GLADYS 
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY GREENLEAF DARLING 
 
 He is the half part of a blessed man, 
 Left to be finished by such a she; 
 And she a fair divided excellence, 
 Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. 
 KING JOHN. 
 
 FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STKEETS
 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1887 
 
 BY 
 D LOTHROP COMPAKY
 
 A thing to walk with, hand in hand, 
 
 Through the every-dayness of this work-day world, 
 
 Baring its tender feet to every roughness, 
 
 Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray 
 
 From Beauty s law of plainness and content. . . . 
 
 Such is true Love, which steals into the heart 
 
 With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn 
 
 That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark, 
 
 And hath its will thro blissful gentleness 
 
 Not like a rocket which, with savage glare, 
 
 Whirs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night 
 
 Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes 
 
 A Love that shall be new and fresh each hour 
 
 As is the golden mystery of sunset, 
 
 Or the sweet coming of the evening star. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER. PAGE. 
 
 I. ON THE STEAMER ...... 7 
 
 II. GLADYS PAST 12 
 
 III. AN UNWELCOME SUITOR 25 
 
 IV. A NEW ROLE FOR GLADYS 44 
 
 V. GOLDEN SUMMER 53 
 
 VI. A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT 63 
 
 VII. GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES 87 
 
 VIII. AN ORDEAL BY FIRE 102 
 
 IX. MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE 119 
 
 ; X. A MODERN BARBARA 132 
 
 XL A MEETING 142 
 
 XII. A CITY OF THE DEAD 151 
 
 XIII. THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS .... 166 
 
 XIV. THE LITTLE RIFT 177 
 
 XV. FATHER AND SON 184 
 
 XVI. FILLING THE VOID 194 
 
 XVII. NEW LINKS 209 
 
 XVIII. LITTLE TOM .220 
 
 XIX. DIVIDED 231 
 
 XX. A FRIEND IN NEED 238 
 
 XXI. ONE WAY OF LOVE 250 
 
 XXII. A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR . 262 
 
 XXIII. NANCY S ROMANCE 277 
 
 XXIV. SURPRISED 290 
 
 XXV. LOVE S FULFILLING 294
 
 GLADYS: A ROMANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON THE STEAMER. 
 "Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm." 
 
 WHAT, Doctor, is it you ? I am delighted ! 
 I was not looking for any rational com 
 panionship at this hour." 
 
 The doctor paused in the rather blind groping 
 of his way up the cabin stairs, first to scrutinize 
 his welcomer, then, as recognition dawned upon 
 his dazzled vision, to reply in a brusque tone quite 
 at variance with his hearty grasp of the hand, 
 
 " Nor would you have it now, my dear madam, 
 if it depended on my own choice, or if professional 
 claims would ever release one before bed-time ! 
 But, what in the name of all that is sensible, 
 are you doing here in the cabin at 11.30 P.M., 
 when you might be asleep in your state-room ? " 
 
 " Oh ! the girls, Madge and Gladys, could not 
 7
 
 8 ON THE STEAMER. 
 
 be induced to go before the train arrived, that 
 they might see who were to be their fellow-passen 
 gers on the steamer, and I, like the most indulgent 
 of chaperons, as I am, sit up playing propriety." 
 
 " I admire the way in which you perform your 
 duty, then, " said Dr. Forbes, seating himself 
 comfortably in the arm-chair beside the smiling, 
 well-preserved matron of the world. " Where are 
 the flock ? " 
 
 " Out in the moonlight, under the safe conduct 
 of Charles and Edith, or in and out of the cabin, 
 as the whim takes them. I hear their voices 
 now." And she glanced over her shoulder towards 
 a chatting, laughing group of young men and 
 girls, newly met in the middle of the cabin. 
 
 The doctor s eye followed hers. " Yes, I see 
 Miss Edith with her betrothed, and Miss Madge s 
 round cheeks ; but who is that slender girl behind 
 Gladys, did you say ? " 
 
 "Yes; Gordon s child. Didn t you know ? He 
 means to settle down at last, after all his wander 
 ings, in the old Boston home, and introduce his 
 daughter to society himself. She is fresh from a 
 New York boarding-school, and is to spend this 
 summer under my care."
 
 ON THE STEAMER. 9 
 
 "Humph!" said the doctor, with a shrug, "if 
 the young lady is at all like her father, as I re 
 member him, you will have no light addition to 
 your cares. Young Gordon Lyman was a wild 
 bird once, with a strong will of his own. I have 
 not seen him for years." 
 
 " Nor has any one," returned Mrs. Waterston, 
 half-sadly. " He has never been able to settle at 
 home since his marriage. First his wife s ill- 
 health and taste for life abroad, then her death, 
 and his own aversion to coming back to the closed 
 house Gladys, I believe, knows something of 
 every country but her own." 
 
 " What sort of girl is she ? " asked the doctor 
 abruptly, with the freedom of the household friend 
 to whom are revealed all secrets, whether physi 
 cal or moral. 
 
 "A sweet child," replied the aunt warmly. 
 " But here she comes. You shall judge her for 
 yourself." 
 
 "Well, mamma, we have found quite friends 
 enough to repay us for sitting up, if that is any 
 consolation to you," cried Margaret Waterston s 
 blithe voice. " Here are the Cliffords, and they say 
 Mr. Boylston s yacht, with Raymond Lindesay and
 
 IO ON THE STEAMER. 
 
 a party of reading men, is already at Bar Harbor 
 Oh, Dr. Forbes ! I am so glad to see you." 
 
 Edith Waterston s greeting, though less hearty, 
 was no less friendly than her sister s, and Gladys 
 glanced shyly over her cousin s shoulder at the 
 gray-haired, rather cynical-looking man who was 
 welcomed so warmly. 
 
 She was tall and slight, with a graceful figure, 
 full of elasticity and vigor, and a delicate face 
 flushed with a faint wild-rose tint, fair hair and 
 sweet, dewy dark eyes. 
 
 " I am glad to meet you, Miss Lyman, for your 
 father was a friend of mine in his young days. 
 Where is he now ? " 
 
 " In Switzerland. I could not persuade him to 
 come home before September, at the earliest. I 
 have not seen him for nearly a year, and oh ! I do 
 so long for his coming ! " 
 
 "Take care, Doctor, you will make her home 
 sick if you talk of papa !" said Madge. She 
 spoke caressingly, however, and stole an arm round 
 Gladys waist. 
 
 Gladys half-laughed. " I am ashamed of my 
 self," she said, lifting the brown eyes in which 
 sudden tears had welled up, to the quizzical, kindly
 
 ON THE STEAMER. II 
 
 face. " I have been much away from papa, too, 
 when I was younger, but not of late years ; we 
 have been always together." 
 
 The sweet, tearful eyes, with the simple burst 
 of emotion, quite won their way through the rough 
 shell to the old doctor s kindly heart, and Gladys 
 Lyman closed her state-room door that night on a 
 staunch friend.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 GLADYS PAST. 
 
 . . . . Those first affections, 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain*light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 HOMESICKNESS cannot last long in an 
 atmosphere of youth and merriment, with 
 a smiling present and a hopeful future. Gladys, 
 accordingly, was one of the blithest of the group 
 assembled at early morning on the deck to watch 
 the steamer s slow progress among islands and 
 points of land on her way to Mt. Desert. Those 
 were the old happy days when Eden railroads were 
 not, and patient waiters for the steamboat s mid 
 night start thought themselves no losers in the 
 glow of the sunlit scenery. 
 
 "No seasickness, I see," said the doctor, who, 
 buttoned up in his ulster, was already pacing the 
 deck as Gladys opened the little glass door. 
 
 " Oh, no ! " The girl s cheeks and eyes were as
 
 GLADYS PAST. 13 
 
 bright as the morning. " But it seemed a waste 
 of time to stay any longer in that close little state 
 room. This is too beautiful to lose." 
 
 One by one the little group gathered in a nook 
 sheltered from the wind, the doctor eying them 
 with a half-amused glance while they chatted and 
 laughed, quite unconscious of his observation. 
 
 Edith Waterston, being somewhat older than the 
 others, was a little less free in her girlish enthu 
 siasm. She sat apart with her betrothed, Charles 
 Freeman, her quiet, incisive utterance coming in 
 occasionally as a check on her younger sister s in 
 domitable flow of spirits. Unfailingly gay and 
 good-natured, Madge poured out questions, augu 
 ries for the future, and rapturous exclamations at 
 the scenery, all in a breath. 
 
 "And Ned Boylston is there, you say? Now 
 he is just suited to my capacity; but as for Mr. 
 Lindesay there is a sort of suppressed clever 
 ness about him which makes me quite tongue-tied 
 in his presence. Gladys, however, hasn t yet had 
 time to forget all she learned at school 
 
 " He is not in the least alarming," said Anna 
 Clifford, a self-possessed damsel with a cold, light- 
 blue eye.
 
 14 GLADYS PAST. 
 
 " Perhaps not, if you attack him at the right 
 point. Yet I never thought you so very abstruse, 
 Anna or is cleverness contagious ? Don t look 
 so very reproving, Edith ! Anna has no more 
 ambition for being called a blue-stocking than I 
 have." 
 
 " No one supposed she had, Madge, but Mr. 
 Lindesay is really entertaining, and by no means 
 likely to confine his attention to blue-stockings." 
 
 "Yes, I know," returned Madge hastily, "but 
 who is there for little Gladys ? You know she is 
 not out yet, Mr. Clifford, and I should like society 
 to dawn on her through the medium of some one 
 who, without being too alarming, could yet pres 
 ent himself as one quite au fait with the gay 
 
 * 
 world." 
 
 " There is Mr. Morgan Amory," said Anna, 
 with a little sneering laugh which struck rather 
 unpleasantly on the observant doctor s ear. "He 
 is in his cottage, this summer, and has some new 
 saddle-horses. They say he is on the lookout for 
 a capital horsewoman as a riding companion, and, 
 perhaps, a mistress for the cottage as well. Miss 
 Lyman is new." 
 
 Madge clasped her hands rapturously.
 
 GLADYS PAST. 1 5 
 
 " And she rides famously ! Gladys, my dear, 
 if you could only get on his weak side ! Such an 
 invaluable friend for you next winter! " 
 
 " Oh ! I am too much of a novice for Mr. Amory," 
 said Gladys, with an amused little laugh. " You 
 forget that I am only a schoolgirl." 
 
 " But, my dear, if he would only take you up, to 
 begin with ! I ll make over all my own claims to 
 saddle-horses and cottage on the spot." 
 
 " Many thanks, dear Madge, but I m afraid he 
 would enjoy the part you ve assigned him no more 
 than I should." 
 
 " Won t you accept of me as a substitute, Miss 
 Lyman ? " said-young Clifford ; " I m a novice my 
 self." 
 
 " Yes, very gratefully, Mr. Clifford, for you will 
 not stoop to pick me up, as I fear Mr. Amory 
 would have to. I should not like that." 
 
 " No," said Madge, her eager eyes fixed on the 
 land they were passing, "it isn t easy to patron 
 ize Gladys, I find, if she is an unfledged school 
 girl, and I, a woman of the world. After one 
 season in town I shall positively Oh, girls ! just 
 look at that lovely little islet. I have half a mind 
 to forego Bar Harbor on the spot, and just ask the
 
 16 GLADYS PAST. 
 
 captain to leave me here. What a place for a 
 lodge in a vast wilderness ! " 
 
 " In which you would be sighing for society 
 before supper-time," said Edith, quietly. 
 
 Very light prattle, surely, but not lost on the 
 ear of the doctor, who was, from temperament, as 
 well as the habit of his profession, a student of 
 human nature. He turned, half-smiling, to look at 
 Gladys as she made her laughing rejoinder to 
 young Clifford, and quite agreed with Madge that 
 patronage must be a difficult attitude to assume 
 towards the young girl, novice though she might 
 be. Simple as she obviously was, her bright eyes 
 dancing with enjoyment of all around her, there 
 was a quiet collectedness in her tone and manner, 
 whether in answering Anna Clifford s cool sallies, 
 or her brother s rather blundering eagerness to 
 please alack of the fluttering excitement, char 
 acteristic of the schoolgirl just launched on the 
 world, which showed self-command and pleased 
 the good doctor. 
 
 " She has her nerves under control," he said to 
 himself, " and will never lose her head as JVTadge 
 might. But she comes by that by good rights." 
 
 Yet it was not by inheritance, only, that Gladys
 
 GLADYS PAST. I/ 
 
 had come to her power of self-control. Young 
 and simple as she was, secluded and almost solitary 
 as her life had hitherto been, the rapid changes in 
 her surroundings had been a school of character. 
 She was too young when she left it to remember 
 the Boston home to which she was to return next 
 winter, but as far back as her memory went, the 
 frail, beautiful mother had been the centre of her 
 father s solicitude and the moving-spring of their 
 home. This was true literally as well as figura 
 tively, for, at her slightest wish, seas and moun 
 tains were crossed, and they found themselves in 
 France, Italy or Switzerland. It was a sick fancy 
 only ; Mr. Lyman knew, probably the invalid her 
 self knew, that all change was hopeless. 
 
 The one element of permanence in little Gladys 
 changeful life was a thoroughly wise and sym 
 pathetic governess. Mrs. Stanhope had been a 
 school-friend of Mrs. Lyman s, and now, as a young 
 widow, shared all their wanderings. Whether 
 Gladys were left in French pension, German fam 
 ily or Swiss clialet, Mrs. Stanhope was always with 
 her, and, while her ready ear and tongue caught 
 German or French accents, her governess laid the 
 foundation of a thorough English education.
 
 1 8 GLADYS PAST. 
 
 In spite of her wanderings, the child was amus 
 ingly loyal to home and to all the institutions of 
 her country of which she had seen so little. Pro 
 bably Mrs. Stanhope, who had an instinctive dread 
 lest her foreign surroundings should influence the 
 impressible child, had herself to thank for this. 
 But she need not have feared ; Gladys was staunch 
 in her attachments, even though her romantic 
 imagination might have been largely answerable 
 for forming them. 
 
 There came one happy summer when they were 
 all together in the beautiful Lake country. Gladys 
 was fourteen or fifteen then, and beginning to give 
 promise of beauty and grace that delighted her 
 father. 
 
 " I must teach her to ride," he said to his wife ; 
 " I fancy she would sit well." And Gladys would 
 have died rather than disappoint that hope. But, 
 indeed, it did not require much effort on her 
 part to realize it. She was absolutely fearless, and 
 gifted with a sort of native ease and grace which 
 enabled her to do readily all that she undertook. 
 
 "Why, you little witch ! " said her father, after 
 they had ridden a few times together : " there is 
 positively nothing to teach you ! You sit your
 
 GLADYS PAST. 19 
 
 horse so that I am absolutely proud of you, and 
 when you know how to leap, I think you will be 
 perfect in horsemanship." 
 
 " Do begin soon, papa," said Gladys delightedly. 
 
 "You are not afraid, then ?" 
 
 "Only the least little bit. I shall not be 
 when you are ready to try me. How could I be 
 if, as you say, you are proud of me ? " 
 
 " You vain little minx, " said her father, laugh 
 ing, "I must beware how I compliment you, I see. 
 I would not have you conceited, Gladys, but I 
 detest awkwardness in any one." 
 
 " Papa," said Gladys, aggrieved, "truly I am not 
 vain." 
 
 " What then ? " he retorted, laughing still. 
 
 " Only proud to think you are proud of me. Oh ! 
 when you say that, I could not fail in anything." 
 
 " Have my words such magic power, then ? 
 Why ? " 
 
 " Because I love you so," returned Gladys, with 
 a quick rush of color to cheek and brow. 
 
 "Really," said Mr. Lyman, when, half-touched, 
 half-amused, he repeated the little dialogue to his 
 wife, "she is an odd, impressible little mortal! 
 We must keep an eye on her a few years hence,
 
 2O GLADYS PAST. 
 
 or that romantic element in her will be getting us 
 into trouble. Perhaps it is only the love of power 
 under the guise of impressibility, what do you 
 think, Amy ? " 
 
 " You should know better than I, Gordon. 
 Gladys is so much more like you than me. She 
 is not sentimental, surely ; there is far too much 
 strength in her nature for that." 
 
 It was a happy summer, but too soon over. 
 Early in the autumn, even before the leaves and 
 flowers had felt the change, Mrs. Lyman began to 
 droop. The. happy rides and loving companion 
 ship of parents and child were broken off on the 
 instant. Mr. Lyman even reproached himself for 
 too much absorption. They were on the wing 
 directly for Mentone ; Gladys was left behind with 
 her governess to spend a few more weeks in Eng 
 land, then, if her mother should be better, to fol 
 low and join them for a little before returning to 
 London for another year of study. Mrs. Stanhope 
 could not help admiring the proud self-command 
 with which the girl bore the anguish of this uncer 
 tainty. In the midst of scenes which often made 
 her lip quiver with the memory of happy past days, 
 she would not utter a word of complaint, lest Mrs.
 
 GLADYS PAST. 21 
 
 Stanhope should suffer with her, or fancy she was 
 less happy in her company than in old times. 
 
 "Dear girl! what a power of loving she has," 
 thought the governess fondly. In her eyes Gladys 
 was all but perfect. The uncertainty did not last 
 long. A telegram came to Mrs. Stanhope with 
 the brief announcement of Mrs. Lyman s death. 
 "Break it to Gladys." 
 
 There is something eloquent in the very brevity 
 of a telegram. Mrs. Stanhope could imagine just 
 the look of agony with which Mr. Lyman would 
 have said the words, and turned away because he 
 could not say more. But while she sat weeping 
 and thinking how she should " break it to Gladys," 
 the girl threw her arms around her and kissed her 
 gently. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Stanhope, do not cry ! I can bear it ! 
 I know what you are going to tell me. Mamma is 
 very ill, or perhaps," as she saw the change in her 
 governess s face, " perhaps she is already dead ? " 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope silently bowed her head and 
 Gladys sat for a long time quite still, the quiet 
 tears dropping on her folded hands. Presently she 
 started up like one who feels she must no longer 
 yield to her own grief.
 
 22 GLADYS PAST. 
 
 " What does papa say ? Does he tell us to 
 come ? " 
 
 " He does not say one word of that, dear." 
 
 " Then we will go to him ourselves he must 
 not be left alone ! See ! will this telegram do 
 to send ? And we will pack at once." 
 
 It did not seem an impatience of grief, such as 
 many young and bright natures feel, but complete 
 absorption in the thought of another. 
 
 They came upon Mr. Lyman sitting alone with 
 his overwhelming sorrow, even before he had re 
 membered that there was still something left to 
 him. His first exclamation was almost one of dis 
 pleasure : 
 
 "Gladys ! You here! I did not send for you." 
 
 " No, papa," said the girl, advancing firmly, 
 though Mrs. Stanhope would have drawn back, 
 "but I felt I must be with you you will let me 
 stay ? " 
 
 The tone was half-pleading, half-determined. Mr. 
 Lyman said nothing more, and presently, as his 
 daughter sat beside him, put one hand gently on 
 hers. 
 
 Society called Mr. Lyman a proud, somewhat 
 cold and worldly man ; but his daughter, knowing
 
 GLADYS PAST. 23 
 
 how disinterested and tender had been his absorp 
 tion in his wife, rightly guessed that his best had 
 been given to her, and longed, as much as in her 
 lay, to fill the void which her mother had left. 
 
 Mrs. Lyman was buried at Mentone, and not a 
 word was said about going home. At last Mrs. 
 Stanhope, anxious for the welfare of her charge, 
 hinted at the former plan of a winter in London. 
 
 " Yes, Gladys must go, I suppose," he said, 
 rousing himself from the abstraction which only 
 Gladys herself had power to charm away ; " or it 
 might be better for her to go home at once to 
 America. I have always intended that she should 
 finish her education in her own country." 
 
 "Home ! oh ! " cried Gladys, her eyes beaming 
 with joy, "are we really going home to America ? " 
 
 He shook his head quickly. 
 
 " Not yet. I am not ready to go. But you 
 shall go if you wish it, Gladys." 
 
 " I do not wish it till you are ready. One year 
 of American education will do for me, won t it, 
 Mrs. Stanhope ? We will spend the winter to 
 gether in London, papa. You know you wished 
 me to take drawing-lessons." She spoke with more 
 confidence than she felt, clinging fondly to his hand.
 
 24 GLADYS PAST. 
 
 " That had not been my plan for myself," said 
 Mr. Lyman, with a momentary half-smile, " but it 
 shall be as you choose, Gladys," And she felt 
 that her first victory had been gained. 
 
 That, too, was a happy winter, in spite of its 
 shadow of sadness. With the tact belonging to 
 her strong affection, Gladys contrived to draw her 
 father into interest in her own pursuits, revived 
 his appreciative enjoyment of art by her own 
 eagerness to see, and her untiring efforts to excel. 
 It was through her influence that he began the 
 collection of pictures for the Boston home which 
 furnished him with a central interest all through 
 the remaining years of his life. Together they 
 haunted picture-galleries, art-museums, studios and 
 art-shops till the tall, distinguished-looking man 
 and the lovely girl began to be a beacon of hope to 
 picture-dealers, and a cynosure to artists. Nor in 
 these alone did Gladys excite admiration ; but this 
 part of her history calls for a fresh chapter.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 
 
 Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
 Morning rises into noon, 
 May glides onward into June. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 IN the course of their art-rambles in London, 
 they met and were often joined by a young 
 man whom Mr. Lyman addressed as Willoughby, 
 and with whom he seemed, in spite of the dispar 
 ity of their ages, to stand on a pleasant footing 
 of artistic sympathy. Since his wife s death 
 Mr. Lyman had avoided all social intercourse, 
 and neither given nor accepted invitations. He 
 wrapped himself in a cloak of cold reserve, like 
 one who dreaded the proffer of sympathy, and the 
 world, repelled by his manner, dared not offer it. 
 But about this young man there was a genial, 
 simple frankness which would not be repelled, or, 
 rather, which disarmed the suspicion of intrusion. 
 Finding that Mr. Lyman was interested in picture 
 hunting, he made himself useful to him in a thou- 
 
 2 5
 
 26 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 
 
 sand ways, entering into his pursuit of master 
 pieces with as much eagerness as if the quest were 
 his own, and falling quite naturally into the habit 
 of coming frequently to the house. He was in 
 London to pursue art, not as a means of livelihood, 
 though it was his ostensible profession, but from 
 love of the pursuit. 
 
 "And really Charles Willoughby has no incon 
 siderable talent," Mr. Lyman said to his daughter. 
 " He invites us to his studio, Gladys." 
 
 To the studio, in course of time, they went, 
 Gladys delighted that anything could draw her 
 father from his heart-broken seclusion, and over 
 flowing with gratitude to the young man who had 
 power to work the charm. She was sixteen that 
 winter, and very lovely, with manners half-childlike 
 in their frankness, half-womanly in their occasional 
 shy reserve, but always simple and unconscious 
 of self. Young Willoughby treated her with the 
 hearty pleasant cordiality of manner natural to 
 him, and she was speedily almost as much at ease 
 with him as with her father or Mrs. Stanhope. It 
 became quite a matter of course that he should be 
 the third in their picture hunts or horseback rides. 
 Then he began to help Gladys in her drawing, prais-
 
 AN UNWEL COME SUITOR. 2/ 
 
 ing or criticising her efforts as a teacher might, 
 while she received the praise or blame in quite the 
 same spirit as a pupil. 
 
 " Mr. Willoughby really thinks my foliage is 
 improving, papa," or, " I wish I could ever make 
 Mr. Willoughby think my skies tolerable ! " 
 
 At last one day when they were all in the studio, 
 the young artist, who had been watching Gladys 
 as she rummaged about among the pictures, quite 
 unconscious of his observation, asked Mr. Lyman, 
 with a new hesitation in his manner, if he might 
 paint her portrait. 
 
 " Why, if you wish it, my dear fellow, although 
 I should have thought it would be better to wait 
 a few years. Girlhood, you know, is a variable 
 period." Willoughby blushed slightly, smiled, and 
 quoted a line or two of Longfellow s, 
 
 " Standing with reluctant feet, 
 Where the brook and river meet, 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet," 
 
 but repeated his request. 
 
 " It shall be as you and Gladys agree, then," 
 said Mr. Lyman, carelessly. " Would you like 
 Mr. Willoughby to paint your portrait, my pet ? " 
 
 "Better than anyone else," said Gladys, laugh-
 
 28 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 
 
 ingly, " if he likes to try. I am afraid it will be a 
 little tiresome." 
 
 The sittings at the studio were begun, and 
 became a part of Mrs. Stanhope s and Gladys* 
 bi-weekly duty ; the former, as the unoccupied 
 third, often noticed and remarked upon the extra 
 ordinary earnestness which the young man threw 
 into his task. 
 
 "But Gladys is a happy subject," she observed 
 to Mr. Lyman ; " a few years hence, when she has 
 been told that she is beautiful, she will hardly be 
 so perfect, because so unconscious a model." 
 
 "Very probably -not," Mr. Lyman replied. 
 
 He was not to see the portrait until it was in- 
 ished, but the day came sooner than he had a< ici- 
 pated. Looking upon Gladys as an unformed Cviild, 
 he had thought little about the matter ; but when 
 he saw the portrait, surprise and delight quite over 
 came his indifference. Willoughby had caught her 
 very look and air ; it was a living, breathing Gladys ! 
 
 "Why, my dear fellow ! " Mr. Lyman exclaimed, 
 startled out of his usual nonchalance, " I had no 
 idea you possessed such genius ! That is no por 
 trait ! It is Gladys self! How you must have 
 studied your .subject ! "
 
 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 2Q 
 
 Willoughby colored slightly, but murmured some 
 thing as he bent over his palette about "familiarity 
 making it easy to catch the pose." 
 
 " I should have thought it more beautiful than 
 Gladys, at first sight," said Mr. Lyman, still ad 
 vancing and retreating, connoisseur-wise, before 
 the canvas. " I suppose I cannot judge of that so 
 well as a stranger. To me Gladys is still a child, 
 and though this is her very self, I should have said 
 if it were not my own daughter s portrait, What 
 a lovely woman ! You have not idealized it, Wil 
 loughby ? " 
 
 " Not the least in the world ! " said the young 
 man, coloring more deeply; " this is only the first 
 impression that Miss Lyman makes. In reality, 
 she is far more beautiful than that ! " 
 
 " I suppose you artists know best," said the 
 father, with a pleased smile. " But I congratulate 
 you on your success, my dear fellow, and I hope, 
 though it is your chef-d oeuvre, that I may buy 
 the portrait ? " 
 
 " I hoped you might wish to take it," the artist 
 replied. 
 
 " Do you know," Gladys said, a few days after, 
 in the hearing of her father and Mrs. Stanhope,
 
 3O AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 
 
 " when we were in the studio, this afternoon, I 
 came, in my exploring, on a duplicate of my 
 portrait ! Why, what is this, Mr. Willoughby ? 
 said I, do artists paint two copies of their sub 
 jects ? For whom is this ? For myself, said 
 Mr. Willoughby, and colored, quite as if he were 
 ashamed of his vanity, though he explained very 
 frankly that artists did like to keep copies of their 
 best works. He popped the canvas away, though, 
 behind two others, and I was half afraid to speak 
 of it when you came back." 
 
 Mr. Lyman smiled and forgot the matter, which 
 Gladys treated as an odd and somewhat amusing 
 piece of weakness, but on Mrs. Stanhope it made 
 more impression. 
 
 That summer was spent in Switzerland, and was 
 to be the last before Gladys should return to 
 America to spend one year in a New York board 
 ing-school. 
 
 " I think she needs the companionship of other 
 girls," Mrs. Stanhope said ; " she has grown up 
 quite apart from those of her own age. I can see 
 no flaw in her ; she seems to me utterly free 
 from the self-conceit she might easily have, since 
 she is really so superior to most girls. Yet I do
 
 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 31 
 
 advise letting her measure herself with others ; the 
 companionship will be good for her, if not the 
 competition." 
 
 " This is very disinterested advice of Mrs. Stan 
 hope s, Gladys," said Mr. Lyman, as the girl 
 entered the room, " but it is wise counsel as well." 
 
 "Then you will come home too, papa ?" she 
 asked wistfully. 
 
 " No, my Gladys, not yet. I could not go back 
 to the old home without you to brighten it for me. 
 Another year, when you are ready to go into 
 society, I will pledge myself, but not yet." 
 
 " Am I to lose you both at once, then ? " the 
 girl asked sorrowfully. 
 
 "Not me, Gladys," said Mrs. Stanhope, trying 
 to smile. "You know my old home is in New 
 York, and though you will be at school, you will 
 always have that refuge to run to." 
 
 And Gladys, always ready to see the wisdom of 
 any measure proposed by those she loved, bright 
 ened, and resolved to enjoy this last summer to 
 the full. 
 
 She sat, one afternoon, on the hotel piazza, at 
 Interlaken, her sketch-book before her, trying, 
 most earnestly, to catch the lights and shadows
 
 32 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 
 
 on the mountains. A carriage had just set down 
 two or three tourists at the door, and one, a young 
 Englishman, raised his eyes quickly to the piazza 
 above, where the girl stood leaning against the 
 pillar. 
 
 " I am afraid it is of no use ! " she said, slowly 
 retreating backward to her seat, "I can hardly 
 hope to catch it, I suppose." 
 
 She had spoken to Mrs. Stanhope, who was, 
 or had been, sitting just behind her; but it was 
 a masculine voice which said, in reply : 
 
 "Yet that is not bad very far from bad! 
 A touch there and there !" and a masculine, 
 sun-embrowned hand, picking up the charcoal 
 which Gladys had dropped, added the touches. 
 The voice was Charles Willoughby s genial tone, 
 but the hand, unlike his, trembled. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Willoughby !" cried Gladys, aston 
 ished, " is it really you ? How did you know we 
 were here? but of course you did not know it." 
 
 " No ; only hoped it," said the young man, as he 
 shook hands with Mrs. Stanhope, who stepped 
 through the long French window at the sound of 
 the voice. " I have been following you from one 
 place to another."
 
 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 33 
 
 " Of course I ought not to feel so when he came 
 purposely to join us," Gladys afterwards confided 
 to her governess, " but I was half-vexed for a mo 
 ment that this last summer with you and papa 
 should be interrupted by anybody, even Mr. Wil- 
 loughby ! But I suppose he can hardly be called 
 an interruption, after all." 
 
 For a few days he certainly was not. Mr. Lyman 
 was fond of him, and the trio seemed to fall again 
 into the pleasant London life, surroundings only 
 excepted. They walked, drove, climbed mountains 
 and sketched together, and Gladys, forgetting her 
 momentary annoyance, was her own gay, sweet, 
 unconstrained self again. With Mr. Charles Wil- 
 loughby there was this difference only : that he was 
 less talkative than usual, occasionally abstracted, 
 and apparently unconscious of his own long preoc 
 cupied lapses into silence. 
 
 One of these had lasted an unusual time on a 
 certain evening when Gladys had said good-night 
 and gone to her room with Mrs. Stanhope, leaving 
 the two on the piazza, smoking in the moonlight. 
 Mr. Lyman was smoking, I should say ; Willoughby 
 had been sitting so long with a cigar unlighted in 
 his hand, that his companion, who had eyed him
 
 34 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 
 
 once or twice with some amusement, at last broke 
 into a laugh, and laying his hand on the young 
 man s shoulder, said jestingly : 
 
 " May I ask you what is the matter with that cigar 
 which you have been eying so critically these ten 
 minutes past ? " 
 
 The young man started. " I was not thinking 
 of the cigar," he replied, in a half-annoyed tone ; " I 
 have something serious to say to you, Mr. Lyman." 
 
 "Oh! indeed?" returned the other, laughingly. 
 " I should hardly have thought you had anything, 
 however trifling, to say to me. But say on, my 
 dear fellow. I do not pretend to much wisdom, 
 but such as I have is at the service of my friends," 
 
 "Mr. Lyman," said the young man abruptly, 
 rising and standing so as to face his friend, " I wish 
 to speak to you about your daughter. I know I 
 shall surprise you, for you have probably never 
 connected such a thought with our acquaintance, 
 but the truth is I find I love her." 
 
 Mr. Lyman was indeed surprised. He fell back 
 in his chair, looking up at the young man who 
 stood erect and earnest before him, and fairly 
 gasped in his amazement. 
 
 "Gladys! Why -~" recovering with a sort of
 
 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 35 
 
 relief from the shock of surprise " but Gladys is 
 a child a baby ! " 
 
 " Not quite that," said the young man. " Six 
 teen is young, certainly, but not exactly a child." 
 
 " I never heard anything so absurd in my life ! " 
 cried Mr. Lyman, quite startled out of his usual 
 polished address by the monstrosity of the idea. 
 "The other day she was playing with dolls, and 
 why, Willoughby, she goes to America to school 
 in September ! " 
 
 " Plans may be changed in view of changed cir 
 cumstances," said the young man a little stiffly. 
 " Your surprise is quite natural, Mr. Lyman, and 
 I confess frankly, that until she was gone from 
 London I did not fully know that I had learned to 
 love her. Of course I am rational of course I 
 am looking to the future rather than hoping for 
 the present. But I thought it the only true and 
 honorable course to speak to you first, and, as I 
 have spoken from my heart and earnestly, I think 
 I have a right to expect to be answered in the 
 same spirit." 
 
 His voice trembled a little, and Mr. Lyman, 
 startled, amused, annoyed as he was, recognized 
 the justice of the claim.
 
 36 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 
 
 " You are quite right," he said more gravely ; 
 " I will try to meet you as you wish. May I ask if 
 Gladys has any suspicion of your feeling for her?" 
 
 " I think not. I wished to speak to you, if pos 
 sible, before giving her any suspicion of it. For 
 that reason I spoke to-night, fearing I could no 
 longer conceal it from her." 
 
 "Very right and manly," said Mr. Lyman, "and 
 I believe I may take it upon myself to give my 
 daughter s reply. She has not the least suspicion 
 of your feeling for her, nor the faintest desire to 
 feel the same for any one herself for three or four 
 years to come." 
 
 Young Willoughby, however, knit his brows, 
 and replied to Mr. Lyman s calm assurance with 
 something of the John Bull sullenness in his tone : 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Lyman ; 1 cannot consider 
 your answer as satisfactory to me as it evidently is 
 to yourself. May I ask if there is anything objec 
 tionable to you in the idea of such a match ? I 
 am quite independent of my parents ; I have my 
 uncle s fortune, and do not propose to interfere 
 with my sisters portion, though the estate, as 
 entailed, comes to me. If my fancy for an artist s 
 life "
 
 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 37 
 
 " My dear Willoughby," cried Mr. Lyman, hold 
 ing up an expostulatory ringer, " I have not a word 
 to say about your prospects or your profession. 
 Yourself, your family and your fortune are all 
 satisfactory to me. The point is, that Gladys is 
 too young to have such a subject broached to her 
 at all." 
 
 " Excuse me," said the persistent lover, " if I 
 differ from you. I have already said that I was 
 looking to the future rather than the present. 
 Yet I cannot, in justice to my own heart, let her 
 go away to a new country, with a whole new world 
 opening before her, without saying a word for 
 myself." 
 
 " She knows nothing of any world," said Mr. 
 Lyman hastily. " But what do you propose 
 doing ? " 
 
 " With your consent, saying a word of my feel 
 ings to your daughter. Or, if you think it better, 
 asking you to speak to her for me. I would not 
 willingly startle her, as I have you, but I am trust 
 ing to you very fully, Mr. Lyman." 
 
 " You are, indeed," said Mr. Lyman, touched at 
 last, in spite of his annoyance and perplexity, by 
 the young man s manly, if mistaken earnestness,
 
 38 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 
 
 " I will think it over and speak for you. Believe 
 me, that is the better course." 
 
 Charles Willoughby said good-night at once, 
 with a hearty pressure of the hand, and Mr. Lyman 
 was left to pace the piazza for an hour in genuine 
 perplexity. 
 
 At first he thought of sending for Mrs. Stan 
 hope and asking whether she, with her woman s 
 quicker power of discernment, had suspected the 
 state of the case, but he hesitated, feeling it dis 
 loyalty to young Willoughby with whose secret he 
 had been entrusted. So it happened that Gladys, 
 coming downstairs next morning, all unconscious, 
 was met by a grave, preoccupied face, instead of 
 the usual half-playful morning salutation to which 
 she was accustomed. 
 
 " Come to me, Gladys. I have something im 
 portant to say to you." 
 
 " Nothing too serious, I hope, papa ? " And, 
 standing by his side, she looked rather anxiously 
 into his face with her clear brown eyes. There was 
 something so childlike and innocent in the curves 
 of the lovely rose-tinted face that Mr. Lyman s 
 involuntarily relaxed into a smile. 
 
 " No, nothing very serious, I hope. But get
 
 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 39 
 
 your hat, Gladys ; we will take a little walk be 
 fore breakfast. I wish to speak to you alone." 
 
 Relieved by his change of manner, the girl ran 
 for her hat, and the two set out. Alone with 
 Gladys, however, Mr. Lyman found himself in 
 fresh embarrassment. How begin on such a sub 
 ject with this very child unless as a jest, or how, 
 in justice to Willoughby, treat it otherwise than 
 seriously ? She broke the ice, however, by looking 
 up into his face as she took his arm, and saying 
 smilingly, "Now, papa, begin ; I am all ears." 
 
 " Gladys," said Mr. Lyman, playing rather ner 
 vously with his eyeglass, " what do you think of 
 Mr. Willoughby?" 
 
 "Think of him?" said Gladys merrily, "why, 
 I did think it rather a bore that he should have 
 come here just now, but I am getting used to it, 
 and I do not mind very much. But what an odd 
 question ! Mr. Willoughby is not any one new." 
 
 " Only new in this capacity, I confess," said 
 Mr. Lyman, with a smile. " My dear child, I wish 
 you to listen to me seriously for a moment, for it 
 is my duty to speak to you seriously. Do you 
 think it would ever be possible for you to care for 
 Mr. Willoughby not now, of course, because you
 
 4O AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 
 
 are too young, but some years hence, perhaps, as 
 as a girl might care for a lover ? " 
 
 " How can I tell, papa? I could not think of 
 him so, of course, unless unless he asked me 
 himself. Why do you " 
 
 She paused, seeing the peculiar expression of 
 her father s face. 
 
 " Why do I ask you such a question ? " Mr. 
 Lyman repeated. " Because, my dear child, Mr. 
 Willoughby wished it, and, young as you are, 
 cannot be satisfied with any answer but your own. 
 It was very honorable of him to speak to me first, 
 although I confess it startled me somewhat to think 
 that my little Gladys, who has not yet done with 
 schoolbooks, should be thinking of lovers." 
 
 " Indeed, papa, I am not thinking of them," 
 said the girl, flushing with some indignation, like 
 one who is unjustly accused. " I have never 
 thought of Mr. Willoughby, or any one else, so ! 
 Why did you not tell him so for me ? " 
 
 " Because, my dear," said the father, heartily 
 relieved by the girl s indignation, childish as it 
 was, " Mr. Willoughby would take no answer but 
 your own. It is no subject for anger, Gladys ; 
 a <rood man s love is something to be grateful for.
 
 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 4! 
 
 Mr. Willoughby is a very earnest, manly fellow, 
 whose affection is worthy a woman s winning." 
 
 " But I am not a woman yet," said Gladys, her 
 lips still quivering. " It is very absurd of him to 
 think of me so ! Please, papa, next time answer 
 for me. You know quite well what I should 
 say ! " 
 
 "We will hope there will be no next time at 
 present," said Mr. Lyman, smiling, " but if your 
 mind is made up, you must write a line or two 
 to tell him so. It will be pleasanter for you than 
 seeing him." 
 
 " Oh ! I could not see him," cried the girl dis 
 tressfully. " All my comfort is spoiled now, and 
 I did like him to draw and ride with ! " The 
 tears rose to her eyes, but she dashed them 
 proudly away. " What shall I write ? No ; you 
 need not tell me. Give me your little pocket-book, 
 please." 
 
 And sitting down on the grass, she wrote while 
 her father watched her, half-amused, half-touched 
 by her distress. 
 
 " I think that will do," she said, giving him the 
 penciled leaf. " And I shall go upstairs, for I do 
 not wish to see him at all."
 
 42 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 
 
 Her father glanced over the lines : 
 
 DEAR MR. WILLOUGHBY : 
 
 I am very sorry you did not believe what papa told you, for it 
 is quite impossible that I should ever think of such a thing as 
 you ask. Please do not think me ungrateful for all your kind help. 
 I thank you very much, and hope you will believe me 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 GLADYS LYMAN. 
 
 "Yes; that will do very well," said Mr. Lyman, 
 rather surprised by the tone of the note. " That 
 is quite a grown-up answer. Now, go in to Mrs. 
 Stanhope, my dear little girl, and do not distress 
 yourself any more about the matter." 
 
 "The matter," however, caused Gladys a violent 
 burst of grief when she poured it out to the sym 
 pathetic ears of Mrs. Stanhope. 
 
 " So absurd ! " said the girl, sobbing in indigna 
 tion ; " why, Mrs. Stanhope, if I had cared for him, 
 or wished him to care for me, I should not have 
 gone to his studio or talked to him as I did. He 
 should have known that." 
 
 Mrs. Stanhope soothed her, and her sympathy 
 went far in banishing the clouds from her pupil s 
 horizon. 
 
 " And yet," the governess owned to Mr. Lyman, 
 later, " I was not so surprised as you, I confess. I
 
 AN UNWELCOME SUITOR. 43 
 
 have sometimes fancied, absurd as the idea seemed 
 to us, in view of Gladys youth, that Mr. Wil- 
 loughby was becoming interested in her. With 
 all her childishness, Gladys is a woman in her dig 
 nity and self-possession." 
 
 " Little puss ! " said her father, laughing at the 
 recollection of her proud indignation. "Where 
 did she learn how to reject a lover so well ? Poor 
 Willoughby went off without a shadow of hope 
 left. I wonder if she will ask me, a few years 
 hence, to refuse her unwelcome suitors for her ! 
 But this is one reason the more, Mrs. Stanhope, 
 for sending her to school." 
 
 And into the new world of a girls boarding- 
 school Gladys accordingly went.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A NEW R6LE FOR GLADYS. 
 
 For naught that sets one heart at ease, 
 And giveth happiness or peace, 
 Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 
 
 J. R. LOWELL. 
 
 TO those who know its beauties, Mt. Desert 
 is, indeed, a place of fascination, the charm 
 of which brings one back again and again to its 
 shores. 
 
 " Indeed, papa," Gladys wrote, " I have de 
 cided, after a fortnight s stay here, that it is waste 
 of time for Americans to spend so many years of 
 their lives in roaming over Europe, when here, on 
 their own New England coast, there is such an 
 Eden as this ! I have come back to my own 
 country to fall in love with it at first sight. That 
 may be, as Madge tells me, because I have come at 
 once to the most beautiful spot in it, but, at all 
 events, I cannot let you go abroad again until you 
 have been here. 
 
 44
 
 A NEW ROLE FOR GLADYS. 45 
 
 " Such a delightful time as I am having ! I 
 don t know whether it is only in Mt. Desert, or 
 everywhere in America, but it seems to me that 
 the young people do enjoy life amazingly. The 
 chaperons look after them, of course, and Aunty 
 is always on duty, but it seems to me very much 
 as if the young men and girls planned out the 
 days for themselves, and the mothers and fathers 
 fell into the plans as if they were the main thing 
 in life. Perhaps it is always so in America. 
 
 " Mt. Desert is the Paradise of Youth, Miss 
 Gladys, Dr. Forbes said to me when I made 
 some remark about the pleasant, easy way in which 
 the young men and girls meet here. He is a 
 funny, rather gruff old doctor, very caustic in his 
 remarks, but very kind-hearted, I am sure, for 
 Edith and Madge seem so fond of him. He 
 spends his summers in a lovely cottage on the 
 shore, and we see a great deal of him. As he 
 knew you when you were a boy, he is particularly 
 kind to me, and gives me queer descriptions 
 notes of warning, he calls them about the vari 
 ous people I meet. 
 
 "Among the other men and boys, most of 
 whom he pronounces harmless, or at best amus-
 
 46 A NEW ROLE FOR GLADYS. 
 
 ing for a fortnight, is a whole yacht full who are 
 here, they say, for study, though we think they 
 have come to an odd place for it. The yacht be 
 longs to a certain Mr. Ned Boylston, a great friend 
 of Cousin Madge s. He is quite young, not yet 
 graduated, and is supposed to be studying very 
 hard for his fall examinations. He does not look, 
 certainly, as if his studies wore upon him, for a 
 more good-natured, cheery, fun-loving, unintellect- 
 ual mortal I never met. With him are three class 
 mates, very much like him, all run off the 
 same mould, Dr. Forbes says, with his smile and 
 shrug of the shoulders, and Mr. Raymond Linde- 
 say who is coaching the party, and who is not in 
 the least like them. I was a little inclined to be 
 afraid of him at first, for Madge holds him in holy 
 horror as fearfully clever, but the other day, in 
 coming down Green Mountain, we were thrown 
 together from my walking with Dr. Forbes, who is 
 very fond of his company, and I got over my awe. 
 He is rather a strange fellow; a little proud and 
 shy, but, when he talks, very interesting." 
 
 Here the long schoolgirl letter changed its note, 
 and the name of Raymond Lindesay did not again 
 appear in Gladys pages, but not because its owner
 
 A NEW R6LE FOR GLADYS. 47 
 
 had ceased to interest her. Partly because she 
 was younger than the other girls, partly because 
 the hail-fellow-well-met manner of these Ameri 
 can youths and maidens was, as yet, amusing 
 rather than natural to her, Gladys held a little 
 aloof from the college boys, and, however admired 
 for her beauty, was viewed with a little shyness 
 by them. She liked to seek refuge with the old 
 doctor, and, from the protecting hedge of his 
 thorniness, look out laughingly on the others. So 
 in the descent of Green Mountain, Lindesay, walk 
 ing quickly and lightly like a practised pedestrian, 
 came on the pair, and gave the doctor his arm. 
 
 "Where are your charges?" asked Dr. Forbes 
 unthinkingly. 
 
 " Off my hands for the present, thank Heaven ! " 
 returned the young man rather testily. Then, as 
 Gladys looked up, surprised by the petulant tone, 
 and the doctor raised his bushy gray eyebrows 
 quizzically, Lindesay colored. 
 
 " Excuse my impatience. I did not mean to 
 ask Am I my brother s keeper ? but sometimes 
 I am more glad of play-time than study-hours ! " 
 
 "The fault was mine, my dear fellow," said the 
 doctor quietly. " I should have known myself
 
 48 A NEW R6LE FOR GLADYS. 
 
 where the shoe pinched. It is hard goading un 
 willing horses, Lindesay." 
 
 " It is not so much that," the young man replied ; 
 " Boylston and the others are no worse than many 
 I have coached. But I am rather ashamed to 
 confess it I feel a little testy at times about 
 goading at all. This is Nature s play-time, and 
 a good place she has chosen for it. I should like, 
 sometimes, to forget which side my bread is but 
 tered, and play, too ! " 
 
 "Ah! something has rubbed the wrong way," 
 thought Dr. Forbes. But the fair-haired girl 
 whose presence both had nearly forgotten, was the 
 one to reply. 
 
 "Are you ashamed of teaching?" she asked in 
 a grave, sweet tone. " That is strange to me. I 
 should be so proud of the ability ! " Raymond 
 turned quickly, with a flush on his cheek. 
 
 "Ashamed?" he echoed, half irritated, "but, 
 yes, I was ashamed," he owned suddenly, at sight 
 of the fair, candid face. " Now I am ashamed of 
 being so ! " 
 
 "That s right," said Gladys simply, and the 
 pair, effectually introduced by the few sentences 
 they had exchanged, looked curiously at each
 
 A NEW ROLE FOR GLADYS. 49 
 
 other across the intervening doctor. What Linde- 
 say saw in Gladys we already know. What she 
 saw in him was a tall, rather delicate-looking 
 young man, spare, rather than slender, with fair 
 auburn coloring, bright, keen dark eyes, and finely- 
 cut mouth and chin, the former feature at once 
 sensitive and sarcastic. 
 
 " Bravo, little schoolgirl ! " said the doctor ap 
 provingly. " I did not know you dared scold 
 anybody ! But, after all, what this fellow needs 
 scolding for is rather grinding the axe too hard 
 than neglecting it. You need recreation, my 
 boy. Why don t you take a hand in all this sail 
 ing, dancing, rowing, horseback riding, tomfool 
 ery, what not, that is always going on among the 
 young people ? You haven t forgotten how since 
 your college days or if you have, Boylston will 
 teach you." 
 
 Raymond shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " No ; I have not forgotten ; but but I should 
 not suppose I hardly thought it in my line just 
 now hardly thought it would be considered so, 
 I mean." 
 
 "Consideration be hanged!" said the doctor, 
 dropping decorum in his vexation. " Conjuring
 
 5O A NEW R6LE FOR GLADYS. 
 
 up pique, spleen, pride and dyspepsia in this air ! 
 Lindesay, I am ashamed of you ! It would 
 take a whole troop of blue devils to put such no 
 tions into Boylston s happy-go-lucky nature, I 
 think ! Here, Miss Gladys, is a fellow who, to 
 my certain recollection, is a first-rate oarsman, 
 dancer and athlete, a favorite in the ball-room 
 when he chooses to go there, and entertaining in 
 small-talk when he condescends to it I hereby 
 hand him over to you as Master of Ceremonies in 
 the gay world of Mt. Desert. Tell him that you 
 want to be entertained ; that you are a little 
 new in this New World of ours, though quite at 
 home in the Old World, and ask him to show you 
 the way in it." 
 
 " I shall be glad if he will do it," said Gladys, 
 looking at him half-shyly from laughing eyes. 
 
 " I shall be glad if I may try," returned the 
 young man ; and for the rest of the walk, laying 
 aside the constrained, half-bitter tone in which 
 he had hitherto spoken, he launched into a stream 
 of bright talk, so entertaining, so contagious, that 
 Gladys forgot her reserve and became as gay as a 
 bird. 
 
 " Works to a charm ! " thought the old doctor
 
 A NEW ROLE FOR GLADYS. 5 1 
 
 as he trudged along, somewhat ruefully, behind 
 the more agile and now completely absorbed pair. 
 " I hope I have done nothing which the chaper 
 ons would call imprudent. " 
 
 " That is a more entertaining young man than 
 I have ever met in America," said Gladys, in the 
 demure, yet outspoken way which delighted the 
 old doctor. " I am sure there is nothing the 
 matter with him except what he fancies." 
 
 " Exactly so, my dear. But Raymond Lindesay 
 is proud sensitively, morbidly so and, because 
 he is, his fancies are especially bad for him. He 
 lost, two years ago, a father and the expectation 
 of a fortune at the same moment ; more, he found 
 that he had inherited debts and a name which was 
 not so unblemished in honor as he had supposed. 
 He gave up the career which he had planned, 
 and threw himself, heart and soul, into paying 
 off his father s old scores and leaving his memory 
 as bright as might be. He has worked like 
 a slave for his mother and sisters, and will do 
 it, I fancy, all his life. A noble fellow, but one 
 with a morbid streak I suppose some uncharita 
 ble souls would call it egotism running through 
 him. He was a prime favorite in society, and
 
 52 A NEW R6LE FOR GLADYS. 
 
 might be still, if he would let any one come within 
 a mile of him. But he is proud and fanciful. 
 You heard how he spoke of Boylston the most 
 good-hearted boy alive ! " 
 
 " What a pity ! " cried Gladys. " It is quite 
 unworthy of him, isn t it ? He must be, he is 
 such a fine character." 
 
 " Well, get it out of him if you can," said the 
 doctor, turning away from the hotel-steps with a 
 little twinge of conscience. " Get him to join in 
 as many picnics and hops as you can, and if you 
 succeed, all the others will thank you." 
 
 " I ll try," said Gladys heartily, and she ran up 
 the steps, feeling as if life at Mt. Desert were 
 more than ever interesting.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 "GOLDEN SUMMER." 
 
 Have you seen but a bright lily grow, 
 
 Before rude hands have touched it ? 
 Have you marked but the fall of the snow, 
 
 Before the soil hath smutched it ? 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 NEXT morning dawned a rare day, full of 
 golden sunshine, warm as July should be, 
 but with a gentle breeze rippling the blue water, 
 and making it kiss the pebbles with a sweeter 
 murmur. Inland, the air was clear and the scent 
 of the pines came out in the searching sunshine 
 with aromatic fragrance ; but out beyond the little 
 Porcupine Islands a soft pink haze hung, closing 
 in like a sudden horizon round the Happy Isle. 
 
 Gladys, walking along the lovely shore road 
 with a merry party of girls and young men, over 
 rocks and pebbles, through rustic stiles, and across 
 the green lawns of charming cottages, stopped 
 all at once under a great pine-tree. 
 
 S3
 
 54 "GOLDEN SUMMER. 
 
 " Oh, Madge, leave me here for a while ! I 
 really want to sketch." 
 
 " On a sheet of birch bark with a thorn for a 
 pencil ?" laughed Madge. 
 
 " No; I have my sketch-book." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Lyman, you are incorrigible ! " said 
 young Clifford. "Always improving the shining 
 hour till we drones are put to the blush ! " 
 
 " I did not know their complexions admitted 
 of that," said Gladys, with a twinkling dimple. 
 "No; I m not so dreadfully industrious, Mr. Clif 
 ford, but I should like to send papa that lovely 
 little peep across the water." 
 
 " Should I be very much in the way if I stayed, 
 too ? " asked the youth. " I could hold the pen 
 cils." 
 
 "There s only one," said Gladys, "and I m 
 afraid I should not be an entertaining companion 
 if I were sketching. No, Mr Clifford, you will 
 find it a great deal more amusing to walk on with 
 the others. I will be quite ready when you come 
 back, Madge." 
 
 But Madge s red parasol, and young Boylston 
 who was holding it over her head, were already 
 far in advance. Gladys threw herself down under
 
 "GOLDEN SUMMER. 55 
 
 the great pine-tree, half-reproving herself for the 
 satisfaction with which she watched poor Clifford s 
 reluctantly retiring footsteps, but feeling dimly 
 that his platitudes and laborious gallantry would 
 have been a profanation of the summer morning. 
 For a time she sat quite still, luxuriating in the 
 deep shadow of the pine, the whisper of the waves 
 as they broke on the tiny pebbled beach at the 
 foot of the cliff, and the mingled breath of wood 
 and sea. Then, drawing sketch-book and pencil 
 from her pocket, she fell industriously to work. 
 At first she was too much absorbed in her occupa 
 tion to notice more than her immediate surround- 
 ings, but presently, leaning farther forward in her 
 study of the little islands, she spied, at the foot of 
 the cliff, the straw hat of a young man. Some 
 thing in his attitude as he lounged on the pebbles, 
 turning the leaves of a book, made her look again. 
 It was Raymond Lindesay. 
 
 "Now, why," said Gladys to herself with a 
 twinge of vexation that was almost laughable, "is 
 he not walking with the others, or sailing with 
 Mr. Marston and Henry Follen ? None of the 
 party are studying, I know. Either of those 
 things would be better for him than poring over
 
 56 "GOLDEN SUMMER." 
 
 a book. I suppose he persuaded himself that they 
 did not want him ! " 
 
 She watched him with growing concern and 
 a naive sense of responsibility. The reader, all 
 unconscious of the scrutiny, presently raised his 
 hat, ran his fingers through his hair, sighed, and 
 turned back with rather a listless air to the book. 
 
 " I don t believe it interests him," said Gladys 
 to herself, " and there is nothing worse for the 
 mind than forced attention." 
 
 With a sudden impulse of mischief she pulled a 
 pine-cone from the branch nearest her, and let it 
 fall on the straw hat ; then, much shocked by her 
 own boldness, drew far back from the edge of the 
 cliff. When she ventured to peep again, Lindesay 
 had closed the book ; he lay stretched on the peb 
 bles, idly playing with the pine-cone and watching 
 the waves. Gladys worked busily at her sketch, 
 glad that her unwonted bit of mischief had escaped 
 detection, but wishing that he would come up and 
 join her. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lindesay, not in truth, as Gladys had 
 divined, much interested in his book, had chanced, 
 in raising his eyes, to spy the broad hat and busy 
 fingers above, but, not catching sight of the face
 
 "GOLDEN SUMMER." 57 
 
 under the deep shade, had only turned back to the 
 water with a half-annoyed " Impossible to be alone 
 on this shore ! " Presently, however, another up 
 ward glance revealed Gladys fair face and light 
 curling locks under the broad brim just then 
 opportunely raised for a gaze at the islands. He 
 sprang to his feet with alacrity. 
 
 " Good morning, Miss Lyman ! May I come 
 up ? " 
 
 " I am very glad you are coming at last," said 
 Gladys demurely. " I think you have been sitting 
 long enough with that book in your hand." 
 
 " What, you have been watching me ? " with an 
 amused laugh as he climbed up the bank, and 
 threw himself on the grass beside her. 
 
 " Oh, no ! sketching. But I saw you, and wished, 
 wished " 
 
 " What ? " asked Raymond curiously, as she hesi 
 tated. 
 
 " That you knew a little better what was good 
 for you ! You work hard over those unstudious 
 young men ; now, don t you know that when re 
 cess comes, you ought to walk or sail or do any 
 thing but read all alone ? " 
 
 "Very likely," said the young man, not loath to
 
 58 "GOLDEN SUMMER." 
 
 argue the case with such an opponent, "but there 
 are two things to be considered. First, the read 
 ing must be done sometime, and secondly, solitude 
 is a necessity when one s society is not in demand." 
 
 " Mr. Lindesay ! " cried Gladys, suspending her 
 pencil over the sketch and looking, in her eager 
 ness, extraordinarily bright and earnest, " that, I 
 am sure, is a morbid fancy ! You think you are 
 shunned, and that makes your manner repellent. 
 Just promise me that you will try for one week 
 taking your share in whatever is doing, and I am 
 sure you will find yourself welcomed. The fault is 
 yours. Do promise me ! " 
 
 "Willingly, if you ask so earnestly," said Linde 
 say, looking smilingly into the eager face, "but 
 why should you care ? " 
 
 "Because," said Gladys, coloring, "Dr. Forbes 
 says and I see for myself, too that you are 
 doing yourself harm. But it will be different in 
 the future," pleadingly, "for you have promised to 
 amuse me. As for this book," she bent forward 
 to take it from the grass where it lay, " Italian 
 do you care so much to read that ? " 
 
 "I must; that s all." 
 
 "Must?" cried Gladys, with pretty disdain
 
 " GOLDEN SUMMER. 59 
 
 " Ought, perhaps, and so ought I to be reading 
 it, I suppose, for I seldom do, and I do not read 
 well, though I can speak it easily." 
 
 " Can you ? " asked the young man with interest ; 
 " I wish you would sometimes talk with me." 
 
 " But I will," said Gladys, her eyes lighting up 
 with sudden pleasure, "if only you will go about 
 with us that we may have things to talk about. 
 Promise, Mr. Lindesay it is a duty ! " 
 
 "No duty" returned the young man, "but a 
 pleasure to please you, so I promise, and will begin 
 with the hop to-night. Now, Miss Lyman, de 
 fine your use of the word duty." 
 
 "It is a duty," said Gladys gravely, "to use all 
 the talents one has and not to wrap any up in a 
 napkin. If we have powers of entertaining, we 
 are bound to use them." 
 
 "I defy you to tell me why." 
 
 "Wait until I try," said the girl, smiling, and 
 coloring again, but with a pretty look of child-like 
 earnestness in her face, as if she had been asked a 
 hard question at school and were anxious not to 
 fail. " It is a duty to others, of course, because it 
 helps to make life happier and brighter ; and to 
 ourselves, I think, because "
 
 60 "GOLDEN SUMMER." 
 
 "Because, from a point of worldly wisdom, it 
 makes it easier for us to get on in the world. Oh ! 
 if you fall back on policy, Miss Lyman, I may per 
 haps agree with you." 
 
 "I had no such thought in my mind at all," she 
 answered eagerly. " I was going to say that for 
 ourselves it is best because it helps to make us 
 loved. Now that I have said it, it sounds like some 
 goody saying in a book," reddening with vexation, 
 "and not at all as I mean it, but at least you do 
 not think it a bad or politic motive ? " 
 
 " What, the wish to be loved ? No, you sweet 
 child ! " said Lindesay impulsively, flushing a little 
 the next moment at his own words ; but Gladys 
 face had been irresistible. " I beg your pardon for 
 my impertinence," he added. 
 
 Gladys, too, had colored, but not with vexation. 
 
 " I am not at all angry," she said simply. " I 
 have no doubt I do seem a very silly child, espe 
 cially when I try to lecture other people about life 
 of which I know so little myself. Only I am 
 clear in this one thing, Mr. Lindesay, that your 
 way isn t the right one, and I am so glad you are 
 willing to try mine. You promised to begin to 
 night, remember."
 
 "GOLDEN SUMMER." 61 
 
 " It is a compact." 
 
 The Italian book was not resumed, though the 
 sketch was, and, when the walking party returned, 
 and Lindesay as well as Gladys joined it, it was 
 in such a different mood from usual a mood so 
 overflowing with fun, and what Madge was pleased 
 to call " nonsense talk," that she opened wide eyes 
 of amazement, wondering, mentally, what "Gladys 
 had done to help Mr. Lindesay off his stilts." 
 Young Clifford, too, disposed, at first, to resent 
 the usurpation of the post to which he had aspired, 
 quickly mollified under the influence of Raymond s 
 unwontedly affable mood, and showed himself the 
 amiable, if not brilliant, youth he was. Nor was 
 Madge s astonishment diminished by the experi 
 ences of the "hop" that evening. 
 
 " Really," she remarked to Edith, as she pre 
 pared for bed, shaking each article vigorously as 
 she took it off, and walking round and round the 
 rather circumscribed space, " I begin now to under 
 stand the meaning of the word regeneration ! 
 Raymond Lindesay has opened my eyes. I don t 
 mean that he has, to my knowledge, experienced 
 religion. Edith, do you think one could make use 
 of such a phrase as experiencing frivolity ? "
 
 62 "GOLDEN SUMMER." 
 
 " What are you talking of, Madge ? " 
 
 " Of Gladys mysterious influence ; but I scarcely 
 
 expected you to get hold of the clue ! " 
 " Are you sure you have it yourself ? " 
 " I m groping for it," returned Madge from the 
 
 depths of her bureau drawer.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 All that I know 
 
 Of a certain star 
 Is, it can throw 
 
 (Like the angled spar) 1 
 Now a dart of red, 
 
 Now a dart of blue, 
 Till my friends have said 
 
 They would fain see, too, 
 My star that dartles the red and the blue ! 
 . . . What matter to me if their star is a world ? 
 Mine has opened its soul to me ; therefore I love it. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 AND Gladys will make the sixth you will 
 go, of course ? " 
 
 Madge turned to her cousin as she came out on 
 the hotel piazza, to join the gay after-breakfast 
 group of girls. 
 
 " Perhaps so, when I know where." 
 
 " Oh ! in a sail-boat to Sullivan, this af :ernoon 
 
 it s the proper thing to go over to the silver 
 
 mines, you know," replied Madge, always too 
 
 much in a hurry to be very lucid in her explana- 
 
 63
 
 64 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 tions. " It is Anna s party. She and Mr. Clifford, 
 Mr. Pollen, and Mr. Boylston, who is quite at 
 home on the water, are going, so you need not 
 be afraid. You will go ?" 
 
 " No, I think not," said Gladys, hesitating, and 
 glancing at her elder cousin, who sat by with her 
 embroidery. " Oh no ! I can t," with an air of 
 relief, "it is my Italian afternoon." 
 
 "Italian afternoon!" said Anna curiously, 
 " why, who gives lessons here ?" and Edith looked 
 up quickly from her work. 
 
 " Not lessons, exactly," said Gladys, coloring 
 a little under the publicity of the examination ; 
 "Mr. Lindesay and I read and talk Italian together 
 on Tuesday afternoons, and I would rather not go, 
 thank you." 
 
 " I scarcely think you need mind that, my dear," 
 said Edith, in the quiet, incisive tone Gladys had 
 learned to interpret as conveying a hint of inde 
 corum to Madge, "if that is all. It can scarcely 
 be a regular engagement, as we have not heard of 
 it before, and it would be very easy to explain to 
 Mr. Lindesay if explanation should be necessary." 
 
 " And you needn t be afraid of mamma s object 
 ing," said outspoken Madge, " though we must
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 65 
 
 start before she gets back from her excursion. 
 As Anna is sister to one of the young men, it 
 makes her a sort of chaperon, don t you see ? " 
 
 " And there is always safety in numbers," said 
 Anna, with the slight sneer Gladys disliked so 
 much. "You will be much safer with us, I assure 
 you, than if you kept your land engagement. 
 Will is depending on your joining the party. You 
 will say yes ? " 
 
 " Since it seems to be already arranged," said 
 Gladys, turning away with a shade of vexation on 
 her fair face. 
 
 " And I will make your excuses to Mr. Lindesay 
 if I meet him on my way back," said Anna. " Come, 
 Madge." 
 
 The gay chatting group sauntered off along the 
 shore, the light dresses and bright parasols glinting 
 in and out among the trees, but Gladys still lin 
 gered beside Edith. She was not apt to be so 
 easily persuaded against her will, but something in 
 her cousin s glance had seemed to convey a reproof, 
 and Gladys, though all unconscious of ill-doing, had 
 been too proud to persist in her purpose. Edith 
 waited until the party were quite out of hearing 
 and the piazza free from all possible eavesdroppers.
 
 66 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 " Were you really afraid that mamma might not 
 think it just the thing to go, Gladys ?" 
 
 "I thought of it, but girls do so many things 
 here that seem to me a little strange." 
 
 " But, my dear," said Edith, with a superior 
 smile, "that is just the reason why you may do 
 them ! Of course one always does at Rome some 
 what as the Romans do, and water parties among 
 the girls and young men are every-day affairs at 
 Bar Harbor, while no one reads Italian with Mr. 
 Lindesay, Gladys." 
 
 " There is surely nothing improper in that," said 
 Gladys, flushing hotly. " It came about very nat 
 urally, Edith, and I never thought to speak of it. 
 I seem like a schoolgirl to Mr. Lindesay, I sup 
 pose, and as I speak Italian, and he wished to learn 
 to talk but I am sorry I mentioned it ! " 
 
 " I am sure mamma will be very glad," replied 
 Edith, sententiously. " Of course you did not think 
 of it, my dear, but, in a place like this, one can t be 
 too careful about exciting gossip." 
 
 " I trust I never may, indeed ! " rejoined Gladys, 
 turning into the house with a choking sensation 
 in her throat. She took a book and strolled down 
 on the bank within sight of the house, for she felt
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 6/ 
 
 too indignant, just then, to remain placidly seated 
 beside her cousin. It was not entirely for the dis 
 appointment about the reading, oh, no ! though 
 Tuesday afternoons had been very pleasant for the 
 last six weeks. It was because Edith with her 
 elder-sister air of propriety, and Anna, with her 
 stare and laugh, had conspired to carry to Gladys 
 mind a thought which had never before been 
 there. To her Mr. Lindesay was, indeed, dif 
 ferent from the other young men different in 
 being older, more intellectual, superior in every 
 way different, too, in being unhappy. Had not 
 Dr. Forbes himself told her she must try to win 
 him from that morbid shrinking into himself, and 
 had she not been filled with happy pride that she 
 had so far succeeded ? And now was all to be 
 spoiled by foolish thoughts of self? 
 
 The Italian reading had not formed the only sub 
 ject of conversation, though it had been too great a 
 pleasure to Lindesay to hear Gladys pure, musical 
 tones for that to be thrown aside. Some pages 
 of the Inferno always began the interview ; then 
 talk naturally followed. Discussion of the great 
 Florentine paved the way for other authors ; from 
 individual preferences in reading to other personal
 
 68 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 peculiarities or experiences was a short and easy 
 transition. Gladys had been at first surprised to 
 find how good a linguist Raymond was, then de 
 lighted to see how easily he caught the liquid 
 accents from her lips, and ho\v soon it seemed to be 
 as natural to him as it was to herself to be talking 
 Italian. Occasionally, too, after reading to her 
 some passage from an English author, he would 
 unconsciously fall back into the same language, 
 and she would scarcely notice it. 
 
 " I am afraid you thought me a very peevish 
 animal the first time we met, Miss Lyman," he 
 said, laughingly, one day. " Don t you remem 
 ber?" for she looked at him in surprise, her pretty 
 eyebrows raised. " The time when you lectured 
 me about being ashamed of teaching ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! but I did not think you in the least 
 peevish. I really wondered that any one should be 
 sorry to have the opportunity for using a power." 
 
 " And I," said Lindesay, with a half-sigh," was 
 grumbling because that very necessity of teaching 
 hampered me in other opportunities, or what 
 might have been opportunities." 
 
 " I understand a little better now," said Gladys, 
 shyly. li 1 mean that Dr. Forbes has told me
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 69 
 
 something about you. Mr. Lindesay, you will tell 
 me, please, if I speak of things that are distaste 
 ful to you, but I have always looked at these mat 
 ters so differently. I always thought that riches, 
 not poverty, were hampering. I thought they 
 prevented people from developing all the fine 
 traits of character or talents they might possess 
 by making things too easy." 
 
 " It is so in a degree, I suppose," said Lindesay, 
 thoughtfully. " Our best is always developed 
 more fully for some struggle ; but there is another 
 side to it. If a man be born poor, and has to 
 hammer his way up, as it were, forging the satis 
 faction of his tastes out of the hunger and thirst 
 for knowledge that is in him, I have no doubt that 
 he has all the finer mind, all the higher character 
 for that wrestle with fortune. But if, on the other 
 hand, one has begun in the lap of luxury, and 
 come by inheritance to the tastes and yearnings 
 of generations of ancestors bred in the bone, 
 one might say then the struggle for the mere 
 necessities of life comes hard. Then it is not 
 only hampering it may be even belittling ay, 
 demoralizing ! " 
 
 He was speaking rather to himself than Gladys,
 
 /O A CHAJCCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 and with a bitterness of which he was probably 
 unconscious. She listened intently, and the tears 
 suddenly rose in her eyes. "That is true," she 
 said, "I did not think of it so, and yet oh, Mr. 
 Lindesay, riches are such an accident ! " 
 
 " A happy accident," returned the young man, 
 lightly, for the sight of Gladys earnest face and 
 tearful eyes had recalled him, with a slight sensa 
 tion of shame, to himself. " But do not take it so 
 seriously, Miss Lyman. I am a very unmannerly, 
 if not unmanly fellow to have put such thoughts 
 into your head. Many a better man than I has 
 come to his best in spite of everything that fate 
 could do against him ! And then think of all the 
 possibilities fortune may have in store for me ! " 
 
 "What, for instance?" said the girl, fixing her 
 eyes on him with an intent look of hopefulness 
 which was very fascinating to the young man. 
 
 " Oh ! some windfall in the form of a legacy, per 
 haps, or shall we say a marriage with an heiress ? " 
 
 Gladys shook her head emphatically, answering 
 in the same light tone, " No, indeed ; that would be 
 worse than anything ! That, I am sure, there is 
 no danger of unless you should happen to be very 
 much in love with an heiress and then "
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. /I 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " Then, of course, the fact of her being an heir 
 ess would make no difference at all." 
 
 " Exactly so," said Lindesay. " Yes, Miss Ly- 
 man, that would, indeed, be worse than anything, 
 but have no fears for me. One of these days I 
 will give you some of my views on the subject 
 of worldly marriages." And so the pair had re 
 turned to the Inferno. 
 
 Now all this had seemed to Gladys so natural, 
 looking upon Lindesay as she had, hitherto, as an 
 interesting character far removed from herself by 
 age and experience, but if, as Edith had hinted, 
 there were food for Bar Harbor gossip in their 
 intercourse how very different it all became ! 
 
 But Mrs. Stanhope s pupil was not prone to 
 morbid self-consciousness, and long before Madge s 
 summons from the piazza to " Come and put on 
 her boating dress, for we must start right after 
 dinner," Gladys was happily absorbed in her book, 
 Raymond Lindesay forming only the background 
 to a sunny present and a hopeful future. 
 
 Nor could the sail to Sullivan be otherwise than 
 a delight to a girl who revelled in blue skies, bright 
 waves and sunshine, and the exhilaration of flying
 
 /2 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 before the wind in a light boat that danced like 
 a feather on the water. Gladys was as animated 
 as any of the party, and Anna Clifford, who had 
 her own reasons for shrewd observation, might 
 have been satisfied, for any appearance to the 
 contrary, that her brother was an all-sufficing en 
 tertainer. 
 
 Sullivan was reached long before their expecta 
 tions with such favoring conditions of wind and 
 water. After a turn through the great parlor and 
 wide piazzas, just now deserted by boarders with 
 a tendency to after-dinner naps, and left to the 
 possession of a few nurses and wakeful children, 
 the mines naturally recurred to their thoughts, and 
 the merry party drove off in an open wagon. 
 
 What the prospect of ore from the Sullivan 
 mines may be, or whether more silver is likely to 
 be sunk or raised in the undertaking, it is not my 
 purpose to state ; but, as Madge was of a nature to 
 drain the cup of enjoyment to the dregs, and 
 Anna, inclined to investigate everything thor 
 oughly, it was already late when the party returned 
 to the hotel. 
 
 The piazza was filled now with chatterers or prom- 
 enaders who looked in through the open windows
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 73 
 
 as the three fresh-looking girls in their pretty boat 
 ing-suits strolled, with their flannel-shirted escorts, 
 through the deserted parlor and grouped about the 
 piano. 
 
 " What a lovely girl that is in the green flannel 
 suit and little Tyrolese hat ! " said a white-haired 
 lady to a bearded gentleman, her son. " One of 
 the Bar Harbor party, did you say ? Dear me ! 
 what time do those young people expect to get 
 back this evening ? How uneasy I should be if I 
 were that girl s mother ! " 
 
 " Be glad you are not ! " said her companion 
 laughingly, with a careless glance over his shoulder 
 at the occupants of the parlor. " Although if you 
 were you would probably catch the prevailing tone 
 of Bar Harbor chaperons and be sure that every 
 thing would be all right in the end !" 
 
 (Evidently this gentleman had made extensive 
 studies in the " Summer School of Philosophy " 
 some years in advance of the author of that clever 
 little pencil satire.) 
 
 " Don t give yourself a moment s uneasiness, 
 mother," he repeated. "Take my word for it, that 
 sail-boat will reach her destination safely." 
 
 " Perhaps she may, but I really wish they would
 
 74 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 start ! I must go and sit near the window and 
 find out whether they are not talking of going 
 I daresay they have no idea of the hour ! " 
 
 "Very probably not, and they will not thank 
 you for reminding them," said her son. Remon 
 strance, however, was useless, and Gladys, seated 
 on the piano stool, was suddenly aware of an anxious 
 face on the fast-darkening background of the win 
 dow frame, looking at her with friendly interest 
 from a halo of black lace and white hair. 
 
 " Oh ! it isn t half time to start yet," young Pollen 
 was saying. " There will be a moon later. Won t 
 you dance, Miss Lyman ? " 
 
 " No, thank you, not here, I think. But I will 
 play for you, if you like to dance." And the two 
 couples were soon whirling about the room with 
 the supreme disregard of all on-lookers peculiar to 
 very young and buoyant Americans, peculiar espe 
 cially, so Mr. Warner would tell us, at this particu 
 lar stopping-place in "Their Pilgrimage." 
 
 Will Clifford stood leaning on the piano, and 
 trying at intervals to soften Gladys resolve of not 
 dancing. 
 
 "You have a long sail before you," said the 
 watcher on the piazza, at last. " Perhaps your
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 75 
 
 friends do not know how late it is. Don t you think 
 it would be better to sail without waiting for the 
 moon ? Excuse my interference, my dear, but 
 having daughters at home makes me interested in 
 all young people." 
 
 "Oh! thank you," said Gladys gratefully, drop 
 ping her hands at once from the keys. " I don t 
 believe they do know how late it is. Madge, we 
 really ought to start ! " 
 
 " It is growing dark very fast," added the anx 
 ious Mentor, " and they tell me squalls are so fre 
 quent in this locality." 
 
 " What an old worry ! " said Madge, aside to 
 her partner ; but the note of alarm had been 
 sounded, and the six were speedily on the wing 
 for the little pier where their boat was moored, 
 Gladys completely winning the old lady s heart by 
 her sweet voice and graceful words of thanks at 
 parting. 
 
 " I was sure," she said, in a tone of triumph as 
 she rejoined her son, " that that lovely girl was 
 not one of those wild Daisy Millers you are always 
 telling me about ! But I shall expect to hear that 
 that sail-boat has gone to the bottom ! " 
 
 Meanwhile other anxious souls on the opposite
 
 76 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 shore were beginning to awaken to the fact that it 
 was growing dark, and a wild, somewhat gusty 
 darkness, too, while nothing was heard or seen 
 of the little " Ariel." Mrs. Waterston, shrouded 
 in her shawl, peered, for the twentieth time, at 
 least, from the piazza. 
 
 " How could you let them go, Edith ? " she 
 asked, again and again. 
 
 "Dear mamma," replied the long-suffering 
 daughter, " could I have prevented the party ? 
 How many times Madge has gone on afternoon 
 sails and come back safely ! " 
 
 " Yes but Gladys " 
 
 " I thought you agreed with me, that it was 
 much better for her to go than to read, as she 
 proposed, with - 
 
 " Yes, I know I did. Oh dear ! what a care 
 girls are ! I do particularly feel the responsibility 
 of Gladys on your uncle s account, and what you 
 told me this afternoon distresses me. Your uncle 
 Gordon will hold me responsible for every ineli 
 gible acquaintance." 
 
 "Mamma," said her prudent daughter, in alarm, 
 " do take care not to use such a word in connec 
 tion with Mr. Lindesay to Gladys. Remember
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 77 
 
 what a child she is ; and I am sure she had no 
 thought that there was anything unusual in the 
 reading. She was quite indignant with me for 
 hinting at such an idea." 
 
 "Then why worry me so about it?" cried the 
 poor inconsistent chaperon. " Why not let her 
 read like a schoolgirl, since she is one? That 
 would, surely, be better than letting her drown 
 under our very eyes. Do, Edith, ask Charles to go 
 down to the pier again and see if the boat is in.! " 
 
 Nor were those on the hotel piazza, the only 
 anxious hearts, though the possessors might be 
 less voluble in pouring forth their plaints than 
 Mrs. Waterston. It had been a long afternoon to 
 Raymond Lindesay ; he had grown to look forward 
 with anticipation to the Tuesday readings with the 
 fresh, charming girl, to plan out little deviations 
 from their usual course, and to speculate as to how 
 Gladys would look when he should say thus and so, 
 or what she would reply to this and that. So it 
 had been a disappointment when Miss Clifford, 
 passing him on the shore road with a pleasant 
 " Good-morning ! " had turned back with a hasty : 
 "Oh, Mr. Lindesay! I promised to tell you, if I 
 should meet you, that Miss Lyman will not be able"
 
 78 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 to read Italian with you this afternoon. We have 
 persuaded her, sorely against her will, I assure you, 
 to go on a sailing-party to Sullivan." 
 
 " I trust she would not allow our engagement to 
 prevent her from carrying out her wishes at any 
 time," said Raymond a little stiffly. At heart he 
 was vexed that the Italian reading should have 
 been spoken of in public. 
 
 " No ; but her heart seemed quite set on keeping 
 the appointment with you what a charming child 
 she is, by the way ! " said Anna, warmly. " Do 
 you find her a promising pupil, Mr. Lindesay ? " 
 
 " Really," said Raymond, still with a shade of 
 annoyance in his tone, " I am rather the pupil 
 than she. Miss Lyman speaks Italian perfectly, 
 and I have been wholly the gainer, so far." 
 
 " Indeed ! " Anna exclaimed with a sharp twinge 
 of envy. " However, that is only natural since she 
 is just out of the school-room. The novelty to her, 
 I suppose, is the gayety which we older ones are 
 getting the least bit tired of. So, by and by, when 
 Miss Lyman finds something that really interests 
 her, as all of us do, sooner or later, at Mt. Desert, 
 don t forget what a delightful variety some pursuit 
 a little more solid would be to us who have had our
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 79 
 
 share of the froth. Good-morning ! if you will not 
 come in." And Anna turned into the gate of her 
 father s cottage, leaving Raymond less inclined, 
 after all, to be vexed than flattered. In some* sen 
 sitive natures vanity is not the fibre least keenly 
 alive to friction. 
 
 When he returned to the yacht for the every 
 day five o clock reading with his pupils, only Mars- 
 ton and one other student were there. Tea-time 
 came and went without the reappearance of Boyl- 
 ston and Pollen ; but that, after all, was natural, 
 since tea at the hotel was probably part of the 
 programme. The two students strolled off to drop 
 in, as usual, during the evening at some of the 
 cottage door-step parties, and Raymond, left alone, 
 with little inclination for indifferent calls, walked 
 the deck of the yacht and studied the sky. 
 
 The sun had gone down in a dark bank of cloud, 
 flecked with angry streaks of red. 
 
 " Squally night, sir," said one of the crew, touch 
 ing his cap as he passed Raymond. 
 
 "The little Ariel isn t in yet, is she?" he 
 asked abruptly. 
 
 "No, sir; Cap n Wilkins was down just now 
 lookin out for her. Hope Mr. Boylston hasn t
 
 8O A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 any ladies along to-night ? He ll have enough to 
 do to keep the boat right side up." 
 
 Lindesay, by no means reassured by this predic 
 tion, hastened forthwith to the Waterstons hotel, 
 not, indeed, with the idea of asking for the safety 
 of Mrs. Waterston s niece and daughter, but of sat 
 isfying himself, by less direct means, as to the 
 amount of anxiety in the atmosphere. 
 
 No questions, in truth, were necessary ; the sight 
 of Charles Freeman returning from a fruitless sur 
 vey, and the anxious inquiry from the piazza, 
 " What, nothing yet ? " sufficed, and Lindesay 
 returned to the yacht, with his mind made up, 
 although, with characteristic reticence, he had not 
 exchanged a word with any one as to his purpose. 
 Hurrying below, he hastily collected all the shawls 
 he could find, adding several ulsters a masculine 
 bundle of wraps. 
 
 " Harry," he said to the man who had spoken to 
 him, an old hand who had been for some years in 
 Boylston s employ, " I want you to get the tight 
 est little sail-boat you know of, and come with me 
 to look for Mr. Boylston. He has ladies with him, 
 and they are so long getting in that I am afraid 
 they may have had some accident."
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 8 1 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir," returned the man, betraying by 
 his ready compliance what had been his own secret 
 anxiety, for Boylston was heartily liked by his crew, 
 as by every one who came within reach of his sunny 
 geniality, "I know the very boat. You think you d 
 best go, sir ? Me and Smith, the Fairy s skipper, 
 could manage between us " 
 
 But Raymond having, apparently, no doubts as 
 to the necessity of his presence, Harry was speedily 
 off in quest of his craft, and quarter of an hour 
 later they were tossing along over the pitchy 
 waves in the direction of Sullivan. The wind 
 blew furiously, and the water, at that hour, had a 
 particularly deserted look, all the sail-boats, 
 steam-yachts and larger vessels being snugly at 
 anchor. 
 
 " Squally night, sir," said Smith, in his turn, 
 and Lindesay felt an additional pang of anxiety. 
 Their own little lantern shed but a narrow circle 
 of light over the watery path, and this was made 
 still less by the plunging of the boat as she rose 
 and fell on the waves. Raymond bit his lip with 
 impatience, their progress seemed so slow. 
 
 " Do you see nothing ? " he shouted to Smith, 
 in the teeth of the wind, which, with their vigor-
 
 82 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 ous hauling of the ropes, made talking no easy 
 matter. 
 
 " Nary boat, sir ; " but, at the same instant, 
 "Boat ahoy!" shouted Harry, and faintly over 
 the dark water came a cry of distress. Ray 
 mond s heart leaped to his mouth. 
 
 "That s Boylston ! " he cried, and if Harry had 
 hitherto had any doubts as to the efficiency of the 
 tutor at the ropes, they were dispelled on the in 
 stant. As they bore down upon the hardly-to-be- 
 distinguished boat, Raymond was, assuredly, the 
 third man in the right place. 
 
 "Can you take us in ?" shouted Boylston from 
 the sailless little cockle-shell ; " I ve ladies on board, 
 and we ve lost our sail." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir!" roared Harry. "We ve come 
 out just a-purpose." 
 
 "What you, old fellow ? " came back Boylston s 
 gleeful boyish tones. " Good for you ! " The 
 dark figure stood up for a moment against the 
 stormy sky, then, as the rope flung out by Harry 
 was caught, and the little cockle-shell, with its 
 lady passengers cowering in the bottom, became 
 on a sudden distinctly visible close beside them, 
 he added, heartily,
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 83 
 
 " You re a trump, Harry ? What we should 
 have done without you " 
 
 " Mr. Lindesay, sir, not me," said the man. 
 " I d ha com^. quick enough, though, if I d known 
 where. Ladies badly scared, sir ? " 
 
 " I m afraid they ve good cause," said the young 
 yachtsman ruefully, turning to help Raymond and 
 Pollen, who were lifting the three girls from the 
 dismantled boat. Anna regained her self-posses 
 sion so soon as her foot touched the " Fairy s " 
 floor, but Madge, always uncontrolled in her 
 emotions, poured out the history of their frightful 
 adventure, the darkness, the wind, the cracking of 
 the sail, the all but inevitable capsizing of the boat, 
 and the certainty that they would never have 
 reached Bar Harbor alive, in tones equally divided 
 between tears and laughter. 
 
 " I m afraid you ll never trust yourself to my 
 guidance again, Miss Madge," said Boylston, in a 
 tone of chagrin. 
 
 " Oh, hush, Madge ! " whispered Gladys, "don t 
 you see that you make him feel worse ? Yes, we 
 are very wet, thank you, Mr. Lindesay." 
 
 Raymond had lifted Gladys last of all from the 
 wrecked sail-boat, why, he did not know, unless
 
 <^4 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 because, by so doing, he could set her down safely 
 in the " Fairy" himself instead of passing her on 
 to Clifford who stood behind him. He held her 
 even a moment longer than was necessary as he 
 put his somewhat superfluous question, passing 
 his hand anxiously over the dripping arm that 
 rested on his shoulder. Gladys was very quiet, 
 but she clung to the supporting arm gratefully, 
 and there was a happy little tremor in her laugh 
 ing reply. 
 
 " I have wraps here," said Raymond, plunging 
 into the heap of shawls and ulsters. At that 
 moment Boylston s grip of the hand and hearty 
 thanks, Anna s quiet, ladylike expressions of grati 
 tude, and Madge s " See what it is to have one s 
 wits about him ! " were alike distasteful. He 
 wanted nothing but to satisfy himself that Gladys 
 was warm and sheltered from the cutting wind, 
 and, beyond that, cared little how long they might 
 be in reaching Bar Harbor. 
 
 " Don t be afraid of our taking cold ! " she 
 laughed from the depths of shawls and ulsters in 
 which he had wrapped her. " I have often been 
 nearly as drenched by sudden showers in riding 
 with papa, and salt water does one no harm."
 
 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 85 
 
 " I m afraid your adventure will give you a dis 
 taste for salt water," said Lindesay. 
 
 " Oh, no ! It was our own fault for not starting 
 sooner. Mr. Boylston was not to blame. But I 
 would rather have stayed on shore this afternoon." 
 
 She spoke simply and involuntarily, and Ray 
 mond, remembering the engagement of the after 
 noon, felt an exultant thrill of pleasure. He was 
 not wanting in tact, however, and the question, 
 " When shall we read again ? " followed, not directly, 
 but some minutes later, as they were nearing the 
 pier. 
 
 " Not to-morrow," replied Gladys, " nor" - with 
 a sudden change of tone " indeed, I do not know 
 when, Mr. Lindesay. You must be very busy." 
 
 The sudden note of trouble in the voice struck 
 Lindesay s sensitive ear at once, but there was no 
 time now for explanation. Charles Freeman was 
 on the pier as their boat neared it, and, with his 
 almost morbid dislike of thanks, Raymond turned 
 off towards the yacht, leaving his praises to be 
 sounded much more volubly than he could have 
 desired, by Madge and the warm-hearted Boylston. 
 
 " The reading would have been much better than 
 such an adventure, Edith," whispered Mrs. Water-
 
 86 A CHANCE RAY OF LIGHT. 
 
 ston, pausing at her daughter s door on their way 
 up-stairs to bed. " One cannot seem to do any 
 thing uncourteous when he has put us under such 
 obligations, but I would rather almost anything 
 had happened."
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 
 
 Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 DR. FORBES sat in his study, writing a 
 letter. A pretty little room it was, one 
 long window looking out, from the high cliff on 
 which the cottage was perched, over the water, and 
 the other opening on a honeysuckle-wreathed piazza. 
 The intervening spaces in the walls were filled 
 with book-cases, their shelves overflowing with 
 gravely-bound medical tomes, while papers and 
 pamphlets lay scattered about in dire confusion. 
 
 " Too pretty a room to be littered with doctor s 
 books ! " thought Gladys as she peeped in through 
 the open window that bright August morning. 
 The doctor did not notice her for a while, being 
 much absorbed in his own somewhat crabbed and 
 whimsically characteristic handwriting, until, look 
 ing up to consult his note-book and verify the 
 
 87
 
 88 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 
 
 description of a case which he was giving his cor 
 respondent, his eyes caught sight of Gladys 
 roguish face under her broad hat. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Impertinence ! " he said, falling back 
 in his arm-chair and taking a smiling survey of the 
 blooming face under the wide brim, and the slender 
 rounded figure in the dainty rose-sprinkled satine, 
 " spying on a harmless old fellow in that saucy 
 fashion ! Come in, if you have anything to say to 
 me, but don t say it until I have finished this 
 letter to my boy, for it must go by this morning s 
 mail." 
 
 " Your boy ! Do you mean your son, Dr. 
 Forbes ? I did not know you were married." 
 
 "Oh ! you fancied me too cross-grained to be any 
 thing but an old bach, did you ? No, my dear, I 
 had a wife and a houseful of children once, though 
 Stephen is the only one left me now." 
 
 " And where is he ? " 
 
 "On the Continent, that paradise of doctors, 
 as he has been, off and on, ever since he graduated 
 as he will be, I suppose, so long as I am in 
 active practice." 
 
 " Why should that matter ? Is he a doctor too ? " 
 
 "To the backbone!" replied his father, laugh-
 
 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 89 
 
 ing. " You ask why it matters ? Because he is 
 too loyal to his old father to wish to settle near 
 him and draw off his patients so long as he cares 
 to practise himself." 
 
 "Why should he expect to ? " Gladys asked, with 
 girlish disdain. 
 
 " Inevitable, my dear ! The first touch of his 
 hand as he felt your pulse would clo it. He has 
 the true doctor s hand, strong, gentle, life-giving ; 
 mine is a dry chip in comparison." 
 
 " I think you are quite mistaken," said the girl 
 warmly, " and so is your son, if he imagines any 
 such thing. I am sure my aunt would have no 
 one but you, and neither will papa and I." 
 
 " Pooh, child ! " said the doctor, " did you think 
 I was in earnest ? No ; Steve is too simple a fellow 
 to have any such egotistic thoughts. There are a 
 thousand reasons for his staying where he is at 
 present, and he would find a thousand more for 
 flying off to China, the North Pole or anywhere 
 else where he thought there was any help to be 
 given or anything new to be learned. He is a 
 sort of medical knight-errant. But now a ten- 
 minutes truce to questions, Miss Gladys, or I shall 
 not finish my letter in time for the mail."
 
 90 GIRLHOOD 5 TROUBLES. 
 
 The doctor s pen skated briskly over the paper, 
 and Gladys, left to her own thoughts for enter 
 tainment, gradually lost the laughing sparkle in 
 her eyes, and sat looking unusually grave, even a 
 little sad and troubled. In truth she had come 
 out, not with the idea of seeking the old doctor, 
 to whom she often paid flying visits, but because 
 there was a secret weight pressing on her heart 
 which air and sunshine seemed the best medicine 
 to dispel. 
 
 True to her forebodings, her aunt had taken 
 alarm at Edith s representations, and approached 
 the subject of the Italian readings timidly, indeed, 
 but in a way infinitely distressing to poor little 
 Gladys. 
 
 " It would be the height of indelicacy, of course, 
 my dear, to withdraw at once from any engage 
 ment which you might have unthinkingly made 
 and you will not be so imprudent again, will you, 
 Gladys dear ? As I was saying, you must proceed 
 now with the greatest delicacy and tact, especially 
 as Mr. Lindesay s feelings are so over-sensitive, 
 and we are under the deepest obligation to him. 
 But I have perfect confidence in your discretion 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Laura ! what can I say ? " cried poor
 
 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 91 
 
 Gladys, distressed by the picture thus conjured 
 up, " how can I hurt any one s feelings so ? " 
 
 " Hurt any one s feelings ! The very last thing 
 I would have you do ! It will be the easiest thing 
 in the world to manage. Just say how pleasant it 
 would be to have some of the others read with you ; 
 and do remember, Gladys, love, that it is always 
 best to do things in a crowd, as it were. One 
 avoids all particularity in that way, and there is no 
 danger of one s name being coupled 
 
 " Oh, please, Aunt Laura, don t say any more ! " 
 cried Gladys, her face on fire. " I wasn t thinking 
 of any such things when we began to read, and 
 now all the pleasure is spoiled." 
 
 And then as she started on her walk, the first 
 sight that met her eyes was Raymond Lindesay s 
 slender active figure coming towards her. She 
 hesitated, half-wishing that she could run away ; 
 then ashamed of the childish impulse, quickened 
 her own steps and held out her hand in greeting, 
 more cordially than she might otherwise have 
 done, though her face flushed painfully. 
 
 " What a morning ! " he said, seeming to notice 
 nothing beside. "Just look at the sunbeams 
 dancing on every dewdrop^ on every blade of grass !
 
 92 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 
 
 No wonder Dante thought he had given the poor 
 virtuous heathen comfort enough by putting the 
 image of green grass under their feet." 
 
 The allusion to Dante was somewhat unfortunate 
 at that moment, but Gladys nerved herself and 
 began, " Mr. Lindesay, I " But Lindesay 
 seemed blind and deaf that morning. 
 
 " Ruskin quotes that, do you remember ? " he 
 went on quickly, still keeping his eyes fixed on the 
 velvety* grass. " Let me see, how does he go on ? 
 Gather a single blade of grass and examine for 
 a minute, quietly, its narrow, sword-shaped strip of 
 fluted green. Nothing as it seems there of notable 
 goodness or beauty. A very little strength and a 
 very little tallness, and a few delicate long lines 
 meeting in a point not a perfect point, neither, 
 but blunt and unfinished by no means a cred 
 itable or apparently much-cared-for example of 
 Nature s workmanship : made, as it seems, only to 
 be trodden on to-day and to-morrow to be cast into 
 the oven : and a little pale and hollow stalk, feeble 
 and flaccid, leading down to the dull brown fibres 
 
 He had stooped to gather a blade of grass as he 
 spoke, and quoted with a smile, as if he were him 
 self describing it.
 
 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 93 
 
 "Oh! do you know that?" exclaimed Gladys, 
 quite at ease again. "How well I remember Mrs. 
 Stanhope s reading it to me one morning when we 
 were sketching in England ! I like that whole 
 chapter on grass." 
 
 " So do I, though Ruskin is often a little too 
 fanciful for me. I am not artistic, you know. 
 Something a little more terse and vigorous suits 
 me better, whether in prose or poetry." And he 
 murmured a bit of Emerson s "May Day," still 
 apropos of the grass : 
 
 " See every patriot oak-leaf throws 
 His elfin length upon the snows, 
 Not idle, since the leaf all day 
 Draws to the spot the solar ray, 
 Ere sunset quarrying inches down 
 And half-way to the mosses brown ; 
 While the grass beneath the rime 
 Has hints of the propitious time, 
 And upward pries and perforates 
 Through the cold slab a thousand gates 
 Till green lances, peering through, 
 Nod happy in the welkin blue." 
 
 " Not very appropriate for August, but perfect 
 for a Mt. Desert May-day," he finished, with a 
 smile. "Whew! how cold spring must be here! " 
 
 If his object had been to put Gladys at ease,
 
 94 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 
 
 he had certainly succeeded ; she was quite her 
 own dignified graceful little self again. 
 
 " How I wish I could remember what I read as 
 you do ! " she said, meeting his eyes bravely. 
 " And, Mr. Lindesay, reading with you has been 
 such a pleasure to me. Do you not think we 
 might share it with some of the others ? I know 
 of one or two who would appreciate it." 
 
 " If you wish it, certainly," said Raymond, a lit 
 tle startled by this bold advance into the enemy s 
 camp, for his quick eye had discerned the trouble 
 in Gladys face, and his keen sensitiveness had 
 connected it with the hesitation of the night be 
 fore about the deferred reading. "Are there so 
 many Italian linguists among the young ladies at 
 Bar Harbor, then ? " 
 
 " I wasn t thinking of Italian exactly," said 
 Gladys, coloring. " You know we have some 
 times read English, too. If I tried, I might make 
 that Italian novel we are translating interesting 
 to the others, or you could, certainly, and anybody 
 who cared at all for Italian would like the music 
 of Dante." 
 
 "Well, it shall be as you choose, of course," 
 said Raymond, smothering his own chagrin. "As
 
 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 95 
 
 you say, there might be some who would enjoy 
 it." He remembered Anna Clifford. "And such 
 things always settle themselves in the end ; the 
 disaffected drop off after one or two trials, and 
 the class shrinks into its original elements. But 
 you forget my personal share in the matter, my 
 progress in Italian what is to become of that ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Gladys, her face flushing again in 
 her eagerness to have the painful matter happily 
 settled, "you have made progress, haven t you? 
 Really, you speak so well I have been surprised." 
 
 " Thank you," said Raymond lightly ; then, 
 pausing a moment at Dr. Forbes gate, where 
 Gladys made a determined stop, he held out his 
 hand, forcing her eyes, as it were, to meet his. 
 " You spoke, the other day, of my being too busy 
 to read. My engagements, you know, are regular 
 ones, and those are the easiest in the world to 
 manage, but if anything comes up which you want 
 to do, and there will be a great deal, don t feel 
 obliged to keep a troublesome engagement." 
 
 His eyes looked into hers so full of an expres 
 sion which was quite new to her, a sort of deep 
 comprehension and wistful tenderness, that Gladys 
 was half startled, half perplexed.
 
 96 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 
 
 "Troublesome? Oh, no! oh, no!" she said, 
 slowly, "I should never feel that." 
 
 She turned up the garden path as she spoke, 
 and, if the truth must be told, the eyes which 
 met the old doctor s so laughingly a few minutes 
 later, were just then filled with tears. 
 
 Raymond stood watching her until she reached 
 the house. " Poor little girl ! Dear little girl ! " 
 he said to himself. "What have they been say 
 ing to her ? " But there was no sadness in his 
 face as he said it ; on the contrary, an unusually 
 bright, almost an exultant expression played about 
 his mouth and looked from his eyes as he walked 
 away. 
 
 All this had passed quickly through Gladys 
 mind as she sat silently awaiting the end of the 
 doctor s letter, till, impatient just then of her 
 own restless thoughts, she opened the unfailing 
 sketch-book, and looked about her for subjects. 
 Her eye fell on a crayon head hanging over the 
 doctor s writing-table. It was the portrait of a 
 man of perhaps thirty ; a strong, good face, not 
 handsome, certainly, Gladys thought ; but some 
 thing in the steady, earnest expression of the eyes 
 as they met hers, struck her fancy, and seemed to
 
 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 97 
 
 exercise a restful influence on her troubled mind. 
 A few moments after, she was quite engrossed 
 in trying to catch that- very look in her pencil 
 likeness. 
 
 " And now," wrote the doctor, " though I know 
 the genus girl does not much interest you (un 
 less, perhaps, I should add, she have need of a 
 physician), I must appeal to your indulgence for 
 once, and break off my letter sooner than I in 
 tended, out of consideration for one of the sweet 
 est, brightest specimens of girlhood I know, who 
 has just dropped in to make me a call. She is 
 Gordon Lyman s daughter, and, if I were not 
 tired of holding out such inducements to you, I 
 should advise you to return home in a hurry 
 before this sweet little rosebud gets her petals a 
 trifle too fully blown from flaunting in the world s 
 garden. But what an old fool you will think me ! 
 I am almost ready to acknowledge it myself, for 
 trying such blandishments on a hardened subject 
 like you." 
 
 He folded and addressed the letter, smiling, 
 then returning to the table, after giving it to the 
 servant, he stooped over Gladys shoulder to look 
 at her sketch.
 
 98 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 
 
 " Why, that is a coincidence ! " he exclaimed. 
 " What do you think of that face, my dear ? " 
 
 " I like it," said Gladys heartily, holding off 
 her sketch at arms-length, and examining it 
 critically; "not because it is handsome, you know, 
 for it is not, but just for that downright heart-and- 
 soul look it has in the eyes." 
 
 "Ay! that is Stephen s strong point," said the 
 father, pleased, in spite of Gladys frank admission. 
 
 " Oh ! " a little abashed by the recollection, "is 
 that your son ? I said he was not handsome, but 
 one cannot tell much from a sketch like that. 
 The face doesn t matter much in a man, of 
 course." 
 
 "Especially as there is quite enough of Stephen 
 to make up for possible drawbacks in beauty of 
 feature," smiled the father, "as you will say your 
 self when you see him that is, if he ever does 
 settle down at home, like his sober married con 
 temporaries." 
 
 " Then he is not married ? " 
 
 "His work is his wife. Carlyle says some 
 where, Blessed is the man who has found his 
 work ; let him ask no other blessedness ; and 
 Steve is so nearly of his mind that he will be
 
 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 99 
 
 satisfied, I think, with that state of single blessed 
 ness all his life." 
 
 " I remember Mr. Lindesay s saying," said 
 Gladys, thoughtfully, touching her pencil portrait 
 here and there, and dismissing the original from 
 the conversation, " that that was one of Carlyle s 
 truest sayings ; but there are not many people who 
 do find their right work, I suppose, or who are 
 able to devote themselves to it if they do. What 
 a pity that is ! " 
 
 " So Lindesay has been reading you Carlyle 
 with personal foot-notes, has he ? " said the old 
 doctor, with a glance from under his bushy eye 
 brows.- " By the way, how does my prescription 
 for him work ? How do you like him ? " 
 
 " Every one likes him now, I think," Gladys 
 replied guardedly. 
 
 " Good ! I told you they would, and you ve 
 succeeded bravely in drawing him out. They tell 
 me he appeared last night in a new character as 
 the rescuer of young ladies from a watery grave. 
 How came you to be drawn into such a mad frolic 
 as that, Miss Gladys ? " 
 
 " I was over-persuaded," said Gladys, her color 
 deepening at the recollection.
 
 IOO GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. 
 
 " So-ho ! Well, don t let yourself be over- 
 persuaded next time, my dear. Just go on your 
 own straight course, which, ten to one, will be 
 the right one. I don t preach independent action 
 to every girl, mind, but I think you have a 
 steadier head than most of the girls about you." 
 
 " I begin to think" said Gladys, then hesitated 
 so long that the good doctor grew impatient. 
 
 "Well, what, my dear? " 
 
 " I was only going to say that I thought it very 
 hard for girls to be independent ; hard for them to 
 know what it is right to do. They have to think 
 so much of what other people will say " 
 
 "They needn t," said the doctor emphatically. 
 " Nine tenths of what people will say is bosh, 
 take my word for it ; possibly it will never be 
 said ! Just get that idea out of your head before 
 you launch out into the world. But you are enig 
 matical this morning, Miss Gladys. Tell me the 
 whole story of this unlucky water-party : who over- 
 persuaded you, and what did you fear people would 
 say? / said if those six young people were not 
 fine specimens of our American youth, there 
 would be rheumatic fever after their ducking! 
 Let me hear the story."
 
 GIRLHOOD S TROUBLES. IOI 
 
 " I haven t time to tell it to-day," said Gladys, 
 hurriedly closing her book as she glanced at the 
 clock, " even if it were worth your hearing. 
 Good-by for this morning, Dr. Forbes ! You see 
 you should not have written such volumes to your 
 son if you wanted me to talk to you." And, 
 with an April flash of the brown eyes, she was 
 out of the house and at the gate. 
 
 The old doctor walked thoughtfully up and 
 down the piazza., his hands folded behind him. 
 
 "Girls! girls!" he muttered to himself. "I 
 begin to think I know even less about them than 
 my son Stephen ! Have I been making any mis 
 chief, I wonder ? What sen.t that little witch off 
 in such a hurry ? "
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 
 
 O, were thou in the cauld blast, 
 
 On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
 My plaidie to the angry airt, 
 
 I d shelter thee, I d shelter thee. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 AS Gladys neared the hotel, a gentleman, 
 mounted on a beautiful saddle-horse, was 
 talking with her cousin Madge, who stood on the 
 steps, while a groom walked another round the 
 carriage sweep at theide of the house. On this 
 horse, a bright bay equipped with a side-saddle, 
 Gladys cast longing eyes as she crossed the gravel 
 path. 
 
 " She is the gentlest creature in the world," the 
 gentleman was saying. 
 
 " Oh ! I am not at all afraid," Madge replied, 
 "but I don t appreciate horseback riding as my 
 sister or my cousin might. It seems a pity to 
 waste a thorough-bred on me oh, Gladys ! I am 
 so glad you have come Mr. Amory, my cousin, 
 
 102
 
 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. IO3 
 
 Miss Lyman." Gladys, raising her eyes with a 
 lively recollection of Madge s "making over to her 
 her share" in this gentleman s menage and saddle- 
 horses, was somewhat surprised to see in him a 
 handsome, rather distinguished-looking man, who 
 bowed and spoke with a peculiarly unanimated, 
 almost languid air, but with none of the supercili 
 ousness she had expected from Madge s descrip 
 tion of him. 
 
 " Are you fond of riding ? " he asked, looking 
 at her with a smile. Gladys eyes were dancing. 
 
 " Oh, so fond ! And I have not ridden why, 
 I have not even seen a horse since I came to 
 America ! I have been at school in New York," 
 she added, as if afraid of seeming to cast a slur on 
 the American steed. 
 
 " Do you care to see her put through her 
 paces?" the gentleman asked, still with a smile, 
 and a half-amused, half-pleased glance of attention 
 at Gladys eager face. The groom, mounting and 
 holding the blanket over his knee for a skirt, 
 made the beautiful creature trot and canter about 
 the grass-plot, ending with a flying leap over a 
 five-railed fence into the pasture. 
 
 "Oh ! if I might," cried Gladys ecstatically.
 
 IO4 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 
 
 Mr. Amory looked inquiringly at Mrs. Water- 
 ston, who stood with a group of other ladies sur 
 veying the little exhibition from the piazza. 
 "You would have no fears for your niece ? The 
 animal is really perfectly safe, and I would prom 
 ise not to carry her out of sight." 
 
 " No, no fears at all with you, Mr. Amory," 
 replied Mrs. Waterston graciously. " Gladys is 
 an experienced horsewoman, I believe." 
 
 There was time for some little explanatory 
 conversation while Gladys was putting on her 
 habit, and as she re-appeared, glowing like a rose 
 in her girlish delight, Madge s eyes met hers with 
 a most mischievous twinkle ; a " Didn t I tell you 
 so?" expression; while Mr. Amory surveyed her 
 with another of his quiet glances of pleased 
 observation as he led her down the steps. 
 
 If the girl had had any other thought except of 
 her own ecstatic joy at finding herself once more 
 on horseback, it might have been a little triumph 
 for her vanity. Mr. Amory s new purchase could 
 scarcely have found a more appreciative rider, and 
 the whole lady household at least were there as 
 witnesses of her grace and perfect control of the 
 spirited animal.
 
 AN (XtDEAL BY FIRE. 1 05 
 
 " May I leap ? " she asked, looking back with a 
 charming smile over her shoulder at her escort. 
 
 " If you are sure of your seat ; but do pray be 
 careful." 
 
 Gladys only reply was a laugh as she gently 
 urged the horse on towards the fence over which 
 the two vaulted as if steed and rider had but one 
 set of muscles as well as one will ; then, cantering 
 round through the gate to join Mr. Amory, she 
 said gayly, " Oh ! you must have no fears for me. 
 I have ridden a great deal with papa abroad, and 
 I feel as if I had not known what life was all this 
 summer till now when I find myself on horseback 
 again." 
 
 " You are certainly at home there," said Mr. 
 Amory, with more animation than he had yet 
 shown ; "you must let me have the pleasure of rid 
 ing often with you. Since Miss Edith has found 
 such an attractive companion for life, I cannot 
 count on her as I used to for riding." 
 
 " It would be a very great pleasure to me," said 
 Gladys, and it was not until Mr. Amory was riding 
 off, the groom leading the bay behind him, that 
 she remembered her aunt s inconsistency in ac 
 cepting this invitation for her so cordially.
 
 IO6 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 
 
 " I am glad you are to have such a pleasure, 
 dear," she said caressingly, as they mounted the 
 stairs. " You will probably see a great deal of 
 Mr. Amory next winter, and there is no possible 
 objection to your riding with him whenever you 
 choose." 
 
 " Alone? " asked the girl, half-rebellioiisly. 
 
 " Oh no ! " said Mrs. Waterston, coloring slight 
 ly, for there was something in Gladys tone which 
 struck on her ear with a new sound, "there will 
 be very few days when Charles and Edith will not 
 be riding, too, and you will naturally form one 
 party." 
 
 Gladys perfectly understood the difference ex 
 isting in her aunt s mind between the two cases, 
 and speculated about it a little bitterly as she took 
 off her habit, but did not make it any ground of 
 objection to the rides which now became frequent, 
 almost daily occurrences. 
 
 In truth, it was a relief to her to be able to 
 throw herself heartily into anything which she so 
 completely enjoyed. A ray of daylight had been 
 let in upon her girlish heart, first, indeed, by her 
 aunt s warning, but far more by that look in Ray 
 mond Lindesay s eyes, and the strange throb it
 
 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. IO/ 
 
 had called up in herself. Gladys shrank from in 
 vestigating it, shrank, indeed, at this time from 
 any deep or continued train of thought, avoided 
 meeting Mr. Lindesay, unless with others, as sedu 
 lously as Mrs. Waterston herself could have de 
 sired, and gladly hailed anything which averted 
 the danger. Often, too, she longed with scarcely 
 controlled impatience for her father s coming. 
 
 The readings were still continued, but they were 
 now become general. No one present would have 
 suspected Gladys of being the moving spring in 
 their origin, for she was very silent, taking no 
 part in the lively discussions in which Anna Clif 
 ford delighted, and which drew out all Raymond s 
 keen caustic humor and cultured intellect. 
 
 "That is Anna s peculiar gift," Madge said, one 
 day ; " she understands so perfectly how to bring 
 out other people and make them show their best. 
 She manages to get a sort of reflected lustre from 
 any one for whom she will take the trouble to ex 
 ert herself." 
 
 " And she could scarcely have a gift, short of 
 positive beauty, which would be more appreciated." 
 Edith added. " No man with the slightest tinct 
 ure of vanity, could fail to be influenced by it."
 
 IO8 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 
 
 Very often it happened that Gladys herself was 
 the missing one at the readings. The long golden 
 afternoons seemed made for horseback riding. 
 
 " I t old you she would find something at Bar 
 Harbor exactly to her taste, before summer was 
 over," Anna smilingly observed to Raymond. 
 
 The rides were enjoyable in themselves, in 
 dependently of the thoroughbred. Mr. Amory 
 seemed to Gladys to have been everywhere, done 
 everything and seen everything, so that he could 
 scarcely fail to have something to talk about, the 
 only wonder existing in her mind being that all he 
 had seen and done seemed to awaken so little en 
 thusiasm. 
 
 " It can t be from any lack of appreciation, 
 either," she said thoughtfully, " for he seems to me 
 as cultured and refined as he looks. I sometimes 
 wish he could be painted full length, and sent to 
 some exhibition abroad as a portrait of the Ameri 
 can gentleman." 
 
 " But you know people who have seen and done 
 everything are apt to be a little d/as/f" remarked 
 Edith ; " when you ve been about more, Gladys, 
 you will find that the Nil admirari* attitude is 
 rather a fashionable one. It comes more or less
 
 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 109 
 
 naturally as one discovers that there is nothing 
 new under the sun." 
 
 " Oh ! I do hope it will never come to me," 
 cried the girl, earnestly. " But I am sure there is 
 no danger. And, Edith, I can imagine a man who 
 might have seen and done as much as Mr. Amory, 
 and yet, instead of growing blast, as you say, might 
 grow more and more interested and enthusiastic. 
 It must be like book knowledge, I think. Just the 
 surface learning grows wearisome in time, perhaps, 
 but when one gets into the heart of things 
 
 "And yet, you mustn t criticise Mr. Amory, 
 Gladys," interrupted Madge, "for I assure you he 
 is positively animated when he is with you by com 
 parison with his former self. Only yesterday he 
 told Edith that it was actual delight to him to see 
 your enjoyment in riding you gave him quite a 
 new zest for life. 
 
 " I am glad of that," rejoined Gladys, laugh 
 ingly, "and, indeed, I do like him very much. He 
 is as different as possible from the supercilious 
 person I imagined when you girls talked about 
 him." 
 
 " We have been riding nearly every day," she 
 wrote to Mrs. Stanhope, until last week when I
 
 IIO AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 
 
 managed to sprain my ankle badly. I hardly 
 know how it happened, but, as we were riding 
 do\vn one of the sudden steep plunges in the road, 
 which was badly gullied by heavy rains, my horse 
 which had always seemed very sure-footed before, 
 suddenly slipped and fell. It took me so by sur 
 prise that I did not try to save myself as I might 
 have tried with a horse I felt less sure of, and 
 Gypsy rolled over on her side, twisting my foot 
 under her. 
 
 "Mr. Amory was out of his saddle in a moment, 
 looking terribly white I should never have sus 
 pected him of being nervous ! and Charles and 
 Edith who were riding a good way behind, as they 
 usually do, came cantering up in the greatest 
 fright. But there was really no cause for alarm. 
 My ankle was only sprained from the twist, and 
 poor Gypsy was more hurt, as well as more fright 
 ened, than I. They put the side-saddle on Mr. 
 Amory s horse, and he walked beside me all the 
 way home, holding me on, which was entirely un 
 necessary, as my wrists were not sprained, and I 
 could manage a horse as well as ever. 
 
 " Dr. Forbes tells me one must be very careful 
 about sprains, and, as he is not apt to make a fuss
 
 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. Ill 
 
 over things, I am very obedient, and sit patiently 
 by the window with my foot upon the lounge, not 
 even trying to walk a step. But really, dear Mrs. 
 Stanhope, I am glad to have a little time to think 
 and be quiet before papa comes. Life here seems 
 to hurry me on so fast, and one thing comes just 
 on the heels of the other, till all the day is in a 
 whirl ! Does it always seem so in society life, I 
 wonder ? I do not mean that it shall be so with 
 me, and, if papa can spare me after the Boston 
 house is furnished, all except the little finishings 
 that we shall like to keep adding all the time, I 
 mean to come to you for a quiet visit before the 
 whirl begins. I feel as if I were grown very much 
 older this summer, and the thought of next winter 
 does not alarm me now as it did when I bade 
 you good-by in New York. How much I shall 
 have to talk of with you ! " 
 
 Here Madge entered, a basket of flowers in 
 either hand. " For you, Gladys only look at the 
 orchids ! Mr. Amory is gone to Boston to im 
 prove the time while your ankle is getting well, he 
 says ; I think he means to get another saddle- 
 horse in place of poor Gypsy, for he declares he 
 will never trust you on her again."
 
 112 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 
 
 "Nonsense! But, Madge, where did these wild 
 flowers come from ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Lindesay brought them for you. 
 You know he is a great botanist, and I daresay 
 there is a specimen here of every wild flower to 
 be found in Mt. Desert." 
 
 " If one walks far enough for them," said 
 Gladys, taking the basket from Madge s hand. 
 
 "And here are flowers that cannot be had for 
 the walking. Now, Gladys, are you really in ear 
 nest in wanting us all to go off on that excursion 
 this afternoon ? I am afraid you will be lonely, 
 for every soul in the hotel is off somewhere, I 
 believe, and it will be so quiet that you can hear 
 the grass grow." 
 
 " No, no ; I don t want any of you to stay. I 
 shall not need anything, and, if the quiet grows 
 overpowering, I can take a nap." 
 
 From her window Gladys watched the buck- 
 board driven up to the door, and the party set 
 forth, Madge regretfully waving her pocket-hand 
 kerchief as they disappeared from sight. Other 
 carriages came and went, until, as Madge had 
 predicted, the hotel seemed utterly deserted, un 
 less by the servants.
 
 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 113 
 
 Gladys finished her letter and lay back on the 
 lounge, looking idly out. It was an intensely still 
 afternoon, one of the soft, sultry, hazy days that 
 often come in early September. The sails drifted 
 sleepily over the smooth water, the insects chirped 
 shrilly in the trees, the sun fell scorching on the 
 dry grass, and in the air was a soft blue mist and 
 a faint odor suggesting forest fires. Gladys lay 
 dreamily with half-closed eyes, parting the ferns 
 in her basket of wild flowers, and smiling to her 
 self as she saw one and another delicate blossom 
 which the old doctor had told her grew only in 
 spots on the island. A graver expression played 
 about the sweet mouth, then the long lashes grew 
 dewy, and presently, as Gladys fell asleep, lulled 
 by the chirping of the insects in the branches 
 near her, a tell-tale tear dropped upon her pillow. 
 
 How long she slept she did not know, but she 
 awaked with a start of terror. There was nothing 
 to be seen as she raised herself on her elbow, half- 
 bewildered, to look from the window. She heard 
 a shouting, excited, incoherent cries as if from a 
 crowd of men and boys, but from the wing in which 
 her room and Madge s lay, the wall of the main 
 building quite shut off her view. And yet there
 
 114 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 
 
 was a nameless something in the air which made 
 her heart throb wildly. She felt lonely, forsaken, 
 almost as if she must cry for help. She stretched 
 from the window as far as she could, and at the 
 moment a red tongue of flame burst from the 
 white wall beyond, and a hoarse cry rose from 
 the crowd she could not see. Oh ! it was fire, and 
 she was there alone and helpless. She cried 
 " Help ! help ! " as loudly as she could, but no 
 one heard her. Far off down the dusty road she 
 saw some barefooted boys running towards the 
 hotel, and crying "Fire!" in the joyous tone of 
 street urchins at such times. She waved her 
 handkerchief, but no one saw her. Another wild 
 burst of flame from the projecting wall, and, made 
 desperate with terror as she remembered that she 
 must be cut off from the stairs, she seized both 
 sides of the window-frame and dragged herself up 
 on the sill. One shuddering look at the ground 
 below, and then, all of a sudden, two strong arms 
 surrounded her and drew her back into safety 
 and protection. 
 
 "Thank God!" said Raymond Lindesay s voice, 
 and, with a little inarticulate cry, she turned and 
 clung to him, hiding her face on his shoulder.
 
 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 115 
 
 For a moment he held her in his arms, soothing 
 her with words she scarcely noticed at the time. 
 It was too sweet to find the terrible loneliness all 
 at once so far away. 
 
 "Oh, I was frightened!" she exclaimed, trying 
 to smile and drawing back on the pillows. "And 
 you remembered I was alone ? You came for me ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes," he said hurriedly. "I came to see. 
 Don t talk of it now we must go, or try to go, 
 at least. There is not a moment to be lost. You 
 will trust yourself to me?" 
 
 She looked up with a smile and rose at once, 
 supporting herself on his arm. 
 
 " No, no! not so." 
 
 He tore a blanket from the bed, drenched it 
 with water, and, shrouding her in it from head to 
 foot, raised her gently in his arms. 
 
 "Do not try to look," he said hoarsely; "there, 
 hide your face so, and do not once let go your 
 hold. You will not be afraid with me?" 
 
 "I am afraid for you," she whispered, trembling, 
 and hiding her face as he bade her. 
 
 It was well she did not know what that fiery 
 passage was. Along the narrow entries he sped, 
 the air growing suffocatingly hot as they advanced,
 
 Il6 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 
 
 pausing a moment at the stairs, up which the 
 flames were already beginning to lick their way, 
 faltering a moment as the angry tongues darted at 
 his burden, then, pressing her closer to him as if 
 to snatch her away, he leaped and stumbled down 
 the last broken steps, and shot into the air outside, 
 as from a very baptism of fire. 
 
 The crowd of old men and boys feeble folk 
 to fight such a foe were gathered round the 
 main building, which, like most of the hotels in 
 the place, was a perfect tinder-box of light wood, 
 and flamed and crackled in the dry air like so 
 much paper. The wing had caught fire last, and, 
 for the moment, all eyes were too intent elsewhere 
 to notice their exit. 
 
 Raymond carried his burden to a grassy knoll 
 at some distance and unwrapped the blanket with 
 beating heart. 
 
 " Yes, safe," said Gladys, almost laughing in 
 the intense relief of the moment, at the sight of 
 his white, scared face; "alive and breathing. 
 But you Oh, Mr. Lindesay ! your hair is scorched 
 and your very eyelashes burned off." 
 
 Raymond put up his hand. "Well," he said 
 lightly, " that is a holocaust I willingly assent to
 
 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. II? 
 
 since more precious things are unharmed. But I 
 must go quickly and find some sort of conveyance, 
 or you will be the centre of a sensation among the 
 good people here. I am going to carry you to 
 Dr. Forbes." 
 
 " Hatless, trunkless, clothesless ! " said Gladys, 
 half-laughing again in the reaction of her spirits. 
 
 " Not for long, I trust. As soon as you have a 
 roof over your head, I shall come back to see what 
 can be saved from the wreck." 
 
 " Oh, not again ! " cried Gladys, with a shudder. 
 "Clothes are not worth the risk of a life." 
 
 " But think of your aunt and cousins. I know 
 too well what it is to be in suspense. But there 
 will be no risk you need not fear for me. Now 
 lean back against this tree, and rest your poor 
 ankle. Remember that all fears are over, and you 
 are safe and unhurt." 
 
 " And you, as well," Gladys thought as she 
 shut her eyes and leaned back obediently, feeling 
 a happy peacefulness steal over her with the 
 thought that all must surely be well now. So 
 Raymond found her when he returned, chatting 
 merrily with a ring of little urchins, who sur 
 rounded her, attracted by the shout of one of
 
 Il8 AN ORDEAL BY FIRE. 
 
 their number : " A woman ! a woman saved out 
 of the fire ! " and rather disappointed that such a 
 rara avis should look and speak like other people. 
 She sat silently leaning back as they drove to 
 the doctor s cottage, listening to the driver s eager 
 account of the origin of the fire, a match dropped 
 in the barn-loft by two half-tipsy hostlers, and 
 unnoticed in the general desertion of the hotel 
 till too late. But she felt too entirely at peace in 
 the present to ask a question or give a thought 
 to the future.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. 
 
 My wind is turned to bitter north, 
 That was so soft a south before ; 
 
 My sky that shone so sunny bright, 
 With foggy gloom is clouded o er. 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 lUT does it seem to you natural that Gladys 
 nerves should be so unstrung by the fire?" 
 
 " Unstrung ? Why, think of the terrible strain 
 of those few minutes when she was alone and 
 helpless with death staring her in the face ! My 
 dear Lyman, we men should have been the same 
 in her place, though, for the matter of that, what 
 do you mean by unstrung ? 
 
 " Excited ; talking deliriously, as she has talked 
 almost every night since I came ; seeming at times 
 so restless and unlike herself, and then again, so 
 completely prostrated. I scarcely know what to 
 make of it ; Gladys has a good constitution and 
 strong nerves." 
 
 119
 
 I2O MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. 
 
 "Don t ask too much of them, then," grumbled 
 the doctor. " The sprained ankle is enough to 
 account for prostration. Be easy, my good sir, 
 and don t make unreasonable demands on Dame 
 Nature." 
 
 Mr. Lyman and the doctor were walking slowly 
 back and forth on the piazza, of the hospitable 
 cottage which had opened its doors and taken 
 in all the Waterston party till Mr. Lyman should 
 arrive, the deficient wardrobes receive some addi 
 tions, and Gladys recover somewhat from the 
 terrible strain she had undergone. Naturally or 
 not, she had, certainly, been quite overcome after 
 the first relief of escape was passed, and, espe 
 cially since her father s arrival, had seemed very 
 unlike herself, spending languid, spiritless days 
 on the couch, tossing restlessly at night, and 
 talking incessantly in her dreams. 
 
 In spite, however, of the doctor s exhortations, 
 Mr. Lyman could not be easy. Evidently to his 
 mind there was an existing cause for this state of 
 things which did not lie on the surface. His next 
 question was an abrupt one : 
 
 "What sort of fellow is this young Lindesay ? " 
 
 " That, I think, must be apparent to the most
 
 MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. 121 
 
 cursory observer. A young man of fine mind, one 
 who would inevitably make a brilliant position for 
 himself in the world of intellect if he were not 
 hampered and kept down by somewhat adverse 
 circumstances. I am by no means sure that he 
 may not do it yet, as fine minds do often triumph 
 over circumstances. Noble natures do, to a dead 
 certainty, but Raymond s is a little warped by 
 kicking against the pricks." 
 
 So the good doctor murmured on, rather to him 
 self than his companion. 
 
 " However, you have seen him," he added, rous 
 ing himself. " How does he strike you ? " 
 
 " Oh ! an original, attractive fellow," replied Mr. 
 Lyman absently. "You speak of adverse circum 
 stances. Now, what can I do for this young man ? 
 Think what I owe him." 
 
 " What have you thought of doing for him ? " 
 queried the doctor, with a sharp side-glance. 
 
 " I hardly know ; nothing seems adequate. You 
 say he has a family of brothers and sisters depend 
 ent on him. Might I not educate one of the boys 
 send him through college ? " 
 
 "There is but one boy whom Raymond thinks 
 fitted to receive a classical education, and I know
 
 122 MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. 
 
 of friends who already have him in mind," said 
 the doctor hastily, forming a resolution on the 
 spot. " Hal Lindesay is a brilliant lad, and would 
 do credit to any interest that might be used to 
 push him forward. The other little fellow is at a 
 public school, and will step right into business 
 from the bottom of the ladder." 
 
 "One of the daughters, then." 
 
 "They are at present under the instruction of 
 an excellent mother. By and by, perhaps " 
 
 "But I should prefer doing something now," 
 said Mr. Lyman impatiently. " Is there no way 
 of approaching young Lindesay himself? He is 
 very proud, I see, but " 
 
 " As proud as Lucifer, and as ready to kindle 
 as the matches named after him," returned the 
 uncompromising doctor. " Oh no ! you can t do 
 anything for Raymond individually. His tutor 
 ing ends with this month. His course at the law 
 school is finished, and he goes to New York to 
 read in Joseph White s office." 
 
 " I know him well," said Mr. Lyman eagerly. 
 " I am glad Lindesay goes to New York." 
 
 "Oh! you can t do anything for him there," 
 said the doctor, still in the driest of all dry tones.
 
 MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. 123 
 
 " Promotion at the bar is slow, at best, but when 
 it comes, Lindesay will owe it to his own talents, I 
 fancy. He is sure to rise." 
 
 " Then the young man has positively no wants 
 that can be met ? " said Mr. Lyman, with a rather 
 incredulous smile. 
 
 " No wants ? Bless you, yes ! I should say 
 that Raymond Lindesay, take him as he stands, 
 was at this moment as aspiring a young man as 
 any in these United States." 
 
 " But are not his aspirations such as I can 
 further ? " 
 
 "That is precisely the question you must 
 answer yourself, my dear sir," said the doctor, 
 with very significant emphasis, and the keenest of 
 glances. "You understand me, I see." 
 
 "I am by no means sure that I do," said Mr. 
 Lyman, knitting his brows. "Am I to infer do 
 you mean " 
 
 " I mean that I can t speak any more plainly," 
 said Dr. Forbes quickly. "You have drawn your 
 own inferences, as I saw before we began to talk, 
 from your interview with Raymond. One thing, 
 however, my dear Lyman, I must say ; I must 
 make a clean breast of it to you. If there is any
 
 124 MR - LYMAN S CHECKMATE. 
 
 blame in the matter, it attaches to me. I forgot 
 that girls are young women the moment they 
 cease to be children, so, if the consequences of 
 my forgetfulness are unwelcome to you, lay the 
 blame on my imprudence." 
 
 " Not at all, my dear doctor," said Mr. Lyman, 
 with all his own suavity. " I lay the blame on no 
 one on nothing but unfortunate juxtaposition. 
 But do you mean " 
 
 " I mean to say nothing more," said the doc 
 tor stoutly. " Vcrbinn sapienti, Try this cigar, 
 Lyman, and don t be uneasy about my little 
 patient. There are no symptoms in the case that 
 are not entirely accountable, I give you my word 
 for it." 
 
 The doctor was called away here, and Mr. 
 Lyman, pacing slowly back and forth on the 
 piazza, was left to ruminate on his own unwelcome 
 reflections. 
 
 It would have been hard to say precisely what 
 had given rise to his uneasiness. When he and 
 Lindesay had met, the cordiality and effusion had 
 naturally been on his own side. On the young 
 man s there had been a sort of shy, proud reserve, 
 joined with a keen scrutiny which had struck him
 
 MR. LVMAN S CHECKMATE. 125 
 
 at once as peculiar, even before his anxiety about 
 Gladys had made him suspect a reason for it. 
 They had met several times before the yacht had 
 left the island, and Mr. Lyman had been obliged 
 to own to himself, with secret chagrin, that there 
 was in Raymond much to attract a fancy less 
 impressible than that of an inexperienced girl. 
 Gladys name had scarcely been spoken between 
 them. Raymond had barely suffered the briefest 
 mention of his deed of heroism, and had turned 
 aside all Mr. Lyman s delicate allusions to an 
 "indebtedness which could never be repaid." 
 But subtle signs are often more unmistakable 
 than outspoken words, and the extremely unwel 
 come character of Mr. Lyman s suspicions only 
 served to intensify them. 
 
 The yacht had sailed away now, and Raymond 
 had accompanied his pupils to Cambridge. Nor 
 had the parting with Gladys the only time they 
 had seen each other since the fire been such as 
 to excite the slightest remark even from the ob 
 servant Edith who was present. Gladys had 
 raised herself on her elbow as he approached her 
 couch, and held out her hand with no more 
 warmth of greeting than was natural and fitting
 
 126 MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. 
 
 towards one who had saved her life. There was 
 barely a deeper flush on her cheek as he took her 
 hand, and, for any words that were exchanged 
 between them, they might have been mere pass 
 ing acquaintances. 
 
 "Papa tells me he has seen you," Gladys said. 
 
 " Yes, several times, and he is kind enough to 
 hope we shall meet in Boston." 
 
 "Then you do not go at once to New York ? " 
 
 " Not for several weeks. I have a good deal to 
 occupy me in Cambridge before I finally leave it. 
 But you are going to New York, they tell me." 
 
 "Yes; to Mrs. Stanhope, for a little visit before 
 winter begins. I had written to tell her I should 
 come, on the day of the fire, and now the doctor 
 thinks I had better go a little earlier than I had 
 planned. But it will not be for long." 
 
 "Let it be for thorough rest, then. You do 
 not know yet how much strength is required for a 
 young lady s campaign in the gay world." 
 
 Gladys laughed, and held out her hand as he 
 rose to go. " Good-by, then, and thank you a 
 thousand times." There was a warm and friendly 
 pressure of the hand, and so they parted. Truly 
 a paucity of words, if words were all !
 
 MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. I2/ 
 
 The gay summer birds had all flitted from Bar 
 Harbor now, and, so soon as Gladys was able 
 to bear the journey, Mr. Lyman carried her on to 
 New York for a fortnight of entire rest such as 
 Mrs. Stanhope s familiar presence and tender care 
 could best afford her. Her regrets at going before 
 the refurnishing of the house were softened by the 
 thought of the delightfully congenial occupation it 
 would afford aunt Laura, and the promise that all 
 the final embellishments should be left until her 
 return. Her absence seemed to restore her, in 
 her father s thoughts, to the position of a little 
 schoolgirl, which she had occupied there all 
 through the past year, and gradually his uneasi 
 ness began to subside. 
 
 Mr. Lindesay had called once at Mrs. Water- 
 ston s house where her brother was staying, but 
 had found no one at home. Mr. Lyman had 
 written a note, saying on paper all that he had 
 found himself unable to say face to face. To this 
 note no reply had yet been received, but, so well 
 do words at times supply the place of deeds, that 
 Mr. Lyman almost felt as if his obligation were 
 discharged, and the disagreeable recollection of it 
 was already beginning to fade from his mind.
 
 128 MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. 
 
 On the morning before Gladys return, however, 
 a thick letter, in unknown handwriting, met his 
 eyes as he entered his study in the newly-opened 
 old house. He broke the seal, and saw, with a 
 peculiarly unpleasant sensation, the name of 
 Raymond Lindesay at the bottom of the page. 
 On the enclosed note which dropped from the 
 envelope, there was no address, nor did it need 
 any. 
 
 The letter to himself began somewhat abruptly: 
 
 You ask me if there is nothing you can do to further the inter 
 ests of my family, adding, very kindly, that nothing you could do 
 would discharge your sense of obligation to myself. In spite of 
 the regret I have already expressed, that you should allow so 
 needless a feeling to weigh upon you, I might have accepted your 
 offer in behalf of my brother, since I would not willingly stand in 
 his light. Happily, the kindness of an old friend renders it un 
 necessary. I have no wishes for myself that could be met in the 
 way you have in mind, for, however arrogant the claim I am about 
 to make may appear to you, I beg you to believe that I do not 
 base it on anything I have been happy enough to do for your 
 daughter. If what I ask is unattainable, you will readily see that 
 I can accept of nothing else at your hands. 
 
 Briefly, then, I love her with all my heart and soul. As one s 
 heart is not under the control of worldly wisdom, I do not offer 
 any excuse for the feeling; but, as I well know how audacious 
 such a passion must seem to you, I should scarcely have felt my 
 self called upon to avow it, had I not dared to hope that she, too, 
 loved me. I know perfectly well all that you would say to me, if we 
 were talking face to face, of her youth, her ignorance of the world, 
 my own inequality of fortune, my selfishness in seeking to bind 
 her. I know it all, but it seems to me nothing before the simple
 
 MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. I2Q 
 
 fact of the belief which I have just expressed. My fortunes may 
 mend, and my love is at least generous enough to ask for no open 
 recognition until she shall have seen the world, with the most un 
 limited freedom to withdraw, if, after having seen it, her feelings 
 should have changed. 
 
 The one impossible thing seems to me silence, believing as I 
 do, and I have, therefore, written a letter to your daughter, which 
 you will read or not as you choose. So far I have spoken with 
 confidence, but you know little of such a love as mine, if you do 
 not know that its misgivings are at least equal to its boldness. 
 It is possible that I may, after all, have been mistaken in my 
 belief. As I well know what confidence and affection exists be 
 tween Miss Lyman and yourself, I am willing to trust to your 
 knowledge of her heart. If I have been blind, presumptuous, 
 mad enough to fancy a thing which you know to be impossible, 
 destroy this letter and do not send me any reply. It will be un 
 necessary, for I shall understand only too well. But, if you have 
 even a suspicion that I am right, I trust to your honor, however 
 unwelcome my proposal may be, to let me have my answer from 
 your daughter s own lips. RAYMOND LINDESAY. 
 
 For some minutes after reading this letter, Mr. 
 Lyman sat motionless, with his head on his hand. 
 A thousand painful thoughts filled his mind. 
 That letter appealed to his heart, as it must to the 
 heart of any man who knew the depth of a true 
 love : his belief that Gladys returned the feeling 
 differed from Raymond s only as fears differ from 
 hopes : he believed himself capable of any sacri 
 fice of his personal wishes for her happiness, and 
 yet was this for her happiness ? 
 
 Mr. Lyman was a proud man ; that was an
 
 I3O MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. 
 
 inheritance which had come down to him through 
 several generations. The thought that his daugh 
 ter, the one precious little scion of his race, should 
 bear a name which had been tarnished by even a 
 suspicion of dishonor, was intolerable to him. 
 Difference of wealth, of social position, he told 
 himself (and believed that he was sincere in saying 
 so), he could have cheerfully put out of sight for 
 Gladys sake, but this ! What dreams he had had 
 for her ! How dear her beauty and fascination 
 had been to him ! As he sat there, the years 
 which had passed since her mother s death the 
 only years in which he had fully known his child 
 rose before him. He thought of their rides to 
 gether, of the long expeditions in quest of pict 
 ures, of Charles Willoughby s portrait, of her child 
 ish indignation at his daring to fall in love with 
 her. He could hear Gladys voice now : " Please, 
 papa, if such a thing happens again, answer for 
 me you know quite well what I should say ! " 
 
 And had not the same thing happened again ? 
 Why not ? How short a time had passed since 
 then scarcely more than a year ! Was the child 
 already a woman ? Was this so different an experi 
 ence, and wherein did the difference lie ?
 
 MR. LYMAN S CHECKMATE. 13! 
 
 Should he give her the letter? If his foolish 
 fears had been groundless, what surer mode of 
 refuting them ? But involuntarily he shrank from 
 the thought of putting them to the test. He re 
 membered the restless nights when he had watched 
 so anxiously beside her ; he remembered the name 
 which had come oftenest from her lips in her un 
 conscious murmurings. 
 
 No, he would not think of that, yet ; nothing 
 need be decided to-night. He would wait. To 
 morrow Gladys would return from New York ; he 
 would observe her closely, and, if she showed any 
 change, if he had any real tangible reason for the 
 step, why, then At all events, he would wait, 
 and, firm in that determination, at least, Mr. Ly- 
 man dropped the letter into the most secret drawer 
 of his study-table.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A MODERN BARBARA. 
 
 . . . What if I fail of my purpose here ? 
 
 It is but to keep the nerves at strain, 
 To dry one s eyes and laugh at a fall, 
 
 And, baffled, get up to begin again, 
 So the chase takes up one s life, that s all. 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 WHAT girl is there to whom her first sea 
 son " out " is not a delight ? No girl, cer 
 tainly, who is blessed with beauty, health and spirits 
 such as Gladys Lyman possessed. She returned 
 from New York in quite her normal condition, so 
 blooming and beautiful that even an observer, who 
 had not her father s bias towards favorable deci 
 sion, might have concluded there could be no 
 hidden thought preying on her mind, no secret 
 longing gnawing at her heart. 
 
 Weeks passed on, and balls, receptions and din 
 ner parties succeeded each other in one unbroken 
 round. If all life were not "in a whirl," as Gladys 
 had feared, it was only because she had the secret 
 
 132
 
 A MODERN BARBARA. 133 
 
 of keeping her head steady. But though, to all 
 appearance, the gayest of the gay, courted, admired 
 and flattered as scarcely any other girl was, there 
 was something in Gladys which preserved her from 
 intoxication. She enjoyed with all her heart, ac 
 cepted the admiration and the homage with as 
 much pleasure as any other young and beautiful girl, 
 but remained throughout as simple and unspoiled 
 as when we first met her on the Bar Harbor boat. 
 Whether this were due to a quality of mind, or 
 some saving sentiment of the heart, her father had 
 not yet determined. 
 
 True to his resolve, he had watched her intently ; 
 at times there was a thoughtful expression on the 
 brow, a shade of weariness about the mouth, a 
 sigh when she was suddenly aroused from unusual 
 silence, but these signs did not, of necessity, mean 
 anything. She had, to a rare degree, the faculty 
 of interesting herself absorbingly in whatever pur 
 suit might occupy her at the moment, and no qual 
 ity so completely baffles observation as this. 
 
 Madge Waterston found her so absorbed one 
 morning when, after wandering through the house 
 in search of her, she tracked her at last to the 
 room in the upper story which she had appro-
 
 134 A MODERN BARBARA. 
 
 priated as her studio. There she found her before 
 her easel, clad in a blue linen blouse, and so en 
 tirely lost in a charcoal study of her father, that 
 she scarcely looked up at her cousin s entrance. 
 
 " Just for all the world as if you had not been 
 dancing till the small hours!" Madge exclaimed, 
 in a half-aggrieved tone. "And I believe you will 
 work as hard here at your pictures all winter as if 
 you were the plainest wall-flower in the crowd ! " 
 
 "What can that have to do with my painting? " 
 Gladys exclaimed, with a merry burst of laughter. 
 
 " A great deal, if you look at it in the right way. 
 I believe in things being justly distributed in this 
 world, and that a girl who has a right to look for 
 the largest share of the attention and the bouquets, 
 shouldn t try to usurp the public recognition of 
 industry and talent which less fortunate girls fall 
 back upon for consolation. My ideas are not high- 
 toned/ as Edith often tells me, and very likely you 
 don t know what I mean by this one, but I say 
 it, nevertheless." 
 
 " Yes, I understand what you mean," said Gladys, 
 " and I half agree with you, too. But, Madge, the 
 difference is that I don t look for public recog 
 nition at all, but, when I paint, do it just for my
 
 A MODERN BARBARA. 135 
 
 own good and content. I don t believe, though, 
 that the girls who have real talent do fall back on 
 it for consolation as you say. They draw or 
 play because they must, because they have the 
 power and must use it, and, so far from being the 
 second-best thing to them, it is the very highest. 
 Now I have only a little bit of talent, and shall 
 probably do less with it, even, than I might if it 
 were not for the going into society which comes 
 naturally in my way. But all the same I go on 
 trying, because I really believe that every girl 
 is happier for having some steady, quiet, sheet- 
 anchor of an occupation, something which she can, 
 at least, try for and work up to, if nobody ever 
 sees what she attempts except herself. If the op 
 portunity ever comes for her to use it, she has the 
 power ; if it never does, she has had the help and 
 satisfaction. That is my idea of woman s work." 
 " Who would ever suspect her of being the belle 
 of a ball-room ? " laughed Madge. " While I am 
 out trying to recruit my looks after last night with 
 a mouthful of fresh air, she is drawing and philos 
 ophizing at the same time, and as blooming as 
 ever in spite of it all ! Uncle Gordon, this will be 
 a capital likeness of you."
 
 136 A MODERN BARBARA. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said Gladys earnestly. 
 " Now to me there is something about it that is 
 not like papa lines about the mouth and eyes 
 that I never noticed before. I was thinking of it 
 as you came in." 
 
 The conversation turned upon topics of girlish 
 interest and gossip, and it was not till Madge s 
 departure that Gladys, taking up her charcoal 
 again, returned to her interrupted train of thought. 
 
 " Yes," she said slowly, standing before the 
 easel, and looking intently, first at the sketch, 
 then at her father. " I do not like this as a pict 
 ure of you, and yet it certainly is you as you have 
 looked since I began it. There are lines here, 
 and puckers there," emphasizing them with her 
 charcoal, "which are not natural to you. If it 
 were any one else, I should say, that person has 
 something on his mind. Mr. Lyman s face un 
 derwent an involuntary change. 
 
 "I believe I will not try any more to-day," 
 said the girl, and, laying down the charcoal, she 
 came over to her father s chair, and seated herself 
 on his knee, putting her arms lovingly round his 
 neck. " But there is nothing that troubles you, is 
 there ? You would tell me if there were ? "
 
 A MODERN BARBARA. 137 
 
 " I would tell you, certainly, if there were any 
 thing that troubled me on my own account, my 
 darling." 
 
 " Do you mean that there is anything about me 
 that troubles you ? " 
 
 She looked at him searchingly, while a brighter 
 rose flushed her cheek. 
 
 " No, no, dear, not in the way you mean. But 
 of course your future does occupy me a great deal. 
 I want it to be the very brightest we can choose 
 together." 
 
 " It looks very bright, doesn t it ? " said the girl, 
 with a smile. " People would say so if it is true 
 that I may choose." 
 
 Something in her tone belied the smile, and her 
 father, looking intently in her face, exclaimed, 
 "Why, Gladys, what is the matter? Are you not 
 happy, my love ? " 
 
 " Yes, usually," she replied, half-laughing, 
 though she turned away her face. 
 
 " But you are enjoying your winter, surely ? " 
 
 "Very much; though I don t think it quite 
 goes to the very heart of me. But this is silly 
 talk. Papa, you talk of our choosing my future ; 
 have you ever thought of making a choice ? "
 
 138 A MODERN BARBARA. 
 
 Mr. Lyman smiled. " Words are somewhat 
 superfluous, I think, aren t they ? I have thought 
 what I should like, certainly. I suppose you don t 
 need any very explicit explanation, Gladys ? " 
 
 " No ; I suppose not," said the girl, blushing, 
 but speaking, nevertheless, with a grave simplicity 
 and unconsciousness of self that was almost child 
 like in its frankness. " Would that really make 
 you so happy ? " 
 
 " It would, certainly, but the question is rather 
 of your happiness than mine. However, we have 
 had quite enough psychological talk for the morn 
 ing after a ball, so go and put on your habit, dear. 
 You know we are to ride with Mr. Amory." 
 
 This was no infrequent occurrence, for Mr. 
 Amory s friendship with Mr. Lyman was scarcely 
 less remarked than his admiration for his daugh 
 ter. There was a similarity of individual taste 
 and inherited prejudice between the older and the 
 younger man which naturally drew them together, 
 and, if Mr. Lyman had been asked to choose an 
 ideal husband for Gladys, it is probable that his 
 choice would have fallen on Morgan Amory. 
 About most of the younger men in society there 
 was a crudeness which often grated on his pol-
 
 A 
 
 A MODERN BARBARA. 139 
 
 ished sensibilities, but Amory had passed that 
 stage, and, if any prejudices existed in the father s 
 mind in favor of qualities of the heart rather than 
 culture and refinement, their deficiency was appar 
 ently made up by the fact that Morgan Amory 
 was, for the time being, as thoroughly and earn 
 estly in love as it was in his nature to be. 
 
 This was no secret in society. Already Gladys 
 was beginning to be looked upon as, in some 
 measure, appropriated, although it was not easy to 
 discourage general attention when such a face was 
 in question. No girl could have been unconscious 
 of such marked admiration, but Gladys could not 
 be said either to encourage or discourage it. 
 That she liked Mr. Amory her father had no 
 doubt, but whether she did more than this, a 
 wiser than he would have found it hard to decide. 
 The little talk between them in the studio had 
 been the first serious approach to the subject, and 
 whether it were to be regarded as giving ground 
 for hope or for fears, Mr. Lyman was wholly un 
 able to tell. 
 
 As spring came on Gladys began to droop, and 
 her father, always anxiously on the watch, at once 
 appealed to her old friend, Dr. Forbes.
 
 I4O A MODERN BARBARA. 
 
 " Do you think the winter has been too much 
 for her?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! though our American girls do live 
 through half a lifetime in one season. But it is 
 only skin-deep with Miss Gladys. No, the mis 
 chief doesn t lie there." 
 
 " Possibly I am over-anxious," said Mr. Lyman, 
 who, ever since the summer, had had his own rea 
 sons for dread of the keen-eyed doctor; "but her 
 mother was so delicate ! Certainly no girl in society 
 this winter has looked more blooming than Gladys." 
 
 " Exactly. If Shakespeare had lived in the 
 nineteenth century, he would never have written a 
 line about green and yellow melancholy, or con 
 cealment preying on her damask cheek. Our 
 American girls may be impressible enough, but 
 they are made of different fibre from that." 
 
 " Do you think her depressed, then ? " asked the 
 anxious father. " Would you advise my taking 
 her to Europe for the summer ? " 
 
 " Oh ! by all means ; though it is often an open 
 question whether distance acts as a remedy or the 
 reverse." 
 
 Mr. Lyman was fain to be content with this 
 reply, and the European trip was decided on.
 
 A MODERN BARBARA. 14! 
 
 Mr. Amory followed a few weeks later, and, in 
 the course of the summer, news came over the 
 water of the engagement. 
 
 " Nobody is in the least surprised," wrote Madge, 
 "and I, certainly, have less cause to be so than 
 any one else, for, if you remember, I selected Mr. 
 Amory as your especial perquisite before you even 
 reached Bar Harbor. But how strangely things 
 do come about ! There is a rumor that Raymond 
 Lindesay is engaged to Anna Clifford. It has 
 been contradicted, to be sure, but, then, I often 
 notice that rumor is only a little too early for the 
 actual event. It was very easy to see, last summer, 
 that she had it in view. Anna, you know, appre 
 ciates brains very highly, knowing that her own 
 family are rather scantily provided with them. As 
 for Mr. Lindesay, no one, of course, could doubt 
 what the attraction to him would be."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A MEETING. 
 
 Must meeting be 
 
 Never before we die ? 
 
 Dear soul, not so ! 
 
 For time doth keep for us some happy years, 
 And God hath portioned us our smiles and tears. 
 
 EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
 WHY, who is " 
 " Surely you have not forgotten her ? 
 That is Mrs. Morgan Amory with her husband. 
 She is not so much changed since she was Miss 
 Lyman; I believe people generally call her even 
 more beautiful." 
 
 And Anna Clifford looked sharply at Lindesay, 
 as she spoke. 
 
 " Very much more beautiful," he rejoined, 
 quietly resuming the attitude from which he had 
 started as he saw the couple entering the crowded 
 drawing-room on one of Judge Clifford s reception 
 nights. 
 
 "Are they staying in New York, then ? " 
 142
 
 A MEETING. 143 
 
 " For a short time only ; they are visiting Mrs. 
 Stanhope. It is Gladys first appearance here 
 since her marriage. What an air of long-suffering 
 Mr. Amory does wear ! I wonder if a wife is as 
 much of a bore to him as everything else in 
 existence ! " 
 
 As Anna stepped forward to receive the new 
 comers, Lindesay disappeared, unremarked, through 
 the doorway of the little conservatory. He felt as 
 if a moment s preparation were a positive neces 
 sity before he could meet her calmly and noncha 
 lantly like any other guest of the evening. 
 
 It was not easy to forget that long winter of 
 dead silence, the days and weeks and months of 
 expectancy fading at last into a merciful hope 
 lessness. And he had been mistaken, after all ! 
 That thought was the bitterest gall to his pride. 
 He could have cursed his folly as he recalled the 
 letter in which he had shown out his heart so 
 openly. Her feeling had been pity only, a sweet 
 child s pity which he had mistaken for the love 
 she had awakened in him. And yet he could not 
 hate her for it as he might have hated another 
 woman. Never, it seemed, could the memory of 
 those sweet, girlish tones and looks bring any-
 
 144 A MEETING. 
 
 thing but tenderness to his heart. Yet, when he 
 fancied Mr. Lyman s contemptuous smile and 
 careless shrug as he read the letter, the iron 
 entered his very soul, and the softened mood 
 turned again to bitterness. 
 
 Then came the news of Gladys engagement. 
 It was no surprise, certainly. He might have 
 known that she was reserved for a cold, selfish 
 worldling like Morgan Amory ; it was no surprise 
 and, surely, no disappointment, but only from 
 that day did Lindesay begin to think possible for 
 himself an engagement which ambition might 
 have suggested long before. What did it matter ? 
 Love seemed a dream of the past. Why struggle 
 on with a dreary present, when here at his elbow 
 ease, and freedom from care, seemed waiting for 
 him ? Why loiter ? What signified the relin 
 quishing of one aspiration more than another ? 
 And yet, even now, Anna Clifford was not his 
 betrothed ; he almost felt to-night, as he looked at 
 the lovely, well-remembered face, that she never 
 would be. 
 
 Gladys still stood talking with Anna, and glanc 
 ing with a half-amused light in her eyes across the 
 room at her husband. Anna s ill-natured con
 
 A MEETING. 145 
 
 jecture was quite groundless ; he was still far too 
 much the lover for the bored expression to appear 
 in his face when it was turned upon his wife ; but 
 what well-bred individual could possibly wear more 
 strongly the Nil admirari expression than he in 
 general society ? 
 
 He had just met and been stopped by a tower 
 ing, broad-shouldered figure who was making his 
 way as rapidly as the crowded rooms, his own 
 stalwart proportions and the many friendly deten 
 tions would allow, towards the door. 
 
 " What ! you here, Amory ? " 
 
 "Ah, Forbes ! I thought you on the other side." 
 
 "On this side at last, though I am not station 
 ary yet. Just now I am going South." 
 
 Gladys heard the hearty, pleasant tones, but 
 not the words ; then, as the speaker advanced to 
 take leave of Anna, she caught a glance from 
 a pair of bright, keen, earnest eyes that struck 
 her as familiar. Where had she seen that face ? 
 There was no time to ask at the moment, how 
 ever, for, as Anna moved towards the stranger, a 
 voice beside her said "Mrs. Amory!" and, turn 
 ing, she found herself face to face with Raymond 
 Lindesay.
 
 146 A MEETING. 
 
 It was no shock of surprise such as Raymond 
 himself had felt in seeing her, for she had known, 
 in coming to Judge Clifford s, that he must be 
 there; and yet, as his eyes met hers, a momentary 
 feeling of dizziness and faintness came over her. 
 It was only the tone of the voice, the recollection 
 that it brought to her mind of that summer day 
 and the rescue from the fire. Involuntarily she 
 glanced at his cheek. There were still the red 
 scars left by the fiery breath of the flames, the more 
 apparent now from his unusual pallor, and, at the 
 sight, with a rush of grateful emotion, she held 
 out her hands. 
 
 "And so we meet at last almost like stran 
 gers ! " he said. 
 
 " Like strangers ? Oh no, indeed ! It is a long, 
 long time, and all that has happened makes it 
 seem even longer, but you could not be a stranger 
 to me ! How could I ever forget you ? I never 
 have forgotten." 
 
 "I would gladly think you had," he replied, 
 with a peculiar expression. " Forgetfulness, you 
 know, is a perfectly legitimate excuse for silence." 
 
 " Silence ? " she repeated, with a half-smile, " why, 
 it would have been speaking across land and sea !
 
 A MEETING. 147 
 
 I would so gladly have heard something of you. 
 Pray believe, Mr. Lindesay, that there is no one 
 in the world of whom I would more gladly hear 
 happy tidings." 
 
 She looked at him earnestly, as if surprised and 
 perplexed by his strange manner. 
 
 " Then you have heard no news of me ? " 
 
 " Not until very lately ; and even now I do not 
 know whether I may congratulate you." 
 
 " It might be a little premature," he answered 
 dryly. "Then your father never told you, Mrs. 
 Amory, that he had heard from me ? " 
 
 " You wrote to papa ? " 
 
 "And to you." 
 
 "To me?" Her color changed, and she grew 
 so pale that Lindesay started forward, thinking 
 that she was about to faint, and shocked at his 
 own selfish thoughtlessness. But she made a 
 movement of her hand to restrain him, and, recov 
 ering herself with wonderful self-control, she paused 
 a few minutes to collect her thoughts, and then 
 spoke quite in her natural tone : 
 
 "There has been some strange misunderstand 
 ing, Mr. Lindesay. What it is we do not know, 
 and perhaps we never shall know. All our circum-
 
 148 A MEETING. 
 
 stances have changed since then, and to look back 
 on what is forever past, is never wise. But this, 
 at least, I can say I could have said it all through 
 these two years I think of you often and grate 
 fully as a friend to whom I owe more than I can 
 put into words, and your happiness will be as dear 
 oh ! dearer to me than my own." 
 
 She looked at him with an expression in her 
 beautiful eyes which seemed to him scarcely less 
 than angelic. 
 
 They were standing in the little conservatory, 
 into which he had led her for more air ; no one 
 was there except themselves. For a moment he 
 said nothing ; only took her hand and kissed it. 
 
 " To me there will always be a difference for 
 what I have heard to-night," he said at last. 
 "Whatever you may hear of me in future, what 
 ever step I may think it best to take, remember it 
 will be with feelings very, very different for what 
 I know now. God bless you ! " 
 
 Nothing more was said between them except 
 what any two friends meeting after a prolonged 
 absence, might have said, and whatever excite 
 ment Gladys may have felt, was postponed as 
 we do sometimes postpone over-mastering emotion,
 
 A MEETING. 149 
 
 even in our most agitating moments until she 
 was seated in the carriage beside her husband. 
 The painful thought was not, indeed, so much of 
 Lindesay since healthy minds seldom dwell long 
 on what migJit have been as of the father whom 
 she had almost adored, and who had so cruelly 
 deceived her. She drew a long, deep sigh, putting 
 her hand, with an involuntary movement for sym 
 pathy, through her husband s arm. 
 
 "I knew you would be over-tired, Gladys," he 
 said, in a vexed tone. " What can be a greater 
 bore than such a crowd as that ? " 
 
 " Oh no ! I am not tired," she said, making an 
 effort to speak brightly. " Tell me who that Go 
 liath was, with whom you were talking when we 
 first went in." 
 
 "A classmate, Stephen Forbes." 
 
 "What! our dear old doctor s son? Why, 
 that accounts for it, of course ! " 
 
 " For what ? " 
 
 " Only for my thinking I had seen him some 
 where. It was his likeness to the portrait over 
 the doctor s study table. But I should like to 
 know him, Morgan. Can you not bring him to 
 see me? "
 
 I5O A MEETING. 
 
 " He is rather a quixotic fellow, though there 
 is a good deal that is fine in him. But he is only 
 here on a flying visit. He told me he was going 
 South, and I haven t a doubt it is to some of the 
 yellow fever cities. However, I ll look him up if 
 you wish. He has never been a stickler for eti 
 quette, and I do not suppose he has ever heard of 
 my marriage." 
 
 Mr. Amory called the next day, accordingly, at 
 Stephen Forbes hotel, but found that he had 
 left that morning for Memphis.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 His heart 
 The lowliest duties on itself did lay. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 GOOD God ! What desolation ! " 
 The exclamation might readily have risen 
 to the lips of any man who, coming from populous 
 Northern cities, had walked through the streets of 
 Memphis in that terrible autumn of 1878. Grass- 
 grown streets, strewn with lime, deserted shops, 
 houses that looked like the abodes of death ; hun 
 gry, crying children, forlorn, straying animals. 
 No one was abroad for pleasure or profit, and only 
 a few, physician, priest or Sister of Mercy, flitting 
 from house to house in overworked response to 
 urgent need. The exclamation might have been a 
 prayer ; with Doctor Stephen Forbes it was, also, 
 a yearning to help. 
 
 He had returned from Europe during the sum 
 mer and, before fully deciding whether or not to
 
 I $2 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 settle in Boston, a cry of need had reached him 
 from the disease-stricken city which had touched 
 his heart, and brought him with all the energy of 
 his sympathetic nature, and strong, active frame, 
 at once to the spot. 
 
 The call came from a college friend, a clergy 
 man, who had been for some years in Memphis. 
 
 "We are like a city of the dead," he wrote. 
 " All who can go have left us, and the suffering 
 among the poor people who remain, is enough to 
 sicken the heart. There are, literally, too few to 
 minister to the needs of body or soul. Priests 
 and doctors are but mortal, and our physicians 
 are beginning to give out and sink under the dis 
 ease from sheer exhaustion and overwork. Many 
 who have the fever are past curing, but soon there 
 will be scarcely any left to tend those who might 
 recover." 
 
 And, at the word, Stephen Forbes came. For 
 the past week, the railway trains had been crowded 
 and the roads blocked with fugitives from the 
 city. As he landed at the station the desolation 
 was melancholy ; scarcely a soul was to be seen, 
 and, impatient of delay, Stephen grasped his valise, 
 and hurried along the street, casting quick, ob-
 
 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 153 
 
 servant glances to right and left, but meeting 
 no one from whom to inquire his way. His fresh, 
 vigorous bearing however attracted the attention of 
 a ragged little fellow on the steps of a miserable 
 house, and presently the child came running after 
 him, looking up in his face confidingly, as children 
 were wont to do. 
 
 " Mister, come along o me, will yer ? " 
 
 "Where, my boy?" said the doctor, stopping 
 short and looking pitifully at the child s gaunt 
 face. 
 
 "In yonder," with a jerk of his head towards 
 the house of which the door stood open. " Mam 
 my s dyin , and the rest of us is awful hungry. 
 Come ! " 
 
 The doctor needed no second bidding, but, 
 postponing for the present the meeting with his 
 friend, he followed the informal summons that 
 had come to him. 
 
 Such a miserable house as his little ragged 
 guide ushered him into ! A woman, in the last 
 stages of fever, lay on the wretched bed, covered 
 with tattered quilts and ragged bits of carpet. 
 Round or under the bed were grouped two or 
 three neglected little children, and a lean, hungry
 
 154 A CITY O p THE DEAD. 
 
 goat. There was no fire, no sign of food or medi 
 cine. 
 
 " Have you had no doctor for your mother ? " 
 asked Stephen, with a heart-sick pang at the sight. 
 
 " Yes ; he come two days ago, but maybe he 
 hain t had time since, or maybe he s sick. I done 
 what I could for mammy, but now Annie s sick, 
 and there s nothin more to eat." 
 
 "This is hunger, not illness," said the doctor, 
 lifting the languid little form that lay across the 
 foot of the miserable bed, and holding her tenderly 
 against his broad breast. "Was there no one in 
 the house who could help you, my boy ? " 
 
 "Miss Rogers, done what she could, but now 
 she s down sick, and there don t nobody come. 
 Please, sir, if you d fetch a doctor to Annie." 
 
 " I am a doctor myself, my little fellow," said 
 Stephen, and forthwith, laying aside all other 
 thoughts, he devoted himself, heart and soul, to 
 the case before him, becoming, for the hour, phy 
 sician, food-purveyor, and cook, all in one. There 
 was little to be done for the poor mother, but 
 much for the children, and Stephen did not leave 
 the miserable home till he had seen the place as 
 thoroughly purified as was possible, the children
 
 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 155 
 
 washed, fed, and removed from the sick-room to 
 the care of a friendly neighbor, while a sweet-faced 
 Sister of Mercy was installed to watch the dying 
 woman, and send for him in case of any change 
 for the better. 
 
 As he left the house, the sun was going down in 
 a fiery golden mass of clouds a gorgeous sunset 
 which seemed almost a mockery of the woe in the 
 wretched city. Stephen noticed it with a passing 
 thought of the contrast. " But that is only our 
 selfish way of looking at it," he said to himself, 
 with a half-smile ; " in reality, sorrow would be 
 harder to bear if Nature, too, put on mourning." 
 
 He was in a better quarter of the city now, 
 where there were rows of neat little houses, and 
 gardens in which the unheeded flowers were 
 blooming brightly. As he passed one of these, 
 a colored man, with a telegram in his hand, ap 
 proached him. 
 
 " You look to be a stranger, sah," he said. 
 " Mought you be a doctor ? " 
 
 " Yes, my friend," was Stephen s hearty an 
 swer, "are you in need of my help ? 
 
 "Miss Sallie needs it bad," replied the man; 
 "our old massa and missus is lying dead at home,
 
 156 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 and Massa Harry read that!" and he put the 
 slip of paper in his hand. 
 Stephen read : 
 
 Father and mother are lying dead in the house, brother is 
 dying. Send me some help. No money. SALLIE U. 
 
 "I was goin to the Howards, sari," said the 
 poor fellow. "Miss Sallie, she s all done gin out, 
 and she sent me to fetch a nurse. But they re all 
 mighty jubious about dis yere fever." 
 
 He despatched the negro, with a reassuring 
 word, for the undertaker, and approached the gate 
 round which a crowd of negroes were hanging. 
 
 "Two dead in there, Massa," said one excitedly, 
 "and another crazy like. They want help bad." 
 
 " I hope I may bring it," said Stephen, and, 
 scattering the crowd with a hint of the danger in 
 lingering there, he entered. A pretty young girl 
 in mourning met him at the threshold. 
 
 " Oh ! are you a doctor ? " she asked with some 
 thing of the confidence Stephen s face and bearing 
 never failed to inspire. 
 
 " Yes. I met your servant by chance outside, 
 and he told me you were in great trouble. What 
 can I do for you ? "
 
 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 157 
 
 The question was answered when he reached 
 the room to which she led the way. One corpse 
 lay on the bed, another on the sofa, while, in the 
 next room, a tall, powerful young man, in the 
 delirious stages of the fever, was rocking himself 
 back and forth, and struggling with the rough 
 negro who strove to hold him in bed. 
 
 "Poor child," said Stephen, "what a scene for 
 you ! Had you no one to call on ? " 
 
 " No one but our old Caesar," she answered 
 tearfully, "and to-day I felt that I must send him 
 for a doctor and the undertaker, for I did not dare 
 leave my poor brother to go myself. But there 
 are so many to go to, and all my money is gone. 
 I do not know where I could have got help if you 
 had not come." 
 
 A few minutes were enough to calm the excited 
 patient, for Stephen s strong grasp seemed to 
 have a wonderfully quieting influence as well ; 
 the rough negro was despatched for needful 
 remedies, and Stephen stayed with the friendless 
 young girl till all was quiet, the young man 
 sunk into a sort of torpor, and the servant re 
 turned with a nurse from the Relief Association. 
 Then, giving her money for her present needs,
 
 158 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 and promising to see that the bodies of her 
 parents were tenderly removed, he sent her with 
 fatherly kindness from the room, attended himself 
 to the last sad offices, and finally went on his 
 interrupted way. 
 
 He had nearly forgotten now that he was a 
 stranger in the place, but, as he stepped into the 
 darkening street, he remembered that he did not 
 yet know his way to the Rectory. Suddenly his 
 eye fell on a slight, spare form in the dress of a 
 clergyman, coming out of another fever-stricken 
 dwelling. He hurried after him with long strides, 
 soon overtaking him. 
 
 " So I ve fallen in with you in person, Louis!" 
 
 " What ! Stephen, you already ? But I knew 
 you would come ! " There was a warm and af 
 fectionate greeting between the two so oddly 
 contrasted in appearance, the clergyman s frail, 
 delicate hand seeming to disappear altogether in 
 the broad palm of the doctor who towered above 
 him by head and shoulders. 
 
 " I ve been here six hours already," said Stephen, 
 looking at his watch, " and know something of the 
 situation. But tell me all you can of the most 
 needy. I am not a novice in fever cases."
 
 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 159 
 
 He listened attentively to the clergyman s story 
 of suffering, jotting down in his note-book, as 
 they went along, memoranda of the most urgent 
 cases. 
 
 "My night s work," he said, smiling; "it is a 
 satisfaction to have it already cut out. But first 
 I must see how you are lodged, Louis ; you do not 
 waste much time or thought on yourself, I see by 
 your face." 
 
 They turned into the gate of the brick Rectory, 
 standing in the shadow of the cathedral where Louis 
 Sinclair and several brother priests lived and held 
 daily services in the church, spending every avail 
 able moment in attendance on the sick and dying. 
 Sumptuous fare and lodging were, assuredly, no 
 part of their thoughts ; the Rectory life was al 
 most ascetic in its frugality, and, since the break 
 ing out of the epidemic, none of the hours devoted 
 to rest and refreshment had been regularly ob 
 served. The doctor noted everything in the rather 
 cheerless abode with his keen, quick eyes, ending 
 with a survey of the slight form before him, and 
 inwardly rejoiced at his coming, if only for the 
 sake of those who would be under the same roof 
 with him.
 
 I6O A CITY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 There had been the warmest friendship between 
 these two men all through their college days, nor, 
 in their after life, widely as their paths had di 
 verged, had they fallen out of each other s memory 
 or affection. Stephen Forbes work was essen 
 tially in the world, Louis Sinclair s, apart from it ; 
 but in both there was the same true-hearted spirit 
 of self-sacrifice and a generous comprehension of 
 each other s inner nature which no outside differ 
 ences had power to shake. 
 
 A tower of strength Stephen might well have 
 been called in those sad weeks. Busy days suc 
 ceeded each other, spent in going from bedside to 
 bedside, often beginning with an early round, pro 
 vision basket on his arm, among those of his poor 
 patients who needed food rather than medicine 
 for whatever was to be done must be done with one s 
 own hands ; broken nights followed, during which 
 the hard bed at the Rectory was often untouched, 
 yet through it all the doctor was always the same, 
 calm, cheerful, energetic, sunny, animating nurses 
 and brother physicians with his buoyant spirits 
 and inevhaustible vitality, keeping a watchful 
 eye, meantime, on the temporal needs of his spirit 
 ual friends, and insisting, with his half-laughing
 
 A CITY OF THE DEAD. l6l 
 
 boyish arbitrariness, on their keeping regular hours 
 and living on more generous fare. 
 
 "Doctors of the soul have need of strong 
 bodies," he said. " It is quite a mistake to im 
 agine the contrary." 
 
 " You should have been one of us, Dr. Forbes," 
 said one of the clergymen. 
 
 "Well, our work is not so far apart, I trust, 
 though yours is the harder, because the more ac 
 tive a life is, the more it becomes self-supporting. 
 But praying and working go together, in some 
 measure, with us both, I believe." 
 
 "One of our most untiring doctors is a woman," 
 said Mr. Sinclair. 
 
 " I am not surprised at that. When I remem 
 ber the women I have seen in the medical schools 
 abroad, I can readily believe anything of their 
 courage and endurance. I have not met this one 
 of whom you speak as yet, but for devotion and for 
 titude one need not look beyond the Sisters of 
 Mercy. What noble, unselfish, Christ-like lives ! " 
 
 On the evening of that day, Dr. Stephen was 
 hastening to the last of a long list of patients. 
 It was rainy and damp, and the darkening streets 
 were lighted by the piles of burning bedding
 
 l62 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 before the stricken houses. Carts were driven by, 
 loaded with rough wooden boxes, eight or nine 
 sometimes in a cart. A nurse hurrying along in 
 front of Stephen, stopped the driver of one of 
 these to ask her way to a certain house. 
 
 " But I ve got the man here in his coffin," said 
 the driver, with a jerk of his whip over his 
 shoulder towards the boxes. 
 
 " All but the tenderest hearts grow callous in 
 the midst of such dreadful scenes," thought the 
 doctor, with a sigh. His own was very heavy as 
 he entered the door of the house of which he was 
 in search. It was a new patient, and he was 
 very late in reaching her. As he looked in at the 
 open bedroom door, he found he had been fore 
 stalled. A little woman, dressed, not in the Sis 
 ter s robe and black veil which had grown so famil 
 iar to his eyes, but in ordinary street attire, was 
 standing by the bedside of the sick person. She 
 looked up as he entered, with a quick glance of 
 surprise. There was a mutual start of recognition : 
 
 " Dr. Martyn ! " 
 
 "Dr. Forbes!" 
 
 They shook hands cordially, but it was no time 
 for personal inquiries.
 
 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 163 
 
 "I have been detained," said Stephen. "It is 
 well the case fell into your hands." 
 
 The little woman shook her head sadly, mur 
 mured a few words in a low tone, motioning him 
 to step nearer the bed ; then, as he bent over the 
 patient, she gave a few clear, concise directions to 
 the nurse in charge, and with a last glance at 
 the unconscious head on the pillow, followed the 
 doctor from the house. 
 
 "No, there is no hope, I fear," she said, as they 
 stepped out into the heavy air, which seemed 
 refreshing after the fever-tainted atmosphere, 
 "though I have learned that there is no trusting 
 to signs in these fever cases. I think sometimes 
 a patient is doing well, and before I can see him 
 again he is dead. At another time I think there 
 is cause for great alarm, and the patient recovers." 
 
 " It can only be feeling one s way," said Ste 
 phen, " but how much of our work is that ! You 
 have been here, then, for some time ? " 
 
 " All through the fever. Did you not know 
 that Memphis was my home ? I came here at 
 once after leaving Vienna, and have practised here 
 ever since." 
 
 " And you meet with recognition, I trust ? "
 
 164 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 
 
 Stephen asked, with interest. " You deserve it 
 after your brave struggle abroad." 
 
 " It comes slowly," she answered, with a quiet 
 smile. "We do move slowly in our Southern 
 cities, you know. But my lot is cast here, and, 
 such as it is, poor Memphis shall have the best I 
 can give her." 
 
 "What she most needs," said Stephen, ener 
 getically, " is enterprise, and thorough sub-soil 
 drainage. What we are doing now is only a sop 
 to Cerberus. I have no faith in any remedy till 
 the root of the matter is reached ; we are only 
 smothering it till then. Enterprise, I suppose, 
 we should hardly look for after such a terrible 
 visitation, unless there is a powerful lift from out 
 side ; but that, please God, there shall be when I 
 have seen this struggle through." 
 
 " You mean to stay through it, then ? " said Dr. 
 Martyn, her face brightening. 
 
 "I couldn t leave," said Stephen simply. 
 
 They walked on together, the doctor s stalwart 
 figure towering above the little woman at his side, 
 on whom he looked down with a friendly smile in 
 the dark eyes which gave so much light and sweet 
 ness to his face. Clara Martyn was small, but
 
 A CITY OF THE DEAD. 165 
 
 robust in frame, with quick, noiseless movements, 
 a fresh color in her cheeks, a decided mouth, and 
 a peculiar resolution in the low, clear tones, as 
 well as in the motions of her firm, small hands- 
 They parted at the gate of her home with a quiet, 
 friendly pressure of the hand, that told of hearty 
 sympathy and fellow-feeling ; and after this meet 
 ing the work for each became lighter, because it 
 was shared.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. 
 
 A noble army, men and boys, 
 
 The matron and the maid, 
 Around the Saviour s throne rejoice, 
 
 In robes of light arrayed : 
 They Climbed the steep ascent of heaven 
 
 Through peril, toil and pain : 
 O God ! to us may grace be given 
 
 To follow in their train ! 
 
 BISHOP HEBEK. 
 
 SO the sultry September days wore on, and all 
 in the fever-stricken city were looking with 
 longing for the early frosts. But that was only a 
 ray of hope, for each day the list of deaths was 
 as long as ever. 
 
 Coming home one Sunday evening, more slowly 
 than usual, the only sign of weariness he ever 
 showed, but not too tired or pre-occupied to greet 
 every child or Sister he met with a kindly word or 
 smile, Stephen only stopped to throw off his 
 outside coat, and followed the handful of worship 
 pers into the Cathedral, where the vesper service 
 
 1 66
 
 THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. l6/ 
 
 was just beginning. It had been a hard, sad day, 
 and there was an unwonted weight pressing on 
 his heart ; but as the doctor knelt and buried his 
 face in his hands, something in the quiet of 
 the church atmosphere stole over his troubled 
 spirit with holy calm and sweetness. In the dim 
 light his tall figure was scarcely visible as he knelt, 
 but Louis Sinclair heard the deep, earnest tones 
 in response, and felt the nearer to his friend. 
 His own voice had faltered as he began, for he 
 felt himself strangely weak and shaken that day, 
 but the presence of the strong, tender, human 
 heart seemed to bring the Divine love the nearer. 
 In the light of that nearness nothing could look 
 dark or strange, even though the path opening 
 before him might be an untrodden one. 
 
 ; Through love to light ! Oh, wonderful the way 
 That leads from darkness to the perfect day ! 
 
 ; Through love to light ! Through light, oh God, to Thee, 
 Who art the Love ot Love, the Eternal Light of Light. 
 
 " The peace of God which passeth all understand 
 ing " As the last words died away, Stephen stood 
 waiting for his friend till he came from the vestry,
 
 1 68 THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. 
 
 and walked with him the few steps to the house, 
 his arm thrown lightly round his shoulders. 
 
 " I shall not go out again for an hour," said 
 Sinclair. " Call me when you go." 
 
 " I am not going again to-night," said the doc 
 tor quietly. " Come with me, dear fellow." 
 
 " Then you think I have the fever ? " said Louis, 
 with a quick glance at his friend s face. 
 
 "I fear it," Stephen replied, "but I hope al 
 ways." 
 
 There was little hope, however, as Sinclair 
 himself knew. The strength of his delicate frame 
 had been long since exhausted, and nothing but 
 the sense of need, with his own heroic resolution, 
 had supported him so long. It was Stephen s 
 first heavy grief since the death of his mother in 
 his boyhood. He clung with all the warmth of a 
 tender heart that has few near ties to his friend 
 ships, which neither time nor distance weakened, 
 and, with the physician s strong yearning to save, 
 he felt that he could not lose this friend. 
 
 "Keep up a good heart, dear boy," he whis 
 pered, for Sinclair was conscious through it all. 
 "That, of itself, will do much." 
 
 Much, but not everything, as Sinclair knew.
 
 THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. 169 
 
 "There is work waiting for me, Steve," he mur 
 mured. " Mine here, I know, is done." 
 
 Stephen stood looking at him sadly. Should he 
 be so ready to lay down his own life ? Should he 
 feel so surely that there was work for him to do 
 elsewhere ? He bent over the pillow and lifted 
 the sufferer into an easier position, with the strong 
 man s touch that was, at the same time, as tender 
 as a woman s. Just at the moment a summons 
 came for him, brought by a messenger from Dr. 
 Martyn. 
 
 "I cannot come to-night," said the doctor res 
 olutely. " That case is doing passably well, and 
 I am needed here." 
 
 But the sick man s quick ear had caught the 
 low murmur at the door. 
 
 "Go, Stephen," he said faintly, "there maybe 
 hope there, while here, you know besides, you 
 leave me in good hands " And he looked affec 
 tionately at the brother priest who stood by his 
 bed. 
 
 The doctor hesitated for a moment, then stooped 
 over the bed, and kissed his friend s forehead with 
 a childlike fervor very touching in the great strong 
 man.
 
 I/O THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. 
 
 "God bless you, dear old boy!" he said softly> 
 and followed the messenger without another word. 
 
 The house was one in which a poor Swedish 
 girl had been lying ill for a week, alone and friend 
 less, scarcely able to speak the most broken Eng 
 lish, but so touchingly grateful, in her conscious 
 moments, for their care that both doctors had 
 labored with all their hearts to save her. That 
 day it had seemed as if she might mend, but Dr. 
 Martyn was still sitting by the bedside, anxiously 
 watching for Stephen s coming. 
 
 He entered in silence, for his heart was too full 
 for words, and bent over the sick girl s pillow. 
 
 " It is the crisis," he said, with a touch of 
 the sharpness of his grief in the tone. "Nothing 
 is needed here but careful watching, and knowl 
 edge to seize the right moment." 
 
 "That is why I sent for you," said Dr. Martyn 
 gently ; " I could not be sure of myself any longer." 
 
 Something in her voice dispelled the unwonted 
 selfishness of private sorrow in Stephen s heart, 
 and he turned quickly to look at his fellow-worker. 
 
 " Why, courage, Doctor ! " he said cheerily, grasp 
 ing her hand. " You are not giving out, surely ? " 
 
 But the touch of the burning hand brought a
 
 THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. I /I 
 
 change into his face. " It is not a moment too 
 soon," he said gravely. "I will see you home at 
 once." 
 
 "Do you think I do not know enough to doctor 
 myself in the first stages?" she answered, with a 
 brave smile ; "and I shall not go home. Mrs. 
 Seavey offers me a room here you know hers is 
 one of the few families we have pulled through 
 and she will be a great help. So you can stay 
 with poor Louisa, without having your mind torn 
 in two directions at once." 
 
 It would have been too much to say that his 
 mind was not torn with anguish for his friend, and 
 anxiety for his fellow-worker ; but no one who had 
 seen him at Louisa s bedside would have suspected 
 it. 
 
 Morning came and found the Swedish girl out 
 of danger; Louis, as his friend thought with a 
 swelling heart, was past all danger, too, and it 
 only remained to devote all his energies to the 
 brave little woman who had worked so nobly for 
 others. Clara Martyn had a strong will, and the 
 firm conviction that there was still work for her to 
 do in the world, and that did wonders. 
 
 "I shall get well now," she said brightly, after
 
 1/2 THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. 
 
 two painful weeks of suspense were over. " I have 
 felt all along that I should recover. I owe a great 
 deal to you, however." 
 
 "And to your own resolution. I mean, how 
 ever, that you should owe much more to me, if 
 you will put your case in my hands." 
 
 "How so?" said Clara, flushing slightly. 
 
 " I mean to pronounce your expatriation," replied 
 Stephen, trying to speak playfully, though he 
 kept his eyes on her face. " I mean to send you 
 North." 
 
 Dr. Martyn turned her face to the wall with an 
 impulse, which, in most women, would have ended 
 in a burst of tears. 
 
 "You know, of course, that you cannot stay 
 here with any idea of working at present?" said 
 Stephen gently. 
 
 "It is hard," said Clara, in a faint voice. 
 
 "Yes, hard, I know doubly hard that you who 
 have laid aside so bravely all thoughts which to 
 most women constitute the joy of life, and thrown 
 yourself so heartily into your profession 
 
 " I have done no more than hundreds of other 
 physicians," said Dr. Martyn, in a brusque tone, 
 "no more than you, yourself."
 
 THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. 1 73 
 
 " Perhaps not in the abstract, yet sacrifice of 
 domestic happiness seems more magnanimous in a 
 woman. For myself, I can honestly say that I 
 have never yet been able to imagine the being 
 who could offer me greater attractions than my 
 profession " 
 
 "It is not impossible to combine marriage with 
 a professional life, is it?" Clara rejoined, dryly. 
 "Not impossible, that is, for a man " 
 
 "Oh! surely not," said Stephen, with a half- 
 laugh, and boyish blush. "But I " 
 
 "Have only never met your fair divided excel 
 lence. And yet I have always thought you the 
 very type of the half of a blessed man." 1 
 
 "Half of a blessed man?" echoed the doctor 
 with a puzzled air; "oh!" with a frank laugh, 
 " I am sadly rusty in my Shakespeare, am I not ? 
 Well, possibly I may live to be finished by such 
 a she, but I can wait the time. How in the 
 world did we get to my affairs, though? I was 
 talking of yours." 
 
 "Must I go ?" asked Clara, in an altered voice. 
 
 " My friend, yes ; but not, I hope and believe, 
 to give up working. Perhaps you may even work 
 to better advantage elsewhere, though I know
 
 1/4 THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. 
 
 well how hard it is for you to go. Nothing could 
 excite readier sympathy at the North than the 
 words of some one who had been on the spot. 
 May I write to Boston that you will come ? " 
 
 " I will do as you think best," she answered, 
 without looking up. " Memphis is only dear to 
 me now on account of what she has suffered. I 
 would gladly see my poor people through their 
 trouble but I must not think of that, and you 
 will be here. Tell me what I can do in your city." 
 
 " One of my bravest fellow-workers brings you 
 this letter," Stephen wrote to his father. " I am 
 sure there is work for her to do in Boston. You 
 share my views about the need of thoroughly qual 
 ified women doctors she is one of those. If her 
 services could be secured as resident physician in 
 the hospital for poor women which you have so 
 much at heart, its success would be assured. We 
 were fellow-students abroad, and are wholly in 
 sympathy. 
 
 " I will tell you a story of her heroism, for, though 
 you may think that quality will be wasted in your 
 hospital, it illustrates, too, her womanliness, which 
 will have full play there. It was in the darkest
 
 THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. 1/5 
 
 time of the panic, when even strong men seemed 
 turned to cowards, and thought of little except of 
 saving their own lives cowardice does make 
 such brutes of us sometimes ! Outside the city 
 an orphan asylum had been established in charge 
 of the Sisters of Mercy, and one day Dr. Martyn 
 was going out to it, with a score of poor little 
 waifs, left fatherless and motherless by the fever. 
 Half-way out on the forlorn country road, they 
 encountered a mob of desperate-looking men, 
 whose homes were in the neighborhood of the 
 Asylum, and who were frantic enough in their 
 fright to believe that they might escape the pes 
 tilence if the Asylum could be abolished. At 
 least, they declared no more orphans should be 
 brought there. So they surrounded the wagons, 
 seizing the heads of the mules, brandishing cud 
 gels, firing stones, and swearing that the children 
 should not be carried a step farther. The wagon 
 ers were thoroughly frightened and prepared to 
 fly, leaving the children to the tender mercies of 
 the mob. But Dr. Martyn, the only woman pres 
 ent except the Sister who told me the story, sprang 
 upon one of the seats, and addressed the rough 
 men in clear, brave tones, low, but steady.
 
 THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS. 
 
 " Men/ she said, have you children of your 
 own who may come in their turn to need the pro 
 tection of strangers, and will you deny to these 
 poor little ones the shelter of such a home as is 
 left to them ? I will not think it of you. Some 
 of you, at least, will help me ! * 
 
 " The men paused, abashed by her courage, and 
 ashamed of their brutality. Some slunk away, 
 and the others formed themselves into an escort 
 for the defenceless children, who reached the 
 Asylum in safety. 
 
 " I have no more time to write, for head and 
 heart are pledged to these poor suffering souls. 
 Do not expect to see me till it is all over, dear 
 father, but have no anxiety for me. I wish that 
 others were as well able to bear the strain as I." 
 
 * True, not of a doctor, but of a Sister of Mercy, who died at her post in Mem 
 phis. September, 1878.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT. 
 
 Unfaith in aught is want of faith in -all. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 THERE was no concealment about Gladys 
 Amory, reserved as her nature might be. 
 It would have been impossible for her to hide her 
 new knowledge from her father. Silence would 
 only have widened the breach between them, 
 which, she bitterly felt, the shock of disappoint 
 ment had opened. 
 
 " I met Mr. Lindesay in New York," she said 
 quietly, the first time she saw her father after her 
 return. " He told me what I had not known be 
 fore, that he had written to us both on leaving 
 Boston." 
 
 Mr. Lyman started and changed color. In 
 spite of her own sense of injustice, Gladys was 
 touched to the heart by the evident confusion in 
 his usually calm, self-possessed manner. 
 
 "I I have the letter still," he faltered, "but, 
 177
 
 1/ THE LITTLE RIFT. 
 
 Gladys, believe me, I thought I was acting for 
 your best happiness in not giving it to you. Do 
 you not remember when Charles Willoughby 
 
 "Dear papa," said his daughter, bending as she 
 stood beside him, to kiss his forehead, "I did not 
 ask the question to upbraid you. What you did 
 was done for what you thought my happiness, no 
 doubt. But oh ! there is such danger in being 
 too ready to assume the responsibility of a happi 
 ness of which we cannot judge. But by-gones are 
 by-gones. I only speak of it because I cannot 
 bear the separation that silence seems to make 
 between us. Give me the letter and we will 
 never mention it again." 
 
 He put it silently into her hand, feeling, even 
 more bitterly than she, that the separation of 
 which she spoke could not be wholly averted even 
 by the most forgiving affection. Gladys did not 
 open it till she was alone. 
 
 " I do not speak of the differences between us," 
 Raymond had written. " With some men they 
 might act as a barrier ; with some women, I my 
 self, should feel them so. With you I do not, for 
 I am sure you know that what I love in you is 
 none of your outside advantages. I believe you
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT. 
 
 feel with me, that love looks beyond all externals, 
 and that, in giving you my heart, I give something 
 that outweighs them all. I need not tell you, 
 surely, that my whole heart is yours. 
 
 " I have explained all to your father. I do not 
 ask for everything now I am not so bold as that. 
 Often, indeed, I am very faint-hearted. I ask 
 only for the right to love you, and the hope that 
 by and by you may find that you can love me. Is 
 that too much to ask ? " 
 
 Yes, by-gones were by-gones, yet, as she read, 
 Gladys could not keep back the tears from her 
 eyes, could not altogether restrain the wonder 
 that a human hand should have had the power to 
 change her fate so cruelly. To that extenuating 
 plea of her father s in regard to Charles Willough- 
 by, she had been unable to say a word. Perhaps 
 she knew no more than he when or how had come 
 the change in her from childhood to womanhood ; 
 but that feeling towards Raymond Lindesay, begin 
 ning in the girlish longing to draw him out of his 
 unhappiness, and first revealed to her own shrink 
 ing consciousness by her aunt s words, had been 
 the awakening. 
 
 But how had come the change which had made
 
 ISO THE LITTLE RIFT. 
 
 her Morgan Amory s wife after that winter of 
 secret pain and disillusion ? She had not accepted 
 him from pique ; she had not pretended to herself 
 that he realized in her eyes the ideal of which her 
 girlish fancy had dreamed. She had simply come 
 to believe, after the galling pangs of self -reproach 
 ful mortification were past, that such an ideal love 
 as hers had never existed, perhaps never could 
 exist, except in the romantic brain of an inexpe 
 rienced girl. She liked Mr. Amory extremely ; 
 he pleased her artistic sense, and there was no 
 flesh-and-blood rival for him to displace. If she 
 could be all in all to him, as he told her, if she 
 could gratify, in marrying him, the dearest wish 
 of her father s heart, why should she hesitate ? 
 With more experience of the world, more knowl 
 edge of her own heart, she might have hesitated, 
 since to give less than all one is capable of, is 
 treason to the very idea of love ; but she was very 
 young, and her girlish pride had been sorely 
 wounded. 
 
 And now did the revelation which had come to 
 her so unexpectedly make her feel that she had 
 committed a fatal mistake ? If it did, she did not 
 show it in the usual way. At the same moment
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT. l8l 
 
 with the thrill of joy that she had not been de 
 ceived in Raymond, came also a glow of loyalty 
 towards her husband, an inner resolve that she 
 would be more than ever faithful to the duty 
 which she had pledged herself to fulfil. It was 
 this that had occupied her mind, far more than 
 vain regrets, as she burned the letter, and closed 
 forever that episode of her youth. 
 
 Several years had passed since then, and how 
 had the pledge been redeemed ? Just where is 
 the line where disappointment begins to be ac 
 knowledged and recognized ? Perhaps it never is 
 so, consciously ; perhaps it is only felt in its silent 
 results, the slow damping down of hope, the cessa 
 tion of expectation, the gradual surrender of en 
 deavor. 
 
 There was nothing tangible in Morgan Amory 
 to disappoint. He was always the same polished, 
 cultured gentleman, usually spoken of as a model 
 of domestic virtues, and " so proud of his beauti 
 ful wife ! " So he was, fond and proud of her as of 
 all that belonged to him, his pictures, his library, 
 his horses, his greenhouses. While the newness 
 of possession lasted, there was somewhat more 
 than this ; but nothing was long new to Mr. Amory
 
 l82 THE LITTLE RIFT. 
 
 All became a matter of course so very soon, like 
 his daily lounge at the club, his afternoon drive, 
 their appearance together in society during the 
 season, his punctilious presence at the morning 
 service on Sundays : all this was taken for granted 
 could anything more be asked ? 
 
 It was somewhat like the way in which he had 
 met his wife, when, after reading Raymond Linde- 
 say s letter, she had gone up to him, clasped her 
 hands round his arm in her mute pledge of devo 
 tion, and looked up at him earnestly, with half- 
 tearful eyes. 
 
 " Has anything happened ? " Morgan Amory 
 asked in concern. 
 
 " Nothing to tell, I believe," she answered, 
 " but I felt I thought " 
 
 " You felt nervous and unlike yourself ? Yes, 
 of course, very naturally ! Come and drive with 
 me, and the fresh air will do you good. Don t 
 think of anything agitating, my dear Gladys ; it is 
 so very unnecessary." 
 
 That charge was something which Mrs. Amory 
 never seemed to need from her husband now. To 
 all casual beholders she was as unruffled, almost as 
 indifferent as he ; and even her father secretly
 
 THE LITTLE RIFT. 183 
 
 thought that Gladys was become more of the ordi 
 nary society woman than he had imagined possible 
 in her girlhood. 
 
 There were few, indeed, who saw her in any 
 other light ; of these were the old doctor, towards 
 whom she still kept the half-playful, affectionate 
 manner of her girlish days ; her class of Sunday 
 school pupils, young girls who adored her with the 
 passionate devotion of lovers, and who poured out 
 their hearts to her, sure of being met and under 
 stood ; a little artist friend, Isabel Lindesay, whose 
 talent she fostered in every way that money, 
 personal help and suggestion and appreciative 
 criticism could ; and her children, whom she idol 
 ized with a passionate love rare even in mothers. 
 
 There were two, as beautiful as cherubs ; little 
 Tom, three years old, and the baby, Amy.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 A heart at leisure from itself 
 To soothe and sympathize. 
 
 ANNA L. WARING. 
 
 I LOOK upon it as a most providential illness, 
 Stephen; not interesting lumbago has not 
 even an interesting sound but I cheerfully sub 
 mit to occasional twinges and a rickety gait, for 
 the sake of preserving you from embarking your 
 fortunes for life in the Mississippi basin." 
 
 So spoke the old doctor, as he sat in his study 
 easy-chair, regarding, with a rather rueful twist 
 of his bushy-browed visage, his colossal son who 
 stood before him with his back to the fire. 
 
 " For life ? My dear father, haven t I already 
 told you that the South does not present the con 
 ditions for the home of a Northern man ? I never 
 even remotely considered the possibility of staying 
 there longer than I did. Of course I stayed 
 
 184
 
 FATHER AND SON. 185 
 
 through the year after the fever, as any one would, 
 foreseeing a return, in degree, of the epidemic ; and 
 it was scarcely in human nature to turn one s back 
 on Memphis and a project we had so much at heart 
 as the drainage until that was fairly under way. 
 So another year went by. But as to your illness 
 my coming a few months earlier than I otherwise 
 should, was not worth the ache of your little 
 finger ! " 
 
 " Now don t take away the solace of my martyr 
 dom ! I tell you it was the only hope I had of 
 inducing you to settle quietly at home, since I 
 have given up all idea of marriage for you." 
 
 "Ah ! you ve given that up, have you ?" said the 
 son, throwing back his head with a boyish laugh. 
 " I thought you clung to the hope with a tenacity 
 that was altogether disproportioned to the object." 
 
 "Matrimony," observed the doctor, "is a simple 
 matter of self-defence ; a safeguard against perse 
 cution for clergymen and physicians." 
 
 "I have never found it a necessity," said Dr. 
 Stephen indifferently. 
 
 "Ah! you have much to learn. You have 
 never before been placed in the position of a 
 family physician in fashionable society. I should
 
 I 86 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 have succumbed to persecution very soon if I had 
 not had the good fortune to be married before I 
 began practice." 
 
 " And I doubt whether you married my mother 
 as a means of self-defence." 
 
 "Ah ! your mother was an exception," said the 
 old doctor, with a sudden softening of his rugged 
 face. "Exceptions don t apply to ordinary cases." 
 
 "By the way," said Stephen, presently, "you 
 once made a pathetic appeal to me, I remember, 
 in behalf of Mr. Lyman s daughter. What has 
 become of that paragon of yours ? " 
 
 "What! don t you know? She has been 
 Morgan Amory s wife these three or four years." 
 
 "Amory? Then I must have just missed see 
 ing her. I remember I met him at a New York 
 reception on my way to Memphis. But Morgan 
 Amory!" in a tone of disgust, "and you recom 
 mended me to try my fortune with her ? What a 
 fatuous old match-maker you are ! " 
 
 " Why, what is the matter with Morgan 
 Amory ?" 
 
 " Nothing more than a deficiency in the cardiac 
 region, perhaps," smiled the son, "and I should 
 think the woman whose ideal of a husband he
 
 FATHER AND SON. l8/ 
 
 could satisfy, must be suffering from the same 
 lack." 
 
 "Ah ! but there was a reason for that, I suspect," 
 said the old doctor, with some eagerness. " I 
 have always considered that Gladys heart quite 
 as warm an one as your own, by the way was 
 caught on the rebound from another direction." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Stephen absently. " That 
 alters the case, of course." He had taken up a 
 book from the table as he spoke, and was turning 
 over the leaves. Obviously, the subject had no 
 manner of interest for him, and the old doctor, 
 smothering a slight feeling of disappointment, 
 since it must be confessed that he had acquired in 
 his profession a relish for glimpses behind the 
 scenes, threw himself back in his arm-chair, and 
 sat regarding his son. 
 
 Three years of exposure to Southern climate and 
 struggle with Southern epidemic had made him 
 look older, certainly : the broad-shouldered figure 
 was as robust as ever, but there were heavy lines 
 in the face, and touches of gray here and there in 
 the hair beyond what belonged to his thirty-seven 
 years. The face had a rather grave, absorbed ex 
 pression, except when something appealed to his
 
 1 88 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 sympathy or kindled his interest, and then there 
 was a quick flash of animation, or a beautiful smile 
 that shone out from eye and lip at once. Such a 
 look flashed over it now. 
 
 " Good ! " he said, rising, and bending over his 
 father s chair, to point out something in the book 
 he held. "Now I heartily agree with that." 
 
 "The system of medical education be 
 gins where it should end ; it feeds the tree through 
 the leaves and branches instead of through the 
 roots ; physiology itself is taught unphysiologi- 
 cally. The conventional, hereditary orthodox style 
 is for the student to take systematic text-books 
 and go through them systematically from begin 
 ning to end, reserving study at the bedside for the 
 middle and later years of his study. . . . Psy 
 chology and experience require that this should be 
 reversed ; the first years of the medical student s 
 life should be given to the bedside, the laboratory 
 and dissecting-room, and the principles of syste 
 matic instruction should be kept for the last years, 
 and then used very sparingly." 
 
 "Very true," said the old doctor. "Object 
 teaching, instead of text-books, is the cry of the 
 age, and those of us oldsters who are wise, give in
 
 FATHER AND SON. 189 
 
 to it at once without more ado. You will have an 
 opportunity to put your theories in practice with 
 your classes of students, and I expect that to make 
 amends to you for the distasteful business I am 
 bringing on you." 
 
 "And that is ?" 
 
 "All dancing attendance on fine ladies, and 
 humoring their pampered nerves." 
 
 " I shall do little enough of that, I assure you. 
 There couldn t be greater unkindness to a patient." 
 
 " Unfeeling fellow ! In my opinion there are 
 no diseases to compare with those of the nervous 
 system." 
 
 " And I agree with you. There are no suffer 
 ings to be compared with those, and, when we 
 have learned to treat them with success, there will 
 be nothing left to do. But we were not speaking of 
 diseases, were we ? Those, I am sure, you never 
 tried, to reach by humoring. But don t trouble 
 your blessed old head any more about the shoul 
 ders on which your active practice has descended 
 for the time being, and don t forget that you are 
 my first patient. For you, I prescribe total absti 
 nence from anything except the imparting of your 
 valuable advice in consultation, and literary labor
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 in the medical line. But we are curtailing office 
 hours." 
 
 He passed his broad hand caressingly over his 
 father s gray hair, and betook himself to the office. 
 
 There were several patients already in the recep 
 tion room as he entered ; two or three ladies who 
 might, perhaps, fall within the category of patients 
 mentioned by his father, and a thin, hollow-cheeked 
 young man. 
 
 The first of these occupied very little of the 
 busy doctor s time, for though his manner could 
 not be otherwise than cordial and friendly, and 
 his mode of listening sympathetic, there was some 
 thing in his air which forbade all lingering on a 
 topic even one so fascinating to some people as 
 their own weak nerves or wretched ill health. He 
 listened attentively, questioned minutely, entering 
 the replies carefully in his note-book, wrote a pre 
 scription or did not write one, as the case might 
 be, said " Come to me again a week from this 
 time, or, if there should be urgent need, send for 
 me," and bowed the patient out, with a pleasant 
 smile, to turn his attention to the next. 
 
 At last it was the young man s turn. 
 
 " Now what can I do for you ? " the doctor
 
 FATHER AND SON. IQI 
 
 asked, in a friendly tone, shutting the door and 
 coming close to the youth, whose sad eyes and 
 hollow cheeks told their own story. 
 
 " I came to ask what you could do for me," he 
 answered moodily. " What is a fellow to do when 
 he can t breathe in this raw air, and is too poor to 
 stop working and go elsewhere ? " 
 
 Dr. Stephen did not answer for a while, but gave 
 his whole attention to his stethoscope, sounding 
 the diseased lungs carefully, but showing no signs 
 of the result to the anxious eyes fixed upon him. 
 
 Then he fell back a pace or two, and regarded 
 the patient with a cheery expression. 
 
 " Do ? He is to go off for a vacation while the 
 raw air lasts the winter and early spring in 
 Florida would be best and return to his work a 
 new man, let us trust." 
 
 "All you doctors are alike !" said the young fel 
 low bitterly. "Go to Florida go to the moon ! 
 You think it is enough to say Go, and never 
 stop to think how a man is to do it ! You might 
 as well say Fly to me/" 
 
 "There is a great deal of fallacy, I grant you, in 
 medical advice," said Stephen pleasantly. He had 
 seated himself at his table, with his back to the
 
 192 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 patient, and wrote for a few minutes. Then, turn 
 ing round in the arm-chair, he added, "Try this 
 prescription, however; then, if you do not see any 
 ground for thinking it benefits you, come back to 
 me." He handed him the prescription enclosed 
 in an envelope, gave him a friendly clap on the 
 shoulder, and bowed him out like the rest. 
 
 The youth had shut the door with feelings 
 which, had the interests at stake been less vital, 
 might have been called sulky. As it was, the poor 
 fellow glanced angrily up over his shoulder at the 
 office window, muttering "Yes, all alike! If a 
 man s pocket is well lined, there s an end to his 
 his feelings, I believe ! Go to Florida to a man 
 whose daily bread depends on his working here ! 
 And that is the sort of advice that puts a doctor at 
 the head of his profession, I suppose!" He had 
 walked some steps before he thought of looking at 
 the enclosed prescription. Then he drew it from 
 the envelope, glanced at it, still with the same 
 bitter expression, stopped short on the sidewalk, 
 and uttered a half-articulate exclamation. It was a 
 check folded round a card, on which were written 
 the names of several popular resorts in Florida. 
 
 "Whew!" said the poor young man, coloring
 
 FATHER AND SON. I 93 
 
 furiously, in spite of his pallor, and, turning on 
 the instant, he hurried back to the doctor s. 
 
 The room had filled during his interview, and 
 he sat, fidgeting nervously under his embarrass 
 ment and suspense, until Stephen entered. His 
 quick eye caught sight of the young man at once, 
 and he advanced towards him. But as the youth 
 arose with an agitated " What can I say, doctor ? 
 I " 
 
 He cut him short by saying in a curt, business 
 like tone, which the pleasant twinkle in his eyes 
 belied, " Nothing at present, if you please, my 
 friend ! I have an imperative engagement imme 
 diately after office hours. Follow my directions 
 faithfully, and let me see you again." 
 
 And he was gone, leaving the discomfited 
 patient to his own reflections.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FILLING THE* VOID. 
 
 Not like to like, but like in difference. , 
 
 Yet in the long years liker must they grow ; 
 The man be more of woman, she of man. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 DR. STEPHEN FORBES and Mrs. Amory 
 were not long in meeting, but the acquaint 
 ance did not, at first, ripen beyond the ceremonious 
 stages. Stephen s interest did not lie in the direc 
 tion of society women (except, indeed, so far as his 
 profession demanded) and as such he classed Gladys. 
 Beyond noting the fact that she seemed more cold 
 and inanimate in manner than he should have sup 
 posed natural in one of her physique, he did not 
 give her a thought. 
 
 " I don t think he will ever be as popular as 
 the old doctor," said Madge, now a plump, happy- 
 faced young matron, as easy in temperament as 
 her husband, Edward Boylston, and as outspoken 
 
 194
 
 FILLING THE VOID. IQ5 
 
 as in the days of her girlhood. " He is not ex 
 pansive enough for a family physician." 
 
 Gladys laughed. 
 
 " That is rather an inappropriate word, I allow, 
 but you know what I mean. Charlie tells me the 
 medical -students are wild about him, but, if Ned or 
 the baby were ailing, I know that I should regret 
 the dear old chatty doctor. I know, of old, that 
 his bark is v/orse than his bite, while I have no 
 experience of these lofty abstractions." 
 
 One morning Gladys had driven from her home 
 to one of the most dreary, poverty-stricken wards 
 of the city, and, dismissing her carriage, plunged 
 on foot into some of the narrow courts and alleys, 
 filled with tenement houses and teeming with 
 squalid misery. 
 
 These were the early days of " Associated Char 
 ities," and rich and poor were beginning to come 
 together in the effort to solve the problem of en 
 lightened relief. "Not alms, but a friend," seemed, 
 if fitly followed, a hopeful watchword, and Gladys, 
 to whom it appealed on a very tender point of sym 
 pathy, was trying it faithfully with two families, 
 often disheartened by the apparent lack of result, 
 often inclined to relax in her efforts to uplift, and
 
 196 FILLING THE VOID. 
 
 say, pitifully, " Poor creatures ! what else could be 
 looked for in such wretched surroundings ? Should 
 we not all be the same ? " yet trying patiently still 
 with the earnestness that was the groundwork of 
 her nature. 
 
 She had turned into a poor little alley, with 
 gaunt, sunless houses on either side, children pad 
 dling in the black stagnant pools that settled 
 among the sunken paving-stones, and sickening 
 odors coming from the open doors of the over 
 crowded houses. As she paused on the steps of 
 one of these before climbing the stairs, a window 
 in the upper story was thrown open, and a man s 
 voice a cultured voice, too, with a familiar ring 
 in it called something which, at first, she did 
 not hear. She looked up, but only saw a hand on 
 the window-sash. 
 
 " I said, don t come into the house, and leave 
 the court at once ! " repeated the voice. 
 
 She stood a moment, hesitating whether or not 
 to obey the brusque mandate, when her dress was 
 pulled from behind, and she found herself con 
 fronted by a bright-faced little fellow, one of the 
 numerous progeny of "her families." 
 
 "The big doctor says Go home, Missis, " said
 
 FILLING THE VOID. 
 
 the urchin. " Some in the house has scarlet fever, 
 
 but don t you be afeared of me. I ain t been near 
 
 em." 
 
 " The big doctor ? " repeated Gladys. 
 
 " Yes ; him that comes so often. I donno his 
 
 name, but he s a real nice one. He was here most 
 
 all last night." 
 
 Gladys walked slowly away, yielding rather 
 
 reluctantly to the necessity of the case, and draw 
 ing from the shrewd little urchin as she went, all 
 possible information in regard to the domestic 
 affairs of her proteges, 
 
 Late in the next afternoon she was standing 
 before her easel, trying earnestly to get a satis 
 factory likeness of little Tom, whom she had 
 coaxed to quiescence by the charge to keep the 
 Scotch terrier still. He sat upright, with glowing 
 cheeks, on the crimson rug she had spread for him, 
 his eyes fixed intently on the poor animal, whom 
 he was almost suffocating with the tight clasp of 
 his chubby arms. Gradually, however, the arms 
 relaxed their hold, the curly head sank lower and 
 lower until it rested on the dog s back, and Tom 
 fell fast asleep, the only condition in which he was 
 ever known to be long still. Gladys worked
 
 198 FILLING THE VOID. 
 
 eagerly to improve the favorable opportunity, 
 lending but half an ear to the lively rattle of her 
 cousin Madge, who sat beside her. Fooisteps 
 passed the door on their way to the picture 
 gallery, which was on the same landing. 
 
 "Morgan is taking Doctor Stephen Forbes to see 
 his new purchase, I suppose," said Madge, glancing 
 through the open door as they passed. "And, by 
 the way, Gladys, I quite take back what I said the 
 other day about him. So far, at least, as children 
 are concerned, he is quite attentive enough to 
 please the fondest mamma. Sallie s teeth have 
 worried her so much lately that I sent for him. 
 So far from being indifferent, one would have 
 thought that the child was his sole patient, while 
 she " 
 
 " I have brought Dr. Forbes to make his apolo 
 gies, Gladys," said her husband s measured tones 
 at the door, " though for what I do not know. 
 May we come in ? " 
 
 " Certainly, if you will let me go on with my 
 work," said Gladys, looking up with a bright smile, 
 a n cl pointing to the little picture on the floor ; " I 
 cannot afford to lose that ! " 
 
 She looked so full of animation and loving pride,
 
 FILLING THE VOID. 199 
 
 so different from the cold, conventional beauty of 
 the ball-room whom he had hitherto seen, that she 
 seemed to Stephen a different woman. They ad 
 vanced towards her through the long room, the 
 doctor s stalwart figure completely dwarfing Mor 
 gan Amory s elegant slimness ; but as his eye fell 
 on the bright rug, with the sleeping cherub lying 
 on it, he stopped and bent down to look at the 
 little fellow more closely, exclaiming in a tone of 
 the heartiest admiration, "Oh ! what a boy." 
 
 Nothing could have delighted both parents more 
 than the simplicity of the tribute, for if there were 
 one thing in this world that never palled upon his 
 father s outworn fancy, it was little Tom, and the 
 fact that others should recognize him as a unique, 
 seemed to him only his due. The two gentlemen 
 stood silent for a while beside Gladys as she 
 worked, lips parted and cheeks flushed in her 
 eagerness to finish her charcoal sketch before the 
 child should wake. Stephen glanced at her, half- 
 amused, then round the walls of the room, lined 
 with pictures or studies in various stages of prog 
 ress. 
 
 " Mrs. Amory is an artist, con amore" said 
 her husband, somewhat pompously, following the
 
 2OO FILLING THE VOID. 
 
 glance. " Indeed, she works over her canvas far 
 more than I approve for a mere pastime." 
 
 " I have never looked upon it as that, exactly, 
 you know, Morgan," said Gladys, with a smiling 
 shake of the head. 
 
 " Have you ever exhibited anything ? " asked the 
 doctor, who was slowly walking about the room, 
 surveying the pictures, his hands behind him and 
 a look of pleased surprise growing on his face. 
 
 " No, never." 
 
 " Not, surely, from any doubt of the worthiness 
 of your work ? " 
 
 Mr. Amory bowed, as if the implied compliment 
 were a personal one. 
 
 " And Dr. Forbes is a judge of pictures, I find," 
 he said blandly. " No, it is a mere amateur pur 
 suit, Doctor, and that is why I find fault with the 
 ardor that Mrs. Amory bestows upon it." 
 
 " But you know," said Gladys, pausing with up 
 lifted charcoal, " it is impossible for me to work 
 in any other way. I should lose all interest in 
 anything that I considered a mere pastime. I 
 never do expect any work of mine to be exhibited, 
 thank you, Dr. Forbes, but I work like an artist 
 rather than an amateur, because it is the only way
 
 FILLING THE VOID. 2OI 
 
 in which I can make my criticism or appreciation 
 of value to a young friend of mine, who will, I 
 hope, be an artist one day." 
 
 " Oh ! Gladys puts so much conscience into every 
 thing she does," said Madge, with a comical air 
 of desperation. " It is one of her idiosyncrasies. 
 Even those weary Associated Charities of hers 
 how she labors over those poor people ! To 
 my uninitiated mind it would be so much easier to 
 give the poor souls a new suit of clothes all round 
 and a handful of money apiece, and let them fend 
 for themselves." 
 
 " A great deal easier ! " laughed Gladys, while 
 Stephen looked somewhat quizzically embarrassed 
 at this sudden reminder of his forgotten apology. 
 
 " Does that work interest you so much ? " he 
 asked, with one of his kindly glances at Gladys. 
 
 " Yes, very deeply." 
 
 " And will you let me apologize for my abrupt 
 warning the other day ? " said the doctor, a boyish 
 red overspreading his manly face ; " that was what 
 I came for. I was afraid you would come upstairs, 
 and I could not warn you face to face just then." 
 
 "Then it was you?" returned Gladys smilingly. 
 "I quite understood at least with a little help
 
 2O2 FILLING THE VOID. 
 
 from Mike Flaherty. But, Dr. Forbes, may I ask 
 you 
 
 Just here, however, little Tom, awakened by the 
 voices, raised his head, and the dog, overjoyed at 
 his release, darted behind the friendly shelter of 
 Gladys skirts. The child sat upright, rubbing his 
 eyes with a half-indignant protest against sleepi 
 ness, and staring at Stephen who stood beside his 
 mother. 
 
 " Well, my boy," said the doctor, " will you 
 come and make friends ? " 
 
 And Tom, in unwonted graciousness to a stran 
 ger, held out his arms, exclaiming " Up high ! " 
 
 The child shouted with glee as Stephen tossed 
 him up in his strong arms, then perched himself 
 contentedly on his knee and wound his watch- 
 chain round his chubby fingers, smiling up, mean 
 while, into the strange face above him. 
 
 " Just like Sallie," observed Mrs. Madge. " How 
 do you contrive to make children so fond of you, 
 Doctor ? " 
 
 " No magic about it, I suspect," smiled Stephen, 
 putting an arm round the child, " only a response 
 to a previous attraction." 
 
 " It is an excellent gift for a physician ; the
 
 FILLING THE VOID. 2O3 
 
 only reason why I ever thought I should prefer 
 a woman doctor is because women are usually less 
 formidable to children and, by the way," said 
 Madge, her thoughts skipping from one thing to 
 another with all the old agility, " what do you 
 think of women doctors ? " 
 
 " Think ? Why, I think there is a wide field 
 for them, certainly, if they have the patience and 
 strength of nerve requisite for the profession. 
 But your question is rather a broad one, Mrs. 
 Boylston. Are you asking my opinion of them as 
 a class, or of the demand for them ? " 
 
 " Well, it is a subject that seems to take up a 
 good deal of people s attention just now," replied 
 Madge, whose tongue was apt to be somewhat 
 vaguely glib about the last new "craze." " I sup 
 pose you have read Dr. Breen s Practice or 
 don t you read novels?" 
 
 " I have read that." 
 
 " But I hope you don t agree with Mr. Howells 
 - I mean I hope you don t think such a wretch 
 edly morbid, weak creature as Grace Breen a fair 
 type of all women doctors ? " 
 
 " Most certainly not. In point of fact, a woman 
 like Dr. Breen could never have studied the medi-
 
 2O4 FILLING THE VOID. 
 
 cal profession at all. Her lack of nerve would 
 have told at her first entrance into a dissecting 
 room, and her irresolution would have made her 
 turn back at the first shadow of responsibility." 
 
 " I m so glad to hear you say that ! " cried 
 Madge. " I have always had an idea that medical 
 men were most unjust to women doctors." 
 
 " Not to thoroughly trained ones, I am sure. 
 But it has been my good fortune to meet such." 
 
 "Why, Madge," said Gladys, who had been 
 silently putting the finishing touches to her sketch, 
 and glancing, now and then, with a mother s radi 
 ant smile, at little Tom, " I never before heard you 
 so eloquent on the subject of women doctors." 
 
 " Because my theories never before had a person 
 behind them, my dear ! You know we ladies are 
 said always to espouse a cause for the sake of 
 some individual representative of it, Doctor. I 
 happened, the other day, to visit that hospital for 
 women at the South End, and there I saw a little 
 woman who was my very ideal of a woman physi 
 cian. My conversion was instantaneous. I seemed 
 to realize on the spot the comfort, the relief, that 
 those poor creatures must feel in being under the 
 care of a woman like themselves. Why, half the
 
 FILLING THE VOID. 
 
 suffering, seemed lifted off at once I could be 
 eloquent on the subject if I chose ! You must 
 both see Dr. Martyn." 
 
 " I have long known her," said Stephen quietly. 
 
 " Oh ! of course. Your father has been so in 
 terested in that hospital, and just now you are 
 filling his place." 
 
 "Our acquaintance dates back much farther 
 than that to our student days abroad, in fact. 
 She is one of the bravest women I ever knew, and 
 if you want an epitome of what, in my opinion, a 
 qualified woman doctor may be, Mrs. Boylston, I 
 can t do better than advise you to make Dr. 
 Martyn s acquaintance." 
 
 " But what," pursued Madge, " is your idea of 
 marriage for professional women ? I believe that, 
 after all, is the touchstone of magnanimity in a 
 man s views of women s work. One hears the 
 cry so often Oh ! there can be no seriousness in a 
 woman s profession, because as soon as she marries, 
 she will drop it. What do you say on that sub 
 ject, Doctor ? " 
 
 "Why, there, you know, is just where I feel my 
 ignorance," said Stephen merrily. " I should say, 
 however, in looking at the medical profession for
 
 2O6 FILLING THE VOID. 
 
 women, that it must be a question of alternatives 
 for them. If marriage stands in the balance, they 
 must weigh their profession against it, and see 
 which they will relinquish. I don t plead guilty 
 to any want of magnanimity in the matter, Mrs. 
 Boylston it seems to me merely the necessity 
 of the case. Commonly, I think you will find that 
 the woman has considered the subject at the out 
 set, and set marriage aside before entering heartily 
 on the preparation for her profession ; it is not the 
 only fate for women here in Massachusetts, you 
 know ! And even if it be allowed that woman s 
 work is liable, at any time, to be set aside, let us 
 hope that, like Mrs. Amory, the worker may find 
 the idea of doing anything for mere pastime so 
 repugnant to her ideal, that the work, while it 
 does go on, will be as masterly as if it were to last 
 for a lifetime." 
 
 " I do nof think I ever heard of a married 
 woman doctor," said Madge thoughtfully. " Grace 
 Breen doesn t count, for it took much less dis 
 couraging circumstances than marriage to put her 
 out of heart with her work. I must examine Dr. 
 Martyn on the subject when I know her a little 
 better."
 
 FILLING THE VOID. 2O/ 
 
 Mr. Amory, who had for some time been chaf 
 ing under a topic wholly alien to his sympathies, 
 now interposed by carrying Stephen off to the 
 smoking-room, but he left a favorable impression 
 behind him. 
 
 " I had no idea that he had any interests out 
 side of his profession," Mr. Amory remarked 
 later, " and there can be no more tiresome com 
 pany than a man with a hobby. But he has really 
 an unusually good eye for a picture. I shall be 
 glad to see him often." 
 
 The presence of one s physician, Mr. Amory re 
 flected, is less onerous than that of one s clergy 
 man, as requiring no special effort on the part of 
 the host in toning up to a given elevation, real or 
 imaginary. The two men were most unlike, cer 
 tainly, but there was a pleasant bonhomie about 
 Stephen that seemed to adapt itself to all men. 
 He grew rather interested in comparing Mr. Amory 
 and his father-in-law, the two types of manhood 
 with whom Mrs. Amory might be supposed to 
 be most familiar, and which might possibly account 
 for certain peculiarities in her, that he fancied 
 foreign to her nature. 
 
 There was a certain likeness between them, but,
 
 2O8 FILLING THE VOID. 
 
 while Mr. Amory s interest seemed to be confined 
 to persons and things as relating to himself ex 
 clusively, Mr. Lyman s egotism took a wider sweep 
 and looked at society not so much from the self- 
 centred standpoint as through the prejudices of 
 long descent or unblemished standing. Both were, 
 in a measure, selfish men, but Mr. Lyman s type 
 of selfishness seemed less narrow than that of his 
 son-in-law. Gladys treated him always with beau 
 tiful tenderness and consideration; almost as if she 
 wished to make amends to him for something ; yet, 
 strange to say, he never seemed completely at ease 
 with her, but rather as if he were laboring to rein 
 state himself in some position in her esteem which 
 he felt himself to have forfeited.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 NEW LINKS. 
 
 . . . Life means, be sure, 
 
 Both heart and head both active, both complete, 
 And both in earnest. 
 
 MRS BROWNING. 
 
 THE doctor overtook Mrs. Amory one day as 
 she was slowly walking down Beacon Hill, 
 looking thoughtfully out over the brick-built slope 
 and the leafless feathery twigs of the tree-tops to the 
 golden water and the bright winter sunset beyond. 
 There was a shade of sadness on her face which it 
 never wore in society, or in the home life in which 
 Stephen was beginning to know her best. With 
 her children she was always radiantly, almost girl 
 ishly bright and sunny. Unconsciously, Stephen 
 had become observant of Mrs. Amory s changes 
 of expression, and he noted this before they had 
 walked the length of two blocks. 
 
 " Have you seen anything of your families lately ? 
 209
 
 2IO NEW LINKS. 
 
 I have not been in that region since the epidemic 
 was over." 
 
 " And I have just come from there. Dr. Forbes, 
 do you never feel disheartened when you are 
 brought into contact with that class ? Does it not 
 seem to you as if all you could do were but the 
 most wretched playing with this problem of riches 
 and poverty ? " 
 
 " Why, no," said the doctor cheerfully. " You 
 know that the errand on which we doctors go makes 
 us forget all that. Disease and recovery are a good 
 deal alike under all conditions, and that occupies 
 us so much that there is no room for question 
 whether or not we are doing our best in the case 
 under our hands. We must be doing that if we 
 are doctors at all. But I understand you, Mrs. 
 Amory. The relation of the rich and poor in 
 great cities is certainly the hardest problem of all 
 to solve." 
 
 " I wish we could abolish the distinctions of rich 
 and poor ! " Gladys exclaimed almost passionately. 
 
 "What, you are an anarchist, Mrs. Amory? 
 Abolish the distinctions between labor and capital, 
 that is their cry, you know. Believe me, that could 
 not be done. There is no such sharp distinction ;
 
 NEW LINKS. 21 I 
 
 every laborer becomes himself a capitalist so soon 
 as he has twenty-five cents to spend, and a dinner 
 to buy. Labor stands for whatever money will pur 
 chase, and when will money be abolished ? Neither 
 can the rich man be set so wholly apart from his 
 poorer brother; we are all mutually dependent, and, 
 if the distinctions of property were swept away to 
 morrow, there would be rich men and poor men 
 before sunset. But I must not turn your heartfelt 
 wish into a lecture on labor and capital. I under 
 stand your perplexity ; we are coming now to no 
 bler and higher views of charity. A little money 
 or a little coal is an easy thing to give ; but to give 
 out of one s higher possessions, intelligence, cult 
 ure or character, taxes the individual powers. I 
 had thought, however, that you were taking up 
 the question in just that way. Are you not trying 
 to do too much, making too many demands on 
 your life, which has such varied calls?" 
 
 " My life ? Oh ! " said Gladys sadly, "my life is 
 never full." 
 
 The doctor glanced quickly at her, with his keen 
 look of inquiry. What was this void which she 
 seemed to feel so deeply, setting its seal even on 
 he,r face in the midst of everything that the world
 
 212 NEW LINKS. 
 
 would call all-sufficing ? Involuntarily, he remem 
 bered his father s hint. Had there been truth in 
 that, and was that the cause of this aching sense 
 of emptiness ? 
 
 " Not full ?" he echoed, with a shade of protest 
 in the surprise of his tone. " What, with your 
 children, your artistic gifts ? " 
 
 " I did not mean in that way," said Gladys, shak 
 ing her head. " My life is full of blessings and 
 privileges, ; the question is, What do I make of my 
 opportunities ? Do I do anybody any real good, or 
 make myself necessary to any one ? " 
 
 Stephen Forbes was a very simple and sincere 
 man. His habit was to say little, but if occasion 
 arose for a word, he did not pause to weigh it in 
 the scales. He spoke what came into his mind 
 with frankness that was even blunt. 
 
 " That is not the vital question," he said quietly. 
 "That is only a refined form of selfishness." 
 
 "Do you think so?" said Gladys, glancing at 
 him m surprise. She did not speak in displeasure, 
 however, but humbly. 
 
 " I mean," said Stephen, less brusquely, " that 
 if we earnestly try to do our best in any work, we 
 need not so much trouble ourselves about our own
 
 NEW LINKS. 213 
 
 part in it. We may let it stand for what it is 
 worth, and be content, even if we do not seem, 
 individually, to be, as you say, necessary to any 
 one. Excuse my freedom in speaking shall I 
 tell you one very excellent way of being of use to 
 some one ? " 
 
 " I wish you would," said Gladys gratefully. 
 
 " You have heard me speak of the hospital for 
 poor women, in which Dr. Martyn is resident 
 physician. It is always full, and when one patient 
 recovers enough to leave, her place is filled at once 
 by another poor creature who has been waiting 
 her chance. We would so gladly have more free 
 beds." 
 
 " And I would so gladly give the money for one. 
 Thank you, Dr. Forbes ! You laugh, but it is 
 really kindness to tell me where to give money 
 most wisely. That kind of charity does not tax 
 my capacities as the other does. I look upon it as 
 a species of indulgence." 
 
 " But don t be satisfied with my recommenda 
 tion," said the doctor, turning so that he could see 
 the brightened face. " Go and see the place for 
 yourself. I think you will like Dr. Martyn." 
 
 In fact, the opportunity thus afforded for the
 
 214 NEW LINKS. 
 
 acquaintance had been in his thoughts quite as much 
 as the benefaction to the hospital. That a society 
 woman should occupy his thoughts at all was an 
 anomaly, but since it was so, consciously or other 
 wise, it is a fact that Dr. Stephen often considered 
 the probable effect of certain interests or occupa 
 tions on Mrs. Amory. 
 
 " Come in, won t you ? " said Gladys at the door. 
 "Tom speaks of you so often. You quite won 
 his heart by your treatment of the measles. A 
 doctor who combines stories with physic is irre 
 sistible ! " 
 
 Stephen accepted the invitation, nothing loath to 
 see the bright-eyed cherub who met his mother 
 at the nursery door with, " Tom sick, mamma ! 
 Send for that nice big man ! " 
 
 " Oh ! you cunning rogue," cried Gladys, throw 
 ing off her furs and catching the little fellow in 
 her arms. " Tom is a humbug ! Well, put your 
 head down on mamma s shoulder, poor sick boy, 
 and hide your eyes. We ll count one hundred and 
 then perhaps we may see that nice big man. 
 
 The two stood with closed eyes, Gladys slowly 
 counting aloud a pretty tableau as the doctor 
 crept noiselessly upstairs. Then at the word " one
 
 NEW LINKS. 215 
 
 hundred ! " the curly head was raised from Gladys 
 shoulder and the little face looked up with wide- 
 open expectant blue eyes. Oh ! the shout of glee 
 when he saw the tall figure appearing as if by 
 magic, the bound from his mother s clasp, and the 
 warm soft little arms thrown round Stephen s 
 neck ! The baby in her nurse s arms crowed and 
 laughed in sympathy ; it would be long before the 
 sound of the sweet little voices died away on the 
 doctor s ear ! 
 
 The hospital stood on one of the wide sunny 
 streets at the South End -- a cheerful-looking 
 place, with plants blooming in the windows, and 
 a peaceful air of repose in the airy rooms with 
 their small white beds, suggestive of anything 
 rather than scenes of suffering. There were even 
 many cheerful faces among the patient ones on the 
 pillows, and all brightened in the presence of the 
 little doctor, who moved quietly about, serene and 
 smiling, and carried sunshine wherever she went. 
 Gladys and her cousin Madge were frequent visi 
 tors at the hospital, the latter chiefly because Dr. 
 Martyn was her last new hobby, while with Gladys 
 it had become a very real and vivid interest. This
 
 2l6 NEW LINKS. 
 
 interest had not ceased with the bestowal of the 
 fund for the free bed ; a candidate for her syrru 
 pathies had appeared in the occupant, a poor 
 seamstress who had broken down under the strain 
 of long-continued stitching, and, from interest in 
 her case, Mrs. Amory had grown to feel interest in 
 all. Not the least attractive feature was Dr. 
 Martyn herself, between whom and Gladys there 
 was a strong mutual drawing together. Clara 
 Martyn s trained eye had acquired a habit of 
 analysing people as she did cases. She made a 
 mental diagnosis, said nothing, but silently noted 
 it down in her own mind for future reference. 
 
 "She is a case of arrested development," she 
 said to herself as she studied Gladys. " She has 
 suffered in some way from a chilling atmosphere. 
 She has a nature that, under sunny, genial skies, 
 would have thrown out shoots in all directions, 
 like a generous blossoming vine, but since they 
 were blighted, many of the poor tendrils have been 
 forced back on themselves. I wonder if she can 
 have made a happy marriage ? " 
 
 Madge was less discreetly silent in her wonder 
 as to her new friend s past life. 
 
 "Do tell us," she said one day, "what first in-
 
 NEW LINKS. 217 
 
 duced you to be a doctor. You must have been 
 very young when you began to study ; were there 
 no sacrifices to be made when you took up the 
 profession ? " 
 
 Madge s curiosity was so smiling and good-na 
 tured that it could not offend, even though it 
 might be wanting in entire delicacy. 
 
 " None that -weighed with me," Clara replied 
 serenely. " The first incentive, Mrs. Boylston, 
 was the fact that I had seen, as a child, so much 
 suffering during the yellow fever seasons in my 
 native city, Memphis, that I learned early to long 
 to struggle with the disease. When my parents 
 died of it, my mind was made up. I went abroad 
 to study, and came home just in time to grapple 
 with the enemy." 
 
 " And be worsted ! " said Gladys sympatheti 
 cally. 
 
 "Oh no!" said the little doctor calmly, "not 
 worsted since the epidemic has ceased there, 
 though I might not have been on the spot in per 
 son to see the triumph. It doesn t matter who 
 gains a cause if the cause be gained. I did what 
 I could." 
 
 " But," continued Madge, " when you began to
 
 218 NEW LINKS. 
 
 study did you never dream, as most young girls do, 
 of marriage ? " 
 
 "Perhaps I did," said Clara, smiling, "but the 
 dream faded very soon. I had an intense reality 
 before me instead of a dream all the hard work 
 and study, the difficulties and the delights of the 
 medical profession. The idea of a perfect mar 
 riage looked a very shadowy dream beside that, for 
 I had seldom seen it in actual life, and any mar 
 riage less than perfect would have been impossible 
 to me." 
 
 Gladys winced. 
 
 "But suppose it should present itself now," 
 pursued Madge, " should you feel obliged to give 
 up your calling ? " 
 
 " It is very unlikely that it ever will," replied 
 Clara, with just a shade of impatience in her tone. 
 " We doctors have to concern ourselves with 
 realities, my dear Mrs. Boylston. At present I 
 think of my work here and my poor women ; by 
 and by I shall probably go back to Memphis." 
 
 "And leave the work here ? " asked Gladys, in 
 surprise. " Leave so many people who love you 
 and depend on you ?" 
 
 " Not while they need me, certainly. But there
 
 NEW LINKS. 219 
 
 will be others to fill the post here, and others there, 
 too, whom I can serve. Work is impersonal, dear 
 Mrs. Amory all the best work, that is, whether 
 it be preaching, teaching or healing done for the 
 work s sake, not for the individual, or for our own 
 personal share in it. It should be like the rain 
 and the sunshine, falling on all alike." 
 
 " You agree with Doctor Stephen Forbes," said 
 Gladys, with a faint smile. " He said something 
 of the same kind to me. I fancy I make too much 
 of the personal part of it." 
 
 " He was right," said Clara, turning away 
 abruptly. " That motive is a great quicksand for 
 swallowing up human happiness." 
 
 Something in this talk had aroused Madge s 
 active fancy to speculation, for she said thought 
 fully, on their homeward drive, 
 
 "The only ideal marriage for an enthusiastic 
 woman doctor would be a professional one, of 
 course and nothing could be more natural, 
 either ! "
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 LITTLE TOM. 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 But one dead lamb is there ! 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 MORGAN, I wish you would not take Tom 
 out with you when you drive those spirited 
 horses. They need all your attention and the child 
 is too young to be left to himself. The least lurch 
 might throw him out." 
 
 "That is absurd, my dear Gladys ; the horses are 
 perfectly well-trained. Tom is no baby, and I en 
 joy having him with me." 
 
 " But it makes me very uneasy ; I would much 
 rather not have him go." 
 
 "Oh! as you please," said Mr. Amory coldly, 
 and he left the room with the half-indifferent, half- 
 sullen expression which was the nearest approach 
 to anger that he ever showed. 
 
 " Tom go with papa ! " said the little fellow, 
 pressing his face against the pane and looking out 
 
 220
 
 LITTLE TOM. 221 
 
 wistfully at the horses pawing the ground in front 
 of the house. 
 
 " Not to-day, my pet. By and by, when Tom is 
 a man like papa." 
 
 The sound of her own words lingered in her 
 ear as they stood watching the carriage roll away. 
 " A man like papa ! " would Tom ever be that ? 
 Would the little loving, eager nature ever harden 
 into that cold, narrow type of manhood ? " God 
 grant he never may! " Gladys pressed her lips to 
 her darling s golden head, and half shuddered at 
 her own silent prayer. She bade him good-by to 
 day with even more caresses than usual ; the clasp 
 of the little clinging arms seemed sweeter than 
 ever. She felt them still as she was driven slowly 
 out over the Milldam road, where the bare branches 
 of the wind-bent trees were beginning to show the 
 faint yellowish tinge of early spring. It was a 
 mild, April day ; the sunbeams fell, bright and 
 warm, on the miry roads, with here and there a 
 lingering patch of snow. The air was soft and 
 warm, and the birds sang joyously from the leaf 
 less branches as the city streets were left behind. 
 Gradually, the soreness at her heart died away, and 
 nothing was left but the sweetness of her little
 
 222 LITTLE TOM. 
 
 child s caress. Oh, the blessing of motherhood ! 
 Life cannot be otherwise than full of promise to 
 any one who has a child s future before her ! Nor 
 could the present be called dark, spite of its limi 
 tations and secret disappointments. There was 
 nothing new in the fact that husband and wife 
 went on their separate ways. So long as Gladys 
 satisfied the claims which he held due to society, 
 her husband made no other demands on her time. 
 She was welcome to fill it with any interests she 
 might choose, and, under the ever-widening in 
 fluence of these interests, the sweet face was be 
 ginning to lose its languor and to regain much of 
 its girlish brightness. 
 
 Some two hours later, Doctor Stephen Forbes, 
 reining up in front of his house, found a man wait 
 ing anxiously for him on the sidewalk. 
 
 "Don t get out, sir, please," he said, laying a 
 hand on the dasher of the buggy. " Come as 
 quick as ever you can, for Heaven s sake, to Mr. 
 Amory s ! I thought you d never get back ! " 
 
 Stephen, glancing at the man s face, saw that it 
 was working with agitation. He took him in and 
 turned the buggy without another word.
 
 LITTLE TOM. 223 
 
 " Do you know what has happened ? " he asked, 
 at last, when they were half-way up the hill. 
 
 " I can t say, sir it s an accident. Mr. Amory s 
 horses ran away and you ll see ! " 
 
 They were at the door now, and the man sprang 
 to the horse s head, as if afraid of being asked 
 more questions. The doctor hurried in. Strong 
 man as he was, his knees trembled under him with 
 the uncertainty and suspense, and the quick beat 
 ing of his own heart. An accident? which was 
 the sufferer, Morgan Amory or his wife ? 
 
 A white-faced figure met him before he was half 
 way up the stairs. 
 
 "Thank God, you are come at last, Forbes ! " 
 
 Stephen scarcely recognized Morgan Amory s 
 voice in the agonized tones, as he grasped his 
 strong hand with fingers that trembled convul 
 sively. 
 
 "Is she much injured?-" the doctor half-whis 
 pered. 
 
 " She ? She does not even know of it. Oh Ste 
 phen, it s my boy ! " 
 
 They stood in the nursery looking down at the 
 little form, stretched half on the bed, half across 
 the sobbing nurse s knee. There was a crimson
 
 224 LITTLE TOM. 
 
 gash on the temple. The baby hands hung, waxen 
 and lifeless, from the woman s lap. 
 
 "What can you do for him?" gasped the poor 
 father, tightening his grasp of Stephen s arm. 
 
 "Do?" exclaimed the doctor in a choking voice, 
 "nothing! My poor Amory, what can I do ? The 
 child is dead ! " 
 
 There was a stir in the hall below, a fresh, sweet 
 voice, a light, springing step on the stair. 
 
 " She is come back ! " cried the wretched hus 
 band in a voice of agony. " I cannot meet her 
 Stephen, you will tell her for me ! " 
 
 He was gone from the room before Stephen could 
 utter a word, and he heard the sound of the key as 
 it was turned in the lock. 
 
 " Lay the child on the bed," said the doctor to 
 the weeping woman, " and cover his face. I will 
 go and meet her. Do not let her hear you sob if 
 you can help it." 
 
 He spoke so quietly that the woman s agitation 
 was calmed at once, and she followed his directions 
 without a sound ; but in his own heart there was a 
 deadly anguish. That moment when he stood wait 
 ing for Gladys at the top of the stairs, was the bit 
 terest of his life.
 
 LITTLE TOM. 225 
 
 She came up with the same light, elastic step. 
 Would she never reach him ? Sne glanced up, 
 smilingly, at the tall figure on the landing. 
 
 " What, you have been looking in on my chicks 
 in my absence, Doctor?" she cried gayly. Then 
 as she reached his side, and saw the deadly pallor 
 of his bronzed face, a change came over her own, 
 and she laid her hand on his arm in affectionate 
 anxiety. 
 
 " What has happened ? My friend, you are ill ! 
 Tell me what I can do for you." 
 
 " For me ? Oh ! " said Stephen in a choked whis 
 per, "/can do nothing for you! Poor mother 
 God give you his own strength and comfort ! " 
 
 She did not say a word at first, but lay, quite 
 still and white, in the strong arms that upheld her. 
 
 " Do not be afraid. I shall not faint," she said 
 at last, lifting her head. " Tell me slowly and 
 clearly what has happened." 
 
 He told her, as calmly as he could, what he had 
 learned from the nurse s sobbing whispers, and 
 the poor father s conscience-stricken anguish. He 
 spoke as quietly as he could, but his breast heaved 
 with the emotion he struggled to repress, and the 
 rare man s tears welled slowly up from his eyes.
 
 226 LITTLE TOM. 
 
 " And you loved my little Tom so much ? " said 
 Gladys pitifully, looking at him with a tearless 
 gaze. " God bless you for it ! Now let me go to 
 him." 
 
 " One moment," he said gently, detaining her. 
 " You will not look at him ? " 
 
 " I will do anything you say," she answered, 
 speaking in a hushed voice that went to his very 
 heart. "I am very calm, you see. You shall come 
 with me if you wish." 
 
 She let him take her hand and lead her into the 
 room from which all had stolen away. The little 
 figure lay on the bed, the face covered, and the 
 waxen dimpled hands folded on the breast. 
 
 Gladys knelt beside the bed and kissed the little 
 hands, still with dry eyes. " My little Tom !" she 
 said softly. "No, Doctor, you need not fear ! I do 
 not need to see his face I shall never lose it from 
 before my eyes." 
 
 There was the sound of a door opening on the 
 other side of the nursery. Gladys started. 
 
 " It is your husband," said Stephen, looking anx 
 iously at her. "Will you not go to him ? " 
 
 "My husband?" she repeated in a hard voice, 
 unlike her own. " And he came back for the child
 
 LITTLE TOM. 22/ 
 
 after I was gone ! Oh, God forgive him ! I never 
 can." She hid her face in the pillow beside which 
 she was kneeling. 
 
 Stephsn stood for a moment, irresolute. 
 
 " Will you not go to your husband, Mrs. Amory ? " 
 he asked again, bending over her, " I feel anxious 
 about him and I must go, but you are needed quite 
 as much as I." 
 
 " Yes, go," she answered coldly, still keeping 
 her face averted. " Go, but do not ask me to 
 come." And Stephen went sadly away. 
 
 There are no secrets in such hours from the 
 physician : he may read all hearts if he will, and, 
 if his own be a tender one, he pays dearly for the 
 bitter privilege. To Stephen s loyal, deep-hearted 
 nature, the alienation between husband and wife 
 at that supreme moment of grief brought a crush 
 ing sense of misery that wrung his very soul. 
 
 It was easier to minister to Mr. Amory s sorrow 
 than to Gladys . The cold, formal man was quite 
 broken down ; he wept for his boy in a passion of 
 grief that was all the more painful to witness for 
 the remorse mingled with it, clinging to Stephen 
 as if there were some soothing power in his strong, 
 friendly arm. The doctor did not leave him until
 
 228 LITTLE TOM. 
 
 he had dropped into an uneasy sleep, worn out by 
 the violence of his grief. 
 
 Gladys was still kneeling where he had left her, 
 her face buried in the pillow. Stephen stood 
 silently beside her, his heart full of sympathy which 
 he was powerless to express. Suddenly a thought 
 came to him and he left the room. A moment 
 after, Gladys heard a faint baby murmur, and, look 
 ing up, saw little Amy in the doctor s arms, rub 
 bing her soft cheek against his, and cooing her 
 satisfaction in baby fashion. 
 
 She held out her arms with a sudden burst of 
 tears. 
 
 " Oh, my little girl ! I had forgotten her ! Give 
 her to me my one little child ! " 
 
 Those were tears that Stephen did not wish to 
 check. He stole out of the nursery and walked 
 for a long hour up and down the hall, waiting, 
 though for what he hardly knew. 
 
 At last she came softly out and laid her hand 
 again on his arm. 
 
 "I can go to him now," she said gently, "and 
 you need not be afraid to leave me. Thank you, 
 my true-hearted friend, for your reminder." 
 
 "I spoke for your own sake," said Stephen,
 
 LITTLE TOM. 22Q 
 
 under his breath. He went silently downstairs, 
 feeling that there was no more need for his pres 
 ence. 
 
 "Best not take these things too much to heart." 
 
 The old doctor had been silently watching his 
 son, who sat opposite him sunk down in his arm 
 chair, his chin on his breast, wrapt in a moody 
 reverie, and so abstracted that he did not even 
 know he was silent. They were sitting together 
 in the smoking-room as they usually did for a cosey 
 after-dinner hour of chat, perhaps the pleasantest 
 time in the day to both, for there was the heartiest 
 sympathy and affection between father and son 
 with enough unlikeness to make the discussion of 
 the day s occupations fresh and racy. 
 
 Stephen started, pushing back his heavy hair 
 from his forehead with a gesture habitual to him. 
 
 " If one begins by making a private burden of 
 the ills of humanity," said the doctor, whose tender 
 old heart had been bleeding for Gladys all the 
 evening, " we doctors should be buried fathoms 
 deep ! Who knows what evils that child may have 
 missed by having his pure little life cut short so 
 early ! "
 
 23O LITTLE TOM. 
 
 "No doubt that is one way of looking at it, of 
 course. But the other side is one at which I can 
 never learn to look coolly. Only an accident ! A 
 child thrown out of a carriage against a stone ! 
 Call it an accident yes, but what a reckless, 
 wanton waste of life ! " 
 
 "Well, my boy," said the old doctor, throwing 
 himself back in his chair with a sigh, "there is no 
 way of getting over it unless you take to Stoic 
 philosophy. I ve tried that myself as a means of 
 self-defence against other people s troubles, but 
 I m afraid you re not enough of a humbug for it, 
 and I can t conscientiously recommend it to you, 
 for, to tell the truth, it never did me much good." 
 
 Stephen smiled absently, and, rising, brought a 
 light for his father s cigar. He did not himself 
 smoke that evening, but walked thoughtfully up 
 and down the room, his arms behind his back and 
 a heavy cloud on his brow. He looked haggard 
 and overworked as his father had never before seen 
 him ; but, when the office-bell rang, he started to 
 the door as if it were a welcome sound. 
 
 " Stephen s an intense sort of fellow," said the 
 old doctor when he was left to himself. " That 
 child s loss has hit him in a tender spot, I believe ! "
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 DIVIDED. 
 
 .... Soul from soul estranged. 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 MR. AMORY was a changed man after his 
 child s death ; he did not, indeed, abandon 
 any of his old pursuits, and, after his recovery from 
 the fit of illness and prostration that followed the 
 terrible shock, appeared in his old haunts wearing 
 an icy mask of calmness, and never mentioning 
 Tom s name. But he looked gray and worn in the 
 face, and the younger generation of men began to 
 say that " Morgan Amory showed his age at last." 
 With Gladys it was different ; it seemed as if 
 the tender thoughts of her little boy had softened 
 away the unnatural hardness which those nearest 
 her had noticed after the first year of her married 
 life, and had restored the old, loving sweetness of 
 her girlhood. She was unspeakably patient and 
 tender with her husband, though he shrank notice- 
 
 231
 
 232 DIVIDED. 
 
 ably in her presence, seeming to dread nothing so 
 much as the possibility of her mentioning their 
 boy. Neither could he bear to look at little Amy, 
 but if he happened to come in when she was in 
 her mother s arms, would turn abruptly and leave 
 the room without a word. 
 
 " If the man ever had a heart," said the old 
 doctor testily, " it is framed and hung up in the 
 dining-room with his family pedigree ! That isn t 
 grief for his child it is disappointment in the 
 loss of his heir ! " 
 
 Stephen said nothing, but was seen so often in 
 public with Amory that it excited remark. 
 
 When summer came, Mr. Amory briefly declared 
 his intention of going abroad. 
 
 " I do not care if I never see the place at Bar 
 Harbor again," he said to his wife, " but you had 
 better take Amy there, Gladys." 
 
 " Would you rather not have me go with you ? " 
 she asked the tone, indeed, had implied it very 
 plainly. " It would not be best to take Amy with 
 us, of course, but Mrs. Stanhope would come and 
 take care of her for me, and at Bar Harbor she 
 would be so near our doctors that I should not 
 trouble you with nervousness about her."
 
 DIVIDED. 233 
 
 " It is quite unnecessary for you to leave her ; 
 besides, your father has offered to go with me." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear, I am glad to go with him," Mr. 
 Lyman said, in response to his daughter s thanks. 
 " I would willingly do more for you, Gladys, if it 
 were in my power." 
 
 He looked at her so wistfully as he spoke, strok 
 ing her rippled golden hair, that she knew he was 
 thinking of the old injustice for which he had never 
 ceased to reproach himself how bitterly, since 
 he had observed the un congeniality of her married 
 life, Gladys would never know ! 
 
 "I have no special plans for the summer, and 
 you know that Morgan and I have many interests 
 in common. I doubt if he could find a more toler 
 able companion if he must have any one." 
 "Must?" repeated Gladys in surprise. 
 " Yes ; it would be most unwise for him to go 
 alone. Since Stephen Forbes discovered his ten 
 dency to heart trouble, I notice he always has his 
 eye on him." 
 
 Gladys said nothing at the moment, great as 
 the shock of surprise must have been, .not wishing 
 her father to know that he had betrayed what 
 Stephen had chosen to keep from her, but, when
 
 234 DIVIDED. 
 
 she next saw the latter, she spoke of it very 
 quietly. 
 
 " I am sorry it should have come to your knowl 
 edge," said Stephen, with a doctor s annoyance 
 over needless forecast of possibilities. " I hoped 
 it never might. It was quite uncalled-for." 
 
 " You know me too well to be afraid of my bor 
 rowing anxiety ; and," she added, turning away 
 with tearful eyes, " it will make me doubly grate 
 ful to you for recalling me to myself on that dread 
 ful day." 
 
 So the husband and wife parted, if that can be 
 called separation which is measured by space. 
 There are some pairs, alas ! who are no nearer 
 each other when side by side than if the Atlantic 
 rolled between ! 
 
 " At Lausanne, Switzerland, 3ist ult, suddenly, Morgan Amory 
 of Boston, 40 years." 
 
 Anna Lindesay read the paragraph aloud at the 
 dinner-table, with an exclamation of surprise, the 
 day after her return to town from her summer 
 quarters. 
 
 " So Gladys is a widow," she added, throwing
 
 DIVIDED. 235 
 
 down the paper, and looking across the table at her 
 husband, who showed no surprise, " and I suppose 
 she is not yet twenty-five. You don t show the 
 smallest interest, Raymond, but I suppose you 
 knew it before." 
 
 "Yes ; I read it at the office." 
 
 " So exactly like you ! You never seem to think 
 I have a particle of sympathy or interest in other 
 people s sorrows ! However, this can hardly be 
 called a sorrow, I imagine. A young and beauti 
 ful widow is not usually long inconsolable, espe 
 cially if her widowhood leaves her in such com 
 fortable circumstances as this bereavement un 
 doubtedly does." 
 
 " The property does not go to Mrs. Amory, but 
 to the child," said Raymond laconically. 
 
 " Why, how do you know ? Oh, from the will, 
 of course ! I suppose it was altered when Mr. 
 Amory went abroad. But I wonder at that ! Isa 
 bel says that after the little boy died, the father 
 could never bear the sight of the other child." 
 
 " Isabel abuses Mrs. Amory s kindness to her 
 and her intimacy in the household," said Lindesay, 
 knitting his brows, " or you take undue advantage 
 of her love of talking, Anna. I thought I had
 
 236 DIVIDED. 
 
 requested you before never to question her on the 
 subject." 
 
 "The Amorys domestic affairs are no secret," 
 retorted Anna angrily; "but you can never bear 
 the least word in disparagement of that goddess, 
 Raymond ! " 
 
 " I have not the least desire to hear her men 
 tioned in any way whatever, my dear Anna." 
 
 " I never shall understand why, if you admired 
 her so much, you did not take advantage of her 
 evident partiality for you when she was a girl at 
 Bar Harbor," pursued Anna unheedingly. " I never 
 saw anything more apparent in my life ! Whatever 
 she may have married Morgan Amory for, it cer 
 tainly was not for love." 
 
 " Expediency is the moving spring in more mar 
 riages than is usually supposed," was his reply. 
 
 The color flushed into Anna s cheek, but as she 
 glanced sharply across the table her husband s eyes 
 were fixed on the paper she had dropped, and she 
 wisely left the repartee on her tongue unspoken. 
 
 " This can hardly be called a sorrow for Gladys," 
 Anna had said in her half-sneering tone. Not as 
 sorrows are usually reckoned, certainly ; yet, viewed 
 in another light, it was the crown of sorrows.
 
 DIVIDED. 237 
 
 "If I had only " Gladys whispered, as if un 
 consciously, the first time Stephen saw her after 
 the tidings of Mr. Amory s death. 
 
 "Only what?" he repeated gently, bending 
 forward to catch the half-uttered words. 
 
 " If I had only loved him ! " she said with a 
 groan. " You cannot understand that feeling, my 
 friend, but " 
 
 " Believe me, I perfectly understand," the doctor 
 said, very earnestly,
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A FRIEND IX NEED. 
 
 The shadow of a great rock in a weary land. 
 
 ISAIAH xxxii. 2. 
 
 NO, my dear Siren, you must not try to tempt 
 me away. I would gladly come to you for 
 a rest if I went to any one, but, in the first place, 
 I don t need any, and if I did, my rest is in work 
 ing here. However, I thank you for wishing it." 
 
 And Dr. Martyn put her arm round Gladys 
 waist, kissing her with affectionate warmth for 
 which one would hardly have looked in the cool, 
 business-like little doctor, whose demonstrative- 
 ness, like her nerves, might have been supposed 
 under entire control. 
 
 " Yes, I know what you would say - 
 
 " Rest is not quitting the busy career, 
 Rest is the fitting of self to its sphere ! " 
 
 said Gladys, "and I have not the least wish to urge 
 you to neglect your duties, Clara. But you do 
 
 238
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 239 
 
 really overwork sometimes. You are quite losing 
 your color, I notice lately. I have often heard you 
 say that you had the utmost confidence in Miss 
 Smith s judgment." 
 
 " No nurse can take the place of a physician," 
 said Clara promptly. "The nurse may be hands, 
 or even head in rare instances, but it s an affair of 
 the heart with the doctor, Gladys." 
 
 "Very true, but Dr. Stephen is there so con 
 stantly that you could hardly be missed if, for a 
 fortnight, you should not sleep under the roof. 
 Come to me for that time, and then, if all goes 
 well, let me take you away for a little change of air 
 and scene, and you will return quite another being. 
 It is a duty that you owe to yourself, Clara." 
 
 "No, my dear," said her friend firmly, "don t 
 urge it. I shall not leave the hospital unless for 
 very pressing needs, until I go for good, and just 
 now I should be very unwilling to lay the whole 
 burden of responsibility on Dr. Stephen. I must 
 learn to do without his advice for a season, and 
 leaving all to him would be a poor beginning." 
 
 "Why, what do you mean ? " exclaimed Gladys, 
 with a sudden change of expression. " Do with 
 out him how ? "
 
 24O A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 Her friend looked at her earnestly for a moment. 
 
 J 
 
 " I mean only that he is going abroad again in 
 a few weeks. Did you not know it ? " she asked 
 quietly. 
 
 " No," said Gladys, the startled color returning 
 to her cheek. " I should hardly have supposed he 
 would leave his father again." 
 
 " Oh ! the old doctor is anxious to have him go. 
 He is quite well himself now, he says, and Stephen 
 needs rest and change. It may be only for a 
 time." 
 
 " How inconsistent you are, Dr. Martyn ! " said 
 Gladys, with a touch of playfulness. " A moment 
 ago you were advocating steady work as the only 
 rest for doctors ! " 
 
 " I was speaking only for myself." 
 
 " And I think Dr. Stephen looks better able 
 to bear a long strain than you." 
 
 " Temperaments are different," Clara replied. 
 " He puts far more nerve-force into his work than 
 I, and so feels the strain more. That is what we 
 must judge power of endurance by, rather than 
 bone and muscle. He is a much more intense 
 person than I." 
 
 Gladys said nothing, but probably Pr. Martyn
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 24! 
 
 was answering a look in her face when she said 
 quickly, " I know him better than you do, Gladys." 
 
 " You have known him longer, certainly," Gladys 
 replied. " But it seems to me impossible " She 
 checked herself and left the sentence unfinished, 
 but Clara saw by the lingering twilight of the 
 early spring that the tears had risen in her brown 
 eyes. 
 
 She was sitting alone in the parlor that evening, 
 after her good-night visit to Amy s nursery. The 
 lamp, over the globe of which a crimson paper 
 shade had been thrown, shed a faint rosy light 
 through the room, but Gladys was sitting at a dis 
 tance from it, her hands lying idly in her lap. A 
 sweet spring fragrance of violets, stealing in from 
 the little conservatory, filled the air, a dim atmos 
 phere of warmth and luxuriance in which Stephen 
 Forbes, as he entered, could scarcely see the 
 graceful head drooping against the cushions of the 
 deep arm-chair in which she sat. 
 
 " Is that you, Dr. Stephen ? " she asked, rising. 
 " I was just thinking of you." 
 
 Stephen fancied a sound of tears in her voice, 
 but her face was only dimly visible in the half 
 light. " Let us sit here," she said, detaining his
 
 242 A FRIEND IN* NEED. 
 
 hand a moment in her soft clasp, " unless you dis 
 like the dimness ? " 
 
 " Not at all for myself, though I hope you do 
 not often indulge in it when you are alone." 
 
 " Dr. Martyn tells me," she began abruptly, 
 " that you are going away." 
 
 " Yes," said Stephen, with a half-sigh, " but for 
 a time only, I trust. It seems best for several rea 
 sons, now that I have no further uneasiness on my 
 father s account." 
 
 " I hope you have not been overworking ? " 
 
 " No, oh no ! I do not go for any reason of that 
 kind." Stephen spoke in a laconic fashion, habit 
 ual to him when anything was pressing on his mind. 
 
 " You must not feel any anxiety about Amy in 
 my absence," he added, rousing himself and bend 
 ing forward. " She is perfectly well now, and my 
 father will watch her as carefully as I should." 
 
 Gladys was silent. 
 
 " You know he has even a prior claim to that 
 little patient of mine," said the doctor, wondering 
 that she did not speak. 
 
 "I am afraid I am very selfish," she burst out 
 suddenly, " but, indeed, I feel as if I could not 
 spare you."
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 243 
 
 " I have been so glad to serve you," he replied in 
 a low tone. 
 
 " Ah, it has been no common service ! When I 
 look back on this year of my life, I often ask my 
 self what I should have done without you. How 
 often I have thanked you in my heart for your 
 silent sympathy ! Oh ! there are times in our lives 
 when nothing but the help and support of a strong, 
 wise friend can save us from despair, and you have 
 been that tower of strength to me ! " 
 
 "Thank you," said Stephen, still in the same 
 deep tone. 
 
 " I do not speak of your saving my little 
 Amy, though I cannot yet look back on those 
 dreadful days and long winter nights of anxiety 
 without shuddering I am speaking of myself and 
 my own reliance on you. You know my old feel 
 ing of affection and confidence towards your father, 
 so you will think it no treason to him, but, Dr. 
 Stephen, I have come to depend on you. You 
 have been with me in all my troubles, and when 
 I think of another alarm of diphtheria without you 
 to look to " 
 
 " You are borrowing trouble now," said Stephen, 
 gently checking her.
 
 244 A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 " Yes ; but you must often hear such forebod 
 ings. A doctor who has saved the life of a child 
 is no common friend to the mother, but it was my 
 little Tom s love for you that first made me 
 
 She could say no more for her tears, but pressed 
 the strong, tender hand that rested on the arm of 
 her chair. 
 
 Stephen rose and stood beside her, looking down 
 upon her from his full height with a strangely- 
 moved expression. Then he stooped and said : 
 
 " Can I really have been so much to you ? " 
 
 " Not to me alone, I suppose," said Gladys, smil 
 ing through her tears, " but I am trying to excuse 
 myself in your eyes for my selfishness. It is utter 
 selfishness, of course, to depend so much on 
 another. Sooner or later one must bear the bur 
 den of one s griefs and anxieties alone." 
 
 " Not if you will let me always share them with 
 you." 
 
 The doctor s deep tones trembled, and Gladys, 
 looking up in surprise at the unusual break in his 
 voice, met his earnest eyes fixed upon her with a 
 new expression. She half-rose, with a sudden 
 premonition of what was coming, but he went on, 
 quickly,
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 245 
 
 " For I will not go if you tell me to stay. You 
 speak of what I have done for you I trust that 
 would have been the same for any one, but you 
 surely you must know how dear all that concerns 
 you is to me ! I thought of going only because I 
 did not feel that I could be near you longer and 
 remain silent. Now I have spoken. Do you think 
 
 do you mean that you can really trust yourself 
 to me ? " 
 
 Gladys looked up for a moment into the face 
 above her, every line of which was softened with 
 the yearning tenderness that thrilled in his voice, 
 and spoke from the very attitude of the tall figure, 
 as he bent towards her. She met the eyes for a 
 moment of sorrowful surprise, then covered her 
 face silently with her hands. 
 
 There was a moment s stillness in the room ; it 
 seemed an hour. Then the hand whose touch she 
 knew so well was laid on hers, as they covered 
 her face, and the doctor said gently, in almost his 
 usual tone, 
 
 " My dear, you need not speak. I see how it is 
 
 the fault was mine. Believe me, I came with 
 no thought of saying to you what was in my heart, 
 and, though your sweet reliance on me has drawn
 
 246 A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 it from me sooner than I meant, I am the only 
 one to blame in the matter. Do not grieve about 
 it, and be sure you do not lose the friend whom 
 you have valued, because he has told you that you 
 have been to him dearer than a friend ! " 
 
 He pressed his hand again upon her clasped 
 hands, and then she heard his firm step going to 
 wards the door. 
 
 "Oh ! " she cried, starting to her feet, "do not 
 go yet ! You do not understand stay a few mo 
 ments and let me tell you." 
 
 "Better not now it is late. Good-night," and 
 he turned back at the door with just the old 
 kindly smile and nod. Gladys, left alone, remained 
 for a while with her head bowed on her hands. It 
 had been an utter shock to her. 
 
 In her mind she went back to the clays before 
 Stephen s first coming. She felt again the cold 
 chill that had gradually settled down upon her in 
 the first year of her married life, as she came to 
 realize that she and her husband could never be 
 more to each other than they were - nay, that in 
 spite of every effort she might make, they were 
 drifting wider and wider apart. She remembered 
 the pang of disappointment it had given her to
 
 A FRIEXD IN NEED. 247 
 
 think that the father, whom she had almost wor 
 shipped, should have been guilty of any conceal 
 ment or deceit towards her. The old trust could 
 never return, however deep the filial tenderness 
 might be. She remembered the feeling with which 
 she had asked herself, as day after day passed by, 
 filled with nothing deeper than ease and surface 
 enjoyment, "Can this be all of life?" She re 
 membered the struggle she had made to fill her 
 own life with something more serious, the bitter 
 feeling that, in that effort, she would be quite with 
 out sympathy. It was no wonder if a shade of 
 morbidness had fallen upon her and mingled even 
 with her passionate affection for her children. She 
 had needed a sunny, Denial nature and a friendly 
 hand to help her out of the slough into which she 
 was falling, and that aid had come from Stephen 
 Forbes. She had felt instinctively, from the day 
 when they had met in her studio, that he understood 
 her and her efforts, that he divined, oh ! very much 
 that must be forever unspoken even to the closest 
 household friend. How wisely he had helped her 
 and drawn her out of herself! How he had grieved 
 in her great sorrow, and yet, even at that moment, 
 shielded her from the danger of self-reproach !
 
 248 A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 How her boy had loved him, and how he had 
 labored with almost superhuman skill to save her 
 little girl! That he was her devoted friend, that 
 she relied upon him with a trust and faith she gave 
 to no other human being, she knew, but that he 
 should love her was a thing she had never dreamed 
 of, and that she should love him seemed an im 
 possibility. Love, she knew it well, was like a 
 mighty tempest, seizing on the heart by storm, 
 shaking the whole being to its inmost depths. No 
 less a love than that should be given to Stephen 
 Forbes. 
 
 She rose at last from her chair, shaking off her 
 reverie, drew her desk to the light and began to 
 
 write the letter which rea ched Stephen in the 
 morning. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND: 
 
 You left me so quickly this evening that I could not say to you 
 what I wished, and I cannot allow it to remain unsaid. That you 
 surprised me beyond expression I need not tell you, but that you 
 should blame yourself for what you said to me would make me 
 very unhappy. 
 
 Dear Dr. Stephen, if reverence and trust and friendship more 
 deep and tender than I can put into words, were love, my whole 
 heart would be yours. But that is not love. Love comes, we do 
 not know_ how or why, at once and unmistakably; it is something 
 we cannot reason about, and that does not wait to be discovered. 
 But nothing else can be a substitute, and to fancy that it can is a 
 sore .mistake.
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 249 
 
 I can have no secrets from you, dear friend ; I owe you the full 
 est and deepest confidence. Such a mistake, you know, I once 
 made, and such a love I think I once knew. That no trace of it 
 now remains does not alter the case. It showed me, at least, of 
 what my heart was capable, and I would never be guilty of offer 
 ing you less than my uttermost. 
 
 I need not remind you of your promise that this should make 
 no difference in the friendship which is my greatest happiness. 
 You are too noble and unselfish for such a possibility to exist. 
 
 Most truly your friend, 
 
 GLADYS AMORY. 
 
 Stephen s reply came at once. The clear, strong 
 handwriting was so like him : 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND: 
 
 I thank you for your confidence. Love comes to us in all 
 ways, whether late or early in life, whether by storm or by gradual 
 revelation matters little so that it be pure and unselfish. I trust 
 that mine is so, and God forbid that it should be the means of 
 your losing any help or support which it has been my blessing and 
 
 privilege to afford you. 
 
 Your friend, 
 
 STEPHEN FORBES.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 
 
 If there be any one can take my place 
 
 And make you happy whom I grieve to grieve, 
 Think not that I can grudge it, but believe 
 I do commend you to that nobler grace, 
 That readier wit than mine, that sweeter face. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 THERE was to be a consultation at Dr. Mar- 
 tyn s hospital, in which Dr. Stephen was 
 senior physician. The case was that of a poor 
 girl whose chance for life depended solely on the 
 success of an operation, so difficult and dangerous 
 that to hazard it seemed almost more than the 
 hair-breadth chance would justify. But Dr. Mar- 
 tyn was very sanguine ; with her, the hope of life 
 seemed to mean everything. 
 
 The group had closed about the bed on which 
 the poor, unconscious form was lying ; the other 
 doctors, young men of more or less experience, 
 had said their word for or against the trial. Ste 
 phen was bending over the pillovf, while the other 
 
 250
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 25! 
 
 men followed his movements with intensity of 
 interest varying according to the temperament of 
 each. Clara fixed her eyes, sparkling with eager 
 ness, on his face, and while the color mounted to 
 her cheek, she watched him as breathlessly as if 
 her life, not that of her poor patient, depended on 
 his fiat. He moved slowly and deliberately, his 
 grave, intent expression losing nothing of its com 
 posure under the eager eyes. Finally, he gave a 
 long, pitiful look at the waxen face, the eyelids 
 sunken and blue-circled in the ether sleep, and 
 straightened himself with an unconscious sigh : 
 "I say, No." 
 
 There was a murmur of voices such as usually 
 follows a breathless pause, but, while Stephen gave 
 his reasons in clear, decided response to the ques 
 tions or remarks of the others, Clara said not a 
 word. She was bitterly disappointed ; the more 
 that she had felt so sure that his counsel would 
 be to try in spite of the fearful odds. It was not 
 until the group about the bed was dispersing that 
 she found voice to say apart to Stephen, 
 
 "May I speak a word with you before you go?" 
 "Certainly ; I will wait for you downstairs." 
 It was some minutes before she was at leisure
 
 252 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 
 
 to follow him into the little room which she called 
 her "den," a tiny sanctum where the busy brain 
 and hands and the much-taxed sympathies occa 
 sionally found a brief lull of repose. In spite of 
 its tininess it was a pretty little nook ; the only 
 spot in the hospital that bore the impress of the 
 woman s individual tastes. Here stood her Daven 
 port desk and her favorite books, and, since Gladys 
 had made the hospital one of her haunts, many 
 little added touches of luxury had crept into it. 
 Curtains of a shade in harmony with the carpet 
 draped the window, an embroidered fire-screen 
 stood in the corner, several fine engravings had 
 made their appearance on the walls, and, as to-day, 
 flowers often adorned the table. 
 
 As Clara crossed the hall and stood at the door, 
 the doctor, looking out of all proportion with his 
 surroundings, was bending over the vase which 
 Gladys had filled that morning with fresh violets. 
 At the sound of her step he turned quickly, and 
 came towards her, holding out his hand. 
 
 " I disappointed you," he said at once, meeting 
 her eyes with his friendly gaze. 
 
 " Yes," said Clara frankly. 
 
 " I am sorry, but, my dear Doctor, it was un
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 2 53 
 
 avoidable. " The girl would almost surely not have 
 lived." 
 
 "She will surely die now," Dr. Martyn replied. 
 " The operation might have given her a bare 
 chance for life." 
 
 " I cannot think we should have been justified 
 in making the trial," said Stephen firmly. 
 
 Clara was silent, but there was a tremulous 
 movement about the corners of her mouth as if 
 something that rose to her lips remained unsaid. 
 
 " You are not satisfied, I see," said Stephen, 
 looking earnestly at her. " What is it, Dr. Martyn ? 
 You usually have confidence in my judgment." 
 
 " I have indeed," said Clara, averting her eyes. 
 
 " Then why not now ? " 
 
 " Do you wish me to say frankly why I am dis* 
 satisfied ? " 
 
 " Surely I do." 
 
 "Then I will tell you," said the little woman, 
 lifting her eyes bravely to the face so far above 
 hers ; " I did not feel that that decision was 
 spoken quite in your usual tone of mind. You 
 were not quite yourself. If you had been, I think 
 you would have agreed with me in taking the risk t 
 though I grant you it was a fearful one."
 
 254 XE W AY OF LOVE. 
 
 " I do not think I quite understand you. In 
 what way am I not myself ? " 
 
 " I think you are putting more of a strain upon 
 yourself than you are able to bear. You think 
 because your shoulders have always carried easily 
 so much of others burdens, that this one added 
 touch will not matter. You do not show it out 
 wardly you think you do not feel it, but but 
 under that pressure, you do not look at things so 
 hopefully and brightly as you used. It is inevi 
 table that it should be so." 
 
 Dr. Stephen made a turn about the tiny room. 
 
 " Can that be true ? " he cried. He stood for a 
 moment looking thoughtfully down at her, then 
 said very quietly, " At least I understand you." 
 
 " And I have not offended you ? " For the first 
 time she failed to meet his eyes with her clear, 
 fearless gaze. He gave her small hand a hearty 
 pressure. 
 
 " That, I think, would be impossible. So far 
 from it that I thank you for your friendly warning. 
 Moreover, I believe you are right." 
 
 " I am sure that I am," she answered* calmly. 
 " What do you propose to do ? " 
 
 " That I cannot tell as yet. For the present I
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 255 
 
 shall keep your admonition in mind. Good-night f " 
 
 " Would you be willing to trust a great deal to 
 me?" said Dr. Martyn, too preoccupied with her 
 own thoughts to heed the good-night. 
 
 " Assuredly I should ! I have no possible rea 
 son for thinking that you are not yourself." He 
 said it smilingly. 
 
 " Oh ! don t jest about it," she cried, as if the 
 tone had given her pain. " Indeed, I was not 
 speaking in that way ! " 
 
 They parted like trusted friends and comrades, 
 but, as the door closed upon Stephen, the little 
 doctor rested her arms on her desk, pillowed her 
 head on her arms, and sat so for a long time, with 
 her face hidden. Could it have been for a woman s 
 reason that, when she did raise her head, her eyes 
 looked less clear and bright than usual ? 
 
 One of the nurses who came to the door, stood 
 looking in at her in surprise for a moment, then 
 stole noiselessly away. 
 
 " The doctor s all struck up about poor Harriet," 
 she confided to one of the other attendants ; " I 
 don t think I ever knew her to feel so bad." 
 
 The next day a note came to Dr. Stephen from 
 Mrs. Amory :
 
 256 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND: 
 
 I wish to ask your advice about a plan which has been proposed 
 to me for the summer. Dr. Martyn has generously offered to go 
 away with me, putting aside her own wish of remaining at the hospi 
 tal. I think it will be better for herself, of course, but it is entirely 
 for my sake that she goes. You will see that this plan quite relieves 
 me from the anxiety of which I spoke to you, and I shall only ask 
 you to recommend to us some quiet mountain place where \ve can 
 be by ourselves, and be sure of finding pure dry air for Amy. 
 
 I am the more glad of this arrangement because it gives me the 
 opportunity of begging you to follow out the plan you had formed 
 for yourself when I selfishly asked you to stay on my account. I 
 am ashamed of myself. I had no right to burden with my cares 
 one who owes so much of his time and thought to others, and who 
 spares so little for himself. Will you forget the request, though 
 not the feeling of deep trust and confidence that prompted it, and 
 forgive your friend, GLADYS AMORY? 
 
 The key to this note was an interview between 
 Mrs. Amory and her friend, Clara Martyn, on the 
 afternoon of the consultation at the hospital. 
 
 She came in hurriedly, as she sometimes did at 
 the close of her busy days, looking so fagged and 
 overworked that Gladys was full of affectionate 
 solicitude in her welcome. 
 
 " No, don t pet me ! " said the little doctor 
 brusquely, turning away her head. " I don t feel 
 amiable this afternoon ! " 
 
 " You may be as unamiable here as you like," 
 said her friend, putting a cushion behind her head, 
 taking off her hat, and passing her cool hand over
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 257 
 
 the tired brow. " It will only confirm me in my 
 belief that you need rest and change. But I for 
 get that that is a sealed subject ! " 
 
 " Would you like to have me go away with you 
 for the summer ? " asked Clara abruptly. 
 
 Gladys opened her eyes in amused surprise. 
 
 " Would I like it ? Is not that the very thing 
 that I have been urging, and you persistently re 
 fusing ? But for the whole summer ! I had not 
 asked so much as that. I could not let you make 
 such a sacrifice of your wishes for me." 
 
 " I could arrange it. An opportunity has offered 
 for leaving my work in efficient hands, and I have 
 other plans for myself in the autumn. No, don t 
 thank me too much ! " as Gladys, disturbed by her 
 unusual manner, knelt beside her chair. " There 
 is no occasion I don t do it wholly on your ac 
 count ! There, don t look at me in that way 
 you are a sweet, beautiful creature, Gladys, but 
 you are as cold as a stone ! " 
 
 " I ? " cried Gladys. Her face had grown quite 
 pale, and she drew back from the arm-chair beside 
 which she still knelt. " What do you mean, Clara ? 
 I scarcely know what to make of you this after 
 noon ! "
 
 258 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 
 
 " You speak of my making sacrifices ! " cried 
 Dr. Martyn, who seemed, indeed, in the rare fit of 
 anger which had so incomprehensibly seized upon 
 her, a wholly different being, "and you surfer 
 others to make them without knowing with 
 out giving it a thought ! " 
 
 The color rushed back in a crimson tide over 
 Gladys pale face. 
 
 " You make strange accusations against me to 
 day," she said very quietly; "of whom are you 
 speaking, Clara ? " 
 
 " What ! " said her friend, still at white heat of 
 passion, " do you not know that Stephen Forbes 
 is staying here solely because you told him that 
 you could not spare him ? " 
 
 "I I told him that I scarcely felt as if I could 
 spare him, certainly. But he said there was now 
 no reason for his going." 
 
 The conscious color had not left Gladys 
 cheek ; her head drooped a little under her friend s 
 indignant eyes. 
 
 "And that is a woman s idea of friendship!" 
 cried Dr. Martyn bitterly. " That is a woman s 
 generosity ! Ah ! I am sometimes ashamed of my 
 sex."
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 259 
 
 " You surely have no cause to be ashamed of 
 me," said Gladys coldly. " I speak frankly, Clara, 
 for you leave me no choice in the matter. If you 
 are upbraiding me because I will not dishonor a 
 noble man by giving him half a heart, I can only 
 say that your reproaches are cruelly unjust. I 
 could act in no other way than I did, and no true 
 friend of his would wish it." 
 
 " And do you suppose I would urge it ? " blazed 
 the little doctor, whose Southern blood was assert 
 ing itself at last, in spite of the discipline of years, 
 and the well-trained calmness of her exterior. 
 " Oh ! it is not that I am upbraiding in you. You 
 do not understand no, you do not even see what 
 is before your very eyes ! Do you not know that 
 for months he has been bearing your trials and 
 anxieties, making them doubly his own because he 
 loves you, and, for your sake^those whom you love, 
 and now when you take from him, as he thinks, 
 all hope, you will still keep him chained to the 
 spot with no chance to recover himself and take 
 up his work again from a fresh point of view ? " 
 
 Gladys was silent, but she had again become 
 pale. 
 
 " You think," pursued her friend, unheeding her
 
 26O ONE WAY OF LOVE. 
 
 face, " that because he does not show it outwardly 
 he does not feel it. Ah ! we who look at him with 
 other eyes can see where he suffers. It weighs 
 upon him professionally, if in no other way. I have 
 seen it already, and others will feel it in spite of 
 every effort on his part. It is that I cannot bear 
 to think of. You have no right to hurt him there ! " 
 
 " Clara, I do not understand you." Gladys voice 
 faltered, and she kept her eyes fixed on the doc 
 tor s excited face. 
 
 "No, you do not understand you have no con 
 ception of a love like that a love that would suffer 
 everything, never thinking of itself, never asking 
 if what it received were an adequate return for 
 what it gave! Oh! there are such noble feelings 
 
 love that asks nothing but the happiness of its 
 object love that suffers only in that other s pain 
 
 love that does not-hold itself worthy 
 
 " Oh, Clara ! " cried Gladys. She had risen from 
 her knees and now threw her arms round her 
 friend, pressing her to her heart. 
 
 " I am over-excited," said Dr. Martyn, making 
 a violent effort to control herself. She spoke in 
 her professional tone, raising her head from Gladys 
 shoulder as she uttered the words and laying her
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE. 26l 
 
 finger on her own pulse. Gladys sat watching her 
 anxiously. For a moment there was such a silence 
 that the ticking of the clock on the mantel became 
 distinctly audible. 
 
 " My dear," said the little doctor presently, in 
 her usual quiet tones, " I am afraid I have made 
 you angry. I beg your pardon I do not often 
 lose control of myself." 
 
 " Angry ? Oh no ! no ! " 
 
 " And now I am going home," said Clara, re 
 turning her friend s embrace with equal warmth. 
 "There is not a word more to be said except 
 that, if you like my proposal, you had better write 
 to Dr. Stephen, tell him of it, and ask him to 
 choose a place among the mountains for us. You 
 will not care to take Amy to the sea." 
 
 The calm, clear-cut, decided face was as com 
 posed as ever, and the excited girl who had poured 
 out her heart in such passionate worcfs a few mo 
 ments before, seemed the creature of a dream. 
 She was so fresh in Gladys memory, however, that 
 the quiet, business-like little note to Dr. Stephen 
 was written with tearful eyes.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 
 
 Let us own, the sharpest smart 
 
 Which human patience may endure 
 
 Pays light for that which leaves the heart 
 More generous, dignified, and pure. 
 
 COVENTRY PATMORE. 
 
 THE place suggested by Dr. Stephen was a 
 large New Hampshire farmhouse, standing 
 some miles distant from one of the little mountain 
 villages, and a delightfully long drive from rail 
 ways and other inroads of civilization. 
 
 " It is not a boarding house, and you will not 
 find Mr. Wheeler and his wife in the least affected 
 by the fever for fleecing summer boarders. I 
 learned to know the place and people as long ago 
 as when I was a medical student on a vacation 
 tramp through the mountains, and it has changed 
 very little since then. The air is elixir, and you 
 will both enjoy it heartily, for neither of you know 
 anything of that phase of life." 
 
 Dr. Stephen spoke with his usual hearty tone, 
 262
 
 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 263 
 
 and pleasant smile, and might have been arranging 
 for the summer of the most indifferent patient on 
 his list. For himself, he was going abroad. 
 
 " I m glad you ve reconsidered that plan," said 
 his father, "and, as you ve filled my place so long, 
 I ll do my best now to rattle round in yours ! " 
 
 Dr. Forbes would have jested on the scaffold, 
 so it is no wonder if his silent anxious observation 
 of his son s feelings none of which had escaped 
 his keen old eyes found relief in a joke. 
 
 The mountain expedition was, indeed, .a delight 
 ful novelty to both. Gladys childhood, spent in 
 foreign travel, and her early married life passed in 
 a conventional summer resort, had prevented her 
 from knowing anything of the rural simplicity of 
 New England life, while to the Southern-bred 
 Clara Martyn the very name of the White Mount 
 ains brought a delightful sense of freshness and 
 exhilaration. Independence was, certainly, not 
 new to her, but the companionship of her own 
 party, and freedom from all professional cares 
 except friendly ones, was something " refreshingly 
 uncommon," as she smilingly remarked when they 
 were seated in the cars. The jaunt, too, seemed 
 to be regarded as an event by the intimate friends
 
 264 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 
 
 of both, for one and another appeared at the station 
 to wish them God speed, or promise to look in 
 upon them in the course of their summer wander 
 ings. 
 
 " Do you know," Madge Boylston remarked 
 thoughtfully to her husband as they drove home 
 from the Eastern depot, " I have a theory about 
 this summer trip of theirs ? " 
 
 " No ; have you ? " said Ned easily, well-schooled 
 by this time in his wife s theories. 
 
 " Yes about Dr. Martyn, I mean. There is 
 some sort of understanding between her and Dr. 
 Stephen, Ned ! I have seen it for a long time. 
 They have both shown it very plainly all winter, 
 but why they don t come together 
 
 " Well ? " said her husband, for here the theorist 
 made a long pause. 
 
 " Ned, did you hear what Dr. Stephen said to 
 her, just as the train was about to start ? " 
 
 " Not I. Did you ? " 
 
 " Why, I couldn t help it as we were all stand 
 ing together by the car window. It was just as 
 they shook hands And may I hope you will 
 he began. Oh, of course I shall ! she interrupted 
 with the greatest energy, and if I should say,
 
 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 265 
 
 Come ? I ll wait for that time, he answered, 
 with a peculiar expression, and just there the train 
 started. Do you mean to say you did not hear 
 that and see the way in which he looked at her?" 
 
 "Not I," said Ned; "I thought that, like most 
 other men, he had eyes for no one but Gladys 
 which seemed to me, under the circumstances, 
 very excusable ! " 
 
 " If I were not Gladys cousin." returned his 
 
 J 
 
 wife in high good-humor, " I should resent that 
 speech ! How blind you men all are ! " 
 
 As the friends left the cars at Plymouth, they 
 were greeted by a fresh breeze, which, in compar 
 ison with the heated atmosphere of the train," 
 seemed like the very breath of life. A three- 
 seated red wagon with a canvas cover, stood in 
 waiting among the many stages and baggage carts, 
 and a sturdy-looking, gray-haired man, with a face 
 tanned almost to the color of leather, and a twinkle 
 in his gray eyes enlivening an otherwise solemn 
 visage, advanced to meet them as they ascended 
 the high steps from the railroad. He glanced from 
 Gladys tall, black-draped figure to the nurse and 
 baby, then, a little doubtfully, at Clara. 
 
 " Is this Mr. Wheeler ? " said Gladys, advancing
 
 266 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 
 
 i 
 
 with a smile, " and have you driven over to meet 
 Mrs. Amory and her party ? " 
 
 "Oh! you re her?" said the gray-haired man, 
 with an air of relief, " I was lookin for 
 
 He murmured something unintelligible, helping 
 the ladies, meanwhile, to mount the high wagon. 
 
 "Take the middle seat, marm, and you ll ride 
 easy. Much baggage ? I ve fetched a cart along." 
 
 " A good deal, but I ll see to that," said Clara, 
 starting down the platform with alacrity, and leav 
 ing Mr. Wheeler still staring, rather helplessly, at 
 the party in the wagon. Trunks, boxes of books 
 or sketching materials, hammocks, rubber bath 
 tub, baby-wagon, and all the attendant parapher 
 nalia of city travellers being promptly bestowed 
 upon the cart, under Clara s energetic superin 
 tendence, Mr. Wheeler gathered up the reins and 
 turned his horses heads homewards. 
 
 High green hills surrounded them on every side, 
 rising into dim blue mountains in the distance ; 
 the yellow road wound up among these hills as far 
 as the eye could see, between green fields, sweet 
 with hay-cocks, or sudden solemn walls of pine- 
 woods breathing out aromatic odors on the sunny 
 road. Now and then they passed a lonely farm-
 
 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 26/ 
 
 house looking out over a grand sweep of upland 
 country, but, except for the passing wagons, whose 
 occupants nodded a friendly " Good-day, Deacon," 
 to their driver, the picturesque solitude seemed 
 unbroken by human life. The horses went on at 
 good speed, tugging bravely up the hills, or grind 
 ing out discordant music from the brake as they 
 dashed down the rare descents, and the friends, 
 revived by the sweet air, began to chat merrily 
 over their summer plans, secretly amused, mean 
 while, by the odd, keen glances of interest which 
 Mr. Wheeler threw over his shoulder at them in 
 the intervals of urging on his horses. Finally, as 
 they were going slowly up a particularly steep hill, 
 he loosened the reins on his knee, and, hitching 
 completely round, said, in a low, confidential tone 
 to Gladys : 
 
 " Where s the doctor ? " 
 
 "Doctor Stephen Forbes?" said Gladys, remem 
 bering the acquaintance. " We left him in Bos 
 ton, just ready to sail for Europe." 
 
 " Oh, him yes ! " said Mr. Wheeler. " I meant 
 the other Dr. Martyn. I expected him along 
 with you." 
 
 "Why, I m Dr, Martyn myself 1" cried Clara.
 
 268 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 
 
 "I want to know !" said the farmer slowly, with 
 a deliberate survey of Clara from head to foot. 
 " Why, I s posed you was I thought you d 
 wear 
 
 "You were not looking for a woman?" said 
 Clara, interposing merrily to relieve the good man s 
 embarrassment. " No wonder, if Dr. Forbes did 
 not tell you." 
 
 "He jes said you was friends of his," replied 
 Mr. Wheeler, "and I thought why, when I saw 
 you fust, I didn t know what to think ! Git up ! " 
 
 His shoulders began slowly to shake, and, under 
 cover of a vigorous thwack on the sides of his 
 horses, he exploded in a loud guffaw, a fit of 
 laughter in which he was heartily joined by the 
 two friends. 
 
 "Wai, I reckon you re smart, anyway!" he ob 
 served, with a final contemplation of Clara. 
 
 The silent enjoyment of the joke lasted until the 
 roof of a square white house, standing under the 
 brow of a range of hills, and flanked by the gables 
 of a huge barn, came in sight. Then he spoke 
 again for the first time. 
 
 "There s the Farm," he said, with a jerk of his 
 whip, and the horses, at the welcome sight, re-
 
 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 269 
 
 doubled their speed, climbing the last ascent 
 eagerly, with outstretched necks and straining 
 muscles. The house was one of those generous, 
 roomy, old-fashioned structures, white-painted and 
 shuttered, with wide, many-windowed fronts sug 
 gesting the square rooms within, that marked the 
 abode of the well-to-do farmer all through New 
 England half a century ago. They are rarer in 
 New Hampshire than in Maine and Massachusetts, 
 the stony soil keeping a tight-fisted grip on the 
 hard-earned dollars, and frowning on all accumula 
 tion of wealth, whether in crops or capital. But 
 this old homestead seemed to have been reared in 
 a favored spot ; the pastures about it were smil 
 ingly green, with only a scanty sprinkling of the 
 native rock, while the ploughed fields showed a 
 richer soil than they had yet passed in their drive. 
 On the rising slope behind stood clumps of sugar- 
 maples, and dark pine-woods shut in the enclosure 
 on either side. Only one house, a farm of more 
 modest pretensions, was in sight. 
 
 The green painted door stood open, showing a 
 wide, low-ceiled hall running through the house, 
 and on the broad stone step stood Mrs. Wheeler, 
 and her daughter, a shy, pretty country girl of rosy-
 
 27O A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 
 
 cheeked eighteen. The former was of the lank, 
 sallow type common among New England farmers 
 wives ; she spoke in a plaintive monotone, some 
 what amusingly in contrast with her rapid move 
 ments and the volubility of her utterance, as she 
 welcomed them with awkward kindliness. 
 
 "Well, I never!" she ejaculated, in response to 
 her husband s introduction of Dr. Martyn, " I never 
 thought but you was an old college chum of our 
 young doctor it comes sort of natural to call him 
 so yet, though he s gettin well along now. He 
 never said nothin to show, and I s posed you come 
 along with Mrs. Amory to look after the little girl, 
 who was sort of ailin , he said. Thinks I, it ll be 
 handy to have him in the house if Zekle should 
 have a rheumaticky turn, or if I should be laid up 
 with one of my sufferin spells and I never asked 
 a question ! " 
 
 Clara suggested that, in spite of her sex, she 
 might be useful in these emergencies. 
 
 "Well, I declare, I don t know why not and so 
 that is the little girl ? Pretty dear ! she doesn t 
 look very rugged. The mother is as handsome as 
 a pictur is it long since she buried her hus 
 band?" this in a confidential aside to Clara, as
 
 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 2/1 
 
 they ascended the broad, low-stepped staircase to 
 their rooms. A hair-cloth sofa stood on the land 
 ing, and on either side were great square, sunny 
 rooms, with high, black wooden mantels, and many- 
 paned windows, letting in a glorious view of the 
 wide, billowy landscape, and the blue range beyond. 
 
 "Yes; it is a pretty country," said Mrs. Wheeler, 
 throwing the shutters wide open and looking out 
 complacently on their broad acres. " Some folks 
 say the Lord has prospered us beyond our neigh 
 bors. The farm does lie in a rich streak of land, 
 I know, but that isn t all there is to it. Some of 
 our own folks has farms right alongside Zekle s 
 brother Charles, in that yeller house you passed on 
 the road but they never made out to get along 
 very well ! " She threw a sharp glance at her 
 daughter who stood bashfully in the corner, and 
 paused for breath. 
 
 "You have known Doctor Stephen Forbes along 
 time, I believe?" said Gladys, with the winning 
 sweetness of tone that never failed to captivate all 
 who came near her. " He spoke of you all very 
 warmly, and said he was here years ago." 
 
 " Oh, he ! " said Mrs. Wheeler, with a short 
 laugh, expressive of unspeakable appreciation
 
 2/2 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 
 
 " Yes, he came here fust, years ago. He was 
 walkin through the mountains with a lot of young 
 doctors he wasn t so fleshy then to look at as he 
 is now. He stopped here for a fortnight, and it 
 seemed as if he couldn t make enough of the place. 
 Know him ! Oh ! we re not likely to forget him 
 here, I tell you, though we don t see him very 
 often. He don t seem to change much between 
 whiles, though, if he does look older." 
 
 "Then he has been here lately?" 
 
 " Bless you, only last week ! He fetched a lot 
 of rugs and things ; " Mrs. Wheeler indicated the 
 Turkey rugs spread here and there over the straw 
 matting which Gladys had already noticed with 
 wondering eyes. " I s pose he wanted to make it 
 look kind of homelike to you city folks, and thinks 
 I they must be partickler friends ! Well, Dr. 
 Stephen, says I, I ll do my very best by em, as 
 I would by any friends of yours, and they must 
 take us as they find us. We re plain folks, but 
 we re hearty, and I hope they ll feel to home. 
 But here I am talkin you to death, and you fit to 
 drop, I daresay ! " And the good dame bustled 
 downstairs, carrying the pretty Nancy in her train. 
 
 " Why, you didn t suppose these were indig-
 
 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 2/3 
 
 enous to New Hampshire soil, did you?" said 
 Clara, pointing to the rugs, as their hostess closed 
 the door. " I noticed them the moment we came 
 in, and, when I spied those books, I had no further 
 doubts as to the source from which they came." 
 She pointed to a little what-not in the corner, 
 covered with books in suspiciously new bindings. 
 Gladys bent to examine them, opening at the fly 
 leaf of the first she took up, on which " Stephen 
 Forbes" was written in the well-known hand: 
 Fronde s "Carlyle," Emerson s "Nature," Miss 
 Woolson s " Anne," Mrs. Browning, the last " No 
 Name " novel, Longfellow, Philip Gilbert Hamer- 
 ton s " Painter s Camp." 
 
 " Just the books, old and new, that we have left 
 out of our box of summer reading," commented 
 Clara, "and a pretty good selection for a busy 
 doctor ! What a treat I shall have here in lazy 
 reading ! Well, Gladys, I will leave you and Amy 
 to your toilette and go to my own quarters across 
 the hall. Isn t it a charming old country abode ? " 
 
 Downstairs it seemed quite as attractive to the 
 city-bred eyes. There was a homely " settin -room," 
 as Mrs. Wheeler termed it, on one side of the 
 front door, the great open fireplace full of sugges-
 
 2/4 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 
 
 tions of winter comfort. Hardy flowers peeped in 
 at the windows, and a tall old-fashioned clock 
 ticked away the sunny hours in the corner. Out 
 of it opened the great kitchen, with heavy rafters 
 overhead, dresser and corner cupboards, and the 
 brick oven before which Mrs. Wheeler seemed to 
 be forever officiating as priestess. The little par 
 lor on the other side of the hall was less attractive, 
 as it contained the family aspirations in the direc 
 tion of modern furniture,- a Brussels carpet, a 
 parlor organ and a Franklin stove. Then came 
 the dining-room, consecrated to the use of the 
 guests, and beyond a cool perspective of milk-room 
 and pantry with yellow-painted floors. Outside, a 
 little vine-wreathed " stoop " afforded a snug re 
 treat for hammocks or lounging chairs, and an en 
 chanting peep of the far-away snow-capped mount 
 ains closed the view. 
 
 " We were a large family once," said Mrs. 
 Wheeler, as she displayed her household gods. 
 " I ve raised seven children, but they re all scat 
 tered now married, or one thing and another, so 
 there s no one left but father and Nancy and me. 
 George and James are in Vermont, stock-raising, 
 and nothin would do for Ben but goin out West.
 
 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 2/5 
 
 Cerinthy and Susan are married, and Ezra well, 
 he s to Brunswick at college. You tell em about 
 Ezra, father." 
 
 " He always was a great hand for books," began 
 Mr. Wheeler, in the slow ponderous tones which 
 contrasted amusingly with his wife s rapid utter 
 ance, " ever since he was that high. I remember 
 when Dr. Stephen fust came here on his student 
 tramp ; the little fellow set there in the corner on 
 the settle, porin away over somethin he d got 
 hold of, and never stirred when the other boys got 
 round to hear the gentlemen talk. Presently the 
 doctor went up to him and put his hand on his 
 shoulder and asked, in that hearty fashion of his 
 jes as he speaks now What book have you 
 there, my boy? Plutarch s Lives, sir, says 
 Ezra, never lookin up, and it s jes splendid! 
 There warn t any very good schoolin for the boys 
 then, without they quit home altogether, and I 
 couldn t spare em off the farm for that. But Dr. 
 Stephen took such a fancy to Ezra while he was 
 here, questionin him about his studies and that, 
 that he persuaded me to let him go to Concord 
 and board with a sister of wife s, so as he could 
 attend school there. Well, he stayed there a good
 
 276 A BREATH OF MOUNTAIN AIR. 
 
 long spell, and the doctor, he kep up his interest 
 in the boy fust and last, writin to him and advisin 
 him about books. By- n-by Ezra got to teachin 
 himself, and stuck to it till the fust thing I knew 
 he told me he was goin to college ! I hadn t a 
 word to say ag in it Ezra d hoed his own row 
 right along, though I donno as he d have got the 
 fust start if it hadn t been for the young doctor. 
 Ses he, I do believe in a boy follerin out his own 
 tastes, ses he, and most of us needs a little push 
 to start off with. He s shouldered up Ezra all 
 through, and it wouldn t be any great of a surprise 
 to me if I saw the lad a Bowdoin professor before 
 I died ! He s the stuff they make em of. Oh 
 yes, marm, you ve come to the right place to hear 
 about the young doctor if he s a friend of yourn 
 no mistake about that ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 NANCY S ROMANCE. 
 
 Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
 Admit impediments. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 THAT was an idyllic summer to the two 
 friends. Their simple life at the farm did 
 not furnish much material for correspondence, cer 
 tainly, but there was the charm of unrestraint and 
 novelty to them both, while everything seemed to 
 have the flavor of the bracing mountain air. They 
 rambled in the fields and sat in the pine groves ; 
 took long country walks and returned with mar 
 vellous appetites for Mrs. Wheeler s unrivalled 
 cookery ; drove off with the old farmer on mount 
 ain excursions in uncompromising buckboards and 
 returned, well -jolted, but in buoyant spirits. 
 Gladys lost her look of sadness, and Dr. Martyn 
 her care-worn expression, while little Amy began 
 to grow as sturdy, brown and rosy as the tow- 
 headed youngsters they passed on the road. "And 
 
 277
 
 278 NANCY S ROMANCE. 
 
 so peaked as she looked when you come ! " Mrs. 
 Wheeler would ejaculate admiringly. " I don t be 
 lieve she ll need no great physickin after all, 
 Doctor ! " 
 
 Clara had quite established her professional 
 claim in the eyes of her hosts now, despite the 
 disappointment in her sex. "Opportunity," as she 
 said, "had favored her." One July day as they 
 sat in the "stoop," Clara reading aloud, Gladys 
 embroidering from a bunch of wild flowers resting 
 on the piazza rail in front of her, " She does drop 
 the buttercups and daisies on the cloth so life-like 
 you might almost pull em," as Mrs. Wheeler re 
 marked a voice called from the kitchen, 
 
 " Doctor, would you jes step this way a minute ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Wheeler, I ll come." 
 
 There was something in the sturdy voice that 
 sounded to Clara s practised ear a little weak and 
 faint. Gladys, absorbed in her work, did not no 
 tice it. 
 
 The old farmer sat in the corner of the kitchen 
 settle, as he had come in from the hay-field, his 
 shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his broad- 
 brimmed hat over his eyes. With one hand he was 
 supporting his left wrist, across which was a fright-
 
 NANCY S ROMANCE. 2/9 
 
 ful gash. The blood gushed from the wound in a 
 quick, hot stream, and the ruddy tan cheeks were 
 white and livid. 
 
 " I donno as you ll make out," he said, holding 
 out the wrist to her with a pale smile. "It s a 
 kind of dangerous place to cut. How I managed 
 to do it with my scythe I couldn t tell you, but the 
 fust thing I knew well, wife s out, and Nancy s 
 upstairs, and I m glad of it, too. Ses I, it s lucky 
 we have a doctor on hand -do you think you can 
 kind o splice it ? " He looked at Clara a little doubt 
 fully under his bushy gray eyebrows, as if half ex 
 pecting her to turn faint or scream, woman-fashion. 
 
 But she was equal to the emergency. She 
 stepped to the foot of the stairs, called softly to 
 Nancy to bring her the green leather case on the 
 table, held the wounded wrist in her firm, gentle 
 grasp till the girl arrived, checked the terrified 
 exclamation on her lips with one reassuring look, 
 and a quiet " Give me some hot water from that 
 kettle, please, Nancy;" adjusted the ligatures with 
 quick, dexterous movements of her small hands, 
 and bandaged the arm with linen from Mrs. 
 Wheeler s stores, never once changing color dur 
 ing the process.
 
 280 NANCY S ROMANCE. 
 
 "Wai, I vum ! " said the old farmer who had 
 watched her, throughout, with jaws grimly set in 
 pain, but with so keen an interest in the operation 
 that it acted like an antidote. " I reckon you 
 know your trade, after all ! I never see any wo 
 man handier n you air, nor yet any feller with 
 more grit!" And, with this tribute to Clara s 
 skill feebly uttered, the sturdy old man fainted 
 away for the first and only time in his life. 
 
 " This is the sort of thing that makes me wish 
 women had more muscular strength," said Clara, 
 regarding him ruefully. "Which way are the men 
 mowing, Nancy ? I must leave you with your 
 father and call one of them to help us." 
 
 "They re away down in the far lot, but I ll call 
 Cousin Charley he s nearer," said Nancy, blush 
 ing. 
 
 The summons produced a tall, broad-shouldered 
 young fellow, blue-eyed and fair-haired, with whose 
 aid the old farmer was transported to his room 
 where he remained a close prisoner, sorely against 
 his will, all through haying time. 
 
 This was the first appearance on the scene of 
 Cousin Charley, otherwise Charles Wheeler, 
 junior, the eldest son of Mr. Wheeler s unthrifty
 
 NANCY S ROMANCE. 281 
 
 brother, and, as the summer boarders were not 
 long in discovering, an unwelcome suitor of pretty 
 Nancy s. 
 
 The country damsel had an intense admiration 
 for Gladys, whose graceful beauty always attracted 
 young girls. She brought her little offerings of 
 flowers or ferns, watched her, spell-bound, as she 
 drew or embroidered, expressed by her devotion 
 to Amy what she was too shy to show to her 
 mother, and was overwhelmed with gratitude when 
 Mrs. Amory offered to teach her some bit of fancy- 
 work, or asked for the recipe of some particularly 
 successful dish. 
 
 One evening, Gladys was sitting alone in the 
 moonlight on the little piazza. She was musing 
 very deeply over something, and a half-sad, half- 
 wistful expression was fast settling on her face, 
 when a low murmur of voices behind her roused 
 her from her reverie. They came through the 
 window of the milk-room where Nancy was often 
 busy at that hour, and, thinking Clara might be 
 with her, Gladys went in too, glad to escape from 
 her own thoughts. But Dr. Martyn was not there ; 
 a young man stood leaning against the wall beside 
 Nancy s table covered with milk pans.
 
 282 NANCY S ROMANCE. 
 
 " Come in, marm," he said, as Gladys drew back, 
 "I m going. Well, good-by, then, Nancy." 
 
 He spoke in a short, half-defiant tone, scarcely 
 looking at the girl, bowed somewhat bashfully to 
 Gladys, and turned away from the door. 
 
 " Oh ! he s gone, " cried Nancy distressfully. 
 " He s gone away vexed with me ! Oh Mrs. 
 Amory ! what shall I do ? " She dropped down 
 on the stool beside the milk-pans, buried her face 
 in her apron and began to sob. 
 
 "What is the matter?" said Gladys, laying her 
 hand kindly on the heaving young shoulder. "Tell 
 me all about it ! That was your Cousin Charles, 
 was it not ? Why is he angry with you ? " 
 
 " He s no cause, I m sure," said Nancy, between 
 the sobs. "He knows I d never he knows it s 
 the same as a promise he oughtn t to look for 
 that when father and mother " 
 
 It was hard to make out the story through the 
 tearful gasps, so Gladys stroked the bright young 
 head soothingly, sat down beside the girl with an 
 arm around her waist, and waited patiently till 
 Nancy should be moved to bestow her confidence. 
 Nothing could have had a more potent charm than 
 Mrs. Amory s caresses, and the weeping maiden
 
 NANCY S ROMANCE. 283 
 
 was soon ready enough to pour out her tale to her 
 sympathizing ears. 
 
 " He s called me his little wife ever since I could 
 speak plain," said Nancy bashfully, " but since we 
 began to grow up, father and mother have shown 
 him pretty plain that they didn t like it. It isn t 
 that they ve anything against Charley himself, but 
 Uncle Charles and Aunt Jane aren t a bit fore 
 handed, and father says Charley ll turn out a chip 
 of the old block. It ain t right to say so, for 
 Charley s never had a chance to show out yet, and 
 things at Uncle Charles are so shif less there s 
 no use tryin . But Charley s kind of proud, and 
 he and father ain t very soft-spoken to each other. 
 Now the younger boys have grown up enough to 
 work on the farm, and Cousin Charley says he s 
 goin off out West to try his luck for himself. 
 Ben my brother Ben out in Colorado has a 
 ranch, and he s sent for him they were always 
 great friends so Charley s goin . And, seein 
 it s so far and he to be gone so long, it seems nat 
 ural, I s pose, to ask for a promise. I told him I 
 couldn t give that exactly, but he might know it 
 was just the same. He said "here Nancy s 
 tears broke out afresh.
 
 284 NANCY S ROMANCE. 
 
 "And he said ?" repeated Gladys. 
 
 " That I didn t know how a feller felt goin off 
 so far with a kind of a drag at his heart all the 
 time, thinkin that, while he was workin for us 
 both, some one else might step in and take his 
 chance. Of course that s ridicklous Charley 
 knows as well as I do that I wouldn t look at any 
 body else, even if there was anybody in this lone 
 some place to look at !"- here, for a moment, Nancy 
 smiled through her tears, "but men are different, 
 I s pose, and nothin else will suit Charley but a 
 reg lar promise. I darsn t give it and make father 
 angry with us both, and, if I speak about it, he s 
 that set in his way that it ll make him all the 
 harder against Charley. But, oh ! Mrs. Amory, 
 won t you speak for me? father and mother both 
 just think the world of you." 
 
 " I will, certainly, Nancy, if you will tell me 
 what to say." Gladys drew the girl nearer to her, 
 touched by the self-forgetful earnestness of the 
 round, rosy young face. 
 
 "Tell them," whispered Nancy, her head droop 
 ing a little, "that promise or no promise don t 
 make any real odds. That my heart is Charley s 
 now just as much as if we were standin up before
 
 NANCY S ROMANCE. 285 
 
 the minister this minute, and if father could wish 
 me to say Yes to any other feller with such a feel- 
 in as that in my heart, he ain t the man I thought 
 him! tell him oh, Mrs. Amory ! " the blushes 
 overspread Nancy s face and neck, "don t ask me 
 to say any more. If you know what love is and 
 of course you do just put it into words for me 
 better than I can do it ! " 
 
 She turned away her face, and Gladys felt the 
 color mounting in her own cheeks. 
 
 " And you are so sure you love him, Nancy ? " 
 she asked, with a gentle caress. 
 
 Nancy turned her eyes for a moment on the 
 questioner, but the look was enough, and Gladys 
 needed no other answer. 
 
 That evening, when the girl had gone upstairs, 
 Gladys went into the kitchen where the old couple 
 spent their evenings unless especially invited to 
 join their boarders. It was a pleasant place for 
 any one ; the wood-fire still smouldered on the 
 hearth with a reluctant brightness, as if loath to 
 leave the cheery kitchen in darkness. Little danc 
 ing reflections twinkled in every dish on the dress 
 er, gleamed back from the polished table, and from 
 Mrs. Wheeler s bright knitting-needles, and lighted
 
 286 NANCY S ROMANCE. 
 
 up the old farmer s rugged face as he sat in the 
 chimney-corner, ruminating over his pipe. He 
 rose as they entered, knocking out the ashes, and 
 Mrs. Wheeler hastened to dust two already spot 
 less chairs. 
 
 " But won t you set in the other room ? Zekle s 
 pipe is a little strong here, maybe." 
 
 " Never mind the pipe ; let us sit here, Mrs. 
 Wheeler. It is a pleasure to be in your kitchen 
 once in a while, and I have a word to say to you 
 and Mr. Wheeler." 
 
 " I hope everythin s satisfactory to you, marm, 
 and the doctor?" began their host, still on his feet. 
 
 "Yes, indeed, we are thoroughly happy and com 
 fortable. But sit down, Mr. Wheeler, I want to 
 say a word about Nancy. She has been telling me 
 a little to-night of her own affairs." 
 
 " Nancy s too free with her tongue," said her 
 mother. "You d ought to tell her so." 
 
 " She only answered my questions, and you know 
 I am very much interested in your pretty daughter." 
 
 The mother looked gratified, and even the iron- 
 gray eyebrows smoothed a little. 
 
 "She tells me," began Gladys, and Nancy s 
 little love-confession was repeated in more silvery
 
 NANCY S ROMANCE. 287 
 
 accents, and more graceful words, perhaps, but cer 
 tainly in no more convincing rhetoric than the girl 
 herself had employed. 
 
 " I know you want to do the best you can for 
 your daughter," Gladys concluded, while the old 
 couple listened in silence. " I know you fear that 
 this young man may not give her as comfortable a 
 home as she has here with you, but you know one 
 cannot choose for one s children. I am sure you 
 have no fault to find with the young man himself 
 remember you have never given him a fair trial 
 yet, and you would wish to do that, surely?" 
 
 " I s pose every one d ought to have that," the 
 old farmer acceded, a tittle reluctantly. 
 
 "And if he is to have it now just look back 
 on your own youth and tell me, Mr. Wheeler if 
 he is to have it, ought he to go off with that drag 
 at his heart ? " Gladys unconsciously repeated Nan 
 cy s expression, " that uncertainty whether or not 
 he is to work with the feeling that it is for her ? " 
 
 "Wai, no, marm, perhaps not, if he is to start 
 fair. Nor yet I hain t got nothin agen Charley 
 himself, as you say. But, like father, like son, 
 you know, and I d be sorry to see my girl in a 
 house like Jane s."
 
 288 NANCY S ROMANCE. 
 
 " Besides the spur you will give him by your 
 trust," said Gladys, pursuing the advantage, "he 
 will have your son Ken to steady and encourage 
 him. He has done well ? " 
 
 "Yes, Ben s smart," said the father, softening. 
 " He s steady and he s sure." 
 
 " Then you will talk it over with the young 
 couple and let your nephew speak for himself?" 
 said Gladys, rising, and looking at the old man 
 with her most persuasive smile. " I see you 
 know, as well as I do, that Nancy will never think 
 of any one else ! " 
 
 " I reckon you re about right there, marm," 
 he assented, with a grim smile ; " Nancy s soft- 
 spoken, but she s sot. Wai, seein it s you and 
 the doctor, I ll sleep on it, and see what the boy 
 has to say for himself in the mornin ." 
 
 " And we re much obliged to you, Mrs. Amory," 
 Mrs. Wheeler hastened to add, in her plaintive 
 monotone, evidently relieved by the loophole of 
 happiness thus left open for Nancy. 
 
 They took their lamps from the shelf in the hall, 
 and went- slowly upstairs to their rooms. 
 
 " Oh Gladys ! " said Clara, laying her hand on 
 her friend s shoulder as they paused a moment on
 
 NANCY S ROMANCE. 289 
 
 the landing to say good-night. There was a whole 
 volume, unsaid, in her tone. 
 
 A lovely shell-like pink stole over Gladys fair 
 cheek. 
 
 " Don t be too ready to judge harshly, Clara," 
 she said gently, in reply to the unspoken reproach. 
 
 "Ah! you do understand," Clara said, half to 
 herself, as she closed her door. A thought came 
 across her of Stephen s blunt, half-boyish protest 
 against the "fair divided excellence," with whom 
 as she had hoped for his " completing," he might 
 yet meet. 
 
 " I must tell her that, too," she said, and though 
 she smiled, the tears rose in her eyes.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 SURPRISED. 
 
 It comes, the beautiful, the free, 
 The crown of all humanity. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 MORE than one letter had been exchanged 
 between the two doctors since their part 
 ing. Several times Gladys had seen an envelope 
 addressed to " Dr. C. Martyn," in the firm, clear- 
 cut characters, and had asked, in a somewhat 
 studiously careless tone, if there were any news 
 from Dr. Stephen. 
 
 " Chiefly professional news," Clara would reply, 
 or, a day or two later, " I am writing to Dr. 
 Stephen, Gladys ; shall I say anything for you ? " 
 
 "Tell him about Amy, you know, and say how 
 happy I am in the change and thank him, of 
 course, for suggesting the place." 
 
 " Oh yes ! I shall say all that, of course." 
 
 One day in late August, when the ferns were 
 beginning to show straw-colored fronds here and 
 there among the green, and Amy, pattering about 
 on her own sturdy little feet, to shout with glee 
 
 290
 
 SURPRISED. 291 
 
 over the bright red berries on the partridge vines, 
 the two friends were sitting together in the pine- 
 grove with books and work. It was a lovely sun 
 shiny day, summer sunshine still, though a gay 
 branch here and there among the maples reminded 
 one that summer was over. A breeze, just dashed 
 with the breath of autumn, rustled the pines over 
 their heads now and then, or wafted a bright leaf 
 to their feet. 
 
 " Ah ! summer is over," said Gladys. " We must 
 be going soon." 
 
 " No, not yet," said Clara, almost pleadingly. 
 " I am like a schoolgirl who can t bear the thought 
 of having holidays over ! This has been a lovely 
 time to us both." 
 
 " Yes," said her friend warmly, " I should hardly 
 know how to get on without you now, I believe. 
 It is well you are so near me in Boston, though the 
 hospital is a formidable rival." 
 
 " Oh, if that were all ! " And Clara sighed. 
 
 " What more is there ? There is to be no other 
 change ? " 
 
 " None that I am ready to talk of, yet. But you 
 remember I said I had other plans for the autumn." 
 
 " I suppose I know what you mean," said Gladys
 
 SURPRISED. 
 
 sorrowfully. " Oh, Clara ! do you really think it 
 is your duty to go ? " 
 
 " My wish, you mean," said the little doctor 
 firmly. "Yes, I really do but we will not talk 
 of it now, nor do I wish to go yet, unless you are 
 homesick. Stay till October indeed, I really 
 wish it." 
 
 "Then I do as well." 
 
 " By the way," said Clara suddenly, as she 
 took up the book she had dropped, " I did not tell 
 you, did I, that Dr. Stephen sails on the eighteenth 
 of September? " 
 
 " No," said Gladys, with a slight start. " Indeed, 
 I thought he had no idea of coming at present." 
 
 "The time was uncertain when he left home," 
 replied Clara, without looking up. 
 
 She turned over the leaves of the volume she 
 held, a little collection of poems which they had 
 found among the books in Gladys chamber. 
 
 " This is a little thing of H. H. s, " she said, and 
 began to read 
 
 " Oh Love is weak 
 
 Which counts the answers and the gains, 
 Weighs all the losses and the pains, 
 And eagerly each fond word drains 
 
 A joy to seek.
 
 SURPRISED. 293 
 
 " When Love is strong, 
 It never tarries to take heed, 
 Or know if its return exceed 
 Its gift ; in its sweet haste no greed, 
 
 No strifes belong. 
 
 " It hardly asks 
 If it be loved at all ; to take 
 So barren seems, when it can make 
 Such bliss, for the beloved sake, 
 
 Of bitter tasks. 
 
 " Its ecstasy 
 
 Could find hard death so beauteous, 
 It sees through tears how Christ loved us, 
 And speaks, in saying I love thus, 
 
 No blasphemy. 
 
 
 
 " So much we miss 
 If love is weak, so much we gain 
 If love is strong " 
 
 Here a white hand was laid on the page. "Don t 
 read that, Clara ! " said Gladys, and, looking up, 
 Dr. Martyn saw that the tears had risen in her 
 eyes. " It reminds me no, no more poetry, 
 please ! I believe I am not in the vein to-day." 
 
 They went in soon after, and Clara, sitting down 
 at her desk, read over a letter which she had writ 
 ten to England. She read it with a thoughtful 
 face, looked up at her friend musingly, then added 
 one word to what she had already written. It was : 
 "Come!"
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 "LOVE S FULFILLING." 
 
 If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
 Except for love s sake only. 
 
 MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 A WILD little stream dashed down from the 
 hills a mile from the house, its brown waters 
 foaming and turning white as it leaped through the 
 rocky channel. A dusty little wood-path, turning 
 off from the road, led up to a saw-mill, standing 
 on the bank, while all about the cleared space in 
 the woods, lay piles of fragrant, newly-sawn boards, 
 drying in the sunshine. The rocks just below the 
 dam were a favorite haunt of the friends, for there 
 was a charming peep up the stream of the deep 
 silent dam overhung with cool green shade from 
 the birches, the foaming cascade below, and far up 
 the hills, thick woods, divided by the silver thread 
 of the merry little rivulet. 
 
 Here Gladys was sitting, a few days before their 
 departure, finishing a sketch which she had begun 
 
 294
 
 "LOVES FULFILLING. 2Q5 
 
 in the summer. Dr. Martyn had driven some miles 
 farther on, with the old farmer, to see a sick child, 
 and, except for the whir of the mill, and the dis 
 tant prattle of little Amy hunting for wood treas 
 ures with her nurse, she was sitting in unbroken 
 solitude. 
 
 " Don t be in any hurry to come back for us ! " 
 she called, as the wagon started. " The foliage is 
 so different since we were here that I shall find 
 enough to do. It will be like a new sketch." 
 
 An hour might have passed, but Gladys pencil 
 was still busy, when a man s step crackling on the 
 underbrush, and the merry little ripple of Amy s 
 talk in glad outpouring to a new-comer, roused her 
 from her work. 
 
 " What, back already ! " she exclaimed, without 
 turning round. " I am not half ready for you ! " 
 
 " I hoped I had not come too soon," said the 
 voice in reply, but the tones were very different 
 from Mr. Wheeler s. She turned quickly, starting 
 to her feet with the suddenness of the surprise as 
 Stephen Forbes came from the woods behind her. 
 The glad color rushed to her cheeks, fading away 
 as quickly, and the hand which she held out to him 
 slightly trembled.
 
 296 "LOVE S FULFILLING." 
 
 Stephen stood looking down at her for a moment, 
 while he held her hand in his. 
 
 " I have startled you. I should not have come 
 upon you so suddenly, but they told me you were 
 all here, and I came on at once." 
 
 He spoke in his usual quiet, pleasant tones, but 
 a happy light shone out from the eyes that looked 
 at her so earnestly. 
 
 " We did not know you were coming here, though 
 Dr. Martyn told me you had sailed. Or," the color 
 mounting again to her cheek as she saw the ex 
 pression of his face, " or did she know of it? " 
 
 " I do not think it will surprise her to find me 
 here," said Stephen quietly. He sat down with 
 her on the fallen log from which she had started at 
 his coming, looking in her radiantly beautiful face 
 with the protecting tenderness that could not fail 
 to calm all flutter of the nerves. But, oh ! not for 
 worlds would he have missed the involuntary revela 
 tion of that slight tremor ! 
 
 They were sitting side by side, talking in quiet, 
 friendly fashion when the old farmer drove up with 
 Clara, and, whether the meeting were unlooked-for 
 or not, nothing could have been heartier than the 
 greeting on all sides.
 
 "LOVES FULFILLING. 2Q7 
 
 Mr. Wheeler eyed them in his ruminating fash 
 ion as they returned through the woods to the 
 roadside where Stephen had left his buggy. 
 
 " I ll take Mrs. Amory and the nurse in the 
 wagon," said the old farmer eagerly, and with an 
 indescribable twinkle of his eyes towards Gladys, 
 "if you two doctors will jes drive along ahead." 
 Then, as the dusty buggy-top bobbed up and down 
 the road in front of them, the good man turned 
 ponderously towards Mrs. Amory, and said, with a 
 slow smile overspreading his tanned visage, " Now 
 I want to know ! I never had the fust idee ! " 
 
 It was a pleasant evening : the simple country 
 people with their hearty welcome of the treasured 
 guest, Stephen with his easy, kindly adaptation to 
 all sides of human nature, Clara, with unwonted 
 animation of talk and repartee, made a lively at 
 mosphere. Gladys was very silent, but there was 
 a happy brightness in her eyes which quite covered 
 the lack of words. 
 
 " How you do notice everything Doctor ! " Mrs. 
 Wheeler remarked when the others had gone up 
 stairs, and Stephen asked in his hearty, friendly 
 fashion if he should congratulate Nancy. "What 
 ever made you think she was engaged ? "
 
 298 "LOVE S FULFILLING." 
 
 "Oh! I don t know," with a smile. "You know 
 we doctors get in the habit of noticing little things, 
 and, when I was here last, I happened to observe 
 well, to spare Miss Nancy s blushes, I will only 
 say that I thought matters had taken a more favor 
 able turn since then." 
 
 " To think of you re bein a bachelor, and takin 
 notice of such things ! " remarked Mrs. Wheeler, 
 with uplifted eyes. " Not that Nancy d be en 
 gaged now if it hadn t been for Mrs. Amory. She 
 took a fancy to the girl and spoke a word for 
 Charley that went right to father s heart. She 
 seemed to know just what a hankerin feelin that 
 poor feller was carryin away with him. Well, I 
 suppose enough men have been in love with her, 
 poor souls ! but it s odd to me that she should 
 know just how they felt about it." 
 
 The doctor smiled, but said nothing. It was, 
 perhaps, in consequence of Mr. Wheeler s surpris 
 ingly shrewd discovery and the confidence made 
 thereupon to his wife, that, on the next morning, 
 the little household seemed to have pressing affairs 
 demanding their presence anywhere rather than on 
 the porch where the doctor sat in the hammock 
 talking; to Clara. Mrs. Wheeler shut herself into
 
 "LOVE S FULFILLING." 299 
 
 the remote regions of the dairy, calling loudly for 
 Nancy s aid ; her husband, after fidgeting nervously 
 about the farm-yard and eying Gladys, who stood 
 at a window dangerously near the professional pair, 
 holding her little girl on the sill, drew near and 
 bashfully asked if he might show her that clump 
 of maples where he got his finest sugar. 
 
 "Maybe they re not much to look at," he ob 
 served, his anxious face growing radiant with relief 
 as Gladys assented, and, taking the child by the 
 hand, followed him up the slope, " but there s a 
 purty view from the hill, and I mightn t think of 
 it agen before you go I donno as I ever did think 
 of it before, either." 
 
 Then, as they were now out of hearing from the 
 house, he added, lowering his voice to a gruff, con 
 fidential whisper, " I hope I didn t put you out, 
 marm ? I reckoned the two doctors d find enough 
 to say till you come back." 
 
 Gladys smiled, amused by the old man s sly ex 
 pression. " No, I am glad to go, Mr. Wheeler. I 
 should be sorry to miss any of the pretty spots 
 here, for I shall always look back on our summer 
 in this place as one of the happiest of my life." 
 
 " We ll be proud to see you back any time you
 
 3QO "LOVE S FULFILLING." 
 
 and the doctor, both," said Mr. Wheeler heartily. 
 " And, as for Nancy, she d give her eyes to hear 
 you say you d come next summer." 
 
 " It is hard to make plans so long beforehand," 
 replied Gladys. " There may be many changes for 
 us all before that time." 
 
 " Wai, yes, that s so," said the old farmer, with 
 a chuckle and a glance at the piazza., "and some 
 of em isn t hard to see comin ." 
 
 The outlook proved so pretty that Gladys lin 
 gered there with little Amy after Mr. Wheeler, 
 delighted with the success of his strategy, had 
 gone back to the farm-yard. The trees, fast-thin 
 ning as they were, hid the house from sight, but 
 there was a lovely view of the intervale on the 
 other side of the road, and a soft blue mist lying 
 low on the mountains. The squirrels ran fear 
 lessly up and down the trees about her, or darted 
 across the green moss carpet under her feet, and 
 the shrill tap of the woodpecker resounded through 
 the grove. There was a depth of quiet happiness 
 in Gladys heart that made the intense solitude 
 grateful. She stooped and lifted her little girl in 
 her arms, covering her dimpled cheeks with kisses. 
 "Darling," she said, "would you be happy, too ?"
 
 "LOVES FULFILLING. 3OI 
 
 A voice beside her broke the stillness, but this 
 time she did not start, though the approaching 
 footsteps had made no sound on the soft moss. 
 
 " So Mr. Wheeler deserted you, after luring you 
 up to the sugar-maples," said Stephen merrily. 
 
 " It was a ruse," said Gladys, smiling, "did you 
 not suspect it ? He fancied me in the way of 
 your professional talk with Clara." 
 
 " Clearsighted farmer ! " said the doctor, in the 
 same tone. Then, more gravely, " Dr. Martyn has 
 been telling me that she is to return to Memphis 
 this autumn. It was no surprise to me, for I 
 knew she felt that was her field so soon as she 
 could leave her hospital work in safe hands, but I 
 had not thought of her going so soon." 
 
 " I cannot bear to think of it," said Gladys. 
 
 " She does not look upon it as a sacrifice," said 
 the doctor cheerfully. "She feels that she owes 
 her time and talents to her birthplace, and, warm 
 as is her affection for her Northern friends, she 
 will have no heart-ache when she leaves us. There 
 is such joy in doing a work for which one is fitted 
 as she is for hers, that it leaves no room for per 
 sonal attachments or regrets. We shall miss her 
 far more than she will us."
 
 3O2 " LOVE S FULFILLING. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said Gladys, with a sigh. 
 " Ah ! Clara is a noble woman. But there are 
 few people who really know her she does not 
 wear her heart on her sleeve." 
 
 " No one can know her better or appreciate her 
 more than I," said Stephen. 
 
 He looked, a little wonderingly, at Gladys 
 tearful eyes. She was still holding Amy in 
 her arms as they walked on slowly through the 
 trees. 
 
 " Give me the child," said the doctor, stopping 
 short, and speaking with a shade of his profes 
 sional authority. " She is too heavy for you 
 to carry. Will you leave your mother, little 
 one ? " 
 
 "Oh! she is glad to go to you," said Gladys, 
 as the child smilingly leaned towards the out 
 stretched arms. There was something in the ex 
 pression of Gladys beautiful upturned face that 
 made the lover s heart throb. 
 
 " Dearest, will you come now ? " he whispered ; 
 and the next moment the strong arms were folded 
 around both mother and child. 
 
 " It is not," said Gladys, raising her head so that 
 she could look into her lover s eyes, as they sit
 
 "LOVE S FULFILLING." 303 
 
 side by side on a mossy rock, " it is not because 
 you love me, Stephen ; it is not because I fancy 
 that my love can be so much to you, or only because 
 it is sweet to feel that my life will never again be 
 lonely, wrapped round with your tenderness and 
 care. There is no other reason but that I have 
 come to the knowledge that I do love you with all 
 my heart and soul ! " 
 
 " Dear, why do you tell me that so earnestly ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Only because it is new to myself only because 
 I have but lately learned to know that love is not 
 quite what I once fancied it. It is not the blind 
 rush of passion that seizes on our hearts, and carries 
 us we scarcely know where. It may be and that 
 is far better the slow, steady growth out of a 
 deep knowledge of each other. I said I could give 
 you nothing less than my uttermost oh, Stephen ! 
 will you take me with my past, and believe that 
 what I give you now is my best ?" 
 
 " My darling," said Stephen earnestly, " I am 
 not one to look back to the past, and vex your 
 heart and my own with uneasy questionings. I am 
 no jealous or suspicious lover. Believe me, I take 
 what you give me with the deepest and fullest
 
 304 "LOVES FULFILLING. 
 
 trust. I do not ask to know just what its degree 
 may be, and, as I have never known myself before 
 what love is, I have no scale of comparison by 
 which to measure it. Enough that you love me, 
 Gladys no woman, remember, ever did that 
 before ! " 
 
 And the knowledge that this was so far from the 
 truth, was the only shadow on Gladys happiness !
 
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 fortnight, and describes the various ways in which 
 the members enjoy themselves during that happy 
 time. The first day is spent at the Appleclore 
 House. The second sees the party safely en 
 camped on Star Island, the girls in the one soli 
 tary cabin on the island, which has been especially 
 cleared up for them, and the boys m their tent. 
 They are all old friends of the reader, Tom and 
 Bess Percival, Pet Sibley, Bert and Susie Martin 
 and Nan Burton, all of whom have played parts in 
 the preceding volumes of the series. They crowd 
 into these two weeks an amount of enjoyment 
 possible only to young people of souud healtb, 
 perfect freedom from care, and who are in per 
 fect sympathy and harmony with one anothei 
 Appleclore, where the older members of the Perci- 
 ral family are staying, is only a mile away, so that 
 it Is an easy matter any day to sail across ; excur 
 sions are made to outlying points, Mingo. Star 
 and White Islands; and some of the trips are 
 spiced with genuine danger. They have the op 
 portunity of witnessing a storm while in camp, 
 and of feeling it, too. No one who has ever seen 
 a storm off this group of islands with its long 
 Itretches of reefs and ledges, will be apt to forget 
 It. The author must have himself gone through 
 some of the experiences he describes, to hare 
 painted them so accurately and vividly. The tory 
 is capitally illustrated.
 
 ACROSS LOTS. By Horace Lunt. Boston : I). 
 Lothrop Co. Price $1.25. The fact that John 
 Burroughs lias written an introduction to this col 
 lection of essays of outdoor life in the country is 
 sufficient guarantee of its literary value without a 
 word from the reviewer. Mr. Lunt is a genuine 
 lover of nature, and the fields and woods inspire 
 him to the utterance of many charming things in 
 its praise. He writes of the delights of country 
 life; he tells us of the habits of the birds and 
 animals; of the wild flowers and grasses, of the 
 changing aspect of the seasons, and of the myriad 
 things which make the country a paradise for 
 those who are in harmony with her. The volume 
 Is worthy a place on the same shelf with Burroughs. 
 
 GLIMPSES OF CHEAT FIELDS. By Rev. J. A. 
 Hall. Boston: I) Lothrop Co. Price $ 1.25. The 
 author of this volume takes a decided stand 
 dgainst the doctrines of evolution, and the mate 
 rialism to which they must inevitably lead. He 
 appeals to science to show the falsity of certain 
 of their assumptions, and to sustain his own 
 views, which are to the effect that there must of a 
 necessity be a divine Creator, and that man, in 
 stead of being evolved through countless ages 
 from and through countless reptilian and animal 
 forms, was specially created and endowed with 
 tfie faculties he possesses. The argument is logi 
 cal and strong, and successfully attacks some of 
 the points in the evolutionary theory which it* 
 iisciples have thought secure.
 
 MONTEAGLE. By Pansy. Boston: D. Lothrop 
 Company. Price 75 cents. Both girls and boys 
 will find this story of Pansy s pleasant and profit 
 able reading. Dilly West is a character whom the 
 first will find it an excellent thing to intimate, and 
 boys will find in Hart Hammond a noble, manly, 
 fellow who walks for a time dangerously near 
 temptation, but escapes through providential in 
 fluences, not the least of which is the steady 
 devotion to duty of the young girl, who becomes 
 an unconscious power of good. 
 
 A DOZEN OF THEM. By Pansy. Boston: D. 
 Lothrop Company. Price 60 cents. A Sunday- 
 school story, written i~ Pansy s best vein, and 
 having for its hero a twelve-year-old boy who has 
 been thrown upon the world by the death of his 
 parents, and who has no one left to look after 
 him but a sister a little older, whose time is fully 
 occupied in the milliner s shop where she is em 
 ployed. Joe, for that is the boy s name, finds a 
 place to work at a farmhouse where there is a small 
 private school. His sister makes him promise to 
 learn by heart a verse of Scripture every month. 
 It is a task at first, but he is a boy of his word, 
 and he fulfills his promise, with what results the 
 reader of the story will find out. It is an excellent 
 book for the Sunday-school. 
 
 AT HOME AXD ABROAD. Stories from The Pansy 
 Boston: D. Lothrop Company. Price, $1.00. A 
 score of short stories which originally appeared 
 in the delightful magazine, The Pansy, have been 
 here brought together in collected form with the 
 Illustrations which originally accompanied them. 
 They are from the pens of various authors, and 
 re bright, instructive and entertaining.
 
 ABOUT GIANTS. By Isabel Smithson. Boston t 
 D. Lothrop Company. Price 60 cents. In this 
 little volume Miss Smithson has gathered together 
 many curious and interesting facts relating to 
 real giants, or people who have grown to an ex 
 traordinary size. She does not believe that thera 
 was ever a race of giants, but that those who are 
 go-called are exceptional cases, due to some freak 
 of nature. Among those described are Cutter, 
 the Irish giant, who was eight feet tall, Tony 
 I ayne, whose height exceeded seven feet, and 
 Chang, the Chinese giant, who was on exhibition 
 in this country a few years ago. The volume 
 contains not only accounts of giants, but also of 
 dwarfs, and is illustrated. 
 
 AMERICAN AUTHORS. By Amanda B. Harris. 
 Boston: D. Lothrop Company. Price $1.00. This 
 Is one of the books we can heartily commend to 
 young readers, not only for its interest, but for 
 the information it contains. All lovers of books 
 have a natural curiosity to kr.ovv something about 
 their writers, and the better the books, the keener 
 the curiosity. Miss Harris 1ms written the various 
 chapters of the volume with a full appreciation of 
 this fact. She tells us about the earlier group of 
 American writers, Irving, Cooper, Prescott, Emer 
 son, and Hawthorne, all of whom are gone, and 
 also of some of those who came later, among 
 them the Gary sisters, Thoreau, Lowell, Helen 
 Hunt, Donald G. Mitchell and others. Miss Har 
 ris has a happy way of imparting information, and 
 the boys and girls into whose hands this littJ 
 book may fall will find it p leasant reading.
 
 Ax OCEAN TRAMP. By Philip D. Heywood. Il 
 lustrated. Boston : P. Lothrop Company. Price 
 $1.25. We have seen nothing for a long time 
 more realistically descriptive of life at sea than 
 this little book of Mr. Heywood s. It is not a 
 story in the general acceptance of the term, but a 
 plain matter-of-fact narrative of the experiences 
 of a country boy of seventeen, who ran away from 
 home to go to sea, and who after an adventurous 
 life of a dozen years came back to find his parents 
 dead, the remainder of the family scattered, and 
 the old homestead in ruins. One cannot help feel 
 ing that it is a record of genuine experience, so 
 naturally do the incidents follow one another, 
 and so skilfully are they wrought together. The 
 Gladiator, on board which the young adventurer 
 ships for his first voyage, sails from New York 
 for China, under a captain who has very decided 
 ideas of discipline, and after a stormy voyage 
 round Cape Horn is shipwrecked on an island ia 
 Carshine group. Both captain and mate and some 
 of the crew were lost, and the remainder after a 
 stay of several weeks are taken off by a German 
 steamer and carried to Hong Kong. From Hong 
 Kong our author makes his way to Shanghai, where, 
 by a lucky chance, he gets a position in the custom 
 house, and remains there several months. Losing 
 his position by the death of his patron he once 
 more returns to sea life, has an adventure with 
 Chinese pirates, and on one occasion, on a vessel 
 loaded with coolies, takes part in a desperate fight 
 between the ship s crew and the dangerous pas 
 sengers. The book is brim full of adventure, and 
 is evidently written by one thoroughly conversant 
 with the life he depicts and the places he describe*. 
 It is well illustrated.
 
 THE ART OF LIVING. From the Writings of 
 Samuel Smilss. With Introduction by the ven 
 erable Dr. I eabocly of Harvard University, and 
 Biographical Sketch by the editor, Carrie Adelaide 
 Cooke. Bos oil : D. Lothrop Company. Price 
 01.00. 
 
 Samuel Sn lies is the Benjamin Franklin of Eng 
 land. His sayings have a similar terseness, apt 
 ness and f ore i ; they are directed to p -actical ends r 
 like Franklin s; they have the advantage of being 
 nearer our th ic and therefore more directly related 
 to subjects ipon which practical wisdom is of 
 practical use 
 
 Success in life is his subject all through, The Art 
 of Living ; a; d he confesses on the very first page 
 that " happin jss consists in the enjoyment of little 
 pleasures sea .tered along the common path of life, 
 which in the sager search for some great and ex 
 citing joy we are apt to overlook. It finds delisrht 
 in the perf 01 mance of common duties faithfully 
 and honorabl/ fulfilled." 
 
 Let the reac er go back to that quotation again and 
 consider how contrary it is to the spirit that under 
 lies the busim ses that are nowadays tempting meii 
 to sudden fortune, torturing with disappointments 
 nearly all wh> yield, and burdening the successful 
 beyond their endurance, shortening lives and mak 
 ing them wea ry and most of them empty. 
 
 Is it worth wkile to join the mad rush for the 
 lottery ; or tc take the old road to slow success ? 
 
 This book of the chosen thoughts of a rare phil 
 osopher leads to contentment as well as wisdom ; 
 for, when we choose the less brilliant course be 
 cause we are sure it is the best one, we have the 
 toct eomplet j and lasting repose from anxiety.
 
 TILTING AT WINDMILLS : A Story of the Blue 
 Grass Country. By Emma M. Connelly. Boston : 
 D. Lothrop Company. 12mo, 1.50. 
 
 NOT since the days of " A Fool s Errand " has so 
 strong and so characteristic a " border novel " been 
 brought to the attention of the public as is now 
 presented by Miss Connelly in this book which she 
 so aptly terms Tilting at Windmills." Indeed, it 
 is questionable whether Judge Tourgee s famous 
 book touched so deftly and yet so practically the 
 real phases of the reconstruction period and the 
 interminable antagonisms of race and section. 
 
 The self-suflicient Boston man, a capital fellow 
 at heait, but tinged with the traditions and envi 
 ronments of his Puritan ancestry and conditions, 
 coming into his strange heritage in Kentucky at 
 the close of the civil war, seeks to change by in 
 stant .manipulation all the equally strong and deep- 
 rooted traditions and environments of Blue Grasa 
 society. 
 
 His ruthless conscience will allow of no com 
 promise, and the people whom he seeks to prose 
 lyte alike misunderstand his motives and spurn his 
 proffered assistance. 
 
 Presumed errors are materialized and partial 
 evils are magnified. Allerton tilts at windmills 
 and with the customary Quixotic results. He is, 
 seemingly, unhorsed in every encounter. 
 
 Miss Connelly s work in this, her first novel, will 
 make readers anxious to hear from her again and 
 it will certainly create, both in her own and other 
 States, a strong desire to see her next forthcoming 
 work announced by the same publishers in one of 
 their new series her " Story of the State of KM*- 
 tacky."
 
 THE NORTHERN CROSS. By Willi& Boyd Allen. 
 111. Pine Cone Series. Boston : D. Lothrop Com 
 pany. Price $1.00. In this breezy and thoroughly 
 healthy story of a boy s life at school the author 
 proves his right to a foremost place among the 
 writers of juvenile literature in this country. 
 The story is local, tbr- scene being laid in and about 
 the Boston Latin School, from which institution 
 the author was a graduate. It is, in fact, largely 
 a record of his own experiences, and some of his 
 descriptions of characters and incidents are as ac 
 curate as photographs. We are glad that he has 
 put down that prince of schoolmasters, Dr. Francis 
 Gardner, " in his habit as he lived," so that future 
 generations of Latin School boys will know some 
 thing of his personality ; and so with Mr. Emer 
 son, whose reputation as a teacher and gentleman 
 was equal to that of Dr. Gardner himself. We 
 dare say many of the classmates of the author 
 will "ecognize many of the funny incidents which 
 make up a portion of the narrative, as well as the 
 actors in them. Exhibition day, the prize drill on 
 the Common and scenes in the schoolroom are de 
 scribed with infinite relish, and there isn t a boy 
 anywhere with a bit of boy feeling about him that 
 will not enjoy the book from cover to cover. It 
 forms one of the Pine Cone series, and readers of 
 the preceding volumes will find some old acquaint 
 ances in its pages.
 
 The family Flights, by Edward Everett Hale 
 and Susan Hale, are a series of book journeys 
 through the several countries with eyes and ears 
 wide open, old eyes and young eyes, and ears The 
 books are full of pictures, and fuller of knowl 
 edge not only of what is going on but what has 
 gone on ever since book-making began, and fuller 
 jet of brightness and interest. You see the old as 
 old ; but you see it ; you see where it was and the 
 marks it left. You see the new with eyes made 
 sharper by knowledge of what has gone on in the 
 world. 
 
 In other words these books amount to some 
 thing like going through these places with a trav 
 eling-companion who knows all about them and 
 their histories. 
 
 They are written and pictured for boys and 
 girls : but there is nothing to hinder the old folks 
 going along. Will you go? 
 
 Family Flight through FrMce, Germany, Norway and 
 Switzerland. 405 pages. 
 
 Family Flight over Egypt and Syria. 388 pages. 
 
 Family Flight through Spain. 360 pages. 
 
 Family Flight around Home (which means about Boston* - 
 366 pages. 
 
 Family Flight through Mexico. 300 pages. 
 
 Each 8vo, boards, $1.75 ; cloth, $2.25. 
 One of the most effective means of exciting 
 and satisfying zeal for knowledge of the world we 
 have in books. 
 
 A good book for young folks is Ned Mel 
 bourne s Mission, not too good to have a spice of 
 life and adventure, but with that indirect influence 
 for good thinking and good doing that is more 
 potent than a sermon to young people. 
 Ned Melbourne s Mission. 12mo, cloth, $1.50.
 
 Date Due 
 
 1TEO IN U.S. 
 
 CAT. NO. 24 161
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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