r
 
 "She has conic to poison UK ! " (Page 198.) 
 
 (Frontispiece )
 
 Her Desperate Victory. 
 
 Bv MRS. M. L. RAYNE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "AGAINST FATE," " WHAT CAN A WOMAN Do?" ETC. 
 
 " A novel is the world's truth witn a beautiful woman 
 walking through it" PROFESSOR DAVID SWING. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY T. W. WILLIAMS. 
 
 CHICAGO AND NEW YORK : 
 
 BELFORD, CLARKE & CO. 
 
 1886.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 
 BELFORD, CLARKE & CO. 
 
 DONOHUE A HENNEBERRY, 
 PRINTERS AND BINDERS, CHICAGO.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 Manifest Destiny 9 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 A Literary Workshop 29 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 Clyffe House 48 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 "Maje" 57 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 ' ' The Stepmother's Breath " 73 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Letters and Letters 91 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " We Have Been Friends Together " 107 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Shamming 116 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 What's in a Name ? 1 34 
 
 3
 
 4 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 We Two 143 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Nobody Knows 1 54 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Rock Me to Sleep, Mother " 165 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The Green-eyed 178 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A Silent Treatment 195 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Crooked Paths Made Straight 206 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A Respite 226 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 Thy King Cometh 235
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 " She Has Come to Poison Me!" FRONTISPIECE. 
 
 The Mystic Cup is Broken 35 
 
 " Maje " Brings a Letter 85 
 
 Cherry Pleads for Something Funny 129 
 
 Cherry and Mammy 171
 
 Her Desperate Victory. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 
 
 It was the first week of vacation at the 
 Princeton Seminary, and the young lady 
 pupils of that far-famed institution had 
 nearly all returned to their homes, some 
 with the expectation of resuming their 
 studies at the next term, others to take 
 their places in the world for whose ardu- 
 ous duties they were supposed to be fully 
 equipped. Those bore with them, as proud 
 trophies of success, the small roll of parch- 
 ment which must decide their educational 
 status, and the precious many-adjectived, 
 laboriously-composed essay or theme, as it 
 was usually designated, which had been 
 held with trembling white-gloved fingers 
 and read with rhetorical effect before a
 
 10 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 hushed and admiring audience. The Prince- 
 ton Seminary belonged to the ringletted 
 and pantaletted period. It had nothing to 
 do with the higher education of woman. 
 Its pupils were young ladies, classed and 
 specified as such. They were taught a 
 Chesterfieldian politeness and the most pop- 
 ular rules of deportment ; how to courtesy 
 with ease, leave and enter a room properly, 
 and utter graceful nothings in a pretty, 
 lisping speech that was etymologically cor- 
 rect. They also learned to recite in French, 
 write a fine Italian hand, play the piano- 
 forte, and sing sweetly and plaintively some 
 tender strain of sentiment, such as that 
 much-loved madrigal, " The moon is low 
 down in the sky, Lorena," These pleas- 
 ant studies were considered of more im- 
 portance than history or mathematics. 
 They were the classics of the age when 
 the one leading idea of a finished educa- 
 tion was to fit young ladies for the mod- 
 erate triumphs of drawing-room life, and 
 the ultima thule of safe and prosperous mar- 
 riage. Occasionally a girl who thought,
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 11 
 
 asked for a wider range of knowledge, but 
 unless she was preparing to marry a mis- 
 sionary, or become a teacher herself, she 
 was regarded as strong-minded, and, in 
 consequence, unwomanly. The graduates 
 of that school are all familiar pictures of 
 the past. Good gentlewomen, endowed 
 with many foolish ideas and useless accom- 
 plishments, but utterly unfit to battle with 
 the strong, rough winds and waves of ad- 
 verse circumstance. Helplessly dependent 
 on others until that heroic element which 
 lies dormant in the weakest female char- 
 acter arose in self-assertion and saved its 
 possessor from total shipwreck, then the 
 peurile lessons of a school of accomplish- 
 ments were unlearned and some practical 
 study caught at, as a shipwrecked man 
 catches at the saving plank. 
 
 Far be it from me to deride the system 
 of education taught in those days. It was 
 sufficient unto the day and generation with 
 the majority of its pupils, the women who, 
 endowed with a mediocrity of accomplish- 
 ments, never felt the necessity of a deeper
 
 12 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 knowledge. The women who since then 
 have worked in the ranks as toilers for 
 daily bread needed a stronger educational 
 diet, and out of their necessities the broad 
 scope which to-day includes a sexless hori- 
 zon has grown and widened. The girls 
 who excel in piano-playing and embroid- 
 ery to-day are professionals, who turn to 
 good account the accomplishments of the 
 past. The sentimental nature is made sub- 
 servient to the practical. Mathematics have 
 crowded out worsted-work from the wom- 
 an's college. Poetry and potatoes, form 
 a harmonious partnership of beauty and 
 utility, and the Lydia Languishes of society 
 exist only in nomenclature. The change is 
 a radical and wholesome one, as if a diet 
 of cream-cakes had been exchanged for one 
 of bread-and-butter. 
 
 There were three members of the gradu- 
 ating class who still remained at the Prince- 
 ton Seminary, and these were now in the 
 throes of packing. They were no longer 
 school-girls, but, according to the formulas 
 of the day, finished young ladies. Two of
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 13 
 
 these were seated in a much-littered room, 
 gazing despondently upon several dismem- 
 bered trunks that stood about with yawn- 
 ings lids and resembled anything but arks 
 of safety to their chaotic population on the 
 floor. Lace shawls and white dresses of 
 fluffy muslin, kid slippers and ribbon sashes, 
 white gloves and withered bouquets, were 
 flung together in a hopeless abandon of 
 disorder. There were two narrow dormi- 
 tory beds in the room, and on each of 
 these a weary young person reclined in a 
 hurried negligee in keeping with the sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 " Where is Beatrice ? " asked the smaller 
 and younger of the two, a petite girl with a 
 great profusion of fair hair and a pair of ap- 
 pealing blue eyes. 
 
 "I have called her. She will be here 
 presently," answered the other, a spare, dark 
 girl, with a wearied look that was habitual 
 to her. 
 
 " Oh dear ! " exclaimed the first speaker, 
 who rejoiced in the pretty name of Alma. 
 "Who was it remarked that 'Order is
 
 14 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 heaven's first law,' or something to that 
 effect ? " 
 
 " Have you forgotten your Pope so soon, 
 Alma ? " asked her friend, whose name was 
 Adelaide. She was fanning herself lazily 
 with a lace handkerchief drawn at random 
 from the heap on the floor. 
 
 " Was it Pope ? " inquired Alma, doubling 
 a pillow and fitting it into the small of her 
 back, with a heroic effort to be comfortable. 
 " Well, you know, Adelaide, I was always 
 famous for forgetting all I should remember, 
 and remembering all I should forget. I 
 know it was Pope who said, ' the proper 
 study of mankind is man.' He should have 
 said of womankind. I intend to act upon 
 his advice immediately if not sooner." 
 
 "He meant man in the abstract," cor- 
 rected Adelaide. "A classification which in- 
 cludes women also." 
 
 " I presume so," responded Alma; " but in 
 the abstract, or concrete, or, like oysters, in the 
 raw, I shall make him my study, dear, until 
 I discover my own peculiar specimen. Then 
 I shall subjugate and preserve him as a
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 15 
 
 curio worthy the attention of a lifetime. 
 Oh, there comes Beatrice! Enter, Lady 
 Macbeth ! 
 
 " The thane of Fife 
 Had a wife 
 Where is she now?" 
 
 The new comer was a handsome, stately 
 girl, with a beautiful, generous face, that 
 wore a pleasant smile which bespoke a disci- 
 plined nature. She was slightly older than 
 the other two, and advanced with a gentle 
 air of sisterly seniority. Accepting the role 
 of Lady Macbeth as pleasantly as it was 
 offered, she held up her hands and rubbed 
 them tragically, observing in dramatic tones, 
 as she saw the heap of unconquered packing 
 on the floor, " Infirm of purpose ! Give me 
 the dagger ! " 
 
 " Bee, darling," drawled Alma, lazily, 
 " won't you come over and help us ?" 
 
 She was the only one who had ever called 
 the dignified Beatrice by this pet name. 
 
 "The cry of Macedonia," responded Bea- 
 trice, "heard in all ages and every land, 
 dear, as Miss Richards would say. ' Order
 
 16 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 gave each thing to men,' now why not to 
 women? You could never create a world 
 out of this chaos unless you chose a system. 
 Here are silk stockings stuffed into the 
 crown of a Dunstable bonnet. A Sontag 
 coquetting with a Garibaldi. Oh, girls, is 
 this the outcome of all good Miss Richards' 
 faithful teaching? Only confusion and dis- 
 order?" 
 
 " Don't lecture us, dear Lady Macbeth," 
 besought Adelaide. " What we need just 
 now is assistance rather than advice. As 
 the situation appears just now it's ' a' a 
 muddle.' " 
 
 "We ought to have a maid," observed 
 the pretty Alma, swinging a small, slippered 
 foot with unnecessary violence, and not 
 attempting to move. " Mamma packed my 
 trunk when I came, but how she did it is a 
 mystery to me. Adelaide, who packed 
 yours? " 
 
 " I did it myself," answered her friend, 
 coolly. " Being the eldest of six children 
 and the daughter of a clergyman, I have 
 been compelled to make myself useful on
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 17 
 
 several occasions in my life. I packed that 
 trunk to come here, but either the trunk 
 has condensed or the contents expanded. 
 I got them all in once, but in such a hig- 
 gledy-piggledy shape that I was ashamed of 
 it, and dragged them out again. I know 
 the children will all crowd around to see 
 it unpacked, and I don't want them to 
 think that I know less than when I came 
 here. I wonder if anything less vigorous 
 than a pitchfork will reduce that heap on 
 the floor." 
 
 " If you will change places with me, 
 Alma, I will show you how to pack a 
 trunk," said Beatrice, "and Adelaide can 
 look on and take lessons at the same time." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, Bee, darling," responded 
 Alma, heartily. She was ashamed of her 
 remark about a maid. The only one of the 
 trio who could have afforded such a luxury 
 was the self-helpful Beatrice, who was so 
 prompt to remember the command, " Bear 
 one another's burdens," and hold out a hand 
 to every one who was in need, making her 
 life a perpetual sunshine for others.
 
 18 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 "And now to business," said Alma, sliding 
 off the bed. " First " 
 
 " First catch your hare," suggested Bea- 
 trice, seating herself deliberately on the vacat- 
 ed couch. " Take all the articles that are 
 identified and place them by the owner's 
 trunk. Mate stockings and gloves; fold 
 neatly, and pack in their respective compart- 
 ments each after its kind. By systematizing 
 your work in this way you simplify it. Your 
 mountain of difficulties has already become 
 a mole-hill of order." 
 
 "Beatrice, you are a Napoleon among 
 women !" exclaimed Adelaide, with admiring 
 energy. 
 
 " I hope not. I should be sorry if my 
 plans worked disaster only." 
 
 " Well, then, you were born, Hamlet-like, 
 to set the times right and evolve order out 
 of chaos." 
 
 " Bee, darling, what a step-mother you 
 would make," suggested Alma. 
 
 " Heaven forbid," responded Beatrice, fer- 
 vently. " I could scarcely be reconciled to 
 life if I thought it held such a dreadful fate
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 19 
 
 for me. Of all responsibilities that of raising 
 the children of dead mothers must be the 
 most trying. There are few women capable 
 of bringing up their own children properly, 
 even with natural love as a guide. How, 
 then, would they acquit themselves with cold 
 duty as their only inducement?" 
 
 "Besides acquiring the odious title of 
 step-mother," remarked Adelaide. "Why 
 could not that word of ill-omen be softened 
 into something more endearing? It has 
 always been used as a bugbear to frighten 
 children with." 
 
 " I would suggest second-mother, or moth- 
 erkin," said Alma. 
 
 " I never can remember the time that I 
 did not dread and mistrust the name," con- 
 tinued Beatrice, who grew excited as she 
 talked. " I am not sure that I have not con- 
 gratulated myself upon being an orphan since 
 my desolate condition forbade the possibility 
 of a step-parent. I remember an old neigh- 
 bor at home whose second wife raised a 
 whole family of little ones left by his first 
 spouse. She made them such an excellent
 
 20 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 mother that they could never have told the 
 difference, yet when she died they buried 
 her off by herself and recorded her name on 
 the family monument so that it read like 
 this: 
 
 "Our Father. 
 
 Our Mother. 
 
 Our Step-mother. 
 
 "And I recall an early prejudice caused by 
 reading a weird Scotch ballad in which the 
 two-year-old child of a dead mother cries 
 itself to sleep while the father is receiving 
 congratulations with his bride in the parlors 
 beneath. While the banqueting is at its 
 height a sudden shadow falls upon the com- 
 pany, the lights burn blue, and a plaintive 
 voice is heard crooning the lullaby the dead 
 mother used to sing. It is drowned out with 
 the festal music, and the gaiety is resumed, 
 but the next morning the cradle of the infant 
 is empty and it is never again seen. The 
 inference is that its own mother had borne it 
 away to save it from the neglect of the 
 second wife." 
 
 "What folly," said Adelaide. "I remem-
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 21 
 
 her when a family came to live in our neigh- 
 borhood who had two children, a boy and 
 girl. We knew that one was the child of a 
 first wife and soon decided which one the 
 smallest of the two being a delicate boy who 
 was petted and fondled at home, while the 
 larger girl was sent off regularly to school, 
 rain or shine. Of course all the neighbors 
 interested themselves in the movements of 
 this child, who was the slave of the sick and 
 petted one, until they learned that the boy, 
 dwarfed by illness, was the eldest and the 
 step-child. After that they attended to 
 their own affairs." 
 
 "Young ladies," said a formal voice at 
 the door, as Miss Richards, the principal, 
 appeared there, following her brief rap with 
 simultaneous haste, " you will certainly be 
 late for luncheon. You should have finished 
 your packing last evening." 
 
 " It is nearly accomplished now, Miss 
 Richards," said Adelaide, who had been 
 careering wildly around the room as she 
 talked, her head enveloped in an empty 
 stocking bag. " Our trunks will be ready
 
 22 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 very soon now. Beatrice is helping us pack 
 them." 
 
 "Ah ! then something may result," said 
 Miss Richards, with approval. " Luncheon at 
 one to-day, young ladies." And the light of 
 her countenance was grimly withdrawn. 
 
 " Can you ever remember having-luncheon 
 at any other hour in this institution, young 
 ladies?" queried Alma, pertly. 
 
 " No," said Adelaide ; " I never did." The 
 lid of her trunk was supported upon her head, 
 and her voice sounded cavernous from its 
 hollow depths as she went on talking. " The 
 sun might cease to shine, or the earth to 
 revolve, or the laws of the Medes and Per- 
 sians change, or Miss Richards forget to send 
 in our bills when due, but never yet has she 
 been known to vary that lunch hour." 
 
 "There goes the gong of fate," cried 
 Alma, giving her sunny locks a sudden 
 and brief arrangement. " Never mind dis- 
 ordered hair. What is that to missing our 
 mid-day repast?" 
 
 "Alma," remarked Beatrice, gently, ''never 
 9 larrel with your bread-and-butter."
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 23 
 
 " It would be utterly useless, Bee, darling, 
 to wage war with anything as strong as the 
 Princeton butter. Besides, I am just on 
 the point of famishing. ' For what we are 
 now about to receive' it's your turn today, 
 Adelaide." 
 
 When they had eaten in prim pedagogic 
 silence Miss Richards took her leave, opin- 
 ing with some discretion that the three 
 would greatly prefer her room to her com- 
 pany upon this last occasion of their school 
 life. And she was right. No sooner had 
 the door closed upon her sloping shoul- 
 ders and cork-screw curls than they be- 
 came merry, confidential and convivial 
 over " the cup which cheers, but not in- 
 ebriates." They drank off their tea with 
 inspired haste, taking care to leave 
 " grounds for complaint " in the bottom of 
 each cup. They clinked their cups sol- 
 emnly, and each recorded a secret wish, 
 while they turned them around slowly 
 several times. Then the dark-eyed Adelaide 
 recited gravely, as she gazed with mysteri- 
 ous looks into the bottom of her cup :
 
 24 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " Read me my cup of tea, 
 
 Sybil of fate. 
 Tell what it holds for me 
 
 Of love or hate. 
 Unlock with magic key 
 Life's dream of mystery. 
 
 "See ! it is all there- 
 Love, fortune, ring. 
 Dark man, woman fair. 
 
 Life's a good thing 
 Lived in the magic bounds 
 Of a tea-cup's tell-tale grounds." 
 
 " Be a sybil of fate, Adelaide, and teil 
 us our fortunes," pleaded the pretty Alma. 
 
 " Beatrice will think I am too frivolous,'' 
 said Adelaide. She loved her older and 
 graver companion, and never practiced upon 
 her any of the mad and merry pranks 
 which made her so popular with the fun- 
 loving members of the school. 
 
 "There is a time for nonsense, and this 
 is the time," answered Beatrice, entering 
 at once into the spirit of the fun. " Here, 
 Adelaide, read my fortune first." 
 
 She handed her cup to the girl, who 
 turned it slowly in her hands, repeating
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 25 
 
 the usual formula caught from some stroll- 
 ing gypsy. 
 
 " There is a letter coming to you that 
 contains a surprise. You are going to take 
 a journey. There is a dark man who loves 
 you, but beware of a fair woman. She will 
 make you trouble. You will be twice mar- 
 ried, for there are two rings. There is some 
 trouble, and and ' Adelaide hesitated, 
 stopped, and the cup fell from her hand 
 with a crash and lay broken on the floor. 
 
 " Oh, Adelaide, you have spoiled her 
 fortune," exclaimed Alma, regretfully. 
 
 " Surely that was enough," said Ade- 
 laide. " Beatrice does not believe in fort- 
 une-telling." 
 
 "You did not end with the usual form- 
 ula, ' live long and be happy,' " said Bea- 
 trice, as she picked up the broken cup. 
 
 "Are you superstitious, Beatrice?" asked 
 the girl, with some agitation. 
 
 " No," answered Beatrice ; " and I think 
 I can finish my fortune, which you are 
 afraid to read. It may be superstition or 
 it may be science, but I have had the one
 
 26 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 fortune bespoken for me since my birth. 
 Astrologers have consulted the stars and 
 found it there. The Romany has deci- 
 phered it in the palm of my hand. Old 
 wives have read it in my tea-cup. Soothsay- 
 ers predicted it with cards. It is always the 
 same. Twice married ; much disappoint- 
 ment; a life that ends short of old age. 
 Now what does it matter, supposing that 
 my life should be of short duration ? ' That 
 life is long which answers life's best end.' 
 I may have drained the cup of pleasure or 
 the bowl of sorrow before then, and be 
 content to go. You see, Adelaide, your 
 prophecy does not disturb me. It is too 
 much like the common lot." 
 
 " You have given me a chill, with your 
 dismal fortune-telling," cried Alma. " Now 
 listen while I read mine. I won't have 
 any tea-cup oracle, with its rings and mis- 
 fortunes. I am to marry a dark man, 
 whom I will love very much. He will adore 
 me and give me everything I want. As 
 soon as I begin to fade and grow old I 
 will gracefully wrap the drapery of my
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 27 
 
 couch about me and lie down to pleasant 
 dreams." 
 
 "While I," predicted Adelaide, who had 
 recovered her spirits, "will be content to 
 remain in single blessedness, the useful and 
 beloved old-maid sister, loving and serving, 
 until some fine day I am suddenly missed, 
 having fulfilled all my duties, dried up and 
 blown away." 
 
 All then laughed, and sunshine was re- 
 stored. They chatted sentimentally in girl- 
 fashion, and with arms intertwined took 
 a farewell walk out in the high-boarded, 
 secluded grounds, exchanging little con- 
 fidences and dreading to say good-by. 
 Beatrice even permitted them to see the 
 face in a certain gold locket she wore round 
 her neck, after the fashion of the day. She 
 alone enjoyed the distinction of having a 
 lover. His was a handsome face that of 
 a Byronic youth, with tender eyes and a 
 weak mouth, that showed boyish indecision. 
 Alma declared that he was as lovely as a 
 poet. Adelaide said nothing, but wondered 
 at her friend's choice. But she, too, admired
 
 28 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 his poetic beauty. Beatrice looked at the 
 youthful face with that all-absorbing love 
 which ennobles its object. To her he was a 
 young god whom she had worshiped ar- 
 dently since childhood. Alas ! she had yet 
 to learn that men are gods in purpose only. 
 In a few hours the trio of school friends 
 parted oh ! when to meet again ? Of their 
 fortunes this may be told: In her early 
 youth, before sorrow had cast one shadow 
 over her sunny life, the fair-haired Alma 
 was called to lie down to pleasant dreams. 
 Adelaide married a missionary teacher, and 
 following the inspired example of the Jud- 
 sons went out to the Christian fold in 
 distant Burmah. But no tidings ever came 
 of the ship on which she sailed. Whether 
 it stranded on rocky and inhospitable 
 shores, or went down in mid-ocean with all 
 its colors flying, will never be known till 
 the sea gives up its dead. So after all 
 Beatrice was the only one who lived to 
 verify the fortunes so thoughtlessly pre- 
 dicted. And it is with her only of the 
 three that these pages have to do.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A LITERARY WORKSHOP. 
 
 One of the popular methods by which 
 a woman can secure an independent in- 
 come, and at the same time preserve her 
 social status is by furnishing her own 
 ideas and opinions for reading matter in 
 the newspapers or magazines of the day. 
 Literature has for a century offered its ad- 
 vantages to women as indiscriminately as 
 to men. Journalism, however, was slow to 
 adopt her or allow her to enter its narrower 
 and more restricted domain, which was 
 fenced in with jealous care. By stepping 
 over the bars here and there, scaling the 
 fence itself, or making new gates that 
 opened outwardly, she succeeded at last 
 in getting a foothold. Once within, she 
 remained as a worker, goaded and harassed 
 
 at every step by the conventionalities of the 
 29
 
 30 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 past. But championed by such women as 
 Margaret Fuller and " Fanny Fern " she has 
 established her right to venture, and her 
 ability to succeed. Less scientific than her 
 brother, she has won a high place in poetry 
 and fiction, and her graceful imagination 
 has lighted the duller work of her profound 
 and philosophical co-laborer. It may be 
 said of her much writing that it lacks so- 
 lidity and is ephemeral, but if it fills the 
 need of the hour it has its excuse for being. 
 The writings of women are less venomous 
 than those of men. They are nearly always 
 educational, or at least helpful. Few 
 women have written words that dying they 
 would wish to blot. 
 
 This brings me to a certain newspaper 
 office of the present time that of a 
 prominent and prosperous daily journal with 
 a world-wide record and to the editor-in- 
 chief thereof, who sat, upon this particular 
 occasion, in his daintily furnished private 
 room, engaged in opening the mail for the 
 day, or, at least, such part of it as was 
 addressed to him personally. It was a lux-
 
 A LITERARY WORKSHOP. 31 
 
 ury of labor. First he scanned carefully 
 through his gold-bowed eye-glasses the super- 
 scription and the postmark, after the fashion 
 of the dilletante. Then he carefully cut the 
 envelope with a pair of minute office scissors, 
 and if the stamp was a foreign one removed 
 it with a tender regard for some child-col- 
 lector to whom he had promised it. If the 
 envelope contained " return postage " he 
 dropped that systematically in the place ap- 
 pointed for it. Finally, he drew forth the 
 manuscript, written pathetically often, in a 
 woman's hand, and glanced over it with a 
 practiced eye. No frown corrugated his 
 handsome brow as he read, and the grace- 
 ful, drooping mustache hid any expression 
 of his well closed lips. Occasionally he 
 would write a comment with a rapid pencil 
 on the envelope. It was no part of his 
 business to answer these letters himself. 
 The editor of the Day Star, that paragon 
 of journalism, had long since graduated 
 from the school of drudgery. Proprietary 
 interests gave him enough to do. He had 
 merely to hand the letters to an assistant
 
 32 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 who was familiar with Day-Star tactics and 
 was a good penman. 
 
 When the editor-in-chief had glanced in 
 this comprehensive manner through each 
 letter he massed them in a formidable pile 
 and said aloud : 
 
 " All these from women who think they 
 have a call to write, and Vho have no more 
 idea of journalism than a Skye terrier has of 
 hunting foxes." 
 
 Apropos of his illustration I will here 
 interpolate a story of this particular editor, 
 who was very fond of dogs, especially those 
 large and heroic mastiffs which combine 
 great proportions with gentleness and do- 
 cility. One day a poet, with eye in fine 
 frenzy rolling, called at the office of the 
 Day Star and found his way to the private 
 sanctum of its editor. A magnificent St. 
 Bernard accompanied him, and walked famil- 
 iarly about the art-decorated room, knocking 
 down some cherished knick-knack with 
 every whisk of his enormous tail. The 
 editor waited with silent and unwelcoming 
 mien. The poet began to read some verses
 
 A LITERARY WORKSHOP. 33 
 
 on the death of Cleopatra, while the dog set 
 up a prolonged howl of homesickness as an 
 accompaniment. 
 
 " Queen of ancient tragedy! " bow wow 
 wow wow ow w. 
 
 " Whose animal is that ? " asked the editor, 
 wrathfully. 
 
 " Mine, sir," stammered the poet. 
 
 " Put him out ! " commanded the editor. 
 
 The poet seized the dog by the scruff of 
 the neck and dragged him across the edi- 
 torial carpet, into which the unhappy animal 
 sunk his toe-nails with desperate resistance. 
 There was a brief scuffle on the outside, and 
 then the bump bump bump of the dog's 
 ignominious descent as he went down the 
 long flight of stairs, impelled by his owner's 
 boot. 
 
 The perspiring and discouraged poet re- 
 turned to the editor's parlor and resumed the 
 " Death of Cleopatra." 
 
 " Queen of ancient tragedy, " 
 
 " Did you kick him ? " interjected the 
 editor. 
 
 " Y-yes, sir."
 
 34 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " And threw him down stairs? " 
 
 "Ye-e-s, sir." 
 
 " Then permit me to say that you are a 
 greater brute than the dog. Take your stuff 
 away. I have no use for it." 
 
 And the poet who had been guilty of cru- 
 elty to animals retired to study over this new 
 enforcement of humanitarian laws. 
 
 Another uncommon attribute of goodness 
 this sybarite of editors possessed in his love 
 and reverence for old age. He liked to 
 study it in its picturesque aspect, and he 
 admired and respected it as a masterpiece of 
 Time. He found in it heroic elements, 
 and compared it to a sentinel on the out- 
 post of life, waiting for an honorable dis- 
 charge from the post of duty. Each old 
 man or old woman he encountered was for 
 the time his father or his mother. To them 
 he gave the unspoiled, boyish side of his 
 character, sunny and radiant with the 
 warmth of his heart. 
 
 As this is not a fancy sketch of an ideal 
 situation I hope I may be permitted to lin- 
 ger over it a little. I wish I could repro-
 
 The cup fell from her hand with a crash, (Page 25.)
 
 A LITERARY WORKSHOP. 37 
 
 duce that pretty room, with its esthetic 
 walls and furnishings, its low, broad table, 
 upon which flowers always bloomed, and its 
 silent inmate, to whom so many Miltons 
 neither mute nor inglorious in their own 
 estimation brought execrable verse, written 
 upon both sides of the paper. 
 
 This warehouse for brain products opened 
 like a facade upon the public hall of the 
 handsome building, which was a monument 
 to the prosperity of the Day Star Company, 
 and any one who entered it, at once faced 
 the autocrat editor, who did not allow him- 
 self to be in the least disturbed, and whose 
 emotions were kept so well in hand that he 
 did not intimate to the intruder by the 
 movement of a muscle that he was aware of 
 any other presence than his own. 
 
 This reticence of observation did not tend 
 to put the literary aspirant at ease, and the 
 result was usually a stammered and incoher- 
 ent treatise upon the weather, accompanied 
 by a roll of manuscript laid with trembling 
 boldness upon the artistically disposed desk. 
 If the author entered into any defense of the
 
 38 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 manuscript the editor encouraged the confi- 
 dence so flatteringly given, by no look or 
 suggestion, and he received the precious 
 manuscript so tremblingly extended with 
 the cool impassiveness of custom. If his 
 visitor talked he listened patiently as long as 
 he was interested ; then he looked at his 
 watch. And the most persistent talker 
 ceased his narrative and backed out as from 
 the presence of royalty. 
 
 Then the editor yawned, threw the un- 
 opened manuscript into a drawer, turned the 
 key on it and went home. Months, possibly 
 years, afterward it would be taken out, read 
 carefully, and if available which meant ex- 
 cellent in all points it was published with a 
 commendatory notice and a generous check 
 sent to the writer, if living to the heirs if 
 dead. 
 
 For out of this fiery furnace the Shad- 
 rachs, Meshachs and Abednegoes of litera- 
 ture walked with no smell of fire on their 
 garments. Mine editor knew genuine merit 
 and appreciated it. The pretty sketch, the 
 pen-picture that brought tears to the eyes
 
 A LITERARY WORKSHOP. 39 
 
 with its pathetic touches, the humor that 
 made a whole world laugh, the poem that 
 was a strain of music, how quick he was to 
 appreciate and capture them for the Day 
 Star. Reserved and pitiless to the stranger 
 at his gates, he was open and confiding to 
 the friend he elected to serve. 
 
 " Hear this," he would say to confidential 
 ears, and then in a rich, sympathetic voice 
 he would read some racy anecdote of south- 
 ern life, something that told in dialect of 
 the joys and sorrows of some old colored 
 aunty, and his voice would break with 
 laughter, even while his eyes filled with 
 tears. 
 
 I know that he believed with old Mr. 
 Weller that women are " rum creeturs," and 
 that much of his stony impassiveness of 
 manner was the result of listening to the 
 experiences of women writers. 
 
 " If they only zvonld attend to business," 
 he would say, despairingly; " but they come 
 in here with a manuscript, sit down in that 
 rocking-chair, and tell me their whole family 
 histories, and when at last they do go they
 
 40 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 always leave an umbrella or a satchel to 
 bring them back again. And the woman 
 who has never written a line expects as 
 much compensation for her first attempt as 
 if she were a professional writer. I advised 
 one disappointed aspirant for literary honors 
 to compare her work with that of authors 
 whom she wished to emulate and see for 
 herself what it lacked. Asked to mention a 
 special author I quoted George Eliot. In 
 a week she returned triumphant to tell me 
 that her friends considered her a much better 
 writer than ' Mr. Eliot.' " 
 
 I have said that this particular editor did 
 not burden himself with the drudgery of his 
 profession. But he wrote many a painstaken 
 letter filled with words of cheer an.d encour- 
 agement to those whose ardor he had damp- 
 ened with rejected manuscript. He extended 
 a helping hand to many a weak, faltering 
 brother losing heart in the hour of adversity. 
 And when a man went to him with weak 
 complaint that he had been sacrificed to a 
 woman's heartless frivolity he coolly said, 
 " What of it ? Many women have been
 
 A LITERARY WORKSHOP. 41 
 
 sacrificed to man's treachery. Why should 
 you complain ? " 
 
 He did not summon his employes to him 
 when he needed them, but went to them. 
 So upon this occasion, when he entered the 
 room where the literary editor had his desk, 
 the two persons seated there looked up and 
 waited his pleasure. He carried with him a 
 small flat package of manuscript and a letter. 
 
 "Where is Mr. Harrington, Rob?" he 
 asked, approaching a particularly bright, 
 handsome young fellow seated at a desk. 
 
 " In the composing-room, sir." 
 
 " I have a letter here I wish him to 
 answer, and this manuscript is to be re- 
 turned." 
 
 A blase old-young man, with a rose in his 
 button-hole, looked up and said, with a sneer: 
 
 " Some sweet girl-graduate in her golden 
 hair, sending her class essay? " 
 
 " Cynicism, like smoking, not allowed 
 here, Howland," answered the editor-in-chief. 
 Howland was a valuable man on the paper 
 and his sneers were .tolerated. " Rob, ask 
 Mr. Harrington to answer this so that it
 
 42 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 will go out to-night. He will find a few 
 suggestions jotted down." 
 
 He laid the letter on Rob's desk and re- 
 turned to his own room. Then he dis- 
 missed the matter from his thoughts. 
 
 Yet upon that letter hung very impor- 
 tant interests. 
 
 " Is it the usual scrawl ? " inquired How- 
 land, with his accustomed sneer. " Does 
 it have yearnings after the illimitable and 
 divings after the unfathomable ? Have her 
 friends insisted that she has genius, etc.? 
 Tell her, Rob, that ' the irony of fate spares 
 not one shining mark.'" 
 
 " It is rather peculiar hand-writing," re- 
 marked Rob, taking up the manuscript. 
 " Poor young thing for I know she is 
 young it is too bad to fill her soul with 
 a divine despair. Howland, what will you 
 wager that she is not both young and 
 fair?" 
 
 " Nothing ! ' What care I how fair she be, 
 if she be not fair to me.' I have heard 
 that original sentiment before, I imagine." 
 
 " Yes," said Rob, " it was marked origi-
 
 A LITERARY WORKSHOP. 43 
 
 nal in the book you took it from, like the 
 boy's poetry. Now listen to this, How- 
 land. It is rather pensive, isn't it ? 
 
 " 'Just a little nearer to the barrier that is drawn 
 Twixt the darkness and the daylight, beyond the pearl- 
 ing dawn. 
 
 Just a little farther from earth's worries and its frets 
 To the land that has no darkness, the sun that never 
 sets."' 
 
 " Nothing but rhyme void and meaning- 
 less." said Rowland, tipping back his chair 
 and elevating his feet on the desk. " It's 
 all sentimental slop." 
 
 " No ; it's what might be called heav- 
 enly slop," remarked Rob, briefly. 
 
 These terms are native to the editorial 
 room, and compose the technical language 
 of the fraternity who would irreverently 
 call one of Tennyson's masterpieces " idi- 
 otic drivel" if it was set up in the estab- 
 lishment. 
 
 " All rot and stuff," continued Mr. How- 
 land, " I would just tell the poor thing so 
 and put her out of her misery. Here is a 
 conundrum : Why are the verses of poor 
 poets always lame?"
 
 44 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " I suppose you expect me to say be- 
 cause they have imperfect feet," answered 
 Rob, quickly. " Try something harder. 
 Here comes Mr. Harrington, just in time 
 to take this off my hands." 
 
 The man who entered was greeted with 
 respect. The blas young man took his 
 feet off the desk and resumed work. The 
 youngster, Rob, looked up and smiled. He 
 was a favorite with the literary editor, and 
 he knew it. 
 
 "A letter for you to answer, Mr. Har- 
 rington," he said, and laid it on his desk. 
 
 "I have not the time, Rob. What is it? 
 A woman's letter and manuscript, no doubt. 
 Has a brute of a husband, poor thing, and 
 wants to earn more money. Probably she 
 is expecting to realize a sum by this time 
 that will pay off the mortgage on her 
 house and something over. Just tell her 
 that her work is more suited to a literary 
 magazine than to a daily paper, etc." 
 
 Rob laughed at the volubility of his supe- 
 rior officer, who all this time was struggling 
 out of his office blouse into his street coat.
 
 A LITERARY WORKSHOP. 45 
 
 " I have my orders in marginal notes," 
 he said. " The chief gave it to me be- 
 cause you were not at your post, sir. 
 Now, Mr. Harrington, what name shall I 
 sign ? You know it should be your handi- 
 work." 
 
 " Let me off this time. Sign any. name 
 you please, mine, per R. W., if you choose. 
 What does it matter?" 
 
 " But it might be quite important," said 
 Rob, laughing. "This is a young lady 
 a southern girl and if she should not like 
 the subject-matter she may send her big 
 brother with a challenge, and what would 
 poor Rob do then, oh, then?" 
 
 "Stop that chattering," snarled Rowland, 
 "and send that slush off out of the way. If 
 I had a daughter or sister who persisted in 
 writing such trash and sending it to the 
 newspapers I would wring her neck yes 
 cheerfully." 
 
 " I don't doubt it, Mr. Rowland, not in the 
 least; and it would be a good thing for the 
 girl, too, come to think of it." 
 
 " Follow instructions, Rob," said Mr. Har-
 
 46 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 rington, pleasantly. "That is a very sin- 
 gular chirography," he added, studying it a 
 moment. 
 
 " The instructions are that the writer is 
 to try again." 
 
 " Then there must be a mustard-seed of 
 merit in it," answered Mr. Harrington, tak- 
 ing his hat. " I am going out for a short 
 walk, Rob. My brain is cobwebby to-day, I 
 think." 
 
 "All right, Mr. Harrington, I will write the 
 letter," said Rob, cheerfully; " and if you will 
 come down to my room to-night I'll make 
 you one of mother's hot lemonades. They're 
 tip-top for brain cobwebs." 
 
 Edgar Harrington went out, unconscious 
 that he was in any manner aiding and abet- 
 ting destiny in forming some of her strange 
 and incongruous plans, which, like the wires 
 of telegraphy, cross and recross, bearing on 
 the unseen current of conflicting lives. He 
 walked rapidly along with no definite aim 
 or object save to fly from himself. A look 
 of unsatisfied longing told of a heart that 
 was at war with itself.
 
 A LITERARY WORKSHOP. 47 
 
 "A millstone and the human heart are driven ever round. 
 If they have nothing else to grind they must themselves 
 be ground." 
 
 This grinding of the heart had prematurely 
 whitened the brown curling locks, and drawn 
 tense lines about the decisive mouth, and 
 given a care-worn look to a rather handsome 
 face, which was marred by a shadow of discon- 
 tent, and, to tell the truth, bore that most 
 legible handwriting of the devil, the seal and 
 stamp of dissipation. 
 
 Not present dissipation. It is the story of 
 the past that is always written upon the tell- 
 tale features. Nature avenges herself for 
 the wrongs put upon her by telling her whole 
 story to the world so that he who runs may 
 read. If, as I strongly suspect, it was a wom- 
 an's hand that first led Edgar Harrington 
 astray, then as a compensating power it was 
 a woman's hand that saved him. He had 
 climbed to the dizzy and unreal heights of 
 pleasure, where a man looking into the awful 
 abysses loses his head. As he was going 
 over the precipice a strong, brave hand was 
 reached out to him, and he was saved.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CLYFFE HOUSE. 
 
 Two girls were chatting together in one of 
 the upper rooms of an old southern home 
 a front room that opened on a latticed ver- 
 anda, overrun with purple wisteria and Gloire 
 Dijon roses. The house was old and much 
 dilapidated, but with its stately air impos- 
 ing and grand, even in decay, as one which 
 had seen better days. It would be hard to 
 determine the architectural age to which it 
 belonged under the modern patches that 
 had been inflicted upon it, but it really was 
 an old colonial mansion, and its first owners 
 boasted of Huguenot descent. It was a 
 traditional record that not one member of 
 the family had ever earned a dollar or 
 worked a day. General Washington had 
 been entertained there with his liveried serv- 
 ants and emblazoned coach, and wine had 
 48
 
 CLYFFE HOUSE. 49 
 
 run as freely as water. In the dining-hall, 
 of feudal proportions, great companies 
 feasted until conviviality had drowned rea- 
 son. Time had been as nothing to those 
 people. Like the loyal people of Scotland 
 who stopped their clocks when Queen Eliz- 
 abeth visited them, they did not wish to be 
 reminded of its flight. But those good old 
 days were gone. Successive generations 
 became poorer and weaker. Clyffe House 
 was no longer a hospitable mansion filled 
 with revelers, but a broken-down, mort- 
 gaged homestead, with nothing pertaining 
 to it but an impoverished family and an 
 aristocratic record. The master of the 
 house failed to rise one morning, and was 
 found dead, his hand still grasping the only 
 sentinel that stood by his lonely death-bed, 
 his favorite decanter. His familiar and 
 boon companion, when he heard of his com- 
 rade's death, blew out his feeble brains, and 
 the queenly daughter, who was the toast of 
 the county and the last of her race, se- 
 cluded herself in the shut-up house, which 
 was the sole mausoleum of a grand family.
 
 50 HER DESPERATE VICTORY, 
 
 In a year she made a singular marriage. It 
 was all for love and the world well lost. 
 There had been in her father's employ a 
 young law-student, who had gone to the 
 sunny south on account of a threatened dif- 
 ficulty of the lungs. Marie Clyffe had 
 refused some brilliant offers. Money was to 
 her as dross. She had lived a brief era of 
 splendor, through her beauty and position, 
 and society might well be astonished when 
 she married the poor law-student and 
 attempted to resume her sway as its queen. 
 The attempt was a failure. The law-student 
 was given the empty title of judge ere he 
 had ever pleaded a case. He tried to fill a 
 dead man's shoes. Horse races and politics 
 ruined him socially and financially. He 
 drank himself into a sodden state of degra- 
 dation. His wife, a peevish, faded beauty, 
 died and left him two little girls, as wild 
 and shy as they were pretty. The war had 
 swept away their servants, of whom they 
 possessed a faithful retinue. His weak 
 lungs had prevented the judge from serving 
 in the Union army if he had been inclined
 
 CLYFFE HOUSE. 51 
 
 to, which he was not. He loved his 
 country, but he loved his own safety and 
 comfort better, and contrived to stay peace- 
 ably at home while opposing factions set- 
 tled the nation's difficulty with shot and 
 shell. With his two girls, growing up like 
 weeds, and one old servant to act as steward 
 and housekeeper, the judge kept house in 
 the old mansion, and existed after a fashion. 
 He arbitrated a little, drank a good deal, 
 and went shambling about, red-nosed and 
 incoherent, but enjoying a certain distinc- 
 tion as the widower of the late handsome 
 Miss Clyffe. The old bell-crowned hat and 
 long white-seamed coat were familiar to the 
 eyes of all Sparta. Richard Marsden in 
 more prosperous circumstances would have 
 been a less prominent man than he was on 
 this border-land of starvation. Though not 
 an -old man the judge was bent and walked 
 with a cane, but his hair and whiskers were 
 still a natural, glossy black. He had never 
 worried enough to turn them white prema- 
 turely. His long, white hands were as fine 
 as any lady's, and his voice had a charm
 
 52 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 that fascinated those who heard it. A 
 gentle drawl had tempered his northern 
 intonation and given it a musical quality 
 that harmonized well with the melodious 
 dialect of the south, but left it free from 
 the blemishes of local pronunciation. He 
 could not have a higher compliment 
 than to be told, as he often was : " I 
 thoth' foh suah, Jedge, you was bawn in 
 the south." 
 
 With all his apparent content there 
 rankled in the heart of Richard Marsden an 
 unhealed wound. In his early youth he had 
 been fondly attached to a beautiful girl 
 whom he had left in his northern home. 
 They were to be married as soon as the 
 young lady had finished her school days 
 and he had established himself in a comfort- 
 able law business. He had been true to his 
 love, and not even- the blandishment of 
 ex-Governor Clyffe's beautiful daughter had 
 caused him to swerve in his devotion to the 
 absent. No ; it was a letter from the girl 
 herself, renouncing him in curt terms and 
 pronouncing her decision final, that changed
 
 CLYFFE HOUSE. 53 
 
 his whole life. He wrote to her begging her 
 to tell him why she cast him off, and re- 
 ceived a second and more determined 
 refusal, which he was compelled to accept as 
 final. In three weeks he was the husband 
 of Marie Clyffe. But he brooded over his 
 disappointment, and became morose and 
 taciturn. His wife could not complain, for 
 she alone held the key to his secret. All 
 Aveak characters have one obstinate charac- 
 teristic. Richard Marsden had loved with 
 all the force of his nature. He might have 
 bartered his integrity to defend that love, 
 but he would not relinquish it. He gave an 
 empty, loveless heart to the fair southern 
 woman, but he made her a tolerable hus- 
 band, defending his secret at all cost, and 
 taking care that she should never know that 
 he married her from pique. That he was 
 fooled, duped and betrayed never occurred 
 to him. 
 
 The unloved wife died, and among some 
 relics of dried flowers and yellow laces 
 Richard Marsden found the form of a letter 
 another and another copies, re-written
 
 54 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 and connected, and finally complete. She 
 had not even cared to destroy the evidences 
 of her guilt, knowing that while she lived 
 they were safe, and when she was dead she 
 could not be punished. Then Richard Mars- 
 den took a contemptible revenge. He let 
 her children grow up neglected and uncared 
 for, with never a look or word of love from 
 him. He shut himself up with a friend 
 after his own heart and drank as long as 
 the liquor could be obtained. The only 
 friends the children had was the old colored 
 mammy, who had been their mother's nurse, 
 and the drunken Major, who in the days of 
 her girlhood had been their mother's lover. 
 There was something pathetic in the devo- 
 tion of these two to the ruined fortunes of 
 the children. Major Krum, the boon com- 
 panion, had prevailed upon the father to 
 send the eldest girl, Marcia, to a convent for 
 school instruction. She remained there one 
 year, at the end of which time she returned 
 home to recover from a strange illness, in- 
 duced by o.ver-study, romanticism, a fervor 
 of religious belief, and a severe attack of
 
 CLYFFE HOUSE. 55 
 
 insomnia. Cherry, the youngest sister, 
 had pined for her companion, and was re- 
 joiced to have her back with her ; but the 
 child scarcely recognized in this emaciated 
 being, with fixed and glassy eyes, the 
 Marcia of the old days when they had 
 romped the fields together. Mammy, dis- 
 tressed and fearful, at once commenced a 
 vigorous task of practical nursing, but noth- 
 ing could rouse the sick girl from the 
 lethargy which had overtaken her. There 
 were days in which she seemed to resemble 
 her former self, but much of the time was 
 passed in a mental stupor that was as 
 singular as it was incurable. The one doc-r 
 tor at Sparta was called in by the Major, 
 but he could do her no good. So it came to 
 be an established fact that she was an inva- 
 lid, and Mammy and the Major redoubled 
 their attention and kindness. Cherry was 
 as devoted as they. Wild and shy as a 
 half-breed, totally ignorant, she continued 
 to run about in her picturesque rags and 
 grew lovelier every year. Then the Judge 
 raised a little money, bought himself a new
 
 56 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 suit of clothes, and to the astonishment of 
 everybody he went on a visit to his old 
 home in the north, and remained there 
 several months.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " MAJE." 
 
 Major Krum looked after his friend's 
 family while he was absent. That is, he 
 kept actual starvation from the door by 
 the use of the Judge's hounds and gun, 
 and as they were accustomed to a game 
 diet, they had enough to eat. Mrs. Ma- 
 deira, the rector's excellent wife, who had 
 long tried to befriend the two girls, called 
 often, but Marcia was usually asleep and 
 Cherry could not be found. At last the 
 Major received a letter from the Judge. 
 He read it and immediately went out and 
 got very drunk. Then, charged with a fic- 
 titious courage, he set out on a ziz-zag tour 
 to Clyffe House. 
 
 It was a perfect day. Cherry sat framed 
 
 in the purple wisterias balancing herself on 
 
 the sill of the open window of her sister's 
 
 sick-room. A man's hat, crushed out of all 
 
 57
 
 58 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 shape, was perched on her sunny curls. 
 She was whistling defiantly to a saucy 
 mocker in a tree beneath. Then she de- 
 scried the Major and waved her old hat in 
 the air. 
 
 " There's Maje' comin', Marsh, and he's 
 jes' as reely as he kin be. He ain't bin 
 as bad sence the Jedge went up norf. He's 
 got a letter, Marsh. Kin you see him? 
 Mebbe it's for you. I'm goin' to git it," 
 and the young hoyden escaped by the 
 window, sliding down the worm-eaten pil- 
 lar of the old veranda with a force that 
 made it shake. 
 
 The Major was not so tipsy but that he 
 knew what he was doing. He held the let- 
 ter up over his head and said, unsteadily : 
 
 " Lemme alone ! I've got bad news an' 
 I'm going to give it to Miss Marcia my- 
 self my-self hear that my-s-e-1-f ! " 
 
 " Bad noos ! 'Taint nuther. I wasn't 
 brung up in the woods to be scart by a 
 owl," responded Cherry. 
 
 " Who who are you a talkin' to, Miss 
 Impudence ? " inquired the Major with
 
 MAJE. 59 
 
 drunken gravity. "Who who do you 
 'spose I am? Mebbe I'm not th' officer 'n 
 command hey ! I've got bad news b-a-d 
 n-e-w-s ! ' ' 
 
 " Popsey dead?" inquired the young lady 
 coolly. 
 
 "Didn't I say bad news hey? now go 
 proceed advance halt fire ! No ! no! 
 I mean you go and ask Miss Miss Marcia 
 if she will see yours truly this s'morn'." 
 
 Cherry made another ineffectual snatch 
 at the letter, then proceeded coolly to the 
 house at a pace to suit herself. The Ma- 
 jor sat down on the horse-block, pulled out 
 a red bandana handkerchief and mopped 
 his forehead. The world was going round 
 very fast. He tried to reach the trunk of 
 a catalpa tree growing near and nearly lost 
 his balance. The picture he presented was 
 not an agreeable one, albeit it presented 
 the ridiculous side of the vice he was a 
 slave to. In spite of his degradation there 
 was a sort of gentle dignity about the 
 man. The hounds came nosing about him, 
 and kissed his unshaven cheeks with the
 
 60 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 mute affection the dog gives to a trusted 
 friend. Cherry hailed him from the window. 
 
 " Come up," she called; " Marsh says you 
 may ef you 'have yourself ! " 
 
 The Major rose solemnly, and lifting his 
 feet very high and putting them down as 
 if they were weighted, entered the house. 
 At the foot of the stairs he halted and 
 leaned confidingly on the balusters. Then 
 he tenderly embraced the newel post. Fin- 
 ally he made an heroic attempt and walked 
 unsteadily, up the stairs. At the door of 
 the front room he stopped and consulted 
 the letter. 
 
 " Come in, Major ! " called a plaintive 
 voice. " Cherry said you had a letter for 
 me." 
 
 " 'Mornin', Miss Marcia," the Major sa- 
 luted in military style. " 'Mornin' yes, I 
 have a letter to read to you, and it's got 
 bad news, but I ain't in any hurry to tell it 
 as I know of." 
 
 " Is the is papa anything happened to 
 him ? " asked the sick girl, without any 
 apparent agitation. She was sallow and
 
 MAJE. 61 
 
 spiritless looking, and wrapped in an old 
 cashmere robe de chambre, of a palm-leaf 
 pattern, belonging to a past generation, 
 looked anything but pretty or graceful in 
 her capacity of invalid. But to the Major's 
 eyes she was the fairest woman that ever 
 the sun shone on the fairest but one and 
 she was dead. 
 
 " Bad news '11 keep ; it's only good news 
 that can't be told too soon. No, your 
 feyher isn't dead, he is he is what are you 
 making faces at, Cherry?" and the Major 
 frowned with mock severity. 
 
 " You," said Cherry. " You look so much 
 like a great big goose, Maje. Never mind 
 the bad news, tell us a story, Maje." 
 
 "Your feyher's been " 
 
 " Oh, nevah mind the Jedge. We doan 
 care nothun 'bout him. Tell us something 
 funny," piped Cherry. 
 
 " I've got to break the news gently. 
 Danged ef I don't wish it was over," mut- 
 tered the Major, who was suddenly sobered. 
 " Ever hear of the Widder Kelly ? " he asked 
 turning to Cherry.
 
 62 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " Nevah was she a witch ? " 
 
 " Major, tell me what you came to say ! " 
 commanded the sick girl. 
 
 "One moment. Miss Marcia. I must 
 break the news gently. There was a Mr. 
 Kelly employed upon a railroad in this 
 section once, and he was run over by a 
 hand-car and killed, and one of the men was 
 sent up to his house to break the news to 
 his wife. 
 
 " ' Be sure and tell her gently,' said the 
 superintendent. 
 
 " So the man went on, and when he came 
 to the shanty where Mrs. Kelly was he gave 
 a great knock on the door, and it was 
 opened by the woman herself. 
 
 " ' Does the widow Kelly live here ? ' he 
 asked, in a kind of faint voice. 
 
 " ' Faith, she doesn't,' says the woman. 
 
 "'You lie !' roars the man; 'you're the 
 widow Kelly yourself, and they're bringin' 
 poor Mike's body home on a board ' ; and 
 your father, the Jedge, has just gone and 
 got married up norf, and he's bringin' your 
 stepmother home ! "
 
 MAJE. 63 
 
 " Stepmother ! " screamed Cherry. 
 
 " Stepmother ! " wailed Marcia. 
 
 " I said stepmother," answered the Major. 
 " Know it's an ugly word, but 'taint half as 
 ugly as she'll be, or I lose my guess." 
 
 " I'll run away ! " threatened Cherry. 
 " She ain't nevah goin' to be my mother 
 hateful old thing !" 
 
 "What will become of me?" asked 
 Marcia, as she turned pale and rigid, and 
 sunk into one of her strange spells, while 
 Cherry screamed at the top of her voice. 
 
 " Wha's de mattah, honey bird ? Wha 
 foh your done come up heah, Majah Krum, 
 and raise all dis heah row ? Dah, Miss 
 Cherry, you done drownded yoh poh sistah 
 wid all dat campfire. I declah I nevah saw 
 no sich folks nohow. Ise clean descouraged, 
 I is." 
 
 "You'll have a new missus to-morrow, 
 Mammy," said the Major, with a trifle of 
 malice. 
 
 "Wha he done mean, honey?" asked the 
 old woman, rolling her eyes. 
 
 " Oh," screamed Cherry, " Pop's got a new
 
 64 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 mother for us all. She'll be your stepmother, 
 too, Mammy; won't she, Marsh?" 
 
 " Done gwine ter put anoder wife in 
 bressed Miss Marie's shoes and make her 
 missus heah. Oh, Massa Clyffe ! Massa 
 Clyffe ! I wuz neber gwine to lebe de ole 
 place wha I raised my missus and de chillun, 
 an' wha my ole man died, and my leetle Pete, 
 and now Ise got to be turned out ter die. 
 Oh, de good Lawd fotch me home safe inter 
 kingdom come afore de strange woman sets 
 her foot inter dis heah house ! Oh, de 
 bressed Lawd ! I done can't stan' it." 
 
 " She will beat me," howled Cherry. 
 " Beulah St. John had a stepmother, and 
 she pulled Beulah's hair and toted her out 
 of the house with a broom." 
 
 Marcia roused a little from her dazed 
 state, and looked at them all with her 
 sleepy, indolent eyes, th'at had an inde- 
 scribable quality in their dark splendor, 
 as if the eyes of a snake were looking 
 through the perfect orbs of a woman. 
 
 " He can bring her here," she said, slowly, 
 "and put her in dear mamma's place, but she.
 
 MAJE. 65 
 
 will be nothing to us but an enemy. We 
 will never call her by the precious name of 
 mother." 
 
 " Stepmother," cried Cherry, " horrid, 
 cross old thing, I hate yer," and she 
 clinched her hands and made faces at an 
 imaginary foe. 
 
 " I'm goin'," said the Major. After con- 
 juring up this scene he shrunk abashed, and 
 his better self recovered its balance at the 
 spirit he had raised. ' Oh, I nearly forgot. 
 Here's a package and a letter for you come 
 this mornin' in the northern mail. Didn't 
 know you had any gentlemen correspond- 
 ents, Miss Marcia." 
 
 A warm blush lit up the sallow face of 
 the sick girl. Its rosy glow suffused even 
 the pale hand she extended for the letter. 
 It was a fine, slim hand with delicate fin- 
 gers, and as the Major extended the letter 
 he took the hand and pressed it to his lips 
 with respectful gallantry. The sick girl 
 drew it away petulantly. 
 
 " Oh !" mocked the undaunted Cherry, 
 " Pass 'em round, Maje. Here's mine," and
 
 66 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 she held out a chubby fist that was as 
 pink and rosy as her cheeks. 
 
 The Major took her at her word, and was 
 about to do her bidding when she dex- 
 trously gave his cheek a resounding blow 
 with her saucy knuckles. 
 
 " Gad ! " said the Major, angrily. " I 
 won't mind seeing that young tiger tamed. 
 I reckon a stepmother that has anything 
 to do with you will suffer enough.' 1 
 
 "Good-by, Maje," chirupped the girl, as 
 he passed out. " Come agen when you 
 can't stay s'long." 
 
 After he was gone Cherry framed herself 
 in the window in a serene state of ani- 
 mal content. A red-bird was singing on the 
 roof above her, and the low murmur of 
 a lazy mocking-bird issued from the tree 
 near. She was very pretty in her wooden 
 frame, with a song that answered to the 
 bird bubbling on her lips. Her scrappy 
 dress was of some by-gone stuff that might 
 have been used once for curtains; it gave 
 the child a quaint, bizarre effect, but har- 
 monized with the roses and lilies of her
 
 MAJE. 67 
 
 complexion ; her bare, round arms clasped 
 above her head were as perfect in shape 
 and color as mortal flesh and blood could 
 well be; health and exercise gave her a 
 radiant bloom. She had learned early to 
 defend herself against aggressions, and was 
 full of rude courage. Mammy, who sat de- 
 vouring her with loving eyes, thought that 
 she was the image of her dead mother, 
 and stifled a sob at the desecration of 
 that mother's memory. Cherry felt the 
 magnetism of the look and turned, her 
 saucy lips curled in scorn. 
 
 " You needn't watch this child," she said, 
 pertly. " I kin take care of my own self, 
 Mammy Monnia. Jest you go and cook a 
 lot of vittles for the folks comin'." 
 
 " Ise gwine ter dew dat enyhow, Miss 
 Cherry," said the old woman, meekly. " Ise 
 willin' to take orders from my blessed chillen 
 as Missus gim me when she died ; but no 
 strange woman eber goin' to rule ole 
 Mammy. I done go off somewhar jes' to 
 lib all alone by myself." 
 
 In a moment the impulsive Cherry was in
 
 68 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 the old woman's lap, with her two lovely 
 arms around her neck. 
 
 " You jest dare to go away ! " she cried, 
 " I'll send the dogs after you in right smart 
 time." 
 
 Mammy laughed. " Mebby, yer tinks de 
 houns gwine to tear dis ole carcass ? Why, 
 chile, I brung up ebery one of dem dogs 
 jes' like it was a baby! dey aint no good to 
 hunt my old tracks, dem dogs isn't ! " 
 
 Marcia was reading her letter. Her face 
 was changed; it fairly radiated with ex- 
 citement. 
 
 "Is't good noos?" asked Cherry. 
 
 " Yes ! they have sent my poems back. 
 One of the editors of the Day Star writes 
 such a nice letter ; he says my poetry is too 
 good for a daily paper more suitable for 
 a magazine or weekly, so he returns it with 
 thanks, but I am to try again." 
 
 "Coin' to rite a story, Marsh?" 
 
 " Not exactly a story, but a sketch some- 
 thing short for people to laugh or cry over. 
 The editor's name is Edgar Harrington, and 
 he writes such a kind letter. Oh Cherry,
 
 MAJE. 69 
 
 if I can only put into words the dreams that 
 come into my head while I am lying here ! 
 Such beautiful visions as I have. It would 
 make life a different thing to have such an 
 interest." 
 
 " And you shall tell me all about 'em, 
 every word, before you send them, cos I 
 can't read them if you do get them printed 
 out." 
 
 " Poor child," said Marcia, tenderly. 
 " Why won't you go to school, Cherry, 
 and learn something?" 
 
 " Don't want ter," piped Cherry. " Do 
 the birds go to school; or the butterflies? 
 I hate school. I don't want to know 
 nothin'." 
 
 " And I'm sure you have your wish," 
 said her sister, with some asperity. " You 
 talk just as Mammy does. It isn't nice to 
 be ignorant, Cherry. People will despise 
 you." 
 
 " Let 'em," retorted Cherry ; " I won't 
 talk to 'em. They like to hear me sing 
 and see me dance. I won't learn; an' I 
 won't do no work ef I kin help it. I
 
 70 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 warn't brung up to be anything but a 
 lady!" 
 
 "Brung up can't you say brought up?" 
 
 " Broughten up, then, ef it's enny better. 
 What'd you git by goin' to school, Marsh, 
 a-lyin' there on the bed as white as 
 dough? But thar, honey, you needn't 
 cry. I'll know somethin' some day, an* 
 yer won't be ashamed of me." 
 
 " I'm not ashamed of you," sobbed 
 Marcia ; " but, oh, Cherry, can't you see 
 that we are not like other girls. We don't 
 know the things they do. We have no 
 accomplishments like them. You are as 
 old as Grace Madeira, and she is a young 
 lady in long dresses 
 
 "An' wears a hump on her back, an' a 
 lot of false hair on her head, and walks 
 this way, an' says ' I'm delited to see you' 
 to folks as she despises. Like Grace 
 Madeira? I reckon I ain't; kin she shoot 
 a partridge on the wing or ride a horse 
 bare-back? Didn't I take the prize at the 
 archery shoot and not half try, neither. 
 I'm just a bang-up girl, ef I don't know
 
 MAJE. 71 
 
 nothin'. And I don't let enny soft sawney 
 of a feller tell me no pack of lies. Here's 
 Mammy with a bite. Woodcock pie. I 
 shot that pair yesterday mo'ning. You'd 
 starve ef it warn't for your know-nothin' 
 sister." 
 
 " I believe I should," sighed Marcia, 
 wearily. " Mammy, where did this jelly 
 come from?" 
 
 " Made it, honey. De Major he brung 
 de barberries, an' I jest squeezed um juice 
 outen, an' biled it down wid loaf sugar. 
 I usen make it for yoh mamma jes' like 
 dat." 
 
 The two sisters ate the dLaintily cooked 
 meal, while Mammy waited on them with 
 the attentive familiarity which her position 
 justified. Not another word was said of 
 the coming guest the new mother and 
 mistress. Marcia was silently brooding over 
 her letter. When the tray was removed 
 she lay back among her pillows and fell 
 asleep, with it clasped firmly in her hand. 
 Cherry not being on the watch while her 
 sister slept, dropped out of the window,
 
 72 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 and whistling to her favorite hound went 
 off for a ramble in the fields. Upon the 
 Major and Mammy devolved all the cere- 
 monies of welcoming the bride.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "THE STEPMOTHER'S BREATH." 
 
 Judge Marsden and his new wife arrived 
 at their house on the evening of a bright, 
 pleasant day, and alighted wearily from the 
 stage in which they had finished the last 
 twenty-five miles of their journey. There 
 was no one at the gate to meet them, and 
 the house was inhospitably dark and still. 
 The house door stood ajar, however, and as 
 they approached the figure of Major Krum 
 appeared, carrying, with characteristic un- 
 steadiness, a blazing paraffine lamp, that 
 flamed wildly in the strong night breeze. 
 
 "Welcome home, Jedge! Welcome home, 
 Mrs. Jedg I beg pardon Mrs. Marsden. 
 My dear lady, I am delighted to see you." 
 
 The Judge went through a scant cere- 
 mony of introduction most ungraciously. 
 He was angry with the Major for being 
 73
 
 74 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 there, and with Mammy and Cherry for 
 not being there. 
 
 " Come in, Beatrice," he said, in a kind, 
 reassuring voice, to the beautiful woman 
 who stood irresolutely on the threshold 
 our friend Beatrice of long ago. " It is 
 your home, my dear." 
 
 The wind, rising into a gale, although the 
 night was clear, swept around the house and 
 in at the open door. It extinguished the 
 light which the Major carried, and went 
 wailing up the staircase like a human thing, 
 rattling the crazy casements of the old 
 house with vindictive force. At the same 
 moment a sharp, querulous voice was heard 
 to ask, complainingly : 
 
 " Where does that cold wind come from, 
 Mammy ? " 
 
 And a second voice responded : 
 
 " Bress yoh heart, chile, don't you know? 
 Habn't I done tell you afore when it blow 
 dat way? Dat col' wind, child, dat jes' 
 blow in den, am de step mother's brcf" 
 
 Every word struck with cruel distinctness 
 on the heart of the new mother. She, too,
 
 THE STEPMOTHER'S BREATH. 75 
 
 had heard the foolish old saying. That 
 it could be so wickedly applied was beyond 
 belief. 
 
 " Mammy ! " called the Judge, angrily, 
 " come down here ! " 
 
 With much grumbling and a slow, un- 
 wieldy step, Mammy fat and scant of 
 breath toiled down the stairs, lamp in 
 hand, and with surly respect greeted the 
 master of the house. 
 
 " Show Mrs. Marsden to the room you 
 have made ready for her. Mammy, this is 
 your new mistress," said the Judge, who 
 then disappeared with the Major. 
 
 The front chamber was decked in a most 
 singular manner for the reception of a bride. 
 It had neither been swept nor dusted. A 
 tattered old silk quilt covered the great 
 four-posted bed. The heavy curtains were 
 ragged and mildewed. The portrait of a 
 beautiful woman in ball attire hung in a 
 tarnished frame on the wall. It was 
 wreathed with fresh flowers and crape. The 
 new wife's heart sank. This, then, was her 
 welcome home! No one should see, though,
 
 76 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 that she was cruelly hurt, and she turned to 
 Mammy with a smile. 
 
 " Is this was this lady Judge Marsden's 
 first wife ? " 
 
 " Dat's my missus," answered Mammy, in 
 a sulky tone. 
 
 " You mean that she was your mistress," 
 answered Beatrice, gently. 
 
 "I nebber hab no oder if I lib a tousan' 
 years ! " said the old servant. " She was 
 Massa Clyffe's only chile, an' I nussed her 
 when she was a baby. Dey was powerful 
 rich folkses den." 
 
 Beatrice smiled sadly enough. 
 
 " Ignorance and superstition," she thought, 
 " are to be combated here. More work 
 given to me to do. Ah me! 
 
 " ' I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty 
 I waked, and found that life was duty.' " 
 
 Then she turned to the old woman. 
 
 "Where arc the two young ladies?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " De chilluns? Missuss's young ladies? 
 Dey's in dere own room."
 
 THE STEPMOTHER'S BREATH. 77 
 
 "Then I will go there," said Beatrice, 
 quickly. " Show me the way." 
 
 " De lawd's massy, yer ain't agoin' in ter 
 Miss Marsh's room when she doan invitate 
 yer, is yer, Miss Marsden, ma'am?" asked 
 Mammy, with staring eyes. 
 
 " Show me the room ! " said Beatrice, 
 imperatively. 
 
 Mammy backed every inch of the way, 
 and coughed loudly and significantly before 
 she knocked, and finally turned the handle 
 of the door. 
 
 There was a flutter of skirts at the win- 
 dow. It was Cherry disappearing into the 
 night. 
 
 The pale, haughty face of Marcia was 
 turned to the intruder. An unmistakable 
 gleam of hatred was in the dark eyes. 
 
 " I am your new mother," said Beatrice, 
 gently, as she crossed the room. She was 
 dressed in rich and elegant traveling dress, 
 and in spite of her weariness and presen'. 
 dejection looked very handsome and re- 
 fined. 
 
 "You are not my mother," was the chilJ
 
 78 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 ing answer. "You are my father's wife 
 my mother is dead. Oh Mammy, send her 
 away. She will kill me if you don't." 
 
 "Hush! I will go, poor child! Who 
 has poisoned your mind against me? I will 
 teach you yet to love me." 
 
 No n o no! I hate you," wailed the 
 weak, querulous voice of the sick girl, and 
 with one pitying look Beatrice went away, 
 back to her own room. 
 
 Half an hour later a supper was served, 
 to which Beatrice was led by her husband. 
 Major Krum was present, and Cherry had 
 been coaxed and threatened into her usual 
 place, but as soon as the Judge appeared 
 with his new bride the girl rose abruptly 
 and left the room. Beatrice, accustomed to 
 spotless housekeeping, was horrified at the 
 neglected table-service and slack manner of 
 serving the food, but the food itself was 
 above praise. The Maryland snapped bis- 
 cuit, the broiled woodcock, the corn bread 
 and the sweet-potato pudding were the 
 daintiest of their kind. And not even 
 Beatrice herself could make such coffee as
 
 THE STEPMOTHER'S BREATH. 79 
 
 this old-gold and cream decoction of Mam- 
 my's. It cheered and soothed the crushed 
 spirits of the unwelcome mistress of this 
 fantastic house, and when she excused her- 
 self to the Major and left the table she felt 
 self-reliant and almost happy again. The 
 Judge remained to have a chat with his 
 old friend. Poor Beatrice ! it was a new 
 and sad revelation when at daybreak 
 she awakened from a hurried nap and 
 found that he had at last remembered 
 her he was lying fully dressed by her side 
 in a drunken sleep. Here was work, indeed, 
 to do. God give her strength to do it, was 
 her one sincere prayer. 
 
 But she was a woman of sense, and knew 
 that reforms were not completed in a day. 
 After the shock to her sensibility which 
 the first knowledge of her husband's degra- 
 dation caused her there came a reaction 
 of love and pity. He must be rescued 
 from this moral bondage of death and in- 
 cited to deeds of nobler aim. His chil- 
 dren must be instructed and taught to 
 love their home. The word seemed a
 
 80 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 misnomer applied to this broken down 
 place, which to the brisk mind of the 
 northern woman seemed only to possess 
 the picturesqueness of squalor. 
 
 It had all been made right between her 
 and the lover of her youth. He had laid 
 the forged letters in her hand and received 
 hers in return the letter which the dead 
 woman had written demanding that she 
 renounce him, since he loved another, and 
 they had agreed never again to speak of 
 it. Each had been married and widowed, 
 and neither had given that first best love 
 to those whose lives they had shared. 
 Beatrice had married a man many years 
 older than herself. She had made him a 
 good, true wife, and had been a loving 
 mother to his only child. She had made 
 him happy, but the encouraging voice of 
 duty had been her only reward. To her that 
 had seemed all-sufficient until the lover of 
 her youth came to her with the desire to 
 set himself right, and prove that he had 
 never been recreant to his trust. All her 
 love revived at sight of him. She was a
 
 THE STEPMOTHER'S BREATH. 81 
 
 rich woman and could do as she pleased. 
 And she pleased to marry, afraid to trust 
 to a second wooing. He had spoken of his 
 two girls as children, and mentioned Mar- 
 cia's singular illness as a temporary effect 
 of over-study. To tell the truth, the Judge 
 cared little for money, and the fact that 
 his wife had a dower did not influence 
 him to hasten the marriage. He wanted 
 love a companion for his lonely hours 
 the ideal of his youth. He found all in 
 this grand, accomplished, beautiful woman, 
 and with a man's inconsistency was not 
 deterred from offering himself because he 
 was in impoverished circumstances. If 
 Beatrice had not possessed a dollar he 
 would have concluded that they could 
 live somehow. 
 
 For a few weeks the new wife let every- 
 thing go on as before. She was simply a 
 boarder in her own house. With her new- 
 found love she wandered about the fields 
 and groves of the lovely southern country, 
 and the two learned all that had happened 
 in those lost years from each other's lips.
 
 82 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 Life could not go on very long in this happy, 
 care-free, picnic fashion. The Judge felt with 
 new pride and elation that he must bestir 
 himself in his neglected profession. Beatrice 
 saw the neglect and poverty that ruled 
 everything, and determined with generous 
 hand to remove them. She would buy the 
 old house back into the family, and remove 
 the landmarks of debt. One day she saw 
 Cherry peering at her from behind the vines. 
 The girl looked wild and neglected, and a 
 sudden pity for her stirred the heart of the 
 new wife. Elusive and mocking, she was 
 gone in a moment, but Beatrice felt that it 
 was a call from duty, who, jealous mistress, 
 would have no rival. Then she ended her 
 days of married courtship and entered upon 
 the new role of mistress of the house. 
 
 So it happened that a few days after that 
 Judge Marsden went into the great kitchen, 
 which was Mammy's sole and undisputed 
 realm, and solemnly addressed the old tur- 
 baned queen : 
 
 " Mammy, when Mrs. Marsden comes 
 down here you are to do exactly as she tells
 
 THE STEPMOTHER'S BREATH. 83 
 
 you to, without any complaints or words 
 about it. You understand?" 
 
 Mammy folded her bare, black arms 
 over her capacious bosom and looked 
 at the " Jedge." For half a minute she 
 stared boldly and defiantly, then her eyes 
 fell. 
 
 "Yes, sah!" 
 
 " And you are not to uphold those girls 
 in any disobedience, or help Cherry in any 
 of her pranks. Her mother will look after 
 her now. Understand, eh?" 
 
 "Yes, sah!" 
 
 The Judge went out and Mammy looked 
 after him with a legible dislike upon her 
 old face. 
 
 " Jes' to tink of dat. An' he ain't no 
 Clyffe, and neber was. Ef Mis' Marie cum 
 back she jest turn ober in her grave," 
 reasoned Mammy in her own fashion. Then 
 she began to sing ; it was the only way 
 in which she could find relief. She sung 
 the songs of slavery although she had long 
 been a free woman. But it comforted her 
 to sing:
 
 84 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 "'Nobody knows de trouble I seen, 
 
 Nobody knows but Jesus. 
 Nobody knows de trouble I seen; 
 Nobcdy knows but Jesus.'" 
 
 " De Jedge lookin' mighty fine. I reckun 
 de new missus been givin' him de chalk- 
 line ter walk yah, yah ! Dese am mighty 
 changed times foh de Clyffe House," she 
 soliloquized. 
 
 So one morning Beatrice went into the 
 kitchen, determined to begin the work of 
 subjugating the dirt and disorder which 
 had become organized forces by attacking 
 them in their stronghold. Mammy, the 
 picturesque despot of the realm, had no 
 idea of surrendering her power without 
 a struggle, and she met her new mistress 
 in her most aggressive mood. When 
 Mrs. Marsden entered the pantry the old 
 colored woman followed her and defended 
 her territory from the unwelcome invasion 
 with every means at her disposal save that 
 of absolute physical strength. It was not 
 a desirable place to invade. Beatrice, 
 educated to the neat, systematic house- 
 keeping of the north, was astonished and
 
 He held the letter up over his head and said unsteadily 
 " Lemnie alone ! I've got bad news !" (Page 58.)
 
 THE STEPMOTHER'S BREATH. 87 
 
 dismayed at the confusion, waste and dis- 
 order that confronted her. She found 
 spices, candle-ends and family silver mixed 
 up with a total disregard of the fitness of 
 things. In a bowl of rare Dresden china 
 she discovered a half-used cake of toilet 
 soap. 
 
 " Doan tech dem tings, Missis," implored 
 the old woman, with protruding eyeballs, 
 "dey's sacred, dem is." 
 
 " Sacred," echoed Beatrice, " I should 
 think if they were you would take better 
 care of them. This bowl must be kept in 
 the china closet, where it belongs." 
 
 " Dat bowl," screamed Mammy, " am de 
 wessel dat my young ladies wus baptized 
 in. It am neber kept nowhere but in dis 
 yeah pantry." 
 
 " Oh," said Beatrice, laughing, " if it is 
 a baptismal font we will be careful of it 
 by putting it where it will not be used as 
 a catch-all." 
 
 She threw the soap into a receptacle for 
 such things, but in a moment Mammy had 
 pounced upon it and with indignation res-
 
 88 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 cued it from such unhallowed company. 
 "Yer doan know," she said, in a tone that 
 implied sympathy for such ignorance, " but 
 dat cake ob soap am de berry las' one my 
 dear Miss Clyffe wus washed wid." 
 
 The tears rolled down her dusky cheeks, 
 and she clasped the precious cake of soap 
 to her bosom as if she would protect it 
 with her life. 
 
 " Ignorance and superstition, indeed !" 
 commented Beatrice. " No wonder the 
 poor children are half barbarians, educated 
 under this regime. But patience ; this is 
 but the prelude to my work the molehills 
 of difficulty. God give me strength for 
 my task. 
 
 ' Who sweeps a room as for thy laws 
 Makes that and th' action fine.' 
 
 Success, success at any cost!" 
 
 It seemed to Beatrice as if the spirit of 
 the late Mrs. Marsden rose at every step 
 to throw obstacles in her way, but with 
 resolute hand she continued to demolish 
 memorial tablets of soap, nutmegs, and 
 other ingredients of domestic service which
 
 THE STEPMOTHER'S BREATH. 89 
 
 had been appropriated by Mammy as sacred 
 to the memory of her late mistress. 
 
 " Dat nutmeg was used las' to grate a 
 leetle into de bery las' mou'ful ob gruel 
 she ebber took," and old Mammy wiped 
 away some genuine tears. "And dat bit 
 ob candle was burnin' de berry night afore 
 she died ; and dere's de windin' sheet in 
 de taller ; I sabed it foh de chillun to hab 
 when dey's ole enuff." 
 
 "Poor children!" thought Beatrice. "It is 
 through such legacies they have acquired 
 their inheritance of waywardness and igno- 
 rance." 
 
 At every step Beatrice found the imprint 
 of a dead woman's hand. The finest linen 
 in the house was rolled into an unsightly 
 wad, and yellow with age and neglect, thrust 
 away among an accumulation of rubbish. 
 She was not unprepared when she approached 
 Mammy on the subject, for the appearance 
 of the household specter. 
 
 "It hab nebber bin used," said the old 
 woman, solemnly, " since de day when we 
 funeralized my deah Miss Clyffe."
 
 90 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 This was the way in which Mammy 
 referred to her late mistress, the judge's first 
 ;vife. She had never called her by any but 
 her maiden name. 
 
 It took months of patient labor to evolve 
 neatness and system out of organized dis- 
 order, but it was finally accomplished, and 
 Beatrice had the satisfaction of seeing the 
 whole house transformed into a place of com- 
 fort and respectability, always excepting the 
 Judge's own particular den and the large 
 front room occupied by the sisters. Having 
 subdued to her service the inanimate and 
 temporal things of the household, the new 
 wife turned her attention to the higher spir- 
 itual lives wasting in neglect and unthrift 
 like valueless weeds. But here new and 
 unforeseen difficulties threatened her.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LETTERS AND LETTERS. 
 
 " A letter for Miss Marcia ! " Major Krum 
 announced one morning in his most pomp- 
 ous manner. The Major was not at present 
 a daily visitor at Clyffe House. He had 
 made several ineffectual trials to convey this 
 same letter to Marcia, but had always been 
 intercepted by Beatrice, and he had gone off 
 deeply chagrined, and with the letter still in 
 his possession. 
 
 The fact was, Beatrice had taken a formi- 
 dable dislike to the suave and inoffensive 
 ex-soldier, whose greatest fault lay in his 
 devotion to his cups, his life in all other 
 respects being singularly blameless. But to 
 her his careless habits and convivial nature 
 were exceedingly distasteful, and made a 
 most unfavorable impression. She was deter- 
 mined to win her husband from all his past 
 bad associations, and she soon gave the 
 91
 
 92 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 Major to understand that she would not 
 tolerate any lapse into the old dissolute 
 ways. There was no half-way in Beatrice's 
 morality. She had no excuses for aristo- 
 cratic drunkenness. Because a man came of 
 a good family, and belonged to the patrician 
 walks of life, was reason enough that he 
 should set a higher example to his fellow- 
 men. She had no patience with the social 
 code which permitted a man to drink himself 
 into a state of maudlin imbecility as a tribute 
 to post-prandial conviviality. She plainly 
 intimated to the Major that he could not 
 come and go at will until he mended his 
 ways. She would not permit the two young 
 girls to receive him as they would a brother, 
 even though he was nearly as old as their 
 father. Nor could she make any excuse 
 for the moral turpitude of her husband, 
 who not only welcomed the Major himself, 
 but allowed his daughters the daily influ- 
 ence of his society. 
 
 " You cannot see Marcia," said Beatrice, 
 gently, but in an authoritative tone. " I 
 will give her the letter myself."
 
 LETTERS AND LETTERS. 93 
 
 " If you please, I prefer to give her the 
 letter with my own hands, an' I'm goin'- to 
 do it," answered the Major, doggedly. 
 
 " Major Krum, we may as well understand 
 each other," said Beatrice, firmly. " I am 
 Richard Marsden's wife, the mistress of his 
 house and "her voice faltered "the 
 mother of his children." 
 
 " Stepmother," retorted the Major, in a 
 hateful, mocking tone. 
 
 "Very well," answered Beatrice, with a 
 trembling lip. " God grant that I may make 
 a faithful stepmother.'' 
 
 The Major was ashamed and sorry as soon 
 as he had spoken. His naturally good heart 
 prompted him to undo his cruel speech. 
 
 " Pardon me," he said, " and forget that I 
 could have been so ungentlemanly. Th' 
 fact is fact is I am not quite myself this 
 mornin'." 
 
 " No, and you are never quite yourself, 
 Major," responded Beatrice, sorrowfully; 
 " that is what pains and distresses me. You 
 must see that I am determined to win 
 Richard Marsden away from old associa-
 
 94 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 tions which have dragged him down ; help 
 me and you will win my undying grati- 
 tude." 
 
 " My deah lady, if I cannot help you, I 
 at least will not hinder you. I need not 
 say that your brave stand for the right is 
 fully appreciated by me. Th' only thing I 
 can promise is that I will not come into 
 your presence again until I am sure of 
 reforming myself, an' you have my word 
 that I will nevah again tempt your husband 
 to do wrong. You have conquered." 
 
 He took her hand, and before she could 
 prevent him, had lifted it respectfully to 
 his lips. A mocking laugh broke the 
 momentary silence, and Cherry stepped in 
 from the window opening on the veranda. 
 
 The Major turned away with a look of 
 supreme disgust. It is always the woman 
 who is master of the situation on such 
 occasions. Beatrice turned to Cherry and 
 handed her the letters and package. 
 
 " Give these to Marcia," she said, gravely, 
 " and, Cherry, I think you are too large a 
 girl to bound into the house in such a
 
 LETTERS AND LETTERS. 95 
 
 hoydenish fashion. I would like you to 
 remember this and enter by the door in 
 future." 
 
 " And I ain't comin' in anywhere else 
 but at the winder, Mrs. Stepmother," said 
 Cherry, in an impertinent undertone. 
 
 She detailed to Marcia with distinct mi- 
 nuteness the scene she had just witnessed 
 between the Major and Beatrice. Marcia 
 listened, and a sullen glow of anger stained 
 her pale cheek with an unpleasant red. 
 
 " She has taken papa away from us, and 
 now she will take Maje ! Oh Cherry ! why 
 couldn't it have all staid as it was before 
 she came." 
 
 " H'm, it can't be much worser," retorted 
 Cherry, "even with a stepmother roun'. Here 
 is a letter for you, Marsh. She wouldn't 
 let old Maje bring it up. Wasn't he mad, 
 though ! " 
 
 Marcia opened the large, flat parcel. It 
 was a letter and a photograph the picture 
 of a young man, with a proud, sensitive 
 face, and large, earnest eyes. 
 
 " Looks jes" like Clarence Stedman, the
 
 96 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 feller I daunced with down at the ball," said 
 Cherry. 
 
 "It's the editor of the Day Star, Edgar 
 Harrington," said Marcia, looking at it with 
 admiring glances. " And such a lovely 
 letter so kind and good, just as if he was 
 a dear friend I had known all my life. 
 And, Cheriy, I am to send them something 
 for every paper, and they will pay me for 
 it, and the money will be mine to do with 
 just as I like." 
 
 " Don' see as it'll ever do you enny good, 
 lyin' there sick. Why don' you sit up like 
 other folks, Marsh ? " 
 
 " How can I ? Do you think I lie here 
 because I like it? If I could walk " 
 
 " But you kin," interrupted Cherry. " I 
 seen you." 
 
 A strange glow burned in the girl's cheek, 
 and she angrily muttered something about 
 "enchantment." Cherry turned the subject. 
 
 "Read yer piece to me, Marsh." 
 
 " Call it an article, Cherry. That is what 
 the editor calls such writings." 
 
 "Well, read yer arctic, then. It allus
 
 LETTERS AND LETTERS. 97 
 
 makes me feel kind of all overish, an' jes* 
 as if I woz so happy I wanted to cry to 
 hear them things read outen loud." 
 
 Marcia spread out the newspaper with 
 white, trembling hands, and looked fondly 
 at the column where her production had 
 a prominent heading. 
 
 "This is called a sketch," she said, look- 
 ing it over. " Oh, Cherry, it does not seem 
 as if I wrote this. It seems as if a voice 
 whispered it to me, and I took the words 
 down. I go out of myself and roam the 
 streets or fly far off to countries I have 
 never seen, and the voice goes with me. 
 Cherry, what does it mean?" 
 
 " Coin' crazy," suggested the practical 
 Cherry. 
 
 "No; it is inspiration. I wish I could 
 say genius. Think what a grand thing 
 to be able to write a book that would 
 be read everywhere something that would 
 instruct and please and help to educate 
 people." 
 
 Marcia was either not familiar with Charles 
 
 Kingsley's verse, or she failed to make any 
 7
 
 98 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 application of it to her own case. She was 
 not roused to heed the poet's words: 
 
 " Be good, dear child, and let who will be clever; 
 Do noble things not dream them all day long." 
 
 She was only a dreamer not a real 
 worker. 
 
 "Write a "love story," suggested Cherry, 
 "like Paul and Virginia did, Marsh." 
 
 " They lived it, Cherry, and some one 
 else wrote it. But I I have had no expe- 
 rience." 
 
 Cherry laughed. " There's Maje," she 
 suggested, saucily. "Yer mought call it 
 ' Handed Down,' or, ' From Mother to 
 Daughter.' Say, wouldn't that soun' real 
 kind of splendid?" 
 
 " Do you want me to read you my last 
 sketch? Then keep still, Cherry," and 
 Marcia read aloud her latest contribution 
 to the Day Star. It was called " No dear 
 face at the window," and recited pathetic- 
 ally the story of a little child who every 
 night watched at the window for her drunken 
 father. It was not until she had died from 
 a cold contracted at her post that he learned
 
 LETTERS AND LETTERS. 
 
 to value her love. Some one wrote him a 
 letter purporting to come from the little 
 one in heaven, and telling him she would 
 watch for him there. ' He reformed and 
 lived a better life, in expectation of seeing 
 her face at the window of the upper man- 
 sion. Marcia read it well, and when she 
 had finished Cherry was sobbing. 
 
 " It war jes' too mean to have her die," 
 she exclaimed, dashing off the tears. " Say, 
 Marsh, where did you find all of 'em nice 
 words ? Did they grow in yer mind ? " 
 
 " You forget that I have been to school, 
 and am not such an ignoramus as you are," 
 retorted her sister. 
 
 " What's a igneramous ennything like 
 the other kind of mouse ? Ef I hadn't but 
 jes' one little sister what didn't know noth- 
 ing I guess I wouldn't call her names," 
 sobbed Cherry. 
 
 " I wonder if you will ever be anything 
 but a great, overgrown baby," said Marcia. 
 
 At that moment there was a light tap 
 on the door, and Beatrice entered. Marcia 
 hurriedly thrust the letter and paper under
 
 100 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 her pillow, but in her haste and excitement 
 forgot the photograph. Her stepmother 
 saw it, started, and after looking at it a 
 moment, asked hurriedly: 
 
 "How did you obtain this picture?" 
 
 Marcia was faint, and could only murmur 
 a few unintelligible words, but she attempted 
 to possess herself of the picture, which 
 Beatrice as quickly removed beyond her 
 reach. Cherry, who stood near, flew at her 
 like a little fury. 
 
 " It's Marsh's picture," she shrieked, 
 clutching it with a strength that was resist- 
 less. "There, Marsh, I've got it, an' I'll 
 keep it for yer." 
 
 " It is the picture of my my a dear 
 friend of mine," said Beatrice, overcome by 
 Cherry's violence. 
 
 "And of mine," murmured Marcia, with 
 white lips. 
 
 " Where could you have met him, Edgar 
 Harrington? Was it while you were at 
 school? I never knew he had visited the 
 south." 
 
 Marcia did not answer.
 
 LETTERS AND LETTERS. 101 
 
 "You will not mind telling me he is 
 my my a very dear friend. How did you 
 obtain this picture? Do you know the 
 original? " 
 
 But Marcia's lips did not move to affirm 
 or deny. She had passed into that rigid 
 comatose state which was one of the pecul- 
 iar features of her singular illness. 
 
 "You've tired her to death, stepmother," 
 said Cherry, angrily. 
 
 Beatrice retired from the room, much 
 distressed and mystified. At dinner the 
 Judge handed her a letter. 
 
 " A manly handwriting," he said, with a 
 laugh. As Beatrice was a business woman 
 he would have surmised that the letter was 
 from some agent of hers if he had thought 
 about it at all. 
 
 His wife took the letter, and her face 
 wore a troubled, perplexed look as she 
 opened it. 
 
 "Is it good news?" inquired her hus- 
 band. 
 
 "Oh, the letter! I was not thinking of 
 that ! " she answered, abstractedly.
 
 102 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 She saw her husband regarding her, and 
 the blood slowly mounted to her face. 
 
 "What the deuce is she blushing at?" 
 thought Richard Marsden, and the demon of 
 jealousy, that lurks on the threshold of 
 every man's soul, entered in and took pos- 
 session. 
 
 He went out and hunted up the Major, 
 intending to drown his senses in a con- 
 vivial bout. 
 
 But the Major positively refused to drink. 
 
 " Hev turned over a new leaf myself, 
 Jedge ; find it was kind of ruinin' my 
 health and spoilin' my prospects to be a 
 slave to a bad habit. An' you've got 
 better reasons 'n I hev, Jedge, for lettin' 
 the stuff alone." 
 
 "Don't lecture me!" retorted the Judge, 
 fiercely. " I get enough of that at home." 
 
 "Well, Jedge, if I had such a wife " 
 
 " D n my wife ! " answered his friend, 
 savagely. 
 
 " Not in my presence, Jedge, ef you 
 please ; she's a noble Christian woman, an' 
 I respect her ef her husband doesn't."
 
 LETTERS AND LETTERS. 103 
 
 " She turned you out of the house," 
 sneered the Judge. 
 
 " Not 'zactly, Jedge ; I kind of turned 
 myself out through goin' there when I 
 wasn't fit company for man or beast. Look 
 at me now, Jedge look at me." 
 
 The Major inflated his breast till it 
 nearly filled his coat-front, and puffed out 
 his cheek .until he resembled a very ancient 
 cherub, and struck a resounding blow upon 
 his manly bosom. The Judge laughed, 
 angry as he was. 
 
 "She'll make a man of me. Look on this 
 picture and then on that. An' look at the 
 house, Jedge. An' she'll bring the girls 
 roun' yet. She'll be the makin' of us all." 
 
 Richard Marsden went home that night 
 in a much improved temper, and ashamed 
 of his fit of spleen. Beatrice was at the 
 door to welcome him, as usual. How hand- 
 some, how good and pure she looked a 
 woman to be trusted a woman to adorn 
 the most elegant society, one who could 
 have chosen a husband from among men 
 of mark, and she had given herself to him.
 
 1(4 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 And what had he to offer in return? A 
 )r>me in a tumble-down old house which 
 Ii- did not own, where she was like a 
 Jove in the eagle's nest: his young bar- 
 barians, who only tormented and distressed 
 her: himself, with his broken-down health 
 ;nd bankrupt estate. There was some sense 
 < /f shame in the man, and in his heart he ac- 
 'nowledged himself unworthy of her love. 
 
 But that letter! It annoyed him more 
 than he cared to own. 
 
 "Who did you say your letter was from?" 
 he asked at supper. 
 
 " It was from Edgar Harrington." 
 
 She did not offer to read it to him or 
 make any further allusion to it. 
 
 "Edgar Harrington ! Must have been her 
 first husband's brother ; I have heard her 
 speak of him," thought the Judge. "What 
 the deuce has he to write to her about, 
 and why cannot she let me see his letter?" 
 
 The Judge relapsed into a disagreeable 
 mood, and as he cast his eyes around the 
 table he looked particularly at Cherry, 
 who on this occasion was present. Her
 
 LETTERS AND LETTERS. 105 
 
 hair was wind-blown, her dress torn and 
 faded, and she presented such a start- 
 ling contrast to the elegant woman who 
 presided that it aroused his anger against 
 the girl. 
 
 " Cherry, what are you rigged out in 
 that rag-tag fashion for? If you have 
 nothing better to wear eat your meals with 
 Marcia." 
 
 "Gettin* pertikeler, ain't you?" said the 
 saucy girl. "I reckon stepmother " 
 
 " Stop that nonsense ! " thundered the 
 Judge, raising his hand. " If you speak of 
 your mother do so properly." 
 
 " She isn't my mother ! " screamed the 
 child, angrily. " My mother is an angel in 
 heaven. I won't have her for my mother. 
 I want my own." And she burst into a 
 passionate fit of weeping. 
 
 Beatrice placed her hand upon her heart 
 to stop its tumultuous beating. 
 
 " This is dreadful," she said. " Richard, 
 you should never have brought me here. 
 You told me the children would welcome 
 me as their mother, but they have given
 
 106 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 me only insult and unkindness. I cannot 
 win them by love, but while I am here 
 they must respect me, even if I am not 
 their mother." 
 
 "Stepmother!" muttered Cherry, in a 
 hateful aside. 
 
 The Judge raised his hand, but his wife 
 stepped quickly between the two. 
 
 " Leave the room ! " she said to the girl. 
 Cherry had never heard her use that com- 
 manding tone. She- made an ineffectual 
 attempt to speak, but broke down and 
 rushed away in a whirlwind of passion. 
 
 "You have conquered her this time, 
 Beatrice," said the Judge, returning to his 
 supper as if nothing had happened. 
 
 " But at what a cost," thought the un- 
 happy stepmother.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER." 
 
 As Cherry made her hasty and tumult- 
 uous exit from the supper-table, whence 
 she was so peremptorily dismissed by her 
 stepmother, she observed a letter lying on 
 the floor, and picking it up secreted it in 
 her pocket. She thought she recognized 
 it as one she had seen Beatrice reading, 
 and feeling angry and hateful kept it 
 without realizing that she was really com- 
 mitting a crime. When she went to Mar- 
 cia's room she indignantly related the scene 
 down stairs and ended by throwing the 
 letter contemptuously on the bed. 
 
 There Marcia found it when her young 
 sister, overburdened with imaginary wrongs 
 and fancied injuries, was at last sleeping 
 soundly, with occasional passionate sobbings, 
 as if even in sleep she were re-enacting 
 
 the daily tragedy of her life. Marcia, restless 
 107
 
 108 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 and unhappy, threw her arms wearily about 
 her, and felt the letter lying where it had 
 been thrown. The writing was unfamiliar, 
 but the address, " Mrs. Richard Marsden," 
 was plain enough, even in the dull light of 
 the night-lamp. Marcia did not intend to 
 read the letter, but wondering much how 
 it came there she took it out of its en- 
 velope and glanced at the first page, won- 
 dered more, read a few words and turned 
 to the signature. Startled and surprised 
 at the name written there she then delib- 
 erately mastered the contents of a letter 
 that belonged to another woman ; read 
 with frowning brow and an ominous glitter 
 in the sullen eyes the following epistle: 
 "Mv BELOVED QUEEN: 
 
 " There are good and sufficient reasons 
 why I have denied myself the happy priv- 
 ilege of writing to you of late, but not 
 the one that I fear you may suspect a 
 lapse into that unhealthy and despondent 
 state where the only outcome of my life 
 seems total failure and from which your 
 dear hand has so often snatched me.
 
 WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS. 109 
 
 Never, my dearest friend, will you find me 
 unworthy of the love and confidence you 
 have reposed in me, weak and unworthy 
 as I am. When I forget your love, or 
 prove recreant to the trust you have 
 reposed in me, then will I have forgotten 
 all else on earth. 
 
 " It has occurred to me that possibly some 
 new trouble menaces you, dear friend. I 
 detect in your precious letters a vein of 
 sadness that should not be there. Dearest 
 and wisest of counselors, let me advise you. 
 Do not sacrifice yourself again in any vica- 
 rious atonement for weak, ungrateful hu- 
 manity. You are a woman made to be 
 loved, worshiped, idolized, and to fill the 
 lives near you with unspeakable happiness. 
 I can never forget all you have been to 
 me. How willingly, gladly would I give 
 up my worthless life could it procure you 
 one hour of happiness. If ever you need 
 me to champion your cause I am always 
 your true knight-errant. Dearest and best of 
 friends, adieu, in the fullest sense of that 
 sweet foreign word. EDGAR HARRINGTON,"
 
 110 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 If the letter was a surprise to Marcia 
 the name appended to it was more : it 
 was a shock. And this man had written 
 love-letters to her Marcia. At least if they 
 were not love-letters they had been so 
 worded as to awaken in her lifeless heart 
 a new passion, of which she had never 
 dreamed. But then the handwriting was 
 entirely different ! What did that imply ? 
 Could there be two of that name? She 
 thought over it until the stupor which 
 crept over her with the sudden and strange 
 effect of a swift narcotic took possession 
 of her senses, and she fell asleep with the 
 letter in her hand. 
 
 Beatrice had worked a complete and 
 radical change in the dilapidated grandeur 
 of Clyffe House. Not by means of paper 
 and paint, or any of the glaring innova- 
 tions of modern art, but by the aid of a 
 corps of strong-armed workwomen and the 
 best upholstery that could be obtained in 
 Sparta. New, massive furniture of her own 
 replaced what was broken and useless. 
 New hangings took the place of the
 
 WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS. Ill 
 
 worn-out, faded tapestries, and the house 
 was turned into a beautiful, comfortable 
 home so deftly that there were no violent 
 contrasts to mark the change. A pretty 
 room was prepared for Cherry. Mrs. 
 Marsden left the uncomfortable chamber 
 of the sick girl to the last. Marcia was 
 determined that the spirit of progress 
 should not obtain a foothold in her 
 room. She willfully rejected any attempt 
 to refurnish or beautify it. Beatrice, 
 however, conquered at last. When Mar- 
 cia had cried and worried herself into 
 a fit of illness, and was reduced to an al- 
 most comatose state, her father himself 
 carried her into Cherry's pretty room. 
 In the course of twenty-four hours she was 
 back in her own chamber. It was prettily 
 furnished with a dainty suit of rosewood, 
 her mother's picture, handsomely framed, 
 hung at the foot of her bed, and fresh flow- 
 ers bloomed on a bracket under it. White 
 toilet coverings were arranged with grace- 
 ful display. All her favorite books were 
 disposed in classified order, and a lovely
 
 112 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 couch took the place of the dilapidated 
 rocker in which she spent part of her 
 time. During the process of removal 
 Beatrice discovered the picture and the 
 package of correspondence. But she was 
 too true a woman to take advantage of 
 the helplessness of the sick girl to make 
 any attempt at penetrating the mystery of 
 her correspondence or of the possession of 
 that picture. And so carefully did she 
 refrain from glancing at the package of 
 letters that she did not observe that one 
 was her own, lost, and looked for in every 
 nook and corner without success. She had 
 not yet learned to fear treachery in her 
 own household. An extract from one of 
 her letters to Edgar Harrington will show 
 the state of her feelings at this time : 
 
 " The knowledge that I have at least 
 been a benefit to the inanimate part of 
 the household must, I fear, dear friend, be 
 my only compensation. I cannot win a 
 place in the hearts of these girls, who so 
 much need a mother's care. I cannot 
 teach them the necessity of any life higher
 
 WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS. 113 
 
 than that of the animals eating and drink- 
 ing. Dress they utterly ignore. There is a 
 certain charm in their complete ignorance 
 of all social laws and customs the young- 
 est one, indeed, is like a bird or squirrel 
 of the woods, wild and untamable, but 
 innocent and very beautiful. I wish you 
 could see her, she is such an exquisite 
 creature in her uncivilized dress and child- 
 ish ways. I could love her very fondly, 
 but cannot get near her, she is so wild 
 and willful. The other sister is a capri- 
 cious invalid, who, I fancy, is the slave of 
 her own sick fancies. I begin to think 
 that I shall yet have to resort to desper- 
 ate measures to conquer those unyielding 
 natures. My husband has no knowledge 
 of his children. A superstitious old col- 
 ored woman has had the sole care of them 
 and has filled their young heads with the 
 most foolish ideas of their own impor- 
 tance. They are ignorant of everything 
 they ought to know. The youngest can 
 neither read nor write. I imagine it will 
 be the most delightful of tasks to teach
 
 114 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 her unformed mind if I can once subju- 
 gate her fiery spirit. She can be as sweet 
 and docile as a cooing dove to her sister, 
 whom she fairly idolizes. They have im- 
 bibed the universal prejudice against the 
 unfortunate stepmother, and a dozen times 
 a day I am reminded of my position. 
 Only yesterday I prepared a delicate cube 
 of toast, which I sent up with a cup of 
 chocolate to the sick-room. The old col- 
 ored woman took it with apparent pleasure 
 to her young mistress, but I heard her say 
 as she entered : 
 
 " ' Dere aint enuff to make you sick, 
 honey. It am a stepmother's piece, suah.' 
 
 " My cheek flushed at the injustice of it. 
 My heart grew sick and faint with hope 
 deferred. I cried out in my disappoint- 
 ment, ' How long, O Lord, how long 
 must I wait? Cannot this bitter cup pass 
 by ! ' Richard does not know how much 
 I am called upon to endure. I will not 
 prejudice his mind against his children or 
 acquaint him with the many pin-pricks of 
 misery which I suffer every day. But I
 
 WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS. 115 
 
 do not despair. When you come here I 
 hope to meet you with those dear children 
 clinging about me and calling me by the 
 sacred name of mother. The oldest one 
 Marcia would be beautiful were she not 
 a confirmed invalid. The other Cherry 
 I find her name is a corruption of 'Cherie,' 
 the name given to her by her mother is a 
 wild, lovely creature, who is only half civil- 
 ized and completely ignorant, not even 
 knowing how to read or write. It would 
 be a delightful task to teach her, but I 
 must first tame her. There are reasons, 
 if they only knew, why those children 
 should smooth the way for me, since their 
 own mother did me a cruel wrong. Pray, 
 Edgar, that I may do my whole duty in 
 this matter. Ever your loving friend, 
 
 " BEATRICE." 
 
 " P. S. Since writing the above I have 
 seen your picture in the possession of 
 Marcia, the sick girl. What does it mean ? 
 Am I not worthy of your confidence, my 
 friend? I acknowledge that my curiosity 
 is aroused. BEATRICE."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 SHAMMING. 
 
 The social life of Sparta was a varied 
 and conglomerate pattern of different en- 
 semblance of a local type. The minister, 
 his wife and daughter, and their friends, 
 the few families who were wealthy and 
 powerful enough to form an exclusive so- 
 ciety of their own, and a sprinkling of 
 official dignitaries, colonels, majors, judges 
 and other titled civilians who had blue 
 blood in their veins, or related to it, were 
 inclined to do as they pleased, and be a 
 law unto themselves. Among these Judge 
 Marsden ranked, enveloped in a mantle of 
 purple glory of the past, which hung about 
 him like a pall. As he had always pre- 
 ferred drinking bouts with Major Krum to 
 invitations to dinners and teas, he had 
 dropped out of the family circle composed 
 
 of wives and daughters, and when these 
 116
 
 SHAMMING. 117 
 
 hospitalities had been extended to the 
 children they had been ignored in uncivil 
 silence until they ceased to come. 
 
 "If they can live 'thout us I reckon we 
 can get along 'thout them," was the for- 
 midable edict of dismissal. 
 
 The fact was Marcia could not go be- 
 cause she would not humiliate herself by 
 appearing in a quaint costume behind the 
 times, eked out of her mother's wardrobe, 
 and Cherry hated people she did not 
 know and most of those she did know, 
 too, poor child. They laughed at her 
 queer ways, her patched-out dress, her ab- 
 rupt motions and her ignorance of quilt- 
 piecing, crochet -work, and even piano 
 playing. The staid housewives of the place 
 considered her a little out of her head 
 queer and forbade their own stupid, proper 
 children from associating with her. 
 
 When Mrs. Judge Marsden walked into 
 church with her husband and sat in the 
 square pew of the Clyffes, with its faded 
 tapestry, there was a ripple of excitement, 
 for such elegance was new there, and there
 
 118 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 was a calm dignity in the handsome, state- 
 ly figure and well-bred face that compelled 
 both notice and admiration. Beatrice 
 smiled to herself as she saw the attention 
 she attracted, but the smile faded as she 
 heard in a distinct whisper near her : 
 
 " She'll make those children toe the 
 mark." 
 
 And as she passed out between two lines 
 of gazing, critical eyes her cheeks flushed 
 with indignation as the omnipresent word 
 "stepmother" smote her ear. 
 
 But she found one friend. It was a 
 small-sized, delicate lady, who went up and 
 held out her hand. " We are so glad to 
 see you here ; my husband " indicating 
 the minister who had just preached " and 
 I. This is my daughter Grace. Mr. Ma- 
 deira has told me about you. May I come 
 and see you?" 
 
 " I will be very glad to see you," said Bea- 
 trice, fervently ; " and oh, do come soon." 
 
 "This very week," replied the other; 
 " my daughter is acquainted with with 
 your the young ladies."
 
 'Tell us something funny," piped Cherry. (Page 61.)
 
 SHAMMING. 9 
 
 " She is afraid to say ' your daughters/ " 
 thought Beatrice. "All Sparta knows, prob- 
 ably, that they refuse to be conciliated or 
 to regard me as other than a tyrannical 
 step-mother." 
 
 And the following week Mrs. Madeira 
 kept her promise and went to call on the 
 Judge's wife. 
 
 She was astonished at the change which 
 had taken place in the decayed old man- 
 sion, at the neatness and order which made 
 the place respectable and a fit abode for 
 Christian people. She was delighted with 
 the new mistress, who received her in such 
 an easy, friendly fashion, and at the close 
 of a long visit ventured to ask after the 
 two girls, calling them by their given 
 names. " Marcia used to be quite friendly 
 with Grace," she observed. 
 
 "What changed the relation?" inquired 
 Beatrice, with interest. 
 
 "I could not that is Grace did not 
 like to come here to visit her. You must 
 know, dear Mrs. Marsden, that a house 
 with no woman at its head is not the
 
 120 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 p*. ice for young girls. The children run 
 wild. They were good girls no one will 
 ever dispute that but it is wonderful that 
 they escaped as they have. Marcia was 
 sent away to school and came home ill. 
 She has never been up since, but we think 
 that is, people here say " 
 
 "What do people say?" asked Beatrice, 
 coldly. To her loyal and honest nature 
 this gossip about her stepdaughters was 
 extremely distasteful, yet she hoped to 
 gain some clue to their natures by which 
 she might be able to benefit them. 
 
 " Why, that Marcia is only shamming 
 illness." 
 
 " Shamming ! " exclaimed Beatrice. "How 
 unkind ! How unjust ! " 
 
 " I thought so, too, at first, but Mr. 
 Madeira has had much experience as spir- 
 itual physician in this place, and he tells 
 me that it is a common occurrence, and 
 that a certain belt of country in this state 
 is noted for its imaginary invalids people 
 who have no disease, but simply lose their 
 wills and lie abed year in and year out."
 
 SHAMMING. 121 
 
 "You astonish me," was all Beatrice 
 could say in response. After a moment's 
 thought she inquired : 
 
 "But what of the fainting spells, the 
 long sleep, the want of strength? These 
 are not imaginary disorders." 
 
 "All results of that morbid state of 
 mind which exaggerates every disturbed 
 feeling into the proportions of a disease. 
 You would see Marcia use her limbs if 
 there were any sudden necessity, if the 
 house were on fire, and she could not 
 escape otherwise. It may be that this 
 condition is a disease in itself, but I am 
 sure it is mental and not physical." 
 
 A thought flashed through Beatrice's mind 
 like an inspiration. 
 
 " Perhaps I may cure her," she said to 
 herself. 
 
 " I cannot understand how any one, 
 particularly a young person, can accept 
 the role of an invalid, or be voluntarily 
 immured in the loneliness of a sick-room. 
 Health seems the greatest of all blessings 
 to me," she remarked at. last.
 
 !22 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " It is surely a disease of the mind; an 
 .'ibnormal condition," said Mrs. Madeira. 
 " 1 have sometimes thought that possibly 
 Marcia realized that she was different from 
 other girls, and was mortified over it. I 
 am sure, Mrs. Marsden, you will pardon 
 me for speaking of this, but you must see 
 the difference. Knowing the family as we 
 do we can make excuses, but strangers will 
 not do this ; they look upon the children 
 as we might upon Indians just learning 
 our modes of civilization." 
 
 " Poor children," murmured Beatrice. A 
 divine pity swelled in her heart for the 
 proud, sensitive natures that had been so 
 cruelly misunderstood. 
 
 " They shall yet take their places where 
 they belong, in the highest and most cult- 
 ured society in the land," she said, with 
 dignity. 
 
 " I am sure they will," responded her 
 visitor, warmly. " But you have a work 
 to do. Oh, my dear, have courage; be 
 strong; there is a beautiful promise: 'As 
 thy day is shall thy strength be '; lay hold
 
 SHAMMING. 123 
 
 of that and GoA will surely give you the 
 victory." 
 
 "Amen," answered Beatrice, solemnly; 
 and soon Mrs. Madeira took her leave, and 
 Beatrice went to her room and sat down 
 to think. The more she thought the more 
 perplexed and worried she became, and at 
 last she threw herself on her knees and 
 prayed for help^ prayed so long and ear- 
 nestly that half her burden seemed to slip 
 off, and she rose comforted and strength- 
 ened for whatever the future held in store 
 for her. 
 
 Then she went directly to Marcia's room. 
 No answer was returned to her knock, so 
 she ventured to enter unbidden. The in- 
 valid was sleeping. Letters were clasped 
 in her folded hands and the picture Bea- 
 trice had seen before lay upon an open 
 book. The stepmother took it up and re- 
 garded it long and lovingly. Then she 
 laid it down with a sigh as the sick girl 
 opened her eyes. 
 
 " Will you not try to sit up a lit- 
 tle ? " Beatrice asked, gently. " It will
 
 124 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 give you strength and yo*u will rest better 
 at night." 
 
 "Where is Cherry?" asked Marcia, wildly. 
 "Why is she not here? I wish you would 
 leave me alone. Why does not Cherry stay 
 to guard me from intruders?" 
 
 " You were guarded," whispered Beatrice, 
 in a low, loving voice. " I, your mother, 
 watched you while you slept." 
 
 " You are not my mother," retorted the 
 sick girl, angrily. " My father's wife you 
 may be, but you cannot fill my dear dead 
 mother's place, you are not worthy to " 
 
 " Hush ! " cried Beatrice, rising with dig- 
 nity and speaking in a commanding tone. 
 " You shall not speak to me with disre- 
 spect you who are false to yourself and 
 unworthy of the regard of man or woman, 
 you who chose to shelter yourself in a 
 fraudulent weakness and assumed illness. 
 I will no longer encourage your silly, idle 
 fancies or allow you to be treated as a sick 
 child. If you are so devoted to the mem- 
 ory of your mother show yourself worthy 
 of her, and take her place in the household,
 
 SHAMMING. 125 
 
 When you do this / will find a home else- 
 where. Since I cannot win your love x ,vill 
 at least demand your respect." 
 
 With indignant stateliness the step- 
 mother left the room, and the aroused and 
 frightened girl now felt for the first Urne 
 the salutary smart of discipline. 
 
 That night Cherry did not appear at the 
 supper-table, but this was too common an 
 occurrence to call forth any comment from 
 her father. Besides, the judge was not 
 thinking of his daughter, refractory though 
 she might be. 
 
 " Seen Krum lately?" he asked, buttering 
 his hot corn-bread and spreading on it a 
 generous layer of honey. 
 
 "The Major? Yes; I saw him a moment 
 yesterday and refused his request to see 
 Marcia. Oh, Richard, do you think Marcia 
 is seriously ill ?" 
 
 "Seriously dangerously, do you mean?" 
 " I guess not," answered the Judge, indif- 
 ferently. 
 
 " I mean," said Beatrice, in a hesitating 
 voice, "do you believe that she is ill at all?"
 
 126 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " Why, Beatrice, what is the matter with 
 you ? D' you s'pose Marsh would stay hived 
 up in that room all alone if she wasn't sick, 
 hey?" 
 
 " Yes I do," answered his wife ; " and 
 Richard, I believe she is no more sick than 
 you or I are. And I want you to help me 
 :f I insist upon getting her up and making 
 her well." 
 
 " Gad ! that's the stepmother of it," 
 groaned the Judge. 
 
 " You have no right to say so," answered 
 Beatrice, warmly. " I cannot ignore my 
 responsibilities here, Richard, as you do 
 yours. I want to be a true mother to 
 those girls to help them into becoming 
 good and useful women and fulfilling their 
 destinies as valuable members of society. 
 I have a stewardship to account for. My 
 dear husband, how can you regard so lightly 
 your unfulfilled duties? " 
 
 "You are so terribly in earnest, Beatrice," 
 said the Judge in an injured tone. " One 
 would think I was the worst father in the 
 world just because I'm not always hetch-
 
 SHAMMING. 127 
 
 eling, those poor children. Now looV hydr, 
 Krum has turned over a new )ea f I 
 don't half like it, eyether. He won't 
 drink, an' ain't half the old man he ined 
 to be. But that ain't all. He's gone : nto 
 real estate. Now where did he g<t ^he 
 money? He hasn't a dollar 'n' never 
 had. He says an angel lent it to Hm ! 
 Nice financeerin', that, for angels !" 
 
 Beatrice looked red and confused. The 
 Judge regarded her sharply and drew his 
 own conclusions. No more was said unon 
 the subject then. 
 
 That night Beatrice could not sleep. The 
 weather was fine and clear, and wrapping 
 herself in a shawl she sat by her window 
 and looked out on the night. Sad thoughts 
 possessed her. The days of her school life 
 came back to her. What great deeds she 
 had planned in the exultant powers of her 
 youth ! What had life brought her but 
 trial and disappointment? She thought of 
 a tiny grave among the many in that far-off 
 eastern cemetery, Mount Hope. What a 
 mockery the name was! The little one
 
 128 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 vesting there had never called her mother. 
 Sne nad only felt the flutter of her birdling's 
 wings when they had made room for it 
 .111 paradise and given it "angel plumage" 
 ihere. She remembered how dead her heart 
 nad been until quickened by that sweet, 
 mysterious love. There was another grave 
 uiere. That of the good man to whom she 
 had borne the name of wife, the father of 
 ner dear dead baby. Well, she had made 
 mm happy. She had done more. She had 
 tescued the old name from the dirt of in- 
 famy and saved his boy from that death of 
 the soul that is so terrible. She looked 
 up at the fair southern moon floating in the 
 cloud-flecked blue, and felt comforted. 
 God knew she was trying to do her duty. 
 He was trying her again, but it would all 
 be right by and by. She could hear the 
 sounds of merriment, with which she had 
 nothing to do, from some distant out-door 
 gathering, a barbecue or a wedding among 
 " the hands," and the barking of hounds, 
 disturbed by the tooting of horns and the 
 noise of the fiddler. She heard something
 
 SHAMMING. 1.31 
 
 else, too, the house-door opening softly. 
 Thieves? More likely Cherry returning 
 from forbidden nocturnal rambles, which 
 filled the soul of her new mother with 
 apprehensions. Beatrice looked carefully 
 and saw two shadows, one was Mammy in 
 her cloak and sunbonnet, the other was 
 beyond doubt the rollicking Cherry, dressed 
 in some light, fantastic costume that was but 
 ill-concealed under a careless shawl. They 
 stepped out slowly and softly, and soon dis- 
 appeared among the trees. 
 
 Moved by an impulse she did not wait to 
 investigate, Beatrice threw on some dis- 
 guising wrappings and hastened after them, 
 determined to see for herself if there was 
 danger to Cherry in those night rambles, or 
 if she were, indeed, safe in Mammy's com- 
 pany. It was less difficult to keep them in 
 sight than it was to prevent herself being 
 seen, and she was thoroughly tired and ex- 
 hausted when at last they reached their 
 destination, an out-door dance in a place 
 known as "the grove," where the wild and 
 lawless young people of Sparta met by
 
 132 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 appointment, protected only by the com- 
 pany of servants who had seen them grow 
 up and would shed their last drop of blood 
 in behalf of the young Master or Missy 
 under their care. Blazing torches illumi- 
 nated the boarded square set up for a danc- 
 ing-Moor, and an old uncle, with bushy white 
 locks and a good-humored, shrewd black 
 lace, sawed a violin, to which the dancers 
 kept time, while from a singular looking 
 mound near a smell of good cooking ema- 
 nated, several pigs and a 'possum being 
 roasted there with sage and onions, and 
 a bushel or so of apples. Beatrice slipped 
 under the shade of a dwarf oak and watched 
 a scene that was new and most picturesque 
 and attractive to her, albeit she was shiver- 
 ing with fear. She saw the two figures 
 she had followed enter into the waning and 
 fantastic light made by the torches and the 
 moonlight, and other figures come forward 
 and join them. She saw Major Krum 
 take Mammy's arm and lead her with re- 
 spectful deference to a seat, then place him- 
 self at her feet and then she rubbed her
 
 SHAMMING. 133 
 
 eyes and looked again. Were there two 
 of Mammy? For this fat, turbaned and 
 beaming apparition carrying a load of dishes 
 with the readiest alacrity, was without any 
 mistake the veritable Mammy of Clyffe 
 House, although her counterpart sat there 
 in the keeping of Major Krum. Beatrice 
 waited and watched with heating pulses. 
 Then she saw the old slat sunbonnet thrown 
 back and the cloak drop away from that 
 other figure. She saw a white hand, a 
 white face, and at the moment when Cherry 
 sprang into the dance and whirled with the 
 others to the wild music, the face and form 
 in Mammy's disguise became clearly visible. 
 Beatrice turned away sick at heart as she 
 recognized Marcia.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 WHAT'S IN A NAME? 
 
 At a certain distribution of the morning 
 mail in the office of the Day Star a. letter was 
 handed to Edgar Harrington bearing a south- 
 ern postmark. He was reading a galley of 
 proof, and took the letter mechanically and 
 without looking at it threw it on the desk 
 before him. 
 
 Young Weir, familiarly known heretofore 
 as Rob, was in his place at the desk he occu- 
 pied, but he was not at work. Paper and 
 pencil were before him, but Rob was occu- 
 pied with watching the movements of Mr. 
 Harrington at the moment when the mail was 
 distributed. He saw him take the letter 
 which the office boy handed him contrary 
 to his Rob's express directions, and now 
 his brain was turned upside down trying to 
 plan a way to possess himself of it. The 
 youth was learning that it is always 
 
 "A tangled web we weave 
 When first we practice to deceive." 
 134
 
 WHAT'S IN A NAME? 135 
 
 Rob's heart beat like a trip-hammer, 
 his cheeks were flushed, and his bright, 
 honest eyes had an ugly, crafty look in 
 them, as he watched his friend in that sly, 
 sinister way. He had stepped out of the 
 straight and narrow path of integrity, 
 " just for fun." Now he would have given 
 much to know that he was safely back in 
 it again. 
 
 Mr. Harrington found something to dis- 
 please him in his proof, and stepped hurriedly 
 into the composing-room to correct it. 
 When he came back his mind reverted to 
 the letter, and he looked for it on his desk. 
 It was gone. 
 
 "Rob!" 
 
 That voice sounded like a thunder-peal in 
 the guilty ears of the youth in question, but 
 he made no sign of hearing it. Presently 
 there was another call, and this time he 
 turned an innocent and surprised face to- 
 ward his questioner. 
 
 "Did you speak, Mr. Harrington?" 
 
 " Yes, Rob. Did you see anything of a 
 letter on my desk?"
 
 136 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " I saw you take one from the boy, sir ; 
 perhaps you put it in the desk." 
 
 This was tantamount to a denial, and Mr. 
 Harrington at once proceeded to rummage 
 his desk, and not finding it there he retraced 
 his steps to the composing-room in the vain 
 hope that he had dropped the letter there. 
 He was the more anxious because he was 
 expecting a letter he had need of from a 
 distant and cherished friend whose written 
 words of wisdom and good counsel fortified 
 his soul against the daily temptations that 
 assailed his weaker nature. He was disap- 
 pointed and annoyed. 
 
 There was a third person present who had 
 seemed oblivious of all that was going on. 
 This was the gay and debonair Howland, 
 with a fresh jacqueminot rose in his button- 
 hole and the same old sneer on his hand- 
 some mouth. He looked up at the perplexed 
 face of Edgar Harrington, and asked, indif- 
 ferently : 
 
 " Lost anything, Mr. Harrington ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered the person addressed ; 
 " I have lost a valuable letter."
 
 WHAT'S IN A NAME? 137 
 
 "Money in it, eh?" 
 
 "Is nothing valuable in your eyes but 
 money, Rowland?" asked the other man, 
 sadly. 
 
 " Nothing. I would sell everybody be- 
 longing to me for a goodly share of filthy 
 lucre. My purse is my best friend." 
 
 "Then you are poor, indeed," retorted 
 Harrington. " I wish I could find that let- 
 ter," he continued, regretfully. 
 
 " What is the matter with your ears, 
 Rob?" inquired Rowland, suddenly. "They 
 are as red as boiled lobsters. Somebody 
 must be talking about you." 
 
 " Let them talk," growled Rob, with mur- 
 der in his heart. 
 
 Edgar Harrington looked at the two a 
 moment with sudden suspicion. He had 
 been the victim of misplaced confidence 
 more than once in his life, and for a mo- 
 ment a thought flashed into his mind 
 could these two be conspiring against him ? 
 Nonsense ! The boy loved him, he was sure 
 of that. True, he had been obliged to dis- 
 cipline him more than once. He had used
 
 138 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 his authority without any right to do so 
 when it was needed, but Rob had thanked 
 him after his fit of petulance and disappoint- 
 ment wore off. In caring for the youth he 
 had found healthy work for himself; they 
 had been like brothers. What could come 
 between them? 
 
 I suppose there are indications of a dis- 
 turbance in the moral atmosphere which are 
 as marked and distinct as the falling barom- 
 eter in elemental storms. Edgar Harring- 
 ton felt that something was wrong. When 
 a chill creeps over the head in that eerie, 
 uncanny way that it does sometimes, people 
 who are superstitious say that some one is 
 walking over the spot where your grave will 
 be. A chill passed over Edgar Harrington's 
 heart. What it presaged he did not know. 
 
 A few days later he was reading the proof- 
 sheet of the Sunday Day Star, when his at- 
 tention was called to a sketch of a column's 
 length by Hope Glenn. 
 
 " A rising writer," said the editor-in-chief. 
 I would like to engage her exclusively for 
 our paper. These pathetic sketches are al-
 
 WHAT'S IN A NAME? 139 
 
 ways copied extensively by our contempora- 
 ries, and although they read so smoothly art- 
 difficult to write. I believe you have been 
 corresponding with her. I wish you would 
 state my wish to have her for a regular con- 
 tributor." 
 
 "I?" exclaimed Mr. Harrington, in sur- 
 prise. I have never written to the lady. I 
 do not even know where she lives or what 
 her real name is. I presume Hope Glenn 
 is her incognito." 
 
 " I handed you a letter, Mr. Harrington, 
 some time ago, when she first wrote to 
 us and a manuscript and asked you to 
 answer it personally, and I supposed you 
 did so." 
 
 The chief spoke severely ; he was not 
 accustomed to have his orders trifled with 
 or disobeyed. Edgar Harrington could not 
 for his life recall the incident. 
 
 " Her home is in Sparta, Virginia," con- 
 tinued the chief. " And she is evidently a 
 southern girl with a very imaginative mind, 
 and somewhat romantic. But she has a fine 
 appreciation of the powers of pathos and
 
 140 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 sorrow, and works up some exquisite pict- 
 ures into prose-poems." 
 
 "Sparta," murmured the surprised Har- 
 rington. " Sparta; why, I have a dear friend 
 there. Can it be possible that Hope 
 Glenn is Beatrice. I will write and ask 
 her. But no ; I have seen the writing, and 
 it is not that of my Beatrice. It is some 
 stranger. I wonder why I take such an 
 interest in the name. It seems to fix itself 
 in my memory." 
 
 "Who is corresponding -with Hope 
 Glenn?" asked the senior of the editorial 
 room, looking up from his work. 
 
 For a moment there was no answer. 
 Rob's ears blazed, but he did not look up. 
 
 " Rob, are you in correspondence with 
 her?" was the next question. 
 
 "You you asked me to write to her,'' 
 stammered Rob. 
 
 " Did I ? Well, I am going to write to 
 her myself, now, engaging her as a regular 
 contributor at a liberal price. Just let me 
 have her last letter, will you, Rob? I 
 would like to see the handwriting."
 
 WHAT'S IN A NAME? 141 
 
 " I haven't got it," mumbled Rob. " I 
 lost it I mean, it was stolen no, it I " 
 then he broke down hopelessly. 
 
 "Rob!" exclaimed his senior, "have 
 you been getting up a flirtation with an 
 unknown lady, who may be a grandmother 
 for all you know of her? I really did 
 give you credit for having a little sense." 
 
 What an immense relief to Rob, who 
 felt like a reprieved criminal. " If he only 
 knew," he thought, "that I have been 
 flirting, or whatever he would call it, in 
 his name, what would become of me ? 
 How shall I ever get out of this scrape?" 
 
 Mr. Harrington pitied Rob's embar- 
 rassment so much that he concluded to 
 wait until they were alone before he in- 
 sisted upon seeing the letters. Then he 
 resumed the proof-sheet, and, as was his 
 frequent custom, read paragraphs aloud. 
 
 " I don't see anything so wonderful ir. 
 those wishy-washy sketches of Hope 
 Glenn's," sneered Howland. " May do for 
 women and children to snivel over, but a 
 man needs a stronger pabulum,"
 
 142 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " Women and children are the best 
 critics we have," responded Harrington, 
 warmly ; " and a newspaper article that 
 moves either to laughter or tears has ful- 
 filled its mission. Now listen to this brief 
 story it is a picture ; the old man goiny 
 home to bury his old wife his refusal to 
 believe her dead his faith in her im- 
 mortal youth the illusion sustained among 
 such every-day relations as the surround- 
 ings of a railroad car, and the peaceful 
 finale which unites the two. It is touch- 
 ingly dramatic, and yet full of actuality. 
 Listen to it." And he read aloud from 
 the paper Hope Glenn's sketch.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WE TWO. 
 
 [ Written for the Day Star.] 
 
 "It's we two, and we two; it's we two for aye; 
 All the world and we two. and heaven be our stay." 
 
 It was a gay, rollicking party that 
 boarded the fast express train going east, 
 and as it was late and the cars crowded the 
 noise made by the intruders stirred every 
 one to anger, and their ill-timed mirth and 
 witticisms were received with wrath and 
 indignation. The leader of the gay com- 
 pany was a noisy, robust youth, overflow- 
 ing with an abundance of animal spirits, 
 and he gave the indignant passengers a 
 saucy rejoinder when they reproved him for 
 disturbing their repose. When he had trav- 
 ersed the entire line of cars without rind- 
 ing a vacant seat he discovered an old man 
 sitting alone, but apparently guarding a re- 
 served place next to him. Rapping the 
 143
 
 144 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 stranger smartly on the shoulder the pre- 
 sumptuous youth asked if he might sit 
 down by him. 
 
 "Eh eh?" said the old man, in a feeble 
 voice. "We two have those seats. There 
 isn't any room for you." 
 
 The young fellow sauntered back to find 
 his friends all provided for, and after stroll- 
 ing through the baggage and smoking-car 
 he returnee and observed that the seat by 
 the old man was still vacant. The aged 
 passenger seemed to be dozing, but he 
 responded feebly to the energetic touch of 
 the youth. 
 
 "Look here," said the young man, "let 
 me have that seat. You haven't any one 
 with you." 
 
 " Hush-sh! " answered the other, smiling; 
 " you'll frighten her away. Can't you see 
 her sittin' there a' smilin', with her long, 
 pretty curls, and with the white dress on 
 that she was married in? Mebbe it was a 
 fancy, but I could ha' touched her before 
 you come but no, no, she's in there, an' 
 I'm we two hev lived together these fifty
 
 WE TWO. 145 
 
 years an' more ; it's hard to be separated 
 now." 
 
 The young man had seated himself, and 
 he paid no attention to the old man's 
 maundering talk, till he heard him saying 
 softly over and over : " Katy, my Katy ; 
 Katy, darlin' ! " 
 
 At that he listened, for Katy was the 
 name of the sweet-faced, blue-eyed girl he 
 loved, and even now he was 6n his way 
 to make her his wife. 
 
 "Was she your wife?" he asked, with 
 more respect in his voice ; nor could he have 
 told why he used the past tense as he did. 
 
 " My wife, my love, my bride," was the 
 almost incoherent answer. " Oh ! it was a 
 hard world, but we traveled it together. 
 I never had a pleasure that Katy didn't 
 share it with me ; nor a sorrow that she 
 didn't help me bear. I wish you could 
 have seen her, young man. She was as 
 straight as a young sapling and as fair in 
 the face as a little child ; her hair was the 
 color of the buttercups in the meadow. 
 I'd take you out yonder to see her if 
 10
 
 146 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 they'd let me, but they wouldn't. They 
 say she's changed she never changed in 
 my eyes though her hair turned snow 
 white like the blossom of the magnolia. 
 Then I knew she was ripenin' for glory. 
 There never was any but we two. God 
 didn't send any children to bind our hearts 
 or break them. It's cold here," and he 
 sunk back and shivered. 
 
 " I wish ! could think so," answered the 
 youth, yawning, and feeling life and strength 
 in every throb of his riotous blood. "Are 
 you going east?" he continued, for want 
 of something else to say. 
 
 "Yes, an* it's a long journey. I'm goin* 
 clear back to the sunrise back to the old 
 home in Maine. There won't be a soul I 
 knew a livin* but Katy. She hankered 
 after the old buryin'-ground where her 
 folks lay. Say," as the conductor of the 
 train passed along, "is she all right, out 
 there alone?" 
 
 "She's all right," said the conductor, 
 swinging his lantern. " There ain't nuthin' 
 as will disturb her, I reckon,"
 
 WE TWO. 147 
 
 " She is with her I^ord," responded the 
 old man, solemnly ; " with Him she loved 
 and served all the days of her life. I 
 s'pose she ain't missed me or thought of 
 me onc't, but it would about break my 
 heart if I thought heaven's glory could 
 make her forget if we two couldn't go 
 hand in hand there as we have here. 
 Dear, dear, it wouldn't seem a bit like 
 heaven 'less Katy was glad to see me." 
 
 The young traveler fell asleep and walked 
 with his beloved in the fair bower of love's 
 young dream in the land of sleep. The 
 old man gathered his feeble limbs together, 
 and he, too, slept, but his lips moved, and 
 broken, incoherent sentences fell on the 
 ears of those about him. He, too, was 
 walking in dreams with his beloved, but 
 it was in the company of angels. He 
 babbled of still waters and green pastures ; 
 he sung of golden streets ^nd gates of 
 pearl ; of the beauties and the mysteries 
 of the many mansions ; of the peace that 
 floweth as a river; he held her small, 
 soft hand in his and called up the love-
 
 148 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 light in her beautiful eyes, and played 
 with her yellow hair : 
 
 "Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride; 
 It's we two, and we two, happy side by side." 
 
 And all the time the train went on, 
 flying through the night, and out in the 
 baggage-car an old, old woman, wan and 
 wrinkled,' lay peacefully in her coffin, her 
 veined and withered hands crossed quietly 
 over a heart that was at rest, and that 
 was all that was mortal of the old man's 
 Katy darling. 
 
 When the young traveler awoke in the 
 bright light of early day he stretched his 
 cramped limbs and felt like a giant re- 
 freshed with wine, and out of his strength 
 and happiness he gave the old man at his 
 side a glad " Good-morning." But when 
 getting no response he turned to look at 
 him, he saw that he had reached the new 
 sunrise the *norning that has never any 
 noon. 
 
 " It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, 
 Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day." 
 
 When Harrington had finished Howland
 
 WE TWO. 149 
 
 was gone out of the room, and Rob sat 
 at his desk the picture of despair. 
 
 " Now, Rob," said his senior, " let me 
 have those letters." 
 
 "No, sir!" answered the young man, in a 
 determined tone; "those letters are mine." 
 
 " Do you mean that your correspondence 
 with Miss Hope Glenn or whatever the 
 lady's name is has been of a confidential 
 and personal nature?" 
 
 "That is just what I mean, sir," answered 
 Rob, wiping the cold dew of self-sacrifice 
 from his beardless cheek. " I am not the 
 man," he continued, in an inflated tone of 
 importance, " to betray the trust reposed 
 in me by a woman." 
 
 " Live up to that, Rob," said the senior, 
 gently. " And now, since you will not give 
 me a clue to the lady's character or posi- 
 tion by a glimpse at her writing, I must 
 do the best I can without it." 
 
 " Mr. Harrington," began Rob, in a tone 
 of expostulation, " don't write to her at 
 all. Let me say what you would write. 1 
 promise to give it word for word."
 
 150 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " No, my boy ; orders must be obeyed, 
 and this business has been entrusted to 
 me. But what difference can it make to 
 you? Are you jealous? If you wish you 
 can read the letter before I mail it." 
 
 " It isn't that," said Rob, looking utterly 
 wretched. " I'm not even in love ; at least 
 I don't think I am." 
 
 "What then, you foolish boy?" 
 
 " Oh, sir Mr. Harrington you have been 
 such a friend to me, and I have done such 
 a dishonorable thing ! " 
 
 " You dishonorable ? I hope not, Rob. 
 I should be sorry to be disappointed in 
 you when I have loved you like a brother." 
 
 " You will despise me when you know 
 all, and yet, Mr. Harrington, it was you who 
 gave me leave to begin it. Only I should 
 have stopped there." 
 
 " Tell me the whole truth," said Harring- 
 ton, coldly. 
 
 It was hard in the face of such severity 
 to tell the truth, but Rob made a clean 
 breast of it and did not spare himself. He 
 told his friend how he had written first a
 
 WE TWO. 151 
 
 friendly business letter according to his in- 
 structions ; how the answer had piqued 
 his curiosity and he had written again, and 
 finally Hope Glenn had asked him for a 
 picture, and he 
 
 " Whose picture did you send ? " asked 
 Harrington, in a voice that sent all the 
 color from Rob's face. 
 
 There was no answer. The young man 
 fixed his sorry eyes on his desk and listened 
 to the beating of his heart. 
 
 "So you not only write letters to this 
 unknown lady, masquerading over my name, 
 but you send her my photograph as proof 
 positive that I am the fool she takes me 
 to be. I would rather you dishonored me 
 commercially, Rob, than used my name for 
 such a purpose. Dishonesty in friendship 
 is akin to perjury. You may have done 
 the crudest wrong with your fictitious love- 
 making." 
 
 "They were not love-letters, Mr. Har- 
 rington," asserted Rob. "At least not 
 what I would call love-letters. They were 
 not very personal. I tried to be dignified
 
 152 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 and grave, like you, sir, in what I said. 
 I I don't think you would be ashamed of 
 them sir." 
 
 " Rob," asked the other, after a long silenc. , 
 "are you in love with this unknown writer? " 
 
 " No, sir," answered Rob, decidedly; " I am 
 not. And I never should be in love with 
 any woman who wrote for the newspapers or 
 knew enough to. When I fall in love with 
 any one, Mr. Harrington, it will be with a 
 girl who is ignorant." 
 
 " There you would make the greatest mis- 
 take of your life, Rob. An ignorant woman 
 is narrow, stupid and bigoted. If she were 
 as beautiful as an angel you would weary 
 of her and her insipid company." 
 
 " But I would teach her, sir. If she loved 
 me she would be willing to learn to please 
 me." 
 
 " Rob, do you remember how David 
 Copperfield taught Dora, his little child-wife, 
 and what the result was ? " 
 
 " I hope you don't think I am such a prig 
 as that Copperfield boy? I should have 
 thought Dora perfect just as she was."
 
 WE TWO. 153 
 
 " No doubt. But about those letters: I do 
 not know what to do. They are postmarked 
 from the same town where a very dear friend 
 of mine lives. I might learn through her if 
 any harm has been done. But Hope Glenn 
 is a fictitious name ; it may not be known 
 there. I hardly know what to do." 
 
 But that night Edgar Harrington received 
 a letter which offered a solution to one prob- 
 lem white it presented another. Hurrying 
 to Rob's quarters he burst in upon him with 
 precipitate haste. 
 
 " Be ready to leave with me in an hour. 
 Take those letters with you." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Rob, with white lips. 
 
 " It is that your miserable fooling has re- 
 sulted in great sorrow and trouble to the 
 dearest friend I have on earth. Get ready. 
 I will tell you all I know on the way." 
 
 When the Susquehanna Valley train drew 
 out that night Harrington and Rob were 
 both on board.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 NOBODY KNOWS. 
 
 Mammy had been very slow to recognize 
 the right of her new mistress to expect or 
 exact habits of respectful obedience to her. 
 It was not the native stubbornness of her 
 own race that prevented her, but she was 
 encouraged in her spirit of aggressiveness 
 by the conduct of the two girls her " young 
 ladies," as she always called them. Mam- 
 my herself had been raised to the strictest 
 habits of discipline. It had never been 
 permitted to her in the old rule under " Miss 
 Marie " to have a voice in any matter. 
 " Hers not to make reply," was an invincible 
 law. But since those days Mammy had been 
 almost, her own mistress. It was the law of 
 love that compelled her to obey the children 
 
 in every foolish request. Their way was her 
 154
 
 NOBODY KNOWS. 155 
 
 way at all times. She believed it a religious 
 duty to assist the two girls in their domestic 
 rebellions. In anything she undertook she 
 was as obstinate as those who combine igno- 
 rance and prejudice in their natures always 
 are. Beatrice had made a great allowance 
 for her, because hers had been almost en- 
 tirely a service of love. She had clung to 
 the family through good report and evil 
 report, had scorned to take advantage of the 
 freedom thrust upon her, and had been a 
 faithful though most injudicious friend of 
 the motherless girls. 
 
 The morning after the escapade related 
 in a preceding chapter Mrs. Marsden went 
 down to the kitchen with a heavy heart. 
 She, who had all her life held principle so 
 dear, found herself now allied with those 
 who seemed entirely void of that integral 
 jewel, the ballast of all moral adventure. 
 She was not only thoroughly shocked at 
 Marcia's deceit in regard to her assumed ill- 
 ness and inability to move, but she was sore- 
 ly disappointed in the fact that the whole 
 household aided and abetted her in it.
 
 156 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 Cherry the Major Mammy how did she 
 kno\v but what her own father was cognizant 
 of her extraordinary masquerade ? How 
 could she deal with people who seemed so 
 morally obtuse? 
 
 Mammy was snapping a brittle sheet of 
 dough for Maryland biscuit, and the gener- 
 ous white apron she wore was one of Bea- 
 trice's own making, worn only on compulsion. 
 But it made her large proportions very home- 
 like and attractive, and as she worked she 
 sung in a rich, untutored voice the hymns of 
 her people. Beatrice was charmed with the 
 new and picturesque side of the situation. 
 It was so different from the sloppy, intelli- 
 gence-office girl of the north, who never 
 waited to resent anything, but folded her 
 tent and stole away. The biscuit dough in 
 Mammy's clean hands snapped, and as she 
 sung she wagged her turbaned head from 
 side to side in a weird, antiphonal chant, that 
 was solemn and sad. Beatrice hesitated to 
 enter the kitchen, as an intruder might 
 have done. It seemed to her there was no 
 place either in home or hearts for her. And
 
 NOBODY KNOWS. 157 
 
 yet Mammy's voice went on softly and gra- 
 ciously : 
 
 "Ober Jordan, ober Jordan, dere is our home, 
 
 O my king. 
 Ober Jordan, ober Jordan, we's bound to roam, 
 
 O my king. 
 
 Dere de sweet persimmons grow, 
 Dere de silver waters flow, 
 Dere I'se gwine to meet you sho', 
 
 O my king. 
 Tears like dey dat's gone befo', 
 
 O my king, 
 N'eber comes to us no mo', 
 
 O my king. 
 
 But we's gwine to join 'em where 
 Jesus sits in judgment fair, 
 An' I'll shout in glory there, 
 
 O my king." 
 
 " Mammy,' said Beatrice, entering as the 
 last note died away, " where were you last 
 night?" 
 
 Mammy had started, and for a moment 
 stared at her mistress with protruding eyes. 
 Having satisfied herself that it was not a 
 " ghostess " addressing her she relapsed into 
 her own imperturbable mood.
 
 158 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " I done gone to bed sot>n as eber der 
 dishes wuz washed," she said, sulkily. 
 
 "Yes, I know," temporized her mistress; 
 " but after that in the night when you 
 went out, where did you go?" 
 
 " I jes' done sleep till sun-up dis yeah 
 mornin'," persisted Mammy. 
 
 " You did nothing of the kind, and I will 
 not permit you to tell me such outrageous 
 stories," said Beatrice severely. " I followed 
 you, and saw you and Miss Marcia, who is 
 not able to stand upon her feet unsupported, 
 and Miss Cherry and Major Krum were 
 there, too. I am sorry, Mammy, that you 
 should deceive me in this way, or encourage 
 your young ladies in wrong-doing." 
 
 " Dere warn't no harm in gwine to a bar- 
 beskew ef dey did go," answered Mammy in 
 a sulky tone ; " 'taint mos' likely de* folks 
 down yere's gwine to enjoy demselves same 
 as folkes in de Norf, sittin' 'round wid dere 
 fingers in der mouves. An' Miss Marsh, I 
 reckon, she do as she please, ennyhow. Dere 
 kant nobody make her do nothin' she don't 
 wan' ter, nohow,"
 
 NOBODY KNOWS. 159 
 
 " Can it be possible, Mammy, that you 
 think it a proper thing for a young lady to 
 be out after midnight in such a company, 
 and when her health is so poor that she can- 
 not sit up an hour in the day? Would her 
 mother, if she were alive, countenance such 
 impropriety for a moment?" 
 
 Mammy did not answer at once. She did 
 not want to seem ignorant of the proprie- 
 ties, but at the same time she recalled cer- 
 tain escapades of her late mistress, Miss 
 Marie, to which Miss Marcia's nocturnal per- 
 egrinations seemed very mild amusement. 
 As her mistress pressed her for an answer 
 she said at last in a low, mysterious voice: 
 
 " It am a shame to fault-fine' Miss Marsh 
 when eberybody knows she be done con- 
 juh'd." 
 
 "Conjured!" answered Mrs. Marsden, "I 
 thought it was only the colored people who 
 were conjured." 
 
 " Miss Marcia done conjuh'd," reiterated 
 Mammy, and not another word would she 
 say. 
 
 The day following her night adventure
 
 160 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 Marcia was disposed to spend in sleep, so 
 that it was nearly night when she consented 
 to see Beatrice in her room. 
 
 She lay pallid and motionless on the bed 
 with that unpleasant, repellant look on her 
 face which was habitual to her in disagree- 
 able moods. Her moral and physical tem- 
 perature were evidently at low mark. She 
 looked defiantly at Beatrice, as if preparing 
 to resist her authority. 
 
 " Are you not feeling as well as usual to- 
 day?" asked her stepmother, seating herself 
 without invitation. She had come thither 
 in the stern fulfillment of duty and was pre- 
 determined to accept no slight, or be im- 
 peded in the work she hoped to accom- 
 plish. 
 
 " I never feel well," was the sullen an- 
 swer. 
 
 " Do you not think you were unwise 
 in going out last night ? " pursued Beatrice 
 calmly. 
 
 She was prepared for an impatient denial 
 or prevarication and expected to have a 
 scene of tears and recrimination, but to her
 
 NOBODY KNOWS. 161 
 
 surprise the sick girl merely looked at her 
 with a vague expression of surprise and 
 answered coldly. 
 
 " I was not out last night, Mrs. Mars- 
 den, and I cannot understand your insinua- 
 tions." 
 
 " Not out last night not out, when I saw 
 you myself in company with Cherry and 
 Major Krum? Marcia, I cannot believe that 
 you can willfully resort to tricks of false- 
 hood and deception, but what then am I to 
 think when I followed you and saw you with 
 my own eyes walking about as strong ap- 
 parently as I am." 
 
 " It is false," cried the sick girl, excitedly. 
 " You come here when I am alone and help- 
 less and insult me. You know that I am 
 unable to bear my own weight alone and 
 cannot go out either in the daytime or 
 at night. You dare not tell my father such 
 a false, wicked story, and he would not be- 
 lieve you if you did. You have come here 
 where you were not wanted, and made 
 us all wretched. You have taken my 
 
 father's love away from me and driven off 
 11
 
 162 HER DESPERATE VICTORY.. 
 
 my true friend, Major Krum. I hate the 
 sight of your cruel, deceitful face. And 
 you would come between Cherry and me, 
 and even make Mammy turn against us 
 if you could. I wish my father had never 
 seen you ! I wish my own dear mother had 
 never died ! " 
 
 Beatrice turned faint and sick, but she 
 would not turn upon the helpless girl. 
 Again she pleaded with her. 
 
 " Marcia, why will you do me such a 
 wrong? If you cannot, will not, love me, at 
 least respect me as yojur father's wife and 
 your own true friend. I will pray for you 
 my child as long as I have breath." 
 
 " The stepmother's breath," sneered Mar- 
 cia with cruel sarcasm. 
 
 Beatrice gave the sick girl, whose face 
 was livid with pain or anger, a look full of 
 the divinest pity and love, then without a 
 word she left the room. 
 
 A few moments later Cherry entered, 
 bringing her sister some delicacy Mammy 
 had just sent up. Marcia refused to touch 
 it and at once proceeded to relate with
 
 NOBODY KNOWS, 163 
 
 much excitement the scene that had just 
 transpired. 
 
 "And to think," she concluded indignantly, 
 " that she did not believe me when I told her 
 that it was impossible that she could have 
 seen me, that I am not able to walk even, 
 and to be accused in such a shameful manner 
 of being out last night. Could it be possi- 
 ble, Cherry, that she mistook someone else 
 for me? Oh, Cherry, who was with the 
 Major?" 
 
 " Nobody," said Cherry, not looking her 
 sister in the face. 
 
 " Did he ask about me ? " 
 
 " Yep, talked a heap about you." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! I mean to send him 
 word that he can come here to see me 
 whenever he pleases. This house isn't hers." 
 
 "Yes it is," said Cherry. "Stepmother 
 bought it. Paid a heap of money, Maje 
 says, greengages and things and has writin' 
 to show fur it." 
 
 " Mort-gages," corrected Marcia. 
 
 " Well, some kind of plums. Say, Marsh, 
 am I as ignorant as a hoss?"
 
 164 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " Horse, you mean, Cherry. I am afraid 
 you are, but who said so ? " 
 
 " Oh, I heerd of it. I've a great big 
 mind to let her learn me something." 
 
 "Teach you, you mean. That woman, 
 Cherry, when she has treated me so badly, 
 so shamefully? Why, Cherry, you don't 
 seem to care that she said I was out at 
 a dance last night ; I dreamed of one and 
 thought I saw you and the Major there, 
 and there was a woman with him a pale 
 girl wearing a cloak. I wonder what it 
 means." 
 
 " I reckon she saw the woman and 
 thought it was you, Marsh." 
 
 " But you said," and here Marcia became 
 excited and raised herself. " You said 
 there was no one no one with the Major." 
 
 " He might have spoken to some one for 
 all I know. I was dancin'. I danced 
 down Hi Corbin and it most killed him. 
 It took us two hours an' a half. Then he 
 faynted. I reckon he ain't a goin' to brag 
 up his dancin' any more."
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 "ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER." 
 
 The Judge had insisted upon the pres- 
 ence of Cherry at each meal, but unless he 
 went after her and brought her in by main 
 force the girl kicking and scratching at 
 every step it was very seldom she ap- 
 peared. So far as he was concerned he 
 would much rather have eaten without her, 
 but it was the wish of Beatrice that he 
 assert his parental authority in the matter. 
 When she did come she walked in and 
 took her seat with a saucy air of defiance 
 that was put on purposely for the occasion 
 and was as aggravating as it was rude and 
 disagreeable to the unhappy stepmother 
 subjected to it. But she was so beautiful 
 and charming even in her willfulness that 
 Beatrice would not despair, but fortified 
 herself with the hope that at some time 
 
 she would find the way to the child's heart. 
 165
 
 166 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 For she saw that Cherry really possessed 
 a heart, smothered as it was in the rank 
 weeds of ignorance and frivolity. Her 
 first intimation tnat the girl could be 
 reached and subdued in any way came to 
 her like a revelation. Mrs. Madeira and 
 her daughter Grace, a beautiful young lady 
 of Marcia's age, called to invite Mrs. Mars- 
 den, the Judge and Cherry to an evening 
 company. Grace Madeira went up to Mar- 
 cia's room while her mother chatted with 
 Beatrice who was always glad to meet her. 
 Beatrice wore a pretty house costume, one 
 of her wedding outfit, and the large par- 
 lor was in keeping with the dress of its 
 mistress stately and in good taste. While 
 the two ladies were chatting on various 
 topics Cherry sprung in through the win- 
 dow in her usual impulsive style. She had 
 been in the woods gathering leaves and 
 mosses, and her disheveled hair, disordered 
 dress and youthful beauty gave her the ap- 
 pearance of a childish Ophelia. She was 
 nothing daunted by the presence of Mrs. 
 Madeira, nor would she have been if it had
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER. 167 
 
 been the minister himself. Mrs. Madeira 
 had just asked Mrs. Marsden to play some- 
 thing on the little old-fashioned but elegant 
 piano which stood severely locked in its 
 rich carvings between the windows. 
 
 " I should be glad to do so," answered 
 Beatrice, " but I have never had the key 
 of the instrument. It is months since I 
 played." 
 
 " Oh, Cherry," said Mrs. Madeira, pre- 
 suming on her long acquaintance with the 
 family, "is there no way to open it?" 
 
 " I reckon thare is," said Cherry, shortly. 
 " It's Marsh's piano, and she keeps the 
 key on a string 'round her neck. Step- 
 mother mought ask her fur it ef she wants 
 it." 
 
 Beatrice changed the conversation, while 
 Mrs. Madeira, distressed beyond measure, 
 looked her displeasure at the thoughtless 
 girl ; nor did she for a moment anticipate 
 that Cherry would accept the invitation 
 already given to attend the party. 
 
 Beatrice, however, anticipated the matter 
 by preparing her a very pretty costume,
 
 168 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 made out of one that had belonged to the 
 Judge's first wife, which, with some other 
 things, had been kept under lock and key 
 and had not been ruthlessly sacrificed to a 
 lesser service. The girl had often seen her 
 mother wear it and did not fail to recog- 
 nize it when, with new ribbons, it was 
 laid upon a chair in her room. How she 
 accepted it, or whether she accepted it at 
 all, Beatrice did not know, nor could she 
 learn whether the girl intended to wear it 
 or even to be present. The Judge had 
 been too busy to interfere, and she had 
 answered her stepmother with her usual 
 impertinent nonchalance, so when the time 
 came Beatrice went alone, leaving Cherry 
 to follow or stay at home as she herself 
 should elect. 
 
 The company, composed of the best 
 people in the village, had all assembled, and 
 were sitting in stiff, absorbed silence, after 
 the fashion of sociables, studying the north- 
 ern splendor and freshness of Mrs. Judge 
 Marsden's dress a plain, dark silk, worn 
 with some handsome lace, when all were
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER. 109 
 
 astonished by a piping voice at the minis- 
 ter's elbow, saying, with ludicrous solemnity: 
 
 " And Satan came also have a cheer ? 
 don't mind ef I do." 
 
 It was Cherry, but not the Cherry of 
 other days. She wore her pretty, new dress, 
 and looked so graceful, roguish and pretty 
 in it that all eyes were charmed, and 
 Beatrice felt well repaid for her labor. 
 What would have paid her infinitely 
 better, however, was lacking any kindly 
 recognition of herself. The girl flounced 
 into a corner, where she was soon sur- 
 rounded by the younger members of the 
 family, for whom she had special attrac- 
 tions, her quaint ways, her mimicry, and 
 her abnormal flow of spirits making her very 
 entertaining company to the youngsters. 
 
 In the course of the evening the judge's 
 wife was invited by her hostess to furnish 
 some music. There was a very indifferent 
 piano, and Beatrice regretted the fatuity 
 that led her to part with her own superb 
 instrument upon the representation of 
 Richard that there was a fine piano in her
 
 170 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 new home. She was a thorough musician, 
 and had often relieved her pent-up sor- 
 rows sorrows of the past which she had 
 to bear alone with the soothing strains of 
 Mendelssohn or the inspiration of Schu- 
 mann. She sat down now to the instru- 
 ment and gave one rapid, comprehensive 
 glance at her audience. She felt sure the 
 keys would respond to her touch with the 
 " Sweet By-and-by " or " Nearer, My God, 
 to Thee," and almost wondered at the ease 
 with which they followed her in the 
 "Moonlight Sonata" of Beethoven. As the 
 last note died away she saw the people 
 yawning and fidgeting, and for a moment 
 her fingers lay idly on the keys. Then 
 she touched a chord softly, and with a 
 clear, sweet voice, charged with an electric, 
 sympathetic quality, sung a ballad that 
 was popular then as now, and had the 
 power to touch every heart. Beatrice sung 
 it with a homesick longing for the reality, 
 and more than one head bowed itself in 
 tears, and more than one heart responded 
 with a sigh of mingled love and longing
 
 In a moment the impulsive Cherry was in the old woman's lap. 
 (Page 68.)
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER. 173 
 
 as the tender, impassioned prayer, the out- 
 come of a broken heart, was slowly breathed 
 to the sad music. 
 
 " Backward, turn backward, O time in your flight, 
 Make me a child again, just for to-night. 
 Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
 Take me again to your heart as of yore; 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; 
 Over my slumbers your loving watch keep, 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep. 
 
 When the first verse was finished the 
 singer paused ; she felt her voice filling 
 with tears, and every note was a sob. She 
 did not wish to make others suffer. 
 
 " Oh, do go on ; please sing it through," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Madeira, a request in which 
 all the company joined. 
 
 Beatrice was about to substitute some 
 joyous strain when she saw that Cherry 
 had moved forward and taken a position 
 near the instrument. Her face was pale 
 and sober, and a new and inexplicable ex- 
 pression shone in her bright restless eyes. 
 It seemed to plead for a continuation of
 
 174 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 the song, and this decided Beatrice, and she 
 sang the second verse. 
 
 "Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years, 
 I am so weary of toil and of tears, 
 Toil without recompense, tears all in vain; 
 Take them and give me my childhood again. 
 I have grown weary of dust and decay, 
 Weary of flinging my soul wealth away, 
 Weary of sowing for others to reap, 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep." 
 
 A moment's silence followed the exqui- 
 sitely sad lines, and the vibration of voice 
 and instrument still held the air, when 
 Cherry dashed from the room and was 
 seen no more that evening. Beatrice sub- 
 stituted a merry, mad Strauss waltz and 
 the sadness was dispelled. The Judge's 
 wife was secretly encored and applauded 
 in the hearts of the social critics, and as 
 they took their leave the pair were over- 
 whelmed with " invites " to attend socials 
 and tea parties among the Spartans. 
 
 " You have had quite a triumph this 
 evening, Beatrice," said the Judge, as they 
 walked homeward.
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER. 175 
 
 " I hope so," answered his wife, ambigu- 
 ously. 
 
 She was thinking of Cherry. 
 
 "Is my wife hungering for applause?" 
 inquired Richard, grandiloquently. 
 
 " Oh, it isn't that," retorted Beatrice. 
 "What do I care for those people? Not 
 but what I am happy to have pleased or 
 amused them ; but oh, Richard, did you 
 see Cherry? She wore the dress I made 
 her she listened to my singing it is only 
 a step onward, but I thank God for it." 
 
 "Beatrice," said the Judge, indifferently, 
 " I do think you are a monomaniac on the 
 subject of those children. You overdo this 
 stepmother business." 
 
 " Richard, I wish you would discontinue 
 the use of that odious word. Since fate 
 no, since God has willed it that I 
 should be a representative of that despised 
 and unhappy class I will devote my life 
 to elevating and improving my position, 
 but it is a hard work to do. If I am just, 
 I seem hard. I cannot win respect, much 
 less love. To-night I have had the first
 
 176 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 glimpse of comfort that has been vouch- 
 safed me. Oh, Richard, you are answer- 
 able to God for the future of these dear 
 children. Help me to win their love." 
 
 "Y-a-a-s," answered the Judge, sleepily. 
 "The children are well enough, Beatrice ; 
 don't worry." 
 
 " Toil without recompense, tears all in 
 vain," thought the discouraged woman, 
 sadly. 
 
 Before she slept Beatrice stole softly into 
 Cherry's room, beset by a vague fear that 
 she might be engaged in some midnight 
 escapade. But the child was sound asleep. 
 One rosy arm was thrown above her head 
 her pretty dimpled face was smiling and 
 peaceful. The stepmother watched her a 
 long time. She thought of that little head 
 that had so long been pillowed under the 
 grave-gemmed mold of Mount H*ope of the 
 mute lips that had never called her mother. 
 She thought of that other woman whose 
 child lay sleeping before her of the cruel 
 wrong she had wrought her. Was it her 
 spirit that held these children aloof from
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP, MOTHER. 17f 
 
 her? Tears gathered in her eyes at her 
 own desolation. Last, where she should 
 have been first. Then rose to her lips that 
 divine prayer, " Father, forgive them they 
 know not what they do." 
 
 Stooping over the sleeping child she 
 pressed a kiss of love and forgiveness upon 
 the white brow, from which the sunny curls 
 were brushed away. Cherry half-awakened. 
 "Stepmother!" she murmured, and turned 
 her head on its pillow. 
 
 "Even in her sleep she hates me," 
 thought Beatrice, sadly. 
 
 As she turned to leave the room she 
 saw the pretty dress Cherry had worn, 
 folded carefully and laid on a chair. It 
 gave her a new hope, since it was the first 
 time that she had ever shown that she val. 
 ued any gift from her stepmother's hand. 
 
 " With Love for her master she may yet 
 become a daughter of the gods," thought 
 
 Beatrice, as she left her alone. 
 12
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE GREEN-EYED. 
 
 The Judge sat alone in the " den " which 
 was his own special retreat and smoked an 
 old clay pipe the beloved companion of 
 his solitary hours at which he pulled now 
 with vindictive energy, as if it were some- 
 how bent on resisting his will. Something 
 evidently had happened to disturb the calm 
 suavity of his listless nature, for a volcano 
 of angry emotions was surging in his heart. 
 Before him lay a letter addressed to his 
 wife, which he had just read and thrown 
 down, using as he did so one of those 
 superfluous oaths which usually lie in wait 
 on the heels of erasciblc speech. He had 
 sent for Major Krum, who for so many 
 years had been his faithful henchman, and 
 who since the coming of Beatrice had 
 been dismissed from his privileged place 
 178
 
 THE GREEN-EYKI). 179 
 
 in the family, and was now awaiting him 
 in a tumult of angry thought and of really 
 cruel disappointment. He had believed 
 fully that Beatrice loved him with the 
 whole depth of her woman's affection until 
 he read that letter. 
 
 When the Major came he walked to the 
 table at which the Judge was sitting, took 
 a black bottle and a glass away and hid 
 them in a closet, which he seemed to have 
 no difficulty in finding, and locking them 
 up, dropped the key in his pocket. 
 
 " D d cool, I must say," snarled the 
 Judge, " to treat a man that way in his 
 own house." 
 
 " I don't treat ; that is what you will 
 thank me for when you are yourself again. 
 Now what is wrong this time ? You seem 
 to be pretty well hetchelled up about 
 somethin'." 
 
 " Read that letter," drawled the Judge 
 in dangerously soft tones. 
 
 "A letter addressed to Mrs. Marsden? 
 When I get that lady's permission to read 
 it I will not before."
 
 180 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " Then hear me read it," suggested the 
 Judge, in the same repressed voice : 
 
 " ' My beloved ' " 
 
 " Stop ! " commanded Major Krum, with 
 military vehemence. "By G d, Jedge, I 
 ain't much of a saint, as you know, but 
 when a man stoops to discuss his wife 
 and such a wife with any other man liv- 
 ing I don't want to know him. No, sir ! 
 And if you persist in this, sir, I must de- 
 cline the honah of your acquaintance ; yes, 
 sir ! the honah of your acquaintance." 
 
 For a moment the Judge stared hard. 
 Then he laughed a soulless, metallic laugh 
 that struck on the Major's soul like flint, 
 and like flint elicited fire. 
 
 "Look at me," he exclaimed, with tragic 
 eloquence. " Look at this manly form, clad 
 in respectable clothes. Look at the face 
 that was livid with dissipation at the 
 hands that trembled like a leaf in the 
 breeze. There's health, there's vigor, 
 there's manhood, sir, and I owe it to her 
 your wife to her womanly example, 
 her patient pleading, her goodness. And
 
 THE GREEN-EYED. 181 
 
 now you want me to repay her with insult. 
 Burn that letter. If it has aught to say 
 against her it's the device of an enemy. 
 Burn it, and trust her as you would an 
 angel from heaven." 
 
 " Angels from heaven don't get love-letters 
 written by other men than their husbands," 
 sneered the Judge. 
 
 " Look heah, Marsden, stand up, won't 
 you ? " retorted the Major. 
 
 "Why should I stand up?" 
 
 " So that I can knock you down like a 
 man. You'll thank me for it when you 
 come to yourself," 
 
 The Judge fingered the letter irresolutely, 
 and the Major followed up his advantage. 
 
 " Can't you see for yourself, Jedge, that 
 your wife's letters don't belong to you. Why 
 man, there isn't a postoffice in the state 
 that would give you one of them if she told 
 them not to. Ef you can't trust her you've 
 no chance in that direction. Now she didn't 
 marry you on compulsion. I've heard you 
 were old lovers, and she ain't the kir^ ot 
 woman to love one man and marry another,
 
 182 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 sure as you're bawn, Jedge. Jest you hand 
 that letter to her, and tell her say, how did 
 you get it ? " 
 
 " Found it here on my desk." 
 " Oh ! ah ! umph ! Who put it there ? " 
 "Cherry, I think. A nice thing for a 
 man's children to do, hey? but perfectly 
 right under the circumstances." 
 
 " Puffickly wrong," answered the Major. 
 " J e dge, let me take that letter and give it 
 back to Cherry. The children the girls 
 ahem The Major stammered and grew 
 red. " Miss Marcia, of course, would not do 
 it, but I think Cherry is coming round. She'll 
 put that letter back where she found it." 
 
 "Take it," said the Judge, regarding it as 
 if it were a rattlesnake. 
 
 Cherry was seated upon the horse-block 
 feeding the birds when the Major found her, 
 she was not well pleased with her morning's 
 work. Something in her stubborn little 
 heart gave her trouble a pin-prick of con- 
 science, possibly. She whistled very loud 
 when she saw the Major, and affected not 
 to see the letter in his hand.
 
 THE GREEN-EYED. 183 
 
 "There, you've frightened all the birds 
 away, scarecrow," she said, with her usual 
 brusque impertinence. 
 
 " Cherry," asked the Major, solemnly, 
 " why are you so good to birds and beasts, 
 and so hateful to people?" 
 
 " I don't like people." 
 
 " Don't you love anybody in the world, 
 Cherry?" 
 
 "Yes" and the bright eyes grew tender 
 " Marsh, and Mammy, and you when 
 you 'have yohse'f." 
 
 "Your father?" 
 
 " Naw ; why, he isn't anything to me. 
 But I like him bettah than stepmother." 
 
 " Cherry ! keep still now don't you run 
 away; I want you to take this letter and 
 put it where you found it." 
 
 "What lettah?" asked the girl, wickedly. 
 " Stepmother's? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Cherry seemed to be considering. She 
 tore a large rent in the skirt of her dress 
 in her perplexity, and kicked one ragged, 
 down-at-the-heel slipper to a distance, where
 
 184 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 she immediately hopped on one foot to 
 recover it. She whistled a bird-song that 
 brought responses from the neighboring 
 trees. Then she looked at the Major, with 
 her pretty head on one side. 
 
 "I believe she is a witch," said the 
 Major to himself. 
 
 " Maje," she asked, suddenly, " kin you 
 keep a secret?" 
 
 " Cross my heart," answered the Major, 
 tragically. 
 
 "Then, if you'll promise to nevah, nevah 
 tole, I'll tole you somethin'. Marsh and 
 stepmother's both got the same beau." 
 
 "What?" roared the Major; "Marsh " 
 
 " H-u-s-h up ! They'll hear yoh in the 
 house. It's Gospil truth, an' an' yoh won't 
 nevah tole? I'm half in love with him my 
 own se'f." 
 
 It was the Major's turn to rave. Mar- 
 cia Marcia, his idol, whom he had loved 
 since she was an infant in long clothes 
 Marcia, whose mother had been the star 
 he worshiped in his youthful days, and to 
 whom he had transferred his allegiance at
 
 THE GREEN-EYED. 185 
 
 first sight and nourished it ever since 
 even though a forlorn hope. Marcia in 
 love with another man ! The Major felt 
 the world rolling away from under him. 
 He knew without being told that he was 
 nearly as old as her father that he could 
 bring her only the husks of a dissipated 
 life to satisfy her soul. But he had not 
 once felt himself insufficient. How many 
 times had he lifted her in his arms to 
 carry her when she could not walk, even 
 as a mother would carry a young child. 
 It was not until Beatrice came there that 
 he saw himself a wasted convivialist, seek- 
 ing only the gratification of a debasing 
 appetite. She had shown him up in his 
 true colors, had taught him to live a nobler 
 life, had helped him to a financial stand- 
 ing, and put him on a probation, at the 
 end of which time he expected to be able 
 to make a home for his dear invalid. The 
 Major was so upset that he leaned his 
 head on Cherry's shoulder and groaned : 
 
 " Oh, Cherry ! Cherry ! I'm a broken- 
 hearted man ! '
 
 186 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " Take your head off my shouldear," 
 commanded the child, with dignity; "an* 
 don't sniffle while I tole you 'bout it. Marsh 
 writes pieces and they're printed in the 
 paper you know, 'cause she's tole you 
 an' you don't much like it but this yeah 
 Yank, he's been writin' to her an' sort of 
 makin' love. Say, Maje, how do folks 
 make love?" 
 
 She dropped her pretty chin into her 
 hand, and looked with her bright, childish 
 eyes innocent as those of any song-bird 
 into the flushed countenance of the Major, 
 who was consuming with wretchedness and 
 jealousy. 
 
 " I dunno," he answered, gloomily; " there 
 ain't any such thing as love in the world. 
 Nobody loves anybody, so far as I can 
 see." 
 
 "Ha, ha!" laughed Cherry; "you doan' 
 love Marsh Marsh doan' love what's his 
 name Edgar Mr. Harrington, hum 
 mebbe not." 
 
 At this moment Beatrice came toward 
 them. Her sweet face always serene and
 
 THE GREEN-EYED. 187 
 
 dignified, even though it bore an habitual 
 look of trouble seemed sad and downcast. 
 Cherry snatched the letter from the Major 
 and held it up. 
 
 " Lookin' for this?" she queried, pertly. 
 Beatrice stared a moment in genuine sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "Where did you obtain this letter?" 
 she asked, calmly. 
 
 " 'Tained it from the floor," was the an- 
 swer. 
 
 " Have you been reading my correspond- 
 ence?" inquired Beatrice, looking in turn 
 from one to the other. 
 
 " Answer your mother, Cherry," said the 
 Major, in a sulky voice. 
 
 " I picked the lettah up and gave it to 
 Marsh," answered the girl, defiantly. 
 
 " What right had you to give my letters 
 to any one ? " 
 
 "Don't be scared, she didn't read it. I 
 took it down to feyther this s'morn to 
 give back to you. Dunno how Maje got 
 it. All the same," continued the girl, 
 stamping her foot and pointing to the let-
 
 188 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 ter, " he's Marsh's beau and has writ her 
 a heap of lettahs." 
 
 " How dare he write to her? She must be 
 a stranger to him. Or is he some chance 
 acquaintance of her school days? Mrs. 
 Marsden, is he a friend of yours?" 
 
 "A very dear friend," answered Beatrice, 
 with white lips. " Perhaps the only friend 
 I have in the world at this moment Major 
 Krum, did you read my letter?" 
 
 " Can you ask me such a question ? " 
 answered the Major, warmly. " Deceit (he 
 pronounced it decate) and treachery may 
 undermine me. Before God I may be a 
 sinner, but I'm not a traytor." 
 
 " I will see Marcia," said Beatrice, and 
 carrying the letter in her hand she reentered 
 the house, leaving Cherry and the Major in 
 angry consultation. 
 
 When she entered the sick girl's room she 
 found her sleeping, and sitting down beside 
 her she contemplated her long and sadly. 
 Bereaved of children of her own her wom- 
 an's heart went out to this motherless girl 
 who rejected all her advances. There was
 
 THE GREEN-EYED. 189 
 
 something deathlike in the motionless fig- 
 ure, which lay relaxed and inert in a sleep 
 that was the counterfeit of death. An 
 unwholesome pallor lay upon the sunken 
 features, and a look of passive weariness. 
 Beatrice no longer wondered at this, now 
 that she was aware of the girl's nocturnal 
 rambles. What she did wonder at was that, 
 with so much license to do as she pleased, 
 she should have any motive for going out 
 in this silent, secret way or in pretending to 
 be utterly helpless when she was not. She 
 knew that the night was also given to writ- 
 ing, since no evidence of such work ap- 
 peared. Nor could she determine Marcia's 
 object in such resolute secrecy concerning a 
 most honorable employment. No doubt 
 the girl's object at first had been to acquire 
 some money. Her stepmother's generosity 
 had surrounded her with all comforts and 
 made that motive unnecessary. Beatrice 
 sighed deeply over the duplicity of one 
 so young, and the sick girl at once opened 
 her eyes wide and looked at her with mis- 
 trust and dislike.
 
 190 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " Marcia," said Beatrice, gently, " I have a 
 letter here directed to me and written to 
 me which Cherry says you have seen. Will 
 you please answer me one question? Is the 
 same person who wrote this letter to me 
 also maintaining a correspondence with 
 you?" 
 
 The girl's sallow cheeks flushed a vindic- 
 tive red. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, coldly. " He is." 
 
 " That is enough. I have nothing more 
 to say," and she left the room, believing 
 that Marcia had obtained the name of 
 Edgar Harrington from her own private 
 letters in an attempt to undermine and 
 injure Beatrice with one who loved her, and 
 if possible disrupt the ties which bound her 
 father to a hated stepmother. 
 
 And Marcia, excited to fever-heat, threw 
 off partially the lassitude which enthralled 
 her, and spread open letter after letter, all 
 written in the same irregular, boyish hand- 
 writing, significant of college copy hand, but 
 atoning for the immaturity of their penman- 
 ship by the warmth of their language.
 
 THE GREEN-EYED. 191 
 
 " I wish I had her letter here to compare 
 them again. It seems as if hers were older 
 and wiser, more manly, and yet the name, 
 the signature, is the same, Edgar Harring- 
 ton. Why does he write to one of us in 
 a hand disguised ? Why does he write 
 loving words to both? Stepmother and 
 rival, I hate you." 
 
 She clenched her frail hands in a spasm 
 of unchristian rage, and closed her weary, 
 lusterless eyes in a fit of thinking. 
 
 It was broken at last by the entrance of 
 Cherry, looking most unamiable. 
 
 " Marsh, I'm awful discouraged. What 
 sort of folks are we, anyhow ? There's fey- 
 ther mad as hops 'cause stepmother had 
 that letter. An' Maje rairing roun' 'cause 
 a feller has writ tew you. An' there don't 
 ennybody care for me a single bit now. 
 I went into the kitchin' an' Mammy says, 
 'Tote off, I ain't gwine to hev no carryin's 
 on heah. Somethin's clar out of joint roun' 
 these parts.' An' stepmother's in her room 
 cryin'. I wouldn't want tew be in her 
 shoes."
 
 192 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " Perhaps you had better go and comfort 
 her," suggested her sister, with unpleasant 
 sarcasm. 
 
 " Marsh, is that a love-lettah, the one that 
 stepmother got?" 
 
 " I suppose so," answered Marcia, " and 
 yet I am not sure. It reads like one, but 
 in books men write such letters to women 
 they admire and respect very much. Pla- 
 tonic love is what they call the sentiment. 
 I cannot explain it to you, Cherry, so that 
 you can understand." 
 
 " You needn't try," returned Cherry. " I 
 like the other kind best. Ennybody that 
 ever falls in love with this child isn't goin' 
 round making love to other gyrls, not 
 much." 
 
 " It is only very noble, superior women 
 who inspire such a love," said Marcia. 
 
 "Is stepmother a noble woman?" asked 
 Cherry presently. 
 
 " Go away, Cherry ; I wish to sleep," was 
 the petulant answer. 
 
 Cherry went. She intended going off on 
 one of her usual jaunts where she could
 
 THE GREEN-EYED. 193 
 
 work off her superfluous vitality in nature's 
 gymnasium, but as she passed the door of 
 her stepmother's room she heard her sing- 
 ing in a low minor key, and stopped to 
 listen. It was a recitative of her own com- 
 position, set to music as sad as the words. 
 
 " No place for me in all the broad, green earth, 
 No heart that beats responsive to my own. 
 I may not share the sorrows or the mirth 
 Of those who leave me to myself alone. 
 
 " Mother, and yet no living child is mine 
 
 That sweet and precious name to me denied. 
 Oh, breaking heart, have faith, in worlds divine 
 My child will welcome me at eventide. 
 
 "Oh, not for me the rose without its thorn, 
 
 Not mine the path of pleasure, broad and free. 
 I may not with the crown my brows adorn, 
 The heavy cross must first my portion be. 
 
 "No place for me ! An alien ! in this home 
 
 I may not linger an unwelcome guest. 
 I hear a voice that softly whispers, ' Come,' 
 And bids me enter on my promised rest." 
 
 It was an improvi'sed song, such as 
 Beatrice was often accustomed to sing al- 
 most unconsciously, and to which her 
 13
 
 194 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 trembling voice and sad music gave an in- 
 describable pathos. Her eyes had been 
 closed and her head thrown back on a 
 reclining chair. Hearing a sound some- 
 thing like a sob she arose quickly and saw 
 Cherry standing before her. But the sob 
 was only the respiration of a contracted 
 throat. No tear glistened upon the round, 
 red cheek or dimmed the feverish bright- 
 ness of the child's eyes. Beatrice saw, how- 
 ever, that her soul was stirred to its depths, 
 and she held out loving arms with the cry, 
 " My child ! " But, elusive as a will-of-the- 
 wisp, the girl turned abruptly and was gone. 
 But there had been that in her face that 
 was a most welcome revelation to the 
 unloved mother. With a heart full of sor- 
 rowful yearning Beatrice, as was her wont, 
 prayed long and earnestly that her work 
 might soon be accomplished. It was dark 
 when, with an exhaustive weakness, she rose 
 from her petition and realized that from an 
 excess of feeling she had fainted on her 
 knees.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A SILENT TREATMENT. 
 
 That night Beatrice had a strange dream. 
 Her husband had not spoken to her since 
 he had read the letter which Cherry 
 unhappy child had thoughtlessly rather 
 than maliciously placed in his way. He 
 went about in a dazed sort of a way, ap- 
 parently overcome by his old enemy 
 drink. He slept, but it was that sodden, 
 brutal sleep in which a man of intellect 
 and brains seems so immeasurably inferior 
 to a brute animal. A night-taper burned 
 on the dressing-bureau and filled the room 
 with fitful shadows. The hounds, turned 
 loose for the night, barked and snarled 
 among themselves, or gave voice as they 
 raced after some flying fox that had vent- 
 ured too near. But these were sounds of 
 such nightly occurrence that they seldom 
 awakened the sleepers. 
 195
 
 196 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 Beatrice dreamed that she was walking 
 in a deep, dark tunnel, when she came to 
 a light that appeared to be an open door. 
 Then a form appeared in the doorway; 
 the radiant figure beckoned to her, and as 
 she approached she saw that it was the 
 school-friend of her youth, the lovely and 
 gentle Alma. She was dressed in some 
 white, glistening stuff, of a texture such as 
 Beatrice had never seen. On the bhining 
 floor, at her feet, lay a crown of white 
 flowers. Her face was the same as of old, 
 but lighted from within with a celestial 
 brightness. Beatrice even noticed upon her 
 hand a ring such as she had often seen 
 her wear. And this was the conversation 
 that she dreamed they held: 
 
 ALMA. " Not yet, dear sister. We may 
 not embrace until you have passed through 
 the open door and have on these garments 
 we wear. It is not yet time for that." 
 
 BEATRICE. " But I am weary and sore 
 discouraged. No one on earth needs me. 
 I cannot do the work I took up so bravely. 
 I have tried and failed/'
 
 A SILENT TREATMENT. 197 
 
 ALMA. "Only the Master can decide 
 that. He will send his messenger in good 
 time. Be patient and strong, dear sister, 
 for the troubles of earth are but for a 
 little season, for which, too, there is a 
 blessed compensation." 
 
 BEATRICE. "Are you, then, so happy, 
 dearest Alma? Is it indeed true what is 
 told of that wonderful country?" 
 
 ALMA. " Nothing has been told or im- 
 agined that approaches the truth. The 
 greatest joys of earth are cold and poor 
 when compared to the blissful rest we enjoy 
 here, the peace that is never broken, the 
 happiness that never fades." 
 
 BEATRICE. " You are so lovely, dearest 
 Alma, so wonderfully fair ; your flesh is 
 like alabaster or pearl in its whiteness." 
 
 ALMA. "They are all like this where 
 I come from, sister. Return now to your 
 appointed work. I will soon welcome you 
 here. I hear the Master calling." 
 
 Then Beatrice dreamed that the open 
 door was closed, and she was shut out 
 in thick darkness. A sense of suffoca-
 
 198 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 tion oppressed her, she struggled and 
 awoke. 
 
 There is a sixth sense which science has 
 never named. It is that by which we become 
 conscious of the presence of an unseen per- 
 son. Beatrice was not alone. Her husband 
 was sleeping soundly by her side ; yet before 
 she had opened her eyes she was aware that 
 some one was looking at her. She sat up 
 and confronted Marcia Marcia in a white 
 night-robe who was standing, looking di- 
 rectly at her, but who turned without em- 
 barrassment and began to fumble among 
 the articles on the toilet table. Beatrice 
 was unmistakably a woman of good judg- 
 ment, but the tragic thought that at once 
 entered her mind was, " She has come to 
 poison me ! " and such a wave of despair 
 swept over her soul that she would have 
 drank without protest any drug offered 
 her. But Marcia carried neither powder 
 nor potion. In her right hand she held 
 a night-lamp similar to the one burning in 
 the room ; with her left she made strange 
 passes over the table, as if seeking some-
 
 A SILENT TREATMENT. 199 
 
 thing by the sense of touch. Beatrice 
 slipped quietly from her bed and caught 
 the girl by the arm with such firmness 
 that the 'grasp turned her around and com- 
 pelled her to face her. There was a mo- 
 ment's pause followed by a fearful scream. 
 Beatrice instantly relaxed her hold, and 
 the girl fell to the floor insensible, ex- 
 tinguishing the lamp, which lay broken 
 at her feet. The scream brought Cherry 
 and Mammy, and the Judge, awakened by 
 the tumult, rose hurriedly, and wrapping 
 himself in his dressing-gown inquired sar- 
 castically if the guerrillas had arrived. But 
 he was really alarmed when he saw his 
 daughter lying insensible at his feet, and 
 with the rest hurried to administer restora- 
 tives. It was a scene of confusion and 
 dismay, Cherry crying, Mammy reiterating 
 the mysterious phrase, " done conju'd," and 
 Beatrice rubbing the cold hands and ap- 
 plying restoratives. When they finally suc- 
 ceeded in restoring her to sensibility she 
 was in her own bed, but she looked about 
 her in vague alarm.
 
 200 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 "What is it? Where am I? What has 
 happened ? " 
 
 Beatrice noticed a new quality in her voice, 
 and a change in the expression of her feat- 
 ures. As her eyes rested upon her step- 
 mother there was neither distrust nor aver- 
 sion in them nothing but an eager curi- 
 osity. Cherry, who had been weeping loudly 
 and wringing her hands, now added to 
 the general mystery by remarking to 
 Mammy: 
 
 " It didn't kill her, afteh all." 
 
 "What do they mean? "asked Beatrice 
 of her husband. 
 
 There was some embarrassment in his 
 manner, and he shifted uneasily from one 
 foot to the other, and his eyes did not meet 
 hers as he hurriedly answered his wife's 
 question. 
 
 " Oh, it's nothing. I meant to tell you, 
 but thought it was of no consequence. The 
 truth is, ever since she returned from 
 school Marcia has been a sleep-walker a 
 somnambulist." 
 
 " Oh, Richard ! and you never told me !
 
 A SILENT TREATMENT. 201 
 
 Was I so little deserving of your confidence 
 as this?" 
 
 " Well, it wasn't a pleasant thing to talk 
 about something like having fits in the 
 family, or St. Vitus' dance. One isn't fond 
 of showing up such family skeletons." 
 
 " But you have let this poor child suffer 
 when she might now be in vigorous health." 
 
 "That sounds as if you were going to 
 advertise some patent medicine, Beatrice," 
 responded the Judge. " I have had the best 
 doctors to see her, but they said it was a 
 disease of the nerves and could do nothing 
 to help her." 
 
 "There are no diseases of the nerves," 
 answered Beatrice, warmly, " that cannot be 
 controlled by the mind. You will see that 
 Marcia will cure herself now without medi- 
 cine if she will submit to the silent control 
 of a stronger will. The spell is broken 
 by violence and accident, but it could more 
 easily have been willed away by a scientific 
 intelligence." 
 
 " Everybody said as it would kill her 
 if she was woken up like that when she
 
 202 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 walked about," said Cherry, who, humanized 
 and tearful, hung over her sister, the only 
 being on earth whom she fondly loved. 
 
 " Is yoh bettah, honey ? " inquired Mammy, 
 bending her sympathetic black visage above 
 the white face sunken into the pillow. " Is 
 yoh mortal suah it ain't done killed yoh ? " 
 
 " If you will all leave the room," said 
 Beatrice presently, " I will stay with Marcia 
 the rest of the night." 
 
 " What did she want in our room, 
 Beatrice?" asked the Judge at this moment, 
 as if the thought had just occurred to him. 
 
 " I have not the least idea," answered 
 his wife with a shudder, as her first suspicion 
 recurred to her. " Do you know, Cherry? " 
 
 " She said last night she wanted to get 
 a lettah," muttered Cherry, with her eyes 
 upon her sister, who, however, took no 
 notice of her. 
 
 " A letter ! my letter ? Is it possible that 
 I am an object of suspicion in my own 
 household ? That my husband's children 
 are spies in his service." 
 
 Beatrice spoke with withering scorn, her
 
 A SILENT TREATMENT. 2<>:; 
 
 fine head superbly poised, her eyes humid 
 with tears of shame and regret. 
 
 " It is your own fault, madam," her hus- 
 band answered, severely. " When a wife 
 receives letters which she does not wish her 
 husband to read she herself furnishes the 
 evidence which condemns her." 
 
 "You never asked me for the letters, 
 Richard, or even gave me a chance to 
 offer an explanation. But now I will say 
 that it is despotism tyranny of the most 
 degrading sort for a husband to demand 
 as a right that he shall see the letters 
 which are written to his wife by men or 
 women, either. If he suspects her of in- 
 fidelity to him or to his interest he has 
 legal redress. But if he loves his wife and 
 has confidence in her integrity he will 
 understand that she will have no friends 
 who will not respect and honor her for 
 her own sake as well as his. My friend- 
 ships are my own my friend's written 
 words to me are for me alone. It is you 
 who put upon me the dishonor of a base 
 suspicion."
 
 204 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 The Judge retorted with an imprecation, 
 and left the room. Cherry went with him, 
 and Beatrice turned to the sick girl, who 
 was regarding her tenderly, almost lovingly. 
 
 "Sleep," she murmured, softly; "sleep, 
 Marcia, and awaken restored to health. 
 You will not be weak or sick or bound in 
 the service of somnambulism. You will be 
 well, in full vigor, with the use of all your 
 faculties when you awake. Sleep ! / will 
 it. And while you sleep I will watch. 
 Matter is inert. It is subject to the power 
 of mind. The over-soul of the universe is 
 stronger than the powers of disease." 
 
 Quietly the sick girl closed her eyes and 
 drifted away away to the calm seas of 
 rest and infinite peace, to which the spirit, 
 disembodied by sleep, dreamlessly goes. 
 Beatrice sat near her with bent head and 
 closed eyes. Hour after hour glided away 
 and still the sick girl slept, and still Bea- 
 trice sat there motionless, rigid, giving out 
 the precious mind healing, which is the 
 special gift of the Christian scientist. Day 
 dawned and the sun rose ; noon came and
 
 A SILENT TREATMENT. 205 
 
 passed ; to all inquiries a backward motion 
 from Beatrice and a finger pressed to the 
 lips made answer. Alas! what harm has 
 been done by over-officiousness. It has been 
 well said that ignorance can tear down in 
 a day what knowledge has been a thou- 
 sand years building. It was Mammy who, 
 in the stupidity of her faithful nature, 
 broke the spell at last by forcing her way 
 in, with a tray of refreshments, sure that 
 her "deah Miss Marsh was done starved." 
 Marcia opened her eyes and sprang up in 
 bed, feeling new life in every limb and 
 prescient with health and vigor, but the 
 tired and prostrated healer, out of whom 
 so much magnetism had escaped, lay back 
 in her chair, white, insensible, and to all 
 appearance dead.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CROOKED PATHS MADE STRAIGHT. 
 
 "This must be the place," said one of 
 two strangers who stood regarding Clyffe 
 House with curious eyes. " Why, I had 
 expected something of civilization here, 
 but this ancient pile is as dignified a ruin 
 as one could wish to see. Picturesque, 
 rather, isn't it, Rob?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered the younger man, 
 with a very respectful intonation. " It 
 looks as if it had been some feudal castle 
 of the sixteenth century." 
 
 "What do you know of feudal castles, 
 Rob?" interrogated Edgar Harrington, as 
 a smile of amusement crossed for a mo- 
 ment his anxious face. " The place has a 
 natural beauty to commend it. This un- 
 familiar foliage is beautiful. This must be 
 a tulip-bush. But there is no appearance 
 of life here." 
 
 206
 
 PATHS MADE STRAIGHT. 2<>7 
 
 " I should admire to know where the 
 front door is," said Rob, dropping into 
 his native Boston dialect. 
 
 " Why, on the side of the pillared por- 
 tico, of course," answered Harrington. 
 " Look, there's a face at the window. 
 There's a plant indigenous to the south." 
 
 Mr. Harrington was looking at Mammy's 
 black face, set off by round, staring eyes 
 and a red turban, and was naturally rather 
 startled at Rob's exclamation: 
 
 " Good heavens, what a beauty ! what a 
 face what a superb color ! " 
 
 The boy was looking at a small young 
 face that was pressed so close to the glass 
 that the nose was flattened, and four white 
 spots outlined by the pressure, but which 
 was, nevertheless, charming as a picture, 
 the pink color, cleft chin and bright, spirited 
 expression indicating a personal beauty as 
 rare as it was inviting. 
 
 As Mr. Harrington turned, in surprise, to 
 ask of his companion his meaning of this 
 seeming confusion of ideas, he followed 
 Rob's eyes and caught a glance of the
 
 208 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 same face, which vanished from the window 
 as soon as he perceived it. 
 
 " That must be the one called Cherry," 
 he said. " The other is an invalid." 
 
 Rob's face flushed uncomfortably; he 
 leaned over the palings and looked as if 
 at the last moment he might be tempted 
 to run away. He glanced at the window 
 again, and saw that a reinforcement had 
 arrived. 
 
 " Is there a third young lady in the 
 family?" he asked. 
 
 For a slight, fair girl, with her hands 
 clasped above her waist, and a profusion 
 of brown hair falling about her shoulders, 
 was looking out at them ; her large, dark 
 eyes met those of Edgar Harrington, who 
 felt a strange, electric thrill pass through 
 his veins, a feeling of glad, pleasurable 
 emotion, that moved his heart with a sud- 
 den stir. For a moment he forgot where 
 he was or what had brought him thither. 
 Then this second vision faded and was 
 gone. 
 
 Rob laughed, though not very merrily,
 
 PATHS MADE STRAIGHT. 209 
 
 for he, too, felt a thrill that of approach- 
 ing doom. 
 
 "We will be taken for housebreakers if 
 we stand round here much longer," he 
 said. " They have let loose the dogs of 
 war upon us!" he cried, in real alarm, as 
 half-a-dozen long, ungainly hounds burst 
 out with furious barkings and yelpings. 
 
 " Call off your dogs," he yelled, climbing 
 on the fence. 
 
 Mr. Harrington stood his ground, and 
 the dogs contented themselves with frantic 
 demonstrations, which did not invite further 
 acquaintance. Then Mammy opened the 
 door and called with a voice of authority: 
 
 "Yeah, Plantyjinnet, Brandywine, Beaury- 
 go'd and Jackson ! come in yeah an' shet 
 off dat noise ! yeah, Rocket and Trip 
 yeah, Brandy, Brandy, Brandy." 
 
 Brandy, who seemed to be the leader, 
 and was a long, lean hound with humped 
 shoulders and red jaws, turned sulkily and 
 growling fiercely led the pack under the 
 house again into their hiding places. 
 
 " Ef you'se lookin' fob de Jedge yoh can 
 U
 
 210 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 go roun' to de front and ring de bell, but 
 of you'se jest loafers and tramps yoh can 
 jest get out of dis yeah right quick, or I'll 
 set de houn's on and dey'll chaw yoh up 
 in no time." 
 
 Mammy's old-time hospitality had suf- 
 fered a sea-change since " de wah." The 
 two travelers did not stop upon the order 
 of their going but went at once, and in a 
 moment after they had rung the bell her 
 serene face appeared at the front door. 
 She showed the gentlemen in and took Edgar 
 Harrington's card with the manner of an 
 empress. 
 
 " Missus Marsden done sick," she said ; " I 
 s'pect she doan' feel like seein' no strange 
 folks." 
 
 Beatrice appeared to be sleeping ; two 
 bright-red spots burned on either cheek and 
 the unnatural emotion through which she 
 had recently passed had given her features a 
 wasted look that resembled the effect of a 
 long illness. The Judge was sitting by her 
 bed, but they were not talking. She was 
 too exhausted and he too sore and angry.
 
 PATHS MADE STRAIGHT. 2! I 
 
 Marcia was walking about from one room 
 to the other, touching everything she saw, 
 seeming to recall her own identity. She 
 was puzzled, wondering, but gracious and 
 gentle. Cherry was looking at herself in 
 the glass, as something had stirred her 
 soul to a womanly weakness. She had 
 smoothed her hair and to her collarless 
 dress had added a sailor collar and tie. 
 
 "Marsh?" she asked hastily; "dew I 
 talk so dreadful bad? Folks yeah about 
 don't seem tew think so, but you are allus 
 tellin' me I dew." 
 
 "I?" returned Marcia, in surprise "I 
 I ? it seems as if you ought to be just a 
 little thing yet. I don't know enough my- 
 self to correct you." 
 
 "An' you a writin' pieces for the papers, 
 Marsh? I ain't a authoress, like you, but 
 I might speak properer, I suppose. Guess 
 I will go to school yet." 
 
 " I write for the papers ! Cherry, you 
 are dreaming, or else I am. I never wrote 
 anything in my life." 
 
 "Then you must have been a dreamin'.
 
 212 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 Oh, Marsh, did you dream about that 
 young man what writ to you? Say!" cried 
 the child, excitedly, " I know now who he 
 looks like it's like that picture he sent 
 it's him, I know it is!" 
 
 "Picture! what picture?" inquired Marcia, 
 with a look of bewilderment. 
 
 "They've corned in," exclaimed Cherry. 
 And the next moment Mammy ascended to 
 the room of her mistress with the card. 
 
 "Tell him to come up," she whispered, 
 while her eyes were suffused with tears 
 and her low voice trembled with emotion. 
 
 Then she laid the card in her husband's 
 hand, and said, in a faint voice : 
 
 " Tell Marcia and Cherry to come here 
 Marcia will know now that I had the first 
 right to both his love and his letters." 
 
 There were quick steps on the stairs and 
 Edgar Harrington entered the room and ap- 
 proached the bed. With a sad cry of pleas- 
 ure Beatrice reached out her arms. 
 
 " My son ! " 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 And they embraced as those do who are
 
 PATHS MADE STRAIGHT. 213 
 
 near and dear to each other. Then Bea- 
 trice introduced her husband, but the others 
 had vanished at sight of that tender meet- 
 ing. 
 
 " Beatrice," whispered the Judge, bending 
 over her with fond solicitude, " I was a 
 brute ; forgive me." 
 
 "You are forgiven, Richard ;" she breathed 
 the words rather than said them. " But Oh, 
 Richard, why were you so unreasonable? 
 You gave me no chance to defend myself, 
 but flew to the conclusion that I was both 
 weak and wicked." 
 
 "Why did you not tell me from whom 
 you received those letters ? " 
 
 "You never asked me. Besides, Richard, 
 I supposed you had not forgotten my foster- 
 son since I had told you before our mar- 
 riage of his existence." 
 
 " I was a brute ; forgive me," reiterated 
 her husband. 
 
 Marcia, to whom the past months and 
 even years were as a mist seen through 
 her strange mental eclipse, had explained as 
 well as she could, and with Cherry's help, the
 
 214 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 means by which she had come into cor- 
 respondence with Edgar Harrington. The 
 mystery of the handwriting was still a mys- 
 tery, when young Weir Rob gave his 
 penitent testimony with the excuse that 
 he had carried on in a spirit of fun that 
 which had at first been a matter of business. 
 There was a great deal of mutual embarrass- 
 ment over the affair, but Beatrice with the 
 native tact of a good heart, called them 
 to her and soon managed to set them all at 
 ease. Rob was forgiven as he earnestly 
 expressed his contrition, and Edgar and Mar- 
 cia, so strangely acquainted were naturally 
 led to discuss matters with considerable 
 freedom. The result was that Edgar Har- 
 rington without overestimating himself soon 
 discerned that he already possessed an in- 
 terest in the eyes of a young lady who was 
 a most attractive study to his restless nature 
 and who challenged a reciprocity of senti- 
 ment by a mute intelligence of her love. 
 Edgar Harrington was not informed of 
 the Judge's pique and jealousy. Beatrice 
 true wife would not so belittle her husband
 
 PATHS MADE STRAIGHT. 215 
 
 in the eyes of another man. So Richard 
 Marsden was compelled to hear his wife's 
 virtues lauded to the skies by the young man 
 who had the devotion of a son with the ardor 
 of a lover. Describing her own goodness to 
 him during his wayward youth, he said : 
 
 " I have even been glad that I never knew 
 the mother who bore me for she must have 
 suffered by comparison with her who saved 
 me from myself and my evil companions and 
 made a man of me." 
 
 Major Krum received a brief note from 
 the Judge asking him to come to the house. 
 Wondering, he went and found strangers 
 present. He saw a young lady he did not 
 know walking about the room, and said to 
 Cherry with a motion of his hand. 
 
 " Interjuce me." 
 
 A peal of laughter from Cherry was his 
 answer; he stared in amazement. 
 
 " Why it be Marsh, our Marsh. Doan' 
 you know her, Maje?" 
 
 " Marcia ! Miss Marcia ! well, and like 
 this?" inquired the astonished Major. 
 "Whose miracle is this?"
 
 216 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 " Stepmother's," answered Miss Cherry 
 promptly. 
 
 A frown crossed the face of Edgar and 
 he looked sternly at the wild girl who 
 thus disrespectfully alluded to his dearest 
 friend. 
 
 The Major stood staring at Marcia who 
 recognized him as one of the people be- 
 longing to her dream life ; he had changed 
 so much since she had been in the habit of 
 seeing him every day that he hardly appeared 
 like the same person. Since he had aban- 
 doned his drinking and carousing life and 
 entered upon a new estate of honorable 
 manhood, he looked a very different man 
 from the blase, seedy Major of the old days. 
 As he stood alone among them all a for- 
 lorn look crossed his face, and Marcia, seat- 
 ing herself on a divan by the low window 
 beckoned to him to sit beside her. He 
 blushed, stammered and obeyed. 
 
 " Tell me," she said in a voice that was 
 deliciously sweet and soft to him, "Was 
 it with you, Major, that I went to places 
 where there was dancing and musjc, and
 
 PATHS MADK STRAIGHT. 217 
 
 the stars shone over our heads, and the 
 people were all shadows?" 
 
 " It was with me, Miss Marcia, just as 
 you've been going ever sence you were a 
 leetle tot of three years." 
 
 " Then I haven't dreamed it all ; but you 
 have been away from me so long, and I was 
 so ill and weak, and now I am strong and 
 well. Did she do it the new papa's new 
 wife ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and Miss Marcia, she is an angel ! 
 We must be very good, very kind to her. 
 I'm afraid she hasn't been so very happy 
 heah." 
 
 " I have taken all her strength away from 
 her, but it will come back, she says, and, 
 Oh, Major, the gentleman father is talking 
 to, is her own dear son." 
 
 " Hem ! A northerner, grim and stiff 
 enough," said the Major, shortly. 
 
 " I think he is a very handsome gentle- 
 man !" answered Marcia and then she col- 
 ored suddenly and was silent. 
 
 " D n him ! " muttered the Major. 
 
 under his breath, casting savage glances at
 
 218 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 the unconscious object of his jealousy. He 
 was not sure that he was willing to ex- 
 change this " rare and radiant maiden " for 
 the sallow invalid who had ruled him with 
 a rod of iron. He had been so indispensa- 
 ble to the sick girl with her strange fancies 
 and mysterious malady that it was hard to 
 find his occupation gone. 
 
 " Cherry says he is an editor," he re- 
 marked suddenly ; he had been jealous, too, 
 of that unknown correspondent. 
 
 " I do not know," answered Marcia press- 
 ing her hand' to her forehead. " Perhaps 
 it will all come to me again, but what they 
 tell me I have done and what I have been, 
 seem all a dream compared to what I am 
 now." 
 
 " Is that your sister Cherry talking to 
 that youth that that demuah girl with 
 the becoming blush ? Miss Marcia, will we 
 all be turned into mice when the clock 
 strikes twelve ? " 
 
 Here Cherry joined .them, her pretty 
 piquant face aglow with a rosy pink tinge 
 that was bewitchingly attractive, and her
 
 PATHS MADE STRAIGHT. 219 
 
 bright eyes veiled with a saucy shyness in- 
 finitely becoming. 
 
 "Marsh," she whispered, " Ae says," indi- 
 cating Rob with a toss of her small head, 
 " that he likes rude, ignorant gyrls jest like 
 me, an' that he kin teach me a heap." 
 
 " He'd better learn something himself," 
 snarled the Major, glowering at Rob, who 
 had been making himself agreeable to 
 Cherry for the past half hour. " As if it 
 mattered anything to him what you know 
 or don't know." 
 
 That evening the letters which Rob had 
 written in Edgar Harrington's name to 
 Marcia were burned in the presence of the 
 entire family excepting Beatrice, who was 
 yet too weak to sit up. Rob was spared 
 the misery of hearing them read, it was bad 
 enough to account for their authorship. 
 
 Marcia had actually been " conjuhed," as 
 Mammy said, but the .spell was not that of 
 the houdoo but of ill-health and a peculiar 
 morbid condition of the mind. The will of 
 her stepmother, educated by science and 
 controlled by Christian belief, had at last
 
 220 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 loosed the bonds which held her in such 
 ^firm thrall. She was saved from all the 
 unhappy influences which had dwarfed and 
 narrowed her life almost since her birth. 
 There seemed but one thing lacking, that 
 was gratitude first to God, through whose 
 help Beatrice had broken the spell, and 
 next to her stepmother herself who had so 
 faithfully worked to save her. Before she 
 slept that night she, did go to her with a 
 pleasant " good-night," but something ap- 
 peared to hold her back from a free offer- 
 ing of the love which was beginning to 
 dawn in her heart, but was too new and 
 strange for expression. 
 
 That night the sisters slept in each others' 
 arms. Some indefinable impulse seemed 
 to awake in each a longing for a more lov- 
 ing communion than had hitherto marked 
 their intercourse, though there had never 
 been an estrangement between them. The 
 two young men had insisted upon return- 
 ing to the uncomfortable little tavern that 
 was the sole hotel the place boasted of. 
 Judge Marsden had urged them to stay
 
 PATHS MADE STRAIGHT. 221 
 
 under his roof, but he felt somewhat bitterly 
 that Edgar Harrington was not his friend, 
 that the younger man read his weak and 
 faltering nature with less consideration than 
 he would have accorded to a more vigor- 
 ously sinful man. So with a feeling of act- 
 ual relief he saw the two off and returned 
 to his wife to make what tardy atonement 
 he could for his late unkind suspicions. 
 Beatrice was sleeping lightly, her face was 
 pale and composed and wore a look of 
 peace as if some great weight had been 
 lifted from her soul. The Judge read for 
 some time, and was then preparing to retire 
 when a fearful sound broke the stillness of 
 the night the mournful, dismal, prolonged 
 wail of a hound ! 
 
 The cold perspiration broke out on the 
 Judge's face as he relaxed that listening 
 tension and exclaimed. 
 
 " It's nothing but a dog howling. Con- 
 found the brute. I've half a mind to go 
 out and shoot it." 
 
 At that moment a fumbling hand rattled 
 the lock of the chamber door.
 
 222 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 "Who are you and what do yo'u want?" 
 asked the Judge in melo-dramatic tones. 
 There was more ditchwater than heroic 
 blood in his veins. 
 
 " Open de do', Jedge; 'foh God I'se done 
 scared to dcth." 
 
 " Mammy ! " exclaimed the Judge, throw- 
 ing the door open valiantly. "What in the 
 world do you want?" 
 
 " Lawd a massy, Jedge, yoh heah dat or- 
 ful noise?" 
 
 " Why, Mammy, I'm not deaf. I heard it 
 fast enough." 
 
 "An' yoh doan' know what dat means?" 
 
 "Yes, I do; it means that old Brandy 
 had a supper that disagreed with her, or no 
 supper at all, or else its 'possum up a gum 
 tree, ' coon in de holler,' as you .folks say." 
 
 " No, taint, Jedge, that there is an orful 
 sign. Doan' yoh nevah heah tell 'bout de 
 hounds howlin'? Dere'll be a deth in de 
 family, Jedge, suah as yoh bawn." 
 
 " Of course, Mammy," answered the Judge, 
 preparing to close the door. We'll all die if 
 we live long enough. That's all it means."
 
 PATHS MADE STRAIGHT. 223 
 
 " No sah, it am a solemn warnin'. When 
 my ole man died de houn's howl all night, 
 and when little Pete died dere was one 
 came right undah de winder and little Pete 
 he riz up and say, ' Wha' dat noise, Mammy, 
 dat Gabrillas trump?' an' dat blessed chile 
 die dat next mornin'. You doan' gwine dis- 
 yemembeh dat, Jedge." 
 
 " Mammy," called the gentle voice of 
 Mrs. Marsden, " come in, I want to speak to 
 you." 
 
 Mammy was undressed, in a white short 
 gown and petticoat, and her head was 
 bound up in a white turban, but she paced 
 stolidly in and drew near to, the bed. The 
 most prominent features about her were the 
 whites of her eyes which seemed to pro- 
 trude from her head, and she shook like one 
 in an ague fit. 
 
 " Sit down," said her mistress, pointing to 
 a space near her on the bed, "and tell me, 
 Mammy, if you really believe that the good 
 Lord would send a message to any of His 
 people by the howl of a dog." 
 
 "I done gwine to question Him will,"
 
 224r HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 answered Mammy, wagging her head obsti- 
 nately. " I know what I seed wif my own 
 eyes." 
 
 " But, Mammy let me explain to you," 
 and Beatrice laid one hand how white and 
 transparent it was on the clasped black- 
 hands of the old servitor, " the dog howled 
 because we were up late, or he saw the 
 moon, or some unusual noise disturbed him ; 
 not because he was to give a death-warning 
 to any one. Think again, Mammy, would 
 He send word by the mouth of a dog?" 
 
 But Mammy had gone to too many camp- 
 meetings and was too well grounded in her 
 own peculiar theology to be disconcerted by 
 any such reasoning. 
 
 " I ain't hearn my Bible read for nothin' 
 all these yeahs, Miss Marsden," she answered 
 with solemn emphasis. " If de Lawd He 
 done ride inter Jusylem on de colt of an 
 ass He done send His message by de howl 
 of de houn'." 
 
 Beatrice smiled, but it was a sad, sad 
 smile. Her white lips betokened exhaus- 
 tion, and as the old black woman, who had
 
 PATHS MADE STRAIGHT. 225 
 
 nursed generations under that very roof, 
 looked at her, some touch of pity and 
 human kindness for the woman she con- 
 sidered an interloper, came into her prej- 
 udiced caste-bigoted heart. 
 
 "Yoh done go to sleep now, Missis 
 Marsden ; de Jedge he gwine down to 
 shake up dem dogs an' make 'em 'have 
 'emselves. You'se white an* tired now 
 enuff foh one day." 
 
 " Mammy," said Beatrice, sitting up sud- 
 denly in the bed, " can't you love me a 
 little as you did your dear Miss Clyffe ? " 
 
 " H-u-sh-h," answered the old woman, in 
 a sepulchral voice ; " it am drefful onlucky 
 to speak of dead folks after de sun gone 
 down. Go to sleep, chile; I declah you 
 look like you seed a ghostess." 
 
 "Good-night, Mammy," said the Judge, 
 as he came in. "Your corn-cake will be 
 heavy if you don't get some sleep.' 
 
 "Goo'nite, chile," and Mammy went 
 leaving her first benediction for the new 
 
 mistress. 
 15
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A RESPITE. 
 
 Beatrice was again able to take her 
 place in the household, and now began 
 that ideal life which she had so often pict- 
 ured of a family circle in which there was 
 no inharmonious element. Edgar Harring- 
 ton and Rob whose bond of friendship 
 was cemented closer than before by the 
 adverse circumstances which had so nearly 
 estranged them left for their field of 
 labor, each bearing in his heart a new, 
 sweet hope that would eventually blossom 
 into a glad fruition. Both had confided in 
 Beatrice Edgar with the sacred confidence 
 that a man gives to his best and dearest 
 friend, in a trembling fear of disapproval ; 
 Rob) with the consequence and bravado of 
 beardless youth that is always confident of 
 moving mountains. He was going to open 
 a " school of correspondence " with one
 
 A RESPITE. 227 
 
 pupil. Together they would conjugate the 
 verb " to love." And at that very moment 
 Cherry was trying to write from a copy of 
 Rob's setting her pretty head on one side, 
 her front finger inked to the first joint, 
 but resolutely intent upon conquering her 
 " ritin' " lesson. I honestly believe Rob 
 would have preferred her without any 
 " book learning " whatever, but he knew 
 he must respect the prejudices of the age 
 in which he lived. 
 
 Edgar Harrington did not speak to 
 Marcia upon the subject uppermost in 
 his thoughts. He knew that it would be 
 a shock to her dawning intelligence in 
 the matters of practical life, and he also 
 divined with the jealous eyes of a new 
 passion that Marcia was already beloved. 
 When he had talked with Beatrice he felt 
 more secure, and also more determined to 
 bide his time. So far he had loved but 
 one woman he had asked no other love 
 than this to crown his life he had never 
 believed that his heart could be moved by 
 a deeper devotion. But he knew it now.
 
 228 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 Since he had met this strange southern 
 girl, he looked into her soul with clair- 
 voyant eyes and found his mate. And 
 that knowledge rendered his filial love for 
 Beatrice still deeper and more enduring. 
 
 Out of its ashes of wreck and ruin Clyffe 
 House emerged, like the fabled bird of 
 eastern legend. The county people crowded 
 its doors again and found a gracious, mod- 
 ern hospitality dispensed in place of the 
 old-time conviviality that wrought only 
 ruin. "The Judge" was no longer a mis- 
 nomer for Richard Marsden. His friends 
 talked of running him for congress, an 
 honor he was able to decline with thanks. 
 Now, that all the tiresome discords of his 
 domestic life had ceased, he felt that he 
 might be able to enjoy the changed situ- 
 ation of affairs and take life easy. He 
 had some trifling compunction about al- 
 lowing his wife to spend so much of her 
 own money, but, after all, she knew that 
 he was a poor man when she married him. 
 He was really grateful to her, and he loved 
 her as much as such a man can love any
 
 A RESPITE. 229 
 
 body but himself better than he had ever 
 loved any one else. He thought all the 
 worry about the children the sheerest non- 
 sense, but as long as it had come out all 
 right, and it pleased Beatrice, he was satis- 
 fied. But his standard was not Excelsior. 
 When he met the Major busy, sober, 
 looking up business and really making a 
 brave fight for the right he wondered to 
 himself if they were not both happier under 
 the old regime of an empty larder and a 
 convivial bout. Once he asked significantly: 
 
 " Ever hear the story of the man who 
 held the hay so high his sheep starved?" 
 
 " No ; don't see the application, either, 
 not being a sheep," retorted the Major 
 with spirit. 
 
 There was great wonder in all the sur- 
 rounding country over the remarkable cure 
 of Marcia. She had so long been known 
 as afflicted with a strange, incurable malady 
 that people had ceased to expect her re- 
 covery. When it was known that a cure 
 had been effected without medicine, and so 
 suddenly as to appear almost miraculous,
 
 230 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 investigating minds demanded to know the 
 method. Mr. Madeira, the rector, was one 
 of the first who called. He asked Beatrice 
 if she had been practicing witchcraft. 
 
 "As the age of miracles is past," he said, 
 " I desire to know by what means you 
 charm disease." 
 
 " By the simplest and most natural 
 method known to science," answered Bea- 
 trice, "where the disease is one of those 
 nervous disorders so common at the pres- 
 ent time. In the days of my widowhood, 
 to pass away time that had only sorrow 
 for its diversion, I went to Boston and at- 
 tended an institution where the new doc- 
 trine known as mind-healing was taught. 
 I was interested in it as a special philosoph- 
 ical study. Much of the instruction was 
 faulty and dangerous, but I saw pearls of 
 great value at the bottom of tons of rub- 
 bish. The whole subject is defined in a 
 single sentence the triumph of mind over 
 matter." 
 
 "I do not quite understand you, Mrs. 
 Marsden," said the reverend gentleman,
 
 A RESPITE. 231 
 
 courteously, but in the tone of polite dis- 
 sent which a man invariably uses when en- 
 gaged in argument with a woman. " Is it 
 a sort of mesmeric influence you use?" 
 
 " Yes, and no," returned Beatrice. " I 
 think, as I understand it, mesmerism is a 
 natural gift growing out of a peculiar con- 
 dition of the nervous system. The mind- 
 cure is the result of will power. When the 
 limbs refuse to obey the intelligence it is 
 popularly supposed that they have lost 
 their muscular power, but the scientists 
 claim that it is the will that refuses to 
 work. There is so much in imagination 
 that people often become violently ill from 
 purely fancied disease. They cannot con- 
 trol their nerves. They cannot eat or 
 sleep, yet there is no chronic ailment. Now 
 what they call the mind-cure is simply the 
 effect of focusing a stronger will upon the 
 sick person. It is as subtle and unexplain- 
 able as the atmosphere we breathe and as 
 real and life giving. The so-called mira- 
 cles of causing the lame to walk which are 
 still occurring in foreign countries are the
 
 232 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 result of the mind-cure and nothing more 
 supernatural." 
 
 "Do you deny the efficacy of prayer?" 
 inquired Mr. Madeira, with a trace of hor- 
 ror in his voice. 
 
 " No," answered Beatrice, solemnly ; "you 
 must feel that I do not when I assure you 
 that my faith and life would both have 
 been shipwrecked without that merciful re- 
 lief to an overburdened soul. The name 
 of Christian scientists which the new cure 
 has adopted relieves it from any imputa- 
 tion of pagan principles." 
 
 " But why is not this famous cure more 
 popular?" inquired the rector. 
 
 " It is one of the simple things that is 
 used to confound the wise, and because it 
 is so simple it is undervalued. I do not 
 consider it an infallible system myself. I 
 differ from the scientists in claiming that it 
 will cure everything. It will not set broken 
 bones or mend a severed artery. But it 
 will cure all these strange nervous diseases, 
 such as insomnia and prostration of the 
 physical powers. There is a great, universal
 
 A RESPITE. 233 
 
 mind that which Emerson calls the over- 
 soul which regulates. all systems and keeps 
 the world balanced. I believe a universal 
 centralization of the human mind would 
 work the greatest results. Let me give 
 you an instance. A great general or states- 
 man is sick unto death with a disease that 
 is so mysterious that it baffles all medical 
 skill. He is given up to die. The world 
 at large decides his fate his days are num- 
 bered. The scientists claim that if the 
 world one universal mind believed he 
 would or willed that he should that he 
 at once would throw off the disease." 
 
 " The test can never be made. It is 
 a foolish theory, vague and impracticable," 
 answered Mr. Madeira. " Death is as in- 
 evitable as life ; the time comes and we 
 die." 
 
 "But need we die before the time comes? 
 Are we not given superior intelligence to 
 the brutes in order that we may make the 
 utmost of this preparatory life? I should 
 not want to think that God could make a 
 mistake, but sometimes it seems to me as
 
 284 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 if it would have been better had He given 
 reason to brutes and instinct to men, we 
 make such poor use of the faculty." 
 
 The rector looked shocked, but he could 
 not answer such peculiar argument as this, 
 so he changed the conversation to the more 
 material discussion of Marcia's late illness 
 and its phenomenal cure. When he left 
 one fact was uppermost in his mind, that 
 it was the nearest to a miracle of anything 
 he had ever known.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THY KING COMETH. 
 
 Beatrice was again very ill. Truly has the 
 poet written : 
 
 " If thou hast crushed a flower, 
 
 The root may not be blighted; 
 If thou hast quenched a lamp, 
 
 Once more it may be lighted. 
 But on thy harp, or on thy lute, 
 
 The string which thou hast broken 
 Shall never in sweet sound again 
 
 Give to thy touch a token." 
 
 The long strain and tension had been too 
 much ; a chord was broken. The strong, 
 brave woman who had borne slight and con- 
 tumely in no scant measure since the day 
 she wedded the lover of her youth had 
 borne up nobly under adverse circumstances 
 only to sink upon the threshold of success. 
 She had suffered so uncomplainingly that 
 her husband scarcely thought her ill. He 
 
 finally called upon the best doctor the little 
 235
 
 236 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 town afforded and requested him to visit 
 her and prescribe a stimulating tonic. The 
 doctor, a fussy little man, who hopped like 
 a raven and was so dark that he personally 
 resembled one in his suit of professional 
 black, went to Clyffe House as soon as he 
 could find leisure and paid his respects to 
 its mistress. He was up stairs a long time, 
 and when he finally came hopping down 
 he fidgeted up to Judge Marsden and mo- 
 tioned mysteriously to a side room. The 
 Judge showed him in and shut the door 
 after them. 
 
 " Nothing serious, of course ? " he inquired, 
 vaguely. 
 
 The doctor hopped nervously from one 
 foot to the other. 
 
 " 'Tis a supprise, weally a gweat supprise, 
 sah," he began, in a melancholy, cracked 
 voice. But I find youah good leddy very 
 sick indeed, 'an it is a fac', too, Mister Mars- 
 den, that she has not enything the mattah 
 with her nothing at all sah, positively no." 
 
 "Ah," said the Judge, drawing a long 
 breath, " that is good news, Doctor, very
 
 THY RING COMETH. 237 
 
 good news. How soon do you think she 
 will be well again?" 
 
 " Nevah," said the little doctor, taking 
 a pair of glasses from his very weak eyes 
 and polishing them industriously. 
 
 Richard Marsden took the little doctor 
 by the shoulders and turned him around by 
 main force so that he could read his face. 
 What he saw there silenced the words that 
 were crowding to his white lips. Then he 
 took his hat and left the house. 
 
 The little doctor wrote his prescription 
 and went his way. His medical diagnosis 
 was never at fault, and he knew it. 
 
 Beatrice had fallen asleep after his visit 
 and slept a long time. It was the sleep 
 of exhaustion and not of repose. When she 
 awakened Marcia sat fanning her. She 
 wore a white apron girded about her slender 
 waist and was as hushed and watchful in 
 manner as though she had been a profes- 
 sional nurse. 
 
 " Where am I ? " asked the sick woman, 
 faintly. "Who is this?" 
 
 "It is Marcia. I am here to nurse you
 
 238 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 till you get well, mother," said the girl, 
 .kneeling beside her and taking one of her 
 white, transparent hands in hers. 
 
 " Who calls me mother? It is not Edgar, 
 and my child my child who would have 
 called me mother lies buried far away." 
 
 " No ! no ! " cried the girl, sobbing bit- 
 terly, and tenderly kissing the pale, weary 
 face on the pillow. "I called you mother 
 I, Marcia, your wayward, troublesome 
 child. You are my dear, dear mother, to 
 whom I owe so much. Oh, get well, 
 dearest, and let me prove that I am both 
 grateful and loving." 
 
 " I know now," said Beatrice, brushing an 
 apparent mist from her eyes. "I was not 
 quite awake. Yes, dear, it repays me for 
 all to know that I have won your heart at 
 last at last ! " 
 
 Again Beatrice rallied, and Richard Mars- 
 den was confident that his wife would soon 
 be well, and, indeed, she improved enough 
 to sit up and wear her pretty negligee cos- 
 tumes and take a renewed interest in what 
 was going on about her. Cherry, subdued
 
 THY KING COMETH. 239 
 
 and helpful, hung about her, but not yet 
 had her tongue framed the word that the 
 stepmother longed to hear the dear and 
 affectionate " Mother " the title she had 
 doubly earned. But she saw in the bright, 
 defiant eyes a new light that of a soul 
 long imprisoned flashing forth its lambent 
 fires and she hoped yet to win the recog- 
 nition she craved from her willful child. 
 
 I have shown already that music had a 
 strange and powerful influence over Cherry, 
 and now another great factor in the build- 
 ing of character had invaded her life. 
 
 "Love took up the harp of Life and smote on all the 
 
 chords with might 
 
 Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in 
 music out of sight." 
 
 Yes, Cherry was learning the lesson of 
 life, not to live to herself alone 
 
 Beatrice grew worse again, and rose no 
 more from her bed. There were seasons 
 when a great wave of despondency would 
 roll over her spirit and almost submerge it 
 in the disconsolate flood. It was at such 
 a moment that, waking from a troubled
 
 240 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 sleep, she thought herself alone, and sung 
 over in a low, sweet voice, some of the 
 hymns she loved, ending with one which 
 she improvised as she sung: 
 
 " Take me to Thy arms, Master, 
 Thy tender, sheltering arms; 
 Here Thy fold is bleak and cold, 
 I fear its rude alarms. 
 
 " Take me to Thy heart, Master, 
 Thy pierced and loving heart; 
 Here I may no longer stay: 
 'Tis better to depart. 
 
 ' ' Take me to Thy home, Master, 
 Thy blessed, peaceful home; 
 None molest that dreamless rest: 
 Oh, bid me quickly come!" 
 
 Cherry had been sitting at the window in 
 the temporary absence of Marcia, and as the 
 last faint, sweet note died away the child's 
 soul, melted at last by the pathetic cry of 
 a broken heart, sobbed an accompaniment, 
 and she knelt by the bedside and laid her 
 sunny head upon the pillow where reposed 
 the head of the dying woman. 
 
 "Mother," she cried, in broken accents; 
 " my dear, dear, mother ! "
 
 THY KING COMETH. 241 
 
 But there was no response. The girl, 
 a/armed, called her sister, and soon the 
 household had gathered there, Mammy en- 
 deavoring with faithful solicitude to call 
 back the fluttering breath. 
 
 After a little she rallied and smiled lov- 
 ingly upon them all. 
 
 <s I am nearly home," she said, brokenly. 
 " It is not far, nor the way long, now." 
 
 Her husband stood beside her, mute, 
 wretched, the tears rolling unheeded down 
 his pale cheeks. She could not lift her 
 feeble hands to wipe them away. 
 
 The Major had taken his farewell and 
 gone away where he could be alone with 
 a sorrow that did him honor. Marcia 
 leaned on Mammy's shoulder and hid her 
 face. Cherry knelt close to the dying 
 woman, and with troubled, remorseful gaze 
 watched and waited for a word of recog- 
 nition. 
 
 " Dere's a sound ob chariot-wheels a-com- 
 
 in' ober de golden san's," said Mammy, 
 
 solemnly; ''an' de Lawd am dribin'. I kin 
 
 hear de voices ob de angels singin' ober 
 
 16
 
 242 HER DESPERATE VICTORY. 
 
 Jordan. Ole Mammy gwine soon to se~ 
 'em, bress de Lawd ! " 
 
 Only the sound of sobbing broke the 
 ^silence. Then there was a long, restful 
 sigh. 
 
 " Life and sorrow done, 
 Heaven and rest were won." 
 
 It was the last expiring whisper of " the 
 stepmother's breath."

 
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