THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 f/XST
 
 MRS. JANE G. AUSTIN'S NOVELS. 
 
 CIPHER. 
 
 One Vol. 
 ELEG-ANTLY ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 Price, bound in Paper, 
 Price, bound in Cloth, 
 
 THE 
 
 SHADOW 
 
 OP 
 
 MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 One Vol. 8vo., 
 ELEGA.NTLY ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 Price, bound in Paper, ....... ^| oo 
 
 Price, bound in Cloth, 15O
 
 THE 
 
 SHADOW 
 
 OF 
 
 MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 BY 
 
 JANE G. AUSTIN, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "CIPHER," ETC. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 SHELDON & COMPANY. 
 
 1870.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 
 
 SHELDON & COMPANY, 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
 
 PS 
 
 /05" 
 
 $ y 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 " MORE THAN KIN AND LESS THAN KIND." 
 
 NEAR the town and seaport of Milvor- 
 haven, stood, some years ago, an old 
 farm house known ns the Brewster Place. 
 
 The Breivster Place. 
 
 The house itself might have been copied as 
 a type of rural architecture in the New-Eng 
 land of fifty years ago, with its low, red walls ; 
 
 its roof sweeping downward at the back until 
 it touched the ground ; its huge chimney-stack 
 occupying nearly half the area of the house ; 
 its unhewn "door-rock'' and primitive elm- 
 shaded well ; its lilac and syriuga bushes, and 
 the fine, short turf crowding close to the low 
 sills. A pleasant house, although somewhat 
 lonely, set as it was in the midst of low sand 
 hills and dwarfed pine forest, with no hint of 
 neighborhood in sight, unless it was to be in 
 ferred from the narrow wheel-track winding 
 away from the door and losing itself in the 
 blue-green shadow of the wood. A pleasant 
 house, and a good farm, as farms went in the 
 township of Milvorhaven ; and yet, as Peleg 
 Brewster, driving his span of stout grays from 
 the barn to the house, cast a gloomy look over 
 his possessions, he muttered with a bitter curse: 
 " I wish the devil had the farm and me too, for 
 that matter." 
 
 At the door of the farm-house stood a wom 
 an about thirty years old, whom one might call 
 pretty at the first glance, qualifying the opin 
 ion as he chose, after noting with a second look 
 the cunning and sensual lines about the red 
 mouth, the false light in the greenish-blue 
 eyes, the depression of the forehead, and the 
 firmness of the lower jaw. This woman was 
 Semantha Brewster, second wife of the black- 
 browed farmer who, sitting in the wagon at 
 the gate, sternly asked of her : 
 
 "Well, where is Ruth?" 
 
 " Getting ready, but as ugly as sin about it," 
 said the woman sulkily. 
 
 " Tell her to make haste, or I'll come and 
 fetch her in a hurry," ordered her husband 
 
 1213319
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 and the woman disappeared within the 
 house. 
 
 Peleg Brewster, still sitting at the gate, 
 watched the door for a moment, and then suf 
 fered his eyes to wander on, over the low, 
 round hills, over the dense pine wood, past 
 the scattered houses, set here and there upon 
 their lonely farms, until far on the horizon- 
 line he caught the glint of the sea, bright be 
 neath the morning sun. 
 
 It was the same view that had met his eyes 
 ever since he first opened them forty years be 
 fore ; and yet, to-day, he looked upon it as a 
 stranger might, noting with curious interest 
 the zigzag line of the half-cleared wood, where 
 he had gone chestnuting so long ago that half 
 these trees had sprung since then, the broken 
 chain of hills beyond, the gap where they 
 parted to let Milvor Branch bring its bright 
 waters to the sea, and, finally, the fields and 
 pastures, green with aftermath, of his own 
 domain. Over all these swept the gloomy 
 gaze, softening and saddening as it went, until, 
 with a sudden movement, Peleg Brewster 
 turned and looked intently toward a rising 
 ground behind his house, where, within an en 
 closure of evergreen-trees, lay a little burial- 
 place dotted with white gravestones. 
 
 " If Mary hadjived !" muttered he, and lean 
 ing an elbow upon his knee, rested his chin 
 in his hand, and set his haggard gaze straight 
 before him. 
 
 "Forty years boy and man, and now I'm 
 going. The same roof shan't cover us " 
 
 The figure of a man crossing the road in 
 front of his horses' heads broke the line of 
 that set gaze, and it altered to an expression 
 of concentrated rage. 
 
 " Hallo, there ! Joe Joe Brewster, I say ! 
 Come here," called he, sitting upright, and 
 clenching the hand a moment before hanging 
 supinely from his knee. 
 
 The man thus addressed paused, hesitated a 
 moment, and then came slouching down the 
 road, until, standing near, but not within reach 
 of the wagon, he raised his eyes as far as the 
 other's breast, then dropped them again, and 
 asked in a low voice : 
 
 " Well, Peleg, what is it ?" 
 
 Peleg Brewster did not immediately reply, 
 but in the look he fixed upon the other's face 
 burned such concentrated scorn and wrath. such 
 utter loathing and contempt, that the glance 
 could not fail but reach the consciousness of 
 its object with a sting words might have failed 
 
 to convey. Shifting uneasily from toot to foot, 
 and moistening his white lips before he spoke, 
 the new-comer asked again : 
 
 " Did you want to say any thing more, Peleg? 
 I'm just a going." 
 
 " The same father and the same mother 
 owned us, and I wonder why I don't take this 
 gun and shoot you in your tracks," said Peleg, 
 half turning toward a rifle lying behind him 
 in the wagon. His brother glanced apprehen 
 sively in the same direction, but made no re 
 ply. Peleg still regarded him in silence, and 
 within the house was heard the soft and silky 
 voice of Semantha, calling : 
 
 ' Come, Ruthie, aren't you ready yet ?" 
 
 The sound seemed to rouse her husband 
 from the gloomy reverie into which he was 
 falling, and he hurriedly said : 
 
 " What I have to tell^ you, Joe Brewster, is 
 this : I am going to the 'haven this morning, 
 and to Milvor this afternoon ; and before I 
 come home, I'll sell this place, and every hoof 
 and every stick upon it, and I'll make a will 
 that shall put the price of my home out of 
 your reach, and out of hers yes, and out of 
 the child's too, that you, between you, have 
 made near as big a devil as yourselves. And 
 when that's oft'er, I'm going no matter where. 
 Where I never shall see or hear of the man I 
 called my brother, or the woman I called my 
 wife, or the girl that was Mary Brewster's 
 daughter. Curse you, curse you all, I say, 
 and may " 
 
 He shut his teeth firmly over the next 
 words, and though the tempest of passion 
 shook him like a leaf, and though his writh 
 ing lips grew white, and his very eyes blanched 
 in their agony, the imprecation remained un 
 spoken. 
 
 Oh ! well for you, Peleg Brewster well for 
 you before the night fell, that those words 
 were never said, that you fought the fight and 
 conquered ! 
 
 Wiping the great drops from his forehead, 
 he said more calmly than he had yet spoken : 
 
 " Take whatever belongs to you, Joe, and 
 keep the farm-money which I gave you last 
 week, but begone from here before I come 
 home ; mind that, or I won't answer for what 
 I may do. Begone from here by five o'clock 
 this afternoon, as you value your life. To 
 morrow, I shall take Semanthy to her moth 
 er's, and in another day I shall be gone 
 myself." 
 
 He spoke the last words more to himself
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 than to his brother, and again his haggard 
 eyes wandered over field and wood, and dis 
 tant ocean-view, with the strange, sad gaze of 
 one who looks with new eyes upon the dear 
 spot he leaves forever. 
 
 Joe, stealing a glance upward, caught the 
 softened expression of his brother's face, and, 
 after a moment's hesitation, asked deprecat- 
 ingly : 
 
 " Why can't you let me try to explain a lit 
 tle?" 
 
 " Explain !" interposed the other fiercely. 
 " Do you think I need any explanations ? Do 
 you take me for a fool ? Be off, I tell you ! 
 Don't wait till the devil gets uppermost in 
 me, or " 
 
 A savage glance filled up the sentence, and 
 without waiting for another, Joe Brewster 
 turned and made the best of his speed toward 
 the shelter of the grove whence he had 
 emerged. At the same moment, Mrs. Brew 
 ster appeared at the door, followed by a girl 
 of about twelve years of age, meanly dressed, 
 tall and gaunt, and with her face as nearly j 
 hidden as possible beneath a large cape-bon 
 net made of striped print. Between them, 
 these two carried a small round trunk, cov 
 ered with horse-hair, which they placed in the 
 back of the wagon. The girl then came for 
 ward to the step, but her father, without look 
 ing round, and with a backward motion of the 
 hand, repulsed her, saying shortly : 
 
 ,'^Get in behind, and sit on the trunk ; I 
 don't want you here." 
 
 And as Ruth silently obeyed, he continued 
 still, without looking round : 
 
 ' Semanthy, you can put up every thing in 
 the house that you brought to it, and whatever 
 else you've any claim to ; but see that you 
 don't touch a thing that was Mary's mind j 
 you that ! To-morrow morning, you'll go . 
 home to your mother ; and if she wants to 
 know why you've come, I'll tell her." 
 
 Still, without looking round, he gathered 
 up the reins and drove away away from the 
 house where he had been born, where he had 
 lived ten happy years with the wife whose 
 white head-stone now looked farewell from 
 the far hill-side from the home which, to his 
 mind, had of a sudden grown less a home 
 than the narrow bound beside that dead wife 
 where he had always thought to be laid. 
 
 Away from home, and the memories of 
 forty peaceful years, drove Peleg Brewster, 
 and the rustling shadows of the pine-wood re 
 
 ceived him and hid him, and threw them 
 selves an impassable, if impalpable, barrier 
 between him and that home forever. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 MARSTON'S CHOICE. 
 
 FOLLOWING the waters of Milvor Branch ten 
 miles back from " The Haven," as Milvor folk 
 loved to call their little seaport, one finds their 
 source in the confluence of two or three merry 
 little brooks near the foot of Moloch Moun 
 tain. Each one of these brooks is a beauty in 
 its way, and as full of character as most beau 
 ties are not ; but the loveliest, the most piq 
 uant, and utterly fascinating of them all is the 
 tricksy watercourse known as the Millbrook. 
 As the name implies, the little stream has 
 been utilized, or rather practicalized ; for let 
 no man deny that beauty is also use, and 
 that to be is to be utilized ; but it chanced 
 one day that Millbrook, dancing along in 
 her usual heedless fashion, found a barrier 
 across her path, and after a little pause of in 
 dignant astonishment, gathered her forces and 
 leaped it. The fall was not high, and rather 
 enjoying it than otherwise, the brook, hurry 
 ing on, next encountered a large wooden wheel, 
 which, as she dashed through and by, began 
 to revolve slowly at first, then faster, snatch 
 ing up masses of the bright water, scattering 
 them in the sunshine, and letting them fall 
 again into the sparkling torrent, like a giant 
 baby playing with his mother's diamonds. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughed the brook. "This is 
 fun now, isn't it ?" and slipping by the wheel, 
 she danced out into the sunlight again, all 
 dimpled with laughter and bubbling with fun, 
 as she held her course to the rendezvous where 
 she and her sisters were to join forces and re- 
 christen themselves Milvor Branch. 
 
 And from that day to this, Millbrook tum 
 bles over the dam and through the wheel not 
 because she can't help it oh ! no ; but because 
 it is so capital a joke, and really such an 
 amusing little variety to the old routine ; and 
 always when she reappears, it is with a whirl 
 and a slide, and bubbling and dimpling all 
 over with fun, and a new joy in sunshine 
 and liberty. But one cannot expect human 
 nature to go to school to the brooks, or if he 
 does, he will probably be disappointed. 
 
 Just where Millbrook, yet unconscious of 
 what life means, comes rioting down the side 
 of Moloch Mountain, and, making a sudden
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 fantastic twist, crosses the path ascending that 
 eminence, two lovers lingered to watch the 
 setting of the sun whose rising had seen Peleg 
 Brewster sitting before his farm-house door, 
 and bidding good-by to the familiar scenes 
 and memories of a lifetime. 
 
 Two lovers, and yet as unloverlike as a six- 
 months' married couple, with whom the hon 
 eymoon is over, and the serene sun of mar 
 riage not yet risen; forMarston Brent, leaning 
 against a tree-boll, with his arms folded, his 
 heavy jaw set, and his black brows drawn 
 low over his moody eyes, looked more like a 
 Brutus than a Romeo ; and Beatrice Wansted, 
 Bpite of her yellow hair and soft hazel eyes, 
 had more of Kate than Juliet in her present 
 mien. 
 
 Was it an odd chance, a presentiment, or a 
 cause working out its own effect, that had led 
 the girl's dead mother to call her Beatrice ? 
 One thing was certain, that when Alice Wansted 
 returned a poor widow to her father's house, 
 the only relic of her brief magnificence that 
 she brought with her was an exquisite copy of 
 the Cenci, done by a young Italian artist whom 
 Arthur Wansted had fancied to patronize dur 
 ing the winter in Rome that had opened a new 
 life to his young wife, and ended in his own 
 death. So.the poor young widow.creepinghome 
 to the quiet country fireside where she had been 
 born, brought hardly more than this exquisite 
 picture, her broken heart, and the unborn 
 child whom, with one of the few faint breaths 
 drawn between its birth and her own death, 
 she named Beatrice. The desire was heeded, 
 as dying people's wishes occasionally are, and 
 the little girl, developing, year by year, into 
 rarer beauty, developed too so striking a re 
 semblance to the pictured face she best loved 
 to' contemplate, that the country-folk who vis 
 ited at the old house could not be persuaded 
 but that the picture was a likeness of Mrs. 
 Wansted, although her husband and the 
 artist might, perhaps, have given it the un 
 toward name now borne by the child. Even 
 the expression, the melancholy beseeching, 
 mingled with an indomitable resolution, "the 
 stern, yet piteous look," that tells the story of 
 Beatrice Cenci to-day, from Guido's canvas, 
 is it spoke from her living lineaments two 
 hundred years ago, was to be found, latent 
 as yet, perhaps, in this young girl's face 
 There, too, the sensitive and exquisite lines 
 that told of a heart to love till death ; a pride 
 that would hide that love beneath the ruin of 
 
 a life ; passion, resolution, and over all an in 
 vincible purity and refinement. 
 
 Just now, however, that fair face expressed 
 no more than vexation and astonishment, as, 
 looking up in her lover's face, Beatrice quietly 
 
 asked : 
 
 You don't mean to refuse my uncle's offer, 
 do you ?" 
 
 " Why, yes, Beatrice ; I have just explained 
 to you that I should do so, and why." 
 
 " What folly !" ejaculated the young lady 
 pettishly. " He said himself that before ten 
 years were out, you might be an equal partner 
 with himself, and meantime would be sure of 
 a handsome salary." 
 
 Marston Brent raised his dark head a trifle 
 higher, and said quietly : 
 
 " I prefer to be my own master even for ten 
 years." 
 
 " And you prefer to become a miserable 
 what shall I call your future occupation ? 
 wood-chopper, perhaps, to becoming a mer 
 chant prince?" asked Beatrice bitingly. 
 
 " I prefer the woods to the cities, nature to 
 trade yes," replied her lover. 
 
 " And your own will to my wishes ?" 
 
 " My own judgment to your fancies." 
 
 " Fancy ! No ; it is something more than 
 fancy that makes my taste and my pride, my 
 whole nature indeed, revolt from the life you 
 propose to me, especially when we see the 
 way so fairly opened to another." 
 
 " But, Beatrice, don't you perceive that what 
 you wish is to sacrifice my pride to yours ? It 
 is not a very amiable quality, to be sure, but as 
 I have unfortunately as large a share as your 
 self, you must allow me to consult it a little ; 
 and to become a clerk in your uncle's count 
 ing-house would injure my pride far more 
 severely than the mode of life at which you 
 sneer could injure yours." 
 
 Miss Wansted plucked a handful of leaves 
 from the alder beside her, and cast them 
 into the stream with a scornful air, but other 
 wise made no reply 
 
 Marston Brent looked down at her with the 
 half angry, half-loving air of a man at once 
 vexed and charmed with his antagonist, and 
 throwing himself upon the sward beside her, 
 seized her hand, saying good-humoredly : 
 
 " Come, Trix, don't be unreasonable. Wait 
 until I set my plans once more before you, and 
 see if I cannot make you look at them through 
 my eyes. When the news of my father's death 
 reached me, you know, I was on my way home
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 from the West, and bad been for some weeks 
 visiting Mills in bis logging camp, and you 
 Lave no idea of tbe sport we found 
 
 " You told me all tbat," interposed Miss 
 Wansted, just a little scornfully. 
 
 " Excuse me. I remember tbat I did. I will 
 try not to weary you more tban I can avoid. 
 Mills bad just decided, as I left, to return to 
 tbe city and resume bis former business, and 
 was anxious tbat I sbould purchase bis claim, 
 including tbe bark-mill, tannery, and all tbe 
 logging shanties and tools, offering them at 
 a bargain. I had no money then ; but now, 
 after settling my father's affairs, I find myself 
 master of very nearly the whole sum Mills 
 demanded, and shall no doubt be able to 
 make easy terms with him for the remainder. 
 Then, Beatrice, tbe rest depends upon my own 
 strength, energy, and ambition, and I hope it is 
 not boasting in me to say, I have no fear of 
 failing in either of tbe three." 
 
 He raised bis eyes with a proud smile to 
 those of bis betrothed, but found there no an 
 swering expression. No marble could have 
 been colder than Miss Wansted's face as she 
 inquired : 
 
 " And do you propose to take me to one of 
 the ' shanties,' as you call them, and have 
 me cook tbe pork and potatoes for you and 
 ycrur wood-choppers ?" 
 
 Brent bit bis lip, flushing redly the while, 
 but answered patiently : 
 
 " 1 told you did I not ? that I am moaning 
 in the spring to build a pretty cottage beside 
 the river, and ask you to furnish it to suit 
 your own taste. Could not you be happy in 
 such a home with me, Beatrice, though it 
 might be many a mile from city or watering- 
 place?" 
 
 Tbe girl was silent, and be continued with 
 a simple pathos in his voice, the more touch 
 ing from contrast with the rugged strength 
 and energy of his former tone : 
 
 " Only have faith and patience, Trix, and I 
 promise that you shall be a rich woman be 
 fore you are twenty years older perhaps be 
 fore ten years. Only give me time and the 
 heart to work, knowing that I am working 
 for you, and I can do any thing." 
 
 " In twenty years, I shall be forty years old, 
 and half my life will have been spent in a 
 wilderness. How shall I be fitted for the so 
 ciety I may then have an opportunity of en 
 joying?" asked Beatrice sullenly. "Not tbat 
 I would refuse to consent even to this," added 
 
 she presently in a softened tone, " if you had 
 no other prospect or hope. But to contrast 
 with this dreary future, here is my uncle's 
 letter, offering you a position in one of tha 
 first mercantile houses in the city, and with 
 such prospects as be himself says not one 
 young man in a hundred can command. It ia 
 downright folly and perversity for you to re 
 fuse, and I will never consent. Give up the 
 woods, or give up " 
 
 " Stop, Beatrice ! Don't say that, and don't 
 let us become excited or ill-tempered," said 
 Marston, dropping the hand he had held un 
 til now, and sitting upright. Had Beatrice 
 glanced then at his face, and read there the 
 nature she had never yet learned to know, 
 tbe whole course of her life might have been 
 changed by the brief lesson ; but she only tore 
 at the alder-leaves in her hand, and set her 
 lips more firmly together. 
 
 " The time has come," said Marston very 
 patiently, " to you and me tbat must come to 
 all people who try to make their two lives run 
 in one channel. One of us must yield a de 
 cided wish, opinion, and plan to tbe other. 
 Now, Trix, in choosing the occupation and 
 whole character of my future life, of my man- 
 work in tbe world, it cannot be doubted that 
 my own capacities, tastes, and ideas of inde 
 pendence should be the first things to be con 
 sulted, nor can it be doubted tbat these are 
 better known to mo than they can be to you. 
 I have chosen, and I am very sure tbat I have 
 chosen rightly. More tban tbat," and be 
 paused a moment, then went on full-voiced, 
 " I shall not alter my decision ; but though I 
 cannot give up my manhood to please you, 
 Beatrice, there is hardly any thing else 1 would 
 not do ; and I need not tell you again that 
 your love is the sweetest and dearest thing in 
 life to me, and that to call you wife has been 
 for months the fondest hope I have ever 
 known. Darling, do not fear that you shall 
 suffer want or care in our forest-home, or that 
 any ill shall reach you other than those " 
 
 "Stop, if you please, Mr. Brent," said a 
 clear, cold voice ; and Marston, raising his 
 honest eyes to those of his mistress, felt an 
 involuntary thrill of admiration, for never 
 had Beatrice Wansted looked so beautiful as 
 now, with her hazel eyes wide and bright, her 
 creamy cheek lightly flushed, and her mouth 
 curved with pride and scorn. 
 
 " You have given your decision," said she 
 slowly, " now hear mine : I will never follow
 
 10 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 you to the wigwam you offer. I will never I again. You have made me love you, and now 
 
 marry you if you persist in your refusal to ac 
 cept my uncle's offer. Choose this moment 
 between your will and me." 
 
 With an involuntary motion, Marston 
 grasped her wrist, and bent his head until 
 their eyes confronted : in his a sudden anguish, 
 in hers a scornful assurance in each an in 
 domitable will. He was the first to speak : 
 
 "Beatrice, be careful. You know that I 
 love you, heart and soul, and with every fibre 
 of my whole body. You know that to part 
 from you in this way would be like dragging 
 that heart and body asunder. But you do not 
 know, you cannot know, that to go back from 
 my pledged word, my solemn purpose, would 
 be worse. Beatrice, I cannot ; I tell you I 
 cannot yield to you. For God's sake, show in 
 this moment that you have a woman's softer 
 nature, and save both our lives from wreck." 
 
 She looked him steadily in the face, marked 
 with a sort of wonder the terrible emotion 
 that in one moment had drawn and blanched 
 it until it might have been the picture of a 
 malefactor expiring under torture, and then 
 ehe slowly repeated : 
 
 " Choose between your own will and me." 
 
 " Not now. Let us go home and wait a lit 
 tle wait perhaps until I have been away a 
 year, and then I will come and ask you again. 
 You shall be free as air in the mean time 
 only you will let me come and ask again 
 when the year is over, and the little cottage 
 built?" 
 
 His deep voice pleaded now like that of a 
 little child, and the tears stood in his dark 
 eyes as he sought hers, which for a moment 
 had turned aside. 
 
 " Do you mean by let us wait that perhaps 
 by morning you may change your mind V Of 
 course, after a year, you could not," said Bea 
 trice coldly. 
 
 " My God ! Have I not told you that I can 
 not change? Ask the rocks, the trees, the 
 water to change, but not me. It is not in me 
 anywhere. It can never be," burst out Mars- 
 ton in a tone of desperate agony. 
 
 " Then we part this moment, and forever," 
 said Beatrice, the whole passion of her nature 
 flaring up through the icy mask she had as 
 sumed. " If you cannot and will not yield to 
 me in this, neither will I yield to you. I will 
 not wait ; no, not one hour, one moment. I 
 will never see you, never speak to you, or, if 
 I can help it, breathe the same air with you 
 
 you wish to make a slave of me through that 
 love. You are hard, and selfish, and obsti 
 nate, and I am well released from you.' 1 
 
 She rose to her feet ; he too, and holding 
 her by the shoulders, looked into her face, his 
 own white and set. 
 
 " Beatrice," said he slowly, " you are spoil 
 ing both our lives. Have a care, for you will 
 suffer too. I will not take your answer now ; 
 I will write to you from Wahtahree." 
 
 He was turning away, but she caught him 
 passionately by the hand. He turned and 
 met the fiery devil in her eyes with a look of 
 unmoved determination. 
 
 " Stop !" cried she, " stop and hear me ! If 
 you write to me, I will return your letter un 
 opened ; if you try to see me, I will order you 
 from my doors ; if you send me a message, I 
 will not listen to it ; if you leave me now, you 
 leave me forever forever, Marston Brent, 
 though you come but to-morrow to lay your 
 self with the world's wealth at my feet. Now 
 choose, and for the last time your own will 
 or my love." 
 
 A moment, another, and another went by, 
 and still he stood looking into her white face 
 and burning eyes, with a solemn earnestness 
 conquering the pain and the bitterness that 
 had so wrung his soul. At last he said : 
 
 " Beatrice, swear before God that what you 
 say you mean." 
 
 The girl lifted her palm to heaven. Mars- 
 ton caught it in his own, and a sudden terror 
 sprung into his eyes as he cried : 
 
 " Oh ! think once more. Remember how I 
 love you, remember that the long future lies 
 before us, and that your next words make or 
 mar it forever. Wait one moment, think one 
 moment." 
 
 But Beatrice, tearing away her hand, lifted 
 it again to heaven, and said slowly : 
 
 "I swear before God that what I have just 
 said I mean and will do. Now choose, Mars- 
 ton Brent." 
 
 " I choose liberty," said he, and without 
 another word, they parted, going by different 
 paths, down the mountain-side which they 
 had climbed, his arm about her waist, her 
 hand locked in his. 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 THE OLD GARKISON. 
 
 THE autumn twilight was deepening into 
 night as Beatrice Wansted reached her home,
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 11 
 
 and paused, before pushing open the swinging 
 gate, to look at it with a strange distaste. 
 
 " How can I go in and sit down as if noth 
 ing had happened ? How can I smile, anc 
 talk, and live day after day ? How long will 
 it be before I break out into raving madness 
 crazed by the cold monotony of such a life 
 such a life for me?" 
 
 So whispering, she leaned upon the mossy 
 fence, and stared at the old house with such 
 distasteful interest as a trappist, newly hid 
 den but not divorced from the world, might 
 feel for the spot where he is bid to dig his 
 future grave. 
 
 And yet the Old Garrison, as Milvor called 
 it, was no uncheerful dwelling, albeit vener 
 able and quaint as its origin promised. More 
 than two hundred years ago not fifty after 
 Beatrice Cenci had expiated upon the scaffold 
 her most righteous crime a party of Puritans, 
 straying from the settlement about Plymouth 
 Bay, had urged their skiff up Milvor Branch, 
 and at its head had diverged into Millbrook, 
 following the bright course of its waters, un 
 til, not far from the mouth, they curved in a 
 sudden bend about a pretty knoll surrounded 
 by rich meadow-land. Here they halted, and 
 here one of the party, Peleg Barstow by name, 
 decided to remain ; and being a godly and just 
 man, bestowed such treasure of beads, gun 
 powder, cloth, and, it may be, less innocent 
 wares, upon the Indian owners, as induced 
 them to affix their signs-manual to a deed, yet 
 extant in the old house, by which they made 
 over to Peleg Barstow and his heirs forever 
 all right and title to knoll, meadows, upland, 
 brook, and the herring which crowded its mer 
 ry waters, forever and a day. 
 
 But alas ! that we should say it not fifty 
 years later, Peleg and his sons found them 
 selves obliged to fortify theirdwelling against 
 the invasion of these same savage allies, now 
 become their cruel enemies ; and so successfully 
 did they strengthen its defences that the 
 women and children for miles around flocked 
 to them for .shelter, and the house received the 
 name it has since retained, and is still known 
 as the Old Garrison. 
 
 But to the few rooms of the original house 
 with their walls three feet in thickness, and 
 their leaden casements witli tiny diamond- 
 shaped panes, came to be added, by successive 
 generations of Barstows, additions of such 
 Btyle and size as suited the wants or the taste 
 of the builders, co that the house stood final 
 
 ly a sort of hieroglyphic genealogy of the 
 race, and Beatrice Wansted might have read, 
 had she been so minded, the story of her an 
 cestors in the motley architecture of the home 
 they had bequeathed her. 
 
 But Time has power over none but his 
 own dominion, and though the work of old 
 Peleg Barstow's hands had well-nigh mingled 
 with the dust that had once been flesh and 
 bones of that sturdy old Puritan, the knoll 
 and the brook, and human nature remained 
 much as they had been in his day ; and this 
 his fair descendant stood contemplating her 
 home in the gray twilight, with far less 
 thought of tbe past it represented, than of her 
 own future, linked it might be to those crum 
 bling walls it might be to far different scenes. 
 "But never," whispered Beatrice again, as 
 she softly swung open the gate, " never to be, 
 passed at your side, or beneath your feet, 
 Marston Brent never never !" 
 
 She murmured the words again and again, 
 the bitter refrain of a dreary song, as she 
 lingered up the narrow path whose box-bor 
 ders, brushed by her garments, gave out a 
 faint, melancholy perfume, a perfume of night 
 and autumn, of dead memories and hopes, 
 and life slowly lapsing into death, and then de 
 cay and nothingness. 
 
 Fine ladies have their fancies, and in after 
 years it was noted as one of Miss Wansted'a 
 whims to detest the sight or smell of box- 
 plants. 
 
 Near the door she paused, and stood look 
 ing in at the unshuttered window, with the 
 same half-loathing interest that had held her 
 at the garden-gate. 
 
 She saw a room low and large, its ceiling 
 divided by two heavy beams crossing each 
 ather in the centre. Other beams stood sentry 
 n the corners, and ran like a low bench 
 around the side of the room. To one of thete 
 a descendant of Peleg Barstow, crazed through 
 religious fanaticism, had been chained by his 
 "amily, and then had dragged out the twenty 
 iveary years lying between such strange im 
 prisonment and death. The scar worn by his 
 ;hain still stared from the heavy beam a 
 character, and a significant one, in the hiero- 
 'lyphic history unconsciously left behind by 
 the successive occupants of the Old Garrison. 
 At one end of the room yawned a fireplace 
 so wide; that the bright copper andirons, with 
 their load of three-foot maple logs, were 
 quite at one end of it, while at the other end
 
 12 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAN. 
 
 and in the back of the chimney was the door 
 of a great brick oven, and below it a bench 
 where Beatrice, a little rebellious imp, had 
 often been set to recover from the effects of 
 too long a ramble in the winter woods, or an 
 involuntary immersion in the icy waters of 
 the brook. 
 
 In one of the deep recesses of the windows 
 lay an enormous tortoise-shell cat, her fore 
 paws curled under her breast, her yellow 
 eyes half closed, and winking slowly at the 
 fire. Beyond her in the corner stood a clock, 
 reaching from floor to ceiling, sedate and 
 grave, in spite of the glittering brass orna 
 ments which it wore as meekly as an old 
 lady wears the gold beads she retains from 
 habit, although the vanities of youth have long 
 been laid aside. 
 
 Above the high mantle-shelf was fastened 
 the head and branching antlers of a deer, 
 and as the firelight rose and fell, its shadow, 
 changing in every fantastic fashion, danced 
 upon the ceiling now spreading to its farthest 
 limit, in semblance of a tangled arabesque; 
 aow shrinking to such narrow limits and so 
 defined a shape that it might have been the 
 ghost of the murdered stag peering down 
 into the room and demanding restitution of 
 his stolen honors. 
 
 All alone in his deep arm-chair, before the 
 fire, sat an old man a man so old that his 
 hair, long and thick and soft, had not one 
 dark thread left in its creamy masses ; that 
 his face was not lined, but grained with 
 wrinkles ; that his toothless jaws met in a 
 straight, deep line, hiding in great measure 
 the expression of the mouth ; and his form 
 was bowed and trembling, even as he sat mo 
 tionless before the fire. His eyes, shrewd and 
 kindly, even through the dimness of age, 
 were fixed upon the blaze, and his white and 
 shapely hands were folded meditatively upon 
 his knee. A charming picture of serene old 
 age, but Beatrice regarded it with a shiver. 
 
 " Ninety-four years old !" murmured she, 
 "and I but twenty. If I should live till 
 then !" 
 
 She moaned impatiently, and twisted her 
 fingers within each other in a gesture of fierce 
 protest. 
 
 A door opened in the back of the room, and 
 two women entered one of them nearly as 
 old as the dreamer before the fire, the other 
 perhaps fifty years younger, but claiming 
 neither the beauty of youth nor age ; for while 
 
 losing the bloom of one, she had not yet ac 
 quired the serenity of the other ; and with her 
 tall and angular figure, sharp features, abun 
 dant red hair, and quick gray eyes, contrasted 
 unfavorably enough with the placid patriarch 
 and his cheery, active wife. 
 
 Beatrice looked at her, and made a little 
 mutinous gesture, full of defiant expression. 
 
 'And to live with Aunt Rachel all my 
 days, or until I come to be just like her!" 
 muttered she ; and slowly raising the latch, 
 she passed through a square passage into the 
 room where the family were collected. All 
 looked up at her entrance, and saluted her 
 variously. 
 
 " Well, daughter," said the old man. " So 
 you have finished your wanderings for one 
 day more. Night brings the stray lambs 
 home, but they go out with the sun again." 
 
 " You shouldn't linger out in the night- 
 dews so, child," chimed in his wife. "It's 
 dreadful unwholesome to breathe the air at 
 this time of day. I declare, you're as pale as 
 a ghost and no wonder. Sit to the fire and 
 heat the soles of your feet. Won't you drink 
 a little balm-tea if I make it for you? It's 
 proper good with sugar in it ; or you can have 
 some tansy if you like it better." 
 
 " Just look at that dress round the bottom, 
 and then your skirt, Beatrice ! Where have 
 you been trailing them ? I can tell you, 
 miss, if you had the washing or the starching 
 or the ironing to do, you wouldn't be quite 
 so careless of your things. You put them on 
 clean this afternoon, didn't you? And where 
 is Marston ?" 
 
 Beatrice stooped and kissed the hand her 
 grandfather held out to detain her, smiled 
 coaxingly at her grandmother, while she said : 
 
 "Please not any balm-tea, grandma. I 
 will be good without it." And to her aunt: 
 
 " I have been on Moloch Mountain, and I 
 did put the dress and skirt on clean, and I do 
 not know where Mr. Brent is at this moment." 
 
 Then she passed on to her own little chair 
 in the farther corner of the fireplace, and 
 pushing it deeper into the shadow, sat down, 
 and obediently dried her feet and garments, 
 drenched with the heavy dew. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 "WHAT THE HUSHES HID. 
 
 HEART-WOUNDS, while they sink deeper 
 and last longer in a woman's nature, con 
 vey more instant agony to the firm fibre and
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 13 
 
 powerful organization of the man. So, while 
 Beatrice Wansted went quietly home, and 
 stopped at the gate to speculate upon her fu 
 ture preparing herself, as it were, for the 
 slow death of many a lingering year her 
 lover rushed from her presence, dazed, blind, 
 mad with agony, his tortured heart consenting 
 to no future, incredulous of any relief, present 
 or to come, feeling only that his hope had 
 failed him, his motive was gone, that earth 
 had lost its savor and life its salt. 
 
 Up to the last moment, even until he heard 
 her sternly call God to witness her words, he 
 had hoped that Beatrice would repent, and 
 eince, as he had naively asserted, it was im 
 possible for him to retract his decision, that 
 she herself would yield to him, especially in 
 this matter, where, as he still told himself, his 
 own convictions should be final in both their 
 minds. 
 
 But now that she had decided against him, 
 and had so solemnly sealed her determination, 
 Marston's own ideas of truth and honor, his 
 reverence for the woman whom he adored, 
 would have withheld him from one word of 
 argument or entreaty, had she remained for 
 ever in his presence. She had taken her res 
 olution, and he his. Hers, sealed by a solemn 
 oath, was to him irrevocable ; his, simply 
 spoken, quite as much so. All was over be 
 tween them, over forever ; and even while 
 ready to dash his life out against this self-cre 
 ated barrier, it never occurred to Marston 
 Brent to try to scale it. 
 
 Wandering whither he knew not, moonrise 
 found him near the foot of the mountain and 
 in its densest shadow. The wood-path he had 
 been unconsciously pursuing ended in the se 
 cluded road skirting the base of the moun 
 tain, and leading from Milvor to Milvorhaven. 
 Beside this road, at the point of intersection, 
 lay a sluggish pool, product of the mountain 
 drainage retained in a natural hollow ; and, 
 leaning upon the broken roadside-fence, the 
 young man stood staring into the shadow of 
 the willows and alder-bushes that had sprung 
 up around it. Hardly had he taken this posi 
 tion when the sound of coming footsteps broke 
 upon the silence, and the figure of a stout lad, 
 dressed in farmer's costume, appeared coming 
 round the turn of the road. 
 
 With a gesture of annoyance, Brent would 
 have plunged again into the covert of the 
 wood, but the new-comer had already seen 
 him and called cheerily : 
 
 "Good-evening, Mr. Brent. I was just go 
 ing to your house, but meeting you will save 
 me the two-mile walk, and after digging pota 
 toes all day, I'm willing enough to lose it." 
 
 Marston Brent, staring steadily in the young 
 man's face, answered him never a word; and he, 
 rather embarrassed and yet sturdily self-pos 
 sessed, went on : 
 
 " You know you were talking to me about 
 going into York State with you to learn lum 
 bering ; and the more I think of it, the more I 
 think it will suit, and I've pretty much made 
 up my mind to try. The terms we talked of 
 the other day suit me well enough ; and any 
 way, I know you'll do the fair thing by me, 
 and I'd as lief have your word as a lawyer's 
 writing ; but I can't leave Barstow's before 
 next week. When was you calculating on 
 going ?" 
 
 "To-morrow morning," said Brent hoarsely. 
 
 The boy whistled in dismay. 
 
 " Why, I thought you said the last of the 
 week, cr the first of next. I can't leave to 
 morrow morning, nohow. Mr. Barstow has 
 hired a man, but he isn't coming till Saturday, 
 
 and to be sure Jabez Minot would come 
 
 and do the chores night and morning till then 
 and to-day is Tuesday. But I want to go to 
 the haven and haul my money out of the sav 
 ings-bank ; and, no, sir, I don't see as I could 
 go anyway to-morrow morning, but I can 
 come alone, and if you will give me the direc 
 tions, I will. I suppose you'd as lief pay my 
 fare next week as this ?" 
 
 He waited for an answer, but Brent, his el 
 bows on the railing, his face buried in his 
 hands, had forgotten his presence. 
 
 The lad looked at him keenly. 
 
 " Do you feel bad anyway, Mr. Brent ?" 
 asked he, touching him on the shoulder. 
 
 Brent started and raised Ins haggard face. 
 " What do you want ?" asked he fiercely. 
 
 '' I asked if you were sick or anything. I 
 thought you seemed to feel bad," said the boy, 
 still fixing his keen eyes upon the other's 
 face, and silently deciding that neither intoxi 
 cation nor illness had produced the ghastly 
 change he saw. 
 
 " Sick ? Oh ! no, there's nothing the matter, 
 Paul. A little tired with walking, that's all. 
 You say you are going with me to Wahtahree. 
 [ shall start in the morning, before light per- 
 tiaps. I am going to drive my horse and 
 wagon to Bloom, where I have sold it, and 
 ;ake the cars there. You can come to my
 
 14 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 house to-night and start with me, if you like. 
 There, I won't keep you from your prepara 
 tions." 
 
 He turned away with a gesture of dismis 
 sal. The boy looked intently at him a mo 
 ment, and then walked slowly away without 
 audible reply, although to himself he mut 
 tered : 
 
 1 I'll think over it a hit first, I reckon. More 
 than that, I'll ask Miss Trix. She'll know 
 what's up." He looked round at the turn of 
 the road. Erent had already forgotten his 
 presence, and leaning his folded arms upon 
 the rail, was again staring into the dark 
 shadow of the willows, his white face showing 
 ghastly and spectral against the black back 
 ground. 
 
 So he stood when, an hour later, the moon, 
 climbing the crest of Moloch Mountain, 
 glanced athwart its shadow, and thrusting 
 aside with slender, trembling finger-rays the 
 leaves of willow and alder, peered down upon 
 the surface of the pool. 
 
 The black waters, sullen and irresponsive, 
 gave back no dimpling smile like that with 
 which Millbrook all night long received and 
 returned the kisses of the moon ; but as the I 
 rays, growing momently more vertical, plunged | 
 deeper and deeper into the leafy cavern above I 
 the pool, a strange horror and mystery gath- j 
 ered from its depths, and lay waiting till those 
 accusing fingers should reach and pluck it 
 forth. From the pendent leaves, whose whis 
 per had told the story over and over to the 
 shuddering night ; from the gnarled and 
 writhing roots, showing above the water like 
 the muscles of a tortured Titan ; from the 
 blotched, unwholesome palms of the hand- 
 like leaves, held up in dismay by the foul 
 weeds rooted beneath the tide ; from the tan 
 gled grasses, floating like the hair of a drowned 
 woman upon its surface ; from the faint mist 
 gathering in the dark recesses of the wood, and 
 creeping out to peer at the beholder, and see 
 how he should bear it ; from the inarticulate 
 murmurs and whispers of the night from 
 these, and all these, gathered the horror and 
 the mystery the moon had come to look at, 
 and, as they gathered, drew Marston Brent 
 within their circle and held him there. 
 
 In vain did he struggle to arise and flee. 
 In vain did he seek to throw off the myste 
 rious chain binding body and soul to the mo 
 ment he felt approaching. In vain even did 
 he try to fix his thoughts upon his own 
 
 misery, and the proud heartlessness of his 
 mistress. 
 
 Vainly, vainly. Moment by moment, the 
 slowly-creeping horror mastered all. Thought, 
 memory, consciousness, will, life itself, fell, 
 one by one, within its grasp, and all were con 
 centrated in a nameless horror, a breathless 
 expectancy of what must come. 
 
 Slowly the moon crept on ; slowly and surely 
 the relentless fingers stole deeper and deeper 
 into the shadow searching, groping always 
 
 "A white, wfdte face, with wide-open Uack eyes." 
 
 for what they had come to seek, until in the 
 blackest recess of the covert they found it, and 
 with one shuddering flash seized and held it. 
 A white, white face, with wide open black 
 eyes staring horribly at the sky ; thick dark 
 hair, with which the waters, moved by a little 
 shivering breeze, toyed in ghastly fondness ; 
 shrunken lips, showing the teeth strongly 
 clenched beneath ; a dim figure half hidden 
 among the gnarled roots ; a hand awfully out 
 stretched, as in dumb appeal such was the 
 aspect, such the form of the slowly gathering 
 mystery and terror such the secret that the 
 sullen pool had vainly tried to hide such the 
 secret plucked from its recesses by the resist 
 less grasp of light and truth.
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 15 
 
 Marston Brent, staring incredulously at tlie 
 awful thing below him, watched while one 
 feature, then another, took form, vainly trying 
 the while to doubt the evidence of his own 
 senses, vainly arguing that it was but the 
 flickering light, the changing shadows, his 
 own disturbed imagination, that had formed 
 this ghastly image from the creeping mists 
 of the pool, and that he should see it presently 
 waver and change to some other if not less 
 hideous form. But still as he gazed, the 
 white face and staring eyeballs grew more 
 distinct and personal ; the figure assumed 
 more unmistakably human proportions ; the 
 stiff white hand seemed to beckon more and 
 more imperiously to him for aid and vengeance. 
 
 Slowly and with effort, he drew himself to 
 a standing posture, and looked stealthily 
 about him, half expecting to find the familiar 
 scene changed by sudden glamourie to one of 
 those wild regions where the soul, wandering 
 forlorn, lapses from horror to horror, and 
 wastes itself in vague and unfruitful efforts to 
 escape an unknown evil. 
 
 But the mild autumn night lay serene and 
 beautiful about him. The moon, now riding 
 high in heaven, looked calmly down, content 
 in having brought human consciousness to 
 human ill, and willing to leave the sequel to 
 the sure hand of justice. 
 
 Far down in the valley twinkled the lights 
 of the village with cheerful intimation of home 
 and companionship within reach. A solitary 
 farm-dog drowsily bayed the moon, and the 
 clock of the little church struck the hour 
 of ten. 
 
 It was these familiar sights and sounds, 
 more than any conscious effort of the will, 
 that, restored to Marston Brent the self-pos 
 session he so seldom lost; and to-night more 
 from the shattering blow, dealt by the hand 
 of the woman he loved, at all the plan and 
 hope of his life, than from any weakness of 
 organization or undue susceptibility to the 
 marvellous. 
 
 Standing with his back to the pool for a 
 few minutes, and forcing himself to note tlio 
 objects about him, the young man found both 
 his physical and mental excitement toned 
 rapidly down to a condition in which he could 
 once more exercise will and purpose, refissum- 
 ing as it were the reins of his own imagina 
 tion, and checking it to its ordinary sober 
 pace. 
 
 Then he turned, and, parting with his arms 
 
 the drooping limbs, gazed steadfastly into the 
 pool, satisfied himself that the drowned body 
 of a man actually lay there, and that he could 
 not reach it from the bank, and then, throw 
 ing off his upper garments, stepped quietly 
 into the black waters, which curdled and 
 seethed about his limbs as if eager to dravr 
 them within their corrupting grasp. 
 
 Reaching the body, the young man stooped 
 to examine the face more closely, but failed to 
 recognize it, and after a moment of hesitation 
 placed his hands beneath the arms of the 
 corpse, and, wading back to the shore, drew 
 it after him. His utmost strength, however, 
 no more than sufficed to place it upon the 
 bank, for the body was that of a stalwart 
 man, and the heavy clothes were saturated 
 with water. 
 
 " Lie there, then," muttered Brent, arrang 
 ing the limbs as decently as he could, " while 
 I go for help." 
 
 He stood a moment, gazing down at the 
 face of the dead man, in whose rigid lines 
 and staring eyeballs was to be read nor liking 
 nor disliking, assent or refusal, and then 
 turned away. 
 
 But with his feet upon the highway, he 
 paused, turning now this way, now that 
 this, leading toward his own home, two miles 
 away, and inhabited only by a stupid serving- 
 woman ; that, by which he should reach in ten 
 minutes the house of Deacon Barstow, the 
 house that for the last two months had been 
 to him more than home, but now 
 
 " I must, but I need not see her," muttered 
 he at last ; and striking down the road in the 
 same direction taken by the boy called Paul, 
 he soon stood before the Old Garrison, and 
 half unconsciously noted, as he pushed open 
 the gate, the picturesque effect of the weather- 
 beaten house, with its drooping woodbine- 
 wreaths, the dewy knoll and shining brook, 
 with the moonlight lying over all like the 
 silvery veil covering, but not concealing, the 
 charms of an Eastern bride. 
 
 'The blaze in the great fireplace had died 
 away to a dull glow, and the arm-chaira of 
 the old man and his wife were vacant. A 
 glancing light in the rooms at the back of the 
 house showed Aunt Rachel thriftily preparing 
 for the morrow, and convincing herself that 
 the house was secure from intrusion. One 
 figure alone remained in the great east-room, 
 as it was called the graceful figure of a girl 
 crouching upon the floor, her golden head
 
 16 
 
 laid upon the beam where, a hundred years 
 before, the gibbering maniac had lain to moan 
 her hands tightly clasped 
 
 away his life, 
 
 across her eyes. j 
 
 A piteous sight, and a cruel one to Marston 
 Brent, who, gazing, felt the great grief at his 
 heart rise again above the horror of the last 
 hour, and turn him sick and faint with its ex 
 tremity of anguish. 
 
 Had there been anger, pique, ^or jealousy in 
 that heart, that moment must have crushed 
 it out, and Beatrice Wansted had seen her 
 lover at her feet ; but in the grand, simple na 
 ture of the man, each added pang, each fresh 
 proof of intensest love but added another 
 line to the barrier between him and the wom 
 an whose word was to be held by him as 
 truth too solemn for even a thought of 
 doubt. 
 
 " She called God to witness that she would 
 never yield, and I will never ask her ; nor if 
 I were coward enough to do what I know 
 wrong to please her, would she accept the 
 lying sacrifice." 
 
 So groaned he between clenched teeth, and 
 turned away. 
 
 At the window of his little chamber sat 
 Paul Freeman, his chin resting on the sill, 
 his eyes vacantly gazing at the moon. Not 
 looking at her, however, but using the lumi 
 nous surface as a tablet upon which fancy 
 painted pictures of the future, as brilliant 
 and beautiful, and, alas ! as far away, as that 
 fair moon herself. 
 
 " Paul ! Paul, I say !" 
 The boy started, and looking down, an 
 swered quietly : 
 "Yes, sir. Do you want me?" 
 " Yes ; come down as quickly as you can, 
 and make no noise." 
 
 Paul disappeared from the window, and the 
 next minute slid back the bolt of the kitchen- 
 door and stepped out into the moonlight. 
 " Is Miss Rachel still up ?" asked Brent. 
 " I guess so. She's the last one mostly." 
 " Call her quietly." 
 But the feline ears of Aunt Rachel had al 
 ready caught the slight disturbance, and as 
 Paul turned to enter the door, she stood upon 
 the threshold inquiring : 
 " Is that you, Marston V 
 "Yes, Aunt Rachel, and I want some help.' 
 "Well, I'm ready." 
 
 In a dozen words, Marston Brent told his 
 errand, and asked hospitality for the poor 
 
 homeless effigy of a man lying stark and for 
 lorn upon the margin of Blackbriar Pool. 
 
 In one strong, brief sentence, Miss Rachel 
 bid him to bring it without delay, promising 
 to be ready when it should arrive. Then 
 when the men had departed, she turned into 
 the east-room. Beatrice rose, with a coldly 
 careless mask drawn so suddenly over the 
 anguish of her face as to but half conceal it. 
 Her aunt glanced keenly at her, and said 
 bluntly : 
 
 ' Come, Trix, you must rouse up. 
 
 There's 
 
 a man drowned, and they are bringing him 
 here." 
 
 " A man !" 
 
 All the blood in the girl's veins flew to her 
 heart with a cruel pang, and then back to 
 her brain, sending her reeling against the 
 wall. 
 
 Had she murdered the man for whose pleas 
 ure she would have died in torture? Had 
 she indeed "ruined his life" here and here 
 after? But she only gasped again : 
 
 " A man !" 
 
 Miss Rachel's keen gray eyes fixed them 
 selves steadily upon her niece's face. 
 
 ' Yes," said she coldly. " And the man is 
 not Marston Brent. He is no such fool as 
 that." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 THE FIRST SUSPICION. 
 "!T'S Pel eg Brewster," said Paul, kneeling 
 beside the corpse and peering into the sodden 
 face. " Peleg Brewster," repeated he, rising 
 and looking at Brent, who was staring ab 
 stractedly into the pool. 
 
 Yes. I never knew him, though I re 
 member the name," said he, rousing himself 
 witli an effort. " Well, let us get the body 
 upon the stretcher." 
 
 With laborious effort, the ghastly burden 
 was arranged, and the litter raised between 
 the two men. Through the rustling wood, and 
 along the quiet road, between hedges of golden- 
 rod and asters, they carried it, until coming 
 to the farm-house, they laid it upon the bed 
 prepared by Rachel Barstow's active care, and 
 left it in the hands of the doctor hastily sum 
 moned by Nancy, Miss Barstow's maid. 
 
 " Quite dead hours ago, but not by drown 
 ing," mysteriously pronounced the healing 
 oracle, after a prolonged examination. 
 
 " What then?" asked Miss Rachel bluntly. 
 
 " He was killed by a shot fired from behind,
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN 
 
 17 
 
 and passing through the heart, and out at the 
 other side. It is a pity it is lost." 
 " Pity what is lost ?" 
 
 " The bullet. It would help to convict the 
 murderer," said the doctor gravely. 
 
 " He was murdered then ?" asked Brent, 
 aghast. 
 
 " Men do not shoot themselves in the back," 
 replied the physician dryly. 
 
 " Who could have done it ? Had the man 
 enemies ?" pursued3f arston, upon whose mind 
 the satirical hint at his own obtuseness made 
 no more impression thnn a drop of vinegar 
 upon the coat of a Newfoundland dog. 
 
 " That is a question for the coroner and his 
 jury. You will have to attend, Mr. Brent." 
 
 " I shall n9t be here. I leave early in the 
 morning for the West." / 
 
 " I am afraid you will have to postpone your 
 journey for a day at least. You are the prin 
 cipal witness in this matter," said the doctor 
 gravely ; and the young man turned away with 
 an uncontrollable gesture of impatience. 
 
 The doctor's eyes followed him, and he 
 asked : " Did Mr. Brent know Brewster at all ? 
 Had he ever any dealings with him ?" 
 
 " No, he hadn't, Dr. Bliss. There's no use 
 in thinking about that," said Miss Rachel, 
 somewhat sternly ; and the two pairs of keen 
 eyes met and read each other. At last the 
 doctbr said : 
 
 " Then I won't think about it, Miss Rachel. 
 I have no doubt you are right." 
 
 " And I have no doubt that sugar is sweet, 
 or ice is cold, or the sun bright, or water wet," 
 rejoined Miss Rachel with asperity. " And 
 after you have proved me wrong in all these, 
 we'll talk about the other matter." 
 
 The doctor shook his head, with a smile at 
 once respectful and tolerant, saying the while : 
 
 "Very positive and very warm, as usual. 
 You don't change as the years go on, Miss 
 Rachel." 
 
 " No, I don't change," said Rachel Barstow 
 briefly; and they both remembered the day 
 now twenty years by-gone when she.first had 
 said those words to Wyman Bliss. 
 
 The woman's hard face softened, and, after 
 a little while, she said, toying nervously with 
 her apron string : 
 
 " My friends must take me as I am, Wyman. 
 Hard, and narrow, and obstinate, and cross- 
 tempered. I cannot change." 
 
 " But you won't let them take you, as they 
 would be glad to do, good and bad together," 
 2 
 
 said the doctor significantly ; and Miss Rachel, 
 freezing suddenly, replied : 
 
 " If you have got through with the body, 
 'Dr. Bliss, I will call Nancy to help lay it out." 
 " By no means, Miss Rachel, by no means. 
 It must not be touched in any way until the 
 coroner has seen it. We will lock the door of 
 this room if you please, and leave every thing 
 just as it is until the morning. ' I will take all 
 the necessary steps to ward making the matter 
 known to the authorities, if you like." 
 
 " Thank you I wish you would. Father is 
 old now, and we try to keep him as quiet as 
 we can," said Miss Barstow wearily. And with 
 a few words of farewell, the doctor rode away, 
 saying to himself, as he turned into the road : 
 
 " A great pity, my dear a great pity for us 
 both." 
 
 Marston Brent meantime was striding home 
 across the moonlit fields, having left the Old 
 Garrison without seeing Beatrice, or even 
 hearing her name. Beside him walked Paul 
 Freeman, whom an uneasy and excited mood 
 had debarred from sleep or rest. 
 
 Nearly a mile had been passed, and neither 
 had spoken, when Paul suddenly asked : 
 
 " Would they hang a woman if she killed a 
 man, Mr. Brent ?" 
 
 " Of course they would if she was convicted," 
 said Brent. 
 
 Another silence again broken by Paul : 
 
 "Well, it was the best thing that could 
 have happened to him." 
 
 " That's weak as water, Paul. A man 
 should never want to die because things go 
 wrong, and he is miserable. Rather let him 
 live, and live it through, and live it down. 
 Work, my boy that's the salvation of a sick 
 heart." 
 
 He threw back his shoulders, opening his 
 broad chest, and looking up to the sky as he 
 spoke. Already the strong vitality of his 
 nature was gathering to assuage the wound 
 which at first had seemed so hopeless of cure. 
 
 Paul stared at him a moment, then said : 
 " Peleg Brewster had work enough to do ; but 
 that didn't hinder this." 
 
 " No," replied Brent vaguely ; and then : 
 " You knew him it seems ?" 
 
 " He brought me up. His frrst wife was 
 like a mother to me. She was a real good 
 woman," blurted the boy. 
 
 " And why did you say that death was the 
 best thing that could have happened to him?" 
 
 " He was so unhappy at home. You see,
 
 18 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 sir, his wife died, and in a little while he mar 
 ried again, and the second woman wasjust as 
 far below the mark as the other one was above. 
 She led him a dog's life, and, what was worst, 
 set his child and him against each other, till it 
 seemed as if the house couldn't hold the three 
 of them. Then Joe came to live with them, 
 and I quit." 
 
 " Who was Joe ?" 
 
 " Joe Brewster, brother to Peleg, and the 
 same for a man that Semanthy was for a 
 woman only he was a coward, and she 
 woiildn't have been scared by Old Nick and 
 all his host." 
 
 " And what happened then ?" 
 
 " Why, it happened that, from quarrelling, 
 they come to fighting ; and one day, Peleg 
 struck Semanthy in the face, and sent her up 
 against the wall. Lord, sir ! Did you ever 
 see a cat that mad that she'd fly at the big- 
 ges* dog that ever was, and beat him too 1 
 Then you've seen Semanthy Brewster as she 
 leaned up against the wall and looked at 
 Peleg and smiled. Yes, sir, smiled ; and I 
 hope I'll never see another smile like that." 
 
 " When did this happen ?" asked Brent, after 
 a little while. 
 
 " About a year ago just before I left there." 
 
 "And how have they gone on since?" 
 
 " From bad to worse. I've been once in a 
 while to see Ruth." 
 
 " Who is that ?" 
 
 " The child of the first wife, and, to be sure, 
 the only child, for Semanthy never had any. 
 She's thirteen now." 
 
 " And what sort of girl ?" 
 
 " It would be hard paying, sir. Five years 
 ago, when her mother died, there wasn't a nicer 
 little girl nor a likelier anywhere round. She 
 was always shy and quiet to strangers, but 
 with her mother she'd come out and show for 
 what she was. Semanthy set out to ruin her, 
 and she's done it." 
 
 " How, and why ?" 
 
 " Why, because Peleg was fond of her, and 
 Semanthy meant to rule the roast herself ; and 
 how, it would be hard to tell unless you seen 
 it. She made Ruth feel that her father wasn't 
 satisfied with her, and didn't think her equal 
 to other folks, and she made her think he 
 talked against her mother which I don't be 
 lieve he ever did, for I know how he set by 
 her ; and then she made Peleg think Ruth was 
 sulky and lazy, and told lies, and spoke disre 
 spectful of him behind his back. And so she 
 
 kept at work, now this side, and now that, till 
 she'd got a good wide wedge drove in between 
 them, as ought to be Jike the bark and the 
 wood, and then there was no healing the 
 wound. I haven't seen any of them for a 
 month or more ; but Miss Rachel was telling 
 me that Ruth was going out to service, she 
 heard. I don't know if she's gone, but I hope 
 so." 
 
 " Poor child ! How old did you say ?" 
 
 " Thirteen. Just three years younger than 
 me," said Paul ; and then the two walked on 
 in silence until they came upon the little farm 
 house bequeathed to Marston Brent by his 
 father, lately dead. 
 
 Here they paused, and the elder said : " I 
 shall not get away to-morrow, Paul ; and if you 
 can finish your business here, we may leave 
 together the next morning. I shall drive from 
 this house to Bloom, and you can go with me 
 if you choose." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I should like to. I'll be on hand," 
 said Paul, but with so marked a change from 
 the joyous alacrity he had shown in first 
 speaking of the matter, that Brent turned to 
 look at him curiously by the light of the set 
 ting moon. 
 
 " Not falling back already, are you, boy ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; not a mite of it. I a'n't given to 
 backing down. But I was thinking of Ruth 
 Brewster poor little Ruthie. I wish I knew 
 what she'll do." 
 
 And bidding good-night, or rather good- 
 morning, the boy thrust his hands deep in his 
 pockets and strode thoughtfully away. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 THE CORONER'S VERDICT. 
 
 SEMA.NTHA BREWSTER, wife of the de 
 ceased, being duly summoned and sworn, sud 
 denly scandalized all judicial propriety by ex 
 claiming, without waiting to be questioned : 
 
 " It was Ruth did it !" 
 
 " What !" exclaimed the coroner, not more 
 startled at the idea than at the mode of con 
 veying it. 
 
 "It was Ruth that killed him," repeated 
 Semantha doggedly ; and before the horrified 
 silence that fell upon the company could be 
 broken by question or exclamation, she went 
 on : 
 
 " There was bad blood between them. She 
 was jealous of me because I was in her 
 mother's shoes, and he set by me, same as a 
 man had ought to by his wife, and so there
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 19 
 
 was trouble between them. Finally, the 
 night before it happened, he got real mad at 
 her, and said he'd take her off to live with a 
 woman over to Milvor that he'd spoke to 
 about taking her, and she up and declared 
 she wouldn't go. They had an awful time 
 about it, and I heard Ruth stamping about 
 her room pretty much all night. But yester 
 day morning he tackled up, and made me 
 pack all her things in a trunk, and took her 
 off with him. He had his rifle in the back of 
 the wagon, going to get it fixed over to Mil 
 vor, and he made her sit over there on her 
 trunk, because he was so provoked with her 
 he couldn't bear to have heron the seat along 
 side of him. So then, I expect, when they got 
 into the woods, she up and shot him." 
 
 " Could she use a rifle ?" asked the coroner 
 still too much astonished to notice the infor 
 mality of these proceedings. 
 
 " I guess you'd think so if you'd seen her, 
 as I have, shooting at a mark down in the 
 meadow, along with him, when they was good 
 together. She'd hit it as well as any man, 
 almost," said Semantha coolly. 
 
 " Well but where is the child now ?' 
 stammered the coroni-r. 
 
 " There, again," rejoined Semantha, tri 
 umphantly ; " she's run off; and what would 
 she do that for if she didn't feel she'd done 
 what she hadn't ought to f 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Brewster, this isn't the way to 
 give evidence. You are to begin at the be 
 ginning, and tell all that you know of your 
 husband's leaving home, and what followed 
 relating to it ; but do not give any opinions or 
 arguments, or accuse any body of any thing. 
 Go on, if you please." 
 
 And the coroner, feeling that he had vindi 
 cated the judicial dignity, and restored things 
 to their true position, leaned back in his chair, 
 and listened complacently. 
 
 Mrs. Brewster, thus adjured, began with her 
 story, and repeated it substantially as before, 
 contriving, with small feminine tact, to sug 
 gest the suspicions of Ruth, no longer openly 
 expressed. 
 
 When she had finished, Joachim Brewster, 
 brother of the deceased, was summoned, and 
 gave his evidence so closely, to the same 
 effect as that of Semantha, that the coroner 
 shrewdly inquired, as he finished : 
 . " Did you and Mrs. Brewster talk over to 
 gether what you'd say to-day ?" 
 
 " No, we didn't. It's because both stories 
 
 are true that they fay in so well together," 
 said Joachim, a little anxiously. 
 
 " Was any body else in or about the house 
 that morning ?" pursued the coroner. 
 
 " No, we don't keep any help. Peleg and 
 me carried on the farm, and Semanthy and 
 Ruth did the work in the house. There was 
 nobody else about." 
 
 " Very well ; you can sit down now. Call 
 Marston Brent." 
 
 And Marston Brent, being summoned, de 
 posed to finding the dead body of Peleg 
 Brewster in the water called Blackbriar Pool, 
 and bringing it up the previous evening to 
 the house of Deacon Barstow, where it now 
 lay. He also spoke of searching for and 
 finding traces the next morning of the heavy 
 wagon and span of horses driven by the de 
 ceased, and following them down the road to 
 a sudden turn, where the wagon lay broken, 
 with one horse still attached, and the other 
 lying dead not far off. The rifle and the lit 
 tle girl's trunk had been thrown out by the 
 upsetting of the wagon, and lay in the road 
 beside it. The rifle had been discharged, and 
 he had found no trace of the child. So ended 
 this important evidence, and at its close the 
 coroner solemnly asked : 
 
 " What is your own opinion, Mr. Brent, 
 formed upon these circumstances, of the man 
 ner in which the deceased came to his death ?'' 
 
 " My opinion is, sir, that the shot which 
 killed him was fired from behind, while the 
 wagon was passing through the thick clump 
 of trees shading Blackbriar Pool ; that the ex 
 plosion frightened the horses, who swerved so 
 much as to throw Brewster from the wagon 
 into the water where I found him, and that 
 then they continued down the road as far as 
 the turn, where they upset." 
 
 " And do you think it possible that a girl of 
 thirteen could have fired the shot whlc.i 
 killed this man?" continued the coroner, re 
 lying more than he would have confessed 
 upon the opinions of the man before him. 
 
 " Certainly, it is 'possible," replied Marston 
 Brent reluctantly. 
 
 " And if the wagon tipped enough to throw 
 out her father's body, it is not likely the child 
 would have remained in it ?" 
 
 " No, especially sitting upon a trunk in the 
 back of the wagon." 
 
 ' And if she had been thrown into the 
 300! or upon its banks, you would have found 
 icr or her body ?"
 
 20 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 "Certainly. I waded over nearly the 
 whole pool when I took the body of the de 
 ceased from it, and I have been all about 
 there this morning." 
 " Alone ?" 
 
 " No ; Paul Freeman was with me." 
 " That will do, Mr. Brent. Summon Paul 
 Freeman." 
 
 But Paul Freeman, however summoned, 
 was not to be found, and the latest intelli 
 gence to be gathered concerning him was Miss 
 Rachel Barstow's statement, that about an hour 
 before the inquest she had seen him going up 
 stairs to his own bedroom. He was not there 
 now, however, nor were any of his belongings, 
 from which Miss Rachel inferred that he had 
 gone to carry them to Mr. Brent's house, whence 
 he was to start for the West early the next 
 morning. 
 
 A messenger was immediately dispatched in 
 search of the truant witness, while the exam 
 ination of those present went on ; but in a 
 brief half hour he returned with the report 
 that Paul Freeman had not been seen at Mr. 
 Brent's house, or at any other upon the road 
 there, and the inquest was perforce brought 
 to a close without his testimony, which, in 
 deed, was only expected to corroborate that of 
 Marston Brent. 
 
 The consultation of the jury was long and 
 animated a natural incredulity and horror 
 in every mind arguing against the verdict 
 plainly suggested by the evidence. Slowly 
 and reluctantly, however, man by man yielded 
 his wishes to his convictions, and when at last 
 the little audience was readmitted, it was to 
 hear that, in the opinion of this jury, " the 
 deceased came to his death by a shot fired 
 from his own rifle by Ruth Brewster, his 
 daughter," and a warrant for the apprehen 
 sion of the said Ruth was obtained upon the 
 spot, and placed in the hands of the County 
 Sheriff, then present. 
 
 " It's no more that child did it than I !" ex 
 claimed Aunt Rachel, bringing one fist down 
 into the palm of the other hand. " I say it, 
 and I'll stick to it." 
 
 " I wish I could say so too ; but I've heard 
 too much of the way she and Pel eg would 
 
 " I don't believe any such story. I knew 
 Mary Brewster as well as I know my own 
 sister ; and I'm not going to believe her child 
 could be brought to all that in two years' 
 time, even by the worst of management," re 
 joined Aunt Rachel significantly, and with no 
 answer except an oblique gleam from her 
 beryl-tinted eyes, Semantha left the house. 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 CRYSTALS. 
 
 THK shadow of Moloch lay over all his 
 western valley, and only his topmost pines 
 caught the red light of the summer dawn, 
 when Marston Brent, alone and sorrowful, 
 came to bid good-by to the Old Garrison 
 House and its sleeping inmates. Avoiding 
 the creaking gate, he climbed the little paling, 
 and stole softly through the garden-walks, 
 smiling sadly as he brushed by the bachelor's- 
 buttons, with whose blossoms Beatrice had 
 sometimes merrily decked his coat, and bitterly 
 as he stood beside the plot of pansies whose 
 bed he had himself fashioned into the shape 
 of a great heart, and planted in its centre his 
 own and her initials. 
 
 " Heart's-ease !" murmured he. " Yes, for 
 her and me !" And with the smile which such 
 men use instead of tears, he gathered some of 
 the flowers and held them a moment to his 
 lips, then flung them down. 
 
 " Heart's-ease is sweet, but it does not last," 
 said Marston Brent ; and so bid good-by to 
 the old garden where they two had lingered 
 through so many blissful hours. 
 
 Then he passed on through the grove and 
 the meadow to the brook-side, where he had 
 planted the weeping willow, and fashioned a 
 seat beneath it a seat just wide enough for 
 two, as he said that day, and now he sat down 
 upon it alone alone forever, as he told himself 
 in bitter iteration ; and plucking the long 
 branches that swept his face, he bound them 
 mockingly about his arm, then flung them in 
 dignantly aside, and started to his feet. 
 
 " No willow for me !" said he aloud. " Or 
 if I must have it, I'll make a staff 1 of it." 
 
 And taking out his knife, he cut a stout 
 shoot from one of the principal branches of 
 
 go on together. They were run in the same the tree, and trimmed it to a walking-stick, 
 mould, and when their temper was up, 1 1 careful that all the twigs and leaves he cut 
 
 wouldn't have stood in the way not for a good 
 deal. I had a hard time of it with that child, 
 the dear knows," said Semantha, with the 
 corner of her shawl to her eyes. 
 
 away should fall into the stream, instead of 
 littering the grass about the seat. The day 
 before, under the same impulse, he had 
 plucked away the weeds from the grave where
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 his mother lay ten years buried ; but this sor 
 row was harder to bear than that. 
 
 As he turned from the brook-side, he found 
 Beatrice close behind him, her eyes dim, her 
 face wan, her drooping figure full of pathos 
 and of appeal. 
 
 He took her hands in his, and looked at her 
 long and sorrowfully. 
 
 "It is hard for you, too, poor darling," 
 said he. 
 
 At the Brook-side. 
 
 And at the loving word, her tears burst the 
 bonds she had laid upon them, and she sank 
 upon the little seat, sobbing without restraint. 
 
 He looked at her tenderly, pitifully, but did 
 not offer to approach her, did not dream of 
 returning upon the path wherein he had set 
 his feet. 
 
 Presently she looked up. 
 
 " I knew you were here, Marston. I saw 
 you in the garden. Look !" 
 
 And she held up the pansies he had kissed 
 and thrown away. 
 
 " You will keep them, Beatrice ?" 
 
 " Always. But, Marston ! must you, will 
 you ?" 
 
 " What, Beatrice ?" 
 
 " Must you go ?" 
 
 " You know I must." 
 
 " Is it quite, quite impossible for you to 
 yield to my wishes ?" 
 
 A slight frown changed the expression of 
 patient sadness upon his face. 
 
 " I am sorry you asked me that, Beatrice. 
 Is my word of so little account with you ?" 
 
 " And yet you suffer !" murmured Beatrice. 
 
 " More than you can know, or I can tell." 
 
 " But that is not firmness, that is " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Obstinacy, fanaticism. You sacrifice your 
 self and yes, and me, rather than give up an 
 idea." 
 
 " Beatrice, do you remember, in the chemi 
 cal experiments that amused us last winter, 
 watching the crystals form? Could those 
 crystals have been persuaded to change them 
 selves back into their component parts ? And 
 just so, as it seems to me, a conviction should 
 form itself in a man's mind, and there remain 
 in its integrity through time and circum 
 stances, and the tears of the woman that he 
 loves, and the passion of his own heart, beat 
 against it without ceasing. It may be fanati 
 cism, dear, it may be obstinacy, but it is I as 
 God made me, and as I shall live and die." 
 
 " Well, then," cried the woman, driven to 
 her last extremity, and throwing to the winds 
 all considerations but the one standing closest 
 to her heart. " Well, then, if you will not 
 yield, Marston Brent, I will. I am not made 
 of these cold, hard crystals, but of warm flesh 
 and blood, thank God ! I give up my opposi 
 tion to the life you propose. I consent that 
 you should go to Wahtahree, and I will fol 
 low " 
 
 " Stop, Beatrice. Do not finish that sentence, 
 
 do not make that offer, for I O Beatrice ! 
 
 how can I accept it ?" * 
 
 The color slowly left her face, the light 
 faded from her eyes, and she stood staring at 
 him, her lips parted for that next word whose 
 utterance he had forbidden. 
 
 Brent went on, no less moved than she, yet 
 very firm : 
 
 " How can I accept it, Beatrice, when twelve 
 hours ago you deliberately resolved and 
 vowed, and called God to witness the oath, 
 that you would never consent to the entreaty 
 I urged upon you, would never follow me to 
 Wahtahree as my wife, would never yield to 
 the plan you had formed for me to that I had 
 formed for myself? Dear love, if I should 
 allow you to perjure yourself to-day, you 
 would despise yourself and me to-morrow ; and
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 whatever else befalls, I would save you from 
 the cureless pang of self-contempt. Words 
 may be but air, but honor turns them to claims 
 that may not be broken. Say that I am right, 
 Beatrice, for, O child ! my burden is very hard 
 to bear." 
 
 And snatching at her hands, he held them 
 close, turning upon her the while a face of 
 such white agony as might look up from the 
 raclfr whose utmost power may extort a groan, 
 but no recantation. 
 
 Her eyes met his, steadily enough now, and 
 coldly too. 
 
 " Thank you, Marston Brent," said she ; 
 " you have saved me from a great folly and a 
 great mortification. Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by like this, Beatrice, after all that 
 has come and gone between us two !" 
 
 " Good-by," repeated she ; and drawing her 
 hands from his icy grasp, she walked steadily 
 up the path and disappeared in the wood, nor 
 once turned to look behind her. 
 
 Brent watched until the last nutter of her 
 dress was lost among the leaves, then cast 
 one slow, loving glance on all about him, 
 reverently raised his hat, murmuring : 
 
 " God bless and guard rny darling, and all 
 about her !" 
 
 And taking the willow staff from the place 
 where it had fallen, went his way. 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 EXODUS. 
 
 AEKIVED at his own house, Brent found his 
 housekeeper impatiently awaiting him. She 
 was an old woman, and had lived in the family 
 so many years as to have acquired many priv 
 ileges. 
 
 " ^"7. where have you been, Mr. Brent ?" 
 began she as Marston entered the housx 
 " Here I've had breakfast ready this hour past, 
 and that boy's been hanging round asking 
 after you every five minutes." 
 
 " Paul Freeman ?" 
 
 "Yes. Have you forgot all about telling 
 me to fix him up a bed last night, and get 
 breakfast for him this morning? How do 
 they do up to Barstow's ?" 
 
 " If breakfast is ready, we will have it, Zil- 
 pah, and the sooner, the better. I did not see 
 you last night, or I should have told you that 
 I sold the place yesterday to a man at Mil- 
 vorhaven, who will be over to-day, I suppose, ! 
 to take possession. The furniture and every i 
 thing in the house I give to you, to do as you | 
 
 please with. You can either have'an auction 
 and sell it all off, or carry it to your brother's." 
 
 " Well, now, Marston, I declare if that a'n't 
 real generous ! That's your mother all over 
 again. Oh ! she was the givingest creatur' that 
 ever walked, and you're as like her as two 
 peas. Not but what your father was an 
 obleeging man too, but his folks was always a 
 little near dreadful fore-handed and nice-feel 
 ing, but a leetle close. Your mother was a 
 Winship, and they was different. But do tell, 
 Marston, do you mean all the stuff, every mite 
 of it, a free gift right out ?" 
 
 " A free gift, Zilpah, and much good may it 
 do you," said Marston, smiling sadly at the 
 old creature's incredulity ; and then he turned 
 to greet Paul as he entered the house, and 
 the three sat down to break their bread 
 together in patriarchal simplicity. 
 
 " You don't eat, Marston. I made them pan 
 cakes on purpose for you you was always so 
 fond of them. Don't you rec'lect how you used 
 to come sly ing round, when you was a boy, go 
 ing out to work with your father in the field, 
 and tease me to have pancakes for supper ?" 
 
 "And you always humored me, Zilpah," 
 said Marston, taking one of the pancakes 
 upon his plate. 
 
 " Always when I could, and so did your 
 mother and your father too, for that matter. 
 Oh! we was a happy and a u-nited family in 
 them days ; and now the heads of it lays in 
 the grave, and the strength of it is going 
 away forever ; and nobody but me, the poorest 
 and the weakest of all, is left, and that won't be 
 for long. When you come back for your wife, 
 Marston, there won't be no old woman to 
 wish you joy, nor to go along to your new 
 home and tend your babies. O dear ! O dear I 
 I wish't I was dead too along of her." 
 
 And Zilpah, throwing her apron over her 
 head, rocked to and fro, in the abandonment 
 of age and grief. 
 
 Marston rose in much emotion. 
 
 " Zilpah, do you want to go with me ?" asked 
 he suddenly. " And can you go now imme 
 diately ? My home will be no better than a 
 hut, and we may suffer many hardships ; but 
 if you will go, you shall, for you are the only 
 creature alive who will mourn my absence." 
 
 "Do you mean that, Marston Brent?'' 
 asked Zilpah, raising her poor old tear-stained 
 face with the quick appreciation of a love- 
 quarrel inherent in her sex. 
 
 " I mean it, Zilpah."
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 "Then I'll go as quick as say it; for your 
 mother was like a sister to me when 1 was in 
 trouble, and she shan't have it to say in 
 Heaven that I turned my back on her boy 
 when other folks treated him bad. I'll go 
 with you but how about the stuff?" 
 
 " We will stop at your brother's, on our 
 way to Bloom, aiid ask iiiui to come and move 
 every thing over to his house. Then you can 
 write directions about selling what you do 
 not care to keep. I suppose you know pretty 
 well what is in the house." 
 
 " Every stick, and thread, and pin, and 
 scrap," said Zilpah complacently ; and starting 
 from her chair with new alacrity, she began 
 setting the house in order, and preparing her 
 self for departure. Such good speed did she 
 make, assisted by Paul, whose good fairy 
 had endowed him with the gift of " handiness." 
 so much more valuable than the purse of 
 Fortunatus, that in another hour she locked 
 the door of the house behind her, thrust the 
 key into its time-honored hiding-place be 
 neath the steps of the door, and climbed to 
 her seat in the wagon beside Brent, who 
 watched her proceedings with a vacant eye. 
 
 Paul disposed himself behind, among the 
 various packages with which Zilpah had en 
 cumbered the march, and sat biting his nails, 
 and casting uneasy glances at Brent, as if 
 anxious to speak to him, yet not quite seeing 
 his opportunity. 
 
 When, however, Zilpah, having reached her 
 brother's house, insisted upon dismounting 
 and holding a private interview with her 
 sister-in-law upon the subject of her household 
 stuff, Paul stepped across the seat and said, 
 not without embarrassment : 
 
 " I was wanting to speak with you, Mr. 
 Brent." 
 
 " Well, Paul, what is it ?" 
 
 " Have you any objection to my taking my 
 little brother along with us, sir? I will pay 
 his car-fare, and all the costs there will be to 
 it ; and when we get there he can do chores 
 round the house enough to pay his board. He 
 won't charge any thing of course, and I don't 
 think he'll be any trouble." 
 
 " But where is your brother now, and why 
 did not you speak of this before?" asked 
 Marston, in some surprise, both at the matter 
 and the manner of his new retainer's speech. 
 
 "He's at Bloom, sir. I told him to meet 
 us at the depot, and I didn't have a chance to 
 speak before." 
 
 " I never knew you had a brother, Paul. 
 Where has he lived all this time V ' 
 
 " With a farmer's lamily, sir. I never said 
 much about him," said Paul, a little uneasily. 
 
 " Well, i don't know as I object, if you 
 choose to take charge of him and his expenses. 
 How old a boy is he ?" 
 
 " About a dozen years old, sir." 
 
 " Strong and active ?" 
 
 " Well, not very, sir, but he can do light 
 jobs round the house. He isn't very rugged, 
 to be sure." 
 
 " Well, he may come along, I shall have 
 quite a family by the time I reach Wahtahree." 
 
 And Marston smiled a little cynically as he 
 fancied Beatrice presiding over such a family. 
 
 Zilpah, reluctantly torn from her parting 
 gossip, was at last reestablished in the wagon, 
 and Marston, hurrying his patient horse a little, 
 drove into Bloom, and leaving his charge at 
 the station,went to transact a little last business 
 at the office of his agent. When he returned, 
 he found an addition to the party in the person 
 of a small, delicate lad, whose pale face, down 
 cast eyes, and slender hands promised little in 
 the way of profitable labor, but at the same 
 time appealed not unsuccessfully to Brent's 
 softened feelings. 
 
 " You don't look very well, my boy," said 
 he, kindly patting him upon the shoulder. 
 " What is your name ?" 
 
 " His name is Willy, sir, and he is feeling 
 a little poorly just now, but he'll be better 
 pretty soon. I guess we'll go out and see if 
 the cars are coming, sir." 
 
 " Very well ; I will take tickets for the whole 
 party, and we will settle some other time," 
 said Marston, noticing Paul's haste and con 
 fusion with some surprise, but attributing them 
 to a country boy's nervousness in commencing 
 his first journey. 
 
 " Marston Mr. Brent, I should say," inter-* 
 posed Zilpah at this moment. " Be we going 
 to take that other boy along too ?" 
 
 " Yes. He is Paul's brother, and Paul is 
 anxious to keep him under his own eye," said 
 Marston absently. 
 
 " Lor ! A boy like that keeping any one 
 under his own eye," sniffed Zilpah contemptu 
 ously. " I reckon I'll keep a couple of eyes 
 on both of 'em, till I see what they be, any 
 way." 
 
 Marston made no reply except a smile as 
 he moved away, and a few minutes later the 
 train arrived, swept up the waiting passen-
 
 24 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 gers, and bore them away to new scenes and 
 strange experiences. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 A NEW BEGINNING. 
 
 " Six of damsons, six of green-gages, and 
 a dozen rareripes and, to my mind, there's 
 no peack like a rarerape tor a preserve. 
 
 ''Mowers knee-deep in greenest grass." 
 
 There, that will do for to-day," said Aunt Ra 
 chel complacently, tying down the cork of her 
 last bottle of rareripes, for these were not the 
 days or the meridian of " air-tight cans ;" and 
 had such innovations been suggested to Aunt 
 Rachel she would probably have snubbed 
 them as " new-fangled " and " too notional" 
 for her. 
 
 " Now, Nancy," continued she, " I am going 
 round to open the slide into the best china- 
 closet, and you can pass the bottles in. Mind 
 you don't drop them." 
 
 " I won't drop 'em. They do look proper 
 nice to be sure, and I guess the doctor'll think 
 more than ever of our plums when he eats 
 'em this way," replied Nancy, rubbing her 
 hands dry upon her tow apron, and eyeing the 
 jars of sweetmeats appreciatively. 
 
 " Lor ! who cares what the doctor thinks ?" 
 
 demanded Miss Rachel, bustling out of the 
 room, and through the long entry whose opeii 
 door framed a lovely little picture of mowers 
 knee-deep in greenest grass, while Milllrook 
 sparkled by, and Moloch rose dark and grand 
 against the summer sky. But Miss Rachel's 
 eye was not artistic, and her heart was just 
 now filled with visions of sweetmeats, with, 
 perhaps, one little suggestion of Doctor Bliss 
 crowded down in the corner, as the old mas 
 ters were apt to introduce the reigning pope 
 among a crowd of saints and angels. So, 
 without heeding the lovely " bit " framed by 
 her front door, Miss Rachel hurried by and 
 threw open the door of the parlor, a room 
 sacred to cleanliness, order, and decorum, but 
 upon the threshold she stopped dismayed. 
 
 The heavy inside shutters were all closed 
 except the upper half of one, through which 
 streamed a flood of noonday light, falling full 
 upon the picture of the Cenci taken from the 
 wall and placed upon a chair. In the deep 
 window-seat, with the light just glancing 
 over her red-gold hair as it passed on to light 
 the one stray curl creeping from beneath the 
 white turban of the pictured head, sat Bea 
 trice, her hands folded listlessly upon her lap, 
 her eyes fixed upon the painting. She neither 
 moved nor looked round to notice the advent 
 of her aunt, who, after a moment's wondering 
 gaze, exclaimed : 
 
 " Good gracious, Beatrice, what Jiave you 
 got the room fixed up this style for ?" 
 
 " I wanted to see this picture, Aunt Rachel, 
 and it hung in a bad light," said the girl 
 wearily. 
 
 "See that picture! Well, I shouk say 
 you'd had a chance in the course of twenty 
 years ! Didn't you ever notice it before ?" 
 
 " She was killed beheaded, was she not ?" 
 asked Beatrice, unheeding the little sarcasm. 
 
 "Yes, I believe so. I forget about it just 
 now ; but I think that is what your mother 
 said." 
 
 "And she looked just so calm and serene 
 when they came to lead her out to die, they 
 say," pursued Beatrice in the same dreamy 
 way. 
 
 " Who says ? She died a hundred or more 
 years ago in Italy, or somewhere out there, 
 and who is to say how she looked or how she 
 felt ? I value the picture more for its likeness 
 to your mother than for itself. It does look a 
 sight like her if the hair was fixed differently, 
 and it had a common sort of dress on," said
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Aunt Rachel, gazing thoughtfully at the 
 painting. 
 
 " And like me too, does it not ?" asked Be 
 atrice, looking at her aunt a little anxiously. 
 
 " Well, yes, it does though why it should 
 look like you and your mother too, / don't 
 See," said Miss Rachel with emphasis. 
 
 " Why ? Did not we look alike ? I always 
 supposed we did," exclaimed Beatrice in a 
 tone of dismay. 
 
 " ' Looks are nothing ; behavior's every 
 thing,' " quoted Miss Rachel. " And when 
 you come to behavior, you and your mother 
 are as near alike as cream and red pepper 
 just about. Alice was the sweetest, prettiest, 
 patientest woman that ever trod never want 
 ing any thing she ought not to have ; never 
 thwarting people that tried to do her good; never 
 answering back or saying pert, saucy things 
 to her elders and betters, or fretting because 
 she wasn't the queen and Pope of Rome." 
 
 "And I am all that, she was not," interposed 
 Beatrice, half inquiringly, half pleadingly, 
 as she looked up into her aunt's face, which 
 softened as she met that look. 
 
 " Well, I don't say that," replied she, 
 smoothing down her brown-linen apron, and 
 pleating the string between her fingers. " You 
 have your good points and your bad ones, like 
 the rest of us, I suppose, Trix, but you're not 
 like your mother more like your great-aunt 
 there in the corner, though you don't look 
 like her " 
 
 " Tell me about her. I never heard any 
 thing but her name, and that she married a 
 nobleman," said Beatrice, opening the other 
 iront shutter, and looking with some curiosity 
 at a picture hanging upon the opposite wall. 
 
 It was the portrait of a woman in her ripest 
 bloom, with clear gray eyes, red lips, at once 
 full and firm, a low forehead, with blue-black 
 hair rolled high above it, a rich, sunny com 
 plexion, and a square white chin. Will, 
 strength, and passion marked this face for 
 their own ; and gazing at it, Beatrice felt an 
 answering chord thrill through her own 
 heart. 
 
 " Tell me about her, Aunt Rachel," said she 
 softly. 
 
 " Why, you must have heard about her 
 from grandfather. He was always fond of 
 telling about her till he got so silent lately. 
 Her name was Miriam Barstow, and she lived 
 here in the Old Garrison with her father and 
 brothers, in the time of the Indian troubles, 
 
 more than a hundred years ago, I suppose ; and 
 once, when the men-folks were all away, and a 
 party of savages came to plunder and burn 
 the house for they spited it, you see, because 
 it had sheltered the folks they were after so 
 many times she saw them coming, and bar 
 red the doors and windows, and parleyed with 
 them out of one of the upper casements. They 
 tried to shoot her with their arrows- and there's 
 the stone head of one buried in the side of the 
 window now, there in my chamber and then 
 they set out to burn the house down. She 
 warned them off once or twice, but they didn't 
 mind, and then she took down her father's 
 musket and shot the head man dead in his 
 tracks. He fell, so I've heard, right across the 
 door-stone, and his blood made that dark 
 streak you can see there now ; for blood never 
 washes out, especially if it's shed in anger, 
 and his hasn't." - 
 
 "And what became of her then, Aunt 
 Rachel ?" asked Beatrice with kindling eyes. 
 
 " Why, the Indians ran away, I believe, 
 and the men-folks came hurrying home to 
 see what was the matter ; and here she was as 
 cool as you please, not scared a bit. After 
 that she married an English lord that came 
 over here and travelled round to seethe coun 
 try. She was pleased enough, so they say, 
 for she was as proud and haughty as she was 
 smart ; and after she got to England she sent 
 home this picture to let her folks see how 
 fine she dressed, I expect. Don't you see, 
 she's got on a velvet gown, and those are dia 
 monds round her neck and in her ears. She 
 was Lady Daventry then, all over." 
 
 " But she would have taken off velvet and 
 diamonds and defended her fathers house 
 against the Indians again, if it had come in 
 her way to do so, and done it as coolly and 
 as well as she did while she wore linsey- 
 woolsey and tow-cloth here at home," said 
 Beatrice proudly. " And she would have gone 
 to her death as haughtily as Beatrice did se 
 renely to hers. She would have defied Death, 
 as Beatrice conquered him." 
 
 " Well, I haven't any more time to waste 
 on pictures or talk, and I should hope you 
 hadn't either," said Aunt Rachel, coining 
 back to real life rather crossly. " Here's 
 your uncle coming to tea, and this room all 
 up in arms, and grandma's new cap not done." 
 
 " I will see to both, and every thing else 
 you mentioned this morning ; and, Aunt Ra 
 chel, I am going to try to be more patient and
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 better tempered after this only please don't 
 say any thing to me about Marston Brent, 
 for he and I are " 
 
 The girl had her arms about her aunt's 
 neck now, while all the golden curls went 
 dropping down that withered maiden's bosom, 
 as if searching there for tender memories and 
 sympathies responsive to the desolation of 
 that pathetic cry. 
 
 Miss Rachel smoothed the bright hair and 
 kissed the drooping head. Then she softly 
 said: 
 
 " I'm sorry, Trix, and I'll be careful not to 
 say any thing. But it's the way of the world, 
 child ; most all of us get disappointed once. 
 Sometimes we get over it, and sometimes 
 that's the end of every thing. I guess you'll 
 get. over it, dearie, you're so young and so 
 pretty. Your old auntie didn't." 
 
 " Were you disappointed, auntie ?" asked 
 Beatrice, startled even through her grief by 
 that rare confidence. 
 
 " Yes, child. You see I thought it was me 
 he wanted, and it was Alice all the time ; but 
 they never knew, and he made her a real 
 good husband, and she died and I had to live 
 on. But well then ! I never said so much 
 to mother nor any one, and though I always 
 thought the doctor mistrusted how it was, he 
 never said any thing. ' The heart knoweth 
 its own bitterness;' though there isn't any 
 bitterness left to it now, whatever there was 
 once, and sometimes it sort of eases off the 
 pain to know that other folks have felt just 
 as bad or worse, and got over it. I'm not 
 afraid of your saying any thing as if you 
 knew it, Trix, and I'm not sorry I told 
 you." 
 
 "You need not be sorry. Aunt Rachel, and 
 I never loved you or respected you in all my 
 life so much as I do now," said Trix, pressing 
 her ripe lips to the withered ones that trem 
 bled as much as they. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if we got along better 
 after this. Beatrice," said the elder softly ; and 
 then the two embraced once more and sepa 
 rated, each already anxious to hide her emotion 
 from the other. 
 
 " Now, you put this rcom to rights, won't 
 you? and if you've a mind to bring in some 
 flowers out of the garden, I dcn't care only 
 mind and don't let the water go over on the 
 table, and pick up every mite of litter as fast 
 as it makes," said Aunt Rachel, going into the 
 closet and opening the slide to the front 
 
 kitchen, where stood the preserve-jars and 
 Nancy. 
 
 "Well! I didn't know as you was ever 
 coming," exclaimed the latter somewhat in 
 dignantly. " I might have had the sarce- 
 kettle scoured inside and out by this time if 
 I'd known you'd be so long." 
 
 "Why, you haven't been standing and 
 waiting all this time, Nancy Beals !" exclaimed 
 her mistress in the same tone. " I should 
 have thought common-sense, if you'd got 
 any, would have told you to go about your 
 work till you heard me open the slide. Do 
 give me the jars now, and be done with it." 
 
 Beatrice meantime, smiling a little at the 
 unwonted permission to "litter the front 
 room with a parcel of flowers," as her aunt 
 generally described the operation, took a 
 basket and scissors and went out to the gar 
 den, but as her eyes fell upon the pansy-bed, 
 as her garments brushed the borders of the 
 box and drew forth their heavy perfume, she 
 faltered and turned toward the house, but at 
 the end of three steps turned again. 
 
 " Miriam Barstow was not afraid to take 
 the life of her enemy, and Beatrice Cenci was 
 not afraid to lay down her own life, and I 
 I am afraid of the sight of a bed of pansies 
 and the smell of a box-border," muttered she 
 scornfully, and then went on without a pause. 
 The basket filled, she set it in the shade of a 
 great clump of lilacs, and passing swiftly 
 through the garden and the grove, she 
 reached the seat beneath the willow, looked 
 at it, passed on until she stood upon the edge 
 of the brook, returned and seated herself. 
 
 " Here 1 1 :st saw Marston Brent," said she 
 aloud in a hard, mechanical voice. " Here I 
 urged him to resign his resolution for the 
 sake of my love, and when he refused I of 
 fered to give up my own, and to break my 
 solemn vow, and to follow him to the wil 
 derness as his wife. This I offered, and he 
 refused! Yes, and he said he did jt to save 
 me from self-contempt. What does a man 
 think of a woman whom he must save from 
 herself in that way? Good-by, Marston 
 Brent." 
 
 She set her lips over that last phrase, as 
 lier ancestress may have done over the dead 
 body of her enemy, and then she rose and 
 went slowly back to the house, dressed her 
 flower-vases, finished the simple decoration 
 of the room, and then crossing the hall to 
 the east-room, where the old people sat, one
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 27 
 
 at either side of the little blaze pleasant 
 even in summer to their chill blood she took 
 the unfinished cap and sat herself down to 
 make it close by her grandfather's chair. 
 
 "Tell me about Miriam Barstow, grand 
 papa," said she ; and the kind old man told 
 the story once again, as she had already 
 heard it, and at the end smoothed the fair 
 head beside him, saying : 
 
 " I am glad you will never have to shoot 
 Indians, daughter. Your lines are cast in 
 pleasanter places than that poor girl's." 
 
 "No, I shall never have to shoot Indians, 
 grandpapa," said Beatrice, bending over her 
 work. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 UNCLE ISRAEL. 
 
 No railway had as yet invaded the quiet of 
 Milvor woods and fields, no steamboat had 
 desecrated the waters of Milvorhaven, and 
 such communication as was held by inhab 
 itants of either with the outer world was 
 carried on by means of a stage-coach visiting 
 them semi-weekly, and a packet-sloop making 
 its passage when wind, weather, and the hu 
 mor of the skipper's wife allowed. 
 
 The day whose morning we have noted 
 was one of those made memorable by the arri 
 val of the stage, and punctually at five o'clock 
 it appeared, rattling down the hill, across the 
 little bridge and round the corner, until, with a 
 superfluous whirl and flourish in honor of its 
 freight, it paused at the gate of the Old Gar 
 rison House, whose inmates awaited it at the 
 open door. 
 
 " Here's all your folks waiting to see you," 
 said Aaron Bunce, the driver, swinging him 
 self off his bos and opening the door, while a 
 sympathetic smile opened a cleft in his red 
 face wide enough to display an ample set of 
 ivory. 
 
 " So I see, Aaron, so I see," replied a hand 
 some middle-aged gentleman, slowly descend 
 ing from the coach, and putting a hand in his 
 pocket, while the smile upon the driver's rubi 
 cund face widened expectantly. And while 
 Mr. Israel Barstow pays his passage-money, and 
 adds, according to his gracious wont, a buono- 
 mano for the benefit of his old friend and play 
 mate, Aaron Bunce, we have time to notice that 
 he is a man of about fifty years old, handsomely 
 and soberly attired, although his watch-chain 
 is of the heaviest, and the solitaire diamond 
 fastening his black cravat is of the costliest. 
 
 For the rest, Israel Barstow is the oldest and 
 now only son of the old man watching his 
 arrival from the open door ; is a bachelor, and 
 a very prosperous merchant in the China 
 trade, a circumstance memorized to the in 
 habitants of the Old Garrison House by the 
 periodical arrival of chests of tea, boxes 
 containing blue -printed china jars of pre 
 served ginger, bamboo, limes, sugar-cane, 
 and a curious compound called chow-chow 
 sweetmeat ; dress-patterns of silk, handker 
 chiefs, shawls, toys of carved ivory, pictures 
 upon rice-paper, monstrously drawn and gor 
 geously colored ; an occasional bit of furniture 
 or china, and all the other odd or useful pres 
 ents abounding among the fortunate friends 
 of oriental traders. Nor can it be denied that 
 Mr. Israel Barstow's visits to his paternal 
 home were hailed with all the more pleasure 
 and interest from the circumstance of his 
 never coming empty-handed, or failing to 
 bring some especial gift to each member of 
 the family carefully adapted to the especial 
 taste of the individual a style of gift-making 
 contrasting favorably with the practice of those 
 persons who offer presents as Timothy, Lord 
 Dexter did punctuation namely : in the 
 lump, to be distributed according to taste. 
 
 But Mr. Barstow is already upon the door 
 step, witli his mother's arms around his neck, 
 and her withered lips pressed to his. Then 
 came the warm hand-pressure and the bless 
 ing of his father ; then an angular embrace 
 from Miss Rachel ; and then, by way of bonne 
 bouche, a frank kiss from the fresh, ripe mouth 
 of Beatrice. 
 
 " Glad to see you looking so well, friends, 
 every one of you. Father, you are as hearty 
 as I am, for any thing that I can see ; and as for 
 mother, I expect her to dance at my wedding 
 yet unless, to be sure, Rachel gets the start 
 of me. How's the doctor, Rachel ? And as 
 for that monkey, Trix where is she ?" 
 
 " Never mind just now, brother," interposed 
 Miss Rachel, a little nervously. " Let me take 
 your bag and show you up-stairs." 
 
 "Show me up-stairs, Shell! Why, I car 
 ried you up and down those very stairs before 
 you could walk alone. You are grown amaz 
 ingly ceremonious, it seems to me." 
 
 " No ; but I want to speak to you a minute 
 before you see Beatrice, if you please, Israel," 
 insisted Miss Rachel ; and her brother, with a 
 shade of alarm upon his florid face, suffered 
 himself to be led away to the guest-chamber,
 
 28 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 pride of Miss Rachel's heart, with its neat 
 canton matting, its bed, and window-furniture 
 of white linen, embroidered by some Penelope 
 of an ancestress in huge bouquets of flowers, 
 dwarf-trees, and wonderful birds, decked in 
 Joseph coats of many-colored silks ; its high- 
 backed carved chairs, black mahogany clothes- 
 press and chest of drawers ; its spider-legged 
 dressing-table and light stand, and the great 
 easy-chair, covered with silk patchwork of 
 Rachel's own composition each article resting 
 solidly upon the carved eagle-claw feet .so 
 charming to virtuosi in antique furniture, and 
 perfect in all its ornaments. 
 
 Over the fireplace hung a piece of embroid 
 ery, framed and glazed, depicting, in glowing 
 colors, the death of Absalom, who hung pend 
 ant from an oak whose acorns were consider 
 ably larger than his own head, while Joab 
 dismounted from a horse smaller than the 
 dog who followed him, attacked his master's 
 son with a lance longer than the oak was tall. 
 Beyond a division-line composed of harps and 
 crowns, set one above another, was shown 
 King David sitting upon his throne, with a 
 sceptre like Magog's mace at his feet, and both 
 his royal hands clutched in a mass of hair 
 which the most admiring courtier must have 
 confessed needed thinning ; while Bathsheba 
 the fair stood beside him, a head and shoul 
 ders taller than her lord, and with two large 
 tears wrought in white floss streaming down 
 the most hideous face that ever haunted a 
 Christmas-supper dream. 
 
 Upon the mantleshelf below this prodigy 
 stood a pair of Chinese josses grinning fiend 
 ishly at each other in mockery of the Biblical 
 memorial above, and between them lay a 
 rosary of carved ivory, whose use or intent 
 Miss Rachel understood as little as she did the 
 worship of the josses, or the droll mixture of 
 religious faiths thus placed in juxtaposition. 
 
 "Well, what is the matter with Trix?" de 
 manded Mr. Barstow, as his sister followed 
 him into the room and closed the door. 
 
 " Nothing, Israel ; only she has broken off 
 witli Marston Brent, and, of course, it's a sore 
 subject, and she would rather not have it 
 spoken of. So I thought I would tell you 
 lest you should hurt her feelings without 
 knowing it." 
 
 "Of course, of course. But what is it? 
 What's the matter? He hasn't treated her 
 badly, has he ?" asked Mr. Barstow, growing 
 very red in the face. 
 
 " Oh ! no. At least, I know he couldn't have ; 
 but Beatrice has never said a word about it, 
 except just that it was broken off and all over, 
 and he has gone out West." 
 
 " He has, has he ? Why, I thought but 
 
 t is just as well. Broken off, have they ? 
 Sho ! I thought Trix was all settled, and just 
 the same as married ; but, after all she might 
 do better. Brent was a good fellow, but she 
 s a girl to shine among a thousand. I'll have 
 lier to spend the winter with me, Shell. I'll 
 take her home Monday, if you'll get her 
 ready. It is just the change she wants, and 
 it'll brighten up my old house there amaz 
 ingly." 
 
 Miss Rachel stood aghast. 
 
 " Carry her right off Monday !" exclaimed 
 she. 
 
 " Yes ; why not ? I suppose her stockings 
 are mended and night-caps washed, aren't 
 they ? And if she needs a new gown, she can 
 buy it after she gets there. It will be amuse 
 ment for her." 
 
 " But, brother why, who will take care of 
 the child?" 
 
 Child ! She was twenty last birthday, I 
 know, for there are twenty stones in the ruby 
 bracelet I sent her ; and as for care, why, I 
 shall look out for her, of course ; and then 
 there is Mrs. Grey." 
 
 " Your housekeeper ? ' 
 
 " Yes. And as nice a woman as ever trod." 
 
 " But is she suitable does she go out to 
 parties and the theatre, and such places ? 
 You know Beatrice ought not to go alone, 
 and you won't want to be following her round 
 all the time," said Aunt Rachel, whose ideas 
 of social propriety had not all been learned in 
 Milvor. 
 
 " Well yes, there is something in that, I 
 suppose. How much more fuss there is about 
 a girl than a boy !" said Uncle Israel rather 
 testily, as he rubbed the somewhat scanty 
 hair from his forehead, and looked reproach 
 fully at his sister, who looked meekly back at 
 him. 
 
 " Mrs. Grey don't go into company, does 
 she ?" inquired Miss Rachel presently. 
 
 " No, no, of course she don't that is, not 
 into the sort of company Trix will frequent. I 
 
 suppose I could find some lady why, there's 
 
 June Charlton !" 
 
 And Mr. Barstow's face lighted with an Eu 
 reka glow, as he stopped opposite to Miss 
 Rachel, his large handkerchief suspended from
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 his hand, and his hair in a state of frightful 
 confusion. 
 
 "June Charlton !" echoed Miss Rachel. 
 " Yes ; my friend Chappelleford's niece, yon 
 know. Now, Shell, don't tell me you don't re 
 member Chappelleford, who came down here 
 with me last year no, two years ago and 
 took such an interest in the Old Garrison." 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; that old gentleman who cut a 
 piece out of the sitting-room wainscot to see 
 the logs behind it/' said Aunt Rachel rather 
 acrimoniously. 
 
 " Well, I told him he might if he didn't be 
 lieve that it was a log-house originally ; and I 
 suppose he didn't believe it, that being a good 
 
 deal his way, and so But all that is neither 
 
 here nor there," said Mr. Barstow, resuming, 
 with a slight air of vexation, the interrupted 
 use of his handkerchief. " All that is neither 
 here nor there, but what I am coming to is : 
 Chappelleford has a niece, a young widow 
 somewhere about thirty, I should say who 
 has boarded with him for the last year at 
 the Grandarc House, and who is about the 
 most charming woman you ever laid eyes on, 
 Miss Shell. I'll get her to come and make me 
 a visit, and go out with Beatrice. So, there 
 now." 
 
 " And she is a clever, nice woman, isn't 
 she ? For you know, brother, Beatrice is new 
 to the world, and a great deal depends upon 
 the first start." 
 
 " Clever and nice ! Ha ! ha !" laughed Mr. 
 Israel Barstow, rubbing his hands together. 
 " Well, I don't believe, Shell, that any one 
 ever put those words to June Charlton 's name 
 before, and you would laugh at yourself if you 
 should sea her once only just see her, you 
 know." 
 
 " Why, brother ?" asked Miss Rachel, a lit 
 tle hurt. 
 
 " Why because she's splendid, gorgeous, 
 bewitching I don't know what but not 
 clever that is, not the way you use clever, 
 Shell ; and as for nice why, I shouldn't call 
 the sun nice, should you ?" 
 
 Miss Rachel looked very thoughtful, and 
 made no reply. 
 
 "And now," continued her brother pres 
 ently, "run away, like a good girl, while I 
 change my clothes, and then I will comedown 
 to tea. Can Paul bring up my trunk, do you 
 think ? It is a little one this time.' 
 
 " Paul has gone West with Marston Brent, 
 but there is a man here doing his work until 
 
 we can get some one, and he will, or Nancy 
 will." 
 
 " No, no ; not Nancy. If your man is away, 
 I'll fetch it up myself. No woman ever lugs 
 trunks or blacks boots for Israel Barstow, nor 
 will while he has the use of his own arms 
 and legs," said the sturdy bachelor; and Miss 
 Rachel hastened from the room just as her 
 brother laid violent hands upon the lappets 
 of his coat. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 SEMANTHA'S TEARS. 
 
 IF Miss Rachel had secretly hoped, or per 
 haps feared, that the hidden sorrow of her 
 niece's heart would prevent her from accept 
 ing an invitation which must leave the Old 
 Garrison House so lonely, she was disap 
 pointed, for Beatrice hardly hesitated a mo 
 ment before assuring her uncle that she 
 should come to him with the greatest pleasure, 
 and could be quite ready at the end of the 
 four days he proposed remaining at home. 
 
 " And you won't miss the old folks, though 
 they'll be dull enough without you, lambie," 
 said the grandmother, putting her shaking 
 arm about the stately young figure, and look 
 ing lovingly up in the pale face half turned 
 from her gaze. 
 
 " Indeed, I shall miss you, grandmamma, 
 and I would never think of going if if I 
 felt that I could stay at home." 
 
 " Can't stay at home ! What does the 
 child mean ? Do you suppose we can't sup 
 port you, Beatrice ? I had to go out to work 
 when I was a girl, but you haven't any such 
 call, I'm sure." 
 
 " Oh ! no, grandmamma, I never thought 
 of such a thing," replied the girl, laughing in 
 spite ofherself. " But I feel as if I must have 
 a change. That is all." 
 
 " Growing unsteady ? Why, Trixie, that's 
 something new for you," began the grand 
 mother, in a tone of gentle reproof; but the 
 tremulous voice of her husband interposed : 
 
 " Don't urge the child too much, mother. 
 These young things have their own secrets, 
 and have a right to keep them. Our child 
 won't go wrong, it isn't in her nature ; and 
 though the lamb stay from the fold for a while, 
 the Good Shepherd has her in His charge, and 
 will lead her gently home at last. Come here, 
 little one." 
 
 And Beatrice, kneeling at the feet of the 
 good old man, his hand uyon her head, his
 
 30 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 blessing falling like a mantle about her, -wept 
 tears that left a healing behind them, and 
 soothed as nothing yet had done the agony 
 of that fresh wound so jealously hidden in 
 her heart of hearts. 
 
 " She'd better go away for a while, wife," 
 said the grandfather, when the old couple 
 were again alone. " Don't say a word to pre 
 vent it, or to make her feel that we shall niiss 
 her too much." 
 
 " No, I won't ; but I wish there was time for 
 me to knit her another set of lamb's-wool 
 under-vests before she goes. Folks that are 
 out of spirits and cry are always dreadful 
 chilly ; but I'll send them after her if she 
 stays all winter. I always thought, if Alice had 
 worn lamb's-wool, we might have saved her." 
 
 " Deacon Barstow raised his mild eyes to 
 his wife's face with a quaint smile, but made 
 no reply ; and while she fell into a fit of mus 
 ing, he resumed the volume of Fenelon, which 
 he preferred to all reading, except that of the 
 great quarto Bible always lying upon the 
 stand at h ; s elbow. 
 
 " What is all this dreadful story about Pe- 
 leg Brewster and his little girl, Rachel ?" 
 asked Mr. Israel Barstow, soon after his return 
 home ; and Miss Rachel, nothing loth to expa 
 tiate upon the story to a new listener, pro 
 ceeded to narrate it with all the horrible de 
 tails, and giving the coroner's verdict at the 
 end as the solution most generally received 
 of the mystery that to her mind still hung 
 about the murder. 
 
 Israel Barstow listened attentively. The 
 murdered man had been his schoolmate and 
 playfellow in those long-past days when the 
 prosperous merchant still lay concealed in 
 the sturdy country boy, predominant in the 
 republic of the district-school, not through his 
 father's wealth or position, but his own pow 
 ers of combination and command. His wife 
 also, Ruth's mother, appeared among the 
 memories of those early days as a fair, gen 
 tle child, grateful to the Deacon's sturdy son 
 for such small benefits as a coast upon his 
 Bled, a share of his liberal lunch, or permis 
 sion to harvest the chestnuts beneath his 
 father's trees. 
 
 "Yes Mary Williams I remember her 
 very well," said Mr. Barstow, softly drumming 
 on the window-pane, as he listened to his sis 
 ter's story, while his thoughts went swiftly back 
 to those years so far behind him now, and 
 touched upon may a half-forgotten memory. 
 
 And Peleg was a fine fellow too a thought 
 hasty in his temper, and a little dangerous at 
 times, but a fine, brave fellow always. Yes, 
 we were boys together ; but it is a great many 
 years ago now, a great many years.'' 
 
 " Not so very many, Israel. You're not an 
 old man now," said his sister, a little jealous 
 for the brother whom she admired and loved, 
 far more than she ever showed, even to him. 
 
 " But Joe was younger, and I don't remem 
 ber him so well," pursued Israel. " My im 
 pression is, however, that we didn't like him 
 very well. He was a bit of a sneak, if I re 
 member." 
 
 " He isn't very much thought of, nor Se- 
 manthy either," said Miss Barstow, breathing 
 upon the spot dimmed by her brother's finger 
 tips, and rubbing it bright with her apron. 
 
 " Semanthy ? I don't remember her," said 
 Israel. 
 
 " No, I guess you never knew her. When 
 Mary Brewster was taken sick, or rather after 
 she got too feeble to do her work, Peleg got 
 Semanthy Whitredge to help her, and finally 
 to do all the work. She belongs to a family 
 over at the 'haven, and I rather think they are 
 poor sort of people anyway. Then, after 
 Mary died, Semanthy stayed on, and after a 
 while Peleg married her. She isn't very 
 well spoken of." 
 
 " I think I shall go and have a talk with 
 Joe Brewster. I want to hear more about 
 poor Peleg, and what grounds they have for 
 accusing that child," said Israel at length ; 
 and Miss Rachel, after a moment's hesitation, 
 replied : 
 
 " Well, I believe I will go too." 
 
 The next afternoon accordingly, as brother 
 and sister returned from an excursion to Mil- 
 vorhaven, where they had dined with some 
 family i'riends, Israel turned the horse into 
 the sandy by-road leading past the Brewster 
 place, and presently checked him at the very 
 spot where Peleg Brewster had sat a week 
 before, and unconsciously looked his last upon 
 the familiar scenes of his boyhood. 
 
 Following the simple country fashion, the 
 visitors entered the open door without the 
 ceremony of knocking, and passed into a 
 small entry with a door opening at either 
 hand, and a square staircase filling the middle 
 space. 
 
 " Knock on that door, Israel I believe it is 
 the sitting-room," said Miss Rachel audibly ; 
 and as she spoke, both visitors were startled
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 31 
 
 by tlie apparition of a white face peering at 
 them from over the banister, and a sound of 
 hurrying footsteps and hastily closing doors 
 in the room at their left hand. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Brewster at home ?" asked Miss 
 Rachel, throwing the question at random up 
 the stairs ; but the face had been withdrawn 
 as soon as seen, and no reply followed. 
 
 " Knock, Israel !" said his sister ; and while 
 Mr. Barstow obeyed, Miss Rachel glanced out 
 at the door. 
 
 " See there !" whispered she, laying her 
 
 " The figure of a man beside a high stone watt.' 1 '' 
 
 hand upon her brother's arm, and pointing to 
 a field at the corner of the house. Mr. Bar- 
 stow looked, and distinguished the figure of a 
 man crouching beside a high stone wall, and 
 pursuing its line toward the woods. 
 
 " It is Joe Brewster, and he was in that 
 room and heard us when we camo in, and he's 
 running away," whispered Miss Rachel with 
 emphasis ; but before .her brother could reply 
 the door at their right suddenly opened, and 
 the crafty face of Semantha appeared in the 
 opening. 
 
 " Oh ! excuse me, Misa Barstow," said she, 
 after a moment of apparent surprise ; " I was 
 out behind the house looking after my bleach 
 
 ing, and I did not know that any one was 
 here. Have you waited long ?" 
 
 " Not very. Are you all alcne in the 
 house ?" asked Miss Rachel, fixing her severe 
 gray eyes upon the false and faltering green 
 orbs of the other. 
 
 " Yes. Joachim he's been away since noon. 
 I rather guess he's over at the 'haven ; and 
 there's no one but us two left of the family 
 now, you know. Won't you come in ?" asked 
 Semantha, reluctantly opening the door a lit 
 tle wider. 
 
 " Thank you. We'll stop a few moments. 
 This is my brother, Mr. Barstow, Mrs. Brew 
 ster. He used to know Peleg and his first 
 wife very well when they were all young." 
 
 " Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. 
 Barstow," said Semantha, in the stereotyped 
 phrase of Milvor introductions, and extending 
 a clammy hand, which Israel somewhat re 
 luctantly enfolded in his large, warm grasp. 
 
 " Sit down, won't you ? How's your folks, 
 Miss Rachel ?" continued the hostess, putting 
 forward two wooden rocking-chairs fitted with 
 feather cushions in patchwork covers. 
 
 " Very well, I thank you. Are you going 
 to stay here alone?" asked Miss Rachel, seat 
 ing herself with an air of reserve. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so. Joachim calculates to 
 stay and carry on the farm." 
 
 " You and he alone 1" 
 
 " Why, yes ; I don't seem to ge~ any other 
 way," said Semantha, nervously stooping to 
 pick some threads from the not over-clean 
 floor. " I don't know what folks will say." 
 
 "I suppose they'll say a gwd deal; but 
 when any body's doing just what's right, I 
 don t know that they need ask what folks 
 say," replied Rachel significantly. 
 
 'No, I suppose not," replied Semantha, 
 turning very red ; and then followed an awk 
 ward pause, broken by Israel : 
 
 " I was very much shocked at hearing of 
 my friend Peleg's death, and especially at 
 the manner of it, Mrs. Brewster," said he 
 kindly. 
 
 " Yes, every one was, I expect," replied Se 
 mantha, with her apron at her eyes. " He 
 was a good man, a real nice man, and he and 
 me were dreadful fond of each other always. 
 And then, as you say, Mr. Barstow, it makes 
 it so much harder to bear when we think that 
 it was his own child did it " 
 
 "/don't think his own child did it, and I 
 didn't understand my brother to say that he
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 thought so either," interposed Miss Rachel 
 with considerable emphasis. 
 
 " Why, the coroner said so, and he'd ought 
 to know," disconsolately replied the widow. 
 
 "Coroners may know, and they may not 
 know ; but there's One that does know, and, 
 for my part, I'm not going to doubt that some 
 time or other He'll bring this and every other 
 hidden sin to light. And when that day 
 conies, I don't believe it will be Mary Brew- 
 ster's child that will be found guilty of Peleg 
 Brewster's murder," replied Rachel with em 
 phasis. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I hope not ; but if she didn't, 
 I don't know who did do it," said Semantha, 
 wiping her eyes, and looking first at the one 
 and then at the other of her guests. 
 
 "What sort of disposition had the little 
 girl? Her mother, I remember, was very 
 mild," asked Israel in a conciliatory tone. 
 
 " Well, sir, I don't want to pay any harm of 
 the child, for her father was a good man tome 
 always, but since you ask it, I must own that 
 of all the deceitful pieces that ever stepped. 
 Ruth Brewster was the deceitfulest. She was 
 so smooth and soft when any one was here 
 that you'd think butter wouldn't melt in her 
 mouth, and then when we were alone, if she 
 got mad, it was enough to make any one's 
 blood run cold to hear the way she'd talk. 
 To say she threatened to poison me is no 
 more than a beginning " 
 
 " And it had better be an ending too, for I 
 don't believe a word of it, and I don't want to 
 hear any more," said Miss Rachel, rising and 
 pulling her shawl vehemently about her. " I've 
 seen that child, and I'm not a fool ; and I knew 
 her mother and her father too, and I'm not a 
 fool. Come, Israel." 
 
 " Softly, Rachel," interposed Israel. " You 
 have no right to speak in this manner to Mrs. 
 Brewster. We cannot suppose that any per 
 son suffering under the affliction that has 
 overtaken her could tell other than the truth, 
 or would slander the character of even a 
 child who is not here to defend herself. Mrs. 
 Brewster, I am very sorry to hear such an ac 
 count of your step-daughter ; but if it is not 
 too painful a subject, will you be so good as to 
 tell me what motive could have led her t'> 
 commit so frightful . deed ?" 
 
 " Clear ugliness of temper," replied Se 
 mantha with decision. " She and her father 
 didn't live happily together, and he had 
 
 threatened more than once to put her out to 
 service. At last they had a quarrel worse 
 than any that came before, and he took her off 
 that morning, and told her in my hearing 
 that she never should touch a cent of his 
 money, or a stitch of her mother's clothes, or 
 come under his roof again till she had turned 
 a square corner, and was a different girl from 
 what she had been. He talked pretty ha'sh, 
 and she didn't say much ; but there was a look 
 in her eye that made my flesh creep on my 
 bones. Then they set off, and he, without 
 thinking, I suppose, put his loaded rifle right 
 down beside the trunk where she was sitting, 
 and I suppose when they got away from 
 houses and out in the woods there, she thought 
 nobody would see, and " 
 
 " Israel Barstow, if you're a mind to stay 
 here any longer, you may stay alone. I wish 
 you good-afternoon, Mrs. Brewster ; and the 
 next time you peek over your banisters and 
 see roe in your front entry, I'll believe any 
 story you're a mind to tell me." 
 
 And Miss Rachel, urged far beyond her 
 wont by the indignation and disgust rising in 
 her bosom, marched grandly from the house, 
 and climbed into the chaise without assist 
 ance. 
 
 " You don't believe I'm a liar and a slan 
 derer, Mr. Barstow ?" whispered Semantha, 
 rising and approaching her remaining guest, 
 one hand covering her eyes and the other out 
 stretched in farewell. When a woman is poor 
 and alone in the world, and them that should 
 stand up for her and take care of her is dead 
 and gone, there's enough that'll turn against 
 her, and trample her into the dirt ; but Israel 
 Barstow isn't one of that sort I know it, and 
 I'll always say it." 
 
 " Thank you. No, I never want to add to 
 any body's trouble, I'm sure. I am sorry 
 Rachel spoke so harshly ; but she's a woman 
 of strong feelings, and she was very fond of 
 Peleg's fVst wife ; but she should not have 
 hurt your feelings so ; and there, there, don't 
 cry, now don't, and if you would not be af 
 fronted " 
 
 And the successful merchant, to whom ex 
 perience had thoroughly taught the power of 
 money, whether as a consoler or a mediator, 
 laid a bank-note of considerable value upon 
 the table, and then hastily joined his sistor. 
 who preserved a grim silence during nearly 
 the entire journey home.
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 33 
 
 CHAPTEE Xn. 
 
 ZENOBIA AND DIOGENES. 
 
 " Htrw are you, James ? All right at home ?' 
 
 asked Mr. Barstow of the respectable-look 
 
 ing coachman who stood ready to meet th 
 
 travellers in the station at the terminus of 
 
 their journey. 
 
 " All right, sir. We got your orders by 
 telegraph day before yesterday," said James 
 assuming his master's bag and shawl, and re 
 spectfully touching his hat to Miss Wansted 
 .who followed her uncle down the steps of the 
 car. 
 
 " Well, let us get home as fast as possible. 
 I hope Mrs. Grey won't keep us waiting for 
 dinnur," said uncle Israel, a little impatiently; 
 and in a few moments Beatrice found herself 
 seated in a luxurious carriage, and rolling 
 rapidly through the lighted streets. 
 
 " It seems a little close here, after the coun 
 try, does it not ?" asked Mr. Barstow, letting 
 down the windows with a jerk. " We must 
 have a run down to the sea-shore after you 
 have fairly established yourself in Midas-ave 
 nue. By the way, you have nevor seen my 
 new house ; I was still at the Grandarc when 
 you visited us three years ago." 
 " Yes, sir," said Beatrice Avearily. 
 " And that was before Chappelleford brought 
 his niece from the South, was it not?" 
 
 " I think he had gone for her then. I never 
 saw Mr. Chappelleford." 
 
 " Not when he Avas at the Old Garrison ?'' 
 " No, sir. I was still at school." 
 " Oh ! yes ; I remember. Well, I have in 
 vited him and June to dine with us to-night, 
 and particularly asked them to be at the house 
 to receive us. I thought it would seem more 
 cheerful for yoxi, my dear, to find the house 
 full." 
 
 " Thank you, unc.e," said Beatrice, inwardly 
 longing to creep away somewhere, and hide 
 from the glare, the bustle, the introductions, 
 and the effort before her. 
 
 " You will be great friends with June, as 
 soon as you get to know her," pursued Mr. 
 Barstov/ complacently, "and we will take 
 her to the beach with us. She was longing to 
 leave town the last time I saw her ; but Chap 
 pelleford never stirs from the neighborhood of 
 the libraries and museums among which he 
 lives ; and June has no money of her own, poor 
 girl. Her husband died a bankrupt, or worse." 
 " Is her name really June?" asked Beatrice, 
 feeling that she must say something. 
 3 
 
 " Oh ! no. It is Juanita, and people gener 
 ally call her Nita ; but I fancied to pronounce 
 the first syllable as it is spelled, and make 
 June of it. It is the same name as Jennie, 
 Mrs. Charlton says that is, Juan is John, and 
 Juana is Jane, and Juanita is Jennie. Her 
 mother was a Spanish woman from Cuba, 
 who married Vezey Chappelleford's younger 
 brother in New-Orleans, and June lived there 
 until three years ago ; so her blood is more 
 tropical than arctic, and her temper also ; but 
 she and I always get on together admirably." 
 " And I dare say she and I will also," said 
 Beatrice, smiling a little at the lesson in phil 
 ology administered by her uncle, and begin 
 ning to feel a dawning interest in this tropical 
 June-bird, whose praises her uncle so persist 
 ently sung. 
 
 But the carriage-wheels aireaqv woke the 
 echoes of Midas-avenue, and presently stopped 
 mid-way down that aristocratic thoroughfare, 
 before a house large enough and handsome 
 
 nough to have served as the residence of an 
 ambassador, or to have crushed its parvenu 
 owner into insignificance had he been a man 
 iess single-hearted and unpretentious than 
 [srael Barstow, who, opening his carriage- 
 door himself, stepped gayly out, and tendered 
 i hand to his niece, saying : 
 
 " Here we are at home, Trixie, and home 
 you must feel it to be, for there isn't the first 
 hing in it which is not yours as much as 
 mine." 
 
 " Thank you, uncie," said Beatrice quietly ; 
 nd in stepping from the carriage, she cast one 
 jomprehensive glance at the house and local- 
 ty, feeling that the panacea for a wounded 
 spirit thus offered her was one not to be 
 lespised. 
 
 At the door stood Mrs. Grey, a pale, placid 
 matron, with faded brown hair neatly folded 
 under a cap, faded blue eyes, habitually down- 
 ast, and a faded smile upon her faded lips, 
 she dressed always in black silk or stuff 
 jowns, and wore clear-starched white muslin 
 prous, and ruffles about her hands. 
 
 Mr. Barstow shook hands heartily with his 
 lousekeeper and introduced his niece. 
 
 This is Miss Wansted, or Miss Beatrice, 
 f you prefer it, Mrs. Grey, and she has- trav- 
 lled sixty miles since breakfast, and would 
 ike her dinner, I am very sure. I suppose, 
 hough, she wants to wash her hands- first, 
 .nd I am sure I do mine. You have a room 
 eady for her?"
 
 34 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " Certainly, sir. Shall I show you up-stairs, 
 Miss Wansted '(" 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Grey." 
 
 And Beatrice meekly followed the house 
 keeper through a hall and up a staircase, 
 wrought and furnished in the luxurious fash 
 ion of the day, to an apartment upon the 
 second floor, whose magnificence was its only 
 
 fault. 
 
 " Mr. Barstow wrote me word that these 
 were to be your rooms, Miss Wansted," said 
 the housekeeper, opening two rooms at the 
 further side of the sleeping- chamber. " This 
 is the dressing-room, and this the sitting-room, 
 with another door into the hall. I hope you 
 will find them comfortably arranged, though 
 Mr. Barstow said that you would re-furnish 
 them to suit yourself as soon as you were 
 settled. ijjhall I send a maid to help you 
 change your dress, Miss ?" 
 
 " No, thank you. If you will let some one 
 bring up my trunks, I will do all the rest. Is 
 Mrs. Charlton here, Mrs. Grey ?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss, she arrived about half an hour 
 ago, and is in the drawing-room waiting for 
 you." 
 
 " Thank you. Won't you call me Miss 
 Beatrice instead of Miss Wansted, as my 
 uncle said ?" asked Beatrice with a smile ; 
 and the housekeeper replied less formally 
 than she had yet spoken : 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Beatrice, it does sound 
 more home-like, and I hope you will make up 
 your mind to stay with us a good long while. 
 Now I will send up the trunks, and dinner 
 will be ready at eight." 
 
 Half an hour later, Beatrice, whose hands 
 were as quick as her head, came from her 
 chamber refreshed in body and mind, and 
 dressed with a quiet simplicity sure at loast 
 not to offend, although a critical beholder 
 might feel that more elegant attire would 
 better suit her patrician style of beauty. 
 
 The drawing-room door stood open, and 
 Beatrice, while descending the stairs, assured 
 herself that the room was occupied, and that 
 her uncle was not of the company. A shy im 
 pulse prompted her to retreat, and wait for the 
 protection of his presence before entering ; and 
 she had actually stolen up several stairs, when 
 a reactionary pride arrested her steps, and, 
 turning, she went steadily down, and into the 
 drawing-room without pause or hesitation. 
 The struggle, however, had brought a deeper 
 color to her cheek, and lent a certain haughty 
 
 self-possession to her bearing, so easily to be 
 mistaken for the aplomb of a woman of the 
 world, that none but the keenest observers 
 would have recognized it as the defiant self- 
 assertion of inexperienced pride. 
 
 Vezey Chappelleford was the keenest of 
 observers, and he at once came forward to 
 meet the young girl whom he had already 
 catalogued as " Barstow's rustic protegee." 
 
 " Miss Wansted, allow me to claim a sort of 
 collateral acquaintanceship with the kins 
 woman of my old friend, and to present my 
 niece, Mrs. Charlton. Nita, Miss Wansted 
 and you have much to do in settling the 
 etiquette of welcome, since both are, in a man 
 ner, hostess for this evening. By to-morrow, 
 Miss Wansted will have fairly assumed the 
 sceptre." 
 
 " I am but too happy to take my place as 
 guest upon the instant," replied Mrs. Charlton, 
 in a voice -peculiarly rich and mellow in its 
 modulations, and subdued in its tone. Bea 
 trice, while murmuring some commonplace 
 reply, noted the voice, and examined its pos 
 sessor with a glance of feminine comprehen 
 siveness. 
 
 She found a woman framed upon the heroic 
 scale, but with a figure of admirable propor 
 tions, with a head which might have been 
 regal had it not been languid in its pose ; a 
 face of dark, sultry beauty, with a life's ex 
 perience beneath the drooping eyelids, and in 
 the curve of the passionate lips, and with a 
 manner of perfect polish and indolent grace. 
 
 " Cleopatra !" thought Beatrice, as her slight 
 fingera lay within the firm, satiny touch of 
 Mrs. Charlton's large white hand. 
 
 " No ; Zenobia," said she again, as the other 
 led her to a seat, and placing herself beside 
 her with the air of one receiving rather than 
 conferring a favor, asked some courteous 
 questions of her journey. 
 
 While she replied, Mr. Barstow entered the 
 room, and as he welcomed his guests, Beatrice 
 looked at Mr. Chappelleford as she had at his 
 niece, and following the same bad habit he 
 had indulged toward her, mentally bestowed 
 upon him the sobriquet of Diogenes. Nor 
 could that famous cynic have possessed a 
 more dome-like brow, stronger lineaments, or 
 determined reticence of manner. With the 
 majority of mankind, Vezey Chappelleford 
 lived on terms of mutual intolerance ; among 
 savans he was known as a man of profound 
 and varied erudition ; to Israel Barstow, who
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 35 
 
 never disputed the most untenable of his 
 theories, or interfered in the remotest manner 
 with his pursuits, he was a good humored 
 patron, although the merchant's daily income 
 far outweighed the philosopher s yearly an 
 nuity ; to children he was a simple-hearted 
 playmate ; to women, a courteous misogynist ; 
 to Juanita Charlton a puzzle without a key. 
 
 " Sorry to have kept you waiting, friends, 
 and to have left you to introduce yourselves 
 to each other," said the host, shaking hands 
 with every body. " But in my dressing-room 
 I found that fellow Rowley my head clerk, 
 you know, Chappelleford and he had been 
 waiting an hour, and would have waited until 
 to-morrow morning if I had not attended to 
 him ; so I had to sit down and listen and answer, 
 and sign, seal, and deliver, just as he ordered. 
 A shocking tyrant, that fellow."' 
 
 " Poor Rowley ! I wish I had imagination 
 enough to fancy his crossing a t, or dotting an 
 i, without your especial permission, or your 
 amazed indignation should he do so," said 
 Chappelleford with a cynical smile. 
 
 " Well, well, some people tyrannize by hum 
 ble appeals, as well as others by downright 
 bullying," replied Mr. Barstow, reddening a 
 little at finding himself unmasked. 
 
 "Yes, that is the usual style of feminine 
 tyranny ; is it not, Miss Wansted ?" asked 
 Chappelleford, offering his arm to Beatrice as 
 dinner was announced. 
 
 " The disguise would not be of much use 
 where it is convicted beforehand," replied she, 
 with a merry glance into the keen eyes bent 
 upon her ; and the cynic replied with a smile 
 whose beauty always took the beholder by 
 surprise. 
 
 " You are right, young lady ; most disguises 
 are like the shirt of Nessus, and he who 
 assumes them finds himself ruined within 
 them." 
 
 " ' Honesty is the best policy ' is as true now 
 as it ever was, and that's as true as the sun," 
 remarked Mr. Barstow, who had caught the 
 last remark while seating himself at the foot 
 of the dinner-table. 
 
 " No need to look in books of reference for 
 that motto," growled Chappelleford in reply. 
 " It is unmistakably English : none but a 
 nation of shopkeepers could have originated 
 it, or needed it." 
 
 " Pitching into trade again T laughed the 
 Most with perfect good-nature, while his niece 
 raised her eyes indignantly. ''Have some 
 
 turtle and a glass of Madeira, and consider 
 that, without trade, you must have begun your 
 dinner with clam-chowder and cider, and fin 
 ished it with hickory -nuts and currant-wine." 
 
 " After which, we have only to consider 
 whether Madeira or manhood, callipash or 
 constitution, is more important to a nation, and 
 the question is settled," said the philosopher, 
 sipping his glass of wine with a relish, and 
 glancing quizzically at Miss Wansted's flushed 
 face. 
 
 "Do you really think trade dishonorable, 
 Mr. Chappelleford ?" inquired she, meeting 
 the glance. 
 
 " Did you ever read Mill on Political 
 Economy, Miss Wansted ?" replied the phil 
 osopher." 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Nor I, and Heaven send that we never 
 may. Is my friend Miss Barstow quite well, 
 and has she forgiven my rat-like invasion of 
 her wainscot, in search of truth ?" 
 
 " Did you take a lantern to aid your search 
 for it?" asked Beatrice, her irritation out 
 weighing her discretion for the moment ; but 
 her low voice was drowned by her uncle's 
 burly tones, and the allusion was unheard. 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 REIN, GRAHAME, AND LAFORET. 
 
 " AND now," said Mr. Barstow, as with 
 his niece and their guests they sat in the 
 dimly-lighted drawing-room, while the music 
 of the songs without words Mrs. Charlton 
 had been playing died dreamily away " and, 
 now, June, this little girl and I want to know 
 when you are coming to take care of us. You 
 made no answer to my letter asking you to 
 spend the fall and winter here." 
 
 " I thought to tell you better when we riot 
 how much pleasure I should take in accepting 
 the invitation, and now I find it impossible 
 to tell you," said Mrs. Charlton, looking sig 
 nificantly toward Beatrice, and then upward 
 into her host's face. 
 
 " You like her then ?" asked he in a pleased 
 tone. 
 
 " So much. I am afraid I shall love her," 
 sighed Mrs. Charlton, idly striking minor 
 chords with her left hand, while the right lay, 
 a white, glittering wonder, upon her lap. 
 
 " Why do you say afraid ? I hope you will 
 love her, and she you," replied Mr. Barstow 
 bluntly.
 
 86 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " No, oh ! no. I wish never to love, never to 
 hate, never to care for any created thing. The 
 only joy is calm," murmured Juanita ; and 
 honest Israel Barstow looked puzzled and dis 
 turbed. 
 
 " You got that from Chappelleford, but it is a 
 cold, dismal sort of philosophy not fit for a 
 woman at all events," said he. " Why, to my 
 mind, a woman ought to be all love and en 
 thusiasm, more so than any man ; we go to 
 them for just that sort of thing." 
 
 " And find it generally, I don't doubt. There, 
 at all events." 
 
 And Mrs. Charlton again looked admiringly 
 at Beatrice, who was listenin, with a face of 
 animated interest to Mr. Chappelleford's de 
 scription of Eastern scenery. 
 
 " Yes, Beatrice is enthusiastic enough, and 
 loving enough too, poor child," said Mr. Bar- 
 stow with a sigh ; and Mrs. Charlton, al 
 though she wondered, did not ask him what 
 he meant. 
 
 " Then you will come and stay with us ?" 
 said the merchant presently; and Juanita, 
 with a gracious smile, replied : 
 
 " Thank you very much. It will give me 
 the greatest pleasure to do so." 
 
 " That's right. You had better remain to 
 night, and I will send for your traps." 
 
 " Thank you. But you have little idea 
 of the commotion of a feminine change of resi 
 dence," replied Mrs. Charlton with a languid 
 smile. " I have oceans of preparations to 
 make ; but if you will kindly send for me to 
 morrow about noon, I will try to be ready." 
 
 " Certainly ; the carriage shall go for you at 
 twelve o'clock, and I will amuse Trix myself 
 until then. I don't want her to get home 
 sick, you know." 
 
 . " Certainly not ;" and Mrs. Charlton, sweep 
 ing her drowsy eyes once more upon Beatrice, 
 decided that she had prospered ill in some 
 love affair, and that Mr. Barstow had brought 
 her home with him to break up the train of 
 painful association. 
 
 "And asked me here as dame du compagnie," 
 thought she. " Well, I shall earn my daily 
 plover, if not in the sweat of my brow, in the 
 strain of my endurance, and I like carriages 
 better than horse-cars." 
 
 So the next day, Mrs. Charlton and Mrs. Charl- 
 ton's luggage arrived in Midas-avenue, and 
 when Mr. Barstow came home to dinner, he 
 found two beautiful, well-dressed, and well- 
 bred women ready to receive and entertain 
 
 him, and to make for him a home in his 
 hitherto somewhat dreary palace. 
 
 " This is the pleasantest thing I have seen 
 to-day. This is what a man likes to look 
 forward to while he is bustling about on 
 'change, or bullying other men in his or their 
 counting-rooms," said he, throwing himself 
 luxuriously into an arm-chair after dinner, 
 and contemplating the two young women 
 seated, the one at her needle-work, the other 
 at the piano. 
 
 " And now, my dears," pursued he, " I have 
 been all day settling affairs at the office, so 
 that I might be spared for a while, and to 
 morrow, if you say so, we will turn our backs 
 upon the town, and go the sea-shore, the 
 mountains, the prairies, or even across the 
 water, if you will be satisfied with a peep and 
 good-by. for I cannot leave home for more 
 than a month or six weeks. What do you 
 say ?" 
 
 ' Which does Miss Wansted prefer of all 
 these delightful visions ?" asked Mrs. Charl 
 ton, smiling at Beatrice. 
 
 " Oh I the sea by all means, if I am to 
 choose ; but which do you and my uncle like 
 best ?" 
 
 " I wouldn't give a copper to choose. They 
 are all new to me ; for since I left Milvor, I 
 have lived here in the city, boy and man, until 
 I feel strange anywhere else. I have never 
 cared to take a play-time before, since I had 
 the means of giving myself one," said Mr. 
 Barstow honestly ; and Mrs. Charlton added 
 with a smile : 
 
 " It is the meeting of extremes, for I have 
 travelled so much, and seen so many varieties 
 of scenery, that I do not care at all which way 
 I turn when I leave home." 
 
 " Then it shall be to the sea-shore, and we 
 will go to-morrow, if you say so." 
 
 " I shall be ready, uncle," said Beatrice, 
 with feverish eagerness ; and Juanita quietly 
 decided : 
 
 "It is a fresh wound, and stings keenly. 
 Poor fool! By and by, she can lay her 
 finger upon the scar and smile at its memo 
 ries." 
 
 A few days later found Mr. Barstow and his 
 "family," as he liked to call the beauti 
 ful Avomen under his charge, established at 
 one of the loveliest points upon the New- 
 England coast, and entering with avidity into 
 the life about them. The place was crowdeVl, 
 and both Mrs. Charlton and Mr. Barstow
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 37 
 
 found many acquaintances she among the 
 gayest, and he among the soberest of the 
 crowd. 
 
 Beatrice knew no one, and cared to know 
 no one contenting herself with nature, and 
 continually stealing away to sit upon the 
 rocks by the shore, or weary herself to ex 
 haustion in mountain scrambles, and wood 
 land walks. 
 
 " This will not do ; she might as well have 
 stayed in Milvor," said Uncle Israel confiden 
 tially to Juanita one day, when his wilful niece 
 had quietly disappeared from a projected bowl 
 ing party. " June, we must keep her among peo 
 ple, make her merry, teach her to flirt as these 
 other girls do any thing to take up her mind. 
 The truth is, you see, the poor child has met 
 with a disappointment ; I don't know much 
 about it myself, and I never should speak of 
 it to her ; but she needs to change the scene 
 inside her mind, as well as outside her body. 
 Now, you can do that, if any one can, I am 
 sure." 
 
 " Yes, I can do that," said Mrs. Charlton, 
 with one of her smiles of languid power. And 
 that evening she introduced Bein, the artist ; 
 Grahame, the author ; and Laforet, the in 
 vincible of the salons, to her charge, having 
 previously dropped a quiet word into the ear 
 of each. 
 
 " Have you ever dreamed of such a head for 
 a study ?" asked she of Rein ; and while he 
 looked, she murmured to Grahame : 
 
 " There is a story there. See if you can 
 find it out." And to Laforet : 
 
 " She is to come out this winter, and will 
 make a sensation. I will introduce you be 
 fore the world finds her out." 
 
 So these three men, the nucleus of " society " 
 at Dream Harbor, devoted themselves, each in 
 his own interest, to the rising star, and left her 
 no longer a hope of solitude or quiet. Did 
 she wander to the sea-shore or the mountains? 
 Rein quietly attended her, and begged leave 
 to sketch her as a sea-nymph, a dryad, an ur 
 chin, a saint, as every possible form of beauty 
 and inspiration. Did she listlessly dream 
 away the long summer hours, her thoughts 
 wandering, she knew not where ? Grahame 
 was beside her, softly leading the talk to per 
 sonal experiences, to sympathy, to the 1 forgot 
 ten dreams, the impossible visions of youth. 
 Or did she seek refuge in the crowd, who so 
 ready as Laforet to ask her to dance, to pro 
 pose croquet, with himself as her partner, to 
 
 idle at her side, and affect an intimacy Bea 
 trice hardly took the trouble to deny. 
 
 " Why do these people haunt me so ? I do 
 not want them or try to make myself agree 
 able to them," asked she of Mrs. Charlton once 
 when she had perforce spent the whole day in 
 company with Messieurs Rein, Grahame, 
 Laforet, and their friends. 
 
 " Because, my dear, these persons are so 
 ciety, and society claims you as a fresh young 
 victim, and sends out its high priests to cap 
 ture you. Haven't you a taste for martyrdom ? 
 If not, you had better cultivate one, since it is 
 your fate." 
 
 " Does society mean martyrdom, then ?" 
 asked the novice. 
 
 "As long as you persist 'in egotism," replied 
 the teacher. " Go with the stream, and you 
 will swim easily and pleasantly ; set your face 
 against it, and attempt some new method of 
 overcoming the inevitable, and you will be in 
 every one's way, and every one in yours, and 
 will finally be overwhelmed and drowned." 
 
 ' But with what stream am I to swim ?" 
 asked Beatrice wearily. " I do not care for 
 Mr. Rein's ideas of art they seem to me con 
 ventional and hackneyed. Mr. Grahame's 
 favorite literature is too sentimental for my 
 taste, and Mr. Laforet's gossip is a weariness 
 to the flesh. Am I to force myself to sympa 
 thize with my antipathies ?" 
 
 Mrs. Charlton raised a warning hand. 
 " To answer the end of your question first, 
 my dear, let me warn you against that style 
 of thing : antitheses, syllogisms, argument, 
 metaphysics, are all topics tie/entire to a de- 
 Initante. They are. the weapons of maturity, 
 of waning beauty, and it is as unfair and un 
 becoming for your use as rouge or pearl- 
 powder, antimony or belladonna." 
 
 " Who uses antimony and belladonna ?" 
 asked Beatrice, yielding to a small side-cur 
 rent of feminine curiosity. 
 
 " Secrets of the prison-house," gayly re 
 plied Juanita. " I won't even tell you their 
 uses ; but again I warn you against the deep 
 waters which are as yet bad style for you. 
 Freshness, nalvet$, universal interest in all 
 persons, all pursuits not too heavy for you, 
 all topics of the day this is your role. You 
 have a taste for repartee indulge it sparingly 
 and mildly. The reputation of a satirist, or 
 even of a wit, is as fatal to a young beauty as 
 that of a las Ueu. All tliis will come in time ; 
 but meanwhile accept Rein's teachings in art,
 
 88 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Grahame's in literature, and Laforet's in so 
 ciety. They are all fools, but they are the 
 world's mouthpieces, and their jargon is its 
 Shibboleth. Learn it, for it as necessary as 
 French in the circle you are entering." 
 
 " Thank you," said Beatrice sadly. " Per 
 haps I had better have stayed at Milvor." 
 
 " Not at all, dear. You would have died 
 there perished of " 
 
 "What?" inquired the girl, flushing like 
 the morning. 
 
 " Of egotism," coolly replied Juanita. " You 
 were quite too important to yourself there to 
 other persons also, no doubt ; but to yourself 
 fatally. In the world, we soon learn that our 
 own experience is every one's experience, that 
 our original ideas are hackneyed, and our life- 
 hurts are other people's callous scars. It is a 
 good school." 
 
 " You indulge in the philosophies you deny 
 me," said Beatrice, smiling bitterly. 
 
 "My dear, I am thirty-three years $ld, and 
 at sixteen I had seen more of the world than 
 you at twenty. Do not revenge yourself by 
 disliking me, for I like you better than any 
 one I have met in a dozen years." 
 
 " Do you ? Thank you," hesitated Bea 
 trice. " I do not dislike you indeed, but I 
 dislike your theories and your world more 
 than I can tell." 
 
 " You will come to adopt both as your own, 
 my poor child. Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night. I am so sorry to seem un 
 grateful," said the girl ; but her new friend 
 only smiled a little, and went without reply. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 A FRIEND. 
 
 THE next day had been appointed for an 
 excursion up the mountain, but the advent 
 in the morning of a rival base-ball club, 
 challenged some days before by the champions 
 of that noble game resident at Dream Harbor, 
 broke up all other'ixcursions, and filled the 
 public mind with visions of blue or scarlet 
 banners, badges, dresses, prizes, and prepara 
 tions. Even the dogs of the respective houses, 
 and sheep of the field where the match was 
 to befilayed, were decorated with ribbons of 
 the rival colors, and one enthusiastic young 
 lady was heard to propose that a couple of 
 calves grazing in an adjacent paddock should 
 be adorned, the one in blue and the other in 
 red ribbons, and turned loose among the com 
 batants ; but this notion was for some reason. 
 
 hastily suppressed, and the young lady de 
 tailed to the manufacture of paper caps for 
 the players, each one with a bow of ribbon 
 upon its pointed top. 
 
 Beatrice, who cared not at all for base-ball, 
 and a great deal for mountains, watched these 
 preparations with rather petulant disdain, and 
 finally, by condescending to a little coaxing, 
 persuaded her uncle to resume the idea of the 
 excursion, confining the party to their two 
 selves ; for Mrs. Charlton was already the 
 centre of an eager throng, each claiming her 
 as a partisan, and making her umpire upon 
 various questions of dress, usage, and pro 
 priety. 
 
 " Of course I must side with the red, for I 
 have not a scrap of blue anything in my pos- 
 ssssion ; and scarlet is the only color I wear. 
 See, I assume my badge." 
 
 And winding an Indian scarf about her 
 head, she became at once a sultana, a Zobeide, 
 a picture, an " Admirable of -the Red," as a 
 very young man, still in his Sophomore year, 
 remarked with the air of saying a good thing. 
 
 " She can spare us, uncle, and of course it is 
 proper if you go with me," urged Beatrice. 
 And the matter was arranged with but slight 
 opposition from Mrs. Charlton, who enjoyed 
 the position she affected to disdain, and had 
 little thought to bestow upon her charge. 
 
 " There ! This is real pleasure," sighed 
 Beatrice, as near the crest of the mountain 
 they halted their panting horses, and turned 
 to look behind them. The day was perfect, 
 with so rare an atmosphere that the most dis 
 tant summits lay faintly purple against the 
 tender blue of the sky, and the gleam of 
 waters, leaving the farthest shores within 
 the reach of human vision, became distinctly 
 visible. Tempering the glow of the summer 
 noon, great white clouds floated now and 
 again across the fathomless blue depths of 
 heaven, their shadows falling upon sea and 
 land, mountains and valleys, like God's gift 
 of sleep ; far out at sea the flash of Avhite sails 
 showed the course of craft else hidden in the 
 distance, and still beyond them, ocean and 
 heaven hid their marriage-kiss behind a veil 
 of dazzling light, tempting and impenetrable 
 to mortal vision. 
 
 " Yes, it is a fine view," said Mr. Barstow, 
 adjusting his double eye-glass upon his nose. 
 " Now, I wonder which of those peaks is 
 Kahtadin," pursued he, scanning the horizon, 
 " and Mount Washington. They told me at
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 the house that I could see them both to-day. 
 
 Washington is one hundred and seventy miles 
 from here, and it is seldom that it is visible ; 
 but to-day is so clear. Now, where should 
 you look for it, Beatrice ?" 
 
 " I do not know, uncle, I am sure. I sup 
 pose the people up here can tell 'you," said 
 Beatrice dreamily. " But don't you think it 
 just as pleasant to look at the landscape as if 
 you were the first person who ever saw it 
 and it was all your own, as to know the names 
 that other people have given to every thing 
 and be told that this is Goose Pond, and the 
 other is Bear Mountain, or Burnt Porcupine 
 Island '!" 
 
 " Eh ? Well ; but if things have names, 
 why it is by the names you know them, and talk 
 
 " The little inn at the summit of the mountain." 
 
 about them. If I send to Canton for a cargo 
 of the tea that I like best, my agent would 
 think I was a fool, and would write back to 
 ask me its name. Don't you see ?" 
 
 " But," persisted Beatrice, " you don't send 
 for the mountains to come to you you go to 
 the mountains, and when you are with them, 
 the names make but little difference to you or 
 to them." 
 
 " And when you go away, and want to talk 
 about them to your friends, what then ?" 
 
 asked Mr. Bars tow; and Beatrice, laughing, 
 said : 
 
 " Your common-sense is too much for me, 
 Uncle Israel. Let us drive on, and find a 
 guide and a guide-book." 
 
 Half an hour brought them to the little inn 
 at the summit of the mountain, and while 
 Mr-. Barstow ordered dinner and awaited its 
 announcement in a comfortable rocking-chair, 
 with a bottle of London stout and a stand of 
 capital cigars at his elbow, his niece strolled 
 out upon the rocks, perversely determined to 
 make her first acquaintance with the scene, 
 alone and unaided by " guide or guide-book." 
 Out of sight of the house, and yet within 
 hearing of a summons, she paused, and seat 
 ing herself upon a boulder, kindly fashioned 
 by nature into semblance of a chair, with 
 back and footstool, she drew a full, free 
 breath. 
 
 " Alone at last," murmured she, and leaning 
 her face upon her hands, she gave way to the 
 tears that had lain, as it seemed to her, for 
 weeks, a crushing and intolerable weight 
 upon brain and heart. 
 
 " Is any thing the matter with thee, friend ?" 
 said a low voice behind her ; and hastily look 
 ing up, Beatrice saw a woman of middle age, 
 dressed in the sober livery of the Quakers, 
 but carrying within her uncomely head-gear 
 a face so sweet, so calm, and withal so strong, 
 that no fashion could disguise or disfigure it. 
 " I do not wish to intrude upon thee," con 
 tinued the stranger, as Beatrice hesitated how 
 to reply to her. " But as I came softly over 
 the rocks, I heard the sound of thy grief, and 
 thought I possibly might be of use. Is thee 
 lurt in any way ?'' 
 
 Oh ! no thank you. I was thinking of 
 other scenes, and absent friends. I thought I 
 was quite alone," stammered Beatrice ; and 
 ;hen fearing to have seemed rude and ungra 
 cious, was suddenly silent. 
 
 " May I sit beside thee for a moment or 
 two ? This is the finest outlook I have found," 
 said the stranger, quietly seating herself, 
 while Beatrice, half vexed, half attracted to 
 hat lovely face and reassuring voice, sat still, 
 without reply. 
 
 I have been all day upon the mountain," 
 continued the new-comer, " and am not yet 
 tired. It is a grand thing for us who live in 
 cities to see how much larger the world is 
 than we are taught to remember. Does thee 
 live in a city ?"
 
 40 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " Sometimes I visit them." 
 
 " I live always in Pennapolis. My name is 
 Mary Askew ; what is thine ?" 
 
 " Wansted Beatrice Wansted," replied the 
 young lady, with a half smile at this direct 
 questioning. 
 
 " And did thee ever come nearer to under 
 standing creation than here?" asked Mary 
 Askew, pointing to the grand panorama at 
 their feet. 
 
 " I I have hardly looked yet," faltered Bea 
 trice. 
 
 " Why ?" demanded the Friend, fixing her 
 
 . 
 
 "A rude log-cabin in the forest." 
 
 clear, truth-compelling eyes upon those of the 
 young girl. 
 
 " Because, I was thinking " 
 
 " Because thee was looking inside instead of 
 out; because thee was thinking of Beatrice 
 Wansted instead of God and His works, and 
 that was where thee was short-sighted. Does 
 thee know, Beatrice, why God made these 
 mountains and lonely places, and puts it into 
 our hearts to run away from our daily lives 
 and seek out the solitudes, when we are sorely 
 tried ? I think it is that we may see at one 
 look the immensity of creation, and remember 
 how small a part of it our finger-hurts must 
 be." 
 
 " But if an insect is crushed to death, it 
 does not cure it to know that the earth moves 
 on," cried Beatrice bitterly. 
 
 " Thee is not an insect, Beatrice. Thee has 
 a soul higher than the mountains, deeper than 
 the ocean, wider than the sky. The grief of 
 to day, keen though it may be, will not out 
 last even thy mortal life, and after that comes 
 eternity. That word, it seems to me, dwarfs 
 all else." 
 
 Beatrice, weeping no more, turned and gazed 
 into the face of her companion with absorb 
 ing interest. 
 
 " But if the same soul exists after death, 
 how can you tell that the same troubles will 
 not cling to it ?" asked she. 
 
 " The troubles of this world belong to this 
 world : thee may so use them that they will 
 warp and deface thy soul even after it has 
 left them behind, if thee chooses, or thee may 
 make of them stepping-stones to a peace and 
 joy that ripen the soul for eternal bliss as no 
 prosperity ever ripens it." said the Friend, in 
 a voice so full of meaning that Beatrice re 
 membered Aunt Rachel's words : " Most all 
 of us get disappointed once," and asked her 
 self if the sweet content upon Mary Askew's 
 brow had been won from a stepping-stono of 
 sorrow such as now filled her own heart. 
 
 "Thee should look at that ocean and that 
 sky for the meaning of my words ; not in my 
 "ace, I do but speak to thee as the spirit 
 moves me, and the translation is in thy own 
 heart," said the Friend quietly; and just then 
 the clear notes of a horn blown at the house- 
 door recalled the two to a warning of daily 
 needs and waiting friends. 
 
 " I hope to see more of thee, Beatrice Wan 
 sted," said the elder, as they walked together 
 to the house ; and Beatrice, a little shyly, an 
 swered : 
 
 " You are very kind, and I should be glad 
 to know you better." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 IN THE WOODS 
 
 " THERE, Zilpah, this is home the best 
 ;hat I have to offer, at any rate. Are you 
 sorry you came ?" 
 
 So spoke Marston Brent, throwing open the 
 door of a rude log-cabin buried in the heart 
 of a hemlock forest, many miles from any 
 ,own, village, or even hamlet, and connected 
 with the haunts of man only by the capricious
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 41 
 
 highway of the Sachawissa, loveliest and most 
 unreliable of rivers. From the Ford, as the 
 highest point of sloop navigation upon this 
 stream is called, Brent had transported his 
 family and his chattels in two stout wagons 
 drawn by oxen, who now stood panting before 
 the log-house in the waning of a September 
 day. 
 
 " Well, I don't know as I be," said Zilpah 
 cautiously, and pausing to look well about her 
 before she made reply. " Looks kind o' woodsy, 
 don't it ?" 
 
 " Yes ; that we must expect in a logging- 
 camp ; but the trees just about the house are 
 cut away, you see," said Marston, with an ef 
 fort at cheerful speech. 
 
 " Hm ! That was so's to get something to 
 make the house of, I expect," replied Zilpah 
 coolly. " It's a reg'lar log-cabin, a'n't it ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I told you it was." 
 
 " I know it, Mr. Brent, I know it ; I a'n't 
 complaining don't you think it ; only it 
 looks kind o' cur'us to any one that's always 
 lived amongst folks ; now don't it ?" 
 
 "I suppose so," said Marston, smiling, as he 
 remembered the seclusion of Milvor, where 
 Zilpah had been born and bred ; and then he 
 added gayly : 
 
 " Well, we must make company for each 
 other, Zilpah. Come into the house, won't 
 you ? And, Richard, you must explain mat 
 ters a little as to where we are to get fuel, wa 
 ter, and such matters. You know we are new 
 to this way of life." 
 
 Eichard, a veteran logger, who, having 
 spent the previous winter at Wahtahree, in 
 the employ of Mr. Mills, had been selected as 
 the fittest cicerone of the new proprietor, 
 came forward at 'the summons, saying with a 
 grin : 
 
 " As for fuel, Cap'n, why there's enough of 
 that all about, I should say ; and as for water, 
 there's a spring right down there, and the 
 boys might fetch some in this bucket when 
 the cattle have done eating their meal out'n it. 
 There's a first-rate cook-stove in the shanty, 
 and I'll get the pork-barrel unloaded right 
 away. I expect she knows how to fry pork 
 and bile potaters, don't she ? That's logger's 
 fare, mostly." 
 
 " I guess I know as much as that, young 
 man, and I know better than to get water for 
 folks and feed critters in the same bucket. 
 Paul Freeman, you get a pail out of Mr. 
 Brent's goods. There's one there that won't 
 
 pizen, as I expect," said Zilpah, with so much 
 dignity that Brent was fain to turn away to 
 hide a smile, and Richard grinned from ear to 
 ear as he led the way into the cabin, or shanty, 
 as the building would be styled in forest 
 parlance. 
 
 This consisted of two rooms and a closet 
 upon the lower floor, and a loft above, furnish 
 ed with wooden boxes or bunks filled with, 
 hay, in which the wood-cutters were expected 
 to sleep. The outer room, into which opened 
 the principal door, was furnished with a long 
 table extending down the middle, with a 
 bench at either side, all of evident home man 
 ufacture, and more solid than elegant ; two or 
 three stools, and a smaller movable table, set 
 in front of the wide, open fireplace. This was 
 the dining and sitting room of the family, 
 while the smaller one behind it served as 
 kitchen and scullery. The closet was set apart 
 as Zilpah's bedroom, and Richard, Paul and 
 his brother, and the lumbermen, when they 
 should arrive, were quartered in the loft. For 
 his own use, Brent reserved a small room in 
 an adjacent building designed as a store-house, 
 and thither had his personal belongings trans 
 ported as they were unloaded. 
 
 Such articles of household gear as Zilpah 
 declared indispensable, Brent had purchased at 
 their last stopping-place, and the list had final 
 ly lengthened so far that the great ox-wagon 
 engaged to transport them had almost proved 
 insufficient, and the old housekeeper, watch 
 ing her master's face during the process of 
 loading, expected every moment to see some 
 precious article discarded, or some favorite 
 scheme upset by loss of its material elements. 
 But Brent, like other men of his large, strong 
 nature, was ever over-indulgent to the weak 
 and helpless under his control, and although 
 Richard grumbled, and his assistant teamster 
 swore, Zilpah was not mulcted of pot or pan, 
 bread-tray, clothes-horse, or rubbing-board, 
 and Brent arranged all difficulties by hiring a 
 second yoke of oxen to accompany. them to the 
 end of their journey. 
 
 These, her household gods, the old woman 
 now received at the hands of Paul, who was 
 unloading the wagon, and arranged them upon 
 the shelves, hooks, and walls of her new home 
 with much satisfaction. 
 
 " There, now, that looks something like !" 
 exclaimed she, as Brent returned to the shan 
 ty, after superintending the ordering of his 
 own room. " Look at here, Mr. Marston, and
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Bee my tin-shelf. Don't that seem most like 
 Milvor over again ? Recollect our coffee-pot 
 to home ? Wa'n't it the moral of this'n ?" 
 
 "I should think so. Yes, they look very 
 home-like and housewifely, Zilpah. But 
 what ! a warming-pan !" 
 
 " Well, yes, Mr. Marston," replied the old 
 woman, a little sheepishly ; " you see a warm 
 ing-pan is dreadful handy in case of sickness ; 
 and there's no knowing what might happen 
 to any of us, away off here in the woods, away 
 from doctors so." 
 
 " But where did you get it ?" asked Brent, 
 suppressing a smile. 
 
 " Why, don't you remember, while I was 
 trading with that tinman, you and he went 
 off to look at some kind of ox-tackle he'd been 
 getting up, and whilst you were gone, I sort 
 o' prowled round in the back-shop and peeked 
 into the cellar-way and the loft not for no 
 harm, only to see what sort o' things he'd got 
 Stowed away ; and then I see this warming- 
 pan, and it looked so sort o' home-like you 
 see, my folks had one when I was a small 
 girl, and I rec'lect my mother warming my 
 bed over when I'd got a bad cold and so I 
 thought you wouldn't care, Marston, and I 
 just tucked it into the things that was sot off 
 for us, and didn't say nothing about it. " 
 
 " But did the man know it ? There was no 
 such item in the bill," said Marston, taking a 
 note-book from his pocket, and selecting a pa 
 per to which the man of stoves had affixed 
 not only his name, but several of the black 
 " thumb-marks " which our illiterate ancestors 
 used iu place of signatures. 
 
 "No. it is not in the bill," added Brent se 
 verely, as he refolded the document. 
 
 " Oh.! well, dearie, if it isn't, it's no fault of 
 your'n," said Zilpah in some confusion, and 
 making a great rattling among her pots and 
 pans. " He might have seed it if he'd looked, 
 I'm sure. It a'n't a thing I could hide in my 
 pocket." 
 
 " But the articles were all noted down as 
 they were selected, and the shopman put 
 them into the wagon while his master made 
 out the bill. You have stolen this warming- 
 pan, Zilpah, and under cover of my name too," 
 exclaimed Brent indignantly. 
 
 Whereupon, Zilpah, dropping the tin basin 
 and dipper from her hands, threw her apron 
 over her head and broke into violent weeping, 
 mingled with protestations of immaculate in 
 nocence and wounded feeling at such unde 
 
 served suspicion from one whom she had re 
 garded ' all the same as her own boy." 
 
 Brent looked on for a moment in the help 
 less and absurd way in which a man always 
 contemplates a weeping woman whom cir 
 cumstances or her own will do not permit of 
 his taking in his arms and kissing, and then 
 he strode out of the house, and stood vacantly 
 staring at the gloomy autumnal prospect. 
 
 And this, he thought, was his home and his 
 life. These petty and sordid cares within the 
 house were to be his relief from the exhaus 
 tive labor without, from which he did not 
 shrink. No companionship, no sympathy, 
 no contact with a gentle and more delicate or 
 ganization to soothe away the asperities of his 
 daily life. 
 
 " Beatrice was right," muttered he at last. 
 " It is no place for her. I am glad she did not 
 come." 
 
 But the idea of regretting his own choice, 
 of reconsidering a decision deliberately made, 
 never crossed the mind of this man, whose na 
 ture, ardent and impressionable as heated 
 lava, like hardened lava retained forever the 
 impressions so made. Nor was it in him to 
 devote many moments to repining, or, indeed, 
 to reverie of any sort ; and before Zilpah, cau 
 tiously peeping from her kitchen to ascertain 
 his whereabouts, had hidden the obnoxious 
 warming-pan in her own bedroom, Brent 
 had thrown off his coat and was helping his 
 man to move some of the heavier articles of 
 their load, and to stable the qxen, and the 
 horse he had provided for his personal use. 
 He was still engaged in this manner when a 
 timid voice at his elbow pronounced his name. 
 He turned and found the boy Willy watching 
 him attentively. 
 
 " Well, my little man, what is it ?" asked he 
 good-naturedly. 
 
 " Zilpah sent me to tell you that supper 
 is ready," said the child. 
 
 " I will come. And how do you like the 
 woods and our fine log-house, Willy ?" 
 
 " Very much indeed, sir. Do people ever 
 ome here ?" asked the child, glancing timidly 
 around him. 
 
 " People ? No, indeed," replied Brent with 
 a short laugh. " Except my gang of lumber 
 men, who will be along next week, I suppose 
 we may not see a human being before the 
 spring. We are pretty well ' out of humani 
 ty's reach,' as poor Selkirk has it. You won't 
 je lonesome, will you ?"
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 43 
 
 " Oh ! no, sir. I am very glad indeed that peo 
 ple won't come," said the boy, raising his 
 large dark eyes to Brent's face with an ex 
 pression of confidence and reliance that went 
 to his heart. 
 
 " I don't think any body would hurt you if 
 they did come, Willy," said he kindly. " Not 
 if I was about, at any rate." 
 
 " I know it, sir, and I should like to keep 
 where you arc all the time if I could." 
 
 " What, stay with me rather than Paul ?" 
 asked Brent laughing, and a little surprised. 
 
 " Yes, sir. You are the biggest, and besides, 
 you are the master here. Richard says you 
 are the boss, and that the boss can do any 
 thing he likes in a logging-camp, and every 
 one has to mind him, or else he can almost 
 murder them." 
 
 Brent laughed aloud. 
 
 " Richard would make a despotism of our 
 encampment, and a tyrant of me," said he. 
 " And so you want to keep where I am, do 
 you, my boy?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Willy, looking once more 
 about him before he entered the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 BRENT BECOMES A LAW-BREAKER. 
 
 THE meal of fried pork, boiled potatoes, 
 hard bread, bannocks of Indian-meal, and 
 coffee without milk, was set upon the long 
 table, already noted, in the large room of the 
 shanty. Tablecloth, napkins, silver were all 
 dispensed with, arid even the coarse earthern 
 plates and cups produced from among Zil pah's 
 purchases were an innovation upon the severe 
 custom of the woods, which sanctioned only 
 tin and iron as table equipage. 
 
 Brent had from the first decided to live with 
 his men, and as his men, laboring with them, 
 eating with them, resting with them, reserv 
 ing to himself only the privilege of a separate 
 sleeping-room, somewhat more fastidiously, 
 though hardly more luxuriantly, appointed 
 than their own. He now sat down at the 
 head of his homely table, and glancing from 
 its meagre appointments to the faces at either 
 hand, said simply : 
 
 "Welcome, friends, to our first meal together, 
 and may God make us all duly thankful for 
 this and his other gifts." 
 
 " I don't know how you're a going to drink 
 your coffee without no milk in it, Mr. Brent. 
 It a'n't what you're used to," said Zilpah queru 
 lously, as she filled and passed the cups. 
 
 "We will have a cow next week, Zilpah, 
 and, meantime, if we cannot drink coffee 
 without milk, there is plenty of cold water," 
 said Brent cheerily. 
 
 " I never see no milk in a logging-camp, nor 
 no cow neither, nor yet sugar," said Richard, 
 reaching rather contemptuously for the sugar- 
 basin. " Where I've been, they always bile 
 merlasses with the coffee. Merlasses is first- 
 rate with fried pork too." 
 
 " Molasses with fried pork !" cried Zilpah 
 indignantly. 
 
 " Jus' so. Didn't you ever eat none ?" 
 asked Richard over the edge of his cup. 
 " No ; nor I don't never mean to." 
 " No more I wouldn't if I didn't want to ; 
 but I'd like some, if you've got it hand , and 
 the boss ha'n't no objection." 
 
 "Not the least," said Brent smiling; and 
 Zilpah, with a snort of indignation, produced 
 and filled a japanned molasses-cup, which 
 Richard nearly emptied upon his plate, fol 
 lowing the usual habit of his class, to whom 
 instinct teaches the lesson of science, that the 
 carbon necessary to feed the fire constantly 
 formed by fierce labor and exposure is to be 
 found in heavy sweets and concentrated oils, 
 or, as they embody them, in molasses and 
 pork-fat. 
 
 Brent, silently revolving this idea in his 
 mind, finished his repast, and rising from tba 
 table with the rest, was about to leave the 
 house, when Zilpah touched him upon the 
 arm, and mysteriously beckoned him into her 
 own room. 
 
 Brent followed, a little apprehensive of a 
 scene, and rapidly resolving to set the old 
 woman's mind at rest upon the vexed question 
 of the warming-pan by promising to pay for 
 it the first time he should have occasion to 
 send to the town. But Zilpah's conscience 
 was not of the peremptory and persistent 
 sort that will let neither its possessor nor ac 
 cuser rest, and so long as her felonious pos 
 session remained snugly ensconced in the cor 
 ner, behind a black bombazine petticoat, 
 Zilpah was very willing to appear to forget it. 
 Her present subject of conversation was of 
 a different nature, and she heralded it with 
 the inquiry : 
 
 " There a'n't no sleeping-room except this 
 and your'n, and the loft where the men sleep, 
 is there ?" 
 
 "No. What is wanted of more?" asked 
 Brent in some surprise.
 
 44 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " Well, I don't know. Where was you cal 
 culating that Willy would sleep ?" 
 
 " Why, with his brother, I suppose." 
 
 " I shouldn't hardly love to have 'em do that 
 way, seems to me," suggested Zilpah mys 
 teriously. 
 
 " Why not, in Heaven's name ?" demanded 
 Brent, rather irritated at his housekeeper's 
 diplomatic reserve. 
 
 " Well, you see, Mr. Brent, I don't know 
 nothing about it, but I kind o' mistrust that 
 it a'n't all just as it appears with these boys." 
 
 " Do tell me what you mean, Zilpah, with 
 out any more mysteries. What is wrong with 
 the boys ?" 
 
 " Well, /didn't never hear that Paul Free 
 man had any brother. He was took out of 
 the poor-house, and his mother was a traveller 
 that died there, and nobody knows who his 
 father was ; so where's his brother going to 
 come from, I'd like to know ?" 
 
 " Are you sure of this, Zilpah ?" demanded 
 Brent, whose anger was always stirred by 
 deception, even of the most trivial descrip 
 tion. 
 
 " Sartain sure, Mr. Marston ; and more than 
 all that, I've my suspicions that the boy a'n't 
 no boy at all." 
 
 "Which boy? What do you mean, Zil 
 pah ?" 
 
 feet, and raised a pale and terror-stricken face 
 to that bent so severely upon him. 
 
 " Oh ! what is it, Mr. Brent?" exclaimed he, 
 visibly trembling in every limb. 
 
 " Nothing to alarm you if you have done no 
 wrong," replied Brent gravely. " Come with 
 me I wish to talk with you a little." 
 
 And much to the disappointment of Zilpah, 
 who had expected to make a third in the con 
 versation, he led the child into the store-house, 
 and shut the door. 
 
 Alone with him, the young man seated him 
 self, and fixed his eyes keenly upon the terror- 
 stricken face of the supposititious boy. 
 
 " Child," said he, " I can forgive almost 
 any offence against myself, but I cannot for 
 give a lie, for that is an offence against God. 
 Will you remember this ?" 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And will you answer me some questions 
 fully and freely ?" 
 " Y-e-s." 
 
 " I do not force you to it, remember. If you 
 prefer, you may leave here to-morrow with 
 the man who drives the oxen back, and go 
 wherever you please. In that case, I shall ask 
 you nothing ; but if you stay, I shall expect 
 you to give a full account of yourself. As 
 said, hardly an hour ago, I am the master 
 of this place, and I want thoroughly under- 
 
 " Why, Willy. I don't believe he's any kin ' stood the position of each member of my 
 to Paul Freeman, and, what's more, I don't family. Will you be silent and leave me, or 
 believe he's a boy. He's a gal, unless I 
 miss my guess, and his name's Ruth Brew- 
 
 eter." 
 
 "What, the girl who killed her father? 
 Peleg Brewster's daughter ?" demanded Brent 
 in horror. 
 
 "Sho! Who's going to believe Semanthy 
 Brewster's stories about any one she spites?" 
 demanded Zilpah in high disdain. " Who 
 killed Peleg Brewster a'n't for me to say ; but 
 you take my word for it, that young one that 
 you call Willy is Ruth Brewster. ' 
 
 " That is soon proved," said Brent, striding 
 from the room, in spite of Zilpah's efforts to 
 detain him. 
 
 Paul Freeman was not in sight from the 
 
 will you stay and speak ?" 
 
 The child hesitated fora moment, and then, 
 trembling all over, but resolutely raising his 
 eyes to Brent's, answered : 
 
 " I will stay and answer you." 
 
 " Fully and truly ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Then tell me your real name?" 
 
 " Ruth Brewster." 
 
 " The daughter of Peleg Brewster, of 
 Milvor ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And how came you here, in this disguise ?" 
 
 " I met Paul, and I was I was feeling very 
 bad, and he said he could get me away, and 
 take care of me ; and he took me to Bloom, and 
 
 door of the shanty, but Willy, crouching upon | bought me these clothes, and then I came 
 the doorstep, was making play with Blunder, with you to this place." 
 
 Richard's ugly little terrier. 
 
 "Come here, child," said Brent, laying a 
 heavy hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " I must settle that part of the deception 
 with Paul, I perceive," said Brent ; and then, 
 laying a hand upon the girl's shoulder, and 
 
 At sound _of that stern voice, and touch of I fixing his eyes yet more keenly upon her face, 
 that determined hand, the child started to his ! he asked :
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 45 
 
 " Ruth, why are you hiding from the rela 
 tives and friends to whom you belong? Why 
 did you wish to be disguised, and to escape 
 from Milvor?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you, sir. Oh ! I can't bear to 
 think about it !" 
 
 And the nervous trembling of the slender 
 figure increased to such a pitiable extent that 
 Brent could not in humanity pursue his in 
 terrogatory in the same tone in which he had 
 'begun it. Rising, he placed the young girl in 
 his own chair, offered her some water to drink, 
 and said kindly, although coldly : 
 
 " Do not be so distressed. I have no inten 
 tion of harming you ; but I must know the 
 truth, or I cannot let you remain here. Now 
 tell me, Ruth, do yu know of what you stand 
 accused at home ?" 
 
 " They think I did it, don't they ?" whis 
 pered the child, her very lips blanched to a 
 deadly whiteness. 
 
 " Did what '!" 
 
 " Killed father." 
 
 " Yes, Ruth, they say so. It is a terrible 
 question to ask of a child, but it is my duty to 
 ask it. Did you do it ?" 
 
 But instead of replying, Ruth slipped from 
 her chair to the floor, cowering there in a little 
 trembling heap, and hiding her face upon her 
 lap, while she burst into a fit of hysterical 
 weeping. 
 
 Brent looked at her in pity and dismay, for 
 he could not reconcile this excessive agitation 
 with the innocence in which he wished to be 
 lieve, 
 
 " Ruth," said he at last, " won't you speak 
 to me ? Say that you are innocent of this hor 
 rible crime, and I will not ask you another 
 question ; for I am very, very sorry for you, 
 child." 
 
 " Oh ! don't, don't. I can't tell you any 
 thing about it. I dursn't," gasped the child, 
 crouching still closer to the floor. 
 
 " Dare not ! What are you afraid of, Ruth ? 
 Is it of me ?" 
 
 " No, sir, not of you." 
 
 " Of whom then ?" 
 
 " I can't tell, but I dursn't say a single word 
 to any body." 
 
 " Cannot you even tell me that you are in 
 nocent of your father's murder ?" asked Brent, 
 in a voice of deep regret. " For on that turns 
 our whole future relation. If you can truth 
 fully deny that one accusation, you shall stay 
 with me, and I will protect you. If you can 
 
 not, Ruth, you must leave Wahtahree to-mor 
 row." 
 
 " Mr. Brent ! Leave you and Paul ? 
 Where in all the world can I go ?" asked the 
 child in sudden terror ; and drawing herself 
 nearer to Brent, she clung about his knees, 
 her wet face imploringly raised to his. Inex 
 pressibly moved, the young man took her in 
 his arms, and seated her beside him. Then 
 with his arm still about her he said in a 
 voice of tenderest entreaty : 
 
 " Little Ruth, have faith in me. Whatever 
 alarms you so terribly forget it now, and only 
 remember that I have power to protect you, 
 and make your life a safe and happy one. 
 But you must trust me, child. I do not ask you 
 to break any promise, for even a bad promise 
 must be kept, unless the hand of God Himself 
 breaks it ; but surely you can assure me that 
 you are innocent of the awful crime charged 
 upon you. That is all I ask." 
 
 The child, no longer weeping, hid her face 
 for a moment in her hands, as if communing 
 with herself; then raised it, clear and lumi 
 nous with the truth, to meet Brent's tender but 
 penetrating look. 
 
 "I promised, and I said I hoped God would 
 strike me dead if I broke the promise, that I 
 never would say a single word about it any 
 way. So can 1 1" 
 
 Brent sadly shook his head. 
 
 " No, child, you cannot." 
 
 " But, Mr. Brent, look at me," and the child, 
 slipping from her chair to the floor, stood up 
 right before him, her slender figure straight 
 ened, her small palo face uplifted, her dark 
 eyes clear and fearless. " Look at me, please, 
 sir, and if you think I could have killed my 
 dear, dear father, the only one I had left to me 
 in all the world O Mr. Brent ! if you think I 
 killed him, let me go away not to-morrow, 
 but now, this very minute. Let me go out 
 into the woods, and I don't care what becomes 
 of me till I die." 
 
 And Brent laid his two hands upon her 
 shoulders, looked deep into her steadfast eyes, 
 and said : 
 
 " No, Ruth, I do not believe that you did it, 
 and although your oath of silence must not 
 be broken, I will believe the testimony of your 
 eyes against all the world. Nor will I 
 ever ask you another question upon this mat 
 ter. Rest content, and as happy as you may, 
 little Ruth, for I will take you safely upon 
 my own shoulders."
 
 46 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " I won't be afraid any more, then," said 
 Ruth quietly ; and Brent smiled at the uncon 
 scious flattery. 
 
 CHAPTER XVn. 
 SMARTNESS AND HONOR. 
 
 BUT with Paul Freeman, the master of 
 Wahtahree dealt less lightly. 
 
 " How am I to trust you again ?" asked he 
 of him. " You have thoroughly deceived me 
 you have trapped me into connivance with 
 you in shielding an accused criminal from the 
 l aw you have lied to me, for you said the 
 child was your brother !" 
 
 " No, sir !" interposed Paul ; " I never said 
 
 1 How am I to trust you again f" 
 
 downright that it was my brother, and I never 
 said that I had a brother at all." 
 
 " Prevarication !" exclaimed Brent con 
 temptuously " it is worse than lying, because 
 more cowardly. That defence is the very 
 worst you could have selected." 
 
 " Well, then, sir," replied Paul, throwing 
 up his head a little haughtily, " since you 
 think so bad of me, you had better let me go 
 at once. I am sure I don't want to stop with 
 a man that a'n't going to believe a word I say, 
 or trust me about his work. I think I did just 
 what was right by Ruth placed as she was ; 
 
 and if you don't, why, sir, we'd better part, 
 and the sooner the better." 
 
 " If you think so, you had better go," re 
 plied Brent coldly. 
 
 " Well, I will. Ruthie and I will go along 
 with the men to-morrow." 
 
 "You may, if you see fit Ruth remains 
 here." 
 
 " What, sir ! you don't mean to keep her 
 away from me !" exclaimed Paul in a tone of 
 angry incredulity. 
 
 " I am going to keep her. You are free to 
 go or stay," repeated Brent calmly. 
 
 " Why, sir, what good is she to you ; and 
 what do you care for her ? Maybe you think 
 of sending her back to Milvor to be tried for 
 murder." % 
 
 " What if I do, Paul Freeman ? She is un 
 der the ban of the law, and perhaps that is 
 my duty." 
 
 The boy clenched his fists, and shut his 
 teeth hard together, looked at Brent, and 
 made no reply. 
 
 The latter returned the look with one of 
 calm superiority for a moment, and then slow 
 ly said : 
 
 " The matter is in my hands completely, 
 you see, lad ; and although I have no inten 
 tion of sending the child back to Milvor, and 
 do not believe her guilty of her father's mur 
 der, you are none the less a law-breaker your 
 self in bringing her away, and she one in 
 coining. I shall not send her hack to Milvor, 
 but neither shall I permit her to leave this 
 place with you. I will keep her under my 
 own eye." 
 
 " I don't want to be impudent, Mr. Brent, 
 but isn't it law-breaking for you to keep her 
 just as much as it was for me to take her?" 
 asked Paul shrewdly. 
 
 The question was one which had already 
 risen with troublesome persistency in Brent's 
 own mind, and he answered it from the lips 
 of another, as he had answered it to himself : 
 
 " Here, in the woods, I have a right to take 
 the law in some measure into my own hands. I 
 must decide for myself many questions which, 
 elsewhere, would be decided for me." 
 
 Paul Freeman stared for a moment, consid 
 ered the question, and then said heartily : 
 
 " Well, that's so, sir ; and though you won't 
 trust me, I'll trust you not only on your ac 
 count, for that a'n't much, but on her account, 
 which is a good deal. I'll stop with you, if 
 you'll have me, and I'll let her stop too
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 47 
 
 though, of course, I could take her away from 
 here as easy as I could from Milvor, if I set 
 out to do it. I'm a Yankee boy, sir, and 
 they're smart, they are." 
 
 " I was a Yankee boy myself once," coolly 
 replied Brent ; " but I find that truth and 
 honor are as effective weapons, in the long 
 run, as all the boasted ' smartness ' of our 
 countrymen. If I have judged her rightly, 
 Ruth Brewster is of my way of thinking. Let 
 us see." 
 
 And Brent, who had seen the child from the 
 window where he stood, opened the door and 
 called her in. She came quickly, but timidly. 
 Brent took her hand, and looked her steadily 
 in the face. 
 
 " Ruth," said he, " you feel the importance 
 of a promise, and you can keep one through 
 all temptation to break it. So much I know 
 of you. Now will you make me a promise ?" 
 Ruth glanced aside at Paul, upward v at 
 Brent, colored slightly, and said : 
 " I can't give up Paul, sir." 
 " I do not ask you to give him up. The 
 promise I speak of is, that you will not leave 
 this place, either alone or with any one else, 
 without my knowledge and consent. Will 
 you sacredly promise this ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I will." And with instinctive 
 gesture, the child placed her slender, pale 
 hand in that of Marston Brent, and looked 
 confidingly into his face. 
 
 " Thank you, Ruth that will do," said 
 Brent kindly. " Please to wait for me a mo 
 ment outside the door." 
 
 Ruth obeyed, and when they were alone, 
 the master calmly said : 
 
 " The child's honor is my sufficient guaran 
 tee against any amount of ' smartness ' on 
 your part, Paul ; and now we will lay aside 
 all weapons, and meet on the common ground 
 of interest in Ruth, and a mutual duty to each 
 other. Work with me instead of against me, 
 and we shall both fare the better. Is it a bar 
 gain, my lad?" 
 
 " It's a bargain, sir," said the boy, putting 
 his hand into that cordially outstretched to 
 ward him ; and as he walked slowly away into 
 the hemlock forest, Paul Freeman thought : 
 
 " 'Honor and truth better than smartness ? : 
 Let me see. Why not try to join them alto 
 gether ? I don't see but what they'd fay ir 
 well enough." 
 
 Brent, meantime, took Ruth by the hand 
 and led her to Zilpah. 
 
 " Here is a little girl who wants some 
 lothes," said he gayly. " How are we to 
 get them for her ?" 
 
 " Good land ! You don't say so, do you 
 now ?" exclaimed the wily dame, apparently 
 overwhelmed with astonishment. " A gal ! 
 And what's your name, dear ?" 
 
 " Ruth," replied the child timidly. 
 
 " Ruth Freeman, instead of Willy Freeman ! 
 Now, do tell ! And so you wanted to steal 
 iff along of Paul, and thought you'd pass for 
 lis brother instead of his sister, 'cause you 
 tnew we couldn't think of taking a little gal 
 along, when we might like a boy well enough. 
 There, there, you needn't say a word. I un 
 derstand all about it, and I'll tell the men, so's 
 they needn't wonder. But how will you make 
 out for clothes ?" 
 
 " I guess Paul has got mine along with his. 
 [Ie said he'd bring them," said Ruth shyly. 
 
 " Did ? Well, that will make it all handy ; 
 and when Mr. Brent sends to town, he can get 
 some factory cotton and gingham, and I'll 
 make you up another suit or so, and that'll be 
 all you'll need ; and then you can help round 
 the house. On the whole, I'm glad you a'n't 
 a boy." 
 
 " Well, is it all settled?" asked Brent, who 
 !iad retired a little from the feminine discus 
 sion of clothes, and who now returned. 
 
 " Yes all settled," replied Zilpah hastily ; 
 and the young man asked no further ques 
 tions. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 AN EASTERN SPICE. 
 
 " THAT is all, Fanny ; you may go and or 
 der James to drive round to the door. Now, 
 Beatrice, please look at yourself in the full- 
 length mirror, and say that you approve my 
 taste." 
 
 Miss Wansted rose from the low chair in 
 which she had submitted, during the last 
 hour, to the hands of her hair-dresser and la- 
 dies'-maid, and obediently placed herself in 
 front of the mirror. Confrontuig her in its 
 depths she saw a regal figure, clothed in soft, 
 lustreless white silk the hem, open neck, and 
 short sleeves of the dress ornamented with em 
 broidery of gold wrought in a classic pattern ; 
 while the arms, the white throat, and the 
 bands of brown-gold hair were encircled with 
 chains of antique cameos, set in dead Etruscan 
 gold "Vezey Chappelleford's almost priceless
 
 48 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 gift to liis constant entertainer, Israel Barstow, 
 and transferred by him to his niece. 
 
 From this simple, severely classic, and yet 
 magnificent toilet, shone a face more incon- 
 testably beautiful than that Marston Brent 
 had seen reflected beside his own in the moun 
 tain-pool, where Millbrook pauses in her de 
 scent of Moloch more beautiful, because more 
 thoughtful, more assured bearing traces of a 
 deeper life and larger experience. 
 
 " Well, what do you think ?" demanded 
 Mrs. Charlton, a little impatiently. 
 
 " Why, that I ought to be named Lucia, or 
 Claudia, or Veronica, at the least. If Lord 
 Macaulay were to suddenly drop in upon our 
 transatlantic gathering, he would suspect me 
 of intriguing for a Lay of Ancient Rome in my 
 especial honor," said Beatrice laughing. 
 
 " He would probably lay his ancient Rome 
 aside, and devote himself to youthful Colum 
 bia in your person, my dear. Confess now 
 that face, figure, manner, and costume harmo 
 nize admirably in the picture you seem so sat 
 isfied to contemplate, and I am so delighted 
 to claim as my own production." 
 
 But Beatrice was spared a reply she might 
 have found difficult to render both truthful 
 and modest, by the entrance of a servant -with 
 a bouquet. 
 
 "For Miss Wansted, with Mr. Laforet's 
 compliments," said he, presenting it. 
 
 Mrs. Charlton eagerly examined it; then 
 laid it somewhat contemptuously upon the 
 dressing-table. 
 
 " Roses, camellias, fuchsias, salvja, heath 
 every thing in the hot-house and all bundled 
 together without design or sentiment. You 
 must not touch it, Beatrice, under penalty of 
 spoiling your entire toilet." 
 
 " Poor Mr. Laforet !" smiled Beatrice, rather 
 languidly. 
 
 " I hardly think you should carry a bouquet 
 at all," continued Juanita thoughtfully. "I 
 do not know what would suit that dress." 
 
 The door again swung open to admit Thom 
 as, carrying, with imperturbable face, another 
 bouquet upon his salver, and saying, in pre 
 cisely the same tone he had used before : 
 
 " For Miss Wansted, with the compliments 
 of a friend." 
 
 " A friend ! What friend, I wonder," ex 
 claimed Beatrice, while Mrs. Charlton exam 
 ined the offering with a very different look 
 from that she had bestowed upon its prede 
 cessor. 
 
 " Now that 5s almost a miracle. I could not 
 have selected it better myself. Nothing but 
 a spike of tuberoses and a handful of Parma 
 violets in tliisporte-bouquet of Venetian filagree. 
 Thoroughly Italian, if not precisely Roman. 
 Now, this is admirable." 
 
 " But who is the friend ? I do not like ac 
 cepting or carrying anonymous porte-boitquets, 
 although I cannot object to the flowers," said 
 Beatrice a little anxiously. 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear," quietly replied 
 her chaperone. " If almost any gentleman 
 had offered the bauble in person, or over his 
 own name, you must have refused it, of 
 course ; but dropping from Heaven, as it does, 
 you must accept it as a gift of Heaven or, to 
 suit your ideas to your dress, as a gift of the 
 gods." 
 
 "Well, then, as a gift of the gods. And 
 now are we ready ? How nicely you are look- 
 iijg yourself, Juanita. I have been so selfish, 
 and so tired, I believe, that I have not looked 
 at you until now." 
 
 " I do very well," said Mrs. Charlton care 
 lessly, as she cast one comprehensive glance 
 at her own toilet of wine-colored velvet, rich 
 black lace, and the garnets which blazed like 
 red-hot coals upon her white, satiny neck and 
 arms, and among the abundant folds of her 
 blue-black hair. 
 
 "Yes, I do well enough for an old woman. 
 Come, here are your handkerchief, your gloves, 
 and this fan, dear, which I should like to give 
 you. I have had it for some time, but never 
 carried it white silk embroidered with gold 
 almost in the same pattern as your dress, you 
 see." 
 
 " Admirable ! How very kind of you, Juan 
 ita. You think too much of me, and too little 
 of yourself," said Beatrice, Avith a flush of 
 self-reproach ; and then the two beautiful 
 women went together down the stairs, and 
 were escorted to their carriage by Mr. Bar- 
 stow, who sat smoking in his library with his 
 friend Chappellefbrd. 
 
 "Qood-by, dears," said he, as they seated 
 themselves with all the pleasant flutter of 
 silken skirts, perfumed handkerchiefs, laces, 
 bouquets, jewels, wraps, that attend such em 
 barkations. " Have a nice time, and we will 
 look in before you come home." 
 
 Half an hour later, Beatrice was the centre 
 of a crowd of courtiers, and bearing herself 
 right royally among them. Not even the ri 
 vals, who enviously watched the assumed ease
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 49 
 
 and grace of her every movement, and noted 
 the manner so nicely balanced between dig 
 nity and archness, could find a flaw in either, 
 or could suggest a possible improvement in 
 person, dress, or bearing ; nor could the most 
 critical observer detect in the style of this, the 
 latest " queen of society," any trace of the 
 country breeding she never thought of con 
 cealing, unless in a certain freshness and vi 
 tality always remarked, and always celebrated 
 by Miss Wansted's admirers. She was not 
 without her weapons either, and could defend 
 herself upon occasion, as when Laforet, lead 
 ing her to the head of a set of Lancers, mur 
 mured reproachfully : 
 
 " My poor flowers were not worthy to be 
 carried to-night, then ?" 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Laforet, I have a quarrel with 
 you upon that subject ! Which of my ill- 
 wishers, what woman selected that bouquet 
 for yon to send me ?" 
 
 " Ill-wishers ! Woman ! I beg your par 
 don for echoing your words, and also for my 
 stupidity, but what do you mean ?" asked the 
 unfortunate Laforet in great bewilderment. 
 
 " Why they were so magnificent, so rich 
 and varied in their colors, so conspicuous in 
 their brilliancy, so altogether admirable in 
 every way, that they would have utterly anni 
 hilated the wearer. She would have become 
 merely the woman carrying that bouquet. 
 Now, what but feminine malice could have 
 suggested such a mode of smothering me in 
 honey? Confess, Mr. Laforet tell me her 
 name." 
 
 And Beatrice, flashing a bewildering smile 
 into her partner's face, turned to balance at 
 the corner with Rein, the artist, who seized 
 the occasion to murmur : 
 
 " If you would only sit to me in that 
 dress !" 
 
 " I will lend it you with the greatest pleas 
 ure," replied Beatrice, returning to her part 
 ner, who began : 
 
 " No ; but really were the flowers so unbe 
 coming?" 
 
 " The flowers were magnificent. It was I 
 who was not equal to the occasion. Forward 
 with me, please." 
 
 And Mr. Laforet finished the Lancers in a 
 state of mind equally balanced between doubt 
 and delight. 
 
 "But if I might ask, who gave you th 
 flowers you carry?" inquired he, escorting his 
 partner to her seat. 
 4 
 
 " It would be an odd question for you to ask. 
 or me to answer ; but if you should ask, and I 
 should be indulgent enough to answer, I could 
 only say what was said to me : they are from 
 a friend." 
 
 " That means any one among a hundred 
 men," said Laforet. 
 
 " One among a hundred ? One among a 
 thousand, if he were really a friend," returned 
 Beatrice with a smile more bitter than gay, 
 and a little gesture of dismissal. 
 
 " Miss Wansted, allow me to present Mr 
 Monckton, a gentleman who can give you the 
 latest news of the anthropophagi and King 
 Theodore," said the hostess, pausing with a 
 gentleman in front of Beatrice. 
 
 Murmuring the conventional answer, she 
 looked up, and met the regards of a pair of 
 alert brown eyes set in a thin and deeply 
 bronzed face, whose claim to beauty was one 
 to be considered before determining. 
 
 " May. I sit down, Miss Wansted ? I am so 
 accustomed to making myself comfortable 
 whenever I have the opportunity." 
 
 " Certainly ; although, from what Mrs. Wes 
 ley says of the direction of your travels, I 
 should not imagine comfort to have been your 
 principal object," said Beatrice, quietly re 
 moving her skirts from an ottoman beside her 
 chair. 
 
 " No. But like most of the good things I 
 have obtained in this world, it has often come 
 to me while I was looking for something 
 else. For instance, I came here to-night be 
 cause I thought I must, and I have been 
 introduced to you." 
 
 " I thought persons who travelled learned 
 new things," remarked Beatrice very sweetly. 
 
 Mr. Monckton colored a little, then laughed. 
 
 " Really, Miss Wansted, I know it is rude to 
 be personal, but you must allow me to say I 
 had no idea that you would do that sort of 
 thing," said he. 
 
 " What sort of thing, please ?" 
 
 " The sarcastic and humiliating sort of 
 thing the discovering so quickly, and tell 
 ing me so frankly, that I was talking like a 
 fool." 
 
 " Not at all. I only meant that you talked 
 as if you supposed me one." 
 
 " I shall never again suppose you one." 
 
 " Again ?" repeated Beatrice, with a smile of 
 quiet malice. 
 
 " Now, really, Miss Wansted ! But I have 
 been so long out of society the society of
 
 50 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 ladies, at least that a good deal must be par 
 doned. I have forgotten the usages of the 
 beau monde, you perceive." 
 
 " And I have never learned them ; so let us 
 lay aside all thought of them, and talk like 
 human beings uncorrupted by this beau monde 
 of which you speak. Have you really trav 
 elled in the East ?" 
 
 " From Alexandria to the Vale of Kash- 
 meer, and from Jaffa to Jerusalem and the 
 plains of Palestine," said Monckton, smiling 
 frankly. 
 
 " And will you please tell me all about it ?" 
 
 "All!" 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; for where could you stop when 
 once you had begun f i" 
 
 " And will you give me time to tell all V 
 
 " Begin, please." 
 
 " Shall I tell you then, while we watch 
 these dancers and listen to this charming 
 music, of a nautch that I attended in Delhi, 
 when the eldest son of Rajah Ahmed Defter 
 Singh was married to the daughter of the 
 Baboo Ali Raj Malimoo ?" 
 
 " Pray do. But remember, please, that I 
 have read the Arabian Nights and also the 
 Tliousand and One Days." 
 
 " I will quote neither, but tell you the truth 
 pur et simple. I was in Delhi " 
 
 " Miss Wansted, I believe I have your 
 promise for this quadrille," said a young gen 
 tleman, bowing before the lady, whose smile 
 of acquiescence was, to say the least, a little 
 forced. 
 
 " It is the German, and will last all the 
 evening," said she apologetically, as she rose 
 from Mr. Monckton's side. 
 
 " And my poor nautch story ? May I come 
 and tell it you to-morrow '>." 
 
 " Thank you," said Beatrice, a little doubt 
 fully. 
 
 " I think my old friend, Mr. Barstow, will 
 not close his door in my face. Au revoir," 
 said Monckton smiling. 
 
 And Beatrice, her doubt resolved, answered 
 gayly : 
 
 "Au reooir then." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 THE BEDOUIN IN THE DESERT. 
 
 WITH the morrow came Mr. Monckton, and 
 Beatrice, somewhat to her own surprise, found 
 herself interested in his coming. 
 
 " You will see him, June, will you not ? 
 
 asked she of Mrs. Charlton, \vlio was doing 
 Sultana in a cashmere wrapper, with her slip 
 pered feet curled under her, upon the lounge 
 in Miss Wansted's sitting-room. 
 
 " Must I ? For whom did he ask, Thomas ?" 
 
 " He is with Mr. Barstow, ma'am, and Mr. 
 Barstow told me to speak to the ladies." 
 
 " Oh ! well ; if your uncle is down-stairs, 
 there is no need of my going and really I am 
 so comfortable. Tell him, please, Trix, that I 
 am used up with last evening's gayeties that 
 is, if he inquires." And Mrs. Charlton, with a 
 luxurious sigh, sank back among her cushions, 
 as Beatrice, with a little smile upon her lips, 
 went down-stairs, and glided into the drawing- 
 room with the stately and yet graceful motion 
 characteristic of her. 
 
 Monckton stood, hat and cane in hand, 
 looking at a picture upon the wall. It waa 
 an odd bit, the freak of some dreamy artist, 
 starving with cold in his barren garret, per 
 haps, and mocking the sufferings of his body 
 with the illimitable fancies of his soul. At 
 least, that was the theory Beatrice had framed 
 about this sketch, and for the sake of the 
 theory, had asked her uncle to buy it. 
 
 An immense level plain Sahara perhaps 
 stretching away in such admirable perspective 
 that the eye returned from seeking the van 
 ishing-point, weary and strained a coppery 
 sky arching the yellow sand, with no cloud 
 upon it except the faint white wreaths so ex 
 pressive of intense heat the last faint breath 
 of earth, as they seem, sent up in an expiring 
 prayer to heaven. 
 
 In the midst of this plain, a fallen camel, 
 lying with outstretched neck, gaping mouth, 
 and staring eyeballs, the limbs slightly con 
 vulsed in dying agony, and standing upon his 
 prostrate body a solitary Arab, shading his 
 eyes with his hand, and searching the horizon 
 for the help that we read in the whole tone of 
 the piece was not to come. 
 .- One long shadow of man and beast stretched 
 far toward the West, and faded into the sands 
 by fine gradations of color. 
 
 That was all ; and yet Miss Wansted had 
 gazed for an hour at that picture, and turned 
 away unsatisfied. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Monckton," said she 
 now. " Do you remember the scene ?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon good-morning," said 
 the traveller, cordially extending his hand. 
 " Yes, I remember the scene." 
 
 " You remember it 1"
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 51 
 
 " Yes, or rather I remember as much of it 
 as human eye ever saw." 
 
 " Oh ! what do you mean ? Pray tell me all 
 about it." 
 
 And Beatrice, with a look of excited inter 
 est, rare enough upon her statuesque features, 
 Bank into a seat, and motioned her guest to 
 another, her eyes continuing the eager inquiry 
 of her lips. 
 
 Monckton smiled, well pleased. 
 
 " It is a fortunate chance for me to have no 
 ticed this picture this morning, since it gives 
 . me an opportunity of gratifying you," said he, 
 BO simply that the words rang true, and not 
 with the hollow tinkle of flattery. 
 
 " It was three years ago," pursued the travel 
 ler, "that I, journeying from Cairo to Damas 
 cus, chose to pursue the old desert route, and 
 in the old desert fashion ; for to my mind, this 
 invasion of the Orient by steam, and this erec 
 tion of railway-stations and free-lunch bootlis 
 within the shadow of the Pyramids, and 
 under the very eyes of the Sphinx, is a sacri 
 lege likely enough to bring back old Cheops 
 to avenge it ; and one looks to see each grain 
 of sand become a dusky warrior, armed with 
 bow. and spear, and hungry for the slaughter. 
 At any rate, I preferred the camels and the 
 caravan, and so did Floyd, a young artist 
 whom I found hanging about Cairo, full of 
 fancies and inspiration, and singularly empty 
 of every thing else. Finding that he was 
 eager to get to Damascus, and utterly devoid 
 of means, I offered him an opportunity, and we 
 set out." 
 
 " How grateful he must have felt to you !" 
 said Beatrice softly, while her shining eyes 
 spoke sweet applause of the generous deed. 
 But Monckton laughed. 
 
 " Grateful !" echoed he. " Pardon me, Miss 
 Wansted, but that remark speaks better for 
 your heart than your experience. No man is 
 grateful for having what he fancies his rights 
 offered him as an alms, and I saved myself 
 from Floyd's enmity only by asking him to 
 come along as a protector and reliable com 
 panion, for I had no white man with me then. 
 As for the camels and provisions, they were 
 already engaged, and his presence made no 
 difference, which view of the case he oblig 
 ingly accepted, and consented to oblige me. 
 
 " Four days out of Cairo, Floyd and I, in 
 dulging in an eccentric tour around an oasis, 
 missed our company just at nightfall, and 
 were forced to encamp upon the sand. Early 
 
 in the morning, we remounted, and j ust before 
 falling in with our men, we came upon that 
 scene with a difference, for the poor Bedouin 
 lay with his head upon his camel's neck, as 
 dead as he. The camel, we noticed, had been 
 wounded in the leg, probably in some desert 
 fray, and had been unable to bring his master 
 to the journey's end before both were ex 
 hausted and fell, almost within sight of har 
 bor. Floyd seemed very much impressed, and 
 lingered longer than I liked, examining now 
 the group, now the surrounding scene, with a 
 dreamy look in his eyes that I was sure meant 
 picture. At last he got out his sketch-book, 
 and in half a dozen strokes caught the spirit 
 of the whole thing. Just then our fellows came 
 up ; they had missed us in the dark, and were 
 now retracing their steps to look for us. 
 They made very light of their fallen country 
 man, and even refused to bury him, saying 
 as I suppose truly that if they did take the 
 trouble, the wind or the jackals would undo 
 their labor before another day. So we rode 
 on, and left them as they lay. 
 
 " A year later, a package reached me in 
 Rome charged with so much expressage that 
 it nearly ruined me. Within was this picture, 
 and a note from Floyd, who said that he sent it 
 me as a remembrance of our pleasant journey 
 across the desert. Of course I knew that it 
 meant camel hire and hard biscuit ; but if it 
 soothed his feelings to put it in the way ha 
 did, it could not injure mine to accept both his 
 picture and his definition of its meaning, as I 
 did. Having no provision for picture trans 
 portation, however, I gave it soon after to a 
 man who seemed to fancy it excessively, but 
 who has, it appears, parted with it for filthy 
 lucre. Do you know where Mr. Barstow 
 found it ?" 
 
 " At an auction sale of paintings in New- 
 York. He asked Mrs. Charlton and me to ga 
 and look at them, and mark in the catalogue 
 what we should like. I selected this," said 
 Beatrice, looking with a new interest at the 
 desert scene. 
 
 " But," resumed she presently, feeling a 
 little nervously that Mr. Monckton's eyes were 
 as earnestly fixed upon her face as hers upon 
 the picture " but I wonder that you did not 
 keep it for yourself." 
 
 " What should I do with it?" 
 
 " Bring it home with you when you came." 
 
 Monckton smiled sadly. 
 
 " Misa Wansted, you speak in a language I
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 cannot understand. I have no home. I have 
 never known one. My childhood was passed 
 at school, my youth at foreign colleges ; my 
 manhood has been as nomadic and as igno 
 rant of the sweet influences of home as that of 
 the Bedouin, whose death may but foreshadow 
 mine." 
 
 And as the traveller fixed his eyes upon the 
 picture, a softness rarely seen in those piercing 
 orbs crossed their depths, and lent a strange 
 charm to the thin, brown face most persons 
 found so hard and unemotional. 
 
 The next moment he turned sharply, and 
 met the full, pitying gaze of those other eyes 
 whose hazel beauty he had already con 
 fessed. 
 
 " You are very good, Miss Wansted," said 
 he, answering the unspoken sympathy of that 
 look. " But I should beg your pardon for my 
 bad taste. This is but another proof of what 
 I told you last night, that I have become a 
 mere uncivilized savage, unfit for society, and 
 unworthy of the patience you have vouch 
 safed me." 
 
 " Last night I proposed that we should drop 
 the beau monde, and talk like simply a man 
 and woman," said Beatrice softly. 
 
 Monckton shot a keen glance at her face. 
 He found it slightly flushed, smiling, and 
 guileless as water, and he leaned toward it 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Miss Wansted you tempt me strangely," 
 said he. 
 
 " In what manner ?" asked Beatrice, smiling 
 still. 
 
 " To believe in you, to feel again that human 
 faith and interest which I had thought dried 
 out of my life forever. Miss Wansted, if this 
 is folly, if it is unconventional, inadmissible 
 perhaps, you should blame yourself. You 
 bid me with those candid eyes to be natural, 
 to speak from the heart out, and I speak as I 
 have not spoken for years, as I thought never 
 to speak again. Do you pardon me ?" 
 
 " For what ? Obedience ?" asked Beatrice, 
 the subtle smile of power in her eyes. 
 
 " Yes," said Monckton, steadily regarding 
 her. " I have been for many years out of the 
 artificial and hollow world we call society, 
 but I do not think I have lost the power of 
 discriminating between a fresh and ardent 
 nature, as yet uncorrupted and untrammelled 
 by that world, and a finished coquette." 
 
 " Is it so difficult to distinguish between the 
 two ?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 "More difficult than to determine between 
 
 a gem of the Palais Royal and a genuine 
 diamond," said Monckton. " And yet I am 
 sure that I am not mistaken." 
 
 " And if you are not '(" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " If I am not, I should dare to hope that 
 I might once more possess a friend ; that 
 sympathy and confidence and the honest 
 speech of heart to heart were not yet dead- 
 letter phrases for me, and that one spot of 
 earth, one human being, might become to me 
 of more importance than another. Miss Wan 
 sted, it is for you to rebuke, if you will, this 
 last and wildest folly of a life outwardly pros 
 perous, and inwardly blank and desolate as 
 that Sahara. Do you find my presumption 
 something too monstrous for reproof?" 
 
 " Why should I, Mr. Monckton ? I urged 
 you to throw aside the idea of etiquette, and 
 speak to me as honest man to honest woman. 
 You have done so, and I thank you. After 
 that, if you find my sympathy in the homeless 
 and friendless life you describe of any value, 
 it is yours ; if you care to try whether that 
 sympathy and our mutual liking can become 
 a friendship, I will help you ; and if it is so, you 
 will be no better pleased than I, for I too am 
 lonely, and sometimes heart-sick, and I too 
 need a friend." 
 
 Her voice softened and faltered upon the 
 last words, and Monckton looked at her as 
 shrewdly and more kindly than JuanitaCharl- 
 ton had done in first espying her heart- wound. 
 Past masters both, in this world's lore, they 
 had both found it quickly enough, and viewed 
 it, the one with the indulgent and delicate 
 pity of man for woman, the other with the 
 scornful and inquisitive pity of woman for 
 woman. 
 
 " Then, Heaven helping us, we two are to 
 become friends," said Monckton, rising and 
 offering his hand. 
 
 "Yes," replied Beatrice, laying hers in it 
 with a confiding smile. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 A DINNER-PARTY. 
 
 Mn. CHAPPELLEFORD was not in a good- 
 humor in fact, he was in a very bad one, 
 and developed it in so many and such decided 
 forms, that even his patient friend, Israel 
 Barstow, was nearly out of patience with him, 
 and Miss Wansted entirely so. As for Mr. 
 Monckton, who made the fifth at Mr. Barstow'a 
 little dinner-party, he received the attacks, 
 covert or open, of his fellow-guest much as he
 
 THE SHADOW OP MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 would have done those of an ill-conditioned 
 family dog as something to be courteously 
 tolerated on account of its proprietors, so 
 long as it remained in their presence ; but with 
 a reserved right upon the part of the sufferer 
 in favor of vengeance at the earliest possible 
 opportunity. 
 
 Mrs. Charlton, the remaining guest, looked 
 on with an air of impartial and cynical amuse 
 ment at licr uncle's ill-humor, her host's un 
 easiness, Beatrice's indignation, and Mr. 
 Monckton's patient endurance. 
 
 " So, Livingstone has turned up all right," 
 said Mr. Barstow, casting about for a remark 
 adapted to the tone of his company, and not 
 likely to provoke discussion. 
 
 " Who's Livingstone ?" inquired Mr. Chap- 
 pelleford, in a tone of contemptuous indiffer 
 ence. 
 
 "Livingstone! why ah why, of course 
 you know whom I mean," stammered the host, 
 already doubtful of his own authenticity. 
 
 " There was a person of that name who 
 went peddling beads and calico-aprons among 
 the negroes do you refer to him ?" 
 
 " Why, he's the great African traveller of 
 course every one acknowledges that, don't 
 they ?" insisted Mr. Barstow, growing a little 
 warm. 
 
 " Great ! Well, I don't know. Little men 
 might find him so," replied the cynic. 
 
 " The title of the great African traveller 
 should, I think, be given rather to Speke, for 
 he has solved the question of centuries as to 
 the source of the Nile, and penetrated farther 
 than any man before him into the interior of 
 Africa," said Monckton quietly. 
 
 " Solved the question of the source of the 
 Nile ''. So have a dozen adventurers before 
 him, and so will a dozen after, Mr. Monckton. 
 Who is to say that this Lake Victoria N'yanza 
 is more stationary or reliable than other Afri 
 can water-holes and rain-puddles ? The Nile 
 may rise there to-day and somewhere else to 
 morrow, and probably does, even granting 
 which is a great deal to grant that this man 
 Paddleford, Livingstone, Speke whatever his 
 name is has been there at all, or knows any 
 thing about the matter. As for penetrating 
 into the interior of Africa, what does that 
 amount to ? The negroes away from the 
 coast wear bones in their noses, and those on 
 the coast wear oyster-shells ; the first breech 
 themselves with cocoa-cloth, and the last with 
 kelp leaves: what difference does it make to 
 us which is which ? Of course one sees why 
 
 this insatiate trader risked his life, and those 
 of the fools who accompanied him, by his ex 
 plorations. The remoter the savage from civ 
 ilization, the more value he attaches to beads, 
 and the more gold-dust he is willing to pay 
 for them." 
 
 " But then it makes us, who are so civilized, 
 and none of us at all like savages, appreciate 
 our own advantages so much the more highly, 
 to hear of these poor, ignorant, rude creatures, 
 who know no better than to talk and behave 
 as they do," said Beatrice, whose burning 
 cheeks and sparkling eyes strongly belied the 
 unconscious and nai've tone she attempted. 
 
 Mr Chappelleford shot a keen glance in her 
 direction from beneath the gray pent-house 
 of his brows. 
 
 " I read a pretty story that would please a 
 young lady, I should think, in one of these 
 African books," said he. " The story of a male 
 humming-bird attacked and nearly demol 
 ished by a bigger bird, when, just as the hum 
 ming-bird was about to succumb, his mate, 
 who had watched the contest from her nest, 
 dashed down into the face and eyes of the in 
 truder and beat him off -by sheer audacity, as 
 you may say." 
 
 " Audacious courage may be admired, but 
 
 audacious insolence " began Beatrice ; but 
 
 her trembling voice was covered by Mrs. 
 Cliarlton's full, round tones : 
 
 " That reminds me, Mr. Barstow, of the 
 loveliest thing I ever saw. It was a hum 
 ming-bird worn as an ornament to the hair 
 by a lady at Mrs. Lee's, last night, and com 
 posed entirely of gems. You never saw any 
 thing so magnificent, and I resolved to tell 
 you of it, because you admire jewels so much." 
 
 " Yes, I do, and I should like, of all things, 
 to see this one. Do you suppose another is to 
 be found for sale ?" 
 
 " Oh ! dear, no. This was Parisian, and, I 
 presume, made to order. It must have cost a 
 fortune," said Mrs. Charlton, glancing at the 
 faces of her companions, and wondering 
 whether the diversion had been effectual. 
 
 " I wish you would write as good a descrip 
 tion of it as possible for me," said Mr. Bar- 
 stow thoughtfully. 
 
 Mrs. Charlton laughed. 
 
 " Oh ! I could not let Beatrice wear it if you 
 had it made," said she ; " it would be entirely 
 inharmonious with her style ; and, you know, 
 she is in my hands this year." 
 
 "vEsop has a fable of a fox, who took charge 
 of a farmer's poultry-yard, and, strange to say,
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 found his own advantage in tlie position," re 
 marked Mr. Chappelleiord. 
 
 Juanita softly laughed and turned to 
 Monckton. 
 
 " You must have seen some splendid jewels 
 in the East, Mr. Monckton," said she, inquir 
 ingly- 
 
 "Yes ; I was just thinking of a set of tur 
 quoise shown me at Delhi. They would have 
 suited Miss Wansted admirably." 
 
 " I have seen turquoise from Delhi of re 
 markable beauty. How were these set?" 
 asked Mrs. Charlton. 
 
 " Very elegantly with pearls. There was a 
 crescent for the hair, a chain of stars for the 
 throat, and bracelets with pendent ornaments 
 of gold in various Oriental devices. They 
 were very handsome." 
 
 "I should think so. Now, Mr. Barstow, 
 where is your express for Delhi 1" asked 
 Juanita, with a little laugh. 
 
 " I wish I knew how to send there, and I 
 would do it in a minute," said the merchant, 
 smiling meaningly upon his niece, whose 
 cheeks were slowly regaining their natural 
 color. 
 
 Mr. Monckton unclosed his lips as if to 
 speak, shut them again, and smiled a little. 
 Mrs. Charlton, whose neighbor he was, also 
 smiled and whispered : 
 
 " You have them, and will offer them to " 
 
 "My fiancee" murmured the traveller in 
 reply ; and Juanita looked thoughtfully at 
 Beatrice. 
 
 " The jewels of India are no more than tra 
 ditions now," said Chappelleford dreamily. 
 " When one reads of Shah Jehan's peacock 
 throne, six feet long and four broad, one solid 
 block of gold, surmounted by a canopy sup 
 ported upon twelve pillars, all of the same 
 metal, and all inlaid with the most marvellous 
 of Oriental gems, while at the hack stood the 
 golden peacocks, their fans blazing with 
 jewels worth a monarch's ransom, and re 
 members that this was but an item an ad 
 junct of the Mogul's imperial state then we 
 look with somewhat of impatience upon the 
 trinkets of the modern Chandee Chok." 
 
 " Is that story about the throne literally 
 true, Chappelleford '(" asked Mr. Barstow 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " It is as literal as Israel Barstow himself," 
 replied the philosopher. 
 
 " And what might such a thing be worth in 
 money ? Do any of your books tell that ?'' 
 
 " Oh ! yes. It was seen by one Tavernier, 
 a jeweller, who visited Delhi, in the way of 
 trade, and who estimated it professionally at a 
 sum about equivalent to thirty millions of dol 
 lars. It was made by a Frenchman, too, one 
 Austin, of Bordeaux a fellow who, obliged to 
 leave his country to save his neck, took refuge 
 in the domain of the Grand Mogul, and turned 
 his talents to account by decorating the im 
 perial palace. The ceiling of the throne-cham 
 ber, also his handiwork, was of gold and sil 
 ver filagree, and round the cornice ran an in 
 scription, in golden letters, to this effect : 
 
 ' If there be a paradise on earth, it is here it is here I' 
 
 That was what Shah Jehan had to say for 
 himself, and he had hardly seen the golden lie 
 put in its place, when his four rebellious sons 
 clapped him into prison in the fortress of Agra, 
 and kept him there until he died. It took 
 ten years to kill him, however, and he kept 
 some of his best jewels until the last. Au- 
 rungzebe, the third son and successful usurp 
 er, used to send polite messages to his 
 papa, inquiring the state of his health, and 
 asking if he had not better give up the care 
 and responsibility of those jewels to his affec 
 tionate son and successor. Old Shah Jehan 
 answered in the same strain until he got 
 tired of it, and then he sent word that he 
 should never give up the jewels while he 
 lived, and that if any attempt was made to 
 take them by force, he would pound them to 
 atoms with a big hammer, which he kept in 
 readiness. After that they let him alone." 
 
 " But what became of the peacock throne, 
 and where is it now?" asked Mr. Barstow. 
 
 " About a century after Shah Jehan's depo 
 sition," said the scholar, leaning his elbow 
 upon the table, and shading his eyes with his 
 hand, " Nadur Shah, a Persian soldier-king, 
 invaded India, conquered Delhi, and murdered 
 Mohummud Shah, the emperor of the day, in 
 spite of the most abject submission and the 
 most piteous entreaties on the part of that un 
 happy prince. Then he gave up the city of 
 Delhi to his soldiers for rapine and pillage, with 
 out restraint , and the historians say that the 
 aqueduct through the middle of the Chandeo 
 Chok, or principal street of Delhi, ran red 
 with the blood of her slaughtered inhabitants. 
 Six weeks later, Nadur Shah returned home, 
 carrying with him the peacock throne, all the 
 imperial jewels, and a countless treasure be 
 side. That was the death-blow of the Mogul
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 55 
 
 empire ; and next came the English, ready, 
 ghoul-like, to devour the poor remains of the 
 dead sovereignty." 
 
 " Was it not Shah Jehan who built the Taj 
 at Agra, of which you were telling me the 
 other night?" asked Beatrice, over whose 
 mood a story exercised as inolliiying an influ 
 ence as over that of Schariar himself ; nor was 
 this circumstance unknown to Mr. Chappelle- 
 ford, who now answered courteously : 
 
 " Yes, in honor of h^s wife, Moomtaz-ee-Ma- 
 hal, the ornament of the Harem, and niece 
 of the more celebrated Noor-Mahal, wife of 
 Jehan-geer." 
 
 " I saw the Taj while I was in India, and it 
 is really a marvellous structure. Shah Jehan 
 himself is buried there, they tell me," said 
 Monckton. 
 
 " Yes ; after he was dead, his son did not 
 know what else to do with him, and so tucked 
 him in beside poor Moomtaz, who thought, I 
 suppose, that she might at least have her 
 tomb to herself ; but Aurungzebe was of an 
 economical turn of mind, in all but his* own 
 pleasures, and by making room for papa in 
 the Taj, he gave him a magnificent mauso 
 leum, without its costing the reigning sover 
 eign a single rupee. Shrewd fellow, Aurung 
 zebe," said the philosopher, obeying the signal 
 to rise from the table. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 T II E AMULET. 
 
 " STEP into the library a moment, if you 
 please, Miss Wansted," said Mr. Chappelle- 
 ford, as, dinner over, the guests went up-stairs 
 together. ''I brought that proof-engraving 
 of which I was speaking to show to you, and 
 left it in here. Will you look at it ?" 
 
 " Certainly," said Beatrice, still a little 
 coldly. " But why not take it into the draw 
 ing-room, and let our friends see it also?" 
 
 " Because I brought it for you, and not for 
 your ' friends,' as you call them." 
 
 " I said our friends," replied Beatrice 
 smiling. 
 
 "None for me, thank you," replied the 
 philosopher. " It is some years since I in 
 dulged in that delusion." 
 
 "What of friendship?" 
 
 " Exactly. It is one of the dreams of youth, 
 and as impossible to retain as your milk-teeth. 
 There, is not that a fine head ?" 
 
 " Admirable. But about friendship I wish 
 you would not say such things," said Beatrice, 
 only glancing at the engraving, and fixing her 
 wistful eyes upon the shrewd, sad face of the - 
 philosopher. 
 
 " Why do you wish so ?" 
 
 " Because you know so much, and are so 
 often right when we differ, that it terrifies me 
 to have you assert what I cannot bear to be 
 lieve true." 
 
 " Then you have a particular fancy for this 
 particular delusion ?" asked Mr. Chappelle- 
 ford, not unkindly. 
 
 " Fancy ! I consider friendship one of the 
 holiest and sweetest of realities, and it is be 
 cause I do not wish to have my faith dis 
 turbed that I dread to hear you speak 
 of it." 
 
 " Like the man falling asleep at low-water 
 mark, who begs his companions not to disturb 
 his nap." 
 
 " But even if friendship is a dream, it will 
 not hurt me to believe in it. There is no 
 approaching destruction like that threaten 
 ing the sleeper you speak of," pleaded Bea 
 trice. 
 
 " Which is worse, destruction of your body 
 or destruction of your interest in keeping it 
 alive ?" asked Chappelleford. " Believe in a 
 man, and after he has deceived you, or after 
 you have proved him a fool, you despise or 
 hate all men on his account. Avoid friend 
 ship, that you may continue to care for man 
 kind. If you wish to value the species, 
 don't examine specimens familiarity breeds 
 contempt." 
 
 " Mr. Chappelleford ! yours is a very 
 dreary faith !" exclaimed Beatrice bitterly. / 
 
 " My dear young lady, when you come to 
 my time of life, it will be yours as well. I re 
 member the period when I too believed in all 
 these pretty toys of friendship, confidence, 
 mutual reliance, and the rest, and the waking 
 from my dream was like the revivification of a 
 drowned man, who is roused from the sweet 
 visions that are death to the keen torture that 
 is life." 
 
 "And what comes afterward?" asked Be 
 atrice slowly. 
 
 "Indifference," replied the philosopher 
 drearily. " Things take the place of men, 
 theories of sentiment, speculations of pas 
 sion. You become an observer instead of an 
 actor a thinker instead of a puppet." 
 
 " And then do you become happy ?" asked 

 
 56 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 the young girl slowly wringing her hands 
 together 
 
 "Happy!" echoed the philosopher scorn 
 fully. " What is the need of that ? Content 
 yourself with your position as an atom in 
 creation, and do not expect the universe to be 
 delayed, or its eternal order to be disturbed, 
 because you do not like travelling so fast, or 
 because some other atom becomes divided 
 from you. Nothing is more puerile than this 
 outcry for happiness in which young persons 
 constantly indulge. Make yourself happy, if 
 you choose, with what you have, or, if you 
 prefer, go unhappy, but expect nothing better 
 than what chances to befall you, for you will 
 not get it. And, after all, happiness is princi 
 pally a question of digestion, and your best 
 friend is a pill-box." 
 
 "I do not like you in this mood, Mr. 
 Chappelleford, and I am going to the draw 
 ing-room," said Beatrice, turning toward the 
 door. 
 
 The cynic smiled grimly, and followed her 
 across the hall. In the open doorway of the 
 drawing-room he suddenly laid a hand upon 
 her arm, and drew her slightly back. 
 
 " Look !" whispered he. " There are two of 
 the friends whom you trust the most, and 
 who have no secrets from you, as you fancy." 
 Half startled, half indignant, Beatrice fol 
 lowed the direction of his eyes, and saw Mrs 
 Charlton standing with Mr. Monckton in the 
 recess of a bay-window at the farther end of 
 the room. She, with her face buried in her 
 hands, appeared to be weeping bitterly, and 
 he, stooping toward her, was talking in a low 
 voice, full, as the accents betrayed, of tender 
 meaning. As Beatrice looked, he extended 
 his hand with something in it toward the 
 weeping woman, who seized and kissed it 
 passionately. Then she made some request, 
 in a voice broken with sobs, and Monckton, 
 leaning over her, clasped the bauble he held 
 about her neck. Seizing it in both hands, 
 Juanita kissed it again and again, while 
 Monckton leaned caressingly over her. 
 
 " No secrets from you, you know," whis 
 pered Mr. Chappelleford mockingly. 
 And Beatrice angrily replied : 
 " At least you shall not make a spy of me," 
 and walked openly into the room. 
 
 As she approached the window, Monckton 
 came forward, and with a skilful remark, 
 drew her to the piano where lay some new 
 music, while Juanita made her escape through 
 
 a door at the farther end of the room. Be 
 atrice understood the manoeuvre, and smiled 
 sadly. For a moment she considered within 
 herself, and then fixing her eyes upon Monck- 
 ton's face, quietly asked : 
 
 " Of what were you and Juanita talking 
 when I came in ?" 
 
 "Oh! nothing much. I was speaking of 
 Venice, I believe," said the traveller; and 
 Beatrice turned away from him without a 
 word. 
 
 In a few moments, Mrs. Charlton reentered 
 the room, smiling and calm as usual ; and 
 Beatrice, sitting in a shaded corner of the 
 sofa, a fire-screen before her eyes, looked on 
 in silent amazement while she placed herself 
 at the piano, selected one of the new pieces 
 offered by Mr. Monckton, and played it through 
 with a faultless brilliancy, proving the closest 
 attention and real interest in the subject be 
 fore her. 
 
 Mr. Chappelleford, who, instead of return 
 ing to the library with his host, as was his 
 usual fashion, had followed Beatrice into the 
 drawing-room, now took a seat upon the sofa 
 reside her. 
 
 " This cannel-coal makes a very pretty 
 ire," remarked he ; but Beatrice did not hear 
 lim. 
 
 " You were telling me that you wanted a 
 tiew study yesterday," said he again. " You 
 seem to have found one. How do you like 
 
 tr 
 
 The girl turned her eyes upon him, dark 
 and piteous with anguish. 
 
 " Do not mock me," said she pleadingly. 
 ' Can it be that those two have deceived me ?" 
 
 " In what ?" 
 
 " Why, they both seemed so open and so 
 rustful with me. He said I was his friend 
 md knew all his life ; and she she always 
 spoke of him as a stranger. And now what 
 does it mean ?" 
 
 " Poor child, my warning was too late," said 
 he philosopher pitifully. " You have trusted, 
 and you have been deceived that is all only 
 he old story once more. I do not know the 
 )recise meaning of what we saw, but I do 
 tnow that Juanita Charlton is a coquette, 
 rained and practised from her earliest youth. 
 
 know that she has risked her own reputa- 
 ion and the happiness of others in more than 
 ne folly, and I know that she sincerely wishes 
 o marry any one with money and position to 
 ender her independent of me ; for which desire
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 57 
 
 I do not blame her in the least. As for Mr. 
 Monckton, I only know that he is a man." 
 
 " But when I spoke to him just now he told 
 
 me I am sure it could not have been 
 
 true," murmured Beatrice. 
 
 " It was what you should have expected. 
 Your question was a piece of Quixotic dating. 
 Not one man in a thousand could or should 
 have answered you truly." 
 
 " What ! you defend a lie?" 
 
 " For Mr. Monckton in that situation yes. 
 It was a necessary part of his system." 
 
 " What is that system ?" asked Beatrice 
 faintly. 
 
 " The system of polite, social intercourse," 
 replied the philosopher. 
 
 " What would you have done in his place?" 
 
 " I cannot imagine myself in his place ; but 
 had I been, I suppose I should have told you 
 I did not choose to answer your question. 
 That would have been bearish and brutal, and 
 that isn't Mr. Monckton's manner of doing 
 things." 
 
 " But why not the truth ?" 
 
 " What ! that I was making love to another 
 woman ! Pardon me, Miss Wansted, but you 
 suggest a stupidity." 
 
 "Better that than a lie." 
 
 " That depends upon who has the choice to 
 make," said the philosopher, rising and stroll 
 ing toward the piano, where he began to 
 speak to his niece in so confidential a tone 
 that Mr. Monckton withdrew, and after a little 
 uneasy wandering, seated himself near Be 
 atrice, who met his attempts at conversation 
 with cold reserve only tempered by remem 
 brance of her position as hostess. Monckton 
 felt it, and determined to bring the matter to 
 an issue. 
 
 " You are offended with me in some man 
 ner. What is it?" asked he. "Remember 
 that we are friends." 
 
 " How long since we became friends that 
 is, since I told you that I considered you one ?" 
 asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Nearly four months four very happy 
 months to me," said Monckton earnestly. 
 
 " Well, in all that four months I have never 
 deceived you in a single point. There are 
 passages in my life which I have not told you, 
 because I tell them to no one ; but every thing 
 that has occurred to me since you knew me, I 
 have told you with perfect unreserve, and I have 
 never answered one of your Questions with 
 less than entire truth. Do you believe this ?" 
 
 " I believe it most fully, Beatrice." 
 
 " And can you say as much upon your 
 part ?" asked Beatrice, fixing her eyes keenlv 
 upon him. 
 
 Monckton hesitated. 
 
 " Do your ideas of friendship demand as 
 much as this ?" asked he. 
 
 " Yes ; every thing or nothing," replied 
 Beatrice. 
 
 " There is only one relation of life in which 
 that can be expected," said Monckton, in a 
 still lower voice than that he had already used. 
 
 " No relation is to me more sacred than a 
 professed and accepted friendship no relation 
 demands stricter honor or more inviolable 
 confidence," said Beatrice severely. 
 
 "I know what you mean, Beatrice," said 
 Monckton, after a silent but obvious struggle ; 
 " and I cannot clear myself at present from 
 your imputation of insincerity. I confess 
 that I told you an untruth just now, when 
 you asked me, in Mr. Chappelleford's hearing, 
 of what I had been talking with Mrs. Charl- 
 ton ; but my reply was a mere form, as I 
 wished you to perceive. I could not answer 
 you, and I could not leave you unanswered. 
 I was obliged to speak, and I replied as a lady 
 does who sends word that she is not at home 
 when she means she cannot see company. 
 Nor can I very clearly explain myself, nor " 
 
 " It is quite unnecessary that you should do 
 so at all, Mr. Monckton. You confess to hav 
 ing told me one untruth this evening ; and al 
 though you defend your course in some re 
 markable manner, I am not enough of a so 
 phist to follow you. Let us drop the subject 
 at once and forever ; and I will now wish you 
 good-evening, and leave you to complete your 
 explanation to Mrs. Cliarlton, who will proba 
 bly understand it better than I can." 
 
 " Before retiring, please to receive my 
 adieux, as I am on the point of leaving. 
 Good-evening, Miss Wansted, and may our 
 next interview find you less severely and more 
 reasonably inclined. Good-evening, Mrs. 
 Charlton Mr. Chappelleford. May I trouble 
 you, Mrs. Charlton, to say good evening for me 
 to Mr. Barstow ?" 
 
 And with a formal bow to every one, lie 
 was gone ; and Beatrice, honestly indignant 
 though she felt, was yet conscious of a heavy 
 pain at her heart in feeling that he had gone 
 in anger. 
 
 Mr. Chappelleford soon took his leave ; and 
 the two women, left alone together, eyed each
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 other in the manner of familiar friends be 
 tween whom lies an unspoken secret. Slid 
 denly .luanita approached the sofa, where 
 Beatrice still sat, and crouching upon the has- 
 Bock at her feet, held up by its chain the glit 
 tering toy hanging about her neck. 
 
 "See what Mr. Monckton gave me just 
 now. It is an Eastern amulet, and was sent 
 to me by a friend whom Mr. Monckton met 
 abroad," said she. 
 
 " And he has never given it to you until to 
 night ?" asked Beatrice incredulously. 
 
 " No, he could not. I cannot tell you about 
 it just now." 
 
 " There is no need, Juanita. It is no affair 
 
 my heart ! my heart ! what are all these child 
 ish troubles to your great anguish 1 Now, at 
 least, I can be alone." 
 
 And with hurried, yet trembling steps, 
 Juanita fled to her own chamber, and locked 
 herself into it alone. 
 
 The Amulet. 
 
 of mine ; and these answers of form, as Mr. 
 Monckton calls them, are very distasteful to 
 me. You need not have tried to explain at 
 all." And Beatrice, her heart full of bitter 
 ness and her eyes of tears, rose, and hastily 
 left the room. 
 
 Mrs. Charlton rose also, and replacing the 
 amulet in her bosom, muttered : 
 
 " Poor child ! poor, jealous baby striking 
 at the hand that tries to soothe you. I am sure 
 it was very good of me to try to explain, and 
 no fault if she would not listen ; and yet I am 
 sorry to break off that friendship. But, 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A LETTER FROM AUNT RACHEL. 
 
 "MY DEAR NIECE BEATRICE: It is a long time 
 t-ince we heard any thing from you, and I trust that 
 both you and brother Israel are in good health, 
 and prospered in your undertakings. We are all 
 in the enjoyment of our usual health, except your 
 grandmother, who has an attack of rheumatism, 
 from standing at the porch-door talking to Jacob, 
 our hired man, about the new calf. This calf is 
 the daughter of Polly, the red and white heifer 
 that you liked so well and dressed with a garland 
 of wild flowers, which she pulled off and eat up. 
 That was last Independence-day, you remember, and 
 you got mostly blue flowers, because, you said, she 
 must be red, blue, and white. The new calf is very 
 pretty, and we think of raising it ; but we shall not 
 name it until you come home, as you may have a 
 choice in the matter. Grandfather is very well, con 
 sidering, and often speaks of you. He says he wants 
 to see you very much, and hopes you will not have 
 grown out of knowledge. He forgets, being old, that 
 you are grown up already, and will not change out 
 wardly any more until you begin to grow old, which I 
 suppose will not be yet. 
 
 "Nancy is well, I suppose, but she tires me very 
 much through forgetting what I tell her. Yesterday 
 she set a flat dish under the churn-stand, pulled out 
 the plug and let the buttermilk run, and then forgot to 
 stop it until it had flashed out of the dish all over the 
 floor. Then she forgets to make grandma's farina for 
 breakfast until I go out and do it, and that disturbs 
 grandma very much. But we all have our trials, and I 
 know these are not as great as those some are called to 
 bear. 
 
 " There is no news in Milvor, except that Joachim 
 Brewster and Semanthy Brewster are married, which 
 many of us think a burning shame not but what it is 
 better than some other ways of living which I will not 
 allude to. Last month they found the bones of poor 
 little Euthie in Black Briar Pool, with the remains of 
 her dress and shoes still on her. The body had drifted 
 under the bank where it shelves over, and lay hid among 
 the weeds. It was Joachim found it, going fishing, 
 and a good many knew the piece of calico clinging to 
 the poor arm-bones. It all seems straight enough, and 
 they had a funeral, and a coroner's inquest, and it was 
 put down in the town records that it was Ruth Brew 
 ster that died; but somehow my mind misgives me that 
 it is not all exactly right. I am sure I do not know 
 how it can he wrong, but I would not trust Semanthy 
 Brewster with a dish of apple-parings if I was partic 
 ular the pig should get them ; and as for Joachim, he 
 never had much force anyway, and I guess she trains 
 him round pretty much as she has a mind to. 
 
 " I do not know of any more news, my dear niece, 
 except some that I suppose will surprise you a good 
 deal and that is, that I have concluded to be married 
 to Wyman Bliss, and we shall have the wedding next 
 fourth of March, the same day that the new President
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 59 
 
 begins to live in the White House, and it seems a sort 
 of date to start from. I hope, my dear niece, that you 
 will not feel that I am doing any tiling unbecoming in 
 a maiden lady who is no longer young ; but it seemed 
 to me as good as any thing that could be done, for 
 your grandfather is getting so old it seems as if there 
 ought to bo some other man round the house, and Wy- 
 man, being a doctor, makes it real comfortable in case 
 of sudden sickness or any thing happening unexpect 
 edly. 
 
 ' Grandfather and grandmother seem very well 
 pleased with the arrangement, and grandfather is go 
 ing to give up the farm to us which, I suppose, means 
 to me, for the doctor has his hands full with his pro 
 fession as is no wonder when you consider that there 
 is not so good a doctor in the country. But though we 
 take the farm now, you need not be afraid, my dear 
 niece, that you are to be cheated out of your rights, or 
 Israel either, as I shall explain to him when I see him, 
 which I hope will be soon, for neither Wymaii nor I 
 would do any thing unfair or try to get the upper hand, 
 especially when you know, Trix, that you've always 
 been like a child I will not say to me, being a maiden 
 lady, but in the house, and we all take an interest in 
 you just as we always did. I have begun to get ready 
 somewhat, but I should be glad of a little of your taste 
 about my new gown I refer to the one I shall be mar 
 ried in, and also to know whether I had better wear a 
 bonnet ; for as for flowers on my head, or a veil, or any 
 such nonsense, I must say I should not consider it re 
 spectable. Also, grandmamma would like a new blonde 
 cap, she says, and perhaps you will buy the material 
 for her. Also for the dress, for which I enclose the 
 money, twenty dollars. It is a large sum for one dress, 
 but I want it good and handsome, and something that 
 will be serviceable. I should say a cinnamon brown 
 bearing on a chocolate would be a good color, but per 
 haps a gray would be better. For service, I should pre 
 fer a black silk , but I suppose that would not be con 
 sidered proper for a bride that is, for a person going 
 to be married. 
 
 " But, above all things, my dear Trix, I want to see 
 you. We shall have a quilting-bee here all day Thurs 
 day of next week, and I wish you could make it so as 
 to be at home. To-day is Tuesday ; so that gives yon 
 ten days to pay good-by in, and to buy the lace for 
 grandmother and the other that I mentioned. 
 
 " Give my love to your uncle, and, if you please, you 
 can mention what I say. 
 
 " Your affectionate aunt, 
 
 " RACHEL M. BARSTOW." 
 
 With, this letter in her hand, and a smile 
 upon her lips, Beatrice sought her uncle in his 
 dressing-room, and tapping gently at the door, 
 was bidden to enter. Obeying, she started 
 back in some surprise hardly recognizing her 
 relative beneath the mask of soap-suds with 
 which his manly visage was adorned. 
 
 " The deuce ! Is it you, Trix ? I thought 
 it was the fellow with my boots. But come 
 in, little girl come in, if you're not afraid to. 
 I'm almost through dressing, and then I must 
 hurry off down-town ; so you might as well 
 say what you have to say here as anywhere. 
 You'd like a little money, eh ? See how sharp 
 your old uncle is at guessing." 
 
 " No, indeed, uncle ; I have not half spent 
 what you gave me last time. You are so 
 generous I never have the opportunity to ask 
 for money. I came this time to give you 
 some news." 
 
 " What ! you're not going to be married ?" 
 asked Mr. Barstow, turning from the glass, 
 razor in hand, and contemplating his niece 
 with comic dismay. 
 
 " Oh ! no, uncle, I have no thoughts of it ; 
 but I will read you Aunt Rachel's letter, and 
 then you will know all about it." 
 
 " Rachel ! The old folks aren't dead ! No 
 you wouldn't look so smiling. Well, there ! 
 I am a fool to keep guessing, when, if I hold 
 my tongue, I shall know all about it ; so, go 
 ahead, Trix." 
 
 And Mr. Barstow effectually sealed his own 
 lips with a fresh brushful of lather, while his 
 niece, perching herself upon the edge of the 
 writing-table which adorned the merchant's 
 dressing-room, read the letter through without 
 interruption. As she finished, Mr. Barstow's 
 face issued from the napkin, which finished 
 his tonsorial operations, rubicund, smiling, 
 and smooth as a new-shaven lawn. 
 
 " The jolly old sister going to get married 
 at last !" exclaimed he. " Well, if that isn't 
 the last dodge ! And Wyman Bliss, too I 
 Why, I knew him when he was a boy, and 
 he's always been hanging round after Rachel 
 ever since. Well, we must go to the wedding, 
 and have a rousing good time, and we'll make 
 them some presents. What do you say to a 
 dinner-service of plate with the coat-of-arms, 
 and all just as we have here at home ?" 
 
 " I am afraid they would never use it, uncle," 
 replied Beatrice gently. " But there are a 
 great many things that would be delightful 
 to give them. Aunt Rachel has sent to me to 
 buy her wedding-dress, you know " 
 
 " And sent twenty dollars to pay for it ! Ha, 
 ha !" laughed Mr. Barstow. " Why, a first- 
 rate silk gown, fit for a ' a person that is go 
 ing to be married' ha, ha! would cost a 
 hundred, wouldn't it ?" 
 
 " The silk itself would cost about fifty, and 
 the trimming as much as any one chose to 
 give," said Trix. 
 
 " Well, you go down-town and pick out the 
 very best and handsomest silk in the shops, 
 and the nicest sort of trimming to go with it, 
 and mind there's plenty of it both gown and 
 trimming and send the bills to me ; or had 
 you rather have the cost in hand ?" 
 
 " A little of both, please, uncle. I may have
 
 60 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 to look about for trimmings, and go to new 
 places." 
 
 " Very well ; here is a check for two hun 
 dred dollars; and when that is gone, just 
 drive down to the office, and send up for me, 
 or if I am out, for Rowley. As for credit, you 
 can use that at discretion. And while you are 
 about it, Trix, you might as well get yourself 
 and June new dresses for the wedding some 
 thing handsome, but not showy enough to 
 make the good Milvor folks feel ashamed of 
 their own rig. That wouldn't be good man 
 ners, you know." 
 
 " No, indeed, uncle ; and for my own part, I do 
 not need a single thing ; I have a great plenty 
 of dresses for a year to come. But, uncle, do 
 you think Mrs. Charlton had better go to the 
 wedding ?" 
 
 " Why, she's one of ourselves, isn't she ?" 
 demanded Mr. Bargtow, in considerable sur 
 prise. " I supposed of course she would go." 
 
 Beatrice, folding and creasing the corner of 
 the envelope she held in her hand, made no 
 reply. 
 
 Mr. Barstow looked at her a moment in 
 much perplexity, whisked an atom of dust 
 from his coat-sleeve, and then asked : 
 
 " Don't you want her, Trix ?" 
 
 " To tell the truth, uncle, I think she would 
 be rather out of place at Milvor, and I do not 
 believe Aunt Rachel would enjoy seeing her." 
 
 " Oh ! well, that alters the case. Very like 
 ly Rachel might feel a little troubled about 
 the country ways and homely fashions of the 
 Old Garrison House " 
 
 " Uncle Israel ! you don't suppose I meant 
 that there was any thing to be asftamed of in 
 our dear old home ? I am sure I wish every 
 one was as honest, and truthful, and reliable 
 as Aunt Rachel, or that other people's ways 
 were half as good as the country ways and 
 homely fashions of the Old Garrison House. 
 No matter who goes to Aunt Rachel's wed 
 ding, there will not be a better woman there 
 than herself." 
 
 If Mr. Barstow had been surprised before, 
 he was now actually petrified, and stood 
 staring at his niece, who never, in the whole 
 course of her life, had spoken so vehemently 
 in his presence before. 
 
 Beatrice, looking up, met his eyes, and her 
 own filled with tears of shame. Springing 
 suddenly from her seat, she threw her arms 
 about his neck. 
 
 " Oh ! forgive me, Uncle Israel ! I was 
 
 very, very wrong to speak so to you, but I I 
 am not well, 1 believe I am hardly myself. 
 It will do me good to go home and be quiet 
 for a while. Let me go to-day." 
 
 " Not to-day, dearie, or to-morrow, but as 
 soon as we can make you suitably ready," said 
 Uncle Israel, tenderly smoothing the bright 
 hair straying over his breast, while his honest 
 face never lost its look of wonder and concern. 
 " Yes, little girl, you shall go and stay until 
 after the wedding ; but then, you know, you 
 are to come home for good and all. This is 
 home, remember." 
 
 " Thank you, dear, dear uncle." 
 
 " Thank you for nothing, you mean. Don't 
 you know that I can't get on without you, you 
 monkey ? And as for asking June to the 
 wedding, I believe you are right. She would 
 be a little out of place, and it might be un 
 comfortable all round. She can stay with her 
 uncle at the Grandarc while we are away, eh ?" 
 
 "Just aa you please, uncle," murmured 
 Beatrice. 
 
 " Then that's settled ; and now give me a 
 kiss and let me go, and you take the carnage 
 and go buy the wedding-finery." 
 
 CHAPTER XXHI. 
 WEDDING-FINERY. 
 
 " AND now, Aunt Rachel," said Beatrice, the 
 morning after her arrival in Milvor ; " now let 
 us have a little fire in your chamber, and I 
 will show you my shopping." 
 
 " Dear me, child, I'm in no hurry whatever 
 about that. Miss Billings isn't coming until 
 Friday to cut my dresses, and it will be time 
 enough then." 
 
 " Now, Aunt Rachel, that is clear, sheer 
 nonsense! You want to make me believe 
 that you have no curiosity even about your 
 wedding-dress, and I shan't believe a word of 
 it. Of course you want to see it, and I want 
 to show it, and I am not going to hurry about 
 it either ; so I shall j ust go and make the fire 
 myself, and then call you up." 
 
 With which declaration, Miss Wansted, her 
 brilliant robes exchanged for one of gray 
 linsey-woolsey, with a bit of blue ribbon and 
 the plainest of linen collars at the neck, and a 
 pair of cuffs to match at the wrists, ran out of 
 the room, and was presently seen picking up 
 chips in the wood-yard. 
 
 " Dear creeter," murmured her grandmother 
 " not the leastest mite of difference, for all 
 the silk gowns and fal-lals Israel has given
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 61 
 
 her, and all the attention the young fellers 
 have been paying her. I was dreadful afraid 
 Blie'd be set up in her own conceit, and not 
 tliink so much of our humble ways ; but there 
 isn't any thing of that, as I can see." 
 
 " You're too modest, wife," replied the dea 
 con, glancing at her over the top of his Fene- 
 lon. " I don't know why our grand-daughter 
 should be either daunted or too much aston 
 ished by the ways of people richer maybe, but 
 no better, I hope, than those she has always 
 lived among." 
 
 " Well, that's true enough, too, father," as 
 sented the old lady, straightening herself a 
 
 P'cJnny up chips in (Tie wood-yard. 
 
 little. " The Barstows are as good as any 
 body " 
 
 " So long as they behave as well," inter 
 posed her husband, with a quiet smila behind 
 his book ; and Mrs. Barstow rather doubtfully 
 assented to the qualified self-glorification. 
 
 Beatrice, meanwhile, had filled her pretty 
 black silk apron with long ringlets of pine- 
 shavings, cones of the fragrant fir-tree, splin 
 ters and clean white chips from the heart of 
 the beech and buttonwood logs lying cleft in 
 the wood-yard, and some dry branches lopped 
 from the tops of the pine trees, whose straight 
 trunks lay side by side, ready to be hauled to 
 
 the saw-mill ; for the deacon burned his own 
 wood, and had some to sell to his neighbors 
 beside. 
 
 " Will you please bring in an armful of 
 wood, Jacob ? Up into Miss Rachel's room, 
 if you please," said the young lady, bestowing 
 a gracious smile upon the sinewy, wiry, and 
 most unlovely Yankee who at present re 
 placed Paul Freeman at the Old Garrison 
 House. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I'll fetch in as much as you want. 
 Kind o' chilly this morning, a'n't it?" 
 
 " Somewhat more than chilly, I think, Ja 
 cob," said the young lady, glancing rather 
 ruefully at the snowy landscape ; " it looks 
 like midwinter yet." 
 
 " Not if you know how midwinter had 
 ought to look," bluntly replied Jacob. " See 
 them great white clouds banking up in the 
 south ? You don't never see none of them in 
 December or January, do you ? And then see 
 how sort of rotten the snow breaks away when 
 I pull a stick out o' the pile. There'll be a 
 change o' weather 'fore long, and I mistrust 
 it'll be rain. Declare for 't, I guess I'd better 
 go into the woods to-day, and leave this 'ere 
 chopping for a time when I can't do nothing 
 else. Wonder what the deacon 'd say ?" 
 
 And Jacob, straightening himself with a 
 huge armful of wood, drew his right shirt 
 sleeve across his nose and looked inquiringly 
 at the sky. 
 
 " You had better go into the sitting-room 
 and speak to grandfather," said Beatrice smil 
 ing ; " and if you do go to the woods, I should 
 like to go with you. I have not seen the 
 woods this whole winter." 
 
 " Well, you can if you're a mind to, and I 
 suppose you'll be for riding home on the load, 
 so I'll carry along a buffalo for you to set on," 
 replied Jacob, with composure ; and Beatrice, 
 thanking him as politely as she ever thanked 
 Messrs. Laforet et Cie for less genuine courte 
 sies, ran into the house and up-stairs with her 
 light burden, soberly followed by Jacob with 
 his wood. 
 
 " Shan't I build the fire for you, ma'am ?" 
 asked he, clumping carefully across the car 
 pet, and leaving a cake of half-melted snow at 
 every footfall. 
 
 " No, thank you, Jacob ; I know how very 
 well myself. You had better speak to grand 
 papa ; and if you are going to the woods, send 
 me word by Nancy. You won't start just this 
 minute, will you ?"
 
 62 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN 
 
 " No ma'am ; I suppose I must chop up 
 some km'Iin'-stuff for Nancy's oven, or she'll 
 be in my hair. They're going to bake 
 to-day." 
 
 " Well, I shall be ready in half an hour," 
 said Beatrice rather breathlessly, for the large 
 log she was adjusting at the back of the fire 
 place required all her strength. Jacob 
 watched her movements admiringly for a 
 moment, and then clumping out as carefully 
 as he had clumped in, went down-s'tairs mut 
 tering : 
 
 "A smart gal that, and as pretty as a 
 picter'." 
 
 The back-log adjusted, Beatrice pushed the 
 andirons close up against it, selected a solid 
 white-oak fore-stick to lay across them, filled 
 the interval between back and fore-stick with 
 email wood crowned with some of the dry pine- 
 twigs and cones, and then made a little heap 
 of shavings, chips, and twigs underneath. 
 
 "There," said she, looking at the completed 
 edifice ; " grandpapa couldn't have done it 
 better himself." 
 
 Then ehe lighted a match, touched it to the 
 shavings, and seated d VOrientale upon the 
 hearth-rug, watched, with well-satisfied gaze, 
 the flame as it devoured the shavings, then 
 caught upon the pine-twigs, and creeping up 
 ward through the lattice- work of more solid 
 fuel, leaped hungrily upon the dried pine-nee 
 dles and fir-cones at the top, and feeding upon 
 them, grew strong enough to attack the heav 
 ier sticks between the two. 
 
 " How lovely !" whispered Beatrice, select 
 ing half a dozen cones from the heap of kin 
 dling, and placing them so artistically among 
 the sticks as to lead the flames from step to 
 step through the whole pyre ; and then warm 
 ing her red-tipped fingers at the growing 
 blaze, she watched admiringly the play of the 
 flames, and remembered one of Mr. Chappeile- 
 ford's whimsical theories, to the effect that 
 every wood, in process of combustion, pro 
 duces a flame shaped like the leaf of its own 
 tree, and she tried to distinguish the pointed 
 needles of the pine, the sinuated leaves of 
 the oak, and the five-fingered palms of 
 the buttonwood, in the rustling river of 
 flame that now poured up the chimney. But 
 try as she might, the flame-leaves only re 
 minded her of the fantastic and airy forms of 
 the trees that grow in fairy-land ; and after a 
 while, Beatrice, desisting from the effort, sat 
 gazing dreamily iuto the fire, and thinking 
 
 her own thoughts, or perhaps those of Corne 
 lius Agrippa, who tells us through a modern 
 poet : 
 
 "As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in 
 the dark, so Good Spirits, which be Angels of 
 Light, are augmented not only by the Divine 
 Light of the Sun, but also by our common 
 Wood Fire ; and as the Celestial Fire drives 
 away dark spirits, so also this, our Fire of 
 Wood, doth the same." 
 
 From this reverie she was startled by the 
 voice of Aunt Rachel. 
 
 "Well, I declare, Beatrice, you're just the 
 same careless girl you used to be picking 
 up chips in that black silk apron, all trimmed 
 off with lace and beads and fal-lals, and all 
 but new, I dare say. And then those French 
 slippers right out in the snow, and silk stock 
 ings ! Well, Beatrice, you may laugh, but it 
 is no better than tempting Providence, and I 
 don't suppose you'll say you mean to do that." 
 
 " Why, aunty, what do you think Provi 
 dence could be tempted to do to me ? Don't 
 you believe Providence means our Father in 
 Heaven, who only wishes to make us happy 
 and well ?" asked the girl, without removing 
 her eyes from the blaze, where, perhaps, she 
 had found the creed which filled Aunt Rachel's 
 good Calvinistic heart Avith dismay. 
 
 " Beatrice Wansted !" exclaimed she, "don't 
 tell me that you're going to turn Free-thinker 
 and Radical, and all that. You've been to 
 hear Parker, I know you have !" 
 
 " Why, Aunty Barstow ! you cruel, cruel 
 dear, to go and call your little Trix a Free 
 thinker ! Aren't you horribly ashamed of 
 yourself?" And the girl, jumping up, threw 
 her arms about her aunt's neck with a laugh 
 and a kiss, whirled her sacrilegiously round 
 the room, and finally seated her in a great 
 wooden rocking-chair in front of the fire, while 
 she herself fell upon her knees before the 
 great trunk which she had caused to be placed 
 in her aunt's room instead of her own 
 
 "Well, I believe I was wrong, and that you 
 are changed in some things, Trix," said Miss 
 Rachel meditatively. 
 
 " How, aunty ?" asked Beatrice, bending 
 over the open trunk to hide a smile. 
 
 " Why, you seem to have got a way of slid 
 ing off from things you don't want to talk 
 about, and that once you'd have got provoked 
 over," said Miss Barstow, and Beatrice bent 
 still lower into the trunk. 
 
 " There, aunty, there is a new dress for
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Nancy," said she suddenly, as she drew out a 
 piece of woollen stuff, and laid it upon her 
 aunt's lap. 
 
 " For Nancy, child ?" 
 
 " Yes, aunty. Uncle Israel gave me some 
 money to spend for wedding-finery, he said, 
 and I thought I would get Nancy a dress out 
 of it." 
 
 " Why, it's too good. Merino, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Yes, I thought it was not best to get silk 
 for her, although I could have bought it for 
 the same price as the thibet." 
 
 " Silk indeed ! I should think not !" ex 
 claimed Miss Barstow. " I don't desire to see 
 any one in my kitchen dressed out in silks or 
 satins. That is a pretty color ; what do you 
 call it ?" 
 
 " Bismarck-brown, aunty. It is very fash 
 ionable." 
 
 " Just about the color I thought of for that 
 dress I asked you to get me. Where is that *>" 
 
 And a tinge of red rose to Miss Rachel's 
 withered cheek as she thus betrayed her se 
 cret impatience. 
 
 Beatrice took a huge parcel, carefully envel 
 oped in tissue-paper, from the trunk, and lay 
 ing it upon the bed, proceeded very deliber 
 ately to unpin it, while she said : 
 
 " Now, Aunt Rachel, there is a good deal to 
 say upon the subject of that dress. In the 
 first place, cinnamon-brown, or chocolate, or 
 even Bismarck, are not the colors for a wed 
 ding-dress ; and you know you want to look 
 as a bride should now, don't you ?" 
 
 " Bride ! At my time of life ! Pho ! child." 
 
 And the reflection of the blaze or something 
 else glowed in a very becoming crimson upon 
 Miss Rachel's cheeks and lips, and danced 
 brightly in her eyes. 
 
 " Time of life, indeed ! No one would take 
 you for a day over thirty to see you now, 
 aunty. But about the dress. I don't think 
 Miss Billings is quite so good a dressmaker as 
 we have in town, although she is a very nice 
 old lady ; and, besides, you have so much to 
 do, you know. So the amount of the whole 
 is, that Uncle Israel told me to get a dress, and 
 have it made up and trimmed, as his present 
 to yon, and here it is." A 
 
 With which summary introduction, Beatrice, 
 a little flushed herself for what woman is 
 quite iron-clad against the cunningly-feathered 
 arrows of the genius of Dress ? unfolded and 
 shook out upon the bed the folds of a moire 
 silk, tinted like the soft gray clouds that float 
 
 so lovingly across the blue of a June sky. The 
 dress was fashioned in a quiet modification of 
 the style of the day, and was doubtfully pro 
 nounced by the modiste who wrought under 
 Miss Wansted's directions " Very, very plain 
 indeed, although of splendid material." 
 
 Miss Barstow's verdict was different : 
 
 "Why, Beatrice- Beatrice Wansted !" ex 
 claimed she, holding up both hands, and star 
 ing at the shining folds of moire with a look 
 divided between awe and admiration. 
 
 " It is fit for Eugeny with her crown on !" 
 
 ' I hope it will fit you even better, aunty 
 dear ; and that the day when you first wear it 
 will make you happier than any queen," said 
 Beatrice, kissing her aunt with dewy eyes. 
 
 " And here," continued she, bringing forth a 
 carton tied across with blue ribbons, " here is 
 a little present from me to go with the dress." 
 And with dexterous fingers she drew forth 
 and adjusted upon the silk a collar, sleeves, 
 and head-dress of fine Mechlin lace ornament 
 ed with knots of blue ribbon. 
 
 "Blue ribbons for me, Trix?" exclaimed 
 Miss Barstow feebly. 
 
 " Yes, aunty, they make such a lovely con 
 trast with the pearl-gray of the dress, and you 
 know you must not be married all in gray. 
 You asked me about a bonnet, or a veil, and 
 so I thought perhaps you would fancy this 
 head-dress, which has, you see, a sort of veil 
 hanging at the back, and for other occasions 
 you can alter it a little, or take off the veil." 
 
 " That dress cost a great deal more than 
 twenty dollars, Beatrice !" said Miss Barstow 
 severely ; and her niece could not restrain a 
 little laugh. 
 
 " It isn't pretty to ask the price of a present, 
 you know, dearie," said she ; " and I thought 
 perhaps you would like to spend the twenty 
 dollars in something for grandmamma ; so I 
 bought this nice black silk for her to wear at 
 the wedding, and this cap to go with it. But 
 Uncle Israel rather scolded me for doing it, 
 because he said it was not business-like to 
 spend the money sent us for a certain purpose 
 in another way. So if you would prefer the 
 money, I have it all ready ; or if you would 
 like to make the present to grandmamma, you 
 can do that." 
 
 " I should like to make the present to grand 
 mamma, and you were a very thoughtful, 
 good girl to think of it," said Miss Rachel, 
 well pleased, as Beatrice had foreseen that she 
 would be.
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 "And what will you w^r yourself?" pur 
 sued she, glancing at the nearly - emptied 
 trunk. 
 
 " Oh ! I brought down two dresses, and you 
 must tell me which you like best," said Be 
 atrice carelessly ; and produced from the depths 
 of the box a mauve silk, and one of sky-blue, 
 both of them fresh and handsome. 
 
 "Two silk gowns at once, Beatrice!" ex 
 claimed her aunt reprovingly. " I am afraid 
 your uncle is teaching you extravagance and 
 a love of dress." 
 
 " Oh ! no, aunty ; but we went out so much, 
 I had to have a variety, you know," said Be 
 atrice apologetically ; and while her aunt still 
 examined the dresses with disapproving admi 
 ration, Nancy opened the door to say : 
 
 " Jacob wants to know if you're going into 
 the woods with him, Beatrice. He's 'most 
 ready." 
 
 " Say Miss Beatrice, Nancy," suggested her 
 mistress sharply ; " and don't wait with your 
 oven cooling. I heard you taking out the fire 
 ten minutes ago. What about the woods, 
 Trix ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I am going, certainly," said Beatrice, 
 hastily bundling the packages back into the 
 trunk. 
 
 " Not in that dress, Beatrice !" 
 
 " No, indeed, aunty. I saw one of my last 
 winter's poplins in the closet of my cham 
 ber." 
 
 And Miss Wansted, disappearing before fur 
 ther disapproval could be spoken, presently 
 returned, dressed in a simple short dress and 
 a warm coat. 
 
 " See here, aunty," said she, mischievously 
 raising her skirts high enough to show a very 
 jaunty pair of Knickerbockers nearly meet 
 ing the tops of her high Polish boots. 
 
 " Well, I never ! Why, Beatrice Wansted, 
 if I shouldn't be ashamed !" exclaimed the 
 spinster, turning nearly as scarlet as the ob 
 noxious garments. 
 
 " Why, aunty ! why should 1 be ashamed ?" 
 laughed Beatrice. 
 
 " Why, to wear those things.' Almost like 
 really, now, they do remind me " 
 
 " Of what, aunty 1" 
 
 "Why, child, a gentleman's pantaloons," 
 whispered Miss Bar"stow, the scarlet turning 
 crimson. 
 
 "Not a bit of it, aunty! Pantaloons are 
 tight to the leg. and tie with strings round the 
 ankles ; and what gentlemen wear are called 
 
 trowsers ; and these are nothing like either, 
 and are called Knickerbockers." 
 
 " Beatrice ! say limbs, and not legs ; and 
 don't talk so glibly about things no young 
 woman should ever mention,'' said Miss Bar- 
 stow severely. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 THE CAPTAIN'S PURCHASE. 
 
 "ALL ready, Jacob?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, all ready," said Jacob, who 
 was adjusting an inverted soap-box upon the 
 middle of his ox-sled, and covering it with a 
 warmly-lined buffalo-robe. 
 
 " There, that's for you to set on," said he, 
 when all was ready. 
 
 " How charming ! I expected to stand up 
 and hold on to one of the stakes," laughed 
 Beatrice, seating herself upon her extempore 
 throne, and looking more than ever lovely, 
 with the bright color of the frosty morning 
 upon cheek and lip, and her eyes sparkling 
 like sunbeams beneath the brim of the little 
 round hat whose black plumes contrasted so 
 charmingly with the gold-brown braids they 
 shaded. 
 
 So dimly perceived Jacob, standing a mo 
 ment beside the sled, to draw on his blue and 
 white mittens, patriotically fringed with red, 
 Mrs. Barstow's handiwork ; but Jacob would 
 have thought it unpardonably " sarcy " to have 
 intimated his admiration in the most distant 
 manner, and so went silently forward to his 
 oxen's heads, and with a jerk and a creak the 
 sled started, cutting its way through the 
 softened snow with a dull, crunching sound, 
 quite different from the crisp crackle of mid 
 winter drifts, or the sharp creak made by 
 passing over a snow-road in the coldest and 
 heaviest of frozen weather. 
 
 " Where are you cutting wood now?" asked 
 Miss Wansted, when, after piloting his team 
 into the road, Jacob stepped upon the sled 
 and stood there, Colossus-like. 
 
 " I've been cutting up to the Captain's Pur 
 chase. I a'n't cutting now I'm hauling. You 
 wouldn't have wanted to go and see me chop 
 all day, I reckon," said Jacob, with a laugh. 
 " All I've got to do now is to load up and 
 turn right round. We'll be home to dinner." 
 
 Beatrice did not reply. A sudden cloud 
 had come over both face and mood, and she 
 sat looking straight before her with wide, 
 sad eyes. 
 
 The Captain's Purchase, a tract of wood
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 65 
 
 land so named in the old records, and so 
 called to-day, although tradition has no story 
 to tell of either captain or purchase not so 
 much as the name of the one, or the price of the 
 other the Captain's Purchase was the place 
 where the May-flowers bloomed earliest, the 
 lovely, pink-flushed, odorous Epig&a repens, 
 which a perverse world will call trailing ar 
 butus, and thither to gather them had she 
 gone with Marston Brent in the sweet days 
 that were no more. 
 
 "No more, no more forever," whispered 
 Beatrice, her sad eyes searching field and 
 wood and sky for a contradiction to the 
 mournful prophecy, and finding none. And 
 then pressing in at the door thus set ajar 
 came trooping the memories she had believed 
 at rest memories of tender words, of loving 
 looks, of sweet hopes, and half-formed plans 
 of life, of all the joy that might have been, 
 and now should never be. And whose fault 
 that it should never be ? " Not mine," said the 
 girl's softened heart. " For did I not humble 
 myself, and give up all for love of him ? Did 
 I not even ask him to let me come to him in the 
 home he had chosen ?" " And," asked Pride, 
 " what did he say ? Did he not thrust me back 
 and refuse the love I offered him, and hold me 
 to my word in my own despite ? And is it for 
 such a man that I am mourning now, and 
 feeling that because he is lost, all else is valu- 
 less ? O shame, shame ! that any woman 
 should so forget woman's value ! If Marston 
 Brent cared more for his own will than for 
 me, I care more for those late leaves whirling 
 to the ground than for Marston Brent." 
 
 And wrenching herself away from even 
 memory of him, Beatrice turned to her com 
 panion, who, softly whistling and holding to 
 one of the stakes of the ox-sled, viewed the 
 rapidly clouding skies with a speculative eye. 
 
 " Going to have a change o' weather, sud 
 den," said Jacob, perceiving that Miss Wan- 
 sted was ready for conversation. 
 
 " More snow ?" asked she languidly. 
 
 " I guess mora like we shall have rain. 
 The air's most too soft for snow. Eain '11 
 play the very old mischief with the goin', 
 there's such a heft o' snow on the ground." 
 
 " Yes. I am afraid it would prevent my 
 aunt's party to-morrow," said Beatrice, rais 
 ing her eyes to the soft white clouds fast 
 shutting out the blue of heaven. 
 
 " Quiltin'-bee, a'n't it?" 
 
 " Yes, I believe so." 
 5 
 
 " They'll come fast enough, women-folks 
 will," said Jacob, laughing a little, and rolling 
 his eyes quizzically upon the face of his com 
 panion. " You see they don't stir about so 
 much as men-folks, and toward the end o' 
 winter they get so sort o' stalled stopping in 
 the house, that they'd go anywhere's for a 
 change. I declare I think sometimes, if Old 
 Nick was to give a tea-party on top of Moloch 
 Mountain in Febooary, he'd get as many to 
 set down as he'd find cups and saucers for. 
 You'll see there won't no one stop away from 
 the bee to-morrer, rain or shine, except them 
 as can't get their men-folks to bring 'em, and 
 can't hitch on to no one else's team." 
 
 " Why, Jacob, it isn't a bit polite to me to 
 make fun of women-folks," said Beatrice with 
 dancing eyes. 
 
 " Land o' Goshen, ma'am, I don't mean you 
 when I talk about women-folks. You're alto 
 gether different," said Jacob gravely ; and, 
 after considering the point, added : 
 
 " You see, ma'am, you've had advantages, 
 and been round, and haven't had to buckle 
 to't, and work for a living, same as they 
 have ; and I don't see, for my part, why a 
 woman, if she has advantages, and im 
 proves 'em, a'n ? t ekil to men some men." 
 
 " Why, yes some men, as you say, Jacob ; 
 and, Jacob, I'm very much obliged to you for 
 your favorable opinion, and will present you 
 with a vote of thanks in behalf of the rest of 
 the sisterhood ; and the first woman's-righta 
 convention that I attend I will nominate you 
 as chairman. And now, Jacob, I want to 
 know how much of the Captain's Purchase 
 you have cut over this winter, and what the 
 wood is worth a cord, and how much you 
 have hauled to market, and how much home, 
 and how much remains upon the ground." 
 
 " Well, that's a good many questions to 
 answer all to once," said Jacob, scratching his 
 head beneath his fur-cap, and glancing a little 
 uneasily at the sparkling and satirical face 
 upraised toward him. 
 
 " However, I'll try : I've cat well on to three 
 acres of the Purchase, and have corded up 
 about a hundred cord, maybe a hundred and 
 a quarter, and " 
 
 " How much is that to each acre, Jacob ?" 
 
 "Each acre? Well, it's about about 
 why say forty cord to each acre." 
 
 " Oh ! no, Jacob ! A third of a hundred is not 
 forty, and a third of a hundred and twenty- 
 five is more than forty."
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " I said about that ; forty's nigh enough," 
 said Jacob with dignity. 
 
 And Beatrice pursued her inquiries, the 
 smile she banished from her lips dancing in 
 her eyes : 
 
 " Well, how much is it worth a cord, 
 Jacob ?" 
 
 " Why, that's accordin' as how the wood 
 is. First-rate hard wood, white-oak, with a 
 sprinklin' o' walnut 's worth six dollars, and 
 pine's worth four, and oak-trash's worth two, 
 and pine-trash's worth one." 
 
 " And if the hundred or a hundred and a 
 quarter cords you've cut this winter are about 
 
 " Here we be at (fie Captain's Purchase.' 1 ' 1 
 
 equally divided into those four kinds, how 
 much are they all worth ?". asked Beatrice 
 demurely. 
 
 But a dim suspicion that he was being un 
 fairly dealt by entered with the question into 
 Jacob's brain, and, after a moment's considera 
 tion, he replied dryly : 
 
 "That sum's in Green leafs first part, a'n't 
 it ? We'll drive round by the school-house 
 coming home, and I'll get my little brother to 
 do it for you." 
 
 " Thank you, Jacob ; but I don't think you 
 need your little brother to help you through," 
 
 said Beatrice, laughing so heartily at her own 
 expense that even the sensitive pride of the 
 New-England yeoman, the most sensitive of 
 all mankind, was soothed, and Jacob joined 
 in the laugh. 
 
 " Here we be at the Captain's Purchase," 
 said he, jumping off the sled, and throwing 
 down some bars closing the entrance to a 
 wood road, deep embowered .in greenery when 
 Beatrice last beheld it, and though the scene 
 was " now changed to winter frore," it held 
 too close a likeness to that she so well remem 
 bered to be denied at least its moment of 
 silent recognition. So, Beatrice, her face sud 
 denly pale and still, sat silent, fighting down 
 those memories laid but now, and again arisen, 
 until Jacob halted his oxen at the edge of a 
 large clearing covered with corded piles of 
 wood, while the ground between was strewn 
 with limbs and leaves, and splinters and 
 chips, as a battle-field with the smaller relics 
 of the strife, after the bodies have been re 
 moved. 
 
 " Guess you'd better get off now, ma'am," 
 said he very kindly, for the honest fellow had 
 noted the sudden change in his companion's 
 mood, and attributed it to mortification at his 
 rebuff. 
 
 " I'm agoing to turn the team in among the 
 brush, and it'll be awful jolty, and then ag'in 
 I've got to begin to load right away. Sorry to 
 disturb you." 
 
 " Oh ! not at all, Jacob ; don't apologize," 
 said Beatrice absently ; and, accepting Jacob's 
 offered hand, she stepped lightly to the ground, 
 and stood looking about her, while the man 
 arranged the box and buffalo robe close be 
 side her. 
 
 " There, you can set right down again, and 
 make believe you're riding," said he sooth 
 ingly. " Or, if you'd rather, you can walk 
 about a little. There a'n't much to see in the 
 woods this time o' year, but maybe you can 
 find some checkerberries where the snow has 
 melted off, or maybe a squirrel-hole with 
 some nuts in it. I'll be as quick as I can." 
 
 " Oh ! don't trouble about me, Jacob," replied 
 Beatrice, rousing herself with an effort ; " I 
 am used to the woods, and know how to amuse 
 myself, winter or summer. I shall run about 
 and get warm while you are loading, unless 
 you want my help." 
 
 "Your help, ma'am! Lord love you, no," 
 laughed Jacob, picking up his ox-goad, and 
 bawling directions to his team, Calvin and
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 67 
 
 Luther, whom the deacon had so named be 
 cause he said he would make those two emi 
 nent personages draw together somehow. 
 
 Left to herself, Beatrice strolled along the 
 road, until, having crossed the clearing, it 
 struck into the woods at the other side, and 
 so soon as she was out of sight, perched her 
 self upon the stump of a monster pine, and 
 stood like a statue upon its pedestal, admiring 
 the scene before her, and resolutely banishing 
 once more all thoughts but those connected 
 with it. From her position, near the top of a 
 high hill, she commanded the valley below, 
 with its little frozen pond, where in summer 
 bloomed the whitest lilies ever known, and 
 around whose margin grew the sweet, white 
 swamp azalia, and its rarer rose-colored sister, 
 and as she saw the spot, Beatrice remembered 
 
 the great bouquets that she had received 
 
 No, that memory was among the forbidden, 
 and she turned to admire, instead, the smoke- 
 like tracery of the birch-trees fringing the bor 
 der of the swamp below the chestnut wood 
 the chestnut wood where she had nutted many 
 a day in those by-gone years ; and Beatrice, 
 stepping impatiently from her pedestal, hast 
 ened on through the wood, intent only now 
 upon escape from that army of phantoms 
 which environed her. 
 
 She saw no longer the strange, still beauty 
 of the winter woods, forgot to note the soft 
 shades of color upon twig, and trunk, and 
 clinging withered leaves, the beauty of form, 
 hidden in summer, and now displayed so 
 vividly, as the naked tree-tops cut the sky, 
 and long arcades lengthened through the 
 forest, impenetrable to the eye in summer 
 time. The saucy squirrel crossed her path, 
 or stood chattering upon the branches close 
 above her head ; the rabbit peered from his 
 burrow, with round, startled eyes ; the par 
 tridge rose with startling whir-r-r-r from al 
 most beneath her feet ; the fox, stealing 
 through the coverts of the wood, peered at 
 her from beneath sheltering twigs but Be 
 atrice heard not, saw not, felt only that the 
 past was present still, and that the future held 
 no hope of forgetfulness. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 THE GUEST OF THE OLD GARRISON. 
 
 " BE you ready, ma'am ? If you be, I be." 
 It was Jacob's voice ; and Beatrice, raising 
 her eyes from the ground, discovered that she 
 had returned in a circle to the point whence 
 
 she had started, and was just entering the 
 clearing when met by Jacob, who had set out 
 to look for her. 
 
 "What! have you loaded your sled al 
 ready ?'' asked she, in some surprise. 
 
 " Sartain I have, and didn't work so dread 
 ful smart, neither. Now, be you going to ride 
 on the load ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes. That was what I came for, you 
 know." 
 
 " Well, I've driven the steers out into the 
 road, and fixed the buffalo on as well as I 
 could. The box we'll leave up here till an 
 other time. Strange if we get home before the 
 rain comes on." 
 
 " I am afraid I have kept you waiting." 
 
 " Oh ! that a'n't of no account if you don't 
 mind the resk of a wetting. I am sorry we 
 haven't got no umberill. There, set your foot 
 right in there ; I left a kind of a step on pur 
 pose, and there you be! you're spry on your 
 feet, any way, ma'am." 
 
 " All right, Jacob. This is a very nice seat, 
 and I can see the whole country around." 
 
 " Yes, it's ekil to being on top of a stage 
 coach, and some folks won't never go inside if 
 they can help it." 
 
 " I am one of those folks, Jacob. I always 
 ride over from Bloom on the top of the coach 
 when they will let me." 
 
 " Do ! Well, I've heerd so, but I didn't 
 know. They say they'll lay the railroad from 
 Bloom to Milvorliaven some time, and then 
 there won't be no stage-coach travel." 
 
 " Oh ! I hope not ! I hope no railway will 
 ever come nearer to the Old Garrison House 
 than now," said Beatrice, with energy. 
 
 " Waal now ; why not ?" 
 
 "Oh! because there are driving, growing 
 places enough all over the country ; and Mil- 
 vor is just as it has always been, and just as I 
 should like to have it always remain. I don't 
 want the march of improvement to trample 
 down the quiet old ways, and slow, sleepy 
 fashions of the place." 
 
 Jacob considered the point in silence for 
 several moments, and then, with a comical 
 twist of his dry face, slowly said : 
 
 ' That reminds me of something I read in 
 a book Miss Rachel loaned me a while ago. 
 It was the History of England, I believe, and 
 it told about a king that liked every thing 
 just as it always was ; and so he turned a lot 
 of folks out of their housen, and pulled up 
 their improvements, and put the whole dees-
 
 68 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 trie' back into wild land, as nigli as he could 
 get it ; and had a lot of deer and varmint 
 turned in, and then he used to go in and hunt 
 them, just as folks has to in a wild country to 
 clear the way for a settlement. Your idee 
 about not letting the railroad come through 
 Milvor is suthin' like that king's, a'n't it ?" 
 
 " No ; he was a revolutionist, and I am a 
 conservative two quite opposite creatures. 
 However, I do not imagine that my fancies or 
 wishes will have much effect upon the prog 
 ress of civilization and the iron-horse. You 
 will have your railway, I don't doubt." 
 
 " Hi, Calvin ! Gee, Luther ! Gee ! There's 
 a team coming up behind, and they think they 
 must swerve out to make room for it. I never 
 see critters think as quick as this yoke o' 
 steers never. There ! now that feller can 
 pass if he's handy with his horse." 
 
 The jingle of sleigh-bells, which for some 
 moments had been growing louder and loud 
 er as the swift horse overtook the ox-team, 
 suddenly ceased, and a voice close behind the 
 load called out pleasantly enough : 
 
 " Can I pass there, my man ?" 
 
 ' Yes, I reckon you can," replied Jacob, 
 with slightly surly independence ; and Be 
 atrice, startled at the voice, looked down from 
 her elevation to meet the wondering eyes of 
 Mr. Monckton. 
 
 " Miss Wansted !" 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Monckton, it is really I." 
 
 " You should have invited your friends to 
 your coronation or rather to your enthrone 
 ment." 
 
 " I am afraid Milvor would not have con 
 tained them." 
 
 " What you say sarcastically we should say 
 seriously ; but having asserted yourself, won't 
 you descend and accept a share of my humble 
 equipage V" ' 
 
 "Oh! no, thank you. I don't believe in 
 descending when one can remain elevated. 
 Will you pass us?" 
 
 " Why, no, thank you, I will follow that 
 is, if you will permit me to accompany you 
 home. I was on my way to call upon you." 
 
 " We shall be most happy, certainly. Drive 
 on, if you please, Jacob." 
 
 And Beatrice, not attempting to conceal her 
 dissatisfaction, turned her head away from the 
 self-invited guest, and fixed her attention upon 
 the oxen. 
 
 Mr. Monckton, too much a man of the world 
 to be discomfited, or to appear conscious of any 
 
 annoyance, entered into an animated conver 
 sation with the youth who drove him ; and 
 nothing fhrther passed between the lately fa 
 miliar friends, until both equipages stopped in 
 the open space at the southern front of the 
 old house. v 
 
 " Now, ma'am, I'll help you down," began 
 Jacob, pulling off his mittens, wiping his nose, 
 and settling his fur cap firmly upon his head. 
 
 " Permit me, Miss Wansted," interposed Mr. 
 Monckton. 
 
 " Thank you, but Jacob is the cavalier of 
 this occasion," said Beatrice, deftly placing one 
 foot in the interstices of the load, and resting 
 her little hands upon the shoulders of the 
 woodman, who, grasping her slender waist, 
 swung her lightly to the ground. 
 
 " I must congratulate Jacob both upon his 
 opportunities and his mode of improving them," 
 laughed Mr. Monckton, meeting Beatrice, as 
 she regained her feet, with a hand so cordially 
 extended that she could not have refused it 
 had she tried. 
 
 " Yes, he is a capital escort. Jacob, I have 
 had a very nice drive and pleasant time. I 
 shall go with you again some time." 
 
 " Any time that suits you, ma'am. It'll al 
 ways be agreeable to me," said Jacob, with 
 grave courtesy ; and Miss Wansted led the 
 way to the house. 
 
 In the east room, before the brightly-blazing 
 fire, sat the old people, while Rachel, just ap 
 pearing at the inner door, drew hastily back 
 at sight of a stranger. 
 
 " This is Mr. Monckton, grandfather, a 
 friend of Uncle Israel's ; my grandfather, 
 Deacon Barstow, Mr. Monckton. My grand 
 mother." 
 
 " I am glad to see any friend of my son's. 
 Take off your coat, sir, and sit to the fire. 
 Beatrice, will you please tell Jacob to put up 
 the gentleman's horse ?" 
 
 " Thank you, sir, thank you extremely, but 
 I do not think it worth while to put up the 
 horse for the little while I have to stay," be 
 gan Mr. Monckton ; but Mrs. Barstow broke 
 in upon his excuses with voluble hospitality. 
 
 " You must stay the night, sir of course 
 you must stay the night. Nobody ever comes 
 to Milvor for less than one night, for it would 
 not be worth the journey, especially in winter 
 time. D^d you drive over from Bloom, Mr. 
 Monckton ?" 
 
 " Yes, madam. Finding myself in this part 
 of the country, I thought I would run over
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 69 
 
 and see the Old Garrison House, of which I 
 have heard so much make the acquaintance 
 of my friend Barstow's family, and call upon 
 Miss Wansted." 
 
 " That's right, and I'm real glad you came," 
 said the grandmother, glancing around to see 
 that Beatrice had left the room before she ad 
 ded : " Nor I don't blame- any body for want 
 ing to see our Trix, for she's just about as nice 
 a little girl as you'll find anywhere." 
 
 To this expression of opinion, Mr. Monck- 
 ton was spared the perplexity of reply by the 
 entrance of Miss Barstow, who, like her par 
 ents, welcomed the unexpected guest with a 
 cordial hospitality more often found, perhaps, 
 upon stage-routes than railroad-lines. 
 
 Mr. Monckton, well pleased, and equal to the 
 occasion, seated himself between the patriarch 
 and his wife ; talked ethics, politic^, traditions, 
 with the former ; parried pleasantly enough 
 the downright questions of the latter upon his 
 personal affairs, and repaid them with bits of 
 gossip disguised as news. Miss Rachel, com 
 ing and going upon her household affairs, felt 
 grateful in her heart to the guest who gave 
 " the old folks " so pleasant an hour with BO 
 little apparent effort ; and when Mr. Monck 
 ton suddenly appealed to herself upon some 
 question of taste, she was ready to respond 
 with her most gracious smile. 
 
 Matters were in this prosperous condition 
 when the sound of the dinner-bell summoned 
 the family to the long low-ceiled room at the 
 back of the house, once used as a kitchen, but 
 converted by Miss Rachel into a dining-room. 
 
 " The Lord make us all truly thankful for 
 the bounty we are about to receive," said the 
 deacon, reverently bowing his silvered head ; 
 and then Mr. Monckton seated himself beside 
 Beatrice, who, somewhat paler and stiller than 
 her wont, awaited the family in the dining- 
 room. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't like b'iled dish, Mr. 
 Monckton?" said Mrs. Barstow, hospitably 
 piling her guest's plate ; " but it's our regu 
 lar Wednesday dinner, and has been for fifty 
 years. Beef and pork, and turnips, and pota 
 toes, and cabbage, and carrots, and onions 
 we've had 'em all every Wednesday, the year 
 through, for fifty years, and I suppose we 
 shall every Wednesday well, for as many 
 years as we have to live." 
 
 " And may they be many," replied Monck 
 ton, receiving his loaded plate with an admir 
 ing gesture. " Oh ! yes," added he, " I think 
 
 this is rather our national dish, after all in 
 herited, to be sure, from English rural fash 
 ion ; but the English pot is never BO gener 
 ously filled or so often replenished as ours. 
 I remember a story of my grandmother's, 
 about one of her own boiled dinners. My 
 grandfather was an ambitious sort of man, 
 whose whole heart was given to raising im 
 mense crops, and carrying on more land than 
 his neighbors, so that he was rather apt to 
 neglect the smaller details of household man 
 agement, and leave to my grandmother and 
 her woman more than their share of labor. 
 One morning, just as he was setting off for 
 the fields with his laborers, my grandmother 
 called him back. 
 
 " ' Mr. Monckton,' said she, ' I have no wood 
 to burn to-day. What shall I do ?' 
 
 " ' Oh ! send Lois round to pick up some,' 
 said the good man, making a stride toward 
 the door. 
 
 " ' But she has picked up all she can find.' 
 
 " ' Then let her break up some old stuff.' 
 
 " ' But she has broken up every thing al 
 ready.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! well, then, do the next best thing 
 I must be off,' said the farmer ; and off he 
 was, whistling as he went, and no doubt won 
 dering in his heart what that next best thing 
 would tum out to be. 
 
 " Noon came, and with it came my grand 
 father and his four hungry laborers. My 
 grandmother stood in the kitchen, spinning on 
 her great wheel, and singing a pleasant little 
 ditty ; Lois was scouring tins in the back 
 room, and the cat sat purring on the hearth, 
 before a black and fireless chimney, while the 
 table cat in the middle of the room, spread for 
 dinner, but with empty dishes. 
 
 " ' Well, wife, here we are,' said my grand 
 father cheerily. 
 
 '"So I see,' replied she placidly. ' Have 
 you had a good morning in the corn-field ?' 
 
 "'Why, yes, so-so. But where is the din 
 ner?' 
 
 " ' In the pot on the door-step. Won't you 
 see if it is done ?' 
 
 " And on the door-step, to be sure, sat the 
 great iron pot, nicely covered, but not looking 
 particularly steamy. My grandfather raised 
 the cover, and there lay all the ingredients of 
 such a dinner as we have before us everj 
 thing prepared in the nicest manner, and the 
 pot filled with the clearest of water, and all as 
 raw as they had ever been. My grandfather
 
 70 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 stared, and my grandmother joined another 
 roll to the yarn upon her distaff, and began 
 another verse of her song. 
 
 " ' Why, woman, what does this mean ?' be 
 gan my grandfather indignantly. ' This din 
 ner isn't cooked at all !' 
 
 " ' Dear me ! is it not ?' asked the good wife 
 in pretended astonishment. ' Why, it has set 
 in the sun this four hours.' 
 " ' Set in the sun !' 
 
 " ' Yes, you told me to try the next best 
 thing to having a fire, and I thought setting 
 jny dinner in the sun was about that.' 
 
 " My grandfather stood doubtful for a mo 
 ment ; but finally his sense of humor over 
 came his sense of injury, and he laughed 
 aloud. Then picking up his hat, he said : 
 
 " ' Come, boys, we might as well start for 
 the woods. We shall have no dinner till 
 we've earned it, I perceive.' 
 
 " ' Won't you have some bread and cheese 
 before you go ?' asked my grandmother, gen 
 erous in her victory, as women almost always 
 are. And so she won the day." 
 
 " So that was your grandfather and grand 
 mother, Mr. Monckton," said Mrs. Barstow, 
 when the laugh which chorused the story 
 was over ; " and they were farmers ?" 
 " Yes, madam, I am proud to say so." 
 " Then you think well of farming ?" 
 " It was the condition of man next to Para 
 dise, madam." 
 
 " But imposed upon man as a punishment 
 and a curse," said the deacon dryly. 
 
 "Your grandmother was a real smart wom 
 an," pursued Mrs. Barstow opportunely. 
 "Can't you tell us some more of her doings?" 
 " One more anecdote of the same sort occurs 
 to me," said Mr. Monckton, smiling compla 
 cently. 
 
 " The cellar-stairs in the old farm-house 
 had become broken and so unsafe that my 
 grandmother besieged her husband, early and 
 late, to repair them, lest some accident should 
 happen. He always promised to do so, and 
 always forgot to fulfil the promise. At last, 
 one day, my grandmother fell in going down, 
 and spilled the milk she was carrying. 
 
 " ' Are you hurt T asked my grandfather, 
 smoking his pipe beside the fire. 
 
 " ' No matter whether I am or not,' return 
 
 ed the angry housewife, reappearing with her 
 
 empty pan. ' That is the last time I carry 
 
 milk down those stairs until they are mended !' 
 
 " ' Please yourself, and find the next best 
 
 way to get it down,' said the husband, a little 
 vexed at her tone. 
 
 '' ' I will,' said my grandmother, and was as 
 good as her word. The next evening, my 
 grandfather went down cellar to draw some 
 cider. 
 
 " ' What in thunder !' exclaimed he noth 
 ing worse, 1 assure you, madam, for he was 
 not a profane man. ' What in thunder is the 
 matter here 1 Why, woman, your milk is all 
 over the cellar-bottom !' 
 
 " ' Is it f replied my grandmother tranquil 
 ly. ' Well, I think that is likely enough, fall 
 ing so far.' 
 
 " ' Failing so far ! What do you mean ?' 
 
 " ' Why, you know I said I shouldn't carry 
 the milk over those broken stairs again, and 
 you told me to try the next best way of get 
 ting it down, so I took up a board in the 
 kitchen-flo5r, threw down the pans, and then 
 strained the milk down into them.' 
 
 " The cellar-stairs were mended next day." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 RECONCILIATION. 
 
 THE eight-day clock in the corner of the 
 east room was on the stroke of ten, and the 
 old people were already deep in their punc 
 tual slumbers. Miss Rachel, aided by Nancy, 
 was engaged in some last preparation for the 
 morrow, and Beatrice remained alone with 
 Mr. Monckton for the first time since his 
 arrival . 
 
 " Do you know why I came here to-day ?" 
 asked he, after five minutes' silence had divided 
 his words from the gay jest he had last ut 
 tered. 
 
 " To try your adaptive powers in a new di 
 rection, perhaps." 
 
 " Why are you so bitter with me ? I came 
 because you would not see me the last time 
 I called at your uncle's house. You have not 
 seen me since the evening when I displeased 
 you." 
 
 " Not displeased me so much as " 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " Shocked me, disillusionized me why 
 should I fear to say it ? told me a lie." 
 
 "Your words are something more than cor 
 dial, Miss Wansted, and they humiliate me, 
 as you mean that they should. Still, I thank 
 you for speaking them, for any thing is less 
 deadly to friendship than silent displeasure." 
 
 "Friendship?"
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " Yes ; you gave me yours." 
 
 " Cannot 1 reclaim it ?" 
 
 " Not if it was true friendship. My theory 
 is that friendship means the complete har 
 mony of two natures not to be discovered in 
 a moment, or perhaps in a year of study, but 
 once perceived, not to be disallowed without 
 some such convulsion of being as separates 
 soul and body. I have explained to you be 
 fore how sacred and holy a thing I felt this to 
 be, and with what incredulous joy I accepted 
 it at your hands. Can you deprive me of this 
 great joy ? Will you try to do so ?" 
 
 " Perfect friendship means perfect con 
 fidence," said Beatrice sadly. " You and 
 Juanita deceived me into thinking you almost 
 strangers, and I suddenly discovered you to 
 be I know not what confidents, lovers, con 
 spirators at any rate, other than you had 
 taught me to believe. I asked you frankly 
 for an explanation, and you gave me " 
 
 " A conventional answer, which I did not 
 expect or wish you to believe. Do you not 
 know that one of the first principles in social 
 ethics is to avoid betraying or forcing others 
 to betray emotions not to be publicly dealt 
 with ? in other words, to avoid ' scenes,' and 
 keep the surface of matters smooth until the 
 time arrives when they may properly be dis 
 turbed ?" * 
 
 " That is not sincerity." 
 
 " No ; but it is good manners, and, like 
 paper-money, as good as what it represents so 
 long as we all agree to receive it as such. But 
 you and I, Beatrice if you will allow me still 
 to call you by that name you and I found in 
 each other something better than convention 
 ality, something truer than the life we both 
 were leading ; you allowed me to call you my 
 friend, you gave me faith, and confidence, and 
 esteem. I cannot lose those gifts without a 
 struggle." 
 
 " But still you offer no explanation," mur 
 mured Beatrice, half, ashamed of her own 
 persistency. 
 
 " No ; nor can I offer one. There is a secret 
 between Mrs. Charlton and myself I do not 
 deny it ; but the secret is not mine, and I can 
 not reveal it. I saw her after your departure, 
 and asked her either to explain the matter to 
 you or allow me to do so. She would consent 
 to neither course, and I have come to you with 
 no means of exculpation in my hand, no 
 peace-offering of confession or explanation. 
 I come, Beatrice, simply because I could not 
 
 rest away from you, knowing you to be dis 
 pleased with me." 
 
 " It has been a sorrow to me also, for our 
 friendship was one of my most valued posses 
 sions," said Beatrice sadly. 
 
 " Do not speak of it as a thing in the past 
 do not withdraw it from me," pleaded Monck- 
 ton. "O Beatrice! if you knew how dry 
 and arid my life was before it felt this gracious 
 dew, and how all good things were springing 
 up under its influence ! Beatrice, you do not 
 know the depths and darkness of a man's 
 heart who has no woman to make a link 
 between him and heaven." 
 
 Never in all their intercourse had Monckton 
 spoken with such fervor and unreserve ; never 
 before had he betrayed how much value he 
 attached to the friendship she had granted 
 him ; and Beatrice was conscious of a thrill 
 of pride as well as joy. She turned her eyes 
 upon him with a shy emile. 
 
 " How can you care so much, you who have 
 seen all the wonders of the world, for a simple 
 girl like me '?" asked she. 
 
 " No matter how, it is enough that I do," 
 said Monckton eagerly. " Tell me, Beatrice, 
 will you still be my friend, will you forgive 
 me, trust me, believe in me again ; or do you 
 send me forth, the hopeless, homeless wan 
 derer you found me ?" 
 
 " And am I to trust you again as I did be 
 fore, with no pretence of explanation ?" asked 
 Beatrice, arching her eyebrows and curving 
 her lips in mock disdain. 
 
 " Yes ; for that is friendship." 
 
 " Then you must promise that you will tell 
 me no more what do you call them ? con 
 ventional answers." 
 
 " Well, I will promise you that, and run the 
 risk of appearing as a boor, or a lunatic es 
 caped from Madame de Genlis's Palace of 
 Truth, before the world," said Monckton, lean 
 ing toward Beatrice and taking her hand. 
 
 At this moment, Miss Kachel hastily opened 
 the door, noted the condition of affairs, with 
 out appearing to look beyond the loaf of cake 
 she carried, and, crossing the room, opened 
 the door of a store-closet beside the fire, from 
 whose recesses came a rich odor of spices, tea, 
 coffee, syrup, and all the choicest treasures of 
 the housewife. 
 
 " You must excuse my going right on as if 
 you were not here, Mr. Monckton," said she, 
 returning without the cake. " I hope Beatrice 
 is entertaining you."
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " Admirably, Miss Rachel," said Monckton 
 with a smile; and Miss Rachel discovered 
 that Beatrice had fled 
 
 CHAPTER XXVH. 
 BUSY BEES. 
 
 THE morning proved Jacob a true prophet, 
 for it broke with a steady downpour of rain, 
 of the soft, quiet description, as little likely to 
 change as the will of those smiling, serene 
 women, than whom the mountains are less 
 obstinate 
 
 " Now, Mr. Monckton," said Aunt Rachel, as 
 the traveller after breakfast approached the 
 window, " you might as well consent to what 
 you can't help. The going will be miserable 
 to-day, and the rain will soak through that 
 coat of yours like brown paper. Send back 
 your sleigh to Bloom and make yourself con 
 tented here until to-morrow, when you can 
 take the stage. We are going to have a bee 
 to-day, and there will be some gentlemen to 
 tea ; and Beatrice, she isn't of much account 
 for quilting, and she will keep you company 
 through the day. You'd better stay." 
 
 " I think so too, sir, and I should be glad of 
 some one to keep me in countenance among 
 so many of the more powerful sex," said the 
 deacon, with the quiet smile that always sug 
 gested a little good-humored satire in his re 
 marks upon womankind, and reminded his 
 hearers that the opinions formed sixty years 
 ago were less liberal in their appreciation of 
 the fairer half of mankind than those of to 
 day 
 
 " Oh ! yes, he'll stay," chimed in grandmam 
 ma. " There'll be a plenty of pretty girls 
 here, even if we hadn't one of our own." 
 
 "And we shall be edified in watching some 
 new proofs of universal adaptiveness," said 
 Beatrice softly. 
 
 " How can I choose but stay with so many 
 temptations, even if my own wishes were not 
 too powerful to be denied ?" said Monckton 
 gayly ; and Miss Rachel slipped out of the 
 room to give the stable-lad from Bloom a sub 
 stantial breakfast, and bid him make ready to 
 depart alone. 
 
 A few hours later the bees began to arrive 
 in spite of the continued and increasing bad 
 weather. 
 
 " 1 told you how it'd be," said Jacob, as he 
 approached the doorstep where Beatrice was 
 lingering to enjoy the soft, moist air, while 
 
 the guests she had just welcomed were piloted 
 up-stairs by Miss Rachel. 
 
 " Yes, but how will they get home again ?'' 
 murmured the young lady, as Jacob took the 
 horse by the head and began to lead him 
 toward the barn. 
 
 " Oh ! that's of no account," replied he scoff- 
 ingly. " They're here, and they a'u't to home, 
 and that's all they care for." 
 
 "How unlikely such a servant would be in 
 England !" said Mr. Monckton, who had qui 
 etly approached the open door. 
 
 " So familiar, and yet so truly respectful," 
 said Beatrice. 
 
 " The bees began to arrive.' 1 '' 
 
 " Yes. Here in New-England, a servant is 
 merely a man who for wages consents to per 
 form certain service for another man. He re 
 tains his self-respect, and commands the re 
 spect of his employer, and both of them tac 
 itly confess that some day the employed may 
 become employer, and even rise to a rank far 
 above that of his present master. There is 
 nothing servile, nothing presuming in this 
 man's manners, but a servant who is born and 
 will die a servant cannot cease to be servile 
 without becoming presuming." 
 
 " 'My country, 'tis of thee, 
 Sweet land of liberty, ' "
 
 THE SHADOW OP MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 73 
 
 sung Beatrice with a smile ; and as another 
 sleigh, heavily loaded with women, old and 
 young, one small boy, and several umbrellas, 
 toiled up to the door, the friends, now really 
 friends once more, withdrew to the east room, 
 which was to be left undisturbed for the occu 
 pancy of the old people, and whoever chose to 
 join them. 
 
 " Maybe, Mr. Monckton, if you are not wanted 
 at the quilting, you would like to look over 
 some old records and curious papers saved 
 through two hundred years in our family," 
 said the deacon, feebly rising and unlocking 
 the great brass-bound secretary, whose deep 
 drawers and pigeon-holed recesses contained 
 antiquarian wealth enough to set a whole col 
 lege mad. 
 
 Mr. Monckton, who had the taste to relish 
 and the training to appreciate these treasures, 
 accepted the offer with a cordiality which evi 
 dently raised him in the opinion of the old 
 man, who seldom vouchsafed such an offer to 
 a stranger, and who valued his family treas 
 ures to their full extent. 
 
 With a smile of quiet amusement, Beatrice 
 watched the preparations of the two convives 
 as they seated themselves to their feast, and 
 so soon as they were fairly engrossed, left the 
 room and joined the throng of workers already 
 busy in the great parlor. 
 
 " How d'y do, Beatryce ? How.'s your health 
 since you've been to the city ?" asked Mrs. 
 Green, the sturdy, comfortable wife of Doctor 
 Bliss's rival in Milvor. 
 
 " Very good, thank you, Mrs. Green. Let me 
 help you with that bar." 
 
 " Thauky. You see we thought we'd set up 
 the best quilt in this room, because it's the 
 parlor, and birds of a feather had oughter flock 
 together don't you see ?" 
 
 And Mrs. Green looked round upon her co 
 adjutors for the approving laugh, of which 
 they did not disappoint her, it being a fortu 
 nate illustration of the law of demand and sup 
 ply, thaj to any persons of small intellectual 
 average a very little wit goes a great way, or 
 even no wit at all supplies the place of that 
 stimulant better than the genuine article. 
 
 Beatrice politely joined in the laugh, and 
 also with more interest in the labor of raising 
 the heavy quilting-bars upon the backs of four 
 chairs, and securing them in the form of a 
 hollow square by means of gimlets kept for 
 that purpose. Next, the lining of the quilt- 
 economically composed of a worn and faded 
 
 counterpane was sewed to the border of cloth 
 tacked to the inner edges of the bars ; then 
 the rolls of cotton- wool were laid upon it, and 
 a warm discussion as to the proper amount to 
 be used went round the circle of ladies gath 
 ered about the frame like a congress of crows 
 considering a prey fallen into their midst. 
 
 " Well, every body has their own notions ; 
 but for my part, I don't never want mA-ethan 
 two pound of cotton in a quilt that's going to 
 lay over me. If you get in more, it's more 
 heft than warmth," said Mrs. Green. 
 
 " What I say is, if you're going to have a 
 quilt, why have it, and let it be of some use. / 
 don't think four pound of cotton a mite too 
 much, and I haven't got a quilt in the world 
 with less in, and one I've got for the boys' 
 bed has got six in it." 
 
 " I should think your boys would be 
 smashed down flat under it, Miss Williams," 
 suggested another matron.slightly flushed with 
 the heat of argument ; and at this moment, for 
 tunately for the harmony of her party, Miss 
 Rachel entered the room. The question was at 
 once referred to her, and decided with a dove- 
 and-serpent wisdom which excited the admi 
 ration of her niece, who had become a little 
 alarmed. 
 
 " Why, to my mind, it depends altogether 
 on where the quilt is to be used," said Miss 
 Rachel. " For a cold, windy room up garret, 
 say I like a good thick quilt, or maybe a com 
 forter, and if the wool is good and clean, I 
 don't believe four or five pounds would be 
 too heavy ; but in a warm room, I think it is 
 better to have your quilts lighter and more of 
 them, so that you can throw them off and put 
 them on, as you like. My mother, now, has 
 four quilts on her bed besides the blankets, 
 and I don't believe there is more than a pound 
 apiece in them. So, seems to me, I wouldn't 
 put more than two pounds in this quilt, and 
 after we get it out, we'll tack a comforter, and 
 put five pounds in. Then they could go on 
 one bed together, and whoever slept there 
 could turn one or the other off as they were a 
 mind to." 
 
 " Yes, it's well to suit all tastes when you 
 can ; and some folks like to lie warm, and 
 some not so warm," said an old lady sooth 
 ingly. And the two pounds of cotton were 
 laid in, with no more discussion. 
 
 The next operation was to adjust the cover 
 or upper crust of this cotton-wool pie. This 
 was patchwork, composed of small octagonal
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 squares of brightly-colored calico, alternated 
 with large octagons of solid colored cambrics, 
 and had been Miss Rachel's fancy-work during 
 the last month. 
 
 It now received many encomiums and a 
 minute examination, sweet to the vanity of 
 the laborious artist. 
 
 " There's a piece of your lilac calico," and 
 " Wheje did you get that rosy piece ?" or 
 " These pretty cambrics was your morning- 
 gowns, Beatryce, wasn't they ?" and " What 
 a lot of work to get them all together, and how 
 nice you set off the colors one against an 
 other !" were some of the ejaculations. And 
 Miss Rachel modestly deprecating the praise 
 ehe felt richly merited, helped to lay the 
 cover evenly upon the cotton, and to sew it to 
 the edges of the bars. 
 
 " Now, what pattern be we going to do it 
 in?" asked Mrs. Green, producing a ball of 
 hard white cord and a piece of chalk from 
 her pocket 
 
 " Herring-bone is about as pretty as any 
 way, a'n't it ?" asked Mrs. Williams. 
 
 " I like di'monds, inch-square di'monds," 
 said another lady positively. 
 
 " Shell-pattern is pretty," remarked one. 
 
 " Waves are prettier," suggested another. 
 
 " How do you do waves ?" 
 
 " Why, lay down a small plate or a saucer, 
 if you want them small, and chalk round half 
 the edge. Just like shell-pattern, only you 
 do that with a teacup " 
 
 " It's pretty to have double parallel lines, 
 each pair about ten inches from the next, and 
 then waves in between each pair," said quiet 
 Mrs. Phelps, the minister's wife. 
 
 "Like skeins of yarn drying on a clothes- 
 horse," whispered Mrs. Green, who never ap 
 proved any other person's suggestion, and yet 
 dared not openly contradict the minister's 
 wife, whose proposed pattern was at once 
 adopted by Miss Rachel. 
 
 " First we must mark out the lines," said 
 Mrs. Phelps, looking about her. " Mrs. Green, 
 will you chalk your cord, and lay it on where 
 you think it ought to go ?" 
 
 Mrs. Green thus called to the front, gra 
 ciously obeyed, and first drawing the cord 
 over the lump of chalk, laid it across one 
 side of the quilt, and held it firmly at one end, 
 while Mrs. Phelps drew the other tight. 
 
 " Now, Miss Rachel, you must snap it, for 
 the sake of the sign," said Mrs. Green ; and 
 Rachel, with a prim smile, took the middle of 
 
 the cord between her thumb and forefinger, 
 raised it a little, and let it fall with a smart 
 snap, striking out a line of chalk-dust. 
 
 " What is the sign ?" asked Beatrice. 
 
 " Why, the one that snaps the first line on a 
 bed-quilt will lay under a wedding bed-quilt 
 first of any one in the room," said Mrs. Green 
 mysteriously, as she and the minister's wife 
 moved their chalked cord about an inch, had 
 a line snapped there, and then removed it ten 
 inches further inlaid, and chalked another pair 
 of parallel lines, while Mrs. Bruce, with an in 
 verted breakfast-plate and a piece of chalk 
 sharpened to a crayon, proceeded to draw the 
 " waves " between the two. 
 
 Leaving them thus engaged, Beatrice stole 
 away and up-stairs, where in the room overhead 
 she found another group of ladies similarly 
 employed over a " comforter," already in the 
 frame, and ready to be " tied " in diamonds, a 
 process effected by pushing a needle filled 
 with soft thread down through cover, cotton, 
 and lining, and drawing it up again nearly 
 in the same place, a little bunch of bright 
 colored wools being tied into the knot thus 
 formed. But in the other front chamber, the 
 guest-chamber, a knot of matrons, working in 
 secrect conclave, were preparing the crowning 
 glory of the day Miss Rachel herself being 
 rigidly excluded from the room, and Beatrice 
 only allowed to enter under promise of invio 
 lable secrecy. 
 
 This was an album bed-quilt, the gift of 
 Miss Barstow's widest circle of Mil vor acquaint 
 ance, each octagon composed by a different 
 person the only point of harmony insisted 
 upon being the size, and a small white square 
 in the middle, bearing the name of the donor, 
 either written in indelible ink, or fairly 
 wrought in cross-stitch, according to her taste 
 or ability. Below the name was generally a 
 date, and frequently a couplet, either original 
 or selected as : 
 
 " When this you pee, 
 Eemember me." 
 
 " The rose is red, the violet blue, 
 Pinks are pretty, and so are you." 
 
 " Of your dreams just when you wake, 
 Special notice you should take." 
 
 " Your hand and heart 
 Shall never part." 
 
 " I send this square to Miss Rachel, ' 
 To show that I wish her well." 
 
 " As soon as you're married, dear Miss, 
 You'll surely be living in bliss." 
 
 " This pretty piece of bedding 
 Is to grace Miss Barstow's wedding."
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Beatrice gravely read these and many 
 similar effusions, admired the taste displayed 
 in the various squares, some of which were 
 very pretty, and was just about to assume her 
 place among the needle- women already busily 
 at work, when her aunt's voice summoned 
 her into the hall, and she obeyed, first renew 
 ing her promise of secrecy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVHI. 
 STINGING BEES. 
 
 "BEATRICE, it's just struck twelve, and 
 don't you think we'd better call 'em out to 
 luncheon '!" whispered Miss Barstow, drawing 
 her niece into her own chamber, at the mo 
 ment deserted, although the bed was piled up 
 with outer garments, and a small baby slum 
 bered peacefully in a basket upon the hearth. 
 
 " Why, aren't we going to have dinner 
 pretty soon V asked Beatrice, stooping to 
 touch the velvety cheek of the little sleeper 
 with her lips. 
 
 " Dinner ! Why, Trix, have you forgotten ? 
 We are going to give them luncheon now, and 
 by and by, about five o'clock, when it gets too 
 dark to quilt, and the gentlemen come, we're 
 going to have dinner and supper all in 
 one." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I remember, aunty. They must 
 have some tea with their luncheon, mustn't 
 they ? Old ladies always like tea when they 
 are at work, I notice." 
 
 " Yes, they will have tea, and coffee, and 
 bread, and butter, and cake, and cheese, and 
 apple-tarts," said Miss Rachel, checking off 
 each article upon her fingers. " And I want 
 you to carry round the cream and sugar on 
 that little silver waiter that brother Israel 
 gave me last New-Year's, and just see that 
 every body is getting enough to eat, and sort 
 of urge them to take more, or something else, 
 you know. Some people always say no the 
 first time, and mean yes all the while." 
 
 "I know it, aunty. Yes, I will see that 
 they are all properly urged. Where shall I 
 find the salver ?" asked Beatrice, smiling 
 roguishly at her aunt's directions. 
 
 " It's in the buttery, with the silver cream- 
 pot and sugar-bowl on it, all ready. You 
 needn't put any napkin over the waiter, Bea 
 trice. I am going to carry in a little hot din 
 ner to grandpa and grandma in the east room, 
 because they hate to be put out of their ways 
 you know, and I suppose Mr. Moucktou will 
 
 eat with them. I'm afraid he's dreadful lone 
 some, Beatrice." 
 
 " Not a bit, aunty. He is having the nicest 
 time you can imagine, with grandfather and 
 the old records. I peeped in there just now." 
 
 ' I dare say you did," said Miss Rachel 
 grimly, touching her niece's rosy cheek with 
 her forefinger. " Well. Trix, I think he is as 
 nice a man as I have seen for a great while. 
 I like him ever so much." 
 
 " So do I, aunty ; but don't go to building 
 air-castles with me for Chatelaine ; although 
 it is natural enough that your thoughts should 
 run on matrimony." 
 
 " You saucy girl " began Miss Rachel ; 
 
 but Beatrice with a merry laugh was already 
 running down stairs to look for the silver 
 salver. 
 
 Long afterward, both she and her aunt re 
 membered that merry laugh and that light- 
 hearted audacity, and wondered that no 
 shadow of the clouds sweeping across that 
 brilliant sky should have warned them of ita 
 coming. 
 
 The luncheon was served, and Beatrice, flit 
 ting from group to group, the pretty salver, 
 with its cream-ewer and sugar-basin, in her 
 hand, and her face bright with cordial interest 
 in those whose wants she supplied, presented 
 a more attractive picture to the eyes of a 
 reasonable man than even Beatrice in all the 
 luxury of her gala robes, and the plenitude 
 of her social power. 
 
 So thought at least Mr. Monckton, standing 
 unobserved in the hall of the old house, sip 
 ping his coffee, and watching the groups in 
 the various rooms with the attentive eye of a 
 practiced observer. As Beatrice approached, 
 he, wishing her to remain unconscious of his 
 presence, lest she should lose the simple 
 earnestness which charmed him so much in 
 her present manner, seated himself quietly 
 behind a group of thick-set matrons close at 
 hand, and so became most unintentionally 
 auditor of their conversation. 
 
 " Zilpah says she's real comfortable," pur 
 sued Zil pah's sister-in-law. " They don't have 
 no great variety, nor no company, and it's so 
 seldom that they any of them go out of the 
 woods, that she hadn't had a chance to write 
 before, since they got there ; and I don't be 
 lieve she'd have written now, only she wanted 
 to tell about some things that Marston Brent 
 gave her when he broke up here, and she left 
 them with Samooel to sell for her, and I sup-
 
 76 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 pose she thought it was time to hear from 
 them. She was always dreadful sharp after 
 money, Zilpah was, and that's a complaint 
 folks don't get better of as they get older." 
 
 "Marston Brent and his folks thought a 
 sight of Zilpah," said another matron medita 
 tively. 
 
 " Yes, and she of them. She has a lot to 
 say about Marston in her letter. He's going 
 to be married." 
 
 " Is ? Why, who to, up there in the woods ?" 
 
 " Well, a girl that's living with him some 
 way now. Zilpah don't say much about it ; 
 only that evenings, they all sit round, and he 
 teaches Comfort all sorts of things. Zilpah 
 says that nobody here needn't think he's feel 
 ing any way bad about what's past and gone, 
 for she never see a man more taken up in a 
 girl than he is in this Comfort, and they'll be 
 married soon." 
 
 " He's got over the breaking off with ' 
 
 " S h ! here she is," whispered another 
 voice ; and between the portly forms of the 
 matrons, Monckton saw the glitter of the sil 
 ver salver, and heard a low voice saying : 
 
 " Will you have some more sugar or cream, 
 ladies 1" 
 
 It was not five minutes since he had heard 
 that voice so free, so sweet, so ringing with 
 innocent mirth, and hardly his own eyes or 
 ears could persuade him that this was the 
 same. He stole a look at Beatrice, more care 
 ful now than before not to let her perceive 
 him. Yes, face as well as voice had met a 
 change so great as to be almost incredible. 
 Those blanched cheeks those lips, straight, 
 hard, and colorless those eyes, vacant, yet 
 burning that constrained, mechanical man 
 ner! Ah ! was this the light-hearted Beatrice 
 he had stolen away from his appointed place 
 to admire ? 
 
 And then he fell to speculating v.pon the 
 sudden change. The talk of those women it 
 must be that ; and this Marston Brent was 
 the man she had loved, and from whom she 
 had been separated. A lover's quarrel, which 
 she had thought some day to reconcile, and 
 now he loved another woman ! And she, so 
 proud, so sensitive, so yes, she was jealous 
 in her friendship, as their late difference 
 proved ; and still more would she be jealous 
 in her love not meanly jealous, not desiring 
 to harm or wound either faithless lover or 
 
 successful rival, but disdaining a divided 
 reign, resigning all without a struggle the 
 moment a struggle became necessary. This 
 was the temper of the woman whom Monck 
 ton read as easily as that morning he had 
 read the old Saxon Bible brought from Eng 
 land by her ancestor. 
 
 Passing quietly behind the matrons, and 
 out of the room, he waited in the hall until 
 she should come out, meaning he knew not 
 what, but to comfort her in some way. Pres 
 ently she came ; and even Monckton, practiced 
 societist as he was, stood confounded before 
 her. The change wrought by those idle 
 words was not more absolute than this so 
 different from both the other moods ; and who 
 but he, who knew the whole, could have dis 
 tinguished between the girlish glee of the 
 first and the practiced persiflage of the pres 
 ent manner? 
 
 He looked at her curiously. Yes, her eyes 
 were bright, her lips smiling, her cheeks 
 flushed, her tone gay and unconcerned, and 
 the slight pallor about her mouth and the 
 slighter tremor of the jesting voice were so 
 faintly marked that no observer less acute 
 than he could have distinguished them. 
 
 " And she could hardly forgive me for the 
 transparent lie told in self-defence. That is 
 woman," said he softly to himself. Beatrice 
 paused before him. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Monckton ! A drone among 
 the bees! Aren't you afraid of being stung 
 to death?" 
 
 '' Not while the queen-bee is my friend," 
 said Monckton significantly, and making a 
 show of helping himself from the salver, he 
 detained her long enough to see that the allu 
 sion had shaken somewhat her desperate mood. 
 "I am glad that we were reconciled last 
 night," said she, suffering her face to fall for 
 one moment into an expression of such piteous 
 suffering that all the manhood of Monckton's 
 ieart was stirred. 
 
 " So am I. I want to see you alone, when 
 all these people are gone," said he. 
 "For what?" 
 
 " I will tell you then. Nothing that will 
 rouble or annoy you be sure of that." 
 
 " Sure ? I am sure of nothing now." And 
 with this one cry, wrung from the sharp 
 igony of her heart by his sympathetic tone, 
 3eatrice passed quickly on.
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 77 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 FEEDING THE BEES. 
 
 THE afternoon passed much as the morn 
 ing the usual conversation, varied by oc 
 casional remarks upon the Aveather, which con 
 tinued " soft " and threatening for the home 
 ward flight of the bees. Needles, however, 
 flew as actively as tongues, and by five o'clock 
 three bed-quilts, including the famous album- 
 quilt, and four comforters lay completed upon 
 the floor of the guest-chamber : the frames 
 were rapidly dismembered and taken to the 
 garret, the rooms cleared of litter, and the la 
 dies requested to amuse themselves for half 
 an hour, when supper would be served. Com 
 plying with this invitation, the elders, after 
 smoothing their black silk or alpaca dresses, 
 and adjusting their cap-ribbons, repaired in 
 squads of two and three to the east room, to 
 pay their respects to the patriarchs, while the 
 younger women, after devoting a little more 
 time and pains to the renovation of their toi 
 lets, collected in groups, gossiping in low 
 voices and with much-suppressed giggle, or 
 hanging around the window to watch the ar 
 rival of the gentlemen who had been invited 
 for the supper and evening frolic offered to the 
 bees by way of recompense for the toils of the 
 day. 
 
 This supper, as it was justly styled for cer 
 tainly it was neither breakfast, dinner, nor tea 
 was a feast such as never perhaps is spread 
 out of New-England, and, alas ! is rarely seen 
 in these degenerate days even in that favored 
 region. It was spread upon two extempore ta 
 bles extending the length of the dining-room, 
 and crowded upon both sides with plates ; for 
 Miss Rachel strongly condemned the inhospi 
 table fashion of " stand-up teas," and declared 
 that if she was to have any thing to eat, she 
 also wished a comfortable place to eat it in, or 
 wanting that, had rather go unfed. Upon these 
 tables, then, were set the dishes, including an 
 enormous round of spiced beef at either end, 
 roasted turkeys and geese as central orna 
 ments, and such trifles as roasted and boiled 
 fowls, hams, tongues, headcheese, and smoked 
 beef between. Varying these meats were 
 plates of smoking-hot fried doughnuts, hot 
 biscuit, brown bread, dipped toast, and short 
 cakes, and to succeed them upon the bill of 
 fare came pies of every imaginable variety, 
 cake of every hue and description, sweet 
 meats, pickles, cheese, custards, and fruit. 
 
 At a smaller table across the head of the 
 
 room stood Miss Barstow and Beatrice, pour 
 ing cups of coffee and tea, which Nancy smil 
 ingly distributed ; while Dr. Bliss, Mr. Monck- 
 ton, and a few other gentlemen, waited upon 
 the fair guests at the tables, carving the pieces 
 do resistance, and urging them upon the deli 
 cate creatures whose creed of manners per 
 emptorily inculcated resistance to all such 
 overtures, however much exhausted nature 
 might crave support. This point, however, 
 being thoroughly understood among the jo 
 cund swains of these shy Daphnes, was easily 
 disposed of, and somewhat in this fashion : 
 " Have a piece of the turkey, Miss Welch ?" 
 " No ; I'm obliged to you, Mr. Snell ; I can't 
 get through what I've got on my plate." 
 
 " You ha'n't got nothing but a piece of 
 bread, as I see. Better have some turkey, it's 
 first-rate." 
 
 " La ! no, I couldn't eat it if I was to take 
 it." 
 
 " Well, if you don't, maybe it'll eat you, for 
 one of you's got to suffer, and there it is." 
 
 "O my! Mr. Snell, what be you doing? 
 Well, then, I shall leave it on my plate." 
 Which she did not do. 
 Mr. Monckton, everywhere at once, atten 
 tive to every one, rather preferring the older 
 and less attractive of the guests to the younger 
 and prettier ones, proved an invaluable auxil 
 iary, and won for himself more golden opin 
 ions than have often crowned more real self- 
 sacrifice. 
 
 The admiration excited by his fine face and 
 polished manner among the younger ladies 
 might, indeed, have become dangerous to the 
 peace of their respective swains, had it not 
 been tempered by the information, dropped 
 :arly in the day by Miss Rachel, and indus 
 triously circulated ever since, to the effect that 
 this was "Beatrice Wansted's beau," and 
 therefore not available for any other aspirant. 
 At a later day, Miss Barstow defended herself 
 with, considerable skill from the charge of 
 setting a false rumor in circulation, with the 
 remark : 
 
 ' Well, if he wasn't, he ought to have been, 
 unless my eyes deceived me when I came in 
 with that loaf of cake." 
 
 But with all Mr. Monckton's efforts, he never 
 lost sight or thought of the friend whose 
 rief was to him as his own. He saw that 
 the exertions she forced herself to make were 
 too great to be sustained ; he was sure that 
 presently she must fail utterly, either in mua-
 
 78 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 cle or nerve must faint or burst into hyster 
 ical weeping ; and lie well knew how cruelly 
 she would afterward reproach herself for either 
 betrayal. 
 
 Watching her with ever-increasing anxiety, 
 he saw her eyes glazing with the inward fever 
 that burned upon her cheeks and lips wander 
 about the room with the appealing gaze of 
 some timid creature trapped and doomed to 
 death, yet seeking despairingly an impossible 
 escape. He saw her totter and grasp at the 
 back of a chair for support, and in the next 
 moment he was at her side, her hand within 
 his arm. 
 
 " One last effort look about you and try to 
 smile don't fail now remember all these 
 people !" murmured he in her ear, supporting 
 her as well as he could without attracting at 
 tention, and leading her rapidly from the 
 room. In the hall she tottered, and would have 
 fallen, but with his arm around her waist, he 
 raised and carried her into the deserted parlor 
 and laid her upon a sofa. The cool air and 
 tender twilight of the place revived her, and 
 opening her eyes, she whispered : 
 
 " Thank you. I am so glad " 
 
 " I did not mean to let you spoil all your 
 effort by breaking down at the last. You have 
 done nobly." 
 
 Beatrice opened her eyes more consciously, 
 and fixed them upon his face. Then she said 
 half defiantly : 
 
 " Yes, I have been growing tired for some 
 time." 
 
 Mr. Monckton bowed with a face which 
 neither denied nor accepted the proposition, 
 and Beatrice blushed scarlet. 
 
 " You should teach me how to say those 
 things better," said she bitterly. 
 
 " You need first some food ; then warmth 
 and rest," replied Monckton quietly. " Go 
 to your own room, and I will send you some 
 thing to eat and drink. You have taken noth 
 ing since breakfast." 
 
 " How do you know ?" 
 
 " Am I not your friend ?" 
 
 " I do not like surveillance.'" 
 
 " You like nothing to-night ; but after eat 
 ing you will wrap yourself very warmly, and 
 go to sleep to oblige me." 
 
 "Why should I ?" 
 
 " Because I cannot be happy unless you are 
 at least physically comfortable because I am 
 your friend." 
 
 " Ah !" shivered Beatrice, as if the word 
 
 had hurt her ; and with a sudden, uncontroll 
 able impulse, she laid both her hands in his, 
 and fixed those piteous, eloquent eyes upon 
 his face. 
 
 " My friend ! Are you indeed my friend ?" 
 moaned she. " Then pray that I may die to 
 night." 
 
 ' Beatrice ! No, child, you shall not be 
 alone through the sharpness of this agony 
 you could not bear it yet. Come into the otlier 
 room, and sit beside that saintly old man ; 
 the peace and perfectness of his calm will 
 soothe you, and the thought of the battles he 
 has fought and conquered will give you 
 strength for your own. Come." 
 
 She suffered him to raise and lead her from 
 the room, just as the advance guard of the 
 devastating army in the dining-room appeared 
 at the lower end of the hall, returning upon 
 their footsteps. Monckton quickly opened 
 the door of the east room, entered with Be 
 atrice, and closed it behind them. The grand 
 parents, sitting placidly at either side the fire, 
 with a little tea-table between them, looked 
 up and smiled. 
 
 "Miss Wansted is so much fatigued with 
 her hospitable efforts that I persuaded her to 
 come in and rest a little, and, if I might ven 
 ture, I should suggest to Mrs. Barstow to 
 make her drink a cup of tea." 
 
 So speaking, with the easy manner of one 
 who knows his presence and his proposition 
 sure to be favorably received, Mr. Monckton 
 seated Beatrice in a comfortable chair near her 
 grandmother, left the room in search of a cup 
 and saucer, and brought back with them a 
 plate containing some bits of chicken and a 
 piece of bread. 
 
 " Now, Miss Beatrice, if you will allow me, 
 I shall recommend as much chicken and 
 bread as you can possibly dispose of ; and to 
 show that I really believe in my own prescrip 
 tion, I shall go and bring yet another plate, 
 cup and saucer, and set you a good example. 
 You see, Mrs. Barstow, we have been so busy 
 in waiting upon other people that we have as 
 yet done nothing for ourselves, and I fear 
 this young lady is quite exhausted." 
 
 " I haven't a doubt of it," replied the old 
 lady, with emphasis. " It was always the way 
 with her from a child ; if she got excited, or 
 tired, or any thing, she wouldn't eat perhaps 
 not a mouthful in a day, and then, of course, 
 she'd break down. She isn't very rugged at 
 the best of times, nor her mother wasn't be-
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 79 
 
 fore her. Somehow, these pretty creters don't 
 seem to wear so well as the plain, home-spun 
 ones like Rachel, say." 
 
 " My wife probably wishes to say, sir, that, 
 without unnaturally giving the preference to 
 either of her daughters, she values each for 
 her own peculiar gifts," said the patriarch, 
 somewhat severely ; and his wife, stirring her 
 tea, vehemently exclaimed : 
 
 " Certain, certain ; that is what I meant." 
 
 " Tlie Bees going home.'''' 
 
 Mr. Monckton, replying to both with a smile 
 that conveyed every thing or nothing, as the 
 receiver chose, left the room, and presently re 
 turning with his own supper, drew a chair to 
 the table ; and while eating and drinking 
 with unfeigned relish, contrived to insist upon 
 Beatrice's doing the same. When she would 
 take no more, he contrived that her grand 
 mother should suggest her reclining upon the 
 soft, old-fashioned couch, and himself threw a 
 shawl across her feet. Then, returning with 
 a smile her look of gratitude, he set aside the 
 little tea-table, and devoted himself to conver 
 sation with the deacon and his wife upon 
 topics which he knew to bo especially inter 
 esting to his silent auditor. 
 
 Thus was he still engaged when the jingle 
 of sleigh-bells announced that the guests were 
 about to depart ; and Mr. Monckton feeling 
 that he also owed a duty to Miss Rachel, rose 
 to fulfil it, seeing, with quiet satisfaction, as 
 he passed the couch, that Beatrice had fallen 
 fast asleep. 
 
 " Ef there a'n't some hosses' legs broke 'fore we 
 all get home, why /lose my guess," remarked 
 the father of a family, standing rather discon 
 tentedly upon the doorstep, and examining 
 the gray, watery sky, the plashy and uneven 
 road, and the erratic movements of the sleigh 
 just driving from the door. > 
 
 " Now, look out, girls, for some fun. If you 
 don't get upset before you reach Four Corners, 
 it won't be my fault !" exclaimed a jolly 
 young farmer, escorting a bevy of shrieking, 
 exclamatory girls to the same'point. And half 
 an hour later the last guest had said good 
 night, and the Old Garrison returned to its 
 usual condition of quiet and repose. 
 
 CHAPTEU XXX. 
 BEATBICE LOSES HEIl FRIEND. 
 
 THE rain continued all night, and by morn 
 ing the ro#,ds had become so bad that Aaron 
 Bunce decided that the risk to his horse's 
 legs and the integrity of his coach was greater 
 than any hope of gain in prosecuting his 
 u,sual journey, and therefore remained quietly 
 at home. Whether Mr. Monckton would 
 have gone with him had he driven to Bloom 
 remains an open question ; but at all events, 
 he acquiesced very amiably in the necessity 
 of remaining at Milvor, and divided his time 
 through the day between fireside conversa 
 tions with the old people, good-humored aid 
 to Miss Barstow, who pervaded the house like 
 a revolution, setting right the wrongs of the 
 past, at expense of the peace of the present, 
 and unobtrusive watchfulness of Beatrice, 
 who went languidly about her various duties, 
 and alternated in her mood between fictitious 
 gayety and undisguised depression. 
 
 In the evening twilight, he saw her steal 
 softly into the empty parlor, and as quietly 
 followed her. 
 
 Beatrice looked round at the opening door 
 with obvious annoyance. 
 
 Monckton quietly approached, and seated 
 himself upon the sofa beside her. 
 
 " I know that you came here to be alone, 
 and that you regard my presence as an intru 
 sion," said he. " But you will remember that
 
 80 
 
 THE SHADOW OP MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 I told you yesterday, I wished to see you for a 
 few moments alone, and tikis, my first oppor 
 tunity, will probably be my last, as I leave 
 Milvor early in the morning." 
 
 " We shall be very sorry to lose you," mur 
 mured Beatrice, courteous amid all the suffer 
 ing she controlled so painfully. 
 
 " Thanks. You reproached me bitterly a 
 little while ago, Beatrice, for want of candor 
 to you, who have a right, as my intimate 
 friend, to claim my utmost truth. Now, you 
 will be tempted to reproach me for over-much 
 candor, and meddling with affairs which are 
 not for the touch of any hand save your own. 
 Shall I speak, or may I keep silence, and yet 
 preserve our compact of perfect sincerity ?" 
 
 " Speak," whispered Beatrice, averting her 
 head. 
 
 " Well, then, I heard that woman's words. 
 I heard that Marston Brent, in his forest soli 
 tudes, is training to his own liking a wife to 
 take the place of a lost love, and that this 
 lost love is no longer regretted. Now, tell 
 me, Beatrice that is, if you will was this 
 report the blow that prostrated you so sud 
 denly yesterday ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then you still love this Marston Brent ?" 
 
 "No." # 
 
 " Forgive me if I trespass, but I wish to 
 help you. This report may be false very 
 possibly it is ; at any rate, before you fully 
 credit it, allow me to go and ascertain the 
 facts. Will you ?" 
 
 " What, go to Wahtahree ? It is five hun 
 dred miles from here." 
 
 " If it were five thousand, I would go, if, 
 by going, I could set your heart at rest." 
 
 " Then friendship is something better worth 
 than love." 
 
 " That is another question, and, besides, you 
 overrate my offer. Travelling is my profes 
 sion, and I have been quiet too long. Shall I 
 go to Wahtahree ?" 
 
 " No, not for me." 
 
 " But why do you refuse ?" 
 
 " I do not wish news of Marston Brent." 
 
 " But you believe this old wives' tale, and it 
 distresses you." 
 
 " I believe it, and I am indifferent to it." 
 
 " Indifference does not show like this." 
 
 "Mr. Monckton, your inquisition partakes 
 of the nature of torture. You have passed 
 the question ordinary, and reached the ques 
 tion extraordinary." 
 
 " You shall not discourage me by a petu 
 lance that arises from overwrought nerves. 
 I wish to serve you, even in your own despite. 
 Is it to be done by clearing away this cloud be 
 tween you and Marston Brent ?" 
 
 " No, a thousand times no. Were this story 
 proved the most baseless fiction, you can 
 bring us no nearer together. We are sepa 
 rated forever." 
 
 " By your will, or his, or circumstance ?" 
 
 " Both all every thing. Must I tell you 
 the whole story before you will let me rest ? 
 Six months ago, we two were compelled to 
 settle our future paths through life ; he asked 
 me to follow his I bid him follow mine ; both 
 refused, and so we separated, and every step 
 since has led us farther apart. Stop, I have 
 not told you the greatest final barrier : I, set 
 ting forth alone, would have faltered and 
 turned back to join him ; and he he bid me 
 hold to my determination, and respect my 
 own word, or he should cease to respect me. 
 What more can be said between us ? The 
 shock of hearing that he loved another woman, 
 and already made himself happy with her. 
 was, as you too clearly perceived, a severe 
 one ; but it is over now, and it has never for 
 one moment meant regret that is, not a regret 
 that softens my resolution never to yield one 
 half inch to any temptation such as you place 
 before me." 
 
 " The temptation to recall yourself to his 
 mind ?" 
 
 " Yes, or to recall him to mine. All I de 
 sire is to place an impassable barrier between 
 those days and these to forget Marston 
 Brent and the life we lived together to blot 
 out the past." 
 
 Monckton rose and paced the dusky room 
 up and down, his arms folded, his head bent 
 upon his breast. Beatrice, watching his lithe 
 figure and dark face, passing and re-passing 
 now shrouded in the gloom filling the farther 
 end of the apartment, now showing in the 
 gray light near the windows thought of that 
 maniac ancestor of hers who, not yet mad 
 enough to wear the fetters, whose scar she 
 had so often traced upon the beam in the east 
 parlor, may thus have paced the gloomy twi 
 light rooms, fighting down the crowd of vis 
 ionary enemies who, at the last, conquered 
 him. 
 
 " I wonder if I shall go mad too," whis 
 pered she, shivering down in the corner of 
 the great sofa.
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 81 
 
 Just then, Monckton paused before her. 
 
 " Beatrice, I have turned coward all at once. 
 I wish to speak to you, and I dare not," said 
 he. 
 
 " Afraid of me ! Your friend, as you have 
 liked to call me !" 
 
 "It is just because I have called you so, 
 and because you have for that name's sake 
 given me your confidence, and showed me 
 the wound you hide from others just for that 
 reason, I dread to speak." 
 
 " What can you mean ?" 
 
 " I fear lest you should call me false to my 
 own professions, lest you should deem me a 
 traitor, who, having the key of the treasure- 
 casket given him, uses it to possess himself of 
 the jewels he was sworn to guard. Beatrice, 
 you have granted me your friendship, and 
 from that fair height I see the Paradise of 
 your love, and, man-like, I wish to attain the 
 best. Have you one word of hope for me ?" 
 
 But Beatrice, spreading both hands before 
 her, as to ward off a blow, could only cry : 
 
 " No, no, no ! Do not say it, do not think 
 it ! Must I lose you too ?" 
 
 " Beatrice, you said you desired only to place 
 an impassable barrier between yourself and 
 Brent, to prove to him that you have forgotten 
 him, as he you. How could you do this more 
 surely than by marriage?" 
 
 " No, a thousand times no. You were right, 
 Mr. Monckton, when you feared to make this 
 proposition to me, and I was weaker than 
 weak to believe that any man is capable 
 of a pure and disinterested friendship. Oh! 
 why could not you have been content ? for al 
 ready I was turning to this friendship as my 
 comfort and my refuge against utter desola 
 tion. I believed in you, and you have deceived 
 me." 
 
 " I deceived myself as well, for until within 
 this last four-and-twenty hours I believed as 
 fully as yourself that my feeling was one of 
 purest friendship. Your distress, your help 
 lessness, your unmerited mortification changed 
 every thing at a blow." 
 
 " And I have lost my friend, and gained 
 nothing in his place." 
 
 " If you would accept him, you have gained 
 a true and tender lover in his place." 
 
 " I do not want your love, Mr. Monckton I 
 have none to give in place of it, no room for 
 it in my heart. I asked you for bread and 
 water, and you offer me spices and wine." 
 
 " I have committed a great mistake, and I 
 6 
 
 felt it to be such even while yielding to the 
 temptation," said Monckton bitterly. "And 
 yet, God knows, Beatrice, I never intended to 
 deceive you." 
 
 " Well, well, it is of small importance now. 
 All is ali&e wearisome and disheartening. 
 Let all pass together." 
 
 And Beatrice, with a gesture of sullen de 
 spair, turned her face toward the pillow, shut 
 ting out sight and sound, and, if she might, 
 all memory of the world whose fair fruit had 
 already turned to ashes upon her lips. 
 
 Monckton stood looking at her, the vast 
 pity in his heart gradually absorbing the mor 
 tification he had endured, and even the dis 
 appointment of his love. Then he said : 
 
 " Beatrice, forget this hour. Fancy that, 
 sleeping here in the dusky room, you have 
 dreamed a dream, and, waking, smile and let 
 it pass. Look upon me with the coming day 
 light as your firm, fast friend, steadfast for the 
 future against even the tempting of his own 
 heart, and true to you through all the chances 
 of both our lives. Beatrice, will you do this ?" 
 
 " How can I, how can I ? How shall I for 
 get, or, remembering, how shall I trust my 
 self not to recall these feelings which you 
 banish now? I should be afraid to speak 
 or look or behave toward you with the un 
 guarded confidence that friendship should 
 permit. I never could be sure that you forget. 
 I never could forget myself." 
 
 " Oh ! fool that I was, and traitor not to you 
 alone, but to the whole tenor of my life !" ex 
 claimed Monckton bitterly. " What had I 
 to do with woman's love, and the tender hope 
 and peace that make gardens in the desert of 
 other men's lives ? Have I not known it and 
 felt it since consciousness began, and from that 
 day to this have cheated fate by denying my 
 heart all interest in man or woman ? And 
 now, one moment of weakness has destroyed 
 the care of years ; for, Beatrice, I shall not for 
 get you, I shall not cease to love you while I 
 live." 
 
 "Stay! Where are you going? What do 
 you mean?" exclaimed Beatrice, as Monckton 
 turned abruptly from her side. 
 
 " I am going to leave you for the moment. 
 To-morrow, I return to the city, and from 
 
 thence I go where the wind goes. Good- 
 
 by." 
 
 " No, no, I cannot bid you good-by thus. 
 I did not know that you felt BO- deeply, so 
 bitterly "
 
 82 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " Child, do you think a man, in the vigor of 
 his manhood, uncloses his grasp of the one 
 thing he prizes on earth as easily as a girl 
 drops a withered flower ? Because this love 
 of mine is the idlest of all follies, it is none 
 the less a real thing to me, and the heart 
 that has never been touched until now will 
 not heal easily over its wound." 
 
 " But wait one moment. You said but now 
 that you would forget it, that you would re 
 turn to yesterday, and be again my true, calm 
 friend, and nothing more. If that were pos 
 sible !" 
 
 " It is not. The effort would be a fresh 
 treachery, and would end as this has done. I 
 might hide the true feeling for months, for 
 years perhaps, but it would always be there, 
 and some day the volcano would burst forth 
 afresh. I am glad your eyes were clear 
 enough to read the proposition rightly." 
 
 " Then I have lost my friend, as before I 
 lost my love, and now must set my face toward 
 the end, unguided, unaided, alone." 
 
 " Hush, for God's sake, hush ! You bring 
 my selfish folly too hideously to lig t. Had 
 I contented myself with friendship, you never 
 need have uttered that lament. Beatrice ! 
 try to forgive me, for I never can forgive my 
 self." 
 
 He hastened from her presence, and Beatrice, 
 alone in the darkness and the gloom, fell upon 
 her knees crying : " God help me! God help 
 me, for I have no other friend !'' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A DISAGREEABLE: SURPRISE. 
 
 THE day before the wedding, arrived Mr. 
 Israel Barstow, and was received with sober 
 joy by his parents, with fluttering cordiality 
 by the bride-elect, and with a feverish eager 
 ness by Beatrice, who, with the instinctive 
 desire most of us have felt to hide our sor 
 rows in a crowd, was longing to return to her 
 city home. 
 
 Uncle Israel received all these demonstrations 
 gratefully, and yet in a strangely preoccupied 
 manner very different from his usual hearty 
 fashion, and so marked that each of his friends 
 noticed and put a different construction upon 
 it his father fearing that his business had be 
 come involved ; his mother watching for symp 
 toms of illness : Rachel concluding that her 
 own marriage had reawakened some long-past 
 
 tender memories ; and Beatrice dreading lest 
 he had learned Mr. Monckton's rejection. 
 
 But when at the stroke of nine o'clock, the 
 old people prepared to retire, and their son 
 dutifully rose to bid them good-night, the 
 mystery was suddenly solved. 
 
 " Before you go, father and mother," said 
 Mr. Israel Barstow in a strangely confused 
 voice, " I should like to tell you something 
 something which I hope you will like to know, 
 or at least not take unkindly. The fact is, 
 that I'm going to be married too." 
 
 " You married ! Why, Israel Barstow, 
 what do you mean ? What sort of a girl have 
 you picked out at last ?" exclaimed the mother ; 
 and Rachel added approvingly : 
 
 " ' Better late than never ;' and you're not so 
 much older than I, Israel." 
 
 " Who is it, uncle ?" asked Beatrice, with a 
 sudden terror seizing upon her heart. 
 
 " Some one you know, and can't but like, af 
 ter all the time you've been together. Mrs. 
 Charlton, Beatrice," said Mr. Barstow, growing 
 very red in the face, and avoiding his niece's 
 grieved and astonished eyes. 
 
 " A Southern woman !" exclaimed the Puri 
 tan father. 
 
 " A widow !" ejaculated his wife. 
 
 " A regular fashionable !" added Miss 
 Rachel ; while Beatrice, without remark, re 
 moved her hand from her uncle's arm and 
 turned away. 
 
 " Well, you, each of you, seem to find a 
 separate fault, and none of you any thing 
 pleasant to say," remarked the lover rather 
 bitterly. 
 
 " I hope you have judged wisely for your 
 self, son, and I trust that your future life will 
 be made a happy one," said the father mildly. 
 " This is a matter in which every mature man 
 should j udge for himself. I shall be glad to 
 see the woman you have selected as your wife 
 whenever you see fit to bring her here ; and 
 now I will wish you a good-night." 
 
 " Of course we shall be glad to see her, and 
 if she makes you a good wife, she shan't com 
 plain that her husband's folks don't notice her 
 enough. Why didn't you bring her down 
 with you this time, Israel ?" 
 
 " Thank you, father and mother. I know 
 you will like her when you see her ; but I 
 thought it would be better to come some quiet 
 time after the wedding," said Israel, with an 
 air of relief at having gotten over the an 
 nouncement. " You see we shall not make
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 88 
 
 such a parade as Rachel and the doctor are 
 doing. We are to be married quietly in 
 church some morning, slip away to Washing 
 ton for a few weeks, and then settle down at 
 home. Well, good-night. You're not off too, 
 Kachel ?" 
 
 "Yes, I have to help mother a little about 
 undressing, but I will be back in a minute," 
 said Miss Barstow ; and closing the door, she 
 left her broiher alone with his niece, who for 
 the first time in her life felt embarrassed in 
 his presence. The constraint was mutual, 
 but Mr. Barstow was the first to overcome it. 
 
 " Trix," said he, approaching her as she 
 leaned upon the high back of her grandfa 
 ther's chair and stared dreamily into the fire, 
 " you seem out of spirits about something. 
 I hope it is not because your friend is going 
 to become your aunt." 
 
 " Uncle Israel ! don't !" exclaimed the girl 
 with involuntary dismay. 
 
 '' Don't what, child ?" 
 
 " Don't speak of Mrs. Charlton as my 
 aunt." 
 
 " But she will be. Of course your uncle's 
 wife will be your aunt, and I don't take it 
 kindly of you, Beatrice, to show this dislike 
 to a step that I am sure will add so much to 
 my happiness, as well as to that of a very 
 charming and very lovely woman." 
 
 " Of course, uncle, I have no right to show 
 or to feel disapproval of your action. Only I 
 was so " 
 
 " Well, so what ? ' asked Mr. Barstow a lit 
 tle harshly. 
 
 " Shocked, I was going to say," murmured 
 his niece. 
 
 " That is a strange word to use about such 
 an affair. Pray what is there so shocking in 
 it?" 
 
 " Do not be angry with me, uncle I have 
 not been well since I was here, and I am tired 
 and nervous. Don't mind what I say at all." 
 
 And Beatrice, crossing her arms upon the 
 chair-back, leaned her head upon them, and 
 wondered bitterly if so desolate a creature as 
 herself lived. 
 
 The expression of the drooping figure was 
 more eloquent than speech, and went straight 
 to the kindly heart of Mr. Israel Barstow, al 
 ready tingling with a little remorse, as he re 
 membered his openly avowed intention of 
 adopting Beatrice as his daughter and heiress. 
 
 " Come, come, my little girl," said he, ten 
 derly drawing her to his embrace, and 
 
 smoothing with a familiar gesture the beauti 
 ful hair he had so often praised. " You are 
 not to suppose this makes any change to you. 
 My house is your house, and I shall insist upon 
 you making a home of it ; and as formoney,\vhy 
 I fancy there will be enough for all of us, both 
 now and by and by. Nothing will be changed 
 from what it has been, except that you will be 
 nearer and dearer to both of us. She told me 
 to give her love to you, and I have a little note 
 in my pocket that I was to hand you after you 
 had heard the news." 
 
 " After I had been prepared," thought Bea 
 trice, and then casting the bitter feeling reso 
 lutely behind her, she put her arms about her 
 uncle's neck and kissed him tenderly. 
 
 ' Dear Uncle Israel," said she, " unless you 
 wish to make me feel like the most ungrate 
 ful and degraded creature in the world, never 
 talk so to me again. Did you, could you think 
 that I remembered money, or that I was afraid 
 I should not have all that I ever enjoyed in 
 your house ? I do not deserve, I never have 
 deserved your kindness, but at least I am not 
 ungrateful." 
 
 " Nor I either, Trix, and it's I that am the 
 debtor. But you'll come home with me, won't 
 you, dear? The fact is, I am a little lonely 
 after all our pleasant tiroes, and miss you 
 sorely. Of course, June has not been with us 
 since you left, and the house seems dull 
 enough.' 1 
 
 " Certainly I will come, if you need me, \m- 
 cle. Mrs. Charlton will not return until after 
 after you are married, I suppose." 
 
 " No, oh ! no. She is terribly rigid on all 
 points of propriety, you know." 
 
 " Yes," replied Beatrice faintly 
 
 " We are proposing to be married quite 
 soon in fact, next Thursday, the day after I 
 get home from here, and we start upon our 
 tour the same day," said Mr. Barstow, a liti.j 
 nervously ; " and I should be very glad to have 
 you go with us, Trixie, but " 
 
 " Oh ! no, uncle," interposed Beatrice hastily, 
 " that would be quite out of the question. 
 Don't think of it !" 
 
 "Well, so June said," replied Mr. Barstow 
 innocently. " And I suppose it might be a 
 little odd ; but then, you know, we are not very 
 young, or very romantic, either of us, and I 
 
 thought it would be pleasant However, if 
 
 you will stay quietly in Midas Avenue with 
 Mrs. Grey, and just overlook a little some new 
 furnishing and decorating that is to be done
 
 84 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 in our absence, I can't tell you bow much 
 obliged I shall be. Besides, Trix, you must 
 remember these turtle-doves here will want 
 their nest to themselves, and we shall botli of 
 us be better out of the way than in it after 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Beatrice did not reply. The bitter waters 
 in which she seemed sinking closed her lips, 
 and had she unclosed them it would be to 
 say: 
 
 " Yes, you make your home no home for 
 me, and in the same moment remind me that 
 I am no longer needed or wanted in the only 
 other home open to me." 
 
 But she did not say it, and before Mr. Bar- 
 stow could pursue the subject. Miss Rachel 
 entered, her momentary annoyance at her 
 brother's marriage past, and her tongue vol 
 uble with questions, information, sly jests at 
 her own and his late romance, and all the 
 pleasant flutter natural to a bride upon her 
 marriage eve, and a secluded woman in pos 
 session of an exciting piece of news. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 MRS. CIIARLTON'S SECRET. 
 
 THE next morning, after her return to town, 
 Mr. Barstow accompanied his niece in a formal 
 call upon Mrs. Charlton. 
 
 Beatrice, who had nervously dreaded this 
 visit more, however, upon Juanita's account 
 than her own smiled at her own tremors be 
 fore the first five minutes were over. Mrs. 
 Charlton's perfect breeding answered the ex 
 igencies of the occasion better even than sin 
 cerity, which involves emotion, and opens the 
 way for awkward situations edge-tools not 
 to be handled without serious risk to the fin 
 gers of the handler. But awkwardness, ab 
 surdities, embarrassment, were unknown in 
 gredients in any of Juanita Charlton's com 
 binations, and this interview, apparently so 
 natural and free from all constraint, had been 
 the subject of her deepest thought from the 
 moment it had been announced by Mr. Bar- 
 stow's hastily-pencilled note. 
 
 Toward Beatrice her manner was precisely 
 what it had been before they separated kind, 
 familiar, a little protecting and indulgent, as 
 far removed from fondness as from formality, 
 and with no shade of consciousness that any 
 new relation existed or was about to exist 
 between them. Toward Mr. Barstow she was, 
 perhaps, a little more familiar than formerly, 
 and there might be perceived a slight tone of 
 
 deference and of dependence upon his judg 
 ment and opinion, not to be noticed before ; 
 and yet, as Beatrice acknowledged to herself, 
 the keenest satirist could have found no room 
 for a sneer, either in the manner she adopted 
 upon her own part or the manner she permitted 
 upon that of the mature adorer, who evidently 
 only waited her sanction to display his passion 
 in the most decided manner. 
 
 At the end of half an hour, Beatrice rose to 
 take leave with a feeling blended of admira 
 tion and gratitude toward the woman whose 
 social talent had rendered easy, and even pleas 
 ant, an interview that might have been so ex 
 ceedingly disagreeable. 
 
 But, in parting. Mrs. Charlton slightly de 
 tained her future niece, while, with a smiling 1 
 gesture, she intimated to her lover that he was 
 to proceed down-stairs alone. 
 
 "I want to see you, Beatrice. I have a 
 message for you." 
 
 " From whom ?" 
 
 " No matter just yet. Will you wait now, 
 or call again after you set down your uncle? 
 I will go for a little drive with you, if you will 
 take me." 
 
 " Certainly," said Beatrice, smiling at 
 thought of how soon carriage and horses 
 would be Mrs. Charlton's own ; and then she 
 hurried down-stairs, only anxious just then to 
 part from her companion, and almost forget 
 ting to wonder what the mysterious message 
 could be. 
 
 " Now, Trix, you may take me down-town, 
 if you don't dislike the drive, and then go 
 home, or wherever you choose," said Mr. 
 Barstow, handing his niece into the carriage 
 with the ceremonious politeness natural to 
 him. 
 
 " Yes, uncle, we will drive down-town, cer 
 tainly ; and then Mrs. Charlton asked me to 
 come back and take her out for a little. She 
 has something to say to me," said Beatrice, 
 determined to become entangled in no con 
 cealments. 
 
 " Has she ? Poor girl, I suppose she thinks 
 you are not reconciled to the marriage, and 
 she wants to explain a little. You'll be kind 
 and gentle with her, won't you, Trix ?" 
 
 " I will try, uncle," said Beatrice demurely, 
 and almost laughed aloud at the idea of Mrs. 
 Charlton's needing indulgence and encourage 
 ment at her hands, or feeling any desire to 
 apologize for her course. 
 
 An hour later, Mr. Barstow's handsome car-
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 85 
 
 riage again stopped at the private entrance of 
 the Grandarc Hotel ; and, in answer to Miss 
 Wansted's card, Mrs. Charlton came rustling 
 down the stairs, elegantly dressed, and with 
 a contented smile upon her lips, presenting 
 the picture of a fresh and care-free woman, in 
 the prime of her life and her beauty. 
 
 Beatrice looked at her more kindly than she 
 yet had done, and while she seated herself be 
 side her, said almost affectionately : 
 
 " How well you look, Juanita, and how 
 happy ! I am so glad if you really love my 
 kind, good uncle." 
 
 " The Grandarc Hotel." 
 
 "I shall make him happy, do not be afraid, 
 Trix ; although, confess you have been horri 
 bly frightened," laughed Mrs. Charlton ; and 
 Beatrice, vexed at feeling the blood burn 
 guiltily in her cheeks, could not reply. 
 
 Mrs. Charlton pursued the subject no fur 
 ther, but occupied herself in arranging her 
 draperies for some moments. Then she, said 
 abruptly : 
 
 " Yes, Beatrice, I have a message for you, 
 and a package, and I promised Mr. Monckton 
 that I wouid tell you something." 
 
 " Mr. Monckton !" echoed Beatrice. 
 
 " Yes ; he came to see me after you refused 
 Mm." 
 
 " Did he tell you that ?" interrupted Beatrice. 
 
 " No, dear, not precisely ; but I inferred it 
 from what he said, and he did not attempt to 
 deny it." 
 
 " You should not have tried to surprise me 
 into acknowledging your inference, however," 
 said Beatrice indignantly. 
 
 " Do you think so ? Well, he came to see 
 me, and was inclined to revenge the affront he 
 had received from you upon me, because he 
 said the annoyance you experienced, in finding 
 that he and I kept a secret from you, was the 
 primary cause of a quarrel, or a misunder 
 standing rather, which had separated you. 
 Then he said that he was going abroad direct 
 ly. The fact is, my dear,. the man has a per- 
 petual motion inside him somewhere, and 
 nothing would have kept him long ; but he 
 said that he was going, and might never re 
 turn should not for a very long time, at any 
 rate ; and he thought I owed it to him to set 
 him right with you after he was gone on 
 the principle of ' De mortuis nil nisi bo- 
 num,' you know and after a while I consent 
 ed. But, Beatrice, you must promise me, upon 
 your sacred word of honor, that you will never 
 repeat what I am going to tell you to any liv 
 ing soul." 
 
 " It is not necessary to promise so solemnly 
 I am no tale-bearer," said Beatrice rather 
 contemptuously. 
 
 " We none of us know what we are until 
 we are tempted. A remark trite perhaps, but 
 none the less true," said Mrs. Charlton sen- 
 tentiously. "And what I am going to tell you 
 is, as somebody said of his head, not valuable 
 to the world at large, but very important to the 
 owner. So, promise." 
 
 " Very well. I promise not to betray your 
 confidence," said Beatrice coldly. 
 
 And Juanita looked at her with a malicious 
 smile as she replied : 
 
 " Remember, you have promised, and I hold 
 you to it through every thing so here is my 
 story : 
 
 " While Mr. Charlton lived, I met my first 
 love." 
 
 1 Excuse me. You mean to say that Mr. 
 Charltou was your first love ?" asked Beatrice, 
 a little perplexed. 
 
 "Not at all," replied her companion with 
 admirable coolness. " What I mean to say is, 
 that about six months after I became Mrs. 
 Charlton I met Major Strangford, an officer in 
 the United States army, and that he was my
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 first love. Now, Beatrice, it is by no wish of 
 iny own that I am telling you this story. Had 
 you been a confiding, simple-hearted woman, 
 who would have accepted Mr. Monckton's as 
 surance that the mystery between him and 
 myself was nothing to you, I should have 
 been spared the necessity of telling and you 
 of hearing any thing farther ; but since your 
 own suspicions and Mr. Monckton's doctrine 
 of compensation have forced this issue upon 
 us both, let us accept it manfully, and with as 
 few womanish complications of deceit, spite, 
 and malice as possible; which episodical 
 piece of advice please take in reply to the 
 contemptuous smile and look of indignant 
 virtue with which you have already favored 
 me, and which I beg may not be repeated." 
 
 " I can turn my face away if its expression 
 annoys you," said Beatrice quietly. 
 
 " Try, instead, to cultivate a wider scope of 
 moral vision, and look beyond the blue laws 
 in which you have been bred," retorted Mrs. 
 Charlton. " However, the story is to be told, 
 and I shall fulfil my compact with Mr. Monck- 
 ton, however you receive the communication : 
 Major Strangford and I then fell in love at 
 first sight, if you will pardon the platitude- 
 winch in this case, however, was any thing 
 but a platitude, for in both our hearts throbbed 
 the fiery blood of the South, and both our 
 temperaments were of the vivid and sympa 
 thetic order which recognizes destiny at a 
 glance, and follows its dictates with blind 
 confidence. But crime is a stupidity, and loss 
 of social position is worse than annihilation. 
 We recognized this truth, and separated. A 
 few months later, he married ; his heart of 
 fire and brain of quicksilver were incapable 
 of quiet inaction, and he could not wait. A 
 year later, I was a widow. He heard of it, 
 end travelled a thousand miles from his dis 
 tant frontier post to see me. Fancy that 
 meeting ! No, you cannot fancy it ; it is not 
 in you to imagine the fury of remorse, de 
 spair, hopelessness, which raged in both our 
 hearts. That one short day eat the pith out 
 of my life and killed him, although we neither 
 of us felt then the full force of the ruin that 
 had come upon us. We parted once more, 
 but now more hopefully than the first time, 
 for we both believed that the volcano force of 
 our passion must conquer every obstacle, and 
 that could we but wait, fate would once more 
 grant us the possibility of bliss." 
 
 " That is to say, that Major Strangford's 
 
 wife might die, as Mr. Charlton had already 
 died," said Beatrice, her face resolutely turned 
 from her companion. 
 
 " Yes, if you choose to put it so coarsely. 
 Too restless to remain at his post, the Major 
 resigned his commission, and went abroad 
 with the woman he had married. She had 
 always been delicate in health, and now 
 showed symptoms of a decline. The Major 
 was a man of high-toned Southern honor, 
 and he omitted no measure for her recov 
 ery " 
 
 " She probably had discovered his relations 
 with you," suggested Beatrice in the same 
 resolutely calm voice. 
 
 "Very possibly," replied Mrs. Charlton with 
 composure. " At any rate, she sickened, and 
 the Major's constant letters to me spoke al 
 ways of her failing health. They went to the 
 East, and after that I knew nothing, for his 
 letters failed to reach me. I became desperate 
 with anxiety ; and the necessity of concealing 
 my anxiety for it was this very last winter, 
 while I was here with you and the appear 
 ance of gayety, at least, must be kept up, or I 
 did not earn the home your uncle was giv 
 ing me. 
 
 "Then came the night when you found 
 Mr. Monckton speaking to me, and your mad 
 jealousy forced on this explanation. He 
 brought me a package and a letter just a few 
 lines, but oh ! what wealth would buy them 
 from me ? For, in the interior of Persia, his 
 wife had died ; he had buried her, and was 
 hastening home to me, when a sudden fatal 
 sickness seized him. He knew it was fatal 
 from the first, and he wrote with his dying 
 hand those lines to me, and another note to 
 Mr. Monckton, an old friend, or rather travel 
 ling companion, who knew all our sad story, 
 although a stranger to me. He sent him the 
 amulet which I had hung around his neck at 
 our last parting, and the letter, bidding him 
 break the news to me gently, and to shield 
 me from observation and suspicion. He would 
 not send to me directly, because he feared to 
 compromise me. You saw Monckton hang 
 the amulet aroxmd my neck, and thought it 
 was a love-token so it was, so it is, and shall 
 go with me to my grave ; but it is a token of a 
 love in which neither he nor you have any 
 part a love that defies death, as it has al 
 ready defied life, and exists to-day in all the 
 fervor, all the omnipotence of its earliest 
 maturity."
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 87 
 
 " And you liave engaged to marry my un 
 cle !" exclaimed Beatrice, turning her horror- 
 stricken and indignant face full upon the 
 speaker. 
 
 Mrs. Charlton shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Why not '!" asked she. " I give him all 
 he asks or can appreciate my society, my 
 beauty, my social position ; he does not ex 
 pect love, and I shall not fail in the duty and 
 attention of a wife toward him. It is his right 
 by purchase." 
 
 " Have you, or will you tell him this story ?" 
 
 " Did you ever know me to commit a stu 
 pidity ?' 
 
 " If you do not, I win." 
 
 "You promised me that you would not, if 
 you will take the trouble to remember." 
 
 " Oh ! but this is infamous ! You cannot 
 do it !" 
 
 " We shall see. But what do you mean, 
 after all ? Where is the infamy ?" asked Mrs. 
 Charlton patiently. 
 
 " Where ? Why in marrying one man with 
 your heart filled with love for another ; in de 
 ceiving and insulting so grossly a generous 
 heart that has given itself to you, believing 
 that it received yours in return." 
 
 And Beatrice, trembling, pale, almost chok 
 ing with emotion, fixed her clear eyes upon 
 Mrs. Charlton's unflinching face. 
 
 The latter smiled disdainfully. 
 
 " Your argument is apt. Mr. Barstow has 
 paid the price of a heart and has a right to 
 expect a heart for that is the law of trade, and 
 he is a trader. But I am no defrauder ; Mr 
 Barstow will receive at my hands all, and more 
 than all that he has bargained for. I have told 
 him that the fire and passion of love were not 
 to be expected from him to me, or me to him ; I 
 have promised him the affection, duty, and re 
 spect of a wife, and I will give them to him. 
 What right have you or any one to interfere ?" 
 
 "No right, perhaps, and yet I must speak. 
 How can I see this go on, and keep silence ?" 
 exclaimed Beatrice in great agitation. Mrs. 
 Charlton looked at her unmoved. 
 
 " Again, I say, I do not understand your 
 horror, or your desire to annoy and bore your 
 uncle with this story," said she. " Major 
 Strangford is dead, and the memory I retain 
 of him lies too far below the surface to be 
 reached by any plummet in Mr. Barstow's 
 hand. Let it sink out of your sight also, and 
 forget what I have said to-day, as I shall cer 
 tainly appear to forget it myself." 
 
 Beatrice looked at her doubtfully. 
 
 " Do you still wear this amulet he sent 
 you ?" asked she. 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And will continue to do so after you are 
 married ?" 
 
 " Until I die." 
 
 " That in itself is enough to condemn you, 
 for it shows that you intend to perpetuate the 
 memory you affect to bury. Can you retain 
 the gift, and forget the giver?" 
 
 " I never announced the slightest intention 
 of forgetting the giver,'' said Mrs. Charlton 
 coldly. " I only said that his memory would 
 remain buried in my heart." 
 
 "With his epitaph blazoned upon your 
 bosom," said Beatrice bitterly. 
 
 " You become epigrammatic, which shows 
 that you are losing your temper," said Mrs. 
 Charlton. 
 
 Beatrice looked at her in astonishment. 
 " How can a woman speak of a life-long love, 
 and yet be utterly heartless ?" asked she, half 
 aloud. 
 
 " Love is a passion, and what you call heart 
 is emotion, prejudice, weakness. The two are 
 seldom united," said Juanita, in precisely the 
 tone of good-humored patience with which 
 she had hitherto instructed Beatrice in the 
 science of society. But this conversation, and 
 perhaps her own experience of the last week, 
 had changed the neophyte to an adept, and 
 she answered coldly : 
 
 " Our theories differ so essentially upon 
 most points, that it is not best for either to try 
 to convert the other. The only question we 
 have to solve at present is, what action you 
 will adopt toward my uncle." 
 
 " I have already solved that question," said 
 Mrs. Charlton in the same tone. " I shall 
 marry your uncle, and I shall behave toward 
 him with kindness and propriety. He will be 
 very happy, and never miss what he never 
 had, or expected to have, or could comprehend, 
 if it were given him. The revelation you 
 would make to him, in the way you would 
 make it, would nearly destroy his present hap 
 piness, and give him no other. As for the 
 rest, ' let the dead past bury its dead,' and let 
 you and I be good friends, and harmonious 
 companions, as it is our mutual interest to be. 
 And, above all things, Beatrice, never refer by 
 word or look, or silence, to this conversation 
 between us two. Close the chamber I have 
 shown you, lock the door and let the ivy
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 grow over it or, if you like it better, hide it 
 behind the French flowers, the spangles, the 
 gaslight, and drop-curtain of society. At any 
 rate, forget it." 
 
 " Why did you ever show me this chamber ?" 
 
 " I promised Mr. Monckton that I would do 
 BO I" 
 
 " How did he extort this promise 1" 
 
 " Extort ?" 
 
 " Excuse me. How did he persuade you to 
 make it ?" 
 
 " Excuse me in turn, but I never promised 
 that I would tell that, and I do not intend to 
 do so." 
 
 " It is not my affair, certainly," said Be 
 atrice, pulling the check-rein, and through 
 the speaking-tube giving James directions to 
 return to the Grandarc Hotel. 
 
 " But here is something which is your 
 affair," said Mrs. Charlton, drawing from be 
 neath her muff and placing in Beatrice's 
 hand a packet, closely sealed, and addressed 
 to herself. 
 
 " Mr. Monckton left it with me to give you 
 after this conversation," said she. " And now 
 tell me if this chilly spring weather is not de 
 testable?". 
 
 Beatrice bowed her head, and Mrs. Charlton 
 kept up a cheerful monologue, until, at the 
 door of her hotel, she alighted with the re 
 mark that she had enjoyed her drive exceed 
 ingly. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 A GRAND CLIMAX. 
 
 So soon as she was alone, Beatrice opened 
 with some curiosity and a little apprehension 
 the package Mrs. Charlton had left in her 
 hands. Beneath the closely-sealed envelope 
 of wrapping-paper appeared a box of ebony, 
 inlaid with gold, in a rich arabesque pattern. 
 A little golden key lay upon the top, and Be 
 atrice, hastily applying it to the lock, raised 
 the cover, and sat appalled at the sight before 
 her. Upon a cushion of white satin lay a set 
 of Oriental turquoise enriched with pearls, a 
 crescent and band for the hair, a chain of 
 stars for the neck, and bracelets of the same 
 device, with golden pendants wrought in va 
 rious cabalistic forms. 
 
 "Oh! I cannot take them!" exclaimed Be 
 atrice aloud ; and just then perceived a little 
 folded slip of paper among the jewels. Open 
 ing it, she read : 
 
 ' I know that you will feel remorseful, because, even 
 without fault of your own, you have done me an injus 
 tice by your suspicions ; and, later on, have dealt me a 
 blow whose wound will endure for years. To natures 
 ike yours, there is no comfort like reparation and 
 atonement. I offer you the opportunity for both in 
 this set of trinkets, brought from India by me for the 
 unknown lady of my love. If you will take them and 
 wear them, I shall feel that we are friends once more, 
 and that you have forgiven yourself and me for the in 
 jury that friendship has sustained. Do not refuse me 
 this amends ; and believe me always while I live, 
 " Yours, most faithfully, 
 
 "REGINALD MONCKTON." 
 
 "Mine, most faithfully," murmured Be 
 atrice ; " and the man whom I loved so well 
 that I sacrificed pride, delicacy, resolve to 
 him, was faithful half a year, and then took 
 comfort in another woman ! I wish I had 
 loved Reginald Monckton as I did Marston 
 Brent." 
 
 And then for such is woman she examined 
 the jewels, appreciating their beauty, recog 
 nizing the rare purity of the pearls, the deep 
 color of the turquoise, and the unique style of 
 the setting. 
 
 Monckton, wily even in his sincerest dis 
 play of emotion, had struck the right chord in 
 the manner of offering his gift. Had it been 
 laid at her feet as a tribute to her charms, or as 
 the memorial of an absent and despairing 
 lover, Beatrice would have refused it without 
 question or regret ; but Monckton bid her ac 
 cept and wear the jewels in token that she re 
 pented the involuntary injustice she had done 
 him, and she frankly complied with his re 
 quest, feeling, as he intended, that the obliga 
 tion was from her to him. 
 
 But when she reached home, Beatrice laid 
 aside both gift and giver, and sought painfully 
 and eagerly for her own path of duty in the 
 matter of Mrs. Charlton's marriage with her 
 uncle. True, her promise bound her from re 
 peating the secret she had learned ; but could 
 she allow the marriage to go on without op 
 position ? Could she see her single-hearted, 
 generous, confiding uncle blindly walk into 
 the snare this woman, disappointed in her 
 love, had laid for him, or rather for his world 
 ly advantages ? 
 
 These were questions that Beatrice found 
 herself unable to answer, and she still sat 
 pondering there in the early twilight when a 
 slow step ascended the stairs, and Mr. Chap- 
 pelleford appeared at the door of the drawing- 
 room. Beatrice rose to meet him with some 
 embarrassment, for in her thoughts she had 
 unconsciously linked him with his niece, and
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 felt as if her unfavorable opinion must be 
 written upon her face. 
 
 The cynic was in his least cynical mood ; 
 and the first greetings over, began a conversa 
 tion upon the topics of the day, in which, while 
 affecting to despise them, he always contrived 
 to be well informed. 
 
 But Beatrice, although polite and cordial, 
 found it impossible to interest herself in what 
 he was saying a fact soon perceived by Chap- 
 pelleford, who closed his account of a recent 
 political pageant with the remark : 
 
 " You offer poor encouragement, Miss Wan- 
 Bted, for me to assume cap and bells in your be 
 half. You remind me of some story I have read, 
 where Rowena, or Ermengarde, or Yolande 
 Bays to the zany who tries to charm away her 
 love-sick melancholy : ' Go to, fool ! Thy jest 
 ing is sadder than a sermon, and I will have 
 thee whipped for a false fool, who knows not 
 even folly !' " 
 
 " Your mediaeval beauty was unreasonable ; 
 but you say she was suffering from a disease 
 I never yet experienced. Perhaps that was 
 one of the symptoms," said Beatrice, a little 
 vexed at the suggestion. 
 
 " What ! love-sickness ? No, I did not sup 
 pose you were love-sick," said Mr. Chappelle- 
 ford with composure. 
 
 " Thank you ; I should be very sorry if you 
 had." 
 
 " No, your complaint is an ocular one," pur 
 sued the philosopher. 
 
 " What do you mean, Mr. Chappelleford ?" 
 
 " Why, like a young kitten, you are just 
 getting your eyes open, and the operation is a 
 painful one." 
 
 "I suppose I must accept the kitten, since 
 you just compared yourself to a fool," said Be 
 atrice, smiling languidly. 
 
 " I am sorry for you, but it is what we all 
 go through, sooner or later ; and when it is 
 once over, you have no idea how comfortable 
 you will find yourself." 
 
 " Please tell me, without metaphor, exactly 
 what you mean, and I then will answer you." 
 
 " What I mean ? Why, that you are a good 
 deal shocked to find that Juanita Charlton has 
 decided to sell herself to your uncle, and that 
 he is idiot enough to pay his hard- won treasure 
 for so damaged a piece of goods. You are also 
 shocked at the sudden downfall of the fine 
 cloud-palace of friendship in which you had 
 elected to dwell with Mr. Monckton, and you 
 are a little desolate in losing the stimulus of 
 
 his presence. Also, you are dissatisfied with 
 your own prospects, as a supernumerary in the 
 houses of Mrs. Israel Barstow and Mrs. Wyman 
 Bliss. Finally, there is the old grievance of 
 the faithless lover, whom you believe you no 
 longer love, but whom you do not forget. 
 Now, every one of these disappointments and 
 annoyances would have been foreseen and 
 prevented had your eyes been open wide 
 enough to see their approach. I could have 
 warned you of several of them." 
 
 " Which ?" asked Beatrice faintly. 
 
 " Why, Mrs. Charlton's designs upon Mr. 
 Barstow, and the termination of your friend 
 ship with Mr. Monckton." 
 
 " Why did you not warn me?" 
 
 " Twenty years ago, I should probably have 
 done so, and have made enemies of four per 
 sons with whom I do not wish to enter into 
 such intimate relations as enmity. Now I am' 
 wiser." 
 
 " A selfish wisdom, it seems to me, that pre 
 vents your saving the man for whom you pro 
 fess friendship." 
 
 Beatrice paused, perceiving to what discour 
 tesy her impulsive remark was leading. Mr. 
 Chappelleford grimly smiled. 
 
 " Saving him from my niece, you were 
 about to add," said he. " The remark is frank 
 and youthful. But, in the first place, I pro 
 fess friendship for no man ; and in the next, I 
 am by no means certain that it is a bad thing 
 for Mr. Barstow to marry Mrs. Charlton. He 
 gives money and a settled position in ex 
 change for beauty, wit, and a facility in socie 
 ty, which he mistakes for talent. Nobody 
 says any thing about love, faith, or sincerity 
 the myths upon which your theories of mar 
 riage are based. The parties to the bargain 
 are content why should you or I grumble ?" 
 
 " If the matter is fairly understood by both, 
 perhaps we should not," said Beatrice, hesi 
 tatingly. " But I fear that my uncle is de 
 ceived." 
 
 " In the matter of Mr. Monckton's commu 
 nication from Major Strangford V" asked 
 Chappelleford coolly ; and then, as Beatrice, 
 coloring scarlet with surprise, sat blankly 
 looking at him. he added, with a laugh : 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I know it all. I knew of the affair 
 from its commencement, and warned Juanita 
 that I should not permit her to make a family 
 scandal, even if she chose to throw away the 
 worldly position, which is the only thing in 
 the world for which she cares. Then, when
 
 90 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 you took her confidences with Monckton to 
 heart, I compelled her to repeat them to me 
 She is always submissive in my hands, he- 
 cause I neither admire nor love her, and do un 
 derstand her thoroughly. She told me the 
 whole, and had already promised me to set 
 you right upon the matter when Monckton 
 returned from his fruitless visit to Milvor, and 
 she was shrewd enough to make a separate 
 bargain with him. He used a bribe, and I a 
 threat, and she was equally open to hoth. 
 Neither would have succeeded with you, but 
 liers is a meaner nature." 
 
 " Is it right that you should tell me what 
 the bribe and the threat were ?" asked Be 
 atrice. 
 
 ' Why not ? I threatened to lay the matter 
 before both Mr. Barstow and you, and Monck 
 ton gave her a set of jewels. The provident 
 fellow came home from the heart of India, re- 
 Bolvod to find a wife, and not knowing wheth 
 er she would be blonde or brown, brought a 
 Bet of turquoise and a set of garnet as his be 
 trothal present. You disappointed his hopes, 
 and Juanita failed to secure him, but he gave 
 you two his two gifts, and has gone away 
 fancying himself heart-broken. That is the 
 way the plans men lay are apt to terminate." 
 
 " How do you know every tiling ?" asked 
 Beatrice, looking in terror at the cold, impas 
 sive face of this man, who, without emotion, 
 sympathy, or curiosity, succeeded in reading 
 the lives of those about him like an open 
 book. 
 
 " How do 1 1 Oh ! my eyes were opened a 
 good many years ago, as yours are opening 
 to-day. After the process is complete, you 
 also will see what is about you." 
 
 " I do not wish to, if, like you, I am to find 
 deceit, selfishness, and folly upon every side," 
 said Beatrice sadly. " What do you leave me 
 to found any confidence upon ?" 
 
 " Not men, certainly, nor yet women," re 
 plied the cynic. " Put them out of the ques 
 tion once for all, and turn your mind to more 
 important matters. Read Hugh Miller, and 
 found your confidence upon the ' Old Red 
 Sandstone ;' read Ruskin, and expand your 
 imaginative powers in following out his the 
 ories ; read Hegel, and strengthen your think 
 ing powers by trying to follow his ; and then 
 go to Nature, and you will find sympathy and 
 healing in her manifold forms of beauty. The 
 trees will not deceive you ; the sky and water 
 profess no constancy ; the stars ask not your 
 
 secrets, nor reveal their own. These are the 
 only safe friends, and to these you yet will 
 turn for comfort." 
 
 He spoke with an earnestness that carried 
 conviction, and Beatrice raised her melancholy 
 eyes appealingly to his. 
 
 " These are your friends, I see it," said she. 
 " Bring me to them, teach me how to know 
 them. It is so desolute to set forth all alone 
 upon a new path. O Mr. Chappelleford ! if 
 you would say that you were my friend, I 
 would believe you." 
 
 " Foolish child ! Have I not this moment 
 finished telling you that human friendship is 
 naught, and less than naught ? and for answer 
 you beg me to help you cheat yourself yet 
 once more. Have you not j ust tried the experi 
 ment with this man Moncktfin, and failed most 
 signally ? There is no such thing as friend 
 ship between man and woman either it is 
 companionship founded on mutual interests, 
 or it is mere acquaintanceship, or it is a Jesuit 
 ical love sure, sooner or later, to throw off the 
 mask and claim its reward. Monckton's was 
 of this nature, and I knew it from the first. 
 No, Miss Wansted, I will not pretend to be 
 your friend, for it would be a pretence with 
 out rational foundation ; but I will, if you wish 
 it, be your tutor, your adviser, your companion. 
 I will introduce you to those friends of mine 
 of whom I spoke but now, and teach you how 
 to know them. 1 will give you fruit of the 
 tree of knowledge, instead of the husks upon 
 which you so far have fed, and I will help you 
 limb the heights of thought and reason, 
 where alone peace dwells serene. Shall I do 
 this ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes !" cried Beatrice, with feverish 
 agerness. " All that I thought to find in life 
 lias failed me : love, friendship, the world 
 they are all alike hollow and deceitful. Give 
 me knowledge, teach me philosophy, lead me 
 to those cold heights where you find peace 
 all else I leave behind." 
 
 " Come, then, poor, ruffled, storm-beat bird 
 poor, lost child, come and be my pupil, my 
 harge, and at least I will never deceive you," 
 said Chappelleford, with a most unwonted 
 tenderness shining in his eyes, ordinarily so 
 sad and so severe. " But, Beatrice, to make 
 his companionship practicable, you must be 
 come my wife. I shall not continue to visit 
 familiarly in this house after my niece be- 
 omes its mistress, nor could I see you else 
 where. You must come to me in the only
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 91 
 
 manner in which man and woman are allowed 
 to live together." 
 
 " Marry you, Mr. Chappelleford !" exclaimed 
 Beatrice in dismay. " But I do not love you 
 I cannot !" 
 
 " Have I asked you to love me ? Have I 
 professed to love you? Have I ever alluded 
 to any such weak and stupid delusion upon 
 either side '? Is not the very foundation of the 
 education I propose for you an emancipation 
 from all such romantic credulity as you now 
 evince ? What I wish is to make a rational 
 being out of a woman ; and, to do this, the 
 woman must be directly and constantly under 
 my influence, and this can only be effected by 
 making her my wife. This is my motive, and 
 yours is immunity from deception, increased 
 knowledge, and a content or at least a calm 
 infinitely superior to what you call happi 
 ness. You see I do not deceive you. What 
 is your answer ?" 
 
 " I will marry you, Mr. Chappelleford, just 
 as, under other circumstances, I would enter a 
 convent." 
 
 " Yes, either course is the refuge of a sick 
 heart the one dictated by reason, the other 
 by superstition," said Mr. Chappelleford. 
 
 Beatrice made no reply ; and so, in the 
 deepening twilight sat the betrothed pair 
 she, her head bent upon her breast, her hands 
 idly folded in her lap, gazing drearily into the 
 glowing coals he, shading his eyes with his 
 hand as he leaned upon the chimney-piece, 
 and steadfastly regarded her. 
 
 So passed a half hour, and then Mr. Bar- 
 stow entered, to whom spoke Vezey Chap 
 pelleford half kindly, half in disdain of him 
 self and all men : 
 
 " Mr. Barstow, I have given you my niece in 
 marriage, and now compensate myself by tak 
 ing yours. Miss Wansted kindly promises to 
 become my wife." 
 
 " Why, why, Trix ! this isn't true, surely ! 
 Have you promised to marry Chappelleford, 
 Trix ?" 
 
 " Yes, uncle, and shall keep the promise/' 
 said Miss Wansted in a voice of icy calm ; and 
 rising, she left the room before another word 
 was spoken. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 THE OMEN IN THE AIR. 
 
 HIGH above the crests of the hemlocks hung 
 the June sky, deep, clear, and soft ; the heat 
 of noon-day brought out the balsamic odors 
 
 of fir and spruce ; just within reach of eye 
 and ear the full-bosomed Sachawissa sang 
 her song of life and love, as she hastened to 
 her marriage with the sea ; all sights and 
 sounds spoke harmoniously of free and joyous 
 existence, and of fullest content in being ; and 
 man, God's last and greatest work, might well 
 be joyous when all beneath him was so glad. 
 
 So thought Marston Brent, standing with 
 bowed head beneath the arches of the wood, 
 and feeling a new life stirring in the heart 
 that so long had lain cold and dead within 
 him. 
 
 " When all else feels God's beneficent kind 
 ness, why should we two be miserable '(" said 
 he aloud. " In some way, we shall yet be 
 brought together, and without falsehood to 
 each other or to ourselves. Then comes happi 
 ness, which shall compensate a hundred-fold for 
 all these weary months, or even years. I feel 
 it in the air to-day that I am to receive good 
 news of my darling none the less mine that 
 her mistaken will divides us for the present. 
 In all the manifold and unexpected develop 
 ments of life, one is approaching which shall 
 bring us again together " 
 
 " Mr. Brent !" 
 
 " What, Comfort, is that you ? Here am I." 
 
 Down the long arches of the wood came 
 running a light girlish figure, a bright and 
 blooming face, two eager eyes searching for 
 him, and a voice breathless with delight and 
 haste. 
 
 "O Mr. Brent ! Richard has come home, and 
 he got you a newspaper, and I knew you would 
 be so glad, for you were wishing this morning 
 you had told him to try and get one, and none 
 of us supposed he would. So I ran right out 
 to find you, and bring it." 
 
 " Thanks, my little Comfort. You are al 
 ways ready to run when you think you can do 
 me a service." said Brent kindly, and Ruth, 
 looking frankly up into his face, said with a 
 smile : 
 
 " Of course I am glad to do a little for you 
 who do so much for me." 
 
 " Nonsense, child, and nonsense again. 
 Aren't you my Comfort?" said Brent, half 
 jestingly, half tenderly, and seating himself 
 upon a felled hemlock-trunk beside the path, 
 he opened his week-old newspaper with the 
 hungry haste of a man who has been too long 
 divided from the world, whose affairs are still 
 his own. 
 
 Ruth if this blithe, rosy, smiling maiden,
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 whose every motion spoke health and light- 
 hearted content, could indeed be the Ruth 
 whom we last saw a pallid and tremulous 
 fugitive from a horrible accusation Ruth 
 went singing through the wood, stopping now 
 to pluck a berry or a flower, now to mimic 
 the strains of linnet or blackbird in the tree- 
 tops, now to drink in the beauty of the day and 
 scene. At last, when she thought he might 
 be ready to speak to her, she returned to 
 Brent. He still was sitting as she had left 
 him upon the hemlock-log, the paper hanging 
 idly from one hand, the other supporting his 
 chin, while his eyes were fixed upon the 
 ground with such a look of white despair as 
 Ruth had never seen in her life before. 
 
 *' He was sitting on the hemlock toff." 
 
 Half terrified, half eager to console her 
 friend, the girl drew near and stood beside 
 him. He neither moved nor spoke. 
 
 " Mr. Brent !" said she softly. 
 
 No answer, for, indeed, he had not heard 
 her ; and the child, growing bold in her alarm, 
 seated herself beside him, and laid a hand 
 upon his arm. 
 
 " Please tell me what has happened," said 
 she tremulously. Brent started, and raised 
 such wild, fierce eyes to hers that she shrunk 
 from his side, and then crept yet closer to it. 
 
 " Something has happened ! Oh ! tell me 
 what it is, dear, dear Mr. Brent," moaned she. 
 
 " Something ! Well, yes ; it might be called 
 something here in the woods, although in the 
 world, I suppose, it would be called nothing," 
 replied Brent huskily ; and then he snatched 
 the paper from the ground, laid his finger 
 upon a paragraph, and thrust it before Ruth's 
 tearful eyes. 
 
 " Read that !" 
 
 She meekly obeyed. It was this : 
 
 "On "Wednesday last, Vezey Chappelleford, Esq., 
 the distinguished antiquarian, philologist, and histo 
 rian, was united in marriage to Miss Beatrice Wangled, 
 niece of our respected fellow-citizen, Israel Barstow, 
 Esq., at whose house the strictly private ceremony 
 took place. The happy pair, after a breakfast propor 
 tioned rather to the means of the host than the num 
 ber of the guests, went directly on board the Ethiopia, 
 and sailed within the hour for Europe, and still more 
 distant points. It is to be hoped that Mr. Chappelle 
 ford will enrich the public mind with the fruit of his 
 travels, either through the press, or from the rostrum, 
 soon after his return, and that all foreigners not yet 
 converted to faith in the preeminent loveliness of 
 American ladies may have an opportunity of seeing 
 this fair bride, and judging from her as a specimen." 
 
 Ruth read this paragraph attentively, and 
 laid the paper down with a puzzled face. 
 
 " Did you know Mr. or Mrs. Chappelleford ?" 
 asked she. 
 
 " Did I know her ? Child ! I had no more 
 doubt that she and I should stand together 
 hand in hand before God's throne, if not be 
 fore His earthly altar, than I had that we 
 both breathed. I never once dreamed that 
 she could do this thing. O Beatrice ! How 
 little one life seems in comparison with the 
 eternity I had hoped to pass with you, and 
 now, now O my God 1 I cannot think !" 
 
 And starting to his feet, Brent raised to 
 Heaven a face so wild, so ghastly, so despair 
 ing, that the tender girl watching him hid her 
 own in terror, while he, glaring about him for 
 a moment as doubtful where to turn for refuge, 
 dashed away into the wood, and was presently 
 lost to sight and hearing. 
 
 Ruth watched him so long as she could fol 
 low his course, and then taking the crumpled 
 paper from the ground, she folded it carefully, 
 and hid it in her pocket. 
 
 " He will come back after a while, and I 
 will wait for him," said she softly, and sat pa 
 tiently until he slowly approached through 
 the forest, his bent figure, painful steps, and 
 haggard face showing the work that years 
 should not have done. 
 
 He came straight toward the place where
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 93 
 
 she sat, and yet had so forgotten her pres 
 ence there, that he started back in recogniz 
 ing it. 
 
 "I was looking I left a paper here," 
 
 said he in a low voice. 
 
 Ruth handed it to him, glancing sadly, yet 
 not inquiringly, into his face as she did so. 
 
 " I thought you would come to look for it 
 here, and 1 waited to give it to you," said she. 
 
 " Thank you. Oh 1 yes ; I remember you 
 were here." 
 
 And Brent was turning away when a new 
 idea crossed his mind, and he returned. 
 
 " Comfort !" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " You like to help me, to make me happy, 
 do you not ?" 
 
 " You know that I do, sir. I like it better 
 than any thing." 
 
 " That is the reason I call you Comfort. 
 Well, dear little girl, remember that you 
 never can do half so much to help me in any 
 other way as you can by keeping this secret 
 what you know of it." 
 
 " I will keep it, sir, and I should have kept 
 it, if you had not spoken." 
 
 " I do not doubt you would, Comfort, I do 
 not doubt it, if you saw that it was a secret, 
 but I did not know that you understood. I 
 cannot tell you any thing more than you saw 
 for yourself; but I dare say you guess the 
 whole. It is not a thing of which I shall ever 
 speak after this moment, and it is a thing I 
 shall never forget. But we will appear to 
 forget it, both of us, and perhaps you will it 
 is nothing to you, but to me " 
 
 And he wandered down the path mutter 
 ing to himself the broken tone, the uneven 
 gait, the crushed look of the whole proud 
 figure, more like those of some luckless fugi 
 tive from a torture-chamber than the free, 
 noble bearing of Marston Brent. 
 
 Ruth rose, and slowly followed until she 
 saw him close beside the shanty, and then she 
 turned back a few paces into the wood. 
 
 "O Beatrice Wansted, Beatrice Chappelle- 
 ford, how I hate and detest you?" cried she, 
 clenching her slender hands, and shaking 
 them in the air. 
 
 " What are you, or any woman in the world, 
 compared with such a man as this ! And he 
 said it was nothing to me, and that I should 
 soon forget it, and he told me not to betray 
 his secret ! How little he knows me, after all ! 
 But I hope that hateful woman will have to 
 
 suffer yet, two pains for every one she has given 
 him to-day ! I hope she will, and if I could 
 give them to her, I would." 
 
 And then Ruth, her mind slightly relieved 
 of its burning anger and grief, returned slowly 
 to the house, where Zilpah had long since pre 
 pared a reprimand for her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 ALMOST A DEATH-BLOW. 
 
 THE next morning, Ruth watched for 
 Brent's appearance with an anxiety almost 
 impossible to conceal, but to her infinite 
 relief, the night had brought him at least 
 the semblance of peace, and although a little 
 paler, a little brighter-eyed, and graver than 
 his wont, there was nothing in his looks or his 
 demeanor that would have attracted the at 
 tention of an observer. 
 
 Breakfast over, he followed his men out of 
 doors. 
 
 " You will finish that clump at the east side 
 of the hill where you were yesterday," said 
 he, " and I will come along too." 
 
 " That's right, Cap'n. The fellers work just 
 twice as smart when you're 'round," said Rich 
 ard aside ; and Ruth, creeping up at the other 
 hand, softly asked : 
 
 " May I go too 1" 
 
 " What, into the woods, Comfort ? Why, 
 yes, if you like, and Zilpah will spare you," 
 said Brent, looking kindly down at the girl, 
 who darted back into the house. 
 
 " I am going out for a little while, Zilpah 
 Mr. Brent said that I might and I will do my 
 work when I come back ; you can leave it all 
 for me," said she, snatching her hat from the 
 wooden peg where it hung, and hurrying away 
 before the old woman could remonstrate. 
 
 " Well, I declare !" exclaimed she, following 
 as far as the door, and standing there with' 
 arms akimbo, to watch the procession of oxen 
 and drags accompanied by the lumberers in 
 the picturesque costume of the woods, and 
 followed by Brent's stately form, with Ruth 
 tripping lightly beside him as it wound slow 
 ly in among the trees, which presently hid all 
 but now the glimpse of u scarlet shirt, now 
 the glint of an axe-blade, or the polished balla 
 upon the oxen's horns, now Brent's towering 
 head, or his Comfort's floating skirts. 
 
 " Well, I declare 1" repeated Zilpah. " Trapse- 
 ing off to the woods again, and leaving me 
 with all the work to do ! And Marston won't 
 let any one say a word to her, more than if
 
 94 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 she was a feather and would blow away in tlie 
 wind. I don't see what Paul Freeman's think 
 ing on, if lie calc'lates to have the charge of 
 her, to let her be following round after Brent 
 this fashion. Any way, I didn't stretch it 
 much, only just a leetle mite, when I wrote 
 Nancy that they was going to be married some 
 time, for I shouldn't be took aback any day to 
 hear that it was BO. She's most fifteen, and 
 my aunt Polly Jane's sister was married when 
 she was sixteen. All I hope is, them stuck-up 
 Barstow folks and Beatrice Wansted heard of 
 it. That's all I want." 
 
 So Zilpah went back to the dishes, and the 
 procession, winding through the wood, fresh 
 
 "BrenPs stalely form, with Ruth tripping beside him." 
 
 with the cool purity of the summer morning, 
 came at last to the hillside, already half strip 
 ped of timber, where the day's work had been 
 appointed. The ground above was strewn 
 with felled timber, chips, branches, and sheets 
 of bark, left as the men had abandoned them 
 upon the previous evening : and while a cer 
 tain number of choppers attacked fresh trees, 
 others applied themselves to peeling those al 
 ready felled, cutting them into lengths, and 
 hauling away the logs to be piled beside the 
 principal road of the forest, there to lie until 
 
 -lie next winter's snow afforded facility for 
 sledding them to the river. 
 
 Ruth watched all these operations with in 
 terest always, however, keeping close to 
 Brent, who superintended every thing with a 
 sharp decision of manner which induced from 
 Richard the remark : 
 
 " Tell you what, Paul, the old man's wide 
 awake to-day. There a'n't no chance for 
 shirking, I can tell you." 
 
 " I don't know as any one wants to shirk," 
 replied Paul rather sullenly. " I don't, for 
 one ; nor I don't want to be drove round as if 
 I was a nigger, neither." 
 
 " Seems to me you got out o' bed wrong foot 
 foremost, young one," replied Richard good- 
 naturedly ; and shouldering his axe, he walked 
 from the tree he had just felled to the next 
 a monster hemlock, three feet in diameter 
 at least two hundred in height. 
 ' Four, maybe five market-logs in you, old 
 fellow, if there's an inch," remarked Richard, 
 softly whistling as he measured the giant with 
 his eye, and calculated its contents. 
 
 " Here, Jebson," continued he, calling to his 
 especial mate, who was still busy with the last 
 tree. " You come and peel a section of bark 
 off this thumper, while 1 fix a bed for him to 
 tumble into." 
 
 Jebson, obedient to the call, approached, si 
 lently measured the treejurtlifi-efner had done, 
 and then shortening his keen axe in his 
 hand, cut a ring through the bark of the hem 
 lock close to its roots, and another four feet 
 above it ; the next movement was to connect 
 these by a perpendicular line ; and then throw 
 ing down his axe, Jebson took up a spud, an 
 instrument resembling a chisel, but curved to 
 fit the boll of a tree, and proceeded to loosen 
 the bark, which he did so nicely that it pres 
 ently fell, an entire sheet, beside the tree, and 
 was carefully removed to a pile of similar 
 sheets close at hand. 
 
 Richard meantime had felled and laid side by 
 side a couple of middling-sized birch-trees, 
 growing near the hemlock, and now so dis 
 posed as to receive it in its fall and prevent its 
 imbedding itself in the earth, as it otherwise 
 would have done. 
 
 " All ready now Jebson," said Richard brief 
 ly, and swinging his axe high above his head, 
 he buried it in the bared trunk of the hem 
 lock ; as he withdrew it, Jebson's fell ; and so 
 with swift alternation, the murderers, as Ruth 
 mentally styled them, pursued their work un-
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN 
 
 95 
 
 til tlie slender tip of the hemlock, lying like 
 a finger upon the sky, trembled visibly, and a 
 shiver ran through the stately trunk to its re 
 motest plumy branch. 
 
 " Hold on, Jebson ! She wants trimming a 
 little ; we aren't falling her square on the 
 bed," said Richard, pausing to wipe his stream 
 ing brow and glance anxiously aloft. Then 
 while Jebson waited, the exporter woodsman 
 cut deeper into the heart of the tree in j 
 desired direction, hesitated, looked aloft, and 
 then dropping his axe-head to the ground, 
 stood leaning upon the handle, attentively re 
 garding the tree, whose topmost branches, still 
 thrilling as if with their death-agony, slowly 
 began to describe upon the cloudless sky the 
 first line of the great arc in which they were 
 to sweep earthward ; at the same moment, the 
 sharp sound of rending the fibres knit by 
 years of deliberate growth became audible, 
 and its heart-strings snapped at last, the great 
 tree came plunging and crashing to the earth, 
 tearing through the branches of such srnal]jer 
 growth as stood in its path, and falling'"fairly 
 at the last upon the bed prepared for it. 
 
 " A good stick of timber that, Cap'n ; five 
 good markets if there's one, as I said before 
 I struck it," said Richard, viewing his work 
 complacently, while Ruth, hardly yet able to 
 draw a full breath after the emotion of the 
 scene, came timidly forward, and looked at the 
 great stump with its fresh-cut wounds. 
 
 " Poor tree ! It had been so long growing, 
 and maybe knew that it was growing, and 
 now it is nothing but wood for burning," said 
 she in a low voice. 
 
 " Not wood for burning, Ruthie," said Paul 
 Freeman, who, with a spud in one hand and an 
 axe in the other, was approaching the tree on 
 the same side with herself. " These hemlocks 
 are cut full as much for the bark as any thing 
 else ; they use it at the tannery, you know, 
 and the logs are floated down the river and 
 sawed into boards. It wouldn't pay to cut 
 such timber as this for firewood." 
 
 " And what part do you do, Paul ?" asked 
 the girl, feeling with a little remorse that she 
 had not been as attentive of late to her old 
 friend as he had a right to expect. 
 
 " I'm a peeler. First come the fellers that's 
 the ones that cut down the tree, you know 
 and then the peelers cut the bark into lengths 
 and peel it off, just as Jebson did before he 
 and Richard felled this tree ; and then the 
 hewers cut the trunk into logs about fifteen 
 
 foot long ; and then the teamsters carry off logs 
 and bark, and skid them up, ready to be sleded 
 off next winter." 
 
 " Yes, I have seen almost all those things 
 done this morning," said Ruth, " and I always 
 wanted to come out with the jnen before, but 
 Zilpah never would let me. I only come now 
 because 1 asked Mr. Brent first." 
 
 " Yon might have come with me most any 
 time,'" said Paul jealously, and just then Brent 
 approached the spot, saying : 
 
 " Comfort, I am going to look at the new 
 skids the men are laying up on the road to 
 the river : do you want to come ? It is about 
 half a mile from here." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, sir," said Ruth hastily ; and Paul, 
 looking after her as she followed Brent with 
 glad alacrity, threw down his tools, and 
 snatched the goad from the hand of a team 
 ster just guiding his oxen with the faintly 
 traced path the drags had worn. 
 x^Here, Jim," said he hurriedly. "You 
 help those fellows get their loads aboard, and 
 I'll team this to the skids for you. You said 
 you didn't want to walk on that sore foot." 
 
 " All right, mate, no more I don't," said the 
 man, a little astonished, but well content ; and 
 resigning his place to Paul, he picked up an 
 iron bar and turned to help his comrades roll 
 the logs prepared for transportation upon their 
 drags. 
 
 " I don't know as you'll be able to help up 
 these logs, Freeman ; it's man's work, I can 
 tell you," said the brawny fellow who 
 slouched along at the other side of the drag. 
 
 " I've rolled logs before to-day," said Paul, 
 rather contemptuously, as he hurried the oxen 
 down the road Brent and Ruth liad taken. 
 
 " Yes, but there a'n't much roll to these, I 
 can tell you. They've got to be h'isted up on 
 top of the pile. I tell you, we've got a harn- 
 some skid, me and my mate have, about 
 twenty logs, and these will just top it off 
 pooty. It's the biggest one in the job, I 
 reckon." 
 
 " I heard the Cap'n say he didn't like those 
 great skids, and wouldn't have them," said 
 Paul. " It does make awful hard work, get 
 ting the logs on and off." 
 
 ' Yes, there's some lift in it, I tell yon, and 
 I reckon you'd better go back now, and send 
 Jim along. I'm dog sure you can't handle 
 'em." 
 
 " You see." replied Paul briefly ; and the 
 other, sinking his hands deeper into the waist-
 
 96 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 band of his trowsers, and whistling softly as 
 lie went, slouched along without farther re 
 mark. 
 
 Through the forest-path, necked here and 
 there with sunshine, but for the most part 
 lying in the heavy shadow of the hemlocks, 
 through the clearing whence one might look 
 far over valley and stream to the majestic 
 mountains upon the horizon, wound the wood- 
 path, until, near the brow of the hill, where 
 the road descended to the valley, Paul halted 
 his oxen beside a pile of great logs laid across 
 a platform of small sticks, technically called 
 skids, and designed to raise the logs above 
 the deep snow, in which they would otherwise 
 be hidden. Some twenty logs already were 
 piled upon these skids, and the four now to 
 be added would, as Paul's companion re 
 marked, just make up two dozen, which was 
 " a pooty lot to see together." 
 
 " Now, I tell you what, boy," continued the 
 woodsman, taking his hands out of his waist 
 band, and suddenly awakening to full activity 
 and energy, " we've got to fly round and get 
 these logs h'isted to the top of the pile before 
 the Cap'n comes along. He took the other 
 road by the brook, and will go to the lower 
 skids first, and if we're spry, we'll finish and 
 be off before he reaches here. If we don't, 
 he'll let out the worst kind at us for building 
 so big a skid." 
 
 " Let him. I a'n't afraid of what he'll 
 say," replied Paul, whose temper was in its 
 worst condition this morning. 
 
 " Yes, but he's boss, and there a'n't any 
 getting away from it, he means to stay boss," 
 said the other, whose name was Bevis. 
 
 Without reply, Paul backed his oxen a step, 
 so that the sled lay immediately beneath the 
 towering pile of logs, and seizing one of the 
 iron bars or handspikes, lashed upon the top 
 of the load, placed the point of it beneath 
 the upper stick, and signed to Bevis to imitate 
 his example. Bevis obeyed as silently, and 
 the two men, with prodigious effort, much 
 skill, and a judicious use of the principle of 
 leverage, succeeded presently in elevating the 
 great log inch by inch to the top of the pile, 
 and rolling it to the farther side of the plat 
 form made by the tier below. 
 
 "Now the next," exclaimed Paul, leaping 
 down the instant this object, was effected. 
 
 " Don't you want to catch your breath ?" 
 asked Bevis, panting a little. 
 
 " No. He'll be along," said Paul doggedly ; 
 
 and Bevis resumed the handspike he had just 
 thrown down. The second log was larger 
 than the first, and the men less able to man 
 age it, through need of the moment of rest 
 they had omitted to take ; so that, although 
 it reached the top of the pile, it was by efforts 
 that both felt were too severe for prudence. 
 
 " Tell you what, boy," panted Bevis, sink 
 ing down upon the top of the pile. " This 
 sort of thing don't pay. You and me a'n't 
 stout enough to handle such logs as these on 
 such a skid. We'll have to go fetch Jim." 
 
 " There's Brent," replied Paul in a low 
 voice, and both men, looking from their eleva 
 tion, saw the tall form of the master coming 
 up the path, with Ruth beside him. 
 
 "What is this? Why, men, what under 
 the sun are you about here?" commenced 
 he sharply. ' Haven't I said, time and again, 
 that I won't have these immense wood-piles 
 laid up in place of decent skids ? And, Paul 
 Freeman, what are you doing here ? Your 
 business is peeling, and I won't have you 
 mixing up in this way. Bevis, how came you 
 to lay up these logs in this fashion, after what 
 I have said ?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know, Cap'n," replied Bevia 
 slowly. " Jim and me, we're two-fisted fellers, 
 we are, and we just liked to see what we 
 could do.'' 
 
 " Well, I should just like to see what you 
 can do toward minding what I say,' replied 
 Brent angrily. " You two get those logs off 
 again in a hurry, and load them on to your 
 drag. Then haul them a dozen feet further 
 on, lay some new skids, and legin a new pile. 
 Freeman, since you like to meddle with an 
 other man's work, let me see if you can undo 
 as well as do." 
 
 " I wish't I could undo one job that I was 
 a fool for doing," said Paul sullenly ; and seiz 
 ing his handspike without waiting for Bevis, 
 he lifted the end of the log nearest to him, 
 and sent it crashing down upon the load 
 below, with such force that it rebounded sev 
 eral feet, and the smaller end springing out 
 ward, struck Brent a heavy blow upon the 
 breast, felling him to the ground, and toppling 
 over beside him, but fortunately not upon 
 him. 
 
 ' O Paul ! You wicked, wicked monster. 
 You have killed him ! You have killed my 
 darling friend !" cried Ruth, throwing herself 
 down beside Brent, who, to the astonishment 
 of all, was already struggling into a sitting
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 97 
 
 posture. The girl, throwing her arms about 
 him, with some wild idea of supporting or 
 raising him, would have poured forth a tor 
 rent of questions, ejaculations, sympathy ; but 
 Brent, with one hand laid heavily upon her 
 shoulder, silenced her with the one word 
 " Hush!" and then in a strange, hoarse voice, 
 hardly louder than a whisper, briefly ordered : 
 
 "Get that log upon the drag, then roll 
 down the other, and do as I told you. If it 
 isn't done in half an hour, you'll both leave 
 Wahtahree to-night." 
 
 Without a word, and with white, awe- 
 BtricRen faces, the men obeyed ; and Brent, 
 without moving from his position, relaxing 
 his hold of Ruth's shoulder, or again essaying 
 to speak, watched their movements with g'.it- 
 tering eyes, set in a face paler than death, 
 until in less than the prescribed time his 
 orders were obeyed to the full. Then, while 
 Bevis turned the oxen into the path, Paul 
 Freeman approached his wounded employer. 
 
 " Mr. Brent," said he, " I am very sorry you 
 are liurt. I never meant to do it. Can't we 
 carry you home on the drag, or won't you let 
 me help you?'* 
 
 " Go back to your work, and remember that 
 you are a peeler, and not a teamster." whis 
 pered Brent, waving his hand so imperiously 
 toward the road, that Freeman obeyed with 
 out another word. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 FIGHTING FOR LIFE. 
 
 "AND now, Comfort," whispered Brent, as 
 the retreating footsteps of the men died away, 
 " now we will see what is left for me in this 
 world. I think that was my death-blow, but 
 I was resolved those men should see that 1 
 was master while I lived. Can you stand firm, 
 poor child, and let me raise myself by you?" 
 
 " Let me raise you ! Oh ! dear, dear master, 
 let me help you in any way," cried the girl, un 
 heeded tears streaming down her face, and her 
 whole puny strength exerted in the effort to 
 raise the stalwart figure of the injured man in 
 her arms. 
 
 " Stop, stop, child !" gasped Brent in agony. 
 " You will injure yourself, and you torture me. 
 Wait a moment and I can raise myself." 
 
 " Cling round my waist then I am very 
 strong, you have no idea how strong and pull 
 yourself up that way,'' said Ruth, bracing her 
 self like a young birch emulating an oak. 
 
 Brent smiled faintly, and adopting the plan 
 7 
 
 she suggested, succeeded in raising himself to 
 his feet, stood for a moment, his arm about her 
 shoulders, his form swaying backward and 
 forward in a vain attempt to gain its equilib 
 rium, his face growing more ghastly in its 
 pallor, his eyes rolling wildly upon an earth 
 and heaven that seemed to have broke their 
 bonds and joined in chaos, and then he fell 
 prone to earth, the blood gushing in a torrent 
 from his lips. 
 
 Ruth, too utterly terror-stricken for any 
 action, sank down beside him, and presently 
 summoned courage to raise his head and lay 
 it upon her lap, all ghastly and gory as it was, 
 and so they remained for moments that grew 
 to hours the man stricken down in the splen 
 dor of his strength, more helpless and more 
 defenceless than the feeble child who watched 
 him, and who thought him dead or dying. 
 
 But at last Brent opened his eyes. 
 
 " Darling ! No, you are not mine now. 
 What is it ? What did they tell me?- Bea 
 trice Oh ! it is you, little Comfort. Where 
 
 are we ? So cold. Why is it so cold ?" 
 
 " Oh ! you are not dead, dear, dear Mr. 
 Brent ! I am so glad !" 
 
 And Ruth's tears fell hot and fast, dripping 
 upon the Avhite face in her lap. 
 
 " No, I am not dead," repeated Brent dream 
 ily. " Why do you cry, Comfort ? Because I 
 am not dead ? I remember those logs. When 
 did I see them before? Ah! now I Lave it ! 
 Yes, yes ! Those men and the great log, and 
 the whirl of the woods and sky ! Yes, I have 
 it now. And you have been sitting here to 
 hold me, Comfort, and never thought of de 
 serting me for a moment? Well, it is a Com 
 fort truly named. Now let us try again. 
 Stand up and let me cling to you. So that is 
 it, that is brave ! Now walk on, slowly, softly 
 do not hurry. Can you pick up one of those 
 sticks and give me ? Here, I can cling to this 
 tree while you stoop. Now then, let us get 
 on!" 
 
 " O Mr. Brent ! let me run and call some 
 of the men to help you home. You will cer 
 tainly fall you will kill yourself doing so 
 much. They can carry you in their arms!" 
 exclaimed Ruth, watching the faltering steps 
 and uncertain, swaying motions of her charge 
 with tremulous anxiety. 
 
 " No, C'omfort, no," muttered Brent, leaning 
 yet more heavily upon his stick,and conquering 
 the growing faintness that seized him by an 
 effort of his resistless will. " I will not have
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 the men they shall not see me in this fash 
 ion I must be master of myself, or I cannot 
 be their master. No ; we are getting on toward 
 home, and you and Zilpah will take care of 
 me. We won't have the men." 
 
 So muttering at intervals, leaning now upon 
 his staff, now upon the shoulders of the girl 
 who watched his every step with such ago 
 nized solicitude, Brent struggled on, with many 
 a pause, many an alternation of deadly faint- 
 ness and heroic effort, many a whispered word 
 of encouragement and apology to his Comfort, 
 who replied not a syllable, her whole soul be 
 ing absorbed in sustaining those faltering 
 steps which promised each one to be the last 
 possible before exhausted nature failed. 
 
 But at last came the clearing, the open sky, 
 the shanty, with Zilpah at the door, feeding 
 the poultry she had with infinite pains estab 
 lished in her new home. Zilpah, seeing 
 at a glance the position of affairs, rushed for 
 ward, eager, clamorous, inquisitive, and yet 
 most efficient and eager to be of use. 
 
 Ruth told the story in brief, tremulous 
 words, and between them they led Brent to 
 his own room and laid him upon the bed. 
 Then, while Ruth ran for water, cloths, res 
 toratives of various sorts, the old woman ten 
 derly undressed him and examined the fright 
 ful bruise upon his chest. 
 
 "Do you think there's any ribs broke, 
 dear?" asked she tenderly. " Or is it an in'ard 
 hurt ? I wish 't I had some sage to make you 
 a tea, though there's nothing like sparmecity- 
 candles scraped in merlasses lor an in'ard 
 bruise. Yes ; you can come right in, Ruthie. 
 There now, Marsie sonny, let me wash your 
 face same as I used to. Lor, it seems as if 
 we'd gone clear back to the day you dim' 
 the big nut-tree to shake it for Beatrice Wan- 
 Bted, and tumbled down, and was took up for 
 dead. That was the year afore your ma died, 
 and she was so scared at seeing you all white 
 and bloody just as you are now that it 
 gave her a turn, and I don't think she ever 
 got over it. Yes ; it seems as if you was no 
 more than that same boy over again. There, 
 you look a little better ; and now you drink 
 some of this hot whiskey and sugar to keep 
 up your strength ; and, Ruth, you come here 
 to the door." . 
 
 Ruth obeyed in the same dazed way in 
 which she had moved and spoken ever since 
 the terrible shock of seeing Brent fall lifeless 
 at her feet. 
 
 " Wake up, child ! Wake up, and think 
 what you're about !" said Zilpah, shaking her 
 by one shoulder somewhat impatiently. " It 
 a'n't going to help him any to act that way. 
 There's got to be a doctor sent for right 
 away ; it's too big a hurt for me to handle all 
 alone though I know as much as any wo 
 man you'll fetch about roots and yarbs and 
 sech stuff, but of course that a'n't like a 
 doctor. Now, Ruth, you know where the 
 men be, and you slip out quiet, and find Rich 
 ard, or maybe Paul Freeman would do, and 
 tell 'em to take the Cap'n's horse and ride 
 for the doctor, lickety-split. Maybe five min 
 utes will be the saving of his life, for I don't 
 know but he's bleeding in'ardly, and I don't 
 know how to stop that. Run. now !" 
 
 But there was no need to bid her hasten. 
 So soon as she comprehended the service re 
 quired of her, the wind could hardly have 
 outstripped her speed to perform it ; and al 
 most before Zilpah knew that she was gone 
 she was out of sight, and fifteen minutes 
 later stood breathless, pallid, and excited in 
 the path of the men, who were returning 
 homeward for their dinner. 
 
 " Richard, come here quick, I want to speak 
 to you," called she impatiently ; and as Paul 
 also darted forward, she waved him impe 
 riously back. 
 
 " No, Paul Freeman, I don't want you," said 
 she, turning her back upon him, while she 
 whispered to Richard : 
 
 " Mr. Brent is dreadfully hurt dreadfully ; 
 and Zilpah says we must have the doctor just 
 as soon as we can get him. She says take 
 Kitty and ride down to the Ford, and tell 
 him to hurry all he can. Oh ! do hurry, Rich 
 ard, do !" 
 
 " How'd he get hurt ?" asked Richard, 
 already hastening toward the stable, while the 
 other men, except Paul, turned toward the 
 shanty. 
 
 " A log rolled down and struck him ; but 
 oh ! do, do hurry I" said Ruth, following the 
 man for a short distance, and then standing, 
 with clasped hands and white face, breath 
 lessly watching his movements. 
 
 As she thus stood, a slow and reluctant step 
 approached her from behind. 
 
 " Ruthie !" 
 
 " What do you want, Paul Freeman ?" 
 
 " Why do you speak so short, Ruthie? and 
 why won't you look at me ? You don't think 
 I meant to roll the log down on him, do you ?"
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 99 
 
 " I hope you didn't, for your own sake a 
 much as any thing, Paul," said the girl, neve 
 moving her eyes from Richard, who wa 
 rapidly saddling the sure-footed mountain-naj 
 Brent had selected for his own use over road 
 where a horse accustomed to travelling a set 
 tied country would probably have broken hi 
 own legs and his master's neck in the firs 
 day. 
 
 ' Is he much hurt ?" asked Paul in a lo\ 
 voice. 
 
 " Killed, maybe." 
 
 " O Ruthie ! don't say that." 
 
 Arrival of the doctor. 
 
 " Well, it's true. And what killed him ?" 
 " Not I, Ruth. I solemnly swear to you 
 
 that when I gave that h'ist to the log I had 
 
 no more idea of hitting him than you with it. 
 
 Don't you believe me ?" 
 
 "Yes; if you say so, I believe it, Paul. 
 
 But if Mr. Brent dies, I never can bear to look 
 
 at you, or speak to you, or hear your voice or 
 
 your name again." 
 
 " Even when I didn't mean to hurt him ?" 
 " Yes ; even then, because you did hurt him 
 
 if you didn't mean it." . 
 
 " Then you care a great deal about Mr. 
 
 Brent, Ruthie V 
 
 "A great deal! I shouldn't think you'd 
 ask such a question, Paul." 
 
 " More than you do about me, Ruthie ?" 
 
 " Why, of cr.iirse I do. More than I do 
 about any body," said Ruth impatiently. 
 
 And Paul turned away without another 
 word. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 DOCTORS DISAGREE. 
 
 " WELL, doctor, what do you think about 
 him?" asked Zil pah impatiently, as the doc 
 tor finished the ample dinner with which the 
 housekeeper had hospitably provided him 
 before she asked any questions. 
 
 " Well, ma'am, if you want my candid, out 
 right, and downright opinion about Mr. 
 Brent " 
 
 " Yes, what is it 1" 
 
 " Well, ma'am, it is that he is a dead man !" 
 And the doctor, adjusting his spectacles to his 
 nose, tilted his chair against the wall, thrust 
 his hands in his pockets, and steadily regard 
 ed the little junta composed of Zilpah, Rich 
 ard, Paul Freeman, and Ruth, who breathless 
 ly waited for his words. 
 
 As they met her ear, Ruth turned, and hid- 
 ng her face upon Zilpah's bosom, burst into 
 hysterical sobs ; and the old woman, with 
 tears streaming down her withered cheeks, 
 bund no word of comfort to whisper to her. 
 Paul Freeman turned miserably toward the 
 pen door, yet lingered, hoping for some alle-- 
 viating word to this terrible sentence ; and 
 lichard pursed up his lips as if to whistle ; 
 hen glanced uneasily at the women, and 
 doubtfully at the doctor, while he slowly 
 said : 
 
 " Sho ! it a'n't so bad as all that, I guess." 
 " It couldn't well be worse," replied the 
 loctor dogmatically. "The man is injur"d 
 ery bad inwardly, and there's no way of gut- 
 ing at an inward wound to see what it is. 
 here's a couple of ribs broken, too, but 
 hey'll heal of themselves in a week or so. It 
 ,vas walking with them ribs playing against 
 he vital organs inside of him that did the 
 nischief, I expect. They sort of tore him all 
 o pieces, and / don't see how lie's going to 
 >-et mended." 
 
 "You can't do anything more about it?" 
 
 sked Richard, still whistling softly as he 
 
 yed the doctor with increasing disfavor. 
 
 " I don't see as I can, young man, really. I 
 
 ave no objection to coming into the woods
 
 100 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 agnin say day after to-morrow ; but its pret 
 ty hard on a horse, and I really don't see what 
 I can do." 
 
 " Well, now, doctor, I'm an ignorant sort 
 of man alongside of you ; but it's my opinion 
 that the boss is going to get over it, and I'll 
 tell you what he'd ought to take to help him 
 over." 
 
 " Well, sir, wliat 1" asked the doctor, much 
 in the tone ordinarily assumed by the master 
 of the ring toward the clown at a circus. 
 
 " French brandy and loaf-sugar," replied 
 Richard undauntedly, and meeting the doc 
 tor's sneering laugh with good-humored indif 
 ference. 
 
 " Well , that's a new cure for broken bones," 
 said the man of science at last. 
 
 " It a'n't broken bones you said they'd 
 heal of themselves in a week or two," replied 
 Richard sententiously. 
 
 " Well, what's your brandy and loaf-sugar 
 going to do anyhow ?'' 
 
 " Why, the brandy keeps the blood a-circu- 
 lating lively, so that the bruised parts won't 
 die before they heal, and the loaf-sugar makes 
 'em heal." 
 
 " Sugar's dreadful healing, every body 
 knows," said Zilpah corroboratively. 
 
 "Now, doctor, you think I'm a fool, but 
 you just hear what I've seen in my day," pur 
 sued Richard, rising and marching up and 
 down the room, pausing now and then to 
 confront the doctor with some sentence more 
 emphatic than the rest, and speaking with 
 the eloquence of conviction, and an earnest 
 purpose. 
 
 " Three years ago, I was on a job with a 
 man named Sparks. It was down in the State 
 of Maine, where the lumbering is carried on a 
 little different from what it is here, but is full 
 as dangerous. This man was a great fellow 
 for taking hold of every thing himself, though 
 he was the boss ; and in the spring, when it 
 came to rafting the lumber down the river, he 
 was here, there, and everywhere. The end 
 of it was that, one day, there was a yam just 
 above the rapids, and not a fellow on hand 
 man enough to go out on the raft and break 
 the lock, till Sparks himself seized up an axe, 
 tossed off his jacket and boots, and just wait 
 ing to have a rope tied round his waist, sprung 
 out on the logs that were bobbing up and 
 down, piling one over another, and grinding 
 away like as they were alive, and in a hurry 
 to chaw him all up. Out he went, found the 
 
 lock, hit right and left, knocked out the key-log, 
 and then sprung for it like a man that feels 
 the devil close on his heels, and the church- 
 door open all ready for him. We fellers hur 
 rahed and cheered him on, and pulled away 
 at the line, keeping it just taut and not pull 
 ing a bit ; and well was it for him that we 
 did, for, just at the church-door as it were, the 
 devil caught up with him, and over he went, 
 down among the dead men, we all thought 
 and said ; but while there's life there's hope, 
 and we hauled away at the line, and after five 
 minutes or so, up he came, looking more like 
 the pieces of a man than a whole one, and 
 hanging to the end of the rope with no more 
 force about him than a dish-cloth. 
 
 " We got him ashore, and carried him up to 
 the shanty, which wasn't far from the river. 
 The only one to take care of him was an old 
 Indian squaw we had picked up to help cook 
 and wash for us while we stayed in that camp, 
 and with her we left him, while we went back 
 to the logs ; for the man we worked for 
 wouldn't have thought it much of an excuse 
 if we'd let all his lumber slide just because 
 one man got killed. 
 
 " When we got home at night, the first 
 thing we said was : 
 
 " ' Is the boss gone under ?' and the old 
 squaw up and made answer : 
 
 " ' He no go under, never ; me makey well.' 
 And sure enough, there was Sparks lying on. 
 his bed, as happy as a lord, and alongside of 
 him a cupful of white sugar just wet with 
 brandy, while he had a bottle of it for medi 
 cine, though it hadn't never been opened till 
 that day, and the white sugar he'd fetched up 
 when the man that owned the job came to 
 spend a day or two on it. 
 
 " Well, where that old woman got her idee, or 
 how she knew the brandy and sugar was in 
 the shanty, is more than I can tell ; but she 
 seemed so sartain sure she was right that we 
 just let her go ahead, and when the brandy 
 was gone, one of us fellers went all the way 
 to Bangor to get some more. 
 
 " Well, sir, that was all there was to it. 
 The cup of brandy and sugar didn't never get 
 empty ; and about once in five minutes, either 
 Sparks for himself, or some body else for him, 
 would tuck a spoonful into his mouth. It 
 kept him about half drunk. I do suppose, and 
 he slept right straight along, day and night, 
 most all the time. When he got a little bet 
 ter, we used to carry him out on a sort of bed
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 101 
 
 we matlo for him, and set him in the sun a 
 little while ; and when it came midsummer, 
 we laid him where he'd get the good smell of 
 the spruces and fir-balsams. Then we fed 
 him on thin slices of raw pork, sprinkled with 
 red pepper ; and the amount of it was that by 
 early fall he was a well man, and it was 
 brandy and sugar that cured him." 
 
 " Brandy and sugar, and the smell of pine- 
 woods, and raw pork and red pepper !" repeat 
 ed the doctor contemptuously. " Well, young 
 man, if you think you're competent to manage 
 this case on those principles, I am quite ready 
 to leave it in your hands, for I confess that I 
 don't understand that style of treatment." 
 
 " Nor no other that'll haul Brent through, 
 do you V asked Richard, much in the same 
 tone. 
 
 " No, I can't say I do. A man that's injured 
 as he's injured had ought to die, and I don't 
 doubt he will die," said the doctor, allowing 
 his chair to resume its quadrupedal position, 
 while rising to his own feet, he buttoned his 
 coat, finished packing and strapping his sad 
 dle-bags, and showed symptoms of a dignified 
 departure. 
 
 " All right, doctor. You say he'll die, and 
 you can't help it, and I say he shan't die, not 
 if we can hender it ; shall he, Ma'am Zilpah ?" 
 
 " No, Richard, he shan't ; and I don't doubt 
 but what we can hender it, if all you say is 
 true," replied the old woman, jerking her 
 chin into the air, with a defiant glance at the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Very well, then, I leave the case in your 
 hands only mind and don't you blame me 
 when the man dies," said that worthy practi 
 tioner, putting on his hat and approaching 
 the door. 
 
 " No, we won't ; but maybe you'll tell me 
 if you've got any first-rate French brandy 
 among your physic down to the Ford ?" said 
 Richard, accompanyng him. 
 
 ' Yes, I've got some worth eighteen dollars 
 a gallon, if that is good enough," said the doc 
 tor with a grim smile. 
 
 " Who cares for the price if the stuff is 
 first-rate ! I'll buy a bottle anyhow out of my 
 own pocket." 
 
 " And I'll go down with the doctor and 
 bring it back," said Paul eagerly, looking 
 toward Ruth for approval ; but she was whis 
 pering to Zilpah : 
 
 " Let us go back to Mr. Brent now." 
 
 " You go, and I'll come as soon as I put 
 
 these dishes together," said the old woman 
 kindly ; and the girl, waiting for no further 
 permission, flew back to the post beside Mar- 
 ston's pillow, which she had unwillingly 
 quitted half an hour before, at Zilpah's call. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIH. 
 A GHOST. 
 
 " MR. MOXCKTON ! Is it possible ? This is 
 indeed a delightful surprise." 
 
 " I may eoho the delight, but not the sur 
 prise, for that would have been in finding 
 Mrs. Barstow less charming than I left Mrs. 
 Charlton," said the traveller, touching the 
 finger-tips extended to him, and bowing pro 
 foundly. 
 
 " Still a courtier," said the lady, lightly 
 laughing as she glanced toward? a chair and 
 resumed her own. 
 
 " No satire, pray. Remember that I am but 
 just off a journey, and more than usually 
 powerless in your hands." 
 
 " You have but just arrived in town ?" 
 
 " Or in the country either. I landed upon 
 republican soil just four days ago." 
 
 " After an absence of how long ?" 
 
 " Four years." 
 
 " And you have explored during that time 
 how large a proportion of the habitable 
 globe ?" 
 
 " Ah ! one's ideas of habitable become so 
 vague in the course of extended travel that I 
 cannot answer your question, especially in 
 comparing this apartment with the hut of my 
 friend Eric Jakell, the Icelander, where I 
 spent a week last summer." 
 
 And Mr. Monckton suffered his eyes to wan 
 der admiringly through the elegant drawing- 
 room, its charms, like those of its mistress, 
 heightened by the softened and tinted light 
 alone suffered to enter the heavily shaded 
 windows. 
 
 Mrs. Barstow noted the glance, and felt an 
 added kindliness toward so delicate an appre- 
 ciator of the taste displayed in her surround 
 ings. 
 
 " It is a pity you should waste four years 
 upon the Eric Jakells of the world when so 
 many of your more civilized friends are wish 
 ing for your society," said she, with a smile so 
 becoming that Mr. Monckton. doing a little 
 sum in mental arithmetic, decided that eight 
 and thirty must be the grand climacteric of 
 woman's beauty.
 
 103 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " I did not spend all my time in Iceland," 
 eaid he slowly. " I travelled in various quar 
 ters of the globe beside, and met many persons 
 whom I knew." 
 
 " The Chappellefords, for instance," said 
 Mrs. Barstow~with a slightly malicious smile. 
 " Beatrice told me that they met you in Lon 
 don, quite by accident." 
 
 " Yes," said Monckton gravely. " But a 
 very happy accident for me, as I enjoyed their 
 society exceedingly during the few days I was 
 able to remain with them." 
 
 The reserve of his manner checked the jest 
 Mrs. Barstow wished to utter upon the subject 
 of Beatrice,, and she asked instead : 
 
 " Did you share Mr. Ohappelleford's tri 
 umphs among the English savansf" 
 
 " Not at all. The Oriental Club were hos 
 pitable enough to give me a chair, and I be 
 long to the Travellers', but otherwise I saw 
 nothing of society. I was only passing 
 through London on my way to Scotland. But 
 Mrs. Chappelleford's success was even greater 
 than her husband's." 
 
 " Indeed in what direction ?" asked Mrs. 
 Barstow coldly. 
 
 " As a belle esprit, almost a bas bleu. In 
 fact, had she been less beautiful, less elegant, 
 older, and more stereotyped, she might have 
 been consigned to the ranks of learned wom 
 en, and lost to the general society which 
 eagerly claimed her." 
 
 " Indeed ! I did not know she had become 
 such a paragon. I shall be quite afraid of her 
 when I find time to appreciate her." 
 
 ' Pray, do not delay that period, for I assure 
 you that you are losing a great deal," said Mr. 
 Monckton, smiling ever so little. " You have 
 not seen much of your friends then since 
 their return ?" added he directly. 
 
 " No ; they only came in the last steamer, 
 the one just before yours, by the way, and I 
 have hardly found time for a call, and to see 
 them once at dinner. They will be here to 
 morrow evening, however, at a little gather 
 ing in their honor, and I trust we shall have 
 the pleasure of welcoming Mr. Monckton also. 
 Mr. Barstow will be most happy to call upon 
 you in the morning, although, you know, soci 
 ety is not his favorite occupation." 
 
 " Thanks I shall be most happy. Mr. Bar 
 stow is quite well, I hope." 
 
 " Oh ! quite, and just as devoted to business 
 as ever. I hardly see him except at dinner, 
 for he is not fond of going out, and I am un 
 
 able to avoid so many engagements that they 
 quite absorb me." 
 
 She raised her eyes with such an air of pa 
 thetic protest against her fate, that Monckton 
 would certainly have laughed had he not been 
 absorbed at the moment in contriving an 
 opening for the one thing he had entered that 
 house lo say. 
 
 " I dare say you are thinking that Mrs. 
 Monckton shall be more domestic," continued 
 the lady with an arch smile ; and the traveller 
 replied in the same tone : 
 
 " ' Bachelors' wives,' you know, are perfect, 
 and I am afraid I never shall have any other. 
 But you were asking of my travels, Mrs. 
 Barstow. Among other places, I visited Persia 
 again." 
 
 " Indeed !" and Mrs. Barstow turned pale 
 beneath the nuance of rouge upon her cheek ; 
 but recovering herself by a rapid and violent 
 effort, she boldly picked up the gage which she 
 imagined thrown down to her. 
 
 " Then I dare say you heard further news 
 of an old friend, Major Strangford," said she 
 carelessly. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Barstow, very singular, very 
 startling news," said Monckton earnestly. 
 
 " What is it, pray ? He was always orig 
 inal." 
 
 "This time extremely so, for after dispatch 
 ing a letter and parcel which I transmitted to 
 you four years ago, he recovered from the fe 
 ver supposed to be fatal, and in the course ot 
 several months resumed the use both of his 
 body and mind, which, as I understand, had 
 been nearly equally affected by his illness." 
 
 " He recovered !" gasped Mrs. Barstow, too 
 deeply agitated now for concealment. 
 
 " Yes, and was about to proceed upon his 
 journey homeward, when, in looking over a 
 file of American newspapers at some consul 
 ate upon the route, he met with the announce 
 ment of your marriage. It was a great shock 
 to him, as he had formed his own plans with 
 regard to your future. You will excuse this 
 freedom, I trust, as both you and Major Strang 
 ford have honored me with your confidence 
 in times past." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; go on, please !" 
 
 " The Major was, as I have said, much 
 shocked, and also very angry, and in the first 
 heat of his emotions, he did a very foolish 
 thing." 
 
 " Shot himself?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, much worse than that : married
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 103 
 
 himself to a woman for whom he never pre 
 tended to care, and whose devotion to him 
 only serves to render his indifference more ap 
 parent. She was an English widow, very rich 
 and very vulgar ; he met her somewhere in 
 Italy Naples, I think and they were married 
 in ten days from their first introduction." 
 
 " I thought you said you met him in Per 
 sia." 
 
 " No ; I only mentioned Persia by way of in 
 troducing this subject. I met them in Paris." 
 
 Mr. Monckton paused, and Mrs. Barstow 
 sat for a moment, her face covered with her 
 hand, then raised it, pale and haughty, to 
 say: 
 
 " Your account of my former friend is in 
 teresting, Mr. Monckton, for one never ceases 
 to feel an interest in the fate of one's intimate 
 associates, but as I shall probably never meet 
 or hear again of either Major or Mrs. Strang- 
 ford, the news is hardly as important as you 
 seem to think." 
 
 " Pardon, madam," said the traveller coldly. 
 " It is precisely because it is important that I 
 have intruded it upon you. Major and Mrs. 
 Strangford were passengers with me in the 
 Phoenix, and I know that it is his intention to 
 call upon you to-morrow which is New-Year's 
 day, you will remember in hopes of giving 
 you as painful a shock as he experienced in 
 hearing of your marriage. I know this, for 
 he told me." 
 
 " And you came here to warn me ! That is 
 real kindness, real friendship, Mr. Monckton," 
 and Mrs. Barstow, rising, offered her white and 
 jewelled hand to her guest with more sincer 
 ity of feeling than she had experienced before 
 in many years. 
 
 " You repay my slight service a hundred 
 fold," said Monckton, returning the cordial 
 pressure of the hand he held. . " But you will 
 remember you did me a service long ago, and 
 although I never have thanked you, I felt none 
 the less grateful." 
 
 " That was simple justice," said Mrs. Bar- 
 stow with a very becoming air of proud recti 
 tude, and a convenient oblivion of the gar 
 nets. " And although the confession caused 
 a breach between Mrs. Chappelleford and my 
 self, not yet healed, I have never regretted 
 making it." 
 
 " Thank you. Ana you will be ready for 
 Major Strangford?" 
 
 " I shall be ready, and will even ask him to 
 waive all ceremony and bring his wife to me 
 
 to morrow evening," said Mrs. Barstow with a 
 smile of honeyed malice. 
 
 " Ah ! I see that forewarned is forearmed 
 in this case, and I need interfere no further," 
 said Mr. Monckton, taking his leave. 
 
 Going down the stairs, he proposed to him 
 self this little problem, and left it unsolved : 
 
 " Which is meaner, for a man to stand by 
 and see a woman ill used, or to turn traitor to 
 another man ?" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 A COUNCIL OF WAR. 
 
 " MADAME begs that you will come up to 
 her dressing-room, if it is not too much fa 
 tigue," said the soubrette ; and Mrs. Chappelle 
 ford, with a silent inclination of the head, 
 followed to the suite of apartments that had 
 once been her own, and were now Mrs. Bar- 
 stow's. That lady, standing engrande toilette 
 between two mirrors,watched a little anxiously 
 the first expression of her guest's face in en 
 tering the room, and felt a thrill of satisfac 
 tion at its cordial approval. 
 
 "You look magnificently, Juanita. Noth 
 ing can be better for you than black velvet 
 and diamonds." 
 
 " I am so glad you think me properly 
 dressed. Fresh from Paris as you are, we all 
 must look to you as an authority." 
 
 " I pray that you will do no such thing, for 
 I am the least reliable of women in such 
 matters. I have such a habit of altering and 
 adapting every thing, that I am no guide at 
 all in the way of fashion." 
 
 And Mrs. Chappelleford, suffering the loose 
 fur-lined wrap she wore to drop into the hands 
 of Pauline, stood forth the living personifica 
 tion of one of those rich, dusky old pictures 
 before which we stand for hours, silently 
 praying the mocking lips to open, the fathom 
 less eyes to return our imploring gaze, the 
 dead canvas to give up the story and the 
 passion it half reveals, yet half conceals. 
 
 Such a picture, full of the romance and 
 mystery of the past, mingled Svith the gracious 
 and graceful womanhood of to-day, looked 
 Beatrice, standing so serenely unconscious in 
 her quaintly fashioned robe of violet silk, soft 
 and lustreless, the ivory whiteness of her 
 neck and arms heightened by the yellow hue 
 of the old point-lac.; shading them, her beau 
 tiful hair coiffed in a style all her own and 
 Titian's, and ornamented with sapphires of 
 inestimable value, for they had been wrought
 
 104 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 in the unremembered years to deck perhaps 
 an empress, perhaps some simpler yet nobler 
 woman, and then had returned to the bosom 
 of the earth to wait through centuries, until 
 they again should see the light of day, and 
 again serve as beauty's foil. 
 
 Mrs. Barstow looked at her guest with 
 envy and dismay, thinly veiled by admira 
 tion. 
 
 " My dearest Beatrice ! How odd, and how 
 thoroughly charming ! Where did you get 
 that dress ?" 
 
 " I bought the silk in Constantinople, and it 
 was made in Naples. Do you like it ?" asked 
 Beatrice simply. 
 
 " It is lovely. But the fashion is so odd ! 
 Are they wearing those square necks in Paris 
 now ?" 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure. It is a fashion 
 I am fond of, and I have all my evening 
 dresses made in that way. I believe I was 
 guilty of a little plagiarism in this, and gave 
 the 'modiste a sketch to work by, which I had 
 taken from a picture in the Pitti. Don't ex 
 pose my presumption, will you ?" 
 
 " I shall be very good if I refrain, for every 
 thing and every body in my rooms will be 
 thrown into the shadow by that toilette and 
 that wearer," said Mrs. Barstow with a con 
 strained smile. 
 
 " How sorry I should be to believe you, for 
 it is so vulgar to be conspicuous," said Bea 
 trice with unaffected dismay. " And I have 
 been away so long that I dare say I may have 
 grown too 'bizarre in my style. Shall I throw 
 a shawl over this dress ?" 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear. No, indeed," said the 
 hostess with a magnanimous effort greatly to 
 her credit. " Is it your fault that you are 
 charming ? But now, sit down a moment, 
 please, I have something to say to you, some 
 thing very serious." 
 
 With a look of some surprise, Beatrice took 
 the offered chair, and fixed her clear eyes 
 upon the face of her hostess, who continued 
 with some embarrassment : 
 
 " It is a subject upon which we spoke once 
 before, and did not agree very well, but I 
 know you will bo willing to help me, when I 
 really need help." 
 
 " Certainly, Juanita, if I can." 
 
 "Mr. Monckton was with me yesterday," 
 pursued Mrs. Barstow with a visible effort, 
 " and he told me very strange news. You re 
 member Major Strangford, Beatrice ?" 
 
 " I remember what you told me of him just 
 before your marriage with my uncle." 
 
 " Well, my dear, do but fancy that this 
 man is not dead, that he recovered from his 
 fever, heard of my marriage, and took it so 
 to heart that he actually married again for 
 spite, and now has absolutely come home, is 
 in town at this moment, and intends calling 
 here to-day." 
 
 " Intends calling here ?" 
 
 " Exactly, and with the avowed purpose of 
 annoying and confusing me. He confessed 
 as much to Monckton, who with real kind 
 ness came to warn me. Now, Beatrice, what 
 can I do ?" 
 
 " It is a very painful situation, certainly," 
 said Beatrice gravely. " And I do not see 
 any thing that you can do except to assert 
 your position as a wife and a matron with 
 quiet dignity, and by showing Major Strang 
 ford that the past is really past to you : make 
 it impossible for him to annoy you by bring 
 ing it up." 
 
 " Ah ! but, Beatrice, suppose it is not really 
 past," exclaimed Juanita, clasping her hands 
 in an agitated manner, while her very lips 
 turned white. 
 
 " I do not understand you," said Beatrice, 
 raising her eyes to the other's face with a look 
 of shame and surprise. " You cannot mean 
 that you still cherish any feeling of love for 
 this man, and are afraid of betraying it?" 
 
 " But remember, Beatrice, all that he has 
 been to me ; remember how much he has suf 
 fered on my account ; remember the weakness 
 of a woman's heart." 
 
 " I remember only, Mrs. Barstow, that you 
 are my uncle's trusted wife, that you assumed 
 that position quite of your own wish I may 
 say, by your own effort, and that the only tol 
 erable excuse you found at that time for not 
 revealing the whole truth to your future hus 
 band was -that it was a matter of the past al 
 together, and that with Major Strangford had 
 died all possibility of your swerving from the 
 affection you professed for my uncle. But if 
 you intend to say that, in finding this man 
 alive, you find that you still love him, and 
 dread to see him on that account, and are 
 asking me to help and shield you in this dis 
 graceful position, all I can say is, that I am 
 very much surprised at your selection of a 
 confidante, and that I shall return immediately 
 home." 
 
 She rose as she spoke, and stood upright
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 105 
 
 before the cowed and trembling woman, who 
 looking up at her majestic figure, and fac 
 severe and beautiful as that of an offende 
 Diana, felt a sudden sickening at the heart, i 
 recognizing a height to which she migh 
 never hope to climb, which she had neve 
 even imagined until that moment. 
 
 She caught at the soft, shining drapery 
 flowing around the stately figure, and fell upon 
 her knees before it. 
 
 " O Beatrice, Beatrice ! I am a poor, weak 
 simple woman ! Help me, save me whil 
 there is yet time." 
 
 Beatrice stooped in an instant, and tool 
 both the clinging hands in hers, a great pit} 
 softening the disdainful lines of her face, am 
 her eyes filling with tears. 
 
 " Don't do that, Juanita," said she in a low 
 voice. " Get up, I implore you. Indeed, '. 
 will help you, if I can or rather I will help 
 you to help yourself, for it is you who must 
 do the work, after all. There, let us sit quiet]} 
 down again, and consider the matter. Major 
 Strangford is coming here to-day professedly 
 to annoy and embarrass you. That prove 
 him no gentleman to begin with, and proves, 
 too, that his feeling toward you is more one 
 of enmity than good-will. It seems to me 
 that you are not called upon to treat such a 
 person with much ceremony. Why do you 
 not tell the servant to refuse you to him ?" 
 
 " That would be almost impossible on New- 
 Year's Day, when gentlemen come in such 
 numbers, and altogether as it were. They do 
 not give their names very often." 
 
 "Well, then, if we cannot keep him out, 
 let us consider how to deal with him after he 
 is in," said Beatrice almost gayly ; for, like 
 most proud and sensitive persons, she felt the 
 humiliation she had inflicted more keenly 
 than even the sufferer herself. 
 
 "And, after all," continued she, "it is 
 better that you should see this person once, 
 to convince yourself how indifferent you have 
 become to him. We all change so rapidly 
 that it is very seldom wo find ourselves in the 
 same position to any other person after a sep 
 aration of years. We have to begin actually 
 a new acquaintance, if we wish to renew 
 broken ties, and it ia ten chances to one but 
 we find our new friend entirely a different 
 person from our old one, and altogether un 
 congenial to our new selves. But one can 
 avoid this shock by refraining from remaking 
 the acquaintance, and just laying away the 
 
 past memory in one's cabinet of curious an- 
 tiques, properly numbered and classified; 
 and, after all, a cabinet of minerals or shells, 
 or even butterflies, is better worth collecting." 
 
 "You are talking to yourself now. instead 
 of to me," said Juanita, half petulantly, and 
 Beatrice colored to the waves of her shining 
 hair. 
 
 " That is true," said she frankly. " I too 
 married from unworthy motives, and I too 
 had memories to subdue, but I replaced them 
 so thoroughly with other and better things 
 that they soon ceased to trouble me. and it is 
 now far beyond the power of man to revive 
 them." 
 
 " And you would not be afraid to meet that 
 old lover of yours, ever so suddenly, or ever 
 so unreservedly ?" asked Juanita curiously. 
 
 " I could not meet him so suddenly as to 
 make me forget our mutual position, and as 
 for unreserve, it seems to me that every wife 
 should live in an atmosphere of reserve, 
 within which no man can penetrate," said 
 Beatrice so gravely that Juanita could not 
 pursue the subject. 
 
 " Well, what are we to do in this matter ?" 
 asked she, after a moment of awkward si- 
 ence. 
 
 " Why, since you are prepared for the attack, 
 t seems to me to have lost all its danger," re- 
 )lied Beatrice. " You will, I suppose, receive 
 Vlajor Strangford precisely as you would any 
 )ther gentleman ; forget, if you can, that you 
 sver knew him more intimately than you do 
 o-day, and let him perceive that youacknowl- 
 :dge no secret understanding whatever be- 
 ween you." 
 
 I shall turn him over to you, Beatrice. 
 Tou can make him understand better than I 
 hat he is not welcome here. I am, after all, 
 he hostess, and must not be rude, you know." 
 " There is not the slightest occasion for 
 udeness," said Beatrice a little impatiently. 
 Your proper manner toward this man is po- 
 .te formality, verging on indifference. Rude- 
 ess would be almost as objectionable as 
 motion. Let him see that you have no feei 
 ng of any sort toward him. Nothing will 
 iscourage him like that." 
 " But if you have an opportunity, I wish 
 ou would let him see that you know all 
 bout him, and that you mean to stand be- 
 ween me and harm." 
 
 " O Juanita ! it is you who must feel and 
 low that such harm as this cannot come
 
 106 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 near you. You must not depend upon me or 
 any one, or you will certainly be disappointed 
 in the end." 
 
 " Hark ! There is the bell. We must go 
 down," exclaimed Mrs. Barstow, giving one 
 slow, comprehensive glance at her figure in 
 the mirror, and then sweeping out of the 
 room, sadly followed by Beatrice. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 ALL THK WORLD. 
 
 " I MADE eighty-two^ calls yesterday, be 
 tween eleven o'clock in the morning and 
 eleven at night, sir," said Mr. Laforet upon 
 the second of January in the year of which we 
 write, " and I give you my honor, sir, that 
 I did not find a handsomer drawing-room, or 
 two women any thing near as handsome as at 
 Israel Barstow's. I give you my honor, Mrs. 
 Chappelleford, since her return, is enough to 
 take the breath right out of a man ; and Mrs. 
 Barstow, when she gets herself up in black 
 velvet, with just a touch of rouge, and the 
 right shade under her eyelids, and sits with 
 Ler back to the light, I tell you she is stun 
 ning. As for the spread, it was perfect just 
 enough, and nothing too much : sherry and 
 sweet wines, but no champagne, no punch 
 bowl nothing loud. No occasion for fellows 
 to carry olives in their pockets to that house, or 
 to come out of it noisy just the best house in 
 town, sir, I give you my honor." 
 
 And having the opinion of such an authority 
 as Mr. Laforet, we need not doubt that Mrs. 
 Barstow's New- Year's at home was perfectly 
 successful, or go farther into the details of 
 the occasion. 
 
 The day wore on until about five o'clock in 
 the afternoon, and Mrs. Barstow had just 
 smiled acceptance of Mr. Monckton's compli 
 ments, when Beatrice saw a slight, nervous 
 tremor run through her figure, and at once 
 turned her own eyes toward the door. 
 
 A gentleman stood just within it, looking 
 with peculiar earnestness toward the hostess 
 a gentleman in middle life, of military figure 
 and bearing, and with a face once singularly 
 handsome, but now wasted and haggard with 
 a life of fatigue, exposure, and unrestrained 
 passions. 
 
 " A volcano almost burned out," thought 
 Beatrice, as she watched the new-comer ad 
 vancing slowly up the room, his eyes still in 
 tently fixed upon his hostess, who, pretending 
 
 not to observe him, jested flippantly with Mr. 
 Monckton. 
 
 " Juanita 1" said Beatrice in a low voice, 
 and full of meaning. 
 
 Mrs. Barstow turned her head, smiled with 
 a very tolerable imitation of indifferent sur 
 prise, and said : 
 
 " Is it possible, Major Strangford ! Did you 
 drop from the heavens among us ?" 
 
 " No, I have come ' up from the under 
 world,' as your favorite Tennyson has it. 
 You see, I remember your tastes, Mrs. Bar- 
 stow." 
 
 " So good of you. But then you have been 
 out of the world, and so have had time for 
 the pleasures of memory. We of the town 
 are too busy for that luxury," said Mrs. Bar- 
 stow with admirable sanyfroid. 
 
 " Beatrice, allow me to present Major Strang 
 ford, a gentleman I used to see in New-Orleans. 
 Mrs. Chappelleford, Major Strangford ; Mr. 
 Monckton, I believe, you know." 
 
 " Your servant, Mrs. Chappelleford. How are 
 you, Monckton," said the Major, acknowledg 
 ing the presence of those whom he addressed 
 with brief courtesy, and turning again to 
 Juanita with a malicious smile. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Barstow, I have just arrived in 
 town, and my wife has hardly recovered from 
 her journey; but when she does I hope she 
 will see you among her first visitors. You 
 and she should be good friends." 
 
 " You are married, then ? You forget that 
 we have all been ignorant of your movements, 
 your very existence, I may say, for so long, 
 that we hardly know where to place you. 
 There was even a rumor of your death some 
 time ago. Did you not tell me so, Mr. Monck 
 ton ?" 
 
 " Yes, several years ago, before I went 
 abroad." 
 
 " So I was thinking ; but one lives so fast in 
 these days," said Mrs. Barstow, with a little 
 sigh of protest against the heartlessness of the 
 age. 
 
 "And one's dearest friends are soon for 
 gotten," said Major Strangford bitterly. 
 
 "Is that your experience, Major? Well, 
 now, I don't find it so. Delusions and fancies 
 pass away, but I don't find that real friend 
 ships do. How is it with you, Beatrice ?" 
 
 " One certainly sees more clearly as one gets 
 on in life," said Beatrice quietly. " And the 
 certainty that things are at last reduced to 
 their true limits is a consolation in seeing
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 107 
 
 them lose the magnificent proportions -with 
 which we first invested them." 
 
 " Some things reduced to their true limits 
 become so insignificant as to disappear alto 
 gether," replied Major Strangford with a sneer. 
 " Lovers' vows, for instance." 
 
 " Or mean revenge," added Beatrice coolly. 
 " Yes, most small and false matters become 
 extinct with time. The world has only room 
 for truth and nobility of purpose." 
 
 " What a peculiar world you must live in, 
 Mrs. Chappelleford," said Major Strangford, 
 turning to stare her almost rudely in the face. 
 " And what a delightful sympathy must exist 
 between Mrs. Barstow and yourself!" 
 
 " Such an one should exist, since we are 
 kinswomen, or at least close connections," 
 Baid Beatrice, unmoved by look or tone. 
 
 " Indeed ! May I ask how ? ' 
 
 " Mrs. Barstow married my uncle, and I 
 hers ; so we are naturally much together." 
 
 " I see ; and you are educating your niece in 
 your own way of thinking, are you not ?" 
 
 " Juanita, will not the gentleman take some 
 refreshments ?" asked Beatrice as qutetly as 
 if she had not heard the taunting question : 
 and Mrs. Barstow, aroused to a memory of her 
 duties, hastily replied : 
 
 " Oh ! certainly. Mr. Monckton, will you do 
 the honors of the dining room to Major Strang 
 ford T 
 
 Both gentlemen rose, and the entrance of 
 another party most opportunely offered cover 
 for a retreat, which might otherwise have 
 become very awkward ; but Mrs. Barstow, 
 smiling and bowing welcome to Messieurs 
 Kein and Gralmme, could smile and bow adieu 
 to Messieurs Monckton and Strangford in the 
 same breath and with precisely the same 
 manner. 
 
 An hour later, the ladies withdrew to rest 
 fora short period before dinner, and had to pre 
 pare for the fatigues of the evening, Avhich 
 was to be celebrated by a " little gathering " 
 of Mrs. Barstow's dear five hundred friends. 
 
 " That will do, Pauline ; you may go now," 
 said Mrs. Barstow impatiently, as the maid' 
 lingered after inspecting and repairing the 
 fabric of her mistress's toilet. 
 
 "0 my dear, dear Beatrice !" continued she 
 as the door closed. " I am so obliged to you, 
 and how splendidly you stood by me !" 
 
 "' I am sure I do not see how," replied Bea 
 trice with a smile. "You treated Major 
 Strangford as a lady should treat a gentle 
 
 man, and he treated both of us as a boor 
 treats women of whom he is not afraid. That 
 is all there is to say." 
 
 "Well, he is a boor, although I used to 
 think him the most polished gentleman of 
 my acquaintance," said Mrs. Barstow reflect 
 ively. " But I was entirely disappointed in 
 him entirely shocked, I may say. Did you 
 notice how broken and ugly his teeth are ?" 
 
 " I noticed how false and malicious his eyes 
 are, and how tremulous and dissipated Lis 
 hands," said Beatrice with lofty scorn. 
 
 CHAPTER XLL 
 A LEAP FROM MRS. CHAFPELLEFORD'S DIARY. 
 
 " April 15th. This is my twenty-fifth birth 
 day, speaking after Babbage my thousandth, 
 judging by my own consciousness, for it seems 
 to me that the days when I was what I re 
 member to have been float backward faster 
 than the other current carries me forward, so 
 that jouth retreats while age does not ad 
 vance ; for I am not old yet, I suppose. And 
 yet, if life is a condition of progress, what is 
 left for me to learn ? I mean, of course, per 
 sonally ; for of intellectual growth and attain 
 ment, there is no end. But without wishing 
 to be weak or sentimental, I cannot but won 
 der if science and metaphysics, mathematics 
 and philosophy, are the highest aims of our 
 being. Suppose we heap our individual 
 mound of sand a few grains higher than that 
 of our brother-ant next door, Avhat then ? Is 
 it large enough to hold us, after all? Or, on 
 the other hand, is it worth while to heap so 
 toilfully a mound beneath which to bury our 
 selves ? Cheops always seemed to me a victim 
 of Almighty irony. He erected the Pyramid, 
 and his atom of mummy was lost in the im 
 mensity of his memorial. 
 
 " The pyramid of acquirement these men 
 about me are piling for themselves will not 
 last as long as the stones, and it is so much 
 harder to build it. 
 
 " Well, then, what do we live for ? To learn, 
 is the best answer, and that is but poor. Five 
 years ago, I should have said, to love ; but 
 what puerile trash that all becomes as one 
 gets on a little I To be happy ? It is only 
 another form of the same childish dream. 
 How can a rational, thinking being, with a 
 mind and reasoning powers properly devel 
 oped, talk of being happy, when the very fun 
 damental principle of existence is disappoint-
 
 108 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 ment ? The child enters life with hopes 
 amounting to certainties, with ardent friend 
 ships, loves, theories. He travels on and sees 
 them drop away, or, remaining, change like 
 fairy gold to worthless rubbish in his hands, 
 until, at the last, he stands beggared of all 
 but the experience he has bought, the knowl 
 edge he has won. But is this experience the 
 
 end of life ? Is the means also the result c ! 
 * 
 
 Must we give the price of the candle and 
 play the game through, however little worth 
 we find it? 
 
 " And then ? What comes next ? Mr. Chap- 
 pelleford tells me, resolution into the elements, 
 and reproduction in other forms ; but what a 
 trivial idea that seems as the grand motive of 
 creation ! Like the games of everlasting I 
 used to play with grandmamma, when we 
 always put the cards we gained at the back of 
 those in our hands, and so never came to the 
 end. Is eternity one grand game of everlast 
 ing, with the same stupid kings, and simper 
 ing queens, and contemptible knaves, always 
 recurring without variation or amendment? 
 But my grandfather and the rest of his genus 
 tell me that alter life and death come heaven 
 and hell, and so describe a so"t of vaporous, 
 gaseous existence for the good, and a Mumbo- 
 jumbo punishment for the wicked ; the one too 
 tedious, the other too absurd for belief. Pious 
 people of more modern education promulgate 
 various theories some tolerably interesting, 
 others tedious, none of them vital at least to 
 me. It may be that it is this " me " that is 
 wrong, and yet how ? To return to the pleas 
 ant places where these people dwell would 
 be like returning to bread and milk, the 
 Arabian Nights, and my belief that heaven 
 was to be scaled from the top of Moloch 
 Mountain. I cannot go back, and to go on 
 looks inexpressibly dreary and tedious. 
 
 " I will study Sanscrit, and help Mr. Chap- 
 pelleford in his new work upon the mother of 
 languages. But that is only a way of passing 
 time ; and how idle to invent ways of passing 
 time when we are waiting for nothing ! 
 
 " I never talked of these matters with Mars- 
 ton Brent. I wonder what convictions he 
 has arrived at, for he will not fail to have 
 wrought some answer to the eternal problem ? 
 I should like to see that man again, and study 
 him as a specimen of human nature. I hope 
 he, like me, has forgotten all that foolish past, 
 and either has married the girl of whom they 
 told me or contented himself with marrying 
 
 no one. I am glad I married. Mr. Chappelle- 
 ford has fulfilled his promises to the letter. 
 He has taught me much that is worth know 
 ing, and untaught me more that was best 
 abandoned. He says now that I am more 
 personal than womanly, and he congratulates 
 himself and me upon the improvement. 
 Well, I suppose it is one ; but I sometimes 
 envy Juanita with her milliners, and uphol 
 sterers, and cosmetics, and Laforets. There 
 is no danger of her exhausting her world, or 
 asking herself ' Cui bonof W r ell, I will study 
 Sanscrit " 
 
 The opening door made Beatrice glance 
 round, and the sentence was not finished, for 
 Mr. Chappelleford entered with an open let 
 ter in his hand. 
 
 " My good child, prepare for sad news," 
 said he kindly. " I have here a letter from 
 Dr. Bliss, who tells me that your grandfather 
 you know, Beatrice, that he has been failing 
 for months " 
 
 " And lie is dead ?" asked Beatrice calmly. 
 
 " Yes, my dear. He died yesterday about 
 noon, quietly, and without suffering, Bliss 
 says. You will wish to go to Milvor, I sup 
 pose." 
 
 " Certainly, at once." 
 
 " I have already ordered a carriage and 
 some lunch, for you must eat before we set 
 out." 
 
 "We?" 
 
 " Of course, I shall go with you ; I am your 
 husband." 
 
 " True, I had forgotten." 
 
 And Beatrice locked her desk, and left the 
 room quietly, and without a tear. Mr. Chap 
 pelleford looked after her thoughtfully. 
 
 " I am glad of this," said he at last. " She 
 has lived upon the heights long enough for 
 once. A little human emotion will be a re 
 lief, and she will return by and by with fresh 
 ardor to the region of abstractions. The at 
 mosphere is too thin for a woman to breathe 
 without occasional relief. After this, we will 
 go to the West to make those mound explora 
 tions." 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 CHILDISH. 
 
 " YOU'RE welcome home, Beatrice, though 
 you've grown such a stranger," said Mrs. 
 Bliss, embracing her niece with a sort of re 
 proachful fondness. " You've only been down 
 once since you got back from Europe."
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 109 
 
 " I know it, aunt. I should Lave come 
 oftener," said Beatrice wearily. 
 
 Mrs. Bliss looked sharply into her face a 
 moment, then laying both hands upon her 
 shoulders, as she had often done when charg 
 ing her with some childish sin, she said in 
 terrogatively : 
 
 " You're not happy, Trix ?" 
 
 Beatrice winced. 
 
 " Don't call me Trix, please, aunt. Or, no, 
 why should I not like it ? But it belongs to 
 the old times, you know, and I have changed 
 BO much that " 
 
 " That what, Beatrice? Are you happy ?" 
 
 " I suppose so, aunt. But grandpapa " 
 
 " Yes ; you shall see him in a moment. 
 That is, unless you had rather wait." 
 
 " I I do not think I want to see him," 
 stammered Beatrice, turning very pale. 
 
 " Not see him at all ! Why Beatrice Wan- 
 sted !" exclaimed Mrs. Bliss with such genu 
 ine horror and surprise that Beatrice hastened 
 to add : 
 
 " That is, not to-night, aunt. I feel rather 
 tired and faint after my journey, and you know 
 I never paw any thing of that sort, and " 
 
 " ' Thing of that sort !' " interrupted Rachel, 
 more and more displeased. " What are you 
 talking of, Beatrice? Because your grand 
 father has died, and his spirit gone to eternal 
 glory and happiness, has his body become 
 something to be afraid of and disgusted at? 
 Just fancy that he's asleep instead of dead 
 and in point of fact, it's nothing more ; for he 
 is asleep, and will wake up at the last day 
 j ust as good as new." 
 
 "I will see him by-and-by. Aunt Rachel," 
 said Beatrice, putting by with dignity the ar 
 gument she felt hopeless of supporting. " How 
 is grandmamma ?" 
 
 " Poor, dear old lady, she is in a very dis 
 tressing condition, too," said Mrs. Bliss, shak 
 ing her head hopelessly. " She is quite 
 childish now has been for a month or more, 
 and she don't understand any thing about 
 father's being dead. She thinks he's away 
 somewhere, and she keeps mourning for him 
 the whole time. We showed her the body, 
 and all, but it didn't seem to convince her. 
 She looked at it, and then hushed us with her 
 finger, and tiptoed out of the room for fear of 
 waking him up. But the next minute she 
 Vgan moaning again just the same way. 
 She'd forgotten, you see. Hush! she's coining 
 up-stairs now 1" 
 
 And Mrs. Bliss, followed by her niece, hast 
 ened out into the passage to meet the wid 
 owed mother, who stood clinging to the rail 
 ing beside the stairs, looking about her in a 
 bewildered manner. 
 
 " O Rachel ! is that you ? And who else is 
 up here ?" 
 
 " Only Beatrice, mother our Trix, you 
 know. We were just coming down to see 
 you," said Rachel very gently. 
 
 " Beatrice oh ! yes Beatrice. Where ia 
 Alice?" 
 
 " Why, mother, she is dead long ago. She 
 
 "She seated herself at her grandmother's feet." 
 
 died when Beatrice was born ; don't you re 
 member ?" 
 
 "And Arthur no, Arthur was married to 
 you he didn't die, did he ?" 
 
 " Yes, mother," said Rachel softly. 
 
 " Dear grandmamma, you remember me, 
 don't you?" asked Beatrice, tenderly leading 
 the bewildered woman into the chamber they 
 had just quitted, and seating her in the great 
 square easy-chair before the fire. " I will stay 
 here and talk with her a little while, aunt ; 
 and you can go and see after the others," said 
 Mrs. Chappelleford aside ; and as Rachel soft 
 ly left the room, she seated herself upon a low 
 stool at her grandmother's feet.
 
 110 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 "You remember me, dear, don't you?" 
 asked she again. 
 
 And the old lady laid a tremulous hand upon 
 her bright head, and stooped to look into her 
 face with the anxious scrutiny of failing 
 sight. 
 
 " Why, of course I remember you, Alice. 
 What should ail me not to know my own 
 child ?" said she presently,with a little crackling 
 laugh. " And my favoright child, too ; though 
 the deacon he always said there shouldn't be 
 any favorights in families. But then, Alice, 
 you always was so winning and pretty, how 
 could we help it ? And though I knew Rachel 
 was disappointed, I couldn't blame Arthur 
 not one mite, not one mite ; and then, again, 
 Rachel married let me see, she married 
 well, I forget his name ; but she was married 
 some time before she died. Have you seen 
 father, Alice ?" 
 
 "No, dear grandmamma. My father is in 
 Leaven, they say. Where is heaven, grand 
 mother ?" 
 
 " Heaven ? Why, Alice Barstow, a great 
 girl like you ask such a simple question ! 
 Heaven is where the whole air is made up of 
 love, and nothing to hinder or harm love. 
 God loves men ; but somehow we're so far off 
 down here that we don't always seem to feel 
 the love ; and then again, there's so much 
 going on in the world that half the time we 
 forget to love each other with all our might, 
 same as we're told we ought to. Well, now, 
 in heaven, you see, close up to God, we shall 
 breathe in His love, just as we do the common 
 air here, and so we shall act it out to each 
 other j ust as here we act out nater', because 
 love will be nater' then, don't you see ?" 
 
 But Beatrice, with her head bowed between 
 her hands, did not reply, and the old woman 
 went on : 
 
 " Now, there's father and me. When we 
 were young I don't suppose there ever were 
 two sweethearts set more by each other than 
 we did. He'd have given up all the world 
 for me, and I'd well, I'd be afraid to say 
 what I'd have given up for him. And so it 
 was along for a while after we got married. 
 But then came the children, and the farm, 
 and a whole grist of work and trouble and 
 care, and then he and me sort of fell off, not 
 from loving, but from talking about it and 
 showing it out. And then we got old ; and 
 old folks they get sort of crusted over like 
 Rachel's preserves, I think. The sweet's all 
 
 there just the same, only it can't get through 
 the snell, and any one that didn't know 
 would think 'twas sp'ilt. That's the way it 
 is with old folks like father and me. But, 
 Alice, when once we get into that heaven full 
 of love I was telling you of, the crust will 
 melt right off in the fire of God's love for us 
 both, and we shall know that we're just the 
 same to each other that we were in those 
 young days. Just the same? No! a thou 
 sand times better, and dearer, and worthier ; 
 for then we shall be angels instead of men. 
 I wonder if father thinks about that ? I forgot 
 to say any thing to him about it. I'll go talk 
 with him now a little." 
 
 And the old lady rose from her chair almost 
 with the vigor of youth, stood a moment 
 looking about her in a bewildered way, then 
 turned to Beatrice, while over her face, but 
 now clear and bright as with the reflection of 
 heavenly light, dropped a sudden veil of hu 
 man infirmity and decrepitude. 
 
 " Rachel ! No Alice, where's father ? I 
 want father. Where has he gone ?" said she 
 piteously. 
 
 " Let us go and see, dear grandmother. 
 Lean upon me, for I know you are tired. 
 Won't you come and lie down for a little 
 while before we look for him?" asked Bea 
 trice soothingly ; and passing her arm around 
 her grandmother's waist, she led her gently 
 down- stairs. 
 
 " Maybe he's lying down. He has been 
 rather poorly along back. I'm afraid he hurt 
 himself haying. Reuben and Israel were 
 both away, and the heft of the work came 
 upon the deacon. I guess he's lying down a 
 spell." 
 
 So -maundering, she allowed herself to be 
 gently led to her bedroom, and persuaded to 
 lie down and rest a little while waiting for 
 the object of her ceaseless questioning to ap 
 pear. 
 
 Beatrice sat beside her, pale, sad, and 
 thoughtful. Once she raised the poor, wasted 
 hand she held to her lips, and murmured : 
 
 " O mother ! make me believe as you be 
 lieve." 
 
 But in the other room Mrs. Bliss was saying 
 to her brother, who had come without his 
 wife to attend his father's funeral : 
 
 " Poor mother ! She is perfectly childish 
 now. You cannot rely upon a word she 
 says." 
 
 " She's been a good mother to us, Rachel.
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Ill 
 
 She made a happy home and a good one for 
 us when we were growing up," said Israel 
 Barstovv a little reprovingly. 
 
 And Rachel mournfully assented. 
 
 " You're right, brother. She's been the best 
 of mothers to us, and now that she's old and 
 childish, she shall want for nothing that I can 
 do for her." 
 
 Mr. Barstow was silent. His sister's tone 
 jarred unpleasantly upon some hidden chord, 
 but just where or what, he could not tell. 
 Perhaps the successful merchant, the admir 
 ing husband, the respected citizen had found 
 nothing since so sweet or so dear as his 
 mother's love and pride in him. Perhaps 
 this mother-love, confined in some hearts to a 
 narrow cell, had been forced by the emptiness 
 of the other chambers in Israel Barstow's 
 heart to expand beyond its usual dimensions. 
 However it may have been, it hurt him sorely 
 to hear his sister speak, even as kindly and 
 protectingly as she did, of their mother's 
 state of second childhood, and he presently 
 stole away to the bedroom where she lay, 
 dozing lightly, her hand in that of Beatrice's. 
 
 Nodding to his niece, he seated himself 
 beside her, his strong, broad hand lightly laid 
 upon his mother's dress ; and so they sat to 
 gether, silent, and each absorbed in thought, 
 while the soft April twilight stole into the 
 room, and the last ray of sunlight quivered 
 like a glory upon the white hair of the 
 s|eeper, as she murmured in her dream of 
 " Father, dear !" 
 
 CHAPTER XLm. 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 PRESENTLY, when Mrs. Bliss came to 
 prepare her mother for tea, and then for 
 bed, Beatrice glided quietly away, and, after 
 lingering a moment at the door, entered the 
 great parlor, where she knew that her grand 
 father was lying. 
 
 She had not been in the room since that 
 time now four years gone past when she 
 heard that Marston Brent had forgotten her, 
 and when Monckton had vainly striven to 
 comfort her despair. As she closed the door, 
 she remembered it, and stood for a moment 
 with vacant eyes looking back into the past, 
 and pitying the Beatrice who had so suffered 
 in that almost forgotten time. 
 
 " It was her death-agony. She cannot suf 
 fer any more, poor thing !" whispered she at 
 
 last, with a smile sadder than any tears ; and 
 then she went softly forward, and stood beside 
 the quiet figure, stretched, as yet uncoffined, 
 upon a table in the centre of the room. 
 
 Dressed as she had often seen him, with his 
 shapely hands folded upon his breast a placid 
 smile upon his lips, and his eyes naturally 
 closed, he looked as if indeed he slept, and 
 should presently awake refreshed and glad. 
 Or so Beatrice thought at first ; but when she 
 had stood for many moments beside that mo 
 tionless form, had, as it were, gathered into 
 her inmost consciousness the awful calm, the 
 utter silence of that presence, had tried and 
 failed to comprehend the suggestions of vast- 
 ness, of immeasurable distance, which seemed 
 to pervade the icy atmosphere of the chamber 
 when she touched that brow, so serene in its 
 white calm, so unlike any thing human in its 
 feeling then, for the first time, the shadow of 
 death fell upon Beatrice Chappelleford's life 
 then, for the first time, she knew how puny, how 
 idle, how impious were the theories and ac 
 tions by which she and her teachers had tried 
 to measure eternity. 
 
 Sinking upon her knees, as if crushed by 
 the weight of that mighty conviction, she hid 
 her face between her trembling hands, and 
 murmured : 
 
 " O God ! I acknowledge thee in death ! 
 teach me to know thee in life." 
 
 It was the only prayer she had breathed for 
 years ; and the heart she had thought dead 
 stirred in its slumber as the holy words re 
 echoed through its silent chambers. 
 
 She still knelt, wrapped in strange yet 
 sweetly familiar reverie, when the door opened 
 j softly, and her aunt's hushed voice summoned 
 her forth. 
 
 " He looks natural, don't he ?" whimpered 
 she, as Beatrice silently passed her. " I won 
 der how much of him is left in that body, af 
 ter all. It don't seem as if he and it could 
 become strangers all at once, does it ?" 
 
 " O Aunt Rachel ! I dare not think or 
 speak of such matters," moaned Beatrice, 
 gliding past her aunt and hiding from herself 
 in the lighted, warmed, and human eastern 
 room. 
 
 In the gray twilight of the next morning, 
 Mrs. Bliss stood beside her niece and laid a 
 hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 " Beatrice ! do you know where your grand 
 mother has gone ?" said she in a frightened 
 voice.
 
 112 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " Gone ! No, indeed. Has slie gone ?" ex 
 claimed Beatrice, rising hastily. 
 
 " Yes. I slept with her because she seemed 
 so restless and queer, I was afraid she was go 
 ing to be sick ; and when I woke just now 
 she was gone. My first thought was that she 
 might have come up to see you, because she 
 seemed so pleased yesterday." 
 
 " No, she has not been here. Let us go and 
 look for her. Can she have gone out of the 
 house ?" 
 
 " It may be. Why, where is your husband, 
 Beatrice ?" 
 
 " He sleeps upon the couch in the dressing- 
 room. Come, aunt." 
 
 And Beatrice hastily left the room, followed 
 by Mrs. Bliss, in whose breast anxiety for her 
 mother struggled with a curiosity almost as 
 strong. 
 
 The house was hastily searched the out 
 side doors tried and found fast, and the rest 
 of the family roused and alarmed ; but still 
 the childish, bereaved old mother was not 
 found. 
 
 At last, Beatrice laid her hand upon the 
 door of the great parlor. 
 
 " We have not looked here," said she. 
 
 " That door is locked all the time ; and be 
 fore I went to bed, I took^out the key and 
 put it in my pocket," said Rachel positively. 
 
 " Is it there now ?" 
 
 " I suppose so." And Mrs. Bliss thrust her 
 hand into her pocket, withdrew it, and turned 
 very pale. 
 
 " No, it is not there. Try the door." 
 
 " It is fastened, but I think only by the but 
 ton inside. It is not locked," said Beatrice in 
 a low voice. 
 
 " Let us try." And Mrs. Bliss, raising the 
 latch, applied a strong and steady pressure to 
 the only slightly resisting door, which pres 
 ently yielded with a low, rending sound. 
 
 The two women passed through and stood 
 beside the dead, over whose form and face his 
 daughter had reverently spread a fair linen 
 sheet before leaving him to his silent watch. 
 This she now turned down, and stood stricken 
 dumb at the piteous yet beautiful sight before 
 her. 
 
 The loving wife had found her husband 
 the childish mother had passed to wisdom and 
 knowledge unutterable the failing, faded 
 form lay cold and silent there, yet glorified 
 even to outward sense by the majesty and holi 
 ness of the life to which its soul had passed. 
 
 She had crept close to her husband's side, 
 laid her head upon his breast, and her arm 
 around his neck, and so had fallen asleep with 
 a serene smile upon her lips, and a look of 
 sweet content upon her face, which seemed to 
 glorify it like that of a saint. Looking down 
 at her with loving awe, Beatrice remembered 
 her words qf the day before : 
 
 " And then we shall know that we're just 
 the same to each other that we were in those 
 young days." 
 
 " They know it now," murmured she, rever 
 ently smoothing away the silver tress of the 
 
 " The little green churchyard. " 
 
 wife's hair which fell across the husband's 
 lips. 
 
 " They know it now, and more than that." 
 And so, the next day, a double funeral went 
 out from the Old Garrison House ; and they 
 who had been lovely in their lives were not 
 divided in their death, and sleep to-day side 
 by side in the little green churchyard, be 
 neath the shadow of Moloch. 
 
 They sleep? Oh! no, not they, but the 
 perishing forms that held them here ; for they 
 wake eternally in a life to which this is but 
 death.
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 113 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 A. STONE FOK BREAD. 
 
 "AND now, Beatrice," said Mr. Chappelle- 
 ford one day in May, " my preparations are 
 complete ; and as soon as you are ready, we 
 will begin our Western journey." 
 
 " I am ready at any time," said Beatrice, with 
 out raising her eyes. from the book upon her lap, 
 although she had not read a word in it for at 
 least an hour. 
 
 Mr. Chappelleford looked at her specula- 
 lively. 
 
 " My objection to most things has been," 
 said he at length, "that you come to the end 
 of them before they make an end of you. I 
 was in hopes that you would not prove so 
 transitory. Are you going to disappoint 
 me?'' 
 
 " What do you mean ?" asked Beatrice, rais 
 ing her heavy eyes. 
 
 " I found you five years ago, young, inex 
 perienced, with a mind framed for powerful 
 exertion, and at that time utterly empty and 
 untrained. What little of life you had seen 
 had disappointed and outraged your precon 
 ceived notions, for you had no ideas worthy 
 of the name, and you were just in the mood 
 to turn to something new, larger, and higher 
 than you had yet found. I gave you this new 
 pabulum in the form of knowledge, and 
 through the door of science led you into a 
 new and inexhaustible region of discovery and 
 attainment. You followed me with the docil 
 ity and naive delight of a child, accepted all 
 that I offered with unhesitating faith, and 
 avowed yourself overjoyed in the exchange 
 you had made from the old routine existence 
 of most women yes, and of most men, too to 
 this higher plane, where only man, at his 
 farthest remove from the monkey, can hope to 
 dwell. Do you follow me, and do I speak the 
 truth ?" 
 
 " Perfectly. And how do I now disappoint 
 you?" asked Beatrice faintly. 
 
 " By coming to the end of your growth, and 
 beginning the retrogressive process which, in 
 man, follows maturity. You have been to me 
 a fellow-thinker you threaten to become only 
 a woman. I thought you were past the 
 mourning for lost lives ; the speculating upon 
 future existence ; th.e pondering of creeds and 
 dogmas, which have absorbed you during the 
 last month. You could and would have pur 
 sued this course at twenty. After five years 
 of growth, I expected higher results." 
 
 " How do you know my thoughts ? I havo 
 not expressed them," asked Beatrice, flushing 
 scarlet ; but Mr. Chappelleford replied only by 
 a contemptuous gesture. 
 
 " Womanish, womanish !" . muttered he, 
 turning away. 
 
 " Well, but now that you have found m 
 out, give me at least some counsel, if you can 
 some comfort," cried Beatrice bitterly. " I 
 have met with a loss, with a grief, none the 
 less keen because inevitable. My parents 
 have passed from my sight, full of faith and 
 hope in a life beyond the grave. Your phil 
 osophy and your science refuse to recognize 
 the validity of such hope ; they coldly ask for 
 proof, and there is no proof. But can I be 
 lieve those holy liyes ended in the six feet of 
 earth where the venerable bodies were laid ? 
 And if not, where have they gone where are 
 we going what conditions await us how 
 shall we prepare for them ? Are not we wan 
 dering blindly in the dark with the light be 
 hind us ? Have not we too soon despised the 
 simple faith of unlearned minds, and substi 
 tuted the pride of human intellect for the 
 voice of God within our hearts ? Mr. 
 Chappelleford! you are wiser and far more 
 learned than I, but are you sure that you are 
 not the blind leading the blind toward the 
 Verge of a terrible precipice ?" 
 
 The philosopher shaded his eyes with his 
 hand, and from beneath that screen, regarded 
 with attentive scrutiny the beautiful face of his 
 wife, pale, haggard, and almost ghastly with 
 emotion. 
 
 " I have not sufficiently considered your 
 youth," said he at last. " All this must come, 
 and I suppose no theorizing can take the place 
 of actual experience. But it passes, as. every 
 thing passes, great and small every thing 
 but the eternal laws of Nature and who is to 
 say that Nature itself has no limit? Perhaps 
 the colophon of what wo call the Book of Na 
 ture is Annihilation." 
 
 " You do not answer me." 
 
 " How can I ? When a child comes to me, 
 crying for the stars, what am I to do with 
 him? Put him off for a while; and when he 
 is calm, explain to him what the stars really 
 are. I know of no better course." 
 
 " But I am no child." 
 
 " You talk like one." 
 
 " Well, then, instruct me, educate me, an 
 swer as gravely as I ask them, these questions 
 which torment my soul."
 
 114 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " How can I answer rationally questions 
 which every reflecting mind answers to itself, 
 and in its own fashion? 1 can give you my 
 ideas, but I do not ask you to adopt them as 
 yours. Very wise men have been devotees 
 even bigots; others as wise have been infidels, 
 as they are called. Take your own course ; 
 but it' you follow me, you will arrive at my 
 conclusions. I look about me, using first my 
 own eyes, my own brain, and afterward the 
 eyes and brains of other people. I see a vast 
 system called Nature self-sustaining, immuta 
 ble, unsympathetic, irresponsible. It governs 
 men and things creates, sustains, destroys, not 
 from motives of benevolence or of malevolence, 
 not to reward or to punish, but simply because 
 birth, death, life are its fundamental principles. 
 The acorn drops upon the earth, and is cov 
 ered by leaves and moss ; it sprouts and grows 
 up into a promising tree ; comes the north 
 wind and twists it off at the root ; it dies and 
 becomes mould, wherein sprout other acorns. 
 Do the surrounding oaks cry : ' Glory Halle 
 lujah ! A miracle! a special dispensation! 
 a gift from Heaven !' when the oakling 
 sprouts ; or do they abase themselves in the 
 dust when it dies, and demand of each other 
 why this terrible thing has happened, and 
 how they are to guard themselves against the 
 same fate ? Nor do they waste time in inquir 
 ing where the sap dried out of that dead 
 trunk has gone, or whether there may exist 
 some unknown limbo whither it has fled, 
 and become the ghost of its former self. The 
 oaks recognize and submit to the inevitable 
 law, simply because it is inevitable. Cannot 
 you be as wise?" 
 
 " But man is different from an oak. He is 
 the chief and crown of creation. All this 
 system operates for his use and benefit." 
 
 " If he goes along with it, it does ; if he 
 goes contrary to it, he gets run over and 
 smashed. Make a ship, and the ocean will 
 float it and the wind propel it ; throw yourself 
 into the water bodily, and the sea will drown 
 you ; go up in a balloon, and the wind will 
 carry you to the Mountains of the Moon, and 
 dash you to pieces there. People talk of gov 
 erning Nature, and they talk rubbish ; the 
 most they can do is to submit to her laws, 
 and preserve their own devices subject to those 
 laws never forgetting that one of the princi 
 pal of them is ultimate transmutation of 
 every form of material in her laboratory, man 
 among the rest." 
 
 " But what is the end ? For what purpose 
 is all this vast machinery put in motion '! 
 Who created Nature, and for what, and what 
 is the grand result '( ' asked Beatrice wearily. 
 
 " Asking for the stars again ? Your ques 
 tions are too childish, but I will try to answer 
 them. The end '? There is none, but the ne 
 cessity of some form of existence. The pur 
 pose ? Nature knows no purpose, but simply 
 superadds effect upon cause because such se 
 quence is inevitable under her laws. Who cre 
 ated her and her laws ? She herself is Crea 
 tor and Eternal. And the grand result ? The 
 perfect unison of man with Nature. Through 
 the ages, he is learning to understand and co 
 operate with her more and more, to ' flash the 
 lightnings, weigh the sun,' as some one of 
 these rhymsters has it, to work with her, and 
 in measuring his wishes by her will, gain her 
 powerful assistance instead of her fatal an 
 tagonism. The grand result, as I fancy, will 
 be an earth where man is at last supreme, 
 where he will create and destroy life, rule the 
 seasons, sway the elements, command all the 
 forces of Nature but always, mind you, sub 
 ject to her laws and where, indeed, he shall 
 at last deserve the name of a god. You see, 
 child, I too indulge in dreams sometimes, al 
 though I do not often expose the weakness." 
 
 " But in that millennium will the souls and 
 hearts of men also rise to the godlike level 
 of their minds ? Will perfect happiness reign 
 then upon the earth ?" 
 
 " I thought you had a/bandoned that sense 
 less cry. Happiness ? It is the content of 
 fools. A wise man finding himself at the 
 highest attainable point of knowledge and 
 power, sees beyond him a thousand yet inac 
 cessible summits, and understands that effort, 
 like attainment, is limitless and eternal. No 
 man ever in the past has said, no man in the 
 future shall say : ' I have conquered, I have fin 
 ished !' And until then I cannot conceive of 
 what you call happiness." 
 
 ' And there is no world beyond this, you 
 think ?" 
 
 " Wait, my dear, until this one has been 
 thoroughly explained before you invite me to 
 another. When some one has verified Speke's 
 discovery of the Nile, and brought home 
 Franklin's remains from the North Pole, and 
 thoroughly surveyed the region about the 
 Southern one, then we will climb the Moun 
 tains of the Moon, and so up to Paradise." 
 
 " I ask for bread, and you give me a stone,"
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 115 
 
 murmured Beatrice, her head drooping upon 
 her breast. 
 
 " I try to give you common-sense, but ' 
 
 and Mr. Chappelleford constrained himself 
 to finish the sentence by nothing more un 
 courteous than a smile. Presently, however 
 he resumed in his ordinary tone : 
 
 " As I was saying, Beatrice, I am now ready 
 to go to the West, and think you will enjoy 
 going with me. Certainly your assistance 
 will be most valuable to' me, and important 
 to the report I am to make. You know you 
 entered into those matters in France and Switz 
 erland con am*re, and fairly silenced the Pa 
 risian savans, who could not hold their own 
 at all in the arguments they tried to sustain 
 against you." 
 
 Beatrice smiled faintly, and raised her head 
 with an air of interest. 
 
 " If I can help you, I am very glad to go to 
 the West," said she. 
 
 " You can help me very much. Bassth- 
 waite was telling me a" few days ago of some 
 fossil remains found in a coal-bed somewhere 
 in the western part of Pennsylvania, which I 
 am sure will interest you. By the way, the 
 mine is owned and carried on by a man named 
 Brent, who I believe to be your old lover. 
 Do you know whether he lives in that part of 
 the country ?" 
 
 " No ; I have no idea. I have not heard of 
 him since our marriage," replied Beatrice un 
 moved. 
 
 " I asked your uncle, who was prespnt, and 
 he thought that this was the man. Marston 
 Brent, I think he is called." 
 
 " The Mr. Brent I knew was called Mars- 
 ton." 
 
 " No doubt the same. Your uncle said 
 that some one in Milvor had been inquiring 
 this Brent's present abiding-place and cir 
 cumstances of Mrs. Bliss, and the result was 
 to ascertain that he lived in Pennsylvania, 
 and was engaged in coal-mining." 
 
 " I dare say. I wonder if he really married." 
 "That I did not hear, but I shall certainly 
 go to him for information and assistance in 
 this fossil business. Would you like to go 
 there with me, or have you any sentimental 
 objections to meeting him?" 
 
 " Not any at all. On the contrary, I have 
 
 a curiosity to see Marston Brent again, and 
 
 find whether he has changed as much as I." 
 
 And Beatrice drooped her head again with 
 
 a weary sigh. 
 
 Her husband looked keenly at her. 
 
 " Come then," said he. " Even a relapse 
 into sentiment will be better than this maud 
 lin condition. We will go to visit Marston 
 Brent, and his coal-mine and his wife." 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 TWICE WARNED . 
 
 HALF way up the mountain, one of the 
 precipitous wooded mountains of Western 
 Pennsylvania, nature had fashioned a sun 
 ny plateau, open to the south, with glimpses of 
 mountain scenery at the east and west, and am 
 ple shelter at the north. Here Marston Brent 
 had built his simple home, and here lived, with 
 no thought of further change, a grave, silent 
 man, attentive to the business which was 
 pouring unmeasured wealth into his coffers, 
 a benefactor to the army of laborers with 
 their families in his employ, a kind and in 
 dulgent head to his little household, and in 
 all else ag much a hermit as if he had lived 
 alone in the cave, a thousand feet nearer to the 
 crest of the mountain. Of himself, he never 
 spoke, and that must have been a hardy ex 
 plorer who had ventured to intrude upon the 
 Drivacy so strictly guarded, so vigilantly main 
 tained. 
 
 Even Ruth, who had so tenderly nursed 
 
 lim through that long illness of crushed 
 
 )ody and wounded heart, who had seen him 
 
 n those desperate and unguarded momenta 
 
 vhen the voice of nature, tried beyond endur- 
 
 .nce, forced the barriers of pride and reserve, 
 
 nd made itself audible in the anguished 
 
 cries BO terrible when extorted from a strong 
 
 man's agony even Ruth dared not now ask 
 
 whether those wounds had healed, whether 
 
 he past was forgotten, whether the timid 
 
 lower of hope yet survived the storm tlint 
 
 md prostrated so much of what was best and 
 
 weetest in the life of the man she reverenced 
 
 and admired beyond all men. 
 
 It was of this very point that she was 
 hiuking, seated in a favorite niche in the 
 nountain-side, with the bright waters of the 
 reek shining far beneath, and a magnificent 
 ountry of wood and mountain water, and 
 istant reaches of fertile intervale, outspread 
 >efore her. And here, breaking upon her 
 everie, came Paul Freeman, now a stalwart 
 nd handsome young man, and well to do in 
 he world, as Mr. Brent's foreman and over- 
 eer well might be.
 
 116 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Here lie came, seeking Ruth, and here he 
 found her. Throwing himself upon the turf at 
 her feet, he looked out for a moment upon the 
 landscape, glorious in a sunset of unbroken 
 gold, and then he turned and looked yet more 
 admiringly into the beautiful face of the 
 young girl. 
 
 " Ruthie !" 
 
 " Well, Paul r 
 
 " You promised me an answer to-night." 
 
 "I know it, and 1 came out here to find it, 
 Paul, but I cannot." 
 
 " Cannot tell whether you hate me who 
 have loved you all your life ?" 
 
 " A favorite niche in the mountain-side." 
 
 " I know I do not hate you but " 
 " But you are not sure that you love me ?" 
 " No, not sure in the way you mean." 
 " Look at here, Ruth, I know what it all 
 means, even better than you do. You love 
 some one else better." 
 
 " Some one else, Paul ?" asked the young 
 girl, crimsoning all over her pale face. 
 
 "Yes, some one whom you have always ad 
 mired and looked up to, and believed in, so 
 that you cannot at this moment fairly tell 
 whether there is room for any one else in 
 your heart or not. And all the while, you 
 
 know that he does not care for you, or any 
 woman in the way of love and marriage, and 
 perhaps never will again. You know it, Ruth, 
 and yet you turn away from an honest love 
 that has always been faithful to you since 
 you were a poor little runaway child " 
 
 "Paul, Paul!" 
 
 " Why, Ruthie, I don't think any the worse 
 of you for that, nor I don't mean to throw it 
 in your face ; only that was what first drew me 
 close to you, and I always remember it when 
 I get to thinking of how much I love you. 
 And though you never have told, and I never 
 have known, the right of that matter, I never 
 Lave seen the minute yet when I doubted 
 that you were as innocent as I of any blame 
 whatever, from the first to the last of it." 
 
 " Oh ! I wish I knew, I wish I knew " 
 
 murmured Ruth bitterly, as she hid her face 
 in her hands and bowed it upon her lap. 
 
 '" Wish you knew what, Ruthie ?" asked 
 Paul tenderly. 
 
 ' Whether Mr. Brent would say as much 
 as that for me." 
 
 " Oh !" And Paul withdrew the hand he 
 had tenderly laid upon that bowed head, and 
 sat looking moodily out upon the sunset. 
 
 A hasty step approached, and Brent's voice 
 was heard from the path below, calling : 
 
 " Ruth ! Are you there ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." And springing to her feet, the 
 girl hastily obeyed the summons, followed 
 more slowly by Paul. 
 
 They found Brent awaiting them, and look 
 ing pale and anxious, aa he had not looked in 
 years. He held a letter in his hand, and ner 
 vously folded it while he spoke : 
 
 " Ruth, we are to have company, and you 
 must make preparation. Mr. Chappelleford 
 and his wife wish to visit the Northern Mine, 
 and will stay with us some days. They will 
 be here perhaps to-morrow morning per 
 haps not till afternoon. You can arrange with 
 Matilda about accommodation, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I suppose so," said Ruth in a sti 
 fled voice, and, after a moment's hesitation, 
 she passed Brent, and rapidly descended the 
 path toward the house. 
 
 Brent, about to follow, was detained by 
 Paul : " May I speak to you a moment, sir ?" 
 
 " What is it, Freeman ?" 
 
 "I want to ask you a plain question, sir, 
 and I want a plain answer not as from em 
 ployer to employe, but as from man to man. 
 Shall I have it ?"
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 117 
 
 " You shall have it, Freeman." And Mr. 
 Brent, thrusting the letter into his breast-pock 
 et, folded his arms, and leaning against the 
 boulder beside him, turned an attentive face to 
 ward his companion. The last rays of the 
 Betting sun lighted the scene, and threw into 
 bold relief the faces and forms of the two men, 
 each a type of his class, each striking in ap 
 pearance, each worthy of attention, perhaps 
 of admiration. 
 
 Brent represented the Saxon element, al 
 most unmingled with other blood. Tall, 
 deep-chested, broad-shouldered, stalwart in 
 every proportion, with a round and somewhat 
 massive head, well set back, a proud and dig 
 nified bearing, a steadfast and perhaps immo 
 bile expression of face, crisp curling hair and 
 beard of reddish brown, keen blue eyes, and 
 a mouth affectionate or stern, as occasion war 
 ranted. 
 
 So stood Marston Brent, and confronting 
 him, the slighter, more flexible, more elegant 
 form of his workman and rival, from whose 
 passionate, swarthy face, glowing dark eyes, 
 and stormy mien, the sunlight seemed to 
 glance off repelled, leaving the shadows deep 
 ened, and the lights untouched. No man's 
 son was Paul Freeman, and from no distinct 
 race had he sprung, but yet he was a repre 
 sentative man, for embodied in his sinewy 
 frame was the haughty, progressive, ambi 
 tious spirit of the new world, the element of 
 conquest and of encroachment, the ardor to 
 pursue, the determination to possess, the will 
 to retain. 
 
 Such men as he to cross the ocean and dis 
 cover the new continent, and wrest its gold 
 and jewels from hapless savages ; such men 
 as Brent to follow with their household goods, 
 and reclaim the wilderness, and endure the 
 hardships of the pioneer, forcing the savage 
 to the wall not by sudden raids and ruthless 
 torture, but by steady, persistent, and unre 
 lenting effort, the sword in one hand, and the 
 law in the other, until the land lay at his 
 feet not desolated, scattered, and affrighted, 
 but a happy, peaceful home for him and his, 
 with a church on every hill, and a school- 
 Louse at every corner. But Brent is saying : 
 
 "You shall have your answer, Freeman. 
 What is the question?" 
 
 " Just this : Do you want to marry Ruth ?" 
 
 " I marry Ruth ! The idea has never crossed 
 my mind." 
 
 " That is not the answer you promised me, 
 
 sir. If you have not thought of it before, 
 will you be so kind as to think now ? I can 
 wait." 
 
 And Freeman walked away a few steps 
 and seated himself deliberately. Brent 
 looked at him with troubled eyes, which pres 
 ently wandered to the wide landscape beyond, 
 while a sombre and introspective expression 
 settled upon his face. At last he spoke. 
 
 "Paul, I cannot give you the answer you 
 ask, to-night. You must explain yourself 
 also to some extent. Why should you men 
 tion my marrying Ruth ?" 
 
 " Because, sir, if you don't mean to, it would 
 be no more than fair to others that you should 
 let her understand so." 
 
 " To others ? To you ?" 
 
 " Well, yes ; I love her, and I know my 
 own mind, as I have known it for years, about 
 wanting to marry her." 
 
 " Why don't you do it then ?" asked Brent 
 bluntly. 
 
 " Because, sir, if you must be told it plainly, 
 she loves another man, and that man is you." 
 
 " Did she say so, Freeman ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, sir what girl would say 
 such a thing ? But I know it, and have 
 known it for long. I know too, sir, that you 
 have always loved another woman, and 
 though she's married and out of your reach, 
 I don't know why that should make you want 
 my poor little Ruth. It seems hard enough, 
 Mr. Brent, that you should have for nothing, 
 and without even wanting it, what I would 
 give ten years of my life to gain, and can't." 
 
 " Poor boy ! His ewe-lamb," muttered 
 Brent, casting a friendly and compassionate 
 glance upon his rival, who returned it with 
 one of almost defiance. 
 
 " If you do not want her, sir, it would be 
 easy enough to show it, and a kindness in 
 the end, even to her." 
 
 " But if your supposition is correct, and she 
 loves me, Paul, she cannot love you at any 
 rate ; and I think she is too much a woman to 
 marry one man, loving another." 
 
 ' Leave that to her and to me, sir, if you 
 please. Only say that you do not wish or 
 intend to marry her," said Freeman, in so 
 hard and defiant a manner that Brent replied 
 coldly : 
 
 " This is hardly the tone for a discussion 
 between us two, Paul Freeman. Let the 
 question rest for a few days until I have time 
 to consider it, and I will answer you definitely.
 
 118 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Perhaps I shall first speak to Ruth upon the 
 subject." 
 
 " And perhaps to Mrs. Chappelleford," mut 
 tered Freeman, turning away, and rapidly 
 ascending the hill. 
 
 The words reached Brent's ear, and with a 
 quick flush of anger mounting to his face, he 
 made a step in pursuit, but then restrained 
 himself, and turned in the opposite direction. 
 
 " He is smarting under a great disappoint 
 ment, and it may be overlooked," muttered he, 
 striding down the path. " But if Ruth loves 
 me it might be well to speak to her to-night 
 
 before coward that I am, shall I need to 
 
 defend myself behind any other shield than 
 honor, from love of another man's wife ? And 
 yet, Beatrice, Beatrice, you should not have 
 consented to try me thus !" 
 
 Entering the house, he was met by Zilpah, 
 whose duties in these days had become merely 
 nominal, but her privileges very positive. 
 
 " What's this, Mr. Marston ? Ruth says, 
 Beatrice Wansted that was is coming to see 
 you. Is it so ?" 
 
 " Yes, Zilpah. Her husband, Mr. Chappelle 
 ford, is coming, and she accompanies him. 
 They are going to the West upon some scien 
 tific errand." 
 
 " What sort of an errand ? But never 
 mind what name she puts to it. Marston 
 Brent, be warned in time, for the devil has 
 laid a trap for you. Go in there, and comfort 
 Ruth, who is crying her heart out for love of 
 you. Go!" 
 
 " You too !" muttered Brent, but instead of 
 entering the house, he turned away, and 
 plunged into the darkening forest. 
 
 CHAPTER XL VI. 
 ASLEEP OR DEAD? 
 
 THE next day, in the golden glory of such 
 another sunset, Marston Brent, with uncov 
 ered head and grave, courteous face, stood be 
 side a carriage which had just toiled up the 
 mountain-road to the plateau where stood his 
 house. 
 
 " Mrs. Chappelleford ! I am very glad to 
 see you," said he, extending his hand to the 
 elegant woman, who threw back her veil and 
 looked scrutinizingly into his face as she re 
 plied : 
 
 " And I you, Mr. Brent. You are scarcely 
 changed in all these years. Let me present 
 my husband, Mr. Chappelleford." 
 
 The host made courteous recognition of the 
 introduction, and the guest replied : 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Brent ; and before enter 
 ing your house I should apologize for taking 
 it by storm in this manner. Nothing but my 
 anxiety to see the curious remains of which I 
 wrote, and Mrs. Chappelleford's desire to meet 
 an old friend, can excuse us." 
 
 " No excuse is needed, sir. In this new 
 country, hospitality is more an indulgence 
 than a duty. It is I who am obliged to you 
 and Mrs. Chappelleford for the honor you do 
 me." 
 
 " And what a glorious situation you have 
 found here, Mr. Brent," said the lady, linger 
 ing upon the little porch, and glancing ad 
 miringly over the wide view glittering and 
 smiling in the sunset light. " Such scenery 
 makes ours at home seem very tame." 
 
 " Yes, Ironstone Mountain is somewhat 
 brighter than Moloch," said Brent simply. 
 
 " And somewhat more valuable," said Mr. 
 Chappelleford smiling. 
 
 " To one's pocket yes," replied Brent. 
 
 " What, have you the mal-du-pays, and do 
 you regret New-England and Milvor ?" asked 
 Beatrice a little incredulously. 
 
 " I regret nothing that I have left behind 
 me, Mrs. Chappelleford. The life of a pioneer 
 must not be retrospective, if he is to retain 
 energy and interest." 
 
 " Well spoken, Mr. Brent," said the philos 
 opher heartily. "I like to see a man not 
 only possess the qualifications for his place, 
 but understand them, and cling to them vol 
 untarily." 
 
 " And all regrets, all hopes are so idle," 
 said the lady softly, as she turned to enter the 
 house. 
 
 In the parlor, beside the prettily-laid tea- 
 table, stood a slender, fair-faced girl, whom 
 Brent simply introduced as Ruth, and whom 
 the guests consequently could greet only as 
 Miss Ruth, quietly wondering the while what 
 her position in the house could be, and if she 
 possessed no name, or relationship to Brent, 
 by which he could have designated her. 
 
 " It cannot be his wife," thought Beatrice, 
 as the object of her wonder took the head of 
 the table. " And yet " 
 
 " Will you have tea or chocolate, Mrs. Chap 
 pelleford ?" asked the hostess. 
 
 And Beatrice, quick at distinguishing semi 
 tones of expression, felt that through this 
 sweet , low voice sharply vibrated something
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN 
 
 119 
 
 of pain, something of enmity to herself. She 
 wondered and waited, sipping her tea mean 
 time, and listening to the clear, forcible lan 
 guage in which Brent replied to Mr. Chap- 
 pelleford's scientific inquiries, and the keen 
 apothegms which the cynical philosopher 
 never long restrained. 
 
 The next morning, Brent took Mr. Chap- 
 pelleford about his property, and into the 
 great smelting-house in the valley where the 
 iron mined by him was prepared for market. 
 
 Beatrice, weary with her journey, preferred 
 remaining in the house, and drawing a deep- 
 cushioned chair to the window, sat looking 
 admiringly over the landscape, and trying to 
 calculate its influences upon a man like 
 Brent. 
 
 The door softly opened and closed, admit 
 ting Ruth, who, with her little work-basket in 
 her hand, came to entertain, as a duty, the 
 guest of the house left in her charge. 
 
 Mrs. Chappelleford looked at her smilingly. 
 
 " I am admiring this view, Miss Ruth ; I 
 suppose it is very familiar to you." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. We have lived here now 
 more than three years." 
 
 " You came then with Mr. Brent ? I thought 
 perhaps you had grown up among these moun 
 tains." 
 
 " No, ma'am. I came with Mr. Brent," 
 said Ruth, coloring slightly, and bending over 
 her work. 
 
 " Probably you can tell me, then, whether 
 there was any truth in the report of Mr. 
 Brent's marriage some years since. I did not 
 like to ask him, thinking perhaps Mrs. Brent 
 might have died, or " 
 
 " She never lived ; he was never married," 
 exclaimed Ruth almost indignantly, and then, 
 with a great throb of pity, wonder, terror, she 
 hastily asked : " O Mrs. Chappelleford ! did 
 you believe that ?" 
 
 " Believe Mr. Brent to be married ? Yes, I 
 hoped that he was," said Beatrice, sweeping 
 one keen, bright glance over the girl's glowing 
 face. 
 
 " Hoped ? Why, how could " 
 
 And Ruth suddenly paused, and bent her 
 head lower and lower, until the calm, proud 
 eyes so fixedly watching her saw only the 
 soft brown hair coiled in rich masses at the 
 top of the head. 
 
 " And he was never married at all then ? 
 But he was engaged ?" asked Mrs. Chappelle 
 ford at length. 
 
 "No, ma'am, never," replied the girl with 
 out looking up. 
 
 " That is strange. We all heard so at Mil- 
 vor," said Beatrice meditatively, but with so 
 little emotion that Ruth forgot her own im 
 prudence and looked wonderingly up. Beatrice 
 read the look and smiled. 
 
 " My dear," said she, "you know something 
 of my early history, I perceive, and per apa 
 some day I will explain what puzzles you so 
 sorely. Tell me now, what do you tliink of 
 Mr. Brent, yourself?" 
 
 " I think, ma'am, that he is that I should 
 that that I think, ma'am, he is a very, 
 a very nice gentleman." 
 
 "Yes, and so do I," replied Mrs. Chappelle 
 ford without a smile. " And how long have 
 you known him ?'' 
 
 " About six years, ma'am." 
 
 " It is about six years since he left Milvor," 
 said Beatrice quietly. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. I came with him and Paul 
 Freeman from a town near Milvor, and have 
 been with him. ever since." 
 
 " And cannot you at all understand the re 
 port that Mr. Brent was about to be married 'f 
 asked Beatrice, smiling a little sarcastically. 
 
 " No, ma'am. There never has been any 
 woman in the family but old Zilpah and Ma 
 tilda Jennings, since wo came here, and me." 
 
 " And you, did you say '(" pursued Mrs. 
 Chappelleford, presuming a little, as she felt 
 with shame, upon her position and self com 
 mand, to draw this child's secret from her 
 lips. But she had her reward, for Ruth, rais 
 ing a quivering glowing face to hers, cried in 
 a tone of genuine alarm and surprise : 
 
 " Me, madam ! Oh ! no, he never thought 
 of me ; how could he ? Don't say such a 
 thing to him." 
 
 " Certainly not, my dear. But why should 
 he not think of it ? I wish he would." 
 
 "You wish he would ! Why, Mrs. Chap 
 pelleford, he never has forgotten you, and how 
 could he love any one like me afterward ?" 
 
 " Forgotten me ! Why do you say that, 
 Ruth ? Are you Mr. Brent's confidante then ?" 
 asked Mrs. Chappelleford very coldly. 
 
 " No, indeed, ma'am, he is not the man to 
 tell such things to any one," replied Ruth in 
 dignantly. " He has never spoken your name 
 to me more than half a dozen times in his 
 life, and then only when he was so desperate 
 at the news of your marriage that he had to 
 speak or go crazy, or kill himself, and then
 
 120 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 when lie got crushed with the tree, and one 
 night thought that he was dying, he gave 
 me a message for you, but afterward ho tolc 
 me to forget it." 
 
 " And you forgot it 1" 
 " No, ma'am, I could not forget it, but ] 
 will never repeat it." 
 
 " I do not ask you to do so, Ruth. But what 
 are those events of which you speak ? When 
 did Mr. Brent hear of my marriage, and when 
 was he crushed by a tree, and so near to death, 
 as you say ?" 
 
 " Why, did you never hear of that, ma'am ? " 
 And then Ruth, her hands clasped upon her 
 knee, her eyes downcast, as if she read the 
 story from a visible page, repeated the events 
 we know already describing even better than 
 she, in her innocence, could understand Brent's 
 terrible anguish in learning of the unfaithful 
 ness of the woman to whom his whole life 
 clung, in spite of their estrangement his reck 
 less behavior upon that day, the accident which 
 had so nearly cost him his life, and the linger 
 ing illness which ensued, through which only 
 the devotion of his nurse and constant attend 
 ant had brought him alive. 
 
 Mrs. Chappelleford, leaning hack in the 
 cushioned chair, her eyes riveted upon the far 
 horizon line, one white hand supporting her 
 chin, the other toying idly with her watch- 
 chain, listened to all this recital in the pro- 
 foundest silence. When it was finished, she 
 said in her soft, sonorous tones : 
 
 " Thank you very much. Your story inter 
 ests me extremely, and it is something to be 
 interested for half an hour." 
 
 Ruth turned and stared into the face of her 
 auditor with undisguised amazement. A feel 
 ing of delicacy had hitherto restrained her 
 from even a glance. 
 
 "O Mrs. Chappelleford! Don't you care 
 at all, then ?" exclaimed she with quite invol 
 untary horror. 
 
 Beatrice smiled sadly. 
 
 " You think me very heartless, do you not ? 
 But, Ruth, it is so long since I left all this be 
 hind me, all this heart-break and repining 
 and emotion of every sort, that your story can 
 not even rouse their echoes. Love is the oc 
 cupation of very young, or very thoughtless, 
 or very unintellectual persons. Mr. Brent 
 himself, I dare say, would smile to-day at 
 these sorrows which to you seem still so real. 
 I am interested in the story, as I said, for Mr. 
 Brent was once a very dear friend of mine, 
 
 and I like to know what agencies have helped 
 to build up his character. It was all neces 
 sary, I dare say, to develop his best qualities. 
 He would not regret it, nor should we." 
 
 " And you don't care a bit for him, nor think 
 that he cares foryou 1" asked Ruth, all amaze 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. Chappelleford answered only by a su 
 perb smile of self-reliance, of compassion for 
 the inexperience of her companion, of dismis 
 sal, and Ruth, murmuring some excuse, rose 
 and left the room, half indignant, half be 
 wildered. 
 
 Beatrice sat still, her eyes fixed upon the 
 distant mountains, glittering now with noon 
 day sunshine. 
 
 " So it was all a mistake," said she at last. 
 " Well, what matter now '? Fate so willed it. 
 Mr. Chappelleford would tell me, and we poor 
 puppets could not resist. I wonder what 
 view Marston would take of it ?" 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 THE BLUEBEARD CLOSET. 
 
 THE fossil remains of Ironstone Mountain 
 proved even more interesting to Mr. Chap 
 pelleford than he had expected, and as Brent's 
 cooperation in his researches and his hospi 
 tality to both his guests were evidently a 
 great pleasure to himself as well as to them, 
 the period of their visit was extended day af 
 ter day, until it had reached nearly three 
 weeks. Mr. Chappelleford was now busily 
 ngaged in making casts of some of the most 
 urious of the antediluvian relics which he 
 had discovered, and kept both himself and the 
 workmen Brent had placed at his disposal ac 
 tively employed. Brent helped him when 
 necessary, and when he found that the samn 1 , 
 preferred solitude, or the companionship only 
 of the laborers, he devoted himself to enter 
 taining Mrs. Chappelleford, who, either upon 
 bot or mounted upon Ruth's active little 
 pony, amused herself by exploring the moun 
 tain-passes, points of view, and curious freaks 
 of nature, with which the region abounded, 
 tn some of these excursions, she was escorted 
 jy her husband sometimes, when he and 
 Brent were engaged, by Paul Freeman, with 
 whom she liked to talk of old Milvor days, 
 and sometimes by her host only. 
 
 In the beginning <>f this intimate associa- 
 ion, Beatrice had vigilantly, although most 
 guardedly, watched every look, word, or iuti-
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 121 
 
 mation of feeling in her companion, deter 
 mined to repress all sentiment, or even allu 
 sion, to the past, with unsparing scorn. But 
 she soon found she had no occasion for her 
 armor. Brent always courteous, always 
 frank and cheerful, but never familiar, never 
 retrospective, never even silent and preoccu 
 pied appeared so little like a despondent 
 lover, so little like the despairing and desper 
 ate man whom Ruth had pictured, that Mrs. 
 Chappelleford herself fell more and more often 
 into reverie in his presence, recalling the 
 old tender scenes that had passed between 
 
 
 " The. crest of Ironstone." 
 
 them, recalling the constancy, the tenderness 
 of his nature as she had known him, wonder 
 ing if indeed he could have so completely 
 changed, or if this were only acting, until at 
 length the desire to penetrate bene ith that 
 calm and debonair exterior, to the Bluebeard 
 chamber far within became almost irresistible, 
 and from dreading all allusion to the past, 
 avoiding all questions of sentiment or person 
 ality, she came to seeking eagerly for the oppor 
 tunity of introducing them, and of leading the 
 conversation, when alone with Brent, to a con 
 fidential turn. 
 
 But here, to her amazement and mortifica 
 tion, she found herself foiled so quietly, and 
 apparently so unconsciously, that at first she 
 attributed her discomfiture to accident than to 
 want of comprehension, and finally to a too 
 fastidious honor. But in proportion to the diffi 
 culty of discovering the secret feelings of this 
 heart she had so dreaded to still find her own, 
 Beatrice felt a growing desire to penetrate 
 this smooth but impervious veil, to force at 
 least confession of something hidden, and sat 
 isfy herself that she had not been dreaming 
 when she believed that Brent had once loved 
 her truly. 
 
 "Only let me once know what he really 
 feels, and I am satisfied forever," said she to 
 herself, and began to search for the key to 
 that locked door. 
 
 " Ruth was telling me of that terrible injury 
 you sustained in the woods," said she one 
 day, as the two slowly climbed the crest of 
 Ironstone, and paused to look at the wonderful 
 panorama below. 
 
 " Yes, it was rather severe at the time. Do 
 you see that blue ribbon glittering among the 
 hills, Mrs. Chappelleford ? That is the Alle- 
 ghany." 
 
 " Indeed. Yes, I see it quite plainly. But 
 tell me of that time in the woods, Marston. 
 Ruth says you were near dying, and very low 
 in spirits, too." 
 
 " Did she tell you how I was cured ?" 
 
 " By her tender care, I should think, from 
 her artless story." 
 
 " By that certainly ; but also by brandy, 
 sugar, and salt-pork. I must tell you about 
 it." 
 
 And Beatrice found herself obliged to listen 
 with polite attention to a minute account of the 
 novel medical treatment prescribed by Richard, 
 with the doctor's indignation, and old Zil pah's 
 incredulity. 
 
 "When the story was ended, Beatrice sat 
 silent and a little offended. Reserve was 
 very well, but this was rudeness. At last she 
 said: 
 
 " I find you very much changed, Mr. Brent." 
 
 " That is natural, considering the laborious 
 and exposed life I have led here and in the 
 woods. Why, Mrs. Chappelleford, I have not 
 been idle, when I was able to work, so many 
 hours in five years as I have in the last three 
 weeks." 
 
 " And do you regret the occasion ?" asked 
 Beatrice, turning her head, "with eyes of
 
 122 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 sumptuous expectation fixt " upon the face of 
 her sometime lover, who promptly answered : 
 
 " No, indeed. It has been a great treat to 
 me to meet once more persons of cultivation 
 and " 
 
 " Marston Brent, why do you perpetually 
 evade me thus ?" cried Beatrice, with a touch 
 of her old petulant humor. " It is no compli 
 ment to me to avoid so persistently a subject 
 upon which I am willing to speak. Are you 
 afraid for yourself or me ?" 
 
 " For neither, Mrs. Chappelleford," said 
 Brent in a low voice, while the expression of 
 his face changed so suddenly that Beatrice 
 felt her heart leap for joy. At last she had 
 conquered at last he mixst speak, and she 
 would be satisfied once for all. 
 
 " Then why do you so pointedly avoid the 
 past?" asked she, more graciously. "That it 
 is quite past we neither of us doubt, and why 
 should we not discuss it as we would the 
 story of Hero and Leander, or Romeo and 
 Juliet?" 
 
 " We will, if you wish it," replied Brent, 
 and his mouth grew white, and his eyes reso 
 lute, as if he had just signified his assent to 
 the torture, resolving all the while that not 
 its fiercest extremity should extort confession 
 or complaint from his lips. 
 
 Beatrice, a little startled at her own success, 
 eat silent for a moment, but finally found 
 voice to say : 
 
 "I have one confession to make, Marston. 
 It was I who sent you the paper with the an 
 nouncement of my marriage." 
 
 " Why do you call it a confession ? Did you 
 mean to wound me?" 
 
 " Yes, I am afraid I did. Can you forgive 
 me?" 
 
 " Yes, I forgive you freely." 
 
 " Could you have forgiven me before the 
 wound was quite healed ?" 
 
 " I never felt resentment." 
 
 The answer did not satisfy her, and she put 
 the question in a different form : 
 
 " You are content now, Marston ?" 
 
 " I am content yes." 
 
 "And happy? You no longer remember 
 me?" 
 
 " I have not so many new friends that I 
 should forget the old ones very easily." 
 
 ' O Marston ! you do not tell me what I 
 want to know. Why will not you speak out 
 for once ?" 
 
 " What do you wish to know ?" 
 
 " Do you Marston, do you remember do 
 you love me still ?" 
 
 She had asked it, and sat aghast. The si 
 lence that befell seemed to her filled with ac 
 cusing voices the air with scornful eyes. 
 She covered her face with her hands, and sat 
 ashamed and silent. 
 
 At last he spoke, in a voice so low and stern 
 that she hardly recognized it. 
 
 " Mrs. Chappelleford, that is a question you 
 have no right to ask, or I to answer. Let us 
 forget it." 
 
 " You find it very easy to forget," said Be 
 atrice bitterly, and without raising her head. 
 
 " So be it," replied Brent in the same tone. 
 
 " But, Marston, before we leave the subject, 
 I wish to tell you that I heard you were about 
 to marry. I never should have been married 
 myself if I had not thought " 
 
 "Hush, Beatrice hush I Whatever may 
 be now, you once were my ideal of woman 
 hood. Do not profane the sacred memories 
 which alone are left to me by representing 
 yourself as marrying from other motive than 
 the highest, or as bearing toward your hus 
 band to-day less than an entire love and con 
 fidence. You have made this inquiry into my 
 life, past and present, partly from the kind in 
 terest of an old friendship partly in a spirit 
 of psychological research. Here let it rest." 
 
 " But, O Marston ! help me, advise me, 
 comfort me ! I thought I was content, and I 
 find myself most miserable. I thought my 
 heart was dead ; and already the new life 
 coursing through it stings me with anguish 
 intolerable. Marston, I have slept through 
 these five long years, and now I begin to waken. 
 What shall I do ? How shall I comfort myself 
 in my despair?" 
 
 She covered her face, and wept passionately. 
 Brent, pale and agitated, looked at her loving 
 ly for a moment ; then turning half away, 
 said solemnly : 
 
 " You cannot comfort yourself, nor can I 
 comfort you. There is one Comforter, and 
 but one His name is Christ : go to Him. 
 Forgive me for yielding so rashly and so 
 weakly to your request for open speech upon 
 this subject. I should have been strong for 
 both of us. It is my fault only mine. Come, 
 we will go home." 
 
 And without another word, he led the way 
 swiftly and steadily down the mountain-path, 
 where already slept the purple shadows of the 
 night, the misty wraith of the departed day.
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 RUTH'S OGRE. 
 
 SHE had never heard of OZnone, this poor 
 little Ruth, " mournful (Enone wandering 
 forlorn " upon the hills, nor could she so 
 melodiously phrase her grief, and yet the 
 burden of her song in those weary days, that 
 sad, sad song without words, sung in her 
 secret heart, was like the nymph's lament 
 
 " My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 
 My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
 And I am all aweary of my life." 
 
 For Brent, who, if never a lover, had always 
 been the kindest of friends and companions, 
 ever ready to sympathize, instruct, or counsel, 
 now found but little time even to notice the 
 poor child, giving all his leisure to his guests, 
 and employing himself for the remainder with 
 almost desperate energy about his business. 
 And Paul, too, held aloof Paul, whose devo 
 tion, hardly valued while it was so freely and 
 constantly bestowed, became of sudden im 
 portance now that it was withdrawn. 
 
 " Nobody loves me, nobody cares for me, 
 and why should I want to live ? I will throw 
 myself down the old pit-hole, and make an 
 end of it," moaned Ruth, and crept stealthily 
 out of the house and into the woods, until she 
 came to the deserted shaft. Several times, in 
 her rapid flight, she thought she heard foot 
 steps behind her, but looking round could see 
 no one ; and when she paused in the lonely 
 glade beside the pit-hole, it seemed to her 
 that she must be the only living thing in all 
 the world, so intense was the stillness sur 
 rounding her. But the black shadows of the 
 fir-trees fell across the mouth of the pit, and 
 the water oozing through the stones at the 
 side fell with a melancholy plash into the 
 pool at the bottom, and the blackberry-vines 
 clinging about the verge were red as if the 
 blood of a murdered man had fallen there ; 
 and Ruth, chilled out of her desperate mean 
 ing, stood shivering and looking about her, 
 feeling that, although life might be forlorn, 
 death was terrible, when a rustling footfall 
 close behind made her start and turn in sud 
 den fright. 
 
 Parting the underbrush away where he 
 stood, a man peered out at her, his face most 
 discordantly framed by the tender green 
 branches of the birches, and his stooping 
 figure dimly discernible behind them. 
 
 At first sight of face and figure, the girl 
 shrank back with no more than natural terror, 
 
 but presently the glance of terror turned to 
 one of horror, which slowly froze upon the 
 delicate features until they resembled a mar 
 ble mask of some Gorgon-victim, and step by 
 step the girl drew nearer to the mouth of the 
 pit, resolute to seek shelter there, if no better 
 might be found, from the awful doom which 
 menaced her. 
 
 But help was at hand ; the sound of foot 
 steps and voices approached along the path, 
 and the head among the birches suddenly dis 
 appeared, while Ruth, relieved from the horri 
 ble fascination of those eyes, turned with a 
 stifled scream, and fled, passing Mr. and Mrs. 
 Chappelleford without a word, nor pausing 
 until she was securely hidden in her own 
 chamber at home. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter with the young 
 woman ? It is too late for March madness," 
 exclaimed Mr. Chappelleford, turning to look 
 after the retreating figure. 
 
 " I am sure I cannot tell. Perhaps she saw 
 some wild animal, or fancied a ghost among 
 the trees," replied Beatrice, whose pale face 
 and nervous manner ill-supported the careless 
 tone she forced herself to assume. Presently 
 she resumed : 
 
 " Then you cannot go to-morrow ?" 
 
 "No, I tell you, nor the next day. My 
 workmen are just preparing to take the 
 most important casts we have obtained yet, 
 and I think I shall discover something worth 
 more than all the rest before to-night. I 
 have said nothing yet to Brent, nor even set 
 the men at work, but I think that I have a 
 distinct impression of a gigantic ichthyosaurus 
 in a bed of slate just below a loose deposit of 
 shale, which I am picking away myself. I 
 don't want to say any thing until I am certain, 
 but if my supposition proves correct, I shall 
 have conferred a lasting benefit upon my 
 country and the Historical Society by my 
 Western journey. Wo have not such an im 
 pression in fact, I never have seen such an 
 impression in any part of the world as this. 
 It is really marvellous. You must come and 
 look at it." 
 
 " Where is it ?" asked Beatrice faintly. 
 
 "In a side-cutting of this old mine. My 
 men are at work in the main tunnel, and I 
 wandered away with my lantern yesterday to 
 see what discoveries I could make. This is 
 about half a mile from where they are at 
 work. By the way, Beatrice, you amused your 
 self once by calling me Diogenes "
 
 124 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " How did you know it ? I never said so," 
 exclaimed Beatrice, a little confused. 
 
 " I knew it ; my eyes and ears are tolerably 
 keen, and my mental perceptions not especi 
 ally dull. But what I was about to say was, 
 that, after Diogenes, I have taken to carrying a 
 lantern in the daylight, and I have discovered 
 what he did not an honest man." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 " Yes. It is your friend Brent. I don't 
 know when I have come so near liking any 
 one as I do him. It is very fortunate you did 
 not marry him, madam." 
 
 " Why do you say so ?" 
 
 " Because you would have been in love with 
 him, and that would have been the end of you. 
 Now you are something better than an affec 
 tionate, sympathizing woman you are a com 
 panion for men, and a worthy friend and help 
 mate for a seeker after knowledge. Beatrice, 
 I am glad you decided as you did that even 
 ing in Barstow's drawing-room." 
 
 " Are you, Mr. Chappelleford ?" 
 
 " Well, what is it ? Your eyes are full of 
 unspoken words, and your lips tremble with 
 repressed emotion. Speak it out, honestly 
 and fearlessly. Perhaps I can fancy half the 
 story beforehand." 
 
 " I wish that we could leave this place to 
 morrow. It is very hard for me to stay," mur 
 mured Beatrice, shrinking beneath the keen 
 glances shot at her from under the philoso 
 pher's shaggy eyebrows. 
 
 " Well, go on. Speak it out." 
 
 "There is nothing to speak. I want to 
 leave this place." 
 
 "And Marston Brent? You find that the 
 old folly rises too vividly to memory, and 
 shames the calmer and wiser present ? You 
 dislike to recall the stupidities you have out 
 lived ? Is that it ?" 
 
 " No. I dread to discover that I have not 
 outlived them," said Beatrice desperately. 
 " I wish to leave this place before I add the 
 crime of living, present love to the anguish 
 folly, if you will of that which. I believed 
 dead and buried." 
 
 They had by this time reached the entrance 
 of the horizontal shaft of the deserted mine, 
 and Mr. Chappelleford paused, leaning against 
 the gray rocks, with an air of profound dis 
 comfiture, while before him stood his wife, 
 her hands clasped together, her head droop 
 ing, her whole attitude that of a criminal 
 awaiting sentence. 
 
 It came at last, sentence and punishment 
 in one : 
 
 " I once knew a man," said the philosopher 
 slowly, "an ardent Darwinian, who under 
 took the education of a very promising mon 
 key, hoping to develop in him the intelli 
 gence of a man. The work went on, with 
 varying success, until one day, as the mas 
 ter was giving a lesson in the alphabet, 
 and the monkey attending to it with the 
 most promising gravity of demeanor, a mis 
 chievous boy rolled an apple across the floor, 
 at which sight, the monkey, uttering a cry 
 of delight, dropped upon all fours, pursued 
 and seized the prey, and when his mas 
 ter would have snatched it from him, dealt 
 him a blow upon the head with his own ruler, 
 which nearly knocked him down. As he re 
 covered his balance, he saw the monkey scut 
 tling away across some sheds, holding fast to 
 the apple, and uttering wild cries of brutish 
 defiance and terror. My friend looked after 
 him a moment, then slowly shook his fist in 
 dismissal, crying : ' Go ! It is I that was a 
 fool in trying to make a man out of a mon 
 key.' Mrs. Chappelleford, amuse yourself 
 with whatever toys suit you best ; but do not 
 concern yourself farther about my History of 
 the Saurian or Treatise upon Philology. I re 
 lease you from all such labors and interests." 
 
 He turned as he spoke, and entered the 
 cave, leaving Beatrice to slowly and sadly 
 retrace her steps. 
 
 " To lose even the respect and friendship 
 of my husband ! To feel myself shut out from 
 the pursuits that have been my life since I 
 lost all other hope ! What will become of 
 me next ? What is left " 
 
 And Beatrice raised her sad and wistful 
 eyes to the trees, the sky. to nature, whom 
 her teacher had set for her in place of God. 
 But where was comfort ? 
 
 " Could I speak with you a minute, lady ?" 
 said a hoarse voice at her side, and Mrs. 
 Chappelleford turned to find herself face to 
 face with a rough and rugged man, whose 
 pale face and shaking limbs told of disease, 
 as plainly as his coward eyes and shrinking 
 manner did of guilt. A man whom a timid 
 woman would have feared to meet, alone and 
 unprotected ; but Mrs. Chappelleford was not 
 timid at any time, and just now was too 
 deeply absorbed in her own unhappiness to 
 care much for danger from without.
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 135 
 
 " You wish to speak to me ?" asked she 
 coldly. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. I think I've seen you before. 
 You was at Milvor, at old Deacon Barstow's 
 funeral,- Ava'n't you? You're she that was 
 Beatrice Wansted ?'' 
 
 " Very well. What then ?" 
 
 " Well, ma'am, it's a long story, and a 
 pretty hard one for me to tell, but I've come 
 all the way here on purpose, and I'll do it, if 
 I can see my way clear to get away after 
 ward. You're stopping at Mr. Brent's, a'n't 
 you?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And he's a justice, a'n't he?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And there's a girl there, about eighteen or 
 so. What do they call her?" 
 
 " Ruth." 
 
 " What other name ?" 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " Well, ma'am, I've got something to tell 
 that girl, or to tell a justice before her, and 
 Square Brent would do better than any one ; 
 but I darsn't go anigh him, without somebody 
 to go surety that he won't touch me." 
 
 " Touch you for what ?" 
 
 " Why, there's something in my story that 
 would lay me in jail if it was acted on, but 
 I've got to tell it all out, or I can't settle to 
 nothing, and I don't know as I could die if I 
 set, out to not die comf table anyhow. And 
 I want to tell it, but I want the Square's 
 promise, solemn, that he won't touch me for 
 it. Couldn't you get it for me, ma'am ?" 
 
 " Perhaps. But why do you select Mr. 
 Brent as the most suitable person to hear 
 your deposition ?" 
 
 " Because, ma'am, he's a sort of gardeen to 
 the girl, this Ruth. It's about her the story 
 is." 
 
 " Something to her advantage, or to her 
 hurt ?" 
 
 " Well, pretty consid'able to her advantage, 
 I should say." 
 
 " Very well ; I will speak to Mr. Brent, and 
 if he chooses to hear you, and to give you safe 
 conduct, he can send here for you. You had 
 better wait near that old well I just passed." 
 
 " And how '11 I be sure, when I see some 
 one come after me, that it a'n't a trap?" 
 asked the man with a look of mingled cun 
 ning and terror. 
 
 " You will have to leave that to me," re 
 plied Mrs. Chappelleford disdainfully. " I 
 
 shall not be likely to betray a person who has 
 trusted himself to me ; but I can give you 
 no proof other than my word." 
 
 " Very well, ma'am, I'll trust you, and I'll 
 wait by the old well. I was there this morn 
 ing, and saw Ruth herself, but she run as 
 soon as she saw me, and no wonder either." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 THE MARK OP CAIN". 
 
 FINDING Brent among his workmen at the 
 forge, Mrs. Chappelleford called him aside, 
 and in a few clear phrases told her errand. 
 He listened attentively, and when she had 
 finished said : 
 
 " Thank you very much. I can guess who 
 this man must be, and, I hope, his errand. 
 Certainly I will give him a safe conduct if 
 his confession is what I think, and I will go 
 myself to assure him of it. Ruth must be 
 present at the examination; and if it is not 
 asking too much of you, I should be glad that 
 you should give her the support of your pres 
 ence." 
 
 " Certainly. Arrange the whole as you 
 think best, and I will do whatever you desire," 
 said Beatrice humbly, for since their conver 
 sation upon the mountain-top she felt herself 
 bitterly humiliated in presence of this man, 
 and while ardently desiring to es*cape from it, 
 found somewhat of comfort in submission and 
 deference to him in all minor matters thus as 
 serting, as it were, that he was not only her 
 superior in moral strength and worth, but the 
 superior of all men in all things, and, conse 
 quently, that to be conquered by him was not 
 so much of a defeat as a necessity. Brent, 
 whose habit of thought was not analytical, 
 and who himself felt sorely hurt and troubled 
 by the conversation into which he had been 
 betrayed, noticed this manner with annoyance, 
 and did not seek to fathom its cause. He 
 felt, however, that renewed intercourse had 
 done harm both to Beatrice and himself, and 
 lie earnestly wished that it might terminate 
 before either found deeper cause to regret it. 
 Perhaps, although he would not think it, he 
 felt in his inmost heart that the struggle be 
 tween his deepest and truest convictions of 
 right and the natural impulses of a strong and 
 loving nature was becoming too nearly equal 
 for safety, and he feared to lose sol f- respect as 
 well as peace should the contest continue 
 longer. " At any rate," he murmured, striding
 
 126 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 along the woodland patli toward the old shaft, 
 " 1 will tell R'uthie every thing, and if she 
 can love me then, we will be married." 
 
 And then he sighed, or more nearly groaned, 
 and frowned and clenched his strong right 
 hand, muttering : 
 
 " Well, Brent, are you a villain or a fool ?'* 
 
 Deep in thought still, he reached the shaft, 
 and looked about him blankly. Then remem 
 bered his errand, and called aloud : 
 
 " Joachim Brewster, where are you?'' 
 
 At sound of that name, a stir became per 
 ceptible in the bushes beyond the pit, and 
 presently the haggard face of the man ap 
 peared, as it had done to Ruth, but now wear 
 ing an expression of anxious distrust. 
 
 " Hallo, Square ! How d'ye know my 
 name 7" 
 
 "Guessed it from your errand. Come 
 out." 
 
 " She said she'd promise for you that I 
 shouldn't be touched. D'ye agree, Square ?" 
 
 " Yes, I promise you safe conduct as soon 
 as you like to depart. That is, if your confes 
 sion is worth any thing." 
 
 " It's worth that girl Ruth's neck to her 
 anyway, and I reckon that makes it worth 
 something to you, Square, if what they say 
 is BO." 
 
 " Follow me to my house, and I will hear 
 what you have to say in the presence of wit 
 nesses," said Brent, staring a moment at the 
 speaker, and then turning upon his heel and 
 striding down the path. 
 
 Timidly as a wild animal leaving its lair for 
 the open country, the miserable man to whom 
 he spoke crept from his shelter and followed, 
 muttering : 
 
 " She said I shouldn't be touched, she did." 
 
 Arrived at the house, Mr. Brent led the way 
 to a small room set apart as a study, or rather 
 office for the transaction of both private and 
 public business, and leaving his somewhat 
 reluctant guest seated there, went himself to 
 summon Mrs. Chappelleford, Ruth, and Paul 
 Freeman to meet him. Entering the room 
 rather suddenly, the guest was found softly 
 raising the window and looking to see what 
 lay beneath. 
 
 " You need not trouble yourself to contrive 
 a way to escape, Mr. Brewster," said Brent 
 coldly. " The door is free for you at any 
 time you choose to use it. You requested this 
 interview yourself." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Square, I know it. I was only 
 
 looking out to see what sort of a place you'd 
 got. The lady there said I shouldn't be touch 
 ed, and I allow she knew your mind as well as 
 her own." 
 
 "You are perfectly safe," replied Brent con 
 temptuously. " What have you to say ?" 
 
 " Where's Ruth ? Oh 1 there she is. Don't 
 look so scared of me, girl. I a'n't going to 
 touch you now and, in fact. I've come all this 
 way to clear you and set you in your right 
 place. You can have the farm and all, if 
 you've a mind to go and get it." 
 
 Ruth, Shivering with terror, and crouching 
 upon a low stool almost behind Mrs. Chap 
 pelleford, made no reply, and Brent, seating 
 himself at his desk with pen and paper, 
 somewhat sternly said : 
 
 " Now, Mr. Brewster, if you have a deposi 
 tion to make, I am ready to take it, and wish 
 it given regularly and in order. You, of 
 course, are willing to swear to its truth, and 
 set your name, properly witnessed, at the 
 foot." 
 
 " On conditions, Square on conditions that 
 I a'n't a going to be touched for it. I'm a sick 
 man, Square I won't say but what I'm a dy 
 ing man, and all I ask is to go off and lose 
 myself somewheres and die in peace. If so 
 be you can't promise that, why I'd rather not 
 put my name to nothing that's going to be 
 used agin me, maybe." 
 
 " I shall take no proceedings against you, as 
 I have repeatedly promised you ; and although 
 I shall use your confession to clear Ruth's 
 character of the horrible stain you have thrown 
 upon it, you will have ample time to escape, 
 and, if you are at all wise, to hide yourself so 
 well that you will never be heard from again 
 east of the Rocky Mountains at least." 
 
 "Well, Square, it a'n't just as I meant to 
 have it, but I'm about tired out, and I a'n't 
 a well man, nor a cheerful man, and I don't 
 know as I care how it turns out. I'll go ahead 
 and do the right thing anyway. So this is 
 what I've got to say, and you can take it down 
 as fast as you've a mind to : 
 
 " Me and Peleg Brewster were brothers, but 
 after he married Semanthy the brother part 
 on't seemed to die out. I a'n't a going to tell 
 all about it now, for it don't matter much one 
 way or t'other, but I don't deny that Peleg 
 had his trials, and like enough we didn't do 
 jest right by him, me and Semanthy didn't. 
 And then Semanthy hated the child, Ruth 
 there oh ! how Semanthy did hate her and
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 127 
 
 treated her bad most every way that she could 
 think of. The worst was, setting her father 
 against her ; but she did that for a reason she 
 had two reasons, in fact. One was that Ruth 
 saw and told things that went on while Peleg 
 was away that made him awful mad with us; 
 and another was that when Mary that was his 
 first wife, you know died, he made a will and 
 left all the money to Ruth farm, house, stuff, 
 and every thing and he hadn't never changed 
 that will, though Semanthy had asked him 
 often enough. But at last one night there 
 was an awful row in the house no matter 
 what it was now but Ruth she up and told 
 something to her father, and Semanthy said 
 she lied, and she told her own story, that put 
 all the blame onto Ruth, and I helped her out 
 in it, for Peleg had a knife in his hand, and 
 would have put it into me quicker'n a flash if 
 Semanthy and me hadn't stood it out that 
 Ruth was the liar and something worse." 
 
 " Oh ! it was so cruel, so cruel to make my 
 own father believe such things of me ; and he 
 
 died, and never knew " burst out Ruth ; 
 
 and then hiding her face upon Beatrice's lap, 
 she fell into a passion of sobs and tears. 
 
 " Go on, Brewster," said Brent sternly, and 
 never glancing toward the corner where the 
 women sat. 
 
 " Well, Peleg was awful mad, and the worst 
 of it to him was that he didn't know who to 
 believe or what to think, and finally he fixed 
 it that we was all banded together against 
 him, and that Ruth was jealous of Semanthy, 
 and so complained against her; for Semanthy 
 made it out that the girl, young as she was, 
 liked me most too well, and Ruth didn't know 
 enough about it to luy her in a lie, as she 
 might have easy enough. So, Peleg settled it 
 that we were a bad lot, the whole of us, and 
 he swore he would just quit for good and all, 
 sell out the farm, put Ruth to service, take 
 Semanthy home to her mother, and let me 
 shirk for myself. That was at night, and in 
 the morning, sure enough, Semanthy saw him 
 get the will he'd made out of his old secretary 
 and put it in his pocket with a lot of other 
 papers the deeds of the homestead, and such 
 like, they turned out to be. Then he got up 
 the horse and harnessed him, and called Ruth 
 to come along. 
 
 " It was while he was sitting in the wagon 
 a waiting for her that he tied the rope round 
 his own neck, for he told Semanthy that he 
 was going to Bloom, or Milvorhaven, I most 
 
 forget which, for to. sell the farm and all the 
 stock just as it stood, and that neither she nor 
 me nor Ruth was to have the money, if he 
 had to throw it away to keep it from us. And 
 he told her he'd carry her home next day, and 
 tell her folks the reason why ; and he said a 
 lot of other things, some to her and some to 
 me, that was dreadful irritating, and danger 
 ous too, if he did as he said and Peleg was a 
 man that was dreadful apt to hold to one 
 mind for quite a long spell. 
 
 " So he drove away from the door, and Se 
 manthy she stood ever so long looking at me 
 
 Joachim Brewter waiting for his brother. 
 
 with the awfullest look that ever you see on 
 her face, and at last she said sort of quiet : 
 
 " ' Joe Brewster, if that man gets to 'Haven 
 alive, it's all up with you and me.' 
 
 " ' Maybe 'tis, but how am I going to help 
 it?' says I, feeling the goose flesh rising up 
 all over me as she spoke, it was so sort of sol- 
 emn. Then she smiled, and that was worse 
 than all, and she said, pointing to my gun^: 
 
 " ' A'n't you going shooting to-day, Joe ?' 
 
 'O Lord ! Semanthy,' says I, 'you don't 
 mean that, do you ?' 
 
 " And she says just in the same way :
 
 128 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " ' If you don't, I'll drown myself in the wel 
 before that 'ere sun sets I swear I will.' 
 
 " And she'd ha' done it I know she would 
 
 " So I cut across the wood-lot, and I waitec 
 just where the road turns sudden and runs 
 by Black brier pond, and and there I done it " 
 
 And with the first touch of feeling he had 
 yet shown, the miserable man wiped his 
 clammy forehead, moistened his lips, and 
 glared about him as if he dreaded to see the 
 hangman approaching. 
 
 " Be more specific. What did you do ?" de 
 manded Brent, fixing his eyes upon the wretch 
 before him with undisguised abhorrence. 
 
 " I shot him in the back from behind a tree, 
 and then I jumped into the wagon and held a 
 knife at the child's throat, and told her that 
 she'd killed her father, and I see her do it, 
 and I'd carry her straight on to Bloom and 
 put her in jail, and she'd be hung. The poor 
 little fool was so scared she didn't know at 
 first but what she had done it, and didn't 
 hardly kuow what to say, and then I made 
 her get down on her knees and swear solemn 
 that she never would say a word to man, 
 woman, nor child about the matter, nor an 
 swer any questions, nor even say yes or no if 
 she was asked if she'd done it. 
 
 "She took the oath, and she was just the 
 child that I knew would keep it if you skin 
 ned her alive to get the story out of her ; but 
 for all that I was calculating to take her right 
 off to the city and put her in an orphan asy 
 lum, or lose her in the street, or some way get 
 rid of her. That was Semanthy's planning, 
 mind you, not mine, for I always liked the child 
 first-rate. I was always good to you, Ruth, 
 wasn't I now ?" 
 
 The fawning, wheedling tone of the last 
 words was even more odious than the callous 
 brutality of the first part of the narrative, and 
 while Ruth shrank silently into her corner, 
 Brent peremptorily said : 
 
 " Go on with your story, Brewster, and ad 
 dress yourself only to me." 
 
 "Well, Square, there a 'n't much more to 
 tell. When I'd got the gal's promise, I left 
 her and took the body and pitched it over into 
 the pool, thinking folks would say it had fell 
 there, and maybe it wouldn't be found at all. I 
 hardly seem to remember now how we did 
 plan it. Semanthy was to the head on't all, 
 and I only did as she told me. You see, 
 Square, I wa'n't nigh so much to blame as she 
 all along." 
 
 " Go on with your story, Brewster." 
 " Well, as I was saying, I hove the body 
 into the pool, and I fired off the gun, as Se 
 manthy told me that is, Peleg's gun, for I had 
 my own beside and I give the horses a good 
 cut, and set 'em off down the road that nigh 
 one was always skittish enough, and I knew 
 it wouldn't be a trifle that would stop him 
 and then I turned round to look after the 
 child, and she was gone. Look high and look 
 low, not a sign of her was to be seen, and, 
 Square, I wisht you'd just ask her yourself, 
 sence you won't let me speak to her, where did 
 she go that time ?" 
 
 " Do you want to tell him, Ruth ?" 
 " I crawled into a great hollow tree and 
 waited until he was gone, and then I came 
 out and ran ever so far, and fell down. I don't 
 know what happened afterward I think I was 
 sort of crazy for a while ; and the next I knew 
 Paul Freeman was with me, and crying as 
 hard as he could cry, and then he hid me in a 
 barn, and next day took me over to Bloom 
 and dressed me like a boy, and kept me at the 
 tavern till you were ready to go West." 
 
 'You hear? Brewster," said Mr. Brent, to 
 whom this hurried narrative was as new as to 
 any other of its auditors. 
 
 ' Yes, Square, I hear ; and it does beat all 
 what hindered me from looking into that hol 
 ler tree. Seems curious that I didn't," replied 
 Joachim with an. air of meditative regret. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 AND HIS CURSE. 
 
 "Is that all?" demanded Brent, as the mis- 
 rable wretch before him seemed indis 
 posed to resume his narrative, but sat wiping 
 lis forehead, furtively glancing at every mem 
 ber of the little company in turn, and moving 
 uneasily upon his chair. 
 
 " Well, yes, Square, I b'lieve that's all.'' 
 
 "And now, what is the purpose of this con 
 fession, Brewster ? Why do you make it, and 
 what do you wish done with it ?" 
 
 " That's the very pethof the whole, Square," 
 replied Brewster, his face lighting with more 
 xpression than it yet had displayed. "It 
 does seem a simple sort of thing for a man to 
 do, to go and run his head right square into a 
 noose when he is well out of it now don't it ? 
 But the fact is, Square, I was drove to it." 
 
 " By what ?" 
 
 " By euthin' inside of me, Square. I don't
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 139 
 
 justly know what," replied the murderer in 
 an awe-stricken and mysterious voice. "It's 
 been a-working most ever sence I did it. Se- 
 manthy felt it, too, and it made her awful 
 right down awful. I declare for't, Square, I 
 was afraid to stop in the house with her, and 
 use to clear out whole days to a time. But 
 then if I went off alone, it was as bad, for I 
 seemed to see Peleg glimpsing out at me from 
 every tree in the wood-lot, and from behind 
 every stone in the fields ; and then the child, 
 I expected she'd made way with herself, and 
 I was always looking out for her bones, and 
 maybe her nateral face a-staring up out of the 
 ground at me. I have heerd of such things, 
 Square. And then if I went amongst folks, 
 there it was agen : I didn't darst to open my 
 mouth for fear the secret would jump out of 
 it, unbeknownst to me, like. It seemed to me 
 sometimes as if I'd got to holler right out : 
 'I did it! I did it! 'Twas me killed my 
 brother, Peleg Brewster, and hove him in 
 Blackbrier Pool !' 
 
 " I declare for't, Square, I was clean afraid 
 to trust myself amongst folks, and I was 
 scaart to death of being alone ; and to stop 
 along o' Semanthy was worst of the whole 
 What sort o' thoughts or what sort o' sperits 
 ha'n't that woman I don't know ; but there's a 
 look on her face 'specially deep down in her 
 eyes that makes a feller's flesh creep on his 
 bones to meet. It's been a-growing there all 
 these five year, and when she dies, it will be 
 the look she'll carry to her grave. I wouldn't 
 be the man to screw down her coffin-led, not 
 for no money she'll look so awful when she's 
 dead. Along at first we used to talk about it, 
 and she'd sort o' set me up, telling how ugly 
 Peleg was to both of us, and how he was 
 going to turn me out upon the world and dis 
 grace her, and she'd laugh though it wasn't 
 never a good laugh and say we'd got the 
 best on't now, and pass it off as though she 
 was happy ; but Lord ! Then we got fur 
 ther along, and left off talking about it, or, in 
 fact, about much of any thing. The neigh 
 bors wouldn't come to see us, nor the women 
 wouldn't speak to Semanthy at meetin', or 
 sewing-circles, or such, and she left off going, 
 and then the look in her eyes began to grow. 
 
 " There was one thing I kept from her, and 
 I don't hardly know why, but I did. That 
 was the will leaving every thing to Ruth. I 
 told her it was gone, and that most likely 
 Peleg had torn it up ; but I kept it, and hid it 
 9 
 
 in the barn, and she never knew. It used to 
 work her dreadfully at first, because the es 
 tate couldn't be settled for want of a will or 
 knowing about Ruth ; and finally we got some 
 bones well, we got 'em out of the church 
 yard,^ and dressed 'em in Ruth's clothes, and 
 put 'em in the water nigh where Peleg was 
 found, and then I fixed it so they was diskiv- 
 ered, and we swore to the clothes, and nobody 
 cared much, any way, and so the property 
 was made over to me and Semanthy had her 
 thirds ; but, by that time, we didn't neither 
 of us care for the property, nor nothing else. 
 I didn't do much about the farm, and it sort 
 o' run out, and Semanthy grew dreadful 
 slack about the house, and took to setting all 
 day in a chair, drawed up close in a corner of 
 the room, so as nothing couldn't get behind 
 her, and watching, watching all day, with 
 that strange, awful look a-growing on her 
 face, and seeming to come up into her eyes 
 from way down somewhere. I can't justly 
 tell you what I mean, Square, but I've stood 
 outside and peeked in the winder at that 
 woman till it seemed as if I looked out of her 
 eyes, and seen the devil acoming, ready to 
 catch her any minute. 
 
 " Bimeby we got dreadful poor, and I tool? 
 to drink ; but that was no better, for I darsn't 
 drink in company, and when I was alone, I 
 had the horrors so bad I wonder I didn't 
 shoot myself. I should ha' done it time and 
 agen, only it seemed just as if Peleg was wait 
 ing to catch me in the dark just as soon as I 
 got out o' life, and I darsn't meet him. 
 
 " Then at last it come inter my head that if 
 I was to find Ruth, supposing she was alive, 
 and clear up the charge agin her, and give 
 back the property, what's left of it, that Peleg 
 would be kind o' pacified, and I might get 
 rest. What set me thinking on't was hearing 
 that Marston Brent that's you. Square, you 
 know had got a gal he was going to marry, 
 and she was a Bister to Paul Freeman, and her 
 name was Ruth. All that come out through 
 Zilpah Stone's folks ; but nobody in Milvor 
 seemed to mistrust any thing. You see they 
 all swallered the story of them bones being 
 Ruth, and then forgot all about her. But I 
 knew better, and I knew, too, that Paul Free 
 man hadn't got no sister, but lie was always 
 mighty partial to our Ruth ; so putting every 
 thing together, and working over it nights 
 and day-times when I sot one eide of the fire 
 and Semanthy the other, and neither of us
 
 180 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 speaking for hours at a time I began to see 
 my way out of it pooty clear. So then I went 
 kind o' quiet and sold out the last of the 
 bank-stock that Pel eg left, and crep' away 
 one night, leaving Seniauthy setting up with 
 the fire all out, and the candle jest guttering 
 down, and the wind a-howling in the chimbly 
 like folks. I couldn't stand it no longer, and 
 she'd got sort of used to it, I s'pose, so I left 
 her. 
 
 " I'd inquired round some, of Dr. Bliss's folks 
 and the Stones', and I'd found out pretty nigh 
 where you was located, Square, and so came 
 right along ; but when I got here, 1 kind o' 
 hung off till I found out how the land lay 
 First, I see Ruth in the wood ; but as soon as 
 she got sight of me she run I expect remem 
 bering who it was, and thinking I was going 
 to serve her same as she see me serve Peleg ; 
 and then pretty soon I see the other woman 
 and spoke to her, and she promised for you, 
 Square, that I shouldn't be touched ; and so I 
 came." 
 
 " And what are your future plans ?" asked 
 Brent in a repressed voice, as he finished 
 writing. 
 
 " All I ask, Square, is a chance to die quiet 
 that's all I want so help me God," replied 
 the man, with desperate earnestness in his 
 voice, and turning his haggard face and blood 
 shot eyes from side to side of the room like 
 some maimed reptile seeking a crevice where 
 in to hide and die. 
 
 " Let him go, Marston," said Beatrice in a 
 low voice, as her eyes followed the motions of 
 the criminal with a look of mingled aversion 
 and contempt. " Let him creep away and 
 die." 
 
 " He has my promise," replied Brent in the 
 Bame tone ; " although I do not know how far 
 the law would justify my action after this 
 confession. Still, he has my promise, and he 
 is safe. 
 
 " Joachim Brewster, sign your name to 
 this paper in presence of these witnesses ; 
 give up the will of which you speak, and de 
 part, remembering that, should you ever re 
 appear, your confession will be used against 
 you without hesitation, and that though you 
 now escape the justice of man, the justice of 
 God still pursues, and will yet overtake you." 
 
 " That's most too bad of you, Square, when 
 I'm a-doing all I can to set things straight 
 agen," whimpered Joachim, signing his name 
 in a character so shaking and so crabbed as 
 
 hardly to be legible. " Don't you believe 
 that Peleg will be pacified with this day's 
 work, Square ?" 
 
 " It is not your brother that you have to 
 dread," said Brent in a low voice. " It is God 
 who will demand him at your hand, as He 
 demanded Abel of Cain." 
 
 " O Lord ! O Lord ! a n't there no getting 
 away from it nohow ?" gasped the man, sink 
 ing upon his knees, while the sweat of mortal 
 agony gathered upon his sordid brow, and his 
 eyes, filled with abject terror, wandered from 
 
 Uncle ! there is a God." 
 
 Brent's firm, un sympathizing face to meet the 
 look of satisfied hatred upon that of Paul 
 Freeman, and at last sought with piteous ap 
 peal the two women, who had risen, and stood 
 looking down upon him Mrs. Chappelleford 
 with close scrutiny, Ruth with terrible but 
 mingled emotion. 
 
 That look demanded words, and Beatrice 
 replied to it : 
 
 " It would be happier for you to believe 
 that there is no God," said she calmly. 
 
 " That were to cast away the small remnant 
 of hope left possible. Do not counsel him 
 thus," said Brent sternly ; and then Ruth, 
 fluttering forward, fell upon her knees beside 
 her father's murderer and her own cruel ene-
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 131 
 
 my, and taking his poor, trembling hands in 
 hers, cried, while the tears ran down her 
 face : 
 
 " uncle ! there is a God, and there is no 
 escaping from Him or deceiving Him ; but He 
 is the God of Love and Pardon as well as of 
 Justice, and He will forgive you if you truly, 
 truly repent I know He will, for he puts it 
 in my heart to forgive you, and to promise you 
 that father will forgive you, too, if only you 
 will use every minute that is left of your life 
 in repenting and doing right." 
 
 " Is that so, Ruth ? Do you feel as if you'd 
 got a right to tell me that ? Ruthie ! don't 
 you cheat your poor old uncle that's most 
 killed a' ready with what he's got to bear." 
 
 " It is true, uncle it is true ! Oh ! I am 
 just as sure as sure can be !" sobbed the girl, 
 her pale face glorified with the earnestness of 
 her faith. " It was a terrible sin ; but nothing 
 is too bad to be forgiven if only you are sorry 
 enough, and do all you can to make up for it 
 in this world." 
 
 " I'm glad I come here, Ruth. I thought it 
 were for your sake I was a-doing it, but it 
 were for my own. Ruth, you've give me the 
 first word of comfort I've felt in five long year. 
 I wish't you'd come along o' me and teach me 
 the way to repent ; seems as if I could keep 
 up to it easier if I had you clos't by." 
 
 But Ruth shrank back at this proposal, and 
 Brent spoke sharply and decidedly : 
 
 " That is out of the question. There lies 
 the door, Joachim Brewster. Go ! and God 
 grant that His pardon may indeed reach you." 
 Without a word, the broken man whom he 
 addressed rose to his feet, cast one tremulous 
 glance of gratitude and appeal upon his niece, 
 who could not meet it, and then slunk out of 
 the house and down the road, glancing behind 
 him and around him at every step, as one 
 who feels himself pursued by unseen avengers 
 and so passed from their sight forever. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 THE ICHTHYOSAURUS. 
 
 BUT Beatrice stayed not to watch the de 
 parture of the God-stricken sinner, nor to dis 
 cuss the story he had told with those wh< 
 remained behind. The few words of stern 
 reproof with which Brent had met her attemp 
 to soothe the culprit's terrors by suggesting 
 doubt as to their foundation had emitten he 
 sorely, and while the attention of every on 
 
 was absorbed in Brewster's movements, she 
 tole softly from the room and the house. 
 
 "O Marston ! if I have lost faith, and hope, 
 nd all Christian graces, it is your fault, only 
 ours," murmured she, gliding along the wood- 
 iath where the shades of evening already lay. 
 
 If you had but held me in your keeping, you 
 
 light have made of me what you would. 
 
 Jut cold reason, unwanned by love, yields 
 
 nly bitter fruit. Why should I believe in a 
 
 Gk)d who has denied me every thing ?" 
 
 And then as if terrified at her own question, 
 he stood still, glancing timidly into the dusky 
 averts of the wood, and hesitating whether 
 o venture farther from the human compan- 
 onship which was at once an accusation and a 
 protection. 
 
 While she stood thus hesitating, the miners 
 employed by her husband, under Brent's per- 
 nission, came trooping along the path, laugh- 
 ng and singing with the boisterous mirth of 
 rude health and animal spirits. Any thing 
 so tangible restored the poise of Mrs. Chap- 
 )elleford's mind at once, and she moved 
 slowly forward to meet them. The foreman 
 stopped to speak to her. 
 
 "Good-evening, ma'am. Has Mr. Chap- 
 pelleford come out of the mine ?" 
 
 I have not seen him. Have not you been 
 with him T' 
 
 No, ma'am. He said he didn't want any 
 one to come anigh him unless he called, and 
 as we didn't hear any thing, we concluded he'd 
 :ome out. and gone home. Was you going up 
 there, ma'am?" 
 
 " No yes, I think I will go and meet him. 
 tie is in the path to the right of the entrance, 
 is he not ?" 
 
 Yes, ma'am. Some ways in, I judge, 
 though he didn't want to be followed, and I 
 don't know justly where he is. Maybe you'd 
 like to have me go with you, ma'am, as it's 
 getting kind of latish for the mines." 
 
 " No, thank you, I am not at all afraid ; tind 
 Mr. Chappelleford, you say, asked you not to 
 come ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, he said so ; but, any way, you 
 had better take my lantern. It's dark as 
 Egypt after you get in a piece; long before 
 you'll see his light you will lose the daylight, 
 every glimpse of it." 
 
 "Thank you, I will take the lantern," said 
 
 Beatrice, with the courteous smile that won 
 
 for her the hearts of such men as this too far 
 
 beneath her to feel the scorn and satire with
 
 133 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 which she too often visited the faults and 
 foibles of her equals. 
 
 " Say, Mike," asked the foreman of one of 
 his companions, as they passed on, " don't the 
 Queen you're so fond of talking about look 
 something like that \" 
 
 " Only she a'n't so purty nor so ginteel in 
 her figger. This un 'ould make the better 
 queen of the two if she had the luck," replied 
 the Irishman. 
 
 But Beatrice, moving swiftly on toward the 
 deserted mine, was thinking : 
 
 " Yes ; I will go to him and ask him to pity 
 and help me ; for what else have I left in 
 heaven or earth ? His teachings have de 
 prived me of any faith in the love of God, and 
 my own folly has cut me off from the love of 
 man. What is left to me but the cold intellec 
 tual companionship he has so far given me V 
 I cannot lose that too." And hastily, as one 
 who fears to feel her purpose fail before it is 
 accomplished, she glided along the darkening 
 path beneath the rustling shadow of the fir- 
 trees, past the broken well where the mur 
 derer had lain that morning concealed, and 
 up the steep and stony hill, until, breathless 
 and with palpitating heart, she stood in the 
 entrance of the mine, the daylight all behind 
 her, and impenetrably dark before. 
 
 Listening eagerly, she heard no sound ex 
 cept the slow dripping of water oozing through 
 the loose slatestone and plashing upon the floor 
 beneath. 
 
 " Mr. Chappelleford !" called she timidly, 
 and an echo far within the arched passage re 
 turned the cry in a strange, mocking tone, like 
 that of the demon of the mine daring her to 
 enter. 
 
 " Oh ! I cannot go in," whispered Beatrice, 
 shrinking back, and trembling nervously, and 
 then the bitter thought of a few moments be 
 fore returned upon her. 
 
 " He is my husband he is all I have left for 
 this life or another. I must not shrink from 
 following where he leads ; I must make my 
 peace with him before the sun sets." 
 
 And with trembling fingers she lighted her 
 lantern, and with desperate courage pushed 
 forward into the dismal darkness and mock 
 ing echoes of the mine. A hundred rods and 
 she had lost the daylight, and felt as if miles 
 of darkness and desolation separated her from 
 her fellow-mon. Holding her breath with 
 terror, guarding her steps that they should 
 make no sound, glancing now at this side, now 
 
 at that, catching reflections of the light she 
 carried from the glittering surface of quartz 
 or mica, or from the brilliant eyes of some 
 bloated toad squatted beside her path, shrink 
 ing from the spectral flight of bats and night- 
 birds haunting the place, she hurried on, feel 
 ing as if she was moving in a dream, in a 
 dismal nightmare which presently must cul 
 minate in some fantastic horror never yet 
 imagined or experienced by human mind. 
 
 On, and on, and on, until her limbs shook 
 with weariness, and her swimming brain 
 threatened to give way beneath the pressure 
 it sustained ; and as she paused, leaning 
 against the slimy rock for support, and dimly 
 wondering, if she were to die there, what 
 Marston Brent would feel in finding her, her 
 straining ears caught a faint sound, and she 
 fancied a yet fainter gleam of light far down 
 the noisome tunnel she was traversing. 
 
 " Thank God, I have reached him !" was 
 the cry of the desolate woman's whole heart, 
 and then she hurried on, running now, and 
 never heeding the echoes that mocked and the 
 shadows which came crowding after her, never 
 heeding bruises, or soil, or fatigue, for every 
 moment the far light grew nearer and more 
 certain, and every moment Beatrice expected 
 to catch sight of her husband at his work or 
 coming toward her. 
 
 But the journey was over, the friendly 
 beacon reached, and still she could not see 
 him ; only just opposite the light which stood 
 upon a projecting shelf of slate lay a great 
 mass of rock almost filling the passage, while 
 above it a corresponding chasm in the wall 
 of the gallery showed whence it had fallen. 
 
 Beatrice stood for a moment viewing this 
 scene in wonder and dismay, and then a sud 
 den horror seized upon her, and she called 
 sharply : 
 
 " Mr. Chappelleford ! Oh ! speak, if you are 
 here !" 
 
 ' Who is it ?" asked a voice dim with 
 anguish a voice that seemed to come from 
 beneath the huge mass of rock, and to feel its 
 weight in every tone. 
 
 Her muscles tense with horror, her eyes 
 ivild with dread of what they must behold, 
 Beatrice passed between the rock and the side 
 of the gallery, and came upon a sight that 
 !iad well-nigh killed her as she stood. Her 
 husband lay beneath that crushing weight, 
 only his head, his right arm, and a small por 
 tion of his chest visible the rest of his body
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 133 
 
 mercifully hidden, save that a slow stream of 
 blood trickled out from beneath the rock, and 
 stagnated in a ghastly pool beside her feet. 
 
 Unable to stand, unable to speak, Beatrice 
 sank down beside that livid head, and fel 
 that the horror which had led her so far hac 
 culminated here, and that the worst was upoi 
 her. 
 
 " Is it you, Beatrice ?" whispered the whit 
 lips of the dying man. 
 
 " Yes. I must go for help. But -what help 
 can move this rock ?" 
 
 " None. Do not go. I should be dead long 
 before you could return. Sit quietly there 
 and see me off. I have been thinking of you 
 I am glad you came." 
 
 " But something must be done we must at 
 all events try," gasped Beatrice, wringing her/ 
 hands and looking piteously at the tons (ft 
 torture piled upon that poor crushed bodyt 
 
 " Nothing can be done. Do not speiflc of 
 that again. It is the ichthyosaurus./ He is 
 on this surface next me, and he is lost. The 
 roof is too low to admit of turning/the rock 4 
 and they cannot blast without miryinj 
 besides they will never take the poujrf 
 wish you could have seen it, anq.-^nen you 
 could describe it in the work upon Saurians. 
 I want you to finish that book, Beatrice. I 
 am afraid you could not manage the philology, 
 although you would have helped me amazing 
 ly. You n.ay give the papers collected for that 
 to Arnold, and let him see what he can do. I 
 won't play dog in the manger. It is getting 
 very cold here. Beatrice, I am sorry I told 
 the story of the monkey it was not courteous, 
 and your manner toward me has always been 
 
 perfect " 
 
 "Oh ! sir, I wished my heart had been more 
 BO," sighed Beatrice, and she stooped to press 
 her cold lips upon the colder forehead of the 
 dying man. 
 
 " Nonsense. Your heart, child it is a mus 
 cle, nothing more. You have been all to me 
 that 1 wished or asked. I was vexed at you 
 to-day, because I thought you were past such 
 follies as you hinted, and when I am dead, 
 I suppose you will relapse completely, and 
 marry this man, and prattle of love and moon 
 shine, as you did at seventeen. Well, the 
 time grows short finish the Saurians first. 
 Promise me that Beatrice." 
 
 " I will finish it I promise you." 
 " Before you marry Brent ?" 
 " I shall never marry again." 
 
 "Pho! nonsense. And perhaps, after all, 
 Beatrice, perhaps it is as well for you women. 
 I thought I could place you above your sex. 
 and I have ; but it is an isolation love, kisses] 
 dress, cooking, babies, they are your natural 
 delights, and you miss/them. It was an ex 
 periment, and I shall /hake no more." 
 
 "Dear friend apd teacher! Forsyte me 
 that I have not be^er rewarded your alnfe for 
 give me that Ufeve not held myse^fs/eadfast 
 in your path/ But this is not th/ moment to 
 think of m/ Tell me, have y/U no message, 
 no trus^-Co confide to me ?" 
 
 me. My worldly aji&irs are in order, 
 ou know all my plang. If not what other 
 Jn call wife, you hrfve been a dear and 
 /alued comrade to ofe, Beatrice. I have not 
 
 cared to say how dear " 
 
 " And, O my^fiend ! how desolate you are 
 leaving me Juried Beatrice, made selfish by 
 despair. >4)h I that I too were dying, that I 
 mierhtidflow you to that other world, as I have 
 
 . this." 
 
 'Other world do you believe it, dear? I 
 am sorry I uprooted that simple faith of yours, 
 for now I want it. Beatrice, is there no God ?" 
 " Oh ! sir, do you ask me ?" 
 " And you dare not answer ! It is my 
 own work, my own work, and it turns upon 
 me now. Woman, it is for you to hold your 
 faith steadfast and shining while man gropes 
 blindly through the labyrinth of reason. It 
 is my doing, but it is your disgrace that you 
 liave not a word of comfort for me now. Oh ! if 
 [ could hear my mother praying beside me as 
 [ heard her once when I was a child, and as 
 she thought dying. She begged my life of 
 God that night so piteously, so passionately, 
 that He gave it her. If she were here, she 
 would beg my soul's life even more fervently." 
 But you do not believe you derided mv 
 aith you reasoned away my hope you 
 ooted out all the pious teaching of my 
 youth," moaned Beatrice, writhing beneath 
 he sense of her own powerlessness in this ex- 
 remity. 
 
 " To reason, and deride, and uproot were 
 my gifts ; yours should have been to cling fast 
 to your faith. If only I had my mother here 
 my mother how her eyes shone as she lifted 
 hem heavenward ! Where is she now ? Do 
 r ou believe, do I believe, that saintly woman 
 s mere dust and daisies? O Beatrice. B-a 
 rice 1 speak a word of hope tell me that dear 
 mother lives, and I shall see her tell me J
 
 134 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 am not going to annihilation what, lose all 
 that I have learned so painfully ! this mind, 
 this memory, these heaped thoughts, all going 
 to oblivion in one brief hour ! O woman 1 
 argue with me, force belief upon me at the 
 least, pray for me pray pray call upon 
 God to shine in upon the black despair which 
 overwhelms me ! O woman ! if you are a 
 woman indeed, like those who lay the night 
 through at the foot of the cross, say one word 
 of prayer to God, for I I dare not !" 
 
 And kneeling there, hor head humbly down 
 dropt, her voice choked with anguish and 
 terror for his soul and for her own, Beatrice 
 faintly murmured the words that she had 
 learned, an innocent child, long years before, 
 and had never spoken since her marriage. 
 
 " Amen !" whispered the white lips of the 
 dying man, and then death laid his finger 
 upon them, and they spoke no more. 
 
 CHAPTER LIT. 
 RUTH'S BETROTHAL. 
 
 SHE knew that he was dead, and yet she 
 sat there dumb and motionless, her face white 
 and still as his, her eyes fixed, her mind wan 
 dering through time and eternity, she knew 
 not whither. 
 
 Through all the chaos into which her life 
 seemed of a sudden fallen, one thought alone 
 rose definite and undeniable. He, that dead 
 man there, the man toward whom she had 
 assumed such solemn and unending duties, 
 he had asked her for comfort in his dying 
 moments, for a word of faith, or promise, or 
 supplication, and she had none to give him. 
 not one. No comfort for him, none for her 
 self were she too dying not even the poor cry 
 of unreasoning belief. And this was the re 
 sult then of life, this the end toward which 
 she had so arduously toiled, this the grand 
 result of philosophy, and intellect, and intel 
 ligent theory as opposed to blind faith. He, 
 her teacher, and the most learned man she 
 had ever known, the profoundest thinker, the 
 clearest reason er, the most fearless theorist 
 and analyzer, he had died longing to hear his 
 mother's voice interceding with God for the 
 soul of her unbelieving child. Was this the 
 end of such men ? Must such an end be hers 
 ere long? 
 
 So she sat, while the minutes and the hours 
 went by, and the twilight gave place tonight, 
 and the toad and bat and slimy creeping 
 
 things came softly up to glide about her feet, 
 and stare at the glittering pool of blood, and 
 flash their moist skins and evil eyes in the dim 
 light, and creep in beneath the stone which 
 had crushed out that life but now so full of 
 power and thought. 
 
 And she, never seeing them, sat motionless 
 beside her dead, and learned from his dumb 
 lips such teaching as, living, he never had 
 been capable of giving. 
 
 They found her there as the night wore on, 
 Marston Brent and the rest, and gathered 
 about her with broken exclamations of pity 
 and dismay. Brent it was who raised her in 
 his arms and carried her forth to the living 
 world once more. He did not speak, and sue 
 said only : 
 
 " Bring me to your Ruth." 
 
 And iu Ruth's arms he left her. 
 
 With infinite labor they raised the great 
 stone, and drew the poor broken body from 
 beneath it, then let it fall, and shudderingly 
 left it, the imprint of the antediluvian mon 
 ster soaked in the blood of the man of latest 
 science who had sought to steal his secret. 
 The monster had conquered, and he lies there 
 to-day even more secure from molestation than 
 when the dead man first discovered him. 
 
 They bore the body forth, and the next day 
 buried it with the Christian ordinances which 
 the philosopher, despising in life, had clung 
 to in death, and let us hope that the sleep to 
 which they laid him shall end in the light of 
 clearest day. 
 
 A week passed away, and then Brent asked 
 an audience of his guest, who had never yet 
 left the room whither he had carried her from 
 the mine. 
 
 He found her calm, pale, and silent, receiv 
 ing such words of sympathy as he could offer 
 almost without reply, and seeming to half 
 forget his presence even while he sooke. 
 
 At last he said : 
 
 " I trust you will not doubt my pleasure in 
 retaining you beneath my roof, or my desire 
 to leave you time to recover from this great 
 shock before you are troubled with outward 
 matters, but I think it right to tell you that I 
 am about to journey to Milvor with Ruth, 
 that her affairs there may be permanently set 
 tled, and if you think best to go with us " 
 
 " Yes, I will go. I wish to go to Milvor," 
 interrupted Beatrice, catching at the name. 
 
 " I thought it likely, and perhaps you will 
 suffer less in the journey now than after a
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 135 
 
 while. The first effect of such a blow is apa 
 thy, the anguish comes later." 
 
 " How do you know, Marston Brent ? You 
 never have suffered ' such a blow,' " exclaimed 
 Beatrice almost fiercely. 
 
 " My life has not been desolated by death, 
 but I have suffered," said Brent quietly, and 
 without waiting for a reply, he recounted the 
 preparations he had made for the journey, and 
 mentioned the day and hour in which he pro 
 posed to set forth. 
 
 Beatrice listened to all without raising her 
 heavy eyes or making any remark. When he 
 had done, she only said : 
 
 " Do as you 'think best. All I wish is to be 
 at Milvor, and hidden from the world." 
 
 " In another week you will be there, and 
 may you find the rest you seek. Poor Bea 
 trice !'' said Brent softly, and so left her to the 
 solitude she seemed to crave. 
 
 In the passage he met Ruth, who hesitat 
 ingly said : 
 
 " Can I speak with you a moment, sir ?" 
 
 " Certainly. Come into the office," said 
 Brent ; and when the door was closed : " Well, 
 Ruthie ?" 
 
 ' I thought it best to tell you myself, sir, 
 that I have about concluded to marry Paul," 
 said Ruth, turning very pale, and leaning 
 against the corner of the heaw table in the 
 centre of the room. 
 
 " Indeed ! Why, Ruth, I thought he told 
 me, in fact, that you had refused him, or nearly 
 so," said Brent in sudden bewilderment, for 
 out of Paul Freeman's bitter revealings and 
 Ruth's own artless confessions, and the des 
 perate need of his own heart, he had built a 
 shadowy scheme for the future, hardly con 
 fessed as yet even to himself, but growing 
 every day more clear and certain. 
 
 " I thought you did not love Paul, Ruthie," 
 said he again as the irl stood mute and white 
 before him. 
 
 "He loves me very much indeed, sir, and 
 perhaps tliat is better than for me to love him, 
 and he not care any thing about me." said 
 Ruth, with hidden fire. 
 
 " Why, yes, I suppose so ; and yet, Ruth, if 
 you do not love him, or if you could love 
 some one else now, do not be in sue' haste. 
 Wait a little, and ' 
 
 "No, sir, I don't want to wait that's just 
 what I had rather not do," replied the girl, so 
 vehemently that even Brent suspected a hid 
 
 den meaning in her word's, and after a mo 
 ment's thought took her hand, saying : 
 
 " Ruth, my dear, you must explain this. 
 What has happened to make you angry and 
 doubtful of me ? What has Paul been saying 
 to you ?" 
 
 " He says, sir, that you were going to to 
 take pity on me because because you 
 thought I liked you, and that now you will be 
 sorry, but you will keep to the promise you 
 have made yourself because you are so strict 
 in keeping your word ; but but I'd rather a 
 great deal that you should not, sir." 
 
 " Paul has done very wrong, and hagjghown 
 himself dishonorable in putting such ideas in 
 your head," said Brent in much displeasure. 
 " If I have for a moment dreamed of asking 
 you to be my wife, it was hoping to receive 
 as much happiness as I could give, but I have 
 never put the idea in words to Paul or to my 
 self, and " 
 
 " And please don't do it now, sir, for indeed 
 I had rather not," hastily interposed Ruth, 
 her cheeks aflame. 
 
 " Then I will not ; but tell me why not now 
 as well as some weeks ago, when I spoke of 
 this matter with Paul f ' 
 
 " Because, sir, Mrs. Chappelleford is a wid 
 ow now, and though you might ask me to 
 marry you, and try to feel contented, you 
 never would forget the chance you lost for me, 
 and I should know it, and I should suffer 
 more than than and I had rather marry 
 Paul, who loves me truly and wholly, and 
 never has loved any one else." 
 
 She turned toward the door, and laid her 
 hand upon the latch, yet lingered with down 
 cast eyes and quick-throbbing heart, lingered 
 for his reply. It came : 
 
 "Ruth, can you believe that never until this 
 moment have I connected the thought of 
 Mrs. Chappelleford's widowhood with any 
 possible advantage to myself, never until you 
 yourself suggested it ? And, Ruth, had you 
 accepted the offer I was about to make to you 
 I never should have associated the two ideas, 
 for having once given my faith to you, I hum 
 bly trust that there is nothing in my nature 
 so base that I could have broken it, ev<-n in 
 thought. I say, Ruth, had I been your prom 
 ised husband, those words of yours would 
 have been of no effect. But now " 
 
 " But now that I have suggested it, you see 
 that you love her, and only her," cried Ruth 
 in a sharp, passionate voice.
 
 13G 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 " No. I have so long 1 and so resolutely di 
 connected Beatrice Chappelleford, wife of an 
 other man, from Beatrice Wansted, whom 
 loved devotedly, that I may boldly say I d 
 not love her now, and had her husband livec 
 or had I bound myself to you or anothe 
 woman, I never should have loved her, othe 
 than as the angels love. But now, Ruth, wer 
 I to become your husband, I cannot promise 
 I cannot be sure that I should never remem 
 ber her. I do not wish to speak to her of love 
 but the thought of her might come between 
 me and other love. I cannot be certain 
 I dare not bind myself." 
 
 " And you shall not to me, Mr. Brent. My 
 mind is quite made up, and I am going to give 
 Paul Freeman his answer this minute. I am 
 BO sorry that you fancied I cared, for thougl 
 I am very, very grateful for all your kindness 
 
 I never thought, I am sure " 
 
 " There, child, there ! Say no more. We 
 understand each other now, and for all our 
 lives you are my dear sister, friend, daughter, 
 in one. Perhaps all that I shall ever find of 
 woman's love is what Paul will spare to me 
 from the treasure you will bring him." 
 
 And Ruth without reply, without turning 
 her face toward him, left the room, and find 
 ing Paul, threw herself into his arms, sob 
 bing: 
 
 " There, take me, Paul, take me and com 
 fort me." 
 
 CHAPTER LIIL 
 A LITTLE CREEPING FLAME. 
 
 NIGHT fell sombre and starless one of 
 the dark, breathless nights of summer, when 
 the perfume of the flowers seems to cling 
 close to the earth, too languid, too oppressed 
 by its own sweetness to rise heavenward ; 
 when the straining eyes find themselves 
 unable to penetrate rthe .dense blackness of 
 the atmosphere, and the ears, growing pre- 
 ternaturally acute, seem to discover a strange 
 and mysterious meaning in the cries of insect 
 and night-bird seem to listen to a half-re- 
 vealed secret in every sigh of the fitful wind, 
 every whisper among -the invisible foliage of 
 the trees : nights filled with melancholy and 
 with electricity, when a sadness, equally with 
 out explanation -and -without remedy, weighs 
 upon the spirit, -and wakes in its profoundest 
 depths vague memories, regrets, longings, but 
 half understood, half believed, and yet more 
 
 real than the grossest realism of daylight, for 
 they are the voice of the soul struggling to as 
 sert itself without the limitations of mind and 
 body ; they are the utterances of the life that 
 lies hidden deep within the recesses of every 
 man's existence hint of the life hereafter to 
 be developed from this germ which every one 
 of us carries within him, and yet so seldom 
 recognizes. 
 
 Sombre and starless fell the night, and the 
 dense shadow of Moloch Mountain, stretching 
 across the valley and the wood, touched the 
 distant hill-side and the lonely grave where 
 Mary Brewster lay asleep, with her murdered 
 husband at her side that hillside upon whose 
 green slope the farewell glance of that hus 
 band had dwelt, as he rode fortli from his 
 own door, and went to meet his doom ; and 
 then the shadow crept on and clung about 
 the old house beyond, wrapping it close 
 and fatally as the veil is wrapped about the 
 liead and shoulders of the doomed slave 
 ed from her luxurious harem to her cold 
 bed beneath the Bosphorus. The old house, 
 dreary and lonely in its best estate, and in 
 these latter days showing a desolation and a 
 doom in its every faltering line, every un 
 shuttered and staring window, in the atmos 
 phere that seemed to cling like a visible 
 curse about it. Within, sat the wife of 
 Joachim Brewster, deserted now of him as of 
 all mankind, and left alone in that melan- 
 :holy house alone, yet never alone, for the 
 memories of the past and the terrors of the 
 "uture were there, and never left her sitting 
 beside her at hearth or board, lying down 
 vith her upon the haunted couch, waking her 
 emorselessly to the dawning of a new day of 
 orment. She had not seen her thirtieth 
 lirthday, this woman, and yet her hair was 
 vhite, her skin cadaverous, her limbs falter- 
 ng and distorted. She hatl lived fast with 
 hese constant companions of hers, and the 
 ife was telling upon her. But chief among her 
 orments was a shadowy horror intangible, 
 et none the less real ; forever near, yet never 
 ithin her reach ; never seen, yet never to be 
 luded a presence at her side, although 
 either eye nor hand discovered other than 
 mpty air a something waiting jnst behind 
 ach door she opened in the dreary house, 
 urking in every shadow, waiting for her in 
 er chamber as she crept stealthily up-stairs 
 o bed, sitting close beside her in the dark- 
 ess of the night, mingling with the shadows
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 137 
 
 of tlie dawn when the weary night was 
 through a something tormenting her with a 
 sense of being just beyond her range of vision, 
 seeming, however sharply she might turn 
 upon it, to be just gone from the spot at which 
 sli e looked, just visible at some point behind 
 or beside her, if she could but reach it soon 
 enough ; for here was the horrible fascination 
 of this horror while dreading nothing so 
 much as to encounter it, she yet must spend 
 her whole life in its pursuit, waiting, watch 
 ing, with bated breath and staring eyes, now 
 wandering from room to room, now sitting 
 motionless struggling, as a drowning man 
 struggles for breath, to overcome this forever 
 receding and invisible barrier behind which 
 Ler tormentor hid. So she sat sometimes the 
 whole night through, sleepless and vigilant, 
 her ears alive to the dim, uncertain sounds that 
 filled the remoter chambers of the empty house, 
 her unresting eyes following with fierce and 
 hungry glances that formless presence forever 
 eluding their pursuit. 
 
 So she sat, while the night fell sombre and 
 starless, while the shadow of the mountain 
 stretched across the valley and the wood 
 laid a finger upon the hill-side graves, and 
 then crept on, spreading itself like a black 
 pall around and above the doomed house, and 
 stealing shade by shade through the room 
 where she, the woman sat, crouched in the 
 farthest corner, watching and waiting, her 
 white face and gleaming eyes showing in 
 ghastly contrast upon the sombre background 
 of the wall. 
 
 A sullen fire was dying npon the hearth, 
 the last charred stick flickering and black 
 ening above the gray ashes of the rest, then 
 breaking in the centre, and falling, over half 
 extinguished by the fall, the other rolling 
 across the hearth, and resting upon the edge 
 of the boards beyond. Opposite the fireplace 
 stood the old brass-bound secretary where 
 Peleg Brewster had kept the will that his 
 wife had so often urged him to destroy, the 
 picture of his wife Mary, with the letters that 
 she had written him before their marriage. 
 So often she had seen him sit there, his head 
 upon his hand, his eyes fixed upon the little 
 drawer where she knew these treasures lay 
 his sorrowful, introspective eyes, that never 
 had met her own with love, so often with re 
 proof. The picture and the letters were there 
 still she never had dared look at them but 
 once and the other things too lay just as he 
 
 had left them. She would almost as soon have 
 opened his coffin as open that secretary, for it 
 still was his, his very own. 
 
 His ? Whose ? That shadow's that flitted 
 over and past it, now seeming to sink through 
 the solid wood, now swiftly gliding aside or 
 upward, to lose itself in the obscure corners 
 of the room ? What was it ? Not a shadow, 
 for the night had fallen, and the room was 
 black-dark, save for a creeping bluish tongue 
 of flame fastening upon the floor where it 
 joined the hearth, and a strange light that 
 seemed to her to float about the old secretary 
 the secretary, as much Peleg Brewster's own 
 possession still as was the coffin wherein hia 
 murdered body mouldered. Was this light 
 then the thing that so long had troubled her ? 
 Was it the light or something which it present 
 ly would disclose ? Was that a form j ust dis 
 appearing behind the end of the secretary no, 
 at the other side where ? Gone ? No, but 
 coming, growing within that light, taking 
 form and shape, and then disappearing when 
 she turned to watch it. Disappearing and 
 again appearing, as it had always done through 
 all these weary years, the years since well, 
 since what ? She did not know now, but 
 it was no matter, for that thing was just 
 about to disclose itself surely, surely it was 
 about to confront her at last, and what would 
 it be? Those sorrowful, stern eyes? Did 
 they look at her out of that shadow nay, that 
 light ? Well, light or shadow, what matter? 
 Why must even that remain a bewildering 
 doubt, vexing her with its unending ques* 
 tion ? Light or shadow, IT was there, more 
 nearly visible than ever it had been before ; 
 and now she could grapple with it, demand 
 its meaning, deny its accusations, retort its 
 reproaches. But no, no, it was gone again, 
 hiding in the farthest corner of the room, 
 creeping along the walls, brooding above her 
 head, wrapped in this cloud of hot, stifling 
 smoke, crouching behind her. Behind her? 
 Why, how could that be, when she was press, 
 ing back against the wall with all her might 1 
 for it must not get behind her, she could not 
 endure that and, no, it was not near her now, 
 but flashing angry glances from behind this 
 cloud which wrapped it and the secretary, 
 and the room, and crowded down so fiercely 
 upon her breath, almost stifling her beneath its 
 awful pressure. Such red, fiery glances, such 
 consuming and withering wrath as they 
 flashed upon her! Was it coming at last
 
 138 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 then, coming in visible presence to seize upon 
 her, helpless and unheard, with no chance to 
 struggle or retort V And what were those 
 words the minister said the last time she ven 
 tured within the church ? Something about 
 the " worm that never dies, and the fire which 
 is not quenched." The fire which is not 
 quenched, is this it this scorching and de 
 vouring flame which creeps along the floor, 
 and climbs the walls, and reaches out its long 
 tongues toward her? And now it sinks, and 
 now it rises, and she, huddled there in the 
 farthest corner, sits glaring at it, and drawing 
 her garments closer about her, and cowering 
 to the wall which shuts her in, yet opens to 
 shut out that Thing, which haunts her even 
 in the flames, until, as one long serpent-tongue 
 sweeps out and fastens upon her clothes, she 
 breaks into maddest frenzy, shouting, laugh 
 ing, screaming, rushing recklessly forward to 
 meet and defy the foe she thinks to have 
 found at last, and who wraps her about in his 
 fiery mantle, and scorches the breath upon her 
 lips, the blood within her veins ! 
 
 When morning dawned, and old Moloch, 
 drawing toward himself the shadow that had 
 wrapped the scene, looked across valley and 
 forest to the grave upon the hill-side, he saw 
 beyond them a heap of smoking and smoul 
 dering ruins which no human being had yet 
 approached, although the scene was not with 
 out its mourners, for a gaunt hound sat beside 
 the blackened doorsteps, howling dismally, 
 and upon the blasted pine behind the house 
 hung, flapping and croaking, a pair of carrion- 
 crows. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 PENANCE. 
 
 To Beatrice, sheltered in her childhood's 
 home, safe and quiet in the guardianship of 
 her aunt, who, if she did not understand, at 
 least did not interfere with her, came after a 
 time her uncle's wife, with not insincere ex 
 pressions of sympathy and affection, and an 
 urgent request that Mrs. Chappelleford should 
 return with her to town, and accept a home 
 beneath her uncle's roof. But Beatrice shook 
 her head, smiling sadly : 
 
 " Thank you very much, Juanita, and thank 
 my dear uncle, too, but I cannot come at 
 present ; I am busy here." 
 
 " Busy, my dear child ?" asked Mrs. Bar- 
 
 stow, glancing around the ' quiet chamber 
 with incredulous surprise. 
 
 " Yes, busy in settling my life." 
 
 " But that is just what we want to do for 
 you to settle your life. Come to us, and that 
 will settle it." 
 
 " I don't mean that sort of life," said Be 
 atrice quietly. " I am trying to understand 
 but no matter now." 
 
 As her voice drearily died away, and her 
 eyes sought the distant hills where the sun 
 shine lay brightly, although the country 
 between was all in shadow, Mrs. Barstow 
 looked at her with quiet worldly scrutiny. 
 
 " My dear," said she, " I would not do it." 
 
 " Do what ?" 
 
 " Either of the two tilings you have in 
 mind either marry Marston Brent or become 
 devout. Neither will suit you as well as the 
 role of belle esprit you have so successfully 
 played since your marriage with my uncle 
 Chappelleford. You are too young, too hand 
 some, and too brilliant for a devote; and as for 
 
 Mr. Brent That reminds me to thank you, 
 
 Trix, for saving me from an awful stupidity. 
 If you had not been with me when Major 
 Strangford came home, I might have gone 
 into some sentimental nonsense with him it 
 was quite on the cards. But you helped me 
 over the first danger, and after that I reflected 
 why really it would have been very foolish 
 and I found, on a second look, that he had 
 gone off immensely, quite broken up, and 
 passe indeed. And, that danger over, there 
 was no chance of another ; for a good house, 
 as many carriages as I choose, and a husband 
 with a hundred thousand a year, are ever so 
 much better than moonlight and Tennyson, 
 as I dare say you knew when you advised 
 against the Major. And really Mr. Barstow 
 and I am very comfortable together ; he is a 
 prince for generosity, and as indulgent as pos 
 sible. He has never spoken a cross word 
 since we were married, Beatrice." 
 
 " Dear, good uncle Israel ! And is he happy, 
 Juanita?" 
 
 " I mean to make him so, and I think I do. 
 I always consult him before ordering dinner, 
 and never object to his inviting his stupid old 
 merchants, and smoking in the library. And 
 actually, my dear, I find that I am growing 
 almost domestic in my tastes. Having no 
 girls to bring out, I have not the ties to soci 
 ety that most married women have ; and 
 now don't you laugh I positively enjoy a
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 139 
 
 game of whist occasionally, and even a ' h 
 at backgammon,' as Mr. Barstow calls it. An 
 I make it a positive duty to give him a littl 
 music after dinner, almost every evening 1 , an 
 he likes going to the theatre with me. So, a 
 together, Trix, I count myself a model wife 
 quite a Grizelda in fact, and I think your uu 
 cle would tell you the same story." 
 
 " I am very glad, very glad indeed, Juanita 
 for I never knew a man who deserved bette 
 of his wife and his home than my uncle Is 
 rael," said Beatrice warmly. 
 
 And the elder matron, laughing slyly, in 
 quired : 
 
 " Not even Marston Brent ?" 
 " Don't, Juanita. I do not think of Mr 
 Brent, or he of me. My mind is filled witl 
 other matters, and he, I hope, will marry Rutl 
 Brewster." 
 
 " Beatrice, I want to ask you a question 
 \vill you answer it truly ?" 
 "Truly, if at all." 
 
 " Your old Jesuitical answer ; but n'importe 
 When I told you that I was afraid to meet 
 Major Strangford, because I fancied myself 
 still in love with him, you almost crushed me 
 with your virtuous indignation at the idea of 
 a married woman being in love with any one 
 but her husband, and, if I remember, you 
 vowed it would be impossible for you to even 
 imagine such a thing. Now, Trix, tell me, 
 after you had stayed three weeks under the 
 same roof with Marston Brent, did not you 
 change your mind ?" 
 
 And as Mrs. Barstow asked her searching 
 question, she looked keenly into that pure, 
 pale face so steadily set toward the distant 
 hills, whose shining peace was reflected in the 
 eyes that watched them. The face did not 
 droop, the calm eyes did not quail, but a slow 
 wave of color mounted through cheek and 
 chin, even to the masses of bright hair coiled 
 away from the white brow mounted, and 
 burned, and faded before Beatrice replied ; 
 then she said : 
 
 " I will answer you, Juanita, and truly, 
 though to my own shame. The armor of 
 which I so presumptuously boasted to you 
 proved of no avail when the hour of trial 
 came, nor. would the worldly shield which 
 saved you have proved sufficient for me. 
 Even while I assured myself that there was 
 no danger, the danger stood face to face with 
 me, and all my defences of philosophy, and 
 reason, and intellect dropped away like flax 
 
 within the fire, and left me simple, defence 
 less woman." 
 
 "Well, what then? What saved you?" 
 asked Mrs. Barstow breathlessly. 
 
 " The honor, the conscience, the Christian 
 principle of Marston Brent," said Beatrice 
 with a sudden fervor in her voice. " I failed, 
 and he upheld me ; I was simple, and he re 
 buked me ; I was despairing, and he, by the 
 noble example of his own life, taught me how 
 to live." 
 
 "Then you acknowledged to each other 
 that you were still in love ?" 
 " Certainly not." 
 " But you are, aren't you 1" 
 " Juanita, you are profane. You grasp at 
 matters of which you should not even speak." 
 "Mercy on me! Beatrice, I cannot under 
 stand you in the least," exclaimed Mrs. Bar 
 stow pettishly. 
 
 " I know it I do not understand myself as 
 yet, and I certainly should not have said what 
 
 I have to you, but that " 
 
 " Well, what ?" 
 
 " I considered it a fitting penance for my 
 arrogance when I spoke to you before. I waa 
 right in my conclusions then, but all wrong 
 n my reasoning, and more than wrong in my 
 estimate of my own strength. Now, dear, 
 et us speak of something else, and lay this 
 iside forever." 
 
 " And you will not come to town with me ?'* 
 " No thank you, Juanita." 
 " Or join us in the winter ?" 
 " No ; I have done with life, such life as 
 
 hat, and I shall stay in Milvor until " 
 
 Juanita waited patiently, but the sentence 
 was not finished, and she left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 KEWARD. 
 
 THE summer waned, and in the bright au- 
 umnal days, Beatrice resumed the active 
 ut-of-doors life she had so much enjoyed dur- 
 ig her girlhood. Many an hour she spent 
 pon old Moloch, climbing his topmost crest 
 o catch the first rays of sunrise, seeking new 
 oints of view whence to admire the well-re 
 membered, well - beloved landscape, where 
 Darkles of the distant sea seemed glimpses 
 f another world, with promise of delights not 
 nown of this. 
 
 But best she loved, in the melancholy, golden 
 ght of afternoon those autumn afternoons 
 hich murmur, in their sleep upon the hills,
 
 140 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 of the long, dreamless sleep waiting for them 
 beneath the snows of winter to sit beside the 
 rushing mill-brook, half choked now with 
 gold and scarlet and rich brown leaves whirled 
 down upon it from the trees above ; and sit 
 ting there, she dreamed her wistful eyes 
 fixed upon those distant sparkles of the ocean, 
 or upon the sky stooping to meet it, almost 
 as blue, almost as bright, and holding no less 
 of promise, dared one accept it. These 
 dreams ? Sometimes they were of the lands 
 beyond the sea, whither she had already wan 
 dered, and might some day return sometimes 
 of fairer possible worlds beyond that smiling 
 sky sometimes of her own life, which seemed, 
 having rounded its circle of experience, to be 
 finishing here where it begun. 
 
 And then, with a stifled sigh, Beatrice would 
 sometimes look about her, and remember the 
 glow and glory of those early days, and the 
 unreflecting gayety with which she had so 
 often trod the mountain-paths, or sat here be 
 side the mill-brook, and not alone. 
 
 " But that was spring, and this is autumn," 
 whispered she one day, and fell to thinking 
 of the two spring, so full of promise and of 
 growth ; crude, raw, and untaught, but glow 
 ing with hope and possibilities that make 
 amends for all autumn, strong, brilliant, ma 
 ture, bringing sheaves and fruit instead of 
 buds and flowers, and yet with an inexpressi 
 ble melancholy in its glory, tears beneath its 
 smiles, the hint of approaching death in all 
 its brilliant coloring. 
 
 ' And this is autumn," repeated Beatrice, 
 slowly rising and descending the hill, until in 
 the cloudy glory of sunset she passed between 
 the rows of box, holding her breath not to per 
 ceive their fragrance, and entered the gray 
 old house which was now her home. 
 
 " Where have you been all the afternoon, 
 Beatrice?" asked her aunt from her seat be 
 side the fire in the eastern room. " We have 
 had company. Marston Brent has been here, 
 and waited until the last moment to see you. 
 He came East on' business, and ran down here 
 for the afternoon. He was very sorry not to 
 see you." 
 
 But Beatrice, with a sudden faintness upon 
 her, sat suddenly down beside her aunt, and 
 did not reply. Mrs. Bliss, busy with her 
 story, and a troublesome stitch in her knit 
 ting, went on without looking up. 
 
 " He could not stay because he had to at 
 tend a directors' meeting in the city to-morrow 
 
 early, and was to start for home in the after- 
 noon with some of the other directors. He 
 has got a company to take his mine sold it, 
 I suppose ; at any rate, he has made a great 
 deal of money, and don't mean to stay in 
 Pennsylvania always, he says ; he thinks 
 some of going abroad." 
 
 " Does he ?" said Beatrice with an effort. 
 
 " Yes, as soon as he gets matters settled out 
 there. I believe he thinks he shall stay there 
 this winter. That Brewster girl and Paul 
 Freeman are going to be married at Christ 
 mas." 
 
 " Did Mr. Brent say so ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and old Zilpah is dead. Marston 
 was over at her brother's this morning to tell 
 them about it, and arrange about some proper 
 ty Zilpah left them." 
 
 " Zilpah dead ! Why did she ?" asked Be 
 atrice, over whose pallid face had come a sud 
 den color. 
 
 " Why did she ? What a queer question, 
 Beatrice ! Because she couldn't help it, I sup 
 pose ; she had the lung-fever besides," said 
 Mrs. Bliss dryly. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I dare say ; but, aunt, I forgot to 
 ask you to begin some knitting for me. Can 
 you do it now ?'' 
 
 " I began this for you, child. You have 
 grown amazingly industrious lately. You 
 never did half so much work before you were 
 married as you do now, and I am sure you 
 didn't while you were married." 
 
 " I like to be doing something," said Be 
 atrice with a brilliant smile, whose meaning 
 her aunt could not define. 
 
 " Well, here it is then," said she, holding 
 out the stupendous " tidy " she had com 
 menced ; but Beatrice murmuring, " One min 
 ute, aunty," left, the room, and appeared no 
 more until summoned from her chamber to 
 the tea table. 
 
 " Seems to me your rage for knitting was 
 soon over this afternoon," said Mrs. Bliss, as 
 she handed her a cup of tea. 
 
 " The knitting? Oh ! dear me, aunty, I for 
 got all about it !" exclaimed Beatrice with 
 such a laugh and such a blush as no one had 
 seen upon her face for many a month nay, 
 year. 
 
 The autumn passed, and the winter, and the 
 spring. Then came summer, and the garden 
 of the Old Garrison House was gay with all 
 its homely, heartsome bloom, and the willow
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 141 
 
 beside the river had donned its fullest verdure, 
 untouched as yet by dust, or worm, or decay, 
 \vhen Beatrice one morning 1 thither betook 
 herself and her book a volume of sweet, rare 
 old Herbert. 
 
 Her days of mourning were over, yet faintly 
 remembered in her pure white dress, with a 
 violet ribbon threading her golden hair, and 
 knotted at her throat ; and although there 
 was no mourning in her face, its beauty had 
 taken a pensive and thoughtful cast in this 
 last year, not farther removed from the light- 
 hearted grace of girlhood than from the cold 
 and somewhat haughty expression most often 
 seen upon the face of Vezey Chappelleford's 
 wife. 
 
 So sitting the unopened book upon her 
 lap, her eyes fixed upon the shining, sunlit 
 brook she heard a step coming down the 
 path heard and knew it, and would not 
 turn until Marston Brent stood close beside 
 her his hand outstretched his frank eyes 
 full upon her face, with a meaning other than 
 ordinary greeting in their glance. Then she 
 rose, gave her hand both hands indeed and 
 while the words of courtesy died upon her 
 lips, she gave him welcome with all her glow 
 ing lace. At last, seated beside her upon the 
 rustic bench, so carefully kept in repair be 
 cause he had made it, Marston said 
 
 " Beatrice, we parted here six years ago." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Parted forever, as we thought." 
 
 " Yes ; you said so." 
 
 " I ? But it was you who willed it I" 
 
 "I? No, you!" 
 
 " Oh ! never, Beatrice !" 
 
 " Well, then, not you. But I wish I had 
 known you thought so through all these 
 years." 
 " Beatrice, we two have suffered " 
 
 " So much !" 
 
 " And erred, both of us " 
 
 " Not you." 
 
 " Yes, I ; I might have yielded something in 
 that old time." 
 
 " You could not, and remain true to your 
 self." 
 
 " You have not blamed me, then ?" 
 
 " No no, indeed." 
 
 And then he took her hand, and what would 
 next have been, who can say, when the spar 
 row who all this time had watched these ter 
 rible interlopers upon her domain with round 
 black eyes shining like little stars above the 
 
 edge of her nest, fled with a sudden whirr of 
 wings, which startled the lovers, and brought 
 a laugh to relieve the somewhat stringent 
 pressure of the moment. 
 
 " Beatrice, are ' any birds in last year's 
 nest ?' " asked Marston softly, as he glanced 
 up into the tree. 
 
 " Yes, for they are singing in my heart at 
 this moment," whispered she. 
 
 " And then " 
 
 But as they went back through the garden, 
 Beatrice paused beside the heart-shaped pansy- 
 plot, and looking into her lover's face with a 
 shy smile, said : 
 
 " There were two large purple pansies and 
 one yellow one on the ground here, one morn 
 ing, and now they are pressed between the 
 leaves of a little Bible Beatrice Wansted used 
 to keep upon her dressing-table." 
 
 " What ! you found them and saved them, 
 darling !" exclaimed Marston in pleased sur 
 prise. " I looked for them as I went back, 
 but could not find them. The willow staff I 
 cut that morning, however, is now a thriving 
 tree beside the Sachawissa. I wanted to carry 
 a cutting to Ironstone Mountain, but I dared 
 not." 
 
 " You were always better than I," said Be 
 atrice, smiling and blushing. "I kept the 
 pansies through every thing, although I pre 
 tended to myself that I had forgotten them." 
 
 Marston returned her smile, but absently, 
 and stood looking at her with all the love of 
 his great truthful heart, so long and painfully 
 repressed, shining in his eyes. 
 
 " I wonder if it is the summer sunshine or 
 if it is you that lights up this old garden so 1" 
 said he at length. " Even the creeping shad 
 ow of old Moloch seems full ot brightness 
 and joy." 
 
 " We have lived in his shadow six long 
 years, and it is time that it should turn to 
 sunshine," whispered Beatrice tenderly; and so 
 they passed on through the garden and into 
 the dim and echoing old house, so full of 
 memories, and now so full of hope. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 THE END. 
 
 MARSTON BRENT and his wife went abroad, 
 and spent a happy year among scenes which 
 Beatrice had visited indeed, but had never 
 really seen until now, for inward happiness 
 possesses a wonderful power of opening the 
 eyes to all forms of outward beauty. She was
 
 143 
 
 THE SHADOW OF MOLOCH MOUNTAIN. 
 
 pleased, too, to discover that, although Brent's 
 life had been more one of action thau of study, 
 he had turned the enforced seclusion of his 
 forest and mountain homes to good account, 
 and was even better acquainted theoretically 
 than she was practically with that Old World 
 whose wondrous stories have been said and 
 sung from the days of Herodotus to this, when 
 books of travel seem to have superseded visit 
 ing-cards as announcements of the return of 
 our friends and acquaintances from Outre- 
 Mer. 
 
 But before she went abroad nay, before she 
 married Brent Beatrice fulfilled in its widest 
 spirit her promise to Mr. Chappelleford. The 
 book of Saurians was published, and although 
 no name but that of the philosopher appeared 
 upon the title-page, it was whispered among 
 the savans that at least half the credit of the 
 minute research, elaborate collocation, and 
 elegant and classic diction characterizing the 
 work was due to the unnamed editor. 
 
 The papers relating to the philological trea 
 tise were also placed in the hands of the liter 
 
 ary friend whom Mr. Chappelleford had desig 
 nated, and we may yet expect a biography of 
 the " Mother of Languages," which shall con 
 vert us all into her devotees, although Mrs. 
 Brent's Sanscritian studies never have passed 
 beyond their most elemental stages. 
 
 Somewhere abroad, the Brents encountered 
 Monckton, who offered his congratulations, 
 and lingered some weeks in their society with 
 a friendly ease incompatible with bitterness if 
 not with constancy. If he could not forget, 
 he had certainly forgiven the keenest of all 
 wounds with which a man's self-love can be 
 wounded. 
 
 " All passeth but Goddis Will." Yes, all 
 passeth, even the shadow ; for although earth 
 ly journeyings may fail to bring us to the sun 
 ny places where other lives seem blooming 
 without pain or care, the shining hills lie full 
 in view beyond the shadow and beyond the 
 flood, and no feet are so tender, no heart so 
 weary, no strength so broken, that they may 
 not hope to win safely through, and scale 
 those glorious heights at last.
 
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