Stempel 
 Finished Web
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE 
 
 FINISHED WEB. 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY M. G. T. 
 
 \E\V ORLEANS: 
 
 CURRENT Tories PUULISHIXG Co 
 
 1892.
 
 EnUrcil according to Act of Conyrcab, in tlic \car iSi-', 
 
 Hy M. G. T. STEMPKL, 
 In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at \Vahini:t<Mi.
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 To one whose love for me shall last, 
 Till lighter passions long have passed- 
 
 ' A\V .\\OTHER." 
 
 PS
 
 THE FINISHED WEB. 
 
 BY M. G. T. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Miss Margaret Stanhill, only daughter of one 
 of San Francisco's millionaires, was feeling just a 
 2 little low-spirited. Yesterday she arrived from the 
 ** East with her father, and the home-coming had 
 >- saddened her. There had been no one to welcome 
 her but the servants. This fine old house, as com 
 plete in all details as taste and money could make 
 it, had depressed her. She was not sure that she 
 liked elegance. The gardens around the house 
 y? provoked her ; the borders and beds were so pain- 
 <8 fully regular. She preferred old-fashioned 
 o gardens with a little of everything growing in 
 them ; and with rose bushes that were not so fash 
 ionably trimmed. 
 
 Then the neighboring houses tired her ; they 
 
 \t were all so very big. Everything seemed new and 
 
 O strange. She had left it all when she was 5 years 
 
 1 old, and she was 20 now. Her life there did not 
 
 ' seem to belong to her. Only two things could 
 
 i] she remember of it her mother and her mother's 
 
 love for herself. The last time she had seen her 
 
 mother had been just before she left home. How 
 
 clearly she remembered it ! .She thrilled even 
 
 449909
 
 THK F1MS1IK1) \VKK. 
 
 now as she recalled the fondness of the embrace, 
 the tenderness of the kiss, that last embrace, that 
 last kiss ! 
 
 " Don't forget to love me," her mother had 
 whispered, " and don't forget to be good to your 
 brother, my little Pearl." 
 
 Her mother's eyes had been large and dark and 
 very sad. They often haunted her. She had 
 always wished some one would talk to her about 
 her mother. Several times she had spoken of her 
 to her father, but he had never answered her. She 
 had not resented this. With a woman's tender 
 ness she had said to herself, "I low well he loved 
 her ! He can not bear to speak of her after all 
 these years ! " 
 
 From^'Frisco she had been taken East and 
 placed in a Convent. There she was completely 
 separated from the brother whom her mother had 
 bidden her be good to. He was then three years 
 younger than herself. She had never heard from 
 him during all these years. She had not even seen 
 a picture of him, nor had she seen her father often 
 while she was at school. 
 
 After having graduated she went to Europe to 
 be "finished off." This period of her life had 
 been particularly delightful ; it was her first sight 
 of the world. 
 
 Six months ago she had returned to New York 
 City. Her father met her there and treated her 
 with the utmost care and consideration. She had 
 been given a splendid suite of rooms, a bank ac 
 count, and was introduced into society.
 
 TIIK FINISHED WEB. / 
 
 Margaret Stanhill would have been called very 
 pretty under any circumstances, as it was she 
 became the reigning beauty of the season. 
 
 She was a charming girl. A blonde, well 
 formed, with sweet modest ways. She had 
 various accomplishments, not the smallest of 
 which was a knack of making friends with her 
 own sex. 
 
 Women seemed to love her naturally. They 
 were never jealous of her, for in no case did she 
 trv to supplant them. 
 
 Of men she did not think very well. 
 
 Her most intimate friend, the chaperone with 
 whom she had been abroad, advocated woman's 
 rights. Perhaps Margaret had inherited some of 
 her ideas. 
 
 She had very decided ideas of her own, how 
 ever, and did not feel greatly impressed with the 
 "beaux" who were prepared to worship at her 
 shrine. 
 
 At the end of the season she had grown weary 
 of society and rejoiced when her father set the 
 day for their return home. 
 
 She had expected to see her brother when she 
 arrived. She had pictured their meeting so often 
 of late. 
 
 With her father she had never felt altogether 
 at her ease. He treated her kindly, but he was so 
 cool and crisp in his manner. Why did he not 
 talk to her of her brother? Could it be that the 
 boy had angered him in som : e way?
 
 TIU-; I-IMSIIKP \VI-;B. 
 
 That noon Margaret and her father lunched 
 together. 
 
 " Are you comfortable, my dear? " he asked, 
 and his tone was unusually affectionate. "Can 
 I do anything to add to your happiness in any 
 way? " Quick to catch the tender note, Marga 
 ret answered impulsively: 
 
 " When shall I see Valance, father? " 
 
 "Your brother is at school," her father said, 
 coldly and shortly. '' Perhaps if you are here in 
 the summer, you can see him." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In quite a different part of 'Frisco, in a shabby 
 little furnished room, was another woman. She 
 was writing in an old-fashioned diary. 
 
 " Fifteen years! lam growing weary of liv 
 ing in hope! What hope have I anyway? To 
 day I read in the Society notes that the beautiful 
 Miss Stanhill had returned to 'Frisco. My little 
 Margaret, my little Pearl! How long ago it 
 seems since I last kissed her! I can hear her 
 father's voice even now, saying sternly: 'Go! 
 You shall never see your children again! For 
 the sake of my own name, which you bear, I will 
 not expose you, but if you ever dare approach to 
 make yourself known to your children I will 
 brand you as an infamous woman. They shall 
 be taught that you are dead.' " 
 
 Here the writing ceased and the writer bowed 
 her head upon her hands,
 
 THK MXISHED WEB. 
 
 As I am not trying to unravel a mystery, only 
 recording certain events in the lives of the people 
 I am writing of, I shall explain why Mrs. Stan- 
 hill, the wife of a millionaire, is thus supposed to 
 be dead while she sits grieving in her shabby 
 room on Mission street. 
 
 When Mile. Marie Le Martin was asked in 
 marriage by Valance Stanhill of San Francisco 
 she was only sixteen. 
 
 Her parents lived in Los Gatos. They accept 
 ed the offer immediately, and in a wonderfully 
 short space of time the little unformed girl be 
 came the millionaire's wife. 
 
 Valance Stanhill was just thirty-six. He had 
 made his money and his position for himself. 
 He was passionately in love with his young 
 wife. 
 
 Marie was scarcely fitted to be mistress of her 
 husband's fine home. She did not care for so 
 ciety, her life till she became a mother was a 
 most miserable one. 
 
 At first she had tried to understand this man 
 who had pretended to love her so, but she finally 
 gave it up. She was always obedient and quiet. 
 Valance Stanhill thought it right to absorb his 
 wife. She ceased to be a daughter, she was 
 not allowed to visit her parents and they were 
 not allowed to visit her. In two years they both 
 died. 
 
 Valance StanhilPs one intimate friend was a 
 Frenchman. He spent a great deal of his time 
 with them, he was a man of lax morals, and
 
 10 THE FINISHED WKIS. 
 
 thought it was no dishonor to conceive a passion 
 for another man's wife. 
 
 He quickly saw how matters stood ; that Marie 
 did not feel that perfect love for her husband 
 that "casteth out all fear;" that love which is 
 at all times a wife's surest safeguard. 
 
 lie won her confidence by degrees. 
 
 Poor Marie believed him to be a God-sent 
 brother to her. She took comfort in his society. 
 
 Her husband became more and more unbear 
 able. He took it for granted that she would be 
 his slave. 
 
 Still Alfred Critien did not dare speak of his 
 love to her! 
 
 Valance, her second child, was born. She be 
 came more of a child-worshipper than ever, all 
 her hopes were centred in her little ones. If 
 she had been permitted to nurse them day and 
 night she would have been satisfied, but her hus 
 band was jealous even of the children. 
 
 As his wife she must take part in society. She 
 must parade her beauty and wear her diamonds. 
 
 When they went out he was sure to find some 
 thing to lecture her about. Then Alfred Critien 
 would find out all about it and comfort her the 
 next day. 
 
 One evening when little Val was three months 
 old, Mr. Stanhill came home earlier than usual. 
 Entering with his latch key, he went to look for 
 his wife, as he neared the sitting room he 
 heard voices. Stopping cautiously, he listened, 
 then applied his eye to the key hole. He beheld
 
 THK FINISHED WK15. 1 1 
 
 his wife weeping and Alfred Critien was kneeling 
 beside her. He waited for no more, he would 
 not make a fool of himself, he would not mention 
 what he had seen to his friend. He always be 
 lieved woman to be to blame in such cases. 
 
 He went to his room. 
 
 When Critien left the house, he sent for his 
 wife and declared that he neiu of her dishonor. 
 He further avowed his belief that Val was not 
 his child. He absolutely refused to allow her to 
 vindicate herself in any way. Then he said the 
 cruel words chronicled in her diary. She had 
 accepted them as the death-knell of her earthly 
 hope of happiness. 
 
 In after years Marie wondered that she had 
 acted as she did. 
 
 She had been so shocked, so dazed! 
 
 In her own sight, in the sight of God, she knew 
 herself to be innocent, even in thought, but she 
 felt incapable of acting for herself. This shame 
 her husband believed her to be capable of was 
 such a terrible thing! The very thought of it 
 made her brain grow dizzy. 
 
 Then her pride came to her aid. Yes, she 
 would go! God would avenge her some da}-. 
 
 Oh, the many miserable souls that are waiting 
 for that day! 
 
 She felt herself to be a martyr. She took off 
 her jewels, and dressed herself in her plainest 
 dress. She went to the nursery to kiss her chil 
 dren. Baby Val was asleep, with his little fat 
 thumb in his mouth. She paused to admire him.
 
 ]'2 1IIK KIMSIIKD \VF.M. 
 
 O! if she might take him with her! She gath 
 ered him in her arms and started for the door. 
 Her husband blocked the way. 
 
 "Give him to me," she prayed, "you have in 
 sulted him, too! " 
 
 But Valance Stanhill only smiled scornfully. 
 
 " No, that shall be your punishment. I shall 
 always hate the boy, but you shall not have him, 
 and neither shall his father!" 
 
 Little Margaret ran up to her. Holding her 
 to her heart she had whispered the words the 
 child never forgot. 
 
 Then she left the house. 
 
 She had now here to go. No money in her 
 pocket. She walked on and on. 
 
 She reached Market street. It was crowded. 
 Shop girls were hurrying home. It made her 
 more desolate to look at them ! She was home 
 less! 
 
 Finally she could walk no further. Her 
 strength was leaving her. The world about her 
 seemed to stagger; she fainted. 
 
 Three weeks later she came to herself. She 
 was in a hospital. In another week she would 
 be turned out into the world again. What was 
 she to do? She heard women talking near her. 
 They were speaking of how hard it was to get 
 help in the country. 
 
 " Why," said one, "they will take almost any 
 one and never so much as hint after her refer 
 ences!" 
 
 Marie asked for a newspaper and looked
 
 1'HE FINISHED WEI!, i > 
 
 through the advertisements. One read: "A 
 companion for an invalid wanted ; good coun 
 try home." 
 
 She obtained a postal card and sent in an ap 
 plication for the place. 
 
 In a few days she received the answer. She 
 was to apply on the tenth. That would be the 
 day after she should leave the hospital. She ask 
 ed to stay a day longer, and was allowed to do so. 
 
 On the day of her departure she felt very weak 
 and miserable. When she went to the glass to 
 put on her hat she hardly knew herself. Her 
 hair was gray, her face pale and thin. She was 
 no longer a beautiful woman! 
 
 On her way to the Appointment she passed a 
 lawyer's office. The sign read, " Consultation 
 free." She went in and stated her case, only sup 
 pressing names. 
 
 The lawyer told her she could not get her 
 children. Had she tried at first she might have 
 had the youngest. She had left her husband's 
 house. While he could support the children he 
 could keep them. Did she want a divorce, and 
 what were her grounds ? 
 
 Her interview with the advertiser was satisfac 
 tory, and that evening she went to a neighboring 
 country town. 
 
 Her employer was an old lady. 
 
 She stayed with her for five years, then the 
 poor old soul died. 
 
 Marie returned to 'Frisco and entered the hos 
 pital for trained nurses.
 
 14 THE I 1MS11E1) \\ Kli. 
 
 She assumed the little white cap and apron and 
 soon found comfort in her work. 
 
 Lately she had left the hospital and joined the 
 Alpha Association. 
 
 And there we find her in a dingy, cheerless room, 
 a patient, gray-haired woman, suffering unmerited 
 crucifixion, as are many others of her sex to-day. 
 
 Her desolation had not hardened her heart, she 
 did not cry out "There is no God, "but something 
 ot the "peace this world can not give" had stolen 
 into her pure soul, and she lived for the good she 
 might do. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The Stanhill residence was abla/e with light. 
 Miss Stanhill was about to celebrate her twenty- 
 first birthday. 
 
 The stately hall and drawing-rooms were hung 
 with costly flowers. 
 
 The guests, the elite of 'Frisco's society, were 
 arriving. 
 
 Miss Stanhill stood beside her father receiving 
 them, and most beautiful did she look in her gow r n 
 of soft, creamy lace. 
 
 Her father was growing prouder and prouder of 
 her each day. 
 
 It was a year since she had returned to 'Frisco. 
 She was very much "at home" now and had a 
 great many friends and admirers. 
 
 Miss Stanhill was a revelation to California 
 society. Not so much because of her exceeding 
 fairness, California belles are always handsome.
 
 THE FINISHED WEB. 15 
 
 but here was a millionaire's daughter who took 
 pleasure in seeing other women shine socially ; 
 who listened to no scandal ; who defended every 
 woman's good name. She was not easily flat 
 tered ; took every one good-naturedly. 
 
 Just how she kept herself so pure and un 
 spotted, I do not know. Only to look into her 
 sweet, serious eyes was a lesson in itself. 
 
 Margaret was a natural hostess. She was never 
 so much in her element as when helping people 
 have a good time. 
 
 The ball was a success. Supper was over ; the 
 german also. Chaperones were beginning to 
 look tired behind their fans. Second and third 
 year rosebuds were hunting for their wraps. A 
 sprinkling of debutantes were still dancing away 
 as if they could never grow weary. 
 
 Margaret was passing through the hall when 
 she saw a servant with a dispatch in her hand. 
 Taking it, she looked at the postmark and turned 
 pale. It was from S. College. Something was 
 the matter with her brother ! 
 
 She hastened to find her father. He was in the 
 smoking room. He opened the telegram leisure 
 ly, read it, then handed it to her, seeing by her 
 face that she expected it. It read : 
 
 " Your son is very much worse." 
 
 Mr. Stanhill left the room and Margaret fol 
 lowed him. 
 
 " You knew that Valance was ill, and did not 
 tell me," she said, looking steadily into his eyes, 
 lie did not answer her.
 
 l!> THE MNiSHKU \\ hi'.. 
 
 " You will go by the first train? " she continued. 
 
 "No! Why should I? He has typhoid fever, 
 and there is danger of contagion. He is well 
 looked after. No expense will be spared," an 
 swered the father hurriedly. 
 
 But Margaret was thoroughly aroused. She 
 said, sternly: 
 
 "Why should you ? Because he is your son. 
 O ! how can you think of contagion ! If my 
 mother was alive would she think of it? You say 
 you will not go. Very well, I shall go myself," 
 and then she turned and left the room. 
 
 Valance Stanhill was completely surprised* 
 This from a little girl who had never argued a 
 point with him before. 
 
 Somehow he admired her for it, though. " Go 
 to the college herself;" indeed, she should not! 
 In the morning he would speak to her about it. 
 
 But when the morning came, at 10 o'clock, 
 when he sent to ask for an interview, he found 
 that she had gone by the 7 o'clock train. 
 
 And to his dispatch of " Return immediately," 
 she answered : 
 
 " My brother needs me and I shall not leave 
 him." 
 
 And then was he forced into submission. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " You will have to get a nurse. You will not be 
 able to stand it day and night. It will be weeks 
 before he is better," said the college doctor.
 
 THE FINISHED WE15. 17 
 
 Margaret Stanhill had been three days with her 
 sick brother. It was pitiful to see him toss about 
 unconscious of everything about him. 
 
 How wicked she felt when she remembered 
 how she had neglected her mother's last re 
 quest so long. Of course it had not been her 
 fault entirely, but she should have asserted 
 herself long ago. 
 
 Poor Valance! How big and black his eyes 
 were ! So like their dead mother's. Suppose he 
 should die! Would that mother forgive her? 
 
 She did not want a nurse. She would take 
 care of him herself. But of course she would 
 break down if she didn't have one. She had 
 promised God to devote herself to Valance if 
 only his dear life was spared her, and she would 
 do it. Her father should be forced to do his 
 duty, or answer to her for it. 
 
 So a message was wired by the doctor to the 
 Alpha Association of trained nurses in 'Frisco, 
 and God allowed it to be Marie Stanhill, or Mrs. 
 Hill, as she was called, who was the nurse se 
 lected to be sent. 
 
 And O! how the mother thanked God for this 
 privilege. To be near her boy in his last mo 
 ments ; or it He saw best, nurse him back to life. 
 
 But could she stand it thus to be near her 
 darlings and not cry out her claim upon them ? 
 Yes, for their sakes she felt that she could. It 
 would be best for them not to know. They be 
 lieved her to be dead, and it would do no good
 
 VS mi-: I'lxi.sUKi) \VKI;. 
 
 to undeceive them. She was old, and they did 
 not know her. She could bear it. 
 
 When she first beheld her little Pearl, so glo 
 rious in her pure young womanhood, the good 
 ness of her soul looking from her eyes, that gave 
 her courage. She could have knelt at her feet, 
 but she could not tell her that her mother had 
 been suspected of evil-doing by her father and 
 driven from his home. Innocent as she knew 
 herself to be, she could not tell her. Besides she 
 had no proof of her innocence. And then her 
 daughter might not believe in her. 
 
 The hardest part of her trial came when she 
 stood beside the bed of her baby, her darling 
 Val. To see him toss with pain, and not be able 
 to gather him into her arms! Not be able to 
 kiss his parched lips ! O, it was so bitterly hard ! 
 
 But her face was calm, and she listened silently 
 to her daughter's orders. She was cautioned 
 to take care of her own child; "O Nurse!" 
 cried Margaret, "only help me bring him back 
 to health, and there is nothing I will not do for 
 you!" 
 
 Thus together did mother and sister care for 
 poor, lonely Val, while the days and weeks pass 
 ed by. Such days and weeks they were to the 
 poor, mother! So full of anxiety for the sick 
 boy, and so precious because spent near her dar 
 ling. She thanked God again and again that she 
 was permitted to know what a grand woman her 
 little Pearl had become! 
 
 Margaret grew very fond of the quiet nurse.
 
 i Hi: i- 1 Msin-:n \VKIJ. 19 
 
 How pleasant it would be to have her for a com 
 panion ; she spoke to her about it. 
 
 "I have no real triend," she said; "money 
 does not buy affection. I feel that I could trust 
 you so." 
 
 One day the doctor said that at 4 o'clock 
 the next morning the patient would gain con 
 sciousness, and be either very much better or 
 sink rapidly; it was the turning point of the 
 disease. 
 
 "Of course I shall take the second watch," 
 said Margaret, as the doctor left. 
 
 At midnight she came into the sick room and 
 kindly but decidedly dismissed the nurse. With 
 not a word she was obeyed. 
 
 Once in her own room, the mother threw her 
 self upon her knees to pray for her boy. Sleep ! 
 Ah ! when can a true mother sleep when her 
 child is in danger. 
 
 The hours finally passed. It was half after 
 three ; she felt that she must go to her child. 
 What if he should be dying ! She wrung her 
 hands in anguish. 
 
 Noiselessly she entered the sick room. Be 
 side the bed Margaret was fast asleep nature 
 had proved too strong for her. 
 
 The mother went to the sick boy, and her 
 practised eye noted the change. He was better. 
 He stirred feebly, and opened his eyes, a 
 wan smile came to his lips, and he whispered, 
 "Mother!" 
 
 -With a great effort Marie controlled herself
 
 jo i in-; i iMsiiKD \vi:n. 
 
 and gave him sonic water. As her hand touch 
 ed his he turned and kissed it. 
 
 " You were dreaming," she faltered. Only 
 God knew how hard it was to say it. 
 
 " Of my dead mother," he answered in a 
 weak voice. Then he smiled and fell asleep 
 like a tired child. 
 
 Margaret awoke with a start. " He came back 
 to me and I was asleep! Is he better? O, will 
 he live?" she cried brokenly. 
 
 "He is better, dear," the nurse said gently; 
 "he will live, thank God." 
 
 Then something made Margaret put her arms 
 around the nurse, and together they mingled 
 their tears of thankfulness. 
 
 One week later the nurse left quietly without 
 receiving her wages. 
 
 Very much distressed Margaret sent her a 
 check for $500. in care of the Alpha Associa 
 tion ; she also asked for her address. The 
 matron wrote that Mrs. Hill on receipt of money 
 had left the citv. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Mr. Valance Stanhill sat reading a telegram 
 he had just received from his daughter. It ran 
 thus : 
 
 Have things ready for us. We will arrive 
 to-night. Meet us at the depot." 
 
 During the last few weeks he had been bat 
 tling with himself. How should he act? He could
 
 THE FINtSllEL) \VhlI. 21 
 
 not refuse to be civil to this boy whom he had 
 acknowledged as his son without giving a rea 
 son for it. He simply would not tell Margaret 
 her mother's miserable story. Her mother whom 
 she believed to be dead. She might demand, 
 proof of what he said; he had not waited for 
 proof. Margaret, his own darling, might hate 
 him! How she had spoken to him that night! 
 
 He had admired her for it. "A chip of the 
 old block," he said to himself. Yes, he must 
 give in to her, he must be civil to the boy. 
 
 He would soon be well enough to return to 
 school. He would send him abroad as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 So he ordered the carriage and was at the 
 depot in time for the arrival. 
 
 ******* 
 
 All the devotion of Margaret's heart seemed 
 to centre itself upon her brother. She made her 
 sitting room into a bed room for him,' and wait 
 ed upon him night and day. She thought noth 
 ing too good for hie use. 
 
 And how poor, lonely Val loved her! He had 
 always hungered for affection ; it was such joy 
 to feel himself the object of some one's considera 
 tion. He grew to depend more and more upon 
 her. 
 
 She gloried in the fact. 
 
 Margaret's character had developed wonder 
 fully of late. She succeeded with her father in 
 a most remarkable manner. She simply took it
 
 22 1 Hi; 1 IMM1KD \VEI5. 
 
 for granted that Yal was his lir.st consideration, 
 that he desired nothing so much as his happiness. 
 
 Mr. Stanhill found himself acting the part of 
 a devoted father. His motives were of a mixed 
 nature, to begin with he must stand well with 
 Margaret, and again he believed all women to be 
 fickle. She would tire of such sisterly devotion 
 after a while. 
 
 But as time went on she did not tire. She 
 treated Val as her own child. He had been neg 
 lected so many years, she must make it up 
 to him all she could now. 
 
 The young man felt his father's coldness. 
 
 " He does not care for me," he would say sad 
 ly, " but I can bear it while I am with you." 
 
 Then brave Margaret would show her affec 
 tion more than ever. 
 
 Society was greatly concerned at Miss Stan- 
 hill's seclusion, several heiress-seeking young 
 men particularly. 
 
 Mr Stanhill remonstrated with her himself, but 
 was convinced when she put her arms around his 
 neck and said : 
 
 " You want me to be happy, don't you, dear? 
 You don't want to marry me off like most fathers 
 \vouldr '' 
 
 Among Margaret's few intimate friends was 
 little Ida Madden. Just why they were intimate 
 was a puzzle to many. Perhaps the girl's timid 
 blue eyes told of an unloved life, the life of an 
 orphan spent with relatives who WI-IT not over 
 kind to her.
 
 11 IE FINISHED WEB. 23 
 
 Margaret's big heart reached out after her, and 
 she never lost an opportunity of displaying her 
 feelings. 
 
 So it came to pass that Ida spent a great deal 
 of her time at the Stanhill residence. 
 
 At first Val was much embarrassed when she 
 came near him. Although past eighteen he 
 knew very little of young ladies. Little sixteen- 
 year-old Ida was very gentle, so he soon forgot 
 to be afraid. 
 
 Her millionaire uncle's home was not altogether 
 a satisfactory one. The ladies of the family 
 were society women, they devoted their time 
 to amusement, were very handsome, and rather 
 despised the little unformed girl who had been 
 forced into their home. It was a source of im 
 mense surprise to them that the elegant Miss 
 Stanhill should think so much of her. They 
 were prepared to be intimate with Margaret 
 themselves, but she displayed her preference in a 
 most decided manner, and sent invitations to 
 Ida only. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Val's health did not improve ; in spite of all 
 Margaret's care he was no better. He had been 
 at home for four months. In May the doctor or 
 dered valley air. 
 
 A house at San Rafael was immediately secur 
 ed and the motherly Margaret began to make all 
 ready for their departure. A few days before
 
 21 THE FINISHED WEt?. 
 
 they left she noticed how sud little Ida was look 
 ing. Why should she not take her with them, 
 the poor little dear? 
 
 "Val, dear," she said, "would you mind if I 
 asked Ida to spend the summer with us? She 
 looks so lonely." 
 
 Val answered in rather a shame-faced way. 
 Why should he? In truth he was rather glad than 
 otherwise, only he did not care to say so just then. 
 
 So the invitation was given and Ida was made 
 completely happy. 
 
 Mr. Stanhill was altogether displeased with the 
 proposed removal. He wanted Margaret to go 
 to Long Branch with him. She put an end to his 
 hope when she said : 
 
 "Val is not well enough for such a trip. Next 
 year we will go." 
 
 She evidently did not intend to ^be separated 
 from her darling. 
 
 The trip from 'Frisco to San Rafael is at all 
 times a very charming one. In May it is some 
 thing never to be forgotten. 
 
 Over the bay, surely the loveliest bay in the 
 world, in the ferry-boat to Sancelito, a little town 
 that nestles in the foothills, thence by rail. Such 
 a wealth of green hills, studded with brilliant wild 
 Mowers ; such broad pastures covered with graz 
 ing cattle. Then grand old Tamalpais mountain 
 is before you. 
 
 San Rafael should be called " City of Roses." 
 Nowhere in California are these "queens of the 
 garden" more abundant. They are not satisfied
 
 THE FINISHED \VK1!. '2 it 
 
 with being stately bushes ; they become gigantic 
 monuments. " Lady Banks " creep to the roof 
 of the tallest houses. Pink, white and golden 
 beauties climb to the tops of the highest trees, 
 iind even then throw out their aspiring branches 
 as if they longed to go higher. The air is laden 
 with their perfume. 
 
 The place the Stanhills had taken was a real 
 paradise. A Queen Anne cottage, surrounded by 
 sloping lawns and an ideal flower garden. There 
 were tiny summer houses here and there, covered 
 with roses. From its front gallery could be seen 
 old Tamalpais. 
 
 "A bit of heaven," said Margaret, as they en 
 tered the house. " You surely will get well here, 
 Val darling." 
 
 And Val sighed contentedly, and Ida flitted 
 about like some happy butterfly. 
 
 Val found in her another slave. She amused 
 him quite as much as Margaret did, and then he 
 felt so manly when he was with her. She had 
 little confiding ways that appealed to him ; in 
 short, Val fell in love for the first time and Ida 
 was affected in the same manner. 
 
 Such delightful times they had, all three of 
 them. They drove for miles and miles and ram 
 bled over the hills, and as Val grew stronger they 
 rode horseback, and thus the summer passed. 
 
 Mr. Stanhill had gone to Long Branch alone 
 and his children did not miss him. 
 
 The first of September came and Margaret was 
 beginning to get ready for a return home.
 
 Till-: ! IM.sIIKI) \\ HI 1 .. 
 
 Little Ichi felt low-spirited and her laugh grew 
 
 less frequent. 
 
 Val began to wonder how it would feel not to 
 have her near him all the time. 
 
 One evening Margaret had left the children (as 
 she called them) alone. She had letters to write. 
 
 Feeling herself much missed, she hurried 
 through with her letters and in an hour went to 
 join them. They had retreated to one of the rose 
 houses, and she playfully decided to surprise them. 
 As she peeped into the little house a surprise 
 awaited her, for there sat her "children" with 
 their arms about each other in a true-love fashion. 
 Their attitude was not to be mistaken, they 
 seemed blissfully contented. 
 
 Margaret slipped gently away. "The two 
 babies! Bless them ! They shall tell me of their 
 new-found happiness themselves." 
 
 Margaret had never dreamed that they would 
 fall in love with each other, she thought so lit 
 tle of such things herself. What could have put 
 such a notion into their silly heads! Then the 
 more she thought of it the more natural it seemed. 
 They were both her darlings, they should get 
 married, after a while, of course. And then this 
 God-meant mother went to building air castles in 
 which her babies were to live. 
 
 At dark they came to look for her, to tell her 
 all their hopes. They found her with' wide-open 
 arms waiting for. them. 
 
 " Of course it will be ages before I can have a 
 wife," Yal said in a manly voice. " 1 suppo.se I
 
 THE FINISHED WKU. '21 
 
 shall go back to school, or maybe, you can per 
 suade father to give me a position. You will 
 look after Ida for me, won't you, Madge? " 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In a week they returned home. 
 
 Margaret decided to keep the youthful engage 
 ment quiet for a while. It was -such a holy thing 
 in her sight. They both looked up to her and 
 agreed to everything she said. 
 
 Val began to weaken again, and his sister grew 
 anxious. The best physicians in California were 
 summoned to consult regarding his case. 
 
 When they told her the truth. Margaret felt as if 
 her heart would break, her dear boy was dying of 
 consumption ! Then she grew calm. His remain 
 ing life on earth must be made perfectly happy. 
 
 She told her father of the doctor's verdict, also 
 of Val's engagement to little Ida. He did not 
 object when he saw she meant the marriage to 
 take place. 
 
 All knowledge of the boy's condition was kept 
 from him and from his little sweetheart. 
 
 Margaret arranged everything. 
 
 The millionaire uncle gave a glad consent. A 
 handsome trousseau was provided and a very 
 quiet ceremony took place. 
 
 How happy the young pair were! They talked 
 joyfully of the future. " I will soon be well now," 
 Val would say. 
 
 No trouble ever came near them. Margaret
 
 28 i MI; i iM.siihi) \\ KI;. 
 
 watched over them as a mother over her little 
 children, she seemed a part of their love dream. 
 
 After a while they had a secret to confide. 
 "Val's baby!" What a wonderful creature it 
 would be ! 
 
 Margaret's heart was filled with rapture ; it 
 would give her something else to live for. It was 
 her hands that fashioned the tiny garments which 
 the little stranger was to wear. How tenderly 
 she sewed on the soft lace that was to touch 
 the dainty throat. 
 
 And when the tiny thing was born, only to 
 close its little eyes in death, it was Margaret who 
 grieved most for it. The child-mother's tears 
 were soon dried, the future looked bright to 
 her. Margaret alone knew of the coining 
 shadow. 
 
 At last it came, and Val knew that he must go 
 into another world. 
 
 " I can hardly believe it, though, I really feel 
 better, I am not afraid. O! Madge," he said, 
 "you have been so good to me! I shall tell 
 mother all about it. You will take care of my 
 little wife." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Margaret was turning from the family tomb 
 where her young brother's body had just been put 
 away to rest. Her heart was full of desolation, in 
 her eyes there was such supreme grief that no one 
 of all that vast company of people about her dared 
 approach her. Her father had left home a month
 
 THE FINISHED WEI!. 29 
 
 ago. Margaret felt that he had gone on purpose 
 to miss being present at Val's death-bed. One 
 by one the friends of the family withdrew. Mar 
 garet turned to enter her carriage ; the old 
 family coachman stood with a sorrowful face 
 holding the door open for her. There was noth 
 ing more she could do for her darling here. 
 
 The child widow was waiting for her at home ; 
 she must go and comfort her. 
 
 As she turned, a hand was placed upon her arm ; 
 it was the woman who had nursed Val at. the col 
 lege, Mrs. Hill. She was evidently bearing a 
 great cross of sorrow, also ; she was draped in 
 mourning as heavy as her own. She felt that she 
 must comfort her; she said nothing, but bent 
 and kissed her cheek and drew her into the car 
 riage. Marie could not resist ; she would go with 
 her daughter, cost what it would. 
 
 As the carriage went through the city, these 
 two women sat silently holding each other's 
 hands. When the house was reached Margaret 
 spoke for the first time. 
 
 "It will comfort me if you will come in for a 
 few moments. Val's wife, poor little child ! " 
 
 Without a word Marie Stanhill followed her 
 child up the marble steps into the home from 
 which she had been so cruelly driven in years 
 gone by. It was no trial to her, her son's death 
 had numbed her heart, she no longer suffered 
 anything. 
 
 Margaret took her into her own room. Ida 
 was asleep, they would see her later,
 
 :',n mi; i-i 
 
 " O, Mrs. Hill, I can not explain it, but it com 
 forts me to be near you ! Can you understand it :' ' 
 
 Then she told her all her sorrows. Of Val's 
 life and love ; of the little baby who came and 
 went, and of her grief when it died. 
 
 "I felt as my mother would have felt," Mar 
 garet said ; "perhaps her spirit grew through me." 
 
 Marie Stanhill listened, and her heart grew 
 heavier each moment. Finally she could stand it 
 no longer and nature came to her relief: she 
 fainted. 
 
 Margaret was stricken with remorse ; dear, ten 
 der Margaret. How she accused herself! How 
 selfish she thought herself! This poor soul had 
 a sorrow of her own, and she had not stopped to 
 inquire into it. 
 
 She put her upon her own bed and gave her 
 restoratives. 
 
 When the mother opened her eyes her child 
 was bending over her. 
 
 " O, do forgive me, Mrs. Hill, for being so 
 selfish in my grief, and tell me of your troubles 
 that I may comfort you." 
 
 From that clay a light came into Marie Stan- 
 hill's darkened life. A friendship was cemented 
 between the two whom God had joined together 
 by the closest and holiest tie on earth or in heaven. 
 
 Marie went back to her life as a nurse; she 
 did not come again to her daughter's house, but 
 Margaret visited her each Sundav, and oh, 
 what joy those visits were to the lonely mother. 
 
 Together thev visited Yal's vesting place,
 
 THE Ki\isiu:i> WE r>. 31 
 
 " Somehow I feel better when you are here with 
 me," Margaret said one evening as they left the 
 cemetery. "Why am I so sure of sympathy?" 
 
 Of her own grief Mrs. Hill would not speak, 
 and with ready tact Margaret discovered that such 
 was the case. 
 
 Val's widow became drawn to his sister each 
 day. Mr. Stanhill proposed settling a handsome 
 income upon her, and allowing her to return to her 
 uncle's home, but Margaret refused indignantly. 
 
 "She shall stay with me till she asks to leave," 
 she said. "As to an income, my own is enough 
 for both of us." 
 
 After her first grief had passed away, the girl- 
 widow became happy. Margaret induced her to 
 study and practise, and after a while to go into 
 society, Margaret acting the part of a mother to 
 her always. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "Why do I not marry?" answered Margaret 
 reflectively. She was seated in Mrs. Hill's quiet 
 little room. Five years had passed since her 
 brother's death. Time had only increased her 
 beauty, her sweet, serious eyes were sweeter 
 and more serious than ever. 
 
 It was Sunday afternoon, she still spent those 
 hours with her "friend." They were discoursing 
 herself. 
 
 "You should marry, Margaret," Mrs. Hill had 
 said; " you are lonely. Tell me why you havt 
 never married ? "
 
 "-! THE FINISHEP WEI?. 
 
 " I don't think I can exactly tell you, dear 
 friend," Margaret said after a pause. "I have 
 never thought much of marriage in connection 
 with mvself. I have received offers of marriage, 
 and I have several real friends among the men I 
 know, but I have never cared more for one of 
 them than another. And indeed I am not lonely. 
 Since dear little Ida married I have been just a 
 bit alone, but never lonely. Ida's husband is a 
 lovely man, I think, and a very good one, too, if I 
 am any judge of men. He will be good to her. 
 Perhaps, if Val's baby had lived I might not have 
 rejoiced so much in her marriage, but she was so 
 young, and then my father never made her wel 
 come. I don't think he wants any one but me." 
 
 " I have notions of my own about marriage," 
 continued Margaret after a while. "If I had a 
 husband he must do something besides love me. 
 He must make me love him. He must command 
 my respect and admiration, and must be real 
 enough to keep them. He must teach me to un 
 derstand and appreciate him. I don't believe in 
 slavery of any kind, he must acknowledge me 
 his equal. He must command my sympathy, I 
 must feel about him in this way: 
 
 O noble soul, whose strength like mountains stand, 
 Whose purposes, like adamantine stone 
 
 Bar roads to feeble feet, and wrap the land 
 IP. sunny shadow, thou, too, hast thine own 
 .Sweet valleys full of flowers, for me alone, 
 
 Unseen, unknown, undreamed of by the mass 
 
 Who do not know the secret of the Pass. 
 
 " Shall I find this, do you think?" asked Mar 
 garet with a smile.
 
 THE FINISHK1) WEB. 33. 
 
 Her mother's eyes were full of tears. 
 
 " Men can be faithful ; there is my father, for in 
 stance ; my mother's memory is so precious, so 
 sacred to him that he can never bear to speak of 
 her. Something makes me stop when I begin to- 
 speak of her. I suppose her dear body rests in 
 the family tomb, but there is no inscription, I 
 suppose father could not bear even that. My 
 father is a most peculiar man ; even his love for 
 me does not make me forget his want of love for 
 poor Val. The one redeeming point in his whole 
 nature to me is his reverence for my mother's- 
 memory." 
 
 Those hours spent with her child were life, 
 heaven, to the silent, suffering mother. When 
 Margaret first began to come, she said to herself : 
 "She will soon tire of me; it will be natural. 
 What have I to interest her?" So she calmed 
 her delight ; but she was mistaken, Margaret 
 did not tire of her. 
 
 There was a fascination about this white-haired 
 woman that she could not withstand : not that she 
 tried to, it seemed natural to love her. Some 
 thing in her sad eyes recalled that which she could 
 not remember. Something there was in her kiss 
 which seemed to beg for recollection. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Hill," she said in the early days of 
 their friendship, "perhaps it was in another world 
 that I knew and loved you, you seem to have a 
 right to my affection. My feelings for you are 
 not like new feelings, rather like a continuation, 
 of something I have felt before. If my mother 
 3
 
 .".4 THE FINISHED WKB. 
 
 \vas alive I might not care so much for you ; it is 
 hard to be motherless." 
 
 When Marie Stanhill was certain ot her child's 
 love, the temptation became stronger than ever 
 to tell her the truth, but she did not yield to it. 
 No. it was best as it was. What more did she 
 want? Her child loved her as her most intimate 
 friend, she confided her whole heart to her, and 
 asked her advice in everything. 
 
 She even called her " little mother" in a tender, 
 playful way. It would be easy to turn her heart 
 from her father now should she thus revenge 
 herself upon the man who had been so hard and 
 cruel to her? He had taken her child from her, 
 and should she take her from him now? No! she 
 would not do this. She must be entirely worthy 
 of her daughter, nothing mean should dwell 
 within her heart. She remembered a poem Mar 
 garet had read to her Margaret was so fond of 
 poetry it was Helen Hunt Jackson's " Blind 
 Spinner. " How her darling's voice had thrilled 
 her as she read : 
 
 " The bond divine I never doubt, 
 I know He set me here and still 
 And glad and blind I wait If is will, 
 
 But listen day by day 
 To hear their tread 
 
 Who bear the finished web away 
 And cut the thread 
 
 And bring God's message in the sun, 
 
 Thou poor blind spinner, work is done. " 
 
 Marie StanhilFs nature had never become 
 seared by her sorrows. Then her daily life 
 among the sick and suffering was so full of les-
 
 THE FINISHED WEB. 35' 
 
 sons. Never did her sympathy fail those to 
 whom she ministered ; sufferers read sincerity 
 in her gentle gaze. She did not weary of their 
 complaints; she tried always to comfort them, 
 each was to her a little child ; her motherhood 
 folded around them like a mantle of protection. 
 She would bathe a burning head, or hold a 
 a fevered hand, and for that moment was the 
 mother. 
 
 One day Margaret went in search of her friend 
 at the hospital. She was directed to the woman's 
 ward. Stopping at the door she watched her for 
 a moment without making her presence known. 
 
 In her arms Marie held a new-born babe, she 
 was warming it against her breast, and she was 
 speaking to the young mother. Margaret drew 
 near that she might listen to what she was saying. 
 In after years the sweet picture often came to her 
 and she would thank God for having been per 
 mitted to see it. 
 
 "You must not be blue, dearest," Marie's ten 
 der voice was saying. "You will soon be well, 
 God will give you back your strength, and you 
 must fight against evil for the little one's sake as 
 well as your own. " 
 
 " What can I give it but a home among the 
 foundlings?" the young mother answered bitterly. 
 " It would be better off dead." 
 
 Then Marie spoke, and her whole soul came 
 into her face. Such tender words Margaret had 
 never dreamed of, she longed to kneel at the 
 white-haired woman's feet as she listened.
 
 36 THE FINISHED WHB. 
 
 " God doesn't intend you to be wicked. This 
 He gives you as a token of his love ; this little 
 white soul just from His soul. It is left to you : 
 you may have its love. O. my child, do not 
 desert it!" 
 
 As the young mother looked wistfully at her, 
 the baby began to cry. She opened her arms and 
 the nurse placed it upon her breast. 
 
 Turning awav Marie saw her child. 
 
 " O, Mrs. Hill, I have heard your beautiful 
 words, and I love you for them ; love you more 
 than ever, you sweet, tender mother. She," con 
 tinued Margaret, ''shall be added to my list." 
 
 Margaret Stanhill's list was a long one. HIT 
 wealth never went to public charities, she pre 
 ferred a quiet mission. Through her friends she 
 heard of many cases in which little interest was 
 felt bv the outside world. 
 
 Are you troubled to-day that you came look 
 ing for me?" asked Marie with a loving smile, as 
 she went with Margaret to a quiet part of the 
 ward. 
 
 " Yes, I am going east to-morrow," said Mar 
 garet sadly. " My father insists that I must, and 
 I don't want to go. I am growing to be an old 
 woman, I dislike to have my life disturbed. If 
 you were only going with me, then half of the 
 battle would be over; I think it's leaving you 
 that makes me hate to go so badly." 
 
 Then Marie began to cheer her, although her 
 own heart was heavy at the thought of their 
 separation.
 
 THK FtMSHKD WEB. 37 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Three months later Margaret Stanhill again 
 sat in her own room, after a return from the east, 
 but no loneliness lies about her heart to-day. A 
 wonderful thing has happened to her during these 
 last three months. Love has crowned and per 
 fected her womanhood. She had met William 
 Kingsley at a reception a few days after her ar 
 rival in New York; there had immediately 
 sprung up a feeling of interest and sympathy be 
 tween them. They met almost every day, and 
 the feeling of interest and sympathy grew into 
 real friendship, and a warmer feeling soon fol 
 lowed. Margaret had gone to Long Branch. 
 Kingsley remained in New York. A short sepa 
 ration revealed their real feelings for each other. 
 When the} r met again each read love in the 
 other's face and an engagement followed. There 
 had been no hesitation about Margaret, she 
 answered her lover's call gladly. 
 
 Mr. Stanhill could offer no objection to his 
 daughter's choice ; Mr. Kingsley was well born, 
 well bred, and stood at the head of his profession. 
 Margaret accepted her happiness thankfully. 
 Only one thing seemed necessary to complete it, 
 <ind that was to receive the congratulations of her 
 dear friend, Mrs. Hill. There had been no time 
 to write of the engagement ; she was glad there 
 had not been ; the telling of it would be so much 
 sweeter. 
 
 449909
 
 38 THE FINISHED WKB. 
 
 It was Sunday ; she waited anxiously for the- 
 hour when she might go to her clear friend. 
 
 " You are pale," exclaimed Margaret, after 
 their first embrace ; "you have been ill and did 
 not tell me of it." 
 
 "Nothing of any consequence," answered' 
 Marie quickly. " I shall be all right now that 
 you are back again, how wonderfully well you 
 look!" The mother-eye saw that something had 
 come to her darling. 
 
 With a girlish blush Margaret told her secret.. 
 and then her happiness seemed complete. 
 
 Another week rolled by and Margaret was- 
 again seeking her friend's home on Mission 
 street. She had been so happy all the week. To 
 morrow her " King" was to arrive! Her heart 
 beat with anticipated joy: when next she took 
 this trip he would walk beside her ; she felt a 
 strong desire for her lover and her friend to know 
 each other. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Arriving at the house where her friend lived 
 Margaret entered, and ran upstairs. She met 
 no one ; a stillness pervaded the house. Reach 
 ing the door of her friend's room she knocked ; 
 receiving no answer, she opened it and walked 
 in. There sat her friend by the table; her white 
 head bowed upon it. With a quick movement 
 Margaret reached her side. 
 
 "Mrs. Hill! Little Mother! What is troub 
 ling you ? " she cried.
 
 THK FINISHED WEB. 39 
 
 Great Heavens! She has fainted, thought Mar 
 garet, putting her hand upon her. She was very 
 cold. She was dead. In her hand she clutched 
 a pen ; an ink-stand had been upset, and its con 
 tents had trickled on the table and dropped to 
 the floor. Margaret lifted her head ; it rested 
 upon a little open book. She had been writing. 
 Tenderly she drew the little book out and glanced 
 at the last words. It seemed right for her to 
 know what her dear friend's last thoughts had 
 been. She read: 
 
 " O, my Margaret; mother's little Pearl! 
 Mother is thankful for your happiness." 
 
 Mechanically she turned to the first page of the 
 little book. It contained these words : 
 
 " Private Journal of Marie Stanhill. To be 
 read by my children, Margaret and Valance, 
 after my death. " 
 
 For a moment Margaret could not think : her 
 brain seemed in a whirl. Was she mad ? She 
 read the words again. Then she could only think 
 of one thing, that before her sat her mother 
 whom she had believed to be dead all these 
 years. Her revered mother. Silently she knelt 
 at her feet, it seemed the only thing she could 
 do. She asked for nothing else at that moment. 
 
 Then she remembered the last time she had 
 seen her mother, and how clearly she heard her 
 parting words. 
 
 "Mother! Mother! " she cried; then tears 
 came to relieve her, and she sank sobbing upon 
 the floor. To die thus unhappy and alone! O,
 
 40 THK KINISHKI) WKK. 
 
 had God no power that He refused to let her 
 know in some way? She had been lost in her 
 own love dream while her mother had been drop 
 ping her head upon the table in death. Now 
 her place was here at her feet. 
 
 "O. darling, why did you not give me one lit 
 tle sign all these vears? " she cried. 
 
 Then she remembered how she had been im 
 pelled to love her when as a nurse she stood 
 beside Yal's bed at the college, and how her 
 presence had comforted her at his grave. O, how 
 she blessed God for the instinct which had not 
 let her throw away this precious mother. 
 
 Sweet, noble Margaret! No doubt arose in 
 her heart of her mother's perfect worthiness ; 
 there was some terrible reason for her being 
 here, for having left her children ; for living 
 under an assumed name, but she was not to 
 blame for it. She thought of her father. Was 
 he innocent also? If he had caused her mother 
 to suffer she would punish him for it. She would 
 avenge her mother. 
 
 She arose from her knees and taking the cold 
 form in her strong young arms put it upon the 
 bed ; then kissing the icy lips she caressed her 
 mother reverently. She must read this little 
 book : every word of it. So she seated herselt 
 beside the bed and opened it. It was told in a 
 few words ; this story of woman crucifixion. A 
 man had suspected a woman of wrong doing; 
 had accused her of dishonor; had deprived her
 
 THE FINISHED WEB. 41 
 
 -of her children : had driven her from home; had 
 not allowed her to defend herself. 
 
 That man was her father ; that woman her 
 mother! .She read the words: " I swear before 
 God, my children, that I was innocent of even a 
 wrong intention." Ah! her mother had no 
 need to take such an oath. She would have 
 believed her under any circumstances. One 
 thought alone came to Margaret when she had 
 learned all the book contained, she must take 
 her mother back to the home from which she had 
 'been driven. A great strength came to her, she 
 turned and looked at the clock, she had been 
 here an hour. No one knew this, however; she 
 must act as if she had just arrived. Putting the 
 little book in her pocket, and the pen her mother 
 had last touched also, she wiped as well as she 
 could the ink from off the table. She wanted it 
 to appear as if her mother had died in bed. Then 
 she went into the hall and called for aid. 
 
 "My friend Mrs. Hill is unconscious; send 
 quickly for a doctor ; her doctor if you know 
 
 When the doctor arrived he said: " She is 
 dead. I am not surprised ; a few weeks ago I 
 told her how it would be. It was heart trouble." 
 
 " Can you prevent an inquest? Can you give 
 a certificate of burial?" Then Margaret gave 
 him her mother's real name. It was soon 
 arranged, and an undertaker prepared everything. 
 
 In two hours Margaret followed the hearse 
 bearing her mother's remains ; it was taken to the
 
 42 THE FINISHED WKB. 
 
 Stanhill residence. Margaret entered the house 
 and ordered the drawing-room to be opened. In 
 a few moments more Marie Stanhill lay in state 
 in the handsome apartment. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Valance Stanhill was hurrying home in answer 
 to a telephone from his daughter ; as he reached 
 the gate he saw the crepe hanging upon it. In a 
 moment he stood beside Margaret. 
 
 "I have found my mother, and have brought 
 her home," was all she said. 
 
 Valance Stanhill staggered ; then the old feel 
 ing of anger came back to him. " Haw dared 
 you?" he cried. ll She is unfit." 
 
 But Margaret silenced him. "Stop, stop ! " 
 she cried ; " say one word against her, and I will 
 strike you ! She is my mother, and one of God's 
 holiest martyrs." 
 
 She put her hand in her pocket and drew from 
 it the little book. 
 
 " Read this ! You do not deserve it. I only 
 give it to you that your punishment may begin." 
 
 He took it and turned to leave the room. 
 
 " Understand, once for all, that I believe everv 
 word of it," she cried. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 The hour for the funeral was approaching ; 
 crowds of people were flocking to the house. A 
 notice of the death of Marie, wife of Valance 
 Stanhill, was inserted in the paper at Margaret's
 
 THE FINISHED WEB. 4.V 
 
 command. Such a mystery! How society did 
 wonder and talk. 
 
 Margaret sat by her mother's coffin, draped itv 
 deepest mourning ; .beside her stood her be 
 trothed ; he had arrived the day before. Mar 
 garet had explained things briefly to him. 
 
 " If you dislike what I have done," she said 1 
 proudly, "you can leave immediately." His 
 only answer had been to take her in his arms.. 
 Together they had gone to the silent mother. 
 
 "Mother," said Margaret pitifully, "this is my 
 husband. O, mother, I am not mistaken in him I 
 Look down from heaven and bless him." Then 
 he, whom she loved, bent and kissed the deadi 
 woman's lips. 
 
 Valance Stanhill had not been seen ; he was in 
 his room. People continued to whisper and won 
 der. The minister arrived, he assumed his. 
 flowing vestment, and entered the room, the- 
 ceremony was about to begin. At that moment 
 the bowed figure of the master of the house en 
 tered the room and came and stood beside the 
 coffin. He looked at the white face with its 
 crown of snowy hair, then knelt beside it. He 
 paid no attention to. the curious people. 
 
 "Marie," he whispered, "Marie, my wife, 
 forgive me I O, forgive me!" He bowed his 
 head and began to sob. 
 
 Margaret went to him. "Father," she whis 
 pered, "you are forgiven, look at her face." 
 
 He looked and was comforted. 
 
 All the sadness and pain seemed to have left
 
 44 TIIK I.-IMSIIKO \VKR. 
 
 the dead woman's face, and a sweet, peaceful 
 smile had spread itself over her features. And 
 the people looked and wondered. 
 
 The old family vault w.as opened and Marie 
 Stanhill's coffin was placed beside that of her 
 son's. 
 
 As the last bit of plaster was put on the open 
 ing, Valance Stanhill stepped forward and picked 
 up a piece of stone, and with it wrote on the 
 soft surface: 
 
 "Marie, beloved, honored wife of Valance Stan- 
 hill." 
 
 Thus was the last thread cut in the web of 
 Marie Stanhill's life, and she received 
 
 " God's message in the sun, 
 
 Thou poor blind spinner, work is done."
 
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