aia
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET SUTTON BRISCOE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 1892
 
 Copyright, 1892, 
 BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 SJnttorrsttg Press; 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, US. A
 
 'ttf 
 
 TO 
 
 fflg fffiiotfjer anD Closest JFrtenfi: 
 
 WHO IS IDENTIFIED WITH EVERY LINE IN THIS BOOK, 
 WHICH I DEDICATE TO HER.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. " PERCHANCE TO DREAM " 3 
 
 II. How THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA 29 
 
 III. A CHIP 51 
 
 IV. THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH 63 
 
 V. A TEA-LEAF 85 
 
 VI. NED 95 
 
 VII. "THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY" 121 
 
 VIII. THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE ... 133 
 
 IX. FIFTEEN COUNTY ROCK 159 
 
 X. A LEGACY , ... 169 
 
 XI. THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT ,231 
 
 XII. Miss CHESILIA MCCARTHY 245 
 
 XIII. "DIE, WHICH I WONT" 2?1
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 volume of stories, put forth with diffidence and 
 in modesty of spirit, stands in no need of an intro 
 duction. A new writer can be introduced only by her 
 work. It is entirely natural, however, that Miss BRISCOE 
 should desire to interpose the word of a friend between 
 herself and a public to whom she speaks for the first 
 time. Fortunately that public is not the many- headed 
 monster which it has sometimes been represented ; it is, 
 rather, a very well-disposed public, eager to be interested 
 and ready to welcome every new-comer who cares more 
 for excellence than for reputation. The name on the 
 titlepage of this volume is not entirely unfamiliar, since 
 it has appeared in the pages of the " Christian Union," 
 "Harper's Young People," "The Overland Monthly," 
 and other periodicals. 
 
 HAMILTON W. MABIE. 
 
 NOTE. Special acknowledgment is made to Messrs. HARPER & 
 BROTHERS for their permission to reprint, from their " Young 
 People," the story, "Die, Which I Wont."
 
 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM.'
 
 PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 "OPREAD yourself out, Charles," said Mr. Gordon; 
 ^ " fill up as many seats as you can. Your aunt 
 thinks it disloyal to the children to take any leaves out 
 of the table, so 1 sit at one end of the deserted board, 
 and she at the other. We can bow to each other, and 
 call something across occasionally." 
 
 "You must come often and help us out, you see, 
 Charles," said Mrs. Gordon, smiling, and turning her still 
 beautiful face toward her nephew. " Albert, you should 
 not laugh at your wife's sentiment." 
 
 Mr. Gordon was an elderly man, high-featured and dis 
 tinguished-looking, with clear, brown eyes and clean, olive 
 skin, and a soldier-like alertness of bearing. His white 
 hair, which rioted over his head in crisp curls, lent a fur 
 ther air of vigour to his appearance. 
 
 There was a sense of rest and repose about his uncle's 
 home which always soothed Charles Gordon. His pres 
 ence there was no unusual event, and his place at table 
 was always set, although he had occupied it but little of 
 late. He was strikingly like his uncle in feature. As 
 his self-control relaxed somewhat in this congenial atmos 
 phere, a strained expression of underlying pain now and
 
 4 " PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 again crossed his face, and the look of age which then 
 accompanied it brought out this resemblance more 
 strongly. 
 
 The servant was filling the wine-glasses by the three 
 plates, and Mr. Gordon raised his to his lips. As 
 Charles bent forward and closed his forefinger and 
 thumb about the stem of his glass, there was a deliber 
 ate air of defiance in his action, simple as it was. When 
 he set down his empty glass, he looked steadily across 
 the table at his uncle; the same defiant spirit showed 
 in his eyes, and something not unlike anger tinged his 
 expression. 
 
 Mr. Gordon appeared unconscious of all this, but a 
 few moments later he motioned to the servant, who re 
 filled the glass. Charles watched him do so, yet did not 
 immediately touch the contents ; his attitude relaxed. 
 There was never anything which jarred upon him 
 here. There was no place just like it ; nothing was 
 ever hurried. Dinner meant a pleasant meeting to be 
 lingered over, while the day's gleanings of interest 
 were spread out on the board ; and none of the wonted 
 customs were dropped with the dropping away of the 
 younger branches. 
 
 Mrs. Gordon rose as usual after dinner, and left her 
 husband with his nephew, as she had been accustomed to 
 leave him with his sons. Charles opened the door for 
 her; and as she passed him she laid her hand lingeringly 
 on his shoulder, with a kind smile. She was not a de 
 monstrative woman, although a tender one ; Charles was 
 surprised and touched by the caress. He walked back 
 to the table, and sat down thoughtfully, his legs 
 stretched out before him, his hands thrust in his trousers'
 
 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 5 
 
 pockets; his face in repose was not happy, and older 
 than his years warranted. 
 
 Mr. Gordon had drawn his chair back also; he was 
 sitting with one arm resting on the table, his eyes fastened 
 on the young man's face. 
 
 " You are very like me, Charles," he said ; " more so 
 than any of my own sons." 
 
 Charles flushed, as he looked up. 
 
 " You could have said nothing which would have given 
 me more pleasure," he answered quickly. 
 
 There was an unaffected genuineness in his voice, and 
 the boyishness of his smile softened his face wonderfully. 
 
 "It is a great pity that your own father died when he 
 did," Mr. Gordon went on, "a pity for both you and 
 your mother." 
 
 The gentleness which had come to Charles Gordon's 
 face vanished. 
 
 " I saw my mother's carriage leave the door as I came 
 in," he said harshly ; " she has you to come to with com 
 plaints in her trials." 
 
 " Yes, she has me to come to ; but it is not quite the 
 same, Charles." 
 
 "No," answered Charles; "it is not quite the same." 
 
 He took his hand from his pocket, and raised his glass 
 to his lips. Across the rim his eyes were miserable, 
 angry, and defiant. 
 
 Mr. Gordon's eyes met them calmly. When the 
 glass was set down empty, he pushed the bottle of wine 
 across the table in silence. Charles lifted it; but his 
 fingers trembled a little so that the glass overflowed. 
 He muttered an apology, thrusting his hand again into 
 his pocket, and staring moodily before him.
 
 6 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 " You are not only like me in feature and disposi 
 tion," said Mr. Gordon, "but your temptations were 
 mine, also. Sometimes I feel that I am living over my 
 youth in yours ; it has drawn you very closely to me, my 
 boy." 
 
 Charles looked across the corner of the table at his 
 uncle, his brows drawn together in a frown of surprise. 
 
 " It is very strange," said Mr. Gordon, reflectively ; 
 " there may be a difference in one way. I had no excuse 
 whatever; perhaps you have." 
 
 A dark flush swept over the younger man's face ; he 
 shrank for a moment, as if a sensitive wound had been 
 touched, then drew himself up slightly and raised his head, 
 waiting. 
 
 Mr. Gordon was tipping his empty glass up and down, 
 watching the little rivulets formed by the few remaining 
 drops as they ran together. 
 
 " It is very strange," he repeated ; he glanced up sud 
 denly, with a direct question. " Has any one ever told 
 you how nearly I made a miserable wreck of my 
 life ? " 
 
 Charles had no need to answer ; the incredulous 
 wonder which he knew his face must express, seemed 
 answer sufficient. 
 
 "I was not thoroughly brutish, or I thought that I 
 was not, not continuously so, at all events ; but I ate of 
 the husks which swine do eat, and found them palatable." 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 Charles closed his eyes, and opened them again ; there 
 were throbbing pulses in his head. His old landmarks 
 seemed confused or gone; he tried to recollect how he 
 had spent the hours before ringing his uncle's door-
 
 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 7 
 
 bell, and began to wonder if he had a right to be there 
 at his aunt's table. He wished his brain were a little 
 less benumbed, that he might know. The uncertainty 
 troubled him ; but he thought he had not come to that 
 yet in his efforts to forget a form and face and voice 
 which would not be forgotten. He felt that he had 
 now forfeited even the right to this memory ; yet he 
 began living over again, for the thousandth time, that 
 past with its dear associations. 
 
 " Have you ever noticed the peculiar tenderness and 
 peace in your aunt's face, Charles ? " Mr. Gordon was 
 saying. 
 
 " Yes," answered Charles, rousing ; " but I have 
 always thought her the most beautiful woman I ever 
 saw." 
 
 " She was considered wonderfully beautiful when I 
 married her ; she had just those same cameo-like features 
 and the superb carriage of the head which she has now. 
 But there was none of that beauty of expression which 
 is now hers; my wife was the essence of high breeding 
 and self-control. I thought that I was in love with her, 
 and I was, in a way. To-day, as I sit at the head of my 
 table and look down its length at her, I can laugh at the 
 idea under my gray hairs ; I was proud of her. It was in 
 my power to adorn her beauty beautifully; and I liked 
 to enter a room with her on my arm, and see heads turn, 
 and eyes follow. That faultless regularity of feature, 
 the statue-like repose which I never saw ruffled, satisfied 
 me perfectly ; if there were a flesh-and-blood woman 
 beneath, I never sought to wake her. 
 
 " Once, shortly after our marria'ge, my wife ventured 
 a slight remonstrance but that is too strong a word
 
 8 " PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 as to my habits of life. I cut her short on the moment. 
 I was only about your age. After that there was but 
 a prouder lifting of the head, and a drooping of the 
 eyelids to tell me that she even had knowledge of what 
 occurred but too often. 
 
 " James Irwin, my wife's elder brother, was living with 
 us then, you know. But I forget, you know nothing 
 about it; even my children know very little. 
 
 " Somehow I am moved to open it all to-night, and lay 
 it before you, Charles, even to that story of my inner life 
 which no one in this world knows, not even my wife, 
 wholly, although she knows in part. Do I bore you ? 
 Shall I go on ? " 
 
 Charles Gordon, sitting upright and motionless in his 
 chair, stared at his uncle, his eyes wide open and full of 
 perplexity. He passed his hand over his brow, press 
 ing his hot temples. 
 
 " Can you ask me ? " he replied in a low voice. 
 
 " I rather affected the society of older men," Mr. 
 Gordon went on slowly. " There was one circle in which 
 I especially delighted, a club formed of semi -literary, 
 semi-artistic men, Bohemian to the core, and know 
 ing no law save that laid down by the rules of art or 
 literature. I was the only young man admitted among 
 them, and I was flattered beyond measure at the 
 distinction. 
 
 "There was one in this circle who interested me deeply, 
 no one knew where he came from, or what was his 
 position in life. There were some who insisted that his 
 features were familiar to them ; but they were not able to 
 place him further, and it was not well to ask questions in 
 that company. He talked but little, and ate his husks
 
 " PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 9 
 
 with a curious epicurean deliberation ; there was not the 
 flavour of a shred which escaped him. 
 
 " At that time I think my ruling passion was a burn 
 ing, illegitimate curiosity : I would grasp all the secrets 
 of life; I desired to see, to hear, to smell, to taste, to 
 feel, all that body and mind could compass. 
 
 " There was something in this man which fascinated 
 and eluded me ; not that he avoided me, rather other 
 wise, but I felt baffled when with him. A conviction 
 forced itself upon me that he knew something which I 
 had not yet learned. His was a curious face, sealed 
 like a mask, totally devoid of feeling ; the eyelids 
 generally half -closed, and the eyes beneath opaque and 
 expressionless. 
 
 " One evening, when we two sat talking together in 
 a remote corner of the club-room, he asked me abruptly, 
 how I a mere youth, with the world a ball at my 
 feet had yet managed to attain that glorious unrest 
 which was mine ? 1 looked up, nettled by the sneer in 
 his voice rather than his words. We were sitting with 
 the comer of the table between us, very much as you 
 and I are sitting now ; he was leaning back in his chair, 
 looking at me from under his eyelids, with a half- 
 mocking smile on his lips. 
 
 " ' Well-looking,' he went on, ' better married, enough 
 brains, and a plethora of money, -what more do you 
 want ? ' 
 
 " ' That which you know,' I replied curtly. 
 
 " My companion quite closed his eyes for a moment, 
 and smiled with an enjoyment infinitely irritating. 
 
 "'That is the proper spirit,' he began; then with a 
 sudden change, ' but let Time fiddle while we dance.'
 
 10 " PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 " He tossed off the wine in his glass with an exag 
 gerated gesture, then refilled my glass and his own. 
 
 " ' Let us drink to those provident ancestors who have 
 made your career possible,' he said. 
 
 " 1 checked him, laughing, 
 
 " ' No ; if they are resting peacefully, let sleeping dogs 
 lie. It was through the Puritan ancestor that the shekels 
 came.' 
 
 " My companion set his glass down and laughed ; with 
 him there was no sound, yet it was laughter. 
 
 " ' Who can say that the old psalm-singer is not now 
 standing by,' he said, 'tearing his ghostly hair, and 
 wringing his vaporous hands over the use or abuse of his 
 hoarded gold? Peace to his ashes! May he never 
 walk ! ' 
 
 " ' Amen,' 1 replied. ' But did you never consider 
 what a privilege it might be to walk, to float through 
 your world, a disembodied spirit, and hear what your 
 friends said of you, yourself unseen ? ' 
 
 " My companion leaned across the table and touched 
 my arm. 
 
 " * No ; but listen. Did you never consider what a 
 privilege it might be to roam through your world 
 seeing and hearing all that you see and hear, without 
 fully understanding when you are what shall I term 
 it? well, a dise inspirited body? We will call it so 
 for euphony.' 
 
 " I looked at him questioningly, but half comprehending. 
 
 " ' To mingle with one's boon companions," he went 
 on, ' and learn what they said and did, and what you 
 yourself said and did with accuracy. Have you never 
 felt the desire to know never wished to account for
 
 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 11 
 
 blank hours, which must, from their very nature, have 
 been full of experience ? ' 
 
 '"I never thought of that,' I answered. 
 
 " ' Think now,' replied my companion, smiling. 
 
 "1 thought, and with the thinking and the numer 
 ous possibilities which opened, the desire was born 
 strongly. 
 
 " ' It would be profoundly interesting,' I said at last ; 
 'but, alas, impossible. The man is not born who can 
 keep his reason and lose it too.' 
 
 " I seemed to catch, for the fraction of a moment, a 
 gleam of light from behind the opaque pupils; the 
 same irritating conviction that this man had a knowledge 
 which was not mine, confronted me. 
 
 "'One could assume to have lost his reason,' he 
 answered slowly. ' The effect on outsiders would be the 
 same ; and if he be imaginative, he might even deceive 
 himself but then no man would carry out the ex 
 periment fairly.' 
 
 " ' What would you call carrying it out fairly ? ' 1 
 asked. 
 
 " ' Playing the part to the bitter end, should the ex 
 periment by chance grow bitter. No ; men are cowards, 
 it would be dropped.' 
 
 " 'That must depend on the man. Do you think there 
 are none brave enough to look the immediate conse 
 quences of their own acts in the face when they prove 
 painful ? ' 
 
 " ' That,' answered my companion, coolly, ' is Hell. 
 No man will choose to cross a corner of his Gehenna 
 before his time is ripe ; be sure of that.' 
 
 "The only expression I had ever seen on his face
 
 12 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 came there as he spoke : it filled with a cold, mocking 
 scorn. 
 
 '"See how even curiosity like yours grows cold as 
 the experiment seems possible,' he said; 'or else your 
 courage.' 
 
 " I threw off the slight chill which his words created. 
 
 " ' You are too serious,' I answered, laughing. ' Do 
 you suppose that what I have faced with Dutch courage, 
 I cannot face with my own ? What man has done, man 
 can do; to-night 1 shall try your experiment. 1 shall 
 see and hear all that is to be seen and heard, and 1 shall 
 come out alive on the other side, too.' 
 
 " Again it seemed to me that 1 detected a quick light 
 behind the drooping eyelids. 
 
 '"Let us be merry with the jocund grape in earnest,' 
 he quoted lightly. 
 
 "'No,' 1 replied; 'you should not have mentioned 
 a scheme so seductive, did you not wish it tried. After 
 all, I shall only be reproducing yesterday, or anticipating 
 to-morrow maybe. To-night think of me as enjoying 
 a new sensation ; that in itself is temptation sufficient.' 
 
 "'And if the sensations are not all pleasant?' 
 
 " ' Is art all pretty ? ' I interrupted. 
 
 " My companion rose and stood before me ; he was 
 holding my wine-glass in his hand. It was full to the 
 brim, but not a drop spilled. He looked down into my 
 eyes. 
 
 " ' Are you in earnest ? ' he asked scoffingly. 
 
 " 1 felt a strange numbness creeping over me ; I was 
 conscious only of the scornful face and the opaque eyes 
 which held mine. 
 
 " ' Yes,' I murmured hoarsely ; ' yes.'
 
 " PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 13 
 
 " I felt the glass touch my lips ; a finger pressed my 
 brow; 1 swallowed something which burned like fire, 
 and then I started up to see two soiled glasses on the 
 table and an empty chair opposite mine. 
 
 " That I had been the subject of a mesmerist's trick 
 was the first thought which punctured my stupefaction. 
 My first sensation was naturally indignation ; but crowd 
 ing out everything else, grew a curiosity keener than 
 any emotion 1 had ever experienced. To try at once 
 that experiment which my strange companion had sug 
 gested was the one idea which possessed me. 
 
 " Into the hours which almost immediately followed 
 on my resolution, 1 shall not enter. You may judge of 
 their nature, Charles, partly by experience ; it is enough 
 to say that my highest anticipations did not exceed the 
 reality. 
 
 "I mounted the steps of my own house afterwards, 
 my brain still rioting and reeling with all that I had seen 
 and heard ; I was drunk with excitement, but with ex 
 citement only. I had in those few hours dipped into 
 the depths of the frailties and brutalities of human nature, 
 and seen it naked with unclouded eyes ; I knew myself 
 and those with whom 1 mingled as years of an ordinary 
 existence could not have taught me. 
 
 "There had been no time for reflection; all that my 
 brain could hold had been crowded into it for observa 
 tion, a wild Walpurgis night, which I had entered Faust- 
 like. I was still half under the spell of that delirium of 
 experience, when I reached the library where 1 found my 
 brother-in-law sitting writing ; it was his habit to keep 
 early hours, and his presence somewhat surprised me. 
 As I entered the room, thoroughly preoccupied, my foot
 
 14 " PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 slipped on the smooth floor, and it was with some diffi 
 culty that I recovered my balance. 
 
 " James Irwin looked up, then dashed down his pen, 
 advancing toward me excitedly. 
 
 " ' My God, is it possible! Again, and to-night of all 
 nights ! ' 
 
 "I supposed that my stumble had deceived him; but 
 I would not explain. This was the first time that he had 
 ever attempted open remonstrance, and for the moment 
 I was angered beyond measure. 
 
 " Before any further words were possible, there were 
 quick footsteps outside, and my wife entered the room 
 hastily. She was in evening dress ; there was an unusual 
 colour in her cheeks, an unusual animation in her move 
 ments. I remembered then that I was to have taken her 
 to the ball from which she was now evidently returning ; 
 and as 1 looked at her I almost found it in my heart to 
 regret that 1 had not been with her. 
 
 " She ran past me to her brother's side. 
 
 "'He has come, James,' she cried. ' We stopped for 
 him at the train, on the way home, and 1 have brought 
 him to you. Here he is.' 
 
 " The man, who had followed her more slowly, now 
 came forward. He was younger than Mr. Irwin, but the 
 greeting between the two was that of old and valued 
 friendship ; both were moved, and hid it under a show of 
 heartiness and laughter. 
 
 " Stella stood by, watching them with shining eyes. 
 Her look fell on me, and the change came, a change 
 which appalled me. The light died out of her eyes with 
 the smile from her lips ; an expression of unutterable 
 anguish swept over her features, an agony so withering,
 
 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 15 
 
 a shame so crushing, that I stood there, thrilled and spell 
 bound, scarcely believing it the same face. It was all gone 
 in a moment, and in its place was the stately beauty I 
 knew. 
 
 "The stranger had turned and looked toward me, half 
 hesitating; Mr. Irwin would not respond. I could see 
 the swelling of her slender throat, as my wife raised her 
 head, like a snow-white flower on its stem ; she laid her 
 hand lightly on my arm: 
 
 " ' And here is my husband, also, Mr. Alden,' she 
 said ; ' Albert, you have heard me speak of James's 
 old friend, and mine. We must go to the dining- 
 room, now. I have ordered a late supper for you, Mr. 
 Alden.' 
 
 "I sat at the head of my table, a haunted and bewil 
 dered man, haunted by the agony of soul which had 
 looked out at me from my wife's eyes, and bewildered 
 because I had no comprehension of what could have 
 evoked that depth of feeling which 1 did not know 
 existed beneath the cold surface. I had seen what I 
 thought an exquisite statue changed to a living, suffer 
 ing woman. 
 
 " Looking at that stately, gracious hostess sitting there, 
 graceful, coldly beautiful as ever, I began to regard 
 the evidence of my own eyes as a figment of my over 
 heated brain. 
 
 " Across the room from me a large mirror was set in 
 the wall; the whole supper-table was reflected in it, a 
 framed picture, which caught my eye. The white cloth, 
 the twinkling candles, and bright flowers, the shining 
 silver and glass, my wife's slender figure, Mr. Alden 
 bending toward her as he spoke, her brother's listening
 
 16 " PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 attitude, and, was that myself! that being, flushed and 
 wild-eyed, a disordered vision of excitement ? 
 
 " I could only account for my appearance by supposing 
 that I had thrown myself into my late part too success 
 fully to cast aside the outward show in a moment ; but as 
 1 saw, an insane impulse a fleeting impulse only, but 
 even so to my lasting shame tempted me to assume 
 voluntarily that part which I had unconsciously carried 
 into my home. If that haunting look which I had caught 
 on my wife's face were a reality, I wished to be assured 
 of it. Every instinct repudiated the suggestion as it took 
 form. To carry it out was as far from my intention as 
 light from darkness, and yet, I was roused to the con 
 sciousness that my voice was speaking words which my 
 brain did not originate, which my will did not utter, 
 and I saw on my wife's face that same agony of feature, 
 instantly controlled. 
 
 " It was no illusion ; my heart leaped up in answer. 
 I thought that I had sprung from my chair to her side, 
 regardless of others ; but no, I was sitting there heavily. 
 A pair of expressionless, opaque eyes seemed looking into 
 mine, a scornful face grew indistinctly about them, with 
 lips that mocked and spoke to me alone : 'Do you for 
 get, or does tbe experiment grow bitter ? ' 
 
 " A recollection of the words I had spoken, and the 
 part to which I had vowed myself in the far corner of 
 the club-room, flashed through my brain. My mind 
 answered, not my tongue : ' It did not include tins.' 
 
 "The lips laughed the silent laugh once more. 
 
 " ' Did it never include this before ? Remember, 
 you are only reproducing yesterday, or anticipating 
 to-morrow.'
 
 ''PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 17 
 
 " ' You lie,' I replied fiercely, 'you lie ! ' and then was 
 silent, remembering my own words. 
 
 " ' Look at her ! ' I cried. ' No ; this I have never seen 
 before ! ' 
 
 " Again the lips sneered. 
 
 " ' You have, but with unseeing eyes. Has your 
 curiosity grown cold, or your courage ? ' 
 
 " ' Both,' I answered wildly ; ' I will not enter my Hell 
 on earth.' 
 
 "The face was fading; only the eyes remained, 
 two threatening stars. 
 
 '"// is too late! You have drained my glass to the 
 dregs.' 
 
 " I started back with a shudder of horror, and woke 
 to the awful knowledge that my will was bound in the 
 circle of another's. With every sense sharpened acutely, 
 sensitive to a breath, a word, an expression, 1 yet pos 
 sessed no power to control a self before which 1 grovelled 
 in a humiliation unspeakable, a self which I had simu 
 lated, and which had not seemed loathsome among its 
 kind. 
 
 " I saw James Irwin's hardly repressed indignation, 
 my wife's face white and whiter, that high lovely 
 head still poised proudly, but the heavy eyelids droop 
 ing lower and lower. I saw Alden's eyes turning 
 toward her with a yearning tenderness, at which the 
 blood seethed in my veins. And yet this self, this 
 thing which they thought me, and why not ?-- was 
 singling him out gayly, eagerly. I had been told often 
 that I was never so brilliant as when freely drinking; 
 that then my brain worked with a feverish rapidity, a 
 scintillating wit, and scathing force ; it may have been
 
 18 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 so. I heard everything that night through a veil of 
 blinding shame. 
 
 "Loathing beyond endurance this self to whom it 
 meant madness to be tied, again and again my will 
 wrestled with it, and at each trial the cold, opaque eyes 
 looked on, sucking the life blood of my strength. Each 
 struggle, each failure, left my will weaker, more easy to 
 subdue. The awful moments dragged by; there was 
 not the shaving of the hundredth part of a second of 
 consciousness spared me. 
 
 " When human endurance seemed taxed beyond the 
 power of living, my wife rose from the table, quietly 
 and without excuse. She gave no one time to rise with 
 her ; yet at the moment of her passing Alden on her way 
 from the room, I saw his face lifted in worshipping pity 
 to hers, and 1 longed to spring at his exposed throat, to 
 strangle expression out of the face which dared express 
 so much in my very presence ; for with a keenness which 
 nothing escaped, I knew that she saw also from beneath 
 those lowered lids. She raised her eyes ; . her calm gaze 
 met his fully; she passed on and out of the door. No 
 sign of emotion ruffled that marble mask ; she was 
 my wife, perfectly loyal to the end, to herself, and to 
 this creature she thought me. 
 
 " I could have fallen at her feet ; I was pos 
 sessed with the desire to follow her, to tell her this 
 was all a hideous mistake, a part forced on me by a 
 devil. With all my frenzied efforts, 1 found myself 
 still seated motionless listening to the whispers of my 
 companions. 
 
 " They had cast aside pretences as the door closed. 1 
 had ceased speaking; an intense languor and heaviness
 
 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 19 
 
 were creeping over my body, but hearing and sight were 
 quickened. 
 
 " ' You should have warned me ; you should have 
 spared me this,' Alden was saying, his hand was shad 
 ing his eyes. 
 
 " ' Had there been time, I would have prevented your 
 coming. Ah, my friend, if it could have been other 
 wise ! ' 
 
 " Alden turned away with a quick gesture for silence. 
 
 "They spoke together in low voices, oblivious of me; 
 but I was piecing out a conclusion, fitting a word here 
 and a suggestion there. 
 
 " At last Alden rose. ' I shall leave now, and without 
 again seeing her ; it would only add to her humilia 
 tion. Tell her no, tell her nothing what is there to 
 say ? ' 
 
 " They passed from the room into the hallway. Com 
 pelled by the force which mercilessly drove me, I staggered 
 after them, and found myself grasping the unwilling hand 
 of the man whose presence in my house I now believed 
 I had both reason and right to question. I was bidding 
 him a farewell odious in its warmth. Powerless to resent 
 the cold contempt of his civility, the fact that the very 
 tones of his voice despised me, I was yet urging his 
 stay with a mad hospitality, while longing for one moment 
 of freedom to dash my fist into the mouth which smiled 
 contemptuously in my face. 
 
 "As he turned from me, 1 reeled back into the folds 
 of a portiere which fell before the door of the little with- 
 drawing-room off the hall. I caught the swinging curtain 
 and stood in the open doorway, half hidden, maddened 
 with disgust, shuddering at this self which wrapped me
 
 20 " PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 like a noisome serpent; then came a realization which 
 brought me the calmness of despair. This disgust, this 
 horror, were new to me and to me only; not new to 
 others, not new to her. 
 
 " My wife was coming down the stairway. The two 
 men glanced at each other, and then waited for her in 
 silence. 
 
 " She came toward them, smiling through her pallor. 
 
 " ' You would have gone without seeing me ? ' she said 
 with gentle reproach; she held out her hand as she 
 spoke. 
 
 " I saw Alden take it reverently in his ; I heard his 
 voice break as he bade her farewell, turning hastily away. 
 The door closed, and with its closing, her hands hid her 
 face. 
 
 " ' You have broken his heart among you, and now 
 your own,' said James Irwin's voice, bitterly. 
 
 " I staggered into the room behind me and sank into a 
 chair. 
 
 " If my wife's heart were mine, I had never questioned ; 
 besotted with self, I had asked only if I were satisfied. 
 And I had been satisfied ; I had not asked for more. 
 Why now this indiscribable sense of injury and loss ? My 
 chair was turned with its high back toward the door, and 
 presently I heard her footsteps behind it ; she had entered 
 the room and was coming forward, her eyes fixed before 
 her, her face speaking of infinite regrets and sadness 
 to my jealous eyes. She paused with her hand on the 
 back of my chair, not seeing me; then she looked 
 down. Her hand caught the chair for support ; she 
 trembled and quivered, but not more than I in my tor 
 ture of inaction. What did I represent to her at this
 
 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 21 
 
 moment as she looked down on me, a mere soulless 
 carcass to the sight ? She was bending over me, moan 
 ing under her breath, 
 
 " ' Oh, my fallen idol ! ' 
 
 " I held my breath to hear her. ' My fallen idol, for 
 those eyes of all others to see your feet of clay ! ' 
 
 " Passionate response surged from my heart to my lips. 
 ' Let me speak to her,' 1 groaned ; but there was no sound. 
 I was struggling, writhing, fighting, but without motion. 
 With a sickening sensation of bodily pain, a gathering- 
 gloom closed about me, in which the only break was a 
 gleam of light from behind dull, opaque eyes, half covered 
 with their lids. It was in them that the force which held 
 me lay, against them that every fibre of my body and 
 brain was concentrated in the desperate struggle. I was in 
 an outer darkness where there was only a sound of weep 
 ing, of rending sobs, each one beating on my heart and 
 calling me as by name. 
 
 " ' Let me go to her,' I gasped, soundlessly, again. 
 
 " 'Are none brave enough to look the immediate con 
 sequences of their own acts in the face ? ' whispered a 
 voice like the hissing of a snake in my ear. Drops of 
 sweat stood on my brow; body and soul, held as in a 
 vise, were quivering in every nerve, straining at every 
 muscle. Darkness and death seemed to fall ; deep called 
 to deep over my head, and then, above all, piercing and 
 clear, rose a still, small voice : 
 
 " ' Out of the Deep have I called upon Thee, O 
 Lord.' 
 
 " My lips moved, my tongue loosened ; words long 
 strangers to heart and lip burst from me : 
 
 " ' Lord, hear my voice ! '
 
 22 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 " I was at my wife's feet, telling her I scarcely knew 
 what, yet I think in some way she understood and was 
 satisfied. 
 
 " We were clinging fearfully together like children. 
 The head which had been so proudly carried through all 
 was bowed on my breast. 1 was pouring out my repent 
 ance and vows in her ear, vows which have never been 
 broken. When the morning light came into the room 
 through the shutters, we were still sitting there, hand in 
 hand. I threw open the window, and we stood watching 
 the dawn breaking over the housetops, the dawn of a 
 new day. By its light I first saw that peace and tender 
 ness in my wife's face, and with a new anxiety I marked 
 its pallor. As I hurried her to her room for a few hours 
 sleep, I knew that for myself sleep was impossible. I 
 went out into the streets through the dim, gray light, com 
 muning with my soul, which had been born again, full of 
 wonder and thankfulness. Then it was that 1 dreamed 
 out humbly and with stumbling prayers the life which is 
 now reality, the life in which you know me, Charles. 
 Only when the working world began to wake, and the 
 shutters to be taken down from the shop-windows, did I 
 turn toward home. 
 
 " The gold band which your aunt wears above her 
 wedding ring is a trifle too wide for a guard ; I bought it 
 on my way home that morning, and had the date of our 
 true wedding engraved in it. This we call our marriage 
 ring, Charles ; and now you know the story of my inner 
 life." 
 
 Charles Gordon, sitting in his chair opposite his uncle, 
 gazing at him, motionless and bewildered, started and 
 passed his hand before his eyes, then stared again. In his
 
 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 23 
 
 uncle's place sat a figure which he knew and did not 
 know. 
 
 The face was scornful ; the eyes half shut and without 
 expression. The figure was dim and shadowy. 
 
 " Have you the courage ? " asked the mocking lips. 
 
 He knew the words they spoke by their motion; for 
 there was no sound. Charles felt his heart leap up and 
 then contract. The power of bodily motion seemed gone 
 from him, and in its place was an activity of mind which 
 stretched out before him a panorama of past days and 
 weeks, before which he shuddered and shrank back. 
 
 " No," he muttered hoarsely, " no, no " 
 
 " Has it been so bad as this, Charles ? " whispered a 
 sorrowful voice; he thought it the Voice which would 
 not be forgotten. 
 
 But now a strange languor was creeping over him 
 through which he could be sure of nothing. 
 
 " Has it been so bad as this? Courage, oh, courage! 
 All is not lost ! " 
 
 The figure in the chair rose and lifted his glass from 
 the table. It was over full until the wine stood like a 
 rounded ball above the rim, yet not a drop spilled. 
 
 " Have you the courage?" asked the silent lips again. 
 
 Charles lifted his eyes heavily to the opaque ones above 
 him. 
 
 " I am ready," he answered dully ; a quick light 
 gleamed from behind the falling eyelids. 
 
 The eyes held his. A shadowy finger rose and pointed 
 to his brow ; the glass touched his lips. 
 
 With sudden revulsion, and an effort which was like 
 the wrenching apart of body and soul, Charles broke from 
 the torpor which held him.
 
 24 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 
 
 He struggled to his feet with a hoarse cry of defiance. 
 
 " Away with you ! I will have none of your mum 
 mery. Leave me be to work out my own salvation with 
 my God." 
 
 His hand struck down the glass, which fell to the floor 
 with a crash. 
 
 " Charles, my dear boy, Charles," said a gentle voice. 
 
 Charles Gordon opened his eyes and looked up into his 
 aunt's face. His uncle was standing beside her, and on 
 the floor lay a broken wine-glass, the wine soaking into 
 the carpet. 
 
 " Have you been dreaming ? " said Mr. Gordon. 
 " We heard your cry upstairs ; you were half asleep 
 when I left you." 
 
 Charles looked at him silently, a great fear in his eyes. 
 His limbs were shaking and his lips were tremulous. 
 
 What part of this had his uncle's voice told him? 
 What part a phantom of sleep ? 
 
 " Yes," he faltered ; "I 1 have been dreaming." 
 
 His aunt raised her soft handkerchief and wiped away 
 the drops of sweat which stood on his brow ; as she did 
 so, Charles saw above her wedding ring a band of gold 
 wider than a guard. 
 
 Somewhere, not in space or in form, as it were in 
 his mind's eye, there rose before him a scornful face with 
 eyelid's half shut over opaque eyes, and lips which curled 
 in a mocking smile. 
 
 Charles closed his hand over his aunt's, clasping it 
 
 closely. He rose to his feet, facing he knew not what ; 
 
 his voice was trembling and uncertain, but his eyes were 
 
 fixed steadfastly before him. 
 
 " Whether 1 have dreamed or lived," he said, " it is the
 
 "PERCHANCE TO DREAM." 25 
 
 same ; 1, too, have passed through, and have come out, on 
 the other side, not dead, but alive." 
 
 "Wake, dear, wake!" said Mrs. Gordon; "Albert, 
 rouse him, he is still dreaming." 
 
 Mr. Gordon laid his hands on his nephew's shoulders, 
 and looked search ingly into his face. 
 
 "No," he said with a strange smile, "no, he is 
 awakened."
 
 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA.
 
 How THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA.* 
 
 T HAD said to a friend: 
 
 * "I want to go to a river, a river in the moun 
 tains, and I want to see new faces. I want to be with 
 people who won't expect anything in return for amusing 
 me, with simple folk who have simple ideas, or none 
 at all ; for I find the society of a perfect fool is the most 
 acceptable to me just now." 
 
 " You need hardly leave your native city to seek that 
 commodity," my friend answered. 
 
 "Yes; but the city fools catch the cant of the day, 
 and I am so weary of it all." 
 
 " I know just what you mean, just what you want, 
 and just where to send you to get it," my friend answered. 
 " I will give you the address of a farm-house in the Vir 
 ginia mountains where I was fishing last summer. The 
 people there will take you in if you say I sent you ; and I 
 think it will meet all your requirements. 1 should cer 
 tainly risk it if I were you." 
 
 And risk it I did not without some misgivings. 
 
 * For the accuracy of this story I cannot answer. It is contrary 
 to every law of the Society of Friends. I can only quote Reuben 
 Grey as an eye-witness, and my authority.
 
 30 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 
 
 The family proper was small : the old farmer himself, 
 Reuben Grey, a man of more than eighty years, his 
 wife Mary, and their adopted daughter Cynthia. Then 
 came, equally a part of the household, Sam, an old negro 
 slave born on the same day as his master. 
 
 But the centre and flower of the whole place was 
 Cynthia s Her mother had been a Quakeress who, 
 alone in the world, had somehow wandered into the 
 circle of kindness surrounding Reuben Grey. He had 
 taken her and her child, first to his hearth, and then to 
 his heart. I do not know which was the more large 
 and warm. 
 
 The mother had not lived long to enjoy either, and 
 her dying wish was that her child should be brought up 
 in the faith of her forefathers. This the pious Presby 
 terian couple, who took the poor little waif as their own, 
 had honestly striven to accomplish. 
 
 Cynthia was now eighteen years old, and she had been 
 sent to the Quaker settlement regularly every Saturday 
 night, to receive religious instruction from the good 
 " Friends " until Monday morning's duties drew her back 
 to the farm. She was almost too sedate and prim some 
 times. She talked little ; but what she said was in a 
 voice so round and sweet that 1 loved to listen to it, 
 even when she was only counting over the eggs for 
 market. She always used the attractive " thee " of 
 her people ; and there was about her an intense 
 though soft reserve which kept me doubly interested 
 in her. 
 
 Next in my favour stood Sam, Sam, with a bunch 
 of rags for a coat, one eye in his head, one tooth in 
 his mouth, and a perfectly white goatee growing out of
 
 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 3! 
 
 one side of his chin with a crookedness which was 
 irresistible. 
 
 Such was the homestead, and so it happened that I 
 came to be standing in the strawberry patch of a run 
 down Virginia farm, listening to the grumbles of old 
 Sam, who, unconscious of my presence, was picking 
 berries for my supper. 
 
 " Cuss Abe Lincoln, cuss Abe Lincoln, I say ! had'n 
 bin fer his dern foolishness, I bin a-settin' in Massa's 
 quarters dis day a-doin' nothin'. Ole as I is, an' pickin' 
 berries in dis hot sun ! Cuss Abe Lincoln ! " 
 
 " Oh, Uncle Sam ! " I cried. 
 
 " Lord bress yer, chile, yer dun scere me to def. Honey, 
 don' never speak to Sam suddint from behin'. I 's a- 
 tremblin' all over." 
 
 " What makes you so cross to-day ? " I asked. 
 
 " Mis'ry, chile; mis'ry all down dis side, an' shootin' 
 cross here, an' up de oder side." 
 
 He exemplified on his spare person with his thin hand. 
 
 " De berry-lines, dey pears to git longer an' longer," 
 he sighed plaintively. 
 
 1 took pity on him. 
 
 " 1 '11 help you pick, if you will promise not to swear 
 at President Lincoln any more." 
 
 Uncle Sam possessed, with the rest of his race, a talent 
 for skipping the disagreeable with a calm adroitness which 
 any woman of the world might have envied. 
 
 " Yes, honey," he said, coaxingly. " Yes, help pore 
 ole Sam a mite how 's your pretty ma ? " 
 
 " Quite well," I answered. " And how is your niece? 
 Do you think her husband has really deserted her? I 
 was sorry to hear of her being in trouble."
 
 32 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 
 
 " Well, not to say 'zactly in trouble, Miss Katrine. Yer 
 see, Ozella, she ain't no fool. Ef a nigger don' wan' her, 
 she don' wan' dat nigger. She ain't cryin' none, naw, 
 indeed ; she 's studyin' 'bout Ozella, an' dere ain't no time 
 ter cry. 1 ain't a-sayin' don' cry ef you 's got plenty o' 
 money, like you is; but cryin' an' starvin' is sompin else. 
 Naw, indeed, honey ; be tough wid de times, 1 says, and 
 Ozella, she feel jes' like me. Dar somebody calling of 
 yer now." 
 
 There was a handkerchief waving from a window of 
 the house, which 1 knew meant that my mother was wait 
 ing for me to walk with her. I left the berry patch 
 and walked slowly toward the house, looking, as I did 
 so, with a dreamy enjoyment at the sunny fields and at 
 the clamouring river which ran beside them, a fiver 
 which was running swiftly downhill to reach the moun 
 tain's base. 
 
 There was nothing particularly attractive about the 
 house itself, excepting the negative charm of being almost 
 hidden by creepers and honeysuckle. It stood remote 
 from the main road, so isolated as to make the figure of a 
 man sitting on his horse in front of the yard gate an object 
 of curiosity to me. I was attracted by the fact that the 
 rider possessed a more intelligent face than any I had seen 
 in this part of the world, and that his general appearance 
 was manly and striking. He was talking to the family, 
 who were collected on the porch, and as I drew near said 
 hastily and with evident confusion, 
 
 " It 's to be next Saturday, to-day week. I hope you 
 will all come, and your guests as well." He hesitated a 
 moment, and then looked wistfully at Cynthia. "Thee 
 will come, will thee not?" he asked.
 
 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 33 
 
 She only smiled in answer. It seemed to satisfy him, 
 however, for he made his adieux and rode away as I 
 stepped on to the porch. 
 
 " 1 have an invertation to a weddin' for you, Miss 
 Katharine," cried the old farmer, gayly. 
 
 " Is that young Nimrod to be married ? " I asked. 
 
 "His name ain't Nimrod ; it 's Richard Rolf. But he 's 
 to be married to the prettiest girl in thirty miles, to-day 
 week." 
 
 The prettiest girl in thirty miles ! I looked at Cynthia's 
 delicate beauty, and wondered where were his eyes. 
 
 " As pretty as a picter," he went on. " She 's town- 
 bred, and not bin here long. Her mother was a Quakeress 
 from the Settlemunt, like our Cynthy here; but she 
 married a city man, and out o' the faith, so they cast her 
 off. But las' winter she died, the same week as her husband ; 
 and then her people they went up to town and got Dora, 
 the onliest child, and brought her down here to upset ev'ry 
 lad in the Settlemunt. All of 'em were buzzin' 'round her. 
 Even Richard, who allays was a stiddy chap, sort o' got 
 crazy 'bout her ; and bein' as he has the best farm 'round 
 here, the Quakers think a heap of them things, they 
 do say her uncle, Frien' Moore, gave the thing a shove 
 along. They '11 make a fine-looking pa'r. But Cynthy 
 can tell you more 'bout it than 1 can ; they 're her frien's, 
 all belongin' to the Settlemunt eh, Cynthy ? " 
 
 " I think thee has told all that I know, Father," said 
 Cynthia, with gentle indifference. 
 
 " I ain't got but one thing agin' Richard," continued the 
 farmer, reflectively ; " he 's too Quaker. He don't be thee- 
 ing ev'rybody, like our Cynthy here only his kind; but, 
 Lord ! he 'd better be a-theeing all over the place than bein' 
 
 3
 
 34 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 
 
 so sot in his ways about the movin's of the Sperit. I never 
 see nobody believe in it like Richard Rolf." 
 
 " A fanatic ? " I asked. 
 
 " I don' know what you city folks calls it. 1 calls it a 
 fool. Who 's to say which is a-movin' folks to speech, 
 the Sperit or the flesh ? But Richard, he believes it 's allays 
 only the Sperit ; and nothin' would shake him." 
 
 " How old is he ?" 
 
 " Twenty-seven, and Dora just seventeen. I don' be 
 lieve in a man marryin' so young myself. It 's too big a 
 risk for the lady, too big a risk. It takes a long time to be 
 sure a man 's settled in his ways. Now, I married at thirty - 
 seven, and I doubted then but 1 was too young. 1 kep' 
 feelin' anxious for some years on Mary's account. I might 
 'a' broke out any time. A lady can't be too keerful." 
 
 So saying, the kindly old man wandered off, intent on 
 his farm duties, leaving me with a strong desire to be pres 
 ent at the Quaker wedding. 
 
 Sunday had come and almost gone. It was so like any 
 other day on the farm that had I not been told of its 
 presence by my calendar, and observed a palpably clean 
 collar on the master of the house, and one layer less of dirt 
 on old Sam, I should not have known any difference from 
 the week days. The early supper had been eaten, and the 
 "men-folks" were sitting on the back porch, wrapped in 
 clouds of tobacco smoke, and talking on that exhaustless 
 topic, " the wa-ar." It was here as present a theme as if 
 still raging around the pretty homestead. It seemed as if 
 the feeling were to be bequeathed to children's children. 
 
 Ah, I could not wonder. On the hillside at the back of 
 the house was the family graveyard. There lay the " ole 
 inistis," with her husband beside her. They had dropped
 
 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 35 
 
 as the sere leaves, not before their time. About their 
 deaths hung no bitter memories; but who can comfort 
 Rachel mourning for her children ! In one corner of the 
 graveyard 1 found a slab of marble ; carved on it in rude 
 letters were these simple words, which told their own sad 
 story, - 
 
 IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY: 
 
 REUBEN GREY died 1862, aged seventeen. 
 HENRY GREY died 1861, aped nineteen. 
 FRANCIS GREY died 1861, aged eighteen. 
 All sons of Reuben and Mary Grey. 
 
 "Truly," 1 thought, "the bitterness of death is here." 
 
 1 had never heard the names of these children pass the 
 lips of the father or mother, and I need not say that 1 
 never alluded to the discovery, which had inexpressibly 
 touched me. On this particular night I felt in no mood 
 for listening to the old soldiers' stories, they had a tone 
 of sadness, even the jocular ones ; so I sought the solitude 
 of the front veranda. I sat down on the steps, basking in 
 the peace and quiet beauty of the night. 
 
 The full moon was riding high in the heavens, throw 
 ing the shadows of the vines about the porch on the 
 broad flags at my feet. There was just enough soft breeze 
 to make the phantom leaves dance weirdly. The whole 
 place seemed asleep except for the "cluck, cluck," of an 
 uneasy hen who could not settle herself to her mind on 
 the bough of a tree near the porch, where she perversely 
 elected to roost instead of in the comfortable hen 
 house. The revery into which I had fallen was suddenly 
 interrupted. 
 
 " Does thee believe that every one has a soul ? "
 
 36 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 
 
 The voice was Cynthia's, but a harsh note in its usual 
 music and the abruptness of the question made me start 
 and look up hastily. 
 
 " Does not your Church teach you that every one has a 
 soul, Cynthia ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," she replied indifferently. 
 
 " Then why do you ask me such a question ? " 
 
 She laid her hand lightly on my arm, and drew me to 
 the other end of the porch. 
 
 " Look ! " she said scornfully. I looked, and smiled as 
 I did so. There, half in the shadow of the old house, 
 stood Ozella, the deserted one, deserted, but not incon 
 solable, it seemed, for by her side, and by all signs having 
 proved his power to comfort, stood a new adorer. 
 
 1 turned away, and sat down upon the steps again, 
 motioning to Cynthia to sit beside me. 1 was amused by 
 her disgust and desperate earnestness. 
 
 " It is not possible, Cynthia," 1 said, laughing, " that 
 you think faithlessness proves an absence of soul ! Why, 
 child, if that were made a sure test, half of the women in 
 the world, 1 know, would be proved soulless." 
 
 Cynthia bent forward, and laid her hand on my arm ; 
 through my thin sleeve I could feel that it was burning as 
 with fever. The moon shone full on her face, and I saw 
 its eager look ; her lips were parted, a bright spot of colour 
 burned in either cheek, and her eyes, which were of a soft 
 blue usually, looked black and brilliant. 
 
 " Thee will tell me," she breathed ; " is it so with men 
 also out in the world ? " 
 
 I looked at her in dumb amazement. Was this the 
 same self-contained little maiden who had waited on us at 
 supper, and whom 1 had thought more than usually sjdate
 
 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 37 
 
 all day ? A light broke on me suddenly. I remembered, 
 with a flash of inspiration, the wistful look cast on her by 
 the young Quaker the day before ; and 1 knew also that 
 Cynthia had refused to be driven over to the Settlement 
 on Saturday evening, pleading a headache. And now 
 this outbreak; for so 1 may call it. Had 1 fallen on a 
 little tragedy in this mountain fastness? Poor little 
 one! she was so young and tender to have learned 
 already that stern lesson of her sex, to appear most 
 outwardly composed when her heart was sorest. 1 
 wondered bow faithless this lover had been; and I 
 could not think that Cynthia had given her heart to one 
 wholly unworthy, even with my slight knowledge of her 
 character. All this darted through my brain in a moment ; 
 then I suddenly determined Heaven forgive me! to play 
 Providence. 
 
 " Cynthia," I said, " if a man had given his vows to 
 one woman, and then discovered that another had his 
 heart, do you think he should keep up the mockery of a 
 false faithfulness ? " 
 
 " But why should his heart change ? " she asked quickly. 
 
 " How can any one tell ? Solomon himself knew noth 
 ing of ' the way of a man with a maid.' It might happen, 
 and neither he nor the second woman be to blame." 
 
 Cynthia suddenly interrupted me. " Does thee mean 
 to show that there can be any right in the woman who 
 steals what belongs to another, or in the man who 
 lets her?" 
 
 " It might be neither a question of stealing nor letting; 
 the discovery might surprise both." 
 
 " Thee knows, then, it is the Devil teaching and blind 
 ing them. There could be no blessedness in such a mar-
 
 38 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 
 
 riage; and thee forgets thee utterly forgets that other 
 woman." 
 
 I longed to gather the suffering child in my arms, and 
 soothe her with gentle words and caresses; but this, I 
 knew, would be a cruel kindness. 
 
 " No, Cynthia," I answered ; " I do not forget the other 
 woman. Her part is a cruelly hard one, but not so hard 
 as it would be if a false sense of honour bound the man's 
 body when it could not bind his soul." 
 
 " She would have no wish to bind him ; she would only 
 despise them both," said Cynthia, finally. 
 
 I passed over the question of the rival woman. " It 
 would not make her despise him if she loved truly, Cyn 
 thia; she would learn to understand that he was right." 
 
 " Would thee be willing to love so ? " asked Cynthia. 
 
 " Cynthia, if you are going to do any work to-morrow, 
 child, you 'd best go to bed now." 
 
 A heavy step sounded on the floor, and the portly figure 
 of Mrs. Grey showed in the open door; I looked grate 
 fully at her. The interruption was welcome, for I could 
 not quite assure myself that Cynthia's question did not 
 contain a spirit of criticism ; certainly I had no answer 
 ready, and my enthusiasm for playing Providence was 
 dashed. Cynthia glided by me like a shadow, leaving me 
 feeling as one might who had torn open a lily -bud and 
 thus caught a glimpse of the golden heart within. 
 
 " It 's a beautiful night, Miss Katharine," said Mrs. 
 Grey; "but to-morrow 's wash-day, and I don't like that 
 rim to the moon, it looks like rain." 
 
 Called back thus to earth and mundane matters, I bade 
 my hostess a preoccupied good-night, and sought my 
 room and my bed.
 
 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 39 
 
 The marriage morning of Richard Rolf dawned bright 
 and beautiful, and found me a strangely excited and 
 interested spectator of the sad little drama going on 
 under my eyes, the existence of which I alone suspected. 
 Cynthia had shown no consciousness on meeting my 
 eyes the morning after her self-betrayal; she neither 
 avoided my look nor sought it, and in just the same 
 manner did she behave regarding my society. 
 
 As I have always held that the sin of betraying the 
 secrets of one friend to another paled before the sin of 
 betraying the mood of one day to the mood of the next, 
 I ignored, as Cynthia did, our conversation of Sunday 
 night. I should have grown to think it a dream of my 
 own brain's spinning, had 1 not seen under Cynthia's eyes 
 those dark rings which betoken sleepless nights, and ob 
 served her more than usual silence. Her work was as 
 well and as regularly done as ever; the same gentle 
 sweetness and serenity was hers, at least outwardly. Her 
 silence was unnoticed by the kind farmer and his wife, 
 for she was, as ever, ready to discuss fully any new pro 
 ject on the farm or in the housekeeping. Even now I could 
 hear her talking over plans for Monday's apple-peeling 
 with her adoptive mother as they sat behind me in the 
 wagon, driving over to the Quaker wedding. I had won 
 dered if Cynthia's strength would carry her through this 
 hardest trial; and in my heart, I applauded the dignity 
 and self-control which prompted her to be present. 
 
 Sam sat on the front seat beside me, ostensibly driv 
 ing; but I had long ago taken the reins from his hands. 
 He was idly flicking at the flies on the horses' backs 
 with his stubby whip. 
 
 " You see dat," he said, and pointed to a jagged scar
 
 40 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 
 
 on the near horse's flank. " Dat gemman fren' o' yourn 
 what war here las' year, he done cure dat. What he 
 don' know 'bout hosses ain' wuth knowin' ef he did 
 fit on de oder side in de wor." 
 
 " Which is the other side, Sam ? " 
 
 " De Yanks, honey," Sam continued, his elbows on 
 his knees, and his woolly white head nodding to em 
 phasize his remarks. 
 
 "Young mars, he fit 'em toof and nail, an' lef me 
 to take keer o' ole mars an' ole miss', an' de young 
 mistis too. ' Sam ' says he, ' I leaves you as a kind of 
 gardeen for 'em all,' he says 'a kind of gardeen.' 
 Den he got hisse'f shot in de leg: not in de battle whar 
 de two fust pore chillerns was kilt, but in de one whar 
 little Rube was lef. Dey never did see him no mo' ; 
 we don' know what did come to de chile. Hit all jes' 
 dig ole mistis grave, hit did ; but little Rube, dat cut her 
 mos'. When young mars he come home, den I went 
 an' I fit dem Yanks fur more 'n a year." 
 
 Oh, Uncle Sam Uncle Sam, you hoary old sinner ! 
 Do I not know your story ! Do 1 not know how you 
 thirsted for "freedom," and how you deserted wounded 
 young mars, ole miss', and all, to cross the lines and get 
 out of Dixie ; and have I not seen the pathetic letter which 
 came from the Massachusetts Hospital after the Spring of 
 '65, saying, "Young mars, fur de Lamb's sake, coin.' 
 git Sam. 1 never run away no mo'." 
 
 The cruel New England winter had frozen all love of 
 freedom out of poor Sam's heart, child of the sun as 
 he was; but Sam had his own pleasing little fiction 
 concerning that year of absence, and had told it so 
 often that 1 think he had taught his feeble brain to 
 believe it.
 
 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 41 
 
 By such discourse did he beguile the way, until at 
 last the ten miles of wooded road were travelled and the 
 Quaker meeting-house was in sight. It stood a little 
 apart from the Settlement, and was built on the side of 
 a hill so steep that a realization of the tenacity it must 
 require to stick on made me feel tired as I looked at it. 
 
 We were among the last arrivals, and had barely taken 
 our seats with the assembled " Friends," when Richard 
 Rolf entered quietly and sought his place among the 
 men on the other side of the aisle. 
 
 1 stole a look at Cynthia, but she had taken her 
 Quakerdom and wrapped it about her as a garment; I 
 could learn nothing of her feelings from her face. She 
 had looked at Richard when he entered the room, as did 
 the other women, and then cast her eyes down again. 
 
 The door soon opened to admit the bride, who walked 
 into the meeting-house between her uncle, Friend Moore, 
 and his wife. 
 
 When I saw her, I had to admit, in spite of my jeal 
 ousy for Cynthia's loveliness, that she possessed a dusky 
 beauty, as perfect a type of its kind as the dreamy face on 
 which I had loved to gaze. There was not enough charac 
 ter in the soft contour of Dora's face ; but one gained an 
 impression of a distracting prettiness and coquetry just 
 the kind of face Hetty Sorrel must have had, 1 thought. 
 She might have turned older and wiser heads than Richard 
 Rolf's with that seductive grace and softness. 
 
 She sat down, nestling close to her aunt's side like a 
 frightened child; it was easy to see that she was a 
 " Friend " by adoption, not birth. Her hands were 
 twisted restlessly together, and her eyelids, which she 
 never raised, fluttered nervously. The utter silence in the 
 room was broken suddenly by a late comer, and then
 
 42 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 
 
 for the first time the bride raised her eyes, and I saw 
 their lovely soft brown ; but why, 1 wondered amazedly, 
 should they dilate and express such helpless terror as they 
 fell on the face of the man who had just entered. 
 
 He was standing against the opposite wall tor the 
 room was crowded and was fixing his eyes upon Dora 
 with an unmistakably stern and threatening expression. 
 That he was " of the world " was shown by his dress ; and 
 that the world had left its mark on him was stamped on 
 his features. 
 
 But now Richard rose, and, in the quaint Quaker 
 phrases, took Dora for better, for worse. As he finished 
 speaking, the bride rose mechanically ; and as she did so, I 
 looked at the man opposite. 
 
 He was leaning forward, his gaze fixed on the bride as 
 before, only more intensely, more burningly ; and, as 
 though drawn against her will, Dora turned her face to 
 him. 
 
 In that moment 1 was sure I saw her eyes answer his, 
 and the next she tore them away, and, turning from him, 
 opened her lips. 
 
 "1, Theodora," she began, then faltered, wavered, and, 
 flinging herself on her knees before her aunt, she clung to 
 her, crying wildly: "I cannot do it! Oh, I cannot I 
 cannot ! " 
 
 Friend Moore rose from among the men, and crossed 
 over to her. " Dora," he said sternly, " is thee mad ? 
 Thee has heard naught against Friend Rolf ? " 
 
 " No, no," she sobbed ; "but there is something within 
 me that tells me ill of him, and I dare not marry him." 
 
 " Dora," began her uncle, still more sternly ; but 
 Richard interrupted him.
 
 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA; 43 
 
 " Nay, Friend Moore, thee shall not force the maid." 
 His voice was strained and harsh, his face gray, and the 
 veins showed large on his temples, but the composure of 
 the young fanatic was perfect. " If the Spirit condemn 
 me through her, I must bear it as a man may. Who can 
 say how black his own soul's sins are? If mine be so 
 deeply stained that the Spirit warns a pure maid to beware 
 of me, then it is best that I should know the truth." 
 
 I heard a quick breath drawn close by me, and my 
 heart gave a great throb as I turned and looked at 
 Cynthia. 
 
 She was standing, the Cynthia of Sunday night. 
 There was the same soft flush on her cheek, the same 
 eager eyes none of the Quaker cloak left. She was 
 always lovely, but now heavens, how beautiful she was ! 
 Her voice, when she spoke, thrilled me unspeakably ; it 
 had the tenderness of a mother to her child, of a woman 
 to her lover. 
 
 "Richard, she is deceiving thee; it is not the Spirit 
 moving her. I am as pure a maid as she, and nothing 
 tells me ill of thee ; I would not fear to marry thee this 
 hour." 
 
 Shaken, trembling, where now was Richard's com 
 posure? Striding across the room, he caught Cynthia 
 by the wrists, his glowing face and excited demeanor 
 contrasting strangely with his Quaker garb. 
 
 "Cynthia," he whispered almost fiercely, "does thee 
 mean it ? Will thee prove it by doing so ? I have been 
 as one possessed. Can thee ever possibly forgive ? " 
 
 " Thee knows it, Richard." 
 
 " And thee will really marry me, and now ? " 
 
 " As thee wills, Richard."
 
 44 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 
 
 " Then know all present that I, Richard, take Cynthia 
 for my wedded wife." 
 
 And almost before we had recovered from the shock of 
 the surprise, the brief religious ceremony was begun and 
 ended, and Richard and Cynthia were man and wife. 
 
 "Well, ef dat don' beat all dat pore pretty chile! 1 
 reckon Cynthy won' cry none." 
 
 I moved quickly to the kitchen-door when I heard these 
 words the morning after Cynthia's strange marriage. 
 
 " What is it, Uncle Sam ? " 1 asked anxiously. 
 
 "Dat pore little Dora dun run away, honey," answered 
 Uncle Sam, the news-gatherer. 
 
 " Run away ? " 
 
 " Yes, honey ; let herself and her closes down outen der 
 winder las' night." 
 
 I began to see light. 
 
 " To whom did she let herself down ? " 
 
 " To dat onery city cousin o' hern. He bin a-hangin' 
 roun' ever sence de chile cum from town. Dey say ole 
 man Moore run him off at las', but he war down to de 
 weddin' onexpected yestiddy ; an' now he done got her, 
 and what he gwine to keep her on, de Lord knows. She 
 air as putty as a pigeon, she air ; but she carn't fly aroun' 
 a-feedin' of herseP like dey do. Naw, indeed ! " 
 
 So this was the spirit which had moved poor Dora. 
 Cynthia had not been mistaken, nor had 1 been over ready 
 in surprising meaning glances ; for that the cousin and the 
 mysterious worldling of yesterday were one and the same I 
 could not doubt. I hoped that he might belie his looks, 
 for the sake of the pretty, rebellious girl ; but my heart 
 was too full of Cynthia to think much of Dora's fate.
 
 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 45 
 
 1 felt that I had played a large part, though behind the 
 scenes, in the little drama just enacted ; and I was anything 
 but comfortable in my self-imposed responsibility. 1 knew 
 so little, and 1 had spoken so strongly. Suppose Richard 
 were really unworthy ! 1 had certainly striven to prove to 
 Cynthia that he was not ; but then how could I guess that 
 a new character would be introduced at the last moment, 
 that the actors would throw their lines to the winds and 
 speak according to their own wills, and above all that 
 Cynthia should play so unexpected a part and improvise 
 so amazingly ? 1 longed to know if she were happy, or if 
 she already repented her rash act. 
 
 Only once had she shown me her heart ; and but once 
 more was I to look into its pure and lovely depths, and 
 then for a moment only. 
 
 In a few days I was to leave the mountains forever, and 
 I felt that I could not go without a word of farewell to 
 Cynthia ; so the good farmer drove me over hill and dale 
 to her new home. We took many packages with us, 
 useful household trifles supplied from the pantry of the 
 kind adoptive mother. 
 
 That drive will always live in my memory ; I can 
 close my eyes now and feel a sense of light and of heat 
 without its enervating warmth, and see the many greens 
 of the trees, and hear the sleepy swish and ripple of the 
 water. 
 
 By my side was old Reuben Grey, whose flow of speech 
 needed no rousing of my mind to comprehend, nor any 
 prompting to go purling on as steadily and restfully as the 
 river whose bed we followed. 
 
 How I bathed my soul in quiet and nothingness, and 
 how like heaven I thought it !
 
 46 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 
 
 I noticed idly that for some reason the old man chose 
 to drive with one foot hanging out of the dilapidated 
 buggy. Was it in memory of the departed days of 
 blooded horses, when it was safer to be always ready ? 
 1 do not know, but he only drew in that wagging foot 
 when fording the river, which we did about a dozen 
 times in our zigzag course. Some of the fords were 
 good, some bad. At the worst, Reuben Grey drew 
 rein and suggested that 1 should take up a package of 
 biscuits which lay at my feet and put them in my lap. 
 
 "And," he added calmly, "ef 1 was you, I would 
 jest tuck up my feet on the dashboard before we get in 
 the water, for it do come in powerful sometimes." 
 
 1 took the biscuits into my lap and tucked my feet 
 up on the dashboard. Though the water did not come 
 in, it might have. 
 
 " Anyway, we were ready for her," said the dear 
 prudent old man. 
 
 At last we reached Cynthia's home, and we found 
 her the same gentle, placid Cynthia ; looking at her, 
 who could dream of the slumbering fires within ? 
 
 "He, "she told us, was out on the farm. "He" al 
 ways means the good man of the house on mountain- 
 tops. 
 
 The young wife was gracious and self-possessed, show 
 ing us over her thrifty, comfortable house, and never by 
 word or look referring to any of the strange features of 
 her marriage ; her gentle dignity was beautiful in its 
 simplicity. 
 
 Only in the few moments when Reuben Grey was 
 untying the horse were we alone. 
 
 I could stand it no longer. " Dear Cynthia," I cried,
 
 HOW THE SPIRIT MOVED CYNTHIA. 47 
 
 "are you happy? I shall never see you again, and I 
 should like to hear you say so before I go." 
 
 She raised her eyes to mine, and I could see that they 
 were full of tears. 
 
 "Yes," she said simply; "and I shall never forget 
 thee ; for it was thee that made me do it. 1 could never 
 have said 1 knew no ill of him if thee had not shown 
 me he had done no ill; thee did teach me to wrestle 
 with myself and my pride, and all my happiness is from 
 thee, under God. He knows I must always love thee." 
 
 I took her glowing face in my hands and kissed her 
 without speaking. 
 
 I was very silent all the way home, so silent that 
 my companion inquired anxiously if I were ill. 
 
 " No," 1 thought, " not ill, only awestruck." I had 
 taken a human soul in my hands to play with it, and 
 it was so beautiful it had frightened me.
 
 A CHIP
 
 A CHIP. 
 
 JO TALIAFERRO'S father was poor, his father had 
 been poor before him, and his grandfather back of 
 him again. It was in his great-grandfather's days and 
 through his great-grandfather's hands that the money had 
 slipped away from the family ; since then no one had had 
 the energy to replace it. 
 
 " It was too much trouble," said the Taliaferros, who 
 pronounced their name " Tollyver." 
 
 Jo's father did make a half-hearted effort; he wan 
 dered North from his home in Alabama, and ran away 
 with old Snyder B. Simes's daughter and only child. 
 Snyder B. Simes, lumber-merchant, was a Maine man who 
 had made his pile himself and meant to keep it ; he burned 
 his daughter's letters unopened, and made a new will. 
 
 " If my money 's to be spent in riotous living, I mean to 
 spend it myself," he said, buttoning up his pockets. 
 
 Mrs. Taliaferro burst into tears when she first saw her 
 new Southern home; then she got up and put on an apron 
 and began to clean the house ; this she continued to do 
 until the day of her death. She never learned to adjust 
 herself to her surroundings, nor that it is sometimes a good 
 woman's duty to ignore dirt. She washed and scrubbed
 
 52 A CHIP. 
 
 and cleaned, and was finally swept out of this world on 
 a sea of soap-suds, another martyr to the great god of 
 cleanliness. 
 
 She left one little boy behind her, named Jo, to the 
 care, or, more properly speaking, to the neglect of his 
 father. 
 
 " Do you see that man ?" said the superintendent of 
 the great Brookville Glass Works, which Northern capital 
 had lately planted in Brookville County, Alabama "do 
 you see that man ?" He was pointing out Jo's father. 
 " Well, you will never see him doing any more than he is 
 now; nobody ever saw him work. He eats, drinks, 
 clothes himself, has a roof over his head, and not a cent in 
 his pocket. Now, how does he do it ? And there are a 
 dozen like him about here. 1 tell you, the mysteries of 
 Paris are nothing to the mysteries of Brookville." 
 
 And as we can never permit our minds to dwell on a 
 subject without hearing of it again within twenty-four 
 hours, that same day the superintendent received a letter 
 from Jo. 
 
 The spelling was dubious and the handwriting shaky ; 
 but there was nothing dubious or shaky in the spirit of the 
 composition. 
 
 MISTER SUPERINTENDANT, I wud like a Plac in yor employ. 
 P. S. Taliaferro is to long and quar. 
 
 The superintendent laughed as he tossed this evident 
 result of anxious labour in the scrap-basket. The next 
 week he received a fac -simile of that letter, minus the 
 postscript, to which he accorded a similar treatment ; but 
 when he saw those same straggling characters on an en-
 
 A CHIP. 53 
 
 velope in his mail the third week, he opened it with an 
 amused curiosity. 
 
 MISTER SUPERINTENDENT, I wrot you 2 Letters and hav no 
 ansar. I wod like to be in yor employ, but I kant wait ; I mus git 
 a job. Pleas, sir, ansar and oblig. Jo TOLLY. 
 
 The superintendent's hand with the paper in it hovered 
 over the scrap-basket; then he drew it back. At his 
 call a weak-kneed young man came in from the outer 
 office. 
 
 "Have you room for another boy out there?" the 
 superintendent asked. " You have. Well, then, write to 
 this applicant and tell him he may come on trial." 
 
 For the first few weeks Jo Tolly was like a new-born 
 puppy out in the world with its eyes shut. 
 
 " You must look about you, Tolly," said the head clerk. 
 " Now, 1 started out with no money, no education, no 
 backing, and here I am, all by keeping my eyes peeled." 
 
 The clerk with the weak knees struck in: "Look at 
 me," he said. " I 've been a sober, honest, industrious, 
 God-fearing man for fifteen years, and not a cent to show 
 for it." 
 
 Jo turned his long, ruddy face and big, innocent blue 
 eyes from one to the other, and said nothing. He rarely 
 talked, and when he did, it was with a deliberate slowness 
 which barely escaped a drawl. But he pondered all that he 
 heard in his heart, apparently ; for gradually his puppy - 
 dom fell from him, and he became a satisfactory fixture in 
 the office. 
 
 The Brookville Glass Works were a close corporation. 
 They had bought up two thousand acres about the site 
 selected for their works. Their labourers dwelt in their 
 cottages built on their land ; they bought from the
 
 54 A CHIP. 
 
 company store, and lived under laws of their directors' 
 making. 
 
 But there was a Naboth's vineyard in the centre of 
 the settlement. The trouble was that old Colonel Jay 
 respected his ancestors, and refused to listen to any 
 proposition regarding their sale, for the " vineyard " 
 was a family burying-ground this time. The superinten 
 dent vainly represented to him that the bones should be 
 carefully removed. 
 
 "They are earth to earth by this time, sir," said 
 Colonel Jay, with stateliness. " When 1 sell that ground, 
 sir, I sell them ; so we will not mention it again, if you 
 please, sir." 
 
 After that the superintendent, who suspected a pistol 
 in every Alabama pocket, did not care to open the subject 
 again. 
 
 " Ain't you ever goin' to sell, Colonel Jay ? " asked Jo. 
 
 He had paddled across the creek which separated the 
 Glass Works from the old man's house, and was sitting on 
 his porch with him in the twilight. 
 
 " No, sir ; nor I ain't ever going to accommodate again, 
 neither. I told those Dixies they might bury their little 
 babby there, and what did they do? Laid it right on 
 great-grandaunt 'Liza. I went and told them they 'd got 
 to take that babby off. But it warn't pleasant. I won't 
 accommodate again." 
 
 "And you ain't ever goin' to sell, Colonel Jay?" 
 
 "Look here, Jo," said the colonel, testily, "how old 
 are you ? Eighteen years. Well, 1 guess you remember 
 me as soon as you remember anything. Did you ever 
 know me to change my mind ? That ground ain't ever 
 to be disturbed!" he added with finality.
 
 A CHIP. 55 
 
 Jo turned his full blue eyes on the colonel : " How 
 about when you die, Colonel Jay ?" he asked in his most 
 deliberate speech. 
 
 The colonel was staggered and showed it. 
 
 " If 1 were you," Jo went on, now looking over the 
 water, " I'd fix that while I was able. There 's a whole 
 acre there, and there ain't but one end of it in graves. I 'd 
 sell it all under a deed that would make the man who 
 bought it keep the grave end nice and clean, and the grass 
 cut and perhaps flowers." 
 
 Colonel Jay rose from his chair. " Boy," he cried, 
 " you 're right ! Why did n't I think of that ?" Then his 
 face fell suddenly. " But who 'd be fool enough to buy ?" 
 
 " I would," answered Jo, stolidly ; " and if I don't pay 
 you a hundred dollars for it in a year's time, you can take 
 the ground back and all the improvements on it." 
 
 What the improvements meant, the whole Works soon 
 knew. " Jo Tolly's store " was the talk of the place. It 
 was little more than a shanty ; but the labourers soon 
 learned that the shanty had goods of better quality and 
 lower price on its shelves than the Company's handsome 
 store-house had on theirs. 
 
 " It ain't very pretty outside, but I tried to have it good 
 in," said Jo, modestly, looking at the well-stocked walls. 
 " I spent all my money there." 
 
 The money referred to was a small sum which he had 
 obtained by auctioning off the worn-out roof which covered 
 him, and the bit of land On which it stood ; the rest of the 
 tract had been sold almost to the very door-step long before. 
 There had been no one to interfere in his reinvestment, his 
 father having performed the first graceful act in his worth 
 less life by stepping out of it at this opportune time.
 
 56 A CHIP. 
 
 " Don't spend all your money in shoestrings and rock- 
 candy, Tolly," the superintendent had said. " Put it in the 
 bank, and try to keep adding to your bank-book. That 's 
 the way." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Jo, submissively; but at the same time 
 it was not his way, nor did he follow it. 
 
 At first the Tolly store was only open at night, and Jo 
 waited on the customers after hours ; but as the business 
 grew, a small boy kept store by day and was assistant to 
 the proprieter at night. 
 
 " I should n't think you 'd dare, Jo ; I should n't, in 
 deed," said the weak-kneed clerk, who came to inspect 
 his enterprise by stealth and after nightfall. "Why, I 
 would n't even like the chief to see me come in here ; and 
 how can you sleep right next to those graves ? " 
 
 " 1 like them," said Jo, showing the first sign of interest ; 
 " I'm getting real fond of them. I like Aunt 'Liza, and I 
 feel like I knew Aunt Jane. 
 
 '" Dear friends, repent; no more delay, 
 For death will come, to take no nay. 
 Be always ready, night and day ; 
 I suddenly was snatched away.' 
 
 I feel just like she was saying it to me every time I read it." 
 The head clerk he of the " peeled eyes " also paid 
 Jo a visit; but he came in by broad daylight, and exam 
 ined everything. He laughed a good deal, and looked at 
 Jo's placid face curiously. 
 
 " You 're bucking against a big concern, boy," he said. 
 " I tell you, you '11 have to work like an ox and kick like 
 a steer." 
 
 Jo, smiling his usual rather stupid, slow smile, listened 
 to each one, and said nothing.
 
 A CHIP. 57 
 
 As yet the superintendent had said nothing either, but 
 that came. One day, as Jo was passing through his office, 
 he stopped him. " Tolly," he said carelessly, " how much 
 do you hold your land at ? " 
 
 "What do you think it's worth, sir?" inquired Jo, 
 respectfully. 
 
 " Not much." 
 
 " 1 've got my store built and paid for out of it," Jo 
 went on, as though calculating aloud ; " I 've paid for my 
 land ; the business is growing, and - 
 
 " You take a week to think it over in," said the super 
 intendent, hastily. 
 
 On that day week Jo entered the superintendent's office, 
 and stood before his desk. 
 
 " Well, Tolly," said the superintendent, " what is it? " 
 
 " It 's ten thousand dollars," said Jo. 
 
 When the superintendent had a little recovered he knew 
 that he was a very angry man, and at the same time that 
 it behooved him to walk carefully. 
 
 " The directors could n't consider such a price," he said ; 
 " it would n't be worth it to them." 
 
 "No, sir," said Jo, meekly; "I know it ain't worth 
 much to anybody but me." 
 
 Then it was that the superintendent gave Jo very clearly 
 to understand that he considered him infringing on the 
 rights of the company in whose service he was. 
 
 The boy looked so puzzled that he melted somewhat. 
 " You don't understand me." 
 
 " No, sir," said Jo ; "I thought I owned the land." 
 
 " So you do," said the superintendent, reassuringly, 
 feeling now on sure ground ; " but not for all purposes." 
 
 " I thought I could put a saloon on it if 1 wanted to," 
 said Jo, in a depressed voice.
 
 58 A CHIP. 
 
 The superintendent's hair almost stood on end; a 
 grog-shop in the midst of his Works ! He could hardly 
 conceal his dismay. 
 
 " Tolly," he said sternly, "you must choose between 
 the office and your shop; no man can serve two 
 masters." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; you are very kind, sir," said Jo, look 
 ing gratefully at him. " I was thinking my clerk wasn't 
 doing as well as he might if I had my eye more on 
 him." 
 
 " And 1 assure you, gentlemen," said the super 
 intendent, reporting to the Board of Directors at their 
 next meeting, "when that boy left my office I did not 
 know whether it was as a fool, or as having made a 
 fool of me." 
 
 " Call the lad in," suggested one of the directors. 
 " Let us see if we can make anything of him." 
 
 Jo came in at once on being summoned ; he did 
 not even tarry to take off the apron which he wore in 
 his shop, or to brush the flour from his coat. These 
 adjuncts helped to heighten the ruddy innocence of his 
 appearance as he entered. He faced the curious eyes 
 of the waiting Board with a disarming guilelessness. 
 
 " Did you want me, sir," he asked of the super 
 intendent, and the slow motion of his lips was almost 
 foolish. 
 
 But had those lips only been formed to say " ten 
 thousand " they could not have repeated it more persist 
 ently when the question of barter was opened. His 
 slow-moving blue eyes looked with open, childish appeal 
 into the assembled faces. 
 
 " I do think it 's worth that to me, sir, don't you ? "
 
 A CHIP. 59 
 
 he asked of the most urgent speaker; and that gentle 
 man suddenly collapsed. 
 
 There was one director who took no part in the 
 controversy ; he sat in his chair rubbing his hands 
 together and watching the scene from his keen, deep- 
 set eyes. Every now and then his spare frame was 
 shaken with silent laughter. As the door closed on Jo's 
 retreating figure, he gave way to spasms of alternate 
 laughter and coughing. 
 
 " Oh, Lord, Lord ! " he chuckled, wiping his eyes, 
 "to have that fool-look on the outside of his head and 
 all that horse -sense on the inside ! " 
 
 " Then, sir, you think him playing a game, do you ? " 
 asked the superintendent. 
 
 "Playing? He's played it! Hasn't he caught us 
 in just the trap he started out to ? " The old man 
 went off in another paroxysm of laughter. " What 
 did you say the lad's name was," he gasped as he 
 recovered. 
 
 " Jo Tolly," answered the disgusted superintendent, 
 " or, rather, that 's what he calls himself ; his real name 
 is T-a-1-i-a-f-e-r-r-o." 
 
 " Taliaferro, Joseph Taliaferro. What was his 
 father's name ? " 
 
 " Joseph, also, I believe." 
 
 " It 's him ! As sure as my name 's Snyder B. Simes, 
 it 's him ! " cried the old man, rising to his feet, excitedly. 
 "Where's he gone? Where's he gone?" 
 
 He rushed from the room, his thin legs wavering 
 under him, followed by the bewildered superintendent. 
 When they returned, Jo Tolly, divested of the flour 
 and apron now, was with them.
 
 60 A CHIP. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Mr. Snyder B. Simes, "allow 
 me to present my grandson to you, formerly of the 
 firm of ' Jo Tolly,' now full-pledged partner of the lum 
 ber firm of ' Snyder B. Simes & Grandson.' The Tolly 
 store is closed, gentlemen. We that is, my partner 
 has decided that it is more advantageous for our present 
 business to be on agreeable terms with this Brookville 
 Glass Works Company." 
 
 Here Mr. Simes, shaking with laughter, broke down 
 again. 
 
 " Oh, boys, ain't he a chip of the old block ? " he 
 cried. " What will you have, gentlemen ? It 's the 
 firm's treat."
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH.
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 
 
 "What is good for a bootless bene? 
 
 "Whence can comfort spring, 
 When prayer is of no avail?" 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 WASSISETTI LAKE, one of Nature's tearful dimples, 
 lies in the midst of the Wassisetti Hills in Canada. 
 It is fed by unobtrusive springs and streams ; and although 
 not long or wide, its depth is in places unfathomable. 
 
 Among its many coves is one where the hills run 
 almost sheerly down on all three sides, cutting off the' 
 winds, and throwing gloomy shadows on the quiet water. 
 A tiny stream trickles down the slope, and its tinkle as it 
 drops into the lake is the only sound which breaks the 
 oppressive stillness. In winter, when the cold has frozen 
 the stream into silence and hushed that indefinable soft 
 murmur of summer growth which some have ears to hear, 
 this spot seems unbearably desolate. 
 
 Yet on a cold Christmas afternoon, a man's figure might 
 have been seen standing on the small platform of land 
 formed by a bend of the hill before it dropped into the 
 lake. Nor was he without personal surroundings. 
 
 There was a tiny hut on the platform, built of rudest 
 materials, but carefully constructed. The foundations were 
 of stone, evidently taken from the hillside, for their former
 
 64 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 
 
 companions still lay there ; the walls were of logs daubed 
 with mud. 
 
 The man was standing looking up into the branches of 
 a tall spruce-tree, on which a cluster of unusually large 
 and beautiful cones was growing. He was dressed in a 
 complete suit of brown corduroy, and as he stood with 
 his head thrown back his face was an interesting study. 
 His hair was quite white, while the eyebrows and closely 
 clipped mustache and pointed beard were black. There 
 were deep lines scored in his forehead, and sweeping lines 
 ran also from the sensitive nostrils toward the corners of 
 the lips. But the eyes were his most striking feature ; in 
 colour they were a peculiar red-brown, and in expression 
 strangely introspective, or what is better known as deep. 
 
 When the man began climbing the tree, which he pres 
 ently did, his motions were more stiff than agile. The 
 boughs were crusted with ice, yet he climbed into them 
 with a carelessness which amounted to recklessness. As 
 his hand touched the cones, he started, and almost fell 
 from his perch. 
 
 A queer little voice had broken the stillness. " He 's 
 d-dressed all in plush," it said whisperingly. 
 
 Two little children, a boy and a girl, stood hand in 
 hand under the tree gazing up at the climber, who looked 
 at them and laughed. 
 
 " Catch," he said, as he plucked the cones and flung 
 them down on their heads. 
 
 When he reached the ground himself, he walked up to 
 the children and held out his arm. 
 
 " Would you like to feel the plush ? " he asked. 
 
 It was evident that even to these childish minds his 
 appearance was unusual. The little girl, who was the elder
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 65 
 
 by several years, drew back ; but the boy dragged his hand 
 from hers, and laid it on the corduroy sleeve. 
 
 " It 's s-soft," he said, looking up into the man's face, 
 and answering his smile. 
 
 It was the same queer little voice that had spoken 
 before. There was a slight hesitation in his speech and in 
 the child's manner ; he was a fragile -look ing little fellow. 
 The stranger noted the delicacy of his hands as they lay 
 on his sleeve, blue with the cold ; he took them in his, and 
 rubbed them gently. 
 
 " Where are your gloves ?" he asked ; for in every other 
 respect the boy was carefully protected. 
 
 " Nurse has them. We r-runned away." 
 
 The smiling face changed suddenly. " Where do you 
 live ?" 
 
 " In the big house on the hill. We 've c-comed home." 
 
 "And what is your name ?" 
 
 " Urwick Manly and s-she 's Gladys." 
 
 The man gazed abstractedly out over the frozen lake, 
 and, with the quick perception of childhood, the boy knew 
 that his presence was forgotten. He moved his little 
 hands, which yet lay in the stranger's, uneasily, and thus 
 roused, the man looked down kindly, but still evidently 
 with his thoughts elsewhere. 
 
 " Run home, now, both of you, or nurse will be anxious," 
 he said. " You may take the cones with you." 
 
 The children trudged away obediently by a rough bridle 
 path which ran about the hills, but so long as they were in 
 sight the boy kept turning back, crying : " Good-by, 
 Gentleman-in- Plush, good-by ! " 
 
 The Gentleman-in-Plush stood before the door of his 
 hut with his hand on the latch. He looked at the poor 
 
 S
 
 66 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 
 
 dwelling, and behind it at the bare branches of the trees on 
 the hill, a network against the gray sky ; he looked at 
 the bleak cove in its ice setting and magnificent dreariness. 
 
 " Not even this left!" he said aloud, and passed in. 
 
 Mr. Manly, the owner of the house on the hill, was a 
 tall, fine-looking Canadian who had married an English 
 wife, and they had just returned from a visit of nearly a 
 year at her father's home. He had laughed so heartily at 
 the account of a tramp in plush, that the day after Christ 
 mas, Urwick insisted on guiding him to the hut in the cove, 
 that he might see with his own eyes. 
 
 " I can stand anything but tramps," said Mr. Manly, 
 " and I expect to find one housed under every bush, not 
 all of them ' gentlemen-in-plush,' either eh, Urwick ? " 
 
 Urwick, riding on his little pony by his father's side, 
 looked hurt and said nothing. His father, with all his 
 kindness, cud not quite understand him, and was rather 
 fond of teasing him. 
 
 Leaving the beaten road they struck off into a bridle 
 path, which led up and down hills which might have 
 been dangerous riding had the Canadian horses been any 
 less rough -shod or surefooted. 
 
 " There 's his house," said Urwick, when they reached 
 the cove. 
 
 Mr. Manly rode up to the hut and examined the 
 structure. 
 
 " The coolness of the beggar! " he said, as he rapped 
 on the door with the handle of his riding-stock. " It 's 
 pretty well built, though." 
 
 Had he been on his own feet instead of on his horse's 
 back, Mr. Manly would have started back at the appear 
 ance of the man who almost immediately opened the door.
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 67 
 
 "That's the G-Gentleman-in-Plush, Papa," Urwick 
 whispered. 
 
 "It is Mr. Manly, I suppose. You will pardon me for 
 not inviting you into your own house," said the stranger, 
 quietly. His voice was low, and his enunciation peculiarly 
 cultivated. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " asked Mr. Manly. 
 
 The question was so evidently the result of an extreme 
 surprise, and not roughness, that the stranger smiled as 
 he answered, 
 
 " Have your outbuildings never been infested by 
 tramps before ? " 
 
 "By tramps? Yes" 
 
 " That is the class of society to which I belong. I have 
 been here for six months ; longer than 1 have rested any 
 where in as many years." 
 
 Mr. Manly looked about him and shivered at the 
 aspect. " With the whole farm to choose from, why, in 
 Heaven's name, did you pitch on this spot ? " he asked. 
 
 " Tramps have fancies as well as other men." 
 
 "Why attempt that role?" said Mr. Manly, a little 
 impatiently. 
 
 " I should think you might consider that I had acted it 
 consistently. I have used your land as a home, your 
 timber for building, your fire-wood for warmth, and am 
 now prepared to be driven out as an ordinary intruder." 
 
 "What you speak of has no value," returned Mr. 
 Manly, quickly. He was as uncomfortable as if he had 
 been the one caught trespassing. " There is no question 
 of driving you out. You are welcome to stay here as 
 long as you want, which would not be long if 1 were 
 in your place." He again glanced around the dreary 
 amphitheatre of skeleton trees and ice.
 
 68 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 
 
 The man's eyes followed his. "Yet I have known 
 some peaceful hours here," he said, " and 1 am grateful 
 to you for the permission." 
 
 Mr. Manly paused before he spoke again. " As yet, 
 The Gentleman-in-Plush is the only name you have," he 
 said. 
 
 They both looked at Urwick, who had sat quietly on 
 his pony listening. The stranger smiled. 
 
 " As well that as another," he replied at last ; " will 
 Dennis Plush satisfy you, Mr. Manly ? " 
 
 " As you will," answered Mr. Manly, somewhat stiffly. 
 " Good-morning. Come, Urwick." 
 
 But Urwick stopped to shake hands in farewell. 
 " Good-by, G-Gentleman-in-Plush," he said, in his odd 
 little voice. " 1 will come again to visit you some day, 
 - p-perhaps to-morrow." 
 
 " Well, Urwick," said Mr. Manly, as his son joined 
 him, "you were only half wrong, after all, my boy. 
 Your tramp was not dressed in plush ; but, stranger still, 
 he is a gentleman, and I was the embarrassed one, 
 not he." 
 
 Not only on the morrow, but on many successive days, 
 did Urwick visit the hut in the cove. The two children, 
 for Gladys often accompanied him, were the only human 
 beings who ever entered its walls. 
 
 When it became necessary to replenish his larder, the 
 Gentleman-in-Plush, as the children still called him, would 
 walk over to the neighbouring village and make his pur 
 chases, calling at the post-office for a periodic letter which 
 came addressed to " A. B. C. ; " and then, having spoken 
 no unnecessary word, he would return to his hut. 
 
 Mr. Manly formed the habit of riding down the hill
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 69 
 
 once or twice a week with a pocketful of English papers 
 and periodicals, which he found were the only small com 
 forts not refused with steady decision. He would sit on 
 the horse's back at the hut door chatting with the recluse, 
 but he was never invited to enter. 
 
 " Dennis Plush is evidently a cultivated gentleman with 
 a tile loose somewhere," said Mr. Manly. " What do you 
 and your mysterious friend find to talk about, Urwick ? " 
 
 " He 's trying to teach me n-not to stammer, and 
 s-some other little things," the boy answered. 
 
 Later Mr. Manly found out what the other little things 
 were. As a surprise on his birthday, Urwick proudly 
 recited to him an ode of Horace and some lines of 
 Homer. 
 
 "The Gentleman-in- Plush taught me," he said. 
 
 There had been trouble in the Manly household over 
 Urwick's education ; for even his father recognized that he 
 was unfit for boarding-school. 
 
 It was an unexpected solution, and one which was 
 gratefully accepted, when the Gentleman-in-Plush offered 
 to undertake the boy's education. He taught him in the 
 hut through the rest of the winter, and when summer came 
 gave him lessons in woodcraft aiad botany, thus, by gentle 
 degrees, interesting the delicate boy in outdoor pursuits. 
 He cured him of his inborn shrinking from the lake by 
 which he lived ; and the two spent days, in exploring its 
 jagged shore, thrusting the nos-e of their canoe in every 
 inlet and secluded nook. He taught him also to watch the 
 habits of the small wild animals in the wood ; for there 
 seemed a strange familiarity and affinity between these shy 
 dumb creatures and the man who dwelt among them from 
 month to month with only a little child as companion.
 
 70 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLXJSH. 
 
 So the seasons slipped by, one after the other. Gladys 
 was but eight years old when the Gentleman-in-Plush was 
 first discovered in his hut, and when her fourteenth birth 
 day came he was still there. On the afternoon of that day 
 Mrs. Manly sought her husband with a troubled look on 
 her fair, motherly face. 
 
 " I want to speak to you," she said ; " something so 
 strange has happened." 
 
 She opened her hand, on the palm of which lay a 
 ring, with its old-fashioned setting holding a pink pearl, 
 surrounded by diamonds. 
 
 " The Gentleman-in-Plush gave it to Gladys," she said 
 gravely. 
 
 Mr. Manly took the ring and examined it. " It looks 
 like an heirloom, and it may be. It is no more mysterious 
 than the man has always been ; there is something very 
 odd about the whole affair, nothing worse trian eccen 
 tricity, though. There is no reason that Gladys should 
 not keep his gift." 
 
 But Mrs. Manly still looked troubled. " This is the 
 least strange part of it. He gave Gladys the ring, telling 
 her that she was a young lady now, and might wear it. 
 At the same time he sent me a message, which Gladys was 
 crying too much to deliver clearly ; but the child under 
 stood from it that she was not to go to the hut after this." 
 
 Mr. Manly was indignant. " Nonsense ! Why not ? 
 She is a mere baby. Tell Gladys she sha'n't be made to 
 cry on her birthday. I will go to the cove myself and see 
 Plush about it." 
 
 The door of the hut was opened before Mr. Manly 
 could knock. " I heard your horse's feet," said the Gentle 
 man-in-Plush.
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 71 
 
 Mr. Manly plunged at once into the matter on his mind. 
 " I came to see you about Gladys, Plush. What non 
 sense have you been talking to the child ?" 
 
 " I supposed that was what you had come for. Will 
 you walk into the hut, Mr. Manly ?" The invitation was 
 as quietly given as if it had not been delayed for six years. 
 
 Mr. Manly, interested and surprised, tied his horse, and 
 entered, looking around him not without a stirring of 
 curiosity. 
 
 One end of the small room was neatly curtained orT- 
 he judged to conceal a bed, as none was visible elsewhere. 
 The walls on the inside, as on the out, were of rough tree- 
 trunks, with the bark still on them. A rudely made table, 
 two chairs, and a stool were in one corner, and a stove, 
 with cooking utensils hanging behind it, in another. 
 
 The only difference between this interior and that of an 
 ordinary woodman's hut, lay in its exquisite cleanliness and 
 in the presence of a book -shelf standing against the wall. 
 This shelf of books must have been conspicuous in a 
 well-furnished room, but in the rude setting of the hut 
 the crimson and purple and gold and blue of the rich bind 
 ings glowed like the jewel in a toad's head. 
 
 Mr. Manly hardly repressed an exclamation. His com 
 panion seemed unconscious of his surprise. He motioned 
 him toward a chair ; and then for the shadows were fall 
 ing he drew the curtains over the windows, and lighting 
 a candle, set it on the table. There was a repressed agi 
 tation in his silence, and Mr. Manly, silent also, waited 
 with a strange interest, which became intense when his 
 host brought out a portfolio from behind the screen and 
 laid it on the table by the candle. As the light fell on it, 
 Mr. Manly saw that the edges and clasps were of silver,
 
 72 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 
 
 and that a coat-of-arms had evidently been torn from the 
 back ; for the uncertain impress of a shield and crest and 
 mantle were still visible on the leather. 
 
 " Will you read this?" said the Gentleman-in-Plush. 
 
 He drew a letter from its envelope and handed it to Mr. 
 Manly, who noticed that his hand trembled and that his 
 form seemed shrunken. He looked to him suddenly ;i 
 hundred years old. 
 
 If the reader expected to gain much knowledge from 
 the letter, he was mistaken. It was signed with a woman's 
 name " Harriet Eleanore Grey " and was a generaliza 
 tion of scathing denunciations. It cut off forever the soul 
 to whom it was addressed from the writer, from those in 
 whose name she wrote, even it seemed from all^ human 
 kind and Heaven's mercy itself. 
 
 Mr. Manly laid the letter down with a gesture of horror ; 
 words of indignation were on his lips, when his compan 
 ion's passionless voice stopped them. 
 
 " That letter was written by my mother's sister, the 
 gentlest woman in all England." 
 
 As the letter was replaced in the envelope, Mr. Manly 
 involuntarily glanced at the superscription. A part of it 
 was torn away, but he read : 
 
 To the Honourable Dennis Fl 
 
 Glen 
 
 England. 
 
 And he sat like a man in a dream. He was roused by 
 something being laid on the table before him ; it was the 
 portrait of a woman, painted on ivory and framed in 
 gold. The face was beautiful, although more proud than 
 strong. 
 
 " That is my wife," said the same mechanical voice.
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 73 
 
 "Is she living?" Mr. Manly could not repress the 
 question. 
 
 " No ; 1 killed her as surely as by poison or steel. There 
 are other ways and more cruel." He rose and closed 
 the portfolio. 
 
 Mr. Manly, feeling himself dismissed, rose also, but 
 not silently ; his pity rose higher than his companion's 
 reserve. 
 
 "Plush," he said, "or whatever you please to call 
 yourself, 1 don't know in what way you have sinned 
 against your family and society, but 1 do know that 
 hiding is no reparation. Go back to your people, and 
 live it down among them." 
 
 The hands of the man thus urged closed convulsively 
 over the back of the chair by which he stood; for a 
 moment Mr. Manly thought that he clung to it for sup 
 port. His face was gray, and his lips were white ; twice 
 he tried vainly to speak. 
 
 " I have two sons, and, did I ever pray, I should pray 
 God that they may never know more of me than they 
 do now." 
 
 His tones were without pulse or feeling; he was as 
 passionless as a dead man. 
 
 It was Mr. Manly's voice that sounded human, and 
 that broke when he answered: "God send you a 
 prayer, and a better one ! " 
 
 As he turned away, the exile followed him, and laid 
 his hand on his arm, for the first time speaking and 
 acting entirely as an equal ; yet his words were entreat - 
 ingly humble. 
 
 "You will let me see the boy sometimes, Manly?" 
 
 Mr. Manly nearly broke down again when, excitedly
 
 74 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 
 
 striding up and down his wife's room, he told her of 
 the interview. 
 
 " It was like a lost soul in hell praying for a drop 
 of water," he said. "Think of a man of birth and 
 position falling to this ! You must lend him the boy, 
 Mabel, whenever you can spare him." 
 
 " And Gladys ? " asked Mrs. Manly. 
 
 Mr. Manly ceased his walk, and stood looking thought 
 fully out of the window toward the cove. His wife 
 repeated her question, - 
 
 "Shall I send Gladys, too, dear?" 
 
 " I don't believe he would permit it," said her hus 
 band, evasively ; and then she knew what he wished 
 her to do. 
 
 Whether he imagined it, or whether that unsealing 
 of the long-closed springs opened a torrent of haunting 
 thought which wore on the body of the Gentleman-in- 
 Plush, Mr. Manly did not know ; but to his eyes he 
 seemed changed and aged after that day. 
 
 There was no further reference made by either to 
 their strange interview, and the only alteration it caused 
 was in Urwick's more constant presence at the hut, and 
 Gladys's absence. 
 
 A few weeks later it happened that Mr. Manly dined 
 at the same house with his bishop, in a neighbouring 
 town. 
 
 " I had thought I should meet you here, Manly," said 
 his lordship, " and I have brought a letter with me about 
 which I wish to ask your help. It is from a lady in 
 England ; she says that she has reason to think that her 
 sister's son not a young man, by her description is 
 in Canada, and in your county."
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 75 
 
 "Can you let me see the letter?" said Mr. Manly, 
 with quick interest. 
 
 Before he opened it, he knew that the name signed 
 would be " Harriet Eleanore Grey." 
 
 The letter requested that the bishop would notify the 
 writer if he found the man still living, as in the event 
 of his death the question of a title was involved. 
 
 " No other news of him can now hold anything but 
 pain for his family," the letter ended. 
 
 Mr. Manly returned it with a sigh of disappointment. 
 
 " It is like seeking a needle in a haystack, I fear," said 
 the bishop. 
 
 "No," answered Mr. Manly; "this world seems but 
 little larger than an apple sometimes. I do know the 
 man, and know him too well to betray him ; but 1 will 
 undertake to notify you should anything happen to him, 
 which I should wish a time far off, were he any less 
 unhappy than I think he is." 
 
 " They are a wicked, hard, cruel people," said Mrs. 
 Manly, when she heard the story. 
 
 But her husband stirred his library fire reflectively, 
 before he answered : "1 don't know ; remorse is not 
 repentance. The whole thing is mysterious, and 1 have 
 no judgment in the matter." 
 
 The winter had set in bitterly cold that year ; the 
 lake froze over so hard and deep that a team of oxen 
 was driven from one end of it to the other in safety. 
 There came some days when it was impossible for 
 Urwick to go to the hut through the snow and ice. 
 One morning, after having been weather-bound in this 
 way for some time, he came home with a frightened 
 expression on his face.
 
 76 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 
 
 " My Gentleman -in -Plush is very ill," he said in an 
 awe-struck voice ; " will you go to him, Papa ? He 
 can't get out of bed." 
 
 Mr. Manly went, but returned to his house almost 
 immediately to order that the doctor should be sent for, 
 and that warm bedding and stimulants should be carried 
 to the hut. 
 
 " 1 am afraid Plush is a very ill man," he said ; " it looks 
 like pneumonia, and he has exposed himself recklessly." 
 
 When the doctor came his opinion bore out this 
 theory. The Gentleman-in-Plush was very ill. But 
 toward evening Mr. Manly came home with a better 
 report ; he had left the physician and a servant in 
 charge. 
 
 " 1 shall go down later and spend the night," he said. 
 "There seems no present danger." 
 
 Urwick, who had been wandering miserably about the 
 house all day, asking persistently, " Is my Gentleman-in- 
 Plush dying ? " went to bed comforted. 
 
 They thought him fast asleep when a hurried summons 
 came from the hut ; there had been a sudden sinking of 
 the patient's vital forces, and the worst might be feared. 
 
 " Let me go with you," entreated Mrs. Manly ; " he 
 can hardly resent it now, and he has been so good to our 
 boy." 
 
 Mr. Manly assented ; but when, cloaked for her walk, 
 Mrs. Manly joined him in the hall, she was looking more 
 troubled and distressed than before. 
 
 " You must go to Urwick ; I can do nothing with him. 
 He heard us talking, and insists on going with us. I 
 thought him half asleep when he came stumbling into my 
 room. 1 have never seen him like this before."
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 77 
 
 " Do you go down with the servant," her husband 
 answered ; " I will follow you." 
 
 He found Urwick sitting on the floor of his room in 
 his nightgown. He was sobbing bitterly as he struggled 
 with his shoes and stockings. 
 
 " 1 w-will go ; I promised," he cried when he saw his 
 father. 
 
 The stammer which his friend had taught him to con 
 trol came back in his excitement. He stood up and 
 stamped his small foot and clenched his hands. 
 
 His father lifted him in his great arms and held him 
 firmly ; he hardly recognized the gentle little fellow in 
 this frantic child who struggled and almost struck him. 
 
 " I will go, I w-will. I promised the G-Gentleman- 
 in-Plush, I promised." 
 
 " What did you promise, Urwick ? Stop struggling, 
 my boy, and speak slowly." 
 
 The steady strength of his father's clasp and voice had 
 their influence. 
 
 " I promised ; 1-long ago I promised. I promised I 
 would come to him wherever 1 was if he were dying, and 
 I heard my mother say he was dying now." 
 
 " 1 hope not ; but if you have made a promise you 
 must run no risk of breaking it. And you must stop 
 crying, you know, before you can go. Can you dress 
 yourself ? " 
 
 But though Urwick asserted that he could, his father 
 stayed by him, steadying the quivering nerves by word 
 and touch, unconsciously laying in those moments the 
 foundations of an understanding between himself and that 
 most delicate and difficult of all created things, a sensitive 
 child's heart.
 
 78 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 
 
 When, half an hour later, Mrs. Manly opened the door 
 of the hut, and her husband entered, covered with the fine 
 flecks of the falling snow, he had on his back what she 
 at first thought was a bundle of shawls ; but when he set 
 it down before her, she discovered that Urwick was the 
 core of the roll. 
 
 "Did you think it wise to bring him?" she asked, 
 dismayed. 
 
 " It was because 1 promised, Mamma," said the child, 
 eagerly. And Mrs. Manly, who rarely questioned her 
 husband's decisions, said no more. 
 
 The screen had been taken down, and the Gentleman - 
 in-Plush lay on his bed with his eyes closed. The 
 physician was preparing to leave. 
 
 " It is stupor," he said ; " he will not rouse from it, I 
 think ; but should he do so there is nothing to do or say 
 that Mrs. Manly is not better fitted for than I." 
 
 Urwick crept quietly to a chair at the head of the bed, 
 and the husband and wife talked in whispers at the side. 
 There seemed little to do but wait. 
 
 Suddenly the sick man moved, and opened his eyes. 
 "Am I dying?" he asked briefly. 
 
 " I trust not, oh, I trust not, not if we can keep you 
 with us," said Mrs. Manly. 
 
 He looked full into her kind face with his strange, deep 
 eyes. 
 
 "Thank you," he said gently, then turned from her to 
 her husband, and spoke with wonderful strength of voice ; 
 " You have been kind, Manly, and I am going to ask for 
 six feet more from you. Will you let me stay here in the 
 hut?" 
 
 " I want you to stay in it a live man," said Mr. Manly. 
 " Take this, Plush."
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 79 
 
 But the Gentleman-in-Plush pushed the stimulant 
 away. 
 
 " I have written the boy's name in the books," he went 
 on ; " and, Manly, you remember a portfolio I once showed 
 you ? Bury it with me. That is all." He turned wearily 
 away. 
 
 " Have you nothing more to say? " asked Mr. Manly. 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Think again. Is there no message I can send to your 
 family ?" 
 
 An expression of ineffable pain passed over the drawn 
 face ; the words dropped with difficulty from the white 
 lips. 
 
 " Nothing I have no kindred, no country, no hope 
 nothing." 
 
 His eyes closed, and they would have thought the 
 stupor had returned, except that his lips kept forming the 
 words : " Nothing nothing." 
 
 " Speak to him, Mabel. For God's sake, speak to him !" 
 whispered Mr. Manly, in a choked voice; and his wife, 
 with the tears raining down her face, knelt by the bedside 
 and began a prayer. 
 
 The hand on the coverlid was raised with an imperious 
 gesture, and Mrs. Manly's voice faltered and died away. 
 
 Presently, when she bent over him again, he opened 
 his eyes and looked up into her face. 
 
 "Rosalie,' he said wanderingly, " Rosalie, can it be 
 you?" 
 
 " He is wandering ! " Mrs. Manly exclaimed pitifully. 
 "It is his wife's name, perhaps." 
 
 " Rosalie," went on the wandering voice, " why, they 
 told me you were dead that you died when "
 
 80 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 
 
 " Urwick, what are you about ? " said Mr. Manly, 
 sternly. 
 
 The child had crept upon the other side of the bed, 
 and his hand was on his friend's lips. 
 
 He wound his arm about the neck of the Gentleman - 
 in-Plush, and clasped him closely when his father tried 
 to lift him. 
 
 " I promised I promised," he cried again. 
 
 Mrs. Manly laid her hand on her husband's arm, and 
 drew him away. 
 
 "Don't you see?" she said through her tears. "He 
 has wished to die as he lived. We must let them be." 
 
 And Mr. Manly, looking wonderingly at the strange 
 sight, sat silently awaiting the end. 
 
 The night wore on, but still the weary childish body 
 and the ready little hand kept guard ; at each murmur 
 the wandering lips were sealed. The mother's heart 
 yearned over the eyes heavy with sleep, and the cheeks 
 pale with the vigil. 
 
 But she, too, sat silent until the dying man opened 
 his eyes once more, and looked with loving recognition 
 into the anxious child's face on the pillow by him. 
 
 With an expression which was in itself a caress, he 
 lifted the faithful little hand from his lips and held it 
 between his own. 
 
 " He knows me, Mamma ! He will get well ! " cried 
 the boy, eagerly. 
 
 And at that moment, with a short, sighing breath, 
 holding fast by the frail anchor of a child's hand, the 
 weary soul of the Gentleman-in-Plush passed away from 
 the judgments of this world. 
 
 They buried him in the hut, as he had wished, and
 
 THE GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 81 
 
 his secret with him. As there came only a formal ac 
 knowledgment from England in response to the bishop's 
 announcement of his death, Mr. Manly placed the slab 
 which now lies over his grave. It bears no name, only 
 a date and a line of inscription, 
 
 "After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well."
 
 A TEA-LEAF.
 
 A TEA-LEAF. 
 
 A PSYCHOLOGICAL STUDY IN ONE ACT. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS : MR. ROBERT MAY ; Miss LITTELL. 
 TIME : Miss LITTELL'S reception afternoon, half -past Jive o'clock. 
 
 Curtain rises on a nineteenth-century drawing-room, and discovers 
 Mr. MAY sitting on a long, low bench which runs in front of a three- 
 cornered fireplace. He sits with bis back to the fire, and faces Miss 
 LlTTELL, who is engrossed in pouring fragrant tea into Russian tea- 
 glasses. A dainty triangular tea-table stands at her left hand, and a 
 hissing kittle of water hangs from a wrought-iron crane over the hot 
 coals. Some confusion in the room and the languor of Miss LlTTELL' S 
 manner betoken departed guests. 
 
 MISS LlTTELL (poising a lump of sugar in the stttfiir- 
 tongs). You take one lump of sugar, do you not, 
 and lemon ? 
 
 Mr. MAY. No, not lemon ; a drop of cream, please. 
 Miss LITTELL (with rising inflection). Cream ! 
 Mr MAY. Well, no ; not when you put it in that way. 
 Don't look horrified, but give me the lemon. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Not at all. If you want a flavourless 
 dilution, you shall have it. 
 
 (She stretches out her hand toward the cream, but Mr. MAY ends the 
 controversy by seizing the pitcher and placing it out of her reach. He 
 helps himself to lemon with an air of mock misery.)
 
 86 A TEA-LEAF. 
 
 Mr. MAY. Have all your callers been so successfully 
 managed ? 
 
 Miss LITTELL (laughing and sipping her tea). No ; no 
 one represented much material for management or amuse 
 ment. Each was deplorably like the other, and very cor 
 rect in type. One little debutante was rather delicious. 
 She told me that she and her brother had been talking 
 about me, and under pressure it came out that they were 
 wondering why I did not marry. " Joe told me he knew 
 you had had lots of chances," she said. I thought that 
 was very kind of Joe, don't you ? 
 
 Mr. MAY. Very. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. 1 asked her if Joe suggested that 1 
 might prefer living with two devoted brothers to marry 
 ing one husband. " Oh, no," she said, opening her eyes; 
 " do you really feel that way ? How funny ! " Was n't 
 that charming ? 
 
 Mr. MAY (with a perfectly mirthless face). Ha-ha ! 
 
 (Miss LITTELL starts and looks at htm sharply. Mr. MAY is silent. 
 He sits on the bench, and stares moodily over bis shoulder into the 
 fir*) 
 
 Miss LITTELL (nervously). The room seems gloomy ; 
 I must ring for lights. 
 
 (As she puts out her band toward the bell, Mr. MAY suddenly catches 
 it in both of his.) 
 
 Mr. MAY. Pray do not. I have something to say to 
 you, and even the firelight seems too much. 
 
 (He rises to his feet, knocking over the fire-irons in his confusion. 
 As be stoops to pick them up Miss LITTELL falls back in her chair, 
 staring at him in dismay.) 
 
 Miss LITTELL (aside). Is Robert, my old friend Robert, 
 going to do this thing ? Is our friendship to be wrecked
 
 A TEA-LEAF. 87 
 
 upon the old, keel-worn rock ? Never. I will stop him 
 before he begins. 
 
 (She tries to speak, but her tongue cleaves to the roof of her month.) 
 
 Mr. MAY. You must have guessed you certainly 
 know 
 
 Miss LITTELL (wildly). No, no ; I don't know anything, 
 - 1 don't want to know. 
 
 Mr. MAY (gloomily turning away). That won't alter 
 the fact. I have always known that you disliked Mary ; 
 but you must have suspected our engagement. 
 
 Miss LITTELL (aside and faintly). What did I say! 
 ( The danger just brushed renders her voice tremulous as 
 she speaks aloud.) This has been a great shock to me, 
 Robert, but you know that 1 wish you every hap 
 
 Mr. MAY. Stop, for Heaven's sake! (He paces the 
 floor in agitation. Suddenly he pauses in front of Miss 
 LITTELL, and speaks abruptly.) Do you consider me a 
 man devoid of any honourable instincts ? 
 
 Miss LITTELL (with emphasis). I know you to be up 
 right and true-hearted ; you are a man of absolute honour. 
 But you thoroughly bewilder me, Robert ; won't you sit 
 down and tell me what you mean ? 
 
 (Mr. MAY si/5 down on the low bench again, and looks up at her.) 
 
 Mr. MAY. What would you say if I should tell you 
 that 1 am desperately, passionately in love with two women 
 to-night ? 
 
 Miss LITTELL (promptly}. I should say that I trustad 1 
 was not one of them. 
 
 Mr. MAY. I am not laughing. You must listen seri 
 ously. 1 am very unhappy. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. I should think you might be. Most
 
 88 A TEA-LEAF. 
 
 people can get all the misery they want out of one love 
 affair at a time. Mary is one of the girls, of course ; and 
 who is the other ? (After a silence Miss LITTELL says 
 slowly.) Not Elizabeth, surely ! You would not have 
 dared to drag her into folly of this sort. 
 
 Mr. MAY. There 's no height of daring or depth of 
 folly which 1 have not tried. 
 
 Miss LITTELL (still incredulous). What are you 
 going to do about it ? As you are engaged to Mary, 1 
 gather that she is the one you mean to marry. 
 
 Mr. MAY. Never while I live. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Then, if you don't mean to marry 
 her, would you mind telling me why you are engaged to 
 her? 
 
 Mr. MAY (briefly). Because I love her. 
 
 Miss LITTELL (with mild sarcasm). I am afraid I am 
 very stupid, Robert ; but, really, I cannot understand. Is 
 it that you love Mary and won't marry her, and will 
 marry Elizabeth and don't love her? It is all very 
 confusing. 
 
 Mr. MAY (laughing miserably). Don't jeer at me. 
 I am fallen low enough, I assure you. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Have you been making love to both 
 girls, Robert ? Don't tell me that. 
 
 Mr. MAY. No, no ; I loved Elizabeth with all my 
 heart and soul, long before I ever saw Mary. I never told 
 her so, for 1 thought it useless; and Mary 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Mary assured you that it was 1 
 understand. 
 
 Mr. MAY. It was never done directly. I did not dream 
 that she suspected my feeling for Elizabeth. Among a 
 hundred other things, she repeated one remark of Eliza-
 
 A TEA-LEAF. 89 
 
 beth's which was simple enough in itself, but certainly 
 conclusive. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Would you mind telling me what Mary 
 repeated ? 
 
 Mr. MAY (with embarrassment}. It sounds silly in 
 the repetition, and yet it finally convinced me. 
 
 Miss LITTELL (gently persistent). Can't you tell me 
 what it was ? 
 
 Mr. MAY (with an effort). Oh, yes. She said no 
 power could induce her to marry a man with big ears. 
 
 Miss LITTELL (vainly struggling against her laug\> 
 ter). Oh, Robert, .Robert ! I did not know your vanity 
 was as great as your ears. 
 
 Mr. MAY (earnestly). It was not a question of vanity. 
 I thought no woman could speak in that manner of the 
 man she cared for. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Then you knew nothing about women. 
 
 Mr. MAY. Nothing whatever, it seems. I have been 
 learning, yesterday and to-day, though. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. You poor fellow ! the primer is blotted 
 with tears, I am afraid. And you think now that Elizabeth 
 did love you ? 
 
 Mr. MAY. Mary told me last night that she did. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Told you that Elizabeth loved you ? 
 
 Mr. MAY (bitterly). Yes ; she seemed to think it would 
 give me pleasure to hear that she had won me, as it were. 
 She said that Elizabeth's remark had been made playfully, 
 in answer to some teasing allusions, but that it had not 
 deceived her. She had guessed the truth from the first. 
 She told me all this in a kind of triumph ; it was horrible. 
 I broke away from her, and rushed out of the house. If 
 she had confessed it to me in repentance, if she had been
 
 90 A TEA-LEAF. 
 
 anything but radiantly triumphant and laughing, 1 could 
 have borne it have forgiven it. 
 
 Miss LITTELL (after a pause). There is but one thing 
 for you to do, of course. 
 
 Mr. MAY (eagerly). What ? 
 
 Miss LITTELL. You have broken your engagement with 
 Mary. Elizabeth is a pearl among women. 
 
 Mr. MAY. 1 know what you mean; but how is it 
 possible ? 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Why impossible ? You love her ? 
 
 Mr. MAY. Who ? 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Elizabeth. 
 
 Mr. MAY. That is just what I came to ask you ? 
 
 Miss LITTELL. You came to ask me if you loved 
 Elizabeth ? 
 
 Mr. MAY. Yes; which woman do I love? I pledge 
 you my honour if 1 have a shred of it left that I do 
 not know. 1 have not broken my engagement with Mary 
 yet ; 1 have not seen her since yesterday. When I think 
 of her moral perversion, her inability to see her almost 
 crime, I am filled with horror. And then I think of her 
 well, you see 1 have been engaged to her for a month. 
 There is a great deal 1 could never forget ; I 've been in a 
 fool's paradise. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. And Elizabeth, whom you have loved 
 so long, who is Robert, you know what she is. Think 
 what it would mean to live out your life with her ! 
 
 Mr. MAY. Ah, do I not know! You can tell me noth 
 ing of her. I know that I love her, that I worship her ; 
 and yet I am an absolute scoundrel ; 1 love them both ; 
 I told you so in the beginning'. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. And you told me you liked cream in
 
 A TEA-LEAF. 91 
 
 your 'tea in the beginning, also. Be advised ; you will 
 never forget this act of Mary's. 
 
 Mr. MAY. No, never ; nor her, either. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Then, if that is the way you feel 
 toward Mary, by all means marry her. 
 
 Mr. MAY. When I adore the ground another woman 
 walks on love and respect the very hem of her 
 gown ! 
 
 Miss LITTELL (impatiently}. Robert, would you mind 
 calling the object of your adoration Ma-Beth for con 
 venience sake ? My brain whirls in this confusion. I 'm 
 but a woman, you know, and the mind masculine has 
 phases which I cannot grasp. 1 really think Brigham 
 Young is the only person who could oflfer you any 
 practical advice. If he met many like you I don't wonder 
 at his conclusions. 
 
 Mr. MAY (humbly). Go on ; I deserve it all. 
 
 Miss LITTELL (somewhat softened). Well, in your 
 case, perhaps I should be equally foolish. My mother 
 asked me yesterday whether she should buy me a red or 
 a blue skirt, and 1 knew myself well enough to say, 
 " Either ; for whichever you get 1 shall wish I had the 
 other." I fear it will be the same with you. 
 
 Mr. MAY. I wish this were no more serious than a mere 
 choice of petticoats. 
 
 Miss LITTELL. Why, I thought a choice of petticoats 
 was just the question. No ; forgive me. 1 should not 
 have laughed it was flippant. 
 
 Mr. MAY (wearily). There is nothing to forgive. 
 We understand each other. You have been kinder than 
 1 deserved ; but 1 must work it out alone. (He rises ami 
 takes her hand, boliHii"' it in bis as he speaks.) Good-
 
 92 A TEA-LEAF. 
 
 night. Try not to think too badly of me, and remember, 
 whatever happens, our friendship stands. 
 
 Miss LITTELL (earnestly). Good-night, and do you 
 remember that I know and trust perfectly you and your 
 honour. Whatever you decide to do, that shall 1 approve. 
 Good-night. 
 
 (/Is Mr. MAY leaves the room she sits listening to Ins retreating foot 
 steps, and leans bet bead on ber band in deep thought.) 
 
 Miss LITTELL (sola). " Our friendship stands." Why 
 did he say that ? Was there a question of it in his 
 mind ? (She pauses, and then springs to her feet with 
 sudden vehemence.} 1 have been an abject fool. I should 
 have stopped his first words. When a man has once wept 
 upon a handkerchief, what use has he for it again ? And 
 a handkerchief I have been to-night. Whichever girl he 
 marries, he will hate me. 1 know too much. (She looks 
 forlornly at the empty bench with a little gesture of 
 renunciation.} No; this is not good-night, Robert; it 
 is good -by. 
 
 CURTAIN.
 
 NED.
 
 NED. 
 
 ND so, dear, you have decided to name the baby 
 Ned ! Was Fred quite willing ? " 
 
 " It was his own suggestion. Please like it, Elizabeth." 
 
 " I do like it, little one ; I love it, and I love Fred for 
 suggesting it." 
 
 As I stood looking at the pretty maternal picture of 
 my sister Barbara adoring her first-born, my heart was full 
 of thankfulness and my eyes were wet with tears. "Ah, 
 my little man," 1 said, stooping to kiss the tiny scrap of 
 humanity, "if you are brought up as I think you will be, 
 you shall be more proud of your first name than of your 
 last. How you came by it is almost like a story." And 
 then I suddenly thought that, perhaps, it was a story ; so 
 here it is. 
 
 " Blessed is the man that hath his quiver full of them," 
 saith the Psalmist, and 1 think that even had my father 
 been less happy in his family relations, he would have 
 striven to feel "blessed," in order to fulfil the Scriptures. 
 For there were twelve of us, all high-spirited and running 
 over with mischief. 1, Elizabeth, was the eldest daughter, 
 and Barbara, who was ten years younger, the most beauti 
 ful and the favourite.
 
 96 NED. 
 
 Why none of us were jealous of Barbara, I am sure I 
 do not know; perhaps it was because we all united in 
 spoiling her. She was the only delicate baby my mother 
 ever had, and this naturally caused a difference in the 
 beginning; but had it not been this, some other reason 
 would have presented itself. 
 
 Winning ways were not lacking in Barbara, and as 
 child and woman she was most perfectly beautiful in face 
 and form, although some few, who had not fallen under 
 the witchery of her personality, maintained that she was 
 too small, too fairylike, that the soft golden hair was 
 too fluffy and luxuriant. 
 
 Small Barbara might be, but the erect little body was 
 the storage-house of a spirit and fire sufficient for a dozen 
 ordinary mortals. Her pretty, imperious ways gained for 
 her the title of " Princess" with father and the boys. My 
 mother disliked the name, thinking it not good for Bar 
 bara ; and we girls never used it, for quite another reason. 
 It was our small and only stand against the absolute 
 monarchy. 
 
 But when she was about four years old, another subject 
 was added to Barbara's list, one who was to outstrip all 
 others in loyal devotion ; and this was Ned, black, savage, 
 untamable Ned. 
 
 His mother was a full-blooded African who had been 
 purchased by our uncle, the owner of a large plantation 
 in Virginia. He bought her with her baby in her arms, 
 from pure compassion, he said ; for she was as untamed 
 as a savage, and evidently untamable, utterly useless to 
 her Florida master, who was trying to subdue her by 
 methods of which we were spared the recital. But the 
 change of masters came to her too late ; though her
 
 NED. 97 
 
 spirit was unbroken, it was so bruised and festered as 
 to render her death no surprise when it occurred some 
 months later. 
 
 The child, whose name was Ned, was brought up in 
 the quarters with the other negro children. He de 
 veloped early a wild and lawless spirit ; and when he 
 was put into the field to work, the overseer complained 
 constantly that he was a leader among the slaves and, 
 thoroughly insubordinate. My uncle's attention thus 
 called in his direction, he found Ned a man of twenty- 
 two years, superbly built and apparently as complete a 
 savage as his mother. 
 
 Remembering her history, my uncle determined to 
 make no attempt to break the lad's spirit. He wrote at 
 once to my mother, telling her the whole story and 
 saying that as he found Ned responded to kindness, he 
 felt sure that there was the making of a magnificent ser 
 vant in him. He ended by begging my mother to accept 
 him, and give him the individual attention that his 
 bachelor home could not afford, adding that if the boy 
 proved too much for her, he could be returned. 
 
 Mother and father talked the matter over; and the 
 end of it was, Ned came. He was almost a giant, quite 
 six feet four, but too perfectly proportioned to show 
 his full height, and lithe and active as a panther. 
 
 My mother decided to train him as a waiter. He 
 learned rapidly ; and though at first he lifted barrels of 
 flour with ease and trembled under a glass of water, he 
 soon waited with a really stately elegance. The strange 
 ness of the new home and surroundings kept the old 
 lawless spirit in check ; but familiarity bred the usual 
 contempt, and in a few weeks Ned was king of the 
 
 7
 
 98 NED. 
 
 kitchen as absolutely as he had been king of the Virginia 
 plantation. 
 
 Possibly this spirit was an inheritance, undoubtedly 
 his appearance bore out the supposition ; and perhaps 
 from the same source sprang the wild gusts of rage 
 which seemed to possess him and sweep him along resist - 
 lessly. Mother remonstrated gently, then sternly and 
 repeatedly, all in vain. 
 
 Pandemonium seemed to have broken loose in the 
 region below stairs. Early one morning the climax came. 
 An uproar such as never was heard before rose from the 
 kitchen, causing my father's hasty appearance there for the 
 first time in many years. Huddled in one corner were 
 the frightened negroes, and in the centre of the room 
 towered Ned, holding the group in subjection; some 
 trifle had irritated him, and this was the consequence. 
 
 Father was beyond measure angry, so angry that 
 Ned's rage paled before his. He told the rather sobered 
 negro that he would stand no more; kindness had failed 
 with him, and he should now have the whipping he 
 richly deserved. 
 
 " Not to be given by me, however," he added ; " the 
 constable shall do it, and 1 mean to send for him to take 
 you away at once." 
 
 So saying, my father left the house in a white heat. 
 But he was unused to interfering in what he considered 
 his wife's department, and was also a man of quick wrath 
 and quicker forgetf ulness ; and becoming absorbed in im 
 portant matters of business, he spent no further thought 
 on Ned or his misconduct. 
 
 It was not thus at home. So severe a measure had 
 never before been resorted to, and we were all unhappy.
 
 NED. 99 
 
 Mother alone, and probably because she knew what man 
 ner of man our father was, remained as placid as ever, 
 as she sat in the nursery sewing. 
 
 Her placidity was to be rudely interrupted. There 
 was a sudden patter of feet in the hall, a scramble up the 
 stairway, and Aunt Tilly, the black cook and whilcm 
 ruler of the kitchen, rushed 'into the room. 
 
 " Dat nigger gwine ter kill somebody yit ! " she wailed. 
 " He done shet hise'f up in de garret wid de meat-axe 
 and ole marse's razor, an' he got all de knives what he 
 wor a-cleanin', an' he say dar sha'n' be no po' white 
 trash sont fer to whip him ; dat he gwine ter kill de 
 fust pusson dat set foot over de do' sill." 
 
 Two bright, hard spots of colour rose in my mother's 
 cheeks as she listened; but her manner was unhurried 
 as she quilted her needle into her work, and shook off 
 the threads from her dress into the open fireplace. With 
 her usual even pace she walked out of the room and up 
 the stairway, we children, with the servants who had 
 gathered in the hall, stringing after her. On she went 
 to the partially closed garret-door; there she paused. 
 
 " Ned." 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 Raising her hand, my mother struck the door lightly 
 with her palm, throwing it wide open, and disclosing 
 Ned, who stood before it. All the savage was up and 
 looking out of the dark, scowling face, the bloodshot 
 eyes, the drawn lips. His body was thrown back, and 
 in one hand, raised above his head, he held the axe, in 
 the other flashed the razor. 
 
 The servants crowded behind each other with smoth 
 ered cries ; but mother, with her beautiful, proud head
 
 100 NED. 
 
 thrown back stepped over the threshold. She was slightly 
 and delicately made, yet, as she stood opposite the huge 
 negro, her figure drawn up to its full height, her cheeks 
 brilliant, her eyes flashing defiance into his, she rose 
 above the question of brawn and muscle to become his 
 full equal in power, but no more. 
 
 The inflexible blue eyes and the passionate black ones 
 looked unflinchingly into each other for what seemed to 
 me an age. And then suddenly my mother's whole 
 figure seemed to relax ; the scornful, curling lips half 
 smiled; the blue eyes looked infinitely soft and pity 
 ing. She stepped swiftly to Ned's side, and laid her 
 gentle hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " You poor boy," she said softly, " why will you do 
 so ? " 
 
 Wonder drove passion from the dark face; wonder 
 held Ned spellbound, as my mother took the weapons 
 from his unresisting hands. But when she bade him 
 return to his work, he seemed to awake, and darting a 
 furious glance around, he rushed headlong from the room 
 and down the stairs. Then something happened which 
 I cannot think of even now without a darting sense of 
 horror. Half-way up the stairs stood little Barbara; 
 her nurse had deserted her, and she was following after. 
 
 Spreading out her tiny arms, she blocked Ned's way. 
 " You is dot to tarry me down 'tairs," she cried in her 
 sweet treble. " I hurted my foot, and I are n't a-doin' 
 to walk." 
 
 Ned stopped and hesitated. 1 sprang forward, but 
 mother, her face as pale as her kerchief, held my arm in 
 an iron grasp. 1 turned sick and faint ; everything swam 
 before my eyes, and when I could see again, it was
 
 NED. 101 
 
 a strange sight that awaited me. Barbara was sitting 
 high in Ned's arms, singing a little tune to herself, and 
 beating time upon his woolly head. 
 
 He carried her down the stairs, straight to the wood- 
 room, where they spent the rest of the morning. One 
 minute Ned was sawing wood furiously, and the next 
 he was sitting with Barbara on his knee, delighting her 
 heart by strange stories and games. Mother made me 
 peep in occasionally, but would not allow them to be 
 disturbed. 
 
 " The child is doing him good," she said. 
 
 At last the nursery door opened softly, and Ned entered 
 with Barbara cradled in his arms sound asleep. He laid 
 her in the crib, covering her carefully, tenderly soothing 
 her when she half woke, and then left the room with 
 noiseless step. 
 
 The battle was over. Ned had found his master, 
 and that master was a baby. 
 
 There was never any real trouble with Ned after this. 
 He now had a motive for good behaviour, and lived in 
 deadly fear of being sent back to Virginia, away from 
 " de fiddle-string of his heart, his Miss Princess." 
 
 When he felt his old rages coming on, he used simply 
 to depart, where, we never knew; sometimes he was 
 gone for one day, sometimes for two. My mother wisely 
 forebore asking questions ; and when we children did so, 
 he would invariably reply gravely, 
 
 " 1 was sont fur suddint to go to the Islant of Dardan 
 elles fur to wait on my Lord Concarson." 
 
 Barbara never had one atom of curiosity, so she never 
 inquired unless we put her up to it ; but even then we got 
 no satisfaction. Ned would pick her up and carry her 
 off, saying,
 
 102 NED. 
 
 " Yes, honey; Ned 's gwine to tell Miss Princess all 'bout 
 it, jes' you come wid me." 
 
 But on her return we could never gather that she knew 
 any more than we did ; Barbara was so easily distracted, 
 and so lacking in any desire for knowledge. 
 
 In one respect Ned was very considerate. He never 
 disappeared if guests were expected, and on one occasion 
 he even returned hastily on remembering a dinner-party. 
 
 " Jes' s'pose I hed 'a' gone on disrememberin' dis here 
 party," I heard him say to Aunt Tilly. " Dere ain' one o' 
 you niggers as knows how even to set de table, and when 
 it come to waitin' Lord! I jes' run back like a har soon 
 as I come to think 'bout it. I ain' stop to take breff." 
 
 But these departures became less and less frequent, as 
 his adoration of Barbara grew stronger. 
 
 It was a strange sight to see the two together. Bar 
 bara's manner was as if graciously permitting affection, 
 while Ned's was that of actual worship. Her first remark 
 on seeing him was always, " 1 wants to be tarried ;" and 
 Ned knew no higher happiness than holding her curled up 
 in his great arm. 
 
 I think she enjoyed the sense of his powerful strength. 
 A great deal of his work was done thus encumbered ; but 
 as Ned could set a table better with one hand than any one 
 else with two, he was allowed to do as he chose. 
 
 He was Barbara's willing slave, a slave whom no 
 Emancipation Act could liberate, though Ned himself was 
 a great Abolitionist, and fond of making speeches upon 
 the subject in the kitchen. My father had some misgiv 
 ings about slave-holding also ; and I think Ned divined the 
 truth when he said , 
 
 " Ole Mass', he done give Aunt Tilly her freedom for
 
 NED. 103 
 
 a Christmas gif . I guess his cornscience been a-bearin' 
 down on him." 
 
 But, however undecided were my father's politics, Ned's 
 opinions were very definitely settled ; and yet one small 
 incident that occurred in the first year of our Civil Wai- 
 was to make him bitterly opposed to all that he had pre 
 viously held dear. 
 
 When the war broke out, Barbara was eight years old, 
 and going to school with me. I was to leave at the end 
 of the year. Our city was on the border line and con 
 stantly full of soldiers ; so my mother preferred to send 
 Ned to and from school with us. But one day we were 
 dismissed a few minutes earlier than usual, and 1 started 
 home alone with my little sister. 
 
 When only a square from our door, we met a Union 
 soldier walking toward us. He looked admiringly at 
 Barbara, and then stopped. 
 
 " Will you give me a kiss, my pretty bird ? " he said. 
 
 Barbara shrank to my side, speechless with terror. 1 
 do not believe the man meant to frighten her ; he was a 
 mild-looking little fellow, and probably had children of 
 his own at home ; but he stopped and lifted Barbara high 
 in the air to steal the wished-for kiss. 
 
 That kiss he never got; for she was suddenly seized 
 and whisked out of his hands and over his head, to his 
 infinite astonishment. Ned was on the way to meet us, 
 and had flown to the rescue. 
 
 It was well for the little soldier, and perhaps well 
 for Ned also, that Barbara required all of her faithful ser 
 vant's soothing and attention. But from that moment 
 Ned's horror of " dem Yanks " knew no bounds ; and 
 hatred of them included a hatred of their principles. His
 
 104 NED. 
 
 speeches in the kitchen veered in doctrine with an alarming 
 suddenness. 
 
 He had things his own way, as usual; for the men 
 were afraid of him, and the maids admired him. Aunt 
 Tilly alone spoke her mind, and I heard her do it from my 
 up-stairs window. 
 
 " You was a-talkin' de oder side of yer mouf," she 
 said, as she hopped up and down in her vain endeavour to 
 throw a dripping sheet over the high clothes-line in the 
 yard. " You was a-sayin' dere warn't no right in a-holdin' 
 de slaves." 
 
 Ned took the sheet from her with a contemptuous 
 kindness, and slung it over the line. 
 
 " Dat was before I knowed," he answered coolly ; and 
 then, emphasizing his remark by driving down the clothes 
 pins, he added impressively, " dat 's what niggers was 
 made fur." 
 
 The year 1865 was soon to prove that Ned and many 
 others were mistaken. But we children cared little for 
 this or anything else that did not directly concern us ; and 
 so the years of childhood slipped away with only enough 
 shadow about them to throw out the sunlight more 
 strongly, and when Barbara's seventeenth birthday came 
 it was to find us children yet in many ways. Barbara was 
 still the " Princess," and Ned was, if possible, more than 
 ever her captive. The great change was that Baibara was 
 engaged to be married, and engaged to a Northerner who 
 had lately settled among us, a Mr. Damer, soon known 
 to all of us as " Fred ; " for formality was not possible 
 with one of his sunny nature and kind heart. 
 
 Except for her extreme youth, I think we all were 
 satisfied with Barbara's engagement, Ned alone excepted.
 
 NED. 105 
 
 That Barbara should marry anybody was bad enough; 
 but that she should marry one of "dem Yanks" was 
 intolerable. 
 
 He waited on Fred at table with undisguised disgust, 
 muttering and shaking his head behind his back at every 
 opportunity, invariably beginning to wait on him from the 
 right side, and just as Fred adjusted himself to the awk 
 wardness, rushing around to the left. It really amounted 
 to a petty persecution, which kept the children in delighted 
 spasms of laughter and me in misery. My mother could 
 not see from behind her tea-urn what was going on, and 
 my father never saw or heard anything. But at last Ned 
 undertook to slap down as a gauntlet each plate and dish 
 before his foe, and his mutterings began to grow audible. 
 One day, on seeing Fred pay some little attention to 
 mother, he spoke too loud for further ignoring. 
 
 " I sees yer, I sees yer, 'deed I does ; throwing cobs 
 at the cow, is yer? Yes, to make de ca'f take notice. 
 Yer don' git dis yer ca'f, ef Ned kin help it, naw, sir." 
 
 This was too much ; my patience was exhausted, and 1 
 complained to father. 
 
 At the next meal my remonstrance took effect. Just 
 as Ned was indulging in an unusually horrible contortion 
 of his visage, and as my delighted brother John was stuff 
 ing all of his handkerchief into his mouth, my father 
 looked up suddenly, and bent his white brows on Ned 
 until they met in a straight line over his blue eyes. Thus 
 he continued to gaze at him until the embarrassed negro 
 managed to get himself out of the room. Then turning 
 to the now sober John, father significantly motioned to 
 the door, through which the scared boy escaped, glad to 
 get off so easily.
 
 106 NED. 
 
 My father never used unnecessary words; and as he 
 knew none were needed to meet this occasion, none were 
 said, and at least outward peace reigned until the first 
 lover's quarrel arose. Then Ned was one broad grin ; he 
 seemed to scent danger for the hated intruder, and he 
 hung about Barbara, perfectly happy in the fact that she, 
 as in her childish troubles, seemed to prefer his constant 
 attendance to anything else. 
 
 I was never quite able to make out what this quarrel 
 was about, though it lasted several days ; but it was not 
 difficult to see that Barbara was behaving like the spoiled 
 baby she was, and that Fred was very patient, more 
 patient than I for him, for at last, finding Barbara alone in 
 the library, 1 administered the good round scolding that 1 
 thought she needed. Unused as she was to any harshness, 
 it did not take long to reduce her to floods of tears ; and 
 she was sobbing her heart out apparently, when Fred 
 entered the room. 
 
 As I closed the library door behind me two minutes 
 after his entrance, it was with the fixed opinion, which I 
 have seen no reason to alter since, that the male or female 
 who attempts to interfere with even the potentially 
 married is a fool. What conclusions the lovers came 
 to in their prolonged reconciliation, 1 do not know. 
 When we all met in the drawing-room in the evening, 
 Barbara appeared her old bewitching self, supremely 
 happy and contented. What arguments had . been used 
 to work the change, I never asked, and Barbara never 
 told me. However it may have been, the result was 
 satisfactory. 
 
 Fred was a trifle more communicative, but indirectly. 
 Taking me into a corner later in the evening, he gravely
 
 NED. 107 
 
 inquired if I thought my father would object to his taking 
 Ned out into the yard and wringing his neck. 
 
 " If he did not, Barbara would," 1 replied. " What 
 has poor Ned been doing now ? " 
 
 " Poor Ned, indeed ! He has been abusing me as 
 usual. 1 was at my innocent devotions this afternoon, 
 worshipping at my shrine in the. attitude common to 
 worshippers of every faith and clime, when he attacked 
 me. Elizabeth, being behind the scenes, why did you 
 not intercept the afternoon tea-tray brought in by Ned 
 with catlike step, and handed to Barbara over my devoted 
 head and prostrate form? 1 had two horrible alterna 
 tives : to rise suddenly to my feet, thereby upsetting the 
 tray and all its contents, or to crab out sidewise. I chose 
 the latter, and even as I emerged, was offered tea by my 
 tormentor with respectful gravity." 
 
 " What did Barbara do ? " I asked, laughing heartily. 
 
 " Why, Barbara came to my rescue nobly. She 
 reproved Ned scathingly, and with the air of an insulted 
 princess, for putting only one lump of sugar in her tea 
 1 think that was it." 
 
 " Reproved Ned, and before you!" I cried. "Then, 
 indeed, she punished him. The jealous hatred he bears 
 you is beyond words. My impression is that he is not 
 going to put up with your presence much longer. I have 
 been for some time expecting a message for Ned from 
 Lord Concarson, necessitating a voyage to the Island of 
 the Dardanelles." 
 
 "Not he!" cried Fred. "No such luck for poor 
 me!" 
 
 1 was nearer right than I thought. The next morning 
 brought with it the news that Ned was off again, and with
 
 108 NED. 
 
 no farewell message except a box of dainty candies tied to 
 Barbara's door-knob. 
 
 We thought a couple of days at most would see Ned 
 in his place again. But no Barbara had gone over to 
 the enemy ; his own eyes had seen incontestable proof 
 of a complete reconciliation. It was not to be borne, 
 and shaking the dust from his feet, Ned departed in 
 earnest. 
 
 Perhaps it was for the best. Barbara missed him sadly 
 and grieved long over his absence, repenting often her 
 hasty words. But, as the days went by, she grew more 
 and more absorbed in her lover, and I do not think Ned's 
 jealous heart could have borne the sight. And when Bar 
 bara's wedding day came, and our clinging little Princess 
 was taken from us, 1 thought of Ned and rejoiced in 
 his absence, believing that his undisciplined nature would 
 have suffered a pang ten times sharper than mine. 
 
 But Barbara had not seen her faithful servant for the 
 last time ; she was soon to meet him again. And of this 
 meeting I have heard the story so often, that it has grown 
 impossible for me to feel that I was not there in person, so 
 1 shall tell it as if such were the fact. 
 
 Fred and Barbara seemed inclined to spend the rest of 
 their lives in one prolonged wedding journey. Every day 
 they determined to set their faces toward home to-morrow, 
 and each to-morrow found them lingering. Drifting 
 about in this way, they strolled one noon into the din 
 ing-room of a New York hotel, and sat awaiting their 
 luncheon. The waiters were all negroes ; and as Barbara 
 idly looked at them, thinking how natural their dusky 
 faces appeared to her Southern eyes, her attention was 
 caught by something familiar in the figure of the head-
 
 NED. 109 
 
 waiter, whose back was toward her. Suddenly he turned, 
 and Ned and his " Miss Princess " were face to face. 
 
 In the joy of that meeting, even the man who had 
 stolen his treasure was forgiven. He had no words too 
 eloquent to express his passionate delight, no entreaties too 
 urgent to implore their stay. The best that the hotel could 
 offer was theirs, and no hands but Ned's were allowed to 
 proffer the dishes. Barbara's happiness was but little less 
 than his; and when they left the dining-room after the 
 prolonged meal, it was with the promise to make their 
 stay an extended one. With this understanding, Ned bade 
 them a reluctant farewell for the afternoon. 
 
 But in an hour or so a message was brought to him 
 that Mrs. Darner wished to see him in her sitting-room. 
 He found her alone, lying in a corner of her couch, 
 looking pale and suffering. 
 
 " Ah, Ned," she cried, as he entered ; " my head does 
 ache so! I have been to see Aunt Mary, and she keeps 
 her house as hot here as she did when she lived at home. 
 It made me so ill, just as it used to ! " 
 
 Ned was all tender sympathy. She was his little mis 
 tress once more, and he was her great, gentle nurse. He 
 brought her a cup of strong tea made by his own hands. 
 Had she asked for nightingale's tongues, he would have 
 produced them somehow. Barbara sipped the fragrant 
 tea, and listened to the familiar voice, contentedly. 
 
 " Ned," she said, looking up at him suddenly, " why 
 did you run away ? " 
 
 For a moment Ned's composure failed him, and his 
 eyes dropped ; then a smile crept over his face. 
 
 " Yer see, honey," he said, " I was jest 'bleeged to go. 
 My Lord Concarson, he don' sen' fur dis nigger deep in
 
 110 NED. 
 
 de night an' all de way from de Islant of Dardanelles 
 lessen he means business. 1 did n't even have de time fur 
 to say good -by to my pretty baby." 
 
 Barbara listened with soft laughter. " Ned," she said, 
 "tell me about the Island of Dardanelles." 
 
 Ned obediently began a long fallacious tale of a lovely, 
 lonely land, a land of tropic growth and splendour. The 
 story was such as he had told Barbara over and over again 
 in her baby days. Gradually her eyelids sleepily drooped 
 and fell, opened, drooped again, and then under the spell 
 of the familiar phrases she fell asleep. 
 
 The dining-room of the hotel where Ned was in charge 
 was somewhat apart from the rest of the building, and this 
 probably was the last place where the alarm of fire was 
 heard when it broke out in the hotel, not an hour after 
 Ned had left Barbara's side. His first thought was for her 
 safety ; and he rushed from the dining-room, through the 
 hall, and up the main stairway which led to her rooms. 
 
 The hallways were full of screaming women and chil 
 dren, and were thick with smoke ; great clouds were roll 
 ing in from every side. On the first landing Ned met 
 Barbara's husband, a baby in either arm, and a half fainting 
 woman clinging to his shoulder. 
 
 " Miss Princess ! " gasped Ned. 
 
 " Safe," was the laconic answer, as Fred bundled the 
 babies into Ned's arms and caught the tottering woman. 
 
 The fire had been smouldering too long before being 
 discovered to think of saving much more than human life 
 now that the flames had broken out, and it required brave 
 and determined efforts to accomplish even this. At last 
 the order was issued by the captain of the fire-brigade that
 
 NED. Ill 
 
 no one should further risk life and limb by re-entering the 
 doomed building. Ned had been foremost among the 
 workers, and he now prepared to enjoy himself. 
 
 An African is always a voluptuary in his pleasures ; and, 
 abandoning himself with true negro delight to the sway of 
 excitement, Ned drifted about with the seething and twist 
 ing of the crowd, until he found himself standing close 
 by Fred's side. He then resisted the pressure which was 
 bearing him forward, and spoke reproachfully, 
 
 " I jes' hope you got Miss Princess a-lookin' at dis yer 
 fire from somewhar. She allays did love a fire. Many 's 
 de one I done tuk her toe outen de back gate when ole 
 Miss think she war in de nuss'ry an' I war in de woodhus. 
 Thar war n't none on it she did n't see, a-settin' up on my 
 shoulder an' crowin' like a little rooster. Ole Miss, she 
 cot me takin' her onct. Lord, but she did raise ! I dis- 
 remember jes' what she tol* me, but I know I ain' tuk de 
 chile no mo'. Ho, ho ! " 
 
 Fred listened with much amusement. 
 
 " I am afraid your Miss Barbara cannot see this fire 
 from where she is," he said ; " I took her across the city 
 early this afternoon to visit her aunt. It is not my fault 
 that she is not with me ; they did n't want me, and told 
 me so." 
 
 " An' yer ain' seen Miss Princess sence de fire bruk 
 out ? " 
 
 " No for God's sake, man, what is the matter with 
 you ? " 
 
 The two faces looked into each other, a strange con 
 trast, one with staring white eyeballs and eyes full of a 
 horrible intelligence, the other white and ghastly with its 
 dawning terror.
 
 112 NED. 
 
 No further words were needed. Both men turned and 
 sprang forward as moved by one muscle ; but the action 
 of the negro was with hand and foot. A well-directed 
 blow from his ponderous fist made the husband of his 
 young mistress stagger ; and when he recovered his foot 
 ing Ned had gained the moment's advantage, and was 
 cleaving his way through the crowd, which opened for him 
 as did the Red Sea for Moses, " a wall on the right hand 
 and on the left." 
 
 As he reached the door of the burning building, his 
 path was barred by a fireman in his full panoply and power 
 of office. 
 
 " Git out, ye black fool," he shouted, in unmistakable 
 Irish. 
 
 Out swept that powerful black arm, and with what 
 seemed but a gesture, the burly Irishman was brushed aside. 
 The next moment Ned was up the deserted stairway, and 
 had gained the first landing. Here he paused. There was 
 no one now to bar his progress but Death clad in his 
 most fearful terrors. 
 
 The negro stooped and began to draw off his boots. 
 The stairway hung by a thread, and his step must be cat 
 like. He cast one look back into the surging mass of life 
 below, and saw there a man struggling vainly in the grasp 
 of a dozen hands. He heard a hoarse voice crying, 
 
 " Curse you, let me go ; my wife is in that hell ! " 
 
 Above the roar of the fire, above the shout of many 
 voices, rose the stentorian tones of the captain of the 
 brigade, 
 
 " Hold on to him, boys ! Hold on to him ! There 's 
 one chance in a hundred, and that hangs on those steps. 
 There sha'n't be a foot set on 'em."
 
 NED. 113 
 
 Ned heard, saw, and was satisfied that the first part of 
 his mission was accomplished. He set his bared foot on 
 the charred steps, and began the ascent, the first turn hiding 
 him from the eyes of the crowd below. 
 
 A death-like silence fell on the multitude, a silence 
 rendering more horribly audible the resistless, sullen roar 
 of the fire, which licked and curled about the eaves of the 
 house, and which the hissing water seemed but to feed. 
 Great tongues of flame broke from one window and an 
 other, as if the devouring fiends within were looking out 
 deridingly at the white, upturned faces. A woman's hys 
 terical sobs alone broke the stillness, and she was sternly 
 hushed. 
 
 Barbara's husband ceased to struggle in the firemen's 
 grasp. 
 
 Have you ever known what waiting means, known 
 more than its impatient restlessness ? Have you ever felt 
 that stopping of the heart's pulses for one moment of 
 anxious listening, and then at some sound the wild rush 
 and thunder of the blood in your veins, the agony of the 
 clutch at your very life and being, your breath stopped in 
 your throat ? If you have never known all this, you have 
 never known waiting, and you may pray Heaven to spare 
 you that knowledge. This suffering and this knowledge 
 are Frederic Darner's. 
 
 Crash ! 
 
 A cry rose from the listening crowd in answer to the 
 sound, and the woman who had sobbed before was carried 
 away fainting. 
 
 " Thank God, it 's only the lower stairway gone ! " said 
 the captain ; "the landing still holds. I can reach it with 
 a ladder ; get me one." 
 
 8
 
 1 14 NED. 
 
 " I go with you," said a quiet, determined voice beside 
 him ; it was Barbara's husband. 
 
 The captain turned and looked at him closely ; appar- 
 rently what he saw satisfied him. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he answered calmly. " Give him your 
 helmet, Jack. We must go now, sir ; I hear them on the 
 stair." 
 
 They entered the burning house together; at any 
 moment the roof might fall. Four lives were now in 
 jeopardy where two had stood before. The sound of a 
 footfall slowly became an established fact. 
 
 " That ain't but one person walking, sir," said the cap 
 tain, gently, " and you 'd best not hope, for that foot 's 
 bare." 
 
 " Then he is carrying her," said Fred ; and again noth 
 ing but the dread fire sounds and that stealthy footfall 
 broke the silence. 
 
 At last ! at last ! Out of the smoke, out of the flame, 
 on to the frail platform stepped the gigantic negro, his 
 clothing literally torn and burned from his body, the blood 
 streaming from a ghastly wound in his head, his breath 
 coming in sobs like those of a wounded stag ; but in his 
 arms, gathered close to his breast, her fair curls gleaming 
 on its blackness, lay the unconscious form of his Miss 
 Princess. 
 
 Once more he was carrying her safely home from a fire, 
 and now, indeed, for the last time ! By the help of the 
 two waiting men the descent of the ladder was made, and 
 Barbara lay in her husband's arms. Even at this supreme 
 moment, he observed with a rush of grateful emotion that 
 the blanket in which she was swathed had been saturated 
 in water.
 
 NED. 115 
 
 As the rescuer and the rescued passed out from the 
 blazing house, a wild shout burst from the excited crowd, 
 which pressed forward beyond control. But even as his 
 dimmed sense heard the cries, as the blessed air of heaven 
 smote upon him, Ned staggered and dropped to the ground. 
 The blood gushed out from his ears and mouth ; he was 
 picked up by strong hands and carried into a neighbouring 
 house, where at least there were quiet and care. 
 
 In another room in the same building Barbara lay, still 
 unconscious; but the swoon caused by fright and shock 
 soon yielded to treatment, and she awoke, crying hyster 
 ically for "Mother!'' and clinging nervously to her 
 husband. 
 
 But her first fully conscious thought was for Ned. Fred 
 could not command his voice to answer her eager, per 
 sistent questions, and it was the physician in charge who 
 gently broke to her the news of his danger, and who left 
 her to seek the latest report of his condition. 
 
 In these, few moments, alone with the wife " brought 
 to him like Alcestis from the grave," I think we may for 
 give a brief forgetfulness of the Hercules whose gift she 
 was ; but it was v/ith a sense of remorseful awakening that 
 Fred looked at the grave face of the physician as he en 
 tered, saying, " I can give you but little encouragement." 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" cried Barbara; "you can, you must 
 save him ! Go to him, both of you. I promise to be 
 perfectly quiet ; I won't move, only go, oh, go ! " 
 
 As the door closed behind the two men, Fred turned 
 to the physician with an inquiring look, and was answered 
 by a shrug of the shoulders and an outward motion of 
 the hands more expressive than any words. Every 
 thing that skill could do had been done, but from the
 
 116 * NED. 
 
 first it needed no medical verdict to tell that there was 
 no hope. 
 
 Ned did not seem to suffer, but lay almost unconscious, 
 breathing heavily. Fred, bending over him in an agony 
 of grateful pity, saw his lips move, and bending nearer, 
 thought he heard him whisper, " Miss Princess." 
 
 " Shall 1 bring her to you ? " he asked, and waiting 
 for no answer, went hastily for his wife. 
 
 She started up with eager eyes as he entered. " Is 
 there no hope ? " she cried. 
 
 "There has been none from the first," he answered. 
 " Dear, he is asking for you. Can you bear it ? There 
 is not a moment to lose." v 
 
 " Oh, take me to him quickly, quickly." 
 
 He lifted her tenderly, and half led, half carried her 
 to the room of the dying man. But in his short absence 
 there had been a change in the sufferer ; agony had par 
 tially restored consciousness, and each breath was a moan. 
 
 " Come, Lord, come ! Oh, Lord, come git me ! " he 
 was crying feebly as they entered the room. 
 
 " Love, it is too late. You may not stay now ; he 
 would not wish it." 
 
 But Barbara broke from her husband's detaining arm, 
 and threw herself on her knees by Ned's bedside. 
 
 Her presence seemed to rouse him. He opened his 
 
 eyes and looked at her tearful face. " T ain't so terrible 
 
 bad, darlin'," he gasped brokenly. " I ain't a-cryin' none, 
 
 - jis' whisperin' to de Lord, honey, jis' whisperin' to de 
 
 Lord." 
 
 Barbara buried her face in the bedside and burst into 
 a passion of tears. He husband stepped forward to draw 
 her away, fearing that she might disturb the dying man ;
 
 NED. 117 
 
 but Ned seemed to divine his intention, and rallying his 
 strength, laid a detaining hand on her sunny curls, raising 
 her face to his sight. 
 
 " Don' take on so, darlin'," he whispered ; " I 's got to 
 go, but I ain' goin' fur, honey, not to say fur." A gleam 
 of the old humour shot across his face. " Ned only gwine 
 to the Islant of Dardenelles, honey, fur to wait on my 
 Lord Con " 
 
 A sudden shudder shook his whole frame ; his face 
 was contorted in agony. Barbara's husband laid his hand 
 quickly across her eyes to shut out the sight. 
 
 And when he drew ,it away again all was over ; Ned 
 had at last made his voyage to the Blessed Isles, and 
 was waiting upon his Lord whose name was not 
 Concarson.
 
 "THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY.'
 
 THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY.' 
 
 ^TO-MORROW I enter into my new life ; to-morrow I 
 leave my past behind me forever. To-day I am 
 well, what I am; to-morrow I shall be known as "the 
 wife of Senator Blythe," and after that as a Power. 
 Power ! there is indefinable force in the very sound of the 
 word. Power: I like to say it over. 
 
 Come here, my little mirror. Sit on the table by me, 
 and let us have an honest talk, you and I ; it is long since 
 1 have talked honestly to any one. . You are the only 
 article of real value on my dressing-table. My brush has 
 a wooden back ; my comb is of india-rubber. Ah, well, 
 all that will be changed to-morrow ; but now you alone 
 are suited to me. Ivory, tipped with gold a gift of 
 Emily's; the frame painted by herself, passion-flowers: 
 they look like her. This dainty, delicately tinted corner 
 might be Emily herself. But let us talk, we two. It is 
 the last time I shall ever see you, my dear. Suppose 
 we look each other squarely in the face before we say 
 good -by. 
 
 And so this is what I have fought the battle with 
 and won. I am not beautiful, not as Emily was. I 
 know that my hair and eyes are superb, but the rest of
 
 122 "THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY." 
 
 my face is open to criticism. How has it been that at 
 twenty-four, with this, my only stock-in-trade, to back 
 me, I have played for a high stake and won ? 
 
 We know, do we not, my mirror ? As we speak of it 
 now " the old Circe looks from out my eyes." 
 
 Yes, that was it : I knew my power ; . but it had to 
 be used with caution. It is easy for such a woman, alone 
 in the world, to be called an adventuress. 1 was clever 
 enough to escape that; no one ever called me that but 
 once and the poor little woman was hounded to it. 1 
 shall never forget that day by the sea. How her baby- 
 face quivered when she found us alone on the rocks, and 
 how her eyes flashed through her tears ! 
 
 " Adventuress! " 
 
 1 can hear her now. She had her bitterness to bear, 
 and she gave me mine. I liked her spirit, but it stung all 
 the same. I remember how 1 sat, white and silent, catch 
 ing my breath from the force of the blow. What a 
 brute her husband showed himself ! He spoke to her as 
 my husband will never speak to me ; or if he does, the 
 woman in question will not get off so easily as I did. She 
 came to heel at once, poor little thing, and apologized to 
 the " unfriended, lonely woman she had insulted." I was 
 always a fool about those pretty baby-women. I should 
 not have made a bad man, I think ; as a woman, I am a 
 mistake. When 1 took the hand she gave me at her hus 
 band's command, 1 hated him. How I should have liked 
 to advise her a little ! but I paid off her score for her, 
 paid it in full. Ah, my young friend, you were a little 
 astonished the next day when 1 dropped my pathetic role, 
 and told you with point-blank coolness that you loved me. 
 I laughed in his face, told him to look into his heart, and
 
 " THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY." 12} 
 
 see what I saw there. I had only played with him for 
 an hour, because I foolishly fancied that his eyes were 
 like others I had known, like those clear, honest, trusting- 
 eyes which should have been difficult for dishonest ones to 
 meet, but not for mine. He went back to his child-wife 
 cured, but a man, not the boy he had been ; he will never 
 be that again. If any mother wanted her son matured, I 
 think I could guarantee to do it in two weeks certainly 
 three. 
 
 I must be careful not to smile like that; it does not 
 suit my style, does it, my faithful friend ? Or perhaps 
 suits it too well ? I was very near trying to deceive you ; 
 you just caught me in time. You see, it comes naturally 
 to me; it was the bread-and-milk of my baby-days: 
 "Mamma, mamma, pretty mamma, I want to be with 
 my mamma." 
 
 Charming maternal picture ! - - with the pathetic 
 widow's weeds as background. I played my part with 
 great spirit for such a tiny thing; it was not my fault 
 that the child -lover retired without results. As the next 
 on the carpet hated children, 1 was banished to the nursery, 
 and later to boarding-school, where I studied because I 
 chose to, and not because of good teaching. I gained 
 other things there too, my power of apparent self-efface 
 ment, of stern self-control, of close watchfulness; and 
 there, later, came Emily, beautiful, dignified, wealthy. 
 1 made up my mind that she should love me ; and I easily 
 accomplished this, she was so loving and unsuspecting. 1 
 went to her English home with her from school, as I 
 meant to. Ah, those two months, those halcyon days! - 
 in them 1 learned the fascination I possessed ; in them I 
 learned to use it. Emily might be beautiful, was beau-
 
 124 "THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY." 
 
 tiful, pure, and exquisite as the lining of a shell, but, 
 beside me, she who had everything was as nothing. 
 
 Not in bis eyes alone, but in the eyes of others. I saw 
 it plainly ; had I not, everything might have been differ 
 ent. I discovered that most women must exert them 
 selves; 1 had but to be and I was only eighteen. 
 
 And yet Emily was beautiful, beautiful. He had loved 
 her before 1 came but then! 
 
 Ah, that winding, moonlit river, those shaded walks, 
 those tender words and tenderer caresses! His mere 
 presence an exquisite consciousness, his absence an aching 
 hunger ! 
 
 Richard! Richard! Ah, God, if I had died in your 
 arms that day six years ago ! What ! tears ? One two 
 three four of them. Crocodile! Always deceitful, 
 and striving now to deceive yourself, as you did him. 
 Deceiving him, with his passionate kisses stilj warm on 
 your lips! 
 
 " Marry you, dear ? Never, never ! Could I, of all 
 women, break Emily's heart ? " 
 
 Bah ! what did 1 care for Emily ? Not a snap of my 
 fingers. 
 
 Marry him ? No, no ! Not the young country squire, 
 with his estate smothered in mortgages, in spite of his 
 brave pink coat and blooded horses. 1 found all that out, 
 and despised myself for doing so. But I collected my 
 facts first, and did the despising afterwards; one gener 
 ally does. I took the first-fruits of my heart, and offered 
 them to my Moloch of ambition; to-morrow I get my 
 reward. 
 
 1 had a small sum of money of my own, and had been 
 adding to it by writing; my pen was a ready, caustic
 
 "THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY." 125 
 
 one, and I could rely on it. Live with my step -father, 
 accept his grudging charity, 1 found I could not. I 
 worked hard, made for myself a position, and was known 
 to the Press as one wielding a brilliant pen, not too 
 scrupulous, and thoroughly useful. I saw nothing of any 
 women ; I lived alone. I knew I should never gain any 
 thing from them but a sufferance, and that was not worth 
 working for ; but with men it was different. There I had 
 the fearlessness of certain success. 
 
 1 like to think of the good offers of marriage 1 have 
 refused; I consider it a remarkable circumstance that in 
 my position 1 could have chosen a humdrum, respectable 
 existence at any time. Yes, I think of it with compla 
 cency, and of my strength to say no. Do you recognize 
 what faith in myself I must have had to do this? 
 
 What a wonderful lobbyist 1 was for an amateur ! I 
 had other ends in view, or I should have adopted it as a 
 profession. I only dabbled in it for excitement ; it was 
 my absinthe. 1 made that clearly understood. When a 
 case had been tried and pronounced impossible, how 1 
 enjoyed working it ! When that great political move had 
 to be made, and when Senator Blythe, the unapproach 
 able, had to be brought to support it, who could be found 
 to bell the cat but me ? I who had nothing to lose, 
 nothing to gain but another experience. 
 
 But he was difficult, more difficult than I could have 
 imagined; there was nothing to catch hold of in his 
 smooth yet grim exterior. I was courteously defeated at 
 every point by this elderly man. He had me at a disad 
 vantage from the first. My charm of face and manner 
 were but so much material to be enjoyed, without moving 
 him an iota.
 
 126 "THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY." 
 
 I had met my match ; it was like flinging flowers at a 
 sun-dial. His course was marked out, and he would pur 
 sue it steadily. How 1 admired him when 1 arose to go, 
 outwitted and defeated ! 
 
 It was you who prompted me to turn and speak on 
 the very threshold of the room, you, my mocking 
 familiar. 
 
 " Senator Blythe, although I have entirely failed in what 
 I came to accomplish, I do not feel that my visit has been 
 for naught. 1 have known Senator Blythe the orator, the 
 statesman, the author; now 1 know Senator Blythe the 
 man, the man whose personality has left me nothing to 
 say but farewell." 
 
 Gross, crude, palpable, was it not ? I waited for a sar 
 casm which should crush me to the earth from lips so well 
 accustomed to that mode of warfare. 
 
 "H'm, h'm!" 
 
 Senator Blythe was pulling his collar up a little higher 
 toward his clean-shaven chin, and waiting with open 
 mouth for more ; he got it, of course he got it at once. 
 I had left the beaten path to seek this powerful mind, this 
 great leader, and behold, the old accustomed road was the 
 only way ! Old or young, grave or gay, foolish or wise, 
 it is all the same, my mirror, and you knew it. 
 
 I did not press my advantage, "would not trespass 
 on his time ; would he think over the matter under discus 
 sion, and confer with me at my address ? " 
 
 The great political battle was won, and, with it, my 
 own. Victory seemed to come to me by mere chance ; 
 was it chance only ? 
 
 We know better than that, do we not ? All great 
 victories must seem so. None but the victor knows of
 
 " THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY." 127 
 
 the weary hours spent in preparing for the pregnant 
 moment. It may come like a thief in the night ; but it will 
 come to him who waits and watches. The eye must be 
 hawk -like behind its softness, the mental muscles whip 
 cord, the hand trained to close thus: finger by finger, 
 slowly, stealthily, surely. 
 
 What a pretty, slim hand it is ! "A curled-up rose- 
 leaf," he used to call it. "Give me your hand, love, 
 those soft, rosy tips. Let me kiss them, finger by finger; 
 and now one for the palm." Let me listen a moment, 
 only a moment. 
 
 Clinging kisses they must have been to be there still. 
 Ah, Richard ! "All the perfumes of Arabia will not 
 sweeten this little hand." Yet to-morrow it will wash and 
 be clean. Essence of Power is stronger than the perfumes 
 of Arabia ; that shall cleanse this little hand. 
 
 To-morrow I am to be myself no more. You, my 
 friend, looking at me so closely now, will be as one dead ; 
 1 shall be as a phoenix rising from my ashes. Every link 
 with the past I have destroyed. Yes, I am deceiving you 
 again or trying to. I have not destroyed everything ; 
 I have kept back one little relic, so small that 1 thought 
 you would pass it over, but you are right to be inexor 
 able. Here it is, a tiny gold heart, so small that it has 
 hung about my neck and in my bosom for six years with 
 out discovery. Never mind the contents. I will lay all in 
 the hottest part of the fire. 
 
 Very well done indeed. One sudden kiss, your hand 
 pressed to your side, your tears dashed away. Your eyes 
 look very pretty and misty ; that pathetic droop to the 
 lips is becoming. Such a pity no one is here to see ! All 
 very correctly done. Tears over the first desperate lover,
 
 128 "THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY." 
 
 the first kisses; and the relics burned on the night be 
 fore one's wedding ! 
 
 And now, having spoken truths to you, I am going to 
 break you into a thousand pieces and throw you away. I 
 do not want to see you again after this. But first let me 
 look into your eyes soul to soul. Tell me, have you 
 any regrets ; have you any fear that you have not done 
 wisely ? Stop and think. 
 
 No, I have done well ; and 1 am only twenty -four. I 
 see before me a series of satisfying circumstances. I like 
 those words; they are alliterative, too. "A series of 
 satisfying circumstances." Satisfied ambition ; satisfied 
 pride ; satisfied love of power ! 1 know just what my 
 statesman can give me now and later. We can work it 
 out together, he and I ; we have already begun. And 
 though he be fascinated, he is no hot-blooded young fool ; 
 he knows just what my help means. 
 
 Why are you looking at me with that expression ? Am 
 1 still keeping something back ? 
 
 Yes? 
 
 Well, take it, then. I have sacrificed my soul to my 
 Moloch, tortured my brain, bartered my youth ; and to 
 morrow 1 sell my body. To do this well, I had first to 
 ossify my heart ; and I did it quite successfully. 
 
 But there is one spot over which I can never form more 
 than a frail crust ; and sometimes it is a gaping wound so 
 tender that even to breathe on it causes exquisite agony, 
 and that spot is guarded by the white, set face of a young, 
 hot-blooded fool. With clouded eyes, and lips that for 
 six years have been saying over and over again the same 
 words : " Farewell ! farewell forever, my true darling, my 
 brave heart ! Farewell farewell ! "
 
 " THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY." 129 
 
 And now with one crash, you and all my past life are 
 destroyed together, and I step into my new life, clean con 
 fessed and without absolution. 
 
 To-morrow I must borrow a glass to dress my hair 
 for my wedding ; and the next day I may buy a dozen if 
 I choose, and frame them all in gold. But not one no, 
 not one shall have on it even the leaf of a passion 
 flower.
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE.
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 IT was the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty. 
 A hot September sun shone down on the South 
 Branch of the Potomac as it ran brawling and splashing 
 along, angrily wrestling with every obstacle that stopped 
 its way ; but wrestle as it might, a bank of stone was able 
 to resist and turn the river out of its course, making it 
 almost describe a circle. On the beautiful peninsula thus 
 formed stood a square stone-house surrounded by numer 
 ous out-buildings and magnificent old trees. 
 
 The old homestead showed signs of prosperity and the 
 utmost care in a near past ; now the first pitiable marks of 
 neglect and decay were apparent. The fences were 
 broken; a shutter flapped on one hinge in the fitful 
 breeze ; the once clean-shaven lawn, which ran from the 
 front of the house to the water's edge, was strewn with 
 leaves and wore an unkempt air of litter. But if there 
 were any human interest behind the hot eye of that Sep 
 tember sun, it was not held by the quiet beauty of the 
 scene, nor yet its sadness. Strange echoes and a sense of 
 apprehension were in the air; the cattle stopped feeding 
 and raised their heads ; an old negro picking up apples 
 straightened his back and looked about uneasily.
 
 134 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 Suddenly a man clad in the uniform of a Confederate 
 soldier ran with the silent rapidity of a gray squirrel over 
 the narrow neck which bound the homestead to the main 
 land. He was without a hat, and his clothes were mud- 
 stained; his breath came in laboured sighs; only an 
 indomitable will worked the machinery of his exhausted 
 frame. 
 
 Again the air was disturbed by pistol-shots and shouts ; 
 the loud voices grew louder, and a handful of Federal 
 soldiers dashed across the neck. They were led by an 
 officer whose practised eye scanned the peninsula. 
 
 " Halt ! " he called ; "the fool has run into a trap. Do 
 you two guard this neck ; the rest follow ! " 
 
 The flying gray figure disappeared in a hedge of ever 
 greens which separated the front lawn from the garden 
 and cornfield at the back of the house. 
 
 " God help him ! Oh, pray God help him ! " pleaded 
 Miss Etty Trot, standing at her upper window. 
 
 Her heart was beating wildly, her hands were clasped 
 until each nail was white with the pressure, as she watched 
 the fugitive cross the garden and run among the stubble 
 where the corn stood in shocks. 
 
 A moment later two blue -coated figures broke through 
 the evergreens; there was no one in sight, and they 
 paused doubtfully. 
 
 Unable to bear the suspense, Miss Etty covered her face 
 with her hands, and turned away trembling; sobbing 
 like a child, she fell on her knees in an agony of prayer. 
 
 A knock at the door roused her. 
 
 "Miss Etty, honey; Miss Etty " It was the unmis 
 takable negro voice, inarticulate from excitement. The 
 household was a well-trained one ; under no pressure
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 135 
 
 would Uncle Dan have omitted knocking at his mistress's 
 door, although he had been her nurse in childhood, and 
 had waited on her for more than thirty years. 
 
 " Miss Etty, a Yank cap'en in de hall, chile. He say 
 he got ter see yer. He gwine to such de house, anyho'." 
 
 Miss Etty held her hand over her fluttering heart. 
 Then the fugitive was not yet found ! Ah, to hurry them 
 through the house ! to get them away that she might 
 search ! 
 
 The stairway of the old mansion rose from the centre 
 of the great square hall ; it ended in a gallery which ran 
 around all four walls, and on which the upper rooms 
 opened. Standing at the hall-door, not only the stair but 
 a part of the gallery could be seen. 
 
 At this point of vantage the Federal officer was sta 
 tioned. The blaze of noonday light would fall on the 
 figure whose descent he had ordered. 
 
 He saw a tiny, shrinking form appear on the gallery ; 
 it descended the steps slowly, looking at him as some 
 startled wild creature might at its captor. Behind her 
 shuffled Uncle Dan, equally frightened, but with a dogged 
 faithfulness. 
 
 The small white-robed lady reached the bottom of the 
 stair, and paused. The draught which swept the hall 
 blew back the light hair from about her temples, and 
 showed the fine blue veins there. A lace kerchief crossed 
 on her bosom fluttered as though the wind had crept there 
 also. 
 
 " Is she nineteen or thirty ? " thought the man in the 
 doorway ; " one can never tell with these little light 
 women." 
 
 The little light woman drew nearer to him, at the cost
 
 136 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 of an effort which left no trace of blood in her cheeks ; 
 she opened her lips, but speech died in their child-like 
 quivering. 
 
 The officer stirred uneasily ; he was moved, and there 
 fore his voice was unnecessarily stern as he demanded to 
 be taken over the house. 
 
 Had he met with opposition, his task would have been 
 an easier one. With growing discomfort, he followed the 
 little figure and timid voice up and down stairways, and 
 through room after room. His demands gradually be 
 came requests, his requests, apologies. 
 
 Dan toiled steadfastly after them, but his mistress car 
 ried her key-basket, and opened the doors with her own 
 hands. Before one she paused and looked up appealingly, 
 but the officer averted his eyes and the door swung open. 
 Uncle Dan cast one scared glance into the darkened room, 
 then turned his ashen face, puckered with rage, toward 
 the searcher. 
 
 " Ef ole Marse warnt dade, you darsent," he snarled. 
 
 " It was my dear mother's room," said Miss Etty ; " it 
 has never been changed since she left it. Uncle Dan was 
 very fond of her." The gentle courtesy, the note of patient 
 pain in the soft voice, were not lost on her listener. He 
 closed the door reverently, locked it, and laid the key in 
 the basket on Miss Etty's arm. 
 
 " My dear young lady, 1 am not quite a brute," he said. 
 " Assure me that there is no one hidden in the house, and 
 I leave you in peace." 
 
 " No, no one," breathed she, too eagerly. 
 
 A long pause, and then : " Nor in the grounds ? " 
 
 Under the keen eyes searching her face, her eye 
 lids flickered and fell. The same pitifully frightened
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 expression which had moved him before, crept over her 
 features. 
 
 " It is her brother or lover, poor soul," thought the 
 man watching her. 
 
 When Miss Etty looked up again she was alone with 
 Dan in the great gallery ; from below she heard a voice 
 calling out quick orders, and then the regular beat of 
 retreating footsteps. She stood with lifted head, listening ; 
 not daring to trust her ears, she climbed panting to the 
 observatory at the top of the house, and already far down 
 the road, her wondering eyes could distinguish the handful 
 of Federal soldiers led by their officer. 
 
 The little woman owned a grateful heart and a soul 
 steeped in piety. 
 
 " May the Lord bless him ! " she said fervently, - 
 " may the Lord bless him and keep him ! " 
 
 Assured of safety, she ran out to the cornfield, calling 
 with caution, but almost gayly, in her sweet high voice, - 
 
 " Soldier, soldier, you can come out now ; the Yanks 
 have gone ! " 
 
 " Oh, Lord, Miss Etty, is that you? " 
 
 Miss Etty started back with a cry of alarm, for the voice 
 had come from the ground at her feet. From out of the 
 shock of corn by her side, peered a white face, at the sight 
 of which, with another little cry, she sat down among the 
 stubble. Her pretty white dress was soiled and creased as, 
 half laughing, half sobbing, she helped to drag away the 
 cornstalks to disclose a woful figure. 
 
 " Oh, Dick, Dick ! and I kept trying to think it 
 wasn't you." 
 
 " It 's I, all that 's left of me, Miss Etty dear." 
 
 There was not much left but undying pluck.
 
 138 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 When Miss Etty looked at him, lying unconscious in 
 the bed to which he was hurried, she revoked the blessing 
 called down on his pursuer. 
 
 Six weeks before, led by his good angel, Richard 
 McCulloch had staggered half dead into the old Peninsula 
 House. He was wounded and ill ; he was very young and 
 dressed in rags of what had been the dearly loved gray. 
 
 These were arguments sufficient to make Miss Etty take 
 him into her starved heart ; but there was added a likeness 
 to her brother, the young brother who, after having 
 been forgiven unto seventy times seven, had suddenly 
 disappeared from among them. His sister had to bear 
 the burden alone when death came to the Peninsula and 
 the broken-hearted old father and mother were taken. 
 
 When the grim visitant came again searching for the 
 stranger within her gates, Miss Etty had once more wrestled 
 bravely with him ; and this time, having the patient's 
 strength and youth as allies, she won. 
 
 Dick, as his nurse learned to call him, was soon hob 
 bling about, convalescent ; and although he fretted not a 
 little under his enforced inaction, the young soldier awakened 
 life wonderfully in the old house. He laughed aloud, and 
 amused himself by teaching his half-frightened hostess to 
 echo it. But he was always scrupulously gentle with her ; 
 there was that about the little lady which called out a fine 
 chivalry in men. She grew young again and quite merry 
 by contagion, poor little soul ! 
 
 Dan, the old slave, alone held morosely aloof from this 
 new gayety. The main spring of his life had stopped 
 with his master's death ; perversity seemed now his only 
 trait. Even to Miss Etty he yielded but grudging obedi 
 ence, and to the intruder none.
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 139 
 
 It was soon after McCulloch's coming that Miss Etty 
 began riding into town by herself when supplies were 
 needed ; and Dan was not only irritated by being left 
 behind, but rendered suspicious and uneasy. His queru 
 lous loyalty for the old house he had served, sharpened his 
 wits and set him watching. He was positive thai the 
 pantry was full one day when his mistress ordered her 
 horse and rode away for the second time in a week. The 
 old man mounted her in eloquent silence, and stood look 
 ing after the little figure swaying in the saddle under the 
 trees which arched over the road ; he turned away, shak 
 ing his head dubiously, and scowled up at the window 
 where McCulloch sat watching the same sight. What had 
 such as she to do with the affairs of nations ? 
 
 Perhaps the vague suggestion of some such thought 
 was floating in the old negro's mind ; it was certainly in 
 the mind of Richard McCulloch. 
 
 Miss Etty received a warm welcome from the keeper of 
 the country-store in Rivertown, when he saw her enter his 
 door. 
 
 " Good-morning, Miss Trot, I 'm very pleased to see 
 you to-day ; but then I always am, you know. Hot day 
 for a ride. Water ? Certainly, Miss. Perhaps you 
 would n't mind stepping into my office and helping your 
 self, nice and cool there. You might sit and rest a spell." 
 
 The room was crowded with the usual village loungers ; 
 and Miss Etty, threading her way through them, dis 
 appeared in the little back -office. 
 
 She shut the door after her, locked it with noiseless 
 caution, then with a swiftness of action which betokened 
 habit, drew a key from behind a pile of books and opened 
 the door of a small closet ; on one of its shelves lay a
 
 140 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 packet of papers and a Confederate uniform. The papers 
 she at once disposed of by hiding them in her bosom ; 
 The uniform remained a problem. She stood with her 
 finger on her lip, pondering. There was no one to see 
 her, and yet as a way out of the difficulty presented itself 
 to her mind, she blushed crimson and shrank back as 
 though another's suggestion had shocked her sensitive 
 maidenhood. 
 
 It was characteristic of the woman that while the hot 
 blood was yet in her cheeks she began to divest herself of 
 her riding-habit. The gray coat was twisted into an in 
 glorious bustle ; the cap, Miss Etty set on her head, push 
 ing her own hat down over it, binding the shaky structure 
 together with her thick veil. When it came to the trou 
 sers, she flushed again, but picked them up bravely and 
 plunged in like a little man ; alas, the garment had been 
 cut for a big one, and she found herself floundering in 
 cloth that dangled at length over each foot. It was un 
 fortunate that she should have caught sight of her figure 
 reflected in a looking-glass at that moment ; Miss Etty had 
 to struggle with an inclination to cry in consequence. At 
 last by sitting on the floor she found that she was able to 
 turn the ends of the trousers up to her knees, and when 
 she rose to her feet again the deed was accomplished. With 
 one glance of fearful fascination at the mirror, Miss Etty 
 hurried her riding-skirt over the horrid sight. 
 
 When she walked out into the store afterwards, and 
 bought corn-meal at the counter, there was no sign of 
 disturbance in her face, and in figure she only seemed a 
 little stouter and taller. The store-keeper followed her to 
 the horse-block, and lifted her bodily to the saddle; as 
 he settled the stirrup, he looked up admiringly.
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 141 
 
 " If that don't beat all! " he whispered ; " and you no 
 bigger than my thumb, either ! " 
 
 Although Rivertown was presumably well sentried by 
 Federal troops, little Miss Etty Trot never had any diffi 
 culty in going in and out. She stopped now, as usual, to 
 chat with the sentry ; but this time he caught at her bridle, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " 'Pears to me you set higher than when you came in," 
 he said. 
 
 She knew him too well to be much frightened, and 
 made no attempt to ride on ; she even looked down at 
 him and laughed also. 
 
 With a good-natured wink the man released the horse, 
 and moved aside. Dick screamed with laughter when Miss 
 Etty explained that she had winked back to keep him in a 
 good humour. 
 
 'But the uniform, Miss Etty dear! the brand-new 
 uniform ! " cried the delighted soldier. " I was thinking 1 
 should have to go clothed in my virtue. How did you get 
 that through ? " 
 
 To this he could get no answer ; Miss Etty blushed and 
 hung her head, but kept her secret. 
 
 Much sooner than either of them expected the uniform 
 was to be worn. When McCulloch glanced through the 
 papers Miss Etty handed over to him, he started to his feet, 
 exclaimed aloud in his excitement, and rushed off to the 
 depleted stables to order that the best horse left should be 
 saddled immediately. 
 
 In the hurry of his departure Miss Etty had no time for 
 questions ; but as she ran out into the road and stood by 
 his stirrup, he bent down for a last word and a half 
 explanation.
 
 142 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 She caught the words, " General Lee," " urgency," and 
 " news of greatest importance." Then in the midst of 
 her pleading reminder of his just-healed wound he was 
 gone. 
 
 Within an hour he had returned to her, as has been told, 
 on foot, hunted, all but taken. 
 
 When he recovered consciousness, his faithful nurse was 
 sitting by his bedside, dropping hot tears on the twitching 
 hand she held in hers. 
 
 "MissEtty " 
 
 " Oh, hush, my dear ! I have sent Dan for the doctor ; 
 you must not try to speak." 
 
 " But I must General Lee the papers " 
 
 He motioned impatiently toward the stimulant which 
 she had been giving him, and after taking it he spoke 
 more strongly. 
 
 " My horse was shot under me. 1 managed to hide 
 the papers under a stone. Miss Etty 
 
 She bent her ear close to his lips. As she listened to 
 his whispers, her face grew graver and graver. 
 
 " You see, the general must know," said the young" 
 man, feverishly. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " The doctor is loyal ; he can take the message. Will 
 he never come ? " 
 
 " You forget how old the doctor is, Dick. It is forty 
 miles to ride, and over the mountain." 
 
 " But the general must know." 
 
 " Yes, the general must know. My dear, my dear, how 
 can I leave you ! " 
 
 Dick struggled up on his elbow. " You you would 
 you dare ? "
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 143 
 
 " Hush ! You must let me think. You will be needing 
 me every moment." 
 
 He fell back in his bed and watched her with wonder ; 
 she was already kneeling, and like a little child she folded 
 her hands together. 
 
 "O Lord, direct me; for I have lost my way," he 
 heard her murmur. 
 
 " Amen," McCulloch whispered. 
 
 After a pause he spoke again, "The woods are al 
 ways thickest and darkest where the light begins, Miss 
 Etty." 
 
 The little figure rose, pathetically tiny even when stand 
 ing. She bent over him, and kissed his forehead. 
 
 " Good-by, my dear," she said simply. 
 
 When Dan arrived with the old doctor, the cook was in 
 the sick-room, and the only one who could have ex 
 plained Miss Etty's disappearance was wild and incoherent 
 with fever. 
 
 The hot sun went down in the heavens, and the edge 
 of the white moon came up ; from her horse's back Miss 
 Etty watched the setting and rising. 
 
 " It must be hard never to see the end of anything," 
 she thought. " Now, the sun will never know if 1 reach 
 General Lee, unless the moon tells him." 
 
 She would not think serious thoughts ; she did not dare. 
 Putting them resolutely aside, Miss Etty had gone back in 
 memory to the days before these troubles came. Trivial 
 things lived vividly in her memory ; she was a child once 
 more, playing with her brother, swinging in grape-vine 
 swings, and hunting water-snakes on the river-bank, es 
 pecially the wily serpent which always escaped them. When 
 at last a chance blow from her stick killed it, she had cried
 
 144 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 inconsolably, and could only explain that she did n't know 
 she loved it. 
 
 At this reflection Miss Etty laughed aloud, and started. 
 The child became Miss Etty Trot again on a mission of life 
 or death to many. 
 
 The dark hours before the moon came up had not been 
 so hard to bear as these with ghostly shadows cast upon 
 the road. In this mysterious light, her imagination roused, 
 she saw a man in every tree and stump ; before each bend 
 of the road she lived through a capture, and turned every 
 fence-corner with a heart which beat to suffocation. 
 
 An ever-present consciousness of the sick-room left be 
 hind came also, and stayed, an undercurrent of trouble. 
 Yet steadily on in the dim light, led by her tremulous 
 bravery, the little woman rode over mountain, valley, and 
 river to her general's camp. 
 
 " A lady to see General Lee at this hour of night ! 
 Impossible ! " 
 
 It was the aide speaking sharply to a soldier standing 
 at the entrance of the general's tent. 
 
 The man explained that she would give her message to 
 no one else. 
 
 " Then tell her she must wait until morning." 
 
 A voice came from inside. "Bring her here to me," 
 it said. 
 
 The soldier saluted the voice and departed into the 
 darkness as he had come. The aide went back into the 
 tent and, his eyes heavy with sleep, sat down by the table 
 where General Lee was writing. 
 
 At a challenge from the sentry, he rose and held back 
 the canvas flap ; through the opening, Miss Etty Trot
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 145 
 
 entered, looking almost a child in her close-fitting riding- 
 habit. 
 
 General Lee raised his head and looked at her with 
 extreme surprise ; then rising quickly, he crossed the 
 floor to meet her. 
 
 " What can 1 do for you ? " he asked kindly. 
 
 With no preamble, Miss Etty lifted her face, and in 
 low tones told the story she had come to tell. Her hair, 
 loosened by her long ride, fell in little curling tendrils. A 
 soft flush spread over her delicate features, her breath 
 came quickly; but she stood with the quiet of high 
 breeding, and spoke simply. General Grant was to cross 
 the river the next day, with the intention of surprising the 
 army. 
 
 The grave importance of her news was reflected in 
 General Lee's face, as he bent his noble head lower and 
 lower toward her, listening with rapt attention. 
 
 To the artistic eye of the young officer, standing in the 
 background, he seemed the embodiment of thoughtful 
 strength, and she of eager enthusiasm. The peculiar sweet 
 ness of her high" voice, even in its whispers, caught his 
 ear; and his admiration for the two contrasting figures, 
 standing out against the white wall, deepened as he grasped 
 their meaning better. 
 
 Picking up an old envelope, he pencilled a hasty sketch 
 on its back. Beneath it, with the enthusiasm ot a sad 
 prescience, he wrote: "How the Confederacy held out so 
 long." This scrap of paper is still among his most 
 cherished possessions. 
 
 After Miss Etty had delivered her message, and answered 
 a few pertinent questions, she knew that her work was 
 done ; and there being no further need of heroism, it took
 
 146 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 flight, leaving her trembling. General Lee's quick eye 
 noted this. 
 
 " And you have ridden forty miles by night to tell me 
 this ! " he said. 
 
 The personal question confused Miss Etty, while vener 
 ation for the speaker overwhelmed her. As she faltered 
 out an answer, a smile of exquisite enjoyment passed over 
 the face of the general's aide. His commander's counte 
 nance remained immovable, and the little lady never knew 
 that she had said " yes, ma'am," to the great soldier. His 
 next question was even more kindly and gentle. 
 
 " My dear child, how could your father let you go ? " 
 
 " I am thirty-three. My father is dead, and there was 
 no one else." 
 
 There was something infinitely touching about her as 
 she stood tremulously asserting her loneliness. 
 
 General Lee's manner of gentle deference, his generous 
 appreciation of the service she had rendered, failed to 
 reassure her. She was still flushed and trembling when, 
 with his words of grave praise and farewell still ringing in 
 her ears, she left the tent in the escort of the aide, quarters 
 having been hastily arranged for her in a crowded farm 
 house close by. 
 
 But despite Miss Etty's awe, her eyes had noted a brass 
 button which lay upon the half-written page on the table, 
 and they had fastened upon it hungrily more than once, 
 not unobserved by the younger officer. As he bade her 
 good-night at the farmhouse, he laid something hard and 
 round in her hand ; when she could examine it, she 
 found it was the coveted brass button. 
 
 Miss Etty fell asleep that night like a happy child, 
 with the bit of metal clasped close in her hand ; and when
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 147 
 
 she awoke deep in the next day, the great army was 
 gone. 
 
 Then, although her hospitable host made every effort 
 to detain her, she would not rest longer. Her duties were 
 taken as they came, and Dick was next in order. 
 
 Poor Dick ! Dan met his mistress at the door of the 
 Peninsula House, dolefully shaking his head. 
 
 "He's boun' ter go, honey," he said with unctuous 
 enjoyment of woe. 
 
 Miss Etty ran up the stair, straight from her horse's 
 back to Dick's bedside. With the first glance at his face, 
 her heart sank. He looked at her with vague, unseeing 
 eyes ; even her voice failed to rouse him. 
 
 Her own weariness and long journey were forgotten. 
 She left the sick-room only to change her riding-habit for 
 her usual home gown, and to fasten General Lee's button 
 in the button-hole at her throat. Again and again 
 through the long watches of that night, she gained cour 
 age from the touch of the hard metal against her soft 
 chin. 
 
 " 1 am thankful I sewed it there," she thought; "I 
 should never have been able to touch it, with my hands so 
 busy." 
 
 They were full to overflowing, for she had many parts 
 to play. Dick did not know her as " Miss Etty." First 
 she was " mother," and in that character a perfected 
 actress ; in her soothing touch and voice, he missed 
 nothing that he called for. It was less easy to be " John," 
 and to listen calmly to broken stories of flood and field, of 
 home and boy life. But it was almost unbearable to her 
 when she became " Alice." Dick called out against her 
 as heartless, faithless ; and it hurt her unreasonably.
 
 148 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 When he caught her hands and covered them with pas 
 sionate kisses, pouring out burning words, the primitive 
 little maiden-lady shrank and shrivelled. She was fright 
 ened and bewildered beyond measure under this delirious 
 wooing ; but she stood bravely at her post, and at last he 
 knew her. 
 
 ''Is it you ? Does the general know ? Were you 
 in time ? " 
 
 " Yes, the general knows, Dick. I was in time. The 
 army is safe." She vainly tried to steady her voice. 
 
 At its tremulous note, McCulloch looked up and read 
 his fate in her face as in an open book. 
 
 He closed his eyes and lay so still that Miss Etty 
 thought him unconscious; but as she bent over him, with 
 the fictitious strength of fever, he took her hand and drew 
 a seal-ring from his finger, fitting it on hers. The signifi 
 cance of his action almost broke her heart. 
 
 "Ah, no, no!" she began, sobbing; but he stopped 
 her with the ghost of his old smile. 
 
 " Don't, Miss Etty dear ; did you think I should be 
 afraid ? " 
 
 And then he began to ramble again, wandering among 
 the places of this world, strange to his nurse, and a little 
 later, among the many mansions of another, strange to 
 us all. 
 
 Miss Etty was once more left alone in the old Peninsula 
 House. 
 
 Twelve years had gone by since the day Richard 
 McCulloch's mother received two letters which had strug 
 gled through the lines together. One was from Dick, 
 telling of his wound and illness, and dwelling with affec-
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 149 
 
 tionate humour on his quaint little nurse. The second bore 
 a later date, and was signed " Henrietta Trot." 
 
 From this letter the mother learned that her son would 
 never return. " We have laid his mortal remains in the 
 southern corner of our graveyard, dressed in the uniform 
 he wore in life, and looking toward the country he loved 
 and died to save," wrote Miss Etty, in her somewhat old- 
 fashioned phrases. 
 
 The great wave of war sweeping over the country had 
 washed away Mrs. McCulloch's patrimony as a house of 
 cards ; it was not in her power to fulfil the wish of her 
 heart that her son's body should lie in the graveyard of 
 his native town among his brother-soldiers. 
 
 Like thousands of her Southern sisters, who resentfully 
 survived the wreck, she struggled on, widowed, childless, 
 with but one hope and aim in the world. For this end 
 she worked with feverish energy ; for this she stinted her 
 self in food and raiment. 
 
 One night, when almost twelve years had passed, her 
 hope seemed incredibly near a certainty. She sat in her 
 sparely furnished room, in front of the table on which 
 was spread neatly assorted piles of clean bank-notes. 
 
 " Two hundred and seventy-five," she counted, " two 
 hundred and eighty, ninety," her voice trembled, 
 " ninety -two, ninety-seven." 
 
 She opened her reticule, took from it three one-dollar 
 bills, and laid them with the rest. " Three hundred 
 dollars," whispered the woman who had spent that sum 
 on a single gown in a past now almost incredible, "three 
 hundred dollars," she repeated in an awe-struck murmur, 
 and then burst into tears. Some of the warm drops fell 
 on the bank-notes ; she wiped them jealously away with
 
 150 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 her handkerchief: " You are to bring me back my boy," 
 she said, fingering the notes tenderly. 
 
 The sum she had set herself to earn and save had 
 fluctuated in her keeping. Sometimes a season of little 
 work had obliged her to draw upon it, sometimes illness 
 had diminished the hoard ; but now it was all there, and 
 she gloated over it. She had trusted her treasure to no 
 bank, to no other keeping than her own. 
 
 She sat thinking intently, for now she could go no 
 further without help; to whom could she confide this 
 sacred trust? 
 
 Mrs. McCulloch ran over in her mind the list of names 
 of those friends whose proffered aid she had hitherto 
 proudly refused, deliberately choosing her grief as her 
 stern and sole companion. 
 
 At last she settled on Colonel John Bassett ; he had been 
 her son's friend, and General Lee's aide, what better 
 credentials could one ask ? She slept that night with the 
 price of her boy's home-coming beneath her pillow, and 
 the first thing in the morning sought Colonel Bassett's 
 office with the precious package in her hand. 
 
 Although the brave soldier was now the busy lawyer, 
 he laid by his work instantly on her entrance, receiving 
 her with cordial greeting ; and when she told him the 
 purpose of her visit, his eyes filled with sudden tears. 
 
 His old comrade's mother had rejected every offer of 
 material assistance; had he but chanced to think of it, 
 here was something he might have done years ago. As 
 he looked at her worn, triumphant face and joy-lit eyes, 
 at the hardly-earned money, contrasting it with his own 
 comparatively easily made hundreds, Colonel Bassett 
 bent quickly forward and gathered her hands into his.
 
 "HE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 151 
 
 " My dear old friend, let me ' was on his lips, but 
 a finer instinct withheld him; he drew back, folded the 
 money together, and locked it in his safe. " I will see to 
 it all personally," he said ; "you may take all care in this 
 matter from off your heart." 
 
 When Mrs. McCulloch gave Colonel Bassett Miss Etty's 
 letter, he repeated the signature aloud, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Henrietta Trot," he said, " 1 have surely heard that 
 name before. Henrietta Trot no, I don't place it. The 
 directions are clear, however, and the grave will be easy to 
 find. You may trust all to me, Mrs. McCulloch ; " and with 
 a heart softened by grateful tears, Mrs. McCulloch left the 
 office. 
 
 On the day of Richard McCulloch's reinterment, all 
 the town, in carriages and on foot, followed the hearse 
 and its military escort to the cemetery. Those who did 
 not know the details of the mother's sacrifice, guessed 
 them, and wished to pay respect to the brave son, and 
 perhaps braver mother. 
 
 Mrs. McCulloch, leaning on Colonel Bassett's arm, 
 stood close to the open grave, shedding not unhappy tears. 
 She could hear the wailing melody of the funeral march, 
 and see the dear defeated banner waving above her. 
 
 " Dust to dust, ashes to ashes." 
 
 The remnant of Dick's regiment drew up, some of 
 its individual members mere remnants themselves, and 
 three volleys of musketry fired over the grave finished the 
 solemn ceremony. 
 
 When Colonel Bassett handed the remainder of Mrs. 
 McCulloch's money to her, it was a sum so much larger 
 than she had expected, that she exclaimed in surprise, 
 
 " Why, there is enough left to pay for the monument,
 
 152 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 and have everything just as I longed to see it ! " she said, 
 flushing with pleasure. " But, Colonel Bassett, are you 
 quite sure that 1 owe nothing more ? Have 1 paid 
 everything ? " 
 
 " 1 have settled every bill, I assure you," he answered, 
 and had the reward of seeing the anxious question which 
 had risen in her eyes fade away. 
 
 " She is a changed woman," thought Colonel Bassett, 
 when the monument was at last in place, and he watched 
 Mrs. McCulloch bending lovingly over the grave, "she 
 is a changed woman. Those poor bones and that cold 
 marble have softened her as a flesh and blood child might. 
 Better so, perhaps ; those cannot be taken from her." 
 
 Yet the next morning's mail brought him the following 
 letter, - 
 COL. JOHN BASSETT: 
 
 SIR, I demand that you at once return the body of my sister, 
 Miss Etty Trot, which you stole from our family graveyard two weeks 
 ago. I understand that you identified it as the body of one Richard 
 McCulloch by a seal ring and a Confederate button. The ring was 
 given to my sister by said Richard McCulloch on his death-bed, and 
 the button was a gift from General Lee. Both mementos were buried 
 with her by her request. Expecting immediate restitution on your 
 part. Truly, 
 
 S. V. L. C. TROT. 
 
 "Trot, Miss Etty Trot," repeated Colonel Bassett; 
 " that was the name. General Lee's button, 1 gave it 
 to her myself." 
 
 It was all coming back to him now, dropping down 
 from some shelf in his memory where it had lain hidden. 
 He took up an old portfolio, and from among its con 
 tents, selected a packet, on the back of which was written, 
 " Sketches of General Lee,"
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 153 
 
 He turned them over gently, as men finger treasures, 
 and drew out one which he laid on the table before him. 
 It was evidently a hasty drawing, made on the back of an 
 old envelope; but it was a vivid reproduction of the 
 meeting between Miss Etty and General Lee, which he had 
 witnessed when the general's aide. 
 
 " There she is," he exclaimed triumphantly. There are 
 some people who, although seen but once and then perhaps 
 briefly, have yet the power to touch a chord in our hearts 
 which vibrates to-morrow, or even twelve years after, as 
 to-day. 
 
 Colonel Bassett looked affectionately at the drawing of 
 the tiny figure. 
 
 " And so it is you we have buried with military honours. 
 Bless your poor little bones ! " he said, laughing. " Well, 
 no man deserved it better." 
 
 He thought of the men of the dead regiment she lay 
 among, and of the monument over the gentle little lady, 
 which spoke of "war's alarms" and a " hero dead," and 
 laughed aloud, thinking how Dick himself would have 
 enjoyed the joke. Then he suddenly remembered Dick's 
 mother, and his laughter ended abruptly. What was this 
 going to mean to her ? 
 
 What it meant to Colonel Bassett was a trip to the 
 Peninsula House by the next train. 
 
 On his arrival there, he found Mr. S. V. L. C. Trot 
 established in the house of his fathers after fifteen years' 
 absence. 
 
 A weakling in intellect and morals, he was dominated 
 by the old slave Dan, who, ever since Miss Etty's death, 
 had been seeking this degenerate son, and had now brought 
 him home to reign over rack and ruin.
 
 154 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 Dan was old and bent and hideous, with a face like an 
 ape. It was on him that the weight of testimony fell. 
 He had buried Richard McCulloch, and his mistress had 
 read the funeral service, which was more than many of 
 the dead received in those troublous days. 
 
 "An' you didn't have no right to come a-gobblin' up 
 our bones," he growled to Colonel Bassett. 
 
 But Colonel Bassett would not be antagonized. He 
 explained patiently that he would willingly have asked 
 permission, had any one been there to give it; but he 
 found the homestead deserted and rank with weeds. The 
 body was lying in the southern corner, as described in the 
 letter, and he had supposed that all was correct. 
 
 Dan led Colonel Bassett out to the graveyard, and 
 illustrated the story on the spot. 
 
 " Miss Etty, she got it inter her hade dat dar warnt 
 room fur but one grave in dis corner. I knowed better. 
 Dar warnt no use in ways'in' good groun,' nor in talkin' to 
 her, nuther, when she got sot. 1 jes' eased it along in de 
 diggin'. Miss Etty, she rared 'bout it ; but 't warnt no 
 use when de diggin' was done. Dar war room fur anoder 
 grave, too ; fur I buried her dar. 1 knowed ; but then 
 she warnt but a scrap." 
 
 It was too plainly true ; the only question that re 
 mained was how to deal with the facts. 
 
 Colonel Bassett looked at the vacuous face of the 
 shiftless owner of the Peninsula, who was sitting on the 
 top of the graveyard fence, with his feet hooked in the 
 lower rail. 
 
 He hesitated ; but then the memory of Mrs. McCulloch's 
 face, with its newly-come peace softening it, rose before 
 him.
 
 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 155 
 
 " It will be but a pious fraud, after all," he thought ; 
 yet he spoke with an effort. 
 
 " May I discuss this matter alone with you, Mr. Trot ? " 
 he asked; and Mr. Trot, unwinding his feet from the 
 fence-rail, assented. 
 
 They walked to the house, leaving Dan swelling with 
 outraged dignity. 
 
 What that interview cost Colonel Bassett's fine sense of 
 honour, no one but himself will ever know ; what it cost 
 his pocket, is a secret which Mr. S. V. L. C. Trot shares 
 with him. 
 
 When Dan would have again opened the question of 
 the graves, his so-called master, with new-born arrogance, 
 bade him hold his tongue, the matter had been settled 
 between Colonel Bassett and himself. 
 
 The old man stood silent, peering at him from the 
 corners of his blear eyes. 
 
 " Hit 's loose change, dang it ! " he muttered to himself, 
 as he turned away. " He shell go on a spree to-morrow. 
 Dar won't be no livin' wid him tell he gits rid on it all." 
 
 On Decoration Day the south branch of the Potomac 
 ran brawling and quarrelling about the Peninsula, as usual. 
 By the point of land where the graveyard stood, a rock 
 rose out of the water; the waves splashed and foamed 
 against it, leaping high, as if striving to reach the top, 
 and from there look over into the yard, where six feet of 
 earth seemed to have burst into bloom in a day, with rare 
 exotic blossoms, all red and white. Old Dan's ape -like 
 face bent over them, and his black hands were placing the 
 flowers. 
 
 " Cunnel Bassett 's fur a-smoothin' him down wid dese, 
 is he?" he muttered contemptuously. "Miss Etty, she
 
 156 THE OLD PENINSULA HOUSE. 
 
 have dickered him outen his bury in' do." He laughed 
 with a little crowing chuckle, and stooped to touch a 
 glowing leaf with his horny forefinger ; perhaps a sense 
 of tardy justice smote him, for he added, slowly, 
 
 " He warnt half bad, nuther, he warnt. I reckon ef 
 she likes hit, he ain't begrutchin' none on it to her."
 
 FIFTEEN COUNTY ROCK.
 
 FIFTEEN COUNTY ROCK. 
 
 HOW the Rock came to be there on the mountain-side, 
 it never quite knew. It held a vague memory of 
 an intense cold ; of being swept powerfully along with 
 masses of snow and ice, a horrible grinding, groaning, 
 and crushing ; after that, stillness for years and years. 
 
 It was a long time before the great boulder even 
 learned to separate night and day. Rocks think slowly. 
 The sun beat down and warmed it through and through 
 to the very heart ; the soft mist and dampness wrapped it 
 by night ; and gradually it grew to know and love them 
 all, but always loving most the moist, clinging clouds 
 that come by night or by day. 
 
 From the mountain-side the boulder looked down 
 over what is now called fifteen counties. There, majestic 
 rivers marched grandly, and tiny streams, threading the 
 land, sought the rivers. These were the life-giving arteries 
 and veins, and by reason of their being the country smiled. 
 
 Hundreds of years passed, and a deeper and deeper 
 contentment settled down upon the Rock ; then it was 
 discovered. 
 
 But long before men discovered the boulder, the boul 
 der discovered men. It had watched in the distance their
 
 160 FIFTEEN COUNTY ROCK. 
 
 building of houses and mills, their herding of cattle and 
 ploughing of fields, and yet made no attempt to intrude. 
 But after men discovered the Rock, they were always 
 climbing up from the plain below to stand on its back and 
 see what it had been looking at for hundreds of years. 
 
 Fifteen County Rock, as they called it, did not then 
 know how to laugh ; but it learned this after listening to 
 a man who stood on its broad back and pointed out an 
 ant's nest to a child. He was laughing at the tiny workers 
 as he described the division of labour among them, some 
 hurrying here and some there. Then it was that the Rock 
 laughed to itself gently, remembering how human beings 
 had seemed when looked down upon from above. 
 
 Fifteen County Rock began to hear many strange 
 things now ; but nothing stirred it from its deep content 
 ment until one autumn day something very strange hap 
 pened. The sun had risen warm, but the air was cool and 
 crisp with the chill of the night still in it ; everything 
 seemed to be alive and happy. A little field on the 
 mountain-side laughed aloud when the breeze passed over 
 it. Each small blade of grass stirred and twinkled, and 
 the tall ones bent double with mirth. There was no 
 warning that anything unusual was to occur ; so the Rock 
 paid small attention when a young man came out of the 
 wood and mounted to its topmost ridge. 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried, as he looked down ; then he added 
 softly, "what hath God wrought?" 
 
 He stood for a long time motionless, looking over the 
 land ; then he took out paper and pencil and sat down to 
 sketch. 
 
 Presently a great black dog ran out from the bushes, 
 leaping about him with short barks.
 
 FIFTEEN COUNTY ROCK. 161 
 
 " Down, Matt ! " called the man ; and the dog lay quiet 
 with his head on the ground, but managed gradually to 
 crawl on his belly to his master's side and lay his head on 
 his master's foot. 
 
 The man looked down. "You old goose!" he said, 
 laughing. 
 
 He rubbed the dog's head with the end of his pencil as 
 he spoke, and turned the sketch toward him. 
 
 " Do you know what that is ? It is a picture, and 
 for your rival, sir; 1 shall bring her here herself some 
 day." 
 
 He looked dreamily out at the scene below him, until 
 the dog sat up and recalled his attention by striking him 
 on the knee with his awkward paw. 
 
 His master bent and took the shaggy head between his 
 hands, while the creature gazed up into his face with eyes 
 which were like a gentle woman's. 
 
 " Matt, Matt, why have n't you a soul ? " said the man ; 
 " but perhaps you may have one after all ; I sometimes 
 think so. If you have, look ! " 
 
 He caught the dog's collar, led him to the edge of the 
 Rock, and pointed below. But the dog only beat his tail 
 on the ground and looked down uneasily ; then at some 
 sound in the bushes, he slobbered, broke away, and 
 ran off. 
 
 " Matt is surely of the beasts that perish," said the 
 man ; and there was disappointment in his voice. He 
 finished his sketch hastily, and then went back into the 
 wood, whistling on his way. 
 
 " A soul ! " thought the Rock. " What is a soul ? " 
 
 This was the first time that it had ever heard of such a 
 thing, and it grew curious and longed to know more ; but
 
 162 . FIFTEEN COUNTY ROCK. 
 
 though it listened and listened, of the many who climbed 
 up the mountain, none talked of souls. 
 
 At last came a party of young girls with little hammers 
 in their hands, and bags swinging by their sides. An eld 
 erly man was with them, who talked long and earnestly. 
 
 " Glacial striations, marginal moraines, roches mouton- 
 nees," was what he spoke of, while the Rock listened 
 patiently, though it understood nothing. 
 
 Finally, the word it had been waiting so long to hear, 
 was used. 
 
 " I am sometimes led to believe that there exists, even 
 in rock and stone, a species of soul, of being, a a " 
 
 "An innate soul, Professor?" asked the prettiest of 
 the young girls. 
 
 " Yes, yes, exactly ; that was good, good, very good." 
 
 When the professor left, the girls crowded about the 
 pretty one who had spoken. 
 
 "What did you mean?" they asked. "We did not 
 understand. What is an innate soul ? " 
 
 The Rock waited with deep anxiety for her answer. 
 
 She broke into a peal of laughter. " I have not an 
 idea," she cried. 
 
 Then they all laughed their careless gay laughter. 
 
 "The professor knew," thought Fifteen County Rock, 
 in its disappointment. " It may be that I have a soul." 
 
 Twice in that same day did it hear the word. An old 
 man in clerical dress and with long white hair climbed 
 stiffly up its rough side ; he shaded his eyes with his 
 hand, and looked out at the setting sun from under his 
 bushy white eyebrows. 
 
 " My soul doth magnify the Lord," he said over and 
 over again.
 
 FIFTEEN COUNTY ROCK. 163 
 
 There was a young man with him who listened and 
 said nothing. 
 
 Presently a party of tourists came, men and women, 
 chattering and laughing. Some looked at the sunset, 
 and some at each other. 
 
 One of the women, no longer very young, but in 
 youthful dress, busied herself in collecting the scraps of 
 paper and bits of egg-shell left by a former picnic-party ; 
 she hid them all under a stone, announcing to one and 
 another in a high nasal voice, " The face of Nature, you 
 know, defending the face of Nature." 
 
 The old clergyman watched her with interest, and 
 catching his eye, she paused a moment. 
 
 " Don't you think, sir, that a sunset like this adds?" 
 she asked, waving a brisk hand toward the horizon. 
 
 " It adds, Madam, most certainly," he replied gravely. 
 
 She walked away with her satisfied, jaunty little step, 
 leaving the young man shaking with laughter. 
 
 " A genuine New England clam," he whispered. 
 
 The old clergyman's blue eyes twinkled under the pent 
 house of his shaggy brows. "Let her alone," he said; 
 " even clams have a soul hid away somewhere. You may 
 think that remark shoppy now, young man; but when 
 you are as old as I am, you will know it is only truth." 
 
 " What can this soul be ? " thought the Rock, uneasily. 
 " If even clams have souls, why not I ? " 
 
 But the days went by, and though it learned many 
 things from the people who came and went, and who 
 talked on many subjects, it heard nothing more of souls ; 
 so a little gnawing speck of discontent grew and almost 
 ate away the great contentment which had possessed it 
 of old. '
 
 164 FIFTEEN COUNTY ROCK. 
 
 One evening, when the sunlight had no more warmth 
 of colour, and was only a pale golden tint in the air and a 
 reflection on the clouds which lay softly pillowed against 
 each other in the west, a great black dog ran out of the 
 bushes and on to the back of the Rock. With a thrill that 
 struck to its very centre, it recognized Matt. 
 
 "His master will follow, and then, then perhaps, I 
 shall know." 
 
 Very soon Matt's master appeared ; but he came slowly, 
 for he was not alone. There was a woman with him, and 
 he was helping her to climb ; she was exceedingly beauti 
 ful, more beautiful than any one the Rock had ever 
 seen. Before they reached the summit, she sat down on 
 a stone, breathing quickly. 
 
 " It is so steep and warm," she said, smiling. "You 
 have chosen a poor comrade, I fear." 
 
 The man took off his straw hat and fanned her, with 
 a reply at which she smiled again, and laid her hand on 
 his shoulder with a light, caressing gesture. 
 
 " You will spoil me," she answered, and turned her 
 shapely throat to catch the waves of air. " Have we 
 much farther to go ? " 
 
 " No ; but a little way. 1 want to show you the very 
 spot where I made the sketch for you. Are you quite 
 sure that you are rested now ? Then come." 
 
 He helped her to the top of the Rock, and led her to 
 the edge. " Look ! " he cried exultingly, and pointed 
 below. 
 
 She opened her great serious eyes widely, and looked 
 over toward the west ; they were brown eyes, that re 
 minded Fifteen County Rock of the stags which had come 
 to stand on its back in the years before it was discovered.
 
 FIFTEEN COUNTY ROCK. 165 
 
 The two stood hand -in hand, silent. The man looked 
 at the sunset and then at his companion. 
 
 " Love," she said, at last, and her voice was very 
 musical, " do you see that charming pink and pearl cloud ? 
 It would exactly suit my colouring in a gown." 
 
 The black dog brushed against his master, and he 
 stooped to caress him. As he did so, he dropped the 
 hand he had been holding. He took the dog's head in his 
 hands, as he had once before, and looked down into the 
 dumb creature's beautiful eyes with a curious smile. 
 
 " Matt, I told you on this Rock, last year, that you had 
 no soul. Well, old boy, I take it all back ; you may have 
 a soul, for aught I know to the contrary." 
 
 The woman turned her lovely head. "Don't you 
 think, dear, that it may be irreverent to talk of souls in 
 that way ? " 
 
 "Perhaps If you are ready, we will go now," he 
 answered gently. 
 
 In the quiet which followed their going, Fifteen County 
 Rock laughed again and again at itself and its own folly. 
 For a year it had been striving to learn what a soul meant 
 from beings who did not themselves know; but it had 
 learned a better lesson. 
 
 " Nothing shall ever again move me from my deep 
 contentment," thought Fifteen County Rock, humbly.
 
 A LEGACY.
 
 A LEGACY. 
 
 HALF on the bank of the Swanton River, and half on 
 the bay which leads Swanton to the sea, stands the 
 town of Ayre. It is a quaint, straggling little township, 
 growing, apparently, with no prenatal arrangement of 
 streets and avenues. Where one had been minded to buy 
 land and build a home, it would seem to have been done 
 with no interference ; the result was picturesque in the 
 extreme, and not very uncomfortable. When a street 
 stretched out too long, it was pierced by queer, narrow 
 courts which gave an air of mystery to the most in 
 nocent spot on earth. That carriages must drive around 
 these blocks was a small matter where only four families 
 owned carriages; and besides, what need was there for 
 haste ? 
 
 The population of Ayre consisted chiefly of women and 
 children, the men having gone forth to war in larger 
 spheres. Artists and oystermen were the only workmen 
 who came there, to seek material for the vocations they 
 followed. Swanton was renowned for its oysters, and bits 
 of the drowsy beauty of the little town hung on many a 
 studio wall. 
 
 On an exquisite summer noon Anthony Alderdyce, 
 one of the first- named wandering brotherhood, sat paint-
 
 170 A LEGACY. 
 
 ing in a glade on the side of one of the cool, wooded hills 
 which rise on that bank of the river known to Ayre as 
 " t' other side Swanton." In figure he was rather thickset, 
 of medium height, and particularly well developed about 
 the chest and shoulders. As he bent over the canvas, his 
 face showed massive, almost to heaviness ; but when he 
 glanced up, the eager expression of a pair of fine, thought 
 ful eyes counteracted the immobility of the other features. 
 Something in face and figure gave an impression of 
 belonging to a past and more stately generation when a 
 stock and laces and powdered hair were in vogue. 
 
 He was an ardent disciple, and painted with an ab 
 sorbed rapidity, though so quietly that a tiny chipmunk 
 ran with fearless security in and out of its home in an old 
 log close by. 
 
 Suddenly a woman's startled cry rang through the 
 woods. 
 
 The little chipmunk flew scurrying to its hole, and 
 Alderdyce started to his feet, dropping his brush from his 
 hand ; it was charged with dark paint, and in falling, 
 struck the picture, leaving an ugly black line. 
 
 On the crest of the hill behind lurked a bog, formed by 
 the summer rains held in a ridge of the ground. It was 
 from this direction that the cry had come ; and as Alder 
 dyce turned, he saw a young girl struggling helplessly in 
 the soft mould, where she had sunk to her ankles. 
 
 He ran forward, calling out to her, somewhat sharply, 
 to stand quiet ; and when he reached the bog's edge she 
 was standing obediently motionless, but with so hopeless 
 an expression of despair on her face that Alderdyce, 
 knowing her position to be more ludicrous than dangerous, 
 almost laughed aloud.
 
 A LEGACY. 171 
 
 While assuring her that he would soon extricate her, 
 he reviewed the situation, and saw that it would be quicker 
 work to reach her from the side where he stood than to 
 round the bog. He threw brushwood on the treacher 
 ous ground, and walking on it carefully, stretched out 
 his hand. 
 
 " Can you reach it ? " he asked. " Gently ! or we 
 shall both plunge in and leave no one to come to the 
 rescue." 
 
 The girl grasped his fingers tightly, and he cautiously 
 worked his hand down to her wrist, and then to her arm. 
 
 " Now, steady ! " he cried ; and with a sudden wrench 
 drew her toward him, caught her quickly before the frail 
 brush broke under the double burden, and dragged her to 
 dryland. "That was not badly done, I flatter myself," 
 he said, laughingly, as he released her. 
 
 But the girl stepped back, and looked at him with 
 wide, frightened eyes ; her cheeks were crimson, and her 
 quick breathing told how her heart was fluttering. 
 
 Her figure, though immature, was full of graceful sug 
 gestions, and her face, in spite of its frightened expression, 
 was extremely beautiful ; above its oval rose a cloud of 
 warm brown hair, which was gathered together at the 
 back of her daintily poised head, and there pierced by a 
 slender, venomous-looking dagger with a jewelled hilt. 
 The rich, barbaric ornament contrasted oddly with the 
 softness of her hazel eyes and the gentleness of her ex 
 pression ; but it gave a most piquant touch to her beauty, 
 Alderdyce thought, as he looked curiously at her. 
 
 It was plain that he had thoroughly startled her. 
 
 " I trust that 1 have not hurt you," he said apologeti 
 cally ; " there was no other way."
 
 172 A LEGACY. 
 
 In a timid voice, and evidently by a great effort, she 
 spoke for the first time. There was a decided though not 
 unpleasant accent in her English. 
 
 " You have been very kind," she began, then paused, 
 and blushing painfully, faltered something which Alder- 
 dyce could not understand. 
 
 " What is it?" he asked, bending forward and speak 
 ing gently, fearing each moment that she would fly off as 
 shyly as the little chipmunk. 
 
 " My my shoes " 
 
 Alderdyce looked down and saw that she was standing 
 in stockinged feet, her shoes left in the bog. After a search 
 he found them, the ribboned bow of one and the pointed 
 toe of the other sticking up pathetically from the black 
 mud. By the aid of a long stick, he was able to dig them 
 out, each a shapeless lump. 
 
 " Will you acknowledge these ? " he asked, holding 
 them up. 
 
 But their owner came forward with eagerness, and 
 took them daintily between finger and thumb. 
 
 "Thank you," she murmured ; "you have been very 
 kind to me." 
 
 Alderdyce, fearful of startling her by offers of further 
 assistance, stood looking on in wondering amusement. 
 
 A bough of one of the neighbouring trees grew down 
 ward by some freak, then out and up again ; and the girl 
 seated herself on this leafy swing as naturally as a wood- 
 nymph might, and began a careful cleaning of one of her 
 shoes with a small stick. 
 
 Who was she, and whence had she come ? That she 
 was not a native of Ay re, Alderdyce felt assured ; and 
 he placed her as a daughter of the South by her warm 
 colouring and soft accent.
 
 A LEGACY. 173 
 
 Although apparently absorbed in her work, he knew 
 that his presence was not forgotten, as the very sweep of 
 her eye-lashes betrayed consciousness. He sat down on 
 an opposite stone in silence as unbroken as her own, and 
 taking up the second boot, began to clean it in the same 
 manner. 
 
 That a struggle of some kind was going on in the 
 mind of his companion, was presently evident by her 
 expression. 
 
 Alderdyce saw her eyelids flutter slowly up, and con 
 siderately, and with some wiliness, dropped his own. At 
 last the young girl laid down both stick and shoe, and 
 folding her hands, spoke ceremoniously, if a little 
 gaspingly, - 
 
 " My name is Conchita Maria de Santillana, and 1 live 
 with my father in Ayre ; but we are of Spain." 
 
 The effort made, she relapsed into sudden silence again. 
 
 Alderdyce, with an equally courteous ceremony, laid 
 down his stick and shoe also, and lifted his hat, bowing 
 gravely. 
 
 " Thank you. My name is Anthony Alderdyce ; I am 
 an artist, and I have just come to Ayre." 
 
 There was nothing in his face or voice to betray how 
 infinitely amusing he found the stately comedy ; and his 
 eyes, which he knew too well to trust, were guarded by 
 their lids. 
 
 But when he looked up the next moment, surprise had 
 driven all other expression from them. 
 
 " An artist," Conchita Santillana had cried, clasping 
 her hands, " an artist ! Ah, how glad I am ! " 
 
 " Are you of the brotherhood, then ? " 
 
 " No ; but my father is, and his greatest pleasure is to 
 be with artists."
 
 174 A LEGACY. 
 
 " And has he not taught you ? " 
 
 " Only a little ; but I can look at a painting and think : 
 Would my father like it ? and if I decide not, then it is 
 sure to be poor." 
 
 " You can always tell then ? " 
 
 " Always. Is that strange ? " 
 
 Alderdyce, conscious that he was walking on ground 
 not much surer than the neighbouring bog, went on, feel 
 ing his way cautiously. 
 
 " I was painting when I heard your cry," he said, care 
 lessly glancing toward his easel. 
 
 As Conchita turned and saw the easel standing on the 
 hillside, the last vestige of her shyness vanished. 
 
 "Oh, may 1 see it when I have cleaned my boot?" 
 she asked. " Why, yours is almost done." 
 
 " Let me finish yours too, then ; give it to me, and 
 look at the picture now, if you will." 
 
 Conchita sprang up and walked quickly away over the 
 soft grass of the glade. Alderdyce smiled again as he 
 looked after her, struck by the easy unconcern she showed 
 of her unconventionally garbed feet. 
 
 When he joined her, she was kneeling in front of his 
 picture and looked up to greet him approvingly. 
 
 " You spoke truly ; you are an artist." 
 
 The successful, petted young painter stooped suddenly, 
 apparently to pick up his colour-box. 
 
 "How my father will like this!" the girl went on, 
 looking lovingly herself at the spirited sketch. "You will 
 let him see' it, will you not ? " 
 
 "You like it, then ? " said Alderdyce. 
 
 " No," she answered, looking at him reproachfully ; 
 " 1 don't like paintings, 1 feel them."
 
 A LEGACY. 175 
 
 * 
 
 " I beg your pardon," replied the artist, humbly, and 
 turning away again to collect his brushes. 
 
 Artists and scientists complain that, in painting and 
 experiments, the novice will fasten on the most unim 
 portant accidents to dwell on ; and Alderdyce observed, 
 with approval, that his new critic made no reference to 
 the dark blot on the canvas until the beauties of the paint 
 ing had been absorbed ; then she only pointed to it and 
 looked up inquiringly. 
 
 "That marks your entrance," Alderdyce explained; 
 " I dropped my brush there when you screamed." 
 
 " Have I spoiled your picture ? " she asked, distressed. 
 
 " No, no ; I can work it in somehow." 
 
 " But how ? " 
 
 " Well, for instance, that dark spot is not unlike your 
 gown ; the picture is only improved if you will come into 
 it in reality. Will you ? " 
 
 " It seems but just." 
 
 " Have you ever been a model before ? Do you know 
 how tedious it is ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am always a model ; more than I am myself, 
 I think. I am a better Madonna than anything else ; my 
 father calls my Madonna expression perfect." 
 
 " May I see your Madonna expression ? " 
 
 " Surely, if you wish." 
 
 She lifted her head and raised her soft eyes to heaven, 
 while an expression of exquisite meekness and resignation 
 grew on her features. 
 
 With dismay, Alderdyce found himself laughing aloud 
 at last, despite his fear that she would disappear into the 
 wood from which she came ; the metamorphosis, so sud 
 den and unexpected, proved too much for his self-control.
 
 176 A LEGACY. 
 
 But to his relief, the Madonna only became Conchita 
 again, and looked wounded. 
 
 "You do not like it, then?" 
 
 " On the contrary," returned Alderdyce, hastily, still 
 choking a little, " it was beautiful ; but how do you 
 manage it ? " 
 
 " 1 learned it in the mirror, and it took a long time ; 
 are you sure that you like it ? " 
 
 " No ; I don't like Madonnas, I feel them." 
 
 Conchita, turning quickly toward him, looked up sus 
 piciously into his grave face. Although his eyes met 
 hers in all outward innocence, she suddenly detected the 
 quizzical gleam lurking in them, and responded to it by a 
 merry laugh which broke the last barrier. 
 
 " And are you really willing to sit for me ? " asked 
 Alderdyce again ; " after seeing how you can pose, 1 am 
 hungry to begin." 
 
 " I think 1 surely owe it to you," she replied, glancing 
 at the smeared canvas ; " but do you think my father 
 could object ? " 
 
 The temptation was great ; the sunbeams filtering 
 through the leaves fell on the girl's hair, played on the 
 soft oval of her cheek, and lit up the jewels in the dagger's 
 hilt. ' " Would a sane parent permit her to wander about 
 wearing a costly bauble like that ? " thought Alderdyce. 
 
 Conchita was awaiting his answer ; and as she turned 
 her head one of the tiny rays of motey light fell flicker- 
 ingly on the hollow of her throat. Surely men's fortunes 
 do hang on a balance as fine as a hair when a mote in the 
 sunbeam can turn the scale. 
 
 " Your father could not object," said Alderdyce, de 
 cidedly. "Come, we must not lose a moment of this
 
 A LEGACY. 177 
 
 light; you can stand on these boards while your boots 
 dry." 
 
 The painting began, and with its progress the artist 
 grew more and more absorbed in his subject. The after, 
 noon sun shot through an opening in the trees and lay in 
 a long line on the grass which floored the glade ; Alderdyce 
 painted the graceful figure as if walking unconsciously 
 forward in the warm colour of this sun-path, and as he 
 reproduced the lines of her figure and the beauty of her 
 face its charm took possession of him. He soon found 
 that she not only knew how to take a pose, but how to 
 hold it, and the familiarity of her part as a model seemed 
 to open her heart. Alderdyce, who was painting against 
 time, knew all that there was to be known of her every 
 day life with her father, her work and her play, before 
 the lengthening shadows warned him of the coming dusk. 
 The existence she told of seemed to him pitifully cabined 
 for both. 
 
 " Can you not remember your home in Spain ? " he 
 asked, hoping to gain some knowledge of her life there. 
 
 But Conchita remembered very little. Her mother had 
 died when she was quite a little child, she said, and her 
 father found that he could not live where everything, even 
 the air she had breathed, reminded him of her ; so they 
 came to America and to Ayre, and that was all. 
 
 " But have you no companions, no friends ?" 
 
 "No; none, really, except my father." 
 
 " But your father, has he none ? " 
 
 " Oh, he has me ; and now and then an artist who 
 comes to Ayre, as you have.'' 
 
 " And you are contented ? You never grow tired of 
 each other ? " asked Alderdyce, smiling.
 
 178 A LEGACY. 
 
 " I don't know, ought we ? I never thought of it." 
 
 " Then don't think now," he answered, a little con 
 science-stricken. " There, the light has gone at last, and 
 before 1 could really finish. 1 wonder if your shoes are 
 dry yet." 
 
 " Where did you put them ? " 
 
 "On a stone in the sun, hot enough to have roasted 
 them long ago. You shall put them on, and then you 
 may see your picture." 
 
 But when he brought her the shoes, it was with an 
 expression of comical penitence and dismay on his face. 
 Conchita gave a little cry of consternation when she saw 
 them ; the work of destruction so well begun by the bog, 
 had been ably carried on by the hot sun above and the hot 
 stone below. Bent, warped, twisted, the once dainty shoes 
 were a caricature of the foot whose shape they had lately 
 taken. 
 
 "You will only bruise your feet by trying to force 
 those on them," Alderdyce expostulated ; " pray don't 
 attempt it." 
 
 But in spite of his remonstrance, she sat down on the 
 grass, wrestling vainly with the impossible. At last she 
 flung the wrecks from her in petulant despair. 
 
 " I have not only hurt my feet but my hands," she 
 cried, aggrievedly looking at her reddened fingers. 
 
 " So much for kicking against the pricks, 1 warned 
 you, you know." 
 
 " But I had to try. How can I get home ? " 
 
 " You can't, unless I take pity on you and manage it." 
 
 " Then will you take me home ? " she asked, looking 
 up with child-like confidence ; " but how can you man 
 age it ? "
 
 A LEGACY. 179 
 
 Alderdyce laughed as he looked down at the slight 
 figure on the grass at his feet. 
 
 " If nothing else, I can carry you, you tiny thing ! " he 
 said lightly. 
 
 The moment he had spoken, he saw his mistake. The 
 girl's open face closed as a frosted flower ; her eyes dark 
 ened and dilated. 
 
 " I can walk quite easily," she said, rising ; " and I must 
 bid you good-evening now." 
 
 She turned from him and walked down the glade into 
 the wood. 
 
 Alderdyce hesitated a moment, abusing his own stupid 
 ity, and then followed. 
 
 He was soon by her side, as after leaving the grass of 
 the glade, her progress, with only thin stockings as a pro 
 tection from wood-briers and stones, was necessarily slow. 
 
 She did not attempt to ignore his presence as he at first 
 thought she meant to do, but paused, turning her head with 
 a stately, inquiring gesture. However awkward the posi 
 tion in which she placed him, the artist in Alderdyce 
 applauded the action of her attitude, and the man in him 
 its spirit. 
 
 " You are right to be offended," he said, " and 1 am 
 ready to accept punishment ; but pray let me assure you 
 that I was stupid, not impertinent. Can you forgive 
 me ? " 
 
 " I don't think 1 can," she answered deliberately, 
 " though I will try. Good -evening." 
 
 But the prospect of a remote reconciliation seemed not 
 satisfactory to the offender, who still walked by her side, 
 keeping pace with her uncertain steps. 
 
 Conchita trod on a brier, struck her foot against a
 
 180 A LEGACY. 
 
 stone, stepped on another thorny plant, and then turned 
 on Alderdyce with a flash in her eye, less discouraging to 
 him than her former composure. 
 
 " Why do you follow me ? " she asked. 
 
 " Because it is unsafe for you to go home alone ; but if 
 you prefer it, I will not speak to you." 
 
 She walked on, making no answer, and then stopped 
 again suddenly. " The picture, where is it ? " 
 
 " On the easel." 
 
 " It will be ruined." 
 
 " Well, at least it will not try walking through the 
 woods with bare feet." 
 
 " It will be ruined," she repeated. 
 
 " Very likely," answered Alderdyce, carelessly, and with 
 a strategy which he felt shamelessly apparent. 
 
 " If you don't go back for it, I shall," cried Conchita, 
 with indignant decision. " I saw both pigs and cows as I 
 came up the hill ; I won't have it left there alone." 
 
 " I am more than willing to go back for it if you will 
 promise to wait for me here." 
 
 " Then I do promise." 
 
 Carefully hiding his exultation, Alderdyce left her sit 
 ting on the trunk of a felled tree, and went back to strap 
 his picture and general impedimenta together. He picked 
 up his favourite brushes, and looked at them with affec 
 tion as they lay in his hand. 
 
 " You blessed little sables," he said, " I wonder if I 
 could really have considered leaving you to pigs and cows. 
 Well, not yet anyway." 
 
 When he rejoined Conchita, he brought with him two 
 flat pieces of wood. " There are your new shoes," he 
 said. " Will you try them on ? "
 
 A LEGACY. 181 
 
 She looked at him distrustfully. " How are they 
 shoes ? " 
 
 " Well, to be accurate, they are only sandals ; but it is 
 the best I can do. Will you try them on ? " 
 
 " Y-yes." 
 
 " Then set your foot on this board, and let me mark 
 the shape." 
 
 He knelt before her as disarmingly business-like as a 
 shoemaker ; and Conchita hesitatingly put out her pretty 
 foot with its high instep and curved lines. 
 
 Alderdyce began to draw a line about it on the board, 
 but stopped suddenly with an exclamation : " What have 
 you done to yourself ? Here is actual blood." 
 
 Conchita looked down anxiously to see a little red line 
 trickling from a cut on the side of her foot. 
 
 " It was a sharp stone," she explained, changing colour. 
 " 1 did not know it was bleeding, and I hate blood." 
 
 " Then don't look at it," said Alderdyce, " I can bind it 
 up ; it is not very bad." 
 
 Nor was it; but it served to startle Conchita into 
 submission to his services, and she was visibly softened 
 by the gentleness and care with which he bound the 
 scratch, using strips torn from his own handkerchief as 
 a bandage. 
 
 The surgical work finished, Alderdyce began whittling 
 out the sandals. He had no better instrument than his 
 penknife ; but as he handled that national tool with the 
 dexterity of the born American, the sandals were not 
 without shape when he finished them. 
 
 " But how shall 1 keep them on ? " asked Conchita, 
 who sat watching, deeply interested. 
 
 " With latchets, of course ; here they are."
 
 X 
 182 A LEGACY. 
 
 He tore the remainder of his handkerchief into ribbons, 
 which he bound into the wood, and then held up the 
 completed work. 
 
 " Are they not superb works of art ? " he asked. 
 
 She stretched out her hand with a laugh of delight, but 
 Alderdyce drew back. 
 
 " No," he said ; " I am a mercenary soul, I only work 
 for pay. What will you give me for them ? " 
 
 " What do you want ? " 
 
 " Well, I have a corner on the market, you see ; 1 can 
 ask what I please." 
 
 " But I must have them, or I can't get home." 
 
 " Exactly ; that 's what I calculated on when I bought 
 in all the sandal stock. These represent a deal. Do 
 you know what that is ? " 
 
 " No ; but I do want the sandals." 
 
 " Then you must pay for them, and I hold them high." 
 He dangled them before her as he spoke. " These must 
 bring a full and free forgiveness, without a reservation. 
 Is it a sale ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, holding out an eager hand. 
 
 But Alderdyce flung the sandals into her lap, and took 
 the outstretched hand in his. " Thank you," he said ; 
 "this ratifies the bargain." 
 
 When Conchita stood up in the rude makeshifts, she 
 was laughing merrily again ; and the journey home began 
 with the old easy relations established between them. 
 
 " 1 have not seen my picture yet," she said ; " but you 
 will show it to me later, will you not ? " 
 
 "You shall see it, of course." 
 
 ' And my father, too ? It would give him so much 
 pleasure."
 
 A LEGACY. 183 
 
 Alderdyce assented here also, although he had his 
 doubts of the latter clause. 
 
 Clever as the sandals were, they were not shoes nor so 
 easy to walk in. The progress through the woods, in the 
 rapidly closing darkness, was slow ; and slower still when 
 the wood-path struck into an oyster-shell road which led 
 to the bridge over Swanton. Just opposite Ayre, at the 
 point where the river emptied into the bay, a high bluff 
 rose from the water and the road ran about its foot. 
 
 Those who have tested it, know that there is no razor 
 sharper than some of these thin cracked oyster-shells ; and 
 Conchita, in her half -shod condition, soon discovered this 
 fact also. 
 
 Alderdyce made her lean on his arm, but it was of 
 little assistance ; he could feel how she winced and started 
 again and again. 
 
 " I once read of a poor little mermaid who danced on 
 knives," Conchita gasped at last ; " I feel more sorry for 
 her now." 
 
 Alderdyce stopped short. "This is impossible for 
 you. Is there no way around ? " 
 
 "No, this is the only road not far, far off ; and see 
 how dark it is growing, we must hasten on." 
 
 They struggled on again; but after a few steps, Con 
 chita stumbled and fell forward with a cry of pain. 
 
 " Perhaps it is just as well it is dark," said Alderdyce, 
 with decision; "for I should do the same in broad 
 daylight." 
 
 The next moment he was walking on, carrying Con 
 chita in his arms. Although she was too slight for her 
 weight to be, a burden to him, and his strength too steady 
 to cause her uneasiness, neither spoke until he set her
 
 184 A LEGACY. 
 
 down at the bridge's edge ; then she thanked him with an 
 unaffected, simple gratitude which left Alderdyce bowing 
 in spirit before the quick woman's instinct which taught 
 even this unsophisticated child to distinguish between his 
 first attempt to carry her and his last. 
 
 Mr. Santillana was standing at the gate of his garden, 
 anxiously peering up and down the street through the 
 darkness, when the figure for which he was watching 
 came in sight. He walked quickly forward with an 
 exclamation of relief, as Conchita's voice called to him, 
 announcing her return. 
 
 " My little one, where have you been ? Have you met 
 with an accident ? " 
 
 " The accident is all over now," she answered ; " I am 
 quite safe, Padre." 
 
 He caught her to him. " You are not hurt ? " 
 
 " No, no," she cried, laughingly disengaging herself ; 
 "but I have brought some one home with me whom you 
 must thank for that. This is my father, Mr. Alderdyce." 
 
 Mr. Santillana turned to the stranger courteously ; his 
 English had less accent than his daughter's, but it was not 
 so ready. 
 
 "Pardon me; I am an anxious father and mother in 
 one. Will you come into the house, and let me thank 
 you there ? " 
 
 The house stood in the centre of the garden, and was a 
 square, stone structure with small, two-story wings set on 
 either side, far enough away to make covered corridors 
 necessary to join them to the main building. 
 
 The room into which Alderdyce was shown was a 
 crescent-shaped hall with a number of doors ppening into 
 it ; it was evidently used as a sitting-room, for it held a
 
 A LEGACY. 185 
 
 large, scholarly-looking writing-desk, and a work-table 
 covered with all kinds of womanly belongings. Books 
 and papers were scattered over tables and chairs in a con 
 fusion which just escaped untidiness. A hanging-lamp 
 showed that the walls were covered with oil-paintings, 
 simply framed, but selected with exquisite care. 
 
 " Look, Padre," cried Conchita, stepping into the 
 circle of falling light, and holding back her dress ; " look 
 at my new shoes! Mr. Alderdyce made them for me. 
 When I fell into the bog and lost mine, he pulled me 
 out and brought me home." 
 
 " Then I have every reason to be grateful," said Mr. 
 Santillana. " I was most anxious about my little one ; she 
 is growing into a wild fledgling, I fear. Where had you 
 wandered, Conchita ? " 
 
 Alderdyce could see that in her father's eyes she was 
 still a mere baby, and also that when talking to him she 
 unconsciously became more infantile. 
 
 " I was ' t' other side Swanton,' " she answered, laugh 
 ing ; " now don't scold me, dearest." 
 
 Her father looked at her lovingly, passing his hand 
 lightly over her hair. " On ' t' other side Swanton,' alone, 
 my child ! If I could scold, it would be better for you, 
 little one. But so far alone ! That must not happen again, 
 Conchita." 
 
 " You never told me not to go there." 
 
 " No ; nor did I ever tell you not to cross Swanton in a 
 tub, little sophist." 
 
 " Oh, nothing ever happens to me," the girl answered, 
 lightly ; " some one always comes. This time it was 
 Mr. Alderdyce," she added, smiling at the artist as she 
 spoke.
 
 186 A LEGACY. 
 
 " Pardon me, but is it the artist, Anthony Alderdyce ? " 
 asked Mr. Santillana, eagerly turning. 
 
 " But yes, Padre ; how did yoli know ? " 
 
 " I know him very well indeed," he answered, holding 
 out his hand cordially. " 1 can claim an old acquaintance 
 in your first salon picture, Mr. Alderdyce ; I longed for its 
 possession." 
 
 The artist, who had little expected quite what he found 
 in this retreat, took the extended hand with some em 
 barrassment and a sense of guilt. The picture of Conchita 
 in his case weighed on his conscience, and his colour rose 
 when the girl herself spoke of it. 
 
 " 1 had almost forgotten, Mr. Alderdyce has made a 
 sketch of me." 
 
 " Of you ? Where was it painted ? " 
 
 " In the wood ; and I have not seen it myself yet ; 
 but you shall see it first, Padre. I know you long to." 
 
 " 1 am certainly most anxious to see it," replied Mr. 
 Santillana. 
 
 Though the words and manner carried no discourtesy, 
 that they meant, " and 1 intend to," was evident to Alder 
 dyce. He hesitated, a little nettled, and reluctant to place 
 an unfinished work before eyes which, while set in a 
 kindly face, he yet recognized as keen and critical. 
 
 " The painting is incomplete," he began. 
 
 " Then you can cover all except the figure," said Mr. 
 Santillana, pleasantly; "you must acknowledge that my 
 curiosity to see that is pardonable." 
 
 Alderdyce drew out the canvas. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed Mr. Santillana, as he looked at it, 
 "genuine foliage, genuine sunshine, genuine shadow." 
 
 He hung over the painting, enraptured ; and with a not
 
 A LEGACY. 187 
 
 unnatural triumph, Alderdyce saw that the artist-nature 
 was roused to a point which swept away fatherly scruples. 
 The enthusiast looked up with shining eyes. 
 
 " It takes a brush with a long handle to reach Truth in 
 the bottom of her well," he said ; " but you have it, - 
 ah, but you have it, Mr. Alderdyce." 
 
 Conchita peeped over her father's shoulder, then whis 
 pered a word in his ear and stole from the room. 
 
 When she returned, Mr. Santillana was talking earnestly 
 with the young artist ; and as her entrance interrupted 
 them, he turned to look at her in mock consternation. 
 
 Her dark gown was changed for a soft yellow-tinted 
 muslin which gained colour from the bright yellow of 
 the roses which were stuck in her bosom and in her dark 
 hair. 
 
 " Why, this means dinner, does it not ? and your 
 message not yet delivered, Conchita. She is a severe 
 head of the house, Mr. Alderdyce ; and you will do me a 
 kindness and save me a scolding, if you will accept this 
 tardy invitation and dine with us." 
 
 Alderdyce looked down at his rough suit. " But I am 
 no dinner guest," he said. 
 
 "If that be all, I can keep you in countenance; for I 
 have been hunting my lost bit of silver in garret and 
 cellar," returned Mr. Santillana, glancing in laughing re 
 proach at his daughter. " 1 show plenty of whitewash 
 and cobwebs in evidence, I am sure." 
 
 Conchita stood by, smiling at him over her yellow 
 roses ; and Alderdyce, trusting that he showed a sufficiently 
 decent hesitation, accepted. 
 
 Throughout the dinner the two men continued their 
 interrupted discussion. Conchita sat almost silent, but
 
 188 A LEGACY. 
 
 evidently happy in her father's enjoyment of this contact 
 with a thoughtful mind in touch with the new methods 
 and advanced work in the world from which he was now 
 separated. 
 
 "Why is he buried alive in this slumbering com 
 munity ? " Alderdyce thought. 
 
 " My little one and I live like hermits here," Mr. 
 Santillana said, sighing unconsciously as they rose from 
 the table ; "but perhaps we gain in one way more than 
 we lose in another. Get your zither, Conchita, and let us 
 have some music on the veranda." 
 
 Conchita obeyed, and with her zither in her lap, sat 
 on the broad veranda steps in the moonlight. 
 
 " 1 have only read of a zither as yet," Alderdyce said, 
 looking at the instrument with interest. 
 
 " Then you have still to hear the quaintest, most fairy- 
 like music in the world," answered Mr. Santillana. " Play, 
 Conchita." 
 
 Conchita softly touched the wires, and the tripping, 
 tinkling sounds, crossing and interrupting one another 
 harmoniously, dropped like flowing water from her 
 fingers. 
 
 Alderdyce sat on the step below her, letting himself 
 drift with the witchery of the sensuous lilt and swing of 
 the strange music, and the glamour it threw over the 
 player, who sat with bent head and rapt listening expres 
 sion, like that of a praising angel, he thought. He roused 
 himself when the sounds died away, hushed by the girl's 
 hand laid with light silencing touch on the still vibrating 
 strings, and urged her warmly to play again ; but Con 
 chita laid the zither aside, shaking her head. 
 
 " Yes, play for us once more, Conchita mia," said her
 
 A LEGACY. 189 
 
 father; and again Alderdyce noticed that his manner was 
 as if coaxing a refractory child. 
 
 " I have listened during a whole dinner," she said, 
 reproachfully, " and I have played too, and now I want 
 to talk ; it makes my throat sore to be quiet so long." 
 
 " Then talk, by all means," said Mr. Santillana, laugh 
 ing ; " no one knew that you were suffering. What do 
 you want to talk about ? Suppose you tell me how you 
 came to be ' t' other side Swanton ' to-day." 
 
 " I went there to fish ; I thought 1 would catch some 
 thing to surprise you for your dinner, Padre, and I lost 
 my hook and line and caught nothing at all, oh, yes, I 
 did too," she added, suddenly, looking at Alderdyce with 
 dancing eyes. 
 
 " Gently, gently, Conchita," cried Mr. Santillana. " It 
 is very good of you not to be offended," he went on, 
 seeing Alderdyce laughing. " Child, you belong in your 
 nursery still." 
 
 " I am only flattered," said Alderdyce. " If I was 
 caught as a dinner dish, and if, in turn, I caught a model, 
 it was but a fair exchange." 
 
 " Shall you finish my picture, then ? " Conchita asked, 
 as he had hoped she would. 
 
 The artist looked at Mr. Santillana questioningly. " If 
 your father will allow me," he answered, and then re 
 ceived, albeit a little late, a cordial permission. 
 
 " But, Padre, I have not yet told you all about my 
 falling into the bog," Conchita continued, " and it was 
 very interesting; you must listen, and, Mr. Alderdyce, 
 you shall tell all that I do not remember." 
 
 Yet, in spite of these precautions against forgetful ness, 
 when Alderdyce left the Santillana mansion late in the
 
 A LEGACY. 
 
 evening, there was something lingering in his memory 
 which he did not remind her to mention ; and his last 
 waking thought was : " She told of everything like an 
 innocent angel, except that oyster-shell road." 
 
 At the end of Mr. Santillana's garden was a vine- 
 covered summer-house which served him as a summer 
 studio; and there Alderdyce was soon a familiar figure. 
 He had finished the picture of the glade ; but Conch ita had 
 consented to sit for him again as model for a Pandora, 
 and her father had willingly agreed. 
 
 " But your sketch is too elaborate, Alderdyce," he said, 
 looking at the Pandora the artist was blocking out: " you 
 will leave Ayre long before that is finished." 
 
 " No ; when I came here, 1 was prepared to stay so 
 long as material offered," Alderdyce answered. " I still 
 have out-door work before me." 
 
 " Then may Ayre's woods and waters prove inex 
 haustible," said Mr. Santillana, satisfied ; and Alderdyce 
 laughingly thanked him, his conscience clear in spite of 
 the fact that he had just telegraphed for extra luggage. 
 By some tortuous reasoning to which, however honest the 
 heart, the human brain seems never unequal, he contrived 
 to reconcile his acts and words to his own satisfaction. 
 
 The Pandora progressed but slowly. Painting with 
 lazy, happy touches, Alderdyce lingered over it consciously, 
 conscious also of a growing content, which he did not 
 endanger by self-examination. 
 
 Thus the days came and went. Almost a month drifted 
 away ; and then suddenly, without any warning, the peace 
 of the sittings in the old summer-house studio was gone. 
 
 Perhaps it was but a fleeting expression, perhaps a
 
 A LEGACY. 191 
 
 lingering look or unconscious word ; but the woman in 
 Conchita awakened, calling out startled warnings as a 
 watchman on the walls, and all the innocent, childish 
 freedom of manner vanished, flying in behind fortifica 
 tions which the new-born woman knew how to erect 
 instinctively. 
 
 " This is simply imposing on you," said Alderdyce, at 
 last, laying aside his brushes in the midst of a thoroughly 
 unsatisfactory sitting. " You have not really been able to 
 pose this week ; you are letting me tire you out." 
 
 Conchita flushed and raised her head, resuming the 
 pose which she had lost. " No, I am not at all tired," she 
 said hastily. 
 
 The Pandora was represented standing with her empty 
 open box in her hand, gazing up into space with wondering, 
 wide-open eyes. 
 
 "I am not going to take the colour out of your face to 
 put on my canvas,'' Alderdyce asserted. 
 
 " But 1 have told you that I was not tired ; pray go on,'' 
 she responded impatiently. 
 
 Alderdyce returned to his work, but in a little while laid 
 down his brushes, smiling and shaking his head. 
 
 "Is it like you to hang your head ? If you are not 
 tired, you are out of tune in some way. We will put off 
 work for to-day." 
 
 " I am not tired, and I am perfectly well. Was I wrong 
 again ? " 
 
 " I am afraid you were." 
 
 " Then it is because I am stupid and have lost the idea." 
 
 " No, no ; wait until to-morrow and all will be right," 
 answered Alderdyce, patiently. 
 
 " But waiting only frets me ; do go on."
 
 i92 A LEGACY. 
 
 Alderdyce, looking troubled, obeyed silently. 
 
 " Let me show you what it is I want," he said presently, 
 rising and walking toward her as he spoke. " This is it." 
 He touched either side of her head lightly, raising it, and 
 as he did so discovered that her eyes were still hidden from 
 him by tears. 
 
 Conchita broke from him, but not before the tears had 
 fallen on her cheeks, leaving her confused hazel eyes bared 
 to his ; and in that moment, with a searching, almost pain 
 fully swift consciousness, Alderdyce knew them as the eyes 
 of the woman he loved, and knew that she loved him. 
 
 He was still standing in the first bewilderment of his 
 discovery when Mr. Santillana entered the summer-house. 
 
 " What ! crying, my little one ! What is it, Alderdyce ? 
 Have we let her sit too long ? " 
 
 "That and the hot day together, 1 think," answered 
 Alderdyce, rousing. 
 
 Mr. Santillana took his child in his arms, soothing and 
 caressing her. 
 
 "But it is nothing; I do not know what it is myself," 
 Conchita cried, half laughing, as her father wiped away 
 her tears. " I must cry sometimes ; and if 1 have nothing 
 to cry for, I must cry for nothing." 
 
 Mr. Santillana looked at her anxiously. " We all have 
 our moods at times," he said. " No more painting to-day, 
 though. What do you say to eating our supper in the 
 wood this evening ? You might take us to your glade 
 ' t' other side S wanton,' Alderdyce." 
 
 Conchita slipped from her father's arm, and turned 
 away. " I don't know," she objected ; " picnics are so 
 much spiders and worms." 
 
 Mr. Santillana again looked at her anxiously. " You
 
 A LEGACY. 193 
 
 are over-tired," he said reassuringly. " If you don't like 
 spiders and worms, you must learn to ; it 's a healthy taste. 
 Yes, we shall go this afternoon." 
 
 But that afternoon the rain clouds blew in from the 
 north, south, east, and west, and by alternately breaking, 
 banking, and opening, kept the land wet for a week. 
 
 The picnic was postponed daily, but Conchita would 
 not permit the painting to be laid aside ; she insisted that 
 she was quite well, that the work would never be finished 
 at that rate, and repeatedly asked Alderdyce to set a date 
 for its completion. 
 
 The young artist, who was unusually silent, would 
 promise nothing definite; and Conchita clung too tena 
 ciously to her father's side to make any explanation 
 possible, even had he deemed it advisable. 
 
 For some days the progress on the Pandora was con 
 fined to the drapery, as Conchita sat always with lowered 
 eyes and drooping head, and Alderdyce would ask for no 
 change; but at last, by deliberately outmanoeuvring, he 
 gained a half-hour alone with his model, and took advan 
 tage of it to absorb himself in his colours, speaking to her 
 only as a secondary consideration. Through this consis 
 tent behaviour, and a guarded care in words and looks he 
 finally had the reward of seeing the painful consciousness 
 under his gaze fade away, and the old confidence return. 
 
 " The first dry day shall be for the picnic," said Mr. 
 Santillana each morning ; and " Until the picnic," thought 
 Alderdyce each day, " and not until then, however great 
 the temptation." 
 
 At last the clouds scattered, the sun shone with re 
 doubled power, and there came a day seemingly created 
 for the woods. 
 
 13
 
 194 A LEGACY. 
 
 " So this is the historic glade, Alderdyce," said Mr. 
 Santillana, looking about him. 
 
 The picnic " t' other side Swanton " was in full swing. 
 A gypsy kettle hung bubbling and boiling over a glowing 
 fire ; the supper, spread out on fresh -gathered leaves and 
 little squares of white paper, stood invitingly near, ready 
 to be eaten when the tea had drawn. 
 
 " We shall have no clearing away of plates," Conchita 
 had decided ; " we shall eat from nothing which cannot be 
 burned up afterwards." 
 
 She set the grassy table herself and helped Alderdyce 
 gather brands for the burning, dragging in great armfuls 
 of brushwood to her father, who had constituted himself 
 stoker. The veriest child could have been no more de 
 lighted with the potatoes which Alderdyce roasted in the 
 ashes and the eggs which he wrapped in wet paper and 
 baked under the hot logs. 
 
 " She is as excited as if at a ball," he thought, watching 
 her delightedly. 
 
 But the preparations were so elaborate, and the supper 
 eaten so lingeringly, that Mr. Santillana began looking 
 restlessly at his watch before the meal was over. 
 
 " Do you think we shall reach town before the evening 
 mail goes out, Alderdyce ? " he asked. 
 
 Alderdyce looked at the hour reluctantly. "Not unless 
 we leave this moment," he answered, but not offering to 
 move. " Have you letters to send ? " 
 
 " Yes ; some which must go by to-night." 
 
 " No, no, Padre," cried Conchita ; " let them lie until 
 to-morrow. Look at the long, queer shadows, and the 
 firelight just beginning to show against them, this is the 
 best hour."
 
 A LEGACY. 195 
 
 " Then stay and enjoy it," said Mr. Santillana, rising. 
 " But don't let it be long, Alderdyce. I must go, and by 
 short cuts. Conchita, you may stay a little longer, if Mr- 
 Alderdyce will bring you home." 
 
 " With pleasure," the artist answered quietly. 
 
 He watched Conchita closely, expecting her hasty 
 retreat ; but she only sat contentedly by the fire, poking 
 its red embers with a stick while stating that it needed 
 another armful of bark. 
 
 Alderdyce accompanied Mr. Santillana to the edge of 
 the glade, and returned with a load of bark which made 
 the flames shoot high in the air. 
 
 " Come with me," he said; " I have found something 
 to show you." 
 
 " Something to show me, what is it ? " 
 
 " Come and see," he answered mysteriously. 
 
 He led the way to the spot where the wooden sandals 
 had been carved out a month before. 
 
 "Do those look familiar?" he asked, pointing to the 
 ground. 
 
 Conchita looked down to see what had once been her 
 shoes, lying where she had flung them the day they en 
 countered the bog to their sore defeat. The grass had 
 grown in about them, and the rain had beaten them 
 into the earth ; but Alderdyce picked them up as carefully 
 as though they still had value. 
 
 " These are the mutual acquaintances who introduced 
 us," he said ; " if they were only a trifle smaller I would 
 wear them on my watch-chain as a charm; as it is, they 
 shall at least have Christian burial." 
 
 With laughing respect he carried the shoes to the bog, 
 and thrust them deep down in the soft earth, saying to 
 Conchita as he did so.
 
 196 A LEGACY. 
 
 " Bid them farewell ; they have seen the first chapter, 
 but no one save ourselves shall see the second." 
 
 She smiled and flushed, but answered nothing. The 
 firelight was flickering and leaping up in little tongues of 
 flame as they walked back toward it. 
 
 " We must scatter it carefully before we go, it might 
 do damage," Alderdyce said ; " but not quite yet." 
 
 They stood looking into the red embers, speaking on 
 any subject except the one which was the central thought 
 in the heart of each. 
 
 As Conchita bent over the fire, the jewelled dagger 
 which she always wore, and which Alderdyce had grown 
 to regard as almost a part of her, dropped at her feet. He 
 picked it up, and replacing it in her hair, half expected her 
 quick withdrawal ; but again, though her colour rose, she 
 said nothing ; she was making no effort now to ignore or 
 repulse. In the mutual understanding which seemed 
 suddenly established between them, all trace of startled 
 womanhood or childish petulance vanished. Alderdyce 
 dreaded breaking the charm. 
 
 At last Conchita spoke softly, as if afraid of jarring the 
 stillness which had fallen upon them. " We must go 
 home now, must we not ? The Padre will be anxious 
 again." 
 
 Alderdyce assented, opening the blazing logs, thrusting 
 them apart, and scattering the embers. 
 
 " The woods and the lights and the shadows are all just 
 as they were the day we first walked home together," he 
 said, looking back as they left the place; "we might 
 almost think it was that first day, except for ourselves." 
 
 They followed the winding path down the wooded hill, 
 with only a short, unspoken word separating them, a
 
 A LEGACY. 197 
 
 word too near the lips, too often half uttered, not to be a 
 conscious presence. 
 
 The oyster-shell road stretched out at the foot of the 
 bluff, a curving white line in the dusk as they looked 
 down on it from above. 
 
 "There is the shell road now," Alderdyce said; " we 
 are nearly home." 
 
 The slight, crushing sound of the shells beneath their 
 feet startled a blackbird, which flew up from the road 
 before them with a shrill cry and flapping of wings. 
 
 Conchita started back, and then laughed tremulously. 
 " It was so sudden," she explained, as Alderdyce paused 
 also and stood by her, holding her hand in his. 
 
 " It was only a blackbird ; but see, here are the same 
 sharp oyster -shells ; do you remember how I carried you 
 over them in my arms ? " 
 
 " Yes," she whispered breathlessly. 
 
 She turned from him, and would have walked on, but 
 he gently prevented her. He could count the pulsations 
 of her heart in her quick breaths. 
 
 " Surely you can trust me now," he said. " Dear, I 
 have something to tell you ; will you listen ? " 
 
 Close by the blackbird dropped down in the road again, 
 where its mate joined it. The soft winnowing of their 
 wings was in the air, and the presence of new vows and 
 new words set to the old faltering, whispering melody 
 which is always in tune. 
 
 "What has happened?" thought Alderdyce, rousing 
 the next morning with a start. He had known, even in 
 his fortunate life, what it meant to wake suddenly from 
 sleep with the recollection of a heavy heart. " Joy and
 
 198 A LEGACY. 
 
 grief have some kindred touch, then," he decided, smiling 
 as he remembered the events of the evening before. 
 
 Conchita had insisted on his leaving her at the door of 
 her home, as she claimed the right to speak to her father 
 first. "Your eyes talk," she said; "they would tell all 
 before 1 could." 
 
 A little pity for the lonely man whose ewe lamb he was 
 stealing mingled with Alderdyce's thoughts, as he walked 
 out to the Santillana mansion to assert his claim. He won 
 dered how Conchita had fared in telling her news, if her 
 father had helped her shyness, and what each had said. 
 
 " He had no surprise, at least," he thought with satis 
 faction ; "all has gone on in his sight, almost all, 
 that is." 
 
 There was no one sitting in the crescent -shaped hall 
 when Alderdyce entered it, though usually the father and 
 daughter were both there at that hour. He shortly re 
 ceived a message from Mr. Santillana, however, asking his 
 presence in his private study. 
 
 " To be treated to a little Spanish formality and gran- 
 deeism," the young man decided with some amusement. 
 
 Mr. Santillana's study was in the left wing of the 
 building, and his daughter's apartments occupied the right. 
 Alderdyce remembered how on first taking him over the 
 queer old house, Mr. Santillana had showed him the rooms 
 in the right wing, pointing out one as "my child's nur 
 sery." " Will he persist in calling her a baby to-day ? " 
 the artist wondered; and he was still smiling at the 
 thought when he entered the study. 
 
 Mr. Santillana was seated behind his table, and did not 
 come forward to greet his guest, although he rose with his 
 usual careful courtesy.
 
 A LEGACY. 199 
 
 " I can scarcely decide which of us has been to blame, 
 Mr. Alderdyce, you for changing my child into a 
 woman, or I for not recognizing the fact,'' he began, as 
 though continuing an unfinished conversation, and speak 
 ing in a strained, unnatural manner. 
 
 Alderdyce, looking at him in surprise, saw that his face 
 seemed old and as gray as his hair, while each line in it 
 was accentuated. 
 
 " Why should either be blamed ? " he asked, with a 
 sudden chill and depression. 
 
 " You will do me the justice to believe that I was 
 wholly surprised by what 1 learned last night," Mr. San- 
 tillana went on. 
 
 " But there was no intent to deceive you," Alderdyce 
 interrupted hastily. "You have surely known what kept 
 me here." 
 
 il No; on that point 1 was wholly deceived." 
 
 The colour rose hotly in the young artist's face. " I 
 repeat that there was no intent to deceive you ; and if 
 Conchita spoke to you when she returned last night, as I 
 suppose she did, you knew all within an hour after it was 
 settled." 
 
 " My daughter did tell me last night of the matter 
 under discussion." 
 
 Alderdyce coloured again. " I should, perhaps, have 
 spoken to you first under all the circumstances," he said 
 frankly; "but I interpreted your consent to our daily 
 intercourse as approval." 
 
 Mr. Santillana winced, and his face grew a shade 
 whiter. " I have been culpably careless ; my only excuse 
 is my blindness, which is an excuse no longer. My pre 
 cautions come late ; but I must ask you when it is your
 
 200 A LEGACY. 
 
 intention to leave Ayre, as until then my daughter is of 
 necessity house-bound ? " 
 
 In spite of what had already passed, Alderdyce stood 
 incredulous of his own hearing. " Is it possible that I 
 comprehend you? Am I to understand that you refuse 
 your consent, now?" he asked. 
 
 " I absolutely refuse it." 
 
 " On what ground ? " 
 
 " It is my unalterable decision." 
 
 The artist looked for a moment of silent amazement 
 into the inflexible face before him. 
 
 " You will let me ask a few questions, Mr. Santillana?" 
 he said quietly ; adding, as he received no immediate 
 answer, " I think I may claim in justice so much as 
 that." 
 
 Mr. Santillana sat down behind his table again, with a 
 gesture of assent. There was a weariness in his attitude, 
 Alderdyce thought, as he took his seat by the opposite 
 side. 
 
 Mr. Santillana spoke first. " It is but fair to warn you 
 that nothing to be said or left unsaid can make a change." 
 
 " Have you come to any knowledge of me or my life 
 which obliges this decision ? " 
 
 " None." 
 
 " I think 1 may safely say that I could disprove any 
 calumnies." 
 
 " Of that I am equally sure." 
 
 " Then am I not reasonable in considering that I have 
 the right to know your grounds of objection ? " 
 
 " Most reasonable; and most unreasonably I refuse to 
 give them, now and forever. This is my final decision, 
 Mr. Alderdyce."
 
 A LEGACY. 201 
 
 But as Mr. Santillana spoke, he might have seen a 
 gradual change on the face of the younger man, and have 
 recognized an expression different from hifc own because 
 of a difference of feature and temperament, but still the 
 reflection of a resolution as deliberate and unconceding. 
 
 The massive, still face at one side of the table, and the 
 thin, nervously determined one opposite, looked each into 
 each steadily. Although there was a strange lack of 
 antagonism in words and manner, both knew in that 
 moment that this was the beginning of a struggle be 
 tween them, as desperate and perhaps as hopeless as the 
 battling of the stags on the mountain-side with their 
 antlers interlocked. 
 
 " What has the woman who last night promised to be 
 my wife said ? " 
 
 Mr. Santillana's hand shaded his eyes suddenly; but 
 there was no faltering in his voice as he answered, " She 
 is my child, and she will obey me." 
 
 "She is no child to-day; she is a woman, and has 
 proven it. She must decide between us." 
 
 But here the contest ceased to be equal ; on this point, 
 the father was in a position of vantage from which he was 
 not to be shaken. 
 
 " She will not see you again," he said, rising ; " it will 
 be wiser for her to have less to remember. And, Mr. 
 Alderdyce, this is a worse than useless discussion." 
 
 " It is equally useless to think of its ending here," 
 Alderdyce answered ; " and 1 can only regard it as ended 
 for the hour." 
 
 As he left the house, Alderdyce fell back again into his 
 first bewilderment ; Mr. Santillana's attitude appeared to 
 him even more incomprehensible than at first. He spent
 
 202 A LEGACY. 
 
 the rest of the day wandering about in the woods of Ayre, 
 pondering the situation, though unable to arrive at any 
 conclusion exq^pt the hopelessness of solving a difficulty 
 and a mystery where no clew could be gained. Neverthe 
 less, the thought of leaving Ayre and Conchita did not 
 occur to him. 
 
 When he returned to his lodgings, late in the evening, 
 he had once more sought an interview with Mr. Santillana, 
 and been denied admission at the door, a possibility which 
 he had not considered. 
 
 The first thing which caught his eye on entering his 
 own room, was the painting of Conchita in the glade ; he 
 had set it out on his easel before leaving in the morning. 
 Now, plunged in thought, but not yet discouraged, he sat 
 down before it again, and if with not quite the surety of 
 the morning, still with the ability to dream out the build 
 ing of his future life with Conchita as the corner-stone. 
 
 He saw her in his home and among his friends ; he 
 pictured her delight in the world he would show her, - 
 guardedly, not as he knew it, though seeing it through his 
 eyes. 
 
 He lived over and over again the evening before, and 
 smiled, remembering Conchita's struggles when he tried 
 to teach her soft Spanish tongue the harsh letters of his 
 name. " Alderdyce " had always been an effort to her ; 
 " Anthony " now seemed impossible. She made the 
 words sound like her native language by her pronuncia 
 tion, and paused before each one as if to arrange lip and 
 tongue before speaking. 
 
 " Anthony ! " 
 
 Alderdyce almost started from his chair ; for a moment 
 he thought he heard Conchita's voice speaking near him.
 
 A LEGACY. 203 
 
 " This is the lover, I suppose," he decided with amuse 
 ment ; and as he reached this conclusion, again, only this 
 time more distinctly, he heard the voice which he could not 
 mistake, with the accent he knew so well, calling his name. 
 He sprang from his chair to the door, and opened it. 
 
 Conchita, her face white and her eyes wide with 
 unspeakable wretchedness, stood on his threshold. 
 
 " My child will obey me," Mr. Santillana had said, and 
 believed ; but there had not been peace in his household. 
 
 Conchita, thwarted for the first time in her untram 
 melled life, found her tears and entreaties of no avail. Her 
 father's gentle, unyielding resolution maddened her by its 
 very gentleness. The passionate Southern blood, until 
 now slumbering in her veins, roused to wild reproaches 
 and accusations of cruelty. 
 
 Mr. Santillana stood aghast at the storm which he was 
 only able to control by stern words, the first his child 
 had ever heard from his lips. 
 
 Conchita sobbed herself to sleep that night, wounded 
 and resentful ; and none of her dreams told her of the 
 figure which stole in, after night was morning, to kneel in 
 the darkness by her bedside, nor of the slow, hot tears 
 that dropped on her head, each representing a deeper 
 sorrow than all that she had ever shed. 
 
 The next day the same scenes were enacted over and 
 over. 
 
 By some instinct, Conchita knew of her lover's pres 
 ence in the house on both occasions ; and her entreaties to 
 see him, if for once only, were piteous. Her father's 
 drawn features bore witness of his sufferings, though his 
 determination remained unshaken.
 
 204 A LEGACY. 
 
 That Conchita's vehemence gradually subsided into 
 broken pleadings and quivering lips made her the stronger ; 
 but she seemed calmer, more controlled, when she parted 
 from her father at night, and with that slight comfort, 
 worn in body and mind, Mr. Santillana went to his bed 
 and slept the heavy sleep of exhaustion. 
 
 When he woke on the morrow, it was only with a 
 weary shrinking from the struggle of another day. He 
 sat waiting in the breakfast -room, longing for yet dreading 
 Conchita's coming, which was delayed later than usual. 
 
 Her father had just decided to send for her, when he 
 heard her light, flying step in the hall, so different from 
 the listless footfall of yesterday that he looked up eagerly, 
 and as the door opened saw a sight which he never 
 forgot. 
 
 The dark oak doorway was framing Conchita's figure ; 
 her long red cape, her red cap, her face all alight and 
 flushed, her brilliant eyes and parted lips, she stood for 
 an irresolute instant poised like a vibrating flame on the 
 threshold. Then she flashed suddenly across the room, to 
 fling her arms about her father's neck, and hide her face 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 Mr. Santillana rose, thrusting her from him, yet grasp 
 ing her wrist in his hand. Over his child's shoulder he 
 had seen Alderdyce enter also. 
 
 " What does this mean ? " he asked. He glanced at 
 Conchita's cap and wrapping. " Where have you been ? " 
 he demanded harshly. " Child, what have you dared 
 to do ? " 
 
 The girl cowered before the white heat of his indigna 
 tion, and shrank with a cry of pain at his grasp. 
 
 With a quick motion Alderdyce threw his arm about
 
 A LEGACY. 205 
 
 her, drawing her toward him. " She is my wife, Mr. 
 Santillana," he said ; " we were married last night." 
 
 Mr. Santillana dropped Conchita's hand, and stood 
 staring dumbly at the two figures before him, the wife 
 clinging fearfully to her husband, who was standing pro- 
 tectingly between him and his child. He turned from them 
 with a gesture of despair to sink into his chair, covering 
 his stricken face with his hands. 
 
 Conchita broke from Alderdyce's arms, and threw 
 herself on her knees before her father. Her arms were 
 again clasped about his neck, not to be loosened ; her lips 
 were at his ear, passionately imploring forgiveness. She 
 drew his hands away, and laid her tear-stained cheek 
 against his own. 
 
 Alderdyce only waited to see the father bend and fold 
 her in his arms ; then he went from the room silently, 
 leaving them together. When he returned, Conchita was 
 still nestling close to her father's breast, sitting on his knee 
 with her head resting against his shoulder. 
 
 Putting her gently aside, Mr. Santillana rose and held 
 out his hand. "Conchita has confessed all," he said. 
 
 " And am 1 also to be forgiven ? " 
 
 " You must know that 1 have nothing to forgive ; what 
 is, is. Will you try to wipe the memory of yesterday 
 from the slate, Alderdyce ? " 
 
 The younger man's face spoke his relief, as their hands 
 met in a cordial grasp. 
 
 " And now," Mr. Santillana continued, with a lightness 
 that but slightly veiled his emotion, " we must eat the wed 
 ding-breakfast ; it has been cooling on the table for an 
 hour, and will taste more like funeral baked meats, 1 fear. 
 Come, Conchita; come, my children."
 
 206 A LEGACY. 
 
 It was a strange wedding-breakfast, and a stranger 
 honeymoon which followed. 
 
 The day after the marriage Mr. Santillana had a piece 
 of news to break to them on his side. He announced that 
 he meant to return to Spain for a brief visit. His property 
 at home had long been calling for his personal supervision, 
 he said ; and what better time than now, when Conchita's 
 marriage seemed to pave the way to the performance of 
 this long-neglected duty. 
 
 Conchita was in despair at the thought of such a 
 separation. In marrying Alderdyce, parting from her 
 father had never entered her mind ; but Mr. Santillana 
 stood firm in his decision, and with this journey in view, 
 Conchita would not consent to leave him even for the 
 conventional wedding-trip, and Alderdyce did not urge it. 
 The cloud which had arisen between Mr. Santillana and 
 himself was dispelled as if it had never been. 
 
 Genuinely American, Alderdyce only remembered the 
 strange contest in the study, to put it down to some 
 " queer foreign notion," and then dismiss it wholly from 
 his mind. 
 
 They walked through the woods, they rode and drove 
 over each mile of surrounding country, and spent whole 
 days boating on Swanton. 
 
 " Essence of lotus leaves, essence of lotus leaves ; it 
 is in the air one breathes walking through the dear old 
 grass-grown streets," said Alderdyce. 
 
 Conchita looked up from her zither, which lay in her 
 lap. She sat in the bottom of the boat, which was drift 
 ing down Swanton to Ayre ; her father was holding the 
 rudder-ropes, and Alderdyce was idly leaning on his 
 oars.
 
 A LEGACY. 207 
 
 " Our honeymoon has been different and nicer than 
 any ever before," she said. 
 
 " Utterly different and infinitely nicer," echoed her 
 husband, as she waited for his assent. 
 
 " We have been chaperoned, for one thing," she went 
 on, smiling back at her father, "and we have made our 
 wedding-journey in little bits every day. We shall have 
 travelled as many miles as most people when we finish, 
 shall we not, Anthony ? " 
 
 " Anthony," repeated Mr. Santillana, mimicking her 
 accent; "I can pronounce your husband's name better 
 than his wife can, little one." 
 
 " Ask her to tell you her own name," laughed 
 Alderdyce. 
 
 " 1 can say it much better now," Conchita answered 
 with dignity. " Mrs. Anthony Alderdyce," she repeated 
 slowly, hopelessly broadening the vowels and softening 
 the consonants. " What does it matter ? " she cried, 
 striking the chords of her zither to drown the two men's 
 laughter. " Listen ! " 
 
 She began a half -gay, half-plaintive, little Spanish love- 
 song, in which the water lapping on the boat's side, the 
 splash of a rising fish, and the bird's cries on the river- 
 bank, seemed but a part. 
 
 " Los suspires son aire y van al aire, 
 Las la*grimas son agua y van al mar ; 
 Dime, mujer ; cuando el amor se olvida, 
 iSabes tu adonde va*?" 
 
 "Sighs are but breath, and are lost in the air; 
 Tears are but water, and lost in the tides. 
 Tell me, O woman, when love is forgotten, 
 Dost know where it hides?"
 
 208 A LEGACY. 
 
 " Let others say my name as they may," said Conchita, 
 as the song ended ; " I am the only one who can be it, am 
 I not, Anthony ? " 
 
 Alderdyce bent and kissed her, laughing again. " You 
 blessed baby ! " he said, " does that still rankle ? Play me 
 a measure now to row by." 
 
 So they walked through their Arcadia hand in hand, 
 with an Arcadian simplicity of which the man was as bliss 
 fully conscious as the woman was blissfully unconscious. 
 
 The Pandora was a finished work, and a wonderfully 
 living likeness ; Mr. Santillana's preparations for his jour 
 ney were ended ; and still Alderdyce's studio and the work 
 which was awaiting his home-coming lay neglected. 
 
 The effort to break this charmed existence was wanting 
 on his part, and the resolution to hasten the separation 
 was lacking with Mr. Santillana ; but at last the final day 
 of the rapidly waning honeymoon was selected as the 
 date for sundering old ties and entering into a new life 
 for all. 
 
 It was agreed among them that the dreaded separation 
 should be a topic sent to Coventry ; and though their 
 gayety was at times a mere drapery about sadness, perhaps 
 those last summer days, with the end so near, were the 
 happiest of all, fuller of loving memories and a closer 
 clinging of hearts. 
 
 " To-morrow we part, children," said Mr. Santillana. 
 " Conchita, you must leave us alone to-night. You will 
 need all the sleep you can snatch for your journey, little 
 one ; go to your r oom and rest. Do you come with me 
 to my study, Alderdyce." 
 
 The father and his child's husband sat in the quiet study, 
 talking over their separate plans for the future.
 
 A LEGACY. 209 
 
 " Come and live with us," Alderdyce had urged over 
 and over. 
 
 But Mr. Santillana had always contrived to put the 
 question by. Now he made no secret of his decision to 
 spend the greater part of what remained of his life in his 
 own land 
 
 " Conchita need not be told this," he said ; " I can visit 
 you at times, but my home must be Spain." 
 
 " Do you really dare trust Conchita alone with me ? " 
 asked Alderdyce, smiling. " Although I still hope to 
 change your mind, I must thank you for the confidence 
 you show." 
 
 " I have great confidence in you," answered Mr. San 
 tillana, gravely ; " and yet " An expression of troubled 
 thought passed over his features; he sat silent for a time, 
 and then rose and left the room, returning in a few 
 moments with a bottle of wine and two glasses in his 
 hand. 
 
 " Will you drink a toast with me ? " he asked. 
 
 " If the inside is what the outside promises, I certainly 
 will, be the toast what it may," Alderdyce answered. 
 
 "This wine has been used at every wedding in our 
 family since its vintage, in 1807. The wedding-toast has 
 always been drunk in it, and now yours shall be." 
 
 But Mr. Santillana's grave face was not wearing the 
 expression for a wedding loving-cup, Alderdyce thought, 
 as he watched him uncorking the bottle and filling the 
 glasses. The rich golden sherry was forming in little oily 
 beads against the smooth side, as Mr. Santillana took the 
 stem of his glass in his fingers and without lifting it spoke 
 slowly, 
 
 " Once I asked you to wipe out all memory of a con- 
 
 u
 
 210 A LEGACY. 
 
 versation which took place in this room ; now I ask you to 
 recall, if possible, every word that passed." 
 
 Alderdyce rose instantly, in quiet but extreme surprise, 
 and stood waiting for what should follow so strange a 
 preface. Mr. Santillana went on, 
 
 " It may help you to understand better the toast I wish 
 to propose." 
 
 He paused a moment, and then lifting his wine-glass, 
 looked over it, speaking in a repressed, excited voice, yet 
 still with great deliberation : 
 
 " By every effort, 1 opposed my child's marriage to 
 you ; now, whatever the outcome, may you be forever 
 blessed or forever cursed as you treat her well or ill." 
 
 The sharp click of Alderdyce's glass against his own, 
 his indignant eyes, his quick " amen," all came as a hot 
 retort-; yet when the two glasses were set down, Mr, 
 Santillana's face had cleared. He turned and laid his 
 hand on Alderdyce's arm with an almost caressing gesture, 
 saying, - 
 
 " When you have daughters of your own, you may 
 understand." 
 
 " Must I wait until then ? " asked Alderdyce, coldly. 
 
 " You cannot forgive a father's doubts and fears then, 
 Anthony ? " 
 
 The winning sweetness of voice and manner were too 
 much his daughter's for Alderdyce to resist. 
 
 " You may trust me wholly," he answered, melting ; 
 " 1 wish you could have done so unquestioningly, that 
 is all." 
 
 " Perhaps I fear most from Conchita," Mr. Santillana 
 said thoughtfully ; "she has shown herself as passionately 
 determined as she is gentle. You will be very tender of
 
 A LEGACY. 211 
 
 her, Anthony ; but you must be as tender as a lover, and 
 as watchful as a father should be, not as I have been. And 
 now, having asked you to be more than mortal, I have 
 done." 
 
 They separated for the night, each grave with the 
 gravity of what had passed, but with the consciousness 
 that the confidence between them had not been weakened ; 
 and their farewells the next day were none the less regret 
 fully sincere. 
 
 Conchita broke down utterly at the last moment. She 
 looked around the familiar, crescent-shaped hall with long 
 ing, half-frightened eyes, and then clung about her father's 
 neck, refusing to go to the carriage which waited at the 
 door. 
 
 " I have only known Anthony for two months, and I 
 have loved you for seventeen years," she sobbed. 
 
 Mr. Santillana clasped her to him with an agony be 
 yond tears ; he kissed over and over again the lips which 
 pleaded to stay, and then gently loosening her clinging 
 hands, he laid them in her husband's and hurried from the 
 room. The parting was over. The new life began with 
 the crossing of the old home's threshold, and the old life 
 ended with the closing of the door. 
 
 Almost two years had passed since Conchita's marriage, 
 and though in all that time Mr. Santillana had been in 
 America but once, and then for a short time only, Con 
 chita found it impossible to be as distressed as she felt she 
 ought to be at the change. 
 
 " It is not Ayre, and my father is not here, and yet 
 Anthony, 1 cannot understand it ; I am ashamed to be so 
 happy," she would say.
 
 212 A LEGACY. 
 
 It would have required an effort on the part of most 
 women to be unhappy in her surroundings. The whirling 
 life of a great city had at first bewildered her eyes and 
 mind, accustomed to the sleepy stillness of Ay re ; but she 
 soon learned to peep out into the new world with a timid 
 curiosity, until what had seemed strange and unnatural 
 became as second nature. She spent the greater part of 
 her days in her husband's studio, which had been only an 
 old brick stable set in a court behind their home ; but 
 Alderdyce had evolved from it a studio of studios. The 
 building remained unchanged outside, except that the door 
 was new, and bore a huge old-fashioned brass-knocker. 
 
 Inside the whole was altered. The loft was torn out, 
 with the exception of a strip across the doorway which 
 was reached by ladder-steps, and served as a shelf for 
 Conchita's piano and growing plants. Draperies, hanging 
 from its outer edge to the floor, cut off a portion of the 
 room; the old windows were boarded over, and one as 
 large as safety admitted, was cut in the north wall. There 
 was no useless endeavour to make the interior appear 
 finished ; the rough rafters of the roof were visible, and 
 the rude bricks and mortar were only concealed by a coat 
 of venetian-red paint. The fittings of the studio were, 
 however, individual and unique, and its chief charm to 
 the knowing lay in its atmosphere of genuine work, not 
 to be created by any affectation of workmanlike surround 
 ings, however artistically arranged. In a place of honour, 
 on one of the walls, hung the beautiful Pandora, repeated 
 by a mirror hanging opposite. An open fire and a com 
 modious divan formed what was known as Conchita's 
 corner, for there she and her zither were at home. 
 
 Alderdyce had cared too little for general society to
 
 A LEGACY. 213 
 
 introduce his wife there; but among the inner Israel of 
 artists and professional men who frequented his studio, 
 Conchita was a well-known figure. In this critical little 
 kingdom, where some wore purple and fine linen, and 
 others threadbare coats, her success had been marked 
 enough to have startled her had she realized it; but 
 though few have chariot-wheels that unwittingly take 
 captives, she never lost the innocent unconsciousness which 
 constituted her chief charm. 
 
 Almost two years of married life had passed before the 
 autocratic baby first showed his face in the household, and 
 Conchita rejoiced doubly in his coming, as she hoped to 
 lure her father to her side by the news of a grandson's 
 arrival ; but even these wonderful tidings only brought a 
 letter in reply, over which the young mother shed tears of 
 disappointment. She had set her heart on laying her baby 
 in her father's arms. "Write to him again, Anthony; 
 tell him he must come, there is nothing else on earth 
 that I need to wish for now," she said. 
 
 " Then, if you have but one earthly wish, I may write 
 to Spain that you are tolerably happy, may I not ? " asked 
 Alderdyce. 
 
 " Write that I am happier than happy, my husband." 
 
 " And also that I treat you fairly well ? Your father 
 will wish particularly to know that." 
 
 Conchita laughed the idle, ready laugh of a light heart. 
 u I shall write myself that you abuse me. Do you think 
 that would bring him home, Anthony ? " 
 
 " No, not when the news of this miraculous bundle did 
 not," Alderdyce answered, bending to take the soft, limp, 
 little body from the mother's arms. 
 
 "Where have you hidden him?" he asked, searching
 
 214 A LEGACY. 
 
 among the wrappings for the tiny face of his first-born. 
 " And to think that this is alive, and my son, my proto 
 type! I suppose man needs to be shown occasionally 
 from what he comes. Come here, Impertinence ! " 
 
 Conchita looked on nervously. 
 
 " But ah, be careful, dearest ; you will break him ! " 
 
 " Well, is n't he mine ? I am going to take him for his 
 first walk, and show him the world he is to fit in his 
 sling." 
 
 " You must take him up the stairs first, then, Anthony ; 
 and Oh, wait, dear, there is more to arrange; 1 have 
 the little Bible and bit of money all ready somewhere." 
 
 " A wife and a mother, and no years of discretion yet, 
 Conchita. What mumbo-jumbo is this, you superstitious 
 child ? " 
 
 "The money in one hand, and the Bible in the other, 
 and up in the world first ; it should always be so, Anthony. 
 Stop laughing and hold him close to me." 
 
 Alderdyce watched her delighted face as the baby- 
 fingers closed convulsively over the coin. " See how wise 
 he is ! he understands," she cried ; " and now " 
 
 " Let us hope he does not," laughed the father, as the 
 Bible fell to the floor. "There, don't be troubled, dear 
 heart ; see, he is clutching both like a practical Christian. 
 Now for the triumphal procession." 
 
 "Are these your heathen rites, then, my children?" 
 said a voice behind them ; and Conchita, turning with a 
 cry of joy, was clasped in her father's arms. 
 
 " My heart kept pulling and pulling you here, and so 
 you have come, Padre." 
 
 " And so 1 have come ; you know how it is yourself 
 now, little one. Show me the child, my beloved."
 
 A LEGACY. 215 
 
 Mr. Santillana had arrived by the same steamer which 
 brought his letter. At the last moment, it seemed, he had 
 found it impossible to stay away, and he had hurriedly 
 taken passage for America and arrived without notice in 
 the happy triangular household, to be cooed over by 
 Conchita, and warmly welcomed by Alderdyce. 
 
 For the first few days after his coming there was little 
 thought of beyond the joys of reunion; but Alderdyce 
 soon decided that the father looked older and careworn. 
 
 " You are missing Conchita, Mr. Santillana," he said ; 
 " why not stay with us altogether ? You have made the 
 break now, let it rest so." 
 
 " Now that 1 have him, he shall not slip from me 
 again," Conchita declared, holding fast by his hand. 
 " You will stay, Padre, will you not ? Ah, why do you 
 wish to go ? " 
 
 Mr. Santillana smiled sadly. 
 
 " You have yet to learn what duty's must means, my 
 child ; 1 shall stay as long as I may, be sure. But you 
 have not yet seen what I have for my grandson," he 
 added quickly, seeing Conchita's eyes fill with tears; 
 " here it is, open it for him." 
 
 Conchita opened the odd-shaped package which he 
 gave her, with curiosity. Its outward semblance was only 
 a common little earthenware pot; but as she raised the 
 lid, the contents proved to be a quantity of gold pieces. 
 
 " He shall start life with a pot of money, however he 
 may end," Mr. Santillana said, smiling at the fact that 
 Conchita's delight in the conceit was far greater than her 
 pleasure in its more tangible value. 
 
 " You shall keep the gold, Anthony," she said, care 
 lessly pouring it out into his hands; "all but this largest
 
 216 A LEGACY. 
 
 piece, that he shall cut his teeth on, and the gold-pot shall 
 be his powder-box, if only the puff fits. Do you try it, 
 Padre." 
 
 Mr. Santillana, amused by the little womanly arrange 
 ments, turned over the contents of the baby's basket, 
 searching for the puff ; suddenly he started and looked up. 
 
 " Where did you get this ? " he asked. He was hold 
 ing up a copy of Ibsen's plays. " Have you read this, 
 Conchita?" 
 
 " No ; I found them on the table, and put them by to 
 read." 
 
 Mr. Santillana walked quickly toward the fireplace with 
 the book in his hand, and a moment later the volume 
 would have been in the flames, had not Alderdyce called 
 out a protest. 
 
 " They won't hurt my morals, Mr. Santillana. 1 was 
 reading the plays myself ; 1 promise to take them out to 
 the studio where Conchita won't see them." 
 
 Mr. Santillana drew back and laid the volume down. 
 " Perhaps I am forgetting that it is your wife and your 
 book and your house," he said, his colour rising slightly. 
 
 " ' Todo ello es de Usted,' including the baby," answered 
 Alderdyce, good-humouredly ; " and 1 hope that sounds 
 familiar and makes you feel at home at the same time. 
 You may burn every book in the house if you will only 
 stay." 
 
 But in spite of urging from Alderdyce, and almost 
 forcible detention from Conchita, Mr. Santillana persisted 
 in his intention of speedy return. He had seen Conchita 
 surrounded by devoted friends, the centre of her husband's 
 heart, her life filled and rounded by the new cares of 
 motherhood ; and he left the more easily because he could
 
 A LEGACY. 217 
 
 not doubt the sure foundations on which her happiness 
 rested. 
 
 And yet, the very night after his departure, those 
 foundations were shaken to the centre. The little life 
 which seemed too small to be the cope-stone, was suddenly 
 withdrawn. There was no time for preparation, hardly 
 any warning. It was all over with merciful quickness, the 
 physician said ; but Alderdyce, stunned and heart-sick, 
 looking at the stricken mother, could see no mercy 
 anywhere. 
 
 He had found it hardly possible to make Conchita 
 realize the truth ; only after he took the lifeless little 
 body from her arms did her bewildered mind seem to 
 grasp her loss. The terror of the shock appeared literally 
 to hold her in its clutch ; she cowered under it as from a 
 physical blow. 
 
 Alderdyce had no time for his own grief in ministering 
 to hers. He thought for her, lived for her, tended her 
 every moment in those days of despair. 
 
 "Take her away, Mr. Alderdyce," the physician coun 
 selled; "mentally and bodily she must have instant 
 change." And Alderdyce, ready to seek any remedy, 
 hurried his wife to the seaside. The spring was advanc 
 ing and he hoped everything from the long hours when he 
 kept her out of doors basking in the sun on the rocks. 
 
 Before long the faint colour which rose in her cheeks 
 gave him new courage. She grew calmer also, and would 
 sit by his side silent for hours, looking out over the sea 
 with sad eyes, yet gaining comfort from it, Alderdyce 
 thought, until one gray morning when he knew differently. 
 They were sitting on the rocks together, Conchita silent as 
 ever and Alderdyce watching the scene before them with
 
 218 A LEGACY. 
 
 an artist's delight ; the sun had been shining fitfully and 
 feebly, but now the sharp sea-air was striking in their faces, 
 the gray stretch of water merged into the gray of the hori 
 zon, and the sky was full of low-hanging clouds scudding 
 before the rising wind. A thin line of angry, dull yellow 
 lay in the east, whence the wind came. 
 
 In the distance, battling and fluttering, a small white - 
 winged vessel was struggling for harbour, while the boom 
 of the swelling breakers beat with a troubled pulse, like 
 rhythm, on the shore. 
 
 " That boat is in some danger," said Alderdyce, at last, 
 rising to his feet; "it would do better headed for the 
 open sea." 
 
 Almost as he spoke, he was startled by Conchita's voice 
 in an outbreak of wild sorrow and lamenting. 
 
 " Oh, take me away ! " was the burden. She sat with 
 her hands over her ears, shutting out the voice of the sea ; 
 in its murmurs she heard her baby's crying, and its deeper 
 tones frightened her. 
 
 Alderdyce vainly tried to soothe her. " But you are 
 better, dearest; see how much stronger than when you 
 came." 
 
 "I am afraid, afraid," she whispered. "Ah, An 
 thony, take me home ! " 
 
 " Afraid of what, dear love ? " 
 
 " That awful sea, it is taking my baby from me ; but 
 I shall surely remember him when I am home again. Oh, 
 take me there, Anthony ; take me home! " 
 
 Alderdyce, with a sudden pallor on his face, lifted her 
 head from his breast, and looked deep into her eyes ; as 
 he did so, the shadow of the fear which was in them grew 
 into his.
 
 A LEGACY. 219 
 
 ''You shall go home now, if you will," he replied, 
 gently soothing her. 
 
 As they moved away, he glanced back once more. 
 
 Far off in the distance, a tiny white speck showed that 
 the little vessel was yielding to the untempered wind, and 
 seeking refuge in the open sea. The scene stamped itself 
 indelibly on his brain, and he carried it away with him 
 then and forever after. 
 
 Mr. Santillana had found the cable telling of his grand 
 son's death awaiting him on reaching Spain, and had 
 cabled in reply that he would return by the next steamer. 
 Alderdyce built much on the prospect of his presence. In 
 her own home, Conchita had certainly grown stronger ; 
 but as the excitement of the grief passed, a settled melan 
 choly and childish petulance seemed to take its place. 
 
 She would consent to no medical attention; and her 
 physician, judging it wiser to humour her, received his 
 report through her husband, who yielded to every whim 
 with a tender patience which he felt was hopelessly in 
 adequate, for the end was always a scene of passionate 
 self-reproach on Conchita's part, and then the weary 
 round over again. She had ceased speaking of her baby ; 
 and after once breaking what he felt to be a danger 
 ous silence, Alderdyce dared not repeat the agitating 
 experiment. 
 
 From the constant strain on nerves, mind, and heart, 
 and the brooding fear of he knew not what, he was look- 
 ing more of an invalid than Conchita when at last the 
 ship on which Mr. Santillana had sailed was sighted as due 
 that same evening. 
 
 Alderdyce carried the news to Conchita, watching her
 
 220 A LEGACY. 
 
 awakened interest hopefully, as she asked over and over of 
 the exact hour when her father might be expected to arrive. 
 
 She prepared his room herself, and would let no one 
 else enter it. With a heart full of thankfulness, Alderdyce 
 saw her looking and acting once more like herself. The 
 ugly wordless fears which had raised their heads and 
 haunted him, were laid to rest. 
 
 She had almost turned from him in her self-absorption, 
 but now this was changed also ; she seemed to crave his 
 presence, his touch; and when, toward evening, he was 
 forced to leave her to meet a pressing engagement, she 
 clung to him with tender words and kisses which stirred 
 him strangely. Even then he would have lingered had 
 she not sent him from her. 
 
 " You must go, dear love; for 1 must sleep before my 
 father comes," she said, smiling. " I have been a great 
 care to you, dearest ; but from now I shall care for myself. 
 Kiss me once more and go." 
 
 Alderdyce left her reluctantly, and detained by his 
 engagement longer than he had expected, hurried home, 
 facing a gorgeous sunset. He walked with a lighter step 
 and a lighter heart than he had known for weeks. The 
 clouds in the west glowed, as he looked at them, with 
 more and more beauty. 
 
 " Conchita must see this," he thought, " even if 1 wake 
 her for it." 
 
 He ran up the stairs to her room, three steps at once, 
 calling her, but the rooms were empty; and seeing the 
 key of the studio taken from its place, he knew that he 
 should find her there, as in the habit of happier days. He 
 walked quickly across the courtyard, and opened the lock 
 with his latch-key.
 
 A LEGACY. 221 
 
 " Where are you ? " he called, as he entered, and was 
 met by silence and a closed door ; the inner door, which 
 always stood open, was shut, and as he turned the handle 
 in the lock, it resisted. 
 
 "Conchita!" 
 
 There was a sudden stillness, as if all creation held its 
 breath with him, listening ; and then Alderdyce heard a 
 strange voice, which he yet knew as his own, whisper, 
 " Not that, my God, not that ! " 
 
 In those moments, standing with his hand on the lock, 
 he knew all that he had feared, all that he had fought, 
 fearing. The future, the other side of those wooden 
 panels, held no shock, only fulfilment. 
 
 He reeled for a moment, and then the weakness passed. 
 He stepped back and flung the full force of his body 
 on the door until it groaned beneath the blows of his 
 foot and shoulder ; the lock broke suddenly, and he was 
 in the room. 
 
 Her cheek pillowed softly on her hand, her eyes closed, 
 her lips apart as if she breathed gently in her sleep, Con 
 chita lay on the divan by the tireplace. 
 
 Thus Alderdyce had seen her sleep a thousand times ; 
 and yet he knew, before he caught her to him, that her 
 head would lie lifeless in his bosom, and her lips breathless 
 beneath his, knew that there would be coldness in the 
 very warmth of her body, that her heart would be silent 
 under his searching hand. 
 
 He moved as one in a waking dream, knowing that 
 each anticipating thought must be fulfilled. The vial 
 which stood by the couch was no surprise; with every 
 sense sharpened, its opium odour was in his nostrils before 
 he drew the stopper, and he felt it must be there ever after.
 
 222 A LEGACY. 
 
 He knelt, holding her close in his arms, cradling her on 
 his heart, where there was nothing but a dumb, dull 
 acceptance. The magnitude of this loss held a kernel of 
 kindness, by stunning sorrow and blotting out time ; but 
 at last the jewelled dagger, falling from her hair to the floor, 
 roused him. He bent, holding her in one arm, and while 
 carefully replacing the bauble on the crest of the highest 
 wave of her hair as she always wore it, remembered that 
 evening by the fire in the glade when he had first replaced 
 it thus, and the remembrance was as a turn of the knife in 
 his wound. 
 
 As he moved, his eye was caught by a book lying on 
 the divan near her hand, probably the last thing the living 
 hand had held, " Ibsen's Plays." It opened as he lifted 
 it, and a little gold pencil rolled out ; down the page ran 
 faint marks. The play was " Ghosts." Some of the 
 words were underscored, and Alderdyce read them pain 
 fully, half comprehendingly : " Yes, it is sitting here, 
 waiting; and it may break out any day, at any mo 
 ment." He re-read, roused to the meaning, and went on 
 relentlessly, turning the page to find more marks. " But 
 when I got to know what had been the matter with me, 
 tben the dread came upon me raging and tearing" 
 
 As he read now he strained the slight body closer and 
 closer to him ; great drops stood on his brow, and he 
 quivered -as though each word were a lash. Had this been 
 her life in these weeks, this, when he thought he held 
 and guarded her in soul and mind as closely as at this 
 moment he held her body. 
 
 " For it 's so indescribably awful, you know. Ob, if 
 it bad been merely an ordinary mortal disease ! For I 'm 
 not so afraid of death, though I should like to live as long 
 as I can."
 
 A LEGACY. 223 
 
 With a cry of agony, Alderdyce flung the book from 
 him ; he rocked his wife in his arms, drawing the droop 
 ing head closer on his shoulder, sheltering her face against 
 his own. He had almost breathed for her, and yet the 
 intangible soul had not been his ; it had thought its sep 
 arate thoughts, plunged into deeps which he shuddered to 
 glance at, looked in the face of the lurking horror of 
 which he had scarcely dared whisper the name, and at 
 last dragged her body from his very arms. But not yet, 
 his for a short time yet. 
 
 There were footsteps in the court outside. Alderdyce 
 could hear a man's voice and a woman's coquettish laugh ; 
 they paused at the door, and through it came echoes of 
 a rude courtship, the man's urging, the woman's light 
 replies. Was there still marriage and giving in marriage 
 in the world then, for such ending as this ! 
 
 He knew that he had only to raise his voice and the 
 quiet of the room would be broken by what he could not 
 think of, figures crowding in to take her from him; 
 questions ; each detail noted ; all that he had learned with 
 tears of blood_known to a careless world ; Conchita's name 
 in every mouth. 
 
 The whole man rose in revolt ; he raised himself, lay 
 ing his burden tenderly back among the cushions, stooping 
 once more to touch the sweet breathless lips with his own 
 and to rearrange the pillow beneath her head, with a 
 jealous care for her comfort, pitifully unnecessary. 
 
 With an effort he turned away and moved first to the 
 door, examining it closely ; the hasp was wrenched and 
 the fastening bent and twisted, but he patiently worked 
 all into place. His face was set with a dogged resolve as 
 he went on with the work he had set himself. The copy
 
 224 A LEGACY. 
 
 of Ibsen, lying where it had been flung face down, came 
 next, and he touched it as a noxious thing ; he tore out 
 the fluttering leaves that now told of a second tragedy, 
 shredded them in the empty fireplace, then tore the backs 
 apart, and set fire to the whole. A vague feeling that he 
 had lived through this before came to him suddenly, then a 
 memory of the time when he had saved this volume from 
 this same destruction at Mr. Santillana's hands, and for 
 what ? Had the father seen some foreshadowing of this ? 
 
 The maddening " perhaps " of life began its torturing 
 work, might he not have saved her then by a turn of his 
 hand ? He shook the weakening suggestion from him, 
 and after one more searching glance about the chamber of 
 death, opened the door that led into the outer world, 
 carrying the fatal vial in his hand. 
 
 Then it all came, the horror, the confused running to 
 and fro, the physician's useless summons, the flying wheels 
 of his carriage in the street, and his authoritative entrance, 
 checking the startled questions which received no answer 
 but stony silence from Alderdyce, who stood at the inner 
 door of the studio guarding it. He stepped forward to 
 meet the physician, holding out the empty vial. 
 
 " It is no use ; she is quite dead," he said, in a flat, 
 mechanical voice. " I gave her this by mistake." 
 
 The physician caught the vial from his hand. As he 
 drew the stopper, Alderdyce, with a supreme effort, fast 
 ened his eyes keenly on his face, and saw the horror- 
 stricken expression which crossed it soften to deepest 
 commiseration as their eyes met; then a tension some 
 where in his brain seemed to snap, a misty dimness settled 
 down on his vision, in which the pitying face receded, 
 gradually grew smaller, and faded away.
 
 A LEGACY. 225 
 
 He knew also that another confusion was suddenly 
 added in the room, that a little later alien hands touched 
 his wife, from which he fiercely protected her until a 
 troublesomely familiar voice, which he could not name, 
 interfered, and gently bade him carry her himself. Lifting 
 her in his arms, he felt his way across the court, up the 
 stair, and there laid her on her own bed. After that he 
 was only conscious of days and nights passing, and of 
 being led through some ceremony ; but in his weary effort 
 to grasp its meaning the darkness descended wholly, a 
 total blackness, with no night or day. 
 
 Its first break was a footfall, heard always after the first 
 time it reached his ear ; it was like an echo of his own 
 in their ceaseless wandering through the house, into the 
 studio, and back through the court again. Gradually he 
 grew to listen for the sound, to depend on it, never in 
 vain. Little by little the darkness focussed into a figure, 
 sitting by his side in the gloom, rising with his rising, and 
 moving with his movements. There were hands which 
 placed a cup at his lips, and a voice that crept into his ear 
 and reached his brain, stirring it painfully by its unceasing 
 effort to rouse him to what he could not comprehend. 
 
 And at last Alderdyce looked up with seeing eyes into 
 Mr. Santillana's face. He glanced about the room, and 
 recognized his studio, Conchita's divan, and then all came 
 crowding back. 
 
 " ' Forever blessed or forever cursed,' you said, you 
 remember ; have you come to see the curse work ? " he 
 asked quietly. 
 
 " Anthony, my beloved son ! " It was the same haunt 
 ing voice and footstep ; Alderdyce recognized them now. 
 
 " It has been you, then ? " he asked dully. " So you 
 15
 
 226 A LEGACY. 
 
 have not heard ? I gave her the poison, and she is dead ; 
 1 think it was a mistake." 
 
 There was no answer. Mr. Santillana's face was buried 
 in his hands ; when he drew them away, they were wet 
 with tears. 
 
 " Do you still recognize me, Anthony ? " he asked, 
 rising and laying his hands on the bent shoulders. " Can 
 you listen to what I must tell you sooner or later? " 
 
 Alderdyce raised a white face from which every trace 
 of emotion seemed to have been wiped forever ; nor was 
 there any change as Mr. Santillana spoke. 
 
 The story told was short, though it contained the 
 accumulated misery of generations. The awful curse of 
 insanity had descended in the blood from father to son, 
 from mother to daughter. Mr. Santillana's voice trembled 
 as he hurried over the history of the days when he saw 
 Conchita's mother fading from him, first in mind and then 
 in body. He was watching Alderdyce closely, but not even 
 a fleeting expression crossed the cold, death-like face. He 
 told how the hope of saving Conchita had induced his 
 taking her from her Spanish home, guarding her thus from 
 any chance knowledge of the legacy which might be hers ; 
 and when her unexpected marriage allowed it, even sepa 
 rating her from himself and from any sight of his anxiety 
 which might betray the secret to her. 
 
 " But all was in vain, as it was written. There was no 
 eluding it. Anthony, if I dared tell you of the days of 
 agony and scenes of horror which I have known, you 
 might count yourself blessed in your grief." 
 
 Alderdyce listened listlessly. " What matter now ? " he 
 answered, turning away his hot, dry eyes. 
 
 Mr. Santillana looked at him with a growing anxiety in
 
 A LEGACY. 227 
 
 his face ; the lethargy which it seemed impossible to break 
 was deepening again. 
 
 " There is one thing more which I must tell you," he 
 said gently ; " there is nothing in my child's life or death 
 which I do not know. Anthony, your secret is mine also." 
 
 Alderdyce started violently, and looked up. 
 
 " 1 found this in my room when I came," Mr. Santillana 
 went on ; " read it." 
 
 He laid a bit of folded paper on the table before Alder 
 dyce, who tore it open with shaking fingers. A dark flush 
 spread over his white face as he saw Conchita's writing. 
 The words were almost too incoherent for understanding ; 
 but the irresponsible pathos of the tender farewell knocked 
 on his parched heart as Moses's rod on the rock in the 
 wilderness, the healing waters rushed forth in answer. 
 
 Mr. Santillana bent over the bowed head and shaken 
 figure with a relief beyond words. 
 
 " Thank God, thank God," he murmured brokenly 
 at last, adding more firmly, " for this and all his other 
 mercies." 
 
 A gray morning by the seaside the gray of the hori 
 zon merging into the gray of the sea, a small vessel beating 
 painfully in sight of harbour, and a white line of breakers 
 on the sand, a sky full of dusky, low-hanging clouds, save 
 for a strip of angry yellow, the wind's cradle; all Nature 
 threatening and presaging a rising storm was the sub 
 ject of an unfinished picture which stood on an easel in 
 Alderdyce's studio. 
 
 The artist sat before it, too absorbed in his work to 
 hear Mr. Santillana's entrance or to know when he paused 
 at his side.
 
 228 A LEGACY. 
 
 The older man stood looking down at the work and the 
 worker with a sad yet not unhappy smile. The artist's 
 face was thinner, and there were new lines there ; but if 
 sorrow's modelling knife had taken something from it, 
 something also had been added. There were peace and 
 strength in the interested face, and no unrest in the eager 
 ness of the eyes. He looked up as Mr. Santillana laid his 
 hand on his shoulder, and smiled at the approval he read 
 in silence. 
 
 " Yes, it is wonderful ; and yet but a memory," said Mr. 
 Santillana, at last. " Why so vivid a one, Anthony ? " 
 
 Alderdyce glanced up at the beautiful, wondering face 
 of the Pandora above him. 
 
 " But a vivid memory," he repeated slowly ; and the 
 two men looked into each other's faces as comrades who 
 did not need words.
 
 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT.
 
 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 
 
 " DOAT, Michael Kelly ! Boat, boat, Michael Kelly ! " 
 
 '-' He was not a mountaineer ; and his dress, severely 
 simple yet distinctive, was unusual on the mountain-side. 
 He was short of stature; his black hat had a stiff wide 
 brim, his black coat was buttoned trimly to the throat, and 
 he carried a neat leather satchel in his hand. As he stood 
 on the river-bank in the moonlight, calling at regular 
 intervals, a figure more out of keeping with the wild 
 surroundings could not well be imagined. His name was 
 Thomas Bates. 
 
 At last an answering cry came from the opposite shore, 
 and a little later, a heavy, flat-bottomed boat slid out from 
 the sharp line of shadow cast by the willow-trees growing 
 thickly on the bank. The boatman, punting across the 
 current, stood upright, and used his clumsy pole as only 
 old river-men can. 
 
 The stranger walked to the water's edge and lifted his 
 head, looking out from under the shadow of his hat. He 
 wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and the brown eyes behind 
 them were shrewd, kindly, and humorous. 
 
 " Friend," he called, " is thy name Michael Kelly ? " 
 
 The man addressed leaned on his pole and surveyed
 
 232 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 
 
 the wayfarer at leisure. " You 've said it," he answered 
 laconically. 
 
 " I was told that thee would carry me across the 
 river." 
 
 Michael Kelly shoved the boat to the shore, and held it 
 against the current with the pole. 
 
 " And further," the calm voice went on, " I was told 
 that thee would not be offended if I asked shelter for the 
 night in thy house." 
 
 " Get in," Michael answered, " and hurry ; the waters 
 are a' pullin' on the pole." 
 
 The stranger looked up stream and down as they 
 crossed. On either hand the scenery was superbly wild ; 
 the moonlight was brilliant, and the river full of strange, 
 rushing, restless sounds. When they landed, Michael 
 Kelly tied his boat under the willows and pointed up 
 the bank. 
 
 " Will thee then take me in for the night ? " said the 
 stranger, pleasantly. " My name is Thomas ; 1 wish to 
 visit in this district to-morrow." 
 
 Michael nodded; he was a man of few words. " I 
 guess the Mistis can rig yer up a bed somehow, Mr. 
 Thomas," he replied. 
 
 Thomas Bates looked at the cabin which was Michael 
 Kelly's home curiously as they approached. It was an 
 unusual-looking building : the pointed roof lapped over at 
 ends and hung down in long eaves at the sides ; the cabin 
 proper was as if snuffed out by the extinguishing cover. 
 
 " It seems that thy roof -tree has taken root and grown, 
 Friend," said Mr. Bates. 
 
 .He listened with interest as Michael laboriously ex 
 plained how he had first built his cabin, and then bought
 
 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 233 
 
 the roof second-hand from a neighbour who was tearing 
 down his old house. 
 
 " It don' fit too well," he ended ; " but it 's better too 
 big 'n too small." 
 
 " Yes; and thee finds room beneath it for the stranger," 
 added Mr. Bates, as they entered. 
 
 The inside of the one -room cabin was clean and neat ; 
 the open rafters were hung with strings of onions and 
 dried herbs, and the furniture was rough, with the excep 
 tion of a high four-posted bed, and a "huge old-fashioned 
 clock, which was ticking noisily. 
 
 The old wife received the wanderer hospitably ; her life 
 was monotonous, and any break was welcome. The supper 
 she provided was appetizing, and after the meal ended, the 
 three sat over the blazing fire and talked together. It 
 seemed that Mr. Bates said more than his companions, and 
 yet when his bed of "comforts " and home-cured feather 
 pillows was made up near the fireplace, and they separated 
 for the night, if separation it could be called, his 
 hosts still knew nothing of where he came from or what 
 was his destination. 
 
 "What is thy occupation?" he had asked Michael; 
 and under the kindly, shrewd questioning, Michael told of 
 the mine on the mountain-side, which he knew as a 
 mother knows her child. It had taken him his lifetime to 
 learn it ; but in an hour the mine on the mountain-side, in 
 all its aspects, was Thomas Bates's also. 
 
 "And what is thy faith?" asked the guest. ''And 
 what is the faith of the miners generally ? " 
 
 Michael shook his head ; his wife answered, 
 
 "The day after to-morrow will be the Sabbath, and 
 you might ride ten miles over that way and over that,
 
 234 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 
 
 and over that and that, and hear no sound of the gospel 
 anywhere." 
 
 Mr. Bates lowered his head and looked at her over his 
 glasses. 
 
 " Is it possible ! " he said slowly. " And the superin 
 tendent of thy mine is a gentleman and a Christian, thee 
 says, Michael Kelly ; and thee has not even a Sabbath- 
 school for the little ones ? " 
 
 Michael again shook his head. Mr. Bates sat with his' 
 hands on his knees, gazing thoughtfully into the embers. 
 
 " Friend," he said, turning to his hostess, " is thee not 
 lonely here at times, with the Gospel ten miles away, and 
 with no children ? Or has thee children elsewhere ? " 
 
 The woman did not reply, she bent over her knitting. 
 
 " My wife is as barren as these hills," said Michael, 
 shortly. 
 
 Mr. Bates looked from one to the other in silence, his 
 eyes resting kindly on the primitive mountain-woman, 
 who felt her reproach. 
 
 "And can thee, an old miner, call these hills barren, 
 Michael Kelly ! " he said finally. " Nothing is barren that 
 the Lord hath made. Mrs. Kelly, if thee will shake me 
 up a bed somewhere, I should be glad to rest, I think ; I 
 have had a long day." 
 
 The old couple were soon fast asleep in the high-posted 
 bed, but their guest lay wakeful on his pallet. The noisy 
 old clock in the corner, aggressively marking the moments, 
 disturbed his unaccustomed ears. Tack -tick -tack ! he 
 could hear the sweep of the pendulum in the stillness. 
 For a time he bore it patiently, but at last he would watch 
 with it no longer ; he rose softly, crept noiselessly across 
 the floor toward the clock-case, turned the key in the long,
 
 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 235 
 
 narrow door, and opened it. The old clock was silent for 
 the first time in years when Mr. Bates lay down again. 
 Almost as his weary head touched the pillow the old 
 woman in the four-posted bed roused with a start and sat 
 up listening, her neck outstretched. Mr. Bates could hear 
 her scrambling from the high frame to the floor ; she was 
 talking to herself as she groped her way to the clock, that 
 regular lullaby of years could not cease and she not feel it 
 through her dreams. 
 
 The pendulum swung on again, and she scrambled back 
 into her bed contented ; but Mr. Bates lay staring up into 
 the dim rafters with sleepless eyes. He gave up the con 
 test. He could smell the aromatic herbs hanging above 
 him, and tried to give to each its name. The clock worked 
 on drearily, and he tossed restlessly as he heard it. 
 
 Presently he spoke in a reproving whisper : " Thomas, 
 thee is wholly losing thy serenity." He lay still then, with 
 his hands folded quietly on his breast. " Lord, if it is thy 
 will that 1 should wake, 't is doubtless for a purpose." 
 
 The next morning when the old couple roused, the only 
 trace of their late guest was a piece of silver lying on the 
 table. Mr. Bates was already half-way up the mountain 
 side, satchel in hand. He was following a little footpath 
 which led from the old miner's door upward ; he thought 
 he might safely trust its leading. 
 
 As he mounted, slowly but steadily, he looked about 
 him thoughtfully, and at last paused on a little platform 
 on the mountain-side, a kind of natural clearing ; from 
 there he turned and looked back over the way he had 
 come. The valley and river lay below, and on the farther 
 shore the hills rose in a soft, curving line like a green 
 horseshoe.
 
 236 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 
 
 The practical eyes followed the line of the little path 
 on the mountain-side, and saw how a road cut in its place 
 might be as a key to the valley and river, and lead to the 
 site where he stood. He examined the platform carefully 
 in all its bearings, and stepped it off east, west, north, and 
 south, entering the records in his note-book. Then turn 
 ing again to the Horseshoe Hills, he stood watching the 
 birth of the day. The sun, coming slowly up over the 
 centre of the arch, was glorifying the hilltops; but 
 the valley below still held, here and there, clinging white 
 mists on its green sides. The air was full of the fresh 
 odours of the moist woods and of the morning. 
 
 Thomas Bates stretched out his hands toward the hori 
 zon. " Lord, here will I build thee a tabernacle," he said 
 aloud. 
 
 The young superintendent of the mine was trimming 
 the vines on his veranda when he saw a strange figure 
 walking up the road toward his gate. 
 
 As the superintendent advanced, the stranger spoke 
 mildly: "I am Thomas Bates. I chanced to be in thy 
 neighbourhood, and it was borne in upon me to visit the 
 mine before returning to my home." 
 
 The superintendent flung open the gate quickly, and 
 took the satchel from Mr. Bates's hand. " Will you come 
 in, sir, and will you stay with us for a time ? " he said. 
 "Have you breakfasted yet, Mr. Bates?" 
 
 " I have not breakfasted, and 1 thank thee for thy 
 thoughtfulness. This mountain air opens the heart as 
 well as sharpens the appetite, it seems ; 1 have met with 
 kindness in the valley, also." 
 
 The superintendent installed his guest in the parlour, 
 and sought his wife ; he found her in the nursery. " My
 
 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 237 
 
 dear," he said, " let the children shift for themselves. Put 
 on your apron, and get up a royal breakfast ; the owner of 
 the mine is in the parlour." 
 
 Before the day ended the superintendent was a very 
 weary man, but he found time to thank his God that he 
 had been an honest one. Had there been a dark corner 
 to cover, the shaving of a penny to hide, he knew that 
 those shrewd eyes would have picked out the fault 
 unsparingly. 
 
 As Mr. Bates closed the last ledger opened for his in 
 spection, he laid his hand on the pile of books, and looked 
 musingly into his superintendent's face. 
 
 "Friend," he said, " 1 find my mine run economically 
 and prudently. I find thy methods wise and thy books in 
 order. Thee has in some cases followed thy own mind 
 rather than instructions sent thee, but I perceive that it has 
 been well ; and the man who is able to separate good 
 advice from bad stands in no need of advising. This for 
 the material ; and now what is the prevailing faith among 
 thy miners ? " 
 
 The superintendent did not know. " That had not 
 come under his supervision," he said. 
 
 Mr. Bates gazed out of the office-window, from which 
 he could see a part of the curve of the Horseshoe Hills. 
 
 " It may be as well to discover their wishes," he said. 
 " To-morrow will be the Sabbath ; and if thee will give it 
 out among the miners to-night, I will speak to them on 
 the subject in the afternoon. I presume thee will be willing 
 to lend me thy rooms in which to meet them." 
 
 On Sunday afternoon, from the mountains piled up all 
 around and from the valley below, the people came pour 
 ing in on foot and in carts.
 
 238 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 
 
 The superintendent was standing on his veranda watch 
 ing their approach, when Mr. Bates joined him. 
 
 " Does thee think that moving line on the hillside can 
 be the miners ? " asked the mine's owner. 
 
 " I am very sorry," answered the superintendent ; " but 
 I find that the people have gained a false impression of 
 your calling them together. They think there is to be a 
 service of some kind, you see, and they are drawing in 
 from miles around." 
 
 Mr. Bates smiled. " Why should thee be sorry ? It 
 is not what I anticipated, but we will meet the occasion in 
 some manner; the Bible is ever ready at hand, and thy 
 wife has a sweet voice in singing. 1 heard her humming 
 over the little one's cradle this morning. But I find that 
 I must ask a favour of thee. Will thee drive me over to 
 the railroad before nightfall ? It is important that I take 
 the early train in the morning, and I will spend the night 
 with the station-master there. I put the hour of leaving 
 the mine in thy hands." 
 
 Among the first arrivals were Michael Kelly and his 
 wife; they stood staring at Mr. Bates, recognizing their 
 late guest. 
 
 Mr. Bates received them warmly, stretching out a hand 
 to each. " Mrs. Kelly, thee and thy husband are welcome 
 as old friends," he said ; " and I prophesy that the Gospel 
 shall come nearer to thy dwelling by ten miles." 
 
 The superintendent's parlour and the veranda were 
 crowded with men, women, and children when Mr. Bates 
 rose and opened the meeting with prayer. He removed 
 his stiff black hat and set it carefully on the chair behind 
 'him, before beginning the earnest petition for help and 
 guidance.
 
 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 239 
 
 The simple service consisted of alternate readings from 
 the Scriptures, prayers, and familiar hymns led by the 
 superintendent's wife. 
 
 Finally Mr. Bates lifted his hat from the chair and 
 replaced it on his head. 
 
 " Friends," he said, " I have gathered you together for 
 the purpose of consulting with you. I hold in my hand 
 a list of the various Christian denominations, and as I read 
 from it, I ask that those who belong to the denomination 
 called will raise their hands. I mention, first, the Society 
 of Friends." 
 
 A withered old woman at the back of the room held 
 up a trembling hand alone. Mr. Bates looked over his 
 glasses at the others, but none moved. 
 
 "Sister," he said quietly, "I am glad to have wor 
 shipped with thee; and now I mention Baptists." 
 
 A stray hand was raised here and there, and the list 
 went on. " Methodists." 
 
 From every side, rising like a flight of trained pigeons 
 at a given word, the hands flew up. 
 
 Mr. Bates folded the list and spoke, 
 
 " Friends, I perceive that the Methodist persuasion is 
 the faith most acceptable. There has been, up to this 
 time, no meeting-house for worship in the community ; 
 for this I do not hold you responsible, but on my depar 
 ture I will confer with the bishop on the matter. Provid 
 ence permitting, there will be erected, at an early day, a 
 suitable and substantial building for worship on the plat 
 form of land lying between Michael Kelly's cabin and the 
 mine. The present path will then be converted into a 
 useful roadway, also substantially laid ; and both are for an 
 inheritance for your children, and your children's children,
 
 240 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 
 
 and your children's children's children. And now I must 
 not keep you longer from your homes ; for many of them 
 are distant, and the night will be falling, and I too have a 
 journey before me ; but before we separate, let us sing 
 once more together, 
 
 " ' God moves in a mysterious way, 
 His wonders to perform.' " 
 
 During the singing the superintendent slipped away, 
 and after a little the stable-boy made his way to Mr. 
 Bates's side and whispered in his ear. 
 
 Mr. Bates rose and followed him from the room. 
 
 In the road outside stood a light buggy, and harnessed 
 in it was the joy of the superintendent's heart. 
 
 He was himself standing at the restive mare's head, 
 striving to subdue her vaulting ambition to walk on two 
 legs as her master. 
 
 " 1 am afraid 1 must ask you to hurry a little," the 
 superintendent began when Mr. Bates appeared ; but the 
 hint was unnecessary. Before he ended Mr. Bates was in 
 the buggy, his hands twisted in the reins ; his brown eyes 
 were twinkling and shining behind his glasses as he 
 looked down on the quivering beautiful back between 
 the shafts. 
 
 " Thee had best leap in, Friend," said the calm voice ; " I 
 perceive that thy mare will not endure much foolishness." 
 
 The voices in the parlour died away before the last 
 verse of the hymn ended. The singers were crowding out 
 on the veranda, gaping at the back of the swaying buggy 
 and the two figures it held. The shorter figure was grasp 
 ing the reins in one strong hand, and holding the brim of 
 his stiff black hat with the other.
 
 THOMAS BATES'S COVENANT. 241 
 
 To-day there stands on the platform which overlooks 
 the valley and the Horseshoe Hills a stone church where 
 regular services are held, and where the men, women, and 
 children from the mountain, the valley, and the river come 
 through rain and shine. 
 
 There is a roadway for them to follow, which was 
 only indicated by a path before. And far down in the 
 valley stands a little cabin with an overgrown roof, be 
 neath which a noisy clock still marks the moments 
 wheezingly, and Michael Kelly tells how the stone church 
 came to be built on the platform. 
 
 1 know them all. 
 
 16
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY.
 
 Miss CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 "/^OOD-MORNING, ladies, good -morning !" said the 
 ^-* old doctor, baring his head and bowing low from 
 his buggy. His young assistant, who was seated beside 
 him, raised his hat and looked out also, but saw only an 
 old-fashioned double house, set back from the street corner, 
 with every door closed, and the windows sealed by green 
 Venetian blinds. 
 
 " To whom did you speak, Dr. Johnstone ? " he asked. 
 " I see no one." 
 
 " Nor I ; but they are there, nevertheless, certainly 
 one, possibly both. I always speak to them as I pass, 
 Miss Chesilia McCarthy at one window, and Miss Anne at 
 the other. I mean to introduce you there before long. 
 I '11 take the reins now myself, if you please ; I only 
 wanted to watch you handle the sorrel. I never know a 
 man until 1 see him with a horse, nor a woman until I see 
 her with a man. You '11 do ; and it 's the direct kindness 
 of Providence that you will. I was as nervous about you 
 as if I were choosing a wife. A man has to walk as 
 delicately as Agag in this town." 
 
 Dr. Johnstone was in high good -humour ; he had 
 written to a professional brother to send him a crutch in 
 his old age, and Dr. Jesse Taylor had been the reply.
 
 246 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 Fortunately, the young doctor was as satisfied as the 
 old one ; though he, too, had known his anxious moments. 
 He doubted the reception of his modern methods with 
 these primitive minds ; but it was not long before he dis 
 covered that he had only one man to please. 
 
 Dr. Johnstone had not brought all the rising generation 
 of Belhaven into the world, and their parents before them, 
 for nothing; from this vantage-ground the old autocrat 
 issued his orders, and Belhaven would as soon have ques 
 tioned the calling of Saint Paul to the apostleship as the 
 ability of one on whom the seal of his approval was set. 
 
 Have you ever seen Belhaven, with its Princess Anne 
 Street, its Royal George Street, its Duke of Gloucester 
 Street, and its old houses with the flavour of nobility still 
 clinging about them in this land of democracy ? 
 
 Courtly gentlemen in knee-breeches and lace ruffles, 
 and gracious ladies with their high heads powdered, rustling 
 in brocade and dainty arrogance, equally versed in patch 
 ing their pretty proud faces and the household linen, in 
 handling the fan and the duster, might return to their 
 homes there to-day and find all as familiar as in the old 
 colonial times. 
 
 Perhaps the mistake lay in building the city too near 
 the sleepy river, and the lapping water hushed it into 
 drowsiness. However it may have happened, Belhaven 
 stands a completed city, and is a village. Commerce has 
 drifted down the Potomac and blessed a rival. 
 
 The quaintness resulting from the individuality of a city 
 thus stamping the inhabitants, rather than the inhabitants 
 the city, tickled Jesse Taylor's sense of humour, and the 
 sweet, old-fashioned simplicity delighted his heart. 
 
 As he stood on the steps of the McCarthy mansion with
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 247 
 
 Dr. Johnstone, waiting to be admitted for his first call, he 
 thought that he had never seen a house of death more 
 jealously closed ; yet when he had driven past alone earlier 
 in the day, an unaccountable impulse had made him bow 
 low from the buggy, after the manner of his chief, and it 
 had seemed to him that two shadowy forms behind the 
 green Venetian blinds inclined their heads in answer. There 
 was an odd decoration on the McCarthy steps. Age had 
 separated the stone slabs from each other, and the winds 
 rushing up Princess Anne Street from the river had blown 
 earth into the cracks until enough soil had collected to 
 nourish some seeds of sweet alyssum which a vagrant 
 breeze fancied planting there. From this small beginning 
 the sweet white blossoms had taken possession of the old 
 gray steps, spreading and spreading, crack by crack, fling 
 ing up a greeting of delicate perfume from their white 
 heads in the faces of those who stepped over them to 
 reach the door. 
 
 Jesse Taylor was deciding that he had never seen any 
 thing prettier or more characteristic of Belhaven, when a 
 face at an open window of the house on the opposite cor 
 ner, far prettier than any head of sweet alyssum, caught 
 his eye. Before he had time to ask his companion the 
 question which was on his lips, the door of the McCarthy 
 mansion opened, and Dr. Taylor turned to see Amanda, 
 sole remnant of the McCarthy retainers. 
 
 " How are the ladies, Amanda ? Are they at home ? " 
 asked Dr. Johnstone. 
 
 A mere formula, no one ever found the ladies 
 McCarthy out ; exercise was not considered necessary in 
 their day. Amanda answered only the first question as 
 she ushered the guests into the parlour.
 
 248 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 " Miss Chesilia she ain' so well ; she dun wash de bus' 
 dis mawnin', ye' know." 
 
 " Yes, I know. Why in the world don't you do it for 
 her, Amanda ? " 
 
 " Me ! " exclaimed the old negress, chuckling ; " when 
 she ain' even tressin' Miss Anne to tech it ! She don' 
 skercely tress me fur to stick de peens in de peencushion, 
 nohow," she added, as she limped off. 
 
 In the dim light of the square parlour, the white- 
 shrouded furniture seemed to Jesse Taylor as ghosts of 
 departed sofas and chairs. He had time only to glance 
 about him before Miss Anne McCarthy entered. She was 
 like any one of a hundred other old ladies; but Miss 
 Chesilia, who followed her with a soft, gliding step, the 
 toe touching the floor first, was as unique as a bit of 
 cherished porcelain. 
 
 It was evident that she was Dr. Johnstone's favourite. 
 He held her hand in both of his as he bade her good- 
 morning, calling her " My dear .child." His hair was 
 white, while hers was only gray, and still curled charmingly 
 about her forehead and soft blue eyes. She had the eyes 
 of a young girl, not an old woman ; and they were the 
 only large things about her, for she was of fairy-like 
 proportions. 
 
 Dr. Taylor was charmed with Miss Chesilia, but he 
 could not feel that his visit was a success in all respects ; 
 he was at cross purposes all through. While talking with 
 Miss Anne he could give only half attention ; the conver 
 sation on the other side of the room was more interesting 
 by far. 
 
 "You know, Dr. Johnstone, I always wash dear father's 
 bust on his birthday," Miss Chesilia was saying sadly,
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 249 
 
 " and I simply prepare to feel ill afterwards ; it seems so 
 disrespectful. And to-day he looked so helpless, and oh ! 
 so sad, when the water trickled down his face and dripped 
 off the end of his nose and ran into his ears, 1 said out 
 loud, as if he could hear, ' Forgive me, dear father, for 
 give me.' ' 
 
 "I know," answered the doctor, gently, "I know. 
 That 's where we old bachelors lose, my dear child ; when 
 1 leave this world somebody may take my bust out to 
 the hydrant and pump on it or slap it clean with a 
 duster, certainly no one will ever wash it with sacred 
 tears." 
 
 And then Dr. Taylor, forcing himself back to his con 
 versation with Miss Anne, asked a question which seemed 
 to him innocent enough. 
 
 " Can you tell me who lives in the opposite house, 
 Miss McCarthy ? " 
 
 Miss Anne drew herself up, and glanced across the 
 room at her sister. 
 
 Dr. Johnstone and Miss Chesilia stopped talking. 
 
 " The man who lives there," said Miss Anne, frigidly, 
 "is named Birch, Thomas Birch. His father was a 
 butcher, and his grandfather also, I believe; was he not, 
 Dr. Johnstone ? " 
 
 The old doctor was knitting his brows. " Some des 
 perate character of that kind, I believe, mem," he answered 
 shortly. 
 
 His lady patients knew that the doctor was vexed when 
 he called them " mem ; " but Miss Anne went on agres- 
 sively : " I think that Thomas Birch himself has left chops 
 and ribs at our back door at times." 
 
 Dr. Johnstone was about to retort ; but Miss Chesilia's
 
 250 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 soft tones, softer by contrast, broke in. " Anne, suppose 
 you bid Amanda bring some shrub and cake." 
 
 Dr. Johnstone's brow cleared. He loved Miss Chesilia, 
 and he loved shrub. " 1 wish Congress over there wpuld 
 pass a law that callers should always be offered shrub on 
 a hot day," he said. 
 
 So the little discomfort passed, and the visit ended 
 pleasantly. But Miss Anne looked through the blinds into 
 the street, and watched the two doctors walking away 
 together ; and it was not of them that she was thinking 
 when she said bitterly, 
 
 " In spite of all, you see, they are on the crest of the 
 wave, Sister Chesilia." 
 
 Miss Chesilia, at the other window, glanced across at 
 the opposite house. " No, Anne, no; or only as the foam 
 is," she answered firmly. 
 
 Amanda, who was hobbling about clearing away the 
 remains of the repast, now entered into the conversation as 
 a member of the family, also in metaphor. 
 
 " 'Deed now, 1 don' know, Miss Chesilia ; 'pears to me 
 like skim milk do git to rise above de cream in dese days. 
 Fur me, I ain' believin' in people what ain' people a-settin' 
 up to go wid people. Rich or po', 1 don' keer, jes' give 
 me de fust quality." 
 
 " That will do, Amanda," said Miss Chesilia ; but she 
 sighed as she said it. The house across the way was very 
 obvious every time she looked from the window ; and a 
 little figure, wonderfully like herself in past years, flitted 
 in and out perpetually. Miss Chesilia loved freshness and 
 youth, and she turned away with another sigh. 
 
 " Chesilia is the best woman in the world, the very 
 best," Dr. Johnstone was saying as he walked down the
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 251 
 
 street. " If it had not been for Anne's nagging and that 
 old witch Amanda, I could have stopped this nonsense 
 about the opposite house long ago. 1 don't know though," 
 he added honestly ; " ' Dear father ' has more influence in 
 his grave than 1 have out of it. You would think that 
 bust a human being to hear her talk. Well, it isn't much 
 harder than old Dennis McCarthy showed himself. That 
 blood is as just as Aristides and as proud as Lucifer. He 
 never forgave Sarah to the day of his death." 
 
 "Does Sarah live in the opposite house?" asked Dr. 
 Taylor, with interest. 
 
 "No, Sarah went to her rest years age ; not before she 
 had time to make it lively for her family, though." 
 
 " Then who does live there ? " 
 
 "Anne told you. Thomas Birch, butcher's boy. 
 Sarah ran away and married him, when she found she 
 couldn't manage it in any other way. He was clever 
 enough ; I always liked the man. He struck out from 
 here early, studied law, and made money, plenty of it. 
 Sarah met him somehow when he came home for a visit, 
 and he took her away with him as Mrs. Birch. It 
 would n't have been so bad if he had belonged to another 
 city ; Anne can't forget those chops and ribs at the back 
 door. It was pretty hard on the McCarthys, and particu 
 larly so when he came back here to end his days after 
 Sarah died. Amanda belonged to Sarah through an in 
 heritance which Dennis McCarthy couldn't cut off; but 
 her mistress died and the slaves were freed, and Amanda 
 came hobbling here to her old home and genteel poverty 
 as fast as she could come. Tom Birch would have given 
 his eyes to keep her. When you taste her fried chicken 
 and mush, you '11 see why. But it was no use, back she
 
 252 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 came. There was something fine in that though. With 
 all his faults there is nothing shoddy about the negro ; so 
 the three old ladies live together, happily enough. Now 
 you know the whole story." 
 
 " It was not Thomas Birch I saw at the window," said 
 Dr. Taylor ; " unless Thomas Birch is as slim as a peach 
 switch in the fall, and as pretty as one in the spring." 
 
 The old doctor laughed. " Ah, no, that was n't Tom; 
 that must have been Chessy. Sarah named her for 
 Chesilia, as an olive branch ; but olives were a taste not to 
 be acquired by the McCarthy family. It was a sad affair, 
 very sad; and the results have been unfortunate all 
 around." 
 
 " Except Chessy," amended Dr. Taylor ; " I would n't 
 call Chessy an unfortunate result." 
 
 " Well, she has not had an easy time, either, poor child. 
 People here have taken her up decidedly, but not those 
 who ought to be most to her. I am taking you there now, 
 by the way. Thank Heaven only the side of the house 
 faces the McCarthy mansion ! The front door opens on 
 Royal George Street, around the corner. 1 should n't like 
 to think that Chesilia was watching me every time I 
 mounted these steps." 
 
 Thus introduced from house to house, it was not long 
 before Jesse Taylor's figure was as familiar in the streets 
 of Belhaven and at the bedsides of the inhabitants as Dr. 
 Johnstone's. The summer passed away peacefully, one 
 day telling another, with about the usual average of sick 
 ness and death ; and then came the winter, and with it 
 " la grippe." 
 
 At first the good people of Belhaven laughed over 
 the epidemic, and said that Belhaven was in the height
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 253 
 
 of the fashion at last ; but after a little they stopped 
 laughing. 
 
 The population was largely made up of those whose 
 sands were nearly run ; and to these came this new scourge, 
 giving the hour-glass a jostle, and spilling the grains of 
 time which might have flowed on smoothly and usefully 
 for a few years yet. 
 
 Among the first victims was old Dr. Johnstone; and 
 Jesse Taylor found himself called to the difficult post of 
 adjusting an honoured prophet's mantle. And yet he was 
 not called on suddenly. In the time given him he had 
 learned many of the old doctor's methods, and acquired 
 many of his habits ; among others that of considering the 
 ladies McCarthy, and particularly Miss Chesilia, as under 
 his special charge, and thanking Heaven that the house 
 opposite opened around the corner. 
 
 Soon passing the footing of a parlour guest in the 
 McCarthy mansion, it had become Dr. Taylor's custom to 
 open the great front door a locked door was an un 
 known idea in Belhaven and walk to the foot of the 
 stairway, calling up to "the ladies" for permission to 
 ascend to the cosey sitting-room above, knowing as he did 
 so that no announcement was needed, they had already 
 seen his approach through the green Venetian blinds. 
 
 In that sitting-room the numerous histories of the 
 McCarthy family were gradually unfolded to him ; and 
 here also the holy of holies was finally opened for his 
 inspection, Miss Chesilia's tin box. 
 
 Dr. Taylor was familiar with the lives of most of those 
 whose faded writing he was to see ; but when Miss Chesilia 
 lifted the lid of the case he felt that he was going through 
 a species of solemn initiation.
 
 254 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 Among the family documents were sedate and friendly 
 letters from "young Colonel Washington," and others of 
 later date and greater formality, bidding Dennis McCarthy 
 to dinners of state at Mount Vernon. But prized above 
 all was a worm-eaten silhouette of General Washington, 
 " which he presented to my dear father with his own 
 hands," said Miss Chesilia. 
 
 "But, dear Miss Chesilia, don't you think that you 
 really owe these to the Mount Vernon collection ? " Dr. 
 Taylor ventured to ask. " They seem to me to belong to 
 the country at large." 
 
 Miss Chesilia agreed with him ; he was quite right, of 
 course. Undoubtedly she was selfish in keeping them 
 locked up in an old cracker-box in her wardrobe when 
 they might do good to so many. And then she gathered 
 the treasures together, and hid them away in the box, 
 where Dr. Taylor knew they would continue to remain 
 during her life, at least. 
 
 With much hesitation and some faded blushes Miss 
 Chesilia pointed out to him also a spot on her soft 
 cheek which had been pressed by the lips of Lafayette 
 when he visited Belhaven in the year '24. 
 
 " 1 was only a little girl," Miss Chesilia hastened to 
 explain ; " but I remember the general passed up the street 
 under a great arch and through a line of troops on King 
 Street. One hundred young girls and one hundred boys 
 lined the way on either side when he reached Royal 
 George Street. The females were dressed in white with 
 blue sashes and badges, and leghorn hats, and the boys in 
 blue with pink sashes and badges. They were strewing 
 flowers before him. My dear father always said that in 
 sublimity and moral effect that ceremony surpassed all.
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 255 
 
 It was then that they led me forward, and bade me repeat 
 some lines composed for the occasion. I can recall them 
 now if you would care to hear them. 
 
 '" Fayette, friend of Washington ! 
 
 Freedom's children greet thee here. 
 Fame for thee our hearts have won ; 
 
 Flows for thee the grateful tear. 
 Loved and honoured nation's guest, 
 
 Long with us mayst thou remain; 
 Leave us when thou sink'st to rest, 
 
 Life eternal to obtain. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 ' ' Happiness to-day is ours. 
 Strew, ye fair, his way with flowers ! ' * 
 
 My dear father said that General Lafayette seemed much 
 affected. As I ended, he took me in his arms and gave me 
 a most affectionate kiss just here." 
 
 And Miss Chesilia blushed again as she laid her dainty 
 forefinger on the spot, looking so prettily conscious that 
 Dr. Taylor longed to follow the illustrious general's ex 
 ample. He was as fond of Miss Chesilia as the old doctor 
 had been ; and as time went on he grew to feel that his 
 day had not ended properly without a visit to her crowded 
 in somewhere. 
 
 With the increase of the epidemic, visits of pleasure 
 had to be dropped. Dr. Taylor had not seen Miss Chesilia 
 for a week, when he received a note from her one day 
 asking that he would call as soon as convenient. He 
 hurried to the house anxiously, certain of finding her 
 
 * This poem and the description of Lafayette's visit are taken 
 from records of the time.
 
 256 MISS CHESIL1A MCCARTHY. 
 
 struck down also ; but she received him in her sitting-room, 
 where she was sewing in her usual chair by the window, 
 under the shadow of the white bust of old Dennis McCarthy. 
 
 Dr. Taylor thought she seemed nervous, and fancied 
 that he caught a troubled, almost frightened look in her 
 eyes, yet he did not think her looking ill. As she did not 
 speak of her note, he would not hurry her; he began 
 instead to praise the patrician features of the marble bust, 
 this he knew always gave her pleasure. Miss Chesilia's 
 face brightened ; she could talk for hours of " dear father." 
 
 Dr. Taylor sat patiently listening to her memories of 
 her father's honourable pride and his strict probity. But 
 he could not have been sent for to hear this ! 
 
 Then Miss Chesilia inquired very particularly about Dr. 
 Taylor's patients, or as particularly as he would permit, 
 for Dr. Taylor differed from Dr. Johnstone in this respect. 
 The old doctor decided for himself as to how much of his 
 patients' affairs was confidential, and woe to him who 
 complained ! but the young doctor repeated nothing of 
 any kind. It happened that his most critical case at the 
 time was that of an old gentleman named Ramsay, Col. 
 William Ramsay, and when Miss Chesilia finally asked 
 for him by name, Dr. Taylor was obliged to say that the 
 colonel was a very ill man ; and then he rose to go, in 
 the hope of bringing Miss Chesilia to the point. Unques 
 tionably he had not been sent for to discuss his practice. 
 
 Miss Chesilia rose also, laying a shaking hand in his, 
 detaining him a moment to know " if there were many 
 deaths." She seemed also about to call him back from 
 the threshold, and then to change her mind. She did not 
 refer to her note in any way ; and as Dr. Taylor left the 
 house and walked down the gray stone steps, where the
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 257 
 
 white snow had taken the place of the white sweet alyssum, 
 he was thoroughly perplexed. But that Miss Chesilia had 
 needed him, for some reason which she was not ready to 
 give, he was sure, and he determined she should not need 
 in vain ; as yet, he could go no further. 
 
 He looked over at the house opposite, and thought, 
 regretfully and tenderly, of all that one of its inmates 
 might be to her, could they be brought together ; but as 
 that was impossible, he turned to what had helped him 
 more than once when perplexed. He tried to put Dr. 
 Johnstone in his place, and to act as he might have acted. 
 
 The result was that, in spite of his press of work, Dr. 
 Taylor paid a daily visit to the McCarthy mansion. Miss 
 Chesilia accepted these visits with a pathetic if silent 
 gratitude. She was restless and flurried in manner, and 
 asked so many nervous questions about the condition of 
 his "grippe" patients, and particularly of Colonel Ramsay, 
 that Dr. Taylor feared she was laying herself open to the 
 contagion through pure fear. 
 
 Still he would not force her confidence, and it was only 
 when he saw that her secret, whatever it might be, was 
 telling on her strength, that he determined to speak him 
 self. On his next visit, therefore, he drew his chair close 
 by Miss Chesilia's side, and asked her to shut her eyes and 
 imagine him her old friend and physician come to visit 
 her once more. 
 
 Miss Chesilia looked up quickly, but seeing that, al 
 though half laughing, he was really in earnest, she dropped 
 her lids obediently, and leaned back in her chair with her 
 hands clasped closely in her lap. Dr. Taylor could see 
 that they trembled. He took them both, clasped as they 
 were, in one of his. 
 
 17
 
 258 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 " Now, if I were really your old friend, and not merely 
 his messenger, Miss Chesilia,'-' he said, " this is what 1 
 would be saying : ' My dear child, you are not treating me 
 quite fairly. 1 am your physician and your old friend, 
 but what can 1 do when you conceal your symptoms from 
 me? for that is what you are doing when you have 
 something preying on your mind and refuse to tell me 
 of it.'" 
 
 Miss Chesilia caught her hands from his and threw 
 them up to her face. 
 
 " Oh, I never meant it, I never meant it. Every 
 year for the last twenty years I thought he would come 
 back and let me tell him so, and now he can never come 
 back ; he is going to die, and he will never know. 1 
 had been sending him away for twelve years, and it 
 never made any difference; he would ask me again the 
 next year just the same, and then I would say no, and 
 when he left I would follow him to the door and say, 
 ' Colonel Ramsay, call again/ and it seemed to make 
 everything all right. And then one night I never knew 
 how it happened - Anne called me, or Amanda was com 
 ing up the stair ; but when 1 followed him to the door I 
 forgot to say anything, and he closed the door and went 
 out forever and ever. I knew just how he felt ; 1 under 
 stood him so well. He would have come and come until 
 to-day if he thought 1 wished it, but he would have died 
 rather than intrude ; and now he will never know." 
 
 Miss Chesilia sat with her face buried in her hands, and 
 Jesse Taylor sat beside her in silence. 
 
 This, then, was her secret. If he were smiling a little, 
 it was because he could not help it, and there was no 
 unkindness in the smile. He was thinking of the lovely
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 259 
 
 wife and mother she might have made, and of the sun 
 shine she would have brought into the home of the gaunt, 
 lonely man now lying silent and uncomplaining, nursed 
 by hirelings. He could imagine what manner of man 
 Colonel Ramsay had been in his youth. Now, the ruin of 
 a Southern gentleman; then, stately and chivalrous, -- a 
 little stilted, perhaps. Yes, he would have died rather 
 than intrude. 
 
 And Miss Chesilia, as charming and fresh and dainty 
 as her opposite neighbour, tripping out of the square par 
 lour after him, and following him to the door: " Colonel 
 Ramsay, call again." 
 
 Dr. Taylor smiled irrepressibly ; he could see the whole 
 picture. " But could you not have let him know, Miss 
 Chesilia ? " he asked. 
 
 Miss Chesilia flushed as delicately as ever in her youth. 
 She dried her eyes daintily ; ladies were trained even to 
 weep gracefully in her day. " It would not have been 
 maidenly; he would not have understood," she whispered. 
 
 She went on, with more composure : " It was very hard 
 for some years ; and to-day it seems as if that time had 
 all come back. We have never met since, except on the 
 street ; he would not annoy me. After a time I grew 
 quite ill; that is, I was nervous and irritable. At first I 
 thought it must be malaria, and I took quinine for it ; and 
 then, quite suddenly, one day I knew that it was nothing 
 of the kind : it was only that I had grown into an old 
 maid. That explained everything, you know, and I 
 stopped worrying and was quite quiet again until now ; 
 but now it has all come back. It hurts me so to think 
 that he will never know how it was." 
 
 Happily, in the relief of unburdening her heart, where
 
 260 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 she had been for twenty years spinning over and over the 
 romance of her life as a spider spins its web from itself, 
 Miss Chesilia missed nothing in her listener's silence, nor 
 noted his abstraction as he left her. 
 
 His thoughts had flown to the opposite house ; he was 
 thinking again how some one there would know what 
 to say to her and how to comfort her. This conviction 
 strengthened with him as the days went by and Miss 
 Chesilia grew weaker; for she was weakening visibly, 
 from no apparent cause, unless the depressing bulletins of 
 Colonel Ramsay's condition might account for it. She 
 rarely left her sofa now, and Dr. Taylor was far from 
 satisfied with the nursing she received. Miss Anne was 
 too nervous herself to be of use; and Amanda did not 
 understand the case, and so did not believe in it. 
 
 The weather also was unfavourable, a heated term, 
 such as the South can offer in midwinter, warm, damp, 
 and enervating, winding up in that uncanny phenomenon, 
 a winter thunder-storm. It was in the midst of its tumult 
 of wind and rain and thunder that Dr. Taylor came to the 
 McCarthy mansion and first saw a way to the end he had 
 in view. 
 
 He found Miss Chesilia lying on her sofa alone, weeping 
 weakly. In answer to his indignant inquiries for the rest 
 of the household she sobbed out that she herself had sent 
 them away. 
 
 " Amanda broke off a large piece of a needle in her 
 head when she was quite a child, Dr. Taylor, and it pains 
 her terribly in thunder-storms unless she sits in the cellar ; 
 and Anne was so frightened I had to send her in to our 
 next-door neighbour. She is a married woman, you 
 know."
 
 MISS CHES1LIA MCCARTHY. 261 
 
 Dr. Taylor laughed before it was possible to prevent it. 
 " Why, Miss Chesilia, does being married act as a 
 lightning-rod?" he asked. 
 
 Miss Chesilia did not think that exactly ; she could n't 
 explain why it gave a sense of security, yet she could n't 
 help feeling that it did. 
 
 Dr. Taylor laughed again ; but at the same moment an 
 inspiration seized him. " Miss Chesilia," he said, " would 
 there be the same protection in a person engaged to be 
 married ? " He paused with a significant embarrassment ; 
 but no more was necessary. 
 
 Miss Chesilia was a true woman. The thunder was 
 still growling and muttering overhead, and she was terribly 
 afraid of it ; but she sat up, clasping her two little hands 
 together. 
 
 " Dr. Taylor, who is it ? " 
 
 Dr. Taylor grew grave at once. "You do not know 
 her, and she is not a Belhaven girl, Miss Chesilia ; that is 
 all 1 can tell you as yet. 1 must ask you to trust to my 
 having chosen wisely ; and, then, dear Miss Chesilia, I 
 want to ask a favour of you, but it is so presumptuous 
 1 really do not dare." 
 
 After many assurances and much encouragement he did 
 dare, however ; and a letter was finally written, in Miss 
 Chesilia's fine, shadowy hand-writing, which began, " My 
 dear Unknown," and contained an urgent invitation to the 
 McCarthy mansion " for so long a time as the dear Un 
 known would spare to an old woman." 
 
 " And you will promise to love her a little for my sake, 
 Miss Chesilia ? " asked Dr. Taylor, as he dropped the letter 
 safely in his pocket. 
 
 Miss Chesilia could not promise too solemnly, or show
 
 262 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 too much confidence. " Do not tell me her name, my 
 dear, nor even of her home," she ended. " That you care 
 for her is enough ; I love her already." 
 
 When Miss Anne and Amanda returned from their 
 respective hiding-places, it was to find Miss Chesilia no 
 stronger in body, but buoyed up by the possession of a 
 secret which they did not share. She would only tell 
 them that a mysterious guest was to arrive the next day, 
 and that the best bedroom and the fat of the land were 
 to be in readiness for the advent. She insisted also on 
 receiving the' expected stranger alone, and when the 
 appointed hour arrived lay on her sofa waiting with 
 nervous impatience. 
 
 But when she heard Dr. Taylor's step on the stair it was 
 almost too much ; Miss Chesilia sat up, clasping her hands 
 together, and burst into tears of excitement. On the other 
 side of the door, meantime, Dr, Taylor -was striving by 
 every art to put courage into a poor little heart, fluttering 
 even more than Miss Chesilia's. 
 
 At last the separating door swung open; and Miss 
 Chesilia saw dimly that Dr. Taylor was urging a little 
 figure forward until it had crossed the room and was 
 kneeling timidly by the sofa. 
 
 Miss Chesilia wiped away her tears, and held out 
 her arms, only to drop them again. It was Chessy 
 Birch, who was looking up into her face with appealing 
 eyes. 
 
 Miss Chesilia rose from her sofa, and stood erect and 
 stiff, the colour mounting to her faded cheeks. She looked 
 at Dr. Taylor; but he turned from her and lifted the 
 trembling girl left kneeling alone before replying to the 
 unspoken question.
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 26} 
 
 "This is my future wife, Miss Chesilia; and you have 
 promised me to be good to her." 
 
 Miss Chesilia hesitated ; it was for a moment only. 
 " Dr. Taylor," she said with grave dignity, " you are right 
 to remind me. 1 might say that you should have been 
 more open with me ; but I have given you the word of 
 a McCarthy, and the word of a McCarthy shall not be 
 broken. My dear Dr. Taylor's wife is very welcome here." 
 
 But Chessy did not take the offered hand. She with 
 drew from her lover's arm, and her girlish figure was as 
 erect and stately as her aunt's. Her blue eyes met Miss 
 Chesilia's steadily ; there was an answering flush on her 
 cheeks. Was it the old McCarthy blood rising there also ? 
 
 " Aunt McCarthy, 1 am not Dr. Taylor's wife, and I am 
 your sister Sarah's child." 
 
 Miss Chesilia started. The slight figure, the blue eyes, 
 the softly rounded lips and chin, had all appeared to her as 
 the embodiment of her own youth come back in a vision. 
 But although the hands might be the hands of Esau, the 
 voice was the voice of Jacob ; not thus had her lips ever 
 ventured to speak in her gentle youth. She glanced across 
 the room at the proud marble features of old Dennis 
 McCarthy; it was his voice speaking in his daughter's 
 child. 
 
 In the long silence Dr. Taylor was considering how best 
 to retrace the false step he had taken, when a crash of 
 falling glass broke the painful stillness. 
 
 In the doorway stood Amanda, with an empty tray in 
 her hand ; the refreshments it had held lay on the floor, 
 and her rolling eyes stared over the wreck at the amazing 
 sight of Chessy Birch in Miss Chesilia's own sitting-room. 
 Behind Amanda stood Miss Anne, also rooted to the floor.
 
 264 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 Miss Chesilia stepped forward ; there was decision in 
 the movement. She laid her hand on the young girl's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Amanda, this is your old master's own grandchild ; 
 our dear niece, Anne, and Dr. Taylor's promised wife." 
 
 It was an accomplished fact. The news ran like wild 
 fire through Belhaven ; the ladies McCarthy had acknowl 
 edged Chessy Birch, and Thomas Birch had once more 
 called at the McCarthy mansion, but it was up the gray 
 stone steps and through the great front door this time. 
 The McCarthys did nothing by halves. From day to day 
 Dr. Taylor could see that Miss Chesilia leaned more and 
 more on the strong young nature so ready to be her sup 
 port ; and it was not long before he discovered also that 
 Miss Chesilia had selected a second confidante. One 
 night as he walked down the dim hallway Chessy's light 
 figure fluttered out from the square parlour, and followed 
 him to the door. The light of the candle she held in her 
 lifted hand fell on her mischievously solemn face and 
 laughing eyes. As she reached his side, she paused to 
 speak with the grave deliberation of a past generation, 
 " Dr. Taylor, call again." 
 
 Dr. Taylor, turning with a smothered laugh, caught 
 the candle from her hand, and set it on the nearest table, 
 replying as that faithful, modest lover should have replied 
 to his mistress on the same spot twenty years before. 
 
 It appeared that Miss Chesilia had concealed nothing 
 from either confidant, and they talked it all over in whis 
 pers by the light of the tallow dip, laughing a little, but 
 deciding that there was nothing ridiculous in it, nothing 
 ridiculous at all ; the newness of their own love story 
 made them tender of others. Before the consultation
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 265 
 
 ended, they had reached two conclusions : first, Miss 
 Chesilia and Colonel Ramsay must be brought together 
 in some way ; and second, that when the sweet alyssum 
 bloomed out again on the old gray steps, Chessy should 
 pass out over it in a gown as white as the blossoms. 
 
 To plan for the meeting of two lovers when one is 
 nearing threescore years, and the other has long passed 
 that sum, is not always easy ; and before another week 
 Dr. Taylor came to fear that the feet of these two faithful 
 lovers were set in a road which was to lead them together, 
 but in another land. 
 
 Colonel Ramsay grew weaker daily, and Miss Chesilia 
 had soon to be moved from her sofa to her bed ; for as 
 his strength ebbed away, it seemed to draw hers after it. 
 It was useless to attempt concealing Colonel Ramsay's 
 condition ; by some mysterious means, Miss Chesilia was 
 always able to divine the truth, and sank as he sank. 
 
 Jesse Taylor almost believed that these two faithful 
 souls, half loosened from the frail earthly tenements that 
 held them apart, met together in the dim border-land 
 between life and death, and held communion there. 
 
 "Chesilia" was the name ever on Colonel Ramsay's 
 wandering lips, as was his on hers ; only the added burden 
 of her half -conscious cry was, " He will never know." 
 
 Chessy was sitting by her aunt's bedside, listening to 
 this plaintive repetition, when Dr. Taylor at last brought 
 her the whispered news that in another hour the colonel 
 would know all the secrets that death could teach him. 
 
 Chessy listened gravely ; and, as he ended, rose from 
 her chair, signalling to him to take her place. She bent 
 tenderly over the restless figure in the bed for a moment, 
 and then left the room.
 
 266 MISS CHES1LIA MCCARTHY. 
 
 Dr. Taylor had time to wonder at her tarrying away so 
 long, when she returned, dressed in hat and cloak. As he 
 looked at her in astonishment, he saw that there were 
 signs of recent tears on her face. 
 
 She moved close to the bedside, and spoke clearly and 
 slowly : " Aunt Chesilia, Colonel Ramsay knows." 
 
 Miss Chesilia opened her eyes and looked up wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 Chessy went on : "He was restless and fevered as you 
 are, and was calling for you over and over ; but so soon 
 as I came in he knew me quite well, and called me by 
 name, ' Chesilia Chesilia McCarthy,' for that was 
 who I was then, you know, Aunt Chesilia. And I knelt 
 down by him just as I am kneeling by you, and I took his 
 hand just as I am taking yours, and I said clearly and 
 slowly, as I am speaking to you now, ' Colonel Ramsay, 
 call again ; ' and he understood perfectly, Aunt Chesilia. 
 He lay very still, with my hand clasped in both of his, 
 pressing it to his breast, with his eyes fastened on my 
 face. That was the last thing he felt or heard or saw ; 
 for after a little his eyes closed, and he passed peacefully 
 away." 
 
 Miss Chesilia's eyes closed slowly, and she- too lay quiet 
 and peaceful, passing away also, they thought ; but it was 
 not to be so. A new peace had come to her heart, and 
 with it a new life. She was to live to see years of a 
 married happiness that she might have known, to hear 
 the old house echo with the merry voices and innocent 
 laughter of children that might have been her own ; and 
 she was to find new loves and new hopes, for to cherish 
 an ideal which the actual has no power to blemish, is not 
 to be unhappy.
 
 MISS CHESILIA MCCARTHY. 267 
 
 And yet, when her time came, she was not unready to 
 go. They had surrounded her with affection and tender- 
 est care; but they knew well that she was ever looking 
 forward to that meeting with her faithful lover, when 
 they might be together in a land where no question of 
 marriage and giving in marriage could enter to perplex 
 and separate them as it had on earth.
 
 "DIE, WHICH I WONT!
 
 DIE, WHICH I WON'T! 
 
 & JHemorg. 
 
 " E>UT am I going to die, Mother ? " 
 
 *-* " Why do you ask, my darling? Do you feel as 
 if you were ? " 
 
 " I don't know, Mother ; 1 never died before. Father, 
 you tell me." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said the physician ; " of course you are 
 not dying. Here, take your medicine like a good child, 
 and get well." 
 
 Jere turned away fretfully. ^ No, 1 am not going to 
 take any more; I am going to die." 
 
 " Take your medicine at once, my child," said a steady 
 voice ; and the boy, opening his lips mechanically, obeyed. 
 
 Mr. Barton followed the physician into the adjoining 
 room. " Is there a chance ? " he asked. 
 
 The doctor was looking grave and annoyed. " There 
 was," he replied. " Who has been talking in the room ? 
 
 How has this idea taken hold of him ? " 
 
 % 
 
 " No one has suggested it. Jere was always a precocious 
 child, you know." 
 
 " Yes ; but if we are going to have this restlessness and 
 fear to tight as well, why, then "
 
 272 "DIE, WHICH I WON'T!" 
 
 " There is no hope ? " 
 
 " None. You may find means to soothe him ; if not, 
 well, do what you can. I shall return shortly, for my 
 part." 
 
 Jere looked down at his father's hands as they lay on 
 the pillow near him. They were not so white or so soft 
 or so small as his mother's, and the nails were not so pretty 
 and pink ; but he liked to feel them lift him about in the 
 bed, and they refreshed him when they lay on his forehead. 
 He moved now so that his cheek touched the back of one 
 of them. 
 
 " There 's father hands and mother hands, is n't 
 there ? " he said. " Father, you '11 tell me the truth ; am 
 I going to die ? " 
 
 Mr. Barton sat down on the side of the bed, and gath 
 ered his boy into his arm, lifting the hot, restless head 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Jere, you like to hear father's stories, don't you ? I 
 am going to tell you one." 
 
 " I used to like them when I was n't dying ; 1 don't 
 know now." 
 
 " A story of when I was a boy." 
 
 Jere nestled his forehead against his father's throat. 
 " Lift up your head the littlest bit, Father ; I like the feel 
 of your beard." 
 
 Mrs. Barton rose quickly, and walked over to the 
 window, looking out at a landscape which she did not see. 
 
 " When 1 was a boy " began Mr. Barton. 
 
 " Yes, that 's the kind of story that 's best. Begin at 
 the very beginning, Father." 
 
 " When I was a boy there was a great war going on ; 
 I am not going to tell you about that, though. My story
 
 " DIE, WHICH I WON'T ! " 273 
 
 is of one of its soldiers ; and I don't think he knew 
 much more of the rights and wrongs of it than you 
 would." 
 
 " You did n't fight, Father?" 
 
 " No ; I was very little older than you are. But one 
 of the fiercest of the battle-fields was near our old home 
 stead ; and after the fight was over your grandfather, with 
 all the men left on the farm, went out to help the wounded. 
 The old country doctor went along, too, and I, although 
 no one knew that at the time. 
 
 " It was a dark night. They had to go out with lanterns ; 
 and so I slipped through the door behind them, keeping in 
 the shadow. I knew very well that I should be sent home, 
 if they caught me ; and I was wild to go. The first soldier 
 they ran across was lying on his face. One of the men 
 turned him over, and somebody held a lantern while the 
 doctor examined him. 
 
 " ' Dead,' said the doctor, with a nod. 
 
 " Then they all went on, I creeping after them softly. 
 On my way I had to pass quite close by the dead soldier ; 
 and suddenly I nearly jumped out of my boots, for I 
 thought I heard a moan. I was so frightened that my 
 heart stood as still as I did ; I can remember how it felt 
 now. I did not know whether to rush on and get with 
 my father and the lanterns, or to run back to my mother. 
 Then I did neither, but walked over to the soldier's side, 
 my heart going thump, thump, thump ! When I got to 
 him there was no doubt about it ; I heard another moan. 
 And this time I was too scared to run ; but I yelled 
 ' Father ! ' as loud as I could." 
 
 " Yes, that 's just what I would have done," said Jere ; 
 and his father drew him closer as he went on. 
 
 18
 
 274 " DIE, WHICH I WON'T ! " 
 
 " My father and the doctor came running back. They 
 were frightened, too, for they knew my voice. 
 
 " ' What 's all this ? ' said the doctor ; and then I told 
 him that the man he had said was dead was not dead at 
 all, that I had heard him moaning. The men came up 
 with their lanterns, and the doctor made another examina 
 tion. The soldier's leg was broken, and there was a big 
 hole in his chest. 
 
 " ' He 's as good as dead,' said the' doctor. ' Here, Tom 
 Barton, you scamper home ; there are plenty of men on 
 the field to save, and there 's no time to lose.' 
 
 " 1 cried very easily in those days if I were angry or 
 troubled ; and 1 cried then, and begged my father not to 
 desert my soldier. At last he told me that he would leave 
 one of the men with me, and I might stay by the soldier 
 until he died. 
 
 " ' He 's dead now, I believe,' said the doctor, flashing 
 his lantern on the man's face. 
 
 " And as he spoke, the man opened his eyes, and said, 
 quite distinctly, through his set teeth, ' Die, which I 
 won't ! " 
 
 "The doctor burst out laughing. I thought it the 
 most heartless thing I had ever known any one do. He 
 knelt down again, however, opened the man's shirt, and 
 stanched the blood oozing from the hole in his chest. 
 The soldier's eyes had closed, and he was breathing pain 
 fully, with long rests between." 
 
 " Like I do sometimes ? " asked Jere. 
 
 " No ; worse than you ever do." 
 
 " Tell me how long he did n't breathe." 
 
 "No; I don't care about your trying it just now. Wait 
 until you get stronger. The doctor gave me some stimu-
 
 " DIE, WHICH I WON'T!" 275 
 
 lant, which he told me I might give the man from time to 
 time, and then they went off. 
 
 " I sat down on the ground and took the soldier's head 
 on my knee, every now and then wetting his lips as the 
 doctor had showed me, and dripping some of the stuff 
 between them." 
 
 The nurse came forward with the medicine, but Jere 
 turned from her impatiently. 
 
 " You wet my lips with it, Father ; and drip it in, like 
 you did the man." 
 
 Mr. Barton took the cup, moistening the child's lips 
 with the contents, and pouring the rest slowly down his 
 throat. 
 
 " That was just the way, Father ? " 
 
 " Yes, that was just the way." 
 
 " Then go on." 
 
 " When my father came back and found the soldier 
 still breathing, he told me that the house was too full to 
 take him in, but that I might have him carried to my old 
 mammy's cabin if I chose, and that mammy and I might 
 see what we could do. I followed the stretcher to the 
 house, where my soldier was handed over into the doctor's 
 hands. The night was already half gone, but I could n't 
 sleep through the rest of it for thinking of him. 
 
 " Early in the morning I dressed myself, and went 
 
 down to my father's study, where I got a big sheet of 
 
 white paper, and printed on it, in great straggling letters, 
 
 1 could not print so well as you do, although 1 was 
 
 older, ' Die, which I won't I ' 
 
 " As soon as my breakfast was over, I went down to 
 mammy's cabin with the sheet in my hand, and pinned it 
 securely on the foot-board of my soldier's bedstead with
 
 276 "DIE, WHICH I WON'T!" 
 
 two of my mother's big bonnet-pins. When I turned 
 around, the soldier's eyes were open, and he lay staring 
 at me. 
 
 " I thought he was too ill to understand, for mammy 
 said he was ; but when the doctor came in and bent over 
 him, my soldier was too weak to lift his hand x but with 
 the slowest movement you ever saw he raised his finger 
 and pointed to ' Die, winch I won't ! ' 
 
 " The doctor looked down at the foot-board and spelled 
 the words out ; then he looked at me. ' Well, you are a 
 pair of you,' he said ; and he burst out laughing again. 
 I used to think the doctor the most heartless being that 
 ever lived in those days; now 1 understand him, and 1 
 know how much better it is to laugh than to cry." 
 
 " Even when people are dying ? " 
 
 " Yes ; even when people are dying, if the laugh is the 
 right kind. 
 
 " ' You ought to be dead by rights,' said the doctor ; 
 'but as you are not '" 
 
 " Wait a minute, Father. Don't go on yet. I 'd like 
 one." 
 
 " One what, my boy ? " 
 
 "A ' Die, which /won't!'" 
 
 The figure at the window moved suddenly. 
 
 " What do you mean, my child ? " asked Mr. Barton. 
 
 " 1 'd like one pinned on the foot of my bed like the 
 man had/' 
 
 There was silence for a moment, and when Mr. Barton 
 spoke, his voice was unsteady. " Perhaps Mother will 
 make one for you. Were you listening, dear ? " 
 
 Mrs. Barton came' forward. There were deep circles 
 about her eyes ; and her lips, as they set in a smile, were
 
 "DIE, WHICH I WON'T!" 277 
 
 quivering. "Yes, I will make it," she said ; and she went 
 into the next room. 
 
 Jere tossed restlessly on his father's shoulder. " Mother 's 
 so long," he complained. 
 
 But at last she came. She had a sheet of white paper 
 in her hand ; and on it, in great black letters, were the 
 words, " Die, winch I won't!" 
 
 Jere looked at it contentedly. " That 's right, is n't it, 
 Father ? What funny spotty paper you used, Mother ; 
 but it 's printed beautifully. Now pin it up for me just 
 where he had it; tell them where, Father." 
 
 " Just at the foot of the bed, a little to the right." 
 
 The nurse pinned up the paper, and Jere read it slowly. 
 " ' Die, which I won't ! ' " 
 
 Mrs. Barton, with a catch in her breath and a quick 
 movement, bent forward. Her husband stretched out his 
 arm and drew her to him, whispering in her ear. 
 
 " Go on," said Jere. " Mother, you must n't interrupt." 
 
 Mrs. Barton went back to the window, and the story 
 went on. 
 
 " My mother was very good to me ; she used to excuse 
 me from my lessons, and I spent long hours sitting by my 
 soldier's bedside. ' You may learn your lesson there to 
 day,' she would say ; but as she never gave me any book 
 to take with me, I used to wonder what she meant. Now 
 I understand that too. I had a kind of storehouse in my 
 mind, where I kept things I did n't understand, and won 
 dered over them." 
 
 " You understand everything now, Father, don't you ? " 
 
 Mr. Barton looked down at the flushed face and listened 
 to the quick breaths. His gray eyes, piercing and watch 
 ful, became full of unspeakable tenderness.
 
 278 ' "DIE, WHICH I WON'T!" 
 
 "No, not everything; there are some things which I 
 shall never understand. I keep making additions to my 
 storehouse." 
 
 Jere's eyes were fastened on the paper at the foot of 
 the bed, then on his own hand ; he was curling up the 
 small fingers, save one which pointed to the foot-board. 
 
 There was a sobbing breath from the window, and the 
 mother, now facing the room, hurried forward with 
 an eager gesture. At a look from her husband, her arms 
 fell, and she stood motionless, watching. 
 
 Mr. Barton's voice went on steadily. " At first I was 
 sent from the room whenever the wounds were dressed ; 
 but after a little the doctor let me come in and hold things 
 for him. Once when 1 was standing by the bedside, 1 
 saw my soldier's hand groping on the counterpane, and 
 1 put mine into it. After that I let mammy hold the 
 things, while -I held my soldier's hand instead ; he would 
 turn and look for it, if I were not quite ready. Every 
 morning when I came in, I would point to the paper, and 
 the soldier's finger would point also." 
 
 " Like mine does ? See, Father ! " 
 
 " Yes, just that way. It was a long time before he 
 could speak, and longer before he could move hand or 
 foot. 
 
 '"All depends upon being very careful,' the doctor 
 said. He used to give me his instructions, and I watched 
 my soldier to see that he did nothing which he was told 
 not to do. I was very strict with him. 
 
 " ' I believe the man is actually going to get well,' said 
 the doctor, at last. 
 
 " And he did ; but it was very slow. At first he was 
 only allowed to sit up in bed for five minutes at a time ;
 
 "DIE, WHICH I WON'T!" 279 
 
 I used to hold the watch. Then he got from the bed to a 
 chair. After that there was no keeping him in the cabin ; 
 he would walk out with a stick in one hand, and the other 
 hand resting on my shoulder. I suppose there was no 
 prouder boy in the county than I when I walked my 
 soldier as far as the house, and showed him to my father 
 and mother." 
 
 "All well, Father?" 
 
 " Yes, well and strong." 
 
 Jere's eyes turned again to the foot of the bed. 
 " What did he do with his paper ? " 
 
 " What are you going to do with yours ? " 
 
 " 1 would like to do whatever he did." 
 
 " The first day my soldier went out of that cabin-door 
 we unpinned it, and he folded it up carefully, and put it 
 in an inside pocket. He was going to take it to Lucy, 
 he said." 
 
 "Who is L Lucy?" 
 
 Mr. Barton looked down, his face changing suddenly. 
 " Lucy is his wife now," he said slowly ; " she was only 
 his sweetheart then. She was waiting for him far away 
 in the mountains. He told me all about her ; she had no 
 father or mother, and her aunt was not very good to her. 
 My soldier was the only thing Lucy had on earth ; he had 
 promised that he would come back." 
 
 The nurse advanced again with the medicine in her 
 hand. Mr. Barton motioned her away. His voice went 
 on monotonously ; what he was saying he did not himself 
 know. 
 
 Jere's head lay heavily on his shoulder, his eyelashes 
 rising and drooping slowly. Once his eyes fastened on 
 the paper, and his lips moved.
 
 280 " DIE, WHICH I WON'T ! " 
 
 Mrs. Barton, standing behind her husband with clasped 
 hands, bent forward breathlessly. 
 
 "'Die, which I won't!' 1 ' murmured the childish 
 voice ; and the eyelids closed. The breath came softly 
 and regularly through the parted lips. 
 
 Mr. Barton's voice faltered, and broke. His supporting 
 arms and body remained motionless; but he raised his 
 head until his eyes met those of his wife, and the over 
 flowing thankfulness in them answered the question in 
 hers. 
 
 Mrs. Barton covered her face with her hands ; and the 
 nurse, stepping forward, drew her gently away, her own 
 eyes brimming over with tears. 
 
 "It is natural sleep," she whispered ; " the crisis will 
 pass." 
 
 THE END.
 
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