X / .... - "&~~ 

 
 Book0 
 
 AND NEW EDITIONS, 
 
 BY THE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "RUTLEDGE." 
 
 1. RTJTLEDGE. 
 2. THE SUTHERLANDS. 
 3. LOUIE S LAST TERM. 
 4. FRANK WARRINGTON. 
 5. ST. PHILIP S. 
 6. ROUNDHEARTS. 
 7. RICHARD VANDERMARCK. 
 8.-A PERFECT ADONIS. 
 9. MISSY. 
 10.-A NEW NOVEL. (Just Ready.) 
 
 " The Stories by the author of Rutledge are told with 
 
 real dramatic power, and a genuine dramatic 
 
 pathos, which combine to make them 
 
 universally read with thorough 
 
 satisfaction and 
 
 pleasure." 
 
 All issued uniform with this volume. Price 1.50 each, 
 aud Bent free by mail, on receipt of price, 
 
 BY 
 
 G. W. CABLETON & CO., Publishers, 
 New York.
 
 HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. 
 
 Kernel. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "RUTLEDGE;" 
 
 THE SUTHERLANDS ;" " LOUIE S LAST TERM AT ST. MARY S ;" 
 "FRANK WARRINGTON ;" "RICHARD VANDERMARCK ;" 
 "ST. PHILIPS;" "A PERFECT ADONIS ;" 
 "MISSY :" ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 Copyright, 1881, by 
 
 G. W\ Carle f on & Co., Publishers. 
 
 LONDON : S. LOW, SOX & CO. 
 MDCCCLXXXI.
 
 Stereotyped by 
 
 SAMUEL STODDEK, TRCUT 
 
 Ei.i:crnoTTpEn & STEUEOTYPER, PanmNQ AND BOOK-BINDING Co. 
 DO ANN XTBKKT, N. Y. N. Y.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 OHAPTEB PAOE 
 
 I. Sea Breezes 9 
 
 n. Vivat Rex 20 
 
 III. Misfits 31 
 
 IV. On the Sands 41 
 
 V. Unconventional for a First Call 47 
 
 VI. Tea, Treated Unconventionally 57 
 
 VII. Bringing the Mail 74 
 
 VIII. In Re Brass 83 
 
 IX. Keeping a Birthday 99 
 
 X. En Grande Tenue Ill 
 
 XI. Catechetical 128 
 
 XII. Second Thoughts 143 
 
 XIII. Two Gray Eggs in the Sand 151 
 
 XIV. The Nest in the Cedar Tree 169 
 
 XV. A Day of Reckoning 182 
 
 XVI. The Sea makes Moan 191 
 
 XVII. In the Brooding Darkness 204 
 
 XVin. The Court-room 226 
 
 XIX. Being Duly Sworn 250
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEB PAQB 
 
 XX. For and Against 2G3 
 
 XXI. Counsel for the Defence 275 
 
 XXTI. Counsel for the Prosecution 286 
 
 XXIH. In the Judgment of Twelve Men 299 
 
 XXIV. The Tinkle of a Tiny Bell 314 
 
 XXV. The Eastern Moon 333 
 
 XXVI. The Lecture 351 
 
 XXVII. The Corner Rooms 360 
 
 XXVIH. Constrained to Hear 370 
 
 XXIX. Some Dead Flowers 384 
 
 XXX. Cap and Apron 393 
 
 yxXT A Woman, not a Shade 405 
 
 XXXH. A Fair Land.. . 415
 
 HAPPY-GO-LUCKY.
 
 HAPPY-GO-LUCKY. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 SEA BEEEZES. 
 
 " But nature was so kind! 
 Like a dear friend I loved the loneliness; 
 My heart rose glad as at some sweet caress 
 
 When passed the wandering wind." 
 
 Celia Thazter. 
 
 r I THE train stopped, without abruptness, the conductor 
 -JL called out " South Berwick," in almost a conversa 
 tional key, to the inhabitants of the one passenger car 
 that, with the baggage car and tender, formed the train. 
 It had been crawling for hours along a flat country, 
 stopping at intervals at stations that bore a family like 
 ness to this, and then moving stolidly forward through 
 more scrub oaks, and more sandy cuttings, and past more 
 isolated and despondent farms. Sometimes a passenger 
 got off. Less frequently one or two got on. At ono 
 place a man got off, and I watched him walk away, 
 down a straight, long, sandy road that ran through a low 
 pine wood, and seemed to have no ending. He was 
 very tall, and seemed to dwarf the poor little forest 
 
 [0]
 
 10 SEA BREEZES. 
 
 He earned a bag, and was dressed all in black broad 
 cloth, and the hat he wore was a sleek, well-brushed 
 beaver, which caught the rays of the morning sun, over 
 the tops of the pitiful trees, and shone illustriously. 
 We stayed so long at that station I watched him a good 
 way on his journey ; but he did not turn back, or evince 
 any interest in what he had left behind him. I wondered 
 whether he was going to preach a sermon at a funeral 
 or to sell books out of his leather bag. But " whither 
 would conjecture stray ?" Here we were at South Ber 
 wick, and my heart, which had been growing heavier 
 with each added mile of sand, went down with a sudden 
 precipitation as I heard the long-looked for announce 
 ment, and, gathering up the child and the bag that fell 
 to my share, stepped out upon the platform. 
 
 It was a desperately dull and dreary place. One or 
 two men moved about deliberately, and seemed to be 
 taking care of our trunks arid of the mail-bag, which 
 were all that they put out of the baggage-car. 
 Though it was the last of May, and though a bright sun. 
 was shining, the wind was blowing from the sea, and it 
 was cold. I wrapped a shawl around Maidy, who clung 
 close to me and looked bewildered ; Sophia (she was 
 maid, but she ought to have been mistress) set down 
 Baby on the platform, handed me the cord by which she 
 held the dog, and bustled about to see to the trunks. I 
 took Baby by one hand and Maidy by the other, and 
 walked up and down on the boards, and felt very sorry 
 for myself. What desolation, what dullness ! and we 
 had taken a house here, and had to stay all summer. I 
 had been so long used to brick and mortar dullness and 
 desolation that this seemed very chilly. 
 
 " Don t go away with the checks," called Sophia
 
 SEA BREEZES. 11 
 
 sharply, for I had walked down towards the old stage, 
 the only vehicle in sight, and was trying to cheer Maidy 
 by telling her it would take us away to the sea. 
 
 When the luggage was disposed of, and we were in 
 the stage, wrapped in all the shawls the careful Sophia 
 would allow us, we rolled away towards the village. It 
 was no use to ask the driver how far we had to go, for 
 he spoke without turning his head, and the wind took 
 his words away from us. What a wind ! But the sun 
 shone warm on my shoulder, and the shawls were thick, 
 and in a few moments we drove into a green and pretty 
 village. The street was very broad, and the houses 
 looked at each other across it with a cheerful recogni 
 tion. There were vines about the doors, and the trees, 
 through not very large, were green with the greenness of 
 May. Two or three gray old houses stood with gable 
 ends to the street, but more, all green and white, stood 
 primly facing the public, not ashamed. 
 
 " Maidy, it s not so bad after all," I cried cheerfully, 
 giving her a little hug, for there was a wind-mill in the 
 distance, whose white sails were turning against the blue 
 sky, and in a window I had seen some flowers. The 
 little girl, tenderly responsive always to my moods, 
 pressed close to me, and pointed, pleased, to a pigeon- 
 house under the eaves of a barn, where pigeons, white 
 and gray, were sunning themselves, and strutting up 
 and down the little balcony. It was noon, and the 
 school-bell was ringing, and a troop of children ran out 
 upon the sidewalk and gazed after us. A horse was 
 tied before the village " store ;" an empty farm wagon 
 rattled past us ; this was all the animation that we saw, 
 but the village, somehow, was not desolate ; the sunshine
 
 12 SEA BREEZES. 
 
 and the greenness and the trimness made up for the 
 absence of human stir. 
 
 We lumbered on through the village, pausing only to 
 throw out the mail-bag at the post-office. The houses grew 
 fewer and farther apart. We thought, as we approached 
 each one, it was the one to which we were bound. I 
 could see Sophia s hopes were set upon the trim boxes 
 with white-washed palings. When all these were past, 
 and we had only two low farm-houses between us and the 
 blue line of ocean, which we now could see, I breathed 
 freer. At the last of these two the stage drew up. 
 
 " Are you snre this is the house," I said, with a fear 
 of some mistake. 
 
 " There ain t no other for it to be," he said, pulling 
 open the stage door. 
 
 I sprang out, almost forgetting to take Maidy, who 
 held out her arms to me eagerly. The little gray gate 
 was closed. I was bending over the rusty latch, when 
 Sophia recalled me to my responsibilities, and told me, 
 in a hard tone, that the man was to be paid. After I 
 had counted out the money for him, I said, laughing, 
 " Sophia, I see you don t like the house ; I am afraid 
 you think it is a trifle old." 
 
 "Old," she sniffed, setting down poor Baby with 
 emphasis, and jerking Rex s cord to keep him from under 
 the wheels of the stage, but not looking at me nor at the 
 house, as she followed me through the gate. " If any 
 body likes rats and cockroaches and ants and mildew " 
 
 "It s perfect," I cried, gazing up at the gray shin 
 gles. "But how shall we get in? I thought Colonel 
 What s-his-name was going to have it opened, and to 
 send a woman to have a tire, and something ready for 
 us."
 
 SEA BEEEZES. 13 
 
 " It all comes," muttered Sophia, " of taking a house 
 without going to see it ; and bringing children into the 
 country at this time of year s an outrage. They re 
 starved now, and there isn t a neighbor near enough 
 to get a glass of milk from." 
 
 But at this moment around the corner of the house 
 there appeared an Indian woman, brown and smiling, 
 who said she had been sent to open the house and build 
 a fire for us, and that there was bread, and eggs and 
 milk within. 
 
 Sophia reluctantly followed her, and Maidy and I 
 ran up the side steps that led to the balcony across the 
 front of the house, and peeped in at the closed windows. 
 I had a delightful feeling of possession ; it was so long 
 since I had had a delightful feeling of any kind, no one 
 need have begrudged me this. I had been three years a 
 widow, and had never been in the country since that 
 dreary blight had fallen on my life, but had spent the 
 time in stuffy city apartments, depressed by sorrow, 
 harassed by poverty ; many months of the three years 
 prostrated by dangerous illness. It had been like a 
 gleam of sunshine, when the doctor, touched by Maidy s 
 pale cheeks, had proposed a summer by the sea for us, 
 and had made the way plain by a communication with 
 Colonel Emlyn, who owned two or three cottages at this 
 remote place, and who was glad to hear of a tenant 
 who would be contented with mildew and rag carpets, 
 and who did not hanker for society. The rent was low, 
 the air irreproachable, that was all I asked ; and with 
 the first breath of the sea-breeze, life and youth seemed 
 to come back to me. The zest with which I ran up 
 the steps and counted the windows, and gazed at the 
 narrow front door, with its rusty knocker and fan-
 
 14 SEA BEEEZE8. 
 
 shaped light above, contrasted sharply with the apathy 
 with which I had taken possession of the rooms to 
 which from time to time we had moved in the city. 
 Sophia had had all the work of selecting and prepar 
 ing them, and had been all energy and approbation in 
 consequence. The case was reversed now, and Sophia s 
 disapproval was the only cloud upon the sunny sky of 
 our new life. 
 
 I loved the house from the first moment that I saw 
 it. It was a dilapidated, unpainted farm-house, which 
 Colonel Emlyn had bought as a speculation some years 
 before, when he built his own house down by the sea. 
 He had fancied it would be easy to rent it, and had 
 spent a few hundred dollars in fitting it up. But it had 
 been on his hands more years than off them ; and I sup 
 pose he often wished he had his few hundred dollars 
 back, as no one enjoys an unprofitable speculation that 
 is always in his sight. If the same amount of money 
 had been sunk in an imaginary mine or on a collapsed 
 railroad, he would not have given it a second thought. 
 But here was his little mistake in view from every 
 window of his house, and it fretted the good colonel, as 
 I afterwards saw. 
 
 The house was built in an unusual way for that part 
 of the country. The first story was stone, and in front, 
 a few narrow windows let light into a kitchen and a 
 mouldy sort of store-room ; the entrance to the kitchen 
 was at the side. A flight of steps at one side led up to 
 a balcony, which I believe was one of the colonel s im 
 provements, but it was unpainted, like the rest of the 
 house, and had turned a beautiful gray. A trumpet 
 creeper, with a stem like a young tree, climbed over this 
 balcony, and an ivy, with very small, glossy leaves, clung
 
 SEA BREEZES. 15 
 
 against the not very firm shingles of the side towards 
 the sea, above the kitchen entrance. From the balcony 
 one saw the blue line of ocean above the low sand-hills 
 which skirted the beach. The fields between us and the 
 sea were perfectly flat, and there was not a tree in sight, 
 in that direction, save the old cedar that shaded our own 
 windows, and the few little sprigs that the colonel had 
 planted on the road that led to his own house. It was 
 about half a mile to the sea, from our cottage, but it 
 looked much less. We were the outpost of the farming 
 interest the last house of the village towards the sea. 
 
 We could not get in at the front door, so Maidy and 
 I ran down the steps, and tumbled over Baby, who was 
 climbing up to meet us, and who, being set on her feet, 
 joined us in our researches in the yard. A thick bed of 
 periwinkles had rooted out the grass, and made a great 
 expanse of dark glossiness, and with exclamations of de 
 light we pulled bunches of the dark blue flowers that 
 peeped above the leaves. Maidy found dandelions, too ; 
 she had a Park acquaintance with them, and was charmed 
 at the rencontre. The neglected old garden was full of 
 green things sprouting up : this, I knew to be a bunch 
 of hollyhocks, from the tall dead stalks that had survived 
 the winter s storms under the shelter of the house, and 
 stood up about the place of their nativity. These might 
 be artemisias for the autumn s joy, here was columbine, 
 morning-glory, the little heart-shaped leaves of a dark- 
 blue, scentless violet. And here, under an old box-tree, 
 grew a single stem of lily of the valley. There was 
 no trace of a path anywhere, nor of any flower-beds ; 
 dead grass lay about the roots of the new grass ; the stiff 
 dry stems of last year s vines snapped and broke as I 
 leaned down to look at the green soft wonders that were
 
 1C SEA BREEZES. 
 
 springing up. Maidy was entangled in some fallen 
 branches, and Baby stood waist-deep in ribbon-grass. I 
 extricated Maidy, and lifted Baby out, and then we 
 pushed on towards the empty barn-yard, and the colony 
 of outhouses, dilapidated and unused. 
 
 " This, Maidy, shall bo your playhouse," I cried, 
 pulling open on its rusty hinges the door of an old 
 workshop, from which a lean cat darted forth, scattering 
 dust and some corn cobs that the rats had left. 
 
 " Whose is it now ? " she said, looking wonderingly in. 
 
 " Ours, Maidy, all ours, even the big barn." 
 
 "What a sweet feeling that was. We climbed over 
 into the barn-yard, we pried open the bam door, we 
 lifted the lids of grain bins, we revelled in the cob 
 webs and the dust-heaps, for they belonged to us. The 
 poor little city babies followed me with eager, ignorant 
 exultation. The sunshine was so warm and delicious, 
 the verdure I looked out upon so new to my starved 
 sight, a new current of life seemed setting through 
 my veins. 
 
 I had led the children far down a narrow lane that 
 ran past the barn-yard ; I don t know where we meant 
 to go. The children s arms were full of foolish treas 
 ures, my brain with fancies just about as worthless, 
 when our wanderings were brought to an end by the 
 shrill call of Sophia, who, out of patience and out of 
 breath, had run after us, and had snatched Baby up, 
 and was talking at me over her shoulder as she walked 
 back towards the house. 
 
 " The child will be starved," she said " it s three- 
 quarters of an hour since we got out of the stage, and 
 here I have had her dinner ready twenty minutes, and 
 it s stone cold on the table, while I ve been hunting all
 
 BEA BREEZES. 17 
 
 over the old rookery for you, and calling and calling 
 till I m hoarse." 
 
 Baby didn t mind her scolding ; she knew how lit 
 tle it meant, for she had been brought up on it. She 
 stroked her nurse s cheek with her little soft hand, and 
 pulled at the ribbon of her hat. Maidy and I turned 
 meekly and followed towards the dinner which we cer 
 tainly ought not to have forgotten. I took Maidy s 
 treasures to carry, and lifted her over some rough places 
 in the lane, and in many ways loitered to give Sophia 
 a chance to get ahead of us and leave us to follow in 
 peace. But great a hurry as she was in, she would not 
 let us get out of hearing : we were to know what she 
 had to say. It was her peculiarity : when she got 
 worked up into a mood like this, it seemed inevitable 
 that she should say just so much, and then a sullen and 
 possibly repentant mood would follow, in which we had 
 silence enough. 
 
 Sophia could not be considered like an ordinary 
 servant. She had come to my mother s house a girl of 
 fourteen, when I was not as old as Maidy. Every one 
 knows the intimacy that grows up between children 
 placed in such relationship. Sophia was my nurse, and 
 waited on me, though she was scarcely more than a child 
 herself, but I looked up to her with great respect, and 
 loved her with great affection. She had an immense in 
 fluence over me, and my whole childhood bore her im 
 press. "When I was married, she came to me, naturally, 
 and my interests were hers. My mother could ill spare 
 her, being near the close of her lonely, suffering life, but 
 I was so very young, and was going so far away, it was 
 tacitly conceded, Sophia must go with me. 
 
 As things turned out, it seemed a mercy that she
 
 18 SEA BKEEZES. 
 
 did. My husband and I were but a pair of children ; 
 trouble and illness came fast enough ; my whole mar 
 ried life was not three years. No sister could have 
 been more unsparing of herself, no mother more vigil 
 ant and anxious. Our ignorance, our slender means, 
 our youth, would have made us very helpless without 
 this lynx-eyed guardian. For many months after I was 
 left a widow, she had, single-handed to take care of me, 
 and of the two babies, with the barest purse, and the 
 darkest outlook. My mother had died a year before ; 
 the little property that was coming to me was in litiga 
 tion ; I had literally no one to look to. What did I not 
 owe her ! She had a right to scold me and to lead me 
 back to dinner in disgrace. 
 
 Rather better times were upon us now, and she 
 would probably scold the more in consequence. The 
 lawsuit had been recently decided in my favor, and the 
 small property that my mother left was now mine. It 
 was well invested ; the income from it, though not large, 
 was as certain as such things can be. We should never 
 be called upon to go through the experiences of the 
 past two or three years, and with economy we could be 
 comfortable, and I could educate the children, and live 
 respectably, and not be oppressed with care for the fu 
 ture. It was heaven to feel this, after the long pressure 
 of anxiety, but though I had known the facts for two 
 months, I had not seemed to realize them till I had 
 breathed this air and got out of the surroundings so 
 associated with suffering. 
 
 When we got to the kitchen door, I remembered, as 
 I laid down Makly s treasures on the stone, that I had not 
 yet been in the house, and I said this, with a little laugh, 
 to Maidy.
 
 SEA BREEZES. 19 
 
 " It s fine housekeeping that begins with the outside 
 of the house," snapped Sophia, settling Baby in a chair 
 by the table, while the Indian woman put the omelette, 
 and the bread and butter, and the tea upon the table. 
 
 "What a dear old kitchen," I said, going to look 
 out a latticed door that opened into a sort of covered 
 place, with one side open to the yard, and with the 
 well just before it. " Maidy, I shall draw the well." 
 
 "It s more than I shall," cried Sophia, "and I m 
 inclined to think you ll find your kitchen dear, before 
 the summer s over, sure enough, if you count all the 
 help you ll have to hire to get your work done in it." 
 
 I did not dare admire it any more after that, but sat 
 down humbly beside Maidy, and was served with a meal 
 anything but cold, which we all ate with appetites which 
 even Sophia could not disapprove.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 VIVAT EEX. 
 
 " His very hair is of the dissembling color." 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 TWO days followed, during which my pleasure in 
 my new home was unabated. I continued to keep 
 house outside, and Sophia, now somewhat mollified, to 
 get in order the inside. It was on the afternoon of the 
 second day ; I had got my blue flannel suit out of a 
 trunk (or perhaps Sophia had) and had put it on for the 
 first time, together with a shade hat which she had 
 trimmed for me when we first began to talk of the sea 
 side. It was very odd not to be wearing a black dress, 
 but it all seemed in keeping with the free, new life. 
 Maidy admired me very much, and insisted upon kissing 
 me. She was only five years old, but she had a great 
 sense of the fitness of things, and had been distressed, I 
 believe, by my great crape veil ever since we came to 
 the country. She and Baby were fresh and pretty in 
 their flannel dresses, and white sunbonnets, and thus 
 we all went out for a walk, leaving Sophia at the gate, 
 looking after the work of her hands with some pardon 
 able satisfaction. 
 
 For were we not, in a sense, the work of her hands, 
 blue flannel dresses and all ? I always have believed the 
 children would never have lived but for her care, and I 
 
 [20]
 
 VIVAT KEX. 21 
 
 know I shouldn t. And as to the blue flannel dress and 
 the coarse straw hat, I should never have had them but 
 fur her intervention. I had not wanted anything for 
 the last three years but to be let alone to cry my eyes 
 out under the crape veil supplied to me by fate. Susan 
 leaned for a few moments over the gate and looked after 
 us, with a softness in her black eyes ; it must have com 
 forted her to see me look so young and well again ; and 
 the children, for whom she had so labored, walked 
 demure and prim beside me in the soft spring sunshine. 
 I think she felt that afternoon as if the warfare were 
 over, and the day of peace fairly risen in the sky. 
 
 Baby was but three years old, and had to be very 
 much aided when we went to walk. I did not propose 
 to go very far, but the temptation of a new road led me 
 on, and long before I knew it, we were a good way from 
 home across the level country, and the sun was declin 
 ing slowly. Maidy was very fresh and bright, but Baby 
 was beginning to lag behind and fret a little, and I began 
 to think it was a pity that we had come so far. "VVe had 
 not reached the sea yet, though we were very near it, 
 and could hear the waves breaking on the shore, though 
 the sand-hills hid them from us. 
 
 We had been walking for some time on a road that 
 ran parallel to the beach, and now I found myself on a 
 narrow lane that crossed it and went down through an 
 opening to the water s edge. The road was a little lower 
 than the field, and I sat down on the bank, and took 
 Baby on my lap, and pulled some wild roses from a bush 
 beside me and ornamented her hat with them, and tried 
 to amuse her and get her rested. Maidy strayed off in 
 pursuit of more wild roses. Rex, the dog, lay at my 
 feet and panted after his exertions. He was a French
 
 22 VIVAT EEX. 
 
 poodle, with soft, white, curling hair and lovely pink 
 skin under it ; he had a temper as infirm as Sophia s, and 
 eyes as black, but much more tender in their expression. 
 We loved him beyond language, but he barked nearly 
 all the time, and was a great inconvenience. Baby now 
 began patting him, and, rested, got up, toddled about on 
 the uneven ground and pulled grass and flowers, and 
 scrambled up one rail of the fence, and down again and 
 up again, and so on. I clasped my hands around my 
 knees and sat looking over the long line of fields across 
 which the level shadows were stretching, breathing the 
 air fresh from the sea, and listening to the roll of the 
 surf beyond. The sunshine was still warm and delicious ; 
 some birds chirped about the bushes near me ; Baby s 
 happy little chatter sounded as intelligible ; when Rex, 
 starting from my feet, gave a furious bark, and dashed 
 down the lane, along which a troop of cows, two loose 
 horses, and a bull, were coming rapidly. 
 
 I sprang up and got Baby by the hand, and called 
 vehemently to Rex to come back to me. He, instead, 
 ran barking at the heels of the cows, who, frightened, 
 kicked and ran and looked back at him, and kicked 
 again, and the horses shook their manes and raised their 
 heads, and looked as if they might do any fearful thing 
 under such a provocation. The peaceful lane became 
 suddenly a scene of great tumult and confusion. I don t 
 know where the cows had come from, nor how they had 
 got upon us with so little observation ; I suppose I must 
 have been very much lost in my revery ; I did not dare 
 to run down the bank after the dog, whose destruction 
 seemed imminent, among all those hoofs and horns. 1 
 held Baby by the hand, and going as near the edge of 
 the bank as I could, I called despairingly, and then tried
 
 VIVAT EEX. 23 
 
 to whistle. I could not whistle ; I never could. I pursed 
 up my mouth with effort, and no doubt made a very 
 ludicrous face, but all the sound that came was a very 
 faint affair, like an aspirated sigh, which of course the 
 dog could not hear. I felt like crying, I was so full of 
 trouble and excitement. At that moment, directly at 
 my elbow, I found some one standing. I turned quickly, 
 and looked into the face of a young man, who had come 
 upon the scene as mysteriously as the cows. 
 
 " Shall I whistle for you ?" he said, with gravity, 
 though his eyes were very merry. 
 
 " Oh, if you only would," I cried, with no sense of 
 the humor of the situation. " I am sure he will be 
 killed, and I m afraid of the cows." 
 
 Thereupon he whistled, a clear shrill whistle, that 
 arrested the attention of the dog, who halted for an 
 instant, turned .his head towards us, and then dashed 
 on, with renewed zest, after the bull, who was putting 
 down his head angrily. 
 
 " He will be killed," I exclaimed, dropping Baby, 
 and wringing my hands. 
 
 The stranger sprang down the bank, dashed in 
 among the horns and hoofs, and, making a plunge at 
 the dog, caught him. by the hair, and bore him wrig 
 gling and barking back to me, and put him in my arms. 
 
 " Oh, thank you," I said, but I don t suppose he 
 heard me above the racket that the dog and the cows 
 were making. I struggled to hold him, and to keep 
 him quiet, but Baby was tugging at my dress, and, look 
 ing across to the other side of the road, I caught sight of 
 poor Maidy, who was, from the contortions of her face, 
 probably crying loudly, but 1 couldn t hear anything 
 but the yelping of the cur arid the lowing of the cows.
 
 24: VIVAT KEX. 
 
 I had forgotten all about her. She was clinging to the 
 fence (the wrong side of it), of course, and in a very 
 ecstasy of fear, for which there was much excuse, as the 
 cows were upon her side of the bank, and she was 
 really in danger of being walked over by the great crea 
 tures, even if they had no evil intention towards her. 
 
 "Shall I bring your little sister to you ?" said the 
 sedate stranger, who again accomplished the feat of 
 fording the current of cows, and who sprang up the 
 bank lithely, and stood by the terrified little child 
 almost before I had taken in his question. He waa 
 small and slight ; at the first glance I should have said 
 he was eighteen, at the second, twenty-eight. He waa 
 close shaved, and his hair was very dark, and as short 
 as it could be cut. He was very sunburned ; his eyea 
 were keen and dark ; his nose was well cut, his mouth 
 rather large. He was dressed in knickerbockers, with 
 a blue flannel shirt and red belt, and wore a little, 
 close-fitting cap, also blue, I think. 
 
 I looked anxiously to see how Maidy would take 
 the approach of a stranger. She was a very timid 
 child, and I was always prepared, from experience, to 
 see her go into a frenzy of crying, if any one came 
 near her whom she did not know. It was a comforta 
 ble surprise, now, to see her suspend her sobs, look up 
 into the stranger s face, let him take her hand, and 
 finally lift her up in his arms. She was small and 
 light for five years old (such a pretty doll, with her 
 long, loose, yellow curls, and large blue eyes). He 
 lifted her up on his right arm, and drew one of her 
 little hands around his neck, and held it in his left. 
 He was talking to her softly all the while, with his 
 face close to hers. She did not seem to be at all afraid
 
 V1VAT KEX. 25 
 
 of him, nor of the cows, but listened with parted lips 
 and a serious look, the tears still on her cheeks. 
 
 The rear-guard of the cows was now passing us. 
 lie waited a moment, then skirted the end of the pro 
 cession, and brought her back to me. He set her down 
 on her feet on the bank beside me, keeping hold of 
 her little hand till she was standing firm, then, in a 
 graceful sort of way, stooped down and kissed it before 
 he released it. He lifted his cap to me, almost without 
 looking at me, and was gone. My eyes followed him 
 with a sort of wondering admiration of his light, quick 
 movements ; a cart, which I had not seen in the melee, 
 seemed to be waiting for him in the road which I had 
 just left. He sprang into it, and the young lad who 
 was driving it looked curiously and amusedly towards 
 us, and I was quite sure was laughing^at something 
 that he told him of us. The cart was one of those 
 two-wheeled joggling things, known as beach carts. 
 There were some crab-nets in it, and a basket covered 
 up with sea-weed. The horse was a nice-looking cob, 
 who in a few moments had joggled them, not out of 
 sight, that would have been difficult in a country 
 where one could see one s friends coining to call three 
 miles oft , but out of a critical neighborhood. That is 
 to say, they were soon so far away I couldn t tell 
 whether they were laughing at me or not. They drove 
 through the herd of cows as if they were not afraid of 
 them ; the clumsy things scattered to right and left ; I 
 began to see they were lean and high-shouldered crea 
 tures, who probably wouldn t have done us any harm. 
 The troop settled down into, a comfortable jog, and 
 across the level landscape I could see them moving on, 
 marked by a little cloud of dust. I put Rex on the 
 2
 
 26 
 
 ground, with an admonitory shake, and helped the 
 children through the fence. 
 
 " What did he say to you, Maidy," I asked, as I 
 wiped the tears off her face, and set right her some 
 what distorted skirts. 
 
 " He said he would take me to my sister," she 
 answered. 
 
 " Your sister, indeed ! Well, what was he talking 
 about all the rest of the time ?" 
 
 " He told me not to be afraid of the cows ; he said, 
 they wouldn t hurt me. He held me tight." 
 
 " All, were you afraid ?" 
 
 "No, he held me so high up, like the milkman." 
 
 I laughed. Maidy had a great liking for being 
 lifted up in the strong arms of a man ; poor child, she 
 had had little experience of it, the milkman being 
 about our only male visitor since she had been old 
 enough to remember. 
 
 " Which do you think is the nicest, this gentleman 
 who carried you across the road just now, or the milk 
 man ?" 
 
 But Maidy s feelings were hurt by my laugh, and 
 she put down her head, and would not answer. 
 
 " It s all right, dear little one," I said, kissing her, and 
 leading her on to join Baby. " You like to be carried, 
 I know ; you can t remember how Papa used to carry 
 his little girl, hours and hours together, when she was 
 a baby, and was sick, and couldn t go to sleep." And 
 the tears rushed into my eyes at the recollection. 
 
 " Tell me about it," whispered Maidy, holding tight 
 my hand. Dear Maicjy ; how she loved to hear those 
 stories. She had been my only confidante, these sad 
 years ; twilight after twilight, while Sophia plied her
 
 YIVAT REX. 27 
 
 busy needle, and rocked the baby, in another room, 
 Maidy, in the dark, had lain in my arms, and listened to 
 stories of the father whom she could not recollect. I don t 
 know whether it was good for her or good for me. I 
 almost fear these three years had been very morbid 
 ones. I had acknowledged to myself no duty but the 
 duty of keeping fresh the past ; perhaps I had resisted 
 the natural reaction that might have come if I had 
 been passive. But, indeed, the circumstances of my 
 life had been all against any such reaction ; I ought not 
 to blame myself too much. The dullness and gloom 
 of my surroundings made me turn my gaze back into 
 the past, where once there had been light. If in my 
 grief there was selfishness, at least there was no rebel 
 lion. I only asked leave to hide myself and weep. 
 
 How far Maidy s timidity and frail health were the 
 result of this treatment, I cannot tell. I did not think 
 I was injuring her, Heaven knows. She was my only 
 comfort. Sophia had such an acrid way of putting my 
 duty before me that I unwisely discredited all she said. 
 She left me nothing to do, with her tremendous en 
 ergy and activity, and as to what she counselled me to 
 feel, it was not surprising that I did not consider that 
 she knew enough of the grief to know its remedy. She 
 had loved poor Arnold almost as much as she loved me, 
 but it was not her way to sit down and cry about any 
 thing, and it must be said, in this strait, there was not 
 much time for the luxury of tears for her. If she had 
 not bestirred herself, what would have been our fate ? 
 But it was an abiding subject of complaint with her 
 that I took no interest in anything, that I was, as she 
 expressed it, nursing my grief and making much of it. 
 
 " Tell me about it," murmured Maidy that evening,
 
 28 VIVAT BEX. 
 
 as we walked home under the soft sunset sky. The 
 grass was growing a little damp ; sweet smells came up 
 from the close-cropped fields over which we walked ; 
 the solemn monotone of the sea beyond sounded in our 
 ears. I told her; but somehow the telling was not as 
 it used to be, in the close-shut, dim room, with the low 
 roar of the city coming up from below. Our grief was 
 a sort of hot-house plant, that did not seem at home in 
 this free air. Maidy vaguely felt dissatisfied. She 
 looked up in my face again and again ; she even 
 twitched my dress once reproachfully when my eyes 
 wandered to the sunset, and my narrative flagged in its 
 flow. 
 
 " Don t let us talk any more, Maidy," I said ; " I 
 want to look at the sunset gates, and think about Para 
 dise." 
 
 Then I felt a pang of self-reproach ; I could not 
 bear to be dishonest with the child ; I was not thinking 
 of Paradise ; I was feeling the calm and hush of nature, 
 full and sweet ; the glories of God s lower world, where 
 all the senses were fed with health and with content. 
 The shadowy world into which we had looked from 
 that dark, silent chamber, had receded far out of my 
 self-accusing sight. 
 
 " I mean," I said, putting my arm about her neck, 
 " I am tired of talking, and just feel like being quiet. 
 Besides, I think I ought to carry Baby." 
 
 Baby was again getting a little cross she was willful 
 always, as different as possible from Maidy. She was 
 tiny ; with such hands ! I think they were the prettiest 
 things. She was all so perfect and so pretty. Her eyes 
 were gray and her lashes dark ; she had not much hair, 
 but it was wavy and of a chestnut color. Her throat was
 
 VIVAT KEX. 29 
 
 very slender, and I never was tired of looking at the 
 way she held her determined little head. Dear little 
 Baby everything she did seemed so wonderful, being 
 done by a creature so minute. We were in the habit 
 of thinking her a prodigy, but I suppose, really, it 
 came from her being so much smaller than a child of 
 three years ought to be. 
 
 It was not much of a trial to carry her, but I was 
 glad to hand her over to Sophia, and to go into the 
 house, which we did by the side door of the kitchen, 
 where our tea was spread. In a day or two, when 
 things were more in order, we were going to move up 
 stairs to the room above, and take our meals on a thin- 
 legged little mahogany table, which the Indian woman 
 had spent some hours in polishing. The furniture of 
 the room was rather scanty and the floor had a rag car 
 pet on it ; but there was a corner closet with a glass 
 door, and a very small supply of blue china cups and 
 saucers, and five plates. These atoned for the other 
 defects and made it possible for me to feel I had a din 
 ing-room. Meanwhile, the kitchen was warm and snug, 
 and each meal that we had eaten in it had seemed 
 better than the other. 
 
 "Sophia," I said, dropping the sugar in my tea, 
 "we have had an adventure. Maidy and Hex were 
 almost under the feet of a herd of cows, and a young 
 man suddenly appeared and rescued them. You may 
 ask why I didn t, but the truth was, I was afraid ; it 
 was bad enough to look on." 
 
 Sophia did not appear to listen she never appeared 
 to listen; it was one of her characteristics to put her 
 own occupations before the communications of others, 
 though I don t think she ever lost much. She went on
 
 30 VIVAT REX. 
 
 buttering Maidy s bread, as she stood over her chair, 
 and pouring out Baby s milk, without even looking in 
 my direction. 
 
 Maidy, with her mouth full of bread and butter, 
 said, " He carried me," but Sophia only asked whether 
 she d have more hot water in her milk, with the pitcher 
 suspended over her mug, and manifested no sort of inter 
 est in the matter. It was long years since I had presumed 
 to find any fault with Sophia s habits, even tacitly, but 
 the sea air seem ed to be affecting me radically. I resolved 
 she shouldn t know anything about the adventure till 
 she asked about it. So I said the Shinnecock made 
 beautiful muffins, and took another one, and then told 
 her I should be almost sorry when we went up-stairs to 
 dine, it was so pleasant in the kitchen. The tins shone 
 in the light of the parlor lamp, which was on the table, 
 the stove doors were open, and the fire within shed 
 forth a cheerful glow. She was not pleased with me, 
 I could tell ; she shot a quick glance at me to see what 
 I could mean, and was in a bad humor all the rest of 
 the evening. As she was putting Maidy to bed, I heard 
 her asking some leading questions, which resulted in 
 Maidy s telling the story to the best of her ability. 
 From that little point, perhaps, started her opposition 
 to me in all that concerned my new life.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MISFITS. 
 
 "Thou hast iny love; is not that neighborly?" 
 
 As You Like It. 
 
 FROM the balcony, and in fact from all the south 
 windows of the cottage, I could see the house 
 of my landlord, Colonel Ernlyn. lie was, in fact, the 
 only summer resident of the place. He had several years 
 before, in a casual visit to the village, been smitten with 
 it, and, as rich men will, had built a house far too expen 
 sive for the place, and then, vaguely conscious of his 
 error, had tried to remedy it by investing more money 
 in more land, and building two or three cottages to rent. 
 The cottages had never rented, the place was as far as 
 ever from being a summer resort. The colonel did not 
 go the right way to work. He was not fond of society 
 himself, but he supposed the two children whom they 
 were bringing up would soon be ; and for their sakes, 
 he would have been glad of a neighbor or two who 
 would be agreeable, and he had had visions of seeing 
 the place become popular enough to bring back to his 
 pocket a very small percentage of what he had invested 
 there. 
 
 One chilly March day, when the cottages were first 
 built, a very important, fashionable woman had come 
 down to look at them, having heard of them from the 
 
 [31]
 
 32 MISFITS. 
 
 colonel himself. There was a high, rough wind, the 
 diiver of the stage hadn t been over civil, the lady s head 
 ached from having got up so early, the shut up houses 
 naturally looked dismal and felt damp she went back 
 by the next train in disgust, and told the story of her 
 journey at every dinner for the next six weeks. All the 
 people who had been asking questions about South Ber 
 wick were dismayed and gave up the thought. One 
 sheep having turned away and jumped over the bars, all 
 the others, with mutton gravity, jumped over too, and 
 left the colonel with his houses on his hands. 
 
 I had been wondering whether the Colonel and Mrs. 
 Ernlyn would come to see me. It had seemed to me 
 that it would be very unpleasant if they didn t. I had 
 cast a great many curious glances over at the large 
 house whose outlines were so clear against the sky. I 
 could see figures sometimes on the piazza, though it was 
 impossible to distinguish them. Whenever the carriage 
 came out of the gate, I watched with interest to see 
 who was in it. The beach cart I knew belonged there, 
 and the young man who had picked Rex up by the 
 hair, and the young lad who had laughed at us. With 
 all my watching, I did not know any one else by sight. 
 
 The house was about half a mile from us, facing the 
 ocean. It was a large house, long in proportion to its 
 breadth, with a gambril roof and dormer windows, and 
 a great stack of chimneys in the center. The kitchen and 
 other offices were on the ground floor. A great veranda 
 ran all around the second story, and overlooked the low 
 sand-hills, which in this part of the coast skirt the sea 
 invariably. There was, at a little distance, a colony of 
 stables and outhouses. There was no pretense of keep 
 ing the grounds in order. The entrance was through a
 
 MISFITS. 33 
 
 plain gateway ; a few trees had been set out, but had 
 made little progress. The house honestly declared itself 
 there for the sea and for nothing else, and it was suffi 
 cient reason for being. 
 
 One morning, not long after the adventure that I 
 would not tell to Sophia, I sat on the balcony rather 
 idly sewing, and looked, as people do in the country, 
 idly across towards the house of my neighbor. I saw 
 the carriage come out from the stable, and drive up to 
 the door, and presently some one get in. 1 could see 
 some drapery which did not belong to a man : I began 
 to wonder if it were Mrs. Emlyn, and if she were corn 
 ing to see me. I ran into the parlor and opened the 
 windows to let more sunlight in, and looked in the glass 
 to see if my hair were right, and then, a little flurried, 
 came out again and sat down with my work. I heard 
 the voices of the children, playing in the yard below, 
 and wondered whether, if Mrs. Emlyn did call, she would 
 ask to see them. It is quite agitating to have visits 
 when you are not in the habit of having them. The 
 carriage was now out of the gate, and coming up the 
 road ; it was certainly coming this way, but this way 
 led to the village, to the post-office, to the station to 
 everything. It was coming quite fast, too ; the stout, 
 well-groomed horses made very good time, and the road 
 was hard, and, it is unnecessary to say, level. The car 
 riage was not very new in style, but comfortable and in 
 good order. Yes, they were coming here ; the horses 
 drew up at the gate ; behind the trumpet creeper I 
 agitatedly watched a lady get out, after a middle-aged 
 man, who, of course, was Colonel Emlyn. 
 
 The lady came in at the gate, the gentleman followed 
 her, looking down at the- latch, and feeling its rustiness 
 2*
 
 34: MISFITS. 
 
 with a landlord s touch. The lady was very tall, quite 
 an inch taller than her husband, and of a full and good 
 figure. She walked quickly, and with an erect bearing ; 
 she was very near-sighted, and looked keenly through 
 her glasses. Her hair was almost white, in little curls 
 above her forehead ; in contradiction, she had a young 
 complexion, and a soft color on her cheeks. Her man 
 ner was most decisive, while her voice was very sweet. 
 Her movements were abrupt ; you were deadly afraid of 
 her till you looked into her face. When her face was 
 in repose, it was as sweet as a child s ; but even when it 
 was ruffled, you soon concluded to take heart and hope 
 for happier times, which were on the way. When she 
 came up on the balcony it was with a firm tread, but 
 the foot that I saw, as she stepped up, was, by a natural 
 contradiction, small and pretty. She looked about her 
 for the bell or the knocker, not seeing me. I had 
 arisen, and was corning forward from the other end of 
 the balcony. 
 
 " Here is the young lady," said the colonel, who was 
 just behind her. 
 
 " Oh, where ?" she said, peering around ; and then 
 caught sight of me. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said, meeting me ; " I 
 hope we shall find your mother at home." She did not 
 give me time to answer, but added quickly : " I suppose 
 we have the pleasure of speaking to her daughter?" 
 
 I colored very much and said who I was. 
 
 " You ?" she cried incredulously. "I I well, 
 you must excuse me. It isn t your fault that you look 
 so young. People generally don t mind it, though." 
 
 Then the colonel came forward and she presented 
 him. and I asked them to come into the parlor. When
 
 MISFITS. 35 
 
 they were seated, she still kept talking of the question 
 of my identity, and smiling at the recollection of her 
 mistake. 
 
 The colonel said, " You must excuse us. It comes 
 of making up one s mind on insufficient premises. We 
 only knew through our friend, the doctor, what our 
 new tenant s name was, and that she was a widow." 
 
 (I wonder if he saw me wince.) 
 
 " The other day," went on the colonel, " Mr. 
 Macnally and Ned came home and told us they had 
 seen a young girl and some little children down below 
 the meadows, and we concluded that they were all the 
 lady s children." 
 
 "Besides," interrupted Mrs. Emlyn, "Ned said he 
 had seen an older person on the beach with the 
 children. We came to the conclusion this was she." 
 
 " That is Sophia, the children s nurse. She was my 
 nurse too ; she has always lived with us. She manages 
 everything." 
 
 This I said with a desire to make a greater show 
 of respectability. I had a feeling that the colonel 
 would want to cancel the lease, that he would not in 
 trust his premises to such an unmatronly person. I 
 began to feel myself more insignificant than ever. 
 They had come to see me under a delusion. I felt it 
 an incongruity that such a person as I should be called 
 upon. Mrs. Emlyn looked so grand and imposing. She 
 had almost touched the ceiling when she stood up. She 
 was not so very far from it now that she sat down. 
 
 " I hope you like it here," she said, " and that it 
 agrees with your children they are your children ? " 
 she added, interrogatively, doubtful of all her conclu 
 sions.
 
 36 MISFITS. 
 
 " Oh, yes," I answered, most uncomfortable. 
 
 " It sounds exactly as if Mrs. Emlyn looked upon you 
 as a fraud," said the colonel, coming to my help. 
 
 "Not at all," she returned, with decision; "but 
 when you don t know people, you must ask questions. 
 You don t think there is any thing to object to in being 
 asked questions, do you ?" 
 
 I tried to say I didn t, but as it was a false state 
 ment, I don t believe I made it very forcibly, and it 
 made me seem younger and more inefficient than ever. 
 He certainly, I thought, will take the house away from 
 us. 
 
 " You ve been ill, some of you, I take it, since the 
 doctor sent you here," went on Mrs. Emlyn. 
 
 She certainly had very small grounds to base her 
 conclusions on, and was not to be blamed for wishing 
 to enlarge them. I began to think it would have been 
 kind in the doctor to have told them something about 
 us, but he was a great and a busy doctor, and had to be 
 content "with sketching his good deeds in outline. 1 
 told her I had been ill a good deal for two or three 
 years, and that the children were both delicate, particu 
 larly the elder. 
 
 " Are they girls or boys ? " asked Mrs. Emlyn, and 
 when I told their ages, she looked disappointed. 
 
 " But of course," she said, " they could not be any 
 older " and then she made a pause. 
 
 I struggled with myself ; I wanted to put myself 
 right with these so important people ; my voice trem 
 bled when I said, " I am older than you think me ; I 
 was married when I was eighteen, that is six years ago. 
 Now I am twenty-four." 
 
 " Ah ! " she said with, a sigh, and a look of compas-
 
 MISFITS. 37 
 
 sion. Then, regaining herself, she said, " I was hoping 
 to find the children old enough to be playmates for 
 Naomi. "We have," she went on, in an explanatory 
 tone, "two children, a nephew and a niece, whom we 
 are bringing up. The little girl is lonely, she has no 
 companions ; but she is twelve years old. Ned has his 
 tutor, who is about as much of a boy as he, and they 
 are always out and having a good time, but Naomi is 
 lonely, I wish the children were older." 
 
 "I don t think Naomi pines," said the colonel. 
 " She is always happy enough when I see anything of 
 her, racing about the beach, or driving Ruby before 
 the beach cart." 
 
 " Yes, and how often does she get a chance to drive 
 Ruby ? Ned and Mr. Macnally have the cart all the 
 time, and Naomi has to amuse herself the best way she 
 can. If she weren t such a good little girl she would 
 be whining all the time. You really don t know any 
 thing about it ; I would give anything for somebody to 
 play with Naomi. I had set my heart upon there be 
 ing a little girl about her age." 
 
 And she looked at me reproachfully. The colonel 
 laughed, and I, agitated as I was, also laughed a little, 
 and then Mrs. Emlyn began to see the absurdity of the 
 matter, and laughed too ; a very pleasant, musical laugh. 
 
 " You don t suit at all," she said. " You are too 
 young for me and the colonel, and too old for Naomi 
 and Ned ; and the children are complete misfits." 
 
 This made things a little easier. The colonel got 
 up and walked around the room and examined the wall 
 paper and ceiling critically. 
 
 " It isn t so damp as one would think," he said, look-
 
 38 MISFITS. 
 
 ing around and drawing a deep breath, as if critically to 
 test the atmosphere. 
 
 "We don t think it damp at all. I have a little 
 fire lighted every evening in the Franklin. I am so 
 glad there is a Franklin." 
 
 " Ah, you like it ? " he said. " I had the chimney 
 opened, and that stove brought down from the attic ; 
 the old people who owned the house had stuffed up 
 the chimney, and put in an air-tight." 
 
 " And isn t that little corner cupboard in the dining- 
 room nice ? " I said. " Don t you want to come and 
 look at the dining-room ? " 
 
 So we went into the dining-room, and I showed them 
 the cupboard and the little, long, narrow closet by the 
 walled-up fireplace, and all the improvements that I 
 had made in the arrangement of things. I am afraid 
 the dining-room, so called, was a dismal old hole, but I 
 liked it very much, and said so. 
 
 " Ah," cried Mrs. Emlyn, shrugging her shoulders, 
 "I don t want any old houses to live in. I should 
 smother in this room. Why don t you take the sashes 
 of the windows out ? They don t open more than five 
 inches. If it weren t for being afraid of the rain I 
 should take the sashes out." 
 
 She was much interested in everything, but she 
 kept outside the door and did not do more than look in. 
 
 " You need some more china," said the colonel. 
 "Penelope, can t we spare some of that old blue, 
 like this ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don t know anything about the china. Ask 
 Rachel, she can tell you. I do not think, myself, there 
 is any more than we can use." 
 
 While I was protesting, frightened, that I didn t
 
 MISFITS. 39 
 
 need any more china, she explained herself with gestures. 
 " You know there isn t any use in promising what we 
 haven t got. It is just like a man to make promises. 
 My own impression is we are rather short of blue, but 
 if we re not, there s no objection to your having what 
 you want. Only there s no use in making promises." , 
 
 The colonel didn t seem to mind at all, and said, 
 " "We ll see," and then fell to promising me some more 
 piazza chairs, when we walked out there ; and Mrs. 
 Emlyn said there was a hammock that was not being 
 used, if I cared for having it. She did not seem to be 
 exactly consistent about promising, for she pledged her 
 self to send me, besides the hammock, an extra mattress 
 and two tables. 
 
 " You might as well have them," she said. " They re 
 doing nobody any good, and lumbering up the attic." 
 
 That took off the load of the obligation, certainly. 
 The colonel walked about, quite as if it were his house, 
 which seemed odd to me. He was a short, rather thin 
 man, with a prominent nose, kind blue eyes, bushy eye 
 brows, a high forehead, and grizzled hair that curled 
 yet. One feels as if grizzled hair would have forgotten 
 to curl, particularly when it is thin on the top. He had 
 an alert manner, but in some way gave you the idea of 
 philosophic quiet. He dressed with scrupulous neat 
 ness, but in rather old style. "When they went away I 
 accompanied them to the gate, and felt as if we were 
 old friends. The children, not perceiving the august 
 visitors, came running around the corner of the house. 
 
 " Ah !" Mrs. Emlyn said, looking at them, " these 
 are the children ? They are very pretty, the eldest one 
 particularly. I am sorry that they re not old enough 
 for Naomi."
 
 40 MISFITS. 
 
 But the colonel took them up and talked to them, 
 and seemed to like them. When they got in the car 
 riage Mrs. Emlyn leaned out and said, " We ll send you 
 the things when the man can be spared to bring them. 
 And you must come and see us if you aren t the right 
 age, any of you." 
 
 And then she laughed again, and they drove away.
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 ON THE SANDS. 
 
 " Upon the wings of wild sea-birds, 
 My dark thoughts would I lay, 
 And let them bear them out to sea 
 In the tempest far away." 
 
 Paler. 
 
 AD AY or two after that I went down to the beach, 
 with Sophia and the children, for the whole 
 afternoon. Sophia took the children and sat behind the 
 bank, and turned her back to the ocean, which she 
 despised, and sewed. The children naturally did not 
 stay with her, but wandered over to where I sat, close 
 by the waves, with a great gray blanket spread out on 
 the sand, enveloped in shawls. It was the first warm 
 day of the season, but the wind was strong, and cool 
 enough to make all the shawls acceptable, sitting still. 
 
 " Sitting still, and doing nothing," I knew that was 
 what Sophia was saying to herself testily as she pricked 
 her fingers and looked over the bank at me. That was 
 always what I seemed to be doing. Considering that the 
 children s summer clothes were not even yet cut out, 
 perhaps it was rather shiftless. But I was not thinking 
 about the children s summer clothes, nor yet their 
 winter ones. What was I thinking of as I sat there 
 hour by hour, while the great waves broke at my feet, 
 sucking the sand back in their retreat, and then spread- 
 
 [41]
 
 42 ON THE SANDS. 
 
 ing it smooth again before me, while the little bubbles 
 burst up through it, and the sand fleas scampered across 
 it ? I watched the blue horizon, across which, at far 
 intervals, a white sail drifted. I gazed up and down 
 the long stretch of beach, lonely and bare, and noted, at 
 either point, where my vision ended, the pillar of cloud 
 that the spray made against the far sky. I don t think 
 a sand-piper ran along the sand that I did not notice, 
 nor that a gull swept above the blue tide that I did not 
 follow out of sight, nor that a .wave broke at my feet 
 that I did not curiously scan. I did not think about 
 the past ; I did not speculate upon the future ; I had 
 no great thoughts such as the sea seems to give to others ; 
 I did not want any one to read or talk to me ; I did not 
 want to read or talk myself ; I liked to see the children 
 playing a little way from me, but it annoyed me to have 
 them come and prattle by me, and make demands upon 
 my attention. When a great wave, green and crystal, 
 came thundering in from sea, and burst upon the beach, 
 I had no greater thoughts than speculation whether the 
 next incoming one would be as high and would rush up 
 as far upon the sand. I made a pillow for myself of a 
 shawl ; I drew another over me ; it was delicious and the 
 sun shone warm ; I lay content and idle while the half 
 hours lapsed away. I don t know whether it was exactly 
 right to be so vacant and indolent, but it seemed just 
 the medicine for my sick and thought-sore mind. 
 
 The afternoon wore away; the children were still busy 
 at a great hole which they had spent two hours in mak 
 ing broad and deep, when I idly saw them reinforced 
 by a third child -a tall, slight, girl of twelve, perhaps, 
 with a great profusion of yellowish-brown hair upon
 
 ON THE SANDS. 43 
 
 her shoulders, and a sun-burned, pretty face, blue eyes, 
 and a bang that reached nearly to her eye-brows. 
 
 " This is the melancholy Naomi," I thought, but a 
 great wave rolled in that moment, and I returned my 
 gaze to it, and wasted no more thought upon her. By and 
 by the children s voices at my elbow forced me to 
 abandon a sea-gull to its fate, and look up. Naomi stood 
 shyly before me, with a child in each hand, her face 
 radiant with happiness. 
 
 " Mayn t they go home with me ?" she said ; " it isn t 
 far ; they want to see my rabbits." 
 
 " Ask Sophia if there s time," I said, smiling up in 
 her pretty face. 
 
 They ran over to Sophia, Naomi carrying Baby part 
 of the way. Sophia evidently took the opposition, for 
 Naomi and Maidy both looked extinguished, and Baby 
 was crying and stamping with her little foot, and pull 
 ing at Naomi s hand, in the direction of the house, which 
 rose behind the sand-hills, not quarter of a mile from us 
 along the beach. At first I thought Sophia very cruel, 
 but then changed my mind, and reflected how far the 
 afternoon had waned. Certainly we ought even now 
 to be getting ready for the march. But Sophia should 
 settle the matter ; she didn t mind breaking their hearts 
 as much as I did, and I looked away across the opal- 
 tinted sky and sea, and lost myself again in revery. 
 
 Not for many minutes a whoop, a shout, I don t 
 know what, sounded from behind the sand-hills, and 
 looking back in the direction whence it came, I saw 
 the young man, whom I had come to recognize as 
 the tutor, emerge from behind them, waving his hand 
 to Naomi, and trying to attract her attention. The 
 beach was very wide, and I was down at the water s
 
 44 ON THE SANDS. 
 
 edge. I pushed the shawls back, and listlessly sat watch 
 ing them all ; the jerks of Sophia s head, the stamps of 
 Baby s foot, the faces of the disappointed children, the 
 gestures of the new-comer, who could not get them to 
 see him. He was dressed as when I had first seen him ; 
 now he carried a gun, and a game-bag slung over his 
 shoulder. At last he succeeded in catching Naomi s 
 ear, as he approached her along the top of the sand-hill. 
 She dropped the children s hands and flew towards him. 
 "What he had to say to her pleased her very much, for 
 her face brightened, and she gave a gesture of delight. 
 But then her eye falling on the children, she looked 
 disappointed again and pointed to them. He made a 
 suggestion ; she pointed to Sophia, and shook her head. 
 He shrugged his shoulders : then they both looked to 
 wards me, and after a consultation, she sprang down the 
 bank and came running towards me. 
 
 Meanwhile the young man threw himself down on 
 the beach grass and took out the charge of his gun, and 
 busied himself about something in the bag at his side. 
 Naomi breathlessly said, as she stood before me : 
 
 " Oh, please can t we take the children home in the 
 cart ? Mr. Macnally has just come for me to go to the 
 village, and he says they can go too, if you ll let them. 
 And we ll take good care of them, and we ll leave them 
 at your house when we come back. Please let them 
 go ; I ll hold Baby, myself, so she sha n t joggle out, 
 and Maidy shall sit on Mr. Macnally s lap Ruby is 
 very gentle, and Mr. Macnally is such a careful driver. 
 Please? 
 
 It certainly was a great deal the easiest way of get 
 ting them home, and I consented. Sophia wouldn t 
 like it, but neither would she like carrying Baby all the
 
 ON THE SANDS. 45 
 
 half mile, home. It was only a question of degrees of 
 disapprobation, and it seemed for once as if the chil 
 dren might have the benefit of the doubt, and do as 
 they asked. I only hoped they d let me alone and 
 wouldn t bother me any more about it. By the ar 
 rangement, I should get a half hour more by the waves, 
 so I pulled the shawls about me, and lay down a little 
 more on my elbow. 
 
 But more bother was to come. Sophia came labor 
 iously across the heavy sand to me, to utter her protest ; 
 the children looked after her in keen suspense, the 
 young man began to take an interest. 
 
 " You don t mean to say," she said, as soon as she 
 could speak, for panting, " that you told that strange 
 girl that the children could go home in the cart with 
 her and that that man, there ?" 
 
 " Why not ? Yes, I told her they could." 
 
 " I suppose you want them killed ? I should as soon 
 think of turning them adrift in a sail boat. That man 
 always drives as if he was pursued, and the cart s noth 
 ing but a death-trap. I won t take any responsibility 
 about it." 
 
 " Oh, I don t ask you to. Nothing will happen to 
 them, I m sure ; but if anything does, I won t blame 
 you. I ve told her they might go I can t take back 
 my word. One must be civil to one s landlord, you 
 know." 
 
 " I know," returned Sophia, with a sort of hiss, set 
 ting her lips very tight, and turning away. I only 
 feared there would be another reference to me, there 
 was so prolonged a conversation, but at last I saw them 
 go away, towards the house, Baby in Mr. Macnally s 
 arms, and Naomi and Maidy close at his heels. They
 
 46 ON THE SANDS. 
 
 were all gazing at him with intense approbation. He was 
 tossing Baby over his head, the last I saw of them, as 
 they disappeared on the other side of the sand-hills. 
 Sophia gathered up her work and went her way, with 
 out a word, leaving me to get the shawls home as I 
 could.
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 UNCONVENTIONAL FOR A FIEST CALL. 
 
 " His limbs were well set, an his body was light, 
 An the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white; 
 But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, 
 And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red; 
 An for all that he wasn t an ugly young bye, 
 For the divil himself couldn t blaze with his eye, 
 So droll and so wicked, so dark and so bright, 
 Like a fire-flash, that crosses the depth of the night 1" 
 
 Samuel Loner. 
 
 FROM that day, Naomi spent almost as much of her 
 time at the cottage as at Happy-go-lucky ; her aunt 
 must have been gratified at the kindness with which she 
 took to the little misfits. She put Baby to sleep, she 
 taught Maidy her letters, she went to house-keeping 
 with them both, out in the lilac -bush ; they had tea in 
 the barn, on the balcony, under the box-tree, every 
 where, in fact, that tea could be taken. She went 
 home, by strict orders, to the superior njeal of dinner, 
 and naturally had her breakfast before she came to us, 
 but tea in some form and on some part of the premises, 
 she always took at the cottage. She was a delightful 
 little mother, and so perfectly happy in her position 
 that even Sophia was reconciled to the intrusion, par 
 ticularly as it gave her so much more time for those 
 terrible summer clothes. She ould be entirely trusted 
 
 [47]
 
 48 UNCONVENTIONAL FOR A FIRST CALL. 
 
 with the children, out-Sophiaing Sophia in regard to 
 damp grass, and being a perfect martinet in the matter 
 of manners. 
 
 We were favored tenants. All the promised things 
 were sent, and a great many more. The carriage 
 stopped nearly every day to bring some vegetables 
 from our landlord s early garden, or some fish or crabs 
 from the bay, or some addition to our rather slender 
 kitchen furniture. Once or twice I had gone down to 
 the gate and received the gifts out of the carriage win 
 dow from inadame herself. The colonel had come in 
 twice about the kitchen chimney, and altogether we 
 felt that we were very comfortably placed. Our letters 
 were brought from the mail every night by some one 
 from Happy-go-lucky : we seemed quite taken under 
 its wing. When it stormed, the man from Happy-go- 
 lucky stopped to take our orders to the grocer : when 
 we were " out " of anything unexpectedly, we had no 
 hesitation in hailing him as he passed to the village, 
 and making him our messenger. I had not yet paid 
 my visit there ; two rainy days and a headache had 
 prevented. 
 
 A third rainy day was just ending ; the children 
 had been reinforced by Naomi, who had come across 
 the fields, all water-proofed and India-rubbered. They 
 had had their-tea, in a spirit of adventure, in the gar 
 ret. I had had mine alone, in the little dining-room ; the 
 wood fire in the parlor was blazing, and the lamp was 
 lighted ; I was sitting beside it with a nice book. The 
 children were below with Sophia in the kitchen, when 
 J heard a step on the balcony outside, and then a knock 
 at the door. I knew it was the mail, and hurried to 
 open it. Mr. Macnally stcod there, very dripping, with
 
 UNCONVENTIONAL FOR A FIKST CALL. 49 
 
 a package of letters and papers in his hand, which he 
 was assorting. 
 
 " I bog your pardon," he said, looking up and see 
 ing me. He tried to take off his cap, but the wind did 
 it for him, and also distributed some of the letters on 
 the floor, as he stooped forward to catch the light, and 
 a little stream of water ran across from the door to the 
 oil-cloth on the hall. The gale put out the parlor lamp 
 at the same moment. 
 
 " It s too bad," he said ; " I think those are for you, 
 but I can t be sure. If you ll let me, I ll look at them 
 by the firelight." 
 
 So he shut the door against the blast, and, coming 
 into the parlor, knelt down and examined the letters by 
 the blaze from the fire, while I hurried to re-light the 
 lamp. Just as this was accomplished, and he was handing 
 me the letters that belonged to me, the children rushed 
 up stairs and into the room, headed by Naomi. 
 
 " Mr. Macnally," she cried, " I thought it was you. 
 Aunt Penelope told me that I must go home with you, 
 or whoever brought the letters. Can t you wait a 
 little while, just a little while ? Please, can t he ? So 
 phia is going to let us pop some corn ; we ve got it all 
 ready. The children want to see it so they haven t 
 ever seen anybody pop corn they ll be so disappointed. 
 Won t you ? Don t you think he might ?" 
 
 The little ones added their clamor ; in the midst of a 
 rather embarrassed parley which they took for an assent, 
 they, with gestures of delight, flew down-stairs and in 
 a moment returned with the corn and with a shovel. 
 
 " It s to be done here, is it ?" said the tutor, putting 
 his ulster in the hall. " That looks as if you wanted me 
 
 3
 
 50 UNCONVENTIONAL FOR A FIRST CALL. 
 
 to help you. But I thought people popped corn in the 
 kitchen." 
 
 " Only when they can t get a parlor to pop it in," 
 cried Naomi, going down on her knees by the tire. 
 " Besides," lowering her voice, " the kitchen s much 
 more particular than the parlor here." 
 
 That was soon evident. The parlor wasn t particular. 
 The ashes were dragged over the hearth, up to the very 
 verge of the rug. The half -burned sticks broke in two 
 and rolled to the sides of the Franklin, the smoke 
 puffed into our faces, the sparks scintillated around 
 our hands. The coals, which had been piled into a heap 
 in the center, grew gray, and fresh pine and more wood 
 had to be put on. It was surprising how much had to 
 be done to get things in condition to begin. I had to 
 find paper, Naomi had to go down-stairs for kindling 
 wood. We all crowded around the fireplace, and as the 
 plot thickened, went down on our knees upon the rug. I 
 held Baby in my lap, and tried to keep her from getting 
 into the tire. Naomi held the shovel over the coals, and 
 Mr. Macnally put in the corn and stirred it. Maidy 
 crowded in wherever there was least room, and looked 
 over the lowest shoulder. When at last the right heat 
 was obtained, and the first grain of corn yielded to the 
 pressure, and burst suddenly into a pretfy white blos 
 som, Maidy gave a shriek of delight, as if at a feat of 
 jugglery. Mr. Macnally laughed, and, pulling her into 
 the circle, took her before him on his knee, and put the 
 stick into her hand with which he had been stirring the 
 corn. 
 
 " You poor little Cockney," he said, " aren t you glad 
 you ve come to the land where the pop-corn grows ?" 
 
 Whenever a grain popped,both the children shrieked,
 
 UNCONVENTIONAL FOE A FIRST CALL. 51 
 
 and Naomi, who was a blase popper, laughed with, pat 
 ronizing freedom. The tutor held Maidy by brute 
 force, or she would have thrown herself into the coals 
 in her excitement, and it was only by a firm hold that I 
 kept Baby from grovelling in the ashes. By the time 
 the last grain had blown into whiteness, all the faces of 
 the party were scorched, and everybody s hands were 
 grimy from the ashes. 
 
 " There, Maidy," I said, "that s the last one; now 
 yon must really get further from the fire," for Maidy, 
 being the stirrer, was of course in the forefront. 
 
 No, Maidy didn t want to get back ; she wanted 
 more, and she began to cry, and say Naomi must go 
 flown to the kitchen and get more corn. 
 
 " "Why," said the tutor, withdrawing her a little 
 from the heat, " now s the time to eat the corn. Naomi 
 will get a plate." 
 
 " Mr. Macnally, why did you tell her that ? Sophia 
 never would consent. Popped corn is highly in-di-gest- 
 ible," cried Naomi, with importance. " You have spoiled 
 it all." 
 
 " I m awfully sorry," he said. " At the risk of being 
 disingenuous, Maidy, then I must tell you it is highly 
 in-di-gestible, and we never do anything with it but 
 play it is a snow-storm. Shall we play it is a snow 
 storm 2" 
 
 Maidy was not appeased, only perplexed by the hard 
 words ; at this moment Sophia appeared in the doorway. 
 I began to feel the ignominy of being on the floor, with 
 three untidy children and a strange man. I don t know 
 why Sophia s presence should have roused these feelings, 
 but it did ; I was not accountable to Sophia. I got 
 upon my feet in some way, and put Baby on hers. Mr.
 
 52 UNCONVENTIONAL FOE A FIRST CALL. 
 
 Macnally did the same, and as his back was towards 
 Sophia he made a funny gesture of straightening a cravat 
 which did not exist, and smoothing down his hair, of 
 which there was a growth of about an eighth of an inch. 
 Undoubtedly this was meant for Naomi s amusement, 
 for she seemed to understand him, and giggled. 
 
 Sophia disdained to look at any of us. With her 
 eyes averted, she told me she had come to take the 
 children to bed. Maidy began to cry violently and 
 cling to Mr. Macnally, in whose arms she still was. 
 Baby struck out at her, and said "go way, bad thing," 
 and held tightly the skirt of my dress. 
 
 " Isn t it pretty early ? " I said, hesitatingly. " Can t 
 you let them stay a little longer ?" 
 
 I caught an amused smile flit over the stranger s 
 mouth ; his eyes were discreetly on the ground, and I 
 could not see their sparkle. The sight of the smile 
 emboldened me to say, " They can stay up for twenty 
 minutes more, if you ll come back for them then." 
 
 Sophia went away without a word. It was all very 
 well for Naomi and Mr. Macnally to look relieved and 
 merry ; it was I who would have to take it to-morrow. 
 
 "Now for the snow-storm," cried Maidy s friend, 
 setting her upon his shoulder, and giving her a handful 
 of the corn. Maidy showered it down with great satis 
 faction over every body, while Naomi gathered some of 
 it up industriously for repetitions of the storm. By 
 and by the supply grew short, so much of it was lobt 
 among the chairs and tables ; Maidy looked dissatisfied. 
 
 " These second-hand showers, Maidy, are apt to run 
 short. It s the worst of them. Can t we do something 
 else to make ourselves happy ? " 
 
 And her cavalier was proceeding very gently to take
 
 UNCONVENTIONAL FOR A FIRST CALL. 53 
 
 her down from his shoulder, when she began to cry, 
 liking her position. 
 
 " For shame ! " cried Naomi, " when Mr. Macnally 
 has been so good to you ! " 
 
 " These second-hand mothers are hard upon little 
 girls, ar n t they ? " he said, kissing the little hand that 
 clung about his neck, and not offering to take her down. 
 Naomi blushed. 
 
 " Sophia always tells me to make her mind. She 
 wouldn t trust her to me if I didn t." 
 
 Thereupon Baby, seeing how much was to be got 
 by crying, cried, and demanded to be taken up upon 
 the other shoulder. 
 
 " You see," exclaimed Naomi, " somebody must be 
 firm." 
 
 The tutor and I both laughed ; I evidently didn t 
 count for much in my household ; but though I 
 laughed, I did not like it very much. 
 
 " If your great-grandmother Naomi will permit," he 
 said, with a bow in the direction of that young person, " I 
 shall be very happy to have you on the other shoulder." 
 
 " Oh, yes," cried Naomi, forgetting her wrongs in a 
 new thought. " And dance an Irish jig with them, as 
 you did that day on the beach ! Please, Mr. Macnally, 
 it would be so jolly. Please, mayn t he ? He won t 
 make much noise." 
 
 " Why don t you ask Sophia ?" I said. She was 
 flying off, taking me seriously, when I called her back. 
 " It isn t necessary to ask Sophia this time," I said. 
 
 "Then he may? Oh, what fun. Mr. Macnally, 
 you will, won t you ?" 
 
 " I must ask you to excuse me," he said, rather 
 shortly.
 
 54 UNCONVENTIONAL FOK A FIRST CALL. 
 
 "But the Baby?" said Naomi, snubbed. "Won t 
 you let her have a ride on your shoulder, anyhow ?" 
 
 Mr. Macnally knelt down like a camel, while I put 
 Baby on his other shoulder. He held each one by the 
 hand, and rose up, balancing them carefully. They 
 screamed with delight while he gave them a ride 
 through the circuit of our apartments. There was a 
 great row while they were out in the dining-room ; I 
 didn t know but that the Irish jig was beginning, but 
 they were all subdued and respectable when they reap 
 peared in the doorway of the parlor. To get through 
 this door, it was necessary for the camel to go down on 
 his knees again, which he did with great ease. He 
 had the sort of figure that gave you the impression it 
 would be no inconvenience to him to roll himself up 
 like an India-rubber ball and be shot off the moon; 
 he would surely land on his feet in South Berwick if 
 he meant to appear there. 
 
 " Now," he said, after another tour of the disor 
 dered little parlor, going down on one knee before 
 Naomi, " if your great-grandmother will have the good 
 ness to bear a hand " 
 
 " I don t think that s fair," muttered Naomi, a little 
 nettled. " I ve had the care of them a great deal 
 
 " I know," he said, kissing one little scorched face 
 and then another, as he set them down, " and now I 
 think, Naomi, if you ll get your cloak and hat we will 
 say good-night." 
 
 Naomi, and the children after her, ran down-stairs 
 to the kitchen, which seemed to have served for Naomi s 
 dressing-room, and where, no doubt, the judicious So 
 phia had put her wet water-proof before the fire when 
 she first came in.
 
 UNCONVENTIONAL FOR A FIRST CALL. 55 
 
 The stranger and I began to feel a little awkwardness, 
 after the children went away. We had really not ad 
 dressed each other directly, except in the matter of the 
 letters, all the time he had been here. He had a down- 
 looking, rather shy way when it came to talking to me, 
 that seemed like a very young man. And yet, he was 
 not a very young man, unless twenty-six or twenty- 
 eight is very young ; one felt sure he was as much as 
 that. His lithe, slight figure, in the inevitable blue 
 flannel clothes, made him look very boyish, but his face, 
 when you took that into account, gave a different esti 
 mate. His cheeks were flushed now with the flre and 
 with the romp ; his eyes were keen and bright, when 
 you could get a gleam from them ; his mouth was rest 
 less with mirth that it seemed an effort to subdue, and 
 yet I had a feeling that I was talking to a man who was 
 at least my equal in age, my senior in experience of 
 life. 
 
 I attempted some commonplace, as a woman is sure 
 to do, first, while he stood by the table, looking down, 
 attempting nothing. It was about the storm, no doubt, 
 and when it was answered, there was another pause. 
 The disordered room seemed to strike him. 
 
 " It has beca rather unconventional for a first call," 
 he said, not looking up, but a smile spoiling the 
 decorum of his face. " Like a first call from a hurri 
 cane," he added, moving a chair back against the win 
 dow, and setting straight a little table that had been 
 whirled out of its corner by Naomi. 
 
 " I don t mind," I said. " It keeps Sophia in good 
 humor to have plenty of things to put in order. It s 
 the best thing that can happen." 
 
 " Far be it from me, then," he said fervently, put-
 
 56 UNCONVENTIONAL FOR A FIRST CALL. 
 
 ting the chair and table back to a fraction of the same 
 angle in which they had been standing. He had a 
 delightful little accent, English or Irish, or perhaps 
 Canadian ; I quite liked to hear him speak, and 
 found myself speculating as to whether I couldn t 
 speak that way if I tried. Then Naomi and the 
 children came tumbling into the room again, and 
 waterproofs and umbrellas and overshoes were all 
 that came into discussion. As the tutor knelt down to 
 light his lantern at the fire, Maidy came up and pressed 
 close to his side and slipped her little hand under his arm, 
 and watched him silently. It was such an astonishing 
 action for the shy child. When he went away, she 
 followed him to the door and held up her face to be 
 kissed, though the wind nearly swept her back into the 
 room. Then she ran to the window and pressed her 
 face against the pane, and watched the little spark as 
 it wavered along through the darkness, in, the direction 
 of Happy-go-lucky s hospitable lights.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TEA, TREATED UNCOlSrVElSrTION ALLT. 
 
 " Twas nice, of course, to hear from you 
 
 About their wild, Bohemian ways; 
 One likes to know how people do 
 "Who are not in the world. " 
 
 Olrig Grange. 
 
 T HAD meant to go to pay my first call at Happy-go- 
 * Lucky, a mountain of crape ; even getting out my 
 best dress and veil from the damp little closet in the 
 wall where they spent their days. But it was too incon 
 gruous and absurd ; I could not fancy myself dragging 
 them through the dust of the road and the damp of 
 the grass, and appearing with dignity to make a visit of 
 ceremony upon my landlady. So I gave the Shinne- 
 cock my flannel dress to brush with extra care for the 
 occasion, and taking Maidy for companion, went un 
 conventionally across the fields in the direction of the 
 house. When we went in at the gate two or three 
 great dogs bounced out at us, sending Maidy into par 
 oxysms of fright, but as many men came out from stable 
 and garden and carriage-house and called them oif. 
 
 "When I got to the steps of the house, I was again 
 in doubt. Every stage of the visit had been attended 
 with doubt ; whether I should come morning or after 
 noon, whether I should wear crape or flannel, and now 
 3* [57]
 
 58 TEA, TREATED TOSTCONVENTIONALLT. 
 
 whether I should go up the front steps or the side 
 steps, or where. 
 
 For wide flights of steps led to the broad veranda 
 on each side of the house, and I could not distinguish 
 any definite " front-door." In fact, the house seemed 
 all doors and windows, mostly open ones. We went 
 finally up the western steps, trusting, when there, to 
 light upon a knocker or a bell or some distinguishing 
 mark that visits were in order. The veranda was very 
 wide, running entirely around the house ; there was a 
 roof only over certain portions of it, forming porches 
 on each side. These were in shade at some time 
 or other of the day, and were amply provided with 
 chairs, hammocks and settees. At the windows un 
 shaded by them, the sunshine streamed into rooms 
 that, so near the sea, were all the better for it. The 
 western porch was now flooded with the afternoon 
 sun ; no one was sitting there ; if there were a door 
 there, it was not distinguishable from a window, and 
 was wide open. I went rather uncomfortably to the 
 rear, where the veranda was connected with a platform 
 that led out to the crest of the sand-hill overlooking 
 the sea. Visitors could not reasonably be expected to 
 enter from the ocean, so I went back and tried the 
 north, or, more properly, the front side of the house. 
 But here more open casements, more disarranged and 
 untenanted chairs, and no bell, no knocker. The ver 
 anda was inclosed below, and formed the kitchen, laun 
 dry, and servants rooms. Here I could distinguish the 
 servants voices, and laughter, and sounds of work. 
 How could I make them hear me ? I tried to knock on 
 the floor with my umbrella ; it probably sounded like 
 the tap of a woodpecker, and elicited no reply. It
 
 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 59 
 
 would be unpleasant to have to pin my card to one of 
 the posts of the porch, and go away. 
 
 As I walked up and down nervously, wondering 
 what I ought to do, Maidy suddenly dropped my 
 hand and went towards the western steps. She had 
 caught sight of somebody she liked, who, however, had 
 not as yet seen her. Mr. Macnally came up the steps 
 three at a time, whistling, and carrying a crab-net over 
 his shoulder. He started when he caught sight of 
 Maidy, made a gesture as if he would scoop her up in 
 his crab-net, and then hurried to her and stooped to 
 kiss her. 
 
 " "What s my little lady doing here alone?" he said. 
 She took his hand shyly and pointed with the other to 
 wards me, as I came around the angle of the house. 
 He took off his cap to me, which he hadn t done to 
 Maidy, worse manners. 
 
 " I m trying to find a bell or a knocker, or a front 
 door." 
 
 " Have we ever a front door," he said. " I never 
 thought of it before. No, I don t believe we have. 
 We go in promiscuous. We don t have many visitors. 
 There are not many to come, you know." 
 
 " All the same, it s awkward for them when they do. 
 It s the first time I ve been, and I ought not to be too 
 unceremonious." 
 
 " Certainly, a first call ought to be conventional : I 
 know it." And he took his cap off again and stood 
 with it in his hand, and his eyes on the floor, and an 
 unspoken jest hovering on his lips. 
 
 " How can I find oat if Mrs. Emlyn is at home ? " I 
 said, nervously, after a pause of about a minute, which 
 seemed to me much longer.
 
 60 TEA, TREATED tnSTCONVENTIONALLY. 
 
 "Might I take your card to her?" he said, and, I 
 can t tell how, he transformed himself in a moment 
 into the sleekest of Jeemeses, with his cap tucked under 
 his arm, holding out an imaginary salver to take the 
 card. All this time he didn t look at me ; but the 
 expression of his face, his attitude, the slight serving- 
 man accent with which he pronounced the words, were 
 a livery and knee-breeches. 
 
 "I haven t got any card," I said, almost too uncom 
 fortable to be amused. 
 
 " Oh ! then," he exclaimed, with a look of relief, re 
 suming his natural expression, "it isn t to be strictly 
 point device. Perhaps you will come in, this way, 
 through the dining-room." 
 
 "VVe went in through an open casement, and he gave 
 me a seat, and went away to find the lady of the house. 
 It was an immense room, running the whole length of 
 the house. I didn t wonder Mrs. Emlyn could not 
 breathe in my dining-room, if she were used to breathing 
 in this. It was about forty-five feet long, with a width 
 of twenty-two or twenty-three. The staircase went up 
 at one end, and in the center was a great fire-place 
 bricked up to the ceiling, with a fire even now smoulder 
 ing on the hearth. The furniture was heavy and old- 
 fashioned ; one or two nice pieces of tapestry hung 
 against the wall, and between the windows, on the 
 panels, were crossed some swords and guns, a helmet or 
 two, and a few pieces of armor that perhaps wouldn t 
 bear scrutiny, but were quite effective. The floor was 
 bare, except a rug and footstool at the head of the table. 
 The mahogany of the table was polished very bright, 
 but on it was the debris of a lunch which some belated 
 one had recently been eating. The colonel s pipe-box,
 
 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 61 
 
 a very rude affair, was nailed up between the fire-place 
 and a tapestry that must have cost a pretty penny. The 
 tutor had set down his crab-net in a corner as if it were 
 the place in which it belonged. There were fishing- 
 poles and creels and reels in another, and under the 
 stairs, in full view, hung cloaks and shawls and coats of 
 all descriptions, and a perfect colony of hats and caps. 
 The windows, which were very wide, were opened full 
 to the strong wind from the sea and the sun now 
 " sloping to his western bower." On one side of the 
 fireplace was a box for wood, on the other a basket for 
 Naomi s little Blenheim, who always slept there. A 
 table in a corner was piled high with school-books ; 
 under it was a croquet box with the mallets sticking out 
 from the half-closed lid. The silver on the sideboard 
 was shining beautifully, and the window panes were 
 crystal clean, but on the sideboard stood a dripping glass 
 jar of sea-weeds, and before one of the windows a great 
 tin pan, in which crabs and scallops and star-fish battled 
 about, dismayed at their imprisonment. A pool of 
 water, gradually widening on the handsome wood floor 
 was not likely to improve its polish. It certainly was 
 not an untidy room, but if one might say so, a most 
 liberal one. All crafts and tastes seemed to have the 
 freedom of it, and everything was tolerated but dust 
 and dirt. 
 
 There had been sounds of knocking at many doors 
 upstairs, and presently Mr. Macnally came down. 
 
 " I am sorry to say there is nobody in the house. I 
 don t know where Mrs. Emlyn and Naomi have gone. 
 It is possible that we may find them on the beach." 
 
 So while Maidy clutched his hand, I followed him 
 out upon the veranda and across the platform to the
 
 02 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 
 
 sand-hill, whence we could see up and down the beach. 
 The beach looked wide and lonely, not a human being 
 in sight. Maidy looked disappointed. " I want to see 
 Naomi s rabbits." 
 
 " Next time ; we must go home now," I said, feeling 
 uncomfortably that I was making a call upon the tutor. 
 
 " Next time sounds a great way off. Mayn t she 
 come with me to see the rabbits ? I will bring her back 
 to you in a little while." 
 
 That was not objectionable ; so going down on the 
 beach, to be off the premises and beyond the imputation 
 of paying him a visit, I sat down on the sand and waited. 
 The afternoon was perfect, the sky and sea blue, the 
 breeze fresh, the air sun-dried and warm. I had just 
 got soothed into a dreamy forgetfulness of my recent 
 embarrassments, when a great shout from the sand-hill 
 made me turn around ; Naomi was springing down, fol 
 lowed by Maidy, and the Colonel and Mrs. Emlyri stood 
 on the top, waving to me. 
 
 " You re to stay to tea !" cried Naomi, panting. 
 " Aunt Penelope says you are, and she s come out to 
 fetch you. Oh, such fun !" 
 
 And she caught Maidy in her arms, and whirled her 
 round till they both fell, exhausted, on the beach. Mean 
 while, I got up, and hurried up the sand-hill, to meet 
 my host and hostess. They renewed the invitation to 
 tea, and Maidy and Naomi danced a war-dance around 
 us till the matter was settled. 
 
 " What will Sophia say ; you always go to bed at 
 seven, and how shall we get home if it is dark ?" 
 
 " Oh, we ll see to that ; we ll make Mr. Macnally go, 
 or Ned, if he is busy. Come, Maidy, come and see the 
 rabbits."
 
 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 63 
 
 Then the colonel asked me to walk around the place 
 with him, and see the water- works, and the garden, and 
 the stables. The hostess excused herself, and went on 
 the piazza to read, while we went to look at these im 
 provements. It is always a doubtful pleasure to be 
 dragged about country places to look at improvements. 
 It is only possession that gives a charm to rams, and 
 wheels, and forcing-beds, and model stables. The 
 colonel was glad to find a listener ; he did not let me off 
 from anything. He had evidently spent a good deal of 
 money, which nobody would have guessed if he hadn t 
 told them. The lawn looked as if it would have been 
 the better for a little of the attention that was given to 
 the calves and colts, and a tithe from the water-works 
 ought to have been exacted to make a better gate and 
 fence. But those things showed, and could take care of 
 themselves ; the things that did not show and were 
 practically useful were what the colonel set his heart 
 on bringing to perfection. It was a very amiable trait 
 in the colonel s character. All the same, I was glad 
 when the tea-bell rang, and we went back to the house. 
 Not, however, without some pauses and procrastinations 
 as the water tank was passed. We were so long on the 
 way that when we reached the dining-room the lady of 
 the house was already at the table, looking a little severe 
 and pouring out the tea. It was past seven o clock, but 
 the days were at the longest ; I remember it was 
 
 "St. Barnaby bright, 
 The longest day and the shortest night." 
 
 The sky was brilliant with the sunset, through all 
 the west and north windows of the dining-room, stand 
 ing open. The tea-table looked very pretty, with nice
 
 64 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 
 
 old blue china and heavy silver, but it seemed to me a 
 happy accident, for I never saw a table less carefully 
 arranged. The dishes seemed principally congregated 
 about the colonel s and some one else s plate, which I 
 later found to be the tutor s. Naomi, who had fol 
 lowed us in, reached across and put a glass of ferns and 
 daisies as near the middle of the table as she could get 
 it. Her hands were very dirty; her aunt guessed, 
 rather than saw, that they were, and told her to go and 
 wash them before she came in to tea. Naomi said 
 Maidy s were dirty too, so they made up a party, and 
 went off quite cheerfully to wash them. 
 
 I had a seat with my back to the fire-place, and my 
 face toward the windows. It seemed to me I had never 
 seen a room so delightful, nor windows so satisfying. 
 One looked over miles of green and level country, dot 
 ted here and there with farm-houses, buried in thick, 
 low trees planted to keep off the winter winds. The 
 white sails of a wind-mill caught the eye ; or, in the 
 distance, the tall church spire of a neighboring vil 
 lage. Beyond, against the horizon, rose a long low line of 
 hills, purple in the evening light. This was what one 
 saw of earth, but of sky, where, ever, did one see so 
 much ? To one brought up among the hills, or bred in 
 city streets, it was like a revelation. It was an arch, 
 not a patch ; a firmament, not a strip. 
 
 All this while the colonel was carving a chicken 
 with concentrated interest ; Mrs. Emlyn was arrang 
 ing her tea-cups, and I was between sky and earth, 
 now gazing at the glories of the west, now filled 
 with chagrin that Naomi did not bring back Maidy, 
 and feeling somehow, that the ignominy of the re-
 
 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 65 
 
 tarded tea belonged to me. It was not a convivial 
 thing, this sitting down three to a table laid for seven. 
 
 " I am so sorry about the children not coming," 
 I said timidly to Mrs. Emlyn. 
 
 " Oh, I am used to it," she said. " They all know 
 what they have to expect. If they are half an hour 
 late, they wait on themselves. I will not keep servants 
 on their feet all night." 
 
 Presently the tutor came in, and then the little 
 girls, and last, just as the clock struck the half hour, 
 Ned, a handsome, sunburnt lad of fifteen, whom I had 
 not seen before. He gave me a shy, pretty bow when 
 he was presented, and took his seat between his aunt 
 and me. The servant looked up at the clock, and 
 stolidly took her departure. It must be acknowledged 
 she was no great loss, her services had been merely 
 nominal before. Mr. Macnally alone looked a little 
 anxious as she withdrew, and glanced with curiosity 
 towards Mrs. Emlyn, I suppose to see if she were not 
 intending to make an exception, as they were not 
 alone. But there was no such intention. I don t think 
 the Princess Dolgouruki would have had an exception 
 made in her favor, in that household. 
 
 " There isn t any marmalade," cried Naomi, in a 
 disappointed voice. 
 
 " I told you," said her aunt serenely, " that unless you 
 asked me for it when I was in the store-room, you should 
 not have it. I can not be interrupted at my meals." 
 
 Naomi refused to be resigned. " Maidy wants some, 
 too," she said. 
 
 " Maidy wants nothing of the kind. You are trying 
 to put her up to it." 
 
 " Maidy, don t you want it ?"
 
 66 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 
 
 " Mamma," said Maidy in an embarrassed whisper, 
 " what does she mean ? What is marmalade ?" 
 
 Then we all laughed, and Naomi grew red. 
 
 " Never mind, Naomi," said the tutor, " we can t 
 always be certain of our witnesses." 
 
 " You want some, I know. Aunt Penelope, Mr. 
 Macnally wants some marmalade." 
 
 " What is it ? I don t know even what it s like." 
 
 " It s like what you ate half a jar of last night, and 
 that s the reason that there isn t any now." 
 
 " My fish !" cried Ned, stung by a sudden recollec 
 tion. He hadn t got as far as marmalade yet, but was 
 eating chicken and potato salad with a ravenous appe 
 tite. "My fish have been forgotten. Aunt Penelope, 
 the cook promised them for tea. Mayn t she send them 
 up ?" 
 
 " No, that she mayn t. You know as well as I do 
 that it s half-past seven o clock." 
 
 " Then I suppose I ll have to go and get them for 
 myself," and he got up and disappeared in the direction 
 of the kitchen stairs. 
 
 The colonel watched him with a look of admira 
 tion, but I noticed he always spoke to him with a sort of 
 severity, as became a man and a guardian. He lived 
 over secretly in the handsome boy his past youth and 
 its pleasures. While Ned was dishing his fish in the 
 kitchen, Mrs. Emlyn had been brooding over the dis 
 appointment to Naomi in the matter of the marmalade. 
 With all her majesty, she had the tenderest heart, and 
 it destroyed her comfort to think the child was denied 
 anything. 
 
 " You don t mind how much trouble you give," she 
 exclaimed at last, getting up, unable to bear the rank-
 
 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 67 
 
 ling thought any longer. Everybody had forgotten 
 about marmalade by that time, and while she hunted 
 for the right key on her bunch, and walked away like 
 Lady Macbeth, we all wondered. 
 
 "Aunt Penelope ! " cried Naomi, divining, " I don t 
 want the marmalade. I wish you wouldn t get it." 
 
 And full of compunction she sprang up and ran after 
 her aunt, who did not look back at her. 
 
 " Macnally," said the colonel, " did I get you out 
 that Sauterne yesterday ? No ? Then while the store 
 room is open, and I think of it, I ll go and look for it. 
 You ll want it with your fish, if Ned should ever bring 
 it up/ 
 
 And the colonel pushed back his chair and went 
 away in the direction of the store-room. Mr. Macnally 
 glanced round the table at the four chairs pushed back, 
 the four napkins lying in various outspread attitudes, 
 the four unfinished plates, and cups of tea ; and then 
 his eyes met mine with a look compounded of apology, 
 deprecation, and very keen amusement. I was very 
 glad he did not say anything, it would have seemed dis 
 loyal. No doubt his instincts could be trusted, for I 
 don t suppose he thought of speaking, from the way in 
 which he applied himself to Maidy s entertainment 
 across the table, but I did not know him enough to be 
 sure he wouldn t, at the first moment. It was such a 
 situation, most men would have felt at liberty to make 
 a joke about it, particularly a man who seemed to have 
 lisped in comic numbers, if one could judge from the 
 habitual expression of his eyes. 
 
 Meanwhile Maidy was eating a great deal more than 
 was good for her ; she was not used to such a bewilder 
 ing profusion of nice things. I had been rather too
 
 G8 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 
 
 much embarrassed to enjoy my tea very much, but I had 
 enjoyed the sunset opposite me, and the novelty of 
 everything, and the study of human nature, though I 
 had not reached the stage of knowing that I studied it. 
 First Ned eame back, bringing his fish, then the colonel 
 with his bottle of wine, then Mrs. Emlyn and Naomi, 
 each with a jar or two of marmalade. The fish seemed 
 such a temptation that they all began again. All ex 
 cept the lady of the house, who, by a contradiction that 
 seemed inevitable, always ate less than other people, not 
 withstanding her grand proportions. 
 
 " Naomi," said her aunt, " why don t you eat the 
 marmalade you ve given me such trouble to get out for 
 you ? You haven t even opened the jar." 
 
 " I didn t know there was going to be fish," said 
 Naomi, a little abashed. 
 
 " And Mr. Macnally and Maidy, that were in such 
 a state for it. I think it was all a conspiracy to get me 
 to the store-room." 
 
 " The fish was sprung upon us, Mrs. Emlyn ; we 
 didn t know there was going to be fish. It s all Ned s 
 fault, he should have given us warning. Colonel 
 Emlyn, I d like another slice of it, if you ve no objec 
 tion." 
 
 Colonel Emlyn seemed to like nothing better than 
 supplying those two hungry plates, and filling up the 
 tutor s several times empty glass ; he looked severe, 
 but his eyes were kindly and affectionate. Mrs. Emlyn 
 had taken up her knitting, and sat half pushed back 
 from the table. Naomi s appetite was at last appeased, 
 and Maidy would no more of jelly and cake. Ned and 
 his tutor were still eating and chaffing, while they all 
 looked on and occasionally joined in the skirmishing.
 
 TEA, TREATED UXCOXVENTIONALLY. 69 
 
 It had been a very prolonged meal : the sunset had died 
 down into a yellow glow that overspread the sky, but 
 did not illuminate the room. 
 
 " Naomi, if these young gentlemen are going to eat 
 all night, you will have to light the candles." 
 
 " Not for me," cried Mr. Macnally, " I can see my 
 way to the Sauterne, and that is all I ask." 
 
 "Well, then, she ll have to light them for me, for 
 I ve only just begun." 
 
 Naomi grumbled at having to do anything for 
 her brother, but her aunt put her down promptly, and 
 she spent a good deal of time in lighting the candles 
 in two silver candlesticks with three or four branches 
 apiece, and in setting them on the table. Maidy got 
 down from her chair when Naomi rose to get the can 
 dles lighted, and in an innocent fashion made her way 
 around to the other side of the table, where the tutor 
 sat. He lifted her upon his knee, and pushed his plate 
 back, and occupied himself thenceforth in low engross 
 ing chatter with her, into which she entered with a se 
 date interest that was very pretty. Finally Ned de 
 clared himself satisfied, and as the waitress had come back, 
 her own meal being ended, and had begun languidly 
 to take the tea-things off the table, we moved away. 
 
 Then I was introduced into another room, that I 
 found only second to the dining-room in interest. This 
 was the parlor, which was separated from the dining- 
 room by a curtain. It was on the ocean side of- the 
 house, about half the size of the dining-room, the other 
 half being the bed-room of Mrs. Einlyn, into which this 
 opened. It was a more civilized room than the dining- 
 room, having walls stained a sort of old gold, with cedar 
 wainscoting and mantel. There were several good
 
 70 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 
 
 pictures, a piano, and plenty of well-worn easy-chairs, 
 and one or two sofas. A large square table with a lamp 
 on it was covered with books and drawing things. To 
 this the children naturally gravitated, as their territory ; 
 a smaller lamp and a smaller table, in another corner, 
 seemed the quarters of their aunt. The colonel, evidently 
 less gregarious, established himself in a great chair be 
 tween the fire-place and the dining-table, on which the 
 maid had put another lamp, and smoked and read the 
 paper, or listened to the chatter from the other room as 
 seemed him good. Mrs. Emlyn invited me to go out 
 on the piazza, and we walked up and down together for 
 a few moments. 
 
 " It is good to get the glare of the lamps out of one s 
 eyes," she said, " and the noise of those children out of 
 one s ears." 
 
 It was, indeed, a change from the lighted room to 
 the solemn starlight of the dark skies, and the deep 
 monotone of the sea breaking on the beach beyond us. 
 
 " Youth is good," she said, " and high spirits and 
 the ferment that they bring ; but at my age, one has to 
 have frequent silences to rest one from them. You, 
 I suppose, like it, and it doesn t tire you ?" 
 
 " I am not used to it," I answered. " It might tire 
 me, for very long. It pleases me now, because it s such 
 a novelty." 
 
 " Wait till your children are a few years older, and 
 you ll have enough of it. It seems a great way off, I 
 suppose, but it will be here before you know it. When 
 Naomi and Ned first came to us it seems but yesterday 
 they were babies in the nursery ; and now they are 
 such great creatures, with wills of their own, and indi 
 viduality developing one way or the other fast enough
 
 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. l 
 
 to frighten one. I m quite easy about Naomi, she s 
 sweet-natured, and good-brained, and a comfort. But 
 Ned is such a strong young colt, I feel as if none of us 
 could hold him in, or turn him, if he got started in the 
 wrong direction. And, who knows how soon he may? 
 It is a great thing that we ha\ 7 e got such a man as Mac- 
 nally for him. He is like a boy with him ; but I am 
 satisfied that he keeps his authority in spite of it, and 
 that Ned studies as he never did before." 
 
 " Has Mr. Macnally been with you long ?" 
 
 " Only since January. Ned had been at school, but, 
 to tell you the truth, we had to take him away. He 
 wouldn t study, and he would get into scrapes ; silly 
 boy scrapes, with not much harm in them, to be sure ; 
 but we were worn out with pulling him out and starting 
 him fresh. It was all waste time, base ball and secret 
 societies. So the colonel advertised for a tutor, and 
 this one turned up, and he seems the very man for us. 
 We dreaded it very much. Naomi s governesses had 
 always been such a nuisance in the house. But really 
 I don t know now how we could get on without Mac 
 nally. When Ned has to go, I think we ll have to have 
 Naomi prepared for college, just to keep him." 
 
 "He is an Englishman?" 
 
 " No, an Irishman. Didn t you notice his accent ? 
 He had only been in the country a few weeks, I believe, 
 when he came to us. I ve often wondered why he 
 came away from home. Everything about him, his 
 clothes, and toilet things, and all that, without being 
 dainty exactly, look like a petted sort of son. But he s 
 a reticent fellow, after a certain point, up to which he 
 is frankness personified. I only hope we never shall 
 be disappointed in him."
 
 72 TEA, TREATED UNCONVENTIONALLY. 
 
 " Ar n t you afraid he will upset the lamp ?" I ex 
 claimed, rather irrelevantly, for I had been gazing into 
 the room, and it was impossible not to tremble for the 
 furniture, with what was going on. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Emlyn, calmly, " I m used to it. 
 They have broken one or two, but the oil is non-ex 
 plosive, and it won t hurt the floor. I ve taken the 
 rugs away from that side of the room, and there is no 
 cover on the table. If they spoil their own books and 
 drawings it is their look-out." 
 
 " But if they burn up my Maidy ? 
 
 " Oh, there isn t any danger ; Mr. Macnally keeps 
 her under his arm. I should always be willing to trust 
 him with children ; he seems to love them. There is 
 one thing about him, he can always stop an uproar by 
 a word. They don t often go too far." 
 
 We w r atched the uproar, till it was quenched, as she 
 had predicted, in a magical sort of way, and Naomi 
 picked up the sofa cushions, and pushed the hair back 
 from her flushed face ; and Ned shook himself, and got 
 his loose flannel shirt straight above the belt, and took 
 up a paper and settled himself to read. The tutor, mean 
 time, did not seem to have lost his care of Maidy, who 
 was looking elated, but a little frightened ; lie led her 
 over to the piano, and took her on his knee, while he 
 played some soft melody,, and whispered songs, I should 
 think, into her ear. Mrs. Emlyn and I walked up and 
 down in the starlight for a little longer, and then went 
 in to get ready for my going home. 
 
 " I am sorry to trouble anybody," I said ; " it isn t 
 very dark ; I don t think I should be afraid." 
 
 " I ll go," said Ned, getting up, and looking awk 
 wardly polite.
 
 TEA, TREATED TJXCONVEXTIOXALLY. 73 
 
 "You ve got to study your Latin," said Naomi, 
 officiously. "Mr. Macnally said you bad. He said 
 he d have to take Maidy and her mother home himself ; 
 that you must study all the evening." 
 
 Ned s eyes said, mind your own business, and a 
 good deal else, but he did not dare to be more explicit, 
 before me. I didn t think the tutor looked particu 
 larly pleased with Naomi s zeal in the arrangement of 
 affairs ; he got up from the piano and, putting Maidy 
 down, said Ned could be excused for the little while 
 that he would have to be gone. 
 
 " I m so sorry to have to trouble any one," I said, 
 stooping to tie a handkerchief on Maidy s neck. 
 
 " You see how much you got by it," muttered Ned, 
 as he passed by Naomi to hunt for his cap. 
 
 The colonel was fast asleep by his lamp in the din 
 ing-room, so we tried to be very quiet as we went 
 through the room. They all accompanied us to the 
 steps of the piazza. 
 
 " I want you to go," said Maidy, pulling at the 
 tutor s hand. 
 
 "Didn t you hear," he whispered, "I ve got to 
 study my Latin lesson ?" 
 
 Naomi went with us to the gate ; Mrs. Emlyn and 
 Mr. Macnally were satisfied with saying good-bye on 
 the steps. Maidy was dissatisfied, and looked back re 
 proachfully while she could see her friend by the light 
 from the windows, and when she couldn t she began to 
 fret and say she was tired, and wanted to be carried. 
 Ned offered to carry her, but she wouldn t consent, and 
 clung to my dress peevishly. I am afraid we were not 
 so agreeable as to make Ned glad lie had come, except 
 in so far as he felt that he had circumvented Naomi.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BRINGING THE MAIL. 
 
 " This is the curse of life! that not 
 
 A noble, calmer train 
 Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot 
 
 Our passions from our brain ; 
 But each day brings its petty dust 
 
 Our soon-choked souls to fill, 
 And we forget because we must, 
 And not because we will." 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 THE next evening, as I sat by the lamp in the 
 little parlor, I heard the latch of the gate 
 opened, and the tutor s light, quick tread upon the bal 
 cony steps. The door stood open, so he could not 
 knock, but took a step into the little hall, and paused, 
 in sight from the parlor .door, open also. Pie lifted 
 his cap, and said he had brought my letters, or, to be 
 more accurate, my paper. 
 
 " My mail never amounts to much," I said, getting 
 up and taking the paper, in its stale-looking wrapper, 
 and sighing a little as I thought of how I used to watch 
 for the coming of the mail. " All the same," I added, 
 correcting the sigh to a smile, " I m very much obliged 
 to you for bringing it. Won t you come in f 
 
 He was a little better dressed than he had been on 
 the occasions on which I had met him ; that is, he had 
 L74]
 
 BKINGING THE MAIL. 75 
 
 a coat on, and a white shirt, and a cravat. This led me 
 to think that perhaps lie had meant to come in. 
 
 " Perhaps I ought to pay Miss Maidy a visit," he 
 said. " She has earnestly requested it." 
 
 " She has gone to bed ; I am sorry not to give you 
 the excuse." 
 
 " I don t want an excuse, but a permission," he said, 
 taking the chair on the other side of the table, while I 
 sat down again. As on the other occasions when we 
 had been alone together, his manner lost its confidence, 
 and he became, though always well-bred, shy and rather 
 piquantly embarrassed. He seemed to need the defense 
 of the children to get on well with me. When he was 
 throwing pillows at Ned the night before he had not 
 seemed to mind me much, though, to be sure, I had been 
 on the piazza, and not actually in the room ; and at the 
 tea-table he had not shown much embarrassment while 
 lie ate all that fish and tortured !Ned about his Latin. 
 These reflections made me a little less embarrassed my 
 self ; it made me feel older than he. Besides, that pass 
 ing shade of thought about my want of interest in letters 
 that might come to me now, had its effect in making me 
 what shall I say dignified, self-respectful, apart. 
 The past cast this faint sort of shadow upon me, and 
 made me appear what was not quite natural to me, and 
 what I had not appeared before since I had been in this 
 place, devoid of old associations. 
 
 " It is quite a walk for you to the office ; do you 
 go every night ?" 
 
 "Ordinarily, I like the walk after tea. I would 
 rather leave I^ed wrestling with his Anabasis than bft 
 present during the struggle." 
 
 " It isn t always a victory, I m afraid."
 
 76 BRINGING THE MAIL. 
 
 " Scarcely a victory, poor boy. I don t think I ever 
 saw anybody who hated study as he does." 
 
 " Do most boys feel that way ? Did you ?" 
 
 " I ? ah well, I don t know. I liked play a good 
 deal more than work, of course, but I took hold better 
 than Ned. I hadn t the same temptations as he, every 
 body watching me, and being so important. There 
 were such a lot of us there wasn t much account made 
 of how we felt about it ; we hadn t much chance if we 
 didn t work ; we had to strike out pretty well or we d 
 have gone down, and nobody to cry about us either." 
 
 " You mean at home ?" 
 
 I suppose this was passing that certain point where, 
 according to Mrs. Emlyn, Mr. Macnally s frankness ended 
 and where his reticence began, for, with a slight contrac 
 tion of the forehead he said yes, among his brothers 
 and some young cousins who were brought up with 
 them. Then he went back instantly to Ned, and the dis 
 advantage that it was to a boy to be made too much of. 
 
 " That seems to me the mistake about the bringing 
 up of children in this country, in the better classes, I 
 mean. Whether it is that the people are new to wealth 
 and don t know how to manage it, or are simply trying 
 to correct the errors of their own less favored child 
 hood, and are going too far the other way, I don t know. 
 But it strikes me all the time that too much is being 
 done for children ; they re not only being pampered 
 and stimulated in their pleasures and amusements, but 
 they re being worried over and experimented upon in 
 their studies. I don t mean this as regards Ned and 
 Naomi s guardians ; circumstances have made the 
 trouble with them."
 
 BEINGING THE MAIL. 77 
 
 " I don t believe I know enough of the bringing up 
 of children here or anywhere to judge." 
 
 " I taught a little while in a school before I came to 
 Colonel Emlyn, and I saw a great deal of it." This 
 did not seem to be a pleasant recollection, and we had 
 evidently again reached the point alluded to by Mrs. 
 Emlyn. We seemed bringing up against it all the time, 
 and I wondered whether I was catechetical, or what. I 
 certainly did want to know something about him. He 
 piqued my curiosity all the time. I had often found 
 myself wondering about him ever since the day he 
 picked Rex up by the hair. I had not made up my 
 mind whether I thought him handsome or not, whether 
 I thought him covertly amused at everything American, 
 or not ; whether I thought him very humble, or very 
 proud, or secretly chafing at liis inferior position ; 
 whether he thought everything the Emlyns did was 
 perfect, even to the way they had the table set, or 
 whether he condemned them in his supercilious British 
 heart. I did not even feel that I knew what his opin 
 ion was of my intelligence ; but I felt \vith a certain 
 feminine intuition that he did not disapprove of my 
 appearance. 
 
 ; People are so hard upon American children," I 
 said. " I suppose I ought to be studying up the sub 
 ject to prevent my two from being like the rest of their 
 relations. I ve read Herbert Spencer, and Miss Sewell, 
 and Miss Edge worth, and I approve very much, in turn, 
 of what each one says about the bringing up of chil 
 dren ; but, somehow, it doesn t seem to make any dif 
 ference in the way I bring mine up. Maidy has her 
 own individual way of being naughty, and I have my
 
 78 BRINGING THE MAIL. 
 
 own individual way of getting her over it, and none of 
 the examples seem to lit." 
 
 "Then Maidy is sometimes naughty? I shouldn t 
 have thought it of her, the pretty little atom." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose there is the germ of the worst 
 American child in her." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! I am sure it is the germ of a 
 bad little Irish girl. I can trace it in her, now you 
 speak of it." 
 
 " Well, little as I know of American children, I 
 know less of Irish." 
 
 " Except your washerwoman s. I didn t mean your 
 washerwoman s, though that s the general standard of 
 the nation here, I find." 
 
 " Naturally, when only washerwomen come here." 
 
 " It doesn t show a strong imagination to be satis 
 fied with believing in a nation of washerwomen." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, I don t suppose anybody does believe 
 in that, but it s difficult always to keep up a faith in 
 what one doesn t see. Now, when one has been strength 
 ened by seeing an Irish gentleman in the flesh " 
 
 " If the mise en scene isn t too great a strain upon 
 the credulity," he said, and I fancied a flush passed 
 over his face as well as a quick smile. We got out of 
 that somehow, and back upon the mail, the post-office, 
 the post-master, and the late hour that the train came 
 in. 
 
 " It s absurd," he said, "having the morning paper 
 at this hour of the night, when it might be here at 
 noon." 
 
 " If it did not come till to-morrow night, I should 
 not care." 
 
 " Then you never read the papers ?"
 
 BRINGING TSE MAIL. 79 
 
 " I don t care much about them, and as for letters, 
 I get almost none. I would cheerfully sign off my in 
 terest in the post-office till September for a very small 
 sum. I hope they don t tax me for the support of the 
 post-office ? How are post-offices sustained ?" 
 
 "That shows, indeed, that you don t read the 
 papers, and that you re not informed about the institoo- 
 tions of your country. But it surprises me less to hear 
 that, than to hear that you don t care for letters, and 
 are not counting the hours to mail-time from the 
 moment you get up." 
 
 " South Berwick contains all that interests me ; I 
 can t think of where a letter could come from that 
 could interest me in the least." 
 
 " Somebody might leave you a fortune." 
 
 " They wouldn t know where to direct it, if they 
 did." 
 
 " I suppose the lawyers would keep it in a pigeon 
 hole till you got back in September from your exile." 
 
 " It isn t exile. I m no more out of the world here 
 than I am in the city. There s nobody to take the 
 trouble to write to me, that is the plain truth. I haven t 
 any members of my family left ; the few friends I had, 
 when I was a girl, live so far away I have lost sight of 
 them, and interest too, I am afraid. And as to the rela 
 tions of my my children, they are equally remote from 
 here, and I never have known them well. I came to 
 the city a stranger, and all the time I have spent there 
 I have been absorbed, and selfish perhaps a great 
 deal of the time too ill and too unhappy to seek 
 friends, or to endure them if they had sought me." 
 
 I felt viciously candid. I had an impulse to show 
 him I was insignificant, and that there was no mystery
 
 80 BRINGING THE MAIL. 
 
 about my past, only obscurity. I did not look at him, 
 so I did not know at all how he received these un 
 necessary statements. I sat leaning back in my chair 
 with my hands in my lap, looking into the fire, which 
 now and then blazed up, and now and then sent out a 
 little shower of sparks. Sophia had bought a cord of 
 hickory, and the kindling was of drift-wood, which the 
 children helped her to gather on the beach. Though it 
 was June, we never failed to have a fire at night. 
 
 " So you ll understand," I said, taking my eyes from 
 the fire and glancing at him with a smile, after a silence 
 of several minutes, " why I am not likely to get many 
 letters while I am living at South Berwick." 
 
 He was not looking at the fire, but at me, intently, 
 but he glanced away. 
 
 " I understand," he said, in a forced sort of voice, 
 as if he had not expected to be called upon to speak 
 that moment ; " and that you won t be overcome with 
 gratitude for what I may bring you from the office." 
 
 At that instant a stick broke in the middle, sawed 
 in two by a sharp little persistent blaze beneath, that 
 had not intermitted. One end rolled across the little 
 hearth of the Franklin stove, and toppled over on the 
 rug. We both sprang forward ; Mr. Macnally caught it 
 by the uncharred end and threw it back upon the 
 andirons. 
 
 " We haven t any fender ; it is " 
 
 " A burning shame," said he, shaking the ashes from 
 his hand. 
 
 " Yes, a burning shame ; I hope you ll tell the colonel 
 and he ll have to hunt one up for us, or take out a new 
 insurance on his house." 
 
 "I am afraid fenders are at a premium. I have
 
 BRINGING THE MAIL. 81 
 
 heard a good deal about it since we have been here. 
 The colonel has bought all the old chests of drawers 
 and three-cornered chairs and andirons within a radius 
 of six miles ; but it strikes me he has failed to find a 
 fender." 
 
 " Perhaps, outside that radius, don t you think he 
 may be persuaded ? I think I ll try myself." 
 
 " Should you like to go ? Perhaps we might or 
 ganize a fender hunt." 
 
 " Oh, that would be delightful. Meanwhile, Mr. 
 Macnally, you are not making that fire up properly, if 
 you ll let me say so. The stove is too shallow for a back 
 log ; it smokes the moment that you put one on. You are 
 used to the Happy-go-lucky chimneys, which are built 
 on more extravagant principles." 
 
 " They certainly ought not to smoke ; that dining- 
 room affair has had enough spent on it to build an or 
 dinary house. From what I can learn, the colonel de 
 voted three years of his life to it." 
 
 " And does it ever smoke now ?" 
 
 " Rarely ; it may be said to draw fairly well, except, 
 of course, when the wind s in certain quarters." 
 
 " The dear colonel ! Isn t he nice ?" 
 
 " I m glad you think so ; nobody could be nicer." 
 This he said gravely, and with a certain earnestness. 
 
 " And Mrs. Ernlyn," I said. " I think she is differ 
 ent from any one I ever knew. I am so unused to 
 strangers, I was inclined to be very much afraid of her. 
 But now I think I entirely admire her and feel almost 
 at home with her." 
 
 " She is so devoid of self-consciousness and so gen 
 uine, she ought to inspire confidence in any one she 
 wants to please." 
 4*
 
 82 BRINGING THE MAIL. 
 
 "I hope she will always want to please me. I should 
 not like to be any one she didn t want to please. As you 
 say, she is so genuine, it wouldn t occur to her to dis 
 guise the fact." 
 
 Mr. Macnally laughed a little, but he did not say any 
 thing. It annoyed me that he should think it necessary 
 to be so discreet. Loyalty, I suppose, he would have 
 called it, but it seemed to me only an unnecessary dis 
 cretion. I concluded we would not further discuss 
 people to whom he felt himself so bound as not to be 
 natural in speaking of them. 
 
 When he went away, Sophia swooped in and began 
 to bang the shutters almost before he shut the gate, and 
 to put out the lights.
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 IN EE BRASS. 
 
 "Le coq frar^ais est le coq de la gloire, 
 Par le revers il n est point abattu ; 
 II chante fort, s il gagne la victoire, 
 Encore plus fort, quand il est bien battu." 
 
 IT was a cold, bright morning ; I wrapped myself in 
 a warm shawl, and walked up and down in the sun 
 before the house, and watched the children at their play. 
 Their noses looked a trifle blue, as they frisked about in 
 their stout little coats and tried to open the gate with 
 their be-mittened little fingers. Sophia was busy about 
 some household matter, and had left them in my charge 
 for an hour or so. The sun was growing a little warmer, 
 and when I was tired I sat down on the horseblock out 
 side the gate, and rested. As to the children they never 
 seemed to tire, but purred about in contented little 
 games into which, I am ashamed to say, I did not even 
 try to enter. It rather bored me; and when I had 
 opened the gate ad nauseam, and had found Baby s 
 mitten for the twentieth time, I distinctly admitted to 
 myself that I wished Sophia would get through her work 
 and take the children off my hands. A good brisk walk 
 would have been much more to my mind. 
 
 I was sitting on the horseblock, harboring these 
 discontented thoughts, when I heard a shout of greet 
 ing behind me, and turning, saw the beach cart, with 
 
 [83]
 
 84 IN BE BKASS. 
 
 the children and their tutor, drawing up to the gate. 
 Mr. Macnally threw the reins to ISTed and sprang out, 
 coming towards me. He looked quite handsome as he 
 stood, cap in hand, before the horseblock. 
 
 " That fender-hunt," he said. " We have come to 
 see if you will go with us to-day." 
 
 I think he was afraid of a refusal ; he looked quite 
 earnest and a little shy, and as if he were prepared to 
 have to urge it very much. When he saw the delight 
 which lighted my face at the prospect of getting rid of 
 opening and shutting the gate for Baby, and assisting 
 at Maidy s little tragedies, he looked much relieved. 
 
 " I should like nothing better," I said, " if only So 
 phia will come and take the children. I promised her to 
 keep them till she got through some stupid work she s 
 set her heart upon." 
 
 I ran in to sec. Of course, she wasn t through ; 
 of course, she couldn t have them for an hour, at least. 
 
 " Oh, Sophia, you ll have to !" I cried, made bold by 
 my desire to go. " It isn t every day I get a drive. You ll 
 have to let the things wait, or bring the children in." 
 
 I didn t look at her ; I knew she was desperately an 
 gry, and I ran away to get my gloves, feeling very selfish 
 and very young. When I came back I found Baby in 
 ]S r aomi s arms and Maidy in her friend s, the tutor s. 
 
 " Won t you let them go too ?" said the latter. 
 
 " Oh, no !" I exclaimed. " Baby has to take her nap 
 in half an hour. It would be insupportable. It would 
 spoil the drive." 
 
 " Then let me go, mamma let me go. I ll be so 
 good I" cried Maidy, in trembling suspense. 
 
 " Impossible, Maidy ; you know there isn t room for 
 you. You ll stay like a good girl and play with Baby,
 
 IN RE BRASS. 85 
 
 and I ll bring you home some wild flowers if I find 
 fiome." 
 
 Maidy hid her face on her friend s shoulder and 
 sobbed heart-brokenly. Baby meanwhile was scream 
 ing and scolding and slapping all in a breath. 
 
 " Let Maidy go, won t you ?" said the tender-hearted 
 tutor, sotto voce. "There is room, and I ll take care of 
 her. She won t be any trouble, if you don t mind." 
 
 " It would be rather unreasonable in me to mind 
 having my own child. Well, if you don t, she can go." 
 
 Then Baby alone remained to be disposed of. I 
 took the poor little termagant from Naomi and ran in 
 to give her to Sophia. Bat Sophia would not even 
 turn around from the closet shelves, which she was put 
 ting in order, and look at me. I had to kiss poor Baby 
 and set her down on the floor, and call out my direc 
 tions to Sophia, without any response. Outside the 
 door I paused, half minded to give up the drive, and go 
 back and take the Baby up. But through the door I 
 caught sight of the gay-looking cart, and the horse with 
 his best harness on ; Maidy s radiant face, with her 
 arms around the tutor s neck ; Ned s picturesque suit, 
 Naomi s gypsey hat ; no I couldn t give it up. As soon 
 as we were out of sight Sophia would pick up Baby and 
 put her to sleep ; why should I let her stubbornness 
 spoil everything ? So I went out, but with rather a 
 troubled look. 
 
 " This seat is the most comfortable," said Mr. Mac- 
 nally, putting me in the front seat. "Ned, who s 
 going to drive ?" he added. 
 
 Ned hated the back seat and being with Naomi, 
 and showed very plainly that he wanted to. " Very well, 
 don t break our necks for us," Mr. Macnally said,
 
 86 IN RE BRASS. 
 
 putting Maidy in at the back, and jumping in after 
 her. 
 
 Ned got in beside me, and took the reins as if he 
 felt a little ashamed of having been so selfish. But that 
 didn t last long ; he was too familiar with the sensation 
 to be oppressed by it. 
 
 " It s awfully cold," he said, putting a blanket over 
 my lap ; he meant to make up by being very consider 
 ate to me. The tutor had already muffled Maidy in 
 wraps, and held her on his knee. Naomi was holding 
 on with both hands. I am sorry to say that was what 
 people on the back seat had to do in that cart, when it 
 went fast. 
 
 " How about school ?" I said. " Isn t this an unusual 
 hour for you all to be going on a lark ?" 
 
 " Oh !" cried the tutor, " didn t we tell you ? Well, 
 it is an anniversary we have so many feasts of obliga 
 tion at Happy-go-lucky, it is difficult to remember. 
 But this is a birthday, or something of that sort. For 
 so small a family, we have a great many birthdays. 
 This is the third since we came down from town, if I 
 remember right." 
 
 " But they weren t all birthdays." 
 
 " They were all holidays, however, and very imper 
 ative. I don t think we could have existed if we hadn t 
 taken holidays." 
 
 "But whose is this?" 
 
 " Shall I tell you ?" cried Naomi in jerks, for we 
 were going very fast. 
 
 There was a sound as of the suppression of these 
 jerkc. 
 
 " It isn t a birthday," said the tutor. " It s an anony 
 mous sort of celebration ; it s of doubtful origin- -an
 
 IN EE BRASS. 87 
 
 apocryphal event ; it isn t generally noticed in the 
 family ; but the day was fine, Ned s lessons were 
 unusually hard, and Naomi hadn t written her French 
 exercise. Ned, if you drive so fast I sha n t be able to 
 articulate another word." 
 
 " I don t see the use of articulating fibs," said Ned, 
 bumping fast over a bridge going out of the village. 
 
 " I ll tell you ; it s Mr. Macnally s birthday if you 
 want to know," cried Naomi, in gasps, from the rear. 
 
 " However did you find it out ?" I asked her, 
 looking back. "VVe slacked up now going up a hill, 
 and Naomi was able to express herself quite audibly. 
 
 " I ll tell you all about it." 
 
 " Not if I can help it," said her tutor, throwing an 
 afghan over her head. The smothered explanations from 
 under it didn t enlighten me much, and Ned, who was 
 out of reach, said, " Naomi found it in one of his books 
 when she was snooping about his room." 
 
 " I didn t snoop !" cried Naomi, getting her head out 
 of the afghan. " Mr. Macnally sent me up to find a 
 book on his table, and the window was open, and a per 
 fect gale, and all the things blowing about, and his 
 prayer-book and his portfolio on the floor. And I 
 picked them up and the fly-leaf was loose and I put it 
 back and it had the date on it, and I couldn t help see 
 ing. I don t call that snooping." 
 
 "No harm done, Naomi," he said. "We shouldn t 
 be here but for that fly-leaf and that gale. It s an ill 
 wind that blows nobody good." 
 
 " I told Aunt Penelope about it, and she said we 
 should have a holiday, and Mr. Macnally didn t want 
 to, and got quite in a pet about it, and talked to Uncle, 
 and said he couldn t do us any justice if we had so
 
 88 m RE BRASS. 
 
 many holidays, but Aunt Penelope wouldn t give it up, 
 and said she d " 
 
 "Come, Naomi," said the tutor decisively, "tat- 
 tling s as bad as snooping. We re here, and that s 
 enough." 
 
 " Where are we, please? For I don t think I ve 
 ever been out on this road before." 
 
 We were now in a sandy road leading through a 
 forest. The wind could not get at us, and it was quite 
 warm and sheltered ; and having to go slow on account 
 of the sand, Mr. Macnally and Naomi got out and 
 walked along beside us. I also think they were glad 
 to be excused a little while from the back seat. The 
 foliage of the trees was not very heavy and the sun 
 came down warmly through them. The woods were 
 full of ferns and squaw-vine in bloom, and huckleberry 
 and blackberry vines in blossom, and new leaves of all 
 sorts of pretty shades. Naomi had the happiness to 
 find a strawberry, nearly ripe. Maidy got down too, 
 and walked. At last the road grew harder and Ned 
 insisted that they should all get in again, " if we wanted 
 to get back to-night." 
 
 The wood seemed endless ; but I, being on the front 
 seat, didn t want it to end particularly. 
 
 " Turn to the left, Ned," said the tutor. There s 
 a hamlet over in that direction that I want to beat up 
 for fenders." 
 
 Presently we came upon a little opening in the 
 woods, and then a field or two, and then, on slight ris 
 ing ground, we came in sight of a large, old-fashioned 
 farm-house, with a fence around the front half of it, and 
 the rear half open to a road, which led up from the 
 highway. There was a colony of out-buildings, more
 
 IN RE BRASS. 89 
 
 or less shabby ; but the front of the house was trim, 
 and had box-wood borders to the path, and some flow 
 ers in raised beds, and some hydrangeas in big green 
 boxes on each side of the door. The small panes of 
 the windows, and the fan-shaped light over the door, at 
 each side of which there were little fluted pillars, all 
 looked like pre-air-tight antiquity. 
 
 " I am sure they must have fenders here, if any 
 where." 
 
 " Just the place for a snark, " the tutor cried, leap 
 ing out. We all waited anxiously while he knocked 
 respectfully at the door. 
 
 " Louder, louder," called Ned and Naomi, after we 
 had waited a great while. 
 
 They called louder, and he knocked louder, till one 
 would have thought the panel of the door must yield. 
 
 " Try the other door." The fence that separated 
 the front from the back of the house was a high picket ; 
 the gate was barred. 
 
 " No connection with the corner store," said the 
 tutor. " They live here in the morning, when they do 
 their work, and in the front in the afternoon, when 
 they have their good clothes on, and they don t speak 
 to themselves if they meet in the passages." 
 
 " Try the other door ; it s too cold to wait all day," 
 cried Ned. He put his hand on the fence, and leaped 
 over it, and scrambled through long grass and many 
 shrubs, to the front door. He pounded long and loudly 
 there, but got no answer, and came back at last, shak 
 ing his head. 
 
 "They know what we ve come for," he said, " and 
 they ve barricaded themselves in up in the attic. I can 
 see a frieze of fenders through that little dormer win-,
 
 90 m EE BRASS. 
 
 dow, and the end one is all bristling with andirons, and 
 tongs and shovels. All such lovely brass." 
 
 "You don t half knock," said Ned. "If you ll 
 come and hold this horse, I ll make em hear." 
 
 " Very well," said the tutor. " You may try your 
 fist at it and welcome. Mine s used up." 
 
 So he sprang back over the fence, and stood by the 
 head of the horse while Ned got out and went up to 
 the door with the valor of fifteen. While he was 
 furiously knocking, Mr. Macnally sprang up and took 
 his place beside me, 
 
 " Qui va & la chasse 
 Perd sa place," 
 
 he said, as he gathered up the reins ; " come, Ned, 
 they ve all gone to a funeral, even the dogs and cats. 
 It s nothing but a waste of time." When Ned turned 
 around and saw the trick that had been played upon 
 him : " All right," he said good humoredly, as he got 
 up behind ; " I ll pay you up for it yet." Not a dog 
 had barked at us, the house was as deserted as if no one 
 had ever lived in it, and yet we saw a thin curl of smoke 
 issuing from one of its chimneys as we drove past and 
 looked anxiously back at it. The next house to which 
 we came was a miserable, unpainted little place. Ned 
 had only got down when a woman and a troop of un 
 tidy children came out to see what brought us. 
 
 " We are looking," said the tutor blandly, " for a 
 brass fender. We thought perhaps you had one to dis 
 pose of." 
 
 " Lor, no," said the woman, deprecatingly, as if a 
 brass fender were a patent of nobility. " We haven t
 
 IN EE BRASS. 91 
 
 got none of them things. Did you try to the Squire s 
 jest above here?" 
 
 "We tried, that is, we knocked a little at the 
 door, but we think they must be out or something. 
 Nobody came to answer." 
 
 " The three girls is deaf. You should a knocked 
 quite smart and lively." 
 
 "Ah, yes. That possibly was our mistake. We must 
 try again. In the meantime, perhaps you have some 
 thing to dispose of " 
 
 "Early potatoes, do you mean, or garden sass?" 
 asked the woman. " Well, not now, but we shall have 
 next week or thereabouts." 
 
 "I didn t mean in that line, exactly. We want 
 something old-fashioned, you know something in 
 brass. You haven t any candlesticks or snuffer-trays or 
 andirons or even bellows with brass noses ? Anything 
 in brass, you know. Even a warming-pan, if you should 
 have one that you didn t use." 
 
 The woman shook her head. "We haven t got 
 anything but one brass candlestick that one of the 
 Squire s girls give me last housecleaning, and that s 
 been broke and sodered up again, and broke again." 
 
 " Oh, let us see it," I cried. " Do you think it 
 would do for a birthday present ?" 
 
 " Depends upon what kind of a birthday it was ;" 
 returned the woman. 
 
 " If it wasn t much of a birthday, do you think it 
 would do ?" said the tutor, insinuatingly. 
 
 " Might." 
 
 " Please bring it," I cried. The woman brought it, 
 while the children in the cart tittered, and the children 
 by the gate gazed, open-mouthed. She certainly had
 
 92 IN KE BRASS. 
 
 not undervalued it. It was very lame and battered, 
 but I bargained for it, and carried it ofE at twenty-five 
 cents. We all agreed it was best to go back to the 
 Squire s, and wait till some one appeared at a door or 
 window, whose attention could be arrested, and then 
 appeal to some other sense than that of hearing. 
 
 " I m prepared to camp out in the front yard," said 
 Mr. Macnally. "Maidy and I can live on very little. 
 We could fast for a week without much inconvenience. 
 In that time, some one would, no doubt, come to the 
 window." 
 
 We went back, and again drove up to the rear door 
 of the house. Ned, for form s sake, got out and began 
 to knock a little, faintly. Yery promptly the door was 
 opened, and a tall, grizzled old man appeared in the 
 door-way. Ned was so taken aback he could not speak, 
 and the old man looked inquiringly from one to the 
 other of us. He was so dignified and well-mannered 
 that we^-were quite unnerved. 
 
 " This is brazen, indeed," said the tutor, low, while 
 Ned stammered, something, helplessly. " I should as 
 soon think of asking the colonel to sell me his water- 
 wheel, or his favorite calf." 
 
 " Somebody must help him," I murmured ; and then, 
 in despair, leaning forward, I said quite loud : 
 
 " Oh, please, sir, if you will excuse us for troubling 
 yon but we re greatly in need of a fender for a Frank 
 lin stove. Somebody told us you had some old things 
 of that kind, and we took the liberty of coming." 
 
 He came forward and said he should be very glad 
 to oblige us ; he thought perhaps he had such a thing in 
 the garret ; he would go and look. The girls, he said, 
 were a little hard of hearing, but perhaps we d come
 
 IN EE BE ASS. 93 
 
 inside and wait. We declined this offer, and lie turned 
 into the house, followed by Ned, who did not think it 
 would be polite for everybody to say no. The host 
 showed him into a sitting-room, and then closing the door, 
 went up into the attic for the fender. The sitting-room 
 was not empty ; an elderly woman, with a cap on, sat 
 darning stockings by a stove. When, at last, she saw Ned, 
 she got up and apologized, in a very low voice, and said 
 she was a little hard of hearing, and sat down again to her 
 work. She looked up at him occasionally in a pleasant 
 manner. Ned felt restless, and as if it weren t very 
 civil not to be making a little conversation with her, 
 when she looked so pleasant. He was embarrassed, and 
 overlooking the fact that she couldn t hear him, the next 
 time he caught her eye, he said, in reference to a mos 
 quito-bar at the window, which he had been looking at : 
 " Are you much troubled with insects here ?" 
 
 She looked perplexed, got up and came softly to 
 him, and said very low : " I m a little hard of hear 
 ing," and put the left side of her cap quite near his 
 mouth. 
 
 Ned regretted very much that he had looked at the 
 mosquito-bar, or had caught her eye ; but he bravely 
 repeated his insipid question, and repeated it again ; 
 but all without effect. She shook her head softly, and 
 said she must go and call her sister Betsey she couldn t 
 understand. 
 
 While she was gone out of the room, Ned almost 
 resolved he would go out and get into the cart, and 
 leave it to somebody else to do the shouting but he 
 was still afraid of being impolite, and stood his ground, 
 though redder in the face than was usual with him. 
 
 Presently the old woman returned, accompanied by
 
 94 IN KB BRASS. 
 
 her sister. This one was shorter and broader than the 
 other, and had a large hooked nose, with which she 
 took snuff. 
 
 " Abby is a little hard of hearing," she said, below 
 her breath. "She didn t quite understand; what was 
 it you was saying ?" And she also put her ear very 
 close up to his face. 
 
 " I only said, are you much troubled with insects 
 here 2" 
 
 She indicated by a nearer approach to his mouth 
 and a questioning motion that she wanted it repeated 
 once again. 
 
 He repeated it once, twice ; she shook her head. 
 Abby, looking on anxiously, shook hers too. 
 
 " I can t quite catch it," she said. u I must go and 
 call my sister Phoebe." 
 
 So she bustled out, and Miss Abby stood by, per 
 plexed and watchful. If she hadn t been there, there 
 is no question that he would have escaped by the front 
 door. But she stood quite close to him, with her 
 troubled old eyes on his face. 
 
 " It s very inconvenient," she said, in a low tone, 
 " very inconvenient, being hard of hearing." 
 
 " It is, very," groaned Ned ; but he wouldn t be 
 entrapped into saying anything more. 
 
 By the time Miss Betsy returned, accompanied by 
 Miss Phcebe, the beads stood on Ned s forehead. There 
 was such a hoarseness in his voice that no wonder Miss 
 Phoebe had to ask him to repeat the hideous formula 
 over and again. She was quite young, compared with 
 her sisters, not more than sixty-h ve, with a very insinu 
 ating smile, and quite a color on her cheeks. She evi-
 
 IN KE BRASS. 95 
 
 dently was less deaf than they, for she got a word at 
 last. 
 
 "Troubled?" she said. " Just try again. Troubled? 
 our dogs have got at your sheep ? No ! Something 
 about the mowing machine, perhaps ? No ! Just say 
 it once more, if you please !" 
 
 The two others stood close up to them, with wrinkled 
 faces full of solicitude. Every time Miss Phoebe shook 
 her head, indicating failure, Miss Abby and Miss Betsey 
 shook theirs in sympathy. It was a dreadful situation. 
 Ned groaned and glanced despairingly around, and 
 gathered himself up, and gave one final shout. It 
 seemed to him the words did not mean anything ; lie 
 hated them ; he w r ould have liked to have dug them out 
 of the dictionary ; it was like a night-mare. 
 
 " Are you much troubled with insects here ?" lie 
 put his mouth quite up against her yellow old car, he 
 roared, bellowed, thundered the words into it. " I 
 only said, Are you much troubled with insects here ? " 
 
 Miss Phoebe heard ; she dropped off from him, for 
 she had laid her hand upon his sleeve, and said " Oh !" 
 in a tone of mingled contempt, relief and incredulity. 
 She repeated it to Miss Betsy, who said " Oh 1" too, in 
 a tone expressing exactly the same feelings, perhaps the 
 contempt a little accentuated. Then it was repeated 
 to Miss Abby, whose " Oh !" was more contemptuous, 
 relieved and skeptical than her sister s, as her suspense 
 and anxiety had been of longer duration. She turned 
 her back to him and picked up her darning, and sat 
 down almost with a jerk. 
 
 " I m very sorry," began Ned, hot and wretched ; 
 but when Miss Phoebe projected her ear at him, he 
 turned and ned. When he got outside, he found us
 
 96 IN EE BRASS. 
 
 embarrassed with our riches. A fender barricaded his 
 way into the cart ; a pair of andirons occupied his seat. 
 I held a shovel and tongs, and Mr. Macnally had a 
 warming-pan over his shoulder, mounted very high. 
 The polite old Squire (whose hearing was perfect) was 
 trying to find a place for a spinning-wheel between 
 Naomi and Maidy. Naomi had a brass candlestick in 
 each hand, and looked a little anxious for her personal 
 safety. 
 
 " It ll ride there," said the farmer. 
 
 "But where ll I ride?" muttered Ned, anxious for 
 unspoken reasons to get in. 
 
 " What s the matter with Ned ?" cried Naomi. He 
 said something that sounded like " Hold your tongue, 
 can t you ?" but it wasn t loud enough for anybody to 
 be sure, and left ground to hope that lie was not such 
 a brute. 
 
 " I hope you ll call again," said the Squire, with 
 mild politeness, bowing us off. 
 
 " I know there s some of us that won t," muttered 
 Ned ; but it was not till we got down the hill and out 
 of sight that we heard his reasons for not wanting to. 
 When we drove through the village with our spoils, we 
 were the objects of much friendly comment. I think 
 no more absolute nonsense was ever talked than during 
 that last two miles, and no more riotous laughter ever 
 heard. We were in what the country people call a 
 " gale," and none of us had a right to be over sixteen. 
 When we reached the gate of the cottage Rex flew out 
 at us furiously, and refused to recogaize us. 
 
 " If I be I, as I do hope I be, 
 I ve a little dog at home, and he ll know me,"
 
 IN RE BRASS. 97 
 
 said the tutor, as he got out, trying, with the butt end of 
 the warming-pan, to protect his knickerbockers from 
 the infuriated little poodle. While the others were un 
 loading my share of the plunder, I caught the dog up 
 and ran to incarcerate him in the dining-room. Naomi 
 followed me up the balcony steps and into the parlor 
 with the candlesticks. 
 
 " Here are all three," she eaid, " the broken one and 
 all." 
 
 " Oh, that reminds me, I want you all to come and 
 take tea with me to-night, you and Ned and Mr. Mac- 
 nally, to celebrate the birthday, you know. Here s 
 Baby, just awake, bless her little heart; I can t go 
 down again to tell them, for I ve got to take her. Re 
 member, yoiT must come at half past six o clock." 
 
 Naomi screamed with delight, and ran headlong 
 down the steps of the balcony, and didn t stop till she 
 got outside the gate. 
 
 " Mr. Macnally, Mr. Macnally, listen !" she cried. 
 " I ve got something to tell you. A message, hear 
 
 I was holding Baby, by the parlor window, quite 
 out of sight myself. Mr. Macnally was standing out 
 by the edge of the road, and Naomi at the gate. He 
 dropped the wanning- pan, and a pair of andirons which 
 he was putting in the cart, and put himself in an atti 
 tude and laid his hand on his heart, and gazed at Naomi, 
 waiting for the message. 
 
 " We are invited," she said impressively, " invited 
 here to take tea to-night, to celebrate your birthday. 
 Do you understand ? " 
 
 He made a somersault, and came up on his feet, 
 just before Naomi, with his hand on his heart and in 
 the same attitude of abandoned devotion. He said
 
 98 IN RE BRASS. 
 
 
 
 something which I did not catch, and then Xaoini 
 cried, " Well, I ll go and tell her." 
 
 She came and shouted up the stairs, " We re all com 
 ing ; I ve got to go now, so good-bye." 
 
 I watched them drive off, and said to myself " The 
 mystery is solved. The trapeze /"
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 
 
 "Alas, the happy day ! the foolish day I 
 Alas, the sweet time, too soon passed away 1" 
 
 William Morris. 
 
 " the sense 
 
 Of exile from Hope s happy realm grew less, 
 And thoughts of childish peace, he knew not whence, 
 
 Thronged round his heart with many an old caress." 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 OPHIA, the children from the other house are 
 coming to tea. 
 
 " What, that long-legged boy ?" 
 
 " Why, he s long generally. I don t see anything 
 out of proportion in his legs. What can we have for 
 tea ? They have such lots of things for tea down 
 there, I don t know what they ll think of ours." 
 
 This assured us a good tea. I could not confess to 
 her that the tutor was coming, for I knew she actively 
 detested him, but I smuggled an extra plate and cup 
 and saucer on the table when it was time for them to 
 come, and I left it for her to suppose that his coming 
 was unpremeditated, and that he had been invited after 
 he came in, as was no more than civil. Notwithstand 
 ing her disgust and anger at his presence and at my 
 selfish conduct of the morning, she did not manage to 
 depress us very much. We had a very merry little tea, 
 
 [99]
 
 100 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 
 
 with Maidy and Baby both at table, and Ned enough at 
 home to eat as much as he wanted. After tea we had 
 the pleasure of building a fresh tire in the Franklin and 
 of trying the new fender. 
 
 " Four feet on a fender, " said Ned, leaning back 
 in a low chair and putting a pair of very dusty shoes 
 upon it. 
 
 " What s the objection to hind feet ?" said Naomi, 
 who was sitting on the rug and holding Rex, and she 
 put his hind paws up beside the dusty shoes. 
 
 " What s the use of always trying to be so deadly 
 clever?" snarled Ned, giving the dog a push with his 
 foot. 
 
 " It s you who were trying," said Naomi, enfolding 
 the dog in a motherly embrace. 
 
 " Let dogs delight," said the tutor. " Celebrate my 
 birthday by an absence of rows to-night." 
 
 " Talking of birthdays ; where s the candlestick ? 
 Maidy, go and fetch it. I left it on the table in the 
 hall. 
 
 Maidy brought it. " I tried to clean it," I said, 
 " but it hasn t a great luster." 
 
 "It puts my eyes out," said the tutor, shading 
 them. 
 
 " That horrid break," I said, " and the patching up. 
 I wish I had a ribbon that I could tie around it. Here s 
 one on my fan. I ll have to spare you that." 
 
 There was a bit of lilac ribbon by which my fan 
 hung from my belt, so I loosened it and tied it round 
 the candlestick in a pretty knot, and hid the defacing 
 sodering, and all that ; then we set it on the mantel 
 piece and lavished a great deal of admiration on it. 
 The children were rolling about on the rug with Rex.
 
 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 101 
 
 ]S"ed had withdrawn his dusty shoes to the other side of 
 the room, and was looking over some pictures at the 
 lamp. Mr. Macnally put more wood on the tire, and 
 opened the doors and windows, for it was growing 
 warm. Naomi started up from the rug. 
 
 " Let s play cartoons, or consequences, or something, 
 won t you ? Mr. Macnally likes games ; I assure you 
 that he does." 
 
 " And his taste must be consulted on at least one 
 day in the year." 
 
 " "Well, but you know you like it ; you ve often said 
 you did. We only want some paper and some pencils ; 
 please, dear hostess, and we ll tell you how." 
 
 We had altogether a very jolly evening ; Naomi 
 and Ned were both clever with their pencils, and as to 
 the tutor, I abandoned the trapeze theory and concluded 
 he was a member of the Royal Academy, collecting in 
 disguise studies for the next year s exhibition. I have 
 those cartoons yet, yellowed, dusty. I do not laugh 
 when 1 look at them now, alas ! . . . 
 
 The "gale" had expended itself; we could not 
 laugh so many hours consecutively. The children were 
 sleepy, and Naomi and I carried them off to Sophia to 
 be put to bed. Nothing would have ii;duced Sophia 
 to come into the room, I am sure. When we came 
 back we found Ned had settled himself into a book, 
 and the tutor was standing with his hand on the man 
 tel-piece gazing into the tire. I sat down in a low chair 
 and Naomi knelt down on the rug and put her pretty 
 yellow head against my shoulder. 
 
 " What a nice day we ve had ! I like holidays. 
 When does your birthday come ? "
 
 102 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 
 
 " Oh, Naomi, don t ask me. I don t want to remember 
 my birthday. I don t keep it any more." 
 
 I tried to speak lightly, but a quick expression of 
 pain contracted my face. It was three years since I 
 had kept my birthday with anything but tears and bit 
 ter recollections. All the joy and merriment of this 
 day seemed frightful to me at that reminiscence. Had 
 I grown childish ; had I lost all sense of my bereave 
 ment in this sudden lightening of heart? No wonder 
 Sophia despised me and avoided me ; I hardly knew 
 myself. I could scarcely keep back my tears; I 
 trembled and was pale. I had an impulse to go into 
 the dark room where the children slept and take them 
 in my arms, and cry over them and ask them to forgive 
 me for having forgotten for so many careless hours. 
 
 Naomi went on prattling; Mr. Macnally walked 
 over to where Ned sat at his book, and talked with him 
 about it. Naomi s questions were torture Where were 
 you your last birthday, where were you before ? Did 
 you use to get many presents? Was that little tur 
 quoise ring you always wear one of your birthday pres 
 ents? It was the prettiest little ring. How many 
 years since the birthday that you got it ? There were 
 two stones that were turning just a little green ; it 
 must be a good while that you have had it on. How 
 long do you think ? What does it mean when a tur 
 quoise turns green ? Does it mean you have forgotten 
 about the person that gave it to you, or that they have 
 forgotten about you ? 
 
 "Naomi," said the tutor, a little quickly, "Ned s 
 found a picture of that basket-fish that washed up on 
 the beach the other day. Come and look at it."
 
 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 103 
 
 " In a minute," said Naomi pensively ; " I m looking 
 at some rings. Do you believe " 
 
 Naomi loved sentiment more than she loved natural 
 history ; she wouldn t have made the exchange so 
 promptly as she did, if the tutor s voice had not had 
 a tinge of authority in it which she and Ned knew 
 Letter than to disregard. 
 
 " Yes, but I want you to come now, while I am ex 
 plaining it to Ned. You bothered me enough about it 
 when you found it, when I hadn t any illustration of it." 
 
 He made the explanation a tolerably long one, and 
 I had time to recover a little from my agitation. It 
 was probably the reaction from a long day of excite 
 ment, and the great change from my ordinary days, 
 and my nerves were not yet as strong as I supposed 
 them. When Naomi made a move to come back to 
 the fire, Mr. Macnally took out his watch, and she un 
 derstood, from his gesture, that she must go and get 
 ready to go home. Even this little sympathetic help, 
 and the sense of being shielded from what was really 
 such a trifle, unnerved me. I must have cried if they 
 hadn t gone without many more words, which happily 
 they did. But a good night s sleep restored my nerves, 
 and a day or two brought me back to the common-sense 
 basis of being happy when there was so much to be 
 happy about. 
 
 From that time, there was a great deal to be happy 
 about. The returning tide of health, the absence of 
 care, the friendship of good people, the companion 
 ship of quick and clever minds, the exhilaration of an 
 unrivalled air, the stimulant of beautiful scenery, formed 
 a pretty good foundation for a happy summer. It was 
 not very gradual, the intimacy established between the
 
 104 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 
 
 cottage and the big house. We were not long in find 
 ing out that a day was incomplete when there were no 
 hours spent in common. Two days in the week I read 
 German with Mrs. Emlyn. I was the most indifferent 
 German scholar in one sense, but no one could read 
 with her, and be indifferent in interest. Her mind 
 was so quick and her love for language so enthusiastic, 
 she inspired even the dullest and most timid. It was 
 like being pushed along by a swift skater, the exhilaration 
 made one forget the ignominy of not being able to do it 
 one s self. My enjoyment gave her pleasure and 
 made her pardon my inefficiency and want of training. 
 I was a favorite with the colonel, who often took 
 me with him in long drives about the country. Mrs. 
 Emlyn feared horses, and hated driving, and when 
 Naomi was in school and could not go with him, he 
 was always glad to come for me. In the afternoon, 
 when the children and Mr. Macnally were free, we 
 often went on .excursions, long sails on the bay, crab 
 bing or fishing expeditions, walks when it was cool, or 
 more often drives to distant villages, which did not end 
 till after dark ; and when there was no question where I 
 went to take my tea. I had long ceased to care by which 
 door I entered the hospitable house, or what time I came, 
 or in what apparel. There was a high chair for Maidy 
 always standing in the dining-room now ; even Baby 
 had her private establishment in that generous apart 
 ment, and knew under what table to look for her box of 
 blocks and picture-books. Rex no longer barked when 
 at home the tutor came up the balcony stairs three 
 steps at a time, or when Ned thundered at the door and 
 shouted " Fenders !" Naomi could pull his ears, and 
 Mrs. Emlyn tread on him in her near-sightedness with
 
 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 105 
 
 perfect freedom. He understood the consolidation of 
 interests, and behaved much better than Sophia, who 
 would not allow herself to be drawn into the vortex of 
 intimacy which had engulfed her betters. I am sure 
 she could not have helped being gratified with the im 
 proved health of the children, nor with her own ex 
 emption from care and labor ; but she never acknowl 
 edged it, nor ever ceased to fret for the time when we 
 should leave this mouldy shanty and go back to the city. 
 I remember particularly the effect one of these 
 tirades had upon me. It was a lovely July morning, 
 warmer than most days in that bracing climate. A 
 strong breeze from the sea tempered the heat of the 
 sun. I was on the balcony with my work, Mr. Mac- 
 nally was sitting in the hammock, with his gun leaning 
 against the railing, and a game-bag over his shoulder ; 
 Naomi was playing with the children at the foot of the 
 steps ; Ned was busy loading some shells on the horse 
 block, Ilex was lying on the edge of my dress, newly 
 washed, and white and fluffy, with a blue ribbon on his 
 neck. The sunshine fell on the gray floor of the 
 balcony through the leaves of the trumpet-creeper, and 
 here and there lighted up one of its long red blossoms. 
 The roll of the sea sounded far off and dreamy ; its 
 blue line was faintly seen across the green and level 
 meadows. The children s voices were a happy music 
 in my ears. The wind that kissed my cheek was soft 
 as velvet. I leaned back in the low chair in which I 
 sat, and drew a long breath of content. At that 
 moment in the doorway appeared the spare figure of 
 my faithful Sophia, to present to me the other side 
 
 of life. 
 
 Sophia was about middle height, spare of flesh, and 
 
 5*
 
 106 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 
 
 quick of movement. Her complexion was dark, her 
 eyes of a dull black, but very penetrating. I always 
 felt as if I had done something wrong when I met 
 them, not that she always meant to be accusing me, but 
 there was something in them that stirred an uncom 
 fortable sensation in my whole being, which I wrongly 
 perhaps, attributed to the workings of conscience. She 
 had an uncomfortable power over me, of which she was 
 quite unconscious. Whether it were her stronger will, 
 or some psychological influence that we have not yet 
 got a name for, she could at any time, when my health 
 was not at its best, make me do anything that she 
 chose. And even when I was in my best estate, she 
 could throw a blighting shadow over very happy hours. 
 My face clouded as soon as I saw her standing in the 
 door-way, and found her eyes fixed on me. 
 
 Sophia was rather a good-looking woman. I often 
 wondered whether, to other people, she was not quite 
 pleasant to look at. The children loved her, and they 
 would not certainly have loved her if she had not been 
 pleasing to them. I fear it was with me an antagonism 
 of temperament that put us both at our worst. Her 
 black hair was slightly mixed with white, but she wore 
 it neatly, and she was always dressed rather above her 
 station, though with simplicity. Her forehead was low 
 and her hair grew off from it in a cowlick, which pre 
 vented it from being parted in the middle. Her nos 
 trils were thin, and moved with every breath and every 
 emotion ; indeed, they had much more active expression 
 than her eyes. 
 
 " Well, Sophia, what is it ? " I said, for she stood 
 without speaking. 
 
 It was no matter, she had thought I was alone.
 
 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 107 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Hacnally will excuse us. Is anything 
 wrong?" 
 
 " Nothing but these," she said, bringing forward 
 two or three pairs of the children s shoes, covered 
 heavily with green and yellow mould. 
 
 " Oh ! why don t you put them in the sun to dry. 
 It was a pity to have shut them up." 
 
 * They have only been two days in the nursery 
 closet. And it is about that that I came to speak to you. 
 That room s not fit for the children to sleep in. The 
 paper s peeling from the walls. I ve taken up the carpet 
 and hung it in the sun three times this summer, and yet 
 it s always cold when you tread on it. I never saw any 
 thing but a cellar that compared to that room for 
 dampness." 
 
 " It seems to agree with them particularly well how 
 ever, they ve never been so well in all their lives before." 
 
 " You ll have to speak to Colonel Emlyn to have 
 the chimney opened, if we stay here till the end of 
 August. I wouldn t undertake to bring baby through 
 those damp August rains without afire to dress her by." 
 
 " The poor colonel ! He has spent the rent twice over 
 on the kitchen floor and the pump and the roof of the 
 wing ; I shouldn t have the face to ask him about the 
 nursery chimney, Sophia." 
 
 " As you please," said Sophia, with nostrils flaring. 
 
 " You can bring her into my room to sleep," I said, 
 " and dress her there. It is always warm and comfor 
 table." 
 
 " About these shoes. Are you going to have them 
 half-soled ? If we stay here six weeks longer, they will 
 just about last them through ; but something must be 
 done ; you can t get anything to fit them here."
 
 108 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 
 
 " Then can t we send to town ?" 
 
 " For six weeks ? that wouldn t be worth while." 
 
 She gave me a searching look. I felt the little shoes 
 were only an excuse to fret me ; she knew much rnoro 
 about the nursery properties than I, and never consult 
 ed me but for purposes of her own. 
 
 " I ll take them to the shoemaker in the village to be 
 mended," I said, and took up my sewing. Mr. Macnally 
 met my eyes as I looked up in a moment to assure 
 myself that she was gone. They asked me a question 
 so plainly, that I answered involuntarily. 
 
 " I can t help it, I owe her everything ; and if I didn t, 
 I shouldn t dare to say a word. What should I be, 
 left without her ? People must pay the penalty of be 
 ing inefficient." 
 
 " You re not going to let her take you away from 
 here in six weeks?" he said. 
 
 " Well, if she does, she may prepare to bury me, for 
 if I go back to that horrible city and live the life I 
 have been living there I shall die. We won t talk of it," 
 and I gave a sort of shudder. 
 
 " But the first of September ; it is such tyranny ;" 
 he repeated. 
 
 " I shall die ; that will be all," I said. 
 
 " We shall all have resort to the happy dispatch," 
 he said, getting up, and lifting his gun to go. " Have 
 you any idea, he added, pausing as if irresolute, and, 
 to occupy the irresolute moment, bending back the 
 barrel of his gun and looking into it, "have you any 
 idea how much you yield to this sort of pressure? 
 I have often wondered." 
 
 "I suppose everybody thinks me weak," I said,
 
 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 109 
 
 biting my lips, and pushing the needle in and out of 
 my work, aimlessly. 
 
 " I don t know what everybody thinks ; and I don t 
 suppose you mind wnat I think." 
 
 " Why shouldn t I mind ? I don t know so many 
 people." 
 
 " "Well, in a very small world I suppose I might 
 count for one," he answered, with a compression of the 
 lips, perhaps from the effort of snapping the gun back 
 into its place, still standing half turned from me. 
 
 " Oh, you count for a great deal more than one, in 
 my world. You would be lecturing me, if you knew 
 how much more. You ought always to tell me what 
 you think, if it isn t too bad." 
 
 " My thoughts always honor you," he said, with a 
 sudden strange sincerity, more startling from the con 
 trast to his ordinary gayety of manner. This time he 
 turned quite away, and, stooping to pick up his cap 
 which had fallen to the floor, he went towards the 
 steps. We were on the sort of terms when goings and 
 comings were not necessarily attended with much 
 explanation. We should probably meet two or three 
 times again to-day ; so while he went down the steps, I 
 silently resumed my sewing, and pondered deeply on 
 the few words that had escaped him, beginning with 
 the question, Had I any idea how much I yielded to the 
 influence of Sophia ? It was very unusual for him to 
 say things like this. I could scarcely remember when 
 he had said anything so personal before. He needn t 
 have told me all his thoughts honored me, for I knew 
 it. He had put me on a very high pedestal, I felt. 
 With all our intimate freedom of intercourse, there 
 was always a silence about myself, that was a sort of
 
 110 KEEPING A BIRTHDAY. 
 
 homage I vaguely liked. He could listen ; I was 
 almost capriciously confidential sometimes, for he was a 
 person who inspired you to talk about yourself ; but he 
 did not respond ; he did not ask me questions, he did 
 not lead me further by any words. I felt a great lik 
 ing for him, a great interest in him. He was cleverer 
 than any one I had ever met before ; he was the gayest, 
 brightest element that had ever come into my experi 
 ence. Delightful as the life was at Happy-go-lucky, 
 it was impossible not to see that it was he who gave to 
 it its greatest charm. In some ways of looking at him, 
 he seemed the embodiment of youth ; in others, there 
 was a man s intensity and reticence. 1 sat with my eyes 
 bn my work, when Naomi called up to me : 
 
 " Aunt Penelope said you were to come to tea to 
 night. Did Mr. Macnally tell you ?" 
 
 "No. Why to-night especially ?" 
 
 " Somebody is coming up from town, who, I can t 
 remember. Mr. Macnally, what s the name of the 
 company that s coming up to-night ?" 
 
 But Mr. Macnally and Ned were already off, out of 
 hearing. It was Saturday, and Ned was very jealous 
 of infringements of his holiday. His tutor had a sort 
 of conscientiousness about him that one could not help 
 respecting. He probably hated to go tramping off in the 
 sun ; but the care of the boy never seemed out of his 
 mind. 
 
 " I m paid for it," he said once, when I reproached 
 him with leaving us. He had not been bitter about it, 
 rather jolly, looking back and saying from over his 
 gun: 
 
 " My own convenience counts as nil: 
 It is my duty, and I will."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 EN GKANDE TENUE. 
 
 "For innocence hath a privilege in her 
 To dignify arch jests and laughing eyes." 
 
 As You Lilce it. 
 
 O OPIIIA S unhappy jealousy of the other house did 
 ^ not prevent her desiring me to appear my best 
 when I went there, and though she often looked as if 
 she were capable of powdering the peaches with arse* 
 nic, she was always careful that everything should be in 
 the best order, when they came to us. I have known 
 her to work a whole day to prepare a good tea for 
 them, when it seemed as if she hated every member of 
 the family with bitterness enough to kill them. That 
 afternoon, therefore, it did not surprise me to find, that, 
 having overheard the invitation Naomi gave me from 
 her aunt, she had spent an hour pressing out a pretty 
 white muslin dress that had been in a trunk all summer, 
 and which was the work of her own hands in the early 
 spring, when we had first talked of coming to the coun 
 try. She had wonderful skill in such matters, and 
 could reduce a fashion-plate to fact unerringly. The 
 afternoon was so unusually warm that I had slept, and 
 was just arousing myself to the necessity of getting 
 ready to go, when she entered the door with the dress 
 on her arm. 
 
 " Should I better wear that ?" I said. 
 
 [Ill]
 
 112 EX GRANDE TENTTE. 
 
 " I don t know why not," she said, putting it on the 
 bed. " It s the only warm day we ve had, and we 
 mayn t have another. Goodness knows, if I d thought 
 we were coming to such a place as this, I shouldn t have 
 spent a week s work on your dress." 
 
 It s sweet," I said, touching the flounces affection 
 ately. " Come in by and by and fasten it on for me, 
 won t you? I can t manage that handkerchief alone." 
 
 When my hair was dressed and I was ready for her, 
 she made some excuse and came back into the room, 
 and lifted the dress over my head and fastened it on for 
 me. It was picturesque and pretty, though very sim 
 ple, made with a short round skirt, with ruffles at the 
 bottom, a round waist, sleeves to the elbpws, with ruf 
 fles, and a handkerchief of the same material folded 
 across the bosom. I was slender and tall enough to 
 make it becoming ; it was so long since I had seen my 
 self in anything that was, that I flushed with pleasure 
 as I stepped back, and saw the whole effect. Then I 
 glanced guiltily at Sophia to see if she had seen the 
 flush, but she hadn t ; she was looking with an expres 
 sion almost of satisfaction at the details of the dress. 
 Then she went away, and brought me a pair of slippers 
 from the trunk. 
 
 " They ll be dusty by the time I get there," I said 
 insincerely ; it really gave me pleasure to think of put 
 ting them on. 
 
 " You can see yourself what a figure you d make, 
 with walking boots, in that short dress. Be careful and 
 walk in the path, that s all that s necessary." 
 
 Then she raised her eyes, and began to criticise the 
 part that was not the work of her own hands. " You ve 
 got your hair too high," she said, and with both hands,
 
 EN GEANDE TENTJE. 113 
 
 not ungcntly, she pressed down the light-brown mass, 
 till the contour satisfied her correct eye. 
 
 " You re the only woman," she said involuntarily as 
 she looked at me, "that I ever saw that could spend 
 twelve hours out of the twenty-four in the hottest sun that 
 blazes, and not have your skin the worse for it. Your 
 throat s just as white as your shoulders, and your face 
 isn t a shade darker than it was when you went to 
 school. Baby s going to have a skin just like yours." 
 
 " And poor Maidy s always scorching up ; her very 
 eyelids burn." 
 
 " That s like her father ; she s got his light-blue eyes, 
 and that same sort of hair but Baby s eyes are grayish- 
 blue, like yours, and her lashes are long and dark, like 
 yours. She ll be the prettiest, if she s spared." 
 
 Sophia was always conscientious about that clause : 
 she ended every allusion to the children s near or dis 
 tant future with a proviso about their being spared, as 
 if some hideous gardener were cultivating the earth, 
 with a prejudice against children, whom he weeded out 
 with a liberal hand, and as if it were only an oversight 
 when one here or there was " spared." 
 
 She went again to the trunk, and came back with a 
 parasol. " You d better use that thing up," she said, 
 "it s getting yellow." 
 
 I had forgotten its existence ; it was a piece of my 
 wedding finery, a broad, pongee parasol, with a deep 
 ecru lace around it. 
 
 " What care you take of things," I exclaimed. I 
 should never have thought of it again. Ah, Sophia, 
 what should I do without you ? " And the tears swam 
 in my eyes. 
 
 " Much you care," she muttered, going out of the
 
 114 EN GKANDE TENUE. 
 
 door. "As long as tilings come ready to your hand, 
 it s little odds who slaves for you." 
 
 Probably the sight of me again in girlish dress, 
 and perhaps the words I had just said, had upset her, 
 and she took refuge in her habitual rudeness, but I was 
 too hurt to think so then. 
 
 The afternoon sun was low in the west when 1 
 started for Happy-go-lucky, with the broad white para 
 sol over my head, and a light chip hat in my hand. I 
 had broken off a bunch of a yellowish pink geranium that 
 grew in one of the garden-beds, and fastened it where 
 the handkerchief crossed on my bosom. There had 
 been a rain the night before ; it was not dusty ; the 
 heat of the day was over, but the air was still soft and 
 warm, and the wind had fallen. It was a delightful walk. 
 
 "When I came up the steps at Happy-go-lucky I 
 heard voices on the south piazza, and going around the 
 corner of the house, I found the whole party assembled. 
 The heat of the day had probably been the cause of 
 their being at home, and the coolness of the porch 
 facing the ocean had drawn them together. Mrs. 
 Emlyn was sitting with a stocking bag on her lap, and 
 a heap of dictionaries on a chair beside her, in whose 
 company she had evidently spent the afternoon. 
 Naomi was swinging in a hammock, with a story-book 
 in her hand. Ned was cleaning his gun at a distance 
 of two or three feet. Mr. Macnally was sitting on the 
 step, leaning his head against a post. The colonel and 
 a stranger were seated with their backs to me, looking 
 out over the tranquil, pale sea. The wind came faint 
 and soft from the ocean, the waves broke on the beach 
 with scarcely any sound. Ned was the first to discover 
 me as I approached them.
 
 EN GRANDE TENUE. 115 
 
 " I say !" he cried, jumping up, " I m going up 
 stairs to dress myself this minute." 
 
 " Oh, how sweet you look," cried Naomi, rolling out 
 of her hammock, her rough flannel dress much dis 
 ordered from the long afternoon s nap there, and her 
 hair tumbled over her eyes. This called every one s 
 attention to me. I hadn t put my parasol down, but 
 held it back over my shoulder, and stood in a kind of 
 stage fright at finding myself the center of so many 
 eyes. 
 
 " There she goes, 
 Pretty as a rose, 
 All dressed up in her Sunday clothes," 
 
 roared Ned. 
 
 " Ned !" called out his uncle, reprovingly, seeing my 
 embarrassment. All the three gentlemen were on their 
 feet. The glasses were on Mrs. Emlyn s nose. 
 
 " Why not ?" cried Ned, stoutly ; " she looks 
 awfully pretty, and I ve never seen her dressed up 
 before. I couldn t help it, you know ; I just couldn t." 
 
 " You re a rude boy," said his aunt, decisively. 
 "I m not at all proud of your manners. Take that 
 dirty gun away, and go and get ready for your tea." 
 
 Ned rather sulkily gathered up his blackened rags 
 and rods and boxes and went away, leaving me in a 
 worse state of agitation than before. 
 
 " Don t scold Ned," I said, confusedly. 
 
 " No, on my honor," said the colonel, " I think his 
 aunt was too hard on him. I don t find it in my heart 
 to blame him ;" and he bowed significantly. 
 
 " I shall go away," 1 said, between laughing and 
 crying.
 
 116 EN GRANDE TENUE. 
 
 "I should think you would," cried Mrs. Emljn, "as 
 from a company of savages. If this aberration of good 
 breeding occurred very often, I should go myself." 
 
 " But," urged Naomi, pressing close upon me, and 
 fondling the ruffles on my sleeve, and gazing at my 
 slippers, " but what did you do it for ? Why did you 
 put your good clothes on to-day ?" 
 
 I was driven into a corner ; I was desperate ; I 
 didn t know what I did. 
 
 " You told me there was company," and with an 
 impulse half shy, half defiant, I lifted my eyes to the 
 group standing before me. A woman is rarely mis 
 taken when she commands admiration ; perhaps my 
 courage rose and a faint nutter of coquetry inspired 
 me as I met, one after another, the eyes fixed upon me. 
 First the colonel s, kindly and mirthful, then the 
 strange blue eyes of a strange man, then the deep, keen 
 gaze of Mr. Macnally, who stood behind the others. 
 
 " Ah, my dear sir, you are the excuse, we owe it to 
 you. Allow me, madame, to present to you the Com 
 pany," said the colonel, with great enjoyment of his 
 own observations. 
 
 The stranger bowed. Mrs. Emlyn, who did not un 
 derstand coquetry, and imagined me more unhappy 
 than I was, said, " I think we have been quite rude 
 enough, all of us, and I propose to let our visitor have 
 a seat now, and to talk of something besides the 
 way she s dressed. It is so warm, you did well to put 
 on something thinner," she added, as I sat down beside 
 her. Thereupon they all laughed, and the colonel 
 said, 
 
 " "Why don t you begin, my dear ?" 
 
 This did not please her, and she simply frowned.
 
 EN GKANDE TENUE. 117 
 
 The stranger did not sit down, but stood before me a 
 few feet, leaning against one of the pillars that sup 
 ported the piazza roof. He was a tall man, rather im 
 posing in figure and carriage. He was probably be 
 tween forty-five and fifty. His features were good ; ho 
 had undoubtedly been remarkably handsome when he 
 was younger, and still would be noticed for good looks. 
 His blue eyes had a slow way of fastening themselves 
 on your face, and then not being easily shaken off. The 
 expression of them was not entirely pleasing. A heavy 
 mustache covered his mouth, which might have been 
 bad or good. His hair, which was thin on the top, 
 was brown where it was not gray. His clothes were 
 perfect, a great contrast to the old-fashioned trimness 
 of the colonel s, and the rough carelessness of the 
 tutor s. His hands and feet were de la haute noblesse; 
 he threw the w T hole party into an inferior position. He 
 had evidently been a man of the world from his youth ; 
 no easier and better manners could be imagined. One 
 felt he always had 
 
 " Sipped^wine from silver, praising God, 
 And raked in golden barley," 
 
 wine that had " grown fat on Lusitanian summers." 
 Happy Mr. Boughton 1 
 
 Mrs. Emlyn turned to me and began to ask ques 
 tions about the children ; why had I not let Maidy 
 come ? 
 
 " It s to be feared Maidy had no clothes fine enough 
 to accompany her mamma to-night," said Mr. Macnally. 
 The visitor transferred his eyes slowly from me to the 
 speaker ; I wondered what he thought of him, from his
 
 118 EN GKANDE TENUE. 
 
 faded flannel shirt, and dusty knickerbockers, to the 
 easy audacity of his manners, and the keenness of his 
 dark eyes. 
 
 " I thought we had agreed to give up the subject of 
 clothes," said Mrs. Einlyn. 
 
 " I didn t promise." 
 
 " Well, it s time you did. I won t have another 
 word of them. It s a pity," she continued, "that a 
 woman can t put on a pretty gown once in a summer, 
 without being frightened back into flannel, before she s 
 had it on an hour. For my part, I never want to 
 see blue flannel again. We ve had a surfeit of it. I m 
 glad to see you in anything so fresh and pretty." 
 
 We all laughed, no one more heartily than Mrs. 
 Emlyn herself. 
 
 " There s a charm about you and your clothes, my 
 dear. We all revolve around you and can t break 
 away." 
 
 " I m going np-stairs to dress," said Naomi, getting 
 behind her aunt s chair, and asking in a low voice for 
 permission to put on a white dress. 
 
 " The contagion of folly," said the tutor, shaking 
 his head, and balancing himself on the rail of the 
 veranda. 
 
 " You don t seem to have caught it, Macnally," said 
 the Colonel. 
 
 "I ve had it," he said ; "you can t take it twice. 
 Sometimes, however," he added, his eyes falling on and 
 glancing off the polished boots of the stranger, " it 
 takes a chronic form, though weakened, and you never 
 get over it. Doctors call it cachexy, don t they ? It s 
 pretty serious then." 
 
 For the first time since I had known him I
 
 EN GKANDE TENUE. 119 
 
 found myself annoyed by what he did ; I wished he 
 would get down off the rail, and stop talking utter 
 nonsense. It made me angry to see the deliberate blue 
 eyes of the new-comer measuring him. I wanted to 
 have him thought well of, and I felt sure he was not. 
 This was the first time that any stranger had come in 
 among us in our free and unconventional life. I had, 
 perhaps, not realized how great a part of our enjoyment 
 had come from the fact that we were all d accord / that 
 we all sincerely liked each other. I was too sensitive 
 not to i eel the jar of this new presence. He dislocated 
 everything. No one of us stood as we had stood 
 before. I lost my bearings, and began to criticise every 
 thing. I began to make apologies in my own mind 
 for what before had seemed to need no apology. I 
 wished for an opportunity to explain what had only 
 just seemed to call for explanation. I don t know 
 whether a similar distortion had taken place in the 
 minds of the others ; but it seemed to me they were all 
 caricaturing themselves. The colonel \vas more prosy 
 and old-fogy than ever before, Mrs. Emlyn more un 
 necessarily candid and sharply plain-spoken, and Mr. 
 Macnally outdid himself in perverse disregard of all 
 conventionalities. "What nonsense he talked, and what 
 applause he won from his host and hostess ! Last night 
 I should have laughed, too, and that hour after sunset, 
 looking over the slowly-darkening sea, would have 
 been delicious to me. But to-night all was out of 
 tune. 
 
 Tea was late ; it was almost dark when we were 
 summoned to it, and the candles were already lighted. 
 Ned and Naomi came down promptly ; Ned had actu 
 ally put on his Sunday clothes, and Naomi looked love-
 
 120 EN GEANDE TENUE. 
 
 ly in her best white dress, and a bright ribbon in her 
 hair. 
 
 " Where will it end ?" cried Mr. Macnally. " It is 
 the dawn of the reformation." 
 
 " You are the only one not affected by the move 
 ment, Macnally," said the colonel. 
 
 " I am sorry," said Mr. Macnally, bringing rather 
 prominently forward a sunburned hand and a flannel 
 sleeve, in some unnecessary act of civility at the table, 
 " I am sorry to be a memento mori showing you 
 what you were yesterday and what you ll without doubt 
 be to-morrow." 
 
 But Mr. Boughton, the visitor, was seated by me, 
 and I was quite willing to take his attention from all 
 this, and he talked to me when he could make me hear 
 above the voices of Ned and Naomi and the rest. 
 When we went out from the tea, of which I don t re 
 member much, except his unwavering blue eyes on 
 my face, and his persistent low voice in my ear, I was 
 for a moment alone by the parlor lamp. The gentle 
 men had gone out on the piazza to smoke, Ned was 
 busy with his dogs, whom he was feeding at the door, 
 Naomi was carrying something to the store-room with 
 her aunt ; I stood alone at the parlor table, with a little 
 contraction of trouble on my face which I suppose 
 the light beside me brought out pretty clearly. Mr. 
 Macnally came in from the piazza and came up to me, 
 without the audacity and merriment of ten minutes be 
 fore. 
 
 " I am afraid," he said in an eager, appealing sort of 
 way, " I m afraid something has happened to annoy 
 you. I m I m awfully sorry if I ve had anything to
 
 EN GRANDE TENUE. 121 
 
 do with, it but you know I didn t mean to, I needn t 
 tell you that." 
 
 I was silent what was there to say ? 
 
 " Was it about that stupid dress ?" he said, not look 
 ing at me. " I ought to have seen ; but I own I didn t 
 think you d mind." 
 
 . " It isn t very pleasant to be made so absurd before 
 a stranger," I said, with a taint of insincerity which was 
 half unconscious. 
 
 " I m sure you re right," he answered, " and I can t 
 tell you how ashamed I am. But he seemed so tire 
 some, such an old muff, with his shiny boots and his 
 slow ways, I really didn t feel as if he were in the way 
 of our talking just as we always do." 
 
 This vexed me ; I don t at all know why ; but I 
 said, " One sometimes gets tired of buffoonery all the 
 time " 
 
 " I m sorry," he said, faintly. I looked up hastily 
 into his face. He had flushed painfully, and now the 
 color was going back, and the expression was as if he 
 had been wounded physically. I was ashamed before I 
 had actually said it, and now I was frightened. What 
 had I done ? It is no light thing to call your friend s 
 raillery and wit, buffoonery. Men don t ordinarily say 
 that sort of thing to each other with impunity ; and 
 from a woman, how much harder to bear. And a wo 
 man, too, who had been treated with such unvarying 
 homage and delicacy. I had heard the children say 
 that his quick Irish temper kept them in awe of him in 
 school-time, and I could well imagine that such eyes as 
 his could sometimes burn with sudden anger. But he 
 was not angry now ; it was something a great deal worse. 
 6
 
 122 EN GKANDE TENTJE. 
 
 He was very pale, and he turned away with the instinct 
 of hiding his emotion. 
 
 " I am very sorry," he repeated, but in a low and 
 uncertain voice. " I have not had any idea that that sort 
 of thing offended you. I I have been altogether mis 
 taken in in " 
 
 I tried to say something to extenuate my rudeness, 
 but at the moment that I began to speak, Mrs. Emlyn 
 and Naomi came into the room, and Mr. Macnally 
 left it. 
 
 " What is the matter with Mr. Macnally ?" she said. 
 " Is he ill ? lie looks pale," and she followed him to 
 the door and called after him, but got no answer. 
 
 The few days that followed this are too uncomfort 
 able to recall. I was not given to self-analysis in those 
 days, or I might have found that my unhappiness meant 
 more than I should have liked to admit. I thought I 
 was only uncomfortable from self-reproach. I was so 
 absorbed in my own feelings that I think I must have 
 made a sorry companion in the walks and drives to 
 which I was doomed by my landlord and landlady, 
 who seemed more than ever intent on having me with 
 them. The tutor had in some way fallen out of our 
 programmes and Mr. Boughton had taken his place. 
 "We hardly saw him save at the table, and then he was 
 so silent as to be forever jeered at by the colonel and 
 by Ned. 
 
 There was sailing, driving, walking, for the enter 
 tainment of the guest ; I remember little about it, but 
 that he was always by me, and that if he had patience 
 with my abstraction and dullness, he must have been a 
 good-natured man. I had just one fixed idea, and that 
 was, to get a chance to make my peace with Mr. Mac-
 
 EN GRANDE TENTTE. 123 
 
 nally, whose pale face and averted eyes haunted me 
 continually. But the chance was not easy to get. lie 
 was not always at meals, and he kept fur out of my path 
 at other times. I was frightened, too, when I did see 
 him, and it was almost impossible for me to look at him 
 or address him. 
 
 The table was dull : we all languished. Mrs. Emlyn 
 sometimes yawned, and wondered if it were the weather 
 made her feel so stupid. The colonel roused himself 
 to talk, and didn t rnend matters. He was not a con 
 versationalist. Ned and Naomi sparred a little, but even 
 they seemed to have lost their zest. Mr. Boughton had 
 the floor a good deal of the time. He talked well, I 
 suppose. He 1 lad a nice voice. He had been everywhere. 
 He told little incidents very charmingly. (I don t mean 
 anecdotes, Heaven forbid !) It was very pleasant to him 
 to be listened to, and we all listened pretty well. But 
 somehow it was not very vivacious, and in the midst of 
 it Mi*s. Emlyn would yawn, or Ned would interrupt, or 
 the colonel think of something about the water-works 
 that needed liis personal attention. 
 
 The light had been put out, and I had put it out, 
 and I felt sore about it all the time. What would I give 
 for five minutes to beg his pardon in ? I begged it all 
 night long, when I lay restlessly awake, and all day 
 long, while Mr. Boughton talked melodiously to me, 
 and I didn t listen. 
 
 At last the day came when I got my five minutes. 
 We had been off on a long drive, the host and hostess, 
 Naomi and Maidy, the guest and myself, in the three- 
 seated open wagon. It was a bright day, and we had 
 stayed much longer than had been planned. 
 
 When we came back it was an hour and a half after
 
 124 EN GRANDE TENUE. 
 
 dinner-time, but it did not seem to disturb our entertain 
 ers very much. There was only one thing that troubled 
 me about it, and that was that Ned and his tutor would 
 probably have taken dinner by themselves, after the 
 manner of that free-and-easy household, and gone 
 away with their guns. "When we drove up to the 
 house we saw, through the dining-room windows, two 
 blue flannel backs bending over the table, and a servant 
 languidly bringing in dessert. Only Ned turned his 
 head to see us as we passed the window. Mr. Bough- 
 ton carried my shawls into the parlor, and left me, 
 called by the colonel to some irrigation consultation. 
 Naomi went with her aunt to get out the dessert. I 
 called Maidy, and sent her into the dining-room to say 
 to Mr. Macnally that I wanted to speak to him for a 
 moment in the parlor, when he should have finished 
 his dinner. I heard her little baby voice deliver the 
 message, and then I sat down with a very agitated feel 
 ing and waited for him to come to me. 
 
 I heard Ned push back his chair, and invite Maidy 
 to come with him to feed his dogs, and remind Mr. 
 Macnally that in ten minutes they ought to be away. 
 It seemed to me a good while after they had started 
 down the steps that I heard him get up, and come tow 
 ards the door of the parlor. It was probably my own 
 impatience that made it seem so long ; now that he was 
 coming, what, after all, did I mean to say to him ? Now 
 that he was standing before me, I hardly had composure 
 enougli to look at him. I was sitting on a sofa by the 
 window and had been pretending to read ; I pushed my 
 book away, and asked him to sit down, that I had 
 something to say to him. He sat down, not on the
 
 EN GRANDE TENTJE. 125 
 
 sofa, but on a chair exactly by it, and waited for me to 
 speak. But it seemed simply impossible for me to 
 speak. I bit my lip and tried to command my voice, 
 bnt it would not come. 
 
 " I m afraid," he said at last, rather low, " that it 
 troubles you to say what you want to ; and I hope 
 you won t bother about it, if you do it simply for 
 me." 
 
 " No," I said, gathering voice, " it s for myself more 
 than for you. It didn t hurt you, perhaps, that I was 
 BO rude the other night, and said such an unpardon 
 able thing, but it has hurt me and made me really 
 wretched." 
 
 " That s foolish," he said, with a trace of his eager 
 manner. " I hope you ll put it out of your mind and 
 never think of it again." 
 
 " "Will you ?" I said, looking at him. 
 
 " Yes, as much as I ought," he answered, with a 
 faint smile, looking away. 
 
 " That s it ; you ll remember it and be influenced by 
 it, and keep it between us, and yet forgive rne. I m 
 quite sure you forgive me ; I ve been sure of that. If 
 you only had been angry. Why wouldn t you be 
 angry ? It would have been a blessing." 
 
 " You ask impossibilities." 
 
 " And I suppose it s just as great an impossibility 
 for you to forget ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; believe me I could forget it, if if you 
 really meant me to." 
 
 " Well, I do mean you to. I do ask you to forget 
 I ever said what wasn t my thought, what was totally 
 against my feeling, what was utterly untrue. It was 
 just the result of a foolish discord in my feelings, I can-^
 
 126 EN GRANDE TENTTE. 
 
 not understand it. I was all out of tune and peevish. 
 I I wish I hadn t said it." 
 
 " Why ?" he asked, eagerly. " Because you think 
 it troubled me ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and because I think it will make you 
 different ; that we sha n t have the same happy times 
 again, and that you ll never feel the same towards me." 
 
 " Oh !" he said, and a deep flush passed over his 
 whole face; "you are talking about impossibilities 
 again." 
 
 " If it only might be an impossibility ! You ve 
 always been so nice. Don t think I haven t appreciated 
 it. I can t suppose you will ever be able to have ex 
 actly the same respect for a person who could do such 
 a wantonly rude thing ; but you ll try and like me just 
 the same, won t you ?" 
 
 "I m afraid I shouldn t have to try," he said, with 
 something between a smile and a setting of his teeth 
 together, as if he wished I d stop. 
 
 " It would be all the better if you didn t have to 
 try," I answered, not understanding him, and rejoicing 
 only in my own lightened heart. 
 
 Ned s tramp was heard across the north piazza, and 
 he gave a nervous start and rose. 
 
 " Thank you," he said, hurriedly, glancing towards 
 the door by which that young barbarian might be ex 
 pected to come in ; " thank you for what you ve said to 
 me." 
 
 " I hope I ll never have to say it to you again, that s 
 all." 
 
 " I can t say I hope it. Kill me again to-night, if 
 you will bring me to life to-morrow, as you have don 
 ,to-day."
 
 EN GRASTDE TENUE. 127 
 
 He had turned to go out of the piazza window to 
 get his gun, which stood there ; he leaned towards me 
 as he passed me, and said it too low for Ned to hear, 
 who was already on the threshold looking in.
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 CATECHETICAL. 
 
 "I seek no copy now of life s first half ! 
 Leave here the pages with long musings curled, 
 And write me new my future s epigraph." 
 
 E. S. Browning. 
 
 THE next afternoon I had the pleasure of a long 
 conversation with Mr. Boughton on the piazza. 
 It was not an unalloyed pleasure, as I knew Macnally 
 and the children had gone down along the beach to 
 look at something which vriih much philanthropy they 
 hoped might prove a wreck. I had not the courage to 
 go off and join them, leaving Mrs. Emlyn alone with 
 the visitor. After they were quite beyond recall, Mrs. 
 Emlyn got up and went in the house and didn t come 
 out again. It was a great nuisance. She would never 
 know the sacrifice that I had made ; why had I not 
 gone ? However, I made the best of it, and was as po 
 lite and patient as I knew how to be. 
 
 I knew that Mr. Boughton was a very recent wid 
 ower. I knew that he was very rich. These were the 
 two points of his personal history that I possessed. 
 They were not, unhappily, points that could be made 
 use of to furnish conversation. I could not ask him 
 anything about the late Mrs. Boughton. I could not 
 ask him how it felt to have as much money as he 
 wanted. On this last head I felt much curiosity, but 
 [128]
 
 CATECHETICAL. 129 
 
 naturally I couldn t even distantly allude to it. It is a 
 singular restriction of good manners, that we can t ask 
 each other what our income is. It s a subject of such 
 universal interest ; a touch of income makes the whole 
 world kin. It did really seem hard that I couldn t talk 
 to him of the only thing about him that was interest 
 ing. I wanted to ask him how it felt to know that if 
 he wanted anything, from a house to a story-book, he 
 could have it by saying so, and taking out the money. 
 I wanted to know if it made him stop wanting things 
 to know he could have them. _/ wanted so many things. 
 I was always rushing forward making plans, and then 
 coming crash up against the dead wall of insolvency. 
 Fancy having a road clear before you as far as you can 
 see, and no limit to the making and carrying out of 
 plans, but the desire to make them and to carry them 
 out. It would have been very entertaining to have had 
 his experiences about it, but, alas, it was impossible. He 
 seemed equally anxious to get at some of my experi 
 ences. His conversation took a vaguely, politely per 
 sonal turn. It s sometimes quite fascinating to have the 
 conversation take a personal turn, if it s vague and po 
 lite enough. Mr. Boughton understood how to do it 
 very well, but somehow I did not feel inclined to tell 
 him much about myself, vague and polite as he was. 
 
 The afternoon wasn t quite as bad as I anticipated, 
 and wore away much quicker. When we saw the 
 wrecking party coming back along the beach, we walked 
 down to meet them. 
 
 " I have a great curiosity," said my companion, 
 
 slowly, " to know what your impression is of that young 
 
 fellow, whom the Emlyns treat with such familiarity. 
 
 They are so unconventional and so benevolent, one 
 
 G*
 
 130 CATECHETICAL. 
 
 doesn t expect them to be discriminating too. But for 
 you how does he strike you ?" 
 
 " I m afraid I m unconventional as well as they, and 
 perhaps benevolent !" 
 
 "Not undiscriminatingly benevolent in this case, let 
 me hope." And he fastened his slow blue eyes on my 
 face. 
 
 " I must say, Hike him immensely, even on the 
 top of a flagstaff." 
 
 For Macnally was at that moment plain in view, 
 going like a cat up the pole before the Coast Guard 
 house, with Ned after him, who necessarily, having only 
 ordinary legs and arms, was very much behind. 
 
 " He s agile, I admit." 
 
 " Is that all you admit ?" I said, my eyes following 
 the now descending figure. 
 
 " He has a glib tongue and much audacity. I m 
 not settled as to what I think his walk in life has been. 
 Perhaps he has enlightened you. The colonel doesn t 
 seem to have much knowledge of his past." 
 
 " Well, I m sorry that I haven t either. I only 
 know we all like him so much as to forget whether he 
 has had any past or not. Ah ! He s got down safely. 
 But poor Ned has got a tumble !" 
 
 Naomi by this time came tearing up to us, looking 
 like a tomboy. I couldn t help thinking what a trial 
 we must be to Mr. Boughton, one and all of us. After 
 tea, the colonel took Mr. Boughton away to smoke, and 
 Mrs. Emlyn went out for her usual walk on the piazza. 
 The rest of us closed in around the parlor lamp ; it was 
 on a wide, bare table, of which the mahogany shone. 
 Naomi settled down to her drawing ; I sat with my 
 embroidery on my lap, my work-basket on the table.
 
 CATECHETICAL. 131 
 
 Mr. Macnally sat just beyond me, pulling out the gay- 
 colored worsteds and making patterns with them on the 
 mahogany. Ned had his back to us, reading intently a 
 Waverley novel, and not looking up even when he was 
 spoken to, which wasn t often. A happy sort of quiet 
 had settled on us, which was broken by Naomi say 
 ing, 
 
 " How much nicer it is since you came here to live 
 in the cottage ! I think it is just as if you lived here 
 at this house, and had the cottage too. Mr. Macnally, 
 don t you think we have a great deal nicer times since 
 the middle of June ?" 
 
 " Since the middle of June ? Why, wasn t it before 
 that that we had our great haul of blue-fish ? I don t 
 think I ve had a bite since then. And as to the snipe, 
 the little beggars haven t looked at us for a month 
 or more. We had prime luck when we first came 
 down." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense. I don t mean that. I mean at 
 home here, all the time, and going to drive and all 
 that. It mayn t make any difference to you and Ned, 
 but I know Aunt Penelope and I like having her," 
 and she leaned over from her chair and gave me a lit 
 tle kiss. 
 
 " Thank you, Naomi, dear ; and I like being with 
 you." 
 
 " Who do you come to see here ?" she said. " Aunt 
 Penelope is so much older, and I am so much younger ; 
 I wish you came to see me. As to the others, they re 
 as bad. Only Mr. Macnally. He is near your age. 
 Aren t you, Mr. Macnally ? Tell me truly, are you older 
 than she is, or younger ? No, you couldn t be younger." 
 
 " Not if I tried !"
 
 132 CATECHETICAL. 
 
 " But, do you really think you are his age ? You 
 don t come to see him, anyway." 
 
 " I never thought of it before, Naomi. It is rather 
 embarrassing. I actually don t know whom I come to 
 see." 
 
 " I know," said Ned, tipping back in his chair and 
 looking over his shoulder at us. " I know, and I ll 
 tell you something if you ll all promise not to tell." 
 
 " I pledge myself for one," I said. 
 
 " Well, now, honest, though Mr. Macnally, and Na- 
 omi, you. I heard something this evening, just before 
 tea, while I was asleep in the hammock Mr. Boughton 
 and uncle were sitting there talking, and I couldn t 
 help hearing ; they ought to have looked out if they 
 hadn t meant me to hear em." 
 
 The boy s face shone with mirth, and he twisted 
 himself around on his chair and put his elbows on the 
 table. " The first I heard was uncle saying, She is a 
 charming young creature, all tenderness and sweetness, 
 or some such stuff as that ; and then old Boughton said 
 in a spoony sort of way, She s perfectly unconscious of 
 her beauty ; she s the only woman that I ever saw that 
 was. Then uncle said she had always lived in a very 
 quiet sort of way, but, that generally women found out 
 they were good-looking if they lived in the backwoods. 
 Then the old fellow knocked the ashes off his cigar, 
 and said (oh, if you could have heard him ! with a sort 
 of swell) : Col. Enilyn, she would adorn any station. " 
 
 The boy doubled himself up with laughter. 
 
 " What were they talking of ? What is the fun of 
 it P I said, bewildered. 
 
 "Oh, you don t see? Good for you. Adorning 
 any station. I suppose the old cad thinks his station is
 
 CATECHETICAL. 133 
 
 tho tip-toppest one to let just about now. I wonder if 
 there is a woman alive that would be fool enough to 
 take him ?" 
 
 " Plenty ;" I said, sagaciously. " He isn t so very 
 old ; he s very handsome, or he has been, anyway. And 
 his manners are so gentlemanly and quiet. A woman, 
 might do worse, Master Ned. I wish you may have as 
 good a chance as he, when you are forty- five." 
 
 " Whew," said Ned, " I begin to be afraid to tell 
 my joke." 
 
 " I don t see any joke so far," said Naomi. 
 
 " Nobody expected you to," said Ned, casting a con 
 temptuous glance at her over his shoulder. Then he 
 turned to us, and went on sotto voce, with glances at 
 the window to see if any one were coming in : " He s 
 in earnest, he s awfully in earnest, and it s coming very 
 soon, I shouldn t wonder. But no matter. I couldn t be 
 quite positive about when he s going to speak. He was 
 asking all particulars of uncle. lie wanted to know 
 how old, about, she was, how long her husband 
 had been dead whether there were any relations that 
 would be any way objectionable whether there was a 
 possibility of any other attachment being in his way " 
 
 " Ned," said the tutor in a voice that made him 
 start, though it wasn t any louder than his own ; " it s bad 
 enough to listen, but to repeat what you have heaid s 
 a little too bad for even schoolboy morals." 
 
 Ned flushed, and looked both angry and sulky. 
 
 " You didn t seem to mind at first," he said, with a 
 sharp look at his tutor s face. 
 
 " I wasn t paying much attention when you first 
 began," he returned, meeting his eye with a glance that 
 sent it down.
 
 134: CATECHETICAL. 
 
 "I know!" cried Naomi, dropping her pencils, and 
 leaning forward with excited eyes. " He means you ! 
 Tell me, does he mean you ? Did you know he he 
 felt that way ? Tell me, did you know it P 
 
 Naomi had never been as near as this to any matter 
 of the heart before ; she felt awed, one might say, by 
 [the proximity of a proposal, even though it came from 
 a man of forty-five or over. Her sentimental ideas of 
 love were suffering a little distraint from the recollec 
 tion of the scantiness of Mr. Boughton s hair, and the 
 fact that he had been married before, but nevertheless 
 it was the most thrilling moment of her life. She 
 pushed back her drawing things, and slid down on her 
 knees beside me, and put her hand upon my shoulder. 
 
 " Do you mind it," she said, in a low voice, " that 
 he has been married before ?" 
 
 I had grown red and white a great many times since 
 this revelation, and was bending over my work, trying 
 to steady myself to speak when I should be called upon. 
 1 hadn t attained any great composure of voice and 
 manner when I was obliged to answer Naomi s very 
 searching question. 
 
 " If I had anything to do with the matter," I said, 
 "I should mind it. But I haven t." 
 
 " But he meant you," cried Naomi ; " Ned says he 
 did. Don t people generally know when when 
 other people are going to ask them for their hand ?" 
 
 Naomi had read Miss Austen and the Waverleys, 
 and felt she was correct in her phraseology, though it 
 didn t sound quite right when used in the light of 
 common day. Ned snickered, and Naomi blushed 
 scarlet, but even her mortification could not withdraw 
 her thoughts from the fascinating subject.
 
 CATECHETICAL. 135 
 
 " I should think," she said, softly, " that you would 
 have known." 
 
 " I should not be likely to think of what would be 
 an insult to me." 
 
 " An insult ! "Why, I thought people thought it 
 was a very high compliment an honor. I don t see 
 how it could be anything else. Do you mean," she 
 went on, after a moment s pause, "do you mean be 
 cause you had been been married before 2" 
 
 I signified an assent in some way. 
 
 " Tell me just this one thing," she said, earnestly ; 
 " do you think it isn t nice for people to get married 
 again?" 
 
 " I am sure I don t think it is nice, Naomi. I wish 
 you wouldn t talk to me any more about it." 
 
 "Just this one thing; just answer me this one 
 question and I won t bother you any more," and 
 Naomi s eyes filled with a strange intentness. " Would 
 you ever get married again ? Would anything induce 
 you ?" 
 
 " No, Naomi, I would not ; nothing would induce 
 me." 
 
 " I am so glad," cried the child, clasping her hands 
 around her knee, and gazing up into my face. "I 
 didn t think you would. I don t see how any one 
 can do it ; any one, at least, that has really been 
 loved." 
 
 The woman s heart was stirring in the bosom of 
 thirteen. It was not Miss Austen and the Waverleys 
 this time. 
 
 " Tell me one thing more 
 
 " No, Naomi, not one thing more. You promised 
 me," I said, very low.
 
 136 CATECHETICAL. 
 
 Ned had gone back to his book, but he was not 
 reading very much. His eye furtively studied all the 
 faces in turn around the table. I don t think he got 
 much out of Mr. Macnally s, who made and remade the 
 worsteds into patterns on the table, and never once 
 lifted his head. I was struggling so hard to command 
 myself that I suppose I looked unnatural. I heard a 
 moving back of chairs upon the piazza, where the colonel 
 and his guest were smoking, and then my plans for 
 escape took sudden shape. In a moment more they 
 would be in the room, and Mrs. Emlyn too. And then 
 the going home ; it was possible the colonel would lend 
 himself to some plan for giving his guest an opportu 
 nity for seeing me alone, perhaps this very evening. I 
 pushed my work into my basket rapidly and got up. 
 
 " I m going home," I said, as quietly as I could. 
 " Say good-night to your aunt, Naomi." 
 
 " Aren t you going out on the piazza to speak to her ? 
 "Won t she think it s queer ?" 
 
 " I don t want to call her in ; I must go. Tell her 
 Sophia was going to the village, and I had to go to stay 
 with the children. Good-night." 
 
 And I hurried into the dining-room, where my wraps 
 had been hung. Mr. Macnally had got up when I did. 
 I got my things down from the pegs below the stairs, 
 and hurried out upon the porch, just as the gentlemen 
 from the other side of the piazza were entering the par 
 lor by one of the windows. I almost ran, and was half 
 way to the gate before I found I was followed by Mr. 
 Macnally. 
 
 " You have dropped one of your shawls, or perhaps 
 it s Maidy s little cloak," he said simply, coming up be 
 side me.
 
 CATECHE1ICAL. 13T 
 
 " It s Maidy s ; oh, thank you," and I stopped and 
 took it, panting a little from my flight. " I I sha n t 
 need any one to go home with me," I added, as he 
 walked beside me. " Indeed, I d almost rather be alone. 
 I hope you won t think me rude, but I d rather." 
 
 " It would make me very uncomfortable to think of 
 your going by yourself," he answered. " It is a lonely 
 road." 
 
 " I don t mind it. It s not far. And there is a 
 moon." 
 
 " Therefore you don t need a man." And when he 
 made this poor joke, he gave a short laugh, which 
 grated on my ear. There was a moon, in a clear, calm 
 sky, and by it I saw, as I glanced at him, that his face 
 had a contracted, hard look, unlike himself. It seemed 
 to me everything was reeling out of place in my poor 
 little world. I felt frightened. 
 
 " Don t you think it s a little unreasonable," he said, 
 in an altered tone, very ordinary and controlled, " to 
 avenge on all of us, who haven t offended you, the of 
 fense of another person, who, you consider, has ?" 
 
 " I don t want to avenge anything on anybody, but 
 I m in a hurry. I want to get home to the children. 
 I I think I d rather go alone." 
 
 "I hope you ll let me go with you," he said, 
 earnestly. " There are often strange, rough-looking 
 men about. There is now a schooner unloading over 
 in the bay. I didn t like the look of some men of her 
 crew who have been about the village through the 
 day." 
 
 We had got to the gate by this time, and I passed 
 out of it, and paused for an instant as 1 saw he stood 
 still.
 
 138 CATECHETICAL. 
 
 "Have this much consideration for me," he said. 
 " I will not go if you forbid me, but I shall be very 
 uncomfortable if you do." 
 
 " Oh, you re very kind. I shall not be afraid ; but 
 if you want to come I mean, if you think it best to 
 come, I shall, of course, be very much obliged." 
 
 So he swung the gate shut after us, and walked be 
 side me silently. The night was serene, and the sky 
 brilliant with stars, and with a great full moon. There 
 was a smell of salt in the air, and the wind was soft 
 south-west. The grass was a little damp, and we made 
 our way out into the road. We met no one ; the only 
 sound was the slow beat of the surf upon the shore, 
 away from which we were walking. Across the level 
 fields I could see the light in the window of our cot 
 tage. 
 
 For a long while neither of us spoke ; then I 
 said, with a suddenness that must have been rather 
 startling to my companion, 
 
 " I have a question to ask you. Will you answer 
 me honestly, whatever you may think ?" 
 
 He did not reply at once. After a moment, he 
 said, " I can think of but one question that I wouldn t 
 be willing to answer you honestly, and I don t believe 
 you ll ask me that. What is it that you want me to 
 tell you?" 
 
 "You heard, I suppose, what Ned said to-night. 
 Granting it to be true for I don t think he is old 
 enough and bad enough to have invented it I want 
 you to tell me do you think I have done anything to 
 have deserved it ? You have been here all the time, 
 you are very observing, and it seems to me } T OU must 
 know if I have."
 
 CATECHETICAL. 139 
 
 " I don t understand. What do you mean exactly ? 
 Have you deserved what?" 
 
 " Why, this mortification, this humiliation, this talk 
 ing me over as if it were a possible thing that I that 
 
 " I suppose I understand what } r ou mean. But you 
 must excuse me if I say I can t look at it as you do. I 
 can t see anything in what Ned said to mortify and 
 humble you. I can understand that it might make you 
 angry to feel that any one whom you didn t favor had 
 presumed so far. That a woman must always feel, I 
 suppose. But I don t see any cause for feeling hum 
 bled and degraded by it." 
 
 " Then, if you cannot understand, I cannot hope to 
 make you. But I will put my question plainer, and 
 you can surely answer it that way. Have you ever 
 seen anything in my manner, at any- time, to justify 
 any one in thinking that that I would that it would 
 be possible for me to marry again ?" 
 
 A perceptible shudder ran through me, as I forced 
 myself to say the words. A long pause followed ; we 
 walked on slowly ; my companion hit the heads oS 
 several daisies with his stick, as they shone up at us in 
 the moonlight ; I loosened the clasp of the cloak about 
 my neck, for it seemed to smother me. 
 
 " I promised to be honest," he said, at last, " and 
 I will be frank as well. If it is presuming, please do 
 not blame me. I never should have dreamed of offer 
 ing you my judgment, if you had not asked it of me." 
 
 Yes, I know. Well ?" 
 
 " My judgment isn t so very awful ; you needn t 
 be alarmed. You are young, to begin with, and 
 very natural. When you are happy, you are happy ; 
 when } T OU are pleased, you smile upon whoever
 
 140 CATECHETICAL. 
 
 pleases you, and don t make a disguise of it. No 
 one could misunderstand you, who was capable of 
 discriminating. It doesn t seem to me possible that any 
 man could connect the idea of coquetry with you. But 
 that doesn t help the matter much ; in the world, one 
 never knows who one s judges are. One s got to be 
 prepared for misinterpretation. This gentleman who 
 has presumed to think of you : how can one tell whether 
 lie is true and simple enough to know truth and simplicity 
 when he sees it, or whether he carries his conceited and 
 tainted judgment with him wherever he goes ? Of one 
 thing I can assure you ; I never saw you give him a 
 look, a smile, a word, upon which, in my judgment, he 
 could have founded the very faintest hope." 
 
 " That s all I wanted to know," I said, drawing a 
 deep breath of relief. 
 
 " But it s not all I wanted to say," he pursued, after 
 another pause. " We are on the subject, and I want 
 to say one word more before we finally dismiss it. I 
 don t know what right I have to presume to give you 
 counsel. I have never fancied myself having the 
 temerity to do it, but Ned s eavesdropping seems to 
 have bouleverse everything. May I say to you just one 
 thing ? I warn you that you may not like it ? and that 
 you may think I am presuming." 
 
 " Of course it is right for you to tell me if you see 
 me doing wrong; we have known each other well 
 enough for that." 
 
 " It is not in my creed that you could possibly do 
 wrong." 
 
 " Ah !" 
 
 " But that you might, from tne excess of some good 
 feeling, be led into what would be fatal to your happi-
 
 CATECHETICAL. 141 
 
 ness. If it were only wicked people got themselves 
 into a mess, it would simplify affairs exceedingly. But 
 it s the ones like you let me beg your pardon who 
 do it quite as often. Let me say it quickly, for I know 
 you won t like it. You are making a mistake about 
 yourself, and putting yourself in a wrong place. Row can 
 it be wise for you to expect to go through the world as 
 if you were something sacred to expect to be treated 
 as one apart from the ordinary walks of life ? Believe 
 me, people won t understand you ; the world doesn t 
 acknowledge such distinctions." 
 
 " Then I will go away from the world ; I will shut my 
 self up from people if they will not let me go my way." 
 
 " "Well, if you think that the best and wisest thing 
 for your two little girls. Won t it be bringing them 
 up to rather a dreary sort of life ? "Would it be good 
 for Maidy, especially, to be brought up cheerlessly ?" 
 
 " That depends upon what you call cheerlessness." 
 
 ""Well, to be shut out from the world, from all 
 healthy young society." 
 
 " They needn t be that." 
 
 " They will have to be, if their mother refuses to be 
 philosophic about occurrences like that which led us 
 into this conversation. If she is unable to school her 
 self to take a cheerful, natural part in the society in 
 which she happens to be placed." 
 
 " It will be time enough to think about that when 
 they are a little older." 
 
 " It doesn t seem to me there is anything gained in 
 putting off lessons, when we once acknowledge that 
 we ve got to learn them." 
 
 " But I don t acknowledge " 
 
 " Oh, I think you will, when you have thought it
 
 142 CATECHETICAL. 
 
 over. Won t you do me one favor ? Put all this out 
 of your mind ; forgive this presuming gentleman ; of 
 course, you needn t see him again, but Jet him go in 
 peace ; you may well believe he won t stay very long ; 
 and then let things go on as before, and don t bother 
 about anything in the future. You don t want to make 
 Ned and the colonel and Mrs. Emlyn wretched, I am 
 sure, by making too much of the matter." 
 
 Clever reasoner, ingenuous listener ! Before we had 
 reached the cottage gate and lifted its rusty latch, my 
 tumultuous feelings had been sensibly reduced, and I 
 was almost brought to feel ashamed of them. I went 
 and sat between the children s beds in the little nursery, 
 and watched beside them while Sophia was away at 
 the village. I certainly had made rather a fool of my 
 self, and I wished sincerely that I hadn t said so much. 
 I promised myself to be wiser in the future. 1 could 
 act upon my resolutions, but there was no use in talk 
 ing about them, even to the friends whom I knew best. 
 Mr. Macnally undoubtedly felt that I was weak and 
 womanish. No one enjoys being thought weak and 
 womanish. He had been very kind, but it was plain to 
 me that he would treat any display of my exceptional 
 views with deep though silent, contempt. I felt sure 
 he had wanted to laugh at me all the time, though he 
 had been so deferential. I promised myself that I 
 would let things go on exactly as before ; only I would 
 be on my guard if any more middle-aged widowers 
 strayed into our peaceful pastures.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SECOND THOUGHTS. 
 
 " They are dangerous guides the feelings " 
 
 MRS. EMLYN was very much distressed about the 
 matter, which Naomi did not fail to repeat to 
 her in full. The result was I was allowed to remain in 
 quarantine for several days, and the widower was dis 
 couraged at second-hand. He went away, as might 
 have been expected. Mr. Macnally, it is probable, sug 
 gested that nothing be said to me about the matter, 
 and so, though I had had several visits from everybody 
 but Ned, who was en penitence, there were no allu 
 sions to the subject. It was a little awkward, as no 
 body dared to make a joke of it, and it wasn t the kind 
 of thing to bear serious treatment. It must have been 
 a constant temptation to Mr. Macnally, but he was so 
 very honorable, I never detected a smile on his mouth, 
 or a twinkle in his easily ignited eye. It is disagreea 
 ble to feel one s self the object of such circumspection. 
 One distrusts nothing so much as what one s friends 
 do not say to one. 
 
 A day or two after the gentleman s departure, I 
 was, by a little stratagem, got to Happy-go-lucky for 
 dinner, and once the ice was broken, everything went 
 on as before. There was no change, except that every 
 one was kinder than ever, and that my dear host, in- 
 
 [143]
 
 144 SECOND THOUGHTS. 
 
 stead of resenting my objection to his plans for my 
 happiness, made more of me than ever, as if to atone 
 for having unwittingly given me even an imaginary 
 cause of pain. We slid again into the old life, and no 
 one, married or single, came to disturb our easy, pleas 
 ant days. Only once did the colonel propose sending 
 for some friends to pass a week. 
 
 " An you love me, no," cried his wife. " Life s too 
 short for that sort of thing, not to say the summer. It 
 gives me indigestion to be civil to people for whom I 
 do not care. 1 simply will not have them." 
 
 So she simply did not have them, and we were hap 
 py. I read German as usual with her. I drove with 
 the colonel. I went crabbing and fishing and sailing 
 with the children and their tutor. Maidy and Baby 
 were lugged about with unfailing patience and good 
 nature by Naomi and Macnally, and even by Ned. I 
 don t know how I could have fancied I deserved half 
 the kindness I got, or have been comfortable under it. 
 But it all seemed the natural order of things, and I was 
 happy. 
 
 The summer had worn on now to the latter half of 
 August. It was Saturday, I think the third Saturday 
 in August. Saturday was always a festival in the Hap 
 py-go-lucky calendar, because there were no lessons. 
 Very soon after breakfast the cart had driven up, for 
 Maidy and me to go crabbing. \\ T e spent all the morn 
 ing on the bay, Maidy and I drifting along in the boat, 
 and Macnally, Naomi and Ned plunging about in the 
 water with their nets, shouting, splashing, dripping. Rex 
 sat in the prow of the boat, shivering if a drop of water 
 fell on him ; Maidy dipped her hands in the little rip 
 ples of waves that the south-west wind made as it came
 
 SECOND THOUGHTS. 145 
 
 across the sand-lrills from the sea. The sunshine was 
 now and then obscured by fleecy white clouds 
 
 " shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind," 
 
 which moved across the deep blue sky. The wide 
 stretching country looked green and ripe with the late 
 summer vegetation. Beside the bay lay long acres of 
 unfenced meadows, among the damp grass of which grew 
 meadow-pinks by millions, and where snipe fed and 
 fluttered. From the boat, where I rocked idly, I could 
 see, across the level stretch of fields, here and there a low 
 farm-house, with its environment of trees : here and 
 there a distant sharp white steeple pricking up into the 
 sky from its surrounding village. The wind-mills waved 
 their white arms in the sunlight ; in a field near by, the 
 rrcn stacked the sheaves of corn beside a wagon loaded 
 with great golden pumpkins. The ducks along the 
 shore dived and paddled and quacked ; once and again 
 a white gull darted down from the heights above, dipped 
 in the blue water for its prey, and flashed away victori 
 ous. I liked the smell of the seaweed lying on the 
 shore ; I liked the sights around me, and the sense of 
 security, and the idleness and the feeling of health that 
 the fine air gave me. I watched the crabbers, now led 
 far away from me, now back almost beside the boat. 
 It would have bored me very much to have been as 
 muddy and wet as they, but it amused me to watch 
 them. I held Maidy s dress in one hand, to keep her 
 from tipping over into the water, and I talked a little 
 to Rex to keep his spirits up, and so the morning 
 passed. When it was time to go, they put the baskets 
 of crabs in the boat, and Macnally and Ned, up to their 
 7
 
 SECOND THOUGHTS. 
 
 waists in water, drew us along the shore, half the length 
 of the bay, to where we had left the cart. 
 
 " It s quite a march of triumph," I said. 
 
 " Especially to the crabs," said Mr. Macnally. 
 
 It wasn t quite so much of a march of triumph 
 when we had all, wet and dry, to get into the cart. 
 
 " Which will you be neebor to, me or the crabs, 
 shure ?" asked Macnally, as he stood by the basket of 
 crabs, the most abominable object, his bare legs covered 
 with sea-weed and mud, and his trowsers, rolled above 
 the knees, dripping with water. 
 
 " I d much rather get out and walk than be neigh 
 bor to any of you." 
 
 " I say, Ned, we are a most disreputable lot," he 
 exclaimed, as that vagabond came up. " You and I 
 and the crabs must hang on "behind the cart, while 
 Naomi gets on the front seat. We must trust to them 
 to drive. Life is always uncertain." 
 
 A more disreputable lot certainly never drove 
 through the peaceful village ; Sophia s nostrils were 
 justified in their expression of contempt, as she flounced 
 away from the front door of the kitchen, where she was 
 sitting with Baby, when we drew up before the gate. 
 She would not look upon us. 
 
 " It s only to get Baby," called out Naomi. " They 
 are all going home to dinner with us." 
 
 But it was useless calling to her. Naomi had to go 
 and get Baby and find her sack and her hat. Sophia 
 would none of us. Mrs. Ernlyn, even, thought 
 Macnally and Ned ought to be ashamed of their cos 
 tume, or their want of it, and she sent them up-stairs, 
 sharply reprimanded, to make themselves respectable for 
 dinner.
 
 SECOND THOUGHTS. 147 
 
 " Tliere is a limit," she said, with a severe look upon 
 the four shoes left standing on the threshold, and the 
 four barefooted tracks across the boards of the piazza. 
 
 Ned only rectified matters by a clean suit of his 
 ordinary blue flannel, but Mr. Macnally came down a 
 petit mattrc, the daintiest little man I ever saw. No 
 body had ever known he had such clothes. He looked 
 as handsome as possible ; his hair, which had grown 
 since June, was parted fastidiously. His clothes were 
 of rather a light gray, and of the best London make. 
 The children howled around him ; even Maidy seemed 
 to understand the joke, and clapped her little hands 
 when the colonel turned him round and round to look 
 at him. Baby dived into his pocket and tore out his 
 fresh and most distinguished-looking handkerchief. 
 
 " It s embroidered ; it s got initials on it ;" cried 
 Naomi, catching it from Baby. " How many letters 
 L what Is it ; isn t that an L ? I didn t know you 
 had a middle name." 
 
 But Macnally flushed and seemed annoyed, and, 
 putting out his hand, took it back peremptorily, and 
 pushed it out of sight in his pocket ; then he kissed 
 Baby with a brightening of the face, as if to beg her 
 dear little pardon for being annoyed at anything which 
 she had been remotely the occasion of. Mr. Macnally 
 was very swell all through the dinner, though with the 
 slight disadvantage of having Baby on his knee the 
 whole time. She refused to leave him, and he would 
 not permit her to be taken away. It was a more in 
 formal meal than ordinary, even ; we had not been ex 
 pected quite so near the regular dinner hour, and things 
 came up rather intermittently. It was quite immaterial 
 to us at what stage the farcied crabs came ; they got a
 
 l&y SECOND THOUGHTS. 
 
 little mixed up with the dessert, but we ate them all 
 the same, together with some belated sweet potatoes, 
 which appeared contemporaneously. Naomi left her 
 pudding to run out and get a flower for the tutor s 
 button-hole. Maidy insisted upon going round the 
 table and sitting beside him, and having her peaches 
 and cream carried around after her. My discipline at 
 home was indifferent, but at Happy-go-lucky it faded 
 out of sight. The colonel encouraged the children in 
 all sorts of liberties, and Mrs. Emlyn snubbed me when 
 I remonstrated. 
 
 " Your children are well enough," she said. " You 
 must let them alone a little ; that is all they need." 
 
 We all sat on the piazza after dinner, Macrially sit 
 ting in the hammock, and the babies and Naomi all 
 tumbling about him, swinging him and being swung 
 alternately. Mrs. Emlyn had her stocking bag and her 
 dictionaries in a chair beside her. 
 
 " You don t get on much with your German," she 
 said to me, shaking her head. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Emlyn," I cried, " if you only knew 
 how lazy I am !" 
 
 " Well, it s good for you, I suppose, but I should 
 think you would get tired of it." 
 
 " I m not tired of anything here. I only wish it 
 might go on forever." 
 
 "Somebody s walking over your grave, Mr. Mac- 
 nally. You shivered," cried Naomi. 
 
 " My good clothes are too thin, perhaps," he said, 
 rolling up Baby into a little ball and burying her in 
 some shawls in the hammock, at which Rex barked 
 and made an uproar. 
 
 "Seriously," said Naomi, "do you believe in that?"
 
 SECOND THOUGHTS. 149 
 
 " Believe in what ? My good clothes ? Of course 
 I believe in my good clothes ; you would too if you d 
 paid for them. They cost a lot of money." 
 
 " Oh, you know what I mean ; shivering when peo 
 ple walk over your grave, and all that." 
 
 " Nonsense, Naomi," said her aunt, " you re getting 
 superstitious as well as sentimental. Where do you 
 learn such things ? A year ago you never talked such 
 nonsense." 
 
 " I heard my uncle say that," said Naomi, doggedly. 
 
 " We shall have to be careful what we say before 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, you ll soon get tired of that. But why 
 should people say so if it isn t true ?" 
 
 "What ague-fits the old Romans must have had, 
 Naomi, with their graves along the roadsides. I should 
 think they would have shivered all their bones out of 
 joint," said her aunt. 
 
 " They did have ague-fits sometimes ; I read of it." 
 
 " But these must have been continual, with the 
 steady tramp of multitudes. All business must have 
 been suspended, for every one in Home must have been 
 chattering, from the least to the greatest. I think, 
 Naomi, we ll have to dismiss that theory for the want 
 of proof." 
 
 Naomi looked a little ashamed. " What made you 
 shiver then, Mr. Macnally, if it wasn t that?" she said, 
 persistently. 
 
 " I m very delicate, you know, and I think I feel a 
 little draught." 
 
 As we were holding our hats on our heads for the 
 gale, even Maidy laughed. 
 
 " Aunt Penelope," said Naomi, quite ready to
 
 150 SECOND THOUGHTS. 
 
 change the subject, " you promised us we might have 
 tea on the beach some night this month. This is just 
 the night." 
 
 " Because the wind is blowing a gale ?" 
 " The men on the beach said it would fall at sun 
 down." 
 
 " What do they say about the shivering business ?" 
 Naomi pouted. " Mayn t I go and tell the cook to 
 get things ready for us, Aunt Penelope ?" 
 
 " Better see first if anybody wants it but yourself." 
 Naomi fell upon me with kisses, and begged me to 
 say I wanted tea on the beach. " And you too, Mr. 
 Macnally, say you want tea on the beach." 
 
 " I would rather have tea on the beach, Miss Naomi, 
 than inherit a fortune yes, than have an offer, or than 
 be elected President, or than have a pair of diamond 
 earrings^ or than find out where my grave is going to 
 be" 
 
 " You see, Aunt Penelope, they all want it may I 
 tell the cook ?" 
 
 The cook was told, the preparations began. Naomi 
 was full of business. Mr. Macnally and she and the 
 children and I were to go along the beach and select a 
 " site." Ned was to follow later in the cart with the 
 pots and kettles and the things to eat, and then was to 
 go back for the colonel and his aunt.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 TWO GEAY EGGS IN THE SAND/ 
 
 "And oh, those days beside the sea! 
 
 The skerries paved with knotted shells, 
 The bright pools of anemone, 
 
 The star fish with its fretted cells, 
 
 The scudding of the light foani-bells 
 Along the stretch of rippled strand 
 Spotted with worms of twisted sand, 
 
 The white gulls, and the shining sails, 
 
 And the thoughts they all brought from the Wonder-land 1" 
 
 Olrig Grange. 
 
 IT was an afternoon to be remembered ; the sky and 
 sea were gloriously blue, the wind was fresh, but 
 not cold ; a storm had just spent itself out at sea ; the surf 
 ran very high and burst in marvelous glitter and mag 
 nificence at our feet. The delight of that beach always 
 was its loneliness ; there was rarely a human footprint 
 on it; the sand always lay smooth and pure up to the 
 very banks ; now and then the little three-pronged 
 print of a sand-piper s claw, or the winding trail of a 
 snake from among the tufts of beach-grass, would 
 mark it. 
 
 We found the place where we meant to make our 
 encampment. It was a spot where the beach was 
 widest, and where we were well sheltered by the sand 
 hill. We spread down our shawls and blankets ; the 
 children went off to gather drift wood for the fire, Mr. 
 
 [151]
 
 152 TWO .GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 
 
 Macnally to drive in the stakes and find the cross-piece 
 for the kettle. I wrapped myself in the shawls, and lay 
 dreaming, with the sound of the surf in my care. A 
 tuft of beach-grass grew at my elbow, with the mys 
 terious little circle in the sand around its base ; and be 
 yond it, idly looking, I saw, in the grayish-yellow sand, 
 two grayish-yellow eggs, laid in a sand-made nest. 
 The eggs were so near the color of the sand, and the 
 depression in which they lay so slight, it was almost 
 matter of surprise I had discerned them. The little 
 hollow was lined with small, smooth pieces of shell, well 
 worn by the beating of the waves. Trusting little 
 creatures, committing their treasure to the mighty One 
 who rules the tide crawling to its bounds beside them, 
 and the deep sky with its hidden tempests of wind 
 and lire and water, spread above them ! 
 
 The little nest gave me many thoughts as I bent 
 over it. The eggs were still warm, so I moved my 
 blanket a few feet further away, and lay very still, that 
 the mother might come back and hover them with her 
 soft breast. She did not come, as long as I watched, 
 and my eyes wandered away to my two little ones, com 
 mitted to God s care as blindly, with the waves of death 
 washing up beside them, and the firmament of destiny, 
 with its manifold and hidden powers, spread over them. 
 Nothing between them and the vastness of life s possi 
 bilities but my feeble, fluttering heart s protection and 
 God s omnipotence. "With tears dimming my eyes I 
 watched the little figures moving about upon the 
 sand, and pledged myself in my own heart to live 
 and, if need be, die for them, who had no other earthly 
 guard.
 
 TWO GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 153 
 
 I was startled from my re very by a step beside 
 me. It was Mr. Macnally, with his axe over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " I am tired, as becomes a gentleman ; I ll do no 
 more menial service in my good clothes," he exclaimed, 
 throwing down his axe upon the sand. 
 
 I gave a cry. Alas ! the poor little nest was buried 
 beneath the cruel steel. 
 
 " What have you done ?" I exclaimed, starting up. 
 " Ah, the poor, poor little nest !" 
 
 And I lifted the axe from the crushed and scattered 
 eggs. In my afternoon s revery I had identified myself 
 so with the little guardian of the nest, that I could not 
 keep back my tears. " The miserable little mother," I 
 cried, looking into the beach grass for her. 
 
 " A plague upon my carelessness," he cried ; " it 
 was a nasty thing to do." 
 
 I went into the beach grass, peering down ; a 
 plover, with a piercing cry, flew up and darted away. 
 " The miserable mother !" I repeated, gazing after her 
 through my tears, which could not have seemed other 
 wise than silly, to a man. 
 
 " Upon my word, I m sorry," he said, with a little 
 harshness in his voice. I glanced at him, and his face 
 showed pain enough to make me ready to forgive him. 
 I don t know whether it was my tears or the bird s sharp 
 cry that had given him the pain, of which, however, he 
 seemed genuinely ashamed. 
 
 " I know you didn t mean to be careless, of course ; 
 but I had been watching it for an hour, meaning to 
 warn any one that came near, and to propose that we 
 move away from here, not to scare her ; the poor, poor 
 little mother !" 
 7*
 
 1 TWO GEAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 
 
 " I hope she won t lose her mind," he said, testily. 
 " One hears of being as crazy as a coot ; perhaps a plover 
 might go insane as well." 
 
 I looked at him reproachfully, which only added to 
 his irritation. 
 
 " You re so unhappy," he said ; " and yet I ll be 
 bound you ate an omelette for your breakfast." 
 
 " If I didn t know you were sorry, I shouldn t for 
 give you," I said, sitting down on the heap of shawls, 
 and turning my face away from him. 
 
 " I am sorry," he said, in a softened tone, throw 
 ing himself down on the sand ; " but I just can t bear 
 to see anybody cry. And it seemed to me such 
 a little thing to cry about two gray eggs in the 
 sand !" 
 
 "It wasn t just two gray eggs in the sand; it was a 
 great deal more." 
 
 "Well, what was it; won t you tell me what it 
 was?" 
 
 " It was my thoughts," I said, swallowing down 
 some more tears as my eyes fell upon the fluttering lit 
 tle white figures in the distance. His eye followed 
 mine, and no doubt his thought ; for his mind always 
 moved lightning-quick, and his sympathy was as keen. 
 I felt he watched me covertly for a few minutes. It 
 made me restless, and I got up and said I was going to 
 bring the children back. 
 
 "Why should you go," he said ; " I can make them 
 hear." 
 
 And he gave a peculiar, clear call, with which 
 Naomi was familiar. She waved her handkerchief in 
 reply, and went towards the little ones, playing beyond 
 her on the beach. I sat down again, and my compan-
 
 TWO GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 155 
 
 ion resumed his position near me, only with his face 
 seaward. The sun was sinking behind the hills at our 
 back. The wind had fallen, as the sailors had pre 
 dicted. Lovely tints from the sunset colored the sea 
 and the opposite heavens. The tide was coming in, 
 and the great waves, edged with white foam, rushed up 
 the sands, ever nearer and nearer to us. Through 
 openings in the sand-hills, when we looked behind us 
 towards the sunset, there were beautiful glimpses of 
 the green meadows and the blue Shinnecock Hills 
 that bounded the horizon, and far, far on each hand 
 stretched the wide, lonely beach, on which the ever- 
 changing, yet ever-monotonous waves beat their long- 
 drawn music out. 
 
 At last, through the opening nearest to us, came 
 Ned s lusty shout. 
 
 " The ball opens, - cried Macnally, starting to his 
 feet. " No more time for sunsets." 
 
 " Do you want me to help you get the tea ready ?" 
 and I got up rather reluctantly. 
 
 " I m sorry to say, I think it is your duty." 
 
 " Hurry up," cried Ned. " Don t you know I ve 
 got to go back for the others." 
 
 The cart was soon unloaded ; such a lot of things, 
 even to a jug of water and several bundles of pine 
 knots. 
 
 " They didn t depend much upon the resources of 
 the country," said Macnally. " I had found a spring, 
 but I had misgivings about the drift-wood holding out. 
 Better bring a few more bundles with you when you 
 come back with the colonel and your aunt." 
 
 When Ned was gone, we lighted the fire and swung
 
 156 TWO GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 
 
 the kettle, and spread the cloth on the bottom of an 
 old " panny " that Mr. Macnally had found up in the 
 beach grass high and dry, and had dragged down on 
 the sand. It made an excellent table, except for a ten 
 dency to slope downward at the ends, so the things to 
 eat had to be all put in the middle. The h re was just 
 beyond on the sand, and was blazing brightly, and the 
 kettle already throwing out its steam, when the chil 
 dren s voices were heard approaching. 
 
 " Oh, there," I said, as I, on my knees, was stirring 
 the coffee in the little pot in which it was to boil, " I 
 meant to have taken those broken eggs away. I don t 
 want the children to see them, particularly Ned, who 
 hasn t any principle about birds nests." 
 
 " I ll go and bury em dacent, " he said. " And sha n t 
 I bury the hatchet too ?" he added, looking back. 
 
 I was a little ashamed of my sensibility by this 
 time ; the practical business of getting tea had restored 
 me, therefore I didn t mind his lambent wit. 
 
 The children broke into exclamations of delight at 
 the fire and the big cake on the table, and the biscuits 
 and the cold chicken and the jar of marmalade. They 
 hovered like little gnats around the fire, and with shrieks 
 of delight laid on occasionally a modest splinter to in 
 crease the blaze. When the beach cart appeared in the 
 opening with the dear colonel and the dearer aunt, we 
 set up a great shout of welcome, and all ran to conduct 
 them across the sand to the fire. The coffee boiled over, 
 of course, as soon as I turned my back, so I had to hurry 
 to it, and leave to the others the duties of hospitality. 
 But it made a delicious smell that gave the colonel 
 more pleasure than all our welcome or all the glories of 
 the sea and sky.
 
 TWO GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 157 
 
 The colonel sat on a barrel at the head of the table, 
 with his overcoat on. He was very careful about not 
 taking cold, and said, though we had heard it before, 
 that eternal vigilance was the price of health. Mrs. 
 Emlyn sat on the slope of the panny, at the foot ; and 
 Naomi, her yellow hair damp with the spray, but her 
 cheeks red with the fire, and her eyes bright with en 
 joyment, ran from the kettle to the table ceaselessly, 
 now handing up a cup of coffee to her uncle on his bar 
 rel, now carrying the biscuits to her aunt, or giving 
 Ned, under protest, a second spoon for his marma 
 lade. 
 
 " You know there s only one apiece ; now Maidy 
 and I will have to use the same. It s just exactly like 
 you." 
 
 " Children, there s one spice we never lack at 
 any of our meals," cried the colonel, shaking his head, 
 but drinking his coffee with complacency. 
 
 "It s grown indispensable to me," said Macnally, 
 buttering his bread with the carving-knife. " A meal 
 wherein we vaguely feel there is some want, is a meal 
 where Naomi and her brother don t give us any quar 
 relling." 
 
 " It s all very well for you to make a joke of it," 
 said Col. Emlyn. "But let me tell you, such hab 
 its are bad tenants ; they ruin the property, and you 
 won t easily get them out. I may live to see Naomi 
 nag her husband and Ned bully his wife." 
 
 " There is no danger," cried Naomi, tossing her 
 pretty head. 
 
 " Not the least, for you," said Ned, in an offensive 
 tone, which embittered the biscuit t hat Naomi had sat 
 down to eat.
 
 158 TWO GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 
 
 " I know what kind of a man I slia n t .marry," she 
 said, with a mouthful. 
 
 " So do I, lots of em ; in fact I don t know any 
 other," returned Ned. 
 
 I was still kneeling at the fire, Rex beside me, pour 
 ing out the coffee endless cup, ,. 
 
 " You haven t had anything to eat," said the 
 colonel, his appetite appeased. " Macnally, I tn ashamed 
 of you, in your good clothes too. I should have 
 thought you d have had better manners." 
 
 "Don t reproach me," cried Macnally, "I ve been 
 feeding these children for the last half hour. One 
 can t be nursery-maid and preux chevalier at the same 
 time. I m hungry as a bear myself." 
 
 The meal was a very long one. The sunset was 
 gone, and a faint twilight begun, when the last appe 
 tite was satisfied. 
 
 " Now we must be going home," said the colonel, 
 bustling about ; " it is getting very damp." 
 
 " Oh, bother home !" cried Macnally, flinging him 
 self down before the fire. " It s just beginning to be 
 pleasant here. Let s stay till the moon rises." 
 
 " The children," I said. " I ll have to take them 
 home." 
 
 Oh, hang the children," he returned, profanely. 
 " Or throw them on the fire." 
 
 Maidy thereupon climbed into my arms as we sat 
 around the blaze, and Baby stared at him, standing be 
 hind me, with her chin on my shoulder. He looked a 
 picturesque figure, lying stretched upon the sand, with 
 the strong light of the fire on his slender, well-made 
 limbs, his black hair, and his intensely shining eyes. 
 
 A compromise was made ; the children went home
 
 TWO GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 159 
 
 in the cart with the colonel, who was to send back 
 the cart with one of the men. This man was to finish 
 packing up the pots and kettles, and was to drive back 
 such of the party as desired to drive. We were all 
 grown very lazy since our supper, and nobody wanted 
 to be post-prandial waiter or kitchen-maid. We pushed 
 the panny, feast and all, into the background, spread 
 our blankets near the fire, piled on pine knots, and sat 
 down around the blaze, Rex with his nose almost in the 
 ashes. 
 
 The night was still and beautiful, the sky deep and 
 dark, full of sharp, clear points of stars. The tide had 
 turned and was going slowly down ; the roar of the 
 waves had lessened, or we were used to it. Where the 
 fire-light reached the water there was a wonderful 
 pageant, but, except that stripe of brilliance all was 
 dark, and the unseen roar beyond seemed sullen. 
 
 " The moon s due in half an hour from now," said 
 Ned, bending down to look at his big silver school-boy 
 watch by the fire-light. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Macnally," cried Naomi, who sat close 
 beside me, with her hands clasped round her knees, a 
 red shawl drawn over her head ; " say something for 
 us." 
 
 " Good-night, do you mean ?" 
 
 " Oh, you know I don t mean that." 
 
 " Well, what do you mean ? Do you mean you re 
 too lazy to chatter, as well as to put the cups and 
 saucers away ? Are you going to turn over your talk 
 ing to me ?" 
 
 " I know you understand me. I want you to recite 
 some verses for us to say something that you know 
 by heart. Please, now, don t make a fuss. Remember
 
 160 TWO GKAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 
 
 what you tell me when Aunt Penelope makes me play 
 for company." 
 
 " Right, Naomi, that s a very good argument ; Mr. 
 Macnally, you must begin at once." 
 
 " Exactly, Mrs. Emlyn ; but where shall I begin ?" 
 
 " Ask Naomi ; she seems to know what you can 
 do." 
 
 " I know, I know !" cried Naomi, all eagerness. " Be 
 gin right at the beginning of Shamus O Brien. " 
 
 " No, no, Naomi, that s not fair. You don t make 
 a good choice, either. Let me tell you the Pied 
 Piper. " 
 
 " I don t want the Pied Piper. " 
 
 " Then, have something about the sea Sir Patrick 
 Spens, the Wreck of the Hesperus, Inch Cape 
 Eock " 
 
 "I don t want any wreck or any sea. I want 
 Shamus O Brien. " 
 
 " Shamus O Brien ! " we all called out. 
 
 And we had " Shamus O Brien ;" in fact, we have it 
 still, for I don t believe any of the four who listened to 
 it will ever be able to forget it if they try. Naomi 
 was shivering and sobbing in my arms when it was 
 over ; Ned took a long breath, as if he had not breathed 
 since it began ; Mrs, Emlyn drew back her face from 
 the firelight, and did not trust herself to speak for a 
 long time ; and as for me but I cried so easily, it was 
 no great victory to make me cry. I think that victory 
 might have been won though, over tougher and colder 
 natures ; I think there are few people who would not 
 have thrilled and shivered and wept at that marvelous 
 recital; at the wonderful pathos of his voice, the 
 wonderful power of his glance; "fountain and fire j"
 
 TWO GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 101 
 
 I could not analyze his empire over my feelings, then 
 or ever; I did not even ask myself what moved me; I 
 trembled and wept, and lifted my head and looked 
 away, and tried to think of other things, as a child 
 might. 
 
 He looked pale when, the recital over, he bent down 
 and threw some more wood upon the lire. 
 
 " It will be gone before the moon arrives/ he said, 
 looking towards the east, where there was as yet no 
 sign of its appearing. We all sat quits still ; nobody 
 wanted to talk for a few minutes ; Macnally went to 
 see if the cart were coining. He did not return till 
 Ilex s sharp bark had warned us that it was. 
 
 " Who s going to ride ?" said Mrs. Emlyn, getting 
 up and shaking off her emotion. 
 
 " Better see for whom there s room when all the 
 things are in," I said. 
 
 When the things were all in, there was barely room 
 for two. I felt quite fresh and ready to walk, and so, 
 after a good deal of protest, it was settled that Naomi 
 should ride with her aunt, and Ned and Mr. Macnally 
 and I should walk home along the shore. Ned didn t 
 want to walk, and grumbled a good deal that he was 
 not allowed to drive, and the man sent on foot, but his 
 aunt would rather have walked to the Gulf of Mexico 
 than have permitted him to drive her half a mile. 
 
 While we were raking out the embers, the moon 
 came up ; the last expiring blaze of the fire looked 
 pitiful, in its sudden glorious light. We were quite 
 ready, inconstant ones, to leave it, and start on our walk 
 along the now illuminated beach. Ned kept with us 
 for a long while as long, indeed, as Mr. Macnally 
 would sing with him. Ned had a good voice, but his
 
 162 TWO OKAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 
 
 repertoire was not extended, and only that his and his 
 tutor s voices blended and sounded rich and strong and 
 mellow, would one have been contented to hear, over 
 and over, the same ineffable nonsense. When Mr. Mac- 
 iially halted, and dragged, and finally declined to go 
 further on such a monotonous strain, Ned betook him 
 self off, by a short cut home, across the fields. Rex, 
 draggled and damp with the spray and the dew com 
 bined, ran on before us, a white speck in the moon- 
 light. 
 
 The sand was heavy, but we walked down close to 
 the waves, where it was wet and a little harder. Some 
 times there was a silver mist over all ; then that would 
 be swept away, and the full glory of the moon would 
 overflow the heavens and the sea. Sometimes, when I 
 was tired, we would sit down on the sand and rest a 
 little while ; we did not talk much. It was the sort of 
 night that one feels can t come twice in a summer, such 
 a rare combination of cloudless sky, full harvest moon, 
 and balmy air. 
 
 " Under a harvest moon," said Macnally, as we sat 
 resting thus upon the sands, " one may naturally 
 moralize upon what one has been sowing through the 
 summer." 
 
 " This idle summer ! I am afraid it would depress 
 me to think what I have sown, or rather what I 
 haven t." 
 
 " We scatter seeds with careless hand, 
 
 And deem them ever past, 
 
 But they shall last ; 
 j In the dread judgment they and we shall meet."
 
 TWO GKAY EGGS IN THE BAND. 163 
 
 " "Why do you say such things ?" I said, shivering, 
 getting up. 
 
 " I m sure I don t know. One can t help thinking, 
 a little once in a while." 
 
 " I should have said you put the periods pretty far 
 apart." 
 
 " Why ? Because I couldn t cry over a bird s egg ?" 
 
 " I thought that was buried." 
 
 The rest of the party had been at the house a long 
 time when we got there. Mrs. Einlyn was walking up 
 and down the piazza, and looking rather anxious. 
 
 " You will be tired to death," she said. " It was a 
 great walk for you, through that heavy sand. I should 
 have made you ride. I have kept the cart to take you 
 home." 
 
 " Thank you. Then I won t sit down." 
 
 " No, you d better not. It s getting late, and it is 
 damp," she said, with characteristic frankness. " Be 
 sides, the man is waiting up, and he s been working 
 hard all day." 
 
 " I ll drive you," said Ned, going down the steps. 
 I kissed Mrs. Emlyn good-night, and went down after 
 him. Mr. Macnally was standing beside the cart; I 
 saw him put his hand on Ned s shoulder, and heard 
 him say. to him in a low voice, 
 
 "Let me drive to-night, won t you?" 
 
 Ned started, and looked not well pleased ; he drew 
 back and said, a little sulkily, " If you want to." 
 
 " That s a good fellow," said his tutor, low, as I 
 came down the last step ; and he put me in the cart, 
 and sprang in beside me. 
 
 "We drove on silently for a while. Nothing that he 
 had ever said to me had ever startled me. "What he
 
 164 TWO GKAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 
 
 had said to Ned did startle me. Why did he want to 
 drive me home to-night? He always respected Ned s 
 rights and position so scrupulously, and never asked 
 favors. As he had said, one must think a little once 
 in a while ; and I vaguely and uncomfortably began to 
 think. 
 
 He stooped down to look at his watch by the moon 
 light. "The post-office won t be closed," he said; 
 " sha n t we go for the letters, before I take you home?" 
 
 " You d better leave me, first," I said. " It s late ; 
 besides, I m a little cold." 
 
 " Here are two shawls under the seat, beside the 
 blanket. Tie my handkerchief around your neck. 
 See, you can t be cold now. And we may never have 
 another harvest moon. Besides, I may have some let 
 ters that that I want to consult you about. Go with 
 me to the post-office, won t you, please ?" 
 
 It seemed perverse to say no, and I wanted to go, 
 too. So I wrapped the shawls around me, and tied the 
 handkerchief on my throat, and consented to drive on 
 past the cottage, at the gate of which stood Sophia, 
 looking out for me. 
 
 " I shall be back presently, " I called, as we drove 
 by. I am sorry to say she didn t give me any answer, 
 but slammed the gate and went in. 
 
 " I shall pay for it to-morrow," I sighed. 
 
 " An hour of this harvest moon is worth a month of 
 her bad temper," he said slackening the horse s gait. 
 It was heavenly. The village looked asleep, save for a 
 light in a window here and there, and a girl s figure 
 now and then leaning over a gate, listening to some de 
 parting sweetheart s words. The white houses were 
 picturesque flecked with the shadows of the vine leaves
 
 TWO GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 165 
 
 growing over them. The trees threw long shadows on 
 the road. At the post-office there was a light still 
 burning. 
 
 " We are not too late," he said, springing out, but 
 he came back in a few minutes looking a little disap 
 pointed. 
 
 " There are no letters," he said, " only the colonel s 
 Scientific American, and some agricultural journals. 
 His ten acres ought to be pretty well worked up. 
 Every published light is thrown upon them." 
 
 " Have you no letter for me ? For once I was ex 
 pecting one." 
 
 " You ?" he exclaimed. " I thought you never 
 cared for letters. You told me, I remember, that noth 
 ing coming from outside South Berwick could be of 
 any interest to you." 
 
 " Nous avons change tout cela. I have an interest 
 now." 
 
 " Seriously ?" he said, giving me a quick look. 
 
 " Very seriously." 
 
 " Don t make me uneasy," he said, rather low. 
 
 " Why should it make you uneasy ? You don t tell 
 me about your letters." 
 
 " I would I meant to, if you would listen if you 
 cared to know." 
 
 " That s all very well. I ve wanted to know all 
 summer and you haven t told me." 
 
 " Ah ! I m afraid you re not sincere to-night. It is 
 not like you to be insincere." 
 
 " At all events, I ll be sincere about my letters. I 
 am expecting a pattern for Maidy s new set of aprons. 
 I can t sleep for thinking of it. I wrote two weeks 
 ago, and no word has come about it."
 
 166 TWO GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 
 
 " Ah !" lie said, with a sigh, " I believe that s all 
 the interest that you have in life." 
 
 " Well, that and their fall dresses." 
 
 He had not turned the horse s head when we left 
 the post-office, but was driving on through the village. 
 
 " Where are we going ?" I said. 
 
 " Anywhere," he answered, " but towards home." 
 
 " Oh, please turn back. It s late. I want to go 
 home." 
 
 " To lie awake, pondering the pinafores, and the 
 fall dresses ?" 
 
 He saw that I was distressed and in earnest about it, 
 and slowly turned the horse s head, and slowly drove 
 back through the sleeping, silvered village. 
 
 " It has been such a perfect day. You might have 
 added just a half hour to it, if you had been generous ; 
 you wouldn t have missed it from your pinafores." 
 
 " Yes, it has been a perfect day. How many, 
 many we have had this lovely summer !" 
 
 " If this should be the last," he said, " should you be 
 very sorry?" 
 
 " Why should it be the last ? There is a week left 
 of August. And Sophia may give us a respite for 
 September, that is, if the nursery stove can be made to 
 draw respectably." 
 
 I was so unused to fencing and parrying, and being, 
 as he said, insincere, that the horse went much too 
 slowly for me, and I feared every word that my com 
 panion uttered. He saw it, I think, and was silent. 
 When we got out at the cottage gate, he exclaimed, 
 with a little sigh : 
 
 " Well, it has been a nice day, if you haven t a good 
 word to say for it."
 
 TWO GRAY EGGS IN THE SAND. 167 
 
 Now I was inside my own gate, I felt at liberty to 
 praise it. " It has been a nice day ; I never denied it. 
 It has been the nicest in the world." 
 
 "It might have been half an hour longer, and no 
 body the poorer," he said, a little wistfully. 
 
 "When he was gone, and I was alone in my room, I 
 couldn t help thinking a little, and my thoughts did 
 not please me. What if I had been sowing, all this 
 idle summer, that of which the harvest would be bitter 
 and grievous ? What did it all mean ? I did not want to 
 think. I untied the handkerchief from about my 
 throat, and smoothed it out, with a strange sort of 
 sensation, as my fingers passed over the delicate fabric. 
 The initials I bent down to study by the light. They 
 were entwined in a very intricate monogram. There 
 were four letters ; but how to arrange them I did not 
 know. There was an M and a B. These were the only fa 
 miliar ones. I had believed his Christian name to be Ber 
 nard ; I had always seen him write his initials B. M. ; 
 here was certainly, in addition, an L and a C. Who 
 was this man, who had come so near me ; with whom I 
 was on these familiar, easy terms of friendship ; happy, 
 if I could satisfy myself and him, that we were not on 
 any other terms ? A self -reproachful confusion reigned 
 in my mind. I could not have told exactly what I re 
 proached myself for ; but it seemed natural, as things 
 were wrong, that I had done something wrong as my 
 share of the matter. 
 
 But these reflections, intangible, and, in a way, of 
 the imagination, were swiftly put to flight. From the 
 open door of the nursery came a sound, terrible always 
 to my ear, the barking cough of croup. My heart sank, 
 with a sort of sick faintness, as I threw down the hand-
 
 168 TWO GRAY EGGS IX THE SAND. 
 
 kerchief which I still held, and hurried to the nursery. 
 I knew what it meant. Poor Baby s tea-party on the 
 beach might cost her dear. Her little white dress I 
 knew had felt damp, when I had put her in the cart 
 with the colonel. Over it, she had had but a light 
 flannel sack, which we had taken her out in at noon 
 day. Of course her shoes must have been wet, for she 
 had been playing close down by the waves all the after 
 noon. Against my self -accusations I had to put the 
 fact that she had gone through the same exposure many 
 times before, without any apparent ill result. I had 
 grown careless because the children had been so steadily 
 well all summer. I was tortured witli the recollection 
 of her, so bright and eager, in Macnally s arms, leaning 
 down to put the last stick on the fire, before she was 
 sent home. Her little white dress and red sack, and 
 bare kicking legs, with short stockings crumpled down 
 over the tops of her shoes, had made such a pretty, 
 droll picture in the firelight. Then he had tossed her 
 above his head, and carried her on his shoulder to put 
 her in the cart beside the colonel. Pretty Baby ! that 
 was only three or four hours ago, and here she lay, 
 fevered, restless, choked by this fierce, destroying 
 malady. 
 
 " Sophia," I whispered in terror, catching her arm, 
 for she was sitting by the bed, " tell me if you think 
 she will get over it " 
 
 " You won t deserve it if she does," she muttered, 
 shaking off my hand.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE NEST IN THE CEDAR TKEE. 
 
 " Oh, that the year were ever vernal, 
 And lovers youthful dreams eternal 1" 
 
 Song of the Bell. 
 
 <; But all things carry the heart s messages, 
 
 And know it not, nor doth the heart well know, 
 
 But Nature hath her will ; -" 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 I DID not take off my clothes that night, nor did 
 Sophia. What made our watch the more anxious, 
 was the fact that we were alone in the house. The In 
 dian woman, who was our cook and general servant, 
 had many calls from her family and her tribe, and was 
 continually asking leave to be away for a night or for a 
 day or two. The day before, she had gone, to be 
 away two nights and a day. We had felt always very 
 secure and comfortable, but this sudden visitation of 
 illness showed us how unsafe it was. Sophia was very 
 well skilled in the care of this disease. Baby had had 
 several attacks, more or less severe, during her little 
 life. She knew what remedies to apply, and had the 
 nerve to wait calmly for their effect. I was unnerved 
 and terrified, and begged her to go and get a doctor. 
 None lived near us ; it would have been madness for 
 her to leave the child and go out at midnight for one. 
 And as for me, I could scarcely have brought myself to 
 8 169]
 
 170 TIIE NEST IN THE CEDAK THEE. 
 
 quit the sight of the suffering little face. I obeyed her 
 orders as calmly as I could, and submitted to give up 
 the doctor. 
 
 Before day-break, the child was much relieved. 
 When it was light enough, Sophia went away for the 
 doctor, leaving me with many charges what to do and 
 what to avoid doing. She looked back uneasily more 
 than once, as if she scarcely dared trust the child with 
 rne alone. I couldn t blame her ; 1 was in agonies of 
 self-reproach. 
 
 The remedies that she had applied seemed to have 
 been all-sufficient. The doctor added nothing to what 
 had been already effected. The morning was cloudy, 
 and finally rainy. By noon the Baby seemed as well as 
 ever, sitting up in her crib, and domineering over us 
 all. I was not allowed to feel easy about her, for both 
 the doctor and Sophia predicted a return of the trouble 
 after night-fall. It was a wretched Jay. I could not eat, 
 and even the watch of the night just past failed to make 
 me want to sleep. I could not bring myself to leave 
 the nursery, nor to take my eyes off poor Baby. When 
 I heard voices below, I shut the door, and sent Maidy 
 to tell whoever had come that Baby was ill, and I 
 couldn t leave her. 
 
 The rain pelted steadily all the afternoon against 
 the window panes ; night gathered outside, and with 
 it thickened my gloomy apprehensions. This time we 
 were not alone. An Irishwoman, who lived in a lonely 
 shanty a mile or two away, often came to us to supple 
 ment the Shinnecock ; she had the reputation of being 
 half crazed, but we had always found her industrious 
 and faithful. She was persuaded, after her day s work 
 was over, to stay with us all night, and be ready to go
 
 THE NEST IN THE CEDAK TREE. 171 
 
 for the doctor, or render any assistance outside the 
 room. I do not think she slept much, though she was 
 given a bed in the garret. I heard her moving about 
 at intervals all night, and, once when I went down into 
 the kitchen for hot water, I found her there, muttering 
 to herself, and mixing some unknown substances to 
 gether in a bowl. She gave me a suspicious look 
 when I came in, and directly threw the mixture out 
 of the open window, by which, notwithstanding the 
 rain, she stood. 
 
 " I don t half like Ann Day s look to-night," I said 
 to Sophia, when I came back to the nursery with the 
 hot water. "Don t people say she s unsettled in her 
 mind ?" 
 
 " She s got more sense than half the people that 
 think they ve got their wits," returned Sophia suc 
 cinctly, and dismissed the subject. 
 
 The night, which had begun with such gloom and 
 apprehension, wore on to midnight, and then to dawn, 
 and still Baby slept peacefully. When the faint light 
 of day crept into the eastern window, and I felt the 
 cool moisture on her little forehead, and listened to the 
 even breath that passed her parted lips, I almost cried for 
 joy, and for relief from terror. Sophia had acted all 
 night as if another attack were inevitable, and now the 
 day had come, and she was well. I threw myself on 
 the bed beside her, and, worn out by my two nights of 
 watching, fell asleep. 
 
 When I awoke it was broad day ; Maidy was dressed, 
 and eating her breakfast by the window ; Baby was sit 
 ting up in her crib, unnumbered toys before her ; So 
 phia was tidying up the room, not in the quietest man 
 ner.
 
 172 THE NEST IN THE CEDAR THEE. 
 
 Maidy ran to kiss me : " Mamma, we have made all 
 sorts of noises and you wouldn t wake." 
 
 I took her in my arms and kissed her, and leaned 
 over to kiss Baby. The past hours of dread seemed to 
 me all like a black nightmare. Had there ever been a 
 danger that I should lose one of these, my treasures ? But 
 in the rebound I did not lose the consciousness of what 
 I had resolved, and promised to myself ever to keep 
 before me. Baby, with an unwonted tenderness, laid 
 her soft cheek against mine, as I leaned over the rail of 
 the crib. Maidy patted Baby s chestnut curls, and 
 then smoothed my disordered hair. "My pretty 
 mamma," she said, putting an arm around my neck. 
 " My pretty babies," I murmured, holding them in one 
 close embrace. 
 
 " Come to your breakfast, Maidy," said Sophia, in 
 a sharp key. " These things can t be kept about all 
 day." 
 
 I kissed her again, and she slid down from the bed, and 
 went submissively to her bowl of bread and milk. She 
 looked back at us rather wistfully, however. Sophia 
 did not quite dare to send me away, but she threw dark 
 glances towards me, as I sat on the bed, leaning over 
 Baby s crib, and playing with her. I can t say Sophia felt 
 defeated ; that would be saying a harsh thing, for she 
 loved Baby most devotedly. But she felt as if my 
 punishment had been a petty farce, compared with my 
 deserts ; I had been let oif too light by fate. She had 
 grown so jealous, I think she was jealous of the favor 
 that she thought I seemed to have found with Heaven. 
 
 I could afford to be magnanimous; so I got up 
 soon, not to annoy her further, and went away to dress 
 myself. The weather outside was dull and gray. The
 
 THE NEST IN THE CEDAR TREE. 173 
 
 storm had subsided in the night ; the wind had dried the 
 earth a good deal ; but now it had fallen, and a silence 
 brooded, and a sullen sky frowned overhead; it was 
 anything but joyful, but my heart was so eased I did 
 not feel it. 
 
 Later in the morning, Sophia put Baby to sleep in 
 her crib, turning me and Maidy out of the nursery. 
 We went into my sleeping-room, which was in the rear 
 of the parlor, and I sat by the window with some work, 
 while Maidy played with her dolls beside me. Pres 
 ently Sophia looked in to say that she had to go down 
 stairs to prepare something in the kitchen ; she had left 
 the nursery door ajar : I could listen. The nursery was 
 on the opposite side of the house, behind the dining- 
 room ; to reach it, one had to cross an open sort of place, 
 unceiled and rather dark. There were beams over 
 head, and the sides were boarded up ; several old wooden 
 chests stood in it, in which we kept blankets and bed 
 ding. A flight of stairs descended to the kitchen from 
 it. Across this dark space I made my way, once and 
 again, to see if Baby were all right. Once I almost 
 stumbled over Ann Day fumbling about outside 
 Baby s door, who said she had been looking for the 
 clothes-pins. 
 
 Baby slept long and peacefully. I went back to 
 my sewing by the window. The air came in from 
 across a leaden sea ; Maidy leaned her head down on 
 the window-sill ; we were watching a nest of king-birds 
 in a scraggy cedar tree that grew a few feet from the 
 window. The scant foliage of the cedar was supple 
 mented by a Virginia creeper that had grown over it, 
 and hung from all its twisted limbs. In one of the 
 crotches of this tree a pair of king-birds had built a
 
 174 THE NEST IN THE CEDAR TREE. 
 
 nest and reared a brood. Two only of the young ones 
 were left in the nest. We had watched them from the 
 window often. While we were talking about them. I 
 
 o * 
 
 heard a gate opening from the farm-yard, and steps ap 
 proaching. There was a lane which led up from Old* 
 Town Pond, about a mile away, which crossed our 
 empty farm-yard ; not unf requently people came that 
 way, and crossed our premises. The place had been 
 unoccupied so long, the villagers had got into the habit. 
 So I did not look up or notice till Maidy called out, as 
 the steps paused below the window, and her eyes turned 
 from the tree to the ground, 
 
 " Oh, there s Mr. Macnally and Ned ; mamma, mayn t 
 I go down ?" 
 
 "No, no," I said quickly, then looked out. Mr. 
 Macnally stood with his cap off, making a low salaam to 
 Maidy. He had his fishing-rod over his shoulder, and 
 a creel. Ned had the same indications of his calling. 
 He contented himself with saying good-morning, and 
 tramped away across the garden, and went towards 
 home. 
 
 " I hopo Baby is better," said Mr. Macnally, stand 
 ing below the window. 
 
 " Oh, she is almost well, I hope ; she s asleep now." 
 
 "You had a great fright, I am afraid." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," I returned, drawing a long breath. 
 There was a little silence ; I was thinking what an age 
 it seemed since we had driven home in the moonlight, 
 and of all, inward and outward, that had passed since 
 then. He was thinking who can tell what ? He did 
 not seem exactly his easy, merry self, though he tried 
 hard to counterfeit it. 
 
 " I have brought you something, Maidy," he said,
 
 THE NEST IN THE CEDAR TREE. 175 
 
 after a minute ; " a lot of treasures from the beacli that 
 I picked \m this morning a baby horse-foot, two little 
 crabs, and the prettiest scallop shells you ever yet be 
 hold. See, they are all here in my creel. I haven t 
 caught a fish, while Ned has got a dozen." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, let me go down and get them !" cried 
 the child. 
 
 " No, no, Maicly, it is too damp for you. Mr. Mac- 
 nally will leave them on the front steps, arid Sophia 
 will bring them to you by and by." 
 
 " Sophia will break them," cried the child, all in 
 tears. " She threw away the last shells that he brought 
 me ; she said I never should bring one of them in the 
 house if she could help it." 
 
 A swift red overspread my face, while I tried to 
 stop the child s tears. 
 
 " I m sorry," said Macnally, coloring, I fear, a little 
 too. " I m sorry that I suggested them. See here, 
 Maidy, you can reach them if you try." 
 
 He swung himself up into the old cedar, and, sitting 
 on a branch that brought him about on a level with the 
 window, reached out his hand and gave her, one after 
 another, the beloved treasures. She stretched out both 
 little hands and grasped, first the crab, then the horse- 
 foot, then the scallop shells, one by one, laughing, 
 almost shrieking, with delight, the tears still shining on 
 her cheeks. Macnally looked eager and happy while 
 he was gratifying her ; he stretched forward, steadying 
 himself by one hand on a branch above, a lithe and 
 graceful and almost boyish figure. 
 
 But while he was giving her the last shell, we became 
 aware of a tumult in the tree above his head. Sharp 
 cries from the parent birds filled the air ; first one, and
 
 176 THE XEST IN THE CEDAR TREE. 
 
 then the other, flew at him, grazing his head in their 
 flight, pecking at him, and obliging him to defend him 
 self with both hands. 
 
 The little vixens," he cried. " What are they 
 about 2" 
 
 " The nest, the nest !" screamed Maidy, her smiles 
 extinguished. 
 
 " There s a nest with two young birds just above 
 your head," I explained. 
 
 " I m trespassing, am I," he said, letting himself 
 down to the ground lightly, and looking up. " I m 
 afraid they re the ghosts of the plovers eggs. Mafoi, 
 but that smallest one has got a temper ! I think her 
 first name must begin with S," he exclaimed, dodg 
 ing another attack. 
 
 " Why must her name begin with S ?" demanded 
 Maidy, open-eyed. 
 
 " Because she s savage," he returned. 
 
 It was really a curious sight, the wrath and 
 courage of those two tiny creatures defending their 
 young. Mr. Macnally drew back a little from the tree, 
 and gathered up his rod and creel. At this moment 
 Ann Day came out from the rear door of the kitchen, 
 with a basket of clothes to hang out. One end of the 
 rope was fastened to a branch of this same tree. As 
 she approached quite near us, I said, 
 
 " Take care, Ann ; don t shake the tree ; there is a 
 nest of young birds in it, and the mother bird is afraid 
 that somebody is going to hurt her young ones. She 
 is flying about in such distress; listen to her; poor 
 thing, it makes my heart ache for her." 
 
 The woman was a low, thick-set Irishwoman ; her 
 features were coarse, but her expression kindly. She
 
 THE NEST IN THE CEDAR TREE. 177 
 
 had light-blue eyes, which were restless, but not ex 
 pressive, ordinarily. She looked up when I began to 
 speak, with her usual uninterested manner, but when 
 she saw the nest, and the birds circling above it, and 
 heard my explanation, a deep flush came over her face, 
 and an angry light was emitted from her eyes. She 
 stooped over her basket of clothes, muttering to herself. 
 Her hands shook ; I almost thought I heard a curse, 
 and drew Maidy back from the window. She pulled 
 out some article from the basket, and attempted to hang 
 it up upon the line, but, not succeeding, tore it down 
 and threw it upon the ground, scattering the box of 
 clothes-pins at her feet, and with a lowering look to 
 wards the birds, went muttering away. 
 
 " Have I done anything to offend her ?" said Mac- 
 nally, with a gesture of despair. 
 
 " Oh, no," I said smiling, looking after her, as she 
 disappeared from sight behind the barn. 
 
 " Who has done anything, and what, may I ask, 
 does it mean ?" 
 
 " Poor Ann !" I said, with a sigh. " She has had a 
 sad history, as far as I can gather it. She has told me a 
 little, and the Indian and Sophia have got more from 
 her. She went to the West Indies when she was a 
 young woman, to wait upon an officer s wife, and natu 
 rally, after a year or two, married a soldier." 
 
 " And quite as naturally, after a year or two, he de 
 serted her, I suppose." 
 
 " Exactly ; leaving her with one child. I don t know 
 how she happened to come to the United States ; but 
 for some reason she did. The child was a great burden 
 to her, though I am sure she loved it very much. I 
 fancy her great desire was to earn money to go back 
 8*
 
 178 THE NEST IX THE CEDAR TEEE. 
 
 to Ireland, and the child was in the way of her going 
 out to work by the day, and if she took a place at ser 
 vice, she couldn t get wages enough to do more than 
 support it at board. Then somebody suggested to her 
 to put it in an institution of charity. I can t get out of 
 her what the name of it was ; I don t believe she really 
 knows herself. At any rate, she put it there, wher 
 ever it was, and took a place at service, and earned good 
 wages for a year or two, and put the money into a 
 savings-bank. Poor soul ; she has the bank-book now, 
 and showed it to me. She won t use it, for she thinks 
 it is blood-money." 
 
 "What does blood-money mean, inamma?" said 
 Maidy, pressing eagerly against me. 
 
 " I had forgotten you, Maidy. Well, it meant this 
 time, that it was the price she paid for her little girl s 
 life." 
 
 "Did she sell her?" said Maidy, in awestruck tones. 
 
 " Not exactly, but she feels as if she had. For, one 
 day, when she got liberty to go and see the child, she 
 found it had been dead for several weeks, and was 
 buried in the pauper burying-ground." 
 
 " Poor soul," said Macnally, with a sigh. 
 
 " They hadn t taken the trouble to warn her of its 
 illness, though they had her name and address. And 
 some underling told her it had been ill-treated and neg 
 lected, which may have been true, or may not. All 
 that was left to her was the little bundle of clothes 
 which the child had worn when she took it there. This 
 they gave her back, pinned up, and marked systemati 
 cally with her name. She brought it over one day 
 and opened it and showed me the clothes. There was 
 a little faded pink calico frock ; she stroked it with her
 
 THE NEST IN THE CEDAK TREE. 179 
 
 hands, and said, me foine ghirl ! me foine ghirl ! She 
 never went back to her place, but wandered about the 
 streets for days, carrying the little bundle ; her intellect 
 quite shattered. I suppose she must have been taken 
 up by the police and committed to some asylum. After 
 that she doesn t seem to be able to give any account 
 of herself that is at all coherent. She is quite reason 
 able on every other subject, and is an excellent worker. 
 I suppose they found she was fit to set at large, and so 
 dismissed her from the asylum." 
 
 " How did she wander up here ?" 
 
 "I can t imagine. I have often wondered. But it 
 was the very place for her ; the quiet and the total ab 
 sence of all associations. The neighbors are kind to 
 her, and she gets a good deal of work. Her tumble 
 down little house, though, is in an awfully lonely situa 
 tion. I ve feared sometimes some tramp would mur 
 der her for her little hoardings. Ann loves to hoard, 
 poor soul ; her calamity didn t cure her of it." 
 
 " Is she capable of doing a servant s work? Can she 
 understand orders given her, and all that?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, as well as any one ; except when something 
 upsets her seeing children, or something like that, she 
 is quite the best servant that I ve had in a long lime." 
 
 "What has set her off to-day ?" 
 
 " Well, I have an idea that yesterday she was stirred 
 up by hearing Sophia talk of Baby s illness, and seeing 
 my agitation ; and just now, it was the sight of the 
 mother bird s distress about her young ones. I saw the 
 blood rush into her face the moment I called her atten 
 tion to it, and her poor dull eyes grew so troubled, and 
 then so fierce. I m sorry I spoke to her about it. I 
 ought to have known better."
 
 180 THE NEST IN THE CEDAE TREE. 
 
 " I don t see how you possibly could have known bet 
 ter, or, indeed, could have guessed what troubled her 
 at all." 
 
 " Yon would see, if if you were a mother," and I 
 stroked Maidy s head as she leaned out of the win 
 dow. 
 
 " The maternal instinct, I confess, baffles me in 
 some of its developments that, for instance," he added, 
 as one of the birds swooped above his head again. 
 "What have I done to call for that ?" 
 
 " Leaned against the trunk of the tree, I am afraid." 
 , " Ah ! "Well, I don t seem to be popular here. I 
 think I d better be taking myself off." 
 
 And shouldering his rod, and kissing his hand to 
 Maidy, he went away through the garden, leaping the 
 fence, and striking off across the fields. 
 
 That afternoon, late, Sophia came into the nursery, 
 where I was sitting with the children ; she held out 
 two dead birds, with necks wrung, heads dangling. 
 "See what I found under the nest," she said, with a 
 tone of triumph. Maidy gave a cry, and bursting into 
 tears, hid her face in my dress. " Sophia ! " I cried, 
 reproachfully, " how can you torture the child so ? " 
 
 " Oh," she exclaimed, tossing her head, " I didn t 
 kill the birds ; you needn t reproach me. Go to them 
 that did." 
 
 " I should, with pleasure, if I knew whom to go to. 
 It was a cruel thing. The poor mother bird, how she 
 must be grieving now 1 " 
 
 " Well, you won t have far to go." 
 
 I knew, by a certain inflection of her voice, that 
 always made itself apparent when she spoke of Mac- 
 nally, that she meant him. I could almost have laughed
 
 THE NEST IN THE CEDAR TREE. 181 
 
 at her persistent malice. I soothed Maidy, and insisted 
 on Sophia s taking the birds out of sight at once. I did 
 not feel that I ever wanted to look out of my window 
 again, at the old cedar tree. A little thought made me 
 sure to whom the poor birds owed their death.
 
 CHAPTEE XY/ 
 
 A DAY OF RECKONING. 
 
 " Who is spendthrift to passion, 
 Is debtor to thought." 
 
 AS the day drew to a close, it grew duller rather 
 -X. than brighter. I felt a longing for fresh air, 
 after my two days confinement to the house. Baby was 
 as well as a baby could be, and was having her tea in 
 the nursery with Maidy. There was nothing to keep 
 me in the house ; so, wrapping myself in a rain cloak, 
 and drawing the hood over my head, I went out into 
 the twilight. I purposely avoided the road and the 
 direction in which I might possibly meet any one, and 
 followed the lane that led to the Old Town Pond a 
 lonely enough lane, with neither tree nor habitation on 
 its whole length. A quick walk in the damp wind 
 seemed to me what I needed to steady my nerves and 
 shake off the overpowering depression that I had been 
 feeling all day. 
 
 The landscape was almost shrouded by the twilight 
 and by a faint mist blowing in from sea. Walking ex 
 hilarated me a little ; I went on and on, till I reached 
 the pond, and the road that led from it down to the 
 sea. This road I followed, and soon stood on the sand, 
 and heard, rather than saw, the waves that, under the 
 mist, were rolling in upon the beach. The tide was 
 [182]
 
 A DAT OF RECKONING. 183 
 
 low ; the wind was off the shore, and was beating down 
 the surf, which broke on the sand with a sort of wail. 
 
 It was a lonely spot, a mile from any house ; but I 
 wasn t in a mood to feel afraid. Some fish-houses 
 stood a little back from the beach ; my walk had tired 
 me, and I sat down in the shelter of one of them to 
 rest. The reaction from my rapid walking, the moan 
 ing of the sea, and the dreary loneliness of the spot, 
 overcame me, and putting my head down on my hands, 
 the tears that I had been fighting against all day came 
 to my relief. Yes, the harvest was ended, the day of 
 reckoning had come, and I was wakening from my long 
 and happy dream. No more summer seas for me ; no 
 more blue morning skies, and tender-tinted evening 
 ones. Life must begin again in bitter earnest. The 
 sea might well make moan for what was gone. 
 
 As I lifted -my head for a moment with a despair 
 ing sort of weariness, I heard voices : one was a wo 
 man s, so I had no sensation of fear, but only drew back 
 more in the shelter of the fish-house to escape attention. 
 I listened rather anxiously, however, till they should pass, 
 and I be free again. It was unexpected seeing any one 
 here in so lonely a place. Presently the voices came 
 nearer, and paused not four feet from me. I recog 
 nized the colonel s voice, and Mrs. Emlyn s. It was 
 not unnatural that they should be here, as they were 
 both good walkers, and often went on foot several miles 
 from home together when the weather was as cool as 
 this ; but it was unfortunate that they should have como 
 here. How could I command my voice, and not show 
 traces of my not yet past emotion ? I sat still, hoping 
 they would pass on and not see me. Mrs. Ernlyn gave 
 a long breath of fatigue, and sat down on a boat just
 
 184: A DAT OF RECKONING. 
 
 around the angle of the fish-house. "We could not see 
 each other for the mist and darkness, but their voices 
 would have been distinct if they had whispered. 
 
 "How long have you suspected this?" said Mrs. 
 Emlyn. 
 
 " How long ? Oh, I can t say. Ever since Bough- 
 ton was here, I think. I believe he put the idea in my 
 head originally." 
 
 " It s a wretched piece of business. Why haven t 
 you given me a hint of it ?" she said, testily. 
 
 " I should think that, being a woman, you could 
 have seen it yourself." 
 
 " Well, I m not a woman to go about, poking into 
 other women s hearts and imagining love affairs. I 
 thought you knew me well enough for that. How 
 should I be likely to think that a woman who couldn t 
 bear even the faintest allusion to the fact that she was 
 a widow, and who didn t seem to care for anything but 
 her little children, was ready to be fallen in love with 
 by the first man she met ?" 
 
 " One sees plenty of that sort of thing in the world." 
 
 " Well, thank heaven ! I m not in the world, and 
 never mean to be. It s a man s judgment you ve 
 made, not a woman s. I don t believe she has an idea 
 of this sort of thing." 
 
 " I wish to heaven she mayn t have, but I m much 
 afraid I m right. Macnally s a taking sort of fellow ; 
 we ve shown the poor young thing scant kindness in 
 throwing them so much together." 
 
 " I should as soon have thought of being afraid of 
 Ned. One seems about as much of a boy to me as the 
 other." 
 
 " Ah, well, you are discriminating."
 
 A DAY OF RECKONING. 185 
 
 " There s such a thing as being too discriminating. 
 I, for one, believe you ve made altogether a mistake, and 
 that she s no more idea of his infatuation than I had, 
 till you told me." 
 
 " Time will show. If she had only, now, taken it 
 into her head to like Boughton. There was a capital 
 marriage for her. But women s fancies are unaccount 
 able." 
 
 " Hers would have been, if she had fancied him." 
 
 " How if you find she has fancied Macnally ? Can 
 you account for a woman in her senses, old enough to 
 be married and have children, sending off a man of po 
 sition and wealth, like Boughton, and setting her heart 
 upon a fellow, like Macnally, about whom she knows 
 absolutely nothing, except that he hasn t twopence over 
 and above his salary as tutor ?" 
 
 "Macnally s a gentleman, and a much more thorough 
 one than Boughton, even if I m not discriminating. I 
 can understand a woman liking him, and I can t under 
 stand her liking the other." 
 
 " Macnally s a fascinating fellow, I suppose ; women 
 always like that sort of man. I confess I ve a great 
 liking for him myself. lie s the best tutor that we ve 
 ever had, and an agreeable companion. But there 
 are some things that I acknowledge I don t like about 
 him. His want of confidence in us, first of all. "What 
 do we know of him? Absolutely nothing. He an 
 swered my advertisement; 1 was taken with him 
 instantly. It s the first time in my life I ever did such 
 a thing I don t know whether I told you I didn t as k 
 any reference of him." 
 
 " You didn t teJl me, indeed ; I should never have
 
 186 A DAY OF RECKONING. 
 
 heard the last of it if I had taken a servant in that 
 way." 
 
 " "Well, what s done is done. I never have been 
 troubled about it till this perplexity came up, and I be 
 gan to feel some responsibility about this poor young 
 widow. We ve all been so fond of him, it was natural 
 she should take him as one of us. We ve done wrong, 
 I m afraid. I shall always blame myself." 
 
 " Wait till you know whether there s any harm 
 done." 
 
 " I can t understand," he went on, " how, if things 
 were all right with him, he shouldn t occasionally speak 
 to us of his people, and allude in some way to the past. 
 But it s all a sealed book. I don t believe he s ever 
 dropped a word." 
 
 " Nobody s ever asked him, maybe." 
 
 " I ve given him chances enough. Only to-day I 
 took occasion to approach the subject ; I got nothing 
 by it. He seemed almost irritated. I verily begin to 
 think the fellow s nothing but an adventurer. What 
 do we know about him 2" 
 
 " We know that for ten months he has been faith 
 ful to his work, and a" gentleman, and irreproachable in 
 all his conduct ; he has commanded our respect and 
 won our affection. Adventurer is a hard word, and I 
 am glad I m not a man, to pass so easily a judgment so 
 severe." 
 
 And she got up and moved away. 
 
 " It isn t my linal judgment," said her husband, 
 following her. But you must confess things are not 
 as clear as day." 
 
 And their voices were lost to me as they walked
 
 A DAY OF RECKONING. 187 
 
 away towards home. They passed within two feet of 
 where I sat, crouched down in the shadow of the fish- 
 house. I had not had the daring, nor, indeed, the 
 strength, to go away after I had found they were talk 
 ing about me. I was so trembling and agitated, I could 
 not have got away without being recognized, and the 
 idea of making my nearness known by speaking to them 
 was quite beyond my courage. It all passed so quickly, 
 too. I felt numb and paralyzed. Even after they 
 were gone, I felt unable to get up and go towards 
 home. 
 
 "When at last I went, it was quite dark. I could 
 scarcely see the fence before me when I reached the 
 lane. The ground was wet with dew ; the mist came 
 palpably against my face ; the stones and ruts hurt my 
 feet, as I blundered along through the lane ; briars 
 caught my cloak as I pushed through the narrow open 
 ing in the fence. It was all unspeakably miserable ; a 
 feeling of shame sickened me ; a sense of disappoint 
 ment made a physical weight and load about my heart. 
 They need not have been worried about me ; I had 
 found out what they guessed, and had made my resolu 
 tion in the dark hours of Baby s illness. But, oh ! 
 but, oh ! that they might never know ! 
 
 Before I got upon my feet and started on my walk 
 home, I had come to one conclusion ; the something to 
 be done, that is the only solace in troubles such as this, 
 was to get away from the place as soon as might be. 
 I had even in my mind written the letter to the agent 
 about the rooms we wanted ; I had decided the num 
 ber of days it would take to hear from him, to dis 
 pose of the packing, to prepare the children s clothes. 
 If it hadn t been for the stimulus of this, I don t quite
 
 A DAY OF KECKOSTESTG. 
 
 know bow I should have got back along the length of 
 that dark lane. 
 
 When I entered the house I left my damp cloak in 
 the kitchen, and went up and tried to warm myself at 
 the parlor rire. The Shinnecock, now returned to her 
 duty, brought up a tray of tea, and set it for me on a 
 little table, near the lire. The children had gone to bed ; 
 I heard Sophia singing to Baby through the open nur 
 sery door. I didn t heed my tea, which stood un 
 touched, steaming away its fragrant cheer, but pulled 
 out my portfolio, and sat down by the light to write 
 the letter to the agent for the rooms. I had not fin 
 ished it when I heard Macnally s quick, light step on 
 the balcony, outside, and a knock, though the doors 
 were open. I said, come in, and he entered with a 
 brio-liter, more eager look than he had had in the morn- 
 
 O J O 
 
 ing. In his band he carried quite a package of let 
 ters. 
 
 " I m sorry," he began. " I don t think the pinafore 
 letter has arrived, but here is your paper. The colonel 
 has got quite a budget ;" he added, his face almost im 
 perceptibly losing its brightness. Something that he 
 had meant to say, he had not said. His quick eye, no 
 doubt, had taken in, at a glance, that there was some 
 trouble ; the neglected tea, my unhappy face, the care 
 less condition of my hair and dress ; and, worse than all, 
 the inevitable constraint of my manner. 
 
 " You were writing, and I disturbed you," he said, 
 drawing back a step or two. 
 
 " Oh, no," I returned, with a changing color that 
 the words did not call for. " I have nearly finished my 
 letter ; it can t go till to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Is it about the pinafore ? Or has something else
 
 A DAY OF BECKONING. 189 
 
 turned up, of interest enough in life, to write a letter 
 for ? " he said, with a little smile, emboldened, per 
 haps, by the fluctuations of my color. My face must 
 have showed that he had unwittingly said something that 
 gave me a sharp pain, for he added quickly, and in a 
 voice very tender with feeling, 
 
 " I am afraid Baby is worse. I am afraid you think 
 me very careless, but indeed I hoped that was all over, 
 and she was really well." 
 
 " Baby is well," I replied, recovering self-possession. 
 " I really am quite over my worry about her. I sup 
 pose I feel a little nervous and unsettled still, but a 
 night s rest will put that all right, no doubt." 
 
 " I must not keep you, then," he said, uncomfort 
 ably, looking at his watch. " It is past nine o clock, 
 and you have been awake two nights." 
 
 He pushed away the chair before him, refusing to 
 sit down ; a stick rolled forward on the andirons, and 
 he stooped over and put it in its place ; he stood for 
 a moment, resting his hand on the mantelpiece. 
 
 " I had something to say to you," he said, with his 
 face turned to the fire, speaking with a little constraint. 
 " But perhaps I d I d better put it off till you have 
 more time to listen." 
 
 I didn t answer ; it seemed to me he must have 
 heard the beating of my heart. But he heard nothing, 
 I suppose, and the silence must have sent a chill 
 through him. He did not even turn and look towards 
 me, or he would have seen an agitation that, perhaps, 
 would have seemed less cold. At last, he said, in a 
 husky sort of voice : 
 
 " I was speaking to you the other night about expect 
 ing letters. Those I had looked for have arrived to-
 
 190 A DAY OF RECKONING. 
 
 night. There was one of them I wanted to to tell you 
 about and show you. "Would you care to see it ?" 
 
 As he said this he lifted his head suddenly and bent 
 on me a look that seemed to devour me with its inten 
 sity. I had a feeling of terror. I looked this way and 
 that. I wanted to escape. I believe I gave a kind of 
 gasp, and then bent down my head over the portfolio 
 which I still held in my hand. 
 
 " I will not force it upon you," he said, in an un 
 steady voice, as he crushed the letter in his hand. " I 
 will not force anything upon you." 
 
 And when I raised my head again, and looked up, 
 lie was gone.
 
 N 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 
 
 {< Therefore I crave for scenes which might 
 
 My fettered thoughts unbind, 
 
 And where the elements might be 
 
 Like scapegoats to my mind." 
 
 Faber. 
 
 AOMI stood at the nursery door knocking the 
 next morning. 
 
 " May I come in?" she said, as Maidy, stretching up 
 to the latch, opened it a little way. 
 
 I gave assent with less good-will than I had ever 
 done before to my pretty little neighbor. I was taking 
 care of the children while Sophia ate her breakfast and 
 did many things about the house before coming to re 
 lieve me. She insisted that Baby must still be kept in 
 her room, though I felt certain that the necessity was 
 past. The weather was quite settled now : the house 
 was intolerable. I was so irritable that I could scarcely 
 speak peaceably to the little emissary from Happy-go- 
 lucky, and the children s many demands upon me nearly 
 drove me wild. Another night of sleeplessness had put 
 my nerves almost beyond control. I feared Naomi s 
 eyes, and her dear little questioning tongue. If she 
 had only known it, I loved her better than ever then, 
 as a part of my lost and ended summer, but still I was 
 afraid of her. Then passed a few moments of security,
 
 192 THE SKA MAKES MOAN. 
 
 while she kissed and caressed Baby, whom she had not 
 before been permitted to see since her illness. She gave 
 her a doll she had dressed for her, and to Maidy, a little 
 picture she had painted, that no feelings might be hurt. 
 Then she came up beside me, and laid her hand on my 
 chair. 
 
 "We ve missed you so," she said, stooping down 
 and giving me a kiss. " We ve had dismal times since 
 Baby has been sick, and it s worse than ever now, for 
 Mr. Macnally went awa} T this morning, to be gone 
 almost a week, I think. It s nice to have holiday, of 
 course, and Ned s got all sorts of plans for having a 
 good time. But it s not so nice at home without Mr. 
 Macnally. He s always saying something makes you 
 laugh. Don t you think he s very funny ? And some 
 how uncle doesn t seem in a good humor with any one 
 this morning ; he s scolded all the men since breakfast, 
 and I think said something cross to Aunt Penelope, 
 though I don t know what. Aunt Penelope often says 
 things to him, and he never seems to mind ; but it s 
 something new for him to speak to her in that way 
 don t you think it is ?" 
 
 " I m sure I don t know, Naomi, how should I ? 
 And I don t think your aunt would like you to talk 
 about these things to me." 
 
 " You re just like one of us," said Naomi, caress 
 ingly. " I feel as if you were my cousin, or something. 
 Aren t you coming down to dinner to-day." 
 
 " Oh, dear, no. I mean, that is, I can t leave Baby 
 for a great while yet. Poor little girl, she ll have to be 
 looked after very carefully now, you know." 
 "Can t Maidy come? It s awful lonesome; you 
 don t know."
 
 THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 193 
 
 We compromised on Maidy, and I was left alone. 
 
 No answer came from the house-agent. I would 
 not tell Sophia that 1 had written till I had certain 
 plans to offer. I packed quietly many of my own 
 things, which would not attract her attention. I spent 
 diligent hours over the children s clothes. I paid lit 
 tle bills about the neighborhood ; if I could not have 
 been busy, 1 should have been very much more un 
 happy than I was. I had fortunately been out, once 
 or twice, when the colonel and his wife called, and 
 Baby s illness answered for excuse for my not going 
 down to Happy-go-lucky. 
 
 It was the fourth night after Naomi had brought 
 her little budget of home news. I longed for the sea ; 
 my head ached ; and it seemed to me to stand on the 
 sands and, feel the wind blow, would cool and cure 
 me. After the children were asleep, therefore, I wrap 
 ped myself up and went out. It was twilight ; a gray, 
 faint mist hung between heaven and earth, and hid 
 the stars. There was a " moist, whistling wind." 
 When I reached the shore I stood still, feeling it blow 
 upon my face ; but it did not seem to cool the fever in 
 my blood. The waves rolled in monotonously at my 
 feet ; but the sound did not soothe me. There was no 
 one on the lonely beach ; but the solitude did not help 
 me, and, restless and disappointed, I turned back. 
 
 I could see the road a good way before me ; the 
 white dust of the well-worn track, however, was all I 
 could see, at any distance. The gray fences and the 
 little spindling trees, set here and there along the road 
 side, were all invisible in the twilight. It was a good 
 half mile from the beach to the cottage. 
 
 On my right, after I had walked quarter of a mile, 

 
 194: THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 
 
 the road turned off to Happy-go-lucky. Its windows 
 were shining with hospitable lights. Ah, dear, bright 
 lights of Happy-go-lucky ! What feelings they stirred 
 in me ! I could not hope to see them many times more. 
 The best that I could hope was, that, by and bye, I 
 might come to remember them with love and gratitude, 
 and not feel bitter and ashamed. I leaned against the 
 fence for a moment, looking at them, and then took up 
 my way towards home, walking, not in the road, but in 
 a narrow, faintly-beaten path close by the fence. 
 
 Some sort of a sound, not wave, and not wind, 
 reached my ear, and I began to feel afraid, and hurried 
 forward. I don t know what I was afraid of ; it was a 
 sudden agitation, the result of my ill-used nerves, no 
 doubt. Along the path, coming rapidly near me, I 
 saw a figure, dimly. I stopped in a sort of panic, ir 
 resolute which way to fly. Before I had time to move 
 out of the way, the man, for it was a man, confronted 
 me. The dim light, my dark dress, and his own pre 
 occupation, made it as unexpected to him. We both 
 gave a start, I a little involuntary cry of fright. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, not knowing me, and 
 stepped aside. I recognized the voice of Mr. Macnally. 
 It was not remarkable that he didn t know me. I had 
 on a long gray cloak, with the hood drawn over my 
 head, which, I am sure, he had never seen me wear 
 before. 
 
 " I was frightened, for I didn t know you," I said, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 " You ! " he cried, with a start. 
 
 "I m glad you ve come back," I said, not knowing 
 exactly what I said or did. " I I thought you
 
 THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 195 
 
 weren t coming back for a good many more days yet " 
 and I put out my hand. 
 
 He caught it and held it for a moment. We stood so 
 near together I could feel the strong pulsation of his 
 heart. He could not speak, nor could I. I withdrew 
 my hand, remembering, as I did it, that it was the first 
 time that he had ever touched it, except sometimes, 
 perhaps, in getting in or out of the carriage, and very 
 rarely then. He had taken very little advantage of our 
 constant intimacy this adventurer. He dropped my 
 hand, and turning walked beside me. 
 
 " Are you just come from the train ?" I said, at last. 
 He assented. " Naomi told me you were going to be 
 away a week." 
 
 " I meant to stay longer ; forever, if I had the cour 
 age, but I hadn t." He spoke in a quick, low voice, but 
 perfectly distinct. " I went away in a great fury with 
 myself and you, like a hot-blooded Irishman, as I have 
 the ill-luck to be. Since I ve been away, I have had a 
 thousand thoughts. Heavens ! If one could stop think 
 ing ! The other night were you only sorry for me, 
 and only angry that I dared to want to speak to you ? 
 I thought I saw something else in your face, and I ve 
 come back to ask you what it was. I hope you won t 
 be insincere. It isn t like you to be insincere. You 
 won t say I haven t any right to ask ? Remember, I am 
 very unhappy. Tell me if there was anything that 
 would give me any right to hope ?" 
 
 " No," I said steadily, after a moment. " I cannot 
 see that there was anything." 
 
 "Remember that this is life and death," he said, 
 standing still.
 
 196 THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 
 
 I was so near the fence that I put my hand out on 
 the rail, and supported myself, as I stood trembling. 
 
 " It is life and death to me. You will be sincere. 
 How can it be that that you haven t any feeling for 
 me? You have liked me, I know that well enough. 
 You have been glad when I came, sorry when I went 
 away. You have found it dull without me. AVe read 
 each other s thoughts, we know each other s fancies, we 
 choose the same path to walk in. Is that only liking ? 
 Or what is the great gulf that is fixed between the two ? 
 Is liking one thing and loving quite another ? I don t 
 ask you to love me with the vehemence cf my love for 
 you. It isn t in your nature, it wouldn t be tit. But I 
 ask you to look well into your heart, and to be sure that 
 you arc right in sending me away to such a dark and 
 miserable loneliness. Haven t you built up some mor 
 bid and unreal obstacle ? Isn t it the past that you are 
 trying to foist upon the present? Don t think me 
 harsh. I believe that you are deceiving yourself. If 
 I thought you knew your heart and could give an honest 
 answer, I would go away in silence and take my fate 
 like a man. But it tortures me, it unnerves me, it 
 makes ruin of all my resolutions, to feel I am lighting 
 with shadows ; that it is a dead hand draws the circle 
 into which I may not step." 
 
 " It is not that," .1 said steadily ; " you are mistaken. 
 I would tell you, if it were as you believe." 
 
 " Then what is it ?" he cried passionately. " I have 
 been humble enough, and reverent in all my thoughts 
 of you, and patient in waiting for the feelings that I 
 trusted to inspire. I never believed that I could speak 
 in this way to you, but the fire has burned its way out, 
 and you must let me speak. Give me tny answer and
 
 THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 197 
 
 I will go away. Tell me, as before Heaven, what is it 
 stands between us ?" 
 
 u Why is it necessary for me to say more than I have 
 said already?" 
 
 " Why ? Because, if you don t, I shall never believe 
 in any one again. I shall feel that you have been in 
 sincere while I have been believing you divinely true 
 and clear. It will have been a deception that will do 
 me deadly harm." 
 
 " Don t talk about deception. What have you been 
 making me believe ? Why did you not tell me before 
 what what you have told me now ?" 
 
 " Because I waited till you should be prepared to 
 hear it. But my secret outgrew my strength to hold 
 it. Heaven help me ! If I had but kept it !" 
 
 I made a movement to go on, but with a gesture he 
 prevented me. The wind was strong and beat my 
 dress and cloak against the fence and held them, and I 
 leaned back upon this rough support. My limbs 
 were so weak, I hardly think I could have stood with 
 out it. 
 
 " If I had waited," he said, " till you had grown 
 more accustomed to the thought and sight of me if 
 I had given your prejudices, your resolutions, time 
 to weaken and decay 1 will wait now. It shall be 
 as if I had not spoken ; things shall go on as they 
 were before. You will forget this folly, won t you ? 
 You must not give me my answer. I don t want it. 
 You shall only give me hope by being silent. See ! 
 the worst is past. I begin to live again. We will be 
 friends ; just the sort of friends we were before. It 
 shall not be your fault if I deceive myself. I only ask 
 reprieve."
 
 198 THE SEA MAZES MOAN. 
 
 I shook my head. " You know that is impossible. 
 Don t talk of what can never be. This is the very 
 end. "We you, I mean must make the best of it." 
 
 " Why I why 1 alone ?" he said, eagerly catching 
 at my altered sentence. " Oh, if you would but speak, 
 if you would but tell me this one truth is it I alone 
 who suffer ? Don t you care for me ? How can it be ; 
 how can I have been so deceived ? I have lived on this 
 one strong hope always, since I knew my feelings to 
 wards you. I have known there would be a hundred 
 obstacles, but never this. If you had had a troop of 
 suitors I should not have feared them. When that 
 padded, pompous creature came to see he wanted you, 
 I never had a thought of jealousy. I never counted 
 his money and his good position worth a thought. I 
 knew you would abhor him. 1 felt sure, sure of your 
 heart when you came to know it. And now you say 
 you know it " 
 
 The wind was blowing stronger every minute. 
 
 " I am cold let us go home," I said, faintly. 
 
 " One thing one word more, and this is ended. 
 If I could be so duped by my own desires, if I could 
 be so at fault in all my judgments but no, everything 
 reels ! I cannot bring myself to believe you different 
 from what I have believed you. I won t ask you the 
 question that I meant to. I would rather believe you true 
 and simple, and all you have been in my imagination, 
 than have you for my own, and know that I had been 
 mistaken." 
 
 " If you mean," I said, incoherently, " to ask 
 whether I cure whether there is any one else " 
 
 " Well ?" he said, sharply, drawing his breath 
 quickly, as I paused.
 
 THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 199 
 
 "There isn t anything like that," I said. "You 
 might have known there wasn t." 
 
 " Then, what is there ?" he cried, in a pleading 
 voice. " What is there that makes you treat me so ? 
 "What is there that makes you forbid me to wait, and 
 try, and hope a little longer ? What is there that has 
 changed your nature so ? So good and gentle always, 
 so afraid of making other people suffer. How can you 
 kill me in this way ? Have you reflected ; do you 
 know what you are doing ?" 
 
 " Yes, I know," I cried, putting my hands before 
 my face " It doesn t do any good to be sorry." 
 
 " Why doesn t it do any good to be sorry ?" he 
 murmured, bending towards me. " Listen to your 
 heart this time. It will tell you true." 
 
 I lifted my head, and through the dusk his eyes 
 shone like stars. 
 
 " There is no use," I said. " I cannot give you any 
 other answer. If you waited a hundred years, it would 
 be just the same." 
 
 He gave me a long, despairing look. " Then God 
 in His mercy help me !" he said, putting his head down 
 on his folded arms upon the rail beside me. How 
 long we stood there I don t know ; the wind swept by 
 with a moaning sound, now lifting a little the gray, 
 dusky mist, now gathering it thicker round us. I 
 heard steps approaching, and the rough voices of men. 
 
 " Quick," I said, " let us go, some people are coin 
 ing ; I m afraid of them." 
 
 He did not seem to hear me, and did not move at 
 all. I had to repeat what I had said, und then to touch 
 his arm, before he lifted his head, and understood me. 
 By this time, the men, a party of sailors, had passed
 
 200 THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 
 
 along. They were on the opposite side of the road ; 
 they did not seem to notice us. Their voices grew 
 faint in the distance, as I walked slowly on along the 
 path ; Macnally walking silently and mechanically be 
 side me. We were not very far from home ; in a few 
 minutes we reached the gate. He only went with me 
 to the foot of the balcony steps. The kitchen windows 
 were open, and a strong light came out from them 
 across the path ; as it shone for an instant on his face, 
 I saw that it was white and very haggard. I don t 
 know whether he said anything as we parted ; I to go 
 up the steps, and he to go out of the gate again. 
 
 When I got into the little parlor I found it cold 
 and dark ; the fire had gone out ; the lamp had not 
 been lighted. I shivered, and lay down on the sofa. I 
 had such a feeling of physical fatigue and languor, that 
 I could only think of the bliss of dying, and going to 
 sleep forever. It seemed impossible even to imagine 
 suffering anything more. After a few moments, 
 Sophia came in, bringing the lamp. I knew it was 
 overwhelming curiosity that brought her, and not a care 
 for my comfort. She had, no doubt, seen Macnally s 
 haggard face, as he passed the kitchen window. When 
 she saw me lying white and faint on the sofa, she came 
 near me, with a cold, hard look. 
 
 " You have been out late," she said, " and you 
 have missed a visitor. The young lad from the Em- 
 lyns came and brought you a letter from the office. 
 And his teacher called a little after, on his way, I should 
 think, from the cars." 
 
 " Yes, I met him." 
 
 " I supposed you did. I know he came home with 
 you now."
 
 THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 201 
 
 I didn t answer, only lay with my eyes shut. Her 
 wrath smouldered awhile, in these trivial explanations, 
 and then burst forth unstifled. 
 
 "I ve been wanting to say something to you for 
 some time 
 
 " Don t say it now, Sophia, I don t feel well enough 
 to talk." 
 
 " You ve felt well enough to talk, for the last half 
 hour or over, with that man that s just gone out from 
 here. You can hear me, I think, a little while at least. 
 I ll do the talking, and you can do the listening. I ve 
 lived with your people ever since I was a little girl : it 
 doesn t become me to say what I ve done for you and 
 for your children. If your husband had lived, I should 
 never have thought of giving up the children, no matter 
 what had happened. I am sure it will cost me hard to 
 leave them that I have brought up. They are like my 
 own to me. But if they were my own, they would not 
 keep me, if I once made up my mind to go. You may 
 make what arrangements you think best for yourself 
 and for the children. I have made up my mind to one 
 thing, either that man stops coming to this house, or I 
 go out of it. I will mind your children and do my duty 
 by the house as I have always done, for their sakes, and 
 for their poor dead father s, if this thing is put a stop 
 to, here and now. You can choose your choice. But 
 I cannot, and I will not, see those children that I have 
 nursed so long brought to disgrace and shame by a 
 heartless mother. I will not see it, I say. I will go 
 away and hide myself and try to forget it all. It is 
 enough that this thing is the talk of all the village. If 
 they were little boys it would not be half so bad ; but 
 9*
 
 202 THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 
 
 girls that s got to grow up shadowed by their mother s 
 reputation !" 
 
 "Sophia!" 
 
 " Yes ; I mean exactly what I say. It makes my 
 flesh creep when I think of their poor father, only 
 three years in his grave, poor fellow ! "When I think of 
 what he was, and what he would have been to them, 
 and then think of what s in store for them. Poor 
 babies, they would be better in their coffins, where they 
 would have been, if you had had the care of them. A 
 woman that can forget a man like that, and take up 
 with such a one as this, what right has she to have the 
 care of children ? A wild Irishman, turning somer 
 saults in the village streets, shouting his songs and non 
 sense in the ears of decent, quiet people, that s a man 
 for a lady to take up with. Folks say they don t know 
 even what his name is ; it s handy to have two or three, 
 sometimes, I ve heard. He s likely to have need of all 
 he s got. The Emlyns will be sick of him, perhaps, 
 sometime. He gets a little money now from teaching, 
 but where ll the next bit come from, I should like to 
 know. I suppose he thinks he knows, arid that he s 
 sure of a shelter and a crust if he plays a good sharp 
 game, down here. But remember, now s your time to 
 choose. I ll only wait another day to have this matter 
 settled, and know exactly what you have made up your 
 mind to do. For the children s sake I ll stay, if you 
 break with him entirely ; but for no earthly sake will I 
 stay if he comes in the house again." I did not attempt 
 to answer her, but got up, and almost staggered towards 
 the door. 
 
 " Are you not going to answer me ?" she said, 
 fiercely. " Maybe you ll repent it if you don t."
 
 THE SEA MAKES MOAN. 203 
 
 I shut the door of my room, and left her talking 
 still. The foul and muddy flood seemed to have 
 washed out everything pure and lovely in life. I 
 think, I simply longed that moment to die, and be 
 hidden from all human sight.
 
 CHAPTER XYIL 
 
 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 
 
 " Did heaven look on, 
 
 And would not take their part ?" 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
 " O God I could I so close my miiid, 
 And clasp it with a clasp !" 
 
 Eugene Aram. 
 
 HTVHE next morning Naomi s pretty face appeared at 
 -L the nursery door again, but this time disfigured 
 with scarcely dried tears. She beckoned me to come 
 out, and had scarcely a word for her little playmates. 
 I put down Maidy, who was in my lap, and followed 
 her into the parlor. She threw herself into my arms, 
 and began to cry. 
 
 " Mr. Macnally is going away to-night," she said, 
 between her sobs, " never to come back again. What 
 can make him go ? Something is the matter. Uncle 
 is all upset about it, and Aunt Penelope sent me oat of 
 the room, and won t talk to me. Ned, even, feels sorry 
 that he s going. What shall we do without him ? I 
 like him better than anybody I can think of. Oh, why, 
 why does he have to go away ?" 
 
 " Why does he say he has to go ?" I asked, sitting 
 down and drawing her down beside me. 
 
 "I don t know what he says to uncle. I know 
 uncle thinks he ought not to go, and leave us, before 
 [204]
 
 IN THE BKOODING DARKNESS. 205 
 
 the year is out. Aunt Penelope answers short, and 
 won t give me any satisfaction. And he oh ! lie looks 
 so dreadfully. It makes me think of Shamus O Brien, 
 For his face is as pale as the face of the dead. He s 
 the handsomest, and the best, and the kindest ! Oh, 
 what will it be at home without him ? Ned quarrel 
 ling all the time, and nobody to stop him and no 
 jokes, and no fun and nobody to take my part ! I 
 wish we could go to the city right away. I don t want 
 to stay here any longer. Did you know he was going 
 away to-night ?" 
 
 " No, Naomi, I didn t." 
 
 " I wonder why he didn t tell you. Did you know 
 he meant to go at all ?" 
 
 " I knew he might go. I didn t know when he d 
 
 go." 
 
 " Has he heard any bad news from home, I wonder ? 
 I think it s so hard, Aunt Penelope won t tell rne. They 
 treat me like a child. As if I couldn t be trusted to 
 know such a thing as that. I care more than any of 
 them, and yet they act as if it wasn t any interest to 
 me. He s all packed up he s telegraphed for passage 
 on the steamer that sails to-morrow. He s given Ned 
 his gun, and me some books. He s just as nice as ever. 
 He tries to talk the same and be like himself, but it 
 isn t natural, and his face is so pale, and his eyes so hol 
 low. The chambermaid says he didn t go to bed at all, 
 but just walked about his room all night. At break 
 fast it was horrid. He couldn t eat anything, though 
 he took lots of things on his plate. He tried to make 
 believe he did. But all he took was a cup of coffee, 
 strong enough to kill him. Aunt Penelope made it for 
 him so, I guess, because she saw he couldn t touch his
 
 206 IN THE BROODING DAKKNESS. 
 
 breakfast. She didn t even try to talk, except to stop 
 me if I said anything, good or bad, to anybody. Oh, it 
 was a horrid breakfast but to-morrow will be worse." 
 
 And poor Naomi hid her face in my lap, and cried 
 abandonedly. 
 
 " Don t cry, Naomi. You know people can t always 
 be together. When you get older you ll be used to 
 partings." 
 
 "I thought you d feel badly too, you ve always 
 seeemed to like him so." 
 
 " I do feel sorry, ever so sorry. But you know I m 
 older than you, and I ve said good-bye to so many 
 people." 
 
 " Then I don t want to get older, if I m going to feel 
 that way about things. I could say good-bye to a hun 
 dred thousand people, but it wouldn t make me used to 
 saying good-bye to him. If he was going away happy, 
 and all that, it would be bad enough. But to know 
 he s in trouble and not to know what the matter is ! 
 And to keep thinking all the time it may get worse, 
 and not to know for certain anything about him ! I 
 didn t think you d be that way. I thought you d feel 
 like me about it, he was such friends with you. Why, 
 that ridiculous old candlestick you gave him with the 
 ribbon around it on his birthday, he packed it up the 
 very first thing, for I went up to his room to take him 
 some things that the laundress had forgotten, and he 
 was packing it into a box all with tissue paper around 
 it. And Maidy s little Cinderella was in the tray of his 
 trunk. Poor Maidy ! She won t have him to carry her 
 on his shoulder any more. But she ll soon get over it, 
 I suppose, she is so little." 
 
 I stroked Naomi s yellow-brown hair, and would
 
 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 207 
 
 have smiled, if I had had the heart. I petted and com 
 forted her as well as I could, and she soon went home, 
 to hang around her tutor s closed door, to be snubbed 
 by her aunt, snarled at by ISTed, ignored by her uncle, 
 and to have her honest grief most entirely disregarded. 
 
 The day passed heavily enough with me. After 
 Naomi s visit, nobody at all came near me. I felt 
 very sure he would not go away without seeing me. 
 It seemed to me probable he would come the last thing 
 before he went away. 
 
 The train went at nine fifteen. At eight o clock he 
 had not come. It was a warm, close night, not a breath 
 of wind stirring. All the parlor windows were open, 
 and the doors. It was not hot it never was hot at 
 South Berwick but there was to-night a quality in the 
 air that made it abominable : it weighed you down like 
 lead ; it oppressed you like a te-ouble : you opened a win 
 dow and no freshness entered ; you fanned yourself, and 
 were not the better. I sat down by the parlor lamp 
 awhile, then walked restlessly about the room, and then 
 went from one room to another, trying to occupy my 
 self, but listening intently all the time. All the doors 
 and windows were open ; it seemed as if everything 
 were laid under a spell, not to be banging and flutter 
 ing in the usual gale. 
 
 Sophia had taken her work, and was sitting in the 
 dining-room by a small shaded lamp. She often sat 
 there in the evening, to be near the children. The 
 dining-room, as I have said, was next the nursery, and 
 communicated with it by a door. This door was shut, 
 however, to keep out the noise and light. Sophia trusted 
 to her sharp ears to hear them through the hall which 
 led into the sort of unfinished garret into which the
 
 208 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 
 
 nursery opened. The parlor and my sleeping-room 
 were on the other side of the hall, all opening, in the 
 same way, on this uncoiled, ill-lighted space. Stairs 
 to the attic led up from it, through a door ; stairs from 
 the kitchen led up to it from below. I should think it 
 was about sixteen feet square. You could touch the 
 beams by slightly lifting your hand ; they were cob 
 webby and dusty, notwithstanding Sophia ; across the 
 floor she had laid strips of rag carpet from the stairs to 
 the different doors, that the children might not be roused 
 by steps on the bare floor. 
 
 I stood for a moment by the open window of my 
 room, looking out into the starless night ; then crossed 
 this chamber, and went softly into the nursery. A 
 shaded lamp was burning in one corner ; the door was 
 open, and the window. The room was all in the scru 
 pulous order in which Sophia always left it when her 
 day s work was done, and her nurslings were asleep. 
 Here lay Maidy s little shoes, beside the chair on which 
 lay her folded clothes ; there Baby s ; there the bath-tub, 
 with its sponges and towels on the rack beside it, the 
 soap and powder box and brushes on their little table, 
 close at hand. Before the unlighted stove hung the bath 
 ing blankets, and two little wrappers. There was not a 
 thing out of place ; all told the story of monotonous 
 nursery life. That was the life that lay before me; 
 that was what was to satisfy my soul henceforth. I 
 took the lamp in my hand, and went and stood below 
 the two little cribs, where the light fell upon the two 
 children in their peaceful sleep. I gazed long and 
 steadfastly. Yes, it ought to satisfy me ; it should 
 satisfy me. I thought of the agony that wrung me
 
 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 209 
 
 when only a few nights before I had seen Baby lying 
 in that same crib, so ill. Was I the same woman? 
 
 I put back the lamp, and went and stood between 
 the two cribs, and bent first over one and then over the 
 other. Yes, I loved them best ; it was enough ; I was 
 satisfied. Baby lay with one hand under her cheek, the 
 other grasping a little battered fleecy lamb, with a faded 
 ribbon on its neck, and a tiny tinkling bell, with which 
 she always went to sleep. Her soft chesnut curls were 
 moist on her forehead, as was the little band of em 
 broidery on the nightgown round her throat. With a 
 tender care, I turned back one of the light coverings 
 of her crib, and stooped to kiss her pretty, pretty, lit 
 tle hand. Maidy gave a sigh and turned over on her 
 pillow ; " Dear little Maidy," I thought, gazing down 
 at her sweet face, as she lay with her arms crossed on 
 her breast, and her eyelashes on her cheek ; " you and 
 I will be companions, and live together always. Baby 
 will go away and marry. Ton and I must love each 
 other very much ; there is a long road before us." I 
 caressed her fair curls, and spread them out upon the 
 pillow, and lifted one to my lips and kissed it. I 
 thought of the time when she was a tiny infant, and 
 when her proud young father first held her in his 
 arms. " Dear Arnold," I said, in a whisper, " brother 
 for all eternity; I will be faithful to your children." 
 Then I knelt down, with bowed head, between my two 
 babies, and commended them to God s gracious care 
 and keeping ; and for myself I asked fortitude and 
 patience. 
 
 With a heavy heart I got up and walked to the 
 open window, through which the stagnant air crept in. 
 For a moment I had forgotten the outside world, while
 
 210 IN THE BKOODING DARKNESS. 
 
 I had been on my knees beside the children ; now I 
 heard a wagon pass, and it recalled me to the present, 
 and I went restlessly out of the room. It could not be 
 that he would go without seeing me again. I walked 
 up and down the parlor, and up and down the balcony, 
 and then sat down by the lamp with a sort of resolution 
 that I would not get up again. It was now nearly half 
 past eight ; I might as well face it, the. wheels I had 
 heard were his. He was going without seeing me 
 perhaps it was best. What good could come of saying 
 good-bye ; what solace could there be in half an hour 
 out of a life-time ? Separation might as well begin 
 now, as at nine o clock. I must begin to school myself ; 
 I would not get up, I would not listen. I would read, 
 and turn my thoughts away. I heard the gate-latch 
 lifted, and a step outside. I did not raise my eyes till 
 some one stood in the door. It was Macnally. I got 
 up, and said : 
 
 " Naomi told me you were going to-night. I began 
 to think you weren t coming to say good-bye to me." 
 
 " Oh, no," he said, " Ned has gone on to the train 
 with my luggage, and will get the checks. I have 
 half an hour." 
 
 And he took out his watch. 
 
 " You can t walk it in fifteen minutes," I said. 
 
 " Easily, in ten," he returned, with a faint smile. 
 " But don t be uneasy. I shan t get left, or, if I do, I 
 can catch my steamer by the early train to-morrow. 
 It s a well-bred steamer, and doesn t sail till three 
 o clock." 
 
 " Then, if you have so much time you might sit 
 down, I think. Here is my very nicest chair. You 
 look as if you were dreadfully tired."
 
 IN THE BROODING DAEKNESS. 211 
 
 " Do I ?" he said, passing his hand over his forehead 
 as he sat down. " I don t exactly know what I am to 
 night," 
 
 " It is so close," I said, moving restlessly my fan. 
 " "We haven t had such a night this Summer." 
 
 " No, I am sure of that," he returned, with an almost 
 imperceptible gasp. 
 
 " It suffocates one," I went on. " And in Septem 
 ber, too, when one doesn t look for suffocation." 
 
 Rex came pattering in at this moment, having heard 
 a friend s voice. He wagged his tail gently and walked 
 across the room and put his paws on Mr. Macnally s 
 lap. 
 
 "Poor Rex, poor fellow," said he, stooping down 
 and patting him. But Rex could not be satisfied with 
 this. He sprang up on his knees, and put his nose in 
 his face. 
 
 " That s an unusual attention, old fellow," he said, 
 in rather a low voice, as he held him off. " You know 
 I m going away, I see." 
 
 " Don t let him trouble you," I said, getting up and 
 going to take him from him. " You re so tired. You 
 must not be bothered." 
 
 " I shall have time enough to rest on the steamer," 
 he answered, leaning back in his chair, a sickly white 
 ness passing over his face as for an instant he closed his 
 eyes. 
 
 " You are ill," I said, standing before him with the 
 dog under my arm. " What shall I get you? I wish 
 you didn t have to go." 
 
 " I wish to Heaven I didn t !" he cried, with a bitter 
 little laugh, rousing himself and lifting his head. u I 
 am not ill ; you must not worry. I am, as you say, aw-
 
 212 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 
 
 fully tired ; just fagged out. It will pass. You mustn t 
 worry." I ran to the dining-room and got a glass of 
 wine, braving Sophia, who sat there sewing. When I 
 came back he was standing up. 
 
 " You must drink it," I said, in an agitated way, 
 standing before him. " Won t you ? It may do you 
 good." 
 
 He took the glass from my hand, and drank off the 
 wine. 
 
 " Now sit down and rest," I said, wheeling the chair 
 close tip to the table and shading the light where he sat 
 down. " You have twenty-five minutes. You can rest 
 a good deal. Rex, lie down, lie down, sir." 
 
 Rex lay down at his feet, with his head on the floor, 
 his black eyes fixed with a keen attention on his face. 
 He wagged his tail occasionally, but made no other 
 movement. There was a silence of a moment or so. 
 
 " You are better ?" I asked, bringing a light chair 
 and sitting down near him beside the table. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he said. " I am better. I asked you 
 not to worry about that." 
 
 " The voyage may do you good, and the change. I 
 think it often is the best thing. And you ll let us know 
 all about it ; you ll write to some of us." 
 
 " I just promised Naomi." 
 
 " Be sure you write soon, just as soon as ever you 
 are landed. We shall want to know." 
 
 Then I opened my portfolio, lying on the table, and 
 said, " Here s a photograph I got out for you this morn 
 ing. I thought perhaps you d like to have it. It was 
 taken in the Spring. It s better of me than of the 
 children. Baby wouldn t sit still, as might have been 
 expected, but Maidy s is pretty good. And on the out-
 
 IN THE BROODING DAKKNESS. 213 
 
 side I have written an address which will always reach 
 me some time when I mightn t be near the Emlyns 
 at any rate, I put it down." 
 
 He took the little picture and leaned over it to look 
 at it by the light. An expression of great pain passed 
 over his face. I faltered, " I thought you d like to 
 have it, though it isn t very good." 
 
 " I shall like to have it one of these days, no doubt ; 
 but I don t like to have it now. It is so little for a 
 man to have when he wants everything." 
 
 He leaned down on the table with a sort of groan, 
 and put his hands before his face. 
 
 " I m sorry I gave it to you," I said, almost crying. 
 " I don t seem to know how to do the right thing. I 
 wish you wouldn t feel so 
 
 " Forgive me," he said, lifting his head, and putting 
 the picture in its envelope in the pocket of his vest 
 without looking at it again. " Forgive me ; I know 
 this is unmanly, and I don t blame you for reproaching 
 me. Yes as you say the voyage and all that sort of 
 thing is apt to do one good. And you when shall you 
 go away from here ?" 
 
 " Oh, very soon, I hope ; as soon as ever we can go. 
 Next week perhaps. I have begun to pack." 
 
 " And you will be in the city after this ?" 
 
 " I suppose so, I don t know. It all depends upon 
 the children. If they keep well, we might as well stay 
 there as anywhere ; but if they re not as strong, I ve 
 sometimes thought it would be better for us to have 
 some little place in the country where we might live all 
 the year." 
 
 Involuntarily I looked up at the clock, and his eyes 
 followed mine. " I have ten minutes more," he said,
 
 214: IN THE BROODING DAEKNESS. 
 
 with a bitter smile for a moment on his lips. " Don t 
 begrudge them to me. I have no doubt I shall live 
 forty-five years more, at least ; we re a long-lived family. 
 Nothing ever kills us ; there are no bullets for us, no 
 rotten sleepers, no misplaced switches, no defective boil 
 ers. I don t believe we should be hung if we com 
 mitted murder ! Don t begrudge me my ten minutes ; 
 turn your back upon the clock, and trust me to get 
 myselif away in time." 
 
 The tears swam in my eyes, and I looked down. 
 
 " Ah, don t !" he exclaimed, with frantic irritation 
 in his voice. " You don t know what you re doing. 
 A man can t stand everything at once." 
 
 Then he got rip and walked once or twice across 
 the room. " You are sorry for me ?" he said, stopping 
 before me, his voice full of the deepest tenderness. 
 " I am ashamed that I have made you cry. I will go 
 away and put an end to this ; good-bye." 
 
 " Don t, go till it is time," I faltered. " You don t 
 seem to think I care, but you might know I do." 
 
 " How should I know it when you ve told me that 
 you don t !" 
 
 " I haven t told you that. We can t go all over it 
 again, but you ought to understand. It makes me very 
 unhappy." 
 
 " Yes, because you are sorry for me. Isn t that all 
 that makes you so unhappy V 
 
 " I shall be very lonely, you must see that. I 
 haven t so very much pleasure in my life. It makes 
 me very uneasy and anxious to know you feel so bitter 
 and unhappy. Won t you promise me to get over it, 
 and to be like yourself again? I wish this summer 
 could be blotted out."
 
 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 215 
 
 " All, well, it can t be, that is all. Good-bye." 
 
 1 got up now ; the hands of the clock pointed at 
 five minutes of nine. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said, again, turning towards me, 
 and holding out his hand. 
 
 I put mine in his, and he held it, and looked into 
 my eyes with an intent and searching look. 
 
 " Why must I go ?" he said. " What is the need ?" 
 
 " There is a need," I said. " You must go, but oh, 
 don t go without being friends with me. Indeed, it 
 isn t my fault." 
 
 " Whose fault is it 2" 
 
 " Whose ? How can I tell ? Fate s" 
 
 " Shall I tell you what it is ? It is your children 
 stand between us. You cannot say it is not. You 
 aren t willing to trust them to me, whatever you might 
 be willing for yourself. I can t blame you. I have led 
 an idle life ; but you needn t have made it final you 
 might have let me try." 
 
 " It must be final. Do not let us talk about it any 
 more. Only be friends with me, and believe I am un 
 happy too." 
 
 He did not let go my hand, nor take his eyes from 
 my face, but grew whiter and whiter. 
 
 "Good-bye," I said, pale and trembling. "You 
 ought to go you will be left." 
 
 After a moment more he released my hand ; his 
 lips moved I don t know what he said. We were 
 standing near the parlor door ; Rex jumped up, and be 
 gan to lick his hand. He took a step forward towards 
 the hall, then turned back. 
 
 " The children are asleep ? mayn t I look at them 
 before I go V he said, in an unsteady voice.
 
 216 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 
 
 He knew the way to their room. I stood in the 
 parlor door and \vatched him go along the narrow hall, 
 into the open garret that led to the nursery. He was 
 gone three minutes, perhaps ; when he came back, he 
 looked deadly white. He did not offer to take my 
 hand again or speak to me as he passed me, but the 
 look in his eyes was one that I fain would have for 
 gotten. 
 
 He was gone : the gate latch fell for the last time 
 after him, and I began to feel the full weight of the 
 thing that I had done. I went out on the balcony, and 
 walked restlessly up and down, and tried to think over 
 all the good and sound reasons that had seemed suffi 
 cient for me, half an hour ago. But they didn t seem to 
 me good and sound any longer ; nature cried out against 
 them. What had I done ? I had sent him away from 
 me in the state of mind in which men do rash and awful 
 deeds. There might be a bullet for him, though he had 
 said one never had been found. I thought of his hot 
 Irish blood ; I was afraid for him. What right had I to 
 spoil his life in this way ? Didn t his love for me make 
 some duty for me ? AVere the children and the past all 
 that had any claim upon me? Hadn t I made some 
 grave mistake ? 
 
 I saw Sophia go stealthily in from the balcony to 
 the dining-room. She had been listening outside at the 
 open parlor window, to our parting words. Ah, well, 
 she might listen now. She would never hear anything 
 more. It was all over it was all over ! I said it again 
 and again to myself, leaning my head against the little 
 pillar that supported the balcony roof, where the 
 trumpet creeper twined. The night was utterly star 
 less, and yet there was no mist. There was such a
 
 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 217 
 
 stillness. The surf on the beach was low and faint, 
 like (he pulse of a dying man. I heard no sound at 
 all but that, and for that I had to listen keenly. We 
 were so far from the village, no bustle reached us, if 
 there were any there. I counted the minutes, and 
 wondered if he would reach the train. Oh, if he 
 might not ! If he had to come back, I should tell him 
 that he need not go. Why had I let him go ? I prayed 
 that I might have another chance to see him ; it was 
 not all over, it should not be all over ; I would write, 
 and tell him to come back. Ah, where should I write ? 
 I remembered he had left me no address ; it was even 
 possible, in the haste of his going, and the displeasure 
 at his departure, he had left none with the Emlyns ; it 
 seemed to me as if his brief and bright presence had 
 been like a star in those black heavens, suddenly shoot 
 ing down and being lost in darkness. 
 
 The minutes passed; the village clock had long 
 sounded out nine, and still no coming of the train. It 
 was late ; he would make it ; there was no longer any 
 hope that he might miss it. It was nearly twenty-five 
 minutes after nine when the whistle sounded, sharp and 
 piercing, through the still air. I held my breath during 
 the few moments, till it sounded again ; he had said 
 good-bye to Ned, he had gone into the close and dimly- 
 lighted car, and had thrown himself into a seat. Yes, it 
 was all over, for the train was moving, the whistle 
 sounded clear and distinct across the plain. I could see 
 the lights of the train as it moved along the level country, 
 for half a mile distinctly in my sight. Everything was 
 dark but that moving chain of lights, creeping in silence 
 from me, further and further every instant. A sort of 
 oppression seemed to overpower me, and when the last 
 10
 
 218 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 
 
 light wavered and was swallowed up in darkness, I sank 
 upon a seat, and, burying my face in my hands, said 
 some passionate, incoherent words aloud. 
 
 Sophia s figure appeared in the door-way ; she ap 
 proached me. " Did you call ? Do you want any 
 thing ?" she said. 
 
 I lifted my head and leaned it back upon the vine 
 by which I sat. "No, I did not call you. I don t 
 want anything." 
 
 She looked at me keenly and went back to .her sew 
 ing. She might look her fill now. I did not care who 
 knew. Ah, what had I done ? Had I not been influ 
 enced by others ? Why had I not listened to my heart ? 
 I had thought it was all steadfastness and duty, but how 
 much of it had been concession to the world s opinion ; 
 fear of this terrible strong woman who domineered me 
 so. They had called him an adventurer; how that 
 word had stuck in my mind ! I could not get rid of 
 it ; it was coming up continually. If there had not 
 be.en any such word, I wondered if 1 should have sent 
 him off. How weak I was, how paltry and poor I 
 looked to myself ; how strong and grand his love looked 
 when I compared it. A woman who did not even 
 know her own mind, who could deceive herself so, 
 who could think herself so firm, when her purpose 
 was like shifting sand ! What was the past to me ? I 
 hated it, it wearied me to think of it. Arnold a dear 
 brother, nothing more what feeling had I ever had for 
 him that compared to this? How dull, how shadowy, 
 how pale the past all looked. How childish and imma 
 ture the hopes and pleasures of that time. Why had I 
 not been a woman, and resolute, and known that a love 
 like this had its demands, as well as memories like
 
 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 219 
 
 those ? It had been puerile it had been like a girl in 
 a story-book. I had not risen to the occasion that had 
 come upon me. I had courted self-sacrifice, and had 
 forgotten that I was not sacrificing myself alone. Yes 
 terday it had seemed to me the height of heroism to say 
 I would live for my children and put aside all .that 
 could make life bright to me ; to-night it seemed con 
 temptible. Why could I not have lived for them, and 
 saved him, too, from misery ? 
 
 The cold counsels of yesterday had said it would be 
 cruelty to them to link their future with one of whom 
 I knew so little ; to risk their certain daily bread in the 
 uncertain fortunes of a nameless adventurer. Through 
 much struggle and many straits I had brought them on 
 so far in their life s journey ; in the Providence of God 
 I had now a reasonable certainty of competence and 
 comfort for them. I had no right to throw this away, 
 and put in jeopardy their future : I was bound to give 
 them, being fatherless and helpless, my best care, my 
 whole love. This new protector, with his shrouded past, 
 his uncertain future, his versatile talents, his hot blood 
 what would he make of their lives ? What part even 
 of myself could I give to them, having first given my 
 self to him ? 
 
 All this to-night seemed ungenerous and unworthy. 
 It all seemed to me tainted with a suspicion of his 
 honor. If I had believed in him thoroughly, how I 
 could have listened to such reasoning. And I did 
 believe in him ; what spell had been upon me to decide 
 against him ? I could always have trusted him with my 
 own fate, why not with my children s ? Why had this 
 conviction come so late ? What was duty, what was 
 right ? How could I know what God meant me to do.
 
 220 T THE BROODING DARKNESS. 
 
 ever, if upheavals of purpose such as this came over 
 me ? Ah, poor children, you have a sorry guardian, 
 strong in naught but her repentances ! 
 
 I sat still, leaning my forehead against the vine 
 stein : the tears, usually so ready, did not fall to-night : 
 a weight of lead was on my heart, a fire of suffering in 
 my brain. Each moment that passed took him further 
 and further from me ; the distance between us grew 
 with every second. I stretched out my arms into the 
 thick, dark night ; I prayed rod to let him come back 
 to me ; to save me from this devouring anguish. How 
 could I bear my life ; how would this wound ever heal ? 
 All was so still, so heavy, so fixed, so fated. The air 
 itself stood still ; it seemed to me the ocean, too, was 
 dead, for I heard no longer its faint pulse upon the 
 shore. 
 
 Once only I heard a little sound that startled me. 
 As I leaned my hot forehead against the vine, below 
 me, there was a faint rustling of the lilac bush that 
 grew beside the path, and an instant after, the gate 
 latch was softly lifted, and as softly dropped into its 
 place. I raised my head and looked down, but it was 
 like looking into the eternal abyss ; there was nothing 
 but black darkness a foot beyond the house. I roused 
 myself enough to walk along the balcony and glance 
 into the dining-room. It was not Sophia ; she sat 
 bending over her sewing, slightly rocking, her lips 
 tight pressed together. She had not heard the sound ; 
 it must have been light, indeed, to have escaped her 
 ear. It did not trouble me long ; it must have been 
 some trespasser passing across the yard, coming from 
 the lane. I went back to the chair in which I had been 
 sitting ; physically, I was so weary and overstrained ;
 
 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 221 
 
 mentally, I was so far from any ability to rest or cairn 
 myself. The conflict of feeling did not abate as the 
 night in her swift course moved on. 
 
 Ten o clock struck ; eleven ; twelve. I felt as if 
 years of trial had passed over me, and yet the hours 
 were not slow. A bitter feeling seemed to grow upon 
 me. At last I forced myself to rise and go into the 
 house. I hated the thought of the house, and the four 
 walls pressing in upon me. The black, midnight sky 
 had seemed less gloomy. But I must take up the 
 burden of daily life and nightly care again. My lip 
 curled with a bitter contempt for my puerile round of 
 duties, having left the great one so undone. I must 
 put out the parlor lamp, lock the front door, see that the 
 windows on the balcony were fastened. But as I 
 passed the dining-room, I saw that Sophia still was 
 there, by the lamp, stitching relentlessly, and not look 
 ing up. I knew she often sewed half the night ; it was 
 not unusual ; fall clothes for the children were now in 
 hand, and she bent her whole mind upon the work of 
 each season as it came. Still, I knew she would not 
 leave me up ; suspicion, curiosity, both would oblige 
 her to see me fastened in my room. 
 
 When I came into the parlor, I sank down into the 
 large chair by the table that I had wheeled up for Mac- 
 nally to sit down in. Three hours ago ! It seemed a 
 lifetime, and yet but a moment. The irrevocable three 
 hours ; what a gulf of space that had put between us, 
 widening every moment ; he speeding on into the night, 
 in that chain of moving lights ; I purpose-weak, bound, 
 left behind helpless in the dark stagnation of the life that 
 1 had chosen. The hands of the clock moved on an 
 other half hour. The lamp took the law into its own
 
 222 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 
 
 Lands and went out. Only a faint light came in froir 
 the dining-room across the hall. Sophia, who had moved 
 restlessly about to attract my attention for some little 
 time, now came in at the parlor door. 
 
 " Ann Day went away without her money this even 
 ing," she said, in a hard, practical way that grated on me 
 unbearably. 
 
 I was leaning back in the chair, my eyes shut. I 
 did not open them, but said " did she ?" in a tone of in 
 difference that seemed to make her angry. She went 
 about slamming the shutters, fastening the door; pres 
 ently she said, taking her lamp in her hand : 
 
 " It is half past twelve o clock." 
 
 " I heard it strike," I answered, not moving, nor 
 even opening my eyes. She went away angry. I de 
 fied her so far as I was capable of having any feeling 
 toward her. She had done me all the ill she could ; 
 she would never trouble me again. My long strain 
 had exhausted me. I lay back listless in my chair : 
 several minutes passed, I heard her moving about in 
 the open chamber outside the nursery, closing the one 
 small window in it. Then I heard her go up the attic 
 stairs, and walk across the bare floor to the end of the 
 rough, empty space, where the Indian woman slept. I 
 knew she always went up there, before she went to bed 
 herself, to see that the woman had put out her light 
 and left the scuttle safe in case a shower should come 
 up in the night. She came down, and shut the door 
 of the stair-way. Then she went to the door of the 
 kitchen stair-way, and tried it. I heard her mutter 
 angrily something about the woman having left it open. 
 She shot the bolt with wrath, and then went on into 
 the nursery.
 
 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 223 
 
 A moment, perhaps two, passed, and then a shriek, 
 the most agonizing and blood-curdling that human voice 
 ever uttered, smote my ear. I started bewildered to my 
 feet and grasped the table for support. Another, and 
 another, then a silence ; I could not move, my limbs 
 had no power in them, I seemed under a spell. An 
 other moment, and Sophia stood in the door-way, hold 
 ing a light in her hand ; her face was horrible to look 
 at, white, stricken, with eyes that blazed with evil, 
 evil fire. 
 
 " Come and see," she said in tones that hissed, 
 " come and see your lover s work." 
 
 I did not move. She darted towards me seized my 
 wrist with a grasp of steel, and dragged me on into the 
 open chamber. 
 
 " Come with me, come with. "me and see," she kept 
 repeating wildly. 
 
 But at the nursery door her grasp relaxed, she fell 
 down shuddering in a sort of swoon ; the light fell with 
 her and went out. I stood on the threshold, in utter 
 darkness ; I could not even see the outline of the nurs 
 ery window, though it had stood wide open. It was 
 the nursery lamp that Sophia had held : that in the din 
 ing-room she had put out. My thoughts would not 
 come ; where were the matches kept, how should I get 
 a light ? A sort of paralysis came over me, I didn t 
 know what to do, I could not have done it at that in 
 stant if I had. I didn t know what I feared. I grasped 
 the door-post with my hand my feet were against the 
 senseless body of Sophia lying stretched across the 
 threshold. There was such a stillness, such an inky 
 darkness. I don t know how many minutes it was be 
 fore I regained intelligence and force enough to decide
 
 22-t IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 
 
 where and how I should get a light. I could remember 
 no place where the matches stood but in ray own room. 
 I put out my hands and guided myself by the rough 
 boarding across the chamber, to my door. I stumbled 
 over something lying just inside it ; trembling and al 
 most senseless with fear, I put down my hand. It was 
 only an overturned foot-stool. I was in the presence of 
 I knew not what horror ; my hand might touch it the 
 next minute. I groped along to the dressing-table 
 where the match-box stood ; too bewildered to be care 
 ful I guided my hand badly, and struck over a china 
 vase which fell with a crash to the iloor ; the sound 
 seemed frightful to me in my excited state. I listened 
 for some terrible result. 
 
 " It will wake the children," I thought ; but a 
 heavy, dumb silence fell. I could hear the beating of 
 my heart. At last 1 reached the matches, but my 
 hand shook so, I could not make a light till I had tried 
 many times. The candle stood near another mo 
 ment and the faint, reassuring light nickered under 
 my eyes. I looked around. There was the over 
 turned footstool and the broken vase ; there was 
 nothing else out of place. I must go to the children. 
 It was in the nursery that Sophia had uttered that 
 iirst awful shriek; ah! what was I to see? The chil 
 dren 1 must get to them. 
 
 I made my way back across the open chamber to 
 where Sophia lay. Where was Ilex ? why did he not 
 bark ( why was it so awfully still \ As I went, the 
 faintly-lighted candle nickered with the motion, and 
 threatened to go out. I put my hand before it. 
 Sophia had struck her arm as she fell ; there was a lit 
 tle trickle of blood across the hand that lay outstretched
 
 IN THE BROODING DARKNESS. 225 
 
 upon the sill. I stepped over it, and stood inside the 
 room. Breathlessly I held up the candle, and glanced 
 around. It was all in the order in which I had left it 
 four hours before ; nothing seemed out of place. 
 There were Maidy s shoes upon the chair, acd Baby s 
 snowy, folded clothes, and the tiny sack hanging on 
 the back; the sponges, the towels, all as I had seen 
 them then. Had Sophia lost her reason ? What mys 
 tery was I surrounded by ? 
 
 I drew a deeper breath, but with a palpitating heart 
 came near the children s cribs. I saw the blankets 
 were disarranged ; Baby lay half-uncovered. I went in 
 between the cribs, and stooped down eagerly, holding 
 the candle low. 
 
 There lay my Baby ; her little head thrown back 
 upon the pillow, her lips apart, her limbs drawn up ; 
 around her slender throat a slight darkening of the flesh, 
 as of a violent, compressing hand. The arm that lay 
 upon the coverlid was strangely cold. I put my hand 
 upon her heart ; the flesh was cold ; there was no motion. 
 I held the flame before her lips ; it did not flicker. 
 
 Maidy s body lay outstretched, her face down upon 
 the pillow, which was bent about it, as if it had been 
 held together ; her curls were tangled and torn, a great 
 handful of loose hair lay upon the blanket ; her arms, 
 relaxed, lay at her sides. She was quite cold. 
 10*
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE COURT-ROOM. 
 
 " From its intensity of aim 
 
 Our whole life aimless seemed ; 
 The very stern reality 
 Made us almost think we dreamed." 
 
 Fdber. 
 
 "COLONEL, we re all ready now, if you ll tell the 
 \J carriage to come round ; it is quite time," and 
 Sophia opened the door, and put her head into the next 
 room to the one \vhere I sat. It was a large, old-fashioned 
 room, with a low ceiling. The furniture was common 
 and plain, such as one usually finds in country inns. 
 An air-tight stove filled with hard coal, made the air 
 detestable. It was quite unnecessary, for it was only 
 October, and the day was not unusually cold. It had 
 been lighted, however, for my comfort, and I did not 
 think of making a complaint. The colonel came anx 
 iously forward into the room, followed by his wife. 
 
 " The carriage is at the door," he said. " Now take 
 my arm. Do you think you feel quite able ?" 
 
 Mrs. Emlyn was looking at me with unspeakable 
 solicitude. Sophia went upon the other side of me, 
 her eyes upon my face with leaden scrutiny. 
 
 " Put that other bottle of salts in your pocket," she 
 [226]
 
 THE COUKT-KOOM. 227 
 
 said, looking back at Mrs. Emlyn, who had fallen be 
 hind ; " it s best to be on the safe side ; we might get 
 separated." 
 
 The colonel leaned down every minute to look at 
 me. It gave me a feeling of dreadful irritation to be 
 so watched. AVhen we got into the lower hall, and* 
 were going towards the front door, Sophia took hold 
 of my veil. 
 
 " Aren t you going to put it down ?" she said. 
 
 My arm was over it. I held it tight in its position, 
 and made no answer. Outside there were only a few 
 people standing about ; they had not known that we 
 were there. The colonel put me in the carriage, his 
 wife beside me, Sophia and himself on the seat oppo 
 site. The fresh air revived me ; I leaned back and 
 looked out. It was a strange village, or rather town ; 
 the county town, in fact ; there were a good many shops, 
 and some pretentious houses with cupolas and bay- 
 windows close to the street. It seems all very quiet ; 
 there was very little stir. 
 
 " Did she eat any breakfast ?" said the colonel, in 
 a low tone, to Sophia. 
 
 Sophia shook her head. " She won t make the 
 effort. There is no use in talking to her." 
 
 Mrs. Emlyii made her an imperious sign to stop. 
 She was the only one who understood that I needed to 
 be let alone. My eyes rested on Sophia s face, while 
 she covered her annoyance by busying herself taking a 
 key oft a bunch that she took out from her pocket. 
 Her black clothes made her face look very pale, and 
 her hair, which, a month ago, had been but very slightly 
 gray, was now as white as snow. There were dark 
 circles round her eyes ; her face was most striking ;
 
 228 THE COURT-ROOM. 
 
 her lips bacl a feverish look ; there were deep lines 
 about her tirm-set mouth. 
 
 The kind colonel looked ageJ and worn. His man 
 ner was a little flurried, though he spoke with great 
 coolness and precision. Mrs. Etnlyn had a look of such 
 intense self -repression that it was painful to meet her 
 eye. She spoke little, and seemed ever to be guarding 
 me from the words of others. 
 
 When we approached the court-house, I saw why 
 the rest of the town had seemed quiet. Vehicles of 
 all sorts and kinds stood thick around it ; all the posts, 
 and fences, and trees in sight, had horses tied to them. 
 Men were coming and going in through the wide open 
 door, boys were swarming round the windows, looking 
 in. We drove to a side door, and no one noticed us. 
 An officious deputy in black clothes, who had been 
 waiting for us, came forward alertly, and opened the 
 door of the carriage. 
 
 " All right, this way," he said. 
 
 I put down my great sweeping crape veil, and 
 Sophia looked relieved. 
 
 " This way," he said, going forward. " Would the 
 lady like a glass of water ?" he added, as we entered a 
 sort of ante-room. I shook my head. 
 
 " It s always handy in the court-room," he said. " I 
 always keep it handy. You ve only to look at me if 
 you feel faint, and you ll have a glass of water quick as 
 wink." 
 
 " She isn t going to feel faint," said Mrs. Emlyn, 
 standing between him and me. 
 
 " Of course not, of course not," he said. " Only it 
 wouldn t be to wonder at after all she has gone through." 
 
 Then he went forward and cleared the way for us ;
 
 THE COUKT-EOOM. 229 
 
 he seemed to do everything with so much satisfaction 
 to himself, with such a clerkly zeal. I don t clearly 
 
 t/ / 
 
 know what happened for a few moments after this. 
 My veil was so oppressive that after, in a great hush, I 
 had been led to my seat, with the colonel on one side and 
 Sophia on the other, I verified their prognostications, 
 and began to feel deadly ill. 
 
 " It is only the veil," I tried to say to the colonel, 
 who bent nervously over me. 
 
 " Take the d d thing off," he whispered hoarse 
 ly to Sophia, who was thrusting sal volatile in my 
 face. 
 
 She threw the veil back ; the deputy rushed forward 
 with his glass of water. Somebody opened a window 
 beside me : in a moment I was better. I motioned to 
 Sophia to sit down. She twitched the colonel s coat 
 and he sat down too. There was a great hush again. 
 
 We had come in through a side door, and were led 
 along in front of where the jury sat, past the raised 
 platform of the judge, to some seats in a railed-off space, 
 corresponding to that in which they sat. Between us 
 and the jury was the judge s platform. I could not see 
 the faces of the jurors. On each hand of the judge sat 
 a side judge, a justice of the peace. Below this plat 
 form, on a level with us, was the clerk s desk. In front 
 of this, and running half the width of the room, was a 
 long table, at which the lawyers sat. All this was railed 
 off from the room ; beyond were tiers of seats, packed 
 with people, rows and rows of faces turned towards us. 
 The aisle was filled with men and women standing ; 
 the door-way was crammed with heads. 
 
 It was the second day of the trial. The day before 
 the prisoner had been arraigned at the bar ; hud pleaded
 
 230 THE COUET-EOOM. 
 
 not guilty ; the day had been consumed in the impan 
 elling of the jury. This morning the examination of 
 the witnesses was to begin. 
 
 The first witness called was Sophia Atkinson. 
 When her name sounded, I began to come out of the 
 haze of confusion consequent upon my faintness, and 
 the entering upon such a strange scene. Sophia grew 
 a little white, and I saw her nostrils dilate convulsively ; 
 but she got up without looking at any one, and walked 
 with a firm step along in front of the lawyers table to 
 the witness-box, which was at the right of the judge s 
 platform, in front of the jury. This was raised some 
 what above our level, but not to the height of the 
 platform. When she took her seat, however, I could 
 still see her face. The prosecuting attorney stood up 
 in his place, which was at the right end of the lawyers 
 table, and began examining her. She answered in a 
 firm voice, from which, after the first sentence or two, 
 all huskiness of agitation disappeared. After being 
 sworn and giving her name, he asked her place of resi 
 dence. 
 
 " South Berwick, in the old house known as Dot- 
 mold s, on the main road, half a mile up from the 
 beach." 
 
 " How long have you lived there ?" 
 
 " Since the nineteenth of May last." 
 
 " What is your occupation ?" 
 
 " I am a nurse." 
 
 " How long have you been in the family in which 
 you now live as nurse 2" 
 
 " Since my fourteenth year ; I am now thirty-three 
 years old." 
 
 The lawyer, who was blond and bland, waved his
 
 THE COURT-ROOM. 231 
 
 hand : " Only answer the questions put you. You 
 have been there nineteen years then, I understand ?" 
 
 " Nineteen years," said Sophia, briefly. 
 
 " Look at the prisoner at the bar, and tell me if you 
 know him." 
 
 I followed Sophia s glance ; it went straight to 
 the table where the lawyers were, at the end near our 
 seats. I had not seen him before, in the confusion of 
 faces and voices around me. Her eyes and mine fell 
 on him at the same moment. lie sat with his back 
 towards the railing, against which the people pressed ; 
 his head was bent down ; he leaned a little on the 
 table; his face was turned towards the witness-box. 
 She must have met his glance full, but she never 
 quailed. 
 
 "I know him," she said. 
 
 " How long have you known him ?" 
 
 " Since the second or third of June last." 
 
 " How often have you been in the habit of seeing 
 him since then 2" 
 
 " Every day ; sometimes two or three times a 
 day." 
 
 " Have you seen him in the house, or in the street, 
 or where ?" 
 
 " I have seen him principally in the house, where 
 he came every day." 
 
 " Can you tell me why he came there every day ?" 
 
 " To see my mistress, I suppose." 
 
 "When did these visits begin? As early as the 
 second or third of June ?" 
 
 " They began then, but they did not become daily 
 till a fortnight later, I should think." 
 
 " Did he generally come alone ?"
 
 232 THE COUET-EOOM. 
 
 "Sometimes alone, sometimes with the Ernlyn 
 children, whom he taught." 
 
 O 
 
 "How did he occupy himself during these visits at 
 the house?" 
 
 " Laughing and talking with her and with the chil 
 dren ; more often with her alone." 
 
 " Did she go out with him alone ? 
 
 " Never that I can recollect." 
 
 "How did your mistress seem to receive these 
 visits ?" 
 
 " She seemed to like them ; she was always friends 
 with him." 
 
 " Did she have any disagreement with him ever 
 any quarrel ?" 
 
 "Never any quarrel that I can remember." 
 
 " State anything that you can recollect about what 
 occurred at any of these visits ; what you noticed be 
 tween them ; in his manner to her, for instance." 
 
 " Well, he was always making excuses to come ; 
 he was always bringing her her letters from the office, 
 or shells or things for the children, or some message 
 from the other house. He always seemed to be follow 
 ing her about with his eyes, and to be trying to keep 
 her attention to himself when there was anybody else 
 in the room. He acted like a man that wants to make 
 a woman like him." 
 
 " How did she treat him kindly ?" 
 
 " I object," said the prisoner s counsel, rising. 
 
 " On what grounds ?" the judge asked. 
 
 " On the ground of irrelevancy ; it is too remote, at 
 least." 
 
 " What have you to say in favor of your objection ? 
 I will hear you on that point, Mr. Hardinge."
 
 THE COUET-EOOM. 2-03 
 
 " "Well, sir, in the first place, what lias tliis lady s 
 treatment of the prisoner got to do with the murder of 
 these children ? The lady is not on trial here. This is 
 the trial of Bernard Macnally. If she treated him well, 
 that does not show us any motive for the killing of her 
 children. My learned brother doesn t offer to show 
 that she and the prisoner were at enmity. lie has 
 proved the contrary by this witness. In his opening 
 yesterday, he disclosed no purpose of that sort. This 
 evidence is too remote. It puts the mother of the mur 
 dered children on trial. I am not retained to defend 
 her." 
 
 The blond and bland prosecutor looked nettled. He 
 had a skin that showed his emotions ; besides, his coun 
 try breeding gave him less hardihood in argument. 
 His opponent, the prisoner s counsel, was a lawyer of 
 eminence, a close thinker, an adroit pleader, hardened 
 by years of city practice. It was like putting half a 
 dozen green, strong, strapping, country fellows against 
 a trained, professional wrestler. He could throw them 
 all into a heap, and walk unlimping off the field. Mr. 
 Bell had plenty of help, but he knew he needed it, and 
 he felt unpleasantly that his trials were beginning early, 
 in the examination of hia very first witness. 
 
 Mr. Hardinge was a man of middle size, rather 
 slight than stout. He was probably not more than 
 forty-five years old, though his moustache and hair were 
 very grizzled, while his well-drawn eyebrows were still 
 quite black. His head was admirably shaped, his fea 
 tures regular. His eyes were dark and very penetrat 
 ing ; he had a manner which, it must be confessed, was, 
 professionally, offensive. There was a terrible hardness 
 about him, a*d his opponents always prepared for the
 
 234 THE COURT-KOOM. 
 
 worst. The liglit-liaired and suffused Mr. Bell felt bel 
 ligerent to his fingers ends. Mr. Hardinge seemed to 
 feel nothing. 
 
 " Your Honor? said Mr. Bell, when the judge indi 
 cated to him that he would hear his reply, " I propose 
 to show that this lady and the prisoner were on terms 
 of intimacy ; that that intimacy had ripened into an 
 affection, which was mutual. I propose to show what 
 was in her heart,, as well as what was in his." 
 
 " There you propose to show too much," retorted 
 Mr. Hardinge. " The jury will have to wait till the 
 day of judgment to know that." 
 
 Prosecuting attorney. " My theory, if I can be 
 allowed to state it without interruption, is that the pris 
 oner at the bar committed this crime, to rid himself of 
 the only obstacle in the way of gaining the woman 
 whom he sought. I will show this before I have got 
 through with the witness on the stand, if, as I say, I 
 can be permitted to go on." 
 
 Mr. Hardinge. " This prosecution, your Honor, 
 had its origin in a public clamor for the life of the 
 prisoner ; race prejudices are all against him, enemies 
 have been fanning the flame, senseless stories have 
 
 o / 
 
 been set afloat, which it shall be my care to show at 
 their true value. I am glad to see, at this early date, 
 that the theory of the prosecution is breaking down 
 by its own weight. No counsel, however ingenious, 
 could carry far such a burden of, I will not say incon 
 gruities, but impossibilities, as is here presented to the 
 jury. A man, in sound mind (I do not set up the 
 plea of madness for my client, though my brother of 
 the prosecution offers it to me so gratuitously), a man 
 in sound mind, educated, refined, and of apparently
 
 THE COUET-KOOM. 235 
 
 high moral character, proposes to himself to take the 
 life of a child, whom he knows to be a part of the very 
 existence of its mother, to gain a stronger hold upon 
 the affections of that mother ! Your Honor, does this 
 theory commend itself to your intelligence ? I fancy 
 the stubborn, solid, common sense of Sutphen county 
 will revolt at this. I fancy it will take more legal in 
 genuity than the century has yet developed, to prove 
 to the minds of this jury that a man might devise to 
 himself the wisdom of cutting off the left hand of his 
 mistress, that she might more trustingly put in his her 
 right ! Tho proposed testimony shows, at most, that the 
 prisoner had no motive for the commission of the 
 crime." 
 
 Prosecuting Attorney. "Then I contend it is 
 admissible." 
 
 Defendant s Counsel. " On the contrary, we will 
 prove the want of motive in the prisoner. That is our 
 affair. You have no retainer from the prisoner to pre 
 sent his case. It is the part of the prosecution to prove 
 an adequate motive for the commission of the crime, 
 and the part of the defence to show a want of motive." 
 
 Judge. " I will sustain the objection so far as to 
 disallow the question in this form. The witness can 
 state what she has seen." 
 
 Attorney for tJie Prosecution. "State what you 
 have ever seen or heard during his visits." 
 
 Witness. " Well, she always was pleasant." 
 
 Attorney. " When he brought her flowers or pres 
 ents, was she much affected by it ?" 
 
 Witness. " I don t remember that he ever brought 
 her any."
 
 236 THE COURT-ROOM. 
 
 Attorney. "When he didn t come, or anything 
 like that, did she seem disappointed and unhappy ?" 
 
 Witness. "I don t remember any time that he 
 didn t come. He was always coming." 
 
 (A faint ripple of amusement through the court 
 room.) 
 
 I saw that, in a certain sense, Sophia was loyal to 
 me. Much as she hated and desired to ruin Macnally, 
 she would never degrade me, according to her view, to 
 the attitude of having favored him ; throughout she 
 would make him my rejected suitor. The attorney 
 asked her several more questions which I have forgot 
 ten, all aiming at establishing my preference for him. 
 Sophia stubbornly put me forward as amiable and 
 gentle, " kind to a visitor, as any lady would be," but 
 her memory served her for nothing beyond that noth 
 ing. He finally gave up the matter and told her to state 
 where she was, and how occupied, on the evening of the 
 second of September. 
 
 " State, in your own words, all that you remember 
 of what happened after you had put the children to bed 
 on the evening of that day." 
 
 " The children were both asleep before the clock 
 struck seven. I put the nursery in order, as I always 
 do. Then I went down-stairs, and told the Indian wo 
 man to go up to bed early, for she had been out late 
 the night before, and looked very sleepy. She was sit 
 ting by the fire. The supper things were all washed 
 up, and the kitchen looked tidy. I told her to be sure 
 and shut all the doors fast when she went up. I gen 
 erally tell her that. I trust her to shut up always. 
 Then I took my sewing, and went into the dining- 
 room, which adjoins the nursery, and sat down by the
 
 THE COURT-ROOM. 237 
 
 lamp. The door was shut that goes into the nursery 
 from the dining-room, but all the other doors on that 
 floor were open. It was a hot night. I shut that door 
 because I didn t want the children to be disturbed by 
 the light, or by any noise that I might make. About 
 the time that it struck eight, I remember noticing that 
 my mistress was moving about in the other room, the 
 parlor, on the other side of the little entry. She went 
 into the nursery after a few minutes and staid there a 
 considerable time, I should think twenty minutes. Then 
 I heard her come back and sit down in the parlor, and 
 for a good little piece all was quiet. Then I heard the 
 gate open, and somebody come up the steps. I looked 
 out of the dining-room door, and saw the prisoner as he 
 came in at the front door. lie looked very pale and 
 bad. I knew he was going away for good that night 
 by the train. I had heard Naomi Emlyn say so. He 
 went into the parlor, and I heard their voices, talking, 
 for some minutes. I couldn t hear what either of them 
 said, I was too far off. After a little while, my mis 
 tress came quickly into the dining-room, and went to 
 the sideboard and poured out a glass of wine and hur 
 ried out with it. She looked frightened. I laid down 
 my sewing, and went out on the balcony. I saw her 
 give it to him, and saw that he was lying back in the 
 big chair, looking very ill. She stood before him ; I 
 couldn t see her face, nor hear what she said, because 
 her back was to the window, outside of which I stood, 
 and they were over the far side of the room. Presently 
 lie seemed better, and she sat down by the table near 
 him. She looked very sad, and as if she was sorry for 
 him. He looked dreadfully cut up. They talked, but 
 I didn t hear anything they said. Presently she looked
 
 238 THE COURT-ROOM. 
 
 up at the clock, and then lie got up, and then she. He 
 said Good-bye. He looked awfully. They had then 
 moved nearer the window, and I could hear what both 
 of them said distinctly. I heard him say, Why must 
 I go? I heard her say, l You must go, but don t go 
 without being friends with me. Then he said some 
 thing that 1 didn t understand ; and then he said, It is 
 your children stand between us, you cannot say it is not. 
 You aren t willing to trust them to me, whatever you 
 might be willing for yourself. His voice fell then ; he 
 said something that I couldn t hear, and she did too. 
 Then I heard her say, Good-bye. You ought to go, 
 you will be left. He let go her hand, which he had 
 had hold of, and took a step or two into the entry. 
 Then I heard him say, The children are asleep ? 
 Mayn t I look at them before I go ? Then I heard 
 him go through the hall, and into the room that leads 
 into the nursery. He was gone about three minutes, 
 I should think ; it seemed to me a gcod while, but the 
 clock hadn t struck nine yet, and the train w r ent at nine 
 fifteen. Tliat was why I noticed. I thought he meant 
 to get left. When he came out, I was standing behind 
 the blind door, which was standing part way open I 
 mean, not folded back against the house. He could 
 not see me. I looked through it right into the entry. 
 He came from the open chamber into the hall. My 
 mistress stood in the door of the parlor, half in the 
 hall, waiting for him. He looked as white as a sheet. 
 He did not offer to take her hand again, or to say good 
 bye over, as I thought he d have been sure to do. He 
 just looked at her, a kind of desperate look, and passed 
 right by her, and went out, pushing the blind door back.
 
 THE COUET-EOOM. 239 
 
 and down the steps, and through the gate, and out into 
 the road." 
 
 There had been the deep hush of intense listening 
 over the whole court-room. As her voice dropped, and 
 she paused, there was the faint sound of breaths drawn 
 deep, of heads lifted excitement at its climax. 
 
 " You say the clock had not struck nine then ?" 
 
 " No, it struck just after he went down the steps. I 
 thought he d barely reach the train, I remember. I 
 went back into the dining-room and took up my sewing. 
 I forgot to say, just before he came into the house, it 
 must have been half past eight about, I heard the woman 
 go up-stairs to bed. I remember the time particularly, 
 because I looked up at the clock and said to myselt, 
 she wouldn t have been in bed till ten if it hadn t been 
 for the fair and festival of the night before. I wondered 
 to myself when she came up the kitchen stairs, if she 
 hadn t been too sleepy to put out the fire. I heard her 
 go up the attic stairs ; I heard her moving about over 
 my head ; she sleeps at the end of the garret that is 
 over the dining-room. In a few minutes all was quiet, 
 and I never heard another sound from there." 
 
 "Did your mistress go back into the parlor? De 
 scribe what followed the departure of the prisoner." 
 
 " She didn t go back into the parlor. She went out 
 on the balcony. I went on with my sewing. I heard 
 the whistle of the train as it went off ; I sat and sewed 
 a long time. Once or twice I got up, and looked out 
 of the window. I didn t leave the dining-room that 
 evening except once to go on the balcony and see 
 if she wanted me. I heard the clock strike ten, then 
 eleven, then twelve. I had a piece of work that I 
 wanted very much to finish."
 
 240 THE COURT-ROOM. 
 
 " Do you often sit up as late as that ?" 
 
 " Yes, when I arn busy with anything I have in 
 hand ; sometimes a good deal later." 
 
 "During this time you did not hear any sound about 
 the house ?" 
 
 " I heard nothing at all. It was a still night. There 
 wasn t any wind. I have very quick ears." 
 
 " How about your mistress ? Did she go in the 
 house ?" 
 
 " Never, once. If she had gone in, I couldn t have 
 helped seeing her pass the dining-room door. If she 
 had gone down the steps, I couldn t have helped hearing 
 her." 
 
 " What was she doing there, all those three hours ?" 
 
 " Sitting still and resting, I suppose. She couldn t 
 have been reading ; there wasn t light enough. It was 
 a hot night. The balcony was the pleasantest place to 
 be." 
 
 " Did she seem unhappy, depressed ?" 
 
 " Couldn t say." 
 
 " Didn t you have any conversation with her ; didn t 
 you speak to her at all ?" 
 
 " I asked her if she wanted anything ; she said she 
 didn t ; that was all that passed between us." 
 
 " About what time did she go into the house ?" 
 
 " A little after twelve, I should think." 
 
 " Relate what occurred after she went in." 
 
 " She went into the parlor and sat down. The lamp 
 had gone out there ; she sat in the dark. After a little 
 while I got up and went into the room, and said some 
 thing to her about the house, I think. She didn t seem, 
 to take much interest. Then I went about and began 
 to shut up. I thought she ought to be going to bed ;
 
 THE COURT-ROOM. 
 
 it s bad for people to sit up so late, when they haven t 
 any work to do and can just as well go to bed as not. 
 After I had shut up the front part of the house, I went 
 up-stairs, and saw the Indian woman fast asleop in her 
 bed. Then I went to the rear of the open chamber, and 
 fastened the window. It was then half past twelve. I 
 had heard the clock strike, and had told her, to remind 
 her it was time to go to bed. I found the nursery in 
 order, as I left it. I moved around a little, putting 
 away my work, and getting out something from the 
 closet. By and by I lifted the lamp from the corner 
 where it stood, behind a screen, and went over towards 
 the children s cribs, to look at them as I always do, the 
 last thing before I go to bed." 
 
 A choking sound rose in the woman s throat ; she 
 stopped speaking, bent her head down a little, and with 
 her hand beat nervously upon the arm of the chair in 
 which she sat. A low murmur of sympathy came from 
 the women in the crowd of listeners. I knew she was 
 making a stern fight for self-control, and I knew, too, 
 that she would conquer. Presently she lifted her head, 
 and went on in a steady voice. 
 
 " I went to the little one first ; she sleeps on the out 
 side, so I can get at her easiest; the oldest little girl s 
 crib is in the corner ; there is room to pass in between 
 the two cribs. I saw she wasn t as I left her. My 
 first thought was she had had a fit or something. Her 
 little legs were drawn up as if she had a hard pain, her 
 head was way back on the pillow, her mouth was open 
 she looked as children do in convulsions, except that 
 she hadn t that drawn look about the face. I put down 
 the light and seized her in my arms. I felt as I touched 
 her that she was very cold. I don t know what I did 
 11
 
 24:2 THE COUET-EOOM. 
 
 ~ T 
 
 then for a minute, my thought was she had had a fit. 
 I didn t see the mark on her throat that I saw after 
 wards. I was in such a sort of taking for a second I 
 didn t know which way to turn. I had a feeling I 
 must get her in a hot bath. I was afraid to tell her 
 mother. I generally do everything for them myself. 
 I caught up the lamp and ran towards the stove to light 
 the fire. As I passed the crib where the other little 
 girl was, I don t know how it happened I looked at her. 
 I wasn t thinking about her. I saw something was 
 wrong with her she was lying on her face the pillow 
 was jammed about her head ; she couldn t breathe the 
 way she lay. I ran in between the cribs and felt of her 
 little arm that lay outside the covers it was as cold as 
 Baby s was. Her ha ir was torn and tangled. Some of 
 it that had been torn out in the struggle was lying on 
 the blanket and caught in the sleeve of my dress I found 
 it there next day. I didn t know what I was doing 
 then. I ran out of the room and called their mother 
 to come in ; my screaming frightened her so, she did not 
 move, but stood still, shaking. I caught her by the 
 hand and dragged her towards the room. Before I got 
 there, I fell down in a faint, and I don t know anything 
 that happened after that for a good while." 
 
 There was a pause : you could have heard the rustle 
 of a leaf. 
 
 "Tell us what you remember when you came to 
 your senses." 
 
 " I was lying just where I fell : Matilda, the Shinne- 
 cock woman, was crying over me. I saw people in the 
 room. The first person I saw to know was the doctor ; 
 lie was stooping down over the baby. The mother of 
 the children sat there between the two little cribs ; her
 
 THE COUKT-ROOM. 243 
 
 head leaned against the wall : she was like ashes ; she 
 had a hand on each of the cribs. She looked at every 
 body that came near. I thought she was going to die. 
 I got up and tried to go to her. After that I can t 
 remember very much, my head felt so light, and I 
 couldn t seem to think of the same thing long at a 
 time." 
 
 " Throw your mind back, and recall, if you please, 
 some of the incidents of that day. Who came to the 
 house ?" 
 
 " The grocer s man came twice, and a boy from the 
 Neck with fish, Matilda s boy, if I remember right. 
 There was a woman also, who comes every week to 
 wash ; she came at seven o clock, and went away late 
 in the afternoon. And old Andrew was there for a 
 couple of hours in the morning, splitting wood. That 
 was all, except a man who came along and asked for 
 something to eat. Matilda gave him something, and he 
 went off down the lane. Oh, yes ; Naomi Ernlyn 
 came after breakfast; and their man stopped at the 
 gate to bring some letters, which hadn t come the night 
 before. There was nobody else that I can recollect." 
 
 " That is all," said Mr. Bell, sitting down, with a 
 glance in the direction of the prisoner s counsel. 
 
 Mr. Hardinge got up to cross-examine her ; he was 
 very deliberate. He put his hand on the back of a 
 chair, glanced at some memoranda that lay before him, 
 and turned toward Sophia. 
 
 " You have said, I think, that you have known the 
 prisoner since the early part of June ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Your relations with him during this time were 
 pleasant ?"
 
 244: THE GOUET-EOOM. 
 
 "I didn t have any relations with him. I didn t 
 have anything at all to do with him." 
 
 " How was that, seeing him so often ?" 
 
 "I don t hold I m bound to have pleasant relations 
 with everybody that I see very often." 
 
 " Well, I suppose you mean us to understand by 
 that, you weren t an admirer of his, exactly ?" 
 
 " You may understand what you like." 
 
 " Your sex are sometimes hard to understand. 
 Here is a young gentleman, of good address and high 
 breeding, coming to the house every day. He was 
 civil, I ve no doubt, to everybody in it. Why didn t 
 he please you, if I may ask the question ?" 
 
 " I don t admit there was any such person as you 
 describe coming to the house every day." 
 
 " Then describe the person that did come, if you 
 can do it more correctly. You certainly had better 
 opportunities for judging." 
 
 " A common Irishman, lifting his eyes to his bet 
 ters, was the man I saw ; and I saw him for nothing 
 else, from the first time that he darkened the door till 
 the last time that he went out of it, leaving our chil 
 dren dead behind him." 
 
 Sophia s words fairly hissed ; her angry eyes were 
 fixed defiantly on the lawyer, whom already she de 
 tested. 
 
 " Can you in any way account for this aversion ?" 
 he said. 
 
 "We can t always account for the way we feel 
 towards people," she returned, rendering it, by a glance, 
 a personal tribute to her interlocutor. 
 
 "Was he presuming overbearing in his manner 
 towards you ?"
 
 THE COURT-KOOM. 245 
 
 " I should think not ; lie wouldn t have tried that 
 twice, yon may be very certain." 
 
 "Was he ever disrespectful to yonr mistress?" 
 
 " Disrespectful ! In one sense, no ; in another, 
 yes." 
 
 " Explain to me both senses, will you ?" 
 
 " He wasn t disrespectful in his way of talking to 
 her ; if she had been the queen, he couldn t have been 
 humbler. lie was disrespectful in daring to speak to 
 her at all, in daring to come near her, in daring to 
 think she might possibly look at a low fellow such 
 as he." 
 
 " Then you know something to his disadvantage ? 
 Something about his birth and parentage ?" 
 
 "No, I don t know anything about them. I don t 
 want to know. I ve got my eyes and all my senses, 
 and that s enough for me." 
 
 " But we re after facts just now. If he wasn t 
 uncivil to you, nor disrespectful in his way of talking 
 to your mistress, perhaps he was unkind and irritable 
 with the children, and that turned you against him ?" 
 
 " No, he knew too much for that. He always had 
 them after him. He was petting them enough to make 
 you sick." 
 
 " The instincts of children are said to be correct. 
 How did the children act towards him? Did they 
 show any of the aversion that one might be led to look 
 for?" 
 
 " No, I can t say they did." 
 
 " Never from the first ?" 
 
 " No ; little things like them couldn t know much 
 about the real character of people ; they liked to be 
 petted ; natural enough they sliould."
 
 246 THE COUKT-EOOM. 
 
 " Perhaps lie bribed them and brought them toys 
 and sugar plums ?" 
 
 " I never saw them, if he did." 
 
 " Then their great fondness for him was just the re 
 sult of his kind and affectionate ways with them ?" 
 
 " I don t say what it was the result of." 
 
 There was a wrangle of objections several times 
 during her examination, but the judge did not sus 
 tain them, and Mr. Hardinge, with a look of sat 
 isfaction, glanced down again at his memoranda, and 
 resumed. 
 
 " I understood you to say, the night of the murder, 
 you were sitting in the dining-room with your sewing, 
 while your mistress and the prisoner were in the parlor, 
 talking. What led you to go out on the balcony at the 
 time you did ?" 
 
 " Because I wanted to, I suppose ; I wasn t bound to 
 sit in the dining-room all night." 
 
 " Are you in the habit of sitting or walking on the 
 balcony in the evenings ?" 
 
 " There s no reason that I shouldn t if I want to." 
 
 " But are you in any such habit 3" 
 
 "No, I m not." 
 
 " Then it s clear you were out with a motive. It 
 was too dark to sew there. You were very anxious to 
 get through a piece of work, you said. Why did you 
 leave it and go out ?" 
 
 " My mistress looked frightened when she came to 
 get the wine ; I wanted to see if anything was wrong." 
 
 " But she. hadn t called you when she passed you, 
 had she?" 
 
 "No."
 
 THE COURT -ROOM. 247 
 
 " Then you went to peep in at the parlor window, I 
 suppose ?" 
 
 " There wasn t any peeping about it, I looked right 
 in." 
 
 " And when you looked through the slats of the 
 blind door ; was that peeping or did you look right in ?" 
 
 " I looked in ; you can call it peeping if you like it 
 better." 
 
 Mr. Hardinge saw that he had made a point, eaves 
 dropping not being popular with juries. 
 
 " Now," he said, " if you please, let us go forward 
 beyond the time when you overheard from behind the 
 blind-door, the last words of your mistress and the 
 prisoner, to the time when you were shutting up the 
 house. In your testimony just now, you make no allu 
 sion to the doors that lead down-stairs from the rear of 
 the house. How many are there ?" 
 
 " In front, there are no doors ; you come up outside 
 by the balcony steps on to the balcony, and by the 
 front door into the little entry. At the back, there is 
 only one way of getting up from the kitchen that is, 
 by the kitchen-stairs, into the open chamber between 
 the rooms." 
 
 " Do you know whether this door has a fastening ?" 
 
 " Yes, it has a bolt." 
 
 " Do you keep this bolted at night ?" 
 
 "Yes, always." 
 
 " Was it bolted on that night when you went to 
 bed ?" 
 
 "I suppose, of course, it was; but I can t swear 
 positively." 
 
 "I m surprised, you have remembered everything 
 else with such distinctness; you. are a very excellent
 
 2-18 THE COURTROOM. 
 
 witness not one in a thousand like you. Can t you 
 remember about the bolting of this door ?" 
 
 "I told you that I couldn t." 
 
 " Would yon have felt it safe to leave it open ?" 
 
 " I always wanted it fastened." 
 
 " How did you happen to be so careless this time ?" 
 
 " I suppose I was tired and sleepy ; it was late. I 
 don t know whether I looked at it or not. I can t re 
 member everything." 
 
 " Whose duty was it to shut it 3" 
 
 " It was Matilda s." 
 
 Mr. Ilardinge looked down at his paper again, 
 shifted his position a little, and went on. 
 
 " During that day," he said, " a number of persons 
 were at the house, yon mentioned. Were they all peo 
 ple that you knew about people that bear a good 
 character in the neighborhood ?" 
 
 " Yes, I believe they do. I ve known them all 
 summer. It s a very respectable, quiet neighborhood." 
 
 u There wasn t anybody that you hadn t seen be 
 fore, and that wasn t perfectly respectable ?" 
 
 " Nobody but the man that came in and asked for a 
 drink of water, and then for something to eat." 
 
 " You hadn t seen him before ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Describe him to me." 
 
 " lie wasn t very remarkable looking. I didn t pay 
 much attention to him. lie was a dirty sort of fellow, 
 sunburnt and shabby. I think he wasn t very tall ; he 
 was thick-set." 
 
 " What was the color of his hair ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don t remember. His hat was pushed down 
 over his head a good deal ; I don t think I saw his hair."
 
 THE COURT-BOOM. 24:9 
 
 " Have you ever seen him since ?" 
 
 " I haven t." 
 
 " Should you know him again ?" 
 
 " I think I should." 
 
 " Describe what he did." 
 
 " I was pressing out some collars for the children, 
 and stood with my back to the door. lie knocked, and 
 when I didn t answer, he came on into the kitchen. He 
 stopped when I asked him what he wanted. He said, a 
 glass of water ; he spoke thick, like a German. I told 
 him to go to the pump, there was a cup there. When he 
 had got his drink he came back, and came half across the 
 kitchen floor before I noticed him, and said he was hun 
 gry. I don t like foreigners, and I was going to send 
 him off, when Matilda, who was in the buttery, called 
 out there was some pieces that she was going to throw 
 away. So I said to give them to him. I told him to. 
 take the pieces outside and cat them. Then I went up 
 stairs with the collars. When I came back he was in 
 the kitchen again, sitting by the stair door ; I almost 
 tumbled over him when I opened it. I told him to go 
 away, and he got up and went." 
 
 " He had been in the kitchen some time 2" 
 
 " Ten minutes, maybe." 
 
 " Were you afraid of him ?" 
 
 " No, of course not." 
 
 " You have a good many tramps, I suppose ?" 
 
 " No, I don t remember another one all summer." 
 
 " I wonder it didn t make more impression on you ; 
 have you thought about it since the murder ?" 
 
 " Not particularly." 
 
 " That is all, I believe, that I shall trouble you to 
 tell me now." He sat down. 
 , 11*
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 BEING DULY SWORN. 
 
 % 
 
 " the heart hath treble wrong, 
 When it is barr d the aidance of the tongue." 
 
 Venus and Adonis. 
 
 " I am cut off from the only world I know, 
 From light and life and love, in youth s sweet prime. 
 You do well telling me to trust in God ; 
 I hope I *o trust in Him. In whom else 
 Can any trust ? And yet my heart is cold." 
 
 /Shelley. 
 
 THE court adjourned for an hour at noon. I was 
 taken into an adjoining room, where I lay down 
 on a sort of hard settee. The colonel made me take a 
 biscuit and some wine. Sophia, who was a good deal 
 shaken by the morning s work, went out into the air, 
 and walked up and down, and tried to steady herself. 
 Mrs. Emlyn, with all her superb health, was sensitive 
 and excitable in a high degree. She could not bear to 
 leave me, and yet her nerves were all unstrung. The 
 air of the court-room, she said, was all the trouble. I 
 begged her to go out and get the air with Sophia. 
 The colonel, who was tender as a woman, stayed and 
 watched over me. 
 
 " What is coming next ?" I asked him. 
 
 " The doctor s testimony." 
 
 " And who next 3" 
 [250]
 
 BEING DULY SWOKN. 251 
 
 " You, I am afraid." 
 
 " I can t be there through the examination of the 
 doctor. Can t I stay here, and go in after, when I m 
 called 3" 
 
 He assured me that I might. I don t know how it 
 happened, perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps a gift . 
 from Heaven, but I fell asleep. My sleep was pro 
 found and dreamless ; I knew nothing till I found some 
 one bending over me. 
 
 " I am afraid you ll have to wake now," said the 
 colonel. " Your name will soon be called." 
 
 "When we went into the court-room, and took our 
 places again, there was for a moment the same hush 
 that I had noticed in the morning when we entered. 
 The doctor s testimony had evidently been professional 
 and rather tiresome ; the people had been yawning and 
 lolling. They looked much enlivened when we came 
 upon the scene. They sat up, and leaned forward and 
 gazed intently. The doctor s cross-examination was 
 just ending. He was held for a moment in the vice of 
 Mr. Hardinge s pertinacity. The doctor would not 
 yield the point that a longer time than three minutes 
 was necessary for the extinction of life under the cir 
 cumstances described. He continued firm. I could 
 see there had been a strong point made in favor of the 
 prosecution. He finally was permitted to leave the 
 stand, and my name was called. 
 
 I did not feel any of the agitation that would have 
 seemed inevitable. I certainly knew that there was a 
 great deal depending upon what I said ; that certainty 
 seemed, strangely, a sort of strength. The colonel led 
 me along the narrow space between the judge s platform 
 and the table at which the lawyers sat ; he seemed to fear
 
 252 BEING DULY SWOEN. 
 
 I might fall any moment to the floor ; he looked back 
 anxiously at me, when by reason of the narrowness of 
 space he had to go in front. He supported me as I 
 stepped up upon the raised place upon which was the 
 chair, and stood beside me, a little at the back, all the 
 while that I was kept there. 
 
 The attorney for the prosecution rose. When I 
 was sworn and had given my name and residence, I was 
 told to look at the prisoner and say if I knew him. I 
 turned my eyes towards the seat where I had seen him ; 
 certainly I saw nothing. I said yes. 
 
 " Your acquaintance with him began when ?" 
 
 " About the twentieth of May, I should think." 
 
 " Were you acquainted with the family in which he 
 lived, before you came to South Berwick ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Had yon any knowledge of. him, or of his family, 
 before you met nim there ?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "Had you any knowledge of the Emlyn family 
 before this date 2" 
 
 " I only knew that there was such a family, and 
 that I had hired a house from them." 
 
 " You were on good terms with them all after you 
 became acquainted 2" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You were entirely ignorant of the antecedents of 
 the prisoner?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " How often were you in the habit of seeing him 2" 
 
 " Almost daily, through the Summer." 
 
 " Where did you generally see him at your own 
 house 2"
 
 BEING DULY SWORN. 253 
 
 " At my own house very often, or at the house of 
 Colonel Emlyn." 
 
 " Were his visits at your house business visits, visits 
 of necessity ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " They were then purely friendly, social visits ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I would ask, if you encouraged these visits ?" 
 
 Mr. Hardinge. " The witness must state what was 
 said or done." 
 
 Mr. Sell. " What was his manner towards you ?" 
 
 " Always gentlemanly and considerate." 
 
 " Was it the same to others ?" 
 
 " Yes, according to my observation." 
 
 "Was his manner just the same to you as to others 
 whom you saw him meet ?" 
 
 " No, it was different." 
 
 " How so ? Will you explain ?" 
 
 " It was naturally different with the Emlyn chil 
 dren, who were his pupils ; and with Colonel and Mrs. 
 Emlyn, who were so much older ; and with people 
 whom he met whom he scarcely knew." 
 
 " But you felt he was more friendly with you ?" 
 
 ("My learned brother is slaying the slain," cried 
 Mr. Hardinge. " The testimony of the w r oman Sophia 
 is enough. We know he was her suitor.") 
 
 I took the cue from this interjected sentence, as I 
 was meant to, and said : 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Was this acceptable to you ?" 
 
 " I was glad to have him for my friend." 
 
 " Was his manner indicative of anything more than 
 friendship ?"
 
 254 BEING DULY SWORN. 
 
 " It may be." 
 
 " Did you make any objection to its being so ?" 
 
 "I don t remember." 
 
 " If he had asked yon to marry him, and you had 
 been free of other ties, such as the care of your chil 
 dren, would you have married him ?" 
 
 Mr. llardinge sprang to his feet. " Your Honor, 
 that is not evidence. It is bad enough to endure such 
 baiting of a suffering woman, when it is kept within 
 strict legal bounds ; but I deny that the counsel for the 
 prosecution has the right to call for an opinion in the 
 nature of a mental operation." 
 
 Mr. Bell. " My brother told us this morning he 
 was not retained to defend the lady." 
 
 Mr. Hardinge. " I have no fee in my pocket to de 
 fend her ; but I have a feeling in my heart a feeling 
 such as every man has in his heart, when he sees a wo 
 man, whose sufferings should make her sacred, unneces 
 sarily put upon the rack. Your Honor, it is question 
 able, bringing her here at all. But, since she is here, let 
 us be merciful to her. Why, your Honor, any man upon 
 that jury may think for himself how would he treat 
 the mother of his little child that had died ; died 
 peacefully, and by natural causes, in her arms, when 
 everything had been done to save it. At the end of 
 four short weeks, would he not think she did bravely, 
 if she consented to see a few dear friends that came to 
 mourn with her ; if she went down-stairs, and, in the 
 seclusion of her home, went again about her ordinary 
 duties ? And if he persuaded her to go out with him 
 once more into the sun that would never shine again 
 upon her baby, would he not take her into green and 
 quiet lanes, or drive with her where they would meet
 
 BEING DULY SWORN. 255 
 
 fewest people ? It is only four weeks and think of 
 this young mother, after her unspeakable bereavement, 
 called to face this crowd of strangers! The law de 
 mands no such sacrifice. I would rather let ten mur 
 derers go free, than have upon my conscience the in 
 flicting of such torture." 
 
 Mr. Bell. " Your Honor, I ll make a bargain with 
 the gentleman, for whose tenderness of heart I was not 
 prepared. If he will waive the cross-examination of 
 this witness, I will stop at the point I am now, and 
 engage not to recall her." 
 
 Mr. Hardinge. " That will not be possible " 
 
 Mr. Bell (interrupting). " Sir, you are hoist with 
 your own petard. My question did not please you ; 
 that was all the trouble. I appeal to your Honor to 
 sustain me, and let the examination go on." 
 
 Mr. Hardinge. " I will agree to confine myself to 
 just half the questions you have asked already, if you 
 will waive the direct examination." 
 
 Mr. Bell. " I will agree to nothing of the sort. 
 Your Honor, am I at liberty to insist upon the answer 
 to my question ?" 
 
 The Judge. " I must sustain the objection made 
 by the defense. The witness is excused from answer 
 ing what calls simply for the statement of what existed 
 in her mind. 
 
 Mr. Bell (resuming). " Did he ever ask you to 
 marry him ?" 
 
 " I don t know I understood that he desired me 
 to." 
 
 " Did you tell him that you would marry him, ex 
 cept for the obstacle presented by your children ?" 
 
 No."
 
 2r/3 BEIXG DULY SWORN. 
 
 " Did he say to you that he knew that they stood 
 between you?" 
 
 " Something like that." 
 
 Did you deny it ?" 
 
 " I didn t deny it, or affirm it." 
 
 " Didn t you allow the impression on his mind that 
 Buch was the case ?" 
 
 " I don t know what his impression was." 
 
 " Didn t he appear to continue to believe it ?" 
 
 " I don t know ; he didn t refer to it again." 
 
 " What reason did you give for not accepting him ?" 
 
 " I don t remember giving any." 
 
 " Did you tell him you didn t like him ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Didn t you give him any reason ?" 
 
 " I don t remember giving any." 
 
 " Simply that you would not ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Had you known all summer that he wanted to 
 marry you ?" 
 
 Mr. Hardinge rescued me from this ; and Mr. 
 Bell, not well pleased with his progress, turned from 
 this part of his programme. 
 
 " After you were left by the prisoner on the night 
 of the second of September, did you stay on the balcony 
 till the hour stated by-vthe witness, Sophia Atkinson ?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 " How were you occupied ?" 
 
 " I was doing nothing." 
 
 " From nine to nearly half-past twelve ?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " Where were you when you heard the scream given 
 by this witness if"
 
 BEING DULY SWORN. 257 
 
 " In the parlor." 
 
 " State what she said to you when she came from 
 the nursery." 
 
 " She said, Come and see your lover s work, or 
 words like that." 
 
 "Did you go?" 
 
 " She caught my hand and took me with her." 
 
 I was growing so white that every one looked 
 alarmed ; Sophia darted from her seat, and held the 
 salts up to me ; Colonel Emlyn gave me a glass of 
 water, with which the zealous deputy had been armed 
 since I went upon the stand. It had grown warm from 
 being so long poured out, and made me feel a little 
 sick. 
 
 " Not to harrow your feelings," said the prosecut 
 ing attorney, a little conscience-stricken, " I will rest 
 here, simply asking you if the witness Sophia Atkin 
 son s testimony was heard by you, and if you fully cor 
 roborate it ; I mean, as concerns the condition of the 
 room, and the appearance of the children as they lay ?" 
 
 " I heard what she said ; it was all correct." 
 
 " Very well. Then I have nothing further to ask." 
 And he sat down. 
 
 I don t know whether it was the judge, or who, of 
 fered me a respite fora little while, till I should be able 
 to go on : I felt very confused and ill for a moment or 
 two, but the opening of a window, and perhaps the 
 salts, made me feel better. I said earnestly : 
 
 " I want them to go on ; I am able to answer." 
 
 This was repeated to the judge by Colonel Emlyn, and 
 by him to Mr. Ilardirige, who left his place and came 
 nearer to me. I think he wanted to get where I could 
 see the expression of his eye. He probably perceived
 
 258 BEING DULY SWORN. 
 
 that, by reason of my weakness, I could scarcely see any 
 distance, from me ; my body fell so far behind my mind 
 in this dire strait. This gentleman knew his opponent s 
 witnesses much better than he knew them himself. Of 
 course, being summoned by the prosecution, I had never 
 had an interview with him. I felt that he saw every 
 thing in my mind. I was never so entirely under the 
 influence of any one before. He held me with his eye ; 
 he guided me almost without the interpretation of words. 
 Jugglery and mind-reading will never seem wonderful 
 me after this. 
 
 I saw, by a certain tension of the muscles of his 
 mouth, that he felt the moment critical. A strength 
 came to me with the knowledge ; my illness and faint- 
 ness were all passed away. 
 
 " I will not trouble you with many questions," he 
 said, deferentially and quietly. " I would first ask you 
 to make clear to me one or two things in the bearing of 
 the prisoner. Have you observed him to be a high- 
 tempered man, ready to take offense, easily made angry ?" 
 
 " No, it seems to me not." 
 
 "Was he irritable and passionate with his pupils 
 and with little children, or the reverse?" 
 
 " The reverse." 
 
 " Have you ever seen him under the influence of 
 great disappointment, acute suifering ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Did it make him morose, angry what we would 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Did it give him the appearance of a man who was 
 
 desperate, reckless ?" 
 
 Before he had finished the sentence, he saw from
 
 BEING DULY 8WOKN. 259 
 
 my eyes he was going wrong ; he adroitly changed it 
 into " reckless of the rights of others, bent upon revenge 
 or success in his own way ?" 
 
 " I cannot say he seemed so to me." 
 
 " Now, I must ask you to revert to the evening of 
 the second of September. After he had left you, you 
 went directly to the balcony F 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " From where you sat, could you have heard any 
 one moving about in the house ?" 
 
 " In the parlor I could. I doubt whether I could 
 have heard anything in the rear of the house." 
 
 " You heard nothing then from within the house ?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 " Nothing from without, about the premises ?" 
 
 " Yes, once." 
 
 " Please tell me about it." 
 
 " It was not long after I heard the whistle of the 
 train, and saw the lights pass out of sight, I heard a 
 slight rustling in the bushes by the gate ; then in a mo 
 ment I heard the latch lifted very softly, and dropped 
 again as if some one were trying not to make a noise." 
 
 " That was all ?" 
 
 " That was all." 
 
 " You heard no steps, no voices, nothing ?" 
 
 " Nothing. 
 
 "You heard nothing further all the evening?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 " Was the night still ?" 
 
 " Yery still." 
 
 "You are very positive about this noise?" 
 
 " Yery positive. It startled me. I got up and went 
 to the dining-room window to see if Sophia were still
 
 260 BEING DULY SWOKN. 
 
 there. I thought she might have gone down through 
 the kitchen and out for something. I knew Matilda 
 was in bed. Sophia was sitting by the lamp, sewing. 
 I saw she had not heard it, for she had not even looked 
 up. Then I went and sat down again by the railing, 
 but I heard nothing more." 
 
 " This was about what hour 2" 
 
 " The train should have gone at nine fifteen. It 
 was ten minutes late. I heard the sounds at the gate, I 
 should say, about ten minutes after that. I cannot be 
 positive, of course, but it was not long after." 
 
 The relief and satisfaction in Mr. Hardinge s eyes, I 
 hope was not apparent to any one but me. 
 
 " At what hour did you go into the parlor 2" 
 
 " It was after twelve." 
 
 " Tell me something about the occurrences of the 
 next half hour, if you are able : I mean, prior to your 
 going to the nursery with Sophia." 
 
 " I sat still, and heard Sophia go about and shut the 
 doors and windows. The lamp had gone out and I was 
 sitting in the darkness. Sophia came info the room 
 several times ; I knew she wanted me to go to bed. I 
 heard her go up-stairs to Matilda s room. She came 
 down and shut the window in the open chamber be 
 tween the rooms. Then I heard her go to the door of 
 the kitchen stairs. She found it unbolted, and made 
 an angry exclamation, something about Matilda. She 
 slid the bolt as if she were vexed." 
 
 " You remember this distinctly 2" 
 
 " As clearly as possible." 
 
 " This door shuts off all communication with the 
 lower part of the house 2" 
 
 " Yes."
 
 BEING DULY SWORN. 261 
 
 " Then it had been open all the evening?" 
 
 " I suppose so. The Indian woman must have left 
 it unfastened when she came up-stairs : neither Sophia 
 nor I had been in that part of the house since she went 
 up to bed." 
 
 " Did you say anything when Sophia made this 
 exclamation ?" 
 
 " No, she did not address herself to me ; it was 
 simply an exclamation of annoyance at Matilda." 
 
 " You were quite wide awake at this time ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; that was the reason I did not want to go 
 to bed. I knew I could not get asleep." 
 
 "After, when Sophia appeared in the door-way, and 
 gave you the alarm, will you try and remember exactly 
 the expression that she used ?" 
 
 " She said, Come and see your lover s work. She 
 said it over and over wildly. I could not forget it ; it 
 was always in my mind for many days." 
 
 " Did her statement have any influence upon you ?" 
 
 Objected to. 
 
 " Did she repeat it to others at that time ?" 
 
 " In the course of that night and during the follow 
 ing day, I heard her say things to the same effect be 
 fore other people." 
 
 " She then showed a strong prejudice against the 
 prisoner ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How long had she expressed aversion to him ?" 
 
 " From the time that he began to come to the house 
 as a frequent visitor." 
 
 " Had she ever expressed open enmity to him ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Mention some instance."
 
 262 BEING DULY SWORN. 
 
 " The day before she told me she should leave the 
 house if he came into it again." 
 
 " Had he ever given her a cause for feeling so?" 
 
 " Not intentionally, I think." 
 
 " Had he ever said anything to indicate enmity to 
 her?" 
 
 " I never heard anything of the kind." 
 
 " Those are all the questions I shall have to ask you 
 now," he said, bowing, and returning to his place.
 
 CHAPTEK XX. 
 
 FOB AND AGAINST. 
 
 " When thou fearest, 
 God is nearest." 
 
 next morning the attorney for the prosecution 
 called first Colonel Eralyn, and then his wife. The 
 design was evidently to obtain from them proof of the 
 utter ignorance they were in concerning the antecedents 
 of the prisoner. He also drew out from Colonel Emlyn 
 that he was not on good terms with the prisoner when 
 they parted, but no question was asked which would 
 permit the witness to explain the cause of the estrange 
 ment. He also obtained from him that the prisoner 
 was a man of resolution, force ; that he carried out his 
 purposes ; that he maintained authority in the school 
 room. The direct examination was short ; the cross- 
 examination established the good character of the pris 
 oner, his uniformly irreproachable conduct during the 
 ten months he had been in their house ; his gentle 
 ness, his courtesy, his rather unusual aversion to giving 
 pain, his forbearance with the faults of children. Mrs. 
 Emlyn vehemently threw in several inadmissible state 
 ments, which were not accepted as evidence, but which 
 may have had their effect upon the jury. Colonel Emlyn 
 was told to state the cause of the coolness which existed 
 between the prisoner and himself at the time of his 
 
 [2631
 
 264: FOB AND AGAINST. 
 
 leaving the house. He answered, it was because lie did 
 not want to part with him ; he considered his going a 
 serious loss to the children ; he desired to retain him 
 for at least two years longer in his family. He was 
 asked to state the reason given by the prisoner for his 
 abrupt departure. He had given no reason. The wit 
 ness had his theory for it, but was not allowed to state it. 
 The next witness called was the post-master of the 
 village. He testiiied to an interview with the prisoner 
 early in June, in which the prisoner had given him a 
 slip of paper, containing a name which he had forgot 
 ten, saying to him, that if any letters came to that ad 
 dress, he would oblige him by laying them aside, and 
 giving them to him personally. He had received the 
 impression that the prisoner had meant him to be 
 silent about it, though he could not recall anything that 
 he had said to that effect. He had treated the matter 
 confidentially, and had not spoken of it till he heard 
 about the murder. Two or three letters had come to 
 the address given him ; he had put them aside and 
 handed them personally to the prisoner. That was in 
 the early part of the summer. Since then, no letters 
 had come to that address. The prisoner s letters latterly 
 had come two or three in one envelope, with double 
 postage, as if inclosed and forwarded to him from some 
 point. They were invariably addressed Bernard Mac- 
 nally, and, as far as he could recollect, were in one 
 handwriting. He was unable to recall the name on the 
 slip of paper the prisoner had handed him ; the paper 
 had been mislaid ; he had searched in vain for it. He 
 should know the name if he heard it. It was a long 
 name ; there were several initials. As the letters had 
 ceased to come, he had not minded anything about it ;
 
 FOR AND AGAIXST. 2G5 
 
 lie had a poor memory for names. The letters that had 
 come to the address given him had been foreign letters, 
 from somewhere in Great Britain. He could not be 
 sure of anything else. He had noticed at the time, but 
 had forgotten. 
 
 The cross-examination was short and unimportant. 
 Though the post-master hadn t a strong memory for 
 names, he was not weak in other things, and Mr. Har- 
 dinge could not get anything out of him but what he 
 chose to say. He admitted that the occurrence was not 
 without precedent. That he had on more than one 
 occasion had the same favor asked him by perfectly re 
 spectable young men, but that he had known that it was 
 just some "lark," and that there wasn t any deception 
 meant that would do anybody any harm. 
 
 Then Sophia Atkinson was recalled, and was shown 
 a pocket-handkerchief, and asked if she had ever seen 
 it before. She testified that she had, that she had seen 
 it on her mistress throat, and afterwards found it on 
 the dressing-table in her mistress room ; that she knew 
 it to be the property of the prisoner, from her mistress 
 mentioning it as sucli, and making searcli for it. It was 
 not at all like any handkerchief that any one in the 
 house owned. She could read the initials worked on 
 it, but she didn t know how they went in order. The 
 letters were L. M. C. B. or M. C. B. L., or any way 
 you chose to put them. 
 
 Mr. Hardinge made it appear, on the cross-examina 
 tion, that she had purloined the handkerchief, and kept 
 it concealed, notwithstanding the many inquiries that 
 had been made for it. 
 
 Penelope Emlyn, recalled, was shown a book, and 
 asked to identify it. She recognized it as a book which 
 12
 
 206 FOE AND AGAINST. 
 
 she had seen in the prisoner s possession. It had been 
 brought to her by one of the children, to establish the 
 fact that that day was the tutor s birthday, and to ask 
 a holiday. The prisoner had not denied that it was his 
 book, nor that the day was his birthday. The words 
 written on the fly-leaf were : " To L , on his four 
 teenth birthday, with his mother s always faithful 
 love," and the date below. The volume was a worn 
 and shabby copy of the Book of Common Prayer. 
 She was asked to identify another book, a copy of the 
 Tragedies of Euripides, from which a portion of the 
 fly-leaf was cut out. This book had been lent her by 
 the prisoner, as well as many others. Several of them 
 had no name at all written in them. In many, there 
 was a mutilation of the fly-leaf, as in this. She-- was 
 not cross-examined. 
 
 The Indian cook, Matilda, was next summoned. 
 She was much agitated, and gave a confused account of 
 the incidents of the night. On the direct examination, 
 she testified to having closely attended to shutting up 
 the kitchen, and bolting the door of the kitchen stairs 
 when she went up to bed. She described my coming 
 to her and rousing her, and sending her out to call the 
 neighbors. Her account of the finding of the children s 
 bodies was unimportant and confused. 
 
 On the cross-examination she admitted that she was 
 dreadfully tired and sleepy; that she had actually 
 dropped asleep sitting by the fire ; that the striking of 
 the clock roused her, and she started np, and took the 
 candle and went away up-stairs, hardly knowing what 
 she did, for fear of being scolded by Sophia, who had 
 told her she must go to bed as soon as she had done her 
 work. She admitted she was afraid of Sophia, who
 
 FOR AND AGAINST. 267 
 
 scolded her " considerable." She couldn t say whether 
 she fastened the outside kitchen door or not ; whether 
 she bolted the stair doo r after her or not ; she was just 
 dead sleepy ; she hadn t rlept hardly any the night be 
 fore ; she dropped asleep almost before she got undressed 
 when she got up-stairs ; when her mistress woke her, 
 she still had half her clothes on ; she knew what an 
 oath was ; she had been converted ; she went to meet 
 ing regularly ; nothing would tempt her to tell a lie if 
 she knew what she was doing. That was the reason 
 that she wouldn t swear (again) that she had fastened 
 up the doors, because she couldn t tell for sure. 
 
 Here the prosecution rested their case and Mr. Har- 
 dinge opened his. 
 
 His first witness was the baggage-master at the South 
 Berwick station. He testified to the checking of the 
 baggage by young Emlyn, and to the arrival of the 
 prisoner, who reached the station at sixteen minutes 
 after nine. He said to the prisoner, " You d have been 
 left, if the train had been on time." The prisoner had 
 answered, " No, I shouldn t, I was listening for the whis 
 tle all the time. I should have hurried ; if it had blown 
 while I was half a mile off, I could have caught it." 
 The train was late ten minutes. He walked up and 
 down the platform, talking with young Emlyn, some 
 times stopping and talking with him and with some 
 other men who were standing about. He was grave, 
 and didn t seem in his usual spirits, but he was bound 
 to say, he didn t seem " flustered," or like a man who had 
 just been committing a crime, and was getting out of 
 reach of justice as fast as he knew how. 
 
 The witness was right in saying " he was bound to 
 testify thus, and so." He was bound by his sturdy,
 
 2G8 FOR AND AGAINST. 
 
 pober-minded, American conscience, and not by any 
 predilection for the prisoner. In fact, the defence had 
 this great disadvantage all the way through. The pre 
 judice against Macnally was bitter. South Berwick 
 was in a part of the country where few Irish had 
 settled, and those of the lowest class. There was a 
 jealousy of intrusion that is only seen in such isolated 
 neighborhoods. The population was almost without 
 exception native; they were thrifty and intelligent, and 
 looked with scant favor upon the coming of strangers, 
 even of their own nationality. Colonel Emlyn had 
 overcome this feeling by his unassuming ways, liberality 
 and common sense, and was at the end of four or five 
 years looked upon as a worthy and important member 
 of their small community. But Macnally had never 
 been a favorite they didn t know how to take him. 
 They weren t used to jokes, being stolid and shy. His 
 merriment seemed to them a disrespect. They were 
 jealous of an Irishman who dared to walk as he pleased 
 over their sacred soil. Sophia s bitter tongue had not 
 been idle. No trifling pleasantry of his about the 
 rural population was allowed to rest with one telling. 
 The stories circulated, and the prejudices roused were 
 numberless. It was from a community so affected that 
 Mr. Ilardinge had to recruit his witnesses. They 
 seemed like " Spanish volunteers," led along in chains. 
 I began to see that he would have to spin much of his 
 web of evidence out of his own clever brain. 
 
 The next witness was the conductor, who knew the 
 prisoner quite well by sight; thought he might have 
 spoken to him sometimes at the station as his train 
 passed through. He had all summer known his name ; 
 known he was the tutor living at Colonel Emlyn s. He
 
 FOK AND AGAINST. 269 
 
 noticed nothing special in his manner on the night of 
 the second of September ; except that he didn t go to 
 sleep as the other passengers had done. The train was 
 an hour and forty minutes late, owing to a freight train 
 running off the track. He had been awake whenever 
 he came to him to punch his ticket ; he remembered 
 particularly the last time when he came through the 
 car ; the prisoner had his ticket in his teeth ; a little 
 piece was gnawed off. of it. 
 
 " When I .looked at it he laughed and said, Your 
 train goes so confounded slow, we shall have to make 
 our breakfast off our tickets. He didn t seem in a 
 hurry, no : he looked to me like a man who was in 
 trouble more than like a man who was afraid. He 
 was wide awake and knew w r hat he was about though ; 
 he was in the train the last station that we passed be 
 fore we entered the city. I took his ticket then, and 
 that s the last I ve seen of him till I saw him here in 
 court." 
 
 The cross-examination did not make much of him. 
 He admitted there was something about the prisoner 
 that made him notice him, but he was in the habit of 
 noticing the faces of his passengers. lie didn t look 
 like a man that was running away ; he was bound to 
 say that wasn t the impression that he made on him. 
 He couldn t say exactly how a man that was running 
 away would look : he should think he might look hurried 
 and restless. This one didn t look that way.: he wasn t 
 looking behind him, and opening and shutting windows, 
 and watching who got in at every station. He looked 
 tired and used up, and yet as if his mind was too full 
 of some trouble to let him go to sleep. 
 
 The next upon the stand was the telegraph messen-
 
 270 FOR AND AGAINST. 
 
 ger who handed the prisoner a dispatch from Colonel 
 Emlyn, as he stepped out of the car at the depot. lie 
 testified to the consternation and agitation of the pris 
 oner when he read the message. lie staggered, and the 
 witness thought he would have fallen if he had not put 
 out his hand, and helped him to a seat. lie seemed 
 dazed, astounded. lie took the paper and tried to read 
 it for the second time, but seemed to be very faint and 
 ill ; then he handed it to the messenger and said " Read 
 it to me I must have made some mistake read it 
 slowly I want to understand." The witness read it to 
 him it was as follows : 
 
 " The two children at the cottage found murdered 
 in their beds an hour ago. Come instantly back. Take 
 my advice come back voluntarily ; it will be in your 
 favor, if } r ou do. Edward Emlyn." 
 
 The witness described his pallor and consternation, 
 his sending him to the ticket-office to see what was the 
 earliest train back, his anxiety to know at what hour 
 exactly the dispatch was dated. 
 
 The cross-examiner asked how he dared to go to the 
 ticket-office and leave him, seeing, by the despatch, 
 that he was a suspected person. 
 
 " I kept my eye on him, said the astute messenger, 
 determined not to have his shrewdness doubted. 
 
 The attorney for the prosecution wished, sarcasti 
 cally, that all the witnesses for the defence might be as 
 strongly persuaded of the prisoner s innocence, and dis 
 missed him. 
 
 The officer who arrested him was the next brought 
 forward, lie had received the dispatch, at the Cen 
 tral Office, just twenty minutes before the arrival of 
 the train. He had made all possible haste to get to the-
 
 FOB AND AGAINST. 271 
 
 depot, aTid liad entered it just as the passengers were 
 coming, in a body, through the gateway, from the cars. 
 If the train had been on time, there would have been no 
 hope. He spotted his man in an instant, from the de 
 scription he had had. He saw the messenger go up to 
 him with the dispatch, and knew somebody had got 
 before him, and had given him warning. So he came 
 close, and stood ready to prevent escape, if he at 
 tempted it. But he corroborated the. former witness s 
 account of his amazed and overwhelmed condition, and 
 the lack of evidence to show any inclination to escape. 
 
 On cross-examination, he said he must acknowledge 
 he had arrested prisoners who were just as innocent 
 appearing, and who had turned out the worst sort of 
 scamps. He could believe anything of prisoners, 
 pretty much, he said ; classing them, evidently, in his 
 mind, in not the most discriminating way. 
 
 After awhile the prisoner had got over his shock, 
 and had seemed to take in the situation and to rouse 
 himself ; and he had never seen him give way since 
 then, much as he had seen of him. 
 
 Yes, he acknowledged on the cross-examination that 
 lie was of Irish parentage ; he wasn t ashamed of it either ; 
 he didn t care what the prisoner was, he was a perfect 
 gentleman. 
 
 " Don t you think all Irishmen are perfect gentle 
 men ?" said the prosecuting lawyer. Which wasn t evi 
 dence, but which was effective. 
 
 After he left the stand, I was recalled. I wasn t 
 expecting it at the moment, and was a little agitated, 
 but soon recovered my composure. Mr. Hardinge again 
 came near the stand and spoke in a lower voice than 
 when he questioned the others. He said :
 
 272 FOR AND AGAINST. 
 
 " T made it a point to ask you as little as possible 
 about the details of your going in the nursery that night, 
 after Sophia gave you the alarm. I now find myself 
 obliged to ask yon, did you find anything deranged 
 about the room, excepting, of course, the condition of 
 the cribs ?" 
 
 u I do not remember anything displaced ; it may- 
 have been so, easily, and I not have seen it, in the state 
 of mind in which I was." 
 
 " Did you find anything out of order in any other 
 room ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Tell me about it, if you please." 
 
 " Sophia dropped the light as she fell ; I had to 
 grope about to find the matches. I went across to my 
 own room, and stumbled over something lying near the 
 door. "When I got the matches and struck one, I found 
 it was a footstool that generally stood beside my closet 
 door. It was dragged out from its place and lay over 
 turned near the entrance to the room. The first 
 thought that I had, was that some one had been 
 robbing the closet, but I did not think of it a sec 
 ond time. I don t know whether anything was out of 
 order in that closet ; every thought was for the other 
 room." 
 
 " Was anything missing from any other room upon 
 that floor?" 
 
 " There was something missing from the nursery. 
 It was not anything of any value to to any one out 
 side." 
 
 " Describe it, if you please ?" 
 
 "It was a toy belonging to the youngest child 
 and one of her little shoes cannot be found."
 
 FOE AND AGAINST. 273 
 
 " Where was the toy kept, and what was it ?" 
 
 " It was broken ; a little toy lamb with a bell 
 around its neck the Baby would never go to sleep 
 unless she had it in her arms it was in her arms that 
 evening, when when I saw her last alive." 
 
 " You " began the lawyer. 
 
 " I cannot talk about it let me go," I exclaimed, 
 getting up and making a step forward, overcome by an 
 anguish that was uncontrollable. 
 
 Sophia darted forward to my help. 
 
 " Let me go let me go out," I said, " I cannot bear 
 it any longer." 
 
 The lawyer pushed between her and me, and helped 
 me down the step from the witness-stand, and sup 
 ported me through the clerks and lawyers, past the 
 prisoner, out into an ante-room. As he went he man 
 aged to whisper a few words in my ear, the only ones 
 that I ever had the chance of having with him through 
 the whole trial. 
 
 I lay down on the hard settee in the ante- room. I 
 would not go away ; but lay and listened to the prog 
 ress of the case, which I could hear with tolerable dis 
 tinctness. The defence had, one after another, three 
 South Berwick men on the stand. They testified, 
 with very fair unanimity, to the seeing at various times 
 during daylight of September second, a man unknown 
 to the neighborhood, corresponding to the description of 
 m the tramp who ate his bread and butter outside the 
 kitchen door of the cottage, in the morning. The last 
 time he was seen was just before twilight, by a fisher 
 man , who was coming up from one of the fish-houses 
 on the beach, below the Old Town Pond. The witness 
 had been there to stow away a seine he had been 
 12*
 
 274 FOR AND AGAINST. 
 
 mending ; lie was coming up the road when he noticed 
 the man striking off towards the lane that debouches 
 in the farm-yard of the cottage. lie noticed him par 
 ticularly ; he thought he was a rough-looking chap ; he 
 wondered where he came from. He didn t speak of it 
 to any one ; it passed out of his mind. He didn t con 
 nect it with the murder, even when he heard of it next 
 day. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Well, he supposed it was because he heard right 
 off who it was that was arrested. There didn t seem 
 to be any doubt about who did it. He didn t recall 
 the tramp to his mind till a good deal later ; tramps 
 weren t such an unusual sight he wished they were. 
 They didn t often get as far down the Island as South 
 Berwick, but they weren t a rarity enough to keep a 
 man awake at night if he had seen one through the 
 day. It wasn t strange he hadn t thought of it ; in his 
 opinion it wouldn t have made much difference if he 
 hadn t ever thought of it. He was informed that his 
 opinion wasn t demanded by the court. He was an 
 aggressive witness; it wasn t difficult to get him to 
 admit that he d hang every Irishman in Sutphen 
 county if he had a fair excuse. For all that, he wasn t 
 to be shaken about the tramp ; " he was bound to say," 
 the tramp was going through the lane towards the cot 
 tage just before twilight, on the second of September. 
 There was a good deal more, but this was the substance 
 of it in the main. And here the case for the defence 
 was rested.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 COUNSEL FOE THE DEFENCE. 
 
 "For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng, 
 An he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong, 
 An he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, 
 A chance to escape, nor a word to defend ; 
 An he folded his arms as he stood there alone, 
 As calm and as cold as a statue of stone. " 
 
 Samuel Lover. 
 
 WE were late the next morning in getting away 
 from the hotel. Mr. Hardinge had already be 
 gun his smnrning-up, when we came into the court 
 room. There were more people there than ever : not 
 an inch of standing room was vacant ; men were sitting 
 even on the ledges of the windows, but the utmost 
 silence reigned, and the most perfect order. Outside 
 it was a matchless October day ; through the windows, 
 none too clear, came in the cheerful sunshine. The air 
 inside was as yet comparatively good. The windows 
 were open from the top, and the outer door was but 
 half shut. Macnally lifted his eyes at the stir of our 
 entrance from the ante-room, but they fell again, and 
 he did not look at us. From where he sat to where I 
 did was not twelve feet ; yet I had never met his eye. 
 Generally some one was between us ; but to-day we were 
 almost face to face, except that, as he sat, his profile was 
 always turned towards us ; he faced a little towards the 
 witness-stand and towards the jury. Mr. Hardinge was 
 speaking, standing just beside him. His eyes were on 
 
 [275]
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. 
 
 the ground, but his face expressed intent attention. 
 He was pale as the dead, but his still face and fixed at 
 titude expressed the intensest mental force and life, I 
 don t know how. 
 
 The first of Mr. Hardinge s speech, as I have said, 
 was lost to us ; when I began to listen, he was saying 
 this: 
 
 " The importance of this case I cannot over-state. 
 To you men of Sutphen county, it is the gravest duty 
 that ever came before you. The records tell us that it 
 is a hundred years since the death penalty has been en 
 forced in this peaceful, law-abiding place. A century 
 of peace ! the heavens have smiled upon you. Do not 
 rashly break the spell. I know I need not ask you to 
 deliberate, to weigh each word, to sift each argument. 
 I am speaking to men who are used to deliberation and 
 to thought ; the tenor of your lives has taught it to you, 
 the very blood in your veins dictates it to you. I have 
 faced many juries in my day : if I had a weak cause I 
 should say, give me anything but a jury of sturdy, so 
 ber-minded American farmers. To-day I say, thank 
 Heaven I have a jury of sturdy, sober-minded Ameri 
 can fanners, men who can t be bent by prejudice to say 
 that right is wrong, even if the right isn t what they 
 like ; men who can throw down the gauntlet to the world 
 and say, we abide by the written law and by the spoken 
 truth. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, I stand before you to-day 
 to plead for one who is separated from you in many 
 ways. He is an alien by birth ; he is of a nation you 
 do not hold in favor. The bulk of his fellow-country 
 men established in America are your political opponents. 
 Ilis education has been different ; his way of life has been
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. 277 
 
 different ; Iris religious creed is different. "What shall 
 I say ? Has not God made of one blood all the nations 
 of the earth? Is he not a man for a that ? Will you 
 let him suffer at your hands because he isn t of your 
 blood ? The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto 
 you as one born among you ; * * for ye were strangers 
 in the land of Egypt. I ask more mercy for him be 
 cause he is a stranger ; I ask you to discard prejudices 
 that are inherent in most of us ; I ask you to do him 
 justice, as perhaps you would ask to have justice done to 
 some sailor lad of yours, cast by fate into a foreign prison. 
 " Gentlemen, this case has been cruelly prejudged and 
 falsified ; when I have shown you all, I think you will 
 agree with me. Let me begin by putting before -you 
 the theory of the prosecution, and by pointing out a few 
 of its weak points. You are asked to believe that this 
 man before yon has murdered the innocent and beauti 
 ful children of the woman whom he loved, because he 
 was persuaded that they stood between him and the at 
 tainment of her hand. They represent him to you as 
 sane, as resolute ; they do not even ask you to believe it 
 was in transport of rage, because, sometimes, one is sorry 
 for a man whose sufferings drive him to extremity, and 
 because high-tempered jurymen might have some sym 
 pathy for such a one. No, he has done it deliberately, 
 he has plotted and planned, he is a devil in man s shape ; 
 he has belied all that has been known of him, all his 
 goodness and lightheartedness ; he commits this mon 
 strous crime, and he goes away, meaning, forsooth, to 
 come back and marry the mother when her days of 
 mourning shall be ended. Gentlemen, T won t affront 
 your intelligence by much dwelling on a theory like 
 this. One asks naturally for a motive for the commis-
 
 278 COUNSEL FOB THE DKFENCE. 
 
 sion of such a crime. There was every motive that he 
 should not commit it. The prosecution declares that 
 she returned his affection ; that perhaps his poverty and 
 her desire to devote her means and all her time to the 
 care and education of these children, prevented her 
 from marrying him. If her affection for them living 
 was too great to be overcome by all his passion, what 
 would her love for them be, dead by such a cruel death 
 as this? If there was a gulf between them before, 
 there would be an ocean now. There is no room for 
 such a theory in any man s mind. I declare it to be 
 utterly preposterous. 
 
 " Let us look at the evidence, and see how it is sus 
 tained. The prisoner is shown to you, by the testimony 
 of all the witnesses, even the woman Sophia, as uni 
 formly gentle, gentlemanly, affectionate to children, 
 tender-hearted, keenly averse to giving pain ; it was 
 impossible from his temperament for him to have done 
 this deed. The mother of these children trusted him, 
 enjoyed his society ; I was glad to have him for my 
 friend, she says, in her testimony. I should believe 
 she was a woman not easil} r deceived ; her instincts are 
 line ; she has keen, womanly discernment. What if she 
 cannot love him ? Love comes unsought, unsent. 
 Perhaps her heart is in the grave. She cannot return 
 his affection ; she has to deal this blow, but you may be 
 sure she does it gently. Let us look at the character of 
 the woman Sophia. She loves her mistress apparently 
 most people love her who come near her but she is 
 consumed with a jealous hatred of the young tutor ; 
 she sees in him a suitor from the first. She dreads a 
 master in the little household. I am afraid she has 
 been mistress, and ruled it with an iron rule. The
 
 COUNSEL FOE THE DEFENCE. 279 
 
 young housekeeper and mother yields to her judgment 
 in all things, lets her manage matters as she will in the 
 menage. It would not suit Sophia to have a master 
 enter ; she will fight against it. She doesn t mind the 
 weapons that she fights with. She does all she can to 
 prejudice her mistress, but she makes little headway 
 here. Her mistress, with all her gentleness, knows her 
 own mind upon the subject, and, we may well believe, 
 keeps her own counsel, too. You have heard the his 
 tory of the pocket-handkerchief. Desderaona s didn t 
 pass througl i hands more treacherous ; she steals it from 
 her mistress room, hides it till she sees a fitting mo 
 ment to produce it to the prisoner s hurt. She isn t 
 above eavesdropping either, this estimable servant. 
 She can pry not only into her lady s boxes and drawers, 
 but into her secrets, too. She listens outside the parlor 
 window, to the broken-hearted lover, who goes away 
 forever from the woman who likes but cannot love 
 him, who pities, but who cannot help him. She sees his 
 pallor, his agitation ; she gloats upon his wretchedness. 
 Crouched down, gazing through the blind-door, she 
 reports to us his manner and appearance, as he went for 
 the last time out of the little cottage, where, for a 
 happy summer, he has fed his hopes. Trusty, faithful 
 creature ! She can swear falsely, too, or forget amaz 
 ingly. Recall her testimony about the stair door, left un 
 bolted. Two witnesses, her mistress and Matilda, prove 
 her false about it. Then remember the brutal words 
 with which she flings the awful tidings into the poor 
 young mother s face. l Come and see your lover s 
 work ! Even in that appalling moment, when her 
 nurslings lie dead before her, her consuming hatred 
 rises up above all other feelings ; one can almost be-
 
 280 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. 
 
 lieve the Scripture story of demoniacal possession acted 
 over in the nineteenth century. 
 
 " I ask you to put at its true value the testimony of 
 a witness ruled by such a deadly passion. I deny that 
 she can see even the smallest detail in an unbiassed 
 light. Hatred and jealousy, such as she stands con 
 victed of, put her out of the pale of public confidence. 
 I ask you to throw out her testimony, and to render 
 your verdict as if she had not spoken. 
 
 "Of the medical testimony I must speak briefly. 
 The professional gentlemen have told you the causes of 
 the death of the two children. They agree that, while 
 life might be extinguished in three minutes, it is diffi 
 cult to imagine such dexterity, such cold-bloodedness. 
 The prisoner, having said his last good-bye to the 
 mother, just on the threshold turns back, and says: 
 Mayn t I go in and look at the children before I go ? 
 Their room is on the same floor. He knows the ways 
 about the quaint little cottage ; he goes in to give them 
 a good-bye kiss, for he is going from America forever 
 on the morrow. The hands of the clock point at live 
 minutes before nine ; the lady notices it, the maid no 
 tices it ; they think that he will miss his train. They 
 are both within call. Fancy him going through that 
 deadly work, not knowing at what instant the nurse s 
 black eyes may gleam in upon him ! He has three 
 minutes to make sure that both are dead. He comes 
 out cool and steady, passes through the hall, past the 
 mother, past the stealthy nurse, out into the street, and 
 takes his way coolly to the train, to miss which is to 
 meet death. Escape is all his thought now. Does he 
 hurry ? Does he come, pale and panting, on the plat 
 form steps ? You have heard the testimony of the rail-
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. 281 
 
 road employees. ~No man was ever cooler, graver, 
 quieter. They start. The train is delayed on the way 
 nearly two hours. Does that fire him with impatience ? 
 Why does he not spring off at some of the many halting- 
 places, and strike off across the country, reach the coast, 
 and get away upon some out-bound vessel? Gentle 
 men, I will not war;te your time over such a theory as 
 this ; it is too palpable a folly. 
 
 " Let us go back to the cottage, where the young 
 mother sits, thoughtful and silent, on the dark balcon^. 
 She is thinking of many things ; of the sorrow that 
 she has had to cause ; of the pleasant Summer that has 
 ended in pain to one whom she has cared for and re 
 spected ; she thinks of her children ; she feels she has 
 her little brood under her wings, though the night is 
 dark and somber. Perhaps her mind goes into the 
 past, recalling a face and voice that she will never see 
 and hear but in dreams ao-ain. ]STo wonder she is ab- 
 
 o 
 
 sorbed ; no wonder that the light sounds of the intruder s 
 tread in the darkened rooms beyond the parlor escape 
 her ear. The lynx-eyed nurse has left her post ; sha 
 has gone to the front window, and is stealthily gazing 
 out upon her mistress, wondering what her feelings 
 are, now that she has sent away her lover. ~No wonder 
 that she heard nothing; she is absorbed indeed. At 
 what moment the tramp entered from the barn, where 
 since twilight he probably had been concealed, it is diffi 
 cult to say. It seems probable to me he followed shortly 
 after the sleepy Indian woman, whom he had been 
 watching through the window. He opens the kitchen 
 door, steals across it, follows the woman through the 
 stair door with which he had acquainted himself in the 
 morning. He gropes about and enters tfye first door he
 
 282 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. 
 
 finds, which is that of the lady s bed-room. While 
 searching for plunder here, he hears a step ; it is Mac- 
 nally s, going to the children s bedside. He hastily 
 conceals himself inside the closet. In a few minutes 
 the step goes out, silence reigns again. He steals out, 
 across the dark, open chamber, into the room where the 
 children lie asleep. He busies himself in searching 
 about for money or valuables ; he is not a practiced 
 housebreaker ; he is a clumsy brute of a tramp ; ignorant, 
 but rapacious ; probably not long in the country ; not 
 familiar with the ways of households here. Some sound 
 he makes near the bed of one of the children rouses her ; 
 she sits up, looks around. He starts toward her ; she 
 makes a little cry, which rouses the other, who stirs in 
 her sleep. He is standing between the cribs ; terror 
 seizes him; if they make an outcry, he will be caught. 
 " It is a short work to silence the little throats ; he is 
 a coward, a brute, little better than an animal ; human 
 life, so easily crushed out, seems to him little in com 
 parison with the chance of detection and a few months 
 in the county jail. He has had enough of the attempt ; 
 he is thoroughly frightened ; he stumbles his way out, 
 creeps down the stairs, goes softly out the kitchen, door. 
 It is a very dark night ; he makes his way along the 
 little path ; brushes against the lilac bushes that stand 
 beside the gate. From the silent balcony above, the 
 mother looks down and listens. She hears the gate 
 open very softly, and then shut. She little knows who 
 has passed out, and what ruin has been left behind. 
 She goes forward across the balcony to see where Sophia 
 is if she has heard it. No, Sophia has resumed her 
 sewing and her stolid silence. Sophia has not heard it, she 
 is intent on other things than sounds like these. The
 
 COUNSEL FOE THE DEFENCE. 283 
 
 hours pass. The two sit there silent, characteristically 
 employed, one in quiet retrospection, the other in sharp 
 manual labor, and fierce, angry thoughts. You know 
 the rest. You know the first words that the woman 
 speaks when she beholds the appalling sight ; it is the 
 index to the whole. She has a force, a power of 
 her own; she bends people to her way of thinking 
 in an unusual way. She is convinced in her own mind ; 
 I do not say she is not ; she leaves no room for doubt 
 in any mind as to who has done the deed. She hounds 
 them on to search for and arrest Macnally ; she is in 
 authority, in a certain way, in the stricken house ; they 
 defer to her ; no one has any other theory to oppose to 
 hers ; it is as she says. And while, with vixen fury, 
 she points them to the discarded lover, the brutal mur 
 derer, dull and slow of wit, goes safely off to swamps 
 and woods and bays, where he may take his time, and 
 get away securely. The house was not properly 
 searched ; the traces that might have been found were, 
 in the confusion, lost. I do not blame the local officers 
 exactly. I know what is the force and fire of such a 
 woman s tongue as this. We do not know exactly what 
 things are missing from the house. In the dismay and 
 anguish none of the inhabitants can tell what may have 
 been abstracted. The mother alone has yearned for 
 the little broken toy ; the mate of the little shoe that is 
 now her dearest treasure. When we know where those 
 two things are, we shall Jcnow who is the murderer. Till 
 they are brought into the court, gentlemen, these chil 
 dren came to their death by the hands of a person or 
 persons unknown. Nothing else is possible. 
 
 " There is one more point I must touch upon, gentle 
 men of the jury, and I have done. A great emphasis
 
 284 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. 
 
 is laid by the prosecution upon the fact, if it is a fact, 
 that the prisoner at the bar does not give you his true 
 name. They imply that he is an adventurer, a man 
 whose antecedents will weigh him down if he presents 
 them. They say, he dares not tell the truth about him 
 self, or he would tell it, to save him from the gallows. 
 I will tell them something that he dares do ; he dares risk 
 the gallows rather than stain, even by an accusation of 
 crime, the honored name he bears. For some youthful 
 folly, some petulance of home-control, he comes to 
 America, and, in his new-bom independence, he drops 
 the surname by which he would be identified, and is 
 known by his baptismal name alone. 
 
 " That was an unwise thing to do ; don t let your boys 
 ever do it ! It s all very- well if nothing happens, but 
 if it does, see the scrape it gets one in. It looks badly. 
 I acknowledge it. I have pleaded with my client to dis 
 close his family name. I might have as well have pleaded 
 with Plymouth Rock. If I perish, I perish. I like 
 the generous surrender of himself to the consequences 
 of his boyish folly, but, professionally, I strongly disap 
 prove. C cst magnijique, mais ce rfcst pas la guerre? 
 He sees in fancy the agony and dismay of mother, sis 
 ter, father, when the cruel news is brought ; he thinks 
 of the distance, of the long days of suspense before the 
 end is readied ; he will not bring such sorrow into the 
 home he never should have left ; they shall never know 
 he was accused of murder ; that he stood at the bar of 
 justice, to plead for life ; that he dragged down a 
 hitherto unsullied name into the slime of criminals and 
 prisons. 
 
 " Gentlemen, we many of us have sons. I have a boy, 
 God bless him ! now going through the fire of early
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. 285 
 
 college life. I believe he is a good boy ; I believe lie 
 will be the stay and support of his mother and sisters 
 when I am dead and gone. But for all that, I wouldn t 
 guarantee that he ll keep free of folly and entanglement 
 while he is in his tiery, foolish years. I ve paid some of 
 his debts for him already. I am afraid I shall have to pay 
 some more. It isn t even on the books that he mayn t 
 some day take the bit between his teeth, and walk off 
 across the ocean with only the formality of his middle 
 name. If he does, and gets into a scrape, though he s a 
 good fellow, I sha n t expect him to show the pluck 
 that this young fellow shows, and refuse to appeal to 
 me. I m sure he d send a speedy telegram across the 
 ocean, and call upon rne to get him out of his entangle 
 ment. It would be the wisest way, though perhaps 
 not the most heroic. 
 
 " Gentlemen, -we have all been young ; let us not be 
 hard upon the faults of youth. Let us show the in 
 dulgence to this young stranger that we would have 
 asked for ourselves ; that we would ask for our sons, if 
 they should ever, by complicated imprudence and mis 
 fortune, fall into the strait that he has fallen into. I 
 leave his case in your hands with confidence and a sense 
 of full security."
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. 
 
 "All my spirits, 
 
 As if they had heard my passing-bell go for me, 
 Pull in their powers, and give me up to destiny." 
 
 Fletcher. 
 
 I DREW a deep breath ; it seemed to me the matter 
 was ended. I was not at the pains to listen very 
 attentively when the counsel for the prosecution rose, 
 and began his summing up. (Xot the suffused and light- 
 haired Mr. Bell, who had conducted the examinations, 
 but the senior counsel ; senior, but still young.) I list 
 ened, as we listen to things of secondary moment in a 
 play, when we know how it is all coming out. His 
 manner was a great contrast to the other speaker s, his 
 voice a very inferior affair. He spoke conversationally, 
 as if he had his linger in the button-hole of every jury 
 man. I began to see he wasn t "addressing them" as 
 across a gulf, but that he had a hold upon them, as 
 being one of themselves ; when he sneered at the op 
 posing counsel, he sneered from their side of the fence. 
 tSiitphen County is famed for being very clannish ; it 
 was not impossible that every juryman before him was 
 more or less nearly related to him by birth or by con 
 nection. He was the rising lawyer of the county ; they 
 were all proud of him. It was possible that they 
 wouldn t want to see him lose his case a case, the like 
 [286]
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. 287 
 
 of which had never been before the bar of Sutphen 
 County since it had been a county, and had had a bar. 
 
 " It s been a great treat, I m sure," he said. " We re 
 not used to such tine speaking here in this part of the 
 country ; and I, for one, have been quite carried away 
 by it. I m sure I can answer for all of yon, that you ve 
 been very much pleased very much pleased. When 
 we put Tom Turner up for surrogate again, we ll know 
 who to send for to stump the county for him." (Tom 
 Turner was a very weak candidate for surrogate at the 
 last election, who had been overwhelmingly -defeated. 
 There was an audible titter.) " I almost think I should 
 vote for Tom Turner myself, if he spoke for him. I 
 assure you, he quite carries me away. But, I ll tell 
 you, there s one thing I come back to, after I ve been 
 carried away by this extraordinary tide of talk, and 
 that is, Facts. And I don t know but I m a little stub- 
 borner after I get back to them, than before, for I am 
 just a tritie ashamed of myself for being taken off my 
 feet that way. Facts, gentlemen of the jury, facts 
 are what the law undertakes to deal with ; not theories, 
 nor flights of fancy. 
 
 "Now, this tramp business, gentlemen, you ll excuse 
 me if I call that a very decided liight of fancy. I 
 shouldn t like to call it anything else ; the counsel s a 
 stranger in these parts, and he s anxious we should be 
 particularly good to strangers. He quotes the Bible 
 about it, you know. Well, we ll call it a liight of fancy. 
 That poor, stupid Dutchman, who was seen around that 
 day by several witnesses, had about as much to do with 
 the murder as my dog Major had. Now, that lane from 
 Old Town Pond is a highway in everything but name. 
 You all know as well as I do, people go across there
 
 288 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. 
 
 every day in the week without being bound to the 
 Detmold farm-house ; I suppose we must call it the cot 
 tage now quaint little cottage, and all that sort of thing. 
 It s a mighty damp, rickety, old farm-house, in point 
 of fact, but since it s been occupied by city people, it s 
 politer to say it is a cottage. The folks that have been 
 in it this year must have got used to having foot pas 
 sengers going through the yard, night and day. The 
 place was shut up so long, everybody got in the 
 habit of going along that way from Wickapogue and 
 thereabouts ; it cuts off half a mile or so. The tramp 
 had as good a right as anybody to go through (that 
 was no right at all, but he d be as likely as any one to 
 take it). He went through, most likely, when the fam 
 ily were in at tea, or maybe he struck off to the village 
 through the iields before he got to the farm-yard. 
 Again, the motive of the tramp was burglary, and no 
 burglary has been committed ; a footstool has been 
 overturned and a couple of worthless articles are miss 
 ing. We won t waste time over that. It speaks for 
 itself. 
 
 " Now, a little about that kitchen stair door. Matilda s 
 story was a plain, straightforward one, on the direct ex 
 amination. You don t expect a poor Shinnecock half- 
 breed to stand up against a city lawyer s be fogging 
 questions. On the cross-examination she contradicted 
 herself, as any one of her gauge of intellect would do. 
 She shut that kitchen door and bolted it ; she would 
 have done it by force of habit, if she had been fast 
 asleep. Sophia trusted her, and that shows she d never 
 failed to shut it up before. The lower part of that 
 house was shut off from communication with the upper, 
 as fast as bars and bolts could make it. A noisy little
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. 289 
 
 poodle, who never let a stranger enter the gate without 
 barking himself into tits, lay silent on the rug, and never 
 lifted np his voice. The rear was till secure ; the front 
 was guarded by two wakeful women, in full possession 
 of their faculties. Gentlemen of the jury, nobody got 
 into that house from the rear that night ; you know it 
 as well as I know it, notwithstanding this distinguished 
 lawyer s flight of fancy. Who got in from the front, 
 and how did he get in ? You have heard the story so 
 many times, it s scarcely worth while to tell it all again. 
 Bernard Macnally, or the man that s passed among us 
 by that name, was the last person to go into that room 
 where the children lay. No other person could have 
 got in, no other person did get in ; it wasn t prejudging 
 the murderer, when the work was seen, to say whose 
 work it was. Nobody else had a chance to do the 
 work ; no one else had a motive to do the work. 
 
 "The counsel for the defence has given us a good 
 deal of talk about motive. He says the prisoner hadn t 
 any motive. Well, I say he had. Different men need 
 different motives to push them on to doing things. This 
 man is a cool hand. I think he may have been in so 
 many tight places before, he has got pretty well used 
 to tight places, and that sort of experience gives a man 
 courage. He knew he could do it ; he had done as 
 risky things before. He is a man of force, there s no 
 denying that. He knew this widow loved him ; I 
 don t want to say anything against her, but she doesn r t 
 come quite up to our notion of good conduct in this 
 county, if she let him be hanging round her all sum 
 mer in the way she did, if she didn t want to marry 
 him, that s all. But she did want to marry him. The 
 only thing in the way was the children. She hadn t 
 13
 
 290 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. 
 
 money enough to support this gay young gentleman, 
 and do justice to the children, too. I ve no doubt she 
 got a little good advice from Sophia Atkinson. Well, 
 she made up her mind at last she d do her duty by the 
 children, and she sent him oft . 
 
 " You re not to believe Sophia, because she listened. 
 Pooh, whoo ! What woman can you believe, then ? 
 I m not sure but a man would have listened under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 "Xow the rear of the house is all shut up, dark as 
 a pocket, and as tight. The prisoner has said good-bye 
 to his lady-love. 1 should have thought he would have 
 been thinking about nothing but that. But he asks to 
 go and see the children, too. lie goes in, by the only 
 entrance one could get in, to the nursery. When he 
 comes out, Sophia sees him. lie looks white and bad ; 
 he walks past the mother of the children without a word ; 
 he doesn t offer to touch her hand. I shouldn t think he 
 would ! He goes away ; he knows he has time. He 
 trusts to luck ; he s had pretty good luck so far in his ex 
 ploits, perhaps. lie is a cool hand, remember. It needn t 
 surprise us that he shows no fright and nervousness till he 
 is arrested. We may know all about that sort of thing if 
 we will look over the police reports. I contend this man, 
 of whom we know nothing, absolutely nothing, till ten 
 months ago, is a member of what we call the criminal 
 class. It isn t a small class either, if we are to believe 
 all the reports. We live in the country, and it is hard 
 to believe in such depravity. I could cite you twenty 
 cases that I have come across in my reading, that have 
 in them a great deal that is parallel. lie means to go 
 to Europe, stay away awhile, and come back for the 
 widow and her nice snug fortune, when things shall be
 
 COUNSEL FOB THE PROSECUTION. 291 
 
 smoothed out a little. I don t say this is a pleasant 
 theory, but it is strictly in accordance with the facts. 
 
 " But, in many ways, this case has narrowed down to 
 a contest between two witnesses. If you believe 
 Sophia Atkinson, you believe there was no possibility 
 for any one to enter the rear of the house. If you be 
 lieve her mistress, you are forced to admit there was. 
 If you believe, again, this latter, you believe some one 
 went out the gate, meaning to get away without at 
 tracting observation. If you believe Sophia, you be 
 lieve no one could have done it without her quick ears 
 hearing them go out. The counsel for the defence 
 says you mustn t believe Sophia, because she listened, 
 and because she kept that handkerchief with half the 
 alphabet embroidered on it. Oh, yes ! and because she 
 didn t like the prisoner from the first, and thought him 
 a bad lot. Well, do you know, it strikes me those are 
 just three counts on which you ought to trust her. I 
 don t blame her for listening. Her mistress was 
 young; she had been her nurse before she was her 
 children s nurse ; she saw she was being entrapped by 
 a bad fellow ; she watched day and night to save her. 
 The handkerchief (which, gentlemen, is one of a set 
 found in the prisoner s trunk) was something tangible 
 to show he wasn t Bernard Macually, no matter if he 
 was a perfect gentleman, and all that sort of thing. 
 She kept it in a safe place, till she could use it to con 
 vince the younger woman of the mistake that she was 
 making. And I don t blame her very much for not 
 liking him from the very first. I think it s to the 
 credit of her judgment that she didn t. An intelligent 
 American w r ornan of her age, who has been trusted all 
 her life by the family that she s lived with, can t be
 
 292 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. 
 
 pooh-poohed off the witness-stand by the flight of 
 fancy of even a distinguished lawyer from the city. 
 Sophia Atkinson is the sort of witness I like ; she s the 
 sort of woman I like; I d like her in my family. If 
 she s ever out of place, I hope she ll remember my ad 
 dress. If I had a lot of young daughters, ready to be 
 fallen in love with by adventurers from Ireland, I d 
 like to have her round. She d suit me to a T. 
 
 " .N ow, as to her mistress as a witness. Gentlemen, I 
 don t like to say anything that isn t flattering about a lady. 
 I am sorry for the sufferings she has undergone, as sorry 
 as the counsel on the other side. Perhaps I m not as 
 easily overcome by personal attractions as he is ; we don t 
 think so much about things of that kind in the country, 
 maybe, after \vc marry and settle down. But I must 
 say, there are things I don t understand. That gate, for 
 instance why didn t Sophia hear it ? She was almost 
 as near. It came in so pat, that gate. It was a god- 
 Bend to the defence. I don t know where the defence 
 would have gone to have hunted up a theory but fur 
 the lifting of that gate-latch. Then that bolt on the 
 door of the kitchen stairs. It s remarkable the lady 
 should have remembered it so long just that little cir 
 cumstance. It wasn t as if she was shutting up the 
 house herself ; it wasn t as if anybody had suggested, 
 for days after the murder, that it was of the least im 
 portance in the case. Her remembering it so very 
 clearly is a thing that well, that I can t understand 
 exactly. Only on one theory. Now, don t be shocked, 
 gentlemen. I don t want to be impolite. But I feel 
 a sort of certainty of one thing. She didn t remember it 
 till she saw it was a necessary thing to be remembered. 
 Don t be shocked ; I can t help it. It was a strong
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. 293 
 
 temptation. You see, she wants to save him. She 
 well, she s in love with him, gentlemen, and you know 
 what that means. You know it means, with a woman, 
 that she wouldn t stop at anything. I m sorry for her. 
 It s an awful thing all round. An infatuation of that 
 sort will outlive everything. You know the law won t 
 receive a woman s testimony for or against her husband. 
 The law knows a woman can t be trusted to tell the 
 truth when it comes to hurting a hair of the man s head 
 that she loves. Now, I don t pretend to say this lady 
 knows she has well misstated facts a little. I don t 
 say she would deliberately say what wasn t strictly true. 
 But she wants it to be true eo dreadfully ; she thinks 
 about it, and thinks about it, and ends up in believing 
 it herself. You can t trust a woman in love ; there s no 
 way out of that. It introduces a nice moral question. 
 It s just the sort of thing my brother for the defence 
 could spread out, till you didn t know head from tail of 
 it. It isn t in my line, you see. I wish I could retain 
 him to expound it to you. But as that s impossible, we ll 
 have to let it drop. 
 
 " Gentlemen, let s go back ft minute to that parting 
 between the prisoner and this lady. You ve heard a 
 great deal about it ; but I ask your patience while I re 
 peat to you the words which Sophia Atkinson testifies 
 to having heard him say, and which her mistress doesn t 
 deny he said. They re just these. I ask you to bear 
 them in your mind. You remember he had asked her, 
 desperately, at the last, why he must go away, and she had 
 told him, he must go. Then he said (please remember 
 these words), It is your children stand between us, you 
 cannot say it is not. You aren t willing to trust them 
 to me, whatever you might Ije willing for yourself. 1
 
 294 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. 
 
 Whenever the defence talks to you about motive, just 
 turn those words over in your mind, and see what you 
 can make of them. I tell you what /make of em. i 
 make of em motive enough to hang him high as Hainan. 
 That is all. I m not going to talk to you any more 
 about it. People on the east end of Long Island don t 
 have to be talked to all night to make em understand 
 a thing. I suppose it comes of living so near the be 
 ginning of things ; they get an earlier start. 
 
 " Now, gentlemen, I believe I have come to the last 
 point I want to draw your attention to. In the judg 
 ment of the law, a man s previous character goes for 
 a great deal. Once establish that a man accused or 
 any crime has walked a steady, straight road in the 
 sight of all men for a lifetime, and you ve as good as 
 cleared him. A man s life, I say again, goes for a good 
 deal, and it ought to go for a good deal. Men don t 
 break out all of a sudden into murderers and thieves. 
 It doesn t come upon em like the small-pox, unless 
 they ve had it in their system. Now, gentlemen, let s 
 look at this man before us. Ten months ago, he rose 
 out of the earth, or dropped down from the sky, into 
 the Emlyn family. Colonel Emlyn, now, I ve a great 
 respect for Colonel Emlyn, he s a neighbor of mine, 
 and we get along first-rate together but I wouldn t 
 set him to take care of my family exactly. He adver 
 tises for a tutor, and along comes this one. He is a 
 taking young fellow ; he talks the colonel into engaging 
 him without a word of reference. He doesn t know 
 whether he dropped from the sky, as I say, or burrowed 
 his way out from the ground. He doesn t ask. He 
 takes him. He brings him home, makes him one of 
 the family. In fact, I don t know but he makes him,
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. 295 
 i 
 
 the most important member of his family. He has the 
 best of everything, he s made a sort of pet of, he s a 
 privileged person, he s introduced to the friends of 
 the family. 
 
 " Well, what does the young man do, in return for 
 all this sort of kindness ? I ll be bound the Emlyns 
 don t keep back anything from him they re not that 
 sort of people. Things are talked of freely their fam 
 ily connections, what they did last year and the year 
 before, what they re going to do next year. Does he 
 return the compliment? Not a bit of it. He talks 
 enough, Heaven knows, but he s exceedingly care 
 ful not to talk about himself. At the end of ten 
 months, the people he s been living with can t tell 
 you, though they rack their memory to do it, of a 
 single word that he has dropped about his home, his 
 people, his life before he came to them. They don t 
 know anything about him. They re ladies and gen 
 tlemen, and they don t pry into what he doesn t choose 
 to tell them. The best they can say is that they found 
 him reticent. Reticent ! Well, he s the first Irishman 
 I ever knew that was, even about his debts, and the bad 
 whisky that he d drunk, and the bad morals of his 
 grandmother. No, gentlemen, he isn t a common Irish 
 man, he s an uncommon Irishman ; if he wasn t, we d 
 have had an immigration law that would have kept him 
 out a good many years ago. This man, Irishman as he 
 was, knew how to hold his tongue. Here, at the foot of 
 the gallows, he knows how to hold it still. These kind 
 and hospitable people never got him to betray a word, 
 in all the familiarity of every-day life. He could make 
 jokes, and turn somersaults, and quote Greek and Latin, 
 and shoot and fish, and play with the children, and
 
 296 COUNSEL FOI: TIIK II:OSI:CJUTION. 
 
 make love to the widow ; but he couldn t tell them 
 iver a ward about himself. They tell you he was 
 amiable. Of course. Why shouldn t he be? Even 
 Sophia tells you he didn t bang the children about 
 and complain of the biscuits when he came to tea. I 
 shouldn t have supposed he would. It wasn t in his 
 programme. lie was trying to make people like him, 
 and to get a footing. lie succeeded pretty well. 
 They were all infatuated with him. 
 
 " The whole testimony for character that the defence 
 can bring, extends back a distance of ten months. Ten 
 months is a good while for some things, but for others, 
 it s rather a po^r showing. If a man can t behave him 
 self for ten months, it s a pity. If he can t let you look 
 back into his life more n ten months, it s a pity, 
 greater still. The counsel for the defence gives us dex 
 terously to understand, he is of a very tine familj-. 
 Well, I m sure I don t say that he isn t. I m not much 
 posted on the ways of tine families on the other side ; 
 but all I can say is, if they re all of cm given to turn 
 ing somersaults, climbing poles, going about barelegged, 
 driving through the streets with wanning pans over 
 their shoulders, I m sure I m glad they don t emigrate 
 to this country in any greater numbers. I m just as 
 well satisfied they should stay at home and look after 
 their peat and potatoes. 
 
 " No, gentlemen. The counsel for the defence assures 
 us that if the prisoner could be induced to roll up the 
 curtain of his past life, we should see such a Phoenix 
 that we d all drop down on our knees and ask his par 
 don for having imagined it possible that he could do 
 anything unhandsome. My impression is that if that 
 curtain could be got to move, there d be revealed to us
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE FKOSECUTIOtf. 297 
 
 such a jail-bird that every man of you d be on his 
 feet quicker ri wink, and after him while there was 
 breath enough to follow. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, don t let that jail-bird 
 slip through your fingers ; don t let his counsel have the 
 laugh on you ; he knows as well as I do that line words 
 don t butter any parsnips. "We ve had a century of peace 
 in Sutphen County. If we want another, let s make 
 it understood it isn t a healthy place for jail-birds and 
 the like of them. Let s show the world (for this is 
 going to be a celebrated case,) let s show the world we re 
 men enough to do our duty, and sharp enough to see 
 it, if we do live on the far end of a sandy island, half 
 way out to sea. Sutphen Comity wants no advice from 
 city people. Sutphen County can manage her matters 
 for herself. She knows the law, and she lias the pluck 
 to carry out its penalties when she sees it must be done. 
 (Looking at his watch.) Bless my heart, I ve talked just 
 about twice as long as there was any need. I suppose 
 I needn t have opened my lips. I guess you d made 
 up your minds upon the matter long before I began to 
 talk to you about it." 
 
 And he took his seat as if he were going to open 
 the stove-door to put more wood in, or had sat down 
 to consult his account-book about the winter wheat. 
 He came in very fresh ; he hadn t laid a hair in this 
 sharp pull against the city lawyer. All this told upon 
 the audience. My heart died down within me. I 
 couldn t see the jurors faces. But I had seen a sort 
 of smile pass sometimes over the faces of the three 
 judges. I had detected hearty sympathy in the eyes 
 of all the crowd. Sometimes I had looked with terror 
 towards Mr. Hardinge, and had been reassured. He
 
 298 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. 
 
 looked satisfied and undismayed. Occasionally he had 
 glanced ray way, as if to steady me. Ho dared not 
 give me a look, but his eye, as it passed over mine, gave 
 me a world of succor. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon. The court had ad 
 journed ; the judge s charge would be given in the 
 morning and then and then the verdict. The peo 
 ple were loath to disperse. They stood about in groups 
 and talked with eager gesticulation. 1 could hear now 
 and then a few words. They all went one way. But 
 they were not the jury. But the jury was made up 
 of such as they. 
 
 How we all lived through that night I don t at all 
 know. Mi-s. Emlyn was so restless that I knew she 
 would be ill. The colonel looked like an old man. It 
 was hard for people who had led such quiet and well- 
 guarded lives. Even Sophia took to walking the floor, 
 and could not lie down, or sleep, or eat. I believe I 
 was the quietest of them all, and wrote the first letter 
 of the day to poor Naomi, left behind in feverish 
 anxiety at Happy-go-lucky. Nobody had thought 
 about her and ]S T ed that day. In fact, there had been 
 no time, and no one had had the resolution to do any 
 thing that required an effort of will or memory, or 
 even of physical force.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 
 
 " The days could somehow drag themselves 
 
 Like wounded worms along : 
 But I know not how we lived those nights, 
 Save that God made us strong." 
 
 Fabcr. 
 
 THE next day opened raw and chill. The rosiest 
 girls in the court-room had blue lips and noses ; 
 the men outside stamped their feet to keep warm ; the 
 horrid fluted stove inside was beginning to give out hot 
 air, a smell of heated iron, and an abundance of coal 
 gas. The crowd was greater than ever, and more rest 
 less. Before the opening of the court there was a great 
 deal of vehement talking, though low, but the volume 
 of it together made a jarring, rough sound that tor 
 tured my ear. 
 
 "When the prisoner was brought in (we were seated 
 first) he passed directly in front of us. He even had 
 to step over the bottom of my dress as it lay upon 
 the floor. But he did not lift his eyes, nor look at any 
 of us. It seemed to me like some horrible spell of en 
 chantment ; we had been all these days within the same 
 four walls, listening to the same words, thinking, of 
 necessity, many of the same thoughts ; and not once 
 had our eyes met, not once had I heard the sound of 
 his voice ; the face and figure that met my eye were 
 
 [299]
 
 300 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 
 
 strangely, awfully changed, and yet the same. It 
 seemed to me such a combination of woe, and shame, 
 and horror had never come into one lot before. It 
 was like some horrible revel of the fancy more than 
 like a fact; he and I compelled to sit and listen, day 
 after day, to the unveiling of our thoughts, to the tor 
 turing into diverse meanings the most sacredly secret 
 words that we had ever uttered. In the gray dullness 
 of this chill, real day, it all seemed more unreal and 
 more hideous than ever. . . . The crier had droned 
 out his formula, " Hear ye, hear ye ;" and in the pause 
 that followed, 
 
 Mr. Bell rose in his place, and said, May it please 
 your Honor, since the adjournment of the court last 
 night, a most important piece of evidence has come to 
 my knowledge. It was not through any neglect of 
 those engaged in the prosecution, that it did not come- 
 to light before. It was, I am ashamed to say, due to the 
 connivance of the officer who arrested the prisoner, 
 that this important link in the chain of evidence was 
 not supplied to us before. The officer is, as you remem 
 ber, an Irishman ; his sympathy for his countryman was 
 greater than his sense of duty. As this miscarriage is 
 due in no way to the prosecution, and that the ends of 
 justice may not be defeated, I ask permission to offer 
 this evidence now. I have the man s affidavit, and the 
 corroborating testimony ready. It will not detain you 
 many minutes, and I ask permission to proceed. The 
 importance of the testimony cannot be overstated." 
 
 Mr. llardinge started to his feet. " In all my legal 
 experience, your Honor, I have never heard a parallel 
 to this. It strikes me as an outrage that cannot be 
 overstated. I protest against it, and deny that the
 
 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 301 
 
 prosecution have any more right to present a piece of 
 evidence after they have summed up their case, than 
 they would have to present it six months hence at tho 
 next sitting of the court. My brother must have de 
 vised this way to make his case immortal ; one will 
 never know when it is ended. Your Honor, let us 
 hear no more of this, in the name of justice, and of 
 law." 
 
 Mr. Bell blushed a deep blush of wrath, and made 
 a testy answer. The judge, with deliberation, made a 
 pause in the discussion, and ordered the jury to be taken 
 out of court. They accordingly h led out into the jury 
 room, burning with curiosity, no doubt ; and in the 
 silence which followed the closing of the door, Mr. 
 Bell resumed his argument. I looked in vain for com 
 fort from my friend, the lawyer, now ; he forgot me, or 
 had none to give. He was quite pale, and one could 
 see all his senses were enlisted in the light. You might 
 have tired a cannon off beside him, and he would not 
 have heard it while his opponent was speaking. I was 
 so benumbed I could not follow them. I don t know 
 what was said on either side. I only know that after a 
 great deal, the judge gave permission to the prosecution 
 to read the affidavit of the officer, and amid a deep 
 silence the following was read : 
 
 " I, Michael Denny, being duly sworn, depose that 
 on the morning of the third of September I arrested 
 the prisoner at the bar." (Then followed the account 
 of his arrest about two o clock in the morning, at the 
 depot, and the circumstances of his detention, etc., at 
 the police headquarters till the departure of the next 
 train for South Berwick.) " It was my duty to examine 
 him and to make an inventory of all the articles found
 
 302 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 
 
 upon his person. I had liim in the waiting-room of 
 the headquarters. There was nobody else in the room, 
 only the officer stationed outside the door. I knew 
 what the prisoner was accused of. I found in the inner 
 pocket of his coat a child s shoe. I didn t believe he 
 did the murder. I was sure of it I knew, though, in a 
 minute, it would look bad, his having the little shoe 
 about him. He was standing by the window, I was 
 away from it. I said to him, That won t do you any 
 good. Pitch it out of the window. He refused to do 
 it. I made a move to do it myself. It was a high 
 window overlooking the street. He put out his hand 
 to stop me. Just that moment I heard a noise outside 
 the door, and I drew back, and stooped down over the 
 valise, where his dressing tilings and all were. I had 
 already made the inventory of them, along with the 
 other officer. It was he that was at the door and now 
 came in, and another man with him. When I heard 
 them come in, I pushed the little shoe down into a sort 
 of pocket that there is inside the bag ; it was so little 
 it didn t seem to take up any room; you couldn t feel 
 it if you passed your hand over it, not thinking. The 
 other officers came up, and we finished the inventory of 
 what he had on. Then they were detailed to take him 
 up by the train. I never thought of the shoe again. I 
 meant to have taken it out of the bag the next time the 
 others went across the room, or anywhere. But it 
 passed out of my mind. I have been very busy. I 
 never thought of it again till I heard the counsel yester 
 day talk about it in his summing up. Then I was uneasy 
 for fear somebody would find it. I made an effort to 
 see the prisoner. Last night I got in for a minute, 
 with an officer. He watched me all the time, I could
 
 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 303 
 
 see. I knew he distrusted me because I was an Irish 
 man. 1 couldn t get a chance at the bag, but I suppose 
 he saw that was -what I was at, and afterwards they 
 searched it, and when they found this, and saw it wasn t 
 in the inventory that I had sworn to, they brought me 
 up about it. That is all I have to say." 
 
 " Your Honor," said Mr. Bell, when he finished the 
 reading of the affidavit (he spoke hurriedly and rather 
 venomously, as if he feared not being allowed to get 
 in all he wanted without being interrupted), "your 
 Honor, I have here the shoe which the opposing coun 
 sel told us yesterday would identify the murderer. It 
 was found as alleged in the affidavit, in the prisoner s 
 possession." 
 
 And he placed upon the table before him the 
 Baby s little shoe. I gave a faint cry at the sight ; I 
 could not help it. The court-room was so still, it sound 
 ed from one end to the other, faint as it was. 
 
 " You don t need other identification," said the law 
 yer, " the mother has told you, perhaps involuntarily. 
 But to leave no doubt, I will show you its mate." 
 
 And he signed to Sophia, who came forward and 
 put into his hand the shoe that, within a half-hour, she 
 had taken from my trunk at the hotel. I had seen the 
 deputy give her a note, and had seen her leave the 
 court-room, but had been too engrossed to wonder why 
 she went. 
 
 " I ask," said the counsel, " that these be put in evi 
 dence ; that the case be opened to admit testimony of 
 which we were defrauded by the dishonesty of the pris 
 oner s countryman." 
 
 He laid the little shoes together on the table, then 
 lifted them to bring them nearer to the judges range
 
 301- IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN 1 . 
 
 of vision. He seemed to gloat over them. They were 
 little slippers, made with a strap that buttoned round 
 the ankle. They were worn and creased, and so very 
 little. I put my hands up before my face. It killed 
 me to look at them, and to see him touch them. 
 
 " Your Honor," said Mr. Hardinge, in a cold, hard 
 voice. " don t let us degenerate into melodrama. We 
 are in a court of law. I contend the absolute impossi 
 bility of admitting any evidence, no matter of what 
 force or pertinence. I have already proved this to your 
 Honor. I now ask you to throw out this testimony as 
 utterly impertinent and worthless. If it had come in 
 the regular course of the case, no one would have given 
 it a second thought. It proves nothing. It tits in to 
 nothing. When I said yesterday, that when those 
 articles were found we should have found the murderer, 
 I meant, and the counsel knows I meant, when wo 
 found them in the possession of a burglar. Your 
 Honor, this man is not a burglar ; the prosecution 
 doesn t present him as a burglar. His having that 
 shoe doesn t prove anything but his affection for the 
 little child that wore it. We know lie had been in the 
 room. We don t gain anything by this proof that he 
 had been there." 
 
 " We gain one thing," said the senior counsel, ris 
 ing to his feet. " We take a nail out of that tramp s 
 coffin, and put it in the prisoner s. If we could only 
 set that foot-stool back in its place now, by natural 
 means, I think we could screw down the lid." 
 
 " Your Honor, this is no time for trifling ; human 
 life is a thing too sacred. Don t allow this to con 
 tinue." 
 
 " I only ask," said the senior counsel, quite uu-.
 
 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 005 
 
 daunted, "that ray brother s words have full force with 
 you now. I only desire to recall to your mind, that 
 we heard in court yesterday from him the unequivo 
 cal statement that when that toy and that shoe should 
 be found, then and there the murderer would be found. 
 If it was law yesterday, it must be law to-day. I can t 
 turn and twist about so quick as all that. I believed 
 him yesterday. I keep on believing him. If it doesn t 
 prove anything new about the prisoner, it proves some 
 thing about that man of straw, the tramp. It proves, 
 your Honor, that he didn t exist, and that Bernard 
 Macnally is the man we re looking for, if anybody had 
 any doubt before." 
 
 " Your Honor," cried Mr. Ilardinge, " don t let a 
 man be hung for the zeal of a blundering officer, arid 
 for the chance word of his counsel ! I plead with you 
 to sift these facts before they reach the jury ; to re 
 member the inflammable nature of human prejudice ; 
 to think of the awful burden that would lie upon those 
 who had departed from the rigid impartiality of the 
 law, in such a critical moment as this. If, guilty, he 
 should escape, the law, and not the administrators of it, 
 would have to bear the blame. If, innocent, he should 
 be saved, the law could alone be lauded. It has passed 
 out of our hands; for or against, we have done our 
 .best ; all human effort is sealed now forever ; if that 
 testimony is admitted, the law is violated. A trust has 
 been betrayed ; the divine character of justice has been 
 sullied. We are but human ; we can see but a little 
 way. "We must work within narrow rules, and then 
 trust that they will develop the Divine "Will and order. 
 1 would never stand at the bar, to plead for or against 
 a fellow-mortal s life, if I did not believe in Divine
 
 300 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 
 
 Justice working through human agency, humble and 
 imperfect, but struggling on through generations of 
 honest effort, to break a channel for the truth. To me, 
 the law is sacred ; break it lightly who dare ! I protest 
 with all my soul against this wanton outrage of it." 
 
 And he sat down, almost as pale as the prisoner be 
 side him. My head swam. I could not follow them ; 
 I did not know what they were talking about. I knew 
 it was the crisis. Once or twice I saw the prisoner lift 
 his head and look at the judges ; he did not seem more 
 white and self-controlled than before, but I thought his 
 eye shone with an intenser light. Even the children in 
 the crowd knew it was a crisis; there was a stillness 
 that frightened me. It seemed endless the fire of 
 those opposing tongues, on which the crowd hung 
 breathless. I had lost the power to follow them ; they 
 were in the region of the law, pure and simple, now, 
 and the words were unfamiliar, and my brain had been 
 on the strain too long. At last there was a pause ; the 
 judge said something; there was a hush; then the 
 deputy moved forward, and opened the door of the 
 jury -room. The crowd, bewildered by the technicali 
 ties of the discussion, did not understand any more than 
 I at first ; but, gradually, a low, angry murmur spread 
 among them, as the jury tiled back into their places. 
 
 "What is it?" I said, catching Colonel Emlyn s 
 arm, who stood beside me. 
 
 " They don t like it," he said. 
 
 " Don t like what ? I cannot understand." 
 
 " The judge has thrown out the evidence," he an 
 swered. " lie has sent for the jury ; he is going to 
 charge them now." 
 
 That gave me new life ; but fears began again.
 
 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 
 
 The judge had done his duty in the face of popular 
 clamor. Would it be possible for him to keep on 
 through all, with no concession to prejudice ? He had 
 had the law to sustain him in throwing out the testi 
 mony which, it was plain to see, was worth nothing, as 
 evidence, but everything, in its influence on the jury. 
 It was another question, whether he would dare to 
 throw the weight of his influence for the prisoner, 
 when it carne to matters outside the stern walls of the 
 law. 
 
 He was a plain speaker ; his use of language was 
 rather limited, but he had a sound legal mind, and a 
 way of putting things that was impressive. If he had 
 had more words, he might have got bewildered among 
 them, for it was evident he was not a ready speaker. 
 But his very poverty of language was forcible. His 
 ideas stood out like Greek statues, undraped. His 
 charge was throughout impressive ; intelligible to the 
 meanest understanding, respectable to the highest. It 
 was impartial, in a certain way : he reviewed the case 
 critically ; when he got through with that part, you 
 would have been at a loss to say to which side he leaned. 
 But the great strength of his speech was the injunction 
 to them to beware of prejudice, to remember, the rend 
 ering of the verdict according to the law was all that 
 they were answerable for. It was not whether they 
 believed the prisoner guilty or not ; it was, whether the 
 evidence that had been placed before them proved it. 
 He warned them not to add one jot or tittle to it in their 
 minds to fill up any space left vacant. Did that evi 
 dence show that Bernard Macnally had killed the chil 
 dren, or did it leave it an open question ? If it left it 
 an open question there was but one thing for them to do.
 
 IN TIIE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MKN. 
 
 His few words to them on the solemnity of their 
 duty were almost startling ; the language was so simple, 
 the truth so strong. lie dismissed them to their delib 
 eration with a wish that they might, one and all, be 
 guided by that Divine Wisdom which was given liberal 
 ly and without upbraiding to those that asked for it. 
 The words sounded very real. 
 
 Then lx?gan the time of waiting which I had so 
 dreaded. An irresistible irritability took possession of 
 me. I could not bear a word, a sound. I would not 
 let them speak to me ; I would not go out into the ante 
 room. In fact, I had such a dread of losing control of 
 myself, that I feared any physical effort. The lawyers 
 went out ; the prisoner went away with an officer and 
 his counsel. The judges withdrew into another room. 
 The people on the benches beyond us fell into chatter 
 and restlessness, doors opened and shut. A young 
 woman near me ate an apple ; the smell of it made me 
 ill; the sound of her crunching teeth made me almost mad. 
 She had cheeks as red as her apple. Two or three young 
 men came and sat on the back of the bench before her. 
 They talked and laughed, and alluded to the trial, and 
 tilted themselves backward and forward, and she told 
 them to " Behave," and to " Stop their nawnsense." 
 
 The cold, raw wind blew in in gusts when the doors 
 were opened. A tree close up by the window near us bent 
 and tapped against the pane, and moaned and rustled, and 
 tapped again. Two men leaned against the railing just 
 behind Macnally s empty chair. They looked at it, and 
 seemed to hold it in abhorrence. They talked in low, 
 angry tones ; they said something about lynch law, and 
 the rights of communities to protect themselves. Then 
 the stove. How shall 1 ever forget it, and its horrible
 
 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 309 
 
 heat and gas. Sophia went away, and came back with 
 something mixed in a glass, and held it to my lips, and 
 bade me drink it. I hated her and it, but I drank it. 
 I suppose it was something soothing, for I felt better 
 and quieter in a little while. 
 
 1 have no idea about the length of time. It may 
 have been one hour, it may have been three, when there 
 was a stir, a murmur, an excitement. People all came 
 back to their places. The jury came back into their 
 seats, the three judges resumed theirs. Amidst a pause, 
 which seemed to me interminable, the foreman rose, 
 and addressing the judge, said they had not agreed 
 on one or two points, and had come back for further 
 instructions. He indicated the evidence which they 
 needed to hear again. The clerk was ordered to read 
 what I had testified about the opening and shutting 
 of the gate, about the shutting of the stair door by 
 Sophia, and her exclamation of surprise that it was 
 open. All of my testimony was read upon this subject. 
 The clerk read it in a perfunctory way, in a loud voice, 
 and with no expression. It might have been a bill of 
 lading. It gave me such a strange sensation to hear my 
 words hurtling about my ears in such a fashion. But 
 as to strange sensations, one might think I had exhaust 
 ed them before this time. The jury expressed them 
 selves satisfied, and were conducted out again. The 
 people all relaxed their rigidity of quiet, and began to 
 move and talk a little. 
 
 " It all comes down to that," said a man outside the 
 railing near me. " I knew it would. If they believe 
 her testimony they ll clear him. If they don t, he s 
 bound to swing. There s no getting out of that. 
 They ve got to convict him, it s as clear as day."
 
 310 IX THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 
 
 " Her testimony won t go for that, with the 
 jury," said his companion, taking out his knife and 
 pricking a sharp line along the bench before him. 
 " What s-his-name showed all that up. You ll see. He 
 hasn t got a chance." 
 
 " What did they come in, and have the testimony 
 all read over to them, if they didn t believe it ?" 
 
 "Oh, some dough-head couldn t remember what 
 she said, that s all. Blamed if I remembered it myself, 
 hearin such a lot of stuff." 
 
 Macnally and his counsel did not go away again, 
 nor the judges. There was a general feeling that the 
 decision would not be long deferred. Mr. llardingc s 
 face was set and anxious. He did not attempt to look 
 at or reassure me. The lawyers for the prosecution were 
 whispering together in a confident manner. The judge 
 looked stolid, his assistants solemn. Every time there 
 was a sound in the direction of the jury-room, the turn 
 ing of a door-knob, or the pushing back of a chair, there 
 was a sensation in the crowd, and then a murmur of 
 disappointment. Mrs. Emlyn had gone out long before, 
 utterly unable to bear it. The colonel sat faithfully 
 beside me. Sophia, whose face I never looked at now, 
 sat on the other side, rigidly still. I had just one feel 
 ing ; good or bad, I wished they would give their ver 
 dict now. I could not bear the strain another minute. 
 It seemed to me the difference between life and death 
 had dwindled into something that you couldn t see. I 
 didn t care. I only asked a certainty. 
 
 It was not long I don t believe more than half an 
 hour, when a stir from the direction of the jury-room 
 showed that the moment had come. The alert deputy 
 was seen opening the door, and putting back chairs and
 
 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 311 
 
 benches before the coming of the dealers-out of life or 
 death. I don t suppose there was a pulse in all that 
 densely-packed assembly that didn t throb quicker at 
 the thought of what we had arrived at ; slow and old, 
 quick and young each one was stirred on beyond its 
 usual beat by the awful possibilities to which we had 
 come up. 
 
 The jury came in, with stumbling, heavy boots on 
 the bare floor. When they had taken their places, the 
 clerk stood up, and, in his loud, unmeaning voice, 
 called out their names, to which, in various tones, 
 they answered. Then, in the same mechanical voice, 
 he asked if they had agreed upon their verdict. The 
 foreman said : 
 
 " We have." 
 
 A dark shadow fell upon the face of Hardinge. I 
 suppose his best hope had been a disagreement. The 
 prisoner was ordered to stand up. He stood up, firm 
 and straight, and lifted a steady glance to the face of 
 the man whose next breath would slay or save him. 
 Merciful Heavens ! how do people live through mo 
 ments such as these ? 
 
 The clerk said, as if he were reading off a chattel 
 mortgage : 
 
 " Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not 
 guilty of the crime for which he is arraigned f 
 
 " Not guilty !" said the foreman, standing up. 
 
 An inky black tide seemed swirling over me. I 
 put out my hand to save myself from some unknown 
 horror, and sank senseless to the floor. 
 
 When I next became conscious, I was lying on the 
 bed in the room we had occupied at the hotel. The
 
 312 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 
 
 first few moments were very confused and painful, but 
 I gradually recalled what had passed, and gathered my 
 wits together. I felt smothered and hot ; the room 
 was dark it was night ; there was only a faint light 
 burning by my bed. The smell of kerosene irritated 
 me ; the weight of the blankets oppressed me. I 
 pushed them back. Sophia, who was sitting some 
 where in the shadow, watching me, came forward. I 
 told her I wanted some water, and she gave it to me. 
 Then I said : 
 
 " Where is Colonel Emlyn ? Ask him to come 
 here." 
 
 " It is late," she said, evasively. " Wait till morn 
 ing." 
 
 I had heard steps in the next room. I knew that 
 lie was there. 
 
 " I want him now," I said. 
 
 She went to the door and spoke, and he came in, 
 looking anxiously at me. 
 
 " You may go away," I said to Sophia. " I want 
 to speak to him alone ." 
 
 She exchanged a look with him, and went away 
 into the next room, not shutting the door. I motioned 
 him to shut it, which he did, and then came back and 
 stood beside the bed, looking down on me with solici 
 tude and pity on his worn face. 
 
 " I don t remember everything," I said, pushing my 
 hand behind the pillow, and trying to raise my head. 
 " Is he cleared 2" 
 
 He nodded. " Yes, lie s safe." 
 
 There was a moment s pause. " Where is he now ?" 
 
 " He went right away with Hardinge." 
 
 " Did you speak to him ?"
 
 IN THE JUDGMENT OF TWELVE MEN. 313 
 
 " No. I hadn t a chance ; I was taking care of you. 
 You were ill, you know." 
 
 " Did Mrs. Eralyn ?" 
 
 " No, she had gone out of the court-room. She was 
 here at the hotel." 
 
 " Did anybody speak to him ?" 
 
 " Not that I know of. There wasn t any time, you 
 see, Hardinge hurried him off. He didn t think that 
 it would be wise to run the risk of any trouble. There 
 was a good deal of feeling about the verdict." 
 
 " He will be going away to Europe. I must see 
 him. Colonel Emlyn, you will have to send for him." 
 
 He gave me a look of pity. " Don t bother about 
 anything now," he said. " You are too ill." 
 
 " I am not too ill. I must see him before he sails. 
 You must go and send a telegram at once." 
 
 " It is too late," he said, uncomfortably. 
 
 " How do you mean, too late ? Isn t the office open ? 
 Take it to them, then, and make them promise to send 
 it the first thing in the morning." 
 
 " It s too late, my poor child. He s he s gone, you 
 know." 
 
 " Gone ? Yes, I know, from here he went this 
 afternoon after the verdict ; but you can catch him ; 
 telegraph Hardinge everybody don t lose a minute 
 tell him I want him he must come " 
 
 " My child, that was two days ago ; he sailed yester 
 day morning I had a line from Hardinge 
 
 That black tide was crawling over me again. I put 
 out my hands to save myself from the dark unutterable 
 suffocation, and was swallowed up in merciful oblivion. 
 14
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE TINKLE OF A TINY BELL. 
 
 Than a forsaken bird s nest, filled with snow." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 "Once the hungry Hours were hounds, 
 
 Which chased the day like a bleeding deer, 
 And it limped and stumbled with many wounds, 
 Through the nightly dells of the desert year." 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 IT was two years later. Sophia and I were on a rail 
 way train, drawing near, for the first time since those 
 sad days, to the great city which had been our home 
 before we went to spend that summer at South Berwick. 
 The two years had been passed in a little Canadian vil 
 lage, where Sophia had relations. When I began to 
 recover from the fever which succeeded the days 
 of the trial, it was necessary to take me somewhere, 
 the farther away the better, the doctors said ; the greater 
 change the better. The Emlyus would gladly have 
 kept me with them ; their kindness was unbounded. 
 But I felt too stricken to bear the touch of even such 
 tender hands as theirs. I was out of place where there 
 was life and youth and hope. I knew it was not right 
 to darken any household with my sorrow ; my good 
 friends had already borne too much of it. When Sophia, 
 one day, spoke of this far-away little village, where her 
 L 314J
 
 THE TINKLE OF A TINY BELL. 315 
 
 relations lived, I grasped at it. It seemed to me more 
 like the rest of the grave than anything that I could get 
 this side of it. 
 
 " Let us go there," I said. i 
 
 The quiet, the utter seclusion, the unfamiliarity of 
 everything, the keen, bracing cold of the climate, all 
 combined to heal me of my wounds. At the end of 
 two years I was alive, I was sane, I was well. Sophia 
 had grown restless under the long quiet. I did not 
 want to be selfish. I told her we would come back. 
 
 During the t\Vo years, the Ernlyns had gone abroad. 
 At first I got frequent letters from them, but latterly 
 they had written very little. Colonel Emlyn s health had 
 been a cause of great anxiety to his wife. The excite 
 ment of the events of that last month at South Berwick 
 had been very severe upon him at his age. He had never 
 been willing to return to Happy-go-lucky ; the place was 
 shut up and offered for sale. He was restless, and suffered 
 from loss of memory, and from sleeplessness ; I could 
 see Mrs. Emlyri felt a sword was hanging over her. I 
 did not write often to them, for two causes; first, that it 
 was acute pain to me to write a letter, and secondly, 
 that I thought it really kinder to let all that was con 
 nected with that dreadful time die out, and not to bring 
 myself up at all to him in his present state. 
 
 And about Macnally. Colonel Emlyn had been 
 very kind in trying to satisfy my desire of getting a let 
 ter to him. But after many weeks, my poor letter had 
 come back to me. No trace of him could be found. In the 
 hurried parting between him and-llardinge, only some 
 vague promise had been made of writing ; he had given 
 no address. It was not to be expected that he should 
 write to the Emlyns. Colonel Emlyn, with all his de-
 
 316 THE TINKLE OF A TINT BELL. 
 
 sire to save him, had had but one conviction from the 
 first ; and he was too honest a man to be able to hide 
 it. That he had not given him his hand when the ver 
 dict was pronounced ; that he had not in the time that 
 intervened between that and his sailing, made some ex 
 pression of friendship or congratulation, was enough to 
 account for his silence towards them. No doubt he 
 was convinced that there was no dissenting voice ; that 
 no one believed in his innocence of all who had been 
 his friends that summer. But that he had no word for his 
 counsel, who, humanly speaking, had saved his life, was 
 less accountable. The expenses of his trial had all been 
 met by the salary which he had not touched during his 
 ten months at Colonel Emlyn s, and by remittances, 
 which, no doubt, he had received in the last letters which 
 had come, and of which he had spoken to me. There 
 was no obligation upon him to write, but the sense of 
 gratitude to one who had spent so much effort in his 
 service. 
 
 " I own," wrote Mr. Hardinge, in answer to Colonel 
 Emlyn s inquiries, " I did look for a Hue of acknowl 
 edgment from him when he should have reached 
 home, but none has ever come. In fact, my dear sir, I 
 don t, at this moment, know whom I defended, any more 
 than if I had done it in a dream. But for the strong 
 impression that the man made on me, I should begin 
 to feel some doubt of him." 
 
 For me, there was but one conviction that he was 
 no longer living. 
 
 It was a cloudy day in late October ; the very last 
 day of the month. Our long journey was drawing 
 near its end ; an hour more, and we should be in the 
 city. Sophia was in the seat beside me. I was next
 
 THE TINKLE OF A TINY BELL. 317 
 
 the window, looking out over the broad river, now 
 gray with the approach of evening. The jar and noise 
 of the cars was considerable, but not enough to make it 
 difficult to talk with the person sitting next you. I had 
 something to say to Sophia. I had been thinking of it 
 for a great many days, and had chosen this moment 
 for the saying of it. It was easier to say what I wanted 
 to in this place, than in a quiet room. For one thing, 
 we need not look at each other as we talked, and there 
 was no possibility of showing agitation on either side. 
 (It is necessary to explain that Sophia and I never al 
 luded, in any manner, to the cause of the desolation of 
 our lives. After the children s clothes were packed 
 away, and their books and toys put out of sight, there 
 was never a word uttered between us that would have 
 indicated to any stranger the fact that they ever had 
 existed. Her wound was only less grievous than mine. 
 It was an instinct of self-preservation that kept us 
 silent. If we were to live, that was the only way to do 
 it. We must make a new routine for ourselves, and 
 keep to it. It was the only chance of keeping from 
 despair.) So it was with great effort that I spoke, 
 looking out of the window as I did it. 
 
 " You will be very busy to-morrow, I suppose, set 
 tling the rooms, and all that. I never was much use 
 in doing that. I m going to take the chance, and go 
 away for a day and night." 
 
 She gave a start, and said : 
 
 " Go away ?" 
 
 I scarcely had been out of her sight an hour since I 
 had been all she had to care for. No wonder that she 
 started. 
 
 " Yes," I said, as firmly as I could, " I want to go
 
 318 THE TINKLE OF A TINY BELL. 
 
 to South Berwick. It has been in my mind a great 
 while. This is the best time." 
 
 " You d better wait till you re rested from this jour 
 ney," she said, hoarsely, " before you take another." 
 
 "No; I am well enough for it. I will go in the 
 morning. There is a train at eight o clock. I looked 
 it out in the paper yesterday." 
 
 There was not another word said. We sat in utter 
 silence, side by side, as the cars rushed on into the twi 
 light. The plan, which I had told her so quietly, had 
 been maturing in my mind for weeks ; it scarcely ever 
 left my thoughts. The desire to see the children s 
 graves before another snow fell on them, had grown so 
 strong, that I felt as if she must have known it, in our 
 daily life together. She had expressed no emotion ; 
 but her face, when we came out into the light of the 
 depot, after leaving the cars, showed the traces of 
 strong agitation. Sophia s face had grown older in 
 these two years. It had come to go well with her 
 prematurely-whitened hair. She looked a woman of 
 fifty, who had seen trouble, and whose heart had known 
 liow to ache. She was more silent now, and her silence 
 gave a deep look to her eyes. Those still vehement 
 feelings of hers left a mark upon her face the more 
 that they found no vent from her lips. 
 
 She prepared everything for my journey, and was 
 up in the gray dawn to get my breakfast for me and to 
 see me go, but no further word was spoken between us 
 of the object of my going. 
 
 The day was raw and cheerless. A bleak wind was 
 blowing and the clouds were racing over the sky, sky 
 and clouds all gray and leaden. All around the horizon 
 there was a streak of light as if a great chalice of gloom
 
 THE TINKLE OF A TESTY BELL. 819 
 
 were being let down slowly over the earth and the light 
 being gradually shut out. The men in the cars but 
 toned up their coats, and huddled round the stove and 
 pointed out, and said, that looked like snow, and "Win 
 ter had set in smart and early. A snow-storm on the 
 first day of November was a thing that didn t often 
 happen." I thought of the little graves, with the grass 
 and weeds of two years on them, hidden from my sight 
 by the falling snow. Ah ! The dreariness of that long, 
 cold ride ! The dreariness of the landscape, the dreari 
 ness of the sky ! 
 
 "When I got out of the cars at South Berwick a 
 keen and cruel wind was blowing. I could hardly 
 stand up against it. The snow, which had begun to fall, 
 struck my face with sharp points. I could not walk to 
 where I wanted to go in this state of weather. There 
 was a man there with a wretched, covered vehicle, 
 which I hired, and told him where to drive me. It 
 seemed to me so hard and cruel that I could not go 
 alone ; that this lean, curious man should have to go with 
 me, and see for what I went. There are some disappoint 
 ments that have peculiarly sharp stings, and I havef 
 always noticed that such as these are the hardest to 
 bear patiently. I had borne greater things without 
 murmuring ; to-day, the cruel weather, the hard grind 
 ing necessity that some one should witness my first visit 
 to the graves of my children, the total difference be 
 tween what the visit was now and what I had so long 
 dreamed it would be, gave me a stronger sense of rebel 
 lion than perhaps I had ever felt before. . . 
 
 The man behaved better than 1 thought he would ; 
 lie drove his rough-coated, big horse up and down the 
 road a little distance off, and did not seem to look at
 
 320 THE TINKLE OF A TINY BELL. 
 
 me, but beat his long arms across his breast and engaged 
 himself in keeping warm. 
 
 "When I got in the wagon again he drove me towards 
 the village. I asked him whether any one lived in the 
 Detmold farm-house. Is o one, he said. It has never 
 been rented since since the folks that had all that 
 trouble moved out of it two years ago last September. 
 I think it began to dawn on him who I was. I told 
 him if he knew who had the key to drive to the place 
 and get it, I wanted to go in the house. He knew ; and 
 we drove to the house and I held the reins over the 
 back of the heavy winter-coated horse, while he went in 
 and got the key. 
 
 While the wind and the sharp hail and snow were 
 beating in my face, we drew up to the door of my 
 poor, desolate little home. I stood by the gate, 
 benumbed with the cold, blinded by the sleet ; I could 
 scarcely see where 1 went. I remembered that I didn t 
 want the man to stay ; 1 took out my purse to pay him. 
 "With a strange rush of anguish there came over me the 
 recollection of that bright May noontide when wo first 
 drove up to our new home, and when I had eagerly gone 
 in, with the children at my side, forgetting to pay the 
 man for bringing us, till recalled by Sophia. I counted 
 out the change. The man put it in his pocket, and, re 
 mounting the old carriage, trundled away in it. 
 
 The gate latch was so rusty, I could scarcely move it ; 
 the path so overgrown, I stumbled through it. The 
 balcony steps were unsteady ; one or two shingles were 
 loosened from the front of the house. The vines had 
 trailed over the lloor of the balcony, and a heap of dead 
 leaves were blown up into a corner where the trumpet 
 creeper made a shelter for them. On the railing of the
 
 THE TINKLE OF A TINT BELL. 321 
 
 balcony in front, there hung a little board, on which a bill, 
 " For sale," or perhaps " To let," had been nailed. What 
 ever it was, many storms and winds had defaced it, and no 
 one could read now what it announced. "When I bent 
 down to try to fit the key to the lock, my hands shook so 
 from cold and agitation that I could scarcely do it. The 
 snow, which was coming in gusts, sometimes ceasing alto 
 gether, sometimes driving through the air in thick drifts, 
 stopped a moment now, and I could see, and opened 
 the door and entered. If there had been a coldness 
 that drove the blood to my heart, outside, there was a 
 chill that seemed to congeal it there, inside. "Why had 
 I come ? I asked myself. The shut-up rooms felt like 
 vaults ; dust and desolation was spread over all the 
 familiar place. It all seemed a mockery, so real and so 
 unreal, so changed and yet so grossly the same. 
 
 " Why had I come ?" I said, again, turning my eyes 
 away from a branch covered with long, gray moss, still 
 hanging over the mantlepiecc, where cobwebs and dust 
 were thick. The ashes were all taken away from the 
 cheery little Franklin ; the andirons turned and stand 
 ing parallel, the fender put up in a corner. The table 
 was shoved up against the wall ; the chairs stood 
 blankly around ; a dim, ghastly light came in through 
 the warped and yawning shutters. 
 
 I had promised myself that I would not go into the 
 nursery. The dark middle chamber was darker than 
 ever ; it smelt of mildew and dust, and the uneven 
 floor creaked as I trod on it. The wind howled through 
 the many cracks about the boards, and a little heap of 
 snow had already sifted in through the chinks of the lit 
 tle, dim and dirty window. 1 pushed open the door of 
 14+
 
 322 THE TDTKLE OF A TINT BELL. 
 
 my own room. The bedstead was piled witli pillows and 
 bolsters ; the dressing-table was bare ; the chairs turned 
 up, one upon the other. The poor little curtains were 
 Btill hanging, limp and draggled, at the window, beside 
 which stood the big three-cornered chair, in which I 
 used to sit, with Middy mounted on the stool, looking 
 out at the bird s nest in the old cedar tree. I wondered 
 whether the old cedar was still standing, whether the 
 birds had built in it again. I pushed open the shutters 
 and then put down the sash, and sat down in the old 
 chair, and leaned my face on my hands upon the 
 window-sill, and looked out. 
 
 Yes, there stood the cedar, rough and gnarled and 
 bent, and in it my heart gave a sickening throb was 
 the bird s nest as of old. "A forsaken bird s nest 
 filled with snow." The tree rocked with the pressure 
 of the wind ; the dead leaves of the vine about it, fell 
 with ever} 7 gust ; but the nest clung there, empty, use 
 less, undesired. The young and living brood that once 
 had filled it where were they ? The animate gone, 
 the inanimate left. My desolation pressed down heavier 
 upon me, as I gazed at these familiar, unmoved things 
 of nature ; the old boxwood below the window, where 
 the children played ; the cedar where we watched the 
 bird s nest ; the grape-vine where Naomi swung them. 
 I felt as if they should have perished ; as if it were a 
 cruelty that they should stand while the years passed 
 over them, and all that dear and precious flesh was 
 hidden under darkness and decay. 
 
 As I sat gazing out, there came upon me a vivid 
 recollection of that morning after Baby s illness, when 
 I was sitting there with Maidy, looking at the birds, 
 and Macnally had come by, with his fishing-rod upon
 
 THE TINKLE OF A TINT BELL. 323 
 
 liis shoulder. I recalled Maidy s eager pleasure at the 
 sight of him ; I could see his lithe and graceful figure 
 as he swung himself up into the branch and held out 
 the shells to her one by one. Every word that we had 
 eaid came back to me. I saw again Ann Day come 
 out with her basket of clothes ; I saw the dark flush 
 pass over her face, as she watched the distracted parent 
 bird ; I heard her muttered curse, and saw her go an 
 grily away. Since it occurred, I had never remembered 
 before the incident of the strangled birds found below 
 the nest that afternoon. A great pressure of great 
 events had pushed it out of my mind. Now it came 
 back to me with a keen clearness. I remembered that 
 at the time, I had felt sure that Ann had done it. I 
 had been able to account for it by the insane impulse to 
 level all maternal happiness to her own dreary desola 
 tion. It had affected me, at the time, but I had forgot 
 ten it. 
 
 A sudden illumination filled and stunned me. It was 
 Ann Day s maniac hand that had robbed my nest of 
 its brood. It was that poor crazed brain that had risen 
 up at the sight of my too-full arms, and had dragged 
 their treasure out. Every circumstance that I could 
 recall confirmed it. I heard, as if just spoken, Sophia s 
 words as she came into the parlor where I sat in the 
 darkness, brooding over Macnally s going : 
 
 " Ann Day went away without her money to-night/ 
 The unexplained fact that Rex had not barked ; the 
 lack of evidence that any burglary had been attempted ; 
 her familiarity with the house ; her accustomed noise- 
 lessness all these things flashed before my mind in a 
 moment. I got up from my seat, a sort of fire running 
 through my veins. If she should be dead ; if it should
 
 324: THE TIXKLE OF A TIXY BELL. 
 
 be impossible to prove it ; if this injustice must go on 
 forever ! I knew now why I had come. But my word 
 and my conviction would do little if I could not get 
 some proof. 
 
 I hurried out into the snow, now driving in thick 
 sheets past the house. The road to Ann s cottage was 
 a lonely one. I shortened it by crossing some fields and 
 going along a lane. It was a desperate battle with the 
 wind and snow. When I came in sight of it, I was so 
 nearly exhausted I had to stop and rest. I was prepar 
 ing myself to tind it vacant, to hear, when I should go 
 back to the village, that she had gone away, and that 
 all trace of her was lost. When I got within a few rods 
 of the house, I saw a thin curl of smoke rising from the 
 broken chimney. Then, whoever might be there, it was 
 not empty. 
 
 It was a wretched hovel, patched up in every way 
 to keep out the cold sea winds. There were some kettles 
 and a tub beside the door ; a dingy rag or two fluttered 
 from a bush at the end of the house. I stood on the stone 
 before the door, and knocked. An almost inaudible 
 voice within answered. I entered. The room was so 
 low and so dark I could scarcely distinguish anything 
 for a moment. Something moved on a low bed beside 
 the stove. I picked my way across the room, and stood 
 at the foot of the bed. It was a scene of indescribable 
 squalor. The figure on the bed was covered with all 
 imaginable rags, crowned with an old piece of carpet ; 
 the window above it was stuffed up with a sheaf of 
 straw ; the smell from the stove was very coarse and 
 disgusting. 
 
 " Is it Ann ?" I said. " I have come to see Ann 
 Day. It s so dark I can t tell."
 
 THE TINKLE OF A TINY BELL. 325 
 
 A head was turned over a little towards tlie faint 
 light of the opposite window. 
 
 " Yes, it s Ann Day. "What are ye wantin wi me ?" 
 
 I now recognized her face. She did not look much 
 changed, except thinner, and she had an expression of 
 physical suffering suffering which quite engrossed her 
 thoughts. She moved herself up a little in the bed and 
 looked at me. I came around to the side of the bed 
 and stood very near to her. She recognized me, but it 
 didn t seem to affect her much ; she was much more 
 interested in a pain which had resulted from her turn 
 ing over. 
 
 She talked a little, answered all my questions quite 
 intelligently. She had been ill, she said, off and on all 
 the fall. She had been very bad since the day before 
 yesterday. She wouldn t let folks know, because they 
 would make her go to the county house. They had 
 been trying to get her there all the winter before. She 
 wasn t going for em. She d stay where she was, if she 
 died for it. I saw from her gasping way of speaking 
 that she had some sharp trouble about the lungs. She 
 had fever, and the agony in her side was great when 
 she tried to move. I tried to make her comfortable in 
 the wretched bed. I gave her a drink of some hot 
 thing on the stove that she had been trying to prepare. 
 Then I drew a chair up by the bed and sat down on it. 
 
 " Ann," I said, " I owe you some money, I want to 
 pay you ; " and took out my purse. Ann was always 
 greedy of money ; she looked up eagerly and watched 
 me. 
 
 " Why did you go away that night without your 
 money ?" I said. 
 
 " Eh ?" she said, her face darkening a little.
 
 326 THE TINKLE OF A TINY BELL. 
 
 " I would have paid you," I went on. " You know 
 I al ways pay you, no matter what happens. See, here 
 is your dollar." 
 
 Her fingers closed greedily over it. 
 
 " And there s another thing, Ann," I said. I want 
 that little lamb of Baby s. You ought not to keep it 
 away from me, it belongs to me. I always thought 
 you were an honest woman, Ann." 
 
 " Sure and I am an honest woman," she said, hotly. 
 
 " Well, is it honest to be keeping away from me 
 what s my own 2" 
 
 " It can t do you no good." 
 
 " You might as well say that little pink calico frock 
 of your little girl s couldn t do you any good, because 
 you couldn t use it. What would you think of me if I 
 got hold of it and kept it, and wouldn t give it back to 
 you ?" 
 
 A dark flush rose to the woman s face, 
 
 " I am an honest woman," she muttered. " I never 
 kep a.happorth that I didn t own. I ve got nothin 
 on my conscience. You can see my bank-book. I ve 
 got no call to steal." 
 
 " That s what I always thought till 1 find you won t 
 give me back the little lamb that s mine. Give it to 
 me, and I ll think you" are an honest woman." She 
 muttered and turned restlessly on the bed ; this time the 
 pain the motion gave her did not engross her wholly. 
 
 " I was always good to you, Ann. I always treated 
 you well. Give me what is mine, and I ll be content. 
 The lamb belongs to me. The one that keeps it is no 
 better than a thief." 
 
 "I m no thief," she cried, " I earn my own bit and 
 sup. Nobody can say I don t."
 
 THE TINKLE OF A TINT BELL. 327 
 
 " Very well, I won t say you don t, if you give me 
 what is mine. I ll always be your friend, but you must 
 give me what is mine." 
 
 I saw her put her hand under the bolster, and take 
 out something ; she kept on muttering, looking at me 
 distrustfully. " It ll be all right, if you let me have it, 
 Ann. You re so sick, you don t want anything upon 
 your conscience." 
 
 " I never took a happorth from anybody. I can 
 die in peace," she said, in gasps, for the oppression 
 seemed growing very great. I saw it was a key in her 
 hand. I leaned forward, and gently, swiftly got it into 
 mine. She still looked at me with distrust. 
 
 "Where is it ?" I said, getting up. 
 
 " In the box anent the chimney-piece," she said, 
 pointing up the stairs. 
 
 I climbed the stairs, which shook at every step. 
 The attic, when I reached it, was so low I could not 
 stand upright. The light was so dim I had to feel my 
 way along, till I came to the bricks of the chimney. 
 There beside it stood an old hair trunk ; there was a 
 little ray of light coming in from a single pane of glass 
 set in the gable of the house, this was all I had to see 
 by. The wind was roaring outside, the snow was drift 
 ing in through many broken places in the wretched roof. 
 I knelt down before the old box, and felt with my 
 hands for the key-hole. I heard the woman moving in 
 her bed, down-stairs; I wondered if she had repented 
 and would follow me tip-stairs, and with the strength 
 of fever, attack and injure me. My only companion 
 in this far desolate spot was a mad woman ; no wonder 
 that my hands shook as I tried in vain to find the lock. 
 
 At last the key- moved,, with a -.strong effort. I
 
 328 THE TINKLE OF A TUTT BELL. 
 
 lifted the lid, and put down my hand. As I moved 
 slightly the things inside, a faint tinkling sound struck 
 my ear. I gave a cry, as my hand touched the fleecy 
 covering of the poor little toy that ray Baby had held 
 against her breast when she fell asleep for the last time. 
 I moaned and pressed it to my lips. It seemed to me 
 that all my agony and yearning had come back as at the 
 first. 
 
 A hoarse call from below recalled me to myself. I 
 started up, but before I shut down the lid, I assured 
 myself that there was nothing else that concerned me 
 in the trunk. There was the old bank-book ; there was 
 the precious little pink calico gown ; the bundle of 
 clothes with the name pinned on them. That was all. 
 I shut the trunk and locked it, and made my way down 
 the rickety stairs. 
 
 Ann was sitting up in bed with a disturbed and 
 threatening expression. She had evidently attempted 
 to follow me, but her pain had come on and made it 
 impossible. I just showed her the lamb, and then put 
 it out of sight, and sat down and tried to soothe her. 
 
 "Accusin an honest body," she kept saying. I 
 knew that nothing could be gained to satisfy any mind 
 but my own, by what I could get her to say to me 
 alone. So, after a few moments, I told her I was going 
 away, and would come back, to bring her some tea and 
 sugar, and some things to make her comfortable. She 
 still looked unreconciled to me. I went hurriedly. 
 
 The snow had ceased falling, and the sky was not so 
 dark. I went to the nearest neighbor, and got a horse and 
 wagon, and a man to drive me. Then I went to the vil 
 lage doctor, and to a magistrate. I explained what I had 
 discovered. They were alert and interested, and in a very
 
 THE TINKLE OF A TINY BELL. 329 
 
 short time we were all at the door of the poor creature s 
 hovel. She was angry and stubborn when she saw the 
 men ; she thought they had come to take her to the poor- 
 house, which was the object of her greatest dread. Not a 
 word could be got from her. She turned over with her 
 face to the wall, and clutched the bed, as if to resist 
 being dragged off from it. 
 
 " Now, look here, Ann," said the doctor, sitting 
 down beside her, " we ve gone through all this be 
 fore. I made up my mind, last winter, I wouldn t send 
 you to the county house, no matter who said that you 
 ought to go. I ve come to give you medicine and to 
 help you to get round again, so as to take care of your 
 self. This lady here promises to pay for taking care 
 of you while you re sick. Nobody wants to take you 
 away from this house, while there s anybody ll take 
 care of you in it, that s sure." 
 
 Ann s only answer was to turn her head and give a 
 threatening look at the magistrate, who stood behind 
 him. It was difficult to re-assure her about him, though 
 happily she did not know his office. We all sat down, 
 after the magistrate had brought in a few armfuls of 
 wood for her, to show his good will, and the doctor 
 dexterously began his cross-examination. I don t know 
 how, exactly, he managed it, but the results were all 
 we could have asked. Of course, the testimony of an 
 insane woman would have been worth nothing: in 
 
 o 
 
 a court of law ; but, thank Heaven, we were done with 
 courts of law, and poor Ann s only tribunal would be 
 a higher one, and it seemed to me that it was very 
 near. 
 
 She evidently was distressed and uncomfortable 
 about the murder, but it was not at all upon her con-
 
 330 THE TESTKLE OF A TINY BELL. 
 
 science. The detaining of the toy from me was a much 
 more serious matter in her eyes, us approaching to the 
 recognized sin of theft. She defended herself warmly, 
 and aliihned she hadn t known I wanted it. That led 
 her to speak freely of the children, and of her taking it 
 out of Baby s arms. She remembered the night, its 
 stillness and darkness, and the time the train went out, 
 and when Matilda went up-stairs to bed, while she 
 looked in the window. It was all confused and ram 
 bling, but there was enough to satisfy any mind that 
 was capable of judging, even without the proof that I 
 had found hidden in the trunk up-stairs. She had no 
 power to give her motive ; no power to distinguish be 
 tween right and wrong ; she seemed to have no remorse 
 for what she had done ; a dumb instinct of fear and 
 apprehension had led her to keep out of the way while 
 search was being made, and to resist us now when we 
 probed incautiously. 
 
 It was a strange study, that shattered mind. "We 
 Bat beside her for an hour or more. The magis 
 trate, withdrawing himself from sight a little, wrote 
 down every word she said. At last the doctor and 
 he went away, leaving me to care for her till some one 
 else should come. Before night, the power to give 
 even the poor, fragmentary story we had got from her 
 was gone. Delirium and fever came, and the clouds 
 closed in forever round the broken mind and heart. 
 
 She only lived two days more. I staid with her 
 until the last. When I soothed and bathed and held 
 in mine the poor hands that had dealt me such a mortal 
 hurt, I thanked God that He had given me the chance 
 to do it. I prayed Him to forgive her for even her 
 unwitting sin ; 1 loosed the bunds that, perhaps, only
 
 THE TINKLE OP A TINY BELL. 331 
 
 the sinned against can loose. As I knelt beside her in 
 the dark, dreary hovel, with the night wind roaring 
 outside, and the fire burning low within, her moans 
 grew fainter, her breathing softened ; " me foiue ghirl 
 me foine ghirl," she murmured, " it s all roight wi 
 me, it s all roight." 
 
 The hand in mine relaxed; her head fell back. 
 I knew it was all right with her at last, poor soul ! 
 
 These incidents made a great sensation in South 
 Berwick. There had been no doubt of Macnally s guilt 
 before. It came like an awful revelation to them, the 
 nearness they had been in to the shedding of innocent 
 blood. They accepted the facts simply, and honestly 
 acknowledged their mistake. My one desire now was 
 to get this news to the ears of Macnally, if he should 
 be living still. To that end I did everything that lay 
 in my power to give it publicity. But it was little use 
 fanning the flame. It was a burned-out sensation. 
 The local papers, of course, gave it great prominence. 
 But the larger journals, which were the only ones that 
 would convey it far enough to reach him, contented 
 themselves with an insignificant paragraph or two, 
 which might most easily be overlooked. I put advertise 
 ments in the papers, English and Irish, but they never 
 met any eye for which they were intended. 
 
 Of course, at the very first moment, I wrote the 
 Emlyns. Several weeks passed, and no word came. 
 At last, I wrote directly to their banker in Paris ; in a 
 few more weeks came an answer, inclosing my letter 
 to Mrs. Emlyn, and a very civil note from a clerk, 
 telling me the news which I must have missed during 
 my week at South Berwick, where I saw no papers.
 
 332 THE TINKLE OF A TINT BELL. 
 
 Mi s. Emlyn had died at Naples, after a very short ill 
 ness. Colonel Emlyn s condition of mind, wrote the 
 civil clerk, rendered him unable to receive or answer 
 letters. The young lady and gentleman who had been 
 under their charge had sailed for New Orleans some 
 weeks before. lie was unable to give me their address. 
 The door was shut in my face, in fact. I wrote again, 
 asking that the New Orleans address might be found 
 for me, if possible. But no answer ever came. Prob 
 ably the civil clerk had left the office. I wrote letters 
 to Naomi and to Ned. But New Orleans is a big 
 place, and Naomi and Ned were small people. It was 
 no wonder that they never got them, with that very 
 general superscription. 
 
 My heart was sore with this reopening of past 
 wounds and coining of new ones. The desolation that 
 had swept over all that happy summer was complete. 
 My good friends ; how many tears I shed for the one 
 in her foreign grave ; the other, in his no less diro 
 oblivion. The two children of their love, set adrift 
 upon the world at an age so tender ; how hopeless and 
 dark the mystery looked ; 
 
 "If thou wert all, and naught beyond, oh, earth!"
 
 CHAPTER XXY. 
 
 THE EASTERN MOON. 
 
 " The pure calm hope be thine, 
 Which brightens like the eastern moon, 
 As day s wild lights decline." 
 
 Keble. 
 
 TWO or three years after this, I can t exactly remem 
 ber when it happened, a great piece of good for 
 tune befell Sophia. Some distant relative left her what 
 was quite a grand fortune for a person in her walk of 
 life. She received the news characteristically. It was 
 quite unexpected, but she bore herself with great 
 equanimity ; in fact, towards me, in almost utter 
 silence. After the first glow of satisfaction, a gloom 
 settled on her. I think it seemed to her " on the up 
 rooted flower, the genial rain." What might it not 
 have been, if it had come earlier, and when there was 
 some object in making our lives happy. 
 
 After a few days, she came to me, and I saw she 
 had been bracing herself up to the necessary discussion 
 of plans. 
 
 " Well, Sophia," I said, with something between a 
 smile and a sigh, " I suppose I am now to take care 
 of myself. You have done it for me a good while. I 
 am not unreasonable enough to feel hurt. You must 
 tell me just what you mean to do, and I am not going 
 to make the least objection." 
 
 [833J
 
 334: THE KASTEKN MOON. 
 
 She waved her hand angrily, as if she disdained to 
 answer me. 
 
 " I am going to lay a plan before yon," she said. 
 " It s for you to say whether it shall be carried out. I 
 want something to do. I couldn t be happy to sit down 
 and eat up my income. If you re willing, I want to 
 take a large house, and n t it up, and rent out my rooms, 
 and furnish private meals. The best rooms shall be 
 fixed for you. You won t be bothered about anything ; 
 but it will give me something to do. It will be an 
 interest. I can make money Heaven knows what 
 for but it will be something to make it." I saw the 
 wisdom of the plan at once. Our small and monoto 
 nous life had been very wearing to Sophia. When her 
 work was done, which was all too soon, she had not my 
 resources. She could not put a book between her and 
 retrospect, nor go out and be soothed by a sunset sky 
 or stimulated by a strong wind. She was much more 
 unhappy than I was, in those days. I welcomed the 
 change for her, and gave her all encouragement. 
 
 Her face wore an altered look from the day it was 
 decided on. I entered into it with all the heart I could 
 muster. We went out, day after day, hunting houses. 
 At last one was selected or rather, two. They were 
 large not new houses on an avenue that had seen its 
 best days, but was still very respectable. Indeed, a 
 good many people of distinction lived there still ; but 
 the tide of fashion had rather set away from it, and had 
 loft it quieter, and, consequently, much nicer than 
 many of its more popular neighbors. The avenue was 
 broad. One of the houses was on the southeast corner 
 of a well-built street, on which it opened; the other 
 one was next it, on the avenue, on which was its en-
 
 THE EASTERN MOON. 335 
 
 trance. The rent was reasonable. Sophia took them 
 on a long lease. A communication was cut between 
 them. The rooms were large and well-shaped ; they 
 arranged in suites admirably. It certainly seemed a 
 good investment of her capital. We furnished it pret 
 tily, and it was a great amusement. After all, money 
 does bring a certain soulagement. 
 
 My rooms were particularly to my mind. The 
 parlor was on the ground floor of the corner house, 
 almost level with the pavement ; it had three windows ; 
 two on the avenue, one on the street. The houses op 
 posite were low ; we had sunshine a great deal of the 
 day. Sophia insisted upon giving me this room, 
 though it would have brought her in a little fortune, as 
 a doctor s office. It was furnished charmingly, though 
 simply. I delighted in the windows, in the fire-place 
 (where I burned soft coal), in every piece of furniture 
 that I got for it. My sleeping-room was on the floor 
 above. Sophia had my meals served to me in my par 
 lor, in the daintiest manner. The servants were taught 
 to consider that no one came before me. I had the 
 best that could be found of everything. 
 
 The house filled up. Sophia knew how to keep it 
 well. She had found her niche. She had no troubles, 
 no perplexities ; she loved to rule, and no one did it 
 better. Her servants were models, her house grew to 
 have a certain reputation of its own among people of 
 high standing. Her lodgers staid with her, year after 
 year. There were applicants before-hand for any va 
 cancies. Sophia s fortune was made. She was steedily 
 making money, and what was better, steadily growing 
 more at rest and better satisfied. 
 
 And so the years went on. And I ? I was happy.
 
 336 THE EASTERN MOON. 
 
 "My indomitable health," as the doctor had said, had 
 borne me up over the tide of misfortune. I was still 
 young. The spring of life had not been broken. My 
 sorrows, as far as I could dare to say so, were not the 
 results of my sins. I was natural and simple-hearted 
 enough to take the reaction when it came, and to lift up 
 my head when the storm had passed. I had wanted to 
 die, but since it had pleased God that I should live, I 
 took life meekly, and tried to be happy in it. And I 
 was happy. There was a dear church in which I daily 
 said my prayers, there was a dear hospital whose wards 
 were as familiar to me as the rooms of my own house. 
 And there were my dear sunny windows, and my books, 
 and flowers that bloomed for me, and a bird that sang. 
 
 Yes, I was happy. It was a singularly peaceful, se 
 cluded life for one to lead in a great city. I had scarcely 
 any acquaintances and no friends, except among the 
 poor and dying ones to whom 1 ministered. Some 
 times the people who visited at the hospital, or whom 
 I met at church, would try to approach me. That was 
 the only morbid thing about me. I could not meet 
 their advances. It would be only ripping open the 
 wound again to make new friends. I resisted all at 
 tempts to be drawn at all out of my silent life. I 
 suppose a certain mystery surrounded me. I know 
 curious eyes followed me. Not unfrequently some of 
 the families occupying Sophia s rooms would make in 
 quiries of her ; it sometimes happened that flowers or 
 fruit would be sent to me by the more determined ones. 
 But they never succeeded in breaking in upon the 
 sanctity and stillness of my life. 
 
 It w r as now ten years since the death of my children. 
 1 was a woman of thirty-four, not old looking for thir-
 
 THE EASTERN MOON. 337 
 
 ty-fonr. Several years of peace had given me a look 
 of content, I dare say. The days were wearing on as 
 usual. I had nothing to dread. There is one element 
 of peace in that. All had happened to me that could 
 happen, it seemed to me. If Sophia should die, I 
 should lose a friend, but it would not be beyond my 
 strength to bear. If illness came to me, I felt I could 
 endure it. I had grown so accustomed to the sight and 
 thought of illness in the hospital, that I did not dread 
 it as before. If death came there was no question of 
 mourning then. 
 
 It was an afternoon in late November. I was tired 
 from several hours at the hospital, but when I came in, 
 I found my fire blazing, and a very cheerful look about 
 my room. I was sitting in a favorite deep chair by one 
 of the windows, a book in my hand, idly looking out 
 and resting from my long day s work. I felt a trine 
 dispirited that day. I had found myself out in a matter, 
 in a V7ay that discouraged me with myself. I had 
 found I had a hope, which I had said daily to my 
 self was dead. I could no longer hide it from myself, 
 that every day, when I walked through those dreary 
 wards, I said inwardly, I may find him there. When 
 ever a new case was brought in. I found myself watch 
 ing eagerly to see the face upon the pillow. I looked 
 over the lists daily in all the men s wards. I had seen 
 so many foreigners, so many men of education, lying 
 there, unknown and friendless, I said to myself, why 
 not he, if he still lives? There is just one chance in a 
 thousand. There is no wrong in looking for him. That 
 day I had seen a face that recalled his so strongly, I 
 had scarcely had strength to look again. But it was only 
 to be disappointed ; it was not he. I had been un- 
 15
 
 338 THE EASTERN MOON. 
 
 nerved and unfitted for my work by it. I reproached 
 myself, and came home heavy-hearted. 
 
 So, when Sophia came in and sat down by the other 
 window, as she often did towards twilight, to talk with 
 me a little while, it was quite an effort for me to look 
 up cheerfully and say, " Well, what has been going on 
 to-day ?" 
 
 " The second floor front in the other house is let," 
 she said, with a tone of satisfaction. 
 
 " Ah ? That s good news. I hope to a good tenant ?" 
 
 " There couldn t be a better, I should think. He s 
 only too swell, I m afraid, for me." 
 
 " Oh, you ll be equal to the situation. I m not 
 afraid for yon. Who sent them to you, or him which 
 was it that you said ?" 
 
 For I was trying hard to be interested, with but 
 very poor success. 
 
 "It s a gentleman. The British Consul sent him 
 to me. I guess you ve heard of him, that is, if you have 
 read the papers." There was a tone of satisfaction in 
 her voice. Sophia liked to have distinguished people 
 in her house. 
 
 " Why, what is he," I said, " to get himself into 
 the papers f 
 
 " Well, he s a speaker ; he gives lectures, and makes 
 speeches. He s all the fashion just now. He s just 
 come over from England. He s a great man, accord 
 ing to the papers. He has written poetry and 
 things. Everybody s talking about him, so they tell 
 me." 
 
 And Sophia looked more satisfied than ever. 
 
 u You can t mean Conyngham ?" I said, looking 
 up.
 
 THE EASTERN MOON. 339 
 
 " Yes," said Sophia, with importance. " That s the 
 name. Mr. Conyngham." 
 
 " Sophia !" I exclaimed, vividly interested. " You 
 don t mean to tell me he is coining here ?" 
 
 " Why not, to he sure? Do people that write books 
 want more tenderloins and mushrooms than other 
 boarders ? I guess my table will do him, if he s only 
 got to write poetry and make speeches. It s the swell 
 people that I am afraid of swell English people, more 
 than any others." 
 
 " I don t care about the swellness of him, though 
 he s all that, I believe. But, Sophia, are you sure?" 
 
 " Sure as fate," said Sophia, not altogether pleased 
 with my remaining doubts. 
 
 " It s the strangest, strangest thing," I said, lifting 
 up a book upon my lap. u This is one of his books I 
 was just reading. I thought, only last night, when I 
 finished the first volume, what would I give to see him, 
 to know what he looked like in the flesh." 
 
 "Well, naturally, I shouldn t think you d hanker 
 much to see him any other way," said Sophia, a little 
 tartly. 
 
 " But, Sophia, what does he look like ? Tell me all 
 about him." 
 
 " I can tell yon better when I ve seen him." 
 
 " You haven t seen him ?" 
 
 " No, he came while I was out at market. Mary 
 showed him the rooms. lie seemed pleased. This 
 afternoon his agent came and saw me, and engaged 
 them, and told me who he was." 
 
 " Does he bring a servant ?" 
 
 " No, he only has the two rooms, the parlor and the 
 bedroom. The agent said he might \\ ant a good doul
 
 THE EASTERN MOON. 
 
 of waiting on, but lie d pay me extra for it; he didn t 
 keep a man. It s a very good price he pays; he can 
 have all the waiting on he wants. I can t get on with 
 people that put on airs, but I don t take it he s the kind 
 that does." 
 
 " I should think not ! But well, when does he 
 come 2" 
 
 " To-morrow afternoon ; his baggage is coming in 
 the morning." 
 
 " Well, Sophia, be sure you take a good look at 
 him and tell me what he s like. I can t help wonder 
 ing wondering what the man would look like that 
 had written that book." 
 
 " Why, don t you like it ?" said Sophia, a little un 
 easily. 
 
 "Like it! Ah I ve more than liked it. It s 
 stirred me to my depths !" 
 
 " Well," said Sophia, getting up, " it always strikes 
 me people must be a little soft that go on that way 
 about books. Strikes me I wouldn t let anybody hear 
 me talk that way if I was in your place." 
 
 " Do you think it would disedify Mary and But 
 tons ? I ll be very careful. There s nobody else that s 
 likely to come in range of my observations." 
 
 Sophia was jealous of my books, as she had nothing 
 else to be jealous of, except the hospital. Poor soul, 
 there was a time when she was very glad to see me 
 take to them, but she had forgotten that. 
 
 The next afternoon, when I came home, I thought 
 with lively interest of the new arrival. I entered 
 always by the door of the street ; he would go in by 
 the avenue door, consequently, I saw no trace of his 
 arrival, Sophia did not come in, as was her habit.
 
 THE* EASTERN MOON. 34:1 
 
 during the hour before dinner. I missed her less, be 
 cause, with the book in my hand, I sat by the window 
 as long as I could see, and then sat with it in my lap 
 before the fire, wondering, pondering, with my eyes 
 fixed on the deep glow of the coals. It was a strange 
 chance that had brought that writer under the same 
 roof with one to whom his books had been so much. 
 But with a sigh it wouldn t be much of a chance, 
 strange and wonderful, to him. ~No doubt he was well 
 used to finding flatterers under every rooff and I must 
 prepare myself for being disillusionized. I had heard 
 people of common sense always were disillusionized 
 when brought face to face with genius, and I was a 
 person of common sense, Sophia notwithstanding. No 
 doubt he would be short and stout, material-looking 
 and dull-eyed. Ah, yes, I must be prepared for this. 
 I much preferred it to long hair and a poetic look. 
 He was sure not to have that ; he was too great a swell, 
 according to the papers. I didn t mind the swellness, 
 as I had said, one way or the other. That was an ac 
 cident of birth or temperament. But I earnestly 
 wished he might not be stout. My mind dwelt upon, 
 his waistcoat. 
 
 When my dinner was brought in, I asked the maid 
 about Sophia. 
 
 Oh, didn t I know ? She had told Buttons to tell 
 me as soon as I came in. She was taken sick that 
 morning when she came in from market, and was in 
 bed with the worst- kind of a pain in both her ankles. 
 She was very bad. 
 
 As soon as I had eaten my dinner, I went up to 
 her. She occupied a room on the top floor of the
 
 342 THE EASTERN MOON. 
 
 house, as cold and cheerless as possible. Nothing 
 would ever induce her to do better for herself : even 
 in summer, when her house was nearly empty, she still 
 struggled up to this dismal spot. 
 
 I found her very suffering, and necessarily pretty 
 sharp. I took the matter into my own hands, and had 
 a fire made up in the tiny little grate, and sent for a 
 shade for her light, and put things in some sort of com 
 fortable order. Also, Buttons went privately out to 
 get the doctor. She growled at all these things, but I 
 think it pleased her to have me care for her. I sat 
 down by her, and waited for the doctor. All her cares 
 were very heavy on her. It was useless to reassure her ; 
 she wasn t used to being ill. She was determined in 
 her own mind that everything should go wrong. 
 
 " That man s dinner," she said. To think of his 
 first dinner going up without her being there to see to 
 it. She had smelt the soup burning all the way up to 
 the fourth floor. She knew for a certainty he would 
 go away in the morning. 
 
 " Did you see him when he came ?" 
 
 " See him ? No, of course, I didn t. lie had to 
 come, with nobody to show him to his room, Buttons 
 standing on his head because there was a fireman s pro 
 cession in the street, Mary flustering away because Mrs. 
 Graham had rung her bell, and Elza, scrubbing out 
 the bath-room, found him standing over her shoulder, 
 and saying, Can you tell me where I ll find my room ? 
 The clean sash curtains weren t put up. The fire wasn t 
 made in the grate ; he had to ring his bell to order 
 it. There s just one thing about it. He ll go away to 
 morrow, and I ll have my rooms upon my hands. And 
 it ll be a while before the British Consul sends me any
 
 THE EASTERN MOON. 343 
 
 body else ; I might as well give up the house, if I can t 
 keep about and see to things myself. . 
 
 It was no use to argue with her, though, of course, 
 I tried to do it. I only hoped the doctor would be en 
 couraging when he came. But he wasn t encouraging 
 to me, at least, when I followed him down stairs and 
 asked him his opinion. She was in for a long illness, he 
 was afraid. It would be a wonder if she got out of her 
 room all winter ; inflammatory rheumatism was not an 
 easy thing to manage in a person of her temperament. 
 He advised me to encourage her, and not let her know 
 how ill she was, and keep her from fretting about the 
 housekeeping. 
 
 It was certainly good advice ; I had been anticipat 
 ing him, however ; but Sophia was not encouraged. We 
 had our hands full, Buttons and Mary and I, for the 
 next two or three days, in keeping her encouraged and 
 in reassuring her about the house. I gave up the hospital, 
 of course, and had to spend a good deal of the time in 
 her room. (A good deal of the time I was ordered out 
 of it.) Virtually, much of the direction of the house 
 carne on rne ; I tried to spare her in everything. 
 
 My interest in the new great man did not abate 
 exactly, but I had not very much time to think 
 about the matter. He did not go away, however, as 
 Sophia had predicted, but seemed, on the contrary, to 
 be establishing himself for the winter. Notes with 
 magnificent monograms were coming all the time. Car 
 riages were driving up to leave cards, or bring impor 
 tant-looking gentlemen to call. Buttons gave up the 
 boot-blacking and the knives, and did little else but open 
 the front door and " run of arrants " for the stranger ; 
 an inferior boy was found to take his place down-stairs.
 
 34:4: THE EASTERN MOON". 
 
 One day, sitting in the window, I saw a carriage 
 drive up. The footman took a note, and brought it to 
 the door. I saw a girl s face at the carriage-window 
 the sweetest, most earnest, enthusiastic face. She 
 looked up at the house with such a world of expression in 
 her eyes. He, the hero of her dreams, the genius who 
 had enfliralled her soul, lived there, behind that red 
 brick wall, with its plain, square windows and white 
 shades. How could they look like other red-brick 
 walls and windows ? The house was transformed for 
 her ; she devoured it with her eyes ; her gaze lingered on 
 it as the carriage drove away. 
 
 Pretty young thing ! it made me a little ashamed of 
 my enthusiasm for his books though, since I had such 
 immature company in my enthusiasm. I couldn t un 
 derstand how they could have appealed to an imagina 
 tion so young, a heart so inexperienced. To me, they 
 would have been written in a dead language at her age ; 
 at least, so it seemed to me, as I recalled myself. But, 
 in some matters, we sometimes do our youth injustice. 
 
 That afternoon I took a collection of papers up 
 stairs to Sophia, and, sitting down, proceeded to amuse 
 her with the divers descriptions, histories, and criti 
 cisms of her interesting lodger. It really eased her 
 pain considerably. She took a personal pride in hie 
 successes. 
 
 " Now, Sophia," I said, " we ll skip his parentage ; 
 there s half a column of it. I m sure we don t care 
 who his great-grandfather was, and his distinguished 
 uncle that married Lady Somebody. It s evident they re 
 all vastly above us. We concede it. But they weren t, 
 oh, joy ! titled people only landed gentry, and all that. 
 Now I m happier. I can get along with landed gentry,
 
 THE EASTERN MOON. 345 
 
 and not surrender my independence altogether. But 
 titled people ! How could I bear the weight of it. 
 Now we come down to something personal. Ah ! we ll 
 read that." 
 
 " Read all," said Sophia, snappishly, " if you re 
 going to read any. I hate skipping about so." 
 
 "Well, we won t skip any more after this. You 
 shall have everything Jenkins has to say about your 
 lodger. Now listen. (I can t go back among his an 
 cestors.) Leonard Conyngham was born about the 
 year 18 (why can t they be accurate on a point so 
 vital !) on the family estate, near Mallow. (I wonder 
 in what part of Great Britain Mallow is. I must look 
 it up on the map.) lie is one of a large family ; one 
 brother has distinguished himself in the army, another 
 in the navy. A third is a prominent barrister. T\vo 
 of his sisters have married into the nobility, one being 
 the wife of Lord Massy, and another married to Sir 
 Gerald Austen. (Sophia, do you hear that! It s a 
 very fine thing to be brother in-law. I knew he was 
 more than landed gentry. )" 
 
 Sophia showed so much irritation in her face that I 
 suspended my pleasantry. 
 
 " It will be seen by this, that our illustrious visitor 
 is entitled to the highest social consideration, entirely 
 apart from his distinction as a man of letters and an 
 orator. The suddenness with which he attained his 
 present height of popularity may be accounted for by 
 a little retrospect. These particulars have been fur 
 nished us by one well acquainted with his family 
 history, and may be relied on as entirely accurate. 
 Young Leonard showed very little of the genius which 
 has since distinguished him during boyhood and early 
 15+
 
 346 THE EASTERN MOOIf. 
 
 youth. He graduated at Dublin University without 
 much distinction as a scholar. (Why Dublin Uni 
 versity? I should have preferred Oxford, it seems to 
 me, if I had been a landed gentry. ) His family were 
 anxious that he should enter the church, for which he 
 had been designed from childhood. This he refused, 
 and an estrangement from them was the result. He 
 then threw himself into some political movement, with 
 more generosity of spirit than worldly wisdom. The 
 country was in its usual disturbed state ; his party 
 was unsuccessful in its attempt ; he was obliged to flee 
 the country, and for several years his family were in 
 great anxiety about him. About seven years ago he 
 returned from Australia, where he had been laying up 
 the stores of experience and adventure from which lie 
 feeds his marvelous fancy. He then resumed his place 
 at home, and devoted himself to the study of the law. 
 But it may easily be guessed he did not stay long 
 in bondage to this exacting mistress. He was meant 
 for higher things than pleadings and practice. The 
 publication of his flrst book took the public by storm. 
 His maiden speech in Parliament, to which he had been 
 returned, was equally a bomb-shell. T\vo such gifts 
 are rarely allotted to any one man. At once an orator 
 who can thrill crowds with the tire and eloquence of 
 his tongue, and a writer, who can hold them with the 
 magic subtlety of his pen, we do not hesitate in saying, 
 Leonard Conyngharn stands foremost among the younger 
 men of the nineteenth century, and has before him a 
 future which can only be limited by his own failure 
 of will and steady purpose. Hear, hear !" I cried, lay 
 ing down the paper. " Sophia, that s very line writing. 
 But he is undoubtedly a great man, and as long as he
 
 THE EASTERN MOON. 347 
 
 pays his bills promptly, I wouldn t think of turning 
 him away because he s so distinguished." 
 
 " I don t know what you see so much to laugh 
 about," said Sophia, rather tartly. " Everybody s pay 
 ing him all the attention they know how." 
 ! "Of course they are, and they re quite right about 
 it. He is a very remarkable sort of person, I am sure. 
 Here s a long article in the House Journal. It tells 
 you all about his dinner engagements, the receptions 
 that have been given him, the on dits about him, his 
 personal appearance. Ah ! it seems he isn t short and 
 stout. Hear this : He is rather slender, below middle 
 height. His hair is dark, his eyes are very brilliant, 
 rather deep-set. His expression is one of profound 
 melancholy. . Think of that, Sophia. What if he has 
 dyspepsia ? Perhaps the biscuits don t agree with him. 
 Fancy if you are anyway responsible for that profound 
 melancholy. Don t you think you d better speak to 
 the cook about it ? Isn t it possible that her baking 
 powders may have alnm in them ? I feel that you 
 cannot be too careful with such a great man in the 
 house. But hear ; there s something else that s very 
 interesting. He is very inaccessible, the paper says." 
 
 "The street cars pass the house," cried Sophia, 
 angrily. "That shows how much good there is in 
 newspapers." 
 
 "It doesn t mean that, I think, you know. It 
 means he is hard to get to go to dinners ; he avoids 
 people, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " I don t know about that, I m sure," said Sophia, 
 subsiding. " It s no odds to me how often he goes out, 
 his dinner s always ready for him here. He pays for 
 it, and he s entitled to it."
 
 348 THE EASTERN MOON. 
 
 " And I m sure he likes it, else he would go out 
 oftener, and eat other people s dinners," I said, molli- 
 ently. Sophia didn t know about that either, she was 
 sure. 
 
 " And here s a melancholy account of a distin 
 guished family that had a reception for him, and he 
 wouldn t go. The young lady of the family was so 
 heartbroken she refused to come down-stairs. I wonder 
 if it was that pretty girl I saw here in the carriage ? 
 And as to the balls he won t accept, and the breakfasts 
 and the suppers and the dinners that he will not eat, 
 really, it s a crying shame ! They d keep a poor fam 
 ily till the youngest baby came of age. It shows, a 
 want of heart ; it shows a want of principle, if one may 
 say so." 
 
 While I was thus endeavoring to divert Sophia 
 from her rheumatism, Mary came to the door. She 
 was blushing and looked excited. She handed Sophia 
 two tickets and a check. 
 
 " Well ?" said Sophia, sharply. 
 
 Mary explained that Mr. Conyngham s agent had 
 just called and asked for her. He said he wanted her 
 bill for the two weeks board. She had told him her 
 mistress was sick, and couldn t see him. Also, that she 
 never made out bills. The ladies and gentlemen 
 always sent the money in when it was due, and when 
 they went away for good, she gave em a receipt in full 
 if they wanted it ; but she wouldn t be at the pains to 
 make out bills for people every week. The agent said 
 it was a mighty poor way, and she d get in trouble if 
 she didn t look out ; but he wrote her a check, and put 
 the roll of bills back in his pocket. Then, when he
 
 THE EASTERN MOON. 349 
 
 was going away, lie seemed to think of something, and 
 turned back and said : 
 
 Here s a couple of tickets ; give em to your mis 
 tress, and tell her maybe she ll be well enough, by to 
 morrow night, to go and hear Mr. Conyngham." 
 
 Sophia looked almost pleased as she turned the tick 
 ets over in her lingers. " Much good they ll do me," 
 she said. And she told Mary a long message to take to 
 the laundress, as if she weren t gratified at all. But 
 when the girl was gone, she handed the tickets to me, 
 and said : 
 
 "You must take one of the servants with you, and 
 go to-morrow night." I laughed at the idea and begged 
 her to excuse me. But before the night came, I found 
 she had set her heart upon my going. I resisted quite 
 firmly at first. It was the sort of thing I did not feel 
 at home in doing. 1 often went out at night, with a 
 servant, during a Mission every night for nearly two 
 weeks, and on Festivals, and at many other times. 
 But this was different. 1 should see the world ; 1 did 
 not want to go. Arid yet it was seliish to resist Sophia, 
 who was feverishly set upon it ; and it was, after all, a 
 thing which might give me great pleasure. Though I 
 had taken the tone of ridiculing the august lodger, I 
 did not forget that he had thrilled me deeply, that I had 
 often longed to see him, to know more of him, before 
 I found him under the some roof. 
 
 Also, I was very weary of being in the house so 
 much. Sophia was infinitely more tiring than a whole 
 hospital. There, I had the recompense of feeling that 
 I could give comfort. Here, when I had climbed up all 
 those weary stairs to Sophia s dull room, I was quite at 
 a loss to know whether I brought pain or pleasure. On
 
 350 THE EASTERN MOON. 
 
 general principles I continued to go and do my best, 
 however. I had a great longing to go to the hospital ; 
 the sight of that face, which I said to myself again and 
 again was not his, had given me a restless desire to go. 
 I might be missing some chance which would never 
 come back again. But when I had sent for the servants 
 and given them their orders for the day, and had 
 mounted to Sophia s room, and done what I could for 
 her comfort and cheer, the day was too far gone to ad 
 mit of a journey to the distant hospital. I had scarcely 
 time to get my usual walks, and my books were effec 
 tually routed, which was no doubt a satisfaction to So 
 phia, if she knew it. 
 
 Therefore, when the evening of the lecture came, 
 I was more ready than I should have supposed it possi 
 ble, to embrace the opportunity of getting a little diver 
 sion and fresh air.
 
 CHAPTEE XXVI. 
 
 THE LECTURE. 
 
 "What I do, 
 
 And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
 Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
 God for myself, He hears that name of thine, 
 And sees within my eyes the tears of two." 
 
 E. B. Browning. 
 
 MARY was detailed to accompany me. Sophia 
 was more interested than she would acknowl 
 edge ; she wanted me to have a carriage ; she dictated 
 to Mary what she should wear, to look at once respect 
 able and menial. When we got out into the clear, 
 frosty, star-lit night, I wished that it had been five 
 miles instead of five blocks that we had to walk. The 
 great man s carriage was standing at the door, waiting 
 for him ; therefore I dared not lose the time, and we 
 walked directly to the hall. It gave me a strange feel 
 ing to be going in out of that clear, still grandeur (for 
 " the streets were dumb with snow," and the night 
 seemed silent, for a city night) into the gay, gas-lit place, 
 filled with bright faces and bright dresses. 
 
 The agent had paid Sophia the compliment of 
 pretty fair seats. "We had to walk a good way down 
 the aisle, now filling up with chairs, to our places, 
 Mary following me with my wraps. The house was 
 very full, and crowds were still coming in. When we 
 
 [351]
 
 352 THE LECTURE. 
 
 had got into our seats, I found that we were separating 
 a large party, or perhaps it was only two parties who 
 happened to meet. Beside me was a young girl ; on 
 the seat before her, a young man very young ; and a 
 line of people in front of us, who seemed to belong to 
 him ; and directly behind us, more, who seemed to 
 know them. The way in which they talked over and 
 through us was quite remarkable to me ; they seemed 
 to think, because I was not talking, I was not hearing. 
 The very young man in front leaned over, and talked 
 about the lecturer to the young girl, who was impa 
 tiently looking at her watch. 
 
 " They say he is always a little late," she said. 
 
 " That s his airs," said the young man. " People 
 will put up with anything from him. There never 
 was anything so ridiculous as the way he is run after." 
 
 " I don t blame anybody," said she, with an abstrac 
 ted air. "He is the most perfectly satisfying man 
 I ever met. When he has been speaking to you, you 
 never seem to lose the sound of his voice ; it goes over 
 and over in your ears it is such utter music. And 
 his eyes, ah! I never felt as if I were being looked 
 through and through till I met them. 
 
 " Come, now !" cried a matter-of-fact little voice 
 behind me, which indicated black eyes and a small, 
 trim figure. " Come, now ! how many minutes did he 
 
 talk to you the other evening at the A s ? For, I 
 
 suppose, it s there you met him." 
 
 " It was necessarily there, for it s the only place he s 
 been," she said, loftily, not giving the statistics called 
 for. " He went there, because of some family obliga 
 tion. He has only been to a few dinners, and one sup-
 
 THE LECTURE. 353 
 
 per at the club. You can see he hates society ; he is 
 suffocated with its inanity." 
 
 " Bah !" cried the brisk voice at my shoulder. 
 
 " Airs," said the very young man in front. 
 
 " As you will," said the young woman, who evident 
 ly courted misinterpretation. " I don t suppose it con 
 cerns him or surprises hirn that everybody does not un 
 derstand him." 
 
 "As long as you, and the eleven thousand other 
 virgins do," cried the little spitfire behind my chair. 
 
 " Really," said the other, " I m sorry that you take 
 it so to heart. If he should by any chance be at the 
 F s this week, I ll manage to present him." 
 
 " He would be suffocated ; don t think of it." 
 
 An admonitory and motherly voice, also behind me, 
 checked this sharpness, in a very low tone, and then 
 went on aloud. 
 
 " Have you heard much about him from the A s ? 
 
 One doesn t attach much value to what the papers say." 
 
 The young aesthetic person was only too glad to be 
 permitted to tell all she knew on the subject, which, of 
 course, had the weight of an authorized version, coming 
 
 from the A s, who were his family s friends. Her 
 
 statements did not differ materially from the newspapers 
 however, except for the sun-flower-and-peacock-feather- 
 iness of the descriptive terms. All that I gathered that was 
 of any fresh interest, was that his profound melancholy, 
 his utter disillusion, as she called it, was the result of some 
 mysterious occurrence in his youth, of which his family 
 had not the liberty, or perhaps, the power, to speak. 
 
 " But does he seem unhappy, gloomy, in ordinary 
 life ?" asked the mother of the sharp tongue, over my 
 shoulder.
 
 354: TKE LECTURE. 
 
 " No-o, I can t say he does. He makes jokes and 
 all that but one sees the underlying bitterness." 
 
 She of the incisive tongue gave a little laugh It 
 was probable she would have said something signally 
 unsympathetic, but that, at that moment, we became 
 aware that the vast audience was composing itself into 
 an expectant silence. The young people about me grew 
 instantly absorbed. I was so cured of my enthusiasm 
 by this burlesque of it in others, that I found more inter 
 est in watching the young girl beside me, and for a few 
 moments, I did not look up at the speaker. Notwith 
 standing her aesthetic affectations, she was quite genuine 
 in her admiration; her eyes glowed, her breath came 
 quick, she bent forward to catch his words. I wondered 
 how much of this was the effect of contagion ; he was 
 simply the fashion ; girls were going mad about him, as 
 they did about singers and actors ; they talked and wrote 
 and dreamed themselves into love with him. It was a 
 curious study ; this girl, at least, and the girl I had seen 
 in the carriage window, were genuine about it. They 
 were wasting a good deal of womanly feeling on a man 
 who, to say the least of it, wouldn t give them half a 
 thought for all that they gave him. I quite enjoyed 
 the girl s quickening color, as his voice grew clearer, 
 and met our ears more distinctly. I rather envied her 
 the possibility of the emotion. 
 
 Then I turned my eyes from her with a sigh, and 
 slowly fixed them on the speaker. Our seats were a 
 good way from him. I had no glass ; I could hardly 
 distinguish his features. I don t know why, but after 
 he had spoken a few minutes longer, a strange feeling 
 came over me ; the past came back in those vague, 
 dumb yeanlings that no lapse of years can kill. I was
 
 THE LECTURE. 355 
 
 not thinking of what he said. I had not yet given my 
 attention to him and to his subject ; I was not following 
 him. But I was thinking of scenes and days long past. 
 I was standing by the waves and feeling the salt spray 
 on my face ; I was sitting in the ruddy light of the 
 drift-wood fire, and listening to Shamus O Brien. 
 
 It is impossible even now to me, to tell the subject 
 of the speakers words. In any intellectual way, I had 
 lost the thread ; I had not begun with him, I was not 
 thinking with him. From that I know what an orator 
 he was, that by and by, a detached sentence or two he 
 uttered thrilled me through and through ; and as lie 
 went on, I listened, entranced and breathless as the girl 
 beside me. 
 
 It was one of the lower tones of his voice that sent 
 a sudden, blinding thought flaming through my mind. 
 I leaned forward, I tried to see his face. I was too far 
 away ; my agitation did not help me. I could not dis 
 tinguish a feature. The glass of my neighbor was lying 
 in her lap. I took it up, scarcely asking her. She 
 was too engrossed to do more than glance impatiently at 
 me, and to look up again at the speaker. 
 
 I turned the glass at hazard ; it fitted my eye, and I 
 steadied it on his face. I gave a low cry. The glass 
 fell from my hand. 
 
 By this time the girl was gazing intently at me ; for 
 the matter of that, the others too. 
 
 " You know him ?" she said, under her breath. 
 
 "I am ill," I said, "I I must go away." 
 
 Mary, very much frightened, had half risen. Every 
 one was looking at us. 
 
 " How can you get out," murmured the young girl
 
 356 THE LECTURE. 
 
 beside me ; " through the aisles and all, it is so crowd-^ 
 ed." 
 
 The lady behind me thrust a bottle of salts into my 
 hand. Mary held it up to my face. A few impatient 
 words from some disturbed people in front of me 
 steadied me a little. I made a gesture to Mary to re 
 main. I might as well be there as anywhere. I could 
 only die, wherever it was. The horrible physical 
 sensations that succeeded the sudden shock of recogni 
 tion seemed to me like death. The crowd terrified me, 
 they were so thick around me. I felt that I should 
 smother if they did not give me air. I seemed to feel, 
 by a cruel trick of memory, the same sickening sensa 
 tions that had overcome me in the court-room. 
 
 When last Bernard Macnally and I had been face to 
 face, what a different crowd, what a strangely different 
 scene. All that was the same was I, who sat stunned 
 and silent then as now, with faintness and tremor, and 
 a failing heart. Ah, what a gulf rolled between us 1 
 "What barriers had risen up ! Not a scaffold, but 
 a throne, on which an admiring world had put him ; 
 not death, but oblivion ; not shame, but praise. Oh, 
 that I had found him stretched helpless, friendless, pen 
 niless, upon a pauper s bed ! Ah, that that had been 
 the face, not this ; that that had been the scene, not 
 this. Its garish lights, its thunders of applause, its 
 meltings of emotion, how terribly far they all seemed 
 to push me out out, shivering, into the darkness and 
 oblivion from which I had come in ! I longed to creep 
 away and hide myself. But I could not go. Cruel 
 and hard, the crowd hemmed me in, unheeding. I and 
 my wound were things of the past. I must take my 
 self away ; here there was nothing but the stir of grand
 
 THE LECTURE. 357 
 
 emotion, but the glitter of high pomp, but the thrill of 
 mighty genius. I must take myself away. I was al 
 together out of place. I why had I not died ? Why 
 had I nourished up my poor little life of peace, to have 
 it killed again, with no possible healing to come after. 
 I lived, and from now, only to suffer, only to cause him 
 suffering if he ever knew it. His wound was healed ; 
 his life was at its brilliant noon ; all the reparation I 
 could make him was to keep out of his sight, never to 
 recall to him the fearful suffering that I had been the 
 means of bringing on his life. I had, unwitting, done 
 him worse wrong than his worst enemy could have 
 done him. Now, witting, I must have the courage not 
 to do him any more. 
 
 The face that I had seen had not been one to pity. 
 Pity ! I had spent ten years of pity on him ; night and 
 day, one prayer had underlaid all thought, all work, all 
 speech ; a prayer for mercy on him, whether he should 
 be among the living or the dead. Now God help 
 me ! I was the one to pity. His face, changed in a 
 subtile sort of way, older and deeper-marked, was 
 warmed with the glow of genius, strong with a sense of 
 power. Where was my place now mine who had 
 been bound to him with such bonds yoked to him 
 with the memory of such suffering ? Ah, my place ! 
 It was not anywhere in the compass of his vision. If 
 there was an humble spot far away out of his sight and 
 the sight of those who surrounded him with their adu 
 lation, I might kneel on and pray for him. But it 
 seemed to me, in that first moment of bitterness, that 
 I had no longer any need to pray for him. He had 
 all, he was all. God had more than answered all my 
 prayers. By and by I should be thankful ; God would
 
 358 THE LECTURE. 
 
 be patient ; I could not be thankful now. I knew it 
 would all be right in time. But, oh ! for the narrow 
 cot in the dreary hospital ward ! Why had not that 
 prayer been answered 2 Why why ? Oh, my Lord, 
 bear with me ! 
 
 At last they were going; the people drew long 
 breaths after the tension of the past hour ; murmurs 
 of deep feeling, a flush on almost every cheek, life in 
 the dullest eyes, all paid their involuntary tribute to 
 the voice whose echoes were yet in their ears. Even 
 the lad before me seemed sobered and less trifling for 
 the moment. The young girl beside me turned her 
 shining eyes upon me ; she had not lost thought of 
 me, I knew. 
 
 " You are better ?" she said. 
 
 " A little. It will be all right when I can get into 
 the air." 
 
 But instead of getting better, it was getting 
 worse. The stir, the noise about me, the necessity for 
 physical effort, all brought back my faintness. The 
 lady behind me saw my pallor, and leaned over, and 
 talked encouragingly to me. But the young girl had 
 but one idea ; what was her hero to me that the sight 
 of him had overcome me so ? She remained in her 
 seat, though her companions had risen. 
 
 " You you have heard Mr. Conyngham before ?" 
 she said, with the directness and ignorance of youth. 
 
 " She is too ill to talk," said the older lady, with a 
 glance at my tortured face. 
 
 " I thought, perhaps," she said, with the persistence 
 of a one-idead person, " that she knew him, and that 
 suddenly seeing him had made her ill. Was it so ?"
 
 THE LECTURE. 359 
 
 " I want to get into the air," I said, turning from 
 her, and struggling to my feet. 
 
 The elder lady gave me her hand, and her kind aid. 
 Mary, excited, and rather helpless, kept the crowd off 
 on the other side. We got out, I don t know how. 
 The air revived me. 
 
 " It s horrid," I said to the kind lady, when she was 
 satisfied to leave me, " the feeling faint in a crowd. It 
 has happened to me several times in my life. I am so 
 sorry that I had to trouble and disturh you." 
 
 I hoped she would tell the girl, and make her 
 know I had been often so before. What if she met 
 him again and told him of the incident ? 
 
 The stars shone down cold and keen upon that mis 
 erable Walk. When we were just nearing the house, 
 a carriage drew up with rush and bustle, at the other 
 entrance. A man sprang from the box, rang the bell, 
 and returned, and opened the door. I caught sight of 
 Macnally as he stepped out and passed quickly into the 
 house. It was several minutes before they heard our 
 ring. 
 
 " They re so taken up with waiting on the other 
 door, and you look fit to drop," said Mary, pulling 
 again at the bell. " They might attend to somebody 
 else but him, I think. But to be sure it was beautiful, 
 wasn t it ? Ah there s that boy." 
 
 And, to hurry him, she pounded a little on the panel.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE COENEE EOOMS. 
 
 "Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
 From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; 
 And bending o er, with soul-transfusing eyes, 
 And the soft murmurs of the mother-dove, 
 Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies ; 
 Tims Love repays to Hope whatHope first gave to Love." 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 THE next morning I did not dare to go up to Sophia. 
 The dark circle round my eyes, and my white face, 
 would not escape her criticism. I must make up my 
 mind what I meant to say before I saw her. So I sent 
 her word that I had a headache, and that when I felt 
 well enough I would come up. I wandered about my 
 room- aimlessly and feverishly. All the little occupa 
 tions and. interests of my daily life wearied me. I 
 tried to pull the dead leaves from my flowers and to 
 give them water, to feed my bird, to put the books and 
 ornaments in the order that pleased my eye. It was 
 generally a happy hour s employment, with the sun 
 pouring in upon my pretty room. To-day I threw 
 myself down in my chair and knew that it would be 
 an interest no more. There was one interest ; what was 
 that ? Listening for the opening and shutting of that 
 other door, waiting hidden behind the curtains for his 
 going out. I hated myself, but on such things as these 
 [360]
 
 THE COENEE BOOMS. 361 
 
 my interests must centre while the same roof covered 
 us. I knew myself so well ; I had gone through so 
 much. I knew what had been and what would be, 
 with a grinding certainty that left small space for hope. 
 
 At last he went out, passing out upon the sidewalk, 
 but a few feet from where I watched him. He walked 
 with a firm, quick tread. His face had a pre-occupied 
 expression, but I failed to find on it the melancholy 
 that was ascribed to it. Yon would have called him 
 still a young man. The slightness and grace of his 
 figure, and the way he carried his head, were sure notes 
 of young manhood. He wore no beard. The lower 
 part of his face w T as firm, almost firmer than one liked. 
 I should have said he had forgotten how to laugh, 
 though he might still know how to smile. The expres 
 sion of his mouth was different from of old, more 
 changed than the expression of his eyes. It was a 
 large, though well-formed mouth, with an upper lip 
 that curled a little, though it w r as not very short. In 
 other days there had been the greatest sweetness in 
 the curves and movements of his mouth ; there now, if 
 anywhere, was the look of melancholy of which they 
 talked. His face was always colorless ; his nose was 
 very straight and perfect ; his eyes seemed to me much 
 deeper set, and more shaded by heavy brows, than they 
 had been when I had known them first. His broad, 
 high forehead was very white, the short-cropped hair 
 that scarcely admitted of a parting had touches of gray 
 all through it. 
 
 After he had walked quickly out of sight, with the 
 clear, fresh morning air in his face, I resolutely set my 
 self to find some occupation. I sent for the servants, 
 as usual, and gave them the orders which the day 
 10
 
 362 THE CORNER ROOMS. 
 
 required. I went to the store-room, and gave ont the 
 stores they needed. I heard their complaints, and un 
 dertook to convey to Sophia whatever it was impossi 
 ble to solve without her. I had never loved these 
 details, but since Sophia s illness I had found a certain 
 pleasure in doing something distasteful for one who 
 had served me so long and so unselfishly. Now, even 
 that was gone ; it was all hard duty, and I hated it. 
 
 When there was nothing else to occupy me, I started 
 slowly up the stairs. I knew, sooner or later, I must 
 face Sophia. I should not gain courage or cunning by 
 delay. When I reached the second-story hall, I paused 
 to look out a window. What should I say to Sophia, 
 if she asked me to describe him ; how dissemble my 
 emotion if she made me talk about him ? The door of 
 a room stood open ; to gain quiet and time for thought, 
 I wandered in. This suite I knew was vacant. I 
 pushed the door shut, and sat down in the window. 
 
 My parlor, as I have said, was the corner room of the 
 corner house. This room was its counterpart on the 
 floor above, with a hall bed-room adjoining. At one 
 time these rooms were let as one suite with those Mac- 
 nally now occupied, which adjoined them, in the 
 avenue house. The connections between the houses, 
 which Sophia had had cut originally, were one through 
 the lower halls, at the head of the basement stairs, and 
 another at the top, through two of the fourth-floor 
 rooms. But when a large second-story suite was 
 wanted, several years after, she had had a door cut 
 from the parlor of the corner room into the front bed 
 room of the house on the avenue. It had been used for 
 a year or two by the family who took it then. After 
 they left, she found the rooms rented more profitably
 
 THE CORNER ROOMS. 363 
 
 in smaller suites, so the door was fastened up ; and an 
 extra closet being desired in the bedroom of the house 
 on the avenue, she had one built in front of the door. 
 All these circumstances came into my mind, as I sat by 
 the window. I had a curiosity to know whether the 
 door had been nailed up or not. I turned the knob 
 it was locked. I could not tell whether it was nailed 
 till it was unlocked. Sophia s key-basket was in my 
 room. I don t exactly know what I meant to do. I 
 went down-stairs and got it, refusing to think. 
 
 When I came up, I closed the door that led into 
 the hall, went across the room, and pushed away a sofa 
 that stood against the door. The key fitted readily into 
 the lock, and turned. I pushed the door ; it yielded 
 it was not nailed. I stopped a moment to think. I 
 knew there was no one in the rooms occupied by Mac- 
 nally. The last two weeks had shown that his invari 
 able practice was to go out between eleven and twelve, 
 and not to come back before five. I knew the servant 
 had arranged his rooms, and had gone out of them ; I 
 heard her in another part of the house at work. I 
 don t know why I wanted to go ; it was nothing; there 
 was no harm. I would go in. I pushed the door 
 open. A piece of muslin had been hung over the door, 
 under the pegs which were nailed across the top. It 
 was perfectly dark ; the closet-door was shut. I opened 
 it carefully, and listened. The room was vacant the 
 only sound was the ticking of a clock. Then I took 
 out the key of the corner room, and dropped it in my 
 pocket, and pulled it shut after me ; and then, with a 
 beating heart, pushed open the closet-door, and found 
 myself in the rooms occupied by Macnally. My iirst
 
 364 THE CORNER EOOMS. 
 
 care was to go across the room, and quickly slip the 
 bolts of both the doors that led into the hall. 
 
 Then I stood still, and tried to control my agitation, 
 and to look about me. The room used as a parlor was 
 large, with two wide windows looking on the avenue, 
 where the morning sun streamed in. The fire-place 
 was on the side of the room adjoining the next house 
 beyond. The bedroom was separated from the parlor 
 by large, double doors, which were, however, kept 
 open ; and curtains, now drawn back, hung before the 
 entrance. The furniture was unobjectionable, the car 
 pet dull and unobtrusive. Everything was in scrupu 
 lously neat order ; but it seemed the dreariest and most 
 unhoinelike place. It looked like a man s room a 
 man en voyage, too. On one side of the table lay a 
 heap of newspapers ; on the other side, a heap of 
 books; in the middle, a heavy portfolio, tightly 
 strapped. On the mantel-piece stood a box of cigars 
 and a match-safe. The fire had been raked down, and 
 put out, and freshly arranged to light. The chairs 
 stood with their backs to the wall. It was a dreary 
 place. The bedroom (but I merely glanced at it) was 
 as orderly and as dull. A handsome dressing-case, with 
 brass lettering L, B. M. C. upon it, stood on the 
 bureau ; two trunks stood in prominent places ; the 
 wardrobe doors were shut ; the bed well made, with 
 snowy linen ; it was anything but a room that belonged 
 to anybody. It was a room to stay in for as short a 
 time as possible, and to go away from without a feeling 
 of regret. 
 
 And this was the sort of life to which he was con 
 demned, a man with the sensibilities, the tastes, the af 
 fections which make home dear. But for the love that he
 
 THE CORNER KOOMS. 365 
 
 had spent on me, but for the fate that had linked him 
 with my terrible sorrow, he need not have been a wan 
 derer, a homeless man. I knew he would bear that 
 scar upon his heart forever. I knew he would never 
 lift a child in his arms without a pang. I knew fire 
 side delights and merriment would always give his heart 
 an ache. 
 
 There came a subtle little solace in a thought I had ; 
 there was something I might do yet, beside say my 
 prayers for him. I might, for the weeks or months he 
 staid here, make these rooms something more like 
 home. With poor little natures like mine, there is 
 such comfort in having something to do, when sorrow 
 presses. It is so terrible to fight out a sorrow, a tempta 
 tion, with your hands idle in your lap. My heart 
 revived when I looked about the room, and thought of 
 all that might be done to make it pretty. I had a 
 plan ; it matured in all its details with such rapidity. It 
 never would be found out, for the chambermaid was a 
 mere machine, with no more powers of observation than 
 a Universal Wringer. She would never ask how the 
 things came there. She would dust them and put them 
 back with equal interest, whether they were mummies 
 or royal Worcester porcelain. As for Macnally him 
 self, he would feel them like a man, perhaps, he would 
 not notice them. 
 
 It must be done gradually. To-day, it would suffice 
 to bring up the lovely table-cover from my own room, 
 to put a shade over the lamp upon the table, to put 
 away on the book-shelves all but the morning papers 
 and two or three books that looked as if they had been 
 freshly read ; to fill a glass with violets and put them 
 on the mantel-piece, where they would show their dim
 
 366 THE CORNER ROOMS. 
 
 outline in the mirror, and shed their delicate perfume 
 on the air. I pulled the chairs about in more becom 
 ing attitudes ; I moved the great chair up before the 
 fire ; I brought a footstool from the other room, and 
 put before it ; I draped the curtains with a different 
 expression. It did not look like the same room ; and 
 yet the changes were so slight, they would be felt, not 
 noticed by a man, at least. I longed to see the effect 
 when the fire should be burning, and the shaded lamp 
 shedding out its soft light. But that I could only see 
 in fancy. My work done, I slid back the bolts of the 
 two doors that led into the hall, and went back quickly 
 into the closet, which I examined carefully. It was 
 not used, save for a gun-case in one corner, and an 
 empty portmanteau in another. There was a second 
 large closet at the other end of the room, and a ward 
 robe. This one, apparently, was not needed, for the 
 man of fame was evidently not a man of luxurious pre 
 tension. The sheet, when it was dropped inside over 
 the door below the pegs, looked like the wall. No one 
 would think of questioning it, on a cursory glance. I 
 listened well that the corner parlor was empty, pushed 
 open the door, and got safely in the room, locked the 
 door, and moved the sofa back. 
 
 Now I felt stimulated enough to go to see Sophia. 
 I felt quite equal to my part. I found her more fret 
 ful than usual, because anxious about me. I had quite 
 a high color on my cheeks, and she suspected either de 
 ception or a fever she was divided between the two. 
 She took hold of my hand unexpectedly as I was ar 
 ranging her pillow, and decided it was fever. 
 
 " I shall get up to-morrow," she said angrily, " doc-
 
 THE CORNER ROOMS. 367 
 
 tor or no doctor. I m not the kind to lie still and let 
 other people do my work. I ll get up if it kills me." 
 
 Heaven forbid ! I thought, as my heart sank. What 
 should I do if she did get up ? I tried to persuade her 
 I had nothing to do that tired me. " If I weren t doing 
 this I should be going to the hospital." 
 
 Then I did not get exercise enough ; I was used to 
 the frssli air. I promised her I would go out every 
 day to walk. I would begin that very afternoon. I 
 would have promised her anything ; my heart was in 
 my throat ; what if she should persist in getting up ! 
 She didn t say she wouldn t, but I hoped she was a lit 
 tle less firm about it. 
 
 " How about the lecture ?" she said suddenly, turn 
 ing her eyes full on me. 
 
 " Didn t Mary tell you ?" I said ; " the crowd and 
 the close air and everything made me faint at first. 
 And after that I couldn t pay much attention. I was 
 afraid I should be faint again and have to go out, and 
 how I could have done that I can t imagine, for the 
 aisles were crowded ; you never saw such a crush. I 
 don t believe there was standing room for another per 
 son. The audience seemed perfectly carried away with 
 him. He has a wonderful voice. I wish I could have 
 listened to him attentively, but when once one gets the 
 idea that one s going to faint, it s all over with one s 
 listening." 
 
 " What does he look like ?" she said, with her eyes 
 still on my face. 
 
 " We hadn t seats near enough to see his face with 
 anything like distinctness. I hadn t a glass. I bor 
 rowed one from the lady next me, but I only kept it 
 for a minute. There isn t much satisfaction in a glass
 
 368 THE COENEE EOOMS. 
 
 if it isn t fitted to your eye ; turning and twisting and 
 lengthening and shortening ; sometimes I think it s 
 rather worse than none at all." 
 
 " Then you didn t see him ?" 
 
 " Yes, I saw him, just a glance. I should say he 
 looked like the descriptions of him in the papers. I 
 should say his face must be very fine, if you could 
 watch it while he spoke. Next time the agent pre 
 sents you with some tickets, I hope he ll have the 
 grace to give you better seats." 
 
 " Next time I ll go myself. You re a poor hand to 
 do anything but read books and go to hospitals." 
 
 I could not tell whether she had any suspicion of 
 the truth. She always had suspicions, but they were 
 frequently quite wide of the mark. 1 knew she dis 
 trusted me, and felt there was something hidden, but I 
 hoped it was that she fancied I was more ill than I ad 
 mitted, or that something in the house had gone wrong, 
 that I was keeping from her. 
 
 The result of her suspicions and her f rettings was, she 
 was much more ill before the day was over, and put 
 herself back several weeks in her recovery. It was 
 growing no easy task to soothe and please her. She 
 worried about everything, w r hether it were doing well 
 or ill. She would have dismissed every one of the ser 
 vants, if I had not interfered. They were all excellent 
 in their way, and did their work with surprising fidel 
 ity, considering how much they were left to themselves. 
 
 But the most fruitful source of anxiety was the 
 standing empty of that second-story corner suite of 
 rooms. Such a thing had never happened to her since 
 she took the houses. Here it was the first of Decem 
 ber, and one of her best suites of rooms bringing her in
 
 THE CORNER ROOMS. 369 
 
 nothing. At this rate she couldn t pay the expenses of 
 the house ; she was running behind every month ; 
 something must be done. 
 
 It was in vain I assured her that she was making 
 money every month ; that I was keeping her accounts 
 with all the care I could, and that I knew there was 
 not a cent owing, and a comfortable amount on hand. 
 And that she ought to be very thankful to be getting 
 on so well, when she was not able to look after things 
 herself. 
 
 That gave her no comfort. Something must be 
 done about it. I must put an advertisement in the 
 papers. I remonstrated. It took from the dignity of 
 her house to advertise the rooms ; she had never done 
 such a thing before. It would be a direct loss of pres 
 tige. Then I must write for her to the British Consul, 
 and to one or two of her former patrons. That I en 
 gaged to do, devoutly hoping that they wouldn t know 
 of anybody. 
 
 Those rooms once occupied, my plans must fall 
 totally to the ground. Even if I could get a pass-key 
 to enter from the hall into Macnally s rooms, I was not 
 mad enough to run such risks. I never went into the 
 other house, nor into any rooms but my own, and any 
 servant meeting me on the stairs would have cause to 
 wonder what had brought me there. 
 
 My pretty bubble danced along the ground ; much as 
 it pleased my fancy and soothed my dreary hours, I could 
 but see how little chance there was that it could please 
 and soothe me long. When Sophia got out of her room 
 it would vanish, or, if the corner rooms were taken, it 
 was gone. But the more fragile, the dearer it became. 
 16*
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 CONSTRAINED TO HEAR. 
 
 " Or is it over ? art them dead ? 
 
 Dead ! and no warning shiver ran 
 Across my heart, to say thy thread 
 Of life was cut, and closed thy span 1 
 
 " Could from earth s ways that figure slight 
 
 Be lost, and I not feel twas so ? 
 Of that fresh voice the gay delight 
 Fail from earth s air, and I not know ?" 
 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 
 "WEEK had passed. Every day I had been in 
 Macnally s rooms. By twelve o clock they were 
 in order, and the servant was out of them, and did not 
 come near them again, till she came in to light the fire 
 at five, before his return. I had full liberty, but I 
 could not feel safe, or anything but agitated and uneasy. 
 "When my own rooms were locked, it was understood I 
 had gone out, and no one was troubled as to where I 
 went. As I was entitled to frequent the hall and stair 
 case of the corner house, on my way to my sleeping- 
 room, which was* on the second floor, no one had cause 
 for speculation if they met me there. Mr. Conyng- 
 ham s notes and cards and letters were always kept by 
 Buttons, and presented to him in a bunch when he had 
 come in in the afternoon, and the rooms were rarely 
 entered through the day. 
 
 The rooms had improved under my agitated hands. 
 A stand of plants was in one window, an odd-looking
 
 CONSTRAINED TO HEAR. 371 
 
 little writing-table in the other. A better nig lay be 
 fore the grate ; on the mantelpiece stood an odd India 
 vase, always filled with flowers which looked at them 
 selves in the mirror. On the other side of Macnally s 
 little travelling clock I put a low brass candlestick with 
 a red candle in it, and beside it a brass match-box with 
 a serpent on the lid. His books increased every day. 
 I put them in order on the shelves. I saw with satis 
 faction that he had taken more books out of his trunks, 
 and added them to the others, and that he brought out 
 a handsome inkstand, and seemed to be settling himself 
 a little into place. 
 
 The table now pleased me. He dined on it, so all 
 the things had to be taken off at meals, and therefore 
 there could be but few. But the cover was rich-toned 
 and soft, and a pleasure to the eye. The lamp was 
 solid and simple ; a couple of books always lay on it, 
 the two or three I knew, by instinct, that he was read 
 ing, and a paper knife, a new magazine, and a bowl of 
 blue cloisonne for the day s harvest of cards and notes 
 of invitation. The table stood opposite the fire-place, 
 the wide easy-chair between ; it seemed to me there 
 must be an alluring suggestion of quiet evenings, and 
 easy, unhurried mornings. 
 
 The houses opposite were low; the morning sun 
 poured in at the windows through the soft, pretty 
 hangings. I took care that the lighting of the fire 
 should never be forgotten in the afternoon at five. 
 Mary was most trustworthy, but every morning, when 
 I gave my orders, I reiterated, " Never forget to take up 
 Mrs. Graham s tea at five o clock, and to stop on your 
 way and light the fire in the second story front rooms." 
 
 I don t believe she ever forgot it. I often heard 
 the crackle and the splutter of the coal from the corner
 
 372 CONSTRAINED TO HEAK. 
 
 room, where I liad paused to listen if my orders were 
 strictly carried out. 
 
 I had strange feelings those stolen moments that I 
 spent there, glancing at the books that he had just laid 
 down, touching the chairs, the furniture that he had 
 touched an hour before ; smelling the scent of his just 
 burned-out cigar ; turning over the cards and notes that 
 his eye had just passed over. They were strange, I 
 cannot say happy, moments. I hated deception. I 
 doubted sometimes if it were right or wrong. If it 
 were wrong, it could only be as an injury to me, if ever 
 any one should know. There could be no moral wrong, 
 and for the motive that had moved me to it, and the 
 hope that I had brightened even a few hours for him, 
 I was willing to bear all the criticism that might fall 
 on me, if ever it were known. But the constant 
 watching against discovery, the constant agitation that 
 contact with these inanimate things brought me, made 
 my life anything but one of peace. I suppose my face 
 showed my restlessness and damaged health. Sophia 
 watched it narrowly and fretted herself worse every 
 day about me. 
 
 The day of which I speak had been a very de 
 ranged one in the house. Mr. Conyngham had begun 
 the contrarieties by going out an hour later than his 
 ordinary custom. That had disappointed the maid of 
 the hour she usually gave to the arrangement of his 
 rooms. Then Mrs. Graham, a very exacting young 
 matron, who had the third -floor rooms, had had a 
 luncheon-party, and had taken the time of all the ser 
 vants she could lay hands upon. Sophia probably 
 would have seen justice done ; but I had no authority 
 to interfere. At three o clock, Mr. Conyngham s 
 rooms were still untouched. At half -past three, the
 
 CONSTRAINED TO HEAR. 373 
 
 maid rushed hurriedly through them ; and at four, left 
 them superficially arranged, and went to do the rest of 
 her neglected work. The old lady who had the back 
 rooms on the second floor of the corner house was en 
 raged that the cleaning of her windows had been neg 
 lected on account of the irregular festival of Mrs. Gra 
 ham. She sat all day with her doors open, to waylay 
 the chambermaid, who had refused to come to her 
 when she sent her word about the windows. While 
 her door was open, and she was on guard just inside, 
 I could not get into the corner room. I had some 
 fresh flowers to put there, and a waste-paper basket 
 that I had been embroidering. I was most impatient 
 of her vigilant watch. 
 
 It was half-past four when the arrival of a visitor 
 obliged her to descend from the watch-tower. I took 
 the opportunity to go into the corner room, and through 
 the closet to the other rooms. There I found more to 
 do than I had thought ; the maid had left things in 
 very indifferent condition. I hurried through the 
 arrangement of the flowers, and restored things to order 
 as quickly as I could ; but, doing my very best, it took 
 a good many minutes. The room was a little chilly. I 
 knew Mary was still up-stairs, for I heard her voice 
 distinctly talking with the Grahams waiter. The fl re 
 would not be lighted if I did not do it. I struck a 
 match ; in a few moments it was blazing cheerfully. 
 I went to put the waste-paper basket under the little 
 writing-table in the window ; as I did it, I glanced out. 
 The carriage that Mr. Conyngham always came home 
 in was driving from the door. lie was then already in 
 the house. A fury of terror seized me. I sprang to 
 the door and unbolted it, then hurried across the room, 
 and got into the closet just as the parlor-door opened.
 
 374 CONSTRAINED TO HEAR. 
 
 But, unimagined situation ! As I was eagerly turn 
 ing the knob of the door that led into the adjoining 
 room, I was arrested by the sound of talking there. 
 
 " And where does this door lead to ?" said a thin 
 female voice. 
 
 " Oh, to nowheres in particular," answered the voice 
 of Buttons, as he slipped the bolt and shut off my es 
 cape. " Tain t used for nothing. These is the rooms 
 that goes together." 
 
 I heard her ask more questions, and appeal to 
 some one who was with her. I was in an agony of 
 fright. Through the door, which I held a crack open 
 that I should not smother, I saw Maonally, and a gen 
 tleman with him. They were now seated near the fire. 
 I could see them distinctly by its blaze, the curtains 
 into the bedroom being drawn quite wide apart. If 
 there had been any emotion strong enough to conquer 
 my fear and shame, it would have overcome me when 
 I recognized in the stranger Mr. Hardinge. I never 
 can express half of the guilt and degradation that I 
 felt; it had no proportion to the wrong that I had 
 done. I could not forgive or excuse myself, now that 
 I saw of what I had been in danger every day. Every 
 feeling seemed to dwindle to nothing before the instinct 
 of self-preservation, the womanly defence that nature 
 gives us. At that moment I loved no one but myself, 
 I cared for nothing but to escape from my intolerable 
 dilemma. The motives that had led me into it seemed 
 contemptible. 
 
 It was impossible not to hear what was being said 
 by the two men sitting at the fire. I could not miss a 
 word, a syllable, scarcely an expression. They were 
 talking of something that had occurred the night before. 
 Mr. Hardinge had gone to him after last evening s
 
 CONSTRAINED TO HEAK. 375 
 
 lecture, and spoken to him. He had, he said, a fear 
 that he would not be glad to have him know him. 
 
 u Far from it," said Macnally. " I have been think 
 ing every day since I came of looking you up. I 
 should be a most ungrateful brute if I hadn t 
 meant to do it. I have been here less than a month, 
 and I have been much occupied, but not enough to 
 drive out the thought of what T owed to you. Of 
 course it was an effort, breaking the ice, and going into 
 things that one would be glad to get out of one s mind 
 forever ; I m sure you understand." 
 
 " Of course ; and that s why I hesitated to speak to 
 you last night. All these years I have said the same 
 thing to myself, when I have wondered that I did not 
 hear from you after you went home." 
 
 " You got my letter from Liverpool, when I landed ?" 
 " No, I never have had a word from you since I 
 left you on the steamer." 
 
 " I can t account for it but yes perhaps I can. 
 "\Vheu I landed at Liverpool, I was on the eve of a ter 
 rible fever. That letter to you was the last thing I 
 remember. I got to my room at the hotel ; I remember 
 my head was so bad I could scarcely tell the servant 
 what I wanted, but he brought me ink and paper at 
 last. I wrote to you. My feeling was I was going to 
 die, and that must be done before I was past thinking. 
 When the letter was sealed and directed, I sent for the 
 man and gave it to him, witli some money for a stamp. 
 It was a supreme effort. I think it probable I sank 
 down then into the stupor which was the beginning of 
 my illness. The man probably pocketed the money 
 and mislaid the letter, or else I had misdirected it in 
 my confused condition. One is as likely as the other. 
 You must have thought me a bad fellow."
 
 376 CONSTRAINED TO HEAK. 
 
 " I always felt tliere must be some excuse. I had 
 an idea that you weren t living, perhaps. Were you 
 long ill 2" 
 
 " A good many weeks, I fancy. I was at a strange 
 hotel; my things weren t marked, you know. They 
 just took care of me for charity s sake. A good Sister 
 of Mercy nursed me ; none of my people knew any 
 thing about it. I well, I might as well tell you, I 
 owe it to you. I had been a little hardly treated at 
 home, I thought. I had been an idle fellow, self- 
 willed too, I suppose. But it doesn t seem to me they 
 went the best way to work to get it out of me. How 
 ever, I don t pretend to judge. I don t think I should 
 have been so stubborn if they d been more lenient ; as 
 I look back, I don t see that they were quite justified. 
 When I got over my fever, I was not over my resent 
 ment, quite. I was despondent and purposeless. I re 
 solved I would not go home. I had still a little money 
 left. I sold some things I had, paid the expenses of 
 my illness, and took passage for Australia, where I 
 staid three years. At thjs moment, no member of my 
 family knows that I ever was in America till now ; 
 none, at least, but a little sister who was faithful to me 
 always, and to whom I always wrote from here." 
 
 " That accounts for your never answering my let 
 ters, sent at random, to be sure, nor seeing my adver 
 tisements about the discovery that was made two years 
 after, at South Berwick. You do not know of it ?" 
 
 " Yes, I know of it ; after my return to England, 
 I saw a paragraph in an old paper. It seemed an acci 
 dent that I should have found it. I never could get 
 hold of any fuller statement, though I looked through 
 many files of papers ; but I had not the advantage of 
 a date to fix it. What I saw was a mere paragraph in a
 
 CONSTRAINED TO HEAR. 377 
 
 torn scrap of paper, the name of which I did not 
 know. 
 
 " Why did you not write to me ?" 
 
 " I I hated to open the old wound again. It s 
 always hard to me to speak of things that have gone 
 deep. It s a bad trait, I know. It s got me into the 
 worst troubles of my life. I m always promising my 
 self to besin a reformation." 
 
 o 
 
 And he looked up to his companion with the 
 old sweet smile of South Berwick days. 
 
 "Well, you may congratulate yourself you have 
 begun the reformation now, I m sure," said Mr. Har- 
 dinge. 
 
 " I m going to carry it a little further," said Mac- 
 nally, a constrained, pained look succeeding the smile. 
 " If you can tell me anything of the other actors in 
 that terrible drama, I shall be glad." 
 
 " I m sorry to say I can t tell you very much. The 
 poor young mother I know nothing of, except that she 
 went to Canada, after a few weeks or months. I think 
 she can t be living, or sane one would almost wonder 
 if she were, after what she had gone through. I thinjk 
 the more that she must be dead, because, at the time 
 of the discovery at South Berwick, she did not come to 
 me, or make any sign. I should have thought she 
 would naturally have come to me, hoping I might tell 
 her something of you, or get to you some message from 
 her. It was a painful case a painful case." 
 
 There was a long silence ; Hacnally sat gazing into 
 the fire. At last he said : 
 
 " The woman, Sophia : I wonder if one could hear 
 anything of her. She is not the kind that dies," he 
 added, with a short, bitter laugh. 
 
 " No," responded Hardinge, " she had fire and ven-
 
 378 CONSTRAINED TO HEAR. 
 
 om enough in her to outlive a dozen generations. She s 
 living, you may take your oath of that." 
 
 " I wonder what would be the best way to go to 
 work to find some trace of her?" 
 
 " Advertising, I should think, or application to some 
 detective agency. If you like, I ll see what can be 
 done." 
 
 " If you would, I should be very glad of it." 
 
 Mr. Hardinge took out his memorandum-book. 
 "Sophia Sophia do you remember the name? Of 
 course, though, I ve got it on the minutes of the trial." 
 
 " Atkinson," said Macnally, briefly. 
 
 Mr. Hardinge wrote it down, and put the book back 
 into his pocket. "And the poor Emlyns," he said; 
 " you know about them ?" 
 
 " No," returned Macnally, briefly again, and I saw 
 his face darken. 
 
 " Mrs. Emlyn died very suddenly, in Naples. She 
 had but a few days illness, the result largely, I suppose, 
 of her devotion to her husband and her anxiety about 
 him. He was, you know, very much broken down by 
 the excitement attendant on the trial ; he was losing his 
 mind fast, but the poor lady did not live to see him a 
 total wreck. The decline in his mental condition was 
 very rapid after her death ; in a few months he was 
 hopelessly imbecile. I believe he is still living, very 
 tranquil and harmless." 
 
 " And how about the children, Ned and Naomi ?" 
 
 " They were sent to an uncle in New Orleans. Ned 
 was married last year. He is a fine young fellow, and 
 will make a good lawyer. He s persevering and manly. 
 And Naomi is quite a beauty. By the way, she s in the 
 city now. She has been very much admired." 
 
 " Pretty little Naomi !" said Macnally, with a sad
 
 CONSTRAINED TO HEAR. 379 
 
 smile. " She was always faithful to me ; she proved 
 my only friend." 
 
 " Shall I send her word about you ? or shall I give 
 you her address ? I could get it easily, though I can t 
 recall it at this moment." 
 
 " No, oh, no. I shall like to meet her without prep 
 aration. I wonder if the child would know me." 
 
 " I m quite sure you wouldn t know her, if you 
 think of her still as the child. She must be fully 
 twenty-three. She is a young queen, tall, like her aunt, 
 and quite commanding." 
 
 "I have a fancy that I should know her eyes; I 
 shall like to test my memory. You say she goes much 
 in society ? It will give me an interest I will go out 
 more. You don t think it s possible she would know 
 anything of the others ?" 
 
 " No, I think there is little chance. She would 
 have told me if she had had any news of them. She 
 scarcely ever fails to speak to me of that time whenever 
 I may meet her. Young as she was at the time, it 
 made a very deep impression on her mind." 
 
 There was a little pause. Mr. Hardinge got up to 
 go away. 
 
 "I m going to ask you," said Macnally, a little awk 
 wardly, as he rose, " not to let anybody know of my 
 identity with that unhappy man you saved from the 
 gallows, not even little Naomi. I ve a great aversion 
 to its being known on the other side ; and to tell the 
 truth, I ve a great aversion to sensation as connected 
 with myself in any way- It couldn t do any harm, I 
 know ; but I am sure you understand how painful it 
 would all be to me if in any way the rumor should be 
 started." 
 
 "I can understand it perfectly, my dear sir, and you
 
 380 CONSTRAINED TO HEAR. 
 
 may be assured of my strict silence. But, you ll excuse 
 me for saying so, you will have difficulty in keeping it 
 a secret, unless people Lave short memories. 
 
 " You knew me easily, then ?" 
 
 " In a moment." 
 
 " I felt I was so changed. I depended on that, and 
 on the chance of not being seen by the few people who 
 were familiar with me then. It seems so long ago, and it 
 seems as if it were such a secluded, narrow path I walked." 
 
 "Well, let us trust you won t meet any Sutphen 
 County people. Sutphen County ! The name always 
 gives me a kind of shiver. Do you realize how close a 
 shave that was ? Two minutes before that jury came 
 in, I would not have given sixpence for your chance." 
 
 I saw Macnally s face grow white as the firelight 
 played on it. An almost imperceptible shudder passed 
 over him, but he did not speak. 
 
 " But for the testimony of that poor young crea 
 ture," went on the lawyer, " you must surely have been 
 lost. You never knew what anxious hours I had lest 
 she should fail us. If she had lost her reason, or had 
 become hopelessly ill, or had wavered but a hair s 
 breadth in her testimony, there would not have been a 
 ray of hope. But I needn t have feared. A woman 
 never breaks down till she has nothing to hold up." 
 
 At this moment the servant came in, bringing coal. 
 Mr. Hardinge held out his hand, and Macually followed 
 him out of the room. The servant continued busy 
 about the fire. In a moment Macnally came back, and 
 threw himself into the chair before the fire. The 
 woman went away, closing the door behind her. Mac 
 nally sat fixedly gazing into the flames, as if to read 
 there the riddle of his life. He lay back in the chair, 
 his head a little bent forward, his look deep and intent,
 
 CONSTRAINED TO HEAE. 381 
 
 not as men dream and wonder. The room was very 
 still. There was snow on the ground outside, and the 
 passing wheels were muffled. His face was half turned 
 towards my place of concealment. If I had made any 
 noise he must have heard me. If I had made any 
 movement he must have seen me. 
 
 He never stirred ; I think it must have been a long 
 half hour. I had a chance to burn well in upon my 
 memory that pale profile, with the bent head and the 
 intent eyes ; the relaxed figure that was so motionless ; 
 the hand that was so slender, still and white. The 
 firelight shone, now broad and ruddy, now flickering 
 and yellow ; but its changes never moved him from 
 his fixed position. 
 
 At last Mary came in to arrange the table for his 
 dinner. Pie turned a little restlessly and pushed his 
 chair a trifle nearer to the fire. My terror was in 
 creasing ; in a moment the chambermaid came into the 
 bedroom. If there were anything she kept in this 
 closet, I was lost. She went to the waslistand, poured 
 fresh water in the pitchers ; lit the gas above the dress 
 ing-table, pulled down the window shades. Mary, by 
 this time, had arranged the table and put on it the 
 lighted lamp, with the shade upon it. Then, glancing 
 around to see if everything were in order, sho turned 
 and left the room. 
 
 As the chambermaid came again to the wash-stand, 
 she muttered, " There, I ve forgotten my towels," and 
 putting down her pail of water, went out of the room, 
 looking out the key of the linen closet on the bunch in 
 her belt, as she went. I knew the linen closet was on 
 the floor above. She went out, leaving the door ajar. 
 There was a bright light over the dressing-table ; I had 
 to pass full in front of it, before Macnally s eyeSj if by
 
 382 CONSTRAINED TO HEAR. 
 
 chance lie lifted tliern up from the fire. But it was 
 the only moment, before the woman should come back. 
 
 I remembered he would have heard the maid mov 
 ing about in the room, and my movements would be less 
 likely to attract his notice. I pushed the closet door 
 open; and in the strong light of two gas-burners, 
 walked across to the hall door, and out of it. He had 
 not seen me ; there was no sound of his even turning 
 in his chair. 
 
 When I got to my own room, and sank down and 
 hid my face in my hands, I asked myself three 
 questions Was it possible anything would ever tempt 
 me to do this thing again ? Had I been punished or 
 rewarded by what I had overheard ? Was I further 
 from or nearer to Macnally than I had been before ? 
 
 "Nothing, nothing," I answered, to myself, with 
 passionate protestation, " would ever tempt me to do 
 this thing again." 
 
 I had been punished by what I had boon forced to 
 overhear. I remembered that he had never once 
 spoken my name. That he had said these were things 
 that he would be glad to get out of his mind forever. 
 No, he had not forgotten, his was not a nature to for 
 get ; but he would be glad to forget if it were possible. 
 The memory of me was only fraught with torture to 
 him. The wound had been too deep to heal ; it might 
 be silent for long intervals, but it broke out now and 
 then, with undiminished pain. Through me his life 
 was desolate ; he strove against me as against an enemy. 
 He would be glad to forget forever what he had so far 
 only succeeded in forgetting iitfully. Ah ! bitter hear 
 ing ! Then his words had planted another thorn. 
 Naomi Emlyn, a young queen, now in her fresh 
 womanhood and perfect beauty, tenderly remembered
 
 CONSTRAINED TO HEAE. 383 
 
 as "his only friend," was to be sought out. She 
 surely would be " an interest " to him. To meet her, 
 he was going more into the world. For my own peace 
 of mind, I should better not have done that little piece 
 of eavesdropping. 
 
 And again, had this evening s occurrence put me 
 further from or nearer to him ? It had cut both ways. 
 It had put me further from him than even all these 
 years had put me. It had made it impossible for me 
 to hope for any recognition. His happiness seemed to 
 depend upon oblivion, and if I had a duty, it was to 
 save him from a re-opening of the wound, and to 
 further his attempt to find in something new an inter 
 est. But the sight of him, the nearness to him, the 
 sound, close to my ears, of his unapproachably sympa 
 thetic voice what had they not wrought upon my 
 heart ! I had thought the years had disciplined me. 
 I had fancied that all was dead within me but the hope 
 of Heaven arid the thought of duty. What would I 
 not have given to have recalled the life of peace that 
 his coming had spoiled ! It would take years to bring 
 it back again. Never, it seemed to me, while I knew 
 he lived, could I bo at rest again without him. But 
 lately, it would have seemed to me that to know he 
 was living would have been happiness enough ; living, 
 if even lying on a narrow cot in some ward of Charity 
 Hospital. How perverse and ungrateful I had become. 
 He was living, he was at the height of fame and pros 
 perity, he was not ill satisfied with life and its results ; 
 and I was passionately wretched, because I could not 
 claim a part in his life any longer, because the door 
 was shut between us, and I could not touch his hand or 
 meet his eye.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 SOME DEAD FLOWERS. 
 
 " No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, 
 But pale, and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat." 
 
 E. B. Browning, 
 
 " Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
 And sweet as those, by hopeless fancy feigned, 
 On lips that are for others; deep as love 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
 O Death in life ! the days that are no more." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 I KEPT my resolution for a few days. I only saw 
 him from the window, going in and out. I walked 
 much. I tried to keep myself from thought by busy 
 occupation. Sophia had nothing to complain of in my 
 devotion to her and her duties. I even found a day, 
 once in the week, to go back to the hospital. But, all 
 I succeeded in doing was wearing myself out, and 
 leaving thought still master. 
 
 Mr. Conyngham s cards and visitors increased ; his 
 goings out increased. Several days in the week Buttons 
 brought down word he would not dine at home. On 
 many nights I heard him come in after midnight. 
 Had he found Naomi Emlyn yet ? The papers were 
 daily chronicling his doings. He was lecturing very 
 often ; sometimes he was gone for a day or two, lectur 
 ing in other cities. It was my constant hope the corner 
 
 [384]
 
 SOME DEAD FLOWERS. 385 
 
 rooms would be rented. I oven sent an advertisement 
 of them to the papers. Many people came to see them, 
 but they were not taken now for this reason, now for 
 that. I longed to see that temptation closed upon me ; 
 but, while those rooms were vacant, I was not sure of 
 myself I might be tempted to go again into the room 
 which I had declared to myself I never again would 
 enter. 
 
 About this time there appeared in all the papers an. 
 advertisement addressed to Sophia Atkinson. I took 
 pains that it should never meet her eye. The servants 
 did not read ; but the lodgers one or two of them 
 noticed the advertisement, and sent it to Miss Atkin 
 son, with their compliments. I was fortunate enough 
 to intercept the papers, and take them to my own room 
 first ; and so Mr. Hardinge s eiforts for his client were 
 not crowned with much success. His detective, also, I 
 had the good fortune to see in the hall, as I came in 
 one day, and to throw completely ofE the track. I con 
 vinced him that this Atkinson was a very different one 
 from the Atkinson whom he pursued. By a fortunate 
 mistake, her residence, in the directory, was put down 
 as the number of the house on the street, and not the 
 house on the avenue. It was also put in, S. Atkinson, 
 and not Sophia Atkinson. So Sophia nursed her rheu 
 matism up-stairs, and Mr. Conyngham, unsuspected, 
 kept his rooms below. 
 
 One day, it was a rainy, in-door day, I had had less 
 possibility of occupation than usual, and had taken out 
 my water colors. There was an unfinished sketch of a 
 bit of the South Berwick beach, having for background 
 an opening in the dunes, and a distant glimpse of green 
 
 meadows and purple hills beyond. I finished it ; it 
 17
 
 386 SOME DEAD FLOWERS. 
 
 was a characteristic view ; it seemed to me no one 
 could claim it for any other spot on earth. A sudden 
 impulse seized me. I scorned my resolution ; the corner 
 parlor door stood open as I went up-stairs to my room, 
 with the picture in my hand. I pushed through the 
 door ; in another minute I was in the forbidden rooms. 
 
 I had forgotten to say, that over the corner where 
 stood a little table with cigars and ash-stand, I had 
 hung an engraving, and under it, a small and insignifi 
 cant photograph of some favorite picture, I can t rec 
 ollect at this moment what. These two had hung low, 
 and I had, in other unconventional places, put one or 
 two more. The walls were rather dark, and they had a 
 good effect. 
 
 I hastily took out the photograph from its frame, 
 and put in its place the little water color I had just 
 finished, and hung it exactly as it had hung before. 
 Why did I do it ? It would be hard to say. It might 
 never attract his notice. It might even be that he 
 would look at it and never see a suggestion of the spot 
 I meant. I did it, perhaps from an impulse to escape 
 from the resolution that I had made to hide myself 
 from him, to defend him from the past. It was a 
 perverse and passionate resistance of my own decree. 
 
 When I had put the little picture in its place and 
 given a glance back at it, I hurried out, to escape from 
 reason and from self-reproach. As I passed his dress 
 ing-table, I saw lying on it, beside a crumpled handker 
 chief and a pair of gloves, a couple of dinner cards and 
 some withered flowers. It was evidently the contents 
 of his pocket, emptied out the night before when he 
 came home. The chambermaid had left them, not 
 knowing where to put them. I glanced down at the
 
 SOME DEAD FLOWERS. 387 
 
 cards. They were exquisitely painted. On one was 
 written, Miss Emlyn ; on the other, Mr. Conyngham. 
 My heart gave a throb. Then he had met her ; they 
 had been side by side for hours, last night at dinner. I 
 would take my little sketch away : South Berwick was 
 recalled enough. But no ; it should stay. I would go 
 away, and never come back into this cruel room again. 
 
 But what were my resolutions worth ? Not long 
 after, it was a wild and stormy evening, I was sitting 
 in my window, looking out ; the light within was turned 
 low. The people struggled past around the corner 
 where the wind met them full, witli heads bent down, 
 and umbrellas bent and twisted. I liked the fierce beat 
 of the rain upon the pane. I liked anything better 
 than soft moonlight and calm days of sunshine; I was 
 too restless to like things that were at rest. While I 
 looked out, leaning my forehead against the glass, I 
 saw Mr. Conyngham come out and get into a carriage. 
 A man held the umbrella over him and opened the 
 carriage door ; then got up beside the driver on the 
 box, and they drove away. I don t know what there 
 was in the sight of his departure that gave me such 
 bitter thoughts. It was in such contrast to my loneli 
 ness, to my misery. I thought of the gay scene to 
 which he went, the adulation with which he would be 
 met. I remembered Naomi would be there, no doubt. 
 Naomi, whose eyes he thought he must remember, who 
 had been " his only friend !" The world was at his 
 feet, if he wanted it ; love, perhaps, and a life-long 
 devotion was stretching out its hands to him to draw 
 him from his life of cold seclusion ; and I, ah, what lay 
 before me in the dreary years to come? 
 
 I turned from the window, and shut out the storm
 
 388 SOME DEAD FLOWEKS. 
 
 and darkness. I opened my portfolio, and sat down 
 beside the lamp. From a folded sheet of paper there 
 fell out a bunch of flowers that had been pressed, stems 
 and roots and leaves and all. Sudden tears sprang to 
 my eyes at the sight of them. They were little pink 
 flowers that I had gathered at South Berwick the year 
 before, when I had spent a day there, in the latter part 
 of August. The country people call them " meadow- 
 pinks," I don t know what their correct name is. They 
 are a little star-shaped flower, of a soft yellowish pink, 
 with brown and yellow centers. They grow in salt-mead 
 ows, and no doubt are very common, but I had never seen 
 them anywhere but at South Berwick, and they were en 
 tirely associated with the place. In masses, they are very 
 beautiful, and they were often the ornament of my little 
 tea-table at the cottage ; in a low glass dish, against the 
 dark mahogany, they were lovely. I was very apt to wear 
 them in my dress. Ned and Macnally never crossed the 
 meadows without bringing me a bunch. They did not 
 grow very near us, a mile or more away. It was quite 
 a circumstance to get them, but I was seldom without 
 them. When we were driving, it was an excuse to 
 prolong the drive, to go and get some. I knew Mac- 
 nally had often walked miles out of his way, to bring a 
 handful to me. I could see him now, standing in the 
 door, in his blue-flannel clothes, with his game-bag over 
 his shoulder, his cap in one hand, the flowers in the 
 other, his face eager, bright, and yet almost shy, if I 
 were sitting alone in the parlor, and there w r as no child 
 to pick up in his arms and make a turmoil over. 
 
 They were my flowers, par excellence every one 
 got them for me, brought them to me, associated them 
 with the thought of me. These I held in my hand were
 
 SOME DEAD FLOWERS. 380 
 
 excellently pressed, they had retained their color and 
 their shape, even to the roots and leaves. I put them 
 aside, and tried to recall no more pictures that they sug 
 gested to me. It was late when I went up to bed : I 
 had my portfolio in my hand. The corner door was 
 open. "Why could they not keep that door shut ? I re 
 solved to lock it and to carry the key up to Sophia. In 
 the meantime, I pushed it open, and went in. It was 
 only eleven o clock, there was plenty of time before he 
 should come back. A sudden impulse seized me, and 
 I went stealthily in. There was light enough in his 
 parlor for me to make my way across the bed-room. 
 The lamp was turned low, the fire gave out rather a 
 fitful glow. His chair was by the table, standing as he 
 had left it ; a half burned cigar lay on the ash-stand on 
 the table, a book half -closed was beside it. A note, 
 torn open carelessly, lay on it. The envelope had the 
 initials N". E. on it; the address was in a woman s 
 hand. 
 
 I took a handful of my flowers, and shut them in 
 the book; put another lump of coal on the fire, 
 smoothed out the table-cover, which was drawn awry, 
 straightened the rug, and put the footstool before the 
 chair, then went away. 
 
 The next morning, about nine o clock, I had to go 
 into the other house, to ease Sophia s mind about the 
 condition of a window-shade in the upper hall. It had 
 been reported to her in a damaged condition. She 
 could not sleep for thinking of it. She would not take 
 the word of the servants about it ; I must go and look 
 at it myself. I rarely went into this hall ; it gave me 
 rather an uncomfortable feeling, and I dreaded meeting 
 any of the lodgers, who always eyed me with more in-
 
 390 
 
 SOME DEAD FLOWERS. 
 
 terest than I liked. As I got near Mr. Conyngham s 
 door I caught sight of some one standing in it, and the 
 figure of Buttons in front, again, of that. All that I 
 could do was to step back behind a wardrobe, which 
 hid me from sight in an angle of the hall. Buttons 
 was a little waif whom I had found in the children s 
 ward at the hospital several years before. He was at 
 least fifteen now, but he looked barely nine. He had 
 a tiny, well-made figure, and a tiny, acute face. I had 
 persuaded Sophia to get him a suit of brown clothes 
 with brass buttons, and to take him into her service. 
 It was a very good investment ; he never outgrew his 
 clothes. He was quite useful, and a distinguished or 
 nament to the establishment. The apron that he wore 
 when about his menial work was so absurdly little, it 
 looked as if it had been made of a pocket handkerchief, 
 but it came below his knees. His intelligence seemed 
 preternatural because of his size. His accent was South 
 ern, with flowers of Hibernian eloquence engrafted. 
 Mr. Conyngham was saying to him : 
 " I want to see the person who keeps the house. 
 Will you go and say so to her ?" 
 
 " She s ill, sah, can t see nobody ; much oblige, sah ; 
 very sorry, sah." 
 
 " I am sorry, too. You are sure it is impossible ?" 
 " Sartain sure, sah. She ain t see nobody for this 
 month and more. She s quite an old lady, she is, and 
 she s got the rheumatism very bad." 
 
 " What s her name ? I think I have forgotten it." 
 
 " Her name, sah ? Missatkins, sah." 
 
 " Sacketts ? Miss Sacketts, did you say ?" 
 
 " Yessah, Missacketts, sah. That s what her name is." 
 
 Buttons made dreadful work with people s names ;
 
 SOME DEAD FLOWERS. 391 
 
 ho made no account of a syllable or two, more or less ; 
 it had been quite a hindrance to his usefulness as a 
 hall boy, but I blessed him for it now, and remembered 
 with relief that he habitually deprived Sophia of the 
 last two letters of her name. 
 
 " Sacketts, Miss Sacketts 3" 
 
 " Yes, sab." 
 
 " And who else lives in this house ? Can you tell 
 me any of their names ?" 
 
 " In this house, sah ?" 
 
 " Yes, in this house. On the floor below, who is 
 there?" 
 
 "There s an old lady, sah; she have a son, sah. 
 They very nice people, sah, they have live with Miss 
 Sacketts a long while." 
 
 " And here, on this floor ?" 
 
 " There be two ladies, sah ; they have the back 
 rooms, like you have the front. They be maiding 
 ladies ; they come last year, they did." 
 
 " Are they young ladies, at all, either of them ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, sah," and Buttons grinned a little. 
 " They be quite maiding ; they be settled, both o em. 
 And the floor above, there s Miss Graham, sah. She s 
 got some children, Bah. Miss Graham she s a very 
 little lady ; she s got black eyes and speaks up sharp. 
 She makes em all stand round, she does. Mr. Gra 
 ham s very nice gentleman. Ho don t say much bout 
 things no way. And up-stairs o all that, there s where 
 the help sleeps, and where Miss Sacketts has her room, 
 and one gentleman lodger who don t take no meals. I 
 do his blackin for him, though, and he pays me very 
 handsome." 
 
 " And there s no one else in this house ?"
 
 392 
 
 SOME DEAD FLOWERS. 
 
 "Nobody, sah, in this house, but what I ha been 
 tellin you." 
 
 " Very well ; that is all." And Mr. Conyngham 
 turned back into his room and shut his door. 
 
 Christmas was approaching ; for two days before it, 
 he was away. On Christmas eve I broke my resolution 
 again, and made his room bright with some holly, a 
 spray or two of mistletoe and a glass of fresh flowers. 
 I did not know that he would come back, but late that 
 night he came. On Christmas Day he went out early 
 to church ; he crossed the street just as I was coming 
 out the door, when there was scarcely light enough to 
 see. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in his 
 room. He had a great many calls from gentlemen, who 
 took advantage of a leisure day, but he did not see any 
 of them. There was no lack of flowers and daintily- 
 done-up packages ; Buttons was a busy man that day. 
 I heard Mary say to one of the other servants, that his 
 meals had come down almost untouched. In the even 
 ing, I heard him walking up and down his rooms, up 
 and down, for an hour together. It had been a raw, 
 cheerless day, and the evening had closed in with mist 
 and rain. The wound had begun to smart again. "Who 
 does not pity the homeless man, to whom these days of 
 festival are torture ? The world cannot supply the 
 want. Nothing but little arms around his neck, a tender 
 hand in his, the blaze of his own hearth, can make the 
 earthly side of Christmas fair to him. If all are sorry 
 for such a man, how much more the one whose hand 
 has dealt the wound ; the one whose misery it has been 
 to make his life a blank. I was glad when Chrismas 
 Day was over, with the thoughts it brought to him and 
 me.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 CAP A1STD APKO1*. 
 
 " The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine; 
 But might I of love s nectar sip, 
 I would not change for thine." 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 TWO weeks after Christmas Day, lie went away 
 again (there was nothing else that marked the 
 lapse of time to me that winter). The time of his re 
 turn was indefinite. He left word that his letters were 
 to be kept for him, that his agent would call from time 
 to time to get them, and to make the payment for his 
 rooms, which were to be kept in order, ready for him 
 to occupy at any time. From the papers, I learned he 
 was in Canada. I suppose all the world learned it from 
 that or other sources. There was a cessation of cards 
 and invitations. Buttons had slack times, and but for 
 the inflation of his. mind, might have returned to the 
 knives and boots. But having been Mr. Conyngham s 
 gentleman, he refused to decline upon that occupation, 
 and became a little pert and troublesome in his idleness. 
 Sophia was improving slowly ; if the foggy, moist, 
 January weather had not been against her, the doctor 
 thought she might have been down-stairs by this time. 
 Several weeks passed three, I think it was. The 
 house seemed silent and dead to me. I went about my 
 17*
 
 394 CAP AND APBON. 
 
 daily occupations with a dullness of heart that fore 
 boded ill for the future. I had begun to think that he 
 would not come back ; or that his coming would be 
 but the prelude to his going away entirely. 
 
 The day had been wet and foggy, but, towards 
 evening, it had turned cold ; and now, at half -past ten 
 o clock, it was snowing thickly. I sat reading by my 
 lamp. I had heard the bell of the other house ring 
 sharply several times ; no one answered it ; it was now 
 quarter to eleven. I looked out. The lights in both 
 halls were turned low ; the servants had evidently gone 
 to bed ; the house was supposed to be shut up. Who 
 ever it was, tired of ringing at that bell, came around 
 to the door of our house, and rang sharply there. I 
 could not let any one stay outside on such a night ; I 
 opened the door. It was a snow-powdered boy, with a 
 telegram addressed to "Miss Sacketts." I paid the 
 eharge, and hurried to the lamp with it. It read : 
 
 " Train due at ten o clock. Have supper ready for 
 me. L. B. M. CONYNGHAM." 
 
 It was already, as I have said, quarter to eleven. I 
 hurried to the kitchen, where I had not been half a 
 dozen times before. There I found the cook asleep 
 before a good hot fire. The laundress had been dozing 
 in a corner, but was just rubbing her eyes and getting 
 up to go to bed. " Where were all the other servants ?" 
 Buttons had gone to bed with a toothache hours ago. 
 Mary and the chambermaid had gone out to a party, to 
 be away all night. Mrs. Graham s waiter never staid 
 after nine o clock, unless she had company, and needed 
 him ; and the two women who attended to the other 
 tables also lodged abroad. What was to be done ? 
 The laundress was a starched, middle-aged creature,
 
 CAP AND APKON". 395 
 
 whom I had never liked. She did her own work well, 
 but had never been known to assist in that of any other 
 servant. She was feeling particularly bitter about the 
 party, too, to which the women were gone, whose duty 
 she was asked to undertake. 
 
 I soon found it was useless to urge her to arrange the 
 room, or wait upon the table. She flatly refused to do 
 it, and seemed disposed to be impertinent. The cook, 
 who was a vast, good-natured negress, bestirred herself 
 in a slow way, and began to prepare some supper. It 
 was not possible to ask her to carry it up ; it was doubt 
 ful whether she could get up the basement stairs ; she 
 never had attempted it since she originally came down 
 them, and she had increased in bulk considerably. Her 
 few outings were made by way of the area-door, which 
 was double, and which was always opened on both 
 hinges to let her pass. She lodged in some obscure, un 
 explored portion of the basement, cooked a merveille, 
 and was always good-natured, when the demand upon 
 her was not unreasonable. She tried to bring the laun 
 dress to reason ; the best that she could be made to con 
 sent to do, with the persuasion of both of us, was to 
 open the door for the gentleman, when he rang, and to 
 carry the tray of supper up, and set it on the table that 
 stood outside his door. 
 
 " Oh, well," I said, " that will do ; he can take it in 
 himself, no doubt." 
 
 My own resolution was taken. I hurried up-stairs 
 to the linen closet, where I knew Mary s fresh caps and 
 aprons were, took one of each, as well as linen for the 
 table, and let myself, by the closet door, into Mac- 
 nally s room. 
 
 The rooms felt chill and damp. I lit the fire, the
 
 390 CAP AND APRON. 
 
 lamp ; turned the gas low above the dressing-table. 
 There were fresh towels and fresh water on the wash- 
 stand ; there was not much dust. In a moment the 
 parlor seemed transformed by the glow of the lire and 
 by its ready warmth. I laid the table with shaking 
 hands. I knew where the china and glass w T ere kept, 
 in the closet outside the door. There was a screen that 
 Sophia had devised, that was put before this closet, and 
 the table where the tray was to be put. Even if the 
 house were not asleep, this would make it safe for me ; 
 I could move in and out of the room without observa 
 tion, and the house was so still, owing to the lateness of 
 the hour, and the snow-paved streets, I could hear the 
 laundress three stories off, if she repented and came 
 up the stairs. 
 
 1 arranged the table with glass and silver and some 
 flowers, to have a very nice effect. Then I moved the 
 lamp to a side-table, and drew down the gas, and put a 
 heavy shade upon it. There was also a shade upon the 
 lamp. Except for the glow of the fire, there was no 
 light shed about the room ; that thrown by the shaded 
 gas upon the table did not extend beyond the circle of 
 the cloth. I moved the chair up by the fire, arranged 
 the footstool before it, put on the side-table below the 
 lamp, the cloisonne bowl of notes and cards that had 
 accumulated since he had been away, and placed beside 
 his plate three or four letters that had come that day. 
 
 It was now half-past eleven. There came a ring at 
 the door. I grew pale with fear that the laundress had 
 grown stubborn and might not go, but after a moment, 
 I heard her mount the stairs and go slowly to the door. 
 Then I heard Macnally s quick step on the stairs, and 
 her heavy one going down the basement stairs, and a
 
 CAP AND APRON. 397 
 
 bang of the basement door. I pushed open the door a 
 little, that he might get a gleam of welcome from it, 
 and withdrew into the closet just as he entered the 
 room. He said " Ah !" in a tone of satisfaction, as he 
 glanced around the bright and home-like place. He 
 shook the snow from his coat, put down his bag inside 
 the bed-room door, took off his ulster, and then re 
 turned and walked round the room, and looked about 
 it as a man does who has made a home of a place, and 
 is glad to get back to it once more. He glanced at the 
 notes and cards with little interest, took up the letters, 
 laid back two, and read one. 
 
 In the meantime, I had gone into the corner room, 
 and was putting on my cap and apron by the glass. 
 Mary was slender, and about my height. My dress was 
 black und unobtrusive. I felt reassured as I glanced at 
 myself in the dim light. Then I went back softly and 
 listened. Macnally was in the parlor ; so, with a beat 
 ing heart, I stepped out into the bedroom. But the 
 peril was so great, I resolved the heart-beats should be 
 regulated, and they were. He had left the parlor door 
 open when he entered from the hall. It was important 
 that this door should be shut, or the laundress would 
 see the preparation of the table, and know I had been 
 in the room. I went quietly out into the hall through 
 the bedroom door, and shut the parlor door from the 
 outside. It was just in time. I heard the heavy-footed 
 Hebe coming up the basement stairs, and I returned to 
 the shelter of the bedroom door. She put down the 
 tray with an ostentatious clatter of the dishes on it, and 
 turning, went stolidly down the stairs again. Then I 
 came out into the hall, set the screen before the table
 
 398 CAP AND APKON. 
 
 and the parlor door, opened it, took a covered dish in 
 my hand, and went trembling in. 
 
 It rather steadied me to find my entrance was not 
 at all observed. He had thrown down his letters and 
 was walking about the room again. I saw him take up 
 the lamp from the side table, and go over to where the" 
 little water-color sketch of the beach hung, and gaze 
 at it long and fixedly. 
 
 By this time I had got the things all upon the table. 
 When he put back the lamp, he knocked the shade ofi 
 it. As he turned away, I hurriedly replaced it, and 
 then stood back in the shadow. I hoped he would see 
 that his supper was ready. I had not taken it into 
 consideration that I should have to speak. Instead of 
 noticing the preparation for his meal, he went to the 
 writing-table, brought a portfolio to the light, and sit 
 ting down, not in the chair placed for him at the head 
 of the table, but in one he pulled up for himself, hastily 
 scratched off a little note, put it in an envelope and 
 directed it. Then he got up, pushed back his chair, 
 and said, 
 
 "Have this sent for me to-night, will you, if 
 possible. Or, if not, the first thing in the morning." 
 
 He handed it to me without looking at me, but as I 
 took it, his eye fell on me as he turned away. I was 
 conscious that he had looked at me, but I had been 
 very much in shadow, and my face had been turned 
 away, I had been prepared, from what I had heard 
 Mary tell Sophia once, that he would not notice me. 
 She said he was a very nice gentleman, but he wasn t 
 like most other gentlemen ; he didn t notice servants 
 when they waited on him, and though always civil, 
 never talked to them. Mary was very pretty, and had,
 
 CAP AND APKON. 399 
 
 no doubt, been used to a different line of conduct in 
 other nice gentlemen whom she had waited on. 
 
 Instead of sitting down at the table or noticing that 
 it was ready, he threw himself into the chair before the 
 fire, and sat gazing at it while the minutes passed. I 
 moved about the room, or stood back in the shadow, ray 
 agitation increasing every moment. Presently he said, 
 without turning his head, 
 
 " Will you put another piece of coal on the fire !" 
 
 The fire was sending out a ruddy glow just then. 
 The movement brought me right into the heart of the 
 light, and into range of his steady gaze. But I went 
 quickly forward, took the coal from the scuttle, threw 
 it hastily on the fire, and drew back again out of the 
 light. Still he sat gazing on into the same spot and did 
 not move ; then I made a feint of going out into the 
 hall and putting another dish on the table, and then I 
 said, in a voice that sounded strange and unnatural in 
 my own ears, 
 
 " Your supper is on the table, sir." 
 
 He did not look up, but moved back his chair and 
 took his seat in the one placed for him at the table. 
 This one was a dining chair, with rather a high back, 
 and arms. He leaned back wearily in it. I had gone 
 back, and stood behind him. He drew a dish towards 
 him, took up the carving knife and fork, cut a bird in 
 two and put it on his plate. He took some salt on his 
 plate ; he took up a piece of bread. The toast under 
 the bird seemed to strike him ; he pulled the dish back 
 again and took it upon his plate. He did not have a 
 traveller s appetite, apparently. I was watching keenly, 
 and he was playing at eating, trying to like his food, 
 and not tempted, now it was before him. I remembered
 
 4:00 CAP AND APRON. 
 
 hearing Mary say to one of the servants that many 
 days she took away his dinner, almost as she had carried 
 it np to him. I was afraid he was ill. His long jour 
 ney surely should have given him an appetite. The 
 sort of solicitude I felt for him, took away my appre 
 hensive feeling about myself. 
 
 " Will you give me the wine ?" he startled me by 
 saying at last. The wine was within easy distance of 
 his hand, if he had stretched it out. But I suppose he 
 was in the habit of being waited on. He held his wine 
 glass in his hand ; I went around the table, took the 
 decanter up and took out the stopper, then came a little 
 nearer to him, and lifted it up over the glass to fill it. 
 I gave a stealthy glance at his face. He did not look 
 up, his eyes were fixed on the glass. The decanter was 
 rather a heavy one ; my wrist shook a little. I glanced 
 down ; it gave me a sudden terror to see how strong 
 the light shone on my hand, and how white it looked. 
 I had, too, forgotten to take off my rings ! 
 
 I was on the right side of the table ; with his right 
 hand he was holding the glass. I made a little awk 
 ward effort to tip the decanter down, and the wine 
 began to gurgle out and fill the glass. 
 
 At this moment, his left hand made a panther-like 
 spring, and grasped my wrist. I uttered a cry, and let 
 the decanter fall upon the table ; and the odor of the 
 spilled wine always comes to me as I remember that 
 strange scene. He started to his feet : 
 
 " What does this masquerading mean ?" he said, in a 
 hoarse, harsh voice. 
 
 I had put up my other arm before my face, which I 
 bent down and hid completely from him. He caught 
 the wrist of this aj*m (still holding the other in a
 
 CAP AND APRON. 401 
 
 fierce grasp), and drew it away from my face. I lifted 
 my head, and for a moment our eyes met. 
 
 Then he relaxed his hold upon my wrists, gave a 
 sort of gasp, and, staggering back, sank into his chair. 
 I was stunned for a moment ; I put my hand up to my 
 temple. Then as I saw the horrible whiteness of his 
 look, and the closing of his eyes, I gave a cry, and 
 threw myself down on my knees beside his chair. 
 
 " What have I done," I cried, " what have I done ?" 
 and I caught his hand and tried to warm it. He moved 
 his hand a little and opened his eyes and tried to speak. 
 
 " Oh, forgive me," I cried passionately. " I never 
 meant you should have seen me. I would have died 
 first. I thought you would not know me. It is too 
 cruel I have done so wrong. Don t look at me if it 
 hurts you so !" and I put my head down upon the arm 
 of his chair, for his eyes only rested upon me for a mo 
 ment, and then closed again as if the sight were insup 
 portable. 
 
 "It seems cruel," I went on incoherently, with tears, 
 looking up at him ; " it seems cruel, but it really was a 
 sacrifice and I did not think that you would know 
 me. All winter I have kept out of your sight, and I 
 never, never meant you should have had the pain of 
 seeing me. I had vowed to myself you never should. 
 It will be ungenerous if you let it make you ill, when I 
 did not mean to do you any wrong, when I only did it 
 for a kindness. I was so sorry for your lonely coming 
 home. I I have been so sorry for you always," and 
 I began to sob. 
 
 He made a fierce effort to overcome the faintness, 
 and tried to speak. " I shall be better in a moment," 
 he said.
 
 402 CAP AND APRON. 
 
 I started to my feet and hastily poured a glass of 
 wine, and held it out to him. He drank it with an 
 effort, and as he gave the glass back to me, our eyes 
 met, and the thought of the last time when I had stood 
 before him, while he drank off the wine I had poured out 
 for him, flashed through both our minds. 
 
 " That was a long while ago," he said, leaning his 
 head on the back of the chair, and looking up at me. 
 
 " Yes," I said, uneasily. " But you needn t think 
 of that time, if it makes you ill. You needn t think of 
 anything you can be as if I hadn t had the misery to 
 come and trouble you again. I will go away, and you 
 can forget it all, and be like other happy people. You 
 have everything, you ought to be happy. Remember, 
 I meant it always it ought to make you forgive me 
 I never meant to bring it all up again. Give me the 
 credit of that, at least. I don t think I have been self 
 ish." 
 
 " You forget," he said, brokenly, " I don t know 
 anything " 
 
 I was standing before him ; I saw his eye rest on 
 my apron ; I thought I saw a look of disgust pass over 
 his features. Of course it was not, only the physical 
 pain that his recurring faintness gave. But, stung by 
 my mistaken thought, I tore the cap and apron off, and 
 threw them on the floor. 
 
 " I am not a servant," I said, with a little bitter 
 laugh. " I only put those things on to come and wait 
 on you because there was no other way that you should 
 have anything to eat to-night, when you came home. 
 You don t know about it but this is Sophia s house. 
 Sophia had money left her ; she is a rich woman now, 
 for a person of her class. She has had these two houses
 
 CAP A1ST* APRON. 403 
 
 for a good many years, and I have always lived with 
 her, and had her prettiest rooms, and been quite in 
 luxury. She doesn t know you re here she s ill I ve 
 kept it from her, that you might have peace. I ve 
 hoped you might feel a little as if it were a home, i 
 knew it couldn t last it was not selfish in me what 
 were a few weeks or less ? I know you think it was 
 unwomanly in me to come into your rooms. Yes, per 
 haps it was. I never meant to do it. I always felt 
 ashamed. I thought you d never know, and the rooms 
 looked so dreary the first time that I saw them. It 
 was all a sudden impulse to-night ; the servants were 
 all gone to bed but one ; she brought your supper up 
 and left it at the door. I thought you d never know 
 me, I kept the room so dim. It was your fault ; you 
 should not have caught my hand. You never need 
 have known me if you had not." 
 
 "You don t understand," he said, with effort, press 
 ing his hand against hie heart ; " if I could 
 
 " I do understand," I cried, with fresh tears. " I un 
 derstand it all. I have made you ill. I have always 
 done you harm. I wish I had been dead before I came 
 up here to-night." 
 
 He stretched out his hand to me ; I had gone back 
 a few steps from him, but I came nearer again, and 
 took his hand. 
 
 " It s very hard for me to see you look so ill," I 
 said, falteringly. " Can t I get you anything ? Isn t 
 there any medicine you take ?" 
 
 lie shook his head, and lay back in his chair, hold 
 ing my hand in a faint grasp, and looking at me with 
 deep, unmoving eyes. 
 
 I grew restless under his steady gaze. His recog-
 
 404: CAP A]5TD APKOIT. 
 
 nition of me had been all pain, all anguish ; he had yet 
 to utter the first word, give the first glance, of pleasure. 
 I thought of all my doubts, of all that had pained me, as 
 I had watched his goings out and comings in. I thought 
 of ISTaomi Emlyn. I knew that the note, even now in 
 the pocket of my apron, was addressed to her. I had 
 indeed been an unwelcome apparition. It was his deep 
 and unforgetting nature made him so strongly moved 
 at sight of me. Perhaps he had only recently made up 
 his mind to believe me dead, and to fill my place, and 
 this was the moment I had chosen to come back. It 
 was torture to have all these thoughts, and stand beside 
 him, and feel his faint fingers clasp my hand. 
 
 " It agitates you to see me," I said, constrainedly, 
 and I loosened my hand, and drew a little back. It 
 wasn t a difficult matter to do ; I couldn t see that he 
 made any effort to hold it longer. A swift red over 
 spread my face, as I turned a little from him. 
 
 At this moment I heard outside the door, steps and 
 voices and the bumping of a trunk against the floor, then 
 a loud rap. I sprang forward, caught up the cap and 
 apron from the floor, and disappeared from sight. I 
 heard the door open as I hurried through the closet. 
 The expressman and the laundress had not had the 
 good manners to wait till they were told to enter. It 
 was well for me that I had heard them when I did.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A WOMAN, NOT A SHADE. 
 
 " Kiss me for my love! 
 
 Pay me for my pain ! 
 Come ! and murmur in my ear, 
 How thou lov st again !" 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 IT was about eleven o clock the next morning that 
 one of the servants brought me a note from Mr. 
 Conyngham. Of course, I had known he would come, 
 and was prepared for it. I read it hastily over, and 
 told the servant to say I would be glad to see him. 
 
 Yes, I was quite prepared to see him. I was 
 dressed not in a cap and apron. There are some 
 scenes you can t go through in a short dress, and mine 
 was long. It was only a black cashmere, but it didn t 
 look like Mary s. I had a bunch of violets at my 
 waist ; I had spent an hour about my hair, which 
 hadn t any gray in it at all, but was as soft and brown 
 as ever. 
 
 The snow was falling outside thickly before the 
 windows great, soft flakes, which darkened the air. 
 The hangings were drawn back a little ; the room had 
 a great many flowers about it ; there was a warm glow 
 from the lire on the hearth. The room was large, but 
 the ceiling was not high. It looked filled and warm 
 and mellow with rich tints. I pushed a chair I liked
 
 406 
 
 A WOMAN, NOT A SHADE. 
 
 between the fire-place and the window, and sat down 
 there. I was knitting the pale gray stripe of an afghan, 
 and I kept my work in my hand. There was a quick 
 knock at the door. I said, " Come in," and Macnallj 
 entered. I got up, and he came across the room to me, 
 and took my hand. Pie looked pale, but not ill, as he 
 had done the night before. I sat down, saying : 
 
 " You are better, I am sure, to-day ?" 
 
 There was no use ignoring last night, though I should 
 have been glad to do it, if I could. If I could only 
 have remembered what I had said to him when I threw 
 myself down before him on my knees ! It would take 
 a very long dress and a very composed manner to 
 obliterate that miserable mistake. 
 
 " I m afraid," he said, " I gave you some anxiety 
 last night. It s unlucky that I get those attacks when 
 I have any sudden surprise or anything." 
 
 u I should think," I said, looking down at my knit 
 ting, " that if you have any trouble of the heart or any 
 thing like that, you ought to be careful and avoid ex 
 citement. Speaking, and all that, isn t it bad for you ?" 
 
 " You mean for the excitement of it ? Oh, that s 
 not the sort of thing that hurts one ," and he smiled 
 a little faintly. 
 
 He did not sit down, but stood leaning against the 
 mantel-piece, just beside me. He had an affinity for man 
 tel-pieces. I seemed always to remember him standing by 
 a mantel-piece and looking at the fire. But he was not 
 looking at the fire now, he was looking at me, I could 
 feel that. I tried to think of something to say. I had 
 meant to be so calm, so reassuring to him. I had meant 
 to make it so easy for him to explain everything to me. 
 But here I was, changing from red to white, and my
 
 A WOMAN. NOT A SHADE. 
 
 breath coming in such a suffocating way. He did not 
 speak. It seemed to me he might have spoken, he 
 might have helped me ; one ought to feel sorry for a 
 woman. I went on with my work. What should I 
 have done without it? At last I remembered some 
 thing to say : it was the thing that gave me most con 
 trol. 
 
 " Oh, that letter. I hope it won t make any differ 
 ence. I just found it this morning in the pocket of 
 in my pocket. Here it is," and I took it out and gave 
 it to him. He took it indifferently. 
 
 " It s just as well," he said. " It doesn t make any 
 difference now." 
 
 No, of course not. I could see that. There would 
 have to be such a different story now, it was just as 
 well it didn t go. But I must help him about that. 
 How should I begin ? 
 
 I pulled a long thread of the worsted off the ball, 
 to knit more freely. It slipped through my fingers as 
 I laid it in my lap, and rolled away across the floor. 
 He did not notice it or pick it up. I did not dare to 
 go after it myself, I was so afraid of losing the little 
 self-control of manner that I had. All this time I did 
 not look at him, but I felt he leaned a little towards me. 
 In a moment he laid his hand upon my wrist, and held 
 it firmly. 
 
 "Put down your work," he said, in a low voice, 
 " and look at me. Have we nothing to say to each 
 other, after all these years ?" 
 
 I drew my hand away. " I hope you will forget 
 last night," I said. 
 
 "Why should I forget it?" he asked. 
 
 " There were many things to to make me You
 
 408 A WOMAN, NOT A SHADE. 
 
 must remember a woman will do a great deal from 
 compassion. I shall always feel I owe you reparation 
 but that doesn t mean 
 
 He had released my hand, and stood in his former 
 attitude, and did not attempt to say a word. It was 
 insupportable this silence, and his eyes upon me. 
 
 " That shade," I said confusedly, " I want it down. 
 The light hurts my eyes." 
 
 He did not notice what I said ; I don t think he heard 
 me. I got up uneasily, to go and pull it down myself. 
 As I stood up, I turned a little towards him ; I glanced 
 into his face ; I met his eyes, full of an agony of love 
 and disappointment. 
 
 " Ah," I cried, " you do care ! Why could you not 
 say that you were glad ?" Then, with a sudden pas 
 sion, I flung myself into his arms with sobs. " I will 
 not live any longer if you go away again. I have borne 
 all I can bear. I have died a hundred deaths. You 
 may kill me if you go away again. I will not will not 
 live to sufl er any more alone." 
 
 * * * "Why could he not say that he was glad ? 
 Ah, " glad " does not come in a moment, after such 
 long-dying deaths. I think he held me in his arms with 
 more of agony than joy at first. The pain had been so 
 deep-branded, a sudden bliss could not obliterate it. 
 
 * * * " Make me glad make me believe in it," 
 he said, faint again, 1 lying back in a deep chair, and hold 
 ing out his hand to me. Then I knelt beside him, and 
 held his hand against my lips, my cheek. 
 
 " If I could only blot it out," I said ; " if you only 
 could forget 
 
 " I cannot," he said ; " I cannot forget the pain or 
 anything. It is my misery that I cannot."
 
 A WOMAN, NOT A SHADE. 409 
 
 * * * That afternoon, we were still sitting in 
 the low, pretty parlor. The streets were all muffled with 
 the snow, which was falling yet in soft clouds before the 
 windows. The street lamps were just being lighted ; 
 upon the hearth the fire was making a deep glow. 
 
 " I did not think," he said, " you would have looked 
 so young and well. I am trying to understand it. I am 
 afraid you have been happy." 
 
 " Ah ! that is just what has tormented me, as I have 
 watched you going past these windows. There never 
 was any drag or dullness about the way you walked." 
 
 " I acknowledge I have liked my work. There is 
 a satisfaction in being able to do things." 
 
 " And being praised for it." 
 
 " No, I never cared a straw about that. It s the 
 work itself that pays you : the praise gives you a feeling 
 of dissatisfaction. That s about books, I mean. Oh, of 
 course, when you re face to face with people, and speak 
 ing to them, there s a fascination in finding that you 
 have the power to move them. Yes, I ve liked that. 
 I m Irishman enough to be inflammable." 
 
 " Ah ! well, I didn t blame you for not looking dull 
 or weary when you went past the windows. I tried to tell 
 myself I was very glad about it. But for all that, it s 
 been pretty hard these two months. It has been like 
 being shut into a dungeon without light or air, and 
 knowing that you were in a crowd of people dancing and 
 making merry overhead." 
 
 " Ah ! save the mark ! Such making merry ! You 
 
 needn t have been afraid. At home I could not bring 
 
 myself to endure it ever, I felt I was such an alien. 
 
 Here I had an incentive to going in society. I had 
 
 18
 
 410 A WOMAN, NOT A SHADE. 
 
 sometimes a fancy that you might have drifted into that 
 
 sort of life." 
 u y p? 
 
 " I felt you might, if you were living, have come 
 under the eye of some one like Bough ton. This is 
 not a reproach it seemed to me you might have mar 
 ried. I always thought of you as passive and passion 
 less. I couldn t hope if you were living, your loveliness 
 could be hidden. Somebody would see you and want 
 you ; there was nothing now. Why not it was all 
 equal. This was only one of the thousand fancies that 
 I ve had ; but it gave a little life to the dreary crowds 
 and crushes of this forgive me dreary, crushing city." 
 
 " And you looked for me there /" 
 
 "Yes, and then for some one who could give 
 me news of you. I heard Naomi Emlyn was here, and 
 I found her out. She could not tell me much, as you 
 know. She will be so glad. I feel as if it were sellish. 
 not to have got her word to-day. She is such a beauti 
 ful young creature. The yellow-brown hair, and the 
 eyes and the sentiment have all deepened ; one rarely 
 sees a woman so attractive." 
 
 I had loosened my hand from his. 
 
 " You will let me bring her here to-morrow?" 
 
 " I I don t receive visits. It would derange my 
 plans a little. One must have a rule, and keep to it, 
 you know." 
 
 " But Naomi ! whom you always loved so much. I 
 thought it would be such a pleasure to you." 
 
 " Oh, not particularly a pleasure to me. She has 
 outgrown the affection I had for her. I should have 
 to make up a new one to iit her now. I haven t seen 
 her since she became this beautiful young creature.
 
 A WOMAN, NOT A SHADE. 411 
 
 The last time I saw her she was rather a tomboy, and 
 had to be sent away to wash her hands before she came 
 to dinner. She also used to bother me with questions. 
 I used to think her sentiment was a great nuisance ; if it s 
 deepened any, I should like to give it a wide berth." 
 
 " You re not," he said, stooping down and looking 
 in my face, * you re not, by chance, a trifle jealous of 
 our pretty Naomi ?" 
 
 " You re not," I said, " by chance, a trifle jealous of 
 that anonymous gentleman, married to the passive and 
 passionless woman you described ?" 
 
 "I? oh, I wasn t jealous of him. I never have 
 been jealous in my life." 
 
 " Well, then, no more have I." 
 
 " Ah," he cried, turning my face so that the fire 
 light shone on it, " now I begin to believe it is all real. 
 You are a woman and not a shade. I owe Naomi 
 thanks for that ! Did I tell you ? She s to be mar 
 ried after Lent. I wrote only a few days ago to Lon 
 don for a wedding present for her. I don t believe 
 you can fancy what it is to be." 
 
 " I don t want to fancy," I said, getting my face 
 out of the light. " I wish you would stop talking of 
 lier." 
 
 Horrid as it is to be jealous, I don t know but it s 
 worse to be ashamed and disgusted with yourself for 
 
 having been jealous without any reason. 
 
 #*#**## * 
 
 " There is one thing I want to ask you," he said, 
 later on, that evening. "Remember, it isn t a re 
 proach." 
 
 He got up and walked about the room a little. I 
 could see it cost him a great effort. " Those dreadful
 
 412 A WOMAN, NOT A SHADE. 
 
 dajs there in the court-room why didn t you say a 
 word to me ?" 
 
 " How could I ? You did not give me a chance ; 
 you never even looked at me. Besides I couldn t 
 before every one." 
 
 " I don t mean that. I knew you couldn t speak to 
 me. But why didn t you say something for me to 
 understand, when you made your answers ? There was 
 not a word ; I didn t know whether you believed the 
 worst of me, or not. I knew you didn t want me 
 hung but you can t understand the horror of that si 
 lence. It seemed to me if you had cared, if I had had 
 the place that you have given me now, then was the time 
 to have been brave and to declare it. I couldn t see how 
 you could have helped it. I but I ought not to have 
 begun to talk about it." 
 
 " Yes, you ought," I cried. " Thank Heaven you ve 
 given me a chance to tell you. I thought you under 
 stood I never dreamed you didn t. It was Mr. Har- 
 dinge ; I never said a word but as he led me. I never 
 took my eyes away from him. He gave me the cue 
 for every word I said. He would not let me be any 
 thing but cold towards you. It was for the effect upon 
 the jury. Don t you see, my testimony would have 
 gone for little if they had believed I I cared for you 
 that way. I supposed he would have told you ; that 
 you d talk it over with him." 
 
 " He wouldn t be likely to talk to me about you" 
 
 " Why didn t you ask him ?" 
 
 "Ask him! ah!" 
 
 " It would have saved you a great deal, if you could 
 have overcome that reticence." 
 
 " Yes, it would have saved me ten years of torment-
 
 A WOMAN, NOT A SHADE. 413 
 
 ing doubts. For if I had been sure as you were I 
 might have been at rest. There were all my convic 
 tions on one side, my heart s fixed faith ; and on the 
 other, a silence like the grave ; not one word from the 
 hour I told you till this day everything, everything 
 against my hope but just my hope itself. Ah, well ! 
 It s past now. We won t talk about it any more." 
 
 * * * " Sophia," I said, sliding down on my knees 
 before her bed, and taking hold of her hand " I 
 liaven t been up here all day, and I m going to tell 
 you the reason. I ve got something to tell you. Don t 
 take away your hand." For she had restlessly moved 
 her hand away. My taking it seemed a most unnatural 
 proceeding to her. I don t believe she had ever let me 
 hold her hand before since I was a little girl and she 
 took me out to walk. " Sophia, I ve got to tell you who 
 Mr. Conyngham is. He is Bernard Macnally. I ve 
 known it since the night I went to hear the lecture. 
 I didn t tell you ; there wasn t any use." 
 
 She gave a violent start, and turned her eyes upon 
 me with a piercing look. 
 
 " I never meant that he should see me. I had re 
 solved he shouldn t ever know. But last night he saw 
 me, and he knew me in a minute. He isn t changed 
 towards me Sophia. He came to America with just 
 that only hope. He has been all these weeks in Canada 
 trying to get some clue of where we lived when we 
 were there." 
 
 " And you ?" Her voice was thick and hoarse. 
 
 " I never have felt but one way." 
 
 " Then go, and leave me to die alone at last." And 
 she turned her face to the wall, white and working 
 with emotion.
 
 414: A WOMAN, NOT A SHADE 
 
 " No" I cried, catching at the hand that she had 
 snatched away ; " no, Sophia, I am not going away to 
 leave you altogether. You shall live here and keep 
 your house the same, and we will come back and this 
 shall be our home whenever we are in America. Sophia, 
 he wants to see you. He wants to thank you for all 
 you ve done for me. He knows I shouldn t be alive if 
 you hadn t been so good and faithful to me through my 
 trouble." 
 
 A sort of hiss broke from her lips. 
 
 " He isn t angry about anything. If there was 
 anything to be forgiven, he forgives it with his whole 
 heart. You were mistaken ; he knows anybody can be 
 led into a mistake. You won t be hard about this, and 
 spoil my happiness to-day ? Think how much you and 
 I have gone through together, Sophia. Be as good to 
 me in my happy days as you have been to me in my 
 wretched ones. You can t be sorry that this has come 
 to me after all my misery. You must know he will be 
 good to me always. Why can t you look at me, and 
 tell me that it pleases you to hear it ?" 
 
 " Go away, now," she said, faintly. " I don t feel 
 well enough to talk. Wait till to-morrow morning." 
 
 I had to wait.
 
 CHAPTEK XXXII. 
 
 A FAIR LAND. 
 
 " Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee 
 And breathe within thy shadow a new air, 
 I do not think of thee I am too near thee." 
 
 E. B. Browning. 
 
 THE next day, Macnally said to me, with simplicity, 
 " "When shall we go to church and be married ? 
 To-morrow ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, not to-morrow." 
 
 " Well, the next day ?" 
 
 " That s Friday." 
 
 "The next?" 
 
 " I don t like Saturday. It s the swell day to get 
 married, and for that reason nothing would induce me. 
 And, of course, we wouldn t be married on Sunday, 
 since I don t wear a cap and apron. Next week we ll 
 begin to talk about it." 
 
 He was an Irish lover, and he began to talk about 
 it long before, and I had to make some sort of promise 
 for the following Thursday . That week, what happy 
 walks we had together. He made me tell him all 
 about the way I had spent my days, and take him to all 
 the places I had been in the habit of going to, even to 
 the streets where the poor people lived whom I had 
 visited. I showed him where I went to take my walks, 
 a corner where I came to see the sun set, down a street
 
 416 A FAIR LAND. 
 
 where there were rows of trees, and some sky and a 
 little river bit, beyond. My city and his city were very 
 different places. There was no danger of meeting any 
 body that he knew in mine. We had very free and 
 happy hours together in the open air, as well as in the 
 pretty, low parlor. For that week, I don t know what 
 became of all his dinner engagements and things like 
 that. I am afraid he was a little rude to some of his 
 good friends. I am quite sure he never even answered 
 any notes. He was an Irish lover, as I have said, and 
 he didn t allow himself to be diverted from the matter 
 that he had in hand. There was an engagement to 
 lecture, which was a little more serious. I would not 
 go to hear him ; nothing would have induced me then. 
 The loss of a whole evening was quite out of the 
 question to him ; so the lecture engagement was broken, 
 not dishonorably, of course, but at a considerable loss 
 of money. I can scarcely fancy two people more in 
 different to sacrifices of that. Fortunately, there was a 
 good deal to sacrifice with. 
 
 * * I even took him to the hospital. I am sorry to 
 say, he didn t enjoy it at all, but stood as near the door of 
 the ward I was in as he could get, with a contraction 
 of the brow, and a most uncomfortable expression. He 
 had all a man s dislike of painful sights, and a poet s 
 sensitiveness, I suppose, besides. At first, when I went 
 in, I felt guilty, being so happy among the children of 
 woe ; but in a few minutes, the old love of ministering 
 to them came back to me. I almost forgot him, and 
 staid a long, long time in my favorite ward, as en 
 grossed and eager as ever. When I came away at last, 
 I am afraid he saw I had been away from him in every 
 sense. The scene was so unspeakably repulsive to
 
 A FAIR LAND. 417 
 
 him, that the thought of my being part of it was insup 
 portable. He could not bear my dress should touch 
 the door as I passed through it. When I stopped for 
 a moment in the great, dark, sounding, stone corridor, 
 to speak to an orderly whom I knew, going up to a 
 surgical ward with some evil-looking instruments and a 
 roll of bandaging, he actually took me by the arm, as 
 if to force me away. 
 
 " Can t I speak to the poor fellow ?" I said ; " he s 
 one of my most intimate friends." 
 
 We passed out under the stone archway, into the 
 sunlight and fresh air, through ranks of wretched work 
 house women waiting for official orders. A wan woman, 
 thinly clad, with a pallid baby in her arms, passed out 
 before us. The cratches of a boy, blue and thin, thumped 
 on the pavement in front of us. 
 
 " Poor wretches ! They re discharged," I said, hur 
 rying forward to them. 
 
 " For heaven s sake, give them this money, and come 
 away," he said. 
 
 I gave them the gift, which was lavish and absurd, 
 and then went back and took his arm, and we walked 
 down towards the boat, which was to take us to the 
 city. The sun was just setting ; the sky was clear and 
 rosy ; a strong wind was blowing across the island. 
 Between this stone-built, hard-paved, barren city of 
 sorrow, and that city of tumultuous life and luxury to 
 which we were going, the icy river was flowing, all lit 
 up now by the tints of sunset. 
 
 " You don t like it, I m afraid," I said. 
 
 " Like it !" he exclaimed, hurrying me towards the 
 boat. He held my arm under his as if in a vice. " And 
 18*
 
 418 A FAIR LAND. 
 
 this is the sort of thing you ve been doing! Thank 
 heaven " 
 
 " Listen," I said, stopping, and trying to take my 
 arm away. " There s one thing I might as well say 
 now and have done with it. There sha n t be any 
 Thursday remember, if you don t promise me that I 
 may always go to all the hospitals I want to, all my life." 
 
 " Go to as many hospitals as you like, only don t ask 
 me to go with you," he said with a groan, resigning 
 himself. 
 
 " Oh, with pleasure ; I don t want you to go. Tou re 
 very much in the way ; but you may give me lots of 
 money always. That would be so nice. How much 
 money do you think you ve got altogether ? I never 
 thought to ask you." 
 
 " I hope you ll leave a small percentage to pay the 
 household expenses. The rest, of course, belongs to 
 the cripples and the small-pox patients." 
 
 " Oh, I ll spare enough for all that. I hope you are 
 very rich. I wonder that I didn t think of it before. 
 Do you think you could give me fifty dollars for a feast 
 for male ward No. 6, on Thursday ?" 
 
 " A thousand, if you won t ask to go there for a 
 fortnight." 
 
 " Oh, well, that s reasonable. No, I won t ask to go 
 for three weeks, if you say so ; at least, not till we come 
 back." 
 
 * * * Macnally had said to me, earnestly, " Get 
 Sophia to consent to see me before we go away. I 
 should somehow feel better about it if she would." 
 
 But it was of no use asking her. On "Wednesday 
 night, late, I went up to say good-bye to her. I found 
 her looking pale and changed. For the past ten days
 
 A FAIR LAND. 419 
 
 she had been stiller and quieter than I had ever known 
 her. She seemed to have withdrawn from us, and to 
 be holding bitter communion with herself. It fright 
 ened me to see her so. I asked her if, even now, she 
 wouldn t let me stay at home till she was better. 
 
 " No," she said, and her voice was not feeble. " I 
 am no worse. I don t need anybody." 
 
 " Macnally wants to know if you won t see him for 
 a minute. He desires it very much, before we go 
 away." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I don t feel well enough. Tell him it s all 
 right." 
 
 That was the nearest that we got to it ; but for her, 
 it meant volumes. I was always glad to recollect those 
 few words. 
 
 She allowed me to kiss her, and she held my hand 
 tight, for a moment. * * * 
 
 On Thursday morning, I went out to church in the 
 gray twilight, accompanied by Mary. This last was a 
 concession to Macn ally s wretchedness about my going 
 out unattended at that early hour. I heard the door of 
 the other house shut, just after we got out into the 
 street, and I knew that he was following us at a little 
 distance. We were to be married after the seven 
 o clock celebration. The sky was growing lighter about 
 the east. It was going to be a still and lovely Febru 
 ary day. The streets were silent, the houses shut ; a 
 few hungry little sparrows fluttered about the pave 
 ment, hunting crumbs ; a dog shivered before a door, 
 outside of which he had been shut all night. Poor 
 little dog ! It was my wedding-day ; I hoped he would 
 get in and find a cheerful welcome waiting for him. It
 
 420 A FAIE LAND. 
 
 was my wedding-day, and I felt happy, for the faint 
 rose tints that I saw creeping up in the eastern sky, 
 through the bare branches of the trees. 
 
 I had not seen Macnally since the morning before. 
 I had told him I must pack my trunk, and that there 
 were many things that I could not do with interrup 
 tion. I knew he would not join me till before the 
 altar, but I heard his step half a block behind me. 
 
 * * * Who cannot fancy what that hour was? I 
 almost forgot him, as in the hospital. "When the few 
 people had gone out of church, and only the one or 
 two were still upon their knees who were going to stay 
 and pray for us, I saw the priest was waiting, and that 
 Maenally was standing at the chancel steps. I seemed 
 to be coming out of a far land ; the land I came to was 
 not fairer than the land I left " pure lilies of eternal 
 peace whose odors haunt my dreams." * * * 
 
 When we came out of the church, the air was full 
 of sunshine and the streets of life. Merry children ran 
 past us on their way to school ; window blinds were 
 opened and curtains drawn, and flowers looked through 
 the glass and drank the sun. One could see the buds 
 were reddening on the bare gray trees as the sun shone 
 through them ; one felt, in everything, even in the not 
 warm air, " the first blind motions of the Spring, that 
 show the year is turned." 
 
 THE END.
 
 A 000115846
 
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