/^^^ 
 

 
 STEPHEN DANE 
 
 BY 
 
 AMANDA M. DOUGLAS, 
 
 Of the building of life God is the architect, and man the contractor. 
 God has one plan, and man another: is it strange there are clashinga 
 and collisions ? 
 
 II. W. BEECIIEB. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 LEE AND SHEPARD. 
 
 1867.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, Jn tho year 18C7, by 
 
 LEE AND SHEPARD, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 Stereotyped at the Ration Stereotype Foundiy, 
 It Spring Lime. 
 
 Pretwork to John U'ilson :nnl Sun.
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, 
 
 WITH THE BEST A FRIEND CA2x GIVE, LOVE. 
 
 2068221
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTKB PAOB 
 
 I. COMING TO LIFE 7 
 
 II. TANGLED PATHS 24 
 
 III. FIGHTING WITH FATE. . . . . . . 44 
 
 IV. BY THE RIVER 60 
 
 V. AT THE STAKE 77 
 
 VI. SAVED 99 
 
 VII. THE NEW DAWN 121 
 
 VIII." HOPE 141 
 
 IX. LOVE. . 165 
 
 X. Two WOMEN 185 
 
 XL SAD HEARTS 204 
 
 XII. JOE'S ATONEMENT 225 
 
 XIII. HOPE AND STEPHEN 242
 
 
 STEPHEN DANE, 
 
 i. 
 
 COMING TO LIFE. 
 
 THIS day, towards the close of March, -was. warm 
 enough for May one of those still, - balmy, 
 suggestive days, reminding you of Indian summer, for 
 the March crispness was not in the air. For nearly 
 a fortnight the weather had been unusually mild, and 
 everybody was predicting a forward spring. Seasons 
 were earlier in this little Pennsylvania town, where 
 the high hills to the north shielded it in some measure 
 from the fierce blasts. Already the young grass had 
 taken on an emerald tint, and birds were twittering in 
 the budding trees. Some of the hardier flowers had 
 appeared. Joe had a saucer of trailing arbutus on the 
 window-ledge. She had been down to the woods that 
 morning, though she scarcely cared for the flowers on 
 their own merit ; but she knew Stephen liked them. 
 So here they were, crocuses, blue hepatica, the arbutus,
 
 8 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 and some curious green waxen leaves. Stephen had 
 taken them all apart, and arranged them over taste- 
 fully you would have said, and marvelled at it, seeing 
 the man. She had remarked it, and wished, in her dull 
 way, that she knew how people gave those wonderful 
 touches of grace to everything. There was a smoulder- 
 ing pain in her heart as she glanced at Stephen. Was 
 it these bright days that drifted them apart? For 
 somehow he seemed slipping out of her reach, and, 
 with the dogged tenacity of a narrow mind, she clung 
 to him. She had taken a tiresome ramble through the 
 woods, going ankle deep in the rank mosses without 
 ever seeing their beauty, and brought home the flowers 
 for him. They were a pleasant surprise, although rudely 
 tumbled into an old broken bowl. A bright light had 
 come into his face, and he had said, *How good of 
 you ; " but the shady, far-off look in his eyes had never 
 changed. He wanted something higher and keener 
 than she could bestow. She felt this through the slug- 
 gish brain, but she lacked mental force to put it into 
 words. There was a torpid sort of perception, but 
 physical sensations were the strongest elements in her 
 nature. A half-developed kind of human life it was. 
 Stephen Dane stood there in the doorway. That 
 was low and narrow ; he was tall and brawny, though 
 thin, lacking the roundness and compactness the next 
 decade would bring him, for he was but twenty-three; 
 still, he nearly filled the space.
 
 COMING TO LIFE. 9 
 
 His eyes were wandering riverward. Did you ever 
 experience the curious sensation on looking over a 
 river, that some help would come from the other side, 
 an indistinct, but longed-for blessing? That peaceful 
 country, lying in the purple haze of distance, seems like 
 a nearer heaven, instinct with spiritual life. 
 
 He was glancing over there now, and in a vague way 
 felt this. He did not know what it was he wanted, 
 only the luminous atmosphere floating there on the 
 silver stream, or drifting beyond, up the shadowy 
 slopes, stirred his soul with something intangible, per- 
 plexing. For twenty-three years he had vegetated in 
 content. Slept, eaten, worked that was all. . Not 
 loved nor hated, nor struggled, nor hoped. I am not 
 sure but men live these lives oftener than women. 
 
 The picture before him was beautiful enough to 
 speak to any soul that had not been born deaf and 
 blind. Few are, I think. They lived on the out- 
 skirts of the town Archibald Dane, Stephen, his son, 
 and an orphan niece, his dead brother's child. This 
 'had been their home ever since Stephen could remem- 
 ber. At first Joe's mother was alive, but his own, 
 dead. For several years Joe had been sole house- 
 keeper. 
 
 From the house down to the river there was a 
 gradual slant, broken by little hillocks, tame enough, 
 without jut or spur, and an occasional rambling gray 
 rock. Interspersed were knolls of shrubbery, clumps
 
 10 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 of elder or hazel, with here and there some oaks, 
 rising in majestic grandeur. When the blooming 
 summer crowned it, when the wind wound its way in 
 billowy furrows through the grass, making an emerald 
 sea with frosted tips to the waves, you might study it 
 for hours. Through vistas of twilight green the mur- 
 murous river sparkled. In this opening you caught a 
 glimpse of the* misty hills beyond, rounded into a 
 picture by softest tinting. In some places there was 
 an abrupt earnestness, and the top became a golden- 
 spired cathedral. Even now long, arrowy rays gleamed 
 from them to penetrate the sloping sides. The river 
 was broad and placid. Miles below, it was dammed 
 up, and used for manufacturing purposes ; but here no 
 one interfered with it. Just as God made it, here it 
 lay, going along in a quiet, sleepy fashion. That was 
 all it had to do in fair weather. But God sent it 
 storms, sometimes, when it grew strong and turbulent, 
 rushed madly into little coves and nooks, lashed the 
 rocks at its edge, or beat against the bare roots of the 
 trees as if it meant to sweep them away. But to-day 
 it was calm, with a tender haze upon its bosom that 
 reminded you of a bride's tremulous veil. Patches of 
 mosfe and lichens at its edge looked like velvet. Even 
 the brown, leafless trees were glorified. 
 
 What meaning had it for Stephen Dane ? Did his 
 thirsty soul go down to bathe, and find there the fabled 
 fountain of new life, the magical draught more potent
 
 COMING TO LITE. 11 
 
 than Circean cup? Did the soft gray clouds, drifting 
 about the sky, sending shadows upon its surface, speak 
 of the doubts and fears that beset one continually, and 
 yet are cleared up by the sun, eternal in the heavens? 
 
 He was groping about blindly. For all the radiance 
 of the sun he could not see. The eyes of the soul are so 
 faint and uncertain at first. But he wanted something 
 that was in the river, in the hills beyond, in the spring- 
 tide sky. Out of the darkness of the past he called ; 
 out of deeps, stagnant with the rank vegetation of evil. 
 For weeds always thrive. No place so dark or noisome 
 but some foul tiling will make it a home. And feeling 
 this, knowing himself to be weak and vile, and misera- 
 ble within, he cried to be lifted out of it all. May be 
 the first time he had ever prayed in all his life. 
 
 What did he want to do? 
 
 He could not tell. Everything was so vague, so 
 unformed within him. It was chaos, with a shadow 
 moving upon the waters. It seems an easy thing to 
 say to a blind, groping soul, "Let there be light; " but 
 we are none of us Gods. And just then there was no 
 one to say it to Stephen Dane. 
 
 So he looked with hungry, longing, unreasoning 
 eyes. They were touching eyes, too. Large, and of 
 that soft, appealing brown, you sometimes see in a dog 
 who questions you minutely. A shadow in them, as 
 if he had never lived in the light. 
 
 The face was indifferent. You see hundreds of
 
 12 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 such faces among the working poor. If you are care- 
 less, you pronounce them stolid, and pass them by. 
 Looking underneath, you may see a fine possibility in 
 that starved and stunted development, a soul that could 
 have grown to grander heights, but in some way 
 missed its proper aliment. The brow was not very 
 high, but broad, with rugged corners and great width 
 of temple. It was overhung by shaggy chestnut curls, 
 that seemed never to have been combed out thoroughly. 
 The cheek bones were high, the nose straight and 
 strong, with a good deal of character in it. The chin 
 was resolute and well pronounced, giving a squareness 
 and power to the face. The lips had a heavy, care- 
 less expression, as if they dropped together, rather 
 than shut with any firm purpose. 
 
 The dress was indifferent, too. Thick gray trousers, 
 fastened with a leathern belt in place of suspenders, 
 and a blue flannel shirt. The old sou'wester, as he 
 called his short, heavy jacket, was discarded to-day. 
 
 After he had looked over the river, and entreated 
 hill and sky in vain, he turned his glance in-doors. 
 The house was old, built on a rocky slope, low, moss- 
 grown, and crumbling into decay. Two or three large, 
 flat stones lay before the door, which went in even with 
 the ground. The room had a dingy look, with its 
 ceiling of smoke-stained rafters. There was a fire in 
 the wide fireplace, the ends of the logs resting upon 
 bricks. One window and the door on one side, two
 
 COMING TO LIFE. 13 
 
 windows on the other. A shambling, rickety wooden 
 settle, some Windsor chairs, a high cupboard, and a little 
 candle-stand painted green, comprised the furniture. 
 A large table stood in the middle of the floor, with the 
 remnants of dinner, and piled-up dishes. Joe, squatted 
 on the hearth, her dress tucked round her ankles, was 
 taking some pork and potatoes out of the large iron 
 dinner kettle, that had been left in to keep hot, and not 
 needed. On the settle lay Archy Dane, drowsing into 
 his afternoon nap. 
 
 He was a thin, stoop-shouldered, weazen-faced 
 man, with watery eyes, a red nose, straggling gray 
 whiskers, and straggling gray hair. He, too, ate and 
 slept, but, instead of working, spent much of his time 
 at the tavern, in a maudlin state. He had been a 
 drinking man always. That accounted for the thrift- 
 less-looking place. Perhaps, too, it accounted for 
 Stephen Dane's stunted soul. 
 
 He, the young man, took in this untidy picture. 
 He had seen it hundreds of times before, but never 
 with this sickening sensation. For out of doors all 
 nature was clean and pure, teeming with new life. 
 But this darkness and vileness within ! 
 
 In his slow-thinking manner he had fancied it would 
 go on thus always. He would marry Joe in the course 
 of time, though he had never said anything to her 
 about it ; never made love to her, as the phrase goes ; 
 rarely kissed her. It would come about some way.
 
 14 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 And they would rear children to work and vegetate. 
 He would drop into a bent old man, wrinkled and 
 gray, go down to the tavern to hear the news, smoke a 
 stumpy pipe, and at last die like a brute. 
 
 Would he? 
 
 He smote the door-post angrily with his fist. A 
 great, powerful fist it was. You would not care to get 
 a blow from it. 
 
 " What's the matter, Stephen ? " 
 
 Joe sprang up in affright. 
 
 " Nothing ! " 
 
 His voice was deep and full of sullen passionateness. 
 
 She lifted the dish to the table. She came and 
 looked curiously at him. 
 
 " 'Tend to your work," he exclaimed, roughly. 
 
 Then he turned to the river again. 
 
 He rarely went to church. Now and then to a 
 Methodist revival meeting, to have some fun. But 
 to-day he felt there was a God. In a dumb, indignant 
 way, he wondered what gratification it was for a greater 
 and wiser Power to see men grovelling along, a little, 
 and only a very little, removed from the beasts of the 
 field. Somehow it didn't seem quite fair to give a man 
 a soul, and place him where he could never use it. He 
 ground his teeth with a wronged, bitter feeling. 
 
 " Why, there's the bell, Stephen I Ain't you goin' 
 to work?" and Joe wondered in her mind what pos- 
 sessed him.
 
 COMING TO LIFE. 15 
 
 He took down his old slouch hat and marched off 
 without a word. Out into the bright, free air. It 
 was a good mile to the Foundeiy. In old times the 
 men didn't mind being late, but under the new regime 
 
 well, who cared? Let it come. That man didn't 
 own soul and body. So he sauntered along, the 
 resentment against a huge wrong, that he did not 
 understand, working out at every pore. If all his 
 worldly good for years to come had depended upon 
 his haste now, he would not have quickened one step. 
 The man was in a sullen, reckless mood. 
 
 But the glory of the day was gone. Purple hills 
 and silver river no longer lulled him into dreamy 
 languor. Something harder and sharper took pos- 
 session of him. A great hungry life confronted him 
 
 a life potatoes and bread could not satisfy. A 
 furious instinct within goaded him on to a desperate 
 move. He was tired of being a clod. He had a soul, 
 and wanted to use it. Then a sardonic smile crossed 
 his face did he have a soul ? 
 
 Turning out of the lane, the street was long and 
 wide, the gradual descent adding to the perspective. 
 He saw the low, rambling place, with its tall black 
 chimneys, where the dense smoke curled up against 
 the azure sky, as if man wanted to shut out God's 
 bright, beautiful world. It was hateful in his sight. 
 And, drawing nearer, a smothering, strangling breath 
 thickened the air. Then the clang, the jar, the roaring
 
 16 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 of fires, the whirring of machinery, the stroke of the 
 heavy hammers smote upon his ear. Bars and piles of 
 iron lay strewn around just where they had been thrown 
 from the great wagons, waiting for the fierce flames to 
 reduce and ripen them into available stock. A savage 
 kind of discipline, and yet it brought this crude stuff 
 into a state of civilization and usefulness. AVhat if 
 human souls, with iron in them, underwent some such 
 process before they could give out the true steely ring ! 
 
 A man stood at the wide gateway as Stephen Dane 
 entered. That gate was a modern innovation, and 
 hated of the workmen. And this man 
 
 He was about forty ; barely average height, but with 
 a compactness of frame, a vigor of limb and muscle, 
 that spoke of hardy sinews and great strength. The 
 feet and hands were large, the latter ridgy with dull 
 blue veins. The face corresponded with the figure 
 square, hard, coarse. A heavy under jaw, projecting 
 forehead, with thick, beetling brows, and deep-set, 
 keen gray eyes. The nose was short, with distended 
 nostrils ; the mouth wide, but with thin, nervous lips. 
 It was not self-indulgent nor sensual, yet supremely 
 selfish. You knew the man would have his own, if he 
 wrung out the last drop of one's heart's blood. But 
 he was an honest man, so far as the world goes. 
 When he made a bargain or a contract, he kept his 
 part scrupulously. Why, there were men in the neigh- 
 boring cities who would back his simple word against
 
 COMING TO LIFE. 17 
 
 any other man's bond. His integrity had never been 
 questioned. But there are some Utopian people who 
 must needs have a higher law, an integrity of the 
 heart. 
 
 This face of power, will, and mastery turned full 
 upon Stephen Dane; and he, having no weapons to 
 meet it with, writhed angrily under it. 
 
 "Late!" the master said, laconically, taking out a 
 book and pencil. " Second offence, Dane." 
 
 Ten minutes ago Stephen Dane thought he had 
 courage enough to beard this lion was almost long- 
 ing for a chance to fling out some of the bitter words 
 gnawing at his heart. Now that the time had come, he 
 was speechless. It was a hard matter to answer this 
 man. 
 
 "You know what I told the workmen, Dane. I'm 
 bound to break up this lazy, lounging practice, if I 
 send every hand away and shut up the Foundery." 
 
 Then he no longer held him captive with his keen, 
 resolute eye. Stephen Dane shuffled away uneasily, 
 angry at himself for his cowardice. 
 
 Through the large yard, into one of those smoke- 
 blackened buildings. It came into his mind, just then, 
 something about going down into the mouth of hell. It 
 looked like it. These great furnaces full of molten 
 metal, glaring in its vivid glow of a hue more intense 
 than scarlet. Great cranes, loaded with their heavy 
 chains, waiting to lift the steaming mass, and pour
 
 18 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 it, a scorching river, into these giant moulds. And 
 here, where it lay in its dusky bed, taking on the im- 
 press of a new form, a dense smoke arose, giving the 
 faces of the workmen a weird, spectral air. Fierce 
 eyes glared out ; brawny arms reached hither and 
 thither ; gaunt, half-nude figures flitted about like the 
 shadows of the lost souls in Dora's powerful illustra- 
 tions of Dante. Voices sounded ghostly and terrible 
 amid this din, and a laugh broke into short echoes, as 
 if it might well be the scornful jeer of some doomed 
 spirit. 
 
 It must be confessed there was a better and brisker 
 air about the place under the new reign. Before, it 
 had been falling into a process of slow decay. Super- 
 intendents were inefficient, workmen idle ; old Mr. Elli- 
 cott easy and powerless ; Mr. Reardon confined- to a 
 sick bed in a distant city, grumbling about the small 
 profits, and threatening to close the concern. Insubor- 
 dination and thriftlessness supreme rulers. 
 
 Mr. Reardon died : Mr. Thomas Vennard, one of his 
 creditors, came down to Trcgony to look at the Foun- 
 dery. He had a quick eye and calculating brain. It 
 was a kind of business he understood ; and he decided 
 the thing could be worked up handsomely. The place 
 was inventoried, and Reardon's share sold at auction, 
 Mr. Vennard becoming purchaser. He would fain have 
 ousted Ellicott ; but the old man had an odd persistency 
 of affection for an establishment that had been handed
 
 COMING TO LIFE. 19 
 
 down from generation to generation. Mr. Vennard's 
 shrewd eyes discovered another way in which to gain 
 his point. There was no Ellicott son now to follow in 
 his father's steps. Only a daughter of three and 
 twenty, an insipid-flavored young woman, with flaxen 
 hair and pale blue eyes. Some people thought her 
 handsome ; indeed, she had been quite a belle one win- 
 ter in Philadelphia. She was soft, plastic, ready to take 
 the impress of any strong hand that might be laid upon 
 her. In a month Mr. Vennard had gauged every 
 point and capability, as if she had been a steam-engine, 
 and decided to marry her. Then the Ellicott works 
 would be all his. He liked supreme power, and this 
 indulgent old man's interference annoyed him. If he 
 had been born south he would have made a w strong " 
 master. 
 
 He was a widower, with one child, a little girl. I 
 will confess to you that he had not been exactly happy 
 in his first marriage. Mrs. Vennard came from the 
 "higher law" region. She had clear eyes and an 
 honest soul; and when she learned what manner of 
 man she had married, her heart died within her. One 
 night, in the darkness and silence, it floated out on the 
 great unknown sea, alone. Angel hands took it up 
 with reverent tenderness. 
 
 Mr. Vennard felt somehow that he had wronged this 
 woman. They were not born for each other, though at 
 first he had fancied her strongly. And, since she was 
 2
 
 20 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 comfortably dead, since the sad eyes would never re- 
 proach him again with their prisoned pain, he sorrowed 
 discreetly, and went his way breathing more freely. 
 
 He had no fear of Miss Ellicott turning angel on his 
 hands. Give her fine dresses and elegant jewelry, 
 he liked them, too ; they set off a woman, a carriage 
 to ride in, servants to wait upon her, and she would 
 never trouble him with any vain and useless specu- 
 lations. 
 
 So he went to work in good earnest, wooing a wife 
 and laying the foundation for a fortune. In ten years 
 he meant to be a rich man. This was how a change 
 had come over the Ellicott "Works. 
 
 Mr. Vennard was not given to blustering. He called 
 the men together one morning, and delivered a brief 
 address. They had fallen into idle and vicious habits ; 
 drank more rum than they did work ; he was not one 
 to mince matters ; made bad iron, poor machinery, 
 running the credit of the place down to the lowest ebb, 
 and driving its owners to the very verge of bankruptcy. 
 There was to be a new order of affairs instituted. Every 
 man was expected to be on the mark when the bell 
 rang, to do his work properly, to keep tolerably sober 
 until hours were over. If they couldn't come under 
 the rules, they could go. When he paid a man for his 
 labor, he expected him to earn the money. 
 
 No swearing with all this. Every word dropped 
 down with a sharp, metallic click, like the closing of a
 
 COMING TO LIFE. 21 
 
 vice. The tone was deep and strong. The men winced 
 and glowered at each other from under threatening 
 brows, but no one spoke. Instead, a cowed, savage 
 sullenncss. They felt they had a master. 
 
 Mr. Vennard brought in new foremen after his own 
 heart ; but his keen vigilance never for an instant re- 
 laxed. There were the usual mutinous outbreaks ; but 
 every one concerned was discharged on the spot. New 
 men came to fill their places. Being sent out of the 
 Ellicott Works was as final as expulsion from Paradise. 
 
 You know the kind of men who always manage mat- 
 ters their own way. Some are born gentlemen, and do 
 it by high intellectual force of will. Mr. Vennard was 
 on a lower plane, but held his way as royally. 
 
 There was little love lost between him and his work- 
 men. But love was considerably below par with him 
 not one of the stocks he cared to deal in. And in a 
 town like this, where workmen marry and rear up fam- 
 ilies, they become, as it were, a part of the soil. Not 
 always taking root through affection. A hard necessity, 
 like an iron chain, binds them to the spot. They are 
 often a little in debt, cannot afford to lose time, nor 
 spare the money for a removal. So capital and brains 
 win the day. Two or three large manufactories in a 
 small town have it all their own way, and uneducated, 
 thriftless labor must submit or starve ; and starving is 
 not generally a pleasant process. 
 
 So the more thoughtful and far-sighted gave in to
 
 22 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 the Vennard reign from a sort of angry compulsion, 
 since the lives of their wives and little ones depended 
 on their submission. 
 
 Stephen Dane had not espoused either side very 
 warmly. He was reticent, self-contained, or rather 
 would be when the coming manhood had sufficient force 
 to assert itself. He had been indifferent, for these re- 
 strictions did not touch him. He was quite too proud 
 to defraud his employer that rugged, ungracious sort 
 of pride one meets with now and then. He did his 
 work well on the same principle. All had gone rightly 
 enough with him until within a week or so. But now 
 he had begun a process dangerous to a weak mind, and 
 the first step was dissatisfaction with the grovelling life 
 he had hitherto led. 
 
 In six months Mr. Vennard could see just where he 
 stood, and glance down a golden future. But pros- 
 perity did not mellow his heart, nor send any rich, gen- 
 erous juices through his frame. He seemed to con- 
 tract instead. He drew the reins tighter everywhere. 
 He was building a large house on the hill, and was 
 also within a month of his wedding-day. It was rather 
 too soon to begin to use capital in this fashion, and it 
 pinched him a little. So he pinched others. 
 
 He was supreme master of the Ellicott Works. 
 Moreover, the people in the town began to look up 
 to him. His advice was sought on various topics, from 
 real estate to railroad stock. Drowsy old men nodded
 
 COMING TO LIFE. 23 
 
 sagaciously, with their eyes half closed. Miss Ellicott 
 plumed herself upon her conquest, and proudly dis- 
 played her diamond ring. The field before him looked 
 so fair with its ripening yellow harvest ! 
 
 But Stephen Dane peered into the dusky, impenetra- 
 ble desert, and tortured himself with vain questionings.
 
 24 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 n. 
 
 TANGLED PATHS. 
 
 
 STEPHEN DANE was in a good mood to listen to 
 John Gilbert that night. He didn't exactly 
 understand what Gilbert was driving at with his " right 
 of labor." The tyranny of employers appeared more 
 tangible. But how the reform was to be made, how 
 workmen were to acquire shops of their own, com- 
 fortable homes, leisure for reading and recreation, an 
 occasional journey, and some of the pleasures of life, 
 he did not clearly see. Indeed, to tell the truth, he 
 had been considerably muddled, whether it was owing 
 to Gilbert's lack of clearness or his own dull brain. 
 
 Joe had playfully stretched her arms across the door 
 to bar him in. 
 
 "I don't see what you are off for every night," she 
 had said with girlish petulance. 
 
 "Don't you? Well, I do. It's a man's business, 
 and women haven't the brains to understand it." 
 
 Some of the new theories. He did not know then 
 that he had taken up the wrong end by undervaluing 
 women.
 
 TANGLED PATHS. *> 
 
 W O, they haven't!" snapped Joe. "They've brains 
 enough to understand when they're left at home alone 
 night after night." 
 
 He made no reply, but turned away. Joe watched 
 him down the lane, pouted a little, and then ran into 
 Sally Fawcett's for a good gossip. 
 
 Stephen went to the Star. It was a rather better 
 class tavern than the one his father frequented, but 
 bad enough, though it boasted a reading-room. Two 
 or three tables were on the side opposite the bar, con- 
 taining a few stray newspapers, and generally occupied 
 by a motley group, who played " Seven up " and 
 "Euchre." Some of the more ambitious had organized 
 a Club, and of these John Gilbert was leader. 
 
 He was a little, nervous, hungry-looking man, with 
 restless eyes and a great sallow forehead, the sandy 
 hair being very thin on the top, which seemed to add 
 to its height. He had long, angular arms, bony, blood- 
 less fingers, and was much given to gesticulating. 
 Like many another reformer, he had a chronic quar- 
 rel with the world. He saw its faults and wrongs, 
 and held them up to the indignation of others ; but he 
 could not seem to get hold of the great cure for these 
 evils. 
 
 The sanded floor was ornamented with pools of 
 tobacco juice, stumps of cigars, and charred matches. 
 There was a vile odor in the place, liquoy, smoke, and 
 unclean men each adding their mite. Somehow, it
 
 ?6 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 went against Stephen Dane, and he lingered in the 
 doorway many moments. 
 
 "Hillo, Dane ! " said a rather thick, unsteady voice. 
 " Come in and treat, old fellow ! " 
 
 " Treat yourselves ; " and Dane threw some loose 
 change towards him and the few stragglers around. 
 
 "You needn't be so huffy," was the reply, as the 
 man scrambled on the floor for the money. 
 
 John Gilbert came up the street. He had a peculiar 
 uneasy gait, and was continually fumbling with his 
 hands. 
 
 "Well, Dane," was his salutation, accompanied by a 
 brief nod, " what's the news ? " 
 
 " Don't apply to me ; " and Stephen gave a short, 
 forced laugh. 
 
 "Why not? Doesn't Thomas Vennard, Esquire, 
 keep the world going straight? If it swerved the mil- 
 lionth of an inch on its axis, we should hear of it. 
 Business pretty good ? " 
 
 " Good enough with him, and always will be," was 
 the half-sullen rejoinder. 
 
 "You're right there, Dane. Vennard and that crew 
 are always prosperous men, let the world go as it will. 
 Now, why should they have all the good luck ? " 
 
 "I don't know, I'm sure, "said Stephen, grimly. 
 
 " They shouldn't. If God made men, which I some- 
 times question., he didn't mean one should be a slave to 
 the other. And it amounts to just that, Dane. You
 
 TANGLED PATHS. 27 
 
 belong to Vennard about as much as a negro slave to 
 his master. I'm opposed to slavery of any kind. I 
 say one man hasn't any right to lord it over another. 
 Don't you s'pose to-night that \ have as much brains as 
 Thomas Vennard ? " 
 
 Judging from looks, allowing one's forehead was 
 filled with brains, a great deal more, thought Stephen 
 Dane. And yet he was not quite sure but quality, as 
 well as quantity, had something to do with it. So he 
 only nodded a half assent. 
 
 w "Well, why am not I a rich man ? If I had chosen," 
 
 and the speaker stretched up to his utmost capacity, 
 
 "/ might have ground the flesh and blood of my fel- 
 low-creatures into gold. It's only just turning a vice 
 little tighter every day. Some one groans, to be sure ; 
 who cares? Here comes Thomas Vennard to look at 
 Reai'don's share of the Works. Things were going to 
 the dogs, sharp. It looked worse than it was. No one 
 was there to bid against him, and Ellicott's an old fool. 
 'Now,' says my gentleman, 'you'll all have to stand 
 round. Any man that I can't buy may go to the 
 devil. And those I do buy will have a long row to 
 hoe, I can tell you. No fooling with me.' Now, 
 what is the result?" 
 
 Stephen Dane ground his teeth, but made no reply. 
 
 "You work twice as hard as before, and get the same 
 pay. The profit goes into the pocket of T. Vennard. 
 And if one man of you dares to say his soul's his own,
 
 28 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 what then? Off he marches. What can a poor man 
 do ? Here's his family starving if he is out of work a 
 week. I say, Capital is the greatest tyrant in the world. 
 It fights labor down to the lowest point, and chains it 
 there. It means to keep workmen ignorant. Educa- 
 tion is its bitterest enemy. What chance has a man for 
 improvement when he gets just enough to keep body 
 and soul together? How can he study when he comes 
 home worn out with toil ? He must have some excite- 
 ment, some relaxation ; so he flies to the tavern. That's 
 what the bosses like. They make a great spread, build- 
 ing churches and voting public schools everywhere. 
 Who goes to 'em? Why, look at the men in this town 
 who haven't a Sunday coat, and who are compelled to 
 send their children to work at twelve and thirteen ! 
 That rears up just such another brutish generation. I 
 say the whole thing is an abomination ! " 
 
 The speaker brought one fist down on the palm of 
 the. other hand, and gave Dane a triumphant nod, as 
 if he had established a great point. 
 
 "What's to be done?" asked Stephen Dane, 
 thoughtfully. "These rich men always will keep 
 the power." 
 
 " I say they haven't any business with so much 
 money. Equalization of capital is my great theory. 
 Workmen must take it into their own hands." 
 
 "But how can they?" 
 
 Dane's tone was impatient.
 
 TANGLED PATHS. 29 
 
 "They must form associations Homes. Now, I 
 believe these homes could be successfully carried out.* 
 Each man could put in his labor, his energy, and what- 
 ever money he might have, and share equal with his 
 fellows. It's the only thing that ever will raise the 
 poorer classes. No one will give them a helping hand ; 
 so they must help themselves." 
 
 " But what could they do ? People must eat." 
 " Just what the workmen do at Elliott's, or any 
 other place. When do you suppose Vennard would 
 make a fortune if it depended on his daily labor ? And 
 if so many men can make thousands of dollars a year 
 for him, they could make something for themselves. 
 Couldn't they have factories, and mills, and farms? 
 And then this abode, which should be a home, would 
 admit of the developing of each soul according to its 
 primal bent. Each man must have the work that suits 
 his native power. Under such a system, the talent, 
 genius, and power would be brought out, cultivated 
 according to the eternal truths and harmonies, and man 
 would no longer be a brute, a mere machine, at the 
 beck of any person who would give him barely enough 
 to keep him from starving." 
 
 " Did you ever see one of these Homes ? " 
 "Yes, I've seen 'em. No dirty floors and frowzy- 
 headed women. No starved and beggarly brats. No 
 filth and foulness. Men and women enfranchising 
 themselves from these cursed laws of society and cus-
 
 30 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 torn ; growing into a broad, vigorous life. You can 
 believe in a God, there. And when the day comes in 
 which a soul will dare to be true to itself " 
 
 w But why don't people form them everywhere ? " 
 Somehow the idea looked so bright, and clean, and 
 enticing to Stephen Dane. 
 
 " Why ? Because the world is full of greedy, grasp- 
 ing men, and vain, selfish women. Because among 
 people of means you never find a correspondingly 
 generous soul. What is it to Vennard if men are 
 dragged down to the very dregs of social life, stupefy 
 themselves with bad liquor, beat their wives and 
 children? When they reach that point of brutishness 
 that incapacitates them from earning their wages, he 
 gets new men, and works them down. The old ones 
 make thieves, murderers, and paupers. He grumbles 
 at taxes and the increase of crime ; they all do ; and yet 
 they are ready enough to ship workmen off when no 
 longer useful. Do they think a man has a soul, a 
 bruin, or could be anything beyond the mere machine 
 they make him?" 
 
 All this stirred Stephen strangely. He knew so 
 little concerning the schemes with which men have 
 deluded themselves in their vain search for a perfect 
 social system, that he was not capable of seeing the 
 faults or appreciating the difficulties of these great 
 reforms. He had a perception, vague though it was, 
 of a better life than he was leading, and Gilbert's
 
 TANGLED PATHS. 31 
 
 Phalansteries appeared perfection. But how to reach 
 one. 
 
 "Could I join one of these?" he said at length. 
 
 Gilbert looked at him curiously. He stood just 
 in range of the light from the open door. Some- 
 thing in the man's stalwart, rude strength touched him 
 with a sense of incongruity. Had he any fine brain ? 
 
 " Yes, you could," he answered slowly. 
 
 He was sometimes compelled to admit to himself 
 that these experiments had been failures. He laid the 
 blame on the people who composed them, forgetting 
 that systems must be made for men, and that human 
 souls, in their infinite variety, cannot all be crowded 
 into one groove, or reach one height. They ignore 
 the differences of temperament, they cling to the same 
 arbitrary government they denounce so bitterly in the 
 world. With all their experience they make too little 
 allowance for the warps, and strains, and excrescences 
 poor human nature suffers from, and will while the 
 earth stands. 
 
 Two or three new-comers joined the two men. 
 Stephen frowned and bit his lip. He wanted to hear 
 more about these places, but he was too reserved to 
 open his heart to, a crowd. 
 
 "What's the row, Gilbert? Laying down the law 
 again?" asked a round-faced, jolly-looking fellow. 
 
 " No row," said Gilbert, rather surlily. " Can't a 
 man talk?"
 
 32 STEPHEN- 
 
 " I do suppose he can in this free country." 
 
 " Free ! " Gilbert gave a contemptuous sneer. 
 
 "Yes, free country. I ain't goin' to stand by an' see 
 her run down. I have all I want." 
 
 " You're a lucky fellow," with another sneer. "Can't 
 many men say that." 
 
 "Tell you what it is, Gilbert; you men, with your 
 fine theories, are always out of sorts, and dissatisfied. 
 No thin' goes right." 
 
 Gilbert took up the gauntlet. He was fond of 
 argument; he had a certain readiness of words and 
 much superficial information. He soon distanced his 
 adversary, and established his point, which was always 
 the wrongs and degradation of the working classes. 
 He had a certain show of right on his side, and a 
 sympathy that attracted many to his way of thinking. 
 It is so easy to make a man believe he is wronged, 
 unjustly treated. And when he sees another accumu- 
 lating wealth, the result of his labor, his heart fires 
 up with a bitter, angry feeling. 
 
 Stephen Dane listened. As they went on, evil 
 passions were aroused. Oaths were freely used. One 
 and another went in for a drink, and rejoined the group 
 with a heated brain, ripe for any monstrous belief. 
 Inside, they were gambling in a small way, singing 
 street songs, and using their tongues noisily, when 
 they were not too thick for articulation. 
 
 If such men as Gilbert believed anything could be
 
 TANGLED PATHS. 33 
 
 done for the "masses," why not begin here? Heaven 
 knows they needed it sorely. But he laid the blame 
 off his shoulders, dropped it at another's door. Men 
 were justified in drinking and carousing, because they 
 had no other amusement. With low wages, homes 
 could not be beautified, intellects cultivated, nor any 
 of the appliances or refinements of wealth indulged in. 
 Clearly, then, the system of labor was at fault. But 
 did such foul, disgusting pleasures as these pay? 
 
 Stephen Dane stole away while the excited voices 
 were at their highest. The man's impulses were clean 
 and pure ; these sights and sounds jarred roughly 
 against his soul. If he could go to one of those Homes, 
 if he could be educated to something, and not have to 
 grovel all his life ! For, after all, in the battle, brain 
 won the day against brawn. Not just such a morbid, 
 nervous, crochety brain as Gilbert's. I hardly know 
 why Gilbert should have lost favor in his eyes that 
 night as a prophet ; but he did. Stephen had begun to 
 believe quite strongly in him, but now he felt all adrift 
 again. And such a wide, lonesome sea ! 
 
 The young moon was walking amid the stars, shed- 
 ding a ^alm and tender light. All was so peaceful 
 here ! How odd that Gilbert's confessed half-atheism 
 should have made him think of God ! He began to 
 wonder at his own previous insensibility. He was 
 not stock or stone. He could perceive this heavenly 
 beauty, and enjoy it. He even longed for something
 
 34 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 besides companionship, perhaps. He had never 
 known how solitary his existence was until now. 
 
 If he went away to lead a new life, what could he 
 do with his father, with Joe? Not leave them behind. 
 He had an idea that to desert them would make a bad 
 beginning. And yet they were a drag. Joe might be 
 raised a little, but his father 
 
 So, in spite of the balmy evening, he came home in 
 an irritable mood. The room was deserted. The fire 
 on the hearth had burned to a heap of ashes. It looked 
 gray enough in that long beam of moonlight. He 
 stumbled up stairs without the aid of any candle, and 
 went to bed. Generally to instant slumber, but now 
 he tossed about restlessly. The wind brought Sally 
 Fawcett's shrill laugh up the lane, and the echo of Joe's 
 good night. How noisy these women were ! loud- 
 voiced, hard, not the women of Phalansteries. Then 
 his father came shambling along, and silence fell over 
 the house. The voice of the distant marsh-frogs kept 
 up a monotonous murmur, and amid this he dropped 
 asleep. 
 
 Mr. Vennard's marriage made little difference at the 
 Kllicott Works. True, he was away for a week. A 
 gatekeeper marked time as rigidly. Foremen were as 
 sharp. But one relentless eye was not there to pounce 
 upon them in an unsuspecting moment. The men 
 breathed a little more freely, but there were no cases of 
 insubordination.
 
 TANGLED PATHS. 35 
 
 He brought his little daughter back with him, and 
 father and child took up their abode at Mr. Ellicott's, 
 until the completion of the new house. Mrs. Vennard's 
 elegant dresses were the town talk ; and Joe, like many 
 another foolish woman, was delighted with a sight of 
 her in the carriage, driving with the little girl. 
 
 " But such a child I There ain't nothin' to her. She 
 looks, for all the world, like an angel. Light, yellow 
 curls, and a face as white as a ghost. She's enough- 
 sight more like her step-mother than her father. Won- 
 der if she'll be good to Rer, Stephen ? " 
 
 "Why not?" with a sort of grave, preoccupied air. 
 Stephen no longer went to the tavern, but he was still 
 busy pondering the problem of destiny. 
 
 " Step-mothers ain't always good." And Joe tossed 
 her head with a quick jerk, as if she was enunciating a 
 great truth. 
 
 Stephen wondered just then how much Mr. Vennard 
 cared for his child if indeed he could care for any- 
 thing. What a life she would have ! Always to be 
 surrounded by beauty and luxury; never, perhaps, to 
 know a want. And his soul must be starved in order 
 to pamper her. 
 
 If Stephen Dane could have looked down this child's 
 future ! But not the wildest dream could have con- 
 nected him with her then. 
 
 Orders poured in upon Mr. Vennard. Night and 
 day the great engines were in motion. What did he 
 3
 
 36 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 care if some of the poor wretches at the tavern mut- 
 tered threats and imprecations ? If they had chosen to 
 obey the rules, they might have still held their places. 
 It was not his fault. 
 
 One night they were casting. There was no moon, 
 and the great sheet of flame from the chimney struck 
 vividly against the deep-blue sky. Myriads of sparks 
 rayed off like shooting stars. It was a strange, weird 
 sight from without, but a hundred fold more intense 
 within. And so Mrs. Vennard brought her guests 
 down to inspect it. Few of* them had witnessed the 
 work on so grand a scale. 
 
 They looked like spirits from another world, those 
 gayly-dressed ladies and fine gentlemen. Little shrieks 
 and exclamations were drowned amid the unearthly din. 
 They gathered up their dresses daintily, and kept by 
 the open windows to avoid the smothering heat, peering 
 now and then into these molten red streams, that seemed 
 to crawl along the ground like fiery serpents. It 
 formed a striking picture, with just sufficient of the 
 weird to give it a touch of diablerie. 
 
 Stephen Dane was not very busy: in fact he had 
 been promoted from the casting-shop to one of the 
 forges ; though he came down nearly every night, be- 
 cause he liked it, and he could think better here than 
 in that comfortless home, with Joe's unceasing chatter. 
 The man had begun to find much enjoyment in the use 
 of his faculties. Convinced that he .was not a mere
 
 TANGLED PATHS. 37 
 
 animal product of nature, but held, somewhere within, 
 a sentient, spiritual vitality, he put forth some feeble 
 efforts, like a child's walking at first ; but there was 
 something fascinating in it that lured him on. 
 
 He watched the group out beyond with a strange 
 feeling. These young men with fair foreheads, care- 
 fully trimmed beards, well-arranged hair and dress, 
 were .different from him. These delicate women, with 
 slender white hands and graceful figures, did not in the 
 least resemble Joe. Was it the accident of birth and 
 prosperity only, or something of a more positive and 
 integral nature? Quite a new speculation for him. 
 Rather annoying, too ; so presently he strayed around 
 to the other side, where their brightness and beauty no 
 longer jarred upon him. 
 
 Some one pulled him gently, and a little, timid voice 
 uttered, "Say ! " so entreating withal, that it quite sur- 
 prised him. But turning, he was still more astonished. 
 
 She looked so uncanny, this little girl of seven or 
 thereabouts, standing in the shadowy darkness, her 
 white face, her pale hair, of a ripe wheat tint, falling 
 about her shoulders, her large, lustrous eyes, her dim- 
 pled arms and tiny hands, all so distinctly outlined 
 against the black background. He was confused and 
 bewildered by the vision, and gazed at her with some- 
 thing more than amazement incredulity. 
 
 Her upraised glance was so sweet and fearless ! 
 
 " I wish you would hold me up and let me look into
 
 38 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 that large large I don't know what you call it 
 full of iron." 
 
 "What, the kettle?" he said, just under his breath, 
 hardly knowing whether he dared answer her or not. 
 
 " Yes. I want to see. Mamma and the rest looked 
 in ; but she said wait for papa to lift me. He hasn't 
 come yet." 
 
 "You will not be afraid?" 
 
 "No." And she gave such a soft, musical laugh. 
 "You'll hold me tight won't you? and your arms are 
 good and strong." 
 
 His sleeves were rolled up nearly to the shoulders. 
 Great, strong arms they were, indeed, with swelling 
 muscles and hard, brown skin. But he kept on glan- 
 cing at her in a sort of vacant surprise. 
 
 "Well I" she remarked at length. 
 
 He stepped outside the door, and, from a niche in the 
 passage-way, took down a coat of soft gray cloth, that 
 one of the men had worn. He remembered noticing 
 at noon that it had been improved by a recent washing. 
 
 " Are you going to wrap me up in that ? " And she 
 laughed again. 
 
 It sent a thrill all over him. He had never heard 
 anything so sweet in all his life before, unless it was a 
 brook purling over some pebbly descent. 
 
 " O, no. Only I'm all dust and grime, and should 
 soil you. So I'll just throw this coat over my arm and 
 shoulder."
 
 TANGLED PATHS. 39 
 
 She looked down at her pale-blue dress, with its 
 white braided edge, and gave a little, dainty smile. 
 
 He stooped to take her, and then he paused, trem- 
 bling in every nerve with some unwonted emotion. A 
 very angel, as Joe had said. 
 
 " Are you afraid of me because my dress is so nice ? " 
 
 "No, not that ; and yet I am afraid of you." 
 
 He spoke the simple truth. 
 
 "Why?" she asked, wonderingly. 
 
 "I cannot tell you." And then, with a great effort, 
 he took her in his arms. 
 
 "O, how tall you are ! " she exclaimed, clasping her 
 tiny hands joyously. "It's like going up to the moon. 
 I can see over the tops of the men's heads. And how 
 odd it all looks ! " 
 
 " It's very hot there by the furnace," he said slowly. 
 
 " It won't burn me, just for a moment. I want to see, 
 so much ! " 
 
 He picked his way over the smoking moulds, holding 
 his precious burden in the tenderest clasp. He could 
 not think of her in connection with Sally Fawcett's 
 dirty children, who played in the lane the only chil- 
 dren he had hitherto been brought much in contact with. 
 
 She drew her breath in a quick, excited manner as 
 they approached the seething mass. The men were 
 dipping it out with huge, long-handled ladles, and 
 paused for a moment to stare at her. A strange vision 
 was that lovely, childish face amid the rough, stalwart 
 forms.
 
 40 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 She turned suddenly, and clasped her arms around 
 Stephen Dane's neck. The soft, pinky flesh touched 
 his lip and cheek in passing. She caught at a long, 
 convulsive sigh, and he felt.how every pulse quivered as 
 he turned away. 
 
 " Were you frightened ? " he asked, when they had 
 regained the doorway. 
 
 "Not quite. Only I thought, if anybody ever let a 
 little girl fall in " 
 
 Both shivered ; she with her arms still around his 
 neck soft, white arms, stirring all his manhood's 
 blood. 
 
 " What made you think of anything so terrible ? It 
 could never, never happen." 
 
 He drew her closer. 
 
 "Mamma said Mr. Lawton might let me fall. But 
 you are stronger." 
 
 He rejoiced in his strength at that moment ; but he 
 said, with a rather grim smile, 
 
 "I am not one of your fine gentlemen." 
 
 " I don't like Mr. Lawton," was her comment. 
 
 She would like him by and by, when the years 
 taught her the difference. And then Stephen Dane 
 sighed. 
 
 "Have you any little girls at home?" she asked, 
 presently. 
 
 "No." 
 
 " What makes you look so sorry ? "
 
 TANGLED PATHS. 41 
 
 She was peering into his eyes with her lustrous orbs 
 swimming in lakes of liquid light. 
 
 "Did I look sorry?" 
 
 "Don't you like little girls?" She was following 
 her own train of thought, and hardly noticed his 
 question. 
 
 "I like you." There was a strange, half-suppressed 
 passion in his voice. 
 
 " May I come down here sometimes ? Papa thinks 
 me a bother. It's so lonesome at at home ! " There 
 was a little break in her voice. "I haven't any one to 
 play with, you know. And at Philadelphia there was 
 Addie and Jane. It was so nice ! What's your 
 name?" with a sudden impulse. 
 
 " Stephen Dane." 
 
 " Did you come from Denmark ? " 
 
 " No ; " and he laughed. " Why ? " 
 
 " The Danes do. I learned it in my Geography. 
 I went to school when I lived with aunt Mary. I am 
 going again some day. I like it." 
 
 "What is your name?" he asked. 
 
 "O, don't you know? Hope Vennard." 
 
 "Hope." He repeated it musingly, tenderly. 
 
 " Do you think it is pretty ? " she queried with a little 
 timid flutter in her voice. 
 
 "Yes. -Hope. Something to comfort one in wait- 
 ing. An anchor sure and steadfast, if one only has 
 something to hope for."
 
 42 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 "Now you are sorry again," she said. "I see it in 
 your eyes." 
 
 So quick to perceive ! He started. Who ever before 
 had discovered any sorrow in his eyes ? And there was 
 always a deep, underlying pain in his heart. Even 
 this unreasoning sympathy was sweet. 
 
 She bent suddenly and kissed him. Mr. Lawton 
 teased a long while for these kisses, and her new 
 mother apologized for her being such a " queer child." 
 If either of them had seen this ! 
 
 Stephen Dane stood transfixed. 
 
 "I'm glad you let me look in that dreadful place, and 
 held me so tight. Now put me down, please ; I must 
 find mamma." 
 
 He led her by the hand around outside the noisy 
 room. When they saw the fluttering dresses, he let 
 her go alone, but stood still to watch her. 
 
 " Why, Hope, where have you been ? I thought 
 your father had you. What a naughty little run- 
 away ! " 
 
 The voice was not cross, certainly; but it had a 
 strand of pettishness. And Stephen, remembering Joe's 
 words, wondered if Mrs. Vennard would be kind and 
 tender with her. If not He ground his teeth at 
 the very thought. He could fight to the bitterest death 
 for this little girl. All his chivalrous feelings were 
 aroused, and under the dust and rubbish of this coarse
 
 TANGLED PATHS. 43 
 
 life there was some pure ore. She had kissed him, 
 too. An innocent child's kiss a sort of angel's 
 benison. If one day he could stand on a par with 
 Hope Vennard ! In ten years she would be seventeen 
 a woman. And what of him?
 
 44 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 ni. 
 
 FIGHTING WITH FATE. 
 
 JOE, sewing some tawdry finery by the flaring light 
 of a tallow candle, struck hard and sharp against 
 his vision of Hope Vennard. The low line of forehead, 
 and untidy, tumbled black hair, with a stray end 
 always falling from the comb ; the sun-browned com- 
 plexion ; the sort of purely animal life in every feature ; 
 the ill-fitting dress, and great red bow at the throat, 
 much soiled and pinned awry, how different from the 
 women down yonder ! He liked the taste and the re- 
 finement best. If Joe could only understand I 
 
 She was arranging some faded flowers on a bonnet. 
 He glanced at those in the window. 
 
 "Don't do it, Joe," he said, presently. "I'll get you 
 a new one. White straw, with nice crisp buds, and 
 leaves, and clean strings." 
 
 " Will you ? " and Joe looked up delighted. 
 
 "And if you'd wear flowers at your throat, Joe." 
 
 "I can't, Stephen. They all ers fall apart, and wilt, 
 and straggle down. I like 'em best in a saucer." 
 
 "Always, Joe."
 
 FIGHTING WITH FATE. 45 
 
 "Always what?" and the girl's expression was one 
 of dull amaze. 
 
 "Don't mangle your words that's all." 
 
 Joe pouted a little. "You're gettin' mighty per- 
 tic'lar, Stephen." 
 
 "There's no law against g's. And, Joe, if we were 
 more careful ! We have fallen into such a slipshod 
 habit of talking ! Why can we not make our lives and 
 manners a little better ? " 
 
 Joe considered a moment whether to be pleased or 
 angry. She did not like to have her ways questioned 
 or criticised. But then it was pleasant to know Stephen 
 took an interest in her. He had been so reserved, so 
 almost cross, of late. She said, unthinkingly, 
 
 "You do care about me, Stephen?" 
 
 " Yes ; I should be a brute if I didn't." 
 
 His heart was tender to-night. But when he saw 
 her evident pleasure, and the straggling flush that crept 
 up in the dark cheeks, conscience pricked him a little. 
 The old childish talk of husband and wife rushed over 
 him. Many years ago, to be sure ; but he remembered, 
 and Joe, with a woman's tenacious memory, was not 
 likely to forget. Was she dreaming of any such thing ? 
 For it could never be. 
 
 So he sauntered out on the door-step, and gazed at 
 the glittering stars. Up above there, so peacefid. 
 Nothing to do but swing forever, amid seas of blue and 
 fleecy white. Wafts it so very much better to be a man?
 
 46 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Joe put away her work, and came up to him softly, 
 passed her arm over his shoulder, and, bringing herself 
 face to face, kissed him. Following out his first im- 
 pulse, he pushed her from him not roughly, and yet 
 it was a repulse. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know what to make of you, 
 Stephen," she said, half crying. " You're so changed 
 along o' goin' to the tavern and seein' that John Gil- 
 bert. O my ! I forgot all about them g's. I can't be 
 a lady, it wasn't born in me, and that's why you 
 look down on me despise me ! " 
 
 "No. Heaven knows I don't despise you, Joe. And 
 I'd like to bring you up out of this swamp of vilenesa 
 and darkness that we've ploughed along in all our lives. 
 I loathe the very sight of it. I am changed. Maybe 
 John Gilbert's had a hand in it, maybe not. I did 
 take his rigmarole for gospel truth first ; but if it's so 
 grand and fine, why doesn't he make his own life 
 better? Why doesn't he go somewhere, if there is any 
 such place, and be free and happy, following out the 
 laws of truth and harmony ? What's the theory worth 
 if there's to be no practice ? Better let men go on eat- 
 ing and drinking, and grovelling like brutes, than stir 
 them up to fierce tumults, and leave them there, chafing 
 like angry tigers. So I'm about done with the non- 
 sense. But there is something, Joe. Call it God, or 
 Fate, or the Devil. And I shall never rest until I 
 have a 'good hand-to-hand fight."
 
 FIGHTING WITH FATE. 47 
 
 "I wish you'd go to church, Stephen," Joe said. 
 "Ministers know better than other folks." 
 
 "Do they? I'm not so sure of that. They preach 
 about content, and patience, and resignation ; but when 
 a man begins to learn his own strength, when he feels 
 his own wants and needs, what good will a crust of 
 bread do? Can you feed a starving soul on it? 
 There's an ache and an agony way down deep ; there's 
 a capacity for something that struggles in bonds, and 
 will be free ; and, when a man comes to this, he must 
 fight it out. So, if I'm cross to you, Joe, blame it to 
 the devil, that possesses me ! " 
 
 His tone was deep and passionate, and Joe stared 
 in affright. He was beyond her reach. His head was 
 full of these new-fangled notions. Her narrow mind, 
 bounded only by yesterday and to-morrow, could not 
 comprehend the mighty conflict the man was going 
 through. A little fondling and foolish caresses would 
 have been more to her than his victory or defeat. And 
 because she could not argue, she relapsed into sullen- 
 ness the unfailing refuge of weak natures. Sally 
 Fawcett, fat and rosy at forty, with her six unruly 
 children, and Jake, " who never gave her a word when 
 he was in liquor," was as high a type of happiness as 
 Joe aspired to. For Jake was fond of his wife, a good- 
 natured, rollicking fellow, who joked with every one. 
 Don't blame Joe too severely. Her soul, restricted by 
 its own nature and stinted experience, had only the
 
 48 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 wants its limited range allowed. Her fancies were 
 neither broad nor varied. Yet she could have enjoyed 
 happiness keenly if it had come to her. O, let us hope 
 that God has some great joy in store for all the poor 
 souls who have missed it here ! 
 
 So Joe crept away to bed and cried a little. And 
 Stephen stood under the silent stars, thinking, revolv- 
 ing the tangled web that appeared to grow more intri- 
 cate at every turn. 
 
 The socialistic theories of Gilbert had not gained 
 much ground with him. He was too clear-eyed. Men 
 blinded by some passion or interest are more likely to 
 take them up. Perhaps, too, he was gradually finding 
 his way into the niche he fitted. Since his permanent 
 change to the forge he had been happier. His mind 
 seemed to assimilate with these mighty engines that 
 grew beneath ponderous hammers and blazing fires. It 
 was almost like creating a sentient being, when you put 
 these rods, and pistons, and valves together, and inflated 
 a steam chest from the huge boiler. That gave it life. 
 Then it flew up and down, wheels revolved ; the force 
 of a giant was in it. And Stephen smiled, seeing this. 
 The Phalanstery, with its special affinities, its harmo- 
 nies of beauty and nature, faded from his brain. His 
 work was here. Men had spent their whole lives study- 
 ing some trick of a machine or engine. And when Ad- 
 ams, the foreman of this department, said, one day, 
 
 "Dane, you have the head and the eye for an in-
 
 FIGHTING WITH FATE. 49 
 
 ventor. Some time I expect we shall hear from you. 
 You see more in these things than a bit of hot or cold 
 iron." A flush overspread Stephen Dane's swarthy face. 
 
 So much was needed. How was he ever to accom- 
 plish it ? Education first. And then he realized how 
 ignorant he was. 
 
 I think Adams understood the hunger of his soul. 
 Occasionally they walked up the street together, talk- 
 ing. And presently books were lent, a sort of free- 
 masonry among certain men. Vennard, seeing the 
 intimacy with his lynx-eye, took the foreman to task. 
 
 "It won't do, Adams. I've seen it tried. These 
 men must be made to know their places, and kept in 
 them. Their business is to work. The less book- 
 knowleflge and science such folks have, the better for 
 them. They get above their station. Many a poor 
 wretch has ruined himself by .thinking he had genius 
 enough for some invention, when he might have lived 
 a contented and comfortable life. Plenty of work and 
 steady wages are all they need. I have them in pretty 
 good order now, and they shall not be tampered with." 
 
 Adams gave in, and was a little more cautious. He 
 was no coward, but he knew he could not serve Dane 
 by braving Mr. Vennard, and the man interested him 
 singularly. 
 
 June made Tregony a garden of fragrance and beauty. 
 Roses everywhere. New life in tree and shrub, bird 
 and bee. Wayside paths starred with daisies and but-
 
 50 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 terctips ; cool nooks entangled with clustering foliage 
 and carpeted with rank mosses. The river with its 
 murmurous rustle, the sky with its fleecy drifts every- 
 where a profusion of summer richness and warmth. 
 Stephen Dane felt it as he never had before. Emerging 
 from the shadow of a gross, material life, he drank in 
 these varied sensations with an almost childish delight. 
 It was a new growing up to manhood. 
 
 Now and then he caught a glimpse of Hope Vennard. 
 The child looked bright and happy. Once she had 
 nodded to him in her free, eager way, and been checked 
 by her elegant mamma. He saw that, and bit his lip. 
 And once she had been in the foundery. 
 
 They had been trying some experiments with an 
 engine. An improvement had been Attempted in the 
 saving of steam, and several scientific men had come 
 down from the city to witness the trial. All the morn- 
 ing they had been deeply engrossed with it ; but alter 
 a good dinner and rich wines they felt less energetic. 
 So they had invited the ladies over, for Mrs. Ven- 
 nard nearly always had a friend or two staying with 
 her. Hope accompanied them. 
 
 Stephen always remembered her as she looked on 
 this day. Dressed purely in white, her curls fluttering 
 like a changeful sea. So winsome, so radiant. And 
 while the others talked, she stole to the open door 
 through which she had caught a glimpse of Stephen. 
 
 " May I come in ? "
 
 FIGHTING WITH FATE. 51 
 
 Stephen stood by a vice, filing some article that re- 
 quired careful manipulations. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, with a smile. 
 
 She came and stood by him, plied him with a child's 
 numerous and inconsequent questions, all of which he 
 was delighted to answer, watching the lids droop over 
 the eyes, the color come and go in her sweet face, and 
 the curves of the small, scarlet mouth like a cleft 
 strawberry, and as rich in fragrance. Could any thing 
 so lovely belong to Thomas Vennard? He was think- 
 ing of this when a harsh voice made them both start as 
 if guilty of some sin. . ^ 
 
 " Hope ! " 
 
 The child's face turned a little pale. Vennard was 
 a tyrant by nature. Even here he could not forego 
 his authority* always dear to him. 
 
 "Dane, haven't you any more sense than to let a 
 child bother round in that fashion? Hope, go to your 
 mother." 
 
 " She did not interrupt me," said Dane, in a sort of 
 defiant apology. 
 
 " Don't tell me ! A man's mind isn't on his work 
 when he's fooling with anything. You've filed that 
 too far." 
 
 "It's just right." And Dane fitted it to the cog. 
 He would have been more than human not to enjoy his 
 triumph. 
 
 Mr. Vennard was angry, and for .once helpless, as 
 4
 
 52 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 he could not think of a fitting retort. So he turned on 
 his heel with a threatening frown. 
 
 Adams came to Stephen's side, after they were all 
 gone. 
 
 "Vennard is bitterly disappointed at his non-suc- 
 cess," he said, in a low tone. "I didn't know he 
 counted so much on it. He wouldn't let any one put 
 in a word, for he meant to claim the improvement." 
 
 " What was wrong ? " 
 
 " There was just no advantage at all. What he saved 
 in steam he lost in revolutions. Misplaced economy, 
 which, will not do for a steam-engine. You can starve 
 a man better, eh, Dane?" 
 
 "For a while, at least," returned Dane, grimly. 
 
 " \iennard is making haste to be rich. If I had his 
 chance, I'd take matters comfortably. He will have 
 all old Ellicott's money. W T hat a fairy of a child that 
 is ! She came in here ? " 
 
 "Yes." Laconically. He did not want to hear any 
 talk about Hope Vennard. 
 
 "I think that can be done;" and Adams nodded 
 his head towards the next room. " Will you look at it 
 after six? Why, it would make a man's fortune ! " 
 
 "Yes," Dane said, the words ringing through his 
 ears. Not that he would ever make a fortune. But 
 if he had a little money to start with, he and Adams, 
 for instance, time to study and try experiments 
 No, it could never be done ; and he sighed.
 
 FIGHTING WITH FATE. 53 
 
 The worst of life is to feel one's self wasted. And 
 this sensation was growing up in Stephen Dane. Why 
 didn't he have the chance other young men passed by 
 with such indifference? A subtile flame was creeping 
 through his brain, smouldering almost for want of 
 proper nourishment, yet now and then bursting out into 
 a fierce ray ; every time gaining a little, to be sure, but 
 seeing no real escape. Ground down with poverty, 
 ignorance, and yes, a sort of caste. Adams might 
 see something worthier in him ; but then the man was 
 almost as poor as himself, saving a little money, and 
 trying experiments that failed continually. If Mr. 
 Vennard would take one in hand ; and a cynical sneer 
 for it was too bitter for a smile crossed Dane's face. 
 Mr. Vennard believed common workmen had no busi- 
 ness with ideas. Rude, brutish strength was all they 
 needed. 
 
 They did not dare linger very long over the engine. 
 Neither would have confessed it, but both knew this 
 sort of fraternizing did not meet Mr. Vennard's ap- 
 proval. And every one had a fear of him, even if it 
 was but half admitted in some secret corner of the brain. 
 
 "Will Vennard try again, think?" Dane asked. 
 
 "O, you may be sure of that, if some one doesn't 
 come out first with an improvement. Dane," sharply, 
 " if you have any revelations on the subject, sell 'em 
 at a high figure. Don't let 'em be stolen. That thing is 
 done too often."
 
 54 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Neither of them had any ideas just then. They 
 examined the steam-chest, the valves, the cut-off, 
 and looking at each other with perplexed eyes, said, as 
 many another had, 
 
 " If it could be done ! " 
 
 Stephen Dane made a sort of dogged mental vow 
 that life should not all be wasted over yonder, at the 
 forge. 
 
 He passed out first. Adams paused to talk with the 
 gate-keeper. But Dane's steps were arrested, ere he 
 had gone thirty yards, by a group of men. 
 
 " I say it's a cursed shame ! " and the speaker, purple 
 with anger, was gesticulating savagely. " If Vennard 
 stays here, Tregony '11 be turned into a pauper's den. 
 What kin we do, I'd like to know? I've got an old 
 bed-ridden mother, and five little cubs, one on 'em blind, 
 and a month back at the store. What am I goin' to 
 do? Where'll I get work? An' he brings in new 
 men every day, an' if a man dares to stan' up for his 
 rights, off he goes. 'Twan't so in Reardon's time, and 
 old Ellicott never ground the soul out of a man in that 
 way. I say everybody oughter rise and drum Yennard 
 out of the place. It's that, or starvin' for us an' our 
 children ! " 
 
 " What's the row with Forbes? " asked Dane. 
 
 " Bin discharged ; four on 'em." 
 
 Thomas Vennard's anger had s'pent itself here, when 
 it might have been vented on him. Perhaps better.
 
 FIGHTING WITH FATE. 55 
 
 From the bottom of his heart he pitied Forbes, think- 
 ing of the home where want must soon stare them in 
 the face, unless charity fed them. 
 
 Forbes had commenced again. He was spokesman 
 for the party, and ill-judged as his harangue was, it 
 contained a certain amount of truth and rugged elo- 
 quence, interspersed with now and then a vengeful oath. 
 
 Some one touched Dane's shoulder. Turning, he 
 beheld Adams. 
 
 " Come along," said the latter, almost crossly. 
 
 Stephen looked fairly at him, with an expression that 
 said, proudly enough, 
 
 "My sympathies are here." 
 
 "I know it," the other answered, as if the look had 
 been words : " but what good do you do, listening to 
 an angry man's denunciation of something he doesn't 
 understand ? " 
 
 " He seems to understand that he and his children 
 may starve." 
 
 "When you want to demolish a solid stone wall, it's 
 best not to take your fist. Forbes and Benner have 
 carried their point a little too far. Mr. Vennard 
 doesn't allow of but one master. They knew it. 
 They had seen it tried before." 
 
 He was leading Stephen away. 
 
 " We don't look at these things in the same light," 
 said Dane, in a resolute tone. "You don't like Ven- 
 nard, yet you always stand up for him."
 
 56 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 "From a principle you would call cowardly and 
 selfish, I suppose. I think it is best that the workmen 
 should learn that he is to be obeyed. If you want the 
 employment, you must take it on his terms. There's 
 no other large iron works around here. He can dictate, 
 and he means to. It's fighting against the stone wall, 
 as I said." 
 
 " And a man's to give up all his independence, all 
 his spirit, his sense of what is right and just " 
 
 w Dane, you are a little too far on one side. Ven- 
 nard is a hard master in some respects, I grant, but he 
 pays the men as well as they have ever been paid 
 before, " 
 
 " And works them twice as hard ! " was the bitter 
 interruption. 
 
 "I think they had fallen into very idle, disorderly 
 habits. It takes pretty hard discipline to bring such 
 men around straight. Vennard's had a sharp way of 
 doing it, I grant you, but he hasn't asked for any more 
 than his own. When he went down and found Forbes 
 and some of the others playing ' seven up,' he dis- 
 charged them on the spot. That they had only been 
 playing a few moments, while there was nothing for 
 them to do, was no excuse whatever in his eyes. It was 
 his time they were using for their own gratification. 
 And in trying to justify themselves, they made him 
 still more angry. He wasn't in the best of humor, you 
 know."
 
 FIGHTING WITH FATE. 57 
 
 K It was a mean shame ! And Forbes is a good, 
 honest \v irkman. He doesn't pull off his apron with 
 the first stroke of the bell. I've seen him stop minutes 
 to finish something." 
 
 "Mr. Vennard doesn't ask that. He wouldn't take 
 a favor fron a workman. When he gets what he 
 has paid for, he is satisfied, but he wants every inch 
 of that. You were right when you said I didn't like 
 him. I might brave him to-morrow, and the next day 
 find a new place. I've no family to keep me here, or 
 to starve, if I was out of work u while. But since 
 I've taken the position, and know pretty well what 
 he wants, I'll satisfy him if it's in my power. I 
 think I can do it without losing my independence, 
 except just so much as I knowingly relinquished 
 when I made my bargain. A person in an inferior 
 position has to yield something. Why not do it with 
 a good grace ? " 
 
 Stephen Dane walked along moodily. Presently 
 a savage glow shot out of his eye. 
 
 " It's always the way ! These men with money and 
 power are tyrants." 
 
 w Yes, you find it so pretty often." 
 . " And is the world to go on so forever ? Are the 
 rich always to grind the souls of the poor ? " 
 
 " The world's a big place, Dane. And there are 
 many noble exceptions, I am glad to admit. We 
 have fallen upon one of the hard problems. Ven-
 
 58 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 nard has a narrow mind, and cannot see consequences. 
 He thinks his system is perfect. But ther ; is such 
 a thing as crowding on too much steam. Whether he 
 will be able to find men to fill these places five years 
 hence, is a question ! " 
 
 " Then he'll shut up the place. I can't fancy Ven- 
 nard giving in. But as Forbes said, he will make 
 Tregony a pauper's den." 
 
 "Yes. These men can never. see, after all. When 
 you teach a workman to respect himself, to be prov- 
 ident, to educate hi children, to lay up a little money 
 if possible, you have made a good citizen for the state, 
 a man whose honor you can depend on. You will not 
 .have to be taxed for his support in the poorhouse. 
 But Vennard looks only at to-day. He wants the 
 work done so he can see the immediate profits. I don't 
 know that heaven or earth could convert him to any 
 other way of thinking. So the men must study self- 
 interest. Since it is necessary for them to have employ- 
 ment, they must abide by his laws. They are in no 
 position to dictate." 
 
 "It's a burning, bitter shame," broke in Dane, with 
 the scornful indignation of a generous man. 
 
 " But one must take the world as he finds it ; " and 
 Adams shrugged his shoulders. Hj3 had many good 
 impulses, but he would never have made a philan- 
 thropist. 
 
 They halted at the corner, where their paths diverged.
 
 FIGHTING WITH FATE. 59 
 
 " Leave these men to settle their squabbles, Dane, and 
 think of the engine. There's a fortune for some one in 
 that," Adams said, as a parting rejoinder. 
 
 But Stephen Dane was in no mood for such thought. 
 He felt angry and sick at heart, with a sense of black 
 injustice all around him. Why did power and wealth 
 ever come to such men as Thomas Vennard? Was 
 there a God who kept watch of these matters, checking 
 them off when they reached a certain point ? 
 
 He had been to church the Sunday before with Joe, 
 in all the glory of her new bonnet. A little Episcopa- 
 lian Chapel, and in their reading of the Psalter these 
 words had stirred him strangely : 
 
 " / myself have seen the ungodly in great power, 
 and flourishing like a green bay tree. 
 
 " I went by, and lo, he was gone." 
 
 Thomas Vennard, so strongly intrenched, could not 
 be easily removed. Dane little knew how he was 
 destined to think of this again.
 
 60 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 X 
 
 IV. 
 
 BY THE KlVER. 
 
 IF Joe failed to understand Stephen, and misinter- 
 preted his desire for her improvement, she was not 
 ignorant of fi keener sensation of happiness than any 
 she had hitherto known ; and at the same moment a 
 new capability for pain dawned upon her. Stephen 
 came so near to her in some matters, was so widely 
 sundered in others. And whatever took him from her. 
 
 the tavern, the garden-plot he cultivated this sum- 
 mer, his books, or a call at intervals from Mr. Adams 
 
 were all regarded with a vague, dull jealousy. He 
 was better-tempered than in his first essay after knowl- 
 edge. His heart had grown broader, his patience of a 
 finer quality. His first impulse had been to leave 
 Tregony, and carve out a new life for himself, distinct 
 from her's and his father's. Some subtile tie held him 
 back. Naturally, I think, the man had a very affec- 
 tionate heart. 
 
 So he staid, and tried to raise them out of this slough 
 he meaut to leave behind. It was hard work. Archy
 
 BY THE RIVER. 61 
 
 Dane found more comfort in the tavern than in his son's 
 society. Joe was prouder of her new finery than any 
 mental improvement. She had no ambition, but all a 
 woman's tender, longing desire foolish also, if you 
 will to be loved. And when Stephen was tender, it 
 seemed as if the blessing was not so far distant. More 
 than that she did not understand in him. That he 
 might be rich some day never entered her head. That 
 he might gain some higher station was equally improb- 
 able to her. In fact, why should he want it? Were 
 not these common-place people around them happy 
 enough? They were all she cared to know about. 
 
 Not so with Stephen Dane. His brain had been 
 fired with new "thoughts; and, though only half com- 
 prehended, he meant to work them up into something 
 higher than this dogging on year after year. He wanted 
 something sharp, incisive. Pain, even, and failure, 
 were better than stagnation. And, somewhere in the 
 distance, life looked noble and chivalric, the vulgarities 
 cleared off, the meannesses drowned out by an overflow 
 of soul. For a man had something within him, call it 
 instinct, or even ambition. 
 
 It was hard work. No one that would understand 
 these daring thoughts, even if he had the courage to 
 confess them. Not even Adams. He could see how 
 Dane might like to invent, or improve on a machine. 
 So much steel, and iron, and steam was a child to him. 
 He gave it the love of husband and father. He would
 
 62 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 spend his life for it. It was a mania with the man ; 
 and though he occasionally ran foul of some "ism," he 
 was not sufficiently interested in it to spend much time 
 or thought combating it. The greatest elevation the 
 world wanted, in his eyes, was in machinery. As to 
 morals and virtues, it always had done well enough, and 
 always would. So there was a point where contact 
 between the two men ceased. 
 
 Perhaps the grace, beauty, and culture of a lost gen- 
 eration woke to existence in Stephen Dane. Some whim 
 of blood, having long lain dormant, was exerting itself. 
 He saw a possibility in the steam-engine ; but beyond 
 it, a broader and grander one, a sphere of refinement, 
 an ease, a certain elegance, such as little Hope Vennard 
 shook out of every fold of her dress. Her father was 
 narrow and hard, but it did not cling to her. And 
 when he had won a place in the world, when he had 
 acquired the ease, the education, he meant to have, the 
 home with its books, and pictures, and fascinating re- 
 pose, this was what he could not tell ; this was 
 what made the great gulf between him and Joe. 
 
 He went on with sturdy courage. He had too much 
 hard work on hand to stick fast in the tangled depths 
 where John Gilbert floundered. And though his soul 
 was vexed with the selfishness, injustice, and crime that 
 stalked about rampant, he knew his beginning must be 
 small : Joe, his father, and himself. After that, a wider
 
 BY THE RIVER. 63 
 
 They studied the engine daily, he and Adams. He 
 had much natural quickness of understanding, penetra- 
 tion, and that subtile knowledge connecting cause with 
 effect. Here Adams was slower. Yet they both seemed 
 as far from the discovery as Mr. Vennard. 
 
 The affair with Forbes had created quite an excite- 
 ment. When the man's anger had cooled somewhat, 
 and stern necessity stared him blankly in the face, he 
 had humbled himself sufficiently to solicit back his old 
 place. Mr. Vennard was immovable. No entreaties 
 could soften him. It was a rule he had never broken, 
 and never would. The men knew one discharge was 
 final. And so Forbes, with the passion of desperation, 
 joined the disaffected, drank bad rum, and made threat- 
 ening speeches. Thomas Vennard did not care. Quiet 
 Tregony would have dreamed of the judgment-day as 
 soon as of a murderer lying in wait ; so the threats 
 were treated as idle bravado, and remembered at a 
 later day, when they proved well nigh fatal. 
 
 One July afternoon Stephen Dane went into the 
 engine-room for some particular screws he wanted. It 
 was used as a sort of general receptacle rather than a 
 work-room. Here lay prostrate fly-wheels of- different 
 sizes, walking-beams for fast river-boats, cross-heads 
 and piston-rods, lighter machinery for manufacturing 
 purposes, waiting for some hand to put them together 
 in their proper order, and the breath of steam to endow 
 them with life. A dim atmosphere, smoky and dusty,
 
 C4 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 yet bronzed to a certain beauty by the broad sheets of 
 sunlight that flowed in at the windows, grimy a'nd cob- 
 webbed as they were. It always appeared so strangely 
 still in here to Stephen ; and yet he could hear the roar 
 of the fires below, the clang of hammers, the continu- 
 ous rattle of bars and chains in transit. Here was the 
 engine that had defied Thomas Vennard., If it had 
 been human and Stephen Dane gave a sort of grim 
 smile. Being iron, it was not susceptible to the master's 
 frowns, neither could it be discharged. 
 
 He leaned his elbow on the eccentric-rod, and peered 
 down into its black depths. What secret did it hold? 
 These wheels and valves, this burnished steel, and sil- 
 very-gray iron. What power was mighty enough to 
 extort a confession? Was there a fortune in it, as 
 Adams had said? He needed the fortune sorely. 
 Money would do so much for him give him leisure 
 and cultivation, time and material for experiments. 
 What torture could he apply to this great dumb thing? 
 And unconsciously he ground his teeth and clenched his 
 hands. How many times he and Adams had inspected 
 it ! There was a drawing in his pocket he had brought 
 to show the foreman, who was absent to-day from sud- 
 den illness. He took it out, and went over it with his 
 pencil, comparing, computing. He had hit upon some- 
 thing at length, a slight difference; but it might be of 
 momentous import to them. If Adams were but here 1 
 
 He did not see the cool, keen eye that glanced in
 
 BY THE RIVER. (55 
 
 upon him, the compressed lips and significant nod, as 
 the paper and pencil became visible. A sort of evil, 
 tyrannical look, that meant to be doubly paid for this 
 patience. No, for a sudden moment of inspiration came 
 to Stephen Dane. I think Thomas Vennard understood 
 as much, watching the working of the face. The dull, 
 earthy look faded out of it. The eyes grew luminous. 
 The fingers could hardly keep pace with the thoughts. 
 
 Whenever Stephen Dane lived over this period, it 
 seemed to him like a flash, a breath. Five minutes, at 
 the utmost, he would have said, from the time he en- 
 tered the room, intent upon the screws, until a slow, 
 metallic voice startled him. 
 
 "I'll take that now, Dane, if you are through 
 with it." 
 
 The hot blood rushed to Stephen Dane's face as he 
 beheld Mr. Vennard. He was utterly speechless. 
 
 "Do you hear me?" sternly, and thrusting out his 
 hand until the bony fingers almost settled themselves 
 upon the paper. 
 
 Dane drew back, all the man within him roused. He 
 knew he had come to an issue with the master, the very 
 thing he had hitherto tried to avoid. But now it must 
 be met. 
 
 "I wanted some screws," he began, in a wandering, 
 uncertain manner, as if but half awake. 
 
 " And I want that paper. Give it to me, and we'll call 
 it square. An hour of my time. It belongs to me."
 
 66 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Both men glanced at it. The eager light in Ven- 
 nard's eyes startled Stephen Dane. If that little plan 
 was worth anything, it was of value to him. 
 
 " An hour ! " he said. " I have not been here an hour." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me that I lie ? I passed that 
 door one hour ago, and you were here." 
 
 Vennard's overreaching defeated itself by violence. 
 Every fibre of independence in Stephen Dane's nature 
 was roused. 
 
 "No, Mr. Vennard," he said, with a cool spirit that 
 exasperated the other. I had no such thought. It 
 seems the briefest moment to me, and yet you may be 
 right. I am willing to lose the time." 
 
 It was to be a hand-to-hand fight. Bullying would 
 gain nothing here. 
 
 The two men eyed each other closely. Dane saw 
 that his race in the Ellicott Works was run ; Vennard 
 read that he had a powerful adversary. 
 
 "I want that paper. Dane, if you have a grain of com- 
 mon honesty, honor we don't expect from such men, 
 you will see that I had a right to the time. And 
 this improvement is mine. You have no business with 
 anything pertaining to it." 
 
 He overshot the mark widely that time. How easily 
 a little passion leads a man astray ! 
 
 "Except what my own brains give me." 
 
 "I say you have wo -right. Try one experiment, if 
 you dare, and I will restrain you by an injunction."
 
 BY THE RIVER. 67 
 
 " Some proof may be required for your priority. 
 And some men" there was a peculiar emphasis on 
 this that stung the master " might see a point of 
 honor and right where you did not." 
 
 Vennai'd's face turned livid with rage. The man- 
 hood in Stephen Dane asserted itself proudly. He 
 stood erect and strong. 
 
 " This comes of familiarity ; " and Vennard ground his 
 heel into the floor with a savage force. "I've seen you 
 and Adams conniving together, and all I have to tell 
 him is, that he won't interfere with any more men in 
 this place ! I want every man to mind his own busi- 
 ness here. And if I can't be master " 
 
 "Not of souls, nor brains." 
 
 " Brains ! A workman has no business with 'em ! 
 Who wants him to think or to order? I can do that. 
 All that is required of you is to work. That's what I 
 hire you for. You've no right to come in here and 
 make drawings. It's just as much robbery as if you 
 put your hand in my pocket ! " 
 
 A swarthy flush of passion crept over. Stephen Dane's 
 face. 
 
 "A man has a right to his own thoughts. You dis- 
 dain to hire his brains, I believe." 
 
 "I tell you, when he comes into this place, he's mine. 
 My money buys every moment of his time and. energy. 
 His thoughts should be on my work ; and if they are 
 not, I say he defrauds me that he is a thief." 
 5
 
 68 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 The two men glared at each other. 
 
 " Very well," Dane said, slowly. " My time ended 
 this noon. An hour or two extra I will throw in, lest 
 I may have unwittingly defrauded you some time. 
 Now we are quits. The world' is wide, and there are 
 more places in it than Tregony." 
 
 Thomas Vennard caught his breath in utter amaze- 
 ment. He had heard men bluster and swear ; he had 
 seen them cower in sullen rage ; but this one did 
 neither. Those fearless eyes why, if he should look 
 long enough, they might even master him. And dis- 
 charging himself! Taking the very words out of his 
 mouth I 
 
 He opened his pocket-book, and, snatching a bill 
 therefrom, handed it to Stephen Dane. 
 
 " There's your wages until to-night. Give me that 
 paper." 
 
 Instead Dane handed him a dollar in change. 
 
 W I want no more than belongs to me," he said, 
 proudly. " I have not robbed you of anything. There 
 is your engine you have the means and the time to 
 perfect it. Do it, if you can. And if some other man 
 is before you, the law will protect him." 
 
 "Dane, you shall rue this to the latest day of your 
 life. If your improvement had been worth anything, 
 I might have done something for you. As it is, I am 
 your enemy." He hissed it through his dull, purple 
 lips. "You'll find out what that means. No one ever
 
 BY THE EIVER. 69 
 
 yet thwarted me who didn't smart for it. I have 
 money, and that gives a man a long arm. I can reach 
 you in other places than Tregony. You'll see, blind, 
 ignorant fool that you are ! " 
 
 Stephen Dane gained a victory over himself when he 
 made no reply. Recriminations were useless, and the 
 threat seemed idle. He had a morbid antipathy to 
 brawls and quarrels. He looked Mr. Vennard steadily 
 in the eye a moment. That hard, narrow, sordid face ! 
 Then he turned, and went down. 
 
 Not into the large shop, but by a worn side stairway, 
 that took him to the very spot where he had once stood 
 with little Hope Vennard in his arms where she had 
 kissed him. Would she ever know the bitterness of 
 her father's tyranny? If she should love where he 
 hated ! Ah, and a quick shiver passed over Stephen. 
 
 He marched through the yard, hardly realizing the 
 events of the last ten minutes. How strange the world 
 looked ! 
 
 An hour ago he was wild for leisure. Now there 
 was plenty of it. He had nothing more to do in 
 Tregony. 
 
 And then he asked himself where there was anything 
 for him to do. Leisure was a rich man's luxury, and 
 he why, this ten dollars was about all he had in the 
 world. He had always brought his money home, and 
 put it in a little tin box in the cupboard. Every one 
 went to it. The household expenses, the clothing, and
 
 70 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 
 
 his father's rum, came out of it. Frequently it was 
 all gone before Saturday night. For the last month 
 or two, he had meant to institute a new system ; but 
 Joe had grown sulky when he undertook to explain 
 economy. 
 
 " If you know so well, why don't you manage your- 
 self?" she had retorted, crossly. "May be you think 
 I'm not honest." 
 
 W O, no, Joe! " he had answered, with sudden pain. 
 He had a great, tender, womanish heart, and pitied this 
 poor girl strangely now. And so the subject had been 
 dropped. 
 
 He went out of the Foundery yard, as I have said. 
 A magnificent summer day, a sky of royal beauty, an 
 air of fragrance. Leaving the smoke and din behind, 
 he struck off for the woods, a tnile, perhaps, below the 
 Foundery. He wanted to be all alone, to think, to 
 look the problem straight in the face. 
 
 O, the heavenly rest and quiet, of those dense trees ! 
 O, the coolness, the tenderness, with which they 
 stretched out their long green arms. Soft mosses 
 under foot, or the path cushioned with the fallen leaves 
 of many autumns, so steeped in summer moisture that 
 they gave no rustle to the tread. Long wreaths of wild 
 vines hanging from tree to tree with clusters of pale 
 green berries. Here a gnarled old trunk was covered 
 with a glossy-leaved parasite ; there its gray bark was 
 moss-grown, or fallen into phosphorescent decay. It
 
 BY THE RIVER. 71 
 
 was so still on this day, broken occasionally by the song 
 of a bird, but that not frequently. The place of all 
 others for a man to be alone with God and his own 
 soul. 
 
 He wandered slowly through it to a little point that 
 jutted out into the river. Seating himself on a rock, 
 he glanced over at the other shore. A golden shimmer 
 in the air brooded tenderly on the opposite hills. 
 Vistas of light and shade, mown meadows like a smooth 
 sea, and clumps of trees stretching out indefinitely until 
 they joined the blue horizon. The river flowing 
 placidly .with its murmurous rustle, trembling in the 
 soft dun haze, the liquid light filling the midsummer 
 air, lulled him into peaceful repose. O, if one could 
 be Nature's child, take root in this soft mould, and grow 
 up into a vigorous tree, with no blights or gnarls, no 
 shocks to warp or stunt. Drinking in summer dews 
 and showers, warming with baths of golden sunlight, 
 spreading out green branches above, and tough, sinewy 
 roots below, until one came to be a giant, and braved 
 any blast. No thought for the morrow. No care for 
 to-day. Yes, tree and shrub, and rock and river, knew 
 what it was to live the life God had made for them. 
 Did they enjoy it? 
 
 He glanced down the shadowy shore. Cardinal 
 flowers hung out their scarlet flags ; the sagittaria lifted 
 its blue spire from amongst arrowy leaves a knight 
 sallying forth to deeds of prowess. Through the
 
 72 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 shallow water at the edge darted myriads of tireless in- 
 sects ; here a soft, pink snail came creeping -up a wet, 
 slimy stone, thrusting out slender horns, and dragging 
 his cumbrous house after him. Worms crept in and 
 out of the damp sand, enjoying their sluggish life with 
 so pure a zest that he almost envied them. God took 
 care of them. There was a God for sinless Nature. 
 
 And what for himself ? A quick, sharp pang struck 
 his heart again. There was a fierce struggle before 
 him how to begin? 
 
 First, he must leave Tregony. Walk, work his way 
 somehow until he came to a new place, where -he could 
 dare toil again. But Joe and his father? 
 
 They must be left behind for the present. Perhaps 
 for all time. They could go on quietly here, he pro- 
 viding for them. And being free to live his own life 
 without any drawbacks, to think, to study, to follow 
 out the ideas struggling through his brain with such 
 mighty throes, he might come to some higher point at 
 the last some clear sailing. 
 
 Then he thought of Thomas Vennard. Everything 
 about him turning to gold. A mean, grasping, ava- 
 ricious man, and yet prospered in everything he under- 
 took. Did God mean it to be so ? Did He make some 
 men lucky, and smile to see others forever grinding at 
 fortune's wheel ? Did it matter whether a man was up- 
 right, honest, and generous? These unlucky men near- 
 ly always were. Somewhere matters had gone wrong,
 
 BY THE RIVER. 73 
 
 but who was mighty enough to right them? Who 
 could take the power out of these unjust hands, and 
 change selfish hearts into noble ones? 
 
 If he only had a little money, five hundred dollars, 
 say, he could start fair, and turn his back upon fate. 
 Five hundred ! A paltry sum to Vennard, but a for- 
 tune for him. It stood for all the blessings that could 
 crown his life. Leisure for his hungry brain, a pleasant 
 home, companionship such as he thirsted for, books, 
 experiments, success. In this slow way, with the 
 burdens he must carry, it would be years before he 
 could save it. 
 
 He took the precious roll of drawings out of his 
 pocket. Cylinders, valves, rods an odd lot of dia- 
 grams. Adams had discovered genius in it. He felt 
 certain now that he could make it work. Give him a 
 chance for his life, without this cursed mill-stone of 
 poverty hanging forever to his neck, and he would 
 make it a fair thing. But this black ghost could he 
 never get rid of it? What if he began to grind his 
 fellow-men make them stepping-stones to his own 
 advancement. Why, it was done every day. And 
 then he smiled with a sort of hard scorn. 
 
 The sun, going westward, threw his side of the 
 shore into a dense shade, but made the other a mass of 
 rosy gold. So lovely it appeared, so enticing with its 
 tremulous glitter, that he forgot his care, the sharp 
 pain and hunger tugging at his heart, shut his eyes,
 
 74 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 and leaning back against the mossy bole of a tree, gave 
 himself up to dreams. 
 
 What was it he heard in a dim sort of way, floating 
 through his brain? The cry of some homeward bird 
 calling to his mate? That would not be so sharp with 
 pain. How deathly still all the air was in answer ! 
 It made him shiver. 
 
 He rose presently, and took a few steps forward. 
 Why, what was that? A heavy, sullen plash in the 
 water. Almost at his very feet, he thought at first. 
 He clambered out on the farthest rock, and strained his 
 eyes around the point. The shore was so indented 
 with little nooks, so broken to vision by the trees 
 growing, in some places, to the very water's edge, and 
 overhanging it. But he saw the eddies far up, dimpling 
 out towards the middle of the river, and slowly floating 
 down. If God was looking out of that clear summer 
 sky, what did He see? 
 
 Stephen Dane took his way along the river's edge, 
 swinging around the trees, striding over the stones, and 
 occasionally giving a lurch into the water. Some 
 strange impulse urged him on. When he reached the 
 spot, the waves had not yet subsided into quiet. The 
 bank was higher here, a sort of bluif ; the river deeper, 
 and so shaded that he could not see clearly to the 
 bottom if there had been anything to see, which 
 there was not. Probably a loosened stone had rolled 
 down.
 
 BY THE RIVEK. 75 
 
 He turned now to take the shortest cut out of the 
 woods. The trees were less dense, the grass quite 
 ra'nk. It had been freshly trampled, and, O God ! 
 what was this? He stooped down to examine the 
 sharp edge of a stone. A clot of blood, and humau 
 skin, a wisp of coarse brown hair matted in it ! 
 
 There are some strange moments in life. Stephen 
 Dane, without knowing why he did it, wrenched this 
 stone from its foundation, rolled it over, keeping his 
 eyes away from this terrible sign of crime, and gave it 
 a vigorous push into the river. Then he fitted a 
 smaller one in its place, covering up the spiders, 
 worms, and lion-ants, that were hurrying in every direc- 
 tion. Some curious spell held him in a giant's grasp. 
 He glanced furtively through the trees, he took a 
 lingering survey of the place, and then cautiously 
 threaded his way out. The shadows grew weird and 
 spectral. He stepped lightly, and drew strange, half- 
 repressed breaths. Then he stumbled over the root of 
 a tree, and kicked something that was not a stone. 
 He passed it first, returned, groped about until he 
 found it. A memorandum and note book with dark 
 leather covers. On the first page was written in a stiff, 
 but legible hand, " Thomas Vennard, Tregony, 18 ." 
 
 He struck his forehead in a wild, startled way. lie 
 looked through the dim branches with staring eyeballs, 
 transfixed by a horrible thought that seemed to cleave 
 through his brain. Did the lifeless body of Thomas
 
 76 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Yennard, the man he had so lately envied, lie over 
 yonder in the river? The cold sweat started at every 
 pore. His limbs trembled violently. His teeth chat- 
 tered. A faint, sickening sensation stole over him. 
 He here with the murdered man's property in his 
 hands ! Some awful fascination compelled him to 
 clutch it tightly, when he would have thrown it from 
 him. Then he staggered on, reeling like a drunken 
 man. 
 
 A step startled him. Coming in this direction, too. 
 By the straggling sunlight, whose last beams gave an 
 orange-red glow, he recognized the figure, the sham- 
 bling gait. O Heaven I was his father's very life put 
 into his hands !
 
 AT THE STAKE. 77 
 
 V. 
 
 AT THE STAKE. 
 
 
 
 "\ "\ THEN Archy Dane met his son, his thin, gray 
 V Y face grew deathly white. His knees smote 
 together, his hands fell limp and helpless by his side, 
 and his lips twitched nervously. 
 
 " Stephen ! " he exclaimed, in a faint, sickly voice, 
 more of terror than surprise. His lank jaws fell as if 
 stricken with palsy. 
 
 "Were you looking for me, father?" 
 
 It was a strange question, as Stephen himself knew, 
 after he had put it, but it had come first into his mind. 
 
 " No I " The voice was broken with aguish 
 trembling. 
 
 "It's growing dark in the woods." 
 
 " Yes." No movement followed this. Only the two 
 men breathing hoarse and fearfully. 
 
 " Joe will have supper ready by the time we reach 
 home." 
 
 " Go on, boy," he said roughly, albeit in a tremulous 
 tone.
 
 78 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Stephen Dane was shocked with the crime that had 
 been so foully committed there by the river's edge. 
 This man's hands were red with blood, his soul black 
 with a stain, only God could wipe off. His own father I 
 Had he been sent to save him ? 
 
 Perhaps because his own heart had been so bitter 
 a while ago, he experienced a deep pity for this poor old 
 man. Yet his lips must be sealed now and forever. 
 
 "Well," he returned, "don't wait out late." 
 
 Presently he looked back, and saw the bent figure 
 groping around in the falling darkness. Then he only 
 heard a faint rustle, and could see nothing. But he 
 knew two bony hands were hunting over the moss 
 and dead leaves, for something he carried in his 
 pocket. 
 
 He skulked along a back lane nearer the river. 
 How lonely it was in this amethyst glow ! How the 
 long hills drooped with purple shadows, their outlines 
 lost in soft indistinctness 1 Gray half lights upon the 
 bolder rocks, faint touches of red along the shore, 
 where filmy threads of vapor began to curl. The 
 hollow blue of the upper sky seemed a haven in which 
 these fleets of gold might come to anchor in an un- 
 troubled sea of rest. Where was there any rest for 
 him? 
 
 The bright reflection had entirely disappeared behind 
 the hills when Stephen reached home. Supper had 
 been waiting upon the table a long time. The johnny-
 
 AT THE STAKE. 79 
 
 cake stood back from the fire, its crisp, golden tint 
 degenerated into brown. Joe was cross with the 
 delay. 
 
 "You've got to goin' off to the tavern again," she 
 flung out angrily. "It's enough to try the patience 
 of a saint. Supper 's been waitin' this hour." 
 
 "No, I haven't been to the tavern." 
 
 The hollow voice startled her. She looked intently 
 at Stephen. He felt that his face was fearfully 
 haggard. 
 
 " What's the matter ? And where's father ? " 
 
 " How should I know ? We won't wait for him." 
 
 " The johnny-cake was so nice ! It's a'most baked 
 to death now ; " and Joe's voice was rather conciliatory. 
 
 "No matter." 
 ' " One of those meetin's again, Stephen ? " 
 
 No " absently. 
 
 " They're goin' to cut the timber off the P'int, and 
 build a new mill." 
 
 " They ? Who ? " Stephen started as if struck by an 
 unseen hand. 
 
 " Company, I b'lieve. Jake Fawcett's wife told me. 
 They want Mr. Vennard to go look at it first. Cu'ris 
 that nothin' can't be done a'thout he has a finger in 
 the pie." 
 
 Stephen was too much excited to notice Joe's elisions. 
 He choked down a mouthful of the johnny-cake. For 
 all taste it had to him, it might as well have been
 
 80 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 compounded of chaff. This errand was what had called 
 Mr. Vennard to that fatal spot. But his father 
 How solve the mystery? 
 
 "You're stupid to-night, Stephen," Joe said, angrily. 
 " One might as well talk to a stick." 
 
 " Am I ? " His voice had a dreary patience in it, as 
 if he had begun to wait for something that would never 
 come. He sipped his tea with long breaths between. 
 When Joe was not looking he flung portions of his 
 supper to the wistful-eyed dog. Presently he rose. 
 
 " I do wish father 'd come. Goin' out again ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 Then Joe, having failed in all her efforts at conversa- 
 tion, lapsed into sullen silence. Stephen seated himself 
 on the window-ledge, and looked down the lane. 
 
 Nothing came of his watching. Gray night closed 
 them in. One by one the stars were set in pale, 
 penetrable wreaths of fleecy clouds. The surge of the 
 river floated upon the night air, bringing wafts of dewy 
 fragrance. Joe went out to gossip with a neighbor. 
 In that strange, still night, Stephen's thoughts whirled 
 in wildest chaos. It was his misery that nothing could 
 be done. No plans laid. No precautions taken. Some 
 times he resolved to go away without any explanation, 
 but he shivered at the suspicion it might arouse. Had 
 any one heard the words that had passed between him 
 and Mr. Vennard? There was a long afternoon 
 to account for. And here in his pocket was the
 
 AT THE STAKE. 81 
 
 memorandum-book. What must he do with that ? If 
 found in this house, father or son must answer for the 
 deed. 
 
 He lighted a candle, and went up to his room, fas- 
 tening the door behind him. Then he drew forth the 
 book and opened it. Full of daily jottings in pencil, 
 one or two receipts, a plan for boiler and steam-chest, 
 and some bank bills, laid out straight, with a crisp, 
 fresh look, although not new. Six fifties and ten 
 twenties five hundred dollars ! 
 
 This was what had tempted his old father. This 
 was what he had gone back to search for. A few 
 hours agone Stephen had been wishing for just this. 
 It would give him the means to perfect his engine, start 
 him on the road to fortune. Ah, if it were only his, 
 with no stain of blood upon it 1 
 
 He put the money back, and shut the book. What 
 should he do with it? hold it there in the flame until 
 it was all consumed? Or, better still, take it down 
 stairs and lay it upon the coals ? Destroy this sure and 
 fatal evidence. 
 
 But the money ? 
 
 He had not robbed; he had not but a shiver 
 choked off the words. Still, why should the money be 
 wasted ? More than this had Thomas Vennard wrung 
 out of his workmen. Mrs. Vennard and the child 
 would have an' abundance. Little sunny-haired Hope ! 
 
 Yes, it would do so much for him ; give him the
 
 82 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 knowledge for which he was madly thirsting ; save them 
 all, perhaps ; take them out of this homblc, grovelling 
 life. It had come to him by one of those blind chances 
 of fate. Was it best to destroy it ? 
 
 He stood there a long while, with a devil at his el- 
 bow. To send it back in any manner would be certain 
 detection. Was he not answerable for his father's life? 
 No, it could not be returned. 
 
 His tall figure swayed to and fro in the intense ex- 
 citement ; his knees smote weakly together ; his fingers 
 trembled and clutched at each other, as if for support. 
 His eyes stared wildly about, and he stood there mo- 
 ment after moment, scarcely breathing. 
 
 Joe's step sounded on the threshold. He darted 
 one quick glance around. There was a chink in the 
 chimney, by the rafter. He thrust it in, muttering, 
 " For to-night only." 
 
 He opened the door, and went stumbling down stairs, 
 candle in hand, but keeping his face averted from Joe. 
 Everything about him seemed so unreal ! This yellow 
 flicker of light ; that ghostly pine table, to-day sand- 
 scrubbed to new whiteness by Joe ; the blank space of 
 the doorway, and the shadowy windows. A kind of 
 dazed, dreamy terror was stealing over him, a terror 
 that stupefied. He walked in obedience to some me- 
 chanical law, not because he willed. He seemed to 
 have no sentience, to be a sort of breathing machine, 
 guided by blind instinct.
 
 AT THE STAKE. 83 
 
 "Are you sick, Stephen?" ^ . 
 
 Joe's tone had in it a thread of "curious awe. 
 
 "No. I believe I'll go and look after father," 
 
 He reached down his old hat, and walked slowly to 
 the end of the lane. He fancied that he must be losing 
 his reason, so slowly did every thought come, and with 
 such a great effort . What was lying in the depths of 
 the river? A stone, with a clot of human flesh and 
 blood. Anything else ? Would it float up to the sur- 
 face some day, and tell its own hideous tale? Would 
 there be any marks, fingers at the throat, or a grip that 
 might disprove accident? 
 
 And what had Archy Dane betrayed over his cups ? 
 He was not greatly given to being close-mouthed. No 
 steps coming along the road. The town clocks rang out 
 ten on the balmy summer air. In this deathly stillness 
 Stephen could hear his heart beat. What was this un- 
 utterable glory of earth and sky to him? In a mood 
 of feeble passion he wondered why he had been created ! 
 What was life, even after the threescore and ten years 
 had been reached ? And yet he felt a power growing 
 up in his heart with great giant strides. It was not all 
 dull clay. A fierce power struggling for utterance. 
 Somewhere a spark like a diamond, that, held in cer- 
 tain lights, shot out arrowy, golden rays. Was that a 
 man's soul? Would he ever come to full stature, then? 
 He had seen theoi'ies applied to cold, inanimate iron 
 that warmed it into life, gave it a vitality, so to 
 6
 
 84 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 speak, that astonished the world. All this money might 
 have done for him. 
 
 And then he thought of the blear-eyed man down at 
 the tavern. He could not go there to-night. If, in a 
 weak, unconscious moment, Archy Dane had loosened 
 his hold on the slippery neck of his secret, and trusted 
 it to the gaping, gossiping crew, what then? 
 
 The moments lengthened out intolerably. The chirp 
 of insects in the neighboring- thicket grew faint and 
 drowsy. The stars overhead sailed through fleecy 
 drifts, sometimes half obscured. In spite of midsum- 
 mer warmth, he felt chilled to the very marrow. 
 
 A shuffling, irregular step. He heard it when a long 
 way off, and went out to meet his father. 
 
 "Keep away ! " the thick, guttural voice blurted, ac- 
 companying it with a feeble brandishing of the arms. 
 
 "It is I Stephen." 
 
 "O, Stephen." The tone became one of whining 
 terror. " Doggin' your poor old father around ! " 
 
 The young man caught him by the shoulder, almost 
 fiercely. 
 
 " What have you been talking about down at the 
 tavern ? " 
 
 w Nothin', Stephen. I ain't told nothin' " piteously. 
 
 A strange emotion sped along Stephen's veins. He 
 drew the shaky arm within his own. In spite of all, 
 there was a bond between them, subtile and strong ; a 
 tie of blood that could not be easily rent asunder. This
 
 AT THE STAKE. 85 
 
 life was his to save, or to destroy. Did justice ask it 
 at his hands ? What reparation could the utmost of 
 this feeble soul and body make ? A solemn tenderness 
 came over him, a weak, womanish shrinking. If God 
 managed these things in His own way, if He brought 
 every evil deed to light some time, why not wait until 
 that day came, and not vex himself with vain ques- 
 tions ? 
 
 He held up the trembling figure ; he even seemed to 
 put new life in the straggling limbs by his own firm 
 step. But he did not dare trust himself with a reply. 
 He wanted to hear no confession. So they walked up 
 to the cottage door, when the old man lagged back, and 
 appeared unwilling to enter. 
 
 " It's late," Stephen said, " and you are tired, father." 
 
 Joe sprang up from the settle, where she had fallen 
 asleep, rubbed her eyes, and snuffed the candle. 
 
 Stephen lighted another, and took it into his father's 
 room, the old man following. And all the while he was 
 helping him to bed, he never glanced into his face. Then 
 he went up stairs, but not to sleep. All night the man's 
 soul travailed in strong agony, though his lips were dry 
 and dumb, and could utter no moan. He did not even 
 pray to be delivered from any danger, but just endured, 
 with a sort of sullen hardihood. At morning's dawn 
 he sat there on the window sill, his brow pressed against 
 the glass, his eyes strained far over the river, but seeing 
 nothing in the gray distance. No promise, no hope.
 
 86 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 When Joe had breakfast ready, he forced himself to 
 eat. His father was sleeping soundly in the adjoining 
 room. It came to Joe, although she was not very 
 keen-sighted, that never in her whole life had she seen 
 Stephen's face wear such an expression. It chilled her 
 into silence. Only when he rose and took down his hat, 
 from force of habit, she said, 
 
 "I want some flour, Stephen. I forgot it yesterday. 
 You'll have time to stop before you go to work, and 
 some one's always there." 
 
 " I wasn't going to the Foundery," he answered, 
 slowly. " Did you want a barrel ? " 
 
 "Yes." Then curiosity mastered her. "What's up, 
 Stephen?" 
 
 He felt that it must come. Perhaps, indeed, before 
 night he would be in jail, and the terrible story in every 
 one's mouth. 
 
 " I was discharged yesterday." 
 
 " What for ? What you goin' to do ? " 
 
 "I don't know "-^ in a vague, absent tone. 
 
 " You can't go back ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Tfcat hateful old Vennard ! He'll keep on till he 
 drives every man to ruin. I wish he " 
 
 " Hush, Joe." He said it with white, quivering lips. 
 Then he turned away. 
 
 Joe left the table as it was, made her own bed, and 
 tidied her room, and, hearing no stir on her uncle's
 
 AT THE STAKE. 87 
 
 part, went to Stephen's. His bed in perfect order I 
 what did it mean ? How strange Stephen was ! Some- 
 thing on his mind always. Looking out of the window, 
 she drummed idly on the sash, and speculated. Stephen 
 had never been the same since he took to following John 
 Gilbert about. And this Adams What had occurred 
 at the Foundery? In a blind way she espoused Ste- 
 phen's side, whatever the trouble might be. 
 
 She turned, at length, and took up her broom. The 
 chimney ran up close by the window, and a long, hang- 
 ing dust-web caught her eye. Sweeping it slowly 
 down, she espied a book lodged there in the crevice. 
 The space was too narrow for fingers. Joe glanced 
 around, then broke a twig of woodbine just outside, 
 stripped off the leaves, and used it for a lever. The 
 book fell into the other hand she was holding for sup- 
 port, and some papers fluttered out. Bank bills ! For 
 some seconds she was motionless with surprise. 
 
 Josephine Dane had none of that nice honor and del- 
 icate self-respect born in some women. She felt that 
 of late Stephen had rather defrauded her in the matter 
 of confidence ; and if she could learn anything in this 
 way, she had no scruples to hold her back. So she 
 turned the leaves slowly. 
 
 Thomas Vennard's property. 
 
 Then she counted the money, and replaced it. Five 
 hundred dollars. 
 
 She stared around in a blank, puzzled manner. How
 
 88 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 did Stephen come by this ? Hidden away, too ! Was 
 he a thief? But her cheek burned indignantly at the 
 thought. Did he mean to take it back? Had it any- 
 thing to do with his being discharged ? Joe's brain was 
 in a sad whirl. 
 
 If the money was only theirs ! Why, she had never 
 seen half so much together. They could build the new 
 room Stephen had been talking about ; they could have 
 carpet and chairs ; and may be he would give her a silk 
 dress. But then it ought to be a wedding dress ; and 
 here Joe sighed. 
 
 She concluded at last that he would surely return it. 
 Perhaps he was waiting for Mr. Vennard to offer a re- 
 ward. That was right enough. How odd that he should 
 have put it just there, and she should have seen it ! If 
 she dared tease him a little ! 
 
 She dropped it back into its hiding-place, and swept 
 the room. Then, hearing her uncle stumbling about, 
 she ran down, with a most innocent face. 
 
 Archy Dane had reached the settle. His blood-shot 
 eyes were staring around, with an eager, frightened 
 look. His face, was dismally gray, the lips pinched 
 and colorless. 
 
 " He's had a buster this time," thought Joe ; but she 
 said aloud, "Will you have some breakfast ?" 
 
 "Where's Stephen?" feebly and piteously. 
 
 " Why, it's after seven ; " and Joe forced a short, dis- 
 cordant laugh. Was the world being turned upside down ?
 
 AT THE STAKE. 89 
 
 " Stephen's a good boy. He allers was. He won't 
 stan' by and see his old father 'bused. Is the Fotmdery 
 open, Joe?" 
 
 " Lord ! Why should the Foundery be shut up ? 
 You're half fuddled." 
 
 He looked up at her, his eyes glazing over with dull 
 terror. 
 
 "I don't want any breakfast, Joe " staggering up. 
 "Take me back to bed. And if anybody comes, send 
 for Stephen. He'll stan' by me. He's a good boy 
 Stephen. He's all I've got ; " and the old man 
 maundered on, while Joe cleared away the dishes, her 
 usually torpid brain roused to new activity. 
 
 Meanwhile Stephen Dane had gone down the street, 
 in a slow, irresolute manner, peering cautiously into the 
 faces of those he passed, as he gave his familiar, half- 
 abstracted nod. Arrived at the flouring-mill, he went 
 in ami did his errand. As he took out his money he 
 thought of the hundreds at home with a bright red 
 mark upon them. This was honestly earned and free 
 from stain. He fingered it with a little manly pride ; 
 but as he recalled the bitter sneers that had come with 
 it, his brow grew fiercely hot. 
 
 He lingered until the Foundery bell rang. Some one 
 said, 
 
 " Taking a holiday, Dane ? " 
 
 He gave a sickly smile, but had not the courage to 
 own the truth. Had no one heard ?
 
 90 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Two men halted, seeing him standing in the door. 
 One was Forbes. 
 
 "Dane," he asked, "what's the row down yonder? 
 Doesn't any one know where Vennard is ? He's plaguy 
 close-mouthed ; but he wouldn't go off without a word 
 to any one would he ? " 
 
 Stephen Dane made a great effort. " Gone off 
 where?" he asked, incredulously. 
 
 "Why, man, haven't you heard? haven't you been 
 down to the Foundery ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "They're all up in arms. Mrs. Vennard sent over 
 he wasn't home last night didn't leave any mes- 
 sage. No one can tell anything about him. Fact. You 
 needn't look as if you didn't believe a fellow ! " 
 
 "He might have had business," said Dane, speaking 
 over a great lump in his throat. 
 
 " He'd a' told time-keeper, any how. And it's mighty 
 odd. There's no love lost atween Vennard and some 
 o' the men." 
 
 " You don't mean " and Mr. Bross paused amid the 
 bags he was lifting. 
 
 " I don't mean anything special," said Forbes. " Only, 
 if an accident had happened to him, I know a few who 
 wouldn't make their black very expensive. He's a mean 
 old niggard. It was a sorry day for Trcgony when he 
 came into it. And I'll bless the Lord for the day he goes
 
 AT THE STAKE. 91 
 
 out o' it. I don't see why God lets such men live and 
 prosper." 
 
 Forbes was growing excited. Stephen Dane shiv- 
 ered. 
 
 "Wasn't he home last night?" asked Mr. Bross. 
 
 "No. And it ain't just his style to go off without a 
 word. It looks queer." 
 
 Dane could not endure the talk ; so he stepped out. 
 The glare of the sunlight in the street blinded him. 
 How strange this glowing wealth of summer appeared, 
 when human souls were hourly dying and leaving 
 it all ! Then his mind wandered to the secluded spot 
 in the river, where some one lay sleeping never to 
 waken again. 
 
 Some inexplicable whim dragged him to the Foun- 
 dery. His breath came hard and short ; every nerve 
 in his body seemed bare and exposed to a biting blast. 
 The fearful expectation of something kept his senses 
 alert and keen, yet his outward self was 'as rigid as if 
 slowly turning to stone. 
 
 No gate-keeper peering suspiciously out at the en- 
 trance. A knot of men in the office groups else- 
 where, talking and gesticulating, their faces full of 
 dumb wonder. What if he went to his place and 
 worked as usual? A whole day's idleness would drive 
 him crazy. He paused in the wide doorway. 
 
 "Pretty work this, Dane !" ejaculated a gruff fore- 
 man. "Everybody's about cracked, I think. As if
 
 92 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Vennard didn't know his own business ! There'll be a 
 nice breeze when he comes back. What you gaping 
 there for ? You was off all yesterday afternoon. Go 
 to work." 
 
 Then the man did not know he had been discharged. 
 He hung up his hat and coat, tied on his leathern apron, 
 and went to work with a resolute will. Yet his mind 
 was full of busy thoughts an island floating in a dim 
 sea of space, with no sure rock for foundation. 
 
 By noon the excitement had increased. About four 
 on the preceding afternoon Mr. Vennard had been seen 
 to leave the Foundery. He had gone to the office of 
 Slocum & Adsley, to discuss the new mill, and had 
 promised to view the site, and give his opinion of it. 
 No one had seen him since. The place had been 
 searched, but not a vestige discovered. Inquiries had 
 been made everywhere. Mr. Ellicott had telegraphed 
 to several business friends in the city. The town au- 
 thorities had even taken up the matter. He surely was 
 not in Tregony. 
 
 Stephen Dane drew a long breath of 'relief. The 
 place had been searched, then ! What had led him to 
 destroy that sure evidence, that inanimate tongue whose 
 wordless story would have been certain proof? A 
 strange awe fell upon him. What if God meant to 
 save him? For now he must believe in something 
 higher and stronger than mere blind chance. 
 
 No one remarked his silence. He took his way
 
 AT THE STAKE. 93 
 
 through the groups unnoticed. He was glad to have 
 Adams still absent ; for friendly eyes are often keen. 
 
 What of his father through all this long morning? 
 He almost dreaded to enter the house. 
 
 An expression in Joe's face startled him. Those 
 slow-moving brown eyes were quickened with a sense 
 of fear or suspicion. He turned pale through all the 
 grime and heat. 
 
 "Where have you been all the morning?" she asked, 
 excitedly. 
 
 " To work." 
 
 "Why, they say Mr. Vennard is that he has no 
 one can find him. Is it so, Stephen?" 
 
 Her voice sank to a terrified whisper. 
 
 "What's the matter?" he exclaimed, roughly, more 
 to regain his own self-possession than to startle her. 
 " Can't a man go off if he likes ? Where's father ? " 
 
 " He's sick, and wouldn't eat any breakfast," Joe said, 
 sulkily. 
 
 What is it fever ? Does he talk ? " 
 
 Stephen was washing his face and hands and wiping 
 them on the coarse towel. Did this girl know or sus- 
 pect? Had she penetrated the poor old man's secret? 
 
 "Mutters to himself that's all. Guess he was 
 pretty drunk last night." 
 
 Stephen winced, but went straight to the bedroom. 
 His father moved uneasily, and drew the soiled counter- 
 pane over his head.
 
 94 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 " You're sick, father." The tone was tender and re- 
 assuring. 
 
 "Yes, Stephen, sick," was the quavering reply. 
 
 " What can I do for you ? " 
 
 "Nothin', Stephen, nothin'. I'm gettin' to be a 
 feeble old man. Le' me lay here and rest." 
 
 All this time he had not once turned his eyes towards 
 his son. 
 
 "I think rest will be the best medicine," was the 
 decisive answer* " After a few days' quiet you will 
 come around all right again ; " and Stephen gave the 
 withered hand a pressure that said so much. It com- 
 forted the poor soul suffering all the remorse and agony 
 possible for such a nature. If Stephen suspected his 
 secret, it was in safe keeping. 
 
 "Have you been to work, Stephen?" Joe asked, as 
 he seated himself at the table. 
 
 " Yes. I went down there, and Bartow told me to 
 go to work. Vennard hasn't been in all the morning. 
 There's a precious row about him." 
 
 "And Mrs. Vennard is taking on like a crazy 
 woman ! Sally Fawcett says she'll bet anything that 
 that " 
 " That what? " Stephen stirred his coffee impatiently. 
 
 " That he's been murdered ! " Joe's tone dropped to 
 a whisper, and she glanced around fearfully. 
 
 " Well," Stephen replied, slowly, " Vennard has 
 made some bitter enemies j but a man must hate another
 
 AT THE STAKE. 95 
 
 pretty fiercely to murder him in cold blood. Hard 
 blows are sometimes given in a quarrel, but they can't 
 prove that against any one. Slocum was the last man 
 who saw him." 
 
 " They've been searching haven't they ? Down by 
 theP'int?" 
 
 "Yes. They fancied he might have gone to view 
 the new mill-site. And they are sending everywhere." 
 
 " What do you think of it, Stephen?" 
 
 Joe dared not raise her eyes from her plate. 
 
 "I don't want to think just now. It looks very 
 mysterious; but Vennard was. a close man, not much 
 given to telling his plans. If he should come back this 
 afternoon " 
 
 " If he shouldn't what then ? " 
 
 " I should begin to suspect foul play. Saturday is an 
 important day for him." 
 
 Stephen's tones were calm and measured. Some- 
 how he began to distrust Joe, and thought it best to 
 allay any vague suspicious. 
 
 " Stephen," the old man called as he rose. "What's 
 come o' Mr. Vennard ? " The eyes seemed starting out 
 of their deep sockets. 
 
 " No one knows." Stephen cleared his throat, and 
 told the story, the surmises, and the search. 
 
 " Didn't they find nothin' ? " Each word came 
 with a gasp. 
 
 "Not a fragment. Not a trace "
 
 96 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 "Wouldn't they hunt everywhere? Wouldn't they 
 turn an' twist, an' drag an? scour? He's a great man, 
 Stephen. Folks '11 do a sight for rich 'uns. And may 
 be some one '11 be took up for his murder." 
 
 How the watery eyes glared on Stephen ! The thin 
 hand clutched his arm, and the gaunt figure partially 
 raised itself. 
 
 Stephen laid him gently back on the pillow. 
 
 "You must not excite yourself so. It will be time 
 enough to talk of that when they find the body. Will 
 you promise to lie still here, and try to sleep? You're 
 weak and tired. I'll come back early." 
 
 " Yes, I'll be still." He said it in a fearful whisper. 
 
 Stephen had one more errand. He went to his room, 
 and peered into the chink of the chimney. There was 
 the book. With his knife he slipped it out. It needed 
 a secure hiding-place. For it might happen that the 
 real agent in this terrible drama would escape scot 
 free. God held them all in the hollow of His hand. 
 He had a right to take every precaution. 
 
 He carried the book out with him. Loitering around 
 with an observant eye, he discovered a broken place at 
 the root of the woodbine. The old house was falling 
 into ruin. He pushed in the book, and patched up 
 the place with a stone, dragging the clustering vines 
 over it. 
 
 When he was out of sight, Joe ran up to his chamber. 
 The chink had been despoiled. What had Stephen
 
 AT THE STAKE. 97 
 
 Dane to do with the disappearance of Thomas Vennarcl ? 
 She shivered with dread of the awful secret that had 
 come into her possession. If Stephen but no, she 
 would not believe it. 
 
 It was a strange afternoon in Tregony a strange 
 day, indeed. A shudder pervaded the very atmosphere. 
 Voices dropped together in a lower key, and eyes 
 glanced into each other with vague questioning. Every* 
 man felt the subtile influence amid the din and smoke. 
 As if the eye that had watched them so vigilantly would 
 watch them no more. As if the solid, iron-like figure, 
 peering here and there, haunting every place with a 
 sort of ubiquity, would never ferret out any more delin- 
 quencies. 
 
 There were moments when Stephen Dane waited 
 breathlessly for some one to accuse him. How strange 
 that no one knew of his discharge of the altercation 
 between him and Mr. Vennard ! No one asked where 
 he had been the preceding afternoon. No one had 
 missed him, perhaps. One of those odd circumstances 
 in which there seems a peculiar fate or shall we call 
 it by its right name ? Providence ! 
 
 The day ended at last. He found his father weaker, 
 and evidently wandering in his mind. He could not 
 help thinking death would be the best end for this 
 tragedy. It would take the stain of one foul deed out 
 of the world, and leave only a pitiful remembrance of 
 the man he had called father. Father ! Faugh ! Did
 
 98 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 any such sluggish and corrupt blood flow through his 
 veins ? 
 
 But if he died here without any assistance, such 
 as he might justly claim, would Stephen be entirely 
 guiltless ? Would not wishing him out of the way, and 
 raising no hand to keep the feeble flame alive, amount 
 in another way to murder ? Because he could see how 
 much better it would be for the grave to close over this 
 secret, he knew it was his duty to bide God's time. 
 Did God have anything to do with such poor miserable 
 souls? 
 
 He was tender as a woman, this great, brawny man. 
 He went to the doctor's, and afterwards sat up far into 
 the summer night, administering medicines and bath- 
 ing the burning hands and face with cool spring water ; 
 smoothing back the straggling hair, and arranging the 
 tumbled pillows. Now and then the quivering lips 
 moved, or the vacant eyes gave a questioning stare ; 
 but the secret that lay between father and child was 
 never touched upon. I think the old man accepted, in 
 a sort of blind way, his safety, and was content to be 
 taken into the keeping of his strong and patient son.
 
 SAVED. 99 
 
 VI, 
 
 SAVED. 
 
 THE next day was Sunday. Stephen was intensely 
 thankful. The quiet, the soft chiming of church 
 bells, the long day with no surmises and excitements. 
 Adams came in the afternoon, but ascribed Stephen's 
 abstracted air to his night's watching and care for his 
 father. 
 
 Archy Dane fell into a stupor. A sort of torpid life 
 that was not conscious of any physical want, only an 
 intense mental hungering after his son. That was told 
 more by beseeching glances, than words. Even Joe 
 became aware of a new bond between them. 
 
 She kept her own counsel. One mighty feeling 
 swayed her love for Stephen. She was weak, 
 curious, and given to gossiping; but in this matter 
 not all the tortures of the Inquisition could have 
 extorted one surmise from her. 
 
 On Monday the world took up its old routine. Each 
 day suspicion of murder became stronger. The woods 
 7
 
 
 100 STEPHEN DAJSTE. 
 
 were searched anew, the river dragged at the Point. 
 No success. 
 
 Five days afterwards some children went to the 
 lower part of the town to gather huckleberries, that 
 were just ripening. An area of several acres of timber 
 had been cleared and burned over, and the bushes, with 
 their usual tendency, had covered the spot. The river 
 made a decided circuit here ; the shore was shallow, and 
 bordered by low-growing swamp cedars. 
 
 One adventurous youth sallied out to explore the place 
 and gather some attractive wild flowers. Wading over 
 the moss-grown stones, peering, into shaded coves, and 
 startling the little fishes from their repose, he at last 
 came upon a sight that filled him with wildest terror. 
 One shriek of dismay, and he rushed back to the group 
 pale and breathless. 
 
 "A man," he exclaimed, when he could find his 
 tongue. " A drownded man in the water, and his face 
 all big and white ! " 
 
 "You're crazy, Charley. Frightened by a stone," 
 said one of the larger girls. 
 
 " I ain't, neither. 'Twan't no stone. I see his face 
 and his hair." 
 
 " I don't believe it.'* 
 
 "Come and see for yourself," said the indignant 
 hero. 
 
 But most of the group hung back, glancing at each 
 other with great, frightened eyes. Presently some of
 
 SAVED. 101 
 
 the more courageous ventured to follow Charley. He 
 went along plucky enough until he neared the fatal 
 spot ; then he looked around to see if they were 
 following. 
 
 " There ! " His finger pointed through the trees. 
 
 A ghastly, upturned face, swollen to twice its natural 
 size ! No wonder screams of affright broke from those 
 young lips, and that some should obey their first 
 impulse of flight. Others gazed in white terror, as if 
 fascinated. 
 
 When it came to them that this was Mr. Vennard's 
 body, they hurried home with the tidings. An hour 
 afterwards, the whole town was in wild excitement. 
 There was a cut on the temple of such force that it 
 had fractured the bone, and three discolored spots at 
 the throat, as if marked by fingers in the death strug- 
 gle. His watch and pocket-book were found upon his 
 person. The motive had not been plunder. 
 
 A coroner's jury were summoned immediately. It 
 was in session that day and the next, and returned a 
 verdict of " wilful murder." 
 
 Stephen took home the news, to Joe's great gratifica- 
 tion ; for since her uncle's illness her daily allowance 
 of gossip had been abridged. He had become used to 
 his burden in some degree ; so he was able to master his 
 voice in telling the details. 
 
 " It seems robbery wasn't the object," he said, with
 
 102 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 emphasis. "I'm sorry for any man who has ever had 
 a quarrel with him." 
 
 A light came into the wan face of Archy Dane. 
 
 Stephen would fain have gone to his own room that 
 night, but the wistful eyes followed him about. The 
 old bleared look of intoxication had grown fainter during 
 these few days. 
 
 "Don't go; don't leave me, Stephen;" and he 
 stretched out his skeleton hand. There was a world of 
 entreaty in the voice. 
 
 " I think you will sleep to-night." 
 
 " I can't stay here alone ; " and he started up in vague 
 terror. "If you could see no, it ain't devils ! But 
 he'll drag me out with him. Save me, Stephen ! " 
 
 The eyes dilated. The worn frame trembled with 
 wild excitement. The very fingers shook as if with an 
 ague. 
 
 "I'll stay. I thought you were better. But I see 
 you cannot do without your clumsy nurse ; " and Stephen 
 tried to smile. 
 
 "You shall have part of my bed. Don't leave me, 
 Stephen." 
 
 "There, be quiet. I'll sleep here, on the settle." 
 
 " Bolt the door. Do you think any one will come ? " 
 and the eyes glared like fire. 
 
 " Why, no. It's all right now. Drink this ; " and he 
 gave him a composing draught. 
 
 By morning he had-sunk back into the old stupor.
 
 SAVED. 103 
 
 It was best, and gave Stephen a feeling of greater 
 safety. 
 
 Then came a new shock. Forbes had been arrested 
 for the murder. Since his discharge from the Foundery, 
 he had been fierce in his denunciations of Mr. Vennard, 
 and more than once used threatening language. He 
 had been among the first to suspect murder. 
 
 It is strange how circumstances can be twisted and 
 tortured even with a semblance of truth. Stephen 
 Dane had been summoned as a witness, and was there 
 in his place. He had heard Forbes's triumphant asser- 
 tion that he could prove an alibi ; he knew him in- 
 nocent ; yet he felt, but for that, he must have been 
 tempted to believe him guilty. I cannot describe to 
 you the cruel anguish of his mind as he listened to 
 the evidence. Forbes must be acquitted. If no other 
 way 
 
 His mind wandered from the jury and the witnesses. 
 At home there was a poor feeble life, scarcely worth 
 the%aving; but some tie of blood strong upon him, 
 some strange pity or fine sense of honor, bade him save 
 it. The sacrifice was fearful. Youth, health, man- 
 hood's strength and ambition, revolted. He .was in- 
 nocent too. Much might be done with his own life ; 
 but this other, come to the muddy, vapid dregs, what 
 was it worth ? Could he do it ? Every pulse mutinied. 
 A disgraceful death, or a felon's miserable existence in 
 some foul prison. O God ! O God 1
 
 104 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 He reached up his hands. He wanted to take hold 
 of something stronger than himself. In his over- 
 whelming agony he prayed. At this crisis of his life 
 there must be a God. He could not do without one. 
 
 Stephen Dane ! " 
 
 He arose like one dazed. He made a step forward, 
 relieved to find his incompetency was more mental than 
 physical. But he seemed to have no feet, no will to 
 guide himself, no strength. 
 
 Somehow he found his place. How much was the 
 "whole truth"? 
 
 " Did you see Forbes the day he was discharged ? " 
 
 That recalled Stephen's wandering brain. With a 
 strong effort he steadied his mind. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Did he use threatening or abusive language ? " 
 
 "He was angry. I did not stop to hear what he 
 said ; " and Stephen's breath came in slow gasps. His 
 very brain wavered with the effort to distinguish be- 
 tween necessity and right, and the desire not to ajftact 
 suspicion to himself. 
 
 "Do you know whether he had made any threats 
 before?" 
 
 "I never heard him.'* 
 
 He was glad he could say this, though he knew 
 Forbes had been one of the loud talkers at the 
 tavern. 
 
 "You were in Bross's Mill the morning after the
 
 SAVED. 105 
 
 disappearance. Forbes hinted that something had 
 happened to Mr. Vennard did he not?" 
 
 "He spoke of an accident, I think. We were all 
 excited ; " and Stephen's throat constricted at the re- 
 membrance. 
 
 " Was there not something suspicious in his conduct 
 an exultation at the idea of Mr. Vennard's death ? " 
 
 It was a cruel thrust for the witness. Great drops 
 of perspiration started to his forehead. He felt, too, 
 that a keen eye was upon him. 
 
 " He might have expressed some gratification. It is 
 very natural when a man has ground you to the last 
 notch ; " and Stephen turned at bay in a desperate fashion. 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "I don't remember; " which was ifue enough. He 
 had a confused general impression, but could not recall 
 any distinct sentence. " I do not think he talked or 
 acted like a guilty man ; " and there was a sharp ring in 
 Stephen's voice. Forbes, following him eagerly, gave 
 an inward thanksgiving for this good turn. It seemed 
 as if everything had gone so positively against him 
 until now. 
 
 Several more irrelevant questions, and he returned to 
 his seat. 
 
 Another witness, and in that brief while Stephen 
 Dane lived ages. Then his resolve was taken. If 
 they committed Forbes, he would tell them where they 
 could find the memorandum-book, and declare the man
 
 106 STEPHEN DAXE. 
 
 innocent. Further he need not say. Heaven knew 
 that would be sufficient. If and there had been 
 many times when he had despised that feeble old man 
 at home if he had failed in duty (and God knew he 
 had) he would make amends for all now. He gave 
 himself up into God's hands. Honor, respect, and 
 success were dear, but he relinquished them. Just as 
 God willed, he prayed humbly. 
 
 What was it? He began to follow the testimony in 
 a weak, uncertain way. Two men swore to being with 
 Forbes all the afternoon ; one of them walked home 
 with him. After supper he went to the doctor's for 
 some medicine, as his mother had a "poor turn." He 
 brought it back himself, and remained at home after that. 
 
 Then came a rigorous cross-examination. The tes- 
 timony of the witnesses could not be shaken. There 
 was no weak spot or flaw in it. The jury retired. 
 After the shuffling of feet had subsided, there was a 
 dead, awful calm. Forbes glanced about with an un- 
 concerned air. Dane knew it for innocence ; but more 
 than one pronounced it hardihood. 
 
 Turn it about in whatever light they might, there was 
 not sufficient evidence to commit the prisoner. So they 
 came in with a reluctant verdict of acquittal, which left 
 the matter more of a mystery than ever. 
 
 During this period the Foundery was closed, and 
 preparations made for the funeral. The men, having 
 nothing to do, congregated in groups, discussing the
 
 SAVED. 107 
 
 murder with great spirit, and offering many curious 
 surmises. Forbes's acquittal had been received with 
 cheers ; yet I am not sure but more than one there 
 present, would have taken a grim satisfaction in a differ- 
 ent verdict. Human nature hates mysteries that baffle 
 it continually. There is a sense of justice in every 
 heart that can be appeased only when the perpetrator 
 of so monstrous a crime is brought to light. 
 
 Stephen Dane walked slowly homeward, greatly re- 
 lieved, it must be confessed, and yet sorely puzzled. 
 Did he have any duty in this matter ? Had the God in 
 whom he trusted really interposed and saved him ? For 
 it might easily have happened that Forbes could not 
 have been substantiated in his account of the time. He, 
 as innocent, must have suffered. 
 
 From the very beginning Providence had, so to speak, 
 interposed. If Archy Dane had kept the money and the 
 papers, he would have blundered upon the secret some- 
 how. If there had been any witness to his last conver- 
 sation with Mr. Vennard, and the fact of his discharge, 
 suspicion would certainly have directed itself towards 
 him. If his father had been well during this time of 
 wild excitement, could he have kept his fatal secret? 
 And now, if the old man paid his life for this one that 
 he had taken, the justice of Heaven would certainly be 
 satisfied, if that on earth remained forever unappeased. 
 "\Vhat hard, knotty problems these were. He was not 
 used to such perplexing brain-work ! Right and wrong
 
 108 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 began to have a strange significance for him. A man's 
 duty was something broader and higher than he had 
 thought it six months ago. 
 
 He walked wearily homeward. Life itself seemed a 
 mockery. The discrepancy between the lofty impulses 
 of the soul, its tender longings, its hungry ambitions, 
 and the mean, low circumstances by which it is sur-. 
 rounded ; the discouragements that follow its highest 
 efforts ; the dreary visions that meet it when it is most 
 in need of hope and strength. After all, were not 
 those who settled in a lower groove, and remained there 
 contentedly, the best and safest, and certainly the hap- 
 piest ? 
 
 Joe stood in the door. It was a scorching hot day, 
 but Stephen wiped something more than perspiration 
 from his brow. 
 
 " How did it go ? " 
 
 " Forbes was acquitted." 
 
 "Of course. You never believed he had a hand in 
 it, Stephen?" 
 
 "No." He dared not face the eyes watching him. 
 With a sort of sickly, uneasy smile, he subjoined, 
 "They've offered a thousand dollars reward for the 
 murderer." 
 
 "I don't believe they'll find him." 
 
 "There will not be a stone left unturned, I can tell 
 you. Every one who has ever made a threat will be 
 watched and suspected." 

 
 SAVED. 109 
 
 " You haven't, Stephen ? " 
 
 What did this girl know? Why, she was worse 
 than the twelve jurymen. 
 
 " I shouldn't like to be held to a strict account for any 
 chance word. There's been a good deal of hard talk, 
 first and last ; though I should come to a pretty tight 
 pass in my life before I'd stain it with such a black deed. 
 Old Mr. Ellicott's been taken with paralysis." 
 
 " It's dreadful ; " and Joe shivered. " Mrs. Vennard's 
 going on like a crazy woman. No one seems to care 
 about the child ; but I suppose she doesn't half under- 
 stand it." 
 
 "No," said Stephen, briefly, going in to his father. 
 
 The weak, wandering eyes gave a faint sign of rec- 
 ognition. What had been passing over yonder he 
 neither knew, nor cared to know. Stephen felt the 
 pulse a faint thread. For days he had taken only 
 the slightest nourishment. At this rate the weak frame 
 would soon be worn out. It was best so. And if he 
 could never come to a sense of the awful deed he had 
 committed How far did God's mercy extend ? 
 
 He took up the tattered fan, and commenced brush- 
 ing away the flies. Joe, just outside the door, had been 
 having a good cry ; why she hardly knew. Now that 
 she felt better, she came in, and, stirring among the 
 ashes, began "to kindle the fire. Eating was a stern 
 demand of nature. But Joe's heart was going through 
 a fierce struggle for Stephen. How much we suffer for 
 one another !
 
 110 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Stephen fell into deep thought. After it was all 
 over his duty here he meant to try the world ; to 
 dare a hard battle, and win something. This secret 
 buried in the grave, there would be no phantom to 
 haunt him, to dog his steps with that uneasy sense of 
 danger. He would board Joe in some pleasant family, 
 and feel free to use his time and his energy for himself. 
 He was young and strong, used to work, willing to 
 wait. In ten years he would still be a young man ; 
 but at thirty-three he meant to stand on some higher 
 plane than this. 
 
 Joe, little dreaming how she had been discarded from 
 the fortune Stephen was to carve out for himself, 
 yearned over him in her passionate tenderness, and 
 whispered to herself between her sighs, "It's all the 
 same to me. If the whole world believed it against 
 you, 'twouldn't alter my love." 
 
 A curious lull fell over Tregony. The murder, so 
 daring and inexplicable, became shrouded in a sort of 
 awe. Mr. Ellicott died ; and a cousin of Mrs. Ven- 
 nard came down to offer his condolence and assist- 
 ance. Nothing could be done at present at the Foun- 
 dery. So the whole town seemed idle, but wonderfully 
 quiet. Men spoke in lower tones. There was no fierce 
 denunciation of the one who had rendered himself so 
 universally disliked by the lower class. All the women 
 felt a grief and pity for Mrs. Vennard, doubly bereaved, 
 but ended their regrets in a way true to human nature.
 
 SAVED. Ill 
 
 " 'Tain't so hard for her as 'twould be for one o' us. 
 She's plenty o' money. She won't know much about 
 want." 
 
 Which was very just. 
 
 Stephen Dane remained at home, mostly.' The town 
 talk was to him a dagger thrust into a fresh wound. 
 Adams dropped in frequently ; but his conversation ran 
 in a different channel. 
 
 "Dane," he said one evening, as they sat out on a 
 large stone, smoking, "Dane, I've an idea that might 
 be worked up to profit for both of us. What's the 
 good of your spending all your life here in Tregony ? " 
 
 "I don't mean to. I'd leave it to-morrow, if I 
 could." 
 
 "There's no telling anything about the Foundery. 
 I have a little money, and if you could raise as much, 
 we might go to Philadelphia and commence business in 
 a small way. I've some friends there that would be of 
 service. I tried the experiment once before, but didn't 
 succeed ; " knocking the ashes out of his pipe, with a 
 grim smile. " It was with a fellow who had a weakness 
 for a fast horse ; rather expensive, you see ; and he 
 just cleaned me all out. I think .we might make it go. 
 You're an honest man, Dane, in other matters beside 
 money." 
 
 "How much capital?" was Dane's brief query. 
 
 "I have about a thousand dollars. It would be a 
 small beginning, to be sure ; " with a doubtful com-
 
 112 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 pression of the lips ; M but we're both practical workmen. 
 We shouldn't need any help for some time, and if we 
 didn't earn quite wages in the beginning we haven't 
 either of us any expensive habits." 
 
 "No. I'd be willing to live on a crust and cold 
 water." 
 
 "You're a plucky fellow. I like that in you. I tell 
 you, Dane," and he brought his fist forcibly down on 
 his knee, "you are just the kind of man that succeeds. 
 When you get hold of an idea, there's no let up to 
 your grip. A man needs just that patient, dogged sort 
 of perseverance to accomplish anything. And I believe 
 you can make Vennard's theory .work. I've been 
 studying over that cut-off of yours, and the steam-chest. 
 There's a secret of success somewhere in it. We could 
 try experiments on a small scale until pretty sure. I 
 know some scientific men there, who would take a 
 young beginner by the hand." 
 
 How plausible all this looked ! He had been wishing 
 for some friend to give him a lift. This first step wa9 
 so hard ! But the money could he wring it out of 
 these stones? 
 
 Just there, at the. root of the woodbine, lay five 
 hundred dollars. No stir had been made about it ; 
 perhaps, indeed, it had not been missed. He had 
 racked his brains with vain projects to restore it un- 
 observed. Mrs. Vennard had enough, surely. If he 
 should borrow it for a few years ?
 
 SAVED. 113 
 
 He drew his breath hard. The man seemed sorely 
 beset on every side. 
 
 "If I could raise the money," he said, slowly. 
 
 " O, you can between this and the first of September. 
 If you left Tregony, you'd sell the place, of course?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "There doesn't seem much hope for your father, 
 Dane ? " 
 
 "No. And after that, I'd planned to go away." 
 
 "Five weeks." Adams's voice dropped into a musing 
 tone. "The August dog-days '11 go hard with him. 
 He's only a shadow now. Suppose I should go to 
 Philadelphia, Dane, and look around a little." 
 
 "Well," was the slow reply. What if he was 
 counting on contingencies that might never happen ! 
 What if Adams should return to find him in a prison 
 cell ! He could not forget, even for an hour, the 
 terrible shadow that enveloped him. He put his 
 fingers to his temple in a nervous way, as if afraid the 
 other would hear its throbs. 
 
 " Yes, I think it would be a good plan. I never met 
 a man I felt so like pulling with, as you, Dane. And 
 now that you've outlived your socialist fever " he 
 gave a short laugh. 
 
 "Yes, God knows I've outlived that!" His voice 
 was fierce and hard. " When a man comes face to face 
 with destiny, he needs something stronger than idle 
 delusions. And I'm willing to work my way out to
 
 114 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 the light. There is one, I know. And help, too. 
 Others may pin their faith to these maudlin beliefs and 
 sentiments, but I never shall again. The world may be 
 at loose ends, but each man has enough to do to attend 
 to his own soul." 
 
 " And his own business." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Then they smoked in silence a while. The young 
 moon was coming up over the black Foundery chimneys. 
 A tremulous flutter of south wind stole softly around, 
 deadening the intense heat of the day. Over the river 
 at the west, there was still a faint pink tinge lingering 
 in the evening sky. A breath of newly-mown hay, and 
 the spice of the cedars was wafted up to them. The 
 hedge was alive with chirping insects. A balmy, glow- 
 ing summer night. 
 
 " I think I shall go to Philadelphia, then." He gave 
 a furtive glance in-doors. It would have been hea- 
 thenish to wish that poor old man out of the way ; but 
 he had a fancy the son would feel much freer. And 
 herein he was right, though he did not mistrust the 
 terrible reason that swayed Stephen Dane. 
 
 After Adams left Tregony, the days seemed inter- 
 minable to Dane. He could not pray for 'the event 
 that was to bring him liberty. It was in God's hands, 
 and he had accepted His fiat. But it was so hard 
 to wait ! 
 
 Archy Dane grew neither better nor worse. He
 
 SAVED. 115 
 
 seemed sinking into second childhood, and more than 
 once mistook Joe for the wife who had been so many 
 years dead. But his eyes continually followed Stephen 
 about with a wistful, deprecating expression, and oc- 
 casionally the bony hand clutched him with an urgent 
 grasp, as if to implore an assurance of safety. So the 
 time sped on. What was to be done? They were 
 already in arrears at the grocery. He had found a few 
 days' work, but a spirit of dulness brooded over 
 Tregony. Want began to stare them in the face. 
 He would be compelled to go away to keep them from 
 starvation. Where did God mean to bring him by 
 this thorny path? For, though faith was weak, there 
 was a little glimmer of light, and he kept his eyes fixed 
 steadily on it, like a man who, perishing with cold and 
 weariness on some forlorn moor, looks at the far ray in 
 a distant cottage window. He may die before he 
 reaches it, but he goes on, nevertheless. 
 
 At last Stephen broke the ice with Joe. Some step 
 must be taken. 
 
 " Go away ! " she exclaimed, in dull amaze. " You 
 wouldn't leave me alone with him, Stephen ! " and she 
 nodded towards the bedroom. 
 
 "What am I to do? We cannot starve." 
 
 Joe thought of five hundred dollars somewhere. If 
 brought to bay desperately, might she not use her 
 secret. For to stay here after Stephen was gone 
 would be impossible. It would kill her. 
 8
 
 116 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 " Sell the place," she said, " and take us with you. 
 For, I tell you, I will not stay here." 
 
 There was a look of threatening defiance in her eye. 
 It made Stephen shiver and turn pale. 
 
 "Stephen," the feeble voice called. 
 
 He answered the summons. 
 
 The shaky fingers reached out imploringly. " What 
 did she say, Stephen goin' away sellin' the place ? 
 Is she gon'ter be married ? Gals do. You'll keep by 
 me, Stephen ? " and his breath came in frightened 
 gasps. 
 
 "There's nothing for me to do here, in Tregony. 
 And we must have money." There he paused. 
 
 "Yes, sell t' place. And, Stephen, take me with 
 you. There's an ugly black ghost down in the woods. 
 I never told no one. I never told you. And in the 
 river " 
 
 The old frightened look was haunting his eyes. His 
 jaw fell, and the wrinkles in his face deepened, as also 
 the gray pallor. 
 
 " Hush, hush ! that's childish talk. Would you like 
 to go away?" 
 
 "Take me, Stephen, take me. Anywhere." 
 
 He gave a sort of spring to his son's arms. He 
 fastened his own around Stephen's neck, and moaned 
 piteously, 
 
 " Take me with you don't leave me, Stephen."
 
 SAVED. 117 
 
 "If you would like to go if we could sell the 
 place " and he laid him back on the bed. 
 
 "Yes, sell it. All the air is full," lowering his voice 
 to a whisper, "full of little devils. I can't breathe for 
 them. And it makes me sick sick," with a shudder. 
 
 "I'll take you away to some quiet place, where you 
 can be at peace. And I'll stay with you always 
 always." He said it over to reassure himself. And 
 yet with a sickening sensation. What if it should be 
 for years? He had counted so largely on freedom. 
 The whole world seemed blurred and faded before 
 his eyes. 
 
 An hour afterwards his father wanted to get up, and 
 sit by the window. And then he begged Stephen to 
 take him out. He wanted a breath of air. Feeble 
 and tottering the steps were, and the hands grasped 
 Stephen's brawny shoulders for support. But the eyes 
 looked less wild. 
 
 Stephen thrust down the fiend of impatience that 
 kept tugging at his heart. Since he had accepted 
 God's time and God's way, he must abide by them. 
 And if this burden should be his for years to come 
 
 Do not condemn him. There are times, in the lives 
 of all, when we think we can see farther than God, and 
 are wiser. Archy Dane's life seemed of such little 
 value ; besides, there was a sort of stern justice in his 
 death. And Stephen would be so relieved by it I No 
 matter how he prospered ; one inadvertent word might
 
 118 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 bring him down to disgrace and degradation in a mo- 
 ment. For now that he had concealed the crime, he 
 had in some degree become accessory. The flames 
 were hedging him in on every side. 
 
 It might have been the thought of going away that 
 roused Archy Dane to a new sense of life. Certainly 
 he began to improve. His mind was vague and 
 wandering, sinking into a sort of imbecility ; but he 
 gained physical strength, and with his son's assistance 
 walked a little every day. It was evident he would 
 live. Any talk of selling out roused him in a moment. 
 He was earnest to be away ; if that restless vagueness 
 deserved so strong a name. Stephen offered the place 
 immediately. 
 
 Neighbor Fawcett came up to talk it over. The 
 land joined his, and he would like to have it ; but 
 the old house was no object. They halted at the 
 price. 
 
 Adams found affairs in this state when he returned. 
 He was surprised at the amendment in Mr. Dane, 
 though the tottering step and trembling limbs did not 
 give promise of much strength. He was very en- 
 thusiastic about his new arrangements. He had hired 
 a shop to his liking, and been to look at some second- 
 hand machinery. 
 
 "Two thousand seems like stocking a baby-house, 
 instead of such a place," he said, gravely. "I have 
 some good friends, it is true, and one order to begin
 
 SAVED. 119 
 
 with ; and we shall be able to increase. It oughtn't be 
 less than five thousand." 
 
 A fluttering seized Stephen Dane's heart. What if 
 he should risk this five hundred that he intended to bor- 
 row only, and lose it ! He would be a thief. It was 
 an ugly word. 
 
 " Perhaps we had better not try it. It is a miserably 
 small capital ; " and his hands twitched nervously at his 
 beard. 
 
 "No, Dane, don't back out. We'll fight it through 
 some way. If you could only be free ! A man can 
 live so much more cheaply by himself. I've often won- 
 dered why poor men were crazy to encumber themselves 
 with a wife and lots of children." 
 
 "But I can't be free." Dane's voice was hoarse and 
 tremulous, and his whole frame shook as if with ague. 
 
 " We'll make the best of it. No use meeting diffi- 
 culties half way." 
 
 There was some sturdy philosophy in this. Yet every 
 nerve in Stephen Dane's body felt sore and strained ; his 
 brain had been rasped to that point of irritability when 
 one more touch verges on distraction. And yet he went 
 through with his duties calmly ; he was tenderly patient 
 with his poor old father, and so kind to Joe that it made 
 her heart ache with a nameless pain. 
 
 At last Fawcett bought the place. Six hundred was 
 the utmost he could be induced to give. The furniture, 
 of but little value, was disposed of speedily to one and
 
 120 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 another. The few remaining effects were packed, and 
 preparations made for their journey. Adams had gone 
 back already. 
 
 And so Stephen Dane left the old life behind. With 
 fear and trembling. The world looked so wide, and, 
 in spite of ambition, dreary. It was one thing to dream 
 of success here, and another to dare it. If he should 
 fail! 
 
 Out of the anguish of his heart he cried to God. 
 Out of the bitter depths, out of the darkness and the 
 desert. Was there any one to pity and to save ?
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 121 
 
 vn. 
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 
 
 THREE years had passed since Stephen Dane left 
 Tregony. Years of toil and patience, years of 
 endurance, and sometimes, almost unknown to himself, 
 years of hope. The actual struggle was so different 
 from the half-defined ideas that had haunted him at the 
 forge in Tregony, or looking over that calm, wonderful 
 river. When he came to Philadelphia he had very little 
 besides the thousand dollars he had placed in Adams's 
 hands. Three rooms had been taken in an obscure 
 street near the shop. What if they were uncarpeted? 
 Stephen Dane had no weak longing after luxuries ; be- 
 sides, he had been used to privations all his life. And 
 Joe was a most comfortable housekeeper in this respect ; 
 she did not grumble at any want. She missed her old 
 gossips with Sally Fawcett sorely; but the strange 
 place, for she had never been out of Tregony, the 
 shop windows, gayly arranged, the long market with its 
 endless variety, were unfailing sources of interest. When 
 she could find her way about without difficulty, all her
 
 122 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 spare moments were spent in the street, and the excite- 
 ment kept her in excellent spirits. 
 
 Archy Dane, feeble and maundering, followed his 
 son from house to shop, and back again, with the jeal- 
 ous tenacity of a dog. When Stephen was out of his 
 sight, he was restless and dissatisfied ; but he would sit 
 for hours watching him, in perfect content. He seemed 
 to have lost much of his memory. Indeed, that one 
 terrible transaction appeared to have faded from his 
 mind completely. The only reminder of it was in his 
 intense dislike of rivers. Shortly after their arrival, 
 Stephen had taken him and Joe up the Schuylkill for a 
 pleasant sail. The old, frightened look had come into 
 Archy Dane's eyes, the quiver to his limbs, and he had 
 begged piteously to be taken back, seeming to appre- 
 hend some imminent danger to them all. So great 
 were his sufferings that Stephen resolved never to 
 repeat the trip with him. But it appeared as if he 
 might go on in this mere physical existence for years. 
 
 When Stephen Dane first determined to use the 
 money that had so strangely fallen into his hands, it 
 was not without a severe struggle and many misgivings. 
 If it had been possible to restore it unquestioned, or 
 without arousing suspicion, he would have done so at 
 first. Since this had not been, the temptation of using 
 it had proved too strong. Yet he had not blinded him- 
 self by any sophisms. He had grown too clear-sighted 
 of late to be led astray by them. This money was not
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 123 
 
 his, but to be held in a sort of sacred trust until such a 
 time as he might be able to restore it without any evil 
 consequences. This time had come after leaving Tre- 
 gony. He could mail it in any city, with the simple 
 explanation of it being a debt due the estate, and be 
 sure of secrecy. But it seemed as if here was an open- 
 ing that might never occur in his life again. He would 
 borrow the money, faithfully repaying pi-incipal and 
 interest at the very earliest opportunity. 
 
 The excitement concerning the murder was still strong 
 when he left Tregony. It seemed impossible that so 
 daring and flagrant a crime could have been committed, 
 and no trace be left of the perpetrators. The reward 
 had stimulated every one to renewed effort, but still 
 without the slightest success. As time- wore on, and 
 the mystery remained unsolved, interest was gradually 
 transferred from the dead to the living.^ 
 
 Mr. Forsyth, a connection of Mrs. Vennard, was 
 appointed one of the executors, and, conjointly with 
 herself, little Hope's guardian. Seven months after her 
 husband's death Mrs. Vennard had given birth to a 
 little boy, who wailed out a short period of sickly baby- 
 hood, and died. After this the business proceeded to 
 a slow settlement. The Foundery was opened under 
 new auspices, the grand house sold in its unfinished 
 state. In little more than a year Mrs. Vennard had 
 become Mrs. Forsyth. 
 
 Stephen Dane smiled contemptuously when he heard
 
 124 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 this. Poor little Hope, how would she fare? He re- 
 solved then that this money in his possession should be 
 held in trust for Hope. At some distant day he would 
 restore it to her. 
 
 There were many hard struggles during the first year, 
 on their limited capital. They were both energetic and 
 persevering, and found good friends. The second year 
 they began to breathe more freely, and go back to the 
 old enthusiasm concerning their experiment. All their 
 spare hours were spent upon the model. New theories 
 took the place of old ones. It became to both an ob- 
 ject of more than interest strange, wonderful love. 
 Disappointment endeared it only the more. And as it 
 approached completion, as it worked more and more 
 satisfactorily, their enthusiasm grew into reverence. 
 
 Yet all of Stephen Dane's life did not go into this. 
 As soon as circumstances warranted, he had changed to 
 a more comfortable abode, something he could beautify 
 with flowers and sunshine. They had a " best room," 
 with a bright carpet on the floor, and a few cheap pic- 
 tures that he had found at an old second-hand stall, of 
 much more value than their price indicated. One, a 
 warm, changeful thing, with tints of sunset glow, bits 
 of silvery water, and a shallow, pebbly lake-shore, the 
 tiny stones washed to whiteness by the slow motion of 
 the current. Some books on a shelf though these 
 were mostly of a scientific nature ; an easy chair, cush- 
 ioned with crimson worsted damask, where his father
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 125 
 
 could sit and doze. The old man had changed some- 
 what. He would always be thin, angular, and shaky, 
 but his clothes were clean and whole, his hair and beard 
 neatly trimmed. They were snow-white now. 
 
 Joe had improved, too. She no longer went about 
 slip-shod, with torn dresses and disordered hair. Ste- 
 phen had insisted upon a dress-maker taking her in 
 hand ; and it was astonishing to see how her whole 
 figure had changed. Her hair, the only beauty she 
 possessed, for it was long, soft, and fine, and of a 
 shadowy, purple-black tint, was trained into a luxuri- 
 ant coil at the back of her head, with no stray, untidy 
 ends. Her collar was always fresh and white, fastened 
 with a knot of ribbon. Stephen kept her well supplied. 
 It seemed as if he had inherited all these delicate, wo- 
 manly attributes, a quick eye and refined taste, a cer- 
 tain sense of harmony and propriety. Joe lacked them 
 entirely. She had so little perception or tact. She did 
 these things, not from any love of being pretty, but 
 simply because they pleased Stephen. If living in some 
 wretched hut without them would have won his love, 
 she would have been satisfied all the same. Apart 
 from him, beauty or order was of but little consequence 
 to her. 
 
 She studied somewhat, too. Hard work it was. She 
 had an innate dislike to books. She puzzled her brains 
 over them until her whole body revolted. She left off 
 her provincialisms, she no longer clipped her words in
 
 126 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 ignorant economy, and yet she was far from any re- 
 ceived standard of intellectuality. A shadow of the 
 old life would always hang about her. Was it some 
 inherent birth-mark? It was true she had come of 
 generations of sloth, thriftlessness, and dissipation. 
 Who shall answer for it? Who has deprived these 
 weak, uncertain souls of the sure stay and support 
 the birthright God meant them to have ? 
 
 There was but one strong passion in the nature of 
 Josephine Dane her love for Stephen. A more 
 vigorous minded girl might have found a mate beyond 
 the precincts of her home, but with Joe, association was 
 a great deal. Her soul seemed to be purely mechani- 
 cal. Put it in any common groove, and it would soon 
 become accustomed to the routine, and ask no other. 
 It would never torment you by sending out troublesome 
 shoots, by forcing a passage up into the light and air, 
 or demanding finer nourishment than it found in its 
 narrow sphere. She had loved him, not for any strong 
 or striking characteristic, but simply because he came 
 in her way. Her highest ideal of life had been Sally 
 Fawcett. A jolly, not over neat matron, laughing and 
 scolding in a breath ; taking life easy if the house did 
 remain unswept, and the children tumbling about in 
 rags. She had fancied herself falling into something 
 like this. What if Stephen did go to the tavern and 
 come home a little merry? His kisses even then would 
 be sweeter than clean, orderly silence and abstinence.
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 127 
 
 And if children hung about her knees or tangled their 
 sticky hands in her unkempt hair, what matter, so 
 long as they were his ! 
 
 But this day-dream was going' through a slow, cruel 
 process of disillusion. That careless, rollicking exist- 
 ence would never be hers. She was lifted up to a new 
 sphere one less congenial. Thought, or any kind of 
 brain work, was hard labor to her. She would rather 
 stand over the steaming washing-tub all day. Stephen 
 went up to new heights easily and naturally, and to be 
 a little nearer him, she followed reluctantly. 
 
 And yet she seemed to understand that the gulf 
 between them was widening, had been ever since the 
 advent of Adams and the books. She was not so happy 
 for it he happier. This was what she could not 
 account for, and she held against them a sort of jealous 
 grudge. As if Stephen had no right to outstrip her ! 
 
 Stephen, being a man, and much occupied with his 
 labor and his plans, studied Joe very superficially. 
 So long as she was comfortable and made no com- 
 plaints, so long as her calico dresses were neat and trim, 
 the cherry-colored ribbon at her throat fresh, and her 
 bonnet not too showy in its floral adornments, he was 
 satisfied. To have her read a whole page, or a news- 
 paper column, without stumbling or miscalling words, 
 and write a neat order for the grocer, were achieve- 
 ments in his eyes. He praised her for them. And the 
 smiles, the kind words, gave her hope when hope was
 
 128 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 almost 'dead. It never occurred to her that it might 
 not be as easy for Stephen to love her, as it was for her 
 to love him. 
 
 At last the most eventful day of Stephen Dane's life 
 drew nigh. The model had been removed to the shop 
 of a friend, a man well known in business circles, and 
 who had been very kind to these young beginners, so 
 stubbornly contesting Dame Fortune. A number of 
 scientific men and practical machinists had been invited 
 to the trial. 
 
 "If you want to go up, Adams," Dane said in an un- 
 steady voice, "go on. I'd rather stay here. Somehow 
 it seems like trying a critical surgical operation on a 
 beloved child. You don't know whether it will fail or 
 succeed. And I believe I'm a coward. If I should 
 have to take the poor mangled remains back into my 
 arms, I should break down into womanish tears." 
 
 "Don't talk so, Dane; you make me nervous. It 
 can't fail. McKinstry said so, and his word is as good 
 as any of them. He offered to buy us both out this 
 morning. Yes, I'd like to go, and you must too, 
 Dane. Let's shut up shop, and take a holiday. We've 
 earned it." 
 
 "No, no; I couldn't stand it. I'm in earnest, 
 Adams. To come so near, and fail 1 " 
 
 Tut, man ! Who thinks of failure ? " 
 
 "Go on then."
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 129 
 
 " And come back a successful man on the high road 
 to fortune. Is that what you mean ? " 
 
 Stephen gave a faint and sickly smile. His whole 
 system was unnerved. He had known nothing like this 
 since those fearful days at Tregony, when life itself 
 hung on a thread a word. 
 
 The two workmen, stolid and grimy, went on with 
 their usual indifference. They had nothing at stake. 
 Stephen glanced furtively at his father. Sitting op- 
 posite there, before a bench his son had rigged up to 
 please him, straightening little bars of iron, trying them 
 in the vice, riveting them together, smiling in his un- 
 meaning way, or talking to himself. It gratified him 
 so to be employed. He had a fancy he did his son 
 good service, and Stephen encouraged these harmless 
 vagaries. He even took a strange comfort in the poor, 
 worn life. It had grown so near to him that it almost 
 seemed something of his own. There was no point of 
 duty in which he failed now. He humbly repented 
 those rebellious thoughts when he first learned that 
 God meant he should take up this heavy cross. Daily 
 wearing had made it light. And so we sometimes find 
 a sweet and strengthening grace in our bitterest trials. 
 
 At noon he locked the shop and walked home, with 
 his father trudging by his side. . The people he met in 
 the street no longer wondered at his tender care. An 
 old woman who kept a stand on the corner always gave 
 them a bright smile. " Such a good son ! " and a sigh,
 
 130 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 that was more of commendation than grief, would usurp 
 the smile. 
 
 " Well ? " Joe exclaimed. It was her usual style of 
 questioning. 
 
 "We have not heard yet." And then Stephen ate 
 his dinner in silence. Joe had grown used to his grave 
 ways. 
 
 Back again. There was so much routine to life. 
 You did the same things over and over every day. 
 
 Adams ran in once, his face full of the wildest 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "Tell you what, Dane, they're putting her through 
 h-a-r-d," with a lingering emphasis. "And she's just 
 splendid ! They can't find a flaw in her if they work 
 from now until Christmas. No fear of her coming 
 back with amputated limbs. Our child, Dane 1 " 
 
 A warmth and glow of fathership overspreading him, 
 permeating every fibre of his body. He was at the 
 very summit of happiness. It was wife, child, and all 
 to him. 
 
 Then the bells rang for six. A pleasant summer 
 day it was. Stephen loitered about the shop. All 
 day he had lived in a dream, hardly daring to think. 
 By this time 
 
 "Dane, old fellow! we're rich men, both of us;" 
 and Adams's hand came down vigorously on the other's 
 shoulder. " McKinstry and Disbrow want you, straight. 
 Why, we've half revolutionized the world of steam.
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 131 
 
 One more discovery and we shall go up to the top of 
 the ladder. How grave you are ! Don't you believe 
 it? Why, I threw up my old hat Silas Adams 
 forty and odd years old ! " 
 
 I think some tears came into Stephen Dane's deep 
 and shady eyes. Three years ago he had been in 
 Thomas Vennard's Foundery, studying on this question 
 in his vague, ignorant way. Three years to-morrow 
 since ah, no wonder he shivered I 
 
 "Why, manfilive, what ails you?" 
 
 Stephen roused himself. 
 
 " Come, they're waiting." 
 
 He glanced at his father. " I must take him home 
 first." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Bring him along. We'll find a quiet 
 corner to put him " impatiently. 
 
 " No ; let me take him home. I shall feel better." 
 
 "But think, Dane ! It's late, and they're all waiting. 
 I said I'd have you back in a twinkling. Come." 
 
 He took the old man by the arm almost roughly. 
 The frightened eyes turned imploringly to Stephen, 
 who was locking the door. 
 
 He soon released his father from the vehement grasp, 
 and the three went on silently together. 
 
 " One would think Dane had some terrible secret on 
 his mind," mused Adams, a little crossly, to himself, 
 never dreaming how near he came to the truth. 
 
 But Stephen Dane brightened up amid the hearty 
 9
 
 132 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 congratulations of the group of which he had at once 
 become the centre. For Adams had been generous. 
 There was no meanness about the man. 
 
 " We both worked on it, and did our best ; but I do 
 believe the main idea that clinched the thing was 
 Dane's. He's long-headed. The world will hear some- 
 thing else of him if I'm not mistaken," Adams had said, 
 warmly. 
 
 It encouraged Stephen Dane to find himself so much 
 at home with these educated men. 33y slow degrees 
 he was coming up to his true place. A sort of informal 
 talk this was ; but they all became better friends, and 
 adjourned for business the next morning. It was really 
 true. Fortune and fame were within his grasp. Why, 
 three years ago he had thought himself the most misera- 
 able and accursed man on God's earth ! 
 
 "Take me home, Stephen," said a faltering, broken 
 voice at his side ; and, turning, he beheld his father, the 
 dull gray of his face deathly white, and his eyes fixed 
 in a frightened stare. 
 
 " I seen him, Stephen, a standin' over there. Don't 
 let him take me ! Did he get up out o' the river ? " 
 
 He put his strong arm around his father. He drew 
 the shaking head down on his shoulder so that the un- 
 thinking lips might be stopped. 
 
 "Is he ill?" some one asked. 
 
 "He is weak and wandering. I must take him 
 home. I am the only child he ever had, and he
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 133 
 
 clings to me. Poor father! I am here. Do not be 
 afraid." 
 
 Something in Stephen Dane's mien and tones filled 
 them all with involuntary respect and admiration. 
 McKinstry thought of his three sturdy boys growing 
 up, and wondered if one of them would treat his white 
 hairs with such filial tenderness. 
 
 " Out o' the river, Stephen. All white, and dread- 
 ful ! " 
 
 Stephen Dane drew a long breath of dismay. 
 Adams stood looking on. What if, at this height, he 
 was to be hurled back into degradation ! He turned 
 blindly. He lifted the trembling, cowering figure, 
 shaking as if an ague fit had seized him. 
 
 "My carriage is there in the yard," said Disbrow. 
 " I insist upon your taking it, Dane. Here, let me 
 call my man." 
 
 Stephen carried him out, stopping the betraying 
 mouth with kisses. He had never offered such a caress 
 before, but he was in a great bound of agony now. 
 The lips were soft as a child's, the breath no longer 
 polluted with rum and tobacco. 
 
 At last they were safe. The carriage door closed 
 with a sharp click. The driver there on the front seat 
 would never translate this pitiful moan 
 
 " Out o' the river, Stephen ! " 
 
 He carried his father through the room, and laid him 
 on the bed, making a brief explanation to Joe. Then
 
 134 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 he administered a composing draught, and watched 
 until drowsiness intervened. Archy Dane still twitched 
 and quivered with some strong nervous shock. The 
 eyes were but half closed, the white frightfully visible 
 in contrast with his sunken, withered cheeks. 
 
 "Is he going to be sick?" Joe asked, in a low tone, 
 as Stephen sat down to the supper table. 
 
 M I don't know. Something frightened him, I 
 think." 
 
 "He looks dreadfully as if he might die. I've' 
 never seen anybody die, Stephen ; " and Joe shivered. 
 
 " Don't think of it now." 
 
 Stephen was glad that Joe slept up stairs. For all 
 night his father gave fitful starts, and cried out with 
 dim remembrances of the fatal deed that was bearing 
 heavily upon him again. The son watched him, and 
 thought, wildly and agonizingly enough at times. All 
 day a sort of chill presentiment had hung over him. 
 Perhaps because it was nearing this fatal season. 
 
 He had hoped that memory would never return to his 
 father. If life could go out quietly may be there was 
 some mercy with God, that man knew not of. lie 
 could see the weakness, the temptation, the unguarded 
 moment ; and He was pity, as well as justice. 
 
 The long night wore away; for long it seemed, al- 
 though at midsummer. The stars softened and died 
 out ; there were faint opal streaks coming up in the east, 
 and a quiver of soft gray light. He extinguished the
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 135 
 
 lamp and opened the blinds. A fragrant breath from 
 distant river and meadow-land fluttered into the great 
 city with dawn. How calm and peaceful the far- 
 off heavens were ! God was so strong, so restful ! 
 And Stephen Dane prayed not this time to have his 
 burden removed, but for grace to bear it. God was 
 wiser than he, leading him through paths he had not 
 known. 
 
 " Stephen ! " How unnaturally clear the tone was I 
 
 He went back to the bed-side. 
 
 "Is it night?" 
 
 "No, morning. The sun is just rising." 
 
 " If I could see it ! " 
 
 Stephen raised him, and turned his face towards the 
 window. The dull eyes rolled vacantly. 
 
 " It's all dark. Don't leave me, Stephen." 
 
 The old, old pleading. A strange awe fell over 
 him. 
 
 " Stephen, am I sick? Call your mother, boy." 
 
 "Dear father, she is dead. Years and years agone, 
 you know." 
 
 "Dead ! " He caught fiercely at the word, grasping 
 Stephen's arm. "Yes, he's dead. You needn't tell 
 me. What do you know? Did he get up out o' the 
 river, and tell you?" 
 
 "No, no ; be quiet." 
 
 " Stephen, what come o' Mr. Vennard?" 
 
 Should he tell the truth? He was in an agony of 
 doubt.
 
 136 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 "Stephen," the voice was low and awesome, and 
 made the blood curdle in his veins, " Stephen, I mur- 
 dered him ! I didn't mean to do it. I see him a 
 countin' his money. He had so much, and we was so 
 poor ! He hadn't any business with such a lot, while 
 other folks hadn't none. I thought I'd just knock him 
 over, an' make off afore he could get up. So I hit him 
 with my fist one side o' his head, for I crep' up softly 
 behind him. He keeled over like a log, an' never 
 stirred. I took the money an' went off, an' when I 
 looked back, and see him layin' so still and white, I 
 was scared. I went to him an ris him up. There 
 was a great gash t'other side of his head, where he'd 
 hit agin' a stone. I wet my han'kercher and tried to 
 bring him to. But it wan't no use. He was dead. 
 O, Stephen ! " 
 
 Stephen Dane neither moved nor spoke. His lips 
 were dry. His heart almost stood still. 
 
 "I 'gin an awful scream. I couldn't help it. If the 
 money would a' brought him back, he might a' had it 
 for all me. I didn't know what to do, I was so 
 frightened. I dragged him to the river, and tumbled 
 him in. And he's come up agin', Stephen. Take me 
 away where he'll never find me." 
 
 "Can you listen to me, father?" Stephen's voice 
 was strong and distinct. 
 
 w You'll keep me safe ! You won't let him have 
 me ? " with quivering terror in the faintest gesture.
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 137 
 
 " Yes, safe. Now listen." And then Stephen went 
 briefly and clearly over the particulars of that terrible 
 event, the inquest, Forbes's arrest and acquittal, their 
 removal from Tregony, and assured him again and 
 'again of his safety. 
 
 " Seems as if I'd been in a dream. So, they buried 
 him, put him in the ground. He can't get up. But 
 I didn't mean to, Stephen, God knows. And if I could 
 a' given my life for his'n, to bring him back What '11 
 God say?" 
 
 O, it was coming near. That fateful question 
 what could he answer ! 
 
 "I never touched the money. I lost it somewhere 
 I forget. And I didn't mean to kill him. Tell it to 
 God, Stephen. You've been a good boy, an' He'll 
 hear you. Tell him how sorry I was It's so 
 dark. Where is He, Stephen?" 
 
 In his agony of tender love^ Stephen prayed that 
 God would forgive this poor soul as he forgave the 
 thief upon the cross. That out of his infinite pity and 
 boundless love, he would pardon the deed that had no 
 malice in it or murderous intention. That he would 
 wash the guilty soul in his own precious blood, shed for 
 all sinners. 
 
 " Stephen ! " the clutch was deathly in its intensity 
 " did He hear you ? Mother taught me a prayer long 
 ago I forget I can't see you get a light, Stephen ! 
 Kiss me. She used to."
 
 138 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 He bent down in reverence. The lips were cold. 
 
 "I can't remember . Hold me by the hand. Is 
 it very far, Stephen ? I didn't mean to do it. God 
 forgive me ! I didn't mean " 
 
 The thin fingers relaxed their grasp. The jaw fell. 
 There was a spasmodic convulsion, and all was still. 
 
 Stephen Dane knelt by the bed-side and prayed. 
 Joe found him there when she came down, and she 
 knew by the first glimpse of his face that her uncle 
 was dead. 
 
 Of the men whom Stephen had met during the last 
 year, Mr. McKinstry respected his grief the most. 
 The little scene he had witnessed had touched him to 
 the heart. He offered a pretty plot in Laurel Hill for 
 the interment, and showed his sympathy in many 
 delicate ways. That Stephen should be so prostrated 
 by grief, scarcely surprised him. 
 
 And yet I cannot say that Stephen sorrowed regret- 
 fully, if deeply. He missed his father daily, hourly. 
 He had been such a constant charge, such a child in all 
 things, that the feeling of loneliness was very great. 
 He hardly knew, until now, how much he had loved 
 him. 
 
 But it also brought a sense of relief and freedom. 
 He could scarcely believe the shadowy dread had fallen 
 off, that he was no longer walking on deceitful ground, 
 where an earthquake might yawn at any moment. 
 That awful secret was safe forevermore.
 
 THE NEW DAWN. 139 
 
 And it was comforting to know that, although his 
 father's hand was stained with crime, it was not so 
 utterly foul and black. He had not intended murder. 
 At that fatal moment he would have given his own life. 
 Perhaps God remembered that in the country whither 
 he had gone. 
 
 To Stephen there came a great change after this. 
 Holding their patent in their own hands, both he and 
 Adams derived from it a considerable income. The 
 little shop was given up. Adams received a very ad- 
 vantageous offer from New York, and he would fain 
 have persuaded Stephen to join him ; but McKinstry, at 
 the head of a flourishing business himself, induced the 
 young man to remain. Besides, he was attached to the 
 place. Some strange, yearning affection held him near 
 the spot where his father was sleeping peacefully ; the 
 poor, weak, troublous soul forever at rest. 
 
 And now Stephen Dane had arrived at that point of 
 success where everything turns into gold. He bought 
 a pretty cottage, and furnished it to his liking, install- 
 ing Joe as mistress, though she longed for another and 
 dearer title. To her he was utterly incomprehensible. 
 She felt afraid of him in a most peculiar manner, and 
 yet her love grew to be the mastering thought of her 
 existence. 
 
 The first money that Stephen felt he could call his, 
 he invested, principal and interest, for Hope Ven- 
 nard. The debt had always been sacred to him. He
 
 140 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 had heard that Mrs. Forsyth, shortly after her mar- 
 riage, had gone to Europe. Adams had incidentally 
 spoken of their return to New York, and the rumor 
 that Mr. Forsyth had dissipated the greater part of his 
 wife's fortune. A wild desire to see the little girl 
 haunted Stephen. Fate had in some sense made him 
 her protector, if she needed one. And so, five years 
 after that terrible summer, with a new life opening be- 
 fore him, he resolved to find Hope Vennard, and hence- 
 forth keep watch over her.
 
 HOPE. 141 
 
 vni. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 SILAS ADAMS, in his prosperity, had taken to 
 himself a wife. Heretofore he had professed to 
 hold matrimony somewhat in contempt. Perhaps his 
 being well able to afford such a luxury now softened 
 his views. And he had chosen, as men of that age 
 often do, a little, sunny-haired, eager, impulsive being, 
 who would never outgrow her childhood, and whose 
 strongest charm lay in her ardent love for her husband. 
 She amused and interested Stephen Dane from the fact 
 of her being so unlike any woman he had ever met before. 
 
 Adams had insisted upon his being domesticated 
 with them during his stay in New York. No two 
 women ever had more talking to do. Tregony, the 
 old life together in Philadelphia, their success, and the 
 many improvements since. Then there was so much 
 to see in the city. At times Stephen felt confused and 
 wearied with the never-ending variety. 
 
 He had learned, without any questions, all that 
 Adams knew of Mrs. Yennard, now Mrs. Forsyth.
 
 142 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Mr. Forsyth had proved a dissipated spendthrift. He 
 had wasted nearly all his wife's property. 
 
 "It's a shame," Adams said. " So much as she must 
 have had from her father ! But, Dane, I sometimes 
 think how Vennard worked, and ground his men to the 
 lowest ebb, all for what? That some one else might 
 fool away the money. I'd like to know how the little 
 girl fared between them. I thought I would hunt them 
 up, just out of curiosity ; but I lost track, and haven't 
 found the time, or the interest either, for that matter. 
 One cannot look after everybody." 
 
 With Stephen it was a sacred duty. Through his 
 father's agency Hope had been deprived of her natural 
 protector ; and now, if she was in any need, he must 
 surely supply the place. He said nothing of his inten- 
 tions to Adams, however ; it was too sore a subject 
 with him for discussion. But in his daily walks, by 
 the aid of a directory, he managed to find most of the 
 Forsyths in the city. Of several he made inquiries. 
 Once, indeed, he fancied he had gained a clew. But 
 this Forsyth had disappeared with a second-rate actress, 
 and of the wife he could find no trace. 
 
 His stay drew to a close. Already it had exceeded 
 his first limit. And yet he hated to leave the place 
 without having made the slightest discovery. One hope 
 was still left him : from the Ellicotts in Philadelphia, 
 distant connections, he might learn something of Mrs. 
 Forsyth.
 
 HOPE. 143 
 
 One warm October afternoon he had been rambling 
 through the precincts east of City Hall, haunting old 
 second-hand bookstalls, and discovering one or two 
 curious pictures, of some far-back date. He hardly 
 knew how the time had gone, until he saw throngs of 
 men and boys hurrying homeward. Not caring to be 
 jostled about by the crowd, he turned into a by-street 
 and pursued his way leisurely. 
 
 It became evident, ere long, that he had taken the 
 wrong direction, for here he was coming out to the 
 river. A damp, dirty smell pervaded the air, and 
 groups of sharp-eyed, half-dressed children beset him. 
 Sturdy little beggars, with their whining plea of, "Only 
 one penny ; " or, if he listened, a more extended story 
 of the sick mother or father, or household of helpless 
 children. Many of them little girls, too. What if this 
 should ever be Hope's fate? Why did he think of it? 
 Surely it could not come to that ! 
 
 She was twelve now. Quite a large girl, perhaps. 
 And yet he could never see her as otherwise than the 
 little child he had held in his arms. Her soft, beautiful 
 hair, her pleading eyes, her sweet voice, how they all 
 haunted him ! And that indefinable grace about her, 
 that suggestion of fragrance : to think of her in con- 
 nection with these wretches ! 
 
 He wandei-ed on, seeming to face the river at every 
 other turn. Gray evening had begun to fall. No ten- 
 der sunset tints to penetrate these close, narrow streets.
 
 144 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Harsh, discordant voices, shrill laughs that jarred upon 
 his soul. A homesick longing stole over his heart. 
 What was this? Rutgers Street cleaner and more 
 quiet. He wanted to go towards the north, somewhere ; 
 so he stood thinking. 
 
 "If you please, sir " said a soft, hesitating voice 
 at his side. 
 
 He turned, but could not see her face : it was hidden 
 by her hat. 
 
 "Mother is sick, and we haven't anything to eat." 
 
 The old story. He had not given to the noisy beg- 
 gars down yonder ; so he drew some bits of change from 
 his pocket, and thrust them in her hand. 
 
 " Thank you ; " and she was gone. He walked on to 
 the corner, and then paused. A man was lighting the 
 street lamp ; should he ask him the direction ? 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 He glanced around. The same little girl he could 
 have told her voice. And now he remarked the strag- 
 gling golden curls. 
 
 " You gave me a gold piece. I thought may be it was 
 a mistake, and ran back as fast as I could. There was 
 a good deal besides." 
 
 He caught the child and drew her towards the lamp. 
 He pushed back her hat, and scanned her face eagerly. 
 Thin and pale, with a pinched, forlorn look, and yet a 
 certain air of native refinement. 
 
 " What is your name ? "
 
 HOPE. 145 
 
 " O, please, sir, let me go. I never begged before. 
 But there was nothing in the house, and mother was so 
 hungry ! I didn't mind for myself." 
 
 She was crying now, partly with fright, and partly 
 because the grasp on her arm really hurt her. 
 
 " Tell me your name ! " He did not know how excited 
 his own voice was. For somehow this little face touched 
 him strangely. 
 
 "HopeForsyth." 
 
 "Hope Vennard, you mean." He must always have 
 her by that old name. He hated the Forsyth. It had 
 worked her cruel wrong if it had reduced her to this. 
 
 She looked at him with wild, startled eyes. 
 
 " Where do you live ? Where is your mother ? " 
 
 "Just down here." 
 
 "Take me there." 
 
 Pie placed his arm around her gently enough now. 
 But he wanted to clasp her to his heart. Little Hope 
 Vennard given back to him, to him alone ! 
 
 They turned up a narrow court. He knew it was 
 filthy, because he stepped into a pool of slimy water. 
 
 She paused at the door. w It's up stairs. If you'll 
 wait until I get a light." 
 
 The same clear, delicate intonation that had struck 
 him so oddly in the child. 
 
 "Never mind. I can find my way." But he held 
 her tightly by the hand.
 
 146 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Up two flights of stairs. Here, a smell of salt fish ; 
 there, beefsteak and onions. A crying baby ; a woman 
 scolding; a man singing in a drunken, maudlin fashion. 
 But on this floor it was quieter. 
 
 She went in and lighted a candle. By the dim yellow 
 ray he surveyed the room. Not positively barren, but 
 feeling chill, and looking uncomfortable. 
 
 " A gentleman, mamma. He gave me some money." 
 
 There was an unconscious grace in this simple intro- 
 duction. 
 
 " Raise me up, Hope. I never sent the child out to 
 beg before. We've been used to plenty all our lives, 
 until now ; I never thought to die here like a dog ! " 
 
 The voice was weak and fretful, breaking down into a 
 cough. She was frightfully emaciated, the eyes sunken, 
 the lips livid, the hands skeleton-like, and trembling. 
 
 "I came to see if I could be of any assistance to you," 
 Stephen Dane said, when he had recovered a little from 
 his surprise. 
 
 " I never thought to ask it from any one. We had 
 plenty didn't we Hope ? until that villain " 
 
 " Hush, dear ; it makes you cough." 
 
 "You want a fire," Stephen began. "These autumn 
 nights are chilly. Are there any stores near by ? " 
 
 " Yes. I had better go," and Hope laid her mother 
 down. " I shall find them sooner. I won't be gone but 
 a moment."
 
 HOPE. 147 
 
 Stephen put the gold piece in her hand again. " Get 
 everything you can think of," he said. 
 
 w I'm sure you're very kind, sir. But it's hard to 
 have to come to charity, when one has had every luxury 
 of one's own. My father was very rich. So was my 
 first husband. Hope was his child, but I'm sure I've 
 been a mother to her. Only if I hadn't let him get hold 
 of her money. He was a false, black-hearted villain." 
 
 " Don't talk." She was coughing fearfully now, and 
 Stephen noticed that the handkerchief she held to her 
 mouth was saturated with blood. 
 
 "Yes. I want to tell you. I married again a 
 second cousin of my own. He was Hope's guardian. 
 I thought he loved me so. But he only wanted the 
 money. And when that was gone, he went off with an 
 actress, a shameless hussy ! and left us here to starve. 
 I've been ailing a long while. As much a broken heart, 
 as anything." 
 
 Her tone was querulous and bitter. Stephen Dane 
 had never been prepossessed in her favor when she was 
 Miss Ellicott. Going back to those crude perceptions, 
 he had the key to the woman's whole character. Weak, 
 vain, and self-indulgent, with no real strength or forti- 
 tude, no faculty of governing circumstances. 
 
 " How long since your husband went away ? " he 
 asked presently. 
 
 " In July. He took about a thousand dollars. It 
 10
 
 148 STEPHEN DAJSTE. 
 
 was Hope's money. I didn't mean that he should have 
 it, but he threatened to kill us both. He was so in- 
 fatuated with that woman ! And he took my diamonds ! 
 I sold my jewelry and my dresses by degrees. We 
 were forced to come here at last ; and now all is gone. 
 There was nothing more to sell. I hoped I should die 
 before it came to this. Poor Hope ! She never begged 
 before 1 " 
 
 The child entered at this moment, her little arms 
 full. She built a fire upon the hearth ; snuffed the 
 candle and Stephen noticed in a vague way how the 
 tallow had made a little roll at one side. A winding- 
 sheet, superstitious Joe would have said. Well, one 
 would soon be needed. 
 
 " Can't I help you ? " said Stephen, coming up to Plope 
 in an awkward way. 
 
 " Get me something to eat, Hope," exclaimed the 
 invalid, impatiently. " It's a hard thing to starve." 
 
 Stephen Had looked after his father so long that he 
 was at home in this department. When they had made 
 some broth and administered it to Mrs. Forsyth, he 
 remarked that Hope had purchased but sparingly. So 
 he took up his hat. 
 
 " Are you going ? " and Hope's voice was full of vague 
 sadness. 
 
 " Only to buy some more food, and see a physician. 
 I will come back soon."
 
 HOPE. 149 
 
 Hope held the candle at the stairway. Once he 
 glanced back at those entreating eyes. His little Hope I 
 The more his because she was so friendless and forlorn. 
 
 He returned laden with delicacies, and accompanied 
 by a physician. The famished woman, in that extreme 
 hunger which sometimes precedes consumptive dissolu- 
 tion, was begging eagerly for something to eat. 
 
 "Let her have anything that she wants," said the 
 doctor. " Her pulse is very low. She cannot last but a 
 little while." 
 
 "How long?" 
 
 w Two or three days at the utmost. She may drop 
 off at any moment. This mixture will alleviate her 
 cough that is all I can do." 
 
 Hope and Stephen were left alone with the dying 
 woman, though to both she looked much improved. 
 Her voice grew stronger, and she would talk. She 
 seemed to revel in that old time of luxury and ease. 
 Her weak mind, even at the last, could not endure that 
 this stranger should remain in ignorance of her true 
 station. Of Mr. Forsyth she spoke with all the bitter- 
 ness her feeble nature could command. And yet it was 
 evident his sway over her had been complete. A hard 
 master and a tyrant he had proved, a cruel, sensual 
 man. 
 
 " I couldn't help his getting Hope's money," she said, 
 in her weak, pitiful defence. w He was her guardian.
 
 150 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 I tried to do my best. I have been good to you, Hope 
 haven't I?" 
 
 te Yes," said Hope, kissing the fevered brow with her 
 cool lips. Which meant she had not beaten or other- 
 wise maltreated her. But, for all motherly tenderness 
 or sympathy, the child might as well have been utterly 
 friendless. 
 
 "I'm sure I meant it all for the best," in a whining 
 tone. " I don't know what the poor child will do when 
 I'm gone. Her father had some friends somewhere 
 I've forgotten." 
 
 " She shall be cared for." He turned the child 
 around so that she faced him. "Will you trust me, 
 Hope? "he asked. 
 
 She looked at him questioningly. He was glad there 
 was nothing about her to remind him of her father. 
 
 " Will you ? " His voice trembled with emotion. 
 
 "Yes." She placed one hand in his. 
 
 Mrs. Forsyth's mind began to wander a little. But 
 it was her second husband that troubled her thoughts. 
 Of Mr. Vennard she never spoke at all. No one could 
 have been more entirely forgotten. But when he 
 married Lucy Ellicott, he did not desire any strong or 
 forcible points of character. He had not considered his 
 child's welfare only his own insatiable desire for 
 wealth. 
 
 Stephen felt that it would be impossible to go away
 
 HOPE. 151 
 
 and leave Hope alone with her mother. When this 
 fever strength was spent, the last great change might 
 come. Presently she grew drowsy, and fell into snatches 
 of slumber, broken by incoherent mutterings. He drew 
 his chair nearer the bed, and took Hope upon his knee. 
 The poor, tired girl yielded to the sense of warmth, and 
 relief from hunger, and leaned against the strong arm 
 passed around her. In a few moments she was asleep. 
 
 Stephen watched her with peculiar sensations. An 
 awe and tenderness, a strong feeling of duty, a devout 
 thankfulness that he had found her, when she so sorely 
 needed a friend, mingled with a strange delight that 
 proceeded from none of these. He could not analyze 
 this ; indeed, he did not try. He was content with the 
 present, and neither burdened himself with the future 
 and dim dreams of what might come, nor brooded over 
 an unalterable past. 
 
 Mrs. Forsyth stirred again. " Hope," she exclaimed, 
 in sick impatience, " I'm hungry ! I do believe, child, 
 you'd see me lie here and starve." 
 
 In the sweet land whither Hope had gone, she heard 
 not the voice. Stephen touched her shoulder gently. 
 
 " O ! " She gave a long sigh. 
 
 "Your mother needs something, Hope." 
 
 She was on her feet now, her senses all alert, her 
 eyes wide open. Mrs. Forsyth moved at the sound of 
 the strange voice.
 
 152 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 "O," she said, in a vague way, "I remember. You 
 came with Hope. I'm hungry, child." And Stephen 
 smiled to himself, remarking how much more gentle the 
 tone was. 
 
 Hope obeyed her mother's behest. The dying eyes 
 wandered with a restless, glassy stare, but she took 
 the food as if indeed famishing. 
 
 " If you must go " she said at length, looking at 
 Stephen. 
 
 " No, it is not safe for you to be left alone. I will 
 remain all night." 
 
 "You are very kind. I never expected to ask so 
 much of strangers, I'm sure. I suppose I cannot last 
 much longer. I do not care. I have nothing to live 
 for. I couldn't even do Hope any good. It was shame- 
 ful in him to treat me so, when I let him take everything ! 
 To die here like a dog, while he is flaunting off with 
 that miserable thing! I hope he'll leave her in just 
 such distress. He's a mean, selfish brute ! O, if I'd 
 never married trim 1 We would be rich now, Hope, 
 living in luxury, with servants to wait upon us. O 
 Heaven I how bitter it is ! " 
 
 Her voice died away in moans. Hope lighted another 
 candle, and stirred the fire. Then she came back, and 
 smoothed the sufferer's brow until she fell into another 
 doze. Stephen held out his arms. She nestled in the 
 tender clasp again. The city clocks were striking twelve.
 
 HOPE. 153 
 
 Presently Hope fell asleep. Stephen watched and 
 thought. This human soul, weak and helpless, drifting 
 out to the broad ocean of eternity ! What work, or 
 what good, had it ever done in the world ? And yet, 
 God kept a place for every one. He took the tangled 
 threads in His hands, and made out of the confused 
 mass a shapely web. Some day all the mysteries would 
 be explained why one was weak and easily tempted, 
 why another trode in thorny paths, or was left to work 
 blindly, groping along with many doubts and fears, and 
 why some were blessed beyond compare with all that 
 makes life desirable love, home, and wealth. No 
 trials few cares. It was well for human faith that 
 there were some happy souls. 
 
 Once before he had watched with the dying. All the 
 long night! He shivered, thinking of it. If how 
 strangely we can carry back our reasoning ! if Thomas 
 Vennard had been stunned that summer day, as his 
 assailant meant, or if the blow had missed its aim, 
 what then ? He and his father would have been hunted 
 to the utmost verge. Vennard was relentless and 
 vindictive. Instead who had brought all this about? 
 He was the prosperous man. He had succeeded over 
 the ruins of another's life, as one might say. Where 
 God's direct agency came in, was too awful a subject for 
 his vain questioning. He had been given a sacred duty 
 that was enough for him now.
 
 154 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 The candle flared out its ghostly yellow light. The 
 sick woman tossed uneasily, murmured broken sentences, 
 and occasionally roused to ask for a drink. Stephen 
 gave it to her with the one hand at liberty. He bathed 
 her brow with fragrant water, and administered from 
 time to time the cordial the physician had left. The 
 fire burned out there was no more wood to replenish 
 it. The remnant of the candle fell into a pool of its 
 own grease, and sputtered out a farewell. Through the 
 window came a faint glimmer of dawn, softening from 
 gray to pink, from pink to crimson and gold. The air 
 of the room grew chilly, and Stephen strained Hope 
 close to his heart. 
 
 " I've had such a nice sleep ! " she exclaimed at length, 
 opening her lovely eyes, just as a faint streak of sunshine 
 stole in the window. "And, O, it's morning! Did 
 you hold me all night ? " and a conscious color fluttered 
 up in her face. " You must be very, very tired I " 
 
 Stephen felt stiff and cramped from the awkward 
 position, but hardly fatigued. 
 
 " You have been so kind ! " Her breath came with a 
 sigh. "I wonder " But that was cut short by Mrs. 
 Forsyth's awakening. 
 
 " Mamma, dearest," and Hope bent to kiss her. 
 
 " I'm so much better, Hope I I never thought to live 
 the night through. I am so easy I no pain, and very
 
 HOPE. 155 
 
 little coughing. If we were still rich, I should want to 
 get well ; but it's of no use." 
 
 A greenish pallor had overspread her face, and her 
 eyes were frightfully sunken. Stephen noted these sure 
 signs of dissolution. 
 
 Hope began to bustle about the room. 
 
 " I'll go for some wood," Stephen said. 
 
 "I'm sure we're very grateful to you," was Mrs. 
 Forsyth's comment. "A perfect stranger, too we 
 don't even know your name." 
 
 "Stephen Dane," he answered. 
 
 Hope was bending over the ashes, and did not even 
 glance up. If Lucy Ellicott had ever heard any such 
 name, she had forgotten it now. 
 
 He went for the wood, and purchased a few luxuries 
 for breakfast. Hope was a handy little housekeeper, 
 swift, noiseless, and patient. How often she must have 
 suffered from Mrs. Forsyth's unreasoning whims and 
 fretful moods ! 
 
 "I think," he began, presently, " that I must return 
 to my friends and give some account of myself. You 
 will not mind being left alone an hour or two?" 
 
 " O, no. And mamma is so much better ! " 
 
 He glanced furtively at the bed. " You have neigh- 
 bors you can call on in an emergency ? " 
 
 " We haven't made friends with any of them," Hope
 
 156 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 replied, with downcast eyes. " And they think us 
 proud." 
 
 "Any one will come in time of need," he said, 
 thoughtfully. "I shall not be gone long." 
 
 He bade Mrs. Forsyth a cheerful good morning. 
 The fresh, keen air was inspiriting to him. Still, he 
 hurried along, impelled by some vague sense of danger. 
 
 He found Mr. and Mrs. Adams in a state of conster- 
 nation, but he lost no time in explaining the cause of his 
 absence. They both listened in astonishment. 
 
 " To think that you should have met the child in such 
 a plight ! Actually begging ! I wonder that Vennard 
 did not rise out of his grave and haunt the villain who 
 brought them to this. Yes, let us go immediately. 
 Pet," to Mrs. Adams, " get your bonnet." 
 
 "But Mr. Dane must have some breakfast. After 
 watching all night, too ! " 
 
 " I had some, thank you." 
 
 "It could have been hardly worth the eating. Let 
 me make you a cup of fresh coffee." 
 
 " No, I must return as soon as possible." 
 
 But " Pet " dallied after the fashion of women. She 
 hafl her dress to change, orders to give for dinner, and 
 a dozen other little matters to take up her time. Stephen 
 paced the sitting-room and talked to his friend. At 
 last they were started. 
 
 Mrs. Adams held her breath with a strange awe and
 
 HOPE. 157 
 
 pity as they mounted the dirty steps. Stephen rapped 
 lightly at the door. 
 
 There was no answer, so he opened it and walked in, 
 leaving them to follow. His first glance was at the 
 bed. There lay Mrs. Forsyth, the eyes staring wide, 
 but all meaning gone from them the under jaw 
 dropped down, and a small purple thread of blood 
 issuing from the mouth. 
 
 "O ! " Hope raised herself from the foot of the bed, 
 where she had been striving to hide from the fearful 
 sight. Her eyes were tearless, her face white and 
 frightened. 
 
 "Is she dead? O, mamma ! mamma ! " 
 
 Stephen placed his hand on the heart. It had stopped 
 beyond a peradventure. Then he caught Hope as she 
 was about to throw herself beside the dead body. 
 
 "O," she said, brokenly, with a great, dry sob, "she 
 did love me, and I loved her. It is so terrible to be 
 all alone!" 
 
 "You will never be alone again." Stephen's lips 
 were close to her ear, his strong arms around her. 
 
 " But you can't love me " 
 
 " Yes, I can love you. I do love you." His voice 
 came through waves of suppressed feeling. 
 
 She buried her face on the great, true heart, that was 
 to be hers forevermore. 
 
 By this time Mrs. Adams had advanced to the bed.
 
 158 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 "O!" she exclaimed, "we are too late. Was this 
 little thing all alone with her mother, when " 
 
 Her voice recalled both Stephen and Hope. One is 
 often alone with joy, but there are so many events con- 
 nected with grief that bring us back to every-day life. 
 Wisely ordered by a mind farther-reaching than ours. 
 
 Stephen said, briefly, "How long ago?" 
 
 " I don't know." There was a dreary grief in Hope's 
 eyes. " She was talking, and she seemed so strong ! 
 Then she began to cough." 
 
 Stephen and Adams consulted together. Then the 
 former started in pursuit of some kindly neighbor, while 
 Adams went for an undertaker. Mrs. Adams tried 
 to comfort Hope. The child listened that was all. 
 There was but one voice that had power to soothe 
 her. 
 
 On Stephen's return he asked Hope to put on her 
 hat and shawl, and go with him. 
 
 " Mamma?" Her pale lips quivered. 
 
 "You will see her again presently. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Adams will attend to all that is necessary." 
 
 Hope did his bidding. Once in the street, he took 
 her by the hand, and led her she knew not whither. 
 Only at last they came to a pretty house, and, being 
 admitted by the servant, he led her into the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 "Are you tired?" he asked.
 
 HOPE. 159 
 
 "No, only " and then her eyes slowly filled with 
 tears. 
 
 "This is Mr. Adams's house. Mamma will be sent 
 up here, and kept until she is buried. Afterwards I am 
 going to take you home with me, to Philadelphia, if you 
 will go ? " 
 
 " I did have some relatives there, but I believe they 
 are dead," she said, absently. 
 
 " I don't want to find any friend or relative. I mean 
 to keep you. It is a debt I owe. If you can trust 
 me " 
 
 The look said, "If not you, who then on the wide 
 earth ? " But presently, with a little flush of delicacy, 
 she made answer, 
 
 "Do you know I am very poor? Papa Forsyth 
 spent everything we had. He was cruel to mamma 
 poor mamma I " 
 
 " That is why I want you. I said it was a debt. 
 All that I can do for you will never repay it. I must 
 be brother and father to you," and here his voice 
 grew husky. 
 
 Hope was too much stunned by her recent grief, too 
 much surprised by all the late events, to be curious. 
 Circumstances had never cultivated this quality of her 
 nature. And something that she could not understand 
 gave her perfect confidence in Stephen. But she was 
 too weary and frightened to talk. She simply came and
 
 160 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 placed her hand in his. These little mute appeals were 
 strongly characteristic "of Hope. She was not a talka- 
 tive child, but often impressed you more by a single 
 gesture than many words would have done. 
 
 After Mr. and Mrs: Adams returned, a hearse brought 
 all that was mortal of Mrs. Forsyth, shrouded, ready 
 for sepulture. Silas declared it looked too heathenish 
 to bury it the same day, and there seemed no other 
 course. Hope could eat no dinner, and Mrs. Adams 
 took her off to her room, and insisted upon her going to 
 bed. The tired and overwrought nerves succumbed to 
 these kind attentions, and she soon fell asleep. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Forsyth was buried. Stephen had 
 announced his intentions respecting Hope. 
 
 " I am sure I'd be willing to help take care of the 
 child, Dane, until she can do for herself. What a 
 scamp that Forsyth was ! and, between us, I never had 
 a high opinion of Mrs. Vennard. But it is shameful 
 that the poor child must be the greatest sufferer." 
 
 "She never will be. You are kind, Adams, but I 
 want to do it all myself. I may never have wife nor 
 child to share my prosperity, and she will be doubly 
 welcome." 
 
 "There's something about you, Stephen, that I've never 
 been able to make out wholly. A sort of chivalrous feel- 
 ing that, since you were successful where Vennard failed, 
 you must needs owe him a duty. I don't feel so at all.
 
 HOPE. 161 
 
 A man has a right to the labor of his own brains, 
 surely. And if it had been a point of honor before, 
 his death settled that. In the old times you saw no 
 cause for gratitude. He did grind the men to the last 
 notch." 
 
 " I'm odd in some matters," Stephen Dane said, look- 
 ing into the grate fire, and thrusting down the black 
 secret he carried about with him. " And God seems to 
 have sent this child to me ; so, having no one else, I'll 
 care for her." 
 
 " The best thing you can do is to marry ; " and Adams 
 laughed good-humoredly. " It gives a man an interest 
 in all the rest of the world." 
 
 Mrs. Adams had busied herself in preparing some 
 proper clothing for Hope. Until the past summer the 
 child had been comfortable, and comparatively happy. 
 When Mrs. Forsyth went to Europe, Hope had been 
 placed at a good boarding-school, where she had re- 
 mained, spending most of her vacations as well, until 
 the last cruel step on Mr. Forsyth's part. Hope was 
 shocked, when she came home, to find her step-mother 
 so much of an invalid, and to learn of sufferings caused 
 by a brutal and selfish husband. Poverty had followed 
 hard upon the desertion ; yet this had been the only 
 miserable period in Hope's life, happily brief. 
 
 Stephen had written to Joe, appointing a day for his 
 return, and informing her of the addition he was to make
 
 162 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 in the family, but not mentioning Hope's name. During 
 his absence Joe had been spending a fortnight in Tregony 
 with Sally Fawcett. She had counted much on the 
 visit, yet it must be confessed it was something of a 
 failure. Unconsciously Joe had taken upon herself a 
 few of the graces and the tastes of her new life. The 
 disorderly household, the rude, rough children, the 
 brawling matron, and the jolly but undeniably coarse 
 head of the house, filled Joe with a strange dismay. 
 Everything seemed changed ; the hills smaller ; the irreg- 
 ular village, with its faded old houses, such a contrast 
 to her memory of it. Yes, she had outgrown all these 
 things, and longed for the neat, orderly home, the quiet, 
 and, more than ever, for Stephen. The world grows 
 narrower with every old dream that dies out, and we 
 cling more tenderly to the friends who are left. 
 
 " I wonder if we shall like this little girl ! " Joe had 
 said to old black Katy twenty times at least. " It's so 
 odd of him to want to bring her home ! " 
 
 But the sitting-room looked bright and cheerful as 
 the autumn day drew to a close. Joe's hair was brushed 
 until it shone like satin, and she had a knot of scarlet 
 ribbon at her throat. She waited impatiently enough, 
 listening to every carriage and every footfall. And at 
 last they came. 
 
 Joe sprang to the door and opened it. Never in all 
 her life had she been so glad to see Stephen. One or
 
 HOPE. 163 
 
 two happy tears fell on his shoulder, where she buried 
 her face after he had kissed it. 
 
 The three entered the sitting-room. Joe looked cu- 
 riously at the child, and said, " Why, I didn't think she 
 was so large ! " 
 
 Stephen removed her hat and cloak, and turned her 
 around, facing Joe. " Have you ever seen her before ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 Joe gazed carelessly at first ; then the expression deep- 
 ened. She came and put her hands on Hope's shoulders, 
 and looked into her eyes. 
 
 " Good Heavens, Stephen ! " she said. " It's Hope 
 Vennard ! " 
 
 It was the child's turn to wonder. She had been too 
 full of grief to think or question before. Now, as she 
 glanced from one to the other, she exclaimed, 
 
 K How do you all know my name is Hope Vennard ? " 
 
 Joe mutely appealed to Stephen for answer. 
 
 The explanation must come some time. 
 
 " We knew your father," he said. " We used to live 
 in Tregony." 
 
 " When he was when he died ? " For Hope stopped, 
 shivering at the ugly word " murdered." Both her com- 
 panions remarked it. Joe stole a sidelong glance at 
 Stephen, which he felt, rather than saw. He made a 
 great effort to obtain perfect mastery over himself, and 
 answered, 
 
 11
 
 164 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 " Yes, we worked in the Foundery, both Mr. Adams 
 and I. We left Tregony that autumn." 
 
 Hope was studying Stephen attentively. She came 
 close to him, and looked into his eyes. 
 
 "I believe I remember ; " but her voice had a vague, 
 confused sound, and her eyes wandered over him uncer- 
 tainly. " I was in the Foundery one night, and a man 
 held me up that I might look into a kettle of melted 
 iron. He was so strong ! I used to think of it nights 
 as I was falling asleep, and it gave me such a good, safe 
 feeling. It was you." 
 
 " Yes." Stephen breathed hard. 
 
 M O, I am so glad to come back to you ! " and, with 
 a little cry, Hope hid herself in the clasp of the strong 
 arms again. 
 
 A pang shot through Joe's waiting heart. As if 
 already she was crowded out of her place. 
 
 "This is my cousin Josephine," Stephen said pres- 
 ently, bethinking himself. "And this is to be your 
 home until you are tired of it, and want to go away." 
 
 " I never shall," was Hope's confident rejoinder. 
 
 And thus began a new era, not only in the life of 
 Hope Vennard, but in that of both of the others. 
 Stephen Dane meant to atone for his father's sin in 
 his tender care of this friendless child.
 
 LOVE. 165 
 
 IX. 
 LOVE. 
 
 IT was strange how soon and how easily Hope Ven- 
 nard settled herself in her new home. It was not 
 natural that the death of Mrs. Forsyth should occasion 
 any deep or permanent sorrow. She had never tried to 
 attach Hope to herself until she became dependent upon 
 her .kindly services as nurse ; and even then real love 
 was lacking. And Hope just fitted into this empty 
 niche in Stephen Dane's home. A noisy or demonstra- 
 tive child must have worked a change ; with Hope every- 
 thing went on as usual. And although Joe received 
 her a trifle coldly at first, there was a silent charm about 
 her that the elder could not resist. How it came to pass 
 neither remembered, perhaps, but in a little while they 
 were fast friends. Much of it was due to Joe's womanly 
 longing for affection. And when the child laid her 
 golden head in Joe's lap, or twined her soft arms about 
 the other's neck, a warm sympathy grew up between 
 them. I think Hope exercised a strong and mysterious
 
 166 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 sway by right of her beauty. It was a daily miracle to 
 Joe. The soft, shining hair, floating out in rippling, 
 golden waves; the clear, pearly complexion, with the 
 delicate, peachy tint in the cheeks ; those large, wonder- 
 ful eyes, in which you could seem to see the depths of 
 her pure soul ; the grace of her figure'and every motion ; 
 the hundred winsome ways, fascinated Joe as with a 
 spell. 
 
 Another charm was her voice. There was something 
 peculiar in this, and it touched you nearly as much in 
 her talking as in her singing. Stephen had added a 
 piano since her coming, for her education had been in 
 no wise neglected ; indeed, in music she had attained an 
 unusual proficiency, for it had hitherto been the one 
 solace of her life. To Katy in the kitchen this was a 
 perfect marvel. More than once she said, "Miss Joe, 
 if eber I git to heaben, I 'spect to hear jes' sich singin'. 
 It's like the angels now." 
 
 But the quiet evenings when they were alone pleased 
 Joe the best, perhaps. With Hope's head in her lap, 
 and the soft, white fingers clasping hers, dropping now 
 and then a kiss, or pressing them with childish impulse 
 against cheek and dimpled chin, and talking as no one 
 ever had to Joe before. No wonder the poor, hungry 
 heart feasted. Fate, 'in shutting her out from all other 
 loves, had made her the more easily assailed by this. 
 
 Between Stephen and Hope there existed something
 
 LOVE. 167 
 
 for which reserve is too strong a name ; and yet it was a 
 distance. Nothing bordering on coldness or distrust. 
 Hope went to him as frankly in any emergency as if he 
 had really been her brother. And he was tender and 
 considerate ; but there was a point which neither passed, 
 a boundary which seemed to have been settled once for 
 all when he brought her there. Perhaps Joe had un- 
 wittingly deepened the impression. One evening, after 
 Hope had been detailing somewhat of her past life, she 
 said, eagerly, 
 
 " I remember so little about my father ! I mean to ask 
 your cousin the particulars concerning his death. He 
 must surely know. Mamma never talked about him : 
 she said it was too terrible for women. Will he mind, 
 do you think ? " 
 
 "No, don't ask him," Joe exclaimed,' with sudden 
 dread. " He can't tell you." 
 
 "Why? He was there'! " 
 
 "Yes, but " Joe shivered at a flood of old recol- 
 lections. 
 
 "He said when mamma died, it was that he owed 
 a debt. How did it come ? " 
 
 "Did he tell you that?" Joe asked, fiercely. "And 
 what else ? " 
 
 " Nothing. O, please don't look at me in that man- 
 ner ! What was it about papa ? They never found who 
 murdered him. Did he did your cousin know "
 
 168 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 " Hush." Joe's voice was hoarse with the passion of 
 fright. " No one ever found out anything. He might 
 have fallen in the river and injured himself. If any one 
 can tell, I don't believe he or she ever will now. It's 
 all past and gone. But don't ask him, child Stephen. 
 Promise me ! " 
 
 The look in Joe's face awed Hope. She promised 
 solemnly. 
 
 " And now let us say no more about it. No good can 
 ever come of it. May be in the judgment day it'll be 
 told." 
 
 Hope did not make herself miserable trying to solve 
 this mystery, or the other one, the debt of which Stephen 
 had spoken. And as she grew older, new impressions 
 effaced these. She was too happy to brood over that 
 indistinct past. On this point she obeyed Joe scrupu- 
 lously. And Stephen, fancying she had forgotten her 
 father, had no wish to recall him to her mind. 
 
 Of the peaceful days that glided over them I have but 
 little to tell. Five years, that had seemed almost a life- 
 time to Stephen Dane when he brought Hope Vennard 
 home, passed with few outward changes, reckoned by 
 events. She blossomed into womanhood with all the 
 beauty her early years had promised. The grace of her 
 own dead mother must have come out in her, for 
 Stephen watched in vain for some sign of her father. 
 She was so gentle and winsome, so lavish with her
 
 LOVE. 169 
 
 smiles and tenderness, so generous in every act, and 
 feeling ! Friends she made readily. Groups of gay 
 young girls besieged her, and would have engrossed 
 every spare hour if she so willed ; but many of them 
 were sacred to Joe. And what of brightness and joy 
 she could bring into the house, she did gladly. It had 
 been so sweet a place of refuge to her. 
 
 Stephen Dane at thirty-three had reached his full 
 manhood. There was in him now an element of con- 
 scious and well-tried strength, a healthy, liberal life. 
 He had fought some hard battles, and received some 
 wounds, but they left no rankling bitterness. Grave he 
 would always be ; but it was a sweet, tender gravity, 
 the touch of some old sorrow that had entered his being 
 and become a part of him, a softened shadow, as you 
 sometimes see on a summer day, stealing partly over a 
 meadow-slope, while the rest is bathed in brilliant sun- 
 shine. The old vexed questions had been forever set at 
 rest, not by any triumphant solution, but the simple 
 faith we must all come to at last. Whatever God 
 willed, whatever had come upon him without his own 
 volition, was to be borne patiently. Wherein he had 
 sinned he repented truly and humbly, and then he went 
 forward to do his duty towards his fellow-men. By 
 that rare experience vouchsafed only to deep, far- 
 reaching souls, he knew where to aid, where to speak a 
 word in season. More than one who had gone astray
 
 170 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 listened and was reclaimed. He, too, had been beset 
 by perils and temptations, and, instead of condemning, 
 yearned over others with infinite pity. 
 
 It seemed to him he had gone on prospering far beyond 
 his deserts. After the old ambitions had been reached, 
 he was satisfied ; but Fortune, so chary at first, now 
 became bountiful. As if she could not lavish enough 
 upon him I A position in the scientific world of which 
 he had not even dreamed, friends that he had never 
 dared to count on, and wealth more than sufficient to 
 satisfy his wishes. Was there anything lacking? 
 
 Yes, one gift, one blessing. 
 
 The night he had held Hope asleep in his arms dimly 
 prefigured this. That he should love her seemed right 
 and natural. He had meant to give her everything in 
 his power, affection amongst the rest. All this un- 
 questioningly until now. 
 
 What roused him first with a thrill of terror and pain 
 was the knowledge that his soul longed for a return. 
 That his regard had merged into something stronger 
 and more absolute than friendly or even fraternal love. 
 The whole passion of his life centred in Hope Vennard. 
 How it had come about he could hardly tell. But the 
 strong manhood in him asserted itself. He found his 
 desires eager and vehement. He glanced tremblingly 
 adown the future, and saw the hard fight before him.
 
 LOVE. 171 
 
 There was an impassable barrier between. Another 
 hand had placed it there. 
 
 It may shock you, but in these first moments he 
 almost hated his poor old father lying in the grave. 
 Forgive him. It was so- hard to bear ! And God 
 knows how truly he repented all these weak, passion- 
 stained hours. But to feel himself Hope Vennard's 
 equal in every point, to have the consciousness that 
 he might win her, and be held back by this, was too 
 bitter ! 
 
 Life would be too perfect with this one delicious 
 dream realized. He hardly dared think of such joy. 
 No, it was a land he should only behold from mountain- 
 tops, but never reach. 
 
 And Hope, unconscious of this, made herself sweeter 
 every day. For him, alone. As a little girl, pleasing 
 him had been her first duty. Now it grew into some- 
 tiring tenderer. I do not know as she understood her- 
 self why his approbation was so much to her, why she 
 treasured every smile, why she spurred up Joe's latent 
 energies to make home more attractive. 
 
 Hope Vennard's nature had that delicate finish, call 
 it tact, if you will, though that hardly expresses it, the 
 rare faculty of understanding and meeting the moods of 
 another. Joe lacked this entirely ! Some things she 
 avoided from a sort of dumb terror, like admitting her 
 knowledge of Stephen's secret ; but in so many respects
 
 172 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 she was deficient in that womanly adaptiveness that 
 renders some so charming ! More than once she had 
 been made absolutely cross and miserable by its exercise 
 in Hope. And through these years she had come to 
 perceive that her vague dreams respecting Stephen 
 could never be reality. She could see the inharmonious- 
 ness of their natures that while his had broadened and 
 deepened, while he had grown to be the perfect gentle- 
 man, she had taken on few new graces. Hope played 
 and sang to him ; when she met with a choice little 
 poem, she read it aloud, or, better still, repeated it in 
 her rich, enchanting tones, just at twilight, when it was 
 most effective. She embroidered slippers, or put his 
 initials in the corners of pocket handkerchiefs, with her 
 dainty needle, that seemed endowed with magic. If she 
 twined a flower in her hair, it drooped in the most 
 exquisite manner. Everything she touched grew lovelier 
 from the contact. 
 
 And then she was in the first flush of girlhood, Joe 
 fading in her" thirties. Yet it must be confessed the 
 years improved her, or else Hope's influence. I think 
 the young girl, in the lavish generosity of her nature, 
 would have endowed Joe with half her beauty, and half 
 her gifts, had such a thing been possible. As it was, 
 she always brought her out into the best light, when Joe 
 was not sullen and ungracious, as she never could be 
 long with Hope.
 
 LOVE. 173 
 
 And her eyes at last saw what both were unconscious 
 of betraying. There had always been a little dull 
 jealousy regarding Hope. Yet Stephen seldom petted 
 her as one naturally might a child, and Hope had been 
 shy in this one respect, though free enough in all others. 
 But the certainty had come gradually upon Joe. first 
 that Stephen could never love her, and then that he 
 loved another. It roused her to a sort of angry despera- 
 tion. How dared Stephen think of the child, when his 
 hand was red with the father's blood ! 
 
 For all this time the belief had clung stubbornly to 
 Joe that she alone had solved the mystery. I am not 
 sure but it rendered her the more persistently tender 
 towards him, knowing there was one thing that his new 
 life and position could never efface, a deed that brought 
 him down to the lowest level. She had received Hope 
 the more kindly because she felt Stephen owed her some 
 amends, and she was willing to share his burden. But 
 that any warmer interest should exist, seemed monstrous 
 even to her narrow mind. 
 
 Yet the years had been very pleasant to them all, 
 interspersed with an occasional visit to New York, the 
 first of which had been the grandest holiday in Joe's life. 
 Many quiet little home pleasures had brightened the 
 time, for Stephen had truly endeavored to make them 
 both happy. He had meant to devote his whole life to 
 this object. Every indulgence was lavished upon Hope.
 
 174 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 If she had so willed, she might have reigned a queen. 
 She was neither imperious nor selfish ; she liked better 
 to give than to receive ; and since in so many things she 
 must be a recipient, she gave daily of her abundant 
 sweetness. 
 
 And so they came around to March to a time that 
 was always a little festival. They were rather late at 
 breakfast, for Joe had been suffering from a severe cold 
 for several days. As Stephen rose from the table he 
 said, 
 
 "Hope, run up to my room and bring me a roll of 
 drawings lying on my desk. I forgot them." 
 
 Hope was off like a flash, up to the apartment before 
 Joe had found the energy to say, 
 
 "Why, you laid them in the book-case last night, 
 Stephen, after you finished the model." 
 
 " Did I ? I believe you're right, though ; " and as he 
 went to the sitting-room, he called out, "They're down 
 here, Hope." 
 
 She met him at the doorway, flushed and smiling. 
 He was slowly buttoning his coat. 
 
 " Too bad ! " he began, with a smile. "I'm growing 
 old and forgetful." 
 
 "Are you?" There was a sort of merry light in her 
 face. 
 
 "Do you know what day it is?" he asked. 
 
 "My birthday."
 
 LOVE. 175 
 
 "And what do you want, girlie? I ought to have 
 thought sooner, and given you a party." 
 
 " Next year you may. I shall be a woman grown 
 then. So don't be too lavish, for I have a fancy I shall 
 live to be a venerable dame, and there's a many birth- 
 days from seventeen to seventy." 
 
 " Seventeen ! " he repeated, looking her over. Hard- 
 ly medium size, slender and round, with pliant, shapely 
 limbs, and the fair face full of softest pencillings. How 
 wonderfully beautiful it was ! The tiny veins filling 
 with the lightest emotion, making her flush with a 
 thought ; the tender, luminous eyes ; and the ripe, full 
 mouth inviting caresses with its dainty curves. 0, if 
 she could be his ! He drew a long, long breath. 
 
 " Does it frighten you the prospect of my growing 
 old ? You look so grave." 
 
 He placed both arms around her, and, yielding to the 
 half-unconscious pressure, her head sunk upon his 
 breast. 
 
 "No, it was not that." His voice had a strange, 
 strangled sound, and then he paused for many seconds. 
 
 " Something came in my mind just then a subject 
 that has troubled me sorely. Help me to decide, 
 Hope." 
 
 " If I can." 
 
 " Hope," the voice was tremulous as well as husky, 
 now, "suppose one man committed a deadly sin
 
 176 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 against another, in one of those evil moments of life when 
 temptation was strong, and human nature weak. It 
 changed the man's whole course, deprived him of home, 
 caused him much suffering ; but if the other repented 
 sincerely, humbly, and made all the restitution in his 
 power, do you think he could be forgiven?" 
 
 " Why not, Stephen ? " 
 
 " O, you do not understand," and he roused himself. 
 " What if it had been you. If some one had wronged 
 you bitterly, deprived you of every pleasure and com- 
 fort, sent you into the world " 
 
 "An outcast, a beggar, as I was. And Mr. For- 
 syth wronged me. No, don't speak. Has he come 
 back?" 
 
 That answered Stephen Dane's purpose as an illustra- 
 tion. " Well, if he had returned," he went on, hurried- 
 ly, " if he made or was willing to make all the repara- 
 tion in his power, could you forgive him ? " 
 
 "I could not forget that he had sinned against an- 
 other as well. Sometimes one feels the wrongs of 
 one's friends more keenly than one's own. And poor 
 mamma ! " 
 
 Stephen struck his clenched hand to his forehead. 
 The pulses in his temple throbbed with passionate 
 anguish. Yes, if she knew all, she would hate him for 
 his father's crime. 
 
 " You couldn't forgive him then ? " There was a
 
 LOVE. 177 
 
 despairing entreaty in his tone, something that pleaded 
 powerfully, but could not hope. 
 
 "It would be hard, but I should do it at last, because 
 it was right. Only I couldn't love him." 
 
 " No ; a man must be wild to expect it. A blind, 
 weak fool ! O, Hope, there is just such a man in the 
 world, and he cannot feel satisfied with the forgiveness 
 he wants the love. His life looks so barren without it ! 
 But it is right. God means every sin shall be atoned 
 for by its kind. Dear, it is cruel for me to torment 
 you." 
 
 His manner moved her strangely. 
 
 "It is Mr. Forsyth," she said. "I forgive him be- 
 cause you plead for him, because I " she was about 
 to add, " because I love you," in its simplest fashion ; 
 and then, with a great rush of feeling, that drowned out 
 every other thought, she knew she could never utter the 
 words again until he asked for them. The innocence 
 of ignorance was gone, and love was almost shamed into 
 .guilt by the suddenness of the revelation ; so she stood 
 trembling in his arms. 
 
 He mistook her agitation. 
 
 "Xo," he answered, "it is not Mr. Forsyth. I don't 
 think he will ever be so far repentant" with a grim, 
 hard smile. " It was another man." 
 
 Hope's breath came hard and rapid. Stephen felt it 
 against his heart. "Forgive me," he said, softly. 
 
 " No, you have never sinned against me."
 
 178 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 "If I had?" 
 
 For answer she raised her face until it met his, and 
 kissed him. A vague suspicion entered his mind, but he 
 dared not even give it room. Then he put her away 
 from him, and walked slowly through the hall, bewil- 
 dered. If it was possible to believe ! 
 
 Hope threw herself on the sofa, and buried her head 
 deep in the pillow. The burning face, with the temples 
 throbbing so wildly from an emotion that was neither 
 fear nor expectation, but something quite new and over- 
 whelming. She could not think. She only breathed 
 until Joe called. 
 
 "Do you know it is almost nine, Hope? What are 
 you doing ? " 
 
 Hope ran for her hat and shawl, gathered up her 
 books, and was off to school. The wild March blast 
 blew in her face, but she never heeded it. The thick 
 gray skies lowered about her, yet she was insensible to 
 their influence. She could not seem to waken herself 
 from the strange spell. 
 
 Joe had the house to herself all day. Ivaty would 
 not let her do any work, but settled her on the sofa, and 
 tied up her aching head with a napkin dripping with 
 aromatic vinegar ; and there Hope found her on her 
 return at three in the afternoon. She petted her a little 
 while. There was something magnetic in Hope's 
 fingers, as well as her smile. And to-day, a wonderful 
 lifjht in her face that startled Joe.
 
 LOVE. 179 
 
 " What is the matter ? " she asked, at length. 
 
 " Nothing. I am seventeen, you know. I ought to 
 look different." 
 
 " I don't see why," was Joe's pettish rejoinder, think- 
 ing of her own lost and unlovely youth. Yet at seven- 
 teen she had dreamed. How vain and idle it had 
 proved ! 
 
 Stephen, coming in, found Hope kneeling beside his 
 cousin, one white, slender hand in Joe's raven hair. 
 
 " There ! " he exclaimed, dropping a box into the 
 other. 
 
 She opened it with a child's eager delight. A beauti- 
 ful set of pearls. 
 
 " O, you are so good isn't he, Joe? I wanted 
 pearls so much ! A thousand thanks ! " 
 
 Then their eyes met, and hers drooped, while a dainty 
 hue flitted over her face. 
 
 "I'm sorry you are sick, Joe," she went on, to hide 
 her embarrassment. " We ought to have a good gay 
 time, for one can never be seventeen again." 
 
 " No ; " and the tears overflowed Joe's eyes. The 
 world seemed wide, and weary, and desolate. 
 
 She came out to dinner, though Hope took the head 
 of the table. Stephen watched her with a new interest, 
 and, like Joe, thought something strangely beguiling 
 had taken possession of her. It was not so much in 
 what she said as what she did, and even her very 
 silence was expressive. 
 12
 
 180 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 The night closed in with a storm. Joe's headache 
 grew worse ; perhaps, too, there was an undefined pain 
 in her heart, that could have no name. As if she felt the 
 storm, that was to overwhelm her some day, slowly 
 coming on, and she must gather up her forces to resist 
 it. She cowered pitifully in the dumb anguish of mental 
 as well as physical pain, and wanted darkness and soli- 
 tude. I do not know that she prayed for any courage 
 or strength ; she had no faith just then. 
 
 When Hope could keep her on the sofa no longer, 
 she accompanied her to her sleeping-room. Joe sub- 
 mitted to the ministrations of the soft fingers, because 
 she felt too weak and miserable to resist ; but once in 
 bed, she would not allow Hope to remain. 
 
 It seemed so odd for the young girl to spend that 
 whole evening with Stephen I They were so rarely 
 alone, except for some few stray moments I This very 
 distance had made love stronger and keener. 
 
 She took her sewing and went on quietly, now and 
 then giving Stephen a furtive glance. lie sat just before 
 the grate, they always used the grate in this room ; 
 it was his fancy, and now, with his head a little 
 bowed, he was peering into the ruddy glare. Hope 
 studied the broad shoulders, the clustering chestnut 
 curls, the proud, almost massive head. He was so 
 good, so strong, that it rested her to look at him. And 
 then she thought of their morning's talk. What had it 
 meant? All day she had been wondering if it was possi-
 
 LOVE. 181 
 
 ble that Mr. Forsyth had returned. But, then, he 
 could have nothing to do with her. 
 
 Stephen turned suddenly, and caught the glance of 
 her steadfast eyes. Tney did not even waver, so intent 
 was she. 
 
 " A dull birthday, Hope. Next year we must have 
 the party." 
 
 " You give me something better than parties every day 
 of my life," she said, gravely. w lt has been a long, 
 bright holiday since I have known you." 
 
 "Has it? I am glad. I meant it to be." 
 
 She came and stood beside him, moved by some sud- 
 den impulse. He glanced searchingly into her face. 
 Was this a girlish whim, or did it have a deeper 
 meaning ? 
 
 "Stephen," she said, "will you tell me more about 
 the man you spoke of this morning ? " 
 
 " Does he interest you ? It has been a perplexing 
 question to me, how far he had a right to take for- 
 giveness, even." 
 
 " He should take it just as freely as it was extended 
 to him. And if he repented truly, he in some sort 
 earned the forgiveness." 
 
 " God knows he did. Hope, do you believe forgive- 
 ness washes away sin ? " 
 
 "Truly and fully." 
 
 " And that blight effaced by years of earnest endeavor
 
 182 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 to do rightly and deal justly, raises him once more to 
 the ranks of his fellow-men ? " 
 
 " I wish you would tell me the story, Stephen." 
 
 "No, I cannot. It is another person's secret, too. 
 The story of a sad, gnarled, wretched life, that might 
 have been so much better. Two lives merged into one, 
 as it were ; the later always trying to make amends for 
 the earlier. And when the toil was done, the justifica- 
 tion worked out as far as human, hands could do it, you 
 think this poor, burdened soul might dare to taste the 
 cup of happiness held to his lips ? " 
 
 She could not tell how it was, but she connected him 
 with the story. Something in his past life that had 
 gone wrong, a mistake crime she could not impute to 
 him. The effects of this had shadowed his life. If she 
 could banish this cloud ! 
 
 " Yes," she said, resolutely. " If God brings happi- 
 ness to any man or woman, after a long and sore punish- 
 ment, and the proud soul casts it aside, it is blackest 
 ingratitude." 
 
 " I think God has brought it to me ; " low and softly, 
 drawing her down on his knee, and enfolding her with 
 his arms. The one home in the wide world to her. 
 
 He had been struggling fiercely with himself all day, 
 carrying about a certainty that Hope Vennard loved him. 
 Jf she did, nothing could justify him in making her un- 
 happy. True, she was young, and had seen little of the
 
 LOVE. 183 
 
 world. There might be others The hard grip jealousy 
 gave his heart told him how strong and dominant his 
 love was, how resolved to gain its object. All of life 
 was as nothing compared to this one little girl. Yet he 
 had forced himself into a patient mood before his return 
 home, resolved to wait without one overt act, until he 
 read her secret. If he became necessary to her, the 
 question would be decided by something higher than 
 merely his own wishes. 
 
 Holding her there, his reasoning all went to the winds. 
 The warm, fragrant breath upon his cheek, the red of 
 the sweet lips, made redder by the glow of the fire-light, 
 the drooping lids, with their long fringes hiding some 
 secret in the eyes, he was but a man, after all. 
 
 "Hope, I love you." 
 
 Only a whisper a breath. It was so deathly still 
 afterwards that they could hear their hearts beat. 
 
 " What is it ? " and now his voice trembled with its 
 vehement passion. 
 
 "What can it be, Stephen? Only one thing." 
 
 " You love me ? " 
 
 " I love you." 
 
 The story of both lives was told. Tender kisses and 
 happy silence. 
 
 Why need she know that miserable history ? Surely 
 God would not hold him answerable for the sin of 
 another. And now his whole heart, his whole exist-
 
 184 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 ence, should make it up to Hope. No wish should ever 
 be left ungratified, no want experienced. For the past, 
 let it go. He shook it off like an old garment, and sat 
 there enfranchised by love. All the long-repressed 
 strength and sweetness of his nature came out now. He 
 drank such delicious draughts of happiness that heart 
 and brain blazed up into a subtile flame. Why, he had 
 just learned what it was to live ! 
 
 He would have lingered there until morning but for 
 Hope. Consciousness came to her first. The fire in 
 the grate had fallen into a sleepy smoulder. Katy had 
 long since locked the doors and gone to bed. And now 
 Hope pleaded for a release. 
 
 He stood up at length, with his arm still around her. 
 He took her to the light, and studied her face, full of 
 bashful blushes. 
 
 "You are mine," he said, exultantly. "And if no 
 dearer tie should come between us, you would still be 
 mine. If it was forbidden in this world that I should 
 call you by the sweetest of all names, wife, you could 
 never give the right to another. Is it not so ? " 
 
 W I am yours for all time, Stephen ; " and there was a 
 strong and solemn cadence in her voice. 
 
 "Thank God!" ' 
 
 She went to her room, but he sat over the dying fire 
 and dreamed.
 
 TWO WOMEN. 185 
 
 X. 
 
 Two WOMEN. 
 
 HOPE remained for her music lesson the next day, 
 and when she came home, dinner was on the 
 table. Her quick eye noticed there was no plate for 
 Stephen. It flashed upon her, as foolish misgivings 
 often do, what if she should never see him again ! 
 
 " Where is Stephen?" she asked, rather fearfully. 
 
 M Gone to Washington for several days. He was 
 sorry to start in such a hurry, and left his good-by 
 with me." 
 
 " And you are better, Joe. I'm so glad ! " 
 
 " My head doesn't ache, but I feel miserably weak. I 
 shall be all right in a few days." 
 
 They ate their dinner almost in silence. Hope went 
 to her room afterwards in a curious mood, longing to be 
 alone, and yet strangely lonesome. She glanced out of 
 the window towards the west. The sun was setting in 
 the cold March sky, pale-blue overhead, with streaks of 
 salmon-color deepening into orange. No rose or soft,
 
 186 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 hazy purples to break the monotony with their fleecy 
 drifts. 
 
 Turning, a letter on the table caught her eye. " Hope 
 Vennard," written in the clear, bold hand she knew so 
 well. It was like Stephen Dane's face trusty. She 
 could almost see the honest light in the earnest, brown 
 eyes. 
 
 She pressed it to her lips first, murmuring thanks for 
 his thoughtful regard. Then she dallied with the seal, 
 in her sweet, girlish fashion, quaffing the anticipated de- 
 light slowly. There was the beginning, at length, 
 " Hope, my darling ! " 
 
 A long, long letter. She strained her eyes by the 
 waning light to read the last. It seemed as if he had 
 said nothing before, and all was here. Going back to 
 the night he had found her, lingering slowly over all 
 the years that had fallen between, and coming to his 
 resolve that he would wait until she had seen more of 
 life, of men, that she might be the surer of her own 
 heart, the resolve prudence dictated, and love had 
 failed to keep. Yet there were other thoughts that 
 required consideration. He was so much older. True, 
 he gave her his heart's first and only love ; but if it 
 lacked any freshness that she would miss in days to 
 come, any fervor of youth that she might long for, 
 Heaven only knew how sorely it would pain him to feel
 
 TWO WOMEN. 187 
 
 that he had over-persuaded her in his selfish love. So 
 she must ponder it well. And then he said, 
 
 " Can my darling have perfect faith in me believe 
 me, trust me? There are dark pages in my past, I 
 know a burden laid upon me by another hand ; but 
 turning those leaves, I purpose to begin a new life. 
 Nay, it was begun long ago, and needs but the seal of 
 her love and trust to make it blessed and perfect. Can 
 she give me so much? My heart, my daily thoughts, 
 are all hers. Shall we begin here the life that is to be 
 completed before God and the angels ? " 
 
 There was much more. At the conclusion he decided 
 this brief separation was wise for both. In the mean 
 while she must study her own heart, and rest forever 
 assured, whichever way she felt impelled to act, that her 
 happiness was his first wish. 
 
 I think any woman would have been moved by the 
 tender love. When it was quite dark, Hope leaned her 
 face against the window casing and wept softly why, 
 she could hardly have told. Is there an undertone of 
 sadness in a great joy? For she was very, very happy. 
 
 Presently she remembered Joe, and groped her way 
 out to the hall. Hope was always generous with her 
 pleasures. She wanted some one to share every delight, 
 and since there was no longer a doubt as to their love, 
 she must make Joe glad in her joy. Poor Joe did 
 she ever have a lover ? Not like Stephen no one
 
 188 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 could be so grand and sweet ; but some one who had 
 held her in his arms, and kissed her. 
 
 She opened the door and entered quietly. Joe sat in 
 an arm-chair on one side of the fire. How still and 
 sacred the roam was ! just the time and place for such a 
 confidence. 
 
 Hope knelt down and clasped Joe's hand in both of 
 hers. It was large and red ; no amount of care ever 
 made it soft and white. She caressed it tenderly ; then, 
 burying her face in Joe's lap, she murmured with a 
 tremulousness that sounded not unlike sobs, 
 
 w O, Joe, he loves me, he loves me ! " 
 
 Joe started, and sat upright. " Not Stephen ! " she 
 exclaimed in a quick, sharp tone. 
 
 " Yes, Stephen. Why not ? I am not good enough 
 for him, but then no one is. And I can give him 
 youth, and beauty, and love. I can make him happy." 
 
 For a moment Joe's brain whirled in helpless terror. 
 The blow had come, and she was not prepared. We 
 may think over an emergency, and fancy ourselves 
 strong ; but we cannot be sure until the test, like a gal- 
 vanic shock, is applied to the unknown weak spot, and 
 the whole body reels and quivers. 
 
 "What is it? O, Joe!" and Hope started at the 
 dilating eyes and ashen face. 
 
 " You can't marry him ! " she gasped. " God's curse 
 would be on it. He had no right to your love he 
 knows it."
 
 TWO WOMEN. 189 
 
 "He has every -right." Hope sprang up and poised 
 her golden-crowned head with lofty pride. "Did he not 
 take me to his heart and home when I was an outcast? 
 Think of the happy years he has showered upon me ! 
 And shall I make him no return? O, Joe, you are 
 wild, indeed ! He has done everything for me, and I 
 am proud to-night to feel that I love him and he 
 deserves it." 
 
 I do not know that I can make you understand 
 Josephine Dane. She was not purely vindictive ; she 
 took no delight in thwarting Stephen or Hope. Only 
 now that the fiery trial had come, the fierce flames 
 proved too much for her. Stephen's sin brought him 
 nearer her level, and she felt she would rather go on 
 always in this fashion than have him so completely 
 engrossed by another. She loved him, too. She had 
 suffered for him. What did this child know ? Besides, 
 the whole world was Hope's to choose from, and she had 
 only Stephen. Just as you have sometimes seen a dull, 
 smouldering fire blaze out, so the woman's nature burst 
 its ordinary bonds. 
 
 "Yes," she said hoarsely, " he did everything because 
 he knew whose hand brought you where you were. He 
 owed you something, Hope Vennard ! Your loss was 
 his gain, and now he seeks to make it up in this fashion. 
 God will not let him, I tell you. It is Stephen who is 
 wild ! " 
 
 A horrible fear flashed over Hope. The room spun
 
 190 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 round, and lightning sparks danced before her eyes. 
 The debt Stephen owed, the sin he had committed, the 
 mystery concerning her father's death, and the strict 
 charge Joe had given her, so long ago, never to mention 
 it his secret, that could not be confessed to her 
 
 " Joe," Hope knelt at her feet and clasped her hands 
 again, "I must hear it now. If you have any pity, 
 tell me the truth. What does Stephen know of my 
 father's death?" 
 
 "All," Joe responded, with a fierce, sullen despera- 
 tion. 
 
 " O, no, not all; " and Hope's voice was hysterical. 
 " Why, think a little, Joe ; it was murder ! Would 
 Stephen witness such a deed, and let the miscreant go 
 unpunished? No, you are mistaken." 
 
 "Life was sweet to him," Joe said, looking into the 
 fire. 
 
 " O, Joe ! " It was the wail of a heart rent asunder. 
 And then there was an awful, deathly silence. 
 
 Presently Hope rose. Her face was icily white and 
 cold. A blue line for the rosy lips Stephen had kissed 
 last night. Her whole figure took on a rigidness as if 
 she had been frozen. 
 
 " Joe," her voice was strangely hollow, "I want 
 you to tell me the whole truth. I promised to trust 
 him, and it is basely wicked to break my word ; but the 
 silence, and waiting, will kill me. God knows I forgive 
 him. I think he has suffered bitterly, and repented
 
 TWO WOMEN. 191 
 
 deeply for any evil moment of passionate anger. 
 Begin." 
 
 "I can't." Joe writhed in sickly fear. 
 
 "You shall, Josephine Dane. Either this, or take 
 back the charge you have made, and let me have 
 Stephen, my own love, once again." 
 
 She transfixed Joe with her resolute eye. As if 
 under the influence of some strange spell, she told all 
 she knew. Her sincerity impressed Hope powerfully. 
 And yet no sound escaped her lips as the story ended. 
 She was stunned. 
 
 " You couldn't marry him?" Joe said. 
 
 " No, O, no ! Poor Stephen. Joe, did you ever 
 hate him?" 
 
 "No; I told you I loved him. And if he was in a 
 prison cell, I would find my way to him. No crime 
 could ever taint him in my eyes. And so, I love him 
 better than you." 
 
 " O," she moaned, M it is so hard ! so cruel ! Why 
 did God let him ! God is so strong, you know, and has 
 promised to help us in the hour of temptation. Why 
 didn't he cry to Him ! You are sure, Joe ! You didn't 
 dream this wild, horrible thing ! " 
 
 Joe Dane had never told a wilful lie in her whole life. 
 It angered her to be doubted or disbelieved. In her 
 way she felt fully as miserable as Hope. All the ache 
 and agony she had borne for years, all the pangs of 
 silent endurance, the coldly treated love, the hope
 
 192 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 trampled in the dust, a pale corse despoiled of its 
 beauty, the wasted youth and the irrepressible longing, 
 joining in one mighty throe, burst the bonds of the slow- 
 travailing soul asunder. She sprang up, and leaned her 
 elbow on the low marble mantel, to steady herself. 
 
 " Do you suppose I liked to believe such a thing of the 
 man / loved ? Do you think it was nothing to have 
 this terrible secret weighing upon me, and yet bear it 
 gladly for his sake? I am not beautiful, like you; I 
 can't take on the gfaces that make you so winsome ; I 
 haven't your soft voice, nor your sweet eyes. But I am 
 a woman, and can love." 
 
 " Poor Joe ! " Hope came up to her, and laid her 
 trembling hand on the broad shoulder. "Yes, you have 
 suffered the most, and you have the best right to him. 
 There'll be one blessed night for me to remember. And 
 when I am gone, you and Stephen will settle into your 
 old ways, growing tenderer to each other. No one will 
 ever come between you again, for his heart is all yours, 
 save the little corner I crept into. Don't turn me quite 
 out, Joe. For I shall like to think of you both when 
 I am away, and cannot see you ; " and Hope's quivering 
 voice broke down. 
 
 " Going away ? " Joe exclaimed, in a dazed, wondering 
 manner. " Where can you go ? " 
 
 " I must ; I must. Think if it had been your father 
 and the man you loved ! You couldn't take his poor 
 hand, knowing the stain there was upon it ; and you
 
 TWO WOMEN. 193 
 
 would rather go away and break your own heart, than 
 stay and wound his by coldness. And I think it would 
 pain him terribly to know we had talked this over." 
 
 "O!" and Joe wrung her hands. "What have 
 I done? Why did you make me tell the story, 
 Hope?" 
 
 " It is all right and best. What if I had learned it 
 after I was his wife ; " and she shuddered. " But 
 if I could stay, we might betray our secret. I haven't 
 your reticence. Some time, when he questioned me 
 closely, I should be compelled to tell him. I forgive 
 him now. Poor Stephen ! It has been a hard burden 
 for him to carry. But" and her voice faltered, 
 "I don't know how I could see him again." 
 
 " I ought not to have told you ! " Joe was struck 
 with a latent remorse. In this tangled path she had 
 lost her way. 
 
 "No; as I said, it is all right. It won't kill me 
 now, for I am young and strong ; and I think God 
 meant that I should know it just at this time. 
 He wasn't quite sure' that it would be wisest for 
 us to marry. I can answer him now, without any 
 difficulty." 
 
 The sad, patient face and dreary voice smote Joe 
 bitterly. Yet jealous love and a certain rugged feel- 
 ing of right upheld her. 
 
 They stood there, looking at each other in dumb 
 anguish, for the sake of the man they both loved. Fate
 
 194 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 ties hard and troublesome knots in her webs now and 
 then. 
 
 " You see it will be best for me to go." 
 
 " But where ? There's Mr. Adams " 
 
 "No, not there." Another shiver came over Hope. 
 "It must be quite among strangers, and where he will 
 not find me. A little while ago, Joe, I could have gone 
 away with an Opera Troupe ; a gentleman liked my 
 vqjce so very much. So I can sing and teach music. 
 Stephen has made me able to take care of myself. I 
 can't tell now what I shall do but something. God 
 will help me." 
 
 " Hope," Joe said, much moved, " when Stephen 
 returns it will be like the brothers going back without 
 Benjamin. How shall I meet him ? He will hate and 
 despise me for what I have done. Yet I think he was 
 wrong. I can't seem to make it fair to my mind. It's 
 like seething a kid in its mother's milk." 
 
 Yes." Hope's pale lips quivered. " We'll talk of it 
 to-morrow. Good night, Joe. I feel tired sick." 
 
 " Good night ; " and the two women kissed each other. 
 
 Then Hope crept off up stairs. It seemed at first as 
 if her feet would refuse to carry her. She did not even 
 get a light, but in the darkness and silence found her 
 way into bed, and lay there shivering and exhausted. 
 It had been such a great blow. To lose confidence in 
 Stephen, to think of the fearful crime he had committed 
 for that paltry sum of money ! And how he had grown
 
 TWO WOMEN. 195 
 
 rich She wanted to believe it an accident, but her 
 whole nature seemed to revolt against this, much as she 
 loved and pitied Stephen. And that he could have 
 taken her to his heart ! 
 
 She did not sleep at all. Nearly all night she lay 
 with her eyes wide open. After midnight the moon 
 came up and flooded the room with its cold, pale light. 
 Sometimes a fiery flash of fever tortured, her, then a 
 chill, that nearly froze the blood in her veins. It 
 seemed to her she lived ages in that one night. 
 
 Joe sat by the fire. In her confused and wandering 
 way she was trying to unravel th*e tangled web, and see 
 who was right. Just now she loved Stephen with a 
 sort of tigerish fierceness. To see another woman his, 
 to have him lavish caresses upon her, to be put aside 
 completely, was what she could not endure. Pity her, 
 too. Life is so hard to some of us, and love is cruel. 
 
 Two very strange days passed over them. They 
 made talk of common occurrences ; they went through 
 with their ordinary duties ; but one subject was not 
 touched upon. They avoided each other's eyes, and 
 somehow both came to have a guilty feeling, as if they 
 were about some crime. 
 
 On the third day Hope did not go to school as usual. 
 At ten, after spending an hour in her room, she came 
 down in her thick gray dress. There was a stony, 
 settled expression in her face, a sinking of the lines 
 about the mouth, and a dark shade under the eyes. 
 Even her voice had changed. 
 13
 
 196 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 " Joe," she began, with a hollow, tremulous sound, 
 "are you well enough to go out for a walk? It's a 
 lovely day." 
 
 It was bright and sunny. 
 
 " I could." Joe glanced up wistfully. Why ? " 
 
 "Don't ask me any questions, please. It is best for 
 you not to know anything. Don't tell Stephen of our 
 talk. Comfort him all you can, and make him forget 
 me. And now put on your bonnet and go out for an 
 hour. Just let me kiss you once. You have been so 
 kind to me ! I want you to forgive me for all the pain 
 and suffering I've cause'd you. I know now what it is." 
 
 But the kiss ended in sobs. Since that fatal night 
 Hope had been too deeply stunned for tears. They 
 both wept. 
 
 "O, Hope," Joe's voice was broken and repentant, 
 " stay. Don't go. I'll give up all claim on Stephen. 
 He may love you ; he may devote his whole life to you, 
 and I'll look on, never saying a word. Only stay." 
 
 "It isn't that, Joe. It's the insurmountable barrier 
 God placed between us. I should make Stephen mis- 
 erable if I staid." 
 
 "But what will you do? " 
 
 w It is best you should not know. At present I am 
 provided for. I shall never do anything for which you 
 or Stephen would be sorry. I cannot tell you more 
 than that. Now you must go." 
 
 Joe gave her a wild, beseeching look. Hope was the
 
 TWO WOMEN. 197 
 
 stronger. She brought Joe's shawl and bonnet, wrapped 
 her with tender care, led her through the hall, and gave 
 her one convulsive kiss. When the door closed, Hope 
 groped her way back as if she had been blind. For a 
 moment the whole sacrifice appeared useless. And then 
 the room seemed to run with seas of crimson blood. 
 A sick shudder crept over her. 
 
 Presently, a hackman drove up to the door. Katy 
 came in wide-eyed wonder. 
 
 "You're not goin' away, Miss Hope?" 
 
 "Yes. I want you to give this to Miss Joe, and this 
 t6 Mr. Dane when he comes home," and she handed 
 her a little packet. 
 
 "You'm not goin' to 'lope?" and Katy started in 
 affright. 
 
 The man had brought down her trunk. She gave 
 Katy's black hand a fond, lingering squeeze, uttered a 
 broken good-by, and before Katy could recover herself, 
 the hack dashed away. She went back to the kitchen, 
 talking out her astonishment with herself. 
 
 On Joe's return, she brought the two notes ; but Joe 
 was in no condition to talk. Now that the step had 
 been taken, a wild consternation filled every pulse. She 
 looked helplessly at Katy ; she stretched out her hands 
 in a strange terror ; the whole world seemed drifting 
 away. She tried to call on Hope, on Stephen, but her 
 tongue was paralyzed. And then came darkness, 
 peace.
 
 198 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Stephen's business being ended sooner than he ex- 
 pected, he hurried home, eager to see Hope, his brain 
 filled with delicious visions. He found Joe in the 
 stupor of fever, quite unconscious, and a note from 
 Hope that gave him a shock half depriving him of his 
 faculties. He had found Joe's also, and read it. Hope 
 had worded it so carefully that no one could have 
 suspected Joe of being aware of her intentions. 
 
 To Stephen she said she had been studying her own 
 heart, and found that becoming his wife was an impossi- 
 bility. She was sorry for having misled him, but she 
 had not then known her true feelings. She begged him 
 to forget her she was not worth his remembrance. 
 He had performed a more than friend's duty towards 
 her, and she implored him to believe her grateful. It 
 would be useless to search for her, she said, as, if he 
 found her, a return would be quite out of the question. 
 The whole tone of the note was curt and cold. It 
 pained Stephen cruelly. That to Joe was so tender ! 
 
 Poor Hope ! Her heart had well nigh broken over 
 them both. If she had said to Stephen half of what she 
 longed to, she could never have gone away. In her rare 
 delicacy she could not humiliate him by even hinting at 
 his secret. And so she had guarded every word, been 
 cold when her whole seul was overflowing with love, 
 precise and formal when every nerve was in a wild rack 
 of anguish. More than once she had paused in the
 
 TWO WOMEN. 199 
 
 writing, and believed herself unable to proceed, until an 
 inexorable fate goaded her on. 
 
 For a fortnight Josephine Dane's senses were closed to 
 all outward events. Occasionally she was restless ; but 
 then she would only wring her hands and exclaim in 
 pathetic tones, " O, dear ! O, dear ! " The rest of the 
 time she lay in a stupor, taking what they gave her, but 
 never returning the least sign of recognition. Stephen 
 watched over her with a strange, yearning love, such as 
 one gives to a helpless child. And for some reason he 
 was doubly anxious to have her live. 
 
 What the soul passed through in that time poor Joe 
 never remembered, and perhaps it was as well. There 
 are some awful secrets in nature that it is not wise to 
 penetrate. A confused, troublous pain was all the im- 
 pression she had, until one day she opened her eyes, 
 sadly weak, but with a clear vision. This was her 
 room. By degrees the furniture grew familiar. Oppo- 
 site there, by the window, sat a placid woman, past 
 middle life, her soft brown hair gathered under a plain 
 cap, her face sweet and patient. She was sewing slow- 
 ly, pausing now and then to glance out on the street. 
 Through the window floated a quivering haze of golden 
 sunshine. Beyond, the blue sky bounded all. 
 
 Joe drew a long breath. So heavenly peaceful ! If 
 she could lie there forever at rest but she had a vague 
 idea that there was something else to her life. A pain 
 and dreariness, a want that could not be satisfied.
 
 200 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Then she wondered how it would be to die. Was 
 God as kind and pitiful as they said? Did He take 
 poor, wearied souls in His arms, and whisper over them 
 some words of everlasting peace? For life was thorny. 
 Rose-lined paths were but for few. None had ever blos- 
 somed in her way. And then she asked the vague ques- 
 tion we all ask at some time, why she had been born 
 at all. 
 
 Presently old memories began to throng about her. 
 Had Hope come from school yet? Ah ! what was this 
 sharp pang? Was Hope going away? What did they 
 say that night? Perhaps Stephen had found her. 
 
 By degrees Joe recalled all, just as if she had fallen, 
 asleep yesterday, and wakened this morning. The sun 
 was going over westward ; so it could not be morning. 
 And why was this strange woman here ? 
 
 She saw the light fading out, but asked no question. 
 She did not even stir, until a step in the hall roused her. 
 A light tap at the door, which was opened immediately 
 afterwards, and some one came to her bedside. The 
 woman by the window rose, and put aside her sewing. 
 
 Joe held out her hand, though, for the weak tears in 
 her eyes, she could not see. But through her pale lips 
 trembled the word, " Stephen ! " 
 
 " Dear Joe ! " He bent over and kissed her tenderly. 
 
 "How long have I been sick?" she asked.
 
 TWO WOMEN. 201 
 
 "Nearly three weeks. But you are improving now; 
 have been for several days." 
 
 " Have you found her, Stephen ? " 
 
 There was a convulsive pressure of Joe's hand, and 
 the strong man swayed almost as if he would have 
 fallen. 
 
 " I have not searched." 
 
 w Why ? " A mortal terror seized Joe. 
 
 " Some day you shall know. It was her own wish. 
 You are too weak to be excited by it now." 
 
 No. What did you think ? " 
 
 "Katy suggested, it was wild, I know ; but did you 
 ever dream she cared for some one, that she went 
 away with him ? " 
 
 Should she let him believe it? 
 
 " You had no quarrel ? But I need not ask. I saw 
 her note to you. And Katy told me she went in your 
 absence. We must learn to do without her, though God 
 knows we shall miss her sorely." 
 
 " Are you talking to her ? " interposed the nurse. 
 
 " She has recognized me, Mrs. Beswick. She is really 
 better." 
 
 w The doctor, you know, was afraid of excitement." 
 
 " It will not injure me. I shall get well." 
 
 Stephen noticed how inexpressibly dreary the tone 
 was, how utterly devoid of hope ; and it pained him to 
 the heart. They must be more to each other now, since
 
 202 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 the one who could have been so much to both was 
 gone. 
 
 Joe recovered slowly. April came up with her bland 
 airs and wooing sunshine. A faint suggestion of south- 
 ern bloom stealing through the lattice, trees swelling 
 with their buds, and a stray bird now and then piping 
 his lay in a tender voice. What cared she for them all ? 
 What was bird, or bee, or sunshine to her ? 
 
 Never had Stephen been so tender. It might be love, 
 but not the kind that dwelt in his sad eyes, dimly shad- 
 owed forth, for another. She remembered many springs 
 agone, when this fear had first seized her, how she 
 had watched that shady light come and go, and learned 
 too surely that he was drifting away from her. Why 
 had she not ceased to love him? ah, why? When God 
 made a woman's heart hungry for love, did he mean it 
 should go forever unsatisfied? 
 
 By degrees matters' resumed their olden course. Mrs. 
 Beswick went away ; Joe was able to go up arid down 
 stairs, to ride out, and indulge in an occasional walk. 
 Katy petted and scolded her as if she were a child. She 
 seemed so weak and dependent now that she was glad to 
 have some one stronger, on whom she could lean. 
 
 The first surprise and grief occasioned by Hope's de- 
 parture had worn off*. Katy was garrulous, to be sure, 
 and from her Joe learned all that she had missed of 
 Stephen's sorrow. The fond old servant was loud in
 
 TWO WOMEN. 203 
 
 her lamentations, and stubborn in her faith that Hope 
 had gone off with some gallant young lover. Joe feebly 
 said, "I don't think it, Katy. No one ever came to the 
 house that she seemed interested in, or for whom she 
 cared." But Katy still persisted. She had imbued 
 Stephen with this belief, because there was no other that 
 could account so well, not only for the young girl's de- 
 parture, as for the coldness of her note. Joe's dan- 
 gerous illness at this period had roused his fears and 
 sympathies in another direction, and perhaps prevented 
 his yielding to the passionate grief that might otherwise 
 have absorbed him. 
 
 The shock had brought him back to his olden self 
 caused him to think of all that lay between. Had he 
 any real right to Hope's love? Was there not a curse 
 upon his very life, a stain that could never be washed 
 away ? She did not know this ; but all unconsciously 
 she had become an avenger in the hands of God. And 
 since he could not contest this judgment, Stephen Dane 
 bowed his head.
 
 .204 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 XI. 
 
 SAD HEAKTS. 
 
 A SLOW-PASSING summer full of sweets. A 
 quiet house, just as if some one had been carried 
 forth for burial. A yearning and a longing for a pres- 
 ence that came not never would again, they both said, 
 fearfully, to themselves. 
 
 They had fallen into a strange manner of living. Both 
 were reserved, though not from any feeling of pride or 
 selfishness. Indeed, it was a peculiar state, brought 
 about by a peculiar combination. No explanation had 
 ever passed between them. It may appear strange, yet 
 you will sometimes know of two people living together 
 through months of silence, because the right moment 
 passed without the needed words being spoken, and no 
 other ever came. 
 
 Stephen fancied at first that Joe might know more 
 of Hope's heart than he had learned. But all mention 
 of her departure distressed Joe so greatly, that, from 
 natural kindliness, he resolved to avoid it. Each day 
 it seemed to her she was growing more positively afraid
 
 SAD HEARTS. 205, 
 
 of Stephen. She understood, in a vague way, that it 
 was Hope who had drawn them nearer together, who 
 had rounded the sharp points of each nature, and soft- 
 ened the asperities, rendering home such a bright, en- 
 chanting place. There was no one now to make them 
 laugh with gay little sallies ; no one to sing through 
 summer twilights ; no soft arms to steal around her 
 neck, the little hands clasping to make a rest for her 
 chin. " Dear Joe, you are so kind ! " How many times 
 she had heard the words ! Nothing now to break this 
 chilling, awful dread that threw its shadow over the 
 house. 
 
 If Joe had recovered her full strength and sturdiness ; 
 if she could have gone to the stores and to market ; 
 cheapened tradesmen and scolded huckster women ; 
 swept the house and weeded the garden, she might 
 have regained her spirits in some degree. Instead, 
 everything was a burden. She was glad to have Katy 
 relieve her. Some mornings she felt so weary that she 
 did not come down until after Stephen had breakfasted 
 and gone. Then she idled about, dusting the library 
 and parlor, sat down by the open windows, and gazed 
 vacantly at the fur-off, luminous sky. Was there One 
 there who knew what she needed, and would take pity 
 on her? She was so tired with this endless, tangled 
 mass of thought. She was so pained with Stephen's 
 sad face. If she had not told Hope ! 
 
 Consequently, after the first improvement, she fell
 
 206 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 into a hopeless, apathetical state, growing thinner and 
 paler, and so unlike the Joe of other days. Stephen 
 took her to the sea-side ; the air was too strong, and made 
 her cough ; then to pretty inland resorts ; but nothing 
 roused her. She was no great lover of nature ; she had 
 few resources of her own for such a period as this. At 
 times even Stephen's generous care fretted her, and she 
 was cold and ungracious, when her heart was almost 
 breaking with pity and remorse. 
 
 And Stephen, unable to read her heart, bore patiently 
 with her, his own heavy enough. There was with him 
 no lack of subjects for thought. Almost daily he went 
 over the past, looking at its blackness, its foul deeds, 
 and abhorring himself in the deepest humiliation. Yet 
 where could he have made one step different ? A strange 
 fate had led him on, had compelled him, as it were, to 
 bear other burdens than his own. But the most pain- 
 ful of all to him was his utter inability to make restitu- 
 tion. He fancied at times, because he had dared to love 
 Hope, God had set this seal upon his punishment 
 never to know how she fared, or what she might be 
 called upon to suffer. He fairly hated the gold that 
 flowed in upon him so lavishly. He dispensed it with 
 so free a hand that friends were filled with wonder. 
 
 He had made some effort to find Hope, in spite of her 
 request. Not to see her, but to make over to her the 
 portion that was so truly hers. He had supposed she 
 would go to New York, but all search there proved
 
 SAD HEARTS. 207 
 
 fruitless. So there was nothing but endurance, and 
 that is always doubly hard when the light of faith has 
 died out, as it had with him. 
 
 As I said, it was a dreary summer, for all its bloom, 
 and richness, and the variety Stephen was fain to give 
 it. Sometimes it almost seemed to him as if Joe moped 
 in sullen perverseness, and it was difficult to preserve 
 his own equanimity. 
 
 A woman with a different nature could not have 
 hidden her secret so effectually. I question if Joe could, 
 under other circumstances. There were times when she 
 resolved to tell Stephen ; but in their more confidential 
 moments, some wretched indecision held her back. For 
 there was to Joe a strange, awful fear, that chilled her very 
 soul, an almost presentiment if you will, that in a little 
 time neither love nor hate would matter much, to her. 
 
 One August afternoon she went out for a ramble. 
 The air in the house seemed stifling her ; the quiet street, 
 with its infrequent passengers, was lonelier than a desert. 
 The air had been cooled by a shower the preceding even- 
 ing, and w r as fresh and fragrant with the peculiar ripeness 
 of the later summer. Chirping birds, droning bees, 
 and bright winged flies flitted about. A pleasant river 
 sound broke on her ear from the not distant Schuylkill. 
 Boats skimming the water the plash of oars, or the 
 whirl of a brisk little wheel, scattering the spray in every 
 direction. How often she and Hope had sat on the 
 deck, and watched the green shores as they glided by !
 
 208 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 A sound broke on her ear the toll of a bell. Slow 
 and solemn, falling on this clear air, and being carried 
 inconceivable distances, dying sadly out at length over 
 the river. Was some human soul passing over another 
 river ? If a day came when the bells should toll in this 
 manner for her ? 
 
 Joe shuddered. We all cling to life, and are filled 
 with dread in such moments as these, when the awful 
 realities are thrust before our vision. 
 
 Turning a corner, she saw at the end of the street a 
 little chapel. She had heard of the place, but had never 
 been there. The street was shady and cool ; so she 
 wandered on, listening to the slow sound, and thinking 
 some "vague and troubled thoughts. A few persons 
 entered the churchyard gate from time to time ; then 
 the hearse and carriages came up, and Joe quickened 
 her pace. 
 
 The clergyman walked down the aisle in his white 
 robe a young man with a reverent air. His rich, 
 deep voice broke the solemn stillness with that most 
 glorious of all passages from Holy Writ, 
 
 "lam the resurrection and the life" 
 
 Was it the tone, or the words, or the scene? 
 Josephine Dane fell on her knees in the obscure corner 
 she had slipped into, and remained there all through the 
 service. She was not weeping, although she strained 
 her fingers so tightly over her eyes; she was hardly 
 listening. She heard the words like one in a dream,
 
 SAD HEARTS. 209 
 
 and was guided more by the impression they made upon 
 her, than any distinct power inherent in them. A 
 woman this was, for whom the burial service was being 
 said. Husband and children were there. A happy 
 woman, a woman beloved. O, why had not God 
 taken her instead? Of what avail was her poor, 
 starved, miserable life ! 
 
 The clergyman headed the procession again as it 
 moved out of church. Such a kindly, pitying face ! If 
 it would turn once upon her ! 
 
 It did a brief glance, a sort of startled, questioning 
 look. And then Joe bowed her head again until they 
 had all passed, and the last footfall died away on the 
 gravel path outside. She was so weak and weary, it 
 seemed at first as if she could never get home again. 
 
 It was quite late, and Stephen sat on the porch, under 
 the swinging vines. 
 
 "Joe," he said, softly, "you have walked too far." 
 
 His tone unnerved her. She tottered a little, but he 
 caught her in his arms held her there a moment while 
 a sort of convulsive sob shook her. 
 
 " Poor Joe ! If I could do anything to make you 
 well and happy ! You have never been like yourself 
 since she went away." 
 
 He had scarcely uttered Hope's name since her 
 departure. 
 
 There had been a time when one word from Stephen 
 Dane could have made Joe both well and happy. Xow
 
 210 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 it was too late. Only God's cure for burdened souls 
 could ever bring peace to hers. 
 
 It is so strange to come upon one day in our lives 
 when we begin to feel the things of earth slipping away, 
 and cease to care. We hold ourselves almost in awe. 
 
 " No," Joe repeated, vacantly, " I have never been 
 myself since then." 
 
 " If I could find her for your sake." 
 
 "For your own, Stephen. I shall not need any one 
 long." 
 
 A wandering color flushed his face, and his whole 
 frame quivered. 
 
 " You are low spirited, Joe. But you are not re- 
 covering, as I hoped. If I could find her! She is 
 another's perhaps, but she would come to you." 
 
 "She is not another's, I know. I sent her away. 
 Look at me and hate me, Stephen ! " 
 
 Joe's tone was desperate. There was a fixed and 
 stony expression in her eye. 
 
 " You are mistaken. If she had cared to stay, if 
 O, Joe I I loved her ! She knew it. That sent her 
 away. My cruel impatience, my mad, fatal passion ! 
 Strange that the highest and holiest feeling of our 
 nature should rise up and become a curse torment us 
 with unavailing regrets. You don't know anything 
 about it, Joe, thank God ! " 
 
 " Don't I ! " Her voice was hoarse and tremulous, 
 and she broke away from his clasp. " What have you
 
 SAD HEARTS. 211 
 
 and she realized of its torments ! I thinlc if any man 
 had loved me, had held me in his arms, had said the 
 words you did to her, given me the kisses, I could 
 defy all that would come afterwards. To love without 
 these that is where it stings, Stephen ! " 
 
 He glanced at* her in amazement. A dim truth 
 pierced his brain. Far back in the past in another 
 and distant life, he had indulged in a boyish fancy for 
 Joe association mostly. Did God mean to curse him 
 on every hand, drag all these old things and thoughts to 
 light as a punishment ? Did he owe this girl a debt that 
 could be paid only in one way ? 
 
 " Joe," his voice broken with infinite sorrow, " if 
 I have sinned against you, can nothing make amends?" 
 
 "O, Stephen! I don't mean that now. Whatever I 
 may have dreamed in that old, foolish time, my eyes are 
 clear to-day. You have given me all the love that.was 
 in your heart for me. God made her beautiful and 
 wise, me plain and ignorant. I know there are corners 
 in your heart that I could never have filled, true wife as 
 I might have been to you. Somewhere you outgrew 
 me. It isn't so much the name, or the right, it is the 
 fitness, the consciousness of perfect possession." 
 
 "Where have you learned all this, Joe?" for he was 
 startled at the light in her deep* sad eyes. 
 
 "I cannot tell you. It has been coming by slow 
 degrees. May be, as we go on to the other country, 
 we see more clearly." 
 14
 
 212 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Stephen clasped the bowed figure to his heart. There 
 was a struggle with the tears in his voice, as he said, 
 
 "Heaven knows, Joe, I have always given you a 
 brother's love. And wherein I have sinned, God has 
 punished me sorely. I had no right to dream of her." 
 
 " No." Joe raised her head and faced him steadily. 
 " I told her so that night. That was why she went 
 away. She could not stay and be nothing to you. I 
 think her nature was too high and fine ever to "upbraid 
 you by a look. I was wild and jealous, tortured by 
 fierce passions ; but I would have fought it out by my- 
 self if I had not known your secret." 
 
 She was brave enough now. The burden she had 
 carried for him she laid down at last at his feet. 
 
 " What do you know ? " His face was deathly white, 
 his hands trembled, his strong frame shook as with an 
 aguish chill, and the words shivered through his pale 
 lips in gasps. " That horrible secret ! And you have 
 kept silence all these years ! " 
 
 She knelt before him. She clasped his knees with 
 her weak hands, and moaned, 
 
 " I would have borne more than that for your sake, 
 Stephen. Open shame and disgrace could not have 
 estranged me ! " 
 
 " And I was a coward ! But O, Joe, you don't know 
 how hard it was ! It seemed as if God put his poor, 
 weak life into my hands ; and then he was my father, 
 too ! The sins of the fathers are to be visited upon the
 
 SAD HEARTS. 213 
 
 children, and so they come to me, to her. Is there no 
 end to God's judgments ? " 
 
 If Joe had been pale before, a deadly terror crept 
 over her face now, making it ghastly. Her eyes stared 
 in a wild, wandering manner, for there came into her 
 mind a thought that tortured her like a thousand 
 demons. What if all this while Stephen had been 
 more sinned against than sinning? She crouched in a 
 shapeless mass there on the step ; she stretched out her 
 hands imploringly, and cried, 
 
 " Tell me who struck the fatal blow, Stephen not 
 you?" 
 
 "My God, Joe! Did you believe that? Did you 
 tell her? " 
 
 The eyelids sank together, the whole frame lapsed 
 into lifelessness, but the look of passionate pleading 
 still remained. 
 
 Stephen Dane had the weaknesses of humanity. The 
 hot, indignant flash of conscious innocence, so deeply 
 wronged, so outraged, came first. And then her love 
 the words she had said " Open shame and disgrace 
 could not have estranged me " pleaded powerfully for 
 poor Joe. He stooped and gathered her in his arms ; he 
 carried her to her room and laid her tenderly on the 
 bed, chafing the cold hands. 
 
 She opened her eyes in a feeble,, bewildered manner, 
 shrinking as they met his, and cowering in abject 
 terror.
 
 214 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 He stooped and kissed her, forgiving her fully and 
 freely. Had it been as she thought, her silence would 
 have proved her rare, exceeding devotion. 
 
 " Dear Joe," he whispered, " there is no stain of blood 
 on my hand. I hated the man bitterly, but it never 
 came to that. His meanness and injustice exasperated 
 me, and some angry words passed between us. I 
 grudged him his gold, but never his life." 
 
 "It was uncle Archy. O, Stephen ! And "the hor- 
 rible dream has ended. They are both in their graves." 
 
 " Yes. And, since we have come to it, let me justify 
 myself a little, Joe." And then he told her how he 
 had been discharged that fatal afternoon, and gone to 
 the woods ; how he had heard the sullen plash in the 
 water, and upon reaching the spot had erased that one 
 trace of crime ; his finding the money ; his fears and 
 resolves ; his final determination that he at least would 
 not drag the poor old man to justice. Holding her 
 hand all the while, when, in her utter self-abasement, 
 she would have drawn it away. 
 
 " And that I should have believed it against you ! " 
 she moaned. 
 
 " It puzzles me how you could have suspected at 
 first." 
 
 "I will tell you. When I am gone, Stephen, I want 
 you to forget me. J am not worthy of the least remem- 
 brance. Yet I think no crime would ever have black- 
 ened you in my eyes."
 
 SAD HEARTS. 215 
 
 "Must I be less generous than you, Joe?" 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. What a poor, ignorant 
 heathen she had been in those old times ! For now her 
 pale cheek was stained with conscious shame as she de- 
 tailed how she had come in possession of his secret. It 
 appeared so mean and unworthy of any womanhood ! 
 
 He strove to comfort her. It was a proof of his own 
 generosity that he could put by the fierce and bitter 
 pang tearing his heart, as he remembered Hope had 
 listened to this story, and become homeless through its 
 influence. He crowded down his agony, and made his 
 voice both strong and tender for her sake. For there 
 was something exceedingly sad and touching in all this 
 devotion ; he could see she had not acted wholly from 
 selfish motives. Her strong sense of right, though less 
 fine in its perceptions than that of many others, shrank 
 from so abhorrent a union as she believed this would be. 
 
 The supper-bell rang, and Stephen went down alone. 
 He was glad to send Katy to Joe, and, leaning his brow 
 upon his hand, left his cup of tea untasted. He was 
 not conscious of any physical want. His brain was 
 busy with the strange path wherein he had walked, so 
 full of mistakes and misunderstandings. Was God 
 really watching over him, and giving him those things 
 that were best for him? A bleak, barren, desolate life ! 
 The prosperity he had craved, the wealth and the ambi- 
 tions he had so madly longed for, answered sharp, and 
 turned into a curse ! What if he had gone on with that
 
 216 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 old, simple life in Tregony, married Joe, reared up 
 children whose needs would be simply those of the 
 body? Would he have been better, happier? 
 
 O, no, no ! He was blind still, and could not see 
 clearly into God's designs. These pure longings, these 
 high ambitions, that were not, after all, perverted to 
 mere selfish uses, meant something. God knew when 
 he placed them there. And when any soul rose out of 
 its slough, and took upon it a new form, came nearer 
 to the All-wise, surely he saw and cared for it, pitied 
 its griefs and pardoned its mistakes. Some day he 
 should know. He held fast by his faith. Bruised and 
 wounded, agonizing in keenest pain, he would still be- 
 lieve in the God who had brought him thus far through 
 the wilderness. 
 
 He could see wherein he had failed with Hope. He 
 should have told her the truth. It was not his hand 
 that had placed a bar between. But he had been 
 afraid. His coward soul had shrunk from the thought 
 of losing her, the one thing his heart craved. And 
 God, through other agencies, had taken her away. 
 Her soul was too pure and high to mate with anything 
 so stained and worn as his. 
 
 He went out and walked up and down the garden- 
 path. One duty was before him, one chance of resti- 
 tution still remained. He could make Joe's short life 
 blessed beyond compare to her. I will confess to you 
 that he shrank a little from the sacrifice at first. Hope
 
 SAD HEARTS. 217 
 
 Vennard was the only woman he had cared to call his, 
 and failing in that, he desired to keep his whole life 
 sacred to her. Yet Joe's confession effectually precluded 
 any lingering dreams. If she could have forgiven, she 
 would not have penned those cold words the last re- 
 membrance of her presence that was to greet his eyes. 
 Some lurking tenderness would have betrayed itself. 
 Therefore, if he should ever find her, all that past 
 must be a sealed book. He would never speak of it 
 again. 
 
 I cannot describe to you the struggle in the man's 
 mind. But the nobler part of his nature conquered 
 and there was much that was grand in Stephen Dane. 
 His resolve once taken, he would not flinch. 
 
 Katy had cried over Joe's white face, and her inability 
 to eat. She had undressed her, and arranged her pil- 
 lows with tender care ; and though, when she returned 
 to her kitchen, Joe's wistful eyes followed her, the poor 
 girl would not beg for Stephen. Unwittingly she had 
 worked him misery enough. 
 
 He came at length. The young moon was climbing 
 over fleecy drifts that melted into blue. Up in the hol- 
 low of the luminous sky great stars pulsed and throbbed, 
 beating out the giant heart of Nature. Soft airs stole 
 in through the open window, dewy sweetnesses from 
 river and mead, finding their way through the city. 
 
 Joe held out her trembling hand. "Forgive it all, 
 Stephen," she said, softly. " I shall not be here long.
 
 218 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 After that, I want you to find her, and tell her how I 
 sinned against you both." 
 
 "Joe," his voice was solemn and tender, "we 
 have all made mistakes. I, too, have sinned. I have 
 been blind and proud. But if my love will comfort 
 you, it is all yours now." 
 
 "No." There was a little thrill of delight in her 
 voice, too. " I don't want it all, Stephen. The old, 
 jealous torture has died away, and I am coming to 
 peace, rest. I am not ungrateful, nor ruled by any 
 mean, sullen spirit. Heaven knows I ought to have 
 done with all such now. And I take my share of your 
 love gladly." 
 
 " Which must be all, Joe. Let me make amends for 
 the past, wherein I have made you suffer. Until God 
 separates us " 
 
 She guessed what he would have said, for her wo- 
 man's intuition had been quickened. She placed her 
 hand gently over his lips. 
 
 " No, Stephen. Hope's place must be kept sacred, 
 if she never comes to fill it. But she will. And hav- 
 ing your love, I am content." 
 
 " You don't quite understand it," he said, gently. 
 " When I told my love, I did not dare repeat the story. 
 I had a misgiving of the shock it would cause her. 
 God did not mean that she should be mine." 
 
 " We don't know what God means until it comes. 
 We have only to wait. I told you before that I could
 
 SAD HEARTS. 219 
 
 not fill your heart, and a name was nothing. But you 
 are princely generous, Stephen." 
 
 "Will you take the gift?" 
 
 "No," softly and tearfully. "Only love me to the 
 end." 
 
 They clasped hands in the silence, coming nearer to 
 each other then than ever before in their whole lives. 
 And both hearts yearned for the absent one. 
 
 Far into the night Stephen Dane sat and watched his 
 cousin. When the wind died down he fanned her 
 gently, and with tenderest hands put aside the heavy 
 hair clustering about her temples. Poor Joe, how hard 
 life had been with her ! 
 
 The next day Stephen consulted an eminent physi- 
 cian. It was, as he had feared, too late for recovery. 
 But Joe no longer cared for life. 
 
 The shock and her remorse made fearful inroads upon 
 her enfeebled frame. She amended a little, so that she 
 came down stairs, and walked about the garden. Every 
 day Stephen took her to drive. Such lovely haunts as 
 he found, full of the later summer's greenery and fra- 
 grance ! Rambles through quiet lanes, or by the wind- 
 ing river ; tender talks, for there was nothing withheld 
 now. It seemed to Joe as if she was entering heaven 
 almost before her time. 
 
 As the days wore on, an odd wish came to her. She 
 wanted to see the clergyman who had read the funeral 
 service that had so deeply impressed her. Stephen
 
 220 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 found him easily a Mr. Leighton, a stranger in the 
 place, who had been at his post barely two months. 
 
 A very curious mood took possession of Joe on this 
 afternoon. She begged Katy to braid her hair as 
 Hope used, and wreathe stems of Madeira blossoms in 
 it. Her snowy wrapper was as faultless as Katy's 
 fond care could make it, and the loving heart insisted 
 upon her being adorned with a knot of scarlet ribbon 
 at her throat "Jest as dear Miss Hope used to 
 fix it." 
 
 Joe sighed. 
 
 " I 'clare, Miss Joe, you look handsome as a pic- 
 tur' ! " 
 
 The coming death was giving her a strange beauty. 
 The features were large and irregular, but the eyes 
 held in them a wonderful light ; the skin was trans- 
 parent, with a slight fever flush on the cheeks. She 
 had subsided into a languor of movement that was 
 grace, compared with her former abruptness, and her 
 voice had grown low and soft. Sitting in an easy- 
 chair by the open window, she watched the vines 
 swaying idly in the light air, until Katy announced, 
 
 "Mr. Leighton." 
 
 The young man paused an instant, then walked 
 directly over to her, holding out his hand frankly. 
 
 "Do not rise," he said in the tone she recognized so 
 well. " I am glad to find you able to enjoy this lovely 
 day. Have I not seen you before ? "
 
 SAD HEARTS. 221 
 
 "I was at the chapel nearly a month ago, at a 
 funeral," she answered. 
 
 " Yes, I remember now. You were kneeling, and 
 your paleness attracted me. I was a stranger, and 
 hardly knew the congregation." 
 
 " I don't know why I went that day ; I was very 
 wretched. Something in your voice soothed me, and 
 I wanted to hear you talk again." 
 
 "Thank you." He glanced away from her for a 
 moment to a picture in an oval frame, hanging in the 
 recess by the chimney. It was an exquisite ivorytype 
 of Hope. She noted the direction of his eyes, and 
 glanced also. 
 
 " Is she not lovely ? " Joe asked involuntarily. 
 
 He rose and approached nearer. "Yes," he an- 
 swered. "I think I met her in Baltimore a Miss 
 Hope Forsyth, is it not?" 
 
 The room whirled round to Joe's dazed brain. 
 Hope so near ! Hope given back tp Stephen ! O, 
 no ! she must be dreaming. 
 
 " Pardon me," he began, surprised at her agitation ; 
 but Joe interrupted him with an eager, tremulous 
 voice, 
 
 " You have seen her ! Is she alive safe ? Can you 
 find her again for me ? " 
 
 " If it is the lady I mean " 
 
 "When did you see her?" 
 
 "First in April. I was assistant at a church in
 
 222 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Baltimore. She came to stay with Dr. Cutter ; at 
 least, that is where I met her. But I heard her sing 
 in church, one morning, and such a glorious voice one 
 never forgets ; " and Mr. Leighton's eyes wandered 
 absently out on the porch, his memory returning, as it 
 often did, to Hope Forsyth. 
 
 " O Hope ! my darling, my darling ! " Joe rocked 
 herself to and fro, and repeated the words softly, while 
 Mr. Leighton, strangely puzzled, glanced from her to 
 the picture. 
 
 " Can you find her for me ? " The tone and face 
 were alike sharp and eager. 
 
 "I don't understand " 
 
 " No ; how should you ? " Joe made a long pause 
 to collect her scattered thoughts. What should she 
 tell this stranger? 
 
 " She was the ward of my cousin Mr. Stephen 
 Dane a sacred charge to him. I sent her away; 
 God forgive me !. I had something else to tell you 
 to ask you. There was a tender pity in your voice 
 that day at the funeral. I've dreamed of it so often ! 
 I felt that I wanted some one to be just so tender and 
 pitiful to me, for the way is thorny and tangled, and I 
 cannot find any straight path. It will not be long 
 before I'm done with it alL" 
 
 "If I can help you try me, be frank with me. 
 We stumble over so many hard things in life ! " 
 
 The voice found its way to her heart. For a mo-
 
 SAD HEARTS. 223 
 
 ment she struggled with tears; then, steadying her 
 tone, she resumed : 
 
 " I cannot tell you all to-day. I can only think of 
 her. I owe her some reparation. I love her as no 
 one ever loved a sister as a child that one could give 
 one's life for. There was a strange, terrible mistake. 
 I told her what was not true, though Heaven knows I 
 believed it at the time. It sent her away broke her 
 heart, may be. And now I can't die without her. 
 Will you go for her?" 
 
 The incoherent and agitated manner puzzled Mr. 
 Leighton exceedingly. Was the woman quite sane? 
 
 As if she read his thoughts, she clasped her hands 
 imploringly. The .pain and weakness, hidden before, 
 came out in her face. The deep, sad eyes moved him 
 powerfully. 
 
 " Anything," he said. " Command me to the utter- 
 most. But if you could explain this a little to me, 
 give me some message to her, I would go gladly." 
 
 The excitement imparted to Joe both courage and 
 strength. With a delicacy one would hardly have 
 given her credit for, she managed to make Mr. 
 Leighton understand all of the story that was neces- 
 saiy. The faltering voice and slow tears impressed 
 him with the truth of the misunderstanding, as well 
 as her sincerity. And during his three months' ac- 
 quaintance with Hope Forsyth, he had dimly guessed 
 at some hidden sorrow.
 
 224 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 After this Joe was in no mood to talk about herself. 
 He saw it, and wisely forbore pressing the subject that 
 he knew well must be so near. She was to write a 
 letter for him to take, and he was to add to it, if need 
 be, his urgent entreaties. And then he left her. 
 
 Poor Joe ! Never in her life had she written a 
 letter. This was scrawled in a trembling hand, and 
 blotted by many tears. More than once heart and 
 strength seemed failing. In her extremity she called 
 upon the God who ever lends a willing ear. If she 
 could but restore Hope to Stephen that was all she 
 asked now. 
 
 The excitement told fearfully upon her. Katy had 
 gone with the note to Mr. Leighton, who was to start 
 that evening, and Stephen found her alone, so pros- 
 trated that he was alarmed. 
 
 But in answer to his fears and entreaties, she only 
 said, , 
 
 "I shall be better to-morrow."
 
 JOE'S ATONEMENT. 225 
 
 xn. 
 
 JOE'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 THERE was no sleep for Josephine Dane that 
 night. Stephen insisted upon watching her until 
 after midnight, resolving that on the morrow Mrs. 
 Beswick should be recalled. She lay very still, the 
 large eyes strained up to the ceiling, and scarcely 
 moving. But there was something awesome about 
 her, as there is to every human soul wavering on the 
 shores of eternity. His conscience was very tender, 
 too. He thought how he might have blessed this poor 
 life, so barren otherwise. Had he indeed pricked him- 
 self with near thorns, in reaching for the far roses, not 
 for him, alas ! 
 
 She listened to his breathing, slow and strong the 
 full pulses of manhood. She wondered what was in 
 his heart if she could but crawl in and see ! To- 
 morrow night the woman he loved would be here. 
 She almost longed to tell him now, but dared not, 
 some subtile fear holding her back, as if the promised
 
 226 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 good was safer in secrecy a childish whim which we 
 have all indulged. 
 
 At length he kissed her tenderly, and went away : it 
 was her wish. Then she waited in the silence, wonder- 
 ing how it would be at that last hour. Did God take 
 poor, weary souls home to his bosom? She was so 
 tired ! She wanted rest. When Hope came back, 
 kissed her, and forgave her, she would be ready to go. 
 It did not seem so terrible here in this soft silence. 
 Just as if God drew nearer with every breath, as if 
 she could trust him, at last, after so many perplexing 
 doubts and fears. 
 
 Morning dawned. A damp, odorous air filled the 
 room. Birds came and warbled in the shrubbery. 
 Katy was astir, singing revival melodies, in her round, 
 cheery voice. Plow many times she had listened to 
 them ! Some morning she would sing in a voice 
 broken by sobs Joe would not be there to hear. 
 How strange to think of everything going on as usual, 
 and she asleep under the ground ! Would they miss 
 her? A little, perhaps. 
 
 There was a clatter of dishes, a fragrance of warm 
 biscuit, and still the hymn. "Jordan's stormy banks," 
 it was this morning, and Katy's fervor and negro 
 dialect gave it a peculiar interest to the one who was 
 shortly to see the " fields of living green." 
 
 Stephen entered, grave and quiet, and studied her 
 curiously. Some great change had come over her.
 
 JOE'S ATONEMENT. 227 
 
 "I shall go for Mrs. Beswick," he said. "Katy can- 
 not give you the attention you need." 
 
 " Not to-day, Stephen," she pleaded. 
 
 " Why not to-day ? " 
 
 "-It is my wish. You have spoiled me by indul- 
 gence. After to-day you may do as you like. Nay, I 
 am no worse." 
 
 ' ; You do not look as if you had slept at all." 
 
 Joe only smiled. 
 
 Stephen lingered far into the morning, performing 
 many kind little offices with the grace and patience of 
 a woman. Only urgent business took him away at 
 length. 
 
 Joe seemed in a strange dream. Would Hope really 
 come back to her? Dying, she had said in her note. 
 O, what if she should not live to see the day close ; to 
 look once more into those dear eyes ! For now that it 
 was coming so near, she grew almost faithless of the 
 rapture. 
 
 Some time after noon she begged Katy to dress her, 
 and carry her down stairs, having made several ineffec- 
 tual attempts herself. The white wrapper and the scar- 
 let ribbons again. 
 
 " Is the minister comin', Miss Joe ? " Katy asked. 
 
 "Sonte one will come," Joe answered, faintly, crowd- 
 ing down her precious secret ; and Katy was awed by 
 a sense of mystery she could not comprehend.' 
 
 The lounge was wheeled over to the window, for it 
 15
 
 228 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 seemed to Joe, every few moments, as if she should stifle. 
 Then she was left alone with Hope's little prayer-book 
 in her hand. There, on the fly-leaf, was written, in a 
 girlish style, "Hope Vennard." Joe kissed the name 
 with reverent humility. O ! would she come ? 
 
 A whole hour to wait. Through the swaying vines 
 were sifted grains of golden sunshine. Troops of 
 quaint shadows played on the wall, grasping each other 
 with rosy fingers. Now and then a gorgeous butterfly 
 settled himself lazily just in sight, or droning bees made 
 the air sleepy with their monotonous hum. In this 
 quiet street, where it was half country, you could hear 
 every passer-by, and Joe listened, with ears warily 
 acute, scarcely daring to breathe. Until she saw 
 Hope, it must appear but a wild dream. 
 
 How she lived through that strange hour she could 
 hardly tell. Every sound of carriage wheels, every 
 voice in converse with a companion, thrilled her with 
 feverish anxiety. Her pale lips trembled as she caught 
 her breath. At some moments she believed herself 
 dying, for even the sunlight grew dim, and stars like 
 those of heaven floated before her vision. 
 
 Did some one stop ? She could not remember cleai'ly. 
 Katy plodding through the hall, and jerking back the 
 night-latch with a sharp click, a scream of surprise, a 
 confusion of voices. 'Would they never enter ? Every- 
 thing was blurred and indistinct. She seemed floating 
 miles and miles away from all those she had ever known.
 
 JOE'S ATONEMENT. 229 
 
 A flutter and a fragrance in the atmosphere of the 
 room. A golden light, a sweet, sad pathetic cry, 
 
 " O, Joe ! dear, dear Joe ! " 
 
 Even in her wavering between the two lives, Joe 
 felt the clasp of the soft arms, the rain of tender kisses, 
 tenderer tears ; she heard the touching voice, and was 
 content to lie still many moments, steeped in blissful 
 sensations. When she opened her eyes, Hope was 
 looking at her, and they two were alone. 
 
 "You will forgive me?" Joe said, softly. W I was 
 wrong. Such a terrible wrong ! and to be believed 
 years against one, against him ! As soon as I heard 
 where you were, I sent. I could not die in peace with- 
 out you. Every inch of my flesh, every pulse of my 
 brain and nerves, longed for you. It has been slow 
 starvation." 
 
 "If you are glad to have me back, that is enough. 
 For the past, let it go." 
 
 "No, it is not enough. Do you think I could have 
 been so selfish, longing to enter heaven's gate, and yet 
 not willing to make all the reparation in my power? 
 And it seems so strange ! Just when I was willing to 
 turn to God, he brought me so near you. Stephen 
 searched in New York, he told me." 
 
 Hope trembled at the mention of the name, and hid 
 her face on Joe's breast. 
 
 " Dear, he loved you so ! Now that I have given 
 you back to him, I am quite content to die. You will
 
 230 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 forgive him his father's deed the poor old man did 
 not mean to commit such an awful crime. Why should 
 it be remembered against one so generous and good as 
 Stephen? Surely he has borne enough already." 
 
 "O, don't think of that, Joe. When I went away, 
 believing him guilty, I forgave him. Many an hour I 
 have wanted to crawl back, ever so abjectly, and com- 
 fort him. I was so sorry for what he had to bear. I 
 tried to fancy him happy in " 
 
 "Not in anything I could give him, Hope. I was 
 wild that night. I was tortured by a hungry fiend. I 
 was willing the whole world should sit in sackcloth, so 
 that I but had his love. And I thought he had no right 
 to yours. O, Hope, why does God give women hearts 
 to love, and then bring only husks to satisfy them ? It 
 seems so hard ! I wanted some one to be tender to me ; 
 I wanted little children to climb my knees, and kiss my 
 lips. God filled me up with human feelings. He did 
 not bestow upon me any beauty to be proud of, any 
 mind to cultivate, any broad views and longings for the 
 good of my fellow-creatures. He made me dark and 
 narrow, and placed just one star in my way, and my 
 weary, trembling feet followed it. Was it so very 
 wrong? I get confused. I can't seem to distinguish 
 clearly. And now He is going to take me home. AVill 
 any one love me in heaven ? " 
 
 Hope was sobbing, her wet face against Joe's. 
 
 " When I am gone I don't want you to blame Ste-
 
 JOE'S ATONEMENT. 231 
 
 phen, or let any thought of this come between your 
 love. He gave me all he could. God made him better 
 and grander. I could have staid in Tregony all my 
 life, and moiled with its dull and uneventful ways. 
 Stephen's soul would have starved. I could not have 
 supplied his wants. I know it now. We don't love 
 people from will, nor duty, only so far as our duty 
 towards them lies. He offered to make me his wife. 
 It was good and noble in him ; but I knew well he 
 had never sinned against me. When we were boy 
 and girl there was some childish talk ; since then I have 
 been a sister to him. That was the strongest feeling 
 I could create in him. But a man with a great, 
 hungry soul needs some one who will fill it. And 
 you, with your youth, your beauty, your rich, winsome 
 nature " 
 
 " O, don't, don't, Joe. Every word stabs me like a 
 knife ! Your love was better than mine. It lived 
 through all that dark, horrible time ; it did not fear 
 disgrace ; it was so strong and resolute. And I like 
 it because it had the courage to fight that night. Mine 
 was so weak, it failed at the first blow a very cow- 
 ard ! " 
 
 " Is it dead, Hope ? Tell me that ! " And Joe, 
 raising her face, looked steadily into it. 
 
 "Thank God," she said, softly, "that I have not 
 murdered any one's soul. I shall go to God weak and 
 empty-handed, but not stained with that sin. You love
 
 232 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Lira still, Hope. It is right. I have brought you 
 back given you to him again." 
 
 "No, Joe. And yet it is not from any fault of 
 yours. He almost told me the story that morning be- 
 fore he asked my love. And I said, blindly and igno- 
 rantly enough, that one could forgive, that one could 
 even love, after such an injury. When it came to me, 
 you see I failed miserably. He would never believe 
 me, never trust me again." 
 
 " But for my claim you would not have gone away." 
 
 "I might." 
 
 "No. It was my mistake, my evil passion and jeal- 
 ousy. And I shall not believe myself forgiven until 
 you promise, when the time comes, you will not let any 
 pride, any word that might be said, keep you apart. 
 You will do for your love what I would have done for 
 mine. It is a better and worthier one. Promise ! " 
 
 "I will," Hope said, "if so be that he should love 
 me again." 
 
 " He has never ceased. He will not have to 
 begin." 
 
 There was a long silence, broken only by sobs. 
 Presently Joe said, 
 
 "What of all this time, Hope? Where have you 
 been?" 
 
 "I made a confidant of one of my teachers. It was 
 not necessary to tell her the whole story, only that there 
 was an urgent reason for my leaving the city with the
 
 JOE'S ATONEMENT. 233 
 
 utmost secrecy. She had been applied to not a week 
 before for a governess. Dr. Cutter's sister, living 
 on the eastern shore of Maryland, required one. 
 So she sent me to Dr. Cutter. This Mrs. Say res 
 was expected on a visit; consequently I remained in 
 his family eight or ten days. Their head singer in 
 church was ill, and on Sunday I supplied her place. 
 Once the hymn was " Guide me, O, thou great 
 Jehovah." I can't tell you how I sang, I felt so 
 weak, so forlorn and desolate, and that was so sweet a 
 prayer. I must have put my whole soul in it. They 
 made me stay. Dr. Cutter thought, with such a voice, 
 I was foolish to do anything but sing. He was so 
 kind, so good ! I told him much of my life, and why 
 I wished for quiet, retirement. I had taken the name 
 of Forsyth, fancying that Stephen, knowing my dis- 
 like to it, would be less likely to suspect my using it. 
 I was a good deal frightened at first, and lived in 
 daily dread. But by degrees a feeling of safety came. 
 I wanted to think he had forgotten me, and that you 
 were happy. I did not dream of your being ill. You 
 have suffered for me." 
 
 " I was sick when you went away. I mended some, 
 but the cough staid. And" I wanted you." 
 
 "Thank you, dear. It is so good to come back! 
 And that you should have seen Mr. Leighton ! How 
 strangely it has all come about. You will get well 
 now, Joe."
 
 234 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 " No. It is best. I don't mind. Only if God will 
 hold me in his strong arms at the last, so that I shall 
 not be afraid. His love will make up for all in the 
 other country. And now you must go to your room 
 and rest a little. After that I shall claim you, but it 
 will not be for long." 
 
 IJope was glad to go. Her dear old familiar room ! 
 Not an article of furniture displaced. Here, in this 
 little drawer, the pearls Stephen had given her. It 
 seemed an age since that happy day when she was 
 seventeen. Every sight brought fresh tears. 
 
 Katy had received her orders to send Stephen im- 
 mediately to Joe, without a word of comment. He 
 was quite late ; but at length she heard his step upon 
 the porch, for he generally came up the garden path. 
 He glanced in the window, and then entered. 
 
 "You are worse," he said, anxiously, looking at her 
 flushed and swollen face. " You have been crying. 
 O, Joe ! you punish me sorely. Why will you not 
 let me make you happy?" 
 
 " I am happy now. Tears are not always a sign of 
 misery. I have atoned for that old, black treachery 
 and ingratitude. I have brought Hope back to you, 
 Stephen. She is in this house." 
 
 He started, quivering in every nerve. A strange, 
 eager light flashed into his eyes, and then died out. 
 
 " Where did you find her? Are you not dreaming?" 
 
 Joe steadied her voice to tell the story. There were
 
 JOE'S ATONEMENT. 235 
 
 long pauses and broken sobs. Stephen's tears fell 
 silently, and his heart went out to this poor girl as it 
 never had before. 
 
 " If ever any thought was selfish or wrong, any deed 
 unjust, you have nobly redeemed it all, my poor Joe," 
 he said in answer to her pleading. " If any prayers 
 could restore health and life " 
 
 "No," she interrupted him. "Don't pray for that 
 now. Only love me to the end." 
 
 He kissed her with a full heart. 
 
 "You will see her first alone?" 
 
 "No." Stephen shivered perceptibly. "Here, in 
 this room when she can come down." 
 
 Joe made no further comment. She was learning a 
 rare delicacy. 
 
 Katy was despatched for Hope. The bewildered 
 servant could hardly realize she was in the house 
 again, and still Hope Vennard. 
 
 She entered tremblingly. Joe hid her face that she 
 might not read any secret. But there was none, or 
 else they did not betray it. Stephen walked up to 
 Hope with a grave, steady step, and held out his 
 hand, simply uttering, 
 
 " I am so glad you have come ! " 
 
 The dignity that was well nigh coldness restored 
 Hope. She gave him a greeting more self-possessed 
 than one could have expected, though she betrayed 
 traces of her recent agitation.
 
 236 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Was this really Hope? he asked himself after the 
 surprise had subsided. For the girl had merged into 
 a lovely woman. Society, and the fact of her having 
 been cast upon her own resources, had developed her 
 rapidly. She seemed taller and more mature ; in every 
 movement an indefinable grace, in every feature a 
 glow, a warmth, a vividness that arrested one, and 
 held him by a magnetic spell. She had gone beyond 
 Stephen with this one bound. Beside her, he felt him- 
 self old and worn. Her freshness was like the first 
 dawn ; he was wasting into gray twilight. If ever he 
 had dared to dream, it was over now. She was not 
 for him. How had he ever been so blind and weak ! 
 
 It was strange how soon they fell into their old 
 habits. I think both Hope and Stephen made an 
 effort for Joe's sake. He seemed to glide naturally 
 into those elder-brother ways which made Hope at 
 once at home. He did not touch upon any incident 
 or difference, he knew Hope and Joe must have 
 had their mutual explanations, and was satisfied. It 
 was too sore a matter for him to talk over at present. 
 
 When Stephen carried Joe up to her room that 
 night, Hope went with her. 
 
 "I am going to be your nurse now," she said. "I 
 am young and strong, and cannot be easily fatigued." 
 
 Joe gave her a grateful smile. 
 
 The two girls rested in each other's arms. Joe 
 could not sleep, and Hope did not wish to. Now and
 
 JOE'S ATONEMENT. 237 
 
 then some tender word passed between them, or a 
 long, lingering kiss. 
 
 " Only for a little while," Joe said ; but Hope 
 shrank from the end. 
 
 Mr. Leighton called the next day. Hope had 
 beautified the little room, for Joe was too ill to rise. 
 There was something saintly growing up in her face, 
 life immortal blossoming in it, to make hei meet for 
 the other country. 
 
 When Hope would have left the apartment, Joe 
 detained her by a clasp of the hand. 
 
 "You have found peace," Mr. Leighton said, in a 
 low tone. 
 
 "Yes, and rest. It is so good ! Only I don't know 
 whether I dare believe or not. I have been so foolish 
 and ignorant all my life ! I could not see the path 
 God made for me until now. I didn't know I needed 
 His love until all others had failed me." 
 
 " As many of us do. We trample on thorns that 
 pierce us, never dreaming there is a better way, until, 
 in the midst of our darkness and pain, we cry unto 
 Him, and He shows us the light." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, musingly, "there isn't hap- 
 piness enough for us all here. And to those who sit 
 in the shadow God comes at last." 
 
 He knew then that somewhere there had been a void 
 in this woman's life, a hunger and weariness. The 
 large sad eyes, wandering out of the open window to
 
 238 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 the soft blue beyond, told a wordless story. And the 
 touching pathos of her words, "There isn't happiness 
 enough for us all here." 
 
 "We cannot penetrate God's mysteries," he said 
 with sweet seriousness. " Why some are blessed, and 
 all their days golden ones, why others are made to 
 look on, to see the cup of joy pass by them, and never 
 quench their thirsty lips in the sparkling draught." 
 
 "He means it, you think? So that when one goes 
 all through the desert, he is not to look back with weak 
 regrets that he did not take some other path. That 
 God directs our ways ? " 
 
 "Yes. Many sorrows and needs we bring upon 
 ourselves, but I do not believe all could have been 
 avoided." 
 
 "Thank you," she returned, softly. "And when we 
 take these poor, worn fragments to Him, He will gather 
 them with a tender pity. Pray that He may do this for 
 me, and that I may be content in having missed 
 much brightness that comes to others." 
 
 Mr. Leighton prayed. Not mere, meaningless 
 words, but earnest, vital petitions. It seemed to 
 Joe as if he must have known her heart. 
 
 One day passed much like another, Joe growing 
 weaker, but with that touching sweetness, different 
 from anything in her former life. She did not shrink 
 from the past, but lingered over n with Hope, re- 
 membering some half-forgotten scene or word that
 
 JOE'S ATONEMENT. 239 
 
 was pleasant to think upon. Hope learned so much 
 of Stephen's early life in this connection. Old days at 
 Tregony, dim wants that began to dawn upon him, 
 fond loves for nature the saucer of flowers that used 
 to stand on the window-ledge, the books he used to 
 read, .and above all, his tenderness for his poor old 
 father. There must have been some heroic element in 
 Joe's nature, stunted perhaps by the coarse blood she 
 had inherited. For having once made her sacrifice, 
 there was no further moan. She even ceased to 
 question. 
 
 " I think," she said one day to Hope, " that as we 
 come nearer to death, God takes away all these pld 
 longings, and puts himself in their stead. I used to 
 fancy it would be so hard to die without ever having 
 known any real happiness. But nearing the last, we 
 look over life and find so many bright spots ! Our 
 days were fuller of gladness than we dreamed. And 
 for all we have missed here, He will give us countless 
 blessings beyond. After He sent you back to me, I 
 had nothing to ask." 
 
 Hope kissed her with tearful eyes. 
 
 And so she drifted nearer and nearer the unknown 
 sea. September suns waxed and waned, the breath of 
 ripening orchards was wafted to them. Flowers every 
 day Stephen took care of that. Tenderest care, 
 most devoted love. Restful hours when softest silence 
 brooded over all. Katy singing lower and sadder,
 
 240 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 Stephen lingering about, watching with eyes that 
 thrilled her. For she was coming up to his height. 
 When he knew her again as an angel, they would be 
 on the same plane. The poor, jealous, tortured heart 
 was satisfied at last. 
 
 One night they counted her pulses, and hung over 
 her in tender agony, not daring to glance at each 
 other. Fainter, fainter. Smiles dying away. Little 
 quiverings all along the flesh, sudden graspings of the 
 hand when some dim fear overtook her, and so the 
 soul of Josephine Dane passed into God's keeping. 
 
 Stephen kissed down the eyelids. Did they sleep 
 the sweeter for it? On the resurrection morn they 
 will open with clearer vision, and she shall not be 
 ashamed of this love of hers, that she gladly died for. 
 They who go to the stake are not the only martyrs. 
 
 Hope turned blindly away with one low, pitying 
 cfy. Stephen took her in his arms, his strong frame 
 trembling with emotion. But something within him 
 was still stronger and more determined, for he spoke 
 not a word. 
 
 You know how a house seems when one within lies 
 dead. No other stillness is like unto it. Voices are 
 lowered, as if such a sleep could be disturbed I Meals 
 are sent away untasted. One walks hither and thither, 
 searching familiar rooms for what ? It is hard to 
 believe in death. As if, after a day's sleep, the loved 
 form must rise again and fill its olden place.
 
 JOE'S ATONEMENT. 241 
 
 Joe, lying coffined in the drawing-room, slept peace- 
 fully. The face fair enough now, the shining hair 
 smoothly banded back, touched by no hand save 
 Hope's, who had dropped tears and kisses amid its 
 shining folds. Stephen had watched her labor of love, 
 remembering how once he had been fretted by strag- 
 gling ends. It would never annoy any one again. A 
 few buds clustered in it, and drooped upon her temple. 
 On her breast tuberoses and jasmine, filling the room 
 with their sorrowful sweetness. How strange that this 
 should be all of her I Thirty-two years ago she had 
 gladdened her mother's heart, and having done all that 
 God appointed for her to do, the end had come. 
 
 Can we believe that no life, no atom is wasted ; 
 that God, in this world of His, has room for all, and 
 work for all ; that these knotty problems we stumble 
 over are mighty truths ; that pain, and hunger, and 
 loss, that passionate longings and wasted youth, are 
 held in some infinite order, and made to evolve His 
 purpose that we cannot see, but only grope after in 
 some blind way, when a sudden wrench of agony takes 
 us out of our narrow selves, and shows us that the 
 world is broader than we knew, that this life is but the 
 briefest beginning?
 
 242 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 XTTT. 
 
 HOPE AND STEPHEN. 
 
 HTMIEY came back from Laurel Hill Hope, 
 X Stephen, and Katy. The day had been soft 
 and hazy, a gray under-roof of clouds, floating about 
 the heavens, with now and then a faint ray of yellow 
 sunshine. The wind blew inland with a sort of sullen 
 foreboding, bringing with it the sad, threatening wail 
 of an autumn storm. Yet, just at sunset, a cold glow 
 came up in the western sky, a chill and lonesome 
 light. 
 
 There was a fire in the sitting-room grate, a tender, 
 rosy warmth diffusing itself. As they went thither 
 after night closed in, both Hope and Stephen thought 
 if she could have it in her narrow home ! 
 
 Stephen rolled his study chair to its olden corner, 
 and glanced into the slow-burning coals. Not to sec 
 visions, or dream dreams. The last battle, he said 
 to himself. 
 
 It had seemed an easy enough matter, thinking it 
 over. Yesterday he had brought home from the bank
 
 HOPE AND STEPHEN. 243 
 
 Hope's little fortune, principal and interest. She was 
 beginning a new and better life than any he could 
 make for her. Young hearts would cluster about her, 
 love in abundance would be offered not truer than 
 his he was not morbid in his self-abasement but 
 more of her kind, bright with youth and hope. She 
 would go away and forget this dark episode. In the 
 glad existence that dawns for seventeen, it would fall 
 off like a shadow. It was all right enough. He had 
 no moan or complaint to make. Even if she could 
 have overlooked that terrible stain, he was too old and 
 grave for her now. It was well she had learned this in 
 the past months. It made him braver to bear all the 
 solitariness of these dreary days to come. 
 
 For even if she would have staid here with him, as 
 her guardian, lie could not stay. Better to fight out 
 the want and gnawing alone, than daily sit at a feast 
 of sweetness he must never taste. He was but a man, 
 and could better deny himself wholly, than linger on 
 this dangerous brink. 
 
 He glanced furtively at her. The drooping figure 
 with its pliant grace ; the countenance of excjuisite 
 beauty, for all its sorrow and tears ; the slender hand 
 with the one ring he had given her years ago. Why 
 did she wear it? The small foot with its resetted 
 slipper, basking there in the crimson fire-light. What 
 foolish dreams he had cherished about them all ! 
 Hand and ring, face that was to smile on him, little 
 16
 
 244 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 foot that was to patter through halls while he sat 
 within hearing distance. How idly sweet ! To be 
 buried down deep, as they had that day buried Joe, 
 poor Joe, who had loved him. Ah, her memory 
 would always be fragrant in his heart ! 
 
 Moment after moment of silence and indecision. 
 Why was he so wretchedly weak ! 
 
 He rose at length. Hope gave a little start and 
 looked up one more such glance would have un- 
 nerved him. He crossed to the escritoire, opened it, 
 and took therefrom a package. He came and laid 
 it on the table beside her. 
 
 "I want you to take this," he began huskily. "It is 
 yours. She told you that I came in possession of five 
 hundred dollars belonging to your father. Ten years 
 ago that was. I want you to believe that if I could 
 have returned it then in safety, I should have done so. 
 Afterwards I used it, but to me it was always a most 
 sacred trust. To have added to it would have satis- 
 fied me better, but I refrain from placing you under 
 the slightest obligation. I desire you to be perfectly 
 free." 
 
 There was a constriction in Hope's throat, a dryness 
 in her tongue, that rendered an immediate answer im- 
 possible. Stephen passed around to his seat and looked 
 into the fire again. A long, dreary silence followed. 
 
 Hope's first sensation was a prideful despair. 
 Stephen did not love her never had, she said,
 
 HOPE AND STEPHEN. 245 
 
 with the hasty unbelief of youth. He did not even 
 care to have her stay he wanted to sever every bond. 
 
 O, secret agony of a loving heart ! O, blind eyos, 
 that refuse to see ; dumb hands, that will not reach out 
 for a gift better than gold. She sat there stunned, 
 pained in every nerve. Not to have his love, when it 
 was all she craved. Poor Joe, lying in your grave, 
 every pang of yours she went over with exceeding 
 pity. Not to be loved again why, it was slow 
 torture, death ! 
 
 Some way she came out to calmer thoughts. The 
 blur of agony grew less dense. Why should he love 
 her, when she had so cruelly failed him before ? He 
 supposed her vindictive, unrelenting, with no pity for 
 his father's fatal moment of weakness. In a vague, 
 general manner she could moralize on sin and forgive- 
 ness ; she could tell easily enough what others should 
 do, but the test applied to herself, the case brought 
 home, and she had failed turned coldly aside. He 
 must despise her ! 
 
 She went back to that terrible night when she had 
 first believed him guilty of two foul crimes. Ah, how 
 she had wronged him. She ought to have stood up 
 boldly for the man she loved. When Joe said disgrace 
 or a felon's cell could not have dimmed her affection, 
 she, so beloved, should have said, " Until I hear 
 from his own lips that he has sinned, I shall think him 
 innocent."
 
 246 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 To be so miserably weak in the most important mo- 
 ment of life ! To fail when failure was but another 
 name for a perfect wreck of love ! 
 
 He had given her no opportunity to express her con- 
 trition. From the first evening he had found her there, 
 his demeanor had been so calm, so studiously polite, so 
 frank and near in all little daily trifles, so distant in 
 this one important point I He had called her Hope, 
 she had called him Stephen, just as in the old days. A 
 careless observer would not imagine they had ever been 
 separated. 
 
 This was the barrier it was so difficult to surmount. 
 He had not failed in any duty, in any proper tender- 
 ness. All she could complain of was the deeper, un- 
 derlying fact that love between them was forever at 
 an end. 
 
 Was it really ? Did people cast off these most sa- 
 cred ties with the ease one discarded an old garment, or 
 threw away faded flowers? If Stephen, so strong, so 
 single-hearted in other matters, so faithful in his affec- 
 tions and duties, had loved her last March, he must 
 love her still. If he was willing then to reach out his 
 hand for the cup of happiness God brought to him, 
 would he refuse it now if it came through human inter- 
 vention ? 
 
 She sat there thrilled and startled by a wonderful 
 vision. He would never ask again. What if she went 
 and laid her hand in his said one word ?
 
 HOPE ASD STEPHEN. 247 
 
 A hot glow of crimson shot up into her face. Why ? 
 Was a woman's pure and honorable love any disgrace 
 to her? Would she be less womanly to confess it? 
 She had promised Joe, if ever the right moment came ; 
 and now it was here the last chance. For when they 
 separated this time, it would be final. 
 
 If he still loved her, she said, weakly at first, draw- 
 ing her breath with a gasp. O, she knew he did. 
 There was not an atom of her whole frame but re- 
 sponded to this consciousness. Was it true that she 
 had only to speak and all would be hers again plen- 
 teousness instead of starvation? 
 
 The light seemed to burn dimly, the clock ticked 
 slower, the room was so solemnly still. She put out 
 one foot, she moved her arm, as if to assure herself 
 volition was still hers. It was such a distance from 
 here over to Stephen's chair ! 
 
 Hope rose, swaying and undecided. Stephen never 
 stirred, but his breath came with a slow terror some- 
 thing that positively magnetized him. The awful spell 
 of a proud conscience holding the heart in thrall past 
 deliverance, until death. She was going out of the 
 room. At the door she would pause to say "Good 
 night," and leave him forever alone. 
 
 Like a blind man groping his way, she went slowly 
 along. I am not, sure but her eyes were dim with tears ; 
 her very heart seemed to die within her. If she had 
 loved him a little less, she must have failed.
 
 248 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 She came around behind his chair ; she laid her hand 
 upon his shoulder. The trembling lips made two 
 or three ineffectual efforts, and then murmured, " Ste- 
 phen ! " 
 
 The very breath seemed to strangle him. Because 
 he wanted to clasp her to his heart, and fill the face 
 with hungry kisses, even with the unavailing transport 
 of despair ; he roused every nerve into a state of des- 
 perate control, and said, in a voice so deathly calm that 
 it sounded cold to her, 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 How her hand trembled ! He felt it through his 
 coat. Darling little fingers, soft and white for some 
 other man's fond caresses. For if he so much as cast his 
 eyes around to them, the passion of his manhood must 
 find a voice. 
 
 " Stephen, you think we are quite free of all obliga- 
 tions to one another ? " 
 
 It was not what she had intended to say, not the little 
 speech she had been studying over yonder in her chair. 
 
 "Yes.- Don't let any thought of this ever burden 
 you in the days- to come. That night when I found 
 you, so long ago, I meant to make your life blessed and 
 happy. In all the places where I have failed, forgive 
 me. God knows how true and earnest my heart \vas." 
 
 Not a movement on his part. The qyes still studying 
 the fire, the hands lying listless in his lap. 
 
 "Stephen, you can make me happier ! "
 
 HOPE AND STEPHEN. 249 
 
 He reached out curiously for something, with a dim 
 sensation that ha should never find it. Close to his 
 heart, witfi a low cry, it came a golden head, a sweet, 
 pleading young face, its blushes hidden. 
 
 " No, you don't mean it, Hope ! Think a little. My 
 poor, stained life " 
 
 His voice was broken and tremulous. His strong 
 frame quivered with intense emotion. 
 
 "I mean that I love you. Ever since that day in 
 March. But I was so weak I O, Stephen, if you will 
 forgive those miserable doubts ! " 
 
 The words came between passionate sobs. 
 
 "Hope," his voice was very tender, though he 
 dared not put in it the love surging through him like a 
 mighty sea, "we will not rush madly into another 
 bond. I want you to look closely into this matter. It 
 is life and death to me now. I am not clearly sure that 
 I have any right to your love." 
 
 " Not when I give it to you ? " 
 
 Such a sad, pathetic cry ! No wonder he drew her 
 nearer to the heart, beating for her alone. 
 
 "You know all she told you?" His voice was 
 husky, and great drops of anguish stood out on his 
 forehead. 
 
 "I know all. How you suffered for another; how 
 you carried about his burden was patient to the last 
 moment, and how you strove to repair his sin. But the 
 dumb and fearful misery of those days and nights I can
 
 250 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 only fancy ; never realize to the full extent what they 
 were to you. In all you were guiltless. But the bit- 
 terest pang of all was to have the friends you loved 
 distrust you." 
 
 "Yes, it was." 
 
 She never knew half his pain and agony until then. 
 She felt so utterly abased that she would have slidden 
 down on her knees beside him, if he had not held her 
 so tightly. 
 
 " Stephen," she said, brokenly, " if my love can make 
 any amends, take it, use it ; not as a holiday thing, to 
 be petted and pampered, but a very servant. Let it 
 bear your burdens ; let it watch early and late ; let it 
 toil and minister to you ; and even then it cannot 
 atone for the cruel past. It goes down to the very dust 
 at your feet, humbled, repentant as it is for having 
 failed you in that dread hour. Forgive its weakness, 
 its blindness. 
 
 He found the wet face, and kissed it. He laid his 
 cheek against the golden hair. His for all time, right 
 or wrong. 
 
 "I was a coward then," he began, fiercely. "If I 
 had told you the whole story ! I was afraid to shock 
 you. I never, could seem to determine in my own mind 
 how far God had put a curse of blood between us, how 
 far that awful stain was to shadow both lives. I thought 
 to keep it out of yours. It seems right that such 
 deadly sins should bring some punishment."
 
 HOPE AND STEPHEN. 251 
 
 "Stephen," she said, softly, "remember, he did not 
 mean to do it. It was not a moment of violent pas- 
 sion, even. Joe told me how weak and wandering he 
 was. One can forgive an accident better than a pre- 
 meditated sin." 
 
 "Yes. And I believe he repented to the utmost pos- 
 sibility of his poor nature. But he was a thief, and my 
 father, Hope. And before that, I had hated Mr. Ven- 
 nard, grudged him his power, his wealth. I am not 
 sure but I envied him you. How much of that evil 
 and corrupt blood runs in my veins ? " and he gave a 
 shiver of disgust. 
 
 "None, Stephen," in a clear, sweet tone. "God 
 washed it out. Do you suppose those years of tender 
 care, such as you gave your father, count for nothing 
 in His eyes ? Do you suppose that to have saved one 
 little child from want and misery counts for nothing in 
 His sight who watches the very sparrows ? Shall a man 
 be more unrelenting than God ? " 
 
 "I want you to know me as I am. Much older than 
 you ; worn with cares ; a man of strong passions, who 
 has been tried and tempted as but few are ; who has not 
 always been true to the manhood God stamped upon 
 him ; who has failed miserably, and struggled again ; 
 who has been cowardly when he should have faced the 
 truth ; who has weakly shrunk back and cried out with 
 fear when God placed some fresh duty in his way " 
 
 "And I take him just as he is, Stephen. Not from
 
 252 STEPHEN DANE. 
 
 pity, or any sense of romantic justice, but because I 
 love him. I need him. For the two who have gone 
 to God we can trust him to solve all intricate questions 
 of where accountability rests. We have nothing to do 
 with that dark path. Our way shall be in the light." 
 
 " God bless you," he said, humbly. " My Hope ! " 
 
 " Yours ; " and climbing up in her childish fashion, 
 she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him. 
 
 They both thought of that night in the Foundery. 
 It seemed as if love must have sent out its tender roots 
 then, and, through shine and shower, arrived at last at 
 blossoming. 
 
 Afterwards they looked this great joy in the face, 
 and found that it did not blind them. They dared to 
 think of the future ; of their two lives, so strangely 
 blending into one ; of Stephen, no longer burdened 
 with a fearful secret ; of the old stain washed out ; all 
 the misunderstandings cleared up, handed over in God's 
 keeping. 
 
 "Poor Joe!" Hope said, softly. "We can never 
 blame her for that terrible mistake, since it has brought 
 us to a truer happiness. Every human soul has its work 
 in this world." 
 
 "It is my punishment that she loved me so well. I 
 want you to know, Hope, that J would have married 
 her at the last." 
 
 " She told me. I think you were right, Stephen. I
 
 HOPE AND STEPHEN. 253 
 
 wish it could have been. But through those later* days 
 she was so changed ! " 
 
 " If we could see what God meant by these tangled 
 paths ! " 
 
 "I think He means us just to trust Him. His 
 guidance is .unerring. Up in heaven to-night she is 
 wiser than we, for she knows all. And God will be 
 the tenderer to her because there were so many thorns 
 for her here. She is our one memory, Stephen, of all 
 the past, and laying her away in the grave does not 
 shut out her love." 
 
 " O, no, no ! " 
 
 What more? Life's problems are always unfinished. 
 When a strain of music is broken off in the middle, we 
 carry it about in our hearts for days together, and mar- 
 vel at fancied sweetness. Had it been finished, we 
 might have forgotten who knows? For the bud 
 broken on the stalk we have" a tender pity ; for the rose 
 that has lived its day, a more satisfied feeling. All 
 here must be partial with. us. Each soul is restricted 
 to its own wants. 
 
 Bat when the stone is rolled away on the morning of 
 the resurrection, we shall see that Heaven has kept and 
 harvested all these mysteries that would have blinded 
 our wavering eyes. In the light of that new day we 
 shall "know as we are known."