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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/hauntedorganistoOOgilb 
 
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 l^ocU^ 
 
 THE IDLE HOUR SERIES. 
 
 Edited by ALFRED H. MILES/ 
 
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 V- 
 
 
<Ibe 3ble Ibour Series. 
 
 INCLUDES : 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 HURLY BURLY , and other Stories. By 
 Rosa Mulholland. 
 
 PRINCESS FEDORS PLEDGE , and 
 
 other Stories. By George Manville Fenn. 
 
 THE CHRONICLES OF CARDEWE 
 MANOR , in numerous Stories. By Lucy 
 Farmer. 
 
 WOO IN' G : Stories of the course that 
 never did run smooth. By R. E. Francillon, 
 and other writers. 
 
 WEDDING : Stories of the long lane 
 that has no turning. By Robert Overton, 
 and other writers. 
 
THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 HURLY BURLY. 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN 
 
THE 
 
 HAUNTED ORGANIST 
 
 OF HURLY BURLY, 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 ]5Y 
 
 ROSA MULHOLLAND, 
 
 Author of “ Marcella Grace" “ A Fair Emigrant “ The Wild Birds 
 
 of Killeevy etc etc. 
 
 Sjcrttbwi : 
 
 HUTCHINSON AND CO., 
 
 25, PATERNOSTER SQUARE. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF HURLY BURLY 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH . 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH 
 
 KRESCENZ 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY . 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN 
 
 THE FIT OF AILSIE’S SHOE . 
 
 A WILL O’ THE WISP 
 
 THE GHOST OF WILDWOOD CHASE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 
 22 
 
 52 
 
 90 
 
 126 
 
 135 
 
 *95 
 
 227 
 
 264 
 
 292 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 HURLY BURLY. 
 
 HERE had been a thunderstorm in the village of 
 
 Hurly Burly. Every door was shut, every dog 
 in his kennel, every rut and gutter a flowing river after 
 the deluge of rain that had fallen. Up at the great 
 house, a mile from the town, the rooks were calling to 
 one another about the fright they had been in, the 
 fawns in the deer-park were venturing their timid 
 heads from behind the trunks of trees, and the old 
 woman at the gate-lodge had risen from her knees, and 
 was putting back her prayer-book on the shelf. In the 
 garden, July roses, unwieldy with their full-blown 
 richness, and saturated with rain, hung their heads 
 heavily to the earth ; others, already fallen, lay flat 
 upon their blooming faces on the path, where Bess, 
 Mistress Hurly’s maid, would find them, when going 
 on her morning quest of rose-leaves for her lady’s pot- 
 pourri. Ranks of white lilies, just brought to perfec- 
 tion by to-day’s sun, lay dabbled in the mire of flooded 
 mould. Tears ran down the amber cheeks of the 
 plums on the south wall, and not a bee had ventured 
 out of the hives, though the scent of the air was sweet 
 
 h. o. 
 
 l 
 
2 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 
 enough to tempt the laziest drone. The sky was still 
 lurid behind the boles of the upland oaks, but the birds 
 had begun to dive in and out of the ivy that wrapped 
 up the home of the Hurlys of Hurly Burly. 
 
 This thunderstorm took place more than half a century 
 ago, and we must remember that Mistress Hurly was 
 dressed in the fashion of that time as she crept out 
 from behind the squire’s chair, now that the lightning 
 was over, and, with many nervous glances towards the 
 window, sat down before her husband, the tea-urn, and 
 the muffins. We can picture her fine lace cap, with its 
 peachy ribbons, the frill on the hem of her cambric gown 
 just touching her ankles, the embroidered clocks on her 
 stockings, the rosettes on her shoes, but not so easily 
 the lilac shade of her mild eyes, the satin skin, which 
 still kept its delicate bloom, though wrinkled with 
 advancing age, and the pale, sweet, puckered mouth, 
 that time and sorrow had made angelic while trying 
 vainly to deface its beauty. 
 
 The squire was as rugged as his wife was gentle, his 
 skin as brown as hers was white, his grey hair as 
 bristling as hers was glossed ; the years had ploughed 
 his face into ruts and channels ; a bluff, choleric, noisy 
 man he had been ; but of late a dimness had come on 
 his eyes, a hush on his loud voice, and a check on the 
 spring of his hale step. He looked at his wife often, 
 and very often she looked at him. She was not a tall 
 woman, and he was only a head higher. They were a 
 quaintly well-matched couple, despite their differences. 
 She turned to you with nervous sharpness and revealed 
 
1IURLY BURLY. 
 
 3 
 
 her tender voice and eye ; he spoke and glanced 
 roughly, but the turn of his head was courteous. Of 
 late they fitted one another better than they had ever 
 done in the heyday of their youthful love. A common 
 sorrow had developed a singular likeness between 
 them. In former years the cry from the wife had been, 
 “ Don’t curb my son too much ! ” and from the husband, 
 “You ruin the lad with softness.” But now the idol 
 that had stood between them was removed, and they 
 saw each other better. 
 
 The room in which they sat was a pleasant old- 
 fashioned drawing-room, with a general spider-legged 
 character about the fittings ; spinnet and guitar in 
 their places, with a great deal of copied music beside 
 them ; carpet, tawny wreaths on pale blue ; blue flutings 
 on the walls, and faint gilding on the furniture. A 
 huge urn, crammed with roses, in the open bay-window, 
 through which came delicious airs from the garden, the 
 twittering of birds settling to sleep in the ivy close by, 
 and occasionally the pattering of a flight of rain-drops, 
 swept to the ground as a bough bent in the breeze. 
 The urn on the table was ancient silver, and the china 
 rare. There was nothing in the room for luxurious 
 ease of the body, but everything of delicate refinement 
 for the eye. 
 
 There was a great hush all over Hurly Burly, except 
 in the neighbourhood of the rooks. Every living thing 
 had suffered from heat for the past month, and now, 
 in common with all Nature, was receiving the boon of 
 refreshed air in silent peace. The mistress and master 
 
4 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 
 of Hurly Burly shared the general spirit that was 
 abroad, and were not talkative over their tea. 
 
 “ Do you know/' said Mistress Hurly, at last, “when 
 I heard the first of the thunder beginning I thought it 
 was — it was ” 
 
 The lady broke down, her lips trembling, and the 
 peachy ribbons of her cap stirring with great 
 agitation. 
 
 “Pshaw!” cried the old squire, making his cup 
 suddenly ring upon the saucer, “ we ought to have 
 forgotten that. Nothing has been heard for three 
 months.” 
 
 At this moment a rolling sound struck upon the ears 
 of both. The lady rose from her seat trembling, and 
 folded her hands together, while the tea-urn flooded 
 the tray. 
 
 “ Nonsense, my love,” said the squire ; “ that is the 
 noise of wheels. Who can be arriving ? ” 
 
 “ Who, indeed ? ” murmured the lady, reseating her- 
 self in agitation. 
 
 Presently pretty Bess of the rose-leaves appeared at 
 the door in a flutter of blue ribbons. 
 
 “ Please, madam, a lady has arrived, and says she is 
 expected. She asked for her apartment, and I put her 
 into the room that was got ready for Miss Calderwood. 
 And she sends her respects to you, madam, and she'll 
 be down with you presently.” 
 
 The squire looked at his wife, and his wife looked at 
 the squire. 
 
 “ It is some mistake,” murmured madam. “ Some 
 
HURLY BURLY. 
 
 5 
 
 visitor for Calderwood or the Grange. It is very 
 singular.” 
 
 Hardly had she spoken when the door again opened, 
 and the stranger appeared — a small creature, whether 
 girl or woman it would be hard to say — dressed in a 
 scanty black silk dress, her narrow shoulders covered 
 with a white muslin pelerine. Her hair was swept up 
 to the crown of her head, all but a little fringe hanging 
 over her low forehead within an inch of her brows. 
 Her face was brown and thin, eyes black and long, 
 with blacker settings, mouth large, sweet, and melan- 
 choly. She was all head, mouth, and eyes ; her nose 
 and chin were nothing. 
 
 This visitor crossed the floor hastily, dropped a 
 courtesy in the middle of the room, and approached 
 the table, saying abruptly, with a soft Italian 
 accent : 
 
 “Sir and madam, I am here. I am come to play 
 your organ.” 
 
 “ The organ ! ” gasped Mistress Hurly. 
 
 “The organ !” stammered the squire. 
 
 “ Yes, the organ,” said the little stranger lady, 
 playing on the back of a chair with her fingers, as if 
 she felt notes under them. “ It was but last week that 
 the handsome signor, your son, came to my little house, 
 where I have lived teaching music since my English 
 father and my Italian mother and brothers and sisters 
 died and left me so lonely.” 
 
 Here the fingers left off drumming, and two great 
 tears were brushed off, one from each eye with each 
 
6 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 
 hand, child’s fashion. But the next moment the fingers 
 were at work again, as if only whilst they were moving 
 the tongue could speak. 
 
 “The noble signor, your son,” said the little woman, 
 looking trustfully from one to the other of the old 
 couple, while a bright blush shone through her brown 
 skin, “ he often came to see me before that, always in 
 the evening, when the sun was warm and yellow all 
 through my little studio, and the music was swelling 
 my heart, and I could play out grand with all my 
 soul; then he used to come and say, ‘ Hurry, little Lisa, 
 and play better, better still. I have work for you to 
 do by-and-by.’ Sometimes he said, ‘ Brava ! ’ and 
 sometimes he said ‘ Eccellentissima ! ’ but one night 
 last week he came to me and said, ‘ It is enough. 
 Will you swear to do my bidding, whatever it may be ? ' 
 Here the black eyes fell. And I said, ‘Yes.’ And he 
 said, ‘ Now you are my betrothed.’ And I said, ‘ Yes.’ 
 And he said, ‘ Pack up your music, little Lisa, and go 
 off to England to my English father and mother, who 
 have an organ in their house which must be played 
 upon. If they refuse to let you play, tell them I sent 
 you, and they will give you leave. You must play all 
 day, and you must get up in the night and play. You 
 must never tire. You are my betrothed, and you have 
 sworn to do my work.’ I said, ‘ Shall I see you there, 
 signor?’ And he said, ‘Yes, you shall see me there.’ 
 I said, ‘ I will keep my vow, signor.’ And so, sir and 
 madam, I am come.” 
 
 The soft foreign voice left off talking, the fingers left 
 
HURLY BURLY. 
 
 7 
 
 off thrumming on the chair, and the little stranger gazed 
 in dismay at her auditors, both pale with agitation. 
 
 “ You are deceived. You make a mistake/' said 
 they in one breath. 
 
 “ Our son " began Mistress Hurly, but her 
 
 mouth twitched, her voice broke, and she looked 
 piteously towards her husband. 
 
 “ Our son," said the squire, making an effort to 
 conquer the quavering in his voice, “our son is long 
 dead." 
 
 “Nay, nay," said the little foreigner. “If you have 
 thought him dead have good cheer, dear sir and madam. 
 He is alive ; he is well, and strong, and handsome. 
 But one, two, three, four, five" (on the fingers) “days 
 ago he stood by my side." 
 
 “ It is some strange mistake, some wonderful coin- 
 cidence !" said the mistress and master of Hurly Burly. 
 
 “Let us take her to the gallery," murmured the 
 mother of this son who was thus dead and alive. 
 “ There is yet light to see the pictures. She will not 
 know his portrait." 
 
 The bewildered wife and husband led their strange 
 visitor away to a long gloomy room at the west side of 
 the house, where the faint gleams from the darkening 
 sky still lingered on the portraits of the Hurly family. 
 
 “ Doubtless he is like this," said the squire, pointing 
 to a fair-haired young man with a mild face, a brother 
 of his own who had been lost at sea. 
 
 But Lisa shook her head, and went softly on tiptoe 
 from one picture to another, peering into the canvas, and 
 
8 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 
 still turning away troubled. But at last a shriek of 
 delight startled the shadowy chamber. 
 
 “ Ah, here he is ! See, here he is, the noble signor, 
 the beautiful signor, not half so handsome as he looked 
 five days ago, when talking to poor little Lisa ! Dear 
 sir and madam, you are now content. Now take me to 
 the organ, that I may commence to do his bidding at 
 once.” 
 
 The mistress of Hurly Burly clung fast by her 
 husband’s arm. 
 
 “ How old are you, girl ? ” she said faintly. 
 
 “ Eighteen,” said the visitor impatiently, moving 
 towards the door. 
 
 “ And my son has been dead for twenty years ! ” 
 said his mother, and swooned on her husband’s 
 breast. 
 
 u Order the carriage at once,” said Mistress Hurly; 
 recovering from her swoon ; “ I will take her to 
 Margaret Calderwood. Margaret will tell her the story. 
 Margaret will bring her to reason. No, not to-morrow ; 
 I cannot bear to-morrow, it is so far away. We must 
 go to-night.” 
 
 The little signora thought the old lady mad, but she 
 put on her cloak again obediently, and took her seat 
 beside Mistress Hurly in the Hurly family coach. The 
 moon that looked in at them through the pane as they 
 lumbered along was not whiter than the aged face of 
 the squire’s wife, whose dim faded eyes were fixed 
 upon it in doubt and awe too great for tears or words. 
 
HURLY BURLY. 
 
 9 
 
 Lisa, too, from her corner gloated upon the moon, her 
 black eyes shining with passionate dreams. 
 
 A carriage rolled away from the Calderwood door as 
 the Hurly coach drew up at the steps. Margaret 
 Calderwood had just returned from a dinner-party, 
 and at the open door a splendid figure was standing, 
 a tall woman dressed in brown velvet, the diamonds on 
 her bosom glistening in the moonlight that revealed 
 her, pouring, as it did, over the house from eaves to 
 basement. Mistress Hurly fell into her outstretched 
 arms with a groan, and the strong woman carried her 
 aged friend, like a baby, into the house. Little Lisa 
 was overlooked, and sat down contentedly on the 
 threshold to gloat awhile longer on the moon, and to 
 thrum imaginary sonatas on the doorstep. 
 
 There were tears and sobs in the dusk, moonlit room 
 into which Margaret Calderwood carried her friend. 
 There was a long consultation, and then Margaret, 
 having hushed away the grieving woman into some 
 quiet corner, came forth to look for the little dark-faced 
 stranger, who had arrived, so unwelcome, from beyond 
 the seas, with such wild communication from the dead. 
 
 Up the grand staircase of handsome Calderwood the 
 little woman followed the tall one into a large chamber 
 where a lamp burned, showing Lisa, if she cared to see 
 it, that this mansion of Calderwood was fitted with 
 much greater luxury and richness than was that of 
 Hurly Burly. The appointments of this room an- 
 nounced it the sanctum of a woman who depended for 
 the interest of her life upon resources of intellect and 
 
10 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 
 taste. Lisa noticed nothing but a morsel of biscuit 
 that was lying on a plate. 
 
 1 May I have it ? ” said she eagerly. “ It is so long 
 since I have eaten. I am hungry." 
 
 Margaret Calderwood gazed at her with a sorrowful, 
 motherly look, and, parting the fringing hair on her 
 forehead, kissed her. Lisa, staring at her in wonder, 
 returned the caress with ardour. Margaret’s large 
 fair shoulders, Madonna face, and yellow braided hair, 
 excited a rapture within her. But when food was 
 brought her, she flew to it and ate. 
 
 “ It is better than I have ever eaten at home ! ” she 
 said gratefully. And Margaret Calderwood murmured, 
 “ She is physically healthy, at least.” 
 
 “And now, Lisa,” said Margaret Calderwood, “come 
 and tell me the whole history of the grand signor who 
 sent you to England to play the organ.” 
 
 Then Lisa crept in behind a chair, and her eyes 
 began to burn and her fingers to thrum, and she 
 repeated word for word her story as she had told it at 
 Hurly Burly. 
 
 When she had finished, Margaret Calderwood began 
 to pace up and down the floor with a very troubled 
 face. Lisa watched her, fascinated, and, when she 
 bade her listen to a story which she would relate to 
 her, folded her restless hands together meekly, and 
 listened. 
 
 “ Twenty years ago, Lisa, Mr. and Mrs. Hurly had 
 a son. He was handsome, like that portrait you saw 
 in the gallery, and he had brilliant talents. He was 
 
HURLY BURLY. 
 
 1 1 
 
 idolized by his father and mother, and all who knew 
 him felt obliged to love him. I was then a happy girl 
 of twenty. I was an orphan, and Mrs. Hurly, who had 
 been my mother's friend, was like a mother to me. I, 
 too, was petted and caressed by all my friends, and I 
 was very wealthy ; but I only valued admiration, riches 
 — every good gift that fell to my share — just in pro- 
 portion as they seemed of worth in the eyes of Lewis 
 Hurly. I was his affianced wife, and I loved him well. 
 
 “All the fondness and pride that were lavished on 
 him could not keep him from falling into evil ways, nor 
 from becoming rapidly more and more abandoned to 
 wickedness, till even those who loved him best despaired 
 of seeing his reformation. I prayed him with tears, 
 for my sake, if not for that of his grieving mother, to 
 save himself before it was too late. But to my horror 
 I found that my power was gone, my words did not 
 even move him ; he loved me no more. I tried to think 
 that this was some fit of madness that would pass, and 
 still clung to hope. At last his own mother forbade me 
 to see him." 
 
 Here Margaret Calderwood paused, seemingly in 
 bitter thought, but resumed : 
 
 a He and a party of his boon companions, named by 
 themselves the * Devil’s Club,’ were in the habit of 
 practising all kinds of unholy pranks in the country. 
 They had midnight carousings on the tombstones in 
 the village grave} r ard ; they carried away helpless old 
 men and children, whom they tortured by making 
 believe to bury them alive ; they raised the dead and 
 
12 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 
 placed them sitting round the tombstones at a mock 
 feast. On one occasion there was a very sad funeral 
 from the village. The corpse was carried into the 
 church, and prayers were read over the coffin, the 
 chief mourner, the aged father of the dead man, stand- 
 ing weeping by. In the midst of this solemn scene the 
 organ suddenly pealed forth a profane tune, and a 
 number of voices shouted a drinking chorus. A groan 
 of execration burst from the crowd, the clergyman 
 turned pale and closed his book, and the old man, 
 the father of the dead, climbed the altar steps, and, 
 raising his arms above his head, uttered a terrible 
 curse. He cursed Lewis Hurly to all eternity, he 
 cursed the organ he played, that it might be dumb 
 henceforth, except under the fingers that had now 
 profaned it, which, he prayed, might be forced to 
 labour upon it till they stiffened in death. And the 
 curse seemed to work, for the organ stood dumb in the 
 church from that day, except when touched by Lewis 
 Hurly. 
 
 “For a bravado he had the organ taken down and 
 conveyed to his father’s house, where he had it put up 
 in the chamber where it now stands. It was also for a 
 bravado that he played on it every day. But, by-and-by, 
 the amount of time which he spent at it daily began 
 to increase rapidly. We wondered long at this whim, 
 as we called it, and his poor mother thanked God that 
 he had set his heart upon an occupation which would 
 keep him out of harm’s way. I was the first to suspect 
 that it was not his own will that kept him hammering 
 
HURLY BURLY. 
 
 13 
 
 at the organ so many laborious hours, while his boon 
 companions tried vainly to draw him away. He used 
 to lock himself up in the room with the organ, but one 
 day I hid myself among the curtains, and saw him 
 writhing on his seat, and heard him groaning as he 
 strove to wrench his hands from the keys, to which 
 they flew back like a needle to a magnet. It was soon 
 plainly to be seen that he was an involuntary slave to 
 the organ ; but whether through a madness that had 
 grown within himself, or by some supernatural doom, 
 having its cause in the old man’s curse, we did not 
 dare to say. By-and-by there came a time when we 
 were wakened out of our sleep at nights by the rolling 
 of the organ. He wrought now night and day. Food 
 and rest were denied him. His face got haggard, his 
 beard grew long, his eyes started from their sockets. 
 His body became wasted, and his cramped fingers like 
 the claws of a bird. He groaned piteously as he 
 stooped over his cruel toil. All save his mother and 
 I were afraid to go near him. She, poor, tender 
 woman, tried to put wine and food between his lips, 
 while the tortured fingers crawled over the keys ; but 
 he only gnashed his teeth at her with curses, and she 
 retreated from him in terror, to pray. At last, one 
 dreadful hour, we found him a ghastly corpse on the 
 ground before the organ. 
 
 “ From that hour the organ was dumb to the touch 
 of all human fingers. Many, unwilling to believe the 
 story, made persevering endeavours to draw sound 
 from it, in vain. But when the darkened empty room 
 
14 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 
 was locked up and left, we heard as loud as ever 
 the well-known sounds humming and rolling through 
 the walls. Night and day the tones of the organ boomed 
 on as before. It seemed that the doom of the wretched 
 man was not yet fulfilled, although his tortured body 
 had been worn out in the terrible struggle to accomplish 
 it. Even his own mother was afraid to go near the 
 room then. So the time went on, and the curse of 
 this perpetual music was not removed from the house. 
 Servants refused to stay about the place. Visitors 
 shunned it. The squire and his wife left their home 
 for years, and returned ; left it, and returned again, to 
 find their ears still tortured and their hearts wrung by 
 the unceasing persecution of terrible sounds. At last, 
 but a few months ago, a holy man was found, who 
 locked himself up in the cursed chamber for many days, 
 praying and wrestling with the demon. After he came 
 forth and went away the sounds ceased, and the organ 
 was heard no more. Since then there has been peace 
 in the house. And now, Lisa, your strange appearance 
 and your strange story convince us that you are a 
 victim of a ruse of the Evil One. Be warned in time, 
 and place yourself under the protection of God, that 
 you may be saved from the fearful influences that are 
 at work upon you. Come ” 
 
 Margaret Calderwood turned to the corner where the 
 stranger sat, as she had supposed, listening intently. 
 Little Lisa was fast asleep, her hands spread before 
 her as if she played an organ in her dreams. 
 
 Margaret took the soft brown face to her motherly 
 
HURLY BURLY. 
 
 15 
 
 breast, and kissed the swelling temples, too big with 
 wonder and fancy. 
 
 “ We will save you from a horrible fate ! ” she 
 murmured, and carried the girl to bed. 
 
 In the morning Lisa was gone. Margaret Calder- 
 wood, coming early from her own chamber, went into 
 the girl’s room and found the bed empty. 
 
 “She is just such a wild thing,” thought Margaret, u as 
 would rush out at sunrise to hear the larks ! ” and she 
 went forth to look for her in the meadows, behind the 
 beech hedges, and in the home park. Mistress Hurly, 
 from the breakfast-room window, saw Margaret Calder- 
 wood, large and fair in her white morning gown, coming 
 down the garden-path between the rose bushes, with 
 her fresh draperies dabbled by the dew, and a look 
 of trouble on her calm face. Her quest had been 
 unsuccessful. The little foreigner had vanished. 
 
 A second search after breakfast proved also fruitless, 
 and towards evening the two women drove back to 
 Hurly Burly together. There all was panic and distress. 
 The squire sat in his study with the doors shut, and 
 his hands over his ears. The servants, with pale faces, 
 were huddled together in whispering groups. The 
 haunted organ was pealing through the house as of 
 old. 
 
 Margaret Calderwood hastened to the fatal chamber, 
 and there, sure enough, was Lisa, perched upon the 
 high seat before the organ, beating the keys with her 
 small hands, her slight figure swaying, and the evening 
 
1 6 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANISE OF 
 
 sunshine playing about her weird head. Sweet un- 
 earthly music she wrung from the groaning heart of the 
 organ — wild melodies, mounting to rapturous heights 
 and falling to mournful depths. She wandered from 
 Mendelssohn to Mozart, and from Mozart to Beethoven. 
 Margaret stood fascinated awhile by the ravishing 
 beauty of the sounds she heard, but, rousing herself 
 quickly, put her arms round the musician and forced 
 her away from the chamber. Lisa returned next day, 
 however, and was not so easily coaxed from her post 
 again. Day after day she laboured at the organ, 
 growing paler and thinner and more weird-looking as 
 time went on. 
 
 u I work so hard,” she said to Mrs. Hurly. “ The 
 signor, your son, is he pleased ? Ask him to come 
 and tell me himself if he is pleased." 
 
 Mistress Hurly got ill and took to her bed. The 
 squire swore at the young foreign baggage, and roamed 
 abroad. Margaret Calderwood was the only one who 
 stood by to watch the fate of the little organist. The 
 curse of the organ was upon Lisa ; it spoke under her 
 hand, and her hand was its slave. 
 
 At last she announced rapturously that she had had 
 a visit from the brave signor, who had commended her 
 industry, and urged her to work yet harder. After 
 that she ceased to hold any communication with the 
 living. Time after time Margaret Calderwood wrapped 
 her arms about the frail thing, and carried her away 
 by force, locking the door of the fatal chamber. But 
 locking the chamber and burying the key were of no 
 
HURLY BURLY. 
 
 1 7 
 
 avail. The door stood open again, and Lisa was 
 labouring on her perch. 
 
 One night, wakened from her sleep by the well-known 
 humming and moaning of the organ, Margaret dressed 
 hurriedly and hastened to the unholy room. Moonlight 
 was pouring down the staircase and passages of Hurly 
 Burly. It shone on the marble bust of the dead Lewis 
 Hurly, that stood in the niche above his mother’s 
 sitting-room door. The organ room was full of it when 
 Margaret pushed open the door and entered — full of 
 the pale green moonlight from the window, mingled 
 with another light, a dull lurid glare which seemed to 
 centre round a dark shadow, like the figure of a man 
 standing by the organ, and throwing out in fantastic 
 relief the slight form of Lisa writhing, rather than 
 swaying, back and forward, as if in agony. The sounds 
 that came from the organ were broken and meaningless, 
 as if the hands of the player lagged and stumbled on 
 the keys. Between the intermittent chords low moan- 
 ing cries broke from Lisa, and the dark figure bent 
 towards her with menacing gestures. Trembling with 
 the sickness of supernatural fear, yet strong of will, 
 Margaret Calderwood crept forward within the lurid 
 light, and was drawn into its influence. It grew and 
 intensified upon her, it dazzled and blinded her at first ; 
 but presently, by a daring effort of will, she raised her 
 eyes, and beheld Lisa’s face convulsed with torture in 
 the burning glare, and bending over her the figure and 
 the features of Lewis Hurly ! Smitten with horror, 
 Margaret did not even then lose her presence of mind. 
 
 h. o. 
 
 2 
 
i8 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 
 She wound her strong arms around the wretched girl 
 and dragged her from her seat and out of the influence 
 of the lurid light, which immediately paled away and 
 vanished. She carried her to her own bed, where Lisa 
 lay, a wasted wreck, raving about the cruelty of the 
 pitiless signor who would not see that she was labour- 
 ing her best. Her poor cramped hands kept beating 
 the coverlet, as though she were still at her agonising 
 task. 
 
 Margaret Calderwood bathed her burning temples, 
 and placed fresh flowers upon her pillow. She opened 
 the blinds and windows, and let in the sweet morning 
 air and sunshine, and then, looking up at the newly 
 awakened sky with its fair promise of hope for the day, 
 and down at the dewy fields, and afar off at the dark 
 green woods with the purple mists still hovering about 
 them, she prayed that a way might be shown her by 
 which to put an end to this curse. She prayed for 
 Lisa, and then, thinking that the girl rested somewhat, 
 stole from the room. She thought that she had locked 
 the door behind her. 
 
 She went downstairs with a pale, resolved face, and, 
 without consulting any one, sent to the village for a 
 bricklayer. Afterwards she sat by Mistress Hurly’s 
 bedside, and explained to her what was to be done. 
 Presently she went to the door of Lisa’s room, and 
 hearing no sound, thought the girl slept, and stole 
 away. By-and-by she went downstairs, and found that 
 the bricklayer had arrived and already begun his task 
 of building up the organ-room door. He was a swift 
 
HURLY BURLY. 
 
 19 
 
 workman, and the chamber was soon sealed safely with 
 stone and mortar. 
 
 Having seen this work finished, Margaret Calderwood 
 went and listened again at Lisa’s door ; and still hearing 
 no sound, she returned, and took her seat at Mrs. 
 Hurly’s bedside once more. It was towards evening 
 that she at last entered her room to assure herself of 
 the comfort of Lisa’s sleep. But the bed and room 
 were empty. Lisa had disappeared. 
 
 Then the search began, upstairs and downstairs, in 
 the garden, in the grounds, in the fields and meadows. 
 No Lisa. Margaret Calderwood ordered the carriage 
 and drove to Calderwood to see if the strange little 
 Will-o’-the-wisp might have made her way there ; then 
 to the village, and to many other places in the neigh- 
 bourhood which it was not possible she could have 
 reached. She made inquiries everywhere ; she pondered 
 and puzzled over the matter. In the weak, suffering 
 state that the girl was in, how far could she have 
 crawled ? 
 
 After two days’ search, Margaret returned to Hurly 
 Burly. She was sad and tired, and the evening was 
 chill. She sat over the fire wrapped in her shawl when 
 little Bess came to her, weeping behind her muslin 
 apron. 
 
 “ If you’d speak to Mistress Hurly about it, please, 
 ma’am,” she said. u I love her dearly, and it breaks 
 my heart to go away, but the organ haven’t done yet, 
 ma’am, and I’m frightened out of my life, so I can’t 
 stay.” 
 
20 
 
 THE HAUNTED ORGANIST OF 
 
 “ Who has heard the organ, and when ? ” asked 
 Margaret Calderwood, rising to her feet. 
 
 “ Please, ma’am, I heard it the night you went away — 
 the night after the door was built up ! ” 
 
 “ And not since ? ” 
 
 u No, ma’am,” hesitatingly, u not since. Hist ! hark, 
 ma’am ! Is not that like the sound of it now ? ” 
 
 “ No,” said Margaret Calderwood; “it is only the 
 wind.” But pale as death she flew down the stairs and 
 laid her ear to the yet damp mortar of the newly-built 
 wall. All was silent. There was no sound but the 
 monotonous sough of the wind in the trees outside. 
 Then Margaret began to dash her soft shoulder against 
 the strong wall, and to pick the mortar away with her 
 white fingers, and to cry out for the bricklayer who had 
 built up the door. 
 
 It was midnight, but the bricklayer left his bed in 
 the village, and obeyed the summons to Hurly Burly. 
 The pale woman stood by and watched him undo all 
 his work of three days ago, and the servants gathered 
 about in trembling groups, wondering what was to 
 happen next. 
 
 What happened next was this : When an opening 
 was made the man entered the room with a light, 
 Margaret Calderwood and others following. A heap 
 of something dark was lying on the ground at the foot 
 of the organ. Many groans arose in the fatal chamber. 
 Here was little Lisa dead ! 
 
 When Mistress Hurly was able to move, the squire 
 and his wife went to live in France, where they re- 
 
HURLY BURLY. 
 
 21 
 
 mained till their death. Hurly Burly was shut up and 
 deserted for many years. Lately it has passed into new 
 hands. The organ has been taken down and banished, 
 and the room is a bed-chamber, more luxuriously 
 furnished than any in the house. But no one sleeps 
 in it twice. 
 
 Margaret Calderwood was carried to her grave the 
 other day a very aged woman. 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 - — ♦ 
 
 M ANY may disbelieve this story, yet there are 
 some still living who can remember hearing, 
 when children, of the events which it details, and of the 
 strange sensation which their publicity excited. The 
 tale, in its present form, is copied, by permission, from 
 a memoir written by the chief actor in the romance, and 
 preserved as a sort of heirloom in the family whom it 
 concerns. 
 
 In the year I, John Thunder, Captain in the 
 
 Regiment, having passed many years abroad 
 
 following my profession, received notice that I had 
 become owner of certain properties which I had never 
 thought to inherit. I set off for my native land, 
 arrived in Dublin, found that my good fortune was 
 real, and at once began to look about me for old 
 friends. The first I met with, quite by accident, 
 was curly-headed Frank O’Brien, who had been at 
 school with me, though I was ten years his senior. 
 He was curly-headed still, and handsome, as he had 
 promised to be, but careworn and poor. During an 
 evening spent at his chambers I drew all his history 
 from him. He was a briefless barrister. As a man he 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 23 
 
 was not more talented than he had been as a boy. 
 Hard work and anxiety had not brought him success, 
 only broken his health and soured his mind. He was 
 in love, and he could not marry. I soon knew all 
 about Mary Leonard, his fiancee , whom he had met at 
 a house in the country somewhere, in which she was 
 governess. They had now been engaged for two 
 years — she active and hopeful, he sick and despondent. 
 From the letters of hers which he showed me, I thought 
 she was worth all the devotion he felt for her. I con- 
 sidered a good deal about what could be done for Frank, 
 but I could not easily hit upon a plan to assist him. For 
 ten chances you have of helping a sharp man, you have 
 not two for a dull one. 
 
 In the meantime my friend must regain his health, 
 and a change of air and scene was necessary. I urged 
 him to make a voyage of discovery to the Rath, an 
 old house and park which had come into my possession 
 as portion of my recently acquired estates. I had 
 never been to the place myself ; but it had once been 
 the residence of Sir Luke Thunder, of generous memory , 
 and I knew that it was furnished, and provided with a 
 caretaker. I pressed him to leave Dublin at once, and 
 promised to follow him as soon as I found it possible 
 to do so. 
 
 So Frank went down to the Rath. The place was 
 two hundred miles away ; he was a stranger there, and 
 far from well. When the first week came to an end, 
 and I had heard nothing from him, I did not like the 
 silence ; when a fortnight had passed, and still not 
 
24 
 
 THE GIIOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 a word to say he was alive, I felt decidedly uncomfort- 
 able ; and when the third week of his absence arrived 
 at Saturday without bringing me news, I found myself 
 whizzing through a part of the country I had never 
 travelled before, in the same train in which I had seen 
 Frank seated at our parting. 
 
 I reached D , and, shouldering my knapsack, 
 
 walked right into the heart of a lovely woody country. 
 Following the directions I had received, I made my way 
 to a lonely road, on which I met not a soul, and which 
 seemed cut out of the heart of a forest, so closely were 
 the trees ranked on either side, and so dense was the 
 twilight made by the meeting and intertwining of the 
 thick branches overhead. In these shades I came upon 
 a gate, like a gate run to seed, with tall, thin, brick 
 pillars, brandishing long grasses from their heads, and 
 spotted with a melancholy crust of creeping moss. 
 I jangled a cracked bell, and an old man appeared 
 from the thickets within, stared at me, then admitted 
 me with a rusty key. I breathed freely on hearing 
 that my friend was well and to be seen. I presented a 
 letter to the old man, having a fancy not to avow 
 myself. 
 
 I found my friend walking up and down the alleys of 
 a neglected orchard, with the lichened branches tangled 
 above his head, and ripe apples rotting about his feet. 
 His hands were locked behind his back, and his head 
 was set on one side, listening to the singing of a bird. 
 I never had seen him look so well ; yet there was 
 a vacancy about his whole air which I did not like. 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 25 
 
 He did not seem at all surprised to see me, asked had 
 he really not written to me ; thought he had ; was so 
 comfortable that he had forgotten everything else. He 
 fancied he had only been there about three days ; 
 could not imagine how the time had passed. He seemed 
 to talk wildly, and this, coupled with the unusual happy 
 placidity of his manner, confounded me. The place 
 knew him, he told me confidentially ; the place belonged 
 to him, or should ; the birds sang him this, the very 
 trees bent before him as he passed, the air whispered 
 him that he had been long expected, and should be poor 
 no more. Wrestling with my judgment ere it might 
 pronounce him mad, I followed him indoors. The Rath 
 was no ordinary old country-house. The acres around 
 it were so wildly overgrown that it was hard to decide 
 which had been pleasure-ground and where the thickets 
 had begun. The plan of the house was fine, with 
 mullioned windows, and here and there a fleck of 
 stained glass flinging back the challenge of an angry 
 sunset. The vast rooms were full of a dusky glare 
 from the sky as I strolled through them in the twilight. 
 The antique furniture had many a blood-red stain on 
 the abrupt notches of its dark carvings ; the dusty 
 mirrors flared back at the windows, while the faded 
 curtains produced streaks of uncertain colour from the 
 depths of their sullen foldings. 
 
 Dinner was laid for us in the library, a long wains- 
 coted room, with an enormous fire roaring up the 
 chimney, sending a dancing light over the dingy titles 
 of long unopened books. The old man who had un- 
 
2 6 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 locked the gate for me served us at table, and, after 
 drawing the dusty curtains, and furnishing us with 
 a plentiful supply of fuel and wine, left us. His 
 clanking hobnailed shoes went echoing away in the 
 distance over the unmatted tiles of the vacant hall till 
 a door closed with a resounding clang very far away, 
 letting us know that we were shut up together for the 
 night in this vast, mouldy, oppressive old house. 
 
 I felt as if I could scarcely breathe in it. I could 
 not eat with my usual appetite. The air of the place 
 seemed heavy and tainted. I grew sick and restless. 
 The very wine tasted badly, as if it had been drugged. 
 I had a strange feeling that I had been in the house 
 before, and that something evil had happened to me in 
 it. Yet such could not be the case. What puzzled 
 me most was, that I should feel dissatisfied at seeing 
 Frank looking so well, and eating so heartily. A 
 little time before I should have been glad to suffer 
 something to see him as he looked now ; and yet not 
 quite as he looked now. There was a drowsy content- 
 ment about him which I could not understand. He did 
 not talk of his work, or of any wish to return to it. He 
 seemed to have no thought of anything but the delight 
 of hanging about that old house, which had certainly 
 cast a spell over him. 
 
 About midnight he seized a light, and proposed 
 retiring to our rooms. “ I have such delightful dreams 
 in this place,” he said. He volunteered, as we issued 
 into the hall, to take me upstairs and show me the 
 upper regions of his paradise. I said, u Not to-night.’ 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 2 7 
 
 I felt a strange creeping sensation as I looked up the 
 vast black staircase, wide enough for a coach to drive 
 down, and at the heavy darkness bending over it like a 
 curse, while our lamps made drips of light down the 
 first two or three gloomy steps. Our bedrooms were 
 on the ground floor, and stood opposite one another off 
 a passage which led to a garden. Into mine Frank 
 conducted me, and left me for his own. 
 
 The uneasy feeling which I have described did not go 
 from me with him, and I felt a restlessness amounting 
 to pain when left alone in my chamber. Efforts had 
 evidently been made to render the room habitable, but 
 there was a something antagonistic to sleep in every 
 angle of its many crooked corners. I kicked chairs out 
 of their prim order along the wall, and banged things 
 about here and there ; finally, thinking that a good 
 night’s rest was u the best cure for an inexplicably 
 disturbed frame of mind, I undressed as quickly as 
 possible, and laid my head on my pillow under a canopy, 
 like the wings of a gigantic bird of prey wheeling above 
 me ready to pounce. 
 
 But I could not sleep. The wind grumbled in the 
 chimney, and the boughs swished in the garden outside ; 
 and between these noises I thought I heard sounds 
 coming from the interior of the old house, where all 
 should have been still as the dead down in their vaults. 
 I could not make out what these sounds were. Some- 
 times I thought I heard feet running about, sometimes 
 I could have sworn there were double knocks, tremen- 
 dous tantarararas at the great hall door. Sometimes I 
 
28 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 heard the clashing of dishes, the echo of voices calling, 
 and the dragging about of furniture. Whilst I sat up 
 in bed trying to account for these noises, my door 
 suddenly flew open, a bright light streamed in from the 
 passage without, and a powdered servant in an elaborate 
 livery of antique pattern stood holding the handle of the 
 door in his hand, and bowing low to me in the bed. 
 
 a Her ladyship, my mistress, desires your presence 
 in the drawing-room, sir.” 
 
 This was announced in the measured tone of a well- 
 trained domestic. Then with another bow he retired, 
 the door closed, and I was left in the dark to determine 
 whether I had not suddenly awakened from a tantalising 
 dream. In spite of my very wakeful sensations, I 
 believe I should have endeavoured to convince myself 
 that I had been sleeping, but that I perceived light 
 shining under my door, and through the keyhole, from 
 the passage. I got up, lit my lamp, and dressed myself 
 as hastily as I was able. 
 
 I opened my door, and the passage down which a 
 short time before I had almost groped my way, with 
 my lamp blinking in the dense foggy darkness, was 
 now illuminated with a light as bright as gas. I walked 
 along it quickly, looking right and left to see whence 
 the glare proceeded. Arriving at the hall, I found it 
 also blazing with light, and filled with perfume. Groups 
 of choice plants, heavy with blossoms, made it look 
 like a garden. The mosaic floor was strewn with costly 
 mats. Soft colours and gilding shone from the walls, 
 and canvases that had been black gave forth faces of 
 
THE GHOST A 1 THE RATH. 
 
 29 
 
 men and women looking brightly from their burnished 
 frames. Servants were running about, the dining-room 
 and drawing-room doors were opening and shutting, 
 and as I looked through each I saw vistas of light and 
 colour, the moving of brilliant crowds, the waving of 
 feathers, and glancing of brilliant dresses and uniforms. 
 A festive hum reached me with a drowsy subdued 
 sound, as if I were listening with stuffed ears. Standing 
 aside by an orange tree, I gave up speculating on what 
 this might be, and concentrated all my powers on 
 observation. 
 
 Wheels were heard suddenly, and a resounding 
 knock banged at the door till it seemed that the very 
 rooks in the chimneys must be startled out of their 
 nests. The door flew open, a flaming of lanterns 
 was seen outside, and a dazzling lady came up the 
 steps and swept into the hall. When she held up her 
 cloth of silver train, I could see the diamonds that 
 twinkled on her feet. Her bosom was covered with 
 roses, and there was a red light in her eyes like the 
 reflection from a hundred glowing fires. Her black 
 hair went coiling about her head, and couched among 
 the braids lay a jewel not unlike the head of a snake. 
 She was flashing and glowing with gems and flowers. 
 Her beauty and brilliance made me dizzy. Then came 
 a faintness in the air, as if her breath had poisoned 
 it. A whirl of storm came in with her, and rushed up 
 the staircase like a moan. The plants shuddered and 
 shed their blossoms, and all the lights grew dim a 
 moment, then flared up again. 
 
30 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 Now the drawing-room door opened, and a gentleman 
 came out with a young girl leaning on his arm. He 
 was a fine-looking, middle-aged gentleman, with a mild 
 countenance. 
 
 The girl was a slender creature, with golden hair and 
 a pale face. She was dressed in pure white, with a 
 large ruby like a drop of blood at her throat. They 
 advanced together to receive the lady who had arrived. 
 The gentleman offered his arm to the stranger, and the 
 girl who was displaced for her fell back, and walked 
 behind them with a downcast air. I felt irresistibly 
 impelled to follow them, and passed with them into the 
 drawing-room. Never had I mixed in a finer, gayer 
 crowd. The costumes were rich and of an old-fashioned 
 pattern. Dancing was going forward with spirit — 
 minuets and country dances. The stately gentleman 
 was evidently the host, and moved among the company, 
 introducing the magnificent lady right and left. He led 
 her to the head of the room presently, and they mixed 
 in the dance. The arrogance of her manner and the 
 fascination of her beauty were wonderful. 
 
 I cannot attempt to describe the strange manner in 
 which I was in this company, and yet not of it. I 
 seemed to view all I beheld through some fine and 
 subtle medium. I saw clearly, yet I felt that it was 
 not with my ordinary naked eyesight. I can compare 
 it to nothing but looking at a scene through a piece of 
 smoked or coloured glass. And just in the same way 
 (as I have said before) all sounds seemed to reach me 
 as if I were listening with ears imperfectly stuffed. No 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH 
 
 31 
 
 one present took any notice of me. I spoke to several, 
 and they made no reply — did not even turn their eyes 
 upon me, nor show in any way that they heard me. I 
 planted myself straight in the way of a fine fellow in a 
 general’s uniform, but he, swerving neither to right nor 
 left by an inch, kept on his way, as though I were a 
 streak of mist, and left me behind him. Every one I 
 touched eluded me somehow. Substantial as they all 
 looked, I could not contrive to lay my hand on anything 
 that felt like solid flesh. Two or three times I felt a 
 momentary relief from the oppressive sensations which 
 distracted me, when I firmly believed I saw Frank’s 
 head at some distance among the crowd, now in one 
 room and now in another, and again in the conserva- 
 tory, which was hung with lamps, and filled with people 
 walking about among the flowers. But, whenever I 
 approached, he had vanished. At last I came upon 
 him, sitting by himself on a couch behind a curtain 
 watching the dancers. I laid my hand upon his 
 shoulder. Here was something substantial at last. 
 He did not look up ; he seemed aware neither of my 
 touch nor my speech. I looked in his staring eyes, 
 and found that he was sound asleep. I could not wake 
 him. 
 
 Curiosity would not let me remain by his side. I 
 again mixed with the crowd, and found the stately host 
 still leading about the magnificent lady. No one seemed 
 to notice that the golden-haired girl was sitting weeping 
 in a corner ; no one but the beauty in the silver train, 
 who sometimes glanced at her contemptuously. Whilst 
 
32 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATIT. 
 
 I watched her distress a group came between me and 
 her, and I wandered into another room, where, as 
 though I had turned from one picture of her to look at 
 another, I beheld her dancing gaily, in the full glee of 
 Sir Roger de Coverley, with a fine-looking youth, who 
 was more plainly dressed than any other person in the 
 room. Never was a better-matched pair to look at. 
 Down the middle they danced, hand in hand, his face 
 full of tenderness, hers beaming with joy, right and 
 left bowing and curtseying, parted and meeting again, 
 smiling and whispering ; but over the heads of smaller 
 women there were the fierce eyes of the magnificent 
 beauty scowling at them. Then again the crowd shifted 
 around me, and this scene was lost. 
 
 For some time I could see no trace of the golden- 
 haired girl in any of the rooms. I looked for her in 
 vain, till at last I caught a glimpse of her standing 
 smiling in a doorway with her finger lifted, beckoning. 
 At whom ? Could it be at me ? Her eyes were fixed 
 on mine. I hastened into the hall, and caught sight of 
 her white dress passing up the wide black staircase 
 from which I had shrunk some hours earlier. I followed 
 her, she keeping some steps in advance. It was 
 intensely dark, but by the gleaming of her gown I 
 was able to trace her flying figure. Where we went 
 I knew not, up how many stairs, down how many 
 passages, till we arrived at a low-roofed large room 
 with sloping roof and queer windows where there was 
 a dim light, like the sanctuary light in a deserted 
 church. Here, when I entered, the golden head was 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATIL 
 
 33 
 
 glimmering over something which I presently discerned 
 to be a cradle wrapped round with white curtains, and 
 with a few fresh flowers fastened up on the hood of it, 
 as if to catch a baby’s eye. The fair sweet face looked 
 up at me with a glow of pride on it, smiling with happy 
 dimples. The white hands unfolded the curtains, and 
 stripped back the coverlet. Then, suddenly there went 
 a rushing moan all round the weird room, that seemed 
 like a gust of wind forcing in through the crannies, and 
 shaking the jingling old windows in their sockets. 
 The cradle was an empty one. The girl fell back with 
 a look of horror on her pale face that I shall never 
 forget, then, flinging her arms above her head, she 
 dashed from the room. 
 
 I followed her as fast as I was able, but the wild 
 white figure was too swift for me. I had lost her before 
 I reached the bottom of the staircase. I searched for 
 her, first in one room, then in another, neither could I 
 see her foe (as I already believed to be), the lady of 
 the silver train. At length I found myself in a small 
 ante-room, where a lamp was expiring on the table. 
 A window was open, close by it the golden-haired girl 
 was lying sobbing in a chair, while the magnificent 
 lady was bending over her as if soothingly, and offering 
 her something to drink in a goblet. The moon was 
 rising behind the two figures. The shuddering light 
 of the lamp was flickering over the girl’s bright head, 
 the rich embossing of the golden cup, the lady’s silver 
 robes, and, I thought, the jewelled eyes of the serpent 
 looked out from her bending head. As I watched, the 
 
 3 
 
 If. o. 
 
34 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 girl raised her face and drank, then suddenly dashed 
 the goblet away ; while a cry such as I never heard 
 but once, and shiver to remember, rose to the very 
 roof of the old house, and the clear sharp word 
 “Poisoned ! ” rang and reverberated from hall and 
 chamber in a thousand echoes, like the clash of a peal 
 of bells. The girl dashed herself from the open 
 window, leaving the cry clamouring behind her. I 
 heard the violent opening of doors and running of feet, 
 but I waited for nothing more. Maddened by what I 
 had witnessed, I would have felled the murderess, but 
 she glided unhurt from under my vain blow. I sprang 
 from the window after the wretched white figure. I 
 saw it flying on before me with a speed I could not 
 overtake. I ran till I was dizzy. I called like a 
 madman, and heard the owls croaking back to me. 
 The moon grew huge and bright, the trees grew out 
 before it like the bushy heads of giants, the river lay 
 keen and shining like a long unsheathed sword, couch- 
 ing for deadly work among the rushes. The white 
 figure shimmered and vanished, glittered brightly on 
 before me, shimmered and vanished again, shimmered, 
 staggered, fell, and disappeared in the river. Of what 
 she was, phantom or reality, I thought not at the 
 moment ; she had the semblance of a human being 
 going to destruction, and I had the frenzied impulse 
 to save her. I rushed forward with one last effort, 
 struck my foot against the root of a tree, and was 
 dashed to the ground. I remember a crash, momentary 
 pain and confusion ; then nothing more. 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 35 
 
 When my senses returned, the red clouds of the 
 dawn were shining in the river beside me. I arose to 
 my feet, and found that, though much bruised, I was 
 otherwise unhurt. I busied my mind in recalling .the 
 strange circumstances which had brought me to that 
 place in the dead of the night. The recollection of all 
 I had witnessed was vividly present to my mind. I 
 took my way slowly to the house, almost expecting to 
 see the marks of wheels and other indications of last 
 night’s revel, but the rank grass that covered the 
 gravel was uncrushed, not a blade disturbed, not a 
 stone displaced. I shook one of the drawing-room 
 windows till I shook off the old rusty hasp inside, flung 
 up the creaking sash, and entered. Where were the 
 brilliant draperies and carpets, the soft gilding, the 
 vases teeming with flowers, the thousand sweet odours 
 of the night before ? Not a trace of them ; no, nor 
 even a ragged cobweb swept away, nor a stiff chair 
 moved an inch from its melancholy place, nor the face 
 of a mirror relieved from one speck of its obscuring 
 dust ! 
 
 Coming back into the open air, I met the old man 
 from the gate walking up one of the weedy paths. He 
 eyed me meaningly from head to foot, but I gave him 
 good-morrow cheerfully. 
 
 “ You see I am poking about early,” I said. 
 
 “ I’ faith, sir,” said he, “ an’ ye look like a man that 
 had been pokin’ about all night T , 
 
 “ How so ? ” said I. 
 
 “ Why, ye see, sir,” said he, “ I’m used to ’t, an’ I 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 36 
 
 can read it in yer face like prent. Some sees one thing 
 an' some another, an’ some only feels an’ hears. The 
 poor jintleman inside, he says nothin’, but he has 
 beautyful dhrames. An’ for the Lord’s sake, sir, take 
 him out o’ this, for I’ve seen him wandherin’ about like 
 a ghost himself in the heart of the night, an’ him that 
 sound sleepin’ that I couldn’t wake him ! ” 
 
 At breakfast I said nothing to Frank of my strange 
 adventures. He had rested well, he said, and boasted 
 of his enchanting dreams. I asked him to describe 
 them, when he grew perplexed and annoyed. He 
 remembered nothing, but that his spirit had been 
 delightfully entertained whilst his body reposed. I 
 now felt a curiosity to go through the old house, and 
 was not surprised, on pushing open a door at the end 
 of a remote mouldy passage, to enter the identical 
 chamber into which I had followed the pale-faced girl 
 when she beckoned me out of the drawing-room. 
 There were the low brooding roof and slanting walls, 
 the short wide latticed windows to which the noonday 
 sun was trying to pierce through a forest of leaves. 
 The hangings rotting with age shook like dreary 
 banners at the opening of the door, and there in the 
 middle of the room was the cradle ; only the curtains 
 that had been white were blackened with dirt, and laced 
 and overlaced with cobwebs. I parted the curtains, 
 bringing down a shower of dust upon the floor, and 
 saw lying upon the pillow, within, a child’s tiny shoe, 
 and a toy. I need not describe the rest of the house. 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 37 
 
 It was vast and rambling, and, as far as furniture and 
 decorations were concerned, the wreck of grandeur. 
 
 Having strange subject for meditation, I walked 
 alone in the orchard that evening. This orchard sloped 
 towards the river I have mentioned before. The trees 
 were old and stunted, and the branches tangled over- 
 head. The ripe apples were rolling in the long bleached 
 grass. A row of taller trees, sycamores and chestnuts, 
 straggled along by the river’s edge, ferns and tall 
 weeds grew round and amongst them, and between 
 their trunks, and behind the rifts in the foliage, the 
 water was seen to flow. Walking up and down one 
 of the paths I alternately faced these trees and turned 
 my back upon them. Once when coming towards them 
 I chanced to lift my glance, started, drew my hands 
 across my eyes, looked again, and finally stood still 
 gazing in much astonishment. I saw distinctly the 
 figure of a lady standing by one of the trees, bending 
 low towards the grass. Her face was a little turned 
 away, her dress a bluish-white, her mantle a dun-brown 
 colour. She held a spade in her hand, and her foot 
 was upon it, as if she were in the act of digging. I 
 gazed at her for some time, vainly trying to guess at 
 whom she might be, then I advanced towards her. As 
 I approached, the outlines of her figure broke up and 
 disappeared, and I found that she was only an illusion 
 presented to me by the curious accidental grouping of 
 the lines of two trees which had shaped the space 
 between them into the semblance of the form I have 
 described. A patch of the flowing water had been her 
 
38 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 robe, a piece of russet moorland her cloak. The spade 
 was an awkward young shoot slanting up from the root 
 of one of the trees. I stepped back and tried to piece 
 her out again bit by bit, but could not succeed. 
 
 That night I did not feel at all inclined to return 
 to my dismal chamber, and lie awaiting such another 
 summons as I had once received. When Frank bade 
 me good-night, I heaped fresh coals on the fire, took 
 down from the shelves a book, from which I lifted the 
 dust in layers with my penknife, and, dragging an 
 arm-chair close to the hearth, tried to make myself as 
 comfortable as might be. I am a strong, robust man, 
 very unimaginative, and little troubled with affections 
 of the nerves, but I confess that my feelings were not 
 enviable, sitting thus alone in that queer old house, 
 with last night’s strange pantomime still vividly present 
 to my memory. In spite of my efforts at coolness, I 
 was excited by the prospect of what yet might be in store 
 for me before morning. But these feelings passed away 
 as the night wore on, and I nodded asleep over my 
 book. 
 
 I was startled by the sound of a brisk light step 
 walking overhead. Wide awake at once, I sat up and 
 listened. The ceiling was low, but I could not call to 
 mind what room it was that lay above the library in 
 which I sat. Presently I heard the same step upon 
 the stairs, and the loud sharp rustling of a silk dress 
 sweeping against the banisters. The step paused at the 
 library door, and then there was silence. I got up, and 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH . 
 
 39 
 
 with all the courage I could summon seized a light, 
 and opened the door ; but there was nothing in the 
 hall but the usual heavy darkness and damp mouldy 
 air. I confess I felt more uncomfortable at that moment 
 than I had done at any time during the preceding night. 
 All the visions that had then appeared to me had 
 produced nothing like the horror of thus feeling a 
 supernatural presence which my eyes were not permitted 
 to behold. 
 
 I returned to the library, and passed the night there. 
 Next day I sought for the room above it in which I 
 had heard the footsteps, but could discover no entrance 
 to any such room. Its windows, indeed, I counted 
 from the outside, though they were so overgrown with 
 ivy I could hardly discern them, but in the interior 
 of the house I could find no door to the chamber. I 
 asked Frank about it, but he knew and cared nothing 
 on the subject ; I asked the old man at the lodge, and 
 he shook his head. 
 
 “ Och ! ” he said, 11 don’t ask about that room. The 
 door’s built up, and flesh and blood have no consarn 
 wid it. It was her own room.” 
 
 “ Whose own ? ” I asked. 
 
 II Ould Lady Thunder’s. An’ whist, sir ! that's her 
 grave ! ” 
 
 il What do you mean ? ” I said. “ Are you out of 
 your mind ? ” 
 
 He laughed queerly, drew nearer, and lowered his 
 voice. u Nobody has asked about the room these 
 years but yourself,” he said. u Nobody misses it goin’ 
 
40 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 over the house. My grandfather was an old retainer 
 o’ the Thunder family, my father was in the service 
 too, an’ I was born myself before the ould lady died. 
 Yon was her room, an’ she left her eternal curse on 
 her family if so be they didn’t lave her coffin there. 
 She wasn’t goin’ undher the ground to the worms. S 
 there it was left, an’ they built up the door. God love 
 ye, sir, an’ don’t go near it. I wouldn’t have told you, 
 only I know ye’ve seen plenty about already, an’ ye 
 have the look o’ one that’d be ferretin’ things out, 
 savin’ yer presence.” 
 
 He looked at me knowingly, but I gave him no 
 information, only thanked him for putting me on my 
 guard. I could scarcely credit what he told me about 
 the room ; but my curiosity was excited regarding it. 
 I made up my mind that day to try and induce Frank 
 to quit the place on the morrow. I felt more and more 
 convinced that the atmosphere was not healthful for 
 his mind, whatever it might be for his body. The 
 sooner we left the spot the better for us both ; but 
 the remaining night which I had to pass there I 
 resolved on devoting to the exploring of the walled-up 
 chamber. What impelled me to this resolve I do not 
 know. The undertaking was not a pleasant one, and 
 I should hardly have ventured on it had I been 
 forced to remain much longer at the Rath. But I 
 knew there was little chance of sleep for me in that 
 house, and I thought I might as well go and seek 
 for my adventures as sit waiting for them to come for 
 me, as I had done the night before. I felt a relish 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 41 
 
 for my enterprise, and expected the night with satis- 
 faction. I did not say anything of my intention either 
 to Frank or the old man at the lodge. I did not want 
 to make a fuss, and have my doings talked of all over 
 the country. I may as well mention here that again, 
 on this evening, when walking in the orchard, I saw 
 the figure of the lady digging between the trees. And 
 again I saw that this figure was an illusive appearance ; 
 that the water was her gown, and the moorland her 
 cloak, and a willow in the distance her tresses. 
 
 As soon as the night was pretty far advanced, I 
 placed a ladder against the window which was least 
 covered over with the ivy, and mounted it, having pro- 
 vided myself with a dark lantern. The moon rose full 
 behind some trees that stood like a black bank against the 
 horizon, and glimmered on the panes as I ripped away 
 branches and leaves with a knife, and shook the old 
 crazy casement open. The sashes were rotten, and 
 the fastenings easily gave way. I placed my lantern 
 on a bench within, and was soon standing beside it 
 in the chamber. The air was insufferably close and 
 mouldy, and I flung the window open to the widest, 
 and beat the bowering ivy still further back from about 
 it, so as to let the fresh air of heaven blow into the 
 place. I then took my lantern in hand, and began 
 to look about me. 
 
 The room was vast and double ; a velvet curtain 
 hung between me and an inner chamber. The darkness 
 was thick and irksome, and the scanty light of my 
 lantern only tantalised me. My eyes fell on some 
 
42 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 tall spectral-looking candelabra furnished with wax 
 candles, which, though black with age, still bore the 
 marks of having been guttered by a draught that had 
 blown on them fifty years ago. I lighted these ; they 
 burned up with a ghastly flickering, and the apartment, 
 with its fittings, was revealed to me. These latter had 
 been splendid in the days of their freshness : the 
 appointments of the rest of the house were mean 
 in comparison. The ceiling was painted with fine 
 allegorical figures, also spaces of the walls between 
 the dim mirrors and the sumptuous hangings of crimson 
 velvet, with their tarnished golden tassels and fringes. 
 The carpet still felt luxurious to the tread, and the 
 dust could not altogether obliterate the elaborate fancy 
 of its flowery design. There were gorgeous cabinets 
 laden with curiosities, wonderfully carved chairs, rare 
 vases, and antique glasses of every description, under 
 some of which lay little heaps of dust which had once 
 no doubt been blooming flowers. There was a table 
 laden with books of poetry and science, drawings and 
 drawing materials, which showed that the occupant 
 of the room had been a person of mind. There was 
 also a writing-table scattered over with yellow papers, 
 and a work-table at a window, on which lay reels, a 
 thimble, and a piece of what had once been white 
 muslin, but was now saffron colour, sewn with gold 
 thread, a rusty needle sticking in it. This and the 
 pen lying on the inkstand, the paper-knife between 
 the leaves of a book, the loose sketches shaken out 
 by the side of a portfolio, and the ashes of a fire on 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 43 
 
 the wide mildewed hearth-place, all suggested that 
 the owner of this retreat had been snatched from it 
 without warning, and that whoever had thought proper 
 to build up the doors, had also thought proper to touch 
 nothing that had belonged to her. 
 
 Having surveyed all these things, I entered the inner 
 room, which was a bedroom. The furniture of this 
 was in keeping with that of the other chamber. I saw 
 dimly a bed enveloped in lace, and a dressing-table 
 fancifully garnished and draped. Here I espied more 
 candelabra, and going forward to set the lights burning, 
 I stumbled against something. I turned the blaze of 
 my lantern on this something, and started with a sudden 
 thrill of horror. It was a large stone coffin. 
 
 I own that I felt very strangely for the next few 
 minutes. When I had recovered the shock, I set the 
 wax-candles burning, and took a better survey of this 
 odd burial-place. A wardrobe stood open, and I saw 
 dresses hanging within. A gown lay upon a chair, 
 as if just thrown off, and a pair of dainty slippers were 
 beside it. The toilet-table looked as if only used 
 yesterday, judging by the litter that covered it ; hair- 
 brushes lying this way and that way, essence-bottles 
 with the stoppers out, paint pots uncovered, a ring 
 here, a wreath of artificial flowers there, and in front 
 of all that coffin, the tarnished Cupids that bore the 
 mirror between their hands smirking down at it with 
 a grim complacency. 
 
 On the. corner of this table was a small golden 
 salver, holding a plate of some black mouldered food, 
 
44 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 an antique decanter filled with wine, a glass, and a 
 phial with some thick black liquid, uncorked. I felt 
 weak and sick with the atmosphere of the place, and 
 I seized the decanter, wiped the dust from it with my 
 handkerchief, tasted, found that the wine was good, 
 and drank a moderate draught. Immediately it was 
 swallowed I felt a horrid giddiness, and sank upon the 
 coffin. A raging pain was in my head and a sense 
 of suffocation in my chest. After a few intolerable 
 moments I felt better, but the heavy air pressed on 
 me stiflingly, and I rushed from this inner room into 
 the larger and outer chamber. Here a blast of cool 
 air revived me, and I saw that the place was changed. 
 
 A dozen other candelabra besides those I had lighted 
 were flaming round the walls, the hearth was all ruddy 
 with a blazing fire, everything that had been dim was 
 bright, the lustre had returned to the gilding, the flowers 
 bloomed in the vases. A lady was sitting before the 
 hearth in a low arm-chair. Her light loose gown swept 
 about her on the carpet, her black hair fell round her 
 to her knees, and into it her hands were thrust as she 
 leaned her forehead upon them, and stared between 
 them into the fire. I had scarcely time to observe her 
 attitude when she turned her head quickly towards me, 
 and I recognised the handsome face of the magnificent 
 lady who had played such a sinister part in the strange 
 scenes that had been enacted before me two nights ago. 
 I saw something dark looming behind her chair, but I 
 thought it was only her shadow thrown backward by 
 the firelight. 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 45 
 
 She arose and came to meet me, and I recoiled from 
 her. There was something horridly fixed and hollow 
 in her gaze, and filmy in the stirring of her garments. 
 The shadow, as she moved, grew more firm and distinct 
 in outline, and followed her like a servant where she 
 went. 
 
 She crossed half of the room, then beckoned me, and 
 sat down at the writing-table. The shadow waited 
 beside her, adjusted her paper, placed the ink-bottle 
 near her and the pen between her fingers. I felt im- 
 pelled to approach her, and to take my place at her 
 left shoulder, so as to be able to see what she might 
 write. The shadow stood motionless at her other 
 hand. As I became accustomed to the shadow’s 
 presence he grew more visibly loathsome and hideous. 
 He was quite distinct from the lady, and moved inde- 
 pendently of her with long ugly limbs. She hesitated 
 about beginning to write, and he made a wild gesture 
 with his arm, which brought her hand quickly to the 
 paper, and her pen began to move at once. I needed 
 not to bend and scrutinise in order to read. Every 
 word as it was formed flashed before me like a 
 meteor. 
 
 “ I am the spirit of Madeline, Lady Thunder, who 
 lived and died in this house, and whose coffin stands 
 in yonder room among the vanities in which I delighted. 
 I am constrained to make my confession to you, John 
 Thunder, who are the present owner of the estates of 
 your family.” 
 
 Here the hand trembled and stopped writing. But 
 
4 6 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH \ 
 
 the shadow made a threatening gesture, and the hand 
 fluttered on. 
 
 “ I was beautiful, poor, and ambitious, and when I 
 entered this house first on the night of a ball given by 
 Sir Luke Thunder, I determined to become its mistress. 
 His daughter, Mary Thunder, was the only obstacle in 
 my way. She divined my intention, and stood between 
 me and her father. She was a gentle, delicate girl, 
 and no match for me. I pushed her aside, and became 
 Lady Thunder. After that I hated her, and made her 
 dread me. I had gained the object of my ambition, 
 but I was jealous of the influence possessed by her 
 over her father, and I revenged myself by crushing the 
 joy out of her young life. In this I defeated my own 
 purpose. She eloped with a young man who was 
 devoted to her, though poor, and beneath her in station. 
 Her father was indignant at first, and my malice was 
 satisfied ; but as time passed on I had no children, and 
 she had a son, soon after whose birth her husband 
 died. Then her father took her back to his heart, and 
 the boy was his idol and heir.’' 
 
 Again the hand stopped writing, the ghostly head 
 drooped, and the whole figure was convulsed. But the 
 shadow gesticulated fiercely, and, cowering under its 
 menace, the wretched spirit went on : 
 
 “ I caused the child to be stolen away. I thought I 
 had done it cunningly, but she tracked the crime home 
 to me. She came and accused me of it, and in the 
 desperation of my terror at discovery, I gave her poison 
 to drink. She rushed from me and from the house in 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 47 
 
 frenzy, and in her mortal anguish fell in the river. 
 People thought she had gone mad from grief for her 
 child, and committed suicide. I only knew the horrible 
 truth. Sorrow brought an illness upon her father, of 
 which he died. Up to the day of his death he had 
 search made for the child. Believing that it was alive, 
 and must be found, he willed all his property to it, his 
 rightful heir, and to its heirs for ever. I buried the 
 deeds under a tree in the orchard, and forged a will, 
 in which all was bequeathed to me during my lifetime. 
 
 I enjoyed my state and grandeur till the day of my 
 death, which came upon me miserably, and, after that, 
 my husband's possessions went to a distant relation of 
 his family. Nothing more was heard of the fate of the 
 child who was stolen ; but he lived and married, and 
 his daughter now toils for her bread — his daughter, 
 who is the rightful owner of all that is said to belong 
 to you, John Thunder. I tell you this that you may 
 devote yourself to the task of discovering this wronged 
 girl, and giving up to her that which you are unlawfully 
 possessed of. Under the thirteenth tree standing on 
 the brink of the river at the foot of the orchard you 
 will find buried the genuine will of Sir Luke Thunder. 
 When you have found and read it, do justice, as you 
 value your soul. In order that you may know the 
 grandchild of Mary Thunder when you find her, you 
 
 shall behold her in a vision ” 
 
 The last words grew dim before me ; the lights faded 
 away, and all the place was in darkness, except one spot 
 on the opposite wall On this spot the light glimmered 
 
48 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 softly, and against the brightness the outlines of a 
 figure appeared, faintly at first, but, growing firm and 
 distinct, became filled in and rounded at last to the 
 perfect semblance of life. The figure was that of a 
 young girl in a plain black dress, with a bright, happy 
 face, and pale gold hair softly banded on her fair 
 forehead. She might have been the twin-sister of the 
 pale-faced girl whom I had seen bending over the cradle 
 two nights ago ; but her healthier, gladder, and prettier 
 sister. When I had gazed on her some moments, the 
 vision faded away as it had come ; the last vestige of 
 the brightness died out upon the wall, and I found 
 myself once more in total darkness. Stunned for a 
 time by the sudden changes, I stood watching for the 
 return of the lights and figures; but in vain. By-and- 
 by my eyes grew accustomed to the obscurity, and I 
 saw the sky glimmering behind the little window which 
 I had left open. I could soon discern the writing-table 
 beside me, and possessed myself of the slips of loose 
 paper which lay upon it. I then made my way to the 
 window. The first streaks of dawn were in the sky 
 as I descended my ladder, and I thanked God that I 
 breathed the fresh morning air once more, and heard 
 the cheering sound of the cocks crowing. 
 
 All thought of acting immediately upon last night’s 
 strange revelations, almost all memory of them, was for 
 the time banished from my mind by the unexpected 
 trouble of the next few days. That morning I found 
 an alarming change in Frank. Feeling sure that he 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 49 
 
 was going to be ill, I engaged a lodging in a cottage in 
 the neighbourhood, whither we removed before nightfall, 
 leaving the accursed Rath behind us. Before midnight 
 he was in the delirium of a raging fever. 
 
 I thought it right to let his poor little fiancee know 
 his state, and wrote to her, trying to alarm her no 
 more than was necessary. On the evening of the third 
 day after my letter went I was sitting by Frank’s 
 bedside, when an unusual bustle outside aroused my 
 curiosity, and going into the cottage kitchen I saw a 
 figure standing in the firelight which seemed a third 
 appearance of that vision of the pale-faced golden-haired 
 girl which was now thoroughly imprinted on my 
 memory, — a third, with all the woe of the first and 
 all the beauty of the second. But this was a living, 
 breathing apparition. She was throwing off her bonnet 
 and shawl, and stood there at home in a moment in her 
 plain black dress. I drew my hand across my eyes to 
 make sure that they did not deceive me. I had beheld 
 so many supernatural visions lately that it seemed as 
 though I could scarcely believe in the reality of any- 
 thing till I had touched it. 
 
 “ Oh, sir,” said the visitor, “ I am Mary Leonard, 
 and are you poor Frank’s friend ? Oh, sir, we are all 
 the world to one another, and I could not let him die 
 without coming to see him ! ” 
 
 And here the poor little traveller burst into tears. 
 
 I cheered her as well as I could, telling her that Frank 
 would soon, I trusted, be out of all danger. She told 
 me that she had thrown up her situation in order to come 
 
 4 
 
 H. O. 
 
50 
 
 THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 and nurse him. I said we had got a more experienced 
 nurse than she could be, and then I gave her to the 
 care of our landlady, a motherly country-woman. After 
 that I went back to Frank’s bedside, nor left it for long 
 till he was convalescent. The fever had swept away 
 all that strangeness in his manner which had afflicted 
 me, and he was quite himself again. 
 
 There was a joyful meeting of the lovers. The more 
 I saw of Mary Leonard’s bright face the more thoroughly 
 was I convinced that she was the living counterpart of 
 the vision I had seen in the burial chamber. I made 
 inquiries as to her birth, and her father’s history, and 
 found that she was indeed the grandchild of that Mary 
 Thunder whose history had been so strangely related 
 to me, and the rightful heiress of all those properties 
 which for a few months only had been mine. Under 
 the tree in the orchard, the thirteenth, and that by 
 which I had seen the lady digging, were found the 
 buried deeds which had been described to me. I made 
 an immediate transfer of property, whereupon some 
 others who thought they had a chance of being my 
 heirs disputed the matter with me, and went to law. 
 Thus the affair has gained publicity, and become a 
 nine days’ wonder. Many things have been in my 
 favour, however : the proving of Mary’s birth and of 
 Sir Luke’s will, the identification of Lady Thunder’s 
 handwriting on the slips of paper which I had brought 
 from the burial chamber ; also other matters which a 
 search in that chamber brought to light. I triumphed, 
 and I now go abroad, leaving Frank and his Mary 
 
THE GHOST AT THE RATH. 
 
 51 
 
 made happy by the possession of what could only have 
 been a burden to me. 
 
 So the MS. ends. Major Thunder fell in battle a few 
 years after the adventure it relates. Frank O’Brien’s 
 grandchildren hear of him with gratitude and awe. 
 The Rath has been long since totally dismantled and 
 left to go to ruin. 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LD Tony Spence kept a second-hand book shop 
 
 at the corner of a back street in the busy 
 town of Smokeford ; a brown dingy little place with 
 dusty windows, through which the light came feebly. 
 From the door one could peer down the narrow interior, 
 with its book-lined walls and strip of counter, to the 
 twinkling fire at the far end, where the old fellow 
 sat in his arm-chair, poring over ancient editions, and 
 making acquaintance with the latest acquisitions to 
 his stock. He was a dreamy-looking old man, with a 
 parchment-like face and a snuff-coloured coat, and 
 seemed made of the same stuff* as the books among 
 which he lived, with their dusty-brown covers and 
 pages yellowed by time. fie had been a school- 
 master in his youth, and had wandered a good deal 
 about the world, and picked up odds and ends of a 
 queer kind of knowledge. Of late years he had de- 
 veloped a literary turn, and now and again gave forth 
 to his generation a book full of quaint conceits, a sort 
 of mosaic fragment of some of the scraps of knowledge 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 53 
 
 and observation stored up in his brain, which was as 
 full of incongruous images as a curiosity shop. In the 
 morning he used to turn out of his shuttered dwelling 
 about six, when there was light, and go roving from 
 the town to the downs beyond it, where he would stroll 
 along with his hands behind his back and his head 
 thrown upward, musing over many things he found 
 puzzling, and some that he found delightful in a 
 bewildering world. 
 
 His house consisted of four chambers, and a kitchen 
 above a ladder-like stair, which led up out of the book- 
 shelves ; and his family of an ancient housekeeper, 
 a large cat, and his daughter Hetty, soon to be 
 increased by the addition of a young girl, the child 
 of his dead sister, to whom he had promised to give 
 a shelter for a time. Hetty was often both hands and 
 eyes to him, and wrote down oddities at his dictation 
 when the evening candles burned too faintly, or his 
 spectacles had got dim — oddities whose flavour was 
 not seldom sharpened or sweetened by the sentiment 
 or wit of the amanuensis. 
 
 “ That's not mine, Hetty; that’s your own!” the 
 old man would cry. 
 
 u Only to try how it would go, father.” 
 
 “’Tis good, my little girl; go on.” 
 
 And thus, in scribbling on rusty foolscap, and poring 
 into musty volumes, tending a small roof-garden, and 
 sketching fancies in the chimney corner, Hetty had 
 grown to be a woman almost without knowing it. 
 
 She possessed her father’s good sense, with more 
 
54 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN 
 
 imagination than was ever owned by the bookseller. 
 She saw pictures with closed eyes, and wove her 
 thoughts in a sort of poetry which never got written 
 down, giving audience to strange assemblages in her 
 dingy chamber, where a faded curtain of tawny damask 
 did duty for arras, and some rich dark woodcuts pasted 
 on the brown walls stood for gems of the old masters 
 in her eyes. Lying on her bed with hands folded 
 and eyes v/ide open, she first decorated then peopled 
 her room, while the moonshine glimmered across the 
 shadows that hung from roof and beam. Sleep always 
 surprised her in fantastic company, and with gorgeous 
 surroundings, but waking found her contented with 
 her realities. She was out of her window early, tend- 
 ing the flowers which flourished wonderfully between 
 sloping roofs, in a nook where the chimneys luckily 
 stood aside, as if to let the sun in across many obstacles 
 upon the garden. 
 
 One summer morning she was admiring the crimson 
 and yellow of a fine tulip which had just opened, when 
 a young man appeared, threading his way out of a 
 distance of house-tops, stepping carefully along the 
 leads as he approached Hetty’s flower-beds, and smiling 
 to see her kneeling on the tiles of a sloping roof and 
 clinging to a chimney for support. He carried in his 
 hand a piece of half-sculptured wood and an instrument 
 for carving. Hetty, looking up, greeted him with a 
 happy smile, and he sat on the roof beside her, and 
 praised the tulips and chipped his wood, while the 
 sun rose right above the chimneys, and gilded the red- 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 55 
 
 tiled roofs, and flamed through the wreaths of smoke 
 that went silently curling up to heaven above their 
 heads, like the incense of morning prayer out of the 
 dwellings. 
 
 “ I have got a pretty idea for your carving/' said 
 Hetty, still gazing into the flow T er as if she saw her 
 fancy there. “ I dreamed last night of a beautiful face, 
 half wrapped up in lilies, like a vision of Undine. I 
 shall sketch it for you this evening, and you will see 
 what you can make of it." 
 
 “ What a useful wife you will be ! " said the young 
 man. u If I do not become a skilful artist it need not 
 be for want of help. Even your dreams you turn to 
 account for me." 
 
 “ They are not dreams," said Hetty merrily. u They 
 are adventures. A broomstick arrives for me at the 
 window here at night, and I am travelling round the 
 world on it when you are asleep. I visit very queer 
 places, and see things that I could not describe to you. 
 But I take care to pick up anything that seems likely 
 to be of use." 
 
 Hetty stood up and leaned back laughing against 
 the red-brick chimney, with the morning sunshine 
 around her. She was not very handsome, but looked 
 now quite beautiful, with her smiling grey eyes and 
 spiritual forehead, and the dimples all a-quiver in 
 her soft pale cheeks. She had not yet bound up 
 her dark hair for the day, and it lay like a rich mantle 
 over her head and shoulders. 
 
 “ I want to talk to you about something, Hetty. I 
 
56 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 have made up my mind to go abroad, and see the 
 carvings in the churches ; and we might live awhile 
 in the Tyrol, and learn something there.” 
 
 “ Oh, Anthony ! ” the girl clasped her hands softly 
 together, and gazed at her lover. “ Is it possible we 
 could have been born for such good fortune ? ” 
 
 Anthony was a young man who had come to the 
 town without friends, to learn furniture-making, and, 
 developing a taste for carving in wood, had turned his 
 attention to that, instead of to the coarser part of the 
 business. His love of reading had led him to make 
 acquaintance with the old book-man and his daughter. 
 Evening after evening he had passed, poring over Tony 
 Spence’s stores, and growing to look on the book-lined 
 chimney-corner as his home. He and Hetty had been 
 plighted since Christmas, and it was now June. 
 
 That evening, when the evening meal was spread 
 in the sitting-room above the steps, Anthony came 
 up the ladder out of the book-shelves just as Hetty 
 appeared at another door carrying a dish of pancakes. 
 The old man was in his chair by the fire, his spectacles 
 off duty thrust up into his hair, gazing between the 
 bars, ruminating over something that Hetty had told 
 him. 
 
 “ So,” he said, looking up from under his shaggy 
 brows, as Anthony sat down before him at the fire, 
 “So you want to be off to travel! It’s coming true 
 what I told you the day you asked me for Hetty. I 
 said you were a rover, didn’t I ? ” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Anthony, smiling and tossing back his 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 5 7 
 
 hair, “ but you meant a different kind of a rover. I 
 have not moved from Hetty. I shall not move a mile 
 without Hetty. And you too, sir, you must come 
 with us.” 
 
 Old Spence lay back in his chair, and peered through 
 half-closed eyes at the speaker. Anthony had a bright 
 keen face, with rapidly changing expressions, spoke 
 quickly and decidedly, with a charm in his pleasant 
 voice, and had a general look of skilful ness and clever- 
 ness about him. There was not to be seen in his eyes 
 that patient dreamy light which is shed from the soul 
 of the artist ; but that was in Hetty’s eyes, and would 
 be supplied to him now and evermore to make him 
 really a poet in his craft. Hetty’s fancies were to be 
 woven into his carvings that he might be famous. 
 
 “ I don’t know about breaking up and going abroad,” 
 said the old bookworm. “ I’m too old for it, I’m 
 afraid. Leaving the chimney corner, and floating away 
 off into the Nibelungen Land ! You two must go with- 
 out me, if go you must.” 
 
 “ I will not leave you alone, father,” said Hetty. 
 
 “ And I will not go without Hetty,” said Anthony. 
 “ In the meantime, just for play, let us look over the 
 maps and guide-books.” 
 
 These were brought down, and after some poring 
 the old man fell asleep, and the young people pursued 
 their way from town to town and from village to village, 
 across mountains and rivers, till they finally settled 
 themselves in the Bavarian Tyrol. From a pretty 
 home they could see pine-covered peaks and distant 
 
5 » 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 glaciers, and within doors they possessed many curious 
 things to which they were unaccustomed. 
 
 “And I wonder if the mountains are so blue and 
 the lakes of that wonderful jasper colour which we see 
 in pictures,” said Hetty. How beautiful life must be 
 in the midst of it all ! ” 
 
 “Yes,” said Anthony; “and, Hetty, you shall wear 
 a round-peaked hat with silver tassels on the brim, and 
 your hair in two long plaits coming down your back. 
 ’Tis well you have such splendid hair,” he said, touch- 
 ing her heavy braids with loving pride in his eyes and 
 finger-ends. 
 
 Hetty blushed with delight and looked all round the 
 familiar room, seeing blue mountains, and dizzy villages 
 perched on heights, people in strange costumes, brass- 
 capped steeples, and strange wooden shrines, all lying 
 before her under a glittering sun. Twilight was falling, 
 the homely objects in the room were getting dim, the 
 dream-world was round her, and with her hand in 
 Anthony’s she could imagine that they two were 
 already roaming through its labyrinths together. It 
 was not that in reality she could have quitted the old 
 home without regret ; but the home was still there, and 
 the visions of the future had only floated in to beautify 
 it. They had not pushed away the old walls, but only 
 covered them with bloom. 
 
 The love of Anthony and Hetty was singularly 
 fitting. He had gradually and deliberately chosen to 
 draw her to him for the happiness and comfort of his 
 life ; his character was all restlessness, and hers was 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN 
 
 59 
 
 full of repose. She refreshed him, and the sight of 
 her face and sound of her voice were as necessary 
 to him as his daily bread. Hetty’s was that spiritual 
 love which spins a halo of light round the creature 
 that leans upon it, and garners everything sweet to 
 feed a holy fire that is to burn through all eternity. 
 In the hush of her nature a bird of joy was perpetually 
 singing, and its music was heard by all who came in 
 contact with her. No small clouds of selfishness came 
 between her and the sun. She knew her'meetness for 
 Anthony and her usefulness to his welfare, and this 
 knowledge lay at the root of her content. 
 
 It was quite dusk, and the scrubby lines on the 
 maps which marked the mountains of Hetty’s dream- 
 land were no longer discernible to peering eyes, when 
 a faint ting-ting was heard from the shop-bell below. 
 The lovers did not mind it. It might be a note from 
 the little brazen belfry up among the pines against the 
 Tyrolese sky, or from the chiming necklace of a mule 
 plodding along the edge of the precipice, or from the 
 tossing head of the leader of a herd on a neighbouring 
 Alp ; or it might be the little pot-boy bringing the beer 
 for Sib's supper. Sib, the old serving-woman, had 
 come to the latter conclusion, for she was heard de- 
 scending by a back way to open the door. 
 
 After an interval of some minutes there was a sound 
 of feet ascending the ladder, and the door of the sitting- 
 room was thrown open. The light figure of a girl 
 appeared in the doorway, and behind followed Sib, 
 holding a lamp above her head. 
 
6o 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 “ Who is it ?” cried Hetty, springing forward. “ Ah ! 
 it must be Primula, my cousin from the country. Come 
 in, dear ; you are welcome ; ” and she threw an arm 
 round the glimmering figure and drew it into the room. 
 (i Sib, put down the lamp and get some supper for her. 
 Father, wake up ! here is your niece at last. Tell us 
 about your journey, cousin, and let me take your 
 bonnet.” 
 
 Hetty took the girl’s hat off, and stood wondering at 
 the beauty of her visitor. 
 
 Primula’s father had brought her up in a country 
 village, where he had died and left her. She had come 
 to her uncle, who had offered to place her with a dress- 
 maker in Smokeford. The fashions of Smokeford 
 would be eagerly sought at Moor-edge, and it was 
 expected that Primula would make a good livelihood 
 on her return, with her thimble in her pocket and her 
 trade at her finger-ends. 
 
 She had been named by a hedgerow-loving mother, 
 who died eighteen years ago in the spring-time, and 
 left her newly-born infant behind her in the budding 
 world. The motherless girl had, as if by an instinct 
 of nature, grown up to womanhood modelled on her 
 mother’s fancy for the delicate flower whose name she 
 bore. She had glistening yellow hair, lying in smooth 
 uneven-edged folds across her low fair forehead. A 
 liquid light lay under the rims of her heavy white 
 eyelids, and over all her features there was a mellow 
 and exquisite paleness, warmed only by the faintest 
 rose-blush on her cheeks and lips. She wore a very 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 6 1 
 
 straight and faded calico gown, her shawl was darned, 
 and her straw hat was burned by the sun. 
 
 u She is very lovely — prettier far than I,” thought 
 Hetty, with that slight pang which even a generous 
 young girl may feel for a moment when she sees 
 another by her side who must make her look homely 
 in the eyes of her lover. “ But I will not envy her, 
 I will love her instead,” was the next thought ; and 
 she threw her arms round the stranger and kissed 
 her. 
 
 Primula seemed surprised at the embrace. 
 
 u I did not think you would be so glad to see me,” 
 she said. “ People said you would find me a deal of 
 trouble.” 
 
 Old Spence was now awake and taking his share in 
 the scene. 
 
 “ Bless me ! bless me ! ” he cried, “you are like your 
 mother, — a sweet woman, but with no brains at all, nor 
 strength of mind. Nay, don't cry, child ! I did not 
 mean to hurt you. I have a way of my own of 
 speaking out my thoughts. Hetty does not mind it, 
 nor must you.” 
 
 Primula was trembling, and had begun to cry ; and 
 Hetty and Anthony drew nearer and comforted her. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 “ This is a dull place, after all,” said Primula next day, 
 when Hetty, having shown her everything in the house, 
 took her a walk through the best streets to see the 
 shops. “ I thought that in a town one would see gay 
 
62 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 ladies walking about, and soldiers in red coats, and a 
 great deal of amusement going on about us. Moor- 
 edge is as good nearly, and there isn’t so much 
 smoke.” 
 
 “ You thought it was a city,” said Hetty, laughing. 
 u I never thought about it being dull, but perhaps it is. 
 We have gay ladies in Smokeford, but they do not 
 walk about in the streets. You may meet them some- 
 times in their carriages. It is a manufacturing town, 
 and that makes the smoke. I don’t wonder at all that 
 Moor-edge should be prettier.” 
 
 “ Oh, there is a lady ! Look at her hat ! and there 
 is certainly embroidery on her dress. I should like a 
 dress like that, only I’ve got no money. Do you never 
 see any company in your house, cousin Hetty ? ” 
 
 “ Anthony comes often,” said Hetty happily, “and 
 others come in and out, but we have nothing you could 
 call company. You will see more of life when you go 
 to the milliner’s. There will be other young girls, and 
 you will find it pleasant.” 
 
 11 1 ought to have a better dress to go in,” said 
 Primula. “ All the girls in the shops are nicely 
 dressed. Have you got any money, cousin Hetty ? ” 
 she added hesitatingly. 
 
 Hetty blushed, and was embarrassed for a moment. 
 She had indeed a pound, the savings of years, about 
 the expending of which she had made many a scheme — 
 a present for her father or for Anthony, she had not 
 quite decided. Well, here was her cousin who wanted 
 clothing. She could not refuse her. 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 63 
 
 u I have a pound,” said Hetty faintly, “ and you 
 can buy what you please with it.” 
 
 “ Oh, thank you,” said her cousin. “ Let us go in 
 and buy the dress at once ! ” And they went into 
 the finest shop, where the counter was soon covered 
 with materials for their choice. 
 
 “ This lilac is charming,” said Primula longingly. 
 “ What a pity it is so dear ! ” 
 
 “ The grey is almost as nice,” said Hetty ; il and I 
 assure you it will wear much better.” 
 
 “ Do you think you have not got five shillings 
 more ? ” pleaded Primula. “ The lilac is so much 
 prettier ! ” 
 
 “ No,” said Hetty, in distress; u indeed I have not 
 a penny more.” 
 
 u The young lady can pay me at some other time,” said 
 the shopman, seeing the grieved look on Primula’s face. 
 
 “ Oh, thank you ! ” murmured Primula, gazing at 
 him gratefully. 
 
 “ No, no, cousin ; you must not indeed think of 
 going into debt,” said Hetty. “ Come home and let 
 us talk about it.” 
 
 u Ah, I shall never get it ! ” said Primula, with a 
 heavy sigh, and the tears rushed into her eyes. 
 
 “I will take off the five shillings,” said the fascinated 
 shopman. “ You may have the lilac for the same price 
 as the grey.” 
 
 Primula blushed scarlet, and murmured some tremu- 
 lous enraptured thanks ; and the shopman bowed her 
 out of the shop with the parcel in her arms. 
 
64 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 Though Primula was going to be a dressmaker, 
 Hetty had to make this particular dress. “ I don’t 
 know how to do it yet, cousin,” said Primula ; “ at 
 least not the cutting out.” When the cutting out was 
 done, the owner of the dress was not at all inclined for 
 the trouble of sewing it. Hetty had turned her room 
 into a work-room, and stitched with good will, while 
 the new inmate of the chamber sat on the little bed 
 which had been set up for her own accommodation in 
 the corner, and entertained Hetty with her prattle 
 about the life at Moor-edge, the number of the neigh- 
 bours’ cows, and the flavour of their butter ; the dances 
 on the green in summer-time, the pleasure of being 
 elected Queen of the May. When the dress was 
 finished and put on, Primula willingly took her steps 
 to a house in a prominent street, with “Miss Betty 
 Flounce ” on a brass plate on the door, and was stared 
 at on her first appearance by all the new apprentices, 
 who never had had so pretty a creature among them 
 before. 
 
 Summer was past, and the dark evenings had 
 begun. 
 
 “ Anthony,” said Hetty one day, “your work-place 
 is near to Primula’s. Could you call for her every 
 evening and bring her home ? ” 
 
 Anthony changed colour, and looked at Hetty in 
 surprise. 
 
 “Not if it annoys you,” said Hetty quickly ; “but 
 I don’t think you would find it much trouble. She is 
 greatly remarked in the streets, and some one who 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 65 
 
 calls himself a gentleman has been following her about 
 lately.” 
 
 Anthony frowned. “ I should not wonder,” he said 
 angrily ; “ she is a thoughtless creature.” 
 
 “You need not be so hard on her,” said Hetty. 
 “ She is soft and childlike, and does not know how 
 to speak to people and frighten them off.” 
 
 “Well, I will be her knight, only to please you,” 
 said Anthony. “ And see, here is the carving of the 
 design out of your dream. Don’t you remember ? ” 
 
 “ The face among the lilies ! ” cried Hetty, ex- 
 amining it. “And it has turned out quite beautiful. 
 Why, Anthony, I declare it looks like Primula ! ” 
 u So it does, indeed,” said Anthony, turning away. 
 
 “ I suppose her face must have come in my dreams,” 
 said Hetty, “ for I never had seen her when this was 
 designed. I have heard of dreams foreshadowing 
 things, but I never believed it. However, you could 
 not have a lovelier model, I am sure.” 
 
 “ No,” said Anthony ; and thenceforth he called for 
 Primula every evening and brought her home. Some- 
 times Hetty came to meet them ; more often she 
 remained at home to have the tea ready. At first 
 Primula did not like being so escorted, for she had 
 made many acquaintances, and had been accustomed 
 to stop and say good-evening to various friends whom 
 she met on her way from Miss Flounce’s door. And 
 Anthony walked by her side like a policeman, and kept 
 everybody at a distance. But she had to submit. 
 
 “ Hetty,” said Anthony, one day, when things had 
 
 5 
 
 H. O. 
 
66 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 gone on like this for some time, “ don’t you think it is 
 time she was going home ? ” 
 
 u What ! Primula ? ” cried Hetty, surprised. a Why, 
 no ; she does not think of it : nor we, neither ! ” 
 
 “ She is sometimes in the way,” said Anthony 
 moodily. 
 
 (i I never saw you so unkind,” said Hetty. u Poor 
 little Primula, whom everybody loves ! ” 
 
 “ You and I are not the same to each other since 
 she came.” 
 
 u Oh, Anthony ! ” 
 
 “ We never have any private talks together now. 
 You never speak as you used, because Primula is 
 present, and she does not understand you.” 
 
 “I have noticed that,” said Hetty; u but I thought 
 you did not. I believed it was not my fault. You 
 often talk to Primula about the things that please 
 her. I thought it seemed to amuse you, and so I 
 was content.” 
 
 Anthony lifted Hetty’s little brown hand off the 
 table, and kissed it ; then he turned away without 
 another word, and went out of the house. 
 
 The kitchen was a pleasant enough place that 
 evening, with firelight twinkling on the lattice- 
 windows ; coppers glinting on the walls ; Hetty 
 making cakes at a long table ; Anthony smoking in 
 the chimney-corner ; while Primula moved about with 
 a sort of frolicsome grace of her own, teasing Hetty 
 and prattling to Anthony, playing tricks on the cat, 
 and provoking old Sib, by taking liberties with her 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN 
 
 67 
 
 bellows to make sparks fly up the chimney. She 
 stole some dough from Hetty, and kneaded it into 
 a grotesque-looking face, glancing roguishly at Anthony 
 while she shaped eyes and nose and mouth. 
 
 11 What are you doing, you foolish kitten ? ” said 
 Anthony, taking the pipe from his lips. 
 
 “ Making a model for your carving, sir/’ and Primula 
 displayed her handiwork. 
 
 “ Bake it,” said Anthony, “ and let me eat it ; and 
 who knows but it may fill me with inspiration ? ” 
 
 Primula laughed gaily, and proceeded to obey ; and 
 Hetty looked over her shoulder to enjoy the scene 
 which followed. 
 
 “ It was a sweet face certainly,” said Anthony. 
 And Primula clapped her hands with glee at the 
 joke. 
 
 Anthony put away his pipe and seemed ready for 
 more play. It was no wonder Hetty had said that 
 he seemed to like Primula’s nonsense. 
 
 By this time Primula had learned to find Smokeford 
 a pleasant place. Her beautiful face became well 
 known as she passed through the streets to and from 
 her work. Young artisans and shopkeepers began to 
 look out of their open doors at the hour for her 
 passing, and idle gentlemen riding about the town 
 did not fail to take note of her. Her companions 
 were jealous, her mistress was dissatisfied with the 
 progress of her work, and the head of the little 
 apprentice was nearly turned with vanity. 
 
 One night Hetty, going into her bedroom, found 
 
68 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 Primula at the glass fastening a handsome pair of 
 gold earrings in her ears. 
 
 “ Oh, Prim !” cried Hetty, in amazement. “ W here 
 did you get anything so costly ? ” 
 
 “ From a friend/’ said Primula, smiling, and shaking 
 her head so that the earrings flashed in her ears. 
 “ From some one who likes me very much.” 
 
 “Oh, Primula!” 
 
 “ How cross you are, Hetty ; you needn’t envy 
 me,” said Primula, rubbing one of her treasures caress- 
 ingly against her sleeve. “ I’ll lend them to you 
 any time you like.” 
 
 “You know I am not envious, cousin. You know 
 I mean that it was wrong of you to take them.” 
 “Why?” pouted Primula; “they were not stolen. 
 The person who gave them is a gentleman, and has 
 plenty of mone} r to buy what he likes.” 
 
 “ Oh, you silly child ! You are a baby ! Don’t 
 you know that you ought not to take jewellery from 
 any gentleman ? ” 
 
 “ You are unkind, unkind ! ” sobbed Primula, with 
 the tears rolling down the creamy satin-smooth cheeks 
 that Hetty liked to kiss and pinch. “ Why do you 
 get so angry and call me names ? I will go home 
 to Moor-edge and not annoy you any more.” 
 
 “ Nonsense, Prim ! I won’t call you baby unless 
 you deserve it. Do you know the address of the 
 gentleman who gave these to you ? You must send 
 them back at once.” 
 
 Primula knew the address, but vowed she would 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 69 
 
 keep her property. He bought them, he gave them 
 to her, and there was nothing wrong about it. Hetty 
 gave up talking to her and went to bed, and Primula 
 cried herself to sleep with the treasures under her pillow. 
 
 The next day, Hetty, in some distress, consulted 
 Anthony about Primula’s earrings. Anthony was 
 greatly disturbed. 
 
 “ I will talk to her,” he said ; “ leave her to me, 
 and I will make her give them back.” And he spent 
 an hour alone with her, breaking down her stubborn 
 childish will. At the end of that time he returned 
 to Hetty, flushed and triumphant — looking as if he 
 had been routing an army, and bearing in his hand 
 a little box containing the earrings and a piece of 
 paper on which Primula had scrawled some words. 
 The present went back to its donor, and Primula 
 was sulky for a week. 
 
 One evening, when the spring was coming round 
 again, Anthony called as usual for Primula, but found 
 that she had left the work-room early, as if for 
 home. Arrived at the old book-shop he learned that 
 she had not returned there since leaving, as usual, 
 in the morning for her work. 
 
 “She has gone for a walk with some of her com- 
 panions,” suggested Hetty. 
 
 “ She went alone,” replied Anthony ; and he thought 
 of the earrings. “ I must go and look for her.” 
 
 Outside the town of Smokeford there were some 
 pleasant downs, where, in fine weather, the townspeople 
 loved to turn out for an evening walk. It was too 
 
7 o 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 early in the season as yet for such strollers ; and 
 yet Anthony, when he had gone a little way on the 
 grass, could descry two figures moving slowly along 
 in the twilight. These were Primula and the gentleman 
 who had given her the earrings ; a person whom 
 Anthony had been watching very closely for some 
 time past, whom he had often perceived following 
 upon Primula’s steps, and whom, for his own part, 
 he detested and despised. 
 
 “ Primula ! ” he said, walking up to the young girl 
 and ignoring her companion, “ come home ! It is 
 too late for you to be here unprotected.” 
 
 Primula pouted and hung her head. 
 
 “ The young lady is not unprotected,” said the 
 gentleman, smiling. “ And pray, sir, who are you ? ” 
 
 “ I am her nearest masculine friend,” said Anthony 
 wrathfully ; “ I stand here at present in her father’s 
 place.” 
 
 The gentleman laughed. “ You are too young to 
 be her father,” he said. u Go away, young man, 
 and I will bring her safely to her home when she 
 wishes to go.” 
 
 11 Primula,” said Anthony, white with anger, “go 
 yonder directly to the tree, and wait there till I join 
 you.” The girl, terrified out of her senses, turned 
 and fled as she was bidden ; the gentleman raised his 
 stick to strike this insolent tradesman who had dared 
 to defy him ; but, before it could descend, Anthony 
 had grappled with him. There was a struggle, and 
 Primula’s admirer lay stretched on the green. 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 7 1 
 
 Anthony brought home the truant in silence, and 
 for many days he came in and out of the' house 
 and did not speak to her. Primula sulked and fretted 
 and was miserable because Anthony looked so crossly 
 at her. Anthony was moody and dull, and Hetty, 
 with a vague sense of coming trouble, wondered what 
 it all could mean. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Old Tony Spence was taken ill that spring, and 
 Hetty was a good deal occupied in attending on him. 
 Anthony came as usual in the evenings, but he did 
 not expect to see Hetty much, and Primula and he 
 amused themselves together. Hetty’s face got paler 
 during this time, and she fell into a habit of indulging 
 in reveries, which were not happy ones, if one might 
 judge by the knotted clasp of her hands, and the 
 deep line of pain between her brows. Her house- 
 keeping duties were hurried over, she fetched the 
 wrong book from the bookshelves for customers, her 
 sewing was thrown aside, her only wish seemed to 
 be to sit behind her father’s bed-curtain, with her 
 head leaned against the wall, and her eyes closed 
 to the world. Sorrow was coming to seek for her, 
 and she hid from it as long as she could. 
 
 One night old Spence asked to have a particular 
 volume brought him from the shop, and Hetty took 
 her lamp in hand and went down to fetch it for him. 
 There was a faint light already burning in the place, 
 which Hetty did not at first perceive, as she opened 
 
72 
 
 TIIE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 the door at the top of the staircase, and put her 
 foot on the first step to descend. She went down 
 a little way, but was stopped by the sound of voices. 
 Anthony and Primula were there. 
 
 "Yes,” Primula was saying, in her soft, cooing 
 voice, “ I love you better than any one. You fought 
 for me, and I love you.” 
 
 u Hetty ” murmured Anthony. 
 
 u Hetty won’t mind,” whispered Primula. “ She 
 gives me her money and her ribbons. She won’t 
 refuse to give me you too — Pm sure of that.” 
 
 They moved a little from behind the screen of a 
 projecting stand of books, and saw Hetty standing 
 on the stairs, gazing straight before her, and looking 
 like a sleep-walker. Primula gave a little cry, and 
 covered her face. Hetty started, turned, and fled up 
 into the sitting-room, shutting the door behind her. 
 
 She sat down at the table and leaned her head 
 heavily upon her hands. The blow she had been 
 half dreading, half believing to be an impossibility, 
 had fallen and crushed her ; Anthony loved her no 
 more. He had taken away his love from her, and 
 given it to Primula; who, with pleading eyes and 
 craving hands, had robbed and cheated her. The 
 greediness which she had tried to satisfy with 
 ribbons and shillings had not scrupled to gras 
 the only thing she would have kept, and held till 
 death as her very own. Hetty’s thoughts spun 
 round and round in the whirl of new and un- 
 comprehended agony. She had no thought of doing 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 73 
 
 or saying anything, no wish to take revenge nor to 
 give reproach. She was stunned, bruised, benighted, 
 and willing to die. 
 
 Primula came creeping up the staircase, after crying 
 for an hour all alone among the old books. Life 
 was very troublesome, thought Primula ; everybody 
 was selfish and cross, and everything was either 
 wrong or disagreeable. People petted and loved her 
 one moment, and were angry with her the next. 
 Anthony had rushed away from her in a fit of grief, 
 although she had told him she loved him, and had 
 given up a fine gentleman for his sake. Hetty, who 
 used to be so tender with her, and so ready to give 
 her everything, had looked so dreadfully there on 
 that step of the stairs, that she, Primula, was afraid 
 to go up, though she was tired, and longing to be 
 in bed. Sobbing and fretting, she crept up the 
 staircase, and, her desire to be comfortable overcoming 
 her fear, she opened the door of the sitting-room, 
 and came in. Hetty was sitting quietly at the table, 
 with her head leaned on her hands, and she did not 
 look up. u That is a good thing,” thought Primula. 
 “ How dreadful if she were to scold me ! ’Tis well 
 it is not her way to make a talk about things.” And 
 she stole across the floor and shut herself up in the 
 bedroom. 
 
 It was quite late at night when Hetty followed 
 her into the bedroom, and then Primula was fast 
 asleep, with the sheet pulled over her head and face, 
 as if she would hide herself from the glance of Hetty’s 
 
74 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 anger, even while she was happily unconscious of it. 
 Hetty’s lamp burned itself out, and she kneeled down 
 in the dark to say her prayers. Her knees bent 
 themselves mechanically in a certain corner of the 
 room, but no words would come to Hetty’s lips, and 
 no clear thoughts to her mind. She only remembered 
 that she ought to pray, and stretched out her arms, 
 dumbly hoping vaguely that God would know what 
 she meant. Nothing would come into her mind but 
 pictures of the happy hours that Anthony and she 
 had spent together in their love. She fell asleep 
 stupidly dwelling on these memories, and unable to 
 realize that Anthony had given her up ; then she 
 dreamed that she had awakened out of a terrible dream, 
 in which Anthony had seemed to have forgotten her 
 for Primula. How joyful she was in that dream ! 
 How she laughed and sang for ecstasy, and chattered 
 about the foolish fancies that will come into people’s 
 minds when they are asleep ! And then she wakened, 
 and saw the dawn-light shining on Primula’s golden 
 head and sweetly tinted face, and she knew and re- 
 membered that Primula w T as the beloved one, and that 
 she, Hetty, was an exile and an outcast from her 
 paradise for evermore. 
 
 Then, in that moment of exquisite anguish, in the 
 leisure of the quiet dawn, a terrible passion of anger 
 and hatred broke out in her breast. Everything 
 that the light revealed had something to tell of her 
 lost happiness, every moment that sped was bringing 
 her nearer to the hour when she must rise up and 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 75 
 
 give Anthony to Primula, and stand aside and behold 
 their bliss, and accept their thanks. She dare not 
 let that moment come — she would not have it, she 
 could not confront it. She should do them some 
 mischief if she were to see them together again before 
 her as she had seen them last night. What, then, 
 was she to do with herself? She dared not kill them, 
 she could not wish them dead. It would not comfort 
 her at all that they should suffer or be swept out 
 of the world to atone for their sin. They had mur- 
 dered her heart, and they could not by any suffering 
 of theirs bring back the dead to life. What, then, 
 must she do with herself? The only thing that 
 remained for her was to get awa}^, far out of their 
 sight and out of their reach, never to behold them, 
 nor to hear of them again, between this and the coming 
 of her death. 
 
 She sprang out of bed and dressed herself hastily, 
 keeping her back turned upon the sleeping Primula, 
 and, creeping down the stairs, she got out of the house. 
 She felt no pang at leaving her home, and never 
 
 once remembered her father ; her only thought was 
 
 to get away, away, where Anthony could never find 
 her more. She hurried along the deserted streets 
 and got out on the downs, and then she slackened 
 her speed a little, quite out of breath. She knew 
 
 that the path across the downs led to a little town, 
 
 about ten miles away, in the direction of London. She 
 had been too long accustomed to the practical man- 
 agement of her father’s affairs not to feel conscious, 
 
76 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 from mere habit and without reflection, that she must 
 work when she got to London, in order to keep 
 herself unknown. She would help in a shop some- 
 where, or get sewing at a dressmaker’s. In the 
 meantime, her only difficulty was to get there. 
 
 The whirl of her passion had carried her five miles 
 away from Smokeford, when she came to a little 
 roadside inn. She was faint with exhaustion, feeling 
 the waste caused by excitement, want of sleep and 
 food, and by extraordinary exertion. She bought 
 some bread and sat on a stone at the gate of a field 
 to eat it. She saw the ploughman come into the 
 field at a distant opening, and watched him coming 
 towards her; a grey head and stooping figure, an 
 old man meekly submitting his feebleness to the yoke 
 of the day’s labour, though knowing that time had 
 deprived him of his fitness for it. Hetty watched him, 
 her eyes followed him as if fascinated ; the look in 
 his face had drawn her out of herself somehow, and 
 made her forget her trouble. She wanted to go and 
 help him to hold the plough, to ask if he had had 
 his breakfast ; to put her hand on his shoulder and 
 be kind to him. She did not know what it was 
 about him that bewitched her. He turned his plough 
 beside her, and as he did so he noticed the pale 
 girl sitting by the gate, and a smile lit up his rugged 
 face. 
 
 Then it was that Hetty knew why she had watched 
 him. He looked like her father. Her father ! He was 
 ill, and she had deserted him ; had left him among 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 77 
 
 those who would vex and neglect him ! The untasted 
 bread fell from Hetty's hands ; the tears overflowed 
 her eyes ; she fell prone on the grass, and sobbed for 
 her own wickedness, and for the grief and desolation 
 of the sick old man at home. 
 
 “ What is the matter, lass ? ” asked the old plough- 
 man, kindly bending over her. 
 
 Hetty rose up ashamed. 
 
 "Sir,” she said humbly, “ I was running away from 
 my father, who is ill ; but I am going back to him.” 
 
 “ That is right, lass. Stick by the poor old father. 
 Maybe, he was hard on you.” 
 
 “ No, no, no ; he never was hard on me. I have a 
 sorrow of my own, sir, that made me mad. I forgot 
 all about him until I saw his look in your face. I shall 
 run back now, sir, and be in time to get him his 
 breakfast.” 
 
 The clock of the roadside inn struck six, and Hetty 
 set off running back to Smokeford. 
 
 She ran so fast that she had not time to think of 
 how she should act when she got home. When arrived 
 there, she found she could have a long day to think of 
 it, for Primula had gone to her work-room, and there 
 was nobody about the house but Sib, and her father, 
 and herself. 
 
 The old man had never missed her ; but Sib met her 
 on the threshold, and looked at her dusty garments 
 with a wondering face. 
 
 “Well, Hetty!” she said, “you did take an early 
 start out of us this morning.” 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 78 
 
 “ I wanted a walk,” said Hetty, throwing off* her 
 cloak, and making a change in her forlorn appearance. 
 u Is my father’s breakfast ready ? I’m afraid I am 
 late.” 
 
 Old Tony Spence did not even remark that his 
 daughter was unusually pale, nor that her dress was 
 less neat than usual, as she carried in his tea and toast. 
 She was there, and that was everything for him. That 
 she had been this morning flying like a hunted thing 
 from Smokeford, sobbing in the grass five miles away 
 from her home ; that he had lost her for ever, only for 
 a strange old man following a plough in a distant field ; 
 of these things he never could know. Hetty was one 
 of the people who do not complain of the rigour of the 
 struggle that is past. 
 
 All day she sat by her father’s side, in the old place 
 behind the bed-curtain. He was getting better, and 
 showed more lively interest in the world than she 
 had seen in him since he first fell ill. Through the 
 window he could see, as he lay, the little roof-garden 
 which had been accustomed to look gay every summer 
 for years. It was colourless now and untrimmed. 
 
 u Hetty, dear,” he said, “ how is it that you have 
 been neglecting your flowers ? Perhaps you think it 
 isn’t worth while to keep up the little garden any 
 longer? You will be going off with Anthony. Is any 
 day settled for the wedding ? ” 
 
 “ No, father,” said Hetty, keeping her white, drawn 
 face well behind the curtain. “ We could not think of 
 that until you are on your feet again.” 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 79 
 
 In spite of her effort to save him the pain of an 
 unhappy thought just now, something in her voice 
 struck upon the old man strangely. He was silent for 
 a while, and lay ruminating. 
 
 “ Hetty, let me see your face.” 
 
 Hetty looked forth from her hiding-place unwillingly, 
 but kept her face as much as possible from the light. 
 
 “What do you want with it, daddy? You have 
 seen it before.” 
 
 “’Tis a comely face, Hetty ; and others have thought 
 so besides me. I don’t like the look on it now, my 
 girl. Child ! what’s the matter with you ? Out with 
 it this minute ! If he’s going to fail you, it will be a 
 black day for the man. I’ll murder him ! ” 
 
 “ Hush ! hush ! I have told you nothing of the kind.” 
 
 “Deny it, then, this moment; and tell me no lie.” 
 
 Hetty sat silent and scared. 
 
 “ Is it that doll from Moor-edge that has taken his 
 fancy ? ” 
 
 “He has not told me so.” 
 
 “ My lass ! why do you play hide-and-seek with your 
 old father ? I know it is as I have said. Let me rise ! 
 Do not hold me ; for I will horsewhip him to death ! ” 
 
 Hetty held him fast by the wrists. 
 
 “ I will turn her out-of-doors without a character ; 
 and, though I am a weak, old man, I will punish him 
 before the eyes of the town.” 
 
 For a moment Hetty’s angry heart declared in silence 
 that they would deserve such punishment ; and that she 
 could bear to see it. But she said — 
 
8o 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 11 Father, you know you will do neither of those cruel 
 things. Listen to me, father. I am tired of Anthony ! 
 Let him go with — Primula. You and I will be happy 
 here together when they are gone.” 
 
 The old man fell back on his pillow exhausted. 
 After a time, he drew his daughter towards him, took 
 her face between his hands, and looked at it. 
 
 “ Let it be as you say,” he said, “ only don’t let me 
 see them. You’re a brave girl; and I’ll never scold 
 you again. We’ll be happy when they’re gone. We’ll 
 
 finish that little book of mine, and — and — and ” 
 
 His voice became indistinct, and he dropped suddenly 
 asleep. Hetty sat on in her corner, thinking over her 
 future, and thanking Heaven that she had at least this 
 loving father left to her. After an hour or two had 
 passed, she looked up and noticed a change in the old 
 man’s face. He was dead. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was new and awful to Hetty to have neither father 
 nor lover to turn to in her desolation. She got over 
 one terrible week, and then when the old man was 
 fairly under the clay she broke down and fell ill, and 
 Sib nursed her. Primula hung about the house, feeling 
 guilty and uncomfortable, and Anthony came sometimes 
 to ask how Hetty fared. He brought fruit and ice for 
 her, offering them timidly, and Sib accepted them gladly 
 and poured out her anxiety to him, all unconscious 
 that there was anything wrong between the lovers. 
 Primula sulked at Anthony, who seemed to be thinking 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 8 1 
 
 much more of Hetty than of her. The old book-shop 
 was closed for good, and the Spences' happy little home 
 was already a thing of the past. 
 
 Hetty thought she would be glad to die ; but people 
 cannot die through mere wishing, and so she got better. 
 When she was able to rise Sib carried her into the little 
 sitting-room and placed her in her father's old arm- 
 chair ; and seated here, one warm summer evening, she 
 sent to beg Anthony to come and speak with her. 
 
 Anthony’s heart turned sick within him as he looked 
 on the wreck of his once-adored Hetty. Her wasted 
 cheeks and hollow eyes made a striking contrast to 
 Primula’s fair smooth beauty. Yet in her spiritual gaze 
 and on her delicate lips there still sat a charm which 
 Anthony knew of old, and still felt ; a charm which 
 Primula never could possess. 
 
 “We are not going to talk about the past,” said 
 Hetty, when the first difficult moments were over. “ 1 
 only want to tell you that Primula and you are not to 
 look on me as an enemy. I am her only living friend, 
 and this is her only home. She shall be married from 
 here ; and then we will separate and meet no more.” 
 “You are too good,” he stammered, “too thoughtful 
 for us both. Hetty,” he added, hesitatingly, “ I dare 
 not apologise for my conduct, nor ask your forgiveness. 
 I can only say I did not intend it. I know not how it 
 came about — she bewitched me.” 
 
 Hetty bowed her head with a cold, stately little 
 gesture, and Anthony backed out of the room, feeling 
 himself rebuked, dismissed, forgiven. He went to 
 
 6 
 
 H. O. 
 
82 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 Primula ; and Hetty sat alone in the soft summer 
 evening, just where they two had sat a year ago 
 planning their future life. 
 
 “ She is too good for me,” thought Anthony, as he 
 walked up the street. “ Primula will vex me more, but 
 she will suit me better.” 
 
 Still he felt a bitter pang as he told himself that 
 Hetty’s love for him was completely gone. Of course 
 it was better that it should be so, but still — he knew 
 well that Primula could never be to him the sweet 
 enduring wife that Hetty would have been. He knew 
 also that his love for Primula was not of the kind that 
 would last ; whereas Hetty would have made his peace 
 for all time. Well, the mischief was done now, and 
 could not be helped. He hardly knew himself how he 
 had slipped into his present position. 
 
 When Hetty found that she had indeed got to go on 
 with her life, she at once set about marking out her 
 future. She had a cousin living on an American prairie 
 with her husband and little children, who had often 
 wished that Hetty would come out to her. And Hetty 
 determined to go. She sold off the contents of the old 
 book-shop, only keeping one or two volumes, which, 
 with her father’s unfinished manuscript, she stowed 
 away carefully in her trunk. Primula had given up her 
 work at the dressmaker’s, and was busy making her 
 clothing for her wxdding. Hetty was engaged in 
 getting ready for her journey. The tw T o girls sat all 
 day together sewing. They spoke little, and there was 
 no pretence of cordiality between them. Hetty had 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 83 
 
 strained herself to do her utmost for this friendless 
 creature, who had wronged her, but she could find no 
 smiles nor pleasant words to lighten the task. Pale 
 and silent, she did her work with trembling fingers and 
 a frozen heart. Primula, on her side, sulked at Hetty, 
 as if Hetty had been the aggressor, and sighed and 
 shed little tears between the fitting on and the trimming 
 of her pretty garments. In the evenings, Primula was 
 wont to fold up her sewing, and go out to walk ; with 
 Anthony, supposed Hetty, who sometimes allowed 
 herself to weep in the twilight, and sometimes walked 
 about the darkening room, chafing for the hour to come 
 which would carry her far away from these old walls, 
 with their intolerable memories. 
 
 So Hetty endured the purgatory to which she had 
 voluntarily condemned herself. Anthony came into 
 the house no more ; Primula had her walks with him, 
 and sometimes it was very late when she came home. 
 But Hetty never chid her now. Primula was her own 
 mistress, and could come and go as she liked, from 
 under this roof, which her cousin’s generosity was 
 upholding over her head. 
 
 One evening, a gossip of the neighbourhood, one who 
 had known Hetty in her cradle, came in with a long 
 piece of knitting in her hands, to sit an hour with 
 Hetty, and keep her company. 
 
 11 And so they do say you are going to America,” 
 she said, 11 all alone, that long journey, and everybody 
 thinking this many a day that it was you that was to 
 marry Anthony Frost, And now it is that Primula. 
 
8 4 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 People did say, my dear, that they have treated you 
 badly between them, but I couldn’t believe that, and 
 you behaving so beautifully to them. Of course it 
 shuts people’s mouths to see the girl stopping here 
 with you and preparing for her wedding.” 
 
 Said Hetty, “ I cannot take the trouble to contradict 
 idle stories. Anthony Frost is a very old friend, and 
 Primula is my cousin. It would be strange if I did 
 not try to be of use to them.” 
 
 “ Of course, of course, when there’s no reason for 
 your being angry with them ; but all the same, my 
 dear, you’d have been a far better wife for him than 
 that flighty little fool that he has chosen. He has 
 changed his mind about many a thing it seems, for he 
 has taken a house in Smokeford, and is setting up as 
 a cabinet-maker, instead of turning out a sculptor, no 
 less, as some people said he had a mind to do. Well, 
 well ! it’s none of my business to be sure, and I do 
 hope they’ll be as happy as if they had both been a 
 bit wiser.” 
 
 “ I see no reason why they should not be happy,” 
 said Hetty, determined to act her part to the end. 
 And the gossip went away protesting to her neighbours 
 that there never could have been anything but friend- 
 ship between Anthony and Hetty. 
 
 “ There’s no girl that had been cheated could behave 
 as she’s doing,” said the gossip, "and she’s as brave 
 as a lion about the journey to America.” And after 
 this people found Hetty not so interesting as they had 
 thought her some time ago. 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 85 
 
 The time for the wedding approached. Primula’s 
 pretty dresses and knick-knacks of ornaments were 
 finished and folded in a trunk, and she arranged them 
 and re-arranged them ; took them out and tried them 
 on, and put them back again. She went out for her 
 evening walks, and Hetty waited up for her return, 
 and let her into the house in the fine starlight of the 
 summer nights, and the two girls went to bed in silence, 
 and neither sought to know anything of the thoughts 
 of the other. And so it went on till the night that 
 was the eve of Primula’s wedding. On that night 
 Primula went out as usual and did not come back. 
 
 The arrangement for the next day had been that 
 Anthony and Primula should be married early in the 
 morning, and go from church to their home. Hetty 
 intended starting on her own journey a few hours later, 
 but she said nothing about her intention, wishing to 
 slip away quietly out of her old life at the moment 
 when the minds of her acquaintance were occupied, 
 and their eyes fully filled with the wedding. 
 
 She did not wonder that Primula should stay out 
 late on that particular evening. It was a beautiful 
 night, the sky a dark blue, the moonlight soft and clear. 
 Hetty wandered restlessly in and out the few narrow 
 chambers of her old home, once so delightful and 
 beloved, now grown so dreary and haunted, and saw 
 the silver light shining on the roofs and chimneys, and 
 on the dead flowers and melancholy evergreens of her 
 little roof-garden. Only a year ago she had cherished 
 those withered stalks, with Anthony by her side, and 
 
86 
 
 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 they had smiled together over their future in the glory 
 of the sunrise. Now all that fresh morning light was 
 gone, the blossoms were withered away, and her heart 
 was withered also. Faith and hope were dead, and 
 life remained with its burden to be carried. She 
 shut her eyes from sight of the deserted walls, with 
 their memories, and thought of the great world-wide 
 sea, which she had never beheld, but must now reach 
 and cross ; and she longed to be on its bosom with 
 her burden. 
 
 The hours passed and Primula did not return. Hetty 
 thought this strange, but it did not concern her. 
 Primula and her lover and their affairs seemed to have 
 already passed out of her life and left her alone. She 
 did not go to bed all night, and she knew she was 
 waiting for Primula, but her mind was so lost in its 
 own loneliness that it could not dwell upon the conduct 
 of the girl. The daylight broke, and found her sitting 
 pale and astonished in the empty house, and then her 
 eyes fell on a letter which the night-shadows had 
 hidden from her where it lay on the table. It was 
 written in Primula’s scratchy writing, and was addressed 
 to Hetty. 
 
 “ I am going away to be married,” wrote Primula. 
 il Anthony and you were very good to me once, but 
 you are too cold and stern for me lately. The person 
 I am going with is kinder and pleasanter. I am to be 
 married in London, and after that I am to be taken to 
 travel. When I come back I shall be a grand lady, 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 37 
 
 and I shall come to Smokeford ; and I shall order 
 some dresses from Miss Flounce, I can tell you. I 
 am very glad that Anthony and you can be married 
 after all. He was always thinking of you more than 
 me ; I could see that this long while back. I hope you 
 will be happy, and that you will be glad to see me on 
 my return. 
 
 “ Your affectionate Primula.” 
 
 Hetty sat a long time motionless, quite stupefied, 
 with the letter in her hand. 
 
 “Poor little ungrateful mortal,” thought she; “Heaven 
 shield her, and keep her from harm 1 ” And then she 
 thought of her own little cup of life-happiness spilled 
 on the earth for this. 
 
 “ Oh, what waste ! what waste ! ” moaned poor 
 Hetty, twisting the note in her fingers. And then she 
 straightened it and folded it again, and put it in an 
 envelope addressed to Anthony, and she hastened to 
 send it to him, lest the hour should arrive for the 
 wedding, and the bridegroom should come into her 
 presence seeking his bride. 
 
 When this had been despatched, she set about cording 
 her trunks, and taking her last farewell of Sib, who 
 was too old to follow her to America, and was nigh 
 heart-broken at staying behind. When the last moment 
 came she ran out of the house without looking right 
 or left. And she was soon in the coach, and the coach 
 was on its way to the seaport from whence her vessel 
 was to sail. 
 
88 
 
 77 /// COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 When Anthony received the note, he felt much 
 anger and amazement, but very little grief. Primula’s 
 audacity electrified him ; and then he remembered that 
 she was not treating him worse than he had treated 
 Hetty. Let her go ! she was a light creature, and 
 would have brought him misery if she had married 
 him. Her soft foolish beauty and bewitching ways 
 faded from his mind after half-an-hour’s meditation ; 
 and Anthony declared himself free. And there was 
 Hetty still in her nest behind the old book-shop ; as 
 sweet and as precious as when they were lovers a 
 year ago. The last few months were only a dream, 
 and this was the satisfactory awaking. 
 
 Hetty’s pale cheeks would become round and rosy 
 once more. She must forgive him for the past, so 
 urgently would he plead with her. How exceedingly 
 badly he had behaved ! 
 
 Anthony put on his hat and went out to take a walk 
 along a road little frequented, eager to escape from 
 the gaze of his acquaintance in the town, anxious to 
 think things thoroughly over, and to consider how soon 
 he could dare to present himself to Hetty. Not for 
 a long time, he was afraid. He remembered her stern 
 pale look when he had last seen her, and how sure 
 he had felt when turning away from her that her love 
 was dead. A chill came over him, and he hung his 
 head as he walked. Hetty was never quite like other 
 girls, and it might be — it might be that her heart would 
 be frozen to him for evermore. 
 
 Just at this moment a cloud of dust enveloped 
 
THE COUNTRY COUSIN. 
 
 89 
 
 Anthony, and the mail coach passed him, whirling 
 along at rapid speed. Hetty was in the coach, and she 
 saw him, walking dejectedly on the road alone with 
 his trouble. She turned her face away lest he should 
 see her ; and then her heart gave one throb that made 
 her lean from the window, and wave her hand to him 
 in farewell. He saw her ; he rushed forward ; the 
 coach whirled round a bend of the road. 
 
 Hetty was gone. 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 - — ♦ — - 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I T has been a wild night in Innisbofin, an Irish island 
 perched far out among Atlantic breakers, as the 
 bird flies to Newfoundland. Whoever has weathered 
 an ocean hurricane will have some idea of the fury with 
 which the tempest assaults and afflicts such lonely 
 rocks. The creatures who live upon them, at the 
 mercy of the winds and waves, build their cabins low, 
 and put stones on the roof to keep the thatch from 
 flying off on the trail of Mother Carey’s chickens ; and 
 having made the sign of the cross over their threshold 
 at night, they sleep soundly, undisturbed by the weird 
 and appalling voices which have sung alike the lullaby 
 and death-keen of all their race. In winter, rain and 
 storm are welcome to rage round them, even though 
 fish be frightened away, and food be scarce ; but when 
 wild weather encroaches too far upon the spring, then 
 threats of the “ hungry death” are heard with fear in 
 its mutterings. 
 
 Is any one to blame for this state of things ? The 
 greater part of the island is barren bog and rock. No 
 shrub will grow upon it, and so fiercely is it swept by 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 91 
 
 storm that the land by the northern and eastern coasts 
 is only a picturesque wilderness, all life sheltering itself 
 in three little thatched villages to the south. The sea 
 is the treasury of the inhabitants, and no more daring 
 hearts exist than those that fight these waves, often 
 finding death in their jaws ; but a want of even the 
 rudest piers as defence against the Atlantic makes the 
 seeking of bread upon the waters a perilous, and often 
 an entirely impossible, exploit. 
 
 Bohn is of no mean size, and has a large population. 
 Light-hearted and frugal, the people feel themselves a 
 little nation, and will point out to you with pride the 
 storied interest of their island. In early ages it was a 
 seat of learning, witness the ruins of St. Coleman's 
 school and church ; in Elizabeth’s day the queen, 
 Grace O’Malley, built herself a fort on a knoll facing 
 the glories of the western sky ; and on the straggling 
 rocks which form the harbour Cromwell raised those 
 blackened walls, still welded into the rock and fronting 
 the foam. The island has a church, a school, a store 
 where meal, oil, soap, ropes, etc., can be had, except 
 when contrary winds detain the hooker which plies to 
 and from Galway with such necessaries. 
 
 Foreign sailors, weather-bound in Bofin, are welcomed, 
 and invited to make merry. Pipers and fiddlers come 
 and go, and, when times are pretty good, are kept busy 
 making music for dancing feet. Even when the wolf is 
 within a pace of the door laughter and song will ring 
 about his ears, so long as the monster can be beaten 
 back by one neighbour from another neighbour’s 
 
92 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 threshold. But there comes a day when he enters 
 where he will, and the bones of the people are his prey. 
 
 Last night’s was a spring storm, and many a “ Lord, 
 have mercy on us ! ” went up in the silent hours, as the 
 flooding rain that unearths the seedlings was heard 
 seething on the wind ; yet Bohn wakened out of its 
 nightmare of terror green and gay, birds carolling in 
 a blue sky, and the ring of the boat-maker’s hammer 
 suggesting peace and prosperity. 
 
 Through the dazzling sunshine a girl came rowing 
 herself in a small boat that darted rapidly along the 
 water. The oars made a quick pleasant thud on the 
 air, the larks sang in the clouds, and the girl poured 
 out snatches of a song of her own in a plaintive and 
 mellow voice. The tune was wild and mournful ; the 
 words Irish. 
 
 Thud, thud, went the oars, the girl’s kerchief fell back 
 from her head as the firm elastic figure swayed with 
 the wholesome exercise. Never was a fairer picture of 
 health, strength, and beauty. Her thick, dark red hair 
 filled with the sunshine as a sponge fills with water; 
 her red-brown eyes seemed to emit sparks of fire as 
 the shadows deepened round them in the strong light. 
 Two little round dimples fixed at the corners of the 
 proud curved mouth whispered a tale of unusual 
 determination lying at the bottom of a passionate 
 nature. There was nothing to account for her curious 
 choice of a song this brilliant morning, except the love 
 of dramatic contrasts that exists in some eager souls. 
 Suddenly she shipped her oars, and sat listening to the 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 93 
 
 waves lapping the edges of the seaweed-fringed cliffs. 
 u I thought I heard some one calling me,” she muttered, 
 looking up and down with a slight shudder, but a bold 
 gaze — “ Brigid, Brigid, Brigid ! ” then, with a little 
 laugh, she dipped her oars again, burst into a lively 
 song, so reeling with merriment that it was wonderful 
 how she found breath for it, and her boat flew along 
 the glittering waves like a gull. 
 
 Above the broad, shelving, shingly beach within the 
 harbour stood the school, the store, and some of the 
 best dwellings on the island, and high and dry on the 
 gleaming shingle the boat-maker was at work with a 
 knot of gossips around him. The sky over their heads 
 was a vivid blue ; the brown-fringed rocks loomed 
 against a sea almost too dazzling to look upon ; the 
 dewy green fields lay like scattered emeralds among 
 the rocks and hollows. 
 
 “ Lord look to us !” said a man in a sou’-wester hat, 
 “ if the spring doesn’t mend. Half my pratees was 
 washed clane out o’ the ground last night.” 
 
 “ Whisht, man, whisht,” said the boat-maker cheer- 
 fully. “ Pick them up an’ put them in again.” 
 
 “ Bedad,” said an old fisherman, “ the fish has got 
 down to the bottom of all etarnity. Ye might as well 
 go fishin’ for mermaids.” 
 
 “ Aren’t yez ashamed to grumble,” cried a hearty 
 voice, joining the group, u an’ sich a mornin’ as this ? 
 I tell ye last night was the last o’ the rain.” 
 
 “Ye have the hopes o’ youth about ye, Coll Prender- 
 gast,” said the old fisherman, looking at the strong 
 
94 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 frame and smiling bronzed face of the young man 
 before him. “ If yer words is not truth it’s the sayweed 
 we’ll be atin’ afore next winther’s out.” 
 
 “ Some of it doesn’t taste so bad,” said Coll, laughing, 
 “an’ a little of it dried makes capital tabaccy. But 
 whisht! If here isn’t Brigid Lavelle, come all the way 
 from West Quarter in her pretty canoe.” 
 
 The sound of oars had been heard coming steadily 
 nearer, and suddenly Brigid’s boat shot out from behind 
 a mass of rock, making, with its occupant, such a 
 picture on the glittering sea that the men involuntarily 
 smiled as they shaded their eyes with their hands to 
 look. Resting on her oars she smiled at them in return, 
 while the sunshine gilded her oval face, as brown 
 as a berry, burnished the copper-hued hair rippling 
 above her black curved brows, and deepened the deter- 
 mined expression of her full red mouth. Her dress, the 
 costume of the island, was only remarkable for the 
 freshness and newness of its material,— a deep crimson 
 skirt of wool, with a light print bodice and short tunic, 
 and a white kerchief thrown over the back of her 
 head. 
 
 As she neared the shore Coll sprang into the water, 
 drew her canoe close to the rocks, and, making it fast, 
 helped her to land. 
 
 “ That’s a han’some pair,” said the old fisherman to 
 the boat-maker. “ I hear their match is as good as 
 made.” 
 
 “ Coil’s in luck,” said the other. “ A rich beauty is 
 not for ivery man.” 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH 
 
 95 
 
 “ She’s too proud, I’m thinking. Look at the airs 
 of her now, an’ him wet up to the knees in her 
 sarvice.” 
 
 il Ye’r’ ould, man, an’ ye forget yer coortin.’ Let the 
 crature toss her head while she can.” 
 
 Brigid had proceeded to the store, where her pur- 
 chases were soon made : a sack of meal, a can of oil, a 
 little tea and sugar, and some white flour. The girl 
 had a frown on her handsome brows as she did her 
 business, and took but little notice of Coll, who busied 
 himself gallantly with her packages. When all were 
 stored in the boat he handed her in, and stood looking 
 at her, wondering if she would give him a smile in 
 return for his attentions. 
 
 “ Let me take the oars, Brigid. Ye’ll be home in 
 half the time.” 
 
 “ No, thank ye,” she answered shortly. u I’ll row 
 my own boat as long as I can.” 
 
 Coll smiled broadly, half amused and half admiring, 
 and again sought for a friendly glance at parting, but 
 in vain. The face that vanished out of his sight behind 
 the cliff was as cold and proud as though he had been 
 her enemy. After he had turned and was striding up 
 the beach the look that he had wanted to see followed 
 him, shot through a rift in the rocks, where Brigid 
 paused and peered with a tenderness in her eyes that 
 altered her whole face. If Coll had seen that look this 
 story might never have been written. 
 
 As the girl’s boat sped past the cliffs towards home 
 she frowned, thinking how awkward it was that she 
 
9 6 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 should have met Coll Prendergast on the beach. He 
 must have known the errand that brought her to the 
 store, and how dare he smile at her like that before he 
 knew what answer she would give him ? Coil’s uncle 
 and Brigid’s father had planned a match between the 
 young people, and the match-making was to be held 
 that night at Brigid’s father’s house. Therefore had 
 she come early in the morning in her boat to the store, 
 to buy provisions for the evening’s entertainment. 
 Obedience to her father had obliged her to do this, but 
 her own strong will revolted from the proceeding. She 
 was proud, handsome, and an heiress, and did not like 
 to be so easily won. 
 
 Brigid’s father was sitting at the fire— -a consumptive- 
 looking man, with a wistful and restless eye. 
 
 u Father, I have brought very little flour. The 
 hooker hasn’t got in.” 
 
 i( Sorra wondher, an’ sich storms. ’Tis late in the 
 year for things to be this ways.” 
 
 Brigid arranged her little purchases on the dresser 
 and sat down at the table, but her breakfast, a few 
 roasted potatoes and a tin mug of butter-milk, remained 
 untasted before her. 
 
 “ Father, isn’t you an’ me happy as we are ? Why 
 need I marry in sich a hurry ? ” 
 
 “ Because a lone woman’s betther with a husband, 
 my girl.” 
 
 11 I’m not a lone woman. Haven’t I got you ? ” 
 il Nor for long, avourneen machree. I’m readyin’ to 
 go this good while.” 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 97 
 
 “ But I will hold you back/’ cried Brigid passionately, 
 throwing her strong arms around his neck. 
 
 “You can't, asthoreen. I'm wanted yonder, and it’s 
 time I was gettin’ on with my purgatory. An’ there’s 
 bad times cornin’, an’ I will not let you face them 
 alone.” 
 
 u I could pack up my bundles and be off to America,” 
 said Brigid stoutly, dashing away tears. 
 
 “ I will not have you wanderin’ over the world like a 
 stray bird,” said the father emphatically ; and Brigid 
 knew there was nothing more to be said. 
 
 Lavelle’s prosperity appeared before the world in a 
 great deal of clean whitewash outside the house, and an 
 interior more comfortable than is usual on the island. 
 The cabin consisted of two rooms : the kitchen, with 
 earthen floor and heather-lined roof, roosting-place for 
 cocks and hens, and with its dresser, old and worm- 
 eaten, showing a fair display of crockery ; and the best 
 room, containing a bed, a few pictures of sacred 
 subjects, some sea-shells on the chimney-piece, an 
 ornamental tray, an old gun, and an ancient time- 
 blackened crucifix against the wall, this last having 
 been washed ashore one morning after the wreck of a 
 Spanish ship. This was the finest house in Bohn, and 
 Tim Lavelle, having returned from seeing the world 
 and married late in life, had settled down in it, and 
 on the most fertile bit of land on the island. It 
 was thought he had a stockingful of money in the 
 thatch, which would of course be the property of his 
 daughter ; so no wonder if the handsome Brigid had 
 
 7 
 
 //. o. 
 
98 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 grown up a little spoiled with the knowledge of her own 
 happy importance. 
 
 As she went about her affairs this morning, she 
 owned to herself that she would not be sorry to be 
 forced to be Coil’s wife in spite of her pride. True he 
 had paid her less court hitherto than any other young 
 man on the island, and she longed to punish him for 
 that ; but what would become of her if she saw him 
 married to another ? Oh, if they had only left the 
 matter to herself she could have managed it so much 
 better — could have plagued him to her heart’s content, 
 and made him anxious to win her by means of the 
 difficulties she would have thrown in his way. Had 
 Coll been as poor as he seemed to be, with nothing but 
 his boat and fishing-tackle, she would have been easier 
 to woo, for then eagerness to bestow on him the 
 contents of that stocking in the thatch would have 
 swept away the stumbling-block of her pride. But his 
 uncle had saved some money, which was to be given 
 to Prendergast on the day of his marriage with her. 
 It was a made-up match like Judy O’Flaherty’s, while 
 Brigid’s proud head was crazed on the subject of being 
 loved for her love’s sake alone. 
 
 u I’ll have to give him my hand to-night,” she said, 
 folding her brown arms, and standing straight in the 
 middle of the room she had been dusting and decorating. 
 u I be to obey father, an’ I’ll shame nobody afore the 
 neighbours. But match-makin’ isn’t marryin’ ; and if 
 it was to break my heart an’ do my death I’ll find means 
 to plague him into lovin’ me yet.” 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 99 
 
 Having made this resolve she let down her long hair, 
 that looked dark bronze while she sat in the corner 
 putting on her shoes, and turned to gold as she walked 
 through a sunbeam crossing the floor, and having 
 brushed it out and twisted it up again in a coil round 
 her head, she finished her simple toilet and went out to 
 the kitchen to receive her visitors. 
 
 The first that arrived was Judy O’Flaherty, an old 
 woman with a smoke-dried face, who sat down in the 
 chimney corner and lit her pipe. Judy was arrayed in 
 a large patchwork quilt folded like a shawl, being too 
 poor to indulge in the luxury of a cloak. But the quilt, 
 made of red-and-white calico patches, was clean, and 
 the cap on her head was fresh and neat. 
 
 “ I give ye joy of Coll Prendergast,” said Judy 
 heartily. “ Ye ought to be the glad girl to get sich a 
 match.’' 
 
 “Why ought I be glad?” asked Brigid angrily. 
 “ It’s all as one may think.” 
 
 u Holy Mother, girl ! don’t be sendin’ them red sparks 
 out o’ yer eyes at me ! Where d’ye see the likes o’ 
 Coll, I’m askin’, with his six feet if he’s an inch, an' his 
 eyes like the blue on the Reek afore nightfall ? ” 
 
 Brigid’s heart leaped to hear him praised, and she 
 turned away her face to hide the smile that curled her 
 lips. 
 
 “An’ yer match so aisy made for ye, without trouble 
 to either o’ ye. Not like some poor cratures, that have 
 to round the world afore they can get one to put a roof 
 over their heads or a bit in their mouths. It’s me that 
 
100 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 knows. Sure wasn’t I a wanderin’ bein’, doin’ day’s 
 works in the mountains, and as purty a girl as you, 
 Miss Brigid, on’y I hadn’t the stockin’ in the thatch, 
 nor the good father to be settlin’ for me. An’ sore an’ 
 tired an’ spent I was when one night I heard a knock 
 at the door o’ the house I was workin’ in, and a voice 
 called out : 1 Get up, Judy ; here’s a man come to marry 
 you ! ’ Maybe I didn’t dress quick ; an’ who was there 
 but a woman that knew my mother long ago, an’ she 
 had met a widow-man that wanted somebody to look 
 after his childer. An’ she brought him to me, an’ 
 wakened me out o’ my sleep for fear he’d take the rue. 
 An’ we all sat o’er the fire for the rest o’ the night to 
 make the match, and in the first morning light we 
 went down to Father Daly and got married. There’s 
 my marriage for ye, an’ the rounds I had to get it, 
 an’ many a wan is like me. An’ yet ye'r’ tossing yer 
 head at Coll, you that hasn’t as much as the trouble 
 o’ bein’ axed.” 
 
 The smile had gone off Brigid’s face. This freedom 
 from trouble was the very thing that troubled her. 
 She would rather have had the excitement of being 
 “ axed ” a hundred questions. As they talked the 
 sunshine vanished, and the rain again fell in torrents. 
 Brigid looked out of the door with a mischievous hope 
 that the guests might be kept at home and the match- 
 making postponed. Judy rocked herself and groaned : 
 
 “ Oh, musha, the piatees, the piatees ! O Lord, 
 look down with mercy on the poor ! ” then suddenly 
 became silent, and began telling her beads. 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 IOI 
 
 A slight lull in the storm brought the company in a 
 rush to the door, with bursts of laughter, groans for the 
 rain and the potatoes, shaking and drying of cloaks and 
 coats, and squealing and tuning up of pipes. Among 
 the rest came Coll, smiling and confident as ever, with 
 an arch look in his eyes when they met Brigid’s, and 
 not the least symptom of fear or anxiety in his face. 
 Soon the door was barred against the storm, the fish-oil 
 lamp lighted, laughter, song, and dancing filled the 
 little house, and the rotting potatoes and the ruinous 
 rains were forgotten as completely as though the Bofin 
 population had been goddesses and gods, with whose 
 nectar and ambrosia no such thing as weather could 
 dare to interfere. 
 
 “ Faith, ye must dance with me, Brigid,” said Coll, 
 after she had refused him half-a-dozen times. 
 tl Why must I dance with you ? ” 
 u Oh, now, don’t ye know what’s goin’ on in there ?” 
 said Coll roguishly, signing towards the room where 
 father and uncle were arguing over money and land. 
 
 u I do,” said Brigid, with all the red fire of her eyes 
 blazing out upon him. “ But, mind ye, this match- 
 makin’ is none o’ my doin’.” 
 
 11 Why then, avourneen ? ” 
 
 “ I’m not goin’ to marry a man that on’y wants a 
 wife, an’ doesn’t care a pin whether it’s me or another.” 
 “ Bedad, I do care,” said Coll awkwardly. li I’m a 
 bad hand at the speakin’, but I care entirely.” 
 
 But Brigid went off, and danced with another man. 
 Coll was puzzled. He did not understand her in the 
 
102 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 least. He was a simple, straightforward fellow, and 
 had truly been in love with Brigid — a fact which his 
 confident manner had never allowed her to believe. 
 Latterly he had begun to feel afraid of her ; whenever 
 he tried to say a tender word, that red light in her eyes 
 would flash and strike him dumb. He had hoped that 
 when their u match was made ” she would have grown 
 a little kinder ; but it seemed she was only getting 
 harsher instead. Well, he would try and hit on some 
 way to please her ; and, as he walked home that night, 
 he pondered on all sorts of plans for softening her proud 
 temper and satisfying her exacting mind. 
 
 On her side, Brigid saw that she had startled him 
 out of his ordinary easy humour, and, congratulating 
 herself on the spirit she had shown, resolved to continue 
 her present style of proceeding. Not one smile would 
 she give him till she had, as she told herself, nearly 
 tormented him to death. How close she was to keep 
 to the letter of her resolution could not at this time be 
 foreseen. 
 
 Every evening after this Coll travelled across half 
 the island to read some old treasured newspaper to the 
 sickly Lavelle, and bringing various little offerings to 
 his betrothed. Everything that Bofin could supply in 
 the way of a love-gift was sought by him, and presented 
 to her. Now it was a few handsome shells purchased 
 from a foreign sailor in the harbour, or it was the model 
 of a boat he had carved for her himself ; and all this 
 attention was not without its lasting effect. Unfor- 
 tunately, however, while Brigid’s heart grew more soft, 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 103 
 
 her tongue only waxed more sharp, and her eyes more 
 scornful. The more clearly she perceived that she 
 would soon have to yield, the more haughty and 
 capricious did she become. Had the young man been 
 able to see behind outward appearances he would have 
 been thoroughly satisfied, and a good deal startled at 
 the vehemence of the devotion that had grown up and 
 strengthened for him in that proud and wayward heart. 
 As it was, he felt more and more chilled by her continued 
 coldness, and began to weary of a pursuit which seemed 
 unlikely to be either for his dignity or his happiness. 
 
 Meanwhile the rain went on falling. The spring 
 was bad, the summer was bad, potatoes were few and 
 unwholesome, the turf lay undried, and rotting on the 
 bog. Distress began to pinch the cheerful faces of the 
 islanders, and laughter and song were half drowned in 
 murmurs of fear. At the sight of so much sorrow and 
 anxiety around her Brigid’s heart began to ache, and 
 to smite and reproach her for her selfish and unruly 
 humours. One night, softened by the sufferings of 
 others, she astonished herself by falling on her knees 
 and giving humble thanks to Heaven for the undeserved 
 happiness that was awaiting her. She vowed that the 
 next time Coll appeared she would put her hand in his, 
 and let the love of her heart shine out in the smiles 
 of her eyes. Had she kept this vow it might have been 
 well with her, but her habit of vexing had grown all 
 too strong to be cured in an hour. At the first sight 
 of her lover’s anxious face in the doorway all her passion 
 for tormenting him returned. 
 
104 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 It was an evening in the end of May; the day had 
 been cold and wet, and as dark as January, but the 
 rain had ceased, the clouds had parted, and one of those 
 fiery sunsets burst upon the world that sometimes 
 appear unexpectedly in the midst of stormy weather. 
 In Bofin, where the sun drops down the heavens from 
 burning cloud to cloud, and sinks in the ocean, the 
 whole island was wrapped in a crimson flame. Brigid 
 stood at her door, gazing at the wonderful spectacle 
 of the heavens and sea, looking herself strangely 
 hahdsome, with her bronze hair glittering in the ruddy 
 sunlight, and that dark shadow about her eyes and 
 brows which, except when she smiled, always gave 
 a look of tragedy to her face. She was waiting for 
 Coll, with softened lips and downcast eyes, and was 
 so lost in her own thoughts that she did not see when 
 he stood beside her. 
 
 He remained silently watching her for a few moments, 
 thinking that if she would begin to look like that he 
 would be ready to love her as well as he had ever loved 
 her, and to forget that he had ever wearied of her 
 harassing scorn. At this very moment Brigid was 
 rehearsing within her mind a kind little speech which 
 was to establish a good understanding between 
 them. 
 
 “ I’m sorry I vexed you so often, for I love you 
 true,” were the words she had meant to speak ; but 
 suddenly seeing Coll by her side the habitual taunt 
 flew involuntarily to her lips. 
 
 “ You here again!” she said disdainfully. “Then 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 105 
 
 no one can say but you’re the perseverin’est man in the 
 island ! ” 
 
 “ Maybe I’m too perseverin’,” said Coll quietly, and, 
 as Brigid looked at him with covert remorse, she saw 
 something in his face that frightened her. His ex- 
 pression was a mixture of weariness and contempt. 
 He was not hurt, or angry, or amused, as she had been 
 accustomed to see him, but tired of her insolence, which 
 was ceasing to give him pain. A sudden consciousness 
 of this made Brigid turn sick at heart, and she felt that 
 she had at last gone a little too far, that she had been 
 losing him all this time while triumphantly thinking to 
 win him. Oh, why could she not speak and say the 
 word that she wanted to say ? While this anguish 
 came into her thoughts her brows grew darker than 
 ever, and the warmth ebbed gradually out of her 
 cheek. They went silently into the house, where Brigid 
 took up her knitting, and Coll dropped into his seat 
 beside Lavelle. The bad times, the rotting crops, the 
 scant expectations of a harvest, were discussed by the 
 two men while Brigid sat fighting with her pride, and 
 trying to decide on what she ought to say or do. 
 Before she had made up her mind Coll had said good- 
 evening abruptly, and gone out of the house. 
 
 The young fisherman’s home was in Middle Quarter 
 Village, a cluster of grey stone cabins close to the sea, 
 and, to reach it, Coll had to cross almost the whole 
 breadth of the island. He set out on his homeward 
 walk with a weary and angry heart. Brigid’s dark, 
 unyielding face followed him, and he was overwhelmed 
 
io 6 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH . 
 
 by a fit of unusual depression. He whistled as he 
 went, trying to shake it off. Why should he fret about 
 a woman who disliked him, and who probably loved 
 another whom her father disapproved ? Let her do 
 what she liked with herself and her purse. Coll would 
 persecute her no more. 
 
 The red light had slowly vanished off the island, and 
 the dark cliffs on the oceanward coast loomed large 
 and black against the still lurid sky. Deep drifts of 
 brown and purple flecked with amber swept across the 
 bogs, and filled up the dreary horrors of the barren 
 and irreclaimable land, which Coll had to traverse on 
 his way to the foam-drenched village where the fishermen 
 lived. The heavens cooled to paler tints, a ring of 
 yellow light encircled the island with its creeping 
 shadows and ghost-like rocks. Twilight was descending 
 when Coll heard a faint cry from the distance, like the 
 call of a belated bird or the wail of a child in distress. 
 
 At first he thought it was the wind or a plover, but 
 straining his eyes in the direction whence it came he 
 saw a small form standing solitary in the middle of a 
 distant hollow, a piece of treacherous bog, dangerous 
 in the crossing except to knowing feet. Hurrying to 
 the spot, he found himself just in time to succour a 
 fellow-creature in distress. 
 
 Approaching as near as he could with ease to the 
 person who had summoned him, he saw a very young 
 girl standing gazing towards him with piteous looks. 
 She was small, slight, poorly and scantily clad, and 
 carried a creel full of sea-wrack on her slight and bending 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH 
 
 io 7 
 
 shoulders. A pale after-gleam from the sky fell where 
 she stood, young and forlorn, in the shadowy solitude, 
 and lit up a face round and delicately pale, reminding 
 one of a daisy ; a wreath of wind-tossed yellow hair 
 and eyes as blue as forget-me-nots. Terror had taken 
 possession of her, and she stretched out her hands 
 appealingly to the strong man, who stood looking at 
 her from the opposite side of the bog. Coll observed 
 her in silence for a few moments. It seemed as if he 
 had known her long ago, and that she belonged to him ; 
 yet if so it was in another state of existence, for he 
 assured himself that she was no one with whom he had 
 any acquaintance. However that might be, he was 
 determined to know more of her now, for, with her 
 childlike appealing eyes and outstretched hands, she 
 went straight into Coil’s heart, to nestle there like a 
 dove for evermore. 
 
 u Aisy, asthoreen,” cried Coll across the bog, 11 I’m 
 goin’ to look after ye. Niver ye fear.” 
 
 He crossed the morass with a few rapid springs, and 
 stood by her side. 
 
 “ Give me the creel, avourneen, till I land it for ye 
 safe.” 
 
 A few minutes, and the burden was deposited on the 
 safe side of the bog, and then Coll came back and took 
 the young girl in his arms. 
 
 “ Keep a good hoult round my neck, machree.” 
 
 It was a nice feat for a man to pick his way through 
 the bog with even so small a woman as this in his 
 arms. The girl clung to him in fear, as he swayed 
 
io8 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 and balanced himself on one sure stone after another, 
 slipping here and stumbling there, but always re- 
 covering himself before mischief could be done. At 
 last the deed was accomplished, the goal was won. 
 
 “Ye were frightened, acushla,” said Coll tenderly. 
 
 “I was feared of dhrownin’ ye,” said the girl, looking 
 wistfully in his face with her great blue eyes. 
 
 “ Sorra matther if ye had,” said Coll laughingly, 
 “except that maybe ye’d ha’ been dhrowned too. Now 
 which ways are ye goin’ ? And maybe ye’d be afther 
 tellin’ me who ye are.” 
 
 “ I’m Moya Maillie,” said the girl ; “ an’ I live in 
 Middle Quarter Village.” 
 
 “ Why, ye’r’ niver little Moya that I used to see 
 playing round poor Maillie’s door that’s dead an’ gone ? 
 And how did ye grow up that ways in a night ? ” 
 
 “ Mother says I’ll niver grow up,” laughed Moya ; 
 “ but I’m sixteen on May mornin’, and I’ll be contint 
 to be as I am.” 
 
 “ Many a fine lady would give her fortune to be 
 contint with that same,” said Coll, striding along with 
 the creel on his shoulders, and glancing down every 
 minute at the sweet white-flower-like face that flitted 
 through the twilight at his side. Thus Brigid’s re- 
 pentance would now come all too late, for Coll had 
 fallen in love with little Moya. 
 
 How he brought her home that night to a bare and 
 poverty-stricken cabin in the sea-washed fishing village, 
 and restored her like a stray lamb to her mother, need 
 not be told. Her mother was a widow and the mother 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 109 
 
 of seven, and Moya’s willing labour was a great part 
 of the family support. She mended nets for the fisher- 
 men, and carried wrack for the neighbours’ land, knitted 
 stockings to be sent out to the great world and sold, 
 and did any other task which her slender and eager 
 hands could find to do. Coll asked himself in amaze- 
 ment how it was that having known her as a baby he 
 had never observed her existence since then. Now an 
 angel, he believed, had led her out into the dreary bog 
 to stand waiting for his sore heart on that blessed day 
 of days. And he would never marry anyone but little 
 Moya. 
 
 It was impossible they could marry while times were 
 so bad, but, every evening after this, Moya might be 
 seen perched on an old boat upon the shingle, busy 
 with her knitting — her tiny feet, bare and so brown, 
 crossed under the folds of her old worn red petticoat, 
 with a faint rose-pink in her pale cheeks, and a light 
 of extraordinary happiness in her childlike blue eyes. 
 Coll lay on the shingle at her feet, and these two found 
 an elysium in each other’s company. There was much 
 idleness perforce for the men of Bofin at this time, and 
 Coll filled up his hours looking after the concerns of 
 the Widow Maillie, carrying Moya’s burdens, and 
 making the hard times as easy for her as he could. 
 When people would look surprised at him and ask, 
 “ Arrah, thin, what about Brigid Lavelle ? ” Coll would 
 answer, “ Oh, she turned me off long ago. Everybody 
 knows that she could not bear the sight of me.” 
 
 In the meantime Brigid, at the other end of the 
 
1 10 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 island, was watching daily and hourly for Coil’s re- 
 appearance. As evening after evening passed without 
 bringing him, her heart misgave her more and more, 
 and she mourned bitterly over her own harshness and 
 pride. Oh, if he would only come once again with 
 that wistful, questioning look in his brave face, how 
 kindly she would greet him, how eagerly put her hand 
 in his grasp ! As the rain rained on through the early 
 summer evenings there would often come before sun- 
 set a lightening and brightening all over the sky, and 
 this was the hour at which Brigid used to look for her 
 now ever-absent lover. Climbing to the top of the hill, 
 she would peer over the sea-bound landscape, with 
 its dark stretches of bog, and strips and flecks of green, 
 towards the grey irregular line of the fishing village, 
 the smoke of which she could see hanging against the 
 horizon. Her face grew paler and her eyes dull, but 
 to no one, not even to her father, would she admit 
 that she was pining for Coil’s return. She had always 
 lived much by herself, and had few gossiping friends to 
 bring her news. At last, unable to bear the suspense 
 any longer, she made an excuse of business at the 
 store on the beach ; and before she had gone far among 
 the houses of that metropolis of the island, she was 
 enlightened as to the cause of her lover’s defection. 
 
 “So ye cast him off? So ye giv’ him to little Moya 
 Maillie ? ” were the words that greeted her wherever 
 she turned. She smiled and nodded her head, as if 
 heartily assenting to what was said, and content with 
 the existing state of things ; but as she walked away 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 Ill 
 
 out of the reach of observing eyes, her face grew dark, 
 and her heart throbbed like to burst in her bosom. 
 Almost mechanically she took her way home through 
 the Middle Quarter Village, with a vague desire to see 
 what was to be seen, and to hear whatever was to be 
 heard. She passed among the houses without ob- 
 serving anything that interested her, but, as she left 
 the village, by the sea-shore she came upon Coll and 
 Moya sitting on a rock in the yellow light of a watery 
 sunset, with a mist of sea-foam around them, and a 
 net over their knees which they were mending between 
 them. Their heads were close together, and Coll was 
 looking in her face with the very look which, all these 
 tedious days and nights, Brigid had been wearying to 
 meet. She walked up beside them, and stood looking 
 at them silently with a light in her eyes that was not 
 good to behold. 
 
 “ Brigid," said Coll, when he could bear it no 
 longer, ‘Tor Heaven's sake, are ye not satisfied 
 yet ? ” 
 
 She turned from him and fixed her strange glance 
 on Moya. 
 
 “ It was me before, an' it's you now," she said 
 shortly. “ He’s a constant lover, isn’t he ? " 
 
 “ I loved ye true, and ye scoffed and scorned me," 
 said Coll gently, as the gleam of anguish and despair 
 in her eyes startled him. “ I wasn't good enough for 
 Brigid, but I’m good enough for Moya. We're neither 
 of us as rich nor as clever as you, but we'll do for one 
 another well enough." 
 
1 1 2 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 Brigid laughed a sharp sudden laugh, and still looked 
 at Moya. 
 
 “ For Heaven’s sake take that wicked look off her 
 face ! ” cried Coll hastily. i( Whatsomdever way it is 
 betune us three is yer own doin’ ; an’, whether ye like 
 it or not, it cannot now be helped.” 
 
 “ I will never forgive either of you,” said Brigid in a 
 low hard voice ; and then, turning abruptly away, she 
 set out on her homeward walk through the gathering 
 shadows. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 All through that summer the rain fell, and, when 
 autumn came in Bofin, there was no harvest either of 
 fuel or of food. The potato-seed had been, for the 
 most part, washed out of the earth without putting 
 forth a shoot, while those that remained in the ground 
 were nearly all rotted by a loathsome disease. The 
 smiling little fields that grew the food were turned 
 into blackened pits, giving forth a horrid stench. 
 Winter was beginning again, the year having been 
 but one long winter, with seas too wild to be often 
 braved by even the sturdiest of the fishermen, and the 
 fish seeming to have deserted the island. Accustomed 
 to exist on what would satisfy no other race, and to 
 trust cheerfully to Providence to send them that little 
 out of the earth and out of the sea, the people bore up 
 cheerfully for a long time, living on a mess of Indian 
 meal once a day, mingled with such edible seaweed as 
 they could gather off the rocks. So long as shop- 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 1 13 
 
 keepers in Galway and other towns could afford to 
 give credit to the island, the hooker kept bringing 
 such scanty supplies as were now the sole sustenance 
 of the impoverished population. But credit began to 
 fail, and universal distress on the mainland gave back 
 an answering wail to the hunger-cry of the Bofiners. 
 It is hard for any one who has never witnessed such 
 a state of things to imagine the condition of ten or 
 twelve hundred living creatures, on a barren island 
 girdled round with angry breakers; the strong arms 
 among them paralyzed, first by the storms that dash 
 their boats to pieces, and rend and destroy their fishing 
 gear, and the devastation of the earth that makes labour 
 useless, and later by the faintness and sickness which 
 come from hunger long endured, and the cold from 
 which they have no longer a defence. Accustomed as 
 they are to the hardships of recurring years of trial, the 
 Bofiners became gradually aware that a visitation was 
 at hand for which there had seldom been a parallel. 
 Earth and sea alike barren and pitiless to their needs, 
 whence could deliverance come unless the heavens 
 rained down manna into their mouths ? Alas ! no 
 miracle was wrought, and after a term of brave 
 struggle, hope in Providence, cheerful pushing off the 
 terrible fears for the worst — after this, laughter, music, 
 song, faded out of the island ; feet that had danced as 
 long as it was possible now might hardly walk, and the 
 weakest among the people began to die. Troops of 
 children that a few months ago were rosy and sturdy, 
 sporting on the sea-shore, now stretched their emaciated 
 
 8 
 
 11. o. 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 1 14 
 
 limbs by the fireless hearths, and wasted to death before 
 their maddened mothers’ eyes. The old and ailing 
 vanished like flax before a flame. Digging of graves 
 was soon the chief labour of the island, and a day 
 seemed near at hand when the survivors would no 
 longer have strength to perform even this last service 
 for the dead. 
 
 Lavelle and his daughter were among the last to 
 suffer from the hard times, and they shared what they 
 had with their poor neighbours ; but in course of time 
 the father caught the fever which famine had brought 
 in its train, and was quickly swept into his grave, while 
 the girl was left alone in possession of their little pro- 
 perty, with her stocking in the thatch and her small 
 flock of “ beasts” in the field. Her first independent 
 act was to despatch all the money she had left by a 
 trusty hand to Galway to buy meal, in one of those 
 pauses in the bad weather which sometimes allowed a 
 boat to put off from the island. The meal arrived after 
 long, unavoidable delay, and Brigid became a benefactor 
 to numbers of her fellow-creatures. Late and early she 
 trudged from village to village and from house to house, 
 doling out her meal to make it go as far as possible, 
 till her own face grew pale and her step slow, for she 
 stinted her own food to have the more to give away. 
 Her a beasts ” grew lean and dejected. Why should 
 she feed them at the expense of human life ? They 
 were killed, and the meat given to her famishing friends. 
 The little property of the few other well-to-do families 
 in like manner melted away, and it seemed likely 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 US 
 
 that “ rich ” and poor would soon all be buried in one 
 grave. 
 
 In the Widow Maillie’s house the famine had been 
 early at work. Five of Moya’s little sisters and 
 brothers had one by one sickened and dropped upon 
 the cabin floor. The two elder boys still walked about 
 looking like galvanized skeletons, and the mother crept 
 from wall to wall of her house trying to pretend that 
 she did not suffer, and to cook the mess of rank-looking 
 sea-weed, which was all they could procure in the shape 
 of food. Coil risked his life day after day trying to 
 catch fish to relieve their hunger, but scant and few 
 were the meals that all his efforts could procure from 
 the sea. White and gaunt he followed little Moya’s 
 steps, as with the spirit of a giant she kept on toiling 
 among the rocks for such weeds or shell-fish as could 
 be supposed to be edible. When she fell Coll bore her 
 up, but the once powerful man was not able to carry 
 her now. Her lovely little face was hollow and 
 pinched, the cheek bones cutting through the skin. 
 Her sweet blue eyes were sunken and dim, her pretty 
 mouth purple and strained. Her beauty and his 
 strength were alike gone. 
 
 Three of the boys died in one night, and it took Coll, 
 wasted as he was, two days to dig a grave deep enough 
 to bury them. Before that week was over all the 
 children were dead of starvation, and the mother 
 scarcely alive. One evening Coll made his way slowly 
 across the island from the beach carrying a small bag 
 of meal which he had unexpectedly obtained. Now 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 1 1 6 
 
 and again his limbs failed, and he had to lie down and 
 rest upon the ground ; but with long perseverance 
 and unconquerable energy he reached the little fishing 
 village at last. As he passed the 'first house Brigid 
 Lavelle, pallid and worn, the spectre of herself, came 
 out of the door with an empty basket. Coll and she 
 stared at each other in melancholy amazement. It was 
 the first time they had met since the memorable scene 
 on the rocks many months ago, for Coil’s entire time 
 had been devoted to the Maillies, and Brigid had 
 persistently kept out of his way, striving, by charity to 
 others, to quench the fire of angry despair in her heart. 
 Coll would scarcely have recognized her in her present 
 deathlike guise, had it not been for the still living glory 
 of her hair. 
 
 The sight of Coil’s great frame, once so stalwart and 
 erect, now stooping and attenuated, his lustreless eyes, 
 and blue cold lips, struck horror into Brigid’s heart. 
 She uttered a faint sharp cry and disappeared. Coll 
 scarcely noticed her, his thoughts were so filled with 
 another ; and a little further on he met Moya coming 
 to meet him, walking with a slow uneven step, that told 
 of the whirling of the exhausted brain. Half blind 
 with weakness she stretched her hands before her as 
 she walked. 
 
 “ The hungry death is on my mother at last. Oh, 
 Coll, come in and see the last o’ her ! ” 
 
 11 Whisht, machree ! Look at the beautiful taste o’ 
 male I am bringin’ her. Hard work I had to carry 
 it from the beach, for the eyes o’ the cratures is like 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH 
 
 ii ; 
 
 wolves’ eyes, an’ I thought the longin’ o’ them would 
 have dragged it out o’ my hands. An’, Moya, there’s 
 help cornin’ from God to us. There’s kind people out 
 in the world that’s thinkin’ o’ our need. The man that 
 has just landed with a sack, an' giv’ me this, says 
 there’s a hooker full o’ male on its road to us this day. 
 May the great Lord send us weather to bring it here.” 
 
 u I’m feared — I’m feared it’s too late for her,” sobbed 
 Moya, clinging to him. 
 
 They entered the cabin where the woman lay, a mere 
 skeleton covered with skin, with the life still flickering 
 in her glassy eyes. Coll put a little of the meal, as it 
 was, between her lips, while Moya hastened to cook 
 the rest on a fire made of the dried roots of heather. 
 The mother turned loving looks from one to the other, 
 tried to swallow a little of the food to please them, 
 gasped, shuddered a little, and was dead. 
 
 It was a long, hard task for Coll and Moya to bury 
 her, and when this was done they sat on the heather 
 clasping each other’s wasted hands. The sky was 
 dark ; the storm was coming on again. As night 
 approached a tempest was let loose upon the island, 
 and many famishing hearts that had throbbed with a 
 little hope at the news of the relief that was on its way 
 to them, now groaned, sickened, and broke in despair. 
 Louder howled the wind, and the sea raged around the 
 dangerous rocks towards which no vessel could dare to 
 approach. It was the doing of the Most High, said the 
 perishing creatures. His scourge was in His hand. 
 Might His ever-blessed will be done. 
 
1 1 8 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 That evening Moya became delirious, and Coll 
 watched all night by her side. At morning light he 
 fled out and went round the village, crying out despe- 
 rately to God and man to send him a morsel of food 
 to save the life of his young love. The suffering 
 neighbours turned pitying eyes upon him. 
 
 “ I’m feared it’s all over with her when she can’t 
 taste the sayweed any more,” said one. 
 
 u Why don’t ye go to Brigid Lavelle ? ” said another. 
 “ She hasn’t much left, poor girl ; but maybe she’d 
 have a mouthful for you.” 
 
 Till this moment Coll had felt that he could not go 
 begging of Brigid ; but, now that Moya’s precious life 
 was slipping rapidly out of his hands, he would suffer 
 the deepest humiliation she could heap upon him, if 
 only she would give him so much food as would keep 
 breath in Moya’s body till such time as by Heaven’s 
 mercy the storm might abate, and the hooker with the 
 relief-meal arrive. 
 
 Brigid was alone in her house. A little porridge for 
 some poor creature simmered on a scanty fire, and 
 the girl stood in the middle of the floor, her hands 
 wrung together above her head, and her brain distracted 
 with the remembrance of Coll as she had seen him 
 stricken by the scourge. All these months she had 
 told her jealous heart that the Maillies were safe 
 enough since they had Coll to take care of them. So 
 long as there was a fish in the sea he would not let 
 them starve, neither need be in any danger himself. 
 And so she had never asked a question about him or 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH 
 
 119 
 
 them. Now the horror of his altered face haunted 
 her. She had walked through the direst scenes with 
 courageous calm, but this one unexpected sight of woe 
 had maddened her. 
 
 A knock came to the door which at first she could 
 not hear for the howling of the wind ; but when she 
 heard and opened there was Coll standing before her. 
 
 “ Meal,” he said faintly — “ a little meal, for the love 
 of Christ ! Moya is dying.” 
 
 A spasm of anguish and tenderness had crossed 
 Brigid’s face at the first words ; but at the mention of 
 Moya her face darkened. 
 
 “ Why should I give to you or Moya ? ” she said 
 coldly. u There’s them that needs the help as much 
 as ye.” 
 
 " But not more,” pleaded Coll. “ Oh, Brigid, I’m 
 not askin’ for myself. I fear I vexed ye, though I did 
 not mean it. But Moya niver did any one any harm. 
 Will you give me a morsel to save her from the hungry 
 death ? ” 
 
 “ I said I niver would forgive either o’ ye, an’ I 
 niver will,” said Brigid slowly. “ Ye broke my heart, 
 an’ why wouldn’t I break yours ? ” 
 
 11 Brigid, perhaps neither you nor me has much longer 
 to live. Will ye go before yer Judge with sich black 
 words on yer lips ? ” 
 
 “ That’s my affair,” she answered in the same hard 
 voice ; and then, suddenly turning from him, shut the 
 door in his face. 
 
 She stood listening within, expecting to hear him 
 
120 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEA1H. 
 
 returning to implore her, but no further sound was 
 heard ; and, when she found he was gone, she dropped 
 upon the floor with a shriek, and rocked herself in a 
 frenzy of remorse for her wickedness. 
 
 “ But I cannot help every one,” she moaned ; “ I’m 
 starving myself, an’ there’s nothin’ but a han’ful o’ male 
 at the bottom o’ the bag.” 
 
 After a while she got up, and carried the mess of 
 porridge to the house for which she had intended it, 
 and all that day she went about, doing what charity 
 she could, and not tasting anything herself. Returning, 
 she lay down on the heather, overcome with weakness, 
 fell asleep, and had a terrible dream. She saw herself 
 dead and judged; a black-winged angel put the mark of 
 Cain on her forehead, and at the same moment Coll 
 and Moya went, glorified and happy, hand in hand, 
 into heaven before her eyes. “ Depart from me, you 
 accursed ! ” thundered in her ears ; and she started wide 
 awake to hear the winds and waves roaring unabated 
 round her head. 
 
 Wet and shivering she struggled to regain her feet, 
 and stood irresolute where to go. Dreading to return 
 to her desolate home, she mechanically set her face 
 towards the little church on the cliffs above the beach. 
 On her way to it she passed prostrate forms, dying or 
 dead, on the heather, on the roadside, and against the 
 cabin walls. A few weakly creatures, digging graves, 
 begged from her as she went past, but she took no 
 notice of anything, living or dead, making straight for 
 the church. No one was there, and the storm howled 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 1 2 1 
 
 dismally through the empty, barn-like building. Four 
 bare, whitewashed walls, and a rude wooden altar 
 with a painted tabernacle and cross — this was the 
 church. On one long wall was hung a large crucifix, 
 a white, thorn-crowned Figure upon stakes of black- 
 painted wood, which had been placed there in memory 
 of a “ mission ” lately preached on the island ; and on 
 this Brigid’s burning eyes fixed themselves with an 
 agony of meaning. Slowly approaching it she knelt 
 and stretched out her arms, uttering no prayer, but 
 swaying herself monotonously to and fro. After a 
 while the frenzied pain of remorse was dulled by 
 physical exhaustion, and a stupor was stealing over 
 her senses, when a step entering the church startled 
 her back to consciousness. Looking round, she saw 
 that the priest of the island had come in, and was 
 wearily dragging himself towards the altar. 
 
 Father John was suffering and dying with his people. 
 He had just now returned from a round of visits among 
 the sick, during which he had sped some departing 
 souls on their journey, and given the last consolation 
 of religion to the dying. His own gaunt face and form 
 bore witness to the unselfishness which had made all 
 his little worldly goods the common property of 
 the famishing. Before be had reached the rails of the 
 altar Brigid had thrown herself on her face at his 
 feet. 
 
 “Save me, father, save me !” she wailed. “ The sin 
 of murther is on my soul ! ” 
 
 “ Nonsense, child ! No such thing. It is too much 
 
122 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 that you have been doing, my poor Brigid ! I fear the 
 fever has crazed your brain.” 
 
 “ Listen to me, father. Moya is dying, an’ there is 
 still a couple o’ han’fuls of male in the bag. Coll came 
 an’ asked me for her, an’ I hated her because he left me, 
 an’ I would not give it to him, an’ maybe she is dead.” 
 
 “You refused her because you hated her?” said the 
 priest. “God help you, my poor Brigid. ’Tis true 
 you can’t save every life ; but you must try and save 
 this one.” 
 
 Brigid glanced at him, brightly at first, as if an angel 
 had spoken, and then the dark shadow fell again into 
 her eyes. 
 
 The priest saw it. 
 
 “ Look there, my poor soul,” he said, extending a 
 thin hand towards the Figure on the cross. “ Did He 
 forgive His enemies, or did He not ? ” 
 
 Brigid turned her fascinated gaze to the crucifix, 
 fixed them on the thorn-crowned face, and, uttering 
 a wild cry, got up and tottered out of the church. 
 
 Spurred by terror lest her amend should come too 
 late, and Moya be dead before she could reach her, she 
 toiled across the heather once more, over the dreary 
 bogs, and through the howling storm. Dews of 
 suffering and exhaustion were on her brow as she 
 carefully emptied all the meal that was left of her 
 store into a vessel, and stood for a moment looking 
 at it in her hand. 
 
 “ There isn’t enough for all of us,” she said, “ an’ 
 some of us be to die. It was always her or me, her 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 123 
 
 or me ; an’ now it'll be me. May Christ receive me, 
 Moya, as I forgive you.” And then she kissed the 
 vessel, and put it under her cloak. 
 
 Leaving the house, she was careless to close the door 
 behind her, feeling certain that she should never cross 
 the threshold again, and, straining all her remaining 
 strength to the task, she urged her lagging feet by the 
 shortest way to the Middle Quarter Village. Dire were 
 the sights she had to pass upon her way. Many a 
 skeleton hand was outstretched for the food she carried; 
 but Brigid was now deaf and blind to all appeals. She 
 saw only Coil’s accusing face and Moya’s glazing eyes 
 staring terribly at her out of the rain-clouds. Reaching 
 the Maillies’ cabin, she found the door fastened against 
 the storm. 
 
 Coll was kneeling in despair by Moya, when a 
 knocking at the door aroused him. The poor fellow 
 had prayed so passionately, and was in so exalted a 
 state, that he almost expected to see an angel of light 
 upon the threshold, bringing the food he had so urgently 
 asked for. The priest had been there and was gone, 
 and the neighbours were sunk in their own misery ; 
 why should any one come knocking like that unless it 
 were an angel bringing help ? Trembling he opened 
 the door; and there was Brigid, or her ghost. 
 
 u Am I in time ? ” gasped she, as she put the vessel 
 of food in his hand. 
 
 “ Ay,” said Coll, seizing it. In his transport of 
 delight he would have gone on his knees and kissed 
 her feet ; but before he could speak she was gone. 
 
124 
 
 THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 Whither should she go now ? was Brigid’s thought. 
 No use returning to the desolate and lonesome home, 
 where neither food nor fire was any longer to be found. 
 She dreaded dying on her own hearthstone alone, and 
 faint as she was she knew what was now before her. 
 Gaining the path to the beach, she made a last pull on 
 her energies to reach the whitewashed walls, above 
 which her fading eyes just dimly discerned the cross. 
 The only face she now wanted to look upon again was 
 that thorn-crowned face, which was waiting for her in the 
 loneliness of the empty and wind-swept church. Falling, 
 fainting, dragging herself on again, she crept within the 
 shelter of the walls. A little more effort, and she would 
 be at His feet. The struggle was made, blindly, slowly, 
 desperately, with a last rally of all the passion of a 
 most impassioned nature ; and at last she lay her 
 length on the earthen floor beneath the cross. Darkness, 
 silence, peace, settled down upon her. The storm 
 raved around, the night, came on, and when the 
 morning broke Brigid was dead. 
 
 Mildly and serenely that day had dawned, a pitiful 
 sky looked down on the calamities of Bofin, and the 
 vessel with the relief-meal sailed into the harbour. 
 For many even then alive the food came all too late, 
 but to numbers it brought assuagement and salvation. 
 The charity of the world was at work, and though 
 much had yet to be suffered, yet the hungry death had 
 been mercifully stayed. Thanks to the timely help, 
 Moya lived for better times, and when her health was 
 
THE HUNGRY DEATH. 
 
 125 
 
 somewhat restored she emigrated with Coll to America. 
 Every night in their distant backwoods hut they pray 
 together for the soul of Brigid Lavelle, who, when in 
 this world, had loved one of them too well, and died to 
 save the life of the other. 
 
KRESCENZ. 
 
 AN IDYL ON THE MOSELLE. 
 ♦ 
 
 I T was evening in the ancient town of Trier; the 
 Angelus was ringing down from the great fortress- 
 like Dom ; the little carts and stalls had vanished out 
 of the market-place ; and the carved saints, clustered 
 on the fountain, smiled benignly in the setting sun. 
 Old women in strange head-dresses, beads and books 
 in hand, passed in and out of St. Gondolphus’s curious 
 gates ; young girls, with long, fair, plaited hair, moved 
 in groups across the open place ; brilliant uniforms 
 shone up on the balconies of the Rothe Haus ; the 
 shopkeepers in the queer little peaked houses stood at 
 their doors and amused themselves ; while the awful 
 black arches of the Porta Nigra frowned more grimly 
 than ever in the glowing light, and the gay and quaint 
 little frescoes at the street corners seemed to blaze out 
 with new colour at its touch. One particularly high- 
 peaked roof was suddenly covered with a flock of white 
 pigeons alighting to rest, and at the same moment a 
 face appeared at a little open window among the birds, 
 looked up and down the streets, and was withdrawn 
 again. The face belonged to a young girl, and the 
 room into which she withdrew was pleasant and neat, 
 
KRESCENZ. 
 
 127 
 
 if a little bare. A work-table at the window showed 
 that it was the home of a seamstress ; a little shrine 
 hung in a corner, with a tiny lamp burning ; a few 
 rude pictures decorated the walls. The girl was clothed 
 in a holiday dress of dark green stuff, with white sleeves 
 and apron, and wore a scarlet flower in her breast. 
 She had a soft, sweet, innocent face, and her fair hair 
 hung behind in two long golden braids from her neck 
 to her knees. 
 
 As she turned from the window, a curly-haired boy 
 burst into the room. 
 
 “ I have a message for you, Krescenz. I met Karl, 
 and he told me to tell you he could not see you to- 
 night. He is suddenly sent on business.” 
 
 A look of disappointment clouded the girl’s face ; 
 but, after a few moments of silence, she said : 
 
 “ How good it is that they find him so useful ! But 
 come, Max, you shall not be disappointed of your ex- 
 cursion. You and I will go for our walk, and I will take 
 you for a peep at our cottage.” 
 
 Max snatched his hat, which he had flung off in 
 disgust, and, locking the door behind them, the sister 
 and brother descended many stairs, and took their way 
 through the streets, and out by the Porta Nigra, into 
 the country. 
 
 “Look here, Max, did you ever see anything so 
 gloriously blue as the Moselle this evening ? Could 
 you bear to live away from it ? How glad I am that 
 our new home will be near it ! And look, how magni- 
 ficent the red light is upon the vine-covered banks, 
 
128 
 
 KRESCENZ. 
 
 with the crimson earth glowing between ! How the 
 tall dark poplars and the golden acacias seem to thrill 
 as they bask in this wonderful light ! If I had been a 
 man, Max, I should certainly have tried to be an artist. 
 Karl laughs at me when I say so ; he does not care 
 for such things, and gets annoyed when I talk about 
 them ; and yet I never saw half the beauty of things 
 till he loved me.” 
 
 u How many people are out walking to-night, Kres- 
 cenz. I never saw the road so gay. Oh, there is that 
 Gretchen kissing her hands to me, and I will not look 
 at her. Why ? Because she was impertinent this 
 morning, telling me that Karl had left off loving you, 
 and was going to marry Luise.” 
 
 11 It was a silly joke, Max. I hope you did not get 
 angry. What did you say ? ” 
 
 “Something that ought to have stopped her kissing 
 hands to me,” said Max. 
 
 “ It was too foolish to be angry about, little brother. 
 Some one said it to myself the other day, and I only 
 laughed. I knew so well it was because I sent Karl 
 a message by Luise the other evening. But Gretchen 
 ought not to have said it to you, Max. When I go to 
 my new home I don’t think I shall ask her to come 
 
 and see me. I do not want to hate anybody, and ” 
 
 “ I will do the hating for you, Krescenz, and I hate 
 every one who says that Karl does not love you.” 
 
 “ Every one ! Don’t give such a big name to two 
 people, Max. If Karl did not love me, should not I 
 be the first to know of it ? Ah ! do you see our little 
 
KRESCENZ. 
 
 129 
 
 house peeping above the acacias up in the fields over 
 there? How delightful it will be to live there, Max, 
 with all the flowers growing in at one’s windows. And 
 Karl is providing this home for me ! Ah, little Max, 
 this looks rather like loving one, doesn’t it ? ” 
 
 Max was silent, and kept his face turned away, with 
 a slight frown on the brows. 
 
 “ I wish I could suddenly grow big, Krescenz,” he 
 said abruptly. 
 
 The sister laughed. “ My dear, you must wait,” she 
 
 r >' 
 
 said gaily. “ By-and-by you shall copy your brother 
 Karl, and if you can manage to grow like him you will 
 do very well. In the meantime, you are not quite so 
 small as you were, my boy, when I first took you in 
 my arms, and carried you about our poor garret, trying 
 to put } T ou to sleep. Mother had died the day before 
 I was ten years old, and you had only just been born. 
 I was a very little nurse, wasn’t I ? But it seemed 
 to me that my heart was a hundred years old. How 
 proud I was of you, and how I loved you ! ” 
 
 “And you worked for me, Krescenz?” 
 
 “ Ah, didn’t I ! We were alone in the world, only 
 you and me. I paid a poor old woman, a very, ver}^ 
 old woman, who could not do anything else, a penny 
 a day for taking care of you, and I worked for us two. 
 I was a strong little girl, and as industrious as a bee. 
 People gave me work to do : it was very hard until I 
 was about fourteen, and then I learned to sew, and 
 things began to be better. At sixteen I was able to 
 rent a little room for myself, and so bring home my 
 
 9 
 
 H. O. 
 
i3o 
 
 ICRESCENZ. 
 
 little brother. Ah, Max, how often we have been 
 hungry together ! and yet you are a brave boy for your 
 age. I have pulled you through the worst, and now 
 God has taken us both into happiness and safety. No 
 more scanty crusts for you. No more sitting up all 
 night, sewing by a candle, for me. No more pinching 
 at the heart when rent-day is coming round. Who 
 could have thought of it ; that Karl, whom every one 
 admires, should have sought out me ! I did not accept 
 him hastily, Max, for I was afraid he might change his 
 mind ; afraid that he had not known what he was 
 saying, or that he did not know perfectly how much 
 people thought of him. But he would persist in loving 
 me, he would, indeed ; and that is why I laugh so 
 much when the people tell idle tales. ‘ If you only 
 knew, my good people/ I think ; 1 if you only knew 
 how well I know.’ And, Max — you see I do not mind 
 saying anything to you — I must confess that the greatest 
 trouble I have had lately has been the fear that so 
 much sitting up at night was taking away all my good 
 looks. I look so sickly sometimes when the morning 
 light comes in. Stare me well in the face, Max, and 
 tell me if I am getting ugly.” 
 
 “You are the prettiest and loveliest girl in the town, 
 sister Krescenz.” 
 
 “ But I am not rosy, like Gretchen, nor are my eyes 
 so big and bright as Luise’s, nor ” 
 
 “ No matter,” persisted Max. “ Not one of them can 
 smile the way you do.” 
 
 “After that I must say something nice to you, Max. 
 
KRESCENZ. 
 
 131 
 
 Sit down here on the grass, and let me tell you the kind 
 of life we shall have over in our little house yonder. We 
 shall have four rooms of our own, and there are vines 
 growing round all the windows. We shall have a 
 pretty garden with bees and flowers, and a field with a 
 cow in it. I shall do my sewing sitting under a tree, 
 looking down on the Moselle. You will go to work with 
 Karl, and in the evening you will both come home, and 
 we shall have supper in the garden.” 
 
 “ I wish we had some now, Krescenz.” 
 
 11 1 wish we had, my boy ; and I think it is time to go 
 and look for some coffee and bread.” 
 
 The sister and brother turned their steps towards 
 a pleasant summer-house of refreshment, built among 
 trees, upon the high over-hanging bank of the river, 
 where the people of Trier love to drink coffee in the cool 
 of the evening. As the girl and child took their simple 
 meal in the nook of the projecting terrace, the blue 
 Moselle rushed under their feet, and Trier lay bathed in 
 ruddy glory in the distance before their eyes, with its 
 strange contrasting outlines softened into magnificent 
 harmony, and the fierce black Roman gates making a 
 frown on the very front of the sunny landscape. 
 
 li How splendid it looks, the dear old town ! ” cried 
 Krescenz. u Do you know, Max, I cannot understand 
 why people ever leave their own homes to go out into 
 the world.” 
 
 “ I should like to go out and see the world,” said Max. 
 u You mustn’t say so, Max. Nothing would eve; 
 induce me to leave Trier.” 
 
132 
 
 KRESCENZ. 
 
 They were rambling among the trees on the hill-side, 
 stopping now and then to lean forward and take a fresh 
 peep at the beauty of the river and the exquisite gleams 
 
 of the distance on either side. 
 
 ****** 
 
 “ Oh, Krescenz, Krescenz ! I have found a pair of 
 lovers.” 
 
 “ No ! Have you, Max?” said Krescenz with in- 
 terest. 
 
 “ Behind that large tree, in such a pretty nook. 
 Just peep round and you can see.” 
 
 “ Hide, then, while I peep, so carefully.” 
 
 Max retired while Krescenz leaned forward with a 
 smile of mischievous delight, and peered from behind 
 a screen of leaves, herself unseen by the objects of her 
 interest. When the boy thought he had waited long 
 enough, he came forth again, and plucked her by the 
 skirt. 
 
 She turned to him slowly, and put her finger on her 
 lip. 
 
 il Krescenz ! Krescenz !” whispered the child, “what 
 makes your face so dreadful ? Are they ghosts ? ” 
 
 “ Hush, Max ! I cannot see, take me by the hand, 
 and get me into some quiet place, where nobody will 
 find us.” 
 
 “ Oh, Krescenz, you are ill ! Are you going to die ? ” 
 
 “ No, dear, I shall not die. Fetch me some water, 
 and tell nobody.” 
 
 Max obeyed, and while the red light paled on the 
 Moselle, and purple mingled with the crimson and olive 
 
KRESCENZ. 
 
 133 
 
 of its banks, the girl’s white face lay on the moss, 
 gazing blankly upward with fixed eyes. The tears 
 trickled over Max’s innocent cheeks as he nestled at her 
 side and kissed her lips, her hands, and her hair. 
 
 “ Oh, Krescenz ! may I not call some one to come and 
 help you home ? ” 
 
 u No, dear, no,” said the young girl, starting up. 
 “ We are not going home any more. We are going 
 away somewhere else, you and I together.” 
 
 “ What, away from Trier ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I am tired of Trier.” 
 
 “ I thought you said you could never leave Trier; and 
 what will Karl say to you ? ” 
 u Oh, Max ! oh, Max ! ” 
 
 “ Where shall we sleep to-night, if we keep walking 
 on at this rate ? ” 
 
 “ We shall rest on the road, and to-morrow w T e will 
 travel farther. There are other towns besides Trier, 
 where industrious people can get work to do.” 
 
 “ Oh, Krescenz ! I am afraid you have gone mad. 
 Those people behind the trees must have been the 
 wicked spirits we read about, and they have harmed 
 you.” 
 
 “ Do you know who they were, Max ? Karl and 
 Luise. Gretchen was right, after all.” 
 
 “ But did they say they were going to be married ? ” 
 said the boy. u Oh, don’t groan, Krescenz, and I will 
 try and ask no more questions.” 
 
 “ Dear Max, there is nothing more for me at Trier. 
 That is why we are going together out into the world.” 
 
134 
 
 KRESCENZ. 
 
 11 Oh that I could grow big and go back and kill 
 him ! ” 
 
 “ Hush ! you must not talk such nonsense. You 
 must take care of me now, as I have nobody else.” 
 u That I will, indeed ; but oh, Krescenz, my canary ! ” 
 “ Somebody will take care of it, dear. We can get 
 another.” 
 
 “ And your pretty little shrine ? ” 
 
 “ Somebody else will kneel at it. I can pray to God 
 anywhere, you know.” 
 
 Deepening shadows dropped on the Moselle, and the 
 two young figures hurried on through the purple twilight 
 away from Trier. 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 A T the foot of a certain street in Innsbruck, right 
 above the famous gold-roofed house, rise the 
 purple walls of the Alps, mountain walls so apparently 
 straight and perpendicular that they seem, according to 
 the mood of the spectator, either to block the way to 
 heaven, or to lead to it by difficult ascent. On a summer 
 day a young girl, who knew all the accessible paths of 
 yonder great stepping-stones to the skies, walked down 
 this street in Innsbruck with her back to the golden 
 roof, and all the purple glory of the Alps behind and 
 above her. She wore a high-crowned Alpine hat with 
 a silver tassel, and a costume of hunting-green cloth. 
 Her face was round and fair, and her crystal-clear eyes 
 had a look of unusually vivid intelligence. The hair 
 which curled softly and crisply round her temples, and 
 was plaited in thick masses at the back of her head, 
 was of that fairness which is almost white, and is seldom 
 seen except on very young children. Her features 
 were small and softly moulded, and something very 
 like the light of genius was shining from her coun- 
 tenance. 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 136 
 
 She walked on with a bright pre-occupied look, as if 
 something beautiful which other people could not see 
 had caught her eye and fixed her attention ; and then 
 suddenly turned in at the open door of that curious 
 church, where a strange company of bronze men and 
 women occupy for ever the centre of the nave. 
 
 The only living creatures in the church were a few 
 old women in furry head-dresses, at prayer, and a very 
 young man who was standing with folded arms studying 
 the bronze statues. The girl made no noise crossing 
 the threshold of the door, but the moment she entered, 
 the young man started electrically and turned to see 
 her coming towards him, a glow of delight on his face 
 as if the sun had suddenly shone out upon it. She 
 came quietly and stood by his side. 
 
 “ Have you gazed enough for to-day ? ” she asked 
 with a twinkle of glee in her eyes. “ Come, Max, it is 
 your work I want to see, not these.” 
 
 Max shook his head, but caught the little hand she 
 placed imperatively on his, and followed her out of the 
 shadows of the church into the dazzling summer street, 
 where the sun was glittering on the eaves of the gold- 
 roofed house, and making the huge Alpine walls behind 
 it take a richer purple than before. 
 
 Max was a tall youth, with a square-browed dreamy 
 face, full of a kind of rugged beauty. His eyes had 
 not the vivid light that glanced from the eyes of the 
 girl, but they were full of dreams of glories to come, 
 burning with a latent fire destined yet to give its share 
 towards the warming and lighting up of the world. He 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 1 37 
 
 led the way into a small house at the corner of the 
 street, and up a staircase into a bare room littered with 
 clay, with half-formed images and casts, and where an 
 unfinished statue in clay stood near the window. From 
 the face of this statue he withdrew the cloth, and gazed 
 discontentedly at the face of the creature he had made, 
 a nymph graceful and lovely, with the features of the 
 girl at his side. 
 
 “It is you, Hilda,” he said, “ but without your soul 
 in the eyes. When you are not here it is like you, but 
 when I see your face beside it ” 
 
 “Nonsense! you do not want a likeness of me,” 
 said Hilda; “you want an ideal being! It only 
 wants a little tenderness, dear Max. May I touch 
 it ?” 
 
 Max nodded, and Hilda’s little fingers passed over 
 the clay with a few delicate touches, while a curious 
 look of intellectual power grew on her face and changed 
 its character for a moment. After a few minutes she 
 withdrew behind Max, and peeped over his shoulder to 
 see the effect of what she had done. 
 
 Max drew a deep breath and stared in amazement at 
 the change which had been wrought. The statue which 
 had been coldly perfect seemed to breathe. 
 
 “Your power is supernatural,” he murmured; “the 
 work is now divine.” 
 
 “You are dreaming,” said Hilda, laughing. “All 
 the divinity in it is your own ; I but drew forth what 
 you had left slightly veiled.” 
 
 Max shook his head. “ I am too much the artist,” 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 138 
 
 he said, u not to recognize your gift. But I am not 
 jealous of you, Hilda. With you by my side what may 
 I not hope to accomplish ? ” 
 
 Hilda laid a hand on his arm and looked into his face 
 with joyful eyes. 
 
 u Do not make me vain,” she said; “ but if cooking 
 your dinner and keeping your house in order, doing 
 all that woman can do to make your home happy, and 
 your difficult upward path a little easier ; if all that 
 helps you to accomplish great things, then, indeed, I 
 shall feel you are the better for me.” 
 
 Max took both her hands in his, and looked down 
 into her eyes with a wondering, worshipping gaze, 
 which troubled almost as much as it delighted her. As 
 if she feared what might be his next change of mood 
 she turned away her head, and said gaily, — 
 
 “ Come with me now at once. You promised to take 
 holiday to-day. Let us be off to the mountains, and 
 leave this nymph to her solitary thoughts.” 
 
 He put on his hat mechanically, and again followed 
 her whither she would lead him. They went out of the 
 town, and took the road to the mountains. The world 
 was exquisite, and Max shook himself out of his dreams 
 to enjoy it. Hilda prattled to him between bursts of 
 laughter about all that had occurred at home, up yonder 
 in the blue, since his last visit there ; what droll things 
 the children had said ; what a pleasant dance there had 
 been at a neighbour’s wedding ; how Lisbeth had burned 
 a hole in her new dress, and all the trouble there had 
 been to get it nicely mended. People going down to 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 139 
 
 the town passed them, and said, "That is Max Edelstein 
 and his betrothed, Hilda.” 
 
 “What a pity they cannot get married at once,” said 
 one. 
 
 “They could if they liked, for Hilda has a nice little 
 penny which her father left her.” 
 
 “It is a pity when people are too clever, you see. 
 Nothing will suit them but going to Rome.” 
 
 “ They will be a long time saving to go to Rome. 
 Who is there to buy his sculptures in Innsbruck ? 
 Better if he had been content with wood-carving like 
 so many of his friends.” 
 
 The lovers reached the nook of the mountains in 
 which their village nestled. Lisbeth, Hilda’s sister-in- 
 law, was expecting them, and had made a little feast. 
 A table was spread under a tree at her door, and a 
 troop of little sun-burnt children came dashing out to 
 meet Hilda and her Max. 
 
 Lisbeth, a good-humoured, brown-eyed woman, with 
 a flame-coloured handkerchief twisted round her head, 
 and wearing her holiday jacket of black, embroidered 
 with threads of gold, came out of the house with a baby 
 on one arm, and placed some fruit upon the table. The 
 wooden chalet was set deep in a cool green cave of 
 boughs, on a platform of rock, and under it, and opposite 
 to it, lay a dazzling landscape of purple crag, teeming 
 golden valley, and woods of all the richest hues of green. 
 Up a pathway, seemingly made for goats, our lovers 
 climbed, and were welcomed by the motherly Lisbeth. 
 The master of the little home, Lisbeth’s husband, Hilda’s 
 
140 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 brother, wood-carver, hunter, and tiller of the earth, 
 now appeared, and the elders partook of Lisbeth’s feast 
 in the shade, while the little sun-burnt children capered 
 and danced in the sun. 
 
 Max cast off the cloud of dreaminess that often 
 wrapped him up, and talked to Fritz about the crops 
 and the hunts, and all that was interesting in the 
 mountaineer’s life. The artist disappeared for the time, 
 and Max was merely a stalwart youth of the mountains, 
 with an unusually picturesque and intellectual face. 
 Hilda took the baby in her arms, and laughter and 
 prattle made the time fly fast, till Lisbeth said, — 
 
 “Ah, Max, have you seen the present that Hilda 
 has given me ? She has modelled my little dead Lisa, 
 so that I think I have her back.” 
 
 “ Will not you show it to me, Hilda ? ” 
 u Yes, if you please ; but it is only interesting to 
 Lisbeth, dear Max.” 
 
 The day passed and evening came. Songs were 
 sung, and Hilda accompanied them on the zither. 
 Throwing away her silver- tasselled hat she put on an 
 apron, prepared the supper, and carried it out under 
 the trees. Her fair head gleamed in the sunset as she 
 went and came, and as a wave of warm light suddenly 
 fell across her face and hands, Max thought she looked 
 like a ministering angel descended to wait upon them. 
 After supper some young friends came from a little 
 distance, and Fritz strummed the zither while a dance 
 was held on a bit of green close by. Hilda danced 
 with as much glee as any of the children. The moon 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 141 
 
 shone out, the children pulled Hilda’s hair about, till it 
 flowed around her like a gold and silver mantle, and 
 Max would not have it put up again, and danced with 
 her while it streamed about her shoulders. 
 
 u Hilda looks beautiful to-night, does she not ? ” said 
 one of her friends. u What a pity she will marry that 
 melancholy Max ! ” 
 
 “ He is not melancholy now when he is dancing.” 
 
 “ He is always strange, and full of fancies. I would 
 rather marry a man who could make a joke.” 
 
 The dancing was over, the neighbours had gone 
 home, and Max was asking again to see Hilda’s model 
 of Lisbeth’s little angel Lisa. Hilda led him up the 
 narrow stairs, and into her own small chamber, where 
 one of the ruddy little dancers of an hour ago was 
 asleep in her bed. It was a tiny brown room, where 
 almost the only decoration was the oblong moonlit 
 picture of pine and crag framed by the open window. 
 Hilda struck a light and lit a hand-lamp, and discovered 
 on a bench the model of the child who was dead. 
 
 Max folded his arms, and gazed at it long and 
 critically. 
 
 “ Hilda !” he said, 11 I wonder if you know what a 
 genius you possess ! ” 
 
 “ Through my love for you I have learned to dabble 
 in clay; that is all,” said Hilda. “I have no genius, 
 and I do not want it.” 
 
 u About this going to Rome. It is you who ought 
 to go, not I.” 
 
 “ Max ! where are your wits ? I wish there was 
 
1 42 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 money enough for two, then we could go together. 
 But as there is not, why I must wait till you can 
 afford to send for me." 
 
 “ What I mean is this, Hilda," said Max, with the 
 sadness in his eyes deepening to gloom : “you have 
 a distinct genius of your own, and I ought not to be so 
 selfish as to absorb you into my own life and work. 
 You have money to take yourself to Rome, and there 
 you ought to go. Marriage for you will be the ruin 
 of an artist.” 
 
 “ Not the ruin of you, I hope.” 
 
 “ No, of yourself.” 
 
 “Then let me be ruined, dear Max, and let the world 
 lose what it will never have possessed. 1 belong to 
 you, and not either to art or to the world.” 
 
 “ I am a traitor to art to listen to you.” 
 
 “ Then be a traitor. I love you better as a traitor.” 
 
 Max shook his head, and gloomily withdrew the 
 hand which Hilda had touched with her own. 
 
 Hilda uttered a sudden cry, and snatching a hammer 
 which lay near, raised it in her hands as if she would 
 strike the model of the child, and destroy it. 
 
 “ Hilda ! ” cried Max, seizing her wrists and strug- 
 gling with her. 
 
 “ It shall not part us ! ” she cried passionately. 
 
 “ Hush ! here is Lisbeth,” whispered Max. 
 
 “Is it not lovely?” said Lisbeth, coming in on tip- 
 toe, and speaking softly as if in a sacred place. “See, 
 dear Max, how Hilda loves my children. One of them 
 sleeps alive in her arms ” — pointing to the bed— 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 T 43 
 
 “ another sleeps here in death always before our eyes, 
 by the magic of her hands. Ah, what a tender mother 
 our clever Hilda will be ! ” 
 
 Hilda burst into tears, dropped the hammer, and 
 turning abruptly to the window, leaned her arms on 
 the sash, and wept with sobs into the night. 
 
 “She has never quite got over the death of that 
 child,” murmured Lisbeth. “ Come away, Max, and 
 let her have her cry in peace.” 
 
 An hour later still, Lisbeth was sitting spinning at 
 her door in the moonlight, and singing to herself 
 simple songs about little child-angels who sometimes 
 come down for a time, and live in good men’s houses, 
 and lie in fond mothers’ arms, but after a time have to 
 go back to heaven. 
 
 At a little distance Max and Hilda were walking up 
 and down, their faces now gleaming in the shade under 
 the trees, their figures now casting shadows in the 
 light of the moon. Round them lay a great circling 
 abyss of gloomy darkness, fringed with black pine-tops 
 and crowned by frowning crags ; and a silver veil was 
 hanging over all. 
 
 “What I mean is this,” Hilda was saying; “you 
 forget that I am a woman, and judge me by yourself. 
 You think because you have taught me to model in 
 clay a little, that I must want to be an artist and 
 conquer the world. But you are my world, and I will 
 conquer no other ! ” 
 
 Max’s clasp tightened on her hand. 
 
 “You must not deny your own power.” 
 
144 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 u But I am jealous of it, and I hate it. Whenever it 
 comes before you as to-day, as to-night, a cloud covers 
 your face, and a shadow rises up between us. Though 
 you love the woman, you would banish the artist from 
 your heart ; and therefore, Max, because I love you, I 
 will kill that power that disturbs you in me. Never 
 while I live will I touch clay again.” 
 
 u Then you will make me a murderer, a destroyer of 
 one of Heaven’s best gifts.” 
 
 “ Rather I will save you from being the murderer of 
 my heart. Why, oh ! why will you not let me be 
 happy ? I would rather bake your bread and sweep 
 your floor than be owner of the best studio in Rome.” 
 u Would we were there side by side, Hilda. With- 
 out you my inspiration will be gone ; my works will be 
 dull and dead.” 
 
 “ Because your coffee will not be as good as some I 
 could make for you ? ” 
 
 u Because I shall be without your suggestions, your 
 criticism, your touch that calls life into a face. What 
 would I not give to possess that magic touch ! ” 
 
 “ Me, perhaps,” said Hilda sadly. “ I would die to 
 give it to you — that is, if it has any existence.” 
 
 Max shuddered. 
 
 u Do not talk of dying,” he said. u If you were to 
 die there is no kind of death so hateful as my life would 
 become.” 
 
 “Hush !” said Hilda, putting her fingers across his 
 lips ; u only the good God knows anything about 
 death.” 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY 
 
 145 
 
 Summer deepened, and as the time approached for 
 Max’s departure for Rome he found it more and more 
 difficult to think of tearing himself away from Hilda. 
 
 “ You are my inspiration, my soul,” he said. “ With- 
 out you I shall fail, and be only half a sculptor." 
 
 “ Dear Max, I will come to you whenever you can 
 send for me. Do you think the mountains will not be 
 dreary, and the very children’s voices sad in my ears 
 till 1 can stand by your side again ? ’’ 
 
 “ Hilda, would you dare — would you venture to 
 come with me ? ” 
 
 “ With you ? " Hilda’s pale face coloured to the hue 
 of a rose for a moment, and turned paler than before. 
 She trembled and drew her breath hard ; and then she 
 spoke with the gladness of a bird’s song in her voice : 
 “ If you will dare it, Max, why so will I." 
 
 All the shadows disappeared at once from the young 
 man’s face, and his eyes shone. 
 
 “ You may have hardships to endure, my darling,’’ 
 he said, kissing her hands rapturously. 
 
 “ They will be welcome," laughed Hilda, “if only to 
 prove how strong I am. You mean to walk across the 
 mountains, Max, and so will I, if you will take me. 
 What an autumn walk it will be ! And once in Rome, 
 why, Max, I will save your money by my economy." 
 
 “ Your money, Hilda ! ’’ 
 
 “Ah, Max, you forget that the cast of your nymph 
 has gone on before us, and that before we get there 
 she may be sold.’’ 
 
 “Heaven grant it!” cried Max, whiR a lightning 
 
 IO 
 
 H. O. 
 
146 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 flash crossed his face. “If I were ambitious before, 
 my Hilda, I am ten times more ambitious now.” 
 
 Hilda was one of those women to whom no personal 
 sacrifice is too great to add, be it never so little, to the 
 happiness of the beloved. She was well aware that 
 in accompanying Max hardships and difficulties were 
 awaiting her, but she also knew that with her by his 
 side Max would have better courage to cope with and 
 conquer the world. She said to herself that she would 
 eat little, labour hard, patch and mend her clothes and 
 his, do all that lay within her to cover the extra ex- 
 pense of her presence in his home. 
 
 They were married in a little church in their moun- 
 tains, with a band of children smiling round them, and 
 Lisbeth weeping behind their backs. Oh, why had 
 not Max been satisfied to remain a carver of wood at 
 home ? Then Hilda need not have left her kindred, 
 and might have flourished among them through long 
 and happy days. Why, indeed, good Lisbeth ? Yours 
 is one of those questions which can never be answered. 
 
 The day after their marriage they set out to cross the 
 mountains on foot. A wallet on Max’s shoulder held all 
 their luggage, a purse sewn into Hilda’s dress contained 
 their wealth. Glorious autumn weather reigned over 
 the mountain world. The hollows under the pines had 
 never looked so purple, the peaks and crags so roseate, 
 the clouds so gold, the firmament so blue as when Max, 
 the sculptor, with his wife by the hand, went trudging 
 along the narrow paths that led the way from Innsbruck 
 up to Trent. 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 i4 7 
 
 In this memorable journey they spent their honey- 
 moon. In the morning travelling bravely over the 
 rough roads, climbing rude heights, the while hardly 
 daring to expend their breath in speech ; at noon cooling 
 their tired feet in some running water, and eating their 
 frugal dinner under the deep broad shadow of the pines. 
 At evening saying a prayer at some simple shrine, and 
 afterwards stepping on gaily through the cooler atmo- 
 sphere, seeing the sunset colours fade along the mountains, 
 and the moonshine come forth to light them upon yet 
 another mile of the way. Nights spent in the rudest 
 chalets, a day stolen here and there to explore some 
 town through which they passed ; endless happy con- 
 versations about their love, their art, their future, the 
 heaven of united life that lay on before them ; so was 
 accomplished the passage of the mountains, not the 
 greatest of the difficulties that lay in their path, by 
 Edelstein and Hilda his wife. 
 
 Through the queer old streets of Verona they walked, 
 and under its lofty arches ; and then away across the 
 Italian plains, dropping like a pair of swallows into art- 
 galleries and churches, but hurrying ever with eager 
 steps towards Rome. And there they stood at last one 
 day, w T eary, dusty, poor, and friendless, but glad at heart 
 and full of hope. 
 
 A studio and two rooms were hired at once, and Max 
 went to work upon marble and clay. 
 
 The nymph was not sold, but what of that ? It 
 would do to furnish the studio till other works were 
 created by the sculptor’s hand. Hilda’s ingenuity was 
 
143 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 exerted to make the vast, almost empty rooms which 
 were their dwelling look homelike and gay. A curtain 
 here, a spray of flowers there, a rude vase of fine form 
 and striking colour in a corner ; trifles like these made 
 a home out of a wilderness. Singing, sewing, tripping 
 in and out on household errands, or standing behind her 
 husband’s shoulder discussing his work with him, Hilda’s 
 days were as happy as a queen’s. They were in Rome, 
 they were together ; Max had lost his melancholy, and he 
 had forgotten his strange fancy about that genius of hers 
 which surely never could have existed. I f he remembered 
 it at all he but glanced at it pleasantly, and the thought 
 of it passed easily away. If in moments of depression 
 he called her to him and asked her to touch his work, 
 she would answer reproachfully that her hands were 
 full of flour, and that his dinner must spoil were she to 
 soil them with his clay ! 
 
 Winter and spring passed over, the little store of 
 money had diminished sadly, and no work of Max’s had 
 been sold to replenish the household purse. Hilda held 
 the said purse, and always spoke cheerfully of its 
 contents to Max, who, rapt in his dreams, scarcely 
 realized how the passing days were running away with 
 silver and gold. Neither did he notice that Hilda’s 
 always pale face was growing paler and paler. Accus- 
 tomed to gazing on faces of marble, he was not so struck 
 with her pallor as another might have been, and the 
 look of care always disappeared from her eyes when his 
 were turned upon her. Max in Rome, conscious of 
 growing power, with a brain full of beautiful things as 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 149 
 
 yet uncreated, had all he wanted, and noticed nothing 
 wrong. His home was bright and pleasant, and the 
 food he needed was regularly placed before him. The 
 long summer in Rome did not tell upon his strength as 
 it told upon hers, but, as she did not complain, he was 
 not aware that she had become less healthy than of old. 
 
 It was when winter came round again that Hilda took 
 fear to her heart in earnest, and counted the money that 
 was left with paling lips. How could she tell Max 
 that the funds were so low ? She would not tell him. 
 And yet, where could she find money to go on with ? 
 
 Then it was that she broke her resolution never to 
 touch clay again. 
 
 On the chill winter mornings when Max was sleeping 
 soundly, having got to rest late at night, Hilda would 
 creep into the studio and go to work. What she pro- 
 duced there Max little dreamed of ; but from time to 
 time sundry small, graceful, and original figures found 
 their way into shops where such things are sold. 
 They were quickly disposed of, and the money they 
 fetched replenished Hilda’s exhausted purse. She 
 jealously guarded her secret, and Max toiled on, 
 dreaming of glorious works he was to do in the future, 
 and only occasionally waking up to observe that Hilda 
 was a wonderful manager of their slender means. 
 
 He never guessed that she was giving her health, her 
 talents, her life for the pittance that supported them 
 both from one week on to another. 
 
 It was by means of these little figures of Hilda’s that 
 the nymph came to be sold after all. She was in the 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 150 
 
 habit of going in, on her way to market in the 
 mornings, to speak to the dealer who had her works 
 in charge, and to learn if any orders had been left 
 for her. 
 
 One day an English gentleman was standing in 
 conversation w T ith the dealer when she appeared, and as 
 she entered the shop she heard the words, — 
 
 “ Here, sir, is the lady herself! ” 
 
 The gentleman was young and of fair complexion, and 
 had a shrewd, sensible, and withal refined and sym- 
 pathetic face. He bowed to Hilda, and made known his 
 business at once. He wanted two other original figures 
 besides those of hers he had already bought. 
 
 Hilda took the order ; and then, with a sudden 
 impulse, said, — 
 
 “ If you would kindly come to see me at my home, 
 my husband could show you something more worthy of 
 your attention.” 
 
 The stranger was interested, and promised to call as 
 she desired. Then she said with a little embarrass- 
 ment, — 
 
 “ Please do not speak to my husband of these figures 
 of mine. I do not wish him to know of their existence. 
 He would think I fatigued myself.” 
 
 The stranger took in the situation at once, bowed, 
 and assured her he would remember her wishes. He 
 thought she looked thoroughly fatigued, indeed, and 
 wondered for a moment how long she would have 
 the power so to exhaust herself. And this was the 
 beginning of the friendship between Max Edelstein and 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 151 
 
 Donald Stewart, which lasted through so many after 
 years. 
 
 That very day Donald paid his first visit to the studio, 
 and bought the nymph with Hilda’s features, paying for 
 it with a noble sum. 
 
 The patronage of the wealthy Englishman, or rather 
 Scotchman, was all that was needed to bring Edelstein’s 
 genius into notice. Money and orders for work flowed 
 upon him, and the crisis of his fortune was past. 
 
 Many new comforts appeared in his home, and Hilda 
 no longer rose in the chill hours to do secret work with 
 her hands in the clay. Her figures were seen no more 
 in the shops, her artistic efforts were all in the past, and 
 on the sweet spring days she lay on a couch at her 
 window, with her eyes fixed steadfastly on the ever- 
 lasting hills. 
 
 Still Max did not see that she was dying. Donald 
 Stewart did, and to him she spoke of her approaching 
 death. 
 
 “ Do not disturb Max,” she said to this good friend, 
 when he would come from the studio into her little 
 sitting-room to visit her. “ He thinks I shall be strong 
 soon, and his thoughts are with his work. One day, I 
 know, he will astonish the world, and in that day he 
 will not so much need me. Nay, I do not mean to doubt 
 his heart. I know he loves me well, and, perhaps, will 
 never love another. But he has passed the point up to 
 which he needed a woman’s devcted love and care.” 
 
 “ When does a man cease to need that ? ” said Donald 
 Stewart. 
 
152 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 Hilda was gazing wistfully at the purple hills. 
 
 “ During the next twenty years,” she said, “ Max 
 will live in his art alone. His own creations will be his 
 idols, sweetened to him by my memory, which will cling 
 around them. His life will pass in the happy throes of 
 work such as his, and he will hardly miss me from his 
 home. After twenty years have passed ” 
 
 She paused, and a look of intense pity and longing 
 settled in her eyes. 
 
 “ Who can look so far ahead as twenty years ? ” said 
 Stewart, guessing her thought. 
 
 “At the end of that time he will begin to need me 
 again,” said Hilda. “The first harvest of life will be 
 won, the desire for a little rest will have begun to awake 
 in him. He will look around and want me at his fire- 
 side. Oh, God ! that I then could come back to him ! ” 
 
 Stewart’s eyes filled with tears. 
 
 “ A strange idea ! ” he said softly. “ But I have no 
 doubt or fear but that you will really be near him. 
 Your spirit will never lose sight of him.” 
 
 Hilda smiled. 
 
 “ Never ! ” she said. “ Never, as God is good ! But 
 oh, I meant more than that. If the Creator would but 
 grant me my heaven in letting me return, even years 
 hence, to this world to Max ! ” 
 
 Donald’s heart was shaken by the pathetic cry in her 
 voice ; but he knew not what to answer to so startling 
 a speech. 
 
 “ Do not be shocked at me, Mr. Stewart,” she said, 
 turning to him with one of her old smiles ; “ but this is 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 153 
 
 an idea that at times charms away my pain. And if I 
 come/' she added playfully, laying her little palms 
 together like a child at prayer, u I will come without 
 the talent which I believe was the only flaw that Max 
 could ever see in me. Anything of genius I may have 
 I hereby solemnly bequeath to my husband. If I come 
 again from heaven, I come without it.” 
 
 In the flush of the Roman spring she slipped away 
 from them almost unawares one morning ; and covered 
 with Italian wild flowers she was laid in her grave. 
 
 Max took her death in a way that surprised even 
 Donald Stewart. He appeared stunned, and unable to 
 realize what had happened. So happy had he been in 
 their late good fortune that this sudden and unforeseen 
 ending of all their joy seemed to unhinge his mind. 
 He became dull, absent, almost stupid, absorbed in the 
 memory of Hilda, whose presence was still around 
 him, and whom he could not let go into the past. He 
 did not hear when spoken to, took no part in the life 
 around him, neglected his work, and forgot to enter his 
 studio. Orders remained unfinished, and people began 
 to say that the promising young sculptor had got 
 softening of the brain. He would not stir from Rome 
 that summer, nor leave the rooms where Hilda’s dresses 
 and little ornaments and possessions still held their 
 place as if they might be needed at any moment. 
 Through all the dangers of that hot season in Rome 
 Donald stuck fast by his side ; and when at last Max 
 fell ill of a terrible fever, Donald took the place of a 
 nurse by his bed. 
 
154 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 Thanks to his friend’s unwearied efforts, Max arose 
 out of this sickness, but pale and cadaverous like the 
 living skeleton of himself. His mind seemed clearer 
 now, and, on the first occasion when, sitting in Hilda’s 
 chair at the window, he spoke to Stewart of his wife, 
 he wept like a child over his vanished happiness. He 
 blamed himself bitterly for his conduct to her in many 
 ways. Having learned from the dealer who had sold 
 her wonderful little figures how hard she had worked 
 to produce and dispose of them unknown to him, he 
 made a misery of this proof of her unselfish devotion to 
 him. 
 
 u I knew she had distinct genius,” he said, u and if I 
 had insisted on her developing it she might have been 
 alive to-day. She denied herself sleep, and suffered 
 cold and weariness to provide the money which I was 
 stupid enough not to perceive she must have earned.” 
 
 u Her love was indeed limitless,” said Stewart con- 
 solingly, “ but you need not blame yourself. She had 
 no wish to develop a separate genius from yours. She 
 said to me ” 
 
 “ What ? ” said Edelstein. “Anything that she said 
 I must hear.” 
 
 u That if she could come back to you, she would 
 come without that talent which she thought you mag- 
 nified, and which she did not love in herself.” 
 
 “ Come back ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; it was an odd thing to say, but another proof 
 of her devotion to you. It grew out of a conversation 
 I had with her one day.” 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 155 
 
 u When I was wrapped up in my selfish work. 
 When you saw what was coming and I would not.” 
 
 “ That was her comfort. She dreaded a lingering 
 trial for you.” 
 
 “ If she could come back ! Did she say that, 
 Donald ? ” 
 
 “ She said — I think there is no harm in my repeating 
 to you her tender and fantastic thought — she said she 
 could wish that God would give her her heaven by 
 allowing her to come back to you twenty years 
 hence.” 
 
 “ Twenty years hence ? ” 
 
 “ She thought for twenty years you could live 
 absorbed in the splendid labours that are around and 
 before }'ou. After that ” 
 
 “ Ay ? ” 
 
 “ After that you would want her more. I understood 
 her to mean that if she could return to you then, as 
 young and sweet as she was a year ago, then, when 
 your genius had slaked its thirst for work, and, a little 
 tired, you might look round for companionship and 
 human love, that so to come would be the desire of her 
 soul.” 
 
 A strange light came on Edelstein’s face, brightening 
 steadily into a glow of exultation. 
 
 “ Do you think she will come, Donald ? ” 
 
 Stewart started and stared. He felt a qualm of fear 
 that he had been unwise in speaking as he had done, 
 while his friend’s brain might be still in a delicate state. 
 
 “ I think, dear old fellow,” he said gently, “ that such 
 
1 56 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 a fancy of hers only assures you that she will watch 
 and wait for you in eternity. Who can count on living 
 twenty years ? And two like you will be sure to clasp 
 hands when you at last have passed the verge of the 
 grave.” 
 
 “ But that was not what she meant,” said Max 
 almost querulously. “ Since I have survived her 
 death I may live to be a hundred. And she spoke 
 of twenty years. Mark me, Donald, she will come ! 
 
 I must get on with my work, and be ready to receive 
 her.” 
 
 Stewart was pained and puzzled by the strange 
 manner in which Max fastened on this fanciful idea. 
 He said no more then, but could not fail to notice how 
 this conversation formed a sort of turning-point in his 
 friend’s convalescence. Max began to recover in earnest, 
 and now worried himself because his weakness pre- 
 vented his returning to work at once. A little more 
 alarmed for his friend’s mind than for his bodily health, 
 Stewart determined to leave no effort unmade to restore 
 the poor fellow to his normal state of health and 
 strength ; and, being himself a rich man, he saw his 
 way to providing the necessary care and change for the 
 invalid who interested him so much. - He ordered his 
 yacht to come to meet them in the Mediterranean ; and 
 packing up Max he carried him away for a summer’s 
 cruise across the world. 
 
 The voyage was a great success, and Edelstein was, 
 or appeared to be, completely restored to health of 
 body and mind. He no longer talked despondingly, 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY 
 
 157 
 
 and ceased altogether to speak of his dead wife. 
 Donald was almost inclined to blame him for this, and 
 said to himself that, after all, those who sorrow most 
 wildly for bereavement are apt to be those who forget 
 the soonest. Edelstein did not return to Rome, but 
 set up a studio in Paris. After that the star of his 
 fortunes rose higher and higher. Stewart had married 
 and settled down on his Scottish estate, and only 
 occasionally saw or heard of his friend during a few 
 days spent from time to time in the French capital, or 
 by a short but affectionate letter penned in moments of 
 weariness by the great sculptor to his friend. And so 
 the years went over ; and the name of Max Edelstein 
 was of European fame. 
 
 Twenty years passed away. Edelstein had been 
 established long in London, and many of his most 
 beautiful works had been created for, and prized by 
 Englishmen. Unbounded success was his, and ad- 
 miration and adulation had been poured out upon him. 
 Nevertheless, he lived in his work alone, had few 
 friends, took long walks with his pipe for sole com- 
 panion, and was never to be seen in large social 
 gatherings. His only society was that of one or tw T o 
 friends who sometimes dined with him in his perfectly 
 appointed house. In women he felt no interest whatever, 
 and would not have their company, no matter how 
 flatteringly it might be offered to him. Invitations 
 from great ladies dropped into his hands, but they 
 failed to bring him captive into even the most charming 
 drawing-rooms. People said it was affectation, morose- 
 
158 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 ness, conceit which made him live the life of a recluse 
 in the heyday of his fame. But Edelstein did not hear, 
 or did not heed what they had to say. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 On a certain hot night in the end of June, Max Edelstein 
 sat at his lonely dinner-table with wine before him 
 which he did not drink. His eyes were fixed on the 
 opposite wall with a strange look of intense expecta- 
 tion mingled with longing. From time to time a slight 
 frown of impatience contracted his brows, his fingers 
 moved restlessly, lifted the glass of wine, but set it 
 down again untasted ; and then again the nerves 
 of his face relaxed, and, as if obedient to a familiar 
 self-control, the whole man dropped back into a quies- 
 cent state of thought. 
 
 Twenty years had made a great change in the 
 youthful sculptor of Innsbruck. His dark locks had 
 changed to silver-white, but, waving and plentiful as 
 they were, this peculiarity only enhanced the beauty 
 of a singularly vigorous and noble countenance. His 
 dark eyes burned under a brow on which intellectual 
 power sat enthroned. The dreamy sadness which 
 lurked in some of the lines of the face had no weakening 
 effect on its general expression, but just tempered the 
 overwhelming force that was visible in every feature 
 and every movement of the head. After sitting for an 
 hour wrapped in his reverie he got up, and leaving the 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 159 
 
 room, walked down a long passage to his studio, which 
 was at the back of the house. 
 
 Here a lamp burned low, and he did not turn the 
 flame to a fuller height, but paced up and down the 
 large room, till by degrees the white figures around 
 him became quite visible to his eyes in the semi-dark- 
 ness. With folded arms and head sunk on his breast, 
 he continued thus to give himself up to his thoughts 
 or dreams, and at last paused before a statue at the 
 feet of which burned the lamp which gave its dim 
 light to the place. It was the marble statue of the 
 nymph which bore Hilda’s features, and which had 
 been touched to greater tenderness of expression by 
 her fingers in the days of their betrothal and in the 
 spring of their lives. This first work of his, sold 
 to Donald Stewart, had been returned to him by that 
 faithful friend after Hilda’s death, and for it he had 
 substituted a work of equal beauty which held a high 
 place of honour in the Scotchman’s home. 
 
 As Edelstein stood gazing at the features, dimly 
 seen, but kissed to warmth by the red light of the 
 lamp, a knock came on the door, and before the owner 
 of the studio had time to express impatience at being 
 interrupted, the door opened, and somebody came in. 
 
 “ Max ! ” 
 
 Edelstein uttered a kind of cry, strange to hear from 
 the lips of such a man. 
 
 “You, Donald?” he said, after a moment’s struggle 
 with some violent emotion. “ I thought — it was some 
 one else.” 
 
i6o 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 u Are you not going to welcome me, old fellow ? ” 
 said Stewart, struck by something strange in his friend. 
 “ And why are you mooning here alone in the dark ?" 
 
 u We artists have ways of our own of going on," 
 said Edelstein, with a short laugh. u But you are 
 welcome, indeed, my friend." And he seized Donald’s 
 hand in both his own, and almost crushed it with the 
 energy of his grip. “ When were you not welcome ? " 
 
 u All right, old fellow! Get some more light, that 
 I may see how you are thriving." 
 
 Edelstein struck a match, and applied it to a large 
 lamp on a bracket. 
 
 “ I never let servants in here if I can help it," he 
 said ; offered a box of cigars to his friend, lit his own 
 pipe, and the two smoked for a few minutes in silence. 
 
 Stewart watched his friend’s face as it settled back 
 into its habitual lines, and something that he saw there 
 and did not like, something indescribable which he had 
 seen there before on occasions, but never so plainly as 
 now, disturbed him. 
 
 He scarcely knew how to begin a conversation, so 
 full was his mind of something he did not venture to 
 mention ; but Max saved him the trouble of starting 
 a subject. 
 
 “ Donald,” he said suddenly, “ do you remember 
 what night this is ? ” 
 
 “ Ah ! " said Stewart. 
 
 “ This night twenty years I held Hilda dead in my 
 arms." 
 
 “ My dear friend ’’ began Stewart. 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 1 6 1 
 
 “And some months later you told me of something 
 she said.” 
 
 “Said?” 
 
 “About coming back.” 
 
 “ Max ! ” 
 
 “Stewart, I am expecting her. That is why I 
 started when you came in at the door. I thought 
 it was she.” 
 
 “ Good Heaven, Edelstein ! are you in earnest ? ” 
 
 “Earnest?” said Edelstein, laying down his pipe. 
 “ Am I a man to jest, and on such a subject ? ” 
 
 “Are those we love allowed to come back ? ” Stewart 
 said gently, trying to control his uneasiness and to 
 speak naturally. 
 
 “ Of that I know nothing. She never broke a 
 promise, and her love was perfect. That is all I 
 know.” 
 
 “I do not believe in ghosts,” said Stewart gravely. 
 
 “Ghosts! Nor I; she will not come as a ghost, 
 Donald. She will come as my wife, real as herself, 
 to live with me and comfort me for the rest of my 
 life.” 
 
 Stewart was silent. The words fell heavily on his 
 heart. Max had overworked himself, and his friend 
 remembered painfully how, many long years ago, 
 certain fears for his friend had troubled his mind. 
 
 “ Max, old fellow,” he said, “ if Providence should 
 alter the usual order of Nature’s laws to comfort a 
 heart so noble as yours, I, for one, will rejoice, as 
 I think you know. In the meantime, come out of this 
 
 I i 
 
 H. O. 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 162 
 
 place for a while. You work too hard, and live too 
 much alone.” 
 
 “ Where shall I go ? ” 
 
 11 Take my advice for once, and let me take you, not 
 for a solitary ramble, but into a crowd. Believe me, 
 old friend, you have been doing yourself harm. 
 Strange ideas are getting into your brain. There 
 can be nothing like a complete change for putting you 
 straight.” 
 
 Max passed his hand over his head. 
 
 “ I believe you are right, Stewart. I want a change. 
 I will do anything you bid me.” 
 
 u First of all then, before we make further plans, 
 
 come off with me now to Lady B ’s. I am intimate 
 
 with her, and she will only be too proud to receive you.” 
 
 Edelstein winced. 
 
 “ 1 cannot bear a ball-room,” he said. “ The sight 
 of dancing has a curious effect upon me. I think of 
 whirling dervishes. Now our dancing in the moun- 
 tains ” He stopped, as a vision, clear and vivid 
 
 as if only seen yesterday, arose before his eye, of 
 Hilda and himself dancing among the children and 
 neighbours, in the light of the sinking sun, under the 
 shadow of the purple hills. 
 
 “ There will be no dancing. It is only a solemn 
 reception. There will be a brilliant crowd, and we 
 will just walk through. You need not speak unless 
 you like, and we will come away any moment you 
 please.” 
 
 “ It is sorely against the grain,” said Max; “but I 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 163 
 
 will go to please you.” He rose, and made a weary 
 movement of hand to head. u You will wait a few 
 minutes while I dress. Stewart,” he added, suddenly 
 turning his hand on the door, and making a step 
 towards his friend, “ forgive me if I seem ungracious. 
 I am going not only to please you, but to escape from 
 myself. These rooms have begun to seem haunted to 
 me. Something has been going wrong. I will shake 
 off a weakness.” 
 
 “ All right,” said Stewart. “ Blues from over-work, 
 and over-concentration of thought in one spot. I know 
 all about it, though I am not a worker.” 
 
 Half an hour afterwards they entered a brilliantly 
 lighted house in St. James’s, and were soon moving 
 through a crowd composed of many of the most dis- 
 tinguished men and women in London. The hostess, 
 who had seen Edelstein’s noble face before, in his own 
 studio, was gratified at his appearance in her rooms, 
 and received him with flattering kindness. At a 
 whispered word from Stewart, however, she allowed 
 him to pass on into the crowd where few knew him by 
 sight, owing to the extremely retired life which he had 
 hitherto led. 
 
 a He is not very well,” Donald said to Lady B , 
 
 (< and I have coaxed him out for once. But we must 
 not frighten him. If a fuss is made about him he will 
 go back to his shell.” 
 
 And tact being one of Lady B— - — -’s virtues, she 
 took no further notice of the famous sculptor. 
 
 Out of one magnificent room into another the friends 
 
164 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 sauntered, keeping together, till at last Stewart paused 
 to talk to some friends who greeted him warmly and 
 held him fast, and Edelstein, straying on alone, found 
 his way into a drawing-room smaller than the others, 
 with walls panelled in faint gold-coloured silk, upon 
 which a few rare deep-toned pictures were shown to 
 the fullest advantage. There he took up his position 
 at a corner of the tall carven mantelpiece, and looked 
 abstractedly round the place, with the air and with the 
 feeling of a man who has no part in the lives of the 
 people by whom he finds himself surrounded. Suddenly 
 his eye became fixed, and an extraordinary change 
 passed over his countenance. 
 
 A shifting of the groups of people who occupied the 
 centre of the room took place, and an opening in the 
 crowd showed him the figure of a woman dressed in 
 white, sitting against the corner of an antique cabinet, 
 and looking like a picture of St. Barbara with her 
 tower rising straight behind her. She was a girl about 
 twenty, exceedingly fair and pale, with a quantity of 
 that faint-gold hair which belongs to babes, and which 
 near the delicate yellow in the silken panels looked 
 strangely approaching to silver. Although womanly in 
 figure there was a certain snowily ethereal look about 
 her, the only deep touch of colour lying in the depths 
 of her blue and crystal-clear eyes. She had a lonely 
 look, and the air of awaiting some one whom she 
 expected to come for her, and she seemed as little 
 belonging to the crowd as Edelstein himself. She was 
 gazing through the doorway near, yet as if seeing 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 165 
 
 nothing, utter unconsciousness of self in her face and 
 attitude. 
 
 It is said that if one human being looks long and 
 intently at another, the person so observed will soon 
 feel the effect of the unseen gaze, and be constrained to 
 meet it. However that may be, the fair-haired girl 
 turned her graceful head after some time, and looked 
 straight across the room at Edelstein, who was gazing 
 at her with Heaven knows what expression of recog- 
 nition and rapture in his eyes. A shock of surprise 
 passed over her, and then a puzzled look crossed her 
 face, as if she thought she ought to know the dis- 
 tinguished-looking person who thus seemed to claim 
 her acquaintance, and was embarrassed at not remem- 
 bering his identity. 
 
 At this moment Stewart reached the room and 
 stood by his friend’s side, who did not see him, 
 but started at hearing the Scotchman’s voice at his 
 ear. 
 
 “ Look, Donald, there she is,” said Edelstein, in a 
 low voice thrilling with emotion, and without removing 
 his eager gaze from the white-clad girl at the other 
 side of the room. 
 
 4 ‘She ! Who ? ” asked Donald, startled by his tone 
 and manner. 
 
 “ Hilda — my wife,” murmured Max, in a voice in 
 which, low as was the utterance, an agony of joy and 
 amazement spoke. 
 
 11 Max, are you aware of how oddly you are looking 
 at that lady, who is a perfect stranger to you ? ” said 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 1 66 
 
 Stewart, and passed his hand through his friend's arm, 
 trying to draw him away. 
 
 “ Stranger ! ” said Edelstein, with a little laugh of 
 joy. u Do you mean to say, man, that you do not 
 recognize her ? ” 
 
 “ I do indeed see a curious likeness, Edelstein, but 
 surely I need hardly say to you, be yourself, and do 
 not give way to hallucination.” 
 
 Max did not appear to hear him. 
 
 “ See how she looks at me ! ” he muttered, as the girl 
 once more turned her fascinated eyes, half frightened, 
 half attracted, on his. “ Donald, do not hold me back. 
 I must go and claim her. Oh, Heaven ! how strange 
 to meet in such a place as this ! ” 
 
 Stewart was shocked and agitated at this unexpected 
 result of his attempt to cure his friend of a monomania. 
 Amazed himself at the extraordinary resemblance in 
 the girl before him to the long-lost Hilda, who slept in 
 her Italian grave, he could only think of one way of 
 cutting short so painful a moment as this, and strove 
 to induce Edelstein to quit the room with him. 
 
 But another glance at Max told him he must humour 
 the great sculptor as he would humour a madman. 
 
 u Listen to me, Edelstein,” he said. “ Even if it be 
 she, there are certain rules of etiquette to be observed. 
 We must ask our hostess to introduce you to her.” 
 
 “ What, to my own wife ? ” 
 
 u Yes. No one here knows that she is your wife, 
 except yourself, and you would not appear to be rude 
 to a lady ? ” 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 1 67 
 
 li You are right, Donald — always right.” 
 il Come, then, and let us lose no time.” 
 
 Stewart had hoped to make his friend forget this 
 craze, and tried to lead him into other rooms, to 
 interest him in the sculptures of an old and richly 
 decorated mansion ; but he found that such a hope was 
 vain, for Edelstein dragged him straight to Lady 
 
 B ’s presence, and obliged him to ask for the 
 
 desired introduction. 
 
 “ Lady B , my friend Mr. Edelstein wishes to be 
 
 introduced to a certain young lady in white in the 
 yellow drawing-room. Can you kindly gratify his 
 wish ? ” 
 
 “ I can guess who she is,” said Lady B , pleased 
 
 at the interest shown by the great artist, usually so 
 indifferent, in a favourite of her own. u She is Miss 
 Trevelyan, a peculiarly beautiful and striking girl.” 
 
 Max smiled a strange smile at Stewart, as if to say : 
 “ We will humour this amiable woman, and keep our 
 own secret for the present,” and then both men followed 
 their hostess as she moved towards the yellow drawing- 
 room. 
 
 The introduction was made, Lady B returned to 
 
 the friends who required her presence elsewhere, and 
 Edelstein stood by the girl in white, trying to frame a 
 sentence with his trembling lips. 
 
 Stewart also stood by, having been introduced to the 
 lady, and endeavoured, by his matter-of-fact remarks, 
 to restore equanimity to two evidently embarrassed 
 people. An acquaintance coming up claimed his atten- 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 1 68 
 
 tion for a few minutes ; he was obliged to stand aside 
 to let some ladies pass ; in the crowd he drifted to 
 some distance. When he was once more disengaged, 
 he turned to look for his friend, but Edelstein and the 
 lady were gone. 
 
 With a misgiving which he could not smother, 
 Donald Stewart set out to search the rooms for his 
 friend. After an interval of half an hour, and when he 
 was almost thinking of returning to Edelstein’s house, 
 to seek him there, he at last discovered the sculptor 
 and the white lady sitting in a retired nook half behind 
 a curtain, and at an open window, beyond which the 
 lighted tower of Westminster was seen to loom and 
 burn in the purple-dark midnight sky. 
 
 The sculptor’s fine head was in relief against the sky, 
 and he was gazing in his companion’s face with an 
 intensity of love and joy which no words could express. 
 What he was saying Donald could not hear, but he 
 was pouring forth rapid words in a low impassioned 
 voice. The girl was pale as death, and sat listening 
 like a person who strives to remember, her eyes fixed 
 on Edelstein’s face. A look of awe was on her broad 
 white brow, and with a strange, almost supernatural 
 eeling which he could not account for, Stewart felt 
 shocked at her amazing likeness to the long dead and 
 buried Hilda. 
 
 “ Edelstein,” said Stewart, “ excuse me, but I think 
 you said you were anxious to leave this place early, 
 and it is now about half-past twelve.” 
 
 Max looked up at him with a smile. Without 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 169 
 
 noticing his words, he turned to the lady, and taking 
 her hand, laid it in Stewart’s, saying, — 
 
 “ Hilda, this is our dear good friend Donald. You 
 remember Donald, my Hilda ? ” 
 
 The girl suffered her hand to rest in Stewart’s, and 
 murmured dreamily, — 
 
 a Yes, I remember ; he seems quite familiar to me.” 
 
 “ Good Heavens ! ” thought Stewart, 11 has my mad- 
 man met with a madwoman to complete his ruin ? or 
 has she found out that he is mad, and is she humouring 
 his whim through fear ? ” 
 
 “ Miss Trevelyan,” he said, relinquishing her hand, 
 “ I must beg you to excuse the peculiarity of my 
 friend’s conduct in addressing you so, and by a name 
 that is not yours. He has not been well, and I see 
 that he is hardly himself.” 
 
 “ They call me Hilda,” said the girl, looking strangely 
 and reproachfully at Stewart. u Why should he 
 address me by another name ? ” 
 
 Then she turned her face again towards Max, who 
 seemed at once to forget Donald’s presence ; and they 
 continued their low-voiced communing as though he 
 had not been there. 
 
 Amazed and pained Stewart turned away, and un- 
 certain how to act, found himself in the room with 
 Lady B , his hostess. 
 
 “ Lady B ,” he said, (i my friend Edelstein is 
 
 greatly taken with your friend, Miss Trevelyan. By 
 the way, what is her Christian name ? ” 
 u Hilda. Why do you ask ?” 
 
170 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 “ I have a fancy in ladies’ names.” 
 
 “ ’Tis a pretty name. And, by the way, a story is 
 told of a curious dream her mother had which was the 
 cause of her being so called. They are Cornish people, 
 and the girl is full of romance. So was the mother, 
 who is dead.” 
 
 “You interest me greatly,” said Donald. “My 
 friend seems wonderfully taken with her.” 
 
 “ Don’t let him put his heart into the matter,” said 
 Lady B , laughing, “ for the child is already en- 
 
 gaged. It is a long story, and she has been very 
 troublesome. Were I to tell you the whole you would 
 understand why I call her romantic.” 
 
 Lady B turned away to answer a question asked 
 
 from another side, and Stewart stood musing per- 
 plexedly over the information he had received. 
 
 “Already engaged ! And Max calls her his wife ! ” 
 he reflected. “ The girl is full of romance ; and to me 
 she seemed quite ready to obey his thought. There is 
 a storm of trouble in the air, if I cannot get Max out 
 of England by to-morrow night. And yet he may 
 forget all this to-morrow morning, if he be the madman 
 I fear I must take him to be.” 
 
 After some time spent very uneasily, Stewart went 
 back to the window where he had left his friend with 
 the lady he had called his wife. Both were gone. 
 
 Five minutes afterwards he met Edelstein coming 
 through the crowd to meet him with a beaming coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 “They took her away,” he said, with a slight laugh, 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 171 
 
 li the people who are her friends. I could not object, 
 of course, and we are parted for the present. But 
 think of it, Stewart, letting my own wife go away with 
 strangers ! But I shall see her to-morrow, and explain 
 everything to her father/’ 
 
 Donald felt sick at heart. He was too much per- 
 plexed and troubled to try to reason with his friend, 
 and besides, he feared to quarrel with a madman. He 
 accompanied Edelstein home, and went with him into 
 his studio. 
 
 As they stood before the statue whose face had 
 been modelled from Hilda’s, Max raised the lamp till 
 the red light fell full on the marble features. 
 
 lt Look, Donald, look ! she has not changed one 
 atom ! ” 
 
 The likeness was indeed marvellous. Even Stewart 
 acknowledged that the two Hildas were, outwardly at 
 least, the same. 
 
 u My dear fellow,” he said, u I acknowledge that 
 there is a startling resemblance ; but go to sleep on 
 this, and to-morrow your thoughts will be more clear. 
 You must not make people talk about Miss Trevelyan.” 
 
 Max smiled a peculiar smile. 
 
 u You think I am mad, Stewart,” he said ; “ I know 
 you think I am mad. But can she be mad too ? That 
 w T ould be too singular a coincidence.” 
 
 “ Do you mean to tell me that the young lady you 
 met for the first time to-night has declared that she 
 knows herself to be your dead wife, returned to this 
 world to be with you ? ” 
 
172 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 "You have put it into excellent words, good Donald. 
 Knowing your sceptical mind, I almost shrank from 
 stating the facts to you so plainly.” 
 
 “ My poor Max ! ” 
 
 “Tush, Donald! don’t put me in a passion. Did 
 you yourself not solemnly convey to me her promise ?” 
 
 “ She made no promise, Max. It was the fond and 
 futile wish of a dying woman that I unfortunately 
 repeated to you. Your wife was too sensible, too 
 religious a woman to believe that such return from the 
 dead could ever be.” 
 
 “ There is nothing in religion to forbid such belief,” 
 said Max doggedly. “ She has returned out of her 
 heaven by the force of her all-powerful love. She was 
 re-born into this world the very year after she quitted 
 it.” 
 
 " I wish you would go to bed, Edelstein, and sleep 
 upon it.” 
 
 Max smiled. 
 
 “After twenty years of silence I have talked with 
 my wife to-night,” said he, “and I have much to think 
 over before I can sleep. But, dear old friend, I would 
 not keep you here wrangling with me. When I have 
 a little recovered from the shock of this wonderful 
 happiness I shall be able to thank you for being the 
 bearer, a second time, of a blessing into my life. Mean- 
 time take your rest. When you have a little got over 
 your natural surprise you will wake up and recognize 
 my Hilda.” 
 
 Donald left his friend, feeling half-stunned with 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 1 73 
 
 amazement at the occurrences of the night. That Max, 
 whom he believed to be mad, should reason with him 
 pityingly, as if his were the weaker mind, seemed to 
 finish the extreme oddity of the whole situation. His 
 only hope for Edelstein lay now in the likelihood that 
 the girl might lead the way out of the confusion of this 
 hour. If indeed she had been subject to some spell 
 while in Edelstein’s presence, perhaps when no longer 
 under his personal influence she might be roused to see 
 the folly of the position in which she placed him as well 
 as herself. Before laying his head on his pillow that 
 night Stewart resolved to go in the morning, as early 
 as might be, and to ask an interview with the woman 
 whom Edelstein claimed as his wife. 
 
 The next morning, however, Donald remembered 
 
 that he must go to Lady B for Miss Trevelyan’s 
 
 address, and on his way to that lady he decided on 
 opening his mind to her at once as Miss Trevelyan’s 
 friend ; at least in as far as he dared. He was fortunate 
 in finding Lady B at home. 
 
 “ I have come to you on a curious errand,” he said ; 
 “ I want you to give me some account of Miss Trevel- 
 yan’s character, disposition, and circumstances. I am 
 prompted by no idle curiosity.” 
 
 “You come in the interest of your friend the sculptor,” 
 said the lady, u who evidently fell in love with her last 
 night. If her father had been here he would hardly 
 have been pleased, for I think I mentioned to you he 
 has already promised her to another man.” 
 
 " He has promised her ? ” 
 
174 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 “Well, that is the way to put it. The girl is, as I 
 told you, full of romance. She has been brought up in 
 a gloomy old house on a wild Cornish coast, without a 
 mother and without youthful friends and companions. 
 She is dreamy and sentimental, and has fancies about 
 herself.” 
 
 “ Every woman has a right to a little of that kind 
 of thing,” said Stewart, who had married his own wife 
 for love ; “ Heaven knows there are enough women of 
 a different type. I suppose the man her father has 
 chosen is rich ? ” 
 
 “ Enormously wealthy, and very much in love with 
 her. ’Tis true he is neither young nor interesting. 
 He is a City banker; and Mr. Trevelyan is a needy, 
 almost a ruined man.” 
 
 “ You mean that there is not a glimpse of hope for 
 my friend Edelstein ? ” 
 
 “I think there is none.” 
 
 il But if she herself should prefer him ? He is not 
 poor, and he is a distinguished man. And he is probably 
 younger than the person of her father’s choice.” 
 
 “ Considerably so, I should say, and a thousand times 
 more fascinating, I am sure. In every way more 
 desirable, I believe. Nevertheless, his suit is hopeless.” 
 
 “ Lady B , I will confide in you wholly. My 
 
 friend is no common man. Early in life he married a 
 wife whom he tenderly loved, and whose untimely 
 death almost unhinged his brain. Miss Trevelyan 
 bears an extraordinary resemblance to the dead Hilda.” 
 u Hilda ! How odd ! ” 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 i7 5 
 
 “ Yes ; the case is full of peculiarities. Now I greatly 
 fear that if Edelstein should continue to see Miss 
 Trevelyan, and afterwards lose her, the total wreck of 
 his mind may be the consequence. Believe me, I am 
 not over-stating the truth. I appeal to you to ascertain 
 immediately whether there is hope for him or not, and, 
 if not, to remove Miss Trevelyan out of his path." 
 
 “You make a strange demand, my friend. Why 
 should not Mr. Edelstein be able to take care of himself ; 
 or his friends be able to take care of him ? Why should 
 the girl’s movements be interfered with ? She is enjoy- 
 ing her first season in London, and it is only half over. 
 Her father is in Parliament, and it does not suit him to 
 move about just now. How can I ask him to take his 
 daughter out of Mr. Edelstein’s way ? ” 
 
 “ Dear Lady B , for the sake of our old friend- 
 
 ship I ask you to see what can be done. I myself will 
 do my best to get Max out of London. For the 
 present I will only ask you to see Miss Trevelyan and 
 learn her mind, and appeal to her not to encourage 
 Edelstein.” 
 
 “There I am all with you. I will see the child at 
 once. Though I cannot but think, friend Donald, that 
 you take an exaggerated view of the situation, and 
 allow your own turn for romance to run away with your 
 judgment.” 
 
 Late that afternoon Lady B took her way to the 
 
 lodging in St. James’s where Mr. Trevelyan and his 
 daughter had taken up their abode for the season. The 
 house and its appointments bore out Lady B ’s 
 
176 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 assertion that Mr. Trevelyan was a needy if not a 
 ruined gentleman. 
 
 She was shown into a rather dingy drawing-room, 
 and in a few minutes the pale girl of the night before, 
 the second Hilda, came into the room with a radiant 
 countenance. She was dressed in a soft white woollen 
 gown with crimson roses at her throat. Her clear blue 
 eyes were dilated with joy, her face was paler than ever, 
 her fair hair, which shone like mixed gold and silver, 
 glittered softly on her temples, and fell back in a heavy 
 plait on her shoulders. She extended her hands to her 
 friend with a happy, eager movement. 
 
 “ Why, Hilda, how glorified you look ! I am glad to 
 see you looking so happy, my dear.” 
 
 “Yes, I am happy,” said Hilda quietly, and stole her 
 arms round her friend’s neck. 
 
 “Yet you were rather naughty last night, Hilda, 
 talking so much to that Mr. Edelstein in the absence of 
 your fiance .” 
 
 The girl withdrew from her friend’s embrace, and sat 
 down by her side. 
 
 “You do not understand,” she said, “and how can I 
 tell you ? Mr. Edelstein and I are no new friends.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! You surprise me extremely.” 
 
 “ I am sure I do. And I fear I shall also surprise 
 others who love me. But Max has the first and highest 
 claim.” 
 
 “ My dear Hilda, can anything be the matter with 
 my ears ? ” 
 
 “You seem to hear me pretty well.” 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 177 
 
 “ Hilda, I am angry with you. You mean to tell me 
 that you have thrown over your betrothed, set your 
 father’s will at naught, and all for a stranger ? ” 
 
 “ Not for a stranger, Lady B . I am Max 
 
 Edelstein’s wife.” 
 
 Lady B uttered a cry, and then sat still, gazing 
 
 at the girl before her. 
 
 “ You are either quite mad,” she said at last, “ or you 
 are a double-dealing and unworthy woman.” 
 
 Hilda smiled mysteriously, and putting her hands on 
 her friend’s shoulders kissed her tenderly. 
 
 “Do not be angry,” she said, “till you hear my 
 
 story ; ” and then she sat down at Lady B ’s feet, 
 
 and began to speak at length, while her friend listened 
 patiently to her tale. The burthen of what she had to 
 say was the same as that reiterated by Edelstein to 
 Stewart. She was the Hilda of Innsbruck. She had 
 died, and had promised to return. They had recognized 
 each other on the instant they had met. They were 
 husband and wife, and no strangers of a day. Nobody 
 should dare to part them. 
 
 Looking at her innocent, ingenuous face, Lady B 
 
 seized her hands and sighed heavily. Here was a mind 
 gone astray. How sad, how incomprehensible ! A 
 lonely unnatural bringing-up had induced eccentricity, 
 a romantic incident had inflamed her imagination, and 
 reason was overturned at a blow. What could be done 
 for this unfortunate girl ? 
 
 “My friend Stewart knew something of this,” she 
 reflected, “and that is why he so urgently desired that 
 
 1 2 
 
 //. o. 
 
178 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 they should not meet again. Now, which is the lunatic 
 here ? And is lunacy catching, like the measles ? ” 
 
 When Lady B reached home again she found 
 
 Stewart awaiting her return. As she entered her own 
 drawing-room with a scared pale face, Donald came to 
 meet her. She sank into a chair, and Stewart waited 
 impatiently till she was able to speak. 
 
 “Your friend is a madman/’ she said at last. 
 
 “ That is what I dread,” said Stewart sadly. “ My 
 only hope for him rested upon the lady. From your 
 manner I conclude that my worst fears are realized.” 
 
 “ What are your worst fears ? ” 
 
 “ That she shares his delusion.” 
 
 “ What is his delusion ? ” 
 
 “ That his dead wife has fulfilled a promise he 
 fancies she made, and has returned to this world to be 
 near him.” 
 
 “ He has communicated his mania to her.” 
 
 “ What does she say about herself? ” 
 
 “That she has always been followed by indistinct 
 memories of a former life. That the moment she saw 
 him she recognized him. That everything he told her 
 of the past she instantly recollected. That Heaven has 
 granted them both the boon of her return. That she 
 belongs, and will belong, to no one else but him ; and 
 that nothing shall part them but death.” 
 
 “ It seems too strange a coincidence. Yet an 
 imaginative girl might be influenced by a mind like 
 Edelstein’s.” 
 
 “ My friend, what shall we do with them ?” 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 179 
 
 “ If they could marry they might possibly be happy.” 
 
 11 It can never be, I believe. I, for one, do not like 
 to open the matter to her father. Yet I think he ought 
 to be told.” 
 
 The next day Lady B wrote a carefully worded 
 
 letter to Mr. Trevelyan, and by night had a short note 
 from him in answer. It said : — 
 
 “ That madman Edelstein has been here, and Hilda 
 and he have told me their ridiculous story. I have 
 given him my mind ; and to-morrow Hilda goes away 
 to friends. Even to you I will not tell where I have 
 sent her. Let her be lost to the world till she has 
 returned to her senses.” 
 
 The next day Lady B handed this note to Mr. 
 
 Stewart, and Donald at once went off to Edelstein, 
 whom he found lost in grief, having just returned from 
 the Trevelyans’ lodgings, where he had learned that the 
 young lady was gone. 
 
 Stewart tried to rouse him up. 
 
 “ Come, come,” he said, 11 be a man and shake this 
 madness off! Think of your wife in heaven, and leave 
 this girl to the disposal of her father. She is already 
 pledged to another man.” 
 
 “ Against her will,” said Edelstein calmly. “She 
 herself had given no pledge. How could she, being 
 already my wife ? But do not torture me, Donald. 
 She is gone, it is true ; but I shall find her again.” 
 
 “ Be it so, old friend. All that I can do to help you 
 
i8o 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 I will do. In the meantime, while we are all at fault, 
 come with me to my Scotch mountain side. There you 
 can get up your strength, and consider w T hat further 
 steps to take.” 
 
 After much persuasion Edelstein consented to ac- 
 company his friend. All his attempts to hear further 
 tidings of Hilda had proved vain, and, as no letter came 
 from her to him, he concluded that she was closely 
 watched. Donald hoped, on the contrary, that she had 
 only returned to her senses. 
 
 On a lovely June evening the two friends arrived at 
 the gate leading into Stewart’s private grounds in a 
 lovely part of Scotland, and leaving their carriage with 
 the servants, walked up a winding by-path which tacked 
 along a garden-wreathed mountain-side. At their feet 
 lay the sea, guarded by cliffs which were low here and 
 high there, and at one part formed themselves into a 
 sort of lofty bridge leading from Stewart’s charming 
 dwelling on the upper heights to the sand-strewn and 
 rock-bound shore beneath. 
 
 At one point they stood still to admire the magnificent 
 view, their gaze resting on the violet-tipped peaks in 
 the clouds, and then falling and following the golden 
 light that ran 11 along the smooth wave towards the 
 golden west ; ” and Edelstein raised his hat with a 
 gesture of reverent delight. 
 
 “ Colour is hardly a sculptor’s province,” he said with 
 a smile; u but I could almost wish at this moment to 
 be a painter.” 
 
 Donald was delighted. 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 1 8 1 
 
 “ I think I can make you happy here,” he said, “ for 
 a week at least. You can go when you are tired of 
 us.” 
 
 Edelstein smiled his answer. His thoughts had been 
 carried away to the Alps — to the Roman hills. That 
 delicate violet on these lovely mountains had coloured 
 his imagination with their own suggestions. His sold 
 was away with Hilda on the Alps. 
 
 They continued their walk, still climbing, and 
 presently here and there, between bush and scaur, 
 glimpses of Donald’s home came into view. One steep 
 path of a few yards remained to be travelled, and at 
 the top of it a figure in white appeared with one arm 
 thrown round a young ash-tree, a figure leaning forward 
 as if watching for their approach. A few more steps, 
 and they were face to face with Hilda. 
 
 “ Good Heavens ! ” cried Donald. “ Miss Trevelyan 
 — how have you come here ? ” 
 
 She had slipped her hand through Edelstein’s arm, 
 and, looking at Stewart frankly, said, — - 
 
 “Ah, Mr. Stewart, what an unkind welcome ! How 
 often in the old days have you hoped I should come 
 here ! ” 
 
 Donald turned to his friend. 
 
 “What does this mean, Max?” he said. “Has it 
 been a preconcerted plan ? ” 
 
 “ If a plan at all, a plan of Providence,” said Edelstein, 
 whose face was shining with satisfaction. “ The same 
 Power that has sent Hilda back into the world has been 
 able to place her feet upon your hills. That is all I 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 182 
 
 have to say. Hilda will tell us the rest. As for me, 
 I have felt that, turn where I might, I should meet her 
 again.” 
 
 u My father sent me here,” said Hilda. “ Indirectly 
 he sent me here. He placed me with his friends a 
 mile away, and Mrs. Stewart met me w r ith them, and 
 invited me to spend a few days with her. I have felt, 
 like Max, that our parting would not be for long. This 
 morning Mrs. Stewart said to me, 1 My husband arrives 
 this evening, and he brings with him his old friend, 
 the sculptor, Edelstein/ And I was not the least sur- 
 prised to hear it.” 
 
 Then they turned away, hand in hand, just as Hilda 
 and Max used to saunter together on the Alps long ago, 
 and Donald, amazed and troubled, went in at his own 
 door and retired to take counsel with his wife. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart was greatly astonished at the tale her 
 husband had to tell. 
 
 “ I took a fancy to the girl,” she said. “ There is 
 something so uncommon about her. It was but natural 
 to ask her to come here. The people she was with are 
 stiff and hard in their way, and she seemed so pleased 
 to get away from them.” 
 
 “ It was very natural, Jeanie,” said her husband. 
 “ And it was also natural in me to bring poor Edelstein 
 here. The coincidence is the part of it that takes away 
 my breath.” 
 
 “ I think we can hardly be to blame,” said Mrs. 
 Stewart. 
 
 a If Trevelyan had been acquainted with me it could 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 183 
 
 not have happened/’ said Donald. u But he knows 
 nothing of me and I know little of him. The only 
 thing for me to do now is to write to him stating the 
 case as it stands ; and meantime, if possible, to get 
 Edelstein away with me on an excursion somewhere.” 
 
 The evening passed quietly away. The host and 
 hostess, secretly ill at ease, exerted themselves to appear 
 as if nothing was wrong. At dinner-time Edelstein 
 talked brilliantly, and was so transformed that Donald, 
 his friend of years, scarcely knew him. Hilda appeared 
 in the rich dress of pure white in which he had met 
 her in London, and her face was shining with tranquil 
 happiness. There were no other guests. 
 
 As the hours passed by, Mrs. Stewart, who could 
 not detect symptoms of madness in either of her guests, 
 reflected that it was a thousand pities that these two 
 must be parted. Later in the evening Hilda sang 
 Scotch and German ballads — sang the songs that the 
 other Hilda had sung twenty years ago before the door 
 of her Alpine home. Edelstein sat by her side, gazing 
 at her with looks of worship. 
 
 After the ladies had retired to rest Stewart put his 
 arm through that of his friend, and drew him out on 
 the terrace overlooking the sea. 
 
 “ My dear fellow,” he said, “ fortune has been playing 
 curiously into your hands, I admit ; but, you see, I 
 cannot allow this sort of thing to go on. Miss Trevelyan 
 is here by a strange accident. Now, until her father 
 comes or sends to remove her, you must take yourself 
 away. I will go with you on an excursion round the 
 
184 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 coast — anywhere you like, so that you get out of this 
 house for a time.” 
 
 Edelstein smiled. 
 
 i{ Donald,” he said, “ you are the soul of honour, and 
 always were. You would sacrifice even the happiness 
 of your old friend to your idea of honour. I respect 
 you. I feel with you where any other matter than this 
 is concerned. But w 7 hen you speak of Miss Trevelyan, 
 you forget that you speak of Max Edelstein’s wife. 
 That is the one point which I cannot keep before you.” 
 
 u Man, man !” cried Donald, out of all patience, “ will 
 you not give up this unholy craze ? Does Providence 
 work miracles for you alone ? Come, come, old friend, 
 do not exasperate me ! ” 
 
 “ The world is full of miracles, Donald, only we do 
 not perceive them. I will not believe that you do not 
 recognize Hilda.” 
 
 u I see a startling likeness, but that does not over- 
 turn my reason. I see a likeness in person, but many 
 differences in character. The first Hilda had a noble 
 mind, strong clear common sense — nay, she had genius, 
 which is not always allied with the other quality. Miss 
 Trevelyan is weak, imaginative, and without any strength 
 of character.” 
 
 u I have thought of some differences, and they only 
 strengthen my belief — if, indeed, it needed strengthen- 
 ing. In the first place, you wrong the lady you are 
 pleased to call Miss Trevelyan (and Miss Trevelyan I 
 am willing you should call her till our marriage can be 
 solemnized again). She is not weak in character, as 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 185 
 
 you believe. She is feminine, believing In short, 
 
 she knows what you will not admit. As for the genius 
 that once distinguished her — ah, Donald, do you forget 
 what you told me she said when promising to return 
 to me, if she could ? 1 If I come/ she said, ‘ I will 
 
 come without the talent which I believe was the only 
 flaw that Max could ever see in me/ She was wrong 
 there. I saw no flaw in her, and by her talent and 
 devotion she carried me over the worst, the hardest bit 
 of my career ; but she thought it. ‘ Anything of genius 
 I may possess,’ she continued, * I hereby solemnly 
 bequeath to Max.’ And herein lies the secret of my 
 later complete success. ( If I come again,’ she said, 1 1 
 will come without it.’ ” 
 
 He drew a little pocket-book out of his breast, and 
 read over again the words in Stewart’s writing. 
 
 “ Do you forget jotting this down,” he said, “ and 
 afterwards giving it, at my request, to me ? I have 
 never parted with it for a moment since you put it in 
 my hands.” 
 
 “ And so have driven yourself mad on one point,” 
 said Stewart, aghast at this result of his own well- 
 meant action. 
 
 “ I am not mad, Donald,” said Max quietly, putting 
 the book back in its resting-place; “but these are 
 among the things that are beyond our ken.” 
 
 “There is no use in battling with a madman,” said 
 Stewart to his wife that night. “ I cannot bring him 
 to reason, and the girl seems as much astray as he. 
 I have communicated with her father already ; in the 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 1 86 
 
 morning I will write him a fuller account of the un- 
 expected meeting here ; and this is all I can do.” 
 
 “I cannot see that either is mad/’ said Mrs. Stewart, 
 “ and to me it seems like sin to meddle between them. 
 Why can they not marry and be happy in their touching 
 delusion, if delusion it be ? ” 
 
 lt 1 If delusion it be’ ! ” said Stewart. “ My dear, are 
 you losing your senses too ? ” 
 
 “ I hope not, Donald. I have always been called 
 matter-of-fact ; but I would rather not dwell on this 
 point. I take my stand simply on this — that I would 
 like to see so interesting a pair married and happy.” 
 tl There I heartily agree with you ; but I am not her 
 father, nor are you her mother; and her father must 
 have his voice in the matter,” 
 
 Nothing more was said, but early in the morning 
 Stewart rose and went to his study to write his letter 
 to Hilda’s father. This written and despatched, he 
 went out to the garden to wait for the summons to 
 breakfast. Returning to the house, he met his wife 
 coming down the path. 
 
 “ Neither Mr. Edelstein nor Hilda is to be found,” 
 she said hurriedly. 
 
 “ Good Heavens ! ” said Stewart, “ has no one seen 
 them ? ” 
 
 “ The gardener saw them about six o’clock this 
 morning.” 
 
 “ Where ? ” 
 
 “ Here in the garden. When he arrived to begin 
 his work he met Mr. Edelstein walking about, and 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 1 8 7 
 
 looking as if he had not slept all night. Presently 
 M iss Trevelyan appeared, fresh and bright after her 
 sleep, and walked among the roses, gathering them as 
 she went, and splashing herself with dew. She seemed 
 surprised to see Mr. Edelstein. They spoke together 
 for some time, never seeming to notice the presence of 
 the gardener. At last Mr. Edelstein said, ‘ Come then ! ’ 
 and took her by the hand, and they walked away together 
 hand-in-hand ; and then the sun rose high, suddenly, 
 and he could not see where they went for the blaze 
 of light. He thinks they went down towards the cliffs.” 
 “ Perhaps they have only gone for a walk,” said 
 Stewart, but with a face of anxiety. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart shook her head. 
 
 “ 1 think,” she said, “ that you will never see them 
 again till they are indeed man and wife. Hasty 
 
 marriages are easily made in this country, remember.” 
 “And all your sympathies are with the crazy pair,” 
 said Stewart, almost angrily. “You do not think of 
 the trouble that I shall get into with her friends.” 
 Even while the husband and wife talked in the 
 garden, the sky darkened, and great drops of rain 
 began to fall. The wind rose, and there was every 
 sign of a storm. 
 
 Stewart, nothing daunted by the weather, set off 
 post-haste in a carriage with a pair of horses to follow 
 in the track of his friend. He felt a conviction that 
 his wife’s words were true — that Edelstein had taken 
 the matter into his own hands, and would make Hilda 
 his wife before friends or enemies could interfere. 
 
1 88 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 The route he followed ran along by the sea, and 
 after an hour’s driving through the storm he arrived 
 at a small fishing seaport, where he made inquiries 
 among the people. He soon learned that his fears 
 were realized. A lady and gentleman had presented 
 themselves that morning to the clergyman of the place, 
 and had been married. Immediately afterwards they 
 had hired a hooker to carry them, some said to France, 
 some said to Ireland. Half an hour after they left the 
 pier the storm began to rise ; many had watched the 
 hooker through a glass with some anxiety, but it had 
 seemed to hold on its way steadily enough, and was 
 now out of sight. 
 
 “ Ireland or France!” said Mr. Stewart impatiently. 
 11 Surely some one knows where they are gone. Who 
 would take them in a hooker from here to France ?” 
 
 u Our hookers will do better work than ye think,” 
 said a brawny fisherman. “But I heard them talk 
 about Ireland.” 
 
 Mr. Stewart was in despair. It did not matter, 
 after all, towards what country the husband and wife 
 
 had set their faces. He thought bitterly of Lady B 
 
 and her friend, Mr. Trevelyan, and wished impatiently 
 that this extraordinary elopement had taken place from 
 under any roof rather than his own. Of Edelstein’s 
 happiness he could not then even think, so vexatious 
 were the circumstances in which he found himself un- 
 expectedly placed. 
 
 Stamping up and down the pier while he made his 
 reflections, he scarcely noticed that the storm was 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 189 
 
 becoming wilder every moment, till suddenly a furious 
 gust, almost sweeping him from his foothold, startled 
 him out of his musing, and changed his feeling of 
 anger against the runaway pair into anxious fears for 
 their safety. 
 
 Gazing round him after a long look at the now 
 raging sea, he was aware of a group of solemn weather- 
 beaten faces scanning his features with sympathy, and 
 he immediately questioned the men as to the amount 
 of danger to be apprehended from the storm. 
 
 “ It’s a bad day, and it’ll be a waur night,” said one 
 who made himself spokesman for the rest. “A wad 
 rather yer friens had ta’en their flight by land.” 
 
 Sick at heart now, Stewart pressed the seafaring 
 men with questions. Their fear was that the hooker 
 would be run upon some of the rocks along the coast. 
 Donald took his way to the inn of the village, where 
 his horses were put up, and decided on sending a 
 message to his wife, and remaining in this place for the 
 night. It did not appear to him that he could effect 
 much good by doing so, yet he felt more within reach 
 of news on this spot than he should have felt in his 
 drawing-room at home. 
 
 Towards evening the tempest swelled into a hurricane. 
 One or two houses were flung down in the little town, 
 slates and chimneys from all sides clattered into the 
 street, and the bells from the various points of danger 
 on the rocky coast clanged and tolled the black night 
 through. Stewart walked his room hour after hour, 
 and tried to check his gloomy thoughts by recurring 
 
190 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 to the suggestion of one of the sailors, that after all 
 the hooker might have put in somewhere along the 
 coast, before the storm became so furious. This was 
 the only hope that presented itself in the midst of 
 horror, and he clung to it with all his might. Never- 
 theless, as he left his room in the wild scared light of 
 the morning, and went out to look about, he felt a 
 dread at heart that some unforeseen catastrophe had 
 ended the curious drama in which he had been obliged, 
 unwillingly, to take a part. 
 
 About twelve o’clock the storm went down, but the 
 weather remained bleak and sullen. Stewart ordered 
 his carriage, and set off by the coast road, stopping at 
 all the dwellings and villages as he went along, asking 
 if a hooker had been harboured or wrecked in the 
 neighbourhood. His search was vain, the answer to 
 questions as to harbour generally was, “ No hooker 
 could live in such a hurricane as that of last night.” 
 
 When it was quite evening, he at last met a man 
 upon the road who had some little news to give him, 
 having heard of people who had been washed in that 
 morning near a village some miles further on by the 
 shore. Yes, there was a man, and there was a woman. 
 The woman was a lady ; and had been taken into 
 somebody’s house. 
 
 Stewart now drove as fast as his horses could carry 
 him, and arrived at the place where the sea had given 
 up its prey. “ Oh, ay ! ” said the folks he met ; a 
 sailor-boy and a lady had been washed in alive ; a 
 gentleman and one or two others had been drowned. 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 191 
 
 Then a revulsion of feeling swept over Donald Stewart, 
 and his heart cried out for the faithful friend of so 
 many bygone years. If one must be taken, why could 
 it not have been the woman who had lent her weakness 
 to help a great mind to its ruin ? He forgot the father 
 who would hold him, Donald Stewart, accountable for 
 the fate of a child ; and thought only of his own 
 irreparable loss. 
 
 He was taken into a humble fisherman’s house, and 
 there, by the fire, sat the sailor-lad who had survived 
 the wreck. 
 
 In a few strong words he told the story of the night’s 
 catastrophe. The gentleman was as brave as a lion, 
 he said. He lashed the lady to the mast, and that was 
 how she was saved. For himself the gentleman counted 
 surely on his swimming. He was a powerful swimmer, 
 and must have been dashed upon the rocks and stunned. 
 He (the lad saved) could not swim a stroke. These 
 things were well known to be all chance or fate. The 
 waves which had killed the skilful swimmer had but 
 tossed the helpless boy roughly in their embrace, and 
 hurled him safe upon the sand. 
 
 In an inner room Hilda was lying upon a bed. She 
 did not speak, but fixed one long, strange look upon 
 Donald Stewart, and then turned away her face to the 
 wall. Stewart sent for his wife immediately, and that 
 kind woman nursed the girl through what proved to be 
 a dangerous illness. When she was sufficiently restored 
 they carried her home to their house, where her father 
 had arrived to meet her. 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 192 
 
 A rather narrow-minded, unsympathetic man, Mr. 
 Trevelyan was unable to take any lenient view of his 
 daughter’s conduct. While she lay in peril of death 
 his grief was extreme, but once she was out of danger 
 his anger rose high again, and he resolved that, as soon 
 as she was able to bear them, his reproaches should be 
 equal to her deserts. 
 
 However, when he saw her sit listening to his hard 
 words with an absent, unmoved expression of face, as 
 if she hardly heard him, or did not understand him, his 
 eloquence failed, and he felt more fear than wrath stirring 
 within him. 
 
 “ What do you think of her ? ” he asked timorously 
 of Mrs. Stewart. 
 
 “ I know what you mean,” she said, “ but I do not 
 find any flaw in her brain ; she is simply overwhelmed 
 by a depth of agony which you and I cannot fathom.” 
 
 “ But how can she feel such grief for a man of whom 
 she knew so little ? You surely do not believe her 
 story that she lived a former existence and was 
 Edelstein’s wife ? ” 
 
 “ I cannot tell you exactly what I believe,” said 
 Mrs. Stewart with a troubled look. “ Perhaps I am 
 a little over-tired myself with anxiety and nursing, but 
 I have been powerfully impressed by the strength and 
 vividness of her own conviction on this subject. Her 
 ravings were most strange. She does not speak about 
 the matter now.” 
 
 “Try to get her to speak,” said the father, who was 
 softening every moment towards his child. 
 
A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 193 
 
 Mrs. Stewart tried to lead her to open her mind on 
 the strange subject which engrossed it. Hilda sat at the 
 window, her fair, almost silvery head set in a framework 
 of roses, her face deadly pale, her eyes darkened with 
 their habitual shadow of grief. Stewart, looking at her, 
 was startled afresh by her extraordinary resemblance 
 to the dying Hilda, who, sitting thus at a window 
 looking out at the Roman hills, had spoken to him 
 those fatal words which he had too faithfully recorded 
 and repeated to her husband. Overwhelmed by an 
 almost supernatural feeling that forced him against his 
 will to share momentarily the delusion of his lamented 
 friend, and to imagine that he saw the Hilda of Rome 
 in the flesh before him, he arose hastily and went out 
 of the room. 
 
 “ My dear," said Mrs. Stewart, struck with something 
 in the girl’s eyes which had suddenly turned on her, 
 “ will you not speak to me a little, if only to ease your 
 poor heart ? ” 
 
 “What can I say?” said Hilda, with a wan smile. 
 “There is one thought ever in my mind ; and who can 
 share it with me ? I rashly asked to have my heaven 
 in returning to the earth to him. My prayer was 
 granted — not for my heaven, but for my purgatory.” 
 
 “ Dear child ! ” 
 
 “ And my punishment I shall have to endure. I am 
 not going to die, as you all seem to fear. I shall live 
 many years in my purgatory ; and I shall not be allowed 
 to be idle in my pain. Work will be found for me tc 
 do.” 
 
 //. o. 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 A STRANGE LOVE STORY. 
 
 As soon as she was sufficiently restored to health 
 her father took her away to her old home in Cornwall, 
 where she lived with him as a dutiful and tender 
 daughter till his death, which occurred a few years 
 after these events. But there was always something 
 in her face which seemed to mark her as different from 
 other girls ; and no man dared ask her to be his wife. 
 
 After her father's death she went abroad, and joined 
 the devoted ranks of the Sisters of Charity. Further 
 we cannot follow her ; but she is living still. 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 I. 
 
 I T seems but this morning that I got up before the 
 sun, in our little wooden house, to cook, bake, 
 wash in the river, help to mow the grass, coax my 
 father, serve my brother Niccolo, and be as happy as 
 the grasshoppers that sing both night and day. We 
 lived upon a very high Alp, and we were poor, though 
 we did not suffer hardship. In winter we had plenty 
 of pine logs to keep the fire alive, and at night we were 
 very gay, singing songs and playing the zither. In 
 summer we breakfasted on the grass in the faint dawn, 
 dined under the long roof at the sheltered side of the 
 house, and supped by the starlight ; after which I 
 danced for my father, while Niccolo played the pipes. 
 The chance passing of travellers was an excitement to 
 us. A wood-carver from the Tyrol sprained his foot 
 near our place, and taught Niccolo to carve whilst we 
 nursed him. This was something to be grateful for, as 
 travellers would buy the work, and, besides, it gave 
 our boy something to do. He was a cripple from his 
 birth ; one foot did not come to the ground somehow, 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 1 96 
 
 and his back was a good deal bent. He had a little 
 square face, with bright eyes and brown hair, and was 
 said to be quite a Swiss, as our mother had been. The 
 first figure he carved was my patron saint, Christopher, 
 wading through the torrent with the Child-God on his 
 shoulders, and it was given me after he had bitten one 
 of my fingers because I had stayed out alone in the 
 moonlight, forgetting to fetch him. He never was so 
 vexed, however, that I could not offer him comfort, 
 asking him to plait my long hair, which came to my 
 ankles. I would sit down on the ground with my back 
 against his knees, when he would dress the hair beauti- 
 fully. If I were restless he would hurt me ; if I were 
 patient he would kiss me ; and if his work pleased him 
 fully, he was blithe the rest of the day. 
 
 Once I went with my father to a feast at a lower 
 village, the festa of St. Florian. This was the first 
 occasion on which I wore my mother’s costume. On 
 the night before the feast I was holding out my foot to 
 note how my shabby skirt had crept up my leg. My 
 father came and measured me with his alpenstock. 
 “You are now as tall as your mother,” he said ; “you 
 may henceforth wear her clothes.” He shed tears in 
 the morning when he saw me in her dress, but was 
 so well pleased afterwards that I ran to the nearest 
 tarn to see what I might be like. The tarn was nearly 
 filled with rosy clouds, besides a gigantic pine tree, 
 which tapered up and broke them. I seized the sombre 
 draperies of the pine tree, and, gazing into the water, 
 saw a maiden like the women whose fathers are wealthy 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 197 
 
 vine-dressers. Her petticoat was of orange cloth, her 
 long, narrow apron of a rich shade of blue, her black 
 velvet bodice was laced with gold over white, and a 
 deep red sash was folded well about her waist. The 
 only part of the picture that I knew was a pale, 
 dark countenance with red lips, and the wide black 
 eyes that seemed to take up half the face. I marked 
 Niccolo’s plaits and the silver arrows he had fastened 
 in them, and the bunch of scarlet ash-berries which he 
 had fixed behind my ear. I saw that this was myself, 
 and I ran merrily to the chalet to hug my little Niccolo, 
 and tell him not to pinch our neighbour Teresa, who 
 was kindly coming to keep house for him whilst my 
 father and I were away. 
 
 Placido with his mule came to meet us : a young man 
 of the village, who had sometimes business on our Alp. 
 He brought us to see his house, in which he had just 
 put pretty furniture, and asked us to praise the fresco 
 of St. Florian upon the gable, which he had lately got 
 retouched for the festa. He had also made a new 
 staircase up to his balcony, and the people joked 
 Placido, saying he meant to take a wife. 
 
 It was a very pleasant festa. People treated me as 
 a woman, now that I was grown enough to wear my 
 mother’s clothes. I was often asked to dance, and 
 listened to with attention when I sang and played the 
 zither. The next day Placido brought us a long way 
 upon our road towards home ; we could not get him to 
 leave us till the worst of the journey was past. Thanks 
 to his stout mule, we got over all our difficulties, and 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 198 
 
 were going along merrily, when we heard a voice above 
 us shouting through the pines. 
 
 Right above our heads there was a desert of lonely 
 crags, a wild and dreaded place, where death lies in 
 wait for men. My father left me sitting upon a pine- 
 stump, and went shouting up the crags, seeking the 
 stranger who had called. He returned with him by- 
 and by, and we hurried along on our journey ; for 
 though the air was flushed with colour, yet the dark- 
 ness was close at hand. We hastened along in silence, 
 dragging each other up steeps, and going hand in hand, 
 step by step, slowly along narrow shifty places. The 
 traveller had a fair foreign look, which is to us most 
 perfect beauty. His locks shone in the twilight after 
 my father’s dusky head had got lost in the gloom of 
 the pines. 
 
 Arrived at our Alp at last, we found Teresa preparing 
 supper, and Niccolo sitting in the doorway piping 
 shrilly up to the moon. The stranger gave me his 
 hand up the last ascent, then raised it to his 
 lips. 
 
 “ My pretty little girl,” he said, “ you have certainly 
 saved my life.” 
 
 When Niccolo saw us coming he limped to meet us. 
 
 “ Who is this that has come with you, Netta, who 
 smiles and kisses your hand ? ” 
 
 “ Hush ! Niccolo ; he is English, but he understands 
 our talk.” 
 
 The stranger threw down his hat and knapsack 
 before the door. The firelight shone over the thresh- 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 199 
 
 old, and our neighbour Teresa appeared carrying out 
 the supper-table, which she placed upon the grass. 
 
 The next morning when I wakened I peeped down 
 between the rafters of my bedroom in the loft, and saw 
 the stranger talking to my father in the doorway. 
 
 I crept down the ladder, and found nobody in the 
 place. Niccolo had lit the fire for me, and gone away 
 to his work, and I heard my father's voice shouting in 
 the distance. The signor was then gone. I heaved a 
 sigh between regret and relief, and seized hold of a 
 pitcher and prepared to go to the tarn. I made a step 
 across the threshold and started back ; the signor was 
 leaning smoking against our chalet. 
 
 I sprang back so quickly that I broke the pitcher, and 
 had to press my hands on my eyes to keep the tears 
 from falling. 
 
 “ Child ! " said the signor, smiling in at me, 11 why do 
 you take such pains to hide your face ? One does not 
 see so pretty a thing every day." 
 
 “ I am not pretty this morning," I said. “ It was only 
 my mother's clothes. And I was hiding my face in 
 trouble because I have broken my jug." 
 
 “ And you were going to fetch water ? " he said, 
 “and yonder pail is too heavy for you ? And it was 
 all owing to me that you broke the pitcher ? " 
 
 He lifted the pail on his shoulders. “ Come, let us 
 fetch the water," he said ; “ I shall want you to show 
 the way." 
 
 We fetched the water together, and the stranger 
 taught me to call him Signor John. He had an air 
 
200 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 grand and gentle, and a pleasant light in his eyes. He 
 laughed gaily when amused, and that encouraged me. 
 At breakfast we saw no Niccolo, and I invited the 
 Signor John to look at his carvings: at St. Barnaba 
 with her tower, St. Dorothy and her roses, St. Vincent 
 among his orphans, St. Elizabeth, whose royal mantle 
 was filled with bread. Niccolo had carved them all, 
 and they stood in a row in his workshop. They were 
 far the finest things we had got in our chalet ; yet 
 when I brought the signor to look at them Niccolo 
 shut the door in his face. 
 
 “Never mind!” said the Signor John, “we can 
 amuse ourselves ; I wish to make a sketch of you if 
 you don’t object to sit.” 
 
 “ I ought to be at my work,” I said ; but ran to 
 tell my father, who was chopping wood in the 
 pine-brake. 
 
 “ It is an honour not to be refused,” he said. “You 
 must ask the good Teresa to stay and prepare our 
 dinner.” 
 
 The signor spread out his pictures for me to see, 
 saying he was an artist only by love, and not by 
 profession. I thought that love must have the best 
 of it, so beautiful was his work ; much finer than 
 Placido’s fresco, which was considered something fine. 
 There were pictures of lovely ladies who were of his 
 own country, and their beauty seemed to laugh at me, 
 and my heart began to sink. 
 
 “Signor,” I said, almost tearfully, “shall I not return 
 to the chalet, and put on my mother’s clothes ? ” 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 201 
 
 “Your mother’s clothes ! ” he cried, amazed. 
 
 “Those I had on yesterday. The colours are gay 
 and bright. Else I shall make such an ugly picture — 
 you will throw it away.” 
 
 “You make far the prettiest picture I have ever 
 seen,” he said, “ and I shall hang it up where I can 
 look at it every day.” 
 
 I blushed with surprised delight. “ Thank you, 
 Signor John,” I muttered, and crossed my hands as 
 he had arranged them, and gazed over into the pine- 
 forest in a way which he had already approved. 
 
 The signor remained at our chalet for a whole week. 
 Every morning we started on some new excursion ; he 
 and I together, for my father had not time to attend 
 to him, and Niccolo could not walk. 
 
 One evening we were all at supper when Placido 
 appeared with his mule coming up our Alp. My father 
 welcomed him kindly, and bade him sit down and eat. 
 He looked strangely at the Signor John, and then at 
 me ; but our new friend spoke to him pleasantly, and 
 they were soon conversing together. Placido was a 
 large man, with a calm face. He had dark thoughtful 
 eyes, and brows well bent above them, and a heap 
 of coal-black locks that left his temples broad and 
 bare. He had a slow gentle smile, but was quick 
 and firm in speech. “As steady as Placido Lorez,” 
 was a by-word in his village. 
 
 After supper was over Placido seized on the supper- 
 table and carried it back to the chalet, I following on 
 his steps with a dish and ewer. As I washed the 
 
202 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 platters and restored them to their shelves Placido 
 put logs on the fire, and blew them into flames. 
 
 I finished my task and put off my apron, chattering 
 gaily to him all the time. I could see his figure looming 
 out against the firelight, and at the same time my father 
 and the Signor John standing talking out in the moon- 
 light. 
 
 Placido had given me very absent answers ; but at 
 last made a sudden move, and with two long strides 
 stood right before me. 
 
 “ Netta,” he said, “ I came to ask if you would 
 marry me.” 
 
 I was utterly amazed and a good deal frightened ; 
 he looked so very determined, as if I must come off 
 that moment, whether I would or not. My knees 
 knocked together, and I clung to the table. 
 
 " You don’t really mean it, Placido; you cannot 
 want a wife ! ” 
 
 “ Not any wife,” he said ; “ I only ask for you.” 
 
 II Oh, Placido, don’t ! ” I said. 
 
 il Look you, my little dearest one,” he urged, u you 
 may think me a rough lover. But never was a wife 
 more loved and prized than you will be, if you come 
 to me ! ” 
 
 “ Thank you, Placido,” I said, “ you mean to be 
 very kind to me; but I do not think about marrying; 
 and please be so very good as not to ask me 
 again.” 
 
 My father and the Signor John here put in their 
 heads at the door. 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 203 
 
 “ What is this that is going on?” said my father. 
 “ Netta, are you scolding our neighbour ? ” 
 
 “ Oh no, no ! ” cried Placido, “ it is only that my 
 suit displeases her. I asked her just now to marry 
 me, and she does not wish to consent.” 
 
 “What!” cried my father, turning to me. “You 
 don’t mean to say that you would refuse so kind an 
 offer ? Do not think about me, my daughter. I 
 would rather see you provided for than to keep you 
 for my comfort.” 
 
 “ I do not like to marry,” I said, weeping. “ I do 
 not love Placido, and it would be dreadful to have to 
 marry him.” 
 
 Placido’s face flushed and then turned pale again. 
 “ I did not come here to make you weep,” he said 
 sadly. “ The pain of my disappointment is not worth 
 one of your tears.” 
 
 He turned to go away, but my father seized him 
 by the arm. “Wait, my dear friend,” he said, 
 “ and do not be offended at a girl who is still a 
 child.” 
 
 Then turning to the signor, who had looked on 
 gravely at this scene : 
 
 “ Signor, come to my assistance,” he cried. “ Netta 
 will heed your counsel.” 
 
 The signor looked at me tenderly, with an uneasy 
 look in his face. 
 
 “ As you say, she is only a child,” he said. I “ beg 
 you will give her a little longer time to play.” 
 
 “So be it then,” said my father. 
 
204 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 I drew a long breath of relief, and looked grate- 
 fully at the friend who had saved me. Placido gazed 
 from me to the signor, and from the signor back to 
 me ; then suddenly laid hold of his alpenstock and 
 bade us a quick good-night. 
 
 After this we had some more pleasant days, till at 
 last there arrived a sad one when the signor prepared 
 to leave us. I felt an odd pain in my heart which 
 I could not drive away. The night before his de- 
 parture I was standing at the fire alone ; the logs 
 were almost burnt, and lay in a red heap on the 
 hearth. The signor came and stood by me. 
 
 “ Netta, when I am gone you must often think 
 of me.” 
 
 I strove with a sensation of choking. 
 
 “ What ! have you not a word for me ? ” 
 
 “ I do not want to weep,” I cried, and my tears 
 came down in a storm. 
 
 11 1 will certainly come back next year,” said the 
 signor, “and then you will be a woman grown.” 
 
 I wrung my hand away from him, and fled to my 
 loft. The next morning at breakfast he scarcely 
 looked at me. My father was going a journey with 
 him, and they talked about the roads. Niccolo, who 
 had now become merry, made faces behind the sig- 
 nor’s back, while I stood miserably in the doorway, 
 rubbing my chilly hands together. The travellers 
 bade us good-bye, and Niccolo went off to his work- 
 shop ; but I stood gazing drearily down the Alp. 
 
 The signor turned and came back to me. 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 205 
 
 " Buy yourself a ribbon, pretty one," he said, 
 “ when you go to the next festa.” 
 
 In another moment he was gone, and I had a piece 
 of gold in my hand. I uttered a moan of indignation, 
 and went flying down the Alp. u Signor John ! 
 Signor John ! ” I cried, in a voice that must have 
 been shrill enough to frighten the eagles. 
 
 I crushed the money into his hand, but it fell to 
 the ground between us ; and he hurried off, laughing 
 and looking over his shoulder. I dug the earth with 
 my nails, and buried the gold where it lay ; then fled 
 away into the pine-brake, to weep long and fiercely. 
 That evening Placido came back and repeated his 
 question. I gave him a sullen “No!” and he went 
 away more sadly than he had done before. And 
 then I began to get happy again, for Niccolo did not 
 pinch me, and talked to me all about his carvings, just 
 as before the signor came. 
 
 But my father came back from his journey with 
 a troubled face. 
 
 “ Placido has left his village,” he said, “ and gone 
 to push his way in the world ! ” 
 
 II. 
 
 Three years passed, and I was a staid maiden, who 
 did not care much for festas nor gay clothes. I 
 was not of so merry a temper as I had promised to 
 be, and people thought I was haughty, and some of 
 the girls disliked me. This was partly owing to 
 
20 6 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN '. 
 
 Niccolo, who would say, “ You need not speak to 
 Netta, she is grown so proud ; she thinks herself 
 quite a princess since the Englishman kissed her 
 hand ! ” A little thing gets one a character when 
 gossips are by to talk. Then I did not choose to 
 marry, and that was the worst; for, though suitors 
 might not plead like Placido Lorez, yet no one likes 
 to be refused, and their friends resented my coldness. 
 So I was a lonely kind of creature, and lived in my 
 own way, clinging fast to my father, and only vexed 
 when he would say, u When I am dead and gone, 
 who will take care of you and our peevish Niccolo?” 
 
 So things went on till the avalanche came down 
 upon us, killing my poor father, and burying him in 
 the ruins of our house. The goats and kids were 
 killed, and Niccolo was sorely hurt ; only I, as if by 
 miracle, escaped. 
 
 We sat for many hours on the fallen rocks, till the 
 people from the village reached us, when they brought 
 us down to their houses, and treated us like their own. 
 
 I tried to give little trouble, for I had nothing to 
 give them in return ; nothing at all had we saved 
 but the clothes we wore ; Niccolo’s arm was hurt, 
 so that he could not carve, and a woman’s work is 
 not much when she has not got a home to work in. 
 The housewives in the village had got daughters of 
 their own, and nobody seemed in need of a girl to 
 help them. The worst was that nobody would love 
 Niccolo, for, besides being utterly helpless, the lad had 
 a biting tongue. 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 207 
 
 Placido’s aged mother came out to look at me ; 
 when she saw my saddened face the tears came dow 7 n 
 her cheek. 
 
 “ My girl,” she said, “ I have hated you, for you 
 sent my son away, but the Lord has sent you trouble, 
 and I must forgive you.” 
 
 She brought me into her house, and I told her my 
 bitter thoughts, and that I wanted to go down to 
 the world where wages are given to labour. 
 
 “At Como,” she said, “ are the silk factories; and 
 there is many a way of earning when one gets down 
 to the level world. You used to play the zither, 
 and sing a song.” 
 
 “That is long ago,” I said, “and the zither is 
 buried with my father. I fear that all my music is 
 buried with it.” 
 
 “ At your age the music is not hushed so quickly,” 
 she said kindly, and pulled an old zither down from 
 a shelf. “ It used to be sweet enough,” she added ; 
 “ take it with my blessing. At least it may cheer 
 your way if it puts no money in your purse. And 
 the village shall see to your Niccolo ; though it must 
 be owned he is an imp.” 
 
 So I resolved to go down to the level world, to 
 work at the silks of Como, or at anything I could 
 find to do. The zither was to go with me, and 
 Niccolo was to stay at the village till such time 
 as I should have money to come back and fetch him. 
 
 I took my zither on my shoulder, and a wallet 
 in my hand, and, committing myself to God, I set 
 
208 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 out on my lonely way. Niccolo limped along with 
 me half a mile ; and when we found he could go no 
 further we stopped on the lonely road for a last 
 embrace. The poor lad had always loved me dearly, 
 and his spirit was quite broken now, and he clung 
 to me with cries. It was a moment of the cruellest 
 anguish when I had to push him at last from me, 
 and to hurry away. I heard his sobs behind me 
 for a long way as I went, and later fancied I could 
 hear them still, in the rush of the falling river and 
 the faint wail of the pines. 
 
 I had passed two pretty villages along my way, 
 and the sun had already set when I reached the 
 third. There was a glare behind the mountains, and 
 a warm golden haze floated in the vale. The houses 
 came down a hill and the streets were flights of steps. 
 Far above the roofs, and out of the chestnut trees, 
 rose the burning brazen cap of the campanile, and 
 the bell was sounding lazily, as if ringing itself to 
 sleep. The pines I had left behind me, in fringe 
 of olive and purple, on the dusky heights ; and here 
 there were only the heavily laden fruit trees, chestnuts 
 drooping over my shoulder, cherries dropping into 
 my mouth, walnuts lining the roadside, and fig-bushes 
 thrust in my path. Vines ran over the walls and 
 upon the crimsoned roofs, and clusters of ripened 
 grapes hung in at the doors and windows. A cloud 
 of silvery smoke had blent with the haze of the 
 sunset, and there was a smell as of burning logs and 
 fragrant wood. 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 209 
 
 The next day I passed through still more villages, 
 and got down to the flush and bloom of the Lombard 
 plains. The mountains here became walls of a gigantic 
 garden, vines wrapped their '-terraces, and melons 
 ripened in the meadows in the midst of the corn. 
 Plums were as lumps of gold, and the peaches glowed 
 in the fruit-gatherer’s basket, while nectarines and 
 apricots added perfume to the coloured air. Great 
 rows of mulberry trees reminded me now of the silk 
 works, and the grasshoppers sang so loud that I took 
 them for birds. 
 
 I got on board a small sailing vessel that plied upon 
 the lake, earning my fare by a little music, and went 
 singing down to Como, weary, travel-soiled, and with 
 blisters on my feet. I fell asleep in the middle of 
 my songs, and was gently shaken awake again by the 
 captain’s merry wife. She wore a white-and-scarlet 
 head-dress, and a large cross of gold, and crushed 
 grapes out of a basket into her baby’s laughing 
 mouth. The gaiety here on the lake was a thing to 
 make one stare : boats with scarlet cushions, ladies 
 in lace mantillas, boatmen with dazzling shirts and 
 brilliant sashes. The lake glowed with the most 
 exquisite bluish-green, and out of it rose the palaces, 
 with terraces climbing the heights. We passed towns 
 like straggling castles, whose streets were ladders of 
 stone creeping up from the water ; and all these 
 wonderful novelties were to me a fantastic dream. 
 
 Giulia, the captain’s wife, found me a lodging in 
 the town of Como, a closet under a chimney, beside 
 h.o. 14 
 
210 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN 
 
 the room where she and her husband had their home. 
 In order to reach this nest I had to climb a hundred 
 steps, which wound in and out of the houses up to 
 the roofs. Noises roused me by three o’clock in the 
 morning, wheels rolling, voices shouting, tambourines 
 ringing, besides the sound of many novel kinds of 
 music. I brushed up my dusty clothes, and went 
 out to look at the town. The people were holding 
 their market in the piazza of the Duomo, and tables 
 were there set out with provisions piled on them 
 lavishly. The shops under the loggie were already all 
 alive, and deep amber curtains fluttered gaily out of 
 the arches. Flowers teemed from the dark and 
 crooked balconies overhead, which hung like crazy 
 cages from the upper windows. Colours were flashing 
 everywhere : from brilliant oleander blossoms like living 
 flames in the air ; from the gay dresses of the people, 
 the piles of monster melons, the red marbles of the 
 Broletto, and the Duomo’s deeper hues. 
 
 I lifted the heavy curtain, and went into the Duomo ; 
 Mass was over, and most of the people were gone ; 
 but others kept pouring in, and the place was full. 
 Somebody touched me on the shoulder, and I looked 
 up with a start. Here was Placido in the dress of 
 a boatman ! 
 
 u Netta ! ” he whispered excitedly. His face was 
 flushed, and there were tears in his eyes. 
 
 u Oh, Placido Lorez ! ” I cried, and gave him both 
 my hands. 
 
 We sat on a bench and whispered in a shady corner 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN 
 
 21 1 
 
 of the church. Each had a story to tell, and each had 
 a ready listener. 
 
 “ My father is dead, Placido,” I said, u and Niccolo 
 is hurt in the Alps. I have come down here to Como 
 to try and earn money at the silk. This is my 
 whole story ; so life is sad enough.” 
 
 “ I guessed it was so,” said Placido. “ I knew 
 how it must be with you when I saw you crying at 
 the Mass. As for me, I have travelled far. I have 
 stored crops and driven oxen, and helped with the 
 vines in the South. For some months I have 
 been a boatman here on the lake ; and yesterday I 
 had it in mind to return to the Alps. But now 
 I believe I’ll wait a bit. There’s never good in 
 
 haste.” 
 
 “ There is a captain’s wife who is good to me,” 
 I said, it being now my turn again ; “ and she says 
 I shall earn money by singing, for the people here 
 in the plains are as fond of music as ourselves. I 
 sing better than I used to do, and your mother has 
 given me her zither.” 
 
 “ Little Netta ! ” he said, “ I have made a good bit 
 of money, and I don’t like to think that you must 
 work. I can’t forget the day when you declared you 
 could not love me, but maybe if you were to try you 
 might change your mind. It’s not that I am much 
 to care for, but the love in my heart is strong. 
 Who knows but that, after all, I could make you 
 happy ! ” 
 
 “ Placido,” I said, “ you are a kind man, but as 
 
212 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 I refused to marry you before, when I had got a 
 home, so I will not accept you now, because I am 
 in need of one." 
 
 “I would not bribe you with anything but just 
 my love," he answered mournfully. “ So if it cannot 
 be, it can’t, and I will not vex you. You must at least 
 let me be your friend, however." 
 
 “ My best friend," I said ; and after that we 
 walked hand in hand about the church, Placido 
 showing me the pictures, and explaining what they 
 meant, and telling me the touching stories that are 
 painted in the jewelled windows. 
 
 The captain’s wife befriended me, and people liked 
 my music, and I could earn more money with my 
 zither than in the factories. The people would gather 
 round me, asking each for his favourite song, and 
 my story got whispered among them, and they were 
 kinder than I could tell. “She sings for a helpless 
 brother," they said, and fees were therefore doubled 
 as they dropped in my lap. Great people also would 
 send for me now from their villas ; and I began to 
 save a little money. 
 
 I had to sing one evening at a palace on the lake, 
 and it was dark when I took my seat in the verandah. 
 The lake glittered with moonlight, and all along the 
 terraces hung dimly coloured lamps. A crowd of gay 
 figures had gathered on the marble steps that led 
 into the water. When I sang every one listened ; 
 when I ceased, I was forgotten ; save that somebody 
 went to a table and fetched me wine. 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 213 
 
 I looked up to thank this somebody, and saw the 
 Signor John. 
 
 “ Little Netta!” he exclaimed amazed. “Can it 
 be possible that this is you ? ” 
 
 “Yes, signor,” I said. 
 
 “Tell me how it has happened,” he asked. “What 
 can have fetched you down out of the snows to Como ? ” 
 
 “ My father is killed by the avalanche,” I said, “ and 
 I am earning money for Niccolo, who is hurt in the 
 Alps. It is now time for me to go, signor ; good-bye ! ” 
 
 “ Stay, I am going with you ! ” he said, and followed 
 me out on the hill, carrying my zither. 
 
 “ Sit down here and rest,” he said, when we had 
 gone a little way. 
 
 “ But I have still to get to Como,” I said, “ and I 
 want to rest in my bed.” 
 
 “ That is true,” said the signor, smiling. “ Let us 
 then take a boat at once.” 
 
 I looked up the water, and assured myself that 
 Placido was nowhere waiting for me. I stepped into 
 the signor’s boat, and went floating with him down 
 the moonlit lake. 
 
 “ How beautiful you have grown, Netta ! ” said the 
 signor as we went. “ Did I not tell you that you 
 would be a woman when we should meet again ? ” 
 
 I gravely shook my head. I remembered that he 
 had not come back, even to see if I were alive. 
 
 “ You have also grown prim and cold,” he added 
 presently. “ Indeed, you are so changed that I wonder 
 how I knew you.” 
 
214 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 11 It is only that one cannot always be a child/' I 
 said sadly ; and he lifted me out of the boat, and 
 brought me to the foot of the staircase which led up 
 to my nest in the roof. When I peered down from 
 the top I saw him looking up. I looked then into 
 the glass at the face which the Signor John had 
 called so beautiful. 
 
 u Placido never told me that I was beautiful,” I 
 reflected. 
 
 III. 
 
 After that I saw the signor every day. I had long 
 walks on the hills with him, and many a pleasanter 
 hour on the moonlit lake. He used to meet me at the 
 Duomo, so that I could not think of my prayers ; and 
 Giulia began to tease me, calling me a noble English 
 dame. 
 
 “ You’ll not forget me and baby? ” she said. “ You’ll 
 send us a present from England ? ” and I had already 
 considered in secret about what I should send her. 
 
 I thought I should be extremely happy were it not 
 for Placido Lorez ; but his face was always before me, 
 and his eyes had got grave and sad. 
 
 His sadness troubled me so much that I tried to keep 
 out of his way, and he soon saw that I avoided him, 
 and was careful not to annoy me. Once when I went 
 out on the lake with the Signor John, it happened that 
 Placido's boat was the boat he hired. Not till I was 
 fairly seated did I see the boatman. 
 
 Placido picked up his oars, and took his seat so that 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 215 
 
 he could not see me ; and never spoke a word nor 
 moved his head. His oars dipped in the lake and 
 scattered the shining water to right and left ; but 
 except for this sign of life he might have been a man 
 of stone. He did not even glance at me as I passed 
 him out of the boat, but his downcast face haunted 
 me all that night. 
 
 The next day I was tripping along by the boats on 
 the verge of the lake ; my zither perched on my 
 shoulder, and flowers blooming in my breast ; rare 
 bright flowers, sent me that morning by the Signor 
 John. It was far in the afternoon, when there is a 
 glitter about the place, such a burning of colour and 
 flashing of water, such a glow and dazzle overhead and 
 underfoot, that sometimes one can hardly see one’s 
 way. The boats look all the same, with their crimson 
 cushions, and with the dash, as of ink, in the water 
 under the side that is against the sun. The boatmen’s 
 white shirts make them also one like another, though 
 none were so tall as Placido, nor so quiet, nor yet so 
 strong. This time I did not see him, however, till he 
 put himself right in the way. 
 
 “ Netta, I want to speak to you.” 
 
 “ Make haste then ! ” I said gaily. 
 
 Placido took my hand and made me sit on the side 
 of his boat. Before this I had rather believed in his 
 strength than known it. 
 
 He looked at me, straight in the face, with a long 
 wistful gaze. 11 You are going to meet the signor ? ” 
 he said. 
 
216 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ Netta, has he asked you to be his wife ? ” 
 
 I said, “Not yet, Placido;” and I began to get 
 angry. 
 
 “Netta, do you think you love him ? ” 
 
 I hung my head and blushed, which might mean any- 
 thing. 
 
 “Dear,” he said, “you need not be angry, but you 
 must listen to me. Gentlemen seldom marry peasant 
 girls, though it may charm them to walk and sail with 
 one like you. And you have yourself to look to. Don’t 
 think me selfish, for I have no wish on earth, if it be 
 not to see you happy. If / could have made you 
 happy I would have done it ; but as that is not to 
 be — by Heaven, I’ll see that no one shall make you 
 wretched ! ” 
 
 “ I am not so easily made wretched,” I said 
 haughtily. 
 
 Placido looked at me tenderly for a moment, and 
 then turned away his face. 
 
 “ Wicked tongues can break the purest heart,” he 
 said softly. 
 
 I looked at him in great amazement, and then I 
 blushed ; : my face blushed, and my ears, my throat, 
 and my naked arms ; and then the blood seemed to 
 freeze within me, and my pulses got cold and still. I 
 did not speak for a minute, but gazed on the ground 
 and thought. 
 
 “ Placido, you may look at me now,” I said presently, 
 “ for I am only going to thank you.” 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 217 
 
 Then I turned and left him, and went my way. I 
 did not flaunt so gaily, nor trip so lightly as usual. 
 The pain in Placido’s face had given me a shock. 
 
 The signor was already waiting for me up in the 
 hills ; it being now a matter of course that I should 
 meet him there in the evenings, when we would watch 
 the sun set redly behind the vineyards ; while he talked 
 to me all about England, and of his home where my 
 pretty portrait now hung on the wall. I had believed 
 that he always thought of me as future mistress of 
 this honoured home, never thinking at all of the gulf 
 between us. Now I sat by him silently looking down 
 on the shining lake. 
 
 u Netta,” he said, u what ails you ? ” 
 
 “ I have been thinking of how I can tell you that I 
 must not come here again,” I said. 
 
 “Must not come here again!” he echoed. “Who 
 has the right to prevent you ? ” 
 
 “ Only my own will,” I answered. 
 
 “Then that must bend to mine,” he said, smiling, 
 " for I cannot live without you.” 
 
 A lump rose up in my throat, but I choked it down. 
 
 “ Signor,” I said sadly, u I am an ignorant girl from 
 the mountains, while you — you know the world. You 
 might have been kinder.” 
 
 He glanced quickly at my face ; his brow suddenly 
 reddened, and he turned his head away from me. So 
 had Placido looked when he feared to pain me ; only 
 Placido had nothing to blush for; the blush had been 
 left for me. 
 
2l8 
 
 TI1E SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 “ There is no need to be vexed,” I said, “ and I did 
 not mean to hurt you. I am going back to the town 
 now. I shall always be proud of your friendship, 
 Signor John.” 
 
 I waited a minute patiently, but he did not move his 
 head. I did not see any reason why I should wait 
 or speak to him again, so I turned away, and began 
 walking towards the town. 
 
 I heard his steps coming behind me. 
 
 u Netta ! ” he called. 
 
 “ Well ? ” I said. 
 
 “ Netta, will you be my wife ? ” 
 
 I felt a great shock of triumph. He had really said 
 the words, and I could tell Placido ; and yet somehow 
 all the gladness had gone out of my heart. In an 
 hour my life was changed ; yet I did not know it. 
 
 I said “ Yes,” slowly, for I thought I loved him, and 
 I remembered that he was a noble signor, and that in 
 this he was very good. Placido had said truly that 
 lords do not marry peasants ; and the signor had made 
 a sacrifice in order to win my hand. I knew that 
 I ought to be proud of it, and yet somehow I felt 
 ashamed. I could not forget his face when he had 
 turned it away from me, nor the struggle which I had 
 then witnessed, nor the wound that had been given to 
 my pride. Surely I might be content, I thought, yet I 
 wept that whole night through ; I thought I had been 
 a great deal happier when alone on the Alpine paths. 
 
 The signor brought me gifts ; a chain for my neck, 
 and trinkets for my ears, and a ring for my fingers, 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN 
 
 219 
 
 as pledge of troth. Never was a more generous lover 
 than the Signor John. The evening after I received 
 them I decked myself in the jewels, and ran out into 
 the twilight to bring my news to Placido. This friend 
 had been away at Colico since early dawn, and I 
 watched for his coming back from my little window 
 up in the roof. His boat pulled into the harbour just 
 after sunset. 
 
 a Oh, Netta ! is it you?” he cried, and sprang 
 eagerly to the beach. 
 
 I shook my head at him laughingly, and the dying 
 flare of the sun blazed on my jewels. 
 
 “ Placido, I have come to tell you about it ; I am 
 to be married this day week ! ” 
 
 Placido bent his head : “ I thank God for your 
 welfare,” he said. 
 
 I bit my lips cruelly, and the tears sprang to my 
 eyes. I had thought that he might have been just a 
 little grieved. 
 
 “ It is wonderful,” I said, 11 how friends can be glad 
 to lose one.” 
 
 Placido looked at me in wonder. His face was 
 deadly pale, and he appeared to be very tired, or to 
 have lately suffered. Somehow I could not be satisfied, 
 though I had come out here to triumph over him. 
 He had thought I could be treated lightly, and I had 
 shown him his fears were vain. He had thanked God 
 for my happiness, and that was all. 
 
 He began now to speak cheerfully, seeing that clouds 
 had gathered on my face. 
 
220 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 11 So you are going to be a noble lady,” he said, “ in 
 some splendid place beyond the seas. Maybe in the 
 course of years you will come back to Como.” 
 
 I did not believe a word of it ; it seemed all a lying 
 tale. It was like the stories told out of the curling 
 smoke when the logs are burning in the Alps. I stood 
 upon a heap of sails, with my foot on the edge of the 
 boat, my jewels flashing as the boat swayed, and my 
 eyes on the west where the light was fading. Yes, 
 yes, I was to be a noble lady, and to live in a foreign 
 country with the Signor John, and there would be a 
 very vast difference, in the days that were still to come, 
 between me up in my high place and Placido plying 
 his boat on the lake. 
 
 The light faded away, and the water lapped darkly 
 at the side of the boat. My jewels ceased to flash, 
 and there was a long, long silence, which Placido 
 broke. 
 
 “And Niccolo?” he asked abruptly, as if following 
 out some train of thought. 
 
 I gave a sudden, violent start, and stared at him 
 blankly. In the midst of my excitement I had forgotten 
 Niccolo. In arranging for my own welfare I had let 
 my poor helpless brother slip out of my thoughts. 
 
 “ The signor will take care of him,” I muttered ; “ I 
 will take him with me to England.” 
 
 “ Your signor is a generous man,” returned Placido; 
 and then I bade him good-night, and went up to my 
 nest to think. 
 
 I sat on my bed in the dark, tossing my twinkling 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN 
 
 221 
 
 jewels about in my lap. The signor had gone to a 
 ball at one of the palaces on the lake ; he was dancing 
 even at this moment with the ladies who were quite 
 his equals, yet whom he had not found so lovable as 
 simple me. Ah, for the sake of my love, would he 
 be good to Niccolo ? It seemed to me, as I sat there 
 in the depths of my sore remorse, that there was no 
 one half so dear to me as that lone, helpless creature 
 whom people disliked and called the imp : I had 
 
 promised to come back for my brother, and I vowed 
 I would keep my word. 
 
 Next day I was earlier than I need have been at 
 the familiar seat on the hill. 
 
 “ Signor,” I said, as soon as he was seated beside 
 me. 
 
 “You must not call me ‘signor,’ Netta.” 
 
 “Ah, I always forget. You remember my brother 
 Niccolo ? ” 
 
 The signor’s face clouded. “ I do remember him 
 well,” he said. 
 
 “ He is waiting till I return for him, up in the Alps.” 
 
 u He must wait a long time then, Netta, if you are 
 coming with me.” 
 
 “Signor!” I said, “can we not bring Niccolo with 
 us ? ” 
 
 He laughed a low laugh. He did not mean to be 
 unkind, I think ; it was only that he felt amused. 
 
 “No, Netta ; indeed we could not take him.” 
 
 “ He has no one at all but me,” I said, speaking low, 
 holding my breath. 
 
222 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN 
 
 11 He must learn to do without you, then. Once for 
 all, my pretty one, you must leave your friends behind 
 you ; though you can still provide for your brother — 
 getting some one to take good care of him up in the 
 mountains.” 
 
 “ No one loves Niccolo,” I muttered reflectively. 
 
 “ Therefore you need not think me cruel,” said the 
 signor. 
 
 il Therefore I cannot leave him,” I whispered. 
 
 The signor began to look angry. 
 
 “Netta!” he said, “you talk like a spoiled child. 
 You must try to forget Italy, and that is the plain 
 
 truth. It will be quite hard enough upon me ” 
 
 Here he stopped. 
 
 “ Yes,” I said, looking at him. “ Tell me what will 
 be hard.” 
 
 “ Nothing,” he said, smiling again; “ nothing that 
 will not be set right when you have been a year in 
 England.” 
 
 “ And have quite forgotten Italy ? ” 
 
 “ And have almost forgotten Italy. And now, since 
 that is settled, my Netta, tell me what you will have 
 for a wedding gift ? ” 
 
 “ Signor,” I said, “ you have already given me too 
 much. You have, indeed, been very good to me — 
 that I cannot forget.” 
 
 “ Tush, Netta ! what is the matter with you ? ” he 
 said. “ I will give you anything you like.” 
 
 I sat silent again, looking out over the water. In 
 the distance some elegant ladies were embarking from 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN 
 
 223 
 
 their marble staircase. Away at the bottom of the lake 
 towered the azure walls of the Alps, and away, farther 
 still, folded up somewhere in their royal purple, sat 
 my sad, crippled brother, my poor, peevish lad, whom 
 nobody, save myself, would ever love. Yonder, with 
 the dainty ladies, was the place for the Signor John; 
 mine was in the Alps, with Niccolo. 
 
 “ Signor,” I said at last, “ I am an ignorant girl, but 
 I have been lately thinking more than you would believe. 
 I acknowledge that it was generous of you to ask me to 
 be your wife, and that my love would not be worth 
 to you all the trouble it must cost. Like should mate 
 with like, and you and I are unlike ; yet I should 
 hardly have dared to speak had it not been for 
 Niccolo ? ” 
 
 The signor looked at me in amazement. 
 
 “ You mean that you want to be free again, 
 Netta ? ” 
 
 “Yes,” I said, “if you please.” 
 
 “You mean to give up everything for Niccolo?” 
 
 “To-morrow I shall be on the Alps, going back for 
 him,” I said. 
 
 “Netta, you shall not jilt me !” 
 
 “No, Signor John, that would, indeed, be too saucy. 
 You shall jilt me, if you like it better.” 
 
 “ This is very fine,” he said, “ but I shall alter your 
 way of thinking ! ” 
 
 “ In the meantime say good-bye, signor, for I shall 
 not see you to-morrow.” 
 
 “Good-bye, Netta, for the present.” 
 
224 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 “ Good-bye, Signor John, and may God be with 
 you ! ” 
 
 He had caught both my hands, as if he would not 
 let me go ; but I twisted them from him suddenly, and 
 went running down the hill and out of his sight. 
 
 I packed up my jewels and sent them back to their 
 owner, who had been generous enough to give them, 
 as though I had been fit to be his w 7 ife. My good 
 Giulia carried them, after mourning over them for an 
 hour, and early on the following day I went out to look 
 for Placido. 
 
 “ I’ve come to say good-bye, Placido. Pm off now 
 to the Alps.” 
 
 “ The Alps ! ” cried Placido wonderingly. 
 
 “ For Niccolo,” I said brightly. “ We are not going 
 to England though. The signor is going alone.” 
 
 Placido sprang from his boat with a radiant face. 
 
 “Ah, Netta ! is it true? But you shall not travel 
 alone.” 
 
 “ Of course I shall travel alone. I did it before with 
 a sadder heart.” 
 
 " I am going to see my mother,” said Placido. “ I 
 hope you will not object.” 
 
 “Why should I object?” I said. “ Your mother will 
 be glad to see you.” 
 
 “As glad as your Niccolo to see you.” 
 
 u I'll take care to tell her you are coming,” I 
 said. 
 
 “You think, then, that you are likely to outwalk 
 me?” 
 
THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 225 
 
 “What! do you mean to say that you are coming 
 with me now ? ” 
 
 “ I mean to be your fellow-traveller, ” he said, 
 “ unless you tell me truly that you would rather go 
 alone.” 
 
 I could not say that I would rather go alone, so we 
 made our journey together back to the Alps. As we 
 went along Placido told me much of his former journeys, 
 and what grief he had suffered, and what dreary things 
 he had said to himself; and I knew well that his misery 
 had been because I could not love him. As for me, I 
 confessed my carelessness with regard to Niccolo, and 
 my feelings towards the English signor, which had 
 been all made up of pride ; and Placido tried to excuse 
 me a little, and promised not to think ill of me. It was 
 much happier travelling with him than wandering quite 
 alone, and by the time we got near his village I was 
 grieved that the journey was past. 
 
 We sat upon two large pine-stumps then, and looked 
 at each other gravely. Another wind of the road would 
 bring us within sight of friends. I had felt a strange 
 joy in being alone in the world with Placido, and I 
 knew by Placido’s face that he liked taking care 
 of me. 
 
 “ Netta,” said Placido simply, “will you be my wife 
 at last ? ” 
 
 “ I wonder you ask me again,” I said ; “ but it would 
 cost me far too dear to refuse you now .’ 
 
 So it happened that we were married in his village 
 church, with his mother and my Niccolo, besides many 
 ho. 15 
 
226 
 
 THE SIGNOR JOHN. 
 
 friends, around us. And now we are again at Como. 
 Niccolo, who has got stronger, is carving figures under 
 our trees, while grandmother teaches our child to touch 
 the zither. And Placido is not a boatman now ; we 
 live in our own vineyard, where the Signor John has 
 been to see us, bringing his charming English bride. 
 
THE FIT OF AILSIE’S SHOE. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 N a certain mellow August afternoon an old 
 
 V woman was travelling along the sea-girt road 
 between Portrush and Dunluce. She wore a long grey 
 cloak, and a scarlet neckerchief thrown over her white 
 cap. Her face was unusually sallow and wrinkled, 
 with small, shrewd, furtive eyes. She carried a stick, 
 and halted now and then from fatigue. 
 
 She looked often from right to left, and from left to 
 right, over the sea, heaving helplessly under its load of 
 blazing brooding glory, and inland, over the stretches 
 of green and golden, where cattle browsed and corn 
 ripened. She seemed like one not assured of her way, 
 and looking for landmarks. Presently she stopped 
 beside some boys who were playing marbles under a 
 hedge to ask whereabouts might stand the house of 
 one James MacQuillan. 
 
 “Is it Jamie’s you want?’’ said the eldest lad; 
 “there it’s up the hill yonder, with its shoulder agin 
 the haystack. But if you’re goin’ there, I’ll tell you 
 that Ailsie’s out at the fair. Mother saw her pass our 
 door at sunrise this mornin’.” 
 
228 
 
 THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 From the way he gave his information, the urchin 
 evidently thought that, Ailsie being from home, it was 
 worth no one’s while to climb the hill to Jamie’s. No 
 way staggered in her purpose by the news, however, 
 the old woman proceeded on her travels, and took her 
 way towards the haystack. 
 
 She plodded up a green-hedged lonan, and emerged 
 from it on a causeway of round stones bedded in clay. 
 Here stood “ Jamie’s,” a white cottage smothered in 
 fuchsia-trees. There was a sweet scent of musk and 
 sitherwood hanging about, and a wild rose was nailed 
 against the gable. A purple pigeon was cooing on the 
 russet thatch, and a lazy cloud of smoke was reluctantly 
 mingling its blue vapour with the yellow evening air. 
 Overtopping the chimney there rose a golden cock of 
 new-made hay. The old woman snuffed the fragrant 
 breath of the place, poked at the fuchsia-bushes with 
 her stick, and peered all about her with her shrewd 
 bright eyes. At last she approached the open door, 
 and looked across the threshold. 
 
 There was a small room with a clay floor, a fire 
 winking on the hearth almost blinded out by the sun, 
 a spinning-wheel in the corner, an elderly woman 
 knitting beside the window, and a check-curtained bed 
 standing in the corner, in which a sickly man sat up 
 with a newspaper spread on his knees. 
 
 “ God save all here ! ” said the visitor, pushing in 
 her head at the door. “An’ is this Jamie Mac- 
 Quillan’s ? ” 
 
 “As sure as my name’s Jamie,” said the weakly 
 
THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 229 
 
 man, taking off his spectacles. “Take a seat, ma’am. 
 You’d be a thraveller maybe, cornin’ home from the 
 fair ? ” 
 
 The old woman had dropped into a chair, panting 
 with fatigue. 
 
 “It’s no shame for ye,” she gasped, “that ye don’t 
 know me, seein’ that ye never set eyes on me before ; 
 but I’m wan o’ the McCambridges, from beyont Lough 
 Neagh, an’ I’ve walked every foot o’ the road to see you 
 an’ yours.” 
 
 “Why, you don’t mane to say that?” cried Jamie, 
 his pale face lighting up. “You don’t mane to say 
 you’re Shaun McCambridge’s sisther, Penny, own 
 cousin to my father’s second wife, that was to have 
 stood for our Ailsie at her christenin’, only she took a 
 pain in her heel and couldn’t stir from home? Faith, 
 an’ I might have knowed you by the fine hook o’ your 
 nose, always an’ ever the sign o’ the rale ould blood. 
 Throth that same blood’s thicker nor wather. Mary 
 machree, it’s Penny McCambridge, from Lough Neagh 
 side ! ” 
 
 Mary, the wife, now lifted her voice in welcome. 
 
 “ Good luck to you, Cousin Penny,” she said. “ The 
 sight o’ wan o’ your folks is the cure for sore eyes. 
 Come over an’ give us the shake o’ your han’, for not a 
 stir can I stir this year past with the pains, no more 
 nor Jamie there that’s down on his back since May. 
 Och, it’s the poor do-less pair we’d be only for our 
 Ailsie, that’s han’s an’ feet to us both, an’ keeps things 
 together out an' in.” 
 
230 
 
 THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 A great hand-shaking followed this speech, and then 
 the visitor began to inquire for Ailsie, her god-daughter, 
 that was to have been, only for the unfortunate pain in 
 the heel. 
 
 “Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the father; “ she’ll be 
 in from the fair by-an’-by, an’ then if ye don’t give her 
 the degree for the han’somest girl and the best manager 
 that ever stepped about a house, I’ll give ye lave to go 
 back to Lough Neagh an’ spend the rest o’ your days 
 sarchin’ for her aiquals.” 
 
 “Whisht, Jamie,” said the mother; “self-praise is 
 no praise, no more is praise o’ yer own flesh an’ blood. 
 All the same, I wisht Ailsie was in to make Cousin 
 Penny the cup o’ tay afther her thravels. She was to 
 bring a grain o’ the best green from Misther McShane’s, 
 in Portrush, as well as all the news from Castle Craigie, 
 an’ of the doin’s of ould Lady Betty MacQuillan, more 
 power to her ! ” 
 
 “ Is that the ould lady that’s come home from 
 Ingia ? ” asked she who was called Penny McCam- 
 bridge. 
 
 “Ay, ay,” said the wife of Jamie eagerly. “Ye’ve 
 passed through Portrush, an’ ye’ll maybe have the 
 foreway of Ailsie with the news. What are they 
 saying in the town ? ” 
 
 “ Well, ye see,” said Penny, “ bein’ a sthranger, and 
 spakin’ to few, I heard but little. But they do say 
 that her husband was the last of the MacQuillans of 
 Castle Craigie, an’ that as she has ne’er a child of her 
 own, all the MacQuillans in the counthry are claimin' 
 
THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 231 
 
 kin with her, an’ fightin’ among them about which’ll 
 be her heir.” 
 
 “An’ is that all ye know, Penny dear?” said Mary. 
 “ Why, I have more nor that mysel’. Sure she’s 
 written round an’ round to every MacQuillan o’ them 
 all, biddin’ them to a grand house-warmin’ on Wensday 
 come eight days, when she’ll settle it all, an’ name 
 who’s to come afther her. An’ though she’s in London 
 now, she’ll be at Castle Craigie afore then to resave 
 them. An’ sich a resavin’ as that’ll be ! Sich fixin’ an' 
 furbishin’ as there is at the ould castle. They say 
 there never was the likes o’ it seen since the day Sir 
 Archie MacQuillan brought home his fairy bride, an* 
 then it wasn’t painters an’ bricklayers, but the 1 good 
 people’ themselves that laid han’s on the rooms.” 
 
 “ She must be a queer sort of a body,” said Penny. 
 “But I hope, Jamie, that you , as honest a man, an’ as 
 good a MacQuillan as ever a wan among them, I hope 
 you haven’t been shy of sendin’ in your claim.” 
 
 “ Och, Penny, if you’d only put that much spunk 
 into him ! ” cried Mary, with energy, “ it’s what Pm 
 sayin’ to him mornin’, noon, an’ night, an’ it’s no 
 more to him than the crickets chirpin’.” 
 
 “ Stop your grumblin’, Mary,” said the husband ; 
 “ there’s richer nor us, and there’s poorer, but we’re 
 not so mane yet as to go cravin’ for what we’re not 
 likely to get. It’s not to MacQuillans like us that 
 Lady Betty has sent her invite.” 
 
 “ An’ more shame for her ! ” cried Mary, waxing 
 wroth. “ Listen to me, Cousin Penny. When Lady 
 
232 
 
 THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 Betty’s husband, Sir Dinis MacQuillan that’s dead an’ 
 gone, was nothing but plain Dinis, an’ the youngest of 
 seven sons, he went off an’ married wan or’nary-faced, 
 low-born lass, called Betty O’Flanigan, an’ brought 
 her all the way from County Wexford to Castle Craigie 
 here, thinkin’ he had nothin’ to do in the world but 
 ring the gate bell, an’ walk in with his wife. It was 
 Christmas-time, an’ hard weather, an’ sich feastin’ an’ 
 visitin’ goin’ on at the castle, when all at wanst the 
 news o’ the marriage come down like a clap on the 
 family. It took six men to hold ould Sir Patrick, he 
 was in that mad a rage, an’ you may guess it was 
 little welcome poor Betty got when Dinis brought her 
 to the door. The two o’ them had just to turn back 
 the way they come, an’ it beginnin’ to snow, when 
 Jamie there, that was then a lad of fifteen, he was 
 standin’ out by his mother’s door, an’ he spied them 
 cornin’ down the road. Betty had on a fine gown, but 
 she looked very lonesome, poor body, an’ Jamie knowin’ 
 what had happened, he up an’ he says : 
 
 “'Mrs. MacQuillan,’ says he, 'it’s cornin’ on a storrm, 
 an’ it’ll be hard on you goin’ further the night,’ says he. 
 
 ' And if you’ll be so. good as to step inside,’ says he, 
 
 ' it’s my mother ’ll be glad to see you.’ 
 
 " Poor Betty was glad to hear the word, an’ in she 
 went, an’ stay there she did for two weeks, till her 
 husband got their passage taken out to Ingia. An’ 
 when she was goin’ away, an’ biddin’ good-bye, she 
 says to Jamie, she says, 'Jamie, my boy, if ever Betty 
 MacQuillan comes home from Ingia a rich woman, 
 
THE FIT OF AILSIE’S SHOE. 
 
 233 
 
 she’ll find out you an’ yours, if you’re above the arth, 
 an’ mind you, she’ll pay you back your good turn ! ’ 
 
 “ Many’s the time I hard the story from Jamie’s 
 mother, rest her sowl!” Mary went on. “An’ it’s 
 the fine fortune Dinis an’ Betty made in Ingia. Two 
 years back, when the last of the brothers died without 
 childer, we hard that Sir Dinis was cornin’ back to end 
 his days in Castle Craigie. But that news wasn’t stale 
 till we hard o’ his death, poor man ! An’ now Betty’s 
 cornin’ back her lone, a rich woman, an’ a fine lady. 
 An’ I’ll just ax you, Cousin Penny, if it wouldn’t fit 
 her betther to be lookin’ afther Jamie there, that offered 
 her the shelter o’ the roof when she was in need o’t, 
 than to be huntin’ up a pack o’ highfliers, the very set 
 that sneered an’ sniggered over her disgrace in the 
 dhrawn-room at the castle, the day she was turned 
 from the gates ? ” 
 
 Cousin Penny had given attentive ear to the wife, 
 and now she turned to the husband. 
 
 “ What do you say to that now, Jamie ? ” she asked, 
 with a knowing twinkle of her shrewd bright eyes. 
 
 “ I say this,” cried Jamie, crackling and folding at 
 his paper with energy. “ I say that the man or boy, 
 it’s all wan, that does a good turn expectin’ to be paid 
 for it, desarves no more thanks than a man that sells a 
 cow and dhrives a good bargain. An’ I say that Mary 
 ought to be ashamed to sit there talking of sich a thing 
 that happened forty year ago, an’ if Ailsie was here 
 she wouldn’t — but good luck to her ! there she is 
 hersel’, gone past the window.” 
 
234 
 
 THE FIT OF A I LSI E ’S SHOE. 
 
 All the three pairs of eyes were now turned to the 
 doorway, whose sunny space was obscured for a 
 moment by as pretty a figure as any lover of fresh and 
 pleasant sights could wish to see. This was a ripe- 
 faced, dark-haired country girl, with her coarse straw 
 bonnet tipped over her forehead, to save her eyes from 
 the sun, and her neat print gown tucked tidily up over 
 her white petticoat. 
 
 “ Come in, Ailsie ! ” cried Jamie, “ come in an’ see 
 your cousin, Penny McCambridge, from Lough Neagh 
 side, that was to have been your godmother, an’ has 
 come every fut o’ the road from that to this, to see 
 what sort o’ Lss you’ve turned out.” 
 
 “ Make haste an’ make us the cup o’ tay,” said her 
 mother. “ I hope you didn’t forget to bring us a 
 
 grain o’ the best green from Misther McShane’s ? 
 Good girl ! An’ how did yer eggs an’ butter sell ? 
 I’ll lay you a shillin’ you haven’t the sign o’ either 
 wan or the other to set before the sthranger this 
 day ! ” 
 
 u Maybe I haven’t though!” said Ailsie, laughing. 
 “ It’s by the fine good luck I put by two nice little pats 
 undher a dish, afore I went off this mornin’. An’ as 
 for eggs, if Mehaffy hasn’t laid wan afore this time o' 
 day, I’ll put her in the pot for a lazy big hen, an’ 
 Cousin Penny ’ll stay an’ help to ate her.” 
 
 A nice little meal was set, and Ailsie flung herself on 
 a bench to rest. 
 
 “An’ now you’ll have breath to tell us the news, 
 Ailsie,” said Mary, the mother, sipping her tea coni- 
 
THE FIT OF AILSIE'S SHOE. 
 
 235 
 
 placently. “ What’s doin’ an’ sayin’ in Portrush about 
 Lady Betty ? ” 
 
 “ Oh troth, mother ! ” said Ailsie, tossing her head, 
 u troth I’m sick, sore, an’ tired, hearin’ o’ the quare old 
 house she’s pulled down on her back, poor body ! Sich 
 gregin’ an’ comparin’ you never hard since the day you 
 were born. The frien’s o’ wan MacQuillan, an’ the 
 frien’s o’ another, at it hard an’ fast for which’ll have 
 the best chance of cornin’ in for the ould lady’s favour. 
 An’ sich preparations ! Mrs. Quinn, the housekeeper, 
 took me all through the castle to see the new grandeur ; 
 an’ sich curtains, an’ pictures, an’ marble images, an’ 
 sich lookin’-glasses ! feth, when I went to the dhrawn- 
 room door, I thought I’d gone crazy, for half-a-dozen 
 other Ailsies started up in the corners an’ all over the 
 walls, an’ come to meet me with their baskets on their 
 arms. An’ then there’s the ball-room where the 
 dancin’s to be, all hung round with green things, an’ 
 the floor as slippy an’ as shiny as the duck-pond was 
 last Christmas in the long frost. An’ I went into Miss 
 O'Trimmins’, the dressmaker, to see if her toothache 
 was better, an’ I do declare she could hardly reach me 
 her little finger across the heaps of silks an’ muzlins 
 that she had piled about her there in her room. An’ 
 while I was there, a carriage dashed up to the door, an’ 
 out stepped the five Miss MacQuillans from Bally 
 Scuffling, an’ in they all came to have their dresses 
 tried on. An’ Miss O’Trimmins kept me to hold the 
 pins while she was fittin’ them, for all her girls were 
 that busy they could hardly stop to thread their 
 
236 
 
 THE FIT OF AT LSI FIS SHOE. 
 
 needles. An’ sich pinchin’ an’ screwin’ ! When they 
 went away, I said to Miss O’Trimmins, ‘ I’m thankful/ 
 says I, ‘ that none o’ these gowns is for me.’ An’ she 
 laughed, and says she, ‘ 1 wouldn’t put it past you, 
 Ailsie, to be right glad to go to the same ball if you 
 got the chance.’ 
 
 “ 1 I’m not so sure o’ that,’ says I, ‘ but, as for 
 chance, my name’s MacQuillan as well as it’s theirs that 
 were here this minute lookin’ at me as if I was the dirt 
 undher their feet. An’ put it to pride or not,’ says I, 
 1 but I do think, if I was done up grand, I could 
 manage to cut as good a figure in a ball-room as e’er a 
 wan o’ them red-nosed things that are goin’ to dress 
 themsel’s up in all this fine grass-coloured satin ! ’ It 
 was very impident an’ ill done o’ me to make such a 
 speech,” said Ailsie, blushing at her confession, which 
 had sent Cousin Penny into fits of laughter, “ but my 
 blood was up, somehow, with the looks o’ them old 
 things from Bally Scuffling, an’ I couldn’t hold my 
 tongue ! ” 
 
 “ Go on, go on, Ailsie dear ! ” said Penny, wiping 
 her eyes. 
 
 ‘‘Oh, then,” said Ailsie, “she began talkin’ the same 
 kind o’ stuff that they were botherin’ me with the day 
 through, axin’ me why my father hadn’t sent word to 
 Lady Betty like the rest o’ the MacQuillans, tellin’ me 
 we were the only wans o’ the name that hadn’t spoken. 
 It’s just the wan word in all their mouths. Mrs. 
 Maginty, that buys my eggs, she was at it ; an’ ould 
 Dan Carr, that takes my butter from me, I thought I’d 
 
THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE . 
 
 23 7 
 
 never get him talked down, an' Nancy McDonnell that 
 was sellin’ sweeties in the fair, an’ Katty O’Neil that 
 was goin’ about with me all day, an’ Mrs. McShane 
 that I bought the tea from. Och ! I couldn’t remember 
 the wan half o’ them ! ” 
 
 u An’ what did you say to them, Ailsie dear ? ” asked 
 Mary, the mother, insinuatingly. 
 
 “ Why,” said Ailsie, “ I tould them first, that all the 
 rest o’ the MacQuillans about were ladies an' gentlemen, 
 an’ would be creditable to Lady Betty when she made 
 her choice, but that my father was a poor man that had 
 nothin’ to do with the comin’s an’ goin’s o’ genthry. 
 But when that wouldn’t do, I up an’ told them that he 
 had too much feelin’ for a lonely old woman cornin’ 
 home without a friend in her ould age, to think of 
 beginnin’ to worry her about what would be to divide 
 afther her death, afore ever she set foot in the counthry. 
 
 ‘ It’s an ill welcome for all their fine talking,’ said I, 
 
 ‘ an’ if they hadn’t put her an’ pesthered her to it, she 
 would never be for doin’ the quare thing she’s goin’ to 
 do on Wensday week night.’ An’ what do you think 
 she is goin’ to do, father ? ” said Ailsie, turning to 
 Jamie, “ but she’s to have a big cake made, an’ a ring 
 in it, an’ every MacQuillan at the feast gets a piece o’ 
 the cake, an’ whoever finds the ring, as sure as he’s 
 there he’s the wan to share Lady Betty’s fortune, an’ 
 come afther her in Castle Craigie ! ” 
 
 Here Mary the mother began to groan and rock 
 herself, and complain of the obstinacy of people who 
 would not stretch out their hands for a piece of that 
 
238 
 
 THE FIT OF AILSIE'S SHOE. 
 
 lucky cake, when it might be theirs for the asking. 
 Jamie was getting very red in the face, and crumpling 
 his paper very fiercely, when Penny, who had been 
 laughing again, once more wiped her eyes, and taking 
 her stick from the corner, prepared to depart. 
 
 u It’s getting far in the day,” she said, u an' I have a 
 good bit further to go afore night, to see my old friend 
 Madgey Mucklehern, that lives in the Windy Gap ; 
 good luck is hers she hasn't been blown out o’t house 
 an’ all afore this ! But I’ll be back this way,” she 
 added; u don’t you think ye’ve seen the last o’ Penny 
 McCambridge, Cousin Jamie, for feth ye’ll know more 
 o’ me shortly, if the Lord spares me my breath for a 
 wheen more o’ weeks.” 
 
 And Penny McCambridge shook hands with her 
 kinsfolk, and trotted away down the lonan, as she had 
 come. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 It was only a few evenings after this that Ailsie was 
 sitting on the end of the kitchen-table, reading the 
 newspaper to her father. 
 
 " Na — na,” said Ailsie, stumbling at a word, “ vi — 
 
 vi, ga — ga Och, my blessin’ to the word, I can’t 
 
 make head or tail o’t. Ye’ll read it betther yersel’, 
 father ; an’ it’s time I was goin’ feedin’ my hens, any- 
 how ! ” 
 
 “ Ailsie,” said Jamie, rubbing his spectacles, “ I’m 
 feared you’re turnin’ out a bad dark afther all the 
 throuble Misther Devnish has taken wi’ you. Ye’r’ 
 
THE FIT OF A I LSI FES SHOE. 
 
 239 
 
 gettin’ a big woman, Ailsie, an’ there’s not a thing ye’r’ 
 bad at but the clarkin’. Go off to school, now, this 
 very evenin’, and give my respects to Hughie Devnish, 
 an’ tell him to tache you how to spell navigation afore 
 you come back.” 
 
 Ailsie coloured, and her thick black lashes rested on 
 her russet cheeks while she tucked up her gown and 
 kneaded the wet meal for the hens with her gipsy 
 hands. But as she left the house she looked back 
 with a wicked little toss of her head. 
 
 “Then you an’ Hughie Devnish may put it out o’ yer 
 heads that ye’ll ever make a dark o’ Ailsie,” she said ; 
 “ for if ye wer to boil down all the larnin'-books that 
 ever cracked a school-masther’s skull, an’ feed her on 
 nothin’ but that for the next ten years, ye wouldn’t 
 have her wan bit the larnder in the hinder end ! ” 
 
 So saying, she stepped out into the sun, and was 
 busy feeding her hens under the shelter of the golden 
 haycock, when she saw a servant in a showy livery 
 coming riding up the lonan. 
 
 “ Can you tell me where Miss MacQuillan lives about 
 here, my good girl ? ” he asked, with a supercilious 
 glance at Ailsie’s wooden dish. 
 
 “ No,” said Ailsie, looking at him with her head 
 thrown back. “That’s Jamie MacQuillan’s house” — 
 pointing to the gable — “an’ I’m his daughter Ailsie, 
 but there’s no Miss MacQuillan here ; none nearer by 
 this road nor Bally Scuffling.” 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, miss,” said the man, with an 
 altered manner, “ but I believe this must be for you.” 
 
240 
 
 THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 And then he rode off, leaving her standing staring at a 
 dainty pink note which she held by one corner between 
 two mealy fingers. u Miss Ailsie MacQuillan,” said the 
 ink on the back of the narrow satin envelope. 
 
 u That’s me ! ” said Ailsie, with a gasp. “ The rest 
 o’ them’s all Lizabeths, an’ Isabellas, an’ Aramintys. 
 An’, as thrue as I’m a livin’ girl, it’s the Castle Craigie 
 liveries yon fine fellow was dressed up so grand in, an’ 
 here’s the Castle Craigie crest on this purty little seal.” 
 
 It was a note of invitation to Lady Betty’s ball, and, 
 in spite of her bad “clarkin’,” Ailsie was able to read it, 
 spelling it out word after word, turning it back and 
 forward and upside-down, and feeling sure all the time 
 that somebody had played a trick on her by writing to 
 Lady Betty in her name. She sat on a stone and made 
 her reflections, with the sun all the while burning her 
 cheeks, and making them more and more unfit to appear 
 in a ball-room. 
 
 “ An’ she thinks I’m some fine young lady in a low 
 neck an’ satin shoes, waitin’ all ready to step into her 
 ball-room an’ make her a curtsey. Good luck to her ! 
 What’d she say if she heard Ailsie’s brogues hammerin’ 
 away on yon fine slippy floor o’ hers ? ” And Ailsie, 
 as she spoke, extended one little roughshod foot and 
 looked at it critically. 11 Then thank you, Lady Betty ; 
 but I'm not goin’ to make mysel’ a laughin’ stock for 
 the counthry yet ! ” 
 
 “ Who came ridin’ up the lonan a bit ago, Ailsie ?” 
 said the mother, when she w T ent in with the note safely 
 hidden in her pocket. 
 
THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 241 
 
 il Ridin’ up the lonan is it ? ” said Ailsie. 
 
 “Ay, ay,” said Mary, “ I thought I hard a horse’s 
 fut on the road, but it be to been yer father snorin’. " 
 
 “ Me snorin’ ! ” cried Jamie, starting and rubbing his 
 eyes. “ Ye’r dhramin’ yersel’, Mary. Ailsie, ye witch, 
 are ye not gone to school yet ? ” 
 
 “ Well, I’ll go now, father,” said Ailsie. “ Maybe,” 
 she thought, “ Hughie ’ll tell me what to do with that 
 letter afore I come back.” 
 
 A thatched house, with a row of small latticed 
 windows blinking down at the sea in the strong sunset, 
 with a grotesque thorn looking over the more distant 
 gable, and an army of fierce hollyhocks mustering about 
 the little entry-door. This was the school, and Mr. 
 Hugh Devnish was at this moment standing at his 
 desk, writing u head-lines ” in the copy-books of his 
 pupils ; a young man with a grave busy face, and one 
 hand concealed in the breast of his coat. That hand 
 was deformed, and so Hugh Devnish had been brought 
 up to teach school, instead of to follow the plough. 
 That such breeding had not been wasted, his face 
 announced. Even the country people around held him 
 in unusual respect, though he did not give them half 
 as many long words, nor talk Latin to them, like his 
 predecessor, Larry O’Mullan, who had died of hard 
 study, poor boy ! at the age of eighty-five. 
 
 Hughie glanced through the window before him, got 
 suddenly red in the face, and cried, “ Attention ! ” in a 
 voice which made all the lads and lasses look up from 
 their copy-books. The next moment a gipsy-faced girl 
 h.o. 16 
 
242 
 
 THE FIT OF AILSIE’S SHOE . 
 
 walked in, hung up her bonnet, and sat down on a 
 form. 
 
 “ What’s your word, Ailsie MacQuillan ? ” asked the 
 schoolmaster, taking her book with a severe and 
 business-like air. 
 
 “ Invitation, sir — navigation, I mane,” said Ailsie, 
 demurely, studying her folded hands. 
 
 The master looked at her sharply, and afterwards 
 frowned severely when, on going the rounds of the 
 desks, he found “Lady Betty MacQuillan,” “Castle 
 Craigie,” and other foolish and meaningless words, 
 scrawled profanely over the page which was to have 
 been sacred to navigation alone. Ailsie was “ kept in ” 
 for bad conduct, and locked up alone in the school 
 after the other pupils had gone home. And there, 
 when the schoolmaster came to release her, she was 
 found plucking the roses that hung in at the window, 
 and sticking them in the holes for the ink-bottles 
 along the desks. A crumpled note lay open before 
 her. 
 
 We should hardly have said the schoolmaster came 
 in, for, though it was Hughie Devnish, he appeared in 
 a new character. This punished girl was his wildest 
 and least creditable pupil, and yet, when he walked up 
 to her in her disgrace, he was trembling and blushing 
 like his own youngest “scholar” coming up for a 
 whipping. His eye caught the crumpled note, and he 
 picked it up and read it. 
 
 “ I guessed how ’twas,” he said, “ but you’re surely 
 not thinkin’ of goin’ ? ” 
 
THE FIT OF AILSIE'S SHOE . 
 
 243 
 
 Now Ailsie had intended to ask his advice, but the 
 mischief that was in her would come out. 
 
 “Why should I not go as well as another?” she 
 asked pettishly. 
 
 “ Aroon, you know I would not like it,” he said. 
 
 “ An’ that’s a reason, feth ! ” said Ailsie, tossing her 
 head, and beginning to pick a rose to pieces. 
 
 “Ailsie,” said the young man vehemently, “it was 
 only the other day you told me here that you could 
 like me betther than all the world, betther than Ned 
 Mucklehern, for all his fine land and his presents o’ 
 butther an’ crame; betther than Mehaffy the miller, 
 that gave you the fine speckled hen ; betther than 
 
 MacQuillan o’ the Reek ” 
 
 “Bad manners to him!” struck in Ailsie angrily, 
 flinging a shower of rose-leaves from her hand over the 
 desks. 
 
 “You promised to be my wife, Ailsie.” 
 
 “ It all come o’ keepin’ me in for bad conduct,” said 
 Ailsie, swinging one foot with provoking unconcern. 
 
 “No matter what it came of,” said Hughie, “you 
 promised me. And you promised me as well that you 
 wouldn’t go thrustin’ yourself among these people, that 
 would only laugh at you for your pains.” 
 
 “ I don’t know why you should think I’d be laughed 
 at,” said Ailsie, “ barrin’ you’re ashamed o’ me ! ” 
 
 The schoolmaster’s face blazed up, and with all his 
 heart in his eyes he gazed at her where she sat with her 
 ripe face half turned from the sun coming through the 
 lattice, and her dark head framed in the roses. 
 
244 
 
 THE FIT OF AILSIF’S SHOE. 
 
 u Ashamed o’ you, mavoureen ? ” he said tenderly, 
 “ No ; but there might be some there that I wouldn’t 
 like you to come across, an’ you alone an’ unprotected. 
 MacQuillan o’ the Reek ” 
 
 11 I slapped his face wanst ! ” cried Ailsie, firing up 
 again, “an’ it’s not likely he’ll come axin’ me to do ’t 
 again.” 
 
 “And there’ll be others there,” he went on, “ that’d 
 fall in love wi’ you maybe, an’ snatch you up from 
 Hughie before he has enough earned to marry you 
 out o’ hand.” 
 
 “ An’ what if they did ? ” said Ailsie, with wicked 
 coolness. 
 
 “ What if they did ? ” repeated Devnish slowly, 
 looking at her with a pained appealing look, as if 
 expecting her to retract the cruel words. “ I tell you 
 what it is, Ailsie,” he broke out passionately, drawing 
 his left hand from its concealment, “ I believe it’s this 
 that’s workin’ at the bottom o’ all your coldness. You’re 
 tired already of a deformed lover. Go to Lady Betty’s 
 ball then, an’ find a husband for yourself that you’ll not 
 be ashamed of. Go ” 
 
 Just as Ailsie was getting pale, and the tears were 
 coming into her eyes, a little door opened, and a good- 
 humoured-looking countrywoman came into the school- 
 room. 
 
 i( Come in to your supper, Hughie,” she said. “ Och, 
 is it Ailsie MacQuillan in penance the night again ? 
 Girl alive ! is it a love-letther you’re showin’ the 
 masther ? ” 
 
THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 245 
 
 “ No, indeed, Mrs. Devnish,” said Ailsie, erecting her 
 head ; “ it's a note of invitation from Lady Betty Mac- 
 Quillan, axin' me to do her the honour of dancin’ at her 
 ball at Castle Craigie on Wensday come eight days.” 
 
 “ Oh, then, then ! but you’re the lucky girl,” cried the 
 Widow Devnish, clapping her hands over the note, 
 while Hughie stalked away silently to a window by 
 himself. “ I declare it’s as grand an’ as beautyful as if 
 it was written to the Queen. Asthore ! an’ has your 
 mother any sense left at all, with the dint o’ the joy ? ” 
 “ She didn’t see it yet,” stammered Ailsie, seeing now 
 the scrape into which she had got herself through 
 yielding to her reckless whim of tormenting her lover. 
 “ I got it just as I left home, an’ she didn’t see it yet.” 
 
 “ An’ you’re stan’in’ up there as if nothin’ had 
 happened you, you ongrateful colleen,” said the Widow 
 Devnish, pocketing the note. “ Wait a minute, then, 
 till I get the cloak, an’ it’s mysel’ ’ll go home wi’ you, 
 an’ help to tell the news.” 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 It was speedily settled between Mary MacQuillan and 
 the Widow Devnish that Ailsie should go the ball. 
 
 “ I have a fine piece of yellow Chaney silk,” said the 
 Widow Devnish, “ that Sailor Johnny sent me from 
 beyont the says. It would make her a skirt, barrin’ it 
 wasn’t too long, an’ a hem o’ somethin’ else lined on 
 behind.” 
 
 “An’ I've a ducky bit o’ cherry tabinet,” said Mary, 
 the mother, “ that brother Pat, the weaver, sent me from 
 
246 
 
 THE FIT OF AILS/F'S SHOE. 
 
 Dublin to make a bonnet o’. It’ll cut into a beautyful 
 jockey for her, barrin’ we don’t make the sleeves too 
 wide.” 
 
 So on the eventful night Ailsie was dressed out in the 
 yellow silk skirt and cherry-coloured bodice, with a fine 
 pair of stockings of Mary’s own knitting, with magni- 
 ficent clocks up the sides. Her little bog-trotting 
 brogues were polished till you could see yourself in the 
 toes, and a pair of elegant black silk mittens covered her 
 hands up to her little brown knuckles, stretching up past 
 her wrists to make amends for the scantiness of her 
 sleeves. Then, she had a grand pair of clanking 
 earrings as long as your little finger, which the Widow 
 Devnish had worn as a bride ; and the two mothers, 
 taking each a side of the victim’s head, plaited her thick 
 black hair into endless numbers of fanciful braids, which 
 they rolled round the crown of her head, and into which 
 they planted a tortoiseshell comb, curved like the back 
 of an arm-chair, which Jamie’s mother had worn at his 
 christening, and which towered over Ailsie’s head like 
 Minerva’s helmet put on the wrong way. Ned Muckle- 
 hern of the Windy Gap was to take her to Castle 
 Craigie in his new spring cart ; and two good hours 
 before dark Ailsie was standing at the door, looking 
 longingly for a glimpse of Hughie coming over the hill, 
 to see how handsome she looked in her strange finery. 
 But Hughie did not appear, and vowing vengeance on 
 him for his “ sulks,” Ailsie submitted to be packed up in 
 the cart. 
 
 “ But it’s no use takin’ the rue now,” she said. “I 
 
THE FIT OF AILSIE' S SHOE. 
 
 24; 
 
 be to go through with it ! ” And 'with desperate bravery 
 she said “ good-night ” to Ned Mucklehern, who, at her 
 command, set her down at a little distance from the 
 entrance gates, out and in of which the carriages were 
 rolling at such a rate as made poor Ailsie’s heart thump 
 against her side, till it was like to burst through Pat-the- 
 weaver’s tabinet. 
 
 She crept in through a little side-gate, and up the 
 avenue, keeping as much as possible in shelter of the 
 trees ; but it was not quite dark yet, and the coachmen 
 coming and going stared at her, taking her, maybe, for 
 some masquerading gipsy or strolling actress, whom 
 Lady Betty had engaged to amuse the company. She 
 arrived at the hall door just in time to see a flock of 
 young ladies in white robes float gracefully over the 
 threshold, and the absurdity of her own costume 
 came before her in its terrible reality. Covered 
 with confusion, she looked .about to see if she 
 could escape among the trees, and hide there till 
 morning ; but one of the grand servants had espied 
 her, and under his eyes Ailsie scorned to beat a 
 retreat. 
 
 u What is your business here, young woman ? ” asked 
 this awful person, as she stepped into the glare of the 
 hall lights. 
 
 “ I am one of Lady Betty's guests,” said Ailsie, lifting 
 her head. But a horrible tittering greeted this announce- 
 ment from a crowd of other servants, who were all 
 eyeing her curiously from head to foot. Ailsie was 
 ready to sink into the earth with shame and mortifica- 
 
248 
 
 THE FIT OF AILSIF'S SHOE. 
 
 tion, when, happily, the arrival of a fresh carriageful of 
 guests diverted the general attention from herself, and 
 she heard some one saying, “ This way, miss." Glad 
 to escape anywhere, she followed a servant whose face 
 she could not see, but whose voice was wonderfully 
 familiar. Passing through an inner hall, her hand was 
 grasped by this person, and she was swiftly drawn into 
 a pantry and the door shut. 
 
 “ Oh, Hughie, Hughie!" cried Ailsie, bursting into 
 tears, and clinging to his arm. “ Then where did you 
 dhrop from, anyways ? ” 
 
 “ Whisht, avourneen ! " said Hughie, “we haven't a 
 minute to stay, for yon chaps '11 be runnin’ in an’ out 
 here all night. But do you think Hughie could rest 
 aisy at home an’ you unprotected in this place? Wan 
 o’ the fellows was knocked up with all the wine that’s 
 goin’, an’ they were glad to give me his place, an’ his 
 clothes. Ye won’t feel so lonesome." 
 
 “ Oh, Hughie, I wisht I’d stayed at home as you bid 
 me. An’ your han’, Hughie ? " 
 
 “ Och, never mind it, asthore. I’ll only carry small 
 thrays, and the wan hand ’ll do beautiful. Come now, 
 aroon." So, resuming his character of servant, Hughie 
 squired his trembling lady-love up Lady Betty’s gilded 
 staircase. 
 
 The ball was held in an old-fashioned hall whose 
 roof was crossed with dark rafters, from which gloomy 
 old banners were swinging. The door was partly open 
 and Ailsie peeped in. 
 
 “Oh, Hughie, Hughie!" she whispered, “take me 
 
7 HE FIT OF AILSIE'S SHOE. 
 
 249 
 
 back to the panthry ! I’ll lie close in a cupboard, an’ 
 never stir a stir till morning.” 
 
 u It couldn’t be done, darlin’,” whispered Hughie. 
 “ Ye must put a bold face on it, an’ take your chance.” 
 
 He opened the door wide, and Ailsie felt herself 
 swallowed up in a blaze of light and colour, with a hum 
 in her ears as of a thousand bees all buzzing round her 
 head at once. When she recovered from her first 
 stunned sensation, and regained consciousness of her 
 own identity, she found herself seated side by side with 
 the five Miss MacQuillans from Bally Scuffling, all 
 dressed in their grass-coloured satin, all with their 
 noses redder than ever, all eyeing her askance from her 
 comb to her brogues, and tittering just as the servants 
 had done in the hall. 
 
 A band was playing, and a crowd of people were 
 dancing, but it seemed to Ailsie, whenever she looked 
 up, that nobody had got anything to do but to stare at 
 her. When she saw the elegant slippers of the dancers 
 she was afraid to stir lest the “ hammerin’ ” of her feet 
 should be heard all over the room ; and when Mac- 
 Quillan of the Reek came up to her, and, making a low 
 bow, begged the honour of dancing with her, Ailsie’s 
 ears began to sing with confusion, and her teeth to chatter 
 with fright. But as she did not know how to refuse, 
 she got up and accompanied him to where there was 
 an empty space on the floor. The band was playing 
 a lively tune as a quadrille, and Ailsie, thinking anything 
 better than standing still, fell to dancing her familiar 
 jig with energy. She had once slapped this gentleman’s 
 
250 
 
 THE FIT OF AILSIF’S SHOE. 
 
 lace for his impertinence, and she believed that he had 
 now led her out to avenge himself by her confusion. 
 So Ailsie danced her jig, and finding that the clatter of 
 her brogues was drowned by the music, she gained 
 courage and danced it with spirit, round and round her 
 astonished partner, till the lookers-on cried “ Brava ! ” 
 and the laugh was turned against MacQuillan of the 
 Reek, who was, after all, very glad when she made him 
 her curtsey, and allowed him to take her back again to 
 the Bally Scuffling maidens, who had not been dancing 
 at all, and who held up their five fans before their five 
 faces in disgust at Ailsie’s performance. 
 
 A magic word, supper , acted like a charm on all. 
 The crowd thinned and disappeared, and nobody noticed 
 Ailsie. Every gentleman had his own partner to attend 
 to, and no one came near the little peasant girl. Ailsie 
 was very glad, for she would rather endure hunger 
 than be laughed at, and she was just beginning to nod 
 asleep in her seat, when in came Hughie. 
 
 “ I’m goin’ to fetch you somethin’ to ate, darlin’,” he 
 said, and hurried away again. And Ailsie was just 
 beginning to nod asleep once more, when MacQuillan 
 of the Reek came in, saying that Lady Betty had 
 sent him to conduct her (Ailsie) to the supper-room. 
 
 Lady Betty was sitting at the head of the most 
 distant table, with a knife in her hand and a huge cake 
 before her. The more substantial eatables seemed to 
 have been already discussed, for every guest had a slice 
 of this cake on a plate before him or her. They were 
 nibbling it, and mincing it up with knives. All were 
 
THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 251 
 
 silent, and all looked anxious and dissatisfied. Ailsie 
 thought the silence and the dissatisfaction were all on 
 account of her audacious entrance. 
 
 “ This way ! ” said Lady Betty MacQuillan, in a voice 
 that made Ailsie start, and the august hostess cleared 
 a place at her side for our blushing heroine. The 
 wax-lights blazed on Lady Betty’s golden turban, and 
 Ailsie did not dare to look at her face. She sat down, 
 and Lady Betty with her own hand helped her to a 
 small cut of the wonderful cake. Ailsie was very 
 hungry, and the cake was very good. She devoured 
 a few morsels eagerly ; then she ceased eating. 
 
 “ Why don’t you eat, child ? ” said Lady Betty, in a 
 voice that again made Ailsie start ; and this time she 
 ventured to look up. 
 
 She looked up, and stared as if the clouds had opened 
 above her head. There was a little withered yellow 
 face, with twinkling black eyes, looking down on 
 her — a face that she had seen before. It was Penny 
 McCambridge, from Lough Neagh side, who was to 
 have been her godmother only for the unfortunate pain 
 in her heel, who was sitting there, dressed up in purple 
 velvet and a cloth-of-gold turban. Oh, murther ! 
 What would be the end of this ? Penny McCambridge 
 befooling all the gentry folks of the country round, 
 pretending to be the lady of Castle Craigie ! Or, stay ! 
 Whether was Penny McCambridge acting Lady Betty 
 MacQuillan, or had Lady Betty MacQuillan been acting 
 Penny McCambridge ? 
 
 11 Why don’t you eat, child?” repeated Lady Betty, 
 
252 
 
 THE FIT OF AILSIE'S SHOE. 
 
 as Ailsie sat turning her piece of cake about on her 
 plate. 
 
 "I’m hungry enough,” said Ailsie, u but I cannot ate 
 this, my lady, barrin’ you want me to choke mysel’ ! ” 
 
 And Ailsie held up her bit of cake, in which was 
 wedged the ring that declared her the heiress of Castle 
 Craigie. 
 
 Well, I need not tell how, after supper, some of the 
 guests who were spiteful ordered their carriages and 
 whirled away in disgust ; how others, who were not 
 spiteful, stayed and danced the morning in ; how some, 
 who were good-natured, congratulated Ailsie on her 
 good luck ; how others, who were quite the reverse, 
 yet fawned on the bewildered heroine of the evening. 
 How Ailsie was kept close by the wonderful Lady 
 Betty all the rest of the time ; how she watched in vain 
 for another glimpse of Hughie ; how, in the end, she 
 was conducted to a splendid bedchamber, where she 
 was frightened out of her senses at the grandeur of the 
 furniture, and could not get a wink of sleep for the 
 softness of the stately bed. 
 
 The news was not long in travelling over the country, 
 and next day, when a carriage dashed up to the foot 
 of the lonan, Jamie and his wife thought they were 
 prepared to receive their fortunate daughter with dignity. 
 But when Ailsie walked in to them in a white pelisse 
 and sandalled slippers, her bonnie dark eyes looking 
 out at them from under a shade of a pink satin hat and 
 feathers, this delusion of theirs was dispelled. Mary's 
 exultation knew no bounds, and Jamie said, “ Can this 
 
THE FIT OF A //SIR'S SHOE. 
 
 253 
 
 fine lady be my daughter ? ” nervously, and with tears 
 in his eyes. And Ailsie sat on a chair in the middle 
 of the floor she had swept so often, and cried, and 
 pulled off her fine hat, and threw it to the furthest 
 corner of the kitchen, vowing she would never leave 
 her father and mother to go and live with Lady Betty. 
 And Lady Betty, who was present, was not a bit angry, 
 although the beautiful hat was spoiled ; but began 
 telling how she would educate Ailsie, and take her to 
 see the distant world, and how she would dress her 
 like a princess, and marry her to some grand gentleman, 
 who should bear the name of MacQuillan, or adopt it. 
 
 But Ailsie only crying worse at this than before, she 
 threw a purse of gold into Mary’s lap, and began 
 describing all the good things she would do for Jamie 
 and his wife if Ailsie would only come with her ; how 
 she would build them a pretty house ; how they should 
 have servants to attend them, and horses and cows, 
 and money at command. And Ailsie, listening to this, 
 cried more- violently than ever, with her swollen eyes 
 staring through the door, out to the hill that led across 
 to Hughie’s. Then, when Lady Betty had done, Mary 
 the mother began. 
 
 Ailsie took her eyes from the open door, and looked 
 at the father. But Jamie, afraid to mar his child’s 
 brilliant prospects, only hung his head, and said never 
 a word at all. 
 
 Then Ailsie’s heart seemed to break with one loud 
 sob. “ I’ll go, feth ! ” cried she, u an’ may God forgive 
 ye all ! ” and rushed out of the cottage and down the 
 
254 
 
 THE FIT OF AILSIE ’S SHOE. 
 
 lonan, bareheaded and weeping. Midway she stopped 
 on the road, and, pulling off one of her pretty shoes, 
 she flung it from her with all her might, till it struck 
 the trunk of a far tree growing on the hill that led to 
 Hughie’s. 
 
 “ That’s the slipper to you, for good luck, Hughie 
 Devnish ! ’’ she said ; “an’ if ever I forget you to marry 
 a fine gentleman, may the Lord turn my gran’ gowns 
 into rags again, an’ the bit that I ate into sand in my 
 mouth ! ” 
 
 So Ailsie said good-bye to home. The next day 
 Lady Betty and Miss MacQuillan departed from Castle 
 Craigie for the Continent. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Four years passed away, and Jamie and Mary had 
 grown accustomed to their improved circumstances, 
 Lady Betty having proved as good as her word in 
 bestowing on them all those benefits which she had 
 enumerated when coaxing Ailsie away with her. 
 Whether they were quite satisfied with the freak that 
 fortune had played with them, they themselves knew 
 best. When a neighbour went in to see them, Mary 
 had always some grand talk about “my daughter, Miss 
 MacQuillan ; ” but the Widow Devnish often shook 
 her head, saying that they were dull enough when 
 nobody was by, and feared Ailsie had forgotten them. 
 
 Ned Mucklehern and Mehaffy the miller had each 
 consoled himself with a wife long ago. Hughie Devnish 
 
THE FIT OF AILSIF'S SHOE. 
 
 255 
 
 still taught his school, and his mother still called him 
 in to his supper of evenings ; but he was not the same 
 Hughie, the widow vowed, never since the night of 
 Lady Betty’s ball, when he had taken the strange whim 
 of going serving at the castle. That some one had 
 put a charm on him that night, from the effects of 
 which he had never recovered, was the Widow Devnish’s 
 firm belief. He was “as grave as a judge,” she said, 
 from morning till night, all wrapped up in the improve- 
 ment of his school, never would go to a dance or a fair 
 like other young men, and, say what she might to him, 
 would admit no thought of taking a wife, though his 
 means would allow of it now, since he had got some 
 tuitions among the gentry folks of the neighbourhood. 
 The Widow Devnish was very proud of her son, but 
 she was sorely afraid there was “ something on him.” 
 For, strangest of all, once, when she came into his 
 schoolroom at dusk unnoticed, she saw him looking at 
 a little kid shoe, with long silken sandals hanging from 
 it. “ She’ll forget,” he was saying, as he turned it 
 about, and wound the sandals round it, “of course, of 
 course she’ll forget.” 
 
 All this time, while things had been going on so 
 with these vulgar and insignificant folks at home, 
 neither Ailsie nor Lady Betty had been seen at Castle 
 Craigie. Lady Betty surrounded her protegee with 
 French, Italian, drawing, and music masters. But 
 with these had Ailsie concerned herself but little. 
 “ Hughie Devnish could never tache me,” she would 
 say, coolly, when they were ready to wring their hands 
 
256 
 
 THE FIT OF A I LSI ITS SHOE. 
 
 with vexation, “ an’ I don’t think it’s likely ye’re any 
 cleverer than him." However, there were some things 
 that Ailsie did learn in time. Being observant and 
 imitative, she acquired a habit of speaking tolerable 
 French, and when talking English she modified, though 
 she did not by any means give up, her brogue. She 
 very soon learnt to flirt a fan, to carry her handsome 
 gowns with ease, and to develop certain original graces 
 of manner, which were considered by many to be very 
 charming in the pretty heiress to Lady Betty’s Indian 
 thousands. Altogether, the patroness found herself 
 obliged to be content, though the young lady could 
 read neither French nor Italian, nor yet could she play 
 on the spinet or guitar. 
 
 Ailsie’s education being thus finished, Lady Betty set 
 her heart on an ambitious marriage for her favourite. 
 She introduced her to society in Paris, and saw her 
 making conquests right and left at the most fashionable 
 watering-places on the Continent. Ailsie’s sparkling 
 eyes were enchantingly foiled by her diamonds, and 
 proposals in plenty were laid at her feet. But Ailsie, 
 though enjoying right merrily the homage so freely 
 paid her, only laughed at the offers of marriage, as 
 though it were quite impossible to regard them as 
 anything but so many very capital jokes. Lady Betty 
 did not join in this view of the matter, but she had 
 patience with her heiress for a considerable time, as 
 Ailsie always mollified her displeasure by saying, on 
 her refusal of each “good match," “I will marry a 
 better man still, Lady Betty." 
 
THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE . 
 
 257 
 
 After four years, Lady Betty, who was a wilful old 
 lady, and whose patience was exhausted, quarrelled 
 with her about it, and before she recovered her temper 
 she took ill and died, and Ailsie found herself one day 
 sad and solitary in Paris, without the protection of her 
 kind indulgent friend. 
 
 Tears would not mend the matter now, nor would 
 they alter the will which Lady Betty had left behind 
 her, the conditions of which were fair enough, said 
 Ailsie’s suitors, when the contents of the important 
 document became known. One year had the impatient 
 old lady given her chosen heiress, in the space of which 
 time to become a wife. And if at the end of that year 
 she was still found to be a spinster, not a penny had 
 she, but might go back to the cottage at the top of the 
 lonan, and take with her her father and mother to work 
 for them as before, to milk her cows, and feed her hens, 
 and persuade herself, if she liked, that her wit, and her 
 diamonds, and her beauty, and her lovers, had all had 
 their existence in a tantalizing dream, which had visited 
 her between roosting-time in the evening and cock-crow 
 of a churning morning. But, should she marry before 
 the year was out, bestowing on her husband the name 
 of MacQuillan, then would the shade of Lady Betty be 
 appeased, and the Indian thousands and the Irish 
 rentals, together with the old ancestral halls of Castle 
 Craigie, would all belong to Ailsie and the fortunate 
 possessor of her wealthy little hand. 
 
 Very fair conditions, said the suitors, and proposals 
 poured in on Ailsie. But lo and behold ! the flinty- 
 
 17 
 
 H. O. 
 
258 
 
 THE FIT OF A I LSI E ’S SHOE. 
 
 hearted damsel proved as obstinate as ever; and, in 
 the midst of wonderment and disappointment, having 
 attained the age of twenty-one, and being altogether 
 her own mistress, she wrote to her retainers at Castle 
 Craigie to announce her arrival there upon a certain 
 summer day. Great was the glory of Mary MacQuillan 
 when she received a letter from her daughter, desiring 
 that her father and mother should at once take up their 
 abode at the castle, being there to receive her on her 
 arrival. Great, indeed, was her triumph when Miss 
 O’Trimmins sat making her a gown of brown velvet, 
 and a lace cap with lappets, in which to meet her child, 
 and when Jamie’s blue coat with the bright gold buttons 
 came home. 
 
 Ailsie brought a whole horde of foreigners with her, 
 brilliant ladies of rank, who called her pet and darling 
 in broken English — and needy marquises — and counts 
 with slender means, who were nevertheless very magni- 
 ficent persons, and still hoped to win the Irish charmer. 
 Balls, plays, and sports of all kinds went on at; the 
 castle, and those of the gentry-folks who, from 
 curiosity or a better feeling, came to visit Ailsie, 
 found her in the midst of a roomful of glittering 
 company, dressed in a blue satin sacque and pearl 
 earrings, with her hair dipping into her eyes in very 
 bewitching little curls, and seated between Mary in 
 the brown velvet and lappets and Jamie in the new 
 coat with the buttons. They went away saying she 
 was wonderful indeed, considering, delightfully odd and 
 pretty, and they wondered which of those flaunting 
 
THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 259 
 
 foreigners she was going to marry in the end. Mean- 
 time the year was flying away, and old neighbours of 
 her mother’s began to shake their heads over the fire 
 of nights, and to say that if Ailsie did not take care 
 she might be a penniless lass yet. 
 
 Things were in this position when, one fine morning, 
 Miss MacQuillan, driving out with some of her grand 
 friends, thought proper to stop at the door of Hughie 
 Devnish’s schoolhouse. The schoolmaster turned red 
 and then pale as he saw Ailsie’s feathers coming 
 nodding in to him through the doorway, followed by 
 a brilliant party of grandees, and two footmen dragging 
 a huge parcel of presents for his girls and boys. Ailsie 
 coolly set her ladies and gentlemen unpacking the 
 parcel and distributing its contents, whilst she ques- 
 tioned the schoolmaster upon many subjects with the 
 air of a little duchess, whose humour it was to make 
 inquiries, and who never, certainly, had seen that place, 
 much less conversed with that person, before. 
 
 Hughie endured her whim with proud patience, till, 
 just before she left him, on opening his desk to restore 
 a book to its place, she demanded to see a certain little 
 dark thing which was peeping out from under some 
 papers. Then, with evident annoyance, he produced 
 a little black kid shoe. So the story runs. 
 
 “Why, it’s only a slipper!” said Ailsie, turning it 
 about and looking at it, just as the Widow Devnish 
 had detected Hughie in doing. “What an odd thing 
 to keep a shoe in a desk ! But it looked like the 
 cover of a book. Good-morning.” 
 
26 o 
 
 THE FIT OF AILSIF’S SHOE. 
 
 As the party drove off, it is said that one of the 
 gentlemen remarked that the schoolmaster was a fine- 
 looking intelligent fellow, fit for a better station than 
 that which he filled. And it is further said that next 
 day Ailsie made a present to this gentleman of a snuff- 
 box worth a hundred guineas. 
 
 When Ailsie went to her room on her return home 
 on this August afternoon, she walked over to a hand- 
 some gold casket which stood upon her table, unlocked 
 it, and took out a little kid slipper which looked as if 
 she must have stolen it out of Hughie’s desk. In the 
 sole of it was pinned a slip of paper, on which were 
 scrawled, in a crude hand, the words : — 
 
 “ If ever I forget you, Hughie Devnish, to marry a 
 fine gentleman, may the Lord turn my gran’ gowns 
 into Rags agen, and the bit that I ate into Sand in 
 my mouth.” 
 
 “ And the Lord’s goin’ to do it very fast,” said Ailsie, 
 falling back into her old way of talking, as she looked 
 at this specimen of her old way of writing, “ if I do not 
 look to’t very soon, an’ be keepin’ my word ! An’ God 
 knows, Hughie Devnish,” she added, as she locked her 
 box again with a sharp snap, “you’re more of a gentle- 
 man any day the sun rises on you, than ever poor 
 Ailsie ’ll be a lady ! ” 
 
 And I am given to understand that shortly after 
 this the lady of the castle sent a message to her guests 
 to say she was indisposed (Ailsie had picked up a few 
 
THE FIT O AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 261 
 
 pretty words) from the heat, and must beg them to 
 excuse her absence from amongst them for the rest of 
 the day. 
 
 It was on this very evening that Hughie Devnish 
 was walking up and down his schoolroom floor, musing, 
 I am told, on the impossibility of his enduring in the 
 future to have Ailsie coming into his school at any 
 hour she pleased, to play the mischief with his feelings, 
 and the lady patroness amongst his boys and girls. 
 He had just come to the point of resolving to give up 
 his labours here, and to go off to seek his fortune in 
 America, when click ! went the latch of the door, and 
 (of course, thinks he, it must be a dream) in walked 
 Ailsie. Not the Lady Bountiful of the morning, in 
 satin gown and nodding feathers, but the veritable old 
 Ailsie of four years ago, in the same old garb, cotton 
 dress, brogues, straw bonnet tipped over her nose, and 
 all (where on earth did she get them ?) in which she 
 had tripped in to him on that other August evening, 
 of which this was the anniversary, when she had shown 
 him her invitation to Lady Betty’s ball. 
 
 Now, the gloaming was just putting out the glare 
 of the sunset behind the latticed windows, and when 
 Hughie had pinched himself and found that he was not 
 dreaming at all, he next became very sure that he had 
 gone out of his senses with trouble, and that he was 
 looking at an object conjured up before his eyes by his 
 own diseased imagination. However, the apparition 
 looked very substantial as it approached, and sitting 
 down on the end of one of the forms, it displayed a 
 
262 
 
 THE FIT OF AILSIE'S SHOE. 
 
 paper which it unfolded in its hands — hands that were 
 white instead of brown, making the only difference 
 between this and the old Ailsie. 
 
 “ I’ve got a letther here, Misther Devnish,” said 
 Ailsie’s old voice, speaking with Ailsie’s old brogue, 
 and in the sly, mischievous tone that Hughie remem- 
 bered well : “ an’ if ye plase, I want ye to answer it 
 for me. I'm a bad dark mysel’, ye know.” 
 
 Not knowing what to say to her, he took the letter 
 out of her hand and glanced over it. It was a proposal 
 of marriage from Ailsie’s old tormentor, MacQuillan of 
 the Reek. 
 
 The schoolmaster was trembling, you may believe, 
 with many confused ideas and sensations when he 
 folded the letter and returned it ; but he inked his pen 
 manfully, and produced a sheet of paper, then sat 
 waiting with much patience for his visitor’s dictation. 
 But Ailsie sat quiet, with her eyes upon the floor, and 
 so there was a cruel pause. 
 
 “Well?” says Hughie, at last, with a bewitched 
 feeling, as if he were addressing only his pupil of old 
 days, “ what am I to say in the answer ? ” 
 
 “ Feth, I don’t know,” says Ailsie. 
 
 “ But what reply do you mean to give ? ” asked 
 Hughie, striving, we are assured, to command himself. 
 “ Am I to say yes or no in the letter ? ” 
 
 “ I tell ye I don’t know, Hughie Devnish,” said Ailsie, 
 crossly. “ I gave a promise to another, an’ he never 
 has freed me from it yet. I b’lieve ye’ll know best 
 what to put in the letther yersel'.” 
 
THE FIT OF AILS IE'S SHOE. 
 
 263 
 
 “ Ailsie !” cried Hughie, rising to his feet, u did you 
 come here for nothing but to dhrive me mad ? Or, 
 avourneen, is it possible you would marry me yet ? ” 
 
 “ Feth it is, Hughie,” said Ailsie. 
 
 And after the letter was written they went in and 
 had tea with the Widow Devnish. 
 
 The next morning Miss MacQuillan appeared 
 amongst her guests as if nothing had happened, but 
 before night a whisper flew from ear to ear that the 
 heiress was engaged ; while the lady herself did not 
 contradict the report. Every man looked darkly at his 
 neighbour, and “ Who is he ? ” was the question on 
 every lip. At last “ It is not I,” said one noble drone, 
 and flew off to seek honey elsewhere ; and u It is not 
 I,” said the others, one by one, and followed his 
 example ; and by-and-by Ailsie was left peacefully in 
 possession of her castle ; whereupon there was a quiet 
 wedding, at which Mary, Jamie, and the Widow 
 Devnish were the only guests. 
 
 A nine days’ wonder expires on the tenth, and after 
 a few years Hugh Devnish MacQuillan, Esq., was 
 looked upon as no despicable person by many who 
 thought it their duty to sneer on his wedding-day. 
 
A WILL O’ THE WISP. 
 
 11 TA ING, ding ! tinkle, tinkle, ting !” rang the chimes 
 V in the cathedral tower, beginning to play their 
 airy tune in the clouds, as a bewitched old lady came 
 into the town of Dindans one evening, following a Will 
 o’ the wisp. 
 
 Dindans is a dreamy old Flemish town, with canals 
 full of yellow-green water, and brown boats with little 
 scarlet flags ; with strange old beetle-browed houses 
 overshadowing the streets ; with a market-place and 
 fountain, a multitude of pointed gables, a cathedral 
 covered with saints and angels, little children in muslin 
 caps, and bells that make delicate music aloft in the 
 air. A real traveller stopping at Dindans is a rare 
 apparition, and people came out of their houses that 
 evening to gaze at the little old Englishwoman who 
 trotted behind the truck which jolted her luggage along 
 the pavement. 
 
 When the tired little woman stopped before the 
 wide entrance of the queer old inn, La Grue, there was 
 no one about, and she walked into the sanded hall and 
 glanced through the opening at the other end down 
 the long, ancient courtyard, with its vines and gallery 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 265 
 
 and rows of little windows, and on to where apple-trees 
 and scarlet geraniums were blushing through the sun- 
 light from the garden. A curious stone staircase 
 wound out of the hall, and there were doors on each 
 side of her. She hesitated, and glanced all round the 
 unpeopled interior, until the sound of a voice came out 
 of the nearest door. 
 
 “With her hands on her knees, and the knitting 
 lying in her lap,” said the shrewish voice of a woman 
 in clumsy Flemish French, “ though I told her yesterday 
 that the stocking must be done immediately.” 
 
 “Thou hearest,” said a man’s voice ; “ thou must be 
 more industrious.” 
 
 “And with a look on her face that would sour the 
 wine,” continued the woman, “ enough to make people 
 think one was unkind to her.” 
 
 “ Thou must be more cheerful,” grumbled the man. 
 
 “ And see ! There are travellers at our door, and 
 here she is gossiping, so that we do not even perceive 
 them ! ” 
 
 A door, which had been ajar, was quickly opened, 
 and a young girl came out with a pale face, and eyes 
 heavily encircled with the redness of suppressed tears. 
 The young figure looked so much more refined than 
 anything one could have expected in the place, that 
 the traveller forgot her own business in the surprise. 
 At the same moment a waiter came running to take the 
 luggage, a little man, with a keen and perturbed face, 
 and something like a hump on his shoulders. This 
 was the oldest inn in Dindans, explained the girl. 
 
266 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 There were not many chambers ready, for travellers 
 did not often stop to pass a night in the town. There 
 was a suite of small rooms running round the court- 
 yard, but they were at present used as fruit-lofts or 
 lumber-closets. Over the archway into the garden 
 was a little apartment, like a glass case, which was 
 occupied by a gentleman who had been long established 
 here, and must not be moved. But madame should 
 have the best chamber, occupied by monsieur and his 
 wife when nobody came. It should be made ready for 
 the Dame Anglaise at a moment’s notice. 
 
 The stranger had had an intention of trying to 
 escape, but something in the girl’s manner mysteriously 
 vanquished her. She took possession of an ancient- 
 looking room, with heavy, dark wainscots and one 
 window, in which the only things noticeable were two 
 well-painted portraits on the walls. They were 
 Monsieur and Madame Van Melckebecke, explained 
 Jacques, the waiter, painted by Monsieur Lawrence, 
 the English artist, who lived in the little glass chamber, 
 and studied all his evenings in the painting-room of the 
 Cercle des Beaux Arts, above in the tower ; a very 
 respectable club, which reflected credit on the house. 
 Their meeting-room for social purposes was behind the 
 salle-a-manger. 
 
 Madame, the stranger, got rid of her dust, and made 
 herself at home in her chair by the window, feeling 
 herself to be a disappointed old woman, who had been 
 flitting about the world for years, seeking an object 
 which it now seemed folly to think of finding. 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 267 
 
 In the pleasant courtyard the evening sunlight was 
 gilding the peaks of the little windows, and the grapes 
 that hung from the vines, but leaving a cool well of 
 shadow about the old archway, through which flamed 
 softly the illuminated garden, brilliant with scarlet and 
 green, and bristling with gold-tipped apple-trees. As 
 madame looked, a man’s head was thrust from one of 
 the queer little windows in the glass chamber, an 
 English head, brown-haired and thoughtfully intelligent. 
 It leaned out of the golden background, glanced at a 
 deserted ironing-table, which stood under the vines 
 below, withdrew itself quickly, and disappeared. This 
 was Monsieur Lawrence, no doubt. 
 
 Our little old woman had returned to her own per- 
 plexities, when the maiden who had received her again 
 appeared at her door, a ray from the window touching 
 the girl as she announced that madame was served. 
 Her face shone upon the traveller out of the shadows 
 under the doorway — a pale, delicate-featured face, with 
 a distinct beauty of its own, which was partly owing 
 to its subdued intensity of expression. The eyes had 
 still that look of suffering from unshed tears ; the mouth 
 had a look of heroic patience. She hovered on the 
 threshold, while madame fixed a sudden stare upon 
 her, and made a sharp ejaculation in English. 
 
 “ Madame's dinner !” said the girl, thinking that she 
 had not been understood in French. But the stare 
 was not removed from her face till she fell back 
 abashed across the threshold, and closed the door. 
 
 “What is it?” cried the little Englishwoman to 
 
268 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 herself, with piteous energy. “A likeness? No, not 
 a likeness ! Yes — no — yes. Certainly not ! With 
 brooding over this matter I am becoming silly ! ” 
 Madame reflected, and made 'up her mind that she 
 was too hungry and tired to think to any purpose. 
 She dined, and Jacques brought her some coffee in her 
 chamber. 
 
 Madame could not refrain from questioning Jacques. 
 For many long years it had been the business of her 
 life to question. Stine was the girl’s name. She was 
 the niece of monsieur, and her fate was sad. 
 
 “ Why do they treat her badly ? ” 
 
 “ It seems to come by nature,” said Jacques. “At 
 present she is in great disgrace because she refuses to 
 marry me ; although I have declared to monsieur that 
 I will not have her.” 
 
 “ But is she not good and nice ? ” cried madame. 
 u Cependant ,” persisted Jacques, “ I will not have 
 her. She likes me as it is ; she would hate me if I 
 pressed her to marry me. Mon Dieu ! Heaven must 
 do something better for her than that.” 
 
 Our traveller was on her way to England, and had 
 broken her journey to rest but a night ; yet she had 
 already become curiously interested in the inhabitants 
 of La Grue. She decided that she would make an 
 indefinite stay at Dindans. That night she wrote some 
 letters, and looked over papers, in her chamber. She 
 was very much excited, and did not settle to rest until 
 it was another day. 
 
 She was only in her first sleep when Stine got up to 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 269 
 
 begin her daily work. No one in the house was awake 
 but herself as she went into the garden, fetched vege- 
 tables, and prepared them for use, placed saucepans on 
 the stove, and then went into the courtyard to make 
 ready her laundry table for an hour’s ironing. As she 
 trotted about the dewy garden and the cool, grey court- 
 yard, she held up her head and moved lightly, delight- 
 ing in the taste of fresh air, space, and peace. Her 
 crisp, white bodice rustled with freshness, and smelt of 
 lavender; her little apron fluttered as if enjoying itself. 
 She went to her ironing under the vines, but had 
 hardly plaited a frill when she remembered that she 
 had not put the things straight in the painting-room 
 of the club. In a minute she was busy folding up the 
 tangled drapery that had been used in costuming a 
 model the night before. The next moment some one 
 came into the room, and Stine seemed all at once in a 
 great hurry as she said, — 
 
 “ Good-day, Monsieur Lawrence ; you are up 
 early ; ” turning away as she spoke, and making haste 
 with her work. 
 
 “ Stine, will you not put that away for a moment, 
 and speak to me ? ” 
 
 “ I have spoken, monsieur : I have said good-day.” 
 
 The young man looked half sad and half angry, as 
 she opened the door, curtseyed, and disappeared. The 
 painter sat down, and began to work at his picture. 
 
 “ This place is not good for me,” he reflected; “I 
 shall leave it as soon as possible. Elsewhere I shall 
 have greater advantages, and be rid of heartache. Ah ! 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 2J0 
 
 why do I love her, when she does not care for me ? 
 Yet what a life I see before her in this place ! Worked 
 to death, or wedded to Jacques, or to the owner of the 
 nearest estaminet. I have not much to offer her, but 
 in time I shall succeed ; we could be frugal. She need 
 not work for two of us as they work her here." 
 
 Lawrence was alone in the world. His art was his 
 delight, and he had left England for the purpose of 
 studying in one of the best Continental schools. Passing 
 through Dindans he had been attracted, first by the 
 quaintness of the old inn, and afterwards by Stine's 
 sad face ; and here he had been content to follow his 
 art studies, without pushing on further to the higher 
 point of his ambition. He had been able on occasions 
 to save the girl from harsh treatment, and he recalled 
 now her amazement at being so shielded, her gratitude 
 so simply shown, and the frank, warm friendship that 
 had sprung up between them. He had watched her at 
 her daily work in the kitchen, in the courtyard, every- 
 where, and had made sketches of her by stealth under 
 every aspect. Later there had come upon him dreams 
 in which he fancied her flitting about in a home which 
 should be her own, and also his ; and one day, when 
 she had been in trouble, he had spoken to her, and 
 then he had found his mistake. His love had appeared 
 to vex her, and their friendship was at an end. She 
 was now as sad and reserved as when he had first set 
 eyes on her. “ It must be that I am quite unlovable," 
 thought Lawrence, “ since she will rather endure un- 
 kindness than share my lot." 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 271 
 
 Meanwhile, Stine was working with nimble fingers 
 at her ironing-table ; linens were folded, and muslins 
 crimped, while now and again a few tears flashed out 
 of her eyes like sparks of fire, and burnt her cheeks. 
 She remembered one day when a kind face had come 
 into the inn, and somebody had saved her from a 
 beating ; she being then considered young enough to 
 be so punished. She remembered how light had 
 become her tasks after what wonderful day, how the 
 consciousness of being protected had grown habitual to 
 her, while the wonder swelled within her at finding 
 herself a person to be so deeply respected. She began 
 to think that even a life like hers might come to have a 
 beautiful side to it, till that first dreadful night, when 
 she had told herself it would be better if she should 
 never see Monsieur Lawrence again. The next day 
 had brought the trouble of her disobedience about 
 Jacques, as well as that strange, supreme moment 
 when Lawrence, having heard of it, had asked her to 
 be his wife, and had been refused. Yes, and she would 
 refuse him to-morrow again, if put to it ! Flash ! came 
 a tear on the frill she was ironing, so that she was 
 obliged to crimp one inch of it over again ; and 
 Madame Van Melckebecke came scolding into the 
 courtyard. 
 
 The little Dame Anglaise dined at the table d'hote 
 that day. Monsieur sat at the top of his board, and 
 his wife and step-daughter, a giggling girl with sharp 
 features, sat beside him. After dinner, monsieur, his 
 wife, and daughter went out to take coffee in the 
 
2 72 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 garden, sitting under an apple-tree, with a tiny table 
 between them : monsieur in his white linen coat and 
 scarlet skull-cap, the girl in a gay muslin with flaming 
 bows, madame in brilliant gown and enormous gold 
 earrings. The ladies chatter, monsieur smokes and 
 drinks his coffee, and Jacques comes into the garden 
 and announces that the Dame Anglaise wishes to join 
 their circle. She comes, she is agreeable, she gossips 
 familiarly over their concerns, and tells them a great 
 deal about her travels. 
 
 So agreeable did she make herself, that next after- 
 noon the stranger was invited once more to join the 
 circle in the garden. Never had been known so 
 pleasant an Englishwoman. 
 
 “ Monsieur and madame,” said the stranger, by-and- 
 by, “ I am going to tell you a story. Yesterday I 
 spoke of my travels, and you were good enough to be 
 amused ; to-day I will try to relate to you some of the 
 most important events of my life. I have lived under 
 the shadow of a great trouble for many years. For 
 sixteen years I have been following a Will o’ the wisp.” 
 u A Will o’ the wisp ? ” cried all the listeners. 
 
 “ It has led me from country to country, and from 
 town to town. I arrived here the other night utterly 
 disheartened, when, lo ! it sprang up again ; here — 
 under this roof — as soon as I entered.” 
 u Here !” cried the Van Melckebeckes. 
 
 Madame shifted her chair so that she sat facing 
 monsieur, who had taken his cigar from his mouth, 
 and sat gazing at her in amazement, with his scarlet 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 273 
 
 skull-cap a little on one side, and a slight look of 
 apprehension on his stolid countenance. 
 
 11 Let madame proceed ! ” 
 
 The strange old lady paused before she began her 
 tale, and a tragic look swept across her dim blue eyes. 
 
 “ My friends,” she said, with a quiver in her voice, 
 “ sixteen years ago there lived in a pleasant part 
 of England an English gentleman and his wife, who 
 had very great wealth and a beautiful home, and up to 
 the time of the beginning of my story they had scarcely 
 known what it is to grieve. They had one child, a 
 little girl of three years old, the idol of both parents. 
 They were fond of travelling abroad, and it happened 
 once that they were in Paris on their way home ; with 
 them the child and three servants, including the nurse, 
 a strange and wild-tempered woman. The lady was 
 half afraid of this nurse, yet shrank from sending her 
 away. The nurse was savagely fond of the child, and 
 jealous of its mother. One day there was a quarrel, 
 springing from this jealousy, and that evening the 
 woman walked out of the hotel carrying the child in 
 her arms, as if to give it an airing. She did not return, 
 and the father and mother never heard of their child 
 again.” 
 
 Monsieur had turned on his seat and looked askance 
 at the stranger. Madame, his wife, sat with open 
 mouth gazing at her husband. 
 
 “ Think of it, good people,” went on the little old 
 trembling lady. “ I was the friend of that young 
 mother, and I came to her in Paris in her affliction. 
 
 I 8 
 
 //. o. 
 
274 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 We spent months traversing Paris, and we advertised, 
 offering large rewards ; but no tidings of woman or 
 child were to be had. We gave up the search in Paris, 
 and went moving from place to place, lingering so 
 sadly, and making such frantic inquiries, that people 
 began to point to my friend as the 1 poor crazed mother 
 who was looking for her child.’ Ah, my friends, if 
 you had seen her as I did — her eyes dim, her cheeks 
 wasted, weeping herself to death over a toy, a tiny 
 garment, a little shoe ! Search was useless, and by 
 the time we could prevail on her to give it up the 
 poor thing was so broken in heart and body that we 
 only brought her home to die. She died in my arms, 
 and I promised to keep up the search so long as I 
 lived. She had a firm belief that her child was not 
 dead, and the horror of its growing up among bad 
 people haunted her perpetually. Her husband lived 
 ten years after her death, and though he never kept 
 up such a constant search as I did, yet he could not 
 forget that there was a chance of his lost daughter’s 
 being alive somewhere. I think his heart was broken 
 too — more by the loss of his wife, perhaps, than by 
 that lof his child. Both parents had been rich, and 
 when the father died he willed all their possessions 
 to their child, who might yet be discovered living in 
 ignorance of her parentage. After a certain time, 
 if nothing has been heard of the girl or her descen- 
 dants, the property will be broken up and divided 
 in charity. Since the father’s death I have never 
 for one moment relaxed my efforts to discover some 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP, 
 
 27 5 
 
 trace of the child of my friends. I now begin to grow 
 old, and I fear I shall not be able to keep it up much 
 longer. I have cheered my heart many a time, telling 
 myself that the girl would be a daughter to me in 
 my advancing age, and would repay me with her love 
 for all the labour I have had for her. She would now 
 be nineteen years of age. When a child, her hair was 
 dark ; it would now be darker still. Her eyes, I think, 
 would be grey, the colour of her mother’s. I have 
 often fancied I saw a face like what I had pictured her 
 to myself, and spent feverish days in finding out my 
 mistake. Now you know what I meant by a Will o’ the 
 wisp.” 
 
 The faces of the innkeeper and his wife had changed 
 so that they did not seem to be the same persons 
 who had sat there half an hour ago. They now nodded 
 their heads, while neither spoke. 
 
 “But why say that the Will o’ the wisp had ap- 
 peared under our roof?” asked Rosalie sharply. 
 
 The old lady trembled wildly, and looked round 
 on the three faces. At this moment Stine appeared 
 coming down the courtyard with a fresh supply of 
 coffee. 
 
 “ My friends ! my friends ! ” cried the little old lady, 
 stretching out her hands to them, “ I believe that 
 there ” — pointing to Stine — “ comes the child I have 
 been seeking for these many years ! ” 
 
 Monsieur Van Melckebecke sprang to his feet, while 
 his wife pushed back her chair, and stared furiously at 
 the stranger. 
 
2 j6 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 “ Madame has lost her mind!" cried monsieur, 
 eyeing the lady with terror. 
 
 “Ah no, monsieur! Tell me that I am right, or 
 help me to the proof of it. My child has in some 
 strange way been thrown upon your charity. Some 
 feeling of honour makes you wish to keep a secret." 
 
 “ Madame is all wrong,” said the man, a little 
 mollified. “The girl is my niece. I will bring you 
 face to face with her mother. She lives at some 
 distance, but she shall be brought here to satisfy 
 you.” 
 
 “ Bring her at once," said the old lady. 
 
 Next morning a coarse, loud-voiced woman came 
 into the inn, and Madame the Stranger was summoned 
 to meet her in the garden under the apple-tree. All 
 the family were present at the interview — monsieur, 
 madame, Rosalie, Stine, and Jacques. 
 
 “ She is my daughter," said the coarse woman ; 
 “ but I gave her up to my brother for the good of 
 the family. Speak out, Stine, and say if I am not your 
 mother." 
 
 “ I have always known you as my mother," said 
 Stine, shrinking from her. “ Dear madame," to the 
 Englishwoman, “give up this fancy. I am grieved 
 to be such a trouble to you." 
 
 “ Help me, good Jacques, to get back to my chamber," 
 said the poor old lady faintly. 
 
 That night, very late, when Stine was wearily 
 toiling up her tower staircase, a door opened, and 
 the English madame came out, wrapped in her shawl. 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 277 
 
 “ My dear/’ she said, “ take me up to your tower 
 room to see the view from your window. It must 
 be fine this starry night. Besides, I want to talk 
 to you.” 
 
 Stine’s little room seemed situated in a star, so 
 high was it above the peaks of the Flemish houses 
 away down in the town below. The cathedral tower 
 looked over at her in ghostly magnificence. Her 
 small lattice lay open, and the music of the chimes 
 came floating dreamily in as they played their melody 
 through in honour of the midnight hour. The room 
 was cool, dark, and quiet. Madame sat down on 
 Stine’s little bed, and the cathedral clock struck 
 twelve. 
 
 “ My dear,” she said to Stine, “ I am not going 
 to afflict you with my trouble. I am used to disap- 
 pointment, yet there is something in this case which is 
 different from all my former experiences. I cannot 
 shake off the interest I feel in you. Granted that 
 I am a crazed old woman, still I would like to leave 
 my mark, a good mark, upon your fate. Do not be 
 afraid to speak freely to me, my child. They are harsh 
 to you in this house?” 
 
 “ They are not very kind.” 
 
 “ You would wish to get out of their power, and yet 
 not marry Jacques ? ” 
 
 “I will not marry Jacques — Heaven bless him !” 
 
 “Yet a husband could protect you.” 
 
 “They are not going to kill me; and I am able to 
 bear my life.” 
 
2/8 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 The little old English madame was silent, reflected a 
 minute, and then began again. 
 
 u I went out this evening to calm my heart in the 
 cathedral. I found it almost deserted, and full of a 
 solemn peace. I prayed, and became resigned. Having 
 finished, I was resting myself, when I found the painter, 
 Monsieur Lawrence, standing beside me. He addressed 
 me as your friend, and we had some whispered con- 
 versation. He talked about you. He loves you. You 
 have repulsed him. Is it possible that you are so 
 hard ? ” 
 
 “ Madame, I am not hard,” gasped Stine, after a 
 pause. 
 
 11 1 can believe it.” 
 
 “ Madame, before I knew Monsieur Lawrence I had 
 never loved anything ; now it seems as if I could love 
 the whole world for his sake. He is to me all that one 
 lives for, lives by. He is absolutely as my life. I 
 speak extravagantly, madame ; but remember, at least, 
 that I did not wish to speak at all.” 
 
 “ Go on,” urged the little lady. 
 
 ** There was a time,” said Stine, leaning on the sill, 
 and gazing over clasped hands into the starry outer 
 dimness, “ a time when I never thought of checking my 
 love, seeing nothing in it that was not beautiful and 
 good. But I was forced to change my mind. Madame, 
 I will tell you about it. I was sitting one evening in 
 the courtyard at 'my knitting, and the students were 
 supping in their club-room; the blind was down, the 
 window open. I heard the men’s voices talking, but I 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 279 
 
 was not minding what they said. I was thinking of 
 Monsieur Lawrence, of some words that he had said to 
 me, and of the beautiful look that always came into his 
 eyes when he saw me. He was away that day, and I 
 always allowed myself to think of him most when he 
 was at a distance ; it seemed less bold, somehow, than 
 when he was near. Suddenly I heard his name men- 
 tioned in the club-room, and he became the subject of 
 conversation among the students. They spoke of his 
 noble character, and of his genius, and some one said, 
 
 1 If he only keeps out of harm's way he has a fine career 
 before him.' Then there was confusion of voices, and 
 by-and-by I learned that the chief thing he had to fear 
 was marriage with a woman as poor as himself. Then 
 my own name was brought into the conversation, and 
 there was more confusion, till a voice said severely, 
 
 1 That, indeed, would be his total ruin.’ Madame, the 
 words came out through the window to me, and buzzed 
 about my head like fiery gnats, and then made their way 
 inward, and settled and burned their way down to my 
 heart. When I came up here that night I sat down 
 here, and thought about it. At first I said to myself, 
 
 * It is untrue ; I should help, and not hinder him ; I 
 should work so hard, and privation would be nothing to 
 me.’ But soon my mind came round to see the truth. 
 The poorest bread costs money, and a woman is often 
 in the way. A man of genius must not be fettered. If 
 he drudges to boil the pot how shall he soar to his just 
 ambition ? After that I used to go about saying to 
 myself, to keep up my courage, * I will not be his ruin. 
 
280 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP . 
 
 I will not spoil his life.’ And then, when one day he 
 found me in trouble, and asked me to marry him, I had 
 strength to refuse him. This is the whole of my secret, 
 madame. I love him, and will protect him from the 
 harm that I could do him.” 
 
 “ My dear,” said the Englishwoman, “ I believe you 
 are indeed the stuff to make a good wife ; and I warn 
 you not to let your honourable scruples carry you out 
 of reach of a well-earned happiness that may be yours. 
 You and Monsieur Lawrence are young, and can wait. 
 Meantime, you need not give the lie to your hearts. 
 Take the word of an old woman ; there is nothing so 
 precious in this world as love, when it is wise ; and 
 especially if it has been made holy by passing through 
 pain.” 
 
 Next evening Stine went to the convent, a mile out oi 
 the town, to fetch eggs and melons for the inn house- 
 keeping. Coming back again, along the canal under 
 the poplars, she sat down to rest a minute, with her 
 basket by her side. The sun had set, the brown sails 
 in the canal had still a red tinge on their folds, and the 
 spires and peaks of the town loomed faint and far 
 through an atmosphere as of gold-dust. Stine’s heart 
 bounded with a painful delight, as she saw Monsieur 
 Lawrence coming towards her, under the shadow of the 
 poplars. She would have liked to run away, but that 
 was not to be thought of. 
 
 She rose, however, to her feet, and he came beside 
 her, and they stood looking at each other. 
 
 “ I did not mean to frighten you,” he said ; “ and I 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 281 
 
 am not going to annoy you. I have come to bid you 
 good-bye, as I leave the town to-morrow. After all 
 that has come and gone, Stine, you will not deny me 
 a kind word at parting.” 
 
 “ It is better for you to go, Monsieur Lawrence. I 
 hope you will succeed, wherever you are.” 
 
 “ I shall do pretty well, I suppose. I should have 
 done better, I think, if your love had blessed my life. 
 But I will not vex you about that any more. One thing 
 I ask, that you will let that good old English lady have 
 a care over you.” 
 
 “ Do not be uneasy about me. Good-bye, Monsieur 
 Lawrence. I suppose you are now going further up the 
 road ? I am already late; I must get home.” 
 
 “ Hard to the last ! ” said Lawrence bitterly. 
 
 The reproach was too much for Stine ; it broke the 
 ice about her heart, and the waters of desolation poured 
 in upon her. She turned her face, white and quivering^ 
 on Monsieur Lawrence. 
 
 u I am not hard ” she began pitifully. 
 
 “ Stine ! ” he cried, reading her face aright at last, and 
 stretching out his arms to her. 
 
 “ Oh, Monsieur Lawrence ! ” she cried, and fell upon 
 his breast, weeping. “ 1 have been hard,” she said, 
 defending herself ; a only because I dared not be other- 
 wise. I have hurt myself more than you. Even now I 
 am wrong. Do not let me ruin you.” 
 
 u You have been very near ruining me,” he answered; 
 “ but that is past.” 
 
 When Stine came into the inn with the eggs and 
 
282 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP . 
 
 melons she was scolded for being late; but Madame 
 Van Melckebecke’s abusive words fell about her ears like 
 so many rose-leaves. 
 
 That night, when Stine and the Dame Anglaise were 
 conversing up in the tower, a tap came at the door, and 
 Monsieur Lawrence joined the conference. The three 
 sat whispering together, barely able to see one another, 
 by the light of the stars. Here it was arranged that 
 Lawrence should go to Paris and seek his fortune, while 
 Stine, as his betrothed, should remain at her work in 
 the inn. They were to love and trust each other till 
 Lawrence should find himself ready to come and take 
 his wife. The chimes rang, the stars blinked, the old 
 lady sat between the lovers, like the good godmother 
 in the fairy tale. Madame was to watch over Stine till 
 Lawrence should come for her, while no one else in the 
 inn was to know the secret but Jacques. 
 
 Early one morning, while the inn was asleep, Stine 
 came into the cathedral when the doors were just open, 
 and even the earliest worshippers were not arrived. 
 She laid a bunch of white flowers upon the step of the 
 altar, and then Lawrence came beside her, and they 
 vowed their vow of betrothal, and said good-bye. 
 
 After this the days went on as usual at La Grue. 
 The painters painted in their studio, and supped in their 
 club-room, and regretted the absent Lawrence, but yet 
 commended him for running away from danger. The 
 English lady had taken up her residence regularly at 
 the inn. The landlord was hardly pleased to have her. 
 He always eyed her suspiciously, having a fear that that 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 283 
 
 craze about Stine had not been altogether banished 
 from her mind. In this, however, he was wrong. The 
 poor little wearied-out lonely lady had given in to fate 
 at last, telling herself that her faithful search had been 
 in vain, that the child she had sought must be long 
 since dead, that she needed repose, and might venture 
 to indulge her fancy for employing herself in a kindly 
 care of Stine. She came and went about the inn, 
 sitting in her little lofty chamber looking over at the 
 chimes, exchanging civilities in the garden with mon- 
 sieur and madame, wandering about the quaint old 
 town, poking among ancient churches, or trying to talk 
 a little Flemish to the poor. She did not dare show 
 much sympathy for Stine, lest the powers that ruled the 
 inn should take it in their heads to turn her out of doors. 
 She had to listen to many a bitter scolding, and witness 
 many an unkind action, and dared not interfere, lest 
 worse might come of it. Only at night, when Stine 
 came to the room of her little friend, did they venture 
 on any intercourse. Then Lawrence’s latest news was 
 discussed, and his prospects talked over; and Stine 
 went to bed as happy as though there were not a scold- 
 ing tongue in the world. Harshness did not hurt her 
 now as it used to do. She had lost her fragile and woe- 
 begone air ; she grew plump and rosy, and her eyes 
 began to shine. She sang over her work, and often 
 smiled to herself with happiness, when no one was by. 
 
 The elders perceived this change, and pointed it out 
 to Jacques. 
 
 “ Thou seest,” said monsieur, “she is getting quite 
 
284 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 pretty. Thou canst not be so stupid as still to refuse 
 to marry her ? ” 
 
 “ Pretty !” cried Jacques; " I do not see it. To my 
 thinking, the Dame Anglaise is prettier.” 
 
 “ At least, she would make a thrifty wife.” 
 
 “ Cependant” said Jacques, "she is better as a 
 fellow-servant.” 
 
 " Thou art too hard to please,” said monsieur angrily, 
 surveying the crooked figure of the little man. 
 
 " Every man has a right to choose his wife,” said 
 Jacques, "and I mean to do better than to marry that 
 Stine.” 
 
 The innkeeper was baffled. 
 
 " Our affairs stand still,” he grumbled to his wife. 
 “ The law will not allow you to marry a man against his 
 will. I do not see what we can do.” 
 
 "Wait a bit,” said madame ; "is it not possible that 
 Jacques dislikes her ? ” 
 
 " And thou — dost thou also like her ? ” sneered 
 monsieur. 
 
 " But that is a different thing,” declared madame ; " I 
 cannot like a 'creature who keeps me in fear and stands 
 in my way.” 
 
 " It is true,” groaned monsieur, " she is a bright-eyed 
 marmot, but she keeps us in deadly fear.” 
 
 Whatever the fear was, it preyed upon the master of 
 La Grue. From being merely a brutishly sulky man, 
 he became irritable and violent ; even madame, his 
 wife, began to moderate her temper, lest, being both in 
 a flame together, they should burn their establishment 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 285 
 
 to death. He began to vow often to his wife that he 
 would not have that Anglaise in the house a week 
 longer; that he would have Jacques popped into the 
 canal, and Stine shipped off to the antipodes. He 
 would wait on his guests himself for the future ; his 
 wife should do the cooking, and let Rosalie work at the 
 ironing and keep the books. His wife soothed him as 
 well as she was able, but monsieur was hard to soothe, 
 and when quiet he was timorous and moody. He left 
 off eating much, and his flesh began to fall away. 
 
 “ I feel that I shall have a fever,” he complained, 
 “ and when I am raving I shall be sure to tell the 
 story.” 
 
 “ Nobody shall come near you but me,” said his 
 wife ; and, when his fears came to be verified, and she 
 put him to bed in a state of delirium, she suffered no 
 one to help her in the task of nursing him. The little 
 Anglaise came once on tip-toe to the chamber door to 
 ask how monsieur fared, but madame greeted her with 
 a face so dark that she never cared to venture on this 
 mission again. The crisis of the fever passed, and 
 monsieur was restored to his senses, without having 
 betrayed in his ravings any secret that might be 
 rankling in his mind. The inn became more lively, and 
 madame the landlady was persuaded by her daughter 
 to take a drive out of the town for change of air. 
 Monsieur was not able to speak much, and Jacques was 
 allowed to sit by him till his wife returned. 
 
 “ Jacques,” said the sick man faintly, “they think I 
 am getting better, but I know I am going to die.” 
 
286 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 “No, monsieur, no,” said Jacques. 
 
 “ I have not long to live, my friend, and you must 
 go for the cure and the maire. Bring them to me 
 quickly, before my wife comes back.” 
 
 “But, monsieur ” 
 
 “ Go, or I shall die on the instant, and my death will 
 be on your head.” 
 
 Stine had quiet times just now, and she was in the 
 garden leaning against a tree, with her knitting-needles 
 clinking in her fingers. The Anglaise sat opposite to 
 her, and they were talking of Monsieur Lawrence. 
 While thus engaged, they saw Jacques, the cure, and 
 the maire coming down the courtyard. Monsieur 
 desired to make his will and prepare for death, they 
 said to one another ; and both were shocked. 
 
 Some time afterwards Jacques came running through 
 the archway into the garden, his face and manner so 
 excited that the women stood amazed. 
 
 “Come, madame,” he said to the Anglaise, “you are 
 wanted immediately in monsieur’s chamber.” The 
 Englishwoman followed him wondering, and Stine went 
 back to her kitchen to prepare for supper. 
 
 Half an hour passed. Stine w T as standing at the 
 window straining the soup, when she saw the little 
 Anglaise coming hurrying down the courtyard, white- 
 faced, her head hanging as if with weakness, missing 
 a step now and then, striking her foot against the 
 stones of the pavement, and feeling, as if blindly, for 
 the door as she entered the kitchen. She snatched the 
 ladle out of Stine’s hand and flung it on the floor, 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP . 
 
 287 
 
 seized the girl by the shoulders, laughed in her face, 
 gave a sob, and fell back swooning into the arms of 
 Jacques ; all of which meant that the Will o' the wisp 
 had turned out a veritable hearthlight at last. 
 
 “ Ah, monsieur le maire, monsieur le cure ! ” she 
 cried, recovering ; lt let them come here and tell the 
 story, for my head is still astray, and I want to hear it 
 again. Come out of this place, girl ! thou art not Stine, 
 thou art Bertha, daughter of Sir Sydney Errington and 
 Millicent his wife, both of broken-hearted memory, in 
 Devonshire, in England. It is all written down. Jacques, 
 we saw it written down. Will the gentlemen come and 
 read it to us, or will they not ? ” 
 
 The cure and maire came in with solemn faces. 
 Madame sat on a bench, and drank from a glass of 
 water, while Jacques stood on guard by her side. 
 Stine retreated, and leaned with her back against the 
 wall, looking doubtfully at these people who had come 
 to change her life. There was no mistake at all about 
 the innkeeper’s dying statement. The nurse who had 
 stolen the child had been his first wife, from whom he 
 had separated for a time that they might earn some 
 money. When she came home to him with the child 
 he, being afraid of her, had helped her to conceal it. 
 He was then a waiter in Paris, and they took up house 
 together, and prospered. She assured him that her 
 motive for stealing the child had been revenge, and 
 that one day, after the parents had suffered enough, a 
 large reward should be obtained for restoring her to 
 them. With this he had been obliged to be satisfied. 
 
288 
 
 A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 His wife set up business as a clear-stareher, and made 
 money enough for the child’s support and her own. 
 She used to smudge the child’s face with brown, and 
 dress it in boy’s clothing ; but she died suddenly 
 when it was five years of age. Then had monsieur 
 thought of ridding himself of the burden, but had been 
 frightened out of his senses by some one whom he had 
 consulted on the subject. He became afraid for his 
 very life of any one discovering the identity of the 
 girl. Heaviest punishment, he feared, must be the 
 reward of his daring to restore her to her sorrowing 
 friends. When he came to Dindans as owner of the 
 inn, he brought with him Stine as his niece, and a 
 strange woman came to live in a cottage outside the 
 town who pretended to be his sister-in-law, and the 
 mother of the girl. He had trained Stine to be useful, 
 and, by marrying her to Jacques, had thought to turn 
 her to still further account in his service. No one but 
 his second wife and the pretended mother had ever 
 shared the secret which had sat for years on this 
 cowardly soul. Now that he was going to die he would 
 shuffle it off. He had always, he declared, meant to 
 tell the truth before he died. If the Dame Anglaise 
 had not arrived then, he would have left the story and 
 its proofs with the cure of the town. 
 
 a Gentlemen,” said Stine, coming out of her corner, 
 “ let us not disturb the house of death. Madame Van 
 Melckebecke returns, and these things will not please 
 her.” 
 
 The landlady’s voice was here heard, and the maire 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 289 
 
 and the cure disappeared very willingly, while Stine 
 brought the Anglaise away to her chamber. The poor 
 little lady was beside herself, and kept caressing Stine, 
 and telling what fine things were waiting for her. “My 
 child, my little queen ! ” she said, “ my lady of the 
 manor ! Ah, wait, my love, till you see your English 
 homer 
 
 Stine was quite confounded by the news ; sat silently 
 leaning her face on her hand, and gazing at her friend. 
 
 11 1 do not understand it,” she said. She was not 
 willing to follow the idea of any change so complete. 
 It seemed to break up her expectation of that striving 
 and hopeful life with Lawrence in Paris. She did not 
 as yet perceive how good it would be for him. 
 
 Suddenly the Anglaise gave a shriek. “ Mon Dieu ! 
 child, you are plighted to a humble artist. Ah ! how 
 fate has been cheating us ! Why was I such a fool as 
 to counsel such a step ? But it is not yet too late. 
 Monsieur Lawrence must give you up. You shall 
 marry in your own rank ” 
 
 “ Madame ! ” cried Stine, springing to her feet ; “ I 
 know not anything of your England, and I will have 
 nothing to do with it. If my husband is not fit to be a 
 nobleman there, why, we will be noble after our own 
 fashion in our grenier in Paris.” Then, suddenly 
 perceiving the prosperity which her transformation 
 would bestow upon Lawrence, she burst into a passion 
 of delight, and knelt, laughing and sobbing, by the side 
 of the bed. 
 
 “Forgive me, my dear,” said the old lady, half 
 
 19 
 
 H. O. 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 
 
 290 
 
 terrified; "my senses are coming back to me, and I 
 love you for that speech. Lawrence is now in London ; 
 let us set out at once, and take him by surprise.” 
 
 Lawrence had finished his business in London, and 
 was on the eve of starting for Paris when, returning 
 one night to his lodgings, he found a note, in a lady’s 
 handwriting, waiting for him on the table. The writing 
 was not Stine’s, and it was not a foreign letter. It 
 announced that Miss Errington begged him to visit her 
 at her manor-house in Devonshire. Now, who was 
 Miss Errington ? for Lawrence had no acquaintance 
 with Erringtons, nor yet with manor-houses. He con- 
 sidered the matter gravely, and finally wrote to Stine, 
 at Dindans, telling her of the occurrence ; also that he 
 had accepted the invitation, hoping to find that some 
 wealthy connoisseur had taken a fancy to his pictures. 
 Between his paragraphs was inserted a comical sketch 
 of this possible patron ; a lady of venerable aspect, with 
 nut-cracker features, and leaning on a long staff. 
 
 It was evening when he arrived at the manor-house, 
 just so light that he could see the rich country through 
 which he was travelling — could discern, with his artist- 
 eyes, the beautiful wooded lands, which he was told had 
 belonged to the Erringtons for numberless generations. 
 He dressed for dinner in a handsome, old-fashioned 
 chamber, and was conducted to the drawing-room. 
 The door closed behind him, and he was in a room 
 softly lighted, in which everything was rich, antique, 
 tasteful, beautiful. A lady sat by the fire alone — a 
 young and graceful figure, clothed in soft white draperies. 
 
A WILL O' THE WISP. 29 1 
 
 She rose as he approached, but kept her face averted. 
 He saw the lovely and familiar outline of a cheek, a 
 head with a crown of braided hair, yet for one moment 
 more he did not know that upon this home-hearth 
 burned for him, now and evermore, that life-light which 
 had once been called a Will o' the wisp. The lady 
 turned her face, and Lawrence, bowing, advanced a 
 step. Then, suddenly, there arose a sort of cry from 
 two voices, rent by passionate surprise, and joy took 
 eternal possession of the lives of these happy lovers. 
 
THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 
 
 <♦— 
 
 I T happened only five summers ago. I had had a 
 hard winter and spring of unfitness for work, 
 which, following close on my first successes in Art, 
 had been rather impatiently borne, seeming as they 
 did to destroy my hope while it w'as budding. Fur- 
 thermore, I was assured by a doctor that I was 
 threatened with consumption, and I acknowledged 
 that he was probably right, as the disease was in 
 my family. In the beginning of a hot June I sat 
 in my studio in London, weary in body and mind, 
 when a letter came to my hand like a freshening 
 breeze. It was from Lord Wylder, who had bought 
 a picture of mine a few months before, and who now 
 asked me to come down to Wildwood Chase to paint 
 his portrait. 
 
 Though not particularly fond of portrait painting, 
 I liked the invitation. I knew the country round 
 Wildwood Chase was beautiful, famous for its roses 
 and nightingales. In a few weeks the latter would 
 have left off singing ; I should be in time to hear 
 their richest notes. There was also a good gallery 
 of pictures at Wildwood. In a short time my ar- 
 
THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 293 
 
 rangements were made, and I was in the train, 
 spinning through fields and woods in their freshest 
 verdure, and among hedges white and fragrant with 
 the hawthorn in full bloom. 
 
 I found the great house full of people. Lord Wylder 
 was a genial old man, who had a large family of 
 children and grandchildren whom he loved to gather 
 round him, and the portrait I was to paint was intended 
 for one of his daughters, who had lately been married. 
 His kind flattery of my works gave me a sort of 
 distinction in the eyes of the company, and nothing 
 could be pleasanter than the position in which I found 
 myself. I had a charming studio overhanging a green 
 retreat, through leafy rifts in which a teeming rose- 
 garden was discernible, against a distance blotted with 
 mingled greens and purples. Here I worked, solitary 
 as long as I pleased, and always returning to my 
 seclusion happier for the courtesy with which the 
 struggling artist was treated by enthusiastic admirers 
 of his art. 
 
 The state of my health at the moment disinclining 
 me for the society of strangers, I lived chiefly a dream- 
 like life of my own among the delicious summer haunts 
 which surrounded me at Wildwood Chase. 
 
 At such a time of the year, and in such delightful 
 relations with nature, if one has not actually a close 
 sympathetic companionship with some other living 
 creature, one is apt to create something of the kind 
 out of one’s own imagination, and with this reflection 
 I accounted to myself for my extraordinary attraction 
 
294 THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 
 
 towards a certain picture in the gallery, the head and 
 shoulders of a girl set against a background of the 
 woven boughs of trees. The face had a mysterious 
 charm impossible to describe, and was slightly leaned 
 forward, looking straight at the gazer with an ex- 
 pression which seemed to me as though the creature 
 were longing to whisper a secret. The wide over- 
 shadowed grey eyes had a spiritual intensity such 
 as I had never seen in any woman’s face, while the 
 sweet parted lips promised that, strong as imagination 
 and mind might be in the character, the heart would 
 always have the casting-vote if ever intellect and 
 feeling should come in conflict. The hair was 
 light, like new-mown hay, and lay in soft drifts 
 across the delicate forehead. The peculiarity of 
 the picture was that, wherever you moved in the 
 gallery within sight of it, the eyes followed you with 
 wonderful changes of expression. Sometimes they 
 were sad and wistful, sometimes smiling, as if in 
 mischievous amusement, and again they had a high 
 strange outlook that tantalized you with a desire to 
 follow it. 
 
 I ascertained that this was the portrait of a young 
 girl of Lord Wylder’s family, who had lived and died 
 about a hundred years ago. Somehow I felt pleased 
 that she had died early. There were portraits of 
 beautiful women all round, who had been the grand- 
 mothers and great-grandmothers of the Wylders, 
 caught here in their lovely girlhood, and perpetuated 
 in youth for the eyes of posterity ; but they did not 
 
THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 295 
 
 interest me, and I smiled at my own satisfaction in 
 the knowledge that my leaf-embowered goddess had 
 never been promoted while on earth to wifehood, 
 motherhood, and great-grandmotherhood. She had 
 come up like a flower, appeared like the leaves on 
 the boughs from among which her face looked forth, 
 and even as flower and leaf she had vanished, after 
 a short sweet summer of life, with the dews still fresh 
 on the roses of her tender lips and cheeks. 
 
 She was a fitting companion and friend, I thought, 
 for one like me, living a saddened ideal life, threatened 
 with disease, overshadowed by death, uncertain of 
 more than a very short duration of mortal existence. 
 Smiling at this conceit, I visited her every evening 
 at twilight, vowing vows to her, and making believe 
 to be her lover. She had been dust already for 
 
 nearly a century, and I should be dust perhaps 
 before another year. Therefore I said we should be 
 lovers. 
 
 Though always in love with love, I had never loved 
 any woman in my life before, so that the June romance, 
 sprung among roses and nightingales, and woven 
 round the dream-maiden in the gallery nook whose 
 eyes were dust, and whose voice (what a low sweet 
 voice it must have been !) would never more be heard 
 on earth, was perfectly satisfactory, inexpressibly 
 consoling and delightful to me. 
 
 A man can hardly confess all the weak things he 
 dees when, being in low health, and tired of pre- 
 tending to be strong, the child in his nature, never 
 
296 THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 
 
 quite lost in any of us, rises irresistibly and asserts 
 itself. In such a mood he will cry like a girl over 
 a lock of his dead mother's hair, or babble to him- 
 self words of tenderness heard long ago, and only 
 grown precious to memory in the hour of desola- 
 tion. In such mood I raved softly in the dusk and 
 solitude to my little love, with the hair like new-mown 
 hay and the eyes that seemed to listen to me and 
 answer me. One evening, when I was in a particularly 
 fantastic humour, I began to wonder if the spirit that 
 had lived in the creature knew anything of this way- 
 ward devotion of mine, and whether, in case she did, 
 she would be pleased or displeased at it. Upon this, 
 the idea that my dream-love was after all no dream, 
 but a living being in another world, which might be 
 only separated from us by the veils upon our eyes, 
 struck me with a force which was a very new and 
 strange experience. It was as if she had indeed been 
 spiritually present, and had made her presence felt 
 by me. I thought, how strange that, were she to 
 make herself visibly known to me, it might be only 
 anticipating matters, seeing that in a short time I 
 should be thoroughly qualified to join her where she 
 abode, and I formed a distinct wish that Mayflower 
 (so she was named), with the eyes of spiritual meaning 
 and the brow like that of a child-angel, would come 
 and confer with me here in the shadows, and tell 
 me that secret, perhaps the secret of immortality, 
 which it had seemed to me when I first saw her 
 that she was longing to unfold. 
 
THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 297 
 
 I had turned away and walked the length of the 
 gallery, charmed with and half smiling at my fancy, 
 and I was within a few yards of the door, when it 
 opened noiselessly and quickly ; there was a grey 
 flutter of drapery, shone through by the early-risen 
 moon, which looked towards me from beyond the 
 window in the passage on which the end of the 
 gallery gave. I saw a young light-tinted head set 
 against the glistening moon, which formed a golden 
 disc behind it. I saw the spiritual gleam of eyes clear 
 like water ; I saw shoulders of a peculiar outline, and 
 a light gossamer swathing them ; and then the door 
 shut, leaving me nothing but the living glance that 
 had been flung towards me from the very face which 
 I had adored and apostrophised on the canvas, now 
 hidden by twilight at the more distant extremity of 
 the gallery. 
 
 I remained standing where I was for several 
 minutes. Fantastic as my humour had been, it had 
 not been insane, but now I asked myself whether I 
 had suddenly passed the boundary of sanity. That 
 I had seen a vision of the girl Mayflower, who had 
 bloomed a hundred years ago, there could be no doubt, 
 but whether the vision was conjured up by my own 
 disordered mind was a question which troubled me 
 impertinently. I had not been led to expect that 
 my mind was bound to decay sooner than my body, 
 yet 1 had seen the spirit of Mayflower whom I had 
 adjured to come to me. I believed that I had posi- 
 tively adjured her. And she had come. 
 
29B THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 
 
 Insomnia was part of the ailment from which I 
 suffered, but at Wildwood I had found it scarcely 
 irksome to lie awake and hear all the rich full sounds 
 of the life of the summer night — the occasional rapture 
 of the nightingale, the urgent cry of the landrail in the 
 grass, the distant lowing of cattle, the rustling of the 
 woods. On this night the marvel of Mayflower’s 
 spiritual apparition absorbed me ; she seemed to float 
 through the air of the midsummer night and dawn, 
 drawing me towards her. During the next week I 
 was feverish, impatient, altogether the worse instead 
 of the better for my absence from London. In my 
 calmer moments I thought of breaking my engagements, 
 pretending inability to work on the portrait, packing 
 up, and returning to London. The reason was that 
 I made up my mind that the vision I had seen was 
 a real vision, and that I was hungering to see it 
 again. Therefore I would escape while I had a 
 remnant of sanity. 
 
 I did not go, however, for the insanity kept me 
 rooted to the spot. A week passed, and the weird 
 impression I had received was becoming a little 
 weakened. Occasionally I admitted to myself that 
 my imagination had played me a trick. One night, 
 in a more than ordinarily rational frame of mind, 
 and tired of lying awake, I rose, and letting myself 
 out by a garden door, went for a long ramble through 
 the park and out on the open downs, where the first 
 faint breaking of dawn overtook me. 
 
 It was just during that spell of visible darkness 
 
THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 299 
 
 which is the forerunner of the return of light, and 
 while I stood on the verge of a small ragged-edged 
 lake, skirted by trees and bushes — stood smoking 
 calmly, and expectant of nothing but the sunrise, 
 that I had my second vision of the spirit of Mayflower. 
 I dropped my cigar, and stood breathless, as the first 
 flutter of the slim robe came out of the tall rushes, 
 and I beheld her floating towards me, clad in long 
 light garments, her small head set backwards, her sweet 
 eyes wide open, and full of that expression which in 
 the picture most fascinated me — the high, strange, far- 
 looking gaze which had so followed me at times that 
 I felt utterly unable to escape from it. Her hands 
 gathered the folds of her dress on her breast, as in the 
 picture, and she went by with a gliding movement, like 
 a mist-wreath. I looked her in the face, advanced 
 towards her, involuntarily stepped aside as she took 
 no notice of me, and finally let her pass, daunted by 
 her unconsciousness or indifference. No sooner had 
 she passed than I sprang to follow her. I would 
 speak to her at any cost. I made a spring to reach 
 a mound in front of her, where I might again wait 
 and watch her approach, but missed my footing and 
 fell. When I had got upon my feet again she was 
 gone. 
 
 The next day I laid down my brushes, and told my 
 sitter and host that I felt I was going to be ill, and 
 had better be at home. I went back to London, and 
 had my illness — typhoid fever, the doctor said ; and 
 I was extremely shaken when convalescent. To my 
 
300 THE GIIOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 
 
 great surprise the doctor informed me that this illness 
 had been of much service to me, and that, though 
 weak and needing care, I was no longer in danger 
 of consumption. If cautious I might live to be a 
 vigorous man. 
 
 Extremely cheered by the news, I began to look 
 back upon my experiences of Wildwood Chase as 
 part of the hallucinations of the fever that had long 
 been creeping over me, and with a smile and a sigh 
 for Mayflower and her mysterious dream-sympathy, 
 I dismissed the little romance from my reinvigorated 
 mind. By Christmas-time I was completely recovered, 
 and was gratified by receiving a note from Lord 
 Wylder regretting my illness, and hoping that I would 
 run down to Wildwood during the holidays for change 
 of air. He wrote from Florence, saying the Chase 
 was deserted this winter, but the housekeeper had 
 received orders to make me comfortable. My first 
 impulse was to decline the invitation, but on second 
 thoughts I decided to seize the opportunity of laying 
 in a store of strength for coming work, and of looking 
 on the picture of Mayflower once more, this time with 
 the eyes of bodily and mental sanity. 
 
 After the day of my arrival had been arranged, 
 something occurred to detain me in London, and 
 I wrote to the housekeeper naming a later date. 
 Within two days of the later period I found myself 
 free, and telegraphed that I was coming twenty-four 
 hours sooner than had been my latest intention. 
 Owing to the snow, which had fallen in the country 
 
THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 301 
 
 before it appeared in London, it happened that my 
 telegram was not received, but of that I knew nothing 
 as I made my way along roads just cleared for tra- 
 vellers, and arrived at my destination, unexpected. 
 
 The avenue had not been cleared, and leaving the 
 trap which had brought me from the station at the 
 lower gates, I walked by the shortest way to the house, 
 went in by the open back way, ascended to the great 
 hall without meeting any one, deposited my wrappings 
 and rugs, and proceeded to make myself at home, 
 awaiting the appearance of the housekeeper. Seeing 
 firelight under the not quite closed door of the library, 
 I turned in there, and glancing round the brown- 
 panelled room, book-lined and irradiated with firelight, 
 I saw a figure rise from the hearthrug, and stand in 
 a wavering attitude, like a wild bird poising for flight. 
 The form of the head and shoulders was weirdly 
 familiar, the shine of the eyes fell on me, like a 
 blinding revelation of things inconceivable. This was 
 Mayflower, seen actually as if in the flesh, not by 
 the ghost-seeing eyes of disease, but by the eyes of 
 healthy manhood. So real was she, that after a long 
 pause of surprise, incredulity, ending in complete as- 
 surance, I uttered some words of apology for disturbing 
 a lady, and then remained gazing at her to see what 
 she would do. 
 
 A few murmured words in Mayflower’s true voice — 
 the voice I had endowed her with, but had never 
 heard before — came towards me. What they were 
 I did not catch, but the sound acted on me like a 
 
302 THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE . 
 
 spell, and I stood silently gazing at her as she went 
 past me, and disappeared out of the library. 
 
 When she was gone I wakened up and rang the 
 bell, and in a few minutes the housekeeper appeared, 
 bearing lights, and full of apologies. She had not 
 expected ; she must have misunderstood. 
 
 I made my explanations, and then asked her as 
 unconcernedly as I could who the lady was whom 
 I feared my unlooked-for arrival had disturbed. 
 
 “ Oh, that is Miss Mayflower,” she said. “ She loves 
 this library, and lives in it mostly when she gets 
 the house to herself. If you had come to-morrow, 
 sir, as we expected, you would not have caught sight 
 of Miss Mayflower.” 
 
 “ Do you mean the lady whose portrait is in the 
 gallery ? ” 
 
 “ Well, it is her portrait ; everybody says so. It 
 proves her to be a true Wylder, orphan though she 
 may be. These likenesses do turn up after a hundred 
 years or more. There’s Lady Gwendolen is the very 
 image of her grandmother in the powdered hair in 
 the left-hand corner as you go out at the drawing- 
 room end.” 
 
 “ I thought I had seen all Lord Wylder’s grand- 
 daughters,” I said, with an unaccountable sinking of 
 the heart. 
 
 “ Oh, she’s none of them, poor child ; only the 
 daughter of a far-off branch of the family, and was 
 left in care of Lord Wylder as a charity, and has 
 been educated to be a governess. When her health 
 
THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 303 
 
 is a little stronger the ladies will get her a good 
 appointment ; meantime she's here in my charge, and 
 enjoys herself well when the family are all away from 
 home. She's too shy to appear when there's company 
 about the place.” 
 
 I reflected, and drew rapid conclusions. 
 
 “ She was here during my visit last summer!” I 
 said. 
 
 tl She was here and not very well, and I was greatly 
 concerned about her. Her delicacy took an awkward 
 turn ; she walked in her sleep, and only that I watched 
 her something would have happened to her. Once 
 I found she had been out of the house at night, 
 and might have walked into the lake, or killed herself 
 by falling down a bank. It was a serious anxiety to 
 me, and I did not like to tell the family. She's cured 
 of it now, I am glad to say, and will very soon be able 
 to go out into the world for herself. Not that I 
 shall be pleased to lose her, for I am really fond of 
 Miss Mayflower.” 
 
 The rest is too sacred to be told ; but Mayflower is 
 the name of my wife. As I look at her this moment 
 she is less mysterious, less dream-like than my first 
 love in the gallery ; her cheeks have a warmer tint, 
 her eyes a happier light than the eyes like grey w T ater, 
 which still look stirlessly out from the newly leaved 
 boughs of a hundred springs ago, among the shadows 
 of the old walls of Wildwood Chase. But the like- 
 ness of feature is wonderful ; and there, now, as the 
 little head, thatched with new-mown hay, is lifted under 
 
304 THE GHOST AT WILDWOOD CHASE. 
 
 my scrutiny, the very eager whispering look of the 
 picture comes out on the face, and while the smile on 
 her lips fades in wistful wonder, I remember, with a 
 sort of awe mixed with delight, how I twice looked on 
 this living and blooming creature of the flesh, and 
 was fantastic enough to mistake her for a disembodied 
 spirit. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. 
 
OTHER WORKS 
 
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 ALFRED H. MILES. 
 
 H. O. 
 
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 The Rakes of Mallow — Love’s Young Dream — The Sprig of Shillelah — • 
 The Last Rose of Summer — Oft in the Stilly Night — The Birth of St. 
 Patrick — Rich and Rare — The Meeting of the Waters — The Time I’ve 
 Lost in Wooing — St. Senanus and the Lady — Lesbia Hath a Beaming 
 Eye — White Snowdon — The March of the Men of Harlech — Taliesin’s 
 Prophecy — The Trumpet of the Saxon — The Ash Grove — Hunting the 
 Plare — The Rising of the Lark — Come, Every Shepherd — Death of 
 Llewellen — The War Song of the Men of Glamorgan — The Bells of Aber- 
 dovey — Prince Elphin’s Song. 
 
 THE FAVOURITE SONG SERIES. 32 pages, full 
 
 music size. Price is. 
 
 This series is issued with a view to supplying singers with books suited to 
 their respective voices — soprano, contralto, tenor, and bass — each book being 
 made up of the favourite songs for the particular voice for which it is pre- 
 pared. The books are full music size, beautifully printed in large type on 
 fine paper, and adorned with handsomely illustrated covers, in seven 
 colours. 
 
 GEMS OF SOPRANO SONG. 32 pages, full music size. 
 
 Price is. 
 
 This book contains seventeen of the choicest soprano songs, in suitable 
 keys, and with well-arranged pianoforte accompaniments. These include, 
 “ I Dreamt that I dwelt in Marble Halls,” “ My Mother Bids Me Bind My 
 Hair,” “ When the Swallows Homeward Fly,” “ The Gipsy’s Wild Chaunt,” 
 “ Auld Robin Gray,” “Angels ever Bright and Fair,” etc., etc., etc. The 
 cover is adorned by a handsome design, illustrating the song, “Jock o’ 
 Hazeldean.” 
 
 FAVOURITE SONGS FOR THE CONTRALTO 
 
 VOICE. 32 pages, full music size. Price is. 
 
 This book contains an equal number of the gems of contralto song, sung by 
 Madame Patey and Madame Antoinette Sterling, including “ Caller Herrin’,” 
 “The Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington,” “Here’s to the Year that’s Awa’,” 
 “The Pilgrim Fathers,” “ Lascia chio pianga,” “ O Rest in the Lord,” etc., 
 etc., the cover being enriched with a beautiful illustration of “ Caller 
 Herrin’.” 
 
 5 
 
SONGS OF THE QUEEN’S NAVEE. 32 pages full 
 
 music size. Price is. 
 
 This book contains some sixteen of the most famous of our naval songs, 
 arranged in suitable keys for the bass or baritone voice. These include 
 “ The Old Commodore,” “ Tom Tough,” “ The Arethusa,” “ The Tight 
 Little Island,” “ Hearts of Oak,” “The Lass that Loves a Sailor,” “ Tom 
 Bowling,” etc., etc., etc. The cover is embellished with a beautiful picture 
 representing “Jack ” hauling up the colours. 
 
 FAVOURITE SONGS FOR THE TENOR VOICE. 
 
 32 pages, full music size. Price is. 
 
 This book contains fifteen of the most popular songs of the tenor’s 
 repertoire. “ When Other Lips,” “ Yes, Let Me Like a Soldier Fall,” 
 “ On the Banks of Allan Water,” “ Fair Shines the Moon To-night,” “ Ah 
 si ben mio,” “ M’appari,” “ Annie Laurie,” “Love in Her Eyes sits Play- 
 ing,” “ There is a Flower that Bloometh,” etc., etc., etc., are among these, 
 English as well as Italian words being given in the operatic selections. 
 The cover of this book contains an illustration of the famous tenor song, • 
 “ The Soldier’s Tear.” 
 
 GIFT BOOKS. 
 
 FIFTY-TWO STORIES FOR BOYS. 456 pages, large 
 
 crown 8vo, cloth boards, richly gilt, and gilt edges, with seven full- 
 page Illustrations. Price 5s. 
 
 This volume contains fifty-two stories by the best story-writers of the 
 century, including R. M. Ballantyne, W. H. G. Kingston, Ascott Hope, 
 George Manville Fenn, Captain Mayne Reid, Gordon Stables, Robert 
 Overton, Captain Groves, Thomas Archer, etc., etc., etc. 
 
 FIFTY-TWO STORIES FOR GIRLS. 456 pages, large 
 
 crown 8vo, cloth boards, richly gilt, and gilt edges, with six full-page 
 illustrations. Price 5s. 
 
 This volume contains fifty-two stories by representative writers, including 
 George Manville Fenn, Rosa Mulholland, Sarah Doudney, Alice Corkran, 
 etc., etc., etc. — stories of home and school life, stories of heroism and 
 adventure, stories of foreign and domestic life. 
 
 London : HUTCHINSON & CO., 25, Paternoster Square. 
 
 6 
 
BOSTON COLLEGE 
 
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