the battery ; and then dress 
 yourself and go down, and look handsome and bright. Why, 
 I think you've grown pretty and young while I was gone, and 
 I want that beauty to see that all the good looks are not 
 on her side. The Schuylers have some of it. Come, girls, 
 hurry up." 
 
 They could not withstand Godfrey, especially when he min- 
 gled a little seasonable flattery with his persuasions, and both 
 Julia and Emma went to their rooms to change their dress, 
 while Miss Rossiter expressed her willingness to go down if she 
 could be ready in time. 
 
 " I'll help you. I can do it first rate," Godfrey said, mis- 
 chievously, but Miss Rossiter declined his services, and ringing 
 for Kitty, sent him from the room, telling him he might as well 
 attend to his own toilet. 
 
 " That's a fact," he said. " But my dressing won't take long. 
 Come, Alice, let's go out on the balcony awhile ; " and leading 
 Miss Creighton to the glass door at the end of the hall, he 
 brought her a chair and seated her in it. "You won't have to 
 dress, and can talk with me. You've got yourself up stunningly, 
 especially that ball on the top of your head. Couldn't have 
 put that a peg higher if you tried, could you ? I say, Alice, why 
 do you want to make yourself such a fright ? Do you think it 
 is the style? It isn't. I saw a few shop-girls and bar-maids 
 with their heads tricked out like yours, but not one lady. I 
 believe you would wear a boot-jack if you thought it was the 
 fashion in Paris ! " 
 
 "Oh, Godfrey, don't, please, and you just come home, too," 
 Alice said, with a tremor in her voice and tears in her eyes. 
 
 It hurt her that he should find fault with her personal appear- 
 ance within an hour of his return after so long an absence, 
 especially as she had taken so much pains to dress for him. 
 Godfrey saw she was hurt, and said to her, coaxingly, as he put 
 his arm around her : 
 
 " Never mind, Alice. You are real stylish anyway, and I'm
 
 1 86 HO IV THEY RECEIVED HER. 
 
 so glad to see you again. I am, upon my word, and you used 
 to write to me such nice, sisterly letters. Do you find me im- 
 proved ? " 
 
 " Yes, Godfrey, ever so much. I knew you would be. 
 Travel always does that," Alice said, her spirits a good deal 
 lightened by his few words of commendation. " And, Godfrey," 
 she continued, "I guess I'll go and fix my hair now. There 
 will be time." 
 
 She choked a little, for " fixing her hair " was a vast amount 
 of trouble, but if Godfrey was suited, she did not care. 
 
 "Nonsense," he said, tightening the grasp of his arm about 
 her waist, " your hair is well enough for once. Stay with me 
 and let's talk. Only think how long it is since you had a chance 
 to lecture me except by letter, which does not go for much, and 
 
 I'm real glad to see you, Allie. I am, by Jo . No, I mean 
 
 I am, Allie ; 1 am trying to quit my slang, though it is like 
 pulling teeth sometimes." 
 
 " Yes, Godfrey," and folding her small, fat hands on her lap, 
 Alice looked happy, and content, and satisfied. "Yes, God- 
 frey, I knew that trip abroad would effect great things for you." 
 
 " Oh, bother, Allie, it isn't that. I heard just as much slang, 
 and saw just as many clowns, and snobs, and fools abroad as I 
 ever saw here ; and more too. Travel didn't improve my mind 
 or manners ; it was a little girl. Oh ! don't look so disturbed," 
 he added, as Alice bridled at the mention of a girl. " You 
 needn't be jealous at all. She isn't bigger than my thumb, and 
 is only twelve years old. She was on the ship with us and awful 
 sick, and so was I. I tell you what, I have been down to the 
 very depths and felt deep calling unto deep in a way I never 
 wish to hear it call again. Ugh ! the very thought of that cold 
 creep which begins at the toes and ends in the spittoon makes 
 me dizzy ; and with a swaying motion Godfrey rocked from 
 side to side until his head rested on Alice's shoulder. 
 
 But she moved away from him with dignified propriety, 
 saying : 
 
 " Yes, I know, I have been sea-sick too ; it is dreadful ; but 
 what of the little girl, and who was she ? "
 
 HO IV THE Y RECEIVED HER. 1 8 7 
 
 " Oh, yes, I was telling you about her. She had been sick, 
 and was sitting on deck, all wrapped up in shawls and blankets, 
 and looking so like some pure white pond-lily, that I kissed her 
 right on the mouth ! " 
 
 " Godfrey ! " Alice exclaimed, indignantly ; while he rejoined : 
 
 " You are not half as angry as she was. I never saw any- 
 thing like the gleam in her blue eyes. Had I really insulted 
 her she could not have taken it worse than she did, or reproached 
 me more sharply. I never heard anything like the way she 
 talked to me. Why, I felt as ashamed as a dog, and when she 
 attacked my slang, as she called my free style of talk, I promised 
 her I would break myself of it and try to come up to her idea 
 of a gentleman." 
 
 " Her idea," Alice said. " Who was she, pray, that she 
 should presume to lecture you ? " 
 
 " I tell you, there's no need to be jealous," Godfrey replied. 
 " Not of her, at least. She is only a child, not in ' our set,' 
 no pretension, no family, though I believe she does boast 
 a grandmother and forty pounds a year." 
 
 "Oh, I know, Gertie Rogers, that yellow-haired girl down 
 at the cottage ! " Alice exclaimed, with a tone of irritation in 
 her voice. 
 
 "And so you have seen Gertie. Isn't she a beauty?" God- 
 frey said. 
 
 Before Alice could reply there was the rustle of a dress and 
 the sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs. The colonel and 
 Edith were coming down, and they went into the drawing-room, 
 where Godfrey and Alice joined them, the latter scanning the 
 bride curiously, and mentally acknowledging her to be the most 
 elegant woman she had ever seen, both in face, and manner, 
 and dress. How exquisitely beautiful Edith was in the grayish 
 silk, with the pink tinge, which fitted her fine form as only a 
 Paris-made garment can fit. The silk was of the richest texture, 
 while the lace upon it was in itself a fortune, and the bertha 
 was the most exquisite thing of the kind Alice had ever seen. 
 
 " How can she be so easy and self-possessed, and she only a 
 hired companion?" Alice thought, as she saw how wholly un-
 
 1 88 HO W THE Y RE CEIVED HER. 
 
 embarrassed Edith was, even when Mrs. Rossiter swept into 
 the room in her long trailing dress of black tissue, with her 
 scarlet scarf around her, and a few geranium leaves in her hair. 
 
 Miss Rossiter usually wore black when in full dinner dress. 
 She knew it became her better than any other color, especially 
 when relieved with scarlet or white, and she was handsome 
 now as she came in with a half-eager, half-wondering look upon 
 her face. 
 
 " Ah, Christine, I am glad to see you and find you looking 
 so well," Col. Schuyler said, as he went hastily forward to 
 meet her. " Let me present you to my wife. Mrs. Schuyler, 
 this is Miss Rossiter, my sister, or rather, yes, the sister of 
 my wife ; that is, I mean, the late lamented Emily, yes." 
 
 "That's what I call a very remarkable introduction," Godfrey 
 whispered to Alice, who turned away to hide her laughter, while 
 the faintest resemblance of a smile lurked in Edith's eyes and 
 about the corners of her mouth as she extended her hand to the 
 sister of the lamented Emily J 
 
 Otherwise she was perfectly collected, and did not seem to 
 notice that only the tips of two fingers were given her, and that 
 though the thin lips of Miss Rossiter moved, the words they 
 uttered were wholly inaudible. Miss Rossiter had seen at a 
 glance that the lady's beauty was not exaggerated, but she 
 could not feel altogether cordial toward one whom she consid- 
 ered an intruder, and she purposely threw as much coldness 
 and haughtiness as possible into her manner, hoping thus to 
 impress the stranger with a sense of the vast difference there 
 was between the Rossiters and the Lyles. But Edith did not 
 seem in the least affected by the lady's hauteur, and inquiring 
 kindly if her head was better, suggested that she sit down, as 
 she must feel rather weak, and set the example by sitting down 
 herself. 
 
 " If she is not assuming the role of mistress and patronizing 
 me so soon," was Miss Rossiter' s mental comment, and resolv- 
 ing not to be patronized she remained standing as straight as an 
 arrow and almost as stiff, talking to her brother-in-law until the 
 bell rang for dinner, and Julia and Emma came in, dressed in
 
 AFTER DINNER. 189 
 
 white and looking infinitely better than when Godfrey criticised 
 them so severely. 
 
 The dining-room at Schuyler Hill was one of the pleasantest 
 rooms in the house, and it looked beautifully now with its glass 
 and silver and flowers, and Edith felt a pardonable glow of pride 
 and satisfaction in the thought that this pleasant home, with all 
 its luxury, was hers, the gift of the man who led her so proudly 
 to her seat at the head of his table, and pressing her hand as he 
 relinquished it and went back to his post of honor as master of 
 the house. The colonel, who was inclined to be a little stiff in 
 his manners among strangers, appeared well at home and espe- 
 cially well at his own table, and Edith, as she looked at him pre- 
 siding with so much dignity and ease, thought what a handsome 
 gentleman he was, and felt herself blessed in the possession of 
 him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 AFTER DINNER. 
 
 ]HEY had some music, Alice and Julia playing a duet, 
 and then the latter sang and Godfrey turned the leaves 
 for her and thought how dreadfully she screeched, and 
 longed for her to finish and let Edith take her place. But Edith 
 could not sing that night. There were too many memories of 
 the past crowding into her mind, and at the very thought of 
 singing she felt the iron hand touch her throat as if in warning. 
 
 " Thank you, Godfrey ; some other time I shall be glad to 
 sing, but not to-night. I am too tired, and if I may be excused, 
 I will go to my room very soon," she said, in reply to Godfrey's 
 urgent solicitation for a song. 
 
 She was very pale, and her husband came to her aid and 
 said : 
 
 " Yes, Godfrey, Mrs. Schuyler must be excused ; she is very 
 weary, I see, and needs to rest. Shall I take you upstairs ? " 
 
 He turned to Edith as he said the last words, and offering
 
 1 90 AFTER DINNER. 
 
 her his arm led her from the room, saying as he bade the ladies 
 good -night that he should not return again that evening, as he 
 had some letters and papers to look over in his reading room. 
 Thus left to themselves the young people were free to talk, and 
 Godfrey threw down the gauntlet by asking his aunt what she 
 thought of his new mother. 
 
 "Isn't she splendid ?" he said. "And did you ever see a 
 finer form than hers ? " 
 
 " She is much better than I expected, and I am glad for the 
 sake of my sister's memory ; had she been at all like your wicked 
 insinuations I certainly should have died with grief." 
 
 And then there followed another criticism upon Edith's face, 
 and form, and manners, and style, and antecedents, the critics 
 lingering longest over the latter, and insisting that Godfrey 
 should be truthful and tell them what he knew. But Godfrey 
 didn't know anything except that she had once been a gover- 
 ness and was afterward the companion of their Aunt Sinclair, 
 who esteemed her highly and was anxious for the match. 
 
 "Has she no relatives? Who are the Lyles?" Julia asked, 
 and Godfrey answered : 
 
 "I don't know who the Lyles are, I am sure. Her mother 
 has been married twice, and is now a Mrs. Barrett, who takes 
 lodgers in London, a highly respectable looking woman, with 
 puffs of gray hair. She is not at all like her daughter, and I 
 don't believe father fancied her much. That's all I know; but 
 I'll tell you where you can get any information you wish con- 
 cerning your step-grandmother. That Mrs. Rogers at the cot- 
 tage, my tenant, you know, lodged with her for some months. 
 Cultivate her a spell if you are anxious about Mrs. Schuyler's 
 pedigree." 
 
 " Oh, yes," Alice said ; " we have cultivated her, and she is 
 to do some plain sewing for me. Emma and I went down 
 there yesterday and waited till she came home with a jug of 
 molasses in one hand and a basket of eggs in the other, and 
 that red-haired girl, her daughter, asked me to render some 
 English into French for her. The idea of such people study- 
 ing French! (".iris, Godfrey thinks she's a beauty ; and don't
 
 AFTER DINNER. 191 
 
 you believe, she presumed to lecture him for slang on the ship, 
 and he kissed her ! " 
 
 " Kissed whom, Mrs. Rogers ? " Julia asked in dismay, while 
 Alice replied : 
 
 " No, the daughter, Gertie Rogers the girl I told you about 
 when I came home last night. She wears her hair down her 
 back, and braids it up in tags at night and lets it out in the 
 morning, to give it that wavy, rippling appearance." 
 
 "No, she doesn't!" Godfrey exclaimed. "It's a natural 
 wave. I'll swear to that ; for I saw her once brought on deck 
 early in the morning, as sick as she could be, and I tell you it 
 was just the same ; and it is not red, either, it is a beautiful 
 auburn, with a shade of gold in it ; and, as father says, she has 
 the most remarkable face, for a child, that I ever saw." 
 
 " Really, Godfrey, you are quite her champion. You'll want 
 us to invite her here next," Julia said, while Emma ventured to 
 remark : 
 
 " Anyway, she is beautiful ; and do you know, I think there 
 is a look in her face or eyes like Mrs. Schuyler. I thought of 
 it to-night when we were at dinner." 
 
 "That's it!" Godfrey exclaimed. "I've tried and tried to 
 think who Gertie was like. It's Edith. There's a resemblance ; 
 only Gertie will be the handsomer of the two when she is 
 grown." 
 
 " My dears," Miss Rossiter began, in the tone she always as- 
 sumed when displeased or grieved ; " it seems to me your con- 
 versation is not very elevating. What possible interest can you 
 feel in those people at the cottage ? There can be nothing in 
 common between us, even if they have the furniture of your 
 poor mother's room. Godfrey, I was very much hurt when you 
 wrote Perry to take dear Emily's bedstead and bureau down 
 there. Suppose they were old, they were very dear to me, and 
 I would gladly have had them in my room. The bedstead is 
 much handsomer than the one I'm sleeping on now, and should 
 be sacred to us because your mother and my sister died ou 
 it." 
 
 Miss Rossiter' s handkerchief was at her eyes, and her voice
 
 192 AFTER DINNER. 
 
 trembled as she spoke. But Godfrey did not reply at once, 
 and when he did, he said : 
 
 " I did not suppose you'd care to have that bedstead in your 
 room, or you should have had it. Perhaps I can manage it 
 yet." 
 
 " No, no, I beg ; let it be as it is. I can bear it," Miss Rossi- 
 ter said, with the air of a martyr, while all the time she knew 
 that no amount of money could induce her to sleep on a bed 
 where she had seen a person die. 
 
 She would not confess that she was superstitious, but she was, 
 and until this moment, when the desire to find fault with some- 
 thing was strong within her, it had never occurred to her that 
 she wanted the furniture for her own use. She merely did not 
 wish it removed for her sister's successor. If it had been good 
 enough for a Rossiter it surely was good enough for Edith Lyle, 
 and in addition to all this, it hurt her to know that common 
 people like Mrs. Rogers and her daughter were to stretch their 
 democratic bodies on a bed where Emily's aristocratic limbs 
 had once reposed. With her handkerchief to her eyes there 
 fell a chill on the spirits of the young people, who sat silent 
 until Godfrey said, suddenly : 
 
 "By the way, girls, I've not told you a word about Bob Mac- 
 pherson, the artist. I meant to bring him up with me, but he 
 was so much absorbed in the galleries and studios that he de- 
 cided to wait a little. You are sure to like him." 
 
 " Where did you pick him up ? " Julia asked ; and Godfrey 
 replied : 
 
 " In Rome. I wrote about it at the time. He is an artist 
 from pure love of it rather than necessity, for he has money 
 enough and comes of a good Scotch family." 
 
 " Didn't you write us there was a title in it ? " Julia asked. 
 
 " Yes ; but several removes from Bob, though. I fancied 
 that his father married beneath him, for Bob never says a word 
 about his friends on the maternal side. He went to see them, 
 though, up in Scotland somewhere, and when he came to Oak- 
 wood he was awful blue and silent for days, and doubtful about 
 coming to America, but he got over that. He wants to paint
 
 AFTER DINNER. 193 
 
 some of our American views, and surely he could not select a 
 better point on the Hudson than Hampstead. I hope he will 
 come soon. I'm lost without him." 
 
 What Godfrey liked he liked heartily, and he went on laud- 
 ing Robert Macpherson until his hearers grew tired of it and 
 asked him to talk of something else. 
 
 Meantime Edith had gone to her room, where her husband 
 left her while he looked over the letters and documents which 
 had been accumulating for a week or more. As he went out 
 Norah came in to attend her mistress. 
 
 " Get me my dressing-gown and brushes, and then you can 
 go. I shall not need you any more. I am going to sit up 
 awhile," Edith said ; and after her maid was gone she arose, and 
 walking to the long mirror, stood looking at the image it re- 
 vealed of a beautiful lady, clad in heavy silk, with jewels on 
 neck and arms and in her shining hair. 
 
 And then her thoughts went backward to the time, years before, 
 when a strange vision had come to her, of herself as she was 
 now clad in costly array, and the mistress of Schuyler Hill. Then 
 her heart had been breaking with a sense of desolation and 
 dread; now it was swelling with pride and happiness, even 
 though that happiness was mingled with regret when she re- 
 membered the past and the dead youth whose grave was just 
 across the lawn where the monument was showing so plainly in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 And yet she was very happy, and had been so ever since her 
 feet touched the soil of America. She had seen everything in 
 New York which was worth seeing at that season of the year, 
 had driven with her husband and with Godfrey and with Ro-bert 
 Macpherson in the park, and had been pointed out as the hand- 
 somest woman there. She had shopped at Arnold's and Stew- 
 art's and Tiffany's, and lunched at Delmonico's, and dined at 
 Mr. Calvert's, and stood on the very spot her feet had touched 
 that day when Abelard was made her husband. But no one had 
 suspected her in the least, and Mrs. Calvert, who was a good- 
 natured little woman, had accepted her in good faith as an entire 
 stranger to America and its ways, and patronized her accordingly, 
 9
 
 194 AFTER DINNER. 
 
 And it was just here that Edith's conscience gave her a great 
 deal of trouble. When the Calverts and her husband and God- 
 frey talked to her of America as of a place wholly new to her, she 
 felt herself a miserable impostor, and there was at first a dull 
 pain in her heart as she thought of living on and on with this hid- 
 den secret, as she had made up her mind to do. 
 
 But gradually this feeling began to give way, and when at last 
 she left New York and started for her country home, she was 
 very happy, even though there was underlying her happiness a 
 feeling of unrest, a feverish desire to see the cottage once more 
 and the grave on the hill, where the evergreens were growing. 
 
 How different was this arrival at Hampstead from what the 
 first had been. Then Abelard had stood upon the platform in 
 his working dress, for he had not had time to change it, and 
 with her mother she had walked up the long hill and round 
 through Mountain Avenue to the cottage which was to be 
 their home. Now in place of Abelard, a liveried coachman 
 stood waiting for her, while another servant in livery handed 
 her to the can iage, and both bowed respectfully when their 
 master said : 
 
 " The air is so pure and the day so fine I think we will take 
 the longest route home, and drive through Mountain Avenue." 
 
 That was the road which led straight by the cottage door, and 
 Edith's heart had beaten rapidly as they drew near the turn in 
 the street which would bring the cottage in view, and when at 
 last she saw it, the blood surged swiftly through her heart, and 
 her hands were clasped tightly together as she looked eagerly 
 at what had once been her home. It was not greatly changed, 
 except that it had recently been repainted, while the creeper, 
 which when she lived there had just commenced fastening its 
 little fibrous fingers to the clapboards, now covered two sides of 
 it entirely, and made its present name, Vine Cottage, very ap- 
 propriate. 
 
 There washer old room, and the window was open just as it 
 used to be, and the honeysuckle was framed around it, and an 
 open book was lying in it, together with a child's work-box. It 
 had had an occupant then, and who, she asked herself, forgetting
 
 AFTER DINNER. 195 
 
 Mary Rogers, until her eye caught sight of Gertie Westbrooke, 
 whose bouquet of daisies and forget-me-nots fell directly in her lap 
 and seemed a welcome to her. Then she remembered having 
 heard from Godfrey that Mrs. Rogers was to be his tenant, and 
 she knew this child with the bright flowing hair and eager face 
 must be the same whose "God bless you" had been the only 
 " God bless you " given her at her bridal. 
 
 " It is very strange," she thought, " that this little unknown 
 child should always cross my path with flowers and blessings 
 and welcomes ; " and she turned her head to look again at the 
 two figures gazing after her. 
 
 If a thought that the elder of the two was Ettie Armstrong 
 crossed her mind, I cannot tell. Probably not, as she was think- 
 ing of the cottage and the child and the bouquet, which she 
 put in water as soon as the meeting with her husband's family 
 was over, and she was alone with Norah in her room, and as 
 she turned from the window and saw them she unlocked a square 
 ebony box, which her maid, in unpacking, had taken from her 
 trunk. Inside this was another box, a little old-fashioned thing 
 of painted wood, with Chinese figures on it. Abelard had bought 
 it for her on Sixth Avenue, and she had made it a receptacle 
 for her first wedding ring, -and a lock of Abelard's hair and the 
 blood-stained rose which had been found next to his heart and 
 brought her by Phebe Young. There, too, as a safe repository, 
 she had put Gertie's first bouquet, with the "God bless you" 
 in it, and there she now put the second one, her welcome to 
 Hampstead. Why she put these flowers with the sacred 
 mementoes of Abelard she did not know, nor'did she question 
 her motive, but said to herself, " I must make that little girl's 
 acquaintance ; " and then, donning her white dressing-gown she 
 went to the window, from which a view of the cottage could be 
 had, with the moonlight falling on it, just as it used to fall years 
 ago when she was a poor obscure girl, with no thought that she 
 should one day stand as she was standing now, the mistress of 
 Schuyler Hill, with every possible luxury at her command. 
 And there, too, in her old room was the glimmer of a lamp, 
 and a little figure moved occasionally before the open window,
 
 196 AFTER DINNER. 
 
 Gertie, most probably, preparing for bed, for after a little the 
 light disappeared, and Edith found herself wondering if the 
 child was kneeling by her bedside and saying her prayer. 
 
 "Yes, I am sure she is praying," she thought, "and perhaps 
 she prays for me. I wish she would, for unless she does there 
 is no one to pray for me now in all the wide, wide world." 
 
 Oh ! how unspeakably terrible was that thought : " Nobody 
 to pray for me in all the wide, wide world." 
 
 She had lost faith in her mother's prayers, and, as a conse- 
 quence, her own heart and feelings had insensibly grown harder. 
 But they were softening now, and as she stood looking into the 
 moonlight, she clasped her hands involuntarily, and whispered 
 to herself : 
 
 " Oh, Father in heaven, help me from this hour to be a 
 better woman than ever I've been before." 
 
 There was a step behind her, and in a moment her husband's 
 arm stole round her waist, and her husband's voice said, as 
 playfully as Colonel Schuyler could say : 
 
 " Ah ! Edith, my darling, moon-gazing, are you ? What do 
 you think of the view, and your new home, and can you be 
 happy in it with me ? " 
 
 Colonel Schuyler's love and admiration for his wife had been 
 steadily increasing ever since the morning when he first called 
 her his own, and if there had been in his mind a lingering doubt 
 as to the wisdom of his choice, it had been dispelled by the 
 sight of her in her evening dress, sitting at his table, and per- 
 forming her duties so gracefully and in a quiet, matter-of-course 
 way, as if she had* sat there all her life, with that array of silver, 
 and cut glass, and flowers before her. 
 
 How fair, and self-possessed, and lady-like she was, and how 
 the pink coral and the soft lace trimmings of her gray dress be- 
 came her, and how proud he was of her, as he watched her in 
 the drawing-room, talking to his daughters and Miss Creighton, 
 who, compared with her, lost fearfully in the balance of beauty, 
 and grace, and culture. 
 
 Usually in the olden days, when Emily trailed her silken 
 robes over the costly carpets, or reclined in her easy-chair, or
 
 AFTER DINNER. 19? 
 
 reposed upon the couch, he had found the atmosphere of the 
 parlors a little tiresome, and had seized the earliest opportunity 
 for stealing away to his private room. But now it was different, 
 and only the knowing that his letters must be read had availed 
 to take him from Edith's side ; and even while he sat reading 
 them his thoughts were with her continually, and hurrying 
 through them as soon as possible he joined her as we have 
 seen. Pausing a moment in the door he looked admiringly at 
 her as she stood in the deep window with her white dressing- 
 gown falling in graceful folds around her, and her brown hair 
 rippling over her shoulders. She was beautiful, and she was 
 his, and he loved her, and fain would know if she was happy, 
 so he asked her the question, " What do you think of your new 
 home, and can you be happy in it with me ? " 
 
 " Yes, Howard, very happy ; " and Edith's hand stole into 
 his, and her fair head drooped upon his shoulder as she con- 
 tinued : " It is a beautiful place, and I am glad you brought 
 me to it, that when you came in just now and surprised me as 
 you did, I was thanking God for it, and asking Him to make 
 me worthy of it. Howard, do you ever pray ? " 
 
 It was a singular question, and it sent the hot blood quickly 
 to Colonel Schuyler's face, while a feeling of shame and remorse 
 took possession of him. Years ago he had with other young 
 men of his age been confirmed as a matter of course, and be- 
 cause it was the right thing to do, but he had never reaped any 
 benefits from the confirmation, or given heed to that without 
 which the laying on of hands is of no avail. When Emily died, 
 and he saw what religion could do for her, he set about trying 
 to work out his salvation himself, and by acts alone. Every 
 feast and fast day was for a lime observed, while he gave large- 
 ly to the church and the poor, and insisted that his daughter 
 should be confirmed, and expressed a wish that Godfrey would 
 do so, too. But Godfrey answered "No." He was not going 
 to renounce the world, the flesh and the devil, he said, when he 
 liked them first-rate, and should lie if he said he didn't ! So 
 Godfrey was given up, but the colonel saw his daughters con- 
 firmed, and encouraged them in their Sunday-school teaching,
 
 198 ONE DAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 and never allowed them to read light literature on Sunday 
 if he knew it. He asked a blessing at the table, the shortest 
 he could find ; kept the Sabbath day strictly, so far as dinners, 
 and drives, and company were concerned : but there was noth- 
 ing real about it, nothing which in the other world would have 
 weighed a straw with Him through whom alone we go to God, 
 and when Edith startled him with the question, " Do you ever 
 pray?" he answered her truthfully, " Not often, no." 
 
 "Then let us begin now," and Edith held his hand in both 
 hers. " I've never prayed either as I ought, but I've been 
 thinking about it, and I've so much to be thankful for, and need 
 help so much to make me what I should be. Let us begin to- 
 gether, to-night." 
 
 He could not resist her, and there in the moonlight, with 
 their faces toward Emily's grave and Abelard s, they knelt down 
 side by side ; and though the Lord's Prayer was all they said, 
 it was praying just the same, and God heard and blessed them, 
 for He knew the wish there was in their hearts, and sent to 
 Edith at least the peace she so desired. And so, with a great 
 happiness and feeling of rest and quiet in her heart, she laid 
 her head upon her pillow, and sleep fell softly upon her in her 
 new home at Sclmyler Hill. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 ONE DAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 JDITH was very sweet and beautiful in her white cam- 
 bric dress when she descended to the breakfast-room 
 next morning, and took her seat at the table. .Miss 
 Rossiter was not present. She had not slept at all for thinking 
 of poor Emily, she said, and was suffering from the combined 
 effects of brandy and morphine and headache, and had her cof- 
 fee in her room, and felt as if she was resenting something, she 
 hardly knew what, and that if ever there was a martyr she was 
 one now.
 
 ONE DAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 199 
 
 The young ladies, however, were all present, and looking very 
 bright and cheerful as they bad^ Edith good-morning. Alice's 
 hair had gone down a story or two, and was arranged as nearly 
 as possible like Mrs. Schuyler's. Indeed, Miss Alice had risen 
 a full hour earlier than her usual custom in order to try her tal- 
 ent for hair-dressing, and had succeeded so well that Godfrey, 
 for whom the sacrifice was made, called her a nice little puss 
 after all, and tolerably good-looking, too. And Alice felt com- 
 plimented and thought Godfrey very handsome, and buttered 
 his cakes for him and seemed altogether like a woman of twenty- 
 five, who had been engaged for years. 
 
 " Well, girls, what are you going to do to pass the time 
 between this and dinner? " Godfrey asked, as he rose from the 
 table. 
 
 " I must go and see about the sewing I gave to Rogers, and 
 you can go too and see your beauty if you like," Alice said, and 
 with a comical look Godfrey repeated : 
 
 " Rogers, Rogers ? Who is he ? " 
 
 " W T hy, your tenant, the woman who lives in your cottage. 
 She is doing some work for me," Alice replied, and Godfrey 
 rejoined : 
 
 " Oh, out, je vous comprends. It's the height of good breeding 
 to call your inferiors by their last names ; so then, Creighton, 
 let's go and see Rogers /" and with a tremendous shake of his 
 pants, Godfrey took his soft hat and bamboo cane from the hall 
 rack, and started with Alice for the cottage. 
 
 It was Saturday, and as there was no school, Gertie was 
 working in the garden with a big sun-hat tied under her chin, 
 her hair falling down her back, her cheeks very red and her 
 hands very much soiled with dirt. It was a bother to wear 
 gloves, she thought, and she was tugging away at a tuft of pinks 
 when she heard the gate, and looking up saw Alice and God- 
 frey coming up the walk. Quickly dropping her pinks she 
 went forward to meet them, her eyes shining like stars as she 
 said to Godfrey : 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Godfrey, I am so glad to see you. I did not 
 know you had come. Excuse me from shaking hands. I can't,
 
 200 ONE DAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 you see ; " and she held up her little soiled hands which looked 
 white and pretty even with the dirt upon them. 
 
 " Upon my word, I never saw such assurance. Why, she 
 acts as if she was fully his equal," Alice thought, as with great 
 dignity she asked : 
 
 " Is your mother in ? I came to see her about the work I 
 sent her last night." 
 
 Mrs. Rogers was in, and while Miss Creighton gave her mi- 
 nute directions as to the precise number and size of the tucks 
 and ruffles and puffs, Gertie entertained Godfrey outside by 
 telling him all about herself since coming to Hampstead. She 
 was going to school to Miss Armstrong, whom she liked so 
 much, and she was studying French, and had caught up with 
 the class already, and Miss Armstrong said her accent was very 
 pure. 
 
 " You see I took lessons six months in London of a native, 
 and that makes a difference," she said ; " and, oh, Mr. Godfrey, 
 do you know where we can rent a piano, I want one so much 
 so as to commence my music. You know I am to be a teacher 
 like Miss Armstrong, and take care of auntie when she is old." 
 
 Godfrey promised to make inquiries for a piano, and then 
 suddenly recollecting himself, exclaimed : 
 
 " Why, there is that old one of mother's at home, a rattle-trap 
 of a thing, which all the Rossiters must have thrummed since 
 the flood. You can have that if it will answer." 
 
 Gertie did not think it would. She had no fancy for a 
 " rattle-trap which all the dead Rossiters had thrummed ; " she 
 preferred an instrument which sounded decently, and she said 
 so, and added : 
 
 " But we've nowhere to put one yet. Oh, Mr. Godfrey, what 
 made anybody send that tall bedstead and bureau down here, 
 where they won't stand up in any of our sleeping-rooms ? We 
 had to put the bureau in the parlor, and the bedstead is still in 
 the woodshed. I wish somebody would take it away. J think 
 it is awful, so clumsy, and 1 fell over it this morning and hurt 
 my foot." 
 
 Godfrey laughed aloud, not at Gertie, but at what Miss Ros-
 
 ONE DAY IN IIAMPSTEAD. 201 
 
 siter would say could she hear this little plebeian denounce 
 that bedstead as awful and clumsy, and wish it away even from 
 the woodshed ! Miss Rossiter had been greatly wounded on 
 account of that bedstead ; Miss Rossiter had cried because it 
 was sent to the cottage ; she had expressed a wish to have it for 
 her own, and her wish should be gratified. 
 
 "It was absurd to send that tall furniture to these low rooms," 
 Godfrey said, "and I'll see that it is taken away ; to-day, per- 
 haps. Did it hurt your foot very much ? " 
 
 " Oh no, not much ; it was this one," and Gertie stuck up 
 her little foot, which even in the half-worn boot looked so small 
 and pretty that Godfrey felt a desire to squeeze it in his 
 hand. 
 
 But Miss Creighton was coming out, and he straightened him- 
 self up and nibbled quite unconcernedly at the end of his cane, 
 while Alice gave a few last directions with regard to her plain 
 sewing. 
 
 " Good-by, Gertie," Godfrey said. " I'll send for the bed- 
 stead and inquire about the piano, and I have not used a single 
 slang word this morning, have I ? I shall be a perfect gentle- 
 man very soon, and then " he kissed his hand to her, .and 
 
 looking back Alice saw a hot flush on the face of the child, 
 who knew as well as Godfrey to what he alluded. 
 
 "What do you mean by being so familiar with such people ?" 
 Alice asked. " It cannot do them any good. On the contrary, 
 it is a positive harm. Why, Rogers is so airy now I can hardly 
 talk with her." 
 
 "Allie, if you want me to like you, don't be a fool," Godfrey 
 said, sharply. " I don't wonder the woman was what you call 
 airy, which means that she stood for her rights. I heard you 
 call her ' Rogers ' to her face. Now that is simply absurd for 
 Americans. In England it is more common and means noth- 
 ing ; but here, where there is no aristocracy of blood, and the 
 son of the hod-carrier may rise to be President, it is ridiculous, 
 and savors wonderfully of snobbishness and parvenuism. If 
 this woman has a handle to her name, give it to her, and not 
 call her ' Rogers.' It is low, and not a bit ladylike, and you,
 
 202 ONE DA Y IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 as Alice Creighton, can certainly afford to be a lady without 
 taking the trouble to impress others with your rank." 
 
 Godfrey was very much in earnest, and Alice was crying, and 
 so the walk home was a most uncomfortable one, until they 
 reached the entrance to the grounds, where Godfrey stopped, 
 and putting his hand playfully on his companion's shoulder, 
 said : 
 
 " Come, Allie, don't let's quarrel. You are a nice little 
 thing and I like you first-rate, and want you to be a lady every- 
 where, and have a kind, courteous word for everybody ; Mrs. 
 Schuyler has, and she " 
 
 " Mrs. Schuyler, indeed ! As if I am to take her for a pat- 
 tern, and she a governess ! " Alice said hotly, as she walked 
 rapidly on toward the house. 
 
 " Whe-w ! " Godfrey whistled after her as he followed leis- 
 urely, wondering why girls need to make such confounded fools 
 of themselves, and half wishing he had held his tongue and not 
 tried to lecture Alice. 
 
 As he drew near the house he saw John, the coachman, 
 bringing up the pony phaeton, and asked who was going out. 
 
 " Miss Rossiter is going up to the Ridge House after lunch, 
 and wants to drive herself," said John, and Godfrey thought 
 within himself: 
 
 " That's just the thing, and gives me a chance to surprise her. 
 Won't it be a capital joke ? " 
 
 Entering the house he went in quest of his aunt, who was 
 dressed and feeling much better. 
 
 " Mrs. Barton has asked me to come over there some day, 
 and I believe I'll go this afternoon. Home does not seem like 
 home now," she said, with a sigh, which Godfrey knew had ref- 
 erence to the graceful figure walking on the terrace in front of 
 the window, and so did not respond at once. 
 
 When he did speak, he said : 
 
 " By the way, auntie, were you really in earnest about that 
 bedstead ? " 
 
 " What bedstead ? " Miss Rossiter asked quickly, and then 
 recollecting herself, she added : " Certainly I was. It hurt me
 
 ONE DAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 203 
 
 cruelly to see it leave the house when Emily thought so much 
 of it. But then I must get accustomed to things of that kind, 
 I suppose. New lords, new laws, and new things." 
 
 Her manner was the manner of one who has been wounded 
 and thwarted at every point, and Go.dfrey was strengthened in 
 his resolve, and within half an hour after she had driven away 
 in her pony phaeton he had interviewed both Mrs. Tiffe and 
 Perry, and was riding with John in the long democratic wagon 
 down the road toward the cottage. Mrs. Rogers and Gertie 
 were both in the garden this time, but when Godfrey explained 
 his errand, the former, who was glad to be rid of the cumbrous 
 piece of furniture, went in with John, while Godfrey remained 
 cptside with Gertie. 
 
 " You must be very fond of gardening," he said, and Gertie 
 replied : 
 
 " Yes, I am ; I like it ever so much. Have you seen the grave 
 since you came home? " 
 
 " Grave! Whose grave?" Godfrey asked, and she replied : 
 
 " Mr. Lyle's, the man who saved your life. Miss Armstrong 
 told me all about it, and I felt so glad you were not killed, and 
 so sorry for him and the young girl who liked him. She used 
 to live here in this very house, and Miss Armstrong promised 
 her, when she went away, to keep the grave up nice till she 
 came back, and for a while she did, but the girl didn't come, 
 and Miss Armstrong got to forgetting it, you know, and when 
 she told me about it, it was just awful with weeds and tangled 
 grass. But it looks like a flower-bed now. I thought maybe 
 you would be glad." 
 
 Her bright, eager eyes were fixed upon him for his approval, 
 which he gave unqualifiedly. 
 
 " He was glad, and to-morrow, after dinner, he would go and 
 see it," he said ; and then as his services were needed for the 
 heavy bureau, he lifted his hat to Gertie, and walked away. 
 
 . " For pity's sake, what are you doing ? " Julia asked of God- 
 frey, when, after her nap and toilet, she came from her room 
 and found the rear of the hall blockaded with furniture, and
 
 204 ONE DAY IN I1AMPSTEAD. 
 
 mattress, and bed-clothes, and Godfrey, very red in the face as 
 he assisted Mrs. Tiffe, who was also anxious and excited. 
 
 "Cooking some 'potted sprats' I guess, though I'm not 
 quite sure," was Godfrey's reply ; and when Julia, who was not 
 very conversant with Mrs. Opie, demanded what he meant, he 
 explained that as Aunt Christine was so grieved about the 
 things sent to the cottage, and expressed herself as so desirous 
 to have them back, especially the bedstead, he had decided to 
 give her a pleasant surprise on her return that night from the 
 Ridge. Won't she be delighted though ! " And Godfrey's face 
 was very expressive as he tugged away at the heavy furniture. 
 " There, she is sure to like that," he said, when at last his work 
 was finished, and the old fashioned, massive bedstead stood in 
 the place the lighter one of oak had occupied, while the bureau 
 was pushed into a corner as the only available spot. 
 
 " I am glad you are so well satisfied," Julia said ; " but I doubt 
 if you get any thanks for your trouble. Auntie will never sleep 
 a night on that bedstead ; she is the biggest coward in the world." 
 
 "Then I'll take it down Monday. Anyway, she cannot say 
 I have not tried to please her," was Godfrey's reply, as he 
 walked away, whistling cheerily, and wondering why women 
 were so queer, and always went back on a fellow when he was 
 doing his best. 
 
 Meantime Alice had had her pet out in a good cry, which 
 made her nose very red, and did not add at all to the beauty 
 of her face when she came down to dinner, gracious and smil- 
 ing, and ready to forgive Godfrey, if he wished to be forgiven. 
 But he gave no sign that he did, though he was very polite to 
 her, and peeled her orange, and gave her his bunch of Malaga 
 grapes, because he knew she had a weakness for them, and 
 asked her slyly how she had burned her nose so badly, and 
 suggested a very small poultice of flaxseed when she went to 
 bed at night ! And Alice laughed, and thought him altogether 
 charming and delightful. 
 
 " I mean to show him that I am improving in what he calls 
 snobbishness," she thought, and after dinner was over, she said 
 to him in her most insinuating voice :
 
 ONE DAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 205 
 
 "Godfrey, I want to see Mrs. Rogers again. I've changed 
 my mind about the tucks. I heard you say you were going to 
 the village, and would you mind walking round that way for me 
 when you come home ? " 
 
 I " Certainly not. I am pleased to go to Mrs. Rogers' at any 
 time," he answered, with an emphasis on the Mrs., which 
 showed that he had taken note of the change. 
 
 " Pleased to go there at any time ! I do believe it, and I 
 wonder if he can be so much interested in that child," Alice 
 thought, as she walked slowly toward the cottage. 
 
 She was not jealous. Gertie was too young and too obscure 
 for that ; but she was annoyed with Godfrey's evident admira- 
 tion for the "yellow-haired girl." And still, if she would please 
 him as she really wished to do, she must be interested, too, and 
 after she was through with Mrs. Rogers she went out to Gertie, 
 and, wishing to say something to her, asked abruptly if she had 
 ever been confirmed ? Alice always felt more seriously inclined 
 on Saturday afternoons than on any other week day. It was 
 near to Sunday, and became one who taught in the Mission 
 school, and gave all sorts of good advice to sundry forlorn, ragged 
 little wretches, among whom Godfrey Schuyler and Schuyler 
 Godfrey and Alice Creighton Vandeusenhisen figured conspic- 
 uously. Alice would never have taught in the regular Sunday- 
 school, where she was liable to come in contact with persons 
 who might lay claim to her notice socially. She preferred the 
 Mission school, where she was looked upon as something far 
 above the common order of mortals, and here she was very 
 zealous, and very devout, and very good, and sometimes took 
 Alice Creighton Vandeusenhisen in her lap, and let Tommie 
 Trotter stroke her silk dress with his dirty hands, and once she 
 actually kissed a little girl who brought her a bouquet. To 
 these children, and such as these, she and the Misses Schuyler, 
 who taught there also, were kind of divinities, as was proven by 
 an incident which occurred just before the arrival of Edith at 
 the Hill. There was a new rector at St. Luke's, a young man 
 fresh from old Trinity in New York, and he went one Sunday 
 to catechise the little ones at the Mission.
 
 206 ONE DAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 " Now boys," he said to the row of eager faces confronting 
 him so eagerly, " speak up loud and tell me who made the 
 world?" 
 
 Instantly Tommie Trotter, with the three Vandeusenhisens, 
 screamed lustily : 
 
 " Miss Alice Creighton, sir ! " and were answered from a 
 rival crowd : 
 
 " Miss Julia Schuyler, sir ! " while one faint little voice 
 brought up-the rear with : 
 
 "I tell you, Tom Trotter, she didn't. 'Twas Miss Emma, 
 sir ! " 
 
 After that Alice and Julia esteemed themselves as saints, and 
 were more zealous than ever to gather in any stray lambs which 
 had no particular fold. Hence the reason for Alice's attack on 
 Gertie, whom she startled with the question : 
 
 " Have you ever been confirmed? " 
 
 Gertie had not, and did not particularly care to be just yet, 
 she said ; and Alice was as much shocked and surprised as if 
 the child had been convicted of a crime. 
 
 " Not wish to be confirmed and be good ! How shocking ! " 
 she exclaimed. 
 
 And Gertie replied : 
 
 " I did not say I did not wish to be good, for I do ; but I 
 don't want to be confirmed until I am older and understand it 
 better." 
 
 "Who is your teacher in Sunday-school ?" Alice asked next, 
 with a good deal of severity. 
 
 " I don't go to Sunday-school. I get my lesson at home, and 
 recite it with the Collect and the Commandments to Auntie," 
 Gertie said, while Miss Creighton grew more and more ama/ed. 
 
 " Not go to Sunday-school ! I did not suppose there was 
 any one in this town so heathenish as that ! Child, you must 
 go, and, if you do not care to join the school at church, come 
 to the Mission to-morrow at four o'clock. You will find me 
 there, and the Misses Schuyler and several other ladies. Will 
 you come ? " 
 
 Gertie hesitated a moment, and then asked :
 
 ONE DAY IN II AMI STEAD. 207 
 
 " Has Mr. Godfrey a class ? " 
 
 " Mr. Godfrey a class ! Certainly not. Can't you go unless 
 he is there ? " Alice said, sharply, conscious of a sudden feeling, 
 which, had Gertie been her equal, would have been jealousy. 
 
 Ere Gertie could reply, there was the sound of a low chuckle 
 in the direction of the street, and, looking round, Alice saw 
 Godfrey leaning over the gate with a most comical expression 
 on his face. 
 
 He had heard nearly all the conversation, and said to Alice : 
 
 " Beating up recruits for the Mission school, are you, Alice ? 
 Don't you go there, Gertie. You are too big and too good- 
 looking, and the room smells awful. She got me down there once, 
 and made me hear a class, and the little imps swapped jack- 
 knives, and fought each other, and called me 'old Schuyler' 
 behind my back, and wondered what business I had trying to 
 teach the Commandments. No, Gertie, go to the other school if 
 you must go somewhere, and I suppose you must, or lose caste 
 with this young lady. Why, she's as zealous as the Pope him- 
 self with regard to her church and her school. But come, Allie, 
 it is time to go." 
 
 And, opening the gate, he held it, while with a barely civil 
 nod to Gertie, Miss Creighton passed out into the street, and, 
 taking Godfrey's offered arm, walked away, leaving Gertie to 
 look after her and wonder if Mr. Godfrey liked her and meant 
 to marry her some day, and if it was wrong not to be confirmed 
 when she was only twelve years old, and heathenish not to go 
 to Sunday-school when she did not wish to, and could say her 
 lesson at home. 
 
 Miss Rossiter had spent a very pleasant afternoon with her 
 friend Mrs. Barton, at the Ridge House, and enjoyed herself 
 famously in talking of the bride, whom she never could like, 
 she said, even though she must confess that her personal ap- 
 pearance was in her favor. 
 
 " That was all a hoax about her being lame and old. God- 
 frey wrote it to tease us," she said. " She cannot be more 
 than thirty-five, and really has some claim to good looks, while
 
 208 OXE DAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 her manners are not bad. But she is an adventuress, a poor 
 governess, and nothing more ; and she has taken dear Emily's 
 place, and everything must give way to her, and .our pleasant 
 home is broken up forever." And Miss Rossiter cried a little 
 as she told of the furniture, which had been sent from the 
 house as not good enough for " my lady," when I would have 
 liked it so much for the memories clustering about it, the very 
 bed poor Emily died on, and I saw her, too ! " 
 
 .Miss Rossiter sobbed aloud, while Mrs. Barton tried to com- 
 fort her, and said it was hard, and that, if it would be any com- 
 fort to her dear friend, she would not call upon the intruder, or 
 let her daughter Rosamond call either. 
 
 That would be some consolation, for Mrs. Grey Barton, of 
 the Ridge House, was a sort of queen in the neighborhood 
 since Lady Emily died, and a slight from her was sure to be 
 felt ; so Miss Rossiter allowed herself to be comforted, and, 
 after dinner, drove herself home in the soft, autumnal twilight. 
 
 Edith was standing on the piazza when she came up the 
 steps, and a>ked if she had spent a pleasant day. 
 
 " Yes, it is always pleasant at the Ridge. Mrs. Barton is 
 considered the first lady in the town," Miss Rossiter replied, 
 as she swept proudly up the stairs, feeling that by enlightening 
 Edith with regard to Mrs. Barton's standing she was preparing 
 her to feel the slight about to be offered her. 
 
 It was not light enough in her room for her to see anything 
 distinctly when she entered it, and she laid aside her hat and 
 shawl and turned up the gas before she observed the change. 
 Then she started and looked again, and rubbed her eyes, and 
 wondered if she were threatened with softening of the brain, as 
 she had sometimes feared, and saw things which existed only in 
 her imagination. No, there was no fancy here. The airy, 
 graceful bedstead of oak and black walnut, which she had left 
 there that morning, was gone, and in its place loomed the huge, 
 old-fashioned thing, on which she would not sleep for the world. 
 For a moment she stood, wondering what she should do. 
 
 "Hallo, auntie, what's the matter? Don't you like it? 
 You are white as a sheet," came cheerily from Godfrey, who
 
 THE FIRST SUNDAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 209 
 
 was sauntering down the hall "You see I thought I'd surprise 
 you, and I worked like a beaver to get it set up. It's all right, 
 I hope." 
 
 " Yes, Godfrey, yes," Miss Rossiter gasped. " It was kind 
 in you, but but " 
 
 " But what, auntie ? It is not a potted sprat, I hope. You 
 told me that story, you know, and illustrated it, too, when I 
 didn't want to go to school, and said I was sick, and you made 
 me lie in bed all day and take those nasty squills. Don't you 
 really want it in there ? " 
 
 "No, Godfrey. I thought I did, but I guess I don't. I'm 
 silly, and nervous, and all unstrung with trouble, and I can see 
 my poor sister so plain. You know she died on it. I should not 
 sleep a wink, and I I oh, Godfrey, oh, Godfrey, take it 
 away, do, please, there is a good boy ! " 
 
 She was crying a little and trembling a great deal, and as God- 
 frey never could resist tears, he promised readily, and passing his 
 arm playfully around her waist, drew her into the room, and said : 
 
 "All right, let's go at it now. You ring the bell and I'll pull 
 it to pieces." 
 
 It did not take long to undo the work of the morning, and 
 the obnoxious bedstead, which nobody seemed to want, was soon 
 stored away in the attic, while, with the help of a little morphine 
 and an electric shock heavier than usual, Miss Rossiter slept 
 tolerably well that night, and dreamed of eating all the " potted 
 sprats" served up in Mrs. Opie's " white lies." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE FIRST SUNDAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 |HERE was a great crowd at church that first Sunday 
 after Mrs. Schuyler's arrival in town. Perhaps it was 
 the brightness of the day, and perhaps it was an un- 
 confessed desire to see the bride, of whose personal appearance 
 so many conflicting rumors were afloat. I was early at church
 
 2io THE FIRST SUNDAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 myself, and felt nervous and excited when I knew that the Schuy- 
 ler carriage had stopped at the door, and that I should soon 
 see again the beautiful woman who had interested me so greatly. 
 The Morrises, and Beechers, and Montgomeries, and Bartons 
 from the Ridge, and indeed all the great families of the neigh- 
 borhood, were already in their seats, and had said their prayers, 
 and found their places, and arranged themselves comfortably 
 and becomingly when the Schuylers came in, the colonel and 
 his bride, with Godfrey and the young ladies following after. 
 Edith's dress was very plain and simple, a rich black silk, with 
 some kind of a gauzy white scarf around her shoulders and a 
 white chip bonnet, with lace and blue ribbons ; and yet she was 
 very elegant, as with eyes cast down and a flush on her cheek 
 she walked up the aisle and took her seat in the Schuyler pew. 
 There was perfect silence during the moment she was on her 
 knees, but when she rose and threw a swift, curious glance about 
 her we recovered ourselves and were ready for the " dearly 
 beloved," which I doubt if Edith heard, though she rose to her 
 feet and let our village dressmaker, who sat behind, see just 
 how the back of her skirt was trimmed. 
 
 Edith was not thinking of the solemn service in which she 
 joined involuntarily, nor of the many eyes turned upon her, but 
 of the Sundays years ago, when she was a worshipper in that 
 same house, though not in that pew, crimson cushioned and 
 velvet carpeted, but in the humbler seat farther back, where 
 now by some chance little Gertie sat, her blue eyes fixed upon 
 the bride, and her face wearing an expression of perfect content, 
 as if she understood the general impression the lady had 
 made. 
 
 Miss Rossiter was not there. She had told Mrs. Barton not to 
 expect her. It would be too great a strain upon her nerves to 
 see that doll in Emily's place, with everybody looking at her, 
 and some admiring her, as no doubt they would. She had 
 called her " a doll," and Mrs. Barton was prepared for a piuk- 
 and-white expressionless creature, with some claims to good 
 looks, and an unmistakably lower-class air about her, but she 
 was not prepared for this superb beauty, who took her breath
 
 THE FIRST SUNDAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 211 
 
 away, and made her mentally revoke her promise not to call or 
 notice her in any way. It would not do to slight that woman, 
 who would lead Hampstead, and New York, too, if she tried, 
 and Mrs. Barton did not propose to do it. She would rather 
 run the risk of offending Miss Rossiter ; and when at last church 
 was out, and they were waiting for the carriages outside the 
 door, she managed to get introduced, and presented her daughter 
 Rosamond, who, for the remainder of the day, raved about the 
 beauty and grace and style of Mrs. Schuyler. Little Gertie 
 half stopped as if to claim acquaintance, but Mary Rogers led 
 her away, and I saw the child look back several times at the 
 lady, to whom she had not yet spoken, and whom she was to 
 meet first at the grave of Abelard Lyle. 
 
 Godfrey had said to her, " I must go to the grave to-morrow 
 after dinner," and as she wished to water the flowers and root 
 up any weed which might have come to sight since her last visit, 
 she resolved to be there before him and enjoy his surprise. 
 She knew dinner at Schuyler Hill was served at two o'clock on 
 Sundays, and as Godfrey was not likely to get out before three 
 she had plenty of time, and after her own early dinner started 
 for the cemetery. 
 
 There was not much to be done, for the grave was like a 
 pretty flower-bed, and after pulling a weed or two, and digging 
 around a heliotrope, she sat down to rest at the foot of the 
 monument. 
 
 Gertie was rather tired, and the day was warm and Godfrey 
 long in coming, and at last she fell asleep with her head against 
 the marble, and did not hear the sound of footsteps on the 
 grassy path which led across the lawn to the yard. 
 
 Some one was coming, but it was not Godfrey. He was sit- 
 ting with Alice upon the balcony, and asking her if she expected 
 a new pupil at the Mission that afternoon, and if she'd like him 
 to go with her. Colonel Schuyler was taking his Sunday nap 
 in his easy-chair, and thus left to herself Edith had resolved upon 
 a visit to the grave, toward which she had looked so many times 
 since her arrival at Schuyler Hill. Only once before had she 
 been in that yard, and that when she planted the rosebush which
 
 212 THE FIRST SUNDAY IN If AMPS TE AD. 
 
 now twined about the monument, and made a screen from the 
 sun for the little girl sleeping so sweetly there. 
 
 How beautiful she was, and Edith paused a moment to look 
 at her, wondering who she was, and then concluding from tho 
 hair that it must be Gertie Westbrooke, who had thrown her the 
 bouquet. Entering the yard she went close to the grave, mar- 
 velling to find it in such perfect order, and feeling a sense of 
 suffocation when she saw the vase she had given Ettie Arm- 
 strong full of freshly-gathered flowers, which seemed to speak to 
 her so plainly from the dead. Who had done this, as if in wel- 
 come to her ? Was there any one in Hampstead who suspected 
 her identity ? 
 
 " Impossible," she said to herself, as she sat down upon the 
 iron chair which stood near the grave. " It is very strange, and 
 this child here too asleep. What a beautiful face she has, and 
 who is it she resembles ? " Edith thought, as she marked the 
 regular features, the transparent complexion, the long silken 
 lashes and the glossy auburn hair of the unconscious child. 
 
 How plump and pretty were the hands which lay, one on her 
 lap, and the other on the green sward beside her, where it had 
 fallen in the abandonment of sleep. How small, too, and per- 
 fectly formed were the little feet, and Edith wondered to see 
 them encased in such dainty boots, just as she wondered at the 
 whole appearance of the child who interested and fascinated her 
 so much. 
 
 " I wish she would awake. I'd like to talk with her," she 
 thought, and as if the wish had communicated itself to Gertie, 
 the long lashes lifted slowly, disclosing a pair of eyes so bright 
 and blue and lovely in their expression, that Edith half started, 
 and thought, with a pang, of eyes she had seen years ago, but 
 which now were closed forever and laid away beneath the turf 
 at her feet. 
 
 Gertie was quite awake now, and a sweet smile broke over 
 her face and showed itself in her very eyes when she saw who 
 was with her. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Schuyler," she said, advancing at once and with- 
 out the least timidity toward the lady. "Oh, Mrs. Schuyler,
 
 THE FIRST SUNDAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 213 
 
 it's you. I was waiting for Godfrey, and went to sleep and had 
 such a nice dream of mother, who was alive, I thought, and 
 father too." 
 
 She was standing close to Edith, who, reaching out her hand, 
 took Gertie's in it, and forgetting that Mrs. Rogers was not the 
 child's own mother, said, in some surprise : 
 
 "Your mother is not dead ! " 
 
 " Yes, she is," Gertie replied. " She died when I was a 
 little tiny girl, and father married again and Auntie Rogers 
 took me away, and then father died, too, in Italy. Is not Mr. 
 Godfrey coming to see the grave ? he said he would yesterday." 
 
 She was more intent on Godfrey than on her parentage, and, 
 at her mention of the grave, Edith asked, quickly : 
 
 " What grave is Godfrey coming to see ? " 
 
 " This one," and Gertie pointed to the flower-bed where the 
 vase was standing. " You see," she continued, " this is Mr. 
 Lyle's grave, Mr. James A. Lyle, who died in saving Mr. God- 
 frey's life. He was working on the tower of the house at Schuy- 
 ler Hill, and Mr. Godfrey was a little boy, and climbed up and 
 slipped, and Mr. Lyle caught him, and threw him where he was 
 safe, but fell himself down down down to the very earth, 
 where he was smashed all to bits, and they took him up as dead 
 as dead could be ! " 
 
 Gertie was very eloquent and earnest, and emphasized her 
 " down down down " with a wave of her hand in the air and 
 a stamp of her foot upon the ground, while Edith, who could 
 not speak for the fingers at her throat, sat gazing at her, mo- 
 tionless and completely fascinated by her face, and manner, 
 and voice, which last had in it the ring of something familiar, 
 something heard years ago, when she was young and listened 
 to the bell in the old church-tower ringing on a Sunday morn- 
 ing. When she could speak, she asked : 
 
 " How did you learn all this, and who keeps the grave so 
 nicely ? " 
 
 "I do ; for you see Miss Armstrong, that's my teacher, she 
 was at church to-day, and plays the organ, she came here with 
 me one time, and, when I asked about the graves, she told me
 
 214 THE FIRST SUNDAY LV HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 whose they were, that is, the newest ones. That great, tall 
 stone is the first Mrs. Schuyler ; but you don't care for that. 
 She was not half as pretty as you, they say, and so he had to 
 get her this grand stone, which cost two or three thousand dol- 
 lars. I dote on graves, and like to hear about them, and Miss 
 Armstrong told me about this poor boy, or man he must have 
 been, for he was a young girl's beau, I guess." 
 
 " A what ? " Edith gasped. And Gertie went on : 
 
 " There was a beautiful young girl here then, from England, 
 Heloise Fordham, and she liked Mr. Lyle, and he liked 
 her, and she cried so when he was killed, and had a dreadful 
 headache ; and when she went away, she made Miss Armstrong 
 promise to keep up the grave till she came back to see 
 it, and to water the rosebush which she set out, and keep the 
 vase full of flowers in the summer time. And Miss Arm- 
 strong did water the rose, and for a while she tended the grave, 
 hoping to hear from the girl, or that she would come ; but she 
 never did, and so at last she grew tired like and careless, and, 
 when she told me about it that day, it was a sight to see for 
 weeds. I like to dig and work in the dirt, and so I made it 
 nice, thinking Godfrey would be pleased ; and then, too, do 
 you know, I do it part for the girl, Heloise. who lived in the 
 very house where I live now, and slept in my room. And the 
 poor man was carried there, and his coffin and funeral were in 
 the great room ; but I never told auntie, because she is afraid 
 of ghosts. I am not, though, and 1 like to think about him 
 and her, and to make believe she is there with me, crying by 
 the window for the lover dead down stairs ; and once, it's 
 funny, but it was the night you came, I lay awake ever so 
 long, and fancied she was there, and, before I knew it, said 
 right out aloud, ' Poor Heloise, Gertie is sorry for you.' " 
 
 " Oh, child, child, hush, hush ! " Edith cried, as she drew 
 Gertie to her and pressed her close to her side. 
 
 " Why, is it wicked ? Was it naughty to make believe she 
 was there and talk to her ? " Gertie asked, wonderingly ; and 
 Edith replied : 
 
 " No, no, not that ; talk to her, pity her, pray for her all you
 
 THE FIRS7 SUNDAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 215 
 
 please ; and tell me, has nothing been heard of her since she 
 went away ? " 
 
 "Nothing, I guess; and Miss Armstrong said maybe she's 
 dead or married. I do not like to think her dead. I'd rather 
 believe her married and alive. Don't you suppose she is ? " 
 
 " Yes, I believe she is married ; and I know she would be so 
 grateful to you and love you so much if she knew what care 
 you take of the grave." And obeying an impulse she could 
 not resist, Edith smoothed the bright hair back from the fair 
 white forehead, and looking straight into the clear, blue eyes, 
 kissed the child, whose lips kissed back again and sent a strange 
 tremor through every nerve of Edith's body. 
 
 " Had you heard of this grave before ? " Gertie asked, puz- 
 zled a little at the lady's manner ; and Edith replied : 
 
 " Yes ; Godfrey told me of it in England, and Colonel Schuy- 
 ler too, and on our bridal tour we went to see Mr. Lyle's 
 mother ; " and in a low voice Edith told the listening child of 
 the white-haired old woman knitting in the sunshine by the door 
 of that thatched cottage among the heather hills. " I promised 
 to write to her," she added, " and tell her about the grave, and 
 perhaps you will press me some flowers which grew here and 
 I'll send them in the letter ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'd like to do that," Gertie said ; and in a moment her 
 nimble fingers had gathered the few flowers still in blossom, and 
 which were destined for that home beyond the sea where Abe- 
 lard once lived. 
 
 " I pity that old lady so much, and like her too ; she seems 
 so much like my grandma, though I don't know where she is. 
 Auntie never told me." 
 
 " You have one, then ? " Edith asked, and Gertie told her all 
 she knew of herself, not forgetting the forty pounds a year which 
 was to pay for her education, for she meant to be a teacher like 
 JVliss Armstrong, and play the organ, maybe, when Miss Arm- 
 strong was too old. 
 
 How interested Edith was in this little girl who puzzled, and 
 confused, and bewildered her so ; they were getting acquainted 
 with each other rapidly, when a man's step sounded in the dis-
 
 2l6 THE FIRST SUNDAY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 tance, -and turning quickly, while a look of eager joy lighted up 
 her face, Gertie cried : 
 
 " It is Mr. Godfrey, I guess." 
 
 But Mr. Godfrey was still doing duty at Alice's side, and the 
 newcomer was Robert Macpherson, who was coming directly 
 toward the cemetery, which he reached before he discovered its 
 occupants. Then, with a start and a blush, as if detected in 
 something he would hide, he lifted his hat to Mrs. Schuyler and 
 went forward to greet her. 
 
 " And here is Gertie too," he said, as he offered her his hand ; 
 then turning again to Edith he explained that he had just come 
 from New York in the train which passed a few moments ago. 
 
 " Came from New York to-day ! Why, Mr. Macpherson, it's 
 Sunday!" Gertie exclaimed, while Edith smiled, and Mr. Mac- 
 pherson looked amused as he replied to the child, who believed 
 in the fourth commandment. 
 
 " Yes, Gertie, I know it is Sunday, and that I should have 
 waited until to-morrow, inasmuch as there was nothing more 
 pressing than homesickness, for to tell the truth I was homesick 
 in the city, and after church this morning, there came over me 
 such a longing for the country and a familiar face that I resolv- 
 ed to take the first train to Hampstead. That is why I am 
 here on Sunday, little Puritan," and he smiled good-humoredly 
 at Gertie, thinking what a wonderful face she had, and how like 
 she was to the sister sleeping under the English skies, and then 
 he glanced at the well-kept grave and at the monument and the 
 name upon it, "James A. Lyle," and said aloud, in an absent 
 kind of way : 
 
 " Born in Alnwick." 
 
 " He saved Godfrey's life, you know, and lost his own," 
 Gertie said, while Mr. Macpherson bowed and answered : 
 
 " Yes, I know," but gave no sign that when on reaching the 
 brow of the hill on his way from the station he saw the white 
 headstone gleaming in the distance, he came that way to see 
 for himself this very grave of Abelard Lyle, who was born in 
 Alnwick. 
 
 " Shall we go to the house ? Godfrey will be glad to know
 
 COMPANY AT SCHUYLER HILL. 2l^ 
 
 you arc here," Edith said, and as she spoke something 'in the 
 expression of her face made Robert glance quickly from her 
 to Gertie, who was tying on her bonnet. 
 
 " They certainly are alike," he thought. " They would do 
 splendidly in a picture as ' Les Sxurs,' " and then, as Edith 
 was ready, he walked by her side with Gertie in attendance, 
 until they reached the place where their paths diverged, and 
 Gertie said "good-by," while Edith and Robert went leisurely 
 toward the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 COMPANY AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 |N the course of two or three weeks nearly everybody 
 of any social standing in Hampstead called upon the 
 bride. Mrs. Barton and her daughter Rosamond from 
 the Ridge drove over at a very early day, much to the discom- 
 fiture of Miss Rossiter, who had told her nieces in confidence 
 that " Mrs. Barton had no intention of calling- upon a gover- 
 ness,'' that "Mrs. Schuyler need not expect much attention from 
 the beau monde." Great, then, was her surprise when she went 
 down to meet them ; and greeted them a little coldly even while 
 affecting to appropriate their call to herself. But neither Mrs. 
 Barton nor Rosamond seemed to notice her perturbation, and 
 both were delighted with Mrs. Schuyler, who looked and ap- 
 peared as if all her life had been passed amid just such surround- 
 ings as these at Schuyler Hill. 
 
 Miss Rossiter saw this, and thought best to change her tac- 
 tics altogether ; and when, as she accompanied her friend to 
 the door, the latter said to her, " I find your sister-in-law very 
 charming," she replied : 
 
 " Yes, I am glad you like her ; and it was so kind in you to 
 call. I appreciate it, I assure you." 
 
 And this was the ground she constantly took. Whoever
 
 2i8 COMPA.VY AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 called came expressly for her sake and the sake of the family, 
 rather than from any desire to be polite to the bride. 
 
 " The Schtiylers are so highly respected, and sister Emily was 
 such a favorite with everybody that you must expect attention, 
 of course," she would say to Edith, who smiled quietly, and un- 
 derstood what was meant quite as well as if it had been put in 
 plainer wortls. 
 
 Miss Rossiter did not like her, but had she been asked a rea- 
 son for her dislike she could not have given one or brought a 
 single accusation against Edith, except that she was not to the 
 purple born, and was there in Emily's place. That was all, and 
 that was enough. She had declared war against her, and she 
 meant to carry it out. 
 
 But Edith understood her, and parried all her little mean 
 thrusts, and, when questioned before the young ladies of her 
 life in England and the people she knew, answered that she 
 knew nobody except the families where she had taught, and 
 spoke unhesitatingly of her mother, who took lodgers to eke 
 out her slender income ; and, when Miss Rossiter suggested to 
 her that it might be as well not to speak of her mother's 
 lodgers, and offered her advice on certain points of etiquette, 
 teliuig her it was better not to laugh quite so much, and that 
 such and such dresses were not just the thing for certain occa- 
 sions, Edith answered good humoredly, and thanked Miss Ros- 
 siter for her advice ; but laughed just the same, and shocked 
 the spinster every day at dinner with the sight of her fair, 
 creamy arms and neck, and devoutly wished the lady would re- 
 turn to New York, and leave her in peace. But Miss Rossiter 
 was in no haste to do this ; she was averse to exertion of any 
 kind, and found her brother-in law's home so much to her taste 
 and the bride so much better than she had feared, that she had 
 decided to remain in Hampstead until after the grand party, 
 which was to be given at Schuyler Hill, and for which great 
 preparations were making, both in the kitchen, where Mrs. Tifte 
 was in the full tide of cake and cream and jellv, and in the 
 town, where everybody with any claim to society expected an 
 invitation,
 
 COMPANY AT SCHUYLER HILL. 219 
 
 Mine came to the school-room, and I read it after school, 
 with Gertie standing at my side and looking over my shoulder. 
 
 c ' Oh, that's the party I've heard about ! They are to have a 
 band and lights in the trees, and colored waiters in white 
 gloves, and viverything. Oh, I wish I could go ! Do you 
 think they will invite children like me ? " Gertie said, excitedly. 
 
 It did not occur to her that there could be any reason why 
 she should not be invited except that she was a child, and I did 
 not enlighten her, but said she was probably too young. 
 
 The next morning her face was very bright as she told me 
 what she had heard from Norah, who was down to see her 
 mother. Mrs. Rogers was to assist in the evening, and Gertie 
 was to go, too, and perhaps see the dancing from some post of 
 observation, while Norah had promised to ask Mrs. Schuyler if 
 she might come in and see her after she was dressed, and be- 
 fore she went down stairs. 
 
 " And then," Gertie added, " next week they are to have the 
 Church Sociable, and everybody goes to that, you know, and 
 auntie is to do up my muslin dress, and I shall dance, maybe 
 with Mr. Godfrey. Oh, I wish it was now ! " 
 
 She was quite as wild over the Church Sociable as the 
 Hampstead ladies were over the party, which came off the 
 loth of October, and was a grand affair. The night was soft 
 and warm as June, and though there was no moon the lanterns 
 in the trees and on the pedestals lighted up the grounds suffi- 
 ciently to show their beauty, and make it pleasant to walk 
 about in them. The house itself was ablaze with light, and 
 brilliant with rare and costly ilowers, while the band played 
 several sweet airs before the guests began to arrive. In her 
 room upstairs Edith stood dressed in her bridal robes, and 
 looking more beautiful than she had upon her wedding day, for 
 her cheeks were rounder now, with a soft, delicate pink showing 
 through the dazzling white, while her eyes had in them a new 
 brightness, and shone like the diamonds Norah was clasping on 
 her neck and arms. 
 
 " Oh, how lovely you are," Norah said, when the last touch 
 was given to her mistress's toilet, and she stood back to admire
 
 220 COMPANY AT SCHUYLER HILL. 
 
 her. Then after a moment's hesitancy, she added : " There is a 
 little girl down-stairs dying to see you, ma'am, in your party 
 dress, Gertie Westbrooke. My cousin is here assisting, you 
 know, and brought the child. Would you mind her coming up 
 the back way just to look at you ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," Edith replied ; and in a few moments Gertie 
 came in, her face glowing and sparkling with delight as she saw 
 the beautiful woman standing before the long mirror, decked 
 in satin and lace and diamonds, her golden brown hair curled 
 as she used to wear it in her girlhood, and falling over a comb 
 behind. 
 
 " Oh, my lady ! oh, Mrs. Schuyler, you ought to be the queen, 
 only you are a thousand times handsomer than she ! " Gertie 
 cried, clasping her hands together, while tears started to her 
 eyes and dropped from her eyelashes. 
 
 "Why, child, what is the matter? What makes you cry?" 
 Edith asked, and Gertie replied : 
 
 " I don't know, I always cry when I see a beautiful picture 
 or hear the grand music and the band playing outside, and the 
 house and grounds lighted up, and you so glorious. I can't 
 help it. Oh, if I only were rich, and could go with the people 
 below ! " 
 
 " Poor child," Edith said softly, as she laid her hand on the 
 wavy hair of the little "girl. " You might not be as happy as 
 you are now, and then if you were rich you are too young to 
 attend a party of this kind." 
 
 " Yes, I know," Gertie answered ; " but I like fine dresses, 
 and things, and people, and I do wish I might some day be 
 dressed just like you, and stand where you do with mv train so 
 long behind me, and I waiting for somebody." 
 
 "Gertie," the lady said, after a moment's reflection, "the 
 guests are to remove their wraps in the large room opposite, 
 and by sitting in that chair and turning the gas down you can 
 see them as they pass. Would you like it ? " 
 
 " Yes, so much," was the eager reply, and just then the 
 colonel came for his bride to lead her to the drawing-room. 
 
 He saw Gertie, but thought she was there to render some
 
 COMPANY AT SCHUYLER HILL. 221 
 
 service to his wife and paid no attention to her. The moment 
 he was gone Gertie turned down the gas, and ensconcing her- 
 self in the large easy-chair waited the coming of the guests. 
 And while she waited Godfrey looked in, and seeing the little 
 figure in the chair, walked up to it and said : 
 
 " Who's there ? Gertie, as I live ! What are you doing? " 
 
 " Mrs. Schuyler said I might sit here and see the ladies pass 
 in their gay dresses, so I'm making believe I'm one of them, 
 and at the party, too. Oh if it was only real, and I could 
 dance the Lancers ! " 
 
 " Gertie, I say, how are you dressed ? " Godfrey asked, turn- 
 ing up the gas and inspecting the child. " No, that won't do, 
 not the ' wedding garments,' you know. Gertie, I tell you 
 what, we are to have the church sociable next week, and that is 
 a heap nicer than a party. Come, then, and I'll dance your 
 shoes off with you. There's a ring, I must go. W T hen you 
 get tired of making believe here, go round to the north stair- 
 case, and you can look down into the hall and dining-room. 
 Good-by." 
 
 He was gone just as the first arrivals came up the stairs and 
 into the room opposite where Gertie sat. And Gertie watched 
 them eagerly and heard all they said, and mentally commented 
 upon their attire, and compared them with Edith ; and then, 
 when they were all gone, crept cautiously round to the north 
 staircase where Godfrey had said she could see the dancing. 
 
 The party was a great success, with no drawback whatever, 
 except the fact that Tom Barton from the Ridge drank too 
 much champagne and became noisy and uproarious, and when 
 by chance he stumbled upon Gertie, who was making her way 
 to the kitchen through a side passage, he told her : " Ze was ze 
 pressiest girl there, by gorrie," and emphasized his compliment 
 with a kiss. F"or this audacity Godfrey, who happened to be in 
 sight, seized him by the collar and thrust him headlong out of 
 doors, bidding him stay there till he could behave. 
 
 Edith was pronounced perfectly charming by every one, and 
 no young girl received as much flattery and attention as the 
 beautiful mistress of the festivities, who bore herself like a prin-
 
 222 THE CHURCH SOCIABLE. 
 
 cess, and received the commendations of those about her with 
 a sweet graciousness of manner which won every heart. She 
 was not fond of dancing and only went on the floor twice, once 
 with Godfrey and once with Robert Macpherson, who was quite 
 a lion with the girls, especially as he was new and a foreigner. 
 
 "The Macphersons are very rich, and there's a title in the 
 family ; he only paints and sketches because he likes it ; he is 
 not obliged to do it," Julia explained to Rosamond Barton, who 
 was questioning his antecedents and pronouncing him "splen- 
 did and distingue, with a face like a poet." 
 
 It was very late when the party broke up, and it was later 
 still when Mrs. Rogers' duties were over and she led the tired, 
 sleepy Gertie by the hand through the morning moonlight to 
 the cottage by the bridge. Gertie had seen a great deal of the 
 party, and had envied the young ladies whom Godfrey whirled 
 in the dance, and wished herself one of them. But there had 
 been a comfort in knowing that her turn would come next week 
 at the sociable, to which everybody was invited on the follow- 
 ing Sunday, when the Rev. Mr. Marks, the new Rector at St. 
 Luke's, gave notice that the first church sociable of the season 
 would be at Schuyler Hill on Thursday evening, adding that as 
 the proceeds were to be appropriated for a new melodeon, which 
 was greatly needed at the Mission School, a full attendance was 
 desired. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE CHURCH SOCIABLE. 
 
 [HE young ladies had enjoyed the party thoroughly, but 
 the church sociable was another thing, and the blams 
 of it was charged entirely to Edith, who was really nut 
 in fault. 
 
 Mr. Marks, the rector, was very zealous in his work, and one 
 morning, while calling upon Edith, he broached the subject of 
 the sociable. They were needing so much money, he said,
 
 THE CHURCH SOCIABLE. 223 
 
 and there was no house in the parish which would accommo- 
 N date so many people or attract so great a crowd as thj house 
 at Schuyler Hil!, and he wished Mrs. Schuyler would consent 
 to have the sociable for once. 
 
 Edith knew nothing at all of church sociables, or in what dis- 
 favor they were held in the house, and answered : " Certainly ; 
 I am quite willing if my husband is. You can ask him." Julia, 
 who was just entering the room, overheard the proposition, and 
 went at once with the news to her aunt and Alice. 
 
 " The idea of a Mite Society here," she said, with everybody 
 coming, and Mrs. Vandeusenhisen the first to ring the bell, and 
 Mrs. Thockmorton's hired girl the second. It is preposterous. 
 But father will never allow it, I am sure. Mr. Marks is to ask 
 him, you know ? " 
 
 " Don't flatter yourself, my dear, or count upon what your 
 father may or may not do," Miss Rossiter said, with all the 
 scorn her thin lips could express. " New wives make new 
 laws, and your father is a mere tool in that woman's hands. 
 Once he had a will of his own, now he has none, save that of 
 her, whose low-born tastes will lead her to consort with such 
 people as a Mite Society will bring." 
 
 Miss Rossiter was very bitter, and something of her poison 
 was communicated to her niece, who was very distant toward 
 Edith at lunch, and on the plea of headache declined to drive 
 with her as she had intended doing. So Emma went instead, 
 leaving her sister and aunt to talk Edith tip and wonder if Colo- 
 nel Schuyler would consent. Julia was sure he would not, 
 and yet she felt glad when she saw him riding up the avenue, 
 inasmuch as she would have an opportunity of speaking to him 
 first. But the rector had seen the colonel in town, and told him 
 of his call upon Edith, and her willingness to have the society, 
 provided her husband did not object. 
 
 " Yes, certainly, a society, a sociable, I I I am not 
 quite certain I understand just what that is. I do not think I 
 ever went to one," the colonel said, spitting two or three times 
 and looking a little disturbed. 
 
 Mr. Marks explained as well as he could, and expatiated
 
 224 THE CHURCH SOCIABLE. 
 
 largely upon the good which resulted from these promiscuous 
 assemblies, where all met upon a level, as Christian people 
 should. 
 
 " It gives the poor and neglected a chance to get acquainted," 
 he said, " and thus promotes good feelings and religious growth 
 generally." 
 
 " Yes, certainly," the colonel said, abstractedly, as he beat 
 the tip of his boot with his riding-whip. " I don't think there's 
 ever been a thing like it at Schuyler Hill, but have it by all 
 means, if Mrs. Schuyler signified the least desire for it." 
 
 The colonel's chestnut mare was pawing the turf, impatient 
 to be off, and bowing stiffly to the rector, Col. Schuyler 
 mounted her and galloped toward home, where he was met by 
 Julia and Miss Rossiter, who plunged at once into the obnox- 
 ious society, which they trusted he would veto. Miss Rossiter 
 was the principal speaker, and she said that Mrs. Schuyler could 
 not understand or appreciate her position as his wife, if she 
 wished such a mixture of people to come there, trampling on 
 their velvet carpets and spilling cream on their handsome fur- 
 niture. 
 
 "And, Howard, you may just as well be master of your own 
 house first as last, unless you wish an entire new element intro- 
 duced into your social relations." 
 
 The colonel himself had been a little disturbed about the 
 society, not knowing exactly whether it were an fait, but some- 
 thing in Miss Rossiter's manner angered him, as it implied re- 
 proach to Edith, and he roused at once in her defence and said 
 he had seen Mr. Marks, who alone was responsible if there was 
 anything wrong in the affair; that he had given his consent and 
 should not withdraw it, but should expect his daughters to do 
 whatever was necessary to make the gathering a success. That 
 settled it ; and Miss Rossiter took one of her headaches and re- 
 tired to her room and did not appear at dinner, where with a 
 stern glance at Julia, whose face was cloudy and dark, the 
 colonel said to his wife : 
 
 " Ah, my dear, I met Mr. Marks, who persuaded me into 
 having the Sewing Society, or something of that kind, with
 
 THE CHURCH SOCIABLE. 225 
 
 sponge-cake and cream, at our house next week, provided you 
 do not object." 
 
 " Not at all ; I told him I did not," Edith replied, and the 
 colonel continued : 
 
 " Then, my daughter," turning to Julia, " see that Mrs. Tiffe 
 has everything in readiness." 
 
 Julia bowed, while Godfrey dropped his fork and almost hur- 
 rahed in his surprise. He knew what a Church Sociable with 
 sponge-cake and cream meant ; he had attended more than one 
 in Hampstead, and danced with every girl there, and every for- 
 lorn, neglected woman who wanted a partner, but he had never 
 dreamed of bringing the mixed assemblage across that aristo- 
 cratic threshold, and lo it was coming without his aid. and he 
 was delighted, and he invited every man, woman and child in 
 town, and came to me with a beaming face and told me the 
 good news, and asked if I would play the piano for them, and 
 said he would get two or three musicians to accompany me and 
 have a " smashing time." 
 
 " It will be enough sight nicer than the party was," he said to 
 his sisters, when, on Sunday after the notice had been given 
 out, they were discussing it and expressing their contempt for 
 the whole thing. "Folks will enjoy themselves at a sociable ; 
 they always do, and they don't get drunk either, as that puppy 
 Tom Barton did, nor stay all night ; they go home at a Christian 
 hour. I know ; I've been to them and it is great fun, I tell you. 
 I mean to dance with Mrs. Vandeusenhisen, too, if she is here. 
 You ought to see Widow Barringer and Nat. Allen. They take 
 all the steps, and do not mince along as some girls I know of 
 They dance, I tell you." 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey, how can you talk and act so low," Julia said ; 
 but before Godfrey could reply Edith joined the group, which 
 in consequence was soon after broken up. 
 
 The Sociable was much talked of in Hampstead, and every- 
 body went, from Rosamond Barton and her brother Tom, down 
 to Mrs. Vandeusenhisen, who entered through the kitchen; 
 leading the twins, Godfrey Schuyler and Schuyler Godfrey. 
 "They were so anxious to come to the doin's and get some
 
 2?.6 THE CHURCH SOCIABLE. 
 
 cream," she said, " that she concluded to bring 'em, seein' it 
 w.is free and she had as good right there as the next one." 
 
 With the most intense disgust, bristling in her cap ribbons 
 and every fold of her stiff silk dress, Mrs. Tiffe bowed and 
 said : 
 
 " You better sit here, until the ladies are ready to receive 
 you. Aliss Creighton and Miss Schuyler are not yet dressed." 
 
 Mrs. Vandeusenhisen took this advice very meekly and sat 
 with a boy each side of her, looking curiously around the 
 kitchen, until the door-bell rang and she heard the voice of 
 Mr. Marks, the Rector. Then her dignity rose, and the kitchen 
 could content her no longer. Her minister had come, and 
 where he was she had a right to be, and seizing her twins she 
 started for the parlor, where with the fun fairly leaping from 
 his eyes and shining all over his face, Godfrey received her and 
 presented her to Edith. But the splendors of the drawing-room 
 were loo much for Mrs. Vandeusenhisen, and after a low 
 courtesy and a whisper to the twins " to make their manners to 
 the lady," the poor woman sank abashed into a corner, where 
 she found a silken couch on which she ensconced herself with 
 her twins, and bidding them keep still if they did not want to 
 be skinned alive, she prepared to enjoy herself by watching the 
 arrivals. 
 
 The bell rang constantly now, and with each ring Julia, who 
 was still in her room, stole to the bannister and looking over to 
 see who had come, ran back to report to Alice and Miss Rossi- 
 ter. This last lady had a headache, and her nerves would not 
 allow her to mingle in the promiscuous crowd assembling below, 
 the Goths and Vandals who had never set foot in that house 
 before. 
 
 "What would Emily say?" she groaned, as Julia reported 
 one after another, the Widow Barringer, and Nat. Allen, and 
 Mrs. Peter Clafflin with Mrs. Vandeusenhisen and the twins. 
 
 Poor Miss Rossiter leaned back despairingly on her pillows, 
 and wondered "who would come next." It was Tom and 
 Rosamond Barton, and the latter came straight to Miss Rossi- 
 ter's room, and said "it was such fun, and she meant to coax
 
 THE CHURCH SOCIABLE. 22^ 
 
 mamma to have it, and she wished Miss Rossiter could go down 
 and enjoy it ! " 
 
 Julia, Alice and Rosamond descended the stairs together and 
 were met at the foot by Godfrey, who said : 
 
 " Now, girls, cheek by jowl with Tom, Dick, and Harry, and 
 Peterkin Vandeusenhisen. Look, Alice ! there he is casting 
 sheep's eyes at you, and gotten up stunningly, too." 
 
 And truly Peterkin was stunning in his yellow vest and flame- 
 colored cravat, which was tied in a most wonderful bow, and 
 he stood blushing and smiling and watching Alice Creighton, 
 and wondering if she would let him dance with her. The house 
 was full by this time, and a more promiscuous crowd was rarely 
 ever seen in a gentleman's parlors, or a better behaved, con- 
 sidering everything. 
 
 "Really, my dear, it is very remarkable how well they con- 
 duct themselves," the colonel said to Edith, as he stood at her 
 side and looked at the people who neither laughed nor talked 
 noisily, nor jostled each other, but spoke together in low, sub- 
 dued tones as they moved about and quietly inspected the hand- 
 some rooms and furniture. 
 
 Dancing commenced at eight in the large breakfast-room, 
 which had been cleared for the occasion. Tom Barton, who 
 when himself was very gentlemanly and agreeable, was the first 
 upon the floor with Emma as his partner, while Robert Mac- 
 pherson followed next with Julia, and Godfrey with Rosamond. 
 
 " Come, boys, fill up, fill up," Godfrey cried, to the row of 
 bashful youths, looking longingly at the row of expectant girls. 
 "We want some one to fill our set. Here, Peterkin, get your 
 girl and join us." 
 
 " I dassent for fear she won't," Peter said, blushing to the 
 roots of his hair. 
 
 Godfrey knew who she was, and answered the timid swain : 
 
 " Nonsense ! You are too faint-hearted. Yes, she will ; try 
 her, and hurry up ! " 
 
 Thus encouraged, Peter made his way to Alice, and making 
 the bow he had practised at intervals for a week in anticipation 
 of this very event, said, with a face as red as his necktie :
 
 228 THE CHURCH SOCIABLE. 
 
 " Miss Creighton, will you please to be so good as to 
 dance this time with me ? Mr. Godfrey said how you would." 
 
 With a look of ineffable scorn, Alice replied : 
 
 " Thank you, sir. I do not dance to-night." 
 
 Her eyes and voice expressed her contempt, and Peter felt 
 it, and utterly crestfallen and abashed, went back to Godfrey 
 and said : 
 
 "I tole you she wouldn't, and she won't." 
 
 " Oh, bother ; but never mind, there's, but no." 
 
 And Godfrey stopped short in what he was going to say. 
 
 Gertie had paid her respects to Edith, and then, attracted by 
 the music, made her way to the breakfast-room and stood within 
 the door. 
 
 Godfrey's first thought when he saw her was to give her to 
 Peterkin for a partner, but some undefined feeling forced the 
 impulse back. He could see proud Alice Creighton dance with 
 Peter and think it rare fun, but not this beautiful child, who 
 might thus be classed with the lout. Her partners must be the 
 best in the room, Robert Macpherson, and himself, and young 
 Ransom, the judge's son, who fortunately came that way just 
 then looking for a lady. 
 
 " Here, Will. We want you here. Let me introduce you 
 to the prettiest girl in the room," Godfrey said ; and the next 
 moment Gertie stood upon the floor opposite Robert and Julia 
 Schuyler. 
 
 How pretty and graceful she was, and how well she went 
 through with the dance, never making the slightest mistake, 
 but seeming to carry her tall partner along by the airy ease of 
 her motions. 
 
 " 1 say, Schuyler, who is that princess in disguise I have just 
 danced with ? " young Ransom said to Godfrey, after he had 
 led Gertie to a seat. 
 
 " She is a princess in disguise, I do believe. Isn't she pretty 
 though ? " Godfrey replied ; and then he told what he knew of 
 Gertie Westbrooke, and added, laughingly : " But hands off, if 
 you please. She is only thirteen, and I will not have her 
 harmed."
 
 THE CHURCH SOCIABLE. 229 
 
 " Better talk to Tom Barton, then. See, he is asking her to 
 dance," was Will Ransom's reply, and glancing where Gertie 
 sat, Godfrey saw Tom bending before the child, who, remember- 
 ing the insult on the night of the party, coolly declined the honor 
 intended her without offering an excuse. But Tom understood 
 her, and after standing an awkward moment and regarding her 
 intently, he said : 
 
 " Miss Gertie, you are right to refuse me unless I apologize for 
 my rudeness the other night. I was drunk, to speak plain, and 
 did not know what I was doing. I beg your pardon, and by 
 and by if I ask you to dance I hope you will not refuse." 
 
 Tom could be very agreeable and polite, and in spite of his 
 fault he was a favorite with many, and when he spoke so frankly 
 to Gertie she felt that she forgave him, and promised to join 
 him in the next dance if he liked. Gertie did not lack for par- 
 ners that night, and what was best of all, they were from the 
 " creme de la creme" of the town. Will Ransom twice, Rob- 
 ert Macpherson twice, Tom Barton once, and at last Godfrey 
 himself, who had only danced the first set in order to get the 
 thing going, he said. It was the Lancers, Gertie's favorite, and 
 Godfrey led her to a conspicuous place, and all through the 
 dance felt a thrill of pride in the graceful creature, who seemed 
 to float rather than walk through the different changes. 
 
 A little apart Edith stood, watching the child, wondering at 
 her skill. With a sign to Godfrey she made him understand 
 that he was to bring Gertie to her when the dance was ended. 
 
 "Who taught you to dance?" she asked, as she looked 
 down upon the sparkling face. 
 
 " I had a teacher in London two quarters," was Gertie's re- 
 ply, and then as her hand was claimed again she glided away, 
 leaving Edith to watch and wonder and try to recall, if possible, 
 the face or the expression of which Gertie reminded her. 
 
 It was very gay at Schuyler Hill that night, for as the evening 
 advanced the stiffness which had at first characterized the stran- 
 gers wore away, and those who did not dance joined in the 
 games which were played in an adjoining room, and Miss Ros- 
 siter, in her lone chamber, corked her ears with cotton to shut
 
 230 MRS. ROGERS SPEAKS HER MIXD. 
 
 out the noise, which was far more harsh and discordant because 
 it came from what she termed the "canaille." Financially, too, 
 the Sociable was a great success, for after the colonel had added 
 his donation in the shape of a " twenty," it was found that they 
 had raised seventy dollars, and that the melodeon was sure. 
 Had it not been, the colonel would have paid the balance rather 
 than open his doors again, for the affair was not to his taste, 
 and he was glad when the last guest had said good-night and 
 his house was cleared of them all. He did not like church soci- 
 ables, and his daughters did not like them, and Mrs. Tiffe did 
 not like them, though there was one comfort, that worthy ma- 
 tron said : " They ate up all the dry cake left from the party," 
 and she congratulated herself upon having two fresh loaves of 
 sponge left as she locked up her store-room and silver, and re- 
 tired for the night. 
 
 Gertie was too much excited to sleep, and long after her re- 
 turn home she sat and talked of the Sociable and what she had 
 seen, and when at last she laid her head upon her pillow it was 
 with the conviction that she never could be as happy again as 
 she had been that night at Schuyler Hill, dancing the Lancers 
 with Godfrey. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 MRS. ROGERS SPEAKS HER MIND. 
 
 JALLO, Bob, are you going anywhere in particular ? " 
 was Godfrey's salutation to Robert Macpherson, when 
 the next afternoon he met him at a point in the grounds 
 where two paths diverged. 
 
 " Just to town for a walk. Are you going anywhere in par- 
 ticular?" was the reply, to which Godfrey responded : 
 " Just away from town for a walk." 
 
 And so the two took different roads and sauntered on until, 
 curiously enough, they met again at the gate of Mrs. Rogers' s 
 cottage, where Gertie sat alone upon the porch.
 
 MRS. ROGERS SPEAKS HER MIND. 231 
 
 " Did you start to come here ? " Robert asked, coloring a 
 little, and Godfrey replied : 
 
 " Yes ; did you ? " while his face wore a look of annoyance, 
 which was in no wise lessened when ten minutes later Tom Bar- 
 ton also appeared, and seemed to think it a good joke that they 
 had all met there together and so found each other out. 
 
 " I don't know what there is to find out," Godfrey said dog- 
 gedly, adding, as he rose to his feet with an impatient shake 
 of his pants : "This is most too much of a good thing, and I 
 think I'll go." 
 
 " Please, Mr. Godfrey, don't," Gertie said beseechingly, feel- 
 ing intuitively that hers was rather a novel position, alone with 
 three young men, and that Godfrey was in some way a protection. 
 
 He came to see her of course, but she was too much a child 
 to think for a moment that the remembrance of her blue eyes 
 and wavy hair had brought the others there. They came, no 
 doubt, to get some sewing done, and she was sorry her auntie 
 was gone, and very glad when at last she saw her coming round 
 the turn in the road, for now they could give their orders and go 
 away. 
 
 For an instant Mary Rogers stopped short at sight of three 
 town-bred, fashionable young men, with perfumed locks, and 
 fancy canes, and short coats, and soft hats, sitting before her 
 door, with Gertie in their midst, looking so beautiful and pure 
 and innocent, and so unconscious withal of the admiration she 
 was exciting. Then, the good honest-iriinded woman's resolu- 
 tion was taken, and she went swiftly up the walk and courtesy- 
 ing to her visitors asked what she could do for them. 
 
 " Nothing, nothing, madame, we simply came to call," Tom 
 Barton replied, inspecting her curiously, as if she had been a 
 Hottentot, and wondering how that dainty bit of flesh and blood 
 in the blue dress and pantalets chanced to belong to her. 
 
 " Come to call, did you. I am sorry then I happened to be 
 out. Gertie, I brought this letter from the office for Mrs. 
 Simmons. Tie on your bonnet and take it to her directly," 
 Mary Rogers said, while a dead silence fell upon the group of 
 young men, each of whom looked at the others inquiringly.
 
 232 MRS. ROGERS SPEAR'S HER MIND. 
 
 Gertie was only sorry to leave Godfrey, but reflecting that if 
 she hurried he might be there when she came back, she hastened 
 away, while her admirers looked after her until the turn in the 
 road hid her from view. Then Mrs. Rogers spoke, standing up 
 before them with a flush on her face and a dignity in her tone 
 and manner which commanded respect from her audience. 
 
 " Young men," she began, " you came to see Gertie, and I 
 don't like it, and won't allow it either. She is too young to have 
 such ideas put in her head, even were you honest, which you 
 are not. Not one of you would marry her, or be willing to be 
 seen with her by your fashionable city friends, if she were older 
 than she is. You do not look upon her as your equal, and you 
 only come to amuse yourselves with her because she is pretty 
 and sweet ; but it shall not be. It's no credit to a girl in Gertie's 
 position to have a lot of chaps like you hanging round her and 
 putting stuff into her head, and I won't have a breath of harm 
 done to her future good name by your coming here and talking 
 nonsense, which you don't mean, and I put it to your honor to 
 do by my child as you would have a body do by your sister if 
 she was as young and innocent as Gertie." 
 
 " By George, you are right ! and I give you my hand as a 
 gentleman that by no act of mine shall Gertie be com- 
 promised ! " Tom Barton exclaimed, as he rose to his feet and 
 offered his hand to Gertie's champion. 
 
 Tom's example was followed by Robert Macpherson, but God- 
 frey sat still in his chair. Mrs. Rogers did not mean him, of 
 course. She knew he never would harm any woman, and he 
 was not going to promise not to see Gertie Westbrooke, and 
 talk to her, too, as much as he liked. But it was a good thing to 
 snub that drunken Tom Barton, who was half-intoxicated no\v, 
 and he felt like cheering Mrs. Rogers, and meant to stay after 
 the others were gone, and tell her so. But Robert Macpherson 
 meant to stay, too, and, after waiting impatiently ten or fifteen 
 minutes, Godfrey arose at last and said good-afternoon, wonder- 
 ing within himself why " Bob would stick himself where he was 
 not wanted." 
 
 Robert had business with Mrs. Rogers, and, when alone with
 
 ROGERS SPEAKS HER MIND. 233 
 
 her, he began at once by assuring her that so far as he was con- 
 cerned she had nothing to fear for Gertie. 
 
 " And you will know you have not," he continued, "when I 
 tell you that she is the very image of the only sister i ever had, 
 the little girl who died when just Gertie's age, and of whom I 
 never think without a throb of pain." 
 
 It was this wonderful likeness, he said, which first attracted 
 him to Gertie, and made him so desirous for her portrait, as he 
 had none of his sister. And then he went on to tell how fond 
 he was of his profession as an artist, and that as there were so 
 many nne views in the vicinity of Hampstead, he wished to re- 
 main there for a time, sketching and studying the autumnal 
 scenery, and, as he would not of course stay at Schuyler Hill, 
 he wished to rent a room in some quiet house, and take his 
 meals at the hotel. 
 
 Had Mrs. Rogers such a room, and would she let it to him 
 for a liberal compensation? Mrs. Rogers was in need of 
 money. Her own health was not good, and Gertie's education 
 and music would cost so much that Robert's oifer was a tempt- 
 ing one, and she considered it for a few moments, and then 
 said yes, and showed him the large, pleasant room where Abe- 
 lard Lyle's coffin had stood, and where, within a few days, 
 easels, and pallets, and brushes, and paint were scattered 
 about promiscuously ; for Robert had taken possession, and 
 dubbed the room his " Den," and \vas going to paint " La Sozur " 
 from Gertie's face, and then retouch from his memory of his 
 sister. 
 
 Mary Rogers had struck a powerful blow for Gertie, and 
 hedged her round with the respect of the young men, who 
 otherwise might have turned her head as she grew to woman- 
 hood, with all her wondrous beauty and fascinating sweetness, 
 but for a time she felt some misgivings as to the propriety of 
 having taken Robert Macpherson as a lodger. But when she 
 saw how quiet and unobtrusive he was, never seeking either 
 herself or her child,, unless he needed them for the sittings, 'her 
 watchfulness gradually subsided, and she felt that her home 
 was pleasanter for having the artist there.
 
 234 THE NEW LIFE AT THE HILL. 
 
 Tom Barton came sometimes to see him, but he never asked 
 for Gertie, and if by chance he saw her going out or coming 
 in, he treated her with as much deference as if she had been 
 one of the ladies from Schuyler Hill. For a few weeks Godfrey 
 was there every day, and sometimes twice a day, but as she 
 knew him better Mary had no fears of him, and trusted her 
 darling to him as if he had been a brother. 
 
 And Gertie did him good, and always reproved him in her 
 outspoken way, when she found him relapsing into careless 
 habits of speaking, and kept him constantly upon his good be- 
 havior when he was with her. But she did not think him a 
 gentleman, and she frankly told him so when in November he 
 came to say good-by, before going to Andover, where he hoped 
 to prepare himself for Yale the following year. In a laughing 
 way he referred to her promise made on the ship, and she re- 
 plied : 
 
 " I heard you say by George, and call your father the Gover- 
 nor, and you are not a gentleman yet ; " but her lip quivered a 
 little, and it was long ere Godfrey forgot the expression of the 
 blue eyes, which looked at him so wistfully as Gertie said good- 
 by, and told him so innocently how much she should miss him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE NEW LIFE AT THE HILL. 
 
 |T was just one year from the day when Edith came to 
 Hampstead, and over the house upon the Hill a dark 
 cloud was hanging, as hour after hour went by, and 
 there seemed to be no hope for the pale-faced woman lying 
 at the very gates of death, and talking in her delirium of things 
 which no one understood. She had been thus ever since the 
 birth of the infant boy. at which the colonel scarcely looked, so 
 intense was his anxiety for the young mother, who. whenevei 
 he came near her with words of tenderness, motioned him 
 away, saying :
 
 THE NEW LIFE AT THE HILL. 235 
 
 "No, no, you mustn't, you don't know. It is not the first, 
 as you think. Oh, my baby, I don't know where she is; find 
 her, Howard ; find my baby for me." 
 
 He brought her the little mite of flesh and blood wrapped in 
 soft cambric and flannel, and said : 
 
 " Look, Edith, here is our boy ; shall I lay it beside you ? " 
 
 Very wistfully the gray eyes glanced for a moment into the 
 colonel's face and then down upon the child, while a look of 
 anguish crept into them as Edith cried : 
 
 " No, no, this is not the one. I want my lost baby, with the 
 blue eyes. Will no one find it for me ? " 
 
 Then in a curious way she would examine her surroundings 
 and whisper to herself: 
 
 " Handsome furniture, fine linen, silken curtains, and silver 
 dishes to eat from. This is not the place. Mother, mother, 
 where am I, and are you there by the fire with baby ? " 
 
 She was back again in London in the forlorn room in Dorset 
 street, and the rain was splashing against the windows just as it 
 did that dreary day, and she heard the footsteps of the lodgers 
 on the stairs and the roar of the great city, and fought again the 
 battle for her child, and the iron hand came back and clutched 
 her throat and strangled her until her face was purple and she 
 writhed in the agonies of suffocation. Then, when the parox- 
 ysm was over she lay for hours in a swoon so nearly resembling 
 death, that at last they thought her gone and the whisper that 
 she was dead ran through the hall, down to the servants' quar- 
 ters, where it was told to Gertie Westbrooke, who had come to 
 inquire for her. 
 
 " No, no, not dead ; oh, what shall I do ? " Gertie cried, as 
 with a low moan she sank down upon the grass by the door, and 
 covering her face with her hands wept passionately. 
 
 During the past year Edith and Gertie had met often by the 
 grave which the child tended with so much care, and they had 
 learned to know each other well. Together they had talked of 
 French and music and the books which Gertie liked best and 
 the flowers of which Gertie knew so much ; and Edith had writ- 
 ten to the white-haired old lady among the heather hills, and
 
 236 THE NEW LIFE AT THE HILL. 
 
 sent the roses Gertie had pressed. And when the answer came 
 which had in it a blessing for " the bonny lassie who looks after 
 my puir laddie's grave," Edith read it to Gertie as they sat 
 under the shadow of the whispering pine which grew above the 
 grave. And now all this had come to an end, and all the bright- 
 ness of Gertie's life seemed stricken out with the words : 
 
 " Mrs. Schuyler is dead." 
 
 " And she so lovely and good, and she liked me, too. Oh, 
 I cannot bear it, I cannot ! " Gertie sobbed, just as a footstep 
 came near. 
 
 Looking up, she saw Emma, who, overhearing the words, and 
 guessing at their meaning, said to her : 
 
 " Gertie, she is not dead. She has revived a little and is 
 breathing still, though the doctor thinks her dying." 
 
 " Not dead ? Then there is hope ! Oh, Miss Emma, may 
 I just look at her? I'll be so very quiet, and 1 loved her so 
 much !" 
 
 " Yes. I do not know as you can do any harm by looking at 
 her," Emma said, and in an instant Gertie was flying up the 
 stairs and along the south hall which led to Edith's room. 
 
 The door was open, and looking in, she saw the white face 
 upon the pillow, framed in masses of golden-brown hair, which 
 the fair hands had torn and matted when the iron fingers were 
 at the throat. She seemed to be dead, and the doctor touched 
 her pulse to see if it still beat, when the lips said faintly : 
 
 " Where's my little girl ? " 
 
 The last word was prolonged, and to the excited child it 
 sounded like "little Gertie," and, without stopping to consider 
 the consequences, Gertie darted across the floor to the side of 
 the sick woman, whose lips she kissed, as she said : 
 
 " I'm here ! I'm here ! " 
 
 " Go away ! " came sternly from the wretched husband, who 
 frowned darkly upon the girl thus audaciously disturbing his 
 dying wife. 
 
 And with a frightened face Gertie started to obey him, when 
 the physician interposed and stopped her, saying : 
 
 " Speak to her again."
 
 THE NEW LIFE AT THE HILL. 237 
 
 His practised eye had detected a change in his patient when 
 Gertie first spoke to her, and now, when at his command the 
 silvery voice, so full of love and tender pathos, said, " I am 
 here, little Gertie. Do you know me, Mrs. Schuyler?" there 
 certainly was a change, but whether from the effect of the power- 
 ful medicine given a few moments before as a last experiment, 
 or because of that voice, which rang so clear and birdlike, I 
 cannot tell. I only know something penetrated into the deep 
 darkness, and brought back the senses almost gone forever. 
 There was a fluttering of the eyelids ; then they unclosed, and 
 the eyes looked full at Gertie, while the lips whispered, " Stay ! " 
 and a hand moved slowly toward the child, who grasped it in 
 her own, and held it fast, while Edith slept for a few moments. 
 
 " She is better, she will live," the doctor said, as he met her 
 look of recognition when her sleep was over. " Quiet now is 
 what she needs." 
 
 And then Gertie started to leave the room, but the white 
 fingers closed tightly round hers, and seeing that, Colonel 
 Schuyler bade her stay. 
 
 So Gertie stayed that afternoon, and sat by Edith's side, and 
 smoothed the tangled hair and bathed the pale forehead, and held 
 the cooling drink to the parched lips ; and once when the baby 
 cried in the next room she went and took it up, and, soothing 
 it into quiet, laid it back upon its dainty bed. 
 
 Gertie was a natural nurse, and she covered herself with so 
 much glory that day at Schuyler Hill that the colonel himself 
 unbent to her, and sent her home in his carriage because of a 
 rain which was falling, and asked her to come again. 
 
 And Gertie went often during the weeks of Edith's illness, 
 and the sick woman felt better and happier when Gertie was in 
 the room beside her, where she could look at her and touch her 
 if she chose. There had been consciousness for half an hour 
 or more after the birth of her child, but instead of joy that " a 
 man was born into the world," there had swept over her a wave of 
 bitter anguish as she remembered the home in Dorset Street, and 
 the other little one, of whom Colonel Schuyler never heard, 
 and whose father slept under the evergreen which she could see
 
 238 THE NEW LIFE AT THE HILL. 
 
 from her window nodding in the autumn wind, and bending to- 
 ward her as it seemed in an attitude of menace. 
 
 They had brought her baby for her to see, but the touch of 
 its hand on her cheek had awakened such intense love, and re- 
 morse, and pity and longing for the other child dead so long 
 ago, that she had writhed in agony and pushed her boy awav, 
 while her wandering mind went far, far down into the deepest 
 depths of darkness as she reviewed a page of her life which she 
 had thought sealed forever. How awful were the hours of 
 those days when the pine tree nodded and grinned and laughed 
 and threw its long arms at her, and Abelard came and stood 
 beside her with sad, reproachful eyes. 
 
 Oh, it was horrible, and from this horror Gertie's voice had 
 called hef back, and she clung to the young girl, and insisted 
 upon having her with her as much as possible, and said to her- 
 self: 
 
 " It's because of her care for that grave that I love her so 
 much ; " and when one day during her convalescence Gertia 
 came to her and told her of Miss Armstrong's sudden illness, 
 and that the school was closed indefinitely, and asked what she 
 should do for a teacher, Edith considered for a moment, and 
 then said : 
 
 " Go, please, to Colonel Schuyler's room, and ask him to 
 come here, and you wait in the hall till you see him go out." 
 
 " What is it, darling ? Can I do anything for you ? " the 
 colonel asked, as he bent over his wife. 
 
 " Yes, Howard," and Edith's white fingers strayed caressingly 
 over his hair and forehead. " You know that, that both of us 
 feel as if I were indebted to Gertie Westbrooke for my life, and 
 I wish to do her a favor. Will you say yes to it ? " 
 
 " Certainly certainly. Is it money ? " the colonel asked, 
 and Edith replied : 
 
 " No. Miss Armstrong's school is broken up, and Gertie 
 has no teacher. She is a fine scholar, I hear, and anxious to 
 learn. Let her come here every day and recite to Miss Brown- 
 ing. Miss Alice has nearly finished her education, and will 
 soon be gone. Shall it be so ? May I tell her to come ? "
 
 THE NEW LIFE AT THE HILL. 239 
 
 There was a momentary hesitation on the colonel's part and 
 then he answered : 
 
 " Yes, certainly, yes, let her come. You always had a penchant 
 for this girl, and I must say she seems a very remarkable child." 
 
 And so it was settled that Gertie was henceforth to recite to 
 Miss Browning, and though there was much opposition in the 
 school-room, the colonel stood firmly to his decision, and one 
 pleasant morning in October Gertie brought her books to Schuy- 
 ler Hill and took the desk assigned her, far removed from her 
 aristocratic companions, who at first scarcely noticed her by so 
 much as a nod of recognition. 
 
 But as time went on her sweet temper and quiet, gentle de- 
 meanor insensibly won upon them, while they were surprised 
 at her scholarship, so superior in some respects to their own 
 that even Alice stooped more than once to ask information 
 from her. Whatever Gertie undertook she did thoroughly, but 
 her great success as a scholar was owing in part to the interest 
 Robert Macpherson had evinced in her studies ever since he 
 became an occupant of the cottage. He was away now on the 
 Western prairies sketching the scenery there, and so Gertie 
 was thrown upon her own resources ; but she was equal to the 
 emergency, and studied early and late to overtake and surpass, 
 if possible, the young ladies who looked upon her so contemp- 
 tuously. But for any coldness on their part she more than had 
 amends in the extreme kindness with which Edith invariably 
 treated her ; while the baby, who was called James for the 
 colonel's father, was a constant source of delight. 
 
 Jamie was a beautiful child, with a mass of dark brown 
 curls, and eyes like his father's ; and even Julia, who had from 
 the first been opposed to his birth, and treated her step-mother 
 with great coolness on account of it, softened toward him, and 
 wrote to Miss Rossiter, who was now in New York, that " he 
 really was a fine child, and that all things considered, she was 
 quite reconciled to his birth, though she felt for Godfrey, who 
 was no longer the only son." 
 
 The baby was a success, and no one seemed to love it more 
 than Gertie \Vestbrooke. She was 'passionately fond of chil-
 
 240 MARY ROGERS. 
 
 dren, and devoted herself so much to Jamie that he soon 
 learned to know her, and would cry when she left his sight. 
 And so it came about that she was much with Edith, who each 
 day grew more and more interested in her, and more resolved 
 to care for and befriend her in every possible way. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX IV. 
 
 MARY ROGERS. 
 
 was a cold wintry night, and a February rain was 
 beating against the windows of the house on the Hill, 
 when Edith was roused from sleep by Norah, who 
 said : 
 
 " If you please, Mrs. Schuyler, Gertie Westbrooke has come 
 all alone from the cottage in the rain and dark, and says my 
 cousin is dying and wants to see you. She's very bad, and 
 talking such queer things." 
 
 Scarcely knowing what she was doing, Edith arose and began 
 to dress, while the colonel followed more leisurely, feeling an- 
 noyed at Mary Rogers for being sick on such a night as this, 
 and sending for his wife, thereby putting him to great discom- 
 fort and inconvenience, for if Edith went to the cottage he of 
 course must go also. And in a short time they were in their 
 carriage and driving rapidly down the road toward the house, 
 where Gertie was anxiously expecting them. 
 
 As soon as she delivered her message she ran back through 
 the darkness and rain, and when the carnage drew up before 
 the gate she stood in the open doorway, her hair all wet and 
 dripping, and her face pale with fear as she clutched Edith's 
 dress, and whispered : 
 
 " I'm so glad you have come. She wanted you so much and 
 said there was something she must tell you. But I'm afraid she 
 can't now, because she's worse. She cannot talk. The doctoi 
 is there. 1 went for him first, and then back by the Hill. Come 
 quick, please," and Gertie hurried her on to the apartment
 
 MARY ROGERS. 241 
 
 where Mary Rogers lay, her face ashen pale, and her eyes fas- 
 tening themselves with a look of intense longing and eagerness 
 upon Edith as she came in. When a young girl Mrs. Rogers 
 had suffered from an affection of the heart, which she supposed 
 she had entirely outlived. Within the last few months, how- 
 ever, it had troubled her at intervals, and on the night of the 
 severe attack she had told Gertie she was not well, and gone 
 early to bed. Gertie, who slept upstairs, was awakened, she 
 said, by loud groans, and hurrying to her auntie's room she 
 found her on the floor, where she had fallen in her attempt to 
 strike a light. Her first words after Gertie helped her back to 
 bed were : 
 
 "I am going to die, and I must see Mrs. Schuyler and tell 
 her something. Go for her quick, and the doctor, too, if you 
 are not afraid." 
 
 She could talk then, but her powers of speech were gone now, 
 and when Edith went up to her and said : " What can I do for 
 you ? " her lips tried in vain to frame the words she would say, 
 while great drops of sweat stood upon her face, wrung out by 
 her intense desire to speak. It was hardly paralysis, or apo- 
 plexy either, the doctor said, but a kind of cross between the 
 two, and while it left her mind perfectly clear, it took from her 
 the power of utterance, and made her as helpless as a child. 
 
 " Can't you tell me what it is you wish to say to me ? " Edith 
 asked, as she took the hand which was raised- feebly to meet 
 hers. 
 
 There was a shake of the head, and Edith continued : " Per- 
 haps you can write it ? " 
 
 Another head shake, while the eager eyes went from Edith's 
 face to Gertie, and from Gertie back again. 
 
 " I think I can guess," Edith said. " It is about Gertie. 
 You wish to talk to me of her." 
 
 Then the quivering lips moved, and gave forth a sound which 
 Edith knew meant " Yes," and she continued : " You are anx- 
 ious about her future if you die ? " 
 
 Mrs. Rogers waited a moment and then nodded assent, while 
 every muscle of her face worked painfully as she tried to speak.
 
 242 MARY ROGERS. 
 
 " Oh, auntie," Gertie cried, as she bent over the sick woman, 
 ''don't be troubled for me. I can take care of myself. I am 
 strong and well and willing to work. I can find something to 
 do, and everybody will be kind to me." 
 
 There were tears in Mary's eyes, and they rolled down her 
 cheeks as she looked at the brave young girl, who was so sure 
 of finding kindness in everybody. 
 
 Meanwhile Edith had been thinking, and as the result of her 
 thought she said : 
 
 "Mrs. Rogers, will it comfort you to know that if you die 
 Gertie shall come to live with me, and that I will take care of 
 her ? " 
 
 Then the quivering lips managed to say : "Yes," and feeling 
 for Gertie's hand Mary put it in Edith's, and whispered "Yours," 
 while the sweat drops on her face grew larger and thicker with 
 her agonizing efforts to tell what she could not. How hard she 
 tried to make them understand the secret she had kept so long, 
 and once she took the shawl which lay near her, and folding it 
 up to look like a child, she held it close to her bosom as a 
 mother holds her baby, and then with her hand pointed to 
 Gertie, and from her to Edith, mumbling the one word, " Yours, 
 yours." 
 
 " What does she mean ? " Edith asked in great perplexity. 
 " It must be something about little Jamie, that you will take 
 care of him perhaps. Is that it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Rogers' " No-o-o " came with a moaning cry, followed 
 at last by the word " equal," spoken so plainly that there could 
 be no mistake. 
 
 " Equal," Edith repeated, thoughtfully ; and then, as a sudden 
 idea, came into her mind, her face flushed a little, and, remem- 
 bering the pride and haughtiness at Schuyler Hill, and the oppo- 
 sition she might have to encounter, she hesitated a moment 
 before she asked : " You wish Gertie to come to me as an 
 equal ? " 
 
 There was a decided nod, and then Edith glanced at the 
 beautiful girl beside her standing with clasped hands, her head 
 bent forward to listen, with a look of surprise and wonder in
 
 MARY ROGERS. 243 
 
 her eyes. That she should go to Schuyler Hill as anything but 
 an equal had never occurred to her, and the question hurt her 
 a little, and brought a flush of pride into her face as she waited 
 Edith's reply. 
 
 "Surely, they can make no menial of her," Edith thought, 
 as she looked again at the young girl just budding into woman- 
 hood, and resolving to brave everything she said, as if there 
 had never been a doubt in her mind. " Certainly, Mrs. Rogers, 
 (she shall come as an equal, and have every possible advantage. 
 I promise you that solemnly. Are you satisfied ? " 
 
 Mary nodded, while her eyes still wore that look of intense 
 longing, as if there was something more which she wished to 
 tell. But she could not, though she kept repeating " Yours, 
 yours" 
 
 They could not guess her meaning, and thought her mind 
 was wandering ; but the motion of dissent she made when they 
 hinted as much was a proof to the contrary. 
 
 Very sleepy, and uncomfortable, and a little impatient 
 withal, Colonel Schuyler waited in the adjoining room, wholly 
 unsuspicious of the compact which was to affect him so 
 seriously. But Edith did not forget him, or that it was his 
 right to have something to say on the matter ; and when she 
 saw the sick woman was quiet, she went out to him, and laying 
 her arm caressingly across his neck, said : 
 
 " Howard, I have done something which I trust you will ap- 
 prove. That poor woman is distressed about leaving Gertie 
 alone, and I have promised that she shall live with us." 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it," the colonel said, thinking of 
 Jamie, and how much he was attached to Gertie Westbrooke." 
 
 " Yes, but that is not all. I have promised to take her as 
 an equal ; not as a servant in any form. I am to treat her and 
 educate her as if she were my sister. Are you willing, How- 
 ard ? If not, say so at once, that I may take back my pledge 
 for if she dies with my promise given, I must keep it to the let- 
 ter. Are you willing, Howard ? " 
 
 He did not know whether he was or not. He only knew 
 that it was very disagreeable being turned out of bed at mid-
 
 244 MARY ROGERS. 
 
 night and brought through the storm to this comfortless room, 
 where the fire in the stove did not burn, and the one candle on 
 the table ran up a huge black wick and smelled horribly of tal- 
 low ; and then, to crown all, Edith must ask if he was willing 
 to take into his family and treat as her sister a little obscure 
 girl, whose mother took in fluting, and ironing, and mopping, 
 too, for aught he knew, for a living. Yes, it was hard, and his 
 eyebrows came together, and his hands went further into his 
 pockets, while he sat a moment in silence. Then he said : 
 
 " Do you wish it very much ? " 
 
 " Yes, I wish it," Edith said, " more than I have wished for 
 anything in years." 
 
 " Then take her," was the response ; and with a kiss of 
 thanks, Edith went back to the sick-room where Mrs. Rogers 
 was now asleep, with her head pillowed on Gertie's shoulder. 
 
 But the slumber did not last long, and when the gray, wet 
 wintry morning looked into the room, Mary Rogers was dead, and 
 what she had tried so hard to tell Edith Schuyler had not been 
 told. Gertie's grief at first was wild and passionate, but Edith 
 comforted her as best she could, and led her up to her own 
 chamber, the little room where she once had dreamed of future 
 happiness and then wept bitterly over its ruin. 
 
 As she entered the apartment and cast her eye upon the op- 
 posite wall, she started involuntarily, while the words rose to 
 her lips, " How came my. picture here ?" 
 
 But it was " La Sceur" which Robert, who was in New York 
 for the winter, had finished and given Gertie permission to hang 
 in her room, and which at first struck Edith forcibly as a like- 
 ness of herself when, a girl of fifteen, she used to look from the 
 windows of that room for the coming of Abelard. As she ex- 
 amined it more closely, however, the likeness faded, and she 
 could not see Heloise Fordham in it as plainly as she did at 
 first. 
 
 " Edith, my dear, you really must go now. I cannot allow 
 you to remain any longer," came from the foot of the stairs, 
 where the colonel was standing, and with a kiss for the desolate 
 child, and a promise to come again before the day was over,
 
 MARY ROGERS. 245 
 
 and to send Norah to stay altogether till after the funeral, Edith 
 joined her impatient lord and was driven rapidly home. 
 
 Nor did she return as she had promised, for exposure to the 
 damp night air brought on a severe cold, which confined her to 
 her room, where, on the day of the funeral, she sat looking 
 wistfully in the direction of the cottage, where the hearse was 
 standing before the gate, just as it stood that other day when 
 hers was the only heart which ached for the burden it took away. 
 It was the Schuyler carriage which took Gertie and Norah to 
 the grave, and Edith blessed her husband for this kindness to 
 the girl who was so much to her, and for his thoughtfulness in 
 requesting his daughters and their governess to attend the fun- 
 eral. He did it for her sake, she knew, and Julia knew so, 
 too, and in Edith's hearing made some remarks about " the 
 new element which was dragging her father down." 
 
 As yet she did not know that Gertie was coming to the Hill 
 to live. Neither did any one, except Mrs. Tiffe, for Edith 
 thought best not to speak of it during the two or three days 
 when Norah remained at the cottage looking over her cousin's 
 effects, packing away her things, and separating them from 
 Gertie's. 
 
 In a small tin box, which fastened with a spring, they found 
 several business-like documents, some yellow with age, some 
 fresher-looking, and among them the papers relating to Gertie's 
 "forty pounds." These Norah kept to give to Colonel Schuy- 
 ler; then carelessly glancing at a few of the others, and finding 
 them mostly receipts and papers relating, to the bank, now good 
 for nothing, she proposed to Gertie that they burn them. But 
 Gertie said, " No, J may want to look at them some time ; " so 
 they were again placed back in the box, which was put away in 
 Gertie's trunk and the house was set to rights, and the room 
 which Robert Macpherson still kept for his studio when he was 
 in Hampstead was left just as it was, with " La Soeur " re- 
 moved to its old place on the easel, and at the close of the 
 third day Norah locked the doors, and, with Gertie, passed out 
 into the street, leaving tenantless the cottage for which Godfrey 
 had never taken rent since Mrs. Rogers occupied it.
 
 24<> GERTIE AT THE HILL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 GERTIE AT THE HILL. 
 
 j|T was known now, from Mrs. Tiffe, the housekeeper, 
 down to Jennie, the scullion, that Gertie Westbrooke 
 was to be an inmate of the household, but no one 
 seemed to care particularly, unless it were Kitty, the laundress, 
 who groaned over the extra washing, but consoled herself that 
 the girl would not probably " wear as many frillicks and puffs as 
 the young ladies did." 
 
 VVith regard in her exact position in the family the servants 
 were at first in doubt, but guessed she was to be either second 
 waiting-maid to their mistress or nurse to the baby, but of this 
 opinion Edith, who overheard their conjectures, disabused them 
 at once. 
 
 "Miss Westbrooke is not coming here as waitress or nurse," 
 she said. " She comes as a young lady of the house, and as 
 such you will treat her with deference and respect." 
 
 The servants glanced curiously at each other, and John, the 
 table-waiter, said he knew now why Miss Julia looked so black 
 at lunch, and whisked so spitefully out of the room. 
 
 Julia was furious, and when alone with her father spoke her 
 mind freely to him, asking first if it were true, that Mrs. Schuy- 
 ler had adopted Gertie Rogers, and was to bring her there to 
 live. 
 
 " Not adopted ; no, certainly not adopted her," the colonel 
 said, apologetically, for there was something in his daughter's 
 black eyes which made him wince a little. " That woman was 
 anxious about her child's future, and Mrs. Schuyler, or, rather, 
 we promised to give her a home and an education, but there 
 was no talk of adoption. No, certainly not." 
 
 He was careful to spare Edith as much as possible, and gen- 
 erously said iff, but Julia was not deceived, and answered, in- 
 dignantly : 
 
 " What is Gertie Rogers and that woman to Mrs. Schuyler ?
 
 GERTIE AT THE HILL. 247 
 
 Are they relatives of hers, that she has so persistently interested 
 herself in them since she first came to Hampstead ? It would 
 certainly seem as if they were more than mere chance acquaint- 
 ances, as she affirms." 
 
 " Julia, hush ! I will hear no more ! " the colonel said ; but 
 Julia would not stop, and continued, hotly : 
 
 " I wonder what my mother would say could she know the 
 kind of society to which her children are subjected, and the 
 danger threatening Godfrey." 
 
 "Godfrey!" the colonel repeated, in surprise; and Julia 
 answered him : 
 
 " You must have been blind not to have seen the interest he 
 has taken in Gertie Rogers ever since she came here. Why, 
 she has even presumed to criticise his manners and his mode 
 of talk ; and he has promised to improve for her sake, and 
 holds her up as a pattern for Alice and me to imitate. If he 
 does this now, when she is in her proper place, what may he 
 not do when he finds her here, an equal, and a daughter of the 
 house, as I understand Mrs. Schuyler says she is to be. Pos- 
 sibly she rnay yet be the daughter really ; and if so, you'll have 
 yourself to thank." 
 
 Now, Julia had not the slightest fear for Godfrey, and the 
 entire secret of her aversion to the child lay in the interest which 
 Robert Macpherson manifested in her. From the first Julia 
 had appropriated Robert to herself, and was fearfully jealous of 
 any one who stood in her way in the least. She had quarrelled 
 with Rosamond Barton because he once escorted her home 
 from a party, and had refused to speak to Emma for an entire 
 day when she found her in the summer-house alone with Robert, 
 who was reading "Lady Geraldine's Love" to her; and though 
 Gertie was a mere child, she was even jealous of her because 
 of Robert's interest in her, and the unbounded praise he so 
 unhesitatingly bestowed upon her. He thought her face the 
 most beautiful he had ever seen, and he had painted her por- 
 trait and called it "La Sceur," and spoke of her so often in 
 Julia's presence that she began to hate the girl, who had here- 
 tofore been only indifferent to her as one beneath her notice ;
 
 248 GERTIE AT THE HILL. 
 
 and now she was to become an inmate of the family, where 
 Mr. Macpherson would meet her on terms of equality when he 
 came back to Hampstead in the spring ; and this was the cause 
 of Julia's anger, and the reason why she dared talk as she did 
 to her father, who was made quite as uncomfortable as she 
 wished him to be. 
 
 Perhaps it was an unwise thing to bring Gertie into the house 
 on terms of equality. She was very pretty. She would, of 
 course, grow prettier with years, while Godfrey was headstrong 
 and impetuous, and might be led to do her harm by attentions 
 which to him would mean nothing, but would, nevertheless, be 
 much to her. The colonel tried to believe that it was only for 
 Gertie that he anticipated harm. Godfrey would never be in 
 earnest, and, consequently, no serious injury could accrue to 
 him, except, indeed, the moral one of deceiving and playing 
 with the feelings of another. The real hurt would fall on 
 Gertie, and for her sake it might have been better if he had 
 left her where she was. Thus Colonel Schuyler reasoned after 
 Julia left him to his own reflections, which finally assumed the 
 conviction that Edith had been foolish, if not unreasonable, to 
 wish Gertie to come there, and he unwise to permit it. But it 
 was too late now. She was expected that very afternoon, and 
 as he went up to look at his boy before going into town, he 
 stumbled over dustpan and broom which were standing before 
 the door of the room opposite Edith's, and which he knew was 
 to be Gertie Westbrooke's. Glancing in, he saw a bright fire 
 in the grate, and a pretty bouquet of flowers on the dressing- 
 table, while Edith herself was arranging the chairs and curtains 
 and ornaments upon the mantel. 
 
 " Edith, what are you doing here in this cold room ? " he said, 
 rather sharply. 
 
 He had never spoken to her in this tone of voice, and she 
 turned toward him with a look of surprise in her face as she re- 
 plied : 
 
 " It is not cold ; the fire has been kindled some time, and I 
 wanted to see that Gertie's room was all right. I am so sorry 
 for her, and wish her to feel at home."
 
 GERTIE AT THE HILL. 249 
 
 " Yes, certainly ; but, Edith, Mrs. Schuyler, my dear, are 
 you not in danger of spoiling her by making so much of her. 
 You could hardly do more if she were Alice herself, and such 
 people do not often bear sudden elevation." 
 
 " Oh, Howard, what do you mean ? You are not sorry we 
 gave her a home ? " Edith said, in much perplexity at his man- 
 ner, as she followed him into the nursery. 
 
 "No, not exactly that, certainly not; tinder the circum- 
 stances we could hardly have done otherwise than to give her 
 a home, but we might have stopped there ; we need not have 
 made her one of the family, and our having done so may be 
 productive of a great deal of harm. My daughter Julia is al- 
 ready in open rebellion, and has said things which disturb me 
 very much." 
 
 "Julia," Edith began, indignantly, but checked herself at 
 once, as she met the questioning look in her husband's eyes, 
 and saw the meeting together of his eyebrows. 
 
 Julia had been her only bete noir since the departure of Miss 
 Rossiter, and though they were outwardly extremely polite to 
 each other, Edith knew that she was looked upon by the young 
 lady as an intruder and adventuress, and that the slightest pro- 
 vocation on her part would fan the smouldering fire into a flame. 
 
 Not a hint of this, however, had she ever given her husband, 
 who, as she stopped suddenly, said : 
 
 " You were going to speak of Julia." 
 
 " Nothing of any consequence," she replied, " except that I 
 will keep Gertie out of her way as much as possible." 
 
 " Yes, certainly, and now I must go. I have an appoint- 
 ment in town. There's the carriage at the door. Good-by." 
 
 He kissed her forehead and stooped to kiss his boy, when 
 Edith said hesitatingly : 
 
 " By the way, Howard, would you mind driving round by 
 the cottage on your way home and bringing Gertie with you ? 
 The snow is so deep and the walking so bad." 
 
 " I shall not have time," he answered, a little stiffly, as he 
 buttoned his overcoat, " and then, you forget that such people 
 do not mind mud and snow. They are used to it."
 
 250 GERTIE AT THE HILL. 
 
 He was gone before Edith could utter a word, and with a 
 swelling heart she watched him driving down the avenue, and 
 then bending over the cradle of her boy, she shed the first 
 really bitter tears she had known since coming to Schuylei 
 Hill. It is true she had received insolence from Miss Rossiter, 
 coldness from Julia, and indifference from Alice ; but these had 
 weighed little when her husband's uniform kindness and con- 
 sideration were in the opposite scale, and now it seemed as if 
 he, too, were against her, and for a time she cried silently, 
 wondering if she had done wrong to befriend the orphan girl, 
 and if her coming there would be the beginning of discord be- 
 tween herself and husband. 
 
 "Mrs. Schuyler, please, may I come in? It's I, Gertie," 
 a soft voice said at the door ; and starting up Edith went 
 to meet the young girl, and winding her arms around her, kissed 
 her lovingly, while all doubts of right and wrong were swept 
 away with her first glance into the bright, innocent face, and 
 the soft blue eyes looking at her so wonderingly. 
 
 Gertie had never expected the carriage to come for her. As 
 the colonel said, she was accustomed to mud and snow, and 
 had walked to the Hill and entered at the side door with 
 Norah, who, knowing the position she was to occupy in the 
 house, took her up stairs at once, and, pointing out her room, 
 left her, while she went to change her wet shoes and stockings. 
 But Gertie could not believe this pretty room was intended for 
 her. There must be some mistake, she thought ; and, seeing 
 the door opposite slightly ajar, and knowing it led into the 
 nursery, and that Mrs. Schuyler was probably there, she ven- 
 tured to knock and ask if she might enter. There was some- 
 thing peculiarly restful about Gertie, something mesmeric in 
 her presence, which everybody felt for good, and which affected 
 Edith at once, making her forget for a moment her husband's 
 words and manner. 
 
 " I am so glad to have you here, and this js your room," she 
 said, as she led her into her pleasant chamber. " I wanted 
 you nrar me and baby, he is so fond of you." 
 
 She icmoved Gertie's hood and cloak, and smoothed her rip-
 
 GERTIE AT THE HILL. 251 
 
 pling hair, and thought how pretty she was in black, and won- 
 dered where she had seen an expression like that which flashed 
 into the blue eyes and spread over the bright face at her 
 caresses. 
 
 It was an hour before dinner, and Gertie spent the time with 
 Edith and in playing with little Jamie, who, at sight of her, gave 
 a coo of delight, and nearly jumped into her arms. He was an 
 active, playful child, and Gertie was sorry when the nurse came 
 to take him, telling Mrs. Schuyler dinner was ready. This was 
 an ordeal Gertie dreaded, and in a kind of nervous terror she 
 cried, " Oh, Mrs. Schuyler, I wish I did not have to go down. 
 Can't I stay here and eat by myself? " 
 
 " Certainly not," Edith replied, knowing the while that such 
 a thing would be highly satisfactory to one of the young ladies, 
 at least, and possibly to her husband, but, nevertheless, being 
 fully resolved that every privilege of the house, whether great 
 or small, should be awarded to her protegee. " Certainly not, 
 you are one of us now. You are my little girl ; " and she 
 passed her arm caressingly around the child. " Watch me, if 
 you like, and do what you see me do." 
 
 Thus reassured, Gertie entered the long dining-room with as 
 much self-possession as if she had done the same thing every 
 day of her life. 
 
 " Oh, Gertie, how do you do ? And so you are come to live 
 with us," Emma said, kindly, as she came in, and offering her 
 hand she took her seat at the table, and did not once seem to 
 look at Gertie, whose feelings she wished to spare as much as 
 possible. 
 
 With Julia it was different. She called herself a lady, versed 
 in every point of politeness and breeding, and yet she could 
 deliberately stoop to wound a girl who had never injured her, 
 and whose only crime was her poverty. Arrayed in her longest 
 train of dark blue silk, her hair in the very latest style, as re- 
 ported by Alice Creighton, who was then in New York, she 
 swept haughtily into the room, and with a slight inclination of 
 her head to Edith, and a slighter one to Gertie, took her seat, 
 and while the soup, which she never took, was serving, occu-
 
 25 2 GERTTE AT THE fffLL. 
 
 pied herself with a French novel, occasionally fixing her eyes 
 upon Gertie, who was made very uncomfortable in conse- 
 quence. 
 
 Colonel Schuyler had not yet returned from town, but he 
 came before dinner was over. He was very sorry for the un- 
 graciousness of his manner when talking with his wife of Gertie, 
 and the pained expression of her face had haunted him all 
 the afternoon, and been the cause of his driving round by the 
 cottage on his way home. 
 
 " I can at least do that," he thought ; " and the roads are 
 worse than I supposed." 
 
 But the cottage was empty, and the colonel drove home 
 alone, resolving to be very kind to the orphan girl for Edith's 
 sake and conquer all his fears for Godfrey until he saw some- 
 thing tangible, when it would be time to act. So when he en- 
 tered the dining-room and met Gertie's eyes raised so timidly 
 to his, he went to her, and offering her his hand, bade her wel- 
 come to his house, and said : 
 
 " I drove to the cottage for you, but was too late. I fear 
 you found the walking very bad ? " 
 
 She had not minded it, she said, while the beaming glance 
 which Edith gave him told him that his peace was made with 
 her, and he became exceedingly urbane, and even talkative, 
 and addressing some pleasant remarks to Gertie, made her feel 
 more at ease, if possible, than Edith's reassuring words had done. 
 She was very pretty, and graceful, and modest, and he watched 
 her movements with an interest he could not define, and com- 
 pared her with Alice Creighton and his own daughters, who, so 
 far as beauty was concerned, fell far in the scale. 
 
 Emma was very kind to her, and paid her several little atten- 
 tions during the evening, but Julia preserved the same haughty 
 demeanor she had at first assumed, and never spoke to her or 
 noticed her in any way. When she had once conceived a pre- 
 judice, it was very strong, and that night, after retiring to her 
 room, she wrote to her aunt Christine of this "last indignity put 
 upon them," and wished that she was emancipated from school 
 like Alice, and could leave the home which seemed like home
 
 GERTIE AT THE HILL. 253 
 
 no longer. On the receipt of this letter Miss Rossiter wrote to 
 her brother-in-law, saying she had heard of nis kindness in 
 giving Gertie VVestbrooke a home until something could be 
 done for her, and adding that she had in her mind a plan which 
 would relieve him of the girl and benefit the child as well. 
 She was wanting a little maid to be with her constantly, and 
 Gertie would do nicely after a little training. 
 
 " I believe your wife has some Quixotic idea of educating 
 her," she added, in conclusion, " and without giving my opinion 
 in full with regard to elevating that class of people, I will say 
 that if the girl comes to me I shall myself teach her an hour 
 each day, which I consider all that is necessary, with what she 
 already knows. I hope you will send her as soon as possi- 
 ble, for Alice is to stay with me through Lent so as to be 
 near St. Alban's, and between us we shall need an extra 
 maid." 
 
 What effect this letter would have had upon the colonel had 
 he received it under ordinary circumstances, I do not know. 
 As it was, it remained unopened for many days, while in an 
 agony of anxiety he watched his baby boy, who lay almost con- 
 stantly in Gertie's arms, its little hand holding fast to hers as if 
 fearful of losing her. It was scarlet fever in its most malignant 
 form, and at the very first alarm, Julia, who was afraid of disease 
 in any form, fled to her own chamber, where, like a true niece of 
 her aunt, she burned tar and kept chloride of lime as a disin- 
 fectant, and never went near the room where her baby brother 
 was dying. Even the wet-nurse shrank from the fever-smitten 
 child, fearing for the safety of her own little nurseling. But 
 Gertie knew no fear, and from the moment little Jamie opened 
 his heavy eyes at the sound of her voice, and raised his hands to 
 her with the shadow of a smile on his face, she stood by him 
 day and night and held him at the very last upon her lap, hers 
 the last voice which spoke words of endearment to him, and 
 hers the last lips which touched his in life, for Edith was faint- 
 ing in the adjoining room, and the colonel in his anxiety for her 
 did not know the end had come till he saw Gertie fold the child 
 to her breast, while amid a rain of tears she said : " Poor Jamie
 
 254 GERTIE AT THE HILL. 
 
 is in heaven now ; " then she laid him gently back in his crib, 
 and the colonel knew his boy was dead. 
 
 They telegraphed for Godfrey, and the house was hung with 
 mourning, and Julia stayed in her room and wondered if she 
 would have to wear black, and Emma cried herself sick, and 
 Edith sat motionless as a stone beside her dead baby, with a 
 look of unutterable anguish on her face and no power to speak 
 even had she wished it, for the iron hand was on her throat, and 
 her heart was breaking for more than the dead child beside her. 
 
 Who had tended the death-bed of that other one ? Who had 
 folded the little hands upon the bosom as Jamie's were folded ? 
 Who had curled the rings of golden hair as Jamie's were curled ? 
 And who had kissed the pretty lips as she kissed these before 
 her? Nobody, nobody. Hospital nurses had no time for tears 
 or caresses ; strangers had buried her baby girl, and she, the 
 mother, had made no sign, either then or since, and God was 
 punishing her for it, and her heart was broken in twain as she 
 sat, white, and still, and speechless, while her husband tried to 
 comfort her. 
 
 Then it was that Gertie thought of everything. Gertie carried 
 messages to and from Miss Julia, who unbent to her now that 
 she could make her useful ; Gertie comforted poor Emma ; 
 Gertie anticipated the colonel's wishes before they were spoken, 
 and Gertie took the white flowers from the conservatory, and 
 putting them on baby's pillow, laid her hand pityingly on the 
 bowed head of Edith, who moved at the touch, and looking up, 
 saw the flowers upon the pillow and the girl who had laid them 
 there. Then the iron hand relaxed a little and Edith gasped, 
 " Oh, Gertie, my child, my little one," while the first tears she 
 had shed began to fall like rain and her body shook with sobs, 
 which did her good, for she was better after the outburst, though 
 she would not leave the room until her husband took her away 
 and put her in her bed, where she lay utterly helpless and pros- 
 trate while they buried her boy from her sight. 
 
 Godfrey came to the funeral and saw his little brother first in 
 his coffin, and was very decorous, and grave, and kind to both 
 his sisters, and respectful to his father, and solicitous about
 
 GERTIE AT THE HILL. 255 
 
 Edith, and attentive to Gertie, whom he called the sunbeam in 
 the house. 
 
 " I don't know what we should do without you now, and I 
 am so glad you are here," he said to her, on the morning after 
 the funeral, when he stood with her a moment by the window of 
 the drawing-room, and thought how pretty she was, and how 
 womanly she had grown within the last six months. 
 
 " How old are you, Gertie ? " he asked ; and when she told 
 him fourteen last January, he continued : u Almost a young 
 lady. I shall have to hurry up and get to be that perfect gentle- 
 man whom you are to reward with a kiss, or you will be re- 
 fusing to pay ; eh, Gertie ? " 
 
 He spoke playfully and laid his hand lightly on her hair, 
 while a beautiful blush broke over the face which was upturned 
 to his, when a stern voice called : 
 
 " Godfrey, my son, I want you ; " and Colonel Schnyler stood 
 in the door, with a stern look of disapproval in his eyes. 
 
 The colonel had read Miss Rossiter's letter that morning, and 
 tearing it in a dozen pieces, had answered, saying that the girl 
 who had been so much to his lost boy, and was so much to his 
 dear wife, would henceforth be his special care, and that if Miss 
 Christine wanted a waiting-maid she must look elsewhere, as 
 she could not have Gertie Westbrooke. This letter he had 
 sent to the post ; nor was he sorry for it even when he came so 
 unexpectedly upon his son and fancied far more than he saw. 
 
 Gertie was too closely connected with his dead boy for him 
 to cast her off; but he could not keep her there, and on the 
 instant he formed the plan that she ' should be educated away 
 from Schuyler Hill, where Godfrey could not see her until mat- 
 ters between him and Alice were finally adjusted, and he had 
 outgrown any boyish fancy he might entertain for this child. 
 
 He had meant at first to keep Godfrey for a few days, but he 
 sent him back at once, and as soon as Edith could bear it, told 
 her of his decision with regard to Gertie, and told her in such 
 a way that she did not venture to oppose him, though her heart 
 ached with a new pain as she thought of losing the girl who 
 seemed so verv near to her. After many inquiries it was de-
 
 256 AFTER FOUR YEARS. 
 
 cided that the Misses H 's school in Buffalo was the place 
 
 for Gertie, inasmuch as the training there was very thorough ; 
 and when in the spring Godfrey came home for a short vaca- 
 tion, bringing Macpherson with him, he was told that Gertie 
 was in Buffalo fitting for a teacher. 
 s 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 AFTER FOUR YEARS. 
 
 " Silently as the spring-time 
 
 Its crown of verdure weaves, 
 And all the trees, on all the hills, 
 Open their thousand leaves " 
 
 ijO, silently fled the next four years, and I come now 
 to the glorious day when summer was everywhere, from 
 the perfume of the new-mown hay on the lawn to the 
 golden flecks of sunshine on the river, and the musical hum of 
 happy animal life heard on every side. 
 
 I had been an invalid for a long time, and had mingled but 
 little with the outer world. With the affairs at Schuyler Hill, 
 however, I was pretty well acquainted, for Edith and I were 
 great friends now. At first she had stood aloof from me, but 
 when she heard of my illness, she came at once, and, with 
 kind words and many delicate attentions, made my life far hap- 
 pier than it could have been without her. After the little grave 
 was made under the evergreen and Gertie went away, she came 
 to me oftener, and, during the long rides which we took to- 
 gether in her pretty phaeton, she told me much of her life at 
 Schuyler Hill. A very happy life it had been for the most part, 
 though it had its dark side, as what life has not ? Miss Rossi- 
 ter had been a trouble while she stayed, and, even after she 
 was gone, her influence was felt in Julia's fitful moods and pe- 
 culiar temper after the receipt of the letters, in which allusions 
 were always made to " that woman who has usurped your poor 
 dear mother's place."
 
 AFTER FOUR YEARS. 257 
 
 And still Miss "Rossiter came every summer to the Hill, and 
 stayed a month or six weeks, and took upon herself such in- 
 sufferable airs that Edith was glad when she was gone, and 
 made the day of her departure a sort of jubilee. 
 
 Julia was now nearly twenty-two, and very handsome it was 
 thought, though her beauty was of that dark, bold, dashing style 
 which I did not admire. Emma, with her paleness and light 
 brown hair, suited me better ; for there was a sweet, gentle ex- 
 pression in her face, while in grace of manner and form she far 
 excelled her haughty sister, who patronized her generally. 
 
 Since their coming out neither of the young ladies had been 
 much at home, and we missed the style, and dash, and city airs 
 which they used to bring us, and had only Rosamond Barton 
 and Mrs. Schuyler to admire and copy, except, indeed, on the 
 rare occasions when Gertie was allowed to pass her vacations 
 in Hampstead. I say allowed, for the colonel managed so 
 adroitly that she never came to Schuyler Hill when Godfrey 
 was there or expected, but spent her vacations elsewhere in 
 happy ignorance of the real reason for her banishment. 
 
 And so we did not see her often in our quiet town ; but when 
 we had her with us it was a season of rejoicing, and we made 
 the most of it. How I used to wait and listen for the rapid 
 step and the clear, ringing voice, which always set my heart 
 throbbing, and did me so much good. I did not wonder that 
 everybody loved her, from old Mrs. Vandeusenhisen in the 
 Hollow, to Tom Barton on the Ridge, and when the former 
 brought me fresh eggs for my breakfast, and told me with a 
 beaming face that " her young lady came home last night look- 
 ing handsomer than ever," I knew she meant Gertie West- 
 brooke ; and when Tom Barton looked in and said, with a 
 falter in his voice, "She went this morning," I knew that he 
 meant Gertie, too, and pitied him for the hope he was cherish- 
 ing, and which I was sure would never be fulfilled. 
 
 Since the memorable day when Mary Rogers spoke so boldly 
 for the child whom she would not have compromised by so 
 much as a breath of gossip, Tom Barton had kept his promise, 
 and guarded the little girl as carefully as if she had been his
 
 258 AFTER FOUR YEARS. 
 
 sister, until she ceased to be a little girl, and 'he saw her in all 
 the bright loveliness of sixteen, and then Tom went down be- 
 fore her charms, and asked her to quit school, and be his wife, 
 and live with him at the Ridge, and snub Miss Julia Schuyler 
 as she had been snubbed by her. 
 
 " No, Mr. Barton, I cannot be your wife. No girl would be 
 that, if she loved you ever so much," Gertie had answered, fear- 
 lessly, while Tom blushed painfully, and knew just what she 
 meant, and swore he would reform, and not look so much like 
 a walking beer-barrel. 
 
 And he did try to reform, and took the pledge, and broke it 
 in three weeks, and had the delirium tremens, and saw all 
 manner of snakes twisting themselves around Gertie Westbrooke, 
 on whom he called piteously in his agony. Then he took the 
 pledge again, and kept it, and gradually the high color left his 
 face, and his figure began to assume a better shape, and his 
 clothes were not so tight, and he came to see me so often that 
 the meddlesome ones in town wondered if old Ettie Armstrong 
 could be foolish enough to think that boy wanted anything of 
 her! 
 
 " Why, she is forty at least," good Mrs. Smithers said, aver- 
 ring that she knew, because the day I was born their bees 
 swarmed, and her husband broke his neck trying to saw oft" the 
 limb where they had settled. 
 
 Of course such evidence was unanswerable, but as I knew 
 just how old I was. and why Tom Barton visited me so often, 
 I did not care to contradict the story of the bees, and I Jet Tom 
 Barton come whenever he pleased to talk of his " best girl," as 
 he called her, and to keep him from the " Golden Eagle," the 
 low tavern where he had slipped so often. 
 
 At last, however, Gertie's education was finished, and she 
 came home to stay, and the colonel welcomed her kindly, and 
 thought how beautiful she was, and felt his blood stir a little 
 when she raised herself on tip-toe and kissed him as a matter 
 of course. Julia never did that and Emma but seldom, while 
 Edith kept most of her kisses now for the two-year-old boy 
 Arthur, so that the cold, reserved man was not much used to
 
 AFTER FOUR YEARS. 259 
 
 kisses of late, and felt the touch of Gertie's lips for hours, and 
 caught himself contrasting her with Alice Creighton, whom he 
 had last seen so elaborately dressed with powder on her face 
 and every hair seeming to stand on end. But thirty thousand 
 a year covers many defects, and Alice was still the colonel's 
 ideal of a daughter-in-law when he welcomed Gertie home. 
 
 She had been there three months, and on the June morning 
 of which I write I was going up to call upon her for the first 
 time since her return. I found her in the garden, in her big 
 sun-hat and heavy gloves, cutting and arranging flowers with 
 which to decorate the house, for a party of young people was 
 coming from New York that day, and everything and every- 
 body was in a great state of expectancy. During the last year 
 and a half Robert Macpherson had been in Europe looking 
 after his inheritance, which by the death of some one had come 
 indisputably to him at last. Several times he had written to 
 Godfrey urging him to cross the ocean with his sisters and Miss 
 Creighton, and visit him in his Highland home ; and as nothing 
 could please the young ladies better, the party had sailed for 
 Europe in time to keep the Easter festival at Glenthorpe, Rob- 
 ert's handsome country-seat. But they had now returned to 
 New York, and Robert Macpherson was with them, and for a 
 week or more they had been stopping with Miss Rossiter and 
 waiting for Rosamond Barton, who was to accompaify them to 
 Hampstead. It was two years since Godfrey was graduated, 
 and since that time he had been studying his profession in the 
 city until he went with his sisters for a short vacation to Europe. 
 
 " Only think, I have not seen Godfrey for more than four 
 years, and have almost forgotten how he looks," Gertie said, 
 after welcoming me to the garden, and telling me of the ex- 
 pected guests. " It is queer that I have not seen him, but he 
 never happened to be home when I was," she continued, as she 
 gathered up the bouquets and went with me to the house, where 
 she began to distribute the flowers, putting the most, I noticed, 
 in Godfrey's room, and seeming more interested in that than in 
 all the others. 
 
 Edith was in her nursery, and when Gertie's decorations were
 
 260 AFTER FOUR YEARS. 
 
 completed and she came and stood by her, I was struck as I 
 had been more than once before by their resemblance to each 
 other. 
 
 They certainly might have been sisters, though Gertie was in 
 her sweet spring-time and Edith in the fulness of her summer. 
 Time had dealt lightly with her, and she looked scarcely older 
 than when she came a bride to Schuyler Hill. She was very 
 happy, too, though I saw she dreaded the coming of the young 
 people from New York. But not for herself. She had reached 
 a height where neither Alice's haughtiness, nor Julia's arrogance, 
 nor Miss Rossitei j s insolence, could touch her. She was only 
 anxious for Gertie, who might be treated coldly, if not rudely, 
 by some of the party. And when she remembered the fear which 
 had for so many years influenced every act of her husband to- 
 ward Gertie, and, looking at the beautiful girl, remembered 
 what Godfrey was, she trembled, notwithstanding the piece of 
 news which she had heaui the previous night, and which she 
 communicated to me, with Gertie sitting in the deep window 
 fanning herself with her garden hat, and rubbing the scratch she 
 had received among the roses. 
 
 "By the way," Edith said, "the colonel had a letter from 
 Godfrey last night, and it seems the engagement he has so long 
 desired has at last come about." 
 
 " Whose engagement ? " I asked. 
 
 " Godfrey's and Miss Creighton's." 
 
 " I supposed that was settled long ago." 
 
 " It was by the parents, but not by the parties most inter- 
 ested. Godfrey has never manifested any great degree of 
 fervor, and has rather made light of it, I think ; but it is done 
 now, and they will be married as soon as he gets his profession, 
 possibly sooner. The colonel is greatly rejoiced." 
 
 I glanced at Gertie, still rubbing and blowing the scratch on 
 her hand, but if the news of Godfrey's approaching marriage 
 produced any effect upon her it was not visible. Her blight 
 color was just as bright and her blue eyes just as placid in their 
 expression, unless, indeed, there was a little wonder in them as 
 she looked up quickly and said :
 
 THE TRAVELLERS. 261 
 
 " A newly engaged couple, won't that be nice ? How do 
 you suppose Mr. Godfrey will act as an engaged man ? I al 
 ways think of him as a boy, and still he must be twenty-four." 
 
 And yet in her heart there was a shadow of regret that God- 
 frey should be wasted upon Alice Creighton, who never liked 
 her, and'who might make Godfrey dislike her, too. 
 
 " She shall not do that," she thought, when alone in her own 
 room she was reflecting upon the news which had dimmed 
 somewhat the brightness of the day. " I'll be so kind and 
 good to her that she cannot help liking me, and so I'll gain her 
 friendship instead of losing Godfrey's." 
 
 With this end in view, she transferred a part of the flowers 
 from Godfrey's room to that of his fiancee, where she re- 
 arranged the furniture, and into which she brought her own 
 handsome reading chair, Edith's gift on her last birthday. Re- 
 membering Alice's indolent, lounging habits, and how much she 
 was addicted to what Godfrey called " lying around loose," she 
 knew the chair would just suit the languid little lady, and 
 placed it by the window where the finest view of the river was 
 to be had. Later in the day she dressed herself for the evening 
 and wore her prettiest white muslin, with the fluted ruffles and 
 ribbons of blue, and then went down to the piazza where the 
 colonel and Edith were waiting for their guests. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE TRAVELLERS, 
 
 ERE Miss Creighton, Miss Schuyler, Miss Emma 
 Schuyler, Miss Barton, Godfrey, Robert and Tom ; 
 and they made a very merry party as they entered the 
 car at the Thirty-first Street station, and with their dash and 
 style and self-assurance of manner seemed to take entire posses- 
 sion of the road and ignore the presence of every one. 
 
 " Three gentlemen to four ladies ; that's lucky for one of 
 us," Tom Barton said, as he quietly appropriated his sister and
 
 262 THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 Emma Schuyler to himself, leaving Julia as a matter of course 
 to Robert Macpherson, and Alice to her betrothed. 
 
 Good-natured Tom did not care a picayune with whom he 
 talked or sat, so long as he knew he was to dine at Schuyler 
 Hill, and see Gertie with the wonderful eyes and hair, and the 
 shy drooping of her lids and the bright color coining arid going 
 in her face just as it did when she told him there was no hope, 
 but bade him be a man all the same for her sake and the sake 
 of the fair girl he would find some day to take her place in his 
 heart. Tom knew he shouldn't find the girl, but he was trying 
 to be a man, and even Julia Schuyler tolerated him now, and 
 divided her coquetries between him and Robert Macpherson, 
 who was unusually quiet and studied the scenery from the win- 
 dow more than he did the dark, handsome face beside him. 
 
 Alice was satisfied to talk with Godfrey, and no one in the 
 car who watched her could help guessing what he was to her, 
 or that she was more delighted with the state of affairs than he. 
 Alice was not Godfrey's choice, though he was engaged to her, 
 and had been for four days, during which time she had made 
 the most of her new dignity, and shown her lover to as many 
 of her friends as possible, and chosen her own engagement 
 ring, and looked at a corner house far up town, which she 
 wished Godfrey to secure at any cost, as her heart was set upon 
 it. And Godfrey acquiesced in everything, and got the refusal 
 of the house, and went with her to look at some rare bronzes 
 and a $5,000 painting, on which her heart was also set, and 
 played the devoted lover as well as he could, with no shadow 
 of genuine love in the whole affair so far as he was concerned. 
 How he came to be engaged he hardly knew, except that his 
 father desired it, while Alice herself expected it, and people had 
 talked of it so long that he had gradually come to consider it 
 as something he must take as a matter of course, just as he took 
 the measles, and the mumps, and the chicken-pox. And yet 
 it was very sudden at the last. " A word and a blow," he said 
 to Robert, who asked why he looked so white when, after the 
 deed was done, he went to call on his friend at the hotel. 
 
 " White," Godfrey replied. " I guess you'd be white, too, if
 
 THE TRAVELLERS. 263 
 
 you'd been and gone and got engaged as I have ! Why, Bob, 
 I feel as I did when I was a little shaver, and swallowed a rusty 
 copper, and Aunt Christine slapped me on the back, till the 
 copper flew half-way across the room, and I was black as your 
 hat. I say, Bob, hit me a cut or two, and see if I can't throw 
 this up." 
 
 With a merry laugh Robert replied : 
 
 " I don't believe you'll throw up thirty thousand a year as 
 easily as you did the rusty copper ; but tell me about it. How 
 did it happen, and when ? " 
 
 "Why, you see," Godfrey rejoined, "I always supposed it 
 would have to come, father was so anxious, and mother, too, 
 before she died ; but I guess a chap is never in a hurry to take 
 what he is sure of, and I've staved it off, and never even looked 
 love at her, except in a joking way, until this morning, when I 
 went to call upon her at Uncle Calvert's, and found her so pale 
 and pensive, the result of that abominable sea-sickness, from 
 which you know she suffered the voyage home. Now there is 
 nothing strikes to my stomach quite so quick as sea-sickness, 
 and I felt sorry for her, and when she told me how lonesome 
 she was at Uncle Calvert's, with the everlasting din of those street 
 cars in her ears, and cried a little, why, I I I began to feel 
 kind of, well, just as any chap would feel sitting by a nice girl, 
 who, he knows, expects to marry him, with a tear running down 
 the side of her nose, and so it was very easy for me to pick up 
 her fat, white hands, she has pretty hands, and pat them a 
 little, and say : ' Suppose we get married, Alice, and then you 
 can live with me, and not have to stay in this poky house. 
 Shall we, Alice ? ' " 
 
 " 'Yes, Godfrey,' she said, and then, well, I'll leave some- 
 thing to your imagination, only the thing is settled, and we are 
 to go to Tiffany's this afternoon and get the ring, and to-morrow 
 we look at that show-house up town, which Larkin built and 
 failed in, and I am to write to father, and the news will be over 
 Hampstead when we get there, and I feel, as I told you, much 
 as I did when I swallowed the cent ! " 
 
 This was Godfrey's account of his engagement, from which
 
 264 THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 the reader will infer that so far as his heart was concerned there 
 was very little of it in the matter. But he did not love any one 
 else, and that was in Alice's favor ; and she managed him sc 
 adroitly that he made a very well behaved lover, deferring to all 
 her wishes, and treating her with attention, and even a show of 
 tenderness when the)' were alone. 
 
 Once, on the day before they went to Hampstead, Robert 
 said to him : 
 
 " By the way, Schuyler, is ' La Sceur ' at the Hill ? " 
 
 " ' La Sxur ! ' Gertie, you mean," Godfrey replied. " I 
 really do not know whether she has left school or not. Nobody 
 ever mentions her in any of their letters, and I've lost track of 
 her entirely. I wrote to her two or three times when she first 
 went off to school, but she did not answer, and so I gave it up. 
 Why, it's four years and a half since I saw her. She must be a 
 young lady by this time. I say, Bob, do you suppose she is as 
 sweet and pretty now as she was when you painted that pic- 
 ture ? I thought her then the daintiest creature I had ever 
 seen." 
 
 Before Robert could reply there was a knock on the door, 
 and Tom Barton was ushered in. He had come from Hamp- 
 stead by the morning train, and called to see his old friends 
 when he learned where they were. With Gertie fresh in his 
 mind, Godfrey said to him : 
 
 " Barton, do you know if that little girl we almost pulled caps 
 over once is at the Hill now ? " 
 
 " Do you mean Miss Westbrooke ? " Tom said, in a tone 
 which made Godfrey turn quickly to look at him, while a sus- 
 picion which hurt him strangely flashed through his mind. 
 
 "Yes, I mean Miss Westbrooke. She is a young lady now, 
 I suppose. Is she at home, and pretty as ever ? " 
 
 Tom had heard from his sister of Godfrey's engagement, and 
 as the world had long ago given Robert Macpherson to Julia 
 Schuyler, he had nothing to dread from either, and launched forth 
 at once into praises of Gertie Westbrooke, the most beautiful 
 creature upon whom the sun ever shone, as well as the purest, 
 and sweetest, and best.
 
 THE TRAVELLERS. 265 
 
 "Why, there is not a man, woman, or child in Hampstead 
 that would not fall down and worship her if she wished it." 
 
 " Upon my word, Tom, you must be far gone," Godfrey said, 
 with that little hurt still in his heart. " I should not wonder if 
 you and I were in the same boat, eh ? " 
 
 He looked curiously at Tom, who answered him frankly and 
 sadly withal : 
 
 " No, Godfrey, she won't have a drunken dog like me. She 
 told me so herself, not in those words, to be sure, but in the 
 sweet, gentle way she has of telling the truth for one's good. I 
 swore then I'd reform, and 1 have not been drunk in a year, 
 and if I ever am a man again, it will be Gertie Westbrooke who 
 saved me, Heaven bless her ! " 
 
 There was a tremor in Tom's voice as he said this, and then 
 added, abruptly : 
 
 " Yes, she's at the Hill. You'll see her when you get home." 
 
 And so when Godfrey sat at last in the railway car beside his 
 betrothed, to whom he paid the attentions she required of him, 
 his thoughts were not so much with her as with the girl at Schuy- 
 ler Hill, whom every man, woman and child admired, if Tom's 
 word was to be trusted. Alice, too, thought of her, and calling 
 across the aisle to Julia, asked : 
 
 " Is that Westbrooke girl at Schuyler Hill ? " 
 
 " I believe so," Julia replied, adding, as she saw the look of 
 interest in Robert's face : "I think she is a kind of companion 
 for Mrs. Schuyler, and will, perhaps, be little Arthur's gover- 
 ness. You know father educated her for a teacher ? " 
 
 " I saw her last winter," Rosamond Barton said ; " and 
 really, girls, she has the most beautiful face and form I ever 
 looked at. Everything about her is perfect. You'll have to 
 paint her again, Mr. Macpherson. Your first picture does not 
 do her justice now." 
 
 Robert bowed, while Julia said, snappishly : 
 
 " Indeed, I am most anxious to behold this paragon. I have 
 not seen her either for two years or more. She had a very red 
 nose then." 
 
 " Yes, but it came from a bad cold," Emma quickly inter-
 
 266 THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 posed, ready now as ever to defend the right ; and then the con- 
 versation touching Gertie ceased, and a few moments after the 
 whistle sounded, and the party had reached the Hampstead 
 station. 
 
 They walked to the house, and Gertie watched them as they 
 came up the avenue, Tom, Rosamond and Emma, Robert 
 Macpherson and Julia, and lastly Godfrey and Alice, he carry- 
 ing her shawl and travelling satchel, and she looking up into his 
 face in that matter-of-course, assured kind of way she had as- 
 sumed since her engagement. 
 
 But Godfrey had other occupation than attending to her and 
 her pretty coquetries. His eyes had travelled up the road, 
 across the lawn to the broad piazza, and the young girl stand- 
 ing there, clothed in white, with the blue ribbons round her 
 waist and the bright hair on her neck. And that he knew was 
 Gertie ; not much taller than when he saw her last, but grown 
 and rounded into beautiful womanhood, which showed itself 
 even at that distance, though not in all its fulness. That came 
 to him when at last he stood with her hand in his looking into 
 her upturned face and drinking in with every glance fresh 
 draughts of her wondrous beauty, which so bewildered and in- 
 toxicated him that until Alice spoke to him twice and asked for 
 her satchel he did not hear her. Then releasing Gertie's hand, 
 he turned to Alice and said : 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I did not know you were speaking to 
 me." 
 
 Then he kissed Edith, and tossed little Arthur in his arms, 
 and shook his father's hand, and greeted the servants with his 
 old freedom and kindness of manner, while Gertie stood just 
 where he left her, thinking how differently it had all happened 
 from what she had expected. 
 
 Mr. Macpherson had been glad to see her, and had shown it, 
 and so had Emma and Rosamond, while Alice had offered her 
 two fingers, and said, in a formal way, " Happy to meet you," 
 and Julia had offered one finger with a nod and a " how d'ye 
 do, Gertie," but Godfrey had not said one word ! He had 
 merely taken her hand and held it, and looked at her, not quite
 
 THE TRAVELLERS. 26 J 
 
 as friend looks at friend after an absence of years, but in a way 
 which puzzled and perplexed her, and made her heart throb 
 quickly, and the color deepen on her cheeks. How handsome 
 he was, and how changed in some respects from the tall, slen- 
 der youth, who seemed all legs and arms, but who now in the 
 fulness of manhood was not one inch too tall. All the lank- 
 ness of his boyhood was gone, but the grace and suppleness re- 
 mained, and his erect form and square shoulders would have 
 become the finest officer that ever drilled his pupils at West 
 Point. On the face, once so smooth and fair, there was a rich 
 brown beard now, and the hair had taken a darker tinge, and 
 curling a little at the ends lay in thick masses around his broad 
 white brow. Even his eyes were softened, though they still 
 brimmed with fun and mischief, and tenderness, too, as Gertie 
 knew when they were gazing into hers. 
 
 " What do you think of Godfrey ?" 
 
 It was Tom Barton who asked the question, and starting from 
 her dreamy attitude, Gertie replied : 
 
 " I think him the most splendid-looking man I ever saw." 
 
 " That's so," Tom answered, warmly, while Gertie, who had 
 no wish to talk with him further then, passed into the house 
 and went to her own room. 
 
 It was six o'clock, and with a hasty glance at herself in the 
 mirror, and a thought that her personal appearance mattered 
 nothing to any one, she went down to the parlor, where the 
 family usually assembled before going in to dinner. They 
 were all there now, talking and laughing in little groups, except 
 Godfrey, who stood apart from the others, leaning his elbow 
 on the mantel and watching the door as if expecting some one 
 to enter. He had mentally commented on the ladies as they 
 came in, pronouncing Edith beautiful, Julia handsome, Emma 
 graceful and stylish, Rosamond pretty and sweet, and Alice 
 stunning and fashionable ; and now he was waiting for the girl 
 in the simple white muslin, who came at last, without the aid 
 of Parisian toilet or ornament of any kind, and eclipsed the 
 whole, just as the morning sun obscures the daylight and makes 
 itself the centre of light and glory. There was no shadow of
 
 268 THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 embarrassment perceptible as she entered the parlor, but her 
 manner was that of a daughter of the house rather than 
 an inferior, as she crossed the long room and joined the group 
 by the bay window. There was a supercilious stare from 
 Julia, a little nod from Alice, and a welcoming smile from 
 Edith, Emma, and Rosamond ; and then the conversation 
 flowed on again until the dinner-bell rang, and the party filed 
 off in pairs to the dining-room. As a matter of course, God- 
 frey took Alice, while Julia fell naturally to Robert, and Tom 
 was left with three girls on his hands. 
 
 " I can't beau you all, so I guess I'll take my pick," he said, 
 as he offered his arm to Gertie, while his sister and Emma fol- 
 lowed behind. 
 
 And so it came about that Tom was seated between Gertie 
 and Julia Schuyler, who, not satisfied with the attentions of 
 Mr. Macpherson, tried her best to attract Torn also, and keep 
 him from talking to Gertie. 
 
 " Not any wine ? " she said, as he drew his glass away when 
 the decanter was passed. " That is something new. You'll 
 surely take a little with me. It is some of father's very best." 
 
 Tom knew that as well or better than she did, and the smell 
 and the demon in the cup moving itself upright was tempting 
 him sorely, while Julia's seductive smile and words of entreaty 
 were more than he could endure, and forgetting what even a 
 taste involved he- raised the glass, while Rosamond, sitting op- 
 posite, looked pale and anxious, and distressed. But ere a 
 drop had touched his lips, a hand pressed his arm, and a soft 
 voice said, " Don't." 
 
 Instantly the glass went down upon the table with so much 
 force that the wine was spilled upon the cloth, while Julia mut- 
 tered, under her breath, " Upon my word !" as she cast a light- 
 ning glance upon Gertie, whose face flushed, but whose blue eyes 
 smiled approvingly upon poor Tom, and intoxicated him almost 
 as much as the colonel's best wine could have done, only in a 
 different way. 
 
 " You are a darling," Rosamond whispered to her, when at 
 a late hour she and her brother were saying good-by to the
 
 THE TRAVELLERS. 269 
 
 young people at the Hill. " Nobody but you could have kept 
 Tom from drinking. I shall tell mother about it." 
 
 Tom, too, subdued, and ashamed that he had been so near 
 falling again, and very grateful to his deliverer, whispered his 
 words of thankfulness. 
 
 " You are my good angel, Gertie ; but for you I should have 
 been as drunk as a fool by this time. Heaven bless you as you 
 deserve ! " 
 
 Then the brother and sister went away, and the young ladies, 
 tired and sleepy, started for their rooms, Alice looking around 
 for Godfrey, with whom she would gladly have tarried a little 
 longer to hear the soft nothings which she liked and had a right 
 to expect from him. But Godfrey had disappeared, and only 
 Gertie stood at the end of the broad piazza, leaning against a 
 pillar, with the moonlight falling full upon her as she looked off 
 upon the river and the mountains beyond, wondering at the 
 strange unrest which filled her soul, and at the coldness of God- 
 frey toward her. As yet he had not addressed her a word 
 since he came home, neither had she spoken to him. To be 
 sure there had been a reason for this, for since the moment of 
 his arrival, when he held her hand in his and looked so curi- 
 ously at her, he had been occupied with some one else. His 
 seat at dinner had been far away from ^ers. After dinner she 
 had sat an hour or so with little Arthur, ^hom she always put 
 to sleep, and on her return to the drawing-room she had at 
 once been claimed by Tom Barton, who kept constantly at her 
 side until he bade her good-night. So Godfrey was not so 
 much to blame, and she acquitted him of intentional neglect, 
 but felt a little hurt and grieved, and was saying to herself, 
 " He does not care for me now," when a voice said, close to 
 her ear, " Gertie ! " 
 
 It was Godfrey's, and he was there beside her, looking into 
 her face, on which the moonlight shone so brightly. He 
 had eluded Alice, and when he heard her voice in her own 
 room he stole out upon the piazza, intending to walk up and 
 down a while before retiring to rest. First, however, he 
 made the circuit of the building and glanced up at the room in
 
 270 THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 the south wing, which he had heard from Edith was Gertie's. 
 But the windows were dark ; Gertie was not there ; or, being 
 there, must have retired, and he retraced his steps to the piazza 
 in front, where he saw the little, white-robed figure leaning 
 over the railing. That was Gertie, and he went swiftly to her 
 side, and spoke the one word, " Gertie," which brought the 
 color to her cheeks, while the sparkle of the blue eyes, lifted so 
 quickly, kindled a strange fire in his veins, and made him 
 shiver as if he were cold. 
 
 " What, Godfrey ? " Gertie answered softly, her eyes con- 
 fronting him steadily a moment, and then dropping beneath his 
 ardent gaze. 
 
 " Gertie, do you know you have not spoken to me since I 
 came home ? And I thought you would be so glad to see 
 me." 
 
 There was reproach in his tone, and it went to Gertie's heart, 
 and her voice trembled as she replied : 
 
 " I am glad to see you, Godfrey, gladder than you can guess. 
 I thought so much of your corning, and then when you came 
 home you never spoke to me." 
 
 There certainly was a tear on the long eyelashes, and tears 
 on Gertie's eyelashes were very different things from tears 
 on Alice's nose, and the impulsive Godfrey snatched up the 
 hand which rested on the railing and held it fast in his own, as 
 he said : 
 
 " Do you know why I did not speak to you ? I could not, I 
 was so completely confounded and bewildered to find you what 
 you are. Tom Barton, by the way, Gertie, you certainly have 
 no intention of marrying Tom Barton, if he reforms a hundred 
 times ? " 
 
 " No, Godfrey, I have not." 
 
 " i thought so. Well, Tom raved about you by the hour, and 
 said you were beautiful ; but that does not express it. J wonder 
 now if you know just how you look." 
 
 She did not answer him, and he went on : 
 
 " It is more than four years since I saw you, and I had you 
 in my mind as the little girl I used to tease at the cottage, and
 
 THE TRAVELLERS. 271 
 
 who used to criticise me so severely. Petite you are still, it is 
 true, but so changed in everything else, so completely a woman, 
 that for a few moments I think i must have been sorry, feeling 
 as J did that I had lost my little mentor in more ways than one." 
 
 He was looking fixedly at her, with strange, wild words 
 trembling on his lips, but there was a bar between him and the 
 bright beauty which so dazzled and fascinated him, a thought 
 of Alice, the light from whose window was shining down upon 
 the shrubbery, and whose voice, as she leaned from the case- 
 ment, was heard saving to some one : " Yes, she really is very 
 pretty, but has no style whatever." 
 
 " Style be " Godfrey did not say what, for a look in the 
 
 blue eyes checked him ; but he deepened his grasp on the hand 
 he held, and his breath came hard as he said : " Gertie, you 
 have not yet congratulated me upon my prospects. Do you 
 not think I have chosen well ? " 
 
 To Gertie it did not seem as if he had chosen well. He had 
 nothing in common with Alice Creighton, but she did not tell 
 him so, and she was wondering how she should answer him, 
 when again the voice above them rang out, clear and loud : 
 
 " I have no fear of that. Her pretty face may attract God- 
 frey, and lead him to say soft nothings to her on the sly. All 
 men do that, but I fancy I have influence enough to keep him 
 from going far astray." 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey, I must not stay here any longer. It is too 
 much like listening. Let me go, please ! " Gertie said, trying 
 to release her hand. 
 
 But Godfrey held her fast, saying to her : 
 
 " It is not listening. If Alice does not wish us to hear, let 
 her talk in her room, and not out of the window. I cannot 
 let you go yet. I want you all to myself for a little while. I 
 may not get another chance." 
 
 He smiled bitterly, and then laying his disengaged hand on 
 Gertie's shoulder he suddenly asked: 
 
 " Why did you not answer my letters, Gertie ? " 
 
 " Your letters, Godfrey ! What letters ? I never received 
 a line from you," Gertie said, while Godfrey rejoined-:
 
 272 THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 " Never received a line from me ! That is very strange ! 
 and I wrote to you three different times. Think, Gertie, try 
 to recall it. Fours years ago, when you first went to school, 
 and I came home and found you' gone, I wrote from here how 
 disappointed I was not to see you, and asked you to corre- 
 spond with me, and let me be your brother. You were my 
 little sister, I said ; I adopted you as such, and I said a heap 
 more soft nothings, as Alice might call them, though I was very 
 much in earnest at the time, and to myself called you ' La Sceitr ' 
 always. And you never received that letter ? " 
 
 "Never, Godfrey. I should remember that, and you say you 
 wrote again ? " 
 
 " Yes, from Andover ; and sent my photograph, and asked 
 for yours in return, and bet fifty dollars with some students that 
 I'd show them the handsomest picture they ever saw, and I 
 waited so anxiously for it ; but it never came, and at last I 
 wrote again, and told you to go to thunder ! I did, upon my 
 word, I felt so piqued and slighted, and I said I meant to go to 
 the bad, and smoke, and drink, and swear, and do everything I 
 could think of." 
 
 "Oh, Godfrey, Godfrey! You didn't, though, I hope!" 
 Gertie cried, while her fingers tightened around the hand hold- 
 ing them so fast. 
 
 " Yes, I did, for a little while. I drank a lot of wine, which 
 went to my head, and smoked three cigars, which went to my 
 stomach, and made me feel worse than sea-sickness, if that were 
 possible. I was crazy as a loon, and smashed everything in my 
 room, and sang uproarious songs ; and, when one of the tutors 
 came to see what was up, I called him a fool, and threw the 
 wash-bowl at his head. Of course I was reprimanded, and re- 
 ported to father, who came to see about it, and paid for the 
 furniture, and talked so good that I promised to do better, and 
 I did. And you say you never received those letters ? " 
 
 " Never, Godfrey. I should have answered them," Gertie 
 said, while Godfrey continued : " And if you had, Gertie, I 
 might, oh, who knows what might have been ! " 
 
 He was holding both her hands and looking down upon her
 
 THE TRAVELLERS. 273 
 
 as no man ought to look upon a girl when he is engaged to 
 another. Some such thought as this must have crossed Gertie's 
 mind, for she released herself from him suddenly, and said : 
 
 " It is very late, Godfrey. I must go in now." 
 
 "No, Gertie, please," and he still tried to detain her. 
 " Wait a little longer. I am yours to-night ; to-morrow I am 
 some one's else, and must come under orders, you know." 
 
 He spoke ironically, and then as he saw that Gertie was 
 really leaving him, he continued : 
 
 " By the way, Gertie, one thing more, and you may go. Do 
 you remember the forlorn sick little girl who sat on the 
 deck years ago, and the bold, impudent fellow who made her 
 so angry, and the promise she gave him on certain condi- 
 tions ?" 
 
 Gertie's cheeks were scarlet, as she replied : "Yes, Godfrey, 
 I remember it." 
 
 " Well, then, can you redeem the promise now?" 
 
 There was the old saucy look in his eyes, mingled with 
 another look, which Gertie could not mistake, and stepping 
 backward as he bent toward her, she answered him : " No, 
 you are not a gentleman, or you would not remind me of that 
 now ! " 
 
 She was gone, and he heard her step as she went up the stairs 
 and through the hall of the south wing to her own room, and 
 he was alone in the quiet night, wondering what spell was upon 
 him, and if it really were himself standing there, so bewildered 
 and perplexed. 
 
 " I'll walk down the avenue and back as fast as I can, and 
 see if that brings me to myself," he said, and he tried it, and 
 went to the little cottage, where Gertie used to live, and stood 
 leaning over the fence, and recalling the time when he first saw 
 her there working in the garden with the flush on her cheeks, 
 and her bright hair floating back from her face. 
 
 And then he remembered her as he had just seen her, grown 
 to glorious womanhood, with eyes whose glances intoxicated 
 him as he had never been intoxicated since the memorable col- 
 lege spree. Then he walked back again to the house on the
 
 274 THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 Hill, every window of which was darkened, and whose inmates 
 were asleep. But for himself, he felt that he should never sleep 
 again with those two conflicting sensations battling so fiercely 
 in his heart, one cutting like a sharp, keen knife, when he re- 
 membered Alice and the words spoken to her less than a week 
 ago, and the other thrilling him with ecstasy and a sense of de- 
 licious joy when he thought of the sweet, serene face on which 
 the moonlight, had fallen, softening and subduing, and making 
 it like the face of an angel. 
 
 Godfrey was in love ! He knew it at last, and exclaimed : 
 
 "lam in love with Gertie Westbrooke, and believe I have 
 been ever since I first saw her years ago in London. But the 
 knowledge of it has come too late. No Schuyler ever yet broke 
 his word, and I shall not break mine. But if she had received 
 my letters it might have been so different." 
 
 And why had she not received them ? How could three 
 letters go astray? Certainly he directed them aright. He 
 surely did the one sent to Schuyler Hill. He had written to 
 his father at the same time and received an answer to that. 
 Why, then, did Gertie not get hers? Had there been foul play, 
 and if so, where and by whom ? Suddenly there flashed into 
 his mind a suspicion which made him start, while a strange 
 gleam shone in his eyes, as he said : 
 
 " I'll know the truth to-morrow." 
 
 It was to-morrow now, for the early summer morning was 
 shining on the mountain tops, and tired and excited, Godfrey 
 went at last to his room to get a little rest before the household 
 was astir.
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GODFREY. 275 
 
 :HAPTER xxxvm. 
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GODFREY. 
 
 jjODFREY, I wish to see you for a few moments," the 
 colonel said to his son when towards noon he found 
 him in the library alone. 
 
 " Certainly, I wish to see you, too," Godfrey replied, as he 
 arose and followed his father to the little office in the rear of the 
 house, where the colonel transacted his business. 
 
 Colonel Schuyler did not know exactly what he wished to 
 say to his son, and after they were seated there ensued a mo- 
 ment's silence, which Godfrey broke by saying : 
 
 " What is it, father ? What do you want with me ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, sure. I I wish to speak of this affair, your 
 engagement, you know, and arrange about the marriage, and 
 when it will take place. The sooner the better, I think, as I 
 do not believe in long engagements." 
 
 " But, father, I have not my profession yet," Godfrey said, 
 feeling again the cutting pain as he thought of being really tied 
 to Alice, with no longer a right to think of that sweet face 
 which had looked at him through the moonlight and made his 
 heart throb so fast. 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but you can finish your studies after marriage," 
 the colonel replied ; and seeing Godfrey about to speak again, 
 he continued : " I need not tell you how glad I am of this en- 
 gagement, which I have hoped for so long. Alice is a fine girl, 
 a very fine girl ; not as handsome, perhaps, as some," he 
 said, as he guessed what was in Godfrey's mind, and thought, 
 himself, of a rare type of beauty, which moved even him at 
 times. 
 
 " No, Miss Creighton is not a beauty, I should think not," 
 Godfrey interrupted, impatiently, whereupon the colonel brought) 
 his eyebrows together, and regarding his son curiously, went 
 on : 
 
 " Such girls as Alice, I have often noticed, grow into fine- 
 looking old ladies ; so they have the advantage in one respect."
 
 276 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GODFREY. 
 
 " Yes ; but who cares or thinks of a good-looking old wife ! " 
 Godfrey said, petulantly. 
 
 But his father did not seem to notice his petulance, and con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " Your Uncle Calvert writes me that you looked at a house 
 which Alice would like. Did it suit you as well ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I found no fault with it except its size. It will cost 
 one fortune to furnish it, and another to run it according to 
 Alice's ideas," Godfrey answered, crisply, seeing, even then, as 
 in a vision, a lovely little cottage somewhere among the hills in 
 the quiet country, with just room enough in it for himself and 
 one more, and that one, alas ! not Alice. 
 
 " Thirty thousand a year ought to run most any house ; and 
 that, I believe, is Miss Creighton's income," was the colonel's re- 
 mark, to which there was no reply ; and he continued : " I think 
 we may as well secure this house at once. I will write to your 
 Uncle Calvert to-day ; and, Godfrey, it will suit me to have the 
 marriage consummated soon, say some time in the autumn. 
 Shall I call Alice, and see if she is willing ? " 
 
 He arose to touch the bell, when Godfrey interposed, and 
 grasping his father's arm, said quickly : 
 
 " Father, listen to me ! My engagement was a hasty thing, 
 brought about Heaven only knows how, and now I will not 
 commit a second blunder by allowing myself to be driven into 
 a hasty marriage." 
 
 " Godfrey, my son ! " and now the colonel roused a little, 
 " one would think your heart was not in this marriage, which I 
 desire so much ! " 
 
 There was no answer from Godfrey, and the colonel went 
 on : 
 
 " I trust you knew your own mind when you offered yourself 
 to Alice, and that you have no thought of drawing back. Re- 
 member, that for many generations a Schuyler has never broken 
 his word ; they have all been men of honor, and my son must 
 not be the first to disgrace us." 
 
 Godfrey was white now, even to his lips, and his voice shook 
 as he replied ;
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GODFREY. 277 
 
 " You need not fear for me, I shall keep my word to Alice. 
 The Schuylers will not be disgraced by me. And now, father, 
 one question to you. The Schuylers, you say, were all men of 
 honor, and I put it to your honor to answer me truly. Four 
 years ago last spring, when I came home from Andover and 
 found Gertie Westbrooke gone, I was terribly disappointed. 
 That child, she was one then, had a powerful hold on me, and 
 by her purity of principle and plain way of speaking to me was 
 doing me untold good, and I wanted to see her again and hear 
 what she had to say. But she was gone, and so I wrote to her, 
 and gave the letter to you to post just as I would have given 
 you one for Bob. It may seem strange that I remember it so 
 distinctly. But I do. You were going out with letters in your 
 hand and I gave you that, but never heard from it afterward. 
 After waiting awhile for an answer I wrote again from school 
 with a like result, and then when I knew she was here I wrote 
 again, and directed to your care. Do you know why neither 
 of these letters ever reached her, for they did not ? She told 
 me so last night when I asked her why she did not reply." 
 
 He was looking steadily at his father, whose eyes were cast 
 down as he replied : 
 
 " My son, I have to beg your pardon there. It was not an 
 honorable thing to do, though I did it for the best. I never 
 
 sent the letter committed to my care, and I wrote to Miss , 
 
 the preceptress, sending her a specimen of your writing, and 
 asking her if any letter came to Gertie Westbrooke, directed in 
 that hand, to withhold it from her and mail it back to me. She 
 did so, and when your third and last arrived I kept it also, and 
 hs.ve them now unopened and unread." 
 
 " And truly that was a very honorable thing for one to do 
 who talks to me of honor ! May I ask why you did it ? " God- 
 frey said, his young face flushing and his voice full of anger. 
 
 " I did it to prevent possible trouble. I knew how much 
 you were interested in the girl, and I did not -wish to have her 
 harmed." 
 
 " Father ! " and Godfrey's voice rang with surprise a'nd scorn. 
 " You knew me, I am your son, and you knew that sooner than
 
 278 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GODFREY. 
 
 dishonor any woman I would part with my life ; much less then 
 would I harm a hair of the head of one who has been to me the 
 sweetest thing I ever knew since I first saw her years ago in 
 England. You had nothing to fear for her. There was some 
 other reason. Will you tell me what it was, honestly ? the 
 Schuylers are men of honor, you know 1 " 
 
 To this appeal the colonel answered a little hotly : 
 
 " Yes, Godfrey, I will tell you the truth. I feared an entangle- 
 ment which might interfere with the wish of my life. I knew 
 how beautiful, and sweet, and pure Gertie was just as well as 
 you. But she is not a fitting wife for you. She has neither 
 money, name, nor friends." 
 
 " How do you know that ? Mary Rogers always said she was 
 a lady born," Godfrey exclaimed impetuously, and his father 
 replied : 
 
 '' When Mary died and the child came here to live, I took 
 pains to inquire into her antecedents, and wrote to the firm 
 where her annuity is invested. But they could tell me nothing ; 
 the business had been done by Mrs. Rogers as guardian of the 
 child, and I came to regard the big house and the high-born 
 mother as a myth. No, Gertie has no friends, no money, no 
 name, and I would not see you throw yourself away as you 
 might have done had the correspondence been permitted to go 
 on. Believe me, Godfrey, I acted for the best. It was your 
 mother's dying wish that you should marry Alice, and for her 
 sake, if for no other, you will not break your word." 
 
 " I have no intention of breaking my word. I am engaged 
 to Alice, and shall marry her in time, but if it were to do again, 
 I should think twice before 1 made a promise I find so hard to 
 keep ; for, father, we will have no more concealments. I 
 love Gertie Westbrooke so much that I would rather live with 
 her on a crust a day than share with another all the splendors 
 of the world. It is no sudden passion either. She has been in 
 my heart constantly, though absence and silence had dimmed 
 the picture a little, and I thought of her always as a child. But 
 when I saw her yesterday in the full bloom of womanhood, and 
 compared her with Alice and my sisters and all the girls I ever
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GODFREY. 279 
 
 saw, I knew that for me there was no other woman living, no 
 other love which could ever touch my heart and make it throb 
 just as it does now at the mere mention of her. I love her 
 better than my life, and love her all $ie more for knowing she 
 is not for me. I have promised to marry Alice and shall keep 
 my word, unless she releases me of her own free will. But I 
 will not be hurried into matrimony. I will have my profession 
 first and keep my freedom a little longer. You need not bar- 
 gain for that house ; I shall not need it. I presume our confer- 
 ence is ended, and if you will excuse me I'll go where I can 
 breathe ; the atmosphere of this room is stifling." 
 
 He arose precipitately, and, with a bow to his father, rushed 
 into the open air, and going to the stables bade John saddle 
 Bedouin, his favorite mare and pet. 
 
 " Surely, Mr. Godfrey, you will not ride in this dreadful heat. 
 It will kill the mare. She has not been much used to exercise 
 lately," John said, for he knew his young master's partiality for 
 fast and long riding, and dreaded the effect on Bedouin, a beau- 
 tiful young chestnut mare with graceful, flowing mane. 
 
 But Godfrey was not in a mood to consider either horse-flesh 
 or heat. He must do something to work off that load weighing 
 so heavily upon his heart, and mounting Bedouin and giving her 
 full rein, he went tearing down the avenue at headlong speed 
 and off into the country, mile after mile, while the people in 
 the farm-houses looked curiously after him, wondering if it 
 were a case of life or death, or if he were some felon escaping 
 from justice. On and on he went, knowing nothing of the flecks 
 of white foam gathering all over Bedouin's body, and knowing 
 nothing how fast or how far he was riding, or that he had turned 
 and was going toward home, until, on a sudden, the poor beast be- 
 gan to reel, and with a few plunges came heavily to the ground 
 just before the door of Mrs. Vandeusenhisen. In a trice the 
 good woman was at his side, followed by the twins whose inter- 
 est in the struggling steed was greater than in the young man 
 picking himself up and rubbing his bruised knee. 
 
 " Poor Bedouin. I'm afraid it's all over with you," Godfrey 
 said as he knelt by the dying brute, whom he tenderly caressed,
 
 280 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GODFREY. 
 
 and who seemed to understand him. " Poor Bedouin, poor pet, 
 I did not mean to kill you. I am so sorry. Poor little lady," 
 he kept repeating, as he held the horse's head on his arm and 
 gazed into the dying eyes, where there was almost a human look 
 of love and pardon as the noble beast expired. 
 
 " He's a goner, sure," came from one of the twins, as the 
 horse ceased to breathe and Godfrey bent to undo the fastenings 
 of the saddle. 
 
 " What is it ? Is any one hurt ? Oh, Godfrey, is that you ? 
 What is the matter ? " was spoken in a voice which made God- 
 frey start, and turning round he saw Gertie in the door. 
 
 She had been sitting with old Mrs. Vandeusenhisen, who was 
 sick, and hearing the noise outside had come to see what was 
 the matter. 
 
 " Are you hurt ? What is it ? Oh, Godfrey, Bedouin is 
 dead ! W T hat have you been doing ? " she asked, with tears in 
 her eyes and reproach in her voice. 
 
 " Been exorcising the demon within me, and believe I've suc- 
 ceeded in casting it out, but at the cost of Beddy's life. Poor 
 Beddy ! I hope she's gone where she'll have nothing to do but 
 eat clover and kick up her heels the blessed day," Godfrey an- 
 swered playfully, trying to make light of it, though in truth his 
 heart was very heavy as he removed the saddle and bridle, and 
 calling to some men working on the road at a little distance, 
 made arrangements with them for burying his horse. 
 
 Then turning to Gertie he said : 
 
 " I am at your service now, if you are ready to go home. It 
 must be near dinner-time." 
 
 And so the two walked slowly down the street and up the 
 long avenue towards the group of girls, who, in their airy even- 
 ing dresses, stood watching them as they came. 
 " Where have you been this scorching afternoon ? " Alice 
 asked, with a cloud upon her face. 
 
 " I have been to read to old Mrs. Vandeusenhisen. I go 
 there almost every day," Gertie replied, as she went quietly into 
 the house and up to her room to dress for dinner. 
 
 " And you have been reading to old Mrs. Van, too ? " Alice
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GODFREY. 281 
 
 asked of Godfrey, who replied by telling her what had happened 
 to Bedouin. 
 
 " The weather was too hot and I rode too fast," he said. 
 " John warned me of the danger, but I did not listen, and now 
 Bedouin is dead and I am two hundred dollars out pf pocket, 
 with a reputation for fastness and cruelty, no doubt, which would 
 bring Bergli about my ears, if he were only here in Hampstead." 
 
 " But are you hurt, Godfrey ? Oh, I'm afraid you are. Look, 
 your pants are all dirt," Alice cried, clinging to him with a 
 pretty affectation of concern, which, if the " demon had not 
 been exorcised," would have disgusted and made -him angry, 
 but which in his present mood he was inclined to humor and 
 laugh at. 
 
 He had made up his mind to make the best of his situation 
 and bear the burden bravely. Alice was his betrothed, and had 
 a right to cling to him and be anxious if she chose, and he let 
 her do it, and even wound his arm around her as he assured 
 her of his perfect safety. 
 
 " Now, then, you must let me go and dress for dinner," he 
 said, as the first bell rang out its summons, and breaking away 
 from her he ran up to his room, where he bathed his face and 
 hands and said to himself, as he looked in the glass and saw 
 how pale he was : 
 
 " It's a hard thing, old fellow, but you will have to pull 
 through. No Schuyler ever yet broke his word." 
 
 He was very attentive to Alice that night, while in her de- 
 light at his attentions she forgave Gertie for walking with him 
 from Mrs. Vandeusenhisen's, though the germ of jealousy was 
 planted in her mind, and she resolved to keep a close watch of 
 the girl, who, with blanched cheeks and throbbing pulse, was, 
 at that very hour, listening to what very nearly concerned the 
 little heiress of thirty thousand a year.
 
 282 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 COL. SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 
 
 \of. SCHUYLER was not quite satisfied with his in- 
 terview with Godfrey, or his promise to keep his word 
 and marry Alice Creighton. No doubt he meant to 
 do it, but Godfrey was impulsive and hot-headed, and loved an- 
 other with a depth and fervency which astonished the cold- 
 blooded man. All day he had been haunted with the flushed, 
 excited face, and the thrilling voice which had said so passion- 
 ately, " I love Gertie VVestbrooke so much that I would rather 
 live with her on a crust a day than share with another the splen- 
 dors of the world." 
 
 Perhaps during the long summer days, when they would be 
 thrown together, he would forget his word of honor, and tell her 
 of his love, and what then ? She would listen, of course, unless 
 some powerful obstacle were interposed to keep her from it, 
 and that obstacle the colonel would interpose in the shape of 
 Gertie's own promise and sense of honor. He could trust her 
 better than his son, and he meant to put her to the test, even 
 if by doing it he wrung her heart cruelly, and awoke within her 
 a sleeping passion, of whose existence she possibly did not 
 know. And yet the colonel had no antipathy to Gertie ; on 
 the contrary, he liked her very much, and thought hers the most 
 beautiful face he had ever seen, if he excepted Edith's, which it 
 in some respects resembled, and had Gertie's forty- pounds a 
 year been forty thousand, or even half that amount, he would 
 have given the preference to her, notwithstanding she had no 
 family, or friends, or name. But the colonel held money high, 
 and prized the luxuries which money brings, and did not wish 
 to live without them. And money was not quite as plentiful 
 with Col. Schuyler as it once had been. He had met with some 
 heavy losses recently, and now that little Arthur had come, and 
 other children might yet call him father. Godfrey's fortune would 
 be much less than he had hoped to make it, and so Godfrej
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 283 
 
 must marry rich, and his love be put aside, and Gertie must 
 help to do it, and be the means, if need be, of breaking her 
 own and Godfrey's heart. 
 
 " Gertie," he said to her, very pleasantly and affably, when 
 just before dark he found her watering a bed of geraniums near 
 the south wing windows ; " Gertie, can I see you Slone a few 
 moments ? I have something to say to you." 
 
 " Certainly," she answered, and putting down her watering- 
 pot, and taking off her garden gloves and hat, she followed him 
 to the same room where, earlier in the day, Godhey had de- 
 clared his love for her, and where now she was to promise to 
 reject that love should it ever be offered to her, for that was the 
 colonel's intention. He knew Gertie well enough to know that 
 her word once passed she would keep it, though her heart broke 
 in the keeping. But how should he commence ? What should 
 he say to the young girl whose blue eyes were confronting him 
 so steadily ? 
 
 " Gertie," he began at last, " I brought you here to ask a 
 favor of you ; a great favor, which 1 hope you will grant." 
 
 " Yes, Col. Schuyler, anything I can do for you, I will," she 
 said, and he went on : 
 
 " I have been kind to you, Gertie, have I not, ever since you 
 first came to live with us ? " 
 
 " Yes, very, very kind," Gertie answered, wondering at the 
 question, and his reason for reminding her of the kindness. 
 
 " I have tried to do you good," he said, speaking with a little 
 hesitancy now ; " first for Mrs. Schuyler's sake, and lastly be- 
 cause I liked you myself, and was greatly interested in you, and 
 felt that you were no ordinary girl. I tell you this to let you 
 know that the favor I have to ask has nothing to do with you 
 personally. I am your friend, and will be so as long as I live, 
 and provide for you at my death, or sooner if you marry, as you 
 probably will, girls like you always do, and I, yes I " 
 
 What was he going to say to her, Gertie wondered, a thought 
 of Tom Barton crossing her mind? Was Col. Schuyler about 
 to advocate his cause ? Impossible, she said to herself, and 
 waited impatiently for him to proceed. But she was not at all
 
 284 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 
 
 prepared for the abrupt question with which he finally plunged 
 into the business. 
 
 " Gertie, has my son ever made love to you ? That is, has 
 he ever said or done anything which under some circumstances 
 might give you reason to think him more interested in you than 
 in another ? " 
 
 There was a violent start, and Gertie's face was crimson as 
 she looked across the table at the man questioning her thus, 
 while her thoughts leaped backward to the previous night and 
 the eyes which had looked so tenderly upon her, the hands 
 which had held hers so fast, and the voice so full of passion 
 telling her of the lost letters and saying to her so sadly : 
 
 " If you had received them, Gertie, if you had, I might, oh, 
 who knows what might have been ? " 
 
 All day long the remembrance of that interview had been 
 in her mind, filling her with a delicious feeling of happiness that 
 Godfrey did care for her, and bringing occasionally a pang of 
 regret as she wondered what would have been had she received 
 his letters. She had never dreamed of marriage in connection 
 with Godfrey. She had always supposed that he belonged to 
 Alice, and so she did not know the real nature of the emotions 
 Godfrey's language the previous night had called into being un- 
 til Col. Schuyler tore the veil away and laid her heart before 
 her, bare and palpitating with love for Godfrey, his son. What 
 right had he to question her thus, and how could she answer 
 him, she asked herself, as, with her hands locked together, and 
 the love whose existence she had just discovered swelling and 
 surging in her heart, now with throbs of anguish as she remem- 
 bered Alice, and now with beats of joy as she thought of God- 
 frey, she sat motionless and silent, until the colonel spoke 
 again : 
 
 " You do not answer me, and from that I infer he has made 
 love to you. Was it last night ? He told me he talked with 
 you. Gertie, this must not be. Godfrey is bound to Alice. 
 It was settled years ago in our families. It was his mother's 
 dying wish. It is the one thing I desire above all others. I 
 have nothing against you, Gertie, nothing ; but Godfrey must
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 285 
 
 marry Alice, and you must not let him break his word to 
 her." 
 
 He spoke rapidly, glancing only once at the face opposite, 
 which was white as ashes, and he could see the slight figure 
 sway a little from side to side, while a sound like a smothered 
 sob broke on his ear, and then Gertie spoke, very low and very 
 decidedly, but with no anger in her voice. 
 
 " Col. Schuyler, you need not fear for Godfrey. He never 
 made love to me, though I think, I believe it would be easy 
 for me to tempt him to do so, but I shall not try. I will not 
 be the serpent in your Eden, or sting the hand which has fed 
 me. You have been too kind to me for that. I shall not prove 
 ungrateful." 
 
 "God bless you, Gertie. I was sure you would do right. It 
 is more necessary to me than you know that Godfrey should 
 marry Alice, and you have lifted a great burden from my heart. 
 Godfrey is impulsive and hot-headed, and easily influenced, and 
 seeing you every day might be won from his allegiance, espe- 
 cially as I do not think his whole heart is in this marriage ; but 
 it must be, and, Gertie, if he should come to you with words 
 of love, promise me you will refuse to listen. I shall feel 
 secure then. I can trust you, I know. Will you promise, 
 Gertie ? " 
 
 He held his hand toward the little, cold, white fingers resting 
 on the table, and which crept slowly on till they lay in his grasp, 
 while Gertie said : 
 
 " I promise, Colonel Schuyler ; but, but, Godfrey, I did 
 not know before that I loved him so much until now that I am 
 giving him up fprever." 
 
 Oh, what a piteous voice it was, and how the slight frame 
 shook with suppressed sobs and tears while the colonel sat 
 watching and wishing so much to comfort her. But he could 
 not, and he let her cry on for a few moments, when he said : 
 
 " Gertie, your distress pains me greatly, but you are young 
 and will outlive this fancy ; and, Gertie, it has occurred to me 
 that you may wish to go away for the summer while the young 
 people are here, but I would rather you should stay. Mrs.
 
 286 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 
 
 Schuyler would be very unhappy without you, while Godfrey, I 
 think, would be discontented and follow you, perhaps. It is 
 better, on the whole, to stay : and Gertie, I need not ask that 
 this interview shall be a secret between us. Not even my wife 
 must know of it." 
 
 Gertie hesitated a moment, and then replied : 
 
 " Colonel Schuyler, if a time ever comes when Godfrey 
 speaks to me of love I shall refuse him, as I promised, but I 
 shall tell him why. I must do that, you know ! " 
 
 And with this Colonel Schuyler was obliged to be content. 
 He had gained his point, and looked upon. his son's marriage 
 with Alice as a sure thing, and he felt very kind and tender 
 toward the young girl whose heart he had wrung so cruelly, and 
 whose sad face smote him as he bade her good-night and 
 blessed her for what she had promised. 
 
 The next morning Gertie was suffering from a severe head- 
 ache and did not appear at breakfast or lunch, but she was 
 better in the afternoon and was able to walk to Edith's boudoir, 
 where she lay upon the couch and had her dinner brought to 
 her. As she was about to eat it a voice said at the door : " May 
 I come in?" and, without waiting for an answei, Godfrey en- 
 tered the room. He had heard from Edith that she was there, 
 and declining the dessert, had excused himself from the table 
 and gone directly to her. 
 
 " See, I have brought you a pond lily and a bunch of blue 
 violets, because I remembered how much you used to like them. 
 -The violets are just the color of your eyes," he said, as he held 
 them so close to her that his hand touched her white cheek and 
 sent the hot blood to it suddenly. 
 
 Then, drawing his chair close to her couch, he began to talk 
 as easily and naturally as if the sight of her, so pale and languid 
 and sweet, were not stirring within him a wild tornado of feel- 
 ing which, had he known of the answering throb in her heart, 
 might have burst its bonds and trampled down every right of 
 the little lady coming down the hall ostensibly to call on Gertie, 
 but really to know for herself if Godfrey was there with her ! 
 
 "And so you are taking your dessert here? Really, Miss
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 287 
 
 Westbrooke, I shall object to this," Alice said, as she entered 
 the room, trying to speak playfully, though there was that in 
 her eyes which warned Godfrey not to provoke her too far if he 
 would avoid a scene. Spying the lily she snatched it up, ex- 
 claiming : " The very thing I was wanting for my hair ! Where 
 did it come from ? " 
 
 Gertie glanced at Godfrey, who explained : 
 
 " It was the only one the boy had, or I would have bought 
 more." 
 
 " Oh, you brought it to her, then ? " Alice said, dropping it 
 as suddenly as if it had been plague-smitten, while Gertie said, 
 entreatingly : 
 
 " Please keep it, Miss Creighton, I really do not care for 
 it." 
 
 " Neither do I, thank you ;" and with a very low bow Alice 
 left the room, waiting at the end of the hall till Godfrey saw fit 
 to join her. 
 
 There was something of a quarrel between the two lovers, 
 who walked down the garden to a retired summer-house, where, 
 Godfrey said, they could have it out, bidding Alice " scratch 
 and bite like a little cat, if she wanted to." 
 
 " I don't want to scratch nor bite, and I ain't a little cat, but 
 I do not think it fair in you to admire that girl so much, and 
 take her lilies and violets and things, and you engaged to me," 
 Alice sobbed, while Godfrey, who knew that she really had just 
 cause for complaint, tried to appease her, and promised not to 
 offend again so far as Gertie was concerned. 
 
 "Though I do like her," he said, "and always shall ; but I 
 intend to be loyal to you, Allie, and mean to make you happy, 
 and I want you to remember that, and not flare up every time 
 I happen to look at a girl." 
 
 And Alice promised that she would not, and took his proffer- 
 ed kiss of reconciliation very graciously, and when, in the early 
 dusk of the warm summer night, I walked up to the Hill to call 
 on the young ladies, I found the engaged pair sitting by them- 
 selves at the far end of the piazza, Alice with her hand clasping 
 Godfrey's arm, while she told him something to which he seem-
 
 288 ROBERT MACPHERSON INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 
 
 ed to listen in a preoccupied kind of way, as if he hardly knew 
 what she was saying to him. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 ROBERT MACPHERSON INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 
 
 |ERTIE was quite well the next day, and took her usual 
 place at the table, and when breakfast was over and 
 Godfrey and the young ladies had gone to ride, she 
 strolled out to the little cemetery, which looked so cool and in- 
 viting with the white marble gleaming through the evergreens 
 and climbing vines. Scarcely was she seated there when she 
 heard footsteps near, and saw Robert Macpherson coming 
 rapidly toward her. 
 
 " Excuse me," he said, " I have followed you here because I 
 wanted to be alone while I gave you something, and told you 
 something which should have been told and given before, 
 only, " he paused a moment, looking both embarrassed and 
 distressed, and then continued hastily : " I am a coward and a 
 fool ! Gertie, were you ever ashamed to tell who you were ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " Gertie asked, looking curiously at 
 him. 
 
 " I mean that my blood is a little mixed," he answered, "but 
 I will explain that by and by, and now to my business. I think 
 you have several times pressed flowers which grew on this 
 grave" (pointing to Abelard's), "and sent them to his mother." 
 
 "Yes. I have pressed them for Mrs. Schuyler to send two 
 or three times when she had not the leisure, and have written 
 for her to the sweet-faced old lady of whom she once told me," 
 Gertie said, and Robert rejoined : " I saw that old lady when 
 I was abroad the last time, and when she heard I was coming 
 here she told me of Mrs. Schuyler, whom she had seen, and of 
 the 'bonnie young lassie' who took such care of her boy's 
 grave, and sent her flowers from it, and she wrote you a letter, 
 Gertie, because she said you seemed very near to her, and she
 
 ROBERT MACPHERSON INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 289 
 
 sent you some 'Cairngorms' for a necklace and earrings. 
 They have been in the family for years, and she intended them 
 for her oldest grand-daughter, but she died, and there is no 
 other, so she sent them to you, knowing that Mrs. Schuyler can 
 have far more precious stones, though I think these very h^nd- 
 some ; they are almost as fine as a tc paz, look," and he handed 
 her a box in which were several very fine Cairngorms of that 
 variety found in Aberdeenshire. 
 
 " Oh, how pretty, how beautiful ! " Gertie exclaimed, hold- 
 ing them to the light. "And she sent them to me? I do not 
 understand it." 
 
 " Read her letter and you will see how much she is in- 
 terested in you," Robert said, handing Gertie a large, unsealed 
 letter, directed in a very peculiar hand, and which I will give 
 in part, avoiding as much as possible the broad Scotch which 
 made it so unintelligible that Robert was obliged himself to 
 read it to Gertie before she clearly understood it. 
 
 " My bonnie lassie," it began, " an old crone from over the 
 sea sends you her blessing and prayers for the care you've 
 tooken of my puir laddie's grave, and the posys you've sent, 
 and the letters you've writ with the same, and which fetches you 
 very near to my heart and love, and so I send you these stones 
 from Can-Gorrum, to wear round your bonny neck, and in yer 
 pretty ears. My grandson, Robert, will tell you how his puir 
 mother had them, and gie them to me when I was cauld, and 
 hungry, and sair ; but I dinna sell them for the siller, as she 
 thinket I moight. I weatherit the storm, Jinnie and me, and 
 kep 'em for her ain sweet bairn, Dolly, who died; and it's not 
 the loikes of Jinnie to wear sic as these, and her lassies bein' 
 all lads, I sends them to you with my blessin', and duty to the 
 beautiful Ladye Skiller, and so I greet you; God bless you, 
 good-by. 
 
 " MISTRESS DORATHY LYLE, 
 "by her grandson Robert." 
 
 Gertie had listened intently until the point was reached 
 where reference was made to my " grandson Robert," when she 
 started up, exclaiming : 
 13
 
 290 ROBERT MACPHERSON INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 
 
 " IVhat?" 
 
 " Wait," Robert said ; " wait till I am through," and, with a 
 shaking voice, he finished the letter, laying a good deal of em- 
 phasis upon the last words, " by my grandson Robert." 
 
 " Her grandson ! What does she mean, Mr. Macpherson ? 
 Does she mean you / " Gertie asked, and Robert replied : 
 
 "Yes, Gertie, she means me. I am that woman's grand- 
 child, the son of her daughter, and I am going to tell you about 
 it." 
 
 He spoke rapidly, and Gertie had no chance to interrupt 
 him as he went on. 
 
 " My mother was Dorothea Lyle, born in Alnwick, in the 
 same thatched cottage Mrs. Schuyler has undoubtedly described 
 to you. She was the eldest child and beautiful, the Lyles are 
 all good-looking, and mother was pre-eminently so, with a tol- 
 erable education, too, acquired from a lady in the neighborhood 
 who was interested in her, and in whose house she was a nur- 
 sery governess. It was there she met my father, the youngest 
 son of an old Scotch family, which had a title in reversion and 
 a good deal of money. It was a runaway match, which the 
 proud Macphersons tried to overthrow. But they could not, 
 and if they had, my father would have married his beautiful 
 Dolly again. He was very fond of her, and taught her a great 
 deal himself, so that my first recollections of her are of as fine 
 a lady in speech and manner as any I have ever seen. I was 
 born in Naples, where father tried to earn his living by painting, 
 for he was a natural artist and we were very poor, as his family 
 turned him off and would not receive him with his wife. 
 
 " It was about this time that Mrs. Lyle wrote to mother of 
 sickness and destitution, and asked for money in her need, but 
 alas, we had none, and mother sent these Cairngorms, which 
 father bought for her when she was married, and which they had 
 never been able to have set for herself. She thought he r mother 
 could sell them for bread, but she would not. Her fortunes 
 brightened a little just then, and she kept the stones carefully, 
 meaning them for my sister on her bridal day ; but that day 
 never came. I told you of my sister once, and that you looked
 
 ROBERT MACPHERSON INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 291 
 
 like her. She was so beautiful, and I loved her so much, but 
 she died when she was twelve years old, and the only picture 
 we had of her was burned. Our fortunes were mending then. 
 The Macpherson mother was dead, and the father sent us money, 
 and when mother died, two years after Dora, father and I were 
 invited to Glenthorpe, in the north of Scotland, and there father 
 lied, and by my grandfather's will I came into possession, at 
 us death, of a large sum of money, and now, by another death, 
 1. have a right, if I choose, to take my wife to Glenthorpe, 
 should I ever have one, which I probably never shall, for the 
 girl I love is too proud to marry me, knowing who I am." 
 
 Gertie thought of Julia Schuyler, but she did not speak, and 
 after a moment Robert continued : 
 
 "You wonder, perhaps, why I never told this before, and I 
 blush to own that I was ashamed to do it and acknowledge that 
 I was anything to this man by whose grave I stand, or anything 
 to that family whom Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler and Godfrey have 
 seen. I think people who have been very poor, and have come 
 up from the great unwashed, have that feeling more than those 
 to the manor born, and though I have tried to be kind to my 
 mother's friends so far as gifts are concerned, I have shrunk 
 from coming in contact with them, especially the Aunt Nesbit, 
 of whom it is no slander to say she is very coarse. 
 
 11 1 went first to see them years ago, just before coming to 
 America, and when I heard of their acquaintance with the 
 Schuylers I hesitated about crossing the sea with Godfrey, but 
 was finally persuaded and came to Hampstead where I have 
 felt like a criminal every time allusion has been made to Abe- 
 lard Lyle. Last March I went again to see them, and, coward 
 that I am, did not tell them I had been here, only that I was 
 coming, and then Mrs. Lyle, rny grandmother, spoke of you, 
 and asked me to bring the letter and the Cairngorms. I could 
 not refuse, and knew then I must tell you everything, and I 
 have, except, indeed, of my father's family, which ranks among 
 the first in Scotland. Glenthorpe is a beautiful place and will 
 be my home in future, for I am the only male heir left to that 
 estate.
 
 292 ROBERT MACPHERSON INTERVIEWS GERTIE. 
 
 " I have told you my story, Gertie, and will not ask you to 
 keep my secret. The sooner it is divulged the better, perhaps, 
 as I shall then know the worst there is to know, with regard to 
 the girl I love. She will never marry a carpenter's nephew ; 
 her father would not permit it either." 
 
 He seemed to be waiting for a reply, and Gertie said at last : 
 
 " Col. Schuyler is very proud, and she is prouder than he, I 
 think ; but Glenthorpe may reconcile her to a great deal. You 
 must tell her yourself, however. I shall not help you there." 
 
 " But, Gertie, do you think she cares for me ? You girls can 
 judge of each other better than men can judge of you. Does 
 she like me ever so little, think you ? " 
 
 Remembering how, from the first, Julia had appropriated 
 Robert to herself, seeming jealous and angry of his slightest 
 attention to another, Gertie replied : 
 
 " If you should ask her to be your wife, and tell her nothing 
 of the Lyles, I am sure she would say yes," and with that an- 
 swer Robert was obliged to be content, but there was a shadow 
 on his face, which lasted for a week or more, and which Julia's 
 blandishments and coquetries had no power to remove. In- 
 deed, he hardly seemed to notice them or her, and when God- 
 frey rallied him, and asked what wasrthe matter, he answered 
 that he was pining for Glenthorpe, and began to talk seriously 
 of going back to Scotland ; but to this Godfrey would not listen, 
 and when Julia's eyes looked at him pleadingly as she said : 
 " Don't go till fall, Mr. Macpherson ;" while Emma, who seldom 
 said much, expressed a strong desire for him to remain, he give 
 up Glenthorpe for the summer, and stayed at Schuyler Hill. 
 
 Meantime Gertie's present had been shown, and discussed, 
 and admired by Edith, and Emma, and Godfrey, while Alice 
 wondered if they were real Cairngorms, and Julia had said, in 
 Robert's hearing, that she'd like to see herself wearing stones 
 which came from such a source, and the colonel had offered to 
 send them to New York and have them set handsomely. But 
 this Gertie would not permit. She had a plan in her mind 
 which she hoped some day to carry out, and test Miss Julia's 
 unwillingness to " wear stones from such a source " as that white-
 
 DETAILS OF THAT SUMMER IN HAMPSTEAD. 293 
 
 haired woman over the sea, whom the proud beauty teasingly 
 called " Gertie's godmother." 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 A FEW DETAILS OF THAT SUMMER IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 JHERE were many guests at the Bartons', and the Mont- 
 gomeries', and the Morrises, that summer, but no- 
 where was there so much hilarity and mirth as at 
 Schuyler Hill, for there from time to time came dashing, bril- 
 liant people from New York and Philadelphia, and every room 
 was full, and Godfrey took a small apartment in the attic, and 
 made many jokes upon the high life he was enjoying. There 
 were sails upon the river, and excursions to the mountains, and 
 picnics in the woods, and dances on the piazza, and croquet 
 parties on the lawn, and dinners, and suppers, and breakfasts, 
 and lunches, and private theatricals in the great drawing-room ; 
 and toward the close of the summer there was a grand party at 
 the Ridge House, to which the young people from the Hill 
 were bidden, and Alice's toilet was wonderful in texture and 
 style, while Julia was pronounced the most beautiful lady there, 
 until Gertie came, in her simple muslin dress, and eclipsed 
 them all. It was rather late when she entered the crowded 
 rooms, and after greeting Mrs. Barton and Rosamond drifted 
 away from the colonel, who had accompanied her, and found 
 herself close to Godfrey before she was aware of his proximity. 
 Since that promise to his father, she had studiously avoided 
 him, and Alice had no just cause for jealousy so far as Gertie 
 was concerned. Godfrey, too, had made up his mind to ac- 
 cept his fate, and kept aloof from Gertie as much as possible, 
 though there was a world of kindness in his voice whenever he 
 spoke to her, and he always knew when she came in and when 
 she went out, and his eyes followed her with a longing, hungry 
 look, which Alice would have resented, had she noticed it and
 
 294 DETAILS OF THAT SUMMER IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 interpreted it aright. But she was not quick to see, and as 
 Godfrey was very attentive to her, and called her his little cat, 
 and teased her unmercifully, and kissed her every morning, she 
 was satisfied and happy, and on the night of the party stood, 
 flushed and triumphant, at his side, while he fanned her heated 
 face, telling her she must not dance again for an hour at least, 
 no matter who asked her ; it was too warm for such exercise, 
 and he preferred the open air ; he did not mean to dance him- 
 self if he could help it, and if Alice liked they'd go out upon 
 the west balcony, where it was cooler. 
 
 There had been a cloud on Godfrey's face the entire evening, 
 and his eyes were constantly wandering over the moving throng 
 in quest of one they did not see. 
 
 "Where is Miss Westbrooke? " Tom Barton had asked him 
 anxiously, but Godfrey could not tell him. 
 
 She was intending to come with his father, he said, and possi- 
 bly had not yet arrived ; and as the festivity was nothing to Tom 
 without Gertie, he sauntered away to an open window, and 
 when Rosamond asked him to dance with a young lady who 
 was a guest at the Ridge House, and who had been a wall- 
 flower all the evening, he answered, "Oh, bother ! I can't; it's 
 too hot. I'm melting now," and stepped through the window 
 upon the balcony to be out of the way. 
 
 Neither he nor Godfrey cared to dance, though both had in 
 their minds a graceful little figure which they would gladly have 
 whirled about the room, and when at last she appeared and 
 came upon Godfrey just as he had proposed going out upon 
 the piazza with Alice, he forgot everything but his surprise and 
 delight at seeing her, and exclaimed, joyfully : 
 
 "Oh, Gertie, I'm so glad you have come. I've been wait- 
 ing for you to dance with me. Come, they are just forming a 
 new set." 
 
 He held both his arms toward her, and Gertie, unmindful of 
 everything and seeing nothing but the look in Godfrey's eyes 
 and the arms held to her, went straight into them, thinking to 
 herself, " For j ist this once, I may be happy with him." 
 
 And she was happy, and Godfrey, too, and people looked
 
 DETAILS OF THAT SUMMER IN HAMPSTEAD. 295 
 
 admiringly at the handsome pair, and strangers asked who the 
 beautiful girl with the bright hair and simple dress was, and 
 where she came from. 
 
 I was at the party that night, and stood very near to Alice, 
 when Gertie came in and was snatched up so quickly by God- 
 frey. I had heard him announce his intention not to dance, 
 and ask Alice to go with him where it was cooler, and Alice 
 had taken a step toward the door when Gertie came and 
 changed the entire aspect of affairs. 
 
 " Godfrey," I heard Alice say, as her lover moved away from 
 her, but Godfrey was deaf and blind to everything but the girl 
 on his arm, and Alice called in vain. 
 
 Godfrey had teased her for her red face, but it was pale 
 enough now, and her small eyes had in them a greenish light as 
 they followed Godfrey's tall form and caught occasional glimpses 
 of Gertie's long, bright curls which came below her waist and 
 were the wonder of the room. Alice was very indignant, and 
 when the question was put to her, " Who is that beautiful girl 
 dancing with Mr. Schuyler ? " she stood on tiptoe, and pre- 
 tending to be looking toward the dancers, answered with sup- 
 pressed bitterness : 
 
 " Oh, that is Gertie Westbrooke, a girl who lives with Mrs. 
 Schuyler, and sees a little to Arthur, a kind of nursery gover- 
 ness, I believe." 
 
 "Ah, yes, thank you," and Mrs. Jamieson, from Philadel- 
 phia, put up her glass to look again at the girl " who lived with 
 Mrs. Schuyler and was a kind of nursery governess." 
 
 Meanwhile Godfrey and Gertie were unmindful of every- 
 thing but the fact that for a brief space they were together, 
 hand touching hand in a clasp of love rather than form, and 
 eye meeting eye with a sad, remorseful kind of pitying tender- 
 ness, as if each knew they were tasting forbidden fruit and for 
 the last time, too. This, at least, was Godfrey's thought. To- 
 morrow it would all be over, and he would be Alice's again, 
 but to-night he was Gertie's and she was his, and he abandoned 
 himself to the delight until he seemed intoxicated with happi- 
 ness. He had never danced with her since the memorable
 
 296 DETAILS OF THAT SUMMER IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 church sociable years ago, when she was a little, airy, rest- 
 less humming-bird, who had infused something of her own life 
 and elasticity into his rather languid movements and made him 
 try to be worthy of his partner. Gertie was very young then, 
 and no thought of calling her his had entered Godfrey's heart, 
 where now the sad refrain was repeating itself over and over 
 again, " It might have been, It might have been." 
 
 There was another dance, and another, and then Godfrey led 
 Gertie out upon the west balcony where he had proposed taking 
 Alice, and where he now sat down with Gertie at his side, and 
 looking into her eyes of blue forgot the eyes of gray which had 
 followed his every movement, and in which were little gleams 
 of fire when they saw him going out, and the care he took to 
 wrap Gertie's cloak around her arms and shoulders. It cer- 
 tainly was not chance which led Alice that way ; she went on 
 purpose with a group of heated girls eager for a breath of air, 
 and her garments swept against Gertie's as she went by, and 
 the green eyes looked at Godfrey with a look he understood 
 and did not resent, for he knew that he deserved it, but he was 
 not penitent and he did not give Gertie up until his father, who 
 had been talking politics in a distant room, and did not know 
 of his son's misdemeanor, came to find her and take her out to 
 supper. Then Godfrey went in quest of Alice, but she was al- 
 ready appropriated by a young Bostonian, who waxed his mus- 
 tache and wore a quizzing glass on his nose, and her only 
 answer was a little defiant snort when Godfrey said : " I see I 
 am too late." So Godfrey took me out and was restless and 
 excited and full of life and fun. But I saw that his spirits were 
 forced, and that his eyes went often to the part of the room 
 where Gertie stood, surrounded by a group of gentlemen who 
 were ostensibly talking to Colonel Schuyler, but really admiring 
 her as the most beautiful lady there. Alice was standing near 
 us, and once Godfrey offered her some lobster salad with a 
 comical look on his face, but Alice did not take it or respond 
 to him in any way, and I knew there was a quarrel in store for 
 him, and pitied him because he was answerable for his actions 
 to that little pug-nosed lady whose only attraction, beside a
 
 THE SAIL ON THE RIVER. 297 
 
 certain grace and piquancy of manner, was thirty thousand a 
 year. 
 
 I do not think she spoke to him again that night, and I know 
 she did not ride home with him, for I saw the four girls from the 
 Hill stowed away with Colonel Schuyler, and heard Godfrey 
 tell his father not to send the carriage back, as he and Robert 
 preferred to walk. And so the party was over and one heart 
 at least was sadder for it, and one was in a wild tumult of joy 
 and regret as it recalled glances and tones which meant so 
 much and which had come too late to be of any avail. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE SAIL ON THE RIVER. 
 
 JHE morning succeeding the party was hot and sultry, 
 and two, at least, of the young ladies at Schuyler Hill 
 were cross, and tired, and worn when they joined the 
 family at breakfast. Alice had slept but little, and her temper 
 was still at the boiling point when she went down to the table, 
 where she scarcely spoke at all, while Julia, who had a head- 
 ache, was not much better. Both were fagged out, and after 
 breakfast announced their intention to keep their rooms the en- 
 tire morning. 
 
 " But I thought we were to have a sail up the river, and call 
 at the Piersons'," Godfrey said ; and Alice, to whom the remark 
 was addressed, replied : 
 
 "I've changed my mind, and do not care to go. You can 
 take Gertie in my place." 
 
 " Very well," Godfrey answered, accepting the gauntlet she 
 threw down ; and going at once to Gertie, he explained that he 
 and Robert and his sisters were going to call upon the Misses 
 Pierson, and he would like her to accompany them. 
 
 Of all the city people in the neighborhood the Piersons had 
 been the most polite to Gertie, and she signified at once her 
 willingness to go. Ten was the hour fixed upon, and before 
 13*
 
 9 8 THE SAIL ON THE RIVER. 
 
 that time came Alice had changed her mind, and when Godfrey 
 and Robert joined the ladies upon the piazza, preparatory to 
 starting, they found Miss Creighton with them, her face a little 
 brighter and herself very anxious about her fluted dress, which 
 she was afraid would be crumpled with so many in the boat. 
 Gertie paid no attention to the hint, and of all the party seemed 
 to enjoy the sail and the call the most. The Misses Pierson 
 were glad to see them, and kept them till after lunch, when 
 Godfrey hurried them to the boat, pointing out a mass of 
 thunder-clouds in the west, and saying they must get home be- 
 fore the shower. There was ample time for it, he said, but for 
 once he miscalculated, and though he and Robert rowed with 
 all their strength, they were but little more than half way across 
 the river when the first rain-drops began to fall, and in a few 
 moments the storm was upon them in peals of thunder and 
 dashes of rain and gusts of wind which rocked the boat from 
 side to side, and made Alice cry out with fear as she sprang up 
 to avoid a wave which came plashing in and wet her fluted dress. 
 
 " Keep quiet, Allie, or you'll upset the boat," Godfrey said, 
 sternly. 
 
 Alice began to cry, and whimpered that her dress was spoiled, 
 and said some of them ought not to have come ; there were too 
 many in the boat, and she knew it all the while. 
 
 " Why didn't you stay out, then ? " Julia asked ; and then Alice 
 cried harder, and wrung her hands in fear as peal after peal of 
 thunder rolled over their heads and crashed up the mountain 
 side, while the lurid lightning, flash after flash, broke through 
 the inky sky, and blinding sheets of rain and wind swept down 
 the river, threatening each moment to ingulf the boat, as yet 
 riding the waves so bravely. It was a terrible storm, and 
 seemed to increase each moment, while the white faces looked 
 at each other anxiously, and the pale lips made no sound until 
 Godfrey's oar snapped in two, and a wave carried it far out 
 upon the angry waters. Then Alice shrieked : " We are lost ; 
 we shall all be drowned," and bounding up she lost her balance 
 and fell heavily across one side of the boat, which was instantly 
 upset, arid six humanj>eings were struggling madly in the river.
 
 THE SAIL ON THE RIVER. 299 
 
 "Godfrey, Godfrey," two voices called above the storro, one 
 loud, piercing and peremptory as if it had the right, the other 
 tender, beseeching and low, as of a spirit going out into the 
 darkness and saying a farewell to one it had loved so fondly. 
 
 Two voices called, " Godfrey, Godfrey," above the storm ; 
 but Godfrey heard only one, and freeing himself from something 
 which held him fast, and which in his mad excitement he did 
 not know was a pair of clinging hands, he struck out for the 
 place where, just above the water, he caught one glimpse of a 
 white, scared face, and tresses of long bright hair disappearing 
 from his sight. With a courage and energy born of love and 
 despair he reached the spot, and plunging his hand beneath the 
 wave, reached for the long bright hair, felt it, clutched it firmly, 
 and drew again into view the pallid face on which the hue of 
 death had settled, and winding his arm about the slender waist, 
 swam for the shore, which was fortunately so near that his feet 
 soon touched the bottom, and he struggled up the bank with 
 his unconscious burden. Laying it gently down, and pressing 
 one kiss upon the white lips, he turned to retrace his steps, for 
 a thought of Alice and his sisters had come over him, but when 
 he saw them at some little distance down the river, struggling 
 on their feet, he went back to Gertie, who lay in the same 
 death-like swoon, with her hands folded upon her breast, and a 
 smile wreathing her lips, as if her last thought had been one of 
 peace and happiness. Very gently Godfrey lifted her up, and 
 wringing the water from her hair, held her head upon his breast 
 while he showered kiss after kiss upon her forehead and lips, 
 murmuring as he did so : " Gertie, my darling, you cannot, you 
 must not be dead. Oh, Gertie, open your eyes on me once, 
 and hear me tell how much I love you." 
 
 But the eyes did not unclose, nor the lips he kissed so passion- 
 ately kiss him back again, and without knowing to whom he 
 spoke, or stopping to think who was standing by him, he said, 
 so sadly : 
 
 " Gertie is dead." 
 
 There was a rain of tears upon his face as he spoke, and a 
 look of anguish in his eyes, but he met with no answering
 
 joo THE SAIL ON THE RIVER. 
 
 sympathy from the motionless figure near him. It was Alice, 
 who stood there drenched to the skin, the fluting and the starch 
 all out of her dress, the crimp all out of her hair, and the fire 
 of a hundred volcanoes in the eyes which gazed so pitilessly 
 upon the unconscious Gertie, while a smile of bitter scorn 
 curled her lips and intense anger sounded in her voice as she 
 said: 
 
 " Godfrey Schuyler, from this moment our paths diverge. I 
 can have no faith in one who deliberately thrusts aside his 
 promised wife to save the life of another. You did this, God- 
 frey Schuyler, when you knew I was drowning, and I hate you 
 for it, and give you back your freedom with your ring." 
 
 Alice's temper had increased with every word she uttered, 
 and snatching off the superb diamond selected by herself at 
 Tiffany's, she threw it toward Godfrey, who, stunned and be- 
 wildered, did not at first realize what she was saying, or what 
 she meant by it. A faint recollection he had of being clutched 
 by somebody in the water and freeing himself from the grasp, 
 but he did not know it was Alice, who, when she realized that 
 he was putting her from him, felt that all hope was gone, until 
 Julia's voice called out : " Cling to the boat, Alice ; cling to 
 the boat, as I am doing." 
 
 The next she knew she was clinging to the boat to which she 
 and Julia held until aid came from two boatmen who had been 
 near them on the river when the accident occurred, and who 
 took them safely to the shore, which Robert had reached before 
 them with Emma at his side ! Julia had been deserted, too, 
 and though Robert had not put her from him, he had made no 
 effort to save her, but had grasped her sister's arm and said, in 
 her hearing : " Don't be afraid, Emma, darling, the shore is very 
 near ; keep your head above the water and I will not let you 
 drown." 
 
 But for the name Emma, Julia might have fancied he made 
 a mistake, but that settled it beyond a doubt ; and a pain like 
 the cut of a knife ran through her heart as she held to the side 
 of the boat, and saw her sister borne away by one whom she 
 had appropriated to herself so long. Once safe upon the land
 
 THE SAIL ON THE RIVER. 301 
 
 she went to the spot where Robert stood wringing the water 
 from her sister's dress, and then, overcome with nervousness, 
 and terror, and bitter disappointment, she uttered a low cry 
 and fell half-fainting upon the sand. Ordinarily, Alice would 
 have stopped to help her, but her interest was centred in that 
 other group, farther up the river, and making her way thither, 
 she reached it in time to hear Godfrey's words : " Open your 
 eyes once more and hear me tell how much I love you ! " 
 
 And he who said this was her promised husband, and she to 
 whom he said it an obscure girl, whom, a few weeks since, 
 Alice would have thought it impossible for one in Godfrey's 
 position really to love. Even now she could not believe him 
 in earnest, but there was bitter anger and resentment in her 
 heart, prompting her in the heat of her passion to give him 
 back his freedom with the ring, which, striking against his 
 shoulder, bounded off and fell on Gertie's death-white face. 
 
 " Don't, you hurt her," Godfrey said, softly, as he picked up 
 the ring and turned it over in his hand, while a perception of 
 the truth began to dawn upon him. 
 
 " What did you say ? " he asked ; and Alice replied : 
 
 " I told you you were free to love your Gertie all you please, 
 and I meant it, too, for I hate you." 
 
 " Thank you, Alice ; thank you so much, only it has come 
 too late," Godfrey replied ; and slipping the ring upon Gertie's 
 cold finger, he continued, " See, it fits ; and I'd rather have it 
 there on her dead hand than on the hand of any other woman 
 living, but it is there too late." 
 
 Was he going crazy because of that pale girl lying there in a 
 state so near resembling death, that it was not strange for the 
 eye of love to be mistaken ? Alice did not know ; but some- 
 thing in his voice and manner roused the little womanly sym- 
 pathy she had remaining in her then, and she said to him 
 sharply : " I tell you she is not dead. It is only a faint, but 
 she ought to have care. Take her somewhere, can't you ? or 
 let these men do it for you ; " and she turned to the boatmen 
 who had saved her own and Julia's life, and who had now come 
 up with offers of assistance.
 
 302 THE SAIL ON THE RIVER. 
 
 11 She must be seen to ; she's in a swound" they said, point- 
 ing to Gertie. " Shall we carry her to the town ? " 
 
 But Godfrey would not let them touch her, and buoyed up 
 with hope which gave him strength, he gathered the limp form 
 in his arms and ran rather than walked toward the village. 
 
 Our house stands at the entrance of the town just on the 
 brow of the hill, and as the storm was over I had opened the 
 door to let in the cool, sweet air, when I saw the strange pro- 
 cession coming, Godfrey with something in his arms, which I 
 at first mistook for a child, so small it looked and so closely he 
 held it to him ; Alice following after, more like a mermaid in 
 appearance than the ruffled and fluted and furbelowed young 
 lady whom I was wont to see, and the two boatmen bringing up 
 the rear with Godfrey's hat and Alice's parasol. 
 
 " What is it, Godfrey ? " I asked, as I went out to meet him, 
 and when I saw what it was, I bade him bring her in at once, 
 for there was no time to lose. 
 
 He laid her on my bed, and then, while one of the men went 
 for the doctor, we did for her all we had heard must be done 
 for the drowning, and with such good result, that when the doc- 
 tor came the patient had already shown signs of returning con- 
 sciousness, and the breath was plainly perceptible through the 
 pale lips whose first word was, " Godfrey, save me ! " 
 
 She thought herself still in the river, and when Godfrey, un- 
 mindful of us all, and caring little that just outside the door 
 Alice watched and waited, bent over her, and said : 
 
 " I am here, darling ; I have saved you ! " she put up both 
 her arms and wound them round him with a convulsive clasp, 
 while Alice came a step nearer, and stood within the room. 
 She had exchanged her saturated clothes for a suit of mine, and 
 with a shawl wrapped about her, stood, with chattering teeth, 
 watching Godfrey as he unclasped the hands from his neck 
 and rubbed them with his own, and rubbed the fair arms, and 
 the pale forehead, and smoothed the long, damp hair, and gave 
 the restoratives, until the blue eyes unclosed and looked at him 
 with sonic-thing more than recognition in their glance. Then 
 Godfrey was persuaded to leave her and don the drj garments
 
 THE SAIL ON THE RIVER, 303 
 
 of my brother, which had been waiting for him in an adjoining 
 room. 
 
 As he passed out he stumbled over a little crumpled figure 
 sitting upon a stool just inside the door, and looking down upon 
 it, he saw that it was Alice. 
 
 " Why, Allie," he exclaimed ; "I thought you had gone 
 home ! Have you been here all the time ? " 
 
 " Yes, Godfrey, all the time ! " and a tear stood on Alice's 
 eyelashes, and her voice was not much like the voice which an 
 hour before had said so bitterly, " I hate you." 
 
 Alice never harbored resentment long, and her heart was 
 very sore as she recalled the scene on the river-bank, and won- 
 dered if Godfrey had taken her angry words in earnest and felt 
 himself free from her. He could not, he must not, he was 
 not free. He had been hers for years, and though she did not 
 know what love was in its full extent, she had a pride in him 
 and a liking for him such as she had never felt for any other 
 man, and as she sat there by the door and watched him bend- 
 ing over the still form on the bed, she was conscious of a new 
 sensation throbbing through her heart, and when he passed her 
 on his way out she could hardly restrain herself from stopping 
 him and suing for pardon. She did not mean what she said 
 when in her madness she had set him free, and thrown back the 
 ring now flashing on Gertie's finger. Alice knew where it was, 
 and watched it with a strange gleam in her eyes, while a resolu- 
 tion was forming in her mind. The ring was hers, and she 
 would have it ; and rising from her seat she went swiftly to the 
 bedside, and seizing Gertie's hand, wrenched the ring from the 
 unresisting finger and placed it on her own. 
 
 The act must have hurt Gertie, for she winced, and, opening 
 her eyes, said : 
 
 " Is it you, Miss Creighton ? Are you safe ? " 
 
 Alice did not reply : she had heard the sound of wheels, and 
 hastened out to meet Col. Schuyler and Edith, who had come 
 to take her and Gertie to the Hill. 
 
 Julia had recovered from her half-faint, and, supported by 
 "ilobert and Emma, had walked home, and gone at once to her
 
 34 LOVE'S COURSE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTH. 
 
 room, where she was attended by her maid ; while Emma and 
 Robert explained what had happened, and told where the rest 
 of the party could be found. 
 
 Greatly alarmed at the account given of Gertie, Edith had 
 come at once to take her home, if possible ; but this neither the 
 doctor nor myself thought advisable. It was better for her to re- 
 main quietly where she was for a few days, and so the carriage 
 returned without her, Edith promising to come again the next 
 morning and see how she was. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 THE COURSE OF LOVE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTH. 
 
 |UST before leaving, Godfrey went to Gertie, and, 
 bending over her whispered a few words so low that 
 no one heard them except the one for whom they 
 were intended, and whose eye brightened as he said : 
 
 " Good-by, darling. I must go now, but shall come early to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 He was holding her hand, and he noticed the absence of the 
 ring and the scratch the stone had made when it was wrenched 
 away. Instantly a cloud passed over his face and he looked 
 searchingly at Gertie, but she knew nothing ; and then he 
 glanced at me. 
 
 " Ettie, if you find anything of value about Gertie's person, 
 or on the floor, keep it till I come again," he said ; and then 
 1 knew he meant the ring, and was puzzled more than ever. 
 
 Should I tell him where it was. No ; he would see it for 
 himself, I decided, as he went out from the room and joined his 
 father and the ladies at the door. 
 
 Alice's gloves were ruined, and she stood holding my water- 
 proof around her with the bare hand on which the gem was 
 shining. But Godfrey did not see it until he helped her into 
 the carriage, when the stone pressed hard against his hand, 
 making him start as if he had been stung, or, rather, as if that
 
 LOVE'S COURSE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTH. 305 
 
 ring on Alice's finger had riveted anew the fetters he had been 
 so glad to break. How came she by it, and what did it mean ? 
 Surely not that he was hers again. A thousand times no, when 
 he remembered the mighty love for another surging through his 
 veins and making him so wildly happy. He was honorably 
 free. Alice had made him so herself, and even his father could 
 not gainsay that or think the Schuyler reputation for honor 
 compromised in the least. A man could not marry a woman 
 who would not marry him, who had told him so with angry 
 words and biting sarcasms. Godfrey was in high spirits, and 
 his manner was not like that of one who has been so hear to 
 death. He could even joke with Robert and Emma, and would 
 have rallied Alice on her forlorn and bedraggled appearance 
 when she came to him on the shore, if he had not remembered 
 the scene which had followed that coming, when the ring of 
 betrothal was hurled at him so fiercely. How it flashed and 
 shone upon her hand, which, it seemed to him, was continually 
 thrust upon his sight, now on the table, now on the back of the 
 chair, now on the mantel, everywhere he turned his eyes there 
 was the restless hand and the diamond sparkling on it, and 
 seeming to say to him that his freedom was not so sure. At 
 last, when he could bear the sight no longer, he sauntered away 
 to his father's present business-room, where he sat down alone 
 to think of Gertie, and wonder if it would be greatly out of 
 place for him to go and inquire for her that night instead of 
 waiting till morning. 
 
 And while he sat thinking there was a knock upon the door, 
 and Alice came in with a grieved look in her face and tears in 
 her eyes, as she said : 
 
 " Have you nothing to say to me, Godfrey ? You have 
 scarcely spoken to me since the accident." 
 
 " What shall I say to you, Allie ? " Godfrey asked, not un- 
 kindly ; and then Alice's tears fell in torrents as she burst out, 
 impetuously : 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey, say you do not mind what I said to you on 
 the river-bank. I was angry, jealous, furious, because you put 
 me away to save another, and kissed her before my eyes, and
 
 306 LOVES COURSE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTH. 
 
 called her your darling. I think I must have been crazed to 
 say what I did, and throw my engagement ring away. But I 
 have it again. I took it from her hand and put it back on 
 mine. See, it is here ; look, Godfrey, and tell me it is just as 
 it was with us." 
 
 To say that Godfrey was unmoved by this appeal would be 
 wrong, for though he had never loved Alice, he did not dislike 
 her, and would gladly have spared her pain could he have done 
 so without compromising himself again : but he could not ; he 
 must be frank with her now, and settle their relations to each 
 other at once and forever, and he said to her : " But, Allie, it is 
 not with us as it was, and it never can be again. I do not wish 
 to hurt you unnecessarily, and I mean to be as gentle and kind 
 as I'd want a great brute of a fellow to be with my sister undei 
 similar circumstances. Allie, I have never supposed that you 
 imagined our engagement to be one of love. We liked eac^ 
 other, and were taught to think it was the proper thing for u 
 to marry. I did not love you very much, and you did not love 
 me " 
 
 "But, Godfrey, I can now," Alice sobbed; and Godfrey re- 
 plied : 
 
 " Not as you will love some one else by and by ; while I, 
 Ailie, I believe I have loved Gertie Westbrooke since she was 
 a "child, but I did not know it until I was engaged to you, and 
 met her here a woman. Then it came upon me, and for a 
 time I was miserable. But I meant to keep my word to you, 
 and should have done so if you had not yourself set me free. 
 I do not ask if you knew what you were saying. I accept the 
 fact, and cannot go back on it. It was not a manly act to 
 thrust you aside in the water, but I did not know what I was 
 doing, for Gertie was drowning and calling on me to save her, 
 and 1 had no thought for anything else. I shall ask her to be 
 my wife, and if she refuses, as she may, I shall bide my time 
 and ask her again ; have her I must ; but, Allie, you and I will be 
 friends always, just the same, and try to forget the past summer, 
 which has not brought much happiness to either of us. I have 
 been constantly fighting against my love for another, and you
 
 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 307 
 
 have been dissatisfied at not receiving from me all you had a 
 right to expect. And it would grow worse, all the time, and it 
 is better to end it now. If you like the ring, keep it, as you 
 would a gift from your brother, and let me be a brother to you. 
 I carmot be anything else. Will you, Allie ? " 
 
 Never in her life had Alice Creighton prized Godfrey as she 
 did then when she knew she was losing him, and her slight form 
 shook with sobs, but she did not withdraw the hand he took in 
 his, and when he said again : " Shall it be so, Allie ! Shall we 
 be friends ? " she answered : " Yes, Godfrey," and hurriedly left 
 the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 
 
 [ERTIE'S plunge in the river was not followed by any 
 serious consequences, and on the morning succeeding 
 the accident, although she was very pale and languid, 
 she complained of nothing but weakness and soreness from the 
 rubbings we had given her, and she came to breakfast looking 
 like a little Quakeress in one of my sober wrappers, with only 
 a plain linen collar around her neck, and her hair gathered into 
 a net. 
 
 But nothing could make Gertie other than pretty, and when, 
 just after breakfast, a step was heard on the walk, and I saw by 
 the flush on her cheek that she knew whose step it was, I had 
 never seen her more beautiful. Godfrey had come early, and 
 was in the best of spirits, and so tender and loving toward Ger- 
 tie that I watched him wonderingly, for I did not know what 
 had passed between him and Alice, and could not guess how 
 his heart was beating with joy at his freedom, and with hope for 
 the future. He had brought her a bouquet of flowers and some 
 grapes from the hot-house, and he hovered about her restlessly, 
 and called her a little nun in that queer garb and mob cap, as 
 he styled the net which he playfully pulled from her head, let- 
 ting her hair fall over her shoulders, and about her face.
 
 308 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 
 
 " There, isn't she just like some picture set in a golden 
 frame ? " he said, pushing back a stray tress from her forehead, 
 and then stepping aside to let me see and admire, too. 
 
 How Gertie's blue eyes drooped beneath his gaze, and how 
 the hot blood colored her cheeks, until she looked like some 
 guilty thing cowering from shame. And Gertie did feel guilty, 
 and as if she were usurping another's rights. She knew who it 
 was that saved her from drowning, and she knew now that what 
 she had thought might be a dream, must in part at least have 
 been a reality j that amid the horrid blackness which was so 
 much like death, Godfrey's lips had kissed hers passionately, 
 and Godfrey's voice had called her his darling, and bade her 
 come back to life again for the sake of the love he bore her. 
 Yes, Godfrey had done all that, and he was doing it over again, 
 so far as he dared, with me there in the way; and Gertie's heart 
 beat with joy, and then was heavy as lead when she remem- 
 bered Alice Creighton, and her promise to Colonel Schuyler, 
 which she must keep, if the heavens fell. 
 
 "I am coming to see you again after lunch, but meantime, I 
 will send you some of your things, and I want you dressed in 
 white, with these in your hair," Godfrey said, taking from the 
 bouquet a few forget-me-nots, which he laid in her lap. " I am 
 going to tell you something which may astonish you, but will 
 nevertheless make you glad, I hope, so aurevoir, ma chere." 
 
 He kissed her, and when she drew back in surprise, he wound 
 his arm around my neck, and kissed me, saying : 
 
 " You see, I serve you both alike, the old maid and the young 
 one, Adieu." 
 
 He was off like the wind, and we could hear him going rapidly 
 down the walk, his very step indicative of buoyant life, and vigor, 
 and elasticity. I did not say anything to Gertie, but left her 
 alone, while I attended to some household duties. When I re- 
 turned to her after the lapse of an hour, I found her asleep on 
 the lounge, with a troubled expression on her face and a tear 
 on her eyelashes. The carriage from the hill was at the gate, 
 Robert Macpherson and Emma were coming up to the door, 
 and so I woke her and made her ready for them. Emma was
 
 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 309 
 
 paler than usual, but there was something in the expressijn of 
 her face which made her prettier than I had ever seen her be- 
 fore. She was quite recovered, and she was in almost as good 
 spirits as Godfrey had been, while Robert's eyes followed her 
 with an expression which set me to wondering if everything had 
 been turned topsy-turvy by that accident in the river. I had a 
 lily I wished to show Robert, who was something of a florist, 
 and asked him into the garden. 
 
 " Yes, that's a good old Ettie, keep him as long as you can. 
 I want to see Gertie alone," Emma whispered to me, and as 
 soon as we were gone she went up to Gertie and said : 
 
 " Guess now what has happened ! Robert wants me to be 
 his wife, and I thought all the while it was Julia ! He said so 
 last night, and would have told me before but for the misfortune 
 of his birth, which he thought I might not like. He says you 
 know about it, and so I come to you first of all. Of course I'd 
 rather his mother had been a lady born, and I do not quite like 
 the thought of those Lyles and Nesbits. That's the Schuyler 
 and Rossiter of me, while the woman in me says : ' I do not 
 care ; a man is a man for a' that.' " 
 
 Gertie was surprised, for she too had supposed it was Julia 
 whom Robert preferred, but she was very glad to find herself 
 mistaken, and heartily echoed Emma's sentiment, "A man's a 
 man for a' that." 
 
 " But what will your father say ? " she asked, and Emma re- 
 plied : 
 
 " I don't know. I hope Glenthorpe will outweigh the Lyles. 
 Robert will tell him to-night. There, he is coming, and I must 
 go. Good-by, and come home as quick as you can. Tell 
 Ettie, if you like." 
 
 She kissed us both, as Godfrey had done, while Robert 
 shook hands with Gertie, who said : 
 
 " I am so glad. I supposed all the while it was Julia, or I 
 should not have thought it could make any difference. God 
 bless you both." 
 
 We did not expect Godfrey till after lunch, but he surprised 
 us by coming in just as we were taking our seats at the dinner
 
 310 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 
 
 table. He was in town, he said, and thought it a waste of laboi 
 to go home and then back again, and so he came directly to our 
 house, and helping himself to a chair, he drew up to the table 
 beside Gertie, to whom he devoted himself with all the assidu- 
 ity of an ardent and accepted lover. I think he looked upon 
 himself in that light, and was not in the least prepared for the 
 disappointment awaiting him. 
 
 At the foot of our garden, overlooking the river, is an old- 
 fashioned summer-house, covered with a luxuriant grapevine, 
 and Godfrey asked Gertie to go there with him as soon as 
 dinner was over. His love was of the impetuous kind, which 
 cannot wait to know the best or worst, and once alone with 
 Gertie and free from observation, save as the bright-eyed robin, 
 whose nest was among the vines, looked curiously down upon 
 him, he burst out passionately and told her of the love which 
 had been growing in his heart since the day he found her on 
 the deck and stole the kiss from her lips. 
 
 "I have been so hungry for another," he said, "and I had 
 it, too, yesterday, when you lay by the water's edge, and I 
 feared you were dead. Forgive me, darling, if I took unfair 
 advantage of your position. I could not help it, and had you 
 died I would have claimed you as mine and told my love to all 
 the world." 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey, hush ; you must not speak to me like this. 
 Remember Alice," Gertie said gaspingly, and Godfrey replied : 
 
 " I do remember her, and it is of her I must first tell you. 
 When in my agony lest you were dead, I called you my darling 
 and kissed your pallid lips, Alice stood beside me a witness to 
 the love which never was hers. She was angry, as she natu- 
 rally would be, and in her anger made me free from my engage- 
 ment, and said she hated me and gave me back the ring of be- 
 trothal. After that she surely has no claim on me, and if she 
 had I could not respect it now." 
 
 Then very rapidly he went over with the entire story of his 
 affaire du coeur with Alice from the time they both were chil- 
 dren and the marriage was arranged by their parents. 
 
 " I like Alice as a friend," he said ; "but I never could have
 
 GODFREY AND GERTIE. JH 
 
 loved her as a wife, and shall not try. I have lasted a little the 
 sweets of loving you, and nothing will satisfy me now but the 
 full fruition of that love. Gertie, you do love me ; tell me that 
 you do, and not shrink away from me as you are trying to 
 do." 
 
 He wound his arm around her, and drew her closely to him, 
 vhile with a shudder she cried : 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey, don't ask me ; take the words back, please, 
 and do not torture me so cruelly. I cannot be your wife. I 
 cannot. It must never be, never. I have given my solemn 
 promise, and I must keep it." 
 
 Then he released her, and springing to his feet, exclaimed : 
 
 " Your promise, Gertie ! Your promise ! What do you 
 mean ? Has any other man dared talk to you of love ? Has 
 Tom Barton " 
 
 She saw that he misunderstood her, and said to him : 
 
 " No, Godfrey, it is not that. I am not promised in that way, 
 but for gratitude, for honor. Your father asked it of me." 
 
 " My father ? What do you mean ? " Godfrey said, resum- 
 ing his seat beside her, and growing very indignant and very 
 white about the lips when Gertie told him what she meant, and 
 that she would not break her vow. 
 
 Nothing he could say to her moved her in the least. She 
 had promised and she should keep her word, and he must go 
 back to Alice, who would forgive him. 
 
 " I shall never go back to her. We settled that last night," 
 he said, and then added, quickly : " Gertie, I am not one who 
 gives up easily, and I shall not give you up. My father himself 
 shall remove the bar ; only tell me, Gertie, truly, do you love 
 we, and if it were not for the promise, would you be my wife ? " 
 
 Oh, what a depth of love and tenderness there was in the 
 streaming eyes lifted to Godfrey's face, as Gertie answered him 
 so sadly : 
 
 " I am afraid I would." 
 
 " Then you shall be," Godfrey said. " I will see my father, 
 this very night and tell him the whole story, and get him to re- 
 move the interdict, and whe 1 1 have his consent I shall come
 
 312 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 
 
 straight here to you. Don't go home to-day, Gertie. Stay 
 with Ettie another night, and wait here for me till the moon is 
 up, and then if I do not come you may know father has 
 goaded me to such lengths that in my desperation I have thrown 
 myself into the river ! " 
 
 He spoke lightly, and tried to laugh, but there was a load on 
 his heart, a feeling that the interview with his father might be a 
 stormy one, but he was ready to encounter any difficulty for 
 Gertie's sake, and esteemed no trial too great if in the end it 
 brought her to his arms. It was useless, he knew, to think of 
 winning her so long as that promise to his father stood in the 
 way, and so that was the barrier to be broken down ; but in 
 his passion and blindness he had little fear that he should fail. 
 Gertie was the same as his, and he told her so, and stooped to 
 kiss her lips at parting. But she drew back from him, and said : 
 
 " No, Godfrey, I am not your promised wife, and never shall 
 be. Your father will not consent." 
 
 She knew Colonel Schuyler better than Godfrey did, and her 
 heart was very heavy, as she watched him going from her, his 
 face beaming with hope as he looked back to say : 
 
 " Wait for me here, Gertie, when the moon comes over the 
 hills." 
 
 I saw that something had agitated her when she returned to 
 the house, and laying her head on my shoulder, said, " Tell me 
 about it if you like ; " and then she told me all, and how hope- 
 less it was for Godfrey to think his father would consent to his 
 marriage with a poor girl like her. And though I felt that she 
 spoke truly, I tried to encourage her, telling her that Godfrey 
 was not one to stop at any obstacle which could be surmounted. 
 
 Later in the day Edith drove round in her phaeton to take 
 Gertie home, but I begged to keep her another night, while 
 Gertie, too, expressed a desire to stay, and so Edith went back 
 without her, never suspecting the reason which Gertie had for 
 staying with me that night.
 
 ROBERT MACPHERSON AND COL. SCHUYLER. 313 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 ROBERT MACPHERSON AND COL. SCHUYLER. 
 
 ]ROM the moment Robert bore Emma in his arms to 
 the shore, and kissed her, as he set her safe upon the 
 land, he knew he stood committed, and that silence 
 was no longer possible. And so he made his confession to her, 
 and told her of his love, and asked if she would be his wife, 
 and the mistress of Glenthorpe. Had he been poor, with no 
 Glenthorpe, Emma might have hesitated, for in her way she was 
 very proud, and good blood was her weakness ; but Robert was not 
 poor, and she was very much in love with him, and said she 
 would be his if her father was willing, and she thought he would 
 be, for he had never expected as much for her as he did for Julia, 
 whose beauty ought to command a brilliant match. 
 
 Robert was not one to delay any duty long, especially if it 
 were a disagreeable one, and while Godfrey was breathing words 
 of passionate love into Gertie's ear, he was closeted with Col. 
 Schuyler and with Edith too. He had asked her to be present, 
 from a feeling that he should find in her a powerful ally. But 
 he had no conception of the real nature of her feelings when he 
 told who he was, and said : " The man you buried in your yard, 
 and who saved Godfrey's life, was my own uncle, the brother 
 of my mother." 
 
 He stopped there a moment, waiting for the first shock to 
 pass away, and Edith felt the iron fingers touch her throat 
 slightly, while she was conscious of an impulse to grasp the 
 young man's hand and claim him for her own kindred. But 
 such confession on her part must not be made now. It was 
 too late for that, and she did not speak, but listened breath- 
 lessly while Robert confessed next his love for the colonel's 
 daughter, and asked if he might have her. Colonel Schuy- 
 ler thought of Jennie Nesbit and that cottage in Alnwick, and 
 all his family pride rose within him as he said, without a mo- 
 ment's hesitancy : 
 14
 
 3H ROBERT MACPHERSON AND COL. SCHUYLER. 
 
 " I am. surprised that after the fraud practised upon us so 
 long, you should presume to ask for my daughter, especially 
 when you consider the difference between our families. No, I 
 cannot give her to you." 
 
 This was the colonel's reply, while Edith, who thought only 
 of the sweet-faced, white-haired old lady knitting in the sun- 
 shine, and of the boy-lover coming to her through the twilight 
 in the years agone, rose, and going to her husband's side said 
 to him : 
 
 "Yes, Howard, you will give, her to him and forgive him for 
 the foolish pride which has so long kept him silent with regard 
 to his mother's family." 
 
 The colonel was disturbed, and answered a little impatiently : 
 "It's the family I object to, as well as the deception." 
 
 " Yes, I know," and Edith's white fingers threaded his hair 
 caressingly. " I can imagine that ; but, Howard, consider the 
 difference between Robert and those whom we saw in Alnwick, 
 and remember there is a nobility from within which should 
 level all outward distinctions. You chose me without money, 
 family, or name, and Robert has all these. The Macphersons 
 are among the first in Scotland, and you will not condemn him 
 for the accident of his mother's birth. You can afford to be 
 generous. Let me go for Emma now, and see you make her 
 happy by giving her to the man she loves." 
 
 She had caressed him all the time, and her caresses did quite 
 as much toward mollifying him as her arguments. She saw the 
 wavering of his purpose in his eyes, and, as he did not forbid 
 her, she went at once for Emma, whom she led into the room, 
 and whose hand she placed in Robert's, as she said : 
 
 " Now, husband, give them your blessing, and say that you 
 are willing." 
 
 " I cannot say I am willing," the colonel answered, in a husky 
 voice : " but we sometimes assent to what we do not like, and 
 if Emma wants this young man, and thinks she can be happy 
 with him away from all her family, I will not oppose her, only 
 let everything be done very quietly and unostentatiously. I 
 could not endure a parade."
 
 GODFREY AND HIS FATHER. 31$ 
 
 And thus he gave his consent, which hurt almost as much as 
 it pleased, though Emma put her arms around his neck, and 
 thanked him for having made her so happy ; but Robert merely 
 bowed his thanks, and, with a manner as lofty and haughty as 
 that of any Schuyler, left the room. Emma soon joined him, 
 and with her he forgot in part the little sting, and thought only 
 of the future, when she would be his wife and the mistress of 
 Glenthorpe, a place finer even than Schuyler Hill, with a long 
 line of noble ancestry, and a coat-of arms to give importance 
 to it. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 GODFREY AND HIS FATHER. 
 
 |HE dinner at Schuyler Hill that day was a rather dull 
 affair compared with what the dinners usually were ; 
 for Alice and Julia kept their rooms with the headache, 
 while immediately after his interview with Robert, the colonel 
 had gone up the river a few miles on some business, which he 
 told Edith might detain him past the dinner hour, and if so, she 
 was not to wait. As he did not return, they sat down without 
 him, but only Godfrey was inclined to talk. He had heard 
 Robert's story from Robert himself, and had indorsed him 
 heartily, and teasingly congratulated Emma for having done so 
 much better than he ever thought she could do with her little 
 ankles and milk-and-water face. 
 
 It was anything but milk-and-water now, and, with the blushes 
 burning so constantly on her cheeks, and the new light in her 
 eyes, she was very pretty to look at, as she sat at the dinner- 
 table, and Godfrey told her so, and said it was a pity she had 
 not been engaged before, it was so great an improvement to 
 her, and all the time he joked and laughed he was thinking of 
 his father, and wondering when he would be home. 
 
 Six, seven, eight, and nine, and still he had not come, and the 
 moon would be up at ten, and Gertie waiting for him, and God- 
 frey paced up and down the long piazza, restless as a caged lion,
 
 316 GODFREY AND HIS FATHER. 
 
 until the sound of horse's feet was heard, and the colonel came 
 galloping up to the side door, where Godfrey met him before 
 he had time to dismount. 
 
 " Father," he said, " I have waited for you more than three 
 hours. I must speak with you at once. Come in here, please." 
 
 And he led the way to the same room where Robert had de- 
 clared his love for Emma, and where Gertie had given her 
 promise not to listen to Godfrey without his father's consent. 
 
 And Godfrey was there to ask that consent, and he plunged 
 at once into the mattei, and told his story so rapidly and 
 emphatically that his father had no chance to utter a syllable, 
 even had he wished to do so, but sat motionless and con- 
 founded while Godfrey poured out his burning words, and de- 
 claring his love for Gertie, asked that his father should remove 
 the ban, and make Gertie free to be his wife. Godfrey could 
 not have chosen a more inopportune time for the success of his 
 suit. The colonel had borne a great deal that day. His pride 
 had been sorely wounded in giving his daughter to a son of the 
 Lyles, and now came Godfrey, telling him cf his broken engage- 
 ment with Alice, and asking his consent to a marriage with 
 Gertie Westbrooke, a girl who, for aught he knew, was con- 
 nected with a lower family even than the Lyles, and who at 
 least had no money to bring him. This really was the sorest 
 point with Colonel Schuyler. His business that afternoon had 
 been with the agent of a firm which owed him a large sum of 
 money, and which had declared its inability to pay, so that he 
 had returned a poorer man by fifty thousand dollars than he had 
 supposed himself to be. And this was from the portion he had 
 set apart for Godfrey. 
 
 Just after the birth of little Arthur, the colonel had made his 
 will, dividing his property about equally, as lie thought, be- 
 tween his wife and children, and designating the bonds, or 
 lands, or moneys each should have. Strangely enough, all the 
 losses he had met with since had been from Godfrey's share. 
 For this, however, the colonel had consoled himself with the 
 fact that Alice Creighton's fortune would make amends for all, 
 and now he was told that Alice was set aside, and his son
 
 GODFREY AND HIS FATHER. 317 
 
 would wed with poverty. He was confounded, and indignant, 
 and angry, and said many bitter things, and utterly refused to 
 release Gertie from her promise. 
 
 " Tell her from me," he said, " that I will hold her to it as 
 long as I live, and she must beware how she breaks her word, 
 pledged so solemnly." 
 
 And that was all the satisfaction Godfrey got. His father 
 would not listen to his love for Gertie, and insisted upon his re- 
 turning to his allegiance to Alice : 
 
 " Never, while I have my senses. I do not dislike Allie as a 
 friend, but I shall never make her my wife. It is Gertie, or no- 
 body," Godfrey said. 
 
 And so the interview which had lasted a long time ended, and 
 just as the clock was striking half-past ten a white-faced young 
 man, with lips firmly compressed, and a look of determination 
 in his eyes, went rapidly down the avenue, leaving behind a 
 whiter- faced man, who had said to him : 
 
 " If Gertie breaks her word and marries you, remember it 
 will be disinheritance." 
 
 Now to one as madly in love as Godfrey, disinheritance did 
 not seem so very dreadful. It was not half as bad as losing 
 Gertie, and as he walked away from the Hill he thought how 
 pleasant it would be to work for Gertie, and deny himself, if 
 need be, that she might live in comfort. There was his cot- 
 tage ; disinheritance could not take that from him, for it was 
 his own, and he had the deed. They could live there for awhile 
 on almost notl-'.ij, and should get along somehow. 
 
 It was the same old story, always new, of young people with 
 more love in their hearts than money in their purses. " They 
 would get along somehow;" and Godfrey's spirits were very 
 light, and his cheery whistle sounded through the still night air 
 as he drew near the summer-house, where Gertie was to wait 
 for him.
 
 3 i8 WAITING. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 |ERTIE had been very restless the entire day, and 
 when at last the sun went down, and there wanted 
 but a few hours of the time when Godfrey was to re- 
 turn, her cheeks were burning with fever, and she was far more 
 fit for bed than for the summer-house, where the fog from the 
 river was making itself felt, and the night damp was falling. 
 But I could not persuade her. Godfrey had said: "Wait 
 for me here when the moon conies over the hills," and she 
 would do it if a hundred fevers had been burning in her veins. 
 She had no hope, she said, that Colonel Schuyler would relent, 
 and if he did not she must keep her vow, though her heart 
 broke in doing it. Still I think there was a shadowy hope, 
 which buoyed her up during the first half hour of waiting. She 
 had expected him to be with her before the moon came over 
 the hill, and when the first silvery light fell on the opposite 
 shore, and the woods began to grow less dark and sombre, she 
 grew restless and nervous, and complained of being cold, while 
 }he bright flush faded from her cheeks and lips, and left them 
 pale as marble. The whole river now was flecked with patches 
 of moonlight, and the summer-house, with the shrubbery around 
 it, began to stand out in shadows, as the moon c. rpt higher and 
 higher up the eastern horizon. And still he did not come, and 
 Gertie's teeth were chattering and her hair was wet with dew, 
 and I was about to insist upon her going in, when through the 
 stillness a footstep sounded, a rapid, elastic footstep, and we 
 heard next a merry whistle on the road not far away. Godfrey 
 was coming ; he had been successful, or he would never have 
 come so blithely. So Gertie thought, so I believed, and I 
 stole away to the house, leaving the lovers alone in their inter- 
 view, which lasted more than an hour, and at its close left the 
 two young hearts which loved each other so fondly, sore and
 
 WAITING. 319 
 
 full of pain. For Gertie would not break her word so solemnly 
 pledged. 
 
 " I love you so much," she said, when he had exhausted 
 every argument in his power to win her to his opinion, "and I 
 would so gladly be poor with you, and work so hard for you if 
 I could do it without sin ; but I cannot ; I promised I would 
 not marry you without your father's consent, and I must keep 
 my word. But I did not promise not to love you, and I can 
 do that and will, forever and ever. And now good-by. Don't 
 go to the house with me. Don't kiss me," she cried, as he 
 made a motion to clasp her in his arms. " You must not do 
 that ; and, Godfrey, you say you shall leave Hampstead to- 
 morrow. Don't part from your father in anger. Don't for my 
 sake ; and, Godfrey " her voice shook a little here "and 
 and try to love Alice, do, and be happy with her, and 
 never mind about me." 
 
 She broke from him then, and came rapidly to the house 
 where I received her, and removing the shawls, wet with the 
 heavy dew, rubbed and chafed her cold hands and feet and got 
 her to bed as soon as I could, while in my heart was a dire 
 foreboding of what might follow this excitement and long ex- 
 posure to the night air, in her already weakened condition. 
 Nor were my forebodings groundless, and Godfrey did not leave 
 home the following day as he meant to do. With his travelling 
 bag and shawl he came past our house on his way to the train 
 and stopped at the door a moment to ask for Gertie, but 
 when I led him to her room where she lay burning with fever 
 and talking of him and his father, and the little hot berth in the 
 steamer where she had been so sick; he put his satchel and 
 shawl in the corner, and drawing his chair near her bedside sat 
 there all day long, while the doctor came in and out and said it 
 was the result of exposure that day on the river, and that with 
 ordinary care he apprehended no danger. Edith, too, came 
 down with Emma, whom I hardly knew with the new happiness 
 shining in her face and making her so sweet and gentle. Both 
 were very anxious about Gertie, and the latter remained all 
 night, and watched with Godfrey, by the sick girl, who paid no
 
 320 GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 
 
 heed to either of them, but kept asking for Col. Schuyler. And 
 the next day he came and stood by her, and taking her hot 
 hands in his asked her what she wanted. 
 ! She seemed to know him, and replied : 
 
 " To tell you that I have not told a lie. I've kept my prom- 
 ise, though it broke my heart to do it, but I could not tell a 
 lie even for the love I have for Godfrey." 
 
 I do not know what he said to her, but he was very pale when 
 he came from the sick-room, and he spoke pleasantly to God- 
 frey, and made no objections to his being there. But he did 
 not come again or see his son, who stayed until Gertie was out 
 of danger. Then he asked to see her for just one moment, but 
 what occurred at the interview I cannot say. I only know that 
 at its close Godfrey's voice was husky and thick as he wrung my 
 hand, and said : 
 
 " Farewell, Ettie ; be good to her. I don't know if I'll ever 
 come home again." 
 
 Then he went away, and I found Gertie in a kind of faint, 
 from which she did not recover until long after I heard the 
 whistle of the train which took Godfrey to New York. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 
 
 was soon known in Hampstead, not who Robert Mac- 
 pherson was, but that he was to marry Emma Schuy- 
 ler, instead of the haughty Julia, to whom every one 
 had given him. Julia was not a favorite in town, and when it 
 was rumored that she was bitterly disappointed, and that the 
 headache which had confined her to her room for several days 
 was owing more to her disappointment than to cold taken in the 
 river, I think the lower class rejoiced to know that even her 
 proud heart could ache and her scornful eyes weep from humilia- 
 tion. Of Alice's grief nothing was known outside the house on 
 the Hill, though many comments were made concerning God-
 
 GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 321 
 
 frey's stay with Gertie when she was so sick, and his devotion 
 to her was imputed to a feeling stronger than friendship for the 
 beautiful girl so popular with everybody. But nobody dreamed 
 of the broken engagement which the colonel tried to mend, 
 bidding Alice wear the ring as if nothing had happened, and en- 
 couraging her to believe that all would yet be well between her- 
 self and Godfrey. The colonel had faith in Gertie and knew 
 she would keep her word, and hoped and believed that what he 
 had desired so long would ultimately come to pass. 
 
 Emma's wedding was to be a very quiet morning affair at the 
 church, with a breakfast afterward at the house, and then the 
 married pair were to go at once to New York and embark the 
 following day for England. 
 
 By mere accident Julia had heard something of Robert's ante- 
 cedents, and as she insisted upon knowing the whole, Emma 
 had told her who Robert was, and the knowledge had gone far 
 toward reconciling the proud girl to her loss. 
 
 Emma was welcome to a nephew of the Lyles, she said, with 
 a haughty toss of her head, and when Tom Barton, who was 
 still keeping sober for Gertie's sake, was suggested to her as 
 groomsman she did not object, and received him graciously when 
 he came round to talk the matter over. Alice was to be the 
 other bridesmaid, and it was confidently expected that Godfrey 
 would stand with her. But this he refused to do, saying in his 
 letter to his father that he should not be present at the ceremony. 
 His coming home could only bring pain to himself and others, 
 and he chose to remain in New York, where he should see 
 Emma before she sailed and make it right with her. When Alice 
 heard this she took the ring from her finger a second time, 
 and inclosing it in a blank sheet of paper sent it back to God- 
 frey, with the feeling that all was really over between them, and 
 that he never would be hers even if he did not marry Gertie. 
 How she hated her rival, and how glad she was to know that 
 she would not be present at the wedding. 
 
 " If she comes here I certainly shall leave, for the same roof 
 cannot cover us both for a single hour, she said. 
 
 But she had nothing to fear from Gertie, who was neither 
 14*
 
 322 GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 
 
 able nor desirous of attending the wedding. She saw both Rob- 
 ert and Emma frequently, and through the former was carrying 
 out the plan she had formed when he first told her who he was, 
 and gave her the cairngorms from his grandmother. Then she 
 had thought : " If Julia marries Robert I will divide the stones 
 with her, for no one can have a better right to them than Rob- 
 ert's wife ; " and now that it was Emma instead of Julia, she 
 was far better satisfied, and sent a part of the stones to New 
 York, where they were made into bracelets, ear-rings and pin as 
 her present to the bride. 
 
 It is not my intention to linger long over that wedding, which 
 came off on one bright morning in September, and at which no 
 one was present save a few intimate friends. Julia, as brides- 
 maid, was very beautiful, we heard, and at the breakfast coquetted 
 a good deal with Tom, who, after all was over, and the bridal 
 pair gone, came and told us all about it, and said Alice nearly 
 took his head off when he joked her about Godfrey's absence. 
 
 " And if you believe me, she is kind of sweet on the rector," 
 he said ; " and now that everything seems to be topsy-turvy 
 and upside down, I would not be surprised if she became our 
 rectoress some day. Wouldn't she be a jolly one though, with 
 all her cranks and furbelows." 
 
 She had gone to New York with the bridal party, and Julia 
 had gone, too, so that they were very lonely at Schuyler Hill, 
 and within a day or two Edith came for Gertie to go home. 
 
 " Col. Schuyler wishes it ; he misses you, I think, almost as 
 much as I do," Edith said, and that availed to take Gertie back 
 more than anything else, I think. 
 
 It was the colonel himself who met her at the door, and led 
 her into the house, and told her she was welcome home, and lie 
 was glad to see her. And he did seem happier for having her 
 again, and as it was through him she had suffered so much, he tried 
 by every means in his power to make amends, and withheld 
 from her nothing save the one thing which alone could bring 
 the color back to her face, and ease the heavy pain at her heart. 
 Godfrey was studying very hard at his profession, and wrote 
 occasionally to his father stiff, formal letters, pertaining wholly
 
 MRS. DOCTOR BARRETT. 323 
 
 to his health or business, and not at all like the funny, rollicky 
 epistles he had been wont to dash off when he was not as sad 
 and spiritless as now. Once he wrote to Gertie, but she did not 
 answer the letter, though she asked Edith to write and say she 
 had received it, and that he must not write again. Those Oc- 
 tober days were very dreary ones to Gertie, and she was glad 
 when at last there came a diversion to her thoughts, in the shape 
 of a guest who appeared one day so suddenly and unexpectedly 
 at Schuyler Hill, and of whom I will speak in another chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 MRS. DOCTOR BARRETT. 
 
 jHE guest was Mrs. Dr. Barrett, and she came one 
 dreary day in November, unannounced and unex- 
 pected, her white puffs of hair just as smooth as ever, 
 her mourning just as deep and her black eyes just as restless 
 and eager as she walked up the avenue and looked curiously 
 about her. She had accidentally stumbled upon Godfrey in 
 New York while walking down Broadway, and recognizing him 
 at once had seized him by the arm, and to his utter amazement, 
 claimed him as her grandson by marriage. It was not in God- 
 frey s nature to be other than polite to any woman, and so 
 adroitly did Mrs. Barrett manage, that when at last he left her 
 seated in the car which was to take her to Hampstead, he 
 found himself out of pocket just ten dollars, which had gone for 
 carriage hire, and lunch and stage fare, and ticket to Hamp- 
 stead. 
 
 "But then a fellow must do something for his stcp-grand- 
 mother-in-law" he said to Tom Barton, who chanced to be in 
 the city, and to whom he related his experience, adding that he 
 hardly thought the worthy woman was expected at Schuyler 
 Hill. 
 
 Nor was she. But Mrs. Barrett was not one who cared par- 
 ticularly for the feelings of others. Regularly twice a year
 
 324 MRS. DOCTOR BARRETT. 
 
 since her daughter's marriage she had received money from 
 Colonel Schuyler, and never in her life had she been more 
 comfortable and free ; but this did not satisfy her so long as she 
 knew that across the sea was a luxurious home, which she felt 
 she had a right to enjoy. It was more than six years now since 
 her daughter's marriage, and in all that time there had been no 
 wish expressed to see her, no invitation for her to come, and 
 she was tired of waiting and weary of her present idle life, while 
 to do her justice there was in her heart a genuine desire to see 
 her child's face once more, and hear the sound of her voice. 
 So, when her money came as usual in October, with a letter 
 from Edith, who told of Emma's marriage, and said that Julia 
 was also gone, and she was alone with her husband, Arthur and 
 Gertie, Mrs. Barrett's decision was made, and giving up her 
 pleasant rooms which she had occupied so long, she started for 
 America, and arrived at Hampstead on a November day when 
 the wind sighed drearily through the trees and rustled the dead 
 leaves at her feet as she passed slowly up the avenue leading 
 to Schuyler Hill. She had walked from the station, and taking 
 the road which led past her old home, had paused a moment 
 by the gate, looking at the pretty cottage and thinking of all 
 that had happened since the day Abelard was carried through 
 the gate up to the little cemetery she could see in the distance. 
 
 Edith was out that afternoon, and only Gertie was at home 
 when Mrs. Barrett rang and asked first for Mrs. Schuyler and 
 then for Miss Westbrooke. 
 
 " An old lady in black, with puffs of white hair," the servant 
 said to Gertie, who, without a thought as to who it could be, 
 went down to meet the stranger. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Barrett," she cried, when she caught sight of the 
 well-remembered features. " I did not dream of seeing you. 
 When did you come ? Oh, I am so glad, and so will Mrs. 
 Schuyler be. I wish she were here." 
 
 There was no question as to Gertie's joy, and Mrs. Barrett 
 wished she was as sure of as hearty a welcome from her own 
 daughter as she received from this stranger, who was removing 
 her bonnet and shawl and talking to her so fast.
 
 'MRS. DOCTOR BARRETT. 325 
 
 " You must be very tired, and I'd take you to your room at 
 once, only I hardly know which Mrs. Schuyler would wish you 
 to have. The best, though, of course, as you are her mother. 
 Yes, I think I'll venture that. Come with me, please ; " and 
 Gertie led the way up the broad, long stairs to the guest cham- 
 ber of the house, the one reserved for people like Mrs. Gen. 
 Morton and Mrs. Gov. Strong, who sometimes visited at Schuy- 
 ler Hill. 
 
 But Mrs. Barrett knew better than to take it. She was not 
 so sure of Edith's delight, while the colonel, she felt, would 
 never forgive her if he found her in his best room. So she said 
 to Gertie : 
 
 " I do not believe I had better take this, as I shall probably 
 remain a long time, and a smaller, plainer chamber will do 
 for me, one near you, if I can have it," she added, with an in- 
 stinctive feeling that in Gertie she should find her strongest ally 
 and friend. 
 
 " Come to my room, then, and wait. Mrs. Schuyler will soon 
 be here," Gertie said, and while she spoke, there was the sound 
 of wheels, and looking through the blinds, Mrs. Barrett saw her 
 daughter in her carriage coming up the avenue, and scanned 
 her curiously. 
 
 "What a great lady she is, though," she said, aloud, "and 
 what a handsome house. I wonder if she blames me now ? " 
 
 From having lived alone so much, Mrs. Barrett had acquired 
 the habit of talking to herself, and she was startled when she 
 met Gertie's eyes fixed wonderingly upon her, and became 
 aware that she was speaking her thoughts aloud. 
 
 " That's she ; that's Edith ; I hear her voice," she said, 
 beginning to tremble with excitement, and anticipation, and 
 dread. "Would you mind telling her I'm here?" she added, 
 feeling intuitively that if she was to have a shock Gertie would 
 stand between her and the battery, and thus make it easier to 
 bear. 
 
 " Certainly, I'll tell her," Gertie replied, while there began to 
 dawn upon her a faint suspicion that possibly Mrs. Barrett might 
 not be altogether welcome.
 
 326 MRS. DOCTOR BARRETT. 
 
 Edith had never voluntarily mentioned her mother in Gertie's 
 hearing, and when the latter spoke of her, as she sometimes 
 did, she turned the conversation at once into another channel. 
 This Gertie now remembered, and when she added to it the few 
 words Mrs. Barrett had inadvertently let fall about her daugh- 
 ter's blaming her, she felt sure there was some misunderstanding 
 between mother and daughter ; and while she stood firmly by 
 Edith, as the one probably least in fault, she felt a great pity 
 for the tired, worn woman, whose face was so much paler and 
 thinner than when she last saw it, and she resolved to do the 
 best for her she could. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Schuyler," she said, meeting the lady at the foot 
 of the stairs, and detaining her there while she spoke. " Wait 
 a moment, please, before you go up. I have some good news 
 for you, real good, too. And you will be so glad. I was, and 
 she is nothing to me either. Guess who has come ? " 
 
 Edith could not guess, though a thrill ran through her nerves, 
 and without the slightest reason for it she felt the touch of the 
 iron fingers at her throat, and her voice was a whisper as she 
 asked : 
 
 " Who is it, Gertie ? " 
 
 " Your mother, and she is so tired and pale, and is trembling 
 all over to see you," Gertie replied, surer than ever, from the 
 expression of Edith's face, that there was something unpleasant 
 between them. 
 
 " My mother ! My mother here, in this house," Edith said, 
 and her voice, which she had recovered, reached to the upper 
 hall where her mother stood, hearing the words and feeling them 
 like so many stabs, for she knew now she was not welcome. 
 
 Edith was not glad, though her feelings were less for herself 
 than for her husband. Try as she might she had never been able 
 quite to forgive her mother for the false position in which her 
 falsehood had placed her, and she felt she could never trust 
 her again. Still she was her mother, and nothing could undo 
 that, and she was there in her house, unasked, it is true, but as 
 a mother, she had, perhaps, a right to come ; or would have 
 had, if the husband had not expressed himself so decidedly
 
 MRS. DOCTOR BARRETT. 327 
 
 against it ; and that was where Edith felt most keenly. What 
 would Col. Schuyler say ? Would he blame her ? And would 
 the result be estrangement and coldness between them ? That 
 something would come of it she was sure, and as if she already 
 felt the shadow of the something which would result from that 
 visit of her mother's, and threaten both her life and reason, she 
 stood a moment unable to move while Gertie stared at her 
 amazed, and the mother still stood waiting in the hall above. 
 Recovering herself at last she went slowly up the stairs, and on 
 toward her own room, where she naturally expected to find her 
 visitor. But Mrs. Barrett was at the other end of the hall, and 
 called to her : " Here, Edith ; here I am ; here's your poor old 
 mother." 
 
 Then Edith turned and went swiftly to the spot, and, 
 touched by the trembling voice and the tired, white face, which 
 had grown so old, forgot everything for a moment, and winding 
 her arms around her mother's neck, kissed her lovingly, and then 
 leading her to her own room, shut the door and sat down to 
 look at her. 
 
 "You didn't expect me, I know," Mrs. Barrett began, in a 
 half defiant, half apologetic tone ; " and perhaps I did wrong to 
 come ; but I was so tired of living alone, with nothing to do 
 but think from one day to another ; and then I wanted so much 
 to see you, in the handsome home I got for you. A mother 
 has a right to visit her child, you know." 
 
 This she said because of the expression on Edith's face, 
 which she could not understand any more than she could real- 
 ize that the refined, elegant woman clad in velvet and ermine 
 was her daughter, her own flesh and blood. Edith had grown 
 far away from her mother, and there was scarcely a sentiment 
 in common between them. Still she wished to do right, and 
 when her mother said what she did, she replied : 
 
 " Yes, certainly, you have a right ; and I am " 
 
 She did not get any further, for the voice which made her 
 start as it said : 
 
 "Edith, my dear, whose is all that remarkable-looking bag- 
 gage down in the hall which I stumbled over just now ? "
 
 328 MRS. DOCTOR BARRETT. 
 
 Colonel Schuyler had ridden round to the stable, and giving 
 his horse to the care of the groom, had entered the house 
 through the side hall, where Mrs. Barrett's numerous boxes and 
 bundles had been deposited by the express man, who, as the 
 lady was not in sight, made a little charge against the colonel 
 for bringing it from the station. Mrs. Barrett believed in hav- 
 ing things secure, and in addition to locks and hasps had tied 
 her boxes with cords and ropes, which, with the marks of age 
 and travel, gave them a " remarkable appearance " indeed, and 
 the colonel stumbled over them and struck his ankle against the 
 sharp corner of one of them, and he was sufFering from the pain 
 when he put the question to his wife, without a thought that the 
 obnoxious baggage was part and parcel of his mother-in-law, 
 who sat a little in the shadow, and whom he did not see till 
 Edith said to him : 
 
 "Why, it must be mother's baggage. I did not know it was 
 here. Howard, see ! here's mother ! come all the way from 
 England ! " 
 
 Edith was as near hysterical as she well could be and not 
 break down entirely, while the colonel was confounded, and 
 amazed, and indignant, altogether. When he knocked his 
 ankle against the bo : and saw the bits of rope, he had thought 
 of the Lyles, and wondered if it could be they were claiming 
 relationship so soon ; and now it was even worse than the 
 Lyles, it was a mother-in-law whom he did not like, and to 
 whom he had sent larger sums of money every year for the sake 
 of keeping her where he wished her to remain. But she was 
 here in his house, and had evidently come to stay, and he must 
 not be rude to her for Edith's sake ; so he made a great effort 
 to be civil, and said : 
 
 " Ah, yes, your mother ! Mrs. Barrett, how do you do ? 
 I am, yes, I am sure I am very much, yes, taken by sur- 
 prise. When did you come ? You must be very tired. Edith, 
 my dear, hadn't you better show her to her room ? " 
 
 He had made his speech, and, anxious to be rid of her, asked 
 Edith to take her away ; and Edith, who breathed more freely 
 now that the worst was over, arose, and bidding her mother fol-
 
 MRS, DOCTOR BARRETT. 329 
 
 low her, conducted her to the small but pleasant room adjoin- 
 ing Gertie's and communicating with it by means of a door. 
 To Edith it seemed that her mother was safer near to Gertie, 
 while Mrs. Barrett was delighted with the arrangement, especi- 
 ally as Gertie signified her willingness to have the door kept 
 open when Mrs. Barrett liked. 
 
 It was known in the kitchen by this time that the soiled, 
 jaded little woman with the queer-looking baggage was Mrs. 
 Schuyler's mother, and among the servants there was much talk 
 and speculation concerning her. Had she come to stay ? was 
 she expected ? was the colonel glad to see her ? and what was 
 she, anyway ? Mrs. Tiffe knew all about the lodgers and the 
 plain sewing, while the lower grade of servants knew a great 
 deal more, and had among them a tradition that Mrs. Schuyler's 
 mother once sat under an umbrella in the streets of London, 
 and sold gingerbread, and apples, and peanuts, and boot-lacings. 
 And now she was here to be treated like Mrs. Schuyler herself, 
 and John sniffed a little contemptuously when he went in to 
 wait upon the family at dinner. 
 
 But there was nothing to sniff at in the highly respectable- 
 looking woman, whom Gertie had helped to dress in her best 
 black silk, with the widow's cap set jauntily above the snow- 
 white puffs of hair, and the air of quiet dignity which Mrs. Bar- 
 rett knew so well how to assume, even when unusually embar- 
 rassed as she was now, with so much grandeur and display 
 around her, and Edith mistress of it all. Truly, she did a good 
 thing when she withheld the letter which would so surely have 
 changed her daughter's life, she thought, when she was alone in 
 her room that night, and free to recall the chain of events which 
 had resulted in her being there. 
 
 Edith, too, was thinking, and her thoughts kept her awake 
 until long after midnight, when, as she was about falling away 
 to sleep, she was startled by the sound of a groan, which seemed 
 to come from her mother's room, and a moment after Gertie 
 knocked at her door, saying : 
 
 " Please, Mrs. Schuyler, I think Mrs. Barrett is very sick." 
 
 In a moment Edith was out of bed and knotting the cord of
 
 330 THE STORM GATHERING. 
 
 her dressing-gown with trembling hands, while the colonel, also 
 roused from his first deep sleep, and remembering Mrs. Rogers, 
 who had gotten Edith up at midnight, wondered to himself 
 " why these people would always persist in being sick at such 
 inopportune times, and send for Edith to help them." 
 
 The colonel was very sleepy and a little inclined to be un- 
 reasonable, and, after Edith had gone to her mother, he lay 
 awake for a long time listening to the sound of voices in Mrs. 
 Barrett's soom, the shutting of doors, the footsteps in the hall, 
 and the general commotion, until he began to wonder if for 
 Edith's sake he ought not to get up and see what was the 
 matter. 
 
 Ere long, however, he heard Mrs. Tifle say to one of the 
 maids, as she passed his door, that it was nothing but cramps 
 and a good deal of hypo ; and thus reassured he composed 
 himself to sleep, and did not waken, when, in the gray of the early 
 morning, Edith crept shivering to his side. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 THE STORM GATHERING. 
 
 [iT was more than the cramps and the hypo which ailed 
 Mrs. Barrett, though at first it seemed much like both, 
 and after seeing her fall away to sleep, Edith went to 
 her own room without a thought of danger. But later in the 
 morning, when she stood again by her mother's bedside, and 
 saw how pinched her features were, and how old and worn she 
 looked without her teeth and puffs of hair, and how weak and 
 helpless she seemed, she began to feel some alarm and sent 
 for the physician at once. It was a severe cold, the doctor 
 said, and there was no danger to be apprehended ; but Mrs. 
 Barrett thought differently. She had a settled conviction that 
 the sickness coming on so fast was her last. She had only
 
 THE STORM GATHERING. 331 
 
 come to America to die, and Edith would not long be troubled 
 with her, she said, in reproachful tones, which she meant should 
 make her daughter sorry that she had not b,een more pleased 
 to see her. And Edith was sorry, and made every possible 
 amends by nursing her herself, and staying constantly with 
 her. 
 
 And yet with all the care Mrs. Barrett grew worse, and every 
 succeeding day found her weaker than the preceding one had 
 left her. She did not seem to have any vitality or rallying force, 
 and without any real disease sank so fast that within two weeks 
 after her arrival in Hampstead, she came to the point where she 
 looked death in the face and knew he was waiting for her. 
 
 There was no hope, and her only share in Edith's grandeur 
 would be a costly coffin and a great funeral, when many would 
 look upon her face, never dreaming that they had seen it before. 
 That was all, and she knew it now, and as earth began to fade 
 away, and the realities of the next world loomed darkly in the 
 distance, remorse came hand in hand with the shadow of death, 
 and filled her heart with horror and anguish when she remem- 
 bered the past and her sad, wasted life. It was no comfort 
 to her now that the baptismal waters had once bedewed her 
 head, and she been numbered outwardly with the children of 
 God. To her there had never been any reality in religion. 
 Everything was done for effect, and because it was respectable. 
 For her there was no efficacy in Jesus' blood, no heart yearnings 
 after His presence, or tears because she could not feel Him 
 with her. Even her praying had only been in public when it 
 was the proper thing to do, for by herself she never prayed, 
 never till now, when she stood face to face with death, and felt 
 her burden of guilt and sin rolling over her like a mountain, and 
 crushing her to the earth. Then conscience awoke, and like 
 David she cried : 
 
 " My sin is ever before me." 
 
 Oh, that one particular sin ! How it haunted her day and 
 night, seeming so much larger than all the rest, and making 
 her shrink away from Edith's presence and cover her head with 
 the bed-clothes, so as not to see the face bending so kindly over
 
 332 THE STORM GATHERING. 
 
 her. For many long years she had slighted the Holy Spirit, and 
 trampled on her conscience, until it would almost seem that 
 the one was hard as a rock and the other flown forever. But 
 God's mercy is infinite, and He was giving her another chance, 
 and leading her back to Himself throught he thorny path her own 
 deeds had made for her feet to walk in. At last when, she could 
 bear the anguish no longer, and must speak to some one, she 
 said to Gertie, who was sitting with her that night : 
 
 " Gertie, are you a Christian ? Do you ever pray ? " 
 
 The question was very abrupt, and Gertie's face flushed, and 
 she waited a little before answering : 
 
 " Yes, I pray, and hope I am a Christian in the sense you 
 mean. And you are a Christian, too ? " she added, after a 
 pause ; and Mrs. Barrett said quickly : 
 
 " No, never. There was nothing real ; all was for effect, and 
 now it is like so many scorpions stinging me to madness, and 
 one act hurts me worse than all the rest. Gertie, if you had 
 done something very wicked years ago, something which no- 
 body in the wide world knew besides you, but which concerned 
 another very, very much, what would you do ? you, who pray 
 and hope you are a Christian ? " 
 
 Ordinarily Gertie would have thought herself too young 
 and inexperienced to offer advice to one so much her senior, 
 and whom she had believed so good a woman, but now 
 words seemed put into her mouth, and she answered unhesitat- 
 ingly : 
 
 " I should ask God to forgive me ; and if the person so much 
 concerned was within my reach I should confess it to him, I 
 think." 
 
 There was a bitter cry, and Gertie saw great drops of sweat 
 on Mrs. Barrett's brow as she moaned : 
 
 " Yes, that is it, only I must reverse it. Confess to her first, 
 and then I can dare to pray, which I cannot now. Oh, Gertie, 
 Gertie, never, never tell a lie as long as you live." 
 
 She was very much excited, and seemed at times to be out 
 of her head, and talked queer things of the blue-eyed baby, " the 
 child who she thinks is dead."
 
 THE STORM BURSTS. 333 
 
 "Oh, where is it now, and what was its fate?" she kept 
 whispering to herself, and once, as Gertie bent over her to 
 bathe her head, she said, "Are you she, the girl, the child, 
 you know ? " 
 
 " No, I am only Gertie ; try to sleep and not talk any more 
 to-night. You will be better in the morning and can tell Mrs. 
 Schuyler," Gertie said, feeling intuitively that Edith was the 
 person concerned in the secret troubling the guilty woman so 
 much. 
 
 She was sure of it when Mrs. Barrett answered : 
 
 " Yes, I must tell her. I must. Heaven give me strength 
 to do it." 
 
 Perhaps this was the first genuine prayer she had ever made, 
 and as if already better for it she became more quiet and slept 
 sweetly till the dawn of the morning, when Edith came to see 
 how she had passed the night and relieve Gertie of her watch. 
 
 " Go to bed now, child," she said, " and I will see that you 
 are not called till lunch. You must be very tired." 
 
 Gertie obeyed, and going to her own room, the adjoining one, 
 was soon in a deep sleep, while Edith took her place by Mrs. 
 Barrett's bedside. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 THE STORM BURSTS. 
 
 |RE you cold?" Edith asked, as she saw how her mother 
 trembled, and taking one of the hands which lay out- 
 side the bed, she was going to chafe and rub it, when 
 her mother snatched it away, and raising herself upright, cried 
 out : 
 
 " Don't touch me, Edith, till you have heard my story, then 
 curse me if you will and let me die ; but first open that square 
 box there in the corner, and in my writing desk find the letter
 
 334 THE STORM BURSTS. 
 
 you wrote to him, you know, the letter which I kept, you 
 remember it." 
 
 Edith remembered it well, and she trembled in every joint as 
 she did her mother's bidding, and brought the time-soiled letter, 
 which seemed to burn the hand which held it, and to communi- 
 cate to her a presentiment of the terrible shock awaiting her. 
 That her mother's story had something to do with her past life 
 she was sure, but she never dreamed of the truth as she brought 
 the letter and offered it to her mother. 
 
 " No, it's for you ; keep it, Edith. You will want it some 
 time, perhaps, to prove that you at least meant fair. I have 
 written a few lines on it myself to show your innocence," Mrs. 
 Barrett said, and Edith put the letter mechanically into the 
 pocket of her dressing-gown, while her mother continued : 
 " Edith, before I begin, promise me one thing, not your for- 
 giveness, I do not expect that, but promise to do what I ask 
 when my story is finished." 
 
 " How can I promise to do a thing unless I know it will be 
 right ? " Edith asked. 
 
 " It is right," Mrs. Barrett said ; " I'd do it myself, only I am 
 old and sick and going to die, and I did not think about it in 
 England as I do here on my death-bed. But you are young ; 
 you have health and money and time. You can look it up, 
 and you will, Edith. You will when you know." 
 
 She spoke in a whisper, and Edith shook from head to foot, 
 as she, too, said in a whisper : 
 
 "Yes, mother, I will." 
 
 She did not know what she was pledged to do. She only 
 knew that the terror of something horrible was upon her, be- 
 numbing her faculties, chilling her blood, and forcing her 
 heart into her throat, which the iron hand held so firmly. It 
 was something about the child, her little girl, something about 
 the way it died ; and her brown eyes were black in the inten- 
 sity of her feelings as she fastened them upon her mother, who, 
 cowering beneath that gaze, cried out : 
 
 "Look away, Edith ; look somewhere else, and not at me, 
 or I can never tell you."
 
 THE STORM BURSTS. 335 
 
 But the eyes did not move, and shutting her own, the 
 wretched woman began : 
 
 "You remember I took your letter and did not give it to 
 him, but told him what I pleased. Have you ever told him 
 the truth ? " 
 
 Edith could not so much as articulate the one word no, and 
 when, as she continued silent, her mother's eyes unclosed and 
 looked inquiringly at her, she only shook her head in token 
 that she had not. 
 
 " Then you must do it now ! There's no other way. You'll 
 need his co-operation," Mrs. Barrett said, and Edith's eyes 
 were like flaming coals of fire as they confronted her so 
 steadily. 
 
 " Edith," her mother went on, " do you remember the 
 dreary room in Dorset Street, and the day it rained so hard ? " 
 
 Did she remember it ? Ask rather if she ever could forget it, 
 when, even now, after the lapse of so many years, she never 
 heard the sound of rain against the windows or saw it falling in 
 the street, that she did not recall that dreadful day of fog and 
 rain and darkness when her child was taken from her. But she 
 could not speak, and her mother continued : 
 
 " I took the baby from you and carried her to the hospital, 
 and then, when you insisted upon going after her, I went in 
 your place, and when J came back I told you, oh, Edith, 
 don't look at me, don't curse me yet. I told you sh-she, 
 sh-she " 
 
 " You told me she was dead. Was that a lie, too ? " 
 
 Edith could speak now, though the effort to do so almost 
 tore open her throat, where her heart seemed palpitating so 
 wildly. Seizing her mother's shoulder she shook it fiercely as 
 she put the question : 
 
 " Was that a lie, too ? " 
 
 " Yes, Edith, that was a lie, too ! " 
 
 Mrs. Barrett's voice was a whisper, but had the words been 
 uttered in tones of thunder they could not have written them- 
 selves more distinctly on Edith's mind than they did. 
 
 " That was a lie, too I " she repeated, rising to her feet, and
 
 336 THE STORM BURSTS. 
 
 seeming, to her horror-stricken, remorseful parent to grow tall 
 and terrible in her excitement, as she clutched the shoulder more 
 fiercely, and said : " That was a lie, too, was it ? Mother, as 
 you hope for heaven tell me the whole truth now. Baby was 
 not dead then when you said she was ? " 
 
 " No, Edith, not dead then " 
 
 " Is she dead now ? " and the hand pressed so hard upon the 
 thin shoulder that Mrs. Barrett cringed with pain, but did not 
 shake it off, and scarcely knew what was hurting her, as she re- 
 plied : 
 
 " I don't know, Edith." 
 
 " You don't know ! Tell me what you do know, and tell me 
 truly, too, as you will one day confess to heaven when you are 
 questioned of the great wrong done to me." 
 
 Edith was wonderful in her excitement, with her blazing eyes 
 and livid face, and her mother gazed at her an instant fascinated 
 and unable to reply ; then, closing her eyes again, she said : 
 
 " I will tell you all I know. I went to the hospital and meant 
 to bring her to you. I did, Edith, believe me there. I meant 
 to bring her to you, for I knew no other way. But when I in- 
 quired for the child Heloise left there at such a time, I was told 
 that it had been taken by a woman whose name was Stover. 
 The woman had given good references, they said, and was the 
 mother of one of the nurses. She, too, lived in Dorset Street, 
 not far from our old quarters. I've got the number, there, on 
 that letter you wrote to Colonel Schuyler, and three or four 
 months afterward I went there and inquired for the woman, but 
 she was dead, and the people who occupied the floor above said 
 her daughter had taken the baby and gone away with it in a 
 handsome carriage, and that is all I know, truly, Edith, all 1 
 know. I've never been able to trace her, though I tried once, 
 just after you left me to come here. I missed Gertie so much, 
 and wanted hef so much that I began to think of looking for 
 the grandchild, who would have been about her age, and I tried 
 to find her, but could not. I don't believe she is dead. I never 
 have, and you, with money and influence, can track her sure, 
 and you will ; this is what you promised. I shall be dead, but
 
 THE STORM BURSTS. 337 
 
 shall rest easier in my grave if you find her. Edith, why don't 
 you speak, if it is only to curse me. Anything is better than 
 this awful silence," she implored, and then, as there came no 
 answer, she opened her eyes and turned them toward her daugh- 
 ter, who stood over her as white and rigid as if frozen into stone. 
 
 Her hand had let go its grasp of her mother's shoulder and hung 
 listlessly down by her side, her eyes seemed fixed on vacancy, 
 though in reality they were seeing that little blue-eyed baby up 
 in some square room in Dorset Street, surrounded with wretch- 
 edness and poverty, while she, the mother, was rolling in wealth, 
 with luxury and elegance everywhere. Truly it was a terrible 
 picture to contemplate, but not so terrible as the second one 
 presented to her mind, the picture of a young girl grown to 
 womanhood, as that blue-eyed baby must be, and sunk, per- 
 haps to the lowest depths of misery and possible shame, for 
 who was there to teach her, to keep her feet from straying when 
 the mother had abandoned her ? It was this which affected 
 Edith the most, and froze her almost to catalepsy during the 
 moment she stood without the power to speak or stir, her head 
 bent forward, her hands hanging down, her eyes fixed and glassy, 
 and a white froth oozing from her lips, which moved at last, and 
 said, slowly, painfully : 
 
 " May Heai 'en forgive you, mother, for I never can /" 
 
 Another moment and Edith fell heavily across the foot of the 
 bed, while Mrs. Barrett's loud shriek roused Gertie from sleep 
 and brought her to the room. 
 
 "It's a fit, she is dying, she is dead," Mrs Barrett murmur- 
 ed, pointing to Edith, who for hours lay in a stupor w r hich seem- 
 ed like death, and from which nothing had power to rouse her. 
 
 Gertie had summoned help at once, and the colonel was the 
 first in the room, and held his fainting wife in his arms, and felt 
 a mortal fear steal over him when he saw the deadly paleness 
 and the foam about the lips, the purple rings beneath the eyes, 
 and the head drooping so heavily on his shoulder. It was 
 overtasking her strength, and sitting up so much with her 
 mother, he thought, and the doctor thought so too, and when be- 
 fore the sunsetting they buried in the cemetery the little daughter
 
 338 THE STORM BURSTS. 
 
 whose eyes never opened in this world, and whom Edith never 
 saw, they were sure it was over-exertion at a time when she 
 needed all her strength, and the colonel's affection for his 
 mother-in-law was not perceptibly increased. She had offered 
 no explanation whatever with regard to the fit, except that it 
 came suddenly, when Edith was standing by her. Indeed she 
 was nearly distracted herself, and Gertie, who watched by her, 
 would not have been surprised to see her life go out at any 
 moment. 
 
 1 For some reason there seemed to be a strong prejudice in 
 the house against the woman. Nobody wanted to wait on her, 
 nobody wanted to go near her, and so Gertie became her sole 
 nurse, though she wished so much to be with Mrs. Schuvler, 
 who was raving in the room across the hall, and whom it some- 
 times took two men to hold. 
 
 But Gertie's duty was plain, and she stayed with the poor old 
 woman, who clung to her like a child, talking strange things at 
 times, and asking questions hard for Gertie to answer. 
 
 " Would God forgive her sin ? Was there yet hope for her ? " 
 
 This was the burden of her sorrow ; and many times in the 
 day, and during the night-watches she kept so tirelessly, Gertie 
 knelt and prayed that every sin, however great, committed by 
 the wretched woman, might be forgiven and washed away in 
 Jesus' blood. 
 
 " Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow," 
 she repeated often in the ears of the dying woman, who would 
 reply : 
 
 " Yes, I know, I know, but some sin beyond hope, and I am 
 one of these. AH my life has been a lie, and I meant it should 
 be. And now it is all thick darkness whichever way I look. I 
 never did a genuine good thing in my life. All was for effect, 
 except my love for you, Gertie j there was no motive for that. 
 My love for you was real, and when you left me alone in Eng- 
 land 1 tried once to pray, truly pray on my knees alone when 
 nobody saw me ; but something whispered, inopkjngjy, ' You 
 pray?' and I did not try again. Oh, what shall I tlu ? WhjU 
 shall 1 do, the horror is so great ? "
 
 THE STORM BURSTS. 339 
 
 " Jesus came to save sinners, even the chief of sinners, and 
 He will do it ; He said so, and He never told a lie," Gertie 
 whispered, softly. 
 
 And Mrs. Barrett caught the " chief of sinners" as if she had 
 never heard it before, and held to it, and kept repeating to her- 
 self, " The chief of sinners ; that's I ; He must have meant me, 
 {.he very chiefest." 
 
 Then she would ask Gertie to pray, that the sin might be 
 forgiven, and the girl kept from harm, and without knowing at 
 all for whom she prayed or what particular sin, Gertie did pray 
 many times, and did her best to soothe and comfort the re- 
 morseful woman, who grew more quiet at last, and exhibited 
 less terror of death and the world beyond. 
 
 f ' I may yet be saved, but it will be as by fire," she said to 
 Gertie one day, the seventh since the morning when Edith had 
 been borne insensible from her room. 
 
 In her own agony of mind Mrs. Barrett had not evinced much 
 interest in Edith's illness, nor did she know how sick she was 
 until, when more quiet herself, she asked for her daughter, and 
 why she did not come to see her. Then Gertie told her of the 
 fever which was raging so high, and with the tears pouring over 
 her withered face, Mrs. Barrett said : 
 
 " I shall never see her again ; but tell her, Gertie, how bitterly 
 I repented, and how at the last peace came, even to me. Tell 
 her, too, and don't forget this message, which will comfort her, 
 perhaps, tell her the last words she ever said to me must not 
 make her unhappy. I deserved them. I do not blame her, 
 and she need not remember them with regret, though she will 
 forgive me some time. Heaven has, I hope." 
 
 She was very quiet after that for the remainder of the day, and 
 lay with her eyes shut ; but several times, when Gertie looked 
 at her to see if she was asleep, she saw her lips move, and knew 
 that she was praying. That night" was her last, for she died 
 toward morning, alone with Gertie, as she wished to be. 
 
 " Don't call anyone, please," she said, when Gertie proposed 
 going for Mrs. Tiffe. " Iki rather be alone with you, who have 
 been so kind to me, and who, I am sure, like me a little."
 
 340 THE STORM BURSTS. 
 
 Yes, I do, I do ! " Gertie said, kissing the white face, on 
 which the death-dew was standing. 
 
 And Mrs. Barrett continued : 
 
 "It is strange that you should be the one to care for me at 
 the last, as tenderly as if you were my own grandchild. Have 
 you a grandmother, Gertie ? " 
 
 " Yes, or I had one once, though I never saw her ; but Auntio 
 Rogers said so, and told me all I ever knew of my family, which 
 is very little. Sometimes I have strange ideas, as if I belonged 
 to nobody, and then I try so hard to recall what it was I once 
 overheard auntie saying to her sister in London years ago. 
 Miss Anne Stover was at our house " 
 
 " Stover ! Stover ! " Mrs. Barrett repeated, raising herself in 
 bed and quivering in every nerve. 
 
 " Yes, she was auntie's sister, you know ; and said something 
 about somebody's being identified by a.mar&, and there's a mark 
 on my bosom, low down " 
 
 "A mark of what?" Mrs. Barrett asked, eagerly. 
 
 And Gertie replied : 
 
 " It is like a drop of blood." 
 
 "Blood ! Did you say a drop of blood ?" and Mrs. Barrett 
 shook as with an ague chill as she fell back upon her pillow, 
 while Gertie bent over her, and bathed her brow and lips until, 
 rallying all her energies, she said : " Gertie, Gertie ! tell Edith, 
 tell her ! Oh, if 1 could live to see her myserf ! Gertie, my 
 child, God bless you ! I know He has forgiven me now ! " 
 
 Her arms closed tightly around Gertie's neck, and held her 
 there in a close embrace until the girl herself unclasped them, 
 and, putting them gently down upon the bed, saw that Mrs. 
 Barrett was dead. 
 
 And just across the hall in her own room Edith lay, now 
 singing snatches of some lullaby to an unseen child, which she 
 hushed in her arms, now talking of the rain upon the window- 
 pane, the tramp upon the stairs, the roar in the streets, and 
 again laughing deliriously at something she said, and which 
 seemed to strike her as ridiculous. And by her Colonel Schuy- 
 Ici sal, with the fear of death in his heart, when Gertie came in
 
 THE STORM BURSTS. 341 
 
 and told him there was really death in the next room, and asked 
 if he had any orders to give. 
 
 " None, no, do what you like," he answered, quickly ; then 
 glancing at the white face on the pillow, and remembering that 
 she who lay dead beneath his roof was his young wife's mother, 
 he rose and added : "I'll go myself and see her;" and follow- 
 ing Gertie, he soon stood by the motionless form of her who 
 had been his mother-in-law, and whose presence in his house 
 had annoyed him so muBfc. 
 
 But she would trouble him no more. All he could do for her 
 now was to give her a burial, and for Edith's sake that burial 
 should be as perfect in its appointments as if the dead had been 
 his own mother, whom twenty carriages had followed out to 
 Greenwood. There were almost as many as that drawn up be- 
 fore the house on Schuyler Hill on the day of the funeral, for far 
 and near the people knew of the cloud hanging over that house- 
 hold ; of the aged mother just arrived from England, and dead 
 before she had even seen her daughter's handsome home ; of 
 the little grave in the cemetery, made there too soon, and of 
 the chamber where Edith lay, raving in mad delirium, and tear- 
 ing her hair until they tied her hands to keep them from further 
 mischief. And so they came from every quarter and filled the 
 house to overflowing, save the south wing, where Edith was ; 
 that was bolted against them, and the murmur of the gathering 
 multitude did not penetrate there enough to awaken the slight- 
 est interest in Edith. Only a .very few beside myself were per- 
 mitted to see the dead woman, lying so still in the costly casket 
 which the colonel had ordered from New York, and to us, who 
 looked upon her, there came no suspicion that we had ever seen 
 that face before. It was very calm and peaceful in its last sleep, 
 and many said, " She must have been fine-looking when in 
 health," while in every heart there was a profound pity for the 
 stranger who had died so soon in a foreign land, and for whom 
 there was no mourner at the grand funeral, except Gertie. 
 
 During the services the colonel left Edith long enough to 
 come down to the parlor and listen while the prayers were 
 said and the hymns were sung ; then he went back to Edith,
 
 342 THE STORM BURSTS. 
 
 and strangers did the rest, making the funeral seem so sad and 
 lonely without a blood relation except little Arthur, whose 
 shoulder-knots and sash were black, and whom Gertie led by 
 the hand when she went out to the Schuyler carriage, which 
 was to take her to the grave as first and only mourner. 
 
 "Go with me, Miss Armstrong," she whispered, as she 
 passed me in the hall, and I followed after her until, as the 
 carriage was reached, and she was about to enter, when I felt a 
 sudden rush behind me, and was con^Pfous that something un- 
 usual was agitating the crowd, and causing it to divide and fall 
 back as if to give room for some one. It was for Godfrey, who, 
 flushed and excited, made his way through the throng of people, 
 and lifting Gertie from the ground as if she had been a feather's 
 weight, put her in the carriage before she knew whose arms 
 were encircling her in so tender, masterful a manner as if they 
 had the right. Little Arthur was put in next, and then Godfrey 
 followed himself, closing the door behind him, and effectually 
 shutting me out. But I knew it was better so, and was glad he 
 was there, a hrlp and a comfort to Gertie. By the merest ac- 
 cident he had heard that morning from Tom Barton of Mrs. 
 Barrett's death and Edith's illness, and had taken the next train 
 for Hampstead, which he reached just in time to join the funeral 
 procession. Nor was his coming inopportune. He had a feel- 
 ing, he said, that everything would devolve on Gertie, who 
 would need somebody to sustain her. And she did, and when 
 recovered from the first shock of finding Godfrey beside her, 
 caring for her so kindly, she gave way, and her head drooped for 
 a moment on his shoulder, as she sobbed out : " Oh, Godfrey, 
 what made you come ? I am so glad, so glad." 
 
 " What for you tie, then, if you'se glad ?" Arthur said, look- 
 ing curiously from Gertie to Godfrey, and from Godfrey back to 
 Gertie, as if not quite sure that all was right. 
 
 " Halloo, you little shaver, who thought you could put two 
 and two together," Godfrey said, as he took his brother in his 
 lap and held him there until they reached the grave ; then he 
 alighted and stood with the child between himself and Gertie, 
 while the burial service was read.
 
 THE BATTLE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 343 
 
 "That's my danmusser in the box," Arthur said, aloud, as 
 the coffin was lowered from sight, and when the bystanders 
 heard it more than one wept for the lonely woman, the "dan- 
 musser" of the little three-years-old Arthur, whose golden curls 
 were tossed by the November wind as he stood on tiptoe lean- 
 ing forward to look into the grave and throw the wreath of ever- 
 lastings he had brought for this purpose. 
 
 Arthur was greatly attached to his tall brother Godfrey, and 
 hung about him constantly after the return from the grave, and 
 told both Mrs. Tiffe and his father that " Dirtie had tied on 
 Godfrey's coat 'cause she was so glad danmusser was dead." 
 
 Godfrey had intended to return that same night if possible, 
 but when he spoke of it before Gertie it seemed to him that her 
 eyes pleaded with him to stay, and when he stood for a moment 
 as he did at Edith's bedside and saw how sick she was, he felt 
 that to leave was impossible until the balance was turned one 
 way or the other, and he knew whether his fair young step- 
 mother lived or died. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 THE BATTLE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 ]ROM the moment when Edith fell fainting across her 
 mother's feet, she had never known a moment's con- 
 sciousness, but had either lain like one from whom 
 life had fled forever, or raved in wild delirium as she tossed 
 from side to side, trying in vain to free herself from the strong 
 arms which in mercy held her so fast. Her lost baby was her 
 theme ; but at first the colonel attached no meaning to it, think- 
 ing it but natural that her mind should dwell upon the little one 
 dead before it was born. Still, it was strange, he thought, that 
 she should rave about it so furiously, begging him to go and 
 find it and rescue it from the streets, and bring it to her, so she 
 could tell it she was not altogether to blame.
 
 344 THE BATTLE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 " Oh, my daughter ! my lost daughter ! " she would moan ; 
 "where are you now, and where have you been these many 
 years, when I thought you dead in your little grave ? " 
 
 Then she would whisper to some fancied person standing by 
 her bed, and ask him to forgive her for the wrong done to his 
 child, and when the colonel said to her, gently, " Edith, dar- 
 ling, you have not harmed our child," she would answer him : 
 
 "No, not yours! Oh, you don't know, you would kill 
 me if you did ! Oh, my baby ! my baby, who went in the 
 rain ! " 
 
 What she meant the colonel could not guess, and he grew 
 old and worn as he watched beside her, listening to her rav- 
 ings, and trying to find some cause for them. She never men- 
 tioned her mother, and did not know when she died ; but she 
 seemed quieter that day, and while the people were at the 
 grave she suffered her husband, for the first time since her ill- 
 ness, to hold her hand in his ; but her lips quivered and the 
 tears rained down her cheeks as she kept whispering : " I am 
 so sorry, Howard, so sorry ! and I did not know it, or I would 
 have told you." 
 
 " Sorry for what, darling ? There's nothing to be sorry for," 
 the cornel said, as he kissed her tears away and bade her try 
 to sleep. She knew Godfrey, and as if feeling intuitively 
 that she had a friend in him, she tried to tell him something 
 about a child lost in the streets, whom he was to find and bring 
 to her, " pure, spotless, unharmed." She laid great stress on 
 the last words, and Godfrey promised to do her bidding if she 
 would go to sleep and not distress herself so much. 
 
 " I will, I will. See, I'm asleep ! " she said, closing her eyes 
 tightly, and lying so still that in a few moments she u<as asleep. 
 
 When she awoke Gertie was standing near, and at sight of 
 her a bright smile broke over Edith's face as she looked up at 
 Godfrey, and said : 
 
 " You found her, didn't you, pure and unspotted as an 
 angel ? " 
 
 > Nobody knew at all what she meant, or spoke to her as she 
 fondled Gertie's face and hands, and asked her where she had
 
 THE BATTLE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 345 
 
 been so long, and how it was she was so fair and sweet, so dif- 
 ferent from the girls in the street. Then for a moment con- 
 sciousness struggled to assert itself, and she seemed to know 
 who Gertie was, and whispered to her : 
 
 " Stay with me, I'm better when I see you." 
 
 Once before Gertie's presence had called her back from the 
 border land of death, and now she was so much quieter with 
 her there that Gertie never left her except for the rest which 
 she absolutely needed. In this condition of affairs Godfrey 
 had no chance for seeing Gertie alone, except on one occasion, 
 when he met her for a moment in a side hall, and stopping her 
 as she was passing him, said to her : 
 
 " Gertie, have you not changed your mind ? Must your 
 answer to me be always the same ? " 
 
 " Yes, Godfrey, always the same. Go back to Alice ; try to 
 love her. You will be happier so," was Gertie's reply, and 
 Godfrey answered : 
 
 " Never, so long as I have my senses. I will wait for you a 
 thousand years." 
 
 He tried to kiss her hand, but she snatched it from him, and 
 hurried away to the sick-room. The next day he returned to 
 New York, and soon after, in a letter to her father, Julia spoke 
 of her brother as having escorted Alice to a grand party given 
 by the Montgomeries on Madison Avenue. 
 
 This piece of news the colonel managed to convey to Gertie, 
 who felt a pain in her heart as she guessed what the end would 
 probably be. Edith was better now. The fearful paroxysms 
 had ceased, and she lay very quiet and still, seldom speaking to 
 any one, but shuddering and manifesting actual distress when 
 her husband came to her with words and acts of tenderness. 
 
 " Don't, please ; I can't bear it," she said to him once, when 
 he brought a bouquet and laid it iipon her pillow. 
 
 He thought the perfume offended her, and took the flowers 
 away ; then, sitting down beside her, told her how glad he was 
 that she was better, and how desolate the house seemed with- 
 out her. 
 
 For a moment she listened to him while every muscle in her 
 iq*
 
 346 THE BATTLE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 face worked painfully ; then, bursting into tears, she put up 
 both her hands to hide her face, and cried : 
 
 "Don't, Howard, you break my heart. Oh, Howard, my hus- 
 band, pity me, but don't make it harder with words of love. 
 Go away, please, and do not come again till I send for you ; 
 then you will want to go." 
 
 He felt hurt and wounded, but did as she bade him, and left 
 her with Gertie ; nor did he see her again for one whole week, 
 except when she was asleep, and could not be disturbed by his 
 presence. Then he would go in, and bending over her kiss her 
 face softly, and smooth the golden brown hair, and calling her 
 his poor darling leave behind some little token to show that 
 he had been there. 
 
 At last Edith asked for her mother suddenly, and in a way 
 which admitted of no prevarication, and Gertie told her every- 
 thing, as carefully as possible. 
 
 " Colonel Schuyler bade us do whatever we thought you 
 would like to have done, and he ordered the casket from New 
 York, and was down stairs during the services," Gertie said, 
 and then Edith's heart seemed bursting with a storm of sobs 
 and piteous cries, which Gertie could not understand. 
 
 " Oh, my husband, my noble husband, what will he say ? 
 what will he say ? " she murmured to herself, while Gertie stood 
 looking at her. 
 
 At last she grew quiet, and turning to Gertie, said : 
 
 " Now tell me how mother died, and who was with her, and 
 what she said." 
 
 And Gertie told her what had passed in the chamber of 
 death, of the terrible remorse for something which was evidently 
 weighing on Mrs. Barrett's mind, the bitter repentance, the 
 peace which came at last, and the message left for Mrs. Schuy- 
 ler. 
 
 " She was very particular about that," Gertie said ; " for she 
 thought you might be unhappy, perhaps, if you did not know it, 
 and she said you would forgive her some time." 
 
 " 1 may, I'll try. I hope I do, but it is very hard," Edith re- 
 plied, and then for an hour or more she lay with her eyes closed,
 
 THE BATTLE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. 347 
 
 though she was not asleep, and when at last she opened them 
 she asked where her husband was, and expressed a wish to see 
 him. 
 
 Gertie told her that as she was so much better and did not 
 need him constantly, he had gone to New York for two or 
 three days, she believed. 
 
 " His going was very sudden," she said, " and I knew noth-^ 
 ing of it till just before he went, when he came to me and said 
 it was necessary, and if you asked for him I was to tell you he 
 would be back soon. I should not be surprised if he came to- 
 night." 
 
 Instead of manifesting any disappointment Edith seemed 
 relieved at her husband's absence, as if it gave her a longer 
 respite ; but she little dreamed why he had gone, or of the fear- 
 ful storm of anguish through which he had passed, and which 
 left its marks upon him so plainly, that when at the close of the 
 third day he came back, Gertie, who met him first in the hall, 
 started in surprise, and asked what was the matter. 
 
 " Nothing, only tired ; how is Mrs. Schuyler ?" he said, and 
 his voice sounded husky and unnatural, while it seemed to Ger- 
 tie as if he stooped and tottered like an old man as he went 
 slowly up the stairs, holding to the banisters and pausing once 
 as if to rest. 
 
 He did not go straight to Edith's room, but into his library, 
 and Gertie took him some biscuits and a glass of wine, for she 
 was frightened at his weakness and exhaustion. He thanked 
 her for her thoughtfulness, and said, with a sickly kind of smile : 
 
 " I think I do- need something. I have scarcely tasted food 
 since I left home. How many days ago is that, Gertie ? " 
 
 His manner was strange, and Gertie stayed with him and made 
 him drink the wine, and eat a cracker, and then watched him 
 curiously as he went down the hall to Edith's room, which he 
 entered and shut the door.
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER AND THE SECRET. 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER AND THE SECRET. 
 
 JE knew it now in part, and the knowledge of it had aged 
 him as ten years of ordinary life could not have donei 
 making him feel old and worn and bewildered, and 
 uncertain whether it really were himself upon whom this blow 
 had fallen. And it had come to him thus : Mrs. Barrett had 
 brought her grandson a fanciful whistle, of which he was very 
 fond, and which, since Edith's illness, could not be found. 
 
 " I wants my fissle danmusser brought me," Arthur said to 
 his father, who was amusing him in the nursery one day, the 
 fourth after Edith had banished him from her room and bidden 
 him stay away until she sent for him. 
 
 " I wants my fissle" the child kept saying, and then the search 
 for it commenced again, and Mary, the nurse, suddenly remem- 
 bered having seen it last on the day when her mistress was taken 
 sick. " She had Arthur in her lap, and might have put it in her 
 pocket. She sometimes did so," she said. 
 
 " What dress did she have on ? " the colonel asked, and on 
 being told went himself to the closet where the cashmere wrapper 
 was hanging. The missing toy was there, and also the letter, 
 which he drew out with the whistle and held a moment in his 
 hand, wondering what it contained, and why it had never reached 
 him. 
 
 " Col. Howard Schuyler, Oakwood," was the direction in 
 Edith's handwriting, and by that he knew that it was written 
 years ago when he was in England, and his wonder increased 
 as to the cause of its having been so long withheld and not de- 
 slroyed. 
 
 ' Had Edith written it, intending to send it to him, and then 
 changed her mind, and if so, why ? he asked himself as he stood 
 turning it over in his hand, and then there flashed upon him a 
 remembrance of the time when she said he did not know all 
 about that early love affair of hers, and he felt convinced that
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER AND THE SECRET. 349 
 
 the all was contained in that soiled, yellow letter. And if so, 
 should he read it ? Ought he to read it ? he questioned, as, 
 having given the toy to Arthur, he went to his own private room 
 to be alone and think. Never since Edith came to Hampstead 
 had there been the slightest allusion to that affaire du cceur to 
 which she had seemed to attach so much importance, and he 
 had not the least idea who the young man was or where he had 
 lived and died. Possibly it was all here in the letter, which 
 he laid down and took up again three times before deciding to 
 read it. And when at last he did open it and glanced at the 
 heading, " Caledonia St., June 2oth, 18 . Col. Howard Schuy- 
 ler : Dear Sir," he would not for a moment let his eye go any 
 further, but held it fast on the " Dear Sir," while he pondered 
 again his right to read the letter. Then his eye wandered a 
 little and caught a word here and there, and lighted at last on 
 the names " Abelard Lyle " and " Rev. Mr. Calvert," and then 
 he began at the beginning and read every word twice, to be 
 sure there was no mistake, while his heart seemed to stop beat- 
 ing, and he tore off both cravat and collar in order to breathe 
 more freely. There was a humming in his ears, and he could 
 not hear the December storm beating against the windows, and 
 there was a mist before his eyes, so that he could not see the 
 paper he held in his trembling hand. Nor was vision longer 
 needful to him. He had read and re-read, and the lines had 
 burned themselves into his brain word for word, and even with 
 his eyes shut he could see the sentence, " Abelard Lyle, your 
 hired workman, was my husband, and I was Heloise Fordham, 
 who lived in the cottage by the bridge at Hampstead." 
 
 "Abelard Lyle her husband/" he tried to say, but his lips 
 only gave a sound which made him shiver and wonder if he was 
 dying, it was so unnatural, so like the cry of an animal wounded 
 and in mortal agony. 
 
 And he was wounded, sorely, and every nerve quivered with 
 pain, and he could feel the hot blood surging through his 
 veins as he had felt it once when under the influence of 
 ether. Then he had fought and struck at the dentist operating 
 on him, and acted like a madman. But he did not do so
 
 35 COLONEL SCHUYLER AND THE SECRET. 
 
 now. He neither fought nor struck, but sat motionless, think- 
 ing of the words, " Abelard Lyle was my husband, and I was 
 Heloise Fordham." 
 
 He remembered that young girl, remembered the face framed 
 in the green leaves, and the clear voice telling him Abelard's 
 name and place of birth. He remembered, too, that people 
 had said the young man was her lover, and how suddenly 
 she disappeared with her mother. And Edith, his Edith, the 
 woman he loved so much, was that girl ! was Abelard's wife, 
 and the mother of his child, and had married him without telling 
 him a word of the real truth as written in this letter ! There 
 had been a show of sincerity, and that was all. She had at first 
 meant to tell hmi, but had changed her mind and given him no 
 hint of the actual state of things. She had really come to him 
 stained with falsehood and treachery and deceit, a lie on her 
 lips, a lie in her heart, and a lie in every act of hers, since her 
 beautiful head was first pillowed on his bosom. 
 
 Oh, what bitter things he thought against her in the first mo- 
 ments of surprise and anguish ! How black the record was, 
 and how he shrank from ever looking in her face again, as he 
 thought of the imposition practised upon him. 
 
 " Oh, Edith ! Edith ! I loved you so much, and thought you 
 so innocent and pure. I can never trust you again, or take you 
 for my wife," he said, when his lips could frame his thoughts 
 into words, and his heart was hardening like adamant against 
 the woman who had so deceived him, when the door was pushed 
 cautiously open, and little Arthur came in, blowing his whistle 
 vigorously at first, and then staring wonderingly at his father's 
 white, haggard face. 
 
 " What is it, papa ? " he said. " Is you sick, too, like mam- 
 ma ?" and the mother looked through her boy's eyes straight at 
 the suffering husband, who recognized the look, and clasping 
 his child and Edith's in his arms, sobbed and wept over him just 
 as he would have done had Edith really been dead and Arthur 
 motherless. " Is you tyin' for mam-ma ? Don't ; she'll det well. 
 Dirtie and the doctor will ture her. Is you tyin' for her ? " Ar-
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER AND THE SECRET. 351 
 
 thur said; and with sobs which rent his very heart, Colonel 
 Schuyler answered : 
 
 " Yes, Arthur, I'm crying for her, for her, your mother. 
 Oh, Edith ! my lost Edith ! " 
 
 "His tears poured in torrents now, and did him good, for the 
 pressure around his heart gave way, the blood flowed more 
 slowly through his veins, and the humming ceased in his ears, as 
 he strained Arthur to his bosom and covered him with the kisses 
 he meant as a farewell to the mother. He could never touch 
 her false lips again, but he could kiss her child, and he fondled 
 and wept over him, and then bidding him go away, and locking 
 the door upon him, went back to the battle he was fighting be- 
 tween justice and inclination. 
 
 What should he do ? What ought he to do ? Should he show 
 the letter to Edith, and, upbraiding her with her duplicity, live 
 henceforth apart from her, as one he never could trust again ? 
 or should he keep his knowledge to himself, and try to act as 
 if nothing had happened, hoping that some time she would her- 
 self tell him the truth, and why it had so long been with- 
 held ? 
 
 He could not decide then ; he was in no condition to think 
 clearly of anything, except that his Edith, whom he had taken 
 for a pure, innocent young maiden, had been a wife and mother, 
 and never let him know it. What her motives had been he 
 could readily guess. She wanted his money and name, and the 
 position he could give her, and if she told him all she feared 
 the result. This was the reason, he said, and yet when he re- 
 membered many things in the past, he could not reconcile the 
 two, or reason clearly about anything. 
 
 " I must go away by myself and think it out alone," he 
 thought, and glancing at his watch, and seeing there was yet 
 time for the down train to New York, he rose, and going to 
 the door of Edith's room, knocked softly, and asked Gertie to 
 come out a moment to him. 
 
 " I am going away for a day or two, or three at the most," 
 he said. " Mrs. Schuyler is out of danger, and as in her present 
 state she is more quiet without me, I shall not be needed for a
 
 352 COLONEL SCHUYLER AND THE SECRET. 
 
 little time, and leave her in your care. I know I can trust you 
 in everything. You have been faithful to us, Gertie ! " 
 
 He wrung her hand as he said this, feeling for the moment as 
 if of all his family Gertie alone had not forsaken him. Emily 
 was dead, Emma was over the sea, Godfrey was estranged, 
 Julia was seeking her own pleasure with a party of friends in 
 Florida, and Edith, oh, how far she had drifted aw-ay from him 
 within the last two hours, so far that he feared she could never 
 come back again, just as she was before. And yet he loved her 
 so much, and when he caught through the open door a glimpse 
 of her white face upon the pillow, he experienced a keen throb 
 of pain, and felt an almost irresistible desire to go to her and 
 beg her to tell him that what he had just read was false, that 
 she was nought to Abelard Lyle, nought to that woman in Aln- 
 wick, the very thought of whom made him shudder with disgust. 
 But there could be no doubt. He had it in her handwriting, 
 and with a stifled moan he walked through the hall, and down 
 the stairs out into the yard, where he ordered his man to take 
 him to the train. 
 
 There were none of his acquaintances going down at that 
 time of the day, and choosing a seat near the door behind his 
 fellow-passengers, he sat with his coat-collar turned up, and his 
 hat over his eyes, apparently asleep, though never was sleep 
 further from one's eyes than from his, as he mentally went over 
 with the story told in Edith's letter and tried to realize it. Ar- 
 rived in New York he went to the St. Nicholas, feeling that he 
 should be more secure there, as Godfrey and his friends fre- 
 quented the hotels farther up town. He wanted as private a 
 room as possible, he said, with his meals served in it, and no 
 one to intrude ; so they gave him one far up on the fourth 
 floor, and there for three days he stayed, never once leaving 
 the hotel, or taking other exercise than to walk up and down 
 his room, and this he did for hours at a time, with his hands be- 
 hind him, and his head bent forward, while he tried "to think 
 it out." He did not sleep, and the chamber-maid found his 
 bed unruffled morning after morning, when she came to arrange 
 his room, and his food was taken away untouched unless it were
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER AND THE SECRET. 353 
 
 a bit of toast and a cup of coffee, which he compelled himself 
 to swallow on the morning of the third day, when he felt his 
 strength giving way, and knew he must take something. He 
 had thought it all over and over again, and gone through with 
 every incident of Edith's life as narrated in her letter, and was 
 as far from any decision as ever. 
 
 "If she had told me, if I had known," he kept repeating to 
 himself, without finishing the sentence, for he did not know 
 what the result might have been if he had known that the woman 
 he thought to make his wife was the widow of his hired work- 
 man, the sister-in-law of Jenny Nesbit, among the Alnwick Hills. 
 " If I had loved her then as I do now, it would have made no 
 difference," he said to himself at last, "and in any event I 
 should have respected her for a truthful, conscientious woman, 
 which I cannot do now. Oh, Edith, Edith, how you have fallen, 
 and I thought you so true !" 
 
 This was the third day when he sat exhausted by the table 
 where the letter lay. He kept it there constantly in his sight, 
 though he had not read it since he came, but he took it up now 
 and turning to the first page began to read it again, when, on 
 the margin in the lower corner his eye caught, for the first time, 
 a few faint pencil marks, almost erased, but which could still be 
 made out with care. It was not Edith's handwriting, and in 
 looking closely he recognized the peculiar style of Mrs. Barrett, 
 whose writing he had seen on the back of Edith's letters re- 
 ceived from her. What had she written there, she who, at her 
 daughter's instigation, had lied so foully to him on the day when 
 she came with that smooth story of ah early lore and nothing 
 more! He askesl himself this question, and as he asked it, 
 there flashed over him a light of revelation even before he made 
 out the pencil lines. 
 
 LONDON, October roth, 18 . 
 
 " This letter Edith bade me carry to Col. Schuyler, but I kept 
 it back and told him what I liked, and she never knew of the de- 
 ception until just after she ivas married, when I accidental!},' let 
 it out t and she fainted away. 
 
 "M. BARRETT."
 
 354 COLONEL SCHUYLER AND THE SECRET. 
 
 The words were finely written, but the colonel made them out, 
 while the sudden revulsion from despair to joy was almost too 
 much for him, and he sat for a moment half fainting in his chair. 
 Then he roused himself, and his first words were : 
 
 " Thank God ! I have my Edith back again ! " 
 
 It must have been in some moment of contrition that Mrs. 
 Barrett had penned the words with which from her grave she 
 now spoke for her injured daughter. Something, sure, had 
 prompted her to keep the letter and write the explanation which 
 brought such joy to Col. Schuyler. The losing faith in Edith's 
 integrity, the belief that she was artful, intriguing, and deceitful, 
 had hurt him a thousandfold more than the humiliation of hav- 
 ing married the widow of Abelard Lyle. He had hardly given 
 that a serious thought, so great was his disappointment at having 
 found Edith false as he believed ; and when she was proved 
 otherwise his joy was as acute as his grief had been intense. 
 Every circumstance which bore at all upon the matter came 
 back to him, and he remembered so distinctly the many times 
 since their marriage when Edith had tried to tell him. At the 
 inn where they stopped on their bridal night she had stolen to 
 his side, with the confession on her lips, and he had not listened 
 to her, but had bidden her never allude to the past again, as he 
 was satisfied. Dear Edith, he said, aloud, and felt again the 
 pressure of her hand on his shoulder where she had lain it, and 
 heard the falter in her voice as she first called him Howard. 
 How she must have suffered then and afterward when he in- 
 sisted upon taking her with him to the Lyles. He knew now 
 the secret of her silence, which he had called pride. The iron 
 fingers were on her throat, and she could not talk in Abelard' s 
 home with that dreadful Jenny sitting there. And she was 
 Edith's sister-in-law ! The colonel shivered from head to foot 
 when he remembered that, and a flush of shame and mortifica- 
 tion spread over his pale face. He had yet to fight these feel- 
 ings down, and he did it manfully, and said to himself again and 
 again : 
 
 " 1 love her just as wall, now that I know she did not mean 
 to deceive me, just as well as if she had never seen those Lyles,
 
 COLONEL SCHUYLER AND THE SECRET. 355 
 
 who seem thrust upon rne at every point, first through Emma 
 and then through Edith, my wife." 
 
 He liked to say (i my wife," and kept repeating the name as 
 if it would make her dearer to him, and wipe out every feeling 
 of regret for the incidents of her early life. How she has suf- 
 fered, he thought, as he remembered all she must have passed 
 through after her arrival at Hampstead, and he could under- 
 stand now the meaning of her strange words when" their first 
 baby was born, and when it died. She was thinking of the 
 little girl whose grave she never saw, and in the transports of 
 his joy and generosity the poor man thought how he would, if 
 she wished it, help her find that grave, and place a headstone 
 there to the memory of little Heloise Lyle ! Nobody would 
 ever connect that name with him or his, and he was glad of 
 that, and was not sorry that the little girl was dead, and 
 could not by any chance come up as a witness against his 
 Edith. Alas, he never dreamed that only half the strange story 
 had been told, that his love and generosity, and principle of 
 right and wrong were to be more severely tested than they yet 
 had been. He was human, and naturally it was a comfort to 
 him to think that Edith's story need be known only to her and 
 to himself. It should be their secret, and die with them when 
 they died, and the world never be the wiser for it. 
 
 That the secret had something to do with Edith's recent 
 dangerous illness, he was certain, when he recalled expressions 
 and ravings which had puzzled him so much ; and he knew, too, 
 or thought he did, why she shrank from him as she alwavs did 
 when delirious, telling him she was unworthy to let him touch 
 her. But this should be so no longer ; he would go home to 
 her at once, and as soon as she could bear it, tell her that he 
 knew the whole, and loved her the same as ever. 
 
 He did not stop long after that, but calling for his bill, 
 hurried to the station and was soon on his way to Schuyler 
 Hill.
 
 356 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 E found his wife asleep, with her cheek resting on one 
 hand, her hair pushed back and lying in masses upon 
 the pillow. He had seen her thus many times, and he 
 paused to look at her now, and thought how fair and lovely she 
 was even yet. with her thirty-four years and the marks of her 
 dangerous illness. Hers was a face which does not grow old, 
 and to him it seemed more beautiful than it had been on her 
 bridal day, because he loved her more than he did then, and 
 knew how sweet she was. He did not associate her in the 
 least with Abelard Lyle when he was with her. It was some 
 other Edith who had been the heroine of that strange romance, 
 it was Heloise Fordham, the girl at the cottage, who had 
 shed such bitter tears for the young carpenter, and not his wife, 
 lying there before him in that quiet sleep. She was Edith, 
 the mother of his little boy, and he stooped at last and kissed 
 her just as tenderly as if that letter had never been read by him, 
 and he had never heard of the Lyles who lived in Alnwick. 
 
 The kiss roused her a little, and turning upon her pillow, her 
 lips moved, and he heard her say, "Abelard," while a pang, 
 keener, sharper, and different from anything he had known, 
 shot through his heart and brought great drops of sweat to his 
 brow and lips. 
 
 During the dreadful three days when he was " thinking it out " 
 he had experienced no jealousy of the dead youth, or for an in- 
 stant believed that Edith loved him still, or could have loved 
 him had he lived till now and met her for the first time in the 
 fulness of her womanhood. But she was dreaming of him sure, 
 and Colonel Schuyler would have given much to know the na- 
 ture of the dream. 
 
 She was sleeping again, and he drew a chair beside her, and 
 with his eyes fastened upon her face, sat looking at her until he 
 heard Gertie light the gas in the adjoining room, preparatory to
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 357 
 
 putting Arthur to bed. This was something the child would al- 
 low no one else to do. and now, when this was done, he in- 
 sisted upon "tissin" mam-ma just once" before going to his 
 crib. 
 
 "Yes, Gertie, let him come," the colonel said, as he heard 
 the clamor at the door, and in his long night-gown the boy came 
 in, screaming with joy at sight of his father, and crying out, as 
 he reached out his arms to touch his mother's face : 
 
 "Oh, mamma! mamma! papa's tome! I'se so glad! is 
 you ? " 
 
 Edith was awake now, and started when she saw the dark 
 figure and guessed whose it was. 
 
 " Papa's tome ! " Arthur said again, while Gertie, feeling sure 
 that Mrs. Schuyler would be disturbed, carried him forcibly 
 away, and left the husband and wife alone. 
 
 Then Colonel Schuyler arose, and bending over his wife, said 
 softly : 
 
 "Edith, darling, I have come home. Are you glad to see 
 me?" He did not wait for her to answer, but continued: 
 " They tell me you are better, and I am so rejoiced. Kiss me, 
 can you ? " 
 
 She kissed him as he desired, and he felt her hot tears on his 
 cheek as he held his face to her. She was much better than 
 when he left her. Reason had come back again, and she could 
 think of all that was past, and what lay before her, and she shrank 
 from it, and from her husband, who must soon know everything, 
 and who might turn from her in bitter scorn and disgust. Oh, 
 how she loved him now ! and how her poor heart ached when 
 she thought of losing his respect and seeing his love for her 
 turning into hatred. For he did love her ; she was sure of that, 
 and never had Ins manner been so full of manly tenderness as 
 it was when he came to her after an absence of three days and 
 asked her if she was glad. It seemed almost, she thought, as if 
 he were pitying her, and he was, and wishing he could help her 
 tell him what he was certain she wanted to. But it must not 
 be that night ; she was too weak to bear the excitement. He 
 must wait till she was stronger, he thought, and when at last, as
 
 358 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 he supported her in his arms and stroked her face caressingly, 
 she said to him : 
 
 " Now, Howard, please lay me down, and do not come again 
 till I send for you ; " he went away, but did not stay till she sent 
 for him, lest it should be too long. Every day he went to see 
 her, and tri^d to seem natural, and once, when she asked why 
 he looked so thin and haggard, he answered evasively and said 
 he had a cold, and then went straight to the cemetery, and, 
 standing at Abelard's grave, read the inscription aloud : 
 
 " James A. Lyle. Born in Alnwick, England. Died June 
 i8th, 18 . Aged 23." 
 
 Then he examined the stone and tried if it were firm in its 
 place, and kicked the snow and dead leaves from a tuft of dai- 
 sies, which looked so fresh and green that he stooped to exam- 
 ine it, and found to his surprise a tiny white blossom hidden 
 under the snow and the pile of leaves and straw which Gertie 
 had put there in the fall to protect the plants. 
 
 " Daisies under the snow on his grave. It is very remarka- 
 able," he said, as he picked the little flower, and going back to 
 the house he put it in some water, and set it on the table in his 
 room, where he watched it all day long until it grew to be almost 
 a phantom and he felt he could endure it no longer. 
 
 He must speak to Edith or go mad himself. She was much 
 better now, and he would watch with her that night, and have 
 it out when there was no fear of interruption. But he did not 
 tell her of his intention lest she should oppose it, and she sup- 
 posed her attendant was to be Gertie, who frequently slept in 
 the room with her. 
 
 Edith's habit was to sleep from nine to twelve, but this night 
 it was nearly one when she awoke and looked about her. The 
 gas was turned down and the bright winter moonlight came 
 through the window and fell in a sheet upon the floor, making 
 the room almost as light as day, and showing plainly the figure 
 sitting so motionless in the chair at the foot of the bed. It 
 was not Gertie, and Edith's heart beat quickly when she saw 
 it was her husband, and thought : 
 
 "I must tell him, I am able to bear it now."
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 359 
 
 He knew she was awake, but waited for her to speak, trem- 
 bling in every joint as he wondered how he should begin to say 
 that which he was there to say, and wondering, too, how she 
 would receive it. He had the little daisy on the table near 
 him, and when she stirred he took it in his hand and fancied that 
 it had grown to be the size of the magnolia blossoms he saw 
 once in the gardens at the South. His mind was surely getting 
 disordered, when Edith spoke and said : 
 
 " Howard, is that you ? Are you watching with me ? " 
 
 " Yes, Edith ; " and he drew his chair closer to her, while she 
 went on : 
 
 " Howard, do you love me, really, truly love me ? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " I really, truly love you. Why do you 
 ask me, Edith ? " 
 
 " Because, Howard, because I, I, wanted to be sure. 
 I've, there is something I must ; oh, Howard, you do, love 
 me, you do." 
 
 It was a piteous cry, and had she been convicted of murder 
 Colonel Schuyler would have stood by her with that sound in 
 his ears. She was going to tell him, instead of his telling her ! 
 He was sure of it, and in his anxiety to know how she would 
 begin, he resolved not to help her at first, but hear what she 
 had to say. For a moment she lay very still, with her hands 
 locked tightly together, and he knew that she was praying, for he 
 caught the words " Help me," as they came from her white 
 lips. Ami heaven did help her, and the iron fingers were held 
 back and her respiration was unimpeded, save by strong emotion 
 when she at last began : 
 
 " Howard, do you remember the day when we were married, 
 and I fainted in my dressing-room before going to the train ? " 
 
 It was coining now, sure, and he replied : 
 
 "Yes, Edith, I remember it; your mother said it was in 
 some way connected with that affaire du ccsitr." 
 
 " Yes, Howard, it was. Hold my hand, please, and hold it 
 tight ; till you feel your love for me going away." 
 
 He too4 her hand and held it fast, while she continued : 
 
 " And do you remember the little inn, and the pleasant night,
 
 360 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 and the perfume of the flowers in the yard and the fresh hay on 
 the lawn, and you sitting on the balcony when I came to tell 
 you something, which you refused to hear ? " 
 
 " Yes, Edith, I remember it. Does one forget his wedding 
 day so easily that I should forget that," he said ; and Edith 
 went on : 
 
 " You asked me to call you Howard, and I said, wait till I 
 have told you what might make a difference, but you would not 
 listen. You were satisfied, you said, and if there was anything 
 more you did not wish to hear it, and you promised that what- 
 ever came in the future you would have faith in me and believe 
 I meant to do right. Howard, there was something more, a ter- 
 rible something, and I must tell it to you now, but draw the 
 curtain, please ; shut out the moonlight and turn off the gas. 
 I'd rather be in the dark, and not see your face, when your love 
 begins to turn to hate." 
 
 It would be cruel to let her go further. He had heard 
 enough to satisfy him that a full confession was to be made, and 
 without dropping the curtain or turning the gas lower he leaned 
 over her, and said : 
 
 " One question, Edith, please ; do you love me now better 
 than you did on our wedding day ? Is there no regret in your 
 heart for that early lover ? Tell me truly, Edith." 
 
 " No, not the way you mean. Regret there is, it is true, but 
 not that way. The love I had for him has been overshadow- 
 ed by a later and mightier love; and, I can truly say, few 
 wives have ever loved their husbands as I love you, and that 
 makes it so hard to tell you now when I want your love so 
 much. Oh, Howard, just once, for the sake of all the happiness 
 we have had together, kiss me and hold me in your arms as you 
 used to do. You'll never hold me so again, but this once do 
 not refuse."- 
 
 He wound his arms around her and pressed her closely to 
 him, and kissed her brow and lips, and she felt his tears upon 
 her face when at last he released her and put her gently back 
 upon the pillow. 
 
 "Thank you, Howard. I'll never ask you again," she said,
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 3^1 
 
 for she believed it their farewell ; but he knew it was not, and 
 when she was recovered a little he summoned all his energies, 
 and said : 
 
 " Edith, you seem to be afraid that what you have to tell me 
 will make me love you less. I promise you that it shall not, 
 and in token of that promise I have brought you this daisy 
 which I found blossoming under the snow on Abelard's grave, 
 as if it were a message from him to mediate between us." 
 
 He spoke slowly and held up the little white blossom before 
 the eyes which looked at it and him so wonderingly. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " Edith asked, faintly, and he re- 
 plied : 
 
 " I mean that you have no need to tell the story, for I know 
 it all ! " 
 
 There was a sudden gasping for breath, a throwing back of 
 the bedclothes as if their weight oppressed her, and then Edith 
 asked : 
 
 " What do you know ? " 
 
 " I know that you were once Heloise Fordham, and lived in 
 the collage by the bridge, and were the wife of Abelard Lyle, 
 and had a little daughter born in London, whom your mother 
 carried away when you were insensible, and that you wrote all 
 this in a letter to me before we were married, and supposed I 
 got that letter until our wedding day, when you learned how we 
 had both been deceived, and you tried so hard to tell me. You 
 see I do know it all," he continued. "I accidentally found 
 your letter in the pocket where you put it with Arthur's whistle. 
 It was directed to me and I read it, and in my first surprise 
 and bewilderment went away to be alone and think it out. I 
 did think it out, and exonerated you entirely, and have come 
 back to tell you so and assure you of my continued love and 
 respect. Poor darling, how much you must have suffered, but 
 it is all over now. Your secret is known to me, and that is all 
 that is necessary. It shall die " 
 
 He stopped short, struck by the look of pain and anguish on 
 Edith's face, and the low moan which escaped her as she drew 
 herself away from him to the far side of the bed. He did not 
 16
 
 362 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 know then that her child still lived; he could not, for it was 
 not thus written in her letter, and throwing up her hands, she 
 cried : 
 
 " Oh, Howard, Howard, you do not know the whole, neither 
 did i till mother came and told me. She went to the hospital 
 after baby, as I said in my letter, and when she came back she 
 told me baby was dead, and I believed her, nor ever had 
 another thought until the night I was with her and you found 
 me fainting at her feet. She could not die with that lie on her 
 soul, and she told me the truth at last. Baby was not dead. 
 She was adopted, taken by some poor woman who lived in 
 Dorset Street, the number is in that letter or on the envelope 
 somewhere, and the name Stover. Howard, my daughter is 
 alive, and now you know the whole." 
 
 He did not speak, though he shivered from head to foot as 
 there came over him a dim foreshadowing of what Edith meant 
 to do and what he must not prevent her doing. He saw the 
 right as clearly as she did, and knew that were he in her place 
 he should do the same ; but the flesh was very weak, and he 
 staggered, and grew faint and sick as he thought of letting the 
 whole world know who his Edith was, and how he had been 
 deceived. If the child was found and acknowledged all this 
 must be, unless indeed they both might think it best to keep it 
 still a secret. They could care for the girl just the same, adopt 
 her, perhaps, and never let her nor any one know just what she 
 was to them. Edith certainly would concede so much to his 
 feelings. She would not thrust this great humiliation upon him 
 in the face of all the world. And if they never found the girl, 
 but he dared not allow himself to consider that possibility for a 
 moment. Something told him they would find her, and he 
 caught himself wondering how she looked, if she was at all like 
 her mother; or had she lived so long with the people in Dorset 
 Street that every vestige of grace and beauty and refinement 
 had been destroyed, and she was like her aunt, Jenny Nesbit, 
 in far-off Alnwick, with her bare arms and dreadful slang. How 
 he dreaded her, and how his heart beat with shame at the 
 thought of bringing her there as an associate for his wife and
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 363 
 
 Gertie ! Oh, if she could prove to be like Gertie, he thought ; 
 but she would not, and never in all his life had he shrunk from 
 a living thing as he shrunk from that unknown step-daughter of 
 whose existence he had never dreamed until within the last few 
 minutes. 
 
 " Howard ! " Edith said at last, but he did not answer. 
 " Howard," she said again, " now that you know the whole 
 you will love me still ? " 
 
 " Yes, Edith," he said ; and she continued, " And you will help 
 me find her just as soon as I am able to cross the sea. Will 
 it be in a week, do you think, or two ? I am a great deal better 
 than I was yesterday, and now that you know it I shall get well 
 so fast. Do you think we can start in a week ? " 
 
 " No, Edith, I know you cannot. A sea voyage in the 
 winter is always rough, and you could not bear it yet," was his 
 reply, and Edith assented, and thought how hard she would try 
 to get well so as to go on that strange errand of hunting up a 
 child lost almost nineteen years. 
 
 Anon there crept into her mind a suspicion of what it would 
 be to her husband to have the story known, and she said to 
 him pityingly : 
 
 " Howard, I am sorry for you. It will be so hard for you to 
 have the people know." 
 
 "Yes, Edith, very hard at first ; but you surely need not say 
 anything until you ktiovv whether you find her," The colonel re- 
 plied, and Edith acquiesced, and longed for the time when she 
 should be able to endure the excitement and fatigue of the voy- 
 age and the search, and the finding perhaps of the object 
 sought. 
 
 She was very tired and did not talk any more that night, but 
 fell into a quiet sleep, while her husband sat by her, feeling as 
 if he would never sleep again, or know a moment's gladness. 
 How old and tired and worn he looked the next day, and how 
 he stooped in walking, as if the burden were greater than he 
 could bear. Sometimes he thought it was, and once the tempter 
 whispered that the cold river just in sight from his window 
 would be a better place than his beautiful home after all was
 
 364 THE SEARCH IN LOXDOtf. 
 
 known. But Col. Schuyler was too brave a man to die a sqicidal 
 death in order to escape a trouble. " Better live and face it," 
 he thought, and then began to feel a restless impatience to have 
 the matter settled, to know the worst as soon as possible, and 
 he was almost as glad as Edith when she was pronounced able 
 to undertake the voyage. Why they were going to England in 
 the winter they did not say, and we naturally supposed it might 
 be to benefit Edith and pay a visit to Glenthorpe, where Emma 
 w?.s so happy. Norah was not going ; Edith could get a maid 
 across the water, she said, and she preferred leaving Norah to 
 look after little Arthur. To Gertie, however, the principal care 
 of the child was given, and she promised to be faithful to her 
 trust, and care for the little boy as if he were her brother. 
 
 And so one day in January, when the Oceanic sailed out of the 
 harbor of New York, Edith was in the ship going blindfolded 
 to seek the very blessing which, all unknown, she left behind. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 THE SEARCH IN LONDON. 
 
 jHEY went first to the St. Hospital, where officers 
 
 and nurses and matron had all been changed since 
 the rnght when the child Heloise was left at the 
 door. But the books remained, and after a long time they 
 found the one bearing date nineteen years back. Oh, how 
 eagerly Edith turned the worn, yellow leaves till she came to 
 the date she remembered so well. 
 
 "January , 18 . Was received into the house a female 
 child, found in a basket on the doorstep with the name Heloise 
 pinned upon its dress." 
 
 That was the one, and Edith's voice trembled so much that 
 she could not speak distinctly, as she asked of the person in at- 
 tendance : 
 
 " Where is this child now ? Who took her from here ? and 
 when ? "
 
 THE SEARCH IN LONDON. 365 
 
 Mrs. Simmons, the matron, could not tell. She had herself 
 been there little more than a year, but a careful searching of 
 the books brought to light the fact that not long after the night 
 when the baby Heloise was found on the steps, it had been 
 taken away by a Mrs. Stover, whose daughter Aune was a nurse 
 in the Hospital at the time, and who lived at No. Dorset 
 Street. This agreed with the story as told by Mrs. Barrett, and 
 thus far all seemed perfectly plain and easy to the excited 
 woman, whom Colonel Schuyler followed mechanically where- 
 soever she went. She was taking the lead, not he, but he sub- 
 mitted with a good grace, .and went without a word to No 
 Dorset Street. It was up two flights of broken, creaking, dirty 
 stairs, and Edith shuddered as she thought how the feet of her 
 own child had probably been up and down this dark stairway, 
 while she, the mother, had lived in luxury and ease. 
 
 No. was a dirty, wretched apartment, reeking with filth, 
 swarming with children, and smelling of onions and boiled cab- 
 bage, and that odor peculiar to rooms where the people sleep and 
 cook and eat and live, and seldom wash themselves. The fam- 
 ily were Germans, who could not speak a word of English, and 
 stared wonderingly at the beautiful lady, who succeeded in mak- 
 ing herself understood. But she might as well have talked to 
 blocks of wood for aught they knew of any tenants there before 
 them. She managed, however, to make out that on the floor 
 above was an old woman, who had occupied the same room for 
 many years, and to her Edith went next, feeling when she stood 
 in the neat, homelike, though humble apartment of Mrs. Myers 
 as if she had stepped into paradise. Mrs. Myers was very old, 
 and had lived there thirty years, and remembered the Stovers, 
 who occupied the floor below. 
 
 " Tidy, clever people, and not at all like the'orrid Dutch cat- 
 tle there now," she said. "There was old Marm Stover, and 
 her two gals Hanny and Mary. Han worked in some 'ors- 
 pital, and Mary for some grand lady in the country." 
 
 " Was there ever a child living with them, a little girl with 
 blue eyes and golden hair?" Edith asked. 
 
 And the woman replied :
 
 366 THE SEARCH IN LONDON. 
 
 " There was, mem, and a deal of gossip it made about the 
 girls, though folks mostly laid it to Han, but I never b'lieved a 
 word on't. It was took from the 'orspital, they said, and had a 
 curis name, Eloise, and Mary claimed it as 'ern ; and when 
 old Maim Stover died with the cholera, Mary, who was out to 
 service, took the child away, and I've never seen her sense, or 
 'earn tell of her. Was the child anything to you, mem ? " 
 
 " Yes, everything, it was mine," Edith said, impetuously, 
 while her husband, who did not care to have her quite so out- 
 spoken, even to this old woman, said, as he took her hand to 
 lead her away : 
 
 "Yes, yes, thank you, Mrs. Myers; this lady has been sick, 
 and we, yes, we are both anxious to find some trace of the 
 child lost so long ago : but I think it doubtful if we do, yes, 
 very doubtful. Come, Edith, we may as well go." 
 
 But Edith did not move. She must know something more, 
 and she said : 
 
 " Have you no idea where this Mary Stover lived ? Had she 
 no friends who could tell me about her ? " 
 
 "None as I knows on. I ain't seen or 'earn of her better'n 
 eighteen year. Mebbe the perlice could worrit her out for you." 
 
 Edith had not thought of that, and hurried her husband into 
 the street, and insisted upon going at once to the head of the 
 police. 
 
 But the colonel demurred. If they could proceed quietly, he 
 would rather do so, he said, and they would not call in the aid 
 of the police until they had exhausted every means in their 
 power. 
 
 And they did exhaust every means ; they inquired every- 
 where, and hunted up every family of Stovers in the city, and went 
 to the hospital again, and went to Mrs. Myers to see if she 
 could not think of something forgotten when they were there 
 before. But all was of no avail. Nobody had ever heard of 
 Mary Stover, and Edith's heart was heavy as lead when at last 
 the case was given to the police, who had little hope of suc- 
 cess. 
 
 Worn out, disappointed, and discouraged, Edith took her bed
 
 THE SEARCH IN LONDON. 367 
 
 at the hotel where they were stopping, while the colonel, who 
 was not so very much aggrieved at the failure of the search, 
 thought to please and interest her by making some inquiries with 
 regard to Gertie Westbrooke, about whose antecedents there 
 was so much doubt an'd mystery. To trace her history seemed 
 far easier than to trace the mythical Mary Stover, and he went 
 first to the company where her annuity was payable. In an- 
 swer to his inquiries as to whether they could give him any in- 
 formation with regard to the family, he was told that quite re- 
 cently a Mrs. William Westbrooke had done some business 
 with them in the way of a deposit. She was a widow, they said, 
 and had come from Florence, where she had lived for many 
 years. It was the same name, possibly the same family, he 
 could inquire ; they could give him the lady's address. 
 
 This he reported to Edith, who roused herself to some inter- 
 est in the matter after being assured that no parent or guar- 
 dian could take Gertie from them after all these years. 
 
 " If I thought they could I would not try to find them, for I 
 can't give Gertie up," she said ; while her husband felt that he 
 would be almost as loath to part with Gertie as Edith herself. 
 
 And so with more real interest now than he had felt when 
 searching for Mary Stover, he drove with Edith one day to the 
 handsome lodgings occupied by Mrs. William Westbrooke, re- 
 cently from Florence. She was a little, pale, sandy-haired wo- 
 man, of forty or thereabouts, very much dressed, and having in 
 her manner something haughty and supercilious as she received 
 the strangers, and, without requesting them to be seated, asked 
 what she could do for them. 
 
 It was the colonel who did the talking this time, while Edith 
 listened in a preoccupied kind of way, w r hich, nevertheless, did 
 not prevent her from hearing all that was said. 
 
 " We are Americans," the colonel began, " and we have a 
 young girl in our family of whose antecedents we would learn 
 something. As you have the same name, and bank at the same 
 firm where her annuity of forty pounds a year is paid, it occurred 
 to me to inquire if you have ever heard of a girl called Gertie } 
 or Gertrude Westbrooke, nineteen or twent} 7 years old."
 
 368 THE SEARCH IN LONDON. 
 
 " Gertie ! Gertrude ! " Mrs. Westbrooke said. " I did know 
 a child by that name years ago ; but tell me, please, how she 
 came to be in America living with you ? " 
 
 It was Edith who talked now, and who told rapidly all she knew 
 of Gertie Westbrooke and her so-called mother, Mrs. Rogers. 
 
 " Is it the same? Do you think it the same ?" she asked ; 
 and Mrs. Westbrooke replied : 
 
 " I think it the same; yes." 
 
 "Who is she then? Are you her step-mother ?" Edith asked; 
 and, with a frown on her wizened little face, the lady replied : 
 
 '' No, she is nothing to me. She was adopted by my hus- 
 band's first wife just after the loss of her baby, and, as I un- 
 derstood, at the instigation of her nurse, who must have been 
 this Mrs. Rogers. The first Mrs. Westbrooke was greatly at- 
 tached to the child, and when she died she settled upon it forty 
 pounds a year, and gave it expressly to the care of her maid. 
 
 " About a year after her death Mr. Westbrooke married me, 
 and took me to his home in London. I did not like children, 
 and this one was in my way, and as my husband did not care 
 for it either, we gave it at last to the nurse, who took it to keep 
 for her own. My first child was born soon after, and the next 
 year we went to Florence, where my husband died, and where 
 I have lived until within the last few months. .Of Gertie I have 
 never heard since. I was told that the nurse, Mary, was mar- 
 ried and living comfortably ; but from what you say I have no 
 doubt that the young lady in question is the girl, and am glad 
 she has fallen into so good hands. She was very pretty, with 
 great blue eyes and bright auburn hair " 
 
 " What was the name of the nurse ? " Edith asked, and the 
 lady replied : , 
 
 " I don't remember whom she married, but dare say it was 
 Rogers. My housekeeper will know ; she saw her married. 
 Her maiden name was Stover, Mary Stover" 
 
 "Mary Stover /" and Edith started to her feet as quickly as 
 if a heavy blow had smitten her. " Mary Stover, tell me if 
 you know where the child came from at first, who were her 
 parents, and how came Mrs. Westbrooke by her ? "
 
 THE SEARCH IN LONDON. 369 
 
 " I do not know as she had any parents, unless it were Mary 
 Stover herself. I always suspected her of being the real mother, 
 she was so attached to the child and so mysterious about it. 
 She brought it to Mrs. Westbrooke from some Foundling Hos- 
 pital, I believe, where her sister Anne was nurse." 
 
 " Oh, Gertie, Gertie, thank Heaven," Edith gasped, and the 
 next moment she lay at her husband's feet with a face as white 
 and rigid and still as are the faces of the dead! 
 
 There was great excitement then in Mrs. Westbrooke's rooms, 
 ringing of bells, gathering of servants, and hurrying for physi- 
 cians, three of whom came together and concurred in pronounc- 
 ing it nothing worse than a fainting fit, from which the lady 
 would soon recover. 
 
 " Shall I order a room for her here ? " Mrs. Westbrooke asked, 
 anxious to relieve herself as soon as possible from her rather 
 troublesome guests. 
 
 The colonel, who knew Edith would be happier in their own 
 apartments at the hotel, declined Mrs. Westbrooke's offer, and 
 as soon as consciousness returned took his wife in his arms, and, 
 carrying her to the carriage waiting for them, was driven back 
 to his hotel, where he laid her upon the couch, and then sat 
 down beside her, waiting for her to speak. 
 
 For a moment, however, she could not, and she lay perfectly 
 still with the light of a great and unutterable happiness shining 
 in her eyes and illuminating every feature. 
 
 "Edith, darling, you are very glad ?" the colonel asked at 
 last. 
 
 "Yes, Howard, so glad, oh, so glad," Edith replied. " God 
 has been so good to me, so good that I never can thank Him 
 enough. That Gertie should be my daughter and living with 
 me all the time ; oh, God, I do thank Thee, I do. Howard, 
 you are glad too, glad for Gertie ? " 
 
 She questioned him eagerly, and he answered her without the 
 slightest hesitancy : 
 
 " Yes, Edith, very glad." 
 
 And he was glad, and when, as he was leaving Mrs. West- 
 brooke, that lady said to him, " Pardon me, if I seem curious,
 
 370 THE SEARCH IN LONDON. 
 
 but what is the girl Gertie to this lady?" he promptly answer- 
 ed : " Gertie is our daughter," and with that little pronoun our 
 he adopted Gertie into his heart and love, and felt that she was 
 his as well as Edith's. 
 
 " Our daughter ! " That was what he called her to his wife, 
 who clasped her arms around his neck in token that she appre- 
 ciated this last great kindness of his. 
 
 Then they talked together of the beautiful girl whom they 
 had come so far to seek, when all the time she was a part of 
 their own household, and as they talked there naturally enough 
 crept into Edith's mind the shadow of a fear, lest, after all, 
 there might be some mistake. But there was none apparently, 
 for the colonel made every inquiry possible with regard to 
 Mary Rogers, finding beyond a doubt that she was Mary Stover, 
 and that her sister Anne had been a nurse in Street Hos- 
 pital nineteen years before, and that it was by their mother, then 
 living in Dorset Street, that the child was taken when it left the 
 hospital. There could be no doubt, and as Edith was far too 
 weak and too much overcome to undertake the journey home 
 immediately, the colonel decided to remain a week or two in 
 London, and wrote at once to Glenthorpe, asking Robert to 
 bring Emma to them, but reserving the secret of Gertie's birth 
 until they came. Then he wrote to Gertie herself, but thought 
 it better not to confide the whole to her until he saw her face 
 to face. So he merely said that being in London he had 
 
 thought it well to make some inquiries at the Bank, and, if 
 
 possible, discover something of her family. 
 
 "And dear Gertie," he wrote, "you will be no less aston- 
 ished and delighted than I was to find that beyond the shadow 
 of a doubt you are our oitm daughter. I cannot tell you all on 
 paper. I only assure you that it is true, and when we return I 
 will explain it to you. Mrs. Schuyler is not very well, but I 
 hope she will be able to return in the Cuba, which sails in t\vo 
 \\.-rks. With love and a kiss for little Arthur, who, I trust, is 
 well, 1 am, 
 
 " Your affectionate father, H. SCHUYLER."
 
 THE SEARCH IN LONDON. 37' 
 
 This was his letter, which he read to Edith, who said : " But, 
 Howard, you never told her how my heart is aching for her, or 
 gave her my love or anything." 
 
 " Never mind," the colonel answered, good-naturedly. "You 
 will have all your lifetime to tell her of your love." 
 
 And so the letter which would tell Gertie so much, and yet 
 so little, was sent, and two days after Robert Macpherson ar- 
 rived in London, bringing with him Emma, the little lady of 
 Glenthorpe, who was perfectly wild over her husband and her 
 beautiful home among the Highlands, and insisted that her 
 father should go there if only for a few days. You must see 
 what a good mistress I make, and what a high-bred lady I am 
 to the people who just worship Robert, and I do believe like 
 him all the more because his mother was one of them. I begin 
 to believe in what are called mesalliances after all. 
 
 Now was the time to tell the story of another mesalliance^ 
 and the colonel told it, while Robert and Emma listened breath- 
 lessly, and when the denouement was reached the latter ex- 
 claimed, joyfully : 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad, that it is Gertie. She is your cousin, 
 Robert, your own cousin, and it is all just like a story. Oh, I 
 am so glad ! " 
 
 She evidently did not think it so dreadful to be connected 
 with the Lyles. She had seen the white-haired, sweet-faced 
 old woman in Alnvvick, and seen Jenny Nesbit, too, for Robert 
 had taken her there to call, and she had fallen in love with the 
 grandmother, and tried to pet Godfrey Schuyler, now a big 
 boy in jacket and trousers, and had sickened and grown hot 
 and cold by turns at the vulgarity of Mrs. Nesbit, and then in 
 the splendor and eclat of her home at Glenthorpe had forgotten 
 them all and remembered only that she was Robert's wife, the 
 great lady of the neighborhood and the happiest woman living. 
 Gertie should come and live with her, she said, and marry a 
 Scottish Lord ; but Edith shook her head ; Gertie was hers. 
 She could not part with her, and her heart was full of an un- 
 utterable yearning to behold the young girl again, and hear her 
 call her mother, and she could hardly wait for the day when the
 
 372 GERTIE. 
 
 Cuba sailed at last from the harbor of Liverpool, and she knew 
 she was going home to Gertie. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 GERTIE. 
 
 No. 30 30TH STREET, NEW YORK, February 18, 18 . 
 O COLONEL SCHUYLER : Your son Godfrey is very 
 dangerously ill with typhoid fever. Come at once. 
 MRS. SOPHIA WILSON. 
 
 This was the telegram received at Schuyler Hill one morn- 
 ing in February, and read by Gertie with a heart throbbing with 
 fear and anxiety for the young man dangerously ill with typhoid 
 fever, and only strangers to care for him. But what could she 
 do ? The colonel was in Europe, Julia was in Florida, while 
 she had little Arthur to care for, and even if she had not she 
 could not go herself. It would not be proper under any cir- 
 cumstances, and the colonel would not like it. Something, how- 
 ever, must be done, and calling Mrs. Tiffe she read the tele- 
 gram and said to her : 
 
 " You must go." 
 
 So it was arranged that Mrs. Tiffe should take the'next train 
 for New York, which passed in about an hour, and she departed 
 to make the necessary arrangements for her journey, just as 
 the postman came bringing a letter for Gertie. It was from 
 Colonel Schuyler, and Gertie tore it open and read what it con- 
 tained with emotions which it is impossible to describe. At 
 first she was stunned and bewildered, and thought it must be 
 somebody else, some other Gertie he meant. 
 
 " It is not I, surely ; it cannot be I, who am his daughter" 
 she whispered to herself, and then she read again : 
 
 "Beyond the shadow of a doubt you are our own daughter." 
 
 It was there in black and white, and it was Colonel Schuy- 
 ler 1 s signature, and he signed himself her father. Then the
 
 GERTIE. 373 
 
 room turned dark to Gertie ; there was a humming in her ears, and 
 for a moment she halflost her consciousness, but soon recover- 
 ing she read the letter for the third time, whispering to herself : 
 
 " My father, his child, who then was my mother ? " and as 
 she said it her face flushed with shame as she thought what she 
 7imst be if this tale were true and Colonel Schuyler her sire. 
 She never dreamed of associating Edith with the matter in any 
 way. Only Colonel Schuyler had an interest in her, and that 
 of such a nature that the knowledge of it brought far more pain 
 than pleasure to one as pure and good as she. 
 
 If Colonel Schuyler were her father, then the man whom she 
 vaguely remembered in the home near London could have been 
 nothing to her, and for this she was not especially sorry. But 
 to lose the gentlewoman whom she had been taught to think 
 her mother, was terrible, and Gertie rebelled against it. She 
 would cling to the memory of that woman, even if she had 
 sinned, as the story of her birth would imply. And this was 
 why Mary Rogers had always been so reticent with regard to 
 her antecedents, why she had spoken with so much certainty 
 of her mother as a lady, and said so little of her father. Pos- 
 sibly Mary had not known who her father was, and possibly 
 the man whom she remembered was only the brother or father 
 of the pale woman who died, and that would account for his 
 dislike of her. These and similar fancies flitted rapidly through 
 Gertie's mind, until she settled it beyond a doubt that the man 
 she called father, and who she thought was buried in Italy, had 
 been her mother's near relation, and not her father, that no 
 marriage rite could have hallowed her. birth, and as she thought 
 it her face and neck and hands were crimson, and she longed 
 for some place in which to hide her dishonored head. Then, 
 swift as lightning, another thought flashed into her mind, cutting 
 like a knife and making her cringe with pain. If she was Col- 
 onel Schuyler's daughter, even in an unlawful way, then God- 
 frey was her brother, and alas, she did not want him that. She 
 could never be his wife, she knew ; but it was sweet to know he 
 loved her as he would never love another, and she could not be 
 his sister.
 
 374 GERTIE. 
 
 " Oh, Godfrey, Godfrey ! " she moaned ; " this is the hardest 
 part of all. I can forgive my mother, feeling sure that she was 
 more sinned against than sinning, and I may in time forgive 
 your father and mine ; but I do not want you for my brother. 
 Godfrey, Godfrey, I never loved you before as I do now, when 
 this has risen up to separate us forever." 
 
 Then she remembered the telegram, and starting up ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " If 1 am his sister I may surely go to him. I have a right, 
 and no one can gainsay it." 
 
 She was in Mrs. Tiffe's room in an instant, and greatly aston- 
 ished that good woman by declaring her intention of going her- 
 self to New York to take care of Godfrey/ 
 
 " You, you go to nurse a young man ! Are you crazy, child ? " 
 Mrs. Tiffe exclaimed. 
 
 Gertie did not know whether she was crazy or not ; she half 
 believed she was, but on one point she was decided. She 
 should go to New York, $nd she put on her cloak and furs and 
 hat, and bidding Mrs. Tiffe take good care of Arthur, and send 
 her a few articles of wearing apparel by the next day's express, 
 went out of the house and started for the station on foot before 
 Mrs. Tiffe had time to realize fully what it meant, and that after 
 all the trouble of packing her trunk and ordering the servants 
 what to do in her absence, she must stay at home and let 
 Gertie go in her place. 
 
 "It will be the ruination of her," she said, "for folks will 
 talk," and nothing but the fact that the whistle of the train was 
 just then heard in the distance, prevented her from starting in 
 hot pursuit. "I can't get there now with the swiftest horse in 
 the stable," she reflected, and she did not believe Gertie would 
 be in time either. 
 
 lint sin: was, for when she too heard the train she ran like a 
 frightened deer, and half-stumbled, half-fell upon the platform 
 of the rear car just as it was beginning to move from the station.
 
 IN NEW YORK. 375 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 IN JSTEW YORK. 
 
 [ODFREY was very sick, and had been for some days, 
 though it was not until the morning when the tele- 
 gram was forwarded that his fever assumed the typhoid 
 form and danger was apprehended. A message had been 
 sent to his Aunt Rossiter when he first became ill, but she 
 was in Washington with Miss Creighton, and as the landlady 
 knew nothing of the Calverts, her only alternative was to tele- 
 graph to Schuyler Hill, when the matter became alarming and 
 her boarder delirious. Oh, how he tossed and rolled and 
 raved and talked, fancying himself on the sea, and twice throw- 
 ing himself out of bed because that was the proper thing to do 
 when the ship gave a great lurch as the waves broke over it. 
 Then he was sea-sick and tried to vomit, and wore himself out 
 in his efforts, and screamed to a fancied Bob in the upper berth, 
 to know how he was coming through. Then he stormed at 
 Dan for bringing him sea-water to drink, and when the ship 
 began to pitch again he tried to stand upon his head, and then 
 sprang back upon his feet to preserve his equilibrium, he said 
 to the scandalized and horrified Mrs. Wilson, who fled from him 
 in dismay as the worst-behaved sick man she had ever seen. 
 Then as the vessel -ceased to pitch he rew more quiet, and 
 only rolled with the imaginary ship, and talked about "La 
 S&ur" and begged his landlady to bring her to him, and prom- 
 ised to stop rolling if she would. 
 
 Utterly at her wits' end to know what he meant by La Scettr, 
 or what to do with him, Mrs. Wilson was waiting impatiently 
 for some response to her telegram, when the bell rang and a 
 little, white-faced girl stepped into the hall and announced her- 
 self as having come to take care of Mr. Schuyler. 
 
 " You take care of him ? " Mrs. Wilson exclaimed, when she 
 had recovered from her first astonishment and surprise. "You
 
 376 IN NEW YORK. 
 
 take care of him ? It is impossible. Why, it needs a strong 
 man to manage him ; he is just awful ; he's got it in his head 
 that he is sea-sick, and rolls and pitches with the boat, and calls 
 to Bob in the upper berth, and insists upon my bringing him la 
 surr, whatever that may be " 
 
 " Yes, that's sister, that's French, that's I," Gertie said. " I 
 am his sister, and have come to nurse him. His father is in 
 Europe, his eldest sister Julia is in Florida, the next one is in 
 Scotland, and so there was no one to come but me. Will you 
 take me to him, please ? " 
 
 After this explanation there was no demurring on Mrs. Wil- 
 son's part. If that young girl was his sister she had a right to 
 nurse her brother, and she led the way to the third Moor, j.-here 
 in the room looking into the area Godfrey was still rolling with 
 the ship, and occasionally mimicking and calling to some cats 
 fighting on the fence in the yard below. These cats had been 
 the bane of Godfrey's life even before he was sick. Regularly 
 every night they came, sometimes two, sometimes three, and 
 sometimes half-a-dozen, and made the ^neighborhood hideous 
 with their music. 
 
 Godfrey had thrown his boot-jack at them, and his poker and 
 soap-dish and bits of coal, and when ail these failed he had tried 
 the effect of fire-crackers and frightened the people opposite, 
 who thought him a madman trying to fire the house ! And still 
 the cats fought on, and since Godfrey's illness they had been 
 terrible, and he was up on his elbow " sca-ating " to them, \\hen 
 the door opened and Gertie was ushered in. He knew her, 
 and forgetting the cats and the ship, and Bob in the upper berth, 
 he hailed her advent with a cry of joy. 
 
 "Za Scenr^ La Sceur" he cried, "you've come, you've 
 come at last, and now you'll stop that infernal noise and make 
 the ship stand still. I'm pounded nearly to a jelly with all this 
 rolling and pitching." 
 
 He held his arms toward her, and she went to him and laid 
 her cool hands on his burning brow, and pushed back his tan- 
 gled curls, but did not kiss him. She could not bring herself 
 to do that, even if she were his sister, but she held his hot hands
 
 IN NEW YORK. 377 
 
 in hers and tried to soothe and quiet him, and told him she 
 would kill the cats and make the ship stand still, and talked to 
 him till he grew quiet and fell away to sleep. 
 
 When the doctor came, he was told that Mr. Schuyler's sister 
 was there, and Gertie blushed and felt herself a guilty thing 
 when he addressed her as Miss Schuyler, and gave directions 
 about the medicines she was to give, and asked if there was no 
 older person to come in her place. 
 
 " None but the housekeeper, and Godfrey prefers me," she 
 said, while Godfrey, who was listening, chimed in : 
 
 " That's so. I'd rather have Gertie than the whole world 
 besides. She's a trump, she's a brick, she's a " 
 
 " Hush, Godfrey, if you want me to stay you must not talk," 
 Gertie said, laying her hand upon his lips. 
 
 He kissed it, of course, and when she snatched it away, told 
 her to put it back again if she did not want him to roll out of 
 bed with the ship, which was lurching awfully ! And she put 
 it back and held it there so tight that he could neither kiss it 
 nor speak, nor scarcely breathe. 
 
 " Godfrey," she said a little sternly, when the doctor had gone 
 out, "if you do not behave and stop talking and trying'to kiss 
 me, and if you attempt to roll out of bed, or get up, no matter 
 how much the ship rocks, I will not stay with you a moment, 
 but go home in the next train." 
 
 This had the desired effect and brought forth earnest protes- 
 tations of intended good behavior from Godfrey, who promised 
 not to move but " to stand to his guns," even if the ship should 
 turn a complete somersault, which he guessed it would, judging 
 from the way it was reeling and tossing now. 
 
 After that he was comparatively quiet, or if he became very 
 restless and showed a disposition to repeat his tumbling exploits 
 when the sea was badly in his head, a word from Gertie con- 
 trolled him and kept him on his pillow. But his fever ran 
 higher and higher every day, and his pulse beat faster and faster 
 as the imaginary ship went plunging, through the waves which 
 threatened to engulf it. 
 
 Gertie had told him she was his sister, that his father had
 
 378 IN NEW YORK. 
 
 written so from London, and once when he seemed something 
 like himself she read the letter to him, but he repelled the idea 
 with scorn. She was not his sister. He did not want any more 
 sisters. She was Gertie, his Gertie, his in spite of every- 
 body, he said, and he seemed to know just when she was with 
 him, even if he did not see her, and when she left the room he 
 would moan and rave and talk until she came back, and by a 
 touch of her hand or a single word made him quiet again. 
 
 And so the days went on, and the fever increased, and the 
 vessel rocked worse and worse, and Godfrey's brain grew more 
 and more affected, and Gertie's heart was very sore with the 
 fear that he would die. " Brother " she called him now when 
 she spoke to him, and he was no longer furious as he had been 
 at that name coming from her lips. He did not seem to know 
 what she said, only that she was with him, that it was her hand 
 which gave the medicine he would take from no one else, her 
 hand which bathed his temples and kept him firmly in his place 
 when the sea was doing its worst, her hand which rescued his 
 poor, aching head from the stewardess, who was boiling water 
 in it to make him some beef-tea. Oh, what dreadful fancies he 
 had, fancies which were wearing him out so fast, and which 
 nobody could manage but Gertie. And her strength was giving 
 way, and the roses were fading from her cheek, when one morn- 
 ing, about ten days after her arrival in New York, a servant 
 knocked at the door and ushered in Miss Rossiter. 
 
 She had returned from Washington the night before, and, find- 
 ing the note which had been sent to her when Godfrey became 
 so ill, had come immediately after breakfast to see how he was. 
 With a feeling that it would not be proper for her to go into his 
 sick room, Alice, who was stopping up town, remained at home, 
 bidding Miss Rossiter give her love to Godfrey, and tell him she 
 would come if he wished to see her. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson was out marketing when Miss Rossiter came, 
 and whatever information that lady received concerning her 
 nephew, she had from the servant who escorted her to his 
 room. 
 
 " His sister with him ! I did not know she had returned,"
 
 IN NEW YORK: 379 
 
 she said, in some surprise, when in reply to the question, "Who 
 takes care of him ? " the servant said : 
 
 " His sister, ma'am. She has been here more than a 
 week." 
 
 Miss Rossiter had spent a day in Hampstead the previous sum- 
 mer, and seen Gertie ; but she had no thought of her now, and 
 was utterly astonished and confounded, as she entered the room, 
 to find Gertie Westbrooke sitting by Godfrey, who was sleep- 
 ing from the effects of a powerful opiate which the doctor had 
 administered an hour or so before. 
 
 At the sound of the opening door she looked up and gave a 
 warning " Sh-hh ! " as Miss Rossiter exclaimed, loudly : 
 
 " Gertie, Gertie Westbrooke ! Why are you here calling 
 yourself his sister ? Are you not ashamed ? What does it 
 mean ? Tell me before 1 venture to stop a moment in the same 
 room with you ! " 
 
 And the highly indignant and rigidly virtuous spinster held 
 back her clothes lest they should come in contact with the gar- 
 ments of the young girl, thus outraging every rule of propriety 
 if not of decency. 
 
 Alice, who had been and in some sense still considered her- 
 self his affknced wife, would not so much as come to the house 
 unless it was necessary, while even s/ie, a matron of fifty and 
 more, had some doubts about going herself into the room ; and 
 lo, here was the young girl, this stranger, sitting by him with 
 the utmost familiarity, and bidding her be quiet and speak lower 
 lest the sick man should awaken. 
 
 Miss Rossiter was greatly shocked, and, as her first question 
 was not answered except by a look of innocent wonder, she re- 
 peated it angrily : 
 
 " Why are you here, passing for his sister ? Don't you know 
 your good name will be ruined forever ? " 
 
 Only an hour before the doctor had said to Gertie : 
 
 "There is but one chance in a hundred for your brother. If 
 he can be made to sleep and be kept quiet, he may recover, 
 but if the paroxysms and his fancy about the ship return he 
 will die. Do your best for him."
 
 380 IN NEW YORK. 
 
 In dumb despair Gertie listened to him with such pain in her 
 heart as sisters never feel. 
 
 " I'll do my best," she said, and her white lips quivered, but 
 she did not cry as she took her seat by Godfrey to watch him 
 while he slept, and thought what life would be to her without 
 him. " Godfrey dead, Godfrey dead," she whispered, softly. 
 " I should want to die, too. Oh, Godfrey, you are more than 
 my brother, more than my brother." 
 
 It was just as she said this that Miss Rossiter came in, and 
 the sick man stirred upon his pillow as if about to waken. He 
 must not wake. It was death to do so, and Gertie bent protect- 
 ingly over him as a mother bends over her restless child, and 
 until it was twice repeated she did not answer the astonished 
 woman's question, " Why are you here, and why call yourself 
 his sister ? " 
 
 Then she turned, and fixing her blue eyes steadily on the lady, 
 she said, in a low whisper : 
 
 " Col. Schuyler is in Europe ; there was no one else to come, 
 and I am his sister ; read that." 
 
 She had the colonel's letter in her pocket, where she kept it 
 constantly, and she passed it to Miss Rossiter, who read it rap- 
 idly, and then, more surprised and bewildered than she had ever 
 been in her life, began to question Gertie, who, of course, could 
 offer no explanation. 
 
 " The thing is simply impossible. Colonel Schuyler was not 
 in Europe nineteen years ago," Miss Rossiter said, after a little 
 mental calculation. 
 
 " Mother might have been in America," was Gertie's response, 
 quietly and sadly spoken, and then Miss Rossiter began again 
 to question her as to what she herself knew of her antece- 
 dents, or what she had heard from Mary Rogers. 
 
 The murmur of voices disturbed Godfrey, who moaned about 
 the ship which would not be still. Then Gertie said to her com- 
 panion : 
 
 " Miss Rossiter, you must not talk. If Godfrey gets well he 
 must sleep ; the doctor said so. He has fancied himself in a 
 ship at sea, and endured all the agonies of sea-sickness. I have
 
 IN NEW YORK. 381 
 
 succeeded in making him believe he was on the land, but if the 
 ship gets back into his head, he will die." 
 
 She spoke decidedly, like one who had a right, and the proud 
 woman bit her lip with vexation, but obeyed the girl who had 
 so suddenly come before her in a new phase of character. She 
 could not credit the story she had heard, and yet there it was in 
 the colonel's handwriting, " You are our daughter." Even she 
 never thought of Edith as connected with it, and in her own 
 mind she ran over the name of every lady of her acquaintance 
 who could by any possibility be implicated in the affair. But 
 all in vain. She could find no clue to the mystery, and was 
 obliged to give it up and wait for further developments when 
 the colonel returned. Though she did not fully believe the 
 story she felt more kindly 'toward Gertie, and when at last God- 
 frey awoke and was in the ship again, and insisted that La Sxur 
 should sit behind him and hold his head on her bosom to keep 
 it from bumping against the side of the berth, she bade Gertie 
 sit there, and offered no remonstrance when the pale face bent 
 so low over the flushed, feverish one that the girl's bright hair 
 mingled with the brown curls of the sick man who called her 
 " La petite capitaine," and said she was steering him through 
 the waves like 'an old salt ! 
 
 Miss Rossiter could not go home while matters were in this 
 state, and she wrote a note to Alice, asking that a dressing- 
 gown might be sent to her with a few other articles necessary 
 for the sick-room. Alice brought them herself, and sat in the 
 parlor and cried when Miss Rossiter told her of Godfrey, and 
 opened her eyes with wonder when told of Gertie and the rela- 
 tion she bore to Colonel Schuyler, if his word could be trusted. 
 Alice believed it, and it lifted a load from her mind. If Gertie 
 was Godfrey's sister, then she ceased to be a rival, and in the 
 first revulsion of feeling Alice felt very kindly toward Gertie, 
 and expressed so strong a desire to see her that, at Miss Ros- 
 siter' s request, Gertie went down to the little lady, who re- 
 ceived her rather gushingly. Alice forgave easily, and when 
 she saw Gertie so pale and worn, and knew that it came from 
 watching by Godfrey when there was no one else to care for
 
 382 IN NEW YORK. 
 
 him, she forgot her old animosity entirely, and kissing her twice 
 told her what a good girl she was to stay with Godfrey when he 
 was so sick, and the fever catching, perhaps. 
 
 " And you are his sister, too ? " she continued. " It is very 
 strange, but I am so glad, and everything will turn out well if 
 Godfrey only lives. Do you think he will ? " 
 
 Gertie could not tell. He was very sick, she said, and she 
 seemed so anxious to return to him that Alice arose to go. 
 Standing a moment irresolutely and looking at Gertie she said : 
 
 " You are a nice little girl, and always were, and when God- 
 frey can understand, will you tell him I have been here, and 
 that 1 am so sorry, and and " 
 
 She could not quite say what she wanted to, but Gertie knew 
 what she meant, and answered her : 
 
 " I'll tell him, and do all 1 can for you. I think it will come 
 right now." 
 
 She said it sadly, with a pang of regret for the condition of 
 things which might result in healing the difference between God- 
 frey and Alice, and her heart was very heavy as she went back 
 to her patient, who was conducting himself outrageously. They 
 were in a regular north-easter, he said, and the ship was bottom 
 side up, and he was bottom side up with it, and to the horror 
 of his aunt had rolled himself and the bed-clothes out upon the 
 floor, where he lay calling for La capitaine to come and right 
 the ship ! With the help of her man-servant, who had accom- 
 panied Alice, and who was to stay as long as he was needed, 
 Miss Rossi ter got her nephew back to bed, and when Gertie 
 came in he was panting with exhaustion, and evidently bracing 
 himself against another lurch. 
 
 " Don't desert," he whispered to Gertie. " We had a tre- 
 mendous swell while you were away, and things generally got 
 topsy-turvy." 
 
 That swell was the last. He never attempted to roll again, 
 but sank gradually into a state of unconsciousness more alarm- 
 ing than the lurches of the imaginary ship had been. The ves- 
 sel was quiet no\v, wrecked, and going down so fast, it seemed 
 to the heart-broken girl who watched beside poor Godfrey day
 
 IN NEW YORK. 383 
 
 and night with a look of anguish on her face which touched 
 Miss Rossiter, and awoke within her a feeling of interest for 
 the heart-sore" creature, whose pain she in a measure under- 
 stood. 
 
 At last the colonel came. He had gone straight to Hamp- 
 stead within an hour after landing in New York, and hearing 
 from Mrs. Tiffe of his son's illness, and that a telegram to the 
 effect that he was worse had been received that afternoon, he 
 had taken the night train back to the city, leaving Edith at 
 Schuyler Hill, as she was not able to accompany him. Thus 
 it was near midnight when he reached Mrs. Wilson's boarding- 
 house, and asked eagerly for his son. 
 
 " Very bad, dying we fear," was the report, and he sped 
 swiftly up the stairs, stumbling in the upper landing over a little 
 figure which sat crying on the floor. 
 
 It was Alice who had come down that afternoon to inquire 
 for Godfrey, and on learning of his condition had refused to go 
 home, and lingered outside the door of the room she would 
 not enter lest she should be guilty of an indiscretion, or, per- 
 haps, contract the fever. 
 
 Poor Godfrey, how white and ghastly and quiet he was now, 
 as with his eyes shut he lay with his head pillowed on Gertie's 
 arm, and one of his hands holding to her dress as if afraid of 
 losing her. 
 
 Gertie had sat thus for more than an hour gazing upon the 
 pale face she held, her eyes heavy with unshed tears, for she 
 could not cry any more. Her heart ached too hard for that. 
 Godfrey was dying, her Godfrey, he said he was the last time 
 he spoke to her, and he had called her his little Gertie, and 
 kissed her hand and bade her stay with him on the ship which 
 was sailing in smooth waters now and was almost at the shore. 
 And he was hers, her brother, perhaps, but still hers more than 
 anybody else's in all the wide, wide world. 
 
 Alice had sent a message to her : " Kiss him once for me ! " 
 but Gerlie would not do it. She might, perhaps, kiss a dead 
 Godfrey, but Godfrey living must know when she kissed him, 
 and why, and so she only held his head and wiped the sweat
 
 384 GERTIE AND THE STORY. 
 
 from his brow, and let her own face fall over and touch his for 
 a minute, while she whispered in his ear and asked if he still 
 heard her and knew she was with him. 
 
 And it was thus she sat when the colonel came, and going up 
 to his son called him by his name. But there was no response, 
 no sign, and the physician who stood waiting, said : 
 
 " He heeds no one but his sister. Speak to him, Miss Schuy- 
 ler. See if he knows you now." 
 
 Then, over the whiteness of Gertie's face, there came a flush 
 at hearing herself called Miss Schuyler in the presence of the 
 colonel, but she put her lips close to Godfrey's ear, and said : 
 
 " Godfrey, do you know me yet ? " 
 
 " Yes, my Gertie, stick to the ship, we are about ready to 
 land," was the faint reply ; and with a bitter cry, as if at the 
 sight of the man who called himself her father every barrier had 
 gone down, Gertie gave way, and winding both her arms round 
 the form she held, sobbed passionately : 
 
 "Oh, Godfrey, my darling, if you can hear me now, listen 
 while I tell you how much 1 love you, for I do, I do, oh, God- 
 frey, oh, Colonel Schuyler," and she lifted her white face pite- 
 ously to him. " Forgive me, if I am wrong, I cannot, can- 
 not love him as a brother." 
 
 Her head drooped upon hei bosom, and it was in vain that 
 Godfrey whispered : 
 
 " Steady now, La -petite capitaine, the boat is running into 
 port." 
 
 CHAPTP:R LVIII. 
 
 GERTIE AND THE STORY. 
 
 JERTIE did not go into Godfrey's room again, nor was 
 it necessary, as he was very quiet and seemed to be 
 sleeping, while his father sat by him with his head 
 bowed down, and such marks of age upon him that Miss Rossi- 
 ter asked him if he were sick. He did not hear her at first, and 
 she said, again :
 
 GERTIE AND THE STORY. 385 
 
 " Howard, are you sick ? Have you any trouble .on your 
 mind ? " 
 
 Then he looked up, with a faint smile, and answered her : 
 
 " Trouble ? sick ? No, not sick, and no trouble now ; that 
 is past. I say, Christine, have I grown very old ? isn't my hair 
 turning gray ? I did not like to ask Edith, because, you see, 
 the the trouble concerned her the most." 
 
 Miss Rossiter was sure of it. That woman, whom she never 
 liked, had shown her colors at last, and here was the result 
 in the colonel's bowed form and fast-turning hair. He had 
 grown old and his hair was gray, and she told him so, and ad- 
 ded : 
 
 " Poor Howard, tell me about it. I knew it must come to 
 this when you married her." 
 
 " Did you know anything about it ? " the colonel asked, in 
 some surprise ; and Miss Rossiter replied : 
 
 " Know about what ? I knew it was a mesalliance, and they 
 always prove unhappy." 
 
 " Hush, Christine, it is not that," and the colonel spoke 
 sternly, "Edith is a noble woman. She has been so tempted 
 and tried, and is so broken now. Christine, I wish you were 
 her friend, my friend. I want so much to unburden myself to 
 some one. It would be such a relief. Christine, try and like 
 my wife, and let me tell you the strangest tale you ever heard, 
 and let me feel that we have your sympathy and support in the 
 storm which will blow so hard." 
 
 He looked at her so pleadingly that Miss Rossiter' s heart was 
 moved, and she said : 
 
 " I like you, Howard, and know nothing against Edith as a 
 woman. She is beautiful and you love her, and I daresay she 
 is good, and I will be your friend : tell me the story, please ; is 
 it about Gertie ? She showed me your letter in which you 
 called her your daughter. What does it mean ? " 
 
 Colonel Schuyler glanced at his son, who was still sleeping 
 
 quietly, then drawing his chair closer to Miss Rossiter and 
 
 speaking in the lowest possible whisper for her to hear, he told 
 
 her the story from beginning to end. And Miss Rossiter neither 
 
 17
 
 386 GERTIE AND THE STORY. 
 
 fainted nor went into hysterics, but for her behaved remarkably 
 well, and with the exception of a few ejaculations of amaze- 
 ment when the story was at the most exciting point, never spoke 
 a word until the colonel had told her everything there was to 
 tell. Then her first remark was : 
 
 " I am so glad it is Gertie. You need not be ashamed of/ier." 
 
 " Thank you, Christine," the colonel said ; " and now who 
 will tell her, you or I, and when ? " 
 
 " You, and as soon as she can bear it. I think she is too 
 tired now, too much fatigued ; she ought to have perfect rest. 
 If I knew Godfrey was out of danger I should take her home 
 with me. Perhaps I had better do it anyway," Miss Rossiter 
 replied, wondering at herself and her interest in Gertie VVest- 
 brooke, and why she could not feel more indignant at that 
 woman, who really had been in a way an impostor after all. 
 
 Miss Rossiter was peculiar, and often did things and took 
 fancies which astonished those who knew her best. And this 
 was one of her fancies. Colonel Schuyler had confided in her 
 first, had told her everything, and asked her to stand by him, 
 and she was going to, and would begin by being very kind to 
 Gertie, toward whom she had been greatly drawn during the 
 days and nights they had watched together by Godfrey's bedside. 
 After her conference with the colonel was finished, and the 
 doctor had been in and declared the danger past for Godfrey, 
 she went to Gertie and Alice in the adjoining room and telling 
 them the good news, said to the former : 
 
 " Colonel Schuyler and myself both think it better for you 
 to go where you can have perfect rest and quiet for a few days, 
 lest you take the fever also. My carriage will be here in an 
 hour or so ; you know it comes every day, and as I am not 
 needed at present, I shall go home and take you with me." 
 
 Gertie was lying on the couch, with her hands pressed to her 
 head, which was aching terribly. But she put them away, and 
 lifting her heavy eyes wonderingly to Miss Rossiter's face said : 
 
 " Go home with you I Do you wish it ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; 1 should not suggest it if I did not," Miss Rossi- 
 ter answered, a little stiffly.
 
 GERTIE AND THE STORY, 387 
 
 And Gertie continued : 
 
 "But my, Colonel Schuyler, he has not told 'me yet. I 
 must know about that before I can rest anywhere." 
 
 "Yes; but you must rest a little first, he says. You will 
 need strength and courage both to hear what he has just told 
 me," Miss Rossiter replied ; and then, as Gertie was about to 
 speak again, she added : " Not a word more at present. This 
 afternoon, if he can leave Godfrey, the colonel will come and 
 tell you all." 
 
 And with this Gertie was obliged to be satisfied ; and an 
 hour later she was driven with Miss Rossiter to the handsome 
 house far up town, which she had never thought it possible for 
 her to enter as she was entering it now. 
 
 Alice had decided to go to her own home proper at Uncle 
 Cal vert's, and Gertie was alone with Miss Rossiter, who gave 
 her the room near hers, where Alice slept when she was 
 there. 
 
 And here, late in the day, Colonel Schuyler came, and was 
 brought up by Miss Rossiter, who withdrew and left him alone 
 with Gertie. 
 
 She was pale as marble, save where two bright red spots 
 burned on her cheeks, and her eyes were heavy as lead, but 
 they brightened with eagerness and excitement when the colo- 
 nel came in and drew his chair beside her as she lay upon the 
 couch. 
 
 " Don't try to rise," he said, as she made an effort to sit up. 
 " You are too tired and worn ; keep as you are while I am 
 talking to you. Gertie, it is a very strange story I am about to 
 tell you, and khat it may come to you by degrees, I will tell 
 you first why we went to England so suddenly, and that when 
 we went we had no thought of you, or that we should discover 
 who you were. We were hunting for another child." 
 
 Gertie was looking steadily at him, and her eyes never left 
 his face while he told her the story, beginning with the time 
 when he first asked Edith to be his wife, and she hinted at a 
 page of her life of which she wished to tell him, and which 
 after so many years, had come to him by accident.
 
 388 GERTIE AND THE STORY, 
 
 "I have the letter with me," he said; "I brought it on pur- 
 pose to read to you, as it will tell the story so much better than 
 I can." 
 
 Taking out Edith's letter he read it aloud, while Gertie's eyes 
 deepened their gaze upon his face, and the red all died from 
 her cheeks, which were of an ashen hue, as when the letter 
 was finished, he went on to tell how the child was not dead, as 
 Edith had supposed, and of their search in London, which they 
 gave at last into the hands of the police. 
 
 "Then, while we were waiting," he said, "I thought to make 
 some inquiries about you at the office where your annuity is 
 paid. There I heard of a Mrs. Westbrooke, recently from 
 Florence, and to her we went, hoping she might know some- 
 thing of you, and she did. She was the second wife of the man 
 who was not your father, but whose first wife adopted you when 
 her own baby died. Her maid, Mary Stover, afterward Mrs. 
 Rogers, told her of you, and brought you to her from her 
 
 mother, who had taken you from the Street Foundling 
 
 Hospital, where you had been left on the steps, and where 
 Mary Stover's sister Anne was at that time nurse. 
 
 " Gertie, are you going to faint ? Do you hear me ? Do 
 you understand ? " the colonel asked, alarmed at the expression 
 of the face still confronting him so steadily, and never moving 
 a muscle any more than if the features had been chiselled in 
 stone. 
 
 "Yes, I think I understand," came huskily from the livid 
 lips, " that baby, born in Dorset Street, and left on the hospital 
 steps, and hunted for by you and and her was was 7, 
 and she your Mrs. Schuyler is my mother and that 
 that grave I've tended always is is my father's ! " 
 
 She understood it perfectly, but the colonel thought to make 
 it clearer by saying : 
 
 " Yes, Gertie, you are the child of my wife, Mrs. Schuyler, 
 born in lawful wedlock, and Abelard Lyle was your father ! " 
 
 He opened the window and carried Gertie to it, and let the 
 cool air blow on her, and dashed water on her face, and only 
 that he had seen Edith thus more than once, would have
 
 GERTIE AND THE STORY. 389 
 
 thought her dead, when he laid her back upon the couch and 
 went to summon help. Miss Rossiter watched with Gertie that 
 night and many other nights, while the fever contracted at 
 Godfrey's bedside, and brought to a crisis by the terrible shock 
 which she had sustained, ran its course. There were a few 
 moments of consciousness that first night, when Gertie's eyes 
 opened and looked up at Miss Rossiter, who was Bending over 
 her. 
 
 " Am I very sick ? " she asked faintly, and Miss Rossiter re- 
 plied : 
 
 " Pretty sick, yes ; but we hope to have you well soon if you 
 are quiet." 
 
 " Am I going to have the fever like Godfrey ?" 
 
 " Yes, we think you are, though not so hard." 
 
 " Miss Rossiter, if I am very sick, very, I want her to come, 
 mother, Mrs. Schuyler, you know." 
 
 " Yes, I know." 
 
 "And if I don't know her, if I never know her, tell her please, 
 that I have loved her since I first saw her a bride in England, 
 and gave the flowers to her ; and tell her, too, I've loved that 
 Heloise Fordham ever since Miss Armstrong told me about her 
 and the lover who died, and my name is Heloise, too, Gertrude 
 Heloise, and there's a spot of blood right over my heart ; she 
 will find it there if I die." 
 
 " Yes, I will tell her." 
 
 "And tell Godfrey, oh, what message shall I leave for God- 
 frey ? Tell him I loved him, more than he ever knew ; but he 
 must marry Alice for my sake. Tell him it was my wish." 
 
 " I'll tell him." 
 
 " And Miss Rossiter, ler me kiss you once, please, because 
 you are so kind. I used to think you proud, and guess I did 
 not like you, but I do now. I like everybody." 
 
 The kiss was given, and, strangest part of all, returned, for 
 Miss Rossiter' s heart was very soft toward the young girl, who, 
 having said all she had to say, folded her hands upon her bosom, 
 and whispering the little prayer. " Now I lay me," learned when 
 she was a child, sank into unconsciousness, from which she did
 
 390 GERTIE AND THE STORY. 
 
 not awake until the first April rains \vere falling, and there was 
 a breath of coming summer in the soft spring air. If that 
 sickness can be called pleasant when the fever runs so high that 
 the pulse cannot be counted, and the breath of life almost fleets 
 away, then Gertie's sickness was a pleasant one, and never sure 
 before or since was there a patient so docile, and quiet, and man- 
 ageable as she, taking always what they bade her take, lying 
 just where they put her, and seldom moving hand or foot save 
 as they moved them for her. Like Godfrey, she was out on 
 the broad sea, sailing away to parts unknown, but with her there 
 were no storms, no sudden lurches, no rollings, no pitchings, no 
 swelling waves threatening to engulf her. All was smooth and 
 quiet and calm, as a river of glass, and the sun by day shone 
 upon the water, flecking it with spots of gold, while the moon and 
 stars at night looked down on the blue expanse, and lit it up 
 with sheets of silvery light, into which Gertie went gliding, with 
 Godfrey at her side. Always Godfrey, who stood at the helm and 
 managed the oars, and managed the sails, and talked to her of 
 love, which it was right for her now to accept. In that pleas- 
 ant dream there was no Alice in the way, no father to dissent, 
 but all was bright and clear, and the boat went drifting on and 
 on, always in moonlight or sunlight, always on a smooth, still 
 sea, till they came in sight of a far-off country, where golden 
 streets and gates of pearl gleamed in the setting sun, and the 
 boat paused mid stream, and waited whether the soul would 
 cross to the beautiful city, or turning, take the homeward route 
 and come back to life again. It chose the latter, and came 
 slowly back, with sails all drooping and torn, and more ripples on 
 the waves than had been in the journey out. Godfrey was no 
 longer in the boat, Gertie had lost him somewhere, and was 
 hunting sadly for him until a voice, which sounded much like 
 his, said to her : " Gertie, I am here, and shall never leave you 
 again." 
 
 Then her little plaintive moan, " Godfrey, oh, where is God- 
 frey ? " ceased, and when she spoke again, it was to a beauti- 
 ful woman, who, she thought, was standing by her, and calling 
 her " my daughter." Oh, how that mother-love brooded over
 
 THE STORY IN HAMPSTEAD. 39! 
 
 the sick girl, soothing and quieting and comforting her, and 
 with its pleading prayers bringing at last the healing power 
 which unlocked the sleeping senses, and made Gertie whole 
 again. For Edith was there with her, and had been since the 
 third day of her illness, when the colonel's telegram went up 
 the river, saying : " Gertie is very sick. Come immediately." 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 THE STORY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 WAS at the Hill when the telegram was received. 
 In fact I had been there ever since the day of Edith's 
 return from Europe and the colonel's departure for> 
 New York. I had with others been waiting anxiously for them, 
 for I knew how sick Godfrey was, and that Gertie, w r hether 
 right or wrong, w r as helping to nurse him. So when I saw the 
 carriage drive past the door, and caught a glimpse of Edith, I 
 went over at once, and was shocked beyond measure to see 
 how she had changed. All the roundness had left her cheeks, 
 her bright color was gone, and in her tresses of golden brown 
 there were a few threads of silver. And still, despite all this, 
 she was very lovely, with such a subdued gentleness of manner 
 and sweet expression of face that I felt the tears rush to my 
 eyes every time I looked at her. 
 
 "Stay with me, Ettie, while the colonel is absent," she said, 
 and she seemed so anxious for my company that I consented 
 to remain, and after Colonel Schuyler was gone we went up to 
 her room, where she paced up and down, up and down, with a 
 restlessness for which I could not account, unless it came from 
 anxiety for Godfrey. 
 
 At last I said : 
 
 " You are troubled about Godfrey, Mrs. Schuyler," and she 
 replied : 
 
 " Yes. no. I was not thinking of him, but of Gertie. Ettie,
 
 392 THE STORY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 do you remember the people who lived in the cottage years ago, 
 Mrs. Fordham and her daughter ? " 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " I remember them well. Why do you 
 ask me that question ? " 
 
 She was standing by the window now, gazing wistfully at the 
 cottage and the smoke curling from the chimney. 
 
 " Did you like that girl ? Heloise was her name," she said, 
 without answering my question. 
 
 " Yes," I answered, " I was very fond of her, and thought 
 her so beautiful, and I have often wondered where she was that 
 she neither came back nor wrote, when she promised to do 
 both." 
 
 Crossing swiftly to my side and laying a hand on each of my 
 shoulders she looked me steadily in the eye, and said : 
 
 "Ettie, is there anything in my face which reminds you of 
 that girl ?" 
 
 Then it came to me like a flash of lightning ; all the per- 
 plexity and wonder I had at times experienced with regard to 
 Mrs. Schuyler was made clear, and without stopping to think 
 how it could be and thinking only that it was, I said : 
 
 " You are Heloise 1 " while my knees shook so that I was 
 compelled to sit down upon the nearest chair to keep myself 
 from falling. 
 
 "Yes, I was Heloise Fordham once," she answered, her lip 
 quivering and the great tears gathering in her eyes and rolling 
 down her cheeks. " Ettie," she continued, " I wanted to tell 
 you so many times, but dared not, for until that sickness of 
 mine in November my husband even did not know it." 
 
 At this I looked up in surprise, and she went on : 
 
 " I asked you to stay with me that I might tell you the story 
 first, and let you break it to the people, for I will have no more 
 concealments." 
 
 Then she told me the whole story, and to my dying day I 
 shall not forget the ringing sweetness and joy in her voice when 
 she said : 
 
 " Gertie is my daughter." 
 
 I had heard the rest of the story with a tolerable degree of
 
 THE STORY IN HAMPSTEAD. 393 
 
 equanimity, but that last electrified me like the shock from a 
 battery, and springing to my feet I exclaimed : 
 
 " Gertie your daughter ! Gertie your child ! " 
 
 " Yes, Ettie, God has been good to me. He has taken care 
 of my little baby-girl and made her into a woman whom any 
 mother might love ; and oh, how I do love her, and how hard it 
 is for me to stay here and know that she is only two hours' 
 away. But we thought it best for my husband to go first and 
 tell her before I saw her. He offered to do that ; he tries to 
 spare me all he can ; oh, he is so good and kind, and has be- 
 haved so nobly through it all." 
 
 She was crying now, and I did not try to stop her, for I knew 
 tears would do her good. And she was calmer after it, and 
 talked with me until long after midnight of the strange story and 
 the old life at the cottage when we both were girls. 
 
 Early the next morning the colonel's first telegram came : 
 " Godfrey is very sick, but out of danger, we hope. Miss 
 Eossiter and Gertie both here ; the latter well, but tired." 
 
 I doubt if Edith paid much attention to anything but the last of 
 the telegram, the part relating to Gertie. This she read and re- 
 read, as if there were a pleasure even in the sight of the dear name. 
 
 " You see Mrs. Westbrooke named her Gertrude for her own 
 little girl who died," she explained to me, " and as she did not 
 know whether she had been baptized or not she had her 
 christened ' Gertrude Heloise Westbrooke,' so Westbrooke 
 really is her name, and I am glad, for I know my husband 
 would rather have it that than Lyle." 
 
 After lunch came another telegram : " Godfrey better. Ger- 
 tie at Miss Rossiter*s. Shall see her to-night." 
 
 That evening Edith was like a crazy woman walking up and 
 down the halls, and then through her suite of rooms and back 
 again into the hall, clasping her hands tightly together, and 
 whispering to herself : 
 
 " Is it now he is telling her ? Does she know it yet ? And 
 what does she think of me, her mother ? Will she call me by 
 that name ? Oh, Gertie, if I could see you now. Heaven 
 grant you do not hate me." 
 17*
 
 394 THE STORY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 Suddenly she grew calm, and said to me : 
 
 " Something tells me it is over. Gertie knows the truth and 
 does not hate me. Thank my Heavenly Father for that." 
 
 Edith slept that night, but was restless and impatient in the 
 morning until the third message came. " She knows everything, 
 and is very glad." 
 
 "Then why doesn't she come home?" Edith said, and all 
 that day she was in a feverish state of expectancy when a train 
 from New York came in. 
 
 But Gertie did not come, and the next day we read the words : 
 " Gertie is very sick. Come immediately." 
 
 Then Edith frightened me, she turned so white and stood so 
 still, while the iron fingers clutched her throat for the last time, 
 and strangled her until her face was purple. I rang for help, 
 but before it came the fingers relaxed their grasp, the natural 
 color came back to the face, and Edith was herself again. 
 Fortunately it was her maid who answered the ring, and telling 
 her of the dispatch, and that she was going to New York, Edith 
 bade her pack her travelling valise, and order the carriage for 
 the next train, due in half an hour. 
 
 " Oh, Ettie," she cried, when we were alone, " God will not 
 take her from me now. Pray that He will spare Gertie." 
 
 I think she prayed constantly, while getting herself ready, 
 for her lips moved continually, and I caught the whispered 
 words : " Don't, don't," and knew she was pleading for Gertie's 
 life. I went with her to the station and saw her on the train, 
 and then returned to the Hill, charged with the responsibility 
 of acquainting the household, and as many others as I saw fit 
 with the story which it was better to have known while the family 
 was absent. 
 
 I found Mrs. Tiffe in her own room, and with her a Mrs. 
 Noall, a great gossip but a thoroughly good-natured and well- 
 meaning woman, and though she told all she knew, never told 
 any more, and always told it as she heard it. Here was a 
 good opportunity for the news to be thoroughly disseminated 
 without much help from me, further than the telling it first to my 
 auditors. And this it was easy to do, for they were talking of
 
 THE STORY IN HAMPSTEAD. 395 
 
 Mrs. Schuyler when I went in, and Mrs. Noall was wondering 
 why they came home from Europe so suddenly, and why they 
 both seemed so broken and worn. She surmised that the col- 
 onel's finances were in a very precarious condition ; she knew 
 he had suffered some heavy losses recently and perhaps he was 
 going to fail. 
 
 " It is not that," I said. " It is something entirely different 
 which has troubled Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler, and I have come in 
 on purpose to tell you, as Mrs. Schuyler wishes the people to 
 know it before her return." 
 
 Then, taking a chair betAveen the two dames I told the story 
 of Edith's life, interrupted frequently by questions and ejacula- 
 tions from my auditors, both of whom were more amazed than 
 they had ever been before in their lives. Mrs. Tiffe was the 
 first to recover herself. She had the family dignity to maintain, 
 and she was going to do it, and while she condemned the Ford- 
 ham woman out and out, she stood firmly by Edith as more 
 sinned against than sinning, and said that she for one thought 
 more of her than ever, and that every right-minded person would 
 agree with her, of course. Mrs. Noall, who was usually chary 
 of offending Mrs. Tiffe, fully agreed with her, and both expressed 
 unbounded delight that the lost child had proved to be Gertie 
 Westbrooke, whom everybody loved. 
 
 " And that's what makes her sick, and why Mrs. Schuyler has 
 gone to her. I see, yes, I understand," Mrs. Noall said, and 
 though she had intended stopping to dinner with Mrs. Tiffe, she 
 declared that she must go at once, apd she went, and to my 
 certain knowledge made twenty calls before ten o'clock at night, 
 and told the story twenty times without varying it in the least. 
 
 Of course there was nothing more for me to do except to 
 answer the questions of those who came on purpose to inquire 
 if what they had heard was true. Never before had I received 
 so many calls within a given time as I did during the few days 
 of excitement when Hampstead was alive with the story, and 
 reminiscences of the Fordhams were brought up and comments 
 of various kinds were made, according to the nature of those 
 who made them. I think Mrs. Barton from the Ridge was the
 
 396 THE STORY IN HAMPSTEAD. 
 
 most disturbed ; she had spent the winter in Hampstead, and 
 she came to see me early, and stayed three hours, and talked 
 the matter over, and wished that it had not been made public. 
 
 Mrs. Barton was a kind, good woman at heart, but very proud 
 and particular about family and blood, and I knew she was 
 thinking of Tom, who still avowed his intention to marry Gertie 
 or nobody, and so I flamed up in Edith's defence, and said she 
 was resolved to have no more concealments, that I /;#</ suggested 
 to her the propriety of not telling who her first husband was, as 
 that was sure to increase the talk and wonder. 
 
 " Mrs. Barton," I continued, " you ought to have seen her 
 then, and heard how piteously she cried as she said to me, ' No, 
 Ettie, I've thought that over, and talked it over with Col. Schuy- 
 ler, who is willing for me to do as I like. To conceal it would 
 look as if I was ashamed of Abelard, and I am. not. He was 
 my husband and I loved him, and Gertie and the world shall 
 know who her father was.' " 
 
 " Noble woman ! " Mrs. Barton exclaimed, crying a little her- 
 self. " I think she is right after all, and for one I shall stand 
 by her." 
 
 Everybody stood by her, though everybody talked and won- 
 dered and exclaimed, and suddenly remembered that they al- 
 ways thought there was something familiar in Mrs. Schuyler's 
 face and manner. Everybody, too, was anxious about Gertie, 
 and the people cried on the Sunday when the prayer for the 
 sick was read by our rector, Mr. Marks, whose voice trembled 
 when he prayed for her. At last the one word " Better" flashed 
 along the wires, and the boy from the office ran as he brought 
 the telegram, telling everybody he met of the good news, and 
 wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his coat as he handed the en- 
 velope to me, and said: "I guess she'll pull 'er through."
 
 EDITH AND GERTIE. 397 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 EDITH AND GERTIE. 
 
 1HEN Gertie wound her arms around Miss Rossiter's 
 neck and kissed her so lovingly, she touched a chord 
 in the woman's heart which had never been touched 
 before, a chord which, under favorable circumstances, would 
 have vibrated with a mother's love, and which now brought to 
 life so strong a liking for the helpless girl, that had there been 
 no Edith in the way, Miss Rossiter would have adopted her at 
 once as her own petted daughter. During the days and nights 
 they had watched together by Godfrey's side, Gertie had crept 
 a long way into Miss Rossiter's heart by her quiet, gentle man- 
 ner, and her kind, unselfish thoughtfulness for her companion's 
 comfort. More than once, when Miss Rossiter looked tired 
 and worn, Gertie had made her lie down, and kneeling beside 
 her had bathed and rubbed her head, and even her feet, and 
 combed and brushed her hair, and had done it all as if it were 
 a favor to herself rather than to her companion, whose duty it 
 now was to care for her. 
 
 And Miss Rossiter did not shrink from the task imposed 
 upon her. True, she wore a lump of camphor in her bosom to 
 prevent infection, just as she had done in Godfrey's room, and 
 she occasionally swallowed a pill of morphine, and kept the 
 house full of chloride of lime, and used every disinfectant of 
 which she had ever heard, and hired a nurse to take care of 
 Gertie, but stood by her all the same, and saw that the doctor's 
 orders were obeyed. The third day Col. Schuyler said to her, 
 when he came to look at Gertie : 
 
 " Christine, you are doing nobly, and I thank you so much, 
 but I must test you still further. Gertie's mother ought to be 
 here when her child is so sick. Are you willing I should send 
 for her?" 
 
 " Certainly," Miss Rossiter replied, with a little darker shade
 
 398 EDITH AND GERTIE, 
 
 on her face. " Send for her by all means. I had thought of 
 that myself." 
 
 It was right, Miss Rossiter knew, that Edith should come to 
 her sick daughter, and she gave her consent graciously, though 
 there was in her heart a feeling of aversion to the woman who 
 had taken Emily's place, and whom she had always disliked. 
 Still in her own house she must be polite and courteous, and 
 she received Mrs. Schuyler kindly, and made her rest awhile 
 and take some refreshment before she went to Gertie, who was 
 sleeping and must not be disturbed. 
 
 "She would not know you, though she talks of you some- 
 times," Miss Rossiter said, "and you must be careful not to 
 excite her in the least." 
 
 Edith promised to do whatever Miss Rossiter thought was 
 proper. 
 
 "Only let me go to her at once," she said. "You know I 
 have not seen her in nineteen years, and she my own child, too." 
 
 " Not seen her ? What do you mean ? " Miss Rossiter asked, 
 a suspicion of Edith's sanity crossing her mind. 
 
 " I mean I have not seen her, knowing she was my daughter," 
 Edith replied, as she followed to the room where Gertie lay so 
 white and still, her bright hair tucked away beneath a silken 
 net, a red fever spot on cheek and lips, and her hands folded 
 upon her bosom just as she kept them for the most of the time 
 while with Godfrey she went sailing over the golden sea to the 
 country so far away. 
 
 She was on her journey thither when Edith came in, and, 
 parting the curtains cautiously, stood looking at her, while in 
 fancy she was a young girl again in the dreary room in Dorset 
 Street, and the rain plashed against the windows, and ran down 
 the panes in dirty streams, and the roar of the great city sounded 
 in her ears, and she heard the lodgers' steps upon the stairs, and 
 her baby was in her arms, nestled so close to her that she felt 
 the warm, tender flesh against her own, just as she felt that of 
 the sick girl, whose face and neck, and hands she touched so 
 carefully, and yet with such a world of love and tenderness, as 
 she whispered to herself:
 
 EDITH AND GERTIE. 399 
 
 " Little girley, little baby, little Gertie, my very own little 
 one, you are changed since that dreadful day so many years 
 ago, but I know that you are mine. They took you from me 
 when I was asleep, and now, when I see you again, I find you 
 sleeping too. Darling little child, do you know it is your 
 mother standing here and talking to you thus? Will you ever 
 know, ever open your eyes on me and call me mother ? Oh, 
 Father in Heaven, spare her to me, spare my precious child ! " 
 This was what the colonel heard Edith say ; for, feeling anxious 
 for her, he stood just outside the door, and when her voice 
 ceased and he heard a rustling sound, he went in, and, support- 
 ing her with his arm as she sank into a chair, held her head 
 upon his bosom, and soothed her tenderly. 
 
 It was strange the effect Edith's presence in the sick-room 
 had upon Miss Rossiter. She had fully indorsed Gertie, ay, 
 had in some sort adopted her in her own mind, and could not 
 bear that another should share her watch and care and anxiety 
 for the only sick person in whom she had ever been so deeply 
 interested. But as soon as Edith's tears were dried, and she 
 was herself again, the calm, quiet dignity of the mother asserted 
 itself, and Miss Rossiter, who was not the mother, was com- 
 pelled to stand aside while another took her place and did the 
 thousand little things which only a mother could have thought 
 to do. 
 
 And Edith did not grow tired with constant watching. On 
 the contraiy, both strength and flesh came back to her, and, 
 when at last the fever turned, and she knew her child would live, 
 she gained faster than Gertie, and it seemed to the colonel that 
 she grew young and fair and smooth each day until it was very 
 hard to believe her the mother of the sick girl, who, with 
 the marks of disease upon her face, looked her nineteen 
 years. 
 
 The sea was not so placid now, the boat was tossing on the 
 waves, and Gertie sat alone on deck, and called in vain for 
 Godfrey, who had deserted his post and was nowhere to be 
 found, until one morning, when he came bodily, the wreck of 
 his former self, and climbing the stairs to Gertie's room, bent
 
 400 EDITH AND GERTIE. 
 
 over her with words of love which penetrated to her dull ear, 
 and must in part have been comprehended. 
 
 After that Godfrey stayed in Miss Rossiter's house, which 
 seemed a sort of hospital, and was so distasteful to Miss Julia, 
 when at last she came from Florida, that she accepted her 
 Uncle Calvert's invitation, and went to the poky house on 
 Washington Square, where the Sixth Avenue cars on one side, 
 and the University on the other, nearly drove her wild with the 
 never-ending tinkle of their bells. 
 
 Julia had heard every particular of the story before she came 
 home, for her father had written it to her, and had told her of 
 Gertie's illness, and Edith's presence in Miss Rossiter's house. 
 Thus her first surprise and indignation had had time to abate, 
 and now she was in a kind of bewildered state, incapable of 
 realizing anything to the full, except the fact that in some sort 
 her aunt had gone over to the enemy, leaving her alone on the 
 old vantage ground of dislike and opposition to that woman 
 through whom all this had come upon them. Fortunately, 
 however, for Julia, her mind was just then occupied with 
 thoughts of a Southern bachelor, who had offered himself and 
 his reputed half million for her acceptance. This offer she was 
 duly considering when she came home, and after seeing how 
 matters were at her Aunt Christine's, and staying a day or two 
 in the dark old house in Washington Square, she nearly made 
 up her mind to accept it, though the man was forty and bored 
 her nearly to death with his twaddling talk about his horses and 
 dogs. She had not seen Edith during the one day and night 
 spent at Miss Rossiter's, neither had she mentioned her name 
 or inquired for Gertie, except to ask if the fever was considered 
 catching, and how her aunt liked having her house turned into 
 a hospital ! Of this indifference Edith knew nothing, and would 
 not have cared if she had. All her thoughts were centred in 
 that little, white-faced girl slowly groping her way back to life 
 and reason, and talking now far more than she had done at first 
 when the water was so still and the boat sailed so steadily. 
 She was saved ; she would live ; there was no question about 
 that, and Edith had only to wait patiently for the day when the
 
 EDITH AND GERTIE. 401 
 
 blue eyes would first look at her with recognition in their glance, 
 and the dear voice call her mother. 
 
 Miss Rossiter had given her Gertie's message, and she knew 
 the words by heart, and repeated them to herself as she watched 
 for the first faint sign of reason. It was on a pleasant April 
 day, and the windows of the room were open, and the sun 
 shone softly upon the plants which Miss Rossiter had placed 
 outside the windows, where they made quite a little garden. 
 
 Edith had been up all night, and was still sitting across the 
 room, leaning her tired head upon her hand, when a sound 
 caught her ear and brought her to her feet, where she stood lis- 
 tening intently, wondering if she could be mistaken, or had she 
 heard the blessed name mother, and was she the mother meant 
 and Gertie's the voice which called her. 
 
 " Mother, my mother," it came again, and then Edith glided 
 across the floor, and parting the silken hangings to the bed 
 looked eagerly in. 
 
 Gertie was awake, and sane, and thinking herself alone had 
 tried to put things together and remember where she was, and 
 what it was she heard long ago, which made her so glad. 
 
 " Oh, I know I have a mother," she said to herself, and it 
 was this word Edith caught. 
 
 " Mother, my mother," Gertie said again, delighted to repeat 
 the dear name, and then it was that Edith parted the curtains 
 and looked in upon her. 
 
 Oh, the rapturous joy of that first long gaze when eye met 
 eye, and told without the aid of words the mighty love there was 
 between the mother and the child meeting as such for the first 
 time in the full sense of the relation. My pen cannot describe 
 it, neither should it if it could, for there are some scenes over 
 which avail must be thrown, and this is one of them. Suffice it 
 to say that Edith was perfectly satisfied with Gertie's reception 
 of her, and when, an hour later, Colonel Schuyler looked into 
 the room he found them fast asleep, both heads on the same 
 pillow, Edith's arms around Gertie's neck, and one of Gertie's 
 pale, wan hands resting on Edith's face. This picture touched 
 the colonel, and he cried softly to himself as .he stood gazing at
 
 402 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 
 
 the two, so like each other in their sleep that he wondered he 
 had never seen the resemblance before. Then he called Miss 
 Rossiter, who came and looked, and cried a little too ; but 
 neither spoke a word, and after a moment's silence went out to- 
 gether, and closing the door left them alone together, the 
 mother and her child. 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 
 
 )WARD, come here, I wish to speak to you," Miss 
 Rossiter said, in the quick, decided way she had as- 
 sumed since so much had been depending upon her, 
 and she had been drawn out of herself. " Howard, what do you 
 mean to do with Gertie ? Will you make her really one of 
 your children, and have her share equally with them ? " 
 
 " Really, Christine, I have not thought; it's a little too soon 
 for that. Why, yes, I rather think she will share with them, 
 yes, if Godfrey marries Alice, there would then be more reason 
 why Gertie should share equally, as Godfrey would not need so 
 much, and you know I have had some heavy losses." 
 
 " Howard, don't be a fool. Godfrey will never marry Alice, 
 nor anybody else except Gertie Westbrooke, and you know 
 that, or ought to know it. I learned it those days I took care 
 of him when Gertie was with me, and I got to liking her in 
 spite of myself. I am not a deceitful woman, Howard, and I 
 will not say that I am altogether satisfied with Edith. It is not 
 in my nature to feel that people of her rank in life are fully my 
 equals, but I shall always treat her well for Gertie's sake and 
 Godfrey's. I cannot understand it, but that child has grown 
 strangely into my heart since she has been sick here in my 
 house. They say we always love what has cost us trouble and 
 made us forget ourselves, and I think I love her better than 
 I have loved anything since Charlie died, and I intend to make 
 lu-r my /u-if, and if she only would slay with me I'd keep her so 
 gladly. 1 have told you this, Howard, so that money need not
 
 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 403 
 
 stand between you and your consent for Godfrey to make 
 Gertie his wife." 
 
 Colonel Schuyler was astonished, and could hardly believe 
 that it was Ghristine Rossi ter speaking to him, as this woman 
 spoke, and actually pleading Gertie's cause, and advising him 
 to accept her as the wife of his son. In spite of Miss Ressner's 
 talk of adoption and heirship, he felt a pang of regret when he 
 remembered the Creighton line of ancestry, almost as pure as his 
 own, and thought of Jenny Nesbitt, who seemed destined to be 
 connected with him in so many ways through Edith and Emma 
 and Godfrey. But there was no help for it. The star of the Lyles 
 was in the ascendant, and when, that afternoon, Godfrey went 
 up to see Gertie for the first time since her return to conscious- 
 ness, he had his father's full consent to claim her for his wife. 
 
 The colonel himself had told Godfrey the story of Gertie's 
 birth, and Godfrey had hurrahed for very joy, feeling that in 
 some way Gertie was thus brought nearer to him. He knew of 
 her coming alone to him in his illness and braving the world be- 
 cause she thought herself his sister. He had faint reminiscences, 
 too, of soft hands which cooled his burning brow, of loving 
 words breathed into his ear, and of firm, though gentle remon- 
 strances and threats of leaving him, when the vessel plunged so 
 fearfully and he was plunging with it. Gertie had saved his life, 
 and even when he did not know she was in the room she had 
 been constantly in his mind, and was with him in his desperate 
 voyage over the stormy sea, where he had so nearly been lost. 
 Always, when the waves were doing . their worst, there was a 
 thought in his heart of La Sxur, and he wondered how she was 
 coming through, and if the window was open in her dingy little 
 stateroom. Hers was the first name upon his lips when he 
 awoke to consciousness ; and before he was really able he left 
 his room and went to Miss Rossiter's, to be near his darling and 
 see her when he chose. But she had never known him when 
 he bent over her with fond words and loving caresses ; and she 
 talked of him to his face, and mourned sadly that he was lost, 
 and she was left to sail alone over the troubled waters. 
 
 " I am here, Gertie. I shall never leave you again," he had
 
 404 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 
 
 said to her once, when she could not understand- his meaning, 
 and now he was going to say it again, with every obstacle 
 cleared from his path, and nothing to impede his love. 
 
 Gertie was sitting up and expecting him, but she was not pre- 
 pared for the impetuosity with which he gathered her in his 
 arms, and hugging her so close that her breath came in quick 
 gasps, carried her to the mirror, and laying her white, thin face 
 beside his own, which, if possible, was whiter and thinner, bade 
 her see what a " pair of picked chickens they were." 
 
 " But we weathered it, Gertie," he said, " and now we've 
 nothing to do but grow strong and well again, and you will be 
 more beautiful than ever, while I, well, Gertie, I never was 
 so happy in my life as at this moment when I hold you thus and 
 kiss you, so and so ! " 
 
 He emphasized his words by kisses, which took Gertie's 
 breath away, and when she could speak she said imploringly, 
 " Please, Godfrey, put me down. You tire, you hurt me." 
 
 Then he placed her in her chair, and kneeling at her side, 
 held her hands in his, and looking anxiously into her face, said, 
 " Forgive me, darling, I did not think how weak you were, and 
 I am so happy, for I have father's consent for you to tell me 
 yes. I really have, and you are my own forever. ' Tell Gertie,' 
 father said, ' that I release her from her promise and welcome 
 her as my daughter.' Will you kiss me now, Gertie, even if I 
 am not a perfect gentleman ? " 
 
 " You are not deceiving me, Godfrey ? " Gertie said, her lips 
 quivering as she thought how terrible it would be to have this new 
 cup of joy dashed from her lips just as she was ready to drink it. 
 
 " Deceiving you ! No. Father did say so, and Allie knows 
 it, too ; and fickle, like all her sex, will not break her heart for 
 me, who, she says, look like a fright with my shaved head, and 
 high cheek-bones, and loose clothes. You see the fever has 
 not left me very good-looking, and Marks, the rector at Hamp- 
 sti-atl, is down at Uncle Calvert's, and rode with Allie yesterday ; 
 and I should not be surprised if she were yet to make aprons for 
 Mrs. Van's babies, and carry soup to the old lady. She'll be a 
 splendid wife for a minister, if she makes up her mind to it."
 
 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 405 
 
 He had rattled on thus volubly for the sake of giving Gertie 
 time in which to recover herself, and when he saw that her breath 
 came more naturally and the color was dying away from her 
 cheeks, he returned to the matter in question. 
 
 " Kiss me, Gertie, gentleman or not, and I shall know you 
 are my wife." 
 
 He held his face close to hers, and Gertie put her arms 
 around his neck, and so they were betrothed at last ; and when, 
 half an hour later, Edith came in, she found Gertie with her head 
 resting on Godfrey's arm and an expression of perfect peace upon 
 her face, while he talked to her in tones which no one who had 
 ever known experimentally the meaning of love could mistake. 
 
 " Ah, mother ! " he said, as Edith came up to him. " You 
 are really my mother now, for Gertie is mine, and the Lyles are 
 pretty well mixed with the Schuylers, I think." 
 
 How happy he was, and how he hovered around Gertie, seem- 
 ing almost to devour her with his eyes when his lips were not 
 meeting hers, and when he told Miss Rossiter the good news, 
 he kissed her, too, and swung her round as if she had been a 
 top, and wanted to kiss his father, and did kiss Julia and Alice 
 both when he went to call upon them that evening, and told 
 them he was as good as a married man. 
 
 Alice had given him up since the day Miss Rossiter drove 
 down to see her, and talked so affectionately of Gertie, and 
 said nothing would please her better than to see her Godfrey's 
 wife. There had been a few tears in private, a wrench or two 
 in her heart, and then it was all over ; for Allie's love had never 
 been very strong, and but little more than her pride was wounded 
 when Gertie was preferred to herself. Alice had one good trait, 
 she did not long harbor malice or resentment; and she re- 
 ceived Godfrey cordially, and said she hoped he would be happy, 
 and blushed rather prettily when he joked her about the parson, 
 and said she might possibly be his neighbor in Hampstead. 
 
 Two weeks from that day the doors and windows at Schuyler 
 Hill were opened wide, and Mrs. Tifie, in a wild state of ex- 
 citement and expectancy, was giving the most contradictory 
 orders to the servants, and flitting from room to room to see
 
 4 o6 GODFREY AND GERTIE. 
 
 that all was in readiness for the family, who were coming home 
 and would be there to dinner. Everybody in Hampsteadknew 
 the story now, and none liked Edith the less, but rather the 
 more, I think ; while the fact that Gertie was to marry Godfrey 
 filled every one with joy, except Tom Barton, who came to the 
 Hill the day we were expecting her, and, handing me a bunch 
 of pansies and English violets, said : 
 
 " They are for her room. I always associate her with English 
 violets. She is just as sweet as they are, Heaven bless her ! " 
 
 There was a tremor in his voice and his hand shook as he 
 gave me the flowers. He was taking it hard, and I pitied him 
 so much when he said : 
 
 " There is nothing in the wide world for me to live for now ; 
 but I shall not go back to my cups. She helped make me a 
 man, and I'll keep so for her sake ; but I tell you, Ettie, it is 
 pretty tough sledding, and there is a lump in my heart as big as 
 a bass drum. I wish I were dead ; I do, upon my word." 
 
 How sweet the perfume of those violets was, and how eagerly 
 Gertie inhaled it when she came at last, and I took her to her room. 
 
 "Tom brought them. He says they are like you," I said, 
 while a shadow flitted over Gertie's face, for she knew just how 
 much Tom Barton loved her, and felt in part the burden weigh- 
 ing him down so heavily. 
 
 It was curious to watch Edith as she came back to her home, 
 with something of humility and fear in her manner, as if she 
 dreaded the meeting of her old acquaintance now that they 
 knew of the deception which had been practised so long, and it 
 was equally curious to see how the colonel sustained and upheld 
 her, and stood by her, and treated her with a consideration and 
 increased deference and tenderness which would have precluded 
 anything like coolness or indifference on the part of his friends 
 toward his wife had they felt disposed to manifest it, which they 
 were not. Edith was too popular ; too much a favorite with all 
 classes at Hampstead for anything except positive wrong to make 
 a difference now ; and the very first evening of her return many of 
 her old acquaintances came to see her and offer their congratula- 
 tions for the finding of her daughter, and that daughter Gertie.
 
 THE WEDDING. 407 
 
 How happy we were that night when Edith and Gertie sat 
 together upon the sofa, the daughter's head resting upon the 
 mother's shoulder, and the colonel and Godfrey standing behind 
 and bending protectingly over them. Even Julia, who had 
 come with the party, was unusually gracious, and told me con- 
 fidentially that though she would have advised secrecy with re- 
 gard to Gertie's father, she was tolerably well satisfied with 
 matters as they were, especially as Major Camden did not care, 
 and she should soon be away from it all. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Marks had no cause to 
 complain of empty pews, for every place was filled long before 
 the bell sounded its last note and the Schuyler carriage drew up 
 before the door. It did not matter that the villagers had seen 
 Edith and Gertie and Godfrey hundreds of times, there was 
 about them now a new element of interest, and the people 
 came from other churches to see the wonderful sight. But they 
 were in part doomed to disappointment, for Gertie was still too 
 weak to venture out, while Godfrey would not go without her, 
 and so, only Edith was there, her beautiful head drooping a lit- 
 tle, and her eyes cast timidly down as she walked to her accus- 
 tomed place and dropped upon her knees, where she remained 
 a long, long time, while all through the church there was a sol- 
 emn hush as the people watched her, many with tearful eyes, 
 and all with a feeling that they knew the nature of her prayers 
 and sympathized with her. 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 THE AVEDDING. 
 
 took place early in October, on the morning when I 
 commenced this story ; and when from my chamber- 
 window I saw the bridal train go by, and heard the 
 pealing of the merry marriage-bells, and the shouting of the 
 children from the mission-school, who strewed the bride's path 
 from the carriage to the church with flowers, and to whom God-
 
 408 THE WEDDING. 
 
 frcy promised a fete upon the lawn, with all the candy and ice- 
 cream they could eat, when he returned from his journey. 
 Never before, nor since, was the church so full as it was that 
 lovely October morning, when the maples were turning scarlet, 
 and the walnut trees were golden in the autumnal sunshine, 
 which fell so softly and warmly, as if in blessing, on the beauti- 
 ful young bride and the perfectly happy groom. 
 
 There was a trip to the West as far as Denver, and then one 
 day in November, the bridal pair came back to Hampstead, 
 where the bells rang merrily in honor of their return ; and the 
 boys of the mission-school, remembering the promised candy 
 and ice-cream, made a bonfire in the street, and hurrahed lustily 
 for Mr. Godfrey Schuyler, and a tiger, too ! 
 
 They had their fete, and candy and cream, and ate it in the. 
 November rain ; but not until after the grand party at the Hill, 
 which, for elegance and expenditure, far outdid the one given a 
 few years before, when Edith was the bride, and Gertie the little 
 unknown girl, watching the ladies as they came, and wishing 
 that she was one of them. 
 
 She was one of them now, or rather the one around whom 
 everything else centred, and I never saw a creature so dazzlingly 
 beautiful as she was in her bridal robes, when, with Godfrey at 
 her side, she stood to receive the guests. Everybody who had 
 been bidden was there, except the Bartons, from whom there 
 came a note of regret, saying that " sudden and severe illness 
 in the family would keep them at home." 
 
 " Who can it be ? Not Rosamond, for she wrote the regret," 
 Gertie said ; and then, as her eyes met mine, we both thought 
 of Tom, who had never been seen in town since the morning 
 of Gertie's bridal. 
 
 He was present at the ceremony and stood where he could look 
 in Gertie's face, and it was said by those who watched him that 
 at the words, " I, Gertrude, take thee, Godfrey, to be my wedded 
 husband," he put up his hand and started as if smitten heavily. 
 He came to me after it was over, and said, in a half-laughing, 
 half-serious way, that there was a feeling in his stomach as if a 
 hornet's nest had been stirred up, and each individual hornet
 
 THE WEDDING. 49 
 
 was doing its best to sting him ! I know Gertie thought of him 
 many times that night when she moved a queen amid the bril- 
 liant throng, where only one vied with her at all in point of 
 loveliness, and that one, her mother, who, with every shadow 
 lifted from her heart, seemed to have recovered all the beauty 
 of her early womanhood. Edith's dress was a heavy silk of a 
 creamy tint, with overskirt and bertha of soft, rich lace, while at 
 Gertie's request she wore her hair in curls, arranged at the 
 back of her head, and held by a coral comb. Coral was very 
 becoming to Edith, and she looked so young and handsome 
 that none would ever have dreamed that she was mother to the 
 bride. They were like two sisters, and the colonel might have 
 passed for the father of them both. He seemed very proud of 
 Edith, and in his eyes, which followed her constantly, there was 
 a world of love and tenderness, which told how dear she was to 
 him, even now that everything pertaining to her early life was 
 known to him and the world. 
 
 Later in the evening, when the dancing began to flag a little, 
 and the New York belles had one after another tried Gertie's new 
 Steinway, Edith was persuaded to take her seat at the piano. 
 
 " Give us one of those sweet, plaintive little airs you sang at 
 Oakwood," Godfrey said, as he bent over her. 
 
 Edith had never tried so much as a single note since the day 
 when she learned from her mother that her daughter was alive, 
 but something told her she could sing now, for the iron fingers 
 were gone forever ; and selecting a German song, which a year 
 before would have been far beyond her power, she began to 
 sing, her voice, which had once been so rich, and full, and 
 strong, gathering strength, and depth, and power as she pro- 
 gressed, and soaring up, and up, and up, ever clear, ever sweet, 
 ever ringing, until the whole house was full of melody, and the 
 guests came flocking in to hear. 
 
 " Edith, my darling," and " mamma, mamma," were said in. 
 the same breath of astonishment as the music ceased, and 
 Gertie and the colonel laid a hand on Edith's shoulder. " I 
 never dreamed you had a voice like that. I am prouder of you 
 to night than ever I was before," the colonel said, as at a sign 
 18
 
 410 MARY ROGERS 1 LETTER TO EDITH. 
 
 from Edith, who was looking very white, he led her away from 
 the piano and out upon a balcony, where she stood a moment 
 to recover herself, and force down the rapid beating of her 
 heart ere she told him why she could not sing before, and that 
 with the confession of everything, and the finding of Gertie, her 
 glorious voice had come back to her again. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 MARY ROGERS' LETTER TO EDITH. 
 
 1 1 VE days after the bridal party at Schuyler Hill Edith 
 and Gertie sat together in the boudoif of the latter 
 talking of the Providence which had thrown them so 
 constantly together, and of the way in which they were at last 
 made known to each other. 
 
 " I have often thought of the night Mrs. Rogers died," Edith 
 said, and I think there must have been something on her mind 
 which she wished to tell me about you. Do you suppose she 
 could have known you were my child ? " 
 
 " No, she could not have kept it so many years," Gertie said, 
 "and yet I can remember many things she used to say about 
 my parentage, which I interpret differently now from what I 
 did when my thoughts were all in another channel." 
 
 " One would have supposed that knowing as she must have 
 known her liability to sudden death she would have left some 
 writing which might throw light upon your history. You are 
 sure she did not ? " Edith said, and Gertie replied : 
 
 41 Yes, sure ; or at least I think I am. Norah and I looked 
 over everything carefully at the time, and there was nothing 
 but a bundle of old letters and receipts." 
 
 41 Did you destroy them ? " Edith asked, and Gertie an- 
 swered her : 
 
 44 No, I have them still in the box where I keep the sou- 
 venirs of my childhood. I'll bring them, if you like, though I 
 am quite sure that there is nothing in them." 
 
 The box was brought and opened, and Gertie began to ex-
 
 MARY ROGERS' LETTER TO EDITH. 4" 
 
 amine the papers more carefully than ever before. There were 
 dressmakers' bills and grocers' bills and landlords' bills, and 
 music bills for Gertie and letters to " John Rogers, Birmingham," 
 and then Gertie came upon a fresher-looking envelope, the seal of 
 which had not been broken, and on which, in Mary Rogers' hand, 
 was written : " For Mrs. Edith Schuyler, if I die suddenly." 
 
 " Oh-h yes here it must be this ? " Gertie gasped, as 
 she passed the package to Edith, whose heart beat with an un- 
 defined dread lest after all there might be some mistake and 
 her darling be wrested from her. 
 
 " Shall I read it, or you ? " she said, and Gertie replied : 
 
 " You ; but read aloud, if you please. I cannot wait to 
 know." 
 
 Edith could not read it aloud, and Gertie did not wait, but 
 leaning over her mother's shoulder read the letter with her. It 
 was as follows : 
 
 " HAMPSTEAD, April 10, 18 . 
 
 " MRS. COL. SCHUYLER MADAME : Warned by a twinge 
 in my heart and about my vitals that I may be taken away 
 suddenly, I am going to commit to paper the true history of 
 Gertrude Westbrooke, the girl known as my adopted child. 
 Mrs. Schuyler, did you ever hear of a young girl, who came 
 one day with her mother to a dreary lodging in Dorset Street, 
 London ? They had the back rooms looking into a dirty court, 
 and the girl had a baby born there, a little girl baby, with eyes 
 like robin's eggs. 
 
 " There was a housemaid, who waited on the ladies in No. 
 ; her name was Mary Stover, and she admired the young lady 
 so much, and was curious about her, especially after the birth of 
 the baby. That housemaid was me, and the lady \\a.syou, whom 
 your mother called Heloise. She was Mrs. Fordham then, and 
 I did not like her much, and after I accidentally heard what she 
 said to you about sending the child away, I kept a watch on 
 her. 
 
 " I was going to your room with a jug of water, and heard it 
 all, and saw her the night she went out with a bundle under her
 
 412 MARY ROGERS' LETTER TO EDITH. 
 
 arm. I was sure the bundle was the baby, and, when she got 
 back, I let myself out on to that little balcony under your win- 
 dow, and waited till I heard her tell you where she had taken 
 the child. There certainly was a Providence in it that I had a 
 sister nurse in that very hospital, and, to make sure your mother 
 told you true, I got leave to go next day to see my sister. 
 
 "By a little management, I found that a girl baby had been 
 left there the night before, with ffeloise pinned on its dress, as 
 Mrs. P'ordham said, and that it was further marked on the bos- 
 om with a drop of blood. I got Anne to show the baby to me 
 and knew it for the same I had seen in your room. You re- 
 member I tended it an hour or more once. 
 
 " I love children, and this one interested me more than I can 
 tell ; and I said to myself I'll keep watch of it, and the mother, 
 too, and some time maybe I can unravel the mystery and 
 bring them together. From what I overheard, I believed you 
 had been married, and that your husband was dead, and that 
 was all I knew of him. But I pitied you, and loved the child, 
 and without telling Anne why, I made her promise to be very 
 kind to the little one. 
 
 Mother lived in Dorset Street, too, and as she was very lone- 
 some from week's end to week's end without us, I took the 
 plan to have her take the baby for ours. It was hard work to 
 bring her to it, and Anne opposed it, too ; but something 
 seemed to push me on and say that it must be done, and I got 
 her consent, and she took Heloise to our house in No. , 
 where she was just like a little sunbeam, and it was hard to tell 
 which loved her the most, mother, or Anne, or me. I claimed 
 her for mine, and dressed her with my wages, and meant to 
 bring her up above what we were, if I could. When you left 
 Dorset Street I lost track of you for a while, but that only made 
 me love baby more. Soon after you left I got another place, 
 and a better one. I was waiting-maid to a Mrs. Westbrooke, 
 who lived in a very fine place. She, too, had a baby girl named 
 Gertrude, and, when it died suddenly of croup, I thought she 
 would have mourned herself to death for it. 
 
 " About that time mother went oft with cholera, and then I
 
 MARY ROGERS 1 LETTER TO EDITH. 4*3 
 
 told Mrs. Westbrooke about my baby, and asked if I might 
 bring it and show it to her. You don't know how pretty she 
 was, with her golden-red hair curling all over her head, and her 
 sweet blue eyes. My lady got very fond of her the three days 
 she stayed with me, and, when i spoke of carrying it away, she 
 said : 
 
 '"I do not believe I can let baby go. It seems like my 
 own lost darling. Will you let me have her ? ' 
 
 " ' For your own ? ' I said, and she answered : 
 
 " ' Yes, for my own.' 
 
 "This was just what suited me, to see my pet grow up a 
 lady, and I told her yes, and as the master did not oppose it 
 more than to say 'that he did not care especially for other 
 people's brats, and this one must be kept out of his way,' it 
 was settled that baby should stay, and I do believe my mistress 
 came to love it like her own. She gave it her lost baby's name, 
 and had it christened ' Gertrude Heloise Westbrooke,' so it 
 sure would have a name. She was a sweet-tempered lady, 
 but weak and nervous like. I think she had consumption, for 
 nothing in particular appeared to ail her, only she was tired like 
 all the time, and never could sleep nor get rested, and at last 
 she died, and left an annuity of forty pounds a year to little 
 Gertie, and said I was to have the care of her. 
 
 " About a year after her death the master married a fashion- 
 able, fussy little woman from Glasgow, who disliked chil- 
 dren worse than he did, and never noticed Gertie in any way 
 after she found out that she was not Mr. Westbrooke's own. 
 I was about to be married myself, and asked the master if I 
 might have the child. He was more than willing, and so I took 
 her to my own comfortable home on the second floor of a house 
 in what is now Abingdon Road, but was then Newland Street. 
 All this time I had not been able to track you, though I 
 never went out that I did not look for you ; and many's the time 
 I drew my little girl to the gardens of Kensington and even to 
 Hyde Park, where I sat by the hour watching the people as they 
 went by in hopes of seeing you. But I never did, and I had 
 almost given it up, when one day in October I went into a linen-
 
 414 MARY ROGERS* LETTER TO EDITH. 
 
 draper's on High Street to get a new slip for my darling. The 
 girls were all very busy, and I had to wait a bit, and was look- 
 ing at the dresses in the window when I heard some one say, 
 ' Isn't she beautiful ? ' and looking up I saw you coming in. 
 I knew you in a moment, though you was handsomer than 
 ever, and looking well and strong. In my excitement I forgot 
 what I had come to get, but stood watching you, my heart beat- 
 ing so loud I was afraid you might hear it. 
 
 " I do not remember what you bought, but you ordered it 
 sent to ' Mrs. Dr. Barrett's, No. Caledonia Street,' and then 
 left the shop, while I followed close behind. You turned into 
 that shady lane or road which leads past the Holland House to 
 Bayswater, and I kept as near you as I could without attracting 
 your attention. Once you sat down under a tree as if you were 
 tired, and going a little further on I sat down too, and watched 
 you when you did not know it. There was a pretty little girl 
 about Gertie's age playing near, and I remember you called 
 her to you. and smoothed her curls, and caressed her little 
 hands, and asked her for her name, and when she went back to 
 her nurse there was a sad, sorry look in your eyes and on your 
 face, and I said to myself, 'Is she thinking of the baby, I won 
 der?' 
 
 " I knew from Anne that a woman in deep black, with her 
 vail drawn closely over her face had been to the hospital to in- 
 quire after it, and had seemed relieved when told it had been 
 taken by a woman who was sure to be kind to it. I was cer- 
 tain the lady in black was your mother, but could not tell 
 whether she had ever inquired again for the child. I meant to 
 know for sure where you lived, and if Caledonia Street was your 
 home ; so when you got up, which you did after a time, I got up 
 too, and kept close behind till you reached Netting Hill station. 
 I was standing by you when you got your ticket, and took the 
 same carriage you did, and alighting at the same station, fol- 
 lowed you to your very door, and saw you go in like one who 
 was at home. There was a baker's shop near by, and I bought 
 some bread and buns which I did not want, and questioned the 
 girl who waited upon me with regard to the houses in the neigh-
 
 MARY ROGERS' LETTER TO EDITH. 415 
 
 borhood, pretending I was looking for one to rent. In this way 
 I learned that the Mrs. Dr. Barrett who lived at No. took 
 lodgers, and had a beautiful daughter, a Miss Lyle, the child of 
 a first marriage, the girl supposed, as old Dr. Barrett, who had 
 owned the place for a long time, had only been married to the 
 present Mrs. Barrett two or three years when he died. So 
 much I learned, and then I left the place for home, determining 
 to keep track of you after that, and not lose sight of you again. 
 I knew when you were governess at Allanbanke, and when you 
 played the organ in church, and used sometimes on Sun- 
 days to take Gertie there to listen to the music, but never gave 
 her a hint as to who the musician was. There was a kind of 
 pleasant excitement in watching you and feeling that I had your 
 secret, and I enjoyed it to the full. 
 
 " At last you were lost to me for a while, I nursed my hus- 
 band in his last sickness, but greatly to my delight you unex- 
 pectedly turned up again at the very house where my cousin 
 Norah was living as lady's-maid, at Oakwood, you know. I 
 saw you there one evening when I was calling on Norah, and 
 learned that you were Mrs. Sinclair's companion, and was 
 going abroad with her. As Norah, too, was to go with her mis- 
 tress, I was certain to know when you returned, and I did, and 
 saw you dressed for dinner one day, and thought you the most 
 beautiful woman I ever saw. I was a widow then. My hus- 
 band had been dead some time, but he had left me quite com- 
 fortable for a woman of my class, while Gertie's annuity was 
 sufficient for her. I was anxious that she should have a good 
 education, and I tried to bring her up a lady so far as I knew 
 myself. Just what I intended to do, or whether I should ever 
 let you know of her existence, had now become a matter of 
 some doubt, for I loved the girl too well to part with her will- 
 ingly. She was the very apple of my eye, and I said unless 
 something happens to me, or her mother marries rich, I will 
 keep the secret all my life. Still I liked to be near you, to 
 know just what you were doing, and so I applied to your 
 mother for apartments, with what success you know. Then 
 Colonel Schuyler came, and Norah told me of your probable
 
 4i6 MARY ROGERS' LETTER TO EDITH. 
 
 marriage with him, and I had a great battle with duty and my 
 love for little Gertie. The first told me that when you was in 
 a position to do for the child what I never could, I ought to 
 give her up, while the last said I never could ; she was all the 
 world to me, and I decided to keep her a spell at least, espe- 
 cially as through Norah it was so arranged that I was to go to 
 America when you did. In any event I should have followed 
 you after a while, and I thought it a special Providence which 
 made my going with you so easy. You can imagine the inter- 
 est I have felt in you and everything belonging to you, and how 
 at times, when I saw my darling snubbed by the young ladies 
 at the Hill, I have been tempted to claim her right to be there 
 as their equal and companion. 
 
 " I never could tell whether Colonel Schuyler knew that such 
 a child ever had existence. If he did not, and your passing for 
 Miss Lyle instead of Mrs. made me suspect that he did not, I 
 thought it would be a cruel thing for me to tell it to him, and 
 that of itself might have kept me from it, even if I had loved 
 Gertie less. If it was not for this frequent pain which warns 
 me of sudden death, I should perhaps keep the secret forever ; 
 but I must not leave my little girl alone if anything happens to 
 me, and so I write it down, begging you to take her and do jus- 
 tice to her, for I swear to Heaven she is the child born in Dor- 
 set Street, Jan. , 18 , of the young woman Heloise or Edith 
 Lyle, whose mother called herself Mrs. Fordham, and left the 
 baby on the steps of the Street Hospital. 
 
 " Perhaps you need not confess the truth to your husband, if 
 he does not already know it, but you can at least adopt Gertie, 
 and treat her as your own, and this I beg of you to do. 
 
 " And now I have told you all I know. Who Gertie's father 
 was, or where he died, is a secret to me ; only this is sure, the 
 girl known as Gertie Westbrooke is your own daughter, and may 
 God deal with you and prosper you according as you deal with 
 her when I am gone. 
 
 " Written this day at Hampstead, and sworn to solemnly by 
 me before the Eye which sees me, and which knows what I say 
 is true. MARY ROGERS."
 
 MARY ROGERS' LETTER TO EDITH. 4 1 ? 
 
 Had Edith needed proof of Gertie's identity, she had it 
 in this letter, but she did not. and clasping the beautiful girl in 
 her arms, she burst into a paroxysm of tears, moaning softly, 
 " My darling, my baby ; it seems like a dream, and God has 
 been so good to keep you all the time and bring you at last to 
 me. Oh, if mother could have known ! She loved you from 
 the time you went to lodge with her in London." 
 
 " Mamma," Gertie said suddenly, " she did know ! I am 
 sure of it, or she must have guessed. It was the night she died, 
 when I was sitting with her, and accidentally mentioned my 
 birthmark, that drop of blood. I remember how excited she 
 grew, and how hard she tried to tell me something, but could 
 not. It must have been her suspicion of the truth." 
 
 " Perhaps so. I would like to believe she knew it," Edith 
 answered, and then she told her daughter of the Lyles across 
 the sea in Alnwick ; the sweet-faced old lady, and the bare- 
 armed Jenny, who had so shocked and disgusted her. Gertie 
 was interested in the grandmother at once, and proposed writ- 
 ing to her immediately, and telling her that the son whom she 
 had mourned so long had left a child who would some day find 
 her in her humble home, and call her grandmamma. 
 
 This plan Edith did not oppose, but before Gertie could write 
 there came a letter from Robert Macpherson, saying that Mrs. 
 Lyle was dead and the cottage vacant, for Mr. Nesbit had taken 
 his wife and children to the north of Scotland, where his boy- 
 hood was passed. As Gertie had no particular interest in Jen- 
 ny, her letter was not written, but through her influence pro- 
 vision was made for the education of Jennie's children, espe- 
 cially the boy, who bore Godfrey's name. 
 18*
 
 4i8 AND LAST. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV., 
 
 % 
 
 AND LAST. 
 
 |HE Schuylers all remained in Hampstead the winter 
 after Gertie's marriage, and our little town was the 
 pleasanter and gayer for it. Only one sad thing oc- 
 curred, and that, the death of poor Tom, which took place 
 about Christmas time, when we were hanging our garlands of 
 evergreens in the church and making ready for our annual festi- 
 val. I was sitting by Gertie working upon the same wreath, 
 when the news was brought to us, and I saw the tears, which 
 came with a rush to her eyes, and knew she was thinking of the 
 hopeless love which had, no doubt, shortened poor Tom's life. 
 
 " Tell Gertie," he said to his sister, when the death-sweat was 
 on his brow, and his utterance was thick and indistinct ; " tell 
 Gertie I loved her till the last, and blessed her with my dying 
 breath, for she helped make me a man. But for her I should 
 fill a drunkard's grave and meet a drunkard's doom. She 
 warned me of my peril ; she led me back from the brink of 
 ruin ; and if I am saved, as I hope to be, I shall be a star in 
 her crown of glory, as the sinner whom she converted from his 
 evil ways. Heaven bless her, and Godfrey, too ; they are worthy 
 of each other." 
 
 These were Tom's last words, and Gertie cried as if her heart 
 would break when Rosamond repeated them to her the week 
 after Tom's funeral when she came to say good-by. They 
 were going away from the Ridge House, Rosaiflond said, and 
 the place was for sale. She wished Godfrey would buy it ; she 
 wq^d rather see him and Gertie there than strangers, who had 
 never known or cared for her and her mother. 
 
 The idea of a home of her own was a pleasant one to Gertie, 
 and a few days after Godfrey rode up to the "Ridge to confer 
 with Mrs. Barton. But another had been before him and bought 
 the place, and some time in February was to take possession. 
 
 Godfrey's horse never galloped a distance of two miles and
 
 AND LAST. 419 
 
 a half more swiftly than on that day when his rider was charged 
 with so important news. 
 
 " Gertie, Gertie, I say, where are you ? Look here ! " Jje 
 exclaimed, as he bolted into the room where she was sitting. 
 " Guess how the rector proposes to keep Lent ! What cross is 
 he going to bear ! " 
 
 Gertie could only look at him in surprise, while he went on : 
 
 " He has bought the Ridge House, and is going to take a 
 wife, just before Ash-Wednesday ! Think of Alice Creighton 
 running a sewing society and having a church sociable ! " 
 
 It was as Godfrey said, Alice was to be Rev. Mrs. Marks, 
 and live at the Ridge House, which her money bought, and the 
 fitting up of which she came to superintend a few days after the 
 story was out. She had written to me asking permission to stop 
 with us while she remained in Hampstead, and I was expecting 
 the little lady, when both Gertie and Godfrey interfered, and 
 begged so hard for her to stop with them that she yielded to 
 their entreaties and went to Schtiyler Hill, where Godfrey nearly 
 teased her life out of her, and was far more attentive to her than 
 he had been during the short period of his engagement. Even 
 Mr. Marks himself was scarcely more interested than Godfrey 
 in the house, which Alice furnished in accordance with her own 
 extravagant notions. 
 
 " It was not as if she was poor and dependent upon her hus- 
 band's-salary," she said, and so she made a little palace of a 
 home for her future lord, who assented to whatever she sug- 
 gested, and seemed so" excited and absent-minded after she was 
 gone, that we were glad when toward the last of February a 
 young student*from New York came up to officiate at St. Luke's 
 while the rector took a short vacation. 
 
 He was absent nearly two weeks, and when he came h^k 
 to us Alice was with him, and astonished us all with her wonaer- 
 ful outfit, her taU ruffs which reached to her ears, dresses which 
 trailed a yard, sleeveless jackets of every device and color, and 
 her hair, gotten up in a most remarkable manner. Ske said 
 that she married Mr. Marks, and not his people, consequently 
 nothing more must be expected of her as Mrs. Marks than she
 
 420 AND LAST. 
 
 had been willing to render as Miss Creighton. But Alice was 
 fond of "running things," as Godfrey called it, and she had not 
 been with us a month before she was head and front of the 
 sewing-school for the poor children, and first manager of the 
 Church Home, and secretary of the temperance club for the 
 young men of the working class, and had established a reading- 
 room which she controlled entirely. Indeed she seemed in a 
 fair way to revolutionize the town ; and though she never ap- 
 proached to anything like familiarity with her husband's par- 
 ishioners, she was far more popular and better liked as Mrs. 
 Marks than she had been as Alice Creighton, and when at the 
 Easter festival several children were baptized three of them 
 took her name, Alice Creighton Marks ! 
 
 Some time in March there was another wedding at the Hill 
 and Julia was the bride. She had accepted Major Camden, and 
 started at once for his home among the pines of Carolina. All 
 that spring and the ensuing summer Godfrey and Gertie stayed 
 at Schuyler Hill, and when the autumn came they went down 
 to New York and took possession of the handsome house which 
 Miss Rossiter had bought and the colonel furnished for them. 
 
 It is very lonely and quiet now at Schuyler Hill, but Edith 
 goes often to New York to visit Gertie in her beautiful home, 
 where Miss Rossiter spends more than half her time, and where 
 there is to be a family reunion when the Centennial guns are 
 firing in honor of our nation's hundredth birthday. Julia is 
 coming from the south, and Robert and Emma from over the 
 sea, and with them the little Highland lady they have named 
 Edith Lyle, and so I finish the story commenced more than 
 a year ago, when the October haze was on the hills and the 
 music of marriage bells was sounding in my ears. 
 
 ESTHER OLIVIA ARMSTRONG. 
 
 THE END.
 
 University of California 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 Return this material to the library 
 lich it was borrowed. 
 
 GUI