/
 
 Farmer Holt's Daughter 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES GARVICE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " SHE TRUSTED HIM," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE FEDERAL BOOK COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1901, 
 By F. M. LUPTON. 
 
 Farmer Holt's Daughter.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Turn we from garish joys of town 
 To rippling stream and verdant down ; 
 Let us forget the follies of the gay 
 And join in rustic merriments and play. 
 Love is full sweet, though on the village green 
 Its slaves first learn all that the word doth mean. 
 Life hath its joys and meads for rustic hearts, 
 Nor does it scorn to pierce them with its darts. 
 Let us, then, see, if only for a while, 
 Life's drama played in true bucolic style. 
 
 MY dear reader, if you love the country, the green 
 lanes, greener trees, simple pleasures, and simpler but 
 true-hearted folk, take my hand we have wandered 
 many a day ere this and through strange lands, there- 
 fore you may trust me and I will take you from the 
 giddy world into the sylvan shades and sweet repose of 
 a great farming county. 
 
 There, if it so please you, you shall look upon as 
 pure and high-minded a love as that which our great- 
 forefather felt for our great-foremother. 
 
 There you shall find women who can still blush and 
 
 2135S31
 
 4 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 men who have not yet discovered that truth is contemp- 
 tible and honor fit only for slaves. 
 
 There, 'midst the smaller occurrences of such retired 
 life, you may learn, perhaps, some greater liking for un- 
 fashionable people, and twist the phrase " only countiy 
 love " to a new meaning. 
 
 With this preface let us proceed to Farmer Holt. 
 
 Farmer Holt was the squire of Rubywood. 
 
 Rubywood was the west portion of an agricultural 
 slope of land lying amongst the southern hills of Bucks 
 and Berks. 
 
 Farmer Holt, had he wanted to sell Rubywood Farm, 
 its premises and tenements, with the land pertaining, 
 would have described it as a land flowing with milk 
 and honey, and, allowing the necessary make-weight for 
 metaphorical description, he would not have spoken far 
 from the truth. 
 
 The land of Rubywood was good arable and pasture. 
 There was no more comfortable homestead than Ruby- 
 wood House in England ; the Holt cattle carried the 
 highest price in the Monday Sherwood market, and the 
 Rubywood grain always rated at sixpence a bushel more 
 than the neighboring growers'. 
 
 The reason for all this lay in Farmer Holt himself as 
 much as in the excellence of his land. He was squire, 
 as we have said, but he disdained, or, at least, ignored 
 the title. The appellation of " farmer " smacked in his 
 ear of the majesty of " emperor."
 
 FAKMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 5 
 
 " I'm a farmer, that's what I am," he would say, 
 striking the thick oaken table in his dining-room, " and 
 I'll trouble you to call me that. ' Squire ' is for them 
 as likes it ; I don't. My father was Farmer Holt be- 
 fore me, his father was Fanner Holt before him, and if 
 farmer was good enough for them, I'd like to know why 
 it ain't good enough for me ? " 
 
 Farmer by name and nature, no man threw himself 
 so heartily into the routine of his business, no man put 
 so much of himself into his work as did Farmer Holt. 
 
 "'Want a thing done, give it to somebody else and 
 pay another man to stand by and watch him not do it. 
 Want a thing done well, do it yourself, or stand by and 
 see that it is done." 
 
 On this principle Farmer Holt walked through life, 
 sowing, reaping, breeding, shearing, selling. He always 
 did what was to be done himself, or saw that it was 
 done. 
 
 At six o'clock in the morning, if you were within a 
 mile of Ruby wood, say on the hill that rose like a bear's 
 head behind the homestead, you would see Farmer Holt 
 tramping across the twenty-acre, waking his men up in 
 the straw yard, or overseeing in the threshing-barn, as 
 surely as you would see the smoke winding away from 
 the broad chimneys that struggled through the roof of 
 thatch. 
 
 Being such a man, so firm, so steadfast, so thorough, 
 it was not to be wondered at that for ten miles, and
 
 6 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 for much farther round Rubywood, Farmer Holt was 
 esteemed and respected. 
 
 Great county magnates, when they came flustering 
 down from smoky London to canvass the district, went 
 hat in hand straight to Farmer Holt to beg for his vote 
 and interest ; and, if they were Tories, they got it ; if 
 not, if they happened to be rascally Whigs or scoun- 
 drelly Radicals as Farmer Holt called them why, 
 they stood a very good chance of something more sub- 
 stantial say, in the shape of a cart whip or the great 
 pump in the straw yard. 
 
 Though hard featured and sharp of eye, sharp, too, 
 of tongue sometimes, he was kind of heart, and his 
 people, man, woman, and child, loved him. 
 
 When they were strong and able, he made them work, 
 and hard too ; but when they were old, down in sick- 
 ness, or weary with trouble, he shielded, helped, and 
 comforted them, like the true feudal lord he was. 
 
 Agricultural agitators if there were any in the days 
 of which we write were careful to avoid Rubywood, 
 and so, perchance, avoided, at the same time, the horse- 
 pond on the village green. 
 
 Farmer Holt's portrait, done in oils, most execrably, 
 hangs in the parlor of the " King's Arms," and, if you 
 want to see the man, you cannot do better than con- 
 sult it. 
 
 Rather short, rather stout, rather good looking, but 
 very, very firm ; red of complexion with clean-shaven
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 7 
 
 face, and a mouth that shows some sign of grim humor 
 in the little curves at the corners ; eyes clear gray, and 
 oh, so sharp ! Many and many a skulker has wished 
 those eyes dim or asleep, when the farmer's hand awoke 
 him from a nap in which the far-seeing orbs had de- 
 tected him. One of the old school in face and dress. 
 A dark-blue cutaway coat forms his upper garment, 
 gaiters serviceable and of fawny hue, and irreproach- 
 ables of that style which Lord John Russell declared 
 belonged exclusively to the squirearchy. 
 
 Farmer Holt was a wealthy man, and of all his pos- 
 sessions he rated his daughter, Muriel, the highest. 
 
 She was the farmer's " woldest and wonly daughter " 
 indeed, his only child, and next to his farm, perhaps 
 before it, her father loved her best of all things on 
 earth. 
 
 There is no picture of Muriel Holt, so we must imag- 
 ine her. 
 
 Please, then, to fancy a maiden of medium height, 
 neither thin nor adipose, but of true, maide.nly sub- 
 stance, a fair, oval face, with well-formed mouth 
 though rather large, as all expressive mouths are small 
 dainty Cupid bows are for wax dolls and women with- 
 out ideas a straight, aquiline nose, and eyes very 
 dove-like, and yet harboring a faint suspicion of mis- 
 chief ; eyes with just that twinkle in them that pro- 
 claims their owner not quite dove nor altogether mag- 
 pie, but a description of medium which no bird hath 
 yet been.
 
 8 FAEMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Those eyes, to say nothing of the expressive mouth, 
 had done great execution at Rubywood, but they had 
 as yet, like talismanic charms, preserved their mistress 
 from harm. 
 
 Muriel Holt had a heart that fact the eyes were 
 bail for but it was as yet all her own, though swains 
 had cried and town gentlemen had sighed, tears and 
 upheavings of the manly breast were all in vain. 
 
 Muriel was heart whole and invulnerable to any of 
 the darts which love had as yet fired at her. 
 
 Mrs. Holt had died five years after Muriel's birth. 
 Now Muriel kept house for her father, and was called 
 " mistress " by the servants, and obeyed as such pretty 
 nearly as implicitly as was the farmer himself. 
 
 In cataloguing my heroine, I had forgotten to add 
 that she possessed that great rarity, a pretty, musical 
 voice speaking voice, I mean which is as delicious 
 to the ear as the singing one ; and that she had all that 
 grace which belongs to youth when it is added to 
 strength and health. 
 
 It was a revelation and a liberal education to the 
 finer senses to see the young girl at her duties of the 
 breakfast table, and the farmer, as he strode into the 
 small parlor which did duty as a morning room at the 
 farm, paused at the table with his hat in his hand to 
 look at her. 
 
 It was a fine spring morning, and the sun poured in 
 through the window and lit up the golden-bronzed 
 braids of Muriel's hair.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 9 
 
 " Well, lass," said her father, " you look as fresh as 
 t' fields." 
 
 " That's a poor compliment, father," laughed Muriel, 
 showing her white, even teeth through her gates of red 
 coral. " The fields are rather dirty after the rains." 
 
 "Dirty?" exclaimed the father, dropping into the 
 stout beech chair with a passive force that would have 
 smashed furniture of an advertising house to smith- 
 ereens. " Dirty ! They're never dirty, lass. The 
 loam's as precious as gold. Would ye have it dry as 
 road dust and perish t' grain? Where's that loafing 
 Jane o' yours? She a-near broke my shins with her 
 coalscuttle again. Drat the girl ! She'll never a done 
 till she's broke my neck, I do believe." 
 
 Muriel made a gesture of annoyance through the 
 smile. 
 
 This Jane, alluded to so irately, was a new house- 
 maid, who had contracted, presumably at her last place, 
 an inveterate habit of depositing the coalscuttle in un- 
 likely places while she ran on other business. 
 
 The farmer knocked his shins against or stumbled 
 over that coalscuttle on the average six times a day. 
 
 "And wear's t' bacon?" asked the farmer. 
 
 " Here, father," said Muriel, lifting the cover from a 
 dish of that comestible, which smoked, not in thin, 
 tissue rashers, but in good, solid, stomach-comforting 
 slices, which the London cockney knoweth not of. 
 
 The farmer helped himself to a huge slice of the ham,
 
 10 FAEMEE HOLT'S DAUGHTEE. 
 
 then as bountifully served Muriel, received his cup of 
 coffee with a " Thankee, my dear lass," and set to work 
 heartily, as a man should do who has been trudging 
 over thick fields for two hours. 
 
 The bird, a pet canary, chirped loudly and cheerfully. 
 
 Snip, Muriel's dog who could do everything but 
 speak, and only refrained from that because he knew 
 that if he exercised his latent talent Farmer Holt would 
 put him to work directly sat up and begged, and oc- 
 casionally gave vent to a sharp, dismal howl. 
 
 The fire crackled and the kettle hissed in accord ; all 
 was harmony and comfort. 
 
 Presently the farmer looked up from the demolition 
 of the bacon, and, wiping his mouth on an immense 
 crimson silk handkerchief, that would have served as a 
 flag for a matador in a Spanish bull-fight, said : 
 
 " Lass, I just met young Heatherbridge." 
 
 Simple words, yet Muriel colored at them. 
 
 Young Alfred Heatherbridge lived at the Howe, and 
 was one of her lovers. 
 
 " Yes," said Muriel. " And what has he to say ? " 
 
 " Not much," said the farmer, with a short laugh, 
 " He's like the sailor's parrot, a quiet one, but I dunno 
 whether he thinks the more. But he's a straight youth 
 and a' says what he has to say pleasantly, not like that 
 cockney chap in t' cottage, who never opens his ugly 
 mouth without some foreign word or fly-away expres- 
 sion that nobody understands but himself."
 
 FAKMEB HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 11 
 
 Again Muriel blushed, for the same reason. Mr. 
 Calcot Vandike was another of her lovers. 
 
 " Mr. Vandike is very pleasant, too, father," said 
 Muriel. 
 
 The farmer growled. 
 
 " Yes, soft and silky, like that new gown o' yours. 
 I hate your fine London gentlemen, all purr like a 
 tom-cat, and snigger like a barn-door rooster. Give me 
 another cup of coffee, dear lass." 
 
 " And so Mr. Heatherbridge had nothing to say for 
 himself," remarked Muriel. " No news ? " 
 
 " Oh, ay, I'd forgot ; that London chap put it out o' 
 my head. Young Heatherbridge had news right good 
 news for the Dexter people. The Holme's let." 
 
 " You don't say ! " exclaimed Muriel. " After re- 
 maining empty so long ! Poor, deserted old place ; 
 how glad it must be ! " 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense ! D'ye think the old house can 
 feel, lass, like a human creetur ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't know, father. Sometimes I think 
 they can; houses and carts and churches, and that 
 sort especially when they're old they look so know- 
 ing." 
 
 She laughed merrily, then ran on blithely as a bird 
 chirruping over her odd fancy : 
 
 " Look at the Holme now ! I never pass it but I 
 seem to think the old dust-stained, broken windows are 
 eyes crying and that the old door off its hinges is the
 
 12 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 mouth speaking out ' Will anybody come and live in 
 me ? Please, somebody, do ! " 
 
 The squire laughed and threw himself back in his 
 chair with tremendous force. 
 
 " You've a strange head, lass. I do think you've got 
 that the matter with you the painter chap was purring 
 about genius, didn't he call it ? Fancy the old Holme 
 with eyes and mouth ! Ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " Well, never mind, father, I'd rather you'd laugh at 
 me than cry for me ; and as to the genius, well, that's 
 one of the foolish things you blame Mr. Vandike 
 for talking about, you know. And so the Holme's 
 let ! " 
 
 " Ay, house and land long lease, too, and good rent. 
 So we'll have a neighbor, lass, at last." 
 
 " Let us hope a pleasant one." 
 
 u Amen ! " responded Farmer Holt. 
 
 " And who has taken it, father? " 
 
 " A man by the name of Leigh." 
 
 " Young or old ? " 
 
 " Young," said the farmer ; " leastways I reckon him 
 such. He comes from the north. His father and 
 mother a' just died there." 
 
 " Poor young man ! " said Muriel softly, her pitiful 
 heart full of sympathy directly. 
 
 "Ay, died and left him not o'er rich, they say, and 
 his taking the Holme proves it." 
 
 Muriel nodded."
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 " To make a living there one needs to work hard, 
 father, you say ? " 
 
 " Ay, morn, noon and night, lass," replied the farmer 
 standing up with his back to the fire and turning over 
 the leaves of the Agricultural Almanac. " Morn, noon 
 and night. It's a poor place, and nobody ever pros- 
 pered there. Old Scroggius starved the land, the tim- 
 ber which the Dexters won't cut down cumbers the 
 ground, and the sheds ain't fit for a jackal, leave alone 
 a kindly heifer." 
 
 " Poor young man ! " said Muriel, again. " And 
 when is he coming, father ? " 
 
 "I don't know; young Heatherbridge met him in the 
 market yesterday, and he mentioned accidentally that 
 he'd taken the Holme and meant to be a neighbor." 
 
 "Is he good looking?" asked Muriel. 
 
 "I didn't ask Heatherbridge," said the farmer, dryly. 
 " We don't ask the color of other men's eyes, or if their 
 mouths are cut on the square ; we leave that to your 
 kind, lass. Besides, what does it matter to ye if he be 
 good looking or ill favored?" 
 
 " Nothing, indeed, father," laughed Muriel, " only 
 that as I shall see him, no doubt, every time I put my 
 head out of door or window, I'd rather he were well 
 favored. Another cup of coffee ? No ? Then I'll 
 ring for Jane. You'd like a strawberry roly-poly pud- 
 ding to-day, father ? " 
 
 " Ay, lass, anything. Now, girl," this to Jane, " do
 
 14 FARMER HOLTS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ee take that confounded scuttle out o' the doorway. Do 
 ee ever fall over it yourself, I wonder ? No, I'll go bail 
 you don't, or ye'd have more regard for other folk's 
 shins." 
 
 And with a sharp nod of his head out strode Farmer 
 Holt to count off twenty sheep for next day's market. 
 
 Muriel tripped off to the kitchen, rolled up the sleeves 
 of her dainty morning dress to the elbows of her white, 
 shapely arms, and plunged with great fervor and ear- 
 nestness into the composition of the strawberry roly- 
 poly. 
 
 Presently there came a tap at the kitchen door, fol- 
 lowed by an uplifting of the latch, and finally the ap- 
 pearance of a good but rather lazy-looking face in the 
 opening between the door and lintel. 
 
 " May I come in ? " asked the visitor. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Muriel, " if you are not afraid of 
 flour, Mr. Vandike." 
 
 And the owner of the head conveyed it and his bony, 
 velvet-clad body in by means of a pair of long legs. 
 
 Mr. Vandike, as Mr. Holt described him, was an ar- 
 tist. He was staying at the cottage attached to the 
 town farm, as that portion of the Holt establishment 
 which was situated in the village was called, professedly 
 to paint studies from life for the London picture dealers, 
 but in reality to loaf about, flirt with the prettiest village 
 girls and make too-warm artistic love to beautiful 
 Muriel Holt.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 "I'm not afraid of flour. Miss Muriel," he said, lean- 
 ing against a projection near the window and making 
 himself comfortable. " I'm not afraid of flour, and, 
 mind, that's saying more than appears on the surface. 
 I know some swells who would rather face gunpowder 
 than a flour dredger, especially when they are got up 
 for the morning park." 
 
 Muriel paused in her manipulation of the dough and 
 looked over her shoulder at him with a laugh. 
 
 " Swells 1 What are they ? What queer words you 
 use, Mr. Vandike ! Morning park, too ! Do you mean 
 to say that they have two parks in London, one for the 
 morning and another for the afternoon ? " 
 
 "Ah! you're quizzing me, Miss Holt," replied the 
 artist, lifting his eyeglass, fixing it into his left eye and 
 looking mournful as well as the necessary grimace 
 would let him. You're a dreadful quiz. By Jove ! I 
 think you are always laughing at me. I say, what a 
 delicious picture you would make ! " 
 
 "Thank you. That's above my ambition. Father 
 will be better pleased if I make a delicious pudding." 
 
 " Such lights, with that flour about you, such a de- 
 licious shadow ! Really, Miss Holt, you can't imagine 
 what a delightful model you make." 
 
 " Oh ! I see," said Muriel. " It's a compliment you 
 are meaning. Thank you, Mr. Vandike." And with a 
 roguish smile she dropped him a courtesy. " Perhaps 
 you will sketch me on your thumbnail, or on the shutter
 
 16 FAEMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 yonder; here's a piece of whitening. Oh, Mr. Vandike, 
 how many times you have said that same thing. You 
 must really go up to London and buy another compli- 
 ment for me, this poor piece of flattery is quite thread- 
 bare, you have worn it quite, quite out." 
 
 Mr. Vandike sighed and laughed. 
 
 " Well, really, Miss Holt, it's the truth, and you don't 
 know how hard it is to refrain from sketching you. 
 But there, you have forbidden me, haven't you? and I 
 cannot but obey. By the way, how do you get the jam 
 into that pudding ? Hem ! Ah ! I see. How absurd, 
 of course spread it on like that and then roll it round. 
 Of course. I sha'n't be so ready to laugh next time I 
 hear the anecdote about King George wondering how 
 the apple got into the dumpling. I say, I'm sorry that 
 Mr. Holt is savage about that pig." 
 
 " What pig ? " queried Muriel, spreading out the 
 pudding cloth. 
 
 " Oh, don't you know ? A wretched pig one of 
 those black little dev I mean fellows that squeak 
 about the straw yard. He got out somehow or other, 
 and finished up a pot of paint I'd put outside the cot- 
 tage to air. It disagreed with him it seems. Veiy 
 rum that though, isn't it ? I thought a pig could eat 
 anything ! " 
 
 " Save the stuff you compose your pictures of, Mr. 
 Vandike," said Muriel demurely. 
 
 "Ah, you're quizzing me again, I really believe,"
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 muttered the artist exquisite. "Well, the squire I 
 beg his pardon, Farmer Holt thinks it hard for his 
 pig to die, and says so to me to me, who am filled 
 with despair at the loss of my only pot of sienna, my 
 only pot, and this is how many miles from London ?" 
 
 " What sienna is I don't know. What do you use it 
 for trees ? " 
 
 " Trees ! No ; cows and that sort of thing." 
 
 " Oh, come," said Muriel, consolingly, " there are 
 different sorts of cows, you know. You must paint 
 them all red and black and white, till some more sienna 
 comes down. I thought sienna was a sort of medicine." 
 
 Mr. Vandike groaned. What a pity it was that this 
 beautiful Phyllis was not more artistic. 
 
 "And now you've done ?" he said, as she tied the 
 pudding up. 
 
 " Now I'm going to boil it," said Muriel, " and then 
 it will be done, too." 
 
 " And then Farmer Holt will eat it and it will be 
 done FOR," said the London wit. 
 
 Muriel laughed. 
 
 " No," she said, not four, but ATE ! " 
 
 " Oh, come," he retorted, " you've beat me at puns ; 
 I'm afraid of you. Will you come into the garden 
 the larks are up and soaring? Do come for one 
 turn ! " 
 
 " No," she said, shaking her head, " I'm too busy 
 besides," glancing through the window, "here's Mr.
 
 38 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Heatherbridge coming up the path, he will keep you 
 company. Good-by." 
 
 And with a merry lau^h she ran from the kitchen, 
 and so gave both her lovers the slip.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 If I speak to thee in friendship's name 
 
 Thou think'st I speak too coldly ; 
 If I mention love's devoted flame, 
 
 Thou say'st I speak too boldly. 
 
 MB. ALFRED HEATHERBKIDGE was master of the 
 Howe, and farmed about nine hundred acres, some of 
 them running parallel with Farmer Holt's. 
 
 Nine hundred acres represented a tolerable capital, 
 therefore Mr. Alfred might be considered a wealthy 
 man, as men went in that agricultural district, and in 
 every way an eligible suitor for Miss Muriel's hand. 
 
 Generally the match was considered as good as made, 
 but as yet, though Farmer Holt could have no objec- 
 tion to the arrangement, Mr. Heatherbridge had not 
 asked Miss Muriel for her opinion, and the young lady 
 was so discreet and uncommunicative that it was im- 
 possible to guess what opinion she held. 
 
 Between Mr. Vandike and the young landowner of 
 course there was no love lost. 
 
 The artist called the young farmer a man without 
 ideas, and the young farmer called the painter a loafing 
 manufacturer of daubs.
 
 20 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 This morning they nodded and smiled as men do who 
 dislike each other and are yet compelled to be polite, 
 and Mr. Vandike, as he stretched himself and prepared 
 to vacate his position, said : 
 
 " Fine morning ; Farmer Holt's out " 
 
 " I want to see Miss Holt," said young Heatherbridge, 
 thinking Mr. Vandike might have kept the information 
 till he was asked for it. 
 
 " And she's very busy," said the artist, " just run 
 away up-stairs. Hope you may get her. Good morn- 
 ing ; I'm going to make a study of these old beeches. 
 Glorious lights across the tops. Oh, I forgot, though, 
 you don't go in for that sort of thing," and, with a cool 
 nod, but an aggravating one, the London dandy strolled 
 away. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge, very red in the face, and mut- 
 tering, " Confound that jackanapes's insolence. ' Study 
 of the beeches ! ' His impudence is study enough for 
 other folk. Is Miss Muriel here ? " 
 
 " No, she beant, sir," replied Jane, smiling at the 
 absurdity of the question, considering that, unless her 
 mistress had been up the wide chimney, Mr. Heather- 
 bridge could not have failed to have seen her had she 
 been in the kitchen. 
 
 " Will you tell her I want that is, I should like a 
 word with her ? " 
 
 "Yes, I'll tell her," said Jane, and leaving Mr. 
 Heatherbridge standing at the gate, she ran up-stairs to
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 21 
 
 acquaint her young mistress of the arrival of lover 
 No. 2. 
 
 " Oh, dear," sighed Muriel, " I wish they wouldn't 
 come in the morning when I'm so busy. It's rather 
 nice in the afternoon, because one can sew and work 
 on while they are fidgeting, but in the morning oh ! 
 Jane, don't you think he'll go if I say I'm very 
 busy ? " 
 
 " That I'm sure he won't, miss," said Jane, shaking 
 her head. " I know it by the looks of him. Besides, 
 he's just run up against Mr. Vandike, and it's made him 
 angry like. He do look as obstinate as the old piebald 
 
 Pig- 
 Muriel laughed. 
 
 " There, I'll see him, and do you make this bed. If 
 I don't come up in five minutes, call me loudly, 
 mind," and, laughing at the obstinacy of the human 
 piebald pig, she ran down the house stairs into the 
 kitchen. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge came forward with his hand out- 
 stretched and a look of undisguised admiration on his 
 still rather flushed face. 
 
 " I'm afraid I've called you away I'm afraid you're 
 busy, Miss Holt?" 
 
 " Well, I am rather," she said, candidly, but not 
 coldly. 
 
 " Oh," he said, then, smitten with lovers' nervousness, 
 hesitated, struck his leg with his walking-stick, looked
 
 22 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 at the ceiling and then, as if in desperation, at her wait- 
 ing face again. "I've looked in about the calf," he 
 said. 
 
 " The calf ? " she repeated. " What calf ? " 
 
 Then, seeing the look of great disappointment which 
 her forgetfulness had produced, she added, quickly : 
 
 " Oh, I remember. Thank you so much." 
 
 " Yes, it's doing well, and looks healthy, and I just 
 come in to say that I've driven it into the yard, and if 
 you will be kind enough to accept it 
 
 " Oh, thank you, that I will ! " said Muriel, accept- 
 ing the gift as freely as it was offered. " How very 
 kind of you. Such a dear, pretty-colored thing, and 
 an Alderney, too. I did so long for an Alderney. 
 How very kind of you. I'll run down and see it 
 directly." 
 
 " Now ? " said Mr. Heatherbridge, eagerly. 
 
 " Well, no, not this minute," said Muriel, knowing or 
 dreading if she ran down to the yard with Mr. Heather- 
 bridge to see the gift that she might say good-by to all 
 work for the remainder of the morning. "No, not 
 directly ; I am at work. You won't mind, will you? 
 Father's gone down to the sheep." 
 
 But Mr. Heatherbridge had not come to see " father," 
 and he stood staunchly and stared at her. 
 
 "I'd hoped you would come down, Miss Holt, for I 
 wanted to say a word to you." 
 
 Muriel leaned against the table and looked up into his
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 face. As yet she had no idea of what the something 
 was." 
 
 " Yes," she said, and then quickly, " Oh, will you not 
 sit down. It is so rude of me not to have asked you be- 
 fore. Do sit down." 
 
 So Mr. Heatherbridge very unwisely sat down, for to 
 commence a proposal on your feet and then to change 
 your position is to lose the thread of your argument. 
 Besides, you are at a disadvantage sitting in a low chair 
 and looking up pathetically at a girl's bright face three 
 feet above you. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge felt this, but he persevered. He 
 had come down to the house half inclined to say the 
 momentous something, only half inclined ; but Mr. 
 Vandike, and Mr. Vandike's impudence, had tilted the 
 balance, and now lie was determined to go through with 
 it and snatch his mistress from every such jackanapes. 
 
 " I wanted to say something to you," he commenced. 
 " Indeed " (indeed was a favorite word with Mr. 
 Heatherbridge) " indeed to ask you a question. Mu 
 I mean Miss Holt cannot you guess what it is ? " 
 
 Indeed Muriel could, and she turned first hot, then 
 cold. 
 
 Was the man actually going to ask her to marry 
 him. 
 
 With the rapidity of a flash of lightning she asked 
 herself the question : 
 
 " Do I love him ? "
 
 34 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 And with like rapidity was she herself answered : 
 
 ** No, you do not." 
 
 She stared at him with a pained expression growing 
 on her face, which intensified as he continued, rising 
 now, and so bringing his good-looking face above hers. 
 
 " Muriel, I came to ask you the most important ques- 
 tion a young fellow can ask a girl. We have known each 
 other for a good many years no, not that exactly, for of 
 course you're not very old not old at all, indeed," he 
 stumbled. " I mean to say that we have known each other 
 since we were children. We know each other's tempers, 
 and we know each other's that is, not faults, for you 
 haven't any " 
 
 Here Muriel shook her head sadly, but very decisively. 
 
 " And I came to ask you, remembering all this, if you 
 think you could " 
 
 " Miss Muriel ! Miss Muriel ! " shrieked the obedi- 
 ent Jane. 
 
 Muriel blessed the simple handmaiden from her very 
 heart, and, drawing a long breath, put out her hand to 
 stop him. 
 
 " Forgive me ! Don't say any more. Let me go back. 
 Jane is calling she wants me perhaps." (It went very 
 much against her to tell a direct falsehood, though, like 
 most women, she did not scruple at the whiter kind of 
 deception.) Let me go, please. I I " 
 
 " Miss Muriel 1 Miss Muriel ! " shouted the dutiful 
 Jane.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 25 
 
 " There, I must go ! " said Muriel, and, with a plead- 
 ing glance for forgiveness, she darted away from him 
 and sped up the staircase. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge sighed, put on his hat, and, like a 
 sensible young man, walked out. 
 
 " Little witch," he muttered. " I don't know whether 
 she loves me or she doesn't. Thought she didn't, at 
 first, but then girls are so coy ! Aunt Betsy says they 
 want a lot of wooing ; and then she'd have given me the 
 * no ' straight away, instead of bolting. Little witch t 
 Oh, I feel all right. She can't make a better match, and 
 I've got the old boy on my side, too. Yet I wish she'd 
 say yes, then I could come it over that idiot of a painter. 
 By Sampson, when I have got her I'll let her understand 
 I want her to give the cold shoulder to such chaps as him. 
 There he is, the idiot, making a study of the trees. 
 Trees and horses and cows on canvas ! He'd be a better 
 man if he'd got 'em in his pocket," and, with a sneer 
 quite lost on the artist, who was wrapped up in his 
 work, and whistling the scenery out of countenance 
 Mr. Heatherbridge trudged past on his way to the 
 Holme. 
 
 As for Muriel, she sank upon the newly made bed and 
 gasped for breath. 
 
 Alfred Heatherbridge had actually asked her to be his 
 wife or very nearly ! 
 
 What was to come of it? How could she say no ? and 
 yet she felt that she could not nay, would not say yes.
 
 26 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 And her father ? Though she had never mentioned 
 the subject directly or by way of hint, still she had a 
 presentiment that a " Yes " would please him and a 
 44 No " give him disappointment. 
 
 44 And yet I can't say 4 Yes,' can I, Jane ? " she 
 sighed. 
 
 "What to, miss?" queried Jane, who, utterly igno- 
 rant of her mistress's thoughts, had been standing sur- 
 veying her, and wondering why she should be so beauti- 
 ful while other folk she herself, for instance were so 
 plain. 
 
 44 To nothing ; there, run away, girl. I'll tidy the 
 room and and " 
 
 Here as Jane took her departure she broke off and 
 burst into silent tears. 
 
 44 Tears, idle tears," says Tennyson, and very thought- 
 lessly. No tears are idle ; to women they are the chan- 
 nel for the relief of all sorts of vagaries and passionate 
 emotions. Tears are women's best weapons, and in some 
 cases Constance's for instance her greatest charm. 
 Tears are good for fretful children and sulky women, 
 but to men they are more agonizing then the spear 
 
 thrust of a Roman centurion. 
 
 I 
 
 When the tears were over and the flushed cheeks 
 dried, Miss Muriel attired herself properly and put on 
 her hat. 
 
 She'd go and see the calf before she sent it back, for 
 of course she'd send it back ; she wouldn't throw Mr.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 27 
 
 Heatherbridge's love back to him and keep his love 
 offering. 
 
 Looking marvelously pretty and fresh in her dainty 
 yet well-worn hat and tweed cape, she tripped over the 
 farm court and into the yard. 
 
 Yes, there was the calf, and very lovable and ac- 
 ceptable it was. 
 
 She stroked its neck and kissed its nose, murmured a 
 "good-by," and then, with a sigh, wandered through 
 the lane of well-stocked barns and weather-tight out- 
 houses on to the avenue. 
 
 The avenue was the pride of Rubywood, and Farmer 
 Holt valued its possession very highly the more highly 
 for that possession having one flaw. 
 
 It was not an exclusive right of way to Rubywood, 
 but served as a high-road to the Holme, which lay in 
 the hollow to the left of Farmer Holt's farm. 
 
 So long had the Holme been unoccupied that Farmer 
 Holt had grown to look upon the broad elm-sheltered 
 road as entirely his own, and had almost forgotten that 
 soon another man's carts and waihs, cattle and sheep 
 must be driven down it. 
 
 Muriel passed into the avenue and looked up and 
 down it. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge might be still lingering about, 
 and it behooved her to be careful of him. She did not 
 want to fall into the hands of her tormentor.
 
 28 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 The other swain was lost in his picture and dead to 
 his mistress's near proximity. 
 
 Seeing the coast clear, Muriel made her way, with 
 Snip at her heels, to a green lane which ran down to 
 the brook and was a favorite walk of hers. 
 
 At the end of it, by standing on the stile, she could 
 see both Rubywood and the Holme. 
 
 One looking so prosperous and well-to-do, the other 
 so deserted and dilapidated. 
 
 At the stile she stood on tiptoe and looked at the two 
 places, and, listening to an unhinged shutter that flapped 
 against the walls of the empty farmhouse, she. naturally 
 fell to thinking of it and its new tenant. 
 
 *' Poor young fellow," she sighed. " How lonely and 
 miserable he will feel, his mother and father just dead, 
 leaving his native place and old friends and coming to 
 such a dreary, uncanny place as that. I wonder " 
 
 She got off the stile as she spoke and broke off sud- 
 denly, for close at her elbow, so close that he made her 
 start, stood a gentleman, young, tall and grave looking.
 
 FAKMEB HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 29 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 For human nature's daily food, 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 As Miss Holt started, dropped from the stile, she 
 turned to the stranger with that expression of shyness 
 and injury which every one wears to the individual who 
 has startled them. 
 
 The gentleman raised his hat, and with a quiet 
 smile made his apology. 
 
 " I am afraid I have startled you ! The corner is so 
 abrupt and the grass so sodden that you did not hear 
 me approach. I am very sorry." 
 
 Muriel Holt blushed though not by any means ad- 
 dicted to habitual flag-flying and hastened to reassure 
 the courteous gentleman. 
 
 " Pray do not apologize. I did not hear you coming, 
 but still there was no reason to be startled. Nor should 
 I have been had I not been perched on that stile." 
 
 He smiled at her expression, " perched," and no 
 doubt as he glanced at the young, sweet face thought
 
 30 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 that she was a beautiful kind of bird, fit to perch any- 
 where. 
 
 But he remarked, sensibly enough : 
 " You were looking at the old house yonder ? 
 " Yes," said Muriel, not at all afraid of the strange 
 gentleman, and no doubt gaining courage from the re- 
 flection that her impropriety, if any there were, was 
 lessened by the fact that her father was within hearing, 
 "yes, and thinking of Dr. Johnson's lines: 
 
 " ' Let observation, with extensive view, 
 Survey mankind from China to Peru.'" 
 
 The stranger looked rather astonished. 
 
 He had not expected, perhaps, to find so self-composed 
 a young lady in such an out-of-the-way place as Ruby- 
 wood, or one acquainted with Dr. Johnson's resonant 
 lines. 
 
 "Not a very extensive view after all," he said. 
 " Not anything but a small portion of mankind." 
 
 " You can see Holmwood Chase from here the Oaks 
 and the thicket from here ; and by mounting that 
 stile yonder three counties lying, as one may say, in 
 the hollow of a man's hand. That's extensive, is it 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes, after a fashion," he replied, leaning on his 
 stick, and hoping that perhaps this pretty, innocent bird 
 would stay singing thus a long while, "yes, after a 
 fashion ; but as to the mankind part of the prospect,
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 will you be so gracious and inform me how much one 
 can see of that ? " 
 
 She smiled and, with her hand upon the stile pointed 
 to the Howe. 
 
 " That house there half-hidden by the tall elms is the 
 Howe. It is the grandest, oldest place in the neighbor- 
 hood, and it belongs to Mr. Alfred Heatherbridge." 
 
 "I know the name," said the gentleman, quietly. 
 
 " Yonder that old house so tumble-down and dilapi- 
 dated is the Holme, empty, as you see poor old place ! 
 It is pretty from here, all the prettier for its broken 
 shutters and weedy court. In the valley there is Ruby- 
 wood Farm, which belongs to Farmer Holt ; do you 
 think that is pretty ? " 
 
 " Very," said the stranger, " and " looking at the 
 well-tilled ground " excellent soil. That farm is well 
 kept, I should say." 
 
 " It is," said Muriel, with quiet but amused emphasis. 
 
 " Worked on the old plan," continued the stranger, 
 thoughtfully, his eyes still wandering over the broad 
 acres. " Ah, the old system ! " he added, to himself. 
 " What such a farm as this would produce if farmed on 
 the new ! " Then aloud to Miss Holt : " Farmer Holt, 
 I think you said ? May I ask for some information with- 
 out seeming rude or unjustifiably curious?" 
 
 " That depends upon what the information may 
 be." 
 
 " Let me ask you then if Mr. Holt "
 
 32 FAEMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Farmer Holt he calls himself," interrupted Muriel 
 softly. 
 
 " Farmer Holt then if Farmer Holt is generally 
 liked in the district?" 
 
 " Sir ! " exclaimed Farmer Holt's daughter, then, re- 
 membering that she was as much a stranger to the 
 stranger as he was to her, she corrected herself and 
 replied, gravely, instead : 
 
 "Pardon me, the question seemed so singular. 
 Farmer Holt is the best-liked man in Rubywood; there 
 is not a woman, child, or dog for ten miles round that 
 does not love him. Liked ! Oh, sir, you do not know 
 him, indeed 
 
 " And you, to speak so warmly in his favor, must be 
 intimately acquainted with him," said the stranger. 
 
 Muriel Holt smiled. 
 
 " I do know him and love him," she said, quietly. 
 
 Then her face lighted up into fresh beauty, and she 
 pointed to the farmer himself, who, prodding two fatted 
 heifers in the sides, could be seen in the straw yard. 
 
 " See, there he is ! Does he not look all I have said ? " 
 
 The stranger looked and smiled. 
 
 " I will trust your word even before my eyes," he said, 
 gravely. " And I thank you for your information. 
 May I ask one other favor to thank you for? Will you 
 tell me the nearest way to Hopwood ? " 
 
 Muriel looked rather surprised. 
 
 " Hopwood lies yonder," she said. " Straight through
 
 FAKMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 33 
 
 the wood by the footpath, you must not go off it 
 please " 
 
 " Do not fear," he said, " I am a respecter of farmers' 
 footpaths and all their other rights." 
 
 " Straight through the wood till you reach an open 
 space, that is Hop Common ; turn to your right and 
 that will lead you to the village." 
 
 " Thank you," he said, lifting his hat and revealing a 
 well-shaped head furnished with pleasant-colored hair. 
 " Thank you, very much. Good day," 
 
 Muriel Holt dropped him a stately, demure little 
 courtesy, and the stranger strode on. 
 
 Miss Holt looked after him curiously, called Snip and 
 went on her way. 
 
 Her destination, decided on while she had been talk- 
 ing at the stile, was a cottage at the end of the lane, 
 where an old woman, much afflicted by rheumatics and 
 an undying thirst for Farmer's Holt's old port, dwelt. 
 
 Old Goody Cropperty, as the old lady was called, 
 was one of Miss Holt's pensioners, and was aged enough 
 to remember Miss Holt's great-grandfather, or, if she 
 was not, was untruthful enough to say that she did. 
 
 " Well, Goody," said Muriel, in her clear, sweet voice. 
 " How are the rheumatics to-day? Better I hope." 
 
 " They'll never be better this side o' the grave, Miss 
 Mur'l," replied Goody, who always spoke of her com- 
 plaint in the plural, and persisted in clipping Muriel's 
 name of half the middle syllable, making it something
 
 34 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 very like " Mule " to which animal her father in loving 
 fun likened her. 
 
 " Never be any better nor this side o' the grave, Miss 
 Mur'l. It's my cross, my dear, and I must wear it. 
 All on us has our crosses. Here's Jaffer's got his cross, 
 which is not so afflictin' a one as it be annoyin'. " 
 
 Jaffer was her grandson, an ungainly youth of eleven 
 summers, whose affliction mourned over by Goody was 
 an incurable habit of laughing at the most awkward 
 and unaccountable and even serious things. 
 
 He had greeted Miss Holt's entrance with a loud 
 guffaw, he received his grandmother's assurance of her 
 long lease in rheumatism with another guffaw, and now 
 at the sound of his own name gave vent to a loud laugh 
 that would have shocked and alarmed any one un- 
 acquainted with his " cross " considerably. 
 
 But Miss Holt knew Jaffer and his peculiarity well, 
 and his guffaws took no effect upon her beyond elicit- 
 ing a good-natured smile. 
 
 " And how is Jaffer ? " she asked, laying her hand 
 upon the boy's head. 
 
 " Oh, he be pretty well," replied Goody, " ban-in' his 
 leanness, Miss Mur'l ; I don't think as nuthin' 'ud ever 
 make him fat. Farmer Tomkins, from the Farm End, 
 took him for three weeks to make what he called a exes- 
 pearheineant, but it weren't o' any use. He eat the good 
 farmer out of o' house an' home, and cooni back thinner 
 nor ever ; didn't ye, Jaffer? "
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 35 
 
 " Ay," assented Jaffer, with a sharp guffaw like a 
 pistol crack. " I be stricken thin." 
 
 " You be," croaked the old lady, shaking her head. 
 
 " Never inind," said Miss Holt, " Jaffer will get fat 
 some day, I daresay. He must come up to Rubywood 
 next Christmas and eat some pudding." 
 
 Here Jaffer burst with a loud explosion into a prize 
 guffaw. 
 
 " Come and eat some pudding, and some beef, and 
 drink some port wine, won't you, Jaffer ? That reminds 
 me, Goody, have you any more wine left ? " 
 
 Old Goody eourtesied. 
 
 " No, Miss Mur'l. Bless your good heart, I don't 
 think there be. Jaffer, see if they're be any more in the 
 cupboard." 
 
 Jaffer made inspection and reported stores exhausted. 
 
 " Well," said Miss Holt, " I'll send you some more 
 this evening. But do you know, Goody, Dr. Thorne 
 says that port wine is very bad for you, and that I ought 
 to give you medicine instead his medicine ? " 
 
 " Don't you b'lieve him, miss ! " exclaimed old Goody, 
 eagerly. " The doctor don't understand uiy complaint, 
 I be sure he doesn't. The port wine don't do me no 
 harm, miss, it do me a sight o ' good. Ah, miss, that 
 old doctor bean't got any sense in him left, he be so old." 
 
 Doctor Thorne wanted a good score years to old 
 Goody's age. 
 
 " Well," said Miss Holt, laughing, "you ought to
 
 36 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 know what does you the most good, so you shall have 
 the wine." 
 
 " Bless your good heart, Miss Mur'l. Jaffer, make 
 your best bow, make your best bow to Miss Mur'l, 
 Jaffer." 
 
 Jaffer complied by placing his hand at the back of his 
 thickhead and jerking it forward twice in half a minute. 
 
 Muriel patted the boy's head, smiled a good-by to 
 the old woman and left them reveling in benedictory 
 exclamations. 
 
 By this time the sun had got quite hot, and the larks 
 flitting upwards congratulated each other on the beauty 
 of the weather in joyful bursts of song. 
 
 Muriel Holt paused at the open door to gaze upwards, 
 shading her eyes with her hand. 
 
 As she stood thus she made as beautiful a picture as 
 any of Mr. Vandike's patrons could desire to see, and an 
 old man, bent rather with age, and dressed in a shep- 
 herd smock, passing up the lane, stopped to look at her, 
 touching his weather-stained hat as she turned to look 
 at him in return. 
 
 " Good-even, miss," said the old man. 
 
 " Good-even," returned Miss Holt. 
 
 " Can ee tell me which be the Holme farm?" said 
 the old fellpw, uncovering his head and wiping his 
 wrinkled forehead with a cotton handkerchief colored 
 with all the hues of the rainbow, and a few more in- 
 vented by the manufacturer.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 37 
 
 " Yes," said Muriel, and added, smiling to herself ; 
 ' It seems as if I were doomed to play fingerpost to in- 
 quiring strangers. Yes, that is the Holme, there yon- 
 der, that old house among the trees." 
 
 The old man shaded his face and peered down the 
 valley, then, with a similar gesture to the younger 
 stranger, he cast his glance round the land and mut- 
 tered: 
 
 " Good pasturage, but the home be a poor, deft sort 
 of place, miss," and he shook his head with a sigh. 
 
 " The house is old, and has been empty for some 
 time," said Miss Holt. " But it is let now to a Mr. 
 Leigh ; I believe. Are you seeking him ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the old man, then looked up and cor- 
 rected himself, " and yet I bean't, miss, for he won't 
 be here till the morrow. I be his shepherd, miss, and 
 were his father's before him, poor Maester William 
 Leigh ; him as be dead." 
 
 And the old man lifted his hat again with a simple 
 gesture of regret and affection. 
 
 " You were his shepherd ? " said Miss Holt, seating 
 herself on a felled tree and making room for the old man 
 beside her with that simple, kindly grace with which 
 the better class of country folk bend the hearts of their 
 humbler brethren to them. " Tell me all about it." 
 
 The old man, nothing loth, took off his hat again and 
 sighed. 
 
 Muriel sprang up.
 
 38 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Stop a moment ; you are tired, and must be thirsty. 
 I'll get you a cup of cider." 
 
 So saying she returned to old Goody's cottage, pro- 
 cured the cup of cider and returned with it. 
 
 The old man took it from her fair, plump hands with 
 his old, wrinkled ones, and muttered a blessing on 
 her. 
 
 " The house may be old and deft, but the young 
 master will have kind hearts about him, missie," he said, 
 nodding his head. 
 
 Muriel blushed, though she could not have told why, 
 for she was used to such speeches from her cottagers, 
 and one extra one from a strange old man could not 
 have affected her. Perhaps it was its connection with 
 the young " maester," -in whom and whose affairs she 
 was conscious of feeling a strong and unaccountable 
 interest. 
 
 "This be good cider," said the old man. "Old 
 Maester William was very fondo' the drink, but it was 
 a strange one down our parts." 
 
 " You came from the north ? " said Muriel. 
 
 The old man nodded. 
 
 "Right away north Musslewitch. Old Maester 
 William's folks a' had Musslewitch Farm ever sin' 
 Musslewitch were Musslewitch. Ah, me ! ah, me ! we 
 old uns do see strange things that be uncommon sad. 
 To think of a Leigh leavin' the Musslewitch and coom 
 to a deft barn o' a place like yonder."
 
 FARMER HOLTS DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 And he jerked his finger over his shoulder at the dilap- 
 idated Holme, 
 
 " Not as I mean to growlify at th' pasture, which do 
 seem good enough, and I hope a blessin' will wait upon 
 the sheep. Most like too the land be good enow, 
 though I think I did heer the young master say the 
 soil was starved." 
 
 Muriel nodded, and with her eyes fixed on the dim 
 landscape beyond the old man's profile, said, dreamily : 
 
 " But about the Leighs ; why does not Mr. Leigh 
 the younger, I mean continue the Musslewitch what 
 a queer name Farm ? " 
 
 " The old man shook his head. 
 
 " It bean't his no longer, miss. Old Master William 
 he did lose a deal o' money a speculation or summat 
 o' that sort. Some says he did lose as much as a thou- 
 sand in one day. Think o' that, miss ! But it were all 
 kept quiet, and old Maester William wore took ill like 
 a summat, the doctors said, in his head. He wore 
 frettin' and fumin' I knew, for I sees he didn't take no 
 kind o' int'rest in the sheep, and depen' on it, miss, it's 
 all queer and wrong like when a body do neglect th' 
 sheep. Well, he dies, does Maester William, and they 
 reads the will, which he laves it all farm and all to the 
 young Maester Wyuter. But, Heaven bless yer, before 
 the body wore cold in the grave half a dozen Liumon 
 chaps coom down, and they says the farm, and the stock, 
 and everything stick and stone, was theirs. They'd
 
 40 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 got a bill o' sale, or some such thing, and they had their 
 way. Heaven, what a weepin' and wailin' and gnashin' 
 o' teeth there was aboot the country, and more betoken 
 soon arter, for Mistress Leigh falls sick o' the troubles 
 and she dies, rest her soul ! Then the young maester 
 he has to turn out wi' just the money as belonged to 
 the dead mistress, and which the Lunnon chaps couldna 
 touch, and he buys this farm." 
 
 *' And he comes to-morrow ? " said Muriel, whose 
 soft, gentle heart was inexpressibly touched by the story 
 of sorrow and trouble. " Poor young man ! Well, I 
 am sure you have a good master, for you seem so at- 
 tached to him, gaffer, and if at any time you want any- 
 thing, hurdles or such like, or or anything else, in fact 
 anything whatever, come to me, Muriel Holt, at Ruby- 
 wood Farm, down there in the Hollow. Good-by."
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 41 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 And the spring came slowly up this way. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 One in whom persuasion and belief 
 Had ripened into faith. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 NEXT morning Farmer Holt stood in his avenue 
 solemnly and carefully staring at two enormous ruts 
 made in the roadway. 
 
 They were caused by the travel of the wagons taking 
 the furniture and effects of Mr. Wynter Leigh, his 
 neighbor, to the Holme. A few hours after Miss 
 Muriel, coming from her bath-room, where she had 
 been reveling like a canary in cool spring water, saw 
 two columns of smoke twisting from the Holme chim- 
 neys, and knew that the old shepherd's master had 
 arrived. 
 
 Later on came a drove of cattle and sheep. 
 
 Then there echoed through the vale the patter of 
 of hammers and the creak of saws, 
 
 " Doing the repairs," said the farmer, grimly. "Poor 
 young chap." 
 
 "Have you seen him yet, father?" asked Muriel. 
 
 * No, lass," he replied. " Have you ?"
 
 42 FAKMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " No, but I thought I had, for yesterday a stranger 
 startled me at the stile, and stopped to ask about the 
 village. I naturally concluded that he was our new 
 neighbor, but afterwards he asked the way to Hopwood 
 and went straight to the footpath without going near 
 the Holme. Then I saw an old shepherd of Mr. Leigh's, 
 who said his master would not be here till to-day." 
 
 " The wains have made two nice ruts in the avenue 
 road," said Farmer Holt, balancing his knife thought- 
 fully. 
 
 " That couldn't be helped, I suppose, and Mr. Leigh's 
 men will put it all right. It is his avenue, isn't it, 
 father?" 
 
 " No, mine," said Farmer Holt, stoutly. " But the 
 law of this land gives him the right to drive the cattle 
 and drag his heavy wains through it ; in other words, 
 lass, the law allows me to pay for it and keep it in re- 
 pair and him to use it." 
 
 " That's a strange law, father," said Muriel. 
 
 " 'Tain't without a bedfellow, lass," said the farmer, 
 curtly. " Some of them Parliament chaps must a been 
 soft-headed when that law was made, and there's a good 
 many of 'em soft-headed now. Hast seen anything of 
 Heatherbridge this morn ? " 
 
 Muriel blushed for a second and looked hard at her 
 father. 
 
 " No, father." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the farmer, innocently. " He said as he
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 were coming to look at the young colt, but he hasn't 
 been near. Don't like young men to break their words. 
 Old Digby Heatherbridge, his father, would a sooner 
 died first, but the present set o' men beant so particular, 
 they tell me. Where's the cow and calf he give you 
 gone from the yard ? Didn't it suit you to leave 'em 
 there ? Best place for 'em, lass." 
 
 " I I sent them back, father," said Muriel, quietly. 
 
 " Sent 'em back ? " repeated her father. " What a 
 wilful, changeful girl you be, contrary as a colt ; there 
 be no knowing your mind for a day. Why, didn't I 
 hear ye say ye'd give anything for the calf ? " 
 
 " Yes, father," pleaded Muriel, " but " Here she 
 stopped, and only added to herself, " but I didn't bargain 
 for the owner as well ! " 
 
 " Well, well," said Farmer Holt. " Wise men can 
 understand everything but a woman, they do say ; and 
 I think they're right. 
 
 Then Muriel slipped away and the old man settled 
 into his chair for his bottle of port and comfortable 
 snooze. 
 
 The port came but not the snooze. 
 
 For some minutes he sat in his chair and stared at the 
 table, which shone like a piece of mahogany mounted in 
 glass, and reflected his English, genial face like a 
 Roman mirror. 
 
 Then he dipped his plump forefinger into his wine- 
 glass and drew a plan with it on the shining surface ; a
 
 44 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 square, with a slice, neat and compact, out of one 
 corner. 
 
 This represented the plan of his land, the estate of 
 Rubywood. 
 
 Farmer Holt looked at it hard and unblushingly for 
 full three minutes, then he sighed, shook his head and 
 finished the plan with another supply of moisture. 
 
 "It's an awkward corner," he mused, beneath his 
 breath, scratching his head with his left hand and keep- 
 ing his right ready to retrace his plan if need be. " It's 
 an awkward corner. Take them fences down and that 
 bit o' land in and Rubywood 'ud be square and proper. 
 As it is, it ain't any shape to speak of, neither round* 
 nor a triangle, nor an oval, nor anything but a spoilt 
 square. Take that bit of the Howe land in and there's 
 the square, complete and perfect. And he won't sell it 
 me, and his father wouldn't sell it me, though I offered 
 to cover it with crown pieces. Them Heatherbridges 
 always were obstinate. 
 
 " But I think young Alfred is a little softer-minded. 
 He wouldn't hold out if he hadn't made up his mind to 
 part with it for something worth having, and it ain't 
 money. Young Heatherbridge is a decent young chap, 
 he comes o' a good stock ; there's nothin' like blood in 
 England, blood and money together can beat anything 
 in the whole world, and young Heatherbridge has got 
 'em both. 
 
 " Yes, he's a likely young chap. Muriel's growing a
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 45 
 
 fine girl she'll be a woman directly, take us by a sur- 
 prise one mornin'. Daresay they think her a woman 
 already. It was mighty kind of Alfred to send her the 
 cow and t' calf. Wonder what she sent it back for ? 
 You can't learn a woman, or be knowin' about a weather- 
 cock. Yes, Muriel's growing into a woman, bless her 
 heart, and Alfred's a likely, handsome young fellow. 
 
 "Take that corner in and there you are, a square 
 complete and perfect." 
 
 And Farmer Holt wiped the plan out with a sweep 
 of his hand, and resigned himself to his after-dinner nap. 
 
 Muriel from the little latticed window of her own 
 little bower of a room, leaned her head upon her hands 
 and looked down the vale. 
 
 She was thinking in an aimless, purposeless, dreamy 
 sort of way, of the new-comer at the Holme, and wrap- 
 ping round him, girl like, a glamour gotten from the 
 pathetic narrative of the old shepherd. 
 
 How lonely he must feel, how sad ! His mother and 
 father just dead, his estate lost, and himself alone and 
 friendless, among strangers ! 
 
 In this mood, Mr. Vandike, tripping with the gait of 
 a Hyde Park dandy up the well-kept gravel path, was 
 not very welcome to her. 
 
 But Muriel was all good nature as well as unsophis- 
 ticated innocence, and gave him a pleasant little nod 
 and smile in answer to his sudden start and evident 
 glance of artistic admiration.
 
 46 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Now, really, Miss Holt, it is too bad ! I really think 
 you do it on purpose ! Every time I see you it is in an 
 attitude of grace and witchery. You are provoking 
 enough to send an artist mad. If I could paint you as 
 you lean there framed in that delicious cranky old win- 
 dow I should make my fortune." 
 
 " I'm very sorry, and I beg you will forgive me, Mr. 
 Vandike, though I don't in the least understand what 
 1 have done ! Is it a compliment ? You must put 
 them in broader light and shade, as you say over 
 your pictures ; I am not a fine London lady, you 
 know ' 
 
 " Bat you are the finest country one I have ever seen, 
 Miss Holt ! " 
 
 " Thank you," said Muriel, composedly, but with a 
 merry smile. " That's much nicer. I can understand 
 that. What does some one say a compliment is ? 'A 
 falsehood wrapped in counterfeit truth.' You should 
 remember that definition, Mr. Vandike. * A falsehood 
 wrapped in counterfeit truth ! ' : 
 
 He laughed with her, and rather louder. She held up 
 her finger. 
 
 " Hush, father is asleep, please do not wake him ; he 
 enjoys his nap after dinner so much." 
 
 " Nap after dinner ! " exclaimed the exquisite. " Did 
 ever any one ever hear of such a thing ? in the middle 
 of the day, too! Why, Miss Holt, it's perfectly 
 unnatural ! "
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 47 
 
 " Oh, no, it's not ; look at that cow there, and the two 
 pigs, and the calf ; and there's a bird asleep, and every- 
 thing is asleep after dinner, excepting foolish people. 
 I ought to be asleep ! " 
 
 ' Thank you," said Mr. Vandike, " that's a pretty 
 plain conge*. Did you mean it? " 
 
 " What's the queer word, ' conge* ' ? Let me think ; 
 I have learned French, you know, but I have forgotten 
 it. Oh, no, I didn't mean you to go, but if you stay 
 you must not talk, and you must not smoke, because 
 father doesn't like tobacco in the day time, and you 
 mustn't walk about, because you will scrunch the gravel 
 and make too much noise, and you mustn't in fact you 
 mustn't do anything ! " 
 
 Mr. Vandike laughed softly, then sighed. 
 
 " I shall never get you serious, Miss Holt," he said. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Come and see me when the puddings don't turn out 
 right, I shall be serious enough then ; and now good- 
 by," and she raised her hand to the latch of the win- 
 dow. 
 
 u Stop a minute ! " said Mr. Vandike ; " do you know- 
 that Mr. Wynter Leigh has come." 
 
 " Yes," said Muriel, almost impatiently. 
 
 She was beginning to be angry with herself for being 
 so interested in the stranger, and angry with all who 
 heightened that interest. 
 
 With the window closed and the picture vanished
 
 48 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 from the frame there was nothing for Mr. Vandike but 
 to beat a retreat, and this he did, sighing. 
 
 Tea at Rubywood was perhaps the most comfortable 
 meal of the day. 
 
 Had you proposed to Farmer Holt that he should re- 
 tire to the drawing-room and have a cup of tea, and a 
 thin slice of bread-and-butter, which he was to balance 
 on his knee a la Belgravian swell, he would have 
 fainted, or more likely sworn. 
 
 He dined early, at half-past one, napped afterwards, 
 strolled round the farm and came in at half-past five, 
 ready for a substantial tea of best Bohea, cold ham, 
 eggs, strawberry jam whole strawberries, luscious and 
 irresistible, not an indistinguishable pulp of sweetness 
 and piles of fresh-buttered bread. 
 
 That night, just as they sat down to this substantial 
 tea, in came Mr. Heatherbridge. 
 
 He looked shyly at Muriel and hesitated. 
 
 Indeed he was intruding, he knew he was, indeed ! 
 
 But the farmer gave him a genial and marked wel- 
 come, and very shyly he sat down between father and 
 daughter and unfolded his news. 
 
 " I've been on to Hop wood," he said, " Farmer Holt, 
 and I've seen a most uncommon sight." 
 
 " What's that ? " said the farmer. " A pig-headed 
 lady or double-tailed heifer ? " 
 
 " Neither," said young Heatherbridge, " but a pair of 
 steam engines."
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 49 
 
 The farmer grunted. 
 
 He held steam and the machinery it sets in motion in 
 utter contempt and abhorrence. 
 
 " Uncommon ugly sight," he said, curtly. 
 
 " Maybe," said young Heatherbridge, " and certainly 
 they weren't handsome to look at, but if they do all 
 they say they'll do why they're wonderful things* 
 There were plowing, reaping and threshing machines, 
 and I cannot tell you what else " 
 
 " Rubbish ! " interrupted Farmer Holt. " Don't you 
 be took with their outrageous notions ! Your father 
 would have snapped his fingers at 'em as I do mine." 
 
 And the farmer did snap his fingers, and loudly. 
 
 " Steam ! Steam plows, and harrows, and flails, and 
 mowers ! Nonsense ! It's downright wicked ! What 
 d'ye think Heaven sent strong men and women into the 
 world for if it wasn't to till the ground and sow and 
 reap the crops ? If it had been meant as we should go 
 puffing across the fields with a couple of iron elephants, 
 ranting and roaring, blowing out smoke and dropping 
 coal and cinders, we should 'a' had a first-class set 
 of steam engines created for us. It's downright 
 wicked." 
 
 Young Heatherbridge shook his head. 
 
 " Well," he said, slowly, and evidently reluctant to 
 run counter to such a strongly expressed opinion of his 
 hoped for father-in-law, " well, I daresay you're right ,- 
 it's only reason ; no doubt we should have had 'em
 
 60 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 created as you say. But there they are, and a great 
 fuss they're making. There was quite a crowd round 
 them." 
 
 " I know," said Farmer Holt, nodding his head, " I 
 heard of them, but I don't disgrace myself going and 
 staring at the monstrosities. 
 
 " I saw young Leigh there," said Heatherbridge, still 
 on the theme and staring at the fire. 
 
 The farmer took his pipe out of his mouth. 
 
 " Oh, you did, did you?" he said, " now I do hope 
 we ain't got one of those crack-brained harem-scarem 
 new-notioned chaps down among us. I hate 'em like 
 poison. Staring at the machines, was he? Pretty 
 thing if he goes and buys one or two and drags 'em up 
 and down the avenue ! There are two large ruts deep 
 enough to bury an ox in a'ready." 
 
 Young Heatherbridge opened his mouth to speak 
 when the door opened and Jane put in her head to say 
 that Mr. Leigh wanted a word with Farmer Holt. 
 
 " Show him in, girl," said the farmer, and Jane, step- 
 ping aside, there entered Wynter Leigh. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge rose, as did Farmer Holt. 
 
 Muriel sat still a moment, then, in country fashion, 
 dropped a little stately courtesy and drew a chair for- 
 ward for the visitor. 
 
 Farmer Holt shook hands with the new-comer and 
 Mr. Heatherbridge did the same. 
 
 "That's my daughter," Mr. Leigh," said Farmer
 
 FAEMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 51 
 
 Holt, waving his pipe with pardonable pride at Muriel, 
 pale and beautiful as a white rose. 
 
 Mr. Leigh bowed gravely, and smiled almost as 
 gravely. 
 
 " I have had the honor of meeting Miss Holt before, 
 sir," he said, seating himself. "At the stile in the 
 lane." 
 
 " Oh, it was you," said the farmer, " was it ? She 
 said she thought it was." 
 
 Mr. Leigh looked at Muriel. 
 
 Muriel, for no earthly reason, blushed. 
 
 Then Mr. Leigh opened up the business of his visit. 
 
 As he spoke he turned his face to the light, and 
 Muriel, who could con his face without being observed, 
 decided that it was a handsome one, notwithstanding 
 its gravity and its sadness. It was pale, and there 
 were dark shadows, as of tears, beneath the eyes, but the 
 eyes themselves were fine, deep, frank and earnest ones, 
 and the mouth, though firm almost to obstinacy, was 
 well cut and pleasing. 
 
 " I came at this unseasonable hour, Mr. Holt, to ask 
 you a favor," he said, as quietly as he had spoken in the 
 lane. " Your cattle have broken down the hurdles at 
 the end of the avenue and got into my straw yard. My 
 man has sorted them out as best he can, but as mine are 
 new purchases and I am not sufficiently familiar with 
 them I thought it only right to walk up and tell 
 
 you."
 
 52 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Farmer Holt rose and put down his pipe ready to act 
 on the moment, prompt as usual, then suddenly sat down 
 again, reminded of hospitality, and asked Mr. Leigh if 
 he had taken tea. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Leigh, " I thank you." 
 
 " Let me give you a cup," said Muriel. 
 
 " Thank you," he said, and it was evident that he 
 accepted for fear of seeming cold and churlish. 
 
 Muriel handed him his tea, and the three farmers got 
 into conversation of course on farming. 
 
 The fact was Farmer Holt was anxious to ascertain 
 if Mr. Leigh was orthodox as he called it and not a 
 il new-notions " man, so he put this question during a 
 lull in the conversation. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Leigh, how do you take your courses up 
 north way ? " 
 
 Mr. Leigh answered straightforwardly. 
 
 " First year we lie fallow and sow roots, such as man- 
 gold-wurzel, or turnips ; next year we sow barley or 
 spring corn; next year we take clover; next year, 
 wheat ; next year, oats ; then again turnips and feed 
 sheep." 
 
 Farmer Holt gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 That was all right so far. 
 
 Muriel, hearing and understanding that sigh, felt 
 glad, though she scarcely knew why. 
 
 Mr. Leigh rose. 
 
 " I hear," said the farmer, *' that you have been sniff-
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 ing round these new-fangled machines at Hopwood. 
 What do you think of them ? " 
 
 Mr. Leigh smiled. 
 
 " I haven't bought or hired any," he said, holding out 
 his hand. 
 
 Farmer Holt rose, put down his pipe, and the three 
 coated and hatted for the avenue. 
 
 " Good night, Miss Holt," said Mr. Leigh. 
 
 " Good night," said Muriel, giving him her soft hand. 
 
 And so ended Mr. Leigh's first visit to Rubywood.
 
 64 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; 
 In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; 
 In the spring a lovelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; 
 In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of 
 love. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 THE three gentlemen having departed to look after 
 and separate the mingled kine, Muriel, left alone, 
 naturally commenced mentally to criticise the new 
 neighbor. 
 
 Jane, entering at the moment, assisted at the criti- 
 cism, unasked, and by elevation of the hands, expressed 
 her unsophisticated and candid admiration. 
 
 " Law ! what a handsome man, miss, and what a quiet- 
 spoken gentleman ! He be like the parson, only more 
 pleasin' like. Don't 'ee take to him, miss, a'ready ? " 
 
 " No, you silly girl," replied Miss Muriel, smiling. 
 " Put down the water and go back to the kitchen. Mr. 
 Leigh's bewildered you." 
 
 Jane then retreated, and Muriel took up her needle- 
 work and waited for her father's return. 
 
 He returned alone Mr. Heatherbridge having taken 
 the near cut to the Howe and not in the best of 
 humors.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 55 
 
 " Cattle a got all over the place," he growled. " This 
 Mister Leigh came upon us so suddenly that I never 
 thought of the old fences. Wish I'd bought the Holme 
 as I thought o' doing ; I don't take to new neighbors ! " 
 
 Muriel said nothing ; the farmer's little bursts of irri- 
 tational ways dispersed the quicker if left alone, and 
 grumbling at intervals, he finished his pipe, drank his 
 regulation night-cap of Scotch whisky grog and re- 
 treated to bed. 
 
 A week passed arid Muriel tried to persuade herself 
 that she had forgotten the new tenant, or at least had 
 lost all interest in him. 
 
 No recluse could have kept closer to his prescribed 
 hermitage than did Mr. Wynter Leigh to his farm. 
 
 If she caught a glimpse of him at all it was at a dis- 
 tance, when he would be tramping over a meadow, 
 riding across a field, or bending over some young 
 lambs. 
 
 Mr. Vandike, who declared that he meant to paint a 
 picture of the farmhouse, with the new tenant in the 
 foreground, gave vent to his disappointment at not be- 
 ing able to catch his model stationary. 
 
 " I never saw such a creature ; looks as if he had all 
 the world on his back, scarcely time to give me a civil 
 answer, Miss Holt. Would you believe it? I asked 
 him to give me leave to paint the left wing the ruined 
 one, you know and what do you think he replied? 
 1 Paint it off the fac* of the earth if you like, sir,' said
 
 56 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 he, * for it's sadly in the way of my barn.' He knows 
 nothing of art." 
 
 " Quite enough if he knows farming," growled the 
 farmer, who came up in time to hear the lamentation. 
 
 " And if he doesn't I should think he is going the 
 way to learn it," said young Vandike. " He is up with 
 the lark there's one bird under my window that takes 
 its time from him and the last to go to bed. And as 
 for tramping about down hill up dale, I'll buck him to 
 walk Jemmy Hernshaw off his legs in a couple of days." 
 
 "And who's Jemmy Hernshaw? " asked Miss Muriel. 
 
 " Jemmy Hernshaw is the champion pedestrian, Miss 
 Holt," said Mr. Vandike, politely, but pityingly. " You 
 never heard of him ? " 
 
 " No," said Muriel, as she ran indoors ; " don't wish 
 to hear." 
 
 Having received what he called his usual grace, Mr r 
 Vandike walked off sighing. 
 
 The farmer looked after him, leaning on his stick, and 
 shook his head. 
 
 " There's truth in what that harum-scarum chap says ; 
 young Leigh is sticking to it like wax, lass. He works 
 harder than any man at the farm, and he's hardly time 
 for a word so much as ' good morning.' What's more, 
 he's put the fences up himself, and that's uncommon, 
 polite." 
 
 The farmer made this admission, but it was a reluc- 
 tant one, for on some unaccountable ground he had
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 5? 
 
 taken a dislike to his near neighbor; I am afraid because 
 he was his near neighbor and part proprietor of his 
 precious avenue. 
 
 Muriel said nothing as usual. In all praise or 
 blame of Mr. Leigli her part was silence. 
 
 In justice, she told herself, she could play echo to no 
 opinion ; she knew nothing of Mr. Leigh, good or bad, 
 and it was not for her to speak. 
 
 A fortnight passed. 
 
 The ewes were lambing and the shepherds were busy. 
 
 Mr. Leigh, being poor, possessed only one shepherd 
 and a lad as auxiliary, and consequently was compelled 
 to bear a hand, which he did, adding the work to his 
 already long list of labors stoically and cheerfully. 
 
 Thus Muriel, from her window, which overlooked the 
 Holme Pasturage, could see his stalwart figure passing 
 among the ewes, and reprehensibly fell into the habit 
 of leaning against the sill and contemplating it. 
 
 " He works from morning till night, and often from 
 night to morning again, and takes no pleasure. Indeed, 
 where is he to get it, without a soul to speak to in that 
 old house, and not a voice to cheer him ? Poor Mr. 
 Leigh ! " 
 
 Meanwhile poor Mr. Leigh, quite unconscious of the 
 pity his industry had awakened in the tender bosom of 
 his neighbor's daughter, toiled on, and very likely would 
 have forgotten her existence had not an incident 
 occurred which brought about a meeting.
 
 58 
 
 Muriel was queen of her own dairy, and made the 
 best butter in the county so said the farmer, and, 
 though a too partial judge, he was a duly qualified one. 
 Women, even in matters of strict business, must have 
 their little favoritisms, and, of course, Miss Holt had a 
 favorite cow. 
 
 Daisy Spot, so called, it is presumed, from a white 
 star upon the patient creature's bony forehead, was 
 milked by her mistress's own hands an honor which 
 Daisy so little appreciated that she never lost an oppor- 
 tunity of overturning the pail. 
 
 One afternoon in the second week of Mr. Leigh's 
 arrival, Muriel had carried her pail down to the paddock, 
 milked Daisy and stood with one bare, shapely arm 
 resting on its broad back and the other strained at the 
 full pail ready for the start home. 
 
 In this attitude Mr. Leigh came upon her. 
 
 However curt he might be in his intercourse with 
 men, there was no remission in his politeness to the 
 gentler sex. 
 
 His head was bared in an instant and he turned from 
 the path down which he was speeding, hat in hand. 
 
 Muriel extended her hand across the cow Daisy re- 
 fused to move and with a smile he took it. 
 
 " Good evening, Miss Holt. A full pail ? " 
 
 "Very," said Muriel, "see!" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " A good cow," he said, scanning Daisy's points with
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 59 
 
 his calm gray eyes. " And your favorite, doubtless. 
 Are you going to the farm ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Muriel, lifting the pail. 
 
 " Let me carry it for you," he said. 
 
 " No, thank you," said Muriel, " I am used to it ; it 
 is no great weight " 
 
 But very gently, but also very firmly, he took the 
 pail from her and walked along as if he were carrying a 
 paper balloon. 
 
 " You are very busy now," said Muriel, walking at 
 his side and wondering why men should be so much 
 stronger than women. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " I am short-handed, and the lambs 
 are troublesome." 
 
 " Are they all doing well? " asked she. 
 
 " Yes, very," he said. " No fault to find with the 
 cattle," he added, gravely. 
 
 She noticed the emphasis and the distinction. 
 
 " Is the land not satisfactory ? " she said. 
 
 He laughed a short, curt laugh. 
 
 " No ; far from it," he replied. " It has been starved. 
 I can scarcely believe, looking at that field," nodding 
 at some Rubywood wheat, " and that," waving his 
 hand to a piece of the Holme land, " that they lie so 
 close together." 
 
 Muriel sighed softly. 
 
 " It will be hard work for you," she said. 
 
 " Yes, that is a comfort," he replied.
 
 60 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 She looked up surprised. 
 
 " A comfort ? " she repeated. " One generally 
 counts that a trouble." 
 
 " No," he said, " not to me. Work is my only pleas- 
 ure, and the harder the better. An idle man is an un- 
 happy one " 
 
 " And one too hard worked is a weary one," inter- 
 rupted Muriel, gently. 
 
 " All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," he 
 repeated, smiling. " That proverb's not unqualified 
 truth, Miss Holt ; there are few things you can take to 
 excess that will do you less harm than hard work." 
 
 " I can't argue," said Muriel, " but I do not confess 
 myself convinced." 
 
 " No," he said, " that is the vanquished's privilege. 
 But how is it that you, who are an advocate for less 
 work, fail to carry out your doctrine in practice ? This 
 pail is too heavy for your hands," and he glanced 
 gravely at the small fists grasping the milking-stool. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " You underestimate my strength," she said. " I can 
 carry that pail easily. I wish you would let me now. 
 I am taking you from the Holme." 
 
 " No," he said, " I can cut across by the foot-path, 
 and I would rather carry it, please. A magnificent sun- 
 set. The marquis's trees over yonder are turned to 
 gold, if he but knew it." 
 
 " You are an admirer of nature ? " said Muriel.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 61 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Leigh. "An humble one. Who's 
 not?" 
 
 "Farmers very often/' replied Muriel. "They grow 
 too accustomed to all the varying changes, and view 
 them from a money-making light. The clouds mean 
 nothing to them but showers for the young wheat, the 
 noonday sun but the ripening power for the full ear, the 
 thunder-storm counts as nothing more than a destroyer 
 of blight, and a sunset, well, I suppose that being of 
 little palpable use in agriculture passes unregarded." 
 
 Mr. Leigh was guilty of a prolonged, genuine stare. 
 
 Was this the daughter of a country farmer or a pupil 
 of Minerva philosophy in the disguise of a dairymaid 
 with a milking-stool for stylus ? 
 
 "There are farmers and farmers," he replied, after a 
 pause, during which he allowed his astonishment to 
 politely evaporate. "I am not an enthusiast one in a 
 neighborhood is sufficient, and you have Mr. Vandike 
 but I love nature ; indeed I have nothing else to love." 
 
 A strange speech, savoring of effeminacy from a 
 strong, healthy man's lips, but it had nothing about it 
 ridiculous coming from him, for it was simple, solemn 
 truth, and was spoken as truth should be gravely and 
 without strain for effect. 
 
 Muriel looked straight before her and then up at a 
 starling. 
 
 "You are alone in the old house?" she said. 
 
 "Quite," he said, "save for an old housekeeper."
 
 ;62 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 "Do you not feel solitary and low-spirited?" she 
 asked, looking at him seriously, and then away at the 
 grim old farmstead and its fallen shutter. 
 
 "No/* he said, with a low laugh. "As I never take 
 refuge in it until I am thoroughly tired I am too sleepy 
 to indulge in melancholia. Now you understand why I 
 need hard work." 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "I was thinking " she said, then stopped. 
 
 He looked at her patiently and inquiringly. 
 
 "That my father would be glad to see you at Ruby- 
 wood any time, any evening. We are almost always 
 alone, and " 
 
 "Thank you," he said, gratefully. "Do not think 
 me churlish if I refuse, but at present what with my 
 lambs and my poor land I have too much work even for 
 such a pleasure as you hold out to me." 
 
 The refusal was certainly not given churlishly, but it 
 was given firmly, and Muriel did not repeat or press the 
 invitation more warmly. 
 
 By this time they had reached the dairy. 
 
 Mr. Leigh set the pail down on the threshold and 
 stood hat in hand ready to say good-bye. 
 
 Muriel held out her hand with a slight blush and a 
 simple bnt kindly "thank yon." 
 
 Mr. Leigh took the hand and bent over it, then, witK 
 an answering "good-night," turned round, and, in doing 
 BO, nearly knocked down Mr. Heatherbridge, who had
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 63 
 
 come up the path in time to see the relinquishment of 
 the milking-pail and polite farewell. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Mr. Leigh, with his grave 
 smile. 
 
 "I I beg yours," said Mr. Heatherbridge, holding 
 out his hand but not very graciously, and with a ques- 
 tioning look and a straightening of his lips that were 
 anything but friendly. 
 
 "A fine evening," said Mr. Leigh, passing on as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "Yes, very," said Mr. Heatherbridge, passing on, too, 
 but with a much less composed stride, and with a face 
 uncomfortably agitated. 
 
 Muriel, who had watched the encounter, now turned 
 to the door and nodded, smiling. 
 
 "How gently you came up! I never heard you." 
 
 "No?" said Mr. Heatherbridge rather grimly. "Too 
 much engaged, perhaps; indeed, perhaps, I'd better 
 have waited awhile?" 
 
 "What for?" said Muriel, in perfect innocence. 
 
 "Oh nothing," replied Mr. Heatherbridge, rather 
 inconsistently. "I am sorry if I interrupted, though." 
 
 "Interrupted oh, you mean Mr. Leigh. N"o, indeed 
 you did not. He had carried my milk-pail from the 
 meadow. An unnecessary piece of politeness, but still a 
 kind one. He thought it too heavy for me." And as 
 she lifted it on to the shelf she laughed musically. 
 
 "Ah, northern fine manners, no doubt," said Mr.
 
 64 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Heatherbridge. "We men can scarcely get a civil an- 
 swer from him, indeed." 
 
 "His politeness is all the more flattering, then," said 
 Muriel, laughing light-heartedly. "But why are you 
 BO doleful to-night? Has anything gone wrong at the 
 Howe?" 
 
 "No, nothing," he said, coming up and leaning 
 against the door. "Nothing at the Howe leastways 
 that I know of ; a master's eyes can't be in every corner. 
 But there's something wrong over Tidesdale. Aunt 
 Dorothy is taken ill, and I am summoned there post 
 haste." 
 
 "Post haste!" repeated Muriel, all anxiety, reproach, 
 and astonishment; "Then why haven't you gone? Oh, 
 dear me, how can you lean there as if nothing was the 
 matter !" 
 
 "I haven't seen her for three years," pleaded the 
 young man. 
 
 "All the more reason that you should hasten, for fear 
 you may never see her again," said Muriel, gently but 
 firmly. 
 
 "Tidesdale is forty miles across country," said the 
 lover, looking up imploringly. "I shall be away two, 
 three days, perhaps a week. I couldn't go without say- 
 ing I was going, without leaving word with the farmer." 
 
 Muriel moved impatiently. 
 
 A man who would dangle at her heels for love of her 
 while a dying relative called in vain, was little likely to
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 65 
 
 win her heart by that sort of devotion, if only Mr. 
 Heatherbridge could have seen it. 
 
 But he was mentally blind, with a lover's natural ob- 
 tuseness and a fresh attack of jealous}*. 
 
 It was quite bad enough to leave the coast clear for 
 three daj^s to that wooden-headed painter fellow, but 
 simply intolerable to do so with a new and more for- 
 midable suitor in the field, for of course the ardent Mr. 
 Heatherbridge could not contemplate the possibility of 
 any man coming within the radius of Muriel's bright 
 glances without bending the knee, least of all a man 
 who commenced thus early by carrying milk-pails. 
 
 " Well," said Muriel. Father is in the parlor making 
 up his books ; go and tell him yourself. I am sorry for 
 the poor lady lying waiting for you." 
 
 " Good-by," said Mr. Heatherbridge. " Indeed, I am 
 sorry to go, for I wanted " 
 
 "Good-by," said Muriel, not unkindly but firmly, 
 and the owner of the Howe turned round and walked 
 quickly into the house. 
 
 "Eh," said Farmer Holt, "your Aunt Dorothy 
 Heatherbridge ill ? Go at once, my lad ; why, the farm 
 be worth twenty thousand pounds! 'Sent for you?' 
 Why, Alfred, man, delay's dangerous that's Scripture 
 or something that's equally powerful. Say good-by to 
 Muriel and go at once." 
 
 " I have said good-by to Miss Holt, farmer," said Mr. 
 Heatherbridge as he retreated, and the farmer, catching
 
 66 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the rather dissatisfied tone, looked after him with a dis- 
 quieted countenance. 
 
 "Dorothy Heatherbridge is worth twenty or thirty 
 thousand, and there bean't a nearer kin to her than the 
 lad. Why, he will be the richest man in Berkshire. 
 What's happened with Muriel ! He looked like a three- 
 cornered hat, all points." And, shaking his head, he 
 returned to his columns, the contents of which required 
 " totting up," a result attained only by great travail 
 and mental labor.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 67 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Oh, clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, 
 
 And do not take my tears amiss, 
 For tears must flow to wash away 
 
 A thought that shows so stern as this. 
 Forgive if somewhile I forget 
 
 In woe to come the present bliss, 
 As frighted Proserpine let fall 
 
 Her flowers at the sight of Dis, 
 E'en so the dark and bright will kiss, 
 
 The sunniest things throw gloomiest shade, 
 And there is e'en a happiness 
 
 That makes the heart afraid, 
 
 Hood. 
 
 WITH relief Muriel accepted Mr. Heatherbridge's ab- 
 sence, and welcomed Mr. Leigh's acquaintance with a 
 corresponding amount of pleasure. 
 
 It was an acquaintance that grew rapidly, for after 
 that meeting in the meadow they ran against one an- 
 other frequently. 
 
 The spring grew into summer, with all that delicious 
 splendor of progress which nature alone enjoys and art 
 pants for in vain. 
 
 The fields had clothed themselves with a fine warp 
 and woof of green, waving wheat and barley, the 
 meadows were ankle deep in sweet-scented grass and 
 purple clover.
 
 68 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Down by the brook at the back of the Holme the 
 meads had taken unto themselves garments of gold, and 
 the buttercups were nodding and laughing in the open 
 glades of Hop wood. 
 
 All the Solomons or all the silk looms of Lyons in all 
 their glory could not rival the beauty of the modest 
 wild flowers that Muriel crushed beneath her light, 
 graceful feet at every step, and high in the heavens the 
 lark and the blackbird, the starling and the thrush 
 laughed the sweetest of human minstrels to scorn, 
 and trolled out defiance mingled with pity, as if 
 saying : 
 
 " Sing on, ye children of the earth, ye pigmies. We 
 eing at the gates of Heaven ! " 
 
 In all this beauty the bright English girl and the 
 hard-working, open-hearted, solitary man met often. 
 
 There were pauses in the daily toil for a little rest, 
 a little pleasure, and their rest and pleasure they took 
 often b} r the brook. 
 
 Habit is second nature, and as the afternoon wore 
 round Wynter Leigh grew unconsciously to think and 
 long for a seat on the fallen elm by the babbling stream, 
 and wending thither was almost sure to find Muriel 
 there, seated, perhaps book in hand or standing by tha 
 stream and listening to its murmurs. 
 
 Thus meeting, they talked and grew confidential. 
 
 Wynter Leigh, with the candor of a simple, truthful 
 nature, gradually found a nameless delight in opening
 
 FABMEK HOLT'S DAUGHTEE. 69 
 
 his mind to the eager ears of the beautiful, sympathetic- 
 eyed girl. 
 
 He talked of his old home, of his dead people ; she 
 listened eagerly and shed tears unseen ; she suffered 
 with him. He talked of his favorite dogs, of some 
 ludicrous scene in the northern kitchen ; she laughed 
 with him. He talked again of his hopes, of the luck 
 he had found in his cattle; she rejoiced with him. 
 
 The stream has only one resting-place, and through 
 all its windings and meandering, though it seems to 
 have forgotten its far-away home, it is ever tearing down 
 to the ocean. Such intercourse as this, stray and wander 
 from the straight course as it might, had only one 
 bourne, and that was love. 
 
 One morning Wynter Leigh woke with the truth 
 flashed into his soul. 
 
 He loved Muriel Holt. 
 
 She was the earth's gladness, and without her life 
 had lost its salt. 
 
 To such a man, earnest, single-purposed, such a con- 
 sciousness was momentous. 
 
 He carried the secret with him for three days, looked 
 at his sheep, trampled across his fields, plucked ears of 
 growing corn with it echoing in his mind and thrilling 
 in his ears with each note of the birds. 
 
 On the fourth day he met Muriel, and his heart 
 seemed to leap forth and claim her as its own. 
 
 " Well," he said, as they shook hands, " I thought
 
 70 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 you had neglected the old haunt had grown tired of 
 
 " And me," he had almost added, but stopped short. 
 
 " No," she said ; " I shall never do that, but I have 
 been busy. I am father's housekeeper as well as hig 
 daughter." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " I know." 
 
 Muriel seated herself on the fallen elm ; Wynter 
 Leigh threw himself down almost at her feet, the crushed 
 buttercups clung to him reproachfully but unheeded. 
 
 " Did I not hear the bell tolling this morning ? " he 
 said, after a few moments' silence. 
 
 " Yes," said Muriel, " for Mrs. Dorothy Heather- 
 bridge, Mr. Heatherbridge's aunt. She died last night." 
 
 He looked grave. 
 
 " Mr. Heatherbridge has been away with her, I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 Muriel inclined her head. 
 
 " Yes, he will stay till after the funeral. I have been 
 looking after his turkeys, that has made me so long." 
 
 *' Looking after his turkeys ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes," said Muriel, simply. 
 
 She saw nothing uncommon or significant in the fact. 
 
 " Father promised to look after the farm, and he for- 
 got the turkeys. Poor things ! because they are ugly 
 and only fowls they would have been neglected most 
 like."
 
 FAEMEE HOLT'S DAUGHTEE. 71 
 
 Mr. Leigh looked relieved. 
 
 " You have known Mr. Heatherbridge some time?" 
 he said. 
 
 "Yes, since we were children," replied Muriel. 
 
 " Do you remember our first meeting ? " 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "and how communicative I was. 
 Do you know I thought you were Mr. Leigh until you 
 asked the way to Hopwood, and then passed the Holme 
 without going in ? " 
 
 " Communicative," he said. " You must have thought 
 me inquisitive. Do you know I wanted only to put 
 one question ? " 
 
 " Did you what was it ? " said Muriel. 
 
 " I wanted to ask you who you were," he replied. 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 " I should have told you, and not thought you rude 
 either. Our manners here at Rubywood are what Mr. 
 Vandike calls unsophisticated." 
 
 " Mr. Vandike expresses his unflattering opinions 
 freely," he said, quietly. 
 
 " He is very good-natured," she said. 
 
 " That's high praise ; how it would gratify him, or 
 any one, to hear you say it. What are you reading ? " 
 
 She held the book back downwards, and he took it 
 from her. 
 
 " Browning," he said, glancing at it, and looking up 
 at her thoughtfully. " And you understand it? Why, 
 I wonder, when to so many it is an enigma? "
 
 72 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ** That is a compliment," said Muriel, with an un- 
 grateful frown. " Give me back my book, please." 
 
 He held up the book, and as she took it their hands 
 met. 
 
 It was the tiny hole in the outwork of calm, and the 
 tide of passion swept through. 
 
 His strong hand closed on the book, fingers and all, 
 and he sprang to his feet. 
 
 She looked up, innocently enough, then quickly 
 lowered her eyes, trembling and half-frightened, for it 
 was the first time she had seen perfect love in a man's 
 face, and there is a sort of grandeur in it that approaches 
 the awful. 
 
 "Muriel," he said, in a low, quick voice, bending 
 over her and keeping the fingers still, though the book 
 had dropped among the flowers, " Muriel, I cannot keep 
 silence any longer. You have not seen the brook for 
 three days, nor I you, but I have learned a life's lesson 
 in that little while. Cannot you guess what it is? I 
 have learned that I love you love you, Muriel. Oh, 
 that I could find words to tell you how dearly, how 
 truly. Look at me, Muriel, dear Muriel, and see how 
 I love you. Forgive me if I have startled you ! I am 
 a rough, awkward man, not fit to touch you, and I did 
 not mean to speak at least, till I had gained permis- 
 sion but but my love has eaten me up, body and 
 soul, and when my hand touched yours 'twas as if our 
 hearts had met. Oh, Muriel, speak! Tell me that
 
 FAEMBR HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 you are not angry, that you do not hate me that you 
 will strive to love me, even to like me a little ! " 
 
 He was on one knee beside the elm, and was leaning 
 forward in an eager attempt to catch a glimpse of her 
 hidden face ; he could feel her small hand tremble in 
 his, like the heart of a captive dove. 
 
 " Oh, speak, Muriel," he pleaded, putting up one 
 hand to her arm. " Only a word one little word to 
 tell me I may hope " 
 
 Muriel stopped him effectually. 
 
 She rose, put both hands up to her face and sobbed. 
 
 Aghast, and positively white, Wynter Leigh bent 
 over her, grasping her hand, and struggling manfully 
 with the fearfully strong desire to clasp her to his 
 heart. 
 
 " For heaven's sake," he pleaded, in an agitated 
 voice, " do not cry. I shall never forgive myself, never, 
 for so frightening you. Muriel, I will go away, do any- 
 thing, but don't cry ; every sob stabs me to the heart." 
 
 Muriel choked back her tears and sank down again ; 
 she even uncovered her face, and sat, blushing and sor- 
 rowful, gazing downwards. 
 
 Wynter Leigh bent over her, his heart beating fast. 
 
 "You have forgiven me?" he whispered; "you will 
 say Yes ? Muriel, you know I love you ! " And as ha 
 spoke his hand tightened on her arm. 
 
 She turned pale, and her head dropped low. 
 
 It was not saying " yes," but Wynter Leigh inter-
 
 74 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 preted it rightly, and, with a sharp, quick sigh, caught 
 her to him. 
 
 "Oh, my darling, my darling," he whispered, "I 
 never thought I should be so happy. You are more 
 than life to me. You cannot guess how I love you. 
 Will you not say you love me? Think what joy it 
 would give me." 
 
 " I do love you," said Muriel, in a tone almost too 
 low for him to hear. " But " 
 
 "But what? But nothing!" he exclaimed, hotly. 
 " If you love me ever so little, I care for nothing no 
 one else. There is no one who can ever part us. I will 
 go up to Ruby wood at once, before the sun sets, and 
 beg for you aye, as a man pleads for his life ! " 
 
 Muriel trembled and drew back from him. 
 
 " To-night ? " she said, wistfully and sorrowfully. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, eagerly, struck by her manner. 
 "Why and what do you fear? Surely," and he turned 
 white, " surely you are not promised to any one else ? " 
 
 u No, no," she breathed quickly, then turned her head 
 away, her eyes filled witli tears. 
 
 "No? What then, my darling?" he murmured, 
 striving to draw her to him. " Do you fear your 
 father?" 
 
 Muriel's face was answer enough. His own grew 
 hot and crimson. He could not choose but remember 
 that he was a Leigh, and that through the whole course 
 of his life he had never done aught to cast a shadow on
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 75 
 
 the old name. He was a farmer Farmer Holt's high- 
 est estimate of a man. 
 
 " Oh," he said, quietly, " I had forgotten. I am poor, 
 Muriel. You fear for that." 
 
 " Not for myself," said Muriel, turning to him at 
 once, her soft hand upon his arm, and sending a thrill 
 through him at its touch. " Not for myself you know 
 that but my father. Oh, you do not know him. He 
 is so good, so kind, but he never goes from his word 
 or his wish, and and " 
 
 He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. 
 
 It was his first kiss, and no companion of Arthur's 
 Table Round could have given it with more knightly 
 reverence. 
 
 " I know," he said, " and I had forgotten. Nay, I 
 remembered nothing but my love, arid I can scarce think 
 of anything else even now. Do you think I love you 
 the less for refusing to give the shadow when your 
 father holds the substance, my darling? for you are 
 mine, though the whole world rose and stood between 
 us. You are mine, Muriel, my very own, if Heaven's 
 love counts as part of us mine whether I win you from 
 your father or not. Mine ! Oh, Muriel, you do not 
 know what a strong man's love is ! With that word 
 graven on my heart, 1 could go to the grave for you I 
 How much more fearlessly can I go to ask him for you ? 
 Don't fear, my darling ; no man could win such a price- 
 less jewel without a struggle for it, no man deserves
 
 76 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 to wear it who would shrink from the battle. I'll go 
 to him to-night I will tell him the truth." 
 
 Muriel's face grew white ; she knew what a bitter 
 mockery the truth would be, with all the strength on 
 one side and not the ghost of a chance for the weaker 
 one. 
 
 "No, no," she said, forced to speak in her agony. 
 " No, no, do not go to him. It is useless. You do not 
 know him. Oh, what will you think of me for speak- 
 ing like this? But I cannot help it. He will send me 
 away he loves me better than anything in the world, 
 but he is so firm, so stern, and I know I know he 
 will not say yes." 
 
 She did not ciy now, her heart was too full of de- 
 spair, for she knew the truth, the bitter truth. 
 
 Wynter Leigh's dark eyes were bent upon the ground 
 for a few minutes. They were moist and tremulous, 
 but infinitely, passionately tender when he lifted them 
 to her face again. 
 
 " My darling," he said, " I understand, believe that 
 I understand ; if you uttered no words, my love is so 
 great that my heart would glean your meaning from 
 your face. I know all you would say, and I know that 
 it must be true. Farmer Holt is a good and a kind 
 man. He has said that you shall not marry a poor man, 
 and you know it. You know that he would take some 
 strong measures send you away, perhaps " his voice 
 quivered a little there " put you out of my reach, sepa-
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 77 
 
 rate us cut us off from hope. You know him and his 
 nature better than I could ever learn to do. You know 
 the danger to be feared. Separate us ! My darling, I 
 could not bear it I could love and struggle with the 
 faintest hope of you but, without, life would not be 
 worth having. I am silent. He shall hear no word of 
 it. I have your love " 
 
 " No, no," pleaded Muriel. " We must never meet 
 again. I cannot, I will not deceive him." 
 
 The strong man sank on the tree, his head lowered, 
 his hands clasped out in front of him, perplexed, agi- 
 tated, and moved to his innermost soul. 
 
 Then he sprang up, a noble resolution in his face. 
 
 " Be it so ! " he said, looking her in the face. " My 
 love is stronger than death. Give me your hand, 
 Muriel, and let me look into your eyes. . . . You will 
 be true ; your eyes cannot deceive. I ask you to wait 
 six months. I have a plan which I will work out it 
 shall succeed, for my love will make it. Then I will go 
 to him and ask him to give you to me a little less poor 
 but not a whit more worthy." 
 
 Muriel listened to the heart-stirring love, kept back 
 her tears, and extended her hand, longing with heaven 
 knows what intensity to throw herself upon his breast. 
 
 He caught her hand -both of them pressed his lips 
 to them passionately, then, forming the words, " Fare- 
 well, Heaven bless you, my darling," with his trembling 
 lips, hurriedly left her.
 
 78 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTEE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 For, if doubt were not, 
 Whose sore shafts spare not, 
 Large life would care not 
 
 For death's poor hour, 
 Seeing all life's season 
 By love's sweet reason 
 Made wise in his eyes would seem a flower. 
 
 Surinburne. 
 
 So they parted, these two Muriel Holt and Wynter 
 Leigh and for them it is scarcely too much to say the 
 whole face of nature was changed. 
 
 For them there was a new meaning in the lyrics of 
 the birds, for them the bees gathered something sweeter 
 than honey in the wayside flowers, for them the bubble 
 of the brook was a song of love, and the sun a revela- 
 tion of some divine benevolence whose end and aim was 
 peace and happiness. 
 
 Muriel, with that silent joy which the heart feels 
 when it has met its mate, trod lightly home and entered 
 the threshold, a woman, with a woman's passion and 
 purpose. Her father looked up as she entered and 
 nodded admiringly, thinking she grew more beautiful 
 every day, and counted her in his heart well worthy to 
 be the mistress of the house.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 79 
 
 Wynter Leigh tramped home most of the way bare- 
 headed, his heart full of love, the very air odorous 
 with it, the landscape itself smiling hopefully and en- 
 couragingly, and his own steadfast mind teeming with 
 his new idea. 
 
 The old woman who acted as housekeeper was nearly 
 startled by the sunlight on his face, and quite so when, 
 in a higher tone than she had yet heard use, he said: 
 
 " Dame, air me a change of things ; I am going on a 
 journey to-morrow." 
 
 Then he drank his draught of ale, took a crust of 
 bread and a slice of cheese in his hand and tramped off 
 again. 
 
 Everything about the farm was right, or, if not, with 
 a word or with his own hands he set it right, then 
 strode off to his sheep and, seating himself by his old 
 shepherd, said, in his curt, kindly way : 
 
 " William, I'm going north to-morrow. Have you 
 an} r message to the village folk ? " 
 
 " Nowt, I thankee, Measter Leigh," returned the old 
 man, gratefully. " It's like thee to think o' me. Heaven 
 speed thee, Measter Wynter, on every path, north or 
 south." 
 
 " Amen ! " said young Leigh, with that simple rever- 
 ence for the blessing of the aged, which wins reverence 
 for itself in return. 
 
 " May an old servant ask what takes thee north, 
 measter? Is it cattle ? "
 
 80 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Ay, rather more important business, of which I'll 
 tell you all in good time, Old Will. Look you after 
 the sheep, though I know you will do that as if they 
 were your own. We're fighting a hard fight, Will, but 
 we'll conquer." 
 
 " That's like you, Measter Leigh," returned the old 
 man, with a flash of enthusiasm. " Thee looks brighter 
 to-night than I' a' seen thee since that dark day. You 
 be brave and strong, and I don't fear the fight, 
 not I, hard tho' it be. And so good night, Measter 
 Leigh." 
 
 " Good night, Old Will," said the young master, 
 gently but heartily, and away he went, looking at 
 his sheep from right to left of him with regardful 
 eyes. 
 
 Early in the morning his light dog-cart rattled up the 
 avenue with him, and Muriel Holt, from behind her 
 curtain, saw him cast a long, eager look towards the 
 spot where, unseen, she stood, then lift his whip hand to 
 his lips. 
 
 Though no one else could have understood his gesture 
 as a caress, she read it aright, and flushed and thrilled 
 all through with the answering leap of love, and could 
 not find voice for a moment to answer the stentorian 
 tones of Farmer Holt calling her to breakfast. 
 
 " Leigh's started off early this morn," he said, mop- 
 ping his face with his large, red handkerchief. 
 
 " Yes," said Muriel, behind the urn.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 81 
 
 " Ay, an' looking as happy as a young throstle. He 
 was whistling, I think, which is an uncommon gay thing, 
 for him. Wonder where he's gone ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Muriel. 
 
 " No, I doan't suppose you do," retorted her father, 
 innocently enough, though the remark made Muriel pale. 
 "He's as close as a badger to his own men, 'tisn't like 
 you'd know, my lass. Isn't that young Jaffer there? 
 Why don't the oaf come in ? Come in, Jaffer ! " he roared, 
 nodding at the boy's face framed in the window with a 
 grotesque grin. 
 
 " Come in," said Muriel, more gently, opening the 
 door as she spoke. 
 
 " What is it a letter ? " she added, as Jaffer, having 
 ventured beyond the threshold, paused irresolute, star- 
 ing at the table and grinning violently. 
 
 " Ees, Miss Mur'l." 
 
 "Whost for I?" asked Farmer Holt. 
 
 "It be for you, farmer," said Jaffer, with a most 
 appalling guffaw. 
 
 " Give it me, then ; the lad holds it as grip as a 
 hawk." 
 
 But as Jaffer, who had no doubt been earnestly ad- 
 monished to take care of the epistle, seemed reluctant to 
 part with it, even to its rightful owner, Muriel took it 
 from his hand and passed it to her father. 
 
 " Hem ! " growled the farmer, after reading it. 
 *' From young Alf ; obliged to go to London to see one
 
 82 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 of them lawyer thieves. Something the matter with the 
 will, and the rascals want to pluck him they'll do it if 
 he shows a feather they can lay hold of ; trust the law- 
 yers for that. What's this at the bottom? The lad 
 can farm better than he can write, Heaven be praised ! 
 Read it, you, lass, for if I'm not mistaken there's your 
 name amongst it." 
 
 Muriel took the letter and read out the illegible scrawl : 
 
 " ' Ask Miss Muriel not to forget me if I am compelled 
 to remain away for a week or two.' " 
 
 u Ah ! ah ! " laughed the farmer, not ill pleased. 
 "That's the way the wind blows, is it? You can 
 write him back : ' Absence makes the heart grow fonder,' 
 lass, and set the boy's mind at rest." And he laughed 
 again, awakening a terrific echo in Jaffer. 
 
 Muriel hid her embarrassment by cutting a huge slice 
 of bread and bacon for Master Jaffer, and, setting his 
 cap on his head, which she knew would otherwise re- 
 main uncovered until he got home, started him off by 
 leading him to the door and whispering : 
 
 " Good-by, Jaffer." 
 
 The farmer then said : 
 
 " I'll just go up to the Howe and see that things are 
 straight it's only neighborly, and you may as well 
 come along, too, lass, and look after the fowls." 
 
 All the way Farmer Holt expatiated on the wealth 
 of the Howe and the excellencies of its young master, 
 and once, as they approached the awkward corner, he
 
 FARMEK HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 stopped and, raising his stick, pointed to it with some 
 inaudible remark, which he did not repeat, though 
 Muriel, breaking silence for the first time, asked him 
 to. 
 
 The preceding night she had several times regretted 
 that she had prevented Wynter Leigh from coming to 
 her father and asking for her openly and without delay. 
 She had called herself hard names, cried even over her 
 "unmaidenly conduct," but now she knew that she had 
 acted rightly, for her instinct told her that her father 
 had set his heart upon her marrying the master of the 
 Howe. 
 
 In five days Wynter Leigh returned. 
 
 The dog-cart met him at the nearest station, which 
 was six miles off, and brought him back as quietly as it 
 had taken him. 
 
 Muriel did not know that he had returned until later 
 in the evening, when, going to the milking, she met 
 him face to face at the corner of the avenue. 
 
 It was the first time they had met since that eventful 
 night, and for a moment they both stood silent and 
 moved, she showing her emotion by a sudden flush and 
 as sudden a pallor, he by a quick, eager light in his ex- 
 pressive eyes and a tremor of the lip. 
 
 She gave him her hand, and, without a word, though 
 his eyes spoke plenty and eloquent ones, he pressed it, 
 relinquished it slowly, and strode on. 
 
 She saw him go down to his sheep, and envied old
 
 84 FARMEK HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 William, who could sit beside his master and hear his 
 deep, rich voice without let or hindrance. 
 
 " Well, Will," said Leigh, laying his hand on the old 
 man's shoulder, but looking back wistfully to the corner 
 where Muriel's slight, graceful form had disappeared ; 
 " I am back, you see." 
 
 "Ay, Heaven be praised!" said the old man. "It 
 be a long journey." 
 
 " Yes," said his master, raising his hat and brushing 
 back his hair with an abrupt gesture, habitual with him 
 when he was thinking deeply "yes, and I did not 
 take it for nothing, Will. The Leighs were never good 
 at asking favors, were they ? " 
 
 " No, no," said the old man, with a hearty smile ; 
 " you were always a proud lot, father and son, Measter 
 Wynter." 
 
 "Ah, that accounts for the difficulty I found in 
 setting about it now. Well, I've been favor beg- 
 ging." 
 
 " Not you?" said the old man, half incredulously. 
 
 " Yes, I," said Wynter Leigh. " You remember old 
 Jonah Leigh, of Crewkerne ? " 
 
 " Ay, I do," said the old man. " A reg'lar Leigh, 
 Measter Wynter close as an oyster." 
 
 " Well, I have asked him to lend me three thousand 
 pounds, and he has done it." 
 
 " I'm gettin' to believe in most 'straordinaiy things 
 in my old age," said the old man, simply.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 " Yes, though I'm fain to believe it was pride, Will 
 Leigh pride. ' You can do so much, you say, if I lend 
 you the money ? ' he said. ' Well, the Leighs should 
 uphold the name in a strange place. There's the money. 
 Go and do it.' " 
 
 " Three thousand pounds ! " repeated the shepherd 
 " It's a miracle, Measter Leigh, and he'll repent him and 
 kill himself." 
 
 " And now, Will, for the modus operandi, or in other 
 words, the way in which the three thousand pounds are 
 to raise a Leigh from the bottom to the top of the hill. 
 This is good pasture, but in bad condition, you know. 
 It's no use grumbling at the bad ; best turn it to good, 
 so I'm going to feed a hundred prime cows, Will, and 
 go in for milk." 
 
 " You don't say so ! " exclaimed the old man. 
 
 " Yes," said Leigh. " Yesterday I signed the contract 
 to supply one of the large London milk companies with 
 so many gallons a day, come good, come ill, and to pay 
 a penalty in hard coin if I fail." 
 
 " Measter Wynter, you bean't doing anything rash ? " 
 he breathed. 
 
 " No ; I am but putting into practise a favorite saying 
 of yours, Will, ' Nothing venture, nothing have.' This 
 three thousand pounds, turned into cows, will yield me 
 a large profit, and then " 
 
 The old man gazed up into his face and caught the 
 direction ot his eyes.
 
 86 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Affection makes even old eyes sharp, and the little 
 ones of the old man grew dim with sudden tears. 
 
 " Measter Leigh," he muttered, " Heaven speed thee 
 whate'er thy path, whether it be cows or contracts, 
 which latter I don't understand." 
 
 "Thanks, Will; and now for the sheep." 
 
 The reader may feel rather surprised at Mr. Leigh's 
 sudden communicativeness, but, though he would 
 scarcely have owned it to himself, he had an object in 
 making a confidant of Old Will. 
 
 Old Will was a favorite with Muriel, and he secretly 
 hoped and believed that at their next meeting the old 
 man would, without betraying confidence, tell her 
 enough to assure her of his earnestness. 
 
 The same motive, or one of a similar nature, led him 
 up to Old Goody's cottage that evening, where he had 
 earned himself a welcome by bringing a bottle of wine 
 occasionally and talking in his kindly fashion to Jaffer. 
 
 To-night he sat on the old bench beside the door and 
 drank in thirstily a long, detailed account of Miss 
 Muriel's birth, habits, manners and virtues, to which he 
 had, with reprehensible artfulness, led the conversation. 
 He could not in honor see her and talk to her. The 
 next best thing was to see and talk to one who had 
 seen her sweet face and heard her dear voice only a few 
 hours before. 
 
 So there he sat, listening with all his heart and ears 
 to petty details, which, to any other but a lover, might
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 have seemed trivial, snapping up any unconsidered 
 trifle that related to his beautiful Muriel with the 
 greediness of an alligator, and thinking even Goody's 
 voice musical while she crooned his darling's name. 
 
 At the same time, by way of parallel, Miss Muriel 
 sat on a heap of hurdles beside William's shepherd's 
 cart, and listened to a longwinded account of Measter 
 Wynter's doings, and received as much consolation and 
 delight from it as the doting old man could desire. 
 
 At this time Mr. Alfred Heatherbridge was being 
 plucked by the lawyers in London, happily unconscious 
 of the evil star that was setting ou his hopes and 
 expectations.
 
 88 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Mightier far 
 
 Than strength of nerve or sinew or the sway 
 Of magic potent over sun and star, 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Two or three days after, Farmer Holt, standing at the 
 entrance of the avenue, was stricken with astonishment 
 at the appearance of a large drove of cattle making ap- 
 parently, straight for him. He cleared out of the way 
 slowly and like one in a dream. 
 
 " Whose beasts are these, my man ? " he shouted. 
 
 " For the Holme Farm," replied the driver, and the 
 farmer was about to assure him that there was a mistake 
 when the apparition of old William's stolid face at the 
 tail of the procession satisfied him that his neighbor, 
 Mr. Leigh, was " going heavily into milk ! " 
 
 With a groan, for he could not but think of the daily 
 transit of four hundred hoofs through his dearly loved 
 avenue, he trudged off, pulling up, however, before he 
 had got far away, in response to a panting voice calling 
 him by name. 
 
 The summons proved to proceed from the aristocratic 
 lungs of Mr. Vandike, who, very much out of breath aud
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 89 
 
 otherwise discomposed, came up, wiping his face with 
 an immaculate handkerchief. 
 
 " By Jove ! Mr. Holt, how you walk. I saw you at 
 the end of the lane, and thought I should catch you 
 up easily, but your long stride put me to shame. Aw- 
 ful hot, isn't it ? " 
 
 " It is uncommon healthy hot," retorted the farmer, 
 who was not in the humor to relish fashionable 
 adjectives. " It's ripening the corn, if that be 
 awful." 
 
 " Ah, just so ; excuse me, I'm not up to farming ; and 
 and by the way, can you give me a minute ? " 
 
 " What am I doing now ? " asked the farmer, not 
 rudely, but with simple astonishment. 
 
 " Eh eh ? I meant in private, but this is private 
 enough," looking round and seeing no one but a plow- 
 man half a mile off. " I'm going to ask a favor of you 
 the greatest favor you could grant, Mr. Holt and, in 
 short; I've put it off for some time because well I'm 
 not a good hand at this sort of thing ; in fact I've never 
 done it before. Mr. Holt, you know my position pretty 
 well ; I'm an enthusiast at my art, and I think I may 
 say that I stand a fair chance of turning out success- 
 ful. You know they've hung me at the academy this 
 year " 
 
 Farmer Holt stopped in his trudge, and stared at the 
 artistic features as if he feared their owner had taken 
 leave of his senses, though not his life.
 
 90 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Bless the man ! " he exclaimed, shaking his head, as 
 if the puzzle were too much for him. " Hung you at 
 the academy ? What on earth do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean my picture, of course," explained Mr. Van- 
 dike, more confused and embarrassed than ever. "I 
 mean my picture, of course and that's a great honor for 
 a young artist, sir. The critics, too, speak well of it, and 
 I have made a step forward in my career. I'm not a 
 poor man, either, as times go, Mr. Holt, and, in short, I 
 am come to ask you to give me your daughter, Miss 
 Muriel." 
 
 Farmer Holt stopped as if he had been shot in the 
 back, pulled round and, confronted the artist as if he 
 were some monster in a show. 
 
 "Give you my Muriel," he repeated, slowly. 
 Then tramping on again as he spoke, *' Young sir, 
 you're mad as a March hare." 
 
 Mr. Vandike, too astounded at the the reception of his 
 proposal to speak for a moment or two, almost ran at his 
 side, silent. 
 
 u Well," said Farmer Holt, turning to him, " haven't 
 you gone yet? Give you my daughter Muriel? Not 
 if there weren't another man in the country. Mr. Van- 
 dike, I don't mean any offense, but when my girl marries 
 she'll marry a farmer. That's a sort of man 1 under- 
 stand ; he grows corn and trees, and owns fields and 
 farms. I'll never consent to her marrying a man who 
 only paints 'em."
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 91 
 
 Mr. Vandike opened his mouth and shut it again. 
 
 " Are you serious, Mr. Holt?" he said, fumbling for 
 his glasses, as another man would have fumbled for his 
 stick or his sword. 
 
 " That I am and no doubt of it," said the farmer. 
 "But look you here," he added, thoughtfully, "don't 
 take any offense, for, on my honor, I don't mean any, and 
 you know it. Simply, I don't understand artists and 
 artists' ways. My girl's a simply country lass true of 
 heart, mind you, and as good as a parson but she don't 
 understand them, either, and I know she wouldn't be 
 happy with them ; so think no more about it, because I 
 tell you I won't give my consent, and I know her too 
 well to fear she'll marry without it." 
 
 " But," urged the enamored artist, " surely you will 
 let me try my fortune with Miss Holt, sir, if if I have 
 had the good fortune to gain her heart, you will at least 
 give me time? I'll turn farmer if you like anything 
 but let me hear from her own lips that there is no 
 hope for me." 
 
 The farmer thought for a moment. 
 
 " Well, so you shall," he said, quietly, " on one con- 
 dition, and that is, if Muriel says no, you pack up and 
 make studies of cows and trees in another county. 
 Come, it is not a very hard bargain, young man, for 
 you're not very hot on the lot, you know." And ha 
 looked the artist full in the face. 
 
 Mr. Vandike colored truth always tells but would
 
 92 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 not admit that he was lukewarm, and, without a word, 
 turned off to the farm. 
 
 He found Muriel sitting at the window working or, 
 rather, resting from work, for her sweet face was leaning 
 upon her hand and her eyes fixed on the table thought- 
 lessly. 
 
 Mr. Vandike fancied that he saw tears in them, but 
 Muriel looked up so merrily and smiled so happily that 
 he was sure he had been mistaken, and put the fancy 
 down to his embarrassment. 
 
 " Miss Holt, I've just seen your father," he said, fum- 
 bling for his eyeglass, which from the first moment of 
 his proposal had slipped over his shoulder and added to 
 his confusion. " He sent me on to you " 
 
 " Yes," said Muriel. " Has he left anything behind? 
 What is it?" 
 
 " No, no ! " said Mr. Vandike. " I asked him a 
 question, and at first he said no, but afterwards he 
 agreed if you would say yes, he would change it to 
 yes, too. " 
 
 " Well," said Muriel, taking up her work, all uncon- 
 scious. " And pray what was it? Do you want to take 
 my new colt ? " 
 
 " No," said Mr. Vandike, fumbling for his eyeglass 
 and taking out his crested handkerchief nervously. 
 "No ; I want to take you, my dear Miss Holt." 
 
 " Me ! " said Muriel. " I can't spare the time, you 
 know, for a full-length picture, Mr. Vandike."
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 93 
 
 " Not for a picture, but for my wife, dear Muriel," 
 said Mr. Vandike, leaning on the table. 
 
 Muriel dropped her work and looked up, pale, troubled 
 and sad. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Vandike," she said, in her low, grave voice, 
 " I am so sorry ! Oh, say you are not in earnest ; it is 
 only one of your horrid jokes ! Don't look so serious ! 
 You cannot tell how grieved I shall be if you are un- 
 happy ! But you are not serious, are you ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am," said Mr. Vandike, shaking his head, 
 with, a sigh. " Don't you say no, please don't. I'm such 
 an unlucky fellow always ; the thing never will come 
 right when I want it, and I never can get the shadows 
 in ; there's always something comes and spoils my picture^ 
 Now I've got hung at the academy you won't spoil my 
 pleasure by saying no, Miss Muriel, surely !" 
 
 Muriel, with the instinct of her womanhood, knew that 
 the wound was only skin deep, and that his love for her 
 was of that kind which, in artistic jargon, he would have 
 called, " half tint," so she acted on the impulse of the 
 moment and wisely. 
 
 "Mr. Vandike," she said, '' I'm a simple country girl, 
 a farmer's daughter ; you are the nephew of a lord, a 
 gentleman and an artist. Look me in the face and tell 
 me as a gentleman and an artist if you think in your 
 heart of hearts I am a fit wife for you. There is nothing 
 in common between us. You would tire of me or what 
 you fancy in me before a month had passed, and would
 
 94 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 sigh for a proper companion in one of the great London 
 ladies, who understand your life and its purposes. Am 
 I speaking too wisely for such an ignorant girl ? I can 
 only say what I feel. Dear Mr. Vandike, we have been 
 so happy together, but if I thought you really loved me 
 I should be miserable for every merry hour we have so 
 enjoyed. You don't love me, no no no you know 
 you don't ! and I know you don't. And you won't make 
 me unhappy by pretending to be very much hurt when I 
 say what dear father has said already." 
 
 Mr. Vandike blew his nose very heartily and looked 
 out of the window. 
 
 Muriel laid her hand gently on his. 
 
 " You have forgiven me for speaking so forwardly," 
 she said, " and we shall part friends ? " 
 
 " That we shall, Miss Holt," said the young gentle- 
 man, suddenly removing his gaze to her face and grasp- 
 ing her hand. " And and I shouldn't be acting hon- 
 orably if I didn't say that I think you're right, after all. 
 Not that you are not worthy to be the wife of a king, 
 but but that I don't love you half so well as you 
 deserve, though if I stayed here within sight of you 
 another day," he added, earnestly, " by Jove ! I should 
 love you all that and a trifle over. So I'll go, and I 
 wish you a better man. Miss Holt, good-by." 
 
 "Good-by," said Muriel, and she struggled against 
 her tears, for she knew the worth of the heart that beat 
 beneath the veneer of fashion and London manners
 
 FABMEK HOLT'S DAUGHTEE. 95 
 
 "good-by. We shall meet again, I feel sure, and then 
 be better friends than ever. You will be a great man, 
 whom your wife will be proud of, and I shall cry over 
 every success you make so there ! I'm almost crying 
 now. Good-by." 
 
 " Good-by," said Mr. Vandike, shaking her hand 
 again, and away he went, stopping, however, at the 
 corner to look back and mutter : 
 
 " I'm half afraid I do love her now, by jingo ! I wish 
 I had a study of her in sepia to cry over." 
 
 Muriel, though she had no sepia sketch of Mr. Van- 
 dike, had a good cry, not over her departed lover, but 
 for him who was near at hand and for herself, who 
 was so unhappy as to have so many proposing suitors 
 when the favored one was compelled to hold his peace. 
 
 In came the farmer, and found her, not in tears, but 
 scarcely recovered from them. 
 
 "Well, lass," he said, eying her earnestly, "that 
 artist fellow is packing up his traps and is off to Lon- 
 don. Has he been to say good-by ? " 
 
 " Yes, father," said Muriel, and her tears threatened 
 again. 
 
 " Hem ! " said the farmer, chuckling. " See what it 
 is to have a pretty face, lass. Every idiot on the high- 
 way fancies himself in love with it. But dry your eyes, 
 my dear ; there's good corn among the weeds, Heaven 
 be praised, and a fair sample is corning this way. Al- 
 fred comes back to-night."
 
 96 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Muriel started. 
 
 Another and harder trouble was approaching then. 
 
 "Mr. Heatherbridge coming from London to-night?" 
 she said, in that absent way one uses when speaking 
 because speech is expected of us. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Heatherbridge," repeated the farmer, com- 
 ing behind her and laying his hand gently on her head. 
 " But why so cold and stately, lass ? A little while 
 ago it was ' Alfred,' sweet and kind like, now it's Mr. 
 Heatherbridge, prim as a parish clerk. Oh, I see, ' The 
 maiden coy slipped down the vale.' What's that old 
 song your poor mother used to sing, something about 
 the milking-pail ? Here, by the bye, that sets me off 
 again. What'll you think, lass, of our neighbor, young 
 Leigh?" 
 
 Muriel's heart leaped and her head dropped lower 
 over the needle. 
 
 " What has he done, father ? " she said, in a low- 
 voice. 
 
 " Took a drove of stock, a hundred cows if there was 
 one, tramping down the avenue like the beasts out of 
 Noah's Ark. Oh, why didn't I buy that farm and so 
 be rid of it?" And he groaned. 
 
 44 Why didn't you, father ? " asked Muriel, afraid to 
 remain silent, yet knowing not what to say. 
 
 " Why, eh ? Because I didn't," said the farmer. 
 " Perhaps I had something else to do with the money, 
 lass," and he stroked the beautiful head. " Perhaps
 
 FAKMEK HOLT'S DAUGHTER 97 
 
 I'm a fond old idiot indeed, as Alfred 'ud say, most 
 like I am. But there, you love your old father, lassie 
 dear, don't you ? " 
 
 Muriel turned and threw her arms round his 
 neck without a word. She could not trust herself to 
 speak. 
 
 It seemed so hard to love him so dearly and yet keep 
 a secret such a secret, too from him. 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed the squire, " I don't like my new 
 neighbor ; young men farmers especially are so pig- 
 headed there's no trusting them. What's he want a 
 hundred cows for? What will he do next? Some- 
 thing unpleasant and awkward I'll be bound." 
 
 " Oh, father," said Muriel, in a low voice. " "Pis not 
 like you to be so unjust! Mr. Leigh has never done 
 an unkind or unneighborly thing to you yet. It was 
 not pigheaded, surely, to take so much trouble about 
 the straw-yard, the first night, too, and so late. He has 
 had so much trouble, that makes him quiet, and he 
 works so hard, and for all the annoyance he gives us 
 the Holme might be empty now." 
 
 " Hoity-toity ! " exclaimed the farmer, sinking into 
 his chair with his usual violence. " Mr. Leigh's in 
 your good books, lass ! Quite the champion, I do de- 
 clare. But nobody's finding fault with him as yet ; 
 plenty of time to pity him when they do. I'm only a- 
 grieving over the avenue, and you know it's a sore 
 point with me."
 
 98 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Why do you not make some arrangement with Mr. 
 Leigh ? Buy the avenue if it is his to sell. He would 
 make another entrance, do anything, rather than give 
 you a moment's pain ! " 
 
 " Hem ! " said the farmer, looking at her till he for- 
 got to light his pipe and the wisp of paper was burnt 
 out. " You seem to know a deal of young Leigh, most 
 of his mind included. Have you seen much of him ? " 
 
 Before Muriel could reply the dogs set up a warning 
 bark, a tap came to the door, and, glad of the excuse to 
 hide her sudden flush, she ran to the door and opened it. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge stepped in. 
 
 " Hullo, Alf, my lad," exclaimed the father, setting 
 down his pipe. " Welcome back quiet, you dogs 
 welcome back, my lad; it seems an age since I saw 
 thee ! " 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge shook hands, then turned to 
 Muriel, who stood glad and yet sorry to see her old 
 playmate back again. 
 
 " Not a word for me, Muriel ? " he said, half reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 " Yes, a great many," said Muriel, and shook hands. 
 
 " Sit down, sit down," said the farmer, " and tell us 
 the news. Muriel can riug for a jug of ale and a pipe." 
 
 While Muriel, instead of ringing, fetched them wit'i 
 her own hands, Mr. Heatherbridge opened his budget 
 of news.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 99 
 
 As he had expected, his Aunt Dorothea had left him 
 the farm and all the money she died possessed of. 
 ** Unto those that have much shall be given." But, 
 though it was as plain as a pikestaff, the lawyers man- 
 aged to find a hole in the will, and Mr. Heatherbridge 
 had been mending it in London at no small expense. 
 
 While he told his tale his eyes wandered constantly 
 to where Muriel sat, and a smile grew on the farmer's 
 face as he noticed the errant glances. 
 
 "And so it's all settled, Alfred," he said. "Fill 
 your glass, lad ; I'm almost as glad to see you as the 
 father was the prodigal son and you're quite a wealthy 
 man. Fancy the Howe and Mrs. Dorothea's, what a 
 responsibility ! Hah ! hah ! " 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said young Heatherbridge, glancing 
 at Muriel nervously. "Almost more than a young 
 fellow can manage alone." 
 
 " Not more than he can enjoy," laughed the farmer. 
 "Well, we've taken care of the farm for you, lad. 
 There's Muriel, there, a' been a mother to the chickens, 
 and a' looked after the birds as if they'd been her own." 
 
 " I'm very grateful to Muriel," said Mr. Heather- 
 bridge looking round at her tenderly. " I knew she'd 
 be kind enough she is all kindness and thoughtful- 
 ness." 
 
 ** No, I'm not," said Muriel. " I am all forgetful- 
 ness, for to-night's Saturday night, and I've forgotten
 
 100 FAKMEE HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the clean clothes. Have you any more news ! if so, 
 please save it till I come back." And with a smile she 
 took up a candle and left the room. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge rose to open the door, and stood 
 looking after her for a full minute. Then he came 
 back and seated himself at the table, and commenced 
 fidgeting with the black studs at his wrist. 
 
 " I'm glad to get back," he said, presently. 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt, lad," said the farmer. " A 
 farm's ill-gadding without a master." 
 
 "Ay; but for more reasons than the farm" said 
 young Heatherbridge. " Farmer, did Muriel ever tell 
 you of a conversation we had just before I went away ?" 
 
 "No," said the farmer, puffing hard at his pipe, "no, 
 lad." 
 
 " Well, I thought perhaps she had. I asked her to 
 be my wife, farmer; indeed, I've loved her a long 
 time." 
 
 Farmer Holt's heart beat fast and his eyes winked. 
 
 " Yes, lad," he said, " and what did she say ? " 
 
 " She gave me no answer," said young Heatherbridge, 
 nervously ; *' indeed she ran away." And his face 
 clouded. 
 
 " Hah ! hah ! " laughed the farmer, " she did, did she, 
 the minx ? Don't look so down, lad ; you don't under- 
 stand 'em ; they're coyer than you think. Run away, 
 did she ? Hah ! hah I " And he laughed at such an
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 101 
 
 excellent joke as any girl running away, even in play- 
 fulness, from the owner of the Howe, Mrs. Dorothea's 
 farm, and ever so many thousands in the County Bank. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge's face brightened. 
 
 " You don't think she meant to give me the cold 
 shoulder, farmer ? " 
 
 " Not she," retorted the farmer. " Haven't you been 
 boy and girl together since ye were girl and boy ? Ah, 
 lad, you don't know 'em. If she'd stopped I'd a' said 
 things looked awkward, but she run away. Hah ! 
 hah ! " 
 
 " And what do you say, farmer ? " asked Mr. Heath- 
 erbridge, eagerly. " You know me and my affairs ; 
 you know I'm as fond of Muriel as I can be, head over 
 heels in love with her, and that I'll do everything that's 
 handsome in the way of settlements. If you'll give 
 your consent and she'll give her hand I'll lay down 
 twenty thousand pounds for her or more, farmer, if 
 you think it well ! " 
 
 " No, no, that's plenty, lad," said Farmer Holt, begin- 
 ning to draw a plan on the table with his finger. 
 " Twenty thousand pounds is a splendid settlement, but, 
 mind, it's not a penny more than the dear lass's due, 
 and, to show you I say no empty words, look you 
 here ! " And he leant over the table and looked eagerly 
 at the other eager face opposite him. "The day she 
 marries you, lad, I'll hand you ten thousand pounds as 
 her dowry ! "
 
 102 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge was speechless. 
 
 " No, no," he said, but faintly. 
 
 A rich man always wants more, and ten thousand 
 pounds unexpectedly seemed delicious. 
 
 " Ay, ay ! " said the farmer, triumphantly, " I'll do 
 it, lad, I promise you, and I'll ask only one thing ia 
 return." 
 
 "What's that?" asked young Heatherbridge, 
 44 though you needn't mention it, farmer, for I say Yes 
 to it whatever it is if you'll but give me Muriel 
 alone." 
 
 " Yes," said Farmer Holt, and he pointed to the plan 
 on the table. " This corner you knew it, lad? Often 
 and often have we your father and I haggled over it. 
 That corner spoils my land, that corner I must have if 
 you have my Muriel and her dowry ! " 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge held out a hand that trembled 
 like a leaf. 
 
 " A corner ! " he breathed, eagerly. " You shall have 
 it all, farmer, every inch, only let me have Muriel." 
 
 " Done with you," laughed the farmer, " for the cor- 
 ner alone, lad. And now go and try your fortune ; 
 the dear lass is in the parlor, and here's good luck to 
 thee ! " And he raised his tankard and drank it at a 
 draught. 
 
 Away went Mr. Heatherbridge, and the farmer, left 
 alone, sat and touched up his plan, chuckling. His 
 daughter would be mistress of the Howe, the squire's
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 103 
 
 wife ! He would have the much and long coveted 
 corner I Was there ever such a happy old man in the 
 world ? 
 
 The door was flung open and Mr. Heatherbridge 
 stood on the raised step, looking very pale and agitated. 
 
 The farmer took his pipe from his mouth and stared 
 at him. 
 
 "What ails thee, lad?" he gasped. "Can't you 
 speak, man ? What does she say ? She'll marry you 
 and thank you ? " 
 
 " No," said Mr. Heatherbridge, hoarsely, shaking his 
 head. " Your daughter refuses me, Farmer Holt, and 
 says ' no ' and ' never ! ' 
 
 The farmer rose with a huge imprecation. 
 
 " Muriel ! " he shouted. 
 
 Muriel came forward, pale and trembling, but with a 
 light in her eye that was lit there by love's faith. 
 
 " Come here, my lass," said the farmer, slowly and 
 sternly, and he took her small, cold hand. " Squire 
 Heatherbridge yonder does you and me the honor to 
 ask you to wife. What do you say, my lass ? " 
 
 " Oh, father, father ! " pleaded the poor girl, trying 
 to hide her face against his stubborn shoulder. 
 
 But the old man drew away from her and stared piti- 
 lessly before him. 
 
 " What do you say, I ask ? " 
 
 " No," said Muriel. " I cannot ! I cannot say 
 Yes ! "
 
 104 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Young Heatherbridge turned towards the door and 
 opened it. 
 
 " Go from my sight ! " said the farmer, sternly, rais- 
 ing his hand and pointing to the passage door, and 
 Muriel, with bent head and trembling feet, obeyed.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 105 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Courage, my comrades, we've all heard the old proverb : 
 " The course of true love never did run smooth." 
 O'er many a stone the stream fights on to ocean. 
 
 Buchanan. 
 
 " Go from my sight ! " were the first harsh words poor 
 Muriel had ever received from her father, and their 
 anger and bitterness simply overwhelmed her. 
 
 Mr. Leigh, who generally saw her from a distance, 
 tripping light-heartedly down to the meadow, and was 
 cheered and lit up for the day by the sight, missed her 
 the next morning, and the next. Then he grew alarmed 
 and repaired to Goody's cottage. 
 
 " Was Miss Holt unwell ? " 
 
 When he asked, Jaffer threw back his head and 
 laughed. 
 
 " What are you laughing at, Jaffer ? " asked Leigh, 
 more anxious than before, for it was well known that 
 Jaffer always laughed heartiest at the most sorrowful 
 events. 
 
 "He! He!" said Jaffer, "Miss Mur'l been a bad 
 girl ; the farmer he blow her up blow her up like a 
 bellows into her room up-stairs, and she never came 
 down acrain."
 
 106 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 This was all that could be got, and Leigh, troubled 
 and distressed, was fain to march off and see to his 
 cows. 
 
 Soon after tidings reached him through a more reli- 
 able source. 
 
 Old William was trudging down the avenue shaking 
 his head. 
 
 " What's the matter, Will ? " asked Leigh, who knew 
 every shifting expression on the weather-beaten face. 
 " Anything wrong with the sheep? " 
 
 "No, Measter Wynter," replied the old man. "The 
 sheep be all right, Heaven be praised ; but I've just 
 heern that Miss Muriel bless her pretty face ! is sadly 
 like, and keeps t' her room." 
 
 "Where did you hear that?" asked Leigh, leaning 
 on his stick, and turning pale and red alternately. 
 
 " At t' farm ; I met t' farmer comin' through the 
 yard like a turkey-cock, all comb like. ' What's the 
 matter with the measter?' says I. 'Oh,' says Bill 
 Twaed, ' he be in a tantrum over Miss Muriel, as be ill 
 indoors.' ' 
 
 Leigh strode off without a word, making straight for 
 Rubywood, and had not proceeded a couple of hundred 
 yards before he saw the farmer himself, who certainly 
 justified old Will's queer simile. 
 
 " Good morning, sir," said Wynter, cordially, and 
 striving to conceal the anxiety he felt. 
 
 " Good morning," said the farmer, rather shortly.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 107 
 
 ** I was coming up to Rubywood," said Wynter Leigh 
 " to inquire after Miss Holt ; I trust she is not very 
 unwell." 
 
 Something in his tone, the ring of almost feverish 
 eagerness and earnestness, struck the farmer, and for a 
 moment rendered him speechless. 
 
 Was this young fellow, this new-comer, the cause of 
 his hitherto dutiful daughter's disobedience and folly? 
 
 He looked at the handsome, earnest face, and his own 
 grew suspicious and dark. 
 
 " My daughter's well, Mr. Leigh, and I'm obliged to 
 you," he said, eying him keenly. " Though the gossips 
 seem to have laid her on a sick bed. She's well, sir 
 but I'm not sorry to see you, Mr. Leigh ; I've wanted 
 to ask you a question or two for some days, but you're 
 a regular Will-o'-the-wisp, here and there, and over the 
 land like a gnat." 
 
 " I am always at home in the evening," said Leigh, 
 quietly, adding, for naturally he wished to conciliate 
 the man he desired for a father-in-law : " And I would 
 have waited on you, Mr. Holt, had I known you wished 
 to see me." 
 
 This simple piece of courtesy heightened the farmer's 
 suspicion. 
 
 "Hem!" lie said. "Well, I was going to ask you 
 about the cattle ; you're purchasing pretty heavy, Mr. 
 Leigh." 
 
 " Rather 1 " said Leigh, and his heart beat quickly.
 
 108 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Could this be a favorable chance to show the farmer 
 a glimpse of his hope ? 
 
 " Rather ! " repeated the farmer. " We don't call a 
 hundred head ' rather ' down south here, though you 
 may think nothing of it up north, Mr. Leigh. What I 
 wanted to know is whether you're going in for cattle 
 heavier still. I dare say you may think it an imperti- 
 nent question young men are more uppish now than 
 they used to be in my day and wonder what business 
 it is of mine." 
 
 " Indeed, no," said Mr. Leigh, " I am only honored 
 by your interest in my affairs, Mr. Holt." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you why I ask ; you see that avenue, 
 Mr. Leigh ? Unfortunately, that's common property 
 between us two, but I take a pride in that avenue, sir, 
 my father did before me, and his father before him, and 
 I should like to know if you think of driving three or 
 four hundred head of cattle up and down that avenue, 
 
 because if so " He stopped, very red, very hot, and, 
 
 as his enemies might have said, looking very pig-headed. 
 
 Wynter Leigh's color rose for an instant. No man 
 had ever spoken to him before like this in his life. 
 
 He looked hard at the old farmer, then, quietly, slowly 
 and earnestly said : 
 
 " Farmer Holt, I answer your question as candidly as 
 it was propounded. I do not intend purchasing any 
 more cattle, simply because I have no further capital 
 with which to do it ; but, if I had, I still should refrain
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 109 
 
 from doing so because I would sacrifice more than you 
 can imagine to gain your good-will and esteem. As to 
 the avenue, if any other road can be made by which the 
 cattle can reach pasturage, it shall be made, and in re- 
 turn for so small a matter I venture to ask a favor." 
 
 " What's that ? " asked the farmer, not at all propiti- 
 ated by the generous offer. 
 
 " Only this," said Leigh, " that if there be any other 
 matter which may give you pain or annoyance, and 
 which I can relieve, that you will instantly inform me 
 of it. I am a bad neighbor so far as sociability goes, 
 Mr. Holt, but I am heartily anxious to prove myself a 
 good one by seizing any opportunity of removing any- 
 thing on the farm or about it that may inconvenience 
 you or give you trouble." 
 
 The farmer, taking all this as confirmation of his 
 suspicion, grasped his stick and nodded grimly. 
 
 " Oh, I thank you, but I'm not a man to take advan- 
 tage of fine words. I wish you good morning, Mr. 
 Leigh," and, with a touch of his broad-brimmed hat, he 
 trudged off. 
 
 Leigh, with a pained look on his earnest face, turned 
 and strode towards the Holme. 
 
 Muriel, his beautiful, true-hearted Muriel, was not 
 ill, that was a great relief to him, but there was some- 
 thing wrong, nevertheless, and as he strode on, wonder- 
 ing what it could be, he heard a horse's tramp, looked 
 up, and solved the problem in a moment. Before him,
 
 110 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 was Mr. Heatherbridge's gray mare, and on her was the 
 young squire himself, with a gloomy brow and down- 
 cast eyes. 
 
 Leigh gave him good morning quietly. Mr. Heath- 
 erbridge started from his reverie, saw whence the salu- 
 tation proceeded, and with an angry flush put the mare 
 to a trot and rode by without any response. 
 
 " So," he said, " my darling ! That is the mystery, 
 is it ? My friend would carry you off by force of arms, 
 and the old man would help him by force of will. Poor 
 Muriel ! also poor Wynter, too, for how can my sweet 
 darling have strength enough to resist her father and 
 the wealthy squire ? " 
 
 Then he entered his comfortless house, made a pre- 
 tence of eating his solitary meal, and, striding up and 
 down the worm-eaten but still polished floor, thought 
 over his love. 
 
 Absence makes the heart grow fonder, if true love has 
 once thrilled it, and Wynter Leigh's heart beat with the 
 truest love man ever felt for the beautiful girl who had 
 crept into its aching void, and filled it with sweetness 
 and consolation. 
 
 " I have read of love," he muttered, " and have 
 laughed as I have read. Could such heart-burnings, 
 such longings, such intolerable pain at separation be 
 natural ? Ah ! I endure them all now, and I know that 
 love such as I feel cannot be ever painted ; it is inde- 
 scribable. My darling, gentle-hearted Muriel, I would
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. Ill 
 
 die to make you happy, ay, die the worst of deaths if it 
 could purchase you an hour's joy ! But I will do bet- 
 ter ; I will live to make you happy. Six months, I said 
 it seems an age, an intolerable eternity ; and I cannot see 
 her, meet her face to face, and speak no word of the love 
 that trembles on my lips, and flies to my eyes. I must 
 stand by and see her baited by the wealthy lover and 
 harassed by the father, and refrain from one word of 
 comfort ; stand with my arms folded while I burn to 
 clasp her within them to my heart, and snatch her from 
 them both ! Six months ! It will be harvest ; the land 
 is turning out better than I expected. I will keep my 
 promise ; the Leighs do not break faitli though their 
 hearts may break under the restraint. With the corn in, 
 and all things, please heaven, prospering, I will go and 
 beg for her, ay, beg for her as the starving man begs for 
 his life." 
 
 The resolve made, he would keep it, but it was hard 
 to be firm, for he was tired. 
 
 In the first place, he saw nothing of Muriel for a 
 very good reason. Farmer Holt, having taken his sud- 
 denly formed suspicion to his heart, had tramped off 
 straight from Leigh and turned the key in Muriel's door, 
 so that she was a prisoner, and could see no more of her 
 lover than a distant view of his stalwart figure through 
 the latticed window, and even that scarcely for her 
 tears. 
 
 Secondly, Leigh made the discovery that the attitude
 
 112 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 of those about him had changed most suddenly and 
 strangely. 
 
 Squire Heatherbridge had cut him on the road, and 
 now his own men showed disinclination to work for him. 
 Three men came up and gave him notice early in the 
 morning following that of his meeting with the farmer. 
 
 Before noon four others had followed suit. 
 
 Leigh was astounded. 
 
 " What have you to complain of, my men ? " he asked. 
 "Is it more money you want?" 
 
 " No, Master Leigh," stammered the spokesman. 
 
 " Have you found me so hard a master that my service 
 is unendurable ? " said Leigh, sternly. 
 
 The men shook their heads and murmured denial in 
 concert. 
 
 " What is it, then ? " asked the master, eyeing them 
 curiously and keenly. 
 
 " Well, you see, sir," said the spokesman, shifting 
 about uneasily and twisting his hat. " We be all ten- 
 ants of the young squire's, and when he's got a lot o' 
 work and he wants hands, why, ye see, we be bound to 
 go, wheresoever we do happen to be, and " 
 
 " Lots of work ! " repeated Leigh. " What work 
 can Mr. Heatherbridge have now ? " 
 
 The men looked at each other in silence. 
 
 Leigh nodded scornfully. 
 
 " I understand, my men," he said ; " you may go." 
 
 And he did understand and marvel.
 
 , FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 113 
 
 " All is fair in love and war," he muttered. " So 
 Mr. Heatherbridge would ruin the rival whom he con- 
 siders more favored than himself. Fair ! it is un-Eng- 
 lish and foul ! " 
 
 Foul or not, it harassed and distressed him. 
 
 He had a heavy stock on the farm and plenty of 
 work, but Mr. Heatherbridge did his spiriting so 
 thoroughly that before the next morning there remained 
 to his rival three servants only, old William, a man he 
 had engaged in another county and a boy. 
 
 Leigh set his face sternly to overcome this difficulty, 
 and started off in his dog-cart to Hopwood. 
 
 There he engaged six men at good wages, and brought 
 three of them over with him. 
 
 When they had all arrived, and were sitting in the 
 common kitchen after three days' work, he strode in 
 and addressed them gravely, but kindly : 
 
 " My men," he said 1 , " I have reason to believe that 
 before to-morrow night you will be tempted by a neigh- 
 bor to leave my service. He may offer you higher 
 wages, he may, and very probably will put some more 
 powerful agency at work to attain his object. What is 
 your intention ? Will you stand by me and act like 
 Englishmen, or will you give in and desert me if you 
 are tempted ? " 
 
 " We'll stand by you, Master Leigh ! " said one of 
 them, and the rest echoed the assertion. 
 i Wynter Leigh nodded-
 
 114 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Good," he said ; " you'll not find me a hard master, 
 and you'll find me a staunch one. Sam, give out some 
 cider." 
 
 This precaution taken, Leigh went through the busi- 
 ness of the day with a stouter heart, but a sad one still, 
 for he could get no tidings of Muriel. 
 
 No one had seen her, and the farmer kept so close a 
 watch about the farm that the servants could glean 
 nothing. 
 
 At night, tramping down the avenue tired of foot 
 and heart, the 3 7 oung lover pulled up short at the ap- 
 parition of the white frock and the pretty face of Janey, 
 Fanner Holt's servant. 
 
 " Is that you, Janey," he said. 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Janey, coming from behind the 
 trees and looking round furtively. " Oh, sir," and she 
 put her natty apron to her eyes. 
 
 " Well, be quick, my girl," said Leigh, with a sharp- 
 ness produced by his love. " I'm on thorns, you can 
 see. You come from your mistress?" 
 
 '* Yes, sir," said Janey crying. " Poor dear Miss 
 Muriel. Isn't it a shame, sir, that the prettiest young 
 lady in the county should be shut up like a prisoner in 
 the tower o' Lunnon, all for a tiresome man?" 
 
 " A prisoner ! " said Leigh, with quiet indignation. 
 44 Is she really a prisoner, my lass ? " and his lips com- 
 pressed tightly. 
 
 44 That she be, sir," said Janey, " and it's enough to
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 115 
 
 melt a stone to see the sweet dear sitting by the win- 
 dow so pale and quiet. Oh, Mr. Leigh, you be a very 
 fortunate gentleman." 
 
 Leigh nodded inquiringly. 
 
 " To think as Miss Muriel should refuse so many, 
 and fall in love with you. She do love you, too, sir, 
 for she sits at the window and watches you, and I can 
 see when you be coming or go, as well as she can, 
 a'most, by her sweet face. Oh, Mr. Leigh, what's to 
 be done?" 
 
 Leigh sat down on the fence and looked hard at the 
 ground. 
 
 If he followed the desire of his heart he knew what 
 would be done, and that without the loss of a moment. 
 He would have given ten years from his life to gratify 
 that desire, and that desire was to walk off straight to 
 the farm, liberate the woman he loved, and carry her 
 off in spite of twenty fathers or rivals. 
 
 But he had given his word, and so sat silent and 
 torn by passionate love and passionate indignation. 
 
 " And if you please, sir, Miss Muriel sent me to go 
 for a walk ; she's so thoughtful, sir, and couldn't let 
 me be cooped up in a close room though she were 
 obliged to be, and so I waits till it was dusk and creeps 
 down here, hoping to see you, Mr. Leigh ; and if you 
 please, sir, I do think as master intends sending Miss 
 Muriel far away into Lunnon or somewhere, for I see 
 him writing a letter, and George " here Janey blushed
 
 116 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " George did say as it were addressed to Miss 
 Muriel's aunt, as is a great lady and lives in Lunnon. 
 And, oh, sir, if she be sent away 'twill break her heart, 
 J know." 
 
 Leigh passed his hand across his brow, harassed and 
 tortured almost beyond endurance. 
 
 " Did did your mistress give you no message ? " 
 he asked, in a low voice, thirsting for a word from his 
 darling. 
 
 " Well, no," hesitated Janey. " She didn't give me 
 any message, but just as I was going out of the room 
 she plucked this forget-me-not out of the bunch of 
 flowers on the table and gave it me without a word, sir." 
 
 Leigh almost snatched it from her hand and pressed 
 it to his lips, then, in a hurried, agitated voice, for the 
 little flower stirred his earnest heart to its very depths, 
 he said : 
 
 " Janey, tell her that I sleep with her gift upon my 
 heart, and that until that heart ceases to beat I can- 
 not forget her. Tell her There, go, my girl, go, 
 go ! " and, unable to utter a word more, he strode off. 
 
 " Well," said Janey, " if this ain't love I don't know 
 what love is. Law ! to think of Mr. Leigh loving my 
 dear Miss Muriel like that ! One wouldn't a' thought 
 it of him so quiet and grave he looks." 
 
 Day passed after day and Muriel was still at Ruby- 
 wood, though the severity of her confinement had some- 
 what relaxed, and she was allowed to go as far as the
 
 FAEMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 117 
 
 garden and the court, but then only at stated times, 
 when her father, whom she had not seen nor spoken to 
 since the night of her refusal of young Heatherbridge, 
 sat in the parlor, the window of which commanded a 
 view of the whole space, and kept watch and guard 
 over her. 
 
 He would have sent her to London, but the aunt to 
 whom he had written was away on a visit, and so he 
 had to be contented with a sharp surveillance, and, 
 determined that he would break her spirit, and cure 
 her of her folly and obstinacy, resolved that she should 
 be kept a prisoner until she acknowledged her crime and 
 consented to take the husband he had chosen for her. 
 
 Harvest time approached. 
 
 Wynter Leigh, who had prospered in all matters save 
 that of his love, grew more anxious, more stern and 
 more passionately in love with the absent Muriel than 
 ever, and as the expiration of the six months' term of 
 silence and patience drew near was almost consumed 
 with fiery resolves and impossible projects. 
 
 The little forget-me-not, faded and dead, slept on his 
 heart night and day. 
 
 The harvest came. 
 
 Men were scarce ; all that were obtainable Mr. 
 Heatherbridge and Farmer Holt secured. 
 
 Worn to death with overwork and anxiety, Wynter 
 Leigh rode over to Hopwood and determined to give 
 the new steam monster a trial.
 
 118 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Farmer Holt, trudging from a newly reaped field to 
 one in progress, met the great steam monster panting 
 and snorting down the avenue, which Leigh, having 
 been far too occupied to cut a new road, had been com- 
 pelled to retain in use. 
 
 "What's that?" gasped the farmer, staring first at 
 the immense locomotive and then at the deep ruts 
 which its broad, heavy wheels cut in the even road. 
 
 " That be the new invention, farmer," replied old 
 Will, cheerily, and not without a grim satisfaction at 
 the farmer's dismay. " That be four-and-twenty men 
 rolled into iron and stuck upon wheels." 
 
 "And and what's your master going to do with 
 it ? " asked the farmer, his anger rising rapidly into a 
 fit of passion. 
 
 " Reap," retorted old Will. " There's a Providence 
 always waiting to open a new door when contrary men 
 shuts all the old un's, Farmer Holt." 
 
 And with a stern nod the old man trudged on after 
 the new hands. 
 
 Farmer Holt strode home purple with anger. 
 
 Muriel, sitting under the shade of an old oak in the 
 courtyard, saw him approaching, and expecting him to 
 turn off up the side walk to avoid her, drooped her 
 head to hide the tear-dimmed eyes, and sighed. 
 
 But the farmer, eyeing his daughter angrily, strode 
 straight on, and, standing before her, folded his arms, 
 and said :
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 119 
 
 " Muriel Holt, have you repented of your wickedness ? " 
 
 " Oh, father, father, dear father, you will break my 
 heart!" sobbed Muriel, throwing herself upon his 
 breast. 
 
 He put her back with a rough hand. 
 
 " Answer my question, girl. Are you ready to do 
 your duty and obey the man who gave you life. Will 
 you marry Alfred Heatherbridge ? " 
 
 " Father," said Muriel, pale but resolute, " I cannot 
 I dare not." 
 
 " Cannot ! dare not ! Why not ? " asked the father, 
 his eyes flashing. " Don't answer, you shameless girl, 
 I'll answer for you. You love another man. Do you 
 deny it?" 
 
 " No ! " said Muriel, raising her face with a light in 
 her eyes that might have been the reflection of his, 
 " I do love another man a brave, true-hearted man, 
 who would scorn to do what the man you would have 
 me marry has meanly done to him." 
 
 Farmer Holt drew his breath, and his arms, which 
 he had fixed across his chest, tightened. 
 
 " Your true-hearted man is Mister Leigh, my girl, 
 isn't it?" he asked, with terrible calmness. 
 
 " It is he," said Muriel, in a low but clear voice. 
 
 " Then, Muriel Holt, I tell you I'd rather follow 
 you to your grave than give you to that man. Mister 
 Leigh ! An insolent, hare-brained fool ! No daughter 
 of mine shall marry him, for I'd bury her first. And
 
 120 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 that's my answer, my girl, if ever you dare to put the 
 question. Marry the man I've chosen for you or remain 
 single. When I say a thing I mean it, and by Heaven 
 I'll stand to this ! " 
 
 Muriel sank upon the seat white as death, and al- 
 most as breathless. 
 
 The farmer glanced at her with a pitiless nod and 
 strode away.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 121 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Oh, I have set my all upon a die 
 And lost the cast ! Tell me no more 
 Of woman's love. 
 
 Falconer. 
 
 MURIEL, having herself made the declaration of 
 their mutual love, which she had made her lover promise 
 he would keep secret, lost no time in despatching 
 Janey with a message. It was short but wondrously 
 eloquent. 
 
 " Tell him, Janey," she said, with a sad little smile, 
 "that I have been very wicked and have ruined us 
 both, and that I do not deserve that he should keep 
 his promise." 
 
 Janey started with the message, but the farmer was 
 one too many for them. 
 
 He caught her at the gate and, without beating 
 round the bush, went straight to the point. 
 
 " You're going with a message to Mr. Leigh, my 
 lass," he said, sternly. " I don't want to know what it 
 is and I don't care, but if you pass that garden gate 
 you'll never come through it again while I'm master 
 of Rubywood. Now go back to your mistress and tell 
 her she hasn't a fool for a father."
 
 122 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Quite unconscious of the scene that had taken place 
 between the father and his daughter, Wynter Leigh, 
 with " Muriel " ringing in his ears and Muriel's face 
 ever before his wistful eyes, got through his reaping, 
 paid the engine fee and started on his night's round of in- 
 spection, which, be he never so weary, he never neglected. 
 
 As he passed the window which he knew was 
 Muriel's he raised his hand to his lips and mur- 
 mured a Messing on his love, and then, fired by her 
 nearness, resolved inwardly that by hook or by crook 
 he would see her on the morrow and be released from 
 his promise. 
 
 He was a man, he loved most passionately and his 
 patient endurance was getting intolerable. 
 
 Alas, that morrow ! When he awoke at sunrise and 
 had eaten his frugal breakfast he strode down to his 
 outhouses to look at his cows. 
 
 His man, Anderson, a quiet, almost sullen-tempered 
 fellow, was standing looking at a beast that stood lean- 
 ing against the stall as if it were lame. 
 
 " What's the matter, Anderson ? " asked Leigh. 
 
 " Nothin'," replied the man. " She's knocked her 
 leg against the stall." 
 
 Leigh was on his knees in a moment. 
 
 " Turn her round," he said, in his short way. 
 
 The man obeyed, and the cow, in a weak, shambling 
 way, turned round. 
 
 " Knocked her leg ? " repeated Leigh, doubtfully.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 123 
 
 " Yes," said the man. " I see'd her do it." 
 
 That settled it, of course, and Leigh, telling him to 
 bathe it with cold water, strode off. 
 
 In an hour or two he returned, and, walking by the 
 meadow way, was surprised and startled to see another 
 cow limping weakly across the grass. 
 
 He went up to it and looked at it. It was running 
 at the mouth and seemed lame. He called the man who 
 was at work in a distant part of the field, and pointed 
 out the marks of distress. 
 
 "Ah," said the fellow, "staggers." 
 
 " Not it," said Leigh, curtly, " I know staggers when 
 I see them, my man. This is not staggers nor anything 
 I've seen before. Fetch the vet.'* 
 
 " He's away at Hop wood," said the man, gruffly, 
 " and we don't want him. I'll take her home and doctor 
 her." 
 
 Leigh hesitated, but the man, who had been used to 
 cows from boyhood, looked and spoke so confidently 
 that he fell back and allowed him to drive the cow home. 
 
 A step behind him, and the postboy ran up. 
 
 Leigh opened the letter, which proved to be one from 
 his uncle, and was as stern in form and manner as the 
 uncle himself. 
 
 " DEAK WYNTEK : A call of business, unexpected 
 but urgent, may necessitate my requesting the return 
 of the three thousand pounds which I lent you. I trust
 
 124 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 you will be prepared should I do so, and I write this 
 early that you may not be inconvenienced. 
 
 " I am, yours faithfully, 
 
 " ARTHUR LEIGH." 
 
 Wynter Leigh's face fell and he took off his hat. 
 
 " A borrower is a slave," he muttered. " What am 
 I to do ? He will have the money if he need it, though 
 it were carved from my skin. I know him. Oh, 
 Muriel, Muriel, fate is erecting a fresh mountain be- 
 tween you and me for every old one I pull down." 
 
 Musing thus sadly, he came across the farmer. 
 
 He raised his hat with his earnest, kindly smile, but 
 the old man stared him grimly in the face and trudged 
 on without the slightest sign of recognition. 
 
 Leigh smiled almost as grimly and quickened his 
 pace. 
 
 " One heart is as good as another," he murmured, 
 " and yours is as well able to bear a shock as mine. I'll 
 wait no longer or both my darling's and mine will be 
 broken." 
 
 He turned the corner and saw old William running 
 towards him as fast as he could, with fear, distress and 
 agitation as plainly portrayed on his countenance as 
 the figures are on the dial of St. Paul's. 
 
 *' Oh, Master Leigh, Master Leigh, the plague be 
 upon us ! Heaven is a visiting us." 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Leigh, sternly,
 
 FAKMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 125 
 
 " Come to the yard, Master Leigh, come to the yard ! " 
 said the old man ; and as Leigh hurried on he followed 
 after. 
 
 In the yard all was confusion. A crowd was collected 
 round a group of cows, twenty in number, who were 
 lying as if stricken for death. 
 
 Leigh forced his way through the outer edge and 
 grasped the veterinary surgeon's arm. 
 
 " What ails them ? " he said, in a low, deep voice. 
 
 Mr. Muddock rose from his knees on which he had 
 been examining a cow's head, and scratched his 
 own. 
 
 " I'm blest if I know, sir," he replied, his face full of 
 bewilderment and concern. "I can't make out none o' 
 the symptoms. It's this 'ere lameness that puzzles me. 
 I've give 'em draughts, and I've bled some on 'em, but 
 it's all no use. Look there ! by the Heavens above 
 there's one dead! " and he sprang to one beast that with 
 piteous bellowing fell over as dead as a stone. 
 
 Leigh stood and glanced round stupefied and be- 
 numbed. But only for the moment, the next he turned 
 to one of the men and in an unnaturally calm voice said: 
 
 " Saddle the mare and ride to Wodenhead. Bring 
 Mr. Williams, the surgeon, here without the loss of a 
 moment. Don't spare the horse." 
 
 As he spoke two more cows were brought in, and the 
 vet turned with a confused, helpless air to examine them. 
 
 In half an hour Mr. Williams galloped into the yard.
 
 126 FAKMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 He shook hands hurriedly with Wyuter, and was on 
 his knees beside the cow last seized. 
 
 Leigh watched his face intently, and groaned as he 
 turned it up full of dark meaning. 
 
 " Speak out, man," said Leigh, " I'm not a child." 
 
 "Mr. Leigh," said the surgeon, "they're down with 
 this new disease, the cattle plague. It's highly infec- 
 tious, and and 'pon my soul I'm afraid you'll lose 
 them. Get all the men and have these stricken ones 
 removed, they taint the very air they breathe. Look 
 here ! By Heaven, there are five more ! " and as he 
 spoke he pointed to a small crowd driving a fresh batch 
 of victims. 
 
 Leigh threw off his coat and worked like a slave. 
 The men, cheered and encouraged by his example, 
 toiled away in the hot sun and separated the stricken 
 cattle from those not yet attacked. 
 
 Then, when the yard was clear save the piles of fag- 
 ots which the surveyor had ordered to be burned as 
 disinfectants, Leigh stood with folded arms to contem- 
 plate his approaching ruin. 
 
 His eyes turned towards Rubywood, his heart sank 
 within him, and with a groan he hid his face in his hands. 
 
 That night he passed amongst the dead and dying 
 cattle, listening with numbed ears to the gossip of his 
 men, which ran upon the hideous disease which had 
 just been introduced into England, and by which their 
 master's cows had been destroyed.
 
 FAEMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 127 
 
 In the morning, as if to put the finishing stroke to 
 his misfortune, came a second letter from the north. 
 
 Terribly abrupt, it was a sentence of ruin without 
 compromise. 
 
 " DEAR WYNTER : I wrote to you a week ago inform- 
 ing you that in all probability I should require the 
 re-payment of the three thousand pounds. Having 
 received no reply, I forward this to remind you that I 
 hold your note agreeing to pay on demand, and to in- 
 timate that as my want of the money is urgent, my 
 agent will call upon you to-morrow to receive payment 
 or take the necessary steps to enforce the bond. 
 
 " I am yours, 
 
 " A RTHUR LEIGH." 
 
 With the note in his hand, Leigh sank into a chair, 
 staring straight before him like one demented. 
 
 A week ago ! Yes, on referring to the first letter he 
 saw that his precise uncle had made no mistake, the 
 letter bore the date of a week back, and had evidently 
 been mislaid. To-morrow the agent one who could 
 not accept any compromise, and who would inevitably 
 carry out his instructions to the letter, and would en- 
 force the bond would be on the scene. 
 
 Where could he look for help ? Nowhere he had 
 no friend. Not one save old Will sitting in the .sun- 
 shine bowed down by the shock of his young master's 
 misfortunes.
 
 128 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 No friend ! Ah, yes, one, and he knew in his heart 
 that, come what would, she, his beautiful, gentle-hearted 
 Muriel, would be true to him, and that though the 
 years of separation might be long and bitter, she was 
 his to all eternity. 
 
 He threw the letter aside, and, drawing paper and 
 ink towards him, in his firm hand, which no amount of 
 distress could rob of its steadiness, wrote as his heart 
 dictated. 
 
 " MY DARLING : I may call you mine now, for if I 
 have not you I have nothing, Providence having seen 
 fit to deprive me of all earthly possessions. Buoyed 
 up with the hope your sweet lips gave me, I have striven 
 and battled with fortune for the greatest prize man ever 
 fought for. Man fights, but Heaven awards the victory 
 where it wills. I have lost the battle, and as I write 
 to you now am a ruined man. In this, which must be 
 the darkest hour of my life but for you, I turn like a 
 drowning man to my love, my star, my hope. Muriel, 
 will you still pledge me your love ? will you still give 
 your heart to a penniless, homeless wretch ? Wretch, 
 indeed, for asking you, but, oh, my darling, I love you 
 so that I cannot I cannot give you up without one 
 prayer ! 
 
 " I implore you to act as you think right, but, for 
 Heaven's sweet sake, have mercy on me ! Send me one 
 word to say that I may still hope that you will not
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 129 
 
 take your love from me because Heaven has taken 
 everything else. Be merciful, Muriel, and send me 
 word to lighten the darkness which has fallen upon me. 
 I have kept my promise ; now, though I am still more 
 unworthy of your love than ever, I implore you to keep 
 the promise which your eyes gave mine. And yet 
 and yet I know, selfish wretch that I am ! that I have 
 no right to ask you for your love or your pledge nay, 
 that it is cowardly, unmanly, to do so. Send me no 
 word, Muriel, but let the messenger go without a sign 
 from you that I may know you will be happy with some 
 better man, and forget that one Winter Leigh ever 
 loved you or crossed your path. Farewell, dear Muriel, 
 no longer mine ; Heaven's blessing rest upon you night 
 
 and day. 
 
 " WYNTER LEIGH." 
 
 He dared not read the cold words after he had writ- 
 ten them, but, with his lips tightly set, walked down 
 to Old Goody's and called Jaffer from the cottage. 
 
 " Jaffer," he said, " you can climb the court wall at 
 Ruby wood ? " 
 
 " Ees," said Jaffer, laughing with ecstatic glee. 
 
 " You are a clever fellow, Jaffer," said Leigh, with a 
 sad smile. " Can you take this note to Miss Muriel 
 where she sits in the court without any one seeing you 
 give it to her ? " 
 
 "I think I can, Measter Leigh," said Jaffer, with 
 another guffaw.
 
 130 FAEMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Leigh gave him the note and a shilling. 
 
 " I can trust you, Jaffer," he said, " because you are 
 quicker than people think, and you love Miss Muriel, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 " That I do," said Jaffer, " and so do you, don't you, 
 Measter Leigh?" 
 
 And Jaffer roared with enjoyment. 
 
 " Aye," said Leigh, solemnly. " There, do run off. 
 Remember, you are to take the note without any one 
 seeing you, and you are to run back to me and tell me 
 if Miss Muriel says anything to you word for word, 
 Jaffer and then there will be another shilling for you." 
 
 Jaffer laughed more heartily than before, seized the 
 note, secured it in some complicated corner of his fustian 
 coat, and, looking slyly up the lane to see if the coast 
 was clear, darted off. 
 
 Leigh looked after him with a fast-beating heart. 
 
 " Have I said farewell to all the world holds dear to 
 me? If so, I have said farewell to hope. I love her 
 with all my heart all my life and if I have lost her 
 life is over for me. What will she say ? Will she send 
 the answer I was craven enough to implore of her ? 
 Oh, shame on me ! I ought to have crept out of the 
 world rather than ask her for her love a penniless ad- 
 venturer homeless, friendless ! Ah, but I love her so 
 I love her so ! And that is where love makes us 
 weak. Will she send the word ? Will she send me a 
 note?"
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 131 
 
 Asking himself this one question, he paced up and 
 down the lane, each moment growing more excited and 
 feverish. 
 
 The boy seemed to have been gone hours already, 
 though Leigh knew that he could not yet have reached 
 Rubywood. 
 
 Ages seemed to pass, and then he saw Jaffer's long, 
 awkward figure swinging across the fields on a jog trot. 
 
 The strong man's heart beat so fast that it almost 
 stopped his breath. 
 
 Jaffer came on, and halted before him breathless, but 
 chuckling with satisfaction. 
 
 " Well ? " said Leigh, almost devouring him with his 
 flashing eyes. 
 
 " Hah ! hah ! " laughed Jaffer, looking round stealth- 
 ily. " I see her ! I see her ! I climbed over the wall 
 like a fox ! Hah ! hah ! Nobody sees Jaffer. 'cos he's 
 so thin ! I give her the note, and, lawk, she go as 
 white as Master Leigh himself ! And she read it, too ! " 
 he chuckled. 
 
 " And," said Leigh, painfully, " what did she say, 
 Jaffer?" 
 
 " Nothing ! " replied the boy, opening his eyes. 
 
 Leigh grasped his stick as if his hands had changed 
 from flesh to iron, his teeth closed on his under lip and 
 pierced it till the blood ran down. 
 
 "Nothing?" he said, hoarsely. "Think, Jaffer I 
 Not a word ? "
 
 132 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Not a word," said Jaffer, laughing, but rather dis- 
 mally. " I asked her if so be as there wasn't any mes- 
 sage, and she shook her head like this and never said a 
 word." 
 
 Wynter Leigh turned his face up to the sky and 
 stood in the blazing sun like a man turned to stone, 
 then with a slow movement, as of one being dead 
 brought back, with pain, to life, walked slowly away, 
 leaving Jaffer looking after and laughing heartily. 
 
 Next day at noon Mr. Heatherbridge knocked at the 
 door of Farmer Holt's small office, and without waiting 
 for permission to enter burst in. 
 
 " Alfred," exclaimed Farmer Holt, " what's hap- 
 pened ? " 
 
 " Haven't you heard ? " said Mr. Heatherbridge, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " What should I ask for, then ? " asked the farmer, 
 who detested suspense of any kind. 
 
 " Indeed no," assented the young man, with a little 
 less exultation. " Wynter Leigh has disappeared. 
 Left the place like a a thief. And they say that the 
 cattle are down with the new disease, and that tha 
 bailiffs are in at the Holme."
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 133 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Oh, Jealousy, thou green-eyed monster, 
 How many maids have thy voracious jaws 
 Consumed. 
 
 HAVING solemnly pronounced his opinion that Mr. 
 Wynter Leigh's troubles had been vouchsafed him in the 
 shape of a special judgment, Farmer Holt asked himself 
 the question whether it would be better to impart the 
 news of the young man's disappearance to obstinate 
 Muriel or keep her in ignorance of it until Mr. Leigh 
 had time to get quite out of the country. 
 
 Alfred Heatherbridge thought for a moment he was 
 very anxious and embarrassed, and could not look the 
 farmer in the face, then said : 
 
 " Tell her at once, sir. Muriel's too sensible a girl 
 to give another thought to a worthless vagabond like 
 that, especially when she knows that he has fled the 
 place without giving her a word." 
 
 "Oh," said the farmer, scratching his chin, "you 
 think with me, I see, that the young ne'er-do-well was 
 sweet with her. But how do you know that he hasn't 
 sent a sly word, eh, Alfred ? " 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge absolutely turned pale. 
 
 "I I of course I can't say for certain, sir," he said.
 
 134 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " But if you've kept a proper watch and care over Miss 
 Muriel, I can't see how he could get to her." 
 
 " True," said the farmer, rising with a sigh. " Ah ! 
 if I'd a thought ray lass would have given me all this 
 ado, I think I should a wished her a boy." 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge muttered a thanksgiving that she 
 was not, and in an awkward, embarrassed sort of way 
 took his leave. 
 
 The farmer tramped up-stairs and knocked at Muriel's 
 door. 
 
 Janey opened it a quarter of an inch, glared through 
 the space with one eye, and, seeing the farmer's grave 
 face, shut it to again with great rapidity. 
 
 " Darn the girl ! open the door ! " growled the farmer, 
 and Muriel's soft voice echoing the three last words 
 Janey, who was fully prepared to defend the door with 
 her foolish young life, opened it and rather reluctantly 
 admitted the farmer. 
 
 " Well," said he, walking up to Muriel, who rose 
 from her seat by the window and stood pale and tremu- 
 lous, but inwardly as firm and determined. 
 
 " You've brought your pigs to a fine market, young 
 lady. This comes of setting your own father a foud 
 old fool at defiance ! It serves you right, but I don't 
 say that I'm not sorry, my lass, for it stands to reason 
 that girls running shorter o' brains than men and being 
 taken with queerer fancies, takes it to heart when 
 things run crossways for 'em."
 
 PAKMEB HOLT'S DAUGHTEE. 135 
 
 Muriel looked up, paler than ever. 
 
 "What lias happened, father?" she asked, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 The farmer looked her full in the eyes. 
 
 " Young Leigh's gone all wrong and fled the place." 
 
 Muriel sank into the chair, and for the moment the 
 father, who loved her better than he loved anything else 
 in the world, excepting hard cash and good land, feared 
 that he had given her her death blow, but ere he could 
 touch her she put up her hand to keep him off and said' 
 firmly : 
 
 " I don't understand, but I know that he has done 
 nothing wrong." 
 
 u Lass, you're a fool," he said. " Never did I think 
 that a Holt would a been such poor blood as to fling 
 stones after such a weak-witted ne'er-do-well as that as 
 has given thee the slip. Done wrong ! It's wrong 
 enough, I think, to borrow money ye can't pay and then 
 cut from the bailiffs." 
 
 " Gone ! " breathed Muriel. 
 
 " Gone ay and showed a remarkable clean pair o' 
 heels, too. He came like a will-o'-the-wisp and he's 
 vanished like one. Be open with me, lass, for I know 
 thee was't led away to disobey your fond father by the 
 scamp. Did he leave thee e'er a word now ? " 
 
 Muriel shook her head. 
 
 The father slapped his leg triumphantly. 
 
 " By Heaven, I thought not ! " he said, " it's sure and
 
 136 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 certain that he was after thee for my poor bit o' money. 
 A regular speculation, lass, as they calls it in Lunnon, 
 depend upon it. But there, don't you fret any more, 
 come down-stairs and whistle the bird down the wind. 
 There's as good fish in the sea as ever came out, and, 
 indeed, far better ones than him that's given thee the 
 go-by, waiting for thy simple "yes." Wynter Leigh 
 was a villain as well as a fool ! " 
 
 With these words he had passed the boundary line of 
 her endurance. 
 
 She rose, beautiful and brave as a leopardess, her 
 usually mild eyes flashing fire on him, and her small 
 hands clenched at her sides. 
 
 " Wynter Leigh is an honest and true man, if there is 
 one in the world, and until it is proven to me that he is 
 other than that I will never cease to love him ! " 
 
 Then she sank into the chair, and, with a moan, 
 dropped her face into her hands. 
 
 The farmer stared grimly at her for a full minute, 
 then in silence left the room. 
 
 Two days later Squire Heatherbridge was filled with 
 concern for poor Jailer's ignorance, and declared that 
 he would send him to school. 
 
 It was shocking to see the grandson of such a well- 
 conducted old lady as Goody running about as ignorant 
 and silly as a savage. And consequently, much to the 
 edification of the villagers, who one and all sang praises 
 to the benevolence and kind-heartedness of the young
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 137 
 
 squire, poor, simple-minded Jaffer was conveyed to a 
 school two counties off. 
 
 No sooner had Jaffer gone than ugly rumors, at first 
 dim and undefined, but gradually growing into some- 
 thing definite, arose concerning the suddenly vanished 
 Mr. Leigh. 
 
 Somebody had seen or heard something, and at last it 
 was getting generally believed that the poor young 
 farmer had really been compelled to fly the Holme, not 
 so much on account of his pecuniary troubles as on that 
 of some lady-love. These rumors of course reached 
 Rubywood and found their way to the quiet little room 
 to which Muriel was still confined, but nothing occurred 
 to confirm or justify them until some months later, when 
 the farmer, who had persuaded Muriel to accompany 
 him to the next market town, saw her comfortably 
 seated in the village phaeton, and for the first time for 
 many months addressed her kindly. 
 
 They were talking of the coming season Muriel 
 listening rather, for she spoke but rarely and always 
 in the low, cheerless voice which seemed habitual to 
 her now, and the farmer said, suddenly : 
 
 " I've bought the Holme, lass." 
 
 Muriel started and turned her head aside. 
 
 The farmer whipped the mare and plunged into the 
 subject. 
 
 " I thought I'd tell you, in case some one else did ifc 
 blundering like. Don't you think I'm going to rake
 
 138 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 up the old trouble again, because I'm not. I've taken 
 you at your word, and I'm ready to believe that you 
 won't look at another man till this young vaga 
 Wynter Leigh is proved what all the world says he is." 
 
 Muriel's eyes filled. 
 
 " What do they say he is ? " she asked. 
 
 " That he was as false in love as he was in farming 
 wrong at bottom, lass ; and a gay deceiver. They 
 do say that there's a lady pining her heart away for 
 him up in the North where he came from. 1 cannot 
 say if it's true, for you may be sure that I haven't 
 stopped to make inquiries. All that I do mean to say 
 is that it goes against my natural pride to hear my own 
 lass mated to some other miles away and sharing pity 
 with her." 
 
 " It is false," said Muriel. 
 
 " Very like," said the farmer, grimly ; " I only tell 
 thee what I've heard." 
 
 He seened as disinclined to touch the subject as 
 Muriel herself, and, after bestowing another fillip upon 
 the mare, set to whistling. 
 
 They had passed the Holme and were on the Hop- 
 wood road some distance when the farmer drew aside 
 to allow a post-chaise to pass. 
 
 Instead of passing, however, the postilion pulled up 
 in obedience to a signal from the inside, the window 
 rattled down, and a lady, young and good-looking, 
 with a pleasant smile accosted the astonished farmer.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 139 
 
 " Can you tell me, my man," she said, in a slightly 
 foreign accent, "if we are in the right direction for the 
 Holme ? " 
 
 For a moment the farmer was too astounded to an- 
 swer, the lady, evidently amused at his bewilderment, 
 transferring her attention to the pale, beautiful face 
 of Muriel. 
 
 " The Holme," she repeated. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " you are going right for the Holme." 
 
 " Mr. Wynter Leigh's ? " asked the lady, as if to 
 make assurance doubly certain. 
 
 " No, Farmer Holt's," replied the old man, grimly. 
 
 The lady looked surprised. 
 
 " Are there two places called the Holme ? " she asked. 
 
 " Not in this part of the countiy," said the farmer. 
 
 " And Mr. Leigh does not live at this one ? " said 
 the lady, looking displeased. 
 
 " No lie doesn't," replied the farmer. " He did, but 
 he has gone." 
 
 " Gone ! " echoed the lady, faintly, and the farmer, 
 noting her tone of dismay, looked at Muriel significantly. 
 
 " Yes, gone," he repeated, " left suddenly." 
 
 " And for where ? " asked the lady, who appeared 
 very much startled. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Farmer Holt drawing a long breath, 
 " that's just what no one knows. He left fled as one 
 may say from the country like & thief in the night, 
 and not a soul knows where he has gone."
 
 140 FAEMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER 
 
 " This is most strange ! " exclaimed the lady, sink- 
 ing back in the carriage and looking very much an- 
 noyed and undecided. " I I had most important 
 business with Mr. Leigh " 
 
 "No doubt," remarked the farmer sardonicalty. 
 
 " And and I really don't know what to do. But 
 I must find him. Are you sure you can give me no 
 information? Has he left no servant of any kind who 
 would be likely to know his movements ? " 
 
 " The only man who knew anything of him or his 
 affairs left the place the moment he heard of his mas- 
 ter's flight, followed him I suppose," said the farmer. 
 
 " I don't understand it," said the lady, with an 
 anxious sigh. " Well, I am very much obliged to you. 
 Will you tell my man to drive on, please ? Stop ! 
 whom is this Mr. Holt whom you say has bought or 
 holds this farm ? " 
 
 " He's your dutiful servant, madam," said the old 
 man, lifting his hat with a grim bow and setting the 
 mare going as the postilion started the chaise. 
 
 For a mile not a word was spoken by father or 
 daughter, Muriel looking straight before with the same 
 pale face and sad, calm eyes, the old man breaking into 
 spasmodic whistling occasionally and flippings of the 
 mare. 
 
 At last he said, quietly : 
 
 " It's true, lass, you see. That fine lady was the 
 one we've heard of, no doubt of it. She'll follow him.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 141 
 
 for she looks like it, but my modest lass will act sensi- 
 bly and bid good-by to all thoughts of him forever," 
 and Muriel's eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing. 
 But Farmer Holt had conquered. 
 
 That same evening the young squire came hurriedly 
 into the parlor, and to his surprise and embarrassment 
 found Muriel there. 
 
 It was the first time they had met since the evening 
 of his avowal, and for a moment he turned as pale as 
 she herself, but the next he took the hand she held 
 out for him, and bent over it, murmuring indistinct 
 thankfulness for her recovery from the illness which 
 was the accepted reason for her confinement to her 
 apartments. 
 
 While they stood silent the farmer came in, rubbing 
 his hands, and winked with a world of joyous cunning 
 at the young squire. 
 
 " Well, lads and lasses," he cried, cheerfully, " here 
 we are again, all snug and comfortable after a spell of 
 nasty weather. Sit ye down, lad, and take a bit of 
 supper with us. Muriel can find ye a spare knife and 
 fork, I'll be bound." 
 
 And while Muriel went to apprize Janey of the ad- 
 dition to the party the old man leaned over to the squire, 
 and, winking like the automaton at the Antwerp 
 Museum, whispered: 
 
 " It's all right, lad ! She'll be a dutiful girl, and 
 have thee. Hah! hah! she'll make a better wife for
 
 143 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 this little tantrum ; shows she's got spirit, and can keep 
 her word like a Holt." 
 
 By the next morning it was known far and wide that 
 Miss Muriel had recovered from her illness and that she 
 would become mistress of the Howe.
 
 FABMEB HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 143 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Oh, love, that finds its sweet reward 
 In sacrifice heroic, may hope to win 
 The meed it longs for. 
 
 THE young squire, having no doubt ever before his 
 mind the familiar adage, " There's many a slip 'twixt the 
 cup and the lips," hastened the preparations to the ut- 
 most. 
 
 He ought to have been a happy man, his friends said, 
 for he had a great windfall of wealth, and had secured 
 the prettiest girl in the county ; but his own people 
 about the farm half suspected that he was not in such a 
 high state of felicity as he should have been, and more 
 than one hinted that the squire was an altered man. 
 
 He had grown in the short space of six months from a 
 good-tempered master to an irritable, suspicious, yet 
 feeble-minded tyrant, always laboring under the painful 
 idea that those about him were watching him or striving 
 to over-reach him. 
 
 Servant after servant had found his manner unbearable 
 and left him. The farmer himself noticed and was sur- 
 prised at the alteration, but he attributed the young 
 man's change to an anxiety born of feverish impatience 
 for the marriage, and backed up all his entreaties for a
 
 144 FARMEB HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 epeedy celebration by nods of acquiescence from him- 
 self. 
 
 Muriel, to whom these entreaties and half commands 
 were addressed, received and responded to them with 
 the same cheerless, indifferent placidity which had 
 marked her conduct in the whole business. 
 
 She had, in a few emphatic but gentle words, given 
 the young squire to understand that if he took her he 
 must be satisfied with her esteem and respect alone, and 
 having ascertained that, for the present, these feelings 
 were all he hoped for, she seemed indifferent to the course 
 of events. 
 
 Wynter Leigh, the man she had trusted and loved as 
 only such a pure, deep feeling girl could trust and love, 
 had deceived and deserted her. All the rest was chaos, 
 and it mattered little whether she was sold to Mr. 
 Heatherbridge or any one else. 
 
 She knew that she was being sold, notwithstanding 
 her father's affection for her, for she had heard enough 
 fragments of conversations to gather that the awkward 
 corner of the estate was the price at which she was 
 sacrificed. 
 
 The days wore on. 
 
 She went among the poor again not like the merry, 
 light-hearted Muriel of old, but more like a sister of 
 mercy and cheered and sympathized with them. 
 
 She would sit for half an hour and listen to old Goody, 
 who, with the dimness of decaying perception, would in-
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 145 
 
 ist upon prating of good Mr. Leigh and his old shep- 
 herd, and sometimes of poor Jaffer, who spent all his 
 holidays at the school, and had never been to see his 
 good old grandmother. 
 
 The days wore on with that grim steadiness of prog- 
 ress which, when a great sorrow is looming, is far more 
 terrible than desperate and excited speed, and the day 
 before the wedding arrived. 
 
 It was early in May. The weather had been particu- 
 larly fine for some weeks past, and something like a 
 drought had prevailed. 
 
 The farmer was crying out for rain, and trudging over 
 the fields and the roads through dust and parched soil. 
 
 The Holme was in the hands of workmen, who were 
 transforming it into a sort of home farm, and the farmer 
 was enjoying the two delights of his life his sole right 
 of way in the avenue and his daughter's marriage to the 
 richest man in Berks. 
 
 The laborers had knocked off work for the day and 
 were trudging home in knots, talking of the festivities 
 of the morrow, and glancing between pauses of the con- 
 versation at the cloudless sky, as farmers and farm 
 laborers are apt to do when they want the weather they 
 have not. 
 
 At the Howe the painters, decorators and upholsterers 
 were hard at work, commencing the extensive alterations, 
 which were to be finished by the return of the bride and 
 bridegroom.
 
 146 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 At Ruby wood a host of ruddy-cheeked, strong-armed 
 women were giving the final touches to the eatables 
 which were to deck the wedding breakfast-table, and 
 chattering like a cage full of Java sparrows of bygone 
 marriages, and marriages that were looming in the 
 future. 
 
 " And where's Miss Mur'l now ? " asked one matron. 
 
 " Oh, in her room, pretty birdie," replied another. 
 " She's as modest and sweet as a throstle, and do keep 
 herself to herself, as is only proper and becoming of a 
 young girl." 
 
 " In her room," said another. " Poor Miss Mur'l, I 
 don't think she has been so well lately, she do look so 
 purely white and so sad like. She be just like Dame 
 Freeman's Lucy before she took the consumption. But, 
 there, a wedding's a trying thing to such a sweet girl as 
 she be, and " (with a long sigh) " indeed to any woman 
 as has been properly brought up. It's for better or for 
 worse, you see, and it's quite a straw i' the wind whether 
 it's one or t' other." 
 
 Here the matronly moralizer fell to at an apricot tart 
 and shook her head solemnly. 
 
 The farmer, who would not have broken his daily 
 routine if fifty weddings were hovering round him, came 
 tramping in at six o'clock, and, having given an approv- 
 ing glance at the extensive preparations, dismissed the 
 many cooks with a good-tempered nod and sat down to 
 his tea.
 
 FAKMEE HOLT'S DAUGHTEE. 147 
 
 Muriel entered the room as he drew his chair to the 
 table, and the old man, looking up with a fond smile, 
 was struck into silence by the fearful pallor of her face* 
 
 With a woeful little smile she seated herself at the 
 table and gave him his tea. 
 
 " Why, lass, how skeared you look ! " he said. 
 "Bean'tyou well to-night?" 
 
 " Yes, father," said Muriel, " a little headache, that 
 is all. We have been very busy to-day, you know." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " The last day's work you'll do, lass, I'll be sworn ; 
 to-morrow you'll have as many servants as any lady of 
 the land." 
 
 Muriel smiled. 
 
 " Don't you get excited," he continued, rubbing his 
 hands and looking at her. " Keep quiet, lass, and show 
 Alfred a bright face, for he's a good lad, and deserves 
 thee, and that's saying a good deal. Why, it's me that 
 ought to hang the miller's sign out, for I lose the best 
 daughter ever a father had." 
 
 Muriel's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Not lose me, father," she said. " We shall be very 
 near each other." 
 
 Alas ! it was the only comfort she had. 
 
 " True ! true ! " said the old man, chuckling. " The 
 palace Hah! hah ! it's my whim, my love, to call it the 
 palace now the chaps from London have been at it, 
 sticking gold and silver and silks and satins about as if
 
 148 FAKMEK HOLT'S DAUGHTER 
 
 they were just nowt at all ! the palace isn't a stone's 
 throw from the old place where you were born, and your 
 old father can look out of his window and see his daugh- 
 ter in all her glory." 
 
 He laughed long and loud, then suddenly broke off 
 and bade her leave him. 
 
 " You'll want a rest, lass, and a little quiet, and I've 
 got a little reckoning to do." 
 
 Muriel kissed him, and, as silently as she had entered, 
 stole to her room again. 
 
 The old man waited until she had gone, and then 
 tramped up-stairs, returning in a few minutes with a tin 
 box and a canvas bag. These he put on the table, and, 
 after locking the door, emptied from them a heap of 
 bank-notes and gold. With one eye closed and his brow 
 wrinkled like a piece of parchment, he set to work 
 counting out his money. 
 
 It was Muriel's ten thousand pounds dowry. 
 
 While the farmer was, with infinite labor, adding up 
 notes and piles of sovereigns a young man sat in the 
 sanded parlor of an ale-house just three miles off with 
 his arms on the table and his head on his hands. 
 
 He had been sitting in the same room and in the same 
 attitude of quiet sadness for full an hour, and when at 
 last he started up it was with a sigh that told pretty 
 plainly of the effort the movement had cost him. 
 
 He took out his watch and glanced at the win- 
 dow.
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 149 
 
 " Seven o'clock," he muttered. " The time seems to 
 spin round so fast that it makes me giddy. Ho\v many 
 hours before I shall have lost her forever ? Oh, Wynter 
 Leigh, Wynter Leigh ! this is neither wise nor manly to 
 sit like a wounded dog, fretting and moping for a woman 
 who has thrown you over for a wealthier match. 
 Women always have heen fickle and always will be. 
 But could I have dreamed that my Muriel, my sweet, 
 tender-hearted Muriel, would have been so base ? I 
 raised her from woman to angel in my mind, and it was 
 there I erred. There's not a woman in the world that 
 gold can't buy if Muriel Holt could not withstand it. 
 Poor girl ! for I can pity her while I pity myself. Gold 
 can't buy love, and life without love is worse than death. 
 I know that well enough, for I'm wicked enough to wish 
 that I was dead this minute, bleeping quietly in a cor- 
 ner of the churchyard at home with all the dead-and- 
 gone Leighs, of whom I am most assuredly the most 
 unhappy ! " 
 
 He caught up his hat as he spoke and sauntered 
 wearily into the bar. 
 
 The hostess, a smiling widow, dropped a courtesy as 
 he passed, and with a smile asked him if he were going 
 to the wedding on the morrow. 
 
 He shook his head with a quiet " No," and groaning 
 inwardly passed out into the road. 
 
 It was a beautiful night, the sky without a cloud, ths 
 air as soft and warm as that of a July night.
 
 150 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 So hot did it seem that the miserable man felt stifling, 
 and threw open his coat to breathe freely. 
 
 For a moment he stood in the road undecided whether 
 to return to the house or walk on, but some influence, not 
 difficult to name, seemed to draw him toward Ruby- 
 wood, and with downcast face, that was darker and graver 
 than ever now, he walked slowly down the dusty road. 
 
 A man passed, stared at him and touched his hat. 
 
 " Good evening, Master Leigh." 
 
 He nodded and turned out of the road into a footpath. 
 
 " Why did I come back ? " he murmured. " What 
 good will it do ? None in the world, but help me feed 
 my misery. And yet I felt that I must be here, and, 
 though I knew nothing of her marriage, I felt drawn to 
 the spot which has embittered my whole life. And now 
 I would give a hundred pounds to be able to return as 
 quickly as I came. Again I ask mj^self why I should 
 gather fresh pain and misery being near her when she 
 gives herself to him for life ? No, I'll go no farther. 
 I can see the church spire from here. I'll stop. Once 
 within sight of her window, who knows what mad thing 
 I may do ? Oh, Muriel, Muriel, if Heaven had only been 
 kind enough to keep us apart ! " 
 
 As he spoke he threw himself down at the foot of 
 an old oak, and, leaning his head upon his hand, gave 
 himself up to his hopeless, despairing misery. 
 
 Two hours passed, darkness fell, the stars peeped out, 
 at first timidly, and then with a twinkle and glitter of
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 151 
 
 bravery tha.t shamed all lesser lights, and still he lay, 
 going over with weary pain every delicious moment he 
 had spent with the woman to whom he had given his 
 heart and whom to-morrow he would lose forever. 
 
 He might have lain there the whole night but for one 
 rousing incident, and that was a strange phenomenon 
 which presented itself in the sky at which he was 
 gazing. 
 
 From a deep, blackish blue it was suddenly trans- 
 formed to a brilliant, fiery scarlet. 
 
 For a moment he stared with indifferent surprise, but 
 the next, as the crimson changed and flushed into an- 
 other shade, he sprang to his feet and turned almost as 
 red as the sky itself. 
 
 It was no phenomenon, but simply the reflection of 
 fire. 
 
 Some house was burning, and that close to him. 
 
 His heart gave a great leap, and threatened to choke 
 him, as it flashed upon him that the light was in the 
 direction of Ruby wood, and that the farm itself might 
 be on fire. 
 
 He buttoned his coat with trembling fingers, stuck 
 his hat tightly on his head, and sprang into the path, 
 running as if for dear life. 
 
 Panting he reached the stile and leaped into the road. 
 
 A number of men, silent but with anxious faces, upon 
 which the reflection of the fire fell with a weird effect, 
 were running as hard as himself to ward Ruby wood.
 
 152 FAKMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 He caught a man's arm without stopping him. 
 
 " Where is it?" he asked, in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 " Farmer Holt's," replied the man, in like manner, 
 never removing his eyes from the flames, which as they 
 turned the bend of the road could be seen shooting 
 above the trees. 
 
 Wynter Leigh groaned aloud. 
 
 " Ruby wood ! " he cried, " and a three weeks' drought. 
 Not a stick will be saved ! " 
 
 Then he outran them all, gained upon fresh groups 
 farther on, and burst at last, like a greyhound, wet with 
 perspiration and panting, in front of Ruby wood wrapped 
 in flames. 
 
 Has the reader ever seen a fire in the country ? If 
 not let him imagine a long, rambling, thatched house, 
 built of wood, and surrounded by the most combustible 
 objects hay, straw and corn ricks, outbuildings so dry 
 as to resemble touchwood. And to complete the picture 
 let him remember that the only means of stopping the 
 fearful destruction lies in the water of some shallow 
 pond, which can only be applied by chance buckets that 
 are as effective as thimbles against the devouring flames, 
 which, amidst the fearful shrieks and screams of the 
 poor animals, crackle and laugh with fiendish malice 
 as they twirl round wood and straw and lick them into 
 shapeless ashes. 
 
 In such a scene Wynter Leigh found himself. 
 
 For a moment he was so stunned by the dreadful
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 153 
 
 din and confusion as to be incapable of action, but the 
 next he had pushed his way through the outer throng 
 to a small group in the front of the house, from which 
 came the most agonizing groans and exclamations. 
 
 The light of the flames, which were now completely 
 surrounding the homestead, fell upon the faces of the 
 farmer and Mr. Heatherbridge the former crying and 
 wringing his hands, the latter roaming to and fro with 
 helpless, painful anxiety. 
 
 As Leigh ran up the farmer turned his face, which 
 was contracted with anguish, and cried : 
 
 " My child ! Oh, save my lass ! Let the house go, 
 but save my lass ! " 
 
 Leigh reeled for a moment. 
 
 Muriel in there ! 
 
 " Where is she?" he thundered in the old man's ear. 
 
 " There ! Save her, save her ! " cried the distracted 
 farmer, pointing to Muriel's window and sinking on his 
 knees. 
 
 Leigh slipped off his coat and sprang toward the 
 flames. 
 
 A shout of warning and terror rose from the throng. 
 
 " Come back ! It's madness ! You'll be burned and 
 suffocated, man ! Come back ! " 
 
 He laughed with fiery scorn and plunged into the 
 seething, hissing mass of flame. 
 
 They saw him, with every button and fold of his 
 shirt lit up hideously ; then, as he sank in the blaze
 
 154 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 and smoke, a cry of horror, echoed by a dull shriek from 
 the father, mingled with the crackling of the flames. 
 
 Mr. Heatherbridge sank upon a bench and hid his 
 face in his hands, miserably helpless. 
 
 Suddenly a shout, half of terror, half of encourage- 
 ment, brought him to his feet, and he saw two figures, 
 those of Muriel and the man who had gone to her rescue, 
 in the middle of the doorway. 
 
 The next moment he ran up, in time to see the father 
 clasp his rescued daughter to his breast, sobbing like a 
 child. 
 
 " Where is he ? where is he ? " he gasped. " Let me 
 see the man who has given me my lass's life ! " 
 
 A dozen hands pushed a blackened, fire-singed figure 
 before him. 
 
 The farmer held out his hand, but suddenly fell back 
 white and breathless. 
 
 " Wy liter Leigh ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Wynter Leigh," gasped Mr. Heatherbridge ; while 
 the crowd caught the name and sent it round. 
 
 " Ay," said the scorched, blackened lips, " I am 
 Wynter Leigh, Mr. Heatherbridge I am back in time to 
 give you your wife." 
 
 The farmer clasped Muriel with a hand of steel, but 
 remained speechless for a moment, then groaned. 
 
 " Miserable man ! " he cried. " My poor lass, I've 
 got thee, Heaven be praised but I've lost thy dowry." 
 
 He had forgotten in the stupor of the moment that
 
 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 155 
 
 such a being as Wynter Leigh existed. And, in the 
 pangs of avarice which seized him when he remembered 
 that he had lost the ten thousand pounds, forgot even 
 to be grateful for his daughter's rescued life. 
 
 " A hundred pounds to any man who will bring me 
 the tin box out of my room. Two hundred pounds ! 
 A thousand pounds ! It's my lass's dowry." 
 
 " Her dowry ! " said Leigh, with a short, hoarse 
 laugh ; " come, Mr. Heatherbridge, that's worth saving. 
 Will you try a venture for that or shall I ? Suppose 
 I complete the gift, and make you a present of wife, 
 dowry and all ! " 
 
 And laughing scornfully in the weak man's face he 
 ran toward the house again. 
 
 A cry, full of intense, overflowing agony from Muriel 
 did not stop him, but brought his blackened face round 
 to her with a look which none who saw it can ever for- 
 get, and the next moment he had plunged into the dense 
 smoke, for the second time. 
 
 The excitement now was intense. All was forgotten 
 save that within that furnace was a brave, true-hearted 
 man, who had risked his life for a second time, and for 
 no other reason than to save the money intended for 
 the benefit of the man who had stolen the woman he 
 loved. 
 
 Not a man spoke, but all waited one two thres 
 minutes. 
 
 Ah ! there is something !
 
 156 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Crash, Crash ! 
 
 The huge oaken rafters have split, and are falling ! 
 
 Merciful Heaven ! he must be crushed beneath them, 
 even though the flame spared him ! 
 
 No ! With a deafening shout they hail the daring 
 figure as it stands upon the charred framework of the 
 window-ledge. 
 
 Then half a dozen of the bravest dart foward with a 
 tarpaulin, and stretch it beneath him, shouting to him, 
 to jump for his life. 
 
 He jumps ! is caught and borne by men, cheering 
 madly, to the two white, motionless figures, father and 
 daughter. 
 
 He rises, throws something heavy that rattles like 
 money at their feet, then without a moan falls exhaust- 
 ed and writhing with pain beside it. 
 
 The day broke as beautiful as an August morning, 
 and the sun peering through the closely drawn blind 
 fell upon the scorched face of the hero of the last night. 
 
 He was lying motionless but awake, his hands, black- 
 ened and blistered, stretched upon the coverlid, his breast 
 bandaged, and his thick hair singed and charred. 
 
 So great was the pain that he dared not open his lips 
 for fear of uttering the groans which he stifled between 
 his clenched teeth. 
 
 He had been carried there to his old room by the
 
 FAEMEE HOLT'S DAUGHTEE. 157 
 
 tender, careful hands of men who would have died for 
 him, and who were now massed beneath his window 
 waiting to catch a glimpse of the doctor's face. 
 
 Before the day had gone he was happily unconscious 
 of his agony, and was raving in delirium, calling on 
 Heaven to save his Muriel, and fighting with his hands 
 through walls of flame. 
 
 Then a white-clad figure with a tearful face hovered 
 round his bed with lips that murmured prayers for him 
 and longed to kiss his face. 
 
 In the morning he awoke weak and exhausted but 
 conquering, and the first objects his eyes saw were 
 Farmer Holt and beautiful Muriel leaning over him. 
 
 " Thank Heaven," he said, " I dreamed you were 
 lost after. all," and he shuddered. "Where is Mr. 
 Heatherbridge your husband ? " 
 
 The old man, who had aged ten years in appearance 
 during the excitement of those few fearful hours, an- 
 swered him : 
 
 " My lass has no husband yet, Master Leigh, and 
 she's come to ask your pardon and be one for her. " 
 
 The sick man raised himself on his arms and stared 
 at him. 
 
 " Not married ! " he breathed. 
 
 " No, nor won't be till you get better," said the old 
 man. " And not then if we get our deserts. " 
 
 " Do you mean, " said Leigh, trembling, " that you 
 will <jive her to me? "
 
 158 FARMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " I mean that I hold her yours, seeing that you saved 
 her life and her money, while the man who ought to 
 have done it stood by like a ninny. She's yours, Master 
 Leigh, that is if so be as you will explain one thing. " 
 
 Wynter Leigh nodded, but he did not speak or re- 
 move his eyes from the loved head beside him, and to 
 which his hand was wandering longingly. 
 
 " I want you to tell me who that fine lady was that 
 came down here after you," and the old man's brow 
 contracted. 
 
 Wynter Leigh shook his head, then smiled suddenly. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, with a world of meaning. " That 
 was my cousin, who came from Australia to bring me 
 news that would have been as precious as rain in drought 
 if it had not come too late. She brought me word that 
 my uncle had died and left me thirty thousand pounds 
 and an Australian farm." 
 
 " She did ! " exclaimed the old man, his eyes spark- 
 ling. 
 
 " And now may I have her ? " asked Leigh, with the 
 eagerness of a boy ; and, without waiting for an an- 
 swer, he laid his hand upon the bowed head. 
 
 " Take her, and a wicked old man's blessing, too," 
 muttered Farmer Holt, and he trudged from the 
 room. 
 
 " Muriel," Wynter whispered. 
 
 She raised her face, all flushed with the light of joy and 
 her lips sought his hand.
 
 FAKMER HOLT'S DAUGHTER. 159 
 
 " No, no, " he said, hastily. " Not till it is well, 
 Muriel." 
 
 But she took both hands tenderly, and kissed them 
 fervently. 
 
 Rubywood is rebuilt, and if the reader would like to 
 feast his eyes with a picture of English domestic felicity 
 let him run down and see Mr. and Mrs. Leigh. 
 
 The Howe knows craven-hearted Mr. Heatherbridge 
 no more ; he has flown, dismayed and vanquished by no 
 mightier a giant than simple Jaffer, who has returned 
 to Goody, and who is always willing to explain how 
 while he took Mr. Leigh's letter to Muriel he met Mr. 
 Heatherbridge, who with great dexterity managed to 
 change the letter for a tradesman's circular and so de- 
 ceive Muriel, who receive the flowery announcement as 
 a meaningless kindness of poor Jaffer, and little guessed 
 that it had been palmed off on him as the letter he had 
 been sent to deliver. 
 
 Yes, Jaffer is back, not at all cured of his indiscrim- 
 inate laughter, and the faithful old Williams is back. 
 There are none but friends round Rubywood, where 
 a famous artist by the name of Vandike is now painting 
 a little gem, representing a man carrying a lifeless girl 
 through a burning house, and which picture Muriel 
 Leigh intends christening "FARMER HOLT'S DAUGH- 
 TER." 
 
 [ THE END. ]
 
 A SEVERE LESSON, 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 BY 
 
 YKANCES HENSHAW BADEN.
 
 A SEVERE LESSON. 
 
 BY FBANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 SHE had such a sweet, fair face, with an expression of 
 perfect candor and truth, that it would seem impossi- 
 ble to doubt her. Yet George Peyton did, and said : 
 
 " It is difficult not to believe one's own eyes, Fannie. I 
 saw you walking with him, leaning on his arm, and listen- 
 ing with unmistakable pleasure to his words. Can you 
 deny this?" 
 
 " No, I cannot. But a gin can walk witn a gentleman, 
 and listen with pleasure to his words " 
 
 " Not without being careless, to say the least, of others' 
 feelings. And if so, then false to one that she has prom- 
 ised to love only, of all the world " 
 
 " How can you talk so to me ? How can you doubt me, 
 George ? Again I tell you that Edgar Mowbray cares not 
 for me. There is another girl in this house to love besides 
 me. You forget Annie is no longer a child." 
 
 "Enough, Fannie. Promise me you will see him no 
 more, and I will believe you." 
 
 "Why, George, I cannot do that. How can I avoid 
 seeing him, when uncle and aunt receive him, and think 
 so much of him ? Let me tell you all about it." 
 
 " Excuse me, Miss Melton. That you have no regard 
 for my wishes is sufficient to prove to me the truth of my 
 surmises. Allow me to wish you much happiness, and 
 good-evening." 
 
 (163)
 
 164 A SEVERE LESSON. 
 
 And the miserable, jealous man turned and left Fannie, 
 who stood as if she was not perfectly sure that she was 
 not just awakened from a frightful dream. 
 
 " Well, I knew he was jealous ; but never dreamed him 
 so frightfully unreasonable. I will write and explain it 
 all to him to-night. Poor fellow ! he is miserable enough," 
 thought Fannie. But after a little a second thought came. 
 Pride whispered, " No, let him come back penitent. He 
 should have more confidence in you." And so Fannie 
 listened, and acted on pride's suggestion. 
 
 The next morning, while she was watching and listen- 
 ing to every step, hoping her lover would come, that 
 young gentleman had stepped into a jeweller's to get some 
 repairs done to his watch. While waiting for it, one of 
 the clerks, with whom George had some slight acquain- 
 tance, was giving some orders relative to the marking of a 
 ring. It was a very handsome diamond solitaire which 
 the clerk held for George's inspection, saying : 
 
 "I wonder if this is an engagement ring? Mowbray 
 you know him, do you not? purchased it a little while 
 ago. Where did I put that slip of paper with the initials? " 
 he asked, looking about the counter. 
 
 " I have it," replied a young man near ; and continued : 
 " But really, I think you better not make a public thing 
 of this. Perhaps in fact, generally, gentlemen do not 
 care to have these little affairs so freely spoken of." 
 
 " Oh, sure enough ! You are right ! I did not think ! 
 You'll excuse me, Mr. Peyton. However, I suppose it ia 
 a matter of no interest to you," the gentleman replied, 
 turning from the prudent young clerk to Mr. Peyton. 
 
 "Certainly not," George answered; received his watch 
 and left the store, convinced then that Fannie was false. 
 He felt confident that the man who had withheld the 
 initials from his knowledge had some idea of his former
 
 A SEVERE LESSON. 165 
 
 relation to the lady, and consequently his motive for doing 
 eo. Full of wrath, he returned home, bundled up Fannie's 
 letters, picture, and sundry little keepsakes, and sent them 
 to her, with a note saying that " Miss Melton would oblige 
 him by either destroying or returning to his address, 
 letters and other articles which he had given her." Then 
 telling his mother and sister he was going on pressing 
 "business out West, packed his trunk and started. 
 
 Reaching his place of destination, he found there a party 
 of young friends who were about starting for California. 
 They urged and insisted on his accompanying them. 
 Glad of any excuse to keep him from home and divert hig 
 mind, the reckless fellow agreed to their proposal, and 
 went with them. 
 
 In the meantime Fannie began to think that George 
 Peyton, never really loved her, and was anxious for some 
 plea for withdrawing his suit. And if she found pleasure 
 in the society of the handsome Mowbray, and began to 
 compare his candid, noble nature with George's, in a very 
 unfavorable light to the latter, was it any wonder ? 
 
 While in San Francisco George received a letter from 
 his sister, in which she wrote : 
 
 " Mr. Mowbray is a very constant visitor at Mr. Melton's. 
 But, now I think of it, he was before you left; so you 
 know all about his hopes and aspirations. She is a dear, 
 sweet girl, and I hope will be very happy. Rumor says 
 Mr. Melton is not very well pleased that he had other 
 views for her. There is no engagement proclaimed as yet. 
 George, I cannot think what made you fly off from us in 
 euch haste. Somehow I cannot divest my mind from the 
 idea that Fannie was the cause. I had thought she would 
 be something nearer and dearer to me than a friend." 
 
 George threw down the letter with an impatient gesture, 
 and said bitterly : 
 " Yes, Mr. Melton always favored me, and I believe he
 
 166 A SEVERE LESSON. 
 
 is my warm friend. Oh, I could not have thought she 
 would be so false. Nothing but my own eyes, her words, 
 and well, indeed, everything else the occurrence in the 
 jeweller's, and now Katy's letter, would have convinced 
 me. Well, well, I can never trust in woman again." 
 
 He felt very miserable, and longed to confide his grief 
 to some one. His most particular friend, Will Austin, 
 was with him. George was very much attached to him, 
 and so made him his confidant. Will listened attentively 
 until George had fully relieved his mind and heart, and 
 then he said : 
 
 " George, I think you were very hasty, and very much 
 to blame. And if the young lady has cast you from her 
 heart, and learned to care for this Mowbray, it is all your 
 own fault. You were very unreasonable. But, pshaw! 
 what jealous person was ever possessed of any reason ? " 
 
 His friend's plain talk did George good, and he grew 
 somewhat reasonable after it. And his thoughts flew 
 back to the time when he first knew Fannie ; of the many 
 gentlemen who sought the love that he had won ; of the 
 gentleness with which she bore with his whims ; how she 
 had yielded to his wishes all save the one, which then, 
 he felt, had been very unreasonable. And when she was 
 most likely lost to him, she grew dearer. And so he 
 resolved to return, perhaps before it was too late. Nearly 
 three months had elapsed since he left home, when ha 
 determined to return as speedily as possible. When on 
 the eve of starting he received a letter, in which Katy 
 wrote: 
 
 "In my last I gave you all the particulars of the 
 wedding. Mr. Melton seems quite reconciled to the 
 happy Mowbray. Fannie looks miserable. I really 
 believe she did care for you. They have all gone travel- 
 ling, and intend being absent during the warm weather."
 
 A SEVERE LESSON. 167 
 
 The letter spoken of by Katy had never reached George. 
 Fate willed it so and he was not sorry. It was agony 
 enough to know she was lost to him, without reading the 
 minute details of his rival's happiness. Poor fellow ! he 
 could not remain content anywhere then. He travelled 
 from one place to another, endeavoring, by excitement 
 and constant change of scene, to forget Fannie. From the 
 quiet mountain retreats he would fly to some crowded, 
 fashionable resort, until at length he visited Saratoga. 
 
 The next morning he sauntered into the office and 
 began looking over the new arrivals. Several familiar 
 names, persons from his own city, met his eyes. And 
 then, a little further down the page, came those, of all 
 persons in the world, the most undesirable for him to 
 meet Mr. and Mrs. Edgar Mowbray, Mr. Henry Melton 
 and daughter. 
 
 Hurrying back to his room, he determined to keep out 
 of sight until the next train, and leave in that for his 
 home. He could not meet them see her the wife of 
 another. He was not well, and was beginning to feel 
 quite anxious to get back to his mother and sister. When 
 the time came for the train to start, poor George's head 
 was aching so terribly he could not stand up; so, of 
 course, he had to give up the idea of leaving then, and 
 wait until the next day. He grew worse rapidly. The 
 morning found him really very ill. Some friend, missing 
 him all the previous day, went to his room in search of 
 him, and found the poor fellow with a raging fever, and 
 quite delirious. He summoned the proprietor and his 
 wife, who procured the services of a physician. Very soon 
 the Meltons heard of George Peyton's being so near them 
 and ill. They were very attentive ; indeed, most of their 
 time was devoted to him. Many days had passed before 
 George was out of danger. Awakening one morning from 
 a refreshing sleep, his mind then auite clear, he caught a
 
 168 A SEVERE LESSON. 
 
 glance of Fannie as she flitted from the room. Mr, 
 Melton remained, and endeavored, in his kind, genial 
 way, to cheer George. The days of his convalescing 
 were many. Indeed he grew better very slowly. 
 Annie, her father, and Mr. Mowbray were constantly 
 with him ; the latter, if possible, more attentive than 
 the others. George tried to feel very grateful, but he 
 could not feel right toward him. How could he be 
 expected to? His manner was always reserved, and 
 really cold. Mowbray felt it, and one day he deter- 
 mined to speak to George about it. So, seizing the 
 first good opportunity, he said : 
 
 " Peyton, you try hard to hide your feelings ; but I 
 can see plain enough you do not like me. And I'd like 
 to know the reason ? " 
 
 George looked at him, a world of reproach in his 
 ey*s as he answered : 
 
 " Mr. Mowbray, if you have detected my true feelings 
 I regret it because of your recent kindness. But this is 
 a subject I would prefer not conversing upon. I have 
 sought to avoid it, and should think the desire would 
 be mutual." 
 
 " Now, upon my soul, I do not know what you mean. 
 I only know you dislike me. And really, I should think 
 you might try not to, a little, for my wife's sake. 
 Here she has been as devoted as a sister to you all the 
 days of your illness. I declare, I'll carry her off home, 
 and leave you to remorse, if you don't feel a little pleas- 
 anter toward me, or explain in what way I have merited 
 your aversion." 
 
 George thought his mind was getting very much 
 clouded again. He could not, to save him, call to mind 
 Fannie's ever being near him but the one time when he 
 had seen her dart from the room. Then he thought, 
 could it be possible that Mowbray never knew of his
 
 A SEVERE LESSON. 169 
 
 ceived him about it, or he never could talk thus to a 
 former lover of his wife's. If so, Mowbray was in no 
 way to blame, and he really had no just cause to dis- 
 like him. Putting- out his hand, he said : 
 
 " Mr. Mowbray, will you forgive me ? I feel sure 
 now I have no cause to feel other than most kindly 
 toward you. Please do not allude to this subject again. 
 And will you express my thanks to Mrs. Mowbray for 
 her kindness ? I must have been most of the time dur- 
 ing- my illness quite out of my mind. I never remem- 
 ber to have seen Mrs. Mowbray but once in my room." 
 
 Edgar Mowbray grasped his hand warmly, but gave 
 ~\ very searching- look at the invalid, to see if he was 
 quite right in mind then. 
 
 Just then the door opened, and Edgar Mowbray 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "Ah, here she is now ! Annie, come here and talk 
 to your charge." 
 
 " Here who is ? " cried George, wildly. 
 
 "Annie, my wife," answered Mowbray, springing 
 up, and turning- a bowl of crushed ice into a towel and 
 applying- it to George's head, whispered to Annie : 
 
 " Fly for the doctor ! He is terribly ill ag-ain.'* 
 
 " Say it again. Annie not Fannie your wife ? " 
 cried George. 
 
 " Yes ; Annie is my wife, certainly. Run for the 
 doctor, love." 
 
 But little Annie was wiser than her husband. She 
 knew who would be the most successful physician for 
 George, who murmured : 
 
 "Thank God!" And, overcome by his extreme 
 weakness and great emotion, fainted. 
 
 Annie was not alarmed. She explained the mystery 
 to her husband. And after seeing- Georg-e restore^ 
 again to consciousness, hastened out to tell Fannie. 
 
 When she returned to Geonre asrain, he whispered :
 
 170 A SEVERE LESSON. 
 
 " Entreat Fannie to come to me, or I must go to 
 her. I will I must see her." 
 
 Annie went to do his bidding. And so eloquently did 
 she plead for him, that in a short time she returned, 
 pushed Fannie into the room, and ran away quite 
 delighted. 
 
 " Forgive, and take me back to your heart, Fannie, 
 or I shall surely die. Speak, please ; say you have not 
 ceased to love me ? " George pleaded. 
 
 How could she resist him ? He looked so wan and 
 ill. She placed her hand in his, bent over and pressed 
 her lips to his white brow, and said : 
 
 " How could you ever have doubted me, George ? I 
 am still yours, if you wish. And promise " 
 
 " Never to doubt you again, my true, faithful love ! 
 Oh, I had a fearful lesson." And then he told her of 
 the many things that had happened to prove clearly to 
 his mind that she was lost to him. The way his sister 
 wrote was calculated to deceive him, although very 
 unintentional on her part. And then the manner in 
 which their names were registered : " Mr. and Mrs. 
 Mowbray, Mr. Melton and daughter." Was further 
 proof needed ? 
 
 Fannie explained everything, and the last by telling 
 George one of the gentlemen of their party, only slightly 
 acquainted with them, had written their names, and 
 supposed she was really Mr. Melton's daughter. * ' You 
 know," she said, " uncle often calls me ' my daugh- 
 ter/ " 
 
 George grew rapidly well then. Love was the needed 
 balm. A very few days after the joyous truth came to 
 him, he was strong enough to travel home. And early 
 in the fall, Fannie became his. Never again was he 
 attacked with a fit of jealousy, and has become, under 
 Fannie's charge and instruction, a very sensil^ and 
 reasonable man.
 
 ALMOST A CRIME. 
 
 PY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 He prayeth well who loveth well 
 
 Both man and beast and fowl ; 
 He prayeth best who loveth bes*i 
 
 All creatures, great and small j 
 For the good Lord, who loveth us. 
 
 He made and loveth all. COL-ERIDGK 
 
 14 T^ I>DIE, do put down that ugly creature. You are 
 ]/ a perfect beast worshipper, " said Bertha Denni- 
 5on, the young bride, to her three weeks' bridegroom. 
 
 He obeyed, as bridegrooms of three weeks are apt to 
 do; but he expostulated, as husbands of all times are 
 sure to do. 
 
 " If cherishing means worshipping, Bertha, you 
 might call me a beast worshipper. And if " 
 
 She interrupted him sharply. 
 
 " I would not mind if it was a pretty tortoise-shell 
 kitten ; but a great ugly old tabby cat ! " 
 
 " My darling ! " said Edward Dennison, gravely, " I 
 was about to say, if you knew the reason for my being 
 kind to this cat, and to all God's poor dumb creatures 
 that come in our way, you would not blame me. I 
 could tell you something, Bertha. "Will 3 r ou listen ? " 
 
 She pouted, instead of answering. 
 
 " My mother, you know, was a notable housekeeper. 
 She kept her house in perfect order, and ruled every- 
 
 (171)
 
 172 ALMOST A CRIME. 
 
 thing- in it, both animate and inanimate, except one 
 thing- a young rebel of a cat, which was the torment 
 of her life, through jumping up on the tea-table, licking 1 
 the butter, stealing into the pant^, lapping the cream, 
 and committing divers other petty depredations ab- 
 horrent to the souls of careful housewives. It was but 
 a thoughtless young cat, but might have grown better 
 with time and teaching. But my mother declared she 
 was out of all patience with her. 
 
 " One dark December day I came home from school, 
 and found mother hi our tidy kitchen, where we always 
 took our meals in winter. She was busy setting the 
 table for tea, and in a great passion besides. I soon 
 saw the reason. The cream-jug was turned over, 
 broken, and the cream spilled. Of course the young- 
 cat was the culprit, although she was nowhere to be 
 seen. Mother spoke up suddenly and sharply : 
 
 "'Eddie, I'll give you a silver quarter of a dollar, 
 if you will take that cat and drown her. I can never 
 leave the room one minute but she is up on the table. 
 And now she has gone and broken my best cream-jug. 
 I'll give you a silver quarter if you will tie a stone 
 around her neck and drown her.' 
 
 "A silver quarter ! I walked out into the yard in 
 search of the cat. I found her sitting up on top of the 
 chicken-house, licking and trimming herself for she 
 was a vain little creature in total unconsciousness of 
 Ler guilt and impending doom. I called her, ' Pussy, 
 pussy, pussy ! ' She immediately jumped down and 
 ran joyously to me. I picked her up in my arms, and 
 she greeted me with her poor, inarticulate, tender tones, 
 as she rubbed her head against my cheek and chin. 
 Even then my heart smote me for a moment for what 
 I was going- to do to her.
 
 ALMOST A CRIME. 173 
 
 " But I hardened my heart, and trotted off to- 
 ward the river, went upon the bridge, and found a 
 good place for the deed. At that moment my good 
 angel left me, for I took from my pocket the cord and 
 stone that I had provided, and while she was purring 
 and playing with the cord, grimly tied one end of ifc 
 around her neck and the other end of it around the 
 stone. ' It will soon be over, and after all, she is noth- 
 ing but a cat,' I said. And I held he*" over the bridge 
 to drop her into the ri TT er. Thou indeed she clung to 
 me, and looked astonished and wild. For the first time 
 she seemed to know her danger. She struggled, and 
 grasped my coat with her claws and held on. But I 
 pulled her away by force and threw her into the river. 
 I heard the splash, and saw the water close over her. 
 I hurried away from the spot, with the sickening im- 
 pression that I had done a murder. I thought of her 
 at the bottom of the Potomac, suffocating to death, and 
 I had to keep repeating to myself, ' Oh, it will soon be 
 over with her. And after all, she is nothing but a cat. 
 And besides, didn't mother tell me to drown her? ' It 
 would not do; my heart was decidedly heavy. Never 
 do you do a murder, Bertha. No one but a murderer 
 knows how it oppresses one's spirits. 
 
 " It was raining hard when I reached home. I found 
 mother just where I left her, busy in the kitchen. She 
 was standing at the table, slicing bread for tea. 
 
 " ' Well, mother, I have drowned the cat,' I said, 
 knocking the rain-drops off my cap. 
 
 " ' What ! ' she exclaimed, ceasing her employment, 
 and poising the knife in one hand and the bread in the 
 other, as she stared at me. 
 
 " ' Yes, I've drowned the cat ; and now I want my 
 silver quarter of a dollar.'
 
 174 ALMOST A CRIME. 
 
 " ' You did ! ' she said, with a look of surprise, sad- 
 ness, and reproach on her face. 
 
 " ' Yes; I tied a stone around her neck to sink her, 
 and dropped her into the river. And you promised me 
 a quarter of a dollar for doing 1 it,' I answered, sulkily, 
 for I felt injured by her look. 
 
 " Without a single word she put her hand into her 
 pocket, drew out a silver quarter, and gave it to me, 
 turning her head away. I felt more injured than before. 
 What did mother mean ? I only did what she told me. 
 
 " But as I was going to a concert, I tried to throw 
 off all unpleasant thoughts. I dressed myself and came 
 down and joined the family at tea without much appe- 
 tite. Besides, I missed something I missed the little 
 cat, who always sat by my chair and touched me softly 
 with her paw now and then, to remind me to give her a 
 morsel. I gulped down my tea, and started off to Con- 
 cert Hall to see the minstrels. And soon, seated in the 
 front row, enjoying the unparalleled burlesque of song 
 and sentiment, I forgot all about my deed of the even- 
 ing. Or if I thought of it at all, it was only to laugh, 
 at myself as a sickly, sentimental sort of a fellow, to 
 think so much about drowning a cat. 
 
 " After the performance I came home. It was not 
 very late, yet the family had retired. I took the key 
 from under the step, where it was usually hidden for any 
 of the family who were out at night, and opened the 
 kitchen door and went in. The stove was warm, and a 
 night-lamp was burning on the table. Everything had 
 been left comfortable for me, and I sat down before the 
 fire to dry my wet clothes. But how empty and deso- 
 late and forlorn the place looked after all ! I missed 
 something. It was the cat, who always slept at night 
 on the rug in front of the stove ; who always welcomed
 
 ALMOST A CEIME. 175 
 
 me home, when I came in at night, by getting- up and 
 rubbing against my shins and purring her pleasure 
 at seeing me. And now she was at the bottom of the 
 Potomac, with a stone tied to her neck ; and I had 
 thrown her there. And for a mean quarter of a dollar I 
 
 " I got up, took the lamp, and went up-stairs to bed. 
 But I could not sleep. How the wind and the rain 
 lashed and beat against the windows ! How I thought 
 of the cat at the bottom of the river ! ' And she had 
 but this one life, and I took that for a base quarter of a 
 dollar,' I said to myself. And oh, I would have gladly 
 given all the boyish treasures I possessed in the world, 
 if I could have brought her back to life. And so I lay 
 and tossed from side to side, listening to the beating of 
 the storm, and thought what a mean and cruel wretch. 
 I had been. 
 
 " Hush ! what was that ? I started, and sat up in 
 bed and listened. As sure as I live, it was a scratch, 
 and a mew, at the kitchen door sounds as familiar to 
 me as the children's voices ; but that I never had ex- 
 pected to hear again. Well, I have heard Thalberg 1 
 and Ole Bull play; I've heard Lind and Mlsson sing; 
 I've heard the dinner-bell ; but of all the instrumental 
 or vocal music I ever heard, none ever thrilled my soul 
 with such delight as that performance on the kitchen 
 door. 
 
 " In less time than it takes to tell it, I jumped out of 
 bed ; and without waiting to draw on a single garment, 
 I ran down-stairs, half naked, in the cold, and tore open 
 the kitchen door. There stood my cat, dripping wet, 
 with the cord dangling round her neck, and the empty 
 noose. I saw in an instant how it was. In falling over 
 the bridge, when she was thrown, the round stone had 
 from the noose, and the poor cat had swam
 
 176 ALMOST A CHIME. 
 
 ashore, and found her way home through night and 
 storm. As soon as she saw me, she jumped in and 
 rubbed up against my shins, with her poor, confiding 
 mew, just as if I had never tried to drown her. I 
 caught her up in my arms, all dripping wet as she was. 
 I hugged her, kissed her, and comforted her in a manner 
 that, under any other circumstances, would have been 
 supremely absurd. I took her up-stairs with me, dried 
 her as well as I could with my towel, and, damp and 
 cold as she was, took her to bed \vith me. 
 
 " Oh, how relieved I was ! How I loved that cat for 
 getting out of the river and coming home ! I talked to 
 her, and petted her, half of the night. I told her how 
 sorry I was, and how I never would do it again. But 
 she seemed perfectly indifferent to my crime and re- 
 pentance, and only cuddled up to my bosom, and purred 
 and sung, in a funny content, until we both fell asleep. 
 
 " In the morning, when I went down to breakfast, I 
 carried the cat in my arms, and sat down with her at 
 the table. 
 
 " ' Why, I thoughtyou had drowned that cat, Eddie I ' 
 my mother said, with a look strangely blended of 
 pleasure and pain, as if she was glad the cat was alive, 
 yet sorry that her boy had deceived her and obtained 
 money under false pretences. * I say I thought you had 
 drowned that cat, Eddie,' she repeated, as if demand- 
 ing an explanation. 
 
 " ' Well, so I did drown her I ' I answered, play ing- 
 sulky. ' At least, I tried my best to do it. I tied a. 
 stone round her neck to sink her, and then dropped her 
 into the Potomac. But she got out, somehow or other, 
 and came home last night. I suppose the stone slipped 
 out of the noose, and she swam ashore. All cats can 
 swim, you know. And now, must I try it again ? "
 
 ALMOST A CRIME. 177 
 
 " ' No,' said my mother. And that was all that ever 
 passed between us on the subject. 
 
 te But from that time pussy ate of my bread and drank 
 of my cup by day, and slept on my bed at night, until 
 the war broke out. I cured her of her cream-stealing 
 propensities. If any one had even spoken harshly to- 
 that cat, they vrould have had to quarrel with me 
 The war separated us for a time, as it did many good 
 friends, but peace reunited us, and I have brought her 
 to my new home. And now, dear Bertha, you under- 
 stand why I cherish the poor cat. " 
 
 Then, lifting the animal tenderly to his knee, he 
 caressed her. 
 
 " You forgave me for trying to murder you, didn't 
 you, pussy ? And not many human beings would hav* 
 dene that, would they ? "
 
 WHO WAS TO BE BRIDE? 
 
 BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 " T)ROMISE me, George, that you will never forsake 
 
 JL Amy. After I am gone she will have no friend 
 but you. She has always been to me a blessing. If 
 she was really my own daughter, I could not love her 
 better. So, my boy, I leave her a sacred charge to you. 
 Should the time ever be when you shall feel another love 
 than that you bear your little sister, you must not, in 
 securing your own happiness, forget hers my poor, 
 gentle, timid little Amy ! " 
 
 " Have no fear, mother. Amy shall never want for a 
 friend, or love. She shall be as tenderly watched over 
 and cared for in the future, as she has ever been in the 
 past. I solemnly promise you this." 
 
 "Thank you, my son. You have relieved my only 
 tmeasiness. I can rest now in perfect peace. Now send 
 Amy to me." 
 
 That night a wail of sorrow sounded through the home 
 of George Foster. It was Amy's voice. They found her 
 tvith her arms still clasped around the form so dear. 
 Beorge drew her gently away, saying : 
 
 " Come, Amy. You are my child now. Mother gave 
 you to my care, and may God deal by me according to 
 my worthiness of that charge. Now go and try to 
 my little sister." 
 
 He gave her to the faithful housekeeper's care.
 
 WHO WAS TO BE BRIDE? 179 
 
 Still weeping, but unresisting, Amy did his bidding. 
 All her life she had yielded to his wishes. Her brother's 
 will was hers. 
 
 Mrs. Foster was a very wealthy widow, owning a fine 
 plantation in the South, with many slaves. George was 
 her only child and constant companion, and at an early 
 age became her confidant and adviser. This of course 
 made him thoughtful and grave beyond his years. When 
 he was about seventeen, his mother adopted Amy, an 
 infant, orphaned and friendless. George was very fond 
 of the pretty little child, and she was taught by her 
 mother, as well as all the servants, "Always mind 
 what your brother says," or, " Do as your brother tells 
 you." 
 
 What a loving, dutiful little daughter and sister she 
 was ! And what a capable, thrifty little housekeeper she 
 grew to be, relieving her benefactor of much care ! Proud 
 as well as fond was Mrs. Foster of her adopted child. 
 
 Amy was eighteen when her mother's death left her to 
 George's care. Scarcely six months had gone by, when 
 the kind and considerate ladies of the neighborhood began 
 to engage their minds with thoughts and plans for the 
 ' future welfare of the wealthiest young man of their com- 
 munity. It was probable he would marry in truth, 
 quite desirable that he should, and that his choice should 
 be such as would be acceptable to the parish. Now this 
 young man in question was George Foster, who was a 
 very attentive member of the church, a communicant, 
 and about the most liberal contributor to all charitable 
 funds. 
 
 While Mrs. Foster lived, there was neither chance nor 
 hope for George's marrying. He was devoted alone to 
 her. But the time had come when he must be looked 
 after. So the rector's wife, Mrs. Charlton, who had a
 
 180 WHO WAS TO BE BBIDE? 
 
 very lovely young niece, thought that no one cwld be 
 more acceptable to every one than her dear Adele ; and 
 so she set herself to work to manage the affair skilfully. 
 
 She began with sending, on several occasions, for Mr. 
 Poster, to advise with and help the rector and herself in 
 matters connected with the poor of the parish. Of couree 
 Adele always appeared at such times to the best advan- 
 tage. Then once, when out riding near the Manor, 
 George's home, Mrs. Charlton remembered that Mrs. 
 Foster had been very successful in the culture of a certain 
 plant ; and being very anxious of securing some, and tha 
 knowledge of the proper mode of rearing, she called to ask 
 the favor of Mr. Foster. 
 
 Of course he insisted that Mrs. Charlton should enter, 
 and partake of the hospitalities of his home. 
 
 Then for the first time did the thought of an obstacle 
 in the way of the final success of her plan present 
 itself. 
 
 Amy had been regarded by this worthy lady as a child, 
 a dependent, and by no means to be dreaded as a rival. 
 For eighteen months, during the time of Mrs. Foster's 
 extreme illness, and since her death, Amy had been very 
 much secluded. When, occasionally, she had been seen 
 by callers, they had noticed her but little. But it seemed 
 to Mrs. Charlton that by magic the child had become a 
 V3ry beautiful and really charming woman. 
 
 Everything was in perfect order at the Manor, and a 
 delicate and tempting lunch served, at which Amy pre- 
 sided with such quiet dignity, that, to use a very trite 
 expression, Mrs. Charlton was considerably " taken aback." 
 
 In her expectations, Amy was to be dreaded. The 
 rector's wife wanted some advice in this dilemma, and so 
 she sought the assistance of Mrs. Fairfielcl, a very hand- 
 ,-aome widow, but not young enough to be f^Mfed as a rival
 
 WHO WAS TO BE BRIDE? 181 
 
 of Adele's, she thought The widow was shrewd, and pos- 
 sessed of quick wit. 
 
 Quite forty, but looking much younger, she had been 
 thinking much of Mr. Foster lately, and came to the con- 
 clusion how well it would be for him if he would take a 
 wife; and that she herself could be the one to make him 
 very happy. So, when Mrs. Charlton came, the widow 
 joined with her very heartily in the idea that Mr. Foster 
 ought certainly to be secured ; and little Amy must surely 
 be gotten out of the way. Now, when the thought of 
 getting rid of the orphan girl came to Mrs. Charlton's 
 mind, she never for an instant thought of doing her any 
 harm. But the widow made up her mind to get her away 
 at any risk. So there was a little word, a very significant 
 look, a shrug of the shoulders given to Mrs. Archer, the 
 mother of five daughters, ranging from twenty to thirty- 
 five. 
 
 This kind woman, too, had been considering very deeply 
 the lonely condition of young Foster, and thinking how 
 she would like to be a mother to him, when Mrs. Fairfield 
 opened her eyes to the truth which was a shame to the 
 parish that he was not a lonely man. This matter must 
 be attended to immediately. And so it went around and 
 abroad, until the rector's wife said : 
 
 " My dear, every one is talking of it ! I never dreamed 
 of the impropriety, to say the least of it, until every one 
 eaw and spoke of it." 
 
 "Oh, certainly; I must go immediately and talk to 
 young Foster on the impropriety of his course," said 
 worthy Mr. Charlton. 
 
 And off he went that very hour. And after considerable 
 hesitation for, when getting face to face with the noble, 
 grave-looking young man, the rector found it a most 
 difficult and delicate matter to approach a subject thai
 
 182 WHO WAS TO BE BKIDE? 
 
 would call in question the actions of one so worthy of 
 respect he ventured to tell the object of his visit. 
 
 ** What ! not keep Amy, my child, my little sister, with 
 me? Send her away!" exclaimed George Foster, with 
 intense amazement. 
 
 " My young friend, you know, except by your mother'i 
 adoption, she is neither. For her own good, you should 
 do so. Can you not think that her fair name may suffer, 
 should this assumed relationship be continued ? During 
 your respected mother's life, it was of course perfectly right 
 and proper ; but " 
 
 " But, sir, my mother bound me by a sacred promise 
 never to forsake Amy, to consider her happiness always. 
 Send her from me ! How ? Where ? To whom ? She ia 
 without friends ! " said George Foster, in an agitated voice. 
 
 " Procure her a position as teacher, or seamstress soma 
 respectable employment away from the neighborhood. I 
 will aid you in this duty; you should consider it," answered 
 the rector. 
 
 "I cannot I cannot. My promise forbids it. Poor 
 little Amy I Why could not these people let her alone ? 
 Poor innocent child I How can I shield her from 
 them?" 
 
 " Give them no cause to think wrong of either her or 
 you, my friend. Now, if you were married, your wife's 
 presence would, of course, render Amy's presence perfectly 
 proper." 
 
 " Why, Amy is not the only woman in my house. My 
 housekeeper, a worthy, aged and Christian woman, is 
 with us." 
 
 "My dear friend, she is your colored servant, bound to 
 do yoor bidding. Her presence is not sufficient." 
 
 " Marry ? I have never thought of such a thing. And 
 you say I must either send Amy off or bri**g a wife her*.
 
 WHO WAS TO BE BRIBE? 183 
 
 
 
 that she may remain, and evil tongues be stopped ? " said 
 George, bitterly. 
 
 " My young friend, you are excited and unjust, I think. 
 There are certain duties we owe to society," said the 
 rector. 
 
 "Well, well, to shield poor little Amy, I will marry. 
 But who shall I marry ? " 
 
 " There are many lovely and most suitable ladies in our 
 congregation, several of whom you are already acquainted 
 with." 
 
 And the good man proceeded to do full justice to the 
 virtues of several ladies, among whom were the Misses 
 Archer and Mrs. Fairneld. Now the one uppermost in 
 his thoughts he never mentioned. But when about taking 
 his leave he urged the young man to come to see him, 
 saying : 
 
 " Drop in often. Mrs. Charlton is very much interested 
 in you. We shall be very happy in aiding you in your 
 very wise conclusion." 
 
 " Thank you. I will think of this matter. You shall 
 know of my decision before long." 
 
 "Amy, my child, come here. Sit down. I want to talk 
 to you," said George Foster, the next morning after break- 
 fast, when he drew Amy into the library, and tenderly 
 seated her beside him. "Amy, I am going to be married," 
 he said. 
 
 " Married ? " she gasped, turning very pale. 
 
 "Yes, little sister, married. Don't you want your 
 brother to marry ? You surely wish him the happiness 
 of other men ? Otherwise, Amy, I might grow sour, cross 
 and generally disagreeable, as it is said most old bachelors 
 are" 
 
 " No, no ; that could never be with you," Amy said, in a 
 voice which was full of tears.
 
 184 WHO WAS TO BE BRIDE? 
 
 " Well, well; perhaps not. But one had better be on tha 
 safe side, Amy. You will fix up the place, little 
 girl make it bright and pretty for my wife, will you 
 not?" 
 
 " Oh, yea, yes," whispered Amy, and then sank weeping 
 in her brother's arms. 
 
 "There, there; I see how it is. Sisters must always 
 suffer in giving up their brothers for others to love, I 
 think. And perhaps you fear you may not be happy 
 with my wife, Amy ? " 
 
 Only a sob answered him. 
 
 " Rest assured, my child, I will bring no one here who 
 will in any way mar your happiness. My wife will, I am 
 sure, be acceptable to you. Only such a one will I bring 
 here." 
 
 Amy went about making the place beautiful. But her 
 poor little heart was very sad. Often she stole away and 
 wept long and bitterly. On one occasion, when George 
 returned home from town much earlier than usual, he 
 stepped noiselessly into the drawing-room, and found 
 Amy, with her head buried in the cushion of the sofa, 
 weeping as if her heart would break. 
 
 He let her weep on until she grew calmer, and when 
 about to go and taLt to her, and find out, if possible, the 
 cause of her sorrow, he was arrested by hearing her say : 
 
 " Can she love him as I ? No, no, I am sure not, for 
 others share her love. She has friends, while I give all to 
 him. No one else in the world I love. Father, mother, 
 sister, brother aye, more than all these is he to me. And 
 I only share his love with her. After a while it will grow 
 less and less, I suppose." 
 
 George Foster stepped back ; a new light had fallen upon 
 him. He never dreamed this timid, gentle, quiet girl 
 loved him, or could love any one thus. Then he knew
 
 WHO WAS TO BE BRIDE? 185 
 
 Vfhai a trial it would be to her the presence of any other 
 -woman possessing his love. 
 
 How should he comfort her ? How reconcile her to tha 
 m>man he had selected as his wife ? 
 
 He waited on the piazza until she came out, a half hour 
 after, and then, drawing her arm through his, he walked 
 with her to the family graveyard, and there, standing 
 beside his mother's tomb, he told her why it was he had 
 first decided to take a wife. With great caution and del- 
 icacy he told her of the rector's visit. 
 
 " So you see, my child, for your welfare alone I deter- 
 mined to marry," he said. " Your happiness was my first 
 thought. But, Amy, after I had picked out my wife, and 
 I knew more of her, I found out how very much my own 
 happiness was concerned. The woman I have grown to 
 love is one I am sure all will love who know her. And 
 now I feel how terribly I should suffer if I should lose 
 her." 
 
 Much more he said, until she grew very calm and con- 
 tent. In his happiness she would find hers. And so she 
 went on with her work more cheerfully, making things 
 beautiful for George's wife ; as ever doing his bidding. 
 
 " Trust me and be at peace," he said. And so she did, 
 and was. Much of George's time was divided between the 
 xector's home, the widow Fairfield's, and Mrs. Archer's. 
 
 Happy was little Mrs. Charlton in the thought of her 
 final success. Knowing Adele, George must surely grow 
 to love her. She told of her hopes to the widow Fairfield, 
 who smilingly congratulated her friend, thinking all the 
 time: 
 
 " Oh, if you knew how little Adele has reason for hopes! 
 and how often he comes to see me I " 
 
 But the widow was a little disconcerted the next morn- 
 ing, when visiting Mrs. Archer, to meet Mr. Foster, and
 
 186 WHO WAS TO BE BRIDE? 
 
 hear from the exultant mother that he came very often. 
 Yet she could not decide which of her girls was the chosen 
 one. 
 
 Time passed on until a month had elapsed, the man- 
 oeuvring aunt, mamma, and widow thinking that surely 
 every coming of Mr. Foster must disclose the object of his 
 visits, when the rector's wife was very much astonished to 
 hear from her husband that George Foster was to be mar- 
 ried the next day ; but to whom he knew not, as the gen- 
 tleman declared his intention of keeping his own counsel 
 until the time of the ceremony. So poor Mrs. Charlton, 
 although she could not decide who his bride was to be, 
 knew full well it was not Adele one of the Archer girls 
 most likely. Little she thought of the widow Fairfield, 
 whom her good husband declared the lucky one. His 
 belief was founded on the fact of his having frequently 
 met Mr. Foster at her home, and confirmed by that lady's 
 entire change of dress, she having thrown off all vestige 
 of mourning and appeared in colors again. 
 
 The next day, during the morning service, the rector 
 announced that, after the conclusion of divine worship, 
 there would be a marriage ceremony performed in the 
 church, and the congregation were invited to be present. 
 Who the happy ones were was unknown or suspected, 
 Bave by the rector and his family. 
 
 The services were over, the members of the congregation 
 eat waiting and watching for the entrance of the bride and 
 groom, when George Foster arose from his seat in the 
 choir, walked down the steps and up the aisle to his 
 mother's pew, from wL^nce he gently drew a little figure, 
 and proceeded with her up to the altar and stood before 
 the rector. The surprise of the good folks may be imag- 
 ined. It was a wonderful act of self-control, which pre- 
 vented the exclamations of such. A few moments more,
 
 WHO WAS TO BE BB1DE? 187 
 
 and little Amy's future welfare was so well considered, 
 that no longer a doubt of the propriety of her continuance 
 in George Foster's home existed. For still the minister's 
 voice was sounding in their ears, repeating the words, 
 " What God hath joined together let no man put asunder." 
 
 Mrs. Charlton was the first to come forward and offer 
 her congratulations. She was sorely disappointed in the 
 result of her plans ; but it was her duty, as a Christian, to 
 bear it patiently, and as the rector's wife, to be affable and 
 agreeable to all her husband's charge. A few more came 
 tip with sincere and kind wishes, and some of Mrs. 
 Foster's old friends accepted George's invitation to return 
 with them to the manor. 
 
 The next day the happy pair left for a northern tour. 
 During their absence, cards of invitation were sent out for 
 a reception on their return. 
 
 The disappointed ones declared, at first, their intention 
 of neither calling on nor countenancing George Foster's 
 wife. But, upon second thought and mature deliberation, 
 they came to the conclusion they could not well afford to 
 insult or alienate the wealthiest, and one of the most 
 respectable men of their number; and so Amy's wedding 
 reception was largely attended. 
 
 And George Foster ever felt thankful to the kind, 
 thoughtful ladies whose plans for his welfare had resulted 
 so happily, although confident that Amy's future good or 
 ill was of little consequence to them. Still he forgave 
 them, remembering not the intention, only the result their 
 defeat and his victory, in securing the greatest boon from 
 Heaven to man, a true and loving wife.
 
 WHAT THE FUTURE MIGHT BRING. 
 
 BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 him to me, heavenly Father! Have mercy I 
 VT Pity my loneliness, and give him to me ! My all I 
 my only one ! " Mary Ashton prayed on, repeating again 
 the cry, " Give him to me ! " She could not say, " Thy 
 will, not mine, be done ! " No ; she could only plead for 
 the one great boon, his precious life. 
 
 He was her all " the widow's son." As she still knelt 
 beside him, the look of suffering passed away ; the painful 
 breathing ceased ; he sank into a sweet, refreshing sleep. 
 The mother felt that new life was given him he would 
 Btill be hers. 
 
 Her prayer was granted. He grew rapidly in strength. 
 Soon her pride, her darling, raised as it were from the dead, 
 was again making the house merry with his infant glee. 
 
 Years passed on. Herbert's will growing stronger ; his 
 more and more exacting nature at times forcing a feeling 
 of uneasiness in his mother's heart. Yet she would seek 
 to drive it hence with the more cheering thought, "He 
 will grow more considerate and manly in a few years." 
 
 Gifted with the brightest talents, he mastered with 
 perfect ease his various studies at school. The proud, 
 fond mother pictured to herself his brilliant career in 
 the future. " But no ; he would not strive for fortune 
 or fame. There was no need of his slaving for a living. 
 His mother had means abundant," he said. 
 (188)
 
 WHAT THE FUTURE MIGHT BRING. 189 
 
 Time rolled on. In his early manhood he won tho 
 heart of a beautiful girl. Carefully had Mary concealed 
 his many faults, that any other than a mother might have 
 termed vices. 
 
 " Rose will win him from such. He loves her so truly, 
 and she is so charming, he cannot resist her efforts," Mary 
 murmured. 
 
 Rose's low, sweet voice was whispering in her ear : " Oh, 
 what a happy girl ! What a happy, happy little family 
 we are, and must always be 1 " 
 
 Weeks rolled by months, only a few, when the mother 
 felt keenly how terribly mistaken she had been in the 
 course she had pursued with her boy. 
 
 When gently she remonstrated with him, his cruel, 
 heartless reply pierced, to the very quick, the heart already 
 scarred by his many wounds : 
 
 " Thank yourself for what I am. You have made me 
 so." 
 
 Daily she saw the loving, confiding woman the Rose 
 once blooming so brightly growing paler ; the young life 
 blighted by her son's cruel nature. 
 
 His reckless extravagance drew heavily on the mother's 
 once ample means. Worse and worse it grew, until she 
 had nothing left but the merest pittance. From the home 
 of luxury, they went to one where only the strictest 
 economy must reign. But Herbert still dressed elegantly ; 
 his cigars were the best ; his wines old and pure. Yet he 
 earned no money, the mother knew. How did he obtain 
 them? A great fear entered her heart. Was he a. 
 gambler ? Oh, if that were all ! It came at last the last 
 drop in the cup of bitterness, which wife and mother 
 both must drain. 
 
 Herbert was arrested on the charge of forgery. The 
 last few remaining articles, remembrances of former days,
 
 190 WHAT THE FUTURE MIGHT BRING. 
 
 were disposed of, to raise money with which the counsel, 
 one of the ablest lawyers in the State, was obtained. Oh, 
 the agony of those days during which the trial was pend- 
 ing the terrible suspense ! At length the case was given 
 to the jury. At home, praying for their loved one, waited 
 the wife and mother, to know the result. Soon it came 
 conviction with the terrible sentence, five years impris- 
 onment in the State-prison. A few days more, and they 
 must bid him adieu. 
 
 The day of parting came. Oh, who can describe their 
 anguish ? Rose was borne insensible from his cell. With 
 her fond arms clinging about him, the mother exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh, if I could bear this for you, my boy ! my boy ! 
 Willingly would I die to save you ! " 
 
 The miserable man, at length brought to his senses, 
 pressed the trembling form to his bosom, and said, with 
 emotion : 
 
 " I know you would, my mother. Oh, would that I had 
 died in my infancy ! Why, why did you pray for my 
 life ? You see what a curse it has been, to all who love 
 me! Good-by; they call me." 
 
 Again she felt his arms about her, and with a wild, 
 despairing cry, she started up, eobbing forth the words 
 
 "Why! yes, oh, why?" 
 
 She looked about her. The light was turned very low, 
 but then, before her, as in years long gone, she could see 
 her little Herbert lying ill, dying. She passed her hands 
 again and again across her brow, and then gently on the 
 pale little face beside her. What was it ? A dream ! all a 
 dream ! Those long years of anxious care and final 
 anguish had been passed only in dream-land. 
 
 Weary and exhausted, she had fallen asleep. A blessed 
 sleep it was ! Through which she had gained a resignation 
 to His will. Then ehe could, and did kneel and pray.
 
 WHAT THE FUTURE MIGHT BRING. 191 
 
 <c Not mine, but Thy will be done." Oh, yes ; better could 
 she give him back to God in his innocence and purity, and 
 think of him as waiting her coming above, than hold him 
 back to earth to become, perhaps, as she had dreamed. 
 
 A feeble little cry fell upon her ear : 
 
 " Mamma, Herbie's well now. Nothing hurts him. 
 Look, look ! mamma. Beauty babies call Herbte. Kiss, 
 quick, mamma ; and say Herbie may go say quick ! " 
 
 His face was raised, eagerly gazing upward; his tiny 
 hands feebly lifted. Again his eyes sought his mother's 
 with an appealing glance, and she strained her ear to 
 catch his words so low. 
 
 " Herbie, go, please ! " He seemed only waiting her 
 consent. She caught him to her bosom in a last, long 
 embrace, and with his dear face pressed close to hers, she 
 breathed, only heard by Herbert and God : 
 
 " Go, my darling." 
 
 Again the sweet lips tried to whisper; but only the 
 words, " Mamma, come 1 a while," reached his mother's 
 ear, and little Herbert's pure spirit had joined the angels 
 waiting. 
 
 She laid the little lifeless form tenderly from her, and 
 her friends wondered how, so calmly. They had dreaded 
 BO much the parting moment. Yes ; calmly she bore it. 
 She knew a more bitter parting might be felt than that 
 which was only for a " little while." She knew it wan 
 that which Herbie tried to say : 
 
 " Mamma will come too, after a little while."
 
 TEMPTED. 
 
 BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 "MISS WARNER!" 
 
 JjJ. She turned, clenched tightly in her fingers the 
 bank-notes, and with a face deadly pale she gazed on the 
 woman beside her. 
 
 " Miss Warner ! The trustworthy, the confidential clerk I 
 The betrothed wife" 
 
 " Stop ! oh stop ! Let me tell you ! Hear me ! " 
 
 " The betrothed wife of the junior partner of the firm 
 of Fairleigh, Noble & Co., to be caught at " 
 
 " For God's sake, have mercy ! I am not doing as you 
 would say. I am only borrowing this until I can return 
 it, when it is really due me ! " 
 
 " Of course ! But if it was any one but Miss Warner 
 I, or the boy who sweeps this place what would it be? " 
 
 " Oh ! you have no mercy ! You hate me, I know, and 
 will not hear the truth. You know I am incapable of such 
 wrong. But, oh 1 you will tell it ! Yes, yes ; I am in 
 your power. Oh, why was I so weak as to yield to his 
 pleading ? Why should he not have borne the result of 
 his own wrong-doing? Listen, Julia Garnet. You shall 
 hear. Though you will feign disbelief, in your heart, you 
 know I am speaking the truth. 
 
 " When my mother, dying, bade me kneel by her side, 
 and vow to love, protect and shield her boy, I did it, 
 knowing full well it would require long eivVirance, priva- 
 (192)
 
 TEMPTED. 193 
 
 tion, and possibly the sacrifice of my dearest hopes. But 
 I never dreamed it could possibly bring even a suspicion 
 of dishonesty upon me. Oh, mother, win for me pity, 
 mercy, guidance ! " 
 
 The miserable girl dropped her head, in her anguish, on 
 the desk, and sobbed. 
 
 Coldly, cruelly Julia Garnet stood, unmoved by the 
 piteous moans of the girl she was torturing. A triumphant 
 light gleaned from her small black eyes, and with a sneer- 
 ing express-ion curling her lips, she said : 
 
 "Really, this is guite dramatic! You have mistaken 
 your vocation, Miss Warner." 
 
 The girl raised her head, wiped from her face the tears 
 that pale, beautiful face, with the soul-lit deep gray eyes, 
 the clear, smooth brow so full and broad-formed ; such a 
 striking contrast to the dark one beside it, whose every 
 feature was so sharp and hard; no softening line about 
 the compressed lips, to bring one thought of hope to the 
 poor girl's heart. She knew she was doomed, and said : 
 
 " 'Tis useless to tell you more of my trials. You will 
 liave no mercy. You cannot feel a sister's devotion. You 
 only know your own wishes, and seek only your own 
 ends. Speak at once! What do you intend I shall do? 
 T know you now, Julia Garnet. You have been my 
 enemy since " 
 
 " Yes ; since you won the love of Harry Noble, I have 
 hated you. And what think you his father, who even 
 now looks with little favor on your engagement what 
 will he say to his son's betrothed having been caught in 
 * well, if the truth is so terrible to your ear, I will say a 
 family failing, perhaps ? " 
 
 " Speak, and end your torture I " 
 
 " You will resign your position here, for any cause you 
 may choose to assign. Put back that mone w . if you wish,
 
 194 TEMPTED. 
 
 now. I will let you have the same amount You can 
 return it when you have obtained so much to spare. 
 You will readily obtain employment in Blake & Co.'s." 
 
 Tying on her bonnet, with a calmness that would have 
 "been more touching to a heart that could feel, than the 
 distress and tears of a short time before, Dora Warner left 
 the store. 
 
 An hour after, a pleasant, boyish voice called out: 
 
 " Dora, where are you ? Have you got it ? " 
 
 "I have." 
 
 " Oh, you darling sister ! I'll do anything in the world 
 for you ; indeed I will. I am so glad ! so relieved ! " 
 
 The little room was not cheerful as usual, on his return ; 
 the lamp not lit, the fire not burning brightly in the grate^ 
 everything so cold and dark ; and she, the life and light 
 that used to welcome his coming, sat with bowed head on 
 the little lounge, her bonnet and cloak still on. 
 
 Thinking she was tired, and had been late getting home^ 
 Willie began to stir around, to make things more com- 
 fortable. 
 
 His heart was so filled with gratitude to his sister for 
 eaving him, he did not think of the disappointment in not 
 finding the nice little supper waiting his coming. 
 
 Lighting the lamp, he turned to look at Dora. 
 
 "Dora, are you tired? Let me take your wrappings," 
 lie said. 
 
 She raised her head his eyes fell on her face. He 
 Sprang forward, caught her hand, and sank on his knee 
 beside her. 
 
 "Dora! Dora! sister, what is it? You are ill? Speak 
 to me ? " he pleaded, gazing wildly into her face yester- 
 day so beautiful, loving and hopeful; now so haggard, 
 Weary and despairing. " What is it ? Oh, tell me, sister ! " 
 
 She put out her band, drew him to her, and said:
 
 TEMPTED. 195 
 
 " Love me, Willie. I have no one else to love me now." 
 
 When, with his head bowed in her lap, he heard of the 
 eacrifice his sister had made to shield him, the boy's heart 
 was awakened to the full appreciation of his own wrong 
 and its result. 
 
 He had been drawn into bad company, tempted to visit 
 gambling-houses, and finally to try his luck, which, at 
 times, was so successful as to lure him on. Thinking he 
 could soon return it, he took, from time to time, small 
 sums of money from the store, of which he was the book- 
 keeper. He had, up to a short time before the opening of 
 our story, returned the amount before the loss was 
 discovered. But fate turned against him. After having 
 taken a much larger sum than usual, his losses were 
 continual. The principal of the firm had been absent for 
 several weeks, but was expected back the next day ; and 
 Willie knew the books would be carefully examined, and 
 the discrepancies surely discovered. So it was he sought 
 his sister for help, confessed his error, and besought her to 
 save him from the suspicion of dishonesty. 
 
 " For me you suffer thus ? Oh ! Dora, I cannot permit 
 it. I will go to Harry Noble, tell him all. To my 
 employer " 
 
 " No, no, Willie. It is too late now for that. Harry 
 Noble, I know, would feel for us and help us. Your 
 employer might forgive and trust you again. But Julia 
 Garnet has a power over me that she will never resign. 
 Her heart knows nothing of pity. Sne would use her 
 knowledge to the utmost of her evil will. Nothing can 
 change her determination. Nothing but God's work can 
 move her hard, cruel heart. It is meet that I should 
 suffer, Willie ; and you too, my dear. We have both erred 
 very much. We did not mean to be dishonest, yet it 
 
 might have resulted BO. Many things might have inter- 
 9
 
 196 TEMPTED. 
 
 vened to prevent the return of the money. Oh ! think 
 how narrowly you have escaped! Will this sorrow of 
 mine call you back from the fearful path into which you 
 have strayed ? If so, I am content. Give me this hope 
 to cheer my dreariness, Willie ! " 
 
 " Dora ! sister ! darling ! Yes, yes, hope and pray for 
 me. With God's blessing I will not give your loving, 
 devoted heart an additional pang. I vow here on my 
 knees, before heaven, to be once more worthy of your love. 
 And I will seek God's forgiveness. You will not suffer 
 long. I feel, I know, mercy will be shown us. That cruel 
 girl's power must give way ! " 
 
 All was over. The severest trial of all was past. Dora 
 had seen Harry Noble for the last time, she believed. 
 After receiving her note, giving him back his plighted 
 faith, Harry sought her presence, and would not go until 
 he had seen her, and from her lips he had heard the words, 
 " I wish to be free." 
 
 He could obtain no explanation. But from various 
 hints, looks, and insinuations from Julia Garnet, Harry's 
 mind was filled with the idea that Dora had been trifling 
 with him until she found a more acceptable suitor. And, 
 indeed, the one had been pointed out. Harry knew that 
 one had shown a decided preference for Dora; and so, 
 believing her false, he strove to drive her from his heart. 
 
 Months passed by. The money was returned to Julia 
 Garnet, and Willie was comforting his sister for her 
 sacrifice. 
 
 Rumor whispered that Harry Noble and Miss Garnet 
 were engaged, and of the gratification it gave Harry's 
 father, who had yielded to the wiles of the scheming girl, 
 and grown very fond of her. Still time rolled on, and 
 Dora wondered why the marriage did not take place. She 
 had never seen Harry since the day she sent him from her.
 
 TEMPTED. 197 
 
 She nad studiously avoided him, and strove hard to forget 
 him ; or when she thought of him, it must be only as the 
 future husband of another. By continual acts of charity, 
 mercy and kindness, she won partial forgetfulness of her 
 own sorrows. Those who suffered came to her for 
 comfort. 
 
 Three long, weary years of waiting, with alternating 
 hopes and fears, had past, and Julia Garnet had not yet 
 gained her heart's desire. Although Harry Noble was 
 often, and only seemed to care to be with her, still he had 
 never told her he loved her, nor asked her to be his 
 wife. 
 
 Why? Because his heart was still true to his love for 
 Dora ; and the falsity of his suspicions was proved by her 
 rejection of many others who offered her their love. 
 
 Once more he went to her, and asked : 
 
 " Dora, will you come to me ? Will you not reward all 
 these years of constancy ? I love you only, Dora ! " 
 
 " I cannot," she answered. 
 
 "Why? Why? Tell me !" 
 
 " Because, better than my own life, I love one " 
 
 What more she would have said, he heard not ; for, 
 (starting up, he said : 
 
 " Enough, Dora. May you be happy. I will go now 
 and strive to be grateful, at least, to one who I know has 
 loved me long. I can offer her a poor recompense for 
 years of devotion. Farewell." 
 
 He was gone, and poor Dora had drained to the very 
 bottom her cup so overflowing with bitterness. 
 
 "Oh! when will this weary journey be over? Pity, 
 pity me, heavenly Father ! " she sobbed. 
 
 A coming step fell on her ear, and she knew Willie's 
 was near. And her heart grew calmer, and breathed the 
 grateful prayer-
 
 198 TEMPTED. 
 
 " Forgive my murmuring, Father. Through my sorrow 
 I have gamed a blessed boon." 
 
 Yes; her brother had kept his vow, remaining firm 
 against all temptations. 
 
 Julia Garnet was triumphant at last. Her marriage was 
 fixed for an early day. But when only two days remained 
 before the time for which she had so long hoped, she was 
 stricken with a fever, which proved to be of a fearful and 
 contagious form. 
 
 This reached Dora's ear while visiting a sick friend. 
 Prom the attending physician came the intelligence, and 
 he added : 
 
 "I fear she will suffer. All have fled except her 
 mother, who is too feeble herself to do much for her. Do 
 you know, Miss Warner, of a competent nurse I could 
 obtain?" 
 
 " I do. I will find one immediately." 
 
 ******* 
 
 "Hush ! She is stirring. She will awake to conscious- 
 ness," said the good doctor, as he bent over the prostrate 
 form of the sleeper, who, in a moment after, opened her 
 eyes, looked inquiringly an instant into his, and whis- 
 pered : 
 
 " Have I been asleep ? I was so tired ! When Julia 
 was sleeping so sweetly, I must have lost myself." 
 
 A pleasant little smile was on the doctor's face, when 
 he said to himself: 
 
 "Yes, my dear. You lost yourself for just three weeks." 
 
 Willie came in and pressed his lips to hers, so pale ancj 
 thin. And then gradually the truth was given to her. 
 Beside the suffering Julia she had stayed, despite all the 
 entreaties and commands of her brother and the doctor. 
 And when the fearful crisis had passed, the noble girl's 
 (Strength failed, and she too was stricken with the same
 
 TEMPTED. 199 
 
 fearful fever. Long days and nights "Willie and the nurse 
 watched beside her couch, and Julia Garnet feebly hovered 
 near, praying for she could pray then that the noble, 
 suffering girl might live. 
 
 " May I come in, doctor? " asked a voice at the door, so 
 low and sweet that Dora looked up with surprise as, in 
 answer to the permission, Julia came to her side Julia, 
 whose sharp eyes were softened, and glowed with a new 
 and holy light, as she bent over and whispered : 
 
 " Dear Dora ! Good, noble, forgiving Dora ! " 
 
 " You do not hate me now, Julia ? Oh I I've had such, 
 happy dreams ! " 
 
 " I love you, Dora ! But there is one who loves you 
 better than I. Your future life shall be one long, happy 
 dream. Look at me, Dora. Thank God ! the wicked girl 
 you used to know died in that dreadful fever, and you 
 nursed back to life another, a better one, whose aim is now 
 only to prove her gratitude to God and you. Harry 
 knows all. He has forgiven me, and is waiting now to 
 gain your permission to come to you." 
 
 "And you you love him. No, no ; he is yours ! " 
 
 " Dora, I do love Harry Noble ; but I have learned to 
 love justice better than him. I can return him to his own 
 true love without a struggle ! " 
 
 A few weeks after there was a quiet little wedding, when 
 Julia and Willie attended the happy couple. A nine 
 clays wondering after by all the friends and acquaintances, 
 no two of whom came to the same conclusion about the 
 affair. 
 
 To only four persons is known the truth the tempta- 
 tion, the wrong, the suffering; but the happy conclusion 
 of which fills their hearts with the most profound gratitude 
 to Him who ever smiles on and blesses the erring one's 
 return.
 
 A VERY NATURAL CONCLUSION. 
 
 BY FBANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 ^CONGRATULATE me, Tom ! I'm the happiest fellow 
 
 \J on earth ! " exclaimed Harry Ashfield, his face 
 radiant with smiles, as he accosted his friend Tom 
 Henly. 
 
 " I'm delighted to see you so happy, old fellow ! But 
 tell me ; what has made you so ? " said Tom. 
 
 " Why, there is but one thing that can make a man so 
 happy a woman's love ! I've won the heart, the first 
 pure love of the sweetest girl in the world. Lilly Hay wood 
 promised to be mine." 
 
 " Well, you are blessed, if that is so. For Miss Hay- 
 wood is very lovely, and I'm confident you will be very 
 happy with her. But I don't know about your being the 
 fast one who has ever made an impression on her heart," 
 said Tom. 
 
 " I do. Why, man, she is just from school. This is her 
 first season in society, and I've been near her all the time. 
 Oh, I should not be so happy otherwise. I could not be 
 satisfied in fact, I would not want to win a heart in 
 which love for another had ever lived." 
 
 " Oh, that is all nonsense. I'm not so exacting. Because 
 a girl has loved once, that's no reason she should not get 
 over it, and love all the more another. But did you never 
 hear Miss Haywood speak of her very dear friend Will 
 Fulton? "said Tom. 
 '200)
 
 A YERY NATURAL CONCLUSION. 201 
 
 " No, never. Why, what about him ? " Harry asked, a 
 frown gathering on his fine face. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," Tom said, a comical smile playing about 
 his lips. 
 
 " I know there is something. And, Tom, I'd like to 
 know what it is ? " 
 
 " Tush, man ! Now you're jealous and uneasy without 
 good cause. But I'll tell you, for fear you may imagine 
 something really of account. Will Fulton was a friend, 
 and a very dear one, of Miss Haywood, when she was at 
 school. I know they corresponded for a long while: 
 indeed, I was under the impression they still did. I re- 
 member hearing Miss Haywood tell a young lady friend 
 that she did not believe it would be possible for her to 
 love any one more than she did Willie Fulton." 
 
 "You heard her say that? How strange any young lady 
 should make that declaration so openly ! " said Harry. 
 
 " Well, perhaps she did not know I was in hearing dis- 
 tance. I certainly heard her say it. But I feel quite sure, 
 Harry, if she has promised to be yours, she knows now 
 that it is possible for her to love some one more; and 
 you may rest easy : she loves you truly. But, dear me, 
 it is nine o'clock. I'm due at the office now. Good- 
 morning." 
 
 The smiles were all gone from Harry's face then, and his 
 steps not near so light as fifteen minutes before. Some- 
 how the sky did not seem so blue, or the sun to shine 
 so brightly, as before he met Tom. 
 
 " She should have told me of this," he thought. Then 
 he would try to console himself by saying, " But she did 
 not know me then. Why should I worry ? " 
 
 Still he could not feel so very happy as he did. But he 
 tried hard to seem so, when he met Lilly that evening. 
 Only the night before he had wo her promise to be his:
 
 202 A VERY NATURAL CONCLUSION. 
 
 and really he felt ashamed to let any jealous thoughts, oi 
 doubts, steal in and cloud the first days of their engage- 
 ment. 
 
 A few days after the above conversation, Lilly was 
 making a call on her most intimate friend Kate Ralston. 
 Lilly had confided to Kate her secret. After the usual 
 congratulations, kisses and tears, Kate said : 
 
 " But oh, Lilly, dear, you'll have to be so careful. Harry 
 is awfully jealous. He'll not let you be even polite to any 
 other man, or love anybody but himself. Perhaps youi 
 mother and father a little bit. Now my lover is so differ- 
 ent. Tom Henly has such perfect confidence in me, I 
 could not make him jealous if I tried. But that is not it. 
 Confidence has nothing to do with it; it is nature. I 
 don't suppose Harry can help it." 
 
 " If it is Harry's nature, he must try and change it, and 
 have perfect confidence in me. I should be miserable, if 
 I felt I was being watched all the time by a jealous eye. 
 Ill cure him, I guess." 
 
 The next evening Harry sat beside Lilly, holding her 
 hand in his, when his eye fell on a very beautiful little 
 ring. 
 
 " Who gave you that, Lilly ? " he asked. 
 
 *'A friend," she answered, with a provoking smile. 
 
 Quickly he drew it off, and glancing inside, read the 
 inscription, " With the love of W. F." 
 
 Oh, how his heart was rent with jealous pangs then ! 
 
 There was no longer a doubt of the truth of Tom 
 Henly 's words. 
 
 " I wish you would fiend this ring back to the donor, 
 Lilly. I don't think you should want to keep it now." 
 
 " Indeed I shall not, Harry. How very unreasonable 
 for you to ask such a thing ! " Lilly said, Taking the ring 
 from him, she returned it to her finger.
 
 A VEEY NATURAL CONCLUSION. 203 
 
 "Who is W. F., LiUy?" Harry asked, with a very 
 decided expression of anger on his face. 
 
 "An old and dear friend, Harry." 
 
 "A. first love, I suppose, and one who probably shares your 
 heart with me even now," Harry answered, getting up and 
 striding up and down the floor. 
 
 " Harry, when you asked me to be yours, told me you 
 loved me, and received my assurance of a returned love, 
 you should have felt sure that I was not deceiving you. 
 If another possessed my heart, I could not have told you 
 it was yours," Lilly said, gravely. 
 
 " Then why do you wish to wear Will Fulton's ring ? " 
 Harry said, angrily. 
 
 A look of equal surprise and inquiry Lilly bent on her 
 lover, and then asked : 
 
 "Are you so jealous that you would not have me bear 
 any regard " 
 
 " You may call it what you choose, Lilly. I think it is 
 your duty to acquiesce in my wishes ; at least, in not con- 
 tinuing to wear the ring of a former lover ! " 
 
 Lilly's eyes changed their look of anxiety to one of real 
 merriment then, and she said, after a few moments : 
 
 " Well, Harry, I'll promise this much not to wear 
 Willie's ring until you give me permission ; but I cannot 
 send it back. In return, you shall promise to have no 
 more fits of jealousy. You must have perfect confidence^ 
 in me, or we can never be happy. You must feel sure that 
 I love you, or else we had better part now, than in after 
 days." 
 
 Harry begged for forgiveness, and promised all Lilly 
 wished ; and so, for the time, all clouds were chased away. 
 
 Weeks passed on, nothing taking place to mar the hap- 
 piness of Harry until, one evening, Lilly's father came in, 
 and handing her a letter, said?
 
 204 A VERY NATURAL CONCLUSION. 
 
 " Here, Lilly, this is from your old friend Willie, I think 
 Back from Europe, I suppose." 
 
 A glad smile broke over Lilly's face, a dark frown ovfei 
 Harry's. 
 
 Closely he watched her unmistakable look of pleasure 
 as she read the closely written pages. At length she had 
 finished, and turning to Harry, was about to say some- 
 thing, when his angry face caused her to stop suddenly, 
 and, with a look of real anxiety, to ask : 
 
 "What is the matter, Harry?" 
 
 Up he started, as once before, and paced with angry 
 strides the floor. At length, stopping before her, he said : 
 
 " Will you allow me to read your friend's letter ? " 
 
 " No, Harry, I cannot. I would not ask such a thing 
 from you. /will read you much of it, however." 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Haywood. I saw the concluding 
 line, which, no doubt, is the tenor of the whole. And the 
 woman who can receive with pleasure a letter ending, 
 ' Ever your own,' from any other than the one to whom 
 she is betrothed, is unworthy the love and confidence of 
 any man. I wish you much happiness, and at the same 
 time give you my full permission to return to your finger 
 the ring belonging to the writer of that letter. The re- 
 minder of my own folly you can just cast into the fire." 
 And before Lilly could recover from her surprise, the hall 
 door closed on his retiring steps. 
 
 " Well, if he is not the most jealous person I ever did 
 Bee ! What shall I do ? Write and explain, and try to 
 make him less miserable? No; I'll let him take his own 
 course. I fear I should never be happy if we should be 
 united," Lilly said, wiping the tears from her eyes. 
 
 The next day he came not, as she hoped. And after 
 several days had passed, she heard that he had left town, 
 gone without a word of parting.
 
 A VERY NATURAL CONCLUSION. 
 
 The establishment in which Harry was a clerk wanted 
 Borne one to travel on business connected with the firm. 
 So Harry was asked if he would like to go. And willingly 
 he agreed. 
 
 " I'll banish her from my heart," he said. "And this 
 change will help me." 
 
 Tom Henly learned through Kate Ralston of the trouble 
 between Lilly and her lover, and feeling a little uneasy 
 about the part he had had in the matter, having first told 
 Harry about Willie Fulton, he went to see Lilly, and 
 explained to her the first cause of Harry's jealousy. 
 
 " It all comes of my miserable habit of getting up a joke, 
 never thinking of the consequences," said Tom, dolefully. 
 
 " Never mind. He deserves to suffer for his want of 
 confidence. Do not move a step in the matter. Wait 
 until his return to his senses," said Lilly. 
 
 Harry, miserable enough, went travelling from city to 
 
 city until he reached P , where he met one of his old 
 
 schoolmates, who immediately fastened upon him and, 
 regardless of all excuses, carried him to his own home. 
 
 That night a party of merry girls were in the parlors, 
 and Harry, in an adjoining room, just finishing his toilet, 
 heard the hated name, " Willie Fulton." When his friend 
 came to accompany and introduce him to the young 
 ladies, much to his surprise, Harry asked to be excused. 
 
 Amazed, the young man insisted on knowing the reason 
 of the strange conduct, when Harry answered : 
 
 " There is a person in there that I detest, and do not 
 wish to meet." 
 
 " Who ? " inquired his friend, in surprise. 
 
 " That fellow Fulton ! " replied Harry. 
 
 " Why, George Fulton is one of the best fellows I know." 
 
 "'Tis not him, but the other, Willie Fulton. Look 
 fcere, Charley, I'll tell you just the whole story in a few
 
 206 A VEKY NATUKAL CONCLUSION. 
 
 words ; and then, if you say go meet my rival, all right * 
 111 do it." 
 
 So poor Harry told his story, not feeling well pleased 
 that, during the narration of which, his friend Charley 
 seemed a deal more amused than sympathizing. 
 
 At the conclucion Harry asked : 
 
 "Now do you want me to go in ? " 
 
 " Indeed I do, and claim the fulfilment of your promise 
 to do so. Come, I insist ! or I'll go bring Will and the 
 girls in here," said Charley. 
 
 Harry suffered himself to be drawn into the parlor, 
 where he was presented to half a dozen beautiful girls, 
 George Fulton, and two other young gentlemen. From the 
 piano came sounds of soft music, accompanied by one of 
 the sweetest voices Harry had ever heard. Soon after his 
 entrance the song was ended, and the singer turned, when 
 Charley introduced Mr. Ashfield to Miss Willie Fulton. 
 
 I think Harry would have fallen to the floor, so com- 
 pletely was he bewildered, had not the strong arm of 
 Charley supported him. 
 
 Willie knew the story of Harry's jealousy, having only 
 the day before received a long letter from Lilly, telling of 
 the way Willie's name had deceived him and made him so 
 miserable. 
 
 Almost as much surprised as Harry was Willie, to meet 
 the lover of her dearest friend. However, quickly recov- 
 ering herself, she soon placed Harry very much at ease, 
 and in half an hour they were talking of Lilly ; and be- 
 fore the evening was over Harry had confided to Willie 
 bis trouble, and begged her intercession to win for him 
 Lilly's forgiveness. 
 
 Lilly sat, a few evenings after, feeling very sad, wonder- 
 ing, and wavering. Would Harry come back ? Or should 
 ehe write and tell him the truth ? Just then, in the dim
 
 A VERY NATURAL CONCLUSION. 207 
 
 twilight, she beheld, standing in the door, the object of he 
 thoughts. 
 
 He started toward her, and then hesitating, asked : 
 
 " Dare I come, Lilly ? May I come ? Oh 1 I have had 
 a severe lesson, and suffered enough. Do forgive, and 
 take me back ! " 
 
 " Harry, my heart pleads with you, yet I fear to listen 
 to either," Lilly said, putting up her hands as if to keep 
 him back. 
 
 " Lilly, darling, I shall never doubt again," he said. 
 
 "What has banished your doubts, Harry ? " Lilly askecL 
 
 "An acquaintance with my supposed rival, with whom 
 I am almost as much in love as you are." 
 
 " Yes, Lilly, here I am, to plead with and for him/ 
 Willie said, coming forward and stopping any further 
 remonstrance or chidings from Lilly by almost smothering 
 her with kisses, and then going on to say : 
 
 "After all, Lilly, you cannot wonder so much at Harry's 
 misgivings. What with my name, so very misguiding, 
 and other circumstances, I think I might have felt just as 
 he did." 
 
 "Particularly if one whom you thought your friend 
 applied the match to fuel already fixed for the burning,'* 
 said Tom Henly, entering the room just then, and hearing 
 Willie's plea for poor Harry, concluded it with his own. 
 
 "Am I forgiven, Lilly?" 
 
 "Yes, Harry, and fully acquitted. In the future we 
 shall have neither concealments nor doubts," Lilly an- 
 swered, smiling and happy again. 
 
 " Or lov'es with deceiving names," Willie added, with a 
 merry glance toward Harry, who was too happy then not 
 to join a laugh even at his own expense.
 
 TAKING IN NEW PARTNERS. 
 
 BY FBANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 * rpHERE goes a fine catch for some girl. I wonder he 
 JL has remained a widower so long. It is over three 
 years since his wife's death. Dear me ! I should think it 
 is a very lonesome life he has." 
 
 " Now, Jane Austin, it is not a bit of use for you to sit 
 at that window and watch Captain Arden as he passes. 
 He will never marry you, nor any other woman. His life 
 is devoted to his daughter. And as to being lonesome, I 
 guess the little time he is on shore he'll find enough to 
 employ his mind and time. So you need not feel a bit 
 uneasy about that," returned a sister spinster, who, at one 
 time, had spent many hours watching the handsome 
 captain, but long since had adopted the prevailing opinion 
 that Captain Arden would never marry again, he never 
 having been known to spend an hour in a woman's society 
 since his wife's death. 
 
 A few moments after the above conversation, Captain, 
 Arden entered the reception-room of a young ladies' 
 seminary. Scarce had he seated himself, when his neck 
 was encircled by fond, clinging arms, and a sweet childish 
 face pressed close to his. After returning his darling's 
 caresses, Captain Arden looked earnestly a moment into 
 her beautiful eyes, and then asked, with great anxiety : 
 
 "What is it, my love? Something is troubling you, I 
 eee. Why are your eyes not dancing as usual, and tho 
 (208^
 
 TAKING IN NEW PARTNERS. 209 
 
 music all gone from your voice ? Come, tell papa what ia 
 the reason." 
 
 "Oh, papa, you love me better than anybody in the 
 world, do you not ? " the child sobbed. 
 
 "Indeed I do, my own." 
 
 " Oh, papa, papa ! but will you always do so ? " 
 
 "Why, Flory, little girl, what do you mean?" her 
 father asked, amazed by her agitation. 
 
 " Oh, you do not say you always will. And it is true 
 what the girls all say. You will find somebody else to 
 love. Oh, you cruel papa ! you will marry somebody some 
 of these days, and then your poor little Flory will only 
 have a little mite of your heart." 
 
 "You silly little love, to let these girls tease you BO. 
 Come, we will make a solemn compact, Flory. Now give 
 me your hand, and look right into my eyes. Now I 
 promise never to wed any woman, nor to seek to win the 
 love of any, as long as my daughter remains true to her 
 father. While you are with me, giving me your entire 
 love, I ask for nothing more. We will live for each other, 
 Flory. What say you ? Will you promise this, too ? " 
 
 "Gladly, gladly, papa," Flory answered, with another 
 fond embrace. Then, with a doubtful look, she asked : 
 
 " But, papa, you mean that I must not care for any man 
 save you ? That is it is it not? " a bright flush mounting 
 to her fair brow; "because, papa, I do love Ada Foster 
 dearly. She was one of my schoolmates last year. Now 
 she is one of our teachers. Somebody must love her very 
 much now, particularly because her father is dead. That 
 is why she stays here to teach. She is an orphan, papa, 
 and so sweet ; and she is so good and wise too ; older than, 
 I by nearly five years and " 
 
 " Stop, little chatter-box, a moment. How old are you ? " 
 
 "Fourteen last birthday, papa; and Ada ia quite old,
 
 210 TAKING IN NEW 
 
 almost twenty. You ought to know her ; you would be 
 Bure to like her, papa." 
 
 "Very well, Flory, you can love your friend Ada as 
 much as you choose ; but do not let me hear of any other 
 love. And this voyage I shall make to sea will be the last, 
 my child. By the time I get back, two years hence, you 
 will be old enough to preside over our home ; and then we 
 will be separated no more. So you must learn all you can, 
 little one, against that happy time. So now rest easy 
 about your father's heart. It will never wander from his 
 darling." 
 
 A few weeks more, and Captain Arden set sail on the 
 voyage he had promised should be his last. He was a 
 very handsome man, and entirely too young to dedicate 
 himself to a life of celibacy. Bright eyes grew brighter, 
 and rosy lips were wreathed with the sweetest smiles, at 
 his approach. In foreign ports, as well as in his native, 
 city, he was a great favorite, and many a manoeuvring 
 mamma angled in vain to catch him. In truth, he kept 
 pretty well out of their way. He cared not for the fair 
 ones' society. 
 
 Flory's mother had been the first and only love of his 
 youth ; and her memory was dearer still than anything ia 
 the world, save her child. So he remained very true to 
 the promise made his daughter. And she guarded her 
 heart well against any one's invading what she considered 
 her father's exclusive rights. 
 
 Flory was very beautiful, and numberless brothers and 
 cousins of her companions cast admiring eyes, and sought 
 to win some sign of favor from her. But all to no avail. 
 So when the two years had passed by, and Captain Arden 
 returned to his child, both, after an inquiring glance into 
 the other's eyes, were fully satisfied that no other love had 
 entered the heart of either.
 
 TAKING IN NEW PAKTNEBS 211 
 
 It was to a home of rare beauty, as well as every com- 
 tbrt, that Captain Arden carried his daughter. The walls 
 Were adorned with the works of the old masters, while 
 every niche and corner was filled with gems of art. They 
 were very happy. Why should they not have been? 
 Everything contributed to make them so. 
 
 "It is all very well while it lasts," was the frequent 
 remark of some of Arden 's friends. " They will both tire 
 of this living only for each other before a great while." 
 
 " Why should they ? And what on earth can possibly 
 mar their happiness ? " asked another, not so well versed 
 in the ways of the world, or of the hearts in it. 
 
 "What? The one great power the heart's demands. 
 A love not to be satisfied by filial or parental affection, 
 that is what will do it. The Master of our being never 
 intended this sort of thing. It is unnatural, and I have 
 never met with any happy conclusion of such a compact, 
 except by the firm dissolving and taking in new partners," 
 was the sage reply. 
 
 However, a year passed by and nothing happened to 
 mar Captain Ardcn's or Flory's happiness. At the end of 
 that time a young man came, bringing a letter of intro- 
 duction from his father, one of Captain Arden 's dearest 
 friends. This young man was not only welcomed with 
 great cordiality, but Captain Arden insisted that during 
 his stay in the city, he should become his guest. 
 
 So it was that Fred Fulton was thrown in the constant 
 society of Flory ; a very dangerous thing for the peace of 
 mind of both. Any one seeing these two might know 
 they were sure to love each other. Flory, who was a 
 fairy-like little creature, with golden curls and azure eyes, 
 as merry as a bird, and frolicsome as a kitten, had all 
 her life a passion for black eyes and raven locks. So 
 there was Fred, just iuch a hero as all blp^de girls are
 
 812 TAKING IN NEW PARTNERS. 
 
 eure to dream about. Then he had such a touching, 
 taking sadness about him, that went straight to Flory's 
 kind, sympathetic little heart. Now, to do her justice, 
 she fought bravely against the spirit that came stealing 
 over her, and really either would have kept herself away 
 from him, or sent Fred off home, had not the duties of 
 hostess prevented. The next best thing was to get some 
 one else to come and help to entertain her guest. Ada 
 Foster had, a few weeks previous to Captain Arden's 
 taking his daughter from school, been sent for by an aged 
 relative to come and live with her. Thus the friends had 
 been separated. Often Flory wished that Ada could be 
 with her, saying, " Then I should not think so much of 
 this dark-eyed stranger." 
 
 Just then Ada's aunt died, leaving the orphan girl in 
 possession of quite a large fortune. 
 
 How Flory rejoiced, not only in her friend's good luck, 
 but more in her freedom. Now she could come to her 
 be again daily her adviser and confidante. And so she 
 wrote to Ada, begging her to come. Soon she came. But, 
 alas, for Flory's thoughts about banishing Fred from her 
 heart! Daily he grew dearer. And now the poor girl 
 upbraided herself for ingratitude, in thus allowing any 
 stranger to share the heart that should belong entirely to 
 such a devoted father as hers ! 
 
 Fred's visit was drawing near its close. A few days 
 previous to his leaving, he found Flory alone, and then 
 told her his heart's story. But, poor fellow, his hopes 
 received a very sudden check. Flory dismissed him 
 solemnly declaring she should never marry. 
 
 So Fred went away very miserable; and Flory's bright 
 eyes grew sad, and her merry voice ceased its carolling 
 about the house. Her father grew very uneasy, and 
 declared she must b* ill, So, to relieve her father's
 
 anxiety, Flory feigned a happier mood. But somehow 
 her efforts were of little avail. Captain Arden's joke? 
 grew less frequent, and his merry, ringing laugh waf 
 seldom heard. Even Flory's winning little ways failed t<r 
 satisfy or make him happy. 
 
 Truly, a wonderful change had come over the onca 
 happy little household. 
 
 " What is the matter with Flory ? " and " What troubles 
 papa?" were the thoughts which agitated the minds 
 of both. 
 
 Ada Foster was the only wise one of the three. She 
 knew well enough what the trouble was with the captain, 
 as well as Flory. For how could she mistake the devo- 
 tion of Captain Arden's manner to herself? Many times, 
 when suddenly raising her eyes, she had seen his gazing 
 earnestly and admiringly on her. Then quickly they 
 Would seek Flory, and, with a sigh and a deprecating 
 look, he would leave the room. Yes, Ada understood alJ 
 about the trouble, and resolved to put the minds of her 
 friends all right. Their hearts were just as they should be. 
 She rejoiced in the discovery she had made, for the weeks 
 she had spent in the society of the captain had revealed tc 
 her such true nobility of character, that she had grown to 
 think of him more than ever of any man before. Yes, 
 Ada loved him. She did not try to deceive herself about 
 it. And so, to save four persons from misery, she resolved 
 to bring Flory to her senses first, and trust to luck fot 
 the captain following after in the same course. 
 
 One evening, when out for a drive, an opportunity was 
 presented for Ada to " open Flory's eyes," as she said to 
 herself. 
 
 They were nearing a fine old mansion, to which Flory 
 pointed and said : 
 
 " What a grand old place that is I How ^ should like 
 to own it 1 "
 
 14 TAKING IN NEW PARTNERS. 
 
 "I think it a very gloomy -looking place, and would 
 like a home of more cheerful aspect," replied Ada. 
 
 " Well, it has a very gloomy look. But then there are 
 etrange folks living in it only an old bachelor and old 
 maid. They seldom have visitors, and only live for each 
 other. The servants tell of their being the saddest couple 
 ever seen, 5 ' said Flory. 
 
 " I do not wonder. I've heard the story of those poor 
 mistaken folks, each having sacrificed their heart's best 
 love for the sake of the other ; blindly thinking they 
 should find happiness, or, if not that, content in doing 
 what they called duty. This unnatural way of living 
 never brings either, only years of disappointment and 
 ceaseless regrets." 
 
 " Oh, Ada ! Can it ever become so with papa, or I ? " 
 
 " Fkny, I must answer your inquiry by another. Are 
 you happy now, in the sacrifice you are making ? " 
 
 "I may be by-and-by," answered Flory, trying to 
 repress the sigh which would come nevertheless. 
 
 "I think not, Flory; neither are you making your 
 father nor poor Fred very happy." 
 
 "Ada, tell me ; what is the matter with papa ? Does 
 he suspect my heart has wandered a little from him ? Yes, 
 it is this, I know, which makes him so sad. Oh, how 
 ungrateful I have been ! Dear, good, noble papa ! " 
 
 " No, Flory ; it is not your love for Fred, that is trou- 
 bling your father, I'm quite sure. Have you never 
 thought perchance he, as well as you, may have taken 
 Borne one else to share his love ? " asked Ada, a delicate 
 blush suffusing her face. 
 
 " Papa's heart given to another ! No, no ; he would not 
 break his pledge to me " 
 
 " No more than you have with him, Flory. But you 
 se<? how it is, little ov&- We cannot regulate the impulses
 
 TAKING IN NEW PARTNERS. 215 
 
 of the heart. Love will wander where it chooses ; and I 
 think it is the contest against this that is causing all our 
 trouble just now." 
 
 "Our trouble, Ada! Are you unhappy too?" asked 
 Flory, looking inquiringly into her friend's eyes. 
 
 " Only because of my dearest friends' unhappiness." 
 
 Flory had fixed her eyes very earnestly on her friend. 
 She continued to gaze some minutes, and then light 
 seemed to have dawned upon her. She caught Ada's 
 hands in hers, exclaiming : 
 
 " Oh, I know now ! How blind I've been ! Oh, I'm so 
 glad ! so very, very glad, Ada ! Hush ! don't say another 
 word ! We shall all be so happy now ! " 
 
 "Stop, you mad-cap! What do you know?" asked 
 Ada. 
 
 " That I'm going to have James turn his horses' heads 
 toward home. I want to put my arms around papa's 
 neck, tell him my secret, and win his " 
 
 "And betray another's, Flory ! " 
 
 " No, no. I've grown very wise at last. You darling 
 Ada ! " 
 
 A very little while after, Captain Arden sat in his 
 library, looking anything but happy. A sigh had scarcely 
 escaped his lips, when his neck was encircled by Flory's 
 arms. And she asked, with a comical little smile : 
 
 " Papa, what is th^ reason you and I are not just as 
 happy as we used to be ? " 
 
 He drew her within his arms, and said : 
 
 " You are sure we are not, my darling ? " 
 
 " Perfectly so, papa." 
 
 "What can I do to make you so, my child?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " By being so yourself, papa." 
 
 He shook his head, and was about to reply, when,
 
 216 TAKING IN NEW PAKTNEBS. 
 
 burying her bright head in his bosom, she murmured 
 low: 
 
 " Papa, do we not both of us want to dissolve the com- 
 pact we made years ago ? " 
 
 " My darling, what can you mean ? " 
 
 "Oh, papa, you know! Do not you and I want to 
 take in new partners ? " she said, breaking into a merry 
 little laugh, which was finished in a shower of happy 
 tears. 
 
 As if by magic, the clouds were banished from his 
 brow, and the happy, genial-looking man of a year before, 
 eaid: 
 
 " So this little truant heart has taken another in to crowd 
 me out, hey ? " 
 
 " No, no, papa. I love you none the less because I've 
 learned to love well, just as you love somebody else." 
 
 "What a wise little woman you have grown to be, 
 Flory!" 
 
 "Yes, papa; I know now that you and I will love each 
 other all the dearer by dissolving our old agreement 
 and entering into another, where no sacrifices will be 
 required." 
 
 " And who is my rival, little one? " 
 
 A whisper close to her father's ear, with a smiling 
 approval from him ; and then, with a very grave look, she 
 said: 
 
 " Ada leaves us next week, papa." 
 
 "No, Flory! Can you let her go?" he asked, the sad 
 look coming back. 
 
 " Yes, papa ; if you will make her promise to come back 
 and remain forever ! " Flory answered, smiling. 
 
 Catching her quickly, and pressing her to his heart, 
 Captain Arden went out. Flory heard him enter the 
 drawincr-room. An hour after he returned, drew her with
 
 TAKING IN NEW PARTNEES. 217 
 
 him to Ada's side, and said, his voice full of joyful 
 emotion : 
 
 "She has promised, Flory. Help me thank her for 
 making us so happy." 
 
 Flory's arms were about her, her lips pressed to hers. 
 
 That evening a little messenger was despatched to Fred, 
 bearing, from Ada, just one word, " Come." 
 
 After a few weeks more the new partners were united 
 in a firm compact, which gives assurance of the purest 
 happiness earth can afford.
 
 THE BALL-ROOM BELLE. 
 
 BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 U "\7~OU love her, my son ? " 
 J- " Indeed, mother, I do." 
 
 "And have told her so?" 
 
 " Never in words, mother; 
 
 An expression of relief escaped Mrs. Hawley's lipg, 
 And putting her hand caressingly on her son's shoulder, 
 she said : 
 
 " Herbert, when your brother married, having no daugh- 
 ter of my own, my heart was gladdened with the thought 
 that my boy's wife would fill the vacant place in both 
 heart and home. You know how terribly I was disap- 
 pointed, and how his life has been, so far, a miserable 
 failure that the one who should have been a helpmate is 
 really a burden, a butterfly of fashion, never satisfied 
 unless in some scene of gayety ; careless of home, husband, 
 and children. Oh ! my boy, with this, Albert's dreadful 
 mistake, ever before you, I fear you will do likewise. 
 Louise Delmar is not the girl to make you happy. Among 
 the beauties and belles of the ball-room can scarcely be 
 found one fitted to fill with happiness the quiet home 
 circle. The petted favorite of such a woman as Mrs. 
 Courtney, her aunt, whose whole life is devoted to fashion, 
 what can we expect of Louise ? Should poverty and sick- 
 ness come to you, how could she bear it? Herbert, 
 promise me you will proceed no further in this mattei 
 (218)
 
 THE BALL-BOOM BELLE. 219 
 
 until you know her better ; that is, until you find out she 
 is different from what she seems." 
 
 " Oh, mother, how can I ever know her better, unless I 
 become something more to her than a mere acquaintance? 
 Do not bind me with such a promise," pleaded Herbert. 
 
 " I must. Promise me, my son ! Your happiness is my 
 only aim. If she is worthy, you will find it out some 
 time." 
 
 "After another man has won her, perhaps," said Her- 
 bert, gloomily. 
 
 " No, I think not. I do not ask you to withdraw en- 
 tirely from her society ; and if you have made a favorable 
 impression on her heart, she will not readily transfer her 
 kindly feeling to another." 
 
 Mrs. Hawley won from Herbert the promise she sought. 
 Poor fellow ! the bright hopes which filled his heart were 
 very suddenly dashed aside. 
 
 He believed Louise thought more favorably of him than 
 any of the other young men who sought her society. He 
 had determined, after speaking to his mother on the sub- 
 ject, to seek Louise, tell his love, and win her promise to 
 be his. So, of course, the interview with his mother, and 
 the result, was a severe disappointment. 
 
 A few evenings after, Mrs. Hawley was seated in the 
 parlor with Herbert. Vainly she had endeavored to draw 
 him into conversation. He remained in gloomy silence. 
 And his mother was wishing some one would come in, to 
 make it necessary for him to throw off the feeling of 
 depression, and exert himself to be a little agreeable, when 
 the door opened and the (servant announced Mr. Mayo. 
 
 Tom Mayo was Herbert's particular chum and class- 
 mate; the merriest fellow and best friend in the world. 
 Mrs. Hawley gladly welcomed his coming. As he ackrowl- 
 edged that lady's cordial greeting, -he said?
 
 220 THE BALL-ROOM BELLE. 
 
 " My call is especially for you, Mrs. Hawley ; to solicit 
 your influence with that obstinate son of yours. I've 
 been pleading with him for a week past to promise he 
 will go home with me to Baltimore, and spend the Easter 
 holidays. My sister has written me to bring a couple of 
 friends. She is going to have some of her school-mates, 
 and we expect a very pleasant time. But Herbert insists 
 he cannot in a word, will not go. Will you help me ? " 
 
 Mrs. Hawley was delighted with the prospect of such a 
 change for Herbert, and earnestly joined her efforts with 
 his friend's to induce him to go. 
 
 At length they were successful. And the next morning 
 Tom, Herbert, and another friend left town for the former's 
 home. 
 
 Three days after Mrs. Hawley received a letter from her 
 son, bringing this information : 
 
 "On my arrival at Mr. Mayo's, I received a surprise 
 which would have been a very happy one, had I not been 
 bound by that hard promise. You, perhaps, will think it 
 all a concerted plan. But I tell you, mother, and you will 
 believe me, I never dreamed of meeting Louise Delmar, 
 when I stood before her in Mrs. Mayo's drawing-room." 
 
 Notwithstanding the barrier against any further prog- 
 ress in Herbert's wooing, he spent a very pleasant week. 
 New hope was in his heart. In daily intercourse with 
 Louise, his love grew greater. He was convinced life with 
 her would be such as to make him the happiest of mortals. 
 Gazing into her beautiful eyes, often he saw a look of such 
 deep earnestness that again and again he was assured she 
 was very different from his mother's belief. Still, how 
 could he convince her that Louise's heart was fixed on 
 eomething higher and purer than a life of fashionable ex- 
 citement ? 
 
 Another proof to him of her worth was, the children
 
 THE BALL-ROOM BELLE. 221 
 
 lingered near and clung about her, while she listened with 
 interest to their merry prattle, and busied her fingers with 
 little articles for their amusement. 
 
 The aged grandmother loved to call upon her. Herbert 
 saw how tenderly the young girl's arms were placed 
 around her, to support the trembling form, and he wished 
 his mother could see her thus. 
 
 It was the last evening of their stay. Tom and his 
 friend had prolonged the pleasant visit to the last hour. 
 Herbert's business had not been so pressing as the others', 
 and he would gladly have remained longer; but of 
 course he felt bound to return when they did. 
 
 It was a terrible night. The rain, which had been falling 
 during the afternoon, came down in torrents then. There 
 was no prospect of anything better in the morning. 
 Nevertheless they must leave in the early train. 
 
 Herbert had accompanied Tom down to the basement, 
 in a hunt for sundry rubber coats and overshoes. They 
 were about to enter the kitchen, to make inquiries of 
 Bridget, when a howl or wail, as of the greatest grief and 
 despair, escaped that worthy woman's lips. Herbert 
 started back with a look of much anxiety. Tom 
 whispered : 
 
 " Nothing of much consequence. Something has gone 
 wrong with her. Stand back a little and be quiet; we 
 shall soon know the trouble. She will be sure to relieve 
 her mind with a torrent of words, and we will hear some- 
 thing rich, I think." 
 
 And soon it was as Tom predicted. Bridget, after 
 another howl, groaned forth : 
 
 " Tin o'clock ! Oh ! bad luek to him ! an' he'll not 
 come to-night ! An' it's Bridget O'Grady's riputation as a 
 first-class cook, all to be ruined by a baste of a butcher- 
 boy I An' it's a bit of rain that he's afraid of 1 "
 
 222 THE BALL-BOOM BELLE. 
 
 Just then the listeners' attention was directed from 
 Bridget by the sound of light footsteps coming down the 
 stairs. Further hack into the shade they drew, as the 
 kitchen door opened, and they heard the pleasant voice of 
 Miss Delmar asking : 
 
 " Can I have some hot water, Bridget, to fix grandma 
 something nice to drink before she goes to bed ? " 
 
 Bridget immediately poured out her griefs to Louise, 
 who at once undertook to help get a breakfast, which 
 should sustain the reputation of the kitchen, out of the 
 scanty materials on hand, and ended by saying : 
 
 " We will give the gentlemen a very nice breakfast, 
 Bridget." 
 
 " It strikes me, Tom, we are learning some secrets in the 
 culinary art in a rather questionable way. I think we had 
 better retire," said Herbert. 
 
 Again the wish was in his heart, " Oh, if mother could 
 only hear and see her as I have ! " 
 
 The next morning, when Herbert entered the breakfast- 
 room, he felt a little curiosity to see the result of Miss 
 Delinar's debut in Bridget's domain. 
 
 As he had hoped, the object of his thoughts that 
 morning, and dreams the night before, was waiting at the 
 table to preside at the breakfast, which, to Herbert's mind, 
 was the most delightful in his life. 
 
 Louise was looking charming in her simple, but most 
 becoming, morning toilet. Bridget was the picture of 
 good humor. And how could she be otherwise? The 
 breakfast was a perfect success. The fragrant steaming 
 coffee ; the rice-cakes, so light and crisp ; an omelet, 
 beautiful to look at, and delicious to taste; a dish of 
 delicate and tempting-looking little articles, which the 
 young gentlemen seemed to relish very highly; Louise 
 laughingly called them " wonders," and Herbert was sure
 
 THE BALL-BOOM BELLE. 223 
 
 they were the result of Bridget's attack on the much-abused 
 " ham bone," and were more palatable than the most 
 " dacent " slice that ever was cut from a ham. 
 
 None of the ladies of the family were present to say 
 good-by. The parting words were given the night before. 
 I think most likely Tom's sister would have been with 
 them, if Bridget's report of the very poor breakfast had 
 not kept her away. She would not incur the mortifica- 
 tion of presiding at such a meal. 
 
 The time for leaving came. It was a severe trial for 
 Herbert, to go without whispering a word of tenderness or 
 plead for permission to write to Louise. There was such 
 ft wistful earnestness in his eyes, as they lingered so long 
 gazing into hers, that Louise knew then he loved her, and 
 wondered why he did not tell her so. In the hall tha 
 young gentlemen called Bridget, to thank her for the very 
 nice breakfast she had given them at such a very unseason- 
 able hour. 
 
 Bridget, looking at the notes that were placed in her 
 hand, hesitated a moment before speaking her thanksj 
 and then exclaimed : 
 
 " Yes, it's your dollars I'll take, for she's not wantin' fo* 
 them ; an' thank ye. But it's the riputation and cridit 
 that Bridget O'Grady will take from no one. The break- 
 fast was none of me doin 1 . Miss Louise it was ; an' all 
 out of a ham bone and a bit of nothin', she made the ilie* 
 gant breakfast. Ay, it's a jewel she is ! worth a deal more 
 thin the diamonds in your bosom now, Mr. Hawley. 
 Sure, an' it's a lucky man that gets her, it is ! " 
 
 Herbert's heart fully responded to Bridget's praises of 
 Louise. With her voice pouring forth blessings and 
 thanks still sounding in their ea*s, the friends hurried off. 
 
 Herbert, immediately after his arrival home, gave his 
 mother a full account of his visit. How deep an impres- 
 sion his account and assurances of Miss I>^mar's worth
 
 224 THE BALL-ROOM BELLE. 
 
 made on that lady's mind, I cannot say. But I think most 
 likely she made full allowance for a lover's enthusiasm. 
 
 That evening, after business hours, Tom called. 
 
 Hunting for something in his pocket, he drew forth a 
 letter, and said : 
 
 " There ! I declare, this is too bad ! I promised Miss 
 Delmar to deliver this to-night. I forgot all about it. It's 
 too late now, and it is fully a mile from here ! " 
 
 "To Mrs. Courtney's?" asked Herbert. 
 
 " Oh, no ! Mrs. Agatha Foster's, Fourteenth street. She 
 is an old lady, and a very highly esteemed friend of Miss 
 Delmar's," answered Tom. 
 
 " The name is very familiar," said Mrs. Hawley. After 
 a moment's thought, she continued : "Ah, I remember ; 
 I knew her several years ago. Once, I have heard, she 
 was in very comfortable circumstances ; but meeting with 
 sad reverses, she became housekeeper in the Courtney 
 family, remaining with them until her son grew to man- 
 hood ; and she is with him now, I believe." 
 
 A bright thought came to Mrs. Hawley then. From 
 Mrs. Foster she could learn all about Miss Delmar. 
 
 " Mr. Maj^o," she said, " if you have no objection, I will 
 deliver this letter to-morrow morning. It is many years 
 since I met Mrs. Foster, and I should like to renew the 
 acquaintance." 
 
 Tom gladly acquiesced. Herbert's eyes sought his 
 mother's. Instantly he knew the object of the visit, and 
 he felt confident of the final result. 
 
 The next morning found Mrs. Hawley in the humble 
 home of Miss Delmar's friend. The old lady delighted in 
 talking of Louise. She brought forth numerous articles 
 of comfort, the work of her favorite. She told of the 
 many hours, when Louise's friends supposed her in some 
 place of amusement, she had spent cheerinor hr solitude, 
 and seeking to relieve >^sr suffering
 
 THE BALL-ROOM BELLE. 225 
 
 "You know her in the fashionable world ; I in the hum- 
 ble home. With her high position, beauty, grace, and 
 accomplishments, she will likely make a brilliant match. 
 But I often think what a blessing she would be to a poor 
 man. She is my pupil, but she understands domestic 
 economy better than I, although my instructor has been a 
 severe one necessity." 
 
 When Mrs. Hawley returned to Herbert, she smilingly 
 said: 
 
 "Mrs. Foster is not an impartial judge, for she is as 
 much in love with Miss Delmar as you. But I give you, 
 back your promise, Herbert. Win her if you can ! " 
 
 Herbert hastened to make up for lost time, and so, 
 under plea of pressing business, he again visited Baltimore. 
 
 Very much surprised was Louise when, less than a week 
 after parting with Herbert, the servant handed her his 
 card, saying he was waiting in the drawing-room. 
 
 An hour after Herbert was happy. He had told his 
 love, and won Louise's promise to be his. 
 
 Mrs. Hawley was a just woman. She fully acknowl- 
 edged her error in pronouncing Louise unfitted for 
 domestic happiness. And ever after declared, " Herbert's 
 wife is a real treasure." Louise truly filled the vacant 
 place in her heart and home. Often she says : 
 
 " Louise is a perfect wonder, Herbert." 
 
 And Herbert wondered that she had ever thought he* 
 otherwise. 
 
 Mrs. Hawley, since she has really known Louise, haa 
 learned some valuable truths : that appearances are very 
 deceiving ; hi the belle and beauty may be found a house, 
 hold angel. And, better than these, that a woman whose 
 heart is pure and true, no matter what her surroundings 
 may have been, must ever prove a blessing apd comfort 
 to those about her.
 
 A COSTLY JOKE. 
 
 BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 OTANDING on the marble porch of an elegant mansior) 
 O on - avenue were a youth and maiden. He waa 
 about bidding good -by, seemingly. Her hand was 
 clasped in his, and retained a moment longer than she 
 thought was necessary. Drawing it away, she said : 
 
 "There, Julian, I cannot stop here longer. I've only 
 half an hour to dress for dinner ; and your time must be 
 precious too. Uncle will expect you back before he leaves 
 his counting-room." 
 
 " A moment more, Fay. Tell me ; will you give me 
 that picture of yours I've begged for so often ? Do, do, 
 Fay ! If you only knew how I would prize it, I think you 
 would." 
 
 He looked so handsome, and pleaded so earnestly, it 
 was wonderful how Fay Mandeville could refuse him. 
 But she was a very thoughtful and wise little girl for her 
 years, only just sixteen. 
 
 " Nay, Julian, I cannot. You know uncle would not 
 approve of that. You have heard him express his opinion 
 about a young lady's ' promiscuously distributing her face 
 around,' as he says. 5 ' 
 
 " Promiscuously ! Thank you, Miss Mandeville. I had 
 flattered myself with a hope I was " 
 
 A coming step arrested his words. Immediately after a 
 young man ascended the steps, and stood beside them. 
 (226)
 
 A **rTL,Y JOKE. 227 
 
 What a contrast between the two youths! The one 
 fashionable, elegantly dressed, conceited and supercilious 
 in manner certainly, just at that moment, when he gazed 
 on the " very poorly clad and humble-looking individual." 
 as he considered him. 
 
 But when the hat wa,s raised from the broad, noble 
 brow, and the youth addressed Miss Mandeville, Julian 
 La Forge had reason to change his idea, and he muttered 
 to himself: 
 
 " That pauper has the air of a prince ! " 
 
 Perhaps there was just visible an increase of color in 
 the young man's face, as he asked : 
 
 " Where shall I deposit my bundle, Miss Mandeville ? " 
 
 " If you will not walk in and see mamma, I will take 
 it," Fay answered, putting forth her hands to receive the 
 parcel. 
 
 " Thank you. No ; I will place it on the hall table, 
 Miss Mandeville," the youth replied; and in a gentle, 
 dignified manner, stepped into the hall, deposited his 
 bundle, returning gracefully, raised his hat entirely from 
 his head, and was gone. 
 
 " Humph ! And who may that pauper of princely 
 mien be?" asked Julian. 
 
 u For shame, Julian ! Although you do not ' tend it, 
 you are doing William Manly something like ^rice by 
 your words. He is a noble youth." 
 
 " I suppose he is not one of your promiscuous acquaint- 
 ances, but a " 
 
 "There! Good-afternoon, Julian. I have neither the 
 time nor mood for a war of words." 
 
 And turning away, Fay went in, and her lover off, 
 vowing vengeance against William Manly for what he 
 could not just tell, except that Fay had received him 
 kindly.
 
 228 A COSTLY JOKE. 
 
 Julian La Forge loved pretty Fay as well as he could 
 love anybody, and she rather liked him ; at any rate she 
 liked no one better. 
 
 He was declared " perfectly charming" by all the girls 
 of Fay's acquaintance, and somehow she had begun to 
 think she ought to try to love a little, one who loved her 
 so well. Julian was a very intelligent and smart youth, 
 and, young though he was, held the position of book* 
 keeper in the large establishment of Fairwell & Co. 
 
 Julian had managed, for a time, to gain wonderfully in. 
 old Mr. Fairwell's Fay's uncle opinion ; but lately soma 
 traits in his character manifesting themselves, caused tha 
 old gentleman to watch Julian more closely, and with a 
 suspicious eye. So, when the growing intimacy between 
 him and Fay came to his knowledge, he determined to end 
 it if possible, without doing any injustice to the young 
 man. Ho could not discharge him without a good cause. 
 Then came the idea of sending Fay away to school. But 
 when in conference with her mother on the subject, the 
 wise parent said: 
 
 il It will make matters worse. Away from our influence, 
 with the idea of harsh treatment on her mind, he could 
 have a better chance of winning her. We could not pre- 
 vent his writing to her. Let her be, and trust to her good 
 sense for the result." 
 
 So it was determined. And a very short time after 
 proved it a wise decision. 
 
 The next evening, when they met again, Fay made no 
 allusion to Julian's ill-temper the afternoon previous. 
 But he did not wish to drop the subject, and when they 
 were alone he asked : 
 
 " Now, Fay, will you tell me why you thought it neces- 
 eary to treat that porter fellow with so much courtesy, and 
 where you had the honor of forming his acquaintance?"
 
 A COSTLY JOKE. 229 
 
 "Although not acknowledging your right to question 
 me, I will answer. My manner to William Manly is the 
 result of his own worthiness. He is not a porter, although 
 that position would not change my respect. I should 
 honor him in his endeavors to win a support for his 
 mother and himself. 
 
 " I met him at his own home. His mother is mamma's 
 dress-maker, and we think her rich in the possession of so 
 good a son," Fay said, looking into her companion's face 
 with an expression which said as plain as words, " Would 
 there were more like him." 
 
 "Ah, indeed. I wonder, possessing such an exalted 
 opinion of him, you do not seek to solicit for him your 
 uncle's favor. Perhaps we might find a place for him. I 
 think we need another runner boy," Julian said, a sneering 
 expression disfiguring his face. 
 
 " Thank you. I believe mamma has spoken, or intends 
 speaking, to uncle on the subject. But young Manly may 
 possibly fill another and more responsible position. Ex- 
 cuse me : I will go into the music room. I think it will 
 be more agreeable than here," Fay said, moving off. 
 
 Julian ground his teeth and vowed to "fix that pre- 
 suming fool," as he called William Manly. The remain- 
 der of the evening he spent flirting desperately with an 
 "old flame," and grew every hour more wrathy when he 
 caw how little Fay cared, and how happy she seemed 
 with the party around the piano. 
 
 Fay Mandeville's eyes were opened that night, both with 
 regard to Julian's unworthiness and her own feelings. 
 She knew her heart was very slightly affected, and re- 
 solved to let Julian know it without further delay. 
 
 Returning home, Julian apologized for his ill-humor 
 and rudeness, saying : 
 
 " Forgive me, Fay ; but I feel anything bu*- pleasantly
 
 230 A COSTLY JOKE. 
 
 toward that young fellow, for you remember he inter- 
 rupted me at a very important moment. I was begging 
 for your picture." 
 
 " Certainly, Julian, I forgive you." 
 
 "And for my desertion this evening ? Miss Tracy is a 
 very old Mend whom I have not seen for a long time. 
 She had so much to say of old times." 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing for me to forgive. Eleanore Tracy 
 is a lovely girl, and I hope you may be so fortunate as to 
 win something more than a friendly regard from her. 
 You have my best wishes for your happiness " 
 
 " Fay, what do you mean ? " Julian exclaimed, inter- 
 rupting her. 
 
 " That I shall always be glad to return your friendship, 
 Julian." 
 
 "And nothing more ? " 
 
 " Nothing more, Julian." 
 
 They had reached her home. He would have said more, 
 much more, which he hoped would change her mood, 
 but the door opened, and her uncle stood before them. 
 
 " Good-night ! " without even her hand extended. And 
 she was gone from his sight ! 
 
 Julian related the whole affair to a friend the next day, 
 and likewise his plan to " fix the fellow." 
 
 " Better not attempt it, Jule. It is a dangerous game. If 
 you should be caught, it would cost you dearly," said the 
 young man. 
 
 " I will do it I It is impossible being discovered," an- 
 swered Julian. 
 
 " Very well. I'll have nothing to do with it," returned 
 his friend. 
 
 The next day a sweet, gentle little woman sat sewing 
 beside the window, watching and waiting for her son'g 
 Coming. Smiling, she
 
 A COSTLY JOKE. 231 
 
 " Oh, I wish he would come. How surprised and de- 
 lighted he will be ! My dear, good boy ! I had scarcely 
 dared hope for such speedy good luck, although Mrs. 
 Mandeville promised to speak for him. Ah, here he 
 comes ! " 
 
 Another moment, and Mrs. Manly's arms were around 
 her son. And she pushed into his hand the letter which had 
 given her PO much joy. Quickly opening it, William read : 
 
 " MY YOUXG FRIEND If you will present yourself as 
 soon as convenient after the receipt of this, to Mr. Fairwell, 
 he will find some position for you in his establishment. 
 " Very truly, F. MANDEVILLE." 
 
 "Oh, how kind! And are we not two of the happiest 
 people living to-night, little mother? Really I feel like 
 shouting Avith joy ! " the good son said, as he caught his 
 mother within his arms, and danced her round the room. 
 And when almost out of breath he placed her in her chair, 
 sank on a stool a1> her feet, and said : 
 
 " No more working those dear little fingers almost off, 
 nor blinding your eyes with sewing until midnight. No, 
 indeed. I intend your eyes shall grow bright again. Oh, 
 mother, I feel as if I was too happy for it to last. But 
 now we must work a little, brushing and darning my coat. 
 Faithful old companion, I will put you on the retired list 
 before long." 
 
 And so the happy youth worked and talked until his 
 mother sent him, with kisses and blessings, to bed. 
 
 The next morning William Manly presented himself at 
 Fairwell & Co.'s. The old gentleman had not reached the 
 Btore. William felt somewhat embarrassed while waiting 
 his coming, as no civility was tendered him by any one 
 about. 
 
 At length an age to him Mr. Fairwell came. William 
 approached him. saying:
 
 232 A COSTLY JOKE. 
 
 " I ain William Manly, sir." 
 
 The old gentleman was rather brusque always, and that 
 morning he was decidedly cross. Some young scamp had 
 played him an April trick, and he was not feeling any the 
 better for it. So in reply he said to poor William : 
 
 " Well, sir, what is that to me ? " 
 
 A half-suppressed titter was heard, and William has 
 tened to say : 
 
 " I am here, sir, to thank you for your kindness, and in 
 answer to the message for me to present myself to you." 
 
 "What in thunder are you talking about? I don't 
 know anything about it." 
 
 Mortified and dreadfully disappointed, William asked : 
 
 " Did you not send for me, sir ? " 
 
 "No, sir," snapped the old man. 
 
 " Then there is some mistake. Excuse me, sir," William 
 gaid, and withdrew. 
 
 How he reached home he scarcely knew, and with his 
 head pillowed on his mother's shoulder, he told of his 
 reception. 
 
 " Why did you not show him the note ? " she asked. 
 
 " Because I knew not from which it came, Miss or Mrs. 
 Mandeville. It was only signed by the initial F for the 
 first name. I thought possibly the young lady might, 
 thinking to win from her uncle a favorable reception of 
 me, have anticipated it by sending the note, and some* 
 thing afterward had driven it from her mind," William 
 answered. 
 
 When Mr. Fairwell returned to dinner that day he told 
 of the strange action of young Manly, and inquired if hia 
 sister, Mrs. Mandeville, understood what it meant. She 
 did not. But a very grave look came over Fav's bright 
 face, and she said : 
 
 " Uncle. I believe I have a clue to it. But untfl I am
 
 A COSTLY JOKE. 233 
 
 better assured, I would rather not tell my thoughts. 
 When you come home to tea I shall know more." 
 
 Fay told her mother something about it, and an hour 
 after they were on their way to Mrs. Manly's. Without 
 hesitation they explained the object of their visit immedi- 
 ately on their arrival. The poor little woman, with traces 
 of tears still on her face, handed them the letter which 
 had brought so much joy, and resulted in such deep 
 mortification. 
 
 Fay nodded her head as she read. Turning to Mrs. 
 Manly, and placing her finger on the paper, she re- 
 marked : 
 
 " You see the date, April 1st. It is as I thought. Do 
 not feel so badly, Mrs. Manly. I trust this will end to 
 our perfect satisfaction. This I beg leave to retain." 
 
 That evening Fay placed the forged letter in her uncle's 
 hand. After looking at it very intently for a few moments, 
 he drew from his pocket-book a little slip of paper, which 
 placing near, he compared with it, and said : 
 
 "Just so. I believe we are both on the same track, 
 Fay, and the right one, too. Now tell me what you 
 think." 
 
 Fay did as he desired, and after hearing her, he re- 
 plied : 
 
 " Yes ; it is just so. This slip of paper I found between 
 the leaves of the ledger. You see, on it are written the 
 game words as the first line of this note. Well, I must 
 make some atonement to the young man for my ill-humor 
 this morning." 
 
 And sitting down, the old gentleman wrote to William 
 Manly, offering him a position in his establishment, and 
 enclosing a check for a month's pay in advance. This was 
 immediately sent to the young man. 
 
 The next more ing Mr. Fairwell, in the presence of those
 
 234 A COSTLY JOKE. 
 
 clerks who had witnessed William Manly's discomfiture 
 the day before, said : 
 
 "As I am somewhat responsible for what is done here, I 
 feel it my duty, as well as pleasure, to make good a 
 promise written by one of the gentlemen here to Mr. 
 Manly. As Mr. La Forge is contemplating just now 
 resigning his position, I think, it will from this day be 
 filled by Mr. Manly, as I know none other for which he 
 is so well suited." 
 
 Scarcely had he ceased speaking when young Manly, 
 plainly but well dressed, entered. 
 
 And soon after Julian La Forge managed to get away, 
 without any one knowing just when. Few, if any, regrets 
 followed him ; all felt he well merited the severe lesson he 
 had received. 
 
 Two years have passed since then. Daily William 
 Manly is gaining in favor with his employer. Julian sees 
 him not only occupying his position in the establishment 
 of Fairwell & Co., but hears rumors of his winning another 
 position to which he had aspired. Yes, everywhere he 
 hears that it is likely, before many months more, that 
 William Manly will be connected by a nearer and dearer 
 tie, to Mr. Fairwell. He believes this, for he met Fay a 
 few days ago leaning on his arm, looking into William's 
 face as she never had into his; and he cursed the day that 
 Ls played that April trick.
 
 WHO STOLE HIS GOLD? 
 
 BY FKANCES HEN SHAW BADEN. 
 
 WHAT became of Silas Shaw's money was a subject 
 that had agitated the community of W very 
 
 much. The most celebrated detectives had worked upon 
 the case for twelve months, yet failed to throw any light 
 upon the subject; all was wrapped in mystery. Not a 
 clue was found to work upon. It was only known that on 
 a certain day during the dark period of our national 
 struggle, Silas Shaw had drawn from the bank, in gold, 
 the sum of twelve thousand dollars. Silas had grown 
 gloomy as regarded the termination of the contest, declar- 
 ing that " if the old flag was not triumphant he should 
 leave the country." In preparation for that event he had 
 secured his gold. A few months after he widely declared 
 his money stolen. He stated having buried the gold 
 under the hearthstone, in a certain room of an untenanted 
 house belonging to him that after it was again occupied, 
 at regular intervals he watched for the safety of hig 
 treasure. It remained where he had put it until a fort- 
 night after the house was again vacant, when, going one 
 day to see that all was right, he found the bricks thrown 
 aside, the mortar scattered around, and the gold all gone. 
 
 This statement was somewhat substantiated by the ten- 
 ants, who told of being very much annoyed by the frequent 
 visits of Mr. Shaw to satisfy himself respecting the safety 
 of the flues, he said. Believing something more than ha 
 
 (235)
 
 236 WHO STOLE HIS GOLD? 
 
 said caused his visits, which to them seemed very mys- 
 terious, they determined to find another house, and did 
 60 ; thus giving their landlord the opportunity of inspect- 
 ing the flues to his perfect satisfaction. 
 
 Shaw hinted his distrust of these people ; but to nothing 
 by which to fix a well-grounded suspicion could he point. 
 Shaw was never a very agreeable person, and generally he 
 was disliked. After his loss, he grew so very gloomy and 
 irritable that people avoided him everywhere. 
 
 There was, however, one redeeming point about him : 
 his love for Mira, his daughter and only child. Hitherto, 
 for her sake, he had tolerated Reginald Harland, a young 
 man truly worthy of Mira's love, and of whom even her 
 father could find but one fault, which in his eyes became 
 a crime Reginald's poverty. 
 
 After the loss of his gold, Silas declared himself a 
 pauper, and telling Mira she must send her lover off, told 
 Reginald himself to go. 
 
 " We are all paupers now," he said ; " and paupers must 
 think of something other than love-making." 
 
 Reginald pleaded earnestly with Mira to fly with him. 
 Bravely she resisted. 
 
 " Nay, nay, Reginald ; I can never desert him during his 
 trouble. I must come to you meriting blessings, not 
 dreading the curse of disobedience and ingratitude," she 
 eaid. 
 
 " Mira, I am going to make one more appeal. Possibly 
 I may touch his heart," Reginald said. 
 
 And starting right off, he sought Silas Shaw, and 
 pleaded earnestly and long for permission to wed hia 
 child. 
 
 "Is there nothing I can do to change your mind? 
 Speak ! Tell me what you demand ! " Reginald asked. 
 
 With a mocking laugh, Silas answered :
 
 WHO STOLE HIS GOLD? 237 
 
 " Yes ; find my gold, or the one who stole it, and I will 
 give you my child ! " 
 
 With a disappointed look, Reginald turned away, saying : 
 
 " I find what men have failed to do men whose 
 thoughts and energy are given entirely to such work? 
 You mock me, sir." 
 
 " Find my gold, and you'll find your bride ! " hissed 
 Silas. 
 
 " I will work for gold, as much, and bring you," urged 
 Reginald. 
 
 " No ; I want only my own gold. Find that, if you wish 
 my child." 
 
 Reginald could not go and tell Mira of his failure. Dis- 
 heartened, he sought his home. With his head bowed on 
 his hands, he sat and reviewed, over and over, the same 
 ground so many had gone before, weighing every little 
 point, every word he had heard of the mysterious affair, 
 but as vainly as others. No light shone in on the dark-* 
 ness. 
 
 " 'Tis useless," he said. " I will not attempt it, lest 1 
 become as mad as Silas Shaw himself. For mad he surely 
 is, or he would not try me thus." 
 
 Then Mira's beautiful face and tearful eyes rose up 
 before him, and again his brain began to work. 
 
 " Only in Heaven it is known, and there, I fear, it must 
 remain," he said, sadly, " unless some angel voice should 
 whisper it to me." 
 
 Hours passed, and still he sat. All darkness no light 
 breaking in yet. Starting up, he threw off his coat, and 
 dropped, heart-sick and weary, on his bed, exclaiming: 
 
 "I shall strive no more. My brain is burning with 
 fever now." 
 
 A few moments, and he might have fallen into a little 
 doze, from which he started, and cried out:
 
 238 WHO STOLE HIS GOLD? 
 
 "I have it! I have it!" 
 
 Had some angel spirit his mother, perchance whis- 
 pered in his ear, revealing the long-hidden secret ? Perhaps 
 he felt so. 
 
 Seeking Silas Shaw early the next day, Reginald said : 
 
 " Mr. Shaw, I accept your terms. I helieve I have a clue 
 by which I shall find the thief; probably your gold. That 
 I may perfect my plan of detection, I beg that you will 
 permit me to become an inmate of this house for a few 
 nights, say a week. At the end of that time, if I do not 
 solve this mystery, I shall give it up." 
 
 Again the old mocking laugh from Silas, and he said 
 angrily : 
 
 " I understand you. You want to rob me of my child ! " 
 
 " Send her away, to remain during the time I shall be 
 here, if you have no confidence in me." 
 
 " I will" said Silas ; adding, " Tell me what you wish to 
 come here for ? " 
 
 "Because I believe the thief is intimately acquainted 
 here; aye, perhaps a member of your household. You 
 may, if you choose, let it be thought you have more money 
 or valuables about your premises, and I shall watch the 
 result." 
 
 Silas agreed, and Reginald that night occupied the room 
 adjoining the old man's. 
 
 Three nights passed without bringing him any more 
 light upon the subject. Twice during his midnight 
 watches he stole to the door of Silas' room, attracted by a 
 stealthy step within, to see only the old man moving 
 about he, perhaps, anxious and watchful too. 
 
 The fourth night, exhausted from the loss of rest and 
 great excitement, Reginald dropped upon a couch, and 
 goon after fell into a restless, uneasy slumber, from which 
 he would start, and gaze wildly around. Manv times he
 
 WHO STOLE HIS GOLD? 239 
 
 did this, until at length there came something to rivet his 
 eager eyes upon. 
 
 Stealing noiselessly through his room, by the dimly 
 burning taper he beheld a man, bearing a small lamp. 
 He approached, opened the door, and passed out into the 
 hall. 
 
 Up and after him, with a step as noiseless, stole Reginald. 
 Through the long passages, down flight after flight of steps, 
 into the very depths they went. 
 
 Carefully placing his lamp on the cellar floor, the man 
 turned, and ""Men for the first time his features were 
 revealed to Reginald. They were not unknown. 
 
 Drawing from a hiding-place a small step-ladder, the 
 man approached the centre of the room, where Reginald 
 beheld a cistern, over into which the man, dropping his 
 ladder and again securing his lamp, descended slowly and 
 cautiously. After him Reginald crept unnoticed. The 
 place was dry, as he suspected. The lamp again placed 
 on the floor, and something like a small pick drawn forth, 
 the man went to work. A few bricks were removed, and 
 pushing aside the dust, he drew out the long lost gold. 
 Reginald knew it was, even before the box was opened. 
 A moment after his eyes beheld his triumph. Mira was 
 his. Then was the moment for action. 
 
 With a smart tap on the man's shoulder, he said: 
 
 " Mr. Shaw, awake ! Here is your gold." 
 
 The somnambulist turned, gazed wildly on Reginald, 
 who pointed to the box of gold, and repeated : 
 
 " There is your long lost gold, Mr. Shaw ! " 
 
 The old man was awake, his eyes gazing eagerly on his 
 treasure. He knew all then, and in his great joy sank, as 
 Reginald feared, dying, on the cistern floor. 
 
 Gently raising, he bore him out and up, retracing his 
 steps through the long halls to his own room.
 
 240 WHO STOLE HIS GOLD? 
 
 After applying restoratives, Reginald was rewarded by 
 eeeing signs of consciousness appearing. A little longer, 
 and Silas whispered : 
 
 "Is it true?" 
 
 In answer Reginald sped swiftly thence, descending 
 again to the cellar ; and in a few moments more re-entered 
 the room, and placed beside the old man his box of gold. 
 
 "Mira is yours, and this her dowry," the old mail 
 whispered. 
 
 And Reginald, as he clasped the trembling hand to 
 express his joy and thanks, noticed the old look of bitter- 
 ness and suspicion was gone. Silas Shaw smikd, probably 
 the first time for many long months, perhapo years, as he 
 eaid: 
 
 " I wish Mira was here now." 
 
 Thus Reginald Harland won his love. And thus it was 
 that the mystery which had so long agitated the minds of 
 BO many was discovered, and the oft-repeated query, 
 * Who stole Shaw's gold ? " was heard no more.
 
 MARY'S GHOST. 
 
 BY FRANCES H E N 8 H A W BADEN. 
 
 /^OME here, Grace, my darling, my little woman 
 
 \-/ child! Put baby down, and come close. I want 
 to have a long talk with you before father returns," said a 
 low, feeble voice. 
 
 The little maiden, with mother-like tenderness, laid the 
 sleeping babe in the crib, and then sank on a low stool 
 beside the arm-chair of the speaker, a pale, gentle-looking 
 woman, whose emaciated form told plainly of lingering 
 and painful disease. 
 
 " My little comforter ! What could I do without you ? 
 Who trust so implicitly with my babes as their sister ? I 
 know how faithfully, how lovingly you will take care of 
 them when I am away." 
 
 "Mother, mother! don't talk so!" sobbed the child. 
 " Don't talk of leaving us ! " 
 
 "Darling, I do not mean what you fear. No, love; I 
 have strong hope of living now, and getting well, perhaps. 
 I've not spoken to you before, waiting until I had deter- 
 mined upon what I thought best. The doctor advises, 
 and almost insists, that I shall go to London, to the 
 hospital. He feels quite confident I can be treated there, 
 with a better chance of success. So, daughter, that I may 
 the sooner be able to attend to my loved ones, I have con- 
 sented to go. To-morrow is the day fixed for my leaving^ 
 
 (241)
 
 242 MARY'S GHOST. 
 
 Nay, love, do not cry so, or I shall not be able to keep up 
 heart." 
 
 The little girl choked down the sobs, and whispered : 
 
 " Tell me all, mamma ; I won't cry any more. But, oh$ 
 why can't you get well at home ? " 
 
 " Daughter, before I grew ill, it was a hard struggle for 
 your father to provide for us ; now the burden is greater 
 than he can bear very long. I require many things to 
 give me strength, that he cannot obtain. This grieves him, 
 I know. And what a trouble I am to you, love ! " 
 
 " No, no, no, mother ! I will work harder to get you 
 comforts ; I will take care of the babies and you too. If 
 mother is only here for me to see, to speak to ns, to smile 
 on us children " The tears were coming again, her lipa 
 quivered, and poor little Grace dropped her head in her 
 mother's lap. 
 
 " There, little love, have a good cry, and you will feel 
 better, and stronger too. I would sooner have you do so 
 than see you struggling so hard to be calm, my brave little 
 woman! There, keep your head so, and I will talk to 
 you. I know how willingly you do and would ever work 
 for me. But your strength would fail before long, and 
 then what would we do? the babies particularly? No, 
 darling, you can do more and better for them when some 
 one else is taking care of me. But I will come home 
 again, I trust; I believe I shall. But if if it pleases God 
 that I should not, my babies will not miss me. You will 
 be everything to them. And, Grace now look into my 
 eyes, dear! that your father may not want to fill my 
 place, deal gently with him. Have things comfortable 
 when he comes home at night. Humor birn, as I have 
 done ; make home pleasant. He is cross sometimes, and 
 rough often, and it is hard for my little gentle Grace to see 
 him so. But he has a good heart, and loves us truly.
 
 MABY'S GHOST. 243 
 
 So you must always remember this. How much I am 
 putting on a little girl twelve years old ! Hush, here 
 comes father home ! I hear Georgie's merry laugh." 
 
 Grace quickly dried her eyes, and a few moments after f 
 her father, Maurice Ready, came in. 
 
 Well might the neighbors marvel that the burly, good- 
 natured, but very rough man should have won such 9- 
 pretty, refined woman as his wife. It truly was a mystery. 
 It was only known that she was an orphan, left dependent 
 on her father's brother, whose family did not seek to make* 
 the poor girl happy. 
 
 The day of parting came. Bravely little Grace bore up. 
 She would not add to her mother's sorrow by even a look 
 of sadness. So, forcing to her pale lips a smile, the cost of 
 which the mother knew so well, she said : 
 
 " Try to get well, soon, mother, and come back to us 
 looking like you used to." 
 
 " I will come back to my darling, to take care of you 
 again. I will, with God's permission." 
 
 Another besides the husband and children heard the 
 mother's promise, and, as the carriage drove off, she said : 
 
 " Sure, it's never come back will ye, unless it's from the 
 other world ! " 
 
 This was Judith O'Riley, Mary Ready's next neighbor. 
 She was noisy, and very coarse in look and manner. 
 Mary always shrank from her, offering no encouragement 
 to Judith's frequent attempts to be " sociable," as she said. 
 But Maurice rather liked her, and would sometimes 
 remonstrate with Mary, and say : 
 
 " Of course she's not like you, Mary. But it's a warm 
 heart she has, and seems fond of the children." 
 
 Maurice returned at night, telling Grace of the comforts 
 her mother was surrounded with, and bringing many 
 messages from her to cheer her darling's heart.
 
 244 MARY'S GHOST. 
 
 Everything was done to please her father. Mother was 
 not missed at supper, for many weeks had passed since 
 ehe was with them at any meal. But oh, the dreary even- 
 ing! Always, after the day's work was done, all went up 
 to " mother's room," and she would try to make the even- 
 ing cheerful. Baby Katy was only eight months old, and 
 loved Grace, and only cared for her. But Georgie, bright, 
 laughing little fellow, all that day he had wandered about, 
 calling "Mamma," and saying: 
 
 "Gracie, me wants mamma where mamma? Me 
 wants mamma so bad." Refusing to be comforted he 
 cried himself to sleep in mother's chair. 
 
 Grace, like her mother, was a delicate, refined little 
 creature, with a sweet, thoughtful look in her Wue eyes 
 which told of care over-much for so young a child. Mau- 
 rice was proud of his " little woman," as he spoke of her, 
 and he had cause to be. Few brighter girls could be 
 found anywhere. Apt at her studies, though only two 
 years at school, and with her mother's help afterward, 
 she had a general knowledge of all the most requisite 
 branches of instruction. She had wonderful skill in mak- 
 ing various little fancy articles flowers of hair, and shells. 
 She obtained ready sale for them, the proceeds of which 
 she expended in delicacies for her mother and pretty 
 clothes for her babies. Yes, Grace was a prodigy, her 
 father thought, and others thought so too. Often he 
 regretted his poverty, particularly on Grace's account. 
 Weekly Maurice went up to town, and returned bringing 
 encouraging accounts of Mary's improving health. She 
 had been away about two months when the babies were 
 taken sick with the measles. So Maurice thought it 
 better not to go that week, but wait until he could carry 
 better news from home. 
 
 The little ones soon were well, and agawi their father 
 went with loving messages to mamma.
 
 MARY'S GHOST. 245 
 
 " Oh ! if you could bring mother home this time ! May 
 be she will be well enough," said Grace, following him to 
 the door, her little hands clasped, her eyes raised, prayer- 
 ful, hopeful, expectant. 
 
 How busy she was all day, getting the house tidy, fixing 
 up some little delicacies for supper, and finishing some 
 shell- work ! 
 
 Getting a friend to stay with her babies, she hurried 
 out, disposed of her work, and soon returned with a pair 
 of red shoes for Katy. The crowning fite of the evening 
 was to be baby in short clothes, trying to step. 
 
 " How delighted mother will be to see her little ones so 
 well, and Katy's attempts to walk ! " the little girl said 
 to herself, waiting and watching, her ears strained to 
 catch the first sound which would tell of her father's 
 coming. 
 
 At length, far down the sidewalk, she hears the well- 
 known step. The hopeful light dies quickly out of the 
 blue eyes, and a look of resignation comes instead. She 
 listened. The steps are heavier, slower. A great dread 
 enters her heart. She cannot hasten forward to welcome 
 him. She hears the door close, and the slow, heavy tread 
 draw near. 
 " Grace ! " 
 
 Her eyes were raised to his. She could not speak to 
 answer. No words were needed to tell the sad tidings. 
 She knew all. She had read it in his face. 
 
 Stifling the cry which arose to her lips, she whispered, 
 pointing to little Georgie : 
 " Don't let him know." 
 
 The pale face grew paler. Yet no sigh escaped her Iip3 
 until her babies were sleeping, and then her fortitude waa 
 over. 
 
 "Tell me. father 1 " she moaned.
 
 246 MARY'S GHOST. 
 
 " Five days ago, suddenly. They took me to her grave,* 
 was all that Grace could get from him. 
 
 " Motherless ! " she sobbed. Then remembering the 
 words, "Take care of my babies," she went about her 
 work, doing her mother's bidding. 
 
 The next morning she said : 
 
 " Father, you know my name is Mary Grace. Call me 
 by my mother's name now, and I will try to grow like 
 her, and comfort you as best I can." 
 
 Maurice mourned sincerely his wife's death. Grief 
 softened his nature very much, and Grace grew to love 
 him more than she had ever before. 
 
 Friends were very kind to tht? motheriess children, none 
 more so than Judith O'Riley. She helped Grace with the 
 drudgery of housekeeping, saying: 
 
 " You're not strong enough to do, and your father not 
 able to pay for the doing of it, and it's meself that has 
 a plenty of time, and no one to do for but meself." 
 
 Grace began to think her dislike to Judith was unjust, 
 and she was very grateful for her help. 
 
 Six months passed by, Grace working on, growing 
 thinner and paler daily not from the hard work, but a 
 terrible fear was over her : mother's place was likely to be 
 given to another. 
 
 Judith had managed skilfully. She told Maurice how 
 badly Grace was looking, saying : 
 
 " Oh, it's a burden too much upon her young shoulders. 
 Ye should be looking to it, Maurice, or she'll not live to 
 comfort ye long, sure ! It's a mother she needs herself, 
 sure, the puny little dear ! And yerself's looking badly, 
 Maurice. Sure it's a lonely life ye're living. Ye aU want 
 taking care of, sure i*- 
 
 Judith had certainly attacked Maurice in his most sen- 
 sitive point Grace. The victpry_was hear
 
 MARY'S GHOST. 247 
 
 "Will you come take care of us, Judy ? " he asked. 
 
 A. few days more, and Grace was no longer mistress of 
 her father's home. And yet a few more, and the scales 
 fell from Maurice Ready's eyes. 
 
 The quiet, peaceful little home became one of continual 
 complaints, quarrels, and threats. 
 
 Grace no longer had time for her pretty fancy work, the 
 materials for which she had to hide away, for fear of 
 Judith's destroying them. 
 
 " It's all nonsense for ye to be spending your time with 
 the likes of that! Do ye suppose I'll be working and 
 washing for ye and the brats, while ye play the lady, 
 Bure?" 
 
 And so the babies wore out their pretty shoes. Maurice 
 was unable to buy more, and Grace saw her darling's 
 little toes peeping out. Georgie's merry laugh was 
 hushed, and into Katy's bright eyes came a frightened 
 look that lingered there. Often Grace's slender form 
 shielded her, and received blows intended for her babe. 
 Maurice at first interfered, but he was silenced completely. 
 
 Poor Maurice! how bitterly he bewailed his mistake! 
 and thought sometimes he must have the nightmare, 
 from which he should surely die, if he was not awakened. 
 
 People saw his misery, and asked what it was that 
 Maurice was afraid of Judy's tongue or fists. 
 
 Once, when the dreadful woman's marks were plainly 
 seen on Grace's thin face, Maurice summoned up courage 
 to say: 
 
 " I should think you would be afraid of Mary's coming 
 from heaven to haunt you for treating her children so." 
 
 This, for a little while, subdued Judy, who was terribly 
 afraid of ghosts ; and remembering Mary's parting words, 
 ehe shuddered a little. But in time the fear grew less, 
 and she began her tyranny \^
 
 248 MARY'S GHOST. 
 
 Grace came in one afternoon and found Georgie tied in 
 a chair, hand and foot, while Judith stood over him wnh a 
 pair of scissors, about cutting off his curls. The little 
 fellow was begging and crying. 
 
 Grace sprang forward, her heart almost bursting with 
 indignation. She seized the scissors, threw them into thq 
 burning grate, and exclaimed : 
 
 " You shall not cut off his curls ! Mother loved them 
 and you mustn't touch them again. Untie Georgie. Se^ 
 his dear little wrists, all bruised and swollen ! Oh, you 
 wicked woman ! Surely God won't let you stay here to 
 treat my babies so ! " 
 
 Grace said no more. She knew no more. A heavy 
 blow sent her reeling senseless to the floor. When she 
 recovered, she found herself locked up in a small room 
 used for lumber. She cared not for herself, brave little 
 woman only thought of Georgie and the baby, and 
 prayed for their deliverance. 
 
 It was a sickening sight to Maurice, when he came home 
 and found baby Katie, wailing and crying for Grace, 
 seated in a corner, and fearing to come at his bidding. 
 
 " Where are Grace and Georgie ? " he asked. 
 
 " Where I put them, and where they'll stay, sure, until 
 they learn better manners." 
 
 " Oh, Mary, why did you die ? " Maurice moaned. " Why 
 did I ever give your place to another? Oh, Mary, if you 
 only could come back to us ! " 
 
 " Here I am, Maurice ! " 
 
 The door opened. A form glided in a woman's. 
 Judith heard the sound and turned. In the dim twilight 
 she beheld Mary Ready ! With a shriek of terror, sho 
 fled to the farthest corner of the room, crying : 
 
 "Oh, Maurice, save me! It's her ghost! Go back, 
 Mary ! Ill never ill-treat the children more 1 Here's the
 
 MARY'S GHOST. 249 
 
 key. Grace is in the lumber-room and Georgie in th 
 closet. Oh, bad luck will come to me for iver now ! " 
 
 " Go, Maurice, bring Grace to me. Tell her first, that 
 ehe may not be frightened. And Georgie; find him. 
 Now, Judith, look on me. You see I'm flesh and blood 
 not a ghost, as you suppose, thank Heaven ! but a wife 
 returned to her husband, a mother to her children. What 
 Jre you doing here ? and why are my darlings locked up ? " 
 
 "He'll tell ye all, and more too, I'm sure," moaned 
 Judith. 
 
 " Mother ! mother ! " came the cry, and Grace fainted in 
 her mother's arms. Georgie clung about her skirt, caress- 
 ing her hands, and with alternate words of love for 
 mamma, complaints of and threats for Judith. 
 
 " Go ! " said Maurice. " Go ! I wish you were a man, 
 that I could send you forth with blows and kicks ! " 
 
 "Maurice, she is crushed enough. Be satisfied," said 
 Mary. 
 
 " Oh, you don't know how bad she is ! Go ! Never let 
 me see your face again," continued Maurice, following her 
 to the door. 
 
 But she did not linger to hear his words. She left the 
 house, and the next day, England forever. 
 
 When Grace had been restored to consciousness, Mary 
 explained to them the cause of her supposed death. A 
 few days previous to Maurice's last visit, a new patient 
 was brought to the hospital. Mary, having improved so 
 much in health and strength, was removed to the con- 
 valescing ward, and her bed given to the other patient, 
 suffering with the same disease. The same day a new 
 attendant was placed in charge. In the hurry of preparing 
 Mary's bed for the new-comer, they neglected to remove 
 the card bearing Mary's name. The former attendant left 
 immediately after, and her successor arrived about the 
 tarn* that the sick woman was put in Mary's place.
 
 250 MARY'S GHOST. 
 
 When the disease, taking an unfavorable turn, resulted 
 in the death of the sufferer a few days after, the attendant 
 quite naturally believed her to be Mary Ready, and when 
 Maurice came, she gave him the particulars of his wife's 
 death, and went with him to her grave.* 
 
 Mary of course knowing nothing of this mistake, grew 
 very anxious when the weeks passed and Maurice came 
 not, and no tidings reached her from home. 
 
 Worrying so much, she grew worse again, sank into a 
 nervous fever, and finally entirely lost her mind, and 
 remained thus for many weeks. But at length, contrary 
 to all belief, she again rallied, gained strength, and at last 
 her mind was restored. Then she learned the truth. She 
 detennined not to write and explain the mistake, but wait 
 until she was well enough to return to her loved ones. 
 She had not heard of her husband's marriage until she 
 arrived in the village. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, mamma, how I prayed for deliverance 
 from our misery ! But I never dreamed of such happiness 
 as this again," said Grace. 
 
 And her mother, pressing her to her heart, answered: 
 
 " Yes, love, now I am well again, my good child's cares 
 will be less, and her happiness greater, I trust. I know ! 
 for God has always bountifully blessed loving, dutiful 
 children." 
 
 This occurrence actually happened in one of the London hospitals 
 during the past year.
 
 A 000126859 8