THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 ALEXANDER B. ANDREWS 
 
 Class of 1893 
 
 TRUSTEE OF THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 FRIEND OF THE LIBRARY 
 
 CSl3 
 
fmrjaimir ' ' ■ 
 
 This book must not 
 be token from the 
 Library building. 
 
APPLETONS' LIBRARY OF AMERICAN FICTION^. 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT 
 
 A J^OXEL, 
 
 ^^■ 
 
 BY CHEISTIAT^ REID, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "MORTON HOUSE," " V A I, E R 1 K AYLMER," EIC. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 
 p 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 B. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 549 & 561 BROADWAY. 
 1873. 
 
 magmmmt 
 
 Price, $1.00. 
 
 i 
 
B K E S S A N T. 
 
 A e^OVEL. 
 
 By JULIAN HA^VTHORNE. 
 
 1 vol. 12mo. Cloth Price, $1.50. 
 
 From (he London Examiner. 
 " We will not say that Mr. Julian Hawthorne has received a double portion of hia 
 father's spirit, but ' Bressant ' proves that he has inherited the distinctive tone and 
 iibre of a gift which was altogether exceptional, and moved the author of the ' Scar- 
 let Letter ' beyond the reach of imitators. 
 
 "Bressant, Sophie, and Cornelia, appear to us invested with a sort of enchantment 
 ■wliich we should find it difficult to account for by any reference to any special pas- 
 sable in their story." 
 
 From the London Athenceum. 
 " Mr. Hawthorne's book forms a remarkable contrast, in point of power and interest, 
 to the dreary mass of so-called romances through which the leviewer works his way. 
 It is not our purpose to forestall the reader, by any detailed account of the story ; 
 euiRce it to say that, if we can accept the preliminary difficulty of the problem, its solu- 
 tion, in all its steps, is most admirably worked out." - - 
 
 From, the Pall Mall Gazette. 
 "So far as a man may be judged by his first work, Mr. Julian Hawthorne is en- 
 dowed with a large share of his father's peculiar genius. We trace in 'Bressant' the 
 same intense yearning after a high and spiritual life, the same passionate love of na- 
 ture, the same subtlety and delicacy of remark, and also a little of the same tendency 
 ti_) indulge in the use of a half-weiid, half-fantastic imagery." 
 
 From the New York Times. 
 " ' Bressant ' is, then, a Avork that demonstrates the fitness of its author to bear the 
 name of Hawthorne. More m praise need not be said; but, if the promise of the 
 book shall not utterly fade and vanish, Julian Hawthorne, in the maturity of his 
 power, will rank side by side with him who has hitherto been peerless, but whom we 
 must hereafter call the 'Elder Hawthorne.' " 
 
 From the Boston Post. 
 " There is beauty as well as power in this novel, the two so pleasantly blended, 
 that the sudden and incomplete conclusion, although ending the romance with an ab- 
 ruptness that is itself artistic, comes only too soon for the reader." 
 
 From the Boston Globe. 
 " It is by far the most original novel of the season that has been published at 
 Jiom J or abroad, and will take high rank among the best American novels ever written." 
 
 From the Boston Gazette. 
 •*' There is a strength in the book which takes it in a marked degree out of the 
 range of ordinary works of fiction. It is substantially an original story. There are 
 freshness and vigor in every part." 
 
 From the Home Journal. 
 "'Bressant' is a remarkable romance, full of those subtle touches of fancy, and 
 that insight into the human heart, which distinguish genius from the mere clever and 
 entertaining writers of whom we have perhaps too many." 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, New York. 
 
c4 
 
 'C4aj 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT, 
 
 AND OTHER 8 TOBIES, 
 
 BY 
 
 CHEISTIAN REID, 
 
 ArTHOU OF "MORTON HOUSE," " TALEEIE ATLMES," ETC., ETC. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETOK AND COMPANY 
 
 549 & 551 BROADWAY. 
 
 1873. 
 
Enteked, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1ST3, 
 
 By D. APPLETON & CO., 
 
 In tlie Office of the Librarian of Coagi-ess, at Trashiagton. 
 

 CO^TE^s'TS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 NINA'S ATOKEMENT 1 
 
 HUGirS VENDETTA 41 
 
 MISS CHEEITON'S RIVAL 63 
 
 MY STORY . . ; 83 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM 103 
 
 POWELL VARDRAY'S LIFE 127 
 
 BERNARD'S INVENTION 141 
 
 A 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Nina was nineteen on the 21st day of 
 June. It was a glorious day for a birth- 
 day, the young girl thought, as she stood on 
 the terrace of Wyverne House, looking out 
 over the picturesque country in the full beau- 
 ty of its midsummer loveliness, the green, 
 waving woods, the golden wheat-fields over 
 which the soft breeze stole with a gentle, 
 billowy swell, the stately old house standing 
 with an air of conscious pride among its 
 sentinel-trees, the garden abounding in sum- 
 mer bloom and fragrance, the shrubbery full 
 of green depths of shadowy coolness and 
 stretches of velvet turf. Taken just then, it 
 would have been hard to find a lovelier place 
 than this home of the Wyvernes ; but Juan 
 Fernandez was probably a lovely place, also, 
 only this fact did not prevent Alexander Sel- 
 kirk from finding it exceedingly dull — and 
 scarcely less dull than Juan Fernandez was 
 Wyverne House. As Nina stood on the ter- 
 race, she was thinking, rather despondently, 
 of the monotonous years which stretched 
 behind her, and of the equally monotonous 
 ones which might lie in advance. It was not 
 a very entrancing prospect; and, although 
 the girl was sufSciently of an optimist to ac- 
 cept life as it had been given, it was impos- 
 sible to avoid a feeling of blank weariness 
 on this anuiversary of birth, when one has a 
 right to look existence in the face and ask 
 what it has brought in the past, or is likely 
 to bring in the future. 
 
 The answer to these questions was brief 
 
 enough, as far as she was concerned. It had 
 brought food and raiment, and a roof to shel- 
 ter her, up to this date ; it offered, with lavish 
 generosity, the same good gifts for an indefi- 
 nite length of time in the future. There are 
 plenty of people in the world — good, narrow- 
 minded, narrow-lived people — who would have 
 thought such gifts all she could possibly need, 
 and that to harbor even a longing for any 
 thing beyond, for some gleam of that bright- 
 ness so dear to the eager heart of youth, was 
 rank discontent and ingratitude. Given "a 
 comfortable home," nothing in particular to 
 do, and not the faintest suspicion of unkind 
 treatment to endure, and how could a girl, who 
 had not a shilling in her own right, venture to 
 expect or wish for more ? How could she pos- 
 sibly venture to indulge that desire for some- 
 thing beyond the dry husks of life, which is 
 common to all forms of buoyant youth, and 
 which, however carefully it may be repressed, 
 can never be wholly subdued until the apathy 
 of age comes to teach sometimes resignation, 
 but more often the indifference that is born of 
 hopelessness ? Yet, it may be said for Nina that 
 she did not often indulge these wishes, hopes, 
 regrets, or whatever they might be called. 
 They were uncomfortable, and the girl was 
 too much of an epicurean to willingly endure 
 discomfort, much less to seek it. She chafed 
 a little, sometimes, against the dull stagnation 
 in v/hich her youth and beauty seemed strand- 
 ed ; but it was easier to accept things as they 
 came, and to content herself with her novels, 
 her music, her dreams, and the few domestic 
 occupations that had fallen into her hands — 
 
3 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 very few they were, for Mrs. Wyverne was a 
 notable housekeeper, with no fancy for shar- 
 ing the reins of government. " It is a pity 
 Nina is not more domestic," this lady often 
 said ; but she had taken no pains to make 
 Nina more domestic, even if any amount of 
 pains would have accomplished that result — 
 which is highly doubtful. And so the girl 
 had dreamed and loitered her life away, until 
 she waked with a start, on her nineteenth 
 birthday, to the realization that this monoto- 
 ny was to make the sum of her existence in 
 the future as entirely as it had made it in the 
 past. 
 
 Such a realization is always a shock. No 
 life can be very irksome while there is hope 
 of escape from it ; but when we once realize 
 that there is no escape — short of that dread 
 change from which humanity recoils — we feel 
 as if even that with which we were moderate- 
 ly content yesterday had grown intolerable 
 to-day. Standing on the terrace that fair mid- 
 summer day, some such phase of feeling came 
 to Nina. She felt how hopelessly she was tied 
 to the life which she had already begun to dis- 
 like, and which slie would probably end by 
 loathing — and, feeling this, a sudden longing 
 to escape came over her — a longing all the 
 greater because there was scarcely any thing 
 in the world less possible or less probable for 
 her than escape. She was not only entirely 
 dependent on the bounty of her uncle, but she 
 had promised to marry his son. Now, this 
 son — the only hope and heir of the house of 
 Wyverne — was, like all of his family, a model 
 of domestic virtue. He was one of the men 
 to whom it would never occur that there was 
 a duty in life beyond his well-tilled fields, or 
 a pleasure beyond his hearthstone, and a cer- 
 tain crotchet to be noticed hereafter ; a man 
 well known through all the country-side to 
 be a walking bundle of good qualities, and 
 eminently fitted to make the happiness of a 
 "home-loving" woman's life. What he was 
 calculated to be to a woman who was not 
 home-loving, it is scarcely worth while to 
 say. If we took the vote of the world at 
 large on the fate of such women — such 
 "monstrosities," Cornelia, surrounded by her 
 jewels, is fond of calling them — not the most 
 truthful record of suffering could alter the 
 stern verdict " Served her right ! " 
 
 Such as he was, however, Ralph Wyverne 
 had been engaged to his pretty, penniless 
 cousin for several months ; and, as Nina stood 
 
 absently plucking at her engagement -ring, 
 she was wondering if it was indeed true that 
 she would be married before another moon 
 had waxed and waned. "At least, that will 
 be some change ! " she thought. And then 
 she yawned. After all, would it be much 
 more entertaining to live the same old life as 
 Nina Wyverne than as Nina Dalzell ? It was 
 a question which she did not choose to an- 
 swer. " Kismet ! " she said, shrugging her 
 shoulders. Then she turned and strolled 
 toward the house. 
 
 As she entered the hall, a servant, whom 
 she met, told her that her cousin, who bad 
 been absent for several days, had returned. 
 "When did he come?" she asked, indiffer- 
 ently, as she took off her hat, pushing her 
 hair from her face — flushed and overheated 
 by her walk through the sun. 
 
 " Half an hour ago, ma'am, and there's 
 another gentleman with him," Price an- 
 swered. 
 
 " Another gentleman with him ! " repeated 
 Nina, and she frowned a little. It was not 
 probable that Ralph bad brought another 
 gentleman from the city, where he had been 
 on business. At least, such an idea never oc- 
 curred to her. It was one of the neighbors, 
 no doubt, whom he had met as he drove over 
 from the railroad. " How provoking ! " she 
 said, as she moved away, without giving Price 
 any further opportunity for enlightening her. 
 The neighbors, individually or collectively, 
 represented to Nina every thing in the world 
 — that is, in her world — most tiresome. She 
 knew every one of them so well, had been 
 bored by every one of them so often, that she 
 sighed with a dismal sense of coming weari- 
 ness, as she crossed the hall toward the draw- 
 ing-room, from whicji the sound of voices is- 
 sued. 
 
 And so, with a cloud of impatience, not so 
 well concealed as it should have been, on her 
 white brow, with her pretty hair carelessly 
 pushed back from her face, and the usual 
 color on her cheeks deepened into the love- 
 liest flush imaginable, she entered the room, 
 where Ralph at once sprang eagerly to meet 
 her, and where a brown-eyed, brown-haired, 
 brown -mustachcd stranger was talking to 
 Mrs. Wyverne. 
 
 " Oh ! — not one of the neighbors, after 
 all ! " Nina thought, bestowing her first glance 
 — as was natural enough — upon such a vara 
 avis, as an undoubted and indisputable stran- 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 ger was, at Wyverne House. " IIow d'ye do, 
 Ralpb ? " she said to her fiance. " You must 
 have found it very warm driving over from 
 the station. We nonxj of us looked for you 
 to-day. What made you come without writ- 
 
 in.! 
 
 . V )» 
 
 Now, most men arriving unexpectedly at 
 home, even after the absence of a few days 
 only, would scarcely have been flattered by 
 such a welcome as this ; but Ralph Wyverne 
 was the most unexacting of lovers. Up to 
 this time, Nina had done and could do no 
 wrong in his eyes. He had been her devoted 
 and unquestioning slave from the time that 
 she first came to them, a pretty child-maiden, 
 with the airs of a young princess. 
 
 " I thought you might not be sorry to see 
 me a little sooner than you expected," he an- 
 swered, smiling. "And then I remembered 
 what day it was, and I came to wish you 
 many happy returns, Ninetta." 
 
 "Did you?" s^iid Nina. "It was very 
 kind of you — but be good enough to wish 
 that there may be more entertaining returns, 
 while you are about it. I was wondering this 
 morning whether I was most a woman or a 
 cabbage ! And pray " (lowering her voice) 
 "who is this you have brought home with 
 you?" 
 
 "It is Martindale!" Ralph answered, with 
 a glow of enthusiasm. " I met him in the 
 city. He is just back from Germany, where 
 he has been studying chemistry, and he has 
 come down to help me with my experiments." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Nina, in a tone which 
 spoke volumes of polite scorn — but, whether 
 for the experiments or for the new-comer, it 
 was hard to tell. " So this is the Mr. Martin- 
 dale of whom you talk so much ! " she added, 
 glancing again at the stranger — this time 
 more critically than she had done before. 
 
 " This is Martindale ! " said Ralph, almost 
 triumphantly. 
 
 Then, as a lull came in the conversation 
 between Mrs. Wyverne and the brown-mus- 
 tached stranger, he addressed the latter : 
 " Martindale, let me present you to my cousin, 
 Miss Dalzell." 
 
 "By Jove! the one to whom he is en- 
 gaged ! " that gentleman thought, as he bowed 
 to the young girl, who in truth had quite 
 dazzled him when she came into the room. 
 He had not been looking for any thing half so 
 lovely, although Ralph had told him that she 
 was " a beauty." As everyone knows, how- 
 
 ever, this is such an arbitrary term, that 
 Martindale's incredulity in the first instance, 
 and surprise in the second, were not remark- 
 able. Like most of us, he had heard so much 
 of beauty, and seen so little, that he had 
 grown thoroughly skeptical of all hearsay evi- 
 dence regarding it ; and so he was fairly star- 
 tled by the radiant loveliness of the face be- 
 fore him. It will not do to describe Nina, 
 because carping critics might have said, with 
 a great deal of truth, that the bloom which 
 made her so entrancing — which rested like 
 down on the softly-rounded cheek and chin — 
 was only that evanescent glory which French- 
 men call the gift of the devil. Evanescent or 
 not, however, the devil certainly knows very 
 well what he is about when he bestows it 
 upon those whom he intends for purposes of 
 special mischief. Assuredly, few men could 
 have turned from that bewildering freshness 
 and brilliance of tint, that melting grace of 
 outline, from the challenge of those lustrous 
 eyes, or the crisp wave of that bright-bronze 
 hair, to rave over the very features of Helen 
 — granting even that Helen's features were 
 what they are generally supposed to have been. 
 
 " I think I caught a glimpse of Miss Dal- 
 zell, as we drove round the terrace," Martin- 
 dale said. "At least I saw a white dress, but 
 it did not notice us." 
 
 " It did not see you," Nina answered. 
 Although her life had been almost as se- 
 cluded as that of Miss Thackeray's "Sleep- 
 ing Beauty," she had never suffered from 
 the shyness which afflicted poor Cecilia, 
 and which, almost invariably, afflicts all of 
 Cecilia's prototypes. " I wonder I did not 
 see you," she pursued ; " but I suppose I was 
 thinking of something else. I remember I 
 fell into quite a brown study, as people say. 
 It is not a very pleasant way of passing time ; 
 but it is useful and profitable on one's birth- 
 day." 
 
 " Is to-day your birthday ? " asked Martin- 
 dale. " It is Midsummer-Day — the longest of 
 the year." 
 
 " Is that any reason why it should not be 
 my birthday?" the young lady demanded. 
 "I was thinking only a little while ago what 
 a lovely day it is for the purpose — the crown, 
 as it were, of summer richness and beauty. 
 And then there is something of fairy romance 
 hanging over it. Who can think of Midsum- 
 mer Night without thinking of Oberon, and 
 Titania, and Puck ? " 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 " We will go out to-night, and look for 
 them," said Ralph. " Don't the old romances 
 say that fairies hold a certain power over chil- 
 dren born on the midsummer festival ? Per- 
 haps they will bring you a gift, Nina." 
 
 " They have never done so, yet," said Ni- 
 na, shrugging her shoulders. " It would be 
 rather late to begin when one is nineteen — 
 don't you think so, Mr. Martindale ? " 
 
 " Is nineteen so venerable an age that it is 
 the bound of all things ? " asked Martindale, 
 laughing. 
 
 But he was sorry for having yielded to the 
 inclination when he saw Nina flush and turn 
 away, plainly offended. There was nothing 
 which she disliked so much as being laughed 
 at. It is not particularly agreeable to any- 
 body ; but Nina had no great sense of humor, 
 and a most especial dread of ridicule. " Your 
 friend is very uncivil," she said to Ralph, 
 who followed her to the window whither she 
 walked. 
 
 " He did not mean to be uncivil," Wyverne 
 said, apologetically. " I think you will like 
 him when you know him, Nina." 
 
 "Shall I?" asked Nina, sarcastically. 
 "It will be a remarkable fact, then, for I 
 don't often like people, and I am sure I shall 
 not like any chemical person. What made 
 you bring him, Ralph ? I think it was very 
 disagreeable of you." 
 
 " He is such an old friend of mine," said 
 Ralph, a little crestfallen. "And then the 
 experiments, Nina! Martindale is a good 
 practical chemist, which I am not ; and he 
 will know how far I am right and how far 
 wrong." 
 
 " I know that you are going to blow us 
 all to atoms before you are done with your 
 nonsense," Nina said, impatiently. " I really 
 think that you ought to have more sense, and 
 more regard for my wishes." 
 
 "As for not having more sense, I can't 
 help that, you know, dear," s'aid Ralph, smil- 
 ing ; " while, as for your wishes — you will 
 thank me for disregarding them when I make 
 a fortune for you." 
 
 " And what good vi'ould a dozen fortunes 
 do me hereP^ demanded impetuous Nina. 
 " I have heard you say that you would not 
 leave Wyverne if you were as rich as — as the 
 Rothschilds ! Besides, I don't believe in the 
 fortune — it is all stuff! You are not thinking 
 about it. You are only thanking about your 
 horrid experiments." 
 
 " I can't help liking them, you know," he 
 said, with a ludicrous air of apology. 
 
 And, although the fact should not have 
 required an apology, it was true enough. 
 Nature has strange freaks, and she had va- 
 ried the dull monotony of the Wyverne race 
 by developing an unsuspected man of science 
 among them. If ever there was a born 
 chemist, Ralph Wyverne was that man. 
 From an early period of boyhood, he had 
 dabbled in chemistry, had many times fright- 
 ened the family out of their wits by untimely 
 explosions, had turned his room at college 
 into a laboratory, and since his return home 
 devoted all his spare time to experiments 
 which the family in general regarded very 
 much as the people of the middle ages re- 
 garded witchcraft and demonology. " The 
 boy is crazy ! " his f\ither said, contemptu- 
 ously, while Nina viewed tlie whole thing 
 with unqualified impatience. " As if you had 
 to earn your bread ! " she would say, scorn- 
 fully, to Ralph, and when he talked of science 
 she only stopped her ears. Men of science 
 in all ages have had to bear this kind of 
 treatment, however, Wyverne consoled him- 
 self by thinking; and having a great deal 
 of obstinacy in a quiet way, as well as a 
 great love for his " experiments," his chem- 
 ical enthusiasm managed to survive it. 
 
 It was a fact, significant of the narrow 
 limits of his life, that the only person whom 
 he had ever found to sympathize with him 
 was the man he now introduced so unex- 
 pectedly into his family circle — this Jlartin- 
 dale, who had been an erratic but brilliant 
 student of considerable promise when Ralph 
 knew him at college, full of devotion to sci- 
 ence, but full also of crude theories, wild 
 enough to have exploded the whole system 
 of chemistry as at present held and expound- 
 ed. He had gained practical knowledge since 
 that time in the laboratory of a distinguished 
 German chemist; but, being a shrewd and 
 clever thinker, he still inclined rather to the 
 theoretical than the practical school. Too 
 visionary, and too much a man of the world, 
 to be ever eminent as a man of science, older 
 chemists thought ; but still, for so young a 
 man, one or two lucky circumstances had al- 
 ready given him an enviable reputation in his 
 profession, and Ralph's faith in Martindale 
 was scarcely less than his faith in Faraday. 
 To Nina, however, his name only represented 
 a great deal of boredom. Ralph, full of en- 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 thusiasm for the talents of his friend, had 
 insisted on reading to her one or two of his 
 scientific articles, over which she had yawned 
 dismally. She had heard so much of him in 
 connection with retorts and crucibles, blow- 
 pipes and gases, that she had drawn one of 
 those lively fancy sketches in which we are 
 all prone to indulge — a portrait of a tall, 
 light-haired, round-shouldered student, afiBict- 
 ed with shyness and spectacles. She was 
 particularly sure of the spectacles, and was, 
 therefore, naturally surprised when she saw a 
 slender, handsome, well-dressed man, who 
 scanned her coolly with clear, brown eyes, full 
 of keen observation and a dash of humor 
 which she did not fancy. 
 
 After the affront he had so unwittingly 
 given, she saw very little more of him for the 
 rest of the morning. It cannot be said, how- 
 ever, that this was her fault, or the fault of 
 Martindale, either. The latter, being a man 
 of taste as well as a chemist, would probably 
 have liked to prosecute his acquaintance with 
 the pretty, piquant face which had burst 
 upon him so unexpectedly, and would car- 
 tainly have preferred to spend the morning in 
 the cool, dark, old-fashioned drawing-room, 
 to broiling in an attic apartment which Ralph 
 proudly called his laboratory. But he had no 
 alternative of choice. To Nina's indignation, 
 Wyverne hurried off on the first decent pre- 
 text to that chosen retreat of science, taking 
 his friend along. " On my birthday, too ! " 
 she thought, angrily. Not that she honestly 
 cared for her cousin's society — which more 
 frequently wearied than interested her — but 
 to be neglected at all was something which 
 this unreasonable young lady could illy brook 
 — and to be neglected for chemistry was in- 
 supportable indeed. 
 
 It must be recorded that she was mali- 
 cious enough to feel a sensation of pleasure 
 when she read " disappointed " legibly printed 
 on Ralph's countenance as she met, or, rath- 
 er, was overtaken by him on her way down- 
 stairs before dinner. 
 
 " I hope you have enjoyed your morn- 
 ing ! " she said, very stiffly, as he drew her 
 hand into his arm ; but, when she looked up 
 into his face and saw the inscription already 
 mentioned, she was sufBciently heartless to 
 laugh. " Dear me ! I am afraid you have not 
 enjoyed it, after all," she said. 
 
 " I am an ignorant fool, Nina," said poor 
 Ralph, humbly. " It was all a mistake, dear. 
 
 My experiments have come to nothing. Mar- 
 tindale says the idea is a good one — I knew 
 that — but the process has been all wrong. In 
 fact, he thinks the result I wish to obtain im- 
 practicable." 
 
 " Well, I hope you are .satisfied ! " said 
 Nina, in a tone of triumph. " Eow often 
 have / told you the same thing ! But you 
 only laughed at me, because I was not a 
 chemist. Now that Mr. Martindale, who is a 
 chemist, has told you that it is all nonsense, 
 I hope you will throw all your things into the 
 fire and have done with them." 
 
 " That is asking rather too much of me," 
 said Ralph, laughing a little, despite his sore 
 disappointment, and the still sorer sense of 
 how little this disappointment was to the per- 
 son who represented all the sweetness and 
 fairness of the world to him. 
 
 At dinner, nothing further regarding the 
 matter transpired, only Nina was rather more 
 gracious to Mr. Martindale than she might 
 otherwise have been. She was very much 
 obliged to him for telling Ralph that his ob- 
 noxious experiments amounted to "nothing," 
 and that the result which he wished to ob- 
 tain — though what this result was, she had 
 not the faintest idea — was "impracticable." 
 It showed more sense than she had expected 
 from anybody who was "a chemical person" 
 himself; and she manifested her apprecia- 
 tion by a degree of affability which astonished 
 Ralph, and amused Martindale not a little. 
 She was quite a piquant study, the latter 
 thought, with her petulance, her patronage, 
 her insouciance, and her really striking beau- 
 ty. Nina would have been enraged if she 
 had known how well she was entertaining 
 this student of chemistry and of human na- 
 ture, unconsciously to herself. 
 
 It chanced, however, that she was des- 
 tined to entertain him still better — to give 
 him a still clearer insight into her character — 
 before the day was over. After the usual 
 siesta, horses were always brought to the 
 door at Wyverne House, and, as regularly as 
 the day showed neither rain nor clouds, Nina 
 went to ride — sometimes with Ralph, some- 
 times with her uncle, oftenest with both. 
 On the present afternoon, when she came 
 down in her habit, she found that Martindale 
 was to join the party. This might have been 
 said to be necessary — since it is a rule of civil- 
 ized life that civilized people must go through 
 the form of providing amusement for their 
 
6 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 guests — but at least it was not necessary for 
 Kalph to have selected that particular occasion 
 I'or reminding his father of certain lands which 
 were to be cleared, and upon which it was 
 necessary to decide, involving a ride through 
 a part of the plantation where neither Nina 
 nor Martindale would have found any thing of 
 interest. 
 
 " If Martindale has no objection, you can 
 take him with you through the woods, Nina," 
 Ralph said, good-humoredly. " We will meet 
 at the house." 
 
 " Perhaps Mr. Martindale has an objec- 
 tion," Nina demurred, looking with a spark 
 of mischief in her eyes at that gentleman. 
 
 "It' is very likely," the latter answered, 
 dryly; "I know so much about the clearing 
 of lands, and would probably feel such a live- 
 ly interest in them, that Ralph should certain- 
 ly take me with him as final referee on any 
 disputed point." >- 
 
 " Oh, for the matter of that," said Miss 
 Dalzell, nonchalantly, ""we liav^ nothing of 
 special interest in the neighborhood. I can- 
 not promise you a single interesting object or 
 view ; so, perhaps you might find it as enter- 
 taining to hear Ralph and uncle discuss their 
 fields, as to ride with me through the woods 
 and back again to the house." 
 
 " Perhaps you would prefer thevdiscussion 
 yourself," he suggested. •' 
 
 But she shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " I have listened to talk of that kind every 
 afternoon for the last ten years," she said. 
 " It has lost the merit of novelty, therefore, 
 which I fancy is the only merit it could ever 
 have possessed. I am going this way," she 
 added, turning her horse's head. " Of course 
 you can come if you like." 
 
 '^Thanks," said he, amused by the gra- 
 ciousness of the permission. 
 
 They left the dusty high-road which they 
 had been following, to enter a bridle-path, 
 deeply arched over with shade, and looking 
 as if it might have led into the heart of an 
 enchanted forest. 
 
 "Since this is Midsummer -Eve, we may 
 hope to me(?t a fairy or two," Martindale said, 
 after a while. 
 
 " Let us also hope, then, that they will 
 bring me the gift of which Ralph spoke this 
 morning," said Nina, with a slight, wistful 
 sigh. 
 
 Slight as it was, this sigh did not escape 
 the quick ear of her companion. He won- 
 
 dered a little what it meant, and, being fond 
 of studying any problem which chance threw 
 in his way, it occurred to him that it might 
 be worth while to discover the cause of that 
 soft inspiration. 
 
 " I fear that you would not b6 a fit recipi- 
 ent for fairy bounty," he said, smiling. " If 
 I met a prince, arrayed in the traditional green 
 and gold hunting-suit, riding along just now, 
 I should be more inclined to doff my hat ia 
 salute, than to offer him charity." 
 
 " I am stupid, I suppose," said Nina, " but 
 I don't see the force of the comparison. How 
 am /like the prince, or how would the fairies 
 be like you? " 
 
 " The fairies would only be like me inas- 
 much as, meeting you, they would probably 
 say, ' She was born on our festival, but what 
 can we bestow on her now that was not be- 
 stowed at her birth ? She has beauty, wit, 
 wealth, the charm to win and to keep love — 
 what more can we give, with all our pow- 
 er?'" 
 
 "That is very pretty," said Nina, coldly; 
 " but you see the fairies — if they were fairies 
 — would know better than that. Instead of 
 paying me empty compliments, they would 
 know that there is a great deal they could 
 give — for which I should be very thankful." 
 
 " I suppose nobody is ever entirely pleased 
 with his lot in hfe," said Martindale, philo- 
 sophically, " but I should have been tempted 
 to suppose that if anybody ever is satisfied, 
 it might have been yourself." 
 
 " Whom you have known since eleven 
 o'clock this morning!" said she, with a 
 laugh. " Do you usually decide upon peo- 
 ple's 'lot in life' so promptly, Mr. Martin- 
 dale ? If so, you must possess either excep- 
 tional powers of judgment, or exceptional 
 confidence in your own acuteness." 
 
 The mockery of her tone pleased rather 
 than provoked her listener. He laughed a 
 little himself as he turned in his saddle and 
 looked at her, admiring the graceful, stately 
 figure — Nina was " a woman with a presence " 
 — the bright face vivid with color, the lovely 
 eyes full of malicious amusement. " How 
 pretty she is ! " he thought, " and what a 
 spice of the devil she has ! " 
 
 " It does not follow that I possess cither 
 exceptional powers of judgment or excep- 
 tional confidence in my own acuteness, be- 
 cause I have been able to read at first sight 
 some features of your life," he said aloud. 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 " I should be blind as well as dull if I did 
 not read them.'' 
 
 " It does not follow that, because you 
 have read you have understood," said she, 
 falling into his trap with a facility that grati- 
 fied him. 
 
 " Nothing could be more true," said he. 
 " It does not, of course, follow that, because 
 I have read, I have understood ; but neither 
 does it follow that, because I have read, I 
 have not understood." 
 
 " And yet," said she, with another laugh — 
 this time a little bitter — "you think my life 
 so perfect that, if I were to meet a fairy at 
 this moment, there is nothing she could pos- 
 sibly need to give me ! " 
 
 "Nay," said he — and in the deep, wood- 
 land stillness through which they were riding, 
 iiis voice seemed full of a sudden expression 
 which thrilled her — " I did not mean to im- 
 ply that your life was per.'"ect. I said that 
 you had many gifts — it is true, is it not ? — 
 but one may lack as well as possess. Indeed, 
 in lacking some things, one I'acks all things ; 
 and content is one of them." 
 
 It wns a shrewd guess, and one which 
 made Nina flush up to her temples — angry 
 witli him for speaking so plainly, angry with 
 herself for having betrayed so much. 
 
 " I fancy content is one of the things 
 wliich we all lack," said she, trying to answer 
 indifferently. "All of us find monotony un- 
 pleasant, all of us think that we should like 
 to season our lives with a little more spice. 
 Color, zest, perfume, as the French say — some 
 of our lives lack all of these things horribly ; 
 but probably, they will go on lacking them to 
 the end." 
 
 " Why should they ? " he asked — adding, 
 as he turned and looked at him, " you must 
 pardon me if I say that some people are born 
 for a groove, but you are not one of them." 
 
 " IIow do you know what I was born for ? " 
 asked Nina, curtly. " I did not say I was not 
 very well satisfied with my life. At least " 
 (shrugging her shoulders slightly), "if I were 
 not willing to live always at Wyverne, I 
 should scarcely be engaged to marry with 
 Kalph." 
 
 " And do you think that to live always at 
 Wyverne will satisfy you in the future, even 
 though it may"— a doubtful accent here— 
 " have done so in the past ? " 
 
 She laughed — a slightly forced effort. 
 There was something in the tone of the ques- 
 
 tion, as well as in the intent gaze of the brown 
 eyes looking at her, which made her a little 
 nervous. They were riding just then through 
 a ravine, where a green, dusky gloaming, 
 inexpressibly full of fantastic suggestions, 
 reigned. If she had doue what was wise, if 
 she had even doue what instinct prompted, 
 she would have waived the question which 
 Martindale had no possible right to ask. 
 But a sudden, reckless impulse made her an- 
 swer it in words which she was afterward 
 destined to remember and repent. 
 
 " Are you a fairy ? " she said. " Fairies 
 sometimes come under strange disguises. 
 Have you the power to spirit me away from 
 Wyverne if I should confess that its monot- 
 ony has grown almost intolerable to me ? " 
 
 " This is Midsummer - Day," and fairies, 
 as you say, come under strange disguises 
 sometimes. If you would believe in me, there 
 is no telling what I might not do. I might 
 even spirit you away to a world where you 
 would be happy. But, in all ages, enchanters 
 have demanded trust." 
 
 " Which I am not ready to give," said 
 Nina, feeling that this had gone too far. It 
 was pleasant — it had a flavor of that spice 
 which she desired — but still she felt that Mr. 
 Martindale's glances and Mr. Martindale's 
 tones would not have elicited Ralph's appro- 
 bation, if he had seen or heard them ; and, 
 foolish and reckless though she was, the girl 
 meant to be honest, after a somewhat blun- 
 dering and indefinite fashion. 
 
 " Perhaps you will give it after a time," 
 the would-be enchanter said, quietly. " Mean- 
 while, I should like you to remember that our 
 lives are what we make them.'''' 
 
 "I don't believe it," said she, scornfully. 
 " Or, if it is true at all, it is true only of men 
 — never of women. Circumstances make us." 
 
 " That is only because you do not know 
 how to take advantage of them," said he, 
 coolly. 
 
 But this provoked Nina, who knew how 
 arbitrary the circumstances of her life had 
 been. 
 
 " You only say so because you iiave never 
 known what they really are," she retorted. 
 " I agree with the writer who said that if a 
 letter were written to Circumstances, and sub- 
 scribed ' Your obedient servant,' the vast ma- 
 jority of mankind could sign it with tlie 
 greatest truthfulness." 
 
 "It is certainly true that wo are often in- 
 
8 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 debted to them for some very good gifts," 
 said he. " It hung, for instance, on a turn 
 of chance, yesterday, whether or not I should 
 come down here with Ralph. If I had not 
 done so — " 
 
 " You would have been spared the neces- 
 sity of blasting poor Ralph's hopes about his 
 cherished ' idea,' " said Nina, laughing. 
 
 He started. " Have I blasted his hopes ? " 
 he asked. Then he, too, laughed a little — 
 not a pleasant laugh, the girl thought. 
 "Such hopes are easily revived again," he 
 said. " There is nothing on earth so hard to 
 kill as an inventor's fancy." 
 
 Something in his tone, as well as in his 
 laugh, struck Nina unpleasantly, but she did 
 not answer — perhaps because they emerged, 
 just then, out of the dusky forest to an open 
 space, where they saw 
 
 " The flower-like sunset shed its mystic blooms " 
 
 over the broad fields, the shadowy woods, a 
 winding road in the distance where some cat- 
 tle lingered, green hills near at hand melting 
 into blue ones afar off, valleys bright with 
 streams which caught the reflection of the 
 gorgeous west, and purple hollows where 
 night seemed already to have gathered. 
 There were few sounds to break the stillness 
 — only the soft music of falling water, the 
 distant tinkle of a cow-bell, the note of a 
 mocking-bird, or the coo of a wood-pigeon. 
 
 " Is it not lovely ? " Nina said, leaning her 
 elbow on the pommel of her saddle and her 
 cheek on her hand. 
 
 " Yery lovely ! " her companion answered, 
 and something in his tone made her glance 
 quickly round. Then she saw that he was 
 looking, not at the sunset scene, but at her- 
 self. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " The moon has not risen yet, Nina," said 
 Ralph, " but the starlight is beautiful. Shall 
 we go out and see if wc can find the elfin 
 folk ? " 
 
 Tea was over, and they were gathered in the 
 drawing-room — all somewhat dull and some- 
 what stiff" — when he made this proposal. Mrs. 
 Wyverne was crocheting by the shaded lamp, 
 round which a few moths were circling ; Mr. 
 Wyverne was prosing to Martindale, who 
 looked as much bored as a vrell-bred man 
 ever permits himself to appear; Nina had 
 
 been singing, but she rose from the piano, 
 and, walking to one of the large, open win- 
 dows, stood looking wistfully out, when Ralph 
 spoke. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, eagerly. " Let us 
 go on the terrace. If we don't find Queen 
 Titania and her court, we shall, at least, find 
 freshness and coolness." 
 
 *' Martindale, will you come ? " said Ralph, 
 raising his voice; and he did not understand 
 why Nina frowned so quickly and sharply at 
 the words. 
 
 " You will find me on the terrace," she 
 said ; and, stepping through the window, she 
 walked away — a tall, straight, white-clad fig- 
 ure, soon lost to sight in the starlit gloom. 
 
 Martindale left Mr. "Wyverne with a scarce- 
 ly intelligible excuse, and crossed the room. 
 
 " Where is it you wish to go ? " he said to 
 Ralph, who was standing with a rather blank 
 expression of countenance where he had been 
 left. 
 
 " Only out on the terrace for some fresh 
 air," the other answered. " Will you come? 
 It is very warm, and not particularly enter- 
 taining, in here." 
 
 " Is that where Miss Dalzell has gone ? " 
 
 " Yes. She said we would find her there." 
 
 " Lead on," said Martindale, cheerfully. 
 " One certainly does prefer to enjoy summer 
 nights alfresco.'''' 
 
 They stepped out of the window and 
 walked around the terrace for some distance, 
 but they found no sign of Nina. The moon, 
 as Ralph had said, was not yet risen, but the 
 soft, clear starlight rendered all immediate 
 objects sufficiently distinct. It was one of 
 those glowing, brilliant nights which only 
 midsummer gives, the purple skies ablaze 
 with radiance arching from horizon to hori- 
 zon, the earth dark, fragrant, full of mystery, 
 yet touched with a tender, delicate lustre. 
 
 "Nina must have gone down into the gar- 
 den," Ralph said, after a while. 
 
 " Never mind Miss Dalzell just now," 
 Martindale responded, in rather a peculiar 
 voice. "We will find her in a moment. 
 Meanwhile, I have something to say to you 
 about — that idea of yours. Perhaps I was a 
 little hasty in what I told you this morning. 
 I have been thinking it over since then. I 
 should like to examine your notes again. 
 Perhaps, after all, it may be possible to per- 
 fect it." 
 
 He spoke awkwardly and constrainedly — • 
 
NIXA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 like a man who was not certain how much he 
 wished to say or leave unsaid — but Kalph was 
 too full of delighted surprise to notice or at- 
 tach any significance to his manner. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he answered, eagerly, 
 " you cannot tell how glad I am to hear you 
 say that ! I am a fool, I suppose, but I have 
 dreamed and experimented over that idea so 
 long, that it went hard with me when you said 
 it was impracticable. I know that I have ut- 
 terly failed in working it out ; but I am only 
 a dabbler in chemistry. If you take it in 
 hand, now — " 
 
 " I may fail as completely as you have 
 done," Martindale interrupted, shortly and 
 almost sternly. " You must not hope any 
 thing from my experiments — at least, not 
 much. I am only a dabbler, and an erratic 
 one, myself. Still, I will take the idea, and 
 try to work it out, if you say so." 
 
 " Of course I say so ! " Wyverne said, with 
 a ring of enthusiasm in his tone which his 
 companion knew well. He had heard it in 
 the voices of others, and in bis own, many 
 times. It was a token of the fever which 
 science can beget as well as art. " You can- 
 not tell how infinitely I shall hold myself your 
 debtor," Ralph went on ; " and, if you succeed, 
 there is a fortune in it for both of us." 
 
 " Nature is certainly a royal paymistress," 
 said the other ; " but I have told you not to 
 hope for success. Honestly, I think I shall 
 fail, but I cannot be content until I have fairly 
 tested the idea, now that you have put it into 
 my head." 
 
 " It is a good idea," said Ralph, " I al- 
 ways knew that. And if we succeed in work- 
 ing it out — " 
 
 "But it will require time," the other in- 
 terrupted again. " You must remember that. 
 You must be prepared for labor, for failure, 
 and for discouragements. No great discov- 
 ery was ever perfected without all of these." 
 
 " I am aware of it," said Ralph, " and if 
 you give me a grain of hope, no labor and 
 discouragements can daunt me. As for time, 
 it is all before us — at least, as much of it as 
 you can spare. I am to be married next 
 month," said he, laughing a little, " but that 
 need not interfere with our experiments to 
 any great extent." 
 
 " You are to be married next month, are 
 you ? " said Martindale, starting. " So soon 
 as that ? " 
 
 "There is no need for delay," answered 
 
 Ralph. " I have no fancy for a long engage- 
 ment. Besides, in this instance, there would 
 be no sense in it. Neither Nina nor I have 
 any thing for which to wait." 
 
 " Very true," said Martindale, absently. 
 
 He said nothing more, and, having now 
 paced the entire length of the terrace, they 
 descended a flight of stone steps which led 
 down into the garden — a dim, mysterious re- 
 gion, full of white paths, the dark outlines 
 of shrubs, trim, old-fashioned borders, and 
 many sweet-smelling flowers, filling the sum- 
 mer night with incense. " What a charming 
 place ! " Martindale exclaimed. 
 
 " I cannot imagine what has become of 
 Nina," said Ralph, peering about through the 
 shades. 
 
 " Who is that ? " asked his companion, as 
 a white figure slowly moved across the path, 
 some distance ahead of them, and vanished 
 behind a hedge. 
 
 "I did not see," said Ralph. "Was it 
 Nina ? Which way did she go ? " 
 
 The other answered by indicating the di- 
 rection, and, when they reached the intersect- 
 ing path along which the figure had passed, 
 they turned and followed it. 
 
 But they found no sign of the girl whom 
 they were seeking. " She must have gone 
 back to the house," Ralph said, after a while, 
 taking out his cigar-case, and offering it to 
 his companion. "There is no need that we 
 should go," he added. " It is cooler out 
 here." 
 
 Martindale, however, had not come into 
 the garden to smoke a cigar, and talk chemi- 
 cal " shop." He declined thfl ^rst by a gest- 
 ure, and was on the point of cutting short 
 the latter by saying that he, too, would return 
 to the house, when a turn of the path sud- 
 denly brought them in sight of a building 
 the outlines of which cut sharply against the 
 purple, starry sky. 
 
 " What is this ? " he asked, carelessly. 
 
 " It is an old-fashioned summer-house," 
 Ralph answered. " You see every thing here 
 is old-fashioned. This is one of the pavil- 
 ions in which our grandmothers used to take 
 a sociable dish of coffee. It is not very orna- 
 mental when you see it in daylight ; but, for 
 the sake of old association, my father has let 
 it stay. It leaks, and the roof gave symptoms 
 of falling in, the last I heard of it, however." 
 
 " It is not ugly," said a quiet voice, which 
 startled them both as it spoke out of the 
 
10 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 shadow of the building tbcy had now ap- 
 proached, " It is so prettily covered with 
 ivy. Put out your hand, Mr. Martindale, and 
 you can feel the leaves." 
 
 " Is it you, Nina — or a fairy ? " Ralph 
 said, putting out his hand and touching the 
 white figure, which they now discerned, sitting 
 on a flight of steps that led from the door 
 of the summer-house to the ground. 
 
 " Are fairies ever so large ? " asked Nina, 
 laughing, and she rose as she spoke. Despite 
 the discrepancy of size, both the young men 
 thought that there was something elfin-like 
 in the graceful, swaying figure, as it emerged 
 from the deeper shadows into the soft star- 
 light. "If the summer-house is old-fash- 
 ioned, it is very pleasant," she went on, turn- 
 ing to Martindale. " I come and sit in here 
 ol'tcn. See ! it is a regular house." 
 
 She mounted the steps and pushed open a 
 door, as she spoke. Martindale followed her, 
 and, being a smoker, soon found a match in 
 his pocket, with which he struck a light. By 
 this short-lived illumination he saw that they 
 were in a pavilion somewhat on the Dutch 
 model — a " regular house," as Nina had said, 
 with two doors and two casements, also a 
 table and chair bearing token to recent oc- 
 cupation. " One could be very comfortable 
 here," he said, reflectively. Then, as the 
 match went out, leaving them in darkness, he 
 turned to Ralph. 
 
 " Wyverne," he said, " I wonder you have 
 never made this into a laboratory. It is true 
 it is not so convenient as your room in the 
 house, but you would be more at ease in 
 your experiments ; and when such things as 
 explosions occur, nobody's nerves need be 
 jarred." ' 
 
 "More at ease in his experiments!" said 
 Nina, quickly, before Ralph could speak. 
 "But we are done with all such tiresome 
 things as those. Ralph is not going to worry 
 over chemistry any more, since you have told 
 him that his idea is impracticable — are you, 
 Ralph ? " 
 
 "I am afraid I must say yes, Ninetta," 
 answered Ralph, with a laugh, half pleased, 
 half ashamed. " Martindale has retracted his 
 severe judgment on my poor idea — at least, 
 he thinks there is a chance for it, and of 
 course I am anxious that he should put this 
 chance to the test." 
 
 " A chance for it ! " repeated Nina, and 
 there was a sudden jarring quiver in her voice. 
 
 " Pray when did Mr. Martindale discover 
 this fact ? " she asked, after a moment. " You 
 certainly told me before dinner — " 
 
 " I remember what I told you before din- 
 ner," said Ralph, "but since we came out of 
 the house, Martindale has told ?)ie that he was 
 too hasty, and that there may be some hope 
 for me after all." 
 
 He spoke lightly, as if he were more 
 amused than concerned by her possible vexa- 
 tion — but he was not exactly prepared for the 
 answer that came. 
 
 " Mr. Martindale seems to know his own 
 mind very little," said Nina, coldly. " Of 
 course the experiments and every thing con- 
 nected with them are your own affair, Ralph ; 
 but I confess that, if I were in your place, I 
 should feel very little confidence in the opin- 
 ion of a person who contradicts himself in 
 the most positive manner within the space of 
 a few hours." 
 
 " You don't understand, Nina," said Ralph. 
 He was astonished, and for the moment al- 
 most angry. He was well aware that his ex- 
 periments did not please this arbitrary young * 
 princess, but he had not expected that her 
 resentment would extend to one whose only 
 fault had been that of encouraging him. 
 " You don't understand," he repeated. " Mar- 
 tindale has thought the matter over, and, 
 on consideration, changed his mind far enough 
 to think that the idea may be worth testing. 
 That is all." 
 
 " I thought that changing one's mind was 
 a frivolous thing only fit for women," said 
 Nina. " Are chemists subject to it also ? " 
 
 " It is like discontent, inasmuch as we 
 are all subject to it more or less, I fancy," 
 said Martindale, quietly. 
 
 Then there was a pause. They were stand- 
 ing in darkness, for the faint ghmmer which 
 the stars sent through the casements was 
 only sufficient to show the vague outline of 
 Nina's white dress. Voices have a certain 
 intensified meaning at such a time. When 
 our observation is not distracted by any play 
 of feature or expression of glance, we appre- 
 ciate the wonderful organ of human speech 
 as it deserves ; our ears seem more finely 
 strung, our attention is more concentrated, 
 and catch many subtle inflections which, in 
 the light of day, escape our notice. Even 
 when Martindale spoke after a minute to 
 Ralph, his voice had still a cadence of signifi- 
 cance under its commonplace words. 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 11 
 
 " Tlie experiments will only require a 
 trifling outlay of time and labor," he said, 
 "and I cannot help thinking that this pavil- 
 ion is excellently adapted to our purpose as 
 a laboratory. I should not imagine that 
 many repairs were needed, and the chemical 
 apparatus can easily be removed." 
 
 "It is a capital idea," said Ralph. "I 
 wonder I never thought of it before. That 
 room I have in the house is very inconvenient. 
 As you say, few repairs are needed here. I 
 will send for Jackson to-morrow, and let him 
 look at it. Nina, do these doors latch ? I 
 must ride over to Elkbridge for some locks." 
 
 "Is it the transmutation of metals that 
 you have in hand ? " asked Nina, in her scorn- 
 ful voice. " If not, I don't think you need 
 guard your treasures so vigilantly. Nobody 
 is likely to steal them." 
 
 " But somebody might be injured by 
 them," said Ralph, gravely. " Many of my 
 chemicals are deadly poisons. It is always 
 safest to guard against accidents." 
 
 " You may at least be sure that / shall 
 never trouble them," said she, turning away 
 and walking towai'd the door. 
 
 The movement was so abrupt, that the 
 two young men hesitated a moment whether 
 or not to follow. 
 
 " We have seen all that can be seen in 
 such a light as this — don't you think we'd bet- 
 ter go ? " said Ralph, after a second, in a tone 
 of carelessness a trifle studied. 
 
 " I think I'll explore the garden a little 
 further," the other answered. "May I trou- 
 ble you for the cigar you offered a while ago ? 
 Thanks ! make my excuses to your cousin, if 
 any excuses are necessary. If I am back in 
 the drawing-room within an hour, it will be 
 time enough to say good-night, will it not ? " 
 
 " Quite time enough," Ralph replied. 
 He said nothing more, and Martindale — 
 having lighted his cigar — marched out of the 
 pavilion by a door opposite that through 
 which Miss Dalzell had disappeared. 
 
 That young lady was strolling slowly along 
 a path which led toward the house, when her 
 cousin overtook her. She was surprised to 
 see him alone, and, before she remembered 
 the superior dignity of silence, had asked, 
 " Where is Mr. Martindale ? " 
 
 " He has gone off to smoke a cigar," Ralph 
 answered. " I suppose he thought it the best 
 way of relieving you of his society I really 
 think, Nina," this mildest of future husbands 
 
 ventured to add, " that you might treat a man 
 who is at once my friend and my guest a little 
 more courteously." 
 
 " Kave I treated Mr. Martindale with any 
 want of courtesy ? " asked Nina, haughtily. 
 She was not accustomed to being taken to 
 task by anybody, but least of all by Ralph. 
 
 " You have certainly treated him with 
 very great want of courtesy," Wyverne an- 
 swered, firmly. " You were absolutely rude 
 in what you said a little while ago — and all 
 because the poor fellow has encouraged me 
 in the chemical pursuits for which you have 
 such an aversion ! " 
 
 " You are mistaken," said Nina. She did 
 not speak angrily as he had expected, but 
 quite gravely. " You are mistaken," she re- 
 peated, after a moment. " If I have been rude 
 to Mr. Martindale, it was not because he has 
 encouraged you in your chemical pursuits, 
 but because I do not think he is sincere in 
 doing so ! I do not think that he has any 
 better opinion of your idea now than he had 
 before dinner." 
 
 " But what possible reason have you for 
 thinking such a thing ? " asked Ralph, sur- 
 prised and displeased. 
 
 "I can scarcely tell you," said she, stop- 
 ping short and looking at him. " I know 
 you think I am prejudiced," she added, " but 
 I had an instinct the moment I looked at him 
 that he was not to be trusted. Ralph " — she 
 put out her hand suddenly and laid it on his 
 arm — " make your experiments yourself, and I 
 will never say a word about them again — • 
 never ! But don't give this man an excuse 
 for staying an hour longer than you can help, 
 at Wyverne House ! " 
 
 " Nina, you astonish me ! " said Ralph — 
 which was certainly true. "I had no idea 
 you could be so prejudiced and so unjust ! 
 How can you fancy that you, who have known 
 Martindale only a few hours, can possibly 
 judge of his character better than I who have 
 known him for years ? " 
 
 " I don't fancy it," said Nina. " I know 
 nothing about his character — I don't care to 
 know any thing. I only feel that he is not to 
 be trusted, and I wish you would send him 
 away," 
 
 " Send him away ! Send away a man who 
 is my guest, because you have an idea that 
 he is not to be trusted !" said Ralph, quite 
 aghast. " Nina, are you crazy, to ask such a 
 thing ? " 
 
13 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 " No, I am not crazy, but you will be sor- 
 ry if you do not heed me '. " said Nina, with a 
 sudden, passionate meaning in her voice which 
 made her cousin fear that she really was dis- 
 traught. " I am sure of that, Ralph, You 
 will be sorry if you do not heed me ! " 
 
 " Wiiy should I be sorry ? " demanded 
 Ralph. "Such prejudice is not only absurd, 
 but really beneath you, Nina. Can you not 
 see that there is no reason in it ? No man is 
 deceitful without a motive. Now, what mo- 
 tive could Martindale possibly have for de- 
 ceiving me about my idea ? " 
 
 "Do you always distrust an effect when 
 you don't know the cause of it ? " asked 
 Nina. 
 
 "When an effect is alleged, for which 
 there is no adequate cause, I doubt its exist- 
 ence assuredly," he answered. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, and, taking her 
 hand from his arm, gathered up the folds of her 
 muslin dress, which she had suffered to fall 
 unheeded on the dewy path. 
 
 " It is no affair of mine," she said. " Of 
 course you will do as you please ; but I have 
 warned you. You may be sorry yet that you 
 have not heeded my warning, foolish as you 
 think it. I distrust the man and every thing 
 about him," she went on, with a certain re- 
 pressed vehemence. " Ralph, you may think 
 me absurdly superstitious, but when he first 
 turned to you and spoke of converting the 
 summer-house into a laboratory, something 
 in his manner, in his tone — I cannot tell you 
 what it was — made that sudden cold thrill 
 come over me which people are said to feel 
 when standing on the place where they will 
 die." 
 
 " I do, indeed, think that you are absurd- 
 ly superstitious," said Ralph, trying to speak 
 lightly, for even by the dim light of the stars 
 he saw that she was shivering violently ; 
 " but I think the best remedy will be to go 
 into the house and try to forget all this. It 
 is thorough nonsense, and you will like Mar- 
 tindale as much as I do when you come to 
 know him. I am sure of that ! " 
 
 "Are you?" said Nina. She did not 
 speak sarcastically, as she had done in the 
 morning, but half dreamily. Then she turned, 
 without saying any thing more, and walked 
 with him to the house. 
 
 The next day Ralph went eagerly to work 
 with the repairs necessary for convertrng the 
 garden pavilion into a laboratory. Before 
 
 breakfast he had sent for the best carpenter 
 on the plantation, and held a consultation 
 with him in front of the edifice in question — 
 a consultation which greatly excited the sur- 
 prise of Mr. Wyverne, who observed it while 
 he was dressing, and, as soon as he was in a 
 condition to emerge from his chamber, sallied 
 down into the garden to demand an explana- 
 tion from his son. To say that he was dis- 
 gusted with tlie explanation, would be to say 
 very little. He did not express this disgust 
 to any great extent, however, because he was 
 a reasonable man, in the first place, and a 
 man of few words, in the second. Ralph was 
 old enough to know what he was about, and, 
 if he had a fancy to make a fool of himself, it 
 was nobody's business but his own. That 
 was Mr. Wyverne's view of the matter. As 
 for Ralph, he had not expected any encour- 
 agement; so the lack of it did not depress 
 him. Nothing but good-natured tolerance, 
 largely flavored with ridicule, had ever been 
 given by the domestic world to his scientific 
 experiments ; and he looked for nothing else. 
 Sympathy and encouragement would have 
 surprised him as much as any attempt at 
 arbitrary interference. Mr. Wyverne gave a 
 long whistle when he heard for what purpose 
 the summer-house was to be repaired. " I 
 hope you will finish the business in two 
 days," he said. "I can't spare Jackson 
 longer. After all, perhaps it is a good idea. 
 If you blow this up, it will be no great loss." 
 Blowing up was, in the minds of the family at 
 Wyverne, a necessary result of all chemical 
 investigation. 
 
 It was more than two days, however, be- 
 fore the necessary repairs to the summer- 
 house were finished, or before Jackson was 
 allowed to return to the neglected plantation- 
 work over which Mr. Wyverne chafed. Ralph 
 might have chafed himself, if it had been any 
 thing but his own crotchet which delayed the 
 completion of certain desirable and more im- 
 portant buildings ; but just now the chemist 
 had a decided advantage over the planter, 
 and he could think of nothing but his ex- 
 periments. There was, of course, more to be 
 done to the pavilion than he had imagined ; 
 and, since he had what Jackson called "his 
 own notion" about every thing, a zealous 
 superintendence was necessary, for, like most 
 people, he had learned to his cost that his 
 own notion was very apt to be disregarded 
 unless he was present to enforce it. It fol- 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 13 
 
 lowed that he saw very little of anybody but 
 the carpenters during these days. Not that 
 this fact mattered very much. The different 
 members of the household went their accus- 
 tomed ways, and Martindale — who came now 
 .and then with a cigar to look on and suggest 
 an alteration or improTement — did not seem 
 to be suffering from the acute boredom which 
 his friend anticipated for him. In truth, 
 Ealph had made an appeal to Nina that some- 
 what averted this terrible malady from its 
 threatened subject. 
 
 " Do be a good girl and entertain Martin- 
 dale while I am about this work," he said. 
 " I shall really take it as a personal favor if 
 you will. What is to become of the poor 
 fellow I don't know, he is so little used to 
 such a vegetating life as the one we lead." 
 
 " I will do my best for Mr. Martindale's 
 entertainment, since you desire it," Nina an- 
 swered, with a reluctance upon which it would 
 have been difficult for any one — perhaps even 
 for herself — to decide whether or not it was 
 genuine. " But I don't like him, and I really 
 wonder it never occurred to you that other 
 people besides Mr. Martindale might find our 
 life a vegetation." 
 
 '■ Ealph says that I am to entertain you 
 and keep you from being bored to death," 
 she said to Martindale, an hour or two later. 
 " I wish you would tell me how to do it. I 
 never had a traveled fine gentleman on my 
 hands before, and the novelty threatens to be 
 overwhelming." 
 
 " If you consider me a traveled fine gen- 
 tleman," answered Martindale, "it proves 
 conclusively that you have never known a 
 Simon-pure of that species, I am the farthest 
 in the world from deserving such a reproach, 
 or such a distinction — as you choose to con- 
 sider it — and I am the most easily-entertained 
 person in the world, besides. But if I were 
 as exigeant as possible, it would be strange 
 if I could not loiter away a few days at this 
 delightful old place, without incurring the 
 penalty of ennui. I feel like a traveler who 
 has found an enchanted castle and an en- 
 chanted princess," he added, smiling. 
 
 " Do you ? " said Nina — and she smiled 
 also. It was not disagreeable to be lik- 
 ened to an enchanted princess, and a thrill 
 of that pleasurable excitement which she 
 had felt when they were riding together 
 through the summer woods came over her. 
 At such moments, the instinct of distrust 
 2 
 
 which she felt against Martindale — it never 
 amounted to dislike, though it sometimes 
 amounted to repulsion — lost its force. She 
 saw only a handsome man, full of the je ne 
 sais quoi of society, who looked at hor with 
 admiration, and spoke to her with compli- 
 ments — a man who seemed to bring into her 
 life a breath of that world for which all her 
 eager fancy, all her overflowing, sensuous vi- 
 tality longed. 
 
 "But the knights who found enchanted 
 castles usually had rather a hard time of it, 
 had they not ? " she said. " I am afraid you 
 have chosen your comparison unfortunately — 
 which is too bad, when you meant to be com- 
 plimentary." 
 
 " They foimd the princess, however," he 
 said, " and that made amends for all else. 
 Dragons, giants, lions, tyrants — all were 
 child's play when compared with that re- 
 ward." 
 
 " Princesses must have been worth a 
 good deal in those days," said Nina, de- 
 murely. 
 
 " Not more than in these," answered Mar- 
 tindale, readily. " The trouble now, as then, 
 only is — to find them." 
 
 " One might say the same of dragons and 
 unicorns," responded Miss Dalzell. 
 
 " Dragons and unicorns were mythical ; 
 princesses were not," said Martindale, grave- 
 ly. " They exist now, as they existed then — 
 and one finds them sometimes. If I were 
 fortunate enough to do so," he went on, " I 
 should tell the fair captive that, according to 
 all rules of romance and chivalry, the dis- 
 coverer should also be the deliverer." 
 
 " Allow me to remind you of Mrs. Glass's 
 immortal recipe for dressing a hare," said Ni- 
 na. " First find your princess, then decide 
 what you will say to her. Not but that it is 
 easy enough to predicate beforehand what 
 that would be," she ended, with a cool shrug 
 of the shoulders. 
 
 "Is it?" said he, smiling. "Tell me, 
 then, what it would be ? I see yoxi are well 
 acquainted v,-iih the ways of knights and 
 princesses." 
 
 " Knights are very much like men nowa- 
 days, I fancy," she answered. " They paid a 
 great many pretty compliments to the prin- 
 cesses, who, despite the fact of their exalted 
 rank, resembled other foolish country maidens, 
 anil, perhaps, were silly enough to believe 
 them. Then, when the charm of novelty was 
 
14 
 
 NIXA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 gone from these fair ladie?, no more pretty- 
 speeches came, the knights, as a rule, found 
 the enchanted castles very dull, ordered their 
 horses and rode away, to repeat the amuse- 
 ment, ' with variations,' as they do in music, 
 at the next chateau.'^ 
 
 "But you forget that some women never 
 lose the charm of novelty," said he. "Some 
 of them are like the chameleon, and change 
 ■while a man gazes. You remember how it 
 was written of one woman that ' age could 
 not wither nor custom stale her infinite va- 
 riety.' " 
 
 " There was never but one ' serpent of 
 old Nile,' however," said Xina, shaking her 
 head. 
 
 On the whole, it was not remarkable that 
 Mr. Martindale bore with edifying philosophy 
 the delay about the laboratory. It was cer- 
 tainly more agreeable to loiter with Xina in 
 the drawing-room or garden through the 
 long, golden hours of a June day, than to 
 spend the same hours in abstruse calculations 
 and doubtful experiments, bending over chem- 
 ical apparatus and chemical books. Ralph 
 might have spared his anxiety about his 
 friend, if he had only known how very well 
 that gentleman was " entertained." 
 
 Meanwhile Xina, unconsciously to herself, 
 began to experience something of that subtle 
 intoxication which the fumes of flattery soon 
 produce on all save the steadiest brain. This 
 was not remarkable, since circumstances 
 daily threw her into closer intercourse with 
 Martindale, and the repulsion whicli she had 
 at first felt for him gradually changed into an 
 attraction in which gratified vanity played no 
 inconsiderable part. Besides vanity, how- 
 ever, there was also the freshness of novelty, 
 the glow of excitement, and that thrill of 
 conscious power which, to many women, 
 makes the chief fascination of that danger- 
 ous pastime which the world has agreed to 
 call flirtation. It was unfortunate that there 
 was no one to utter a warning, or extend a re- 
 straint over the girl. Ralph was busy with 
 his pavilion, and thought much more of his 
 chemical researches than of his betrothed. 
 Mrs. Wyverne was essentially a house-keeping 
 nonentity ; Mr. Wyverne never regarded the 
 matter at all. So, X^ina went her own way, 
 and rode, or walked, or talked with the hand- 
 some stranger without a word of rebuke, or 
 an attempt at interference. It was after one 
 of these rides — which had been extended far 
 
 into the lovely June woods, under the twilight 
 June stars — that, having come home and laid 
 aside her habit, she stood before her mirror 
 looking with critical intentncss at the exqui- 
 site face, illumined with light and vivid with 
 color, which gazed back at her out of the 
 shadowy depths of the glass. As she re- 
 garded it, a bright smile, half of triumph, 
 half of defiance, curled her scarlet lip. 
 
 " How pretty I am ! " she said. " It is no 
 wonder that he thinks it pleasant to amuse 
 himself with me. But will he think it pleas- 
 ant if I turn the tables and amuse myself 
 with him ? It is only a game of skill on both 
 sides, and promises me a little of that zest 
 and spice which my life lacks so horribly — a 
 little taste of that power which is said to be 
 the sweetest draught in the world ! Men of 
 this class are not troubled with hearts to lose 
 or break, and Ralph would not be jealous if 
 I flirted with everybody in the world ! What 
 is it Thekla says ? — 
 
 " ' I have lived and loved, but that was to-day ; 
 Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow.' 
 
 Only I don't mean to love, whatever else I 
 may do, and it is not my grave-clothes, but my 
 wedding-dress, which is to be made ready to- 
 morrow " 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 XoTWiTHSTAXDiMG othcr and brighter at- 
 tractions, when the pavilion was at last fin- 
 ished and all the chemical apparatus removed 
 thither from the attic laboratory, Martindale 
 betook himself to the experiments with an 
 energy which pleased Ralph exceedingly, and 
 astonished Xina not a little. The latter had 
 so unhesitatingly made up her mind that the 
 young chemist's change of opinion with re- 
 gard to the "idea" of her cousin, was a 
 piece of interested hypocrisy for the better 
 prosecution of a flirtation with herself, that 
 she was not only surprised, but very much 
 piqued, by the prompt desertion of her stand- 
 ard, which took place as soon as the labora- 
 tory was in good working order. What did 
 it mean? she asked, a little indignantly. Had 
 she indeed overrated her consequence so 
 greatly as to fancy that she was the chief at- 
 traction that detained Martindale at Wy- 
 verne, when she was, in truth, only the 
 amusement — the plaything — of his idle 
 hours ? It was in answering this question 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 15 
 
 that Nina's natural shrewdness first failed to 
 come to the aid of her inexperience. A duller 
 woman, who knew the world, would have un- 
 derstood Martindale's tactics : this bright, 
 clever girl, with the disadvantage of not 
 knowing the world, fell into his trap at once. 
 
 In the first place, she found the days in- 
 tolerably dull and tame, without the flavor of 
 excitement, the incense of flattery which for 
 some time had unceasingly surrounded her ; in 
 in the second place, the strong instinct of con- 
 quest, the strong desire to win and wield power, 
 which makes men conquerors, and women 
 coquettes, sprang up like a sudden flame, 
 fanned by the weary monotony, the yearning 
 discontent 'of her life. Martindale's neglect 
 stung her, not so much because her heart or 
 her fancy were interested in him, as because 
 her vanity missed the homage upon which it 
 had fed, and her life the excitement of that 
 " fair game of skill " upon which she had so 
 willingly entered. Being stung, she turned, 
 like every other creature of which we know, 
 in wrath and resolution. " If he has amused 
 himself with me, I will do something more 
 than amuse myself with him ! " she said. " If 
 he has made a plaything of me, I will make 
 something more than a plaything of him. 
 Can I do it, I wonder?" — and she laughed a 
 little, arching her white neck proudly; "at 
 least it will be worth while to try — to test my 
 power — to learn, once for all, if I was made 
 for this domestic treadmill, or if I could have 
 been something else had Fate been kind 
 enough to give me another life ! " 
 
 Yet, if Nina had been asked to define 
 what her "something else" implied, it is not 
 probable that she would have found it very 
 easy to do, though an indefinite vision of a 
 life made np of unlimited conquests, of per- 
 petual homage, of the pou'er for which every 
 instinct of her nature yearned, floated before 
 her eyes. Left to herself, it is likely enough 
 that the girl would have dreamed these fan- 
 cies, but the enchanter who had made them 
 to such wild life was Martindale. In word, 
 and look, and tone, he had said: "You, who 
 are buried here, were born for other things, 
 and have only to enter the world to make a 
 sensation such as few women of your genera- 
 tion are able to achieve ! " Nina had laughed 
 and disclaimed ths flattery, but while she 
 disclaimed she had believed. It would have 
 been strange, indeed, if one so young, so igno- 
 rant, yet so conscious of her own rare beauty, 
 
 and her own keen wits, had nol believed a 
 thing so pleasant to human self-esteem. If in- 
 experience makes us timid, it also makes us pre- 
 sumptuous. It is not until we have measured 
 ourselves with others — hand to hand and foot 
 to foot — in the great arena of the world, that 
 we learn the true proportions of our own 
 statures. 
 
 Meanwhile Martindale, who spent most of 
 his days and half of his nights in the labo- 
 ratory, suggested to Ralph that certain new 
 inventions in apparatus, together with certain 
 new scientific books, were imperatively needed. 
 " You are behind the day, my dear fellow," 
 he said ; " every month chronicles an advance 
 in chemistrj'. It will never do to shut your 
 mind up, and imagine that what you have 
 learned is sufficient. In this science, above 
 all sciences, you must keep yourself en rap- 
 port with the progress of the hour, if you do 
 not want to be left hopelessly behind." 
 Ralph, replying meekly that he was aware of 
 this fact, and that he had endeavored, as far 
 as lay in his power, to keep himself en rap- 
 port with the progress of the hour, at once 
 made a memorandum of the desired apparatus 
 and necessary books, for which he promised 
 to send an order by that day's mail. 
 
 Returning to the house for this purpose, 
 he told Nina triumphantly that he had never 
 seen anybody go into any thing with more 
 zest than Martindale had gone into the ex- 
 periments. " What a thing it is to have a 
 scientific turn!" he said. " The fellow abso- 
 lutely bends over his crucibles as if he were 
 in love with them ! And what a thing it is 
 to have a scientific education, too ! I feel as 
 if I were the most ignorant dabbler in the 
 world, when I stand and watch him at work." 
 
 " Chemistry must be very Interesting," 
 said Nina, musingly. A bright thought sud- 
 denly occurred to her. She felt more than 
 ordinarily listless that morning, and since the 
 mountain would not come to Mohammed, why 
 should not Mohammed go to the mountain, 
 even though it had taken up its abode in a 
 laboratory ? "I should like to see some of 
 Mr. Martindale's experiments," she said, care-' 
 lessly. " Do you think he would mind if f 
 went to the laboratory for that purpose ? " 
 
 " I am sure he would be very glad to see 
 you, and explain every thing you wanted to 
 know," answered honest, unsuspicious Ralph, 
 delighted with this first token of interest in 
 his beloved pursuit. " If you really care to 
 
16 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 go, I will take you down as soon as I have fin- 
 ished my letter." 
 
 But this was not exactly what Nina wanted. 
 " I thought you promised uncle to go to Elk- 
 bridge on business this morning?" she said. 
 " By Jove, so I did ! " answered Ealph. 
 " Thank you for reminding me of it. Til 
 order my horse in a minute, but, while he is 
 being saddled, I can walk with you to the 
 laboratory, and Martindale can give you a 
 chemical lecture at his leisure. If you would 
 only believe it, Nina, there is not in the world 
 a more fascinating study than that of chem- 
 istry." 
 
 "I can readily believe it," answered Nina, 
 a little dryly. 
 
 She left the room as she said this, and 
 went up-stairs. But when Ealph, having fin- 
 ished his letter and ordered his horse, sent a 
 messenger to announce that he was ready to 
 go to tlie pavilion, she did not keep him wait- 
 ing, as he had feared she would. On the con- 
 trary, her light step on the broad, shallow 
 staircase, made him turn from the hall-door, 
 where he was standing, before he had im- 
 agined that his message would have reached 
 her. 
 
 " Why, Nina, you have changed your 
 dress!" he said, even his unobservant eye 
 being struck by the heightening effect which 
 a cloud of transparent lawn, in tint like a 
 blush-rose, produced on her beauty. " It 
 is amazingly becoming ; but I wonder you 
 put on any thing so pretty when you are go- 
 ing down to the laboratory. If some of the 
 chemicals should drop on it — " 
 
 "Do you make a rule of dropping chem- 
 icals on people's dresses ? " asked Nina, as 
 she drew on her gloves and took her parasol 
 from the hall-table. "Not that it matters 
 very much if you do. However becoming 
 pink muslin may be, it is, fortunately, not ex- 
 pensive. I changed my dress because the 
 other had a fruit-stain on it." 
 
 This was true. Microscopic observation 
 might have detected a small fruit-stain on the 
 skirt of the dress which had been thrown 
 aside ; but Nina did not add, that out of her 
 whole wardrobe she had carefully selected the 
 one she wore as the most becoming, and that 
 when she passed the strings of her garden-hat 
 over the rich masses of her hair, she had felt 
 eminently satisfied with the result of her 
 choice. 
 
 What Martindale thought when, roused 
 
 out of his study of a chemical manual by the 
 unexpected sound of voices, he turned to see 
 this exquisite vision framed in the open door 
 of the pavilion, with green boughs drooping 
 slantwise behind, and a vista of the garden 
 beyond, it would be hard to say. For a min- 
 ute he did not utter a word. He only caught 
 his breath quickly — startled out of his usual 
 cool self-possession by the glowing beauty of 
 the face which looked at him. For an in- 
 stant he wondered if he had ever before real- 
 ized Nina's exceeding loveliness — a loveliness 
 that might have driven an artist to despair, 
 since the tints were never mixed on palette or 
 laid on canvas that could have copied the 
 abounding freshness and glory of her color- 
 ing — the satin softness and rose brilliancy 
 of her skin, the cleft scarlet of her lips, the 
 bronze sheen of her hair, or the liquid lustre 
 of her eyes. It was Ralph's voice that re- 
 called his self-possession as the cousins ad- 
 vanced. 
 
 " I have brought Nina down to see some 
 chemical experiments, Martindale," he said. 
 " I suppose you are not too busy to show her 
 a few things — simple things, you know. I 
 would do it myself, only I am obliged to ride 
 over to Elkbridge this morning." 
 
 " I shall be very glad to show Miss Dal- 
 zell any thing that will interest her," Martin- 
 dale answered. " But I thought you did not 
 like chemistry," he added, looking at Nina 
 and speaking almost abruptly. 
 
 " I do not," she answered, carelessly, con- 
 scious of feeling a little provoked by his tone. 
 " I am only idle this morning, and idleness 
 begets curiosity — even in things which do 
 not usually interest one. I should be sorry 
 to disturb your industry, however, Mr. Mar- 
 tindale. Your studies seem so very abstruse " 
 — her half-mocking gaze swept over the open 
 pages of the book he had laid down — " that 
 it would be a pity to interrupt them. Ealph 
 can spare a little time for my instruction, can- 
 not you, Ealph? No doubt my curiosity will 
 be satisfied with a very small amount of learn- 
 ing. By way of beginning, what is this ? " 
 and, extending her hand, she touched with 
 one finger part of the apparatus on a table 
 near by. 
 
 " That is a glass retort," answered Ealph, 
 delighted to play school-master. " This gas- 
 lamp is what we call a Bunsen's burner ; and 
 if you will observe, Nina, you will see that 
 the action of heat is evolving a gas from the 
 
NINA'S ATOXEMEXT. 
 
 17 
 
 chemical substances in the retort which the 
 receiver here is placed to collect, and — " 
 
 " Yes, I see all about it," said Xina ; '" but 
 suppose I take the stopper from the retort, 
 will any thing occur ? " 
 
 " You must not think of such a thing," 
 said Martindale, coming forward, and, to her 
 surprise, quickly removing her hand from the 
 stopper, en which it rested. " The gas which 
 is being evolved here is the most subtle and 
 dangerous known to chemistrv. You had bet- 
 ter come away, Miss Dalzell, I will show you 
 some of the ordinary experiments — " 
 
 " But I don't want to see any ordinary ex- 
 periments," said Xina, the perverse. " I want 
 to hear about this subtle and dangerous gas. 
 What is the name of it? Ralph, I did not 
 know that you were in the habit of experi- 
 menting with such things." 
 
 " Tliis is not one of my experiments," said 
 Ralph. " Martindale is after a craze of his 
 own, and has been experimenting in the cyan- 
 ogen compounds for some time. — It is hydro- 
 cyanic acid you are preparing now, is it not ? " 
 he added, looking at his friend. 
 
 " Exactly that," answered Martindale, " so 
 you see you must bring Miss Dalzell away. — 
 You have no idea how dangerous this is," he 
 went on, turning to Xina. " One drop of the 
 pure substance is sufficient to kill, and a 
 chemist has always to be very careful in pre- 
 paring it, since the vapor, even in small quan- 
 tities, will produce fatal results." 
 
 "How terrible!" said Xina, and, looking 
 at him, her rose-leaf color faded a little. 
 " You should not tamper with such dreadful 
 things," she said. " What if you killed your- 
 self?" 
 
 " It would not matter very much if I did," 
 he answered, carelessly. " My life is not of 
 much importance — not like Ralph's there, for 
 instance. You may be sure I don't involve 
 Mm in any of my dangerous experiments." 
 
 " Very considerate of him, isn't it ? " said 
 Ralph, laughing. " But you may rest satisfied 
 that he knows what he is about, and is not 
 likely to poison himself. Xow I must really 
 go, for I am sure my horse is waiting. Mar- 
 tindale, it would be a very pretty experiment 
 to show her about water, you know — how ox- 
 ygen and hydrogen make it, and all that sort 
 of thing. — You've no idea how interesting it 
 is, Xiiia, to see gas turned into water before 
 your eyes." 
 
 Although Nina made no reply, he left the 
 
 pavilion quite light-hearted. It was so cheer- 
 ing to think that she was really beginning to 
 take an interest in chemistry at last! It 
 would be so pleasant, he thought — for Ralph 
 was domestic even in his love of science — to 
 possess a wife who would share his enthusi- 
 asm to the extent of a gentle feminine sym- 
 pathy, who would take an interest in his ex- 
 periments, and understand intelligently what 
 he was doing, or what he wished to do ! It 
 was true that common-sense, liberally aided 
 by experience, might have assured him how 
 little Nina was likely to be metamorphosed 
 into such a wife ; but men like Wyverne have 
 an abounding faith in the power of matri- 
 mony to work any and every change in the 
 habits, tastes, and disposition of a woman. 
 As he mounted his horse and rode away in 
 the golden sunlight, it did not occur to him 
 that he had left behind, and in close proximi- 
 ty, materials more inflammable than any of 
 his gases ; that the passion of a man, and tiie 
 fancy of a woman, may sometimes form a 
 combination more dangerous than any chemi- 
 cal result. It is difficult to say whether it 
 was well or ill for him that he realized noth- 
 ing of this. If Nina had been as old as his 
 mother, and as ugly as Hecate, he could not 
 have felt less uneasiness concerning her. If 
 Martindale had been Sir Galahad in person, 
 he could not have trusted him more implicitly. 
 It is a bitter lesson, though a necessary one, 
 when the world first teaches us that such 
 trust is rarely, if ever, wisely piven — but it 
 was a lesson of which Ralph Wyverne had 
 not yet learned the initial letter. 
 
 In the pavilion, after he left it, silence 
 reigned for a minute. For the first time in 
 her life a sudden, strange shyness came over 
 Nina; for the first time, also, she felt a dis- 
 trust of herself and of her usually ready 
 tongue, which half inclined her to wish her- 
 self away. Martindale' s manner of meeting 
 her had been so different from any thing 
 which she anticipated that it had discom- 
 posed and thrown her back on herself in a 
 most provoking manner. She had expected 
 that he would be radiant with pleasure, and 
 full of the ease and brightness which she 
 liked ; on the contrary, he was stiff, reserved, 
 and almost rude. True, she was conscious 
 that he regarded her with an admiration more 
 eloquent than many words ; but, feeling the 
 blood deepening in her fair cheeks under his 
 •raze, she chose to consider even this a fresh 
 
18 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 cause of offense, and so turned away petulant- 
 ly toward the door. 
 
 " Since Ralijh has gone, I will not detain 
 you any longer," she said. " Of course, you 
 must be anxious to i-eturn to your books and 
 gases." 
 
 She looked so mutlne and lovely in lier 
 Texation, that Martindale could with diffi- 
 culty repress a smile. He understood so well 
 why she had come, and the disappointment in 
 which she was going, that he felt tempted to 
 amuse himself by adding a little more fuel to 
 the flame of her petulance before he indemni- 
 fied himself, in his own fashion, for the self- 
 denial of the last few days. Even to look at 
 her was such a pleasure, to a man who wor- 
 shiped beauty as this student of chemistry 
 did, that he wanted to make the most of her 
 changing moods ; to watch the sea-shell color 
 vary, to note every play of the flexile lips, 
 and to meet the full-orbed glow of the eyes 
 before he won her back — as he knew a word 
 would win her back — to her usual sparkling 
 self. 
 
 " You cannot surely think that you detain 
 me ! " he repeated, in answer to her last 
 words. " I must beg you to believe that I 
 am highly honored by your visit. My studies 
 and experiments can readily wait your pleas- 
 ure." 
 
 " It is not at all necessary that they should 
 do so," said Nina, vexed afresh, as he knew 
 that she would be, by the formality of his 
 words. "My pleasure is to find something 
 more entertaining than chemistry. I told 
 Ralph that a very small amount of knowledge 
 would gratify my curiosity. It has been quite 
 gratified." 
 
 " But you have not gained any knowledge 
 at all," said he, laughing. Then he came for- 
 ward to her side. " If you go, you must let 
 me go with you," he said. *' Since I have 
 been demoralized by a glimpse of your face, I 
 cannot return to the books and gases to which 
 you so kindly commend me." 
 
 The face of which he spoke frowned, 
 blushed, and smiled, all at once — the peach- 
 blossom tints glowing into brighter beauty 
 under his glance. But, for all that, Nina was 
 not appeased, as her answer showed : 
 
 " I am sorry that my face should have de- 
 moralized you," she said, stiffly. "I can only 
 make amends by removing it at once. Per- 
 haps, indeed, I ought to apologize for intrud- 
 ing at all into such sacred precincts ; but I 
 
 came to gratify Ralph. He thinks that, be- 
 fore we are married, I ought to learn a little 
 chemistry." 
 
 " Is that a necessary preparation for mat- 
 rimony ? " asked Martindale. His manner 
 did not betray the jealous pang at his heart, 
 but he could not help wondering if she at all 
 estimated the power of her last words to 
 change his amused trifling into a sudden res- 
 olute determination to use to the full this op- 
 portunity which fate and caprice had given 
 him. 
 
 " Ralph thinks so," she answered, care- 
 lessly. "He ought to be the best judge, 
 ought not he ? " 
 
 " Of what he desires — certainly. But to 
 desire and to obtain are very different things 
 in this highly-satisfactory liTe of ours." 
 
 " Not with him," she said. " He has had 
 every thing that he ever desired — even mc," 
 she added, shrugging her shoulders — "if I 
 am worth counting a possession." 
 
 "Do you doubt your value?" said her 
 companion, with a slight laugh. "If you de- 
 sire to test it, take your life back into your 
 own hands, and see whether even Ralph's im- 
 passive calm will not be stirred." 
 
 " If I took it back, what should I do with 
 it ? " she asked. There was an accent of the 
 pathos that is born of hopelessness in her 
 voice, which was not meant for effect. She 
 had asked herself the same question before 
 this, and knew how dreary the answer was. 
 
 " Shall I tell you ? " said he, quickly, with 
 a cadence of passionate meaning in his tone. 
 He would test his power, and know the best 
 or worst at once, he thought. 
 
 But Nina drew herself up proudly. 
 
 "Why should you tell me?" she asked. 
 " There is no possibility ef such an event 
 coming to pass." Then, with an eagerness 
 that told its own story of self-reproach, she 
 added : "It is a good thing to be able to 
 trust one's life into such faithful keeping as 
 that of Ralph. I do not think there is a 
 kinder or truer heart than his in the world." 
 
 " Ralph is a very good fellow," said Mar- 
 tindale, quietly, " but, if he were the best in 
 the universe, he could never make vou hap- 
 
 py." 
 
 " How can you possibly know what would 
 make me happy ? " she demanded, haughtily, 
 her color deepening, her eyes expanding with 
 the glow that he liked to provoke. 
 
 " Rather, how can I help knowing ? " he 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT, 
 
 19 
 
 said, with a smile, as his brown eyes met her 
 own. " Do you remember how you came into 
 the drawing-room that first day ? " he went 
 on. " It was like a sudden delicious burst of 
 color, or gleam of sunlight, over a gray land- 
 scape. Even then — even before you had ut- 
 tered a word of the discontent which you felt 
 for your life — I saw how little you belonged 
 to it, liow entirely Nature had fitted you for 
 other things. Ralph had told me that you 
 were engaged to him. Instinct told me, as 
 soon as I looked at your face, that this en- 
 gagement owed its existence to your own 
 supreme ignorance of yourself." 
 
 " And you have been kind enough to en- 
 deavor to enlighten that ignorance ! " said 
 she, with not a little bitterness. " I owe you 
 no thanks for it. You have fed ray vanity, 
 and fanned the discontent of which I was 
 scarcely conscious before you came, until it 
 renders my life miserable. And you have 
 done this — do not fancy that I am ignorant 
 of it — simply for your own amusement." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" he said; and a sud- 
 den thriU in his voice made her start. " If I 
 have rendered you miserable," he said, draw- 
 ing nearer, and speaking eagerly, " it has 
 been that I might in turn render you happy, 
 that I might rescue you from the death-in- 
 life to which you are doomed, that I might 
 give you to the world for which you were 
 born ! Nina, it is useless for me to say that 
 I love you — you know that already — it only 
 remains for you to say whether you will tame- 
 ly accept the life which has been made for 
 you, or whether you will make your own life 
 by coming with me. I have not wealth to 
 offer you, as "Wyverne has, but I have some- 
 thing which is better still — freedom ! " 
 
 He uttered the last word in a tone which 
 was in itself Hke an electric charge to the girl 
 who listened. Her whole nature seemed to 
 leap up in response. Freedom ! — freedom to 
 quaff to its full the elixir of life, of power, of 
 excitement like that which filled her now! 
 The wealth of an emperor would have tempted 
 her less than that single word, than a single 
 one of the hopes it embodied ! Yet it was at 
 this moment that a dim, struggling sense of 
 right and wrong came to the girl. Face to 
 face with the roused earnestness of the man 
 before her, all her bright, graceful mockery, 
 her pretty, innate coquetry seemed stricken 
 from her command. Nothing remained but 
 the instinctive resistance of one who feels 
 
 what is right, and who is tempted within as 
 well as without toward what is wrong. 
 
 " You must not talk to me like this ! " 
 she said, all the bright color ebbing from her 
 face, her breath coming short and quick. "It 
 is unkind — it is dishonorable ! You have no 
 right—" 
 
 "No right!" interrupted he, scornfully. 
 " Who asks for a right ? Mine rests in my 
 love for you, and my determination to rescue 
 you ! I ask no other. Do you think it mat- 
 ters to me that you have promised Ralph 
 "Wyverne to marry him ? I would walk over 
 a thousand Ralph Wyvernes if it were a ques- 
 tion of winning you at last." 
 
 "But it is not a question of that!" said 
 Nina, his imperious tone rousing a flash of de- 
 fiance in her. She realized now how unwise 
 she had been to come, but even if Martindale 
 would have permitted her to leave him — which 
 she felt to be doubtful, since he stood direct- 
 ly in her path — there was a fascination that 
 kept her motionless. Go ! How could she 
 go ? How could she leave this stir of combat, 
 in which, if there was danger, there was also 
 the quick breath of excitement, for the dull 
 house which she knew so well, and her aunt's 
 platitudes and crochet-work ? 
 
 " You are right," said Martindale, quietly. 
 " It is not a question, but a certainty — for I 
 will win you, Nina ! I have sworn to do it, 
 and there is no power on earth or in heaven 
 to make me swerve from my resolution ! " 
 
 "You cannot win me despite myself," said 
 Nina, who rather liked the novelty of this 
 masterful wooing. She looked up and met 
 the eager, passionate eyes that were bent on 
 her. The first taste of forbidden fruit was 
 sweet to Eve, and alas ! it has remained sweet 
 to all of her descendants. 
 
 " I will win you even despite yourself ! " he 
 answered, in a tone of confident power. " But 
 will it need to be despite yourself? " he add- 
 ed, in a softer voice. " Nina, I know you do 
 not love Ralph Wyverne ; but can you not 
 love nie ? " 
 
 There was little humility in the question, 
 but there can be no doubt that humility would 
 not have served his cause with Nina half so 
 well as the pride that was almost haughty in 
 its self-confidence. He saw the lovely color 
 flicker into her face at his last words, the 
 white throat give a quick, nervous gasp, and 
 the lids droop over the eyes. Never had she 
 looked more beautiful, and never had he felt 
 
20 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 more resolved to win licr at all liazards — 
 Even, as be had said, despite herself. Her re- 
 sistance gave a charm, without which her 
 very beauty would have lost half its value in 
 his eyes. 
 
 " Can you not love me, and trust your life 
 with me, Nina '? " he said, taking into his own 
 the hands which were idly clasped before her, 
 and watching every flutter of the long, curling 
 lashes on the rose-tinted cheek. " I can give 
 you the tilings for which you long, and love, 
 besides, such as no other man ever will give 
 you. Nina, my beautiful darling, will you not 
 come to me ? " 
 
 " Eow can you ask such a question ? " 
 said Nina, almost in a whisper — somehow 
 her powers of resistance seemed ebbing from 
 her ; she was conscious of being borne down 
 in the strife which she had so deliberately 
 sought, so arrogantly met — " you have forgot- 
 ten Ralph, /cannot do so." 
 
 "Nay," he said, with a slight laugh of 
 triumph, "if you will let me be your teacher, 
 you will soon learn to forget Ralph. Nina, 
 can you not forget him now ? Look at me, 
 sweet one, and let me read the answer in your 
 eyes." 
 
 Even when Nina lifted her eyes, she meant 
 to say, " You are wrong ! I can never forget 
 that my honor is bound to Ralph," but some- 
 thing in the glance she met, hushed the words. 
 Every thing suddenly seemed to waver before 
 her — the green, swaying boughs, the golden, 
 summer day, the handsome, bending face. It 
 was only when she felt the touch of Martin- 
 dale's lips on her own, that she realized with 
 a sudden shock all that she had implied by 
 her silence. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Nina," said Ralph, tenderly, " I am afraid 
 there is something the matter with you, dear." 
 
 It was several days after the scene in the 
 laboratory. The cousins were alone in the 
 drawing-room, which Ralph had entered un- 
 expectedly in search of a missing glove, and 
 where he had found Nina all alone, standing 
 by an open window, gazing out absently over 
 the flowery terrace to the green lawn beyond. 
 Something listless as well as absent in the 
 girl's attitude struck him suddenly. It was 
 strange for Nina — in whom buoyant youth 
 and health seemed usually overflowing — to 
 appear listless, and he remembered that he 
 
 had thought her looking pale the day before. 
 3Iovcd by a quick impulse of affectionate con- 
 cern, he crossed the room, therefore, with the 
 caressing words recorded above. 
 
 But he was not prepared for the startled 
 look in the eyes which turned on him, nor the 
 recoiling movement which she made when he 
 attempted to pass his arm lightly around her. 
 
 " Nina ! " he said, surprised and pained ; 
 " is any thing the matter ? Have I done any 
 thing to offend you ? " 
 
 " You ! " said Nina, with a faint laugh. 
 " When did you ever do any thing to offend 
 me ? I — I am only nervous. I have felt 
 heavy and languid for a day or two. Perhaps 
 I need a tonic. Don't people always need a 
 tonic when they feel languid ? Count iny 
 pulse, and see if it is all right." 
 
 She extended her delicate wrist, with a 
 pretty tracery of azure veins showing through 
 the transparent skin ; but, instead of accept- 
 ing the diversion thus offered. Ralph placed 
 one hand under her chin, and turned the 
 exquisite Hebe-face toward the light. 
 
 " I can judge better from your eyes than 
 from your pulse," he said, gravely, " Look 
 at me, and let me see what cloud has come 
 over you." 
 
 But this Nina would not do ; indeed, she 
 felt that she could not meet the frank, tender 
 eyes looking at her, with the gloom of unquiet 
 deception in her own. The white, sculptu- 
 resque lids fell heavily; the slender, darfe 
 brows met in an impatient frown. 
 
 " Don't, Ralph ! " she said, petulantly. " I 
 cannot endure such a glare ! There is noth- 
 ing the matter with me, except that I ara 
 stupid and dull." 
 
 " Why, you were nervous and languid a 
 minute ago," said Ralph, " and now stupid 
 and dull — what a sudden list of maladies! 
 And, for you, of all people ! Do you know — 
 now that I come to think of it — you have not 
 seemed quite yourself since that day we went 
 down to the laboratory ? I wonder if you 
 could have inhaled some of Martindale's poi- 
 sonous compounds ? " 
 
 " How absurd ! " said Nina ; but her smile 
 was forced, and the vivid color which leaped 
 to her face might have wakened suspicion in 
 anybody but Ralph. He, however, blundered 
 on: 
 
 "I must make Martindale come and pre- 
 scribe for you," said Ralph. "Every chemist 
 is something of a physician — at least to the 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 21 
 
 extent of knowiug the effect of his chemicals. 
 If you should have chanced to inhale a little 
 poison, he must administer an antidote as 
 soon as possible." 
 
 " Pray, don't be foolish ! " said Nina, cold- 
 ly—the flush on her face had faded as quick- 
 ly as it came, and nothing remained now but 
 a faint stain of color on either cheek — "I 
 have inhaled no poison ; but, if I had done 
 so, I would not care to receive an antidote 
 from Mr. Martindale. Ralph," she said, sud- 
 denly and passionately, " I asked you to send 
 that man away when he first came here. It 
 would have been better — oh, how much better 
 — if j-ou had heeded me ! " 
 
 " Has Martindale been doing any thing? " 
 said Ralph. " I knew somebody had offended 
 you, Nina ; but I am sorry that you have gone 
 back to your dislike of him." 
 
 " I did not say that I had gone back to 
 my dislike of him," answered Nina, impatient- 
 ly. "Ralph, can you not understand that 
 one can distrust a person without — without 
 disliking him ? " 
 
 " No, I cannot understand it," said Ralph, 
 frankly. " With me, to like and to trust are 
 synonymous terms. I could not for a mo- 
 ment entertain any regard for a person whom 
 I distrusted." 
 
 "That is to say, you could not ham to 
 regard a person wiiom you distrusted," said 
 Nina, quickly. "But if you liked — loved, 
 perhaps — already, could you not continue to 
 like or love even if — if you had cause to dis- 
 trust ? " 
 
 " I scarcely think so," he answered, sim- 
 ply. " But, thank God, I have never been 
 tried with a distrust of any one whom I 
 loved!" 
 
 " I wonder how you would bear it," said 
 she, half absentlj' — gazing away from him out 
 of the window. 
 
 "Badly enough," he answered. "In fact, 
 I cannot imagine how I would bear it at all. 
 Nothing could be more horrible — more unen- 
 durable ! " Then, quickly : " Don't let us talk 
 of such things — they are not for you and me. 
 We trust each other, do we not ? " 
 
 "Yes," answered she, quietly — if he had 
 noticed closely, he would have seen a quick 
 gasp in her throat — " but neither of us 
 can tell how unworthy the other may be of 
 that trust." 
 
 " Good Heavens, Nina ! " said Ralph. He 
 was quite confounded by this unexpected re- 
 
 ply, and for a minute could only stare at the 
 speaker. Then, naturally enough, it occurred 
 to him that such a surprising supposition 
 must refer to himself. " Something certainly 
 is the matter," he said, emphatically, " Nina ; 
 will you not tell me what it is? If I have 
 done any thing to pain or annoy you — " 
 
 '■'■You done any thing!" interrupted Nina, 
 again. " Ralph, are you mad ? You never 
 did any thing in your life to pain or annoy 
 me. It is I who have always pained and an- 
 noyed you, who have been cold and ungrate- 
 ful, and — and unworthy of every kind and 
 loving thought that you have ever given me ! 
 If you could forget me," said she, meeting his 
 gaze suddenly for the first time, " it might be 
 the best thing that could befall you." 
 
 "Nina, you certainly must be ill!" said 
 Ralph. " You would never talk such non- 
 sense if you were not. Why, I never heard 
 any thing like it ! Forget you ! — I, who have 
 never done any thing but love you since you 
 first came to us ! Here ! — let me feel your 
 pulse. You certainly must have a fever." 
 
 But, instead of extending her wrist again, 
 Nina laid her hand on his shoulder, and looked 
 at him with a steady, wistful air. As she 
 faced him thus, he began to observe, for the 
 first time, the deep shadow in her usually 
 sunny face. 
 
 " Ralph," she said, slowly, " do you not 
 see that I shall never be able to make you 
 happy ? Dear, we are too unlike. One can 
 do a great deal toward controlling one's self 
 — at least good people say that we can — but 
 one cannot create one's self over again on an- 
 other model, and that is what I should have 
 to do before I should be able to live your life 
 as your wife should live it." 
 
 " What on earth has put such ideas into 
 your head?" asked Ralph, alarmed and puz- 
 zled both at once. " If I am willing to take 
 you just as you are, without any creating 
 over again whatever, why should you torment 
 yourself with scruples and ideas like these ? 
 When you are married and settled, you wiil 
 grow to like domestic things better than you 
 do now — but I only desire that change for 
 your own comfort. I love you too well as 
 you are, to see any fault in you." 
 
 Nina dropped her hand wearily, and turned 
 from him again toward the window. " If you 
 knew me as I am, you would not love me for 
 an hour," she said. " Ralph, if you would 
 only give me up, and — and let me sink out 
 
23 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 of your life, you would be so much happi- 
 er!" 
 
 "Nina ! " said Ralph, and his voice had a 
 cadence in it which made her start, thinking 
 she had betrayed herself. Instinctively she 
 drew into the shade, as he bent forward that 
 he might read her face by the full light of the 
 window, "Am I so dull that I have not 
 understood you all this time? " he said, with 
 a strange sort of tension in his tone. " Is it 
 for yourself you have been pleading, while you 
 talked of me? You say that I will find no 
 happiness in our marriage — Nina, are you 
 thinking what you will find ? " 
 
 She looked up at him half piteously, the 
 fingers of her right hand seeking the engage- 
 ment-ring which her left hand wore. Now 
 was the golden moment in which to speak, if 
 she meant to speak at all ; but face to face 
 with the opportunity, she shrank back, feel- 
 ing her inability to use it. For Nina was 
 not only a bom epicurean — a born seeker 
 and lover of pleasure and delight — but she 
 was also that which all epicureans essentially 
 are — a coward. She shrank from any thing 
 painful, as she might have shrunk from a 
 cruel blow. Looking into Ralph's face — 
 it had grown very pale, and, although the eyes 
 were tender, the mouth was set and almost 
 stern — her heart died away within her. " I 
 cannot, I cannot ! " she thought. To do her 
 justice, it was not cowardice alone that 
 sealed her lips. The ej-es, gazing into her 
 own, seemed to her excited fancy like an em- 
 bodiment of all the love and care which had 
 been given to her since the first hour in 
 which the roof of Wyverne had, sheltered 
 her helpless orphanhood. Were ever parents 
 kinder or more indulgent than her uncle and 
 aunt, was ever brother more tender, was ever 
 lover more devoted, than Ralph ? A vision 
 of her petted, luxurious life rose before the 
 girl. They had given her every thing which 
 was theirs to give. It was for her to decide 
 what should be their reward. 
 
 Then even in this foolish and reckless 
 heart, a mighty impulse of self-abnegating 
 gratitude rose. " Ralph," she cried, suddenly, 
 "I was not thinking of myself; I was only 
 thinking of you ! I will do whatever you 
 wish, dear; but you must remember that — 
 that I knew how it would be, when I disap- 
 point you in every thing, and make you 
 wretched." 
 
 "I am not afraid of that, my darling," 
 
 said Ralph, with a great wave of gladness 
 coming over his face. He did not exactly 
 understand Nina, having never known her to 
 be seized with a fit of humility before — but 
 a load seemed lifted from him when he found 
 that this was all she meant. Only a fear lest 
 she should make him wretched ! He laughed 
 outright. "My pretty one," he said, with ca- 
 ressing tenderness, "even to look at you is 
 enough to bring sunlight and gladness to a 
 man's heart." 
 
 " But I shall not be pretty always," said 
 Nina. She almost hated her prettiness at 
 that moment. It Tvas the root of all her 
 trouble. But for the entrancing bloom of 
 her skin, the moist scarlet of her lips, the 
 liquid lustre of her eyes, Ralph would never 
 have desired to marry her, Martindale would 
 never have tarried at Wyverne over fruitless 
 experiments in chemistry, the discontent and 
 eager longing which burned within her like a 
 flame would never have found birth. " If I 
 had been ugly, I should have been domestic," 
 she thought, with a momentai-y yearning for 
 a sallow skin and dull eyes. " Ugly women 
 always are domestic — they have no tempta- 
 tion to be any thing else." 
 
 Meanwhile Ralph was saying, with that 
 air of a0"ectionate solicitude which is so de- 
 lightful when the affection is returned, but so 
 terribly irksome when it is not: "My darling, 
 there is something you must do for me. Did 
 I not hear mother say that you are going 
 with her to Elkbridge for some shopping to- 
 day? Promise me that while you are there 
 you will call and see Dr. Shelton. I am not 
 quite easy about you." 
 
 " There is nothing the matter with me," 
 said Nina — " at least nothing which Dr. Shel- 
 ton can cure. If I went to see him, it could 
 only be to ask if he could ' minister to a mind 
 diseased.' I think my mind must be diseased, 
 else I should never have been so foolish as I 
 have been this morning. But I see the car- 
 riage coming round, and I have not changed 
 my dress yet. I had almost forgotten that I 
 Was going to Elkbridge with Aunt Essie." 
 
 She turned away quickly — glad to escape 
 from the eyes which had all of love's eager- 
 ness and something of love's keenness in 
 them — and, hurrying out of the room, did not 
 pause until she was safe within the shelter of 
 her own chamber, a cool, bowery apartment 
 with a delicious green light from its half- 
 closed blinds, and a whiff of ottar of roses on 
 
NIXA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 23 
 
 the air. Ou her knees beside the bed, across 
 which a pretty light silk was lying, Nina 
 flung herself — but not to pray. Only to bury 
 her face in the Marseilles counterpane and 
 smother the dry, stormy sobs that were shak- 
 ing her whole frame. 
 
 " What am I to do ? Oh, what urn I to 
 do?" she panted. "It would be a blacker 
 ingratitude than even I am capable of to leave 
 them, as he wishes me to do ; and yet — I think 
 1 shall go mad if Ralph talks to me and looks 
 at me again as he did a little while ago ! To 
 see the love and trust in his eyes, and to think 
 how I have betrayed the one and forfeited the 
 other, is more than I can bear ! Oh, what 
 am I to do ? To keep my engagement and 
 make myself miserable, or to break it and 
 make him wretched ? Yet have I indeed a 
 liberty of choice ? " She sprang to her feet 
 and began to pace the floor. " Have they not 
 bought me — these good, kind, tame, stupid 
 people — and paid my value a hundred times 
 over ? " Her glance traveled from the silk 
 dress on the bed to a set of pearls — Ralph's 
 birthday present — on the toilet-table. " Sure- 
 ly my red-and-white beauty is not worth a 
 higher price than the lavish indulgence which 
 these things represent. But freedom ! — are 
 they worthy to be the price of freedom ? " 
 Her hands clasped and unclasped nervously ; 
 her impatient glance swept round the room 
 as if its walls suffocated her; at that moment 
 she looked like some wild thing of the forest 
 pent within a cage. " It is a good thing that 
 this cannot last long ! " she thought, snatch- 
 ing from her white throat a band of velvet, 
 which felt as if it was choking her. "It is a 
 good thing that my wedding-day is only two 
 weeks distant. Whatever is to be decided, 
 must be decided soon ; whatever is to be 
 done, must be done before then. What it 
 will be, Heaven only knows. / know noth- 
 ing except that I have not courage to be 
 either wholly true or wholly false. Every 
 thing would be easier if I were better, or — 
 worse ! " 
 
 And little as Nina suspected it, she epit- 
 omized her whole character in those words. 
 Every thing would have been easier with her 
 if she had been either better or worse — if she 
 had stood upon a higher or lower plane of ac- 
 tion and feeling. As it was, she succumbed 
 to a temptation which a nobler nature would 
 have resisted, while she stood firm where a 
 more selfish nature would have given way, and 
 
 walked over all obstacles to its end. In the 
 vortex of conflicting circumstance thus cre- 
 ated, it was she who was rent and torn by the 
 struggle she had provoked, and out of which 
 came neither victory nor defeat ; it was she 
 who learned that to pause midway between 
 good and evil, to strive to reconcile honor 
 and dishonor, truth and falsehood, is the most 
 hopeless problem that a human soul can pos- 
 sibly attempt to solve. 
 
 When she came down-stairs to accompany 
 Mrs. Wyverne on the shopping expedition to 
 Elkbridge, no one would have guessed from 
 her glowing cheeks and shining eyes what 
 had given such bloom to the one, such light 
 to the other. "I never saw you looking bet- 
 ter, Nina," said Mrs. Wyverne, as they drove 
 off. "It must be the color of your dress 
 which is so becoming — or else the shape of 
 your hat. We will go to the photograph-gal- 
 lery while we are in Elkbridge ; I have been 
 promising your likeness to my sister for some 
 time. She is anxious to see what Ralph's fu- 
 ture wife looks like." 
 
 " I hope she will be satisfied with Ralph's 
 taste," said Nina. " I am not sure of it, how- 
 ever, for photographs never give an idea of 
 complexion ; and you know, Aunt Essie, my 
 nose is not straight." 
 
 The shopping did not include any very ex- 
 tensive purchases — for Mrs. Wyverne had too 
 much regard for fashion to patronize to any 
 great extent the shopkeepers and dress-mak- 
 ers of a country-town — but a little of that 
 amusement can readily be spread over a large 
 amount of time, especially with the aid of a 
 few visits, and an hour or two in a photo- 
 graph-gallery. Therefore, it chanced that the 
 two ladies spent the day in Elkbridge, and 
 that the sun was sinking when they entered 
 the gates of Wyverne. " There is nobody at 
 home," said Nina, glancing along the front of 
 the house, as they approached. The next in- 
 stant, however, she started back, for when 
 they stopped Martindale appeared from some 
 quarter, and opened the carriage-door. 
 
 " You see there is somebody at home," 
 said Mrs. Wyverne, with a laugh. — " Are you 
 all alone, Mr. Martindale ? " she added, as he 
 assisted her to alight. " We were just say- 
 ing that the house looked entirely deserted." 
 
 " It has been deserted by every one but 
 me since mid-davj" answered Martindale. " I 
 am to blame for my solitude, however. Ralph 
 invited me to accompany Mr. Wyverne and 
 
24 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 himself to what he called ' the lower planta- 
 tion,' but I declined, on the score of exces- 
 sive laziness and excessive heat. In fact, I 
 hoped you would be back in time for our 
 ride," he said, looking at Nina. 
 
 "We were detained in Elkbridge," an- 
 swered she, a little coldl}'. She was busy 
 gathering up the parcels scattered over tlie 
 seat of the carriage, and did not look at him 
 or notice his extended hand. 
 
 "Never mind about those, Nina," said 
 Mrs. Wyverne, from the shadow of the por- 
 tico. " I will send Ellen out for them. If 
 you are as tired as I am, you will not care to 
 bother about any thing of the kind. I am 
 going to order some iced tea at once. How 
 refreshing it is to get home after such a day ! 
 — Don't you think it is very warm, Mr. Mar- 
 tindale ? " 
 
 But Martindale did not answer — in fact, 
 he did not hear the question. He was look- 
 ing at Nina, who at last descended from the 
 carriage somewhat reluctantly, and without 
 his assistance. Her delay was its own pun- 
 ishment, however, for, when she gained the 
 portico, Mrs. Wyverne had disappeared into 
 the house, and she found herself alone with 
 Martindale. 
 
 " What is the matter?" he said, quickly, 
 almost imperiously. "What has occurred 
 that you are so changed ? Nina, what is the 
 meaning of this ? " 
 
 " Am I changed ? " asked Nina. She 
 gave a short laugh. " If you will come into 
 the drawing-room, I will tell you the meaning 
 of it — perhaps it is better over at once." 
 
 She turned and led the way across the 
 large, cool hall into the drawing-room, full 
 just then of a wonderful sunset glow, which 
 streamed through the wide western windows. 
 As she paused in the centre of the floor, and 
 turned toward Martindale, this glory seemed 
 to surround her like a luminous atmosphere, 
 lighting her hair into more than Titianesque 
 richness, and giving her face a beauty that 
 he never forgot. He almost caught his 
 breath. At that moment he could think of 
 nothing but the loveliness which in this very 
 spot had first fascinated him. 
 
 " Nina ! " he cried, " if I could only paint 
 you as you stand there now, what a picture it 
 would make ! My darling, my beautiful dar- 
 ling, what a sensation you will create in the 
 world ! " 
 
 " I shall never go into the world ! " said 
 
 Nina, bitterly. It was better to get it over 
 at once, she thought, especially since the old 
 wild thrill leaped into longing life at his 
 words. " That was what I came to say," she 
 went on, facing him with great, steady, lus- 
 trous eyes. " It must all end. I shall never 
 go into the world. I shall stay here and 
 marry Ralph." 
 
 She uttered the last words bravely, though 
 a great choking wave seemed to rise up in 
 her throat. It was as if her own hand rolled 
 a stone to the door of her sepulchre. Stay 
 at Wyverne and marry Ralph ! A picture of 
 what her life would be rose before her as she 
 uttered the words. The suffocating sense 
 which had oppressed her in the morning came 
 back. The dreary monotony of days and 
 years seemed stretching before her. Looking 
 at Martindale, she felt a strange mixture of 
 relief and anger to see that he was smiling. 
 
 "Stay here and marry Ralph!" he re- 
 peated, and her ear caught the vibration of 
 absolute amusement in his tone. " Is that 
 all that is the matter ? Carissima! you star- 
 tled me horribly. 1 feared — I scarcely knew 
 what, from your manner. Trust to me, sweet 
 one, and don't disquiet yourself like this. 
 Remember that it is too late to talk of ending 
 any thing now. You have placed your life in 
 my hands, and I will take care of it." 
 
 " I have not placed my life in your hands," 
 said Nina. It was impossible to say whether 
 she felt most strongly repelled or strangely 
 fascinated by this haughty dictation. " I 
 was only mad enough to — to forget what I 
 owe Ralph. But I remember it now. Such 
 a faith as mine is poor indeed to give him, 
 but he thinks it something, and I — I cannot 
 undeceive him. It is better to let him be 
 happy with an unworthy wife, than to make 
 him miserable by telling him what I am." 
 
 " This is all nonsense," said Martindale, 
 coolly. " I told you, before I had any reason 
 whatever to believe you loved me, that I 
 meant to win you, Nina. Do you seriously 
 think that now— now that you have assured 
 me in word, and look, and tone, of your love 
 — that I will give you up at any bidding under 
 Heaven ? " 
 
 "You will have no choice but to give me 
 up at my own ! " said Nina, becoming haughty 
 in turn. 
 
 But he only laughed — laughed as he might 
 have done at the petulance of a child, " Sweet- 
 heai't," he said, " is it possible you are so 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 35 
 
 foolish as not to see that you have gone too 
 far to turn back? It is natural that you 
 should feel in this way — I expected it — but it 
 is childish to imagine that, because you opened 
 a dam, you can stop a flood. We may alter 
 circumstances, but we cannot control them. 
 You are mine. It is too late to talk of mar- 
 rying Ralph Vv'yverne now." 
 
 " It is not too late for any thing I may 
 choose to do," said Nina, with a flash of her 
 old defiance. " I have been a fool, I know," 
 she went on, bitterly. " I have let you amuse 
 yourself with me to the top of your bent " — 
 her lip curled in that self-contempt which, to 
 a proud nature, is of all things on earth the 
 hardest to endure — " but I am not quite ready 
 to let you dictate what my whole life shall 
 be. Our flirtation, or whatever you may 
 choose to call it, is at an end." 
 
 " Our flirtation ended some time ago," 
 said Martindale, quietly; but she caught a 
 sudden gleam in his eyes as the handsome 
 brows above them knitted. " Our engage- 
 ment, however, will not end until you are my 
 wife." 
 
 " I shall never be your wife ! " said Xina, 
 passionately. It was impossible to under- 
 stand this girl. She scarcely understood her- 
 self — she scarcely knew what she wished, de- 
 sired, or intended to do. Just then she re- 
 belled against the power which Martindale 
 assumed, as she had rebelled against her life 
 and all the circumstances of it. Ralph's ca- 
 ressing tenderness came back to her. After 
 all, she was not sure that she did not prefer a 
 subject to a master. " I will never be your 
 wife ! " she repeated, with a glow of added 
 color on her face, a flash of new light in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Will you not ? " said Martindale. He 
 could have laughed at the foolish coquetry 
 which fancied that it could play fast and 
 loose with him, but he was also angry — so 
 angry, that Nina was startled by the white 
 sternness which came over his face. "Again 
 I tell you that this is folly ! " he said. " I do 
 not doubt that you are like all the rest of your 
 sex — more than ready to make a fool of any 
 man who chooses to give you bis love for a 
 playtbing — but you will not make either a 
 fool or a plaything of me. You will be my 
 tcife ! I have told you so before, I tell you 
 so again. You do not half know me, Nina, 
 if you fancy that any thing can stand be- 
 tween us now !" 
 
 No, she did not half know him. Some- 
 thing hke a realization of that came to Nina 
 as she looked at the face before her — a pas- 
 sionate, stern face, with the resolution in it 
 deepening as she gazed, until duller eyes 
 might have read a determination which would 
 heed no obstacles to its end. 
 
 " I havebroug'at this on myself," she said. 
 " I have no right to complain. But you have 
 no right to speak so to me. I have forgotten 
 a great deal for you, but I cannot forget every 
 thing." 
 
 " And yet that is what you must do ! " 
 he said. " You must forget every thing and 
 everybody connected with your past life, and 
 come with me. You must not look back and 
 try to reconcile the past with the future. It 
 can never be ! " Then he took her hands and 
 dre.v her to him — more compellingly than 
 tenderly. " Let us have done with this ! " 
 he said. " Nina, you are mine ! Do you not 
 love me well enough to be glad of it ? " 
 
 But Nina drew back. 
 
 " How can I be yours," she said, " when 
 I am engaged to Ralph ? Surely " (with a 
 bitter laugh) " I cannot belong to both of 
 you. I say again, that I have been mad and 
 foolish, but I never meant to marry you. 
 You ought to know that." 
 
 " You mean that you have been deliber- 
 ately trifling with me ! " said he, a dark fire 
 gathering in his eye, a red flush mounting 
 to his brow. 
 
 " If I did mean that," said she, with a 
 flash of spirit, " you would have no right to 
 complain. Did you not intend to trifle with 
 me, when you remained here after having told 
 Ralph that his ' idea ' was worth nothing ? " 
 
 " No," answered he, quietly. " I never 
 meant to trifle with you. I stayed here sim- 
 ply and solely because I loved you and meant 
 to win you." 
 
 " And do you call that honorable to 
 Ralph ? " said she, indignantly. 
 
 " Ralph ! " repeated he, contemptuously. 
 " Do you suppose I thought of Ralph ? I 
 only thought of you, Nina ! Ralph was mere- 
 ly the stepping - stone by whicli I reached 
 you." 
 
 " Poor Ralph ! " said Nina. She put her 
 hand quickly to her eyes. What right had 
 she to blame Martindale when she considered 
 how unscrupulously she had used and abused 
 Ralph's great faith in her ? A flood of remorse 
 seemed suddenly to rush over her. The hand- 
 
26 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 some, imperious face before her vanished 
 away ; Kalph's loving eyes came bade. At 
 that moment she forgot the fair, broad free- 
 dom of the world wliicli lay beyond these 
 quiet shades. She only thought of the love 
 ■which haii been disregarded, of the trust 
 which had been betrayed. If she walked on 
 to the life which was awaiting her — the life 
 whose possibilities set her blood in a glow — 
 she felt that she must walk over Ralph's 
 heart. Could she do that ? There are many 
 women — some of whom would doubtless think 
 themselves much better than poor Nina — who 
 would not have hesitated an instant over 
 such a necessity. But, with all her faults 
 and impulses, Nina did hesitate. In fact, she 
 did more than hesitate. She cried out pas- 
 sionately : " We have both betrayed his trust 
 in us — but I am the most to blame ! I can 
 try to atone by keeping faith with him ; but, 
 oh, what an atonement it will be ! " 
 
 " It would be a foolish self-sacrifice that 
 could only end by making him as wretched as 
 it would make you ! " said Martindale. " Nina, 
 can you not recognize the folly of all this ? 
 Why should you waste your strength against 
 the inevitable ? You could as soon call back 
 the sun, which has just set, into mid-heaven, 
 as set aside the consequences which must 
 flow from an accomplished fact. We can 
 none of us escape the necessity of giving as 
 well as of receiving pain. If we paused at 
 every step in life to think what heart we 
 should crash, we would never be likely to 
 advance. You were born to crush hearts !" 
 he said, with a proud, passionate tenderness. 
 " Just now you must choose between mine 
 and Ralph's. Which is it to be ? " 
 
 " I do not owe you what I owe Ralph," 
 said Nina, looking up. 
 
 But, all the same, she felt that she had 
 failed in this first contest of opposing wills. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 But this first contest was only the key- 
 note of a struggle to come — a struggle which 
 grew in intensity day by day, as the time for 
 Nina's marriage approached, and, as Martin- 
 dale began to realize that it would prove more 
 diflScult than he im;>,gined to sway her to his 
 purpose. He found that a change had come 
 over the girl — a change which struck below 
 the surface, and which puzzled even while it 
 
 angered him. For a while he doubted its 
 genuineness : it was nothing more than an 
 impulse of generosity, he thought, or else one 
 of those tricks of coquetry which women of 
 all ages and all countries understand so well. 
 But, as time went on, he could no longer treat 
 it with nonchalant coolness ; he was forced 
 to believe that Nina was in earnest when she 
 declared her intention of keeping faith with 
 Ralph. It was then that he began to appre- 
 ciate how much he had overrated his infiu- 
 ence with her. It was then that he first be- 
 gan to understand that she had only meant 
 to amuse herself — only meant to feed her 
 vanity and test her power with his homage — 
 and that, although she had been drawn, by 
 the strong force of will rather than by the 
 strong force of attraction, further than she 
 intended, she had never seriously meant to 
 surrender for his sake any one of the substan- 
 tial advantages which opened before her as 
 Ralph Wyverne's wife. 
 
 At least this was Martindale's way of put- 
 ting it. Recognizing with a start that he had 
 never wakened moi-e than that flattered fancy 
 which the impressionable heart of a girl yields 
 readily enough to the first comer, and that 
 in this fancy there was no element of that 
 love which heeds no obstacles to its end, he 
 did not recognize how much the girl had to 
 resist in her eager longing for the world, and 
 those things of the world which he embodied. 
 Finding that she stood firm in her resolution 
 of marrying Ralph, it would be hard to say 
 how much of foiled desire, of wounded vanity, 
 and outraged bitterness, gathered in his con- 
 sideration of the manner in which she had 
 " trifled " with him. No man likes his own 
 weapons to be turned against him in such 
 fashion ; but Martindale liked it less even 
 than most men. He had good reason for 
 thinking that he knew the world more than 
 ordinarily well, and he felt deeply that he had 
 been " made a fool of" by a girl whose expe- 
 rience of society began and ended in the stag- 
 nant country neighborhood around her. If 
 this pang of mortified vanity — keen as it was 
 — had been all the trouble, however, he might 
 have shaken the dust of Wyverne off his feet 
 in disgust, and left Nina to the fate she had 
 chosen. Unfortunately, however, there were 
 graver passions in reserve — passions that be- 
 gan to rouse themselves in ominous sternness 
 when he saw the beautiful prize, whii|Ji,he 
 had determined to call his own, in danjger ^ 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 27 
 
 of passing from him. Never before had it 
 seemed so well worth winning ! Never had 
 Nina seemed so well worth any sacrifice or 
 exertion, as when she set her will against his 
 own, and declared her intention of fulfilling 
 her engagement ! Never had his determina- 
 tion waxed greater than when she enraged 
 him by an opposition on which he had not 
 counted, by a defiance of which he had not 
 dreamed ! And, in order that this determi- 
 nation may be appreciated at its full value, it 
 must be said that Martindale was troubled 
 with singularly few scruples, and that he pos- 
 sessed in marked degree a resolution so in- 
 domitable that he had learned to think it 
 invincible. Add to this, intense passions, to- 
 gether with a very small amount of what 
 phrenologists call " conscientiousness," and 
 the most tranquil ignorance might imagine 
 that the combination could not fail to be dan- 
 gerous, let it be veiled by never so much of 
 that graceful indifference which our nine- 
 teenth-century civilization has taught its men 
 and women to cultivate. Vesuvius is none 
 the less Vesuvius because gardens are planted 
 on its slope; the volcano is not extinct, and, 
 when its lava bursts forth, the gardens fare 
 but ill. 
 
 It is useless to say that, if Nina had 
 known any thing of the character of the man 
 with whom she had " amused " herself, she 
 might have felt that he was right in telling 
 her that it was too late to think of disowning 
 the consequences of her folly, too late to 
 dream of atonement to Ralph, too late for 
 any attempt at controlling the demon of cir- 
 cumstance she had evoked. But she was too 
 inexperienced to form any judgment of char- 
 acter in the concrete. Judging in the ab- 
 stract, she conceived Martindale to be like 
 all other men of his class of whom she had 
 heard and read, quick enough to amuse him- 
 self with a pretty face, but ready enough also 
 to see when the amusement was over, and to 
 go his way with due philosophy and an un- 
 broken heart. Strong passions and desperate 
 deeds were quite out of fashion nowadays, 
 she thought. It was only in old romances 
 that men were incited to either or both by 
 the magic of a woman's fair face. Other 
 people besides Nina think these things. Other 
 people, also, wake to find that this old, wicked 
 human nature of ours is the same to-day as 
 yesterday, the same yesterday as three hun- 
 dred or three thousand years ago. 
 
 Yet, despite this comfortable assurance, 
 these days were very terrible to Nina. The 
 girl felt as if she moved in a vague, dreadful 
 mist. She was living a dual life, and she 
 sometimes stopped to ask herself which of 
 the two existences was real. On one side 
 
 « 
 
 was all the preparation for her marriage — 
 that preparation which agitates the ordinary 
 feminine mind and the ordinary domestic 
 household so deeply — Mrs. Wyverne's ani- 
 mated bustle over the ii'oitssemi, the wedding- 
 cards, the wedding-breakfast — every thing 
 connected with the wedding, in fact — and 
 Ralph's quiet but tender certainty of happi- 
 ness. On the other was Martindale's fiery 
 passion, his vehement pleading, his arbitrary 
 assertions of power, the struggle ever re- 
 newed yet never ended, and, above all, the 
 alluring temptation of freedom — freedom so 
 near that she had but to stretch out her hand 
 and take it, yet so far away, since she could 
 not harden her heart suSiciently to stretch 
 out that hand. 
 
 It was no wonder that the bright cheek 
 grew pale, or that dark circles sprung for the 
 first time into existence under the sunny eyes, 
 even during this short fortnight. Pew of us 
 have not learned to our cost how much of 
 emotion can be compressed into the space of 
 a few days — naj', even of a few hours. And, 
 epicurean though she was, Nina suffered as 
 she enjoyed — with her whole soul. She had 
 never mastered — it is doubtful if by any pos- 
 sibility she ever could have mastered — the 
 phlegmatic impassibility which is the grand 
 talisman of selfish happiness. Hers was a 
 wholly different temperament — a tempera- 
 ment that, for all its intense love of pleasure, 
 could not divorce its energy even from pain, 
 and, despite its fitful waywardness, pos- 
 sessed impulses of generosity that scarcely 
 hesitated at any height of self-sacrifice. 
 " You may make this sacrifice," Martindale 
 said, " but you will not have strength enough 
 to abide by it." And, in trutli, this was where 
 Nina failed. She had suflScient enthusiasm 
 and unselfishness for a quick martyrdom ; 
 but, for that slow martyrdom of the soul 
 which wc call the death of hope, she possessed 
 neither courage nor strength. An observation 
 less keen than Martindale's might have pre- 
 dicted that, if she married Ralph "Wyverne, 
 she would not even sink into the apathy which 
 with many women does duty for resignation, 
 but would rather eat out her heart in loncc- 
 
28 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 iugs and desires as bilter as tliey were fruit- 
 less. 
 
 Time, which stands still for no man, rolled 
 swiftly on, meanwhile, and the date appointed 
 for the marriage drew very near. During 
 these days, the household at Wyverne sav? 
 but little of Martindale. All of the day, and 
 most of the night, he spent in the laboratory, 
 generally working with closed doors. Even 
 Ralph knew little of what he was about. In 
 fact, just then Ralph was thinking of other 
 thing?. The near approach of matrimony 
 banished even chemistry from his mind — be- 
 sides which, Mr. Wyverne chanced to be 
 " laid up " with an attack of gout ; and this 
 indisposition naturally threw an added amount 
 of business into his son's hands. In days of 
 well-organized labor, it was no trifle to keep 
 the eye of a master on two large plantations ; 
 but in these days the necessity of supervision 
 is increased by ten- if not by twenty-fold. 
 Hence Ralph was busy, and business dulls 
 men's faculties of observation. He had only 
 a vague idea of what Martindale was doing, 
 and, although he saw that Nina was looking 
 rather pale, he thought that it would be " all 
 right" after they were married, and had left 
 home for that change of air which is con- 
 sidered beneficial for newly-married people. 
 
 " Have you seen any thing of Martindale 
 to-day, Nina? " he asked one afternoon when 
 he had come in tired from a ride of several 
 miles, and flung himself at luxurious full 
 length on a couch in the hall, where Nina 
 chanced to be sitting. 
 
 " Verj little," she answered, quietly. Her 
 hands were clasped idly over a novel which 
 she had not been reading, her eyes gazed 
 wistfully out of the broad, open door to the 
 afternoon lights and shadows that were 
 checkering the lawn beyond. Just then it 
 occurred to her with a thrill of relief that 
 there were only three more days of this to be 
 endured. Three days hence she would be 
 married and gone — never likely, she hoped 
 and trusted, to see Martindale again. 
 
 " I must go down and look in on that fel- 
 low," Ralph was, meanwhile, saying lazily. 
 " He told me yesterday that he was devoting 
 himself to my experiments, and had made 
 some progress in them. He seems wonder- 
 fully well satisfied with his quarters. He 
 says he has never before been able to test in 
 a thoroughly satisfactory manner some ideas 
 of his own. I told him I hoped he would 
 
 stay here while we were gone, and, when we 
 come back, I shall be more at leisure, and we 
 can go over the result of all that he has done." 
 
 " Ralph ! " — it was a low, quivering cry 
 that absolutely made Ralph start — " you sure- 
 ly have not done such a thing as that ? You 
 surely have not asked that man to stay here 
 when you know how much I — I distrust him ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have," said Ralph. He was quite 
 astonished, and raised himself on his elbow. 
 " I am sorry if you don't like it," he went on, 
 after a moment, " but really, Nina, I had no 
 idea that your dislike of Martindale went so 
 far as this. I am sure he thinks very highly 
 ofyoic, and — " 
 
 " I did not say that I disliked him, Ralph," 
 she interrupted, with a painful flush, " but 
 that I distrust him. I do not think his ex- 
 periments will ever come to any thing, and I 
 am sorry there is any prospect of his being 
 here when we return. I — I was only just 
 thinking that it would be a relief to be alone." 
 
 " I wonder I did not think of that my- 
 self," said Ralph, looking as much discom- 
 fited as a large Newfoundland does when, by 
 some piece of amateur sagacity, he incurs 
 scolding instead of commendation. " It was 
 stupid of me, but I really did not think that 
 Martindale mattered. I thought you had 
 grown to like him famously — and then the 
 chemistry, Nina ! I should like to go to that 
 in earnest when we come back." 
 
 "Can't you go to it by your.self?" asked 
 Nina. But she heaved a weary sigh. She 
 knew that even her influence reckoned for 
 nothing when opposed to that of chemistry. 
 
 " I don't know," answered Ralph, doubt- 
 fully. " You see I have been so busy that I 
 have not been able to keep up with what 
 Martindale is doing. Unless he is here when 
 I come back, therefore, his having been here 
 at all will have done me little good." 
 
 " Why did you bring him, then ? " said 
 Nina. Her hands wrung themselves tightly 
 together. How lightly and idly this had been 
 done which had changed the whole current 
 and meaning of her life ! 
 
 "I have told you all about that," said 
 Ralph, sinking back on his cusliions. " I 
 was sorry for having brought him when I 
 found you did not like him, and I am still 
 more sorry for having so thoughtlessly asked 
 him to prolong his visit ; but I can't get out 
 of it now, you know," said the honest, hos- 
 pitable fellow. 
 
NLVA'S ATOXEMEXT. 
 
 29 
 
 " One can't ask one's guest to leave, cer- 
 tainly," said X'ina, bitterly. " But the guest 
 himself may sometimes have discretion enough 
 to see that it would be well to do so." 
 
 " Xot unless he perceives that his pres- 
 ence is disagreeable," said Ralph, adding, a 
 little indignantly, " I would infinitely rather 
 show a man out of my house than treat him 
 with incivility in it." 
 
 " I was not thinking of treating him with 
 incivility," said Xina, half absently. "You 
 ought to know that, Ralph. X'o one is more 
 Arabian in his ideas of hospitality than I 
 am ; but — did Mr. Martindale say that he 
 would remain?" she interrupted herself by 
 asking, looking quickly at her cousin. 
 
 " He made a sort of half promise — his 
 movements were uncertain for the next 
 month, he said ; but he added that, if we re- 
 mained as long as we intended, we should 
 probably find him here when we returned." 
 
 There was silence for a minute after this. 
 The drowsy stillness of a summer afternoon 
 seemed to brood over the house ; now and then 
 a gentle snore came from the library where 
 Mr. Wyverne was enjoying a siesta ; a few flies 
 were lazily buzzing about — Keeper, the great 
 mastiff, snapped at them occasionally ; the 
 last rays of the sun were streaming across the 
 terrace, and reddening the cedar-hedge. Xina 
 watched it all as in a dream. She was won- 
 dering what Martindale meant, and how she 
 could best prevent any thing so terrible as it 
 would be to find him at Wyverne when she 
 came back from her bridal tour. 
 
 After a while she rose. Ralph was tired, 
 and, finding himself in a very comfortable 
 position, he had fallen asleep with that air of 
 supreme, restful enjoyment which we notice 
 in the slumbers of children and dogs. With 
 one glance at his placid, unconscious face, 
 Nina took her garden-hat from a table near 
 by, and went out of the open door. 
 
 She walked slowly around the terrace, 
 pondering whether or not she was wise in 
 seeking Martindale, as a sudden impulse 
 prompted her to do. For several days she 
 had studiously avoided the garden, where 
 most of their interviews had taken place. The 
 scenes of passionate struggle, which at first 
 had been so exciting and pleasant, had of late 
 wearied and torn and terrified her all at once. 
 Tlie old legends are right : " It is much easier 
 to raise a fiend than to put him down ao-ain ; " 
 and there are instances around us every dav 
 3 
 
 of people who, having tried the experiment, 
 fiire as badly as their incautious predecessors 
 of the middle ages. 
 
 Xina, unluckily for herself, was one of 
 these. The fiend which she had raised proved 
 totally beyond her powers of management. 
 The stormy and exacting devotion for which 
 she had longed was not half so entertaining 
 as she had imagined it would be. During 
 these days, she had turned more than once 
 with a sense of absolute relief to Ralph's quiet 
 affection and unwavering trust. As she went 
 her way now — down the terrace - steps and 
 along the garden-paths — she felt a shrinking 
 in every fibre from the scene before her. Her 
 whole pleasure-loving nature rose up in re- 
 volt against the pain and vexation which 
 seemed to encompass her. " It is infamous ! 
 — he has no right to torment me so ! " she 
 said, setting her white teeth and clinching 
 her soft hands. " I will not submit to it any 
 longer." 
 
 As she uttered these words half aloud, 
 she turned into a path that led directly to the 
 pavilion. It stood clearly before her at the 
 end of the vista, a pretty and appropriate ad- 
 junct to the luxuriant, old-fashioned garden. 
 As she strolled slowly along — her steps un- 
 consciously growing more lagging as she ap. 
 proached — she saw a juvenile factotum of the 
 establishment, black in color and Jack by 
 name, emerge from the laboratory and ad- 
 vance along the path toward her, swinging 
 something in his hand. What this was she 
 could not distinguish until, as he drew near, 
 it proved to be a dead cat ; which no sooner 
 did Miss Dalzell perceive, than she promptly 
 and imperiously collared the bearer: 
 
 " Where did that come from. Jack ? " she 
 demanded. " What are you doing with it ? " 
 
 "Mr. Martindale killed him, and telled me 
 to take him and fling him away," said Jack, 
 who had a wholesome fear of being arraigned 
 for cruelty at the bar of " Miss X'ina's " indig- 
 nant justice. 
 
 " Mr. Martindale killed it ! '' repeated 
 X'ina. She was on the point of saying, " How 
 dare you tell me such a falsehood ? " when 
 she remembered that the boy had come down 
 the laboratory-steps, which gave at least a 
 plausible air to the statement. "Why did 
 Mr. Martindale kill it ? " she asked, suspicious- 
 ly. "Is it not your mother's cat? Jack, if 
 you are telling me what is not so — " 
 
 " I ain't a-tellin' you what ain't so, Miss. 
 
30 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 Nina," said Jack, filled with a sense of vir- 
 tuous innocence. " Mammy said Mr. Martin- 
 dale might liave old Tom for a dollar, au' he 
 tole me to fotch him along, an' I done it, an' 
 he killed Iiim." 
 
 "IIow did he kill him?" demanded Nina. 
 She still looked at the speaker with an air of 
 suspicion, which Jack felt to be hard to bear. 
 
 " I dunno 'xactly how," he answered, 
 shuffling one bare, black foot in the sand. 
 " He never done nothiu' to him. He jist put 
 him under some kind of a glass thing, an' he 
 dropped right down dead, as if he'd a bin 
 shot." 
 
 " I wonder if he is dead," said Nina. She 
 examined the lax, inanimate form with tender 
 fingers, while Jack looked on without much 
 wonder ; he knew " Miss Nina's ways." But 
 it was all in vain. Science had done its work. 
 Poor Tom was hopelessly dead ; so, bidding 
 Jack give liim decent burial, Nina turned and 
 walked away. 
 
 She could not go to the laboratory after 
 that. It was not only that she was revolted 
 — unreasonably revolted, perhaps, after the 
 manner of people who have not the love or 
 the advancement of science at heart — by the 
 cruelty of which she had just heard, but a 
 sudden strange sense of terror came over her. 
 She told herself that it was irrational, but she 
 could not reason it away. Of course, she had 
 always known what deadly forces lurked in 
 chemistry ; she had also been aware that Mar- 
 tindale, in pursuit of an "idea" of his own, 
 had been experimenting for some time in poi- 
 sonous gases ; and she knew, as everybody 
 knows, how ruthlessly the devotees of science 
 sacrifice God's helpless creatures on their 
 altar. But, despite all this, she could not 
 drive away that chill sense of impending evil 
 which had come so suddenly, and with which 
 we are all familiar — which we call a presenti- 
 ment when it is fulfilled, and which we forget 
 with so much ease when it is unfulfilled. She 
 was aware that it probably arose from her 
 own overwrought frame of mind ; yet, when 
 she turned aside and sat down in a little rose- 
 arbor, her heart was beating like that of some 
 frightened wild creature. The sun was gone 
 by this time, and the lovely, fragrant twilight 
 had fallen over the earth. But Nina had no 
 heed for it. "I am a fool!" she thought, 
 angrily. " I am worse than a fool ! But how 
 terrible — oh, how terrible — for any one to 
 lidld such power as that ! " Then she thought : 
 
 " He must go away ! I do not trust him ; I 
 said I did not trust him, from the first. God 
 forgive me, if I am wronging him, as we 
 should not wrong our worst enemy — but there 
 is something dreadful about him ! I have felt 
 that, and yet I have told myself that it was 
 folly. But he must go — even if I have to tell 
 Ralph the truth." 
 
 Yet she felt that, to tell Ralph the truth, 
 would be to put out of the question the sac- 
 rifice which she desired to make for him. 
 Dearly as he loved her, bitterly as it would 
 pain him to surrender her, Ralph Wyverne was 
 made of better stuff than to accept any wo- 
 man's hand — even that of the woman he loved 
 best on earth — if it were given imwillingly. 
 If he had once known how Nina's impatient 
 heart yearned for the freedom of the world, 
 for a life and love such as he could not give 
 her, he would have been the firat to snap 
 asunder the link which bound them to each 
 other ; and of this fact no one was more 
 thoroughly aware than the girl who sat there 
 under the roses, gazing with absent eyes and 
 overclouded brow at the wealth of summer 
 bloom and beauty around her 
 
 But, despite the anxious thoughts which 
 overshadowed her, she made a picture that 
 stirred Martindale's heart into a tumult of ad- 
 miration when he came round a turn of the 
 path upon her. He had caught a glimpse of 
 her white dress from the laboratory, and fol- 
 lowed as quickly as possible ; but, not look- 
 ing for her just here, the sudden spell of her 
 loveliness — framed by the green vines and 
 hanging roses — moved him the more strongly 
 for its unexpectedness. It is hard to define 
 a mental sensation of any kind, but it is es- 
 pecially hard to define the effect which beau- 
 ty produces on the soul of its worshiper, on 
 the temperament that is keenly alive to its 
 influence. He started and stopped for a mo- 
 ment, then came forward quickly. Hearing 
 the ring of his tread on the gravel path, Nina 
 turned toward him and they faced each other, 
 
 " I am glad to find you," he said, ab- 
 ruptly. " When I caught a glimpse of your 
 dress a few minutes ago, I was thinking of 
 going to the house in search of you. But 
 this is better." 
 
 " You can have nothing to say to me," 
 said Nina, coldly. " Why should you have 
 gone to the house in search of me ? But I 
 have something to say to you," she went on, 
 catching her breath quickly, and looking at 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 31 
 
 him with level, defiant eyes. "That is why 
 I came into the garden. Ralph has just told 
 me that you have promised to stay at Wy- 
 verne while we are gone, and to be here when 
 we return. I have come to tell you that it is 
 impossible — that I will not submit to any 
 thing of the kind. Sooner than endure it, I 
 will tell him every thing," 
 
 " He will not need to be told any thing," 
 said Martindale, quietly. He looked paler 
 than usual, and there were certain stern-cut 
 lines about his mouth, the full significance of 
 which Nina had not yet learned to appreciate. 
 " He will know every thing sooner and better 
 than words can tell him — for I have come to 
 tell yoii that this must end. You must leave 
 Wyverne with me to-night, Nina." 
 
 " Leave Wyverne with you to-night ! " re- 
 peated Nina. For a minute she could say no 
 more. His cool assumption of a proprietor- 
 ship which she had repeatedly disowned, ab- 
 solutely stunned her. She felt outraged and 
 indignant even while she was conscious of a 
 horrible sense of impotence. What could she 
 do against a man with whom words went lit- 
 erally for naught ? Her own folly had placed 
 her in his power, and, although she had for a 
 time defied its exercise, she has of late been 
 aware of a growing fear of Martindale. Rea- 
 son told her that it was impossible for him 
 to compel her to anything; but instinct — 
 sometimes the wisest as well as sometimes 
 the foolishest of guides — warned her that he 
 would probably end by compelling her to all 
 that he desired. 
 
 " What do you mean by speaking to me 
 in this manner ! " she said, flushing angrily. 
 " How often must I tell you that I mean to 
 keep my faith with Ralph at any cost ? How 
 often must I repeat that I will not be so un- 
 grateful as to leave those who have done 
 every thing for me, for you who have done 
 nothing save poison my life with discontent, 
 and make me wretched ? But it is useless to 
 go over this," she said, quivering with excite- 
 ment. " In three days I shall be married, 
 and it will be at an end. All that I came to 
 say is — you must go away from Wyverne ! " 
 
 " I shall go when you are ready to go with 
 me," he answered. His tone would have in- 
 dicated to duller cars than those of the girl 
 who listened, that the struggle between them 
 had reached its supreme issue. His face hard- 
 ened in resolution as she looked, but his 
 eyes were full of passionate light. " Have 
 
 you learned yet that there is no power short 
 of death which can make me leave you ? " he 
 said. " Nina, have you not yet appreciated 
 the utter folly of all this ? You are mine ! I 
 will keep you at any cost. It is for you to 
 decide what that cost shall be." 
 
 " My experience of men is limited," said 
 Nina, exasperated beyond all power of for- 
 bearance, " but I have never known or heard 
 of a man who found it so difiBcult to under- 
 stand a plain and decided refusal as you seem 
 to do." 
 
 " Perhaps you have never known or heard 
 of a man who himself refused so decidedly to 
 be made the plaything of feminine caprice," 
 said Martindale. There was no indication of 
 ruffled temper in his tone, though she saw a 
 quick flash in the brown eyes. "But this is 
 sheer waste of time," he went on, " and 
 every minute is precious. Nina, I can make 
 arrangements for our departure to-night, if 
 you will consent to come with me. Once for 
 all, will you do it ? " 
 
 " Once for all — no ! " answered Nina. 
 She uttered the last word with an emphasis 
 that startled a bird in the top of the arbor. 
 It flew upward with a shrill cry that in turn 
 startled her. To her overwrought fancy, it 
 sounded like a note of warning. 
 
 " No ! " repeated Martindale. He took 
 her hands almost violently into his own. 
 "Nina, do you mean it?" he said, hoarsely. 
 " Do you understand what it implies ? Do 
 you know that you will drive me to do any 
 thing to break off this accursed marriage ? 
 For you love me — you cannot deny that. 
 Neither can you deny that you long for the 
 world which I offer and can give you. Nina, 
 if you are wise, you will come with me now — 
 at once ! " 
 
 " If you were generous, you would go 
 away and leave me," said Nina, with a gasp. 
 She was touched and torn by his vehemence, 
 by his pale, passionate, pleading face. But 
 she stood firm. There was something more 
 than ordinary in the girl, after all. She was 
 more nearly in love with Martindale at that mo- 
 ment than she had ever been before, and a great 
 wave of yearning for freedom and pleasure, the 
 sweets of life and the gifts of love, seemed to 
 rush over her. But she thought of Ralph, of 
 those who, as she said, had " done every 
 thing " for her ; and her whole nature rose 
 up in rebellion against the treachery of leav- 
 ing them thus. "I cannot!" she said. "I 
 
32 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 cannot ! Ob, why did you come ? Why did 
 you not go away long ago ? Why do you not 
 leave me in peace? I must, I will, marry 
 Ealph ! " 
 
 " You will never marry Ealph ! " said he. 
 " Nina, I tell you again that, if you are wise, 
 you will come with me to-night. You think 
 that you will work harm to Ralph Wyverne 
 by going ; believe me, you may work worse 
 harm to him by staying." 
 
 *' How can I work harm to him by stay- 
 ing ? " she asked, glancing up quickly. Some- 
 thing in his tone — a menacing accent hard to 
 be described — thrilled her with a sudden, 
 vague fear. She felt herself shiver from head 
 to foot in the warm, summer dusk. The sus- 
 picion which had rushed upon her, without 
 any apparent cause a little while before, came 
 back now. What did Martindale intend to 
 imply ? How could she work harm to Ralph 
 by staying ? 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she asked, shrink- 
 ing back a little. " You must be more ex- 
 plicit if you wish me to understand you. How 
 can I work harm to Ralph by staying ? " 
 
 " You will make his life miserable," said 
 Martindale. " The stuff of which tame, house- 
 hold martyrs are made, is not in you, Nina. 
 That fiery soul of yours will pine like a caged 
 eagle when you are once Ralph Wyverne's 
 wife. You must come with me. For God's 
 sake, end this miserable trifling, and say that 
 you will do so ! Nina, you mnsi come ! There 
 is no time to lose. We must leave here to- 
 night. To-morrow you will be my wife, and, 
 before the week is out, we shall have sailed 
 for Europe." 
 
 " No," said Nina. It was her one sheet- 
 anchor — this monosyllable — and she clung to 
 it as a drowning man clings to the spar that 
 may be his salvation. "No — I cannot ! " 
 
 "Do you mean that you will not?" he 
 asked. He dropped her hands as he spoke, 
 and recoiled a step, looking at her with 
 burning, passionate eyes, and pale, set face. 
 "Nina — stop and think! Do you mean that 
 you icill not ? " 
 
 " Yes, I mean that," she answered. This 
 last struggle was harder than she had thought 
 that it would be — this last pang was sharper 
 than she had counted upon — but she felt that, 
 at any cost, " every thing " must be ended. 
 At any cost, Martindale must learn that his 
 further presence at Wyverne was useless. So 
 she threw back her graceful head haughtily. 
 
 " Have you at last begun to realize that I 
 mean it?" she asked. "Do you at last un- 
 derstand that I have never intended to marry 
 you? and that I have always intended to 
 marry Ralph ? " 
 
 There was a tone of almost insolent defi- 
 ance in these words, which, if she had been 
 wise, would have been the Tcry last she would 
 have adopted — a tone calculated to sting 
 Martindale's sensitive pride like the touch of 
 a whip. It's effect was perceptible in a mo- 
 ment, even through his proof-armor of trained 
 self-command. A dark-red flush surged over 
 his face, then retreated as quickly. A gleam 
 of dangerous fire came into his eyes, which 
 did not retreat, and his lips set themselves 
 quickly and sternly under the brown mus- 
 tache. For a minute he did not answer ; but 
 Nina — who had by this time learned to know 
 something of the weather-signs of his face — 
 shrank a little. If she feared violence, she 
 was reassured, however, by the quietness of 
 the tone in which he spoke. 
 
 " Yes, I understand you at last," he said. 
 " Perhaps, indeed, I have understood you all 
 the time better than you think. That you 
 have not at all understood me is, no doubt, a 
 matter of much less importance. I have al- 
 ways thought," he went on, with a short 
 laugh, " that the man who allows a woman to 
 play fast-and-loose with him deserves all that 
 falls to his share in the way of suffering and 
 mortification. Your candor teaches me that 
 I am quite right. Whoever has incurred con- 
 tempt cannot be surprised that it is bestowed 
 upon him. Whoever suffers himself to be 
 made the toy of a woman must expect to re- 
 ceive her scorn. There are some toys that, in 
 unskillful hands, prove dangerous, however. 
 It is always well to remember that." 
 
 " I did not mean — " Nina began ; but be 
 interrupted her imperiously, seizing her hands 
 again as one who claims what Ib his by right. 
 
 " You must mean one thing, or else noth- 
 ing ! " he said. " For the last time, Nina, 
 will you come with me to-night ? " 
 
 "For the last time — ^no !" answered Nina. 
 The word rang out clearly on the dewy, fragrant 
 stillness. By a supreme effort, she wrenched 
 her hands out of his clasp, and turned from 
 him. There was a spell in his face against 
 which she could not harden her heart. " How 
 often must I repeat it ? " she demanded, bit- 
 terly. " How often must I say ' No ! ' " 
 
 " You need not say it again," Martindale's 
 
KIXA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 33 
 
 voice answered out of the gloaming at her 
 side. " I have been slow to comprehend, cer- 
 tainly, but I think I see at last. You have 
 made your choice, Nina. Remember that its 
 consequences rest with yourself." 
 
 Those were his last words. She did not 
 turn her face agaiu toward him, but she heard 
 bis quick, elastic tread crushing down the 
 gravel as he walked away. 
 
 CH^\JPTER TI. 
 
 TVnEN Nina entered the dining-room an 
 hour later, she found that tea was over. The 
 polished table still stood in the centre of the 
 floor, glittering with its silver service and 
 old-fashioned cut-glass dishes; but nobody 
 was visible save Price, who was meditatively 
 folding a napkin, when she stepped through 
 one of the long French windows into the 
 room. 
 
 " Has everybody finished supper ? " she 
 asked, coming forward, looking so much like 
 a pale wraith of herself, as the lamplight fell 
 over her, that even Price noticed it, when he 
 started and turned. 
 
 " Yes'm — they's all done," he answered. 
 *' Mistis told me to keep the table standin' 
 till you come in, but I'm afraid the coffee's 
 cold. Miss Nina." 
 
 " I think I will take some tea," said Nina, 
 sitting down in the first seat to which she 
 came. 
 
 She disliked tea, as a general rule ; but 
 she remembered to have heard that it is a 
 quicker stimulant than coffee, and she felt, 
 just then, as if she needed a stimulant — the 
 quicker the better. 
 
 Price was a little surprised, but he was a 
 servant of the old school, and consequently 
 too well bred to say any thing. He poured 
 out the tea — which was strong enough to 
 satisfy the most dissipated of drinkers — and 
 carried it to Nina in a goblet half filled with 
 ice, jingling pleasantly. It looked pretty, but 
 Price, who held the fragrant Chinese herb in 
 low esteem, knew that it did not taste well, 
 and he expected an immediate demand for a 
 cup of coffee. Instead of this, however, his 
 capricious young mistress drained the glass, 
 set it down with a grimace, and rose to her 
 feet. 
 
 "Ain't you goin' to take somethin' to eat. 
 Miss Nina ? " said Price, astonished and really 
 concerned at her appearance. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Not anything," she answered. "lam 
 not hungry." 
 
 She did not even give a glance at the 
 tempting array of dainty dishes as she turned 
 from the table and left the room. 
 
 Price watched the slim, stately figure 
 across the hall. Then he looked at the empty 
 goblet, and shook his head. 
 
 " There's somethin' wrong," said he, philo- 
 sophically. "A woman with as good a appe- 
 tite as Miss Nina ain't a-goin' to take nothin' 
 but a little tea all of a sudden — an' look like 
 death besides — without some good reason. 
 I'm thinkin' we're more likely to have a spell 
 o' sickness than a weddin' here shortly." 
 
 Meanwhile, Nina entered the drawing- 
 room, where she found Mr. and Mrs. Wyverne 
 and Ralph — the two former playing cards, of 
 which Mr. Wyverne was inconveniently fond, 
 the latter yawning and looking bored over a 
 newspaper. At sight of his betrothed, his 
 face brightened, however, and the uninterest- 
 ing sheet was tossed aside. 
 
 "Where have you been, Nina?" he de- 
 manded at once. " I was setting out in 
 search of you a little while ago, but Martin- 
 dale said he left you in the garden just before 
 tea, so I thought you would come in when 
 you felt like it. What kept you so late ? " 
 
 " Nothing in particular," answered Nina. 
 " It was cool and pleasant out there, and I 
 did not care for tea." 
 
 " I am afraid you are not well," said 
 Ralph, getting up and coming forward; he 
 was struck, as Price had been, by her changed 
 appearance. "Let me look at you in the 
 light. Why, how pale you are ! Nina, some- 
 thing is certainly the matter. Are you sick ? " 
 
 " Nothing is the matter," said Nina, She 
 was provoked with herself for being pale, and 
 provoked with Ralph for noticing it. " One 
 cannot help one's looks, or account for them ! " 
 Then, impatiently : " How warm it is in here ! 
 This room is intolerable with its glare of light. 
 Let us go out on the terrace." 
 
 Out on the terrace they went accordingly. 
 A faint, indefinite light was shining from a 
 lovely young moon hanging in the western 
 half of the sky. Nina looked more like a 
 a spirit than a woman, Ralph thought, in this 
 vague lustre, with her misty-white dress, out 
 of which the dew-damp had taken all stiff- 
 ness, clinging about her. Something in her 
 appearance reminded him of the night when 
 
34 
 
 KINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 she had riscu from the laboratory steps to 
 meet Martiudale and himself, and they had 
 likened her to a fairy ; yet he felt instinctive- 
 ly that the difference was greater than the 
 similarity. 
 
 "Xina," he said, " do you remember your 
 birthday night — this night a month ago, was 
 it not? Somehow you put me in mind of it 
 as you stand there now. Do you remember 
 how Martindale and I met you at the labora- 
 tory, and how we told you that you looked 
 like a fairy ? To-night you look like a spirit." 
 
 " Why do you speak of that ? " said Nina. 
 He was not prepared for the shrinking start 
 which she gave. " Why do you remind me 
 of it ? Was it a month ago to-night ? I had 
 not thought of it. How strange that it should 
 be ! Ralph "—she turned to him abruptly — 
 " do you believe in presentiments ? Of course 
 you do not, however; nobody ever does until 
 they have felt them. But do you remember 
 how I begged you a month ago this night not 
 to keep that man here or trust to his experi- 
 ments ? Ralph, if you had only heeded 
 me!" 
 
 " Why should I have heeded you ? " said 
 Ralph. Even the passionate vibration in her 
 tone did not rouse his dull suspicion. On the 
 contrary, he conceived it to be only a fresh 
 proof of the prejudice which is inherent in 
 the feminine nature ; and he felt inclined to 
 indulge in a little masculine triumph over it. 
 
 " As far as my experiments are concerned, 
 it is a very good thing that I did not heed 
 you," he went on, with such a glow of self- 
 satisfaction in his tone that Nina was half 
 prepared for what was coming. " You may 
 take sufficient interest in them to be glad to 
 hear that Martindale told me, only a little while 
 ago, that he at last sees his way to a success- 
 ful result ; in fact, that it may be said to be 
 accomplished. He would tell me nothing un- 
 til he was certain, he said, although he had 
 fancied as much for some time." 
 
 "When did he tell you this?" asked 
 Nina, stopping short in her walk. 
 
 " Only a little while ago — when he came 
 in to tea," Ralph answered. "It was quite a 
 surprise to me, and really I scarcely know 
 how to be grateful enough to him. His ap- 
 phcation has certainly been wonderful, and 
 to-night he has returned to the laboratory to 
 make some final tests, which I am to go down 
 and see a little later." 
 
 "To go down and see!" repeated Nina. 
 
 She could say nothing more. Her whole at- 
 tention became concentrated on her own 
 mind. Was she mad or sane in the horrible 
 fear that came to her as Ralph uttered those 
 words? Was she distraught with the idle 
 fancy of a foolish woman, or did she begin to 
 appreciate — as if illumined by a flash of light 
 — the full meaning of some words Martindale 
 had spoken to her but a few short hours be- 
 fore ? 
 
 " Yes, to go down and see ! " said 
 Ralph, triumphantly. "Seeing is believing, 
 you know ! I wish you would let this be a 
 lesson to you about the folly of prejudice, 
 Ninetta," he went on, feeling it incumbent 
 upon him to point the occasion with a moral. 
 " If I had been uncivil and ungrateful enough 
 to send Martindale away, as you requested, I 
 should never have had the great pleasure of 
 seeing my idea brought to a practical and suc- 
 cessful issue." 
 
 " Do you think you will see it now ? " 
 said Nina. She was sorry for the words after 
 she had uttered them. Ralph would only 
 think her more prejudiced ; she would only 
 lessen her power of influencing him. 
 
 " I cannot doubt Martindale's word," he 
 answered, gravely ; " and I certainly should 
 not think of doubting his judgment. His as- 
 surance was positive with regard to the suc- 
 cessful result of the experiments. But when 
 I come back from the laboratory, I shall be 
 able to tell you more positively," he added, 
 smiling. 
 
 "When are you to go?" she asked. — 
 Something sti'ange and cold in her tone struck 
 Ralph. He was surprised and pained. It is 
 always hard to realize that our pleasure gives 
 no pleasure to those whom we love. 
 
 " Martindale said about ten o'clock," he 
 answered. " I suppose it is after nine now — 
 these summer nights are so short ! I wanted 
 to go at once, but he said he preferred to be 
 alone while he made one or two final experi- 
 ments ; and I did not press the point." 
 
 " About ten o'clock ! " repeated Nina. 
 She put her hand to her head. Her brain 
 felt in a whirl. She could scarcely have given 
 a definite expression to the fears and suspi- 
 cions that thronged upon her. One thing 
 only was clear and unmistakable — doubt! 
 Doubt of Martindale, and doubt of his ex- 
 periments ! " There is no truth in him ! " 
 she said to herself; and those words which 
 he had unintentionally let fall in the midst of 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 35 
 
 bis passion in the garden, came back to her 
 with grim, warniug significance : " Vou think 
 you will work harm to Ealph Wyverae by go- 
 ing : believe me, you may work worse harm 
 to him by staying!" 
 
 " Why, you are resolving into an echo," 
 said Ralph, smiling. " Is not ten o'clock as 
 good an hour as any other? " Then he took 
 her hand and drew it into his arm. " Dear," 
 he said, a little wistfully, " have you no word 
 of sympathy or congratulation for me? I 
 know you don't like chemistry, but still — " 
 
 " I do like it ! " said Nina, with a short, 
 dry sob. " I like every thing that you like, 
 Ralph ! I am sorry that I have not given 
 you more sympathy and encouragement, but I 
 have been so selfish that I have thought only 
 of myself. What a terrible thing it is to 
 think of one's self!" she cried, passionate- 
 ly. " What misery it works on everybody ! 
 Ralph ! " — to his surprise she threw her arms 
 around and clung to him — " can you forgive 
 me ? I — oh, I am very sorry ! " 
 
 "Forgive you, my darling!" said Ralph; 
 " what on earth have I to forgive you for ? " 
 Well as he knew the impulses — now passion- 
 ate, now tender — of this wayward girl, he did 
 not understand her at present. " I hope we 
 shall do better after we are married," he said, 
 cheerfully. " You will take some interest in 
 chemistry then, and we shall settle into a 
 scientific Darby and Joan. But you must not 
 excite yourself like this. Why, your hands 
 are burning, and yet you are shivering ! Nina, 
 you certainly are not well. You must have 
 been in the dew too long this evening. Don't 
 stay out any longer, dear ! Go to bed, and 
 to-morrow I will tell you all about the experi- 
 ments." 
 
 " I am not sleepy or sick," said Nina. 
 " Why should I go to bed ? Ralph, will you 
 do something for me, or, rather, will you let 
 me do something ? " she went on, eagerly. " I 
 always said that I was another Fatima, you 
 know ; that if I had married Bluebeard I 
 should certainly have opened the closet ; so 
 nobody need ever be surprised at my curiosity. 
 Just now I have a fancy to see the result of 
 Mr. Martindale's experiments before you do. 
 W^on't you be obliging, and let me go down 
 to the laboratory in your place at ten o'clock." 
 
 " I will let you go down with me," said 
 Ralph, smiling ; " won't that do as well ? 
 We shall both see the result together, then, 
 and I can explain — " 
 
 But Nina shook her head, interrupting 
 him impatiently. 
 
 " That is not what I want ! " she said. " I 
 want the gratification of seeing it/;-«^ You 
 don't understand how I feel about it. It is 
 childish, I dare say, but you ought to have 
 learned by this time how much of the child 
 there is still in me." 
 
 " I hope there always will be," said Ralph. 
 He was sufficiently in love to find it very 
 pleasant to humor this pretty, capricious ty- 
 rant. "Of course, you can go if you like," 
 he said. " I'll stay here or in the drawing- 
 room, until you come back." He took out 
 his watch and glanced at it in the faint moon- 
 light. " It wants a few minutes of ten now," 
 he said. 
 
 " Then I will go," said Nina. She was as- 
 tonished at the feeling that came over her as 
 she uttered those simple words. It was the 
 strange, subtle sensation of one who is con- 
 scious of having taken an irrevocable step — 
 such a sensation as comes to all save the 
 most obtuse at certain important and critical 
 moments of life, when our own words or our 
 own acts erect a barrier between the past 
 and the future which no after-effort can re- 
 move. It was under the influence of this 
 feeling that she turned suddenly to Ralph 
 " Don't think hardly of me, dear," she said. 
 " I don't mean to distress or pain you ! I 
 love you better than anybody else in the 
 world, and I would do any thing to serve you, 
 any thing to — to atone for my folly and self- 
 ishness ! But there may be only one way. 
 Don't blame me if I take that." 
 
 "Nina, what are you talking about?" 
 said Ralph. He did not understand the drift 
 or meaning of her words at all. She only 
 confused and puzzled him by these chameleon 
 changes of mood. " I am not likely to blame 
 you for any thing unless you make yourself 
 sick. I think you must have a fever. I 
 told you some time ago that it would be bet- 
 ter for you to go to bed than to stay out in 
 this night-air. I am not sure that there is 
 not some malaria lurking in it." 
 
 "It does not matter if there is," said 
 Nina, with a faint smile. " Good-night." 
 
 " Of course, you'll find me here when you 
 come back from the laboratory," said he, 
 rather surprised at the quick, passionate kiss 
 she gave him. 
 
 " Shall I ? " she said, rather absently, and, 
 turning away, went down the terrace-steps. 
 
36 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 Ealph stood at the bead of them, watching 
 the slender, white-clad figure, as it walked 
 slowly along the garden-path below. Even 
 through his obtuseness, a sudden chill of un- 
 easy foreboding struck, when it vanished. 
 " By Jove, this doesn't seem exactly the right 
 kind of thing!" he said, half aloud. "Per- 
 haps I had better follow her, after all." He 
 laughed the next minute, however, and, taking 
 a cigar from his pocket, struck a match and 
 lighted it. " Am I getting nervous, too ? " 
 he said. " Nina must have infected me. It 
 would be a shabby kind of trick to follow her 
 when she was so anxious to see the experi- 
 ments first. Poor little darling ! " — he laughed 
 again — " she won't understand much about 
 them." 
 
 Then he put his hands in his coat>-pockets, 
 and, with his cigar in his mouth, began to 
 pace to and fro along the terrace. It was 
 harder on him — this waiting to see the result 
 of his long-cherished idea — than any one would 
 have imagined from the quietness with which 
 he bore it. But, in little or in great, Ralph 
 had never hesitated over a sacrifice for Nina, 
 He would not have hesitated over the greatest 
 of all sacrifices, if he had once suspected that 
 it was needed. It was merely a caprice, he 
 thought — this fancy to go down to the labo- 
 ratory — but it afforded him real and sensible 
 pleasure to deny himself in order to gratify 
 it. Pacing there in the faint, level moonlight, 
 he thought more of her than of his chemistry. 
 The spirit of her last, self-reproachful words 
 seemed to come back to him. " My darling!" 
 he said, with a sudden rush of passionate ten- 
 derness. He longed to take her into his arms, 
 and answer her with loving words, as he had 
 not answered her when she had spoken. 
 
 After a while, the consciousness came to 
 him that she had been gone some time. He 
 looked at his watch. The hands pointed to 
 half-past ten. He began to feel impatient, 
 and to wonder what she had found so inter- 
 esting in the experiments. One or two more 
 turns along the terrace — then restlessness 
 prevailed, and he walked toward the steps. 
 As he approached, a dark figure emerged 
 from one of the garden-paths, and quickly 
 ascended them. The moon sunk below the 
 horizon at that moment, but the stars gave 
 light enough for Ralph to recognize Martin- 
 dale. 
 
 • • . . . 
 
 As Nina hastened through the garden to 
 
 the laboratory, her thoughts began to clear, 
 her instinct to resolve itself into certainty. 
 Now that she was alone, she did not hesitate 
 to face the indefinite fear which she had 
 thrust froni her when Ralph was by, at which 
 she had scarcely dared to look, lest horror 
 should overpower judgment, and lead to harm 
 instead of good. Even yet her idea of what 
 she feared was of necessity vague ; but there 
 are some things that gain rather than lose 
 terror by vagueness, and this was one of them. 
 Facing it, as she did, with a bravery that sur- 
 prised herself, one grim certainty stood out 
 darkly and clearly through all the mystery — 
 the certainty that Martindale's invitation to 
 Ralph meant that which is best expressed in 
 two short but significant words — foul play ! 
 Foul play of what kind, or to be accomplished 
 in what manner, Nina did not know. She was 
 only conscious in every fibre of the warning 
 which Nature sometimes gives in times of 
 danger ; she only knew that all which she had 
 felt in the afternoon rushed back on her 
 now, intensified a hundred-fold. Of course, 
 her interview with Martindale had much to 
 do with this. She could not forget his reck- 
 less passion, nor his almost menacing deter- 
 mination. She could still less forget his look 
 and tone when he warned her that she might 
 "work harm" to Ralph by staying, nor fail 
 to connect them with the false pretext by 
 which he strove to draw the latter to the 
 laboratory. 
 
 If it be asked how she knew that it was a 
 false pretext, it can only be answered that 
 she knew it as she had known from the first 
 that Ralph's idea was wholly impracticable, 
 and that Martindale had made of the amateur 
 chemist's hopes and expectations mere tools 
 to serve his own interest. That much, sa- 
 gacity or instinct had told her a month be- 
 fore. The deception of to-night, therefore, 
 was a sufiiciently plain sequence. As for the 
 sinister motive which was supposed to lurk 
 behind this deception, it can at least be said 
 for her that she had no inconsiderable foun- 
 dation on which to build suspicion. In these 
 two weeks of struggle, she had learned some- J 
 thing of the man with whom she had so un- ' 
 successfully " amused herself; " she had gained 
 an idea, at least, of how little he was likely 
 to halt at half measures, or to heed any ob- , 
 stacle in the path of his desire. \ 
 
 Feeling all this, her first instinctive im- 
 pulse had been to keep Ralph from the lab- 
 
NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 37 
 
 oratory and the danger which might be await- 
 ing him there. But, having gained this point, 
 her next step was by no means clear. "What 
 she was to do apart from the one important 
 item of gaining time, and judgment for her- 
 self of Martindale's mood and intention, she 
 did not know. Certainly the prospect was 
 not encouraging. She linew that all hope of 
 influencing him by entreaty or defiance was 
 useless. She had tested both too often not 
 to be assured of that. But, if the worst came 
 to the worst, she held one trump-card which 
 she had girded up her strength to play. If 
 it were a question of risking Ralph's life, or 
 of eloping with Martindale, she meant to 
 elope with the latter. That was what the 
 last passionate words which had puzzled Wy- 
 verne had meant. In truth, a reckless yet 
 awful sense of powerlessness had come over 
 the girl. Why should she struggle any longer 
 against the fate which she had brought on 
 herself? Why should she endeavor to resist 
 the man who let no barrier stand before his 
 impetuous purpose ? " It is my own fault," 
 she murmured ; " I loosed the dam — I have 
 no right to complain that the torrent sweeps 
 me away. But it must not harm Ralph ! 
 Whatever happens, Ralph must not be 
 harmed ! " 
 
 When she came in sight of the pavilion, 
 and saw a light burning through the small 
 panes of its old-fashioned lattice, she paused 
 and looked at her watch by the faint lustre of 
 the sinking moon. It was exactly ten o'clock. 
 She was just in time ; and yet — face to face 
 with what she had undertaken — her heart 
 seemed to die away within her. She shrank 
 with absolute terror from meeting Martindale. 
 She felt impelled to go back and tell every thing 
 to Ralph. One oonsideration, however, was 
 strong enough to deter her from this : if she 
 were right in what she suspected, there would 
 be no means of putting Ralph sufficiently on 
 his guard to avoid danger. " How can I tell 
 in what shape it might come ?" she thought. 
 Martindale's intimate knowledge of chemistry 
 seemed to endow him with strange and ter- 
 rible power over human life. Apart from her 
 vague and somewhat fantastic terrors, Nina 
 knew that the mere elements of this science 
 contain much which can be turned to fearful 
 purpose by a keen brain and an unscrupulous 
 hand. 
 
 It was too late to turn back, therefore — 
 too late in this, as in every thing else ! That 
 
 was what she thought, as she went on slowly 
 — along the dewy paths, past the clinging 
 roses and a great bed of lilies that filled the 
 summer night with fragrance — until she 
 gained the pavilion steps. There she paused 
 again. Her heart was beating as if it would 
 suffocate her ; her hands were burning, yet 
 she felt herself shiver from head to foot. 
 What was the meaning of it? "Am I going 
 to be ill ? " she thought, pressing her hands 
 to her temples. She did not know that the 
 nervous tension and excitement of weeks had 
 reached its supreme height in the stormy 
 scene of the afternoon, and the terror of the 
 night. Standing there, she looked up at the 
 great starry dome arching overhead ; at the 
 house with its gabled roof cutting sharply 
 against the steel-blue sky ; at the dark, silent 
 garden, with its wealth of unseen perfume. 
 Familiar as the whole scene was, she felt as 
 if she were looking at it from the farther side 
 of a great gulf; as if the ties which bound 
 her to Wyverne were already severed. " Home 
 of yours it will never be again ! " a voice 
 seemed to say. " As you have sowed, so must 
 you reap ! Go forth to the world for which 
 you have longed, with a man for whom you 
 have neither trust nor love ! " 
 
 After a while she remembered that every 
 minute of time was precious, that Ralph 
 would be impatient, that whatever was to be 
 done must be done at once. Although the 
 night was warm, the pavilion-door was closed. 
 Forcing herself, by a strong effort, she laid 
 her hand on the lock. It yielded readily to 
 her touch, and, opening the door, she stepped 
 within the laboratory. 
 
 Her first sensation was one of surprise ; 
 her next, of inexpressible relief. Martin- 
 dale was not there. Her glance swept round 
 the laboratory in a second, and took in the 
 fact. There was every sign of his recent 
 presence, however. A lamp was burning on 
 a table covered with chemical apparatus — 
 retorts, tubes, receivers, a host of things of 
 which she did not even know the names. 
 Having closed the door, Nina paused and 
 looked at them — looked with surprise and 
 doubt. Were those prepared for Ralph's ex- 
 periments ? After all, had she suspected 
 Martindale unjustly? Or — or was there a 
 trap under all this specious and fair-seeming 
 arrangement ? It was significant of the dis- 
 trust with which her mind was filled, that 
 she should have asked this question, for cer- 
 
38 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 laiuly it would never have occurred to any 
 one who entered the hiboratory without preju- 
 dice, or suspicion of foul play. 
 
 Despite the apparent want of any thing to 
 justify her high-wrought fears, the obstinate 
 sense of danger still remained with Nina. 
 She had scarcely closed the door, before a 
 sudden sense of faintness came over her. It 
 was a different sensation from that which she 
 bad felt outside ; but she took it to be an ef- 
 fect from the same cause, and, although it 
 did not rouse any fear for herself, it quickened 
 Jier misgivings for Ralph. " I am going to 
 be ill," she thought, " but I must see — I 
 must know — what this means. There is 
 something wrong. The very silence seems 
 sinister ! " 
 
 It truly did. If the speaker had known 
 any thing of the menacing quiet which pre- 
 cedes a gunpowder explosion, she might have 
 likened the stillness to that — it seemed so 
 ominous of evil. The air was full of an in- 
 definable oppression, which made her gasp 
 for breath as she crossed the floor to the 
 table, and began to scan the apparatus — 
 searching, she scarcely knew for what. This, 
 however, was only the work of a moment. 
 Before the second-hand of her watch could 
 have made a quarter of its circuit, a more 
 deadly and unutterable faintness than any 
 she had felt before, rushed over her. Her 
 head began to swim, a mist rose before her 
 eyes, the tubes and glass retorts were sud- 
 denly blurred out. The awful oj^pression 
 closed upon her. She made a wild struggle 
 for breath: one hand went to her throat; the 
 other grasped instinctively the corner of the 
 table. Thus preserved from falling, she stood 
 for an instant swaying like a reed, or rather 
 like one around whom the black darkness of 
 unconsciousness begins to close. "Am I 
 going to faint ? " she thought. After all her 
 suspicions, no glimpse of the horrible truth 
 came to her when she was thus face to face 
 with it. She turned with a vague idea of 
 reaching and opening the nearest casement. 
 Instinct told her that there was salvation in 
 the fresh air so carefully shut from the lab- 
 oratory. But the poisonous fumes had done 
 their work. Two — three — blind, faltering 
 steps she made — 
 
 Then came a heavy fall ! 
 
 " Ralph ! " exclaimed Martindale, starting 
 riolently as he recognized the figure which 
 
 met him in the starlight. "Ralph ! Is it — is 
 it possible this is you ? " 
 
 "Of course it is I," said Ralph. "Who 
 else should it be ? Are you looking for me ? 
 I was just coming down to the laboratory." 
 
 "Just coming down to the laboratory!" 
 repeated the other. If the light had not been 
 so dim, Ralph would have seen that he was 
 white to the very lips. "I — I thought you 
 had gone down," he said, after a minute. 
 
 " You thought I had gone down ! " re- 
 peated Ralph, in turn — not a little surprised. 
 " Why, where did you come from ? Have 
 you not been at the laboratory yourself? " 
 
 " Not — not for some time ! " answered 
 Martindale, lifting his hand and loosening the 
 tie of his cravat. " I finished some tests," he 
 went on, " and walked out into the garden. 
 I could not see the laboratory, but I — I was 
 sure I heard the door open and shut a little 
 while ago." 
 
 " It is very probable you did," said Ralph, 
 carelessly. "Nina went down about half an 
 hour since. But I don't at all understand ! 
 You told me that I should find you — " 
 
 A grasp on his arm, the like of which he 
 had never felt before, stopped the words on 
 his lips. Even in the starlight he saw now 
 the ghastly pallor of the face near his own; 
 and the first sound of the voice, that had no 
 cadence of its natural tone in it, startled him 
 beyond all measure. 
 
 " ]T7to did you say had gone there ? " Mar- 
 tindale demanded. 
 
 " Nina," answered Ralph. He was filled 
 with sudden, intangible alarm. "Good Heav- 
 ens ! Martindale, is — is any thing the mat- 
 ter ? " 
 
 " Nina ! " repeated Martindale — it was not 
 a word, but a note of horror, such as Wyverne 
 never forgot — " Nina ! " He hurled the other 
 from him. "Did you ask what was the mat- 
 ter ? " he cried, half madly, half sternly. " You 
 have sent her into a laboratory JUled ivith poison- 
 ous gas!'''' 
 
 " Martindale ! " said Ralph. If the heav- 
 ens had fallen upon him he could not have 
 been more astounded ; he could scarcely have 
 understood less of what he heard. He was 
 hardly conscious of the recoil from Martin- 
 dale's grasp. The next moment, however, the 
 latter had darted down the terrace-steps, and 
 was speeding along the garden-path which 
 led to the pavilion. 
 
 Instantly Ralph followed. The meaning 
 
XINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 39 
 
 of those last, terrible words came to him now 
 — at least their meaning with regard to Nina. 
 Beyond that his mind did not go. It did not 
 occur to him, at such a moment, to question 
 why the laboratory had been full of poisonous 
 gas. It was enough that she had entered such 
 a place, and that her safety — her very life — 
 was in horrible jeopardy. 
 
 It is unnecessary to say that no word was 
 exchanged between the two breathless run- 
 ners. Only the quick fall of their flying feet 
 smote on the stillness of the starlit night 
 until they gained the laboratory, where Mar- 
 tindale — being in advance — dashed open the 
 door and rushed in. 
 
 He was only invisible a moment. By the 
 time Ralph reached the steps he appeared 
 again in the door — staggering like a drunken 
 man — but bearing Nina in his arms. 
 
 " Give her to me ! " said Wyverne, hoarse- 
 Iv. He took the slender form — heavy now 
 with the leaden weight of inert matter — and 
 laid it down on the very spot where she had 
 stood so short a time before, taking her last 
 look of the fair earth. She might be only un- 
 conscious — stupefied, narcotized — he thought ; 
 but hope died within him when he felt the 
 brow, the lips, the wrist — lastly, the silent 
 heart — without finding one token of respira- 
 tion or throb of life. 
 
 Tet, -when Martindale brought the neces- 
 sary chemical agents and means for restoring 
 consciousness, he went eagerly to work with 
 them. Application after application was 
 made, test after test failed. It was a strange 
 scene. The lamp, which had been brought 
 from the laboratory, flung its vivid glow over 
 the beautiful face set in the stillness of death ; 
 the quiet stars gazed down on the two men 
 kneeling beside it in the vain attempt to re- 
 store that which had fled forever. The most 
 unscientific looker-on might have told them 
 that all eSbrt was hopeless, that no power of 
 science could recall the spark of life to the 
 fair clay it had animated ; but still, with 
 feverish, passionate energy they persevered, 
 though no restorative brought any flush of 
 life to the white skin, no sigh of returning 
 vitality to the lips, no flutter to the fallen lids. 
 
 This could not continue, however. After 
 a while, the grim truth came home to them. 
 They could no longer close their eyes to the 
 fact that this which they were fighting was 
 not unconsciousness, but death — death which 
 holds as relentlessly its fairest as its meanest 
 
 prize. Their eyes met for a moment with the 
 blankness of despair. At that instant, there 
 was no other thought in the mind of either. 
 Martindale rose slowly — swayingly — to his 
 feet. Ralph, still kneeling by the dead girl, 
 looked up at him. 
 
 " There is no hope ! " he said. 
 
 His voice was strangely quiet. In truth, 
 the shock had been so great that, for the 
 time, sensation was dead. An overmastering 
 blow must always do one of two things — stun 
 or craze. This had stunned him. 
 
 " None! " Martindale answered. His tongue 
 seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth ; he 
 could scarcely articulate. " I knew Viat when 
 I found her," he said. "The gas in there" 
 — he nodded toward the laboratory — " would 
 have killed an army." 
 
 " How did it come to be there ? " asked 
 Ralph. 
 
 Even yet suspicion had not occurred to 
 him. He scarcely remembered the words 
 Martindale had spoken on the terrace. Every 
 thing had merged for him in the horrible 
 thought of Nina's danger. 
 
 " Have you not guessed that ? " asked the 
 other. To him, also, a strange, stunned, 
 reckless feeling came. Every thing had gone 
 wrong. His great throw had brought ruin 
 instead of fortune. Instead of his rival, it 
 was the woman he loved who lay dead at his 
 feet. " She suspected this, and came in your 
 place," he said. "I generated the gas for 
 you ! " 
 
 "Forme?" 
 
 For a minute Ralph could say no more 
 than that. Then he sprung to his feet — pale, 
 horror-stricken, yet terrible in the aspect that 
 transformed his face, ia the gleam that came 
 into his eyes. 
 
 " If you had not been blind, you might 
 have seen long ago that I loved her — that I 
 stayed here only to win her ! " Martindale 
 said, as they faced each other in the dim, un- 
 certain light. " I swore to stop your mar- 
 riage at any cost," he added, after a minute — 
 a minute broken by no sound. " I have been 
 as good as my word — I have stopped it, you 
 see." 
 
 " Are you mad ? " said Ralph. His own 
 mother could scarcely have recognized the 
 voice in which he spoke as his own. " Do 
 you know that, if this is true, you will not live 
 long enough to take her name on your lips 
 again ? " 
 
40 
 
 NINA'S ATONEMENT. 
 
 Martindale laughed — the faint, scornful 
 sound breaking the silence with ghastly sig- 
 nificance. There was a glitter in his ej-e, as 
 ominous as the lurid glow that had come to 
 Ralph's. 
 
 " Do you think I will ask your leave when 
 to die?" he demanded. Then he put his 
 hand to his lips. 
 
 Ralph made one quick, tiger-like spring 
 forward, but he was too late. In the throat 
 on which his fingers closed the death-rattle 
 had already sounded. With one mocking 
 smile, the soul fled. To the baffled avenger 
 remained only that faint, subtle odor of bitter 
 almonds which betrays the swiftest and dead- 
 liest poison known to chemistry. 
 
 THE END. 
 
HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " IV /T^I'GtARET," said Hugh Churchill, as 
 J-V-L he came abruptly into his sister's 
 room one morning, " who do you suppose is 
 dead ? " 
 
 The address was startling enough in it- 
 self, but there was a suppressed excitement 
 in the speaker's face, and a suppressed tone of 
 awe in his voice, that made Margaret Churchill 
 turn pale as she looked up from her sewing 
 in quick alarm. 
 
 " Indeed I cannot tell, Hugh," she said. 
 " Not — not anybody I care about, surely ? " 
 
 " Care about ! " repeated her brother. 
 " Not unless you care about knowing that he 
 has gone to his deserts in another and — a 
 hotter world ! That is all the concern I feel 
 in Henry Tyrrell's death, I am sure." 
 
 " Henry Tyrrell ! Is he dead ? " 
 
 " He dropped down with a fit of apoplexy 
 an hour ago." 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " On the street. I was sitting in Morri- 
 son's oflBce about ten o'clock, and chanced to 
 see him walk past, looking as usual ; yet, 
 scarcely five minutes later, a boy rushed in 
 saying that Mr. Tyrrell had just fallen down 
 dead. Of course, we ran out at once. He 
 was not dead, however ; so we carried him 
 into the office, and sent for the doctors at 
 once. They were all there in no time, but 
 they could do nothing for him, and he has 
 just died." 
 
 His voice sank a little over the last words, 
 and a look of horror came into Margaret 
 Churchill's face. 
 
 " Died like that ! Hugh ! how terri- 
 
 ble ! Surely he said something— surely he 
 made some reparation for such an awful 
 life ! " 
 
 Her brother laughed, not mirthfully. 
 
 "Do you believe in death-bed atonements, 
 Madge ? I confess I don't, and I doubt if 
 Tyrrell did, either. He recovered his senses 
 toward the last, but he only uttered two 
 names. The first was his son's — " 
 
 " And the other ? " 
 
 The young man's voice deepened, and a 
 change came over his face that hardened and 
 altered it, as he answered gravely, almost 
 sternly : 
 
 " The other was — our father's ! " 
 
 Margaret looked up, her awe-struck eyes 
 meeting his, and for a moment neither spoke. 
 At last it was the girl's voice that said : 
 
 " God forgive him ! " 
 
 Low as the words were, they reached 
 Hugh Churchill's ears, and brought a dark 
 cloud over his face. 
 
 "So that is your idea of Christianity, is 
 it, Madge?" he asked, bitterly. "A nice 
 place you and the like of you would make of 
 heaven — ay, and of earth, too ! If I believed 
 that a few prayers or good works at the 
 eleventh hour could atone for Henry Tyrrell's 
 half a century of wrong-doing, I would fling 
 conscience to the winds, and live as he did — 
 perhaps die as he died, too. But that would 
 make no difference in your liberal creed. I 
 don't pretend to decide whether or not such 
 opinions are orthodox, but of all the texts in 
 Holy Writ I like best the one which says that 
 what a man sows the same shall he reap, 
 here and hereafter." 
 
 Margaret did not answer. Her thoughts, 
 
42 
 
 HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 indeed, seemed to have wandered from her 
 brother's speech, and gone back to what he 
 had said before. At least, when he finished, 
 she went on with the other train of thought. 
 
 " And he spoke of pupa. Hugh ! who 
 can tell what he was thinking ? I wonder 
 was it the sight of you that brought back the 
 past ? Did he see you at all ? " 
 
 " He saw me as plainly as you see me 
 now," her brother answered. " Indeed, I 
 doubt if he saw any one else. I was stand- 
 ing at the foot of the bed, and, when he 
 opened his eyes, they rested full on my face. 
 And with such a look ! Madge, it was awful ! 
 I don't think I shall ever forget it. It was 
 so solemn and yet so defiant, as if he had 
 said, ' So you are here to see the end ! ' My 
 God, what an end '. Madge " — and his voice 
 grew so tender that she knew of whom he 
 was going to speak — " you have heard how 
 bravely and peacefully our father died ? Well, 
 even in this world, there is such a thing as 
 retribution. I thought that, if I thought 
 nothing else, as I stood by the death-bed of 
 the man who killed him." 
 
 Margaret thought it, too, as the dainty 
 muslin she was hemming fell from her lap to 
 the floor unheeded. She, too, remembered 
 all that she had heard of the father wliose 
 existence had faded so early out of her own 
 — of his stainless life and honorable death, 
 as contrasted with the life and death of the 
 man who had murdered him. For even the 
 world, usually so lenient in such matters, 
 held Henry Tyrrell as guilty of the blood of 
 Albert Churchill as if he had stabbed him 
 unawares in the darkness of the night. It is 
 true that the affair had taken the form of a 
 duel, but it had been prefaced by the most un- 
 merited insult, and there had been enough of 
 unfairness in its actual arrangement to set a 
 black mark on the survivor to the day of his 
 death. 
 
 This death caused a deep and wide-spread 
 sensation in the community where it occurred. 
 Unpopular as he was, Henry Tyrrell had been 
 a man of great wealth, and consequently of 
 great influence ; hence his death could not be 
 other than an event of importance. Nobody 
 regretted him ; nobody gave a tear, or even so 
 much as a sigh, to his memory — but still 
 everybody felt interested in the matter, as 
 people will feel when there is a million or two 
 of property in question. The dead man's 
 wife had preceded him long before to the 
 
 other world ; his only sou was absent ; so 
 there was not a single kindred face around the 
 death-bed where Hugh Churchill had stood, 
 and this in itself is always pathetic, even 
 when such a man as Henry Tyrrell is con- 
 cerijed. With regard to his heir and successor, 
 little was known. From some cause or other, 
 young Tyrrell had never fancied his native 
 place, and ever since he attained to man's es- 
 tate his visits there had been few and far be- 
 tween. People said that the father and son did 
 not " get on " very well, but this was mere 
 conjecture ; for their intercourse, as far as the 
 world knew, had always been cordial in the 
 extreme, and, those who knew best said, even 
 warmly aSectionate. 
 
 Society at large, however, was rather in- 
 credulous of this, and many curious glances 
 were bent on Eoland Tyrrell as he stood by 
 his father's grave and watched the clods of 
 earth falling heavily upon the cofiin. He 
 looked very pale — ghastly pale, in fact — as 
 everybody observed ; but he was resolutely 
 composed. Not a tear sprang into the large 
 dark eyes bent steadfastly downward, not a 
 quiver came to the sternly-compressed lips. 
 " He hardly assumes a decent appearance of 
 grief! " said the majority of lookers-on, indig- 
 nantly. But there were others whose gaze 
 pierced below the surface, and more than one 
 of these felt strangely touched by the mute 
 suSering stamped on the young man's face. 
 They, in turn, wondered a little, and said to 
 each other, " Strange he should grieve so 
 much for such a father ! " But they looked at 
 him with respectful sympathy, watching him as 
 he turned at last from the newly-heaped pile 
 of earth, as he crossed the church-yard, pass- 
 ing directly by the spot where Albert Church- 
 ill had lain for many years, and drove away 
 alone to his desolate home. 
 
 A few days after the funeral, Hugh and 
 Margaret Churchill were the recipients of an 
 unexpected and startling surprise. A letter 
 from the lawyer of the late Mr. Tyrrell for- 
 mally notified them that the sum of fifty thou- 
 sand dollars, having been bequeathed them 
 by the will of the deceased, had been placed 
 to their credit by his executor, and awaited 
 their orders. After the first shock of amaze- 
 ment — of absolutely incredulous surprise — 
 was over, it would be hard to say with how 
 much of burning indignation this information 
 was received by one, at least, of the parties 
 concerned. For a time Hugh's rage was nl- 
 
HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 43 
 
 most inarticulate — then it broke forth beyond 
 all bounds. 
 
 " Was the old villain mad, or was it only 
 the devil's own malice which made him leave 
 us such a posthumous insult?" he cried, ad- 
 dressing Margaret, who sat with her eyes fixed 
 on the letter which contained this strange 
 and apparently incomprehensible intelligence. 
 " My God ! if he was only alive, that I might 
 fling it back to liim with words such as he 
 should never forget ! Did he think that we 
 are likely to accept a gift from him, or did he 
 only mean to jeer us from his grave with our 
 poverty and need? May his money perish 
 with him, and may the eternal curse of God — " 
 
 " Hugh ! " said Margaret, and for once 
 her voice had something of authority in it — 
 " Hugh, for Heaven's sake, hush ! Is Hen- 
 ry Tyrrell's insult — granting that he meant it 
 as an insult — worth such passion as this ? 
 Remember — he is dead ! " 
 
 " Yes," said her brother, bitterly, " but 
 his hatred, and the acts born of his hatred, 
 did not die with him ! Think of all we owe 
 him, Margaret — think of it for one moment ! 
 First and greatest, the death of our father; 
 after that, and from that, what a train of ills ! 
 He — our father — was on the high-road to 
 fortune, after years of effort, and, had he 
 lived one year longer, he would have made 
 his wife and children independent of the 
 world. As it was — cut oif before one of his 
 schemes had reached maturity — you know the 
 bitter poverty which followed, the privations 
 which ground us to the earth, and under which 
 our mother died ; you know what a hard strug- 
 gle I have had, how my life has been marred 
 and its best hopes blasted. All of this we 
 owe to Henry Tyrrell. And now — now in his 
 very grave — he sends one crowning insult, one 
 last injury, and he is so far beyond the reach 
 of my arm that I can do nothing save appeal 
 to God to judge between me and him ! " 
 
 " God has judged," said Margaret, in a 
 low tone. " Is not that enough ? Hugh — 
 stop and consider. Perhaps even Henry 
 Tyrrell may have known remorse and meant 
 tills as — as a reparation." 
 
 "Margaret!" 
 
 " Don't misunderstand me," said she, 
 quietly. " Don't think that I would accept 
 it sooner than yourself. But why regard it 
 in a light which he — the dead man — never 
 may have meant ? " 
 
 " I would stake my existence that he 
 
 meant it!" Hugh said, fiercely. "And I 
 would stake it, also, that his son — a worthy 
 son of such a father — was only too glad to 
 fulfil his bequest, and thus safely to wound 
 and sting us ! But, thank God ! " cried the 
 young man, with quickening eyes, "Ae is 
 alive, and can be held to an account." 
 
 " Hugh, are you mad ? " demanded Mar- 
 garet, turning pale as she looked at his ex- 
 cited face. " What possible reason have you 
 to talk like this ? What has Roland Tyrrell 
 to do with the acts of his father ? " 
 
 "He has everything to do with them," 
 answered Hugh, coldly. " He is his father's 
 representative, and as such I shall hold him. 
 Don't be afraid that I will make a fool of my- 
 self," he went on, impatiently, as he met her 
 eyes, full of anxious appeal. " The time has 
 not yet come for a Tyrrell and a Churchill to 
 reckon up scores. But, sooner or later, it 
 ivill come, and then I shall hold him to a 
 stern account. Do you remember the old 
 Corsican custom of the vendetta? It was not 
 a bad idea that, when one generation had 
 suffered a wrong, another should avenge it. 
 Well, I have sworn a vendetta against all of 
 Henry Tyrrell's blood, and I will never forget 
 or forsake it so long as God gives me life ? " 
 " It was a custom and an idea worthy of 
 heathens — not of Christians," said Margaret. 
 "So be it," answered her brother. "All 
 the same, it is mine. Now give me some 
 pens and paper, that I may answer this law- 
 yer at once." 
 
 The lawyer was answered — in what spirit 
 it is not difficult to imagine — and there Hugh 
 supposed that the matter would end. It was 
 not long, however, before he learned the error 
 of this opinion. Coming home from work one 
 evening — he was an engineer, in the employ 
 of a mining company — he met Roland Tyrrell 
 at the gate of the pretty little cottage where 
 Margaret and himself lived. Advancing from 
 opposity directions, the two men came face 
 to face exactly at this spot. 
 
 Through the soft autumn dusk Hugh had 
 recognized the tall figure, moving toward him 
 with a quick, decisive tread, and he could not 
 restrain an emotion of involuntary surprise. It 
 did not occur to him for a second that Tyrrell 
 might wish to see him, and it chanced that, 
 in order to be near the mines, the cottage in 
 which the Churchills lived was very much out 
 of the large town of Ridgeford, and in a sub- 
 urb chiefly inhabited by the manufacturing 
 
u 
 
 HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 and mining class — for, after its mines, its 
 mills were the great boast of Ridgeford. 
 They were very proud, these young people, 
 and one form of their pride had ever been to 
 wear their poverty as openly and bravely as 
 other people make a point of wearing wealth. 
 Hugh would have scorned himself if he had 
 thought that he took sufficient interest in Ro- 
 land Tyrrell to wonder what he was doing in 
 such a quarter at such an hour; but, all the 
 same, he felt surprised to see him. 
 
 This surprise was considerably augmented 
 ■when — pausing as they met — Mr. Tyrrell quiet- 
 ly lifted his hat and spoke : 
 
 " This is Mr. Churchill, is it not ? " Then, 
 as Hugh assented, " Excuse the liberty I take 
 in introducing myself, but I am Roland Tyr- 
 rell, and I was on my way to see you. This 
 is your house, is it not ? " 
 
 " This is my house," answered Hugh, in 
 whose voice coldness and amazement seemed 
 struggling for mastery. " But I confess, Mr. 
 Tyrrell, that I am not at all prepared for the 
 honor which you do me." 
 
 " That is very likely," said Tyrrell, smil- 
 ing slightly, though gravely. " But I have 
 something that I must say to you, and, if you 
 will allow me, I should prefer to say it under 
 your own roof." 
 
 What could Hugh reply to this ? Plainly 
 nothing, if he desired to keep within the 
 bounds of ordinary civility ; and being, with 
 all his faults, a gentleman, the young fellow 
 did desire that whatever he felt should be 
 evinced, and whatever he had to do should 
 be done, according to the letter of that cour- 
 tesy which especially distinguishes the gentle- 
 man from the churl. He bowed, therefore, 
 though very coldly, and opened the gate for 
 his unwelcome visitor. 
 
 " Pray walk in," he said. 
 
 The other complied, and they walked to- 
 gether up the short path which led to the 
 door where no latch-key was needed, for it 
 stood open to the dying beauty of the Octo- 
 ber day, and showed the bright flicker of a 
 wood-fire from a room within. Sweet and 
 home-like it looked — a contrast, indeed, to 
 the stately, gloomy house where Roland Tyr- 
 rell lived alone — and, as they entered the 
 hall, a figure started up from a low chair in 
 front of the sparkling blaze on the parlor- 
 hearth 
 
 " Is that you, Hugh ? " asked a pleasant 
 voice. " I had a fire made because I thought 
 
 it would look cheerful, and, do you know, 1 
 believe I have been half asleep." 
 
 " My sister, Mr. Tyrrell," said Hugh, in a 
 tone of ice. 
 
 The firelight was pretty and soft with its 
 capricious glow, but it was not very bright, 
 and the dusk was deep in the little parlor, so 
 nobody saw much of the surprise which Mar- 
 garet Churchill must have felt. One uncon- 
 trollable start she gave, but that was all, and 
 her only welcome to this strange guest was a 
 silent bow. 
 
 Then they sat down — Margaret in the 
 shade — and Hugh, who was ever impetuous, 
 plunged at once to the point. 
 
 " I must repeat that I am at a loss to 
 imagine what you can have to say that has 
 gained me this visit, Mr. Tyrrell." 
 
 " Are you ? " said Mr. Tyrrell, in a tone 
 of some surprise. " Then you must have for- 
 gotten very soon a communication which you 
 received from my lawyer the other day ; or 
 else you must consider me very careless of 
 my father's solemnly-expressed desire if you 
 think I could rest satisfied with the decision 
 you returned to him." 
 
 Hugh made an impatient gesture. 
 
 " That matter was ended when I answered 
 your lawyer's letter," he said. " If you have 
 come here to reopen it in any manner, you 
 have given yourself a great deal of useless 
 trouble." 
 
 " You mean that you are determined to 
 refuse the bequest of a man who, however 
 deeply he may have wronged you, has passed 
 beyond the reach of your resentment now ? " 
 
 " I mean," answered Hugh, almost fierce- 
 ly, " that if the man who bequeathed this in- 
 sult to those whom he has so deeply injured, 
 were only alive, I would fling it scornfully 
 into his teeth. Since that is impossible, I 
 cast it back into the hands of those to whom 
 he delegated this last office of hatred, and " — 
 his voice fairly trembled with passion here — 
 " bid them take heed how they come to press 
 the offer of that which has been once re- 
 jected." 
 
 Leaning forward in the firelight, Roland 
 Tyrrell fastened his dark eyes keenly on the 
 kindling face before him. At those last 
 words of menace, a white hand stole out of 
 the dusky shadows and laid itself with a gen- 
 tle, warning touch on Hugh's shoulder. Tyr- 
 rell's gaze fell for a moment on this before 
 he spoke. Then he said, as quietly as ever : 
 
HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 45 
 
 • " I judged from your letter that you took 
 some such view of my father's bequest as 
 this, and I came prepared to find you far 
 from moderate in feeling or expression. I see 
 you wonder w% I came " (the question had 
 risen plainly to Hugh's eyes). " Simply for 
 this : to do an act of justice to the dead. 
 You say that, in leaving you a legacy, my 
 father meant to leave you a posthumous in- 
 sult. In this you wrong him as much as it 
 is in the power of one man to wrong another. 
 For many years before his death he bore about 
 a continually augmenting sense of the great 
 injury he once did you. It poisoned his life 
 so entirely that his only comfort rested in 
 the thought of some reparation, which, how- 
 ever inadequate it might be, would at least 
 serve to mark his great remorse and great 
 desire to make atonement. He knew that, 
 besides other suffering, his act had entailed 
 great pecuniary privation upon you, and this, 
 at least, he wished to remove. During his 
 life he was aware that you would accept no 
 service at his hands, but he trusted that, after 
 his death, you, who call yourself a Christian 
 man, would not refuse the poor and weak 
 atonement which he strove to make. I, his 
 son — I, who witnessed more of his suffering 
 than any other, save his Maker — I ask you 
 now if you dare to do this ? " 
 
 The grave, steadfast voice, with a I'ing of 
 pathos in it so slight that a dull ear would 
 not have caught it, had a certain accent of 
 command as it asked the last question — as it 
 seemed to plead for that poor soul gone, 
 "with all its errors thick upon it," to the 
 judgment-seat of God. But it pleaded to 
 deaf ears as far as Hugh Churchill was con- 
 cerned. He had listened coldly; he spoke, 
 if possible, more coldly still : 
 
 " Once more I repeat that you waste your 
 time when you speak on this subject, Mr. 
 Tyrrell. I grant the truth and sincerity of 
 all you say, but my decision is unalterably 
 fixed. An angel sent from high Heaven 
 could not make me consent to accept the 
 least favor or benefit from your father, or 
 from any of his name and blood. I must beg 
 you to accept this as final." 
 
 He rose as he spoke, thus signifying that 
 the interview was at an end ; but, to his sur- 
 prise, Roland Tyrrell did not rise also. He 
 quietly kept his seat, still leaning slightly 
 forward, with his eyes turned toward that 
 region of dim shadow where Margaret sat, 
 
 like a faint, suggestive outline of a woman's 
 form. 
 
 " You forget that your decision is not the 
 only one, Mr. Churchill," he said, at length. 
 " Your sister is of legal age, is she not ? I 
 have yet to hear whether she rejects my fa- 
 ther's reparation as unequivocally as you 
 have done." 
 
 " I spoke for my sister as well as for my- 
 self," Hugh answered, haughtily. " ilargaret 
 is here, however. If she desires, she can 
 speak for herself." 
 
 " I don't desire it, Hugh," said Margaret's 
 voice, trembling softly out of the shadows. 
 "I would rather you spoke for me." 
 
 " I have spoken," said Hugh, laconically. 
 
 " But pardon me if I ask, is this right ? " 
 said Tyrrell, for the first time directly ad- 
 dressing Margaret. " You should think and 
 act for yourself — not follow blindly your 
 brother's example. I can scarcely think that 
 you — a woman — are as utterly without com- 
 passion for the sufferings and atonement of 
 a most unhappy man as he seems to be." 
 
 " My sister needs no schooling in her 
 duty, sir," said Hugh, enraged at this bold- 
 ness. — " Margaret, speak for yourself, and 
 satisfy Mr. Tyrrell that, on a point of honor, 
 we Churchills always think alike." 
 
 The young autocrat uttered this imperi- 
 ously, but for a moment no answer was re- 
 turned. The flickering play of the firelight 
 rose and fell many times before Margaret 
 spoke from her nook of shadows — spoke 
 gravely, yet very gently : 
 
 " I think Hugh is quite right, Mr. Tyrrell, 
 in declining to accept the bequest of which 
 you speak. Apart from his influence, I am 
 sure that it would never have occurred to me 
 for a moment to accept any obligation — above 
 all, such an obligation — from the hand that 
 shed my father's blood. But" — her voice 
 seemed to gather strength here — "I think 
 Hugh is very wrong in his great bitterness 
 of feeling, and I, having heard and believed 
 all that you said of his remorse, would be 
 glad if your father stood here this moment, 
 to learn how fully and freely one Churchill, 
 at least, forgives the crime he committed and 
 the wrong he wrought." 
 
 There was a minute's silence after these 
 words were uttered. Indeed, it would be 
 hard to say which of her two listeners Mar- 
 garet had taken most by surprise. Tyrrell, 
 however, recovered his power of speech and 
 
46 
 
 HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 action first. While Hugh still glared in 
 amazement at his sister, he rose and weut 
 over to her side. She certainly had not 
 meant to give him her hand, but he took it 
 in his own, nevertheless. 
 
 " God bless you 1 " he said, in a voice that 
 quivered with emotion. " You have spoken 
 as a brave, generous woman should speak, 
 and I — I shall never cease to be grateful to 
 you ! " 
 
 More than this he could not say, even if 
 he had desired to do so, for Hugh interfered, 
 scornfully and coldly : 
 
 " lly sister is a woman, as you remark, 
 Mr. Tyrrell, and, after the fashion of her sex, 
 she has introduced a purely irrelevant ques- 
 tion into a matter of business. Since we 
 have both agreed in declining your father's 
 legacy, however, I believe there is nothing 
 more to say." 
 
 This time Eoland Tyrrell took the hint so 
 curtly given. He released Margaret's hand, 
 and, with a parting bow to her, passed out 
 of the room. But at the door of the cottage 
 — whither Hugh had followed him — he paused. 
 
 " Is there any reason, Mr. Churchill," he 
 said, frankly and kindly, " why the unfortu- 
 nate enmity of our fathers should be revived 
 and perpetuated in the second generation ? 
 Is there any reason why ^ce should hold aloof 
 for the sake of the sins or errors of others ? 
 I confess that it would make me very happy 
 to bury the miserable past, and to greet you 
 as a friend." 
 
 As he spoke, he extended his hand, with 
 a cordial grace which few men could have re- 
 sisted, but Hugh Churchill drew haughtily 
 back. 
 
 " It is very magnanimous in you, Mr. Tyr- 
 rell, to be willing to bury a past that has 
 never injured you," he said. " But I am not 
 yet in a position to meet your generosity on 
 equal ground. When I have paid, to the ut- 
 termost farthing, the debt which I owe your 
 father, and when I have gained once more 
 the level from which my father -was cast, 
 then, if you choose to offer your hand again, 
 I may accept it. Not before." 
 
 "Believe me, I am sorry," said Eoland 
 Tyrrell, in a low tone, " and believe, also, 
 that you cannot readily do any thing which I 
 shall resent. The great wrong my father 
 wrought — the wrong for which I would freely 
 give my life to atone — stands ever between 
 us like a shield. Yet, I do not think I shall 
 
 be likely to offer again the hand you have 
 once rejected. Pardon me now for having, in 
 a measure, thrust myself upon you, and — good- 
 evening." 
 
 He lifted his hat ceremoniously and walked 
 slowly away in the gathering dusk. Stand- 
 ing at the parlor-window, Margaret Churchill 
 saw his tall, stately figure vanish from sight 
 as he passed out of the gate, and took a path 
 which led through a cUbris of newly-rising 
 houses, to where the long lines of quivering 
 lamps marked the populous town. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A GRAY, lowering sky overhead, the earth 
 soaked with rain underneath, and a general 
 air of dreariness and dampness everywhere, 
 was what met the eye on a chill, November 
 afternoon, three weeks after Roland Tyrrell's 
 visit to the Churchill cottage. For a week 
 Ridgeford hud suffered from rains such as had 
 not been known within generations, and in 
 the wake of the rains had followed a most 
 disastrous flood. Houses had been swept 
 away, lives had been lost, and property to 
 the amount of millions damaged by the tur- 
 bulent violence of a stream just beyond the 
 town — the famous water-power that turned 
 its mills and made its wealth, now transformed 
 from a slave into a tyrant. At last, one af- 
 ternoon, however, the windows of heaven 
 seemed to have closed, the sullen clouds still 
 hung heavy and dark, but the rain had ceased 
 for the first time in eight days ; and arrayed 
 in a water-proof— provided also with a large 
 umbrella— Margaret Churchill took advantage 
 of the lull to set forth for some necessary 
 domestic purchases. 
 
 At first she thought that she would not 
 go far into Ridgeford, but would make her 
 purchases at some of the suburban shops 
 that lined the way. But we have most of us 
 known the unsatisfactory character of sub- 
 urban shops, and Margaret, finding exercise 
 pleasant after her week's confinement in the 
 house, could not make up her mind to stop 
 short of the establishments where she usually 
 dealt. Walking on, therefore, she soon found 
 herself in the heart of the town, jostling among 
 a throng of people on the wet pavements, 
 and finally talking across a familiar counter 
 to a familiar dealer in teas and other grocer- 
 ies. The man knew her well, and liked her 
 

HUGH'S YEXDETTA. 
 
 47 
 
 bright face, as every one did who came in 
 contact with it; so, while he took down her 
 orders, and tied up her bundles, he descanted 
 freely and fully on the great Ridgeford topic 
 — the terrible and all-absorbing flood. De- 
 spite the papers, and despite Hugh, Marga- 
 ret had scarcely appreciated the awful deso- 
 lation which had been wrought until it was 
 brought homo to her by the many minute 
 particulars — the personal hardships and losses 
 — that go to make up the full sum of such a 
 public calamity. These were poured upon 
 her now in such stream that it was only 
 when a partial lull in the garrulity of her in- 
 formant came, that she was able to take up 
 her bundles and prepare to leave the shop. 
 As she was in the act of doing so, the pro- 
 prietor stepped from behind the counter to 
 say, by way of adieu : 
 
 " If you have seen nothing of the flood. 
 Miss Churchill, it would be worth your while 
 to take a look at it. You are hardly likely 
 ever to see such another — at least, the Lord 
 preserve us from its like in Ridgeford again ! 
 If you go home by Light Street — it won't 
 take you very much out of your way — you 
 can get a tolerable view of the stream and 
 the houses that are under water." 
 
 Margaret thanked him, and said that she 
 thought she icould go home by Light Street. 
 She almost changed her mind, however, when 
 she came out and saw how threatening the 
 clouds were ; but, on consideration, she found 
 it impossible to resist the temptation of see- 
 ing the flood, now that it was at its height, 
 so, clutching her umbrella firmly, she turned 
 her steps toward Light Street. It was very 
 much as the dealer in teas and other grocer- 
 ies had told her. From this rather elevated 
 point, she had a " tolerable view " of the 
 submerged quarter, and of the angry, turbid 
 water which had broken its bonds and done 
 all the mischief. But Miss Churchill was a 
 young lady of ambition, and, having seen 
 thus much, she wanted to see more. The 
 gloomy desolation of the sight fascinated her. 
 She was anxious, and determined to have 
 more than a mere glimpse of it. 
 
 To obtain this was — or seemed to her — 
 easy enough. By skirting around the sub- 
 urbs of the town, she could reach home as 
 safely, if not as speedily, as by following the 
 direct course. It must be conceded that this 
 was not a very prudent project, considering 
 the gathering gloom of the sky, the lateness 
 
 of the hour — for four o'clock is late in cloudy 
 November weather — and the fact that her 
 path would lie through half-built suburbs, in- 
 habited almost entirely by manufacturing 
 operatives. But Margaret could be wilful 
 sometimes, and she was wilful just now. " I'll 
 not have another chance," she thought, with 
 a glance at the clouds which should have de- 
 terred her. Then, gathering her water-proof 
 closer around her, she flitted away. 
 
 In fifteen minutes, it began to rain ; at 
 half-past four, it was pouring torrents ; at a 
 quarter to five, a man, walking hurriedly along 
 with his hat pulled over his brows, and his 
 coat buttoned up to his chin, in vain defence 
 against the sweeping blast, came first upon 
 an umbrella scudding aimlessly along before 
 the wind, and then upon a soaked figure of a 
 woman standing helplessly in the midst of a 
 rising pool of water. Night was closing over 
 the wild scene of storm; the river, not far 
 off, was pouring over its rapids with a sound 
 like that of many Niagaras ; the scattered 
 houses of the neighborhood scarcely showed 
 a light — for, in truth, they had all been for- 
 saken by their inhabitants — and the whole 
 picture was one which Roland Tyrrell was 
 just thinking could scarcely be matched for 
 complete — and it might readily prove danger- 
 ous — desolation, when, to his amazement, he 
 stumbled upon this solitary woman, who, 
 lifting up her face in the dying light, proved 
 to be Margaret Churchill. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " he said, seizing her in- 
 voluntarily, " Miss Churchill ! Is it i/on ? " 
 
 " Mr. Tyrrell ! " said Margaret, with a 
 half- hysterical gasp of relief Wet, bewil- 
 dered, almost despairing, as she had been the 
 moment before, she clung to him as she might 
 have clung to Hugh. It was so good to have 
 a protector — and, in truth, few women could 
 have asked a better protector than he who 
 stood looking down upon her in amazement. 
 
 " Is it you ? " he repeated, as if he could 
 not realize the fact. "For Heaven's sake, 
 what are you doing here? " 
 
 "I don't know," said Margaret, still un- 
 strung by the revulsion of terror and relief. 
 "I started from home this way," she went 
 on, after a minute, "and I — I think I must 
 have got lost. Do you know where we arc, 
 Mr. Tyrrell ? " 
 
 " Ferfectly well," answered Tyrrell. " We 
 are close in the neighborhood of my mills — 
 and a very dangerous neighborhood it is just 
 
4S 
 
 HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 HOW. To think of u woman here alone at 
 such an hour! You might have wandered 
 into the flood, or fiiUen into the hands of 
 prowling ruffians— Good Heaven ! how could 
 you be so rash ? " he broke off, almost an- 
 
 " I— I don't know," said Margaret, again 
 — this time penitently. " I wanted to see the 
 flood. It is not my fault, Mr. Tyrrell— I was 
 sure I could reach home this way." 
 
 " What madness ! " he said. Then, in a 
 lower tone, "God knows where you would 
 have been in the morning, if I had not chanced 
 to stumble upon you. Come this way." 
 
 " If you will only be kind enough to show 
 me how to get home," she said, meekly, cling- 
 ing to him closely, as he hurried her along 
 through the storm and gathering darkness. 
 
 "I'm afraid that is impossible," he an- 
 swered. " We are in a different quarter alto- 
 gether, and you will suffer now from exposure 
 to such a storm. We must find a refuge as 
 soon as possible." 
 
 "But Hugh will be so uneasy," pleaded 
 Margaret. 
 
 "Then he should have taken better care 
 of you," was the rejoinder. 
 
 After this, nothing more was said. Tyr- 
 rell's decided manner bore down every thing, 
 and Margaret felt that indeed any refuge 
 would be better than the storm of howling 
 wind and rain which beat upon them now. 
 She did not ask where they were going, as 
 her companion half led, half carried her over 
 much uneven ground, and through number- 
 less pools of water; but she felt sure that 
 wherever that strong arm and gentle hand 
 led her she would be safe, and with that con- 
 sciousness she was wise enough to be satis- 
 fied. 
 
 At last she heard Tyrrell say "Thank 
 God ! " and, looking round, she saw the dark 
 outline of a building close at hand. The 
 nest moment he partly released her while he 
 opened a door, then drew her quickly within, 
 and closed it behind her. The sense of relief 
 was almost overpowering — the contrast be- 
 tween the fierce battle they had been fighting 
 and the refuge they had gained — and, spent 
 from her long effort, Margaret would assured- 
 ly have fallen if the same arm which had led 
 had not now upheld her. 
 
 " Courage ! " Tyrrell said, in a tone of re- 
 assurance, but also of anxiety. " Don't give 
 way now that we are safe ! Can I trust you 
 
 to stand alone one minute, while I strike a 
 light ? " 
 
 Margaret said " Yes ; " but no sooner was 
 the support of his arm withdrawn, than she 
 quietly sank down upon the floor. There she 
 sat, leaning her head against the wall near 
 which she chanced to be, while he felt about 
 a little, finally struck a match, and then 
 lighted a lamp. 
 
 By the aid of this, she saw something of 
 the habitation into which she had entered. 
 Plainly a bachelor's den, for there was a bed 
 in one corner, a cupboard in another, a table 
 covered with books and papers, a pipe and a 
 pair of pistols over the mantel, a kettle on 
 the hearth, and a curious sort of masculine 
 order — which is a very different thing indeed 
 from feminine order — in all the arrangements. 
 A glance at the walls and ceiling showed her 
 that it was one of the better class of work- 
 men's cottages which was thus metamor- 
 phosed. 
 
 Having lighted his lamp, Mr. Tyrrell's 
 next step was to rummage in his cupboard, 
 from which he brought forth a bottle and a 
 tumbler, 
 
 " You must tabe a stiff glass of brandy. 
 Miss Churchill," he said, bringing these up to 
 Margaret. " It is your only hope of avoiding 
 an attack of illness. Good Heavens, how wet 
 you are!" he went on, touching her dress as 
 he spoke. 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret, meekly. The hood 
 of her water-proof had fallen back, and her 
 hair — drenched as a mermaid's — was rolling 
 loosely down her back. As she looked up, 
 she certainly presented as forlorn an appear- 
 ance as a woman whom Nature had made 
 pretty could possibly manage to do. She 
 swallowed the brandy without any demur 
 whatever, then let him disembarrass her of her 
 cloak, and assist her into a large easy-chair, 
 where he bade her be quiet for five minutes. 
 
 She obeyed, watching with languid yet 
 slightly - amused interest his proceedings. 
 Certainly he was very deft in knowing what 
 to do and how to do it. In two minutes he 
 had kindled a fire which was soon burning 
 brightly, and put the kettle upon it. Then 
 he fished a pair of dingy slippers from a re- 
 cess and brought them to her. 
 
 " You must take off your shoes and put 
 these on," he said. " I'm sorry that I have 
 nothing else which I can offer you." 
 
 " This is all I shall need," answered she. 
 
HUGH'S YEXDETTA. 
 
 49 
 
 " The water-proof did its duty, and I'm not 
 very wet. But you — " 
 
 " Xever mind about me," lie interrupted. 
 " Come up to the fire and dry yourself as well 
 as you can. I am going out for a few min- 
 utes." 
 
 He went out, and did not return for at 
 least a quarter of an hour. By that time 
 Margaret had changed her shoes, dried — at 
 least in a measure — her drenched skirts, 
 shaken out her hair, realized her position, and 
 summoned back sufficient spirit to meet it. 
 It was a very changed face, flushed half by 
 the fire, half by excitement, and (if there can 
 possibly be three halves to a whole) half per- 
 haps by the brandy she bad been forced to 
 swallow, which turned round when Roland 
 Tyrrell entered, if possible more drenched 
 than before. 
 
 " I have been out to observe the weather, 
 Miss Churchill," he said, sinking involuntarily 
 into a chair. " I fear that it will make a pris- 
 oner of you for some hours to come — proba- 
 bly, indeed, for the night. I have never seen 
 a more terrible storm, and the flood is rising 
 rapidly. God pity the poor in its path to- 
 night ! " he added, half to himself. 
 
 *' Are we in danger ? " asked Margaret, 
 shivering slightly, for even above the voice 
 of the tempest she could hear the terrible 
 roar of the river. 
 
 " Oh, no," he answered. " Do you think 
 I would keep you here if you were in danger ? 
 This is a very elevated position. Do you 
 know Conrad's Hill ? That is where you are, 
 and this house is one of a number which I 
 ■was building for my mill-operatives. They 
 are not likely to need them now," he said, 
 with a shrug. 
 
 Margaret's communicative grocer had told 
 her that among the mill-owners Mr. Tyrrell 
 had sufi"ered most severely — that, in fact, he 
 was very nearly " as good as a ruined man " 
 — so the tone of this last sentence did not 
 surprise her. It only made her feel very 
 sorry for him, and she looked up with her 
 quick eyes full of sympathy. 
 
 " Is that why you are here ? " she asked. 
 
 " That ? " he repeated, looking a little puz- 
 zled. " The destruction of my mills, do you 
 mean? No, I came here to be within reach 
 of the sufferers from the flood, and to be able 
 to relieve them somewhat. It is little enough 
 that one can do ! " he added, with a short sigh. 
 
 He seemed so utterly unconscious of hav- 
 
 ing done any thing himself — he seemed to 
 consider it so entirely natural that he should 
 have forsaken his comfortable and pleasant 
 associations to come and live in an operative's 
 cottage, and to devote his days to the aid of 
 those who had worked for him — that Mar- 
 garet really had nothing to say. One cannot 
 well praise a man who does not know that he 
 has done any thing for which to be praised. 
 After a while, however, she looked at him 
 again, and suggested that he was very wet. 
 
 " I am used to that," he said, smiling a 
 little. 
 
 Still he drew nearer the fire, and, when 
 she insisted that he should take his slippers 
 — her own shoes being dry by this time — he 
 could not refuse to exchange his wet boots 
 for them. This, of course, made him more 
 comfortable, and, observing that the top of 
 the kettle was being merrily lifted off by the 
 steam, he asked Margaret if she had had 
 any supper. 
 
 When she replied in the negative, he went 
 to his cupboard and brought forth a teapot 
 and paper of tea. 
 
 " I hope you don't prefer coffee," he said, 
 a little anxiously, " for I never drink it my- 
 self, and I have no means to make it, nor, in- 
 deed, any to make." 
 
 Margaret hastened to assure him of her 
 preference for tea, thinking the while a little 
 blankly of the pound or two of the best Oo- 
 long which she had lost in the struggle to re- 
 tain her umbrella, and watched the process 
 of steeping with the appreciation of a good 
 house-keeper. But she could not remain 
 quiet when he next produced a loaf of bread 
 and proceeded to cut it into slices for toast. 
 
 " I can do that," she said, eagerly. 
 " Please let me," as he demurred, and declined 
 to resign the toasting-fork. " You have no 
 idea how very nice my toast is. Hugh will 
 never let a servant make any for him. Look I 
 you are burning that piece. Pray give it to 
 me!" 
 
 She pleaded so earnestly that he had no 
 alternative but to let her have her own way ; 
 so she sat down to toast the bread and scorch 
 her face in peace. She made a very pretty 
 picture on the hearth in the flickering fire- 
 light, with her bright-brown hair loose about 
 her shoulders ; and Tyrrel, who had mean- 
 while brought forth a half-eaten ham from his 
 inexhaustible cupboard, could not but pause 
 now and then, in the business of cutting it, to 
 
50 
 
 HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 look, and wonder if he was awake or dream- 
 ing. 
 
 It was a very sociable little supper to 
 which they sat down after a while, and by this 
 time they had become quite sociable them- 
 selves ; so that, when Margaret began plait- 
 ing her hair to get it out of the way (for she 
 had lost all such necessary appendages as 
 comb and hair-pins), she gave Tyrrell a reca- 
 pitulation of the losses which the storm had 
 entailed upon her. 
 
 " I have paid almost as dearly as Eve for 
 my curiosity," she said. " I have lost an um- 
 brella — Hugh's umbrella, and a very good one 
 — three pounds of tea, a hat and veil which I 
 bought only the other day, and two braids, 
 which are incomparably the greatest loss of 
 all." 
 
 " I should not think you needed such 
 things as braids," Tyrrell remarked. " Your 
 own hair is very abundant." 
 
 " So it is," she answered, threading the 
 soft locks through her fingers ; " but, all the 
 same, one needs braids when fashion dictates 
 that every woman shall wear exactly three 
 times as much hair as could possibly grow on 
 her head." 
 
 " You did not use to wear them," he said. 
 
 She looked up at him ciuickly, and he saw 
 the bright blood come like a flash to her face. 
 
 " How do you know ? " she asked, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " Do you think I have forgotten ? " he 
 said, with something which seemed like sud- 
 den passion. " My memory is not so short, 
 Margaret." Then, after a pause which she did 
 not break: " Sometimes I wish to Heaven it 
 were ! These five years have been little else 
 than one long torture and hunger to me — 
 such hunger for one sight of your face that I 
 would often have given the best years of life 
 to see it for one half-hour as I see it now." 
 
 " Is this kind ? " she asked, looking not 
 at him, but at the leaping blaze before them. 
 "You know that I am here in your power — 
 is it generous to talk to me like this ? " 
 
 " No — it is not," he answered, quickly. 
 " Forgive me for having done so. But how 
 can I see you and not think of that happy 
 fortnight when I saw you first — five long 
 years ago ! It seems to me," he added, a little 
 wistfully, " that you did not think so much 
 then of the fact that I was a Tyrrell, and you 
 a Churchill, as you do now." 
 
 " How could I ? " she asked, still avert- 
 
 ing her gaze. " I was little more than a 
 child, and I had heard very little of — of your 
 name. I scarcely realized, indeed, when I 
 met you as one of that gay party at Beech- 
 dale, who you were, until I came home and — 
 Hugh told me." 
 
 " No doubt he told you also that it was 
 your duty to hate the son of your father's 
 murderer." 
 
 This was so true that she could not deny 
 it, therefore she said nothing. 
 
 " Tell me, Margaret," said Tyrrell, bend- 
 ing forward, " has he made you hate me ? 
 You did not use to do it, I know ; for I do 
 not think there was ever a sweeter or bright- 
 er thing on earth than your face when I saw 
 it last. But how can I tell what five years 
 have done? " 
 
 " Five years have not taught me to hate 
 you, Mr. Tyrrell," she said, turning and look- 
 ing at him with her soft brown eyes. " But " 
 — and her voice had a ring of decision in it 
 which he knew well how to interpret — " they 
 have not tauglit me either to forget that I am 
 Albert Churchill's daughter." 
 
 " And Hugh Churchill's sister," he said, a 
 little bitterly. 
 
 " I know what you mean," she answered, 
 coloring ; " but you are mistaken. Hugh has 
 never succeeded in influencing me to his 
 opinions. He would gladly make me hate you 
 as — pardon me that I must confess it — as 
 he does ; but I hope you will believe me when 
 I say that he has never done so. Even if I 
 did not forgive your father — and God knows 
 that I do ! — I could not be so unjust as to 
 hold you accountable for his crime. J could 
 not, Mr. Tyrrell ! " she repeated, almost pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 " I believe you," he said. " I believe you 
 and thank you. But for the rest — Mar- 
 garet ! for the rest ! Am I alone, of all men, 
 to have no opportunity or hope to win you 
 because my name is Tyrrell ? " 
 
 " You must feel as well as I do that there 
 is a gulf between us that nothing can bridge," 
 she answered, gravely. " It is hopeless to 
 talk of such a thing, Mr. Tyrrell — worse than 
 hopeless, indeed. It seems Uke an insult to 
 the dead. I am sorry — oh, what a weak word 
 that is ! — I am far, far more than sorry that 
 it should have fallen to my lot to give you 
 pain, but the truth must be faced ; if you and 
 I lived forever, we could never be more to 
 each other than we are now." 
 
HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 51 
 
 " Xever, Margaret ? " 
 " Never." 
 
 She did not speak bitterly or vehemently ; 
 oa tlie contrary, she spoke with great sadness 
 and infinite gentleness, but Tyrrell felt to the 
 very centre of his soul that Hugh's fiery 
 hatred was more likely to turn into love than 
 this decision of his sister to be moved or 
 shaken. The young engineer had been right 
 when he said, in his impetuous pride, " On a 
 point of honor we Churchills always think 
 alike," and even he might have been satisfied 
 that Margaret remembered as deeply as him- 
 self their black and bloody debt to Henry 
 Tyrrell. 
 
 After her last words there was silence in 
 the room. The wind howled, the rain fell, 
 the river roared without. There were many 
 desolate and aching hearts in Ridgeford that 
 night ; many who had seen fortune, and not 
 a few who had seen friends and relations, go 
 down in the merciless flood ; but none were 
 more desolate, none ached with a more dreary 
 seuse of hopeless loss, than his who sat by 
 that sparkling fire with Margaret Churchill's 
 fair face opposite him. 
 
 After a while, seeing that the night was 
 wearing on, she asked anxiously if there was 
 no possible hope for her to get home. He 
 answered by bidding her come to a window 
 and drawing back the blind. 
 
 " Shade your eyes and look out," he said. 
 " Then tell me what you see." 
 
 She obeyed — that is, she obeyed in part. 
 She shaded her eyes, and strove, with her 
 gaze, to pierce the darkness of the murky 
 and tempestuous night beyoud, but in vain. 
 Only the rain dashing against the window- 
 panes, only the blast that seemed as if it 
 might lift the roof from off the cottage, told 
 her what was raging without. She looked 
 round at him in blank dismay. 
 
 " Is there no hope, then ? " she said. " 
 Mr. Tyrrell, must I stay here all night ? " 
 
 "I am afraid you must," he answered, 
 gravely, closing the blind again. "At least I 
 know that if you and I ventured out in this 
 storm, we should not be likely ever to be 
 beard of again. Forgive me for bringing you 
 here," he went on, as he saw the distress on 
 her face. "I could not think of any thing 
 else to do. It was very stupid, very thought- 
 less, of me not to remember — " 
 
 But she interrupted him here by holding 
 out her hand. 
 
 " Forgive mc for seeming ungrateful for 
 such a kind shelter," she said. " You know, 
 or you ought to know, that you did the best 
 possible thing for me — the only thing, indeed. 
 Of course it is awkward" — laughing slightly 
 — " but you and I are old enough and sensi- 
 ble enough to disregard that. If I was only 
 sure that Hugh was not wretched about me ! " 
 
 " May he not think that, being caught by 
 the storm, you remained in town ? " 
 
 " It is likely that he may. I have some 
 friends with whom I often do remain. Thank 
 you for the suggestion, Mr. Tyrrell. Now, 
 shall we make our arrangements for the 
 night ? I am so sorry to think how much I 
 shall inconvenience you." 
 
 " Do not grudge me this little service," 
 he said. " God knows, and you know, that 
 it may be the last I shall ever have the op- 
 portunity to render you ! " 
 
 There was some difficulty about the ar- 
 rangements for the night, since the choice 
 rested between the bed — which was, in truth, 
 little more than a sofa — and the easy-chair. 
 Each of them wanted to sit up and let the 
 other rest ; but, of course, Tyrrell carried his 
 point ; and while Margaret lay down, and, de- 
 spite the novelty of her position, soon fell into 
 the sound sleep of healthy youth, he sat by 
 the fire and watclied the stormy night through 
 and the gray dawn break over the drenched 
 earth. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 When Margaret woke the next morning, 
 she found herself alone in the room — a bright 
 fire burning on the hearth, and a cloudy^-apol- 
 ogy for daylight streaming in. It required 
 several minutes for her to remember where 
 she was ; but then it all came back with a 
 rush, and, rising, she walked across the floor, 
 and drew back the blind of the window. It 
 had ceased to rain ; but the terrible ravages 
 of the storm were evident on every side, and 
 she could not help thinking that the waters 
 of the deluge, abating from the face of the 
 earth, may have presented much such a 
 seeming as the scene on which she gazed. 
 As she still looked, she saw Tyrrell striding 
 along through mud and water toward the 
 house ; and, turning when he entered, she 
 asked at once where he had been. 
 
 " To find some means of getting you home," 
 
52 
 
 HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 he answered. " It was rather difficult, for 
 the raiu last night seems to have inundated 
 the brains of all Kidgeford, and vehicles are 
 in great demand for the people escaping from 
 the neighborhood of the flood, A carriage 
 will be here in a few minutes, however." 
 
 He looked so pale and haggard, as the 
 raorning light streamed over his f;ice, that 
 she was suddenly stricken with remorse to 
 think how he had been working for her 
 while she slept. 
 
 " How has the rain of last night affected 
 you, Mr. Tyrrell ? " she asked. 
 
 "It has made something very like a ruhied 
 man of me," he answered. " But I think very 
 little — too little, perhaps — of that. I have 
 only myself to care for, you know ; and, when 
 one stands alone, no blew of Fortune can be 
 very severe." 
 
 Margaret was not by any means sure of 
 this, but she did not contradict him. She 
 only glanced up with a smile, and said : 
 
 " Shall I not make you some tea ? You 
 look so tired." 
 
 His face brightened as by a flash. "Yes," 
 he said, eagerly, " Yes, if you will be so 
 kind." 
 
 So she set to work in her cheery way — a 
 way that had brightened her own home like 
 a sunbeam for twenty-two years — and soon 
 had the tea ready — such tea as Mr. Tyrrell 
 was not in the habit, nor, indeed, capable, of 
 making for himself. He took it from her 
 hand as if it had been the veritable nectar 
 of the gods ; and, in truth, the poor fellow 
 needed it badly. He had taken a more pow- 
 erful stimulant at an earlier hour, but, to re- 
 vive jaded energies and tired faculties, there 
 is no power in brandy to equal that which 
 lurks in one strong cup drawn from the fra- 
 grant Chinese herb. 
 
 Before they had finished their impromptu 
 collation — for Margaret sat down to bear him 
 company, not so much because she wanted 
 any thing, as because she knew by instinct 
 that the sight of her was pleasant to his eyes 
 — the carriage, which had been ordered, drove 
 up to the door. Miss Churchill rose and put 
 on her water-proof, drawing the hood over 
 her hatless head, and then, since this com- 
 pleted her preparations for departure, turned 
 to Tyrrell. 
 
 " How can I thank you for all your kind- 
 ness ? " she said to him, in a low voice. 
 " What would have become of me if you had 
 
 not found and sheltered me ? Believe me, I 
 shall never forget it. It " — she hesitated a 
 moment, then went on, with a crimson cheek 
 — " it has, if possible, made me regret still 
 more deeply the manner in which you were 
 received when you came on your errand of 
 kindness to our house a month ago." 
 
 " You should know better than to talk 
 like this," he said, reproachfully. "Kind- 
 ness — kindness to you ! It has been the 
 greatest happiness that Fate ever gave to me, 
 and one on the memory of which I shall live 
 for months and years to come." He had 
 taken, by this time, the small, ungloved hand 
 which she offered him, and, holding it now, 
 gazed with passionate wistfulness into her 
 face. " Margaret," he said, hoarsely, " for 
 the last time, the very last time, let me ask 
 is there, can there be, no hope for me ? " 
 
 She looked at him, and he read his answer 
 in her sorrowful eyes. Then, after a minute : 
 
 " Why do you embitter our parting like 
 this ? " she asked, sadly, " You know we 
 are not likely ever to meet again. Why not 
 let us say farewell as friends — or, if not as 
 friends, at least as acquaintances who have 
 met and liked each other sincerely ? " 
 
 " Then we are not even friends ? " 
 
 " How can we be ? " she asked, still sadly, 
 "Do friends live as far apart as we must ever 
 do ? Mr, Tyrrell ! " — her voice broke down 
 here into something like a wail — " let me go. 
 For God's sake do not prolong this hopeless 
 pain! " 
 
 " Pain ! Is it pain to you ? " he cried, 
 quick to catch the new accent in her voice, 
 " Margaret ! one word — only one word — 
 before you go. If we had met like other 
 people — if this horrible barrier of past crime 
 had not been between us — could you, oh, my 
 darling! — could you ever have learned to 
 love me ? If you can tell me that, Margaret, 
 it seems to me that I can face even the deso- 
 late future with a brave heart if I know 
 that." 
 
 But she did not answer him. Her pale 
 lips did not move; her downcast eyes did not 
 lift ; she only suddenly drew her hand from 
 the clasp of his, and darted toward the 
 door. 
 
 He followed, and assisted her into the car- 
 riage ; then, to her surprise, entered also, and 
 closed the door. 
 
 " Are you coming with me ? " she asked. 
 
 " If you do not object," he answered, " I 
 
HUGH'S TEXDETTA. 
 
 will certainl.v assure myself that you reach 
 home safely." 
 
 She cWuld not demur at this, but she 
 winged a fervent prayer to Heaven that Hugh 
 might be safely gone to his morning work. If 
 he should still chance to be at home, what 
 would he say, what would he think, to see her 
 drive up with Roland Tyrrell ! Of course she 
 meant to tell him where and how she had 
 spent the night ; but, all the same, it must 
 be done with caution, not with such abrupt 
 force. 
 
 She might have spared her fears, however, 
 for Roland Tyrrell was never a dull man, nor 
 one likely to fall into such a blunder as this. 
 "U'hen they were once safely in a street 
 which led straight to the Churchill cottage, 
 he stopped the carriage and got out. 
 
 " I will bid you good-by here," he said to 
 Margaret, and extended his hand. 
 
 She placed her own within it, but what 
 she said she did not know ; she could not af- 
 terward remember, though she vainly tried to 
 think that it had been something kind. It 
 was much more likely to have been something 
 wholly commonplace and unmeaning, for what 
 else do any of us ever say at those decisive 
 moments of meeting and parting which stamp 
 themselves for good or ill upon the heart ? 
 Then she drove on, and left him standing 
 alone. 
 
 It has been already said that the neigh- 
 borhood in which the Churchills lived was 
 principally inhabited by the class who found 
 employment in the large mines and their ad- 
 jacent works, not far distant. This part of 
 the town had not suffered in the least from 
 that destructive flood which had almost swept 
 away the lower portion ; yet, as Margaret 
 drove toward the cottage, she could not but 
 observe signs of an unusual commotion in 
 the streets and about the doors of houses. 
 Knots of people were gathered, talking ex- 
 citedly ; women ran past with terror and dis- 
 may on their faces ; even the children looked 
 wild and horror-stricken. 
 
 " What can possibly have occurred ! " 
 thought Miss Churchill ; and she was not 
 sorry that, as she stopped the carriage at her 
 own gate, a man whom she knew well as con- 
 nected with the mines came hurrying past. 
 
 "One minute, Mr. Waylandl" she cried, 
 for he did not seem to notice her. " Pray 
 tell me what is the matter ? Something has 
 happened, surely ? " 
 
 " Xothing much is the matter. Miss 
 Churchill," he said, turning round with a face 
 which belied his words. " Only there's been 
 an accident at the mines. It's all come right, 
 I dare say. You — you better go in ! " 
 
 He hurried on, but Margaret stood still, 
 panic-stricken. She knew well what those 
 fatal words, " accident at the mines," meant. 
 She had not lived for years at the very verge 
 without knowing far more than the outer 
 world of the perils which beset the workers 
 in earth's mysterious depths. It never oc- 
 curred to her for a moment that Hugh might 
 be connected with the accident, but yet her 
 heart stood still at thought of the horrible 
 possibilities of suffering so near her. She 
 realized the agony with which every woman 
 argund her was asking, "Is it my husband, or 
 my son ? " She even realized — or thought 
 she did — the awful despair of those who were 
 buried alive far beneath the green surface of 
 the world. " God help them ! " she said to 
 herself; and then, as she was turning to enter 
 the gate, she heard two men speaking as they 
 passed at a rapid pace. 
 
 " I thought as much ! " one of them said. 
 " It's all Churchill's fault. He insisted on 
 pressing the work in that direction — and it 
 was only yesterday he volunteered to direct 
 the men himself. He was a headstrong fel- 
 low ; but one can't help being sorry for him, 
 and this will come hard on his sister ! " 
 
 It did come hard on her, harder even than 
 the speaker thought, from its horrible unex- 
 pectedness. She reeled back and caught the 
 low fence, white as a sheet, and trembling 
 like an aspen. "For a moment she tried to 
 smile — it was such utter folly ! Hugh ! How 
 could Hugh possibly be in danger? Then 
 that awful sickness of the heart — like unto 
 no other sickness of earth — came over her, 
 and she would have fallen to the ground if an 
 arm had not supported her. It was only the 
 rough, fustian-clad arm of the coachman who 
 had not yet driven off; but, for all that, it 
 was very serviceable, and very kindly, too. 
 
 "Hold up a bit, miss," he said, "and I'll 
 call somebody to you. I reckon you've been 
 taken sick-like." 
 
 " Xo," said Margaret, putting up her hand 
 to her ghastly face, "I am not sick. Stop," 
 she said, catching his arm as he was turning 
 away, " don't call anybody, I have no time to 
 talk. Open the carriage-door and let me in. 
 Then drive as fast as vou can to the mines." 
 
54 
 
 HUGH'S YENDETTA. 
 
 He stared at her ; but she beckoned him 
 so impatiently to obey, that, after a second's 
 hesitation, ho did so— guessing, in part, at 
 least, the cause of her anxiety. Perhaps he 
 was not averse to sharing in the excitement 
 himself. At all events, he whipped up his 
 horses with laudable zeal, and, in a very few 
 mi^iiutes, they reached the mines. 
 
 Driving past the large works, where the 
 sound of machinery had, for the present, 
 stopped, and past the deserted offices (of 
 which Hugh's was one), they came to the 
 opening of the principal descent into the 
 mine. It was not here, however, that a sig- 
 nificant and terrible scene was enacting. 
 Farther away, to the right, a new shaft had 
 been lately sunk, and entirely new excava- 
 tions made — concerning which, as Margaret 
 well remembered, Hugh had been full of eager 
 interest and hope. Several older engineers 
 had opposed the move; but he had carried 
 every thing before him with the company, and 
 already the most favorable results had been 
 anticipated. ««He had brought home trium- 
 phantly several rich specimens of ore, and 
 spoken gayly of the chagrin of those who had 
 prophesied utter failure for the project. Now 
 — was this to be the end ? 
 
 It certainly looked so. Around the fatal 
 spot was gathered a crowd of many men and 
 not a few women ; the former looking as men 
 only look in the face of some terrible tragedy; 
 the latter, for the most part, wailing loudly, 
 or sobbing dry sobs with that restraint of 
 grief which is more terrible to behold than its 
 wildest abandonment. Margaret alighted here, 
 and made her way through the throng to 
 where the superintendent was standing, just 
 at the mouth of the opening. 
 
 " Mr. Beresford," she said, touching his 
 arm, " is it true that Hugh is in there ? " 
 
 " Good Heavens, Miss Churchill ! " said Mr. 
 Beresford, turning round with a start. " Is it 
 possible you are here ? My dear young lady, 
 this will never do. Come away instantly ! " 
 
 " Is Hugh there ? " she reiterated, looking 
 at him with her pale, set face. " Tell me the 
 truth at once. I must know." 
 
 " Well, then — yes, he is there ! " he said, 
 desperately. " Now, for God's sake, come 
 away ! This is no place for you ! " 
 
 She paid no heed to his adjuration. She 
 only caught his arm, and asked another ques- 
 tion through her white lips. 
 
 " Is there any hope ? " 
 
 "We trust so," he said, eagerly. "We 
 never give up hope until we know the worst. 
 We only fear it now. You see, it has not 
 been an hour since the wall fell — not in the 
 path ; but, as well as we can judge, in the 
 rear of the mining party — and we have had a 
 large force at work ever since. Listen, and 
 you can hear the ring of the pickaxes !" 
 
 She listened with a sickening heart ; and, 
 though her ears were not trained like his, she 
 thought she could faintly catch a dull and 
 muffled sound, which told of the vigorous 
 strokes of many arms. Once more she heard 
 him urging her to come away, but she only 
 shook her head. No earthly power could 
 have forced her from the spot where Hugh 
 was buried — alive, and yet dead ! There are 
 some things so horrible that the imagination 
 refuses to grasp them. This was one of them 
 to Margaret. Though she sat (for her trem- 
 bling limbs refused to support her, and Mr. 
 Beresford placed her on a stone not far away), 
 like a pale image of despair, breathing the 
 free air of heaven while lie was shut from it 
 in the black depths of earth, she could not 
 realize the awful horror pressing on her. 
 They came, and went, and talked, around 
 her, as men do under stress of great excite- 
 ment ; but she did not heed them. She was 
 trying to wrest her mind from the upper world 
 and take it into his dark prison; but it would 
 not go. It reeled on the very brink of uncon- 
 sciousness when she tried to picture him 
 gasping, dying — so near her, yet, Heaven ! 
 so far away. 
 
 She felt as if it had been hours that she 
 had sat there, frozen into a stony stillness by 
 the very magnitude of her anguish, yet keenly 
 alive to every sound that bore relation to him, 
 when a faint cheer from the men below (that 
 is, a cheer which sounded faint to those above) 
 announced that they had reached the victims 
 of the accident. In a second, Margaret sprang 
 to her feet ; but in a second, also, a strong 
 hand held her back. 
 
 " Wait ! " said a familiar voice. " Not 
 yet ! " 
 
 She turned, not in surprise — at such pio- 
 ments people are rarely surprised »t any 
 thing — but with a sense of blind trust strange 
 indeed in a woman usually so self-reliant as 
 Margaret Churchill. Looking up into the 
 dark eyes bent upon her — eyes full of pas- 
 sionate pity and passionate love — her agony 
 for the first time broke forth into words. 
 
HUGH'S YEXDETTA. 
 
 55 
 
 "Do you go, then!" she said. "I can 
 trust you to tell me if Hugh is — " Her 
 white lips could not utter the word " dead." 
 It seemed such an awful and such an unreal 
 word to connect with Hugh's proud life and 
 strength. " Then you will save him if you 
 can ? " she went on, with trembling eager- 
 ness. " Mr. Tyrrell ! you are so brave and 
 kind — will you not try to save him ? Surely 
 you are better able than they — those men 
 yonder ; surely you can if you will ! '' 
 
 " God knows how willingly I would if I 
 could," Tyrrell said. "But those men yon- 
 der understand such matters, and they have 
 done all that human effort can do." 
 
 " But you are wiser than they," she per- 
 sisted, feverishly. " You think I am childish 
 to talk like this, but I feel — I know — that 
 God has sent you to help aud to save him. 
 Am I mad ? I don't know. But say you 
 will try — oh, say you will try ! " 
 
 " I will try," he answered, carried away 
 by her appeal, yet knowing that there was 
 nothing for him to do. "I swear to you 
 that, if an opportunity arises, I will hold my 
 own life for nothing in comparison with his. 
 But will vou promise me to stay here if I 
 go?" 
 
 "I promise," she said, and she sat down 
 again on the seat from which she had risen. 
 
 When Margaret Churchill said "I prom- 
 ise," he must have been blind and deaf in- 
 deed who did not trust her — even at such a 
 supreme moment as this. Tyrrell did, fully 
 and entirely. He gave one glance at her face 
 — rigid with an awful look of despair — then 
 went his way without another word. 
 
 They were bringing out the victims one 
 by one when he reached tlie opening of the 
 shaft. A terrible sight it was — with the 
 fearful wail of some women rising now and 
 then as a husband or a son was recognized. 
 Most of them were dead. A few, who had 
 been farther advanced in front, had escaped 
 the heavy fall of the ill-supported earth, and 
 still showed signs of life. Half hoping, yet 
 half apprehensive, Tyrrell looked over the 
 unconscious faces, but Hugh was not there. 
 As he looked, Mr. Beresford approached. 
 
 " Xo sign of Churchill yet," he said. " He 
 must certainly have been one of the farthest 
 in the mine." 
 
 " That gives hopes for his safety, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 " In a measure," the other answered, " but 
 
 only In a measure. You see we got them out 
 very quickly, and those men who were not 
 immediately suffocated, may very likely re- 
 cover. But every minute counts, and, the 
 longer they are in finding Churchill, the less 
 hope there is that he will be found alive." 
 
 " Yes, I see," said Tyrrell, thoughtfully. 
 Then, after a pause, he added : " Can I go 
 into the mine? I should like to see what 
 progress they are making, unless you object 
 to the intrusion of outsiders." 
 
 " I do object, as a general rule," the su- 
 perintendent answered. "There are plenty 
 of people here who would like nothing better 
 than to go down there and stare, if they were 
 allowed to do so; but, of course, with you, 
 Mr. Tyrrell, it is a different matter. I'll send 
 a man down with you if you wish to go." 
 
 Tyrrell reiterating his desire, the man was 
 summoned, and they proceeded together into 
 the mine. It was a strange, wild scene, and 
 thoroughly novel to the man of the upper 
 world, upon which they entered. Tl)e dark 
 galleries opening away in different directions, 
 with here and there the light of a miner's 
 candle gleaming, the subterranean atmos- 
 phere, the smell of fresh earth from the 
 fallen wall, the force of men working with 
 shovels and pickaxes by the light of lanterns 
 and torches. As Tyrrell came up, an inani- 
 mate figure was drawn forth aud carried past 
 him to the upper air. " Jackson," he heard 
 the men saying to each other, and then some- 
 body added, "Stone dead ! " 
 
 "You see they are still taking out the 
 men on whom the earth fell," his guide said. 
 " There's something like half a dozen missing 
 yet. If you are not afraid to come through 
 this way, you'll find the place where they are 
 looking for Mr. Churchill." 
 
 Fear did not chance to be a word in Ro- 
 land Tyrrell's vocabulary, so he followed the 
 speaker, through an opening in the fallen 
 earth, to where the advance portion of the 
 mining party had been found. It was very 
 near the end of the excavation, and men 
 were working here eagerly, expecting every 
 moment to find Hugh Churchill as they had 
 found the others. 
 
 " He'll never come out alive," Tyrrell's 
 guide said, gloomily. "Not but that — steady 
 boys ! what are you after now ? " 
 
 Tliey were after another inanimate figure, 
 upon which they had stumbled, and which 
 they were almost sure would prove the one 
 
56 
 
 HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 so anxiously sought. " IIolcl up, there ! " 
 they cried to the men who were working with 
 pickaxes in front (foolishly enough, since the 
 end of the excavation had plainly been 
 reached) ; but these did not seem to hear, 
 for, just as the others were lifting up the un- 
 conscious face for identification, their axes 
 went suddenly through into another and un- 
 suspected excavation beyond — there was a 
 quick rattle of falling earth — a crust-like wall 
 gave way — and a blast of air rushed out 
 which proved its noxious qualities by extin- 
 guishing in an instant every one of the lights. 
 
 The panic which ensued was neither so 
 unwise nor so unnatural as might at first ap- 
 pear. If the men threw down pickaxes and 
 shovels to fly for their lives, it was because 
 they knew well that their lives were at stake 
 — since, of all dangers which the miner has to 
 dread, the most deadly by far is the subtile 
 poison known as mephitic air. Tyrrell's guide 
 had sufficient consideration to seize him by 
 the arm, and hurry him away at such a breath- 
 less pace that he scarcely knew what had 
 happened until he found himself beyond the 
 point where the first earth had fallen. 
 
 Even here the panic had spread, and the 
 men were retreating. " All's up now," they 
 said. " No hope for any man left in there 
 when that gets at him. The devil himself 
 couldn't live in foul air ! " 
 
 "Where is Mr. Churchill?" demanded 
 Tyrrell, as soon as he could be heard. Then, 
 as an ominous silence followed the question : 
 " For God's sake, you don't mean to tell me 
 that you are men, and that you have left a man 
 who could not help himself, to perish in 
 there ? Is it possible — has it been done ? " 
 
 It had indeed been done. No one had 
 thought of him. Each man had blindly 
 rushed from the danger, and left the uncon- 
 scious one behind. 
 
 " He is dead," some of them said, by way 
 of excuse. 
 
 " No man knows that," Tyrrell answered. 
 " No man can dare to say that he felt either 
 his heart or his pulse. The presumption is 
 that he is alive — and I call upon you as brave 
 men to go back with me for him." 
 
 There was a dead silence. Brave enough 
 they were, the most of them ; but not so 
 brave as this. They had faced danger from 
 the falling earth, but they could not face cer- 
 tain death from mephitic air. Nobody stirred. 
 Most of them were silent ; only one or two 
 
 murmured that there had been deaths enough, 
 and that they had their families to consider. 
 
 " Very well," said Tyrrell, scornfully, " I 
 will go alone. Give me a lantern — something 
 that cannot be extinguished easily ; and I 
 will show you whether or not you are a set of 
 pitiful cowards. Only " — he stopped a mo- 
 ment and considered — " I am afraid I could 
 scarcely bring him out alone. Is there any 
 one here who can be bribed to do his duty 
 by a thousand dollars ? If so, let him speak 
 at once. There is not a second to lose, and I 
 will write a check before I go." 
 
 His taunt stung one man at least into ac- 
 tion. A stout, dark -browed young fellow 
 stepped forward. 
 
 " You may keep your money, Mr. Tyrrell," 
 he said. "i'^Zgowith you without a bribe. 
 It's like to be certain death ; but I've nobody 
 depending on me, so it don't matter much, 
 nohow." 
 
 " All right," said Tyrrell, with a quick 
 glance at him. " You'll do," he added. " Get 
 the light we are to take — the quicker the bet- 
 ter." 
 
 A couple of lanterns were brought, and a 
 bucket of water for each of them, with which 
 to dispel in a measure the poisonous gas. 
 While these were being provided, Tyrrell 
 heard an old miner explain the presence of 
 the foul air. The mine was an old one, with 
 several long-disused chambers — excavations 
 which had been cut off by much such an ac- 
 cident (though in the former case harmless) 
 as the present ; and it was evidently into one 
 of these that the new excavation led. No- 
 body had suspected it until the unguarded 
 strokes of two or three men had laid bare the 
 danger. 
 
 It certainly was a terrible danger into 
 which Tyrrell and his companion now ven- 
 tured. They felt it in the faintness which 
 made them stagger and reel like drunken 
 men when the first breath of the mephitic at- 
 mosphere came over them ; and, as they ad- 
 vanced, it of course grew worse. 
 
 " We must be quick," said the young 
 miner, in a half-stifled voice ; " we can't 
 stand this many minutes ! " He set'down his 
 lantern hastily, and, raising his bucket of 
 water with both hands to a level with his 
 shoulder, cast the contents in showery dashes 
 all around and over himself and his compan- 
 ion ; then, dropping the bucket, snatched up 
 the light and hurried forward. Fortunately 
 
HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 57 
 
 they had but a few steps to go from the en- 
 trance of the excavation to where Churchill 
 was lying, face downward, just as he had 
 been left by the men when they fled for their 
 liveii. 
 
 " Thank God— hero he is I " cried Tyr- 
 rell. 
 
 " Put down your light ! " exclaimed the 
 miner, who had already put his own out of 
 his hand, and, with one vigorous eflbrt, had 
 turned Hugh upon his back. " Dash your 
 water over his face — now for it ! " and he 
 seized Hugh's shoulders, motioning to Tyr- 
 rell to assist. Gasping, giddy, and so faint 
 that they could scarcely stand, they half car- 
 ried, half dragged him along between them 
 to the opening of the excavation. The gases 
 had by this time been considerably diluted 
 by the outside air finding its way in ; but 
 still the atmosphere was horrible. The lights 
 burned dimly, and both Tyrrell and his com- 
 panion felt their strength and consciousness 
 fast leaving them. As at last they reached 
 the bound of safety — the opening in the fall- 
 en wall — Tyrrell staggered, wavered, and fell 
 heavily forward. 
 
 " On — on ! " he gasped, as his companion 
 paused. " Don't stop for me — come back, if 
 you will — but keep on now — on ! " 
 
 His strength had collapsed, but not so his 
 power of command. There was something 
 compelling to obedience in the imperious 
 tones ; and, admonished partly by them, 
 partly by his own increasing faiutness, the 
 young miner kept on. 
 
 It was lucky for Hugh Churchill that he 
 did so. Scarcely had he passed the opening 
 when there came another heavy fall of earth, 
 closing it behind him. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Roland Tvrrkll's last sight — the last, 
 he fancied, that he should ever have of 
 V worldly things — was of that falling barrier 
 which shut him, in poisonous darkness, from 
 the sights and sounds of men. After that, he 
 knew nothing more. 
 
 He knew nothing of the sensation which 
 the news of his entombment made, nor how 
 Mr. Beresford himself rushed down into the 
 mine, nor how yolunteers flocked to the work 
 of his rescue, nor yet how zealously the men 
 
 labored to save him who had only a little 
 before denounced them as cowards. 
 
 But when Margaret Churchill, who was 
 kneeling by her unconscious yet living broth- 
 er, heard the news, she uttered a cry which 
 those around her never forgot. 
 
 "It is my fault!" she cried. "It is my 
 fault! /urged him to. go ! I begged him to 
 save Hugh ! But I never feared this — I never 
 thought that he would give his own life — 
 my God ! what have I done ! " 
 
 It was easier to ask than to answer. The 
 men below worked with a will on the fallen 
 earth, which, being light, gave way readily to 
 their shovels ; but not one of them dared to 
 hope that they would find Tyrrell alive. They 
 knew too well the terrible power of the agent 
 at work within. 
 
 " I don't think there's more than a shadow 
 of a chance for the poor fellow," the superin- 
 tendent said. " But we can only do for him 
 what he did for Churchill — give him the 
 benefit of that. — So work away, for God's 
 sake, boys ! every second of time counts 
 against him." 
 
 They knew that as well as the speaker 
 did, and scarcely needed to be urged to ex- 
 pedition. They worked as they had seldom, 
 even in their stalwart lives of labor, worked 
 before. Whetlier it was merely the universal 
 human sympathy for human suSeriug — which 
 at such times strikes a magnetic chord to 
 make men brothers — or whether they were 
 moved to special interest by the courage of 
 the gallant gentleman dying within, no one 
 could tell. Assuredly they could not have 
 told themselves. People accustomed to 
 analyzing motives do not pause for such a 
 process at moments of supreme excitement. 
 Still less are those who have never done such 
 a thing likely to choose such a time to begin. 
 It did not matter what sentiment it was, when 
 the heart sent force enough into those sturdy 
 arms to demolish in a very short time — 
 though time which seemed horribly long to 
 the passive lookers-on — the awful tomb of 
 Nature's fashioning. Then they found that 
 he was lying immediately beyond the fallen 
 earth, and that the two lanterns which had 
 been left were still burning, though very 
 dimly. 
 
 Drawn forth into purer air, they thought 
 they detected signs of life ; but no one could 
 be sure of this. It was true there was some 
 ground of hope in the fact that the lights 
 
58 
 
 HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 had not been totally extinguished, and that 
 he had not been buried much more than fif- 
 teen or twenty minutes ; but no man was 
 bold enough to say, " He will live ! " nor even 
 "He is alive!" 
 
 " Get him up into the hands of the doctors 
 as quick as possible," Mr. Beresford said. 
 " Good Heavens ! what a piece of work this 
 has been ! " 
 
 Up from the under-world into the light 
 of God's blessed sky he was accordingly 
 taken — a far more deathly-seeming man than 
 Hugh Churchill had been, or even than those 
 poor victims drawn forth, stone-dead, from 
 beneath the avalanche of fallen earth. Un- 
 der the influence of powerful restoratives, 
 Churchill was beginning to revive a little, 
 and to comprehend, in a measure, where he 
 was and what had happened. 
 
 " Tyrrell ! " he repeated, faintly, as he 
 heard the name passing from lip to lip 
 around him, for just at that moment Tyrrell 
 was brought forth, and laid down, as it 
 chanced, almost exactly at the feet of the 
 brother and sister. To the surprise of all 
 present, Margaret Churchill rose at once, 
 and, going to his side, knelt down by him, 
 gazing into the pallid face, feeling the pulse- 
 less hands. 
 
 " He has given his life for yours, Hugh," 
 she said, at last, looking up at her bewil- 
 dered brother, with a ghastly smile on her 
 quivering lips. " I think you may be satis- 
 fied that your vendetta is ended now." 
 
 He had, indeed, given his life so far as 
 the will to do so went, but not as far as the 
 actual fact was concerned. The physicians, 
 who now came up, told Margaret that he was 
 still alive. " He has wonderful vital force," 
 they said, " and it has enabled him to sur- 
 vive an ordeal that would have killed a 
 weaker man. But he is not out of danger 
 yet. He may never recover consciousness, 
 or, if he does, an attack of illness may prob- 
 ably follow. We will apply all possible re- 
 storatives, and then he should be taken away 
 from here at once. Does anybody know 
 where his lodgings are ? The Tyrrell house 
 was rented last week." 
 
 Margaret knew where those lodgings were, 
 but she held her peace as the men around 
 shook their heads and disclaimed any knowl- 
 edge of Mr. Tyrrell's place of abode. " Never 
 mind about that," she said, impatiently, to 
 the doctor who had spoken. " It is time 
 
 enough to talk of where you will take him 
 when he is ready to be taken anywhere." 
 
 This was true enough. The process of 
 restoring him, therefore, went on for some 
 time at the mouth of the fatal shaft, with 
 men and women of all kinds looking on — 
 grief and death present in their most awful 
 forms — and the petty, commonplace world 
 thrusting itself forward now and then in the 
 person of some newspaper reporter, who, 
 having been spared from work on the flood 
 to chronicle this new horror, came up to 
 question the miners, the officials, the doctors, 
 the half-restored victims — anybody and every- 
 body, without regard to time or place. 
 
 After a while, the physicians seemed to 
 agree that Tyrrell would very likely recover. 
 "He will not come to himself for some time 
 yet," they said ; " but, with the liberal 
 aid of restoratives and stimulants, he'll do 
 now." 
 
 It was after this decision that Margaret, 
 who had, meanwhile, exchanged a few words 
 with Hugh, came forward and spoke. 
 
 " Our cottage is near by," she said ; 
 " Mr. Tyrrell must be taken there. He 
 risked his life to save my brother, and I 
 should never forgive myself if I let him 
 pass out of my sight until he is again re- 
 stored to health." 
 
 She announced this determination with so 
 much quiet firmness and dignity that no one 
 gainsayed her. Indeed, nobody had any right 
 to do so. Roland Tyrrell had no relations, 
 and but few friends, in Ridgeford. There 
 was no one to oppose a rival claim for the 
 possession of this weak, unconscious man, 
 whose only sense of returning life was a ter- 
 rible, giddy sickness. 
 
 He did not know where they were taking 
 him — in fact, he didn't care. As in a dream, 
 he was aware that people came and went 
 about him ; that masculine voices talked over 
 him ; that a gentle hand now and then touched 
 him with the magic art of soothing which some 
 women possess ; and that, finally, he lapsed 
 into a sleep too deep even for such dreams as 
 these. 
 
 "When he awoke, he felt as bewildered as 
 Margaret had been on Iter awaking under 
 somewhat similar circumstances. He could 
 not remember for some time what had hap- 
 pened, nor why he felt so weak and faint. 
 Even when he mastered his recollection — up 
 to the point of the falling earth in the mine — 
 
HUGH'S YEXDETTA. 
 
 5D 
 
 he could not imagine bow he hail been trans- 
 ported from that prison, dreary and hopeless 
 as Dante's hell, to this boudoir-like chamber, 
 with its dainty furniture and picture-hung 
 walls. 
 
 At last, however, he gave up the effort of 
 fatiguing his brain with conjectures, and de- 
 cided to wait patiently for an explanation of 
 the mystery. As if to reward his philosophy, 
 it was not long before it came. The handle 
 of the door turned softly, the door itself 
 opened cautiously, and he heard a voice, 
 which he would have recognized among ten 
 thousand, saying, in a subdued key : 
 
 " Now take care and don't make a noise, 
 Hugh. Go in very gently and tell me if he is 
 still asleep." 
 
 Hugh ! Roland Tyrrell's dark eyes opened 
 yet wider than they had done before at sound 
 of that name, and it was those eyes which 
 Churchill first encountered when he entered 
 the room with elaborate caution. 
 
 " By Jove ! " he said, and evinced symp- 
 toms of beating an immediate retreat. 
 
 But Tyrrell frustrated this intention by 
 lifting himself a little, and holding out the 
 hand which he had once declared his inten- 
 tion of never offering again to Hugh Churchill. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you again alive 
 and well," he said. 
 
 The words were not very much, but the 
 tone was a good deal, and touched Hugh by 
 its evident sincerity. He came forward and 
 wrung the extended hand with an almost pain- 
 ful force. 
 
 " Do you think I don't know that I owe it 
 to you ? " he said. " I never thought to owe 
 any thing — at least any thing 7nore — to one 
 of your name, Mr. Tyrrell, but, despite my 
 will, you have made me your debtor for my 
 life." 
 
 This did not sound like a very gracious 
 acknowledgment, but perhaps Roland Tyrrell 
 understood it. At least he smiled slightly. 
 
 " Don't let the obligation weigh upon 
 you," he said. " Look upon it not as a debt 
 incurred, but as a debt paid. I hope I should 
 have done the same for anybody, but I was 
 especially glad to do it for you. We got you 
 out just in time," he went on, " and now pray 
 tell me how they got me out, and what is the 
 matter with my head ? It surges like a roll- 
 ing sea whenever I move." 
 
 Hugh having satisfied his curiosity on these 
 points, and told him much that he himself 
 
 only knew from the report of others, Tyrrell 
 next inquired where he was. 
 
 " It can't be," he said, remembering the 
 sound of Margaret's voice, " tluit I am in 
 your house." 
 
 " My sister thought it only fair that she 
 should return your hospitality," Hugh said, 
 thinking to turn off the matter with a jest. 
 " Seriously, you did not think that we were 
 going to send j'ou to a hospital or a boarding- 
 house when you had just risked — yes, and by 
 Jove ! came within an inch of losing — your 
 life to save mine ?" he added, a little indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 " I — upon my honor, I never thought of 
 it at all," Tyrrell answered. " My head — con- 
 found it ! — had not been in much of a condi- 
 tion for thinking. But it is very good, very 
 kind of you to have me here." 
 
 " If it had not been for you, / should not 
 be here," Hugh said, bluntly. " I generally 
 try to pay my debts — after a fashion, at least. 
 Oh, I had quite forgotten ! " as a knock at 
 the door was followed by the entrance of a 
 small servant and a breakfast-tray, " Mar- 
 garet wants to know if you will be well 
 enough to come down after you have had 
 your breakfast. There's a couch in the par- 
 lor where you can be comfortable, and you'll 
 find it dull up here, for I must go over to the 
 mines." 
 
 '' Of course I will come down," said Tyr- 
 rell. " What is the matter with me ? I am not 
 sick." 
 
 " A man can't inhale mephitie air with 
 impunity," Hugh answered. " It will be sev- 
 eral days before you are all right again. I 
 had a turn with it once, but not like this." 
 
 Mr. Tyrrell found, indeed, that a man 
 could not inhale mephitie air with impunity 
 when he attempted to dress at a later hour 
 of the morning, and, at a still later period, to 
 make his way down-stairs, tempted beyond 
 all prudence by the thought of that couch in 
 the parlor where Margaret awaited him. 
 
 As he descended slowly, clutching ner- 
 vously at the balustrade, and feeling so ab- 
 surd that he hoped devoutly no servant was 
 in ambush to spy upon his erratic motions, a 
 door below opened, and Miss Churchill her- 
 self stepped into the hall. 
 
 "Is that you, Mr. Tyrrell?" she said, 
 turning her bright face upward. " Oh, how 
 thoughtless I am to forget how faint and gick 
 you must feel ! " 
 
60 
 
 HUGH'S YEXDETTA. 
 
 She ran up to meet liim, and insisted on 
 hi3 leaning on her. 
 
 " I should have kept Hugh for this ser- 
 vice," she said, laughing. " He would have 
 made an excellent support, but I serve as a 
 crutch. I am a good height for a crutch, am 
 I not?" 
 
 " You are good for every thing," he said, 
 gratefully. " How kind it was of you to 
 bring me here ! " 
 
 " Why, where else should you have 
 gone? " she asked. "After all you have suf- 
 fered for Hugh, is it not very little to bring 
 you here and nurse you well ? " 
 
 " I hope I shall not need any nursing." 
 
 " You see I have made elaborate prepara- 
 tions, at least." 
 
 She led him into the parlor as she spoke 
 — that same parlor which he had entered 
 once before in the dusk of the gloaming — 
 and where a broad, low couch was wheeled 
 before the fire, with cushions piled on it, and 
 books and papers near. 
 
 "If you want to read an authentic ac- 
 count of your heroism, there is the morning's 
 Post,'''' she said, with a smile, as (rather 
 against his will) she made him lie down. 
 " Or shall I read it to you ? Hugh says I 
 read very well ; and I was taught early to 
 mind my commas and stops." 
 
 " I would much rather hear j"Ou talk," he 
 said, looking at the chair from which she had 
 plainly risen at the sound of his step. " I 
 can't help thinking that I am dreaming. This 
 is far too good to be true." 
 
 " God knows if anybody had prophesied 
 it to me this time yesterday / should have 
 thought that it was far too good to be true," 
 she said, looking at him with quick-rising 
 tears quenching the laughter in her brown 
 eyes. Then, before he could conceive what 
 she meant to do, she came and knelt down 
 by his couch, laying her two soft hands over 
 one of his. 
 
 " Mr. Tyrrell," she said, " I know that 
 brave men rarely like to be praised or thanked 
 for their noble deeds ; but I cannot keep si- 
 lence. I must — I iL'ill thank you for giving 
 Hugh back to me ; for counting your own 
 life as nothing in comparison to his ; for dar- 
 ing a danger from which any man might well 
 have shrunk, and for — for — oh, for proving to 
 everybody that you are as brave and gener- 
 ous as /always knew you were ! " 
 
 Her eyes glowed, her cheeks flushed, her 
 
 lips quivered. Nobody could have doubted 
 how entirely from her heart those eager words 
 came. Tyrrell— rwho usually had enough of 
 that simplicity which accompanies true cour- 
 age not to like to hear his own achievements 
 praised — would have been something more or 
 less than man if, in this instance, he had not 
 listened with more than pleasure. He tried 
 to stop her, but she would not be stopped. 
 The generous heart was no niggard, and 
 meant to utter all it felt — for Margaret 
 Churchill was not a woman to do things by 
 halves. 
 
 " Do not talk to me like this," he said at 
 last. " I am not used to such sweet flattery. 
 You know — or you ought to know — that I 
 would count any loss or suffering a positive 
 gain which enabled me to serve you. Fate 
 has been kind to me in giving me this op- 
 portunity. I alone, therefore, am its debtor. 
 Hence, all is said." 
 
 " Xo ; all is not said," she answered, im- 
 petuously. " Indeed " — with smiles brimming 
 up into her eyes again, like the April mood of 
 a child — " I really have not an idea when all 
 will be said. Not in a long, very long while, 
 I am sure." 
 
 " You don't mean that you are going to 
 talk for a very long while about me?'''' he 
 asked, slightly dismayed. 
 
 " Yes, about you — and a little, perhaps, 
 about Hugh. Do you know, Mr. Tyrrell, that 
 if I am the happiest woman in the world this 
 morning, it is because I was the most wretch- 
 ed yesterday morning ? "What should I have 
 done if Hugh had been brought back to 
 me as many another woman's best-beloved 
 was brought back to her ? How should I 
 ever have forgiven myself if you had cast 
 your life away in the errand upon which I 
 had been selfish enough to send you ? " 
 
 " If you had not sent me, I should have 
 gone," he said. " This life of mine is not 
 worth so much that I would not freely have 
 given it to save the son of Albert Churchill — 
 your brother, Margaret." 
 
 When he called her Margaret, she colored 
 and drew back. Perhaps she did not ap- 
 prove of so much familiarity, and thought 
 that she had better regain the safer distance 
 of her chair. But Tyrrell's hands closed over 
 hers, and she was captive. 
 
 " Don't go," he said, imploringly. " I re» 
 peat that I am sure this must be a dream ; 
 but, when a man has worked long and weari- 
 
HUGH'S YEXDETTA. 
 
 61 
 
 ly, do not grudge him one short hour of happi- 
 ness ! You talk of yesterday morning and 
 of this morning. Thiuk of the contrast to 
 ■me! Did I not believe then tbat.I was part- 
 ing from you forever ? Yet here I am in the 
 same room where you met me so coldly, and 
 yet where you spoke such brave, gentle words 
 one month ago ! " 
 
 " Ah, but you know you are dreaming ! " 
 she said, smiling. 
 
 " Am I ? " he said, with sudden passion. 
 " Then God knows such a dream is worth 
 more than all my waking life besides ! Yet 
 it is a good thing to be alive ! " he went on a 
 little wistfully. "It is a good thing to come 
 back to the earth which is brightened by such 
 a face as yours. But, Margaret ! what shall 
 I do when that face goes out of my life 
 again ? " 
 
 "It need not go, unless you desire it," 
 she answered, gently. " I told you yesterday 
 that it was impossible we could be friends. I 
 tell you now that we shall be proud and happy 
 to claim you as a friend — ^if you will let us 
 do so." 
 
 " We! Do you mean your brother as well 
 as yourself? " 
 
 " Yes, I speak for Hugh as for myself. 
 ' We Churchills always think alike on a point 
 of honor,'" she said, quoting Hugh's words, 
 half proudly. " You have conquered him, 
 Mr. Tyrrell ; and I can assure you that, when 
 Hugh is conquered once, he is conquered for 
 good." 
 
 " And Hugh's sister, when she is conquered 
 once, is she conquered for good ? " 
 
 " Always," she answered, looking at him 
 with her frank, loyal eyes. " You may count 
 Margaret Churchill your friend for life." 
 
 " Ah, but I fear I shall never be content 
 with Margaret Churchill as my friend for life," 
 he said. " She must be something nearer and 
 dearer to me than that — or else not so much. 
 Her kindness — even such kindness as this — is 
 too dangerously sweet if I cannot hope for 
 more. No, Margaret, it will not do," he 
 went on, as he met her reproachful glance. 
 " I cannot play such an empty part as to talk 
 of friendship with love burning at my heart. 
 I know you think I am ungenerous to speak 
 of this at a time when I seem to have estab- 
 lished a claim upon you; but I am sure you 
 will do me the justice to believe that I have 
 no desire to obtain from your gratitude what 
 I could not win from your love." 
 5 
 
 " Yes, I acquit you of that," she said, in 
 a low voice, " But why not be content — " 
 
 " With your friendship ? That is asking 
 a little too much of a man who has loved you 
 with hopeless passion for five years, Marga- 
 ret. I see how it is," he went on, as she 
 turned her face from him. " You waive the 
 old enmity enough to admit me as a friend, 
 but honor, pride, conscience — God only knows 
 what — will not let you waive it enough to 
 even think of a nearer tie." 
 
 She did not speak, but, by an impatient 
 gesture, she seemed to deny this interpreta- 
 tion. 
 
 " Then it is /—the individual man, not 
 the son of Henry Tyrrell — who have no pow- 
 er to please, no hope to win you," he said, 
 with a quick sigh. " Well, there are some 
 things that come not at one's desire, and 
 which no man is strong enough to win. The 
 fancy of a woman's heart, they say, is one of 
 these. But you might have let me think that 
 it was the old vendetta, Margaret. You 
 would have been none the poorer, and I 
 much the richer for that consolation." 
 
 " Did I say luhat it was ? " she asked, 
 suddenly flashing her face round upon him 
 with impetuous passion burning on her cheeks 
 and flooding her eyes. " Did I even — even 
 say it was any thing ? " 
 
 " Margaret ! " he cried. 
 
 He sprang up, but, as he did so, she tore 
 her hands from his grasp, and would have 
 retreated if he had not caught her in his 
 arms. 
 
 " Let mo go, Mr. Tyrrell," she said. " This 
 is not generous." 
 
 " One word, Margaret," he said. " You 
 must answer the question now which you did 
 not answer yesterday. Tell me only this : if 
 you and I had met as other people meet — no 
 barrier of past bitterness between us — could 
 you have learned to love me then ? If you 
 can only say 'Yes' — Margaret, trust me, 
 no effort shall be wanting on my part that 
 you may learn that lesson yet," 
 
 He spoke with a passion that might have 
 touched any woman's heart to the core, but 
 Margaret Churchill only looked up in his face 
 and laughed. 
 
 " Do you think love is ever learned? " she 
 asked. "If so, it must be an exotic, Mr. 
 Tyrrell, which cannot be worth very much.. 
 I do not know, but it seems to me that the 
 only love which is worth receiving — and doub- 
 
G2 
 
 HUGH'S VENDETTA. 
 
 ly the only which is worth giving — is that 
 which comes as unfettered and untaught (I 
 bad almost said unsought), as the free sun- 
 light from heaven." 
 
 " And that love, Margaret ? " 
 
 She laughed again ; but something in the 
 eager, anxious pleading of his face made her 
 answer him without further prevarication : 
 
 " That Ipve," she said, softly, " I have 
 always given you." 
 
 THE END. 
 
MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 << ~l TELEN", is it possible that tou have 
 .11 not finished that letter yet ? " 
 It was a weary and slightly-plaintive voice 
 that came from one of the deep bay-windows 
 of the library at Trefalden Manor, and made 
 the girl addressed raise her head quickly 
 from the table over which she was bend- 
 ing. 
 
 " Why, Rafe 1 " she said, with a little 
 start ; then added, in an ordinary tone : " I 
 did not know that you were there, dear. Yes, 
 I will finish in a minute. But it is such an 
 important letter that I must be specially care- 
 ful about it, you know." 
 
 " Xo, I don't know," responded the same 
 voice, this time a little perversely. " I can't 
 see any reason why you should be specially 
 careful in addressing Miss Cheriton." 
 
 " Consider Miss Cheriton in the light of 
 Harry's ^«cee — is there no reason, then? " 
 " Less than ever, if that be possible." 
 " "Well, I have not time to argue with you 
 now. I must finish the letter and take it to 
 Aunt Maida for inspection. After that, I 
 shall be at your service." 
 
 Silence after this — silence only disturbed 
 by the movement of Helen's pen across the 
 paper, and the soft swaying of the green 
 boughs that drooped before the open window. 
 A few stray gleams of sunshine only found 
 admittance through the jealous curtain of 
 shade, and danced and flickered about — some 
 on the book-lined walls, some on the polished 
 floor — as the summer breeze capriciously 
 
 tossed the rustling leaves outside. One of 
 these golden intruders fell across the girl's 
 white dress, danced to and fro across her pa- 
 per, and seemed to linger tenderly over the 
 slender hand as she made a final flourish of 
 her pen at the bottom of the page, and then 
 pushed it from her. 
 
 When she lifted her face it looked pale 
 and somewhat weary. Yet, even with these 
 disadvantages, the summer sunshine might 
 have travelled far before it would have found 
 a lovelier face on which to rest. The com- 
 plexion was stainless of color as marble, the 
 features were exquisitely delicate, the eyes 
 large and dark, and the hair of that rich, red 
 gold which is at once the rarest and most 
 beautiful tint known to Nature or to art. 
 There was something exceedingly quaiut in 
 her style of beauty ; and, notwithstanding 
 that one glance at her face might have proved 
 to the dullest comprehension that here was 
 one of the exceptional women who could say 
 with Cleopatra — 
 
 " Like the moon, I make 
 The ever-shifting current of the blood, 
 According to my humor, ebb and flow " — 
 
 there was also a childlike simplicity and 
 grace about her which made a strange and 
 attractive contrast to her extraordinary beau- 
 ty. Indeed, the full revelation of this beauty 
 had yet to come to Helen Trefalden. As she 
 stood up now, and, pushing back her hair with 
 a tired gesture, looked into a large mirror op- 
 posite, she knew, of course — she would have 
 been blind if she had not known — what rare 
 loveliness was imaged there. But she real- 
 
64 
 
 MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 ized no more than the merest child what a 
 potent power in the world — a power setting 
 at defiance all other powers — such loveliness 
 could be made. 
 
 " Rafe, dear," she said, " on considera- 
 tion, I won't take this letter to Aunt Maida 
 just now. She is probably asleep, and I 
 should only disturb her. Shall I bring the 
 German grammar, and let us study our lesson 
 together ? ' 
 
 "Not to-day," was the answer. "It is 
 too warm for German. In fact, I think we 
 have fagged away at it long enough. Come 
 here — let us be idle and talk." 
 
 Helen obeyed, but it was rather slowly. 
 Her lagging step, and a slight contraction of 
 the brows, seemed to indicate that she would 
 rather have been left alone ; but still she 
 summoned a smile as she drew back the cur- 
 tains and faced a small, delicate cripple — boy 
 or man, it was hard to say which — who lay 
 on a couch under the open window. 
 
 " Well," she said, " here I am. What 
 will you have ? " 
 
 " Sit down," he said. " I want to look at 
 you." 
 
 She sat down without any demur, and re- 
 turned the gaze which he bent on her. Yet 
 this was no trifling thing to do, for many 
 people found Rafe Trefalden's eyes exceed- 
 ingly hard to meet. People, in especial, who 
 had any thing to conceal, always grew un- 
 comfortable when those bright, hazel eyes 
 rested on them — eyes which looked as if they 
 might have read, not only the face, but the 
 heart and mind as well ; which were luminous 
 with intellect, full of a certain satirical hu- 
 mor, and sometimes ( not always ) shining 
 with a tender beauty which made his cousin 
 think that he had not been ill-named Raphael, 
 after the angel of God. Although he looked 
 so young, he had reached the full years of 
 manhood ; though, as far as practical useful- 
 ness went, manhood was to him at most only 
 an empty name. He had been a cripple since 
 early childhood. But for this, " he might 
 have been any thing," his teachers always 
 said ; and his parents — whose only other son 
 was by no means intellectually gifted — felt 
 the disappointment so bitterly that it almost 
 weaned their affection from the unconscious 
 cause of it. There was no want of kindness, 
 no want of tender and considerate care ; but 
 there was a want of that golden sympathy 
 without which human hearts shrivel and be- 
 
 come like unto the dust beneath our feet. 
 Into this state Rafe Trefalden was drifting 
 when an influence which was to save him en- 
 tered his Ufe. He was fifteen when a young- 
 er brother of his father died, leaving an insol- 
 vent estate and an orphan child. The estate 
 Mr. Trefalden handed over to the dead man's 
 creditors ; the child he brought home and 
 adopted into his own family. " As she grows 
 older, she will be of great service to you," he 
 said to his wife, who was a languid invalid ; 
 and his prophecy was amply verified : for, as 
 the little Helen grew older, she became vir- 
 tually her aunt's right hand, doing every 
 thing brightly and cheerfully which a paid 
 companion would have done as a matter of 
 taskwork and duty. But, above all, she was 
 Rafe's friend, companion, pupil, and sister. 
 The affection between these two was singu- 
 larly touching in its depth and intensity. 
 For ten years they had shared every feeling 
 in common, until of late a slight cloud of re- 
 serve had risen between them which Rafe 
 was plainly determined should be dissipated 
 now. 
 
 " Helen," he said, quite abruptly, " of 
 course nobody else could see it; but I see 
 that you are sufiering." 
 
 Helen smiled — not brightly, nor yet sadly, 
 but with an expression between the two. 
 
 " Not much, dear," she said. " And you 
 may trust me that it will soon be less." 
 
 " It almost kills me to think that a man 
 like that has power to make you suffer for a 
 moment." 
 
 " Don't blame him, Rafe," she said, with a 
 sudden mixture of gentleness and contempt. 
 " He is weak, you know, and easily swayed by 
 whatever face is near him. Then it would 
 have been hard if he had been bound by a 
 boy and girl fancy. He went into the world 
 and forgot it. I stayed here and remembered 
 it. That is all." 
 
 " He is the first Trefalden whom I ever 
 knew or heard of wishout a sense of honor," 
 said Rafe, bitterly. 
 
 " That is where you do him injustice," 
 said Helen, quickly. " I am sure he does not 
 even imagine that he was in any manner 
 bound to me. Don't you know how different- 
 ly a man of the world looks at these things ? 
 I assure you I do not blame any thing but my 
 own folly. I understand all the rest so 
 well." 
 
 " And you don't understand that ? " 
 
MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 65 
 
 " Xo, I don't understand that. However, 
 it is not any thing which it matters about un- 
 derstanding. What is to be borne, I can 
 bear, Rafe. You may be sure of that." 
 
 " I am sure of it, dear," said Rafe, gently. 
 
 " And pray remember that I am neither 
 so weak nor so unjust as to feel any bitterness 
 toward Miss Cheriton. Every word of that 
 letter I wrote as willingly as Aunt Maida her- 
 self could have done. When she comes, I 
 shall be as warmly disposed to like her as 
 every one of Harry's kindred should be dis- 
 posed to like Harry's future wife." 
 
 " Is that a cut at me, Helen ? " 
 
 " Do I ever make cuts at you, Rafe ? " 
 
 " It sounded like it," said Rafe, laughing 
 a little. " You know very well that one, at 
 least, of Harry's kindred is by no means dis- 
 posed to like Harry's future wife." 
 
 " You don't know it, Rafe, but you're 
 prejudiced." 
 
 " I prejudiced ! " said Rafe, indignantly. 
 " How often have I told you that I am a phi- 
 losopher, Helen, and that philosophers are 
 never prejudiced ! You are like all the rest of 
 your sex. You don't understand that calm, 
 dispassionate mode of judging which puts any 
 bias of like or dislike entirely aside." 
 
 " Xo, I don't understand it," said Helen, 
 smiling faintly; "and I am inclined to think 
 that, notwithstanding all your pains, I never 
 shall understand it. There is one thing, how- 
 ever, Rafe, that you must promise me. Meet 
 Miss Cheriton kindly, and don't chill her as 
 you chill some people." 
 
 " Must I promise it for your sake, Helen ? " 
 
 " Yes, promise it for my sake ; and re- 
 member that I shall exact a strict perform- 
 ance of the promise." 
 
 "I don't think I ever made a promise 
 which I did not keep," said he, gravely. " And 
 yet my heart misgives me about this girl and 
 her visit, Helen. Somehow or other I am 
 sure that harm will come of it." 
 
 " I don't see any possible harm that can 
 come of it," said Helen, flushing. " You need 
 not fear for me, Rafe, if that is what you 
 mean." 
 
 " I never feared for you in my life, dear," 
 answered Rafe. " It would be rather late to 
 begin now." 
 
 It is one thing, however, to make an as- 
 sertion, and quite another to fulfil it in spirit 
 and letter. Rafe Trefalden would have scorned 
 himself if he had suspected for a moment that 
 
 there was any need to "fear" for his cousin 
 — any need to think that she was not able to 
 guard her own dignity — but his heart yearned 
 over her pain almost as a mother's might have 
 done; and day by day he grew more nervous 
 as the time appointed for his brother's return 
 approached. 
 
 It was not more than a week after Helen 
 wrote her letter to Miss Cheriton that this 
 august personage arrived. He came late one 
 night, and was not seen by any of the family 
 until the next morning, when, descending to 
 the breakfast-room, he found that, instead of 
 the domestic circle he had hoped to see as- 
 sembled, his brother Rafe was in solitary oc- 
 cupation of the field. There had never been 
 any love lost between these two brothers, and 
 they exchanged a very indiflerent greeting 
 now. 
 
 " So, you've got back at last, Harry ! " 
 said Rafe. " How are you, pray ? " 
 
 " Very well, indeed, thank you," respond- 
 ed Harry, carelessly. " How are you ? " 
 
 " I am as usual, thanks." 
 
 "And how are all the rest? How is my 
 mother ? " 
 
 " Much better within the last week or 
 two, I think." 
 
 " And my father and Helen ? " 
 
 " Quite well, I believe." 
 
 A few more domestic commonplaces were 
 exchanged, and then the elder brother saun- 
 tered to the window. 
 
 " It looks pretty out on the terrace," he 
 said. " I believe I will take a turn, until 
 breakfast is ready. You will excuse me, 
 Rafe ? " 
 
 But, much to his surprise and not at all 
 to his gratification, Rafe volunteered to ac- 
 company him. "You can't go far," he said ; 
 " and I am good for a short distance. Will 
 you hand me my crutches, there ? " 
 
 The crutches were handed over, and they 
 set out together. The summer morning met 
 them with a perfect burst of loveliness, as 
 they stepped through the window. Roses 
 were climbing and clustering everywhere, 
 while beyond were the smooth lawn, park- 
 like shrubbery, and, farther still — over beyond 
 the orchards and meadows — a curtain of mist 
 which marked the river, as it wound along 
 the rich lowlands, the soft, blue hills melting 
 away on either side. Trefalden gave a slight 
 whistle as he stood still and looked around. 
 It had been two years since he saw the Manor 
 
66 
 
 MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 last, and all impressions faded quickly from 
 his mind. 
 
 " By Jove, it is lovely ! " he said. " I 
 don't believe there's a prettier place in the 
 country. Rafe, I never saw any thing to 
 equal it." 
 
 " It is certainly lovely," ?aid Rafe, to 
 whom the Manor was, next to Helen, the 
 dearest thing in the world. " I did not know 
 how it would strike a travelled gentleman like 
 yourself," he went on, with an inflection of 
 sarcasm, which his brother knew very well. 
 " I am gratified to see that you appreciate 
 it." 
 
 " By George ! nobody could help appreci- 
 ating it," said Trefalden. " I don't think it 
 could be improved. By-the-by, are any of 
 the country neighbors 'worth cultivating ? We 
 shall need to be quite gay in the course of 
 the next fortnight, you know." (Ominous si- 
 lence on Rafe's part.) " Miss Cheriton would 
 die of the vapors, if we condemned her to a 
 family party all the time. Have any plans for 
 her amusement been made ? " 
 
 " That is more than I can tell you. I 
 have made none. I won't answer for the 
 others." 
 
 " You see she leaves the gayest kind of 
 a life in the city, to come down here ; and 
 so, of course — By Jove, Rafe ! who is 
 that ? " 
 
 " Have you managed to forget Helen as 
 well as the Manor, in the course of two 
 years ? " asked Rafe, with^ot a little bitter- 
 ness. 
 
 But, for once, the bitterness escaped his 
 brother's ear. He stood still and gazed in 
 astonished admiration at the picture which 
 a turn of the path disclosed to him. It was 
 only Helen ; but Helen was in herself a mar- 
 vel, on that bright summer morning, standing 
 among the roses like another Proserpine. She 
 did not see the two young men, for her face 
 was turned aside as she clipped right and left 
 with her large garden-shears, and filled the 
 basket which hung on her arm with roses of 
 every hue and kind. As they paused, she 
 was in the act of reaching after a large bud 
 which hung just above her head. Catching 
 the bough, she sent a shower of glittering 
 dew and perfumed petals down upon her face, 
 but, in spite of both, broke off the coveted 
 blossom triumphantly, and then, turning, all 
 in a glow, faced her cousins. 
 
 Rafe, who watched her nervously, was re- 
 
 lieved to see that she neither started nor 
 turned pale. She looked a little surprised, 
 then smiled, and advanced with outstretched 
 hand. 
 
 " "Welcome back, Harry," she said. " We 
 began to fear that you had quite forsaken 
 us." 
 
 " There was no danger of that," said Har- 
 ry, a little breathlessly. "I am amazingly 
 glad to get back," he went on, holding her 
 hand, and gazing into her face with an admi- 
 ration which enraged Rafe. " What have you 
 been doing to yourself, Helen ? " he cried, sud- 
 denly. *' You were not always as pretty as 
 this, surely?" 
 
 " One is not able to decide upon one's own 
 looks," said Helen, smiling ; " but I don't think 
 I have improved much in these two years. In- 
 deed, Aunt Maida says that I have decidedly 
 gone off." 
 
 " Mamma must be blind, then. — Rafe, 
 don't you think that she has improved won- 
 derfully?" 
 
 But, before Rafe could reply, Helen inter- 
 posed. 
 
 " You ought to remember I have not been 
 accustomed to compliments since you went 
 away. Besides, I can't stop to hear them 
 now. Breakfast will be ready — I only came 
 out for some roses to fill the vases." 
 
 " And we only came out in search of you," 
 said Harry. "So we will go back now." 
 
 Back accordingly they went — Rafe limp- 
 ing grimly along, while his brother's ready 
 compliments flowed with a facility which 
 proved an extensive practice in this branch 
 of social accomplishment. With this, as with 
 every thing else, however, there is a great 
 deal in being inspired ; and no better inspira- 
 tion could have been asked than Helen's face, 
 as it looked up at her cousin. During all 
 these years spent among women who were 
 famous beauties and belles, Henry Trefalden 
 had seen no face to compare with it, and the 
 realization of this fact came to him with an 
 amazement too deep for words. 
 
 Occasionally he had thought, with half- 
 amused tenderness, of the pretty cousin far 
 away in the green solitudes of the Manor, for 
 whom he had once had a boy's sentimental 
 fancy ; but that the pretty cousin was in 
 reality such a woman as the one before him, 
 had never for a moment occurred to his mind. 
 He had forgotten her face as completely as 
 he had forgotten to how much that sentimen- 
 
» 
 
 SI 
 
 
 
 > 
 o 
 
 pq 
 
MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 67 
 
 tal fancy of which he thought so lightly had 
 bound him. Such volatile, impressionable 
 people are common enough in the world. No 
 man would have stood more stanchly by a 
 point of honor (understood as such) than 
 Trefalden ; but, what with a mind from which 
 impressions were easily effaced, and a heart 
 on which impressions were easily made, and 
 a convenient habit of ignoring whatever 
 chanced to be in the least degree disagree- 
 able or embarrassing, he had managed to 
 drift into a position which would have star- 
 tled him if he could have seen it with — the 
 eyes of his brother, for instance. 
 
 Fortunately, however, we do 7ici " see our- 
 selves as others see us," and so we are spared 
 some very shocking disclosures with regard 
 to the opinion in which we are held by our 
 friends and relatives. Trefalden was in the 
 best possible spirits, the best possible humor 
 with himself and everybody else, as he saun- 
 tered along between his brother and his cous- 
 in, both of whom were puzzled, and one of 
 whom was indignant at his light unconscious- 
 ness. 
 
 "What does he mean?" thought Helen, 
 •wistfully. " Surely he has not forgotten — 
 every thing ! " 
 
 "The insolent puppy!" thought Eafe. 
 " He believes he can amuse himself with 
 Helen, whenever he has nothing better to 
 do." 
 
 Trefalden, meanwhile, was talking in the 
 gayest and, as he flattered himself, the hap- 
 piest strain imaginable. 
 
 " Whijt delightful times we used to have 
 Helen ! " he was saying. " They would be 
 worth living over again, wouldn't they? Do 
 you remember our rows on the river ? By- 
 the-by, is the boat in good order ? I must 
 certainly take you out again, and then we can 
 talk over the old days at our leisure." 
 
 "I don't think you would find much that 
 was worth talking over," said Helen. " Old 
 days do well enough for sentiment, you know, 
 but not at all for active interest. — Ah ! we 
 are just in time. Breakfast is ready, and 
 here comes Uncle George." 
 
 Mr. Trefalden entered the dining - room 
 door as the group of three made their ap- 
 pearance through the window. He was a 
 handsome, middle-aged gentleman, of very 
 reserved manners, who shook hands with his 
 son as if they had met the week before, and 
 nodded to Rafe and Helen. 
 
 " Glad to see you back, Harry," he said. 
 " I hope you mean to spend some time with 
 us. The country's pleasant just now, and 
 quite a relief from the city, I should think. 
 I trust you left Miss Cheriton well ? " 
 
 " Quite well, thank you, sir," said Harry, 
 who knew his father too well to feel at all 
 chilled by this reception. " She sent her 
 kind regards to my mother and yourself, and 
 hopes to see you soon," he went on. " Her 
 aunt and herself think of coming down next 
 week." 
 
 "Your mother is very much pleased with 
 her letter," said Mr. Trefalden, as if the whole 
 affair was a matter of the most profound in- 
 difference to him. " I believe she mentioned 
 the 20th as the date on which she will leave 
 the city — was it not, Helen? " 
 
 During breakfast Mr. Henry Trefalden 
 decidedly monopolized conversation, talking 
 gayly of himself, his friends, and affairs, es- 
 pecially his plans for the next few weeks, d 
 propos of which he announced, in an off-hand 
 kind of way, that "Latimer" was coming 
 down to spend some time with him. 
 
 Questioned regarding who Latimer might 
 be, it transpired that this was a person whom 
 not to know argued one's self unknown. 
 
 "Is it possible you never heard of him?" 
 Trefalden asked. " So much for human great- 
 ness — and Latimer is a very great man in his 
 own circle." 
 
 " Is it the Latimer of whom you used 
 to talk when you were at college ? " asked 
 Helen. 
 
 " The very same." 
 
 " And in what respect has he become dis- 
 tinguished ? " 
 
 " In his profession, for one thing. Young 
 as he is, he has already the reputation of 
 being one of the ablest pleaders and most 
 brilliant speakers at the bar. His intellect 
 is said to be so keen that even the oldest 
 lawyers quail before him." 
 
 " I hope we shall not imitate their exam- 
 ple," said Helen, laughing. "And is he 
 equally a conquering hero in society ? " 
 
 "Equally so. In fact, he has been the 
 rage for a season or two ; and any one who 
 did not know him intimately could not have 
 imagined that the indifferent hero of dinner- 
 parties and balls was, at the same time, the 
 hardest-working student possible to imagine. 
 In his profession he has an amount of energy 
 that I have never seen surpassed ; but in so- 
 
68 
 
 MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 ciety you would think that his sole aim in 
 life was to kill time and avoid being bored." 
 
 " He must be very affected." 
 
 " No, for there's a certain charm about 
 him with it all. Women, by the scores, fall 
 in love with him ; and it is only friendly to 
 give you a hint to look after your own heart." 
 
 " Thank you," said Helen, smiling. Then 
 she rose from the table. " I must go to Aunt 
 Maida now," she said. "I -will send you 
 word whether or not she feels well enough to 
 see you this morning." 
 
 "Bring me word, please," said be, rising 
 also, and walking with her into the hall. 
 " Don't press mamma to see me, if she's not 
 well enough," he went on. " You know I am 
 good for a month at least. Indeed, I am not 
 sure that I shall ever go away again. Every 
 thing is so charming." 
 
 " I am glad you think so," said she, qui- 
 etly; "but our monotonous life would soon 
 grow very tiresome to a fashionable gentle- 
 man like yourself. If you support it with 
 philosophy for a month, I shall be aston- 
 ished." 
 
 " That is because you don't know — " 
 
 " What? " (as he paused.) 
 
 " Oh ! a good many things. Myself for 
 one — yourself for another." 
 
 " And Miss Cheriton for a third, no doubt. 
 Well, I trust you may find us moderately en- 
 tertaining. At least, we have every desire to 
 be so." 
 
 " And, with the desire, the power — not to 
 be moderately entertaining, but to be danger- 
 ously charming" — (adding, as he saw her col- 
 or and draw back) — "I think I ought in con- 
 science to write and warn Latimer." 
 
 " Do," said she, trying to speak lightly ; 
 " I give you leave to paint me in any colors 
 sufficiently formidable to keep him away. 
 And now a truce to nonsense, Harry — pray 
 move aside and let me pass. Aunt Maida 
 will wonder what keeps me." 
 
 " And when shall I see you again ? " 
 
 "At dinner, probably." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! " (imploringly.) " I shall 
 smoke a cigar on the terrace, and wait for 
 you — as I used to do. Pray, come, Helen ; I 
 have so much to talk to you about." 
 
 " It is impossible for me to promise," said 
 Helen, coldly. " Aunt Maida usually keeps 
 me some time. Good-morning." 
 
 " I shall certainly look for you, and wait 
 for you," said he. 
 
 But he looked and waited in vain. The 
 morning passed, and no Helen came. Poor 
 Helen ! She was in her own room, lighting a 
 battle with herself, of which that loiterer 
 among the roses never even dreamed. His 
 utter unconsciousness was in a manner worse 
 than if he fully realized all that he had done. 
 " It is I who have been mistaken from first to 
 last," she thought ; and that bitter sense of 
 having given her heart unasked — the most 
 bitter in the world to a sensitive woman — 
 rushed over her like a flood. She could only 
 soothe it by recalling words and tones which 
 Trefalden himself had entirely forgotten, but 
 which would certainly have startled him rude- 
 ly if they could have faced him instead of 
 those pleasant visions which curled before 
 him with the smoke of his cigar. 
 
 II. 
 
 During the next week, Helen had a diffi- 
 cult and very trying part to play, for Trefal- 
 den was one of the large class of men who 
 always make love to the lips that are nearest, 
 without any regard to ties which may bind 
 them to lips farther off. His patronizing fan- 
 cy for his pretty cousin, his continual refer- 
 ence to those past days of which he thought 
 so lightly, and his Sublime unconsciousness of 
 the fact that she desired to avoid him, all con- 
 spired to make this week something of a 
 nightmare to the girl — so much of a night- 
 mare, indeed, that she was heartily glad when 
 the day appointed for Miss Cheriton's arrival 
 drew near. 
 
 Punctual, for once, to an appointed date, 
 this young lady came — her aunt and her maid 
 and her trunks and herself — creating a sensi- 
 ble commotion in the Manor, which had long 
 been unused to such fashionable incursions. 
 Being a beauty and a belle. Miss Cheriton 
 was well used to creating a commotion, how- 
 ever; and it is doubtful if she would have 
 thought that her mission in life had been ac- 
 complished without the eclat and noise which 
 invariably attended her steps. Her aunt was 
 a wealthy and childless widow, who was chief 
 among her loyal subjects, and whose indul- 
 gent partiality was returned by the most op- 
 pressive tyranny that can be imagined. " 
 Louise!" the poor lady would say when un- 
 usually ruthless demands were made upon 
 her time, her patience, or her purse. But 
 the force of expostulation never went further 
 than this, and Louise never failed to come off 
 
MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 69 
 
 victor from any and every conflict that oc- 
 curred. There had been some such faint 
 show of resistance over this visit to Trefalden 
 Manor. Mrs. Surrey had been opposed to it, 
 but Louise had borne down all opposition in 
 her imperious way. " If you don't want to 
 go, auntie, you need not, of course," she 
 said; "but I'm going, you know." In this 
 view of the case, what could poor Mrs. Sur- 
 rey do but go also? "You will be sorry, 
 Louise, if you should not marry young Tre- 
 falden, after all," she said ; " and I know you 
 too well to be certain you'll marry him until I 
 sec you at the altar." "I'm not at all certain 
 myself," returned Louise, carelessly; "but 
 they say it is a beautiful old place, and I 
 mean to go and see it." 
 
 The beautiful old place was accordingly 
 honored by this condescension, and roused 
 by the tide of life that rushed into it. The 
 sober drawing-room of the Manor scarcely 
 seemed like itself, Helen thought, as she 
 looked round, on the evening of Miss Cheri- 
 ton's first appearance. Besides the family 
 and the two newly-arrived guests, was a third 
 stranger who had come down to the city in 
 Miss Cheriton's train, or, at least, on the same 
 train as that young lady. This was Harry's 
 distinguished friend, Mr. Latimer. 
 
 " If I had not been told that he was dis- 
 tinguished, I should never have suspected 
 it," said Helen, aside to Rafe. 
 
 "Xot at first, perhaps," the latter an- 
 swered, " but afterward I think you would. 
 He has more sense than I should have given 
 the man whom Harry described, credit for. 
 Look at his brow and at his eyes ! " 
 
 " But he is not handsome at all," said 
 Helen, half disappointed. Certainly she was 
 right. Mr. Latimer was not handsome — 
 thoroughly high-bred and refined in appear- 
 ance, but undoubtedly not gifted with any 
 trump cards in the way of good looks. He 
 was small and slender, with a thin, dark face, 
 black hair, a heavy black mustache, and eyes 
 that should have been black also, but were, 
 instead, of a deep violet blue, fringed by the 
 longest and darkest of lashes — very hand- 
 some eyes, and eyes that were singularly ex- 
 pressive, but, unfortunately, 'so near-sighted 
 that he could not have recognized his own 
 mother at a distance of ten paces. He man- 
 aged, however, to discover something in Helen 
 which struck him as sufficiently attractive 
 to induce him to cross the floor and make his 
 
 first effort toward cultivating her acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 " Won't the beautiful evening tempt you 
 to follow Miss Cheriton's example and go out 
 on the terrace. Miss Trefalden ? " he asked. 
 
 " Miss Cheriton is a stranger, and has 
 been taken out to admire the view," an- 
 swered Helen, smiling. " You can imagine 
 that it would not have the merit of novelty 
 to me." 
 
 " But I am a stranger, too, and, though 
 views are mostly of small importance to me, 
 owing to my infirmity of vision, still I like to 
 see what can be seen. Perhaps, however" 
 (noticing that she hesitated), " you don't feel 
 inclined to play cicerone? " 
 
 " Indeed, yes. I am too fond of the Manor 
 not to be fond also of showint; it off. — Rafe. 
 will you come ? " 
 
 Mr. Latimer courteously seconded this re- 
 quest; but Rafe had sufficient discretion to 
 excuse himself on the score of dew ; so the 
 others went off alone. The soft, fragrant 
 evening seemed to be holding the world in a 
 spell of beauty when they came out — the 
 west was still glowing, and Venus alone was 
 visible, holding her court with all the clear 
 heaven to herself, above the golden fringe of 
 sunset clouds. 
 
 " It is rather too late for distant effects," 
 said Latimer, " but every thing near at hand 
 is lovely. What an exquisite old place ! Ivy 
 and roses, and — and, as I live, a bed of lilies ! 
 Lilies are one of the few things that still re- 
 tain the aroma of youth for me — I mean the 
 aroma that every thing beautiful has for us 
 in youth. Miss Trefalden, may I have a 
 lily?" 
 
 " As many as you like, Mr. Latimer," said 
 Helen, putting out her hand with a smile. 
 She broke off one of the tall flowers, and, as 
 she turned and held it toward him, Latimer 
 almost caught his breath. At that moment, 
 he could liken her to nothing save the Angel 
 of the Annunciation. The slender, stately 
 figure, dressed in pure white, stood outlined 
 against the golden background of the western 
 sky, and the whole scene, with its accessories 
 — the hair which seemed to make a halo of 
 glory about her head, the stainless lily in her 
 hand — stamped themselves on his memory, 
 and were ever afterward summoned before 
 him by the mere fragrance of that flower, 
 which he had said alone retained for him the 
 aroma of youth. 
 
70 
 
 MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 "Does not this suit you?" asked Helen, 
 ■who saw bis hesitation, but had not vanity 
 enough to suspect its cause. 
 
 " No other one could suit me half as well 
 as the one you have been kind enough to 
 choose for me," he answered, taking it as he 
 spoke. " Now that I have it, it is like many 
 another good gift of earth," he added, philo- 
 sophically — " rather cumbersome and difl5cult 
 to dispose of. What shall I do with it. Miss 
 Trefalden ? It is rather large for my button- 
 hole, don't you think so ? " 
 
 "I'm afraid I must candidly say that I do. 
 Suppose you give it to me if you are tired of 
 it. It will do for my hair." 
 
 " I will give it on one condition." 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " That I may claim it again after you have 
 worn it." 
 
 " There must certainly be something very 
 light about me," thought poor Helen. " Here 
 is another man trying to amuse himself by 
 paying me foolish compliments." Said she 
 aloud, with very graceful dignity, " I'm afraid 
 you forget how many other lilies there are 
 near at hand, Mr. Latimer." 
 
 " For yourself, or for me ? " 
 
 " For either or both. For me, that I may 
 be quite independent of such an arbitrary 
 condition — for you, that you may appreciate 
 how much better fresh lilies are than faded 
 ones." 
 
 "Suppose I have a fancy to prefer a faded 
 one ? " 
 
 " I decline to suppose any thing of the 
 kind. You won't force me to the conclusion 
 that you are a very foolish person, and that 
 would be foolish, you know." 
 
 " Genius has its eccentricities," said Lati- 
 mer, gravely. " Only shallow minds call them 
 folly, and I'm sure you won't force me to 
 the conclusion that you have a shallow 
 mind." 
 
 " I should be very sorry to do so, certain- 
 ly," said Helen, laughing. 
 
 In this manner they broke the ice, and 
 advanced toward acquaintance. From the 
 first, there was an attraction between them — 
 a bond of sympathy, which, in the matter of 
 friendship, is worth every thing else in the 
 ■world put together. It was not so much 
 Helen's rare beauty that struck Latimer, as 
 the sweet, gracious charm of a character 
 which was in truth one of the most thorough- 
 ly sympathetic that he had ever encountered. 
 
 He was a man of keen observation — a man 
 who could read volumes where another would 
 not decipher a line — but it was not so much 
 observation as a certain instinct which drew 
 him toward this girl — this fair, stainless lily, 
 whom Henry Trefalden had once possessed, 
 and cast aside for a pretty French rose of the 
 finest artificial make. 
 
 " Here is our best view," said Helen, paus- 
 ing at an angle of the terrace which over- 
 looked the rolling country for a mile or two 
 around. " It is almost too late to see it now ; 
 but, in daylight — " 
 
 " In daylight it must be lovely," said Lat- 
 imer, who could barely see three yards be- 
 fore him. " We will certainly come out here 
 to-morrow and enjoy it. Then we can — I beg 
 pardon " (as a fan lightly tapped his arm) — 
 " is that you, Miss Cheriton ? " 
 
 " Don't beg pardon for not seeing me," 
 said a silvery voice, which made Helen start 
 in turn. " When two people are so well en- 
 tertained, they don't, as a general rule, see 
 anybody but themselves. Did I hear you 
 really professing to admire the scenery ? " 
 
 " I usually admire as much of it as I can 
 see — which is not very much," said he. "We 
 can afford to be incredulous of beauties that 
 we have never seen." 
 
 "And of some which we do see — is it not 
 so ? I don't mean any thing disrespectful to 
 the country, but I frankly confess that I much 
 prefer animate to inanimate creation — men 
 and women to trees and stones. — Miss Tre- 
 falden, you look quite shocked. If we are to 
 get on at all, I must give you warning that 
 my education has been of the most frivolous 
 kind. I am not superior a bit — am I, Mr. 
 Latimer? I don't care for any thing in the 
 world except the German and flirtation — do I, 
 Mr. Trefalden ? " 
 
 Said Mr. Latimer: "When a lady abuses 
 herself, it is a fixed article of my creed never 
 to contradict her." 
 
 Said Trefalden : " Miss Cheriton can alTord 
 to begin an acquaintance by attempting to 
 depreciate herself." Then, in a lower and 
 more sentimental tone, " You care for a few 
 things in the world besides the German and 
 flirtation, I am sure." 
 
 " Yourself being one, of course," said she, 
 with a laugh. " Pray don't be too sure of 
 that — too much confidence is always unwise. 
 — But Miss Trefalden does not say a word. I 
 think I have certainly shocked her." 
 
MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 71 
 
 *' Does candor ever shock us ? " asked 
 Helen. " Don't we rather admire it ? " 
 
 " When it suits us — perhaps so. Gener- 
 ally, however, it is very disagreeable. If Mr. 
 Latimer, for example, were to tell me at this 
 moment what he thinks of me, I am sure I 
 should find it very disagreeable." 
 
 " May I test that, Miss Cheriton ? " 
 
 " Oh, pray do — your opinion is always so 
 improving. Not in public, though " (quite 
 hastily). " I can depreciate myself, but I 
 will not allow any one else to depreciate me 
 — when I can help it. We will walk back to 
 the house, and you shall give me your dose 
 of candor on the way." 
 
 "Suppose we defer it until we are in the 
 house," said Latimer, who saw her drift very 
 plainly, and had no fancy to abandon Helen 
 for any thing so hackneyed as a flirtation with 
 Miss Cheriton. 
 
 " That means that you are anxious to de- 
 fer it indefinitely. Will the opinion be so very 
 severe that you are afraid I cannot bear it? " 
 
 " There is but one way to answer that 
 question." 
 
 "By letting me hear it, of course. May I 
 take your arm ? Harry and Miss Trefalden 
 will excuse us, I am sure." 
 
 Thus unceremoniously left behind, Helen 
 felt amused, and Trefalden not half so indig- 
 nant as might perhaps be imagined. Louise 
 was very charming, of course, and he was ex- 
 tremely fond of her; but there was no deny- 
 ing the fact that she was not half as pretty 
 as Helen, nor — really — half so attractive. So 
 he placed Helen's hand within his arm, took 
 up the thread of conversation exactly where 
 he had dropped it the evening before, and 
 made the path to the house even longer than 
 Miss Cheriton succeeded in doing. 
 
 Of this fact they had conclusive evidence 
 as they neared the drawing-room, from which 
 that young lady's voice floated out on the 
 still night-air. She was singing to a harp- 
 accompaniment, and, stopping at the window, 
 Helen said, in genuine admiration, " How beau- 
 tiful she looks I" 
 
 She certainly looked, if not beautiful, at 
 least next thing to it ; for where does a pretty 
 woman appear to half so much advantage as 
 at the most graceful instrument which the 
 science of harmony has ever given us ? With 
 her white arms thrown across the golden 
 strings, and her face lifted toward Latimer, 
 so as to show off its brilliant complexion, its 
 
 large, blue eyes, and bright, brown hair, if 
 Miss Cheriton was not exactly a sight to 
 make an old man young, she was at least a 
 sight to turn a young man's head ; and of 
 this fact she was completely and triumphantly 
 conscious. 
 
 " Yes, she is extremely pretty," said Tre- 
 falden ; but he said it rather coldly. " I don't 
 like flirts, though ; and Louise is a dreadful 
 flirt." 
 
 " I fancy it is a case of Greek meeting 
 Greek, with herself and Mr. Latimer," said 
 Helen, laughing. 
 
 " Latimer ! Oh ! Latimer is a professional 
 lady-killer. You must take care how you re- 
 ceive his attentions, my dear Helen" (this in 
 a tender tone of brotherly care). "I should 
 not like him to be able to say that he had 
 ever flirted with you." 
 
 " I don't think there is the least proba- 
 bility of his being able to say so," answered 
 Helen, coolly. " There ! Miss Cheriton is 
 calling you. Had you not better go ? " 
 
 Miss Cheriton had, indeed, perceived her 
 vassal, and did not hesitate to recall him to a 
 due sense of his allegiance. 
 
 " Yonder's poor Harry, sulking," she said, 
 in a confidential tone, to Latimer. And, not- 
 withstanding that there was no trace of sulk- 
 ing in poor Harry's appearance, she thought 
 it necessary to add: "I must call him, and 
 mollify him ; but, pray, don't you go." 
 
 So Trefalden was called and mollified. 
 Where had he been all this time ? They had 
 reached the house ever so long before ! Miss 
 Trefalden was very charming, and flirting was 
 very nice, of course ; but it wasn't very prop- 
 er — was it, Mr. Latimer ? 
 
 Mr. Latimer replied that, in his humble 
 opinion, it was a highly moral amusement, 
 but he would not presume to contradict such 
 high authority on the subject as Miss Cheriton 
 was well known to be. 
 
 Mr, Trefalden protested against such a 
 word being applied to his cousin and himself. 
 They were like brother and sister ; they had 
 known each other from their earliest child- 
 hood. 
 
 " Oh, I quite understand that kind of 
 thing!" said Miss Cheriton, gayly. "I had 
 a cousin once — a dear, adorable fellow — and, 
 when anybody said any thing of a disagree- 
 able nature, I always answered : ' What ! Al- 
 fred ? How absurd ! Why, I've known Al- 
 fred all my life.' " 
 
72 
 
 MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 argument 
 
 had a silencing ef- 
 
 see, I can appre- 
 
 " And that 
 feet, I presume ? " 
 
 "Invariably. So, you 
 ciate the full force of it." 
 
 Helen, meanwhile, entered, and looked 
 round for Raf'e. She thought he had made 
 his escape, until she heard him call her name 
 from the back drawing-room, where the light 
 was dim. Following the sound, she found 
 him lying on a couch near the arch which 
 divided the apartments. 
 
 " What are you doing here, dear ? " she 
 asked. " Don't you find it dull ? " 
 
 " How could it possibly be dull with such 
 admirable opportunity for observing human 
 nature ? " asked he. " Sit down, Helen. That 
 scene at the harp is worth studying, I assure 
 you. I am anxious to see how long Miss 
 Cheriton will succeed in keeping both objects 
 of her game under her hand and in full 
 view." 
 
 " As long as she pleases, I suppose," said 
 Helen. " No doubt, they are both anxious to 
 stay." 
 
 " Hum ! " said Rafe, " I have my own 
 opinion on that score. However, we shall 
 see." 
 
 In less than five minute? they saw Lati- 
 mer leave the harp, and saunter up to his 
 hostess. Ten minutes were given to the de- 
 mands of courtesy. Then, by deliberate 
 degrees, he neared the arch where Helen 
 and Rafe were sitting. 
 
 " How delightfully sheltered you are I " 
 he said. " May I share your retreat ? " 
 
 " We are Arabian in our hospitality," re- 
 sponded Rafe, smiling. Then, aside to Helen : 
 " The question is, how long will he be allowed 
 to stay?" 
 
 That question was settled almost as soon 
 as the other. One swift glance of Miss Cheri- 
 ton's eyes took in the state of affairs. Be- 
 fore very long, her voice sounded a recall. 
 
 " Mr. Latimer, where have you vanished 
 to ? — Aunty dear, do you know where Mr. 
 Latimer is? — Oh" (with the most innocent 
 face imaginable), " there you are ! I beg a 
 thousand pardons; I had no idea you were so 
 pleasantly engaged. I was only going to say 
 I would sing your song for you now ; but, of 
 course, it does not matter." 
 
 Of course, Latimer was in duty bound to 
 rise and go to the harp, to bend over it and 
 to listen, while his song was sung with glances 
 that might have melted a heart of stone. Of 
 
 course, Trefalden did not find this very sooth- 
 ing to his feelings ; so, with something of gen- 
 uine indignation this time, he, in turn, sought 
 Helen. Of course, in due season, Miss Cheri- 
 ton was graciously pleased to recall him ; and 
 so the game went on, shifting its combina- 
 tions, to Rafe's infinite entertainment. When 
 Helen bade him good-night, she could not 
 help asking what he thought of his future 
 sister-in-law; and his answer amused her a 
 little, for he merely shrugged his shoulders, 
 and quoted two lines from a ballad over which 
 they had often laughed : 
 
 "'He Baid I kept him off and on in hopes of 
 higher game, 
 And it may be that I did, mother; hut who 
 hasn't done the same ? ' " 
 
 III. 
 
 During the next day Helen began to feel 
 a little puzzled, and somewhat dismayed, with 
 regard to Miss Cheriton. What she had ex- 
 pected in Harry's fiancee, she would have 
 found it difficult to define ; but, at least, it 
 was certain that this young lady, so full of 
 vivacity in masculine and so listless in femi- 
 nine society — this young lady who, engaged 
 to one man, was jealously anxious to secure 
 the attentions of another — did not in any re- 
 spect correspond with her shadowy idea. In 
 fact, she was a new revelation to the girl 
 whose life had been formed on such a very 
 different model. A certain monotonous round 
 of duties had made the occupation of Helen's 
 existence ; and her walks, her flowers, her 
 studies, and Rafe, its amusements. Was it 
 singular, therefore, that she listened with sur- 
 prise to the record of a life made up of vis- 
 its, balls, regattas, admirers, dresses — all the 
 liglit froth of that lightest kind of society 
 which calls itself " the fashionable world ? " 
 On her side. Miss Cheriton was, if any thing, 
 more astonished. That any one could really 
 support an existence like that of Helen was 
 beyond her powers of imagination. The 
 two women looked at each other across a 
 gulf which they had no means of spanning. 
 There was no middle ground, no neutral ter- 
 ritory of taste or knowledge, on which they 
 could meet; and such a neutral ground is 
 essential, not only to friendship, but to any 
 thing like cordial acquaintance. They were 
 both young ; they were both pretty ; and they 
 were as different as the opposite poles ! The 
 only thing they owned in common was a eer- 
 
MISS CnERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 73 
 
 tain feeling of antagonism, of which Helen 
 was conscious in a slight and Miss Chei'iton 
 in a very marked degree. 
 
 Other days wore not much better than 
 this day ; that is, there was not much more 
 of a friendly understanding between the two 
 women whom malicious Fate had chosen to 
 array against each other as rivals. It was a 
 queer game of cross-purposes which went on 
 at the Manor during this time. Kafe, who 
 was a quiet looker-on, perhaps understood 
 more of its drift and purpose than any one 
 else — either then or afterward. lie hud 
 something of an interest in watching it, too, 
 besides his interest in Helen ; for he soon 
 grew to like Latimer with a very cordial lik- 
 ing, and observation less keen than his might 
 readily have perceived that to this eager, am- 
 bitious man, this man crowned with the 
 world's honors, and panting for the world's 
 applause, the world itself began to narrow 
 down into that spot which was brightened by 
 the light of Helen Trefalden's eyes. It is 
 said that such an hour comes once at least in 
 every man's life. Whether this be true or 
 not, the hour certainly came to Latimer now. 
 Indeed, it is doubtful if he had ever before 
 known any thing more than transient fancies ; 
 so, when the flood-gates were lifted at last, 
 and a passion stronger and deeper for the 
 long delay rushed in upon him, his profound 
 worldly training stood him in little stead, 
 and he knew scarcely more than the merest 
 boy what were the chances for and against 
 him with the woman whom, alone of all the 
 women he had ever seen, he desired and re- 
 solved to call his own. 
 
 Alas ! the verdict against him was a short 
 one — he came too late ! There are some na- 
 tures — fortunately very rare ones — which, 
 having once given affection, are wholly unable 
 to recall it, however cruelly it may be wasted, 
 however thoroughly trust may fail. Helen's 
 was one of these. Hers was a heart so gen- 
 tle, so loving, so faithful even unto death, 
 that it merited a better fate than the one 
 which had befallen it. This heart, which 
 some men would have died to win, or would 
 have worn like a diamond on the breast which 
 had won it, this heart had been given to one 
 man who held it lightly in his hand till he 
 wearied of it, and then flung it down in the 
 dust of the roadside, from which not even he 
 could ever lift it again. Eafe alone appre- 
 ciated this, and groaned to himself as he per- 
 
 ceived that the power which should have 
 made the glory and happiness of his cousin's 
 life — her indomitable constancy — was like a 
 sharp sword turned against herself. It would 
 have wrecked his existence to have parted 
 with her, he thought, but still he could have 
 done it, he could have given her to Latimer, 
 who was worthy of her, Latimer on whom 
 every man's eye was turned in envy, and 
 every woman's in admiration ; and the bitter- 
 ness lay in thinking that this which could 
 never be, might have been, but for a frivo- 
 lous, empty puppy (so Rafe did not hesitate to 
 designate his brother), with neither heart nor 
 soul worthy of the name. 
 
 It was small consolation to perceive how 
 constant and unremitting were Miss Cheri- 
 ton's exertions to attach Latimer to her char- 
 iot-wheels, and how completely they failed ! 
 This was not only because a stronger and a 
 deeper power was at work with him. Under 
 any circumstances, her blandishments were 
 too transparent, her arts were too common- 
 place, her object was too plain, for any hope 
 of success. Latimer merely laughed and 
 shrugged his shoulders, amused himself a lit- 
 tle — not enough to give occasion for any seri- 
 ous triumph — and let the battery of fascina- 
 tion play harmlessly on his coat-of-maii. She 
 was a pretty woman, he told Rafe, but pretty 
 women were common, and, for his part, he 
 had been surfeited with them in the way of 
 flirtation. " Miss Cheriton has not even the 
 merit of being a first-class coquette," be add- 
 ed. " She goes over the beaten path, and 
 knows only the most hackneyed arts of her 
 profession." Miss Cheriton, however, did 
 not despair. She had that regal trust in her- 
 self, and in her own power of achieving any 
 thing, which is said to be one of the charac- 
 teristics of genius. She had long looked upon 
 Latimer with covetous eyes, and a better op- 
 portunity than the present her heart could not 
 have desired. A country-house, with unlimit- 
 ed opportunities for fascination, the field all 
 to herself, and her only rival a girl who had 
 never been in society — what more was it pos- 
 sible to ask ? True, success did not crown 
 her efforts quite as rapidly as she expected. 
 But she had time and strategy at command, 
 so she did what many an abler general has 
 found himself obliged to do — she waited. 
 
 Meanwhile, Trefalden — animated by Lati- 
 mer's example — was veering nearer and 
 nearer to his cousin, his fickle fancy wander- 
 
74 
 
 MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 ing daily farther and farther from the place 
 where it was, or should have been, bound by 
 his honor. Some men do not appreciate any 
 thing — be it wife, or horse, or house, or jew- 
 els — until it bears the stamp of other admira- 
 tion besides their own ; and Trefalden was es- 
 pecially of this class. Helen's beauty had 
 very nearly taken his heart (or whatever did 
 duty for that organ) by storm, when he saw 
 her on the terrace under the roses. But 
 even then she had only been to him his 
 cousin, tlie " little Helen " whom he had pet- 
 ted and patronized in boyhood. Kow all this 
 was changed. Now he saw a woman at whom 
 he looked with Latimer's eyes, admired with 
 Latimer's admiration, wellnigh loved with 
 Latimer's love — only Latimer's was the real 
 article, and his the spurious imitation. He 
 entertained a shrewd suspicion that Louise 
 was playing fast and loose with him, and he 
 would not have had the least scruple in play- 
 ing fast and loose with her in return. If 
 Helen bore the least liking to him, she had 
 only to give a sign. He, for his part, was the 
 more ready to meet her half-way. 
 
 " What a glorious night ! " said Latimer, 
 one evening, as he stepped through the din- 
 ing-room window out on the terrace, where 
 the silver radiance of the full moon made al- 
 most the brightness, without any of the heat, 
 of day. '* Isn't it possible to do something 
 more than merely enjoy it here? Can't we 
 go to the river and take a row ? " 
 
 " Charming ! " cried Miss Cheriton, who 
 was close behind him. " Of course we can — 
 can't we, Harry ? I should like nothing bet- 
 ter." 
 
 " I see no objection," said Harry. " The 
 boat is in order, I suppose — is it not, 
 Helen?" 
 
 " Yes, the boat is in very good order," an- 
 swered Helen ; " at least it was on Saturday 
 morning when Mr. Latimer and myself — " 
 she paused a moment, as Miss Cheriton's eyes 
 turned quickly upon her, then quietly went 
 on — "when Mr. Latimer and myself took a 
 short row." 
 
 " So rowing is one of the features of your 
 walks with Mr. Latimer ?" said Miss Cheri- 
 ton, a little sharply. "It is fortunate that 
 you were careful not to say any thing about 
 it, or you might have had an addition to your 
 party, and that would not have been pleasant 
 —would it?"' 
 
 " Wo are plainly expected to say Xo, Miss 
 
 Trefalden. Suppose we say it? I always 
 like to do what is expected of me." 
 
 "Especially when it is entirely compatible 
 with the strictest truth," retorted the young 
 lady. " Of course. Miss Trefalden would say 
 Xo if she was as candid as yourself. Pray, 
 don't be afraid, however. We will be consid- 
 erate enough to do our rowing by moonlight, 
 so as not to interfere with yours by day- 
 light." 
 
 " There are two boats on the river," said 
 Latimer, with the utmost gravity. " If Harry 
 and yourself choose to follow our example to- 
 morrow, we will give you the full benefit and 
 free use of the stream." 
 
 " Thanks, for myself," said Harry, indo- 
 lently; "but I believe I prefer to take the 
 full benefit and free use of it to-night. — Helen, 
 shall we leave them to finish their discussion 
 at their leisure ? " 
 
 Helen assented ; but, for once. Miss Cher- 
 iton seemed disposed to assert a claim to her 
 vassal. " There is no discussion to be fin- 
 ished," said she, hastily. " Don't be so incon- 
 siderate as to carry off Miss Trefalden, Harry. 
 I am coming with you ; but, if I go without 
 my scarf, my dear, foolish aunt will preach 
 about it for the next month. Wait for me a 
 moment." 
 
 She went into the house ; but Harry proved 
 singularly disobedient to orders. " You can 
 wait for her, Latimer," he said. " Helen and 
 I will walk on slowly, and, no doubt, you will 
 overtake us before we reach the river." 
 
 Helen and himself walked on slowly — who 
 does not walk slowly on a moonlight summer 
 night ? — but the result which was to follow 
 did not come to pass. Mr. Latimer and Miss 
 Cheriton did not overtake them before they 
 reached the river ; nor, in fact, after they had 
 done so. Helen negatived Harry's proposal 
 of going on the water immediately, and in- 
 sisted on waiting for the others ; but waiting 
 was in vain. They did not come. And, after 
 nearly an hour had passed, the inference was 
 plain that they did not mean to come. 
 
 " We had better go back," said Helen, 
 gravely, for she stood in considerable awe of 
 Miss Cheriton's mocking tongue. " Some- 
 thing must have occurred to detain them, 
 Harry." 
 
 " Some fit of Louise's caprice has occurred 
 to detain them," said Harry. " Nothing else, 
 I am sure. She grows more wilful and ca- 
 pricious every day," he added, in a tone of 
 
MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 75 
 
 very unlovcrlike irritation. "We need not 
 let her spoil our pleasure, Helen. Since we 
 have walked down here, we must certainly 
 have a row." 
 
 " I really think we had better go back," 
 said Helen. She did not like to say "we 
 must," for was not this Harry, and did it not 
 ■seem absurd to think that it could possibly 
 be "not proper" to go anywhere with him? 
 Yet an instinct warned her against the pleas- 
 ure which was as much a temptation to her- 
 self as to him, and she rose and turned away 
 from the river as she repeated, for the fourth 
 time, " We had better go back." 
 
 "Xonsense!" said Harry. "Here is the 
 boat— come ! I assure you I am not going 
 back." 
 
 " But, Harry—" 
 
 " Come ! " said Harry. 
 
 He sprang into the boat as he spoke, and 
 pushed it near the shore, then turned and held 
 out his hand to assist her into it. The great, 
 broad river, with the moonlight silvering its 
 current, flowed majestically by; the drooping 
 Bhade, that fringed its banks, looked dark and 
 mysterious ; the little boat rocked on the 
 water as Trefalden leaned forward, and Helen 
 stood on the bank — hesitating, longing — un- 
 able to stay, yet certain that it was unwise to 
 go. For a moment the soft rush of the river 
 was the only sound that broke the stillness. 
 Then— 
 
 " Helen," said Trefalden, in atone strange- 
 ly earnest, "won't you come? Why should 
 you hesitate ? Remember how often we have 
 been here before." 
 
 " I remember," said Helen, in a low voice. 
 
 " Then why should you hesitate now ? 
 Helen" — pleadingly — "give me one happy 
 hour — one hour like the dear old times. It 
 is little to you, it is much to me — come ! " 
 
 Poor Helen ! Can any one blame her that 
 she went ? It seemed so little, and yet — it 
 was so much ! Why should she not taste the 
 happy hour of which he spoke, and dream one 
 last dream of the old time before she put its 
 memory from her forever? It seemed so lit- 
 tle, and Harry was only Harry, after all ; her 
 cousin, almost her brother, by right of long 
 companionship. So she laid her hand in the 
 one outstretched for it, stepped into the boat, 
 and a moment later the oars had been plunged 
 into the water, and they were gliding down 
 the stream. 
 
 It was a night of which to dream — soft. 
 
 magical, almost unearthly in its beauty. For 
 a long time they were both silent ; then Tre- 
 falden looked at his companion, who sat op- 
 posite him, and spoke quite abruptly. 
 
 "Do you know what I wish, Helen? — 
 what I would at this moment give any thing 
 in the world to accomplish? " 
 
 " How should I know ? " asked Helen. She 
 did not look at him, but kept her eyes fixed 
 dreamily on the shore past which they were 
 gliding. 
 
 " I wish," said Trefalden, with passionate 
 emphasis, " that you and I were cut off from 
 every other human being, and drifting toward 
 a home and a life of our own, far from any- 
 body and everybody else of whom we know." 
 
 Helen started. There was that in the 
 speaker's tone which was more than his 
 words, and which warned her instantly that 
 she had been unwise to come. Something 
 made a great leap into her throat and fright- 
 ened her. It was the very consciousness of 
 her own weakness which gave her strength to 
 answer. 
 
 " How absurd, Harry ! " she said — trying, 
 ah ! so hard to speak lightly — " we are as 
 much cut off at present as you could possi- 
 bly desire. There is not the least need to 
 wish for a desert island in which we could 
 sigh for company and civilization to our 
 hearts' content." 
 
 " Don't jest," said Trefalden, in a tone of 
 absolute pain. "Don't — don't try to ward 
 off serious truth like this, Helen ! You know 
 what I mean," he said, with sudden passion ; 
 " you don't need for me to tell you how much 
 I love you ! you must believe it, for you must 
 see how it has mastered every thought and 
 faculty of my whole being, until silence is 
 beyond my power !" 
 
 " Harry," said Helen, gravely — and some- 
 thing in her tone reminded him of the manner 
 in which she had often curbed his wayward 
 humors as a boy — " Harry, it is not possible 
 you mean to make me regret having trusted 
 myself with you ? What is the sense of such 
 wild words as these? I am loath to think 
 that you would willingly wrong or pain me, 
 yet you are doing both now." 
 
 " Can I wrong or pain you by telling you 
 how I love you ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Helen, and a flasli of very 
 unusual resentment came into her eyes. 
 "You do both, when you use such words to 
 me ! Do you think I am a toy to serve your 
 
7G 
 
 MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 amusement ? " she askeJ, with a vibration 
 of passion deeper even than his own, stirring 
 through her voice. " You are engaged to 
 Miss Cheriton, and yet you venture to tell 
 me that you love me. What am I to think 
 of you after that?" 
 
 *' To think that Miss Cheriton is nothing 
 to me, and that you are everything," said he, 
 recklessly. " I fling her, and every thought 
 of her, to the winds. I am yours, Helen, and 
 it is for you to say what you will do with 
 me." 
 
 " And your honor ? " asked Helen, bitterly, 
 " where is that ? " 
 
 Even in the moonlight she could see that 
 a dark flush came over his face. ^ 
 
 " My honor is safe in my own keeping," 
 he said, haughtily. "I break no f\iith in 
 breaking with a woman like Louise Cheriton. 
 She means to marry me only in case she can- 
 not secure higher game. You see what she 
 is, Helen. You cannot blame me that I put 
 her out of my life without even a consider- 
 ation." 
 
 " But I do blame you," said Helen, coldly. 
 '* "What is more, I do not believe that a Tre- 
 falden can forget that a gentleman owes it to 
 himself to keep his faith unbroken. You are 
 talking wildly, Harry — you are not yourself. 
 Let ug try and forget this." 
 
 " You are talking the foolish common- 
 places of a woman," said Harry, impatiently. 
 " Forget it ! A man does not forget what is 
 written on his heart in letters of fire ! Helen, 
 you must forgive me if I speak plainly — 
 this is no time for paltering ; and, one way 
 or another, my fate must be fixed to-night. 
 Memories which I had forgotten, or carelessly 
 laid aside, have come to me of late, and I — 
 I think that perhaps two years ago, you loved 
 me. If so, all this has come on me as a pun- 
 ishment for my own blind folly. Helen, was 
 it so?" 
 
 There was a deep silence. How could 
 Helen put herself in this man's power by 
 acknowledging what she had hidden so care- 
 fully from every one save Rafe, and yet — 
 how could she deny the truth when brought 
 face to face with it ? Such denial would have 
 been easy to some women, but it was not 
 easy to her. Truth was, and had always been, 
 to her a grand, severe power, with which it 
 was impossible to trifle. Her face was so pale 
 that it looked like sculptured marble in the 
 moonlight as she answered : 
 
 " You have no right to ask me that ques- 
 tion." 
 
 " I have a right," said Trefalden, vehe- 
 mently, "or else, by Heaven! I will make 
 one ! Helen " — he dropped the oar, and 
 seized her fragile, passive hands — " you 
 would not evade the point if you could deny 
 it. You did love me, and, by that love, I 
 claim you. My first duty is to you — was to 
 you, when I forsook you for that vain, frivo- 
 lous — " 
 
 " Hush ! " said Helen ; and, by a supreme 
 effort, she wrenched her hands out of his 
 clasp, and looked at him in the silvery moon- 
 light with a face that was set and stern. " You 
 lower yourself even more than you lower me 
 by such words as these ! I will not listen to 
 them. Turn the boat around, and take me 
 back to the shore. I demand it." 
 
 " It shall drift on forever before I turn 
 back, unless I hear the truth," answered he. 
 " Helen, you do right to resent the love of a 
 man who is as fickle as I have been. But 
 try to remember — try to be reasonable — think 
 that I was little more than a boy when I 
 left here, that I went into the world with a 
 head and a heart equally ready to be turned 
 by its follies, and that I was sufficiently un- 
 worthy of you to suffer the remembrance of 
 you to pass from me ; but, in thinking of this, 
 that I come back from the world only to real- 
 ize what you are, only to see and feel how 
 mad I have been in leaving gold for dross, 
 and to place my heart again wbere it was 
 long ago — where, in truth, I think it Las al- 
 ways been — in your keeping. Helen, surely 
 it is not too late ? " 
 
 The passion of this appeal seemed to 
 shake her, for she shivered all over, then 
 clasped her hands firmly together, and an- 
 swered him gravely and sadly : 
 
 " Yes, it is too late." 
 
 " Too late ! " The handsome face paled — 
 flushed — and paled again. " You mean that 
 you have ceased to love me, or that you have 
 learned to love Latimer ? " 
 
 " I mean," she said — and her voice seemed 
 to thrill him with its deep, mournful pathos — 
 " that it is too late for you, and too late for 
 me, Harry. Too late for you, because you are 
 engaged to Miss Cheriton; too late forme, 
 because, if you were free as air, I would not 
 marry you." 
 
 He looked at her steadily. It was a strange 
 duel of conflicting resolution to take place out 
 
MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 17 
 
 there ou the broad, moonlit river, between 
 these two who had once loved each other with 
 the tender romance of early youth. 
 
 " Why not ? " he asked, huskily. 
 
 " There is no need of forcing me to tell 
 you," she answered. " All this is very useless. 
 Let us go back." 
 
 " Why not ? " he repeated once more, and 
 the deep, passionate resolve of his eyes told 
 Ilelcn that the question must be answered, 
 that no evasion would be pos-ible or even 
 safe. Then, as it were, she girded up her 
 strength and answered him — answered him 
 ill words which, to his dying day, he never 
 forgot. 
 
 " I will tell you why not," she said. " It 
 is because I once loved you, and, through 
 that love, learned to know you. It is not for 
 me to speak of what I hoped — leaning on 
 your own promise — when you went away. 
 It is not worth while, either, to speak of what 
 I suffered when I realized that you had quite 
 forgotten me. That pain, bitter as it was, is 
 over now. But you took from me something 
 which neither you nor any one else can ever 
 give back." She paused a moment, and looked 
 wistfully away from him — far over the hills 
 softened by the misty moonlight, and the dark 
 shadows of the drooping woods — then, very 
 quietly, she went on : " I do not know whether 
 or not it was that I poured out the whole 
 treasure of love wastefully, and so have none 
 left, but my heart lies like a stone. Your 
 words, your tones to-night have made it ache, 
 but that is all. I did not realize, until I heard 
 you speak as you have done, how far removed 
 you are from me. Once I was yours, to have 
 done with mo what you would : now I could 
 not be more dead to you if I were in my grave. 
 That is my answer. So long as we both live, 
 there is no7ie other possible between us." 
 
 The clear, chill tones — chill, and yet 
 strangely gentle — ceased. Their last musical 
 vibration died away, and only the rush of the 
 river sounded in Trefalden's ears. lie said 
 not a word, his lips were parched, and he 
 could not speak. Something like a bitter 
 sense of the inevitable seemed weighing him 
 down. Speak ? What could he say ? JIau 
 as he was, and full even to arrogance of con- 
 scious power, he felt in every fibre that the 
 resolution of this fragile girl was like iron, 
 that he might dash himself and all his 
 strength vainly against it. So he uttered 
 not a syllable. He only turned the boat 
 6 
 
 around, and began steadily rowing against 
 the current back to the place of landing. 
 
 As they reached the bank, and as Helen 
 was preparing to rise and step on shore, he 
 spoke for the first time, his voice sounding 
 unlike itself, and wonderfully distinct on the 
 still night air : 
 
 " Helen, you need not think that I shall 
 accept your decision as final. A man cannot 
 surrender without a struggle the only hope 
 which makes his life. I love you, I have al- 
 ways loved you, and I shall always love you. 
 Remember this, and remember also tliat I 
 am simply waiting to see what you will do 
 with this love." 
 
 Before Helen could reply, even by a single 
 word, there was a sound on the shore that 
 made them both start — a suppressed excla- 
 mation, a crackling twig evidently crushed 
 by a hasty foot, and from behind a group 
 of trees Miss Cheriton stepped full into the 
 moonlight, facing them both. 
 
 IT. 
 
 WiiEK Miss Cheriton, after considerable 
 delay, came out with a light scarf becomingly 
 twined around her, and found only Latimer 
 waiting for her, it is doubtful, to say the least, 
 if her disappointment was very extreme. — 
 " What, has Harry gone ? " she said, in a 
 tone of slightly-piqued astonishment. But 
 Latimer's " I let him go because I thought 
 you might give me this opportunity to make 
 my peace," was sufficient to banish any cloud 
 from her brow. 
 
 " Your peace ! " repeated she, slipping her 
 white hand through the arm which he of- 
 fered, and leaning heavily upon it, as they 
 walked down the terrace steps. " You know 
 as well as I do that there is no peace to be 
 made. Of course I have no right to be of- 
 fended, liowever plainly you may show me or 
 tell me that you prefer Miss Trefalden's so- 
 ciety to mine." 
 
 " It would be unfortunate for me if I 
 chanced to prefer yours," said Latimer, in his 
 cool fashion ; " considering that Trefalden 
 has a legal claim to its monopoly." 
 
 " Not quite a legal claim yet," said she, 
 with superb carelessness. " And it would be 
 a wise man, indeed, who could prophesy with 
 certainty that he ever will have. That is all 
 nonsense, Mr. Latimer ; and you know me 
 well enough to be sure of it." 
 
 " What is all nonsense? " asked Mr. Lati- 
 
78 
 
 MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 iner. " Your engagement to Trefalden ? Poor 
 fellow ! For his sake, I hope not." 
 
 " I was not speaking of my engagement," 
 said she. " But I was never one of the people 
 who have severe ideas about such things. 
 M;iny engagements are only made to be bro- 
 ken ; and I am inclined to think it would be a 
 good thing if more of them were. If I should 
 think it worth while to dismiss Harry to-mor- 
 row, I don't flatter myself that he would suf- 
 fer in any way — save, perhaps, from a little 
 wounded vanity. His devotion to his cousin 
 is really quite edifying." (Then, after a 
 pause,) " I wonder you are not jealous." 
 
 " Of you ? He might consider that pre- 
 sumptuous," 
 
 " I was not speaking of myself. Miss 
 Trefalden, I am sure, will not think it pre- 
 sumptuous if you were jealous of her." 
 
 " Harry is a capital fellow," said Latimer, 
 who was plainly resolved against bringing 
 Miss Trefalden's name into the conversation. 
 " I really don't know a better one. Miss 
 Gheriton. I would think twice, if I were you, 
 before I made his attentions to his cousin a 
 reason for that dismissal of which you speak." 
 
 " You don't suppose I'm thinking of his 
 attentions to his cousin," said Miss Cheriton, 
 with a rising color, which shone even in the 
 moonlight. " Of course, they signify nothing, 
 except that he is fond of amusing himself 
 with anybody who is good material for amuse- 
 ment ; and thcW'' (with a scornful accent) 
 " Miss Trefalden certainly seems to be. I 
 was thinking of myself alone when I said, or 
 meant to say, that I should not allow myself 
 to be fettered by any engagement an hour 
 longer than I chose to do so." 
 
 Said Mr. Latimer, in a tone the satire of 
 which the young lady was happily unable to 
 appreciate, " Your sentiments, I perceive, are 
 broadly liberal with regard to how far a wom- 
 an's word may be taken as her bond." 
 
 " I think that a woman as impulsive as I 
 am IS liable to make mistakes," said she, 
 somewhat sentimentally ; " and that it would 
 be hard if my Avhole life had to bear the pen- 
 alty of them from a mistaken sense of honor 
 about breaking my word. Is it possible that 
 you would condemn me to it ? " 
 
 " I ! " shrugging his shoulders slightly. 
 " I am the most amiable man in the world. I 
 never condemn anybody to any thing — even 
 in theory. Sometimes, however, I recom- 
 mend them to remember that ' the quality of 
 
 mercy is not strained,' and that it is never 
 more gracefully exercised than by a beautiful 
 woman." 
 
 '* Keep your well-turned periods for your 
 speeches ! " said she, tapping him on the 
 arm. " Listen to me gravely and seriously 
 now, for I have something that I want to ask 
 you. Here is a pleasant place — suppose that 
 we sit down and talk at our leisure ? " j 
 
 " But the boating," said Latimer, a little \ 
 aghast. " Harry and Miss Trefalden will be 
 waiting for us." J 
 
 " Let them wait," with admirable non- 1 
 chalance ; " they are very well able to enter- 
 tain each other, you may be sure. I have a 
 fancy to sit down just here under this splen- 
 did tree." 
 
 " By all means gratify it, then," said Lati- 
 mer, with an audible sigh of resignation. " I 
 only hope we may not surprise a family party 
 of rattlesnakes," he added, following her ex- 
 ample, and seating himself on the branching 
 roots of a giant oak that stood by the way- 
 side. 
 
 But Miss Cheriton was quite insensible to 
 any fear of rattlesnakes. Perhaps she knew 
 that, as a general rule, they prefer less civil- 
 ized haunts. At all events, she sank down 
 in a picturesque attitude, and leaned against 
 the massive trunk, looking certainly very 
 lovely as the moonlight shimmered down 
 through the thick foliage on her white dress 
 and upturned face. 
 
 "Suppose," said she, after a while, "I 
 were to tell you that I — I had almost made 
 up my mind to break my engagement with 
 Harry, "What would you think ? " 
 
 Latimer shrugged his shoulders. " I should 
 probably think that you had grown tired of \ 
 it," said he, dryly. 
 
 " I am in earnest," said she^ a little petu- 
 lantly. " Pray talk to me seriously and — aa 1 
 a friend. I " — a droop of the head — " I am 
 sadly uncertain what to do, and I need the 
 advice of a friend very much." 
 
 " As a friend. Miss Cheriton, I should be 
 very happy to serve you ; but advising you is 
 a height to which modesty forbids me to as- 
 pire." 
 
 " I am sure no one could advise me better 
 than yourself," 
 
 " You are mistaken " — it was doubtful 
 whether the scene was beginning to be most 
 amusing or most boring to him — " a man 
 must have certain fixed ideas and principles 
 
MISS CHERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 79 
 
 before he can venture to advise. Now, I have 
 none." 
 
 "But you know what you ihinky 
 
 *'I assure you that, nine times out of ten, 
 I don't even know what I tbiuk. Sad, isn't 
 it ? But you see what a very unsafe mentor I 
 should make." 
 
 " Still" — clinging to her point with deter- 
 mined obstinacy — " you must advise me ! 
 You know Harry, and — and — I think you 
 know me. Now, tell me frankly, do you 
 think there is any hope of happiness for us 
 together ? Do you think wc suit ? " 
 
 " My dear Miss Cheriton," said Latimer, 
 laughing, "you ask me a hard question. Do 
 I think you suit? My impression was that 
 you suited remarkably well. But really, in 
 that, as in every thing else, the only person 
 able to judge is the person immediately con- 
 cerned ? " 
 
 "You — you think I could be happy with 
 him?" 
 
 "He is such a good fellow, that I don't 
 see how any woman could fail to be happy 
 with him." 
 
 " It shows how little you know of me," 
 said she, bitterly, and turned her face 
 aside. 
 
 Poor woman ! The pangs of wounded 
 vanity are sometimes as sharp as the pangs 
 of disappointed love, and she was scarcely 
 less to be pitied because her object had been 
 so petty, and her means so unworthy. Wom- 
 an of the world as she was, she knew perfect- 
 ly well how far she had stooped to this man — 
 and, now that she had failed completely, this 
 knowledge was very hard to bear. At that 
 moment such a swift, sudden rage and mor- 
 tification flamed up in her heart, that she 
 could have lifted her hand and struck him as 
 he sat beside her so cool, so quiet, so entire- 
 ly beyond her power of moving. Years after- 
 ward, when their paths of life had branched 
 far apart, she could never even hear his name 
 without seeing again the silvery moonlight, 
 the softly-swelling fields, the gnarled roots of 
 the old oak, and the little scene, as brightly 
 and vividly as she saw it that night, without 
 feeling again the same bitter tide of emotion 
 which she felt as she turned from him, con- 
 scious that he understood her, and that all 
 further efforts were hopeless. 
 
 Latimer was the first to break the silence 
 which ensued, speaking more gently and con- 
 siderately than was often the case with him. 
 
 Perhaps he knew as well as Miss Cheriton 
 herself what was passing in her mind, 
 
 " Don't you think we had better go on to 
 the river ? It is very charming and comfort- 
 able here ; but, no doubt, Harry and Miss Tre- 
 falden are waiting for us." 
 
 " Certainly, by all means, let us go," said 
 she, rising and accepting, without a word, the 
 arm which he offered. 
 
 When they reached the river, they found, 
 naturally enough, that Harry and Miss Tre- 
 falden were gone. One of the boats had also 
 vanished, and Miss Cheriton declined Lati- 
 mer's proposal that they should embark in 
 the other. " We will sit here and wait 
 a while," said she. " If they don't come soon, 
 we can return to the house." She did not 
 add, but Latimer was perfectly aware, that 
 she would have gone back at once but for her 
 determination to avoid another long tcte-d-ieie 
 with himself. She had the desire, not un- 
 common with her sex when stung by one 
 man's neglect, to turn to another of whose al- 
 legiance she was sure, to find in his homage a 
 salve for a wounded pride, and in his appre- 
 ciation recompense for the other's blindness. 
 It would make a queer little chapter in those 
 affairs commonly called " of the heart," if 
 many a successful suitor could know the se- 
 cret of the rebound in which he has caught 
 his prize. " I will wait for Harry," said she, 
 coldly. And, in truth, at that moment, she 
 felt a positive tenderness for Harry. He, at 
 least, was hers — hers triumphantly and alone. 
 She had one faithful vassal, at least, and in 
 that thought was something like balm. 
 
 So they sat down under a clump of trees 
 and waited until round the bend of the stream 
 the boat came in sight. Its appearance was 
 welcome to both watchers ; and, as Trefalden 
 — who was putting all his energy into hi3 
 strokes — sent it rapidly toward the bank. Miss 
 Cheriton gave undisguised expression to her 
 relief. 
 
 " It looks pleasant," she said, " and how 
 well Harry rows ! I think I shall make him 
 take me out on the water. You " — an irre- 
 pressible accent of bitterness — " will be glad 
 of that, Mr. Lalimer." 
 
 "lam always glad of your enjoyment," 
 responded Mr. Latimer, in his usual tone. 
 " But, of course, you cannot expect me to be 
 glad of my own desolation." 
 
 "A desolation easily consoled by Miss- 
 Trefalden. Hush, here they come ! Let uS' 
 
80 
 
 MISS CHERITOX'S RIVAL. 
 
 say notliinfi;, and smpiisc them when they 
 have landed." 
 
 Xever was the trite phrase, that surprises 
 are always ill-judged, better exemplified than 
 on this occasion. The boat shot up to the 
 shore, Helen rose to step out, and Trefalden, 
 extending his hand, stopped her. 
 
 Now, when Miss Cheriton came forward 
 and faced the two cousins, with all the bear- 
 ing of a tragedy-queen, it was certainly only 
 natural that they should have quailed a little. 
 Partly from consternation, but more from 
 sheer surprise, Trefalden uttered an exclama- 
 tion, while Helen drew back a step, saying : 
 
 " Miss Cheriton ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Miss Cheriton, in a tone 
 which scarcely sounded like her own, so en- 
 tirely was she overwhelmed by a flood of mor- 
 tified rage, and that keen, bitter sense of be- 
 trayal which is certainly the hardest thing in 
 the world to bear. " Yes, Miss Trefalden, it 
 is I ! You did not count on a witness to your 
 love-scene, I suppose ; but I could not resist 
 the temptation of letting you know that I 
 had unintentionally been one, and of express- 
 ing" — she nearly choked here — "my appre- 
 ciation of that fine sense of honor which 
 seems, in an especial manner, to distinguish 
 your family." 
 
 " Louise," said Trefalden, hastily stepping 
 forward, " you do not understand — you are 
 laboring under a great mistake. You — " 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to keep back ? " 
 said she, recoiling from his hand, and looking 
 at him with eyes of fiery scorn, "How do 
 you presume to address me, after — after what 
 I heard? Do you imagine that I wiU ever 
 speak to you again ? Do you suppose that 
 our engagement does not end this moment ? 
 Do you think that to-morrow I will recognize 
 you as an acquaintance ? If I were a man, I 
 might tell you what I think of you — but a wom- 
 an is debarred even from the use of words ! " 
 
 "Tell me, by all means," said he, drawing 
 up his tall figure and looking at her bitterly. 
 " Pei-hapa I may be able to reciprocate your 
 good opinion. If I have talked love to another 
 woman, it certainly has been no fault of yours 
 if you have not listened to it from another mam" 
 
 The truth of this taunt made it sting more 
 deeply than it is possible for "words to ex- 
 press — all the more deeply, too, because Lati- 
 mer was near, and could not fail to remember 
 the overtures made to him less than an hour 
 before. First crimson, then pale, then crim- 
 
 son again, Miss Cheriton set her teeth, and 
 answered through them, when she could suffi- 
 ciently command her voice to speak at all : 
 
 " So you think to excuse your own treach- 
 ery by insulting me! Such conduct is in ad- 
 mirable keeping with all the rest ; but, 
 whether or not it does you credit, I leave I 
 you to determine. As for your cousin" — 
 turning to Helen, who stood by, white, silent, 
 and stately, with one hand pressed on her 
 heart — " I owe her an apology for my inop- 
 portune appearance. It seems that, having 
 failed with Mr. Latimer, she has successfully 
 turned her attention to yourself" 
 
 " With regard to Helen," began Trefalden, 
 in haughty anger ; but Helen silenced him by 
 a motion of her hand. Then, taking a single 
 step forward, she addressed Miss Cheriton. 
 
 " It is useless for me to say how much I 
 regret that this scene should have occurred," 
 she said, quietly. " Since it has done so, I 
 see nothing for me but to retire from it. My 
 justification rests with my cousin ; and, un- 
 der any circumstances, I decline to enter into 
 a recrimination of charges which I have too 
 much self-respect either to notice or resent." 
 
 Her tone, her manner, her whole bearing, 
 was so full of rare and perfect dignity that, 
 for a moment, she almost seemed to elevate 
 the scene in which she chanced to play a 
 part, and, for a moment, absolutely made the 
 angry woman before her realize the humili- 
 ating folly of her passionate outbreak. But 
 it was only for a moment. The calm tones 
 had scarcely ceased to speak, when a scorn- 
 ful answer was returned. 
 
 " It would have been fortunate if your 
 self-respect had asserted itself a little sooner. 
 Miss Trefalden — let us say, for example, be- 
 fore you became a plaything for two men, 
 neither of whom has ever dreamed of any 
 thing but his own amusement." 
 
 Hardly had these words been uttered, 
 when, to the astonishment of both Helen and 
 Trefalden, Latimer stepped forward from the 
 leafy screen where he had still lingered, and, 
 taking his place by Helen's side, coolly ad- 
 dressed Miss Cheriton : 
 
 " You have done me the honor of associ- 
 ating my name with that of Miss Trefalden," 
 he said. " I hope she will forgive me for 
 making such a declaration in public, but, in 
 reply to your last remark, there is nothing 
 left me but to say that I love her as a man 
 only loves the woman whom he wishes to 
 
MISS CIIERITON'S RIVAL. 
 
 81 
 
 marry, and that my most earnest hope is that 
 this love will one day enable me to win her." 
 For a minute these words were followed 
 by an absolute stillness. Knowing only the 
 artificial side of this man's character, two, at 
 least, of his astonished listeners were unable 
 to realize that it was indeed he who made 
 this simple expression of frank resolution 
 and earnest meaning. They looked at him in 
 half-incredulous amazement, while he — well, 
 it is doubtful whether, at that instant, he did 
 not forget their very existence. At the con- 
 clusion of his sentence, he turned toward 
 Helen, and met her soft, dark, pathetic eyes. 
 For a minute, they stood looking at each 
 other in silence. Then Miss Trefalden ex- 
 tended her hand, with a gesture which Lati- 
 mer never forgot — extended it, not as she 
 might have done to a lover, but rather as to 
 a friend who had performed some generous 
 service in her behalf. 
 
 " Thank you," she said, softly, with the 
 graceful and gracious charm which Nature 
 had set like a royal seal upon her. " You 
 are very good — very kind. I understand why 
 you have spoken, but you must try to for- 
 get — " She stopped suddenly, and pressed 
 both hands over her heart. Something like 
 a look of terror came into her eyes. She 
 struggled for a moment with an incapacity to 
 speak, then, saying brokenly, " It is too 
 late ! " fell forward. 
 
 Latimer caught her in his arms, and, kneel- 
 ing with one knee on the ground, supported 
 her figure. At first he thought she had only 
 fainted — but, in a few minutes, the awful 
 truth came to him. The fierce strain of emo- 
 tion had done its work with merciful quick- 
 ness. Too much of sharp tension had been 
 laid on the heart, and the great organ of life 
 had ceased its work forever. Miss Cheriton's 
 unintentional rival lay dead before her. 
 
 THE END. 
 
MY STORY. 
 
 \ S clearly as if it were yesterday, I re- 
 JlX. member that sombre November even- 
 in<T when I met Ross Kendall first. The lux- 
 ury of a fire in my own room was an extrava- 
 gance unknown in the close economy which 
 governed the domestic arrangements of Ken- 
 dall Manor. Tired, therefore, of my seat in 
 a corner by the sitting-room fire ; tired of 
 watching Uncle Kendall's grave, rugged face, 
 as he sat with an account-book open on his 
 knee, running his bony finger slowly down the 
 column of figures, and only acknowledging 
 my presence by a frown if I made any noise ; 
 tired of seeing Mrs. Kendall (not wife, but 
 sister-in-law and house-keeper of this auto- 
 crat) nod over her knitting ; tired of the tall 
 clock's drowsy ticking in one corner ; tired 
 of my odd, dog-eared volume of " The Days 
 of Bruce ; " and most tired of all of myself, I- 
 rose at last, slipped out of the room without 
 eliciting any thing more than a growl from 
 my affectionate guardian, and, bringing a 
 shawl down from my chamber, wrapped it 
 about me, preparatory to setting out for a 
 walk. 
 
 Even yet I seem to feel the sharp, raw air 
 — laden with coming rain — that rushed over 
 me as I closed the hall-door, and stood on the 
 broad stone steps which led down to the ave- 
 nue. The sky was overcast with lowering 
 masses of gray cloud, scudding along before 
 some wind-storm of the upper air. and show- 
 ing not a single rift in their sullen gloom. 
 The brown earth was strewed with fallen 
 leaves, while the gaunt, bare branches of the 
 
 tall oaks seemed pointing like spectral fingers 
 to the lowering sky. It was not a particular- 
 ly cheerful afternoon for out-door exercise ; 
 but down the steps I went, and was soon 
 tramping along the avenue as if intent on an 
 errand of life and death. How clearly I re- 
 call, at this moment, the peculiar, pungent 
 odor of the dead leaves over which I trod ! 
 If I should live to count fourscore years, I 
 think this fragrance of the autumn will al- 
 ways bring back with strange vividness that 
 gray afternoon rapidly closing into twilight, 
 the sobbing miserere which the bare trees 
 seemed to be sighing over their fallen glory, 
 and the shabby little figure in a much-worn 
 shawl, executing a movement very like a mili- 
 tary " double-quick " toward the gate. 
 
 Fortunately, this gate was not very dis- 
 tant, and I reached it before long. There I 
 paused, and, leaning my head against the 
 bars, looked as wistfully through them as if 
 I had been a Peri, and the common, beaten 
 high-road running past, a paradise. As I 
 look, I remember that a wild desire came 
 over me to lift the heavy latch and go forth 
 to the freedom which lay beyond. What if I 
 was but a girl — a homeless waif whom Uncle 
 Kendall fed and clothed out of charity — the 
 world was wide, and surely somewhere within 
 its borders I should find the loving hearts 
 and the happy home of which I dreamed. 
 God knows my life has not been a bright one 
 since that time, but something like the pity 
 which we feel for a stranger comes over me 
 as I think of the desolate child who stood 
 there on that evening — burning with a fierce 
 fever of unrest, and pondering in the vague, 
 
8i 
 
 MY STORY. 
 
 wild fashion of youth, whether she should not 
 make one desperate effort to break the dull 
 stagnation of a life narrow and sordid beyond 
 any powers of expression. 
 
 I had not quite decided the question in 
 the affirmative, when I heard the sound of a 
 horse's hoofs coming at a sliarp trot along 
 the road. I did not even turn my head in 
 the direction whence the sound came. Some 
 belated farmer going home, no doubt, or per- 
 haps some one of the young gentlemen who 
 occasionally rode past Kendall — sons of the 
 large land-owners in its neighborhood. They 
 were nothing to me — I knew none of them. 
 Friend or associate, admirer or lover, I had 
 not in the world. Shielded, therefore, by the 
 gathering gloom, I kept my position — only 
 starting suddenly from my abstraction when 
 the horseman stopped. 
 
 Stopped at the gate of Kendall Manor ! 
 I could with difficulty credit my eyes as I 
 glanced round and found a horse's nose 
 within a few feet of me, while his rider 
 stooped to fumble for the latch. Through 
 the falling dusk, neither horse nor rider had 
 perceived the human figure leaning against the 
 gate, and both were startled when I abruptly 
 raised my face. The horse reared backward, 
 his rider gave the reins a sharp jerk, and a 
 slight struggle ensued — the gentleman saying 
 something which sounded rather forcible, 
 but which I did not hear distinctly. Then 
 he raised his voice and addressed me, whom 
 he evidently took for a loitering servant. 
 
 " Open the gate, if you please. You have 
 frightened my horse so that he is afraid to go 
 near it." 
 
 I meekly obeyed, opening the gate and 
 shielding rqyself behind it, as I pulled it 
 back. The horseman rode sharply in — allow- 
 ing his horse to look neither to the right nor 
 to the left — and, touching his hat slightly as 
 he passed me, said, " Thank you ! " I made 
 no reply, for I was amused by his mistake, 
 and did not think it worth while to undeceive 
 him. After he passed, I pushed the gate 
 back, and, while I was lifting the latch with 
 both hands ia an endeavor to replace it, I 
 was startled to find that, instead of pursuing 
 his way to the house, he wheeled round and 
 again addressed me. 
 
 " I beg pardon," he said, "I should have 
 asked before — is this Kendall Manor? " 
 
 "This is it," answered I, briefly; and, 
 having now raised the troublesome latch to 
 
 its proper place, I turned round and faced the 
 stranger — surely very much of a stranger who 
 could ask such a question as that in Essex 
 County, and at the very entrance of the Ken- 
 dall domain. 
 
 As I have said before, it was dusk, but 
 I saw with tolerable distinctness what my 
 interlocutor looked like ; not particularly 
 handsome or particularly imposing, but a 
 gentleman undoubtedly in air and manner — 
 I had seen few enough gentlemen in my life, 
 yet I felt certain on this point — a man who 
 could not have been less than thirty or more 
 than thirty-five apparently, who had an easy, 
 well-built figure, a bronze face, with a pair 
 of dark eyes, a firm chin, and a heavily droop- 
 ing mustache. 
 
 As I turned and gave the searching look 
 necessary to take all this in, the stranger 
 smiled a little, apparently at the coolness and 
 frankness of my scrutiny. 
 
 "Do you live here ? " asked he, pointing 
 slightly toward the old brown house visible 
 through the leafless trees. 
 
 " Yes," answered I, laconically. 
 
 " Can you tell me if Mr. Kendall is at 
 home?" 
 
 " He was at home half an hour ago." 
 
 " Thanks ; good-evening." 
 
 He touched his hat again, and tliis tinie 
 rode away without turning back. 
 
 I followed at my leisure — not particularly 
 anxious to reach the house, since there was 
 nothing for it now but the cheerless solitude 
 of my own chamber. Once or twice a year, 
 some stranger came to see Uncle Kendall on 
 business, and on these occasions I was al- 
 ways summarily dismissed from the sitting- 
 room. Doubtless, the same result would 
 follow on the present occasion. 
 
 My surprise was great, therefore, when, as 
 I opened the door half an hour later, and 
 stepped into the hall, cold and tired, Uncle 
 Kendall's voice sounded from the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 " Is that you. Beryl ? " he cried ; adding, 
 when I answered in the affirmative, " Come 
 here." 
 
 With my shawl still wrapped around me. 
 I obeyed, entering the sitting-room, where a 
 bright fire made a most unusual illumination, 
 and facing Uncle Kendall — seated bolt upright 
 in his large chair — and the stranger for whom 
 I had opened the gate half an hour before. 
 
 " Come here. Beryl," repeated my uncle, 
 
MY STORY. 
 
 85 
 
 as I paused just within the door, feeling 
 strangely awkward and abashed. " Don't 
 look so frightened, child ; nobody is going to 
 harm you. — She has grown up here," he went 
 on, looking at his companion ; " but she will 
 do us credit some day — eh, Ross ? " 
 
 The gentleman so addressed smiled, but, 
 without making any other reply, came for- 
 ward and held out his hand to me. 
 
 "Pardon me for having met you so un- 
 ceremoniously a little while ago," he said. 
 " I did not know then that we were cousins. 
 My name is Ross Kendall." 
 
 Even those few words were full of so 
 much kindness, that my sense of awkward 
 shyness fled at once. I smiled as I gave him 
 my hand. 
 
 "I never heard of you before," I said, 
 " but since you are a Kendall, I suppose you 
 must be my cousin." 
 
 " I have not had much time or inclina- 
 tion to instruct her in family ties and con- 
 nections," said Uncle Kendall, grimly. " She'll 
 learn about them soon enough for all the 
 good — or harm — they can do her! You 
 are the best of the whole, Ross" (with a 
 short nod), " else it isn't likely I'd have you 
 here now." 
 
 " I have been away too long to know much 
 of the family," said Ross Kendall, gravely. 
 
 "Thank God for it, then!" said the 
 other, sharply. " Take my word, you'll 
 never have any thing better to thank Him 
 for ! — Beryl, did you hear me tell you to 
 come to the fire ? Sit down there ! " 
 
 He pointed to the stool which I had va- 
 cated a little while before, and I obeyed the 
 gesture, subsiding into my familiar corner, 
 and looking curiously from one to the other 
 of the faces before me. What different faces 
 they were, as the firelight flickered over them, 
 bringing out clearly the prominent traits of 
 both ! At this moment I seem to see the 
 strange, fevered eagerness that lit up the 
 sharpened, haggard features of tlie elder 
 man, and the grave, quiet, bronzed face of 
 the younger, with its keen, bright, kind, dark 
 eyes. 
 
 Somehow my entrance seemed to have 
 created a little embarrassment. They were 
 both silent for some minutes ; then Uncle 
 Kendall spoke again. 
 
 " I told you a little while ago, Ross," he 
 said, in his dry, measured way, " that I would 
 wait until Beryl came in before I let you know 
 
 what business I had in view when I sent for 
 you, I heard that you had got back from 
 China" — Uncle Kendall was old-fashioned, 
 and he pronounced this Chiny — "without 
 having bettered yourself much ; and, since I 
 always had a liking for your father — he was 
 the only one of all the kin I ever could bear — I 
 thought I would take a look at you. You are 
 like him," he went on, taking a very hard 
 look indeed ; " but I think you may do better 
 than he did. You've got a firmer jaw. Firm- 
 ness is the great thing in this world, lad. 
 You'll know that when you are as old as I 
 am." 
 
 " I know it now," said Ross Kendall, very 
 grimly. 
 
 " The sooner you learn it, the better," said 
 the other, " If you have that, you won't let a 
 woman make a fool of you, as your father's 
 wife did of him ; you won't marry her for her 
 pretty face, as he did, without caring if her 
 heart is as black as Gehenna; and, above all, 
 you won't be wheedled into leaving your prop- 
 erty to her, so that she can marry again, and 
 despoil your own son of every penny, as you 
 have been despoiled. By G-d, boy ! " — I had 
 never seen Uncle Kendall so excited as whec 
 he brought his hand down on the arm of hia 
 chair with that vehement oath — "I have 
 thought of your wrongs sometimes till I 
 would have given every dollar I am worth to 
 prosecute that woman, as she deserves, for 
 robbery and plunder ; but she is too clever to 
 give us a chance for that." 
 
 "Let us rather say that my father trusted 
 her too implicitly," said the other, coldly. 
 " Let it pass, sir. I think of it as little as 
 possible. In fact" — shrugging his shoul- 
 ders — "I have not had time to think of 
 much besides my business during the last ten 
 years." 
 
 " Have you made any money out there in 
 China?" 
 
 " A little," was the reserved reply. 
 
 " Enough to keep you from going back ? — 
 for you told me a while ago you had no liking 
 for the place." 
 
 " So far from that, I suppose my em- 
 ployers will send me back next month." 
 
 " For how long ? " 
 
 " Another ten years, probably." 
 
 " Humph ! " said Uncle Kendall. 
 
 For a minute nothing further occurred. 
 The clock ticked ; the fire burned obtrusive- 
 ly ; Uncle Kendall looked at the leaping blaze ; 
 
80 
 
 MY STORY. 
 
 and / looked at the man who bad come from 
 China, and was thinking of going back again, 
 until the eyes of this wonderful traveller turned 
 on me, whereupon my own immediately sought 
 the floor. After that I contented myself with 
 looking at the drugget — feeling, the while, ex- 
 ceedingly hot and uncomfortable — until the 
 voice which I knew so well, and (God forgive 
 me !) disliked so intensely, spoke again, very 
 slowly : 
 
 " I'm an old man, Rosa, as you see, and 
 I'm not a strong man, as the doctor tells me 
 every time I meet him ; so, of late, I've been 
 thinking who's to have this old place after 
 I'm dead. It ought to go to some one of the 
 name ; but I don't know one that isn't a mer- 
 cenary, unprincipled scoundrel — unless it be 
 yourself. Root and branch, they have been 
 the pest of my life for years, until I have 
 sworn that I will leave Kendall and every 
 dollar I own to the county sooner than to 
 any of 'em. You are the only one that has 
 never tried to make any thing out of me, lad, 
 and I have thought more than once of leaving 
 it all to you ; but, then, you were in China, 
 and I couldn't tell what you might have grown 
 into. Now that I've seen you, however, I am 
 willing enough to make you my heir — only 
 there's one obstacle in the way." 
 
 " What obstacle ? " asked Ross. He spoke 
 quietly, but I, who was looking at him, saw a 
 sudden flush come to his cheek, and a sudden 
 light to his eye. It was evident that the pros- 
 pect of liberty and fortune was very pleasant 
 to a man expecting to go back to China for 
 another ten years. " What obstacle ? " he re- 
 peated, after a minute. 
 
 " That girl ! " answered Uncle Kendall, 
 poiuting his bony finger straight at me. 
 
 To say that the girl in question was as- 
 tonished at this unexpected reply, would be 
 to say very little indeed. I was so much con- 
 founded that I could not speak — I could only 
 gaze, as if transfixed, at the finger, and won- 
 der what Uncle Kendall possibly meant by 
 such an assertion. 
 
 " She expects to be my heiress," pursued 
 that amiable old person, after a minute, in a 
 tone of great disgust. 
 
 " I don't expect it! " I cried, indignantly 
 finding voice at this. " I never thought of 
 being your heiress, Uncle Kendall ! I don't 
 see why you should say I did. I — I mean to 
 be a governess, and take care of myself. I 
 told Aunt Kendall so yesterday." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said he, sardonically. " And 
 may I ask what you mean to teach ? " 
 
 The blood rushed into my cheeks like a 
 flame, and to this day I remember the keen 
 throb of humiliation which made me hang 
 my head like a chidden child. I had never 
 been sent to school, but had grown into a tall 
 girl of seventeen, with only such little smat- 
 tering of reading, writing, and arithmetic, as 
 Aunt Kendall could give. Under the circum- 
 stances, the governess idea was certainly suf- 
 ficiently absurd ; but, then, why need Uncle 
 Kendall have taunted me with my ignorance in 
 such a tone, and in the presence of a stranger ? 
 
 It was the voice of the latter which broke 
 the silence — quiet, but with a kindness in it 
 which I understood instinctively to be meant 
 for nie. 
 
 " Beryl is the daughter of your niece, is 
 she not ? " he asked, addressing Uncle Ken- 
 dall. " Certainly, in that case, she has a bet- 
 ter right to your fortune than I." 
 
 " She has no right at all," retorted Uncle 
 Kendall. " She is a fool if she thinks so ! I 
 have always meant to leave the manor to a 
 Kendall ; and I should like the fortune I have 
 spent my life in making to go along with it. 
 But nhe has to be provided for, I suppose " — 1 
 the scornful finger was levelled at me again — 
 " and so I have been thinking — she is pretty 
 enough, as women go — that you might not 
 have any objection to marrying her, Ross. It 
 would settle all trouble. I hope you have not 
 been silly enough to burden yourself with a 
 wife— eh ? " 
 
 " I have been too poor a man to afford 
 such a luxury," answered the other. He tried 
 to speak gravely, but my sharpened ears could 
 detect an irresistible inclination to laugh in 
 his voice. That tone proved a drop too much 
 in the already brimming cup of my shame and 
 confusion. Child though I was, I could still 
 appreciate the indignity and contempt with 
 which I had been treated, and burning tears 
 of rage were in my eyes as I rose suddenly to 
 my feet. 
 
 " I am going, Uncle Kendall ! " I said, in 
 a voice which trembled from the same cause, 
 " I — I cannot stay any longer. It is true you 
 have fed and clothed me," I cried, passionate- 
 ly ; " but you have not bought me, and you 
 have no right to offer me along with your for- 
 tune ! I don't want any of it — I would not 
 have any of it; but I — I think you might 
 have spared me such an insult as this ! " 
 
MY STORY. 
 
 87 
 
 *' Is the young fool mad ? " demanded Un- 
 cle Kendall, too much surprised to be angry. 
 " What the devil does she mean ? — Take your 
 seat again this minute, Beryl ! " 
 
 But for once I was deaf to the voice of 
 command. I rushed to the door, and it was 
 while I was fumbling blindly for the latch 
 that I found Koss Kendall at my side. 
 
 " Come back. Beryl," he said, as he might 
 have spoken to a child. " Your uncle did not 
 mean to offend you. He is plain-spoken, like 
 all old people, but he meant no harm. Of 
 course, his idea was absurd; but why not 
 laugh at it instead of taking it like this? I 
 have a better one to propose, instead," he 
 added, laughing himself. " Won't you come 
 back and listen to it? By Jove, if you 
 don't " — as I still retained inflexible hold of 
 the door—" I shall order my horse at once ; 
 for your claim to Kendall is certainly better 
 than mine ! " 
 
 " I have no claim ! " said I. But curiosity, 
 operating with the last threat, brought me 
 back. Then, having placed me in a chair, 
 Ross addressed himself to my uncle. 
 
 " I have ten days to spare, sir," he said, 
 "and since your letter was very kind, I came 
 down, meaning to spend them at the manor. 
 Now, I propose that, instead of talking any 
 further about estates and heirships, we de- 
 vote these ten days to learning something 
 about each other. You cannot possibly tell 
 how much or how little you may like me or 
 trust me on closer acquaintance, while, as for 
 this young lady" — he turned and looked at 
 me with a smile in his kind, dark eyes — " I 
 trust that she may at least learn to tolerate 
 me as a cousin. All question of any thing 
 else we will waive at once. It is enough to 
 say that no consideration could tempt me to 
 offer myself to a woman I did not love hon- 
 estly and for herself!" 
 
 " The more fool you ! " commented Uncle 
 Kendall, in his usual candid fashion. " There 
 is some sense in what you say about deferring 
 the discussion of business till we know each 
 other a little better," he added, after a pause ; 
 " only I am opposed to delays. We never 
 know what may happen; and I had a fancy 
 to draw up my will to-morrow, before I go — 
 as I am obliged to do — on a journey of five 
 or six days. However, since you have a no- 
 tion for waiting, let it be so ! I only hope 
 that when I come back you and Beryl will 
 have made up your minds to take each other 
 
 for life. It is all nonsense, this thing of men 
 and women talking of choosing each other 
 for love. The only sensible thing to do is to 
 choose the person who can make you most 
 comfortable. If you both agree to what I 
 propose, I'll see you safely married, and then 
 I'll draw up a will leaving every thing I am 
 worth to you, Ross. I don't believe in wom- 
 en's ever owning independent property. Mar- 
 ried or unmarried, there's not one of 'em fit 
 to be trusted with it ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 Our autocrat was as good as his word, 
 with regard to taking his departure the next 
 morning. He announced at the breakfast- 
 table that he had business which would de- 
 tain him from home several days, and thus, 
 to our dismay, Aunt Kendall and myself found 
 ourselves burdened with the entertainment of 
 our new-found kinsman. We looked at each 
 other a little blankly; but there was nothing 
 to be said, and, after breakfast, I confess that 
 I watched, for the first time, with sensations 
 of keen regret, the diminishing form of the 
 tall old vehicle and raw-boned horse which 
 conveyed Uncle Kendall to the railway town 
 of Exford. 
 
 " Are you always so sorry when your un- 
 cle leaves home ? " asked Ross Kendall, ma- 
 liciously. He was standing by me on the 
 steps, but I had not fancied that he was watch- 
 ing me until the tone of this question informed 
 me of the fact. Then I started, and, feeling 
 that I blushed, I felt also a strong inclination 
 to be malicious in return. 
 
 "I am not usually sorry at all," I an- 
 swered, quietly. " In fact, I don't think that 
 I ever was sorry, before." 
 
 " And may I ask the cause of your un- 
 usual regret on the present occasion, then ? " 
 
 " Since you have asked, you have no right 
 to be offended if I say that it is because you 
 have remained behind ! " 
 
 " I am not offended at all," he said, laugh- 
 ing, yet flushing a little. "But are you al- 
 ways so candid ? " 
 
 " How could I live with Uncle Kendall and 
 be otherwise ? " 
 
 " Candidly tell me, then, why you object 
 to my remaining? I am a most inoffensive 
 fellow, and would not harm you for the world." 
 
 " Why should you wish to stay ? " asked 
 I, impatiently. " It cannot possibly interest 
 you to be shut up, in a lonely country-house 
 
88 
 
 MY STORY. 
 
 like this, with a tiresome old woman like Aunt 
 Kendall, and a silly young woman like me. 
 There are no horses, no dogs, no guns, no 
 books, no any thing to amuse you !" 
 
 " Suppose I would rather not be amused ? " | 
 said he, smiling. "Suppose I would even 
 rather be bored ? I have not had time to be 
 bored in a long while ; and it is a luxury to a 
 man fresh from China. So is a glorious In- 
 dian-summer day like this," he added, chang- 
 ing his tone, " a luxury worth coming back 
 to enjoy ! How it makes me feel like a boy 
 again ! I wonder if I might venture to ask 
 the silly young woman to take a walk with 
 me?" 
 
 His gay frankness would have put even a 
 shyer person at ease. Having no excuse 
 ready, and being, moreover, mightily tempted 
 by the golden day, and the soft, dreamy air 
 (not to speak of the dark eyes and the ex- 
 traordinary but exhilarating consciousness 
 of having a man for a companion), the silly 
 young woman in question readily agreed to 
 go. We set forth, therefore, and if it mat- 
 tered — which it does not — I could recall every 
 word, and tone, and glance, which passed be- 
 tween us on that bright autumn morning — 
 that morning long past now, which I spent 
 like a very child in showing all my chiefest 
 and sweetest woodland haunts, and which 
 was crowned by the wholesale rifling of a 
 chestnut-tree upon which we chanced on our 
 homeward route. As we walked, we talked 
 not a little, and, by a few questions, Ross 
 drew from me all about my own history — of 
 which there was very little to tell — and I 
 think it was his sincere pity for my lonely, 
 joyless youth, which first opened my heart 
 to him. Does anybody wonder that I did not 
 resent this feeling, as I am told people mostly 
 do ? I can only say in reply that it should 
 be remembered that nobody had ever before 
 taken the trouble even to pity me. Besides 
 which, when Ross said, "Poor child!" there 
 was much of tenderness as well as pity in his 
 voice ; and, child or woman, she would have 
 been made of strange material indeed, who 
 resented any word of tenderness from Ross 
 Kendall's lips. 
 
 Well, it was a pleasant day. It is a pleas- 
 ant day to look back upon even now, for it 
 was only the beginning of others more pleas- 
 ant still. It is fortunate, perhaps, that I 
 cannot linger over the details of a story 
 which just here would seem, no doubt, com- 
 
 monplace enough. Once in our lives, para- 
 dise opens for all of us out of the dull earth ; 
 and days, golden with the light of tender ro- 
 mance, shine upon us with a radiance like 
 unto no other radiance of time. Does it boot 
 to count the cost of the bitter desolation 
 which often follows ? We can scarcely think 
 that Eve would have surrendered one memory 
 of Eden for all the joys of earth. Yet she 
 must have dreamed many times of the deep- 
 green bowers, the shining waters, the mar- 
 vellous glistening fruits of that fair domain, 
 and waked to weep such tears of unavailing 
 regret as have watered this sad planet of ours 
 most plenteously ever since. 
 
 It was in the midst of my colorless life, 
 in the season of earth's most touching sad- 
 ness, that some days like those of which I 
 have spoken came to me. Surrounded now 
 by sorrow and desolation — full of pain and 
 weariness — I can thank God for them yet. 
 Opening a drawer in the desk at which I am 
 writing, some relics of them lie before me — 
 changed, as the years which have passed since 
 then have no doubt changed me, too. Brown 
 leaves, once golden and scarlet with the burn- 
 ing touch of autumn — leaves gathered out on 
 the hill-side with Ross — a sketch of me which 
 he made one day on the blank leaf of a book, 
 with " Little Red Riding - hood " scrawled 
 lazily underneath ; a few other trifles equally 
 insignificant, and one short curl of crisp, dark 
 hair. Few as they are — these tokens of the 
 past — they open the whole treasure-house of 
 memory to me. They bring back vividly 
 those lovely days with their wealth of unfor- 
 gotten words and tones, their soft breezes 
 and faint woodland fragrances. I seem to 
 meet the dark eyes, to hear the frank, kind 
 voice, and, if I lift my eyes to a present and 
 a future which are alike desolate, I can still 
 thank God that love — even our poor human 
 love — stands forever chief among the Immor- 
 tals. 
 
 Uncle Kendall was gone nearly a fort- 
 night. To say that I lived an enchanted life 
 during this time, would be to say very little 
 indeed. For let it be remembered — in justi- 
 fication, perhaps, of my folly — that I had 
 never before had even so much as a kitten to 
 love. In my case there was no dividing and 
 subdividing of affection into different rills — 
 no father, mother, sisters, brothers, friends, 
 to claim a share of my heart. All the love 
 which was mine to give, swept into one great 
 
MY STORY. 
 
 89 
 
 channel, and poured itself — for good or ill — 
 at one man's feet. Looking back now, I can- 
 not regret it. It was something — nay, I am 
 still mad enough to think it was every thing 
 — to have lived in the light of his smile for 
 ten long, golden days, and heard him say a 
 thousand times in accent before he ever said 
 in words, that he loved me. 
 
 When at last he did speak, it seemed like 
 something which had been long acknowledged 
 and believed. \\''e were sitting on a sunny 
 hill-side — how well I remember the golden, 
 dreamy beauty of that Indian-summer after- 
 noon ! — with a glorious sweep of country at 
 our feet, clad in the gorgeous robes, and 
 draped with the lovely haze of autumn. I 
 had gathered from the ground two or three 
 brilliant leaves — the same which lie before 
 me now so brown and crisp — and, with the 
 coquetry inborn in woman, laid them against 
 the rich masses of my hair. 
 
 " Are they pretty ? " I asked, looking up 
 at Ross with the eyes which I knew full well 
 were like the summer sky at noonday. 
 
 He smiled a little. 
 
 " Why do you ask ? " he said. " You 
 know they are pretty — almost as pretty as 
 you are ! " 
 
 ''Ami pretty ? " asked I, quickly. " Do 
 you really think so ? I — I should like to be." 
 
 " Why should you like it ? " he asked, in 
 turn, looking at me with a strange intentness 
 in his dark eyes. 
 
 " Because I am sure it must be the great- 
 est gift a woman can possess," I answered, 
 readily. " It must be pleasant, I think, to 
 know that one has the power to win love any- 
 where and under any circumstances." 
 
 " Then you are like all other women," he 
 said, a little bitterly. " You long not for one 
 slave but for a thousand ; you want beauty, 
 not to gladden one man's eyes, bat to give 
 power over many. Well" — he drew in his 
 breath a little quickly — " be satisfied. You 
 have it ! It is yours in gi-eater degree than I 
 have ever before known it bestowed on any 
 one woman. If you go into the world — or, 
 perhaps I should say tvhoi you go into tht 
 world — you will find men enough to tell you 
 this better than I can." 
 
 His tone — which was almost harsh — took 
 me so much by surprise, that for a moment I 
 could say nothing. Then I felt hot tears rise 
 into my eyes. 
 
 " That was not what I meant," I said. 
 
 hastily. "I was not thinking of — of other 
 men. What do I care for them ? I was only 
 thinlcing that, if I were pretty, yo^i would like 
 me better." 
 
 " God forbid that I should ever like you 
 better!" he said, quickly, "for I fear — 
 Beryl, I fear — that I like you too much al- 
 ready. Child, don't look at me in that star- 
 tled fashion. I mean every word I say. 1 
 love you, God knows, better than I ever 
 thought to love any thing on earth again ; 
 but, if you came to my heart this minute, I 
 should be miserable through fear of losing 
 you. I loved another woman once, who was not 
 half so beautiful as you are, and she deceived 
 and forsook me. Why should not you do the 
 same? " 
 
 His voice, his words, seemed to cut like a 
 knife to my heart I have already said that 
 I was little more than an ignorant child ; for- 
 give me, then, if I sinned grievously against 
 all precedents of courtship. Don't be hope- 
 lessly shocked that I extended my hands to 
 him, backed by a pair of wistful, tearful eyes. 
 
 "Ross," I said, simply, "/ would never 
 deceive or forsake you." 
 
 His only answer was to take me into his 
 arms. I think for a moment he could scarce- 
 ly speak — so deeply had those simple words 
 touched him. Then — but my story has noth- 
 ing to do with the words of fond folly and 
 tender sweetness which were uttered out on 
 the hill-side that day. They are buried long 
 since — buried by the rains, and leaves, and 
 sobbing winds of many succeeding autumns — 
 for the seasons which come and go in their 
 appointed course have never brought such an 
 hour again to all my dreary life. 
 
 The sun was setting when we took our 
 way homeward. Oh, in what bright and 
 tender colors does memory still paint that 
 last happy evening ! I seem to see yet the 
 glow of sunset clouds brightening the whole 
 landscape and reflected in the streams that 
 took their way through purple ravines and 
 smiling valleys. Even the windows of the 
 old manor were all on fire, as if with a brill- 
 iant illumination, when we came in sight of 
 them. " It is in our honor ! " Ross said, with 
 a smile. 
 
 When he said this, we were standing on a 
 hill overlooking the manor from the rear. At 
 our feet lay the old house, with the lazy blue 
 smoke ascending from its chimneys, and its 
 panes of old-fashioned glass blinking redly iu 
 
90 
 
 MY STORY. 
 
 the sunset glow ; also in full view were the 
 out-houses, kitchens, and stables, while far- 
 ther back — out of sight from the manor, but 
 clearly visDjle to us — was a small cabin, with 
 an enclosed piece of ground attached, and a 
 rough piazza in front — one of those establish- 
 ments which used to be so common on every 
 Southern plantation, where some old servant 
 had been "turned out to grass" after long 
 and faithful service. 
 
 " That is where old Sylvy lives," said I to 
 Ross. " Did you ever see old Sylvy ? No ? 
 Well, then, you ought to see her, for I really 
 believe she is the only person in the world 
 who is not afraid of Uncle Kendall. I some- 
 times think, on the contrary, that lie is afraid 
 of her — he certainly treats her with more 
 consideration than he treats anybody else, 
 and, whenever he is sick, he sends for her to 
 nurse him. They say that she used to be his 
 wife's favorite maid. Fancy Uncle Kendall 
 ever having had a wife ! " 
 
 "And, pray, why not ? " asked Ross, smil- 
 ing. " Uncle Kendall was not always an ogre. 
 No doubt he was as good-looking as — as I 
 am, for example, when he was young. He 
 loas married, I know ; but he quarrelled with 
 his wife, and, since her fortune was settled 
 on herself, and her temper was as high as 
 his own, she refused to live with him. They 
 separated, therefore, but the law gave him the 
 control of their only child, whom he accord- 
 ingly kept until she grew into a girl, when 
 she ran away and joined her mother. After 
 that, he never saw either of them again." 
 
 "Aunt Kendall has told me all about it," 
 said I, " and I think she was quite right. If 
 I had only had anybody to run to, /should 
 have run away long ago. Tell me what be- 
 came of her, Ross. Do you know ? " 
 
 " Dead long ago, I suppose," answered 
 Ross, carelessly. " I never made any particu- 
 lar inquiries, but I know that, as long as I can 
 remember, Uncle Kendall's wealth has been a 
 source of speculation in the family. ' Whom 
 will he leave it to ? ' I have heard Kendall 
 after Kendall anxiously ask — which they 
 would not have done, you know, if his daugh- 
 ter had been alive." 
 
 " I suppose not," said I. " It would be 
 terrible if she was alive, though, would it 
 not ? " I added, with startling abruptness. 
 " You would have to go back to China, after 
 all, then, wouldn't you, Ross ? " 
 
 " That would depend upon circumstances," 
 
 answered he, jestingly. " If the will was made, 
 Kendall would be mine, let who would ap- 
 pear." 
 
 " What a different Kendall we will make 
 of it, will we not ? " cried I, gayly. " Oh, 
 Ross, it shall bloom like a garden, shall it 
 not ? Are you not happy ? Do you not feel 
 as light as the air ? See if you can reach the 
 bottom of the hill as soon as I can." 
 
 In the overflowing lightness of my heart I 
 started — I was as fleet as a deer in those days 
 — and ran down the sloping hill-side, carpeted 
 with smooth pine-straw. Of course, I reached 
 the bottom long before Ross ; and, as I paused 
 for breath, a small black figure darted at me 
 from some unsuspected quarter. 
 
 " Miss Beryl, granny say, will you please, 
 ma'am, come there ? " 
 
 " What does your granny want ? " asked 
 I, impatiently. I knew very well that the 
 " granny " in question was old Sylvy, whose 
 cabin stood near by, and I felt little inclined 
 for an hour's gossip over her rheumatism and 
 asthma. 
 
 " I dunno, ma'am," said the boy — Sylvy's 
 grandchild and factotum — " but she sent me 
 to de big house fur you, and when she heard 
 you was out in de woods, she tole me to keep 
 watch till you come, and tell you she wanted 
 pa'tic'lar to see you." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said I, pettishly. " Well, tell 
 her I will be there in a minute." 
 
 As the boy ran off, I stopped to explain to 
 Ross why I could not accompany him to the 
 house. " Old Sylvy wants to tell me about 
 the dreadful ' misery ' in her back, and how 
 she can't sleep of nights, but has to sit up by 
 the fire and smoke," I said, with a grimace. 
 " I'll come as soon as I can ; good-by." 
 
 " Suppose I go in and offer her a cigar to 
 let you off duty ? " said he, laughing. 
 
 But I declined this offer, and so we parted, 
 he going on to the house with his easy, swing- 
 ing tread, whistling as he went; while I ran 
 up the step of old Sylvy's piazza, and tried to 
 open her door. To my surprise, it was fast- 
 ened. 
 
 " Sylvy ! Sylvy ! " said I, rattling it impa- 
 tiently. " Let me in — it is I ! " 
 
 After a minute, I heard a fumbling at the 
 latch, then the door opened slowly, and Syl- 
 vy's face — nothing more — appeared. 
 
 " Is that you, Miss Beryl ? " she asked, 
 peering cautiously out. 
 
 " Of course it's me ! " answered I, too im- 
 
MY STORY. 
 
 91 
 
 patient to consider grammar. " Wlao else 
 should it be ? " 
 
 " I ax your pardon forkeepin' you waitin', 
 ma'am," she said, opening the door with her 
 usual courtesy — for Sylvy was a negro of the 
 old school, and often boasted that she had 
 been " taught manners by her ole mistis " — 
 "but a' body can't be too pa'tic'lar when 
 they've got reason for wantin' no tattlers 
 about. Walk in, ma'am. I hope your health's 
 pretty well this evening ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am always well," said I, with the 
 boastful superiority of youth. " How is your 
 rheumatism ? " 
 
 "About as usual, thank you, ma'am," she 
 answered, in the tone which shows that an 
 answer is absently given. 
 
 This in itself surprised me, for Sylvy was 
 always only too ready to talk of her ailments ; 
 but when I saw her carefully bolt the door 
 acrain, I at once inquired what was the matter. 
 " Why do you shut up your house so closely 
 this beautiful evening ? " I asked. " It is hor- 
 ribly warm ! " Which was not surprising, 
 since a large fire was burning in the capacious 
 chimney. 
 
 " There's some isn't warm, if it is a beau- 
 tiful evening. Miss Beryl ! " said she, solemn- 
 ly and mysteriously. Then she pointed to 
 the corner where her bed stood, generally 
 covered with a quilt of bright and wonder- 
 ful device, but now occupied, as a glance 
 showed me, by a motionless and recumbent 
 fisrure. " There's 07ie as will never be warm 
 agin in this world," said she, tremblingly. 
 " You can go and look at her, Miss Beryl. 
 How she ever got here, and she so fur gone, 
 the Lord only knows ! " 
 
 " What are you talking about ? " asked I. 
 "Who is it? Why didn't you send for Aunt 
 Kendall if anybody is sick ? " 
 
 " Send fur Miss Kendall ! " repeated Sylvy, 
 contemptuously. " What I gwine send fur 
 her fur ? She's so afraid of ole master, she 
 dasen't say her soul's her own. If he'd a bin 
 at home, I'd a sent for nobody ! " pursued 
 she, defiantly. " I'd a gone as straight to 
 him as my old feet could carry me. But 
 he ain't here, and I'm only an ole nigger, so 
 I thought maybe you'd know best, Miss 
 Beryl, what's to be done." 
 
 " I have not an idea what you are talking 
 about!" cried I, bewildered. "What is the 
 matter ? Of course, if anybody is very ill, 
 you ought to send for the doctor." 
 
 " It's too late for doctors to do any good 
 to /ter," said she, shaking her head. " Come 
 and look at her yourself, Miss Beryl ! You 
 ain't much of a one to judge, but you can tell 
 death when you see it, I reckon." 
 
 1 had not time to resent the slight thus 
 cast upon my powers of judgment, for she 
 drew mo toward the bed, and, in the red 
 light of the fire, I saw a sight which shocked 
 and thrilled me. A woman, with a face of 
 ghastly whiteness, lay under a heavy mass of 
 quilts and shawls, breathing so faintly that it 
 was difficult to tell at first whether or not she 
 breathed at all, and with every line of her 
 sunken face proclaiming, even to my inex- 
 perienced eyes, that Death was indeed laying 
 his icy finger on the feeble pulses, and saying 
 to the heart, with that power which no mor- 
 tal skill can gainsay, "Be still ! " 
 
 " Who is she ? " said I, turning to Sylvy, 
 who stood by wiping her eyes. " Good Heav- 
 ens, the woman is dying ! Who is she ? " 
 
 " She's Mass Kendall's own daughter. Miss 
 Beryl," answered the old woman, solemnly. 
 " She's your own flesh and blood, ma'am, an' 
 she hasn't any better place to lay her head 
 than the cabin of an ole nigger like me ! " 
 
 "il/rtss KendaWs oien daitffhterf" That 
 was all I heard. The rest of the speech — full 
 of sorrowful indignation though it was — passed 
 like the sounds in a dream. 
 
 " Why, it was not an hour ago we spoke 
 of her ! " I cried out, stunned by the coinci- 
 dence as such coincidences do stun; "and 
 Ross said that she was dead ! " 
 
 "Z knowed she wasn't dead," said Sylvy, 
 grimly, "an' ole master knowed it, too. 
 Many's the letter he's had from her, but he 
 never tole nobody about 'em but me. ' I've 
 had another letter from your chile,' he'd say 
 to me, sneerin'-like. 'She's anxious to be 
 took back, now that she's run through all her 
 mother's fortune ; but I swore, when she lef ', 
 she should never have a dollar of mine — an' 
 she never shall.' He's a hard one, is ole mas- 
 ter ; but I've up an' tole him 'fore to-day what 
 I think of him. He druv' my poor mistis' 
 into leavin' him, an' then he might 'a' knowed 
 that the chile was goin' to follow her mother. 
 I tried to keep her from it, poor lamb ! but 
 she would go, an' ole Sylvy ain't the one to 
 blame her. I nussed her in these arms ! " 
 said the faithful creature, sitting down and 
 sobbing in her apron. " I was the fust one 
 that took her after she come into this world 
 
92 
 
 MY STORY. 
 
 of trouble, an' now — Lord, Lord ! to think 
 that she's come back to ole Sylvy to die ! " 
 
 I said nothing. What could I say? A 
 great horror seemed to come over and be- 
 numb me. I sat down on a chest near by, 
 and stared, first at the dying woman, and then 
 at her sobbing nurse. 
 
 " When did she come ? " I asked present- 
 ly, in an awe-stricken whisper. 
 
 "Not more'n three hours ago," Sylvy an- 
 swered. " I was a-sittin' in my door, knittin', 
 an' thinkin' no more of seein' her than of 
 seein' the dead, when she come a-toilin' up 
 the hill, an' stood afore me like a ghost. 
 ' Mammy,' she says, ' don't you know me ? 
 I'm your chile.' Then, when I fetched her in 
 an' made her lie down — fur she was white as 
 a sheet — she tole me how she was a widow, 
 an' how she had bin so sick she was afraid 
 she would die an' leave her chile with nobody 
 to purtect him — you see, he's her youngest, 
 an' all she's got lef — so she thought she'd 
 come to her father an' see if he wouldn't 
 promise to befriend the boy after she was 
 gone. But, though she come, she was afraid 
 to go up to the house, for fear he'd shut the 
 door in her face, as he said he would ; so she 
 come to ask me what she better do, an', 
 while she was a-talkin', she begun to spit 
 blood, an' it went on wuss an' wuss, till it 
 lef her right where you see her noAv." 
 
 "And what are you going to do ? " asked 
 I, after another pause, and in another awe- 
 stricken whisper. 
 
 "That's what I don't know," she an- 
 swered, shaking her head. " If master was 
 here, I'd go straight to him; but he ain't, 
 you know, an' it's no worth while to go to 
 ole Mis' Kendall. But I thought as how you 
 — who's goin' to have every thing, they say — 
 might take it upon yourself to have your own 
 cousin carried to die in the house where she 
 was born." 
 
 " But I am not going to have every 
 thing ! " I said, indignantly ; " and I have 
 no more right to give an order at Kendall 
 than you have. In fact. Uncle Kendall would 
 let you do it, before he would let me ! " 
 
 " An' is everybody to say that my mistis's 
 chile died in a nigger's cabin ? " demanded 
 she, vehemently. 
 
 Now, it must be premised that, under or- 
 dinary circumstances, Sylvy would as soon 
 have thought of calling herself a cannibal as 
 a "nigger;" but at present she had thrust 
 
 herself so entirely aside— her whole thoughts 
 were so full of the wrongs of her dying 
 "child"— that she did not hesitate to use 
 even this opprobrious term to express her 
 sense of these wrongs more strongly. 
 
 "I— I don't know," said L "It is ter- 
 rible— but what can I do ? If there was only 
 somebody to take the responsibility—" Then 
 I stopped, and gave a little cry. " There is 
 Ross!" I said. "I might ask him. He 
 would know what to do, and he would not be 
 afraid of Uncle Kendall either. Why did I 
 not think of that before? I will go for 
 Ross ! " 
 
 I rose impulsively and started toward the 
 door, but, as I reached it, a low cry from 
 Sylvy made me stop short. She had risen, 
 and bent over the bed. 
 
 " Miss Beryl," she cried, with a wail, 
 " it's too late — too late ! My chile is dead ! " 
 
 iir. 
 WuEN I left Sylvy's cabin, the lovely 
 dusk which reigned over the earth when I 
 entered had given place to absolute night, 
 brightened only by that tender, fairy -like 
 lustre which we call starlight. The air came, 
 with a cool freshness impossible to describe, 
 to my fevered cheeks, though magically soft 
 for the season, as I walked slowly along the 
 path — every foot of which I knew— that led 
 to a stile in the rear of the manor-kitchen. 
 It was not strange that, as I walked, I felt 
 stunned and bewildered. The startling scene 
 through which I had so lately passed had 
 come upon me with the force of such absolute 
 surprise that it might have crippled, for a 
 time, the activity of even a stronger brain 
 than mine. The pale, set face of the dead 
 woman— the face which I had bent over, and 
 which I shuddered to remember that I had 
 even touched— seemed to go with me as I hur- 
 ried down the sloping path. I could not ban- 
 ish it, nor the flushed face of a sleeping child 
 with a corn-colored mop of curls, at whom 
 Sylvy had pointed sorrowfully, saying, " It's 
 for him she come." 
 
 For him ! That Kendall might be given to 
 him, and Ross sent back to China ! That was 
 the thought that came to me like a flash— the 
 first, instinctive comment of my jealous heart. 
 It had been my thought, indeed — though only 
 vaguely grasped— when I first heard who the 
 dying woman was. Does any one think this 
 strange ? If so, let me say, once for all, that, 
 
MY STORY. 
 
 93 
 
 though I do not intend (God forbid that I 
 should intend ! ) to extenuate any of the 
 thoughts and acta which it is part of my 
 story to record, yet it is impossible for him 
 to judge dispassionately of this story, who 
 does not remember that a young savage of the 
 South Sea would have had a decided advan- 
 tage over me at that time in point of moral, 
 social, religious, or any other kind of train- 
 ing, and that I had grown up in such utter 
 isolation from even the faintest affection that 
 there was scant cause for wonder in the fact 
 that I was ready to defend, at all costs and 
 all hazards, the interests of the sole creature 
 I had ever found to love. 
 
 For it had come to that. As I walked 
 down the hill-side path, I was conscious of a 
 wild, fierce desire to keep these intruders at 
 bay, and to defend Ross against them — Ross, 
 whom they had come to rob and to send back 
 to China ! I paused at the stile when I reached 
 It, and, leaning my arms on the top, with a 
 soft, soughing music in the pines behind, the 
 cheerful lights of the manor-windows in front, 
 and the great, starry sky overhead, pondered 
 the problem — what could I do ? Naturally 
 enough, no answer came. Instead, even I 
 had sense enough to see that I could do noth- 
 ing. There was Sylvy, there was the dead 
 mother, and there was the living child ; while 
 Uncle Kendall, who had already exceeded the 
 time appointed for his absence, might reach 
 home at any hour. In the face of these over- 
 whelming odds, what hope was there that I 
 — the most insignificant of creatures — could 
 find any means to outwit them all, and secure 
 to Ross his rights — I seriously considered 
 them his rights — which were so gravely 
 threatened ? What difference did it make 
 to me that the woman and the child in ques- 
 tion were Uncle Kendall's direct descendants, 
 while Ross was only a distant kinsman ? I 
 thought only of him. I fear that I should 
 have thought only of him if the whole Deca- 
 logue had been arraypd on the other side. 
 
 It was while I still stood under the starlit 
 sky, and still thought of many a wild, im- 
 practicable scheme — loath to enter the house, 
 because I had promised Sylvy to bring Ross 
 to her — that I was startled by the ring of a 
 familiar tread advancing quickly toward the 
 stile. Ross was coming for me ! My heart 
 pave a great leap — partly from the joy which 
 his coming always brought, but partly also 
 from relief, for I had been nervouslv dreading 
 
 7 
 
 his arrival all the while I was in Sylvy's cabin. 
 That I had no high sentiments of honor my- 
 self, I think my story amply proves ; but still 
 I could understand Ross, and I felt instinctive- 
 ly that all the chivalry of his nature would 
 rise up for that pale, dead mother and her 
 helpless child, if he saw them. Therefore, my 
 first thought was one of relief that he had not 
 seen them. 
 
 " Ross ! " said I, putting out my hand and 
 touching him, with a soft laugh, when he came 
 to the stile. 
 
 He had not seen me, and he gave a great 
 start. 
 
 " Beryl ! " he said. " Is it possible this 
 is you ? I was just coming after you. What 
 are you doing here all by yourself, and what 
 has kept you so long ? " 
 
 " I stopped here as I came back from 
 Sylvy's cabin," I answered, wondering a little 
 if my voice did not betray what I had seen in 
 Sylvy's cabin. " It is so beautiful I was in 
 no hurry to go in. Did you ever see a love- 
 lier night, Ross ? Look at that splendid 
 planet ! Is it Jupiter, do you think ? And 
 there are the Pointers and the Milky-Way, 
 and—" 
 
 " Yes," said Ross, interrupting my vague 
 astronomical knowledge. " But I have come 
 for you in haste. Beryl. Your uncle is very 
 ill, and wishes to see you." 
 
 " Uncle Kendall ! " I exclaimed. It was 
 a good thing wc were in the dark, and that 
 he could not see my start, nor the pallor 
 which overspread my face. " I — this is very 
 strange. When did he come, Ross ? " 
 
 " He was in the house when I reached it 
 two hours ago," Ross answered. " They told 
 me he had arrived about an hour before that. 
 He sat down in the sitting-room alone, and 
 when I came in I found him fallen over with 
 a stroke of paralysis." 
 
 "ORoss!" 
 
 " I applied some remedies myself, and 
 sent post-haste for a doctor, who came much 
 sooner than I expected. He is better now — 
 that is, he can speak a little, and be asked at 
 once for his lawyer and you." 
 
 "Will he die, Ross?" I asked, in a whis- 
 per. 
 
 " So the doctor thinks," Ross answered, 
 gravely. 
 
 After that I said nothing more. I let him 
 help me over the stile, and walked by him in 
 utter silence toward the house. Since that 
 
94 
 
 MY STORY. 
 
 night I have never trod that path ; but I re- 
 member every turn of it better than I re- 
 member the scenes of yesterday — I remem- 
 ber every thing connected with that night, the 
 stars which were brightly glowing overhead, 
 the soft sighing of the distant pines, the crisp 
 rustling of the dead leaves under our feet, the 
 dark outlines of the house cutting against 
 the steel-blue sky, the lights gleaming in the 
 windows, even the very spot where Koss put 
 out his hand and drew mine into his arm. 
 
 " Why are you so silent. Beryl ? " he 
 asked. "Did I shock you with my news? 
 And you are trembling all over, poor little 
 one ? Is it with cold ? " 
 
 With cold ! Ah, if he could have known 
 — if he could have seen — why I was trem- 
 bling in every limb like an aspen. Robbery ! 
 It was not robbery to hold my tongue, to say 
 nothing, to let the old man die in ignorance ; 
 and yet — I clung to him, quivering all over. 
 
 " No — I am not cold," I said. " It is be- 
 cause I am nervous that I cannot keep still. 
 Ross, do you — do you know what Uncle 
 Kendall wants with me ? " 
 
 " Can you not guess. Beryl ? " Ross asked, 
 gravely yet tenderly. 
 
 After that nothing more was said. We 
 entered the manor in the rear, and passed to 
 the sitting-room, where the lawyer, the doc- 
 tor, and an old gentleman, a Mr. Collins, were 
 comfortably smoking over the fire, and talk- 
 ing the current news of the day. They rose 
 at my entrance, and, when Ross asked if there 
 had been any change in the sick man, the 
 doctor answered that there was very little as 
 yet., but the sooner the business on his mind 
 was transacted, the better. Then Ross led 
 me straight into his chamber. 
 
 It is not likely that I shall ever forget the 
 scene upon which I entered. Indeed, it has 
 been one of the nightmares of my life. For 
 years I dreaded to sleep lest I should dream 
 of it, lest I should see again — as I so often 
 did — the twisted, helpless figure, the awful, 
 distorted face which met my gaze when I 
 crossed the threshold of that room. My 
 nerves were already unstrung, and I shrank 
 back piteously, covering my eyes with my 
 hands — but Ross led me on. " My poor dar- 
 ling, you must come ! " he said, in a whis- 
 per. 
 
 And so I reached the bedside — so I stood 
 shuddering and gazing into the harsh old face 
 transformed so hideously. The mouth was 
 
 wrenched into a ghastly and horrible grin — 
 even the eyes filled me with terror when they 
 looked at me. I dared not scream, yet I 
 could scarcely restrain the inclination to do 
 so when Ross left me a moment and went to 
 the head of the bed — bent over the lips striv- 
 ing desperately to speak, and uttering only 
 inarticulate sounds terrible to hear. 
 
 " Beryl is here, sir," he said. " Will you 
 speak to her ? or shall I ? " 
 
 After an effort, there came an answer 
 which seemed to mean " You." 
 
 Then Ross held out his hand to me, and I 
 came tremblingly nearer, and placed my own 
 in it. 
 
 " Your uncle wishes to ask you. Beryl," 
 he said, " whether you are willing to marry 
 me, and to trust your interests hereafter in 
 my hands ? " 
 
 " Yes, uncle," I answered, addressing the 
 eyes which were fastened on me, and from 
 which I could not remove my own. " I am 
 willing to marry Ross. I — I have promised 
 to do so." 
 
 Then the distorted lips, the paralyzed 
 tongue made another effort, and, after a min- 
 ute, wrenched out in broken, guttural sounds, 
 the word " Now ? " 
 
 I did not understand, and looked at Ross. 
 He seemed a little puzzled himself. 
 
 " Now ? " he repeated. Then — as he seemed 
 to catch the drift of some inarticulate sounds 
 the helpless man was making — he added, 
 quickly : "Do you mean to ask Beryl if she 
 is willing to be married now ? " 
 
 The eyes brightened and the head nodded. 
 Evidently this was what he did mean. 
 
 " That is for Beryl to answer," said Ross, 
 turning to me with a sudden flush on his 
 cheeks, and a sudden light in his dark eyes. 
 " I am ready, sir. If Beryl says yes — " 
 
 But I seemed to choke. I tore my hand 
 suddenly from him, and turned away — /say 
 yes ! How could I, oh, how could I? It was 
 not the shyness of a timid maiden which made 
 me shrink from those tender, passionate eyes, 
 that close-clasping, eager hand. God knows 
 I might have been fourscore for all I thought 
 of maiden shyness then. It was a sudden, hor- 
 rible sense of the deceit that enveloped me — 
 it was the memory of the dead woman and 
 the sleeping child in Sylvy's cabin ! I was 
 willing to do any thing that the princely for- 
 tune, which that poor wreck on the bed had 
 scraped and toiled and denied himself even 
 
MY STORY. 
 
 95 
 
 the luxuries of lifb to amass, might come to 
 Ross — willing even to hold my tongue and 
 let the sinful soul pass away without one op- 
 portunity to say, " Lord, forgive me as I have 
 forgiven ! " — but all suddenly I felt that my 
 soul was stained by this silence, and that my 
 hand was not worthy to touch the one which 
 Ross held out to me. 
 
 I turned away, and, walking blindly across 
 the room, dropped down upon a window-seat. 
 Thither, in a minute, Ross followed mc. 
 
 " Beryl," he said, in a tone in which pain 
 and surprise seemed struggling together, 
 " what is the matter ? Are you angry with 
 me ? I know it is hard for you to come so 
 suddenly and so irrevocably to one whom you 
 know so little — and / should not have dared 
 to ask it. But he is dying — the old man 
 yonder — and you remember he said, on that 
 first evening, that he wished to see us mar- 
 ried before he made his will." 
 
 At these words, I raised my face. It came 
 to me like a flash, that every thing hinged on 
 the marriage. Until that took place, the will 
 would not be signed which would make Ross 
 master of Kendall. I looked up with startled 
 eyes into the face looking down upon me. 
 
 " Don't you think Uncle Kendall would 
 defer the marriage, Ross ? " I asked. " Don't 
 you think he might sign the will without — 
 without that ? " 
 
 " He might," said Ross, " though I should 
 not like to ask it of him — but I am not think- 
 ing of the will. I am thinking of you, Beryl. 
 Why do you hesitate? — why will you not 
 trust me ? Is it because you have not learned 
 to love me yet ? Is it because you were mis- 
 taken — out there on the hill this after- 
 noon ? " 
 
 " Mistaken ! " Ah, if he could have read 
 my heart ! " Ross, Ross," I cried, " I love 
 you better than anybody in the world ! I 
 have never loved anybody but you in my 
 whole life. I would die for you, if I could ; 
 but I — oh, I cannot marry you ! " 
 
 " Do you mean never, Beryl ? " asked he, 
 growing pale. 
 
 " No — oh, no," answered I, with feverish 
 eagerness. " I mean I cannot do it now — to- 
 night." 
 
 " Why not, if you love me as you say you 
 do?" 
 
 " Because — oh, because I am not worthy 
 of you, Ross." 
 
 " Not worthy ! " He smiled as he took ! 
 
 my hands. "My pretty, foolish darling, is 
 that all?" 
 
 All ! If he could have known what that 
 " all " comprised! I looked at him, and won- 
 dered he did not see it in my face — surely not 
 the face of a girl shrinking only because she 
 loved. 
 
 " You said this afternoon that some one — 
 some other woman — deceived you once," I 
 said, nervously. " I — Ross, I may be doing 
 the same, for all you know." 
 
 " You ! " he repeated, incredulously. " You 
 — with that child-face, those angel-eyes ? If 
 you swore it, Beryl, I should not believe it." 
 
 "Not you, then; but — but some one 
 else." 
 
 " My darling, this is nonsense ! " he said, 
 gravely. " You are tormenting yourself about 
 some childish fancy or scruple — but there is 
 not time for such things now, Beryl. Death 
 will not wait for your decision. It is ad- 
 vancing yonder very fast. You must decide 
 quickly what you will do." 
 
 " Ross," said I, eagerly, " if he died with- 
 out signing any will, to whom would the prop- 
 erty go ? " 
 
 "To the heir-at-law," Ross answered, 
 " that would be yourself. Why do you ask ? " 
 he went on quickly. " Do you think that I 
 am urging you to marry me on account of the 
 will ? If you can do me such injustice as 
 that, Beryl—" 
 
 But I interrupted him hastily. " I did not 
 think of it for a moment," I said. " I only 
 asked because I wanted to know — the heir- 
 at-law means the nearest relation, does it 
 not ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered he, looking at me grave- 
 
 ly. 
 
 " Then, if there were others nearer than I, 
 they would inherit it, would they not ? " 
 
 " But there are no relations nearer than 
 you." 
 
 "Supposing, though — only supposing — 
 that there were, could they break a will after 
 it had been signed? " 
 
 "Not under ordinary circumstances," said 
 he. " But why do you ask such questions ? 
 Beryl, if you are thinking that this fortune 
 might be yours — " 
 
 " I am thinking that I will marry you this 
 moment, Ross," I said, with almost fevcrisk 
 eagerness. "I am sorry that I have wasted 
 so much time ; but I did not know — I did not 
 understand. If it is necessary for me to marry 
 
96 
 
 MY STORY. 
 
 you before the will is signed, I — I will do it 
 at once. Come — quick ! " 
 
 When Uncle Kendall heard that I had 
 consented to the marriage, he seemed pleased, 
 and desired that Mr. Collins might be sum- 
 moned at once. " He is a magistrate," Ross 
 said, in answer to my glance. " The legal 
 ceremony is all that your uncle desires. Of 
 course, the religious one can be performed 
 afterward, if you desire it." 
 
 " I do not care," I answered, sincerely 
 enough. It would have been strange if I had 
 cared, considering that at that time of my 
 life I knew no more of religion than that it 
 was a vague abstraction, of which Aunt Ken- 
 dall sometimes predicated (mostly when she 
 was particularly out of sorts and out of tem- 
 per) that it was all the comfort she had, and 
 which was supposed to take people to church 
 on Sundays when they had any fine clothes 
 in which to go. / never had ; so I stayed at 
 home, and was edified by scraps of cynical 
 atheism from Uncle Kendall's bitter old lips, 
 which I carefully treasured and pondered 
 upon. 
 
 Mr. Collins came in with the lawyer. 
 Mr. Kendall had requested him to be in readi- 
 ness for such an event (as the marriage, not 
 the death) ten days before, I heard the lat- 
 ter explaining to Ross ; so he had the will 
 drawn up in readiness for signing, and the 
 license in his pocket. " The sooner it is all 
 over the better," the doctor said, as he turned 
 away from an observation of his patient. 
 
 So, in that bare, ill-lighted chamber, with 
 the distorted face of the dying man before our 
 eyes, with the doctor standing by counting 
 his feeble pulse, with Aunt Kendall sniffling 
 a little (purely because it was the proper 
 thing to do) in the background, and with the 
 lawyer now and then rustling his papers, Ross 
 and I were married. Surely a ghastlier bridal 
 never took place ! Surely a bride never stood 
 more utterly and desolately alone at such an 
 hour ! I did not think of it then, however. 
 Never having known care or love, how could 
 I miss it ? I had Ross. That was enough 
 for me. my God, that would be enough 
 for me, I am often tempted to think, even 
 within the gates of Thy paradise ! 
 
 After the marriage — after Mr. Collins had 
 uttered those words which, even from his lips, 
 sounded strange and solemn, "I pronounce 
 you man and wife " — there was no rush of 
 congratulation and compliment, such as I 
 
 have seen since then at weddings, where love 
 had a much smaller place than with you and 
 me, my poor Ross ! Mr. Collins shook hands 
 and muttered a few words, the lawyer and 
 doctor did the same ; I heard afterward that 
 the latter described the marringe all over the 
 country-side as " the most mercenary bargain 
 he bad ever witnessed." Aunt Kendall ad- 
 vanced and shook her head over us. " Xo 
 good'll ever come of it," she said. " What's 
 begun in sorrow isn't likely to end in joy. I 
 never saw the like of such a wedding in all 
 my born days — never ! " 
 
 Then certain inarticulate sounds from the 
 bed signified to all of us that Uncle Kendall 
 was impatient even of this delay. " The 
 will !" we heard him trying to say, " the will ! " 
 
 Then the lawyer produced and read aloud 
 this important document. I tried to listen 
 and to grasp its meaning — for, was it not 
 necessary that I should do so? — but, listen 
 as I would, the legal jargon was to me unin- 
 telligible. I could make nothing of it. My 
 head was in a whirl. Did it give Kendall to 
 Ross ? Did it provide that he should never 
 need to go back to China again ? I put up 
 my hand and caught his, resting on the back 
 of the chair in which he had placed me. 
 
 "Ross," I whispered, as he bent down, 
 " does it give every thing to you ? " 
 
 " Every thing," he answered, quietly. 
 
 Then I was satisfied. All that I desired 
 would soon be accomplished. When the will 
 was signed and sealed in the presence of the 
 witnesses there assembled, all which seemed 
 to me trembling in the balance but a little 
 while before, would be secured to Ross. He 
 would be rich and free, and could care as 
 generously as he pleased — far more generous- 
 ly than that stern old dying man would have 
 done — for the boy with the flushed, smiling 
 face and tangled, curling hair, asleep in Syl- 
 vy's cabin. I gave a sigh of relief, and laid 
 my cheek softly against the hand resting so 
 near. It was a very toil-worn hand ; and I 
 remember thinking, with a thrill of pleasure, 
 that, after that night, it would never need to 
 toil again. From first to last, God is my wit- 
 ness, Ross, I thought then, as I think now, 
 only of you ! 
 
 After the will was read, the signing took 
 place. First, the paralyzed hand of the dying 
 man was guided over the letters of his name. 
 Then the witnesses appended their signatures. 
 After this — which I watched breathlessly — 
 
MY STORY. 
 
 97 
 
 the lawyer gravely shook hands with Ross. 
 "A very fine iuhcvitance, indeed, Mr. Ken- 
 dall ! " he said. But Ross answered nothiug. 
 I think he felt that these congratulations in a 
 death-chamber were out of place. 
 
 Then, while we still stood grouped about 
 the bed — watching the flickering breath come 
 and go, and waiting for the end — a step which 
 I knew suddenly sounded in the room beyond. 
 How I knew it — how I guessed that it was 
 Sylvy, who had heard of her master's illness, 
 and was coming to him — I cannot tell. I only 
 remember that I sprang suddenly away from 
 Ross — I seem to see yet, as in a dream, his 
 look of surprise — and rushed across the floor. 
 With all my haste, I was only in time to meet 
 the old woman on the threshold. 
 
 ir. 
 
 "Go back, Sylvy!" I said, catching her 
 arm. " Go back ! You are too late. Uncle 
 Kendall is dying ! " 
 
 " Dyin' or not, Miss Beryl, I'm comin' to 
 him ! " she answered, sternly. " You nor no- 
 body else shall keep me back when I've got 
 to speak for her that's gone, and the helpless 
 orphin she lef '. It's no thanks to you I heard 
 about him," she added, fiercely, " an' it's not 
 you shall keep me away now." 
 
 " But he is dying — he is speechless. What 
 good can it do ? " 
 
 " Speechless or not, he shall hear ole Syl- 
 vy ! " said she. " You might as well stand 
 out o' my path. Miss Beryl — I'm comin' in. 
 The Lord has sent me to speak for them tliat 
 has nobody else to speak for 'em — and I am 
 goin' to do it ! " 
 
 " Xo, you are not going to do it ! " said I, 
 between my set teeth. We were standing 
 face to face in the door -way — I tall and 
 strong, she small and frail — and, as I said 
 those words, I put a hand on each of her 
 shoulders, and bore her back. It was so sud- 
 denly and swiftly done, that she had not time 
 to resist or protest. She gave way like a 
 reed, and I whirled her — how, I have not an 
 idea — through the anteroom in which she 
 stood, clear across the passage, and into a 
 sort of nondescript house-keeper's room, where 
 Aunt Kendall mostly sat. There I deposited 
 her in a chair. 
 
 " You shall not go in there to disturb a 
 dying man and make a family scandal before 
 all those strangers ! " I said then — slightly 
 breathless myself. " The woman is dead — 
 
 you know that — and the child shall be cared 
 for better than he would ever have done. 
 That ought to satisfy you ! " 
 
 " But it don't satisfy me ! " cried she, as 
 soon as she could find her voice. " It don't 
 satisfy me — an' it never will satisfy me! 
 Every thing ought to belong to him — the 
 blessed chile — an' not to you nor that sweet- 
 heart of yours neither. It's a sin an' sliame 
 to see him 'at has a right to be here, turned 
 out for them 'at has no right — an' so I'll say, 
 as long as the Lord gives me breath !" 
 
 " You are a most unreasonable old wom- 
 an ! " said I. " Did / make Uncle Kendall 
 leave his fortune away from his grandchild ? 
 He knew he had a grandchild, didn't he ? 
 He hasn't left it to mc, if that will gratify you." 
 
 " Then he's left it to one with less right 
 than you," said she, sullenly. 
 
 This I did not choose to notice. " Go 
 back to your house," I said. " You are talk- 
 ing folly. The child shall be cared for, I 
 promise you that ! " 
 
 " I should like for him 'at has a right to 
 promise, to tell me that,''- she said. 
 
 "You shall not go near him!" I cried; 
 but as I spoke the door opened, and Ross 
 walked in. 
 
 At the first sight of him I felt my heart 
 die within me. Somehow I knew what was 
 coming then. If I had had my senses about 
 me, I should have gone forward at once to 
 meet him and draw him from the room ; I 
 should have told him the story first myself at 
 any cost; but, at the moment of emergency, 
 my self-possession deserted me — as self-pos- 
 session mostly does when it is needed — and I 
 stood pale and silent, while he crossed the 
 floor and came up to me. 
 
 *' My darling," he said, taking my hands, 
 " it is all over. He is dead ! " 
 
 " Is he ? " said I, with a gasp. Fool as 
 I was, and horrible as it may sound to those 
 who discreetly bury in silence the involun- 
 tary emotions of their hearts, this news came 
 to me with a thrill of relief. I do not remem- 
 ber that I even tried to be sorry; that I even 
 gave one thought to the cheerless life that 
 had ended — to the sinful soul that had gone. 
 I only thought of Ross. Whatever I had 
 done, the result was gained. He was master 
 of Kendall now. None could gainsay that 
 last will and testament signed and witnessed 
 scarce an hour before, 
 
 " So he is dead ! " said I, shuddering a lit- 
 
98 
 
 MY STORY. 
 
 tic. Then I drew my hands from the kind 
 clasp which held them, and walked over to 
 where Sylvy stood. 
 
 " You hear that ! " I said, in a low tone. 
 " Xow go ! After a while I will speak to Mr. 
 Kendall, and every thing shall be done that is 
 right ; but you must go ! " 
 
 I could not help a certain imploring ring 
 in my voice despite its tone of authority ; and 
 this she caught. She gave me a quick glance 
 of mingled surprise and defiance out of her 
 keen black eyes. 
 
 " I'm much obliged to you, Miss Beryl," 
 she said, dryly ; "but I'll speak to the new 
 master myself, since I didn't git leave to speak 
 to the ole one." 
 
 " Sylvy ! " cried I, grasping her dress as 
 she strove to pass me. 
 
 But she broke away and walked up to 
 Ross, who was standing on the hearth-rug, 
 looking surprised at this scene. 
 
 "I ax your pardon, master," said she, 
 dropping her old-fashioned courtesy, " but 
 Miss Beryl's bin a tellin' me that ole Mass 
 Kendall's lef ' all his property to you ; an' I 
 thought I'd make bold to come an' tell you 
 that his daughter's a lyin' dead in my cabin, 
 an' that his grandchile's there too, with no- 
 body to see after him but an ole nigger like 
 me." 
 
 "What!" said Ross. It was scant won- 
 der that he was startled. Such news at such 
 a time would have been likely to startle any 
 man. 
 
 " Are you mad ? " he asked, when the 
 statement had been repeated. " What is the 
 meaning of such a story as this ? — Has she 
 been telling it to yon, Beryl?" he went on, 
 turning to me. " If so, what does she mean ? " 
 
 "I means what I say," answered Sylvy; 
 for my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. 
 " Go to my house an' look fur yourself, if you 
 don't believe me, or ax Miss Beryl here. Sfie 
 can tell you, fur she seen Mass Kendall's 
 daughter afore she died." 
 
 "Beryl!" said Ross. There are no words 
 in which I can express the mingled amaze- 
 ment, incredulity, and appeal of his tone. 
 Then, after a minute's long silence, " Beryl, 
 what does she mean ? What falsehood or 
 absurdity is this? Your uncle's daughter 
 died long ago." 
 
 " She died this evenin' ! " cried Sylvy, with 
 energy, before I could speak. " Them that 
 said she died long ago was liars, that wanted 
 
 I 
 
 what should a bin hers. She's a lyin' in my 
 cabin dead this minute. Send old Mis' Ken- 
 dall, send Mr. Collins, send Dr. Burton. They 
 all knowed her when she was young. Let 
 them say if it ain't true an' if I'm a liar ! " 
 
 Her passionate, vehement voice carried 
 conviction with it. I saw that in his face 
 even before I heard it in his voice, when, after 
 a short pause, he said, sharply : 
 
 " If this is — if this can possibly be true, 
 why did you not come and tell it before your 
 master died ? " 
 
 " An' how was I to know that he was a 
 dyin' ? — how was I even to know that he had 
 got back home ? " she asked. " Nobody was 
 goin' to come an' tell ole Sylvy. Miss Beryl, 
 she knowed who was in my cabin, but instead 
 of sayin' a word fur 'era, she turned me back 
 from the door when I come to tell ole master 
 myself." 
 
 " Beryl ! " said Ross again. This time it 
 was a hoarse cry, and, turning sharply away 
 from the woman before him, he came up to 
 me. 
 
 " Beryl ! " he said, taking my hands and 
 gazing at me with passionate, wistful eyes, 
 which seemed to pierce my soul ; " for God's 
 sake, tell me — is this true ? " 
 
 What could I say ? I do not think I 
 would have hesitated to lie, if lying would 
 have served any purpose ; but, even through 
 the mist of my reckless folly, I had sense 
 enough to know that facts were too strong 
 against me for that resource. I had instinct 
 enough to feel that if I wished to make utter 
 shipwreck of Ross's love and respect, I had 
 only to add deliberate falsehood to criminal 
 silence. Therefore, I could only look at him 
 — at the face I loved so dearly growing white 
 and stern before my gaze — with piteous, im- 
 ploring eyes, conscious the while that my heart 
 was rising into my throat — so young a heart, 
 Ross, and so untaught, that I sometimes 
 think you might have been more patient, even 
 with its deceit ! 
 
 I saw that he read my answer in my face, 
 and that he would ask no other — then. He 
 dropped my hands suddenly, and, turning 
 away, walked back to Sylvy. 
 
 " Come ! " he said to her in a hard, cold 
 voice. " Let me go and prove this story of 
 yours ! " 
 
 She followed him readily enough, and they 
 passed out of the room together — leaving me 
 alone. For a moment I stood bewildered. 
 
MY STORY. 
 
 99 
 
 Had Koss left me like that? Ross! — for 
 whom I had doue every thing ? Then I 
 rushed after him — overtaking him in the pas- 
 sage beyonJ. 
 
 "Ross," I cried, catching his arm implor- 
 ingly, "what are you going to do? — why 
 should you care so much for this news ? The 
 will is safe. Every thing is yours ! " 
 
 He turned and looked at me. I think 
 sometimes tliat in my grave I shall remember 
 that look. Then he shook off my hand. 
 
 " Go back. Beryl," he said, in a strange 
 sort of voice. " I will come to you after a 
 while — but go back now." 
 
 "Ross, I — I should like to came with 
 you." 
 
 "It is no place for you," he said. Then 
 he led me — gently, but alas ! not tenderly — 
 back to the room I had left, closed the door, 
 and went his way. 
 
 For a minute I was stunned. Then — well, 
 I do not remember much after that until I 
 seemed to rouse out of a wild passion of sobs 
 to find Aunt Kendall standing over me, a 
 glass of cordial in her hand, and an awed, 
 frightened look on her meek, commonplace 
 face. 
 
 Of what she said I have little more recol- 
 lection than if her words had been water and 
 my mind a sieve. I only remember that she 
 had been sent by " Mr. Kendall " to look after 
 me, to put me to bed, and to see that I rested 
 — and that I refused absolutely to be looked 
 after, to go to bed, or to rest. I demanded 
 to know where Ross was; but when I heard 
 that he was superintending the removal of 
 the dead body from Sylvy's cabin to the 
 manor, I asked no more. I only turned with 
 a look that hushed even the garrulous com- 
 ments on her lips. 
 
 " I can hear none of that now," I said. 
 "Go to bed. I shall wait here till Ross 
 comes. He cannot be long." 
 
 But he was long — wearily, terribly long. 
 Shall I ever forget the watches of that terrible 
 night ? I did not dare to seek him again 
 after the repulse I had received ; so I could 
 do nothing but wait — pacing the floor most 
 of the time in fevered restlessness, and listen- 
 ing with heart-sick expectation to every step 
 which sounded in the passage, to every one 
 of the sounds with which the old house seemed 
 full, the strange tide of life which Death al- 
 ways brings in his train. It must have been 
 very near daylight when, overcome by exhaus- 
 
 tion and weariness, I fell asleep in a large 
 chair before the fire ; and, when I waked with 
 a start, Ross was standing before me. 
 
 He looked pale, haggard, and very grave, 
 I thought, as the morning light streamed over 
 his face ; but his first words were full of con- 
 cern for me. 
 
 " Beryl," he said, " is it possible that you 
 have been here all night ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered I, looking at him blank- 
 ly, numbly, as it were. I remembered every 
 thing perfectly — as perfectly as if I had not 
 slept — but somehow my passionate emotion 
 had all died away, and a great apathy had 
 come over me instead. 
 
 "But why did you do such a thing?" 
 asked he, bringing a shawl from another part 
 of the room and wrapping it around my un- 
 resisting figure. " It is enough to make you 
 ill, I thought you had gone to bed long 
 ago." 
 
 "Aunt Kendall came forme," I said, "but 
 I did not choose to go. You said you were 
 coming back, and I — I thought I would wait." 
 
 " But did you think I meant you to wait 
 for me all night ? " he asked. " How could 
 you be so foolish ? It will surely make you 
 ill." 
 
 " Oh, I am strong," said I, with a little 
 weary shiver. And God knows this was true 
 enough, else I should have died long since of 
 sheer pain and hopelessness. 
 
 Then for a minute there was silence. 
 Ross stood and looked at me. I sat and 
 looked at the dying fire. The cold, gray day- 
 light streamed in through the unshuttered 
 windows, a cock was crowing in the yard 
 without ; I even remember that somebody 
 walked across the floor of the room over- 
 head, and I speculated vaguely concerning 
 who it was. Then : 
 
 " I did not expect to find you here," Ross 
 said, abruptly. " I came in for a little quiet 
 — for a little time to think — but perhaps it s 
 as well that we should understand each other 
 at once. I have something to ask you. 
 Beryl." 
 
 "Well!" said I, faintly. I knew what 
 was coming, but I scarcely shrunk. Only — it 
 is a good thing to think that there are some 
 minutes of life which we shall never have to 
 live over ; and that is one of them. 
 
 " Well," he echoed, after a second — and 
 his very lips seemed to grow pale with the ef- 
 fort of speaking — " I want to ask if it is true, 
 
100 
 
 MY STORY. 
 
 this horrible story, that you linow — you, Beryl 
 — of the dying daughter who had come to 
 seek her father's protection for her child, and 
 that, standing by that father's death-bed, see- 
 ing him bequeath his fortune to a stranger, 
 you uttered not one word to warn him of the 
 heir who was so near — of the grandchild 
 whom he was wronging so deeply by such a 
 will ? " 
 
 " Have you not Sylvy's word for it ? " 
 asked I, gathering myself together in the 
 chair, and gazing steadfastly at the embers 
 on the hearth. 
 
 " Sylvy's word ! " he repeated. " What is 
 Sylvy's word to me ? What is the word of 
 anybody in the world in comparison with, or 
 arrayed against, yours? Beryl" — he came 
 suddenly forward and took my passive hands 
 into his eager clasp — "say something to me! 
 Tell me it is not so ! Tell me that it is a lie 
 or a mistake ; tell me that it is any thing 
 sooner than true, and God knows I love you 
 so well that I shall believe you in the face of 
 every proof against you!" 
 
 Even yet I hear the thrill of imploring 
 passion in his voice. Even yet my tears fall 
 heavily to realize how much he must have 
 loved the woman to whom he spoke like that. 
 Poor Ross ! It was hard on him when my 
 dull, mechanical answer came — spoken as if I 
 cared so little for his pleading or his pain. 
 
 " But I cannot tell you any thing except 
 that it is true — quite true. I knew the whole 
 story, and I said nothing ! " 
 
 " But why ? Why did you not speak even 
 tome?" 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders a little. Such a 
 question seemed so foolish. '' Because I 
 wanted the will signed," I answered. 
 
 Then he let go my hands — suffered them 
 to drop out of his clasp as if he had no longer 
 need or care to hold them. 
 
 " You acknowledge that ! " he said. " You 
 — such a mere child — to love money so ! You 
 to plot for it in such a manner as this ! " 
 
 This charge, from the very bitterness of 
 its injustice, stung me out of my apathetic 
 calm. 
 
 "I thought of you!" I cried out — "of 
 you only, of you all the time ! I wanted the 
 fortune for i/om, Ross. How can you think I 
 wanted it for myself? " 
 
 " How can I think otherwise ? " he asked, 
 coldly and hardly. "It is true you secured 
 the fortune to me, but was it not because you 
 
 could in no other way secure it to yourself? 
 Do you fancy I do not understand now why 
 you only consented to marry me when you 
 heard that the will depended on your doing 
 so, and that, without a will, the property 
 would go to the heir-at-law? I was fool 
 enough to think you cared for me then. I did 
 not understand who the heir-at-law was, you 
 see, or how your only hope of gaining the 
 estate was to sacrifice yourself to me. I have 
 thought it all over until it has almost mad- 
 dened me ! " he went on, turning away, and 
 beginning to pace the floor with a quick, resy 
 less motion. "It seems so impossible — and 
 yet it is so plain ! Such a child — and w ith 
 the very face of an angel — to have learned 
 the lesson of her sex so soon and so well ! 
 And /, who should have known better, to be 
 so entrapped," he added, with a low, unmirth- 
 ful laugh — "/, who had known my mother, 
 and that other woman who looked at me with 
 eyes almost as frank as yours, and jilted me 
 to marry another man when she found that I 
 was poor. Unhappily, you cannot do that ! " 
 he said, stopping again before me. 
 
 " Ross ! " said I, hoarsely. My lips seemed 
 dry and parched. It was like a horrible 
 nightmare. Ross to believe that I only mar- 
 ried him to secure the fortune ! I could al- 
 most have laughed at the grotesque absurdity 
 of the thought. 
 
 •' How you shrunk from me," he went on, 
 "when I first spoke of our immediate mar- 
 riage ! I cannot forget that gesture — it was 
 full of greater significance than a hundred 
 words. Then — afterward — how you forced 
 yourself to the sacrifice because it was your 
 only road to wealth ! And now, with all your 
 youth and all your beauty, you are tied to a 
 poor man!" 
 
 " Ross," I cried, " are you mad ? — what do 
 you mean? The will! — you said the will 
 could not be set aside ! " 
 
 " Except by the legatee" he answered, cold- 
 ly; "but I have already instructed your un- 
 cle's lawyer to draw up the necessary papers 
 for making over the estate to its rightful 
 heir." 
 
 "Ross!" 
 
 " You are shocked, no doubt," he said, 
 still more coldly. " But even for your sake — 
 though I pity you from my heart! — I cannot 
 accept a bequest which is so palpably un- 
 just!" 
 
 Shocked ! I was stricken dumb and 
 
MY STORY. 
 
 101 
 
 motionless, rather. Such a thought as thi3 
 had never occurred to me for one moment. I 
 bad fancied the will to be final and unalter- 
 able, and now — for Ross to talk of giving up 
 all that I had secured to him ! I could not 
 speak — I could scarcely think ! My very 
 heart seemed to stand still. 
 
 " Set your mind at rest about your own 
 condition," he said, after a minute, iu a kinder 
 tone — pitying, perhaps, my white, stunned 
 face — " I will secure a sufficient portion out 
 of the estate to make you independent — such 
 a portion as your uncle would no doubt have 
 left you — and settle it on yourself. That 
 much, at least, I can do for you," 
 
 For me ! As if I cared for myself — as if I 
 had thought of myself in what I had done ! 
 
 " Ross," I cried out, " do you know that 
 you are killing me by such cruel words as 
 these ! What can I say to make you believe 
 that I — I thought only of you ? I don't pre- 
 tend to excuse what I did. Perhaps it was 
 very wicked ; but I was never taught any 
 better. I did not think there was any harm 
 in being silent ; but, if there had been harm, 
 I should have done it for you." 
 
 " I do not doubt it," he said, bitterly, 
 " since, in doing it for me, you did it for your- 
 self. Xay " — almost fiercely — " do not try to 
 make me believe any thing else ! You have 
 duped and fooled me long enough with your 
 lovely face and your wistful eyes. My God, 
 are women always false ! " be cried out, pas- 
 sionately. " Is there not one of them true ? 
 Is there not one of them who will not make a 
 plaything and a tool of a man's love ? If one 
 could have hoped for truth in any, would it 
 not have been in you, Beryl? and yet how 
 false and mercenary your own acts prove that 
 you are ! " 
 
 I gazed at him dry-eyed and mute. What 
 could I say to such words as these ? Look- 
 ing into his white, passionate face, I felt that 
 all was over with me — that no protestations 
 could ever build up again his shattered trust. 
 In his eyes, I had schemed not to enrich him, 
 but to enrich myself; and had used his pas- 
 sionate love only as the means to such an 
 end. 
 
 " I see you will not believe me," I said, 
 piteously, after a while, " but I did not think 
 of gaining the fortune for myself. I thought 
 only of securing it to you — that you might 
 not be forced to go back to China." 
 
 " You were Tery kind," he said, bitterly. 
 
 " It is hard on you that I shall need to go 
 back to China, after all." 
 
 He spoke with a sarcasm which I should 
 have been quick enough to feel, only in the 
 terror of his words it passed me by unheeded. 
 All my lethargy fled then. I sprang to my 
 feet, and, going up to him, caught his arm. 
 
 " Ross," I gasped, "how can you frighten 
 me so horribly ? IIow can you say such a 
 terrible thing ? You arc not in earnest — you 
 cannot mean that you are going back to 
 China ? " 
 
 "Do you care?" he asked, suddenly tak- 
 ing me into his arras. " Beryl, if I could 
 but believe that you did ! lovely face, why 
 are you not true ? sweet lips, why must I 
 fear that your very sweetness is tricking 
 me?" 
 
 "Ross, Ross, stay!" I cried, clinging to 
 him passionately. " Ross, my darling, say 
 what you please to me, believe what you please 
 of me — only stay ! " 
 
 " But I am a poor man. Beryl," he said, 
 more gently than he had spoken yet. " How 
 can I stay ? " 
 
 Then the devil prompted me to cry : "But 
 the fortune — Ross, the fortune ! If you 
 keep that you need not go. And it was left 
 to you — Uncle Kendall left it to you ! He 
 never meant for you to give it up ! " 
 
 Fool and thrice fool that I was ! Looking 
 back now, I think that, in another moment, 
 my tearful eyes, my clinging arms, would 
 have prevailed over his resolution to go, and 
 that he might have consented to stay if those 
 words had not undone all. He drew back as 
 if they had stung him ; untwining my arms, 
 and putting me from him with a faint, scorn- 
 ful laugh. 
 
 "See how easily I am duped!" he said. 
 " See how wrong your uncle was in saying 
 that my poor father was weaker than 1 1 A 
 few tears, a few glances, and I was ready to 
 believe in you again, Beryl, till you show me 
 that you are thinking of the fortune — not of 
 me ! Till you prove that you are only intent 
 on tempting me to dishonor, I see I must 
 go," he said, after a minute. " I am not so 
 strong as I thought — I cannot trust myself 
 with you. At least, not until all is done that 
 must be done." 
 
 Then, not willingly, but as one who yields 
 to a temptation too great to be resisted, he 
 took me in his arms and kissed me many 
 times — ah, Ross, did you suspect, though / 
 
102 
 
 MY STORY. 
 
 never, that it was for the last lime? — then, 
 putting me into the chair where he had found 
 me, turned, before I could utter a word, and 
 left the room. 
 
 Left the room, do I say ? Rather, passed 
 from my life — passed so utterly that, from 
 that hour to the one in which I write, I have 
 never looked upon his face again. 
 
 Later in the day, he left Kendall, to ac- 
 company the lawyer to Exford, where he 
 found a telegram from his employers sum- 
 moning him on urgent business. After sign- 
 ing the necessary papers for resigning the 
 estate, he obeyed the summons at once. A 
 week later, he sailed for China. Before me 
 lies a letter which he wrote me on the eve of 
 his departure. It is cold and full of business 
 detail — though breaking toward the end into 
 a tenderness beyond his power to restrain — 
 but, if you glance at its worn and yellowed 
 pages, you will see that they are stained with 
 the signs of many tears, salt as the sea and 
 bitter as grief. Such as it is, I do well to 
 prize it, better yet to weep over it, for it is 
 
 my sole token of the love of one who sailed 
 away thinking that he left behind only a 
 woman who had deceived him, and who never 
 reached the distant Chinese port where her 
 passionate letters — poor letters ! I have them, 
 too — waited for him through many a long 
 day. 
 
 And so my story ends. At least in all 
 save my moments of madness, I think that 
 so it ends. But the fate of the ship in which 
 Ross sailed was never known, and I — some- 
 times I am still weak enough to hope, to 
 dream, I know not what, of wild, improbable 
 things. Not long ago I read a poem which 
 seemed the voice of my own heart. It is 
 called " Returned — Missing," and is by Miss 
 Procter, I think. One stanza I cannot for- 
 get : 
 
 " Not that I dream or fancy, 
 You know all that is past ; 
 Earth has no hope to give me, 
 And yet— Time flies so fast 
 Tliat all but the impossible 
 Might be brought back at last." 
 
 THE END, 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 a /^HROME- YELLOW," muttered Yauce 
 
 \_J Lorimer, tossing over the heap of 
 tube-paints that lay on a table by the side of 
 his easel. " Lake-red, burnt sienna, bistre, 
 gamboge — why, what the deuce has gone with 
 the thing, Travers ? " 
 
 He raised his voice at the last word, and a 
 young man who was painting at the other end 
 of the long room, the skylight, easels, and lay- 
 figures of which proclaimed it a studio, looked 
 np and answered : 
 
 " ^Yell, Yance ; what is it ? " 
 
 " Have you carried off the ultramarine ? I 
 can't find it anywhere ? " 
 
 "Ultramarine? I — on my honor, I don't 
 know. Probably I have." 
 
 " Well, pray be good enough to return it, 
 then," said Lorimer, in an impatient tone. " I 
 have been looking for a tube of it everywhere, 
 and wasted more time than the confounded 
 thing is worth." 
 
 " Take permanent blue." 
 
 " No. I want ultramarine. What is the 
 reason you can't let my paints alone ? " 
 
 " What is the reason you can't be friendly 
 and obliging ? " returned the other, with a 
 laugh. " It is so mnch less trouble to borrow 
 from you than to send out and buy. Here ! 
 be quick ; catch it as I toss it to you." 
 
 He suited the action to the word, and, as 
 he spoke, a small tube went flying through the 
 air, straight at Lorimer's head. The latter 
 caught it deftly, and, having done so, com- 
 menced mixing some of the contents on his 
 palette. While he wag occupied in this way, 
 his friend watched him closely, and at last 
 spoke, quite abruptly : 
 
 " What are you paintmg on, Lorimer ? " 
 
 " On a scene," was the rather unsatisfac- 
 tory reply. 
 
 " Humph ! Considering the number of 
 scenes you have on hand, that is something 
 like saying ' on a picture.' What scene ? " 
 
 " Come and satisfy yourself, if you are cu- 
 rious." 
 
 Apparently, from some reason or other, 
 Travers was curious. He laid down his brush, 
 and, with his palette still on his xhumb, came 
 down the room, and, walking round his friend's 
 easel, paused in front of it. The first thing 
 he did was to give a long whistle, then he 
 looked up and said : 
 
 " So you are at this again ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Lorimer, coolly, " I am at that 
 again. It is impossible to help it, Frank. 
 Every time I stop painting, I have the dream 
 over again ; and each time it seems to grow 
 more vivid. Last night I could hardly believe 
 that it was not reality. You may laugh if you 
 like ; but I tell you it is the strangest thing I 
 ever heard of." 
 
 " I am not laughing," said Travers, truth- 
 fully enough. " I haven't the least inclination 
 to laugh, Yance ; for I really believe that, if 
 this thing goes on, you'll turn clairvoyant after 
 a while, and be dreaming dreams, and seeing 
 visions, like the rest of them. If I had been 
 in your place, I would have made a stand 
 against it." 
 
 " What was the good of making a stand 
 against it ? " asked the other. " It is all very 
 well to talk in that way when you haven't /e/< 
 the thing ; but, by Jove, if you had — " 
 
 " I hope I shouldn't have taken leave of 
 my senses, as you seem to have done." 
 
 " How do I seem to have taken leave of 
 my senses ? " 
 
 " Are not all your pictures lying untouched, 
 
104 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 and have you done a stroke of work on any 
 but this for a month past ? " 
 
 " And how could I help either the on^e or 
 the other ? I felt absolutely incapable of 
 touching them, and irresistibly impelled to 
 work on this. I have tried again and again to 
 put it down, and there is always some strong 
 force compelling me to resume work on it." 
 
 " That is exactly what is the matter," said 
 Travers, thrusting his right hand deep into 
 the pocket of his blouse, and looking at the 
 picture as if it had been a culprit, and he had 
 been a judge ready to pass sentence of death 
 upon it. " That sort of talk is not like you, 
 Lorimer ; and it sounds badly — on my honor, 
 it does. A man can do any thing he wants to 
 do ; and, if that precious picture was mine, I 
 would cut it up into strips, and throw it into 
 the fire." 
 
 " Is it such a daub, then ? " 
 
 " A daub ? Confound it, you know as well 
 as I do that it is better painted than any thing 
 you ever did before, and that is what provokes 
 me. The thing has acquired such a hold on 
 you that you have put into it the very best of 
 your power, Lorimer, honestly, I don't think 
 it's right." 
 
 Lorimer laughed, then looked up from the 
 paints he was mixing, and gave a glance, half- 
 affectionate, half-critical, at the picture. 
 
 " There's one thing certain," he said, " it 
 has a look of reality — don't you think so ? " 
 
 " It has a devilish look of reality," the 
 other answered. "I could swear you had 
 painted every stroke from actual sight. Tance, 
 are you sure you never saw any thing like 
 it ? — any thing that may have been lying dor- 
 mant in your brain, and unconsciously brought 
 forth this ? " 
 
 "I am perfectly sure," Yance returned, 
 decidedly, " I never saw the scene, or any 
 thing resembling it, in my Ufe. And as for 
 the people, of course I never saw them." 
 
 *' You might have seen worse - looking 
 ones.'' 
 
 " Yes, I think I might. Stand back now, 
 Franzerl, I want to go to work." 
 
 Travers drew back ; but still stood by, 
 looking on with a very disapproving face, while 
 Lorimer began touching the foreground of the 
 picture. It was not a large or a very elabo- 
 rate composition, nor was the drift of its mean- 
 ing very plain ; but still it was a painting at 
 which any art-connoisseur would have paused 
 to look, and in which the most severe critic 
 
 must needs have found much to commend. 
 There was an earnest signification underlying 
 it, and a dramatic power about it which irre- 
 sistibly enchained attention, and made even 
 Travers understand the hold it had gained on 
 his friend. 
 
 The scene represented a mountain-gap, and 
 the background of the picture was entirely 
 occupied by scenery of the boldest yet most 
 luxuriant character. There was no rugged- 
 ness in the grand outline of the towering 
 hills, for they were clothed in a royal dra- 
 pery of almost tropical verdure, while on one 
 side a sunny valley stretched away, bounded 
 by walls of living green, and flecked by a hun- 
 dred vicissitudes of light and shadow. This 
 part of the picture was inexpressibly charm- 
 ing, and was painted with a fidelity, a reality 
 of treatment and strict attention to detail, 
 which made it almost impossible to believe 
 that it was not a faithful copy of Nature. The 
 foreground of the piece was brightened by a 
 small river that dashed into sight round the 
 base of a lordly mountain, and, widening out 
 in the sunshine, lay smooth and clear as crys- 
 tal just where the bluffs that overlooked it 
 made a break, and a narrow road led down 
 between overhanging hills to the water's edge. 
 And here it was that the interest of the pict- 
 ure centred — for here lay a small skiff which 
 contained two figures in very dramatic pose. 
 One was a woman, a girl whose hat had fallen 
 off into the water, and was slowly floating down- 
 stream, while slie herself, with every mark of 
 a recent struggle in her disordered dress, her 
 loosened hair, and flushed, resolute face, was 
 springing forward, as if to gain the land. The 
 other was a man who stood erect, and held 
 her back with one arm, while with the other 
 he was loosening the boat from its fastenings, 
 preparatory to pushing it out into the stream. 
 The action was very well managed, for there 
 was nothing strained or stiff, nothing over- 
 wrought or weak about either attitude, and 
 the faces of both the man and the woman 
 were so strongly marked, so thoroughly indi- 
 vidualized, that, if they had been portraits, 
 they would have been recognizable at a glance. 
 The girl was' singularly beautiful, and as her 
 face was upturned, and the heavy masses of 
 golden-brown hair fell back from it, and rolled, 
 like a tide of bronze, down her back, it was 
 easy to trace every line of the delicate feat- 
 ures, the clear, haughty nose, the* exquisite 
 mouth, the finely-arched brows, the deep, 
 
j2 
 
 
 o 
 
 t/3 
 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 105 
 
 large, dark eyes, full of indignant scorn and 
 passionate resentment, the complexion white 
 and pure as the petal of a water-lily. Iler 
 dress was very plain ; but a glance was enough 
 to show that she was a lady. Quite as evi- 
 dently, her companion was a gentleman. He 
 was tall and well made, and a studied rough- 
 ness of costume only brought out more plainly 
 the aristocratic air stamped upon his whole 
 l^ersonal appearance. His face was half-turned 
 aside, showing the profile, which was very 
 handsome and full of determined resolution — 
 resolution difterent from that of the girl, in- 
 asmuch as hers was evidently hot as fire, 
 while his was cold as steel. The mouth was 
 compressed, the nostrils were drawn, and in 
 the eye there was a look of such exultant tri- 
 umph, that involuntarily Travers exclaimed : 
 
 " There's one thing I don't understand, 
 Vance. How did you have the patience to 
 paint that scoundrel without pitching him out 
 of the boat ? " 
 
 " It was hard," said Vance, laughing ; 
 " but then I had no option in the matter. You 
 won't believe it, Frank, but there has been a 
 strange sort of power at work to make me 
 paint this thing. I don't deny that it has a 
 fascination for me, but it has a strong repul- 
 sion also, especially this scoundrel, as you call 
 him." 
 
 " The girl is a splendid creature, though, 
 and she is making a gallant fight of it. What 
 is to become of her, Vance? " 
 
 " How should I know, Franzerl ? " 
 
 " Paint a rescuer, at least. Don't let that 
 villain have it all his own way. By Jove ! he 
 looks so triumphant, that it is more than one 
 can stand ! " 
 
 " Whom should I paint, and where should 
 I paint him ? There was no rescuer in the 
 dream." 
 
 " Paint him there," said Travers, pointing 
 to a shelving blufi" crowned with luxuriant fo- 
 liage that overhung the river just beyond the 
 boat. " As for who he should be — you are 
 welcome to put me in. I'd like amazingly to 
 have even an imaginary chance at punching 
 that rascal's head ! Or, as you are the better 
 looking of the two — besides being the stronger 
 — put yourself in, Vance." 
 
 Vance flushed a little. He certainly looked 
 no unfit subject for a picture, as he stood 
 there in all the strength and stateliness of 
 early manhood, his well-knit figure uniting 
 muscular power and grace of proportion in 
 
 such rare degree, that it might have served as 
 a model for an athlete, and his frank, hand- 
 some face full of the pleasant light that had 
 never failed to prepossess liking in any one 
 who looked upon it. Just now the blue eyes 
 were gazing intently at the picture so strange- 
 ly suggested, so faithfully worked out, and the 
 lips were smiling under the long, fair mustache 
 that fell over them and matched the crest of 
 crisp curls above the brow. He shook his 
 head at last. 
 
 " Xo, no, Franzerl. You know what we 
 used to say at Diisseldorf — ' always be faithful 
 to your inspiration.' I have never seen my- 
 self in this picture." 
 
 "Nor anybody else ? " 
 
 " Nor anybody else." 
 
 " Well, it is deucedly hard on the poor 
 girl, that is all I have to say," returned Trav- 
 ers, in a most sincere tone of commiseration. 
 " I wish the thing was in the fire ; for it has 
 bewitched you. Come, Vance ! let us leave 
 work for a while, and try a tour of rustication. 
 I am sure we both need fresh subjects ; I am 
 sick of my everlasting genre, and I am sure 
 yeu must be sick of this. By-the-by, how often 
 do you dream your interesting dream ? Every 
 night ? " 
 
 " Xo. Only when I stop painting it." 
 
 " And is it always the same ? Do you 
 never see the dream at a little earlier or a 
 little later stage ? " 
 
 " I have never seen a thing beyond what I 
 have put down here." 
 
 " And how do you feel in regard to it ? " 
 
 Vance laughed a little. " I am not imagi- 
 native, or easily impressed," he said. "Pri- 
 marily, I feel that it is confoundedly queer; 
 and secondly, I feel that I should like to get 
 my hands on that fellow ! " 
 
 " I can comprehend that sensation. But 
 you have not answered my question. Shall 
 we go somewhere ? " 
 
 "My dear Frank, 'somewhere' is delight- 
 fully indefinite. I thought, moreover, that we 
 had decided that our pecuniary resources are 
 too limited for us to go anywhere ? " 
 
 "Anywhere where money is a necessity, 
 of course. But I know a land of milk and 
 honey — don't open your eyes wider than you 
 can help — where money is next to unknown, 
 and quite unnecessary." 
 
 "One of the dominions of Prester John, 
 no doubt." 
 
 " No, my dear friend. A region much 
 
106 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 nearer home — iu fact, the mountains of North 
 Carolina. The most magnificent scenery on 
 the continent is to be found there; your 
 travelling pest, ' the tourist,' is absolutely un- 
 heard of; the people are simple, patriarchal, 
 and hospitable ; the commodities of life are so 
 abundant that money is positively at a dis- 
 count ; and, in one word, it is a modern Ar- 
 cadia. Let us make a walking tour through 
 it." 
 
 "Walk from here to North Carolina, 
 Frank ! Are you mad ? " 
 
 "Not quite, mon ami — despite the con- 
 tagion of your society. Listen to my plan — 
 it is at once comprehensive and practical. 
 We will take the railroad here, and follow 
 that commonplace mode of conveyance as far 
 as it will carry us — which is not far into the 
 mountains, I can promise you. Then we will 
 shoulder our knapsacks and sketch-books, and 
 take to our feet. We shall have to rough 
 it — there are no monster-caravanseries under 
 the name of hotels between the Yadkin and 
 the French Broad — and no doubt we shall 
 sometimes have to go fasting. But still, if we 
 can succeed in putting only a hundredth part 
 of the beauty we shall see on canvas, we shall 
 make our fortunes — and that's a considera- 
 tion." 
 
 " It sounds tempting," said Vance, balan- 
 cing his palette on his thumb. "But my pict- 
 ure — " 
 
 " Hang your picture ! It is exactly that 
 confounded thing I am anxious to take you 
 away from. If we stay here, and you work 
 at it much longer, I shall be reduced to the 
 necessity of calling in a procession of priests 
 to exorcise you with ' bell, book, and candle.' 
 Come, I am in earnest — will you go ? " 
 
 Vance looked irresolutely at the painting. 
 It cost a severe struggle to resolve to leave it 
 behind ; but he knew that, if he did not go, 
 Travers himself would never consent to leave 
 the city, and the hot, breathless, dog-days 
 wei-e upon them. So, after a while, he made 
 up his mind to the sacrifice with a sigh. 
 
 " If it must be, it must," he said. " Yes, 
 I'll go, Franzerl. But I doubt if I shall see 
 any thing half so lovely as this in all our 
 travels." 
 
 He pointed, as he spoke, to the girl in the 
 foreground of his picture — at which Franzerl 
 shrugged his shoulders and turned away. 
 
 " ' The spell is in the witch's face,' " he 
 said, with a laugh. " I don't think there's a 
 
 doubt, Vance, that it is ; and that it has 
 bound you, hand and foot." 
 
 II. 
 
 " There is no good in arguing the mat- 
 ter," said Mr. Rivers, regarding his wife with 
 a frowning brow ; " Marion shall never marry 
 that man." 
 
 Now, if there was one thing more than an- 
 other which his family and friends had always 
 known of John Rivers, it was that his deci- 
 sions were final, and that, if he once said of 
 any thing it " shall " or it " shall not " be, the 
 matter might be regarded (either negatively 
 or afiirmatively) as settled. He had never in 
 any instance been known to change his mind ; 
 so when he looked at his wife now, and said, 
 in the tone of a Persian satrap, " Marion shall 
 never marry that man," Mrs. Rivers felt that 
 all argument was useless, and, sinking back 
 in her chair, uttered nothing save a faint, re- 
 proachful sigh. 
 
 "I can't imagine what ever put such an 
 idea into Marion's head, or how you could 
 ever have thought that I would consent to 
 it ! " her husband went on, in that tone of in- 
 tense irritation which shows when the ther- 
 mometer of masculine anger is fast approach- 
 ing fever-heat. " It really seems as if I never 
 go away from home that the household does 
 not manage to get into some mischief. The 
 last time, it was Jack's scrape ; and now you 
 coolly tell me that Marion wants to marry the 
 most unprincipled scamp in the country." 
 
 " My dear ! " exclaimed Mrs. Rivers, in a 
 tone of expostulation. 
 
 "Yes," said her husband, unflinchingly. 
 " I mean exactly what I say : I never knew a 
 Rayford who was not an unprincipled scamp ; 
 and, from all that I hear of this young man, 
 he bids fair to increase the family reputation. 
 Of course they don't lie, or steal, or do any 
 thing of that sort ; but they are a set of gam- 
 bling, duelling desperadoes, and I would see 
 Marion in her grave before she should marry 
 one of them." 
 
 "But, John, is it fair to judge in this 
 way ? " cried Mrs. Rivers, with an attempt at 
 appeal. " This young man came back from 
 Europe only the other day ; and, indeed, he 
 seems very diflerent from the rest of the fam- 
 ily. Of course, I know what the Rayfords 
 are — but he seems very different." 
 
 " He might seem like an angel of light, 
 and I should not trust him," said Mr. Rivers, 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 107 
 
 dryly. " Besides, I tell you that I hare heard 
 of him. I never mentioned it before, for I did 
 not suppose the matter would ever concern 
 U3, and I am not given to spreading gossip ; 
 but Harry Armstrong was in Germany at the 
 same time that this — what is his name ? — this 
 Alston Rayford was, and he told me of more 
 than one scandal in which his name was 
 prominent. You might like such a husband 
 for Marion, but I should not." 
 
 Mrs. Rivers sighed deeply and helplessly. 
 She knew that, to combat her husband's reso- 
 lution, was to dash herself against a rock ; 
 and yet she sighed — partly for her daughter's 
 disappointment, partly for her own. Her heart 
 had been very much set on possessing Mr. 
 Alston Rayford, with his handsome presence 
 and charming manners, as a son-in-law; and 
 she could not resign the prospect without 
 regret. She looked at her husband, but his 
 firmly-set mouth and determined face were not 
 encouraging ; so, after pausing a considerable 
 time, she found nothing better to reply than — 
 
 "I am sure I don't know what Marion 
 will say ! " 
 
 "That is not a matter of much impor- 
 tance," answered Marion's father. " As for 
 what she will do — she will abide by my de- 
 cision, and receive no more of Mr. Rayford's 
 visits or attentions." 
 
 " You forget that he has made an offer, 
 John. She will have to see him, or else write 
 to him and tell him of your — your decision." 
 
 "She will have to do neither the one nor 
 the other. I will see him and settle the mat- 
 ter." 
 
 " But, John, don't you thiak— " 
 
 " I think that you are as absurdly infatu- 
 ated as Marion herself," interrupted Mr. Rivers, 
 impatiently. " I told you, a moment ago, that 
 it is useless to argue the matter. My mind is 
 made up ; and I am the head of my own 
 household, I hope. You can tell Marion what 
 I say, or you can send her to me, whichever 
 you please." 
 
 " I think I had better tell her," said Mrs. 
 Rivers, meekly. 
 
 "Do so, then," said her husband, shortly. 
 " No doubt she will think that I am a hard- 
 hearted tyrant, and that she is an injured 
 victim, but take care that she donH think 
 that there is any hope of her being ultimately 
 allowed to marry the man." 
 
 Mrs. Rivers made no reply ; but, from the 
 mere habit of obedience, rose and left the 
 
 room. Once in the hall, with the door closed 
 between her husband and herself, she stopped 
 and wrung her hands. She was a delicate, 
 helpless-looking woman at all times, but the 
 helplessness of her aspect came out with pe- 
 culiar and almost ludicrous force just now, as 
 she stood at the foot of the staircase, gazing 
 absently out of the broad open doors at the 
 summer landscape beyond, and dreading the 
 meeting with her daughter even more than 
 she had lately dreaded the meeting with her 
 husband. But there was no alternative of 
 evasion. Marion must be informed of her 
 father's resolution without delay. "Every 
 thing falls on me," said Mrs. Rivers to herself, 
 in an injured tone — and, then she began to 
 mount the stairs. Before she reached the 
 second floor, gay voices floated down to her 
 ear ; and, when she paused on the landing, a 
 door just in front of her was half-open, giving 
 a pleasant glimpse of a chamber airy with 
 light summer drapery, fragrant with the per- 
 fume of roses and honeysuckle clambering 
 round the windows, and full of a ripple of 
 girlish talk and laughter proceeding from two 
 unseen mouths. Mrs. Rivers knew at once 
 that Marion's most intimate friend. Miss Nellie 
 Forrest, was with her. But this young lady 
 was so entirely one of the family, that no 
 household secrets were kept from her, and her 
 presence did not afford an excuse for procras- 
 tination. So Mrs. Rivers advanced at once to 
 the open door, and, as the two girls looked up, 
 her face told her story before she had time to 
 open her lips. 
 
 "Mamma!" 
 
 " Mrs. Rivers ! " 
 
 It was an alternate exclamation ; and then 
 the first speaker hurried on : 
 
 " Mamma, something is the matter. What 
 is it?" 
 
 " A great deal is the matter, Marion," an- 
 swered Mrs. Rivers, despondently. 
 
 "Has papa come back ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And have you told him about Alston ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And what does he say ? " 
 
 " He says he would see you in your grave 
 sooner than to let you marry him." 
 
 " Mamma ! " 
 
 " He absolutely refuses his consent," said 
 Mrs. Rivers, sitting down in the chair nearest 
 to her, and looking at her daughter with an 
 air of appeal. 
 
108 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 " It is not my fault, Marion. I said all I 
 could — but you know your father. It would 
 have done no good if I had gone on my knees 
 to him. He says you shall not marry Mr. 
 Rayford." 
 
 " He has no right to say so ! " cried Marion, 
 and she rose to her feet as she spoke, her face 
 flushing and her form quivering. " You need 
 not look at me, mamma ! If he was my fa- 
 ther a hundred times over, he would have no 
 right to say so without some reason for it. 
 And he has no reason. Everybody knows 
 that there is not a thing to be said against 
 Alston." 
 
 "His family, Marion — " 
 
 " His family are not himself — even if you 
 believe all that has been said about them. 
 And, for my part, I don't believe half of it." 
 
 " But your father says he has heard some 
 unfavorable reports about Mr. Rayford him- 
 self" 
 
 " He might hear slanders and falsehoods 
 about anybody," Marion answered. " I see 
 he has brought you over to his opinion, 
 mamma — of course that was to be expected. 
 Only don't think that I am going to submit 
 like this. If papa has any charge to make 
 against Alston, he ought to make it explicitly, 
 and give him an opportunity to refute it. But 
 to stab a man's character in the dark — if it 
 was any one else, I would not hesitate to say 
 that it looks very much like slandering ! " 
 
 " Marion ! " Mrs. Rivers stood a good 
 deal in awe of her beautiful and spoiled daugh- 
 ter ; but really this was too much even for her 
 patience. " Marion, you forget yourself ! 
 Your father never said a thing that was un- 
 true in his life ; and with reason, or without 
 reason, he has a right to decide whom you 
 shall marry." 
 
 " He has not ! " said Marion ; and as she 
 stood there, with her face growing momently 
 ■whiter, and her eyes momently darker, it was 
 easy to see that she had inherited much of her 
 father's obstinacy. " Nobody has such a right 
 without some reason for its exercise. It would 
 be tyranny. But I will see Alston, and — " 
 
 " You are not to see him any more," in- 
 terposed Mrs. Rivers, hastily. 
 
 " Mamma ! "What do you mean ? " 
 
 "It is very plain what I mean, Marion. 
 Your father says you are ncrt to receive any 
 more of Mr. Rayford's visits or attentions ; 
 and that he himself will tell him that you can- 
 not marry him." 
 
 Marion looked at her mother and gave a 
 gasp. Such an arbitrary dictum seemed to 
 her so outrageous, that it was almost incred- 
 ible. But a moment's reflection showed her 
 the folly of wasting expostulation or indigna- 
 tion on Mrs. Rivers, who was the mere mouth- 
 piece of her father's resolution. So, without 
 a word, she turned to leave the room. 
 
 "Marion!" cried her mother, hastily, 
 " where are you going? " 
 
 "I am going to papa," Marion answered. 
 " I must speak to him. Don't try to detain 
 me, mamma. I must — I will go ! " 
 
 Her mother caught her, but she drew 
 away, and, before she could be stopped again, 
 ran quickly down-stairs. Listening in mute 
 consternation, Mrs. Rivers heard her cross the 
 hall, knock at her father's door, enter and 
 close it behind her. Then she looked up at 
 Miss Forrest, who laughed and shrugged her 
 shoulders. 
 
 " It is a case of Greek meeting Greek," 
 the latter said. " I think we may reasonably 
 expect there will be a tug of war." 
 
 " I am sure that Marion will be worsted, 
 then," said Mrs. Rivers ; " and, whatever hap- 
 pens, they are both of them sure to blame 
 me." 
 
 Half an hour passed. At the end of that 
 time the door below opened, and Mr. Rivers's 
 voice was heard calling his wife's name. "When 
 she came, he pointed to his daughter, who 
 stood in the middle of the floor, flushed and 
 defiant-looking. 
 
 " There is a young lady who has adopted a 
 belief in the right of her sex to choose hus- 
 bands as well as to rule th^m," he said, sar- 
 castically. " She refuses to obey my com- 
 mand with regard to Mr. Rayford, and an- 
 nounces her intention of ' keeping faith ' with 
 him. Whether that romantic phrase means 
 an elopement or not, I don't know — ^nor do I 
 care. I have told her that she shall never 
 marry him with my consent, or in my house. 
 If she chooses to disgrace herself by eloping 
 with him, that is her ovra affair. I have no 
 intention of locking her up." 
 
 "And I have no intention of eloping," said 
 Marion. " You know me well enough, sir, to 
 know that. If I must submit to your com- 
 mands in this matter, I shaU do so. But I 
 only submit — I do not yield. That is, I still 
 hold myself engaged to Alston, unless he 
 chooses to break the engagement." 
 
 " Even when I forbid it ? " 
 
THE PAINTER'S DKEAM. 
 
 109 
 
 "Even when you forbid it, if j'ou give me 
 no reason for doing so.'' 
 
 " That is to say, there is to be a scries of 
 clandestine meetings going on all the time ? " 
 
 " Xo. I hope I shall never forget myself 
 far enough to do any thing of that kind. But, 
 if I meet Alston at the houses of our frijcnds, 
 I shall treat him as heretofore." 
 
 " Then I shall send you where no such in- 
 teresting meetings can occur. Lucy" — this 
 to Mrs. Rivers — " will you see that her trunk 
 is packed ? I promised George when he was 
 here last that she should go to see him some 
 summer. This summer will do as well as 
 any." 
 
 " But the White Sulphur, John ! " cried 
 Mrs. Rivers, all aghast. 
 
 " The White Sulphur is not a fit place for 
 young ladies who refuse to obey their fa- 
 thers," answered Mr. Rivers, coolly. "You 
 can go there if you choose, and take the 
 younger girls ; but Marion shall go to 
 George's." 
 
 " Marion ! my dear child, why don't you 
 yield to your father ? " cried Mrs. Rivers, with 
 an appeal which her daughter's face might 
 have showed her was vain. " You will die up 
 there, in those dreadful backwoods — I know 
 you will." 
 
 "That is papa's affair," said Marion, in a 
 hard voice, " If he chooses to send me into 
 exile and virtual prison because I won't give 
 np an honest gentleman who loves me well 
 enough to merit some constancy from me, 
 why, I cannot help it. The threat of being 
 sent to Uucle George's is not going to make 
 me do a thing I would not do without it." 
 
 " I did not expect to make you do any 
 thing," said her father. " And it is not a 
 threat, either — it is a certainty. I want you 
 to be ready next week, and I will take you to 
 the mountains myself." 
 
 He left the room as he spoke, and imme- 
 diately afterward Marion broke away from 
 her mother and ran up-stairs. The reason of 
 this was apparent when she reached her own 
 chamber. She was in a perfect passion of 
 tears. 
 
 After a while the violence of the storm 
 abated, and then the tale of her discomfiture 
 was duly told to the sympathizing ear of Miss 
 Forrest. It is impossible to do justice to the 
 disgust of this young lady when she heard 
 that, instead of the White Sulphur (for which 
 they had been laying gay plans, and making 
 8 
 
 gay preparations that very morning), her 
 friend was sentenced to banishment at " Un- 
 cle George's." Like most Eastern Carolin- 
 ians, she had a profound ignorance and deep 
 horror of the western part — the " up-coun- 
 try " in Carolina parlance — of her own State ; 
 and she would really have felt less commisera- 
 tion for Marion if that young lady had an- 
 nounced that she was sentenced to an ex- 
 tended rustication in the interior of Oregon. 
 The warmth of her friendship, and the depth 
 of her self sacrificing spirit, may therefore be 
 imagined when at last she said : 
 
 " Well, if it is absolutely settled — if you 
 are really to go, there is one thing certain, 
 Marion, you can't go alone. As your mother 
 says, you would really die up there. If you 
 are not to be at the White Sulphur, it has lost 
 all attraction for me ; so, if you think I would 
 be welcome, I will go into banishment with 
 you." 
 
 " Nellie ! " Marion looked up, and actually 
 smiled through her tears. " You are not — 
 you cannot be in earnest '? " 
 
 " I am, though, if you will take me." 
 
 "But it would be too abominably selfish 
 to let you do such a thing." 
 
 " Really I should think it was my concern 
 if I choose to immolate myself on the altar of 
 friendship. Besides, it is only changing the 
 programme, and substituting our own moun- 
 tains for those of Virginia." 
 
 " And Uncle George's for the White Sul- 
 phur ! No, no, Nellie ; indeed, it must not be. 
 There is no help for me. Ccesar has spoken, 
 and I must obey. But you are different. You 
 must go to the White Sulphur, do my flirting 
 and dancing as well as your own,.console poor 
 Alston, write me long accounts of- every thing, 
 and—" 
 
 " And be wretched all the time, thinking 
 of you. No, no, my dear. Spare yourself 
 any further recapitulation of White Sulphur 
 delights. I am bound westward. I mean to 
 bear you company to Uncle George's, Mr, 
 Rivers won't look upon me as a spy of the 
 enemy, and refuse to take me, I suppose? " 
 
 " No — I can't imagine why he should." 
 
 " Then regard the matter as settled. And 
 now let us see what dresses we shall take into 
 banishment." 
 
 Ill, 
 
 Is one of the most remote and wildlj'-pict- 
 urcsque of the extreme western counties o£ 
 
110 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 Xorth Carolina, the two young ladies soon 
 found themselves safely domiciled in the house 
 of Mr. George Rivers, and thrown upon their 
 own resources for amusement and entertain- 
 ment. As far as material comfort went, they 
 found nothing of which to complain ; for, al- 
 though the whim of pitching his tent in the 
 wilderness had seized Mr. Rivers, he had not 
 thought it necessary to leave all the luxuries 
 of civilization behind, and as many as were 
 compatible with a mountain plantation, and a 
 house built of substantial logs, had accom- 
 panied him. His wife, too, was one of the 
 women who carry an air of refinement wher- 
 ever they go ; and the hardy little mountain- 
 eers who were his children, though free and 
 frolicsome as little kids, were still full of the 
 instinctive courtesy and winning grace of born 
 gentlefolks. On the whole, it was a very smil- 
 ing and happy home to which the exiles were 
 welcomed ; and even Marion thought she had 
 never seen a prettier picture than this log- 
 house, with its many wings and piazzas, its 
 shade-trees and embowering creepers. Around 
 in every direction stretched the grand moun- 
 tain-ranges, clad in their garments of primeval 
 forests, and before the door of the house swept 
 a limpid mountain-river, sparkling and foam- 
 ing as it dashed along on its way to join the 
 French Broad not far below. It is creditable 
 to the two girls to say that for a time they 
 were so much enchanted by the exuberant 
 beauty and overflowing vitality of this fair 
 region, and so ready to echo Mr. Rivers's en- 
 thusiastic praise of its pure air and life-restor- 
 ing powers, that they almost forgot the gay 
 social circle they had left behind, the friends, 
 and even the admirers who were mourning 
 their absence. Whether one of them entirely 
 forgot the lover who was the cause of her 
 banishment, is a matter open to doubt ; but 
 at least she did not regret him very effusively, 
 and threw herself with very sincere zest into 
 the simple pleasures of their daily life. Mrs. 
 Rivers, who had feared that she would find a 
 moping, lovesick damsel on her hands, was 
 dehghted beyond measure with this bright 
 creature, who took an interest in the cows and 
 calves almost equal to her own ; who went on 
 long rambles with the children, coming back 
 laden down with sweet wild flowers, and lus- 
 cious wild fruits, and who never seemed to 
 think it necessary to revenge herself on her 
 entertainers for the chance which had thrown 
 her into their care. 
 
 Still Marion and her friend were mortal 
 young ladies, with all the tastes and desires 
 of their age and class. The view from their 
 new home was very magnificent ; but some- 
 times they could not help feeling that it would 
 be improved if there was even a glimpse to be 
 obtained of another roof, or the smoke of an- 
 other chimney — if their nearest neighbor had 
 been at all companionable, or had lived with 
 something less than ten miles of mountain- 
 country between them. As it was, they were 
 entirely isolated, and, after they had exhaust- 
 ed all the books and played all the music, 
 they began to find that time hung a little heavy 
 on their hands. 
 
 " Nellie," said Marion, after she had 
 yawned five times consecutively one afternoon, 
 " let us call the children and go to walk. I 
 am tired to death of doing nothing, and even 
 scrambling over the rocks will be an occupa- 
 tion." 
 
 "I am sure I am willing," said Nellie, 
 lazily. " Only there's a very dark cloud 
 coming up from the south, and I confess I 
 should not like to be caught in one of these 
 mountain-rains. They would sweep us liter- 
 ally away." 
 
 " I wonder if anybody would mind that ? " 
 said Marion, meditatively. " I wonder if Al- 
 ston would think I had drowned myself in 
 sheer despair, and if he would commit suicide 
 in consequence ? Dear me, Nell, it has been 
 more than a month since we came here ! Who 
 would believe it ? " 
 
 "I, for one," replied Nell, with a shrug. 
 " Without meaning any disrespect to any- 
 body, I have been in more hvely places. 
 Suppose we do go out and get swept away, 
 Marion ? It would make a sensation at home, 
 and win at least a nine-days' fame for us." 
 
 " I am not sure of even the nine-days' fame," 
 said Marion, laughing, and walking to the win- 
 dow. " Look ! — see how that cloud is sweep- 
 ing up. In five minutes the storm will be on 
 us." 
 
 In less than five minutes, Mrs. Rivers came 
 hurrying in, and advised that the windows 
 should be closed. " It is no ordinary storm 
 that is coming," she added. "That cloud, 
 and this sudden, dead calm mean mischief. 
 Don't stand in the open draught that way, 
 Marion ! You have no idea how dangerous 
 it is ! " 
 
 " I am not afraid," said Marion, and she 
 kept her position, watching with interest the 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 Ill 
 
 premonitions of coming storm that seemed to 
 seize all Xature. The black, livid cloud, 
 which a few minutes before had been a mere 
 speck on the horizon, now entirely obscured 
 the sunlight, and was spreading rapidly over 
 the sky, overcasting the bright day witli grim 
 determination. But as yet all was silent.' The 
 trees were hushed as if spellbound, and the 
 only sound on the air was that of the birds 
 which were flying about and seeking refuge 
 under the eaves of the house, with low, dis- 
 tressed cries. The air was heavy and close, 
 and, involuntarily, Marion gasped for breath. 
 " What a dead hush there is ! " she said ; and, 
 as she said it, her eyes chanced to fall on two 
 strangers who had crossed the stream in front 
 of the house, and were advancing up the lawn 
 with the evident intention of seeking shelter. 
 They were men, young, stalwart, and dressed 
 in travelling-suits of nondescript material, and 
 yet more nondescript color. But, although the 
 knapsacks which they carried proved that they 
 were foot-travellers, a single glance showed Mar- 
 ion that they belonged to a grade of society rare- 
 ly represented in that rough region. She turned 
 round to call Mrs. Rivers's attention to them ; 
 but, as she did so, there came a vivid flash of 
 dazzling, blinding light, a clap of thunder that 
 shook the house until it quivered, a crash that 
 sounded as if the solid mountains had been 
 rent asunder, and a hurricane of wind that tore 
 through the chamber, filling it with din and up- 
 roar, and throwing her prostrate on the floor. 
 
 The next thing she heard, even above the 
 tumult of the now raging storm, was a scream 
 from Mrs. Rivers. 
 
 " Look ! " she cried, " the large oak has 
 been struck by lightning ! " 
 
 Marion sprung to her feet, Xellie rushed 
 forward, and, regardless of danger, they all 
 three clustered and clung around the window. 
 They saw then the meaning of the crash which 
 had sounded so fearfully in their ears a mo- 
 ment before. A gigantic oak just in front of 
 the house had attracted the electric fluid, and 
 its mighty trunk had been literally cleft asun- 
 der — one half still standing, but the other por- 
 tion lying across the lawn, and Including in its 
 downfall two or three of the smaller trees, and 
 part of the piazza-roof. A tempest of wind 
 and rain was sweeping by, but still they were 
 able to perceive that a man — only one — was 
 fighting his way to the house, and that Mr. 
 Rivers, with two or three servants, was hurry- 
 ing out to meet him. When they met, the 
 
 stranger said a few words in an excited man- 
 ner, then turned and went back, pausing and 
 steadying himself as well as he could where 
 the boughs of the fallen oak lay wildly tossing 
 about. 
 
 " There were two of them," said Marion, 
 with a shudder. " One has been struck." 
 
 As she spoke, she saw two of the servants 
 unite their strength in lifting aside one heavy 
 limb of the tree, while Mr. Rivers and the 
 stranger drew an apparently senseless figure 
 from beneath it, and then, in the midst of the 
 whirling, driving storm, they bore it to the 
 house. 
 
 The ladies ran down-stairs, and met them 
 in the lower hall. The injured man had been 
 laid down, and a throng of children and ser- 
 vants wei'e about him when they advanced. 
 On one side knelt Mr. Rivers, endeavoring to 
 discover the extent of his injuries, and on the 
 other his companion, feeling his pulse, and 
 anxiously calling his name. 
 
 " Vance, Vance," he said, " my dear fellow, 
 are you much hurt ? " 
 
 Marion and NelUe, who had paused in the 
 background, exchanged glances of commisera- 
 tion. " Poor fellow," whispered the former, 
 " look how young and handsome he is ! He 
 may be only stunned by the fall of the tree, 
 not by the lightning. I wonder if they have 
 tried restoratives. — Aunt Sophie — " 
 
 She turned eagerly toward Mrs. Rivers, 
 but Mrs. Rivers had left her side, and was at 
 that moment bendmg over the stranger. "Salts 
 of ammonia might restore him," she went on, 
 quickly. " I'll go for some. — Wouldn't you, 
 Nell ? '"' 
 
 Before Xell could answer, she was gone, 
 speeding away like a deer, and returning in a 
 moment with a small vmaigrdte. Travers, 
 bending over his friend in an agony of fear 
 and anxiety, was not aware that any one was 
 near him, until a soft hand put sometljing 
 into his own, and a soft voice said : 
 
 " Try that. It may restore him." 
 
 Mechanically he looked down, and, seeing 
 that it was a smellmg-bottlc, held it to his 
 friend's nostrils. The salts were strong, and 
 the effect was instantaneous. Lorimer gave a 
 gasp, and his lids lifted — the eyes opening, as 
 it chanced, full on Marion's face. Every mem- 
 ber of the group saw his violent start ; but 
 only Travers understood him when he raised 
 his head, crying, " The picture ! " and then 
 sank back fainting. 
 
112 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 There was a great commotion. In a meas- 
 ure, they were reassured by perceiving that 
 he had not been shocked by electricity ; but 
 they soon discovered that one shoulder had 
 been dislocated by the fall of the tree. So he 
 was carried to a chamber, and such remedies 
 applied by Mr. Rivers (who was a very good 
 doctor in an amateur way) as would best in- 
 sure repose. 
 
 " The poor fellow jerked his shoulder — was 
 the reason ho fainted," he said. "We must 
 put it in place, and then every thing must be 
 kept quiet." 
 
 Putting the shoulder in place was, after 
 some difficulty, accomplished ; but keeping 
 every thing quiet was another matter, since 
 the whole household was in a fever of excite- 
 ment over this unexpected event. Indeed, 
 considering their quiet habits, they had reason 
 enough for excitement. A storm, almost un- 
 exampled for violence, was raging ; the river 
 was rising rapidly ; the old oak was shivered ; 
 the piazza-roof was knocked off; one of the 
 horses had been killed by lightning ; and two 
 strangers — one of them dying, or next thing 
 to it — were in the house ! In all her life, Mrs. 
 Rivers had never had so much trouble to keep 
 the children within even moderate bounds of 
 good behavior. Nor was the excitement re- 
 stricted to the children. Marion and Nellie 
 shared it in no small degree, and laughingly 
 admitted as much to each other. 
 
 " It comes of the life we have been lead- 
 ing," said Miss Forrest, philosophically. " We 
 are in the condition of being ' pleased by a 
 rattle, and tickled with a straw,' in the way of 
 sensations. Not that I think this is either a 
 rattle or a straw ! Heavens ! what a flash that 
 was ! I shall never forget it." 
 
 " I shall never forget that poor fellow's 
 face, as he lay insensible," said Marion ; " and, 
 when he opened his eyes, he looked at me 
 more strangely than you can imagine. He ab- 
 solutely might have thought I was a ghost ! 
 And, then, his exclamation — did you hear it ? " 
 
 " Yes. It was a strange thing to say." 
 
 " And he said it, looking straight at me, as 
 if /was the picture he meant. When he sank 
 back, I really thought for a moment he was 
 dead." 
 
 " I wonder what put a picture in his 
 head ? " said Nelly, musingly. 
 
 " They are artists," said Mrs. Rivers, who 
 was sitting in the room, not far from the two 
 girls — " they are artists, out on a walking and 
 
 sketching tour. Tiie one who was uninjured 
 told Mr, Rivers that they were coming here to 
 seek shelter when the storm overtook them." 
 
 "Yes," said Marion; "I saw them. I had 
 just turned round to tell you, when the flash 
 came, and put every thing else out of my head. 
 The poor fellow who is hurt was well and 
 strong then. How sad it seems ! " 
 
 " It would seem much more sad if he was 
 dead," said the matter-of-fact Nellie. "As it 
 is, I hope he is not much hurt. Mr. Rivers 
 says not. — Tom, I am so glad to see 
 that ! " 
 
 She broke off in this way, as a little darkey 
 came in with his arms full of light-wood knots, 
 and began piling them up in the empty fire- 
 place. After he had erected his edifice, one 
 stroke of a match set fire to it, and in a mo- 
 ment a light, sparkhng blaze was filling the 
 room with ruddy cheer. The ladies gathered 
 round eagerly — even in midsummer a heavy 
 mountain-rain leaves the atmosphere unpleas- 
 antly cold — and they were grouped together, 
 laughing and talking, when Mr. Rivers, ac- 
 companied by Travers, entered. Both gentle- 
 men thought it a pleasant scene ; but the 
 young artist was especially charmed, the more 
 so in consideration of his long exile from any 
 thing which bore even the faintest stamp of 
 such refinement as was plainly to be seen 
 here. He looked at the room with its grace- 
 ful furniture and pictures, its open piano and 
 books, and at the ladies in their elegant dress- 
 es and glossy coronals of hair. Then he turned 
 to Mr. Rivers, saying, in a tone the sincerity 
 of which could not be doubted : 
 
 " If poor Lorimer were only well, how 
 much he would enjoy this ! " 
 
 The ladies overheard the remark, and 
 looked at each other with a smile. Every 
 one liked him the better for this frank un- 
 selfishness, this quick remembrance of his 
 friend where many a man would only have 
 thought of himself. And, when he came for- 
 ward and was presented to them, they gave 
 him such a warm and cordial welcome as Car- 
 olinians like to think that only they know how 
 to give. They soon found that he was a thor- 
 ough-bred gentleman ; and, when once the ice 
 of first acquaintance was thawed, they enjoyed 
 his society as much as, or more than, he did 
 theirs. He was a genial companion, and it 
 was a very pleasant evening which ensued. In 
 the studios of Diisseldorf, his talent as a ra- 
 conteur had been fully appreciated ; so it was 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 113 
 
 no wonder that tbey enjoyed the history of 
 his adventures, and the more because, by a 
 few happy touches, he always took care to 
 throw the chief glory of his narrative on poor, 
 wounded Vance. Then, at their request, he 
 brought out his sketch-book ; and, by the 
 time its contents were sufficiently admired, 
 the usual hour of retiring had long since 
 passed, and it was time to say " Good-night." 
 It was said, therefore, with many compliments 
 on both sides, many wishes for the injured 
 gentleman's speedy recovery, and many laugh- 
 ing congratulations that the storm had blown 
 such a pleasant visitor within their doors. 
 Marion and Nellie congratulated each other 
 warmly on this fact when they were in their 
 chamber, and said that a thing more charming 
 could not possibly have occurred. Of course, 
 if they had been at home, it would have seemed 
 a matter of small importance; but, out in the 
 depths of the wild woods, a pedestrian artist, 
 who was also a polished gentleman, was a rara 
 avis not to be despised. Then they talked of 
 his companion, and wondered if he would soon 
 be well, and if he would tell them then what 
 he meant by that strange exclamation. They 
 could not forget about this, but went on mar- 
 velling over it, and exhausting imagination in 
 conjectures. It was a pity they had not been 
 the possessors of Hassan's invisible cap ; for, 
 if they could only have entered the room of 
 the strangers, and heard a conversation then 
 in progress, their curiosity would have been 
 gratified. Lorimer was wide awake, and, after 
 Mr. Rivers had, with many directions and good 
 wishes, left the room, he addressed himself 
 eagerly to his friend : 
 
 " Well, Franzerl, what is she like? " 
 
 " Amazingly like the picture," Travers an- 
 swered ; " yet not so much like as to justify 
 your fainting away, Yanee." 
 
 " It was the shoulder made me faint," said 
 Vance. " Confound the thing — how it did 
 hurt ! But, Frank, I never was more aston- 
 ished in my hfe than when I opened my eyes 
 on that face — the very face of my dream. It 
 sent a thrill through me as if I had seen a 
 ghost." 
 
 " You looked as if you had," said Frank, 
 dryly. 
 
 "Did anybody notice it? Did thoy ask 
 you about it ? " 
 
 " They must have noticed it ; but they are 
 too well-bred to ask about it. I never saw 
 more cultivated people, Vance. And yet they 
 
 are buried here among crackers and rattle- 
 snakes. Isn't it a strange taste ? " 
 
 " They love man Jess and Nature more than 
 most of us do," said Vance. " But that face ! 
 It haunts me ; I cannot get over the shock the 
 first sight of it gave me. Frank, do you think 
 I have been brought here to meet her ? " 
 
 " To get your shoulder dislocated, more 
 likely. Nonsense, Vance ! She resembles 
 your picture, but in no extraordinary degree. 
 The same general cast of feature, the same 
 eyes and hair — that is all. Your fancy has 
 done the rest." 
 
 " My fancy has done nothing," said Vance, 
 decidedly. " I tell you it is the very face of 
 my dream ! It has a different expression — 
 that is all the change. Frank, you cannot 
 imagine how strangely it has made me feel." 
 
 " No," said Frank, shortly ; " but I can im- 
 agine that it will put you in a fever, if you go 
 on at this rate. Deuce take the picture, and 
 every thing connected with it ! Do stop talk- 
 ing, and go to sleep. There's an opiate here 
 the old gentleman said I was to give you if 
 you didn't. On my honor, Vance, you'll find, 
 when you see the girl, that there is no such 
 astonishing likeness. She is charming, how- 
 ever, and the other one — there is another one, 
 you know — even more so. You had better 
 get well, and make their acquaintance ; and 
 you won't get well, if you don't stop talking." 
 
 " It is she ! " said Vance. 
 
 But he spoke softly, as if to himself, and 
 after that he lay quite still. Perhaps Travers's 
 last remonstrance had some effect, for he said 
 no more, and before very long sunk to sleep. 
 In an hour or two he woke suddenly, with a 
 gasp and a start. 
 
 More vividly than ever before, the dream 
 had come to him. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Rivers found his 
 patient in a very feverish and unfavorable 
 condition. The shoulder was worse instead 
 of better, the bruises were exceedingly pain- 
 ful, the pulse was racing along at a more rapid 
 rate than promised well for physical good, 
 and, on the whole, he thought it necessary to 
 issue an immediate order for close confine- 
 ment and medical treatment. Vance rebelled 
 a little at first, but was brought to terms by 
 Mrs. Rivers, whose bright face and gentle 
 voice worked such a magical transformation 
 the moment she entered his room, that he 
 
114 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 succumbed at once into her hands, and yielded 
 himself captive without even a desire for res- 
 cue. She was light in her rule, however, and 
 only made him keep quiet, leaving the medical 
 question entirely to her husband, and pro- 
 viding, on her part, dainty invalid dishes and 
 invalid amusement. Vance was charmed, and, 
 if it had not been for that face, of which he 
 had only caught a glimpse — that strange, 
 beautiful, haunting face that had so often 
 shone on him in his dream — ^he would have 
 asked nothing better than to play invalid in 
 this pleasant, airy chamber, with such a glo- 
 rious mountain-view through the window near 
 at hand, and such a sweet-faced, silver-voiced 
 nurse to redeem even sickness from being 
 dull. 
 
 This enjoyment was not of long duration, 
 however. On the third day he was emanci- 
 pated from durance, and suffered to make one 
 of the group who with books and work were 
 gathered on the shady lawn not far from the 
 spot where he had been struck down. In three 
 days Travers had managed to make himself 
 thoroughly at home ; and Vance, who knew 
 his free-and-easy ways, was not surprised when 
 he came out with Mrs. Rivers, and found him 
 reading aloud to the young ladies, as if he 
 had known them for months instead of days. 
 Vance himself had none of this ggnial ease 
 about him. He was, if any thing, a more 
 polished gentleman than his friend, more full 
 of inborn, stately graces, more keenly alive to 
 shades of social courtesy, more full of social 
 tact, but he lacked almost entirely the gay 
 bonhomie and frank good-fellowship that made 
 Travers so popular wherever he went; and, 
 lacking this, he lacked every thing that was 
 worth having in the ej'cs of a great many men 
 and women of the world. 
 
 " We are all thoroughly charmed with 
 your friend," Mrs. Rivers said, as they came 
 out of the house together ; and, looking at 
 the group on the lawn, Vance answered, with 
 a smile : 
 
 " I can well believe that, and I don't won- 
 der at it. Travers is such a good fellow that 
 he deserves to charm everybody. He charmed 
 me, I am sure. — How pleasant this looks ! " 
 
 " We sit here a great deal," said Mrs. 
 Rivers ; and, as they approached, she spoke 
 to Marion, who was next her : " My dear, here 
 is Mr. Lorimer, who, I am glad to say, is well 
 enough at last to join us. I hope — " 
 
 What she hoped was left to conjecture, 
 
 for, as she spoke, Mai-ion turned round, and 
 her face, thus suddenly presented to Lorimer's 
 gaze, made him stagger back without a word, 
 and sit down in a chair near at hand. For his 
 life he could not help it. He knew how 
 strangely such conduct must appear ; he knew 
 that three pairs of eyes were regarding him 
 with profound astonishment ; he knew how he 
 had prepared himself for this meeting, aware 
 that it must come, but yet he could not help 
 it, and he could not say a word. The weird 
 feeling that we all know when any thing border- 
 ing on the supernatural comes near us seized 
 him without any warning, and, try as he 
 would, he found himself tongue-tied, with the 
 face of his dream looking at him. It was 
 Travers who spoke first, coming to his rescue 
 with commendable quickness. 
 
 " Vance, you shouldn't have forgotten that 
 you are still an invalid. Shall I get you some 
 water ? You look quite faint." 
 
 " Thank you," said Vance, with a grateful 
 look. Then he glanced up at Marion. " Miss 
 Rivers, pray excuse me. A sudden faintness 
 — a giddiness — quite overcame me. I had no 
 idea I was so weak." 
 
 "It would be strange if you were not," 
 said Marion, kindly. " Do sit still. Will you 
 not have a fan ? " 
 
 He took one which she handed to him, 
 laughing to himself the while that he, of all 
 people, should be playing hysterical fine gen- 
 tleman at this rate. Mrs. Rivers sent Travers 
 for some water, and levied upon Miss Forrest 
 for sal-volatile. With the aid of these two 
 restoratives, he was at last allowed to declare 
 himself recovered, and to be believed. After 
 this small excitement subsided, Travers fin- 
 ished one of Aytoun's " Lays " that he had 
 been reading aloud ; and then Richard — that 
 is, Mr. Lorimer — was himself again. Marion 
 thought him quite as handsome as she had 
 thought him when he lay pale and stunned on 
 the day of the storm ; but she could not help 
 noticing — a woman of perceptions, less quick 
 than her own, must have noticed — tliat, from 
 some cause, her appearance, her manner, her 
 voice, every thing about her, had a singular 
 attraction for him. It was not exactly admira- 
 tion — she had been too long accustomed to 
 that to mistake it — nor curiosity, nor any 
 thing else for which there is a definite name ; 
 but an interest that puzzled her by its singu- 
 larity, and yet fascinated her by its intentness. 
 More than once she caught those clear- blue 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAIT. 
 
 115 
 
 eyes regarding her with a gaze so keen and 
 strange that it amused, even while it per- 
 plexed her. 
 
 " I wonder what is the matter with me ? " 
 she thought. " People don't usually look at 
 me as if I had lost my nose, or suffered some 
 other calamity of the sort. I must ask Nel- 
 lie what the meaning of it can be." 
 
 When they went to the house, she carried 
 this intention into execution, and Nellie, in 
 reply, told her the history of the dream-pict- 
 ure which Travers had meanwhile been relat- 
 
 « 
 
 ing to her. 
 
 As may naturally be supposed, Marion was 
 very much excited and interested — the more 
 so when she remembered the exclamation Lori- 
 mer had made on first seeing her face, and 
 understood now what it meant. 
 
 " But it cannot be ! " she cried. " I must 
 only resemble his picture. It is so strange ! 
 — Nellie, I should not like to think it was I ! " 
 
 " Mr. Travers says it might pass for your 
 portrait," Nellie answered. "Every line of 
 the face is identical, and the only difference is 
 in expression. I wish you could have heard 
 him describing the manner in which the pict- 
 ure fascinated Mr. Lorimer. It was tOvget 
 away from it that they came out here." 
 
 "And ran full tilt on the original," said 
 Marion. " It is laughable, and yet it is awe- 
 some. It is like spiritualism or clairvoyant 
 nonsense, Nellie. I don't — I cannot believe it ! " 
 
 " I only know what Mr. Travers told me," 
 said Nellie. "But I should like amazingly 
 to see the picture and judge for myself." 
 
 " So should I," returned Marion, medita- 
 tively. 
 
 And there, for the time being, the subject 
 dropped. 
 
 It was renewed again that evening when 
 they were all assembled in the drawing-room, 
 and, thanks to Travers and Nellie, canvassed 
 openly. With some hesitation, Lorimer was 
 induced to tell the story of the dream, of its 
 persistent recurrence, of the face that seemed 
 compelhng him to paint it, of the hold it had 
 gained upon him, and the vivid manner in 
 which it had returned at sight of Marion's 
 face. They were all greatly interested, and 
 every one followed Miss Forrest's lead in 
 professing the greatest curiosity to see the 
 picture. 
 
 " If you had only brought it with you," 
 said Mr. Rivers, "I would really give any 
 thing for a glimpse of it." 
 
 " Yance, haven't you the original sketch 
 in your portfolio ? " asked the irrepressible 
 Travers. " I am almost sure I saw it there the 
 other day." 
 
 Vance colored, and glanced at Marion. 
 
 " I believe there is a sketch there," he 
 said. " But it is only a crayon outline. I 
 could not make up my mind to leave every 
 thing about the picture behind." 
 
 " Show it to us, Mr. Lorimer — pray do," 
 said Mrs. Rivers. 
 
 And immediately there rose a chorus 
 of— 
 
 " Oh, yes, Mr. Lorimer, pray do ! " 
 
 Lorimer hesitated. Some instinct strongly 
 warned him not to comply with the request — 
 but then, what excuse could he give for re- 
 fusal ? Three or four eager faces were look- 
 ing at him in expectation of his compliance ; 
 and it would seem ungracious and churlish to 
 deny their curiosity this small gratification. 
 Yet it was sorely against his will that at last 
 he said : 
 
 " I will go and look for it." 
 
 He was not long gone. The portfolio 
 must have been very near at hand, for he soon 
 returned with a small crayon-sketch, which 
 he gave to Mrs. Rivers. 
 
 " I am not sure that you will see the like- 
 ness," he said. " This is very carelessly done ; 
 but it is the outline." 
 
 It might have been carelessly done, but 
 still there was graphic power in every stroke, 
 and the whole scene was transcribed as for- 
 cibly and clearly, if not quite as elaborately, 
 as on the canvas left behind in the forsaken 
 studio. Mrs. Rivers had evidently been quite 
 unprepared for any thing like this. She ut- 
 tered an exclamation of mingled amazement 
 and admiration when her glance fell on the 
 paper. 
 
 "What a strongly-drawn scene!" she 
 cried. "Why, this girl is Marion herself! — 
 Mr. Lorimer, it cannot be that you drew it be- 
 fore you saw her ! " 
 
 Lorimer pointed to a date two months 
 back, which was inscribed in a corner of the 
 drawing. " This was the first sketch I made," 
 he said. " It was drawn on that day." 
 
 " It is incredible ! " cried Mrs. Rivers, using 
 the exclamation as people do, without exactly 
 meaning that it was incredible. Then she- 
 held the drawing at ann's-length, and appealed 
 to the company in general. " Look ! did you 
 ever see a more striking likeness ? " 
 
116 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 "It is perfect," said Mr. Rivers, looking 
 over her shoulder. "Every feature, every 
 line. — Mr. Lorimcr, I would never have be- 
 lieved this excepting from actual sight. And 
 that man ! Surely, I have seen his face some- 
 where." 
 
 "I have never seen him," said Yance, 
 quietly. " I can believe any thing, however, 
 after meeting Miss Rivers." 
 
 "Let mc see," said Nellie, crossing the 
 room. She took the sketch, and the next 
 moment gave a scream. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " she cried. " There is 
 something uncanny about this ! The girl may 
 be like Marion, but the man is Alston Ray- 
 ford ! " 
 
 " What ! " cried Mr. Rivers, while his wife 
 looked quickly at Yance, and Marion came 
 forward quite pale. 
 
 "Give it to me," she said, in a low voice. 
 And, while she took the sketch and stood 
 looking intently at it, there was not a sound 
 audible in the room. Instinctively, the two 
 strangers felt that something awkward bad 
 occurred, or was about to occur; and the 
 others all held their breath, gazing at Marion's 
 face. It was not an encouraging face by any 
 means, for it hardened and whitened while 
 they gazed, the sunny beauty fading out of it, 
 and a stern, settled resentment like her father's 
 coming o^er it. After a minute or two, she 
 laid down the drawing, and looked at Yance. 
 
 " I suppose Mr. Lorimer means us to be- 
 lieve that this also was part of the dream ? " 
 she said, in such a cold and haughty voice 
 that Yance colored and drew himself up, as 
 almost any man would have been apt to do. 
 
 " It was certainly part of the dream. Miss 
 Rivers," he answered, as coldly as herself. 
 " That is the first sketch I ever made of it — 
 exactly as it appeared to me then, and has 
 appeared to me always." 
 
 " And you never saw Mr. Rayford or my- 
 self before drawing this ? " 
 
 " I never saw yourself, and, as for Mr. 
 Rayford, I never even heard of him before. 
 If that resembles him, it was from no inten- 
 tion on my part of drawing a likeness of any 
 face save the one seen in my dream." 
 
 He spoke proudly ; for he saw that the in- 
 credulity on Marion's face deepened, instead 
 of disappearing at his words. She glanced at 
 the sketch, and then back at him, with a sig- 
 nificance that hardly needed the aid of lan- 
 guage to express its indignant disbelief. 
 
 " I am sure Marion does not mean — " be- 
 gan Mrs. Rivers, eagerly. But Marion inter- 
 rupted her, coldly. 
 
 " Excuse me, aunt, but I think Mr. Lorimer 
 understands what I mean. This is a day of 
 marvels," she went on, looking at the young 
 artist ; " and wonders of all kinds abound ; 
 but I do not know that I have ever heard any 
 thing like the story you propose to our belief. 
 I am a matter-of-fact person, and this must 
 excuse my incapacity to credit that you drew 
 these striking portraits of Mr. Rayford and 
 mvself without ever having seen either of us. 
 Why you should have shown them to me, I 
 cannot imagine. But of one thing I feel sure 
 — that you did well in selecting me, for he 
 would be even less credulous than I have 
 proved." 
 
 Then she turned, and, without another 
 word, walked out of the room. 
 
 The group left behind looked at each other 
 as if they had been thunderstruck. Mrs. and 
 Mr. Rivers, together with Miss Forrest, hardly 
 knew what to say; Travers was overcome 
 with astonishment, and Lorimer was burning 
 with indignation. The latter was the first to 
 speak — walking across the room, and taking 
 up the sketch, while he addressed himself to 
 his host. 
 
 " I am sorry that, after having made such 
 a charge. Miss Rivers should have gone away 
 without hearing my reply," he said. " I hope, 
 sir, that you will do me the justice to believe 
 that I never saw her imtil I entered this 
 house, and that I have never seen the gentle- 
 man to whom she alludes. In fact, it is im- 
 possible that I should have done so. I am a 
 Georgian by birth, but I have spent many 
 years in Germany; and, since my return to 
 America, I have lived entirely in Baltimore. 
 With Carolina, and Carolinians, I am wholly 
 unacquainted. As regards the dream, I am 
 unable to offer the least explanation. It has 
 been a mystery to me from the first ; and I 
 need not say that it has grown even more 
 mysterious since I saw your niece. As she ob- 
 jects to even an accidental likeness of herself 
 remaining in my possession, I can do this — " 
 he rapidly tore the sketch iuto fragments 
 — " and I must beg you to assure her that the 
 painting shall share the same fate when I go 
 back to Baltimore." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Lorimer," began Mr. Rivers 
 — but Mrs. Rivers took the matter of reply in- 
 to her hands, and Quite bore him donn. 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 117 
 
 " iliirion is very much to blame, Mr. Lori- 
 mer," she said, eagerly; "but I am sure she 
 Trill be very sorry for having spoken so. It is 
 some excuse for her that your drawing placed 
 Mr. Rayford in a very equivocal position. He 
 is a gentleman to whom she is engaged — or, 
 I should say, would be engaged, if her father 
 had not refused his consent. She is staying 
 with us now on account of this ; and of course 
 she is very sensitive about any allusion to 
 him. — Yes, my dear, I know these are family 
 matters — " this to Nellie, who had entered an 
 aside remonstrance — "but I think Marion's 
 friends owe Mr. Lorimer an explanation of 
 her conduct." 
 
 "And an apology," said Mr. Rivers, find- 
 ing an opportunity to speak, and embracing it 
 without loss of time. " Mr. Lorimer, I am 
 truly sorry that my niece should have forgot- 
 ten the most common rules of courtesy in this 
 way. If the picture was a likeness of young 
 Kayford— " 
 
 " It was a most astonishing likeness," in- 
 terposed Nellie. 
 
 "I only saw him once, and my Avife never 
 saw him at all," went on Mr. Rivers. "But 
 if it teas a likeness, I don't see that it justifies 
 Marion. In fact, the only thing about it is 
 that it makes the dream more astonishing — so 
 astonishing, that it would puzzle a modern 
 Joseph to read it." 
 
 " I am not a modem Joseph, but it puzzles 
 me," said Lorimer. " I have had only one 
 decided impression about it from the first — 
 that it would bring me either very good or 
 very bad luck. It has already brought mo a 
 measure of both, in granting me the pleasure 
 of your acquaintance, and being the cause of 
 my unintentionally offending your niece. I 
 wish very much that she had given me an op- 
 portunity to explain — but then, perhaps, an 
 explanation supported only by assertion would 
 have done no good." 
 
 " Not with an angry woman, and a woman 
 in love," said Mr. Rivers, shrugging his shoul- 
 ders. " Now, I have one favor to ask — that 
 you will not let this co)ii re-temps shorten your 
 stay with us." 
 
 Lorimer looked at Travers, and there was 
 the same unspoken resolve in both pairs of 
 eyes. Then he glanced back at Mr. Rivers. 
 
 " My dear sir, you are very kind, but there 
 is no question of shortening our stay. It has 
 already prolonged itself further than it should 
 have done; and we must leave to-morrow 
 
 morning. There is nothing for us but to thank 
 you for your hospitality and make our adieux." 
 Mr. Rivers, seconded by his wife and Nel- 
 lie, said all that it was possible to say against 
 this decision; but the two friends remained 
 firm. No argument or entreaties had any 
 effect on them ; and the next morning, bright 
 and early, they took their departure, exchang- 
 ing many cordial farewells with the rest of the 
 family, but not even seeing Marion, who kept 
 her own room. 
 
 Three weeks passed. By the end of that 
 time, the summer was drawing to a close, and 
 Marion and Nellie were ready to hang them- 
 selves from sheer ennui. The weekly mail 
 was the only thing that still retained interest 
 for them ; and they watched for this anxiously 
 — hoping each time for the welcome news of a 
 summons home. The summons home did not 
 come, but one day a letter from Mr. Alston 
 Rayford did. Nellie, who opened the post- 
 bag, knew the writing on the envelope, and 
 watched Marion anxiously when it was handed 
 to her. Miss Rivers had a good deal of self- 
 control, however, and she did not betray emo- 
 tion by any sudden start or blush. She only 
 pocketed the missive very quietly, and after a 
 while went up to her own room. When her 
 friend followed, in a flutter of excitement, 
 she found her sitting in an attitude of deep 
 thought, with the letter open in her hand. 
 Miss Forrest was hardly in the room before 
 she broke into eager questioning. 
 
 " Well, Marion, what is the news ? Has 
 your father at last consented ? " 
 
 Marion looked up — pale as she always grew 
 when other people would have flushed. " Con- 
 sented ! — Papa ? " she said. " You might as 
 well ask if the river had flowed backward. 
 No,_he has not consented. On the contrary, 
 he has again refused Alston, in the most in- 
 sulting manner." 
 
 " Did Mr. Rayford ask his consent again ? " 
 
 " Yes. He grew impatient. He could not 
 bear the suspense and the long waiting — men 
 never can, you know — and so he went to ptipa. 
 He was repulsed — Nellie, I cannot tell you how 
 he was repulsed." 
 
 " I can imagine," said Nellie, with a signifi- 
 cant shrug. 
 
 " Yes — I suppose you can. Well, he waa 
 repulsed, and now he has come to me." 
 
 " Come to you ! Not tip here ? " 
 
118 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 " Yes, up here. I am sorry, very sorry for 
 it— I have a contempt for any thing lilie clan- 
 destine proceedings — but he has come, and I 
 cannot refuse to see him." 
 
 " Mr. Rivers will spare you that trouble," 
 said Nellie, dryly. " I can tell you before- 
 hand that he will never allow Mr. Eayford to 
 meet you in his house." 
 
 " I have no intention of asking his consent, 
 nor of meeting him in this house," said Mari- 
 on, haughtilj'. "Alston is staying, or will be 
 staying soon — this letter was mailed in Mor- 
 gantown — at a farmer's near here. I shall 
 meet bun in the woods." 
 
 " Marion ! " 
 
 " Well, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " That seems so — so clandestine, and un- 
 worthy of you." 
 
 " And am I not forced to it ? " said Marion, 
 flushing ; " when Alston has travelled hun- 
 dreds of miles merely to see me, can I send 
 him back without a word ? And where should 
 I meet him, excepting in the woods ? The hill- 
 side is just as free to him as to us." 
 
 " I cannot think it is right ; but if it must 
 be — when is he to make his appearance ? " 
 
 " That I do not know. Mountain travelling 
 is very uncertain, and he may be in the neigh- 
 borhood now, or he may not arrive for several 
 days. He has been here before, however, and 
 he appoints a place of rendezvous." 
 
 " I hope it is a place we know." 
 
 " Yes. It is the Old Ferry. We can walk 
 there easily, and he can come by the river. It 
 is a lonely place, and there is no danger of 
 meeting anybody." 
 
 " There never is danger of that in this de- 
 lightful region. And do you want me to bear 
 you company? " 
 
 " Of course," said Marion, flushing again. 
 " You don't suppose I want to go alone ? I 
 know you disapprove of it, Nellie; and so do 
 I, for that matter. But I cannot refuse — and 
 it is only for once." 
 
 " I hope it may prove only for once," said 
 Nellie, anxiously. " Do we go this after- 
 noon ? " 
 
 " I think we had better do so." 
 
 So that afternoon they donned their hats 
 and set forth, disappointing the children very 
 much by decUning to take them along, but 
 otherwise going as if for one of their usual 
 rambles. They followed a path round the hills, 
 and soon came to the place of rendezvous — a 
 beautiful nook of the river where a disused 
 
 road swept down to what had once been a 
 ferry, and which still retained the distinction 
 of the name, though it had long since lost the 
 distinction of the fact. Here they sat down to 
 rest, with very little expectation of seeing Mr. 
 Eayford that afternoon. They were destined 
 to a surprise, however ; for they had hardly 
 finished agreeing that he would not come, and 
 begun talking of views and perspective, and 
 the lovely mountain-scenes before them, when 
 there was a dash of oars in the water ; a small 
 skiff" shot round a bend of the stream, and, 
 in another moment, Mr. Alston Rayford had 
 sprung on shore and stood before them. 
 
 He looked as eager and handsome as a 
 man should look when he is engaged in a ro- 
 mantic love-adventure ; but he came forward 
 and made his greetings with a graceful defer- 
 ence which quite ignored the fact that this 
 meeting did not take place on a drawing-room 
 carpet. He was a very fine gentleman, there 
 was not a doubt of that ; and his manners 
 and appearance were unexceptionable. Yet, 
 strangely enough, Marion's first sensation 
 was one of disappointment — such disappoint, 
 ment as many a girl has felt when, after long 
 absence, the hero of her dreams is suddenly 
 brought before her in his own proper person. 
 It is clearly impossible to guard against such 
 revulsions, since all women create illusions for 
 themselves, and all illusions must sooner or 
 later be broken. So perhaps it is as good a 
 test as any for true love, whether or not it 
 can survive the inevitable hour when glamour 
 fades and sober daylight comes in. This test 
 was now to be applied to Marion's love ; but 
 such things are not decided in a moment, or 
 in many moments — only it was unpromising, 
 to say the least, that her first sensation was 
 not of joy, or welcome, or pride, but of sud- 
 den, chill disappointment. Yet, what disap- 
 pointed her she could not possibly have told. 
 The Alston Rayford she had known, the Al- 
 ston Eayford she had wished and even prom- 
 ised to marry, stood before her, unchanged by 
 even so much as a shade ; and yet, something 
 was gone. The glamour of fancy had faded, 
 daylight had come in, and it remained for the 
 future to show whether himself and the love 
 he had inspired would stand the searching test 
 of that daylight. 
 
 Before long, Miss Forrest wandered away 
 on a professedly botanical excursion, and left 
 the lovers to themselves. The conversation 
 which ensued was very animated, and some- 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 119 
 
 times even verged on excitement. She could 
 see that, though she could hear nothing from 
 the hill-side perch where she had established 
 herself, and where her botanical researches 
 consisted of poking at a bunch of fi.-rns with 
 the point of her parasol. She was not at all 
 romantically inclined, and she could not help 
 wishing, for her own sake as well as for 
 Marion's, that, Alston Rayford had stayed at 
 home, and had not forced this " highly-unprop- 
 er " proceeding upon them. It was tiresome — 
 very tiresome — this sitting on a stone, with 
 nothing but her own thoughts and a bunch of 
 ferns to amuse her, while Mr. Rayford talked 
 on and on, in the most unconscionable manner, 
 and seemed urging Marion to something which 
 Marion plainly refused. Miss Forrest yawned, 
 and wondered how long she would have to 
 watch this discussion in dumb show. " It is 
 as good as a pantomime," she said to herself ; 
 but, somehow, it was not as amusing as a 
 pantomime. Then she caught a profile view 
 of Mr. Rayford's face, and something about it 
 recalled the crayon-sketch which Vance Lori- 
 mer had torn up, and set her at work consid- 
 ering what a perfect likeness it had been, and 
 how she scarcely blamed Marion for being in- 
 credulous (as Marion still continued) of the 
 dream-story which purported to excuse it. 
 Then her thoughts wandered away, following 
 the erratic footsteps of the two young artists 
 who had come so suddenly into her life, and 
 gone so abruptly out of it ; and she was punch- 
 ing at the ferns more vigorously than ever, 
 and smiling to herself over a remembrance of 
 Frank Travers's hazel eyes and pleasant voice, 
 when the rattle of a chain made her look up, 
 and to her great relief she saw that Mr. Ray- 
 ford was entering his craft and pushing off. 
 " Indeed, it is high time," thought she, with 
 an indignant glance at her watch, and then at 
 the sinking sun. She stood up, however, and 
 waved her hand in answer to his farewell 
 gesture ; then, while he pulled lazily out of 
 sight, went down to meet Marion, who was 
 walking toward her. 
 
 Marion looked vexed and overclouded, and 
 not at all as a girl might be expected to look 
 who had just parted from her lover. There 
 was no tinge of sentimental sadness in her 
 a.=pect, no token of the regret that is in itself 
 a pleasure ; but rather annoyance of some 
 very practical and decided kind. Miss For- 
 rest saw this at a glance, and her first remark 
 was a question. 
 
 " What is the matter, Marion ? You look 
 worried." 
 
 " I am worried," said Marion, briefly. 
 
 " About your father ? " 
 
 " No— about Alston." 
 
 " Indeed ! What has he done ? " 
 
 " He is foolish and inconsiderate eiiougli 
 to urge me to elope with him " 
 
 " — h ! " Miss Forrest shrugged her 
 shoulders. " Well, my dear, I don't know- 
 that you have any right to be worried or as- 
 tonished at that. Of course, it is what you 
 might have expected." 
 
 " What I might have expected ! " repeated 
 Marion, with her color rising. " I don't know 
 what you mean, Nell. I think that I might 
 hare expected some respect from Mr. Rayford. 
 I consider this next to an insult." 
 
 " And I consider that you arc very un- 
 reasonable. Mr. Rayford wants to put some 
 definite end to this very indefinite state of 
 affairs, and I am sure I cannot blame him. 
 Pray tell me what you seriously expect of 
 him ? Your father absolutely refuses to ac- 
 cept him as a legitimate suitor, and you are 
 insulted at the mere mention of an elopement. 
 Where is the middle ground between these 
 two things ? " 
 
 " Can he not wait ? I am willing to do so. 
 And patience conquers all things." 
 
 " My dear child, some good might come of 
 waiting if Mr. Rayford was a paladin, and you 
 were an angel. But, as it is, nothing but un- 
 pleasant complications would come — and he 
 has sense enough to see it. It is easy for you 
 to say ' wait.' You are a woman, and the 
 slightest part would fall on you ; but he is a 
 man, and, naturally, be does not fancy the 
 prospect of an engagement which fetters him 
 without giving any assured good, either past, 
 present, or to come, in return." 
 
 "What is the drift of all this, Nell ? I 
 confess I don't understand. Are you, too, 
 urging an elopement ? " 
 
 " No, I am only excusing Mr. Rayford for 
 having done so. I am only saying that it is 
 what any man would do." 
 
 " He might have more regard for me." 
 
 " My dear, men are selfish ; and he has 
 some regard for himself." 
 
 Marion walked on in silence for a time — 
 her brows bent, and her lips compressed. 
 Evidently she was forming some resolution ; 
 and, when once formed, Marion's resolutions 
 were very much like her father's in the 
 
120 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 item of steadfastness. At last she looked 
 up. 
 
 " You are right, Nell," she said ; " and you 
 need not talk of the selfishness of men, for I 
 am sure no man was ever more selfish than I 
 have been. I forgot entirely that all the bur- 
 den of a prolonged engagement would fall on 
 Alston ; and I have held him bound, when I 
 ought to have set him free long ago. I will 
 make amends in the only way I can, and that 
 at once." 
 
 " By eloping ? " asked Nell, in sudden 
 alarm. 
 
 " No. By putting a final end to our en- 
 gagement. Why should you look so sur- 
 prised ? I am sure you have shown me that 
 it is the only right thing to do." 
 
 " But, Marion ! You — you are in love 
 with him ! " 
 
 " Not much," said Marion, coolly. " Not 
 enough to break my heart about setting him 
 free. But, if it did break my heart, and it 
 was right, it should be done," 
 
 " But you will not see him again ? " 
 
 " Yes. He insisted that I should meet 
 him to-morrow afternoon. I refused, but I 
 am very sure he will come to the ferry. When 
 I parted from him, I did not mean to go ; but 
 now I shall." 
 
 " He will think yoa are coming to elope 
 with him." 
 
 " He will be mistaken, then." 
 
 This sentence ended the conversation ; for, 
 just here, the children came unexpectedly 
 trooping from a by-path, and were all so full 
 of a wonderful nest of snakes that one of the 
 servants had discovered, and into which he 
 had carried wholesale destruction and ravage, 
 that their tongues did not once cease running 
 until the party reached home. 
 
 The next day Miss Forrest was confined to 
 her chamber with a headache, which she de- 
 clared was solely the result of the unusual 
 mental exertion to which she had been driven 
 on the preceding afternoon. 
 
 " You see, I had nothing to do but think 
 while I was out on the hill-side punching at 
 those ferns," she said ; " and, not being used 
 to so much thinking at one time, it has made 
 my head ache as if — really, as if it would 
 split ! " 
 
 Under these circumstances, it was of course 
 clearly impossible that Marion could ask her 
 to submit to the same ordeal again. So, re- 
 luctantly enough, she resigned herself to the 
 
 necessity of meeting Mr. Rayford at the Old 
 Ferry quite alone. When the afternoon wore 
 on, and the sun began to cast long shadows 
 across the green turf, she took her hat and a 
 book, and set forth unchallenged to keep her 
 tryst. 
 
 It was not a long walk to the appointed 
 place, and, when she reached there, she found 
 Mr. Rayford's boat made fast to the bank, and 
 Mr. Rayford himself pacing to and fro in all 
 the impatience of mingled doubt and expecta- 
 tion. When he caught sight of Marion's white 
 dress, he rushed forward to meet her, and 
 poured forth his thanks so warm and fast, that 
 at last .she was forced to check them. 
 
 "Please don't thank me any more," she 
 said, " at least not until you hear why I have 
 come. You may feel obliged to me when you 
 do hear; but then, again, you may not." 
 
 " I feel obliged to any thing that gives me 
 a sight of your face, Marion, even if you mean 
 to refuse again the prayer I have come to 
 urge." 
 
 " I don't mean to discuss that," she said, 
 hurriedlv. " I gave vou mv answer — the onlv 
 answer I have to give — yesterday afternoon. 
 No, Alston. I have come to do something 
 much more kind. I have come to release you." 
 
 " To do what, Marion ? " 
 
 " To give you your freedom from bondage," 
 said she, trying to smile and speak lightly. 
 " I ought to have done it long ago ; but indeed 
 it never struck me, until after I parted with 
 you yesterday, how selfishly I have been act- 
 ing in keeping you bound. Papa will never 
 consent, I am sure ; and I — I cannot elope. 
 Alston, dear Alston, will it not be better for us 
 to part ? " 
 
 She looked up at him with her eyes fuU of 
 half-sad appeal — when is any thing that deals 
 with parting not sad ? — and she met in return 
 a simply incredulous surprise. 
 
 " This is not like you, Marion," he said. 
 " Some women make nothing of such words as 
 these ; but you are not one of them — and it i? 
 not like you. There is not — there never can 
 be — any question of parting between us." 
 
 " You are mistaken," said Marion, who was 
 not- likely to be borne down in this sort of 
 way. " There is a question, and a very serious 
 question of it. Alston, what do we gain by 
 holding on as we have been doing ? " 
 
 " We gain the prospect of happiness, Ma- 
 rion ; and we might gain the certainty, if you 
 would only yield to me." 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 131 
 
 " You mean if I would elope ? " 
 
 " I mean if you would marry nic, without 
 M'aiting for a consent that your father will 
 never give." 
 
 " And would you be willing to marry a 
 woman who could do such a thing, Alston ? 
 I should think you would distrust her, even 
 where you were concerned. I can never do 
 that. So the only thing left us is to part." 
 
 "You say that very coolly, Marion. lias 
 absence, then, worked its usual effect ? has it 
 taken your heart from me ? " 
 
 '' If that were so, Alston, do you think I 
 would be standing here now ? No. I love 
 you as much as I ever did ; but I have grown 
 a little older, and a little wiser, since I prom- 
 ised to hold fast for a lifetime, if need be ; and 
 I see that it would be more selfish than kind 
 to do so. If you only knew — " 
 
 " I know this," he interrupted, passion- 
 ately, " that while you talk, I feel ; and that I 
 will not give you up at the bidding of a thou- 
 sand fathers — nor at your own, either. I have 
 never yet surrendered any thing that was mine 
 once ; and you are mine now, Marion ! " 
 
 " I am yours only as long as I do not claim 
 my freedom," said Marion, a little haughtily. 
 
 " You are mine until death comes between 
 us," repeated her lover ; and over his hand- 
 some face there came the " Rayford look " — a 
 look well known wherever the desperate, fear- 
 less Rayford blood had planted itself; and 
 which had never yet boded good to any one 
 who crossed their path, or disputed their reck- 
 less, determined will. "You are mine, and, 
 once for all, I will not give you up ! " 
 
 Marion drew back proudly. It was a ques- 
 tion whether she had ever really loved this 
 man, but at least it was certain that she had 
 never loved him well enough to submit to such 
 language as this from him. 
 
 " You forget yourself," she said. " If I 
 choose to dissolve our engagement, you will 
 have no alternative but to give me up." 
 
 " And do you mean to choose to do so ? " 
 said he, in a quiet, steady tone — a tone which, 
 if she had known much of the Rayfords, would 
 have warned her that nothing moderate was 
 coming. 
 
 " Yes, I mean it," asnwered she, coldly — 
 and then, breaking down into pathos, "Alston, 
 dear Alston, it is for your sake more than mine. 
 Believe me, it is best ! " 
 
 He smiled slightly, and bent his head down 
 until his face was on a level with her own. 
 
 " Tell me one thing, Marion," he said. " Do 
 you love me ? " 
 
 " You know that I do," she answered, 
 simply. 
 
 " Then throw these miserable scruples to 
 the winds, and give yourself to me. See ! 
 All that you will need to do is to step into 
 this boat. I have a license in my pocket ; six 
 miles below here a magistrate lives. Before 
 the sun goes down, you can be my wife — so 
 that all the fathers in the world cannot part 
 us again." 
 
 " You might spare me this," she said, halt'- 
 indignantly, half-reproachfully. " If you ar- 
 gued forever, Alston, you could not make me 
 do such a thing." 
 
 " Then I must try something besides argu- 
 ment," said he, coolly. " Forgive me, Marion ; 
 but you have only your own own obstinacy to 
 blame ; and I have sworn that I will never 
 give you up ! " 
 
 Something in his voice, something in his 
 eyes, made a sudden fear rush over Marion. 
 She remembered the loneliness of the spot, 
 and the desperation ever synonymous with the 
 Rayford name. What was coming she hardly 
 knew, but she drew back with an instinct of 
 alarm. 
 
 "I do not understand you," she said. 
 " What do you mean ? ''< 
 
 " I mean this," said Rayford, quietly, " that 
 if you will not go with me I shall be forced to 
 take you ! " 
 
 " To take me ! Are you mad ? " 
 
 " No ; I am only determined not to be 
 played with in this way. It depended upon 
 yourself whether or not you would promise 
 to marry me. You did promise, and now it 
 depends upon me whether or not you fulfil it." 
 
 He spoke in a tone of ordinary composure ; 
 but, by a single step, he cut off all chance of 
 escape by placing himself in her homeward 
 path. 
 
 One glance at his face showed her how 
 fully he meant every word he had uttered ; 
 how worse than useless any thing like argu- 
 ment or entreaty would be ; and all the love 
 she had ever felt for him sunk down and died 
 in that instant. She forgot the peril of her 
 position — she only remembered the burning 
 sense of outrage that rushed over her. 
 
 "You are a coward!" she said, bitterly. 
 " It is only a coward who would endeavor to 
 intimidate a woman by threats, or force her 
 by compulsion, to become bis wife. And you 
 
122 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 need not think that you will force me. I would 
 throw myself into the river there before I 
 would marry you after this. I see now that 
 my father was right — right to withhold his 
 consent — right to say that I should never 
 marry you ! / thought you were a gentle- 
 man. He knew all the time that you were a 
 rascal ! " 
 
 Rayford answered not a word ; perhaps 
 because he could not trust himself to do so ; 
 but bis lips set themselves like steel, and into 
 his eyes there came a gleam which made even 
 Marion's brave heart sink within her. He 
 bent down — still without a word — and lifted 
 her in his arms. She struggled violently ; but 
 her strength was like a child's compared to 
 his, and he bore her into the boat. Then he 
 held her back with one arm, while he loosened 
 the little craft from its anchorage, and pushed 
 out into the stream. When several yards lay 
 between them and the bank, he turned and 
 looked at her, with a flash of triumph on his 
 face. 
 
 "You may resign yourself, Marion," he 
 said. " You will not go back there until you 
 go as my wife." 
 
 " We will see about that," she answered, 
 as haughtily and as steadily as if she had not 
 been shaken by a perfect storm of emotion. 
 Then she gathered her dress about her — made 
 one spring — and was in the river. 
 
 YI. 
 
 Instantly Rayford followed, and the whirl- 
 ing splash of eddying water rendered him 
 quite unconscious that there was a spectator 
 of the drama — that a man, who was seated on 
 a bluif overhanging the stream, had witnessed 
 the whole scene, and that he now manifested 
 his presence by springing into the river al- 
 most as soon as Marion herself had touched 
 its surface. 
 
 Owing to his haste and agitation, Rayford 
 plunged into the water just where he was 
 standing, which chanced to be at the end of 
 the boat opposite that from which Marion 
 made her reckless leap ; and, as the boat im- 
 mediately swung round and came between 
 them, he had some difficulty in reaching her. 
 Meanwhile she sunk, and, in rising, was swept 
 by the current gently down-stream, straight 
 into the arms of the stranger, who was mak- 
 ing with quick, sure strokes toward her. She 
 thought that he was Rayford ; but there is 
 nothing like a cold bath for curing heroics ; 
 
 and, with this terrible rush of water in her 
 ears, this frightful sense of helpless danger, 
 she was glad to be rescued — even by him. 
 
 So she made no resistance when he sup- 
 ported her with one arm, while, with the other, 
 he struck out rapidly for the boat, which, in 
 the course of floating lazily down-stream, was 
 now quite near them. 
 
 Having reached it, he laid her in the bot- 
 tom of it, and then climbed in himself. After 
 accomplishing this, he left her unattended for 
 a moment, while he took up an oar, and, with 
 one vigorous stroke, put two or three yards 
 between themselves and Rayford, who was 
 swiming toward them. The latter, seeing this, 
 raised himself in the water, and gave an anOTV 
 shout. 
 
 " Stop ! " he cried. " What are you about ? 
 Don't you see that I am trying to reach the 
 boat ? " 
 
 The other raised his hand, and pointed to 
 the shore. 
 
 " You had better try to reach that," he 
 said, coolly. " You are not coming in here. 
 Keep back ! By the Heaven above us, if you 
 even so much as lay your hand on the boat, I 
 will break this oar over your head ! " 
 
 It was not necessary to look in his face to 
 see that he meant what he said ; and, the oar 
 uplifted by that stalwart arm, was such a far 
 from pleasant sight, that Alston Rayford had 
 no alternative but to do as he was bidden, and 
 keep back. He was fairly divided between as- 
 tonishment and indignation — as his next words 
 showed. 
 
 " You insolent rascal ! " he cried ; " do 
 you know that you are in mi/ boat ; and what 
 the devil do you mean by such conduct ? " 
 
 " I mean that if I allowed you to enter 
 here, it would only be for the satisfaction of 
 pitching you out again, and letting you feel 
 that no man iu my presence insults a woman 
 with impunity," was the stem reply. " Take 
 yourself to the shore as best you can, and re- 
 member that if you are seen or heard of again 
 about here, it will be the worse for you." 
 
 " I will be seen and heard of long enough 
 to make you answer for this, you infernal 
 scoundrel ! " Mr. Rayford's language did not 
 improve as his excitement increased ; and 
 there was a tinge of the ludicrous in his posi- 
 tion which added tenfold to his rage. " Who 
 are you, and what right have you to interfere 
 in a matter which does not concern you ? " 
 
 " It makes no difference to you vrbo I am," 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 123 
 
 the other answered. "As for my right, it is 
 that of any honest man to defend a woman 
 against a villain. Now go ; I shall waste no 
 more words on you." 
 
 He rowed away as he spoke ; and Rayford, 
 seeing that he was indeed hopelessly left be- 
 hind, sent one last shot after him : 
 
 " You shall answer for this ; remember 
 that ! " 
 
 The other raised his hand in ironical salute. 
 
 " I shall be very happy to answer — with a 
 horsewliip," he replied. 
 
 Having made this rejoinder, he turned and 
 glanced at Marion. To his surprise and relief 
 she was fitting up, and, although she might 
 have passed for a mermaid in the item of 
 drenching, she did not look at all the worse 
 for it in the way of physical well-being. She 
 was not even pale, as people are apt to be af- 
 ter a drowning escapade, but, on the contrary, 
 a tide of color swept over her fiice the moment 
 those bright-blue eyes fell on it. Before she 
 could speak, she held out her hand. 
 
 " You have done me an inestimable ser. 
 vice, Mr. Lorimer," she said. " The only re- 
 turn I can make is — to beg your pardon." 
 
 " I am very glad — more than glad — that I 
 was near," said Lorimer, earnestly. " As I 
 don't want you to think me an eavesdropper, I 
 will explain in a moment how it chanced. 
 But, first, you must take a restorative." He 
 drew a small flask from his pocket, and gave 
 it to her. " I don't suppose that you like 
 French brandy," he went on, " but there is 
 no help for it ; you must drink this, or take a 
 cold." 
 
 " Of course, then, I will drink this," said 
 Marion, with unusual meekness. And she 
 drank it accordingly — in homeopathic 
 amount. 
 
 Tance laughed, and shrugged his shoul- 
 ders when the flask was returned, apparently 
 containing the same quantity as when he had 
 given it to her. But he did not urge the mat- 
 ter any further ; he only swept the boat 
 round and began rowing vigorously against 
 the stream. After a little, he asked Marion 
 if .she knew how to use an oar. She answered 
 in the afiirmative, and he pointed to one that 
 lay in the bottom of the boat. 
 
 " Then you had better take that," he said. 
 " Vi'e ought to reach Mr. Rivers's as soon as 
 possible." 
 
 "What!" (She could not help a slight 
 start.) " Are Ave going there ? " 
 
 " Of course. "Where else should we go ? 
 It cannot be far off either. Do you know how 
 far ? " 
 
 " About a mile, I suppose — by the stream, 
 that is ; not half so far by land." 
 
 "We will reach there soon, then; and, if 
 you can row, the exercise will keep you from 
 taking cold." 
 
 " 1 can try," she said. And she did try. 
 She was not very skilful, however; and it is 
 doubtful whether her unaided exertions would 
 have brought them very speedily to their 
 bourn ; but Lorimer was a first-class oarsman, 
 and his swift, steady strokes sent the little 
 boat fairly dancing over the water. They swept 
 by the Old Ferry in gallant style, and both of 
 them looked instinctively to see if Rayford 
 was there. But he had vanished. In his stead, 
 a slight, graceful figure was seated on a fallen 
 tree, sketching, and whistling pensively ; and 
 Lorimer laughed as Marion exclaimed, " Mr. 
 Travers ! " 
 
 " Shall we take him in ? " asked Vance. 
 And then he answered himself, with prompti- 
 tude: "No. I have a good deal to say to 
 you, and he can easily walk. — Frank, old fel- 
 low, meet us at Philippi," he shouted ; and 
 Travers started, looked up, and immediately 
 became so transfixed with astonishment that 
 they shot by and out of sight before he was 
 able to say a word. 
 
 "Now," said Vance, "I have my explana- 
 tion to make, and it must be done quickly. 
 First, however. Miss Rivers, I must ask a ques- 
 tion, and beg a candid answer. Will you tell 
 me if you are still incredulous of my dream ? " 
 
 Marion started, and blushed scarlet. But, 
 nevertheless, she lifted her eyes and answered 
 at once: 
 
 " I thought you understood what I meant 
 when I begged your pardon, Mr. Lorimer. It 
 was for my incredulity, as well as for my rude- 
 ness, that I did so. Did you witness the whole 
 of the scene ? " 
 
 " Yes, the whole of it." 
 
 " Then you can, perhaps, believe that I 
 thought of you and your picture at the very 
 moment when that — that man laid hold of me. 
 At the very moment when your scene was 
 realized, the scene itself rose up as unexpect- 
 edly and vividly as if it had been held before 
 my eyes. I saw it as clearly as I see you this 
 moment ; and I felt — ah ! you cannot even 
 imagine what I felt." 
 
 "I know what I felt myself," he said, 
 
124 
 
 THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 quickly. " I ought to explain at once that I 
 was sitting just above j'ou on that bluiT which 
 is covered with such luxuriant foliage. Frank 
 and I have been over into Tennessee since we 
 left your uncle's house three weeks ago, and 
 wc meant to go round through South Carolina 
 on our way home. But — well, we could not 
 do it. I don't know what made him anxious 
 to return this way ; but I am perfectly sure 
 that it was the fascination of the picture — the 
 same fascination which has made me dream 
 of it every night since we left here — that 
 brought me back, whether I would or no. "VVe 
 did not mean to call at your uncle's ; but still 
 we found ourselves to-day wandering almost 
 within sight of the house. Suddenly, in the 
 course of our rambles, we came upon this 
 rook on the river. I cannot tell you what a 
 shock it gave me, for I recognized at once the 
 scene of my dream ! " 
 
 " That is why it has seemed so strangely 
 familiar to me," said Marion. "It was like 
 something I had seen, and yet, until this after- 
 noon, I could not tell what it was. Mr. 
 Lorimer, how unaccountable — how terrible 
 it is ! " 
 
 "I climbed up to that bluff," Lorimer 
 went on ; " and after a while Frank wandered 
 away and left me. I had been there some 
 time, and, in the drowsy afternoon heat, I went 
 to sleep. I was waked by your voice, and 
 the first words told me what kind of a discus- 
 sion was going on. I looked down, and I saw 
 the boat and the man! After that, I don't 
 think I could have stirred or made a sound 
 if my life had depended on it. I hope you 
 will forgive me for listening to much that no 
 third person should have heard ; and I hope 
 you will also beheve me when I tell you that 
 there was some strong influence at work to 
 make me do so. I could not shake off a power 
 that seemed to hold me nerveless. The very 
 scene, the very figures of my dream, were 
 before me. I felt sure of what was coming, 
 and, as you know, it did come." 
 
 " Yes," she said, under her breath. 
 
 " If you had waited only one second, you 
 would have been spared a cold bath, for I 
 was all ready to swim after the boat, and I 
 would have gained it. Even as it was, I think 
 our plunges were simultaneous ; and I still 
 feel as if I had been defrauded of a just en- 
 joyment, since I did not take that scoundrel 
 by the neck and pitch him headlong into the 
 water." 
 
 " I think you punished him enough," said 
 she, coloring deeply and painfully. " To such 
 a man there is no punishment like failure. 
 And, if you add ridicule, I am sure you make 
 something which will prove almost too bitter 
 for his endurance." 
 
 " At least, he will not be apt to trouble 
 you again." 
 
 "No; for he only troubled me through my 
 own headstrong folly ; and he will never have 
 that aid again. But when I think of all I 
 owe to you, Mr. Lorimer, and of all that I said 
 to you — " 
 
 "Nay," said Lorimer, interrupting her 
 with a smile, "we will not think of that at all. 
 My story was certainly strange enough to ex- 
 cuse hicredulity. I myself can offer no ex- 
 planation of it, unless " — here his voice sunk 
 — " I was chosen in this way that I might 
 have the happiness of sei'ving you." 
 
 "Then I never can be grateful enough 
 that you were chosen," said she, looking up, 
 with a warm light in her eyes. " I am sure — 
 But here we are at the lawn, and yonder is 
 Uncle George ! What can we possibly say to 
 him ? " 
 
 " I shall say that you were imprudent 
 enough to fall into the river, and that I was 
 fortunate enough to pass by and pick you 
 up," said Lorimer, laughing. " Trust to me, 
 and keep your countenance. — My dear sir, I 
 am delighted to see you again. — Xow, Miss 
 Rivers, you had better go to the house and 
 change your dress." 
 
 " Good Heavens, Marion ! what have you 
 been doing?" cried her uncle, with astonish- 
 ment. — "Mr. Lorimer, I am truly delighted to 
 see you again ; but why, bless my soul ! you 
 are wet, too ! " 
 
 " Mr. Lorimer will tell you the whole story, 
 uncle. It is too long for me," said Marion, 
 laughing. Then she waved her hand, and 
 darted away to the house. 
 
 It was a long story, certainly ; but, never- 
 theless, it was aU poured into Miss Forrest's 
 eager ears before the supper-bell rang, and 
 great was the wonderment which it caused 
 that young lady. She worked herself into 
 such a passion of indignation against the de- 
 feated Rayford, and such a fever of excite- 
 ment about the victorious Lorimer, that she 
 quite cured her headache ; and, when several 
 noisy shouts from the children informed her 
 that Travers had arrived, she even got up and 
 began to make a toilet. " It would be too 
 
THE PAINTER'S DREAM. 
 
 125 
 
 discourteous not to see them," she said. " Be- 
 sides, I am dying to talk it over -with Mr. 
 Lorimer, and this is my only chance, for no 
 doubt they will leave to-morrow." 
 
 She was mistaken, however. The two 
 young artists did not leave on the morrow. 
 From some cause, the hospitable freedom of 
 Mr. Rivers's household threw quite a spell 
 over them, and they lingered, and still lin- 
 gered, for pleasant walks, and rides, and talks, 
 until the gold of September burned on the 
 chestnuts, and her royal color glowed in the 
 scarlet of the maples — until the mellow haze 
 of autumn ■ rounded and softened the grand 
 mountain outlines, and the chill mountain 
 nights made them draw closely around spar- 
 kling fires; lingered, in fact, until Mr, Rivers, 
 hearing that Alston Rayford had sailed for 
 Europe, came for his daughter, and, to his 
 utter consternation, had another suitor thrown, 
 like a petard, at his head. 
 
 It was all the worse, since there was no 
 reasonable ground for refusal in this instance. 
 There was no better blood between the Poto- 
 mac and the Rio Grande than that which 
 flowed in Yance Lorimer's veins ; and, although 
 a practical man like Mr. Rivers looked rather 
 askance at " a painter," still he was also a 
 sensible man, and he saw stuff m the young 
 
 artist which promised well for future effort 
 and future distinction. So, with some reluc- 
 tance, he gave his consent, declaring, as he did 
 so, that if a woman were shut up in an under- 
 ground dungeon, or condemned to roost in 
 the top of a pine-tree, she would find ways 
 and means to compass a love-affair. 
 
 It had long been an agreement between 
 Marion and Nellie that whichever was married 
 first should claim the services of the other as 
 bridesmaid. But circumstances occurred to 
 prevent the fulfilment of this engagement, 
 and, instead of wearing the orange-wreath by 
 turns, they wore it on the same day. In other 
 words, there was a double wedding ; and 
 people say yet that there never were two 
 prettier brides than Mrs. Lorimer and Mrs. 
 Travers. 
 
 Yance did not fulfil his threat of cutting 
 up the Dream Picture. It hangs in his private 
 room, where strangers never see it ; but some- 
 times it is shown to an intimate friend, and 
 the story of it is told. At such times Yance 
 always concludes by assuring them of the ex- 
 act truth of every particular, and declaring 
 (in which we can most of us agree with him) 
 that " there are more things in heaven and 
 earth than are dreamed of in our philoso- 
 phy." 
 
 9 
 
 THE END. 
 
POWELL VAPvDPvAY'S LIFE. 
 
 THERE are few people who have attained 
 any moderate length of years, and pos- 
 sess in any moderate degree the higher sensi- 
 biUties and deeper passions, which are by no 
 means the common heritage of the common 
 race, who do not feel and will not acknowledge 
 that existence is far from being synonymous 
 with life. The former state begins at birth 
 and ends at death, extending over many a 
 level of stagnant days, including all the slug- 
 gish periods of inaction, and all the weary in- 
 tervals of dead calm, as well as the stirring 
 breezes and the blindmg storms that come to 
 the mental as to the physical world. The lat- 
 ter is thronged with action, filled to the brim 
 with keen emotions, and whetted with eager 
 strife, burnmg with passion, abounding in vi- 
 tality, and freighted with issues that in result, 
 at least, extend beyond the earth we tread. 
 Sometimes these two states of being go hand 
 in hand through man's pilgrimage. But ihis 
 is rare. Few people live always; the vast 
 majority live but seldom ; and there are many 
 who, from birth to death, never live at all. 
 The woman whose name stands at the head 
 of this story, belonged to the second class. 
 Once, for a brief space, her pulse changed 
 from the dull, even beat of existence, to the 
 full, quick throb of life ; once only— 
 
 " All thoughts, all passions, all deliphts, 
 WTiatever stirs this mortal frame," 
 
 waked within her, and, sweepmg into one 
 great current, roused her soul to the very cen- 
 tre, stirring it, filling it, teaching it the lesson 
 which is old as time, yet which every new-born 
 child of Time must learn for itself— the lesson 
 that delight is twin-born with pain, and that 
 to live is to suffer. 
 
 At last the weary term was over, and the 
 welcome two-months' vacation came — came to 
 the long class-rooms, outside the windows of 
 which heavy tropical foliage drooped, and into 
 which fragrant tropical breezes swept, even as 
 it came to other class-rooms under paler skies, 
 where lighter foliage drooped, and fresher 
 breezes played, far away in the fair temperate 
 zone. Some smiling, some sighing, yet all 
 glad to go, the pupils took their departure. 
 Most of the teachers followed their example as 
 speedily as possible, and, after a day or two 
 of bustle and confusion, the great pensionnat, 
 which was usually such a busy hive of life, 
 sank into strange silence, and the half-dozen 
 teachers and pupils remaining, moved about 
 the wide dormitories, the long galleries, and 
 vacant "classes " like unreal shadows of what 
 had been. In all the British West Indies there 
 was no school so popular as this which had 
 been established in Kingston, by an enter- 
 prising Frenchwoman, and the pupils thus 
 stranded on its shore, were from the neighbor- 
 ing islands, and either meant to spend the va- 
 cation in the school, or else were awaiting the 
 first opportunity to go home. The teachers 
 were all foreign. There was a middle-aged 
 German with a painfully-long neck, and pain- 
 fully short-sighted eyes, who taught music, 
 wore spectacles, ate sour-kraut, and played 
 like Liszt. There was a vivacious French- 
 woman, a cousin of the principal, with the sal- 
 lowest skin and blackest eyes in all Jamaica, 
 with a love of toilets next to insanity, and a 
 talent for arranging them next to miraculous. 
 And, finally, there was a young American from 
 the State of Georgia, a stately, handsome girl 
 who had been in the school only one se.-^sion, 
 who talked very little about herself, but who 
 bore the stamp of gentle blood and gentle 
 
128 
 
 POWELL VARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 rearing, and whose name was Powell Var- 
 dray. 
 
 It was near sunset ou the third day after 
 the school had formally closed, that the latter 
 was alone in one of the large dormitories 
 through which at this hour the first welcome 
 breath of the land-breeze began to sweep. 
 She had spent the long, sultry afternoon there 
 — the afternoon which in the tropics has more 
 than the stillness of our midnight — and now 
 that various sounds proved that the universal 
 trance of siesta was at last broken, she left 
 unfinished a letter which she had been writing, 
 and went to one of the windows. As she 
 leaned out, the day -god sank into the distant 
 ocean, and almost immediately the city below 
 her waked into life. Windows that bad been 
 barred against the fierce rays of a vertical sun, 
 opened wide at the first stirring of the breeze 
 among the plumy leaves without ; streets that 
 had been deserted by all save a few lounging 
 negroes and busy laborers began to be filled 
 with carriages and pedestrians ; sounds of 
 passing feet, hum of voices, laughter and 
 strains of distant song, floated up to the young 
 foreigner; and, from the shade that came over 
 her face, it seemed as if these things had more 
 power to sadden than to cheer. Even the 
 pensionnat at last roused in some degree. She 
 heard the chatter of voices as the French 
 teacher and two or three girls assembled on 
 the flat roof over her head ; and from below 
 there came the notes of a piano which resolved 
 into the strange, wild beauty of " Walpurgis 
 Nicht " as the German teacher found that she 
 had the grand salon all to herself. The royal 
 harmonies were rising fuller and fuller on the 
 dying day, when suddenly there came a clatter 
 of horses' hoofs down the quiet street, a flush 
 that even the twilight could not hide on Powell 
 Yardray's face, and a gallant-looking rider 
 who swept by at a sharp canter. In passing 
 the school, he reined in his horse a little, and 
 looked eagerly upward. The eyes above were 
 looking down — frank, tender eyes that had no 
 " cunning to be strange " in their soft depths — 
 and the two glances crossed like swords. It 
 was only momentary. The cavalier smiled, 
 uncovered his head, bent low, and then was 
 gone. The girl drew back with the flush al- 
 ready faded from her cheek ; and when, a mo- 
 ment later, her name was called by a servant 
 near by, she turned and spoke in the quiet, 
 harmonious voice known so well in the school. 
 
 " Here I am. Rose. What is it ? " 
 
 "A note for you, ma'am," said the servant, 
 presenting, as she spoke, a dainty white mis- 
 sive as if it had been a bayonet. " The mes- 
 senger is waiting, ma'am," she added, after a 
 minute, as the young teacher sat with the en- 
 velope unopened in her hand, her brow slightly 
 bent, and a faint reflection of the flush that 
 was gone rising in her cheek. 
 
 " Yes — I know," she said, with a start. 
 Then she broke the seal, drew forth the en- 
 closure, leaned forward, and, by the last light 
 of day, read these lines : 
 
 "Dear Miss Yardrat: We leave Kings- 
 ton to-morrow for our residence in the hill- 
 country. Knowing how unpleasant the city is 
 at this time of year, and how lonely you must 
 be in the school, we shall be delighted if you 
 will accompany us and spend your vacation 
 there. Alicia, in particular, is very anxious 
 that you should do so ; and I hope sincerely 
 that you will not disappoint her by a refusal. 
 If you say yes, I will call for you at nine 
 o'clock to-morrow morning. 
 
 " Yours truly, E. M. Murray." 
 
 Miss Yardray read this brief epistle twice 
 over ; then she knitted her brows again, and 
 gave a moment to reflection ; then she smiled 
 shghtly, and finally she looked up and spoke. 
 
 " You may go. Rose, and I will bring the 
 answer down myself. Be sure and make the 
 messenger wait for it, though. Where is 
 madame ? " 
 
 " In her own room, ma'am. She is going 
 out, I think, for she was dressing when I came 
 up." 
 
 " Going out ! Then I must see her at 
 once." 
 
 With the note in her hand, she left the 
 dormitory, ran down a flight of stairs to the 
 second floor, followed a corridor, and came to 
 that part of the building where the private 
 apartments of Madame Girod, the principal, 
 were situated. Here she knocked, and was at 
 once admitted to the chamber where this au- 
 gust personage — a handsome and decidedly 
 sallow specimen of the Parisienne — was en- 
 gaged in the mysteries of the toilet. She gave 
 a cordial greeting to the young girl, and, when 
 the nature of her errand was explained, she 
 smiled benign consent. 
 
 " There are no better people in Jamaica 
 than the Murrays," said she, approvingly. 
 " They are at the head of fashion, and live in 
 
POWELL VARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 129 
 
 most elegant style. Of course, chere amie, you 
 must go. We shall miss you immeasurably, 
 and I am sure I sliall die of that stupid Ma- 
 dame Schafter, and that chatterbox of a Vic- 
 torine, but still I dare not be so selfish as to 
 keep you. Be sure and present my affection- 
 ate remembrances to Alicia — she was always 
 my favorite pupil, you know. Bon soir, ma 
 belle. Go and enjoy yourself." 
 
 Dismissed in this hasty and benedictory 
 fashion. Miss Yardray went to her room, and 
 wrote an affirmative reply to Mrs. Murray's in- 
 vitation. After this reply was sent, and while 
 a loud bell was summoning her to the light 
 evening meal, she stopped and asked herself 
 if she had done wisely. These Murrays 
 chanced to be friends of her family, and when 
 she came to Jamaica to enter as teacher the 
 school where Alicia Murray was a pupil, they 
 had had the grace to pay her some faint show 
 of social attention. She had been invited to 
 several of their entertainments, and at one of 
 these had the good or bad fortune to meet a 
 certain Captain Romeyne, of the governor's 
 staff, who, being much attracted by her beau- 
 ty, had devoted himself to her with more 
 cmjyfessement than was at all expedient. After 
 that she had never received another invitation 
 to the Murray house. Alicia, however, who 
 was a frank school-girl not yet broken into 
 the traces of social life, and very fond of her 
 teacher, carelessly betrayed the secret of this 
 sudden reserve. Despite their wealth and 
 fashion, the Murrays, it seemed, had not been 
 very fortunate in matrimonial disposal of their 
 daughters — partly owing to the fact that in 
 the West Indies, as in a good many other 
 places, eligible suitors are scarce, and young 
 ladies are plenty. The eldest daughter had 
 married a planter of Trinidad, who, in five 
 years, gambled away his fortune, drank him- 
 self to death, and returned his wife on her 
 father's hands a penniless widow. The second 
 daughter was, in a moderate way, a beauty, 
 and flew therefore at higher game than any 
 the islands in themselves could furnish. Learn- 
 ing that Captain Romeyne might, by the death 
 of a sickly elder brother, become the heir of one 
 of the largest fortunes and oldest titles among 
 the baronetcies of Great Britain, the Murray 
 family in general, and Miss EUinor Murray in 
 particular, had made him the object of much 
 attention and the centre of many hopes. There 
 had been no vulgar matrimonial scheming — 
 they were both too wise and too well-bred for 
 
 that — but there had been a good deal of finesse 
 and really creditable intrigue which proved 
 its ability by its success. Step by step the 
 young man was led on until there is little 
 doubt but that the object in view might readily 
 have been compassed, if the fair face and dark 
 eyes of Powell Vardray had not crossed his 
 path, and dashed at once into insignificance 
 the commonplace beauty he had admired be- 
 fore. And as Powell Yardray stood before 
 her mirror now, looking at this face, and gaz- 
 ing into the depths of those eyes, she asked 
 herself what this invitation meant. Uad they 
 given up the pursuit as hopeless, and were 
 they willing that she should taste one short 
 draught of happiness ? Young as she was, 
 the girl was worldly wise enough to return a 
 negative to this question. Did it mean some 
 plan to draw her out of his way, or to place 
 her before him in some unfavorable light ? 
 Again she bent her brows, and again the ques- 
 tion was too deep for her. At last she shook 
 her head. " I cannot tell," she said aloud ; 
 " but whatever it be, I am ready to face it. I 
 am no child, to fall into an open trap. I think 
 my wit is as quick as theirs ; and if strife 
 must come, it shall be strife d Voutrance. Let 
 them mean what they will, this is my only 
 road to happiness, and I shall take it. They 
 cannot harm him, and for me — I am not rich 
 enough in any gift of earth to fear for myself. 
 The destitute can afford to be brave. I will 
 go." 
 
 Years afterward Powell Yardray thought 
 of these reckless words, and looked back on 
 this resolve as the turning-point of her life. 
 Whether she ever regretted it, was known 
 only to herself and God ; but it is hardly 
 probable that she ever did — it is more than 
 probable that she held the purchase of one 
 brief taste of life none too dearly made even 
 at the price she was forced to pay for it. 
 
 Punctually at nine o'clock the next morn- 
 ing, a carriage, well known in Kingston, drove 
 up to Madame Girod's door, a brown-eyed girl 
 sprang out, rushed past the portress sans cere- 
 monie, fled up-stairs with the careless ease of 
 one who treads familiar ground, and burst into 
 Miss Yardray's room like an electric flash. 
 
 " Alicia ! — how you startled me ! " said the 
 teacher, with a laugh ; and more than that 
 she could not say, for Alicia's arms were 
 around her, precluding speech, and almost 
 threatening suffocation. 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad you are going with us 1" 
 
130 
 
 POWELL VARDRAT'S LIFE. 
 
 cried the girl, eagerly, " and it was so good 
 of mamma to ask you ! I did not think she 
 •would — on account of Ellinor, you know — but 
 she did, and all of her own accord. That 13, 
 /said nothing to her ; but I believe Maud told 
 her she ought to do it. I did not think Maud 
 •was such a friend of yours — did you ? " 
 
 " I had no idea of it," said Miss Vardray, 
 smiling. " Don't choke me, Alicia ; and pray 
 let me tie ray bonnet-strings. Is not your 
 mother in the carriage ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly ; but it don't matter about 
 keeping mamma waiting ; she is so good-na- 
 tured. She only gets vexed when I say things 
 about Ellinor's admirers — to tease Ellinor, you 
 know. By-the-by, Miss Yardray, Captain Ro- 
 meyne has gone — did you know it ? " 
 
 Gone ! What a dark mist it was that came 
 without any warning over Powell's sight, and 
 •what a strange, sudden choking rose in her 
 throat ! She gasped for breath a moment, but 
 so slightly that the careless girl beside her 
 heard nothing, saw nothing — not even the 
 swift pallor that passed over her face. Then 
 she spoke quite as usual : 
 
 " No, I did not know it — how should I ? 
 But, if so, he must have gone very lately, Ali- 
 cia, for I saw him pass here yesterday after- 
 noon." 
 
 " That is very probable," said Alicia, coolly, 
 " for he only left this morning. He dined at 
 our house yesterday evening, and bade us all 
 good-by. There was some friend of his here 
 in a yacht, and he is going to spend the next 
 three or four months in cruising about with 
 him among the islands. They left this morn- 
 ing. Ellinor was on the top of the house with 
 an opera-glass, and she saw Captain Romeyne 
 go on board the yacht, and saw the yacht put 
 out to sea. So he is- off, and that is an end of 
 the matter. I am sorry for Ellinor, but I 
 really believe I am still more sorry for Maud." 
 
 Silenced at this, Miss Vardray went on 
 tying her bonnet-strings, and asked no ques- 
 tions. She never encouraged Alicia's family 
 revelations, but, on the contrary, was often 
 forced to repress them. In this instance, how- 
 ever, she said nothing, and the unreserved 
 young lady soon continued : 
 
 " You see, Ellinor was willing enough to 
 become Mrs. Romeyne, but I don't think her 
 heart was terribly set on it. Now Maud's 
 was. Maud thought that, if Ellinor were once 
 ■well married in England, she could go there 
 and secure a grand fortune for herself. She 
 
 has had enough of West-Indians, she says — 
 and, indeed, I don't •wonder. She is dread- 
 fully aggravating, though. I wonder some- 
 times if she didn't aggravate poor Dering into 
 drinking and gambling himself to death." 
 
 "I believe I am ready now," said Miss 
 Vardray, in reply to this observation. " If 
 you will come, Alicia, we will bid the teachers 
 and the girls good-by." Then, under her 
 breath, " Ohj if I could but stay — if I could 
 but stay ! " 
 
 It was too late for this, however, so adieus 
 were made, and in half an hour the Murray 
 carriage •was rolling out of Kingston, bearing 
 as its freight Mrs. Murray, her guest, and her 
 two unmarried daughters — the third daughter, 
 Mrs. Bering, having preceded them with her 
 father. 
 
 Any one who has ever been in the charm- 
 ing hill-country of Jamaica will understand why 
 it was that, in the course of the next few days. 
 Miss Vardray ceased to regret her change of 
 quarters. In the burning heat of Kingston, 
 existence had been something nearly approach- 
 ing to a torment — in her new abode it was a 
 delight. Every hundred feet of mountain- 
 elevation was equivalent to a degree of lati- 
 tude ; and, though the luxuriance of tropical 
 vegetation crowned these lovely hills, the air 
 that fanned them was fresh and pure as an 
 elixir of life. The sultry heat of the coast 
 •was a thing incredible in the airy villa that 
 •was perched on the mountain - side like an 
 eagle's eyrie, •while far below a wilderness of 
 glowing landscape stretched to the sea, and 
 the roofs of Kingston, together •with the mag- 
 nificent harbor of Port Royal, lay clearly visi- 
 ble in the distance. The young Georgian had 
 been so closely confined since her arrival in 
 Jamaica that the prodigal loveliness of all 
 things was to her a revelation. Child of the 
 South as she was, her own South was like a 
 faint, cold outline to the glowing beauty of 
 these fairy regions whei'e 
 
 " Droops the hea^vy - blossomed bo-vver, hangs the 
 hea^v^'-fruited tree — 
 Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres 
 of sea." 
 
 Very swiftly the days flew by. There is 
 not in the world a more delightful society than 
 that of the planters whose country-seats oc- 
 cupy these mountains, and the headquarters 
 of all the gayety afloat was that very house in 
 which Miss Vardray was a guest. Rides, 
 drives, excursions, parties, dinners, constant 
 
POWELL VARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 131 
 
 visits from plantation to plantation, made up 
 the sum of daily life for these gay daughters 
 of the tropics ; and into this she was drawn 
 almost without a protest. She had come to 
 be happy — she ended by being gay ; and, oh, 
 what a wide distance there is between the 
 two ! After a while, she began to be grateful 
 to the Murrays, and to think that they had 
 simply been glad to give her this pleasure 
 without incurring any risk to themselves there- 
 by. But her heart beat sorely whenever she 
 thought of the man who had gone away with- 
 out one word of farewell — gone just when he 
 might have known that her brief period of 
 freedom had come. Still, she laughed, and 
 sang, and danced, and did all things so charm- 
 ingly, that she fascinated women as well as 
 men, old as well as young, with whom she 
 came in contact. She made quite a furore 
 during her short season of questionable en- 
 joyment. People forgot to patronize her with 
 the condescending patronage which was due 
 her social position. They even forgot this so- 
 cial position altogether, and, only recognizing 
 the native nobihty stamped upon the woman, 
 the grace of person, and the gifts of mind 
 that made so fair a hold, grounded arms in a 
 salute more valuable because unconscious. 
 
 Suddenly, however, into the midst of this 
 there came a jar. Suddenly Powell waked to 
 the knowledge that all was not so smooth as 
 it appeared, and that, in truth, she was the 
 centre of a scheme, common enough in so- 
 ciety, yet, to some people, none the less re- 
 volting on that account. Among her many 
 admirers was one whom a little encouragement 
 would soon have transferred into a serious 
 suitor, and this encouragement was given not 
 by herself, but by Mrs. Bering. The person 
 in question was a young planter of moderately 
 good birth, moderately good fortune, and mod- 
 erately good appearance, who had once been 
 in Ellinor Murray's train, but whose preten- 
 sions were not considered of sufficient im- 
 portance to warrant a formal dismissal, and 
 who was now handed over to the young teach- 
 er with an understanding on all sides that it 
 ■was an admirable thing for her, and a settle- 
 ment in life she would do well to accept. That 
 the girl herself looked at the matter from a 
 different point of view, may have been foolish, 
 but, at least, was not remarkable. In many 
 respects, life had been hard lines to her ; but 
 it had never taught her — it never did teach 
 her — that lesson of the world which most 
 
 women learn in their cradles, and the alpha 
 and omega of which is — a. husband. Faults, 
 and to spare, she had ; but all of them put to- 
 gether did not suffice to make up the sum of 
 that one virtue, entitled reasonable prudence, 
 which, in matters of this kind, the world is 
 never weary of commending. Therefore, when 
 Mrs. Bering signified that a word would be 
 enough to place Mr. Covington at her feet, it 
 would be hard to say whether this clever lady 
 was most astonished or mortified by the cour- 
 teous but decided repulse which she received. 
 It was so unexpected that she could scarcely 
 contain her chagrin within moderate bounds. 
 She had laid her plans so well, she had brought 
 them by careful degrees to such a successful 
 issue, that now to be foiled like this at the 
 very last was hard — almost too hard to bear. 
 
 " She is either a deeper schemer or a greater 
 fool than I possibly imagined," said this charm- 
 ing lady to her mother. " I knew that Arthur 
 Romeyne had been amusing himself with her 
 to a shameful extent, and, of course, I knew 
 also that she was flattering herself with the 
 hope of marrying him ; but I never really be- 
 lieved that she would carry her game to the 
 length of refusing Covington. And I assured 
 him, too, that his success was certain. What 
 can I say to him now ? " 
 
 " Oh, Covington is not a person of any im- 
 portance," said Mrs. Murray, in a tone of quiet 
 contempt that would have annihilated its ob- 
 ject, if he could have heard it. " You know 
 you can say any thing to him, and dispose of 
 him in any way. The serious matter is, that 
 this girl's refusal looks very badly — looks as 
 if she had some assured ground of hope — to 
 believe — about Captain Romeyne, you know." 
 
 " It looks as if she were either scheming 
 very deeply, or hoping very absurdly," said 
 Mrs. Bering. " That is what I told you a mo- 
 ment ago. But, as for Captain Romeyne, it 
 proves nothing. Of course, he has been fool- 
 ish ; but I have no idea that he has been, or 
 intends to be, any thing more ; and it takes 
 little or nothing to set an adventuress of this 
 kind to castle-building." 
 
 " We must get rid of her, though, Maud. 
 It was against my wishes that she was invited ; 
 but you were so sure that she could be dis- 
 posed of in this way. Now, you see how right 
 I was ; and Captain Romeyne may come back 
 any day — and find her here." 
 
 " I see that I have failed in my plan," said 
 Mrs. Bering, coolly; "but, at least, I have 
 
132 
 
 POWELL VARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 done no harm. JIatters only remain as they 
 ■were before — no better, certainly ; but no 
 worse, either." 
 
 "I don't see how you can say that, when 
 the girl is still here. I don't like it, Maud. I 
 honestly confess that it makes me uneasy, and 
 I don't like it." 
 
 " I don't like it, either, mamma ; but we 
 must find some decent excuse for sending her 
 away. I will drive into Kingston to-morrow, 
 and see Madame Girod. No doubt, she can be 
 induced to send a message that will recall her. 
 There can be no danger in her remaining for a 
 day or two longer, you know." 
 
 In the course of the next twelve hours, 
 Mrs. Bering had cause to alter this opinion, 
 and to lay up, for future consideration, the im- 
 portant lesson that a policy of procrastination 
 is always a policy of loss. That evening a 
 large party dined at Flamstead — the name of 
 the Murray seat — and, after dinner, Powell 
 was called to the piano. She sang more than 
 ordinarily well, for she had a fresh, flexile 
 voice, of excellent training and great expres- 
 sion ; so, after a while, by special request, she 
 gave the " Adelaide " of Beethoven. Although 
 she never sang it afterward, the tender, pas- 
 sionful strain seemed sometimes breathed into 
 her ear by unseen lips, and they always brought 
 back, like a vivid picture, the memory of 
 that scene — the brilliant room with its gayly- 
 dressed groups, the broad windows open to 
 the fragrant tropical night, and the luminous 
 tropical heavens, the faces at her side, and the 
 very scent of the flowers drooping in her hair. 
 Suddenly, the golden tide of melody wavered 
 and almost stopped ; suddenly, a sharp dis- 
 cord came into the sweet tone-idyl, and sud- 
 denly, also, a wave of color swept over the 
 singer's face, as a tall, handsome man entered 
 the room, and, despite the " Adelaide," was 
 greeted by a chorus of welcome, 
 
 " Why, Captain Romeyne, is this you ? " 
 " What an unexpected pleasure ! " 
 " My dear fellow, where did you drop 
 from ? " 
 
 " Captain Romeyne, this is charming — and 
 all the more charming because such a sur- 
 prise. We thought you far enough away." 
 
 It was Mrs. Bering who came forward with 
 an impulsive rush, and said this. It was with 
 her that Captain Romeyne first shook hands, 
 and to her made an explanation of his un- 
 expected appearance. Powell did not hear 
 him ; but she learned afterward that, having 
 
 chanced upon some nautical misfortune, the 
 yacht had been obliged to put back into 
 Kingston for repairs, and that, without giving 
 warning of his intention, he had ridden out to 
 Flamstead, and so surprised them. 
 
 " Mamma will be dehghted," said Mrs. 
 Bering, taking his arm. " She was talking of 
 you only to-day. Come and let me give her a 
 pleasant surprise. As for ElUnor — ^but then I 
 must not tell tales out of school, and her first 
 look will be apt to assure you whether or not 
 she is glad to see you. We have quite a 
 charming party here, and we mean to make 
 you prisoner, now that you are in our hands. 
 — " Mr. Latimer, do you know where my sister 
 is ? — Why, Mr. Covington, I am surprised that 
 you are not at your usual devotions ! " 
 
 Mr. Covington was quick enough to follow 
 her glance, and move at once toward Miss 
 Yardray. Observing the direction of his steps, 
 Captain Romeyne first looked surprised, and 
 then laughed. 
 
 " So Covington has found a new shrine ! " 
 said he, lightly. " I hope Miss Murray did 
 not prove very cruel ? " 
 
 " Oh ! it is merely a case of mutual ac- 
 commodation," answered Mrs. Bering, with a 
 shrug. " Ellinor really likes the poor fellow, 
 and, having the kindest heart in the world, 
 she was very glad to dispose of him by hand- 
 ing him over to this girl — one of Alicia's 
 teachers, whom mamma invited here to please 
 the child, and who, of course, is delighted with 
 such an establishment as Mr. Covington offers 
 her." 
 
 Captain Romeyne's eyes — and very keen 
 ones they were — followed Mr. Covington, and 
 rested for a moment on Powell, over whom 
 the gentleman was just then bending. 
 
 " She does not look dehghted," said he, as 
 he saw the girl turn almost haughtily from 
 some speech of her admirer's. 
 
 " Women's looks are very deceptive," an- 
 swered Mrs. Bering, with a glance of feigned 
 indifference and real vexation in that direc- 
 tion. " Perhaps she thinks she can play with 
 her fish, having safely landed him. Of course, 
 the subject cannot mterest you ; but it is an 
 understood thing that they are engaged. Here 
 is mamma now. — Mamma, look what a charm- 
 ing surprise I have brought you — Captain Ro- 
 meyne in person ! " 
 
 How wearily, after this, the hours went by 
 to Powell ! He was there in the room with 
 her ; but oceans and mountains might have 
 
POWELL YARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 133 
 
 intcrvenecl, for all the satisfaction that his 
 presence gave. lie was monopolized by the 
 Murrays ; sha was guarded zealously by Mr. 
 Covington ; and even glances were forbidden, 
 since glances, unfortunately, are as intelligible 
 as words even to bystanders. It was life that 
 throbbed in the girl's feverish pulses — but 
 such bitter life that just then she would will- 
 ingly have taken instead the dead calm and 
 stagnant quiet that, unstirred by joy, is also 
 untroubled by pain. Unfortunately, however, 
 the choice between these two states is never 
 granted us. Without intermission, the strain 
 went on, until at last the effort to talk easily 
 and laugh gayly became more than she could 
 bear. Then she seized a favorable opportuni- 
 ty — a moment when no one was observing 
 her — and, stepping through an open window, 
 slipped away into the friendly shadow of the 
 night. Once outside, she did not linger in 
 the neighborhood of the drawing-room, but 
 took her way to the farther extremity of the 
 grounds, where an abrupt height overlooked 
 the sleeping ocean — a lonely spot, where the 
 only sound which broke the silence was a 
 monotone of surf on the beach far below. 
 There she knelt down, and laid her cheek on 
 the cold stone of a balustrade that guarded 
 the dangerous descent. The holy and ineffa- 
 ble peace of Nature soothed \xer as nothing 
 else could have done. The great mother 
 seemed stretching soft arms of love around 
 her, and sending sweet messages in every 
 breath of odorous air and every echo of the 
 waves below. By degrees, a sort of lethargy 
 crept over her. How long it lasted, she had 
 no means of knowing. It was broken, at last, 
 by a step on the gravel v.'alk, a presence at 
 her side, and a voice she knew only too well, 
 saying : 
 
 " How devout you look ! Have you stolen 
 away here to say your prayers ? " 
 
 She glanced up without changing her atti- 
 tude, looking rarely lovely in the silver star- 
 light. 
 
 " I came away for quiet," she said. " Is 
 that very strange ? Xo ; I have not been say- 
 ing any prayers— unless they were to the ocean." 
 
 " And did it hear you ? " 
 
 " Yes, in a degree. I have been very 
 much at rest for a time." 
 
 " So you came here for rest ? " 
 
 " I thought I told you that a moment ago. 
 Quiet and rest are synonymous terms — are 
 they not ? " 
 
 " Hardly, I think. There is a difference 
 between them ; but — well, I did not follow 
 you to split hairs over verbal distinctions. 
 Look at me again, please. I want to see 
 your eyes, while I ask you a question. There 
 — that is it. Steady now ! don't start if I am 
 outrageously impertinent. Tell me — are you 
 engaged to Covington ? " 
 
 He spoke quickly, almost sharply — spoke 
 as if suspense irked him, and yet as if he 
 feared to end it — but the astonishment that 
 sprang at once into her eyes answered him 
 without any need of words. He first smiled, 
 then laughed, at her look of blank amaze- 
 ment, 
 
 " I am satisfied," he said ; " don't trouble 
 yourself to speak ; your face has done that 
 for you, I was a fool to believe it for a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " You believed that I was engaged to Mr. 
 Covington ? Ah ! I can guess — Mrs. Bering 
 told you so." 
 
 " And if she did ? " 
 
 " Then she might have told you, also, that 
 it is no fault of hers I am not, that she did 
 her utmost to draw me into an engagement, 
 and that it was plainly for this purpose that I 
 was invited here." 
 
 Romeyne started slightly, then recovered 
 himself and laughed again. 
 
 " Was it, indeed ? Well, it matters very 
 little about the purpose. The result is that 
 we are once more face to face, as I almost 
 feared we never should be again. This is 
 enough for me. Powell, is it not enough for 
 you also ? " 
 
 His gay, careless tones softened over the 
 last words, and the girl beside him quivered 
 from head to foot. She knew that the crown- 
 ing issue of her life had come ; yet through 
 the midst of her sudden joy there pulsated 
 one sharp throb of pain. She could not seize 
 or analyze it, for in a second it was gone ; but 
 she remembered it afterward, and wondered 
 if it had been a premonition. She did not 
 speak, though Romeyne waited for her answer, 
 and in that moment the very voices of the 
 night seemed hushed, as if listening for her 
 reply — only far below were heard the soft rus- 
 tling of the stately palms and the murmur of 
 the tide upon the beach. Then the young 
 man knelt down beside her, and bent his face 
 to a level with her own. 
 
 "Powell," he said, "have I vexed you? 
 Will you not even speak to me ? It is true 
 
134 
 
 POWELL VARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 that we have known each other a very short 
 time ; but I liardly think words are needed 
 between us. We know all — we know that we 
 love each other. Why, then, should we stand 
 apart, when life is so short and every minute 
 is so precious ? I came to this place only be- 
 cause I heard that you were here, and because 
 I thought that at last — " 
 
 He stopped, caught his breath sharply, 
 and listened. The silence of the night had 
 been all around them a moment before ; but 
 now the soft breeze was laden •with other 
 sounds — with footsteps, with voices, with 
 laughter that jarred on the solemn quiet of 
 Xature. Komeyne muttered one impatient 
 exclamation, set his teeth, and then turned. 
 
 "I must go," he said, hurriedly, "they 
 will find me here, if I don't. Remember this^ 
 ^ye belong to each other, and before this time 
 to-morrow night your own lips shall tell me 
 so. Now — good-night!" 
 
 He caught her hands, kissed them passion- 
 ately, and, before she could utter a word, was 
 gone. A minute later, she heard him meet 
 the advancing party, heard their exclamations 
 and inquiries, heard his careless answers, and 
 knew that they turned and began to re- 
 trace their steps. Gradually, the gay voices 
 died away, the calm Oreads of the hushed 
 solitude came back, and, as she knelt, still 
 motionless, she could scarcely tell whether 
 that brief interview had been a dream or a 
 reality. 
 
 II. 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Dering felt that 
 the departure of the young teacher could not 
 in safety be longer delayed ; so, putting all 
 other engagements aside, she drove into 
 Kmgston for the purpose of seeing Madame 
 Girod. Sine it was impossible to return be- 
 fore evening, she left the reins of management 
 in her mother's hands, and for a time Mrs. 
 Murray proved equal to the important respon- 
 sibility. As the day wore on, she kept Ro- 
 meyne and Powell very cleverly apart ; but, in 
 the afternoon, a riding-party was proposed, 
 and, after her sanction had been given, she 
 found, to her consternation, that no one but 
 the young Georgian was bold enough to I'ide 
 a certain beautiful mare which belonged to 
 Romeyne, and the rider of which would be 
 honored with his attendance. As in courtesy 
 bound, he had offered the animal to Miss Mur- 
 ray ; but that young lady's neck was dearer 
 
 to her than even a prospective baronet. She 
 looked at the royal creature, who was champ- 
 ing her bit and tossing her head with such fiery 
 impatience, and, after counting the chances 
 for and against her safety of life and limb, de- 
 clined to run the risk. Then Romeyne turned 
 to Powell, who was standing near. 
 
 "Are you afraid to ride her, Miss Yar- 
 dray ? " he asked. 
 
 The girl looked up with a gleam of rapture 
 in her eyes that answered him before her lips 
 said : 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Will you ride her, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, gladly." 
 
 She had not meant to be so frank, but na- 
 ture is sometimes stronger than conventional- 
 ity, and the smile that came over his face was 
 the reward of her candor. In five minutes 
 she was moimted, and in another five the 
 party was in motion. They started without 
 any definite point of destination, and so it 
 was not strange that the difierent couples 
 were soon widely scattered, having taken 
 whatever direction chance or the inclination 
 of the moment prompted. Romeyne and 
 Powell were among the first of these desert- 
 ers. They brought up the rear of the party, 
 and, when a road branching off among the 
 hills seemed beckoning them into a region of 
 enchantment, there was nothing more easy 
 than to heed the invitation. They looked at 
 each other, smiled, and turned their horses' 
 heads. After that they saw no more of their 
 companions. They wandered on and on, and, 
 when at last the silence of the scene and the 
 lateness of the hour made them pause, they 
 found themselves in the midst of the moun- 
 tains, with wild, tropical forest stretching 
 around on every side, and hardly a path be- 
 neath their horses' feet. What was their po- 
 sition, whence they had come, in what direc- 
 tion lay their homeward road, neither of them 
 knew. They only reahzed that, in the delight 
 of mutual companionship, in the glory of 
 heaven and the beauty of earth, they had 
 recked little of their course, and so — lost it. 
 
 When they came to their senses, the sun 
 was going down, and they knew that night 
 would fall upon them as soon as his broad red 
 disk had disappeared. Just then, however, 
 the scene was of paradise. The air was full 
 of myriad perfumes ; the sky was a vault of 
 sapphire, the distant ocean a plain of azure ; 
 the broken, picturesque peaks of the raoun- 
 
POWELL VARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 135 
 
 tain-range were crowned with plumy sentinels 
 and girdled with a wealth of foliage, while 
 heavy palms drooped over their heads, and 
 the I'oeks and glades about them were enam- 
 elled with a thousand shrubs, each of which, 
 in less favored climes, would have been a rare 
 exotic. Everywhere opened the broad, suc- 
 culent leaves that abound in the tropics ; 
 everywhere shone the golden and crimson 
 glories for which botany has no name ; and 
 through the deep green of a jungle on one 
 side was caught the sheen of flashing water, 
 as a swift mountaiu-stream leaped down a 
 height of some eighty feet into a rocky bed 
 below, and sent up a shower of spray like a 
 silver mist. The whole was so heavenly that, 
 when they paused, Powell scarcely noticed the 
 gravity of her companion's face, or his anx- 
 ious look around him. She was drinking in a 
 deep draught of the beauty lavished before 
 her, when he spoke : 
 
 " I am very much afraid that we have lost 
 our way. This is no road at all that we have 
 been following, and I really have very little 
 idea of our bearings." 
 
 " We shall have to turn back, I suppose," 
 said she, carelessly. " It is a pity, for we shall 
 be late in reaching Flamstead. We can turn 
 back — can we not ? " she added, with a sudden 
 accession of interest and concern, caused by a 
 glance at Romeyne's face. 
 
 " I — am not sure of it," said he, slowly, 
 as, turning in his saddle, he looked in the di- 
 rection from which they had come. " I am 
 afraid that, if we do turn back, we shall not 
 be able to reach the road," he went on. 
 " Unfortimately, I hardly noticed the way at 
 all, and there are no landmarks in my memory. 
 The scenery is so much alike that we may 
 have wandered Heaven only knows how far." 
 
 " What arc we to do — keep straight on ? " 
 
 " I dare not do that, with the night so near 
 at hand." 
 
 " Where is the middle course, then ? Wc 
 cannot stand here until daylight." 
 
 " No — ^not if we can help it. Will you 
 hold my horse a minute ? Perhaps, if I climb 
 that hill yonder, I may see something to guide 
 us." 
 
 He dismounted as he spoke, and, bringing 
 up his horse, gave her the rein. As she took 
 it she could not forbear urging him to haste, 
 for she had been long enough in the tropics 
 to know that the sun would sink in a few min- 
 utes, and that darkness would almost instant- 
 
 ly follow. He did not need the recommenda. 
 tion, but wont off at once, breaking through 
 the luxuriant undergrowth, dashing over the 
 torrent, and springing up the precipice down 
 which the cascade tumbled. Soon she lost 
 sight of him ; but she could hear his voice 
 when he spoke, and now and then a large 
 stone fell crashing along the hill, making her 
 tremble for his safety. Suddenly the sun 
 went down, sinking like a shot into the dis- 
 tant expanse of ocean, and, simultaneously, 
 the fan-like foliage began to stir with the 
 breath of the land-breeze, while a chorus of 
 insect voices made all Nature animate with 
 their rejoicing. At this moment, Powell heard 
 a shout that made her look eagerly upward. 
 She saw Romeyne on a point of rock far above 
 her head ; but he was dwarfed to almost pig- 
 ray dimensions, and his voice, as it floated 
 down, sounded strangely distant. 
 
 " I can see nothing," he said — " nothing 
 but the mountains and the sea. I fancy that 
 Flamstead is in that direction " (he pointed 
 southeast), " but I cannot tell, and the coun- 
 try is too broken for sight." 
 
 *' But is there no other house to be seen ? " 
 Powell asked, anxiously, for the situation be- 
 gan to break upon her in a far from pleas- 
 ant light. 
 
 He looked round in every direction, using 
 his hand as a telescope, then answered, slowly : 
 
 " None." 
 
 " Do you see any road ? " 
 
 " Not even a path." 
 
 " Oh, what shall we do ? " 
 
 " \^e must keep up our spirits, in the first 
 place, and, if necessary, we must bivouac out 
 all night, in the second. Would you be afraid 
 to do that ? " 
 
 " I should prefer to go back to Flamstead." 
 
 "Ah! so would L Well, it is growing 
 dark, and I may be some time in reaching 
 you — so I had better come down. I think I 
 see a way out of our difficulty. I recognize a 
 landmark over yonder, and, if we can only keep 
 straight and reach it, we shall be all right in 
 an hour or two." 
 
 " Do you mean to come doTvn where you 
 went up ? " 
 
 " Necessarily — since that is the only prac- 
 ticable point of descent. It is confoundedly 
 slippery, too. I only hope I sha'n't break my 
 neck — that would be unpleasant for you." 
 
 " Don't talk so heedlessly ; and pray take 
 care." 
 
136 
 
 rOWELL VARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 " Can you see me ? " 
 
 " Yes, quite plainly." 
 
 " Kiss your hand to mo, then ; and now — 
 en avantr'' 
 
 He waved his own hand gayly, and then 
 swung himself over a point of rock. After 
 this, Powell could not see him any longer. 
 The luxuriant foliage hid him from her sight, 
 and, though she strained her eyes to pierce 
 through the dusk, it was impossible to follow 
 his movements. Then the horses grew restive, 
 and she had some trouble in quieting them. 
 Before she entirely succeeded in this, there 
 came a sound that chilled her blood — a sharp 
 exclamation, an ominous crashing of a heavy 
 body through the dense undergrowth, a dull 
 fall, a deep groan, and then an awful silence. 
 
 For a moment the girl sat stricken with 
 horror, then she raised her voice and called 
 Romeyne's name ; but no answer was returned. 
 She waited a moment and called again — still 
 no answer. Then she sprang from her saddle, 
 left the horses to go where they would, and, 
 plunging recklessly into the thicket, made her 
 way to the spot where he had ascended. It 
 took her some time to do this, for her long 
 habit was much in her way, and the water- 
 course intervened ; but on she went, recklessly, 
 through the prickly shrubs, over the foaming 
 cataract, forward despite all obstacles, despite 
 her torn dress and bleeding hands, until at 
 last she reached her point of destination — the 
 foot of the hill. Then she paused, and gazed 
 earnestly around. Even at noonday, the spot 
 where she stood was dim and dark with the 
 shade of overhanging trees ; now, in the dusky 
 gloaming, the shadows that gathered there 
 were almost unfathomable. Still, after a mo- 
 ment, her eyes grew accustomed to the dark- 
 ness, and she could distinguish, in form at 
 least, the objects surrounding her. On one 
 side was the silvery sheen of the water-fall ; on 
 the other, a gigantic banana rose like a senti- 
 nel over the heads of the lesser trees, and flung 
 its broad leaves against the treacherous rocks 
 of the steep ascent. The trunk of this tree 
 was not three feet from the cascade, and, as 
 Powell stood beside it, a spray of the falling 
 water came like rain in her face. Once again 
 she called, and now a faint groan answered 
 her. Guided by this, she sprang forward, and 
 in a moment was kneeling by a prostrate figure 
 that lay on the verge of the stream, half in, 
 half out of, the foaming water. The silent 
 depths of forest echoed with weird distinctness 
 
 the wailing sound that broke from her lips as 
 she bent down and lifted in her arms that 
 stricken head. 
 
 " My love ! my love ! " she cried, in tones 
 that might have v>-aked the dead, " can you not 
 speak to me ? My God ! are you killed ? " 
 
 No sound answered her, not even a groan. 
 The head which she supported fell heavily 
 over her arm, and the strong young form lay 
 helpless and motionless with the leaden weight 
 of insensibility. After a moment, she bent 
 down and laid her ear over his heart. At first 
 she could not tell whether it beat, but grad- 
 ually she caught the slow, deep throbs, and 
 knew that life still held the citadel. That 
 knowledge was like an elixir of vitality to her, 
 and seemed to fill her with a strength and 
 energy that must have been lent from Heaven 
 for the time. She strove to draw him up from 
 the water; but the first movement brought 
 forth such a moan of pain that she was obliged 
 to desist from this attempt. Then she looked 
 round ; cordial there was none, but Nature's 
 great restorative was near at hand, and she 
 sprinkled his face with water until it was evi- 
 dent that he would revive. When this was 
 apparent, a thought suddenly struck her, and 
 she plunged her hand into his pockets, search- 
 ing for what she found at last — a small flask, 
 containing French brandy. She first tasted 
 this, then held it to his lips, and poured a 
 slender stream down his throat. In an in- 
 stant, the effect was visible. He drew a deep, 
 gurgling breath, opened his eyes, strove to 
 raise himself, fell back with a sharp cry of 
 pain, and lay still for a moment, panting 
 heavily. After a while, he said, slowly : 
 
 " Powell, are you there ? are you near 
 me?" 
 
 " I am here, my love, my poor darling," 
 said the girl, whose arms were round him, and 
 whose sobs were choking her, as she kept 
 them back, and strove to answer calmly. 
 
 " How did you " — a pause and a gasp — 
 " reach me ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I heard you fall, and I 
 came — that is all. Are you much hurt ? 
 Oh ! do you think you are much hurt V " 
 
 " I cannot tell. Wait a moment — let me 
 lift myself and see. Sweetheart, hold my 
 shoulders — help to raise me if you can. There 
 — now — my God ! " 
 
 It was no mere exclamation, this last, no 
 mere utterance of an ordinary appeal, but a 
 soul's great shuddering cry over an agony too 
 
POWELL VARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 137 
 
 great for endurance. After it there followed a 
 stillness, and Powell knew tliat he had fainted. 
 
 She did not faint herself, she did not even 
 shed a tear. Indeed, in that moment she 
 proved the heroic nature of her love, by the 
 strength it gave her above her own weakness. 
 She knelt by him, chafing his hands, bathing 
 his face, pouring brandy as well as she could 
 between his clinched teeth, and striving, by 
 every means in her power, to revive him : but 
 no sound came from her lips, no throb of her 
 anguish found outward expression. Once only, 
 she paused and looked upward. Through the 
 drooping, plume-like foliage, the brilliant con- 
 stellations of the southern heaven gazed down, 
 shedding their mellow splendor even into this 
 dark spot, and shimmering fitfully over the 
 silver cascade. Save the rush of water, all 
 around was full of the strange awe and silence 
 of the night — that silence in which we seem to 
 hear the great heart of Nature deeply beating. 
 Sounds there were, but they could scarcely be 
 analyzed or described — distant fitful voices of 
 the forest that deepened rather than lessened 
 the significance of the solitude. Powell felt 
 that she was utterly alone — alone with none 
 but God to aid — and out of the very despera- 
 tion of despair came courage. The great soul 
 rose up bravely to face the exigence, and after 
 that she never faltered, even to the end. 
 
 At last Romeyne slowly came back to con- 
 sciousness, and once more opened his eyes 
 into those that, full of wistful pain, gazed so 
 tenderly upon him. 
 
 " Sweetheart," he said, faintly, " bend 
 down." 
 
 She bent down, and he kissed her thrice 
 as passionately, but more softly, than he had 
 kissed her hand the night before. Then he 
 told her to lay his head gently on the ground. 
 
 " Why ? " she asked, much pained at this. 
 " Why should I not hold it ? " 
 
 " Because you must go back to Flamstead," 
 he answered. " When I was up there " — he 
 glanced to the hill over his head — " I saw 
 what our best path would be, and I think 
 there is light enough for you to follow it. I 
 cannot move. You must leave me here, and 
 send for me. Listen now, and let me tell you 
 the route — " 
 
 But she would not listen — she cried out at 
 once on the cruelty of this. 
 
 "I will not go," she said. "If I could 
 find the way a hundred times over, I would 
 not go. How can you bid me do such a thing ? 
 
 How can you think I would leave you here 
 suffering and alone ? If I could bring help, it 
 would be different ; but it would require hours 
 at least, and you all alone — oh, I would die 
 sooner than go ! Y'ou are cruel — cruel to try 
 to send me from you like this ! " 
 
 " My dai-liug, it is for — he stopped as he 
 was about to say " your own sake." lie knew 
 this was the last argument in the world to move 
 her; so after a moment he added — "it is for 
 the best. Do you think it is not happiness to 
 me to know that you are here, to feel your 
 arms around me, and your hand upon me, but 
 — but it must not be. Powell, my own, my 
 own, you must go ! " 
 
 She understood him. She understood how 
 he thought of her even in his great extremity ; 
 and how, for her own sake, he was willing to 
 send her from him. She knew, too, that he 
 wished to spare her what might be a vigil of 
 death, and m a moment her soul nerved itself 
 for any endurance. 
 
 " You are thinking of me," she said, calm- 
 ly, " but there is no need for it. Here — now 
 — the world is less than nothing to me, and 
 you are all. If I could help you by going, I 
 might force myself to leave you. But there is 
 no question of that. The best help I can 
 render you is to stay by you, and I shall stay. 
 Arthur, my own love, be merciful — let me do 
 it in peace." 
 
 He smiled faintly. He had said his say, 
 and was too weak to urge her further. 
 
 " Stay, then," he murmured. " But it will 
 be very, very bitter to you." 
 
 After this the hours wore slowly on — 
 broken only by such strong wrestlings with 
 pain as would have torn the girl's heart if she 
 had seen the veriest stranger suffer them, yet 
 on which she looked without a murmur. She 
 held the quivering form, wiped the streaming 
 brow, moistened the parched lips, and gave 
 the brandy as he directed — all without a single 
 falter. Then in the intervals, when he could 
 talk faintly and brokenly, she listened and an- 
 swered more like an angel than a woman. 
 Love made her, for the time being, almost 
 divine, endowing her with a strength, a wis- 
 dom, and a tenderness, that in herself she 
 could not claim. In these few hours of mingled 
 agony and bhss, she hved her life — all that was 
 ever granted her. He was dying ; the sum- 
 mons had come in the full glory of his man- 
 hood, and he was going, he was almost gone, 
 into that realm of dark shadow where only 
 
138 
 
 POWELL VARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 faith can pierce and love can follow. She 
 knew that, but she also knew that he was all 
 hers — that the world put no claim between 
 them here, that heart was bared to heart at 
 last, and that out of her arms no human power 
 could take him now. They belonged to each 
 other. He had told her that the night before, 
 but the sense of it did not come to her till 
 now — ^now that he was dying in her arms, all 
 alone in the wild forest. Gradually his mind 
 began to wander, and he talked of an English 
 home that his eyes would never see again. 
 
 " K I could only have taken you there, my 
 darling," he said, with a sudden return to con- 
 sciousness. " But this may be best. We have 
 tasted all the sweetness of the cup of love, and 
 we are spared any of its bitterness. Bitterness 
 might have come, you know — even to us. I 
 wonder if I am going, Powell ? I wonder if it 
 is because I am not myself that I feel so 
 strangely content — so strangely sure that it is 
 all right ? " 
 
 " God only knows, love. God grant that 
 indeed it may be all right — for you ! " 
 
 " Sweetheart, you won't forget me soon ? " 
 
 "Forget you ! " What a low, pitiful cry it 
 was. "Arthur, my only love, if I could go with 
 you, I would — even into the arms of death." 
 
 " Thank God, you cannot, then, for life is 
 sweet, and you are young. Darling, I shall 
 not see you when you are old." 
 
 " No oiie ever will," said she, with strange 
 calmness. 
 
 " You think so now — but ah ! " 
 
 It was one of the fierce paroxysms — the 
 very fiercest that had been — and Powell al- 
 most thought it was the struggle of dissolu- 
 tion ; but after a while it passed, and then she 
 heard him whisper under his breath a frag- 
 ment of the grand old " Dies Irae." " Salva 
 me, foils pieiatis" he murmured, and she caught 
 the words. For the first time — and yet she 
 was not a heathen — they made her think of 
 his soul. 
 
 " Arthur," she cried, " shall I not pray 
 for you ? — shall I not ask God to have mercy 
 on you ? " 
 
 He murmured something unintelligible, but 
 which sounded like assent ; and, without 
 changing her position, she poured forth her 
 soul in a tide of passionate supplication. The 
 whole strength of her undying love went into 
 it, and never before had the silent forest heark- 
 ened to such an appeal as now went forth, 
 piercing the infinite spaces of eternity to the 
 
 very throne of God. Suddenly she stopped, 
 for there was a change which even in the 
 darkness she perceived. What it was she 
 could not analyze, but she felt at once that the 
 end was at hand. 
 
 " Arthur, Arthur," she cried, wildly, " are 
 you going ? " 
 
 He muttered something brokenly, and lay 
 for a moment in a stupor. Then he started, 
 and a smile swept over his face — a smile which 
 even in the faint starlight Powell caught — and 
 he murmured something of which she heard 
 only one word — ^her own name. With that 
 name still on his lips, a strong shiver seized 
 him, the breath fluttered — ceased — the eyes 
 closed — and the girl knew that she was deso- 
 late. 
 
 When Powell came to herself out of the 
 awful blackness and blankness that followed, 
 she was lying in her own room at Madame 
 Girod's. Every thing around looked so quiet 
 and so familiar, that for a moment she almost 
 believed that she had waked from a horrible 
 dream — but it was only for a moment. The 
 next instant memory rushed over her — rushed 
 not singly and by degrees — but suddenly, and 
 in one awful whole. In a second, she remem- 
 bered every thing, felt every thing, and, with 
 a low, moaning cry — a protest, as it were, 
 against life — she turned her face from the 
 light, and buried it in the pillows. 
 
 At that cry, the German teacher rose qui- 
 etly from a seat behind the bed-curtains, and 
 advancing laid her hand on the girl's brow. 
 She started, for it was cooler than she ex- 
 pected. Then she leaned over and spoke : 
 
 " Liebchen, do you feel better? " 
 
 The voice was very sweet, and Powell 
 opened her eyes. She had never fancied this 
 woman much — indeed, she had taken quite a 
 dislike to her, in the quick, impatient fashion 
 of youth — but now she read such earnest kind- 
 ness in her eyes, that the sore heart opened at 
 once to receive it. 
 
 " Better ! " she cried — then, with a burst, 
 " Oh, why did you make me well again ? Why 
 did you not let me die ? " 
 
 " Child," said the German, gravely, " life 
 and death are in God's hands. Were you so 
 ready to go to Him, that you can talk like 
 this ? " 
 
 " I shall never be more ready ; and I would 
 have gone anywhere with him. Oh, Friiulein, 
 tell me where he is buried." 
 
POWELL YARDRAYS LIFE. 
 
 139 
 
 The Friiulcin looked grave ; but she also 
 looked sad and infinitely pitiful. "Do you 
 mean Captain Romeyne ? " she asked, at 
 length. 
 
 " Whom else should I mean ? Oh, my poor 
 love ! lie died iu these arms, and I — I must 
 live on, and never see him again." 
 
 " Died ! My poor child, are you sure of 
 that ? " 
 
 " Am I sure ? Friiulein, what do you 
 mean ? Did I not see him die ? — did I not 
 feel the last quiver of life that passed over 
 hira? — did I not — oh, why do you ask me 
 such a question ? Why do you look at me so 
 strangely? Fraulein, it cannot be — " She 
 raised herself, and caught the teacher's arm, 
 gazing the while passionately and wildly into 
 the eyes that regarded her with such infinite 
 compassion. " Speak ! " she gasped. " It can- 
 not be that he is alive ? " 
 
 " Yes, he is alive." 
 
 The girl strove to speak, strove to question, 
 strove evidently to say " Thank God ! " but 
 strength failed. Her hand relaxed its grasp 
 on the teacher's sleeve, her eyes closed, her 
 head sank back — she had fainted. Weeping 
 softly, the German applied the usual remedies ; 
 and, as the swoon was slight, before long it 
 yielded to them. Then, when the dark eyes 
 once more opened, there was a question in 
 their depths, and, when the lips unclosed, it 
 came rushing forth at once. 
 
 " Fraulein, will he recover ? Oh, God bless 
 you for such news ! But tell me — if he will 
 ever be himself again ? " 
 
 " He will recover certainly ; it is said, in- 
 deed, he is much better now. 
 
 "And where is he? When can I see 
 him ? " 
 
 The teacher toyed nervously with the tas- 
 sels of the bed-curtains, and looked away, 
 avoiding Powell's eyes, and gazing out of the 
 window. 
 
 " You can't see him at all," she said, at 
 last. " He is gone." 
 
 " Gone ! " 
 
 " He sailed yesterday for England." 
 
 This time no swoon was kind enough to 
 come. On the contrary, the startled eyes 
 opened wider and wider, with incredulity in 
 their gaze. It seemed, indeed, as if they could 
 not take themselves from the teacher's face, 
 until the expression of that face repeated the 
 news so sharply told. Then there was a cry — 
 a low, pitiful cry, as of one wounded unto 
 
 death — and the girl once more sunk back and 
 buried her face from the light. This time she 
 tasted the full bitterness of desolation, and, 
 tasting it, cried out for death as a release. 
 
 But death came not at her desire. Slowly 
 and by degrees, life flowed into her veins, and 
 beat in her languid pulses. Slowly the duties 
 of existence thronged back upon her, and she 
 rose up to meet them. She did so with a 
 strange, stunned quietude, a sort of dead apa- 
 thy, the feeling and the bearing of one in 
 whom Fate had spent its last blow. She did 
 not think she could ever suffer another pang, 
 and so went on her weary round, until one day 
 all this false quiet was suddenly shivered, 
 when the news came that the vessel in which 
 Arthur Romeyne sailed for England, having 
 met with adverse winds and storms, had gone 
 down at sea. 
 
 Not long after this, Alicia Murray came 
 one day to see the yoimg teacher, and from 
 her Powell received an assurance which she 
 would gladly have gone in sackcloth and ashes 
 all her life to gain — the assurance that the 
 man, for whom she had suffered so much, had 
 not deserted her willingly, or even knowingly. 
 When he was found helpless and insensible, a 
 message had immediately been dispatched for 
 a cousin of the Romeyne family, who was act- 
 ing as British consul in one of the neighboring 
 islands. When this man arrived, his first reso- 
 lution was to take Romeyne at once to Eng- 
 land. Mrs. Bering, who inspired the idea, sup- 
 ported him in its execution, and the young 
 man was removed to the vessel while yet una- 
 ble to oppose, or even to understand, any 
 thing that was in progress. In this state he 
 sailed ; and it was due to Mrs. Dering again, 
 that all Kingston, having heard of his wonder- 
 ful recovery, believed that he had gone of his 
 own free-will. The plan was well enough laid ; 
 but, whether it would have succeeded in its 
 final result, was never known. God stretched 
 forth His arm of power, the wuids and the 
 waves rose up to do His bidding, and all was 
 over. The good ship went down, the ocean- 
 tides swept over the heart that might have 
 been so true, and yet again might have been 
 so false ; and all love, all hope, all suffering,- 
 was at an end forever. 
 
 Here, also, ended Powell Yardray's life. 
 
 In all the years of her existence, she never 
 
 lived again. Yet these years were quiet enough, 
 
 and in one sense — the sense of duty fulfilled 
 
 I and work performed — even happy. She never 
 
140 
 
 rOWELL YARDRAY'S LIFE. 
 
 murmured at their length or their sameness. 
 She had lived her life, and that seemed to 
 suffice. Yet, as she once told Arthur Romeyne, 
 she did not live to grow old. Before that 
 time, the summoner, who comes to all, came 
 to her. A terrible fever decimated the island, 
 and, in the midst of panic and dismay, she 
 nuri-ed the sick, tended the dying, and even 
 
 helped to bury the dead. She gave herself no 
 rest, either night or day ; and, when all was 
 over, when the pestilence passed, and health 
 came back to those whom death had spared, 
 she sickened and died. By her own request, 
 one side of the stone which marks her grave 
 bears this inscription : 
 
 " Ich habe gelebt und geEebet." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 i 
 
BEENAED'S INVENTION 
 
 vT 
 
 I. 
 
 TWELVE o'clock. 
 Not midnight, but bright, soft noonday 
 — the noonday of lovely April — in the old- 
 fashioned garden of an old-fashioned house, 
 located in the very midst of the business por- 
 tion of the large and flourishing town of 
 
 W . It had once been a very elegant 
 
 residence, this old house, and had stood on the 
 outskirts of the town, with pleasant hills and 
 valleys, waving woods and green fields, sweep- 
 ing up to the very verge of the garden. But 
 now, all around it, flowed a busy tide of 
 trade ; warehouses of cotton and tobacco rose 
 on either side ; wagons and drays rattled past 
 unceasingly; in the rear, a car-shop belched 
 forth black smoke ; while engines screamed, 
 and trains rumbled heavily back and forth, at 
 all hours of the night and day. Still, even 
 amid these discordant surroundings, the old 
 house held its own bravely, and, wrapping it- 
 self about with a mantle of dignified reserve, 
 looked down with the pride of conscious an- 
 tiquity upon all these new-comers of the later 
 time. It had a right to do this, since its own 
 recollections went back to the time when the 
 Georges were kings, and when, at intervals, 
 the red-men gathered strength to sweep down 
 upon the dove-cots of their invaders. It was 
 
 pointed out by the W ites as the place 
 
 where Cornwallis had established his head- 
 quarters, and where he and his courtly staff 
 had once given a ball, and with the fair Tory 
 ladies of the place danced a summer's night 
 through. Life and death, and joy and sor- 
 row, had each had its own time within its 
 dark old walls ; yet, still it stood, a memorial 
 of the stately past, and, in some wise, a re- 
 buke of the flippant present. It was not a 
 pretty house, as beauty is reckoned now — no- 
 10 
 
 body could for an instant compare it to the 
 elegant villas which were scattered to the 
 westward, and monopolized all that fair out- 
 look of rolling country which had once been 
 its own — neither was it a very comfortable 
 house, according to modern ideas of comfort. 
 But you rarely find, nowadays, such work as 
 that of the panelled walls or richly-carved 
 chimney-pieces, and there were nooks and 
 corners about it, odd rooms stored away in all 
 sorts of unaccountable places, and closets al- 
 most as large as rooms under the strange, 
 dark, winding staircases, which gave it a 
 charm that the most commodious and thor- 
 oughly-ventilated houses oftener lack than 
 possess. Then, there was the back piazza, all 
 latticed in and covered with green vines, until 
 it had the seclusion, and more than the cool- 
 ness, of a drawing-room. And beyond this 
 piazza was the gem of the whole establishment 
 — the old-fashioned garden, shut in from the 
 outer world by a high wall, through which no 
 one could peer, and over which no one could 
 climb, occupying nearly a square, full of fruit- 
 trees, fragrant with flowers, and abounding in 
 shrubs that half a century before had been 
 trimmed into the formal regularity of art, but 
 had now overgrown every thing with the wild 
 luxuriance of Nature. 
 
 It was in this garden that the flickering 
 April sunlight marked twelve o'clock on a 
 sundial that occupied the middle of a green 
 plat, round the borders of which bright-hued 
 flowers of the spring were blooming, while 
 just in front of it was an arbor draped all 
 over with that fragrant darling of the Caro- 
 lina woods, the yellow jasmine. Within this 
 arbor, framed, as it were, by the green tei.- 
 drils and golden bells, sat a young girl, busily 
 engaged in drawing, at a small table. Seen 
 
142 
 
 BERNARD'S INVENTION. 
 
 under favorable circumstances, she might have 
 been, and no doubt was, exceedingly pretty ; 
 but just now she looked pale and weary ; her 
 dress was careless; her hair was hastily 
 pushed back, and gathered in a rough, loose 
 knot behind ; while her forehead was drawn 
 into a frown that ill became its pearly white- 
 ness. On the table before her lay open a case 
 of mathematical-drawing instruments, and it 
 was with these that she worked, tracing out 
 intricate designs of an apparently mechanical 
 character on a large sheet of card-board, and 
 now and then noting down certain numerical 
 results on a sheet of paper near at hand. It 
 was weary work, and when, at last, she glanced 
 up, and saw that it was twelve o'clock, she 
 threw down her pencil with an air of unmis- 
 takable relief. 
 
 " I must go and see about dinner," she 
 said, half aloud ; and, as she said it, she took 
 up a large portfolio from the ground beside 
 her chair, and began to put the drawing away. 
 While she was thus occupied, a clear, fresh 
 voice suddenly called, " Annie ! " A quick, 
 ringing step sounded on the gravel walk, and, 
 round a group of shrubs that formed a perfect 
 cloud of tmted bloom, a young man of the 
 most frank and cheery presence imaginable 
 came into sight. He was not particularly 
 handsome, but he had a graceful, well-knit 
 figure, and an open, pleasant face, while his 
 whole manner diffused such an air of moral 
 sunshine that it was no wonder the gloom 
 parted and fled from the girl's brow at once. 
 
 " Louis ! " she cried, eagerly ; and then 
 smiled, and added, in a tone of absurdly- 
 weak reproof, " You provoking boy ! how you 
 startled me ! What on earth brings you here 
 at this hour of the day ? " 
 
 " Kiss me, pretty one, and I'll tell you," 
 said the new-comer, gayly. Then, having 
 taken this favor, without incurring any rebuke 
 thereby, he added, more gravely : " Annie, 
 darling, congratulate me — my fortune is made I 
 If your father agrees, we can be married this 
 day two months." * 
 
 " Oh ! " said Annie, with a gasp ; but the 
 color came into her face, and made her abso- 
 lutely lovely. " Louis ! bow ? what ? Tell 
 me what you mean — tell me all about it ! " 
 
 The young man kissed her again. He was 
 evidently glowing with triumph, and found it 
 hard to contain hia exultatioH within moderate 
 bounds. 
 
 " I mean just what I say," he answered ; 
 
 " but, as for telling you all about it, I can't do 
 that, dearest, for I am bound to secrecy. I 
 can only tell you this : my fortune — our for- 
 tune — is made, and you are mine." 
 
 " I was always that ! " she cried, with 
 something between a laugh and a sob. " But, 
 surely, Louis, you can tell me a little more 
 than this. If it is to be our fortune, surely I 
 have a right to know how it is made." 
 
 " Can't you trust me, Annie ? " 
 
 " Trust you ! Indeed, yes — ever and al- 
 ways. But, then, you know we are pledged 
 not to keep any secrets from each other." 
 
 " Only such as honor demands ; and this is 
 a case of honor. However, I can tell you a 
 little, the general outline of the matter. Here, 
 let us sit down and talk at our leisure. Now, 
 that is better. Well, to begin rather far from 
 the point, and not so far either, you know I 
 have always had a decided mechanical talent, 
 and, thanks to your father's kindness, I have 
 acquired some aptitude in turning it to ac- 
 count." 
 
 " Yes," said Annie, with a rueful glance 
 at the portfolio ; " yes, I know you have, and 
 1 know you will end by being as bad as he is, 
 if you do not stop yourself in time." 
 
 " Stop myself ! " repeated the young man, 
 with a laugh. " Why, little simpleton, the sci- 
 ence of mechanics is the lever of the world 
 nowadays, and in all the world there is no bet- 
 ter or more direct road to fortune than that 
 which it opens. If we are married two months 
 hence, it will be thanks to mechanics." 
 
 The girl's face fell a little ; but she did not 
 utter any thing, excepting the simple inter- 
 rogative — 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " By means of a great invention," an- 
 swered the young man, with color rising to 
 his face, and light flashing in his eyes — " an 
 invention which will be the greatest since 
 steam, and which will go far to revolutionize 
 the whole system of mechanics, as known to 
 the world at present. I wish I could show it 
 to you, Annie darling ; I wish I could tell you. 
 — But what is the matter ? Why do you look 
 at me as if — as if you were disappointed ? " 
 
 " Because I am disappointed ! " cried the 
 girl ; and, before her lover knew what she was 
 about, she had laid her head down on the table 
 and was sobbing bitterly. Poor things ! It 
 was hard on both of them. Hard on the tri- 
 umphant bearer of good news to see it so re- 
 ceived. Harder still on the girl who had been 
 

 
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 3 
 
 1) 
 
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 rt 
 
 c 
 o 
 
 
 
 
 «^ 
 
 
BERXARD'S IXVEXTIOX. 
 
 143 
 
 so flushed with hope to have it dashed by that 
 word, to her, of fatal omen — " invention." 
 
 " I thought you meant something real — 
 something to be relied on," she sobbed. " 
 Louis, how could you disappoint me so cruel- 
 ly ! Oh, I am so sorry, so very sorry, that 
 this fever — God Ivnows I am almost tempted 
 to call it this madness — has seized you, too ! 
 Louis, for Heaven's sake put it from you ! 
 Trust to the steady results of honest labor, 
 and not to these wild schemes of a fortune to 
 be made at one stroke. Look at my father ! 
 let him be a warning to you. See how his 
 life hag been spent in the service of this 
 wretched science — how many inventions, that 
 were to benefit the world, he has made — and 
 where and how he is to-day ! Oli, I had so 
 hoped that with you I should be free from this 
 weary toil that comes to nothing, this eager 
 counting on dreams that are shadowy as air ! 
 And now— Louis, Louis, you will break my 
 heart ! " 
 
 " Dear love, I hope not," said Louis, half 
 concerned, half amused. " You don't appre- 
 ciate your father, Annie. You don't know 
 what a great man he is — what a great man he 
 yet will be in the face of that world which has 
 treated him as from the beginning it has al- 
 ways treated genius — has robbed him, and 
 laughed at him, and refused to hear him ! 
 But it will hear him yet. There never was a 
 great mind that did not have to pass through 
 this ordeal ; there never was a great discovery 
 that was not met by this opposition ; there 
 never was a great achievement that did not 
 have to triumph over these difficulties. It 
 has been hard on you, my poor pet ; but I 
 hope the hardest is over at last. Apart from 
 my good fortune, your father tells me that he 
 is working on an invention, which he thinks 
 the greatest he has ever made, and the patent- 
 right of which he does not mean to put out 
 of his own hands." 
 
 " Yes, he is working at it," said the girl, 
 wearily, and once more she glanced at the 
 portfolio. " I have been makmg out some of 
 the drawings," she added ; " but he forbade 
 me to show them, even to you. He has been 
 robbed so often, that he has grown very sus- 
 picious now. Sometimes, I think he is reluc- 
 tant to trust even me. Louis, it is so sad ! 
 And to think that you have started on the 
 same path ! " 
 
 " I have only made a beginning, dear, and 
 as for my being a great inventor, you may set 
 
 your mind at rest on that point. Nature did 
 not favor me with the rare gift of original 
 conception. I can only work out other men's 
 thoughts, and sometimes bring them to a 
 practical issue. This is all that I have done 
 now. A gentleman, a friend of mine — I can- 
 not tell you his name, because he desires that 
 it may be kept secret — conceived a new idea 
 in mechanics, but, lacking practical knowl- 
 edge of the science, he could not work it out 
 in practical form. So he brought a rough 
 draught of the invention to me, and told me 
 that, if I could perfect it, I might take out 
 the patent, and share half the profits. I saw 
 at once what a magnificent thing it would be 
 if it could be perfected ; so I fell into the idea 
 forthwith, and went to work. Annie, how 
 I worked ! I saw fortune and you before me, 
 and I never drew rein night or day. But, 
 after a while, the inventor's fever came over 
 me, and the fascination of the science overtook 
 me. Then I forgot all about fortune, I even 
 forgot all about you, and worked on and on, 
 only that I might reach the result which 
 seemed ever before me and yet ever eluding 
 me. It eluded me for a long time, and no one 
 but an inventor can imagine the fever in 
 which I Uved during that time. Waking or 
 sleeping, I thought of nothing else — saw 
 nothing else ; and when, at last, one day the 
 solution of my difiSculties came to me hke a 
 flash of inspiration, I shouted until my neigh- 
 bors thought that I was mad. I wanted then 
 to throw down pencil and paper and rush to 
 you ; but Mr. — , I mean the original inventor, 
 held me bound to absolute secrecy, and he did 
 not relax this requirement even when all the 
 specifications were made out and forwarded to 
 the Patent-OflSce. It was not until this morn- 
 ing, when he came and told me that the patent 
 was finally issued, that he also told me I might 
 announce the fact to my friends, provided I 
 didn't divulge his name. Heaven only knows 
 why he should wish to give me all the credit, 
 as well as half the profits ; but one thing is 
 certain, my darling — our fortune is made, and 
 you are mine ! " 
 
 He caught the giil in his arms at the last 
 words, and kissed her again and again, while 
 she could only lay her head down on his shoul- 
 der and indulge in an hysterical combination 
 of laughter and tears. 
 
 " I am happy, Louis, and grateful — oh, 
 so grateful ! " she said, as well as the laughter 
 and tears aforesaid would allow ; " but, dear 
 
144 
 
 BERNARD'S INVENTION. 
 
 love, I shouia be still more happy, still more 
 grateful, if the fortune had come to you in any 
 other way. It seems to me like gambling- 
 like something that means prosperity for a 
 little while, but ruin in the end. I may be 
 very foolish, but that is the way it seems to 
 me, and then— Louis, I feel sure that, in 
 some way or other, it will bring us ill-luck ! " 
 
 Louis smiled at this ; but he did not at- 
 tempt any thing like reason in reply. On the 
 contrary, he changed the subject, and asked 
 the foreboding girl if her father was at home. 
 '• I did not see him as I came through the 
 house," he said ; " and I am on thorns until I 
 tell him my good luck, and hear him assure 
 me that I may take you as soon as I please." 
 
 " He is not likely to give you that assur- 
 ance to-day," said she, nodding archly, 
 
 " Is he not ? Well, let us go and see." 
 
 They went accordingly, sauntering side by 
 side down the garden-paths bordered with 
 rows of tall box, and enlivened here and 
 there by fragrant lilacs and sweet purple wis- 
 teria, until they reached the latticed piazza. 
 From this they ontore'd a narrow, dark pas- 
 sage, made still darker from the fact of the 
 front door being closed, and thence passed 
 into a room that resembled an amateur ma- 
 chine-shop more than any thing else. Mathe- 
 matical and mechanical designs lined the 
 walls ; models, in miniature, of all machines, 
 in connection with which steam has ever been 
 used as a motive power, occupied every avail- 
 able space — exceptmg that which was filled 
 by a large locked cabinet — and in the midst 
 of this apparent disorder stood a table, littered 
 over with paper and drawing-materials. An- 
 nie looked round the apartment and shook her 
 head. 
 
 " Papa is not here," she said. " You must 
 remain on thorns a little longer, Louis." 
 
 " May he not be in the house some- 
 where ? " 
 
 " No, he has gone out. Don't you see his 
 hat is missing ? He has gone to the machine- 
 shops, I am sure. He often goes there for 
 what he calls ' practical suggestions.' Come, 
 let us sit on the piazza. This room is so dark 
 and cold that it makes me shiver." 
 
 IL 
 
 Very much like the fortunes of the old 
 house were the fortunes of the man who at 
 present inhabited it. He was a gentleman of 
 good descent, as his name — the noble Scottish 
 
 name of Gordon — amply testified ; and he had 
 once possessed a more than moderate amount 
 of wealth ; but, having been blessed, or rather 
 cursed, with the gift of invention, this wealth 
 had melted away to satisfy the insatiate de- 
 mands of scientific experiment, until little or 
 none of it remained. After his fortune was 
 gone, he soon exhausted the long-suffering pa- 
 tience of his friends. They were all practical, 
 worldly-wise people, and, regarding him as a 
 half-mad visionary, troubled themselves very 
 little about the manner in which they expressed 
 this opinion. Naturally enough, Mr. Gordon 
 resented its expression, and, naturally also, a 
 formal break was the result. Being a widower 
 with only one child, he took this child, and 
 the yet dearer children of his brain — his in- 
 ventions — and went forth into the world to 
 conquer fortune. Instead of conquering, how- 
 ever, he was speedily conquered. Men laughed 
 at his inventions, and then stole them ; patent- 
 rights, of his own discoveries, were taken out 
 before his eyes ; and he fell a victim to the 
 countless modes of swindle and legal robbery 
 that, from first to last, lie in wait for the in- 
 ventor, and filch from him both the glory and 
 the profit he has toiled to gain. After a time, 
 
 he drifted to \V , and became an inmate 
 
 of the rambling old house already described. 
 Here he lived an eremite sort of existence, 
 working with feverish energy at an invention, 
 which was to revolutionize the whole system 
 of mechanics, and make not one, but a dozen 
 fortunes for himself. Here, also, he made the 
 acquaintance of Louis Bernard, a young civil 
 engineer of unusual promise and talent. De- 
 spite this promise and talent, however, the 
 young man was poor as a church mouse. But, 
 in Mr. Gordon's eyes, this fact was any thing 
 but a disadvantage. He was so very eccen- 
 tric — so very crazy, his friends said — that he 
 looked upon poverty somewhat in the light 
 of a badge of merit ; and, when he found that 
 a love-affair was developing between his pretty 
 Annie and young Bernard, instead of turning 
 the penniless suitor out-of-doors, he told him 
 that he might marry the maiden as soon as 
 he could support her in a respectable manner. 
 Encouraged in this way, the love-affair be- 
 came an authorized engagement, and was of 
 six months' standing on that bright April 
 morning when our story opened. 
 
 Now, while the two lovers sat on the trel- 
 lisod piazza, and, with the glory of sunlight 
 and fragrance of flowers around them, laid 
 
BERNARD'S INVENTION. 
 
 145 
 
 countless plans for their blissful future, Mr. 
 Gordon, as his daughter had rightly surmised, 
 was peering in and out among the machinery 
 of the engine and car-shops, located near his 
 bouse. These car-shops formed quite a large 
 establishment, for the railroad, to which they 
 belonged, was very flourishing, and it was 
 here that most of its rolling-stock was con- 
 structed. Consequently, the latest improve- 
 ments in machinery were always to be found 
 here, and consequently, also, it was a great 
 resort of Mr. Gordon's. The employes knew 
 him well, and, although they considered him 
 a little " touched," liked him amazingly. The 
 authorities, however, looked at him askance, 
 and it was only the master-machinist who ever 
 went out of his way to do him a kindness, or 
 show him a civility. 
 
 This man, though only thirty-five, ranked 
 high in his calling, and had entire control of 
 the works. His name was Liddell ; he was 
 gentlemanly, though not a gentleman, and had 
 for some time assiduously cultivated Mr. Gor- 
 don's acquaintance. To accomplish this was 
 not difficult, since there was that best possible 
 foundation for acquaintanceship, a common 
 taste, between them. But the most natural 
 things frequently excite gossip in a country- 
 town ; and unscrupulous news-mongers did 
 not hesitate to say that the bright eyes of 
 Annie Gordon possessed more attraction to 
 the master-machinist than did her father's 
 discourses on cog-wheels and piston-rods. 
 However that might be, Mr. Liddell was one 
 of the few visitors who ever crossed the thresh- 
 old of the old house ; and, in a quiet way, 
 both father and daughter liked him cordially. 
 
 On this morning, as Mr. Gordon stood at- 
 tentively regarding the action of a certain new- 
 fangled cylinder, the master-machinist came 
 out of his ofllce and walked up to him. 
 
 " I am glad to see you, Mr. Gordon," said 
 he, after the first salutations were exchanged, 
 " to congratulate you on young Bernard's good 
 luck. "What a fortunate thing it is for him ! 
 — and I suppose I may congratulate Miss An- 
 nie, too." 
 
 Mr. Gordon looked up, and, with his head 
 full of the cylinder, did not understand the 
 dvift of this remark. 
 
 " Bernard's good luck ! " he repeated. " I 
 have not heard of any special luck of his. 
 What has he fallen upon ? A good position ? " 
 
 "Something much better than a good po- 
 sition," answered Liddell, shrugging his shoul- 
 
 ders. " I wonder you have not heard — every- 
 body is full of it — he has made a fortune by a 
 patent." 
 
 " A fortime ! — by a patent ! " 
 
 " AXortime, undoubtedly, and by a patent. 
 Why, I am astonished you don't know any 
 thing about it. I supposed, of course, Ber- 
 nard had been consulting you all this time. 
 And in fact I thought — I felt sure — that you 
 had a hand in tlie matter. The idea looks like 
 you — at least I fancied as much." 
 
 " What is the idea ? " asked Mr. Gordon, 
 all in a fever, immediately. " The scamp has 
 told me nothing whatever about it — very shab- 
 by of him, I think ! I always knew he had 
 sense, however — I always knew he would 
 make his fortune sooner or later — only I did 
 not look for it quite so soon! What is the 
 idea, Mr. Liddell? Bless my soul ! — to think 
 of a patent ! " 
 
 " The idea is something quite new, at least 
 in machinery," said Liddell. " I don't know 
 that I can explain it — I'm not a good hand at 
 description — but if you'll step into my office I 
 can show you a design that Bernard made out 
 to show me what it was, and how it worked. 
 That fellow has a most capital head." 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Gordon, assenting most 
 sincerely about the head ; but he hesitated, 
 and evidently did not like to inspect the de- 
 sign. " K Bernard had wished me to see it — " 
 he began, with some dignity, but Liddell in- 
 terrupted him. 
 
 " My dear sir," he exclaimed with a laugh, 
 " don't you see why Bernard said nothing to 
 you about it ? He was afraid the thing might 
 not succeed, and be wanted to spring a success 
 and not a failure upon you. No doubt he is 
 at your house now, telling the good news to 
 Miss Annie, and, meanwhile, where is the harm 
 of taking a look at the design ? The patent 
 being all safe, anybody and everybody may 
 see it." 
 
 " I suppose there is no harm," said Mr. 
 Gordon ; and, the temptation being too strong 
 for his dignity to resist, he forsook the cylin- 
 der, and followed the machinist to his office. 
 
 This office was a small box, with a table, 
 two chairs, and a desk, in it. Placing one of 
 the chairs beside the table, for his visitor, 
 Liddell opened the desk and busied himself in 
 extracting a particular paper from a crowded 
 pigeon-hole. After some trouble, this was ac- 
 complished, and then he unfolded and spread 
 it out — a large sheet covered with India-ink 
 
146 
 
 BEKNARD'S INVENTION. 
 
 designs— before the eyes of the .eager in- 
 ventor. 
 
 The latter rose and bent forward — trem- 
 bling with excitement. Any thing that re- 
 lated to inventions or patents interested him 
 deeply, but the present matter came home to 
 him almost as if it had been one of his own. 
 Bernard's invention ! He was eager to see 
 what the boy had managed to accomplish ; so 
 eager, indeed, that for a moment this very 
 eagerness defeated its own object. The paper 
 swam before his eyes, the diagrams danced to 
 and fro, and he saw nothing. After a second, 
 however, the mist cleared, and then, as his 
 glance fell on the principal design, the idea 
 showed itself clear and distinct. He saw it, 
 caught it, suddenly gasped, and fell back into 
 his chair almost fainting. 
 
 Liddell, who was looking at him, was seri- 
 ously alarmed, for he thought he had at least 
 a case of apoplexy on his hands. Seizing 
 some water that chanced to be near by, he 
 sprinkled it over the pallid face, and, snatch- 
 ing up a newspaper, fanned the swooning man 
 vigorously, loosening his cravat at the same 
 time. In a few minutes these remedies had 
 their due effect. Mr. Gordon recovered him- 
 self, looked up, and finally spoke — with a 
 strangely-pitiful quaver in his voice : 
 
 " Let me see it again. I — I must have 
 been mistaken." 
 
 " My dear sir, what is the matter ? " cried 
 Liddell. " Is there any thing — " 
 
 " The design ! the design ! " interrupted 
 the inventor, with feverish energy. " My 
 God, man ! don't talk to me when I am al- 
 most mad ! Show it to me instantly ! " 
 
 The tone was so peremptory that the other 
 obeyed at once. He held it up, and Mr. Gor- 
 don leaned forward, examining it intently. 
 He said nothing ; but the naturally pale hue 
 of his complexion grew almost ashy, and his 
 hands clasped and unclasped themselves con- 
 vulsively, while more than once his lips quiv- 
 ered as if with unspoken words. At last he 
 motioned it away, and rising, without a syl- 
 lable, tottered, rather than walked, to the 
 door. By this time, however, Liddell had 
 somewhat recovered from his first surprise, 
 and thought it time to interfere ; so he fol- 
 lowed and caught his arm. 
 
 " Mr. Gordon, pray sit down," he said. 
 " You are not fit to go out in this state. Take 
 some water — try to compose yourself — Good 
 Heavens, sir ! what is the matter ? " 
 
 " Nothing is the matter," said Mr. Gordon, 
 faintly, but he sat down and took the water — 
 indeed, it was a matter of necessity to do so. 
 " Nothing is the matter," he repeated, wearily ; 
 adding in a lower tone — " nothing — nothing 
 but the old story," 
 
 " I hope you are not vexed with Bernard 
 for not letting you know. I assure you — " 
 
 Something in the face before him stopped 
 the machinist at this point. Involuntarily he 
 ceased speaking, and said nothing, even when, 
 after several minutes had elapsed, Mr. Gordon 
 rose and silently left the office. 
 
 He walked down the street toward his own 
 house like one stunned. The people who met 
 him looked in his face, shrugged their shoul- 
 ders, and said to each other, "The man grows 
 more crazy every day." But when he reached 
 home, when he opened and closed the front- 
 door, crossed the passage and stood in his 
 o^Ti room, this unreal quietude gave way. He 
 looked round on the darlings of his heart, the 
 mute children of his brain ; he gazed pitifully 
 at that jealously-locked cabinet, where the 
 toil of so many weary months, of anxious 
 days, and sleepless nights, was drawing to a 
 successful issue ; he glanced at the table 
 where long lines of abstruse calculation met 
 his eye ; then, with one deep groan, he sank 
 into a seat, buried his face from the light, and 
 sat a picture of stricken desolation. 
 
 In this state his daughter found him, when 
 she entered, followed by her lover. Her eyes 
 were so dazzled by the bright sunshine, from 
 which she had come, that for a moment she 
 did not see the relaxed figure bent forward 
 over the useless papers ; but the next instant 
 she caught sight of it, and rushed forward, 
 with her whole heart in her voice. 
 
 " Papa ! what is the matter ? " 
 
 Mr. Gordon raised his face, and the more 
 sight of it seemed to petrify her, for she 
 stopped suddenly, and stood motionless. Nev- 
 er in all her life before had she seen a face so 
 set and bloodless, and never had she met 
 such a look as gleamed on her now from her 
 father's eyes. " Papa ! " she cried again, with 
 a startled appeal in her voice — and as she 
 paused Bernard spoke. 
 
 " Something has happened, Mr. Gordon I 
 Something is the matter ! What is it ? " he 
 said, hastily. 
 
 In a moment, as it were, the inventor was 
 himself — indeed, more than himself. Few 
 people who knew the abstracted devotee of 
 
 / 
 
BERNARD'S INVENTION. 
 
 147 
 
 science, the pale scholar whose mind was 
 habitually absent from the earth he trod, 
 would have recognized him in the man who 
 faced around upon the speaker, his face glow- 
 ing with passionate energy, and his eyes flash- 
 ing with indignant fire. 
 
 " Yoti ask me that ! " he said. " You 
 dare to enter my room, side by side with my 
 daughter, and speak to me — to me whom you 
 have so shamelessly betrayed ? Your audaci- 
 ty almost equals your villany, and I have but 
 one answer for you — leave my house ! " 
 
 There is no exaggeration in saying that if 
 a thunder-bolt from heaven had rent the solid 
 walls asunder, neither Bernard nor Annie 
 could have been more confounded than by 
 this unexpected and unprecedented outbreak. 
 " Oh, my poor father ! " cried the girl, under 
 her breath, for she thought the veritable mad- 
 ness had come at last ; but the young man, 
 after one gasp of astonishment, saw that there 
 was nothing of insanity in the steady face 
 fronting him, and, as well as he could com- 
 mand himself, answered : 
 
 " I don't understand this. I am so little 
 conscious of having offended you, that I must 
 ask you to be more explicit. What have I 
 done ? "What do you mean by accusing me 
 of villany — by saying that I have betrayed 
 you ? " 
 
 " Answer me one question," said the elder 
 man, sternly. " Have you not patented an in- 
 vention ? " 
 
 " An invention !" Bernard started ; then 
 added more quietly, " I came this morning to 
 tell you that I had done so." 
 
 " To tell me ! " It is impossible for words 
 to express the indignant scorn that was in 
 those three words — " To tell me ! Well, in 
 return, I will tcW i/ou that you are a thief! " 
 
 " Bapa ! " 
 
 It was Annie's voice that rang through the 
 room with this cry of indignant reproach, but, 
 for a full minute, Bernard made neither sound 
 nor movement. When those bitter words fell 
 on his ear, he took one quick, unconscious 
 step forward ; but the next he remembered 
 himself, and fell back. In the mimite that 
 followed, he fought a fierce fight for self-con- 
 trol, and gained the victory. When at last he 
 spoke, the veins were standing out on his fore- 
 head like knotted cords, but his voice was 
 steady and firm. 
 
 "I have only one reply to make, sir — sub- 
 stantiate the charge." 
 
 " That is easy enough to do, if you will be 
 kind enough to describe the nature of your in- 
 vention." 
 
 Coldly and concisely the young man com- 
 plied with the request. He described the na- 
 ture of the conception which he had worked 
 out to a successful result, and briefly added 
 the explanation which he had already made 
 to Annie, a statement that the original inven- 
 tion was not his own, and an account of the 
 ditficulty he had encountered in bringing it to 
 practical operation. Mr. Gordon heard him 
 out, without interruption of any kind, and 
 was silent for a moment. Then he said 
 frigidly : 
 
 "Do you decline to give the name of the 
 original inventor ? " 
 
 " I have no option but to decline, so long 
 as he chooses to hold me bound to secrecy." 
 
 "Is he likely to hold you bound to se- 
 crecy if your good name is at stake in the 
 matter ? " 
 
 The young man threw his head back 
 haughtily. 
 
 "My good name is not likely to be at 
 stake, sir, with any one who knows me." 
 
 " Is it not ? " said the other, with a short, 
 hard laugh. " Then it is only because men 
 will believe your word in preference to that 
 of the mad old inventor. Perhaps you count- 
 ed upon this, however. If so, the calculation 
 did you credit." 
 
 " Papa ! " — Annie broke in, with a wail, 
 " why do you say such cruel things ? Louis 
 does not understand them, and neither do I. 
 Speak plainly, for Heaven's sake ! Tell him — 
 tell me — of what you suspect him." 
 
 " I suspcd him of nothing," said Mr. Gor- 
 don, sternly ; " on his own evidence I convict 
 him of basely stealing my invention, the inven- 
 tion at which I have labored so long — the in- 
 vention which was dearer to me than you, my 
 child of flesh and blood — and of patenting it 
 for his own use, and in his own name." 
 
 "Papa!" 
 
 " Look at him," said the inventor, rising 
 and pointing with an almost tragic gesture at 
 the young man. " Look at him ! Tell me if 
 that is the face of an innocent man." 
 
 And in truth, at that moment, Bernard's 
 face was scarcely that of an innocent man. 
 The very nature of the accusation had stricken 
 from him all means of defence, while its sud- 
 denness so completely overwhelmed him, that 
 he stood in the centre of the floor, a pale. 
 
& 
 
 % 
 
 
 148 
 
 BERNARD'S INVENTION. 
 
 silent picture of what seemed detected guilt. 
 Not so thought Annie, however. She gave 
 one glance at his face, and then sprung to his 
 side. 
 
 " Louis, Louis, dear love, don't take it so ! " 
 she cried. " He docs not mean it ! he will be 
 sorry for it yet. — Oh, it is cruel ! " she ex- 
 claimed, turning round upon her father. "You 
 outrage him, and you outrage me ! Papa, 
 papa, how can you — how could you ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you have a share in it, too," said 
 the inventor, bitterly, as her voice broke down 
 in tears. " I was a fool to trust you — to trust 
 anybody. I might have known that treachery 
 and robbery would be the end. With or with- 
 out your connivance, he must have obtained 
 the design from you." 
 
 " From me ! " cried the girl, with a startled 
 gasp — for she had not expected this. Then 
 she turned to Bernard and held out her hand. 
 "0 Louis, see how little he is himself! see 
 how little he means it ! see how little you can 
 resent a charge in which I am included ! " 
 
 " I resent it only thus far," said Bernard, 
 looking at Mr. Gordon. "I ask now, as I 
 asked before, to hear the evidence on which I 
 am condemned." 
 
 " You shall see it," answered the other, 
 briefly. He went to the cabinet, unlocked the 
 door, and took out a large portfolio. Bring- 
 ing this to the table, he opened it, and bade 
 the young man come forward. When he 
 came, several designs were spread before him. 
 He took them up, one by one, and examined 
 them closely. This occupied some time, and 
 after putting down the last one he still re- 
 mained silent — his face deadly pale, and his 
 eyes bent downward in deep thought. It was 
 only when Mr. Gordon asked what he had to 
 say, that he looked up and spoke. 
 
 " I have only to say this — that Fate is 
 against me," he answered. " I cannot refute 
 the evidence of these papers. I am, indeed, 
 astounded at it. I can only assert my own 
 innocence — and of course that assertion counts 
 for nothing with you. I do not believe that 
 the man who applied to me stole the inven- 
 tion ; for, in the first place, he is a man of 
 honor ; and, in the second place, he had no 
 opportunity to do so. Therefore, I can only 
 believe that it has been a strange coincidence 
 of thought. God knows how much I regret 
 having had any part in it ; but of one thing 
 you may be sure — until of your own accord 
 you retract the accusation made this day, I 
 
 will never touch one cent of the profits. I 
 have not much hope of such a thing — but the 
 truth may come to light some day. Until 
 then, sir, I return you many thanks for your 
 past kindness, and bid you good-by. Of course, 
 you know that I shall not enter your doors 
 again. Annie — darling — " 
 
 His voice broke down here ; but he held 
 out his hands, and in a moment Annie came to 
 him with a rush. She was weeping bitterly, 
 and in the midst of their parting embrace only 
 two or three words were exchanged. " Don't 
 forget me ! " sobbed the girl. " Trust me ! " 
 whispered the young man, and that was all. 
 Then they tore themselves apart, and Bernard 
 went hastily out. When the heavy front-door 
 closed upon him, a oitter pang shot through his 
 heart. He was drearily conscious that it was 
 for the last time. 
 
 IIL 
 
 It was near the close of a soft October 
 day, when Annie Gordon sat in the garden 
 quite alone. She was not drawing, or reading, 
 or even sewing, though some of the latter work 
 lay on the ground by her side ; but she sat 
 quite motionless on a low seat under a brilliant 
 crape-myrtle, with the air of listless languor 
 which is always so sad a sight — especially in 
 a young person. Her hands were loosely 
 clasped in her lap, and her eyes, all unheed- 
 ing the gorgeous roses blooming near by, and 
 scenting the air with their fragrance, were 
 turned to the western sky, where, instead of 
 the usual glories, a long, low bank of violet 
 cloud had received the sun. She did not even 
 turn when a step sounded on the path behind 
 her, and when, with his head bent forward, 
 and his hands crossed behind his back, her 
 father slowly came into sight. He was ab- 
 sorbed in thought, evidently, and did not see 
 her until he was close upon her. Then he 
 started and spoke almost sharply. 
 
 " What are you doing here, Annie ? I 
 thought you said that you were going to see 
 Mrs. Holt ? " 
 
 " I did go," said Annie, in a tone as list- 
 less as her attitude, " but Mrs. Holt was not 
 at home. When I came back you were en- 
 gaged with Mr. Liddell, so I did not disturb 
 you." 
 
 " You might have come in to see Mr. Lid- 
 dell. His visits are meant for you as much 
 as, or more than, they are for me." 
 
 " Are they ? " said the girl, carelessly, and 
 
BERNARD'S INVENTION. 
 
 149 
 
 then she added, " I should be sorry to think 
 so." 
 
 Her father fro-.vned a little. " Why ? " he 
 asked, shortly. 
 
 " Because — oh, papa, surely you know 
 why. It may be foolish to talk of such a 
 thing, but I have thought once or twice that 
 Mr. Liddell admired me — and if so, I would 
 rather that he never came." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that if he asked you 
 to marry him, you would refuse him ? " 
 
 " I hope he will never ask me ; but, if he 
 did, I should be obliged to refuse him." 
 
 " And why ? " 
 
 " papa, what a question ! " cried the 
 girl, with her languor giving way at once, and 
 her bosom rent with sobs. " Because I don't 
 love him ! Because I shall never, never love 
 any one but my poor, injured, outcast, ill- 
 treated Louis. Don't — don't mention him to 
 me again." 
 
 *' I must mention him to you," said Mr. 
 Gordon, and as he said it he sat down by her 
 side. " You are not a child, Annie," he went 
 on. " You are old enough to know that many 
 things have to be done in this world which 
 are not what we would desire for ourselves or 
 others. I am old ; I am broken in mind, in 
 health, and in fortune. What will become of 
 you when I die ? " 
 
 " God will take care of me." 
 
 " God takes care of those who care for 
 themselves. God will not work a miracle to 
 put bread into your mouth or a roof over your 
 head. Many, as young and helpless as you, 
 He leaves every day to die of want and starva- 
 tion. My child, you must do something for 
 yourself — you must marry the man who has 
 just been telling me how much he loves 
 you." 
 
 " Papa ! " — she gave a low cry — " papa, 
 surely you will not ask me to do this ! " 
 
 " You must do it ! " said he, beginning to 
 grow excited. " Child, child, do you not see 
 that I cannot last much longer, and then — 
 what will become of you ? " 
 
 " I would sew for my daily bread, sooner 
 than marry one man when I love another ! " 
 
 "Perhaps you will wait and marry the 
 thief who robbed me ? " 
 
 " Papa, I don't deserve this ! " 
 
 " Marry Liddell, then. He is a good fel- 
 low. Let me see you safely settled before I 
 die — let me tell him when he comes again that 
 he may take you." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! " 
 
 " This is nonsense," said Mr. Gordon. 
 " What more do you expect than he offers ? 
 He may not be as fine a gentleman as a Gor- 
 don has a right to marry ; but we are poor — 
 so poor that our social equals do not recog- 
 nize our existence ; and he is comparatively 
 wealthy. It is true that you would be the 
 richest heiress in the country, if my inven- 
 tions had not been stolen from me, but now — 
 Annie, there is no help for it. You must mar- 
 ry him." 
 
 For at least an hour the discussion went 
 on ; but it came to no more definite point than 
 this. At last both father and daughter re- 
 turned to the house ; and then, wearied and 
 exhausted, Annie went up to her own room. 
 She felt heartsick and hopeless at the prospect 
 before her. Not that her resolution was at all 
 shaken, or that she had any fear of being 
 eventually forced to marry Liddell ; but she 
 knew that persistence was the most striking 
 trait of her father's character, and she also 
 knew that, for days and weeks and months to 
 come, she might expect to hear and to combat 
 just what she had heard and combated that 
 evening. There can hardly be a prospect more 
 dismaying than this, so it was no wonder that 
 she sat down and covered her face with her 
 hands. When Bernard went away, she had 
 felt sure that he would soon clear himself, and 
 return to claim her, but now six months had 
 gone by, and the stain on his name was as 
 dark as ever, her father was as obstinately 
 persuaded of his guilt, and her own faith and 
 hope began to waver. " He has forgotten me ! " 
 she thought. " Why should I not forget him, 
 and try to marry some one else ? " But she 
 had hardly asked the question before she 
 veered round as quickly as if some one else 
 had proposed it. " Even if I never see him 
 again, I will be true to him — and true to my- 
 self ! " she cried ; then burst into tears, and 
 settled herself to sleep. 
 
 Her fears proved to be well founded. The 
 next day, and for many days after, Mr. Gor- 
 don rang the changes on Liddell's suit with 
 an obstinate persistence that would have 
 shaken any resolution less thoroughly ground- 
 ed than his daughter's. He did not storm, or 
 threaten, or command — none of these things 
 were according to his nature — but he went 
 over the same position again and again, re- 
 peated the same statements, and made the 
 same predictions, with a patience that was 
 
150 
 
 BERXARD'S INVENTION. 
 
 both marvellous and exhausting. It told at 
 last, even on Annie. She was driven from 
 point to point, until, from sheer inability to 
 continue the strife, she yielded thus far : she 
 aareed that Liddell should be allowed to come 
 to the house on trial, that there was to be 
 nothing of an engagement, but that she was 
 to see how she liked him, and, if she found it 
 possible (but she did not fail to protest here 
 that she was sure she never would find it pos- 
 sible), she might enter into an engagement at 
 the end of six months. On this anomalous 
 sort of footing, therefore, the master-ma- 
 chinist was received in the Gordon household ; 
 and, since he had sense enough, to appreciate 
 the point he had gained, and tact enough to 
 use his advantage well, he soon became a 
 daily visitor, nor was it long before he per- 
 ceived that not only Mr. Gordon, but Annie 
 herself, welcomed him with pleasure. 
 
 Matters went on in this way until Christ- 
 mas came. The gayety of the season — and 
 
 W was very gay — sent not even an echo 
 
 into the dark old house where the inventor 
 
 and his daughter lived, and yet in all W 
 
 there was not a fairer face than Annie Gor- 
 don's, as she leaned against one of the high, 
 narrow windows on Christmas evening, dressed 
 in her best, with a spray of holly in her hair, 
 watching hstlessly the carriages that dashed 
 by, and the pedestrians that filled the streets. 
 Liddell had dined with them, and his present 
 — one of the costly gift-books of the season — 
 lay in her lap, but she hardly noticed it. Her 
 languid eyes were on the street, when sudden- 
 ly something occurred that took all the lan- 
 guor out of them. A figure came in sight, a 
 face looked up at her, and she knew — she 
 would have known in a thousand — Louis Ber- 
 nard ! There was no time for a word, or even 
 a gesture, on either side. There was only 
 time for a start, a gasp, a long, hungry look, 
 and all was over. The young man passed on, 
 and the girl, turning from the window, came 
 and sat down by the fire. Liddell and her 
 father were deep in plans of machinery — it 
 was Mr. Gordon's only mode of recreation — 
 and they paid little attention to her, so she 
 leaned back in a corner quite silent, and the 
 stream of mechanical talk flowed past her un- 
 heeded. She caught a fragment of it now 
 and then, but it bore little significance to her 
 ear. She only knew that there was some 
 point at issue between her father and the ma- 
 chinist — some point there seemed no definite 
 
 mode of settling — and that Liddell proposed 
 to refer to some book of designs he had. 
 
 " I will send it over to-morrow," he said. 
 " You can examine it at your leisure, and per- 
 haps Miss Annie will be good enough to take 
 care of it for me. It is a very valuable book, 
 and reliable, too. You will find this idea of 
 the cylinder developed there in just the way I 
 have described. It was patented by Yerdot in 
 '49." 
 
 " I don't care whom it was patented by, it 
 might be improved," said Mr. Gordon; and 
 so the discussion went on, until Liddell ended 
 it by asking Annie to sing. She compUed at 
 once ; and, after a reasonable number of songs, 
 he rose to go. He had suflicient discretion 
 not to obtrude the lover-like part of his role, 
 and not to pay long visits ; and his reward 
 was Annie's constantly-increasing kindness. 
 To-night she was so cold, absent, and almost 
 unapproachable, that he thought he must 
 have offended her, for, of course, he could not 
 know that it was the mere sight of Bernard 
 that had turned her heart against him. 
 
 " my poor love ! " she was saying to her- 
 self all the time, even when he came up to 
 shake hands and bid her good-night. 
 
 " Will you take care of my book ? " he 
 said, again, with a sort of wistful look in her 
 face. " I should be very glad if you would, 
 and if — and if you would make one of your 
 beautiful drawings for me of Flate XL. ? I 
 want it for constant use, and I had rather 
 have one of your drawings than the finest en- 
 graving in the world. "Will you do it for me ? " 
 
 " Your taste is very bad, to prefer my 
 drawing to an engraving," said Annie, grave- 
 ly. " But, of course, I will do it for you if 
 you want it. I have nothing else to do." 
 
 " Thank you, and good-night." 
 
 She gave him her hand and said good- 
 night ; but it was very coldly, and he went 
 away chilled, thinking almost that he would 
 never succeed in winning her. As for Annie, 
 she went up-stairs and cried for an hour or 
 two before she sank to sleep. Weeping had 
 latterly become quite a favorite amusement 
 of hers, and the effect was any thing but bene- 
 ficial to her personal appearance. 
 
 The next day the book came, and, after 
 her father had finished examining it, he hand- 
 ed it over to her keeping. It was a volume 
 of mechanical designs, not very interesting to 
 her ; but she took it to a window, and began 
 making preparations for copying Plate XL. 
 
BERNARD'S INVENTION. 
 
 151 
 
 She copied for some time, tlien grew tired, 
 and, leaning her elbows on the table, care- 
 lessly turned over the leaves. As she did so, 
 a piece of paper fluttered out from between 
 two of the pages, and fell to the floor. She 
 stooped, picked it up, and was returning it to 
 the boolv, when something about it attracted 
 her attention. It was merely an ordinary 
 piece of drawing-paper, on which was traced 
 the rough outline of a design. But the paper 
 itself struck her as familiar. She had seen, 
 she had handled it, she felt sure ; and, on look- 
 ing more closely, she found she was right, for 
 in the corner her own private mark — a cu- 
 riously-interlaced monogram of her name — 
 was written with ink. It was a sheet of her 
 own paper, and bad been taken from her own 
 portfolio. This, which seemed at first sight a 
 slight-enough mystery, puzzled her exceed- 
 ingly. In consequence of her father's sus- 
 picious fears, she always kept her portfoho 
 carefully put away ; and, as far as her own 
 knowledge extended, no one, not even Ber- 
 nard, had ever been permitted to examine it. 
 How, then, had this paper, with her own mark 
 upon it, been extracted therefrom ? She 
 looked at the design. That was certainly not 
 of her drawing. She shook her head, and was 
 about to put down the paper and dismiss the 
 subject with a "Yery curious!" when a few 
 faint, half-effaced lines on the back attracted 
 her eye. She looked at these for a moment 
 with her brows bent, then suddenly rose, 
 pushed back the table, and went nearer to the 
 light. Even this, however, was not sufiBcient 
 for what she wished to decipher, and she 
 hastily took up a magnjfying-glass. By the 
 aid of this, she soon di^erned that a design 
 on the back of the paper had been carefully 
 rubbed out, leaving only a few lines visible. 
 These few lines, however, were to her of im- 
 mense significance, for they showed her that 
 the effaced drawing had been her own, and 
 that it had been one of the designs of her fa- 
 ther's invention. 
 
 At this point her breath came fast, her 
 hands trembled, her color varied every instant, 
 and, if any one had been looking on, he would 
 certainly have thought her beside herself with 
 excitement. Still, she controlled this excite- 
 ment, and, though she was tingling in every 
 nerve with the importance of the discovery 
 just made, went steadily on to follow it up as 
 well as she could. Thanks to the magnifying- 
 glass, she soon found what she was now espe- 
 
 cially in search of — a number in the comer of 
 the sheet. When this was deciphered, she 
 laid the paper down and left the room, return- 
 ing in an instant with her portfolio. Noiv it 
 chanced that, having been trained by a man, 
 she had much of masculine precision about 
 her, and in the different pockets of this re- 
 ceptacle were carefully numbered and filed 
 away, in their proper order of date, the designs 
 she had made for the now useless invention. 
 Owing to the number she had just deciphered 
 on the effaced drawing, she knew exactly where 
 to look for the information needed to verify 
 her suspicions. Opening the portfolio with 
 quivering fingers, she drew forth the contents 
 of a certain pocket, and ran over the num- 
 bers. For three or four sheets, all was regu- 
 lar and in order ; then, suddenly, she stopped, 
 and again caught her breath. There was a 
 break. Hastily she went on to the end and 
 then came back, looked again, examined again, 
 and finally raised her face with a half-fright- 
 ened assurance on it — three sheets xecre missing ! 
 and one of those sheets she held in her hand. 
 
 For a moment the conviction almost stunned 
 her. Mr. Gordon was right, then ! The idea 
 had been stolen. Up to this time she had be- 
 lieved with Bernard that it was a singular but 
 entirely accidental coincidence of thought. Now 
 she knew it had been a robbery. But a rob- 
 bery made by whom ? She was too young and 
 inexperienced to be able to answer this ques- 
 tion. Those who have never kncmi treachery 
 are slow to suspect, and slower yet to believe 
 it. The stars might have fallen before she 
 would have credited Bernard's guilt, and she 
 was almost as imwilling to attach even a mo- 
 ment's suspicion to Liddell. Yet, plainly, the 
 matter lay between those two. No one else 
 had even possible access to her portfolio, and 
 the possession of that sheet, the effaced de- 
 sign, the whole array of circumstances, all 
 seemed to point — 
 
 She paused and sat down, faint and shud- 
 dering. Treachery seemed to come so near, 
 to touch her so closely, when it was brought 
 home in this way to a man whom she had liked, 
 respected, trusted, almost promised to marry! 
 It was all a hideous seeming ; it could not be, 
 she cried out — yet, even as she exclaimed 
 thus, there came to her a memory which would 
 not be put aside. She remembered a certain 
 evening in the early spring, when she had been 
 drawing in the arbor, how Bernard had como 
 in upon her, and she carelessly left her port- 
 
15$ 
 
 BERXARD'S INVENTION. 
 
 folio on the table and strolled with him to the 
 other end of the garden. She remembered 
 that, when she came into the house, her father 
 told her that LiddcU had been sent to the 
 arbor by him, but failed to find her, and she 
 also remembered — good Heavens, how clear- 
 ly! — that, on opening her portfolio, she had 
 found several things strangely out of place, 
 though she never once thought of looking at 
 the designs. What if this meant — what if it 
 proved — But here the full nature of the dis- 
 covery came over her so strongly that, but for 
 the recollection of Bernard, she would have 
 thrust away the tell-tale paper, and never 
 thought again of the dark suspicion it had 
 brought forth. As it was, however, she could 
 not do this. His face, as she had seen it only 
 the evening before, rose up before her, and 
 seemed bidding her clear his name. He could 
 do nothing for himself; but, if indeed she held 
 the means to prove his innocence, should she 
 fail to use it? If Liddell was guilty, surely 
 his double treachery — treachery to Bernard, 
 as well as to her father — deserved to suffer 
 the penalty of detection ; and, if he was inno- 
 cent, an explanation could not harm him. At 
 all risks, she was detei'mined to go on — to fol- 
 low the path thus unexpectedly opened for 
 her. Without giving herself time to think, she 
 seized a pen and wrote a short note — the first 
 in eight long months — to Bernard : 
 
 " Dear Louis : Forgive me that I write to 
 you. I only do so, because I have made a dis- 
 covery which, it seems to me, you ought to 
 know, and which may be of importance to 
 you. What it is, you shall hear when we meet. 
 I must, however, ask one question. Am I right 
 in supposing that Mr. Liddell was the original 
 possessor of the invention which you patented, 
 and that it was he who brought the design to 
 you ? If so, do not hesitate to come here this 
 afternoon, and bring all his original draughts 
 with you. Yours ever, 
 
 "Annie Gordon." 
 
 About four o'clock, that afternoon, there 
 was a knock at Mr. Gordon's door, and, when 
 Annie flew down from an ambuscade on the 
 staircase and opened it, she stood face to face 
 with Bernard. The young man stepped with- 
 in the passage without a word, and the next 
 moment would have taken the pretty porteress 
 into his arms, if she had not drawn away, put 
 her finger to her lips, and beckoned him in 
 
 the direction of a certain odd little room which 
 no one but herself ever invaded. Once safely 
 inside this sanctuary, she turned and held out 
 her hands, saying : 
 
 " Louis, you cannot tell how glad I am 
 to see you again ! " 
 
 " And I you, my darling ! " said Louis, 
 warmly. But, after a minute, he went on more 
 gravely : " I don't like this, Annie. I did not 
 know that I was to come here clandestinely. 
 I thought I was summoned openly." 
 
 "And so you are, dear love," said Annie, 
 eagerly ; " only have a minute's patience. ' I 
 want you to myself for a little while — I want 
 to tell you every thing, and then, if you say 
 so, I will take you to papa. Louis — answer 
 me the question I asked in my note. Was it 
 Mr. Liddell who brought you that invention ? " 
 
 She came close to him, and asked the ques- 
 tion breathlessly, her eyes fuU of excitement, 
 and her voice fairly quivering. She felt how 
 much depended on his answer, how one word 
 might overthrow all her tower of fancied 
 proof, and she trembled even while she waited 
 eagerly to hear that answer. After a moment 
 it came — very slowly : 
 
 " I cannot answer that question, Annie, 
 until I know why you ask it." 
 
 " Tell me, then, if you have ever suspected 
 that this man — whoever he was — might really 
 have stolen the invention, and been playing 
 you false ? " 
 
 Bernard looked disturbed, and tumbled 
 his hair about in a way she well remembered 
 before he answered. 
 
 " It is hard to suspect a man," he said, at 
 last ; " and I have been the more loath to do 
 it, since I myself have tasted the bitterness 
 of undeserved suspicion. But, since you ask 
 the question, I must confess that doubts have 
 come to me, doubts that, despite myself, have 
 grown stronger since — " 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and Annie finished 
 the sentence for him, 
 
 " Since you heard that I was to marry Mr. 
 Liddell. Oh, don't start ! It was not so — I 
 am sure that I never would have done it — but 
 that is what you meant, and now I know that 
 he was the man. Stop, don't say any thing, 
 Louis. — Look at this." 
 
 She put the drawing and the magnifying- 
 glass into his hand, telling him, at the same 
 time, how she had obtained the former. His 
 eager astonishment was even greater than she 
 had expected. It fairly startled her, as he 
 
BERNARD'S IXVENTIOX. 
 
 153 
 
 turned, full of breathless impatience, aud bade 
 her tell him all — every thing. Xecessarily, it 
 did not take her long to do this, since the 
 " every thing " was in itself very little. Then 
 he caught her iu his arms and kissed her as he 
 kissed her on that April day when he came 
 upon her with the news of his good fortune. 
 
 " You have saved me ! " he cried. " You 
 have given me the evidence I could never have 
 gained for myself; you have cleared my name, 
 and made me a free man once more. Annie, 
 Annie, how can I ever love you enough ? " 
 
 " It is true, then ? " she cried. " Was it 
 indeed he ? Louis, I can hardly believe it ! 
 Oh, dear love, how could he bo so wicked ? " 
 
 " I have no doubt it was principally be- 
 cause he wanted to take you from me," said 
 the young man, all in a glow. " But, however 
 that may be, it was Liddell himself and no 
 other, who brought me this invention as his 
 own. See, Annie, I have done as you bade 
 me — I have brought his original draughts, and 
 we will show them, and this effaced drawing, 
 to your father. Do you think he will believe 
 me then ? " 
 
 " Ileaven only knows — but we will go and 
 see." 
 
 "Without giving their courage time to ebb, 
 they gathered together the papers and crossed 
 the passage to Mr. Gordon's room. When 
 Annie knocked, her father's voice bade her 
 " Come in," and, when she opened the door, 
 she found, to her consternation — for she had 
 neither planned nor wished any thing half so 
 dramatic — that Liddell was with him. 
 
 There was a moment's pause on both sides 
 — a pause of surprised and awkward uncer- 
 tainty — before Mr. Gordon rose and addressed 
 his daughter, his face flushing with anger, and 
 his voice trembling with indignation. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this, Annie ? 
 How dare you insult me by bringing that — 
 that thief into my presence ? " 
 
 Now Annie had not meant to speaK — fnat 
 was to have been Bernard's part — but this 
 address naturally roused her, and, before the 
 former could interfere, she had answered : 
 
 " Mr, Bernard is here at my request, papa. 
 He wished to answer the charge which you 
 made against him eight months ago. It is 
 now in his power to prove his innocence." 
 
 " Let him take the proofs of it elsewhere, 
 then," said her father, coldly. " I have no in- 
 terest in him or in them." 
 
 " What ! you refuse to hear him ? " 
 
 " Yes, I refuse to hear him. I have no 
 desire to be duped by him again. I tell you 
 what I told you eight months ago — choose 
 between him and me. If you take him you 
 lose me — that is all. — Mr. Liddell, shall we go 
 on now with our business ? " 
 
 Annie looked hopelessly at Bernard, but 
 Bernard did not return the glance. On the 
 contrary, he stepped quietly forward, and laid 
 his papers on the table. 
 
 " Since you refuse to receive any proofs 
 of my innocence," he said, addressing Mr. 
 Gordon, with calm dignity, " I must ask you 
 to examine these evidences of another man's 
 guilt. You may remember that I spoke of a 
 person from whom I received the original in- 
 vention. In these papers you will find suffi- 
 cient proof where he obtained it." 
 
 Mr. Gordon looked up. Apparently he 
 was about to answer as he had done before, 
 but something in the steady eyes of Bernard 
 changed his purpose. He extended his hand 
 and took the papers — hesitated a moment, and 
 laid them down. 
 
 " It is quite useless to bring me proofs 
 against a man whose name I am not to know," 
 he said, frigidly. " He may be merely an ab- 
 straction, invented to shield yourself." 
 
 " You are mistaken," said Bernard, quiet- 
 ly. " This man is no abstraction. He not 
 only lives, but you know him intimately. In 
 robbing you, he betrayed not only his own 
 honor, but your friendship. Sir, examine 
 these papers, and, when you have examined 
 them, I will refer you to Mr. Liddell for the 
 name of their author." 
 
 Again there was a pause — a pause in which 
 all of the four might have heai-d the beating 
 of their own hearts ; then, not quite unex- 
 pectedly, Mr. Gordon broke forth, violently : 
 
 " So, you come here to clear yourself by 
 insulting my friend under my own roof? 
 There is the door, sir! Never let me see 
 your face in tliis house again ! If I had ever 
 doubted your guilt, I should be sure of it 
 now." 
 
 "Papa," cried Annie, suddenly springing 
 forward, " you must — you shall hear him ! 
 This is more than unjust — it is outrageous ! — 
 it is what you have no right to do ! As for 
 Mr. Liddell, I dare him to look me in the face, 
 and say that he is innocent ! I dare him to 
 deny that he took three designs of the inven- 
 tion from my portfolio, aud that this is one 
 of them!" 
 
154 
 
 BERNARD'S INVEXTIOX. 
 
 She laid her hand, as she spoke, on the 
 erased drawing, aud turned like a tragedj- 
 queen upon the trembling man, who was 
 forced to clutch a comer of the table, to save 
 himself from falling. In exactly the same 
 spot where Bernard had stood eight months 
 before, when Mr. Gordon accused and con- 
 demned him, the really guilty man stood now, 
 and strove in vain to steady himself — strove 
 in vain to speak. Mr. Gordon was about to 
 answer his daughter as he had already an- 
 swered Bernard, when his eye followed hers, 
 and, falling on Liddell, he stood confounded, 
 and could not utter a word. Indeed, he 
 gasped for breath, and felt for a moment as 
 if the soUd earth was sliding from beneath his 
 feet. He was glad, just then, that Bernard 
 placed a chair, aud said, in something of his 
 old voice, " Sit down, sir." Unconsciously he 
 sat down, and, as he did so, Liddell looked up 
 and spoke — hoarsely and with effort : 
 
 " You need not carry the thing any fur- 
 ther, Bernard ; I admit your proofs, and that 
 is an end of the matter. I have no motive 
 for concealment now. Mr. Gordon might be- 
 lieve me, but she" — he nodded toward Annie, 
 but did not look at her — " is all on your side. 
 I don't mind saying that I did it to win her 
 
 from you, and, of course, I don't care about 
 puttmg a bold face on it after — after what 
 she has said. It was a dishonorable thing, I 
 suppose ; but it may be some excuse to say 
 that I cared nothing about the money. I did 
 it simply to get rid of you, and I think I would 
 do it over again, with any hope of success. 
 You may as well throw those papers into the 
 fire, and you need not trouble yourself to pay 
 any more of the profits to my account. I 
 have touched my last dollar of the money ; 
 and the only regret I have in the aflair, is — 
 that this is all my fault." 
 
 With that, he turned and left the room 
 — ^not one of the three uttering a word. Mr. 
 Gordon was too much aghast ; Annie was too 
 full of indignation ; and Bernard, who was 
 now master of the situation, felt too much 
 contempt. So he went out in silence — an ob- 
 ject more fit for pity than scorn ; and, when 
 the trio left behind looked at each other, they 
 forgot him and all that he had caused them to 
 suffer, in their sudden realization of happi- 
 ness — happiness that had come as a free, 
 bounteous gift from the same gracious Hand 
 that can scatter the darkest clouds in a mo- 
 ment, and bring forth the golden sunHght un- 
 dimmed. 
 
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