f~ > 
 
 I r\ t~- f f\ TT\ I / C* 
 
 ROUND US
 


 
 THE 
 
 LIFE ^OUND US 
 
 A COLLECTION OF STORIES. 
 
 BY 
 
 MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "SONGS AND SONNE 'S," "PRELUDES," ETC., ETC. 
 
 FR. PUSTET & CO.: 
 
 NEW YORK AND CINCINNATI.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1885, BY 
 
 E. STEINBACK, 
 
 FIRM FR. PUSTET & CO. 
 
 EDWARD o. JENKINS' sons, 
 
 Printers and Stereotyfers, 
 
 20 North William Street, New York.
 
 TO 
 
 EDWARD ROTH, A.M., 
 
 THIS 
 
 COLLECTION OF STORIES IS AFFECTIONATELY 
 DEDICATED 
 
 BY 
 
 A WRITER WHO OWES WHAT IS BEST IN IT TO HIS CORDIAL 
 ENCOURAGEMENT.
 
 A CONFIDENTIAL CHAT WITH THE 
 EEADER. 
 
 THE stories in this collection were written at various 
 times during the last ten years. They were printed in 
 The Catholic Record, an excellent magazine, since sus- 
 pended ; The Catholic World ; the New York Freeman's 
 Journal, and other periodicals of high character. They 
 are as various as the years in which they were written. 
 The author's only object was to utilize the experience 
 in story-writing gained by years of constant anonymous 
 contributions to secular publications, in a series of stories 
 made by a Catholic for Catholics. 
 
 He regrets that, except in one story " A Measureless 
 HI " he has not come up to his own standard. 
 
 He regrets, too, that it is impossible for him to supply 
 a conclusion to every story that would satisfy all his 
 past and future readers. He feels the " long felt want " 
 of a patent adaptable ending that would fit any story 
 without being incongruous. 
 
 He has been warned that the good Sisters (from many 
 of whom he has received requests to make this collection) 
 would not like the stories that end with marriages. An 
 accomplished and saintly religious to whom he half- 
 fa umorously repeated this warning, said quite gravely, 
 
 (v)
 
 vi A CONFIDENTIAL CHAT WITH THE READER. 
 
 " Xuns do not object to other people marrying, if they 
 have the vocation and are worthy to make happy homes." 
 This answer is all the author can give to the critics who 
 object to marriage in " The Life Around Us." He 
 points with pride to the fact that he has exercised a 
 self-denial unusual with Catholic story writers none of 
 his characters having married cousins within the prohib- 
 ited degrees. 
 
 Another critic shook his head. " The love-making in 
 the stories is too tame. Young people will not read 
 stories unless there is plenty of love-making in them." 
 The author admits that he is a homceopathist in the 
 matter of love-making. He has made a very little go a 
 great way. 
 
 A learned priest, who wrote that he always reads a 
 good story when he finds it, complained that " Lilies 
 among Thorns " had as many deaths at the end as the 
 last scene of Hamlet, and that " A Rosebud " and " Phi- 
 lista " are too tragical. But all complete stories must 
 end with death. The author has been told at least twenty 
 times that Bernard Devir should not be separated from 
 his devoted mother that it was wrong to seem to punish 
 her for her pious and laudable desire; that Jean Mar- 
 quette should have been ordained a priest with his friend 
 Ned Barnes ; that Tita should not have been permitted to 
 marry John Nelson ; that it should be made clear whether 
 the child in " A Measureless 111 " was baptized or not ; 
 that Priscilla ought not to have made a marriage which
 
 A CONFIDENTIAL CHAT WITH THE READER. Vll 
 
 must prove unfortunate, owing to the prejudices of her 
 friends ; that the Rosebud should have gone to a convent ; 
 that Inez should not have gone to a convent ; that the 
 miserable heroine of " Philista " should have become a 
 nun, in order to expiate her apostasy. 
 
 To this last suggestion the author objects with all his 
 strength. In the usual romance, religious are represented 
 as either having been disappointed in love or as accept- 
 ing a life of gloom in reparation for sin, 
 
 " In that dim sepulchre of loveless death," 
 
 as a recent versifier, very ignorant of conventual life, 
 expresses it. The author would rather never touch a 
 pen than give even the slightest weight of fiction to such 
 a degrading and absurd opinion. He might have put 
 the heroine of " Philista " who thus far has excited 
 more interest than all his other characters into a house 
 with a brown-stone front without violating nature and art. 
 But he would not, without violating both, send her to a 
 convent. The truth is, that the real person from whom 
 he drew Alice O'Brien is now outwardly a very con- 
 tented being, received by all the "best" families in 
 Philista and comfortably endowed with this world's goods. 
 To the question, "Did Miss Catherwood become a 
 Catholic ? " he can only answer that, if she did, it was 
 in spite of some very bad examples. 
 
 MAURICE FRANCIS EG AN. 
 EASTER, 1885.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY, 1 
 
 x' LILIES AMONG THORNS, 31 
 
 PHILISTA, 63 
 
 /"A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS, . . . . . 93 
 
 A VIRGINIA COMEDY, 123 
 
 x A ROSEBUD, . 139 
 
 TRIFLES, 157 
 
 // A MEASURELESS ILL, 193 
 
 JOHN NELSON'S MARRIAGE, 202 
 
 AMONG THE "OLIVE BRANCHES," THE STORY OF A NEW 
 
 YORK BOY, 216 
 
 AT THE GATE OF DEATH, 239 
 
 THE FINANCIAL CRASH, 259 
 
 A STORY OF TO-DAY, . 279 
 
 THE LISLES, 297 
 
 INEZ, . . . . . 318 
 
 ' A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW," 338 
 
 ROSE, 358 
 
 THE JAWS OF DEATH, 379 
 
 CARMEL, 390 
 
 (ix)
 
 A TKAGI-COMEDY. 
 I. 
 
 |T was a very great effort. The orchestra had just 
 finished Beethoven's " Hope " when Bernard 
 Devir stepped forward, with a bow he had prac- 
 ticed for several weeks at intervals, and unrolled a manu- 
 script. His collar was high and uncomfortable, and the 
 rose in the buttonhole of his shining black coat made 
 him feel the stiffness that always afflicts the male sex 
 when over-decorated. 
 
 His father and mother, in the third row of benches 
 from the platform, felt that the eyes of the assembly 
 were upon them. They sat very straight, and Mr. Devir, 
 as a relief for his nervousness, smoothed his new silk hat 
 with his handkerchief. The room was warm ; there was 
 a flutter of fans, a scent of June roses from the nose- 
 gays ; not a breath of air was stirring ; a man, utterly 
 without a soul, on the back bench, had snored during 
 John Dempsey's impassioned parallel (thirty-six pages of 
 foolscap) between Mohammed and Arius. Even His 
 Grace, who sat in an arm-chair on the platform, surround- 
 ed by several of the reverend clergy, had been observed 
 to hold his hand before his mouth during the lengthy 
 but eloquent essay on " Grattan as a Patriot," and while 
 Dick Weldon was making a beautiful apostrophe of five 
 pages to the Italian republics in his " Examination of the
 
 2 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Genius of Machiavclli, 1 ' something like a look of gentle 
 melancholy was seen to steal across the face of His Grace, 
 which deepened as Dick rustled twenty more leaves, writ- 
 ten on both sides. Everybody, except the dignified per- 
 sonages on the platform, looked eagerly at Bernard Devir 
 when he appeared. His father thought it was the halo 
 of genius on his son's brow that attracted this attention ; 
 his mother thought it was his personal beauty : how nice 
 he looked in his high collar, with his hair plastered in a 
 hyacinthine half-circle on his forehead, and a thin, red- 
 dish down visible on his upper lip in a certain light 
 how superior to that sallow-faced South American who 
 had preceded him, in broken English, with a paper on 
 " Arctic Expeditions " ! Mrs. Devir waved her palm- 
 leaf fan and felt that she was indeed blessed. She did 
 not know that this noticeable eagerness was due to the 
 fact that the audience was trying, with all its failing 
 mental strength, to guess how many pages were bound 
 up in the valedictorian's manuscript. 
 
 It was a fine effort. He opened with a quotation which 
 prepared his auditors for something entirely original. 
 " Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes" he said, and then he 
 began an examination of " Free Thought and its Rela- 
 tions to the Poetry of the Renaissance in Italy." 
 
 " Rhcni pacator," he exclaimed, "et Istri 
 Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit 
 Ordinibus ; laetatur eques, plauditque senator, 
 Votoque patricio cortant plebeia favori." 
 
 These words sent a thrill through the hearts of the 
 father and mother of the valedictorian. With one ac- 
 cord they turned their eyes toward His Grace to see how 
 they affected him. lie was engaged in wiping his fore-
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY. 3 
 
 head with a purple silk handkerchief. Mrs. Devir won- 
 dered how anybody could think of such a trivial thing 
 at this awful moment. 
 
 The valedictorian descended into English. He cast 
 long, lingering glances into the past ; he prophesied of 
 the future \ he talked to Mr. Gladstone in a way that no 
 man with any respect for himself ought to stand ; he 
 fearlessly told Prince Bismarck what he thought of him ; 
 he raised Erin from her prostrate state and told her how 
 she ought to behave herself ; he quoted *' Let Erin re- 
 member the Days of Old." This brought out a volume 
 of applause, and the first violin, suddenly awakened and 
 fancying that the end had come, played the opening bar 
 of the waltz in the " Merry War." 
 
 The valedictorian went on, however; he gave a sketch 
 of Darwin, and then, soaring upward, told why Raphael 
 had included Dante among the theologians of the church 
 in a famous picture ; he castigated the pagan spirit of the 
 Renaissance with fury, and, coming down to modern life, 
 gave Swinburne a blow that almost moved his mother to 
 remonstrate. 
 
 " Sure, Terence," she whispered to her husband, " he's 
 very, very hard on that one." 
 
 " Whoever he is, he deserves it," answered that good 
 man. " Barney knows what he's talking about." 
 
 " But I think he's making very free with the pope." 
 
 It became plain even to Mrs. Devir that her son was 
 attacking Alexander Pope, and not Pope Alexander. 
 The rolling of a cart outside obliged the orator to pause, 
 and for an instant nearly everybody felt as if gentle dew 
 had fallen from heaven. He dropped Pope apd grap^ 
 pled with Lorenzo the Magnificent, Six pages were 
 turned, while all watched hjm in silent suspense. Sud-
 
 4 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 deuly, with lowered voice, he addressed his classmates as 
 "dear companions of his scholastic pursuits," and when 
 he got to "you, right reverend prelate, and reverend 
 clergy, whose presence here, etc., etc.," the first violin 
 laid his bow on the strings ; but when he said, " If in 
 the dim vista of the fufure, hidden from us by wisest 
 dispensation, we meet together, perhaps crowned by 
 Facie and made the elect of her temple, with tear- 
 dimmed eyes we shall look back on the roseate, studious, 
 and tranquil hours spent in the sylvan shades of our 
 Alma " the first violin could restrain himself no longer; 
 the strains of the " Merry War " rang out, and a weak, 
 small voice was heard to murmur, " Deo gratias ! " The 
 breeze seemed to stir up suddenly ; tired nature was at 
 once restored ; the man on the back bench awoke for the 
 fifth time, to find happiness all around him. His Grace 
 smiled most benevolently, shook hands with Bernard, 
 and said kind things to everybody. All the graduates, 
 adorned with medals and loaded with gilded books, were 
 presented to him. All was joy, congratulations, wilted 
 roses, perspiration, and expectation of luncheon. 
 
 There were no happier people in the crowd than the 
 Devirs. Mrs. Devir put on her well-kept broche shawl, 
 which Bernard held for her, and fastened the big round 
 cameo brooch with ceremony at her throat. It was the 
 happiest moment of her life, for His Grace had just said 
 to Bernard, " It was a fine effort." Bernard kissed her, 
 and gave the precious manuscript, tied with blue ribbons, 
 into her keeping. 
 
 Jack Dempsey, now B.A., elbowed his way through 
 the crowd and shook Bernard's hand, noticing, with a 
 pang for he was an orphan the proud, tender look in 
 the eyes of Bernard's mother.
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY. O 
 
 " That composition of yours knocked us all cold," said 
 Jack Dempsey heartily ; he wanted to say something 
 complimentary. Mrs. Devir started. Was this the young 
 orator who had a short time ago grandiloquently dis- 
 coursed on Grattan a scholar who wore a medal and 
 who could quote Latin ? "We needed cooling," con- 
 tinued the unconscious Jack. t{ I am glad I'm done with 
 the whole business." 
 
 Mrs. Devir's horrified attention was drawn from the 
 free-and-easy young Bachelor of Arts to a slight, pretty 
 girl who came toward them, bearing a big nosegay with 
 the regulation lily overtopping it. She smiled, showing 
 two rows of dazzling teeth. 
 
 " Mother sent this for Bernard," she said, "but I 
 couldn't get it to him." 
 
 " Thank you, Marie," said Mrs. Devir a trifle stiffly. 
 Bernard was out of college now, and intended for the 
 highest vocation in life, and the mother was anxious to 
 guard him from all possible danger. 
 
 " They are too late now, Monsieur Bernard." 
 
 " Pas du tout, mademoiselle," said Bernard, with a 
 slight blush and a bow. " I will take a rose and keep it, 
 and you will keep the rest." 
 
 " D'ye mind that, no.w ? " murmured Mr. Devir, nudg- 
 ing his wife. " There's more learned in college than 
 Latin." 
 
 Mrs. Devir did mind it. Even her son's readiness in 
 French did not reconcile her to it. Jack Dempsey was 
 not slow to claim a rose too, which Marie Regnier gave 
 him with a pretty blush. 
 
 "She's a bold piece!" 
 
 Mr. Devir did not hear this ; an acquaintance of his 
 from the same place in Ireland was pouring into his ear 
 encomiums on Bernard's " effort."
 
 6 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Marie Regnier, with a parting smile which included 
 the whole group, retired very modestly, and Mrs. Devir, 
 relieved, took Bernard's arm to walk to the station. 
 
 By this time Bernard had said good-bye to half a hun- 
 dred people, and the precious manuscript had been given 
 to a reporter, who had no intention of having it printed, 
 but who did not want it to fall into the hands of a rival. 
 This tribute of the Press to Genius was very grateful to 
 Mrs. Devir. The next morning, when she seized the 
 early newsman at half-past four and found only six 
 lines of it in the Herald (and all the Latin left out !), 
 she felt that the art of printing was a delusion and a 
 snare. 
 
 Jack Dempsey's eyes had rested with longing and 
 sympathy on Mrs. Devir as she stood so proudly at her 
 son's side ; it was beautiful to see her, but she was by no 
 means beautiful. She was a thin, worn-looking woman, 
 with faded blue eyes, and features sharpened by care and 
 hard work. There were two deep, upright lines on her 
 forehead, and her hands, encased in large mitts, were 
 wrinkled and knotted at the joints. She wore a gala 
 bonnet decorated with two small blue cabbages and a 
 bunch of cherries, a rusty black silk gown which had 
 been packed away carefully after each family festival and 
 holiday for many years, and her cherished red broche 
 shawl of the palm-leaf pattern. 
 
 Her husband was wrinkled and stooped, too. He 
 had a keen blue eye and a stern mouth ; a fringe of 
 white whiskers ran all around under his chin; his broad- 
 cloth frock-coat hung uneasily on him, and his trousers, 
 also broadcloth, were rather white and baggy at the 
 knees naturally, since he had knelt in them at Mass 
 for more Sundays than any pair of trousers not em-
 
 A TKAGI-COMEDY. 7 
 
 balrned carefully every Monday morning until the follow 
 ing Sunday can endure. 
 
 " Go forth, young men," the eloquent person who 
 had delivered the address to the graduates had said 
 "go forth; use the gift of tongues your Alma Mater 
 has given von to enlighten them that sit in darkness. 
 
 it 
 
 You will adopt professions, and perhaps rise to emi- 
 nence in those professions ; but in the midst of op- 
 ulence, adulation, if Fame should herald one of you as 
 the poet of the age, the Yirgil of our time ; if one of 
 you should gain the highest prizes of statesmanship ; if 
 one of you should scale the heights of military glory, 
 which, unfortunately, leads but to the grave remember 
 the Alma Mater that cherished your high aspirations, 
 guided your steps aside from the ' primrose path of 
 dalliance,' and will ever crown your highest ideals with 
 her blessing, until you are at last dazzled by that fierce, 
 white light which beats around the Throne. Yale et 
 ave ! " 
 
 And so they went forth. A stranger, hearing all 
 that had been said, might have imagined the world was 
 longing to crown them with bays or to put them on 
 triumphal shields, or that they had been furnished such 
 an equipment as princes and barons in olden days gave 
 the young servitors of their household when, the time 
 for the conferring of knighthood had come. It seemed 
 strange to go out into the sunny, every-day atmosphere 
 and find that the world was not standing still. The 
 railroad conductor collected tickets from Bernard De- 
 vir and Jack Dempsey without any apparent conscious- 
 ness he touched hands that had penned the essay on 
 "Grattan as a Patriot," and that fine effort, "Free 
 Thought and its Kelations to the Poetry of the Re-
 
 8 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 naissance in Italy." But for one woman the world was 
 transformed. Mrs. Devir had suffered and toiled. 
 One by one her children had passed away. For this 
 one the pride and hope of her soul she had worked 
 like a slave. To see him serving the altar was the de- 
 sire of her life. To-day it seemed very near to her. If 
 she might be permitted to live to see her son say his 
 first Mass, she could, with all her heart, join in the 
 prayer of the holy Simeon. 
 
 It was the happiest day of her life. Jack Dempsey, 
 careless, free-and-easy Jack, looked at her wrinkled 
 hands and sighed. What a glory it was to have a 
 mother! He laughed and joked, kissed his hand out of 
 the car-window right and left ; but, for all that, he missed 
 none of the tender, prideful glances that the worn, tired 
 woman cast upon her son. Jack, in his heart, felt sad ; 
 it seemed to him that a mother's love is born to suffer 
 of all earthly things the nearest to heaven, yet of all 
 earthly things most pathetic in its disappointments. 
 
 " He's a gay blade," said Mr. Devir. 
 
 " There's no thought about him at all," answered 
 Mrs. Devir as Jack Dempsey bade them good-bye. 
 " They say his uncle wants to make a priest of him. 
 He'll never do it ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 That essay on " The Relations of Free Thought to 
 the Poetry of the Italian Renaissance" was the result 
 of many days of toil and many nights of anxiety of 
 early rising on cold winter mornings and late working 
 on sultry summer evenings. It was like one of those 
 gorgeous blooms that show on prickly and ugly cactus
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY. 9 
 
 plants. The rough plant endures, in those regions 
 where it flourishes, storms of dust and thousands of 
 scorching rajs from -the sun ; but when the flower, 
 yellow and vermilion, appears, it doubtless forgets the 
 dust and the sun. The toil and the trouble of produc- 
 ing that essay had not fallen upon Bernard. He hsd 
 known where to find the material for it, and he had put 
 it together. The bricks (to drop into metaphors) were 
 the traditional property of college orators ; he had 
 only supplied the mortar. The real work of forcing 
 the flamboyant exotic had been done by his father and 
 mother. 
 
 To bring forth the flower which was supposed to 
 represent the result of four years of college culture 
 Mr. and Mrs. Devir had gone to market before dawn 
 and stood behind the little grocery-shop near the 
 Bowery for many weary years. It was one of Mrs. 
 Devir's boasts that during this time they had never had 
 a bottle of whisky in their establishment. Customers 
 who would not buy unless they were " treated to a sip " 
 behind the screen might go elsewhere. The " old man " 
 was more lenient, but his wife was firm. 
 
 Bernard had been kept at school, and "held up his 
 head with the rest there." His clothes had been as 
 good as those of Jack Dempsey, whose uncle was a 
 great Wall Street millionaire. Spending-money had not 
 been grudged to him, and he had been advised to enter- 
 tain his friends at a down-town restaurant on the un- 
 trequent holidays when he had leave of absence from col- 
 lege. Mrs. Devir flattered herself that she was a woman 
 of the world ; she said that the ways of Bernard's 
 friends were not her ways, and she wouldn't shame the 
 boy by having him bring his friends, with their Latin,
 
 10 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 *nd their Greek, and their French, into the back-room of 
 * grocery-shop. 
 
 Bernard would not have cared, if there had been a 
 billiard-table in that little back-room ; it would have been 
 jam mod on holidays with the young persons of culture 
 whom Mrs. Devir would have delighted to honor. 
 His quarterly bills for tuition and books had been 
 promptly met ; his subscriptions to the various college 
 schemes had always been " decent." Sometimes it re- 
 quired sharp pinching to do all this and avoid drawing 
 on the sum deposited in the " Emigrant's." And Mr. 
 Devir was strongly tempted to introduce the black bottle 
 behind the screen for such of his female customers as 
 were afflicted with " goneness " or " sudden palpitations," 
 with a view of increasing sales ; but Mrs. Devir, true to 
 her principles, would not hear of it. 
 
 Bernard had been graduated with honor. His parents 
 felt that they had given him what was to be his fortune 
 an education. They had never had much learning ; 
 Mr. Derir could write his own name, and Mrs. Devir 
 could make her mark. They both had an unbounded 
 reverence for " education " that wonderful gift which 
 was " more than a mint of money to any poor boy "; 
 they had been coining their lives into the education 
 which had culminated on Commencement Day in that 
 fine effort, " The Relations of Free Thought to the Poetry 
 of the Italian .Renaissance." 
 
 This education was to be the key with which he was 
 to open the treasures of the world. His parents rated 
 it at the value of the sacrifices they had made. His 
 mother had resolved that he should be a priest, and his 
 father, in the beginning more worldly and hoping to see 
 him in the Assembly some day, like Dennis Rooney'e
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY. 11 
 
 son, had finally come to regard it as settled that Ber- 
 nard should, when the time came, go up for examination 
 for the seminary. 
 
 In the meantime there was a vacation before him. 
 He had worked hard ; his mother felt that he, with his 
 stores of Greek and Latin and his wonderful accom- 
 plishments, ought not to be confined to the grocery- 
 store or its little back-room. 
 
 "He'd look nice rolling up his sleeve and diving into 
 the brine-barrel for mackerel ! " she whispered to her 
 husband as she watched Bernard, who was talking to a 
 classmate in the seat before them, " or selling a bunch of 
 garlic to one of the Evetaliaus." 
 
 o > 
 
 "It's no worse than his father did before him," re- 
 sponded her husband. 
 
 Mrs. Devir looked at him as an sesthete of the most 
 intense cult sometimes gazes at a hopeless Philistine. 
 She felt that there are some things which a man ought 
 to know without having them told to him ; and, as most 
 women do some time or other, whatever the cynics 
 may say, she showed her sense of the impregnable 
 stupidity of her better-half by silence. This is a medium, 
 by the way, very expressive in the hands of women, 
 because it is so seldom used. 
 
 She arranged, in her mind, that Bernard should not 
 spend much time in the store* which was no place for 
 him. He should go to some aristocratic sea-side resort, 
 if she had to draw something from the " Emigrant's 
 Industrial." It would not do to have him wasting his 
 time in the store. The father and she were used to the 
 little place and to the ways of the neighborhood. But 
 how could Bernard, in his frock-coat and white shirt, 
 endure them ? No ; he must go, as it were, from the col-
 
 12 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 lege to the seminary without any interregnum of the 
 store. 
 
 Before they had reached home Mrs. Devir had settled 
 it all with her husband. It was decided that Bernard 
 should start on the next day for Far Rockaway. There, 
 as Mrs. Devir said, he would " meet the society of his 
 equals " and recuperate after his studies. 
 
 Mr. Devir shook his head dubiously. His vanity was 
 somewhat wounded by the open preference his wife 
 showed for his son ; he had worked for him like a slave, 
 but not that he might be placed so far above him-. Now, 
 Mi*s. Devir, being a woman, had no vanity of her own ; 
 all her qualities, all her foibles, seemed to be absorbed in 
 Bernard. 
 
 III. 
 
 Far Rockaway is a very lively sea-side place in the 
 summer. There are cottages and hotels, and much music 
 in the morning and evening. All the popular airs are 
 played on all sorts of pianos by the accomplished young 
 ladies that frequent the place in time of viUeggiatura. 
 There is lawn-tennis, sailing, bathing, and fishing. Danc- 
 ing, too, is a favorite amusement. 
 
 Bernard Devir met Jack Dempsey in this festive town, 
 and they had a good time. Bernard indulged in all the 
 amusements of the place, which would have included a 
 flirtation with the most forward of the three Misses 
 Clarke, the belles from Syracuse ; but their mother, hear- 
 ing that he was a " student," put an end to that with vir- 
 tuous indignation. 
 
 There was little time for thought; and Bernard gave
 
 A TKAGI- COMEDY. 13 
 
 small consideration to his future until one day, when he 
 and Jack Dempsey were out sailing, Jack said : 
 
 " Are you going up for the examination ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," Bernard answered carelessly. " Those 
 fellows in that boat have an immense load of blue-fish 
 I suppose so ; the old folk want me to." 
 
 Jack was silent for a moment. Bernard, watching the 
 fortunate man in the bow of the other boat haul in an- 
 other fish, forgot the subject. 
 
 " Well, Bernard," continued Jack, "if that is the way 
 you feel about it you'd better give the idea up. I'm not 
 much of a preacher ; but I'll say to you I'd rather cut off 
 my right hand than go into that seminary in that way." 
 
 Jack's face flushed. Bernard smiled. 
 
 " You're awfully in earnest." And then, with a touch 
 of seriousness himself, " What can I do ? I can construe 
 Yirgil a little ; but I haven't any money to keep me 
 while I grind at law or medicine. You know I am a 
 thoughtless fellow, Jack /know I am but I have come 
 to the conclusion that I can't have the old people work- 
 ing for me any longer." 
 
 " I'd go into the grocery-store first." 
 
 Bernard laughed. The suggestion was too absurd. 
 
 During the few days that followed Bernard did think ; 
 and, more, he prayed. He was glad when the last day 
 of his vacation at Far Rockaway came. 
 
 Supper was waiting in the little back-room of the gro- 
 cery-store when he arrived at home. He went behind 
 the counter and kissed his father, to the admiration of 
 several waiting customers. He found his mother in her 
 seat at the neatly-spread table. The soft light of the 
 glittering kerosene lamp showed her how brown he had 
 become. She clasped him to her in fond pride, and
 
 14 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 (.ailed to her husband to leave the store in charge of the 
 " boy." 
 
 Bernard was waited upon like a young prince who had 
 honored an humble roof by his presence. His father 
 even offered him a cigar out of the best box, apologizing 
 for it. The parents listened with pleasure to all Bernard 
 had to say. 
 
 " They'll never make a priest out of that Jack Demp- 
 sey," said his mother, as that young man's name was 
 mentioned. 
 
 " There's more chance for him than for me, mother. 
 He feels that he has a vocation, while I I can't go in 
 for the examination, that's all." 
 
 The silence was unbroken. Mrs. Devir set down her 
 teacup and looked at her son. Mr. Devir took his pipe 
 out of his mouth. 
 
 " What did you say, Barney?" she asked tremulously. 
 
 " I'm not worthy to be a priest, mother, and I can't try." 
 
 " Not worthy ! " cried Mrs. Devir. " You're joking ! 
 And you, with all your beautiful education and all the 
 prayers that's been said for you 1 " 
 
 " I can't help it, mother. God knows it almost breaks 
 my heart to tell you the truth. But I can't think of it, 
 mother I can't. I know it's the best thing, the highest, 
 the holiest thing, on this earth to be a priest of God ; but 
 it's a very hard thing to be a good priest, and I haven't 
 the vocation, mother." 
 
 Bernard said all this rapidly. He felt as if a weight 
 had been lifted off his heart when he had spoken. 
 
 " That Marie Regnier has bewitched the boy," cried 
 Mrs. Devir bitterly, speaking out a hasty thought and 
 then regretting it at once when she saw the look of pain 
 on her son's face.
 
 A TKAGI-COMEDY. 15 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 Mrs. Devir could no longer lift the teacup to her lips. 
 She covered her eyes with her toil-worn hands, and tears 
 trickled slowly between the wrinkled and knotted fingers. 
 Her husband toyed nervously with his pipe. The boy in 
 the store was whistling a careless tune. The lull of twi- 
 light had fallen even on the noisy city. Bernard felt as 
 if the whole world were reproaching him. 
 
 Where was his halo now ? Where was the sunshine 
 that a moment before had shone on him from the eyes of 
 these two old people? His father seemed stunned; his 
 mother, after a vain effort to restrain herself, burst into 
 sobs. 
 
 And this was the end of it all ? The end of the toiling, 
 the hoping, the praying; the downfall of pride, which 
 had been so great in this poor mother's heart that she 
 would have become the humblest of the humble to 
 gratify it ! 
 
 After a time of silence, broken only by his mother's 
 sobs and the whistling of the boy in the store, Bernard 
 arose and took his father's hand, which lay limply on his 
 knee. The old man seemed not to notice him ; he did not 
 turn his intent gaze from his wife. Bernard clasped the 
 hand tighter. Surely his father, whose love would be 
 less unreasonable than a woman's, could understand ; but 
 his father, with no eyes for anybody except the weeping 
 mother, pushed him away. 
 
 Bernard's heart swelled. Suddenly his mother raised 
 her head in sudden hope. 
 
 " You'll not make np your mind until you've seen 
 Father Rodman at the church ? " 
 
 " I have just come from him, mother." 
 
 Mrs. Devir's head sank again.
 
 16 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " You're breaking your mother's heart, you spalpeen ! " 
 cried his father, brining his fist down upon the table. 
 " Go up to bed ! It would have been better a thousand 
 times if I'd kept you in the store here, instead of cram- 
 ming your head with Latin and Greek, of no manner of 
 use if you're not to be priested. And I'll be ashamed of 
 my life to face the neighbors ! " 
 
 Bernard, no longer a boy, but a man, heavy of heart, 
 crept up to bed. He did not dare to kiss his mother ; 
 she sank her head lower as he passed her. lie threw 
 himself on his knees at the side of the white-spread bed 
 and was silent. He put his hands up toward the little 
 picture of the Sacred Heart, which had hung there ever 
 since he could remember ; he could not pray, for all 
 tilings, fraught with the tenderness of that mother whose 
 broken voice he could hear from below, seemed to blame 
 him. 
 
 What refuge was there for him ? His father and 
 mother had turned against him. " I will go down," he 
 thought, in a burst of passion, " and I will tell her that 
 I will do as she wishes ; but I will wash my hands of it 
 the sacrilege will be upon her head." 
 
 Then another thought calmed him. " 1 can not," he 
 thought, "act the part of Pontius Pilate, even for my 
 mother." 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was generally acknowledged among the neighbors 
 and relatives of the Devirs that the "student" was a 
 failure. To be intended for the seminary and to refuse 
 to enter the seminary was a deep disgrace in the eyes of 
 these good people. Mrs. Devir had talked of her sou as
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY. 17 
 
 a future priest ever since the boy had entered college. 
 The humiliation was bitter. She could not say, as she 
 had said in her many afflictions, "It is the will of God." 
 She did not believe it was the will of God ; it could not 
 be the will of God that her son should not serve the 
 altar. She still attended to Bernard's wants, but in cold 
 silence. His father kept sternly quiet, too. One Satur- 
 day, when Bernard went into the store and tried to help 
 in the work, his father roughly told him that he had no 
 business there. 
 
 " It's my place, father." he said. " It's my turn to 
 work now." 
 
 " We don't want Latin and Greek here. Your mother 
 and me have done without help so long, we don't want 
 it now." 
 
 Bernard went up-stairs again, with bitterness in his 
 heart. The food he ate almost choked him. He felt that 
 he was a pauper; and, consciously or unconsciously, they 
 made him feel it. There was little consolation in his 
 books. He thumbed over his Cicero in the little, dark 
 room, and copied the " Relations of Free Thought to the 
 Poetry of the Italian Renaissance " and sent it to one of 
 the magazines. It came back in a few days, accompanied 
 by a slip of printed paper : 
 
 " The editor regrets that, owing to a press of manu- 
 scripts, he is obliged to return the enclosed." 
 
 He could hardly believe the evidence of his eyes. 
 What ! that " fine effort," which had been praised by 
 everybody and applauded so cordially, returned to him, 
 no doubt unread? His cup of humiliation was over- 
 running. 
 
 The friends of his earlier boyhood who sat on the dis- 
 used carts left in the street at night, and sang songs, or 
 2
 
 18 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 practiced dancing steps on the corners after the day's 
 work, nodded when he passed by. He was neither fish 
 nor fowl in their estimation. lie was invited to join the 
 " Elite Chowder Club," which drove down to Coney 
 Island in decorated wagons, with flaring torches and 
 blaring horns, several times a year; and the well-written 
 note of regret which he sent to the secretary procured 
 him some temporary scrivening work at the time of elec- 
 tion. That was the only work he succeeded in getting, 
 although he answered hundreds of the newspaper adver- 
 tisements. Nobody seemed to want him. He was too 
 old to be taken as a learner of a trade. There were hun- 
 dreds of young men who could construe Virgil in the 
 same position as himself. People who could do "any- 
 thing," were a drug in the market. 
 
 His best coat became white at the seams, and his trou- 
 sers baggy at the knees. Mr. Devir said over and over 
 again that he couldn't afford to keep a "dude." Mrs. 
 Devir said nothing. His room was always neat and his 
 food ready ; but when it was necessary to speak to him 
 she uttered only monosyllables. 
 
 It was a wretched life. The mother suffered as acute- 
 ly as the son. It never occurred to her that she was not 
 acting a virtuous part. It never occurred to the father 
 that his son needed his assistance. Bernard had been 
 richly and rarely educated. If he could not make his 
 way in the world with this costly equipment he must be 
 worthless. What could they ignorant, hard-working peo- 
 ple do for him, except keep him in bread and butter? 
 
 The key to the Temple of Fame, of which the college 
 orator had spoken so grandiloquently, would not open the 
 meanest tenement. Around him he saw poor boys, who 
 had been running of errands while he was declining mensa, 
 cheerfully working, independent and prosperous.
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY. 19 
 
 In despair he plead for work on the wharves. He was 
 laughed at ; a stripling with white hands and soft mus- 
 cles could not do a stevedore's work. 
 
 If he had not been a devout and earnest Catholic he 
 would have sunk himself, his doubts, and his wretched- 
 ness in the East River. To be a burden on two old peo- 
 ple ; to eat the bread of idleness ; to have no earthly 
 hope ! It was heart-breaking. Not only to be a burden, 
 but to be in the eyes of all a failure and reproach ! And 
 then the utter impotence of being penniless ! The boot- 
 blacks were better off than he ; he could not have bought 
 a box and brush. 
 
 Jack Dempsey had written from the seminary, preach- 
 ing courage. On one of Bernard's gloomiest days, as he 
 sat in his room scanning for the ten-hundredth time the 
 advertisements in the newspapers, his mother, silently as 
 usually, brought him a letter. It was short. Bernard 
 opened it ; another piece of paper fell from its folds upon 
 the floor. 
 
 " DEAR BOY : There is not much time allowed here for useless 
 writing, so I will be brief. My cousin, Will Dempsey, has had a full 
 account of you from me. He is a queer fellow, an old bachelor, you 
 know, with plenty of 'chink.' He thinks he can make you useful 
 down on his ranch in Texas, as he can't have me. Will you go ? 
 Ban Lorenzo Ranch, Medina County, Texas make note of it. I 
 inclose his check for expenses. I've been trying to bring this about 
 for a long time. Hope you'll go, etc., etc." 
 
 Bernard clasped the letter and the check in his hand 
 as a drowning man might catch at a spar. How good 
 God was after all. His heart went up in gratitude. He 
 telegraphed his answer to Jack as soon as he cashed the 
 check. 
 
 Mrs. Devir took Bernard's announcement of his early
 
 20 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 departure with apparent calmness. Mr. Devir's mouth 
 tv.'itrhed a little, and he evidently kept back some demon- 
 stration of affection, but he only said : 
 
 " Well, I can't say less than God bless you, though 
 you've been a sore trial to me and your mother." 
 
 His mother carefully packed his valise and neglected 
 nothing that might add to his comfort. But she would 
 not remain alone with him ; she would give him no chance 
 for a tender word. When the time came for him to go 
 he lingered in the doorway of the little room and whis- 
 pered, " Mother." She was behind the counter waiting 
 on Marie Regnier, who was a very thrifty seamstress in 
 the little French colony around the corner. Bernard went 
 out into the store. His mother turned her cheek coldly 
 toward him. He touched it with his lips, and paused. 
 She paid no further attention to him. And he, sad and 
 desolate, left her. 
 
 There is no being on earth who can inflict more pain 
 with a calm face than a good woman in the consciousness 
 of her goodness. 
 
 Marie Regnier's eyes became misty. She understood 
 the scene. With a sudden impulse she held out her hand, 
 and said : 
 
 " Au revoir, Monsieur Bernard. I pray that the good 
 God and his Blessed Mother may keep you safe ! " 
 
 Bernard could not speak ; he tried to say "good-bye." 
 Mrs. Devir contracted her brows and darted a quick, jeal- 
 ous look at the girl. 
 
 She went to the door and watched him disappear. 
 Once, when he turned back for a last look, she dodged 
 hastily into the store. When she could see him no more 
 she went up to her room and sobbed as if her heart would 
 break, kissing over and over again a faded daguerreotype
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY. 21 
 
 of a little boy. And jet she had let him go without a 
 word of kindness. David, mourning for Absalom, prob- 
 ably forgot a son's transgressions. This mother mourned 
 her son's obstinacy with bitter regret and a sense of deep 
 injury. It was only when she saw him as a little boy 
 that she could love him without feeling the humiliation 
 of his failure. 
 
 Bernard had glanced back. He did not see his mother, 
 but he saw Marie Regnier, looking very nice in the morn- 
 ing sunshine, waving her hand to him. It gave him some 
 comfort, and he waved his in return ; he could do no 
 less. As he did it, Hope seemed to spread her wings over 
 him again. 
 
 Y. 
 
 Jack Dempsey's cousin was a hale, hearty Tipperary 
 man, a good Catholic and an ardent nationalist. There 
 are some people who think that these qualities can not 
 b*e united ; but they can. He had a comfortable adobe 
 house on his ranch, which was well stocked with sheep. 
 His family consisted of a dozen small dogs and a formid- 
 able array of revolvers. The first warned him of the 
 approach of tramps ; the second proved useful when the 
 tramps arrived with hostile intent. 
 
 He was a bachelor of fifty-five, erect as a dart, ruddy 
 as a winter apple, with side- whiskers as white as the wool 
 on a sheep's back at shearing- time, and clear blue eyes 
 that bulged out a little to show that nothing escaped 
 them. 
 
 He received Bernard cordially. He said frankly that 
 he liked his looks. He put him at the roughest work 
 he could, " to take the starch out of him," and Bernard
 
 22 TUP: LIFE AROUND us. 
 
 worked with all Ins might. It was good to get out 
 among the mesquite, in the soft, dry air, and to know 
 that at last he was of use in the world, although he was 
 earning only a ranchman's wages and eating a ranchman's 
 rations. 
 
 After a time old Will Dempsey and Bernard became 
 friends. Bernard acquired some nw tricks in the mak- 
 ing of corn-bread and the cooking of beef that warmed 
 the heart of old Will, who had never had much skill in 
 the culinary line. He soon knew Bernard's story ; for the 
 two had many a long smoke and talk by the tire in the 
 chilly time of the year. He smiled when Bernard alluded 
 to Marie Regnier's leave-taking, and, much to Bernard's 
 surprise, warned him solemnly that he was " very young." 
 At this time Bernard could not see the drift of this. Old 
 Will rarely talked of himself; he seemed to find little in- 
 terest in any subject outside of Irish politics and the 
 affairs of the ranch. Once, smiling at a letter he had 
 gotten recently, he told Bernard an episode in his life. 
 When he was prospecting in Mexico, or rather searching 
 for one of those mines said to have been worked by the 
 Indians before the coming of the Spaniards, he had had 
 a partner named Marianno Galdez " a greaser, but an 
 honest man." Galdez had died of fever ; after the priest 
 had anointed him he had asked Will to look after his wife 
 and children. " In fact," said Will, with a twinkle in 
 his eye, "he asked me to marry her, if she'd be willing. 
 And I think I'd have promised, only the Galde/ children 
 were twins. Somehow or other it seemed too much to 
 ask as things were ; but I promised to look after the 
 mother and the little ones. It wasn't a hard thing to do, 
 as I made several good strikes and kept flush. But the 
 mother and one of the children died of the same fever,
 
 A TIIAGI-COMEDY. 23 
 
 which was raging like a lion, before I could reach Laredo, 
 where they were. A priest there wrote to me that Maria, 
 the other one, was a handsome child, and said that he'd 
 see after her bringing-up, if I'd pay the expenses poor 
 Galdez died before I made the strikes, as poor as a church 
 mouse. Troth, I was glad to get off so easily. I don't 
 know much Spanish, but I think Maria's letters do her 
 credit. And here's the only photograph I have of her. 
 I've never seen her myself : she must be about seventeen 
 now. Some day I'll take you down to San Jacinto and 
 introduce you, my boy." 
 
 Bernard looked at a photograph of a fat baby with 
 black eyes. The letters were written in a large, sprawl- 
 ing hand, and signed "Maria" with a flourish. 
 
 " It seems that the good priest, who is a Spaniard, 
 thinks that Maria ought to learn English, out of compli- 
 ment to me, and he has hired a Frenchman, his sacristan, 
 to teach her ; and this linguist writes me a specimen let- 
 ter to prove his proficiency. Just read it ! " 
 
 " SAN JACINTO, April 6, 18 . 
 
 " RESPECTFUL SIB : Maria Jose Galdez is shameful not to possess 
 your astringent language, to thank his benefactor of his kindness in- 
 effable. Maria demands that I to you write this epistle, to you give 
 information of progress. Be not astonish that in a few monthes my 
 pupil write so perfectly the English as me ; we speak all the day 
 English and with my sister, who late comes from New York, which 
 lie has not seen me since we parted a little babee at the eyes blue in 
 Paris. Maria speak so well that the sheepses well comprehend the 
 English, saying 'go Ion',' and the sheepses 'go Ion'.' The good pres- 
 byter implore to thank you a hundred thousand times. I hope my 
 composition please you. For me, I would come to see you and bring 
 Maria ; but I am coward of the cowboys. With sentiments of the 
 most profound respect, me, 
 
 " I am, your obedient, E\ REGNIER."
 
 24 THE LIFE AROUND is. 
 
 Bernard laughed. " Maria will speak English well, at 
 this ratp." 
 
 "Her husband shall teach her," said old Will. "In a 
 year or two I intend to find her an American husband. 
 I wish she could write English, for I can't read her Span- 
 ish letters. I'm sure she must be a very pretty girl, for 
 her mother was just like one of those dark-eyed col- 
 leeiis more power to them ! that I've seen in Water- 
 ford." 
 
 During the six months that followed this conversation, 
 there was a great deal of talk between Will Dempsey and 
 Bernard on the subject of Maria. It was a subject on 
 which the elder man liked to dwell, and which rather 
 bored the younger one. Several letters came from San 
 Jacinto, purporting to be written in English. The rat- 
 tling up of genders in these missives was appalling. 
 Maria seemed unable to tell the difference between he 
 and she, much to her guardian's amusement. 
 
 Two letters came from New York, both dictated by 
 Mrs. Devir to a friend who wrote after the manner of 
 the Polite Letter-Writer. The tone of these letters, 
 although enriched with ornaments of style by the aman- 
 uensis, did not give much comfort to Bernard. 
 
 Will Dempsey amazed Bernard by proposing that he 
 should assume the management of the ranch, and offer- 
 ing him an interest in the land and flocks. After some 
 talk the veteran said : 
 
 " You see Jack's going to be a priest ; he has a patri-^ 
 mony, and his uncle will leave him something, too. 
 Now, I've nobody, except Maria Galdez, that has any 
 claim on me. You're a good boy ; you've unlearned a 
 lot of useless things here and tried to make me com- 
 fortable. Attention ! This house is a good house, and
 
 A TllAGI-COMEDY. 25 
 
 I've spared no expense on it ; but it needs a woman in it 
 to complete it. How would you like to marry Maria and 
 bring her here?" 
 
 Bernard was stunned. 
 
 " Couldn't you see that I've been aiming at that all 
 along ? Come, now ; ride down to San Jacinto and take 
 a look at my little twin. If she likes you, just talk to 
 Padre David and bring her back the wife of the best fel- 
 low I know." 
 
 " But if she shouldn't like me ? " 
 
 " Faint heart. Faith, if I were your age I wouldn't 
 throw away the chance of marrying a pretty girl, pleas- 
 ing a friend, and coming into a place like San Lorenzo 
 Ranch." 
 
 Bernard's color rose. The face of Marie Regnier 
 would flit across his memory. 
 
 " We must have a woman to look after matters here. 
 / can't marry I'm too old for illusions ; you ought to. 
 Is it yes or no ? " 
 
 "Well, I'll go," said Bernard reluctantly. "Remem- 
 ber, if she doesn't like me I can't help it." 
 
 Will Dempsey chuckled. " Padre David will arrange 
 it. Mexican girls are not so particular or so independent 
 as your Americans of the North. She'll like you ! " 
 
 Bernard did not find this assurance at all consoling. 
 At any rate, he would humor his kind friend's caprice ; 
 so he mounted his mustang and started on a day's ride to 
 San Jacinto. 
 
 " If she doesn't like you ! " cried old Will in stentorian 
 tones, " bring home somebody else. I won't have you 
 here unless you marry a wife." And he chuckled over 
 and over again, muttering against the absurdity of Amer- 
 ican sentimentalism in regard to marriage.
 
 20 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Beniard's ride was not an enjoyable one. lie had not 
 thought about marriage ; it had occurred to him that, if 
 he ever married, he would like to have a wife like Marie 
 Regnier. But, in his imagination, he had always sent 
 Marie to a convent. 
 
 What if this Miss Galdez should take a fancy to him ? 
 What ? If ? Why ? the whole proceeding was ridicu- 
 lous; and yet not so ridiculous after all, since marriages 
 after this prosaic and practical manner were very com- 
 mon among the Spanish-speaking people around San 
 Lorenzo. Well, he needn't marry her, if he did not like 
 hpr ; and she couldn't marry him in spite of himself. He 
 felt like a fool, and turned back. What was the use of 
 that ? Will Detnpsey would only laugh at his sentimen- 
 talism. He went on, wondering whether Maria Galdez 
 was at all like Marie Regnier or not. He considered 
 Will's photograph of the fat little Galdez baby hideous ; 
 but ugly babies are proverbial for becoming pretty. 
 
 Jt was an unpleasant ride; and yet, when the oleanders 
 jn front of Padre David's house met his eyes, he was 
 mildly expectant. He looked up and down the road be- 
 fore he dismounted, hoping to catch a glimpse of the 
 young lady before she saw him. 
 
 Three people were standing in the garden. One was 
 Padre David, gray-haired and bent, with soutane tucked 
 up around him, reading his breviary. Bernard was anx- 
 ious to attract his attention quietly. Singular as it may 
 appear, he wanted to get permission to "brush up a 
 little" before the Mexican beauty, who dwelt somewhere 
 in San Jacinto, would see him. The other persons in the 
 garden were a stout, light-haired man who had a spade, 
 and a slim, dark youth who had a book. 
 
 The stout man caught sight of Bernard and opened 
 the gate.
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY. 27 
 
 " I recognize you, monsieur," he said in French. " You 
 are the friend of whose distinguished features M. Demp- 
 sej has been kind enough to send us a portrait. I am 
 mile Regnier, sacristan of the church here." 
 
 Bernard bowed. The sacristan spoke to Padre David, 
 who came forward with a kind smile to shake hands with 
 Bernard. 
 
 "And this young gentleman," said the sacristan, with 
 another elaborate bow, " is Senor Maria Jose Galdez." 
 
 Bernard opened his mouth. The slim young man 
 smiled and held out his hand. 
 
 " You can't he can't she can't " stammered Ber- 
 nard " are you the twin ?" 
 
 " The only twin," cut in the sacristan, with a bow. 
 
 " Is this Maria ? I thought there was a lady " 
 
 " This is Maria, the ward of M. Dempsey," interrupted 
 the sacristan, looking a littled puzzled. " One will speak 
 the English, if you prefer it. The only lady here is my 
 sister ; here she is ! " 
 
 And from the clump of camellias which shaded the 
 door of the priest's modest cottage came Marie Regnier, 
 carrying Padre David's cup of foaming chocolate. She 
 was brighter and prettier than ever. Her cheeks rivalled 
 the oleander blossoms when she saw Bernard. 
 
 " Monsieur Bernard ! " 
 
 Then there followed more exclamations and explana- 
 tions, but Bernard was prudently silent. Marie had 
 something to tell Bernard of his mother. It was not 
 much : she had seen his mother at Mass once or twice ; 
 but it was pleasant for Bernard to hear. 
 
 Bernard was in no hurry to return to San Lorenzo 
 Ranch. Padre David had many sermons on abstruse 
 theological subjects to read to him, and the good priest, 
 happy in having such an appreciative listener, said :
 
 28 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 "Ah! amigo, yon ought to have been a Levite ; how 
 fortunate would I have been with such an assistant ! You 
 ought to have been a priest, my boy." 
 
 Bernard shook his head. " It is not God's will, father. 
 My father and mother especially the dear old mother- 
 longed with a holy and steadfast longing that I might 
 serve the altar. It nearly broke my heart, and I am 
 afraid it broke hers, when I found that I had no vocation. 
 It was the saddest 
 
 " You had proper direction ; you prayed you " 
 
 '' Yes, yes," interrupted Bernard. " My confessor 
 knew me thoroughly, and I prayed with all my heart for 
 light. But it was plain that I had no vocation for the 
 highest, holiest, most difficult calling under heaven. 
 Think what it is to be a priest ! And yet, seeing how 
 my mother had set her heart on giving me wholly to 
 God, I was almost tempted to please her. It was the 
 saddest day of my life when I told her it could not be ! " 
 Bernard's eyes moistened, and he paused. "O Father 
 David ! how beautiful her desire seemed to me. You 
 don't know how she had worked for it half her life, how 
 she had thought of it, prayed for it. But it takes more 
 than even a good mother's will to make a priest. I 
 would have given ten years of my life to make her 
 happy ! You see how pure, how unselfish was her am- 
 bition." 
 
 Padre David thought for a moment. Then he smiled 
 slightly and took a pinch of snuif. 
 
 " And now the little Marie Regnier is teaching you to 
 make chocolate in the Mexican fashion ! Ah ! the poor 
 old mother. But she will live again in her grandchildren 
 and pray that one of them may be a priest." 
 
 Bernard reddened and asked Padre David to go on
 
 A TRAGI-COMEDY. 29 
 
 with his sermon the one. for Palm Sunday, which was 
 short. 
 
 Bernard Devir, on his return to San Lorenzo Ranch, 
 presented a very amiable and charming person to old 
 Will, to whom he said : 
 
 " I have brought back a wife, according to your in- 
 structions." 
 
 Will Dempsey gradually permitted himself to be cap- 
 tivated by Marie ; but for some time he denounced the 
 Mexican fashion of calling " boys by girls' names." He 
 declared he would never forgive the twin for " being a 
 boy." Finally he relented. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The old couple talked many times, after the sharpest 
 grief of Bernard's leaving had been blunted, of the glory 
 of that Commencement Day. Jack Dempsey visited 
 them occasionally, and they were very proud of these 
 visits. He was as jolly as ever, but there was a recollec- 
 tion about him as of an interior but subdued brightness. 
 Again and again Mrs. Dempsey had said, with a sigh : 
 
 " Wouldn't his mother be the happy one if she could 
 have lived to get his blessing after his first Mass ! " 
 
 One day she said to Jack : " I'm afraid the father and 
 me were too anxious about Barney, and may be we wor- 
 ried him a bit. But indeed, Mr. Dempsey, it was only 
 the will of God we wanted done, and it seemed as if he 
 were running against it." 
 
 The bitterness of the disappointment seemed to be 
 fading away. So soon as this mother began to feel that 
 her son might be doing the will of God, although not
 
 30 THE MFi: A HOUND US. 
 
 having received the highest gi*ace, she thanked God for 
 his goodness. 
 
 When the letter came from San Jacinto, asking the 
 blessing of the father and mother on the marriage of their 
 son, her lip trembled ; but she recovered herself. 
 
 "Sure," she said, "it was right to wish the best for 
 Bernard ; but, if he's got the second-best, let's be thank- 
 ful. His wife's a good Catholic, anyhow." 
 * " He says himself you were right," said Jack Dempsey, 
 who had brought the letter, " to wish that he should be 
 given to God, and he regrets that he was not worthy of 
 the grace of a vocation to the priesthood." 
 
 " Cheer up ! " chimed in Mr. Devir, as he paused to 
 scold the boy for leaving a bundle of brooms out in the 
 rain. "Cheer up, acushla ! Matrimony's a sacrament, 
 and, if Barney has received it worthily, there may be a 
 priest in the family yet ! " 
 
 Mrs. Devir smiled through her tears. 
 
 " And after Mr. Dempsey here is priested we'll take a 
 trip down to see them." 
 
 " Well, well, I will, dear," she said ; " but Barney 
 belongs to another. I could never think him to be the 
 same boy."
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 
 I. 
 
 |IIE snow, which had begun to fall about four 
 o'clock in the afternoon, came down swiftly, 
 whirling in the wind and destroying itself on the 
 lighted window-panes. It was now six o'clock. Under 
 the track of the Elevated Railroad the roadway was com- 
 paratively clear ; everywhere else the white carpet lay. 
 People who had started out in the morning under a blue 
 sky stamped energetically as the cold snow melted on 
 their shoes. In spite of the closing of day, which ought 
 to be sad ; in spite of the whirling snow, through which 
 the gas-lamps peered dimly ; in spite of the blast, that 
 pierced light coats and tried to tear away thin shawls, the 
 time was cheerful. 
 
 To many it was cheerful because work was over ; to 
 many because it was near Christmas time. 
 
 The young women coming into South Fifth Avenue 
 from the down-town factories and workshops, each with 
 her novel and lunch-box clasped close to her bosom, had 
 much to say, in loud and sprightly tones, of festivals, past, 
 present, and to come : how one had assisted at the socia- 
 ble of the Rosebud Coterie on Monday and at the assem- 
 bly of the Select Six, and how another expected to appear 
 in a new gown and compete for a prize for waltzing on the 
 succeeding Monday. " Says I's," " says he's," and " says 
 
 (31)
 
 32 THE LIFE AJIOUXI) rs. 
 
 she's" were as frequent as dropped A's in the streets of 
 London. Young male persons on various street-corners 
 raised their hats in mock politeness and expressed their 
 opinions, in stage-whispers, of the passing damsels. 
 Thereupon there was much giggling. Cheerfulness 
 reigned, principally because it was Saturday night. South 
 Fifth Avenue, dingy as it is, looked quite gay when well 
 covered up with snow. 
 
 Beyond lay Washington Square a smooth plain, a great, 
 white sheet of yet untrodden snow, silent in the bustle 
 around it. 
 
 In that lively French quarter of which Washington 
 Square is the upper boundary is the charcuterie of L. 
 Marquette. L. Marquette's veal-pies, sausages, arrange- 
 ments of ham, elaborate and mysterious, are as well 
 known even outside the French quarter as the table-d?liote 
 of his friend C. Martel in Bleecker street, where in- 
 numerable courses, a half-bottle of wine, and conversation 
 on all the leading topics of the day may be had for the 
 moderate sum of forty-five cents lawful money of the 
 United States. 
 
 Aurore Marquette finished a moss-rose as the clock 
 struck six, and descended from her little work-room over 
 the back part of the shop to join her father and mother. 
 Aurore was the daughter of " L " otherwise Louis 
 Camille Jacques. She made artificial flowers in the little 
 back room, while her father and her young brother Jean 
 managed the charcuterie, and her mother carried on a 
 laundry in the basement. " Each to his talent," Madame 
 Marquette often said. 
 
 L. Marquette always closed his shop at dusk. He had 
 imperative engagements, he said, on Saturday nights. 
 He had dressed to fulfil one of the^e engagements. He
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 33 
 
 > 
 
 was leaving the house somewhat crestfallen, for madame, 
 who did not approve of this early closing, had attacked 
 him on the subject of religion. 
 
 " Tais-toi ! " cried madame. " Thou hast no more 
 reli'gion than a pig." 
 
 "I am a Catholic," answered her husband reproach- 
 fully, " but of the liberal school of the school of prog- 
 ress." 
 
 "Thou art too liberal with thy tongue. Ya!" cried 
 rnadame. 
 
 Monsieur felt these insulting words more deeply than 
 usual. He felt himself to be a very important personage 
 this evening, for he was about to preside over a dinner of 
 the Cercle Voltaire at the restaurant of C. Martel, where 
 free thought was poured out abundantly. 
 
 Madame Marquette was not very religious ; like many 
 of her class she came of a race of Burgundian peasants 
 she looked on priests with a certain terror because they 
 reminded her of death. 
 
 Aurore was diiferent. She never missed Mass; she 
 approached the sacraments frequently ; her father paused 
 in his abuse of religion while she was present. Madame 
 approved of this. She believed that religion was good 
 for young women ; and of course, when one became old, 
 very old, and had nothing else to do, one ought to be 
 devout. That went without saying. But the laundry 
 and the accounts of the charcuterie took all her time; 
 besides, if one went to the priests, the priests were likely 
 to come to one for something. Madame worked hard for 
 Jean. She loved Jean ; one day he should go back to 
 Burgundy, live on the land she would buy him, and be a 
 gentleman. So far Jean was abominably American ; but, 
 though disappointed, madame felt that this might be 
 3
 
 34 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 
 
 overcome. She was very indulgent to Jean ; Aurore she 
 kept with a tight rein. She adored in the French sense 
 the performances of opera-bouffe, but she would have 
 swooned if Aurore had entered a theatre. Aurore had 
 much less freedom than the young girls around her. 
 Having lived in a tenement-house during a great part of 
 her life, she knew more of life than girls of seventeen 
 are supposed to know. She was good and pure. She 
 had been sent to a parochial school, taught by Sisters, for 
 two years. 
 
 After that, there heing no room in the laundry for her, 
 she was set to the moulding of caramels in the small 
 factory of her uncle, Napoleon Champflenry, in Houston 
 street. But again madame said, Chacun d son metier, 
 and Aurore went into the artificial-flower business with 
 success. 
 
 The Marquette household was much more comfortable 
 than many of the households near it. The principal 
 reason of this was that Madame Marquette owned the 
 house she lived in, so that there was no landlord to be 
 reckoned with, and a great deal of the combined earnings 
 of the charcuterie and the laundry were put into bank by 
 madame with a view to Jean's future aggrandizement. 
 Madame tolerated her husband, respected Aurore, and 
 worshipped Jean. Hard as a rock in her dealings with 
 the world at large, she could refuse him nothing. The 
 future, when her beloved son should be a proprietor in 
 her native commune, adding land to land, was real to her. 
 She thought of it, planned for it, every day of her life. 
 She was indefatigably industrious. When other people 
 could barely make both ends meet, Madame Marquette 
 could make them lap over. 
 
 Her husband and she were materialists. He, echoing
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 35 
 
 his favorite Paris orators and journals, believed that liberty 
 meant entire freedom from restraint ; that the flesh and 
 the world were to be cherished as the only existing 
 things; that the devil was an invention of the priests. 
 He held that religion was good for young girls and old 
 women, but he often said, with the applause of the Cercle 
 Yoltaire, that a woman's husband should be her only 
 confessor. And yet when the sharp point of a skewer 
 had run into his side he had howled and yelled for a 
 priest, and blasphemed horribly because the priest was 
 slow in coming. When the priest did come the brave 
 Monsieur Marquette had discovered that the wound was 
 trivial, so he apologized, and, as it was Friday, invited 
 " Monsieur le Cure to dine off a ravishing haricot of 
 mutton." He was superstitious. He was sullen all day 
 when anybody upset the salt. Once, when he found he 
 had dined with twelve other men at the Cercle Yoltaire, 
 he went home and lay sick for a week. " 
 
 Madame had her "feelings" about religion. Once, 
 when Jean had the scarlet fever, she went to church to 
 pray. She fasted rigorously on Good Friday, eating 
 only tripe, although the other Fridays were nothing to 
 her, and she crossed herself whenever she spilled the salt. 
 She would cheerfully have sent Aurore to the Protestant 
 Episcopal mission-school, but both Jean and Aurore had 
 been insulted by a tract distributor who offered to give 
 them new clothes, so they had been sent to the parochial 
 school of St. Alphonsus. 
 
 Louis Marquette was never weary of uttering foul 
 threats against " the enemy," the priest. 
 
 " Tais-toi ! " cried madame. " It is true that they 
 take our substance and give us nothing in return ; but 
 thou shalt not abuse them in thy loud voice in the shop.
 
 36 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 The Americans do not understand thee. They think 
 thou art a fool, and some day an Irlandais sauvage will 
 break thy head. To hear thee talk one would think that 
 thou art a pagan, that thou hadst never made thy First 
 Communion." 
 
 " I am not an animal ! " answered Marquette, stung by 
 the insinuation about the First Communion. 
 
 It seemed strange to the Americans who knew this 
 pair and others like them, so utterly earthy and so ill- 
 instructed, that a Catholic country could have produced 
 them. 
 
 To eat, drink, work, sleep, to attend occasionally a 
 cafe concert in Fourteenth street or the Bowery, to 
 spout at the Cercle Voltaire, to be seen with madame at 
 the annual ball of the Societe* Industrielle, was the life of 
 this human being. A short, stout, bull-necked man, with 
 a close-cropped bullet-head, white-skinned, with sharp, 
 black eyes and plump hand, was Marquette. He gen- 
 erally wore a cook's cap and apron. 
 
 Madame was short in stature, blonde, not yet fifty, 
 good-natured, but firm and a thorough woman of busi- 
 ness. Manette and Ninon did the work of the laundry. 
 "Madame saw the customers, kept the accounts, and 
 marked the " pieces " with red silk threads. 
 
 Aurore had the smooth, delicately pink-tinted com- 
 plexion which seems to us essentially French because we 
 always find it on the covers of the old-fashioned Paris 
 bon-bon boxes. The good boy, with a stiff white rosette 
 and a prayer-book in his hand, in these works of art, 
 always has it. She had large, black eyes, bright and 
 alert, a slight figure, neatly dressed. She was not per- 
 mitted to wear the gilded ornaments which gave her ac- 
 quaintances such fictitious glory. When Aurore was not
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 37 
 
 making artificial flowers she was knitting. Aurore was a 
 good Catholic ; she had become used to her parents' man- 
 ner of life, but she was not influenced by it. Although 
 very much of a French girl, it seemed " foreign" to her. 
 
 Most of the working-girls of Aurore's acquaintance 
 spent their days in hard work and their nights in revelry. 
 They lived in their work-shops ; spent a few hours in the 
 tenement-houses where they dwelt ; the rest was dancing 
 and gas-light assemblies in the winter, picnics in the 
 summer. 
 
 Jean Marquette, Aurore's brother, was no stranger to 
 this social revelry of which one-half the world of New 
 York knows so little. He ran wild. Jean had no sym- 
 pathy with the views of his father, who was u French," 
 and consequently, in Jean's progressive eyes, imbecile. 
 Aurore spoke a kind of patois with her father and 
 mother ; Jean rarely condescended to anything but the 
 slang of the Bowery. Jean was a taller, slimmer edition 
 of his sister, with a rougher skin, but with similar large, 
 alert eyes and an indefinable air of New York " know- 
 ingness." 
 
 While the snow fell and the trains on the Elevated 
 Railroad thundered through it, while Marquette uttered 
 ribaldry over his chasse-cafe at C. Martel's, while the 
 Bowery, further down, began to flare and glare, while 
 God waited almost deserted on the altar of St. Alphon- 
 sus', while Careless laughs sounded from the crowds on 
 their way to the theatres, madarne dozed in the little 
 office of the laundry in the basement over her pint of 
 Beaujolais, Aurore knitted, and Jean pitched a penny in" 
 a corner. A whistle, quick and sharp, sounded outside. 
 Aurore hoped that Jean had not heard it. She knew it 
 was the usual Saturday-night signal. It meant the gal-
 
 88 THE LIFE AROUND I >. 
 
 lery of a theatre with a boon companion and a night of 
 anxiety for her. All night she would lie awake fearing 
 that her father would discover that Jean was out, fear- 
 ing, above all, that Jean would drink whisky. Aurore, 
 who would have seen with perfect equanimity Jean drink 
 glass after glass of claret or Burgundy, had an inexpres- 
 sible horror of whisky. 
 
 The whistle was heard again. Jean raised his head. 
 
 "Ha!" he said in a dramatic whisper. "'Tishe! I 
 must dissemble! We may be happy yet. Farewell, 
 Aur-o-r-r-re ! " 
 
 " Don't go, Jean. Stay with maman and me. Just 
 this once ! Do ! " 
 
 Jean put his finger to nis nose derisively. " What do 
 you take me for? Mom's asleep and you're not much 
 fun. See you later! Ned Barnes is waiting for me." 
 
 " Stop, Jean ! Bring him in. Let me see what kind 
 of a boy he is." 
 
 " Can't. He's boss, but he's shy. And the old lady 
 would raise the neighborhood if I brought a boy in here. 
 Good-bye. Wait up for me this once and let me in. I'll 
 go to confession next week, I swear." 
 
 " Ah ! Jean, you've promised before." 
 
 " Yes, I will 1 will, Aurore, just to spite the old 
 man." 
 
 "Don't say that, Jean ; you don't mean it." 
 
 " Tu paries ta douce vie ! yon bet your sweet life I 
 do ! I'm off, Aurore. I've got seventy-five cents. Wait 
 up now, like a daisy ! " 
 
 " O Jean ! I will, if you promise not to drink the 
 whisk-ee!" Aurore cried imploringly. To this Jean 
 answered by forming his hands into the shape of a cup 
 and drinking with much apparent gusto.
 
 LILIES AMONG THOKNS. 39 
 
 The whistler without struck up a lively melody. Ma- 
 dame awoke, and Jean slipped out. Madame raised her 
 glass to her lips and looked around. 
 
 " Dame ! " she said, " where's Jean ? " 
 
 " Gone out, maman." 
 
 " Aurore, you should have kept him in. He is becom- 
 ing like the Americans, an infidel, a spendthrift, a vaurien, 
 respecting neither religion nor his parents. I shall take 
 him back to France soon for his education. America," 
 said madame, with a solemn shake of her head, " is a bad 
 place for boys. They grow careless. They ought to 
 make their First Communion and marry well. But 
 here," sighed madame, " there is no dot / they can not 
 marry well." 
 
 "I hope Jean will not drink the whisk-ee," sighed 
 Aurore. 
 
 " Bah ! " retorted madame. " The boy must have his 
 fredaine dejeunesse ; he must amuse himself. He came 
 home the other night smelling of the whisk-ee, and I 
 said, ' At whose wedding have you been ? ' and I scolded 
 him well. He begins young. It is the way of the 
 Americans; but it will be the sooner over. Thou 
 wouldst make a little priest of him," cried madame 
 fiercely, dropping into the patois, " with thy confessions 
 and scapulars ; but I want no priests here. I . would 
 strangle him if I thought he would wear a beretta. No 
 money of mine shall ever make a priest, Aurore. Bah 1 
 Let the boy alone ! " 
 
 Aurore smiled a little at the idea of Jean as a priest. 
 
 " No," said madame. " Ni Vhomme, nifemme, pretre. 
 No priest shall ever handle my money, Aurore." 
 
 Aurore sighed and went on with her knitting. Ma- 
 dame turned to speak to a customer who had entered.
 
 40 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Jean met his friend. 
 
 Ned Barnes' hands were thrust into his pockets; he 
 wore no overcoat, and this partly accounted for the vigor 
 with which he whistled and danced clog-steps on the side- 
 walk. Ned was a rough-looking boy, for he had just 
 come from work. 
 
 " Halloo, Johnny ! " he said. " Thought you'd never 
 come ! '' 
 
 " You're early. Had your supper yet ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " So much the worse for you. Which shall it be, 
 Niblo's or the Grand Opera House? There's a boss 
 show at the Grand Opera." 
 
 The boys shuffled along aimlessly, making a shrill duet 
 of the popular " Yoici le Sabre," and exchanging snow- 
 balls at various corners with friends or enemies. Jean 
 had a copious vocabulary of slang, which he used un- 
 sparingly. 
 
 " Haven't seen you out at night lately, Ned. What 
 have you been doing ? Did your mother bar the door ? " 
 
 " Been studying." 
 
 " Studying ? " 
 
 "Yes; Latin." 
 
 Jean gave a prolonged whistle. Ned turned up the 
 steps of St. Alphonsus' Church. 
 
 "What's that for?" asked Jean. "Let us turn back. 
 Why are you going in there ? " 
 
 " Because I think I ought to go and you ought to come 
 with me." 
 
 Jean hung back. " Say, Ned, don't let us go to-night. 
 Some other night. I've got the chink and we can have 
 a good time. Besides, I'll get blazes if I go ; I have not* 
 been for an awful long time."
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 41 
 
 Ned gently pushed him up the steps. Once inside 
 Jean said to himself that he was " dished.'' The boys 
 entered a pew and knelt. Jean's heart felt like lead, and 
 he looked longingly toward the door. Ned had thought- 
 fully taken possession of the end of the pew. The peren- 
 nial light burning before the tabernacle seemed to Jean 
 like an eye watching him. The dim lights and the sight 
 of bowed forms waiting for their turn to enter the con- 
 fessional made him gloomy. But the tranquil influence 
 of the place gradually benumbed his restlessness. There 
 was an old prayer-book lying in the pew. Jean, seeing 
 by Ned's position that there was no chance of escape, 
 picked it up and began to read. It happened to be one 
 of those volumes, translated with more zeal than discre- 
 tion from the French, which contain a most varied, mi- 
 nute, and scrupulous u examination of conscience." 
 
 " I ain't so bad, after all," he whispered to Ned. " I've 
 never done more than half of them things." There was a 
 little of the pharisaical in the tone in which he added : 
 "Human respect? What's human respect? Is it a 
 sin ? " 
 
 " Mind your own sins, Johnny, and don't be looking 
 after other people's." 
 
 ''He'll give me h ; oh ! blazes, there's another 
 
 cuss-word ! " Jean knelt down again and beat his breast 
 vigorously. " Say, Ned, let's put it off for to-night. I 
 can't remember any thing. And there's an old crow just 
 gone into the box. She'll keep the priest all night. 
 Come ! " 
 
 .Ned was immovable. Jean nudged him in vain. For 
 a time Jean listlessly watched the light before the 
 tabernacle and the shadows of some kneeling figures, 
 veiled in semi-gloom, waiting for a confessor who had
 
 42 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 not jet come. He found it hard to contemplate the 
 dreadful task before him without a tremor of the nerves. 
 He recalled several important transgressions; he said the 
 Act of Contrition ; but a phantasm of the theatre, with 
 its Saturday-night crowds and glittering lights, arose be- 
 fore his eye?. A priest, from whose confessional the old 
 woman alluded to in expressive Bowery dialect as the 
 " old crow " had come, opened the door, looked over a 
 group of kneeling women, and beckoned to the two boys. 
 Jean shrank back. Ned pulled and pushed him. Hard- 
 ly before he know it Jean knelt in the dark box, facing 
 the grating. The slide flew back and the priest spoke in 
 an encouraging voice. It was all over in a few minutes. 
 
 Jean was soon kneeling near Ned in the pew. 
 
 After a while they stood on the steps and simultaneous- 
 ly drew a long breath. 
 
 " It's awful easy when it's over," said Jean. 
 
 " Was he hard \ '' 
 
 " I should smile," answered Jean. " I feel as clean as 
 a whistle ! " 
 
 Jean ran home, all thought of the theatre gone. He 
 told Aurore, arid she kissed him. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ned Barnes, after leaving Jean with a promise to meet 
 him on Sunday afternoon, ran for some distance along 
 South Fifth Avenue until he came to a dingy shop- 
 window. There were ancient pistols in it, labelled with 
 low "cash " prices, a collection of unpolished silverware, 
 diamonds in settings more or less damaged, a shawl or 
 two, a big Bible, a little child's frock, all marked with a
 
 LILIES AMONG THOKOSTS. 43 
 
 price in black and white. It was a pawn-shop. The 
 space in front of the counter was filled by anxious, drag- 
 gled women and unwashed men, just from their work, 
 exchanging tickets for necessary articles they had pawned 
 during the week 
 
 In one case it was a good coat ; in another, pillows 
 and sheets ; in another, a woman's gown. The only 
 luxury drawn out while Ned was there on this Saturday 
 night was an old violin. Ned waited, jingling some 
 coins in his pockets, until it came to his turn. He gave 
 his ticket for a bundle which contained a blanket shawl ; 
 then he left. The crowd of eager applicants increased. 
 Those who were waiting to redeem articles were general- 
 ly sad-looking people, but not dissipated. Those who 
 came to deposit things were wretched and dissipated. It- 
 was plain from their faces that the pittance thus gained 
 would be spent during the night in drink. 
 
 Ned stopped at a shop to buy a salt mackerel, a loaf of 
 bread, and a little tea. 
 
 Whistling cheerfully, he plunged into a narrow street 
 where the snow melted on sidewalks encrusted with the 
 dirt of many summers and winters. On the coal-box at 
 the corner of this street three young men two keeping in 
 a sitting position the third, who was drunk were singing. 
 Two young girls waiting at the same corner joined their 
 voices in the song, and then accepted the invitation of the 
 young men to enter the grocery for a drink. This gro- 
 cery-shop was evidently a resort for the neighborhood ; 
 people with baskets were entering, but more especially 
 children earned pitchers and cans. The principal traffic 
 of the place was not in solids. 
 
 Ned paused at the door of a tall house. His entrance 
 was intercepted by the body of a woman, whose tin can
 
 44 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 lay empty beside her. She had evidently fallen in the; 
 act of going to get it refilled. A young man was trying 
 to pull her into the hull. She was a middle-aged woman, 
 the mother of the man. She resisted stupidly, trying to 
 seize the handle of the can. 
 
 'Halloo, Barnes ! Give us a hand. Mom's on another 
 spree and I want to get her into the hall. I've got an 
 engagement down-town and I can't afford to fool away 
 my time here. We'll move her inside. She'll be sobered 
 off by the time I get back." 
 
 " All right, Mack," said Ned. 
 
 Together they lifted the woman or the semblance of 
 a woman into the hall. Her face was distorted and 
 bloated ; she opened her lips, and from them issued a 
 strain of foul imprecations, mingled with the smell of stale 
 beer. 
 
 Neither Ned nor her son noticed this. They were 
 used to it. Mack, when the woman had been put in a 
 sitting posture against the wall, invited Ned to join him 
 in a "racket" at the ball of the Grand Moguls. Ni-d 
 shook his head and ran through the hallway to a court in 
 the rear of the house. This court was tilled with piles of 
 ashes and refuse, mercifully whitened by the snow. 
 There was another house, a six-story building. Each 
 story had what looked like a small balcony with an iron 
 railing. Each of these fire-escapes was filled with flower- 
 pots, cooking utensils ; old pieces of carpet floated in the 
 wind. They gave the house a very ragged appearance. 
 In all the windows of all the six stories lights shone. 
 The house seemed as full as a bee-hive. There was a 
 great deal of noise, showing that the inhabitants were 
 active. 
 
 Against the background of a bed -post a man could be
 
 LILIES AMOXG- THOKNS. 45 
 
 seen shaving himself in one window, stopping occasion- 
 ally to refresh himself from a beer-can. Children, some 
 of them shivering and half-dressed, were climbing the 
 stairs, pitchers or cans in hand. It was Saturday night, 
 and the beverage of Gambrinus flowed the milk and 
 honey of this miserable, unknown land. The dreadful 
 dirt and dilapidation of this rear tenement-house were 
 masked in the daytime by the house in front of it. 
 
 It was !Ned's home. He ran up the narrow stairs with 
 a light heart. There were sounds of laughter and of 
 wrath ; evil words and curses came from out open doors. 
 From other rooms came savory odors and a clatter of 
 dishes. A young girl, dressed in light silk and gauze 
 for few of these people were too poor to have gay clothes 
 when occasion required was being admired by a group 
 of neighbors on a landing, she holding a kerosene-lamp 
 over her head. Two women on the landing above were 
 lighting about lighting the corridor. The place was a 
 Babel ; yet it was Ned's home, and it is the home of many 
 like him. where lilies grow and bloom in the company of 
 poison-bearing weeds. 
 
 Here Virtue and Vice jostle each other, meet each 
 other on the stairs, speak to each other day after day. 
 Here the libertine is one of the household with the pure 
 of heart. Strangers breathing corruption and contamina- 
 tion live within these gates ; and here Vice becomes so 
 familiar that Virtue does not even blush in her presence. 
 The little children learn the language of blasphemy be- 
 fore they can utter their own names ; and to the young 
 those things which Christians veil in mystery are as open 
 books. Here the prayer and the curse are heard side by 
 side, and the saint dies in the room next to the despair- 
 ing sinner. It is a wonderful microcosm. And those
 
 46 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 who ought, know ?o little of it ! The animalculas that 
 exist in a drop of Mediterranean water are as unknown to 
 some of us as those people who are forced by poverty to 
 have such strange companions. 
 
 Ned knocked at a door on the fifth floor. It was 
 opened at once by his mother. Her face, which was pale 
 and stamped with the imprint of many trials, brightened 
 as she kissed him. He gave her a hearty smack in re- 
 turn, and stepped back into the passage to shake the snow 
 from his shoes. She watched him with a look of the 
 deepest affection in her dark blue eyes those Irish eyes 
 that are never without sadness after the first sparkle of 
 mirth has passed out of them. She was not old, and yet 
 she seemed old. There was no gray hair in the brown 
 bands smoothed over her wrinkled brow, and there was a 
 look of serenity in her face as her eyes rested on Ned, 
 and at this moment it was plain that she was not much 
 over fifty ; but trials and privations had made her old- 
 looking and frail. 
 
 "I've brought your shawl, mother." 
 
 "Dear boy!" she said, closing the door and filling a 
 basin of water for him to wash with. " I can go to Mass 
 now. How I missed that shawl ! " 
 
 She wore a faded but scrupulously clean calico gown, 
 with a little collar of the same stuff at the neck. 
 
 Ned plunged his head into the basin with a splash. 
 
 " Suppose you had not been paid to-night, Ned, what 
 a difference it would have made to us ! And Monday 
 Christmas, too. I could not have gone to Mass in this 
 dress ; it would kill me in this weather. I wonder if the 
 people who pay for work ever think what a difference the 
 time of paying out a little money makes to the poor \ " 
 
 " The people around here wouldn't have so much beer
 
 LILIES AMONG THOKNS. 47 
 
 to-night if they hadn't been paid," said Ned out of the 
 folds of the towel. 
 
 " Poor creatures ! " 
 
 She set about frying the mackerel and some potatoes at 
 a cooking-stove. The well-trimmed and scrupulously 
 clean kerosene-lamp lit a room which was sparsely fur- 
 nished, yet cheerful. Ned had a bed in a sort of closet 
 off the room. The floor was white ; it had been scrubbed 
 and rest-rubbed. The walls were white, too ; a picture 
 of the Sacred Heart over the lounge which served for 
 Mrs. Barnes' bed, and a scarlet geranium in the window, 
 showing against a white shade, were the only patches of 
 positive color. There was a patch of worn carpet in the 
 centre of the room, and a packing-box covered with 
 muslin, surmounted by a scrap of looking-glass. A table, 
 two chairs, and a stool completed the furniture. Ned's 
 face was cheerful and ruddy as he took down a few pages 
 which had been torn from a book, and began to study 
 them, while his mother prepared supper. 
 
 Years ago Mrs. Barnes had come from Ireland in posses- 
 sion of all the good which fortunate young girls get in the 
 nuns' schools in Ireland. She was deft, industrious ; she 
 was intelligent and well instructed. She served in a 
 family as half housemaid, half seamstress; then she mar- 
 ried Tom Barnes. Tom Barnes was a giant of a North 
 Carolinian, long-bearded and long-legged. He had come 
 to New York because he knew that skilled labor com- 
 manded the highest wages there. Having nothing to do 
 on Sundays, he wandered into Catholic churches, and in 
 a year's time entered the Church. He saw his future 
 wife in St. Peter's one morning at Mass. He asked the 
 priest to introduce him. The wooing was not long 
 a-doing. It was a very happy marriage. Tom lived in
 
 48 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 a populous neighborhood. He was open-handed and 
 open-hearted. He was a machinist earning good wages, 
 and there was nothing niggardly about him. He was of 
 such a sunny temperament that he could not foresee a 
 rainy day. When he died there was intense grief in his 
 neighborhood. His wife's countrymen were particularly 
 sorrow-stricken. He had been a good friend to many of 
 them. 
 
 " Many's the job of work he's got for me," said one of 
 them, " and if I spend my last cent I'll follow him in a 
 coach to Calvary the morning." 
 
 And he did spend his last cent, and more too ; for the 
 family clock found its way to the pawn-shop, and was 
 not redeemed until several months after Tom Barnes' 
 grand funeral. 
 
 It was a grand funeral. The priest of the parish per- 
 mitted only ten carriages at any funeral ; but seventy-six, 
 by actual count, kept around the corner. The wreaths, 
 anchors, crosses, scythes, etc., done in flowers, had to be 
 drawn in a separate carriage to the grave. It was gen- 
 erally said that Tom Barnes' friends had done their duty 
 most handsomely. 
 
 A little more than a year had passed since this great 
 ebullition of gratitude and admiration, and Mrs. Barnes 
 panned her shawl to help pay a month's rent which would 
 not have reached the sum paid by sorrowing friends for 
 t\\o of the carriages in that now-forgotten cortege! 
 " Tal es la vida ! " said the Spanish woman across the 
 pa -.-age, who remembered the great floral display. 
 
 $ed was "general utility" in an office down-town. 
 His mother sewed when she could see ; but her eyes were 
 not always to be depended upon. Ned's education had 
 stopped short when his father died. He had learned to
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 49 
 
 read, write, and cipher. It was intended by botli his 
 parents that he should have a great chance. And this great 
 chance they talked of, dreamed of, but said little of it to 
 Ned. They hoped and prayed that he might one day 
 become a priest. How closely the mother watched him ; 
 how happy the father was when he found Ned, when a 
 little boy, imitating the chant and swinging an imaginary 
 cencer ! Nothing was said to the boy about it ; but the 
 father and mother prayed much. 
 
 Ned was a cheerful, boisterous boy, always ready for 
 fun, never still, not particularly fond of study. He had 
 never missed a baseball match, if he could help it ; but 
 no day had passed, since he had been taught to say it, that 
 he had omitted his rosary. He was outwardly a rough- 
 and-tumble fellow, ready with his tongue and his fist, but 
 also ready to say or to do a kind thing, and never afraid 
 to do what he thought was his duty. 
 
 The office-work, after his days at home and school, was 
 hard. But he " pitched into it " with all his might. It 
 was a great blow he felt it more and more every day 
 to lose a hope which of late had become more and more 
 defined. This was the hope his parents had secretly 
 cherished the hope of becoming a priest. He had 
 served Mass and he knew the pronunciation of Latin. 
 He had found, among the waste paper that fell to his 
 share at the office, a few leaves from a Latin grammar. 
 They contained only the declensions of "mensa" and 
 "dominus," with other nouns and notes. But he made 
 the most of them. These leaves were treasures to him. 
 He pored over them every night. His mother was 
 obliged a delightful obligation ! to hear him .recite 
 them over and over again. 
 
 He must work. His mother was dependent on him. 
 4
 
 50 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Work, work, work stretched out before him until death. 
 He could not be idle a day ; the rent must be paid, food 
 found. Should his work fail, his only frierid was the 
 pawn-shop. Yet nothing, he said over and over again, 
 was impossible to God. His mother had guessed what 
 secrets of their eons' hearts do not mothers guess ? his 
 aspiration. There was now no need of secrecy, and they 
 talked it over often. These were happy hours, as they 
 sat near the little cooking-stove and made this loving plan 
 for the glory of God. What if the house shook at times 
 with the mad and drunken revelry of the tenants around 
 them ? Here was an oasis of peace and hope. 
 
 Ned had a good appetite. His mother smiled as she 
 tilled his plate a second time ; she asked him cheerful 
 questions; but, nevertheless, this Saturday before Christ- 
 mas had brought her a great disappointment. In one of 
 the second-hand book-stores she had seen a Latin gram- 
 mar. For months she had made little economies to sur- 
 prise Ned with this longed-for book on Christmas morn- 
 ing. But Ned's employer had gone out of town the week 
 before and forgotten to pay him his weekly five dollars. 
 The rent came due that week, and to pay it for the 
 landlord never waited for very poor tenants she hail 
 been compelled to sacrifice her little hoard and to pawn 
 her shawl. It was a sore disappointment to her. 
 
 Ned told her how he had got Jean Marquette to go to 
 confession. She was pleased. 
 
 " It will bring a blessing on you, Ned." 
 
 " Just think, mother, the poor fellow had not been to 
 confession for two or three years ! It's because his as- 
 sociations are bad." 
 
 Mrs. Barnes smiled a little. "What were Ned's associ- 
 ations ? A quarrel in the passage between a man and a
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 51 
 
 boy, each calling the other unutterable names, answered 
 her thought. The mother and son said the rosary. To- 
 morrow was Sunday, and after that would come Christ- 
 mas, so they could afford to chat long into the night. 
 
 " Mother," said Ned, " I think you'll have to take a run 
 out. Mr. Marston gave me an extra dollar to-day, arid I 
 want you to buy yourself a Chiistmas present something 
 you don't want : a bit of lace or a ribbon. I want you to 
 be extravagant just this once at Christmas, you know." 
 He pressed a silver dollar into her hand. Her eyes 
 moistened. It was so like his father! 
 
 " What would an old woman like me do with ribbons 
 or laces, dear ? " slie asked in a low voice. " Oh, dear 
 boy ! I wish you had a chance ; I'd wear a calico dress 
 all the rest of my life, and be happy to shiver with cold, 
 if I could see you on the way to being a priest of God. 
 If you had only a few years at school before your father 
 died ! If you were only fit to try for the seminary I'd 
 be willing to give you to God and go yes, I would, Ned 
 go into the almshouse myself." 
 
 " Hush, mother ! " Ned said, with singular dignity. 
 " Don't talk that way. There's no hope of one, and no 
 fear, while I have my health, of the other. God knows 
 I pray every day for ' the chance '; God knows I believe 
 I can best do his will as a priest of God. This has grown 
 stronger on me since father died. It seems to me I was 
 such a young boy before that. Don't you remember 
 what the Jesuit father at the Mass said the other day, 
 4 Obedience is better than sacrifice ' ? Let us be obedient, 
 mother, and wait." 
 
 His mother rocked herself to and fro with a sigh that 
 was very like a sob. 
 
 " Sure, Ned, we want so little, and we want only the
 
 62 THE LIFE AROUND IS. 
 
 good, and look at the people that work only for the devil 
 and have so much. Why, the least part of it would be 
 more than enough for us. It's hard to be patient, Ned, 
 although I'm an old woman and have seen your brothers 
 and sisters die one by one. And there's nothing like 
 death to teach a woman patience. I don't complain of 
 the dirt and the vileness of this place, Ned, though it's far 
 from what I've been used to ; but you you, dear boy " 
 
 She put up her fingers to her eyes and sobbed aloud. 
 
 Ned threw his arm around her neck and said : " And 
 is it richness we want at Christmas time, mother dear ? 
 Isn't that queer at such a time, when He was born in a 
 stable ? Come, dear old mother, let's go out and buy a 
 Christmas gift, to make you young again." 
 
 She kissed his red, rough hand and put her shawl 
 around her. " No, Ned, I'll go alone. There's no fear 
 that anybody will run away with me." 
 
 Ned humored her, and she left the room. 
 
 Would it be gone? Would some other anxious mother 
 have seized it before she could get it ? She need not 
 have feared so ; the inhabitants of that district did ngt 
 thirst after Latin grammars any more than they thirsted 
 after fountains of water. 
 
 She almost ran through the court and hall into the 
 street, murky, snow-filled, and almost deserted now. She 
 soon reached the book-stand. It was closed ! No, there 
 was the keeper relighting his torch, which had just gone 
 out. It flared up again. She read the legend : " Any 
 book in this row for fifty cents": The Art of Cooking, 
 Tricks with Cards, Charlotte Temple, Uncle Tom 1 8 
 Cabin. It had been there. Where was it ? Mrs. Barnes 
 turned anxiously to the man. 
 
 " I change 'em every three days," he said ; " that is, I
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 53 
 
 take out the unattractive ones." And he gave her the 
 Andrews and Stoddard's Latin Grammar from a pile 
 of " reduced forty cents." Unattractive ! How foolish 
 the man was ! Who could iind a Latin grammar unat- 
 tractive ? She paid the money, took her change, and 
 almost ran homeward. She noticed the sky was red in 
 the direction of South Fifth Avenue. She heard the 
 clangor of a steam-engine and then of another. The 
 tenement-houses, both front and rear, were all alive. Ex- 
 citement of any kind was a boon to their inhabitants, and 
 they made the most of a fire. 
 
 " God help the poor folk this night ! " murmured Mrs. 
 Barney as she hurried up-stairs with the precious book in 
 her shawl. How glad and surprised Ned would be ! She 
 pushed open the door softly. The fire burned, the lamp 
 was lit, his leaves lay on the table ; but he was gone, and 
 the horrible clangor of the fire-alarm filled the street. 
 An undefined fear took possession of the mother. 
 
 III. 
 
 When Jean had come into the little office so unexpect- 
 edly early Madame Marquette wanted to know why. 
 
 " I've been at church, ma mere, scraping the skillet," 
 said Jean, taking an old checker-board from the closet. 
 " Play, Aurore ? " 
 
 " Bah ! " said madame, " I ignore your banalites. I 
 understand not the scraping of the skillet. What is it, 
 Aurore ? " 
 
 " Jean has confessed this evening ; he will be a better 
 boy." 
 
 Madame shrugged her shoulders. " He isgood enough,"
 
 54 THE LIFE AKOUND US. 
 
 she said. " But he might be more careful with his 
 money. I don't want him to be a church-mouse, Aurore, 
 like you." 
 
 " It would be better if I were more like Aurore. Say, 
 Aurore, I saw James Connor at church. His hat was on 
 the floor at the end of the pew. I'd have hidden it, if I 
 could ; but I hadn't time. You'd have liked to see him, 
 wouldn't you, Aurore ? I tell you, he is a craw-thumper. 
 He prayed like a steam-engine ! " 
 
 Madame frowned. 
 
 " Don't talk to your sister of that Irlandais sauvage. 
 He is nothing; he is poor, and the dot of your sister 
 shall not be wasted on him. And I want her," continued 
 madame, pounding the desk emphatically with her fist 
 " I want her to be more civil to Pierre Koule, who is 
 rich, and most eloquent, your father says, at the Cercle 
 "Voltaire. He shall be her affianced. We have arranged." 
 
 "He is a mummy!" said Jean. He would probably 
 have added something exceedingly impertinent ; but he 
 recollected himself. Aurora's face flushed and she bent 
 her head over the checker-board. 
 
 Jean became restless. Checkers was a stupid game 
 after the diversions he was accustomed to. It was too 
 early to go to bed. There was nothing in the room to 
 read, except a copy of the Courrier and a dog-eared 
 novel, Les Belles Amies du Diable, a favorite of ma- 
 dame. 
 
 He yawned. " I think I'll take a walk, Aurore." 
 
 A urore trembled. If he went out alone in the gay 
 streets what might not happen ? 
 
 " May I go, too?" she asked timidly. 
 
 " Why, certainly," he said, quite gently. At other 
 times lit would have laughed at such a proposition. An-
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 55 
 
 rore put on her hat and cloak. She never thought of the 
 snow. It did not inconvenience her at all. Madame 
 made no opposition. She was lost in thought. She was 
 building her castle. Her father's farm at home arose 
 before her. Oh ! to regain it, to possess it, to add to it ; 
 to see Jean reign rich and powerful among the rich rela- 
 tives and neighbors who had slighted her ! To have him 
 take a wife from the proudest of them, to have them 
 sue for him, flatter and caress her son ! the ingrates, the 
 upstarts who had despised her ! Madame had the French 
 peasant's mania for land, but only for the land in France, 
 in her native province. 
 
 If Marquette would let her sell the house she knew 
 it would bring a good price she would draw a good 
 round sum from the bank and start with Jean for France 
 in a week's time. Aurore and Marquette could stay 
 among the Americans for a while. But Jean was becom- 
 ing spoiled ; he hated to speak JFrench ; he was an Amer- 
 ican gamin. It must be stopped. Oh ! if Marquette 
 would only consent to sell the house, she could buy the 
 old farm and add another to it at once. But Marqnette 
 was obstinate ; she knew that she could not move him on 
 this subject. He cared very little for French land. 
 Madame got angry thinking of it. She thrust out her 
 hand and hit the desk in a passion ; the lamp, which stood 
 at the edge, fell over with a crash. Madame sprang to 
 her feet. But only the chimney had broken ; the lamp 
 was safe ; it had fallen on a heap of unwashed linen. 
 Madame picked it up with a strange feeling. What if it 
 had set fire to the house ? Marquette was out, Jean and 
 Aurore were out, the bachelor tenant on the fourth floor 
 was out ; the two servants of the laundry had gone to 
 bed, but they were within call If ? Madame lit a
 
 66 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 candle and laid the lamp among the clothes. The house 
 was heavily insured. If ? The money in hand in spite 
 of Marquette, and away with Jean to France ! She ex- 
 amined the shutters and the door; then she replaced the 
 lamp on the desk, lit it, and, getting the can of kerosene, 
 poured the oil on the linen and on every inflammable 
 object in the room. She flung her shawl around her and 
 put on her bonnet. But she took the latter article off 
 again ; it might look as if she had premeditated. She 
 thought of Marquette. Could he by some chance have 
 come home earlier, letting himself in with his latch-key 
 as usual ? No ; it was too early. As to Manette and 
 Ninon, she would call them. It was all she could do 
 without risk. 
 
 " Manette ! Ninon ! " she shrieked. 
 
 There was silence. And again she called. 
 
 " What, madame ? " came back faintly. 
 
 " Fire ! " 
 
 Madame overturned the desk. The lamp was dashed 
 to pieces by the force of its fall. Instantly the flames 
 leaped from the heap of clothes, like young serpents 
 from a nest. Madame rushed into the street, the two 
 servants following her, one of them singed a little. The 
 house was old, the woodwork dry. With some satisfac- 
 tion, yet with fear in her heart, madame saw the fire al- 
 most in the twinkling of an eye envelop all the lower 
 part of the house. She shrieked and wrung her hands. 
 The neighbors swarmed around her. She acted well the 
 part of a frenzied woman. The devil seemed to have 
 taken possession of her. Her screams were appalling: 
 she would not leave the street, in spite of the efforts of 
 kind neighbors to force her into a house. When the en- 
 gines arrived the whole front of the Marquette house
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 57 
 
 was covered by the flames, which quivered and waved in 
 the wind like a fiery veil. At times the gilt letters, " L. 
 Marquette," of the sign seemed to grin in derision 
 through the fire. The firemen got to work with almost 
 superhuman quickness. 
 
 Jean and Aurore stood near madame, stupefied by the 
 suddenness of the calamity. Ned Barnes, who never 
 could resist an alarm of fire, stood near them, ready to 
 help, if possible. 
 
 Suddenly there was a sort of groan from the crowd in 
 the street. A man had appeared on the fire-escape of 
 the third story. It was Louis Marquette. His face the 
 face of a man sobered as to his mental faculties by dan- 
 ger, yet physically drunk and helpless wore an awful 
 expression of horror. It was the look of a man who saw 
 a vision of death in the air the look of a man in the 
 presence of his Judge. He crouched down on the nar- 
 row platform. The flames nid him from view for an 
 instant. Madame looked at him, and then stood up 
 rigid and silent. 
 
 There were a hundred cries from the street, which 
 were as nothing to Marquette. The firemen shot up their 
 ladders. In vain ! The horrified man clung to the rail- 
 ing of the fire-escape. 
 
 Jean had disappeared. He ran to the back of the 
 house. 
 
 A cheer burst from the people below as his face ap- 
 peared beside that of his father. Madame now seemed 
 possessed of seven devils. She swore, she tore her hair, 
 she tried to rush into the fire. The scene below was as 
 horrible as the scene above. 
 
 The chief gave an order to clear a wide space around 
 the building. It was about to fall. The firemen renewed 
 their efforts to save the neighboring houses.
 
 58 THK LIFE AROrXl) I-. 
 
 Jean was seen trying desperately to detach his father's 
 hands from the iron railings, which he held in a maniac's 
 grip. Was it the flames that wavered this time, or the 
 house? People ran away and covered their faces. It 
 was the house ! It trembled, and then, amid crushing 
 sounds and crackling smoke, fell on its own foundations ; 
 and with it sank Jean Marquette and his father to death. 
 
 A low in uiTii ur ran through the crowd of lookers-on, 
 whose faces were for a moment made visible, as in the 
 light of day, by the torrent of fire that swept down with 
 the falling house. 
 
 Madame, who had been dragged away, and who was 
 held back by strong men, struggled and tried to bite like 
 a wild animal. 
 
 When the house fell a horrible cry, the like of which 
 the listeners had never heard before, rang out : 
 
 " Jean," she cried, " my son, my son I have killed 
 him ! " 
 
 Then, like a heavy weight which the men could not 
 hold, she sank face foremost upon the trampled snow of 
 the sidewalk. 
 
 They carried her into the nearest house, and among 
 those that followed her was Mrs. Barnes. She had come 
 out in search of Ned. Aurore, attracted by her kind, 
 mild face, clung to her. Aurore felt herself to be friend- 
 less, for when she approached her mother, madame, with 
 a convulsive motion, waved her away. 
 
 So all the dreary hours of that night, while the house 
 smouldered and flamed at intervals, and the jets of 
 water sent up by the steam-engines fell in icy spray? 
 Madame Marquette lay on a bed in stony, sullen silence, 
 watched by Aurore and Mrs. Barnes; the rest of the 
 neighbors withdrew from the room, which at intervals
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 59 
 
 was reddened by bursts of flame from the opposite side 
 of the street. Only once madame spoke. Mrs. Barnes 
 had said : 
 
 "Thank God ! the other houses are safe at last." 
 
 "What matter?'' asked madame in a harsh voice. 
 " Jean is dead, and I have killed him." 
 
 Mrs. Barnes and Aurore looked at her with pity, and 
 the former said : 
 
 " It's no wonder she is out of her mind." 
 
 Mrs. Barnes once or twice had been inclined to envy 
 the Marquettes, and particularly the prospects of Jean, 
 of which madame continually boasted to all her custom- 
 ers. But now now! Mrs. Barnes shuddered and 
 thought lovingly of the dear boy at home, perhaps even 
 now bending over that cherished Latin grammar. 
 
 When the morning dawned neighbors came one by one 
 to ask for the stricken woman. She would not speak. A 
 doctor, who had been sent for, found her with her face 
 turned to the wall. She tore her hand from him when 
 he tried to feel her pulse. 
 
 Once she moved and spoke again. Jt was after 
 Mrs. Barnes had left, promising to return. Aurore had 
 tried to take her hand. She dashed it against the girl's 
 face. 
 
 " Go ! " she said, with horrible bitterness. " Go ! I 
 would it had been ten such as thou instead of my boy 
 Jean. Go, miserable ! " 
 
 Aurore shrank back, sobbing : 
 
 " O mother ! O my mother ! " 
 
 In the quietness of early morning Aurore heard a 
 manly voice she knew asking for her mother. It was 
 that of the "Irlandais sauvage," Pierre Roule's rival, 
 James Connor. It gave her comfort ; and, worn out, 
 she sank kneeling beside her mother's bed in sleep.
 
 60 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 When Mrs. Barnes came, having been refreshed by the 
 sight of Ned and his Latin grammar, and been kissed 
 over and over again, with many rapturous exclamations 
 appropriate to Christmas eve, having prayed very hard 
 that morning at Mass, she stepped lightly into the room. 
 Aurore still slept the deep sleep of weary yonth, which 
 sorrow and the presence of death itself can not break. 
 Her head lay against the bed, which was empty. 
 
 Mrs. Barnes tapped Aurore on the shoulder. The girl 
 started, bewildered ; and then, as the horror of the night 
 arose before her, she closed her eyes again and shivered. 
 
 " Where's Madame Marquette ? " 
 
 This question was never answered. A policeman had 
 seen her near the ruins of her house or somebody like 
 her. Had she wandered to the river and drowned her- 
 self ? Nobody ever knew. Her bank-book with some 
 pages torn out, and a handkerchief marked with Jean's 
 name, were found on a dock. 
 
 Afterward an acquaintance of the late L. Marquette 
 said he had caught a glimpse of madame hurrying toward 
 the wharf from which a French steamer was about to 
 start, having been delayed over Saturday. Nobody be- 
 lieved him, as he said this after the insurance people 
 began to suggest suspicions of arson. But these sus- 
 picions, as well as madame's death, remained unproved. 
 The insurance companies in time handed over to Aurore 
 the sum for which the house was insured. Aurore was 
 quite an heiress now. A change had come over her. She 
 trembled at the slightest sound ; her delicate color had 
 faded ; in her dreams she saw madame, with the face of 
 a demon, smiting her on the face and crying, "Go, 
 miserable ! " 
 
 She clung to Ned's mother, and persuaded her to go to 
 a neat little cottage in Harlem with her.
 
 LILIES AMONG THORNS. 61 
 
 It did not take Aurore long to find out the desire of 
 the hearts of this mother and son. Ever since Jean's 
 death she had tried to find some way of showing her 
 gratitude to Ned, who, under God, had saved Jean's soul. 
 He, too, might have died in his sins sins only too easily 
 committed in the corruption around him. But Ned had 
 saved him and he had died in the grace of God Jean, 
 her own dear Jean, for whom she would have given her 
 life. Not very learned, not very much given to deep 
 thought, not even very refined in the conventional sense 
 of the term, Aurore had simple faith and deep gratitude. 
 One day she went to the bank and to a lawyer. A few 
 days later she went again, and, waiting until the mother 
 and son were together in the cosey sitting-room, she 
 kissed Mrs. Barnes on the forehead and put a packet and 
 a roll of parchment on the table before her. 
 
 The packet was a roll of bills ; the parchment a deed 
 conveying a life interest in the pleasant cottage to Mrs. 
 Barnes. 
 
 " 1 gave it not to you, but to God," Aurore said 
 gravely. 
 
 After that there was no office-work for Ned, but much 
 study; and one happy day he entered the seminary at 
 Troy. 
 
 Later in the summer evenings, when the terror of that 
 Saturday before Christmas had somewhat faded out of 
 Aurore's life, James Connor, honest, faithful, and affec- 
 tionate, was often seen on the porch of the cottage. And 
 when he asked a certain question with some impatience 
 again and again, Aurore always gave him the same an- 
 swer, which was invariably followed by another question, 
 " When will Ned be ordained ? " 
 
 The time came at last. After it was all over, with the
 
 62 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 joy of ecstatic love and its awful solemnity, an old woman 
 lay in the quiet church, alone, before the high altar. Her 
 bonnet had ^llen from her head and the light from a 
 stained window bathed her in purple and gold. She lay 
 there in the attitude that Madame Marquette had taken 
 in the snow years ago, with her face against the floor. 
 Ned's mother had said her Nunc Dimittis. 
 
 Aurore's gift had indeed been given to God, and it 
 was a fruitful gift. The young priest who " saved Jean's 
 soul " has saved many others. He knows the people 
 among whom he works. He has all the firm faith of his 
 Irish ancestors and all the practical insight and readiness 
 and acuteness of his American life. Authority and reason 
 form in his mind that synthesis by which faith shall yet 
 add a new world, not to Castile and Leon, but to Christ 
 and Rome.
 
 PHILISTA. 
 I. 
 
 |T was Sunday in Philista. Philista is a town in 
 one of the Middle States. It contains several 
 flourishing pottery-works, a canal, and numerous 
 first families of intense respectability. The first families 
 are very aristocratic and exclusive. They know who 
 their grandfathers were ; and in Philista, given a grand- 
 father, a genealogy of radiance is easily constructed. Of 
 late a genealogy has became so necessary a part of every 
 well-regulated household in America that the family-trees 
 of the Philistans are much regarded by visitors ; and the 
 old graveyard, which dates much beyond the time when 
 Washington crossed the Delaware, has lost one or two of 
 its tombstones, so great is the rage of our generation for 
 memorials of its ancestors. The Stokes, of Beverly, 
 Del., for instance whose family congress is held in 
 September of every year have in their parlor, between 
 the spinning-wheel of their alleged great-grandmother 
 and a suit of armor bought in New York, one of the 
 tombstones of Philista neatly framed in gold. What can 
 be more convincing of the antiquity of a family than this? 
 Gossip may maliciously say that the Stokes had no grand- 
 father. But even G ossip ought to be silent in the presence 
 of a tombstone. 
 
 It was Sunday in Philista, and it was Sunday at the 
 
 (63)
 
 64 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Catherwoods', which is the concentrated essence of all the 
 Sabbatarian characteristics of the Philistan Sunday. The 
 street was ve^ quiet. The sunshine fell hot on the well- 
 swept pavements ; the leaves of the paper-mulberry trees 
 rustled lazily, stirred by the ghost of a breeze. It was at 
 that hour on Sunday when the smell of roast-beef taken 
 from the oven has been dissipated, when the baked po- 
 tatoes are cold and mangled, and the "help" in the 
 Philistan kitchens softly clatters the dishes and murmurs, 
 " I know a happy land," only rising to high C when she 
 breaks anything. 
 
 It was a drowsy and wretched hour. Dinner was 
 done; the younger Philistrns had, on August Sundays, 
 nothing to look forward to. There was not even the mild 
 diversion of the cold-weather Sunday-school or Bible- 
 class. All the books permitted to be read were of the 
 kind that the young Philistan despised "memoirs" of 
 holy Methodists and pious Baptists, the doctrine of pre- 
 destination arranged in an attractive primer for the use 
 of childhood, and story-books about consumptive little 
 boys who would not play on Sunday, and who died young. 
 To add to the horrors of this time, when the sweet hope 
 of dinner that had buoyed up the young soul through the 
 long sermon of the morning had been lost in fruition, the 
 parlor organs and melodeons in Jackson Street were let 
 loose. To whistle would have been profanation ; to draw 
 a violin-bow across the strings sacrilege ; to touch a piano, 
 except to bring forth some sanctimonious tune, would 
 have made the Sunday sunshine assume a rakish and 
 week-day look in the eyes of the Philistans. But to 
 manipulate the melodeon or parlor organ, of which in- 
 struments of torture each house in Jackson Street pos- 
 sessed one, was considered the proper thing for Sunday.
 
 PHILISTA. 65 
 
 And now, to such an accompaniment, voices, young, old, 
 and middle-aged, were humming the various vocal ar- 
 rangements of Moody and Sankey. Heard through the 
 hot air, " in the hush of the sunshine," there was some- 
 thing indescribably dreary in the sounds. It seemed as 
 if all Jackson Street had taken to this dismal form of 
 amusement because there was nothing else to do. 
 
 The elder Miss Catherwood sat at her melodeon in the 
 little parlor murmuring " Beulah Land." The door was 
 slightly ajar, kept so by a brick, in an embroidered cover, 
 which was wedged between it and its frame. On week- 
 days the door was open ; on Sundays it was thought 
 proper to keep it ajar. The window-shutters were 
 "bowed," and the room was in semi-gloom. The 
 chromo of " Washington Crossing the Delaware," and 
 the oil-painting of old Mr. Catherwood in the suit he 
 wore in the great Federal procession in Philadelphia, 
 were carefully covered with pink gauze to keep off the 
 flies. On the marble-topped table near ttue window was 
 a big Bible, and upon it a glass case containing a pyramid 
 of wax fruit, supposed, out of respect for tradition, to be 
 very natural. The wall-paper was covered with large 
 green roses with gilt leaves, and the carpet was red and 
 green. Tidies of worsted-work were arranged in a 
 mathematical manner on the backs of the hair-cloth sofa 
 and the chairs. On Saturday every atom of dust had 
 been ruthlessly traced to its lair by the Misses Cather- 
 wood and exterminated. While Miss Catherwood sang, 
 Miss Tamar Ann, her sister, sat in her rocking-chair and 
 moved noiselessly to and fro. 
 
 The elder Miss Catherwood had a placid expression 
 not unlike that of a sheep. Her face was white and 
 wrinkled, but of a different kind of whiteness from that 
 5
 
 66 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 of the two tight,, white curls which were visible on either 
 side of her forehead. She wore a gray gown of stiff 
 texture, and a lace collar fastened by a brooch in the 
 form of a cross made of hair. Miss Tamar Ann re- 
 sembled her sister in appearance, but her hair was only 
 sprinkled with gray ; she wore no cap ; she was shorter 
 and more alert ; her eyes, black and small, were always 
 in motion ; and, to mark her juvenility, she had her gray 
 gown distended by a hoop of the fashion that came in 
 when the Empress Enge'nie ruled the world. 
 
 Miss Catherwood's slim, long hands and low voice 
 glided from " Beulah Land " into " Almost Persuaded." 
 It was doleful enough. An unusually big fly perched on 
 Miss Tamar Ann's palm-leaf fan, and, being disturbed, 
 hummed drowsily among the green slats of the blind at 
 the window. Miss Tamar Ann dropped her fan, ceased 
 to rock herself, and quietly contemplated the hot brick 
 wall across the street. There was no other occupation 
 left for her on Sunday, except to read the Bible, as she 
 did not " play the parlor organ." 
 
 Miss Catherwood's voice broke on one of those par- 
 ticularly strained notes which the adepts in Protestant 
 devotional singing so often use. 
 
 "I was thinking," said Miss Tamar Ann, in mono- 
 tone suitable for the time, " that it was a day like this 
 when poor little Jitnmie Heed was drowned. It was an 
 awful warning to Sabbath-breakers. He would go. to 
 fish in the canal, and he fell in, you remember? It was 
 on the 15th, the Sunday after I turned my black silk, 
 and I remember thinking, 'I hope Jimmy put on his 
 clean underclothing, for if he didn't his mother will be 
 so mortified.' Dear, dear! And to think of the poor 
 child going to perdition that way !"
 
 PHILISTA. 67 
 
 Miss Catherwood had not attended to this reminiscence. 
 Her eyes were full of tears. The dismal hymns she had 
 been singing were very pathetic and solemn to her. They 
 brought into her heart a yearning that almost broke it 
 a memory of the dead which was nothing but a memory. 
 
 " 'Almost Persuaded' brings back Rosalia to me, Ta- 
 mar. I have heard the Romanists pray for their dead. 
 It would be a great relief to pray for Rosalia now, or to 
 pray to her, if she is in the ' Beulah Land.' ' : 
 
 If Miss Tamar Ann had been a Catholic she would 
 have made the sign of the cross; but she detested the 
 sign of the cross, except as an ornament for the collar or 
 in a patchwork quilt. 
 
 " I am surprised at you, Jane ! " she said, shaking her 
 head. " Poor Rosalia married a papist and died young ; 
 and if John O'Brien hadn't sent for a priest at the last, 
 she'd have died a Baptist and the Catherwoods would 
 have been spared the disgrace of seeing her buried 
 among the Irish Catholics. I don't understand how she 
 could have done it. I saw some of their crucifixions in 
 the Belgian exhibit at the Centennial Exhibition. They 
 were really distressing. But we've always done our duty 
 by Alice, and sent her over among that low crowd at St. 
 Bridget's, as we promised her father when he died. 
 There's no denying it goes against the grain, and it's a 
 disgrace. If Alice sticks to her religion who's going to 
 marry her, I'd like to know ? Not that I think she'll 
 stick to it when she sees how very low everybody con- 
 siders it." 
 
 " I don't know," answered Miss Catherwood. " I can't 
 tell. I wish," she added with some fierceness, " that 
 John O'Brien had never met our Rosalia. If she was 
 right, Tamar, we're wrong. And if she's in heaven,
 
 68 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 we'll but I want to Bee her again ! I want to see her 
 again ! It wouldn't be heaven if she wasn't there 1 " 
 
 ""Sister!" 
 
 Miss Tamar Ann's eyes actually snapped. If! 
 
 " For my part," she said, in a voice raised above the 
 appropriate monotone, " I'd rather go to a place where 
 the Good Man isn't than find there's nothing in all the 
 Bible curses against idolaters. I declare I would ! " 
 
 A faint knock sounded at the door, and it was pushed 
 open after Miss Catherwood had said " Come in." 
 
 The gentlewomen were very much fluttered when a 
 young man entered. He was rather tall, with brown hair 
 close-cropped, a wide brow, full, bright blue eyes ; a thick, 
 reddish moustache covered his lips, but the chin it left 
 visible was too finely moulded for a man's. He smiled 
 good-humoredly at the Misses Catherwood, and fumbled 
 with the red rose in the buttonhole of his light tweed 
 coat. He gave Miss Catherwood his tall white hat, 
 which she placed on the cover of the melodeon, and then 
 he asked if he might see Miss Alice. 
 
 Miss Catherwood said, " Certainly." And then, with a 
 little flush on her cheeks, " Shall I tell her your name ? " 
 
 "Mine? Oh! I beg pardon," the young man an- 
 swered, with a crispness of accent and a slight trill of 
 the "r" that contrasted pleasantly with Miss Gather- 
 wood's rather flat enunciation. " Cornelius Blake." 
 
 Miss Catherwood and Miss Tamar Ann smiled. " You 
 are the young gentleman Alice met at her cousin's in 
 Philadelphia?" 
 
 " Yes," he said. " She was kind enough to ask me to 
 come to see her, and, as I was obliged to but here she is." 
 
 A girl not much over twenty had entered from the 
 back room. She paused for an instant on the threshold,
 
 PHILISTA. 69 
 
 and glanced quickly at the visitor, as if she had heard his 
 voice, but was not quite sure who he was. She was a 
 slight young girl, having dark-brown hair and large, 
 gray-blue eyes too densely fringed with lashes not to 
 give her face what the people in Philista called a "pe- 
 culiar " expression. Her face was a pure oval, and her 
 nose a feature which nature seems to find the most dif- 
 ficult to mould correctly just escaped being Grecian by 
 being a trifle too much "tip-tilted." It was an Irish 
 type of face, in which a certain vigor of outline was cor- 
 rected, or rather contradicted, by a delicacy of color and 
 meagreness of flesh which are often observable in an 
 Irish type grafted here. Her face was quiet and pleas- 
 ant in expression ; her complexion had a singular opaque 
 whiteness, which, as it intensified the color of her eyes 
 was considered by some an additional beauty, by the 
 Misses Catherwood a sign of the heart-disease of which 
 her mother died. She moved with the gentle air that 
 characterized both her aunts. She smiled as she entered 
 the room, and shook hands with the visitor. Miss Cath- 
 erwood and Miss Tamar Ann at once arose to leave the 
 room. It was one -of the rules of etiquette in Philista 
 that old people should always disappear when the young 
 folk had visitors. 
 
 " I hope you'll invite your friend to tea, Alice," Miss 
 Tamar Ann said. 
 
 " This is Mr. Blake" 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said Miss Tamar Ann, " we know." 
 
 U I don't want to interrupt your music," said Mr. 
 Blake, showing a very good row of teeth to both aunts, 
 and appealing to Miss Catherwood. "Do go on with 
 your music. I am very fond of it." 
 
 There was an oppressive silence.
 
 70 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Music ! The mention of the terra in connection with 
 the singing of hymns on the "Sabbath" seemed most in- 
 congruous to the sisters. Music, as music, was not for 
 the Lord's day. 
 
 "I declare, Miss Catherwood," continued the visitor, 
 with his brightest smile, thinking he had not said enough, 
 " if I have an idol in this world if I have an idol in this 
 world," he repeated, fancying from something in Miss 
 Tamar Ann's look that she was deaf, " it is " 
 
 "We don't speak of idols," murmured Miss Tamar 
 Ann, nervously drawing closer to the young man. " It 
 might hurt Alice's feelings. She's a Romanist." 
 
 The young man lost his smile for a moment, and then 
 laughed a little. 
 
 "So am I!" he said. 
 
 Miss Tamar Ann gazed at his fashionable suit of 
 clothes in amazement. The Catholics in Philista were, 
 she said afterward, " such a very different class of peo- 
 ple." 
 
 " Well," spoke Miss Catherwood, " sister and I have 
 some reading to do. I hope we'll see you at tea." 
 
 But in order to be polite, and perhaps to charm the 
 Romanist with some sacred song, she played " Almost 
 Persuaded," with a slight variation caused by the E- 
 major key in the treble part of the melodeon having met 
 with an accident. 
 
 " To think," complained Miss Tamar Ann, when the 
 sisters had settled down in their bedroom to read an ap- 
 propriately gloomy book, " that a nice young man like 
 that should be obliged by the pope to end all his prayers 
 with an invocation to the Virgin !" 
 
 "It's a good thing for young men nowadays if they 
 pray at all," Miss Catherwood answered. " Most of them 
 don't."
 
 PHILISTA. 71 
 
 II. 
 
 Cornelius Blake was " a promising young man." Hie 
 father and mother had come over from Ireland, with a 
 little money earned by shop-keeping in Cork, before the 
 famine. They had settled among the Philadelphians 
 and done well. They were frugal, careful people, and 
 their six children found themselves with a snug sum to 
 begin life with when the old folk had passed away. Cor- 
 nelius was the second of these children. 
 
 He had been called " bright." He had gone through 
 the various grades of the public-school without much 
 study or thought. He was looked on by his teachers as 
 " a promising boy," and when he went into business, first 
 as an entry clerk in a dry-goods establishment and after- 
 ward as a commercial traveller for a silk house, the ad- 
 jective had clung to him. Having, like his father, been 
 frugal, he saved a little money, to which, when his father 
 died, he added the comfortable amount bequeathed to 
 him. Then he threw up business and studied law in one 
 of the multitudinous law-offices which abound in his na- 
 tive city. He mastered Blackstone and the other text- 
 books put into his hands with a fatal facility that had 
 been made second nature by the superficial training of 
 the public-schools. He had never thought about any- 
 thing in his life for more than three minutes. If he did 
 not reach a conclusion then, he "gave it up." He had a 
 very good opinion of himself, particularly of his mental 
 abilities; but a great respect for the newspapers, al- 
 though he made sprightly gibes at them. He considered 
 material progress as the test of greatness, and poverty as 
 a punishment following upon grievous sins against the
 
 72 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 spirit of American civilization. He was a Catholic; he 
 believed all that he remembered of the Little Catechism 
 he had studied in Sunday-school, which he had attended 
 irregularly after he had made his First Communion. As 
 to giving reasons for what he believed, he had literally 
 none to give. He was a Catholic " all through," he said 
 himself ; to have heard him talk you would have thought 
 that he had been dyed, religiously speaking, when young, 
 and that the color was warranted to wash. He had as- 
 sisted at Mass, approached the sacraments once or twice 
 a year, partly out of a vague fear that he might die un- 
 expectedly, and partly because his father and mother 
 would have been struck to the heart by any known 
 omission of his " duty." His brothers and sisters had 
 gone their own ways ; they had no influence on his life. 
 
 In his heart he had always felt that Providence hud 
 not treated him fairly in making him a Catholic that is, 
 in giving a mind like his into the keeping of Irish Cath- 
 olic parents. His mother poor, ignorant old soul ! had 
 always struggled against his going to the public school. 
 
 " Mike," she had said over and over again to his father, 
 " the faith's in us, blood and bone, heart and soul, and 
 nothing could change us. But the children aren't like 
 us. They're among new people, in a land of Protest- 
 ants; and who's to teach them the true religion, if they 
 don't get it in the schools ? Sure, we can't ; and if we 
 could, we haven't the time." 
 
 And Cornelius had always rebelled at this. It was an 
 "Irish" way of thinking, and he despised it; he felt 
 grateful that his father had been too enlightened to give 
 way to it. It made him shiver to think that if he had 
 gone to the parochial school, mostly attended by the sons 
 of Irish people not yet Ainericanized, and taught by Irish
 
 PHILISTA. 73 
 
 Christian Brothers, he might never have gotten rid of 
 the Cork brogue. His mother had had her way in the 
 education of the girls, but the boys all went to the public 
 schools. 
 
 " The Sunday-school's enough for them," their fatter 
 had said. " Religion isn't everything in this country ; 
 and if a boy is to earn his living, it's mighty little good 
 craw-thumping will do him." 
 
 Cornelius had come out of his succession of schools 
 triumphantly. He knew a great deal of several things. 
 He could " bound " any place in Europe, Asia, or Africa 
 at a moment's notice. He could cipher with amazing 
 rapidity and demonstrate the whole of Loomis' Geometry. 
 He had studied physiology hoinreopathically. He wrote 
 a good " business " hand. His essay on " Centrif ugal and 
 Centripetal Correlation " had taken the first prize on the 
 day of his graduation ; and his rendition of " Curfew 
 shall not Ring To-night " had " marked him," as an ob- 
 servant journalist had said on the day after commence- 
 ment, " a born orator," 
 
 He was "smart," and, though he had come out of 
 school with the conviction that he was literally a master 
 of all arts worth studying, he was by no means more of 
 a fool than nine-tenths of his fellow-citizens. What he 
 did not know speaking of reading and study he de- 
 spised. He felt that he was well equipped for life ; he 
 was sure that he was equal to anybody ; he resolved to 
 be of importance in the world. He had read a stray 
 volume of Controversy between Rev. Mr. Hughes and 
 Breckeribridge and Srnarius' book of Controversy just 
 after a " mission," when his mind had been inflamed to 
 a point of unusual devotion. But he had forgotten them 
 easily. His last teacher had recommended him to read
 
 74 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Draper's Conflict of Religion and Science. He looked 
 on that work as worthy of respect, as, indeed, he had no 
 means of contradicting the falsehoods concerning the 
 church it contains. He had, by dint of reading reviews 
 and editorials in the daily press, acquired a knack of 
 quoting Tyndall arid Huxley against his Catholic ac- 
 quaintances, as if he had read those popular authors. He 
 had worried through Daniel Deron.da and Middlemarch, 
 in order to talk about them. He had never bought a 
 book of any kind. He read newspapers unceasingly and 
 "kept up "with the magazines. Once or twice a year 
 he heard a sermon. But it made him tired to have the 
 preacher tell him what he knew already. 
 
 Having hung out his sign with " P. Cornelius Blake " 
 emblazoned on it, he discovered that there were too 
 many lawyers in Philadelphia, and, hearing of a chance 
 to enter a law-firm in Philista, he had emigrated. 
 
 He had a kind heart ; good impulses constantly arose 
 from it. He would have died rather than have done any- 
 thing dishonest or acknowledged that his Christian name 
 was Patrick. He wanted to be good arid he wanted to be 
 well thought of. So far the facts that he was a Catholic 
 $nd had a suspicion of the brogue had not gone much 
 against him, He had felt that he was an " outsider " 
 when some of his friends had made social arrangements 
 in which he had participated ; but he was not sure 
 whether this had been only a feeling of his or really a 
 feeling of theirs. Taking him altogether, he was a man 
 of excellent possibilities warped by the atmosphere 
 around him. He had all the best qualities of his Irish 
 parents, tempered and strained a little, the charming fa- 
 cility of the Celtic temperament, the impulsiveness and 
 hopefulness, and a rooted dislike to the saying of un-
 
 PHILISTA. 75 
 
 pleasant things. He \vas said to be "magnetic." He 
 was only Celtic of the Irish. 
 
 III. 
 
 When the Misses Catherwood had left the parlor Alice 
 untied the cord that kept the window-shutters "bowed" 
 and let in a little more light. The young people showed 
 to better advantage. Alice O'Brien, if not altogether 
 beautiful, was a distinguished and graceful-looking girl. 
 The Grecian knot of her dark hair, and her white gown 
 relieved at the belt by a large bunch of bergamot blos- 
 soms, were very becoming to her. 
 
 " I never expected to see you again," she said to Cor- 
 nelius, with a smile. " Let me see, it is three months 
 since I met you at my cousin's." 
 
 " I have come here to stay to improve my prospects. 
 I am a lawyer, you know." 
 
 She smiled again. 
 
 " I never heard of anybody coming to Philista to im- 
 prove his prospects before, but I suppose you intend to 
 grow up with the city. Your beanstalk will not grow as 
 rapidly as Jack's in the story. If it keeps pace with 
 Philista in growth it will be ready for you to climb when 
 you're seventy years of age at least." 
 
 Cornelius felt a little piqued by her easy tone. When 
 a young man comes from a large city into a compara- 
 tively rural town, with all the tone of progress that resi- 
 dence in a centre of culture gives, he expects the simple 
 country lass to show a sense of his condescension. 
 
 " I don't know Philista at all," he said. 
 
 " That must have been the reason you came here. 
 After all, you may find it lively in comparison with
 
 76 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Philadelphia. The canal is most interesting. There's an 
 insane asylum. The churches are always having ' cake 
 love-feasts,' sociables, oyster-suppers, and fairs, and we 
 had a troop of negro minstrels last week. At election 
 time the excitement is intense. On last election day 
 twelve men passed our windows ! " 
 
 " Is there much society ? '' 
 
 " Much ! The churches, particularly the Methodist, 
 are circles within circles of gayety. But I'm a Catholic, 
 BO I'm barred out of that. Our own people are mostly 
 factory-hands and that sort of thing. Positively there 
 are not ten Catholic young men in Philista that a nice 
 girl could marry. Not that I ever think of that. I'm a 
 school-teacher, you know, and we neither die nor resign." 
 
 Cornelius felt more at his ease. 
 
 " They are not fond of Catholics here." 
 
 " I should think not. The first families are generally 
 Presbyterians, who talk of Catholics as Aunt Tamar Ann 
 talks. Those that have travelled are broader in their re- 
 ligious views, but they consider it socially ' low ' to be a 
 Catholic with an Irish name. It took all the influence of 
 all the Catherwoods to get me a place as teacher in one 
 of the schools. And I know there would have been less 
 mourning in the best circles if my mother had married 
 a negro instead of my dear, dear father. With your 
 Irish look and that touch of the brogue you'll have a 
 hard time here." 
 
 Cornelius flushed so deeply that his reddish moustache 
 looked yellow by contrast. 
 
 " Do you really think that I talk as if I was Irish ? " he 
 asked, with an ingenuousness and anxiety that made her 
 eyes twinkle. 
 
 " Certainly. No man, except an Irishman, could talk
 
 PHILISTA. 77 
 
 with an echo of the music of the old sod in his voice." 
 She broke off with a slight blush and a little laugh. "I 
 wish I had it I've the flat, semi-nasal accent of Philista, 
 except when I speak a ' piece ' or read poetry." 
 
 These young people, who had met only once before, 
 seemed now quite well acquainted with each other. 
 Young folks' friendships often grow as rapidly as Jack's 
 beanstalk. 
 
 Cornelius was mortified by her opinion about his 
 " brogue," and, although he tried to conceal it, she said : 
 
 " It is a pretty accent, not a vulgar twang. Do you 
 sing? The choir at St. Bridget's is very bad. They 
 want a tenor. I hope you sing." 
 
 "Not at all. If I did I don't think I could stand 
 choir-singing and going to church twice every Sunday. 
 Once is enough. Protestants have a much pleasanter 
 time. They don't go, if they don't want to." 
 
 " But they want to here. Church-going, and the social 
 revivals that spring from it, are the excitements of the 
 town. I don^t think it makes them much better ; 1 think 
 most of the people here would be as good as they are if 
 there were no churches. But a ' broom-drill,' an oyster- 
 supper, a donation-party, or a new minister sets the place 
 talking for a month. The Catholics have not progressed 
 that far yet. St. Bridget's had a fair; but there was 
 such a mob there ! But all the politicians went and spent 
 money. Are you going in for politics ? " 
 
 " I may," he returned, with an air as if he were unde- 
 cided between the Presidency or a United States senator- 
 ship. She shook her head. 
 
 " I don't think you'd have the ghost of a chance. The 
 feeling against Catholics here is very strong, and the 
 Irish vote, though it's worth fishing for, would not carry
 
 78 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 you through. Besides, unless you are a Land-Leaguer 
 the fact of your being a Catholic wouldn't carry all the 
 Irish voters with you. I hope you'll keep out of poli- 
 tics." 
 
 Cornelius had come to say pretty things to this young 
 lady and to patronize her a little. But there she sat, 
 acting the part of monitress. She was a pretty monitress, 
 an interesting monitress, but a man never likes a woman 
 to teach him anything directly. If she teaches him with 
 an appearance of ignorance he will assimilate her wisdom 
 and use it as his own. Alice O'Brien despised tact ; she 
 despised the male sex ; she would rather have proposed 
 marriage to a man than have let him think she was his 
 inferior. 
 
 Cornelius, listening to her, felt as if a cool breeze, 
 laden with moisture, had touched him. 
 
 " You seem to have studied the political situation, Miss 
 O'Brien." 
 
 " I have. JBeing a Catholic and half Irish, with a name 
 that all the Catherwoods dislike, 1 have been a ' looker-on 
 in Vienna.' Besides I have always wanted to be a man." 
 
 "Why? I assure you, if you were a man, the world 
 would lose a great deal of " 
 
 " Oh ! yes, of course. Being a girl, I've no chance of 
 doing anything better than teaching the primary class in 
 a public-school. If I were not a Catholic I might rise to 
 be principal of Hypatia College, for instance, where they 
 would like to have me, if it wasn't for that. If I were 
 a man I could, I would, surmount all the obstacles in the 
 way." 
 
 Her lips were tightly shut ; but no flush tinged the 
 opaque white of her cheeks. 
 
 "But why can't I overcome these obstacles?"
 
 PHILISTA. 79 
 
 " Oh !" she answered impatiently, " because you are a 
 man. They're coming from Vespers at St. Bridget's," 
 she added, pushing the shutters open. " Look at them ! 
 Servant-girls and factory-hands! Look at the clothes 
 of the men and the bonnets of the women ! And yet 
 we are of those people; we can't escape them. I am a 
 Catholic ; I have stuck fast to the church in spite of all 
 
 " Why ? " he interrupted maliciously. 
 
 She turned toward him with a startled look in her 
 deeply-shaded eyes. 
 
 " Why \ " she echoed. " Why ? " 
 
 " Don't ask me," he returned. " When somebody 
 asked me the other day why I wore a scapular I couldn't 
 tell. It does seem like nonsense. All I know about it 
 is that the priest put it on me one day in church, and I 
 wear it because I've always worn it. I'm a Catholic for 
 the same reason I've always been one." 
 
 11 A Mohammedan might say that," she replied, with a 
 serious look in her eyes and a note of scorn in her voice. 
 
 " Or a Methodist, or a Presbyterian yes. Have you 
 a better reason ? " 
 
 " Yes. The church is true is truth itself. I believe." 
 
 " And your reasons ? " 
 
 " I don't want reasons. I don't know why I believe. 
 JSTobody taught me the reasons. I have had no Catholic 
 friends, and my aunts never liked me to see the priest 
 much. And the Catholic books I have happened to find 
 among the people here have been silly things in awfully 
 bad taste and more Irish than Catholic. But I believe 
 I sometimes wish I did'nt ; I should have a better time 
 every way ! " 
 
 " Well," he said, " you are frank. For myself, I am a
 
 80 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Catholic through inheritance and habit. It seems to me 
 that America has outgrown religions I don't call Protest- 
 antism a religion and I have never, in all my reading " 
 (he said this quite seriously), " found any reason why I 
 shouldn't be abreast of the country. Men are about alike, 
 no matter what religion they profess." 
 
 " That's a mistake," Alice O'Brien said. There was a 
 pause. " I wish," she continued, " there were no such 
 things as mixed marriages in the world. I am the victim 
 of one. You think that's too strong ? Ah ! but you 
 don't know. I'm separated from the people I love best. 
 I suppose I'll be separated in the next world, too. I 
 don't know whether I ought to pray for the souls of so 
 many dear relatives who on earth hated the church and 
 the Blessed Virgin with all their hearts. And yet I 
 loved them and they loved me. Here I am a Catholic 
 among Protestants, like a fish out of water." 
 
 Cornelius laughed. It was an ill-timed laugh. She 
 showed she thought so by silence. The drone of the 
 reading in the room above broke the quiet. 
 
 " Well," he said, with a light air that seemed frivolous 
 to her, "as we can't give reasons for the faith that is in 
 us, what reason have we for sticking to it ? Life would 
 be much pleasanter and longer, perhaps, if religion did 
 not demand sacrifices." 
 
 " I intend that my life shall be pleasant, and I think it 
 will be long. I can never imagine myself dying." 
 
 " I never try to," he answered, with a laugh. At this 
 moment the little servant-maid announced that tea was 
 ready. 
 
 Cornelius talked a great deal. The impression he made 
 may be judged from a snatch of dialogue which Alice 
 happened to overhear.
 
 PHILISTA. 81 
 
 " I must say," Miss Tamar Ann said, " that for a Ro- 
 manist, he is very liberal." 
 
 "Yes," replied Miss Catherwood, "but just a little 
 limp. I like to see a man stand up for his principles." 
 
 Alice herself was divided between a vague disdain of 
 him and a distinct liking. And he said to himself that 
 if a man wanted a clever wife who would help him to 
 rise in the world, he could not do better than choose 
 Alice O'Brien. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Next Sunday Cornelius went to Mass as usual. He 
 stood at the door and took a comprehensive look at the 
 interior before kneeling, although the priest was at the 
 Offertory. He did not see Alice. He scanned the silent 
 congregation with an observant eye. His education had 
 trained him to judge a man's pocketbook, and conse- 
 quently a man's usefulness to him, by his clothes. He 
 shook his head and called to mind the richly-dressed 
 people whom he had passed on their way to the temple 
 of Episcopaliauism, the Church of St. Dunstan. 
 
 During Mass he thought much of the contrast. If one 
 may hear Mass by being physically present Cornelius ful- 
 filled the obligation ; but his mind was engaged in specu- 
 lating as to his future. 
 
 He was not really bad ; he had no intention of doing 
 anything dishonorable or disreputable. But during child- 
 hood and youth the longest times of our life he had 
 learned that what we see with our corporeal eyes is the 
 only thing that exists. Religion was well enough on 
 Sundays. With the old people, particularly with old 
 6
 
 t*-J I UK LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Iri>li people, who were naturally behind the times, it 
 might mean much. A young man with his way to make 
 in the world had other things to think of. He knew 
 many men, wearing white linen, broadcloth, and diamond 
 studs, who were respected by everybody, and who, with- 
 out any religion, were good enough for all practical pur- 
 poses. He said to himself that he did not want to be any 
 better than such successful men. 
 
 His religion had been a habit. And as he went out of 
 church and compared the congregation of St. Bridget's 
 
 with that of the Church of St. Dunstan, he asked hirn- 
 
 
 
 self why he should cling to a habit that might be a fatal 
 bar to his success in Philista. 
 
 The Misses Catherwood learned to expect him to tea 
 on Sunday nights regularly. They approved of him. 
 Nobody had anything to say against him, except that he 
 was a " Romanist," but a " liberal one," Miss Tamar Ann 
 always hastened to add. They were getting old, and 
 their income would cease at their death. They were glad 
 to think that this promising young man, when he had 
 gotten established, would preserve Alice from a career of 
 ill-paid school- teaching. 
 
 " If she was not a Romanist they would give her the 
 Literature and Elocution at Hypatia, with nearly two 
 thousand a year. Mr. Longwood, the president, has told 
 her so more than once." 
 
 " But she is a Romanist," tartly answered Miss Tamar 
 Ann. " She can't save anything teaching in that primary 
 school, so she'll have to marry if bhe can." 
 
 After many walks and talks, some ice-cream-eating in 
 the fashionable saloon in Philista, and a quarrel or two, 
 Cornelius and Alice were "engaged." 
 
 Cornelius was not in a position to marry yet. All his
 
 PHILISTA. 83 
 
 funds were invested in the law-firm. Alice had nothing, 
 but she was the more ambitious. They had resolved to 
 wait two years. How in the meantime could she help 
 him to make money ? She was entirely wrapped up in 
 him, in his plans, in his future. She thought and thought 
 about the problem of the future, until the quick, spas- 
 modic beating of her heart reminded her that she was, 
 as Miss Catherwood often said, " Rosalia's child." 
 
 Although Cornelius and Alice were much in love with 
 each other, they never lost sight of the material resources 
 they considered necessary to their position in life which 
 they put, as a matter of course, greatly above that of the 
 Misses Catherwood. The ways and means of those old 
 ladies would be unsuitable for Cornelius Blake, Esq., and 
 his wife. The growth of the law business was slow. 
 Alice said bitterly over and over again that girls were 
 utterly useless, so far as the making of money went. 
 
 u Well," Miss Tamar Ann had answered more than 
 once, " the place at Hypatia College is still open." 
 
 But Miss Catherwood had always said, " Hush ! " 
 
 On All-Souls'-day Alice went to Yespers, which at St. 
 Bridget's were sung after nightfall. Her forehead took 
 a deep, perpendicular wrinkle upon it, and, as the choir 
 began the " Magnificat," she half rose in the pew, as if 
 to go. But something seemed to push her back. When 
 the soprano voice sang the " Tantum Ergo," and the 
 kneeling people began to prepare for the Benediction of 
 the Most Blessed Sacrament, she hastened down the aisle, 
 and, once in the open air, ran home. 
 
 " Praestet fides supplementum 
 Sensuum def ectui ! " 
 
 It rang in her ears ; she could not get rid of it.
 
 84 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 She threw herself on her bed, the frown still on her 
 brow. Opposite her was the little crucifix her father 
 had left her. It stood in the centre of the mantel. 
 With a sudden movement, as of irritation, she arose and 
 held it a moment at arm's length and with her head 
 averted. The moonlight fell through the window on 
 her white face and whiter dress, and, if it were not for 
 the color of her hair and the dark circles around her eyes, 
 she would have seemed a statue. With the same sudden 
 movement she put the crucifix into a Japanese box on 
 the mantel, locked it, and, going to the window, threw 
 the tiny key as far as she could fling it. Her lips were 
 white and drawn. 
 
 " It is done ! " she said. " I shall live and forget." 
 
 Then she threw herself upon the bed again and covered 
 her eyes with her arms. There was no sound but a dis- 
 tant whistle, which sounded like a despairing shriek 
 from a steamboat in the river. 
 
 Cornelius Blake came back to Philista after a week's 
 stay in Philadelphia, and found Alice in a strangely si- 
 lent mood. When he was about to leave her, she said : 
 
 "On the 1st of January I shall open the classes of lit- 
 erature and elocution in Hypatia College." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " he cried, starting, " you haven't " 
 
 " 1 have. Don't let us say any more about it. You 
 know why I have done it. My aunts seem pleased. 
 Henceforth you will have to meet at the door of the Bap- 
 tist church, if you still continue in your present way." 
 
 He was shocked. He was glad, too ; he had wanted 
 her to do it, and she had understood his thought, though 
 he had never spoken it to her. 
 
 She put her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " I have given up more than you can appreciate, being
 
 PHILISTA. 85 
 
 a man," she said bitterly; " but, oh, Neil !" she added, 
 tenderly, "you will never forsake me, you will always 
 be mine ? " 
 
 " Till death," he said. 
 
 She shuddered. He laughed and said : " Somebody 
 is walking over your grave." 
 
 She pushed him farther from her. 
 
 " If you were different, if you were not as you are, 
 Neil, I might not have done it. You would have helped 
 me" 
 
 " Bosh ! my dear girl. Keep up, and we'll start in life 
 with a flourish," he said. " Good-bye, good-bye ! You'll 
 read something pleasant in the Star to-morrow." 
 
 His thoughts were not as light as his words. He had 
 wanted her to do it, and she had done it. Religion was 
 not of much value to him, he thought, as he went home 
 through the quiet streets, but it ought to be a great deal 
 to a woman. Of course Alice must laugh in her heart at 
 the Baptists. She could not believe in their doctrines. 
 But a woman ought to have some religion. He was glad 
 that it had been done, but he wished she had not felt 
 obliged to do it. Alice a Catholic and Alice without 
 any religion Alice playing at being a Baptist, that they 
 might set up housekeeping in a handsome house in Court 
 Terrace were two different girls. He did not feel the 
 same toward her. It did not make much difference what 
 a man believed, he said, as he lighted a cigar, since life 
 was to be lived in the pleasantest way ; but a woman 
 but a woman 
 
 And he shook his head ; and as he struck another 
 match a charm on his watch-chain, with Masonic emblems 
 on it, glittered in the light. He had made " progress " 
 too.
 
 86 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 V. 
 
 Cornelius Blake had often been pressed to join the 
 Masons, even by Masons themselves, although this is 
 said to be against the rules of the Order. He had always 
 said " no," apologetically, and, when pressed for his rea- 
 sons, had said that he had reasons of his own ; but he had 
 not. He had refused because he believed that the Cath- 
 olic Church forbade its members to enter a lodge. He 
 had said angrily to himself that Catholics had no cause 
 why they should not join the Masons ; it was simply a 
 piece of superstition to handicap themselves so, and ab- 
 surd to bind themselves to keep out of an association that 
 could be of so much use to them. 
 
 When Sherwood Archer, Cashier of the National Bank 
 of Philista, who had been delighted with what he 'called 
 Cornelius' " Irish smartness," had said that the Young 
 Men's Reform Club wanted a candidate for the State 
 Legislature who could catch the Irish vote, as an anti- 
 monopolist faction had recently carried off a big slice of 
 it in Pbilista, Cornelius felt the blood rush to his face 
 with pleasure. He felt that this great man, who was 
 Grand Tyler and everything else that was grand in Ma- 
 sonic circles, and consequently great socially, meant him. 
 
 " I'll pledge the Masons to you and I'll leave you to 
 catch the Irish ; but you'll have to join us. What ! scru- 
 pulous? Why, dear boy, you haven't let go your moth- 
 er's apron-strings yet. Bless you ! you'll lose nothing 
 with the Irish Catholics. They don't care a cent for 
 religion in politics, but they do care an awful sight about 
 ' patriotism.' We'll let you work that racket." 
 
 The consequence was that Cornelius Blake followed
 
 PHILISTA. 87 
 
 Mr. Sherwood Archer's advice, borrowed all the money 
 he could, and in the Philista Star of the day after his 
 interview with Alice O'Brien the following paragraph 
 occurred : 
 
 " The Young Men's Reform Club, of which Mr. Sher- 
 wood Archer is the genial President, have at length an- 
 nounced their 'dark horse' who will enter the race for 
 nomination to our Legislature. This 'dark horse' is no 
 other than the promising young lawyer, Cornelius Blake. 
 While an enthusiastic American citizen, Mr. Blake is an 
 Irish patriot of the old school that wore 'the collar of 
 gold 'won from the proud invader. Three cheers for 
 Con ! He is a friend of our glorious institutions and we 
 say emphatically. 'Boom' him !" 
 
 The Cathervvoods and Alice were pleased with this ; 
 but when the Philista Eagle was sent to them the next 
 day they were disgusted by an editorial article headed : 
 "Was his Front Name Patrick?" and a long "inter- 
 view " with a supposed cousin of Cornelius, in which the 
 Blake family history was more or less accurately given, 
 and the nominee of the Young Men's Reform Club de- 
 nounced as an " apostate " and an " informer." 
 
 Cornelius was inclined to rush into print and to declare 
 that he had never missed Mass when he could help it. 
 But the astute Archer held him back. " You've got to 
 expect this. If you talk about Mass you'll shock the re- 
 spectable element, and they'll begin to say you don't love 
 the public-school system." 
 
 " But I do ! " cried Cornelius. " I'm a public-school 
 boy myself." 
 
 " All right ! " returned Archer, with a wink : " we'll 
 work that for all it is worth."
 
 88 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 For the six weeks preceding the meeting of the Con- 
 vention at the capital Philista was not the capital of 
 the State Cornelius did little but talk and " treat the 
 boys." He was in the hands of his friends, particularly 
 of his friend Archer. He did not pretend to do any 
 business, and the placard on his office-door, " At court 
 back in ten minutes," became yellow and dusty from 
 long use. 
 
 The public-echool " racket," as Mr. Sherwood Archer 
 expressed it, u was worked." The Star even became so 
 enthusiastic in the matter as to produce a wood-cut of an 
 innocent-looking cherub on his way to a Grecian temple 
 labelled " public-school," while the Pope drawn after 
 the model furnished by the Pilgrim's Progress endeav- 
 ored to force him back to a hut labelled " superstition." 
 Cornelius did not like this, but he was in the hands of 
 his friends. The " Honorable Cornelius Blake" danced 
 before his eyes like a will-o'-the-wisp. What a magnifi- 
 cent future he with his cleverness, and Alice with her 
 brilliancy and tact, would carve out ! 
 
 It must be remembered that the Star and the Eagle 
 were of the same party ; for parties in Philista, finding 
 themselves about to fall to pieces from rottenness, had 
 united on a "reform" platform. They represented op- 
 posing factions. The Eagle's candidate was a Mr. Seth 
 Weldon, remarkable only for having made a large fortune 
 in the lumber trade. 
 
 The day of the Convention came. Alice was so nerv- 
 ous and anxious that she asked to be excused from her 
 lectures at Hypatia. Cornelius visited her early ; but, 
 early as it was, his face was flushed and his eyes sparkled 
 unnaturally. Miss Catherwood detected a strong smell 
 of whisky about him. He had been out all night with 
 the " boys."
 
 PHILISTA. 89 
 
 " I have risked everything in the world on this, Alice. 
 If I do not get the nomination I shall be a beggar. Archer 
 promises to advance funds for the election expenses. I've 
 spent all I had, and I'm in debt." 
 
 Alice smiled. " You must not fail, and if jou do we'll 
 begin over again. I wish I were a man ! It's glorious, 
 this excitement ! It makes me forget." 
 
 Miss Catherwood had noticed a strange change in Alice 
 of late. She was silent and preoccupied, or talkative and 
 feverishly gay. Since she had given up the practice of 
 her religion she had become a new and changed girl. 
 There seemed to be no peace, no tranquillity about her. 
 Miss Catherwood, seeing the wrinkle that came so often 
 on her brow and the sullen look of her eyes, felt almost 
 afraid of her. 
 
 " Don't you think," Miss Catherwood had said to Miss 
 Tamar Ann, " that there may be more in Romanism than 
 we know of? Alice seems to have lost something she 
 can't find with the Baptists." 
 
 " Rubbish ! " answered Miss Tamar Ann. " She's 
 made herself, and she ought to be perfectly happy." 
 
 Miss Catherwood sighed. " I wish she hadn't done it, 
 after all. I've been reading the little catechism she used 
 to study, and I must say I like it more and more. I'm 
 going over to St. Bridget's next Sunday to see what it's 
 all like." 
 
 Miss Tamar Ann laughed. 
 
 
 
 The Convention opened. The excitement was intense. 
 Everybody drank with everybody else. There was much 
 buttonholing of the obstinate and knowing whispering 
 by the wire-pullers. After three ballots no progress had 
 been made. The two candidates had an equal number
 
 90 THK I.IFK AROUND OB. 
 
 of votes. There was a recess then. The editor of the 
 JEayle was seen to approach Mr. Sherwood Archer. 
 
 After the recess another name which had been courte- 
 ously pat in nomination and had. received only two 
 votes that of Mr. Sherwood Archer himself suddenly 
 went to the top. Mr. Sherwood Archer received the 
 nomination. It was known that both parties had sold 
 out to him. But he inade a speech so full of intense self- 
 sacrifice on the " altar of his country " that few people, 
 outside the Convention or the press, believed this when it 
 was brought up against him at a later day. 
 
 Cornelius Blake did not get up to compliment the 
 nominee, as he was expected to do. He had fallen for- 
 ward in his chair, unconscious. The excitement, the 
 heat of the summer, and immoderate drinking had made 
 bis blood boil until the fumes stifled him. An ambulance 
 was sent for by the considerate Mr. Archer, and he was 
 taken, talking incoherently, to St. Vincent's Hospital. 
 
 There he lay for seven weeks. The Misses Catber- 
 wood went often to see him. Alice went twice with 
 them, but he did not know her. She wanted to take 
 him home, for she shrank from the Skiers of Charity 
 who nursed him ; but the physicians would not allow it. 
 
 Her fear of the Sisters or of any suggestion of the 
 Church she had abandoned she could not be said to 
 have abandoned the faith, for she leUeved still had be- 
 come morbid ; therefore her aunts could not induce her 
 to return to the haspital^fter the second visit. 
 
 Cornelias became eonccioas at last, and was to near 
 death that be asked eager! j for a priest when the Sister 
 in charge proposed it to him. And, after a long talk, 
 some explanation and persuasion, he humbly received 
 the bat sacrament*, perhaps for the only time cinee his 
 First Common k*i with the proper disposition?.
 
 PHILISTA. 91 
 
 The crisis of the fever passed and the physician gave 
 Cornelius hope. The Sisters brought him books, which 
 he read during the long days of convalescence. But 
 Alice was constantly in his mind. He sent for her; she 
 would not come, and Miss Catherwood told him the 
 reason. 
 
 She would come back to the Church, he said to him- 
 self, and they would begin life as his father and mother 
 had done, with true hearts and strong hands, and the God 
 they had outraged would forgive them. 
 
 At last he was set free. How sweet was the air, how 
 blue the sky, how hopeful everything ! 
 
 Miss Catherwood met him at the door of the house 
 with a little cry of pleasure. 
 
 " Alice has not got home yet from the college it is 
 near her time, though ; and Tainar Ann is out, too. I'll 
 get my shawl, if you like, and we'll go and meet her." 
 
 Cornelius agreed willingly. Miss Catherwood was 
 anxious to be present at the meeting of the lovers. She 
 said to herself that " Rosalia's child needed great care in 
 moments of excitement." 
 
 Miss Catherwood and Cornelius, a shadow of his former 
 self, went out into the quiet street. Sunset had tinged 
 the white shutters of the uniform houses red, and moth- 
 ers were calling lingering children to supper. 
 
 Very near St. Bridget's Church they met Alice. She 
 looked very pretty and graceful She wore her favorite 
 white gown, a dainty little hat, and a bunch of scarlet 
 sage in her belt. Cornelius' heart leaped. 
 
 "Alice, dear Alice ! " he said. 
 
 She drew back from him, with a mingling of fear in 
 her face and tenderness in her deeply-shaded eyes. 
 
 We are in the street, reuienilker," she said. U I have
 
 92 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 heard it all. Is it true ? I didn't believe it. Have you 
 gone hack ? Are we separated forever ? " 
 
 She spoke quickly but quietly, walking at her aunt's 
 side. 
 
 "It is true," he answered. "You must come to me 
 out of that that place. We shall be poor, but at peace." 
 
 "And this after all I have done," she answered in a 
 low tone, clasping her aunt's arm so tightly that Miss 
 Catherwood started ; "after all I have given up for you. 
 I can't go back, Neil ; nobody can go out of hell out of 
 hell ! " 
 
 MUs Catherwood felt suddenly a heavy weight against 
 her. 
 
 " Quick, Cornelius ! " she cried. 
 
 Alice, her right hand pressed over her heart, had be- 
 come white and rigid. They carried her into the vesti- 
 bule of St. Bridget's. It was an August day the Feast 
 of the Assumption. Borne on the air came the solemn 
 
 words, 
 
 " Prsestet fides supplementum, 
 Sensuum defectui." 
 
 Her face was calm, except for the deep wrinkles on 
 her brow. She shivered when Cornelius touched her. 
 
 " She wants something, Neil she wants something. 
 It's the same look I saw in Rosalia's eyes." 
 
 " A priest ! " cried Cornelius. 
 
 The eyes lost their dumb, despairing look or seemed 
 to lose it for an instant, and then closed. 
 
 " She is dead ! " cried Miss Catherwood, and then, 
 turning on Cornelius Blake with a fierceness he never 
 forgot, she cried : " My God ! how unworthy are you of 
 wli.it he gives you. It is you and such as you that help 
 to blind us to the Light ! "
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 
 I. 
 
 [RISCILLA ARDEN lived in Botterville, Mo., a 
 city of some eight thousand inhabitants on the 
 line of the M. K. and T. R.R. Its products are 
 railroad men, barrels, and, of late, " culture," by which 
 term the members of the best society designate A.rt. 
 
 Priscilla was the daughter of the editor of the Bazoo 
 the Butterville Bazoo which had a marked success 
 among its " esteemed contemporaries " as a humorous 
 " exchange " until the funny man degenerated into pathos 
 and in despair took to railroading. Priscilla's father was 
 also the postmaster. Her grandfather had come West 
 from Massachusetts. She was descended from Priscilla 
 Mullius through her grandmother, who was a Paybody. 
 Over the parlor organ in the front room there hung a 
 genealogical tree, carefully framed in oak, between a 
 testimonial from his brother Knights of Pythias to Mr. 
 Arden and a stuffed eagle on a bracket, presented to the 
 editor of the Bazoo by a subscriber in liquidation of 
 three years' subscription in arrears. Principally on ac- 
 count of this genealogical tree for the expatriated New 
 England element was small but strongly respectable in 
 Butterville and 'also in consideration of the political in- 
 fluence of the Bazoo, Priscilla's father had managed to 
 hold his post since Lincoln's first term. His faltering in 
 
 (93)
 
 94 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 alcgianee once in deference to the prejudices of the rail- 
 road men had done him no harm with the next adminis- 
 tration. He was thin, wiry, with a white beard close 
 cropped. His face was of that conformation which may 
 almost be said to be a face of this decade, it is so com- 
 mon. It was like General Grant's before he became fat. 
 And when the editor of the Bazoo offered his photo- 
 graph, very artistically reproduced by the photo-engrav- 
 ing process, as a premium, many economical souls were 
 induced to put their names on the list on the understand- 
 ing that it would do for either Grant or Garfield. 
 
 All that was left of Priscilla's mother was her photo- 
 graph, which had the place of honor over the hair-cloth 
 sofa in the " front room." It represented a mild-looking 
 woman with her hair puffed out at the sides, a wide lace 
 collar, and an expensive silk gown evidently inflated by 
 hoops. Priscilla did not -remember her mother very 
 well ; her father rarely spoke of her, though he had 
 written a two-column obituary notice, beginning : 
 
 " There is a reaper whose name is Death." 
 
 Priscilla tenderly preserved it in a scrap-book. She had 
 little on which to nourish the memory of this mother, 
 and, in her desire to keep it green and to get nearer to 
 the dead, she prayed every night and morning for the 
 soul of the sweet, mysterious being, with whom her heart 
 longed to be in communion. The Congregational minis- 
 ter shook his head over this. But Priscilla, who could 
 repeat all the International Sunday-school lessons for 
 years back, floored him with a text. Several old neigh- 
 bors bore testimony to the great qualities of the deceased 
 wife and mother: "She wasn't stuck up," and " She did
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 95 
 
 her own work ; nobody ever saw anything slack about 
 Miss Arden." So Priscilla took to her prayers. 
 
 The Congregationalists were not numerous in Butter- 
 ville, but they were intensely respectable. Several large 
 bond-holders of M. K. and T. stock old inhabitants who 
 had come West so far back as '59 were Congregational- 
 ists. Lately the Baptist minister, who had baptized Jesse 
 James, had rather thinned the Congregationalist audience 
 by preaching terrific sermons, assisted by a magic-lantern 
 and a blackboard, and with the Ford brothers for several 
 Sundays, during their engagement at the Academy of 
 Music in Butterville, in a front pew. 
 
 Priscilla's religious views were peculiar. Her father 
 was rather inclined to be an Ingersollian, but, as he wrote 
 a religious column "Lay Sermons by Whitehead " in 
 the Bazoo every Saturday, he felt the necessity of con- 
 forming to that Congregational mode of worship, where- 
 in the belief in eternal punishment was considerably 
 softened down. The editor of the Bazoo, being very 
 advanced, dreaded eternal punishment, which he often 
 alluded to in learned editorials as an " invention of the 
 Inquisition." 
 
 Priscilla's religions views had of late become seriously 
 modified. When she was fifteen she had been a " hard- 
 shell " Baptist ; at nineteen, having read a course of Miss 
 Yonge's novels, she was inclined to Ritualism, and longed 
 to have an old English abbey or priory which she could 
 restore to the Established Church. So scrupulous did 
 she become that she broached the subject of turning over 
 the deed of the house that her mother had bequeathed 
 her to the descendant of the original Indian who had 
 owned the plot of ground, if he could be found. The 
 editor of the Bazoo was of the opinion that he could not
 
 96 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 be found, and coldly declined to advertise for him. Then 
 Priscilla took to reading mild, soft, quietistic poems and 
 essays about sitting with folded hands and waiting among 
 lilies, and full of speculations about heaven. At twenty- 
 two she had a religion of her own, as most of the girls 
 around her who thought on serious subjects had. She 
 read all the sermons in the New York Herald, the Mon- 
 day edition of which reached Butterville on Wednesday, 
 and she was rather inclined toward ethical culture ; but 
 she still sat under the Congregational minister. As Bes- 
 sie Hartwicke, the new "help," had shown a talent for 
 housekeeping when she was left to manage the house 
 alone, Priscilla concluded to relinquish the domestic arts 
 and cultivate Art. She took lessons in vocal music, and 
 sang with much applause at a broom-drill given for the 
 benefit of the Congregationalists, but repeated with even 
 more success by the energetic Baptists, who offered a 
 barrel of flour to the prettiest girl in the room on the 
 night of the festival. 
 
 Priscilla had dark, serious, blue eyes, shaded by long 
 lashes, rather heavy eyebrows for a girl, a straight nose a 
 little long, a soft, creamy complexion, oval, rounded 
 cheeks which flushed easily. This habit of blushing at 
 unexpected times without reason was a source of embar- 
 rassment to Priscilla. There was one thing that caused 
 her some embarrassment ; this was a slight shade on her 
 upper lip. Priscilla was almost a brunette. She attired 
 herself very simply, eschewed "bangs" and bangles, 
 and, in her plain, neat hat and tight blue suit, there was 
 a Puritan simplicity not unworthy of a descendant of 
 that Priscilla who had said, 
 
 " If I am not worth the wooing, I am surely not worth the winning."
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 97 
 
 She had a neat, trim figure, but the Butterville people 
 thought she lacked "style." However, the Baptists did 
 not vote the barrel of flour to her, and therefore they 
 found the notice in the next morning's Bazoo very much 
 less grandiloquent than the notice of the Congregational- 
 ists had been. 
 
 Priscilla, with her improved views, had set down the 
 whole proceeding as vulgar. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sun, setting majestically into the level land which 
 was an endless vista of prairie, cast a soft color on Pris- 
 cilla's face as she sat one afternoon, paint-brush in hand, 
 toning up the background of a panel of sunflowers and 
 golden-rod. Tea was almost ready. There came a pleas- 
 ant jingling from the kitchen. Casting a glance out of 
 the bay-window, that was disproportionately large in 
 comparison with the square, white house, Priscilla saw 
 the editor of the Bazoo quickly approaching. She ran 
 out into the kitchen to see that everything was right, and 
 got back to the parlor in time to pick up the pile of " ex- 
 changes" which he had drawn out of his alpaca coat and 
 thrown upon the floor. He fanned himself with his hat 
 and pinched Priscilla's cheek as she kissed him. 
 
 " Hem ! " he said, critically examining the panel, 
 " those squashes are too yellow, and I don't understand 
 that black splash in the centre is it black or brown ? " 
 
 "Father!" she cried reproachfully, "they are sun- 
 flowers." 
 
 " Oh ! " he said apologetically, " I thought they couldn't 
 be squashes. Have you dropped your music for art, Pris ? " 
 7
 
 98 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " I feel that I haven't the intensity that is, the power 
 of expression, the soulfulness that music imperatively 
 requires. I think that I am more drawn to Art. I had 
 a lovely letter from Miss Allison, who used to teach men- 
 tal philosophy at the Academy, you know ; she said the 
 letter is up-stairs ' Let it be your sole cidt to draw out 
 soulfulness, to encourage the lietter part.'" 
 
 "So.?" returned her father, abstractedly stooping for 
 one of his papers. " Oh ! I forgot. Priest Riordan was 
 in the office to-day correcting an error we made about 
 morning Vespers, or evening Mass, or something. He 
 is an honest man, pays his debts, and looks a great deal 
 after the poor, though he's the very devil in controversy. 
 He brought me a letter about kissing the pope's toe, writ- 
 ten in answer to Rev. Isaiah Tomkins. It took the hair 
 off, I tell you. He intends to have some extra music 
 next Sunday, and his leading singer is sick. I told him 
 you'd sing." 
 
 The editor of the Bazoo said this half-hesitatingly, as 
 members of the male sex do when they announce that 
 they have made social arrangements unauthorized. 
 
 " Just like you, father. But I haven't any more soul 
 in my music." 
 
 " It seems to me you sing as well as the other girls." 
 II' noticed a slight contraction of the young lady's brow. 
 " Much better than most of them. Have you any con- 
 scientious scruples about singing for the Romanists?" 
 
 " Oh ! no," returned Priscilla. " I believe in universal 
 brotherhood. And if I can help the culture of these 
 poor people I am willing to do it." 
 
 " All right," said the father, as he drew on his slip- 
 pers. " But I don't think they hanker after culture." 
 
 " They ought to be taught that it's the most precious
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 99 
 
 thing in life." Priscilla, in her imagination, saw herself 
 as a second Hypatia teaching the consummateuess of in- 
 animate things to the Romanists who worshipped at St. 
 Mark's. 
 
 " I guess they know what they want by this time. I've 
 been inside of a Catholic church only once or twice 
 myself, but seems to me, as somebody said the other day, 
 ' they worship God as if he were a king.' ' Polly, put 
 the kettle on ! '" 
 
 Tea was. well served. Priscilla made some remarks on 
 the harmony of the form of the radish and its foliage. 
 
 "Didn't know radishes had 'foliage.' By the way, 
 Phil Carlisle was married to Mary Reilly on last Sun- 
 day." 
 
 " No ! " cried Priscilla, blushing with interest. " To 
 the little Irish girl ! Well, really, I shouldn't think 
 Phil's folk would like that. The Irish are so ignorant, 
 and I suppose she is no better than the rest. His family 
 will think it a great come-down. She's a Catholic, too." 
 
 " Don't be so particular, young lady," said Mr. Arden, 
 cutting the end off a cigar. " Marriage is a serious con- 
 sideration, an anxious consideration, when a girl reaches 
 your age." He laughed. 
 
 " Marriage," said Priscilla, solemnly turning her tea- 
 cup upside down to read what fate had in store for her 
 in the grounds, "is nothing to a woman with a mission. 
 Miss Allison said that ' Art is the ' ' : 
 
 " Miss Allison's an old maid. Phil Carlisle may con- 
 gratulate himself. Old Reilly isn't exactly a swell, but 
 his daughter is a good girl, and she'll keep Phil straight. 
 They were married at St. Mark's." 
 
 Mr. Arden lost himself in his papers, concealed by a 
 veil of smoke, and Priscilla went to help Bessie with the 
 dishes.
 
 100 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " I hear Phil Carlisle's* throwed himself away on one 
 of them Irish," said Bessie, who was of old Connecticut 
 stock, "and gone and joined the Papishcs. His folks 
 must feel it awful." 
 
 Priscilla shook her head sympathetically ; she kept to 
 her sunflowers until the twilight was gone. 
 
 III. 
 
 When the room had become so dim that the gilt frame 
 on her mother's photograph no longer shone, a weight of 
 desolation fell on Priscilla's heart. The soft May breeze, 
 chilling a little, bore in to her the scent of the lilac in the 
 front garden. And the scent awoke in her a longing, an 
 unrest ; the moon arose out of the flat earth and silvered 
 the network of railroad tracks that were visible from the 
 slight elevation on which the Arden house stood. 
 
 All common things looked unreal ; yet Priscilla had 
 lu-vcr been so heavily oppressed by the reality of life. 
 The vain pretences of hollow and sham culture seemed 
 so worthless! Could she ever paint that moonlight? 
 Could any earthly being sing the inexpressible thought 
 that the glorious shield hung in the heavens inspired? 
 
 That moon had looked upon the Crucifixion. 
 
 The thought, filling her mind so suddenly, made her 
 shiver. The moon had perhaps shone through the massed 
 clouds that hung over Calvary, and dropped a silver ray 
 upon the thorn-crowned head borne down by the load of 
 the sins of the world. She looked at the moon awe-struck. 
 This moon had seen it. The sacrifice that her ministers 
 had of late vaguely alluded to as the " atonement" became 
 at that instant very real to her. There was no more half- 
 doubt, half -vagueness for her. Here, suddenly among her
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 101 
 
 little pretensions and frivolity, the grace of God had 
 touched her. 
 
 Her father was enjoying his last cigar on the front 
 step. He rose, and his voice interrupted her thoughts. 
 
 " Conie in," he was saying. " Yes, this is Mr. Arden's 
 house, and Miss Arden is at home. Bessie, light the gas ! 
 Priscilla, here is a gentleman to see you." 
 
 Another voice said something. 
 
 " Mr. O'Donnell, organist at St: Mark's ? Glad to see 
 you. Walk right in." 
 
 Bessie was standing on tip-toe, struggling unsteadily 
 to light the gas, when the visitor entered and relieved 
 her of an effort that seemed likely to elongate her con- 
 siderably. 
 
 Priscilla held out her hand, after the rule set down in 
 Butterville's .unwritten books of etiquette where socia- 
 bility was the one great requirement while her father 
 read from the visitor's card, " Mr. Felix O'Donnell," and 
 then said, " My daughter." 
 
 Bessie, also following the Butterville etiquette, seized 
 his hat, as a savage seizes a scalp, and disappeared with 
 it. Priscilla pulled down the shades, and Mr. Arden, 
 after saying it was a fine night, remarked, also following 
 the Butterville usage, that " two's company and three's 
 a crowd," and took himself off to the office. 
 
 The Butterville axiom was that old people were always 
 in the way when there were young ones " around." It 
 was an axiom accepted without pangs and as a matter of 
 course by the Butterville parents. Young people of op- 
 posite sexes were always constrained in " old company." 
 
 He came back in a few minutes, having forgotten his 
 bundle of papers, and, putting his head into the door of 
 the parlor, said :
 
 102 THE LIFE Allot M> IS. 
 
 " Don't go out, Pris. John Lowe said he would drop 
 in to-night." 
 
 " Very well, father," Priscilla answered. ' ; Don't you 
 belong!" 
 
 " Oh ! I guess neither of you will hanker after me," 
 he said, with a slight wink at the visitor. 
 
 Felix O ? Donnell looked at the bright-looking yet seri- 
 ous maiden who stood uncler the gas-jet, seeming so 
 sweet and simple, and wondered why there was always a 
 John Lowe or John Somebody Else dangling after every 
 nice girl. He had never met this particular nice girl 
 before, because she was not in his set. Society in But- 
 terville was cut up by the churches into patches; the 
 Catholics, who had multiplied and increased from a small 
 nucleus of railroad laborers, were numerous. The Con- 
 gregation alists, the Baptists, the Presbyterians, a knot of 
 Second-Adventists, and a smaller knot of Spiritualists 
 occupied various degrees in the social scale; but the 
 Catholics that is, the Irish were cut off by an imagin- 
 ary and impassable gulf. St. Bonifacius was the patron 
 of a small chapel of the German congregation, which 
 kept very much to itself. 
 
 Felix O'Donnell gazed at Priscilla with a little sarcasm 
 in his mind. He was prepared to be on the defensive, 
 and to laugh a little if Miss Arden should assume any 
 airs. 
 
 Felix was a tall, well-built young fellow, more nervous- 
 looking and with hollower cheeks than his father, who 
 had come over from Cahirciveen, with bright, well-opened 
 blue eyes, a complexion much reddened by the sun, 
 which had left his broad forehead very white, and a frank, 
 slightly humorous expression. 
 
 He wore a black sack-coat and gray trousers, and car-
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 103 
 
 ried a wide-brimmed straw hat. Priscilla concluded that 
 he was not at all " stylish." Priscilla's ideal young man 
 was " stylish " the hero of The Bride of Lammermoor 
 in a frock-coat and straw-colored kid gloves. 
 
 Felix remarked that it was a pleasant evening, and 
 said he had called to ask Miss Arden if she would sing 
 on Sunday in Mozart's " Twelfth." 
 
 " Miss Donovan, the sopran%, is sick," he continued. 
 " Sunday will be a great feast in our church, you know 
 or rather you don't know and Herr Stroebling, from 
 Kansas City, is to come and play. I shall do the bass." 
 
 "But I thought you were the organist." 
 
 " I do very well for ordinary occasions," he said, with 
 a pleasant laugh, " but Herr Stroebling is a good organ- 
 ist. It's a great thing to have him come." 
 
 Priscilla hesitated. 
 
 " I have sung parts of the ' Twelfth,' " she said, 
 " adapted to English words, at various times ; but you, in 
 your church, you sing it in " Priscilla paused. She 
 felt sure it was in some dread and superstitious language ; 
 she had heard so. 
 
 " In Latin," said Felix. 
 
 " But I can't speak Latin." 
 
 "I can't either," said Felix. "I can pronounce it. 
 That is all that's needed. A few lessons, and you will do 
 very well." 
 
 " If you think I can succeed I will try." 
 
 In reply Felix drew from his pocket a roll of music 
 and sat down at the organ. Priscilla, without any apol- 
 ogy or affectation, began the "Kyrie Eleison." She sang 
 in tune, but stumbled over the words. Felix consoled 
 her by telling her it was Greek. 
 
 The lesson lasted an hour. 
 
 "A nice girl no airs," thought Felix.
 
 104 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 u What a soft voice ! " thought Priseilla. " He is not 
 at all 'Irish.'" 
 
 " Now, what have I been singing ? " asked Priseilla 
 when she had learned the " Gloria " tolerably well and 
 Bessie had brought in a pitcher of ice-water. 
 
 Felix translated the words. 
 
 "What!" cried Priseilla, her reverent mind shocked, 
 " have I been singing tho%e beautiful words so carelessly 
 and thoughtlessly ? " 
 
 Felix was startled. He had sung them carelessly a 
 hundred times. It was a lesson. 
 
 " I shall be glad to sing," said Prise-ilia, offering Felix 
 the plate of apples which Bessie brought in with the 
 solemnity of one serving baked meats at a funeral. " It 
 is a great thing for a young man like you to raise your 
 people up to your level, and to devote your time to ele- 
 vating the standard of taste among the poor Roman 
 Catholics. Your choir must have a hard time." 
 
 Felix was not accustomed to this point of view. He 
 smiled when he understood her. 
 
 " We do have a hard time reaching the level of the 
 people's devotion. That is very much above us." 
 
 "He is very modest," Priseilla thought. " You are a 
 Catholic, too, of course." 
 
 " Oh ! yes," answered Felix. Priscilla, following the 
 Butterville etiquette, gave him the album of photo- 
 graphs. 
 
 " I am not prejudiced," she said. " I have known 
 some very pleasant Catholics educated ones. I met a 
 girl in Sedalia when I was there with father. I found 
 her very nice. Yon would never have guessed " 
 
 "Xo?" said Felix, smiling, his politeness restraining 
 him from finishing her sentence with a touch of sarcasm. 
 "Will you play?"
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 105 
 
 Priscilla drummed through the overture to " Zampa " 
 in that dismal succession of notes which only a parlor 
 organ is capable of producing. When she ceased, the 
 croaking of the frogs in the pond in the next lot was 
 delightfully refreshing. Then Felix played a voluntary 
 out of his music-book, and took his leave, promising to 
 escort Priscilla to the choir rehearsal on the following 
 night. 
 
 Priscilla sat with her hands folded, looking at the 
 moon. She thought that she had never met anybody 
 like this Mr. O'Donnell before. He was good-humored 
 and agreeable, but there was something in his eyes that 
 made her think he was laughing at her. Priscilla flushed 
 at the thought. Laughing at Tier ! The idea ! 
 
 Mr. Arden returned with a stout, pompous-looking 
 man having a bald head and an expression of entire satis- 
 faction with himself. He formed an appropriate back- 
 ground to a huge locket attached to a gold watch-chain. 
 
 He apologized to Priscilla for not having " spent the 
 evening" with her. He had been kept busy at the store. 
 John Lowe was the prominent dry-goods merchant in 
 Butterville. He was a celebrity ; he was the pioneer of 
 the ninety -nine-cent " inducement " which had revolu- 
 tionized trade in the great West. He was not proud, but 
 he felt his importance. His advertisement occupied, on 
 Saturdays, a whole page in the Bazoo ; and if he had run 
 for mayor that journal would have supported him val- 
 iantly, though he was a Democrat. 
 
 He finished his cigar, sitting on the lower step with 
 Mr. Arden, while Priscilla stood in the doorway looking 
 at the shadow of the lilac-bushes on the path. It was a 
 time for sentiment. The editor of the Bazoo felt that 
 himself. He tried to find an appropriate quotation.
 
 106 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 "On such a night Leandcr swam the Hellespont." 
 
 " Byron ? " asked Mr. Lowe. 
 
 "No, the immortal Will. No, old boy, twelve cents a 
 line won't do for five insertions of that criss-cross ad., 
 with the reading-notices changed every week. Compo- 
 sition's going up to forty cents a thousand, and " 
 
 A long altercation followed, during which the editor 
 of the Bazoo yielded a point or two with seeming reluc- 
 tance. 
 
 "Well, well," he said good-humoredly at last, " I'll go 
 to bed. Bring me up a pitcher of ice-water, Pris, when 
 yon come. I'll leave you young people to do your court- 
 ing. Good-night." 
 
 Lowe laughed. Priscilla still stood in the doorway, 
 smiling a little -at her father's joke. The other "young 
 person " was over forty. The clock struck eleven. Lowe 
 cast admiring glances at the serene, virginal figure on the 
 sill of the doorway. The lilac-scent, enriched with dew, 
 mingled with the heliotrope hidden in the dark. The 
 trees were outlined against the silver haze in the horizon. 
 The croak of the frogs was fitful, like a tremulous bass 
 undertone. Lowe arose, threw away his cigar, and yawned. 
 Priscilla was wrapped in a half-mourufnl reverie, op- 
 pressed by a delicious sadness. 
 
 "You had some music to-night? Hopkins said he 
 heard the organ as he came back to the store after supper. 
 Who was here?" 
 
 Priscilla felt unreasonably irritated by this not extra- 
 ordinary question. 
 
 "A gentleman called." 
 
 Lowe played with his watch-chain. 
 
 "Oh! 5 he said with a laugh, "you can't make me 
 jealous."
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 107 
 
 Priscilla flushed. What did he mean ? It was well 
 enough for her father to joke 
 
 " It was a Mr. O'Donnell, the organist at St. Mark's." 
 
 " Catholic church ? Yes, I know O'Donnell. He 
 manages the express-office. Honest fellow ; family aw- 
 fully ignorant and Irish regular ' Micks,' you know." 
 
 " i don't know," answered Priscilla, with a sense of 
 offence. " He is a gentleman." 
 
 Lowe glanced at her quickly. Her face looked very 
 pure and sweet in the moonlight. He drew nearer to 
 her. The door was slammed suddenly, and there was a 
 sharp report. 
 
 If Priscilla had not been a girl devoted to culture there 
 might have been grounds for a suspicion that she had 
 slapped Mr. Lowe. He picked up his hat and whistled. 
 He was not accustomed to that sort of thing. He remem- 
 bered that he was the pioneer of the ninety-nine-cent 
 "inducement" in the West, and walked homeward in 
 a calmer frame of mind. 
 
 IY. 
 
 Felix O'Donnell called at the Arden house and gravely 
 practiced the musical parts with Priscilla. And on Sun- 
 day, which was Pentecost, Priscilla sang very well. She 
 felt that she was not doing herself justice, since she did 
 not understand what she was singing, and once or twice 
 a fear the remnants of the teaching she had known be- 
 fore she became a disciple of culture entered her mind 
 that she was engaging in idolatrous worship. 
 
 The silence, the devotion, the decorum of the crowd of 
 assistants surprised her. There was Teddy O'Brien, the 
 foreman of her father's printing-office a careless, devil-
 
 108 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 may-care individual, and a commonplace one, on week- 
 days. Yet to-day, kneeling, touched by the glory of 
 some great mystery, he looked transfigured. To Priscilla 
 it seemed that he saw God or his angels on the altar. 
 There was Mrs. Malley, their next-door neighbor, a 
 hard-working woman who had "put away" a snug sum 
 of money during the war by selling pies to the defenders 
 of the Union. A good-hearted but very vulgar woman 
 was Mrs. Malley, who never forgot that she was " inde- 
 pendent rich," and who was at constant warfare with 
 Bessie a person, in fact, without interest to the cultured 
 mind. Here was she, evidently forgetting her rnany- 
 hued and well-kept cashmere shawl, and the fruit-orwhard 
 on her bonnet, in dumb, ecstatic devotion before this Mys- 
 tery. Looking around, Priscilla saw many that she knew. 
 They were persons whom she considered to be in the 
 lower walks of life persons whom she was accustomed 
 to look down upon. Caste in Butterville was almost as 
 well defined, though not so openly acknowledged, as in 
 an English town. 
 
 To-day Priscilla seemed to have changed places with 
 these people. They were somehow beyond her. They 
 possessed something she did not possess. They saw 
 something she did not see. A vague yearning filled her 
 mind, and a slight impatience, too. Why was she left 
 out? 
 
 Could that be Father Riordan, whom she had seen 
 every day since she was a child that figure, majestic, 
 awful, raising the chalice in his hands? He had taken 
 a new character, in her eyes, with his gold-embroidered 
 robes. She could never look at his rotund form and 
 pleasant face again with the feeling that he was much 
 like other men, only, of course, a Romish priest. It was
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 109 
 
 not the fact that his decent suit of broadcloth haJ been 
 replaced by these strange, solemn vestments which 
 reminded her of the description of the garments of the 
 Levites in the Old Testament that made the difference. 
 It was something else, indefinable, mysterious. 
 
 Prise-ilia did her best not to give the organist unneces- 
 sary trouble. In fact, she was the only person in the 
 choir who did not insist on loping when the organist 
 trotted. But nobody seemed to mind that. The sermon 
 rather wearied Priscilla. It was an old one of Father 
 Riordan's on his favorite theme, the Trinity. She was 
 thirsting for some explanation of this mystery. Even 
 her new acquaintance, Mr. O'Donnell, who seemed to be 
 a young man like other young men, had lost himself in a 
 strange rapture. What did it mean ? What was it that 
 transfigured these people ? 
 
 When Mass was over Felix O'Donnell descended the 
 stairs from the gallery with Priscilla. 
 
 " It is not often," he said, " that we hear a voice like 
 yours in our church. I wish we could hear it every Sun- 
 day." 
 
 " I haven't much voice," she answered very truthfully, 
 " but I am careful. Your service is is strange, weird ; 
 no, those are not the words ! If I was sure it was right 
 to say so I should call it heavenly." 
 
 u It is heavenly." 
 
 There was a pause. They worked their way through 
 the crowd to the opposite sidewalk. 
 
 " I will sing again, if Father Biordan would like me 
 to. But I feel uneasy because I don't know what I am 
 singing. I am sure it must be all right, since the priest 
 pays so much respect to the Bible on the altar, but " 
 Priscilla laughed " 1 am a conscientious heretic, you 
 know/'
 
 110 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Felix laughed, too. 
 
 " Would you like a translation ? " 
 
 " Yes, if you will bring me one." 
 
 At this moment Mr. Arden approached, having elbowed 
 his way through the throng on the sidewalk. 
 
 " You did well, Pris," he said, offering Felix a cigar. 
 " The music was tip-top; reminded me of the Cincinnati 
 festival, when you all came in together with a scream 
 and a roar tout ensemble, you know. I must say, Mr. 
 O'Donnell, you Catholics know how to treat the Lord. 
 You go about your service reverently. You don't try to 
 slap him on the back, as our people do." 
 
 Mr. Arden was in great good-humor. He invited Fe- 
 lix to dinner. Felix declined. 
 
 " My old mother would be lonely," he said. 
 
 "Good boy!" said the editor of the Bazoo. "Drop 
 in when you like." 
 
 " And," added Priscilla, with a smile, " bring rne the 
 translation." 
 
 The editor of the Bazoo was much impressed with the 
 ceremonies of the Mass. He believed, with Byron, 
 
 " Surely they are sincerest 
 Who are most impressed 
 With that which lies nearest." 
 
 And, through his quality of taking instantaneous and 
 dissolving impressions, he had been enabled to make the 
 Bazoo a lively paper. After dinner he read a little in 
 J la] lam's History of the Middle Ages, Maria Monk's 
 Daughter, fvan/ioe, and Burton's Anatomy of Melan- 
 choly (for Latin quotations), and produced a two-column 
 article, headed :
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. Ill 
 
 
 
 OUR ROMAN CATHOLIC BRETHREN. 
 
 What They Do and How They Do It. 
 
 Pagan Pomp Eclipsed by Papal Magnificence. 
 
 A Display That Throws the Eleusinian Mysteries in the Shade. 
 
 Eloquent and Soul-Stirring Discourse by Father Riordan, etc., etc. 
 
 The next day after this article had appeared Father 
 Riordan entered the Bazoo office with ten closely-written 
 pages of foolscap, beginning : 
 
 " MESSRS. EDITORS : The feelings of the Catholics in 
 this community have been shocked by a lengthy article " 
 
 After some discussion the editor of the Bazoo agreed 
 to admit the letter, provided it were cut down. 
 
 " I thought I'd please you," he said, slightly irritated. 
 " What's wrong about the Eleusinian mysteries ? They 
 look well in print. - A fellow never knows when he is 
 treading on the corns of you Catholics." 
 
 V. 
 
 Felix escorted Priscilla to the choir rehearsals regularly. 
 Generally, on returning, he found her father and John 
 Lowe, who had entirely forgotten Priscilla's insult to his 
 dignity, finishing their cigars on the front steps. Pris- 
 cilla's study of the translation of the Ordinary of the 
 Mass had satisfied her half-awakened doubts. She had 
 found a new interest in life. 
 
 She and Felix talked little during their short walks. 
 He spoke seldom, but he was a pleasant companion for 
 all that. He seemed to understand her, and, if he made 
 a half-satirical comment when her cultured raptures were 
 overflowing, it was always good-humored. She confessed 
 to herself that a pr'mrose by the river's brim was a sim-
 
 112 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 
 
 pie primrose to him. He had read Tom Moore, and 
 Evangeline, and the Ballad Poetry of Ireland. He 
 read a daily and a weekly paper, lie had collected 
 several books on rose-culture. His culture stopped short 
 there. Withal Priscilla found it hard to patronize, him. 
 It was true he lived in the quarter of the town in which 
 the Irish had settled. It was true that he was only 
 slightly acquainted with the leading inhabitants. He had 
 spent a few years at Father Kiordan's school, and acquired 
 that amazing facility in addition, subtraction, and multi- 
 plication that gave such a great superiority at the express- 
 office. Priscilla soon discovered all this, and also that he 
 lived with his mother, who was old. As a descendant of 
 Priscilla Mullins, as the daughter of the editor of the 
 Bazoo, as a girl who for her accomplishments and social 
 position was much "looked up" to in Butterville, she 
 had felt somewhat like a Queen Cophetua extending her 
 liiind in graceful politeness to an interesting beggar-man. 
 For Felix O'Donnell was Irish, and, though very nice, 
 still not quite not quite, you know. " Of course one 
 does not like to seem bigoted against the Catholics, but 
 they are really not nice. The crowd at St. Mark's is 
 awful." 
 
 This is what Faith Evans, Priscilla's bosom-friend, said 
 one afternoon as they were walking through the plaza, 
 planted with infant trees, which in time Was to be the 
 Butterville Public Park. Faith Evans had been deliver- 
 ing a remonstrance. On the preceding evening Felix, 
 following the usage of Butterville society, had on the 
 way from the rehearsal invited Priscilla to have ice- 
 cream at Barker's. 
 
 Barker's was a two-story frame house at the corner of 
 Lincoln and Liberty Streets. A huge white r.wning
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 113 
 
 stretched before it, on which was printed in black letters, 
 "Ice-Cream." It was filled with the jeunesse dorte of 
 Butterville, of both sexes. The Willis boys, clerks in 
 the shoe-factory, scions of an old family dating back to 
 '52, were there with Faith Evans and several other 
 young girls of the best society. It was hard to find 
 room at the marble-topped tables. Faith obligingly made 
 space for her friend and Felix ; but the Willis boys, who 
 knew the value of "family," stared, and several of the 
 jeunesse doree wondered who that " red-headed Irishman " 
 was. though they knew very well. 
 
 Priscilla was conscious of a slight blush ; she felt the 
 atmosphere. She was defiantly attentive to Felix. She 
 even insisted on transferring a portion of her strawberry- 
 ice to his vanilla a delicate attention which caused the 
 jeunesse dorte to conclude, as one woman, that the couple 
 were engaged. Hence the remonstrance from Faith 
 Evans, a thin, tall, freckled girl wearing turbulent 
 " bangs." 
 
 " You must remember that yon are very different from 
 him. His associations are no doubt of a kind repelling 
 to refined tastes. Even a flirtation " 
 
 " I won't hear any more of this," Priscilla interrupted. 
 " I don't know what you mean, Faith. I am sure he is 
 as good as Jim Willis." 
 
 Faith laughed ; and her revenge came to her. 
 
 It was at twilight. Crossing the street just in front of 
 them was an old woman, bent and shrivelled. She wore 
 a small three-cornered shawl and a white frilled cap. 
 She was clean, neat, and very pleasant to look upon ; 
 but as Faith at once remarked, " So awfully Irish ! Sup- 
 pose she were some relative of your O'Donnell." 
 
 The old woman had a basket on one arm. Just as she 
 8
 
 114 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 reached the express-office Felix O'Donnell came out and 
 kissed her. Then hu took the basket and said : 
 
 " So you've come at last, mother ! I've been waiting 
 for half an hour in the doorway here. We'll have a long 
 ride in the moonlight. But what's the basket for? " 
 
 " Sure I thought you'd be after wanting something to 
 eat, as you wouldn't lose time coming to supper." 
 
 Felix caught night of the girls and nodded pleasantly. 
 Faith laughed, as the son helped his mother to mount 
 the omnibus which carried passengers through a stretch 
 of pleasant country out to a park much resorted to by the 
 inhabitants of Butterville in summer. 
 
 Faith had had her revenge. She admitted to herself 
 that Felix looked almost handsome in his gray business 
 suit. 
 
 " He is a good son, no doubt," she added aloud. " Im- 
 agine, though, a mother-in-law in that cap ! " 
 
 Faith laughed again. 
 
 Priscilla was shocked. His family must be very low 
 people. Had the thing that Faith had warned her against 
 ever entered her mind ? She dared not answer. Had he 
 meant anything? Had she encouraged him? Perhaps 
 she had. Well, there should be an end of it now. A girl 
 must respect her position in life. She would not be 
 laughed at and looked down upon by anybody. 
 
 All this may seem absurd to people whose horizon is 
 wider than Priscilla's was; it may also seem absurd that 
 a young woman who could seriously think in this manner 
 could at the same time have reasoned so deeply and 
 prayed so earnestly as to have come to the conclusion 
 that she ought not to be isolated from the devout group 
 that had filled her soul with awe on the morning of 
 Pentecost.
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 115 
 
 She had told Father Riordan she could not sing the 
 " O Salutaris Hostia " at the offertory, though she had 
 no difficulty about the " Ave Maria." He had spoken to 
 her of that august Sacrifice in the presence of which 
 every knee and heart bowed. She went home, saying to 
 herself that she could not sing again unless she believed. 
 The following Sunday she did not go to the choir. On 
 the next Sunday she appeared, a little quieter, perhaps, 
 but it was noticed that her voice was unusually expressive. 
 On Monday she went to the Benedictine father who 
 served the chapel of St. Bonifacius. 
 
 She would have gone to Father Riordan had not pride 
 prevented her. Faith Evans' words awakened a senti- 
 ment of icsentment in her mind. If people were think- 
 ing what they had no right to think, if Felix O'Donnell 
 was presuming what he had no right to presume, the 
 news that she had entered the Church would only cou- 
 n'rm the opinions of one and encourage those of the 
 other ; so she stole to St. Bonifacius' early in the morn- 
 ings, and one morning she was received into the Fold. 
 
 Her father had made no objection. " I don't want any 
 fuss made about it," he had said. " I don't want para- 
 graphs to get into the papers about it, and have that 
 Cleveland Leader fellow call me a slave of Rome. You 
 ought to follow your conscience, of course. I was once 
 almost a Mormon myself. / won't interfere. Besides, 
 what with Beeeherism and the dearth of ministers, there 
 will soon be no Congregationalism left. Then you'll be 
 ' left,' my dear. And Romanism would be very decent, if 
 it wasn't for the Irish. Go your way, Fris." And he 
 kissed her.
 
 116 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 VI. 
 
 In the meantime Felix O'Donnell had to admit, in 
 moments when he paused in his work to look into the 
 busy street, that he was becoming interested in Priscilla. 
 
 The social gulf that was so wide to her eyes did not 
 appear to his at all. But the difference in religion was 
 to him an insuperable barrier. 
 
 " If I had committed myself," he thought, " if she had 
 a right to expect me to speak out, I should speak out at 
 once." He almost wished he had. As it was, he felt that 
 he had better nip his growing regard for Priscilla in the 
 bud. He had great confidence in himself. 
 
 He was as polite as ever. He helped Priscilla with 
 her music of evenings after the rehearsals, but Mr. Arden 
 and John Lowe were always on the front step within 
 hearing of every word. 
 
 Priscilla had determined that her religion should not 
 interfere with her duty to her position. She talked 
 seldom of culture, and this made her more charming in 
 the eyes of Felix. 
 
 These evenings were very pleasant to both of them. 
 But Felix was so sure of his own secret and of himself 
 that he enjoyed them with a clear conscience. As to 
 Prise-ilia, she felt a glow of virtue. Here was a young 
 man rushing to his doom in spite of all her danger-sig- 
 nals. She was cold, reserved. She might have flirted 
 with him, then have declared herself fancy-free and sent 
 him off lamenting. Confidentially she told Faith Evans of 
 her noble attitude. The astute Faith laughed incredu- 
 lously. Priscilla expected a declaration every time she
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 117 
 
 met Felix. She had done her best to ward it off ; yet 
 she was beginning to be slightly anxious about it. 
 
 Another proposal did come, however, or at least the 
 prelude to it was made. The editor of the Bazoo an- 
 nounced one evening, after he had read all his exchanges, 
 that John Lowe was a bashful man, and that he was " a 
 long time coming to the point." 
 
 " I tell you, Pris, he's dead gone on you ; but you're 
 so hifaluting, with your culture and that sort of thing, 
 that he doesn't dare to say a word to you." 
 
 Friscilla smiled as she thought of the scene at the door. 
 
 " I told him all about your being a Romanist, and he 
 said he thought one religion was as good as another. If 
 you could stand it, he could. He wants a stylish wife, a 
 woman he can look up to ; and by Jove, Pris ! you're 
 that woman." 
 
 The editor of the Bazoo paused. Priscilla was still 
 smiling. Half the girls in Butterville would have jumped 
 at an offer from the creator of the ninety-nine-cent " in- 
 ducement " by which much old stock in the dry-goods 
 line had, through the weakness of the feminine head for 
 bargains, been turned into cash. 
 
 " Besides," continued the editor of theJSazoo solemnly, 
 " I am awfully in debt. That Owl Club Mine failure was 
 a bad thing for me. The Bazoo is mortgaged over head 
 and ears to John Lowe ; and now, Pris, I expect you to 
 get me out of this hole by marrying him." 
 
 Mr. Arden spoke bluntly, yet hesitatingly. He felt 
 that Priscilla was doing him a favor b} 7 allowing him to 
 mention the subject. Marriage was so entirely a matter 
 to be arranged by Priscilla herself that he considered he 
 was interfering with an inalienable right guaranteed to 
 every American citizen " the pursuit of happiness."
 
 118 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Priscilla patted him on the cheek and kissed him. " I'll 
 think of it, father," she said. 
 
 He looked grateful and relieved. 
 
 " Lowe will be here to-morrow night. I'm glad you're 
 not a girl out of a story-book, hating to listen to reason. 
 Lowe will make a good husband, and you can cultivate your 
 taste in bric-a-brac with his money as much as you please." 
 Then seeing that the smile had faded from her lips and 
 that she looked thoughtful, he selected a paper from his 
 bundle of " exchanges " and said, with fatherly kindness : 
 " There's the Detroit Free Press not much cut out of 
 it. Brighten yourself up a little. There are worse 
 things in the world than marriage." 
 
 Priscilla took the Free Press to her room. She did 
 not find it as enlivening as her father had expected. 
 
 Should she say yes to John Lowe? 
 
 Priscilla, being a frugal American girl, knew exactly 
 what money would buy. She neither underrated nor 
 overrated its power. She imagined various pleasant ad- 
 vantages, and, by way of compensation for giving way to 
 self-indulgence, drew a rapid sketch of a new chapel 
 which she would persuade John Lowe to build in honor 
 of St. Bonifacius. 
 
 But John Lowe himself? 
 
 He was an honest man, somewhat vulgar and overbear- 
 ing ; not not Felix O'Donnell 
 
 Priscilla covered her face with her hands. She was 
 humiliated, crushed to the earth. She knew that there 
 could be no man on earth who would be to her like Felix 
 O'Donnell. She remembered Faith Evans' incredulous 
 laugh. Her face became hot ; tears of wounded pride 
 filled her eyes. The people had been right ; even now 
 the Oongregationalists and Baptists, missing her fnin
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 119 
 
 church, were saying that she was coquetting with Rome 
 for Felix O'Donnell's sake. It was very bitter, very 
 bitter. 
 
 And her father? She was not at all afraid of what 
 her father would say. She knew that in the matter of 
 
 w 
 
 marriage all rights and prerogatives were a daughter's. 
 All Butterville would despise any girl who let her father 
 interfere in a matrimonial question. 
 
 She stayed up late. She heard her father and John 
 Lowe talking down on the steps. She closed the window. 
 What vile cigars John Lowe smoked ! What a hateful 
 voice he had, with his talk of per cents. Felix never 
 but what was he to her ? " Felix " indeed ! " Mrs. Felix 
 O'Donnell ! " she repeated in scorn. u That name might 
 belong to a washerwoman ! " 
 
 She awoke in the morning with a headache. She 
 thought it all over again. The Bazoo mortgaged and 
 her father in trouble. No help from anybody but John 
 Lowe. By ten o'clock she caine to the conclusion that 
 she would sacrifice herself on the altar of filial love. At 
 twelve she remembered that the house was her own and 
 that she had hands with which to work. At seven o'clock, 
 when she seated herself in the parlor with her best black 
 gown on, indicative of sacrifice, and a spray of bleediug- 
 hearts in her hair, she said to herself that she did not 
 know what she would do. But in her heart she knew 
 well enough. 
 
 She refused John Lowe. It was all over in half an 
 hour. He took it most philosophically. He wished her 
 joy and hoped she would be happy with the other fellow. 
 
 " I'd better take myself off," he said, with an attempt 
 at sarcasm. " It's rehearsal night, and you may be wait- 
 ing for him."
 
 120 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Priscilla's expression was not visible in the twilight. 
 She made no answer. So Felix O'Donnell's intentions 
 were plain even to this stupid John Lowe ! 
 
 It was rehearsal night. Would he never come ? Her 
 heart beat at every step in the street. He had only to speak 
 now, and she would answer as he deserved. What did 
 she care for the world of Butterville? Faith Evans and 
 the others might cut her, if they chose. A garret, a des- 
 ert island with him, and she would be happy ! 
 
 It was he at last ! Bessie came in to light the gas ; he 
 unrolled his music. He looked as frank and manly as 
 any woman could desire the man of her heart to look. 
 He took his place at the organ. They ran through an 
 " Ave Maria," arranged on the duet of Azucena with her 
 son in " Trovatore," several times. After that they went 
 to the church. Priscilla was in a dream. a delightful 
 dream. The rose of a lifetime was blooming for her, and 
 she had only to put out her hand to take it. This ex- 
 quisite rehearsal, like a prelude to sure happiness, was all 
 too short. 
 
 They stood under the elm at her father's gate. He 
 paused there and remarked how lovely the night was. 
 
 It was coming ! She must delay it a moment, as one 
 delays to open a letter containing joyful news. She gave 
 him the flowers she wore in her hair. 
 
 " I have never given you a flower before, Mr. O'Don- 
 nell. Dear me 1 how fragile they are. They have fallen 
 from their stem. No, there are two ! " 
 
 "Bleeding-hearts! Thank you," he said gravely. 
 " Only two. It's a bad omen." 
 
 Priscilla laughed. 
 
 " I shall not be in the choir next Sunday, Miss Arden," 
 he said, in a tone that had a singular constraint in it.
 
 A DESCENDANT OF THE PURITANS. 121 
 
 " Mr. Stroebling will take my place. My doctor " he 
 hesitated " forbids me to sing any more. My throat is 
 slightly affected. I hope that, though we shall not re- 
 hearse together, you will not forget me." 
 
 He stopped. 
 
 Nothing more. A long pause. 
 
 " Of course not, Mr. O'Donnell." 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 He walked slowly away, thrusting the flowers away 
 from him. He was angry with her, with himself. After 
 such a comfortable time, suh an enjoyable acquaintance, 
 she might have said something more. Coquette ! Did 
 she think to draw him on with her flowers ? " Bleeding- 
 hearts " indeed ! Some women have no hearts ! 
 
 But Priscilla ? Poor Priscilla, who had heroically de- 
 termined to step down from her social pedestal for love's 
 sweet sake, who had rejected the most eminent citizen of 
 Butterville, who had offered herself, after much prepara- 
 tion, to the sacrificial knife and been refused ; her fate 
 was hard ! She rushed up the steps, w ; here John Lowe 
 no longer, sat, into her room, and wept aloud. 
 
 It did not end here. In truth, the story only began. 
 Father Biordan shortly afterward alluded to Priscilla's 
 conversion, of which many people in Butterville had 
 heard. Felix could not believe it. He had been heart- 
 sick, angry, disgusted since -he had said good-night to 
 Priscilla. Th'3 world satisfied hi n not. He was as hard 
 to please as Hamlet must have been when he rejected the 
 wedding-hash made of the funeral baked meats. His 
 mother what do not mothers discover? divined the 
 cause, but she was silent.
 
 122 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Felix plied Father Riordan with questions until the 
 good priest told him to go to the rector of St. Bon i facias'. 
 
 To make a long story short, Priscilla got her proposal. 
 
 " "Well," said the editor of the Bazoo, after having re- 
 ceived both congratulations and condolences, " Pris has a 
 right to choose for herself. I've made an assignment, 
 and I'll be pretty well off after I pay fifty cents on the 
 dollar. O'Donnell's an honest chap no vices. I'm 
 going to run for the Legislature, if I have to change my 
 politics. There's a big Irish vote in this place don't 
 you forget it ; and Felix is a popular man ! "
 
 A VIRGINIAN COMEDY. 
 
 HICAPICK was the flower of the flock. Chica- 
 pick, old Caesar said, had lived all " frough de 
 wah," having, during that long interval of terror, 
 escaped the grasp of hungry soldiers only by reason of 
 her evident age and toughness. She had been a spring- 
 chicken once, sometime " 'fo' de wah," Caesar did not 
 know when ; but now she was in the sere arid yellow 
 leaf ; yet she showed no intention of dying. Christmas 
 after Christmas passed, fowls of the male and female 
 gender died under the sharp clutch of old Caesar's lingers ; 
 yet Chicapick, the oldest inhabitant of the poultry -roost, 
 seemed resolved to go on forever, like Tennyson's stream. 
 She was the Methuselah of hens. 
 
 Chicapick was " ole Miss Annabel's " pet. " Old Miss 
 Annabel " was known to everybody, except white-wooled 
 Caesar, as Mrs. Dairy mple, who, silent and stately, sat in 
 her arm-chair by the window, day after day, never un- 
 bending or smiling, except in the morning, when, by 
 special permission, Chicapick strutted into her presence 
 to be fed with bread and milk. 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple lived in the past. Her mind was 
 always busy with the old days, before the war, when the 
 house of her husband, Judge Dalrymple, was the resort 
 of all the talent, beauty, and blood of Virginia ; when, as 
 his wife, she was one of the most noted ladies in Paris ; 
 when, instead of the painted barn in which she and her 
 
 (123)
 
 124 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 daughter now dwelt, the Dalryuiple mansion reared its 
 head " finer and older than Mrs. Lee's house at Arling 
 ton," Mrs. Dalryinple had often said. . 
 
 But the mansion had been burned, like many other 
 mansions, and, in place of the marble halls and obedient 
 slaves and a wide demesne, Mrs. Dalrymple had a corn- 
 Held, a cow, a few chickens, a little house in Washington, 
 which was rented for ten dollars a month, and old Caesar. 
 
 Old Caesar had been Judge Dalryrnple's " boy," and he 
 was now Miss Kate's " boy "; and, if he lived to be ninety- 
 nine, he would be somebody's " boy " to the end. He 
 was proud of Miss Kate, for Miss Kate was the prettiest 
 and best young lady in all Virginia ; and Virginia, Vir- 
 ginians agree, contains all the roses of the rosebud garden 
 of girls. 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple was not quite so well satisfied with 
 Kate. " To be sure, she was good enough," but then she 
 was only a girl, and, before the war, Mrs. Dalrymple had 
 been the proud mother of two stalwart sons ; one had 
 died in battle, the other in a Northern prison. Besides, 
 there had been raised a barrier between mother and 
 daughter. Kate, with her mother's permission Mrs. 
 Dalrymple was not a woman insensate enough to coerce 
 conscience had become a Catholic, and old Caesar had 
 followed her footsteps. Mrs. Dalrymple was an Episco- 
 palian in theory. Had not the Rev. Arthur Wycherly, 
 her great-grandfather, helped to plant the standard of the 
 ( hiirch of England in Virginia ? And, on that account, 
 she felt herself pledged, in a manner, to the English 
 creed. If it was good enough for her, why was it not 
 sufficient for Kate? She could not understand it ; con- 
 sequently there was a coldness in her kindness that cost 
 Kate many tears. Mrs. Dalrymple was an invalid she
 
 A VIRGINIAN COMEDY. 125 
 
 never left her arm-chair except at night. A violent 
 attack of rheumatism had left her powerless to walk. 
 
 Every Saturday night Caesar went over to John Pen- 
 dleton's place and asked, " with Mrs. Dalrymple's compli- 
 ments," for the loan of Mr. Pendleton's gig ; and when 
 Mr. Pendleton had sent for the wheels, which had been 
 borrowed by another neighbor, and he himself borrowed 
 some indispensable parts of the harness, Caesar drove the 
 antique mare and the more antique vehicle homeward, to 
 be ready to conduct 'Miss Kate over the bridge to Trinity 
 Church on Sunday morning. 
 
 Kate's best dress was an old silk, one of her mother's 
 reconstructed ; she had not had a new bonnet for years ; 
 and these considerations, rather than self -mortification, 
 induced her to hear the earliest Mass. She would have 
 preferred to go to High Mass ; but, with all her courage 
 and Kate Dalrymple had a great deal -she could not 
 bring herself to face the congregation, in the noontime 
 glare, in her faded gown and four-year-old hat ; and so 
 her motives in this, like the motives of all of us, whether 
 we acknowledge it or not, were rather mixed. 
 
 Poor old Caesar groaned and grunted, but the mare and 
 the gig were always ready " on time " namely, at half-past 
 four o'clock. Kate allowed Caesar to have his own way, 
 and to take his own time in everything else, but on the 
 point of early Mass her feminine will was inflexible. 
 
 One Sunday in June, Kate stands under the shed scat- 
 tering corn to the chickens. Chicapick rubs her grizzled 
 feathers against Kate's faded silk, and occasionally picks 
 up a grain intended for the common herd, merely to 
 show that she can condescend. Kate had been at Mass. 
 It is nearly half-past nine o'clock ; the sun shines as 
 only the sun does shine on Sunday with a brightness
 
 126 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 and an intensity that seem to burn the golden eyes of tlio 
 roses, and make them hang their heads. 
 
 Over the rough shed erected by Caesar to protect the 
 shelterl ess door of the barn, roses and honeysuckle cluster in 
 bewildering profusion ; honeysuckle, with white and pink 
 trumpets sending forth an ambrosial perfume that wafts 
 Kate's soul far away from the burning sun, the parched soil, 
 the smell of the rice-pudding burning far away some- 
 where, maybe among the pomegranates of the Alhambra, 
 the orange-groves of Sicily, or those parterres of celestial 
 flowers which the priest, speaking of a virgin-martyr, 
 mentioned this morning. But the burning rice-pudding 
 has claims on Kate's attention which even the imagina- 
 tion is bound to respect, and she rushes past her mother, 
 dozing in the chair, to save it from destruction. Again 
 the eager brood flutter around her, undeterred by the 
 decorous example of Chicapick, and the sprays of red and 
 white roses droop low to pour their odor over her brown 
 hair. 
 
 Kate has brown hair and eyes not those weak, light- 
 brown eyes with no reflections in them, but eyes that 
 catch the light like an opal. She looks at everything di- 
 rectly. She is tall, with a quick grace in her movements 
 which probably comes from constant exercise rather than 
 from nature. Her face is oval, and there is more pure 
 color in her lips and cheeks than is common nowadays. 
 If you had seen her grandmother Dalrymple's portrait 
 by Sir Joshua, you would have noticed his vain attempt 
 to catch this same pure tone of color, and also her grand- 
 mother's taper fingers, which Kate has too, but hers are 
 not so white as her grandmother's. Her brown dress 
 falls around her in those simple folds which ladies try so 
 hard to "get up" nowadays. She shades her eyes with
 
 A VIRGINIAN COMEDY. 127 
 
 her hands. She sees a white umbrella and a man's head 
 and shoulders above the low fence that skirts the corn- 
 field. 
 
 " Who can it be ? Straw hat gray coat. It is Philip 
 Brown. He is coming here! What could have pos- 
 sessed him to come at this time ? And we have nothing 
 for dinner but broth and rice-pudding, corn-bread and 
 coffee ! Well, if he can put up with it, I suppose we 
 ought to be glad to see him." 
 
 Philip Brown advances up the road, and soon comes 
 within speaking-distance. 
 
 " Good-morning, Kate ! " 
 
 " Good-morning, Phil ! " 
 
 Rather unceremonious, but Philip Brown and Kate 
 Darlymple are old friends. Philip was a ward of Judge 
 Dalrymple's. He was born in Connecticut, and his father, 
 an old college-friend of Dalrymple's, had, dying, sent 
 him South ; he had divided his time between the Dal- 
 rymple house and a Northern college. He is about thirty ; 
 a civil-engineer stationed in Washington ; tall, with lively 
 blue eyes, a fresh color, and an air of careless good-nature. 
 He is rather matter-of-fact; he attends to his business 
 and his religious duties (he is a Catholic) ; and he is in 
 love with Kate, though that young woman has not 
 found it out yet, or, at least, she pretends she has not. 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple tolerates him, because he was her hus- 
 band's ward. She does not like him; he is a- Yankee 
 and a plebeian. His father was not of a good family, 
 neither was his mother. If either of them had even 
 come over in the Mayflower, she would have some re- 
 spect for him, although he is a Yankee ; but neither of 
 them had, and his mother had actually been a servant 
 before old Brown married her! Now, his cousin, Philip
 
 128 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Brown, of Richmond, was somebody, Mrs. Dalrymple 
 often said. His father had married a Miss Bradford, of 
 Warwick Court-House, whose father had the best blood 
 in Virginia which is the best blood in the world in his 
 veins, whose mother was an Archer, of Queen Anne 
 County, connected, as every one knew, with the Lees, 
 the Carrolls Philip Brown, of Richmond, was some- 
 body, in spite of his Yankee father. 
 
 " It's only Phil," said Mrs. Dalrymple, relapsing into 
 the doze from which she had been awakened by Philip's 
 step on the walk. 
 
 " I stopped at the post-office," said Phil, taking off his 
 hat and fanning himself violently. " The sun is scorch- 
 ing ! I bring you a letter." 
 
 "A letter?" cried Kate, as he took the missive from 
 the ribbon of his hat. " For me ? It is an age since I 
 had a letter." And she poised it in her hand, enjoying a 
 sense of uncertainty ; she had no fear of bad news no 
 distant friends to lose, and no unpaid bills. " A gentle- 
 man's writing ' Miss Dalrymple.' He doesn't dot the *', 
 and the I and the e are both of the same size. Richmond 
 post- mark. Who can it be?" 
 
 " Suppose you open it," he suggested ; " you play with 
 it as a cat plays with a mouse." 
 
 " How full of curiosity you men are ! " She opened 
 it ; an expression, half of annoyance, half of amusement, 
 came into her face. " It is from your cousin ! ' Mr. 
 Philip Brown, of Richmond, Ya., presents his compli- 
 ments to Miss Dalrymple, and begs that she will inform 
 her mother that he -will do himself the honor of calling 
 on her to-morrow (Sunday) morning. He will remain in 
 Washington for a few days/ " 
 
 " Oh, Phil, what shall I do?"
 
 A VIRGINIAN COMEDY. 129 
 
 Phil looked at her in amazement. "Why, receive 
 him kindly, of course. He is not a bad fellow, in his way, 
 and yonr mother will be glad to hear from his mother." 
 
 " How stupid you are ! I don't care what kind of a 
 man he is ! Good or bad, he has an appetite, I suppose. 
 There is absolutely NOTHING for dinner ! " 
 
 She whispered these last words with an intensity that 
 would have done credit to Eistori. 
 
 Phil lauglied, and thereby, as she expressed it, drove 
 her nearly " wild." He, being a man, could not com- 
 prehend the whole horror of the situation. 
 
 " Oh, come now, Kate, there must be something? " 
 
 " There is nothing but corn-bread, coffee, rice-pudding, 
 and mother's broth. A nice combination for Judge Dal- 
 rymple's daughter to set before " 
 
 u A king ! " murmured Phil. 
 
 Kate glared at him " To set before a stranger. And 
 Caesar has gone away to Pendleton's Woods for the day, 
 and I never killed a chicken myself ! " 
 
 Phil was deeply moved by a tear that glittered in the 
 corner of Kate's eye. 
 
 "Is that all? I'll kill the chicken, and roast it as 
 well as you can, I often did it when I was a boy. There 
 he is!" 
 
 A figure was visible in the road beyond the fence. 
 Phil prepared to disappear around the corner of the 
 house ; but he stopped suddenly. Neither of them saw 
 the situation now in an amusing light. For Kate it was 
 almost tragical ; for Phil, deeply serious. 
 
 " Kate," he said, seizing her hand, " do you like me a 
 little?" 
 
 " The idea of asking such a thing now ! Of course 
 iiot, sir ! " 
 
 9
 
 130 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Phil disappeared. 
 
 "What could have induced me to do it, I wonder?" 
 he thought. "I never did it before. I know she likes 
 me. I'll speak to Mrs. Dalrymple. What a fool 1 am ! " 
 
 He felt like tearing his hair, but he only took off his 
 coat and made an onslaught on the chickens. 
 
 Philip Brown, of Richmond, was unlike his cousin. 
 He was above the average height, but lank and loose- 
 jointed. His face was what some young ladies call 
 "pretty." It was pink and white, with a dainty black 
 moustache. He wore a spotless linen suit, and, though 
 he complained of the heat, not an individual hair on his 
 carefully-arranged head was astray. 
 
 He introduced himself to Kate, and Kate introduced 
 him to her mother. Mrs. Dalrymple smoothed the lace 
 at her throat, straigjitened herself in her chair, and be- 
 came at once a model of courtesy and graceful hospitality. 
 The young man was soon deep in a labyrinth of questions 
 about marriages and deaths, his mother's favorite clergy- 
 man, and his own views of religious matters. 
 
 "Ah," said Mrs. Dalrymple, "it is so refreshing to 
 find a young man like you such a firm Episcopalian ! 
 You have the true blood, sir, the true blood." 
 
 Philip Brown, of Richmond, bowed, and looked as if he 
 would like to talk to Kate, but Mrs. Dalrymple, like the 
 ancient mariner, held him firmly. Kate was in agony. 
 She could plainly distinguish fearful sounds in the kitchen. 
 She made several attempts to escape; but her mother 
 seemed determined that she should remain in the room 
 as long as possible. 
 
 "Don't trouble yourself about the dinner, child. I 
 never do. I dare say we can give Mr. Brown something 
 to eat. Where is Phil Brown ? "
 
 A VIRGINIAN COMEDY. 131 
 
 " Is my cousin here ? " demanded the guest, while a 
 slight cloud crossed his face. It was disagreeable to hear 
 of a rival in the good graces of the Dalrymples. 
 
 " Yes, the Yankee is always here," responded Mrs. 
 Dalrymple ; " he's a good enough person, but plebeian ; 
 no blood, no tone." 
 
 Kate's brow flushed. 
 
 Philip Brown, of Richmond, objected to questions of 
 a business nature on the Sabbath, but he could not help 
 asking whether Mrs. Dalrymple owned that swampy 
 stretch of land which ran along the Potomac, beginning 
 at her cornfield. Mrs. Dalrymple saw no objection to 
 answering that it was hers all the land, except the corn- 
 field, that she owned in the world. It was worthless, ut- 
 terly worthless. If it were not, she asserted, somebody 
 would have seized it long ago; then she turned to Kate 
 and severely asked if they were to have no dinner that 
 day. Kate escaped, with an anxious heart, to lay the 
 cloth. Phil, his face flaming, came and whispered tri- 
 umphantly : 
 
 " The chicken is as brown as a berry ; I found the 
 potatoes, and stuffed it with some herbs." 
 
 Kate was sorely tempted to ask what kind of herbs, 
 but, maintaining her dignity, she only said : 
 
 " I wonder that you have the effrontery to speak to me 
 after what has occurred! " 
 
 " ItVall right," he said, wilfully misunderstanding her. 
 " It's the nicest roast you ever saw. You needn't be 
 ashamed of it." 
 
 To hide a smile that was struggling with her frown, 
 Kate busied herself with the remnants of the Dalrymple 
 silver. 
 
 Dinner was served. Mrs. Dalrymple made no apol- 
 ogy, except for Caesar's absence.
 
 132 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " Your father," said Mrs. Dairy m pie, graciously, " was 
 famous as a carver. May I ask if the talent has descend- 
 ed to his son i " 
 
 "People say it has," said the guest, smilingly, possess- 
 ing himself of the carving-knife. 
 
 What was the matter with that fowl ? 
 
 u Oh," thought Kate, " 1 must have been out of my 
 senses to let Phil meddle with it ! " 
 
 Philip Brown, of Virginia, started off gracefully eUsily. 
 The interest deepened. He grew warmer, less easy. 
 That wing would not come off. 
 
 " Never mind," said Mrs. Dalrymple ; " a leg will do." 
 
 The carver looked relieved. He wrestled with more 
 ardor than before. That chicken was certainly made 
 with steel tendons, he thought. The suspense became 
 terrible. Mrs. Dalrymple, showing her usual good-breed- 
 ing, tried to talk of indifferent matters ; but she could 
 not keep her eyes off the object of interest. Philip 
 Brown, of Virginia, was red in the face. The perspira- 
 tion stood out on his forehead. 
 
 u Let me try my muscle," proposed his cousin, with 
 awful boldness. 
 
 " I fear that this fowl is Chicapick," thought Mrs. Dal- 
 rymple, and her fear was confirmed by Phil's next 
 speech. 
 
 " I knew she was awfully old, but I never imagined 
 she would turn out like this." 
 
 " It is Chicapick. My poor pet ! The ruthless Yankee ! " 
 she thought, and, with a superb effort at self-control, she 
 said aloud : " No chicken for me, sir." 
 
 " You're wise," thought the " ruthless Yankee." 
 
 After the untimely death of Chicapick, Mrs. Dal- 
 rymple refused to admit Phil to the house.
 
 A VIRGINIAN COMEDY. 133 
 
 "That man," she said, "has rudely touched the finest 
 chords of my heart. He knew how I liked Chicapick ! " 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple threatened to have hysterics whenever 
 he appeared, and, as a consequence, Kate could not see 
 him. This violent distaste for Phil was not wholly due 
 to Chicapick's death. His cousin, Philip Brown, of 
 Richmond, still sojourned in Washington, and he called 
 every day having the good taste, however, to choose the 
 afternoon. The slaughter of the ancient fowl supplied 
 the sapient mamma with an excellent pretence for keep- 
 ing the field clear ; for Philip Brown, of Richmond, had 
 a large fortune, well invested in the North ; his family 
 was almost up to Mrs. Dalrymple's expectations ; he was 
 an excellent "catch " for Kate. His mother, in fact, had 
 sent him hither as a prince who goes to seek his bride. 
 The Browns were not wholly of the F. F. Y.'s, but Kate 
 Dalrymple was " sang pur." Had her father not been 
 related to the Masons, of Gunston Hall, and the Cock- 
 burns, of Truro Parish ? Philip Brown, of Richmond, 
 approved of Kate. He was in no hurry to tell her so. 
 When King Cophetua extends his sceptre, it is natural 
 for the beggar to grasp it with grateful palms; and so 
 Philip Brown was certain that he had only to offer him- 
 self and his money to Kate to be acepted. He had his 
 eyes on business just now. He offered to buy Mrs. Dal- 
 rymple's swamp by the river. Mrs. Dalrymple had a 
 horror of selling land, no matter how worthless it might 
 be. She would rent it. Philip Brown agreed to pay her 
 a fair rent for five years. This finished, he proposed for 
 Kate. 
 
 "Philip Brown, of Richmond, has leased the swamp," 
 Mrs. Dalrymple said to her daughter, after he had gone, 
 for Kate had been busy all day in the kitchen.
 
 134 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " He must be crazy ! " 
 
 " He is not, my dear. He intends to plant cranberries. 
 I wish we had thought of that ourselves. Kate, you 
 never think of anything ! And, my dear, he wants to 
 marry you." 
 
 Kate began to cry. " I don't see why a girl can't be 
 let alone ! Some Tom, Dick, or Harry is always wanting 
 to marry " 
 
 "Tom, Dick, or Harry!" cried Mrs. Dalryraple, in 
 horror. " His mother is a Bradford ! " 
 
 " I don't care ! I don't like him ! And, mother, if I 
 must marry, I will marry only a Catholic." 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple closed her eyes tight. u She means 
 that Yankee," she thought; "but I will not have him 
 for a son-in-law. I'll die first ! " She reflected. Ex- 
 perience had taught her not to argue. " I'll send her to 
 Mi.-s Doolady, and, if she doesn't prefer Philip Brown, 
 of Richmond, to a few weeks with that woman, she may 
 have her way." 
 
 Miss Doolady was an old maid, who had been mistress 
 of a boarding-school. She had retired from the laborious 
 occupation of teaching the young idea to shoot ; but she 
 was still famous for her unbending severity of principle 
 and practice. Kate had been one of her pupils, and she 
 was rather a favorite of the old lady's. Mrs. Dalrymple 
 regarded Miss Doolady with profound respect and great 
 aversion. She announced that, as the. rent of the swamp 
 would make a difference in their circumstances, she had 
 determined to visit Mrs. Bradford Brown, in Richmond. 
 Kate would, of course, go with her, and then return im- 
 mediately to Miss Doolady's in Washington. Caesar could 
 stay to mind " the place." 
 
 "And, Kate," said her mother, u don't let me hear of
 
 A VIRGINIAN COMEDY. 135 
 
 your offending Miss Doolady's Presbyterianism with your 
 Papist Catholic notions." 
 
 A week later, Kate was domiciled under the gloomy 
 shelter of Miss Doolady's roof. Miss Doolady lived by 
 rule, as did Miss Doolady's unfortunate black maid, Miss 
 Doolady's cat, and Miss Doolady's guest ; and the rule 
 was not the rule of three, but the more trying rule of 
 one Miss Doolady. Miss Doolady always wore black 
 silk and lace mittens, and in the crackle of her silk and 
 in the look even of the mittens there was something in- 
 tensely "aggravating" to Kate, for both articles of attire 
 seemed to have caught their wearer's habit of " laying 
 down the law." 
 
 " It is horrid here," thought Kate, over and over 
 again; "I'd rather be in the kitchen at home baking 
 corn -bread." 
 
 But she never thought that she would rather marry 
 Philip Brown, of Richmond. No ; she was firm in her 
 determination never to marry anybody outside of the 
 Catholic Faith, and, perhaps, only one in that Faith. As 
 usual, her motives were mixed, you see. Mrs. Dalrymple, 
 by way of keeping up the punishment, sent only the 
 briefest messages through Miss Doolady. 
 
 Mrs. Dalrymple fell sick, and pretended to become 
 alarmed. She wrote two " last " letters, one to Philip 
 Brown, of Richmond ; the other to Miss Doolady. Philip 
 Brown read his; he- was in no hurry; Mrs. Dalrymple' s 
 fears were no doubt groundless ; haste was always absurd ; 
 and, besides, he was ready to start for Mobile on busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Miss Doolady read hers, and thus addressed Kate : 
 
 " Miss Dalrymple, your mother is ill, and she wishes 
 you to go to her."
 
 136 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " I will go now, instantly ! " 
 
 " No, yon must have an escort. Propriety requires it." 
 
 u I can travel alone very well. It is only to Richmond ; 
 or yon can go with me. I must go, at all events ! " 
 
 " You will not, I hope, disregard your mother's wishes 
 entirely. As she remarks, no escort is as proper for a 
 lady as her husband." 
 
 " But what has that to do with me ? " demanded Kate. 
 
 " No escort would be as proper for you as your hus- 
 band," said Miss % Doolady. "In fact, -your mamma's 
 letter states that Mr. Philip Brown will call here, at my 
 house, to-day, and that you shall become his wife, in order 
 that you may travel, with propriety, in his company to 
 your mother's bedside." 
 
 " Never ! " cried Kate, with a sob, " never ! It is 
 hard when one's own mother turns against her. Pro- 
 priety ! Nonsense 1 " 
 
 " You should curb your awful temper, Miss Dalryraple. 
 It will lead you to destruction." 
 
 Philip Brown, of Richmond, did not call that day. 
 Late in the afternoon the Yankee, having discovered 
 Kate's whereabouts from Caesar, rang Miss Doolady's 
 bell with some trepidation, it must be admitted. 
 
 " Are you Mr. Philip Brown ? " asked the maid. 
 
 " I am," said Phil, expecting a gentle reminder that 
 he was not wanted. 
 
 The maid grinned. "Come in, sah," she said; "we 
 know all about it." 
 
 In a few minutes Miss Doolady had informed Phil 
 that he was to be a happy man. 
 
 " Mrs. Dalrymple couldn't have meant me," cried Phil, 
 overwhelmed. " I don't deserve it. Why, she hates 
 me ! "
 
 A VIRGINIAN COMEDY. 137 
 
 "A sick-bed is no place for hatred, 1 ' said Miss Doolady, 
 austerely ; " we forget our hatreds there. I should have 
 been inclined to think that she meant your cousin, Brown, 
 of Richmond, did I not know that he is at present in Mo- 
 bile." 
 
 "Am I asleep?" cried Phil, pulling hard at his hair. 
 " Am I awake 3 " 
 
 Miss Doolady went to tell Kate that the "intended" 
 was awaiting her in the parlor. 
 
 " I will not see him 1 I am going alone to Richmond, 
 I tell you ! " cried Kate, indignantly. " He is a monster 
 to force himself on me in this way. Send him away, 
 Miss Doolady ! " 
 
 " I can not order the gentleman from my house. The 
 proprieties forbid it, Miss Dalrymple. Speak to him 
 yourself." 
 
 "I witt!" said Kate; "I'll speak to him with a 
 vengeance !" 
 
 She paused an instant, and then ran down-stairs. She 
 opened the parlor-door with calm dignity in her manner. 
 
 "You!" 
 
 " Of course," Phil said, calmly. " 111 be back as soon 
 as I can. I think one has to take out a license in the 
 district. I suppose we must obey your mother ! " 
 
 " I suppose so," murmured Kate, dropping her eyelids ; 
 saying in her heart, "Dear, good mother, how I have 
 wronged you ! " 
 
 The license was issued in due time. Good Father 
 Roccafort, of Trinity, married them, after the early Mass; 
 and soon the happy pair were on their way to Richmond. 
 
 " Dear mother, we have come ! " cried Kate. " Why, 
 how well you look ! " 
 
 " I am better, child. You ! " -That word was all she
 
 138 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 said to Phil. He thought she was very cold, while he 
 poured his gratitude and happiness into her ear. She 
 would not openly acknowledge her defeat. 
 
 ' What was your mother's name, Phil?" she asked, 
 after a time. 
 
 " O'Toole," said Phil, promptly. 
 
 For weeks Mrs. Dairy mple searched Burke's invaluable 
 books on Irish pedigrees. It is to be hoped that they 
 gave her some crumbs of comfort. 
 
 But who comforted Miss Doolady under the weight of 
 Mrs. Dalrymple's wrath ?
 
 A KOSEBUD. 
 
 HEN the " professional beauty " craze was at its 
 height in England, and women of good repute 
 were rushing into print with their photographs, 
 and every shop window was graced with pictures of Mrs. 
 Cornwallis West or Lady Lonsdale, Agnes Eliot " came 
 out " in New York. 
 
 This " coining out " is a serious business. " The Rose- 
 bud," as she is called this name comes more easily to 
 English-speaking people since " French " has gone out of 
 fashion, than " debutante " is made to enter society for 
 the first time by standing for about four hours in the 
 afternoon, strung around with dozens of big bouquets. 
 Some of these are sent by her father's friends, others are 
 contributed by her father himself. The " Rosebud " who 
 can count a great number of bouquets is happy ; and so 
 the young girl stands, smiling, at the mobs of men who 
 come and go, eat and stare. According to New York 
 usage, these men wear frock coats or business suits, as 
 they please. Women do not count at these " coming 
 out " entertainments. The " Rosebud " who can count 
 the most men is considered the most fortunate. 
 
 Agnes Eliot had been educated in a Canadian convent 
 at the request of her mother, who had been in the later 
 years of her life a devout Catholic. She had been bap- 
 
 (139)
 
 140 THK LIFE AROUND ITS. 
 
 tized a Catholic; she had been well instructed in the 
 Catholic Faith ; but, at the age of twenty-one, she had 
 married Garrett Eliot. The ceremony of marriage was 
 performed in the Catholic church of Garrettsville ; and 
 for some months Mrs. Eliot induced her husband to assist 
 at Mass with her; but he soon became tired of it; ho 
 preferred his cigar and his Sunday paper, and after a 
 while she grew weary of going alone. Besides, in Gar- 
 rettsville, Catholics were very unfashionable people. 
 Positively, at St. Patrick's, the McCabe girls were' the 
 only persons who had bonnets of any style whatever ; 
 and Garrett's uncle, the founder of Garrettsville, was an 
 earnest churchman in the Protestant-Episcopalian sense. 
 When the rector who filled the pulpits of Garrettsville 
 and Fielding did not come he came every other Sunday 
 Mr. Garrett read the service after the manner of Mr. 
 Booth's famous soliloquy in " Hamlet.'' For these 
 reasons, Mrs. Eliot gradually withdrew from St. Patrick's, 
 and finally sat in a front pew in the Church of the Atone- 
 ment. Her conscience was chloroformed for a time. In 
 after years, when Agnes was twelve years of age, and 
 her husband had become richer than he had ever dreamed 
 of being, Mrs. Eliot fell into an illness that led to death. 
 At this time Agnes was sent to the convent in the West. 
 Ten years had passed, and Agnes was to " come out." 
 Her father had worked hard ; his name had been men- 
 tioned in a New York paper's list of millionaires. His 
 house on Fifth avenue had stained glass by La Farge. 
 Moorish and arabesqued arches after models taken from 
 the Alhambra, a Corot, two Millets and a Velasquez, for 
 which he had outbidden the California!! millionaires. He 
 had the best French cook in the country, an English 
 coachman who had left the service of an English peer,
 
 A ROSEBUD. 141 
 
 and a butler who was perfection, and who had the art of 
 " coaching " his master in all the arts of the larder and 
 the cellar, which Americans engaged in trade all their 
 lives can not be expected to know. And now, having 
 all the things which are supposed to make happiness in 
 New York, Mr. Eliot wanted something else. He did 
 not look forward to anything in the next world. He often 
 said he had no time to think about it. He said he be- 
 lieved in a Supreme Being, and that every man who stuck 
 to the rules of business would doubtless get along some- 
 how after death, but he didn't know. His associations 
 were Protestant-Episcopal, and, as that denomination was 
 respectable, he tied to it, although he did not think the 
 P. E.'s understood their own creed. Mr. Eliot never ap- 
 proved of convent education for his daughter until he 
 went' abroad ; he had preferred Yassar, but, after a short 
 sojourn in England and France, he came to the conclu- 
 sion that it gave a girl a gentle and feminine air, much 
 in vogue among the best class of English, to have her 
 educated in a convent. Mr. Eliot, having been engaged 
 all his life in piling up earthly treasures, was now 
 anxious to acquire social reputation. The Fifth avenue 
 millionaire was important on Wall street, and an acknowl- 
 edged power in many ways. He gave good dinners ; 
 the President had lunched with him at JN r ewport ; but 
 there were fields beyond. There were places where he 
 was nobody. He knew that people said he could not 
 tell Chateau La Rose of '52 from the same wine of the 
 vintage of '70 ; he knew they said that he could not tell 
 Corot from Millet, and that he deserved much credit as 
 the son of a Western carpenter for having made himself 
 a great man in Wall street. This last assertion galled 
 him worse than anything else. He felt tliat abroad he
 
 142 THE LIFK AROUND US. 
 
 was nobody l)iit a " rich American," and at home a "self- 
 made man.'" If he could have made a specialty of art or 
 literature, he would have amused himself by playing the 
 magnificent patron ; but he knew nothing about either, 
 and here he was, a well-preserved man of fifty-five, with 
 an immense income, restless and unhappy. The excite- 
 ment of making money was no longer a stimulant to 
 him ; he had more than he wanted. His sister, Mrs. 
 Montgomery Weston, a widow who had lived much 
 abroad, kept house for him. She was stout, self-pos- 
 sesced, with palpably painted eyebrows, bleached hair, 
 and an acquired expression of superciliousness. She had 
 her gowns from Worth ; but she, Mr. Eliot said in his 
 heart, was, in spite of it all, a trifle vulgar. She could 
 spend money in a way that produced gorgeous effects ; 
 her dinner-table was a blaze of glory. Her famous effect 
 was what she called a "symphony in red." When Mr. 
 Eliot had young Sir Tomkyn Tomkyns to dinner, she 
 covered the walls with scarlet gauze and tulips, at great 
 expense, and this had given occasion for the Englishman's 
 ban mot, which still rankled in Mr. Eliot's heart. 
 
 " You should have some more canvas-back," the host 
 had "said ; "you are not eating anything." 
 
 " Thanks," drawled the Englishman, " I can't eat ; I'm 
 afraid of infection ; the scarlet fever is in the room." 
 
 This was not very witty, but it was very insolent; and 
 in "society " insolence passes for wit. 
 
 After this, Mr. Eliot distrusted Mrs. Montgomery 
 Weston's symphonies and nocturnes in color. He wanted 
 somebody to give his house the proper " tone "; so Agnes, 
 weeping, left her beloved convent home. 
 
 " I will come back to the old nest some day," she said. 
 
 Mr. Eliot smiled at this. He felt the need, in demo-
 
 A ROSEBUD. 143 
 
 cratie New York, of ancestors. He was resolved to attain 
 them, not by the cheap and easy way of having them 
 manufactured by the professional herald and the painter 
 of family portraits, but by marrying Agnes to a man of 
 rank. He was resolved that she should never see the 
 convent again. 
 
 He was pleased with her. She was tall and rather 
 thin ; but she had a pure complexion, hardly rose-tinted 
 at all, % deep blue eyes and long lashes. " Irish eyes, like 
 her mother," he said ; " they looked as if they had been 
 put in 'with a dirty linger." 1 She walked well; her 
 voice was low and soft ; her motion quiet, and her man- 
 ner simple and frank. 
 
 " She has an air." he said to himself. " She will do." 
 And when he wrote his last check for the Mother Su- 
 perior he was correspondingly generous. 
 
 Mother Regina sighed and shook her head, as the car- 
 riage drove away. 
 
 Agnes had never spent a vacation at home. She 
 .knew her father was rich, because the girls had said so; 
 but she had not been permitted to wear gayer gowns than 
 the other pupils, or jewels of any kind. She was amazed 
 by the splendor that awaited her. 
 
 The father and daughter reached New York on a 
 bright, cold morning. Agnes gazed with interest at the 
 stately houses on the avenue, gilded by the sun. She 
 surprised her father by declaring that Euclid avenue, in 
 Cleveland, was just as handsome as the avenue. Mr. 
 Eliot laughed and showed her the Cathedral. A few 
 minutes afterward he took her by the hand and led her 
 into a hall, resplendent with brass work and stained glass. 
 Agnes felt herself kissed by somebody ; it was Mrs. 
 Montgomery Weston, who looked at her search ingly, and
 
 144 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 then clasped her to her bosom. Agnes' nose was pressed 
 against some sharp jet ornaments, so she did not recipro- 
 cate the embrace very warmly. How beautiful the place 
 was, but how cold ! A vision of the convent chapel, with 
 the Sister and the pupils kneeling before the Tabernacle, 
 arose before her. A desperate longing filled her heart 
 to go away to go back to the only home she had ever 
 known. 
 
 Her father stood near her, looking very proud of all 
 this grandeur. Her aunt was there, too ; but they seemed 
 strangers to her. Both Mr. Eliot and his sister had been 
 BO much abroad, that neither had seen Agnes, except at 
 rare intervals. 
 
 " I will show you to your room, my dear," Mrs. Mont- 
 gomery Weston said. And Agues, with a smile at her 
 father, followed her aunt's rustling train up-staire. 
 
 Agnes found herself in a charming little room, filled 
 with subdued light and color. But there was no crucifix 
 there no sign of any other world than this. 
 
 II. 
 
 " She will do," said Mrs. Montgomery Weston. " She 
 is quite too awfully unformed ; but she will do with 
 careful attention." 
 
 " Think BO ? " returned her brother. " I'm glad of it. 
 She seems to have a lot of foolish religious ideas in her 
 head. She said she couldn't go with me to Christ 
 Church when I told her I had a pew there." 
 
 " How queer 1 " said Mrs. Montgomery Weston, in a 
 high voice, intended to be modulated after the fashion- 
 able manner. " But really, that is all nonsense. I must
 
 A ROSEBUD. 145 
 
 say, though, that some very desirable people in society are 
 Romanists. There is really a great deal of color in that 
 belief. Her manners seem very well, although she 
 lacks" 
 
 u Boldness," said Mr. Eliot, shortly. 
 
 "Aplonib" his sister said, in an injured tone. 
 
 " Well, the less aplomb she gets, the better. I don't 
 want her to be one of those brazen creatures who dance 
 the german night after night, like maniacs, who stare 
 young men in the eyes, who are not afraid to smile at in- 
 sinuations of doubtful meaning 
 
 " Robert, Robert," cried Mrs. Weston, raising her 
 hands in horror; "such things never occur in society." 
 
 Mr. Eliot laughed, and bit the end off a cigar. 
 
 " Of course," continued Mrs. Weston, " girls are not 
 supposed to be ignorant of everything. They Vead the 
 newspapers." 
 
 Mrs. Weston looked at her brother in pity and surprise. 
 
 " Now, Robert," she said firmly, " you can't eat your 
 cake and have it. If Agnes were going on the stage, you 
 would not expect her to remain ignorant of a great many 
 things that young girls are supposed not to know. 
 Society's a big stage, and the comedies and tragedies 
 acted on it bring knowledge. We think a great deal 
 of. manner and manners here in New York, but morals 
 are too far away from society's ken to be of importance. 
 If Tom, Dick, or Harry whose father is rich wears his 
 dress-coat well, doesn't say rude things and outrage the 
 proprieties, asks Agnes to waltz with him, I shall not say 
 no. You may know that he frequents haunts of vice ; 
 but I am not supposed to know it." 
 
 Mr. Eliot looked serious. 
 
 "I don't like it." 
 10
 
 146 THE LIFE AKOUND US. 
 
 "Your opinions urr crude," said Mrs. Montgomery 
 Weston. u The girl must do as the rest do if you want 
 her to make a good match. Sir Tomkyn Tornkyns in- 
 tends, I hear, to stay at the Brunswick all winter." 
 
 Mr. Eliot's face brightened. " He is rich and his 
 uncle is a peer. Don't spare any money, Helen ; above 
 all, don't let the girl make herself absurd by any religious 
 scruples." 
 
 Mrs. Montgomery Weston shrugged her shoulders. 
 " Trust me. The girl's a perfect lamb." 
 
 III. 
 
 The first difficulty between Agnes and her aunt oc- 
 curred jftst before the "coming out." John Neville, the 
 artist, was at this time in great vogue. He met Agnes 
 at a quiet luncheon, given by her father for the purpose 
 of having hiin mark her good points and plan some 
 costumes for her. Mr. Eliot was determined that Agnes 
 should enter " the race " with every advantage. John 
 Neville was charmed. 
 
 " A peach-blossom," he said. " And, by the way, that 
 must be her flower. She'll make it the rage all over the 
 country in a month." 
 
 Not long afterward, Mrs. Weston displayed John 
 Neville's costume sketches to Agnes. 
 
 " Lovely, are they not ? " 
 
 "Am I to wear them ? " asked Agnes doubtfully. 
 
 " Yes. Aren't you a happy girl ? That robe of 
 peach-blossom silk and swan-down is the 'coming out' 
 gown." 
 
 Agnes' face flushed. The sketch of the gown was
 
 A ROSEBUD. 147 
 
 very elaborate. The artist had barely outlined her head 
 and shoulders rising from it. 
 
 " Aunt," she said, after a pause, " I will wear neither 
 of those dresses.'' 
 
 " Not wear the loveliest gowns ever made ? Nonsense ! 
 What do you mean ?" 
 
 u I will not wear dresses that are immodest." 
 
 Mrs. Weston gazed at her niece in amazement. "Not 
 wear these gowns, designed by Neville and to be made 
 by Madame Connelly, because they are a trifle low ! 
 Why, / wear gowns quite as low. Am I immodest ? " 
 
 Agnes looked up, with anything but a lamb-like air. 
 
 " I will not wear them." 
 
 " I will appeal to your father." 
 
 u l will appeal to my father." 
 
 " You have pretty shoulders, although you don't de- 
 serve to have them, and it is sinful to cover them up." 
 
 Agnes smiled. She was afraid of her aunt no longer. 
 At first this model of deportment and high fashion had 
 somewhat awed her. 
 
 Mr. Eliot, when appealed to, agreed that the gowns 
 were too low. Agnes, therefore, on the momentous 
 afternoon of- her " coining out," wore a high gown and 
 carried ten bouquets of peach-blossoms and lilies of the 
 valley. And on the next Saturday her portrait appeared 
 in two weekly journals. She was the new beauty. New 
 York had found a rival of the English beauties. In an- 
 other week her photograph was in Broadway windows 
 near that of Sullivan the prize-tighter, near that of the 
 popular variety actresses and well-known people of the 
 theatre. Peach-blossoms were all the rage. But they 
 are such delicate things that the women could not keep 
 them long.
 
 148 THE LIFE AROUND I'S. 
 
 " They are not tit for a ball-room," Mrs. Weston said. 
 
 " They are like me." answered Agnes wearily. u I am 
 not lit for a ball-room. To stand the glare of light they 
 ought to be artificial." 
 
 " You will not insist on a high dress to-night? " 
 
 " Yes." Agnes' cheeks reddened as she picked up a 
 photograph from the table. It was a fine photograph. 
 
 " How could you have dared to do this, aunt ? " 
 
 It was a photograph of Agnes as painted by Neville 
 from one of his sketches. She was represented in one of 
 the lowest of the low dresses. It was an artistic picture, 
 but no vicious caricature could have given Agnes more 
 pain. 
 
 " Aunt, aunt," she cried, tears forcing their way into 
 her eyes. " I have no mother. You ought to have pro- 
 tected me from this ! " 
 
 There was so much pathos in the girl's voice that the 
 indomitable Mrs. Montgomery Weston almost imagined 
 for an instant that she had a heart. 
 
 " The photographs have made a great sensation. 
 Five thousand have already been sold. You are a greater 
 celebrity than any girl in New York." 
 
 "I wish God had let me die before I suffered 
 this," cried Agnes, in a tone that shocked Mrs. Weston 's 
 nerves. 
 
 " Convents are not good for girls who are to go into 
 the world," said Mrs. Weston ; but Agnes had left the 
 room. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Could it be true? Agnes asked herself. Could it be 
 true that this picture, in which she, a child of Mary, a
 
 A KO3EBUD. 149 
 
 client of St. Agnes, stood exposed defenceless to the gaze 
 of the world, was for sale in the shops ? 
 
 She could not believe it. Her face flushed and paled 
 as she thought of it. What could her father, who seemed 
 to love her, be thinking of ? He seldom spoke to her, 
 except to ask her if she had enjoyed herself; but he was 
 very kind in his manner. 
 
 She looked at the miniature of St. Agnes given to her 
 by the dear Mother Superior. She her sweet St. 
 Agnes was permitted to die rather than feel the degra- 
 dation of a similar exposure. Agnes recalled the moving 
 description given by Cardinal Wiseman, in " Fabiola," of 
 the death of this Christian martyr. 
 
 It was now that she felt the need of friends. Oh, for 
 one half-hour with the Sisters ! She felt that she must 
 talk to somebody. 
 
 She went out into the street, eluding the vigilance of 
 her aunt, who held that " rosebuds " should not stir 
 abroad without a chaperon. At the corner she met 
 Kosalie Lodge, the only girl acquaintance she had made. 
 Eosalie pulled a woolly dog after her. Her hair was 
 dragged down over her eyes, and bangles of all sizes 
 jingled when she moved. She wore a huge bunch of 
 yellow roses, and she kissed Agnes at least twenty times. 
 
 " I want to talk to you, Rosalie." 
 
 " What are you going to wear to-night ? They say the 
 favors for the german are to be quite too awfully swell. 
 I'm so glad they are not going to give it this year at 
 Delmonico's. I hate the yellow light there. And, oh, 
 my love, what a success you have had ! Sir Tomkyn 
 Tomkyns said the other night that you were like Connie 
 Gilchrist." 
 
 "Who is she?"
 
 150 THE LIFE AKOt.M) IS. 
 
 " Oh, the most lovely actress, who is turning the heads 
 of all the young men in London." 
 
 Agnes held her head very high, and red spots showed 
 themselves on either cheek. 
 
 "But he was awfully cut up because you refused to 
 dance the gertnan with him. Why, he is a nephew of 
 Lord Crawfordshire ! " 
 
 " I do not care. I never waltz with young men. I am 
 a Catholic." 
 
 Rosalie laughed. " How prudish ! Why, I know lots 
 of Catholics that waltz. Let's go to the Vienna Bakery 
 and lunch. I do so want to talk about everything." 
 
 Seated in that very pretty restaurant, with its tiny city 
 garden and the panorama of Broadway before them, they 
 began to chat. Agnes burst forth impetuously with the 
 story of her wrong. 
 
 Rosalie laughed till the tears came into her eyes. 
 Agnes' " freshness," as she termed it, made her feel that 
 the new beauty would not try to rival her in any way, 
 and she showed her kindly intention by not sneering at 
 this " truly moral ingenuousness." 
 
 " You're a lucky girl, Agnes Eliot,'' she said, solemnly, 
 at last. " Your father has pulled the ropes for you 
 splendidly. Everybody says so. Your picture is every- 
 where ; there was a sonnet written to you by the author 
 of 'Pearls and Lobster Salad,' in last Sunday's Times, 
 and your papa has spared no money in getting things 
 written about you. If you have a good pair of shoulders 
 and a decent bust, it's your duty to show them. Every 
 girl wears her gown very low. Papa's going to work up 
 a 'professional beauty' boom for me. There's going to 
 be a whole column about my engagement to the Marquis 
 de Carabas in the Sunday papers. Papa showed me the 
 proof last night."
 
 A ROSEBUD. 151 
 
 Agnes was speechless. Evidently Miss Lodge had no 
 sympathy with her. 
 
 Agnes sat silent. The street was very bright with 
 sunshine and color. The silver and gold of the caparison 
 of horses flashed in the sun ; ladies in gay costumes 
 passed and repassed. To the girl just out of her convent 
 school there was exhilaration in this sunlit scene. But it 
 was made gloomy by the thought that somewhere in this 
 glittering thorough fare people were looking at her picture 
 at the picture of her, Agnes Eliot, represented in the 
 garb of an actress. 
 
 The two girls wandered through the street from win- 
 dow to window. They were both faultlessly dressed. 
 Agnes was exceedingly graceful and as stately as a lily. 
 N"ow and then somebody turned and whispered : " That is 
 she ! " But Agnes was unconscious of this. 
 
 Suddenly, while she and Rosalie were commenting on 
 Boughton's " Priscilla," shown in the window of a print 
 shop, they became aware that a group of young men, 
 cigarette in mouth and cane in hand, were deeply inter- 
 ested in a picture in the next window. 
 
 " What are the wretches talking about ? I don't know 
 any of them," said Rosalie, gazing with curiosity at the 
 carefully attired young men. " I thought I heard them 
 mention your name." 
 
 '" By Jove ! " cried one of the youths, with the English 
 drawl. " She isn't half as good-lookin' as any of the 
 English beauties. I don't see why they're makin' all 
 this fuss." 
 
 " Look at that* neck look at those shoulders! She's 
 superb, I tell you and such a foot 1 " said another. 
 
 " She's hollow-chested" 
 
 " Not at all. The line of beauty"
 
 152 THE' LIFE AROUND us. 
 
 "Rosalie," whispered Agnje, the red spots on her 
 cheeks burning deeper. " Is it is it my picture ? " 
 
 Rosalie all of a sudden realized the degradation of the 
 exhibition. 
 
 *' I am afraid it is,'' she answered, soberly. " Let us 
 
 go." 
 
 The youths had managed to spread themselves over the 
 sidewalk in such a manner that it would have been diffi- 
 cult to pass them without attracting attention. Two 
 older men had joined them. 
 
 " A deuced pretty girl," said one of these. " An act- 
 ress, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No,'' answered the other. " She's the new beauty ; 
 daughter of old Eliot, the millionaire. She has a very 
 graceful hand and wrist." 
 
 Rosalie, by this time, was indignant, it seemed to 
 her, artificial as society had made her, as if all modest 
 women had been insulted in the person of Agnes. 
 
 " Let us pass gentlemen" she said, in a tone full of 
 scorn. 
 
 The group made way. 
 
 " I am alone," said Agnes, bitterly. "Alone ! I have 
 nobody to protect me against insults like those." 
 
 The color in her cheeks deepened. She breathed a 
 prayer. But what girl was ever so wretched as she ! what 
 girl ever exposed to ribald crowds she thought of St. 
 Agnes. If she were only safe in the convent. 
 
 Rosalie was silent. It was bad, she thought that is, 
 if anything could be bad tor a girl whose father had a 
 staff of English servants and one of the handsomest 
 hou.sts in the Avenue.
 
 A ROSEBUD. 153 
 
 Mrs. Montgomery Weston said she considered Agnes 
 Eliot the most evil-tempered person she had ever met. 
 
 " You will scarcely believe me," she said to her friend, 
 the Marchesa Yilleviani, nee Miss Hoggs, as they met in 
 the row reserved for chaperons in the ball-room of Del- 
 nionico's, " when I tell you that Agnes would not come 
 to-night. She tore about like a fury this afternoon 
 because 'the photographers insist, in spite of our protests, 
 in selling her picture. Her father was quite amazed. 
 Everybody has been congratulating him on her success, 
 for she is really the only rosebud who has been a success. 
 She won't waltz ; but I wouldn't mind that ; it is rather 
 distinguished and certainly more pleasant not to have 
 one's clothes torn off in the german. But, do you know, 
 Sir Toinkyn Tomkyns has asked her to have a seat on 
 his coach." 
 
 This information was received with interest, and the 
 conversation wandered off to the glories of the Coaching 
 Club parade. 
 
 Agnes had again appealed to her father. He had 
 laughed at her. 
 
 " You must get rid of these silly fancies. Everybody 
 envies you ; everybody thinks you are the happiest and 
 most fortunate girl in town." 
 
 " Father,'' said Agnes, with a serious look in her deep 
 eyes, " I would be willing at this moment to be Bridget, 
 the chambermaid. She wears calico, she is poor, but " 
 Agnes' voice was choked by tears ; and Mr. Eliot 
 laughed and returned to his newspaper. 
 
 He was very well satisfied. Agnss was beautiful ; he
 
 154 THE LIFE AKOUND US. 
 
 had pulled the ropes "splendidly," and Sir Torakyn 
 Tomkyns, the club men said, was " smitten." 
 
 Although she had refused to go to the german with 
 her aunt, she dared riot refuse her father when he asked 
 her. She entered late, leaning on his arm. Sir Tomkyn 
 Tomkyns asked her to waltz at once ; and, as usual, she 
 refused. Nevertheless, he did not leave her while she 
 remained in the room. It was a desperate flirtation, 
 people said. Agues had little need to talk. The young 
 Englishman rattled away about himself, about America, 
 about everything. 
 
 From that night, society considered it settled that Sir 
 Tomkyn Tornkyns would marry Agnes Eliot. 
 
 Mr. Eliot smiled when the supposed fact was alluded 
 to. The wedding would be in Grace Church, of course, 
 Sir Tomkyn's people at home were very Ritualistic, 
 but Sir Tomkyn did not care much. One afternoon Sir 
 Tomkyn rode up to the door and arranged matters with 
 Mr. Eliot. Agnes had not given him an answer ; she 
 said she had not thought of marriage. But Mr. Eliot 
 had, and he graciously accepted Sir Tomkyn's proposal. 
 
 Agnes had no positive dislike' to the young English- 
 man. She accepted the announcement, that she was to 
 be married, with resignation. She said to herself that she 
 could not suffer more than she had suffered. The prep- 
 arations for the wedding were begun, for Sir Tomkyn 
 wanted to return to England in a few mouths. The 
 truth was, Mr. Eliot had agreed to pay off certain very 
 pressing mortgages on the baronet's estates, and this must 
 be done quickly. 
 
 But an unexpected obstacle intervened. Agnes re- 
 fused point-blank to go to Grace Church to be married ; 
 and two ceremonies would not satisfy her. Mrs. Weston
 
 A ROSEBUD. 155 
 
 almost tore her hair ; Mr. Eliot raved. Agnes was firm. 
 Sir Tomkyn stormed. He showed more ill-breeding than 
 Agnes had thought him capable of. 
 
 " It would be against my conscience," she said. " I 
 know that you are a Protestant, and, frankly, if I saw 
 any way out of an engagement into which I have entered 
 in obedience to my father, I should take it. But I will 
 be married to you only by a Catholic priest." 
 
 Mrs. Weston groaned. What audacity ! 
 
 " It's superstitious nonsense ! " cried Mr. Eliot. " Don't 
 mind the girl, Sir Tomkyn. I'll bundle the girl back to 
 her convent, if she says much more ! " 
 
 " I wish you would ! " 
 
 But Sir Tomkyn, who believed that he was lowering 
 himself by an alliance with this insolent American girl, 
 was aroused. He wanted the old man's money ; but he 
 resolved to take it as a conqueror. He would tell these 
 toadies how cheap he held them, and then make them 
 sue for pardon. 
 
 "I like this," he said, ironically. "I like to hear a 
 girl uttering such pious sentiments a girl whose name 
 is common in the mouth of every shop-boy." 
 
 " Sir Tomkyn ! " cried Mr. Eliot, his face becoming 
 purple. A moment before, he had said to himself that, 
 in spite of the whim of a foolish girl, his most earnest 
 wish was about to be realized. Now the blood rushed to 
 his head ; he tried to stand, but he staggered. 
 
 " I don't care much whether she is a Papist or a Turk," 
 continued Sir Tomkyn, growing more angry, " but I won't 
 be dictated to. It's bad enough to have to marry well, 
 as I am about to marry ; but I swear it goes against me 
 to hear such cant from a girl whose picture is in every 
 shop window, the butt for every cad's jokes."
 
 156 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Agnes stood white ard cold, facing him. 
 
 Mr. Eliot struggled to speak. 
 
 Mrs. Weston spoke, the flush on her cheek outshining 
 the rouge : 
 
 "Remember, sir, you are about to marry the young 
 lady who stands here." 
 
 " 'About to marry !' " cried Sir Tornkyn, his bull-neck 
 and fat face glowing with rage. "Men like me flirt with 
 such girls. They don't often marry them." 
 
 Mr. Eliot sprang toward the Englishman. 
 
 " Father ! " It was a strange sound, like a sob. Mrs. 
 Weston screamed. A stream of blood was flowing from 
 Agnes' mouth down over the front of her white dress. 
 The roses she wore at her waist were no redder than this 
 blood. Her father caught her in his arms. 
 
 " I am glad," she said, in a faint voice. " I shall die 
 and escape danger, and perhaps sin dear father ! " 
 
 Sir Tomkyn had disappeared. 
 
 Mr. Eliot at this moment remembered only one thing : 
 her mother had died of hemorrhages. 
 
 When the peach-blossoms bloomed again under the 
 tender blue sky of May, Agnes Eliot was to the world 
 like one of last year's leaves. In the peaceful school the 
 Sisters remembered her; and every year there comes a 
 broken-down and weary-looking man to talk to the Sis- 
 ters of her. It is sweet to him to find one or two people 
 in the world who knew the sweet and beautiful soul that 
 he tried to sacrifice on the altar of false gods.
 
 TRIFLES. 
 I. 
 
 "TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR." 
 
 |IEKRE FR^CHON invariably called the non- 
 descript vehicle of which he was the owner " a 
 cabriolet of the first class"; but by any other 
 name it could not have been less uncomfortable. In 
 dinginess, discomfort, and in the astounding variety of 
 groans and strange noises that it contrived to emit, it 
 certainly was " of the first class "; but Pierre generally 
 managed before starting to conceal the equivocal mean- 
 ing of his pet epithets. 
 
 On a certain evening in February Pierre's cabriolet 
 jolted lazily on the road between Paimbceuf and Nantes. 
 It contained but two passengers, both men, who grumbled 
 unceasingly at the slowness of the cabriolet, and kept up 
 a constant war of words with the conducteur. One of 
 the passengers was Monsieur Jeremie Hercule Blanque, 
 a middle-aged cloth-dealer of Bordeaux, going to Nantes 
 on business ; the other was Gaston de Francheville, who, 
 having been visiting a friend at Paimboeuf, was now on 
 his way to his mother's chateau near Nantes. 
 
 " Figure to yourself, monsieur," Blanque was saying, 
 having ceased for an instant to exchange compliments 
 with the driver "figure to yourself the immense advan- 
 tage of Christianizing China and the Feejee Islands ! 
 
 (157)
 
 158 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 When they had civilization they would require fashion 
 and dress-coats. Figure to yourself the yards and yards 
 of broadcloth ces autres would consume ! Parbleu ! 
 c'est magnifique ! the progress of civilization. I assure 
 you, monsieur, that I consider it a blessed privilege to 
 assist our missionaries with my mite." 
 
 " You cast bread upon the waters that it may return," 
 Gaston de Francheville began. '''Pierre," he called out 
 to the driver, "stop ! There's somebody lying in the 
 road." 
 
 " Ma foi ! " responded Pierre's drawling voice ; " I see 
 nothing." 
 
 " Are you blind ? The light from the lantern falls on 
 it a dark object at the edge of the road." 
 
 " You are right, Monsieur le Comte," said Pierre, 
 alighting, lantern in hand. " Ma foi ! c'est tine femrne !" 
 
 "A woman ?" echoed Gaston, jumping to the ground. 
 
 ** One never knows what may happen," muttered pru- 
 dent Monsieur Blanque, taking advantage of the absence 
 of his fellow-traveller and Pierre, to transfer his watch 
 and purse from his pocket to the leg of his left boot. 
 
 " A woman out on such a night ! " And Gaston joined 
 Pierre at the side of the road, where, with the leafless 
 branches of an old thorn-tree waving above her like skele- 
 ton fingers, a woman lay prone on the rain-soaked ground. 
 She was wrapped in a cloak of the stuff called water- 
 proof, which was anything but proof against the swift- 
 descending torrent of mingled sleet and rain. She was 
 insensible. Between them, Gaston and Pierre carried 
 her to the cabriolet/ Her hood fell away from a fair, 
 girlish face, framed by clustering brown hair, that under 
 the gleams of the lantern seemed tin-ended with gold. 
 Her eyelids, pale and pure as the petals of a camellia,
 
 TRIFLES. 159 
 
 did not tremble in the light, and there was no trace of 
 color in the exquisite lips. 
 
 " She is dead ! " cried Pierre. 
 
 Gaston kept his eyes on the fair young face, and 
 prayed that it might not be so. They laid her carefully 
 on a seat, obliging the merchant to vacate his place, 
 which he did the more readily as he noticed the sparkle 
 of a diamond on the nerveless hand that had escaped 
 from the wet folds of her mantle. Monsieur Blanque 
 felt much relieved in spite of himself. He had a gen- 
 uine respect for wealth ; he was sure that no woman who 
 wore a diamond ring could have designs on his property. 
 
 " What will yon do with her ? " demanded he. 
 
 " Leave her at one of the Nantes hospitals if she does 
 not make her wishes known before we reach the city," 
 answered Pierre, taking out a flask of wine and forcing a 
 portion of its contents into the girl's mouth. 
 
 The cabriolet pursued its slow course. After a while 
 the girl shivered, and moved her head with a faint moan. 
 
 Gaston rather clumsily divested her of the wet cloak, 
 and supplied its place with his overcoat. 
 
 " Very imprudent, young gentleman, very imprudent," 
 put in the cloth-merchant, who, since he had heard Gas- 
 ton called Monsieur le Comte, looked on him with in- 
 creased interest. " Though young myself, / would not 
 have done so, but youth, unaccustomed to the cloth-busi- 
 ness, is ever imprudent. I assure you, Monsieur le 
 Comte, that if your coat has not been sponged the 
 dampness will greatly inj sacr-r-r-r-re ! " 
 
 A crash and a sudden shock cut short his speech. The 
 cabriolet, with its usual deliberation, sank on one side. 
 
 " A wheel off, messieurs ! " Pierre laconically an- 
 nounced.
 
 160 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 '" Where are we ? " 
 
 " Four miles from Nantes a quarter of a mile from 
 the chateau de Francheville." 
 
 " That's fortunate," said Gaston. " Drive on to the 
 chateau. They'll give you a bed there, for you'll not be 
 able to find a wheelwright to-night." 
 
 Pierre granted an assent to this proposition, and groped 
 about in the dark to ascertain the extent of the injury. 
 
 "I deceived myself, gentlemen," he said, when he had 
 completed the examination. " It is not the wheel. It 
 is a broken axle. You'll have to alight and walk to the 
 chateau." 
 
 Expostulation was useless. " What would you ? " de- 
 manded Pierre, calmly eying his passengers. " Can 
 one drive on with a broken axle? I ask you that, mes- 
 sieurs ! " 
 
 Gaston supplied himself with all the rugs and blankets 
 he could lay hands on for sheltering the lady, and the 
 two passengers got out on the road, while Pierre drove 
 toward the chateau with his disabled vehicle, leaving 
 them to follow as best they could. 
 
 Monsieur Blanque was only upheld from sinking under 
 this misfortune by the consciousness that his valuables 
 were in a comparatively safe place, and that his coat, 
 having been sponged, would not be likely to suffer from 
 the rain. When Gaston tendered him the hospitality of 
 the chateau, he had grown nervous. " People c!ou't give 
 anything for nothing," reflected this profound student of 
 bourgeois human nature. " One never knows what may 
 happen. The chateau de Francheville may be a high- 
 sounding name for a den of thieves. What if the Cointe 
 and the conducteur aie in league to rob the junior mem- 
 ber of the firm of Drap et Blanque ? "
 
 TKIFLES. 161 
 
 Disturbed in mind by these frightful conjectures and 
 groaning in spirit, Monsieur Blanque toiled over the 
 yielding soil of the road, feeling like a lamb led to 
 slaughter. 
 
 Gaston was compelled to carry his charge. The only 
 sign of consciousness she gave was a moan uttered at 
 intervals. 
 
 Monsieur Blanque, who had fallen in the rear, sudden- 
 ly uttered a stifled exclamation. Gaston stopped. Mon- 
 sieur Blanque had stumbled upon one of the softest 
 places in the very soft road. The sticky, yielding mud 
 clung to his boots. He stood on his right foot, 
 and pulled up his left ; then he stood on his left and 
 pulled up his right, and then da capo. Poor Monsieur 
 Blanque ! 
 
 " Sacr-r-r-r-re ! help ! dame ! " he cried in answer to 
 Gaston's inquiry. His struggles were as vain as they 
 were violent. His boots had been made to accommodate 
 his corns, and when at last he extricated himself, one of 
 his boots remained a prey to the tenacity of the soil. 
 His anguish was excessive when he discovered that this 
 was his left boot the boot that contained his money 
 and watch. 
 
 To plunge in after it would be to renew his troubles. 
 To ask his companions' assistance, incumbered as he was 
 by the unconscious girl, merely to recover a boot, would 
 seem ridiculous, and Monsieur Blanque would not bring 
 himself to confess that the lost boot contained his valua- 
 bles. In an agony of perplexity he entered the warm 
 hall of the chateau. 
 
 The appearance of guests rather surprised Madame de 
 Francheville ; but she regarded hospitality as a duty to 
 be exercised with discretion and a frugal mind. She 
 11
 
 162 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 welcomed her son and Monsieur Blanque with stately 
 cordiality, while won Jering whether the remains of the 
 game pates left from dinner could be warmed up for 
 these hungry new-comers. 
 
 Madame de Francheville's rich pearl-colored silk and 
 delicate point lace thoroughly impressed the cloth-mer- 
 chant with a sense of the perfect respectability of his 
 fellow-traveller. 
 
 When Madame de Francheville heard the young girl 
 had been found on the road, she elevated her eyebrows 
 and dropped the cold hand she had taken, but something 
 in the girl's face seemed to change her scorn to pity, for 
 instead of leaving her in the care of a maid, she went 
 herself to see that a room was made comfortable. 
 
 After she had left the room, Monsieur Blanque ex- 
 plained his mishap, and begged that a servant might be 
 permitted to accompany him in his search for the missing 
 boot. Gaston proposed that a servant should go alone. 
 The idea made the cloth-dealer tremble. Wearing a pair 
 of Gaston's slippers, he set out, attended by old Berthe, 
 who was " general utility " at the chateau. 
 
 Old Berthe took off his shoes, and wading into the 
 slough, succeeded in finding the boot with its precious 
 contents. Monsieur Blanque was not usually generous, 
 but in his joy he actually gave Berthe a five-franc piece ; 
 it is only fair, however, to state that he first searched in 
 vain for a smaller sum. 
 
 While old Berthe was rooting in the mud for the boot, 
 Monsieur Blanque had found something else. This 
 treasure-trove was a package wrapped in a handkerchief. 
 With his usual caution, the cloth-dealer, unobserved by 
 his attendant, slipped the package under his cloak. The 
 packet had not lain long on the road, he surmised, for the
 
 TRIFLES. 163 
 
 handkerchief was but slightly damp. Perhaps it be- 
 longed to the Comte de Francheville or to the un- 
 known young girl. Monsieur Bla-nque determined to ex- 
 amine it. 
 
 When he and Gaston had partaken of their luncheon 
 served with a display of plate and old china that in- 
 finitely increased the guest's respect for the house of 
 Francheville he asked to be shown to his room. Alone 
 in the large square chamber, with a canopied bedstead 
 and a tall wax candle, the flame of which was reflected 
 in the highly-polished floor, he took out the packet, no- 
 ticing that in one corner the handkerchief bore the initials 
 " A. M." The packet itself was covered with thick white 
 paper, on which was inscribed in delicate, feminine hand- 
 writing : 
 
 " In case of accident to me open this, but not until you 
 reach Nantes. Your mother, Y. M." 
 
 Monsieur Blanque did not hesitate to tear this cover. 
 Beneath it he found an envelope addressed to " Madame 
 la Comtesse de Francheville." 
 
 The cloth-merchant was mean by nature, and there- 
 fore unscrupulously curious. He was sure now that the 
 young girl had dropped the packet. It belonged neither 
 to Gaston nor to the driver. What could this unknown 
 girl have to do with the mistress of the chateau ? His 
 curiosity was intensely excited. He held the envelope 
 between his eyes and the candle, vainly endeavoring to 
 get an inkling of its contents. He gave the attempt up, 
 and laying the envelope on the table, tried to compose 
 himself to sleep. Who was this young woman ? Madame 
 de Francheville did not seem to know her. Who was 
 the mysterious " Y. M." ? He puzzled himself with
 
 164 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 numerous conjectures. He could not sleep. He rose, 
 and again took the envelope in his hand. It bore no 
 seal. Stifling the voice of conscience, he moistened the 
 gummed flap of the envelope, and gradually, carefully, 
 opened it. He read the following words, in French : 
 
 " LA. COMTESSE DE FRANCHEVILLE. 
 
 "MADAME: To you, the oldest friend and neighbor of my father, 
 I address myself. A glance at the signature appended to this letter 
 will at once remind you of my story, for you know it well. When 
 I became the wife of Bernard Moore, and my father, in consequence, 
 disowned me, we Bernard and I sailed for America, the native 
 land of my husband. There we lived for twenty years years which 
 would have been of unmixed happiness, had my father sent one for- 
 giving word across the sea. I used to think him cruel. I know now 
 that he was just. Four years ago Bernard died, and I was left with 
 one daughter, Adele. Of four children, she alone lived. The death 
 of my husband reduced us from comparative affluence to poverty. 
 Twice I wrote to my father. No answer came. I should have sunk 
 into despair, madame, for the consequence of my sin was very bitter, 
 had not the holy consolations of the Church crowned my repentance 
 and given me resignation. 
 
 " In the latter part of last year I received, through the French 
 Consul at New York, a letter from you. You told me that my father 
 had forgiven me. I blessed you for those words, madame ! But my 
 joy was bitter : his cold, dead lips could never speak that forgiveness. 
 
 " I answered your letter and, with Adele, started at once for Eu- 
 rope. The fear that you may not have received my answer causes 
 me to write this. 
 
 " My daughter has not been informed of the motive of our voyage. 
 I have been fearful lest there might be some mistake fearful tliat 
 my father might have willed his estate to another. The reali/ation 
 of this fear would be terrible to me, and crushing disappointment, I 
 have no doubt, to Adele. I am not avaricious, madame, but poverty 
 has taught me the value of wealth. I have determined that Adtle 
 shall know nothing until it is certain, beyond doubt, that I am the 
 hHress of the Marquis de Saluces. 
 
 Ail'lr will come to you with this letter. Read it privately, and 
 if my hope be unfounded, burn this paper. Do not let Adele know 
 of the disappointment. Judging her nature by mine, I am sure that
 
 TRIFLES. 165 
 
 the knowledge would embitter her life. If it be as I fear, I implore 
 you, by the memory of my father's friendship for you and your late 
 husband, to provide for her in France, or send her back to New York. 
 
 "On Adele's finger you will see the only souvenir of my father's 
 kindness, a ring bearing his crest. 
 
 "May Mary, Immaculate Mother of the unprotected, guard her 
 well, and reward you for aught of kindness you may do in her behalf ! 
 
 "YOLANTHE MOOKE, 
 
 "nee DE SALUCES." 
 
 This strange young woman was, then, the grand- 
 daughter of the Marquis de Saluces ! 
 
 Monsieur Blanque's curiosity was satisfied. How was 
 he to restore the packet to its original appearance? How 
 make the envelope look as if it had never been opened ? 
 These were questions. A new idea entered his mind. 
 The letter he had just read plainly stated that Adele 
 Moore was unaware of the object that had brought her 
 mother to France ; and without this letter how was 
 Madame de Francheville to know that the heiress of the 
 Marquis de Saluces had arrived at the chateau? 
 
 During the day Monsieur Blanque had been on a col- 
 lecting-tour through the neighboring country, and "he 
 had met many garrulous people and asked many ques- 
 tions. He had obtained some scrap of information about 
 every family of note in the vicinity. Among other 
 things, he had learned that the Marquis de Saluces had 
 lately died, bequeathing his entire wealth to a daughter 
 in America, and so Monsieur Blanque knew that Yolanthe 
 Moore's hope was not groundless. 
 
 " Madame de Francheville will not be blind to her own 
 interest," Monsieur Blanque reasoned. "If I give her 
 the letter, she will marry the rich mademoiselle to Mon- 
 sieur Gaston ; and why should I be blind to my own in-
 
 166 TIIK LIFK Altol'M) US. 
 
 tercst?. Why should I not gain the prize? I am not 
 old ; I am, they tell me, not positively hideous; I am, I 
 flatter myself, of good address." 
 
 And Monsieur Blanque tried to imagine the envy of 
 his fellow-bourgeois of Bordeaux, when it should be 
 known that he, Jere"mie Hercule Blanque, of the firm of 
 .Drap et Blanque, was the husband of the heiress de Sa- 
 luces. His face flushed at the thought of the brilliant 
 prospect before him ; but it paled in an instant, and his 
 cloud-castle faded away. The girl's name and the ring ! 
 Madame de Francheville would surely recognize them. 
 
 In feverish haste he returned to the letter, in search of 
 something to dispel his fear. In the envelope he found 
 a certificate of the marriage of Bernard Moore and Adele 
 de Saluces. There were several other papersx>f import- 
 ance, but nothing that he wanted just now. Again he 
 re-read every word of the letter. He found a postscript 
 crowded on three lines at the end of the last page. He 
 had overlooked it. 
 
 " You will deem me over-cautious, madarne, when you 
 read that I changed iny name while en route, for a weak 
 woman has everything to fear when travelling ; besides, 
 my means were small, and I did not wish it to be known 
 that ladies of our name and condition were reduced to 
 take passage in the steerage. I have assumed the middle 
 name of my husband Martin that none might suspect 
 our coming and going." 
 
 " Women are fools," remarked Monsieur Blanque, 
 somewhat relieved, " and it is well for men." 
 
 The ring would have to take its chance of recognition. 
 Monsieur Blanque climbed into the canopied bed, to 
 dream that under the title of Marquis de Saluces he had 
 been appointed Prime Minister to His Satanic Majesty,
 
 TRIFLES. 167 
 
 and to awake frightened by the thought that even spong- 
 ing would not secure cloth against fire ! 
 
 Kext morning, at breakfast, Monsieur Blanque met 
 Gaston and his mother. 
 
 Madame de Francheville was at least sixty years of age, 
 but she seemed ten years younger. Her features were 
 small and regular, her skin pure white and scarcely 
 wrinkled, and the dainty puffs of snowy hair arranged 
 above her forehead added to the beauty of her com- 
 plexion. She was proud of her pride and her exquisite 
 taste in dress. Of these two qualities she had sufficient 
 to have stocked all the de Franchevilles since the days of 
 Bertrand du Guesclin. She was a devoted adherent of 
 the fallen Empire, and since the Emperor's death she 
 had never failed, on every opportunity, to indulge in a 
 little sentimental grief. This morning her neglige of 
 white and purple was perfect, and Monsieur Blanque was 
 fascinated by the lace at her throat and wrists. He knew 
 the value of it. After the weather and the state of ma- 
 dame's health had been disposed of, he asked about the 
 " heroine of last night's adventure," as he phrased it. 
 
 " She is not well, poor thing ! She has a slight fever, 
 and I have sent for a physician. I hope her malady is 
 not contagious"; and inadame shivered. 
 
 " Pauvre demoiselle!" said Gaston. "It is strange 
 that she ventured out alone last night. She seemed from 
 her appearance to be a lady. Is it not so, uiadame ? " 
 
 " It is impossible to tell, Gaston. There is no dividing- 
 line between the classes under this vilain gouvernement 
 pr&visoire, and everybody is a lady ; but the poor child 
 has not the air of a common person. It was certainly im- 
 proper that she should be out last night without an at- 
 tendant, but then, I have reason to believe she's an
 
 168 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 American, and one never knows what to expect from 
 them the Americans. Why, when I was in Paris " 
 
 This one visit to Paris was the crown and glory of 
 madarae's life. Having heard every detail of it at least 
 a score of times, Gaston was anxious to avoid the inter- 
 esting subject; he was also curious about the young girl. 
 
 " Why do you think she is an American, madame ? " 
 
 "Politeness, Gaston, should teach you never to inter- 
 rupt a lady," returned rnadarae, freezingly. "I was 
 about to observe, Monsieur Blanque, that when I was in 
 Paris some years ago, there were at Meurice's two de- 
 moiselles Americaines who rode in the Bois every after- 
 noon. Their dress was outre in the extreme ; their ap- 
 pearance very singular. It. was said that their modiste 
 had made a fortune in arranging bizarre toilets for them. 
 One day, when the Emperor and Empress were riding in 
 the Bois, one of these demoiselles stopped her horse im- 
 mediately in front of the imperial carriage. The coach- 
 man, of course, reined his horses, to avoid a collision. 
 The other demoiselle at once rode up to the side of the 
 imperial vehicle, and, holding out her hand, said, ' I've 
 made a wager to shake hands with Your Majesty in the 
 Bois, and I'll do it ! Donnez moi la main, vieux drole.' 
 What was it, Gaston ? " Madame sank back in her chair, 
 and fanned herself with her handkerchief, as if the au- 
 dacious words were too much for her. 
 
 Gaston knew the anecdote by heart, and he was well 
 prepared to take up the thread. 
 
 " Give me your hand, old fellow, here's my paw ! " he 
 laughed, giving the words in English. " And now, ma- 
 dame, how do you know that our young lady is of the na- 
 tion of those bold demoiselles ? " 
 
 " And she actually shook hands with the Emperor
 
 TRIFLES. 169 
 
 truly, Monsieur Blanqne ! " pursued madaine, not to be 
 diverted from her story. " The poor Emperor requies- 
 cat in pace ! " she continued, brushing away an imagi- 
 nary tear with a handkerchief bordered with imperial 
 violets. Having divided an instant of silence, between 
 her grief and the measuring of the exact quantity of 
 cream she could endure in her coffee, madame at last 
 condescended to answer her son's question. " I discovered 
 some cards in the young woman's pocketbook as I was 
 searching for her address for one doesn't care to have a 
 sick person on one's hands, you know. On the cards 
 was written, 'Adele Martin, New York.' I found no 
 address." 
 
 Monsieur Blanque silently congratulated himself on 
 the sharpness of his intellect. What should be his next 
 move ? He resolved to keep madame in a good humor 
 at all events. He respectfully expressed ardent admira- 
 tion for madame's lace, and offered to procure her some 
 marvellous ochre-tinted Valenciennes at a remarkably low 
 price. He called her "countess" as often as he could. 
 Madame allowed herself to be pleased, and concluded 
 that the cloth-merchant knew his place. 
 
 " One forgets time in the society of Madame la Com- 
 tesse," said he, rising from the table; u doubtless the 
 cabriolet is waiting." 
 
 "The cabriolet started two hours ago," said Gaston. 
 " Pierre's lazy conscience began this morning to reproach 
 him for his delay, and when old Berthe had called you 
 once, he started for Nantes." 
 
 Monsieur Blanque waxed indignant. " Three thou- 
 sand devils ! pardon, Madame la Comtesse ! 'Tis an 
 unheard-of thing, a conveyance to start without its pas- 
 senger ! It's incredible ! I will complain to the proprie-
 
 170 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 taire ! I will complain to the maire ! Parbleu ! a thou- 
 sand devils, madame pardons, I would say, Madame la 
 Comtesse ! I will " 
 
 " You had better take it quietly," said Gaston. " Pierre 
 is sole owner of the cabriolet, and if you complain to any- 
 body he will surely manage to put you in the wrong. 
 There is nobody equal to Pierre for making excuses. 
 Besides, he is not bound to wait until his passenger 
 chooses to rise. It is raining now. I will order the car- 
 riage if monsieur is impatient." 
 
 Madame de Francheville entertained no thought of 
 ordering her stately equipage merely for the convenience 
 of a bourgeois. 
 
 " Nantes is only four miles away," she insinuated, " but 
 I am sure Berthe will never allow the horses to be taken 
 out on such a day. Old servants are such tyrants, mon- 
 sieur ! When the rain ceases the walk from here to 
 Nantes will be quite pleasant. If monsieur wishes it, 
 however 
 
 " Oh, no, madame ! By no means ! I like to walk. 
 1 am a lover of Nature and exercise." 
 
 " You delight me, monsieur ; we have kindred tastes." 
 Gaston had already left the room. Madame rose to fol- 
 low his example. 
 
 "Will Madame la Comtesse favor me with a moment's 
 conversation ? " 
 
 Monsieur Blanquehad decided on his move. Madame, 
 stiffly bending her neck in assent, returned to her seat. 
 
 " I am an eccentric man, Madame la Comtesse. I am 
 charitable too charitable for my own temporal good, for 
 this world has many bad hearts. I am also impulsive, 
 madame, foolishly impulsive." 
 
 Madame smiled sweetly, and looked at her watch.
 
 TRIFLES. 171 
 
 " When I saw that poor young girl in the rain last 
 night, I said to myself, ' Perhaps she has no home no 
 friends.' I gazed into her innocent face, and my heart 
 added, ' She has need of a protector,' and I said, ' I, 
 Jeremie Hercule Blanque, will be that protector ! ' : 
 
 Monsieur Blanque placed one hand on his heart, and 
 assumed an attitude. For the moment he really believed 
 that .he was doing something very generous and heroic. 
 
 " Eh Men ! " said madaine, placidly taking out her gold 
 and ivory bonbonniere. " But suppose the girl requires 
 no protector ? " 
 
 " In that case, Madaine la Comtesse, my good intention 
 will be its own reward. I am unmarried. I desire a 
 wife. My soul is an abyss of pity for this young girl, 
 If you find that she is friendless, inform me. I will 
 leave my address. During the two corning months I 
 will remain at the inn of the Golden Horse, Nantes. If 
 this girl is penniless, if she is wholly without dot, I care 
 not. My fortune is sufficient for both." 
 
 Overcome by the thought of his own disinterestedness 
 he actually wept. Madame thought it only proper to 
 draw out her own violet-embroidered handkerchief and 
 apply it to her eyeglass. Although the man was a 
 bourgeois and a fool, one must be polite, you compre- 
 hend ? 
 
 " I will think of your proposition, monsieur, tt is a 
 decided novelty to hae an utter stranger thrown on one's 
 hands, and to receive an offer of marriage for her from 
 another stranger." 
 
 " You will do a good action by mentioning my offer to 
 her, and if she is homeless 
 
 " She will, if she is prudent, accept it." 
 
 " It is customary to present a slight gift to the pro-
 
 172 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 motor of the marriage, and if the Valenciennes of 
 which" 
 
 " Very well, monsieur," said madame, haughtily. " If 
 I have anything further to say, I will address you at the 
 Golden Horse." 
 
 "What fools women are!" thought monsieur, as he 
 held the door open for madame. 
 
 "Truly vulgar stupidity!" mentally commented ma- 
 dame, as she went to receive the physician, whose gruff 
 voice was heard in the hall. The doctor was a short, 
 bustling man, attired in a suit of black and white plaid, 
 which gave him the appearance of an animated checker- 
 board. He refused all offers of refreshment ; he was in 
 a hurry, and he knew madame's mn- ordinaire of old. 
 He demanded to see his patient at once. 
 
 This patient was a tall, slight girl, apparently about 
 nineteen, with soft, dark-blue eyes, which, from the pallor 
 of her forehead and temples, seemed unnaturally large. 
 A faint blush-rose tint shone in her cheeks ; a thick mass 
 of smooth, golden-brown hair was loosely drawn back from 
 her broad, low brow and knotted at the back of her head. 
 She wore a plain dark dress lent to her by madame's 
 maid. 
 
 She rose from her seat at the window and made a step 
 forward as madame and the doctor entered. Even in 
 that slight movement there was a nameless grace that 
 bespeaks the gentlewoman. 
 
 " I am much better," she said, in a clear, low voice, 
 answering the query of her hostess ; " indeed quite well. 
 The tisane which you so kindly sent has completely re- 
 stored me. With your permission, madame, I will at 
 once start for Nantes." 
 
 " But the cabriolet"
 
 TRIFLES. 173 
 
 The flush in the girl's cheeks deepened. 
 
 "I will walk." 
 
 " No, ma'amselle, you will not ! " thundered the doc- 
 tor, who had taken possession of her slender wrist. 
 " You'll not leave this room for two days ! Do you 
 hear? You want rest and quiet. You've been exciting 
 yourself you've been out in all sorts of weather. If 
 you want to kill yourself, take poison ; it's a quicker way 
 than walking in the rain, but no surer." 
 
 "You speak truth, doctor," said madame; "my grand- 
 father walked out, rain or shine, for seventy years, and 
 then died ; but if he had taken poison " 
 
 " Your grandfather was a gentleman," said the irri- 
 tated doctor, "./say that ma'amselle must have rest and 
 quiet. That's all ! I'm off ! " 
 
 The doctor wrote a prescription and made his exit. 
 
 " You must remain here. Mademoiselle Martin. I will 
 not allow you to go," said madame, moved in spite of 
 herself by the fragile beauty of the girl. " And now tell 
 me how you came to be out last night. Speak freely. 
 Regard me as your own mother." 
 
 After a slight hesitation, Adele complied. 
 
 " The story is short, madame, but very sad. My 
 mother and I started from New York on our way to 
 Brittany. The voyage was pleasant. When we reached 
 L'Orient, my mother caught a fever, and in a week's 
 time died. She was buried four days ago." The girl's 
 voice broke, but she bravely strove to speak. " She in- 
 structed me to continue on the road to Nantes. She gave 
 me a packet, telling me not to open it until I should reach 
 that city. I had but little money, madame, and I walked 
 whenever I could. A market-woman gave me a seat in 
 her cart part of the way, but by mistake I reached Paim-
 
 174 THE LIFE AKOl'M) IS. 
 
 bceuf instead of Nantes. I was retracing my steps last 
 night. I had been walking all clay, and I was weak. I 
 fainted, I suppose." 
 
 " That was sad. You speak French well." 
 
 " My mother was born in France." 
 
 " And her name ? " 
 
 " I do not know. She never spoke of her family. She 
 had some great object in view when she came hither, but 
 I can not even guess what it was. She was an invalid 
 very nervous and reserved, but oh ! the best the kind- 
 est " Tears drowned the words. 
 
 "Exceedingly mysterious," commented madatne to 
 herself. " But you alluded to a packet?" 
 
 " Have you seen it, madame \ " asked Ad&le, eagerly. 
 " It was wrapped in a white handkerchief. I can not 
 find it. It must have fallen on the road, or in the cab- 
 riolet last night." 
 
 " I will send a servant to search for it." 
 
 Having recommended her guest to rest tranquil, ma- 
 dame left her. 
 
 Madame de Francheville did not doubt the truth of 
 Adele's story. A girl with such a face as hers could not 
 tell a lie without betraying it, madame thought, as she 
 constructed a little plan. This Mademoiselle Martin was 
 apparently well educated and refined. Now, madame 
 had been for some time on the lookout for a companion 
 who could play, sing, and read to her. If Mademoiselle 
 Martin could do all three, she could also teach English, 
 and madame, old as she was, had a mania for languages. 
 Having no alternative, Mademoiselle Martin would 
 doubtless be glad to accept the position at a very low 
 salary. This was, in madame's eyes, the crowning recom- 
 mendation. She was well satisfied with her little plan.
 
 TRIFLES. 175 
 
 She sent her servants in various directions to search 
 for the missing packet. Monsieur Blanque was standing 
 on the covered terrace waiting for the rain to abate. He 
 chuckled as he saw the servants turning up the mud in 
 the road. He was complacently reflecting on his own 
 astuteness, when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. 
 He turned round and saw Adele "belle comme un 
 anye " he thought. 
 
 " The femme de ckamfire has told me that you are a 
 merchant, monsieur," she said, standing just within the 
 long window of the salon. 
 
 " Of the firm of Drap et Blanque, Bordeaux, at your 
 service." He bowed profoundly. 
 
 With a quick motion she drew the one ring from her 
 finger : " I thought that you might perhaps dispose of 
 this for me." 
 
 For an instant Monsieur Blanque's small black eyes 
 rivalled in brightness the brilliant diamond that bore the 
 faintly-traced crest of the de Saluces. Then, with affected 
 indifference, he said : 
 
 " Is it valuable ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, very valuable. My mother, who gave it to 
 me, said it was worth live thousand dollars." 
 
 '"Dollars?" 
 
 " Or, in French currency, about twenty-five thousand 
 francs. Am I not right ? " 
 
 Monsieur Blanque raised his eyebrows and shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 " I'll give you a thousand francs for it." 
 
 There's no harm in that, argued Monsieur Blanque. 
 Will not my property soon be hers, and hers mine that 
 is, if Madame de Francheville does not play me false ? 
 
 " I will pledge it to you for that sum
 
 176 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " 1 ana not attache" of the Mont de Piete," he inter- 
 rupted, blandly. 
 
 Adele hesitated. She was penniless in a strange land. 
 It was hard to sacrifice the ring, but it would be still 
 harder to be utterly dependent on the charity of strangers. 
 
 " Take it," she said, averting her face as she gave him 
 the ring. 
 
 He drew his purse from some hidden portion of his 
 attire, and counted the thousand francs. She followed 
 him into the empty salon at his request. He found pen 
 and paper, and she signed a receipt. 
 
 He chuckled jubilantly. Assuredly success seemed all 
 on his side. The packet first, and now the ring, had 
 fallen in his way without any effort of his own. "With 
 the ring in his pocket, he started for Nantes in high 
 good-humor. 
 
 The future seemed very dark to Adele. She trembled 
 at the thought of the journey homeward. She imagined 
 herself landing alone at New York. There she had 
 neither relatives nor friends, for her mother had kept 
 her rigidly secluded from the world around her. Inex- 
 perienced and unskilled as she was, how could she earn a 
 living? 
 
 When madame discovered that Adele could play and 
 sing, she made her proposal, which was gratefully ac- 
 cepted by the girl. There was one concession that ma- 
 dame required which gave her great pain. She was not 
 allowed to wear black in her bereavement, for madame 
 detested black. It reminded her of death, and madame 
 did not like to be reminded of death. She did not object 
 to a little pleasing sadness now and then a tear over the 
 departed, a wreath of immortelles ; but she had a horror 
 of deep grief and deep mourning. When Adele's trunk
 
 TRIFLES. 177 
 
 came from L'Orient. she endeavored to improvise toilets 
 of white and purple from her slender stock of wearing- 
 apparel. 
 
 Often in the early morning, when the dim landscape 
 lay in the uncertain but glowing light of dawn, Adele 
 stole softly down to the village church to pray for her 
 mother's soul. 
 
 " That is better than wearing black, my child," the old 
 cure, to whom she had told her trouble, would say when 
 they met at the church-door after Mass. 
 
 Adele's days passed pleasantly. While madame sewed 
 or embroidered in the latter part of the morning, Adele 
 played lively galops or stirring marches. In the after- 
 noon she read to madame in French and gave her lessons 
 in English. In the long, quiet evenings, she sang opera 
 airs or played Beethoven and Mozart, while Gaston, the 
 doctor, his wife, or perhaps the cure, indulged in a game 
 of chess with madarne. 
 
 There was one subject on which madame was never 
 weary of expatiating, and of which Adele was heartily 
 tired of hearing. This was the value of the adjoining 
 estate, that had belonged to the late Marquis de Saluces. 
 
 The heiress to this great estate was in America. Ma- 
 dame, however, daily expected her to arrive with her 
 daughter. This heiress had secretly married a strolling 
 geologist that might not be the right term, madame 
 said ; however, he was a Bohemian of some kind. This 
 tourist, having broken his leg it served him right ! in 
 trying to climb a rock, in search of worthless pieces of 
 stone, had been taken to the chateau of the marquis, and 
 thus became acquainted with Mademoiselle de Saluces. 
 On discovering the marriage, the marquis had disinherited 
 his daughter. But when he came to die, he had forgiven 
 12
 
 178 THE LIFE AHOI'Nl) UK 
 
 her, and bequeathed all he possessed to her, by way of 
 reparation for his long years of displeasure. 
 
 It never occurred to madame to mention the name of 
 the " foreign adventurer," or Adele would have discov- 
 ered that he was her father. The name " Yolanthe " 
 might have given her a clue, but madame always spoke 
 of the heiress as Mademoiselle de Saluces. 
 
 Although Yolanthe Moore had never been wholly free 
 from sickness, she had none the less exacted unquestion 
 ing obedience of her gentle daughter. Adele knew that 
 the name of Martin belonged to her father, and when her 
 mother had desired her to assume it, she had complied, 
 showing some surprise, but asking no questions, for ex- 
 perience had taught her that they would be unanswered. 
 And now that the people at the chateau had got into the 
 way of calling her Mademoiselle Martin, she did not think 
 it necessary to tell her real name. 
 
 Madame de Francheville looked forward to Gaston's 
 marriage with the granddaughter of the marquis as a 
 certain thing. She had hinted at such a conclusion in 
 her letter to Yolanthe Moore, and she awaited only the 
 arrival of that lady in France to plunge at once into pre- 
 liminaries. 
 
 "And the name of Gaston's wife will be Adele; the 
 same as yours, my child," madame had said. 
 
 Adele caught herself wondering whether this young 
 countrywoman of hers were pretty or not, and whether 
 Gaston liked the name " Adele."
 
 TRIFLES. 179 
 
 II. 
 
 "TKIFLES MAKE THE SUM OF HUMAN LIFE." 
 
 The sad, pensive look left Adele's face. Gradually the 
 color of health returned to her cheeks, and she grew less 
 slender. The tranquil, uneventful routine of life at the 
 chateau rested her, and she bloomed and brightened in 
 the pure country air. How kind, how good, God was to 
 her ! she often thought. He had made her guardian 
 angel lead her to this haven of peace after -a night of 
 storm a brief but terrible night. 
 
 The old-fashioned garden was the prettiest spot within 
 the limits of the de Franeheville grounds. In the latter 
 part of May and earlier part of June it was a perfect 
 wilderness of roses roses of all shades, from the cream- 
 iest white to the deepest yellow, from the palest pink to 
 the redness of blood. Besides roses, there were beds of 
 those gorgeous tulips and carnations in which our ances- 
 tors delighted, and which remind one of the flaunting 
 dames of Versailles in the time of Louis Quatorze. 
 
 At that pleasant time when afternoon and evening 
 meet, this quaint garden, with its trees and boxwood 
 clipped into strange shapes, was Adele's favorite resort. 
 With a cherished volume of poems usually Longfellow 
 or Miss Procter she would walk up and down the. broad 
 path until the trim yew peacocks and green pyramids ap- 
 peared through the darkness like^ sentinel spectres. 
 
 Gaston -suddenly grew very fond of this garden. His 
 coign of vantage was an arbor at the end of the broad 
 walk. This arbor was entirely covered with ivy. It was 
 very damp and infested by spiders. Notwithstanding
 
 180 THE LIFE AROUUD IS. 
 
 t\\c&e drawbacks, he seemed to derive great gratification 
 from sitting there, and, through the network of ivy-stems, 
 watching the unconscious Adele. 
 
 He liked to look at her ; he liked to see her smile, and 
 when once she laughed at one of his rather weak jokes 
 his delight was unbounded, but afterward he went off in 
 a melancholy state of mind to wonder whether she had 
 laughed at the joke or the joker. Gaston did not ana- 
 lyze his feelings. He did not even seek her company ; he 
 only gazed at her from a distance, as a man might gaze 
 at an angel, and thought her the best and most beautiful 
 woman in the world. 
 
 Gaston de Francheville could not have sat for a typi- 
 cal portrait of young France. He was rather phlegmatic 
 than excitable. He was true-hearted and steadfast. It 
 generally took him some time to reach a conclusion, but 
 when that conclusion was reached he stood firm as a rock. 
 Some people called this quality obstinacy : others, firm- 
 ness ; but they all agreed that it was " Gaston de Tran- 
 che ville's way." 
 
 A handsome young man nothing remarkable you 
 would have thought, had you casually met him on a 
 boulevard or in the Bois. He was somewhat taller than 
 the average Frenchman, with dark brown, generally close- 
 cropped hair, a light brown moustache, a bronzed com- 
 plexion, and honest hazel eyes. He was always well 
 dressed, as became a de Francheville. 
 
 One soft, balmy May eve, Adele opened her " Evan- 
 geline," and, as usual, began to pace alon^ the garden-path. 
 
 There was a slight rustling among the ivy that covered 
 the summer-house, and a cloud of curling smoke arose. 
 Adele, with her back to the arbor, did not notice tho 
 sound or the smoke, but went on with her poem :
 
 TRIFLES. 181 
 
 " In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters, 
 Guarding in sylvan shade the name of Penn the apostle, 
 Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 
 There all the air is balm " 
 
 u I doubt that," murmured Adele, who had spent a 
 winter in the said city. 
 
 " Mademoiselle ahem ! " said a somewhat uncertain 
 voice at her elbow. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Adele Martin ! " 
 
 She turned quickly and saw Gaston. His sudden appear- 
 ance had startled her. He seemed rather uneasy himself, 
 and not self-possessed. He walked beside her, throwing 
 away his half-smoked cigar. He drew another from its 
 case in silence, lit it, and then, remembering himself, 
 blushed and threw it away. 
 
 u Will you permit me to say a few words to you, mad- 
 emoiselle ? " 
 
 Certainly." 
 
 He paused a while after she had answered. 
 
 Why this ceremony ? He had spoken to her often 
 without permission. Her heart beat quickly. Perhaps 
 madame had need of her services no longer. " Thy will 
 be done, O Lord ! " she murmured. 
 
 "Well, then, mademoiselle well, then" Gaston was 
 stricken with something akin to stage-fright. It occur- 
 red to him with terrifying suddenness that Adele might 
 never have considered the proposition he was about to 
 make that thus far he had thought of it from only one 
 point of view. But Adele was waiting for him to speak. 
 
 " Well, then, mademoiselle," he continued, desperately, 
 " I want you to bo my wife. I love you ! " 
 
 This was abrupt, and Gaston knew it, but it was too 
 late to soften it now.
 
 182 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Adole started in surprise, but her heart sang a song of 
 joy, and her face brightened. 
 
 " Have you any objection ? " he asked, taking her hand. 
 
 ' I have not thought yet, Monsieur Gaston,'' she said, 
 turning away her face, perhaps to conceal the new light 
 in her eyes, and she made a very slight effort to with- 
 draw the imprisoned hand. 
 
 " Then it is settled, Adele. Thou wilt try to love 
 me? " he said, using the tender " tu." 
 
 " But madatne, your mother " 
 
 " It is not madame that is to marry you, Adele ; it is 
 I. She shall know of it to-night." 
 
 Although the rosebuds had not yet opened, a sweet 
 odor, as of roses, seemed to surround Adele. She tore 
 her hand from Gaston's grasp, and ran up to her room. 
 There she blushed, sighed and laughed, finally subsiding 
 into what is technically called "a good cry." 
 
 Shortly after that little scene in the garden, madame, 
 in rustling gray silk, point lace and pearls, sailed into the 
 salon. The cure had been invited to dine at the chateau, 
 but at the eleventh hour he had sent a regret. He was 
 obliged to answer an unexpected sick-call. 
 
 "Sick indeed!" exclaimed madame, with asperity. 
 " People are continually getting sick at unreasonable 
 times. They might exercise a little self-denial, and let 
 the poor man eat his dinner in peace ! Selfishness, 
 selfishness, all is selfishness!" 
 
 Gaston was trying to read by the light of one wax 
 candle perched in a chandelier high above his head. 
 Madame, being economical, had forbidden the lighting 
 of more than one candle until the curb's arrival. 
 
 " Ma mere," began Gaston, " I have asked Made- 
 moiselle Adele to be my wife, and she has promised 
 that i.-
 
 TKIFLES. 183 
 
 " What ! " demanded madame, standing still, and bend- 
 ing her eyes on her son in amazement. 
 
 " I have asked Mademoiselle Adele to be my wife, 
 and she has not refused." 
 
 Madame stood as one stricken dumb. She opened her 
 lips and then closed them. When one loses one's temper, 
 one loses all, was a favorite maxim of hers. In silence 
 she took out her bonbonniere, and with great deliberation 
 selected some vanilla chocolate. 
 
 " You have done a very foolish thing, Gaston," she 
 said, in her gentlest tone. " Consider. Have you com- 
 mitted yourself irretrievably ? " 
 
 " Have I not said, maman, that I asked Adele to be 
 my wife ? I ha^je told her that I love her." 
 
 " That is nothing. Twenty young men told me the 
 same thing before I had seen your father." 
 
 " But my father would not have told you so had he 
 not meant it, and you have often said that I am like my 
 father." 
 
 Again madame applied herself to her bonbonniere. 
 Vanilla chocolate had a soothing effect on her nerves. 
 
 "Gaston," she said, "you well know the house of de 
 Francheville is not as rich as it was long ago, when your 
 ancestor Gontran founded a church in Nantes which was 
 the wonder of the surrounding country. There is only 
 one estate in our province which could bear such a drain 
 now, and that is the magnificent estate of the Marquis de 
 Saluces. The heiress to that estate I expect each day to 
 arrive in France. She has a daughter. Of this daughter 
 I have spoken to you, Gaston. Will you throw away 
 the chance of becoming one of the richest proprietors in 
 France ? " 
 
 " But I love Adele, mother."
 
 184 THE LIFE AROUND 1. 
 
 " Bah ! " said raadame in a tone of infinite scorn. 
 "Give up the thought of this girl, Gaston. I will per- 
 suade her " 
 
 " Never ! " cried Gaston, aroused for once. " I'll never 
 marry without your blessing, but I'll never sacrifice my 
 honor to gain it ! " 
 
 " But you are willing to sacrifice the honor of your 
 family for an obscure girl ! " Madame was losing her 
 temper. The bonbonniere again came into use. 
 
 " The honor of our family, if true and honest love can 
 sully it, is a false, boastful, empty name ! " 
 
 There was a short silence, during which madame closed 
 her eyes and reflected. 
 
 " I will consent to your marrying this girl on one con- 
 dition. You shall go to Paris on Friday, Gaston. To- 
 day is Wednesday. You will have one day for prepara- 
 tion. It is sufficient. In Paris I wish you to remain a 
 mont 1 .:. If, at the end of that time, your mind is still 
 unchanged regarding this girl, I will receive Adele Martin 
 as my daughter. Do you consent ? " 
 
 Gaston hesitated. He hardly knew how to take this. 
 
 "I consent," he said ; "I will start for Paris on Fri- 
 day." 
 
 Before madame retired that evening she wrote a letter 
 and directed it to the inn of the Golden Horse, Nantes. 
 
 All the next day Gaston was occupied with the prepa- 
 rations for his journey, and madame took care that Adele 
 should be occupied too. Work was provided for her in 
 the mysterious recesses of madame's apartment. Gaston 
 made several attempts to see her, but his mother's vigil- 
 ance rendered them fruitless. He spoke to her once be- 
 fore lie started, but madame was present, and so ho \v;is 
 forced to leave the chateau, according to promise, with-
 
 TEIFLES. 185 
 
 out having been able to say one tender word to the 
 " dame de ses pensees" 
 
 On Saturday Gaston had started for Paris the pre- 
 vious day a letter came to madame from Monsieur 
 Blanque, and on the same night she paid a visit to Adele's 
 room. The interview between this woman of the world 
 and the girl lasted some time. Madam e's voice was in 
 unvarying monotone, but Adele's was passionate and sob- 
 broken. 
 
 " I do not blame you, my dear," the former was saying 
 in answer to some outbreak of the girl's. "I do not 
 blame you, for in America no distinction of rank is ac- 
 knowledged, but here things are entirely different. If 
 my poor Gaston marries you, he will be generous, but 
 foolish ; but if you consent to marry him, you will be the 
 executioner of my dearest hopes the destroyer of my 
 son's future happiness." 
 
 " Madame," Adele interrupted, in a tone that had more 
 impatience in it than she had yet shown, "you forget 
 that your son's happiness depends, in part at least, on his 
 love for me." 
 
 " Poor, poor child ! " murmured inadame. " And you 
 believe that because Gaston says so ! When you have 
 seen as much of the world as I have, you will be less 
 credulous. Believe me, my child, one pretty woman is 
 just as dear to a man as another. But when did Gaston 
 tell you all this nonsense ? " 
 
 " He never told it to me in words exactly," said Adele, 
 the lovely blush-rose hue growing deeper in her cheeks ; 
 "but since he spoke to me in the garden, his eyes in a 
 word, madame, I am sure that he loves me." 
 
 " Love ! Bah ! it is folly," cried inadame, losing her 
 equanimity. " Have some vanilla chocolate ? No? Well,
 
 186 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 my dear," she continued, changing her tone, "I believe 
 that Gaston thinks he loves you, and, helas ! he is obsti- 
 nate ; but remember that I have almost engaged him to 
 the granddaughter of the Marquis de Saluces." 
 
 " And has he no voice in the matter ? " 
 
 " My dear, in France parents arrange these affairs." 
 
 " It is not so at home," said Adele, the tear-drops on 
 her lashes sparkling in the resolute light of her eye*. " I 
 do not care. I will not give him up ! " 
 
 "You are selfish, mademoiselle," said madame, in a 
 tone delicately modulated to express sorrow rather than 
 anger. "But can I blame you ? You are not a mother, 
 and none but mothers know what self-sacrifice truly is. 
 Listen to me. Gaston is comparatively poor now, for he 
 has only one thousand francs de rente of his own, and 
 when this is divided between two, he will be poorer. 
 Neither am I rich, but I am not wholly destitute ; and I 
 tell you, mademoiselle, that when " Madame hesi- 
 tated and shivered slightly. "No matter. I will give 
 him nothing if you become his wife. How could you 
 two live ? It is true that Gaston has studied medicine, 
 but the idea of a de Francheville practicing that profession 
 is absurd ! He has nothing. You have nothing. Surely 
 you will not be silly enough to marry '{ " 
 
 Adele did not answer, though madame paused. 
 
 " You will not cause my son to sacrifice everything 
 wealth, rank, ease for you ? Will you, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 Adele's face became white, and she turned to madame 
 imploringly. 
 
 " Answer me, mademoiselle." 
 
 "No," sobbed Adele. "I will not see him again. I do 
 not doubt his love, assure him of that, madame, but I 
 doubt that mine could compensate him for all he would 
 lose."
 
 TKIFLES. 187 
 
 " A noble girl ! " cried madarne, turning up her eyes. 
 " Would that I could call you daughter ! But that is im- 
 possible. Helas ! But your sacrifice is not yet complete.- 
 You must marry another." 
 
 " Madame ! " 
 
 " Yes, my child, and I have provided a bridegroom for 
 you, a worthy man, Jeremie Hercule Blanque. You 
 must put it out of Gaston's. power to marry you, and the 
 only way to do so is to marry somebody else. Gaston is 
 obstinate as the rock. If you are not extremely firm, 
 strong, and true to yourself, he will make you his wife 
 in spite of everybody." 
 
 Adele wished that he would, but she did not say so. 
 It was very hard, very hard, she sobbed. 
 
 Madame talked far into the night, and at last, dizzy, 
 wretched, and exhausted, Adele promised to become the 
 wife of Monsieur Blanque. 
 
 Monsieur Blanque, when he had been informed of the 
 result of this interview, paid frequent visits to the chateau. 
 He was often thrown into Adele's way. At these times 
 the girl greeted him with a cold bow or a few monosyl- 
 lables, and then took refuge in her room. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Martin does not speak much now," 
 said Monsieur Blanque, " but I fear that it will not be so 
 after marriage." 
 
 Madame de Francheville had named the wedding-day. 
 The marriage was to take place three days before Gaston 
 was expected home from exile. A dead calm seemed to 
 have fallen upon Adele. The worst had come to the 
 worst. She could not weep, and she found it hard to 
 pray. Her visits to the church grew more frequent, arid 
 the cure did not fail to notice that she seemed sad. " Thy 
 will be done Thy will be done, dear Lord ! But, O
 
 188 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Mother of Sorrows, have pity on me!" This was her 
 prayer. 
 
 Gay Paris had now no attractions for Gaston. Three 
 weeks of his time of probation had crawled away. Adele 
 was constantly in his mind. Another week, and then 
 years of happiness ! 
 
 Two days of this fourth week passed. * Gaston had 
 iv.irhed the last stage of restlessness, and when Pierre 
 Frechon's well-known voice was heard outside his room- 
 door in loud conversation with the concierge, he rushed 
 forth and warmly welcomed that individual. 
 
 " You overwhelm me, Monsieur le Comte," said 
 Pierre, helping himself to the coffee and cognac which 
 Gaston offered him. " I can tell you nothing about the 
 people at de Francheville except that they are all well, 
 and that Monsieur Blanque, whom you doubtless remem- 
 ber, frequently visits the chateau. It was only the day 
 before yesterday that I drove him there, which event 
 causes my visit to you. I have sold by beautiful cabrio- 
 let, monsieur." 
 
 Pierre Frechon paused, evidently expecting that the 
 startling information would stun Gaston. 
 
 " Indeed ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am going to my brother who is in America. 
 The day before yesterday, Friday an unlucky day, too ! 
 quel dommage ! a letter came from my brother, and at 
 once I sold my cabriolet to a man who had long wanted 
 to buy it. Unfortunately Monsieur Blanque had left his 
 overcoat, and a packet, which fell from the inside pocket 
 of it, in my cabriolet. I had not time to convey them 
 after him to the chateau, and so, as I was on my way to 
 Paris, I brought them to you. Will you oblige me, 
 Monsieur le Comte, by returning them to their owner?"
 
 TRIFLES. 189 
 
 Pierre might have added that he could just as well 
 have sent the articles to the chateau by the new driver 
 of the cabriolet, had he not required some pretext for 
 visiting Gaston, in the hope of receiving a parting "pour 
 boire." He was not disappointed. Having left Monsieur 
 Blanque's light overcoat and the packet, he departed in 
 great good humor. "When he had gone, Gaston hastily 
 glanced at the packet. It was addressed to his mother. 
 
 " This may be important," he thought ; " it was very 
 careless of Blanque to forget it." 
 
 The next day he took up the packet again. "It is 
 important, I am sure," he said ; " I had better risk every, 
 thing, and take it to her at once. It is not necessary that 
 I should see Adele until the month has fully passed. I 
 will leave the chateau as soon as I deliver the packet." 
 
 And yet, had he not cherished a hope of catching a 
 passing glimpse of Adele, he would not have troubled 
 himself about that packet. How elaborately we disguise 
 our real motives sometimes ! 
 
 He packed his portmanteau, and went out to settle 
 some business matters with a notary. Delays followed, 
 and it was not until late on "Wednesday morning that, 
 burning with impatience, he got into a carriage at the 
 railroad station at Nantes, and ordered the driver to take 
 him to de Francheville. 
 
 As Gaston went up the avenue leading to the chateau, 
 he noticed that the family carriage was waiting. He con- 
 cluded that his mother was about to pay one of her visits 
 of state. 
 
 " If so, I am just in time," he thought. 
 
 Just in time ! 
 
 He found Madame de Francheville in the boudoir ad- 
 joining the salon. Her dress was unusually rich.
 
 11)0 THK LIFi: AROUND US. 
 
 "Ma mere is probably about to visit the Archbishop or 
 the Preset, at least," muttered Gaston, standing in the 
 doorway. 
 
 She saw his reflection in the mirror before which she 
 stood. 
 
 " You here ? " she cried, turning suddenly. " Have 
 you broken our compact, Gaston ? " 
 
 " No," he said. " I will return to Paris as soon as [ 
 have given you this packet, which Monsieur Blanque left 
 in the cabriolet. It is addressed to you." 
 
 " To me ? But go at once, Gaston. I have an import- 
 ant engagement, and there is no time for talking. Go 
 at once," she repeated, eagerly. " You have only two days 
 to wait." 
 
 She took the packet, looked at the address, and tore 
 away the already mutilated wrapper. 
 
 "An revoir, mon fils," she said, unfolding the paper. 
 
 " Au revoir, ma mere," returned Gaston, bowing cere- 
 moniously, and then, turning on his heel, " until Friday." 
 
 " Martin ! Adele de Saluces ! " gasped madame, hastily 
 scanning the words. " Gaston ! Gaston ! Go ! Follow 
 them ! I have been deceived ! They have gone to the 
 uiairie for the civil ceremony the religious marriage 
 will take place at twelve. Go ! Go, I say ! " 
 
 Gaston had reached the middle of the salon, and was 
 looking wistfully at the unoccupied piano-stool Adele's 
 accustomed seat at this hour of the day. He turned to- 
 ward his mother in surprise. 
 
 " Explain." 
 
 " Do you not hear me ? " she exclaimed. " Monsieur 
 Blanque and Adele have gone to be married ! Go after 
 them," she screamed, " to the mairie, and prevent it be- 
 fore it is too late ! "
 
 TETFLES. 191 
 
 Gaston rushed out upon the terrace, over the flower- 
 beds recklessly, and sprang into the waiting carriage. Old 
 Berthe's mouth and eyes opened wide in amazement. 
 
 " Don't spare the horses, Berthe. Use the whip ! To 
 the inairie ! " 
 
 There was a tone in Gaston's voice that warned Berthe 
 he had best do as he was told. Never before had the de 
 Francheville vehicle rattled over sticks and stones at 
 such a fearful rate of speed. 
 
 Reaching the mairie in about five minutes, Gaston ran 
 madly through the hall into the principal apartment. 
 Here Monsieur le Maire stood ready to perform the cere- 
 mony. Monsieur Blanque, in a capacious white vest, 
 spotless tie and gloves, with a huge bunch of white lilacs 
 in the button-hole of his glossy coat, was near the civil 
 functionary. He held an open watch in his hand, from 
 which his glances anxiously wandered to the corner of 
 the room where a knot of festively attired ladies were 
 gathered. They were surrounding Adele, who had 
 fainted on entering the room. Gasto.n, with long strides, 
 n eared the sofa. 
 
 Adele!" 
 
 Her eyes opened, and a faint tinge of color returned to 
 her face. 
 
 " Gaston ! " 
 
 Before anybody could interfere, half carrying, half 
 leading her, he strode through the hall and deposited her 
 in the carriage. Monsieur Blanque reached the steps of 
 the mairie in time to see Gaston shut the carriage-door. 
 The vehicle rolled away, leaving him standing in the 
 midday sunshine, while the village children gathered 
 around him and made remarks on his gorgeous appear- 
 ance.
 
 192 THE LIFE AROUND IS. 
 
 " I renounce you, perfidious girl, treacherous Adele ! " 
 he cried, shaking both his fists in the direction of the de- 
 parting carriage. Accidentally, his eye caught the blaze of 
 Adele's diamond on his linger. Nothing could force him 
 to remove that. He smiled through his tears. The bar- 
 gain was not so bad, after all ! But, in spite of that, he 
 felt that he had risked much and drawn a blank. 
 
 Gaston and Adele were married. They are perfectly 
 satisfied with each other. Neither indulged in unreal, 
 unnatural expectations regarding the other during the 
 time preceding marriage, arid there has been no disap- 
 pointment. They are tranquilly happy happy in each 
 other's love, happy in the practice of our holy faith, with- 
 out which human life is barren and human love entirely 
 worthless as Dead Sea fruit. 
 
 Madame de Francheville shudders and refreshes her- 
 self from her bonbonniere, when she remembers how 
 narrowly the heiress of a marquis escaped the plebeian 
 appellation of " Madame Blanque " !
 
 A MEASURELESS ILL. 
 
 " For years a measureless ill. 
 For years, forever to part." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 |LD JOHN" RUSSELL and I were standing on 
 the bridge. The afternoon was lovely, though 
 it was a January afternoon ; the air had all the 
 softness of early spring. Faintly, yet distinctly, over the 
 silent hills and water came the strains of that saddest of 
 sad airs, " Ah che la morte" It is a hackneyed song, and 
 brassy-throated singers have torn its passion, in tatters, 
 and the brassy-throated band at the fort had often prac- 
 ticed on it as they did now, and yet, sounding in this 
 bright glimpse of spring in wintry weather, it seemed 
 like a wail for all the sorrow in the world. 
 
 I listened until old John spoke : And so you never heard 
 of the Berryls ? I thought everybody knew the Berryls 
 for miles around. They do say that the first Esau Berryl 
 was an awful Tory in the Revolutionary time, and that 
 he called young George Washington " a disloyal viper " 
 one day ; but then he was an Englishman, and I don't 
 blame him for sticking to his country, right or wrong. 
 Fou don't like that ? Well, young folks have their ideas 
 and old folks have theirs, but in my time young folks 
 used to follow the ideas of their elders, and it seems to 
 me they got along well enough. 
 
 Old Esau Berryl died, and left one son, the second 
 13 (193)'
 
 194 THE LIFE AROUND U*. 
 
 Esau. Young Jim Berry 1, his son, was one of Mosehy's 
 men in the war, and Esau, who liked blue coats better 
 than gray, swore that he was no true Berryl, and so Jim 
 never came home. But it's of Arthur, the elder, that I 
 want to talk. 
 
 Arthur was a fine fellow one of your tall, broad- 
 shouldered, deep-chested chaps a real Southerner ; you 
 Yanks have nothing like it with sharp gray eyes that 
 could see through a bale of cotton, and a forest of brown 
 hair on his face ; yes, a regular forest, more fit for a sav- 
 age than a Christian not that Arthur Berryl was much 
 of a Christian ; but never mind that just now. 
 
 He went into the No'the'n army in '61, and came out 
 three years later a colonel, with no right hand. A cannon- 
 ball had shattered it. This one of the Berryls hadn't much 
 use for his right hand in the way of work. He had a 
 house over there in Virginia, and some money that his 
 mother had left him ; and, besides, everybody knows that 
 old Esau is a mighty rich man. And the old fellow was 
 swelled up with pride about his son, " the Colonel." I 
 didn't blame him, though I always was a "Reb" every 
 man for his own way of thinking, /say though it made 
 me mad when I thought of my own poor boy, who fought 
 might and main with Moseby, and then came home to his 
 poor old dad with not so much as a stripe on his sleeve, 
 but we had neither money nor rank to throw away. 
 
 Ah, you don't see that up No'th this time of year. 
 Yellow jessamine, I swear ! 
 
 [My old friend rested both hands on his hickory stick, 
 and paused to gaze at a negro who was passing. The 
 negro's arms were full of bright yellow blossoms, though 
 the sun was not yet warm enough to break the ice on the 
 Potomac.]
 
 A MEASURELESS ILL. 195 
 
 Yes, the jessamine reminds me of that day, for there 
 was some of it growing near the grave. I don't boast 
 much of education, but I have feelings, and education 
 can't give a man feelings, can it? and that jessamine 
 makes me feel downhearted. 
 
 And as Arthur Berryl had nothing to do, for a man 
 with no right hand can do precious little, he went the 
 way of all young men, and fell in love. 
 
 She was pretty, I tell you. Our nig, Julius at least, 
 he was ours before you Yanks took him was courting 
 her mother's Sue, and so we found out all the particulars. 
 
 Her name was Annie Desmond. Her mother was a 
 widow with some little property. They lived over there, 
 not far from the canal. 
 
 It was just after we were converted, my wife and I. 
 Poor Rob, my son, would have died in prison up No'th, 
 if the Sisters of Charity, Heaven bless 'em ! had not 
 taken his mother's place, and so when he came home, he 
 made his mother and me believe there must be something 
 in a religion that could turn out such women. We 
 weren't much on religion ; she was a hard-shell Baptist 
 when she was young ; I was a sort of Episcopalian, and 
 when Rob grew up he just believed in Moseby. 
 
 Well, one fine day we three knelt at the altar-rails in 
 Trinity Church, and we've thanked God ever since. 
 
 And so that was the way we first saw Annie Desmond. 
 She was at Mass every Sunday. Pretty was no word for 
 her. She wasn't tall, and she wasn't short ; but when she 
 walked up the aisle, you felt that there was a lady coming, 
 her step was so light and firm. I'm no hand at describ- 
 ing looks. I only know that her face was bright and 
 sweet, and it was gay sometimes, and reverent sometimes; 
 but I never saw it sad until I saw it in despair.
 
 196 THE LIFK AKOl'ND CS. 
 
 Her cheeks were prettier than the color of my pink 
 oleanders, and her eyes were dark, and blue, and clear. 
 One day, when her hat blew off on the church-steps, her 
 hair seemed a regular shower of brown and gold threads. 
 I never spoke to her, neither did rny wife; but if she had 
 been our own daughter we couldn't have taken more 
 interest in her. 
 
 Colonel Berryl was passing along the street that day 
 when her hat blew away. He caught it in his one hand, 
 and gave it to her with a low bow. I saw their eyes 
 meet. Ah, I know the signs ; I've been young ; and I 
 told mother that I wished it was Rob, instead of Arthur 
 Berry]. And I doubly wish it had been now ! 
 
 Colonel Berryl was in love, and Annie Desmond was 
 the girl. The Berryls brag of their family, you know. 
 We think a great deal of family down here. I know 
 some people around here who wouldn't be anything if it 
 wasn't for their families, but these Desmonds, though, 
 they hadn't any family in particular. Mrs. Desmond, it 
 is true, did say something about being descended from 
 the kings of Ireland ; but then that doesn't count for 
 much down here ; it's not like being descended from a 
 Washington, a Carroll, or a Lee, and when I mention 
 those names, I think of Russell, for we are an old family, 
 I assure you, though we have worked hard in our time. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond was mighty glad to have Arthur Berryl 
 come to her house, folks said.. Annie liked him from the 
 first; but I think her mother must have favored him, 
 and made courtship easy for the young couple. 
 
 Esau objected to Annie. There were plenty of girls 
 around the District and Virginia girls of good family 
 and all manner of creeds. He didn't see why a Berryl 
 should marry a Catholic.
 
 A MEASURELESS ILL. 197 
 
 Arthur said : " Don't you- mind her religion. She's 
 been bred in it ; but she's only a girl, and after a while 
 she'll believe just as little as either of us. I love her, and 
 I'll do anything to please her now ; and, by and by, she'll 
 do anything to please me." 
 
 Esau didn't keep up his opposition long ; he believed 
 that Arthur had the wisest head of the family. 
 
 Esau did not believe much. He was of the school of 
 Jefferson and Tom Paine ; his son swore by Huxley and 
 Tyndall. The old man held that there was a Supreme 
 Being ; the young man was not certain whether he be- 
 lieved there was or not. 
 
 Old Esau disliked all forms of Christianity, but, quite 
 naturally, he hated Catholicity more than all. 
 
 He said to Arthur: "If this girl becomes your wife 
 you may let her go to her Popish practices if you choose ; 
 but if there are any children, and you let a priest come 
 near them, or have any superstitious mummery over 
 them, I'll leave every cent I own, and every acre of laud, 
 
 to Jim. So help me ! " And he swore by a Name 
 
 in which he did not believe. 
 
 Arthur laughed lightly. The Berryl acres were dear 
 to his heart. 
 
 " Trust me," he said to his father. 
 
 One afternoon, just at sundown, I saw Arthur Berryl 
 and Annie Desmond getting out of a boat after a row 
 down the Potomac. How tenderly he helped her on 
 shore, how proud and spirited he looked as he gave her 
 his arm ! And she looked up to him with such a light in 
 her pretty eyes ! My old heart was moved. It was a 
 pretty sight. But the storm in the western sky made a 
 very ugly background. 
 
 " It's all fixed," I told my wife when I went home.
 
 198 THE LIFE AROUND IS. 
 
 And, after a while, Julius came in, and told mother all 
 that Sue said. Yes, it was all fixed. 
 
 Arthur promised Mrs. Desmond all she wanted. Bless 
 you, he was ready to promise anything. He couldn't 
 help it when he thought of Annie. He was too deep in 
 love to mind what he said. 
 
 They would be married by a priest. The children 
 should be baptized, and sent to school wherever Annie 
 pleased, and, in time who knows '{ he might become a 
 Catholic. 
 
 At the last moment, it seems, Mrs. Desmond's heart 
 misgave her. She consulted one of the Jesuits at the 
 college, and then she cried all night ; but she, like a 
 woman, dried her tears when the marriage took place in 
 her little parlor, and at the wedding-reception in the 
 Berry! mansion she leant on old Esau's arm as smilingly 
 as a darky in Christmas-time. 
 
 Time passed. Young Mrs. Berry! was liked by every- 
 body. There wasn't a night that Arthur did not have 
 her at some sor-ee or other among the bong-tong of 
 Washington, as the papers say. He was very proud of 
 her, and once or twice we saw him at eleven o'clock Mass 
 with her. 
 
 " All went merry as a marriage-bell." That's out of 
 Byron. You young folks don't read him or Moore nowa- 
 days. Perhaps it's for the best. 
 
 One day old Esau actually laughed. A little grandson 
 had come into the world. He was a pretty baby, Sue 
 said, like his mother, but he was quiet and still, and he 
 never cried at all. All the life in him seemed to be in 
 his pretty blue eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond wanted to have him baptized at once. 
 
 This made old Esau swear. He wouldn't hear of.it.
 
 A MEASURELESS ILL. 199 
 
 Arthur sided with his father. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond looked at the child again. She entreated 
 Arthur to send for a priest. 
 
 " Never shall a priest enter these doors, ma'am ! " 
 roared old Esau. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond appealed to Arthur. He said, "My 
 father and you must settle this." 
 
 She reminded him of his promise. He only smiled. 
 She was a hot-tempered woman, and slie let her tongue 
 have full swing. Then she left the house. 
 
 Days counted into three weeks. The child still lived, 
 and moved a little, and cried a little. Sue said he 
 wouldn't live ; he was just like a snowflake. 
 
 Every day Mrs. Desmond visited her daughter. Every 
 day the dispute about the child's baptism was renewed. 
 Old Esau stood stiff; and, in this, Arthur was too much 
 afraid of his father to yield to the pleadings of his poor 
 wife. 
 
 Poor girl ! Black Sue said it made her cry to see her 
 young mistress' white, anxious face. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond made her usual visit, and looked at the 
 baby. Sue said that Annie was lying back in an arm- 
 chair, but she opened her eyes and watched her mother 
 as if her life depended on it. Esau dropped his news- 
 paper and watched her. 
 
 She saw something in her mother's face that frightened 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond stood near the toilet-table with the child 
 in her arms. Sue was in the doorway. She had left a 
 pitcher of water on the table, and was going out, when 
 Annie's voice, like the moan of the wind, made her turn : 
 
 " He is dying /" 
 
 They called the baby by no name yet.
 
 200 TI IK LIFK AROUND l"S. 
 
 The young wife knelt at her husband's feet, and clasped 
 his knees. 
 
 " Have raercv, Arthur ! " she said. 
 
 Her face turned as white as a dead woman's at the look 
 in his face. She fell back with a dull thud. 
 
 Esau, Arthur, and Sue went to her instantly. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond stood alone with the child near the 
 toilet-table. The others had their backs to her. Whether 
 she baptized the child or not, or whether it was already 
 dead when she took it in her arms, she never told. 
 
 When Annie recovered her senses, the baby lay cold 
 and still dead. 
 
 The funeral was a grand one for such a little thing. 
 It was a cold, damp day, but my wife and I went with 
 the rest over to the Episcopal Cemetery, where the 
 Berryls have a family vault. 
 
 Annie stood near the grave. I could not see her face 
 for her thick black veil, but I could hear her sobs. 
 
 Mrs. Desmond stood next to her, stern and severe. On 
 the other side was Arthur, as stern, but seemingly like a 
 man in pain. Esau wasn't there. 
 
 They waited at the grave until nearly everybody had 
 gone. My wife and I drew off a short distance and 
 waited too. Women are so curious. 
 
 " Coine ! " said Mrs. Desmond, sternly, and she took 
 her daughter's arm. 
 
 Annie raised her veil. Her face seemed frozen into 
 despair. My wife almost screamed at sight of it. Annie 
 gave her hand to Arthur. He took it in his. 
 
 " Good-bye ! " she whispered. 
 
 " Good-bye ! " he said, turning away. 
 
 And so they parted.
 
 A MEASURELESS ILL. 
 
 201 
 
 John Russell looked thoughtfully down at the water, 
 and a cold breath of east wincl blew through his iron- 
 gray whiskers, telling us that our glimpse of spring was 
 past. The sky was gray with evening. A spray of 
 jessamine, crushed and broken, lay at my feet. The 
 band at Fort Whipple again began the music. This time 
 it was a merry chanson from the "Grande Duchesse"; 
 but the words it suggested chimed in with my mood and 
 the sadness around me 
 
 " De n'avoir plus jaruais sur terre, 
 Un moment de felicite."
 
 JOHN NELSON'S MARRIAGE. 
 
 " In general opinion, marriage in real life, as in a comedy, is the 
 end. On the contrary, it is really the beginning." 
 
 MADAME SWETCHINE. 
 
 JOHN NELSON was neither as vain as Lamartine 
 nor as poetical as that sentimental Frenchman, but 
 he met his Graziella in Italy, and her name was 
 Tita Malatesta. If questioned about a certain tragedy 
 which took place long ago, and in which two of her name 
 were concerned, she would have smiled, for she had 
 pretty teeth, saying, " I know not of it, Signor." And 
 if you had taken your Dante, as John Nelson did, and 
 read to her the story of Francesca and Paolo, she would 
 have said, " It served them right," feeling that Francesca 
 was a great fool not to be satisfied with Lanciotto, who 
 gave her a palace and plenty to eat and drink. Tita was 
 not sentimental. In most things she was very matter-of- 
 fact; after she became John Nelson's wife it was odd to 
 hear his American friends at Sorrento call her Mrs. Nel- 
 son, while Tita still wore her picturesque peasant dress, 
 and her answer, with smiling lips, "Si, Signore; si, Sig- 
 norita." 
 
 His marriage was very imprudent, Nelson's friends 
 
 said ; but his friends were few and far between, and their 
 
 opinion was not expressed strongly, for John Nelson was 
 
 a bachelor of thirty years' standing when he married; 
 
 (202)
 
 JOHN NELSON'S MARRIAGE. 203 
 
 and if he had not a right to do as he pleased, who had ? 
 The relatives of his, at home in New York, were so dis- 
 tant that blood in his and their case was not much thicker 
 than water ; so he did nol consult them. In Italy he was 
 considered rich ; at home he would have been marked in 
 mammas' list of " eligibles " " well to do." 
 
 A note from his acquaintance, the Viscornte de Yau- 
 drier, who, having spent four years in Washington, was 
 justly regarded by his Parisian friends as a master of the 
 English tongue, both in speaking and writing, will give 
 you an idea of the light in which his friends regarded his 
 launch into matrimony. 
 
 " DEAR FKIEND : You have no doubt great surprise 
 for receive a letter of me, but i may make it only a bil- 
 let, for ray aunt, which is a priest, Monsieur 1'Abbe de 
 Vaudrier, have come to arrive in Paris. He have come 
 last night, and it must that i give to him great attention, 
 which is a plage, but right that it should be. You know 
 how well I speak the English in Yashington, but I have 
 much improve now, for i speak her all the day to my 
 brother, the Marquis, which I teach, and even to my 
 horses, of which i say, ' Go Ion' skedaddell ! ' And they 
 go Ion'. 
 
 " I have heard to speak of your marriage. She is a 
 little Italian paysanne, is it not? As you go not great 
 deal among the society, it is not great deal importance 
 that she may be paysanne au boutde ses onyles ; and as you 
 Americans have no families aristocratics, it is not bad for 
 you, if that she may be jolie and also good wife. I put 
 ray good wishes at the feet of Madame ; i kiss her hands. 
 My broter also have surprise of your marriage. He say 
 you are not like the spirituel Lamartine, but you have les
 
 204 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 defaute de vos qualites. My aunt, M. PAbbe, you send 
 his blessing, and have great pleasure you bave marry one 
 of our Faith. 
 
 "Tours, ALPHONSE DE YATJDKIER." 
 
 Like De Yaudrier, all his friends were resigned. He 
 received one indignant letter. It was from his cousin's 
 widow, and it was stormily indignant. His cousin had 
 been a Methodist minister, a herald of wrath and hell- 
 fire among his brethren, a man who lovingly read the 
 inspired words of Eugene Laurence in Harper's Weekly, 
 who tried to believe that convent schools were ways to 
 " the pit," who sternly forbade his daughter to wear car- 
 dinal ribbon (" that symbol of antichrist ! ") In a phrase, 
 he was a collection of fossilized prejudices, preserved in 
 malice and uncharitableness. During his life his wife 
 had been a mild little woman, who might, had somebody 
 proposed to convert the Pope, have answered, like the 
 woman in Thackeray's novel, " Poor Pope, what has he 
 done ? " After her husband's death his spirit seemed to 
 have taken possession of her. She was a living proof of 
 the doctrine of metempsychosis. In her letter to John 
 Nelson she implored him " to break the vile nets of the 
 scarlet woman, to be another Samson, and pull down the 
 temple of the idolaters " 
 
 " She means St. Peter's," thought John. 
 
 " To put the Bible in the hands of his wife (she in- 
 closed one for the poor deluded woman) ; to let her drink 
 of the pure stream " 
 
 John laughed, as he imagined Tita struggling with the 
 pure stream of King James' English. 
 
 " To part from the Jesuit in disguise (Mrs. Greenough 
 firmly believed that Tita was a Jesuit in disguise) if she 
 refused to hear the truth."
 
 NELSON'S MARRIAGE. 205 
 
 " Are you a Jesuit, Tita ? " asked John. 
 
 "What do you mean, G'ovanni? The good Jesuits 
 are priests." 
 
 Tita looted at him in the most matter-of-fact way, and 
 then a smile, a reflection of his, curved her lips, and she 
 shook her head, suspecting that G'ovamri was enjoying 
 one of those things which she never tried to understand 
 a joke. 
 
 The days were very pleasant at Sorrento. Sicilian 
 muses, who since the days of Theocritus, live only as 
 nightingales among the orange-groves of Sorrento, kept 
 night and day awake with shakes and roulades sweeter 
 than were ever heard at La Scala. The days passed in 
 dreamy dolcefar nierite. Tita divided her time between 
 her mother's farm and her husband's villa. Sunshine, 
 bluest of blue skies and waters, even when set to the 
 rmisic of a nightingale, do not make life ; and John 
 Nelson longed for the less tender breezes of his own 
 country. 
 
 Tita was good, loving, simple as a child; but there 
 were many things that she could not understand in her 
 husband's sayings and doings ; and to John kelson the 
 worst of this was that she would not try to understand. 
 She was willing to take too much on faith. 
 
 " Dear G'ovanui," she said to herself, " he knows no 
 better ; he means well ; he has lived so long among the 
 heretics." 
 
 Tita's ideas of geography were. vague. She knew the 
 world was round, and her knowledge was founded on as 
 good ground as the knowledge of most of us she had 
 been told so. China and our glorious country were to 
 her the same, and, though her state of mind may seem 
 incomprehensible, she would have, with the same degree
 
 206 THE LIFE AROUND IS. 
 
 of distaste, gone to one as the other. Tita could read, 
 but she never did. John had read to her I promessi 
 Sposi. The novel interested her. 
 
 ' ; Is it true ? " she asked, when he had half finished it. 
 . " No," he answered ; " Manzoni made it out of his 
 head." 
 
 " I do not like lies," said Tita, and would hear no 
 more. 
 
 In matters of religion Tita was an authority. She 
 could confound John's elaborate arguments in the fewest 
 words. She knew all the Bible stories by heart, and as 
 she had received them orally, they were, coming from 
 her lips, like pale-tinted marble under ruby-colored glass. 
 The legends of the saints were her history. In Italy 
 she was playful, petulant sometimes, matter-of-fact, hav- 
 ing a childish love for John a love which he, after he 
 had been married a few months, compared to a shallow 
 stream. " It may run on forever, hut it will never grow 
 deeper. Tita will never be a woman." There was bit- 
 terness in the thought. 
 
 John Nelson had become a Catholic more from love 
 of Tita than love of truth ; but he believed in a lazy kind 
 of a way. He went to Mass with Tita, yet heaven could 
 scarcely expect from him, a refined American who had 
 lived in Boston, the sort of cultus it got from Italian peas- 
 ants. He did not own this thought, but nevertheless it was 
 in his mind. He patronized Providence, and felt that he 
 had made a sacrifice when the contadmi pointed him out 
 as one of the forestieri among Padre Lenceno's parish- 
 ioners. 
 
 Tita did not want to leave lovely Sorrento. It was her 
 home. Her mother did not urge her to stay. " Women 
 must obey their husbands," said that matron ; and mar-
 
 JOHN NELSON'S MARRIAGE. 207 
 
 ried daughters did not fill much space in a mother's heart 
 which already held nine other living Malatestas. " Wives 
 must obey their husbands," said Padre Lenceno, too, so 
 Tita dried her tears, and hid her face on John's shoulder 
 as the beauty of Sorrento faded away. 
 
 Hotel life in New York, John thought, would not suit 
 either him or his wife ; and, to set Tita up as a house- 
 keeper, inexperienced as she was in the ways of Ameri- 
 can life, was an idea that he could not entertain. It was 
 not that John felt the want of near relations, sensible 
 uncles and anxious aunts. There were the Greenoughs. 
 He thought about them. Mrs. Greenough was zealously 
 intemperate only in words, and, happily, Tita could not 
 understand them ; and his cousins, Yashti and Esther, 
 as he remembered them, were mere girls. Besides, the 
 Greenoughs were not rich, and two boarders who could 
 pay well would doubtless help them. 
 
 Tita shivered in the May breezes that swept into New 
 York from the sea. John left her near the register in 
 the warmest room of the hotel, and started to interview 
 the Greenoughs. 
 
 " John Nelson ! c'est ntoi, mon ami ! " 
 
 " De Vaudrier ! " 
 
 Nelson grasped the hand of a young man who had just 
 dropped out of a car. It was his friend De Yaudrier, a 
 stripling of about twenty-two, tall, slim, dark-eyed, with 
 a flush on his cheeks and a slight moustache on his lip. 
 De Yaudrier dropped his travelling-bag, and turned about 
 to embrace John in the Continental fashion, when he re- 
 membered that he was not at home. 
 
 " I have overjoyed to view you," he said, his face lit up 
 with a cordial smile; "I am come to arrive. I 'ave no 
 'otel yet. Where are you resting?"
 
 208 THE LIFE AROUND IS. 
 
 " Stay with me," said John ; " I will arrange every- 
 thing for yon." 
 
 De Vaud rier left his portmanteau at the hotel, and ac- 
 companied his friend. 
 
 " I am travel for instruction ; but, mon ami, let us 
 speak French. It is singular, I love best the English at 
 home, and the French here. Hast thou brought thy 
 wife?" 
 
 He was on his native heath, and lie began to t tutoyer " 
 John with much volubility. 
 
 The Greenoughs were at home. They lived in a cot- 
 tage in the suburbs. The cottage had two gothic towers, 
 a miniature carriage-house, an ornate balcony, and bay- 
 windows in several unexpected places. It was built of 
 brick, but coated with an imposing cement. Some peo- 
 ple thought it was of stone. The house was too large for 
 her family, Mi's. Greenough said; but, though she would 
 not think of entertaining ordinary boarders, John, his 
 wife, and friend might come. She could not refuse to 
 receive her own flesh and blood. She looked like a mar- 
 tyr as she said this, but inwardly she rejoiced that now 
 the taxes would not seem such an important item, and 
 the girls might have new dresses, in time for the next an- 
 niversary at the Bethel Church. The matter was settled. 
 
 Mrs. Greenough was small, delicate, and serious-look- 
 ing. In her solemn suit of sable, she looked like one 
 who was always ready to cry out in her thin, artificial 
 voice, " Woe ! woe ! " to the world. 
 
 The girls, Vashti and Esther, were different. One 
 could see that by the books on the parlor-table. There 
 were Spencer's Sociology, Matthew Arnold, and other 
 new lights for Vashti ; Rossetti, William Morris, and 
 even Swinburne for Esther. They were both " advanced ";
 
 JOHN NELSON'S MAERIAGE. 209 
 
 but they went to services, and Mrs. Greenough was too 
 intensely interested in the heathen without her gates to 
 think of the heathens within. 
 
 The girls were twins; they were much alike in ap- 
 pearance; both blondes, and rather pretty. Yashti was 
 the taller, and she adopted the Greek style. Esther 
 being shorter and plumper, was mediaeval. They had 
 " views" of their own on everything in, above, and be- 
 neath the sun. 
 
 " Never did your papa dream," said Mrs. Greenough, 
 solemnly and sadly, " that necessity would force me to 
 take Papists under his roof ! What sacrifices we must 
 make for the cause ! " 
 
 " What cause ? " demanded Esther. 
 
 "Mamma intends to convert them." 
 
 " I do," responded Mrs. Greenough. 
 
 And she did, especially the young Yicomte. What a 
 sweetly pious account of the dear young man's deliver- 
 ance from error she could write in the Evangelical 
 Times! How envious the present Bethel clergyman's 
 wife would be, as she entered anniversary meetings on 
 the arm of her converted member of the French aris- 
 tocracy ! It was a consoling thought. 
 
 " For that I can bear it all." ' 
 
 "Even a fish-dinner on Todays? " 
 
 "And Jesuits hiding in all the closets, as they do in 
 Catharine Sinclair's novels," laughed Yashti. 
 
 " Never," said Mrs. Greenough, gravely ; " to that I will 
 never submit. I defy them ! " And she folded her arms, 
 and looked serenely before her. 
 
 "We will have a real Yicomte here, anyhow, and give 
 musicales every Thursday. How those snobbish Glover 
 girls will feel it ! They are always talking of an Italian 
 14
 
 210 TIIK I. IKK AUOUXI) US. 
 
 baron they discovered at the Exposition. ' Permit me, 
 Miss Glover, to present Monsieur le Vicomte de Van- 
 drier,' I will say, carelessly, and Julia Glover will attack 
 him in French, which he will not understand, and which 
 I will interpret for him ! " cried Esther, turning rapidly 
 on the piano-stool, and began Mendelssohn's Wedding 
 March. 
 
 " No," said Yashti, contradicting her sister's music, " I 
 will be Madame la Vicomtesse ! " 
 
 To decide the matter the girls tossed an antique medal, 
 and Esther won De Vaudrier. 
 
 De Yaudrier was not so easily won. He was shy of 
 these young ladies when he came to dwell beneath their 
 mother's roof. Their manners rather frightened him. 
 There was not the slightest impropriety in their " etyle '' 
 according to our American canons, but De Yaudrier did 
 not judge young ladies by our American canons. He 
 had lived in Paris, and yet he was not spoiled. He was 
 manly, yet good and ingenuous to an extent which we 
 rarely find among American young men, but which, in 
 France, is often found in those families whose sons are 
 not corrupted by the detestable government lyceums. 
 
 Esther's French, like that of the dainty man in Chau- 
 cer, was not of Paris, and her first attempt at aesthetical 
 conversation was a failure. He knew nothing of art or 
 literature, but much about vine-growing in his depart- 
 ment in Burgundy, and other useful things. Esther 
 struck him with Ruskin's Stones of Venice, and thought 
 she had made a hit ; De Yaudrier was certainly stunned. 
 
 " 1 know not Rutskin," he said. 
 
 She asked him if he had read Baudelaire's Fleurs du 
 Mai, which she had heard was extremely aesthetic. 
 
 De Yaudrier opened his eyes in horror. Ces demoi-
 
 JOHN NELSON'S MARRIAGE. 211 
 
 selles Americaines were too much for his understanding. 
 He took refuge with Tita. That silent little woman was 
 much more congenial company than this Miss who talked 
 boldly of everything. 
 
 Tita was alone on a rustic seat in the porch. The pale 
 blue of the sky was fading to evening's gray. Tita 
 looked very uncomfortable in a black silk dress. She 
 seemed afraid to move her arms, and her head was kept 
 stationary by an uncomfortable raffle around her neck. 
 How she longed for the freedom of her peasant costume ! 
 
 " She looks like the kitten when I tie her up in my 
 handkerchief," thought Esther. 
 
 She certainly did not offer a pleasing contrast to 
 Yashti, who, in a faultless costume of gray and blue, 
 with a fillet of violets in her golden hair, walked up and 
 down the garden-walk with John Nelson by her side. 
 He, fresh from a land of brunettes, thought he had never 
 seen a woman so beautiful. 
 
 Tita watched them, and felt like crying. She felt and 
 looked lonely. De Yaudrier, with his pleasant smile, 
 brought a checker-table out, and offered to teach her the 
 game. Youth is elastic; and Tita was soon deep in a 
 game of checkers. De Yaudrier laughed at her blunders 
 in the game, and she laughed at his broken Italian. Mrs. 
 Greenough, anxious to improve each shining hour, drew 
 her chair near them. In one of the pauses of the game, 
 she said something about Popish superstition and Jesuit- 
 ical wickedness (" I was merely stating facts," she after- 
 ward said, " without the slightest intention of offending 
 the young man.") 
 
 " Madame," answered De Yaudrier, with severe polite- 
 ness, " I am great surprise that an old hag like you, with 
 two feet in the tomb-stone, should speak thus of our 
 holy faith."
 
 212 THE LIFE AROUND 08. 
 
 Mrs. Greenough was speechless. " Old hag ! " It is 
 true De Vaudrier thought that hag was a synonym 
 for woman ; but Mrs. Greenough did not know that. 
 She gave him up ; she felt that he would he damned, 
 though, as she said, she tried to conceal the horrible fact 
 from herself. 
 
 Vashti Greenough had received John Nelson with 
 great cordiality. He was an old flame of hers, she de- 
 clared, adding, "and, as we are cousins, of course your 
 wife can't be jealous." It pleased John to hear her talk 
 in this way, which she did with charming archness and 
 candor. She talked so well. She could tell him every- 
 thing that had occurred in the dramatic, literary, and 
 musical worlds, since he had buried himself in Italy. 
 The very first night she played his favorite nocturne, 
 gave a crisp criticism of Daniel Deronda for his benefit, 
 and recited a little idyl, which he had written for pne of 
 the magazines. John Nelson turned the leaves of her 
 music-book with a warm consciousness of being appre- 
 ciated a delicate kind of flattery liable to turn any 
 man's head. 
 
 De Vaudrier went to his room early. Tita sat outside 
 the circle of lamplight, with an open album in her lap, 
 gazing at the group near the piano. Her face was 
 troubled. She seemed to be trying to understand. This 
 was new to her; Giovanni had never before neglected 
 her. She only smiled when he praised his beautiful 
 cousin. 
 
 After this the days were full of weariness for Tita. 
 Vashti and Esther tried to be friendly, but, as they could 
 not speak her language, their efforts amounted to very 
 little. Mrs. Greenough avoided her. John was always 
 engaged. Vashti had discovered some new ferns, would
 
 JOHN NELSON'S MARKIAGE. 213 
 
 he not come down to the green-house and look at them ? 
 Yashti wanted to go to the picture-galleries ; Yashti liked 
 the opera ; Yashti enjoyed an occasional drive, and John 
 was always her cavalier ; for pictures, music, and drives, 
 Tita cared only when Giovanni was with her alone. She 
 would not divide him with any one; and so she sat in a 
 sunny corner of the parlor, and thought De Yaudrier 
 saw v this with pain, and he tried hard to amuse Tita 
 These two grew friendly, and Tita sometimes forgot her 
 troubles for a moment when he spoke. 
 
 Prejudice is a upas-tree that poisons all the air around 
 it. Mrs. Greeuough was prejudiced against De Yaudrifr. 
 She helieved good could come as naturally from him as 
 figs from thistles. 
 
 John Nelson ceased even to go to Mass with Tita. 
 The girls, anxious to show off their handsome cousin at 
 the Bethel, persuaded him to go to morning service. 
 
 " Tita mia," he said, playfully, "you will do the pray- 
 ing for us both, while I watch the pretty girls ! " 
 
 If he could only have known the pain in her heart ! 
 Every Sunday De Yaudrier, with honest indignation in 
 his mind, escorted Tita to High Mass. 
 
 One evening, when sunset was burning the west with 
 crimson, purple, and gold, Tita sat on the porch as usual, 
 sad, silent, lonely. Grief had made her a woman. She 
 was no longer a child. Up the path came John. He 
 seemed about to come to her, when from the arbor 
 stepped Yashti. She stopped hi inland pinned a rosebud 
 on his coat. Tita grasped her heart. 
 
 " Oh, because I am dumb, do they think I can not see? " 
 
 John Nelson's eyes met Yashti's. A regret entered 
 his mind. Why had he tied himself to a little Italian 
 child ?
 
 214 THE LIFE AROUND IS. 
 
 The tragedy of Franceses di Rimini, which John, in 
 the pleasant days, had read to her out of Dante, floated 
 across her mind. "If I could kill them ! if I could kill 
 them ! " she thought, and the burning pain in her heart 
 seemed to burn her breast. " Santa Maria, ora pro 
 ine ! ora pro me ! " And she fled to her room to weep 
 and pray passionately. 
 
 Neither De Yaudrier nor Tita were at breakfast the 
 next morning. De Vaudrier was often absent, but Tita 
 
 " Tita is gone," said Esther. " Mary saw her pass the 
 kitchen door, with a small bundle, last night. She 
 tftought nothing of it ; Tita was always giving things to 
 the poor." 
 
 " Good works are vain," began her mother. 
 
 " One moment, mamma ; but when she found that Tita 
 had not slept in her room, she came to me. Here is a 
 note she left for John." 
 
 John, about to leave the dining-room, had paused in 
 the door, and Esther entered by the other. He turned 
 back, and took the note. In large, tremblingly-traced 
 letters, he read, "Addio, Giovanni." 
 
 " And De Yaudrier has gone, too," said Mrs. Greenough, 
 significantly. 
 
 John put his hands to his head. His face took a pur- 
 plish hue. 
 
 " Mr. De Yaudrier is in the garden," said Esther, softly. 
 Mrs. Greenough blushed, and, it is hoped, profited by the 
 rebuke. 
 
 Detectives, telegraph, all the modern means for detect- 
 ing fugitives were set to work. No Tita. Three weeks 
 passed, and still she was not found. About this time 
 John Nelson fell sick. "A cold, an overtaxed mind, 
 headache, pain in the back," the Greenoughs said at first.
 
 JOHN NELSON'S MARRIAGE. 215 
 
 " Small-pox," the doctor said at last. 
 
 Exeunt the Greenoughs and De Vaudrier over to those 
 snobbish Glovers. John Nelson, the small-pox, and Mary, 
 who had had the disease, remained ; but the small-pox 
 and Nelson were often left alone, for Mary, being un- 
 watched, and " having a free foot," except in the morn- 
 ing, when the doctor came, went into town, to pay a num- 
 ber of calls she owed to certain nursemaids and cooks. 
 
 On one of these afternoons out, John Nelson awoke 
 from a delirious dream, thirsting and parched with fever. 
 
 " Giovanni ! " 
 
 Was it an echo from his dream ? 
 
 A cool cheek was pressed close to his hot one. 
 
 " Tita, Tita ! " he cried in horror, " leave me. My dis- 
 ease will kill you ; it is killing me." 
 
 ' k Then I will die with you, Giovanni." 
 
 She would not go. He raved and entreated. She 
 remained. Late in August, he arose, pale, thin, scarred ; 
 but Tita was happy. He was hers again. 
 
 " My heart was breaking," Tita said ; " I went into 
 the city, and found Some of my country people. They 
 gave me bread, and I made clothes for the little ones ; 
 but I could not stay away from you, Giovanni. I came, 
 and you are mine again. I was wrong to go ; Padre 
 Lenceno would have said : * Wait and pray ' but you are 
 mine again." 
 
 " Yes, God's and yours," he says, devoutly. 
 
 " Thank God, whom I forsook, and his Blessed 
 Mother ! " 
 
 The Greenoughs returned to their house. De Yaudrier 
 went to Brazil, with a kind adieu from his fiel enfant, as 
 he called Tita. John Nelson and his wife, happier than 
 they ever were, are now on their way to Rome.
 
 AMONG THE "OLIVE BRANCHES." THE 
 STORY OF A NEW YORK BOY. 
 
 I. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 ASHINGTON Square is like a huge, white sheet 
 spread among the houses that enclose it on 
 every side. Its benches, frost-bitten grass, and 
 wide paths are all lost in the whiteness which is becom- 
 ing gray as the twilight falls. The snow ceased to come 
 down so recently that there are no tracks on its smooth 
 expanse, except the prints of the feet of a little Scotch 
 terrier which is making haste slowly on three legs four 
 being difficult to manage in the soft, clinging substance. 
 
 After a while, when twilight deepens, the crowd of 
 cheerful people it is Christinas Eve returning from 
 work will obliterate the little dog's prints and make a 
 hard, firm path. It is somewhat too early for that. A 
 heavily-laden man or woman, with the legs of the fowl 
 of the season sticking out from among the greens under 
 a high-poised basket-lid, or with one of those delight- 
 fully mysterious bundles that everybody carries at Christ- 
 mas, struggles along against a high wind which the snow 
 seems to deaden and make noiseless. 
 
 Hugh Desmond, a small boy with a broom, stands at 
 one of the entrances of the square. He is waiting for 
 somebody. He shivers in the wind and wraps his ragged 
 scarf more closely around his neck. 
 (216)
 
 AMONG THE "OLIVE BRANCHES." 217 
 
 Waiting there, Hugh thinks he discovers the contents 
 of packages with which several passers-by are sailing 
 against the wind. HugU knows that this bundle holds 
 a boy's skates ; that, a girl's doll ; he feels that the tall, 
 thin man carries almonds and raisins, because he sees 
 celery-tips sticking out of brown paper; and that the lit- 
 tle woman he knows her : she keeps the " charcuterie " 
 in South Fifth avenue has many boxes of candy for her 
 eight children in that square package under her shawl. 
 She has plenty of sausages, blood puddings, and strange 
 French dishes in her shop. She does not need to buy 
 anything solid to eat. She must have sweetmeats. He 
 begins to smack his lip?, but finding that process unsatis- 
 factory to an empty stomach, cuts a double-shuffle, and 
 whistles three times by way of distracting his attention 
 from the mysterious packages. 
 
 If Kitty only had a doll, and Mary a new frock! and 
 mother oh, so many things ! As for himself, turkey 
 and cranberry sauce and a shovel would content him. 
 Just now Hugh wants a shovel more than anything in 
 the world. With it, if the snow holds up, he could per- 
 haps dig out a turkey before Christmas morning. He 
 has a broom, but it is half-worn, almost a stump. During 
 the last snow he had been in partnership with Jules 
 Roussel, the French shoemaker's boy, at the end of the 
 alley; but Hugh's broom, became so stumpy that the 
 thrifty Jules had cast him out of the firm and taken in 
 his own little brother, Auguste, whose father had gener- 
 ously donated a new broom which swept very clean. 
 Poor Hugh could do little with his stump. A broom, 
 without spade or shovel, is a poor thing in a heavy snow. 
 He could not earn a nickel a day with it. 
 
 Jules, a ruddy-cheeked lad, warmly clad in a woolen
 
 218 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 jacket, and boots that seem to reach almost to his neck, 
 comes running around the corner : 
 
 Nicolas!" 
 
 He sings with an Alsatian twang. Auguste, a fat little 
 boy, puffs after him, flourishing the new broom in one 
 hand and jingling two quarters in the other. They stop 
 and perform a war dance in front of Hugh. " Aggra- 
 vating " him, Hugh thinks. 
 
 " Your broom's no good," says Jules. " Why don't 
 you go and sell papers ? " 
 
 Hugh has no capital, and will not beg. But he would 
 not let Jules and the greedy little Auguste know his 
 poverty for the world or a shovel. 
 
 "Sell papers?" returns Hugh, contemptuously. ''Not 
 much. There's nothing in it ! " 
 
 Jules is astonished at the lofty tone of his former 
 partner. 
 
 " It's better than nothing," says Auguste, frankly. 
 
 "You just hold your tongue, young fellow," Hugh 
 answers, with a grand air. " The trade is broken up. 
 TOO much competition. Girl-labor has ruined the busi- 
 ness." 
 
 Not caring to consider the question, Jules and Auguste 
 disappear. 
 
 The little Scotch terrier has at last succeeded in reach- 
 ing the entrance. '* Hello, Chip!" says Hugh; "you 
 would take a short cut, would you ? " 
 
 Chip wags his tail with an air of relief and sniffs at 
 Hugh inquiringly. 
 
 " Home," says Hugh, with a sigh, and they start down 
 South Fifth avenue. Home! Well may poor Hugh
 
 AMONG THE " OLIVE BRANCHES." 219 
 
 sigh as he trudges along, feeling the cold snow against 
 his foot in the rift between the upper and sole of his 
 shoe. Home ! Hugh knows that he will find his poor 
 mother, sick, weak, working hard at the washtub, and 
 Mary and Kitty trying to keep warm behind the curtain 
 which divides their sleeping-corner from the rest of the 
 room. He reads the signs in the fading light as he goes, 
 just to keep his mind off home. If " Madame Tricot," 
 blanchisseuse, would only rush out of her cellar and put 
 a brand-new shovel into his hand ! If " Mademoiselle 
 Triquette,*' maker of artificial flowers, would only come 
 from behind the, sprays of roses in the window and say, 
 " Here, boy, I want my pavement cleaned by a boy with 
 a stumpy broom ; no new brooms for me ! " But neither 
 Madame Tricot nor Mademoiselle Triquette does either 
 of these things, though it is Christmas Eve, when people 
 may be expected to do almost anything. If that man in 
 the ulster, who is entering the French circulating library, 
 would say, " Here, sonny, just let me lend you fifty cents 
 until you get a shovel"; if Mr. Byrne, the landlord, 
 would suddenly turn a corner and tell Hugh that the rent 
 is paid. If Hugh pauses, waiting for the landlord to 
 appear. But Mr. Byrne does not come. 
 
 " I'm a fool ! " says Hugh, looking a iip and down the 
 street, with still a gleam of hope in his bright blue eyes, 
 which are just visible above his woolen scarf. But the 
 man in the ulster goes into the library and leaves no 
 hope behind. Hugh thrusts his red hands into his empty 
 pockets. He can not go home. 
 
 A German band in the cross-street strikes up. It is 
 the " Adeste Fideles " they play 
 
 " Let's hasten to adore Him, our God and our King." 
 
 Hugh's heart leaps. Yes, it is really Christmas Eve I
 
 220 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Last year his father was alive, and he sang that, with the 
 other children, at the Christmas Mass. And the happy 
 day that followed ! gifts for everybody and mother, as 
 she helped them all to the turkey, looking so fresh and 
 rosy ! But now ! Tears, very unusual in brave little 
 Hugh's eyes, blinded him. He can not go home empty- 
 handed. Kitty and Mary will expect something. He 
 can not meet their eager looks. Kitty has already spread 
 the supper of milk and porridge, he knows. They are 
 all waiting for him. He can not go home. 
 
 Nobody seems to want a boy to do anything. Every- 
 body is carrying his own packages to-night. There is the 
 ever-open church where mother, Hugh, and his sisters 
 hear Mass every Sunday, and, sometimes, when mother's 
 work is slack, other mornings. Hugh expects to make 
 his First Communion there soon. 
 
 Weary, heart-sick, the boy crouches for a while in the 
 doorway before he enters. He wants to get the tears 
 out of his eyes first. 
 
 " Here, little boy," a voice says ; and a coin drops into 
 Hugh's hand. It feels like a fifty-cent piece. " I'm not 
 a beggar ! " he begins to say ; but the woman has de- 
 scended the steps. Besides, he reflects instantaneously, 
 " She might take. back the money, if I told her that." 
 
 Hugh is very thankful. He is only a ragged, alert- 
 looking boy, such as you may meet on almost every cor- 
 ner of down-town New York streets, but a psalm of 
 thanksgiving goes up from his heart as he bows his head 
 before the Presence in the dark church. There are other 
 boys there, kneeling near the confessionals, some of them 
 as ragged as himself; and in their hearts, as in his, the 
 wonderful, the incomprehensible, gift of Divine faith 
 and love is raising their thoughts high above earth.
 
 AMONG THE "OLIVE BRANCHES." 221 
 
 Hugh leaves the dim church, which, to-morrow, for 
 him, for all the poor, will blaze with light and resound 
 with the " Gloria in Excelsis." 
 
 Christmas-trees and many gifts may come from human 
 love to some happy children ; the Church's celebration 
 and gift are for all ! Something like this passes through 
 Hugh's mind. Out of the church, he darts into a side- 
 street. 
 
 In the fourth story of a tenement-house in that street, 
 Hugh's mother has a small room and a large closet. The 
 tenement is lit up when Hugh reaches it. There is a 
 lamp behind every curtain in the lower stories ; in the 
 upper ones, where there are no curtains, the lamps are 
 visible. There is no light in Mrs. Desmond's room. Hugh 
 thinks that the light may have been put into the closet, 
 which is his sleeping-place. He will give them all a hot 
 supper. Sausage ? He runs back to the " charcuterie," 
 and, after some bargaining with madame, who is generous, 
 but not too generous at Christmas, secures a wonderfully 
 cheap blood-pudding. The greedy Auguste is there, in- 
 vesting lavishly in pig's feet. Having the serene con- 
 sciousness of better days, Hugh only calls the French 
 boy a "galoot" once when Auguste makes a face at him. 
 At ordinary times Auguste might not have escaped so 
 easily. 
 
 Back again to the tenement-house goes Hugh. That 
 blood-pudding under his arm has given an air of festivity 
 to the scene which was late so gloomy. He snatches a 
 tin horn out of a passing boy's hand and blows a blast in 
 a friendly and jubilant manner, and then discreetly 
 dodges the boy's fist. 
 
 On the stoop of the tenement-house several women 
 and a man are standing gazing at some dark objects on
 
 TIIK UKK AKOIND U&. 
 
 the sidewalk. Another woman in the hall is shading a 
 kerosene lamp with her hand. 
 
 " It's a shame and a disgrace on such a night ! " 
 
 " An' sure the devil, when he has his own, will have 
 Paddy Byrne." 
 
 " There wasn't a more decent woman in the house than 
 this same woman." 
 
 " Ach ! " Hugh hears the man say it is Schimmel, 
 the tailor up-stairs, who is generally "on a spree" " if 
 money vos not so scarce I would have paid the rent 
 myself." 
 
 Hugh observes that a very usual thing has happened. 
 Somebody has been " turned out." This is a monthly 
 occurrence. A bed, a table, a stove, some chairs, and a 
 small bundle in a quilt, lie in the snow. 
 
 "And faith here is little Hughey himself, poor boy ! 
 Come up-stairs till I give you a drop of hot tea." 
 
 Hugh's heart stands still. He has seen this often ; but 
 he has never imagined that 
 
 " Where's mother? " he asks, as the light flashes upon 
 his frightened eyes. 
 
 " It's the landlord's doings more shame to him this 
 night ; and your mother and the children have gone 
 down to Mrs. Donovan's, the lady she used to work for." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 They are not sure. Bleecker street, somewhere. Mrs. 
 Desmond had been almost carried to the car. She bade 
 them tell Hughey, but everything had gotten mixed up. 
 
 " Come up-stairs and have something warm." 
 
 " Ja," says Schimmel ; " unt something to eat." 
 
 Hugh can scarcely answer them. He treads by chance 
 on a book in the snow. He picks it up. It has fallen 
 from the bundle in the quilt. He knows that it is his 
 mother's little prayer-book.
 
 AMONG THE " OLIVE BRANCHES." 223 
 
 "Take care of these things, Schimmel," he says, 
 " until I find mother. They are all we have, you know." 
 
 " Ach, Hiinmel ! " says the worthy tailor ; " I wish I 
 could do more." 
 
 Hugh goes down the street. He has dropped the 
 blood-pudding ; and when Charlie Schimmel picks it up 
 and gives it to him, he tells him to keep it, which is a 
 lucky thing for Charlie Schimmel, who, otherwise, would 
 have had no supper. 
 
 " My heart aches for the boy," says one of the women 
 on the stoop ; " he seems to have lost heart entirely." 
 
 "As for Paddy Byrne," returns her neighbor, a wrin- 
 kled old woman, with a clean, wide cap-frill, " I LEAVE 
 HIM TO GOD." 
 
 It was the worst thing this old woman could say : so 
 she said it. But the man so blessed, or cursed, is a re- 
 spectable person, having a front pew in church indeed, 
 he sometimes takes up collections for the poor and he 
 never loses an opportunity of protesting against the evils 
 of foreign landlordism. He is very patriotic, as he in- 
 tends to run for the office of alderman in his ward. Mrs. 
 Desmond's rent was much overdue, and Hugh can not 
 vote. Mr. Byrne never " turns out " a voter. 
 
 Hugh knows the city well. In earlier days he sold his 
 papers in nearly every locality. He does not find Mrs. 
 Donovan's house. Toward midnight he has become very 
 cold, very hungry, and desperate. He is afraid of being 
 arrested as a vagrant ; so he creeps into a packing-box 
 when he sees a "cop" coming. But the "cop," to use 
 his own phraseology, "nabs" him. All that night all 
 that night, the happiest night of the whole year for so 
 many boys and girls poor Hugh sobs, prays, and moans. 
 If he only knew where mother and the children are !
 
 224 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 The cell is warm, and the policeman, though rough, is 
 not unkind. The Christmas morning, with its clamor of 
 bells and horns, seems like a horrible dream. No Mass, 
 no gifts, no happiness this year. The day is dreary, and 
 after a ceremony in a magistrate's office, Hugh finds him- 
 self a vagrant, adjudged to the possession of the Little 
 Bethel, an evangelical establishment, the managers of 
 which, like the awful old giant in the fairy tale, smell 
 the blood of little Roman Catholic Irish boys afar off, 
 and take good care of them. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE LITTLE BETHEL. 
 
 The Little Bethel is managed in a way that is said to 
 be " truly evangelical and characterized by a thoroughly 
 Christian spirit of economy and industry. Verily," said 
 the directors, in their ninth annual report, " the institu- 
 tion may be termed a little Heaven on earth, where the 
 fortunate young orphans snatched as brands from the 
 burning form a sweet cluster of celestial olive branches. 
 Here the children of Romish parents have their eyes 
 opened to the light, and learn from the shining example 
 of the Rev. Virgil C. Gregg and his estimable lady 
 who, however, make no violent attempts at proselytizing 
 that the Popish superstition in which they were bred 
 is a snare and a delusion of the evil one. ' Give me a 
 Bible,' these poor, blinded children often say, thirsting 
 for the water of life. Owing to the demand for Bibles 
 and the expense of opening the eyes of Chin-Chin, a 
 young Chin sc half-orphan, and his father, the Commit-
 
 AMONG THE " OLIVE BRANCHES." 225 
 
 tee recommend that an extra appropriation be made, 
 that the Rev. Yirgil C. Gregg and his estimable lady may 
 be encouraged in their commendable work." 
 
 Hugh does not ask for a Bible when he is admitted 
 into the little Bethel. He tells the Rev. Virgil C. Gregg 
 
 o oo 
 
 that his mother is with Mrs. Donovan, in Bleecker street ; 
 but that estimable gentleman pays little heed to him. 
 He does not even offer him a Bible. He sets Hugh to 
 
 O 
 
 scrubbing the floor of the Little Bethel dining-room, and 
 tells the boy to pray that his eyes may be made clear. 
 Hugh notices that all the other "olive branches" have 
 sore eyes, and he innocently prays that his eyes may not 
 be made sore. 
 
 Accustomed to life in the streets in the streets, but, 
 happily, through the influence of a good mother, not of 
 them Hugh is inclined to laugh at the discipline of the 
 Little Bethel. He feels sure that he can easily escape. 
 There must be a back gate somewhere ; or a fence. It 
 is unfortunately true that he imitates the nocturnal raging 
 of cats during the singing of " I want to be an Angel," 
 after the evening repast of mush ; and that when a bench 
 tips over during Mrs. Virgil C. Gregg's warbling of 
 "Almost Persuaded," Hugh is not unjustly accused of 
 being the motor. 
 
 " You are a Romish child," says Mrs. Virgil C. Gregg, 
 after she has rapped Hugh once on the head with a 
 Moody and Sankey hymn-book ; " I fear that the spirit 
 of Anti-Christ is strong within you." 
 
 "No, ma'am," answers Hugh, with real simplicity; 
 " I was born in New York, and my father came from 
 Cork." 
 
 Mrs. Virgil C. Gregg evidently looks on this plain, un- 
 varnished statement as a piece of ribaldry, and she re- 
 15
 
 TIM-: I.IFi: AROUND US. 
 
 marks to the Rev. Virgil C. Gregg that this wicked boy 
 had better be deprived of his allowance of molasses every 
 day for a month. It is such a delightful novelty for 
 Hugh to have an assured expectation of regular meals, 
 that he can not help looking on his sojourn in the Little 
 Bethel as an amusing but brief episode. Being a boy, 
 he soon regains his good spirits, though he worries oc- 
 casionally about Chip, who, like most New York dogs, 
 knew a policeman when he saw him, and decamped. 
 His mother will find him out, Hugh is sure; but how 
 will Chip find him out? 
 
 At first Hugh has more freedom than the other little 
 " olive branches." He is given plenty of hard work to 
 do, but none that takes him even within sight of the 
 back gate. The Rev. Virgil, a Connecticut man of great 
 penetration, is aware that the Romish child who does not 
 at once ask for a Bible is not to be trusted. In a week 
 or so Hugh feels the " screws." 
 
 He has been told several times not to bless himself 
 when the Rev. Virgil says grace, as Mrs. Virgil pours 
 the blue milk over the saucer of porridge, of which the 
 "olive branches' 5 partake voraciously. But Hugh's 
 mother has told him never to be ashamed of the sign of 
 the cross. By this time Hugh has learned certain con- 
 troversial terms much in use among the " olive branches." 
 He was well drilled in his Catechism, but up to this, time 
 he has not made much application of its phraseology in 
 every-day life. When Barney Ruark, one of the con- 
 verted little Papists, remarks, in the hearing of the Rev. 
 Virgil, that Hugh is a child of Belial, he can not retort 
 in his usual language. "Galoot" seems utterly in- 
 adequate ; so, when Barney is obediently carrying Mrs. 
 Virgil's breakfast up-stairs and trying to drink her cream,
 
 AMONG THE "OLIVE BRANCHES." 227 
 
 and Hugh is engaged in sweeping the steps, he trips the 
 pious convert in a style much practiced in South Fifth 
 avenue, and Barney drops the tray. Hence there are 
 tears. Barney has a black eye and Hugh many blue 
 marks from the Rev. Virgil's thong. 
 
 Hugh, however, continues to make the sign of the 
 cross. 
 
 " I must make an example of you, Desmond," cries 
 the Rev. Virgil, taking off his spectacles and shortening 
 Hugh's supply of porridge. " You must quit that Popish 
 superstition." 
 
 Hugh does not dare to answer. Wishing to improve 
 the occasion, the Rev. Virgil continues : 
 
 " What is Popish superstition, my children ? " 
 
 Several hands go up. 
 
 "Ruark!" 
 
 Little Barney scratches his red head for an instant and 
 then answers : 
 
 " An idolatrous abomination practiced by the followers 
 of the Pope." 
 
 " That will do. Oh," says the Rev. Virgil, wiping his 
 spectacles, as if they had been moved to tears, " what 
 wisdom out of the mouths of babes and sucklings ! 
 Miranda, how blest are we to be humble instruments ! " 
 
 Miranda is counting the spoonfuls of molasses she is 
 putting in a sick boy's coffee; she merely groans in a 
 general way. 
 
 " So no more Popish signs, Desmond." 
 
 Hugh raises his hand : 
 
 " Is the Pope Anti-Christ, sir?" 
 
 " Most certainly," with emphasis. 
 
 " Then the cross must be Anti-Christ, if it's Popish." 
 
 The Rev. Virgil looks at Hugh's face and becomes 88
 
 228 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 red as a turkey-gobbler. He says nothing; and the other 
 "olive branches" fear there is something in the wind 
 that may lead to a confiscation of the remains of their 
 porridge, which is an evil ever present in their minds. 
 Only one little boy, half-converted, who has been induced 
 to ask for a Bible after some days of starvation, murmurs 
 irrelevantly, " That's so ! " 
 
 Hugh gets a "dressing," as the "olive branches" call 
 the Rev. Virgil's hardest and longest application of the 
 thong, and is kept on bread and water for a week. The 
 little half-convert is similarly treated until he asks for his 
 Bible. 
 
 Frequent "dressings" and sieges of starvation break 
 Hugh's spirit somewhat. He no longer makes the sign 
 of the cross ; he assists at the services in the chapel with- 
 out a murmur. But he hugs the little prayer-book close 
 every night and keeps it safe in various hiding-places 
 about himself, which even very small street-boys learn to 
 contrive. Once Mrs. Yirgil sees him kneeling, crying 
 and praying at the side of his cot in the cold dormitory. 
 She takes it for a sign of "a new heart," and tells the 
 Rev. Yirgil. If Hugh could imitate the hypocrisy of the 
 miserable little Ruark, his name would soon have led all 
 the rest among the " olive branches." There are lifty of 
 them twenty girls, who work hard and well earn their 
 porridge, with beef on Wednesdays and pork on Fridays 
 and Sundays. But Hugh, partly through faith and 
 partly through love of his mother, is neither a hypocrite 
 nor a liar; yet sometimes he forgets to say his "Our 
 Father" and "Hail Mary." The teachings of the Rev. 
 Yirgil are beginning to have their effect. He wonders 
 why his mother never told him about the Inquisition, 
 and from much hearing of Scriptural texts imbibes the
 
 AMONG THE "OLIVE BRANCHES." 229 
 
 opinion that the Jews committed their great crime be- 
 cause they were Catholics!* 
 
 Mrs. Virgil's new tack of kinder treatment has some- 
 thing to do with this softening of the boy's firmness. 
 He might perhaps have figured in the new report of the 
 directors of the Little Bethel along with Barney Ruark 
 and the expensive Chin-Chin, the converted Chinese, but 
 the vigilant Rev. Virgil discovers the little prayer-book 
 in his shoe one day, and seizes it. 
 
 Hugh's blue eyes flash and he clenches his small fist. 
 
 " Give me that ! " he cries. " It's mine. It was my 
 mother's ; you sha'n't take it from me." 
 
 "Idolatry! foul idolatry! A mark of the Beast, 
 Miranda ! " the Rev. Mr. Virgil says, solemnly. 
 
 " Be calm, Virgil," returns the aimable lady. " One 
 of the directors is in the hall." 
 
 Hugh springs from the dormitory into the hall. Mr. 
 Haskins, a pursy old gentleman, who does not believe 
 much in religion, except as mingled with economy, as in 
 the case of the Rev. Virgil C. Gregg, is about to hear the 
 happy children, hungry and hating the place, sing a hymn 
 in whicft the Little Bethel is entitled their Heaven on 
 earth. Hugh, paler and thinner than when we first met 
 him, bursts forth with his story. 
 
 " I am a Catholic little boy," he cries ; " I don't want 
 to stay here. That is my book, and I want it back. It 
 was my mother's." 
 
 Barney Ruark breaks out, in his high, piping voice : 
 
 " He is a bad, Papistical boy, sir. / am a brand. / 
 love my Bible. The Rev. Virgil C. Gregg, our dear 
 teacher, has taught me the error of my benighted par- 
 ents" 
 
 * A fact.
 
 230 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Mr. Haskins, who thinks that Barney is unusually fat 
 for an " olive branch," and fears that the Rev. Virgil has 
 favored him, says, " Silence ! " and examines the book. 
 
 "So it's your mother's, hey? Let him keep it, Mr. 
 Gregg. It can't do him much harm in this atmosphere." 
 
 The Rev. Virgil smiles gently. " I feared that he 
 might proselytize the other children with it or cause some 
 to backslide.'' 
 
 " I didn't ! " cries Hugh, anxiously and eagerly ; " I 
 didn't do anything to anybody since I tripped Barney 
 Ruark on the stairs." 
 
 Mr. Haskins smiles, and Hugh is marched off to more 
 bread and water. 
 
 " Likely to be a troublesome boy. Better send him 
 "West. If he has Catholic friends in the city they'll be 
 inquiring after him. These Irish are safest away from 
 their friends." 
 
 " Enormous appetite. Mrs. Gregg has, on several oc- 
 casions, been forced to help him twice to meat, but we 
 are compelled to keep him on bread and water on Friday. 
 He will not touch pork, in spite of all persuasions." 
 
 Mr. Haskins winks: " Persuasions? Well, we'll send 
 him West with the next batch. Luther McKillian wants 
 a boy, doesn't he? The last one committed suicide. He's 
 a strict disciplinarian a righteous man. A good place 
 for this obstinate little Irisher. He'll take the starch out 
 of any boy." 
 
 Rev. Virgil assents. Inquiries have been made recently 
 in behalf of Mrs. Desmond. Luther McKillian, a Prot- 
 estant Irishman from Canada, having a farm in Oregon, 
 is well known to the directors of the Little Bethel as an 
 earnest Orangeman and a hater of the Scarlet Woman. 
 He has a particular gift for the further conversion of
 
 AMONG THE "OLIVE BRANCHES." 231 
 
 young Catholic children. A few weeks afterward, Hugh, 
 with a sigh of relief from the Rev. Yirgil, is sent forth 
 as one of the "olive branches" bound for Oregon. 
 
 Hugh is not sorry. He is going farther from his 
 mother and Kitty and Mary and Chip, but he will see 
 them all again. He prays for that nearly every day. 
 Besides, he has the prayer-book, and reads the " Memo- 
 rare," which his mother always loved. 
 
 Dreary and sleepless nights are those spent in the 
 crowded immigrant-cars, often three boys crowded into a 
 seat, half-stifled by the smoke from gross pipes and the 
 odors of the steerage. Hugh is used to hardships, and 
 yet he suffers and longs for his corner in the old tene- 
 ment-house, which to him represented all comfort and a 
 mother's love. 
 
 Luther McKillian's farm is well kept. Frugal, indus- 
 trious, stony-hearted, and bigoted, this JSTorth-of-Ireland 
 man has made the soil, both in grazing and farming, 
 yield its utmost. Most of his farm-work is done by 
 " bound boys " from various institutions. Labor costs 
 him little. He will never permit any of his hands to 
 work on the " Sabbath," but on other days he grinds 
 them to dust, as it were; he is a brute, with a conscience 
 moulded in the Orange way. 
 
 Hugh feels small and helpless as he enters the kitchen 
 on the night of his arrival and has his share of the hands' 
 supper. Perhaps better days are in store for him. He 
 has heard his mother speak of an uncle, Torn Desmond, 
 who went West. Hugh looks around the table, in the 
 hope of finding this uncle. Who knows ? He may be 
 there. Anything is probable in a boy's imagination. But 
 the young faces are weary, gloomy. The elder men are 
 stolid and silent.
 
 232 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Luther McKillian says grace, and Hugh, in his new 
 sense of freedom, blesses himself. He hears a gruff 
 laugh near him. Then Luther McKillian roars, " Come 
 here, you young Papist ! Much good the Little Bethel 
 has done you ! " 
 
 Hugh trembles, and follows the sturdy, malevolent 
 Luther to the cellar. Poor boy ! Later he creeps into 
 his straw in the loft, heart-sick, panting, with huge 
 welts across his back, but with his dear prayer-book 
 clasped tight in his hand. At daybreak he is driven 
 forth, more dead than alive, to do "chores"; and heavy 
 " chores " they are. 
 
 The winter goes. It is a season of torture for the poor 
 boys who work for Luther McKillian. There is not 
 much good-fellowship among them. They are afraid 
 of the master's suspicious eye. Hugh is always alone. 
 He sees no friendly face ; even the dogs snarl. How he 
 longs for Chip ! 
 
 The spring comes. The stream, set with rocks, which 
 skirts McKillian's farm, swells into a torrent and threatens 
 to rise as high as its steep banks.. This puts the master 
 in a bad humor and the workmen feel it. 
 
 There is a clump of thick bushes just bursting into 
 bud on this bank, and here, about noon, Hugh has gone 
 in search of a strayed calf. The air is sweet with the scents 
 of spring. The whole new world seems to say, " Raise 
 up your hearts." Hugh, tired by the ceaseless morning's 
 work, sits down among the bushes and takes out his little 
 book. "Mary Desmond, from her husband, 1866," he 
 reads over and over again. He turns Jo the familiar 
 prayers for Mass. lie thinks of the old church in South 
 Fifth avenue. He recalls that Christinas Eve when he 
 knelt A blow on the head sends him several feet for- 
 ward.
 
 AMONG THE " OLIVE BRANCHES." 233 
 
 "At your Kornish books again, yon idle vagabond ! " It 
 is McKillian's voice. " Take that ! and that ! " 
 
 Blood runs down Hugh's face, but he holds on to his 
 prayer-book. He is blinded by the blood. He runs for- 
 ward wildly. A step too far, and he disappears. He has 
 gone over the bank. 
 
 " And so," said Mr. Haskins, reading a letter from the 
 West, "another of Luther McKillian's boys has killed 
 himself. This thing must stop or it will get into the 
 papers." 
 
 " I always said the Desmond boy would come to no 
 good," said Mrs. Yirgil C. Gregg, as she watered the sup- 
 ply of milk, that it might not be too rich for the stomachs 
 of the little " olive branches." 
 
 III. 
 
 FATHER .RAPHAEL. 
 
 Some priests in the West have hard times all the year 
 round. They are grateful for very little. A house, such 
 food as comes to hand, and a borrowed horse, are worth 
 much thanksgiving, if their scattered flocks prosper. 
 
 One afternoon, Father Raphael, a priest who served 
 several scattered missions and many more scattered fami- 
 lies, was riding toward his home. His road lay through 
 lonely prairies. He knew the way well, and his horse 
 knew it better; younger inhabitants would have been 
 lost in the trackless expanse. No houses were in sight, 
 and Father Raphael expected to see no human figure. 
 
 He saw, however, something move some feet ahead of
 
 234 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 him. Was it a boy crouching in the grass? He called 
 out ; there was no answer. The figure seemed to draw 
 itself together, as if to hide. He dismounted. A boy 
 lay in the grass, crouching and trembling. The boy was 
 ragged ; the remains of a straw hat lay near him ; his 
 feet were torn and scratched. He raised the arm which 
 had hidden his face. He looked at Father Raphael with 
 bright, blue eyes, and, at bay, coolly drew a blade of 
 grass through his lips. He would not speak. The priest 
 tried every expedient in vain. The boy clung to the tall 
 grass, and would not move. At last, the priest, by a 
 happy inspiration, made the sign of the cross. The boy 
 started up. 
 
 " I know that you are a good man now," he said. " I 
 have been alone for four days. I have eaten only wild 
 strawberries. May I go with you ? " 
 
 This sudden change from distrust to implicit confidence 
 surprised and amused the priest. 
 
 "Are you a Catholic, my child ? " 
 
 The boy, with a flush of pride on his thin cheek, drew 
 a worn little prayer-book from his jacket. This was his 
 credential. The priest opened the prayer-book and read, 
 "To Mary Desmond, from, her husband, 1866*" 
 
 Father Raphael started. 
 
 " The ways of God are inscrutable," he murmured. 
 
 " That was my mother's prayer-book," said the boy, 
 very frankly, as he gave the priest his hand and trotted 
 by his side to the spot where the horse had been left. 
 " She is in New York. 1 want to work ray way home. 
 I can work ; I used to be an ' olive branch,' and we had 
 to work. It was harder than selling papers or shovelling 
 You bet." 
 
 Father Raphael made the little fellow get on the horse
 
 AMONG THE "OLIVE BRANCHES." 235 
 
 behind him. Hugh laughed as he clung to the priest. 
 " I am glad I did not run away," he said ; " I felt like 
 running away when I saw you. But you came too fast. 
 I was lonely, Father, in these big fields. It is not like 
 New York, here. We have many houses in New York. 
 The city is more like Heaven than the country, I think." 
 
 Father Raphael laughed this time. "Why?" he 
 asked. " Isn't the country more beautiful ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," said Hugh ; " no place is finer than New 
 York. New York is more like Heaven, because the 
 Bible says so the Rev. Mr. Gregg used to read it for us 
 out of the Bible." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Father Raphael. " Well, go on." 
 
 " ' In my father's house there are many mansions,' ; 
 returned Hugh in the canting tone which the " olive 
 branches " were taught to adopt when quoting Scripture. 
 " There are many mansions in New York big ones 
 and none at all in the country. The city is more like 
 Heaven." 
 
 Hugh ran on. His lonely days on the prairie had 
 caused him to accumulate much to talk about. 
 
 " I don't remember much of my Catechism ; but I can 
 sav the whole Book of Proverbs and four hundred and 
 
 v 
 
 eighty verses of the New Testament ! " 
 
 Father Raphael was soon in possession of Hugh's story. 
 He had fallen into the stream at the foot of McKillian's 
 farm ; his practice in swimming at the New York docks 
 served him well. He regained solid ground, with the 
 prayer-book held between his teeth, in a few seconds after 
 he touched water. He hid in the bushes until McKillian 
 had grown tired of searching for him. Wild strawberries 
 abounded at this season of the year, and he had managed 
 to keep himself alive.
 
 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Hugh's artlessness pleased Father Raphael ; his confi- 
 dence touched him, though he was shocked by the street- 
 boy's slang phrases and premature knowledge of the 
 world. 
 
 When they neared the town, Hugh dismounted and 
 trotted beside the horse as his own Chip would have 
 done. 
 
 Hugh made himself at home in the kind priest's house 
 at once. He attached himself to Father Raphael. He 
 worked like a beaver. He did the " chores " with great 
 fidelity, rang the chapel-bell for " Angelus," and served 
 Mass every morning. He even helped to prepare Father 
 Raphael's frugal meal when old Mike, his rheumatic sex- 
 ton and factotum in general, fell sick. He seemed happy. 
 Father Raphael began to prepare him for his First Com- 
 munion. But the priest noticed that whenever he took 
 a writing-lesson, in rare intervals of Father Raphael's 
 leisure, he tried to write " Mother " and " New York." 
 He had made a Novena for a mysterious purpose. 
 
 One day Father Raphael, after Mass, called Hugh into 
 his private room. 
 
 " I have good news for you. This letter is from your 
 mother. Your prayers are answered, my boy." And 
 the priest read, from an open letter in his hand : 
 
 "REVEREND SIR: I take my pen in hand to thank 
 you for the blessed news that my child is safe. And also 
 for the other news. Tom, my husband's brother, could 
 not write, so we seldom heard of him after he left New 
 York. We knew that he had gone to Oregon. I am 
 happy to think that he was a good Catholic when he 
 died, for he had been careless " 
 
 " I tind," said Father Raphael, " that your mother is 
 the sister of a man who fell sick while here in one of the
 
 AMONG THE " OLIVE BRANCHES." 237 
 
 mines. His name was Thomas Desmond. He left 
 some money two thousand dollars with me for jour 
 mother." 
 
 Hugh could not speak. He trembled all over. 
 
 " How have I suffered since I lost Hugh on that dread- 
 ful Christmas Eve two years ago ! Tell him that tho 
 children and I are safe. Mrs. Donovan cared for us. Wo 
 are all working hard, but doing well. Oh, I thank God 
 for your kindness and for the kindness of the priests at 
 the church here, through whom you found me out. I 
 almost fear to meet Hughey. It would break my heart 
 if he lost his Faith. Let him come to me as soon as you 
 can send him." < 
 
 Hugh covered the letter with kisses. Usually so gar- 
 rulous, he could say nothing. When he had recovered 
 the use of his tongue, he said : 
 
 "And Chip, Father?" 
 
 "Your mother does not speak of Chip," said the priest, 
 smiling. 
 
 After he is gone, Father Raphael misses very much 
 the bright, docile boy. Letters go and come ; and one 
 day Father Raphael receives the following : 
 
 " NEW YORK, Christmas Eve, 1881. 
 
 " DEAR FATHER RAPHAEL : Mother, Mary, and Kitty 
 are well. Mother opened her little store just opposite 
 Jules Roussel's father's last week. Mary and I sold a 
 great deal of milk and cheese ; but she took in a bad 
 dollar, which I did not pass on any one, but burned. I 
 have not found Chip. Perhaps he is dead. They make 
 sausage-meat of dogs. I have another, named Chin-chins, 
 because he chins a great deal. We send you a box ; and
 
 238 
 
 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 a cover which mother made for the altar of the Blessed 
 Virgin. I tend store when I am not at school. MERRY 
 CHRISTMAS AND MANY HAPPY RETURNS OF THE DAY ! 
 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 "HUGH DESMOND."
 
 AT THE GATE OF DEATH. 
 I. 
 
 " Threads in the web of life." 
 
 JUNDOWN is situated on the Delaware. Its citi- 
 zens delight in calling it a town, but impartial 
 visitors, who have no fear of the inhabitants be- 
 fore their eyes, talk of it as a village. Its public build- 
 ings of which the Sundowners are immensely proud 
 consist of two churches, a hall, a jail, and the long wooden 
 pier, at which the steamboats stop daily on their way down. 
 This pier is the first object that catches your eye from the 
 river ; behind it are thin fringes of houses, and beyond 
 that orchards and well-kept farms. 
 
 On days when the wind blows up from the ocean, the 
 air is full of Atlantic freshness, and the miniature waves 
 that wash the narrow beach up to the roots of the border- 
 ing trees are capped with sea foam. 
 
 No sounds of busy trade mar the quietness, though oc- 
 casionally a deputation of noisy sailors are sent from some 
 brig or oyster boat to secure a relay of pork and biscuits 
 from the grocery store, at which anything yon don't want 
 can always be obtained. 
 
 John Maitland lives in Sundown. His uncle, Andrew 
 McVeigh, is decidedly the greatest man in the place, for 
 he has been in the legislature of his native State ; he has 
 the loudest voice, the most money, and the finest house 
 
 (289)
 
 240 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 and garden in Sundown gifts which inspire the Sun- 
 downers with respect and awe. Not finding in his natal 
 place an opening worthy of his ambition, John Maitland 
 secured a position as book-keeper to a prosperous and 
 influential firm in the opposite city of Swedeston. He 
 crosses the river twice every day in a superannuated 
 steamer, which would go to pieces if it were not too old 
 even for that exertion. 
 
 John Maitland is tall and handsome, and the outdoor 
 life of his boyhood Sundown boys are amphibious 
 animals has given him- that athletic development that 
 Americans too often lack. Looking at his face as he sits 
 this bright spring day in the office of Seth Willis & Co., 
 you can not help thinking that it is the face of an honest 
 man. In his eyes, even now when he tilts back his cbair 
 in earnest thought, there slumbers a spark of laughter ; 
 his mouth is too mobile, perhaps too ready to express 
 either anger, scorn, or good nature, as circumstances de- 
 mand. His face tells you that he is sincere, frank, im- 
 petuous, and it may be, a little satirical ; but it also tells 
 you that it needs some rough discipline to teach him self- 
 control. 
 
 John Maitland is past twenty-five ; this year the firm 
 has raised his salary to $2,000, and intimated that he will 
 be offered a partnership in time. On the strength of this, 
 he has asked Grace Lynch, the prettiest and best girl in 
 Sundown, the question. In consequence of her answer 
 he has built a gem of a cottage down by the Delaware ; 
 the wedding-day is only two weeks off, and he is now 
 thinking about the bill for furniture. Mr. Kenzie, the 
 upholsterer, has just left him. 
 
 " My dear Maitland," Kenzie said, " I know I am ask- 
 ing an unwarrantable favor, and doing an unwarrantable
 
 AT THE GATE OF DEATH. 241 
 
 thing in presenting a bill before I have entirely finished 
 a job, but I am awfully ' hard up.' A batch of unex- 
 pected payments have to be made, and if you would let 
 me have a hundred on account " 
 
 " If I could, I would ; but I can't, you see," and John 
 Maitland tossed his pocket-book in the air. "Empty. 
 There is a tight little sum due me here, but I can't draw 
 it till Monday. Will Monday do? " 
 
 "I'm afraid not," said Kenzie, his countenance falling. 
 '' I must have it to-morrow at the latest. Good-day." 
 
 " I wish I could help him," thinks John Maitland, fall- 
 ing into a reverie of ways and means. He is so deeply 
 immersed in thought that he does not see a sun-burnt 
 stranger who enters. The stranger drops his portmanteau 
 and throws back his ulster overcoat; then takes a survey 
 of the office and smiles. 
 
 "Have the cares of matrimony already begun to op- 
 press my brother in future ? " 
 
 "Why, Will Lynch ! Will, old boy ! " exclaims John, 
 starting up, and shaking the stranger by both hands. 
 " How when where on earth did you come from ? I 
 thought you were in Rome." 
 
 " So I was until lately ; but the Echo wants a corre- 
 spondent to go to some festival in Iceland, or Greenland, 
 or somewhere, and so I have been recalled, with orders to 
 report at the editorial rooms in New York, to-day. And 
 I go, like Cicero isn't it ? but to return some time." 
 
 " You have been over to Sundown ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, all the morning. Dear old Aunt Bridget, 
 who used to scold me so awfully when I brought home 
 stray dogs, and came into the parlor with unwiped ehoes, 
 went into an ecstasy of joy, and as for Grace dear little 
 Grace ! She'll make you a good wife, John, and I think 
 you can be trusted with her."
 
 242 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 "Yon think!" echoes John, in a perfectly indescriba- 
 ble tone. 
 
 "Well, I know, then. At any rate, pray accept my 
 blessing, as the little old woman says in ' Bleak House.' 
 By the way, did you know that Father Augustin, that 
 dear old director of studies at Notre Dame how indig- 
 nant our false quantities used to make him ! is stationed 
 at the church in Sundown ? I met him in the street" 
 
 "No. I haven't been at the church there lately. 
 When I do go to Mass which is only now and then I 
 go to one of the churches of Swedeston." 
 
 Will Lynch gives him a scrutinizing look. 
 
 " When you do go to Mass. Two 3 r ears must have 
 greatly changed you, John." 
 
 "Well," says John Maitland, with a slightly embar- 
 rassed laugh, " between business and other things, one 
 finds such little time and so many things to think of. In 
 fact, I'm afraid I'm growing rather careless." 
 
 Lynch made no reply at once. He is thinking and 
 mentally weighing Grace's influence against the possibil- 
 ity of this carelessness becoming indifferentism and utter 
 unbelief. 
 
 *' Grace would make a saint of anybody," he says aloud, 
 with a half sigh. " I had a conversation with your uncle 
 to-day. JJe was very kind, very kind. I always was a 
 favorite of his, you know; indeed, I don't know how I 
 ever could haye gone to college, after father's death, if it 
 had not been for his assistance. Andrew McVeigh is 
 certainly one of the worst tempered of men, and yet one 
 of the most generous. We had a long talk, but he did 
 not allude to your marriage. Are you on quite good 
 terms " 
 
 "No," answers Maitland, frowning, and digging his
 
 AT THE GATE OF DEATH. 243 
 
 pen nervously into the lid of the desk. ''No. He is 
 acting very meanly, I think, and since 1 told him so, we 
 have scarcely spoken. I am his only living relative, and 
 he tells everybody I am to be his heir, and yet would 
 you believe it ? he actually refuses to advance a dollar 
 toward toward our housekeeping." 
 
 Will Lynch can not suppress a smile as he observed 
 the mixture of dignity and awkwardness with which his 
 friend enunciates " our housekeeping." 
 
 "And," continued Maitland, " though he admires and 
 respects Grace, he would prefer that I should marry a 
 Protestant, or, at least, he has a prejudice against her 
 religion." 
 
 " His sister, your mother, was a convert, a very fervent 
 Catholic, and he has always been indifferent to all forms 
 of religion. It is singular, but such extremes faith and 
 lack of faith often occur in modern families. There are 
 Cardinal Newman and his brother, for instance." 
 
 " Yes," returns Maitland, who had not heard a word of 
 this. "My uncle says that we must begin life economi- 
 cally. ' If you can't afford to get married,' he said, ' don't. 
 Two young people starting out into life ought to be satis- 
 iied with necessities.' He has no heart, except for money." 
 
 " He appears to have a great deal of sense." 
 
 " Only a moment ago I had to refuse Kenzie you 
 know Kenzie; he was in our class I had to refuse 
 Kenzie a hundred dollars on a furniture bill I will owe 
 him in a short time, just because I hadn't the money." 
 
 " A very sufficient reason. But good-bye, old fellow. 
 I must be off, or I'll lose the train. I regret that I can 
 not be on hand for the wedding; but duty, you know. 
 Good-bye. Oh, I forgot." And Will threw an envelope 
 on the desk. " That's for you in honor of the great oc- 
 casion. Take good care of Grace. God bless you ! "
 
 244 THE LIFE AROUND U8. 
 
 Lynch shakes his friend's hand violently, grasped his 
 portmanteau, and leaves the office like a flash. 
 
 Maitland watches him, and then goes to work at his 
 books ; but times are dull, and before the clock has struck 
 three he has nothing to do. 
 
 Suddenly he remembers Will Ly neb's envelope. It 
 has already been torn open, he notices, and he has merely 
 to take out the three one-hundred-dollar greenbacks which 
 it encloses. 
 
 "Generous-hearted Will," murmurs John Maitland, a 
 haze coming between him and the notes. " I must man- 
 age to repay him somehow. Just now, however, the 
 money is remarkably convenient. I will pay Kenzie's 
 bill, and buy that carpet for the sitting-room which Grace 
 admired so much, and which her aunt thought we could 
 not afford. I'll go and see Kenzie at once." 
 
 Having gone into the back office and made sure that 
 the firm had no further need of his services, he starts for 
 Kenzie's, but the sound of a bell informs him that the 
 Sundown steamer is at the wharf. This being the case, 
 he forgets all about Kenzie, and turns to go over to Sun- 
 down to have a talk with Grace. 
 
 As the rickety machine shakes and struggles through 
 the water, somehow or other he thinks of the old story 
 of Hero and Leander, and wonders if he would have the 
 courage to swim across to the lady of his love if there 
 were no superannuated steamer. 
 
 Light, pleasant, careless thoughts ; flowers on the brink 
 of a precipice. Dreams to be dispelled by the touch of 
 a hideous reality. It was well for him that no hand, at 
 that bright moment, lifted the curtain of the future. 
 God mercifully conceals the coming sorrow.
 
 AT THE GATE OF DEATH. 245 
 
 II. 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 The cottage in which Grace Lynch and her Aunt 
 Bridget live is in the main street of Sundown the street 
 which runs down to tha work of architectural beauty, 
 the pier. The cottage is a small, frame, chocolate-colored 
 house, with a veranda and a tiny lawn in front. The 
 frame looks so fragile that one would not be surprised to 
 hear of its being carried away some day by a pair of 
 muscular burglars; but Aunt Bridget covers her slight 
 door and windows with bolts and chains, for "Will, being 
 a permanent man on the staff of the enterprising Echo, 
 is seldom at home, and Aunt Bridget, though as an old 
 maid she pretends to hate the male sex, does not like the 
 idea of having " no man about the house." 
 
 On this afternoon Aunt Bridget has gone to church, 
 for Father Augustin is holding the Forty Hours' Devo- 
 tion, and Grace, having given all her music lessons and 
 made her-visit, is sitting before the piano, which, small 
 as it is, fills half the room. 
 
 Grace is not beautiful. It is true that she has the dark 
 blue eyes and the luxuriant black-brown hair of her 
 mother, who was the prettiest girl in all Galway, but she 
 lacks color, while the cheeks of her aunt, who is sixty- 
 three at last, yet bear the ruddy bloom given them by 
 Irish air. Grace is gentle and sweet, but a trifle too 
 thoughtful for a girl. She deserves her name, for every 
 action is stamped with that nameless quality which pro- 
 claims the perfect gentlewoman. 
 
 She is singing, playing a low minor accompaniment.
 
 246 THE LIFE A ROUND US. 
 
 Her voice glides from the Stabat Mater to the Dies 
 Ira. 
 
 " There is sorrow in the air," she murmurs dreamily. 
 " To-day I can play nothing but songs of sadness." She 
 changes her accompaniment and tries her favorite song : 
 
 Pray, though the gift you ask for 
 
 May never comfort your fears 
 May never repay your pleadings 
 
 Yet pray, and with hopeful tears, 
 Answer, not that you long for, 
 
 But diviner will come one day ; 
 Your eyes are too dim to see it, 
 
 Yet strive, and wait, and pray. 
 
 " Good enough, Miss Grace," cries a piping, feeble 
 voice from the garden. " Good enough. Give us some- 
 thing livelier." 
 
 Grace goes to the window and sees a small, freckle- 
 faced boy, with bright, saucy eyes, partially concealed by 
 the hanging rim of a dilapidated straw hat. The boy 
 holds one hand tightly on the breast of his button-up 
 jacket, under which some bulky object is hidden, and 
 plants his feet into the very heart of a bed of young 
 pansies. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Chip." Grace smiles, and then says 
 sternly, " Get off the grass." 
 
 Chip obeys. 
 
 " Have you studied the Catechism lessons I gave you ? " 
 
 Apparently, Chip is not eager to answer that question. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Grace, you sing nearly as well as the lady 
 I heard once at a circus. Did you ever go " 
 
 " Have you studied that lesson ?" 
 
 "Oh, Miss Grace, Jonas Brown caught sixty crabs 
 this morning."
 
 AT THE GATE OF DEATH. 247 
 
 Grace can not help smiling. The Sundown boys, and 
 men too, say cra-a-a-bs, with an accent on the " a " like 
 the crackling of thorns. 
 
 " Do you know your lesson ? " 
 
 " Well," answered Chip, reluctantly. " Well oh, Miss 
 Grace, I shot a hawk, and nearly brought down " 
 
 " Shot a hawk ! " exclaims Grace, alarmed. " I hope 
 John hasn't trusted you with a gun." 
 
 " I hadn't a gun," says Chip, clutching the object un- 
 der his jacket, and very anxious to evade this new subject 
 of conversation. "The steamer's in and here comes 
 Mr. John." 
 
 Chip knows that this diversion will be most effective. 
 Grace, with a happy light in her eyes, goes down to meet 
 him John Maitland. 
 
 u How do you do, Chip ? Idle, as usual, I see. Really, 
 Grace, I am afraid you are spoiling that imp of mischief. 
 Look here, Chip, you were in my room yesterday. I 
 know by the way I found everything in disorder. If I 
 catch" 
 
 Chip utters a howl ; for Nemesis has reached him. A 
 stiff, slight, white-haired man on horseback had just 
 turned from the lane into the street. He has dismounted, 
 and with three or four stealthy steps reaches the gate 
 where the three are standing. His rid ing- whip whistles 
 in the air and strikes Chip's back. 
 
 " Is this the way you waste my time, boy ? " the old 
 man cries, his cold blue eyes blazing with anger. " Hey ? 
 I sent you with an important message this morning at 
 eight o'clock, and I haven't seen you since. I'll teach 
 you ! " And the whip descends again, but Chip jumps 
 over the low fence and escapes. 
 
 "Keally, uncle, I don't think Chip has done any- 
 thing"
 
 248 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " It is not your affair, John Maitland," exclaims An- 
 drew McVeigh, turning fiercely, and shaking the whip at 
 his nephew. " I tell you it is not your affair. You have 
 spoiled that rascally urchin until he has become as un- 
 grateful as yourself. Yes, I repeat it, ungrateful," con- 
 tinued the old inan, glad to have an object, Chip failing, 
 on which to vent the vials of his wrath. " I have fed, 
 lodged, and educated you; I have treated you as my sou, 
 and now you insist on bringing a Papist into the family, 
 as if your mother, though religion could not spoil her, 
 wasn't enough." 
 
 u I can't stand this, even from him" muttered John 
 Maitland between his set teeth, his face whitening with 
 suppressed anger. " Grace, leave us." 
 
 " I have nothing to say against her personally, and I've 
 tojd you that before," interrupts the old man, " but I 
 don't see why our family your grandfather, John Mait- 
 land, fought under William at the Boyne should be so 
 fond of Catholics. It's just your confounded pig-headed 
 obstinate desire to offend me." 
 
 In justice to Andrew McVeigh, it must be said that 
 he does not mean more than half he says. He has had 
 a day of disappointments, and his temper is worse than 
 usual. 
 
 "You have thwarted me whenever you could, John 
 Maitland, and I may repay you by cutting you off with 
 a dollar, even if I have to leave my money to a Papist." 
 And the inconsistent old man gives his whip a vicious 
 flip, which, either by accident or design, makes a red 
 mark on his nephew's cheek. Then chuckling, he walks 
 slowly from the garden, takes his horse's bridle and pro- 
 ceeds down the street. 
 
 John Maitland, gasping with rage, looks after him.
 
 AT THE GATE OF DEATH. 249 
 
 "I could kill him where he stands," he mutters, 
 hoarsely. " I will ! I will ! " 
 
 " John ! " Grace lays her hand on his arm and then 
 shrinks back. Fury has changed her hero into a demon. 
 She feels powerless. She sees the golden cross of St. 
 Paul's glowing in the sunlight, and the sight inspires her. 
 "John," she says, pointing with her hand, "go, if you 
 love your soul ; if you love me, go and kneel before Our 
 Lord. He alone can save you from your passion ! " 
 
 John Maitland stands irresolute, and then, as the echo 
 of her pleading accents enters his brain, he starts off 
 with hurried strides toward St. Paul's without looking to 
 the right or to the left, and keeping his hands on his 
 breast as if to strangle the murderous thoughts within 
 him. If Andrew McYeigh could have seen him now, 
 he would feel sure that, however much in other things 
 his nephew may have departed from the principles of 
 his ancestors, he at least possesses the family temper in 
 perfection. 
 
 All is silent within the little wooden chapel. There is 
 a worshipper here and there among the rough benches, 
 and two acolytes, in black and white, kneel before the 
 Most Blessed Sacrament. A faint breeze enters with 
 John Maitland and stirs the laces on the altar and the 
 candle flames. He walks into the "dim religious light" 
 from the glaring sunshine without, and finds himself in 
 a new world of Faith and Love and Adoration. The 
 subtle scent of the early flowers on the altar mingles with 
 the odor of incense whose soul has flown to heaven, and 
 brings back to his mind the morning of his first Com- 
 munion. He kneels and breathes a loving, contrite 
 prayer, taking no note of the time. 
 
 His old friend, Father Augustin, whom he knew in
 
 250 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 his college days, has seen him enter. Father Augnstin 
 stands just behind the altar and watches him. Four 
 o'clock strikes. 
 
 " Father," whispers a small boy, who wears a black 
 cassock, " Father, it's four o'clock, and the two O'Brien 
 boys have been out in the sanctuary since three. It's our 
 turn now." 
 
 " Let me see." The priest refers to a small note-book. 
 " The O'Brien brothers from three to four ; John Dever 
 and Miles Jones from four to five. Yes, it is your turn, 
 Miles. Go on." 
 
 As the acolytes are changing, the sleeve of little Miles 
 Jones' surplice brushes the candle. In an instant the 
 light muslin is in flames. John Maitland quietly bends 
 over the railing, and before the boy is aware of it, crushes 
 out the flame between his hands. This has not taken a 
 minute, and John Maitland resumes his prayer. But the 
 boy will never forget the incident. 
 
 Nearly an hour passes before John Maitland rises from 
 his knees, and then, catching sight of Father Augnstin, 
 he goes into the sacristy to speak to him. The priest is 
 very glad to meet his old friend and pupil, but he has 
 little time to spend in talk. 
 
 "I am going down to Maryland," he says, as they 
 shake hands at parting, a few minutes after the clock has 
 struck five, " on a mission. I shall start this evening, but 
 I hope to return in a month or two, and then we will 
 finish our chat about the old days at Notre Dame." 
 
 John Maitland leaves the chapel, and the demon of 
 wrath that possessed him has fled. He shudders now as 
 the shadow of his thoughts of an hour ago crosses his 
 mind. He wonders that such strange madness could 
 have been evoked by the querulous words of a weak old 
 man.
 
 AT THE GATE OP DEATH. 251 
 
 The evening breeze is beginning to blow from the 
 river, and the whole west is a gorgeous crimson and gold 
 picture of blended clouds and water. He strolls along 
 the beach. In one spot he sees several men standing 
 around a small pool in the sand. Is it the sun's light that 
 makes it crimson ? 
 
 He approaches, and they draw together, whispering. 
 
 " Here he is ! " One of them comes out from the crowd 
 and says : 
 
 " I arrest you for the murder of Andrew McVeigh." 
 
 John Maitland laughs incredulously. His eyes fall on 
 the pool. It is blood. 
 
 III. 
 
 " For right is right, since God is God, 
 And Right the day must win." Faber. 
 
 At about half -past four o'clock Andrew McVeigh had 
 been found dead by three farm laborers on the beach 
 near Sundown. These men were repairing fences on 
 land near the river, but shut out from view of it by a 
 thick fringe of bushes that ran along the beach. They 
 had heard the report of a pistol, followed by a succession 
 of loud groans. Almost simultaneously breaking through 
 the hedge, they had seen Andrew McVeigh lying upon 
 the sand, a stream of blood flowing from his shoulder. 
 His groans grew more tremulous and fainter. He could 
 not speak. Before they could raise him he was dead. 
 
 At the water's edge, wet by the ebbing tide, lay a 
 revolver with all its barrels empty. On a tiny silver 
 plate in the side of this empty weapon were the words, 
 John Maitland from W. Lynch.
 
 252 THE LIFE AROUND IS. 
 
 The sand w&s covered with foot-prints, but as the spot 
 where the murdered man had been found was a favorite 
 bathing and crabbing place of Sundown boys, this went 
 for nothing. And at the inquest the jury rejected the 
 idea of suicide with contempt, and brought in the verdict 
 that Andrew McVeigh came to his death at the hands of 
 his nephew, John Maitland. 
 
 The following facts came out at the inquest : 
 
 Andrew McVeigh had remained at a sale of real estate 
 which had taken place at the Sundown hotel. The auc- 
 tioneer testified that he left the hotel shortly after four 
 o'clock. A bystander, Seth Sunden, Chip's father by the 
 way, an inveterate lounger who always attended auctions 
 and other free entertainments swore that he had seen the 
 deceased proceed to the river, leading his horse. After 
 that, Andrew McVeigh had never been seen alive, except 
 by his murderer and the three laborers in those brief mo- 
 ments immediately preceding death. 
 
 On John Maitland's person was found an envelope 
 containing three hundred dollars. The envelope was ad- 
 dressed, "Andrew McVeigh, present." This envelope 
 had been torn open at the end. Eli Woodbury, a dry- 
 goods merchant of Ironborough, a town some distance 
 from Sundown, proved that he had paid the three hun- 
 dred dollars to the deceased on the day of the murder, 
 for six months' rent of his store. He produced the re- 
 ceipt. Having been called out on business, he had placed 
 the money in an envelope, written Andrew McVeigh's 
 name on it and given it to his clerk. 
 
 Mr. Kenzie testified that early in the afternoon of the 
 16th inst. the day of the murder John Maitland had 
 refused to pay his bill, or rather accommodate him with 
 one hundred dollars on account of want of funds.
 
 AT THE GATE OF DEATH. 253 
 
 Rebecca Plummer, who lives next door to the Lynch 
 cottage, affirmed that she had heard John Maitland and 
 bis uncle quarrelling in Miss Bridget Lynch's garden. 
 She could not hear the words they used, but had seen 
 him (the uncle) strike his nephew with a whip. Charles 
 Chippeway Sunden, alias " Chip," and Miss Grace Lynch, 
 had been witnesses to the quarrel. 
 
 Chip was missing. He had not been visible in Sun- 
 down since the day of the murder. His straw hat had 
 been washed up by the tide down at the cove. He had 
 lived with John Maitland and his uncle as " general 
 utility," indulged by one, tyrannized over by the other, 
 and half civilized by the efforts of Grace Lynch. It had 
 been intimated that he had been " made away with " by 
 the murderer, in order to destroy evidence. Seth Sun- 
 den, however, took the loss of bis boy very philosophically. 
 Sympathizing Sundowners gave him more drinks than 
 usual, and after a certain number of glasses he seemed 
 to find vague comfort in the time-honored axiom to the 
 effect that " boys will be boys they always land on their 
 feet." 
 
 Grace Lynch's evidence was not taken at the inquest. 
 She was too ill to attend. The scene in the garden had 
 agitated her, and followed by this terrible shock had 
 thrown her into brain fever. 
 
 Days, weeks, months have passed. The trial comes 
 on. It takes place at Ironborough. Letters and letters 
 have been sent to Will Lynch. No answer has been 
 received. Chip has not appeared. The only new wit- 
 ness of importance is Grace. The poor girl is assisted to 
 the stand. She is pale and trembling a ghost of her 
 former self. The buzz of many suppressed voices, the 
 sea of upturned faces urakes her giddy. She dare not
 
 254 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 look toward John. Oh, surely this is her sorrow's crown 
 of sorrow. 
 
 The prosecuting counsel draws from her the story of 
 the quarrel, slowly, painfully. John Maitland leans half 
 over the railing of the dock, his heart and soul in his 
 eyes. The counsel asks his fifth question. 
 
 Grace's lips whiten, and she presses her teeth into 
 them. She will not answer. There is a dead silence. 
 
 u Spare her ! " cried John, fiercely. " Spare her ! I 
 will tell you what I said. ' I could kill him where he 
 stands. I will ! I will ! ' These were my words." 
 
 "Were those his words?" asks the lawyer, apparently 
 pitiless. 
 
 Grace does not heed him. The look of tender love 
 and pity in John Maitland's eyes goes to her heart. She 
 utters a heart-broken sob, and falls senseless into Aunt 
 Bridget's faithful arms. 
 
 The prisoner's lawyer, a man whose reputation has 
 years ago outgrown his abilities, makes a florid speech. 
 He has been sacrificing everything to the preparation of 
 this speech all through the trial. He shows them what 
 fearful odds are against him, and how gallantly he strug- 
 gles to overcome them. His speech grows more and 
 more brilliant, but he forgets the prisoner. To-morrow 
 the newspapers will call it a telling speech and a masterly 
 effort, and John Maitland will know that he has selected 
 for his advocate the one lawyer of a thousand who could 
 fail to save him. 
 
 The verdict was given clear and loudly : " Guilty." 
 John Maitland smiles bitterly. " And this is man's 
 justice."
 
 AT THE GATE OF DEATH. 255 
 
 " You have come North just in time, Father Augustin," 
 says John Maitland, " for in another week you may write 
 at the end of my record, non est inventus" 
 
 " In another week ? " Father Augustin wipes his spec- 
 tacles and glances around the narrow cell in the Iron- 
 borough jail. " In another week " 
 
 " I must die. But, believe me, Father, among the sins 
 I will confess to you to-night, murder will not be." 
 
 " I believe you. There is some horrible mistake. I 
 heard no word of this until I arrived in Sundown this 
 morning." 
 
 " Those papers on the table contain a full account of 
 the trial. While you look them over, I will finish this 
 letter." 
 
 Half an hour passes. No sound breaks the stillness 
 except the rustling of Father Augustin's papers and the 
 scratching of the prisoner's pen. 
 
 " My dear boy," at last said Father Augustin, with a 
 smouldering excitement in every movement, " you and 
 your lawyer have acted like a pair of fools. It is un- 
 pleasant, but true. Had you no memory ? Had he no 
 he ought to be ashamed of himself ! Why did he not 
 attempt to prove an alibi f Listen. From this report of 
 the trial I gather the following. On the fatal 16th your 
 uncle was seen alive at about ten minutes past four P.M. 
 He was found dead at half-past four. Now please at- 
 tend. You were in St. Paul's Church, at Sundown, 
 either kneeling before the altar or talking to me in the 
 sacristy, from four o'clock P.M. until five. I will swear 
 to it ! You shall have a new trial, my boy. Thank God ! 
 Thank God ! " 
 
 " My prayer ! my prayer ! I had forgotten it, and it 
 will save me." John Maitland buries his face in his
 
 256 THE LIFE AKOTNI) IS. 
 
 hands to hide the tears in his eyes. Sorrow could not 
 wring them from him, but joy has done it. He tears up 
 the letter, for it is his farewell to Grace. 
 
 Father Augustin never loses time, and now it is doubly 
 valuable. He moves Heaven and earth to save John 
 Maitland's life. Hope, suspense, despondency, alternate 
 in the prisoner's mind, but the priest does not despond ; 
 he has too much to do. At last the demands of red tape 
 are satisfied. A reprieve and a new trial are granted. 
 Two witnesses, Father Augustin and little Miles Jones, 
 of Swedeston, who knew nothing about the former trial, 
 triumphantly prove an alibi, and John Maitland walks 
 out of court a free man, saved by his prayer. 
 
 John Maitland finds that his uncle, eccentric to the 
 last, left a will bearing date of the terrible 16th, be- 
 queathing all his estate without reserve to his esteemed 
 young friend, William Lynch. But he, the heir pre- 
 sumptive, is content ; he is innocent, he is free, he has 
 Grace, for Father Augustin married them three days after 
 the second trial. The Swedeston firm still trusts him, 
 although Will Lynch has not yet turned up to corrob- 
 orate his statement about the three hundred dollars, and 
 his great sorrow has left him a wiser and better man. 
 Grace is sweeter and brighter than before, and the two 
 are as happy as human beings can be in this valley of 
 tears. 
 
 Keturning from High Mass at St. Paul's one Sunday, 
 late in autumn, John and Grace hear strange voices in 
 their little sitting-room. Aunt Bridget is crying and 
 laughing by turns, accompanied by the running com- 
 mentary of a ringing bass voice. Of course, Grace at
 
 AT THE GATE OF DEATH. 257 
 
 once jumps at the conclusion that the house is being 
 robbed. She is agreeably amazed, however, to find her 
 brother Will and Chip amiably finishing one of Aunt 
 Bridget's apple lunches. Will looks the same, but Chip 
 has grown taller and thinner, more freckled, and exceed- 
 ingly forlorn in appearance. 
 
 "Aunt Bid has told me everything," cries Will, when 
 the greetings were over. "I. had never received your 
 letters. When I had completed the Echo business, I 
 started as companion and secretary to an English traveller, 
 on a rather straggling and uncertain tour ; that probably 
 accounts for the failure of your letters. And so they 
 brought the money as evidence against you ! I'll tell you 
 how it came into your possession. Your uncle, as you 
 know, entertained a strong liking for me. Well, I hap- 
 pened to meet him on the 16th, just before I saw you, 
 John, and I told him that I was about to start on a long 
 journey. At first he spoke in his usual hot and incon- 
 sistent way, and then he became very kind. He pressed 
 that envelope into my hand, saying : ' Take this, it's only 
 part of what is to come.' He forced me to keep it, and 
 so I thought it would make a nice wedding present for 
 you. Now, Chip, clear up your mystery." But Chip's 
 month is very full at this particular moment, and Will 
 considerately gives him time. "I picked up Chip in 
 Philadelphia. I found him selling papers, and glad 
 enough he was to come home. How do you like selling 
 papers, Chip?" 
 
 " Too much competition,'' answered Chip, gravely. 
 
 Chip's story was not long. He had entertained for 
 
 some time within his breast an ardent desire. It was to 
 
 shoot certain prowling hawks and crows. In order to 
 
 fulfil this desire, he waited for an opportunity to borrow 
 
 17
 
 258 THE LIFE A HOUND US. 
 
 claudestinely John Maitland's revolver. On the morning 
 of the 16th, John cleaned and loaded it, and carelessly 
 left it on his bureau. This was Chip's chance. John 
 usually left his door open, and Chip, when his master had 
 gone, secured the revolver. With it he shot the un- 
 fortunate hawk, of which he spoke to Grace, and during 
 his interview with her it was the object he concealed 
 under his jacket. After he had escaped from Andrew 
 McVeigh's castigation, he ran down to the beach, and in 
 blissful ignorance he was levelling the one remaining 
 charge at another crow, when McVeigh suddenly grasped 
 his collar. The frightened boy turned, and the charge 
 took effect in the poor old man's side. Chip dropped the 
 pistol and ran down to the cove. There was a schooner 
 lying there. Chip, half dead with terror, hid himself 
 among the barrels on deck. The crew coming on board 
 at nightfall were a little " confused " by their sojourn on 
 shore, and when they discovered him, which happened to 
 be many miles from Sundown, they made him work hard. 
 Chip's vicissitudes have subdued him considerably, and 
 he is, indeed, very glad to get home. 
 
 " I will send you to school, Chip," says Will Lynch, 
 " when he have induced the authorities to hear your story. 
 And now fill your glasses with Aunt Bridget's currant 
 wine. I drink to the health, long life, and happiness of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Maitland." And every day since that 
 eventful 16th those two kneel at the Holy Sacrifice in 
 thanksgiving for John Maitlaud's prayer.
 
 THE FINANCIAL CRASH. 
 I. 
 
 TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 |S firm as a rock, sir as firm as a rock!" was 
 tlie unanimous opinion of the people of Eagle's 
 Falls when anybody mentioned the Belforest 
 Bank; and the people of Eagle's Falls, being Pennsyl- 
 vanians with streaks of cautious Dutch blood in their 
 composition, are not far behind their brethren of New 
 England in "cuteness." If a clear record and unvarying 
 steadfastness for more than fourscore years deserve con- 
 fidence, the Eagle's Falls people were neither rash nor 
 imprudent in implicitly trusting their great institution. 
 It had stood all the shocks of Jackson's administration, 
 partly because its conductors, the Bel forests, father and 
 son, were sagacious, and partly because it was rather an 
 elastic sapling bowing before the blast than a towering 
 oak. 
 
 Like the wealth of the Rothschilds this phrase, by the 
 way, is from the Eagle's Falls Argus it was founded on 
 an act of honesty. 
 
 One October night, in 1777, James Belforest sat beside 
 his spacious fire-place in the stone farm-house. He was 
 too old and feeble to fight against the invader, but his 
 mind was active, and just then it was following his son in 
 the army. 
 
 (259)
 
 260 THE LIFK AKOIND PS. 
 
 The distant thunder of cannon came from the direction 
 of Germantown. Each detonation froze the old man's 
 blood. He shuddered, and cowered close to the hearth. 
 War is horrible to those who fight, but even more so to 
 those who wait. In the midst of his torturing suspense, 
 he heard a faint sound at the door, and then a groan. 
 
 Might it not be his son returning, wounded, dying ? 
 
 With trembling fingers he pushed back the bolt, and 
 threw open the heavy door. On the threshold lay a man 
 in the uniform of a British officer. The face, upturned 
 in the pale starlight, was young and handsome, though 
 pain had made the features rigid, and drawn dark shadows 
 under the eyes. 
 
 James Belforest slowly and tenderly moved the almost 
 helpless man to the fire. His eyes, growing misty with 
 the coming of death, spoke their gratitude. With an 
 effort he tore a ring from his finger, and drew by a thin 
 chain a diamond cross from his breast. James Belforest 
 tried to stanch the blood that oozed from a wound in his 
 side, just beneath the shoulder. 
 
 " It is useless," gasped the officer ; " I am dying. 
 Promise that you send this ring and cross to my 
 mother in Lancashire. I am Henry Somerville." 
 
 Before James Belforest could speak, the young man 
 made a convulsive movement, raised the cross to his lips, 
 and fell back on the hard oak floor dead. 
 
 After the war old James and young James were again 
 united. Some of their neighbors advised them to keep 
 the " British spoil," but both the Belforests were honor- 
 able men, and, after some delay, the cross and ring were 
 sent across the ocean to Lady Somerville, of Todmorden, 
 Lancashire. 
 
 Two years passed. Young James Belforest worked on
 
 THE FINANCIAL CRASH. 261 
 
 the small farm, and old James took his ease in the stone 
 farm-house, building castles in the air. 
 
 One day a letter came from London. Lady Somerville 
 was dead. To James Belforest she had bequeathed five 
 thousand pounds and the cross set with diamonds. 
 
 " Father," said James the younger, " let us leave the 
 old place. I was not made to be a farmer." 
 
 " I have known that for a long time. You have sub- 
 mitted to necessity ; you have done your best. I have 
 made a plan for us both. We will go to Eagle's Falls." 
 
 Young America of to-day would have questioned, and 
 probably doubted, " the old man's " wisdom. Years ago 
 things were different; fathers were kings in their own 
 households ; and their power seems to have fallen with 
 other monarchies. 
 
 And so one of old James Belforest's castles became a 
 reality, and the Belforest's Bank was started, with Lady 
 Somerville's five thousand pounds, after young James 
 had been sent to Philadelphia for advice from the sapient 
 Benjamin Franklin. 
 
 People shook their heads at first, and prophesied a 
 failure, but old James, who had been in a London bank- 
 ing firm, knew what he was about, and the venture pros- 
 pered. 
 
 James Belforest, third of the name, and grandson of 
 the original James, associated with him, on the death of 
 his father, Albert Verner. The bank flourished still, and 
 the Belforest name was a power in the land. 
 
 Little Alice Belforest had a bright future before her, it 
 seemed, although her mother had been dead one year ; 
 for all that wealth could give would be hers. This was 
 in 1855. 
 
 On a bright morning in that year James Belforest
 
 262 THI-: I.IFK AROUND us. 
 
 kissed his little daughter for the last time, and went down 
 to the bank. As he entered, a clerk handed him a note. 
 " It was left here a few minutes ago, sir." 
 James Belforest carelessly ran his eyes over the con- 
 tents, and then all the ruddy color left his face. He 
 staggered into his office, closed the door, and read the 
 note again : 
 
 " You have trusted me too much. The entireness of 
 your trust tempted me. I have speculated with the 
 money of the bank, and my speculations have failed. 
 There is no need to go into particulars. The bonds and 
 mortgages I have left will not realize twenty-five cents 
 on the dollar. Flight is my only resource. Do what you 
 can for my wife and son. A. VERNER." 
 
 James Belforest sat, white and rigid, as if petrified. 
 
 " Fool ! fool ! to trust him ! " he groaned at last. " Oh, 
 consummate villain ! he has destroyed the work of three 
 generations. I am ruined ! disgraced ! In a few hours 
 our name will be a by-word in the streets ! I can not 
 live to hear it." 
 
 He drew a revolver from one of the draws of the desk, 
 and prepared to load it. 
 
 The office door was pushed open, and a tall man in 
 black entered. He had about him that undefinable air 
 which distinguishes a priest among men. His tall, thin 
 form was slightly bent; his face was calm and sweet, but 
 there were lines around the mouth and a latent tire shone 
 in the eye that spoke of firmness and deep fervor. 
 
 lie started slightly at the sight of James Belforest 's 
 livid face. His eye fell on the pistol. In an instant it 
 lud changed hands.
 
 THE FINANCIAL CEA8H. 263 
 
 " And now, old friend, what does this mean ? " 
 
 " It means that I will not live ruined disgraced ! " 
 And James Belforest covered his face with his hands, 
 and uttered a groan that seemed to come from a broken 
 heart. 
 
 "It seems that you are a coward," said the priest, in a 
 clear, distinct voice. u It means that, for some transient 
 trouble, you would cast yourself headlong into hell. It 
 means that you would rather defy God than bear the 
 scorn of men. I knew that you were not of the true 
 faith, James Belforest, but I never thought for a mo- 
 ment that you would become so meanly selfish as to for- 
 get your duty." 
 
 " Read that." 
 
 " From my brother-in-law," said the priest, with a light 
 tinge of bitterness in his tone. " I warned you against 
 him." 
 
 " I was a fool not to listen to you. I trusted him en- 
 tirely ; and now the scoundrel, after ruining me, coolly 
 asks me to take care of his wife and child ! " 
 
 " There is hope. An establishment like yours can not 
 be utterly ruined in a day." 
 
 "Not utterly ruined, perhaps, but think of what we 
 were we, the Belforests ! Oh, I can not bear it ! I 
 must leave the place at once, before it gets into the pa- 
 pers." 
 
 " And Alice? You' forget your daughter." 
 
 " Dear little Alice ! No, I will not see her. She will 
 hear soon enough that her father is a disgraced man." 
 
 " It strikes me that you are talking nonsense, James 
 Belforest," said the priest, sternly. " Admitting that Al- 
 bert Yerner has lost or embezzled some money, does it 
 necessarily follow that the bank is ruined ? "
 
 264 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " In this case it does. Veruer and I have been specu- 
 lating and losing until but you do not understand the 
 terms of business we were compelled to cease or break 
 the bank. This dishonest individual speculation of Yer- 
 ner's has done it. I can not remain here. I can not face 
 those whose trust I have helped to betray. Let them take 
 all everything." 
 
 " Stay. Be brave. You may retrieve " 
 
 " I will hear no more. Oh, John Lewis, if you have 
 not forgotten our former friendship, watch over Alice ! 
 Call her Lewis any name but make her forget that 
 name which has been disgraced." 
 
 He pushed Father Lewis aside, and, crushing his hat 
 over his eyes as he went, walked into the street. 
 
 " God have mercy on him 1 " murmured the priest, as 
 he gazed after his friend through the plate-glass window 
 of the office. " If the blow fell on these two men only, 
 it were bad enough ; but the poor, whose hard-earned 
 savings are invested here! May God and His Mother 
 pity them, and keep them from cursing the causes of 
 their ruin ! " 
 
 John Lewis and James Belforest had been chums at 
 college. They had not lost their old sentiment of friend- 
 ship even when the former became a Catholic convert 
 and then a Catholic priest. 
 
 James Belforest, touched by the words and example of 
 his friend, had often promised to " look into the matter" 
 when business would allow him time for religion, but 
 business thus far had not been accommodating, it seemed. 
 Little Alice, however, had beeii baptized in the Catholic- 
 Church. 
 
 " Poor little Alice 1 " thought Father Lewis. " After 
 all, it is for the best. The Sisters of the Sacred Heart
 
 THE FINANCIAL CRASH. 265 
 
 will take better care of her than James Belforest could ! 
 I must also look after mj nephew." 
 
 But Mrs. Verner did not trouble the good priest. She 
 was a very proud woman, and the news of her husband's 
 flight maddened her. Taking her son Albert, who was a 
 year older than Alice Belforest, she hastened to New 
 York to hide her shame in the midst of a crowded city. 
 The letters that came from her to her brother were signed 
 with her maiden name. 
 
 ' ; If any of the Lewis family should happen to go 
 wrong," said the priest, smiling, " I wonder what these 
 people would do for a name." 
 
 Eagle's Falls was panic-stricken, and with reason. Its 
 great institution, the bank "as firm as a rock," had 
 crumbled away as other rocks sometimes crumble. 
 
 H. 
 
 " Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all." Tennyson. 
 
 Eleven years have passed since the failure of the Bel- 
 forest Bank. The Eagle's Falls people have not forgot- 
 ten it, for nearly every farmer for mjles around had some 
 deposit in the bank, and they all suffered, more or less, 
 by its collapse. The unhappy event gave an aggravating 
 advantage to that class of people who never save any 
 money. " We told you so ! " they said. "A bank man- 
 aged by two-men power! Ridiculous! We never de- 
 posited anything." And some of the unlucky ones were 
 more angered by this cool assumption of sagacity than by 
 the loss of their money. 
 
 After a time, however, the creditors were paid in part
 
 266 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 out of the wreck of the bank, and frequent remittances 
 came from James Belforest, in Brazil, for that purpose. 
 In 1857, Albert Yerner died at Baden-Baden. " It is 
 the best thing lie could do," said his proud wife, bitterly. 
 " A disgraced man is safest in the grave." 
 
 The woman who spoke those hard, cold words had been 
 one of the most loving of wives, but her husband's dis- 
 honor seemed to have turned her heart to stone, and the 
 stern Calvinism in which she believed was not likely to 
 soften it. She was well educated, energetic, and work 
 was the only thing that could make her forget. She 
 toiled early and late, sewing, sewing, sewing, as if it were 
 her one hope in life. Unvarying industry and economy 
 at last enabled her to start in business as a dressmaker. 
 Even in crowded New York she held her own, and suc- 
 ceeded in giving her son a profession. The day on which 
 Albert Lewis earned the privilege of writing " M.D." 
 after l}is name his mother wept for the first time in many 
 years, The icy pride that had frozen her heart inelteJ 
 for a moment under the influence of a "mother's tender 
 pride in her son. 
 
 Father John Lewis everybody calls him Father John 
 has a few more wrinkles in his face, his tall form is 
 more stooped, and he has much more need for spectacles 
 than he had eleven years ago. 
 
 He is growing old ; but for him the time has not yet 
 come, " when no man can work." He serves two churches, 
 ten miles apart, and, if you consider that the road, or 
 rather path, between them lies through Jersey sand, you 
 will admit that his office is no sinecure. 
 
 His house, a rambling old structure which was con- 
 siderately bequeathed him by a grateful parishioner 
 stands on a hill not more than fifty yards from the beach.
 
 THE FINANCIAL CRASH. 267 
 
 In the stillness of the night, the roar of the ocean seems 
 to shake the timbers of the house. 
 
 It is Sunday evening. Yespers had been sung at St. 
 Paul's and the red afterglow of a sunset still lingers on 
 the cross at the top of the wooden spire. Father John is 
 sitting on the porch of the pastoral house enjoying his 
 only luxury a cigar. 
 
 " Father John ! Father John ! " cries a cracked voice, 
 in a tone that an ordinary person might use in calling 
 " fire ! " But Father John does not start ; he is used to 
 it. It is only his old housekeeper, Cynthia Ann Spence, 
 who makes her appearance from the house, carrying two 
 letters. As usual, Cynthia Ann looks scornful ; as usual 
 on Sundays, Cynthia Ann wears a dress with many 
 flounces ; as usual, on week-days and Sundays, indoors 
 and out, Cynthia Ann wears a calico and cardboard sun- 
 bonnet. 
 
 " Beggin' letters," snaps Cynthia Ann. " Tim Tooney 
 just brought 'em from the post-office. Throw 'em in the 
 fire without readin' 'em. /would." And Cynthia Ann 
 disappears abruptly. 
 
 It is not yet dusk. Father John puts on his glasses, 
 and opens the letter with the New York postmark. 
 
 "DEAR BROTHER: Many times you have expressed a 
 wish in your letters to see my son Albert. I have not 
 sent him to you sooner, though I knew that you could 
 help his education much, because I feared that in your 
 hands he would become a Papist. I speak plainly. JSTow, 
 however, he is old enough to take care of himself. He 
 knows the Old and the New Testaments almost by heart, 
 as it has always been my custom to make him study the 
 Scriptures on the Sabbath, besides taking him to the Rev.
 
 268 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Job Hardwrinkle's three services; but, in spite of all this, 
 his religious impressions are, I regret, not very strong. I 
 warn you, however, that if you attack him with Catholic 
 arguments, he will doubtless confound you with his 
 Scriptural knowledge. You have probably forgotten the 
 text about 'Wisdom out of the mouths of babes and 
 sucklings,' which you learned in your youth, for I have 
 often heard the Rev. Mr. Hardwrinkle say that with you 
 Romanists the Book is a dead letter. My son does not 
 know of his father's disgrace. I do not wish him to 
 know of it. Call him Lewis, and let it be forgotten that 
 he ever bore another name. He has lately graduated, as 
 you will see by the inclosed paragraphs from the Herald. 
 A few weeks' rest with you will do him good, and better 
 enable him to enter upon his duties here as assistant to a 
 prominent physician. 
 
 " He will be with you early next week. 
 
 " Your sister, M. LEWIS." 
 
 Father John laid down the first letter with a sigh, and 
 opened the second. 
 
 " PARA, May 1, 18. 
 
 "DEAR OLD FRIEND : A steamer, touching here on its 
 way to Rio, gives me this opportunity of writing to you. 
 The mail is about closing, which accounts for this villain- 
 ous scrawl. You know, for I haTe told you several times, 
 that my ventures in coffee and rice have made me yes, 
 I may safely say it rich. A large amount of my wealth 
 is invested in valuable property in New York and Eagle's 
 Falls ; besides, I have paid many of the debts of the old 
 bank. I am growing old, and intend to start North to 
 little Alice as soon as I can wind up my affairs here. 
 Dear little Alice! "When I see her, I will tell her the
 
 THE FINANCIAL CRASH. 269 
 
 story of the old bank, and call her by her own name, 
 ' Alice Belforest.' We Belforests can once more hold 
 up our heads and look the world in the eye. By the 
 same mail, I write to the Superior of the Ladies of the 
 Sacred Heart, requesting her to send Alice to you. I 
 will, if all goes well, be with you myself in a month or 
 two. Alice has the Somerville diamond cross. I sent it 
 tc her as soon as I acquired funds to redeem it. Alice is 
 an heiress, and when I have feasted my eyes on her, I 
 have thoughts of hunting up poor Yerner's son, and seal- 
 ing my forgiveness by making a match. Is your nephew 
 a better man than his father or I ? By the way, a Jesuit 
 here, Padre Torquato, has almost persuaded me to be a 
 Catholic, but I have no time to think of that at present. 
 The mail closes. Vale, as we said at school. 
 
 "JAMES BELFOBEST." 
 
 " ' Too late, too. late ; ye can not enter here ! ' " quotes 
 Father John, folding up the letter. " I am afraid it will 
 be with James Belforest as it was with the foolish vir- 
 gins. He will have no time, indeed, when time slips 
 from his grasp, at the last moment; but who can tell 
 what Alice may accomplish 1 Bless me ! she must be 
 quite a young lady. What on earth will I do with her ? 
 And my nephew here, too ! I'd better write, and ask 
 the Sisters to keep her a while. ~No ; that would seem 
 inhospitable, and" (looking at the post-office mark on 
 the envelope), "this letter has been delayed ; she may be 
 on her way hither already. I'll consult Cynthia." 
 
 " Law sakes ! " says that valuable personage, throwing 
 back her sun-bonnet, and allowing it to dangle grace- 
 fully by the strings. " Sure as my name is Cynthy Ann 
 Spence, you'll have trouble, Father John. A feller and
 
 270 THK I.IFK AROUND US. 
 
 a gal comin'! The first thing you know she'll be his ad- 
 miration and he'll be her admiration, and off they'll go 
 an' git married, and both as poor as Job's turkey when 
 he hadn't a feather, I'll be bound ! Pooty doin's for a 
 priest's house ! " 
 
 " I can not prevent them from coming, you see," says 
 Father John, ruefully. " There's plenty of room in the 
 house " 
 
 " Oh, that's all well enough," interrupts Cynthia Ann, 
 resignedly. " An' I kind a'guess I can manage by bor- 
 rowin' a few things from Mrs. Martin 'cross the lots, even 
 if 1 do have to work my fingers to the bone." 
 
 " If they wore both Catholics," begins Father John, 
 rather thinking aloud than speaking to Cynthia. 
 
 " An' if they ain't," snaps Cynthia Ann, " don't have 
 'em here. Leastways, if she's a Catholic, she may turn 
 him before marriage, but if she's a Protestant, keep him 
 out o' her way. There was my Hezekiah an' me. When 
 your teachin' opened my eyes to the truth, he was a 
 rantin' Methodist, but I turned. ' Hezekiah,' says I " 
 
 " Yes, I know," returns Father John, " I think you 
 have given me enough advice for one evening, Cynthia." 
 
 " Maybe I have, and maybe I haven't," retorts Cynthia, 
 recovering her bonnet with a jerk. " Tea's ready." 
 
 Father John is more absent-minded than usual, and 
 half a dozen times has Cynthia Ann to interfere in 
 order to prevent him from inadvertently misusing her 
 pet china. 
 
 " Some men," she mutters, rather irrelevantly, " ought 
 to be in Heaven ; they ain't fit for this aiilh. But," after 
 a pause, " that kind's mighty scarce." 
 
 A sunlit t-ky, with floating white clouds; stretches 
 of meadows, vividly, brightly green, with here and there
 
 THE FINANCIAL CRASH. 271 
 
 a wooded spot of shade ; beyond, a thin strip of still 
 brighter green the marsh grass near the sea; and yet 
 beyond, old ocean itself seeming narrow and crescent- 
 shaped. 
 
 Alice Lewis sees all this through the open window of 
 the railroad car. 
 
 The fresh, salt-tinged breeze tries to roughen her 
 smooth brown hair, and then makes a swoop at the worn 
 face of the tired-looking woman at her side. The woman 
 closes her weary eyes she has been travelling all night 
 but her baby finds it out right away, and utters a thrilling 
 yell of remonstrance. 
 
 " Will nobody kill that child ? " demands an awakened 
 old bachelor. " I've given it all my cough-lozenges, and 
 it doesn't seem satisfied yet. Why isn't there a special 
 car for babies? Give 'em the smoking-car. I never 
 smoke." 
 
 Alice stretches out her hands, and takes the baby, 
 which, being allowed to tear her fan to pieces, conde- 
 scends to be silent. The look of rest on the mother's 
 face as she sinks to sleep more than repays Alice. 
 
 That young man on the other side, with the dark mous- 
 tache and the frank-looking brown eyes, is pretending to 
 read an illustrated paper, but in reality he is watching 
 Alice. At the last station, she got into the wrong car, 
 and their baggage became mixed up, because his initials 
 are the same as hers, " A. L.," and they were obliged to 
 hold a short dialogue, she speaking in the soft sweet voice 
 which is so rare among American women, but which 
 convent-bred girls have in perfection. 
 
 Her few simple words linger yet in his mind. He 
 looks at a damsel at the far end of the car a damsel 
 with garments wonderfully ruffled and puffed, with a
 
 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 short fringe of hair on her forehead, and a soupgon of 
 rouge on her cheeks, and then his eyes involuntarily 
 stray toward Alice, with her smooth hair, innocent face, 
 and tasteful raiment. As she bends over that child, he 
 thinks of a picture by Sassaferreto not irreverently, 
 though he is a Protestant. 
 
 The enfant terrible having demolished the fan, utters 
 a few notes preliminary to a grand fantasia, and Alice 
 hums a little hymn. That finished, she is not allowed to 
 stop, and she glides into Herrick's Daffodils, intended 
 only for the baby's ear, but which her neighbor does not 
 fail to catch. He listens attentively, and he never for- 
 gets the song, which is almost a murmur 
 
 " Fair daffodils, we weep to see 
 
 You haste away so soon ; 
 As yet the early-rising suii 
 Has not attained his noon. 
 
 Stay, stay, 
 Until the hastening day 
 
 Has run 
 
 But to the even-song, 
 And, having prayed together, we 
 Will go with you along 1 " 
 
 " Seaview ! " calls the conductor. 
 
 The baby is restored to its mother, and the two A. L.'s 
 Btep upon the platform of the little station. 
 
 The sexton, Tim Rooney, has driven Father John's old 
 gig to the station every day of the preceding five days in 
 the week ; but to-day, for some reason best known to him- 
 self, he has rested. Luckily, Sf. Paul's cross is plainly 
 visible from the station, and Alice guides her steps 
 toward it. The young man, however, asks a boy at the 
 station, whose directions are somewhat complicated, and
 
 THE FINANCIAL CRASH. 273 
 
 consequently he makes a long circuit. Alice is the slower 
 walker, and the two meet on Father John's porch. 
 
 " Alice, this is my nephew, Albert Lewis," says Father 
 John. 
 
 And they are very glad to know each other. They 
 say so, and, in this case, they mean it. 
 
 Six weeks have passed. Albert Lewis will leave Sea- 
 view to-morrow. Father John is not opposed to innocent 
 amusements, and the Seaview people have made it pleas- 
 ant for Alice with musical parties, croquet, and the like. 
 Albert Lewis has seen her often, among the poor, among 
 the rich, sympathizing in joy or in grief. 
 
 " She is a true-hearted girl, and she will be a noble 
 woman," he has said to himself many times. 
 
 This afternoon Alice stands near the railing of the 
 porch, holding a book in her hand. Amidst the lace at 
 her throat glistens, for the first time, Lady Somerville's 
 diamond cross. The glory of the sunset falls on earth 
 and sky, and the creamy white roses which cling to the 
 porch turn rosy-hued in the light. 
 
 "Alice!" Alice starts; it is the first time he has 
 called her thus. Her brow and cheeks vie with the roses. 
 
 " Alice ! " speaks Albert Lewis plainly and directly, 
 " will you be my wife ? " 
 
 There is silence. Alice steals a glance at his face, so 
 grave, sincere, tender in its expression. 
 
 " I can not," she answers, tremulously ; " I am a Cath- 
 olic you are not." 
 
 "Is that all?" he says, with a relieved sigh. "I 
 thought that Father John might have objected on ac- 
 count of my poverty, or something of that kind. I have 
 fair prospects, Alice, and I will work for you night and 
 day, as I will for my mother, to whom I owe everything. 
 18
 
 274 TIIK LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 A difference in religions opinions need not prevent us 
 from being happy." 
 
 " You can not understand," she answers, " and / can 
 not argue. I have just been reading in this book," she 
 continues, grasping at the first words that seem to bear 
 on the subject, "faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal 
 powers." 
 
 " You would say ' yes,' if I were a Catholic ? Well, 
 Alice, I will be a Catholic for your sake." 
 
 " No, no ! " she says, eagerly, " if you can not be a 
 Catholic for God's sake for the sake of sacred truth 
 remain what you are. But, Albert, I am only a girl, and 
 I I like you a little. Speak to Father John, and I will 
 abide by his decision." 
 
 " I agree. I will go to Mass every Sunday for your 
 sweet sake, and maybe after awhile but I see Father 
 John in his room." 
 
 Father John is a priest, but also a man, and, like other 
 men, he is tempted. His nephew is poor; Alice 
 though she does not yet know it is an heiress an heir- 
 ess to a large wealth. Why not endow Albert with this 
 wealth, make these two happy for the present, and leave 
 the question of Faith to the future? He breathes a 
 silent prayer, and firmly answers, " No." 
 
 The next morning Alice and Albert say farewell on 
 the little porch. 
 
 " Poor Alice ! " sighs Father John. " But, after all, 
 human hearts are of little worth if not crushed and 
 broken to the will of God." 
 
 As he looks after the departing form of Albert, Tim 
 Rooney brings him a letter. It is written in Portu- 
 guese.
 
 THE FINANCIAL CRASH. 275 
 
 " PARA, June 3, 18. 
 
 "REVEREND SIR: As the legal adviser of Mr. James 
 Belforest, it is my sad duty to inform you that my client 
 was suddenly stricken with apoplexy on the fifth day of 
 last month. Everything possible was done for him. 
 Padre Torquato was sent for, but he arrived too late. I 
 have communicated with Mr. Belforest's New York law- 
 yer, whose name and address you will find below. 
 
 " SASTCHO GOMEZ." 
 
 " Too late ! Too late ! " And the unaccustomed tears 
 dim Father John's eyes. James Belforest was his old- 
 est friend. 
 
 After a week has passed, Alice goes back in tears and 
 mourning, to enter the novitiate of the Sisters of the 
 Sacred Heart. 
 
 III. 
 
 " "We have short time to stay, as you ; 
 We have as short a spring." 
 
 "To Daffodils," HEKKICK. 
 
 " Yes," says Cynthia Ann, wiping her eyes with her 
 black apron, " I am kind o' resigned like, but I did think 
 that when God has so many saints in Heaven, he might 
 have spared us one on airth. But I s'pose he knows 
 best." 
 
 Cynthia Ann is talking to Alice Belforest, who, since 
 her father's death, has resumed her own name. Father 
 John, who survived his old friend only three months, is 
 the subject of their conversation. 
 
 Alice entered the novitiate of the Sacred Heart, but it 
 did not take long to discover that she had no vocation
 
 276 THE I-IFK AKOUXD I'S. 
 
 for the life of a religieuse, and so she and Cynthia Ann 
 went to housekeeping at Eagle's Falls. They are now 
 seated in Alice's pretty sitting-room. 
 
 Four years have changed Alice greatly. She is the 
 same, yet not the same. She is beautiful, womanly, 
 graceful ; but now she is a grave, sad queen among 
 women ; then she was a joyous princess among girls. 
 
 The last four years have been busy years for her. Her 
 large fortune has dwindled to a comparatively small sum ; 
 but in all Eagle's Falls there is no one who suffered by 
 the collapse of the Belforest Bank who has not been 
 repaid in full. The stain has been wiped from the Bel- 
 forest name. 
 
 She thinks of Albert sometimes; but she has never 
 heard from or of him, though Cynthia Ann has told her 
 of his mother's death. 
 
 Albert, or Dr. Verner, as I ought to call him now, has 
 prospered. He too has resumed his father's name. 
 
 " I will not tell you the wrong your father did," Mrs. 
 Verner said, passionately. " I command you never to in- 
 quire." 
 
 "If our name has been disgraced, mother, I will re- 
 deem it ! " he answered proudly. And blessing him, she 
 died. 
 
 " Domine, non sum Dignus ! I am unworthy un- 
 worthy ! " murmurs Albert Yerner, kneeling before the 
 Holy of Holies, in the Eagle's Falls church. 
 
 Alice's prayers have availed. God's grace has opened 
 Albert Yerner's eyes to the Light " which shineth in dark- 
 ness." 
 
 " I will see her in Heaven, if I can never see her here." 
 This feeling, human and earthly as it was, drew him to-
 
 THE FINANCIAL CRASH. 277 
 
 ward the Truth, and now Albert Yerner is one of the 
 most fervent of Catholics. 
 
 As he is about to leave the church he notices a bright 
 glitter just made under the door of the tabernacle. He 
 looks again. He can not mistake the great diamond in 
 the centre. It is the diamond cross that Alice wore on 
 that summer afternoon. 
 
 He asks a question of the sexton, whom he meets in the 
 vestibule. 
 
 " Is it the cross yon mean ? Sure, that was given to 
 the church by Miss Belforest, the best-hearted lady in the 
 place, sir." 
 
 Miss Belforest ! It is not her cross, then, he thinks. 
 If the man had said that it was given by a nun of the 
 order of the Sacred Heart, his conclusion would have 
 been different. 
 
 Albert Verner has come to Eagle's Falls to attend a 
 convention of physicians. After that was over, there 
 were several important consultations, and his stay is pro- 
 longed. 
 
 He has letters of introduction to various people, and as 
 " good " society is rather limited at Eagle's Falls, he meets 
 Alice Belforest very often. She talks to him as she does 
 to others, and makes no sign. 
 
 " My Alice would be like this one, if she were in the 
 world," he can not help thinking. 
 
 On the morning of the day on which he intends to 
 leave Eagle's Falls, he calls on Miss Belforest to say 
 good-bye. 
 
 Alice is at the piano in the sitting-room when Cynthia 
 ushers him into the parlor. He hears a faint sound of 
 music on which softly float the words he caught that day 
 in the car,
 
 278 
 
 THE LIFE ABOUND US. 
 
 "Fair daffodils, we weep to see 
 You haste away so soon." 
 
 He is at her side in an instant. 
 
 "Alice, my Alice, at last ! " 
 
 " I knew you all the time." 
 
 " Yes," snaps that oracle, Cynthia Ann, addressing the 
 bridesmaids, " even the best of men haven't got no mem- 
 ories ; but just show me the woman that can forget ! "
 
 A STORY OF TO-DAY. 
 I. 
 
 AT SEA. 
 
 [LL the last part of the afternoon there had been a 
 yellow light on the sea, not the rich glow of an 
 ordinary sunset, but a sickly glare which shone 
 from the edges of the cloud masses in the west. 
 
 A boy, who had slyly crept into the boat at the brig's 
 side, looked up, singing in the quaint old rhyme : 
 
 "Mackerel's scales and mare's tails, 
 Make lofty ships to carry low sails." 
 
 The mate, too, glanced upward, and impatiently turn- 
 ing, drove the urchin from his " coign of vantage." 
 This brig, the Hawk, was not young, and time does not 
 toughen fowls of her species. Fifteen days had she been 
 out from Liverpool ; she bore a full cargo and a few pas- 
 sengers, mostly friends of the captain, who were working 
 their passage, or who had been taken on board from holy 
 charity. Among the latter, two or three in number, were 
 Kathleen Bryant and her little girl. It was enough to 
 make the hardest heart ache if the hardest heart could 
 know such things to forecaste what such a creature 
 should have to suffer in the bustling new world, where 
 even sympathy would take a form which her warm Irish 
 heart could never understand. She was a widow, young, 
 
 (279)
 
 280 THK LII-K AROUND US. 
 
 timid, gentle, poor, with no one akin to her except the 
 little child. 
 
 The yellow light faded from the sky, leaving the sea 
 a dark, undefinable color, throbbing as if it were the 
 heart of the universe. Then sea and sky deepened in 
 gloom, and the Hawk was dark as a funeral scarf from 
 stem to stern ; a low moan came from all quarters of the 
 sea, and the winds were let loose. 
 
 Kathleen, in a dark cabin, clasped her child tight, for 
 a crash, the sound of rushing waters, and many shouts 
 and cries struck her ears. She shrank closer to the wall 
 of the cabin, pulling her shawl around the girl. 
 
 Little Kathleen only opened her large blue eyes, and 
 looked intently into her mother's face. 
 
 " Lord, have mercy on us 1 " 
 
 And when the mother got as far as " Holy Mary," the 
 child answered as she had been taught, " Pray for us ! " 
 
 " Kathleen," whispered the mother, aroused from the 
 stupor by the little girl's voice, " keep near to me, shut 
 your eyes, and keep sayin' your prayers ; and here, Kath- 
 leen, darlin'," she said, with a touch of that prophetical 
 inspiration which only mothers have, " take these, and if 
 anything should separate us ! " 
 
 The ship shivered in every plank. Crash of timber, 
 hoolu of thunder, and the weak voices of men! The 
 world seems to be near its end. Kathleen and her child 
 are dragged on deck. She feels a sharp pain in her arm, 
 which is bruised against the gangway ; she faints, clutch- 
 ing the old plaid shawl that holds her darling. 
 
 The wild waves have not left much plumage on that 
 poor old bird, the ILiwlc, Captain, mate, and crew have 
 done their duty. The two boats, with all the brig's load 
 of human beings, are tossing to and fro like thistle-down 
 on a windy day.
 
 A STORY OF TO-DAY. 281 
 
 A voice sounds even above the shrillness of the wind. 
 
 " Kathleen ! my child, my child ! " 
 
 The men in the captain's boat look at one another. 
 
 " Too bad, too bad," mutters the captain ; " the girl is 
 in the mate's boat ! " 
 
 " Sure she is in Grod's keeping, wherever she is," says 
 an old woman, frightened by the stony look that conies 
 over the young mother's face. 
 
 " My child, my child ! " 
 
 Is it the wind that answers, " Mother " ? for the mate's 
 boat is out of sight. 
 
 II. 
 
 IN " SOCIETY." 
 
 " I don't know much about religion," said Alice "Wes- 
 ley ; " but I do know what ' good ' style is." 
 
 She daintily held her tiny teacup of scarlet and gold, 
 and glanced around the room. She was of the prevailing 
 blonde type, with fuzzy light hair, pulled down under her 
 hat ; a nose " tip tilted," as the laureate has it, and large, 
 blue eyes, which she held under fashionable control ; a 
 complexion which was perfect " pale roseate " in gaslight 
 or semi-gloom, but which showed a few freckles in day- 
 light. She was standing near a cabinet of bric-d-lrac in a 
 costume, soft and dark, which seemed, like the pictures 
 of Ingres, to be a study of form rather than of color. 
 
 " For instance, my dear I always speak confidentially 
 to girls, for they find out everything, anyhow I am 
 Ritualistic, because it is fashionable to be Ritualistic. 
 It is quite a good style here in Washington to be Catho- 
 lic, you know ; but then thsre is something too real about
 
 282 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 you Catholics. Now, uncle declares that I am Irish (I 
 am, anyhow, you know), and haven't any ancestors, 
 though I do put the Wesley crest on my note-paper ; 
 uncle picked me up somewhere ; he never will tell me 
 where and that I ought to be a Catholic ; but, my dear, 
 some of you Catholics, particularly the Irish, are in such 
 fearful style." 
 
 She paused, to bow to a young man who had just en- 
 tered the room. 
 
 " Felix Woodward, I declare ! As I was saying, it's 
 bad form to be a Methodist here, although the Adminis- 
 tration is Methodist, and yet at home uncle knows so 
 many young ministers that one usually has to assume 
 soupqon of Methodism." 
 
 " But when you were at Notre Dame you liked to go 
 to chapel." 
 
 The speaker was the young lady into whose ears Alice 
 Wesley had been pouring her "ideas." She was taller, 
 more graceful, not as pretty as Alice. Her brown hair 
 was plainly arranged in the simple Grecian mode ; her 
 costume, while faultless, was not ultra-fashionable. Her 
 complexion was not pale, but colorless, which, with the 
 irregularity of her features, and the calm, thoughtful look 
 in her eyes, suggested a head of Juno on an old cameo. 
 
 " Excuse me ; I was not listening. I was watching the 
 French Minister. I don't understand what the President 
 means by letting foreign Governments send so many 
 married men to this country. An ambassador must be 
 unmarried, in order to give American girls a chance. 
 What were you saying, Helen ? " 
 
 Helen Winter repeated her sentence. 
 
 " Of course. It was quite the proper thing to go to 
 Mass there. It pleased the Sisters. Some more tea?
 
 A STORY OF TO-DAY. 283 
 
 Have some, do. It's really a pleasure to use these de- 
 licious China cups. I like this kind of thing," she said, 
 turning to the cabinet ; " here is a vase carved by Cellini, 
 and there, at your elbow, some lovely amber Bohemian 
 glass, and beyond, a set of Sevres. Just look at that 
 Cupid on the plates, driving his flock of yellow butter- 
 flies ; and this majolica cat ! " 
 
 " A lot of useless roba" said Helen Winter, indiffer- 
 ently, " which cost money, and does nobody good. It is 
 not like a painting. Everybody can understand a picture ; 
 but how many people here know whether the shape of 
 that vase painted by Boucher is modern or antique ? " 
 
 "Well, Boucher vases and Minton ware mean cul- 
 ture" 
 
 "What is culture?" 
 
 Alice showed her white teeth in a quizzical little smile, 
 and said, after a pause : " To know more odd things than 
 somebody else; to believe yourself superior to the ca- 
 naitte ; to quote Brahma and the Yedas; to admire 
 Wagner, Swinburne, and Baudelaire ; to find moral 
 things immoral because they are not true art, and im- 
 moral things moral, because they a/re true art. I am a 
 critic." 
 
 Both girls laughed, and Alice continued : 
 
 " Mrs. Houghton is asking Felix Woodward to sing. 
 He has a fair tenor, and sings rather nicely. I like the 
 singing at a kettledrum ; it relieves restraint ; under 
 cover of it you can talk in your natural tone, and you are 
 not obliged to whisper as if you were at a funeral. He 
 begins. Old Feoli (who has been attache ever since 
 Washington's time) plays the accompaniment." 
 
 " Let us listen."
 
 284 * THE LIFE AIJorXD r>. 
 
 "Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown ; 
 With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; 
 Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 
 ' Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands, 
 Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands ; 
 For man is man, and master of his fate.' " 
 
 Felix Woodward's voice was strong and clear, and he 
 gave the words with an energy that seemed to bid defi- 
 ance to Fortune. Helen looked at him with interest. 
 He was young, not particularly handsome ; there was an 
 expression of reserved power about him that attracted her. 
 
 Alice betrayed a little amusement. 
 
 " You seem interested. He's only a book-keeper, or 
 something of that kind, out on a holiday. Mrs. Hough- 
 ton invites him because he is a Southern relative has 
 seen better days, and that sort of thing. He'd be nice to 
 flirt with, but of course no girl who respects herself will 
 ever marry him." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Why not! For the very sufficient reason that he 
 has no money." 
 
 " But she might love him sufficiently " 
 
 "Pardon me, my dear," interrupted Alice, with an air 
 of patronage, "you are either very hypocritical or very 
 unsophisticated. Love is bad form ; but you haven't the 
 slightest occasion to bother about the ' coining man.' Mr. 
 Vincy " 
 
 A flush reddened Helen's brow. Alice, fortunately, 
 was enabled to retrieve her mistake. " Let me present 
 Mr. Woodward." 
 
 Felix Woodward bowed and said something about a 
 pleasant afternoon. Alice chatted gaily, but with more 
 reserve.
 
 A STORY OF TO-DAY. 285 
 
 " We have been talking of religion," she said, with a 
 determination to force her companion to talk; "Miss 
 Winter is quite devout enfamt de Marie, and all that." 
 
 " An excellent thing in a woman. Men are religious 
 nowadays because they are good, but no man is good be- 
 cause be is religious. Religion has lost its power."' 
 
 " He is rude," thought Helen, " or too frank.". Her 
 eyes sparkled. She spoke. "If you were a Catholic, 
 Mr. Woodward, you could daily see that religion has not 
 lost its power." 
 
 " Ah ! you are a Catholic, Miss Winter ? I know some 
 Catholics, poor and rich ; the poor ones, I admit, are de- 
 vout, because they are taught to be ; with the rich and 
 educated ones religion is a mere aesthetic sentiment. 
 They go to Mass, and like the music and pomp ; but that 
 does not prevent them from doing what they please. 
 They are too ' superior ' to mingle with the herd of their 
 co-religionists. I admire your religion, Miss Winter; 
 but I think that educated Catholics are generally super- 
 cilious to their brethren. and apologetic to dissenters, and 
 that the mass is uneducated and ill-bred." 
 
 Helen was surprised, and somewhat indignant. " He 
 is ill-bred," she thought, " but there is, from his point of 
 view, some truth in what he says." 
 
 " No doubt the crowds that followed our Lord .were 
 uneducated, and I don't suppose they all knew the best- 
 bred manner of eating their loaves and fishes," she said. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Vincy ! " Alice exclaimed. A gentleman, 
 apparently about forty years of age, stood beside Helen's 
 chair. He wore mutton-chop whiskers, and was attired 
 in the most pronounced English fashion. His head was 
 bald on the top ; his face florid ; there was no expression 
 about him, except one of exalted satisfaction. lie was
 
 286 TIII: LI I'M-: AUUUND us. 
 
 Mr. Vincy, the millionaire. He had made his money by 
 means of a great capability of laying out railroads in 
 .Russia. He believed in himself; he wanted a foreign 
 mission and a ladylike wife. You know all about him 
 that is worth knowing, except that he was supposed to be 
 the man for whom Heleu was destined by her parents. 
 
 Fetfx Woodward was not handsome ; in fact, not as 
 handsome as Mr. Vincy ; but he looked like a gentleman, 
 and wore no jewelry, while Mr. Vincy's malachite sleeve- 
 buttons, studded each with a ruby, and his gorgeous ring 
 and chain, made Alice curl her lip, while she admired the 
 jewels themselves. 
 
 " Nice little party ; nice little party ! You should have 
 seen the reception the Czar gave in my honor, though, 
 after I had finished that railroad to Loutchinova. It was 
 a stunner ; no cakes and weak tea. Champagne, worth 
 more than you'd make in four years, sir." 
 
 " Pardon me, but do you collect the income tax, sir?" 
 
 Alice held up her handkerchief to prevent giggling. 
 " Permit me to introduce Mr. Woodward, Mr. Vincy ! " 
 
 " Not necessary, not necessary," said Mr. Vincy, in 
 swelling tones ; " we have met before, down-town." 
 
 " I have forgotten you." And bowing to the ladies, 
 Felix Woodward went to another part of the room. 
 
 A frown appeared on Mr. Vincy's pink forehead. 
 "Clerk down-town. How does he come here? Mrs. 
 Houghton ought to be more careful." 
 
 " This is a republican country, Mr. Vincy," said Helen. 
 
 "Wrong principle wrong principle entirely." 
 
 Alice's nonsense soon made Mr. Vincy regain his good 
 humor. In a short time Mrs. Winter, who chaperoned 
 Helen, came up, and the girls separated. 
 
 Helen rode home in a state of satisfaction. Cui bono?
 
 A STORY OF TO-DAY. 287 
 
 Alice made her sad ; Mr. Yincy was vulgar and " horrid " 
 (for the first time) ; the world was hollow. " I will be a 
 nun," she thought. Before they reached her father's 
 house, on Capitol Hill, she forgot this thought in the at- 
 tempt to discover what interested her in Felix Woodward, 
 who was certainly brusque and ill-bred, and yet there was 
 something about him 
 
 III. 
 
 " IPHIGENIA ! " 
 
 
 
 Mr. Winter's pampered London coachman was drunk 
 on the day of Mrs. Houghton's kettledrum, consequently 
 Helen and her chaperon had to wait some time in the 
 hall at Mrs. Houghton's while Jehu clumsily manoeuvred 
 the carriage up to the sidewalk. The strength and chilli- 
 ness of Washington wind is proverbial ; and Mrs. Winter, 
 who was delicate at all times, took cold. She was one of 
 those delicate people who are always on the verge of 
 death apparently, and when, in ten days' time, she died 
 of pneumonia, everybody was surprised, although every- 
 body had expected that sad event for the last ten years. 
 
 The dead woman and Helen had loved each other de- 
 votedly. They had been confidantes, friends, com- 
 panions to an extent which is very rare nowadays between 
 mothers and daughters. 
 
 Mrs. Winter had lived a gentle, harmless life, and she 
 died in the Catholic faith. 
 
 Her husband was of the worldly order. There had 
 been little sympathy between him and his wife, and none 
 whatever between him and Helen. He paid her bills and 
 admired her because other people congratulated him on
 
 288 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 having such a charming daughter. He was the owner of 
 some very wealth-producing cotton-mills in Massachu- 
 setts, and just at present he was much preoccupied in lob- 
 bying an important bill through Congress, consequently 
 his wife's death was a matter of secondary interest, as 
 she herself had been for a long time. Helen was the 
 only real mourner, and the care and sorrow drove all 
 other thoughts from her mind. Her days were spent in 
 religious reading and prayer. What is life ? she asked 
 herself, and answered, The vestibule of death ! These 
 days were bitter-sweet and solemn. It was a relief that 
 her father never required her presence except at dinner, 
 when she usually met Mr. Yincy, who talked of the value 
 of his new cottage at Newport, his railroad to Loutch- 
 inova, and his contempt for all men who were not self- 
 made, until his host nipped him with a touch of gentle- 
 manly sarcasm, and reduced the conversation to a 
 monologue on the prospects of his bill. After a time 
 these quiet days grew long. Helen became restless. 
 She was tired of Mr. Yincy. He laughed too loud and 
 jeered openly at everything he did not understand re- 
 ligion, art, music. 
 
 " He is not a gentleman," she thought ; " he despises 
 poor people, and respects only those who are wealthy ; he 
 thinks that money is everything. I wonder if Mr. Wood- 
 ward but why Mr. Woodward ? He is no better than 
 anybody else " 
 
 A knock at the door. Alice Wesley entered, bright, 
 pretty, and voluble as usual. 
 
 "How well you look in black, dear like a lady out of 
 Dante Rossetti's poems mediaeval, you know ; and you 
 are a girl who need not trouble yourself about your looks 
 either ; your ' beau mari ' is secured ; at the german the
 
 A STORY OF TO-DAY. 289 
 
 other night, Mr. Yincy posed for ' a forsaken swain,' you 
 not being there." 
 
 " Alice ! " 
 
 " What a queer girl you are ! You don't seem at all 
 delighted at the prospect of marrying a million. I would 
 be wild with delight, although Mr. Yincy is the most 
 detestably vulgar man I know ; still a million " 
 
 "AUce/" 
 
 " Oh, what's the use of girls being hypocritical to each 
 other. By the way, I just ran in to borrow a pin for the 
 lace at my neck. I'm in a dreadful hurry to promenade 
 on the avenue in this lovely sunshine ; and I've lost my 
 pin the lovely one, with the figure of OEnone. Can't 
 you lend me one ? " 
 
 Helen produced a box of glittering trifles. Alice 
 selected a large, carved cross of black bog-oak. 
 
 " This is old and pretty. Ta ! ta ! rna belle ! I wish 
 you would come with me." 
 
 " I am going to Yespers. It is a holy day." 
 
 " Saint Agnes ! " 
 
 It was just after luncheon. There were several hours 
 to pass before dinner. Helen was in the mood for a long 
 walk. She had it in her mind to ride to Georgetown, 
 and cross the bridge 'to Arlington. She knew the road, 
 and the sadness of the place harmonized with her melan- 
 choly. But she did not care to go through the Yirginia 
 woods alone. She finally took an aimless walk, and at ves- 
 per time found herself under the arches of St, Dominic's, 
 
 The majestic swell of the organ, the forms of the 
 Fathers in their black and white robes amid the haze of 
 incense, and the atmosphere of prayer, were better for 
 her than the sadness of Arlington ; and her mind, heart, 
 and soul were satisfied. 
 19
 
 290 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Coming out, her eyes were full of the glory of the 
 stained window over the organ, irradiated by golden 
 light, and she did not notice a gentleman at the gate 
 until he spoke, half involuntarily : 
 
 " Miss Winter ! " 
 
 "Mr. Woodward! I have not seen you since Mrs. 
 Iloughton's afternoon." 
 
 There was a pause. Pauses are full of meaning, and 
 this pause meant that one had been thinking of the other. 
 In their thoughts they had become friends ; and now it 
 was necessary to go from the ideal to the real. They 
 were both trying to do this. 
 
 -" You had a sad time since that afternoon." 
 
 " Very sad." 
 
 " You said a few chance words that afternoon which 
 have been in my mind ever since. You said that Catho- 
 lics were governed by their religion, and that they did 
 not make it a thing of convenience." 
 
 "I meant to say that, whether I did or not," said 
 Helen. 
 
 '* Well, I thought I knew to the contrary, and I said 
 go ; but I have discovered that I judged from superficial 
 premises." 
 
 " I know you did," she said, earnestly. 
 
 " I had heard of your charity and goodness " 
 
 Helen's face reddened, partly from annoyance, partly 
 from pleasure that he should praise her, even with second- 
 hand praise. 
 
 " I do not like compliments." 
 
 " I did not mean to compliment you. I meant to show 
 you what your example has led me to; but you jumped 
 at a conclusion. Do I look like a man who would pay 
 compliments ? "
 
 A STORY OF TO-DA.Y. 291 
 
 Helen thought : " What a strange man ! His apparent 
 rudeness is only earnestness ! " 
 
 " I have come to the conclusion that your religion is 
 the only one that governs men's passions and impulses. 
 All men need to be restrained and governed. In a few 
 days I will be a Catholic. Pray for me ! " 
 
 He bowed and turned the corner. 
 
 " He is rude ! " thought Helen. " I wanted to talk to 
 him." 
 
 And Helen thought of him until she reached Capitol 
 Hill. 
 
 He had come back to the corner, and watched her until 
 she reached the avenue. 
 
 "A true woman," he said; "what a wife she would 
 make for a good man ! And yet I know so little of her ! " 
 
 That evening, after dinner, Alice brought back the 
 cross. There was a worried look on her face. 
 
 "I had an adventure," she said, in an agitated way. 
 "I had not gone far to-day, when I noticed that I was 
 followed by an old woman, with a basket on her arm ; a 
 withered, meanly-dressed old woman, Helen ; she passed 
 and repassed me, turned around, and looked sharply at me 
 several times ; at last she cried out, as if she were about 
 to have a fit, ' Kathleen, Kathleen, is it you, my child ? ' 
 Her voice frightened me. I ran into a store, and some- 
 body sent her away. Oh, Helen, if that common woman 
 should be my my MOTHER ! " 
 
 Moisture came into Helen's eyes. 
 
 " It would be happiness " 
 
 " Happiness ! " cried Alice. " I am nearly wild with 
 dread ! That coarse, common thing my mother ! I will 
 go away and hide. I will deny her, even if she prove it. 
 I will!"
 
 292 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 "There is no fear," said Helen, trying to conquer a 
 feeling of repulsion to this heartless Sybarite ; " I heard 
 your uncle telling papa that you are the daughter of his 
 brother, who married a poor Irish girl " 
 
 " I know ! He says that ; but I don't believe it He 
 will tell me nothing of my parents ; and she may be my 
 mother. I will never own her 1 " 
 
 Alice's culture and refinement had become weeds 
 which- had killed those flowers that spring from the heart 
 and soul. 
 
 "Mr. Yiucy will call to-morrow evening," said Mr. 
 Winter, when Alice had gone. " He intends to propose. 
 Of course you will say yes." 
 
 The blood flew to Helen's brow. 
 
 " Papa, I do not love him." 
 
 "What has that to do with the matter? Don't be 
 foolish, girl. He is worth a million." 
 
 " I don't care." 
 
 "/do. My bill has been defeated. I was so sure of 
 its success that I mortgaged everything to push it. I 
 must have this millionaire for my son-in-law, or I shall 
 be ruined. Yon must marry Mr. Yincy." He said all 
 this slowly, calmly, as was his wont. 
 
 Helen burst into tears. 
 
 " Iphigenia ! " sneered Mr. Winter, " a modern young 
 woman weeps at the thought of sacrificing herself for a 
 million. 'Tis passing strange ! " 
 
 She prayed for strength, for light. Marry Mr. Yincy ! 
 The thought filled her with horror. Be the means of 
 ruining her father. She could not, she could not ! 
 
 The next morning, after a sleepless night, she sought 
 relief in one of her long walks. Again, fatigued, she 
 knelt in St. Dominic's. The church seemed cold and
 
 A STORY OF TO-DAY. 293 
 
 empty. She prayed desperately. God could save her, 
 if He would. 
 
 " Are there two of them f " 
 
 These whispered words made her turn. 
 
 There was an old woman, with pinched features, poorly 
 clad, at the end of the pew. 
 
 "If you please, Miss," said the old woman, timidly, 
 " an' I hope you'll not think it strange for me to be ask- 
 in'. Is that cross you wear at your throat yours? " 
 
 " Certainly," answered Helen, amazed. 
 
 " Have you a rosary, Miss ; an old one, of small white 
 beads, and big black ones, with no crucifix, but only a 
 broken sixpence, the first thing my husband gave me, on 
 the chain ? " 
 
 The woman ran over the words with such trembling 
 eagerness that Helen scarcely understood her at first. 
 
 Helen hesitated. In a drawer at home lay an old black 
 and white rosary, from which the crucifix had been broken ; 
 and to which was attached a broken sixpence. This was 
 the first plaything that Helen remembered. 
 
 " I have such a rosary," said Helen, " but let us leave 
 the church. We can talk elsewhere." 
 
 The woman did not heed her. Her wrinkled face 
 turned pale, revealing very plainly the blue circles around 
 her eyes, set there by years of suspense and tears. She 
 staggered and fell against the side of the pew. Hslen 
 caught her hands. 
 
 " Thank you, acushla," said the woman, with a wistful 
 look. " Sure you have her eyes clear as the sky at home ! 
 Do you go by the name of Winter? " 
 
 " I am Helen Winter." 
 
 "Not Kathleen?" 
 
 " No." Helen's self-possession was taking leave of her.
 
 294 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 This woman must be insane, and yet, as usual, Helen 
 could feel, but not think. 
 
 " You are my girl ! My Kathleen ! " 
 
 Kathleen Bryant aged by care and the hope that 
 maketh the heart sick prostrated herself in the aisle 
 and said her Nuno Dimittis. After a silence which was 
 eloquent, Kathleen arose, her face bathed in tears. 
 
 " If you're happier, my child, with your rich friends 
 than you would be with me, stay ; but oh, let me see you 
 sometimes." 
 
 Helen was bewildered. She said, " Come home with 
 me, and speak to Mr. Winter." 
 
 As they went along Kathleen Bryant told how she had 
 lost her child the night the Hawk was wrecked nineteen 
 years ago ; that, after a long search, she found the mate 
 of the brig in New York, and heard that he had given 
 the child into the care of a rich lady, Mrs. Winter, who 
 had promised to bring her up in the Catholic faith. 
 Kathleen now ceased to seek her child. She worked 
 hard and was thrifty. She wanted money, only that she 
 might find her child ; and she had amassed sufficient to 
 allow her, with frugality, to search everywhere, from 
 morning to night. 
 
 "Sure, I put that cross into the old shawl that was 
 around you, and gave you the rosary the last thing, 
 
 Helen led her mother up to her luxuriously furnished 
 room. 
 
 "I can't take you away from all this, darlin', " cried 
 poor Kathleen, with a heavy weight at her heart. " I 
 am poor." 
 
 " I will go where you go, mother." This broke the 
 ice. Helen felt that she had found her mother. That
 
 A STORY OF TO-DAY. 295 
 
 withered old woman had suddenly become more precious 
 than the whole world. 
 
 What scientist can explain the thing? It was not rea- 
 sonable. Helen wanted no proof. This woman was her 
 mother. 
 
 Mr. Winter did not come home to dinner. The mother 
 and daughter dined together up-stairs, much to the amaze- 
 ment of the servants. Later, when Mr. Yincy came, 
 Helen led Kathleen into the parlor. 
 
 " My mother, Mr. Yincy." 
 
 The millionaire opened his mouth until the gold plate 
 of his false teeth showed. His face expressed surprise 
 and disgust when he recovered himself. Then Helen ex- 
 plained. 
 
 Mr. Winter entered at this juncture. 
 
 " Look here, Winter, is this true ? " And Mr. Yincy 
 ran over the story. 
 
 "I suppose so," said Mr. Winter, indifferently ; " Helen 
 is not my daughter. Mrs. Winter found her somewhere. 
 If she wants to go to her mother I have no objection ; 
 but I suppose you have, as you want to marry her." 
 
 " Winter, I say ; you don't expect me to marry the 
 daughter of that old hag!" the millionaire said, swelling 
 with rage. " If Helen will give her up, and keep the 
 thing quiet, I'll think about it." 
 
 " JSTever ! " said Helen. 
 
 " You're a brute, Yincy ! " said Mr. Winter, politely. 
 " It's all for the best, Helen, for I intend to marry Mrs. 
 Houghton in four months' time, and Mr. Yincy might 
 not like a stepmother-in-law." 
 
 Mr. Winter could afford to be independent now. Mrs. 
 Houghton had agreed to advance all the money he wanted. 
 
 "You can stay here, Helen," he saiJ, ''if you like;
 
 296 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 you have always behaved well ; but I can't have the old 
 lady here." 
 
 In a little house in Philadelphia, Kathleen Bryant and 
 her daughter live happily and contentedly. Peace and 
 love dwell there. 
 
 " Frown, and we smile, the lords of our own hands." 
 
 Helen remembers those words. And the singer, whom 
 she remembers too, has obtained a position in Philadel- 
 phia ; when the little home is made ready Kathleen Bry- 
 ant will again lose her daughter. 
 
 " Well, well," says Kathleen, between a smile and a 
 tear, " sure, what's the difference ? She's in God's keep- 
 ing." 
 
 Alice Wesley, now Mrs. Vincy, tries to forget a 
 longing for higher and better things in the dash and glit- 
 ter of society, and sometimes she succeeds.
 
 THE LISLES. 
 I. 
 
 " My dearest foe." "HAMLET." 
 
 GrBEAT change had long been taking place in 
 Arthur Lisle's mind. The influences surround- 
 ing him had not been favorable to such a change. 
 He could not tell where or when the first swell of this 
 great wave had arisen in the ocean of his life ; he only 
 knew that now it had burst through all impediments. 
 He stood, as it were, happy, yet fearful, watching the 
 gates of his soul open to the flood of Faith. 
 
 Although he had scarcely passed his twenty-sixth year, 
 he was rector of a fashionable church, St. Bon a Ventura's. 
 This church was " high," but not extremely high. In its 
 decorations it admitted florid crosses of all styles, but, as 
 yet, incense, vestments, and possessions had not entered 
 within its walls. Among its congregation there were no 
 poor people ; silk did not jostle serge, and clumsy shoes 
 never profaned the soft carpets of this literal " chapel of 
 oase." In its cushioned pews one was sure to see the 
 latest things from Paris every Sunday ; therefore its ser- 
 vices were attended largely by that class of vacant-headed 
 youths who on the sidewalk " most do congregate." 
 
 Of this church Arthur Lisle was deemed worthy for 
 various reasons. His father, Eric Lisle, was one of the 
 " best " people in Central City. No man was considered 
 
 (297)
 
 298 THE LIFE A HOUND rs. 
 
 more respectable, no man more wealthy, consequently 
 no man wan more u looked up to " than " old Lisle," as 
 people called him, though he had barely reached the 
 shady side of fifty. All his pride seemed to be in his 
 only son ; and now that Arthur had gained the position 
 of rector of St. Bonaventufa's, his father had hoped that 
 he might one day enjoy the delight of uttering " Bishop " 
 Lisle, not dreaming that his son was beginning to regard 
 that title, in its Protestant Episcopal signification, as a 
 delusion and an empty sham. 
 
 Arthur Lisle was a favorite among his parishioners. 
 He was gentlemanly, eloquent, handsome, the very beau 
 phraseur of a youthful reverend, but he was married. Of 
 course this was a serious drawback in the eyes of the 
 maidenly devotees at St. Bona Ventura's ; in consideration 
 of his extraordinary good qualities, however, the amiable 
 beings graciously permitted their papas and brothers to 
 support him in vestry meetings and similar conclaves. 
 
 Thus far his path in life had been strewn with rose- 
 leaves. And now it was his will or rather, God's will 
 to thrust aside the roses, and to search for the sharp 
 thorns beneath them thorns that pierced his heart to its 
 very core. 
 
 Once only had he seen his father in anger, and this 
 was when he had hinted at the change his belief was 
 undergoing. And then the old man gave way to no sud- 
 den or fierce burst of rage. His face became white, and 
 his hands trembled. 
 
 " If," he said, slowly, " this delusion should ever lead 
 you to embrace the Romish Belief, I would discard you 
 pitilessly. It is impossible impossible! Yet, if it were 
 not, I could never forgive you. Never speak to me of 
 such a thing again. Forget it."
 
 THE LISLES. 299 
 
 Eric Lisle was a man of few words, and these deeply 
 impressed themselves on Arthur's memory. He had 
 counted the cost. He knew his father too well to believe 
 that he would relent; still, he hoped, in spite of better 
 judgment. 
 
 One bright Sunday morning he ascended to the pulpit 
 as usual. The blood-red spot which the sun threw from 
 the stained-glass window upon the white velvet of the 
 pulpit cushion, lay as it had lain there before for many 
 Sundays. He had learned to watch it, and to notice that 
 it always changed to purple when he came to the third 
 head of his sermon. The same rustling of silks and pre- 
 paratory coughs of other Sundays settled into silence. A 
 vague, unreasonable thought passed through his mind : 
 Could it be that, while nothing without was changed, he 
 could have changed so utterly within ? 
 
 To-day the sun had not time to turn the stain on the 
 cushion from red to purple while he spoke. 
 
 In a few words he said farewell, and left St. Bona- 
 ventura's without a rector. He descended as the sound 
 of his voice died away, and slowly walked from the scene 
 of his labors, never to return. 
 
 " Gone over to Rome ! deplorable ! outrageous ! 
 but I told you so ! " 
 
 And for once Arthur Lisle's sermon was unfavorably 
 criticised at the luncheon-tables of St. Bonaventura's 
 select flock. 
 
 From the church, Arthur Lisle went to his father's 
 house for the pastoral residence had for some time been 
 undergoing repairs. His earthly future was clouded ; 
 but all along the way his heart seemed full of sunshine. 
 The light of peace had entered it. Feverish doubt and 
 indecision had fled.
 
 300 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Agnes, his wife, sat in an arm-chair tilled with pillows, 
 near the window of a pleasant room. Agnes Lisle was 
 one of those pale, spirituelle women who seem like 
 greenhouse lilies, fit only for an atmosphere of warmth 
 and care, ready to wither at the first chill breath. Her 
 In-own hair, gold-tinted by the noonday sun, had become 
 dishevelled; as she turned her wan but beautiful face 
 toward him, it seemed as if the halo of a higher life had 
 already fallen around her. He paused, startled, and a 
 cold thrill ran through him. Something in her ex- 
 pression reminded him of the look his dying mother had 
 worn. 
 
 " Is it over ? " she asked eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, Agnes," he answered, " it is over." 
 
 " Thank God ! thank God ! " she murmured fervently. 
 
 Only a few days had passed since the waters of Bap- 
 tism had purified her brow, and in her new strength she 
 rejoiced in her husband's sacrifice. 
 
 " God has given me strength," he said ; " may God 
 give me strength ! " 
 
 " The worst is over." 
 
 He felt that the worst was not over. He must meet 
 his father ; and, looking at Agnes, he saw the dim shadow 
 of the angel of death. 
 
 The first trial did not come in the form he expected. 
 He did not meet his father face to face. 
 
 An hour had, scarcely passed when a note was brought 
 to him. He opened it with a feeling as if it were a 
 death-warrant. It contained a few terse sentences : 
 
 *' ARTHUR LISLE: After what you have done this 
 day, I can not recognize you as my son. You have 
 destroyed all my hope in you. Do not attempt to see
 
 THE LISLES. 301 
 
 me. It is useless. Go I will not curse you, but I can 
 not bless you. ERIC LISLE." 
 
 Arthur crushed the paper in his hand, and for an in- 
 stant it seemed that this was too much to bear even foi 
 God ; but he dashed the temptation away from him ; in 
 his heart he said 
 
 " Fiat voluntas tua." 
 
 " Agnes," he said, after a pause, " we must leave this 
 house." 
 
 She looked startled, and then, with a glance of tender 
 pity, arose from her chair. 
 
 " I am ready," she said, putting her thin hand on his 
 arm. " Remember what Christ suffered for us ; remember 
 her who said : 'What sorrow is like to my sorrow ? ' and 
 be strong." 
 
 "It is hard hard," he groaned. "Forgive me, O 
 Lord ! Fiat voluntas tua" 
 
 " Fiat voluntas tua," she repeated. 
 
 And together they left the house, the master of which 
 they loved better than life, and who now was their 
 " dearest foe." 
 
 II. 
 
 
 
 LITTLE AGNES. 
 
 Tall masts, taller warehouses, a glimpse of the river 
 between huge piles of bags and barrels, a combination 
 of odors in which salt-fish is prominent, yells, shrieks, 
 bustle imagine all these, and you have an idea of the 
 neighborhood in which Arthur Lisle lives. 
 
 It is not a pleasant place. Few places near the water-
 
 302 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 side in a great city are pleasant ; but these surroundings 
 matter very little to Arthur Lisle now. 
 
 A month ago Agnes Lisle was carried to the grave. 
 He had seen the shadow of death growing around her 
 darker day after day. And yet, when the blow came, he 
 could not realize that she was dying. Even now it seems 
 like a dream that slow, gradual parting from life and 
 him. He can not realize that she is dead. Even while 
 he utters prayers for her soul, he turns, half expecting 
 to hear her join her low voice to his, as she was wont 
 to do. 
 
 Another Agnes a little Agnes smiling like her 
 mother, but with her father's eyes has come to bear 
 him company. Sometimes he holds the sleeping baby 
 in his arms for hours, musing over the joy that " might 
 have been," were she alive ; and then he awakens, with a 
 start, to the necessities of the present. This little Agnes 
 her legacy must be provided for. Thus far, he has been 
 unable to obtain employment. The talents which showed 
 so brilliantly in the pulpit seem to be useless now. All 
 his attempts at earning a livelihood have failed. The 
 market is overstocked with clerks trained clerks, too. 
 Newspapers and magazines offer to open their pages to 
 him if he will write "spicy" articles; but, to a man in- 
 ured to sermon-writing, "spiciuess" and flippancy of 
 style are not easy acquisitions. He can teach nothing, 
 though his mind is well stored, because he feels that he 
 does not possess the faculty of imparting instruction, and 
 because no one has offered him the opportunity. He can 
 not work with his hands, because his hands have neither 
 skill nor strength. To him it seems that the most stupid 
 laborer on the whirves is his superior. The man may be 
 stupid and ignorant, but he is not helpless. lie is a pro-
 
 THE LISLES. 303 
 
 dncer. He can work ; he does not cumber the earth. 
 Following this train of thought, Arthur Lisle groans. 
 And well he may, for in all the wide world there seems 
 nothing that he can do to gain bread for the little child 
 in his arms. His small stock of money has begun to find 
 wings ; his father has shown no sign of relenting ; and 
 he will soon be at the end of his resources. 
 
 Mrs. Mulligan interrupts his gloomy reverie with one 
 of her double knocks. Mrs. Mulligan is the washer- 
 woman, who lives on the second floor. She is a tall, 
 masculine-looking woman, with a weather-beaten com- 
 plexion, red hair, and high cheek-bones ; but the good- 
 natured expression on her face amply compensates for 
 its lack of beauty. She supports, by the labor of 
 her hands, five small Mulligans and a big Mulligan. 
 The last is her " worse-half," who can not be per- 
 suaded to prefer work to whisky, and who gives this 
 heroic woman more trouble than all the young brood. 
 She works cheerfully as only an Irishwoman can work. 
 She carries her cross loyally, though, it is true, not very 
 humbly to outward-seeing eyes. Her faith is firm, and 
 her deeds would shame many a professional philanthro- 
 pist. Ten months ago, about the time that little Agnes 
 Lisle was born, Mrs. Mulligan lost her youngest child 
 an Agnes, too ; and so, when Arthur Lisle came to live 
 in the third-story room of No. 9 River Place, she "took 
 to" the new baby at once. A stranger would have 
 thought that she had children enough of her own ; yet 
 her motherly heart seemed to be warm enough for all 
 little strangers in distress. 
 
 o 
 
 Mrs. Mulligans loud but cheery voice brings to Arthur 
 Lislc's mind a new sense of life arid light. Her bustling 
 presence seems like a fresh breeze from the outer world,
 
 304 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 and raises his spirits in spite of himself. Willingly he 
 resigns his helpless burden to her care. 
 
 " Sore, sir," she say's, rocking the baby gently to and 
 fro with a movement which she could only have acquired 
 through long experience in that soporific art, " sure she's 
 just the best child I've ever known, barrin' me own 
 Mickey. Och, it's me that has the trouble ! Sure Mike's 
 been at it again, sir." Arthur is following a passing 
 ship with his eyes, and contemplating an idea that it has 
 put into his mind. 
 
 " At what," he asks, absently. 
 
 "At what, sure?" replies Mrs. Mulligan ; "at what 
 would he be at, except the dhrink 2 " 
 
 " Oh," he answers, with a belief that he is saying the 
 proper thing, " I thought it was something new." 
 
 Mrs. Mulligan, who reserves the right of linding fault 
 with her husband solely to herself, fires up at once. 
 
 " Sure you're mistaken entirely, sir, if you think Mike 
 Mulligan would be after demeanin' himself in any way 
 barrin' his takin' a sup of the crathur now and then ; and 
 sure we all have our faults " 
 
 "No doubt no doubt," interrupts Arthur, feeling like 
 a man who has unwittingly turned on a shower-bath, and 
 who is unable to stop it. 
 
 " I'll make bould to say you have some faults yourself, 
 sir; an' there wouldn't be a more harmless crathur on the 
 face of the earth than the same Mike Mulligan, if he'd 
 let th,e liquor alone. Bad luck to it! Faith, I'm dis- 
 turbin' the baby ! bless her pretty face 1 " 
 
 " Mrs. Mulligan, would you like to keep my little girl ? " 
 
 Mrs. Mulligan looks startled. 
 
 " Faith, sir, haven't I got enough of me*own to keep ? " 
 
 A very natural question !
 
 THE LISLES. 305 
 
 " Not always for a time," he answers, pursuing his own 
 train of thought, " until I return. I am going away." 
 
 " And where, sir ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I can not tell yet." 
 
 As he leaves the room, Mrs. Mulligan shakes her head, 
 and the pitying expression of her face says as much as 
 Ophelia's " sweet bells jangled." 
 
 Arthur Lisle walks rapidly through the streets that 
 border on the river. Once or twice he pauses as if to 
 turn back ; but again he goes on. At last he stops before 
 a dilapidated house, with "Boarding" painted on the 
 dingy green door. He asks one of the seafaring men 
 who are lounging around the steps whether Captain Hal v 
 stead lives there. He is answered in the affirmative. 
 
 He has met Halstead, who commands the brig Osprey, 
 several times during his weary search for employment. 
 
 When he comes out of the dingy boarding-house, he 
 has bound himself to serve as a common sailor on board 
 the Osprey during the term of her next voyage to Cuba. 
 
 He had made a desperate plunge a rash, impetuous 
 plunge, many would say ; yet to himself it seemed his 
 only refuge from starvation. 
 
 He thinks of little Agnes as he goes home, and for a 
 few moments doubts the prudence of leaving her with 
 Mrs. Mulligan. Mike, it is true, is a drunkard ; but he is 
 never violent. The children are good-hearted, but rough, 
 and ready for any mischief. Still, as Agnes is scarcely a 
 year old, their companionship can slightly influence the 
 little maiden. Besides, Mrs. Mulligan likes the child, and 
 Arthur knows that she will be taught the dear old prayers 
 of the Church night and morning. 
 
 " I will only be away a few months," he thinks, " and 
 the sum which I shall pay Mrs. Mulligan will be of great 
 service to her small as it will be." 
 20
 
 306 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Mrs. Mulligan, on being consulted, joyfully accepts the 
 responsibility, and the little money that he can afford to 
 deposit with her for the child's maintenance. Indeed, 
 the honest woman is rather inclined to consider herself 
 elevated in social statue by the addition to her family, 
 and the young Mulligans take infinite delight in alluding 
 to little Agnes as " the boarder." 
 
 The Osprey's sailing-day comes. In spite of his reso- 
 lution, Arthur feels that something must occur to pre- 
 vent his goin * ; but nothing does occur, and he sails for 
 Cuba in the Osprey. 
 
 If he had caught, a year ago, one glimpse of the future, 
 how it would have appalled him ! Now he accepts his 
 fate resignedly, and his great compensation is that, with a 
 pure heart, he can say, Fiat voluntas t/ua. After all, he 
 thinks, does it matter much whether his life is spent on 
 land or eea whether he toils \vith brain or hand if 
 God's grace is only with him ? Each day is a step nearer 
 the grave; what matter whether this day be bright or 
 dark ? And yet, when land is out of sight, he thinks of 
 little Agnes ; and, looking round the bleak, wind-swept 
 deck, he discovers that he is neither a stoic nor a perfect 
 Christian. 
 
 Days are lost in weeks, and months lengthen into half 
 a year. JSTo tidings come from Arthur Lisle. The Mulli- 
 gans have changed their abode several times, for laud- 
 lords are exacting, and Mrs. Mulligan does not find busi- 
 ness as brisk as usual Whenever Mike is sober at rare 
 intervals he goes, by his wife's command, to inquire for 
 the Osprey. The brig has come into port more than 
 once. Captain Halstead can only say that Arthur Lisle 
 left the vessel at Havana, and did not return. No mes- 
 sage, no letter, comas. Mrs. Mulligan is not as cheerful
 
 THE LISLES. 307 
 
 as she has been. The money which Arthur Lisle left for 
 little Agnes has long since gone the way of all lucre. Mrs. 
 Mulligan grows more anxious every day. Six small 
 mouths to fill and six small bodies to clothe, force her to 
 strive unremittingly in her efforts to make " both ends 
 meet." But in the winter a time comes when she feels 
 as if she must sink under the burden ; and in this time 
 happens the great temptation of her life. 
 
 One blustery day, as she goes down the ice-coatqd 
 street with a large bundle of new-washed clothes, her foot 
 slips and she* is about to fall, when an old gentleman, who 
 has watched her, restores both her equilibrium and her 
 bundle. She thanks him with effusion, and then stands 
 looking after him. 
 
 " What is his name, sir? " she asks of the first passer-by. 
 
 " Who ? Oh Eric Lisle. I thought everybody knew 
 old Lisle." 
 
 u Sure, it must be," she murmurs ; " that must be his 
 father, for one's the very moral of the other, barrin' he's 
 older." 
 
 Mrs. Mulligan's curiosity is excited ; when Mrs. Mulli- 
 gan thirsts for knowledge, she generally finds means to 
 quench her thirst. She has many acquaintances among 
 the servants of the place, and two days have not passed 
 before, by judicious inquiries, she has possessed herself of 
 a full and true history of the Lisle family. 
 
 The winter grows colder, and somehow the Mulligans 
 grow poorer. The new landlord the Mulligans of late 
 have not had an old landlord threatens ejection. The 
 children cry of cold in the night, and the mother looks 
 at little Agnes, and thinks that one little one less would 
 make a difference favorable to the others. 
 
 At first she drives the thought away. After a while
 
 308 Till-: LIFE AROFND US. 
 
 she asks why this child should add to her poverty, while 
 Eric Lisle, one of her natural protectors, rolls in wealth ? 
 Why should not he take charge of her? He is not a 
 Catholic, Mrs. Mulligan knows, and under his care Agnes 
 will never be a Catholic; Mrs. Mulligan knows this also. 
 And yet, she thinks, the son may return in a short time, 
 and he will reclaim the child, and no harm be done. In 
 spite of all her reasoning, the idea of transferring Agnes 
 to her grandfather makes Mrs. Mulligan feel guilty. To 
 her it is like selling a soul. She waits, holding tempta- 
 tion at bay, hoping that Arthur Lisle may return. She 
 waits in vain. 
 
 The night is cold and windy. The streets are white 
 with hard frost and chill moonlight. In the Mulligan 
 household the fire faintly glimmers; there is no cheery 
 glow, for coals are dear, and wherewithal to buy them is 
 scarce. The children shiver and cry for more bread. 
 There is not sufficient for all. 
 
 The mother, with set teeth and frowning brow, selects 
 little Agnes from the group crouching around the fire. 
 Saying nothing, she wraps the child in a shawl, and tak- 
 ing her in her arms disappears in the outside gloom. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE ANSWER TO MANY PRAYERS. 
 
 Eric Lisle sat in his study, an octagon-shaped room, 
 small and cosy, with all the appliances for luxurious 
 reading. He is a handsome man, much resembling his 
 son. During the hist year his hair has grown grayer and 
 the lines around his mouth and on his forehead have
 
 THE LISLES. 309 
 
 deepened, so that now he almost deserves the epithet 
 old. 
 
 He is bending over a pile of dusty books and papers 
 which he has just dug from the depths of an old- 
 fashioned cabinet. In his hand he holds a paper-covered 
 book, with gorgeously-colored prints of impossible birds 
 and beasts. Its pages are dog-eared and tattered. On 
 the first blank leaf he sees the drawing of a small hand 
 a hand that had evidently been laid upon the paper, and 
 then outlined with a dull pencil. Underneath are these 
 words, in great sprawling letters, " Arthur Lisle, aged 
 eight." 
 
 Eric Lisle's face loses its stern, fixed expression. He 
 covers it with his hands, and a bright drop falls between 
 his fingers. 
 
 " Oh, my boy my boy ! " he groans. 
 
 For the first time he pities Arthur instead of himself; 
 for the first time a vague thought enters his mind that 
 he has been too severe, and perhaps wrong. 
 
 Again he looks at the childish outline, and a vision of 
 Arthur's mother arises before him. He sees her now, as 
 he often saw her, bending over the pretty, blue-eyed 
 babe, building realms in the air of which the tiny Arthur 
 was always the happy prince. He remembers how full 
 of happiness his heart was one bright day when the 
 mother and child 
 
 A ring at the door-bell, followed by an altercation, 
 interrupts his train of thought for a moment. How 
 sweet the mother looked, and Arthur, with his large, 
 blue eyes, and golden ringlets ! 
 
 A knock. 
 
 Come in ! " 
 
 Mrs. Bell, his old housekeeper, stands in the doorway.
 
 310 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 She seems agitated and unusually confused. She ap- 
 proaches hesitatingly, with what seems to be a bundle in 
 her arms. 
 
 The ragged shawl has fallen aside. Eric Lisle's cheeks 
 and lips turn white. 
 
 " Arthur ! " he exclaims. 
 
 The housekeeper does not notice his changed coun- 
 tenance, or even the emotion in his voice. 
 
 " Somebody left it on the doorstep. What shall we 
 do with it, sir ? " 
 
 Eric Lisle does not answer. The vision of his baby son 
 seems to have become a reality. Mrs. Bell repeats the 
 question. 
 
 "You are a woman, you ought to know; I suppose it 
 wants something to eat." 
 
 " Do you mean to keep it, sir ? " 
 
 Little Agnes opens her eyes. They are like Arthur's. 
 
 "Keep it? What else?" 
 
 Mrs. Bell retires, speechless with amazement. This 
 incident materially strengthens her belief that wonders 
 will never cease. 
 
 In this way Agnes Lisle enters her grandfather's house. 
 On a handkerchief tied around her neck was the name 
 " Agues," and so they called her Agnes. 
 
 " She is my granddaughter, without doubt," Eric Lisle 
 
 " My son is too proud to acknowledge the error 
 
 of his ways, and so he has sent me this little waif as a 
 
 peace-offering. He'll come to reason himself, by and by, 
 
 I assure you." 
 
 Eric grows brighter and apparently younger from the 
 night of the child's arrival. She furnishes him with a 
 means of unceasing occupation. He worries her nurse to 
 desperation.
 
 THE LISLES. 311 
 
 The child wore a little medal, with the image of Our 
 Immaculate Lady on it, when she came. With trembling 
 fingers Mrs. Mulligan had placed it on her neck. Eric 
 Lisle frowned when he saw it, and ordered Mrs. Bell to 
 throw it away. The housekeeper put it in the old cabi- 
 net, along with Arthur's childish books. 
 
 Agnes passes through her childhood, and all the ills to 
 which childish flesh is heir, bravely under the care of 
 Mrs. Bell and her satellites. Her school-days pass at a 
 fashionable seminary, and she returns to her grandfather 
 "finished," which means that a very thin veneer of book- 
 knowledge has been added to her other qualities. 
 
 By this time everybody that knows Eric Lisle is aware 
 that this girl is his granddaughter. Of her father's story 
 she is utterly ignorant, through her grandfather's desire. 
 As far as education could make her, she is a Protestant. 
 She firmly believes all the horrors which have been 
 taught her about Catholics, and they have been measured 
 out to her with no stinting hand. She is full of preju- 
 dices, for false representations of her father's belief have 
 impregnated the atmosphere she has breathed since child- 
 hood. Yet she is not satisfied with her own creed. She 
 longs for something higher, less lifeless. The waters of 
 Baptism lie hidden in her heart ; but the rod is needed 
 to make them burst forth. 
 
 Her life in her grandfather's house is quiet, uneventful. 
 She reads to him, for his sight is failing; and sometimes 
 she plays for him the old airs he loves. Her occupations 
 are unvaried. Often she wishes that her lot had been 
 cast among those who are compelled to work for bread. 
 She seems so useless. 
 
 The beautiful Mbs Lisle is very much admired, though
 
 312 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 in her secluded life there are very few to tell her so. 
 Still, she knows it, for she can not walk in the street 
 without being followed by glances from all quarters. 
 She walks "in maiden meditation, fancy free," and, after 
 a time, cares little for the effect she produces. 
 
 One afternoon, during her usual walk in the quiet 
 street, an incident occurs. She is in the act of crossing 
 from one sidewalk to the other when a young man steps 
 hastily toward her. He is rather handsome, she notices, 
 and is dressed in plain gray clothes. He pauses near her. 
 
 " Allow me, Miss Lisle 
 
 He has passed. To her astonishment she finds that he 
 has left a little book in her hand. 
 
 Mechanically, without thought, she opens it and reads 
 the word " Catechism," and underneath, " Arthur Lisle, 
 November 18th." 
 
 What can it mean ? This is her father's name ! 
 
 She hurries homeward. She says nothing of the book, 
 but questions her grandfather. He evades her questions. 
 Full of perplexity and curiosity, she goes to the old cab- 
 inet. For the hundredth time she reads a commonplace 
 note written by Arthur Lisle, and looks over the tattered 
 primers with tender interest. Then she takes up the 
 medal, which Mrs. Bell has told her so much and no 
 more she wore when she came to her grandfather's 
 house. It puzzles her. She applies herself to the Cate- 
 chism, and reads slowly for half an hour. 
 
 " My father was a Catholic ! " she exclaims horrified. 
 
 Later she says : 
 
 " All this is beautiful ! " 
 
 And, when darkness makes reading impossible, sli3 
 cries 
 
 "If this is Catholicity, I would like to be a Catholic ! "
 
 THE LISLES. 313 
 
 She is a young girl, consequently she is enthusiastic, 
 especially regarding novelties. The next day she re- 
 pents and takes to one of her books of lies. That does 
 not satisfy her. She throws it aside and reads her Bible. 
 Somehow, that seems to chime in with the Catechism. 
 She can not close her ears to the concord. She becomes 
 weary, troubled. Who was that young man ? What did 
 it all mean ? She has no one of whom to make a confi- 
 dant. At last she resolves to try the effect of this curious 
 book upon her grandfather. As usual, he asks her to 
 read something to him at evening. She produces the 
 Catechism as a " curious pamphlet." 
 
 Eric Lisle does not interrupt her. She goes on, watch- 
 ing his face at intervals. After a while she pauses. 
 
 " It is all very clear and simple," he says ; '< go on." 
 
 She resumes. 
 
 " Agues," he says, after she has read for some time, 
 " as I grow older, I grow more doubtful of what I have 
 believed all my life ; and this little book tills my mind 
 with strange thoughts. It may be the devil tempting 
 me. Leave the book with, me, child. If this was 
 Arthur's belief," she hears him murmur as she steals 
 from the room, " I have been the most cruel and unjust 
 of men. Lord, pardon me ; I knew not what I did ! " 
 
 Agnes goes to her room, terrified. What power has 
 possessed her? Why should this worthless little pam- 
 phlet have wrought such a sudden effect ? 
 
 A week passes, and when Agnes explains how the 
 Catechism came into her possession, no further allusion 
 is made to it. 
 
 A sudden change in the weather takes place, and old 
 Eric is laid low with rheumatism. 
 
 " Child," lie said to Agnes, after a day spent in thought
 
 314 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 and silence, " I want to see one of these Catholic priests. 
 It may he I do not know yet that I have followed 
 false gods all my life; and now, though at the eleventh 
 hour, it is not too late to turn away from them." 
 
 Early on the following day, Agnes, with feelings of 
 trepidation, goes to the Catholic church in the next 
 street. The priest's house is not far off. 
 
 Father De Young is out on a sick call. 
 
 "Wait," the servant says, noticing the expression of 
 her face. " He has been gone some time ; and from 
 High street, where he is now, he will probably go over 
 to the Orphan Asylum. If you will walk down toward 
 High street, Miss, you may meet him." 
 
 Agnes thanks the girl and adopts the suggestion. It 
 never occurs to her that, as she has not seen Father De 
 Young, he may be difficult to recognize. She goes on, 
 confident that she must know a Catholic priest when she 
 sees him. 
 
 Several people are gathered around the door of a house 
 on the north side. Among them is a policeman, looking 
 as important as if he were keeping the world at bay. 
 
 Agnes pauses a moment to watch a group of curious- 
 looking children, who seem to be stricken with awe by 
 the majesty of this minion of the law. A man, tall, thin, 
 and bent, comes from the house and crosses the street 
 rapidly. The policeman takes off his hat. Agnes feels 
 that this is the priest. There is an indefinable something 
 about him that tells her so. She approaches him. 
 
 " Father De Young, I believe ? " 
 
 " Yes, child," he answers, gravely scrutinizing her. 
 
 She tells her errand. 
 
 " I will see Mr. Lisle," he answers, " in a quarter of 
 an hour. In the meantime you can do an act of charity.
 
 THE LISLES. 315 
 
 In that house, which I have just left, there lies a man 
 suffering much. A few minutes ago a scaffold in front 
 of a new building fell. This man, passing at the time, 
 was severely injured. There is nobody with him now 
 but an old woman. I am on my way to get a Sister to 
 nurse him. Until she comes, you can be of great use, if 
 you will." 
 
 He leads the way into the house ; Agnes follows him, 
 feeling rather timid, but resolving to do her best. 
 
 The injured man lies on a hastily-improvised couch in 
 the little parlor of the house. His head is wrapped in 
 bandages. An old woman, seemingly very nervous and 
 excited, makes room for the priest and Agnes. 
 
 " The doctor has gone, sir," she says in a grating un- 
 dertone intended for a whisper, " and Tie must be kept 
 quiet and nursed well." 
 
 " You can go," the priest answers ; " this young lady 
 will remain for a time." 
 
 The priest gives Agnes a reassuring glance and some 
 words of advice as he hurries away, promising to send 
 the Sister at once. 
 
 The old woman, glad of the opportunity, leaves the 
 room. The wounded man turns his face from the wall 
 and opens his eyes. Agnes almost drops the glass of 
 water in her hand. This man, in spite of his disfiguring 
 bandages and deathly pallor, has her grandfather's face ! 
 
 She stands motionless, gazing at him. He looks into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Agnes!" he cries, hoarsely. "Agnes! have you 
 come back to life ? " 
 
 " I am Agnes," she answers, a strange joy in her heart 
 " Agnes Lisle." 
 
 " Then," he murmurs, " I am either in Heaven with 
 my wife, or on earth with my daughter ! "
 
 316 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 He sinks back unconscious. 
 
 As soon as the physician gives his consent, Arthur 
 Lisle for the wounded man was Arthur Lisle was con- 
 veyed to his father's house. The old man can not be- 
 lieve in his happiness. To have his son again ! to feel 
 that they are reunited in heart and soul, in love and 
 faith, this seems too much joy for earth. 
 
 When Arthur Lisle is well enough, he tells his short 
 story. When the Osprey reached Havana, he had gone 
 ashore, intending to remain only a short time. The 
 weather was hot, and the malarious fever, so prone to 
 attack foreigners in Cuba, seized upon him. Some good 
 Samaritans carried him to the hospital. Recent shocks 
 had impaired both his physical and mental strength ; 
 consequently his illness was long and dangerous. 
 
 The Jesuit priest who attended him soon knew his 
 wants. When he recovered, the good Father obtained 
 for him a position as teacher of English. He wrote to 
 Mrs. Mulligan twice, and received no answer. The sus- 
 pense was unendurable. He returned to the United 
 States, to search in vain for Mrs. Mulligan. Her old 
 neighbors knew nothing of her. They believed that one 
 of the children had died. Was it the little stranger? 
 They were not sure. 
 
 After a fruitless search, during which he suffered a 
 century of agony, he went back to Havana. Careful 
 work brought him all-teaching experience, and he rose, 
 step by step, until he found himself possessed of a com- 
 petence which a well-managed sugar plantation yielded 
 him. But he longed for home, and home he came, to 
 find his child to find his dearest foe ready to receive 
 the Faith, and be again his dearest friend. 
 
 When an opportunity occurs, Agnes speaks of the
 
 THE LISLES. 317 
 
 Catechism which has made the wilderness of their hearts 
 blossom as a rose. Arthur Lisle looks at the book attent- 
 ively. 
 
 "Ah, yes, I remember," he says; "I gave this to 
 Edward, Mrs. Mulligan's eldest boy. And you say a 
 young man brought it to you ? " 
 
 Agnes describes him. 
 
 Arthur Lisle smiles. " Considering that you saw him 
 only once, mademoiselle, your description is very minute. 
 Father De Young may know him. I will ask." 
 
 It happens that Father De Young does know a certain 
 Edward Mulligan, a pillar of his parish ; and when the 
 priest comes, that young man comes with him. That 
 young man colors when he is introduced to Agnes, and 
 hastens to explain the affair of the Catechism. 
 
 From his story, it appears that if his mother had only 
 waited a few days, she might have spared herself years 
 of remorse and self-reproach. The tide of fortune turned. 
 A brother of worthless Mike's died in Ireland, and his 
 savings, bequeathed to the Mulligans, made them com- 
 paratively affluent. Mrs. Mulligan, however, never re- 
 gained her old cheerfulness. She felt, she averred, as if 
 she had given a soul to the devil. When dying, she im- 
 plored Edward to give Agnes Lisle her father's Catechism. 
 She could think of no other reparation, and all the prayers 
 and penances of her later life were bound up in that repa- 
 ration. 
 
 On the happy day which sees Eric Lisle and Agnes 
 admitted into the Church, Arthur, with his heart too 
 full for many words, can only utter the prayer of his 
 adversity : 
 
 " Fiat voluntas tua. Thy ways are not our ways, O 
 Lord 1 "
 
 INEZ. 
 I. 
 
 IN SPAIN. 
 
 INEZ RAYMOND thrust aside the window-cur- 
 tain, and turned her face toward the sombre old 
 church. She stretched out her hands, and wrung 
 them with a movement that expressed intense agony, 
 and the forgotten tears on her cheeks seemed to dry in 
 the ardor of her look of supplication. 
 
 Beneath, in the open patio, under the shade of orange 
 trees, a procession wound through ranks of kneeling 
 people, and entered the church-door. Clouds of incense, 
 faintly tinged by the setting sun, entangled themselves 
 in the tree-branches, and then arose like prayer escaping 
 from the grasp of earthly thoughts. 
 
 In the room, on a low couch, lay a man past middle 
 age, with streaks of white in his dark hair. His eyes 
 were closed, and the many wrinkles on his cheeks and 
 forehead seemed to be traced in the palest wax. Ap- 
 parently, he was immobile. No breath parted the closed 
 lips only a slight dilation of the nostril showed that he 
 still lived. He had received the viaticum. The priest, 
 Fere Zacharie, held the crucifix before him. All was 
 silent. The Sister of Charity ceased for an instant to 
 read the prayers for the dead. 
 
 On one side was the dying man, serene, peaceful ; on 
 the other, his daughter, living, yet suffering intolerable 
 (318)
 
 INEZ. 319 
 
 anguish, and almost fighting with Heaven for her father's 
 soul. Death seemed easier than life. 
 
 Inez ! " 
 
 In an instant she was at his side. Could it be that God 
 had answered her ? was her thought. Could it be that 
 he had restored this life ? 
 
 He tried to smile that old, sweet smile which Inez 
 knew so well. His eyes spoke. Pere Zacharie understood 
 him at once, and taking a small packet from the table, he 
 put it in Inez's hand. The dying man looked into his 
 daughter's face again, and then turned his glance toward 
 the crucifix. 
 
 De Profundis 
 
 As he turned to stone a statue of despair Inez stood, 
 silent, tearless. She was an orphan, alone in the wide, 
 wide world. 
 
 From the patio came the adoring chant of priest and 
 people before the Host. Slowly, softly it sank into 
 silence with the departing soul. 
 
 " Qui vitam sine tennino 
 Nobis donet in patria." 
 
 Those words, fragrant with the sweetness of a thon. 
 sand benedictions, aroused the girl from her frozen 
 dumbness. 
 
 "O God!" she cried, "only give him eternal life 
 eternal peace with Thee, and do with me as Thou wilt ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 In a quiet street, a kind of no thoroughfare, in which 
 the houses, as much alike as a dozen pins in a row, are
 
 THK LIFE AKOrXl) 1'S. 
 
 l>est described by that detestable word "genteel," live 
 the Leigbs. 
 
 On tbis dazzling brigbt September morning the little 
 dining-roora looks very pleasant and comfortable. Carved 
 brackets, hanging baskets, and a hundred nameless tokens 
 of good taste and woman's care, are everywhere visible-. 
 The place is bright and cheery, which qualities the sun- 
 beams enhance by peering through the sparse and russet 
 grape-vine leaves at the window, and, having gained 
 courage, making gradual encroachments among the silver 
 aud delicate china of Martha Leigh's cherished heirloom 
 IHT grandmother's breakfast set. 
 
 Martha Leigh puts on her spectacles, and opens a let- 
 ter she has just received. The postmark is foreign, and 
 the paper thin and crackling. As she bends slightly for- 
 ward, you notice that her retined and gentle face wears a 
 careworn look that can only have been impressed there 
 by years of patient sufferings. She is past forty, but she 
 looks older. Her dress is precise and Quakerlike. Her 
 gown, of her favorite stiff, gray material, falls in ungrace- 
 ful folds around her, and her dark-brown hair, still un- 
 touched by time, is covered by a cap of black lace. 
 
 Opposite, lazily sipping his chocolate, and shading his 
 face with a white hand, on which sparkle several rings, 
 Bits her brother, Archer. He is older than his sister, but 
 he has taken more care to conceal the ravages of time, 
 though he has not succeeded in covering the traces of 
 early dissipation. His face is flabby and of an op;ujiic 
 whiteness, but well covered by a luxuriant and artistically 
 dyed beard and moustache. His eyelids droop a little, 
 and when he smiles which he seldom does at home his 
 lips disclose a set of teeth too brilliant to be true. He 
 puts down his cup, toys impatiently with the tassels of 
 his gorgeous dressing-gown, and then says irritably:
 
 INEZ. 321 
 
 " Well, Martha T' 
 
 Martha has averted her face, and her glasses have be- 
 come so damp that she can not see writing. 
 
 "He is dead/' she answers in a low, tremulous voice. 
 
 " I am not in the habit of trying to solve conundrums," 
 returns her brother. " Who is dead ? " 
 
 She" does not answer. She does not hear. Her mind 
 has gone in the past. She sees him the dead in the 
 pride of youthful manhood. She hears his voise min- 
 gling with hers in the old-fashioned duets to the music of 
 her grandmother's tinkling piano. She goes back to a 
 certain afternoon, when, beneath the mulberry-tree in the 
 prim old garden, she plucked apart the petals of a daisy, 
 repeating the school-girl charm, il m'aime, il ne m'aime 
 pas, passionernent, pas du tout, and when she said, " he 
 loves me," he, standing beside her unseen, had made her 
 pause. And then ! tears fill her eyes, and she drops the 
 letter. Her brother bends forward and seizes it. 
 
 " The spectacle of a woman of your age acting in this 
 way is simply ridiculous," he says, with a sneer. " It is 
 John Raymond who is dead. I thought if / were to die 
 you would be less concerned, no doubt." 
 
 "Archer!" she says, in meek deprecation. 
 
 He applies himself to the letter, which is dated from 
 Cadiz, and written in French by Pere Zacharie, S. J. 
 
 " Died on the 15th day of August, in the hope of a 
 blessed immortality, having devoutly received the last 
 consolations of the Church," he mutters. " Umph ! so 
 John Raymond died a Papist. What is this about a 
 daughter? I have forgotten all my French." 
 
 " When alone with me a short time before his death, 
 he solemnly implored me to place Inez in the care of you, 
 Mademoiselle Leigh, whom he termed his earliest and 
 21
 
 322 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 best friend. I have obeyed him as far as I could. She 
 will sail for your city in the next steamer, in care of her 
 father's old housekeeper." 
 
 Archer Leigh's face flushed with anger. 
 
 " Do you mean to let that man's daughter come here? " 
 he demands. 
 
 His sister answers " Yes," without raising her eyes. 
 
 " She shall not come, I say. John Raymond left his 
 own country to avoid imprisonment, and now he sends 
 this young beggar here to live on our charity. I'll not 
 stand it! You know very well that our income is insuf- 
 ficient for my our wants." 
 
 "We must economize," Martha says, timidly. 
 
 " Haven't I economized until I can no longer associate 
 with gentlemen ? Look at the miserable claret we had 
 at dinner yesterday, and I can hardly raise enough money 
 for gloves and the hire of a horse ! When the season 
 really opens, I shall be ashamed to show myself any- 
 where ! Economize, indeed ! " 
 
 Martha was silent. Forbearance with her was a virtue 
 daily practiced. She did not remind this specimen of 
 masculine selfishness that for years he had been living on 
 her slender income, and acting the role of a man of leis- 
 ure and fashion wholly at her expense. Archer Leigh 
 handsome Archer Leigh then had been spoiled by fool- 
 ish parents. Martha, living with her grandmother, had 
 escaped their influence. Before he was twenty-one he 
 had made his debut as an accomplished "society man," 
 and before he was twenty-five he had rushed through the 
 fortune bequeathed him by his father. After that he 
 allowed himself to be supported by his sister, waiting to 
 marry money. The spider watched ; the flies were wary ; 
 and he still waited. His life had been a failure a deeper,
 
 INEZ. 323 
 
 darker, more miserable failure than even his sister be- 
 lieved. 
 
 " Now, don't be absurd, Martha," he continues, in a 
 calmly argumentative tone. " Show some respect for my 
 opinion, on this occasion at least. Do something to pre- 
 vent this girl's coming." 
 
 " I can not. If I were base enough to refuse asylum 
 to John Kaymond's child, it is too late now. This letter 
 has been delayed. Inez Raymond, Father Zacharie says, 
 was to start in the Aspen. The Aspen is due to-morrow." 
 
 " I will not have this girl here to be a burden on us, 
 and to make things uncomfortable for me ! Dick is bad 
 enough ! " 
 
 " Archer," says Martha Leigh, slowly, and with a visi- 
 ble effort, for she has been accustomed to bow to her 
 brother's will in all things, " Archer, you force me to do 
 a hard thing, which is to remind you that this house is 
 mine, and as long as I live John Raymond's daughter 
 shall never lack a home ! " 
 
 Her thin hands tremble, and she nervously casts down 
 her eyes ; but he sees that she is resolute. 
 
 He mutters something under his breath, and then says, 
 brutally, as he leaves the room 
 
 " I will make this house too hot to hold her ! " 
 
 " On whose devoted head is my amiable uncle's ven- 
 geance to fall now ? " demands a clear voice ; and a young 
 man enters the room. His eyes are blue, his face is rud- 
 dy, and his hair light and curling. His very step has a 
 cheery sound. He takes Martha Leigh's face between 
 his hands, and kisses her. 
 
 " Good-morning, Aunt Mar ! " 
 
 " Behave yourself , Dick. Late, as usual, and you didn't 
 get home until after twelve last night. When will you 
 learn to keep good hours ? "
 
 :!-.M THE LIFE AROUND us. 
 
 - How can you expect it, Aunt Martha? You refuse 
 to let me have a night-key," he says, in an injured tone, 
 "and it takes at least three-quarters of an hour to climb 
 the back fence and open the kitchen door. If I had a 
 key that time would be saved ; consequently I would be 
 in bed three-quarters of an hour sooner. Logic is logic, 
 that's all /say." 
 
 " Oh, Dick, Dick ! " Aunt Martha says, between a 
 smile and a tear. 
 
 " Uncle Archer is getting more disagreeable every day. 
 I wouldn't stay here another hour if it wasn't for you. 
 By the way, who came in for his ill-humor this morning ? " 
 
 " There's a young lady coming here," returns Martha, 
 evasively. " A young lady from Spain, Inez Raymond. 
 Her father was American, her mother Spanish. She has 
 lived in Spain all her life." 
 
 " A young lady coming here ! That is news. When 
 is she coming?" 
 
 " Probably to-morrow. You will take me down to the 
 steamer to meet her. You can get oif from the office ? " 
 
 "The people down there may manage to spare my 
 valuable services for a few hours. Uncle doesn't like 
 this senorita, and intends to make the house 'too hot to 
 hold her ! ' That's it, is it ? Well, I hope she may turn 
 the tables. Is she pretty, Auntie ? " 
 
 " I don't know, yet she must be handsome if she re- 
 sembles her father. Why ? " 
 
 " Because," answers Dick, with preternatural gravity, 
 " I don't want to fall in love ; I'm in love already." 
 
 " Oh, Dick, Dick ! with whom ? " cries his startled aunt. 
 
 "With you, of course, Aunt Mar!" And having fin- 
 ished a huge breakfast, Dick Leigh makes his exit, laugh- 
 ing.
 
 INEZ. 325 
 
 " Poor, dear Dick," sighs his aunt, u I am afraid he is 
 drifting into bad company. Oh, dear, I wish I knew 
 how to keep him at home more but Archer never gives 
 the poor boy any peace." 
 
 And, full of doubts and perplexities as usual, Martha 
 Leigh takes up her burden of household cares. 
 
 III. 
 
 "FKOM TAWNY SPAIN." 
 
 Inez Raymond has come, and a week has passed since 
 her arrival in the quiet, shady street. Her companion, 
 Margaret Daly, an old Irish woman who lived for many 
 years in the Raymond household, and who loves Inez as 
 if she were her daughter, is trying, under Miss Martha's 
 teaching, to learn American " ways." Inez, however, 
 has not seen much of New World customs, for since her 
 arrival she has kept within her room. This is her father's 
 country, and the sight of it brings him back to her. All 
 day long, with the warm fervor of her nature, she weeps 
 and prays for him. Thus far her uncle has contented 
 himself with a cold bow to her whenever they happened 
 to meet, which was only twice. Dick Leigh thinks that 
 " she is a regular stunner," and, having boldly proclaimed 
 his admiration, receives a five minutes' lecture on slang 
 from his aunt. 
 
 Inez Raymond is, without doubt, beautiful. Her hair 
 and eyes are black, like her mother's. Her complexion 
 is rather dark, with, at times, a rose-tint, which she de- 
 rives from her Northern blood. She is somewhat below 
 the middle height. Her voice is very low and sweet,
 
 326 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 "an excellent thing in a woman." In her moods, she is 
 as changeable as the wind. One moment grave, digni- 
 fied, ladylike; another, laughing, mischievous, girlish. 
 In two things she is always the same in her love for her 
 Faith, and her love for her dead father. Her mother she 
 can not remember. 
 
 On Sunday she comes down to breakfast, but speaks 
 little. Although she has spent many a weary hour over 
 Ollendorf, and her mind is stored with many thrilling 
 sentences relative to the "golden candlestick of the tailor," 
 etc., she is still doubtful about her English. Talkative 
 Dick is reduced to silence in her presence. After break- 
 fast he betakes himself to a sofa, where, under cover of a 
 newspaper, he can watch Inez. 
 
 u I have forgotten to give you something," she says, 
 turning to Martha Leigh. " Here is a letter for you from 
 my father, and also this packet, which Pere Zacharie de- 
 sired me to tell you must be kept in a safe place." 
 
 The letter was addressed to Miss Martha Leigh. The 
 packet bore Insz's name, " to be opened on her twenty- 
 first birthday." Archer Leigh takes it in his hand, and 
 scans it curiously. 
 
 "And now," says Inez, and her sweet tone robs her 
 words of the lyrusquerie they might seem to have, " I am 
 going to Mass. Are you going, Senorita ? " 
 
 "No," whispers Margaret Daly, who happens to be 
 passing behind Inez's chair ; " no," she says, " they are 
 heretics." 
 
 Inez looks regretful, and turns to Dick. " And you, 
 Sefior, are yon I beg pardon if it be not the right 
 word are you, too, a heretic ? " 
 
 Dick, not quite understanding, shakes his head nega- 
 tively.
 
 INEZ. 327 
 
 " Then, Sefior," she continues, gravely, "you should go 
 to Mass. It is not good for a young man like you to be 
 what you call it lazy, idle on the Sunday. Margaret and 
 I are going. We will wait for you. Is it not the custom 
 here, Margaret ? " 
 
 Margaret Daly is divided between laughter and frowns. 
 Dick hurries away to brush his hair, without having the 
 least idea whither he is expected to go. 
 
 When the three start, it is discovered that Inez delud- 
 edly believes every ecclesiastical-looking edifice to be a 
 Catholic church, and, consequently, they wander into 
 several Baptist and Methodist chapels before reaching 
 the object of their search. 
 
 " It seems, Senor," says Inez, severely, " that you have 
 not been at Mass for a long time, since you do not even 
 know where the church is." 
 
 Dick, not wishing to commit himself, smiles vaguely. 
 They are in time for High Mass. Inez, who has arrayed 
 herself in black, and who would have done so for church- v 
 going, even were she not in mourning, is astonished by 
 the gay dresses of the ladies. She thinks their attire in 
 bad taste, and longs to lecture them. Accustomed to 
 the churches at home, she is struck by the long lines of 
 straight pews. When the Eyrie begins, however, she 
 forgets these minor differences. Dick has never been 
 in a Catholic church before in his life. From his heart 
 he admires the rapt devotion of the people, and at the 
 Elevation he feels a sudden thrill himself, and almost in- 
 voluntarily bends low with the rest. 
 
 Margaret lingers behind them as they enter the street. 
 " Oh, you here yet ? " exclains Inez^ as if she had for- 
 gotten him. " I hope your unusual devotion has not 
 fatigued vou, Senor." 
 
 o / *
 
 328 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " By no means, Miss Raymond ; the ceremonies were 
 new and interesting. That was my first visit to a church 
 of your religion." 
 
 " And you are a her not a Catholic ? Oh ! I beg 
 your pardon. Margaret did not tell me, or perhaps I 
 did not understand. I am very stupid in English, though 
 my father often spoke it." 
 
 " Nor did I understand ; but, all the same, I have spent 
 a most profitable morning." 
 
 "And why are you not a Catholic ?" asks Inez, after 
 a pause. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know ; probably because my parents 
 were not Catholics." 
 
 " Fes ? But then," earnestly, " I do not think that 
 you are a fool 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " And you have eyes and ears and reason. You are 
 not like a mule " 
 
 " No that is, I hope not." 
 
 " Then why are you not a Catholic ? Why do you not 
 believe ? " 
 
 Dick searches his mind for an answer to this rather 
 naive question. 
 
 "Well, I don't believe in some things your Church 
 teaches. There's the infallibility of the Pope." 
 
 " The in-fal-li-bil-ite," repeats Inez, trying to catch his 
 pronunciation. " Well, continue, Sefior." 
 
 "Now," returns Dick, determined to do his level best, 
 " you believe that your Pope is infallible because St. Peter 
 was infallible. If St. Peter was infallible, how came he 
 to deny his master ? I have her there," thinks Dick, 
 triumphantly. 
 
 " Oh," says Inez in a desparing tone, "you will never
 
 INEZ. 329 
 
 understand ! My father knew a heretic at Cadiz, and he 
 did always say what you have said, over and over. The 
 Apostle Peter was a man, he could sin like other men, 
 yet he was infallible. To be infallible is not to be im- 
 peccable. The Pope can sin, but when he decides on 
 matters of Faith and morals, he is infallible. Do you 
 understand ?" 
 
 " Yes," Dick replies, " I never saw it in that light 
 before. A prophet, the Scripture proves, may fall, and 
 yet be truly inspired." 
 
 " You are not as stupid as I thought, Senor," Inez con- 
 solingly remarks. 
 
 Martha Leigh has read John Raymond's last letter, in 
 which he solemnly intrusted Inez to her care. " There 
 is no other to whom she could go," he said ; " no other 
 from whom she would receive a mother's care." 
 
 " He did well to trust me," she thinks. " I thank him 
 for it. He knew that my heart was his daughter's right- 
 ful place." 
 
 " Inez is not penniless," she says to her brother, as she 
 locks the sealed packet in her old-fashioned sideboard, 
 where the remnant of the Leigh plate is kept. " She 
 has about three hundred dollars a year. Pere Zacharie 
 has made arrangements to have it paid regularly." 
 
 " Uinph ! An immense sum ! " responds Archer, 
 sneering. " John Raymond did not thrive in Spain, it 
 seems. Disgraced men seldom thrive anywhere." 
 
 Martha starts and shivers at the word " disgraced," as 
 if, Margaret Daly would say, somebody were walking 
 over her grave. 
 
 " How old is this girl ? " he asks. 
 
 " Eighteen." 
 
 He walks over to the sideboard, and carefully examines 
 the lock.
 
 330 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Inez's life flows smoothly enough. She is an enigma 
 to everybody, including herself. She is as variable as an 
 April day, yet through all her moods there runs such an 
 undercurrent of good intention that Aunt Martha can 
 not scold her. 
 
 u She will be a noble woman, I hope." 
 
 " An' sure she will ! " responds Margaret Daly, up to 
 her elbows in dough. *' The changeable spring comes 
 before the constant summer." 
 
 "Yes," sighs Martha Leigh, thinking of her spring, 
 " these girlish vagaries are only the spray cast up when 
 the streams of girlhood and womanhood meet." 
 
 In another room Inez is heard playing the piano, and 
 singing an Andalusian peasant song : 
 
 " Si me pierdo, que me busquen." 
 
 Dick tries to follow the joyous measure with his flute ; 
 he is her devoted slave now. Inez's presence has accom- 
 plished what his aunt's mild expostulations never could. 
 He stayed home o' nights, and Archer the season had 
 not yet op*ened, and he is at home too remonstrates in 
 vain against being disturbed by their music. 
 
 In a short time, Inez learns silently to manage every- 
 body. Even Archer reluctantly allows himself to be in- 
 fluenced by her. Once he asked Inez, in his insufferable 
 way, to bring his slippers. Martha would have obeyed 
 as a matter of course, but Inez, with a sudden impulse, 
 threw them across the room with a force that made Dick 
 stare and sent the cat in a fright from the room. She 
 apologized to Dick and the cat. He fears and respects 
 her, for he has an uneasy idea she has fathomed his arrantly 
 selfish character. 
 
 Aunt Martha no longer sacrifices all her little comforts
 
 INEZ. 331 
 
 for him. Inez, with wonderful tact, gently but effect- 
 ively interferes whenever Archer makes an unreasonable 
 demand. 
 
 Inez, having found the church, goes to Mass every 
 morning, and Martha Leigh has acquired the habit of 
 accompanying her. Dick generally sees them as far as 
 the corner on his way to the office. 
 
 Martha Leigh seems to have grown five years younger 
 since Inez has come. Gentle to a fault, yielding and 
 somewhat undecided, willing at any time to sacrifice her 
 dearest wishes for those she loves, it has been her lot to 
 meet with ingratitude and lack of sympathy. Her orphan 
 nephew Dick never voluntarily gave her pain, but he 
 could not understand her. In Inez Raymond she has 
 found a soul that appreciates and strengthens her own. 
 
 She is finding peace the something for which she 
 longed during her unrestful life the peace of God. 
 
 IY. 
 
 A STRANGE SCENE. 
 
 Inez, like many of her mother's countrywoweu, has a 
 remarkable talent for improvising melodies. This morn- 
 ing she feels sad and cheerless, for the winter has come, 
 and it seems as if summer will never again fill the world 
 with light and perfume. She finds it difficult to sew, 
 and going to the piano she tries to make music for the 
 sad, sweet words in Hamlet 
 
 " Why let the stricken deer go weep, 
 
 The hart ungalled play, 
 
 While some must watch, while some must sleep ; 
 So runs the world away."
 
 THE LIFK AROrXI) US. 
 
 But Margaret Daly's tones, high and loud in the 
 kitchen, break discordantly into her music. Inez hastens 
 to throw oil on the troubled waters, if possible. She 
 pauses at the door of the kitchen. 
 
 Margaret seems greatly excited ; but she is generally 
 excited while composing her culinary specialty, which is 
 a cross between an olla podrida and an Irish stew. 
 
 Near the table, his gloves and hat in his hand, his coat 
 buttoned up, and a tuberose in his buttonhole, stands 
 Archer Leigh. He is arrayed for conquest and morning 
 calls. 
 
 " Be calm, be calm, my good woman," Archer is say- 
 ing, as he waves his hand gracefully. " I don't care 
 whether John Raymond was wealthy or not. I asked 
 only out of curiosity." 
 
 " You have your answer. It's neither your business nor 
 mine." 
 
 " But," returns Archer, determined to exasperate the 
 old woman, " 1 can't help feeling amused when I see Inez 
 Raymond queening it here, and I remember that she 
 bears a tarnished name that she is a felon's daughter." 
 
 " Say that again if you dare, Senor." 
 
 The words are low and clear. Archer Leigh steps 
 back. Inez stands before him. Fire seems to glow in 
 her dark eyes, and she holds her hand on her breast, as 
 if to keep her passion from bursting out. 
 
 "You had better not say it again," cries Margaret, 
 seizing Archer Leigh by the arm. "7 know all y Mr. 
 Leigh. Whisper. I nursed my master through the fever, 
 and, in his ravings, I heard it all. Tell my young mis- 
 tress you have lied ! " 
 
 "You are a perfect fury, woman!" responds Leigh, 
 not altogether at ease. " I am sorry that you listened,
 
 INEZ. 333 
 
 Miss Inez. Your father may have been a very good 
 man in his way." He bows mockingly, and leaves the 
 room. 
 
 "What did he mean, Margaret?" 
 
 " How should I know, child ? " 
 
 " You do know ! you do know ! " 
 
 Neither tears, caresses, nor entreaties move Margaret 
 from her firm silence.. 
 
 Inez waits until Martha returns from some house- 
 wifely expedition on which she is bent. She wonders 
 how she can find what she wants to know without alarm- 
 ing Martha, and she hits on a leading question. 
 
 " And so some people think that my father did a great 
 wrong, Aunt Martha ? " 
 
 " Yes, child, but I never believed it," answers Martha, 
 unguardedly. " But who told you ? " 
 
 " Never mind. You do not believe it. Tell me it, 
 Auntie, quick ! " 
 
 "Well," sighs Aunt Martha, "it is a sad, sad story, 
 but a short one. Your father and I were to be married, 
 Inez. Did he ever tell you that ? I thought not. Well, 
 John Raymond and Archer were both clerks in my 
 father's counting-house. John used to come to my grand- 
 mother's often. Ah, those were happy days ! so happy 
 that I would give all my life to see them again, Inez. 
 I, poor, thoughtless girl, expected that they would stay 
 forever ; but they flew away very fast. Somebody in 
 my father's employ committed a forgery, whic-h involved 
 great loss. J ohn was accused ; the evidence was against 
 him ; he could not prove his innocence. The tiling was 
 kept quiet, but my father and Archer made me release 
 John from his engagement. After that he went to Spain, 
 and I I have suffered cruelly ever since. If I had only 
 been firm and true ! "
 
 334 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Inez says nothing. Her mind is a chaos. Oh, if her 
 father had spoken only once of all this ! If he had said, 
 u I was not guilty," she would be content now. He had 
 spoken no word. It could not be possible that he her 
 father whom she had loved and reverenced as a being 
 almost perfect, could have done this thing ! 
 
 " Oh, my God ! " her heart cried, " save me from be- 
 lieving him guilty. Let me know that he was innocent, 
 and then do with me as Thou wilt ! I give myself to 
 Thee ! "- 
 
 For days there was no more music. Dick's flute 
 sounded once or twice in a melancholy way, but Inez 
 seemed not to hear it. 
 
 Several times lately Martha Leigh has missed the key 
 of her precious carved sideboard. She has always found 
 it again, however, in unexpected places. 
 
 "I am becoming old and forgetful," she thinks. 
 
 Archer Leigh has grown kinder, and exceedingly cour- 
 teous toward Inez lately. Dick is surprised and some- 
 what jealous ; Martha can not understand, and Margaret 
 Daly is suspicious. 
 
 Inez is quiet and thoughtful. She seldom speaks. 
 She is trying to solve a problem. Was her father guilty ? 
 The state of her mind could be comprehended by few 
 among us, because among Americans of the North there 
 are not many natures like hers. Her whole life just now 
 is one meditation on this question. 
 
 Archer Leigh wears his new disguise well. An inex- 
 perienced observer would probably take him for a gen- 
 tleman. His manner toward Inez is half-paternal, half- 
 loverlike. She avoids him. 
 
 One evening, Inez is alone in the little parlor. Warmth 
 and light are within ; darkness and fast-falling snow
 
 INEZ. 335 
 
 without. Her thoughts are more in sympathy with the 
 cold and the darkness. 
 
 Archer Leigh enters, and draws a chair near hers. She 
 does not notice him, and yet in a few short words he 
 asks her to be his wife. 
 
 She arises, and looks at him. That look is sufficient 
 to make him lower his eyes. 
 
 " You must have a very poor opinion of me, Senor." 
 
 Her cutting tone exasperates him. He can not keep 
 his temper. 
 
 "I have a poor opinion of you but not of your 
 wealth," he retorts. " And I tell you that Dick Leigh 
 shall never be your husband. I hate him the impudent, 
 young puppy ! I would kill him sooner than see him a 
 rich man and me a beggar." 
 
 Inez thinks that he has taken too much wine. She 
 scrutinizes him closely. It is not so. 
 
 " And so you think that I am rich ? " 
 
 " I know it. I will tell you something, and I defy 
 you to use it against me in any way. I have opened that 
 packet in the sideboard." 
 
 Inez starts, and then says coolly, " Indeed ? You are 
 a villain, Senor. Pere Zacharie told me that the packet 
 contained a copy of my Spanish grandfather's will " 
 
 " So it did, but it contains it no more. Here is the 
 will, and also my con 
 
 Archer Leigh does not finish the sentence. A strong 
 hand arrests his arm in mid-air. Before he can move, or 
 even speak, the two papers change hands, and Dick Leigh 
 towers above his uncle like a wrathful giant. 
 
 For a moment or two the three stand motionless. 
 Then Dick gives the papers to Inez, while he holds back 
 his uncle with his right hand.
 
 336 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Inez moves as if to interfere, but she involuntarily 
 obeys Dick's words. " Go ! " he says, " leave us. I wish 
 to speak some words to this man." 
 
 " Stop ! " says Archer Leigh, averting his face. " That 
 paper which you hold in your hand is my confession. 
 I forged the check, and threw the guilt on your father. 
 In a n't of remorse I was young and foolish then I 
 wrote that confession. In fact, he forced me to write it, 
 but he never used it, because he loved my sister." 
 
 Inez devours it with her eyes. Again and again she 
 reads it. A joyous light illumines her face. 
 
 " I thank Thee, O God ! " she cries, in an ecstasy of 
 gratitude. " I thank Thee ! My father was innocent ! " 
 
 It is as if she said Nunc Dimittis. 
 
 " Now that you have read this paper," Archer Leigh 
 says, " I may as well tell you that I was glad to find it in 
 your packet, among other documents not so important. 
 Your father loved me once, and for the sake of that early 
 friendship, as well as for the love he bore my sister, he 
 was merciful. Will you be less so ? I do not plead for 
 myself; I have no right to your mercy ; but for the sake 
 of my sister and the good name of our family, I ask you 
 to grant my prayer. Say you will do this, and I will 
 leave this place forever." 
 
 Inez does not answer in words, but taking the paper 
 in her hand, she walks to the gas-light, and holds it 
 beyond Dick's reach until it drifts to the floor light 
 ashes. 
 
 " What have you done, Inez ? What have you done ? " 
 cries Dick, in a tone of angry surprise. 
 
 "What have I done!" replies Inez, calmly, and with 
 tears falling on her cheek, " I have left a sinner in the 
 hands of God."
 
 INEZ. 337 
 
 Martha Leigh's eyes are red from weeping. Margaret 
 and she are bending over a huge trunk. Inez, dressed as 
 if for travelling, stands near the window, looking dream- 
 ily into the street. Dick, pale and worried, is tugging at 
 a pair of shawl-straps. 
 
 " The carriage is here," Margaret says, and in the next 
 minute the four enter. 
 
 Inez is putting into action her secret resolution. For 
 three years she will remain in the Convent of the Sacred 
 Heart. After that she will go to Spain, and take the 
 veil if her vocation is proven. 
 
 " Good-bye, Dick," she says at the railroad station, 
 holding out her hand. 
 
 " Inez," he falters. 
 
 She puts her hand up. " I know, Dick. Learn to love 
 God, and we will meet in heaven ! A dies." 
 
 The train flashed past. She is gone. Martha Leigh 
 bursts into tears. Dick feels as if the sun had set for- 
 ever. 
 
 Inez, Sister Maria of the Cross, is happy in her convent. 
 The wayward humors of her childhood are past. A 
 great, sweet peace has covered her soul. Margaret Daly 
 lives among the Little Sisters of the Poor, working with 
 them, and aiding them in many ways. Aunt Martha 
 and Dick live together in the quiet street. Dick is older 
 and graver. He can never forget Inez. He, too, is a 
 Catholic. 
 
 Archer Leigh kept his promise, and is now in another 
 land. Now and then a letter from " over the sea " 
 reaches his faithful sister, which tells a tale which makes 
 her heart throb with gratitude, for out of the wreck of 
 her brother's blasted life God is rescuing a human soul. 
 
 22
 
 A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW." 
 I. 
 
 |ELIG1ON can touch even the deepest sorrow, for 
 God sees and comprehends all ; but it is rare for 
 human sympathy to reach below the surface 
 griefs of life. Who is there that has not had a sorrow 
 dumb to his fellow-mencrying out in agony to God? 
 Love, friendship, may solace ; but he alone can under- 
 stand the hearts he has made. You may hear the story 
 of others' sorrow, and call it an idle tale, because, for- 
 sooth, there are no mock heroics, no passions torn in tat-, 
 ters; as if the silence of a Stylites were not immeasura- 
 bly more expressive than all the words a great poet has 
 put into his mouth. 
 
 I do not imply that these two people, between whose 
 life-paths a great; gulf opened, are silent saints. No ; I 
 only mean to say that the real depths of their sorrow 
 could be fathomed only by theinselves and God. 
 
 Charles Wernly was the great man of Glen borough. 
 Indeed, a proposition to make the name of the town 
 "Wernly City had been rejected only by the steadfast op- 
 position of the man whom the Glenboroughites delighted 
 to honor. He has spent the prime of his life, in building 
 the prosperity of the place, and now, in his declining 
 years, it was just that he should be rewarded. He had 
 changed the little village, with its slow and sure popula- 
 (338)
 
 "A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW." 339 
 
 tion of Pennsylvania Dutch, into a thriving, smoky town, 
 with thousands of hurrying workmen. The voice of the 
 energetic little stream was drowned amid the ceaseless 
 clang of machinery, and the silver and gold of the field- 
 daisies had long ago been crushed under piles of rubbish. 
 "Well, it was all for the best ; the little country village 
 had had its day, and the toilers of Glenborough would 
 have soon been conscious of an aching void, if the Wernly 
 iron works were replaced by wild flowers and stream 
 murmurs. 
 
 Charles Wernly was rich so rich, people said, that he 
 knew but half his riches. That was nonsense, however, 
 for Charles Wernly was not a man to be content with half 
 knowledge of anything that interested him. His pride 
 and his perseverance were unlimited. He was proud of 
 himself first, of his wealth, of his daughter. His pride 
 was not meant to be vulgar and ostentatious, but he 
 showed it, in a gentlemanly kind of way not like self- 
 made pride generally in every inflection of his voice, 
 every movement of his body. His wife had died in gi^- 
 ing birth to his only child, Mary, who had just passed 
 her seventeenth year when she completed her education 
 at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, Riverside. 
 
 He was not a Catholic. He did not trouble himself 
 much about religion, he admitted. He had no preju- 
 dices ; his father had been a Quaker, his mother a Pres- 
 byterian, and he was nothing. Somehow or other, he 
 had always got along well enough without religion. He 
 thought, though, that convent-educated girls were better 
 than girls taught in secular boarding-schools. And if 
 Mary wanted to be a Catholic, he didn't care ; a woman 
 without religion seemed to want ballast. He guessed 
 Catholics were as good as other people.
 
 340 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 And though he "guessed" as even the best of us 
 poor, unenlightened Pennsylvanians will do sometimes 
 he was not an uneducated man. He read most of the 
 popular works of the day. He liked Herbert Spencer, 
 and Mill, and Tyndal ; detested Swinburne and Joaquin 
 Miller; admired Longfellow and William Morris; and 
 had "skimmed" the Gladstone-Manning pamphlets, not 
 because he felt much interest in the subject, but because 
 people talked about it. 
 
 When Mary wrote to him for permission to embrace 
 the faith, he readily gave it, and, at the same time, a 
 munificent donation to the little Catholic church in Glen- 
 borough. And the men and women toilers who fre- 
 quented the little church, breathed many a prayer for 
 the girl whose influence had brought them this good. 
 
 If you are one of those too numerous now who 
 reverence physical beanty as if it were a virtue, you 
 would not find your ideal of womanhood in Mary Wernly. 
 She was not beautiful, not even pretty. She was rather 
 ^nall and slight. Her features were riot regular, and her 
 cheeks were rarely flushed with color ; but the expression 
 of her face would have redeemed worse faults. The 
 brow, which shone beneath the plainly parted brown 
 hair, was serene and unruffled ; her gray, clear eyes 
 seemed to show a soul pure and true, and a sweet gentle- 
 ness, that was almost humility, tempered all. Her quiet 
 movements were singularly graceful, and even the mo- 
 tion of her small hands expressed something of the firm 
 gentleness that characterized her. 
 
 When she came home from school "for good," all 
 Glenborough, from the " best " people, who lived in 
 stucco villas and boasted of "grounds," to the others 
 who existed in hovels near the railroad bridge, and had
 
 "A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW." 341 
 
 nothing of which to boast, were on tiptoe to see the heir- 
 ess of old Wernly's wealth. 
 
 Charles "VVernly was a prouder man than ever, when 
 his daughter laid her school-trophies of flower-crowns 
 and gilded books at his feet; and prouder still when he 
 drove her in her new phaeton through admiring Glen- 
 borough ; through the long street, past the massive work- 
 shops, glittering stores, and rows of dwellings which he 
 called his own, out into the open country, through the 
 sunny air, and under the fleece-flecked sky, past the fields 
 where clover and daisies still grew unmolested, singing 
 all these, of hope and pleasure to him ; but the words 
 set to this summer melody, if he could have heard them, 
 spoke of other things. 
 
 Mary was full of the girlish gossip of her convent-home. 
 Her father's brow relaxed, and a smile played around 
 his lips while she told him of Sister Paul's stately man- 
 ner and common sense, of her " pet " sister's wonderful 
 perfections, and her own attempts at teaching. Matters 
 simple enough in themselves, but inexpressibly refresh- 
 ing to this world-worn old man. 
 
 The phaeton stopped near the edge of a deep ravine 
 crossed by one of the railroad bridges. Wernly dropped 
 the reins, and enjoyed the influence of the time. A 
 wood, thick with damp undergrowth and sweet-smelling 
 fern, cast its cool shade over them. They could see the 
 glitter of the stream as it curved through a meadow, and 
 settled into a lakelet where the grave cows loved to stand 
 knee-deep. The water-lilies, having drawn into their 
 golden hearts all the scent of the new-mown hay, lan- 
 guidly opened their eyes to the noonday sun, and Mary 
 watched them rising and falling with the fain pulsation 
 of the tide. The rest of the landscape was level and
 
 342 THE LIFE AROUND IS. 
 
 green ; but the blue sky and the sun-painted air gave it 
 that charm, which in a different way, youth seldom fails 
 to give to the plainest of human beings. 
 
 In the wood, hidden from view by a tangled hedge of 
 wild grape-vines and blackberry-bushes, sat, or rather 
 lounged, a young man. A fishing-rod lay by his side ; a 
 book, face downward, upon his breast. He was too idle 
 to read, too idle even to think or to dream. It was the 
 perfection of dolce far niente. Verily, Gerald O'Couor 
 was thoroughly enjoying his time of rest, after long 
 months of monotonous work in Charles Wernly's count- 
 ing-house. 
 
 A spider ran down its airy stairway, to investigate the 
 cover of his book ; a bee buzzed within an inch of his 
 nose, yet he never moved, but only murmured sleepily, 
 
 " ' I know a bank where the wild thyme blows ; 
 Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows.' 
 
 " ' Grows,' drowsily, ' faith, I believe, that's bad gram- 
 mar for Shakespeare ! But, never mind,' 
 
 " ' Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, 
 With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.' " 
 
 Here he paused from sheer laziness, and half-closed his 
 eyes, as if he expected the fairy queen, Titania, to ap- 
 pear from the waving fern. 
 
 The face of Gerald O'Conor, even in its repose, ex- 
 pressed more strength and power than are usually seen 
 in one so young he has just entered his twenty-third 
 year. The strength was latent, the power undeveloped ; 
 but both were there. When he spoke, there was a rich- 
 ness in his tones and a music in his accent very different 
 from the thin, discordant American enunciation. He
 
 "A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW." 343 
 
 had been born and educated in Ireland; but the char- 
 acteristics of some remote Italian or Spanish ancestor 
 seemed to have reappeared in him. His skin was as dark 
 as that of Wernly's book-keeper, Firandola, who was a 
 Cuban. His hair was black and curling, and his eyes 
 were so dark in hue that they seemed black. The short, 
 thin upper lip had a somewhat supercilious curl at times, 
 and his expression was often scornful and defiant ; and 
 yet he should not be judged harshly, for the world 
 seemed against him ; he was young, and scorn and de- 
 fiance seemed his best defences. 
 
 He had been left an orphan in care of his father's 
 brother, who was only too glad to take charge of the 
 boy's wealth. No expense was spared in Gerald's edu- 
 cation, but before it was quite completed the uncle died, 
 and it was found that Gerald's inheritance had taken 
 itself off on the wings of speculation. 
 
 Preferring to work for himself rather than to apply 
 for aid to his relatives, he started for the United States, 
 on whose sacred soil we have found him. 
 
 Suddenly he started from his reclining posture. A 
 clear, sweet sound rippled through the air. What bird's 
 note was it? Again he heard it, and pushing aside the 
 shrubby screen he saw the phaeton standing under an 
 arch made by two oaks. 
 
 " Old Wernly ! and that's his daughter, I suppose." 
 
 Gerald softly swept away the undergrowth, and crept 
 nearer. He had often heard of Mary Wernly, and had 
 caught occasional glimpses of her during her vacations. 
 According to Glenborough belief, she was a paragon of 
 goodness, and a protectress-regnant of the poor. 
 
 " Sure", it's many a poor man's wages she's had raised ! 
 Heaven be her bed ! "
 
 344 Tin-: LIFE AROUND us. 
 
 Exclamations like this Gerald had heard many times, 
 and was naturally curious about their object. Again 
 Mary laughed, and the pony pricking up his ears seemed 
 to enjoy it. 
 
 "'I wonder if angels do not laugh in that way if 
 angels ever laugh," thought Gerald, and then his lip 
 curled in scorn not so genuine as the thought. 
 
 " Yes, Mary, we will go to Europe, you and I," Charles 
 Wernly was saying, though Gerald could not hear him. 
 " We will see all the wonders of the Old World together, 
 and when we are tired of each other,'' Mary laughed in- 
 credulously, "you shall marry some foreign grandee with 
 a hundred orders. I am ready to go at once. I can trust 
 Firandola with everything." 
 - "Firandola?" 
 
 "Narcisso Firandola, my book-keeper and confidential 
 clerk; you remember him?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " 
 
 " That man is worth his weight in gold. He possesses 
 more versatility, greater capabilities than anybody I ever 
 saw. You never know what he can do until he does it." 
 
 Mary turned her face away, and made no reply. 
 
 She could not praise Firandola, for she involuntarily 
 distrusted him, so she was silent. 
 
 " Yes," said Wernly, with a sigh of satisfaction, " the 
 world is very pleasant just now, the future very bright." 
 
 " The train is coming,' 1 said Mary, as the whistle 
 sounded. " Will not the pony take fright ? " 
 
 " Oh, I can trust Bob," returned her father. 
 
 The whistle again shrieked piercingly, rudely shatter- 
 ing the noonday stillness. 
 
 Bob raised his ears, trembled, and then snorting and 
 struggling, backed obstinately. Before the old man
 
 "A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW." 345 
 
 could grasp the reins, the hiud wheels of the carriage 
 were over the edge of the ravine. Neither voice nor 
 hand could control the frightened animal. Behind the 
 occupants of the phaeton was an almost perpendicular 
 descent of two hundred feet jagged rocks and matted 
 roots. Mary knew this ; she did not scream. While her 
 father endeavored to make use of the tangled reins she 
 spoke soothingly to the pony, and her voice, controlled 
 by a great effort, was very plaintive and pitiful. 
 
 From his place in the wood Gerald O'Conor saw the 
 dilemma. He saw, too, that three lives depended, un- 
 der God, on his coolness, nerve, and courage. The train 
 passed swiftly. The pony's struggles grew wilder. 
 Wernly, who had arisen, lost his balance and fell side- 
 ways. The pony still backed. In another instant 
 
 Gerald crossed the road like a flash, and caught the 
 head of the furious little beast. 
 
 Events sometimes annihilate time. When Mary step- 
 ped from the phaeton, and Gerald stood in the middle of 
 the road holding the panting pony, an age or an instant, 
 neither could have told which, seemed to have passed. 
 
 " Oh, father father ! He is dead ! " 
 
 Charles Wernly lay pale and motionless at the foot of 
 an oak. The only sign of life about him was the move- 
 ment of the mocking breeze in his steel-gray hair. 
 
 " He has only fainted," Gerald answered. 
 
 " !No, no ! here is blood ! Oh, father, father ! " 
 
 His head had struck against a projecting root of the 
 tree. Gerald brought water and soaked moss from the 
 stream. He did not revive. 
 
 " Wait, I will go for a doctor " 
 
 " And a priest ! Do yon know where ? " 
 
 " I know him well."
 
 :5IC) THE LIFE AKOUND US. 
 
 Without another word he sprang into the phaeton, and 
 forced Bob to dash at a break-neck pace toward Glen- 
 borough. 
 
 The priest and the doctor soon reached the scene of the 
 accident. Wernly breathed easily, but he was still un- 
 conscious. 
 
 The doctor shook his head, and aided in lifting him into 
 the comfortable carriage which Gerald had thoughtfully 
 secured. 
 
 " These shocks often prove fatal to men of his age," 
 whispered the doctor to Father Moran. 
 
 " Hush ! " returned the priest, for Mary was watching 
 the doctor's face intently. 
 
 A week of tearless agony and torturing suspense fell to 
 Mary Wernly's lot the first thorn of the crown of sor- 
 row which she was to wear for many days. And during 
 this week Charles Wernly's mansion was like the vesti- 
 bule of a tomb. Silent footfalls, hushed voices, and fore- 
 boding thoughts filled it. 
 
 At last he spoke ; at last he opened his eyes. Mary's 
 petition, uttered from hour to hour, before the Blessed 
 Sacrament, was answered. Her father had regained his 
 senses. 
 
 " He will never be himself again," said the doctor; " I 
 doubt that he will ever leave that room." 
 
 He asked for Gerald O'Conor when Mary had told 
 him how she had been saved. Gerald came in the even- 
 ing, and saw Mary in the twilight, by her father's bed- 
 side. Wenily would have offere-l him money, but Mary, 
 with womanly tact divining his intention, checked it by a 
 look. Gerald saw it, and thanked her in his heart. 
 
 " I am very grateful to you, O'Conor. You are one of 
 the junior clerks in my office, aren't you ? "
 
 " A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW." 347 
 
 " Yes ; I have been there a year." 
 
 " I don't remember you ; but Firandola always arranges 
 the office business. By the way, I appoint you Firandola' a 
 assistant, with an increase of salary, and you can bring 
 any letters and papers that may require my attention 
 here every afternoon until I get better." 
 
 He paused and sighed. Gerald thanked him, and arose. 
 
 "As proud as Lucifer," said the invalid under his 
 breath ; " I must keep my eye on him. I actually be- 
 lieve that he would have the presumption to fall in love 
 with you, Mary." And he laughed at the absurdity of 
 the idea. 
 
 Gerald, who had barely crossed the threshold, heard 
 the words, and his face flushed. Presumption ! Would 
 it be presumption ? and then he called himself a fool. 
 
 Firandola looked at O'Conor with his penetrating black 
 eyes, showed his perfect teeth, gave him some letters to 
 write, and said, "It is well," when he received notice 
 that he was to have a new aid. 
 
 Firandola was a Cuban about thirty years of age. He 
 had left his own country for political reasons, it was said. 
 He was tall, slender, with a drooping moustache that hid his 
 mouth. His face, to an observer, would have been of no 
 use as an index to his thoughts. It was always calm and 
 smooth. 
 
 A month passed. Charles Wernly had not risen from 
 his bed, and Gerald visited him every evening with the 
 important letters of the day. Wernly began to like him ; 
 his frankness, fearlessness, and fancied knowledge of the 
 world amused him. 
 
 Mary enjoyed his talks with her father, and sometimes 
 joined in them. "If all men were like him how differ- 
 ent the world would be," she thought. Unconsciously
 
 H48 THE LIFE AROUXn IS. 
 
 she thought of him while reading of her favorite heroes 
 of history and romance. 
 
 "Mr. O'Conor," she said, meeting him one afternoon, 
 with an unusual flush on her cheeks. " See! Is not my 
 father the kindest man in the world ? " 
 
 She held toward him a casket. The lid sprang up, and 
 revealed a nest of dazzling gems an elaborate necklace 
 of diamonds and emeralds. "And this?" she showed 
 him a rosary of pearls, with a heavy gold cross. "Is it 
 not kind and yet papa is not a Catholic, you know." 
 
 lie expressed his admiration ; his hand trembled as he 
 returned the casket, and looked into her smiling face. 
 
 " O'Conor," said her father, when he had finished the 
 letters, "take those fol-de-rols of Mary's to Firandola, 
 and tell him to lock them in the safe. Nice things for a 
 poor man like me to buy." 
 
 Gerald smiled, as he was expected to do, and sighed. 
 " What is the matter with him ? " thought Mary. " I 
 wonder what can be the matter with him." 
 
 Late in the afternoon of the next day Narcisso Firan- 
 dola was ushered into his employer's room. His suit of 
 spotless white linen fitted him perfectly. He managed 
 to pass the mirror as he entered, and twirled his moustache 
 with his left hand, for all his rings were on that hand. 
 
 " I have brought the letters myself," be began. 
 " O'Conor has not been near the office to-day." 
 
 " What? did he not give you the jewels? " 
 
 Firandola looked at the invalid in surprise, and then 
 turned to Mary, who sat in the vine-curtained bay-window. 
 Wernly explained. Firandola showed his teeth, and 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Car-r-r-amba ! He has gone off with the spoil." 
 
 "It is a lie! It is untrue!" cried Mary, rising from
 
 ' A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW." 349 
 
 her chair; " Gerald O' Conor is a gentleman and a Cath- 
 olic ! I will not hear Remembering herself, she 
 burst into tears and left the room. 
 
 " I wish I could hang the rascal ! " savagely exclaimed 
 her father, when he had recovered from his amazement. 
 
 II. 
 
 " They were worth five thousand dollars not a cent 
 less ! " This was the burden of Charles Wernly's com- 
 plaint, for neither Gerald O'Conor nor Mary's jewels re- 
 turned. 
 
 " Father," Mary said, " he saved my life. Write the 
 value of my life against that of the jewels, and try to for- 
 get the loss if the account does not balance." 
 
 This suggestion made her father irritable, and then 
 struck him as supremely ridiculous. The idea was too 
 good to be lost. He sent for Firandola. 
 
 "I am glad that you have repented of your unladylike 
 outburst," he said. " You have come to the conclusion 
 that your favorite is guilty, then ? " 
 
 "No," she said, slowly ; "I believe that those jewels 
 brought him death. He has been murdered." 
 
 Firandola entered, jauntily. 
 
 "Do you think that O'Conor can have met with foul 
 play?" 
 
 " I wish I could think so," answered the Cuban, with a 
 strange light in his eyes ; " that is, I mean, for the sake 
 of his reputation, and," with a glance at Mary, " his soul ; 
 but, unfortunately, he was seen to enter the 12 M. train 
 last night, for New York, the ticket agent says."
 
 350 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 "Are yon sure?" asked Mary, hastily turning away, 
 to hide her face. 
 
 "Rogers and Arkright, two of our clerks, saw and 
 hailed him." 
 
 A cry of anguish went up from Mary's heart. 
 
 " He were better dead dead ! " she thought. 
 
 " He is a base, ungrateful scoundrel ! '' cried Wernly. 
 " You have set tha detectives on his track, Firandola ? " 
 
 The Cuban nodded, and then said, in a low tone, in- 
 tended more for Mary's ear than her father's : 
 
 "Do not think too hardly of the poor boy. It may be, 
 as one of your poets says, that heaven has permitted him 
 to fall that he may rise, and take a firmer stand, 
 
 " ' Or, trusting less to earthly things, 
 
 May henceforth learn to use his wings.' " 
 
 Wernly, in amazement, raised hinif-elf on his elbow. 
 Mary abruptly left the room. 
 
 " Saul among the prophets ! You are a hypocrite, 
 Firandola. I thought you did not believe in heaven or 
 hell." 
 
 Firandola showed his teeth. "lam liberal," he said, 
 " except where the Jesuits are concerned, and women 
 have prejudices that must be conciliated." 
 
 Wernly knit his brows, and fixer! his eyes on Firandola. 
 
 " You will gain nothing by conciliating my daughter's 
 prejudices. Do you understand 2 " 
 
 ** What should I gain ? " 
 
 " Nothing. Unearth O'Cono ', if possible, Firandola." 
 
 Outside the door, Firandola ground his teeth, and mut- 
 tered, " Fool ! "
 
 "A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW." 351 
 
 The most poignant thorns of sorrow generally press 
 more cruelly into the heart of the one who waits. The 
 woman, watching with straining eyes the last flutter of 
 the sail that bears her fisher-husband away, suffers more 
 than he who breasts the waves. The reason is plain. 
 
 Mary Wernly, pure-hearted maiden that she was, felt 
 her face flame and blush when sfce thought of the defence 
 bhe had made of Gerald O'Conor before her father and 
 Firandola. But for worlds she would not have unsaid 
 her words. Suddenly she had become aware that she re- 
 garded Gerald with a deeper feeling than gratitude. And 
 now he was gone ! gone ! leaving a trail of guilt and in- 
 famy. 
 
 She had felt that her affection for him would always 
 remain in her heart a closed blossom. She never thought 
 that it could become a perfect flower. In her eyes he 
 was a true knight a Sir Galahad. She would love him 
 as a sister, and help him, and he should never know it. 
 This had been her brief dream. 
 
 But where was her Sir Galahad now? A thief? a 
 felon ? She would not believe it, and yet 
 
 Perfect love casteth out fear. But what human love 
 is perfect? And Mary Wernly was perplexed and tor- 
 tured with doubts and fears. It was grievously sad to 
 feel that she would never see her hero again, most bit- 
 ter to know that he had left her with a stain on his es- 
 cutcheon. It was the crown of her sorrow. When she 
 remembered him, candid, sincere, true, sitting in the twi- 
 light by her father's bedside, and read and heard what 
 people said of him now, her heart seemed as if it would 
 burst. In her grief and perplexity, her only resource 
 was to kneel before her whose sorrow was like to no 
 other. She, the Mother of Sorrows, could understand aD.
 
 :: 'J THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 Of course the Wernly jewel robbery made a sensation 
 in Glenborough. The two rival newspapers metaphori- 
 cally smacked their lips over it, and waxed rich by cap- 
 turing Gerald O'Conor in one edition, and setting him 
 free in the next. Reporters tried hard to interview Mr. 
 Wernly and Mary. Narcisso Firandola was an easy vic- 
 tim ; he liked it. Even the "hands" in the foundries 
 were pounced upon by the enterprising agents of the 
 press. Cuts, which had done duty as authentic portraits 
 of Lincoln, Marshal MacMahon, and the last murderer, 
 were re-presented as counterfeit presentments of the de- 
 faulting clerk. Glenborough, you perceive, was not un- 
 progressive. 
 
 Time flew. Six months passed. The man so often a 
 prisoner on paper was still at large. The detectives had 
 found no trace of the jewels. 
 
 This question often occurred tf> Mary, Was he dead, 
 that he did not appear to clear himself? And then fol- 
 lowed another question, Was he guilty, hiding his shame ? 
 The girl could not answer either. It tore her heart to 
 think of him ; she could only pray that he might be 
 proven innocent in the end. 
 
 " If he should prove himself stainless," she thought, 
 "I would resign myself to his absence without a sigh." 
 
 As years went by, Mary came "out" under the chaper- 
 nnuge of one of her aunts. Many were the eligible and 
 ineligible young men that old Wernly's daughter refused. 
 And old Wernly, still bedridden, congratulated himself 
 on having such a devoted daughter. If Gerald O'Conor 
 could only have presented himself among the eligibles ! 
 
 But Mary would never have deserted her father, that 
 is certain. As it was, everybody agreed that she had a 
 right to be fastidious. An heiress ! and such a modest,
 
 "A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW." 353 
 
 amiable heiress. Some people thought her pretty, for 
 time had improved her, though her smile was slow and 
 infrequent, and there was a sad look in her eyes ; when 
 inspired by beautiful thoughts or words, she was lovely. 
 
 Scarcely anybody in Glenborough chanced to think of 
 Gerald O'Conor now, except Mary Weraly. In her 
 memory, his image grew fresher every year, and his 
 name was never unmentioned in her prayers. 
 
 The Glenboroughites were grumbling at the dearth of 
 news. There hadn't been a murder or anything for over 
 eighteen months. The oldest inhabitants shook their 
 heads. Glenborough was getting behind the times. The 
 rival newspapers were dying for lack of a new sensation ; 
 and it came. 
 
 One morning all Glenborough heard that Charles 
 "Wernly had failed. This announcement was a shock 
 that shook the place to its centre. Workmen and 
 their wives talked over the rumor with anxious minds. 
 Failed ! Wernly the strong the impregnable the 
 man of iron ! It seemed impossible. . It was true, how- 
 ever. In a few days the foundries were 'closed, and 
 laborers stood idle. 
 
 Narcisso Firandola came to the surface, as usual ; the 
 newspapers declared that he was free from all blame, and 
 depicted his manful struggle against ruin in glowing 
 terms. The failure had come of old Wernly's careless 
 indifference. Wernly himself knew that it had come of 
 his implicit trust in his book-keeper. 
 
 Firandola listened to all his employer's furious re- 
 proaches with a martyr-like smile, and taking a respect- 
 ful leave of Mary, withdrew from Glenborough. 
 
 " I will not stay here ! " cried Wernly. " I will leave 
 this place in spite of all the doctors in creation. ' There 
 23
 
 354 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 is Wernly,' they will say, ' who was once a millionaire, 
 and now is a beggar.' " 
 
 His indomitable pride and will enabled him to do 
 what no other stimulants could. He went to New York 
 with Mary. There, in three small rooms, they took up 
 their abode. "Wernly would accept no help from any 
 one ; he determined to live within the small income al- 
 lowed him by his creditors, at the same time laying by 
 something for Mary's future. Poor Mary, unused to 
 economy, found it hard to make both ends meet ; but 
 her convent training had not been wasted, her talents as 
 a cook and nurse shone brilliantly in the morning ; in 
 the afternoon she went out to give French and music les- 
 sons to three little girls. 
 
 " Don't talk to me about religion," her father had often 
 said ; "if I wanted to be a Catholic, your example would 
 do more toward converting me than all your arguments ; 
 so don't argue, Mary." 
 
 Now, in his affliction for loss of wealth and power 
 were the greatest afflictions that could befall a man like 
 Charles Wernly he began to feel the emptiness of earthly 
 things. In the evenings he and Mary held long and ear- 
 nest conversations; and one afternoon she went rejoicing 
 for a priest. Mary was almost happy ; one of the thorns 
 had been plucked from the crown of sorrow. 
 
 Mary had not forgotten Gerald O'Conor. Often, in 
 the crowded thoroughfares, she saw a face that resem- 
 bled his, and her heart gave a great bound. She believed 
 that he was innocent. If Narcisso Firandola had been 
 wicked enough to rob her father, he certainly would not 
 have hesitated to murder and rob Gerald. Like most 
 girls, she jumped at conclusions.
 
 "A SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW." 355 
 
 Qri a certain evening Mary was detained much later 
 than usual at the house of her small pupils. One of 
 them being sick would not condescend to go to sleep un- 
 less her gentle teacher remained with her, and Mary 
 stayed with the little tyrant until dusk. Then she started 
 homeward. It was not a long distance, but dusk became 
 gloom before she had accomplished it. 
 
 Was it the quiet repose of the hour that made Mary's 
 thoughts travel into the past, with all its hopes and fears $ 
 J^ever before had the face and form of Gerald O'Conor 
 arisen so vividly before her. A footstep behind her made 
 her turn. In the half light, not three yards from her, was 
 the same face and form. Was it Gerald O'Conor ? If 
 it was he did not see her, for his attention was fixed on 
 a group on the opposite side of the street. 
 
 In front of a saloon, made painfully glittering by rows 
 of colored gaslights, two men were standing, engaged in 
 a low, tkough passionate conversation. Mary, from the 
 other side of the street, observed them. One of them 
 seemed familiar to her. His white vest and bosom glit- 
 tered with jewelled pins and chains. 
 
 There was a loud oath, the report of a pistol, a low 
 groan. The man in the white vest staggered, and fell at 
 the foot of the lamp-post. The other fled rapidly. 
 
 Instantly Mary was at the side of the wounded man. 
 Timid and gentle though she was, the suffering of another 
 always aroused the courage of her nature. The man so 
 like Gerald followed her. 
 
 " You and you ! " murmured the wounded man, 
 Narcisso Firandola. 
 
 " He wants air keep back," said a rich, full voice, 
 which made Mary raise her head suddenly. The rapidly 
 increasing crowd obeyed. " And now half a dozen of you 
 run for as many doctors."
 
 THK LIFE AROUND I">. 
 
 " Car-r-r-amba ! " muttered the wounded man ; " you 
 shall not move me. I will die where I am. Ask me 
 no questions. I will not tell his name. It was an old 
 grudge." 
 
 He paused, panting. Mary wiped his forehead with 
 her handkerchief. Gerald O'Conor raised him in his 
 arms while she held a glass of cold water to his lips. 
 
 " O'Conor," he gasped, " keep everybody away ! I am 
 dying; I will not be troubled with a doctor. O'Conor, 
 the casket you gave me one night live years ago water! 
 water ! you will find all the jewels in a belt around my 
 body. Miss Wernly, tell your father that his money has 
 gone to help the cause of Cuban lib " 
 
 The pallor of death showed on his face ; he sunk into 
 Gerald's arms. 
 
 " Pray for him ! pray for him ! " cried Mary, turning 
 to Gerald. " Oh, Blessed Mother, save him ! " 
 
 Gerald murmured the Our Father. Loud and sweet, 
 Mary's voice rose above the chattering of the crowd. 
 
 " Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for all my sins " 
 
 Firandola's livid lips moved slowly, as if repeating the 
 words. Mary went on. His lips ceased to move. 
 
 '' He is dead," said Gerald, for the weight grew 
 heavier. 
 
 The crowd fell back in reverence. 
 
 Five days later. Scene : The little sitting-room of a 
 cottage near the sea. Personages: Charles Wernly } 
 sarcastically benignant ; Mary, radiant with happiness ; 
 Gerald O'Conor, calmly content, and without a trace of 
 superciliousness about him. 
 
 "I suppose Firandola did not dispose of the stones, 
 because they would have easily been traced to him,"
 
 "A SORROW'S CROWN OF "SORROW." 3.T7 
 
 Charles Wernly is saying, " but what an awful fool you 
 were to go off so suddenly without a word. Didn't you 
 hear about the loss of the jewels ? " 
 
 " I started at once for Ireland, where it was not likely 
 that I would hear Glenborough news. Do you know, 
 Mary, that I have been in Glenborough twice within this 
 year; but nobody knew whither you had gone. God 
 directed my steps through that street the other night." 
 
 " God is very good," murmurs Mary. 
 
 " I say, O'Conor," exclaims Wernly, with a gleam of 
 fun in his eyes, " why did you leave us so suddenly ? 
 Had you really the presumption " 
 
 Gerald interrupted him, " I have concluded to adopt 
 your suggestion, sir. With the money I recovered from 
 my father's farm in Ireland, I will lease the foundries in 
 Glenborough, if you will come." 
 
 " I have no alternative," responds Wernly, smiling. " If 
 Mary goes with you, I will have to go with Mary. Tell 
 me, why did you leave us so suddenly ? " 
 
 " Because," he answered, " I was afraid of loving Mary 
 too much." 
 
 "And now " 
 
 " I can love her as much as I please, can't I, Mr. 
 Wernley ? " 
 
 There are no happier people in Glenborough than 
 Gerald O'Conor and his wife his wife, who no longer 
 wears her " sorrow's crown of sorrow."
 
 EOSE. 
 I. 
 
 A KOBE IN JUNE. 
 
 " A face that's best 
 By its own beauty drest." Crashaw. 
 
 j^n E breeze from the Schuylkill scatters far and 
 wide the scent of June roses and honeysuckle, 
 and Mrs. Earle Vincent's favorite heliotrope 
 extract becomes decidedly sickly in the presence of this 
 exquisite bouquet of the golden month. 
 
 The sun is low, and the clouds that show behind the 
 green tracery of trees on the opposite bank are lit with 
 carmine fire. No sound breaks that stillness which always 
 seems to be the precursor of twilight, except an occasional 
 shout from some boatman on the river, or the monoto- 
 nous click of croquet-balls on the shore. 
 
 Mrs. Earle Vincent's garden-party is in full blast, 
 which means that three dozen people, more or less, are 
 grouped on her well-kept lawn laboriously doing noth- 
 ing; for croquet- playing can not be called doing any- 
 thing. Mrs. Earle Vincent is a widow, fair, forty, and 
 with a talent for generalship ; moreover, she can afford 
 to be exclusive, for, though wealthy, she is not & parvenu. 
 Has not Watson, in his Annals, written the name of her 
 great-grandmother among the fair guests at the tourna- 
 (358)
 
 EOSE. 359 
 
 ment given by General Howe's officers nearly one hun- 
 dred years ago ? A doubtful honor; some outside bar- 
 barians mostly New Yorkers sneer at this claim to dis- 
 tinction, but all true Philadelphians revere it in their 
 hearts ; consequently, Mrs. Yincent's garden-parties are 
 "the rage." Her tact in securing "good" people is 
 remarkable. There are few officers of any note in the 
 army who have not, at some time or other, attended 
 her parties ; literary men and artists from all parts of 
 the world, "caught on the wing," are plentiful; Senators 
 common ; and Congressmen, unless exceptionally eminent, 
 are never invited. 
 
 " We must draw the line somewhere, you know," says 
 Mrs. Yincent, sinking into a rustic seat beside her inti- 
 mate friend, Mrs. Bolton. and fanning herself violently. 
 
 Mrs. Bolton is a tall, slim woman, with short, gray 
 curls, who looks as if she ought to be an old maid, but 
 has missed her vocation. 
 
 "Well, my dear," returns Mrs. Bolton, in an acidulated 
 tone, "in drawing your line, you should be careful to 
 exclude clerks and people like that young Burns, you 
 know very good in their way, no doubt, but not quite, 
 you know." 
 
 "My love," Mrs. Yincent answers, with dangerous 
 sweetness, " we can not establish an American aristocracy 
 based on birth or occupation. It would, as Saxe says, be 
 always ' a thing for laughter, sneers, and jeers.' Every- 
 body knows who our fathers were." 
 
 Mrs. Bolton's father was a butcher before he secured a 
 " war " contract, and she reddens not, alas ! on account 
 of the contract. 
 
 " I like noted people and people of talent, and these 
 will always come to the top, no matter who their fathers
 
 360 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 were," continues Mrs. Vincent. "There are very few 
 Americans who can boast of their ancestors. 
 
 " ' Their family thread they can't ascend, 
 Without good reasons to apprehend 
 They may find it waxed at the farther end 
 
 By some plebeian vocation ; 
 Or, worse than that, their boasted line 
 May end in a loop of stronger twine, 
 
 That plagued some worthy relation.' " 
 
 Mrs. Vincent delicately omits the poet's second person, 
 in order that her friend may not consider the application 
 of the lines personal. Mrs. Bolton looks angry ; but, 
 protected by the halo thrown around her by Watson's 
 Annals, Mrs. Vincent smiles complacently. 
 
 " But this young Burns has nothing to recommend him 
 thit I can see." 
 
 " He has good morals, a clear head, and a true heart, I 
 believe qualities sometimes not discovered at the first 
 glance ; besides, he is engaged to Rose." 
 
 " Engaged to your niece ! " exclaims Mrs. Bolton, cast- 
 ing an alarmed glance toward her son Paul, who is ab- 
 sorbed in conversation with the said Rose. " How could 
 you ? " 
 
 " / couldn't that is, I had nothing to do with it. Her 
 father arranged it before he died, and left her to me. I 
 can't break off the affair by force, for Rose Vincent, 
 comme moi qui vousparle, has a will of her own ; there- 
 fore, like Micawber, I wait for something to turn up." 
 
 " Paul ought to be informed of this." 
 
 " Oh, let Paul alone. He may waste some of his 
 sweetness on the desert air, but he can take care of him- 
 self."
 
 ROSE. 361 
 
 He certainly looked as if he could. He was tall and 
 stalwart, and his manner of wielding even the delicate 
 mallet told of well-trained mnscles. His face was hand- 
 some, though flushed not with health or the heat, a 
 keen observer would say, but with too much wine. 
 Though not yet twenty-seven, Paul Bolton had " seen 
 life " which means the life of dead souls in all the 
 principal cities of Europe, and had come to increase the 
 .remnant of his fortune by taking a wife. 
 
 " Rather fast," mammas whispered. 
 
 " But oh, so distingue ! " cried the daughters. 
 
 Paul Bolton was a favorite in society. His manners 
 were perfect, his dress was faultless. But some, with 
 whom manners and dress carried little weight, felt intui- 
 tively that there was a dark, deep current beneath this 
 surface-flow of glitter and brilliance. 
 
 Just now he is twirling his moustache and talking non- 
 sense to Rose Yincent during a pause in the game. Rose 
 Vincent, in his estimation, is merely an unusually pretty 
 girl, with no mind to speak of a girl who will swallow 
 an inordinate amount of sugared nonsense, and take it 
 for truth ; a girl who may be married for her money. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Yincent," he says, with a confidential air, 
 " can life hold in store for us anything sweeter than a 
 day like this ? " 
 
 " Life would be very dreary if it could not," answers 
 Rose, throwing a significant smile over at her " enemy " 
 in croquet, Miss O'Neil. "An idle day is a lost day." 
 
 " And can you call this idleness, when all the best feel- 
 ings of our nature are awakened by the supreme loveli- 
 ness of earth, of sky, of air?" He speaks with an affec- 
 tation of intense enthusiasm. "When every sense is 
 engaged in absorbing the sweetness with which each
 
 TIN-: LIKK A HOUND US. 
 
 moment is crowded to repletion ? Oh, Miss Vincent ! 
 without you this scene" he pauses abruptly and turns 
 away, as if his feelings were incapable of expression. 
 
 Rose shades her face with her fan, and the dimples in 
 her cheeks come and go. She is silent, with the amiable 
 intention of letting the man make a fool of himself, if he 
 will ; but she is too womanly to be an utter coquette, and 
 her conscience reproaches her. 
 
 " It is your turn, Mr. Bolton." 
 
 Paul Bolton takes his turn, and then rejoins her. 
 
 u There's poetry in the air, Miss Vincent," he resumes, 
 in a respectfully sentimental manner. 
 
 "My aunt appears to be quoting something very em- 
 phatically to your mother." 
 
 " ' For she and the clouds and the breezes are one, 
 
 And the hills and the sea have conspired with the sun 
 To charm and bewilder all men with the grace 
 They combine and confer on her wonderful face.' " 
 
 Can any woman be deaf to such a delicately flavored 
 compliment ? he thinks. 
 
 " Ah, yes, that is rather pretty," responds Rose, con- 
 templatively. " And it suits Miss O'Neil exactly. Do 
 you know," with that artlessness which is the perfection 
 of art, " I like to hear a gentleman compliment one lady 
 in the presence of another. Direct compliments are 
 often worthless, and always in bad taste." 
 
 Paul Bolton feels that he is checkmated and by a 
 mere girl. He is piqued ; consequently, he makes a 
 hasty move. 
 
 " I scarcely know your friend, Miss O'Neil. I mean 
 you, and you know it. Rose Vincent, I love you ! " 
 
 He leaves her, and quickly walks across the ground to 
 the farther end.
 
 HOSE. 363 
 
 Rose's face flushes and her blue eyes flash. She 
 watches him for an instant, and then dropping her mal- 
 let she rushes into the house. 
 
 " Oh, what have I done to deserve this ? " she cries, 
 safely locked in her own room. " Have I been forward 
 or unmaideuly 2 Have I given that hateful man any 
 reason ? Oh ! what will Alban say ? I have been in- 
 sulted ! Oh, dear ! dear ! " Here comes a fresh burst 
 of tears. " After all, I believe I'm a flirt a silly, friv- 
 olous flirt, whom I despise." 
 
 Having exhausted her breath in incoherence, Rose 
 subsides into what is technically called "a good cry,'' 
 and feels refreshed. Perhaps the sight of Alban Burns 
 coming quickly up the walk helps to produce this effect. 
 He pauses near Mrs. Vincent, bows to Mrs. Bolton, and, 
 after a few words, offers the former his arm. 
 
 Alban Burns seems unusually silent, and thoughtful. 
 The accustomed look of earnestness on his face has given 
 way to one of deep sadness. Mrs. Yincent scans him 
 with curious interest. She can not help respecting the 
 firmness and strength of will which seem to underlie his 
 calm, brown eyes. She does not like her niece's lover; 
 he is not handsome ; he has neither V air (/rand nor le 
 grand air ; he is an uncompromising Catholic as it 
 ought to be and at times he has told her some stern 
 truths. 
 
 " You are going to hell," he said, gravely, once when 
 she wanted to take Rose to hear a risque opera bouffe. 
 " I can not prevent you from going, but Rose shall not 
 go." 
 
 And Rose did not go to the opera that night. Mrs. 
 Yincent never forgave him for this ; she could forgive 
 anything except being made uncomfortable, and he had 
 caused her to feel uncomfortable.
 
 364 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 "Well, my dear boy," says Mrs. Vincent, with a 
 sprightly air that she tnuch affected, " what is your 
 pleasure ?" 
 
 They have entered the cool, dark parlor. Before he 
 answers, Mrs. Vincent notices that he wears a plain, gray 
 bu-iness suit, and that he carries a portmanteau. 
 
 "I want to make an explanation," he answers. "If 
 the matter were not urgent, I would not have intruded 
 on your festivity of to-day. You have heard that the 
 firm of Arlyn & Co. has failed ? " 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " It is true. The crash occurred last week." 
 
 " And your prospects? " 
 
 " 1 have none." His eyes and lips are firm, but the 
 involuntary gesture he makes is more pathetic than 
 words. " In two more months I was to be a partner, 
 but this crash has even overthrown the ladder that led to 
 that my clerkship." 
 
 There is a pause. 
 
 " Of course yon will release Hose from her engage- 
 ment?" 
 
 " If she wishes it but that is impossible. Poverty 
 with me will have no terror for Rose," he answers proud- 
 ly. " I am not selfish, Mrs. Vincent. I will not ask her 
 to sacrifice the brightest portion of her life, in order to 
 keep her plight to me. Even if she were rich " 
 
 " She is not, nor am I ; yet all that she will have must 
 come from me." 
 
 " Yes, I will release her. To my mother I owe a duty 
 which I must perform, and for her sake and for Rose's 
 sake, I must give up the one hope that has brightened 
 my life. O God ! ' Thy will be done ! ' " 
 
 All of a sudden his assumed stoicism has given way,
 
 ROSE. 365 
 
 and Mrs. Vincent experiences an involuntary pang of 
 sympathy. Instantly, however, he resumes his qniet, 
 grave manner. 
 
 " Can I see her and tell her this ? " 
 
 " You had better not," Mrs. Yincent replies, seeing at 
 once the advantage of her position. "Rose is so warm- 
 hearted and uncalculating that she would scorn the idea 
 of your poverty making any difference." 
 
 " You are right," he returns gravely. " We should 
 have a scene, which would unnerve Rose and probably 
 weaken my resolution. My heart might prove stronger 
 than my will." 
 
 " "Write a note. Make no explanation. I will do the 
 rest," said Mrs. Vincent aloud, and then within herself, 
 " This man is a hero. He can bear the pain in store for 
 him." 
 
 Alban. Burns unsuspectingly falls into her trap. 
 
 " Yes," he answers, " I will write. If she loves me 
 truly, she will trust, and while accepting the freedom I 
 give her, still love and wait. But that is a delusive 
 hope" 
 
 "Justement" murmurs Mrs. Yincent. 
 
 " I will do my duty to my mother and her, and leave 
 the rest to God," he says, half aloud. 
 
 He walks to the piano, tears a leaf from his note-book, 
 and writes ; 
 
 " I do not ask you to keep your promise, Rose ; I re- 
 lease you from it. Mrs. Yincent will explain all. 
 
 " ALBAN BURNS." 
 
 This he gives to Mrs. Yincent. As he does so, he sees 
 on the piano-cover a dainty pair of gloves and a half-with- 
 ered rose. He knows that she has left them there.
 
 3CG THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " Rose is so careless," Mi's. Vincent observes. 
 
 He takes the rose. 
 
 " This is all that is left," he says, giving his hand to 
 Mrs. Vincent. " Good-bye." 
 
 " Au revoir ! " she responds, gayly. " Don't think 
 too much of Rose. She is only a young, giddy girl, 
 after all." 
 
 " She was everything good to rne." 
 
 And he goes slowly through the garden, unconscious 
 that Rose is watching from her window, and trying to 
 take the tear-stains from her eyes in time to meet him. 
 
 Later: The rnocm has risen. On his way to the rail- 
 road-station Alban Burns has been thinking ; now that 
 he has given up Rose, a hundred reasons for not doing it 
 present themselves to his mind : 
 
 " It is true that I could not drag her into poverty I, 
 without occupation, with small hope of any and bur- 
 dened with my father's debt ; but I have been too hasty, 
 and I have trusted Mrs. Vincent too implicitly. I will 
 return and speak my last words to Rose." 
 
 Mrs. Vincent's lawn is deserted, but music of instru- 
 ment and voice flows o'ut through the lighted windows. 
 
 The Schuylkill ripples and murmurs in the moonlight, 
 as it probably did on the same night a hundred years 
 ago, beneath the keel of some Indian's canoe. The tree- 
 leaves whisper soft words to one another and the 
 wind ; and Rose Vincent, white, tearless, sorrow-stricken, 
 watches the leaves and the water. 
 
 "Gone! gone!" slie murmurs, "without reason, with- 
 out giving me a chance to explain anything that may 
 have offended him! gone, and without a word except 
 this miserable scrawl ! " 
 
 There is a dark figure approaching. Hope whispers to
 
 ROSE. 367 
 
 her : " It may be he returning "; but another voice also 
 whispers : 
 
 " Miss Vincent ! Rose ! " 
 
 It is Paul Bolton's voice. 
 
 " Rose," he continues, ardently, " Rose, to-day I told 
 you that I loved you ; to-night I ask you to be my wife." 
 
 Alban Burns pauses in the gloom cast by a huge syca- 
 more. In that moment of suspense the agony of years 
 is crowded. He waits for Rose's words. 
 
 Now is her time for revenge. Her guardian angel 
 must have veiled his face when she placed her hand in 
 that of Paul Bolton and murmured, " Yes." 
 
 II. 
 
 A ROSE IN SEPTEMBER. 
 
 "Alas ! that we dream, and wake 
 To find the vision dead and dumb." 
 
 Miss Donnelly. 
 
 A dingy brick house in a quarter of the city with 
 which the street-contractors never meddle, in deference 
 possibly to the wishes of the swarms of children that de- 
 light in mud-pies ; a clean little room at the very top of 
 this house, under the loft, with a spotless shrine of the 
 Blessed Mother in one corner, a bed in another, a bright 
 piece of carpet in the centre of the floor, three chairs, 
 several sparkling cooking-utensils, and a wonderful mix- 
 ture of wire and colored scraps of silk on a table. 
 
 Voila, ?nes amis, the home of Marie and Annette Des- 
 chapelles, flower-makers to the great public ! 
 
 Marie lies on the white bed, and the pillow is not
 
 368 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 whiter than her face. Her eyelids rest on her cheeks. 
 A lily, half-made, has dropped from her nerveless fin- 
 gers, which now clasp the beads of her rosary. 
 
 Annette sits near the table, her deft lingers busy among 
 a spray of orange-blossoms which need only perfume to 
 deceive a bee. 
 
 Annette's cheeks have the hue of rich damask roses, 
 which they took from the pure air of her native Brittany, 
 and of which the air of a foreign land has not yet robbed 
 them. Her brown hair is hidden under a marvellously 
 plaited cap a cap that gives an air of demureness to the 
 arch black eyes and smiling mouth. She hums a plain- 
 tive Breton ballad, and hopes that it may send her sister 
 to sleep. But it does not produce that effect. Marie 
 opens her eyes. 
 
 " You are making orange-blossoms, Annette ? Orange- 
 blossoms for a bride?" she asks, in a low, tremulous 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, ma sceur. Are they not of a beauty most strik- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Oh, they are well enough the dear flowers, but they 
 will fade in a day in a day, I know, for I have worn 
 them." 
 
 " Petite bergere,je f aime, je t' dime ! " sings Annette, 
 breaking into a gay chanson all about " V amour" " clair 
 de la lune" and " le rossignol." Her sister is not divert- 
 ed, however. 
 
 " Annette, your songs are vain. There is sorrow in 
 the world, child, and hymns would better befit your lips. 
 But go, sing on until your heart breaks as mine has bro- 
 ken. Who is this poor bride ? " 
 
 " Poor, ma sceur ! Why, she is rich, and of a beauty 
 most ravishing."
 
 ROSE. 369 
 
 " Riches and beauty are not happiness. You have seen 
 her, have you not ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. Madame Relvert, her modiste, sent her 
 here yesterday when } T OU were asleep, and I am to take 
 these out to her this afternoon." 
 
 " And when is the wedding ? " 
 
 " Next week." 
 
 " Have yon seen the bridegroom ?" 
 
 " No." Annette smiles, showing a pearly row of teeth. 
 "You are better, my sister, for you desire to talk." 
 
 "A woman would gossip on her death-bed, and so 
 would a man, for that matter," responds Marie, bitterly. 
 " I know not why this marriage interests me. I pity all 
 brides who love and hope; for I, too, have loved and 
 trusted." 
 
 Marie's tone goes to her sister's heart. 
 
 " Have you seen the bouquet Monsieur Alban brought 
 for you this morning? See! it is on the altar of Our 
 Lady." 
 
 " I see dahlias and flowers of Autumn. That is well. 
 For me the Spring is past. Annette, you must not think 
 of this Monsieur Alban." 
 
 "Think of Monsieur Alban?" cries Annette, a rosy 
 glow mounting to the edge of her cap. " Why should I 
 think of Monsieur Alban ? " 
 
 " Why should maidens ever be foolish ? Monsieur 
 Alban thinks not of you. His heart is in the past. The 
 other day, when you had to go away with flowers, ma- 
 dame, his mother, came in from her room below to make 
 me some tisane. We talked of her sou, and, after a time, 
 she told me that he had loved a young lady, good and 
 beautiful ; that misfortune had come and swept away his 
 means of subsistence ; that his father had died leaving a 
 24
 
 370 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 debt which Monsieur Alban had promised to pay ; and 
 so, rather than allow her to share his poverty, or curtail 
 his mother's means of living for the sake of his own hap- 
 piness, he released her from her promise." 
 
 " And did she accept this release ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then she was no true woman ! " 
 
 " You are excited, Annette. I think that the girl was 
 true enough, but she was very proud, and, instead of 
 speaking to her himself, Monsieur Alban wrote. He 
 gave her husks and not food words on paper, not words 
 warm from his heart." 
 
 " You are excited, Marie." 
 
 " It may be so. The young lady, however, has now 
 another lover, and Monsieur Alban is sad. Oh, this is a 
 sorrowful world ! I wish I were in Heaven ! " 
 
 " I wish I were at home in Brittany ; then I should 
 feel as if I were on the road to Heaven ; it seems hard 
 to feel that way in a strange land." 
 
 " Why did I ever come here in search of him ? He 
 will hate me if he ever meets me." 
 
 "Do not think of him, chere sceur" says Annette, 
 with an alarmed look on her face. "I am going now. 
 I will call Madame Burns to keep you company while I 
 am gone." 
 
 Well, well. Give me that picture on the table. 
 Madame Burns forgot it the other day, and it is neces- 
 sary that I should return it to her." 
 
 " This photograph ! Marie, Marie, it is Miss Vincent, 
 the fiancee to whom I take these flowers ! " 
 
 " Eh lien, I wish her joy 1 " 
 
 The sisters are silent until Mrs. Burns enters. Mrs. 
 Burns is a pale, refined, fragile-looking woman, with an
 
 ROSE. 371 
 
 air of dependence about her a woman who makes an as- 
 sertion as if she were afraid of hearing the echo of her 
 own voice. Her hair is gray, and lines of care are visible 
 on her forehead. Her face lights up rarely when Marie 
 thanks her for the flowers her son had brought. 
 
 " Alban is so thoughtful," she says, taking a seat be- 
 side the invalid. " What shall I read to-day ? " 
 
 " You may read the Penitential Psalms in English," 
 responds Marie, graciously. " I feel like doing penance, 
 and it is a great penance to hear your harsh language, 
 though you speak it softly. Bah, it is horrible ! " 
 
 Carrying the box of orange-blossoms, Annette goes her 
 way toward Mrs. Earle Vincent's house. The passen- 
 gers in the horse-cars stare at her white cap, but she does 
 not mind them. She is thinking of Rose Yincent and 
 Alban Burns, and a thrill of pleasure fills her heart as 
 she tells herself that the lady whom Alban loved is about 
 to marry another. 
 
 Having reached Mrs. Yincent's stucco-decorated house, 
 which, by the way, is in the American, or Harlequin, 
 style of architecture, she is ushered into Rose's room. 
 
 Rose sits among silks and lace the trousseau en em- 
 bryo and asks Annette to take a chair. Rose is paler, 
 thinner. Her look of birdlike brightness has vanished. 
 She is listless, and there are red circles around her eyes. 
 
 " They are pretty, very," she says, lifting the lid of 
 the box, " and so natural. Your skill is wonderful." 
 
 Suddenly she casts the sprays away from her and 
 covers her face with her hands. Annette rises. 
 
 " I forgot for an instant that you but never mind. 
 It is well that these blossoms are not real. I could not 
 wear them. Anything sweet, fresh, and pure would be 
 out of place in such a mockery. You are young, and
 
 372 THE LIFE AROUND U8. 
 
 you look sincere. Beware of pride, beware but what 
 right have I to tea'jh you f " 
 
 Annette is touched. She pours out water and cologne 
 with her deft fingers and bathes Rose's hot brow. For 
 weeks Rose has been outwardly cold and calm. Now 
 the restraint gives way before the French girl's sym- 
 pathy. She tells her the story of that day in June. An- 
 nette listens, and then speaks of what Marie has lately 
 told her. 
 
 " I see it all ! " cries Rose. " It was my aunt's work. 
 She explained nothing, and her hints and innuendoes 
 drove me wild. And now it is too late ! too late ! " 
 
 Annette again feels an involuntary thrill of pleasure. 
 It is, indeed, too late. When Rose is married may not 
 Alban Burns seek for some one who can with her own 
 hands help him in his poverty ? 
 
 " I do not love this man, the man whom I am to 
 marry. I do not even respect him, and yet in a week 
 we are to receive a great sacrament. It is almost sacri- 
 lege, and I can not draw back, for I promised, with my 
 eyes open, deliberately, to be his wife. Misfortunes, 
 trials, are nothing, but the evils brought to us by our 
 own perverseness are worse than serpents' stings ! " 
 
 When Rose has grown calmer, Annette prepares to 
 leave. Rose accompanies her to the garden. When they 
 roach the lawn, a man enters through the little gate. 
 He approaches, and, seeing them, lifts his hat. 
 
 " That is the man whom I am to marry," Rose says. 
 
 Paul Bolton takes a few steps forward, and then starts 
 as if violently stricken by an unseen hand. 
 
 " Annette ! " 
 
 " Monsieur Paul ! " 
 
 Annette darts through the gate like a frightened deer, 
 and is soon lost to sight among the tress
 
 ROSE. 373 
 
 Paul Bolton and Rose stand face to face he trying 
 not to seem startled and surprised ; she looking the ques- 
 tions which she is too proud to ask. 
 
 Alban Burns has become three years older in the two 
 months that have passed since June. Up to that time 
 he had worked hard, sometimes far into the night, but 
 he had rejoiced in his toil, for beyond the dust and strug- 
 gle of the present there shone in the near future the 
 sunlight of love. In a few days his life had changed 
 completely. His hope was overthrown. 
 
 " It is just," he told himself. " I have made an idol 
 for myself, and God has broken it." 
 
 And so he made his sacrifice a sacrifice so great that 
 my words can give you no idea of it. Had you known 
 the man, you could have judged how great it was by 
 the change it wrought in him. He was strong, self- 
 contained, not easily moved by common things, and a 
 change like that which had occurred seemed, as his 
 mother expressed it, " to tear his life up by the very 
 roots." 
 
 After the failure of Arlyn & Co. he endeavored to 
 obtain employment in New York. He failed. Return- 
 ing home, he secured after weeks of waiting a clerkship 
 which involved much labor and little pay. He had his 
 mother to work for and a debt to pay. The one sweet- 
 ened his labor, the other oppressed him ; but both spur- 
 red him on. He worked, and a man never knows how 
 much he can do until he is forced to do it. 
 
 The debt consisted of five thousand dollars for which 
 fraud on the part of another had made his father respon- 
 sible ; and at the side of that father's death-bed he had 
 promised to pay it. Three thousand had been paid at
 
 IV74 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 the time of Arlyn's failure; two thousand still remained, 
 and Alhan is gradually diminishing this. 
 
 Strict economy is necessary, and the weight of it has 
 all along rested on him, for he is determined that his 
 mother shall not suffer. But she, too, saves in secret, 
 and with womanly care and tact conceals it from him, 
 smiling to think how easily he is deceived. 
 
 Mrs. Burns has never wholly forgiven Rose Vincent 
 for releasing her son so easily. " You had a narrow 
 escape, A loan," she often says. "That girl would never 
 have been worthy of you." 
 
 He only answers, with a look of pain, "Mother, say 
 anything but that." 
 
 Among those few relics which he holds most sacred 
 there lies a rose. The bloom of June has departed from 
 it ; it is yellow and withered a shadow in September of 
 the season of roses and yet I think he would die rather 
 than let a rude hand touch it. 
 
 Annette runs along the bank of the river until she is 
 breathless and panting. At last she stops and leans 
 against a tree. 
 
 " I have found him I have seen him with these eyes!" 
 she murmurs, pushing back her cap to let the cool river- 
 air play on her brow. " And he is the bridegroom 1 M 
 
 " Excuse me," Paul Bolton says to Rose, and immedi- 
 ately he is outside the gate and on Annette's track. 
 
 " Singular conduct ! " Rose thinks. " This man has a 
 secret. I will have two explanations one from him and 
 one from that French girl. They will probably contra- 
 dict each other." 
 
 Paul Bolton 's long strides enable him to reach An- 
 nette a few seconds after she has paused at the tree.
 
 ROSE. 375 
 
 There being no chance to flee, Annette collects all her 
 courage as soon as she sees him : 
 
 " Bon jour ', Monsieur Bolton, ray brother-in-law." 
 
 " Bon jour, Mademoiselle Deschapelles, my sister-in- 
 law." 
 
 The latter phrase seems to stick in his throat. 
 
 " You have not asked for madame, your wife," responds, 
 Annette, with elaborate politeness. 
 
 " Marie ? she is well, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Far from well. She is dying, monsieur." 
 
 " Dying ? " Paul Bolton tries in vain to suppress the 
 expression of relief that shows on his face. 
 
 "Yes, dying!" cries Annette, fiercely, in spite of the 
 tears that fill her eyes. u And you have done it, Mon- 
 sieur Paul. Oh, we two were so happy in the old house 
 at Morlaix until you came ! Marie was so beautiful, so 
 well-educated, so superior to the other girls ! Oh, Mon- 
 sieur Paul, how could you have been so wicked ? " 
 
 Paul Bolton's lips turn white, and he pulls nervously 
 at his moustache. 
 
 " You married her," continues Annette, " and then in 
 two weeks deserted her ! Ah, if we had only listened to 
 the cure ! He warned her ; but love is blind ! She 
 hoped for your return she pined sickened. I could 
 not see her die, and so we came in search of you. I have 
 found you, Monsieur Paul. I have made orange-blossoms 
 for your second bride." 
 
 " Annette, keep my secret," Paul Bolton says, in a 
 whisper. " What's the use of making a disturbance now ? 
 Marie will not live long, you say. Come now, be reason- 
 able. I will pay you any sum you may name. Let me 
 explain matters to Miss Yincent in my own way, and 
 things will take their course."
 
 376 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 "When Mademoiselle Vincent is married, Monsieur 
 Alban must not think of her, and he will be free." This 
 thought passes through Annette's mind like a flash of 
 lightning. It is a temptation. She murmurs an Ave be- 
 fore answering him : 
 
 "You are a scoundrel, Monsieur Paul. I will save 
 Miss Vincent if I can ! " 
 
 She springs away from him. This time he does not 
 follow her. Numbers of people are on the banks, 
 and he is too well-bred to make himself unduly conspic- 
 uous. 
 
 " Marie ! Marie ! " 
 
 No answer. Marie lies white and still, with the black 
 beads of the rosary clasped by her pallid fingers. 
 
 " Marie, I have found him ! " Annette wails. 
 
 Mrs. Burns softly enters. 
 
 " You here, Annette ? " 
 
 " Tell me, madame, she is asleep? " 
 
 " She is dead, poor child." 
 
 Annette's grief is wild and incoherent ; but from her 
 broken exclamations Mrs. Burns soon gathers the sad story. 
 
 When Alban comes home at nightfall, Annette tells 
 him all, and beseeches him to save Rose Vincent. She 
 will not leave Marie's side. 
 
 " I will see her," Alban says, when the story is done ; 
 " it is ray duty "; and to himself, " I will be cool, col- 
 lected, unmoved." 
 
 He starts at once for Mrs. Earle Vincent's. He tries 
 to feel that he is a martyr to duty ; it is a very pleasant 
 martyrdom. Rose meets him in the parlor, and stands 
 near the piano, where he had stood to write that note. 
 She greets him coldly.
 
 ROSE. 377 
 
 " Paul Bolton has told me this already," she says, 
 when he had fiuished. "We parted an hour ago." 
 
 A constrained silence. Suddenly Rose begins to cry. 
 
 " You are so changed ! " This is her explanation. His 
 coating of ice gives way; he reproaches her; she re- 
 proaches him. Storm ; thunder ; tears ; and Rose sobs 
 that she will wait for him, and never, never have any- 
 body else. 
 
 They walk out into the porch. He shows her his 
 withered rose, which looks pale and sad in the moonlight. 
 
 " You will give me a rose of September for my rose of 
 June?" 
 
 " No," she murmurs ; " God will give us heart's ease." 
 
 When God sends us anything good, He is generous : 
 He does not do it grudgingly. 
 
 The next day, Alban received an eccentric note : 
 
 " To the /Son of my old Friend, greeting : 
 
 " You have worked nobly. You have proved yourself 
 worthy of your father, who was one of the best men that 
 ever lived. You must forgive the way in which I have 
 tested your honor ; but I have lived in the world long 
 enough to know that in many the virtue of honesty con- 
 sists only in freedom from temptation. I have tried you 
 sufficiently. I intended to send you the enclosed check 
 long ago, before my departure for Europe, but somehow 
 the thought slipped from ray old head. When the vil- 
 lainy of another made your father responsible for this 
 debt, I never intended to exact it from him, and when he 
 died I watched you and waited. Come and see me. I 
 have need of a man like you. In haste. 
 
 "BRYAN
 
 378 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 A check for all of the debt he has paid falls into Al- 
 ban's hand. His heart is too full for coherent words of 
 gratitude ; but God knows. 
 
 Marie is gone ; but Annette still sits before Our Lady's 
 shrine and makes flowers. Like Alban and Rose, she has 
 heart's ease which is nourished by faitli and love and 
 hope which may droop at times on earth, and which is 
 perfect only in Heaven. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Bolton," sweetly says Mrs. Earle Yin- 
 cent, at her first garden-party after Rose's marriage. " I 
 hear that your son is in business on some island." 
 
 " In business ? Oh, no ! Paul is at Monaco." 
 
 "Oh, yes, the gambling-place. I was sure a Bolton 
 would never stoop to work."
 
 THE JAWS OF DEATH. 
 
 |HE room was small and scantily furnished, but in 
 all its arrangements there were traces of womanly 
 taste and thrift. The window was low and nar- 
 row, and looked into an uninviting court, but it was 
 covered with a curtain of dainty white, through which a 
 stray gleam of sunshine fell upon Nelly O'Connor's 
 plants. These were a living sprig of green shamrock from 
 the old soil, and a pet geranium, the gorgeous crimson 
 blossoms of which shone out like rubies amid the emerald 
 setting of its foliage, in spite of " winter and cold weath- 
 er." It seemed as if the influence of Kelly O'Connor's 
 loving heart had power to protect her silent pets from 
 the blight of the fiercest frost, for while her neighbors' 
 plants withered and died at the first touch of cold weather, 
 hers throve well, and from their little window nodded 
 defiance to sleet and snow. 
 
 On the neatly-papered walls of this little room hung 
 three pictures the Immaculate Conception, right above 
 Nelly's head ; St. Patrick and the Serpents, and Daniel 
 O'Connell, whose " counterfeit presentment " was placed 
 directly opposite old Mr. O'Connor's arm-chair. 
 
 Having told all I remember about the room, I shall 
 try to describe Nelly herself. 
 
 She sat in her usual place by the window engaged in 
 her usual occupation sewing for Nelly O'Connor had 
 to work for her own living and for that of her father, too. 
 
 (379)
 
 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 That pale gleam of winter sunshine lightly touched 
 her smooth brown hair, and formed a halo around the 
 head that bent over the work so intently. Imagine a 
 graceful little woman clad in a dark dress with snowy 
 collars and cuffs ; imagine an oval face with less color 
 in it than it possessed three months ago, when it looked 
 its last on a certain green isle across the sea ; a pair of 
 dark blue eyes, serene, calm, yet bright, with at times a 
 sparkle of laughter in their depth, and at others a shadow 
 of sadness. Imagine but what's the use of imagining at 
 all ? anybody that never saw Nelly O'Connor can not 
 imagine what a charming, modest Irish girl she was at 
 this time. 
 
 After a while it became too dark to sew. Nelly rose 
 and stirred the fire until it cast a red low on the wall 
 
 o 
 
 opposite. Then she flitted about the room silently and 
 brought out the tea-things. 
 
 " Father's late this evening," she murmured, when the 
 table was fully arranged. " If I hadn't so much confi- 
 dence in Tip, I'd feel anxious." 
 
 And Nelly went to the door and looked into the 
 gloomy court. There was nobody coining, so she light- 
 ed her lamp, and again the seldom-idle needle began its 
 flight. 
 
 Five minutes later pattering steps became audible with- 
 out, and there was a sound of scratching at the door. 
 Nelly opened it, and a small, curly black dog bounded in 
 and stood on his hind legs to receive the girl's caress. 
 
 Slower and heavier footsteps followed, and a tall, 
 strongly-built old man entered the room. His hair was 
 white as snow, his face was ruddy and unwrinkled ; 
 though old, he would have seemed perfectly hale and 
 hearty, were it not for the strange indecision of his mo-
 
 THE JAWS OF DEATH. 381 
 
 tions and the terrible expression of Uankness of some 
 incompleteness in his countenance. 
 
 That want of something that incompleteness was 
 real. For ten years Brian O'Connor had been blind. 
 Light and darkness were the same to him. 
 
 " I was beginning to be anxious about you, father," she 
 said, taking the old man's hat and overcoat. 
 
 " An' sure hadn't I Tip with me ? " he answered in a 
 cheery voice, as he stooped to pat the dog's curly head. 
 " Faith, he's a raal Tip an' no mistake in his love of fight- 
 in'. If I hadn't held on to his string with all me strength, 
 he'd have been the death of half a dozen curs to-day. 
 But that's nayther here nor there. Let's have tay, Nelly 
 jewel, an' I'll tell you something." 
 
 The meal over, Nelly gave him his pipe, and he sunk 
 into his arm-chair, which was always placed in his favorite 
 position, opposite the print of Daniel O'Connell. He 
 could not see the picture ; but as the great agitator often 
 figured largely in his conversation, it gave him pleasure 
 to emphasize his remarks by pointing with his pipe at 
 the portrait of " ould Dan himself." 
 
 "Well, Nelly, mavourneen," he began, settling himself 
 comfortably in his chair, " Tip and myself have had a 
 long walk through the city, but there's no work stirrin' 
 that a blind man can do." He spoke gravely, but with- 
 out bitterness. 
 
 "An' what if there isn't, father?" said Nelly, hastily 
 dropping her work. " Sure there's plenty for me to do." 
 
 The old man shook his head. " It isn't the likes o' 
 you, mavourneen, that ought to be slaviu' here from morn 
 to night, wearin' your fingers to the bone for a worthless 
 ould wreck that can do nothin' but eat and sleep." 
 
 " But you promised to tell me something, you know."
 
 382 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " Thrue for you. I've had as many advintures as the 
 Seven Champions themselves the day. Who do you 
 think I met first from our place at home ?" 
 
 " I'm not good at guessing, father." There was a look 
 of expectation in her eyes. 
 
 " Faith, I knew very well who you'd name." And he 
 chuckled. " But it was one of Dan Deagau's six daugh- 
 ters. She came across in the last steamer, and I knew 
 her by her rough, harsh voice, jist like her father's. I 
 didn't know her name, an' I didn't want to tell her I'd 
 forgotten it, so I called her Kate, an' faith I hit the nail 
 on the head." He laughed outright, and continued, 
 pointing to the picture opposite, " For that's what they 
 called a daughter of ould Dan's, and iver since the whole 
 countryside has been swarmin' with Kates. She tells me 
 that Father Kevan is stationed at a church outside the 
 city. I've the name on a bit of paper." 
 
 "What! our own Father Kevan, from home?" 
 
 " The same, God bless him ! A priest's a priest, any- 
 how, but it's a great comfort entirely to have one from 
 our own place. I met Pierce Toole this afternoon." He 
 paused for an instant. 
 
 Nelly involuntarily bent lower over her work, as if to 
 hide the heightened color in her face. She forgot that 
 the old man could not see. 
 
 " I was steppin' off the ferryboat whin I slipped be- 
 twixt it and the wharf, an' sure I'd have a cowld bed 
 in the Delaware this same evenin' if it wasn't for a strong 
 pair of arms that pulled me out, safe and sound, before I 
 touched the wather. That pair of arms belongs to Pierce 
 Toole. He's a fine, strappin' gossoon, sure enough, but, 
 though he saved my life, I couldn't help noticin' that his 
 breath .smelt o' whisky."
 
 THE JAWS OF DEATH. 383 
 
 Kelly's face flushed a deeper red. 
 
 " Sure, father, the best of men may take " 
 
 " 1 know I know," interrupted the old man, impa- 
 tiently. " And I know Pierce Toole's nature. Sure he 
 might have married you at home with me full consint, if 
 it wasn't for his love for the liquor. I know him, I say : 
 whin he gets a taste o' the stuff, he can't lave off drinkin'. 
 Well, afther he had pulled me safe aboord, lie asked 
 me if I'd let him come and see me mef" And he 
 chuckled at the idea. " It's not me he wants, the spal- 
 peen ! I couldn't say yis, and I wouldn't say no, so I 
 tould him I'd lave it all to you. He'll come to-night, 
 and I'll tell him you'll not see him, if you want me to. 
 I'll not stand between you and him any longer. You 
 may choose for yourself." 
 
 Nelly made no answer, but she flitted across the room 
 to the spot where a small looking-glass hung, and, with 
 eyes and cheeks unusually brilliant, occupied herself in 
 giving some extra touches to her hair. 
 
 Her father understood the movement. He smiled, 
 half in sadness, half in mirth. 
 
 " Och ohone ! " he said ; " women are all alike. 
 They'll lave their ould fathers any day, to take up with 
 the first spalpeen that asks them ! " 
 
 " An' sure didn't my mother take up with you ? " mur- 
 mured Nelly, with just a tinge of sauciness in her tone; 
 and then changing to earnestness, " but I'll never leave 
 you, father ; don't be thinking of such a thing. As for 
 Pierce, he has a good heart in spite of the whisky, and, 
 father, I'll make him take the pledge." 
 
 " The pledge ! " groaned the old man. " That's mighty 
 well ; but a man that don't kape his promise won't kape 
 his pledge! Faith, what's the pledge to him, if he hasn't
 
 384 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 got the grace of God and the will to back it? Maybe 
 I'm wrong, Nelly, but I've seen too many pledges taken 
 and broken in my time " 
 
 A knock at the door interrupted him. Nelly hastened 
 to open it, and the subject of their conversation stood 
 before them. 
 
 Pierce Toole was a handsome, stalwart young Irish- 
 man, with a frank, winning way about him that was apt 
 to prepossess people in his favor. He had one great 
 failing. He was intemperate in the use of intoxicating 
 liquors. This failing had alone prevented his marriage 
 to Nelly O'Connor. With Brian O'Connor's full consent, 
 Nelly had said " Yes" when Pierce Toole had asked her 
 to be his wife. But several times, in spite of promises 
 given to old Brian, Pierce had "taken too much," and 
 the justly-indignant father had withdrawn his consent to 
 the marriage. Nelly was obedient ; though Pierce Toole 
 crossed the ocean in the same vessel with her and her 
 father, she never during the voyage exchanged a word 
 with him. Old Brian saw that his prohibition gave 
 Nelly great pain, and probably his sympathizing, fatherly 
 heart suffered as much as hers. It is a great mistake to 
 think that hearts grow colder as they grow old ; they 
 may gain wisdom, but they do not lose their capacity of 
 suffering. 
 
 And so, when Pierce Toole saved the old man's life 
 that day on the ferryboat, the latter's heart softened, in 
 spite of his better judgment; and here the prodigal 
 stood, very near the door of the little house, looking ex- 
 tremely uncomfortable in his best suit, and twirling his 
 hat nervously. 
 
 " Come in, Pierce, and shake hands," the old man 
 said ; and as Pierce Toole obeyed, he continued in a low
 
 THE JAWS OF DEATH. 385 
 
 tone : " Before we begin again on the old terms, I want 
 you to take the pledge." 
 
 The young man's face reddened. " Let bygones be 
 bygones. I'll not taste a drop o' the stuff. I'll give up 
 drinking entirely." 
 
 "You've tould me that before. Will you take the 
 pledge ? '' 
 
 " Sure me promise is equal to me pledge, any day." 
 
 " I hope not," said Brian, dryly. 
 
 "Well, I'll take the pledge, thin; but it's mighty 
 hard" 
 
 " You'll see Father Kevan about it next Sunday ? " 
 
 " I will." And the young man, with a relieved look, 
 turned away from Brian to Nelly, who, during this col- 
 loquy, had been trembling with apprehension. 
 
 The evening was a happy one to the two young peo- 
 ple. The old man sat, smiling and sighing, among the 
 shadows, thinking of the two to whom life just now 
 seemed all joy and brightness. 
 
 " She's a changed girl," he muttered the next morning, 
 as he heard Nelly carolling at her work like a lark. 
 " Sure she hasn't sung for many a week. If I could only 
 trust him if I could only trust him ! " 
 
 An expression of distress crossed the old man's face, 
 He rose and went over to the windowsill, where the 
 shamrock grew in the earthen flower-pot. He placed his 
 hand tenderly among the leaves. This was his usual ac- 
 tion when troubled ; the touch of the soft leaves diverted 
 his thoughts, and brought back to him the memory of 
 bygone days and pleasant scenes in the fair land from 
 which that sprig of shamrock came. 
 
 Weeks passed. Pierce Toole took the pledge, and 
 kept it. One day Father Kevan married Nelly Q'Con- 
 25
 
 386 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 nor to him, and nearly every soul in the city from the 
 " old place at home " came to offer congratulations. The 
 absence of "spirits "on the occasion was duty noticed 
 by the guests; but the spirit of good-will was not want- 
 ing, and it was the general opinion that Pierce Toole had 
 done well to marry old Brian's daughter. The old man 
 removed with the happy couple to a neat little house. 
 Pierce was earning good wages, and Nelly was no longer 
 forced to dim her bright eyes by sewing at night. The 
 future seemed cloudless, and, for a time, no sorrow marred 
 their present. 
 
 But old Brian died on the same day that his grandson 
 a small Pierce Toole came into the world. Bitter- 
 ness' and sweetness were equally mixed in Nelly's chalice 
 just then. 
 
 Pierce grew more irregular in the performance of his 
 religion's duties, and, in consequence, his power of resist- 
 ing temptation became weaker, lie attended Mass, but 
 merely from the force of habit. Nelly's remonst.ranc.es 
 were met by smiles and evasive words. At last she dis- 
 covered the consequence of all this. One night he came 
 .staggering home. He had broken the pledge. 
 
 Old Brian's words floated to Nelly's ears as she stood 
 facing her husband not angrily but in bitter heart- 
 breaking grief 
 
 h What's the pledge to a man that has not got the 
 grace of Q-od to back it ? " 
 
 From that night Pierce sunk lower and lower. A sad, 
 heart-broken look never left Nelly's face. When little 
 Pierce was able to walk, his father and mother were com- 
 pelled to leave the home which had once seemed like 
 Eden to Nelly. They went out to the suburbs to a 
 tumble-down barn which for a long time had been unten-
 
 THE JAWS OF DEATH. 387 
 
 anted save by rats. Pierce Toole would not work, or 
 rather, no one would employ a drunkard. Nelly's health 
 failed, and she could not sew. Had it not been for the 
 kindness of Father Kevan, she and the child would have 
 starved. 
 
 Christmas Eve had come. The night was clear and 
 cold ; the biting frost had made the ground as hard as a 
 miser's heart, and raised fairy forests and castles on those 
 window-panes in the distant city, which were twinkling 
 with a thousand happy lights on their happiest night of 
 all the year. 
 
 Separated from the gaze of the watchful stars, one of 
 which had cast its silvery ray on the path of the wise men 
 long ago separated from the gaze of the pitying stars 
 and the blasts of the winter wind by a tottering fabric 
 of frail boards, lay a pale, wan woman, wasted to a shad- 
 ow of her former self. Near her was a child. 
 
 The wide, long interior of this barn was desolate and 
 barren. The remains of a fire smouldered in a broken 
 stove. On a chair stood a candle, but its dim, flickering 
 light only served to make the darkness visible. 
 
 The woman who lay there sick, almost dying, was 
 Nelly, Pierce Toole's wife. A red fever-flush burned in 
 her cheeks, and her eyes shone with a terrible brilliance 
 from the dark circles that surrounded them. Through 
 her white, attenuated fingers she was rapidly passing a 
 rosary the one gift of her father she still retained. 
 
 Her head moved restlessly, and once or twice she at- 
 tempted in vain to rise and approach the door. 
 
 " I am dying dying," she moaned, " with none near 
 me no priest no absolution no " She stopped ab- 
 ruptly, and bent her head in a listening attitude. " Oh, 
 Blessed Mother, help me!" He voice became an ap-
 
 388 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 pealing shriek. " Oh, Mother," she cried, " how often 
 have I said, ' Pray for us now and at the hour of our 
 death!'" 
 
 A blast of wind made her shiver ; a shower of snow- 
 flakes was driven into the room. 
 
 " Pierce ! " she said, half hopef ally, raising herself on 
 her elbow. " Pierce ! " 
 
 " What ! a human being here on this night ! " said a 
 voice that caused her heart to leap for joy. It was Fath- 
 er Kevan's ! 
 
 " Poor child ! poor child ! " he murmured, recogniz- 
 ing her. "And Pierce has brought you to this ! " 
 
 " Sure he was weak, Father," she answered, willing 
 that her last breath should be an excuse for him. 
 
 Father Kevan thanked God for the accident to his old 
 gig which had led him and his sexton, Mick, to seek 
 shelter for a time in this deserted place. 
 
 There was no blessed candle none of those holy sym- 
 bols which make the Catholic sick-room a vestibule of 
 Heaven. Mick prayed reverently, holding his lantern 
 where it would give the best light. 
 
 Nelly seemed to have forgotten everything but the 
 Sacred Guest. 
 
 " Depart, Christian soul " 
 
 It was over. 
 
 The priest raised the little child which, thin and pale, 
 clung to its mother's empty breast. The child did not 
 cry or move. 
 
 " Bring the light nearer, Mick ! " 
 
 A figure had shuffled in at the door, and stood silent 
 in the gloom. 
 
 The priest laid the child beside its mother, gently and 
 reverently. Then he turned. The newcomer was Pierce
 
 THE JAWS OF DEATH. 389 
 
 Toole. He seemed dazed by the picture before him. 
 Father Kevan did not speak. Mick could not stand the 
 silence. 
 
 " They're dead, Pierce dead ! " 
 
 " Hush ! " said the priest. 
 
 Pierce Toole did not burst into sobs or cries. " I have 
 brought the curse o' God on me." 
 
 " You rejected His grace," said the priest. " Pledge 
 or promise is nothing without it." 
 
 Pierce Toole knelt beside his wife and child. His 
 form shook and a big tear fell down his cheek. 
 
 Dead ! Gone ! He fell forward at the priest's feet. 
 
 A gray-haired man, bowed down, yet not old, remark- 
 able among his neighbors for his piety and humility, 
 watches often all night in Father Kevan's church. By 
 day he carries a hod, never murmuring in heat or cold, a 
 helper of all that ask him. This man is Pierce Toole. 
 
 " Promise or pledge," he often repeats, when he has 
 told his* story, " is nothing without God's help. The 
 drink is not bad. God made it. It's the forgetting of 
 God that makes us misuse it. Mind that, boys."
 
 CARMEL. 
 I. 
 
 "NON BUM DIGNU8." 
 
 JOOKING at the narrow, headstrong stream which 
 Northerners jnight be tempted to call a creek, 
 hut which the people of San Antonio dignify 
 with the name of a river, James Delaney, with a very dim 
 reminiscence of Lafontaine, perhaps, thought of a coun- 
 try snake which -had lost its way in a village. 1 
 Antonio is serpentine in the strictest sense of the U>nn ; 
 it runs through a pecan grove only to lose itself amid a 
 crowd of bath-houses attached to the back gardens of the 
 citizens. Making a sudden curve into a garden, it comes 
 forth laden with the creamy petals of the camellia and the 
 sunset-tinted leaves of the roses; then it darts behind a 
 Mexican jacal and emerges, bearing the refuse of the 
 family's mid-day meal. The sunlight makes it iridescent 
 in one place and lime-like in another ; it is a river of sur- 
 prises, and it runs as wayward as black-eyed Dona Flora, 
 who stands now, fan in hand, in the gallery of her house 
 and looks anxiously at James Delaney. 
 
 James Delaney is thinking of the river, not of the lady, 
 and his thoughts are not wholly sentimental. He is watch- 
 ing the velocity of the stream, and longing for the means 
 to harness this powerful serpent. With capital, he could 
 start a paper-mill in this lazy, half-Spanish town. He 
 (390)
 
 CARMEL. 391 
 
 could turn the mud houses of the half-breeds into pleas- 
 ant cottages, and make the. vacant plazas crumble beneath 
 the wear and tear of traffic. He does not know that all 
 the capital in the world would not induce that lazy and 
 happy Mexican to quit his beloved jacaleto, with its oven 
 of black rnud and its roof of sticks. He knows, however, 
 only too well, that if improvements in San Antonio de- 
 pend on his capital, that charming little place might re- 
 main lazy and beautiful until the end of time. He laughs 
 a little as he wakens from his dream and remembers that 
 a certain wallet in his left vest pocket holds exactly 
 ninety-six dollars, and that sum is the lever with which 
 he is to move San Antonio. It is all' he has in the world, 
 however. 
 
 This remembrance probably causes him to stretch out 
 his arms, and to look complacently at the muscles which 
 are vaguely indicated through his thin summer coat. 
 
 " Thank heaven," he said, " I have strength. That 
 Delilah, hard study, has not destroyed my Irish vigor or 
 made me less able to hew stone or draw water." 
 
 And he laughed again a pleasant laugh, which made 
 Dona Flora look at him. 
 
 James Delaney was not a particularly good-looking fel- 
 IOW T nor a particularly ill-looking one. He had blue eyes, 
 dark, deep, Irish eyes, which always smiled before his 
 lips opened, a reddish moustache, hair a shade darker, 
 and a tall, well-knit figure. His voice was delicious to 
 the ear. There was a touch of the brogue in his speech 
 which was very pleasant when heard amid the Southern 
 twang or the nasal and drawling intonations of the Span- 
 iards. He was what the French call an " un homme 
 manque" He had been spoiled by a system of education 
 which, unhappily, is very prevalent among Irish Aineri-
 
 392 THE LIFi: AKOIM) rs. 
 
 cans. His parents, poor, but industrious persons, bad 
 come to New York with him, a little child, in the year 
 '50. They worked hard night and day to give their only 
 child a suitable education. The other children, girls, had 
 died young. James was -intended for the priesthood, for 
 which he had neither vocation nor inclination. 
 
 His father and mother, kind-hearted and welt-meaning 
 souls in other things, could not understand why, after an 
 expensive college course that left them almost penniless 
 in their old age, he refused to enter the higher seminary. 
 His confessor came to them and warned them that to force 
 the young man would be almost a sacrilege; but the old 
 people could not understand that. Sure his mother's 
 cousin, Terence McMahon God, rest his soul, the holy 
 man was as wild as a young colt before he went to 
 Maynooth, and here was James and a better son never 
 lived refusing to let his old parents have the comfort of 
 seeing him celebrate Mass before they died. Dear old 
 Mrs. Delaney's eyes tilled with tears as she thought of 
 this terrible disappointment. She could not bring her- 
 self to face it. 
 
 " Sure," she said, " your father and myself haven't had 
 much time for prayin', we've been so busy workin' for 
 you, James, and the only comfort we had was the thought 
 that we'd have a holy priest of our own to help us 
 make our souls. Oh, James, ma cushla, say that you'll 
 not bring our gray hairs in sorrow to the grave." 
 
 His father did not say much. He sat in the evening 
 in a little back room behind the shop, silent and grim ; 
 but his old pipe often went out, and the hand that held 
 the paper, his favorite, trembled. That trembling, with- 
 ered hand, in which the purple veins stood out from the 
 sinews and wrinkled skin, t oubled James' heart even
 
 CARMEL. 393 
 
 more than his mother's pleading. "Words spoken lose 
 part of their force, but unspoken words touch a sensitive 
 heart like .red-hot steel. 
 
 James Delaney's heart was very generous and sensi- 
 tive. He had never been taught to be demonstrative ; 
 the Delaneys were a silent family, and James had been 
 long away ; but he could not resist the impulse to take 
 his father's hand in his, a.nd cry out 
 
 "I can't, father, I can't!" 
 
 " Who asked you to do anything against your will ? " 
 said the old man, his eyes twitching. " But don't say 
 you can't ; say you won't. I never thought that a grand- 
 son of Tom Delaney, who died for his religion and coun- 
 try, would come to this ; but never mind," the old man's 
 voice choked, " I'll say no more about it ; remember this, 
 James, I'll do no more for you." 
 
 Old Delaney was a man of few words. His son, with 
 a feeling that was almost despair, understood that the 
 iron had entered his heart, 
 
 " And sure," cried poor Mrs. Delaney, " what was the 
 use of all the Latin and French, and them things with 
 hard names, if you're not going to the seminary ? We 
 wouldn't have done amiss if we had kept you here in the 
 shop, instead of slavin' hard to make you better than 
 your neighbors. Ochone ! I wish we'd kept you here." 
 
 "I wish to heaven you had, mother!" said James, 
 kissing his mother's cheek and going quietly up to his 
 room in the attic. 
 
 He threw himself on the bed, and burst forth into wild 
 prayers. 
 
 He cried out the " Dominie non sum dignus," a score 
 of times. He was not worthy of the highest and holiest 
 calling on earth he did not dare aspire to be one of
 
 394 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 those anointed men. He hud been weighed and found 
 wanting. He had not been called or chosen. You can 
 imagine what struggles, what temptations, what hopeless- 
 ness beset a young and generous heart like this, striving 
 to do right, yet, in the eyes of those he loves, a repro- 
 bate, a contemner of holy things. Late in the night he 
 wrote a long letter to the Jesuit father who had coun- 
 selled him. After that, he fell asleep and dreamed that 
 his dear old mother blessed him. 
 
 She loved him still in heart, but during the many days 
 that followed, she made little sign of it. Old Delaney 
 had commanded her to keep silence on the question at 
 issue. Many times James caught her with a furtive tear 
 in her eye, and sighs and ejaculations at intervals told 
 him what was going on in his mother's mind. His fath- 
 er, always a silent man, seldom spoke to him now. 
 James strove to help him in the shop ; but there was lit- 
 tle need for him there. His father's lips pressed them- 
 selves closely together, and one day they opened sarcas- 
 tically, to say that " a gentleman, with his head full of 
 Greek and Latin, was out of place among molasses and 
 mackerel." 
 
 After this, James betook himself to Yirgil and Homer 
 in the attic. But the parts wearied him. Dido might 
 mourn and Penelope spin, but the daily papers and daily 
 life had more charm for our collegian ; yet few were less 
 litti'd for the daily routine of life than he. 
 
 He dared not suggest to his parents that he should study 
 law or medicine. This to them would have seemed like 
 an insult; besides, he shuddered at the thought of longer 
 remaining a burden to them. What could he do ? The 
 silent reproach that met him every hour at home drove 
 him mad. He could teach ; but few pupils eared to
 
 CARMEL. 395 
 
 come to a corner grocery store in the Bowery for lessons; 
 he looked out for a place in a school, and discovered, like 
 the old Italian, who states the fact in his battata : 
 
 " The world with masters is so covered o'er 
 There is no room for pupils any more." 
 
 He remembered, with some satisfaction, that he had 
 three gold medals for essays on " The Future of America," 
 the " Glories of Ancient Rome," and the " Use of the 
 Cothurnate in Greek Tragedy." These three efforts had 
 called down thunders of applause at as many commence- 
 ments. He attacked the newspaper offices, with visions 
 of glory filling his brain. Poor boy ! He found that a 
 man who can gather in advertisements or write comic 
 paragraphs, was more valuable than he who could locate 
 all the allusions in Horace or minutely describe the 
 "properties" of the Greek plays. He seemed destined 
 to have no place in the future of America, which he had 
 settled so satisfactorily when he graduated. 
 
 Things went on in the same way at home. The place 
 was clouded. Father, mother, and son were utterly 
 miserable. The old man seldom spoke and his wife went 
 about the house sadly as one heart-broken. James went 
 to Mass with them, and poured forth his whole heart's 
 grief and despondency before the Blessed Sacrament. 
 And while he prayed, he felt that his father had looked 
 on him as a pretender, a hypocrite. 
 
 It happened that the Congressman from the district in 
 which the Delaneys lived wanted a secretary wanted 
 one very badly indeed, for the learned legislator spelled 
 even more erratically than he who called himself a 
 "grater man than old Grant." In order to conciliate 
 the Irish vote he offered the place to James Delaney,
 
 TIM-: i.iFK Aiiorxn rs. 
 
 who had made some friends, although he was not looked 
 on with favor bj the older neighbors. It was a great 
 cross to the Delaneys to feel that their pride had fallen 
 that a certain vague and evil odor was attached to their 
 son who had failed to be a priest. 
 
 James did not take kindly to the ways of politics. His 
 early training had made him honest, if it had not made 
 him practical. When the Honorable William E. Skin- 
 ner had no further use for him, James had saved nearly 
 three hundred dollars. 
 
 " Father," he said, one evening, " I have determined 
 to go at last." 
 
 The old man dropped his paper and looked at his son 
 with an eager, questioning glance. 
 
 " No, no ! " said James, interpreting his father's thought 
 " I have determined to go South, to earn my living, 
 and perhaps to come back " 
 
 The old man put up his paper abruptly. His mother 
 cried a great deal and kissed him ; and the next day his 
 trunk was packed and ready for him. 
 
 " God bless you," she said, and the touch of the wrin- 
 kled, toil-worn hand on his shoulder made his heart leap 
 into his throat. " I thought I thought, sure, that one 
 day you'd be blessing your father and me." 
 
 The little room swam before his eyes. A groan forced 
 itself from him as he kissed his mother for the last time. 
 His father shook hands with him in silence. He never 
 saw either of them again. He left them, with his heart 
 full of parting benedictions. 
 
 And so we find him watching the twisted San Antonio 
 while Dona Flora gazes at him anxiously and rattles the 
 sticks of her fan.
 
 CARMEL. 397 
 
 II. 
 
 CARMEL. 
 
 The roses cluster around the gallery of Dona Flora, 
 for the whole town is a nest of roses at this time, pink, 
 crimson, white, and gold. Just beyond that adobe house 
 is an arching group of bananas, under which a dark- 
 skinned Mexican, in sombrero and gray blanket, is sell- 
 ing the pecan candy which is so common an article of 
 merchandise. The Angelus tolls from the cathedral, and 
 the market people in the plaza cross themselves, while 
 cabs rush past and the thrifty Germans hasten to dinner. 
 A Mexican caballero, velvet-jacketed, with silver buttons 
 flashing in the sun, dismounts, and passing contemptu- 
 ously the signs which offer refreshment in the shape of 
 St. Louis beer, enters El Globo Potosino, as the Mexican 
 restaurant is named. Thriving German burghers enter 
 the low houses, and a noonday stillness settles over the 
 white expanse of the plaza. 
 
 James Delaney watches the San Antonio and murmurs 
 the Angelus. Dona Flora has shaken down a great 
 bunch of pale-tinted bells from a dagger-leaved plant, 
 and left the gallery, to forget the stranger in her enjoy- 
 ment of her beloved dish of chile con carne. 
 
 Delaney's arm is lightly touched. He turns, and sees 
 two black, frightened eyes looking into his. 
 
 " Senor " says a trembling voice. He takes off his 
 hat, for it is a lady who addresses him. A young lady, 
 clad in black, who, in stature, scarcely reaches his shoul- 
 der; she is agitated, and she pauses nervously in her 
 speech.
 
 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " Senor, I beg that you will stay with my father. He 
 is very ill, and I must go for a priest." 
 
 The young lady pointed to a jacal that stood a few 
 yards from the river. Delaney hastened toward it. In 
 to enter he was forced to stoop. On a bed of dried 
 hardly covered by a scanty blanket, lay an old 
 man. He was evidently not a Mexican. His features 
 were pinched and his complexion pallid. He opened his 
 eyes as Delaney knelt near him, to feel his pulse. 
 
 " Where is Carmel ? " he asked, feebly. " Has the 
 priest come ? " 
 
 " Not yet." Delaney gave him some water, and then 
 began to recite the litany for the dying. The sick man 
 responded almost inaudibly. Suddenly he asked : 
 
 " Your name ? Tell me your name." 
 
 "James Delaney." 
 
 " An Irishman or an Irishman's son. I can trust you. 
 I want my daughter to reach the North in safety. I had 
 something, but these accursed Mexicans robbed me. 
 See her safe out of this accursed place. Swear that 
 you" 
 
 The old man raised his arms in the air, as if to grasp 
 the words he could not utter. He caught sight of the 
 crucifix tattooed in blue ink on his arm and kissed it. 
 There was silence. A few minutes afterward the priest 
 entered. In half an hour, Carmel Boynton was alone in 
 the world. 
 
 Her story was simple and short. Her father had been 
 a miner in Mexico a " boss." He had married a Spanish 
 woman, and had adopted her religion. There had been 
 a dispute over some land with his wife's relatives, after 
 Mis. !'< .viiti in's death, and Boynton and his daughter 
 were compelled to leave the place, and they were going 
 North when Boynton fell sick.
 
 CARMEL. 399 
 
 Carmel had sufficient funds to bury her father decently. 
 Delaney went to the funeral, and accompanied her to the 
 hut which she had never called hom^. He was struck 
 with her gentleness and good sense. At this time he did 
 not notice how beautiful Carmel was, for the grief sur- 
 rounded her with such a halo that he thought as little of 
 noticing the regularity of her features, or the splendor of 
 her eyes, as he would have dreamed of criticising the 
 looks of the angels in a picture by Murillo. He felt 
 that she was very pure, and fair, and very much above 
 him. 
 
 After he had said good-evening to Carmel on the 
 afternoon of the funeral, a woman approached and ad- 
 dressed the girl. 
 
 " I have heard of your misfortune, my dear. I have 
 seen you several times and taken a fancy to you. Come 
 home with me, my dear." 
 
 The woman was not young, but she was painted to 
 the eyelashes and dressed gayly, with banged hair, flut- 
 tering ribbons, and bangles. Delaney turned and looked 
 at her. Her looks and her cracked voice made him sick. 
 He went up to Carmel, who seemed surprised at the 
 woman's kindness. 
 
 " Miss Boynton," he said, " let me decline this offer 
 for you. You are under my protection." 
 
 The woman turned toward him. 
 
 "Oh," she said, with an equivocal laugh, "I did not 
 know that this young woman had so soon found a 
 friend.''' 
 
 " Miss Boynton," said Delaney, shuddering, as he 
 thought of the dangers the girl might be thrown into, 
 ' yon must leave San Antonio. Have you friends in the 
 North?'.'
 
 400 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 " Friends of my father's/' she said. " Yes many of 
 them. Tlu-y arc in Nc\v York. But I can not leave. I 
 must stay here an^ work. 
 
 " You must not stay here." 
 
 " Why not ? There are persons here who will help me. 
 This kind friends have promised. You have been very 
 good, and even strangers, that American lady who spoke 
 to me the moment ago, she will " 
 
 " You must avoid her," interrupted Delaney, impa- 
 tiently, for the simplicity of the girl exasperated him. 
 " This is a lawless place, in many ways, you must learn." 
 
 " But I can not leave it, Senor. I arn poor, and I can 
 not beg. I must work," she answered, with a proud look 
 in her eyes. 
 
 This girl ought not to remain, he thought. He re- 
 flected a moment. 
 
 " Senorita," he said, " your mother could tell you or 
 a priest would tell you to go." 
 
 A faint tint of red colored Carmel's cheek, and a look 
 of horror flashed into her eyes. 
 
 "You must go," he continued, "you will be $afu 
 among your friends in New York. I have some money 
 that I can spare. Let me lend it to you. You can repay 
 me." He took the wallet from his pocket and counted 
 out all the money he possessed, with the exception of 
 ti\c dollars. She watched him thoughtfully; drew back 
 her hand and then held it out again. She unlocked a 
 little box which contained her belongings, and after a 
 few moments' search, handed him a roll of parchment. 
 
 " Keep that, Senor, and if I should die or not be able 
 to repay you, you can perhaps make that useful. It is 
 the deed of my father's land in Mexico." 
 
 He refused it.
 
 CARMEL. 401 
 
 " No" he said, with a blush and a bow, " your word is 
 enough." 
 
 She gazed at him with a thoughtful look in her large, 
 dark eyes a look that seemed to pierce his mind and 
 hers, and measures the motives in one by the motives in 
 the other. 
 
 u I do not know the English well," she said, timidly, 
 " but I do know what the word gentleman means. I 
 will take your money, and Our Lady of Mount Carmel 
 will never forget you." 
 
 He heard her fasten the door of her little house, and 
 he went away with a light heart to sup in a most frugal 
 manner. He was almost penniless, yet was gayer than 
 he had been for many a day. He did not seek shelter 
 for that night, but lay down under the (jlear, bright sky, 
 as many do in that happy clime. He went to sleep and 
 dreamed that the woman he had seen was armed with 
 the claws of a vulture and a terrible beak, and that she 
 was about to pounce on a little white dove which had 
 the eyes of Carmel. He awoke with a start. The San 
 Antonio murmured softly, the scent of the roses came 
 faintly to him, and he went to sleep again, for he could 
 see the little nest in which the dove reposed peacefully. 
 
 It happened that some of the Ursuline Sisters were 
 going North, and, through the influence of the priest 
 who had administered the last sacraments to her father, 
 Carmel was placed in their charge. 
 
 Delaney said good-bye with a strange feeling of weight 
 on his heart.- 
 
 *' Adios, mi amigo," she said. 
 
 " Adios ! " 
 
 Something fell into his hand. It was a pair of brown 
 scapulars, with a little gold medal. Simple-hearted, gen-
 
 402 THE LIFE AROUND ITS. 
 
 e rous fellow that he was, it never occurred to him to 
 imagine that he had made a sacrifice. He was not in- 
 clined to give himself any credit for what he had done. 
 He watched the flying train and an involuntary sigh 
 escaped from him. The delicious air, the flower-scent, 
 the novel sights, had no charm for him. Yesterday he 
 \vas not unhappy. To-day he felt as if he had lost a 
 friend. He made a rapid sketch in his note-book of the 
 bearings of the land which Boy n ton had owned. He 
 had asked Carmel about it. " Something hiay come of 
 it," he thought. 
 
 Brain-work was. not wanted in San Antonio, so our 
 collegian, obeying Solomon's injunction to do what his 
 hand found to do, tried brick-laying. He worked hard 
 that is, as hard as any man is expected to work in San 
 Antonio venison and turkey were cheap, so was good 
 beef, and he lived well ; but there was not much to hope 
 for in a worldly way. He led a pure, simple life, mak- 
 ing no friends indeed the men who came his way, idlers 
 and refugees, were not to his taste and conning his old 
 books. 
 
 If he had had a little money, he would have gone to 
 Kimball county, and started a sheep ranch in a small 
 way ; but, as we all know, he had disposed of all his 
 money. After a time, when brick-laying was scarce 
 .-Mid this came about just as he had become expert he 
 went out with a party of stockmen; and, after a time of 
 probation, he became a ranchman, earning the munificent 
 sum of twelve dollars a month and " found." " Found " 
 expresses roughly the husks of the prodigal son. That's 
 what it means when used in connection with cattle- 
 driv rs in Texas. 
 
 To Delaney this was a miserable life. There was no
 
 CARMEL. 403 
 
 one to whom he could speak his thoughts. All day he 
 was in the saddle ; at night he lay under the stars and 
 tried to feel resigned. He prayed a great deal ; and 
 thought very often, in a hopeless way, of Carrael. 
 Oh, why had he been brought up to hear and see things 
 which were unseen by other men ? Every day, as he 
 looked on the exasperatingly unvaried prairie, he asked 
 this question. Why had he not been brought up to work 
 with his hands ? Why had he been obliged to spend the 
 best part of his life over his Greek and Latin books, if 
 this was to be the end ? If he had only been taught to 
 do something useful as well as it could be done, he might 
 have found a place in that busy, heartless New York. 
 He never, in his deepest despair, reproached anybody. 
 The thought of his father and mother was a weight upon 
 him ; but that meeting was the only foundation for gold- 
 en castles such as he only whose blood is young and 
 Irish-tinctured can build ; for all Irishmen are poets. 
 
 And thus his life went on. His fellows respected him 
 as one more learned than they. Despondency, war- 
 ranted by circumstances, and hope, warranted by none, 
 alternated with him ; but hope always stayed the longest. 
 
 III. 
 
 THE MAN FROM TEXAS. 
 
 Carmel had found a welcome in New York from her 
 father's brother. Mr. and Mrs. Boynton were in what 
 is called " good " society, and, like " good " society itself, 
 they were of the earth, earthy. They were childless, 
 and Carmel's beauty and "distinguished air" good so-
 
 404 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 ciety loves a distinguished air induced them to receive 
 her cordially. They were not wealthy, but they had a 
 fair income, so Carmel was allowed to consult dress- 
 makers, and, by and by, those feeble-minded creatures, 
 of unknown sex, the fashionable correspondents, gushed 
 over her Spanish eyes and her general attractiveness. 
 
 At first Carmel was unwilling to live with her relatives. 
 She wanted to work ; but it became apparent that the old 
 people had grown very fond of her, so she submitted to 
 wear purple and fine linen, and go out a great deal. 
 
 " After a time," she said to her uncle, " I will pay you 
 for these fine things, though 1 can never pay you for the 
 kindness. In time I will sell the land of my father." 
 
 " Yery well," said the old man, with a kind smile, " you 
 can pay me when the land sells for a million." 
 
 " What does the child mean by talking of land '( " Mrs. 
 Boynton asked later. " I never heard that your brother 
 left anything." 
 
 " Carmel's land is not worth anything. It's a wild 
 jungle in Mexico, Kobbs tells me ; but don't tell the 
 child. She likes to look forward to being an heiress 
 some day." 
 
 It would be untrue to pretend that in this atmosphere, 
 made up of the effluvia of stale feasts, the breath of flat- 
 tery, and the vapid scent of plants that blossom only in 
 the ball-room, Carmel did not lose some of her simplicity. ; 
 and yet the bloom was not all rubbed off the peach. She 
 was very earnest jn her religious duties, and her medi- 
 tations before the Blessed Sacrament kept a spring unde- 
 filed in her heart, and made her unconscious of certain 
 influences that might have spoiled her. 
 
 She seldom uttered a prayer without a remembrance of 
 a young man who had saved her from a fate worse than
 
 CARMEL. 405 
 
 death. She never hoped to meet him again, though 
 sometimes, when the excitement of a round of gaiety 
 had left her wearted and disgusted, she longed to speak 
 to him ; for to her he was the .representative of a purer 
 and better life. 
 
 During Lent, while the Jesuits were preaching a mis- 
 sion, she was seized with a yearning for earnest life. It 
 was so calm, so peaceful. There were no temptations in 
 it. She was tired of the world and its vanities ; she 
 longed for peace. It is scarcely fair to confess that she 
 tried on a n unlike costume and thought she would make 
 a nice-looking sister. If she had found the dress unbe- 
 coming, she would not have given up her aspirations, she 
 would only have sought out a new order with a more 
 suitable dress. The Jesuit Father smiled when she told 
 her story, her hopes, her longings, her disgust with the 
 world. 
 
 " I have never thought of marriage," she exclaimed. 
 " Never ! There is no man in the world " but here she 
 paused and blushed. She thought of a certain young 
 man who might 
 
 " And where is he, my child ? " asked the Director, 
 translating her thought. 
 
 " There is no ' he,' Father," she answered, in confu- 
 sion, " that is, I met him in Texas." And she told the 
 episode. 
 
 The good Father made it plain to her that a disgust 
 for the world and the knowledge that a certain habit 
 became her, would not make a nun. She would never 
 marry, she declared, never. Father Dalton smiled again. 
 
 As she went homeward that evening she met Mr. Robbs. 
 Robbs R. De Champagne Robbs was a young man of 
 the " best " society. He belonged to several clubs, occa-
 
 40C TIN-: I.IFK Ai:r.\i) us. 
 
 signally drove a coach, and was reported to be a great 
 swell, quite in the Knglish style. He drank a little too 
 much at times, but nobody minded tftat, as it was said 
 he had great influence in Wall Street. 
 
 Lounging in the window of the Union Club that after- 
 noon it is quite in the English style to lounge in a club 
 before dinner R. De Champagne Robbs had made an 
 exclamation. 
 
 " That little Carmel Boy n ton is a dashed fine gall," 
 >aiil his friend, Frederick Algernon S my the. " Made a 
 fine show ridin' with the hounds over on Long Island the 
 other day. Pretty, by Jove ! There she goes goin' to 
 church. Pious, by Jove prayer-book and all. Pity 
 she's so dashed poor ! " 
 
 "Poor!" This was Robbs' exclamation. "She's one 
 of the richest girls in the country, if this be true. Look 
 here ! " And Robbs read : 
 
 " Silver Mine near Santiago mum mum mum 
 Tremendous excitement mum mum two millions 
 mum mum daily working capacity " 
 
 " What's the matter with you, dear boy ? " demanded 
 the languid Smythe, fingering the japonica in his coat. 
 " Don't read in such an excited manner. What do I care 
 about it 2 What does it all mean ? " 
 
 " It means that Carmel Boynton owns a silver mine. 
 Old Boynton showed me the deed, but the experts said 
 it was no good. I'll just telephone to old Caudle in Wall 
 Street." 
 
 "And propose to the little Mexican," said Smythe, 
 ruefully. " It may be awfully jolly to you, but it's an 
 awful sell on us other fellows." 
 
 Old Caudle's answer must have been satisfactory, for 
 De Champagne Robbs made himself very agreeable to
 
 CARMEL. 407 
 
 Carmel on her way home ; and when she reached her 
 room she had entirely forgotten her dissatisfaction with 
 the world. 
 
 In the meantime Robbs became master of the details 
 relating to the Mexican mines. He was so well contented 
 that he proposed to old Boy n ton for Carmel. 
 
 " She is such a child," De Champagne said, ingeniously, 
 " that I thought it best to come to you first ; besides, I 
 prefer the European fashion in most things." 
 
 " I have no money to give her," said Boynton, know- 
 ing that the European fashion demanded a dowry. 
 
 Tears forced themselves into the disinterested young 
 man's eyes. 
 
 " You do not intend to insult me, I am sure," he said, 
 gently. "I am very sensitive. Money and love are, 
 with me, incompatible." 
 
 Mr. Boynton was much affected, and the matter was 
 arranged. The old people congratulated themselves as 
 having made a good sale of Carmel. People said young 
 Robbs was fast, to be sure ; but then, people also said that 
 Robbs was rich. 
 
 But why prolong a story which would consist now in 
 the recital of the nothings that " good " society uttered 
 apropos of this sale. It was concluded by everybody 
 that Carmel was engaged. A letter from Mr. Robbs will 
 explain what did happen much better than a mere ob- 
 server could do it. It was written to his dear English 
 friend, Mr. Harcourt Vane, whom he had met during his 
 travels abroad : 
 
 "I have been 'left' again, dear boy left again. I 
 told you of the San Jose heiress. You know the vile 
 American custom of letting girls have opinions of their
 
 408 THE LIFE AROUND US. 
 
 own. Well, Cannel has opinions of her own. I saw the 
 old man and made it right with him. He told me she 
 was a Romanist, but I didn't mind that, there are some 
 really nice Romanists, you know. And I don't care 
 much about my wife's religion, provided she doesn't inter- 
 fere with the children. Well, I sent her an immense 
 bouquet on a cotillion night a regular stunner, cost me 
 five pounds. And then I asked her, and told her the old 
 fellow was willing. She hesitated. We were at De Stacy 
 Robinson's ball. I was in the act of seeing her to her 
 carriage. I felt her hand tremble on my arm. There 
 was a slight murmur ye gods ! I saw myself master of 
 the San Jose mines. 
 
 " The Robinsons awfully crude Americans, you know 
 had a calcium light in front of their house, and just as we 
 reached the sidewalk a man fell in front of us. I thought 
 he was drunk, so I gave him a kick. Carrnel screamed 
 and called out something. In an instant she was kneel- 
 ing beside the tramp, her satin dress trailing in the mud. 
 
 " He wasn't drunk. He is a certain young Irish-Amer- 
 ican, James Delaney. He was sick. He had known 
 Carmel in some wild cow-boy district, And as I kicked, 
 his coat flew open, and she saw a medal or a scapulary 
 or something she had given him. 
 
 ' Well, she recognized him, and he recognized her. 
 He had come all the way from Texas to tell her that she 
 was the greatest heiress in America. His pocket-book 
 Ini'l nothing in it but papers on the San Jos6 mines. She 
 had him taken to Mr. Boynton's, and she and a Sister of 
 Charity nursed him. 
 
 " Everybody said she'd marry the fellow. But she did 
 not. He has gone down South as manager of the San 
 Jose mines, on an immense commission, they say, and
 
 CARMEL. 409 
 
 taken his aged parents some low people, I believe, with 
 him. 
 
 " Carmel has put a lot of money into some institu- 
 tion for the education of young girls. Isn't it too bad ? 
 They say she goes to Mass every morning, and that this 
 fellow attributes all the good that has come to him to his 
 having been true to some Papistical rules of which that 
 scapulary was the badge. Queer idea ! I'd become a 
 Romanist to-morrow if it would bring me such good 
 luck. I said this to Carmel, but she said it wouldn't do."
 
 "