Aerei of
 
 CRAQUE 
 
 * * * O'DOOM 
 
 By 
 
 MARY 
 
 HARTWELL 
 
 CATHERWOOD 
 
 Author of 
 
 "The Romance of Dollard," 
 "The Days of Jeanne d'Arc," 
 "The Spirit of an Illinois Town/ 
 "Old Kaskaskia," 
 "The Lady of Fort St. John," 
 "The White Islander." 
 
 New York 
 
 AMERICAN PUBLISHERS 
 
 CORPORATION 
 
 3JO-3J8 Sixth Avenue
 
 Copyright, 1881. by J. B. LiPPiNCOTF & Co.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGB 
 
 I. CHENOWORTH'S DAMSEL 5 
 
 II. THE CHENOWORTHS 14 
 
 III. "SEEDS OF TIME" 24 
 
 IV. PREPARATION 38 
 
 V. AN ARRIVAL 48 
 
 VI. " ISN'T HE HORRIBLE ?" 55 
 
 VII. A NABOB 60 
 
 VIII." WHY DON'T You SHUDDER ?" ... 68 
 IX. THE FLIGHT OF A WHITE-HEAD . . -73 
 
 X. "G:vB ME YOUR HAND" 85 
 
 XI. THEIR PLANS . . . . . .93 
 
 XII. TILLIE 104 
 
 XIII. THE ODD PRELIMINARY 116 
 
 XIV. " BUT AFTERWARD" 124 
 
 XV. "ARE You HAPPIER Now?" .... 132 
 
 XVI. FURTHER ACQUAINTANCE 140 
 
 XVII." HE is TALL" 147 
 
 XVIII. LETTERS 158 
 
 XIX. RETURN OF A NATIVE 172 
 
 XX. "YOUR WEDDIN'-EXPENSES" . . . .183 
 
 XXI. A BROTHER 197 
 
 XXII. Two MEN 210 
 
 XXIII." PLACE HANDS" 222 
 
 XXIV. " You OUGHT TO KNOW" 229 
 
 2061719
 
 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHENOWORTH'S DAMSEL. 
 
 LIKE two night-birds who had strayed into the 
 wrong season, a pair of girls flopped about on the 
 snowy walk or huddled together outside of the 
 Hill house. The house was lighted. They could 
 see, through one uncovered window, which ex- 
 tended to the veranda floor, the ruby gates, the 
 cut-glass candelabra, and the luxurious furniture. 
 The girls were on the west side of the house, 
 which was a large square structure with exten- 
 sions at the rear. 
 
 Below the hill an old turnpike town straggled 
 eastward, its lights barely twinkling through a win- 
 ter fog. The evergreens and old forest-trees all 
 around the grounds were weighted with soft snow, 
 and there were occasional slides from the roof 
 which dropped with a half-liquid splash. 
 
 The sound of a piano made the air delicious 
 to these girls outside. Light falling upon them 
 <* 5
 
 6 CKAQUE-a-DOOM. 
 
 from the window showed that one wore an old 
 shawl over her head, and the other a dirty hood. 
 The dusk blurred their outlines, and they shrank 
 farther into it every time a pair of waltzers inside 
 whirled near the window. 
 
 The waltzing pair were also two girls, near one 
 age. beautifully draped, glowing, and handsome. 
 Another young lady, in an outline of pearl-gray, 
 could be seen at the piano. She threw her hands 
 about with abandon, and a ring or two flashed in 
 the firelight. 
 
 " I wish I knew how they done that." said the 
 taller of the girls outside anxiously. " Ketch hold 
 of me that way, Tillie, and le's see if we can't do 
 it." 
 
 Tillie obediently caught hold of her sister, but, 
 being much smaller, could only reach her elbows. 
 Placing their toes near together, they spun round 
 with the motion of a top. 
 
 ' 'Tisn't the way," pronounced the older girl 
 despondently. " I could do it, though, just as 
 good as they do, if I knew how they fixed their 
 feet." 
 
 The piano and the waltzers went on. Tillie was 
 not willing to stop : she spun ahead after her sister 
 released her, inventing steps and skips. 
 
 " Don't go so close to the window : they'll see 
 
 Y c " 
 
 Tillie dropped back. The piano, as the waltzers
 
 CHENOWORTWS DAMSEL. j 
 
 flagged and began to promenade arm in arm, 
 leaped from the waltz to a quick, gay melody, and 
 Tillie's arms and feet responded. 
 
 " Can you knock that tune ?" inquired her guide, 
 philosopher, and friend in the old shawl. 
 
 The child " knocked" it to a nicety. Her cow- 
 hide shoes were dulled by the snow, but their 
 muffled pat was true to the music. The figure she 
 danced could not be called by any name. It was 
 not a jig or a clog, she had never heard of such 
 things, nor a double-shuffle such as plantation 
 darkies and the rustic foot everywhere delight in. 
 It was a skipping, patting dance of her own. She 
 put her hands on her hips : from them downward 
 she was electric motion and flopping scant skirt; 
 from them upward, immobility and gravity. Her 
 breathing became audible, but she knocked away. 
 Her older sister sat down in a chair they had with 
 them, and watched her. She knocked herself 
 into the bar of light and out again. She was in a 
 rapture of motion, when the other jumped up and 
 a gate clanged. 
 
 " There's Tom Mills comin' from down town. 
 Le's hurry in: he'll ketch us." 
 
 Tillie immediately took hold of her side of the 
 chair, and, carrying it between them, they hastened 
 toward the kitchen-door and knocked. 
 
 A colored man opened the door. Neal had 
 come to his present home a contraband, sent
 
 g CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 North by Captain Mills at the close of the war. 
 From a shuffling boy he had grown into a colored 
 gentleman who conducted the gardening and the 
 stables at the Hill-house. He also moved the 
 heavy machinery of housekeeping : fires and er- 
 rands depended on him. He had grown to his 
 place, and ornamented it with a good-looking black 
 face and ceremonious airs. But there was one 
 thing in the world that Neal hated, that thing 
 being a poor white : he could see no use in such a 
 person. With all a negro's respect for what he 
 considers magnificent, and contempt for small re- 
 sources, Neal would rather have been kicked by 
 Captain Mills though he never was than fairly 
 spoken by any of the Chenoworths. The Cheno- 
 worths were the " lowest-down lot" he knew. 
 When the two girls on the step faced him he was 
 stirred by an antagonism of race begun, perhaps, 
 generations back in Tennessee, before a Cheno- 
 worth had come to Ohio. 
 
 " We brought home the chair Aunt Sally Tea- 
 garden sent to daddy to get a bottom put in it," 
 said the elder girl. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Neal, receiving it. " It's just 
 a kitchen chair. Didn't know she's your aunt 
 Sally." 
 
 " Folks always calls her so," returned the girl 
 curtly. 
 
 " Didn't know she was aunt to Chinnyworth's
 
 CHENOWORTWS DAMSEL. g 
 
 Damsel," persisted Neal, putting the chair against 
 the wall as he chuckled sarcastically. 
 
 " My name ain't Chinnyworth's Damsel," said 
 the girl, letting the shawl drop from her head and 
 standing in the kitchen before her sister. There 
 was only a ruddy light of wood-coals in the stove, 
 beside which Neal had been basking. The cook 
 was down-cellar with the light. 
 
 " That's what folks always calls you," said Neal, 
 " Chinnyworth's Damsel. Ain't got no other 
 name, have ye ?" 
 
 " It's Tamsin," said the girl with a heavy intona- 
 tion. She was scowling, and the little one, taking 
 the cue from her, was scowling also. " You mind 
 your black business." 
 
 " Them is mighty ellygant words. Shows your 
 bringin' up." 
 
 Tamsin looked at him fiercely. She had a pair 
 of black eyes which suggested lancets. The 
 stove-light threw her head into relief against the 
 dark door. She was olive-colored, with flaxen 
 hair. All the Chenoworths were tow-headed, but 
 their type comprised almost invariably, in addi- 
 tion, livid skins and weak blue eyes. The younger 
 sister showed the impress of her ancestry. She 
 was yellow, flaxen, and blue-eyed, but she had a 
 mouth and jaw which gave individuality to her 
 little face. Her lips were rosy, and she had rows 
 of small shining teeth which seemed to extend
 
 IO CRAQUE-O'-DOOM 
 
 from ear to ear. This gave her a gay, good- 
 natured look. She held to her sister's dress with 
 one claw-hand and looked at Neal with dislike. 
 
 " I'll tell Mis' Teagard' you brought the chair," 
 said Neal more kindly. " 1's just a-teasin' you 
 when I called you Chinnyworth's Damsel." 
 
 " I'm goin' in to see her myself." 
 
 " Wouldn't, now," argued Neal. " They's young 
 ladies visitors in there." 
 
 " S'pose I'm afraid o' seein' them ? They ain't 
 no better than 7am." 
 
 " Phu !" ejaculated Neal behind her back. 
 
 She made her way, without any announcement, 
 through the half-lighted dining-room, with Tillie 
 beside her, and presently appeared at the ruby 
 grate, where Aunt Sally Teagarden sat alternately 
 knitting and turning the leaves of a book on a 
 table. 
 
 This noble-looking, portly old lady, with hair as 
 white as puffs of thistle-down on her rounded tem- 
 ples, looked up quickly from her treatise and gave 
 the two girls a pleasant " Good-evening." She had 
 a peculiar twitching of the corners of her mouth 
 when she spoke, not at all unbecoming to her, but 
 of which she was quite unconscious. " Come up 
 to the fire, Tamsin and Tillie," she said, with a 
 twist of benign expression. 
 
 " We brought home your cheer," said Tamsin, 
 spreading her fingers to the fire.
 
 CHENO WORTH'S DAMSEL. u 
 
 " Oh, you brought home that chair ? Well, 
 Thomas is in the other room, and when he comes 
 out I'll get the money to send to your father. My 
 pocket-book is up-stairs." 
 
 A male voice and the voices of girls sounded 
 through the open archway of a parlor which 
 branched from the side of this. Tamsin wanted 
 to see the young-lady visitors, but in order to do 
 so she would have to walk boldly up the room. 
 
 " Take seats," said Captain Mills's aunt ; and 
 Tamsin sat down on a haircloth cushion, but 
 Tillie stood by the mantel, resting one foot upon 
 the other. 
 
 Aunt Sally glanced through her glasses at the 
 new page of her treatise. " I am just reading a 
 little in Andrew Jackson Davis's great book while 
 I knit," she observed benignly, willing to share 
 her favorite ism with anybody. " It's a wonderful 
 book. Remarkable what a power of language he 
 has. Has your mother finished reading that Ban- 
 ner of Light I sent her ?" 
 
 " She pasted it up on the wall," said Tillie. Her 
 sister was listening to the other voices. 
 
 " Well," said Aunt Sally, pushing up her glasses, 
 " I didn't intend that. But perhaps," with energetic 
 twists of her mouth, " that is as good a way as 
 any to keep some of the remarkable seances in 
 her mind. There was a beautiful account in that 
 paper, given by Mrs. Cora L. V. Hatch, of com-
 
 ! 2 CRA Q UE- O'-DO OM. 
 
 muning with a spirit from New Jersey." She went 
 on rapidly, pouring Spiritualistic lore into her 
 hearers. 
 
 Their eyes wandered up to the high ceiling and 
 down the tinted walls, over velvet carpet and 
 painted landscapes, bronze busts and a cabinet- 
 world of bric-a-brac. Tillie started when the 
 mantel-clock told the half-hour with a chime like 
 music. 
 
 " Now, aunt," said Captain Mills, sauntering 
 through the archway. "Good-evening," in short 
 parenthesis to the girls. " I hear the Spiritualist 
 drum beating a rally." 
 
 " Thomas," replied his aunt, " I never expect 
 you to be a believer. The construction of your 
 mind is such that you will not accept the most 
 positive proofs. And I never thrust my opinions 
 on anybody. The girls here are waiting. Have 
 you got some change about you to pay for reseat- 
 ing a chair?" 
 
 The captain went into his pockets, and, having 
 ascertained what amount was wanted, paid it. While 
 he did so, Tamsin watched him with speculative 
 eyes. He was her single type of a gentleman. 
 
 He had come home from the army as hairy as a 
 monkey, the townpeople said, but at this date he 
 was a smooth-shaven, prematurely iron-gray man 
 of perhaps forty, with a thick black moustache and 
 smiling eyes. He bore a family resemblance to
 
 CHENO WORTH'S DAMSEL. ,3 
 
 his aunt, having her smoothly-rounded temples 
 and high-arched head. The benignity displayed 
 in her face became graver in his. 
 
 "Are you busy at anything, now, Tamsin ?" 
 inquired Aunt Sally. 
 
 " No, ma'am," replied the girl, fingering the 
 money in the corner of her shawl. 
 
 " Then you might come here and help about 
 the house while we have company. There are a 
 good many things up-stairs and around that need 
 attention when the whole house is in use. I 
 thought about sending down to see if your mother 
 could let you come." 
 
 " She won't care. Have you got a good many 
 visitors?" 
 
 " Three young ladies, the captain's cousin and 
 two of her friends. They came to spend the holi- 
 days with us. Very well. In the morning, then." 
 
 " I can come back to-night, after I take Tillie 
 home." 
 
 Captain Mills was sauntering off through the 
 archway. 
 
 " If you are not afraid of the dark " suggested 
 Aunt Sally. 
 
 Chenoworth's daughter smiled slowly. What 
 difference did it make to anybody whether she was 
 afraid of the dark or not ? "I can run right quick." 
 
 " Well, you might come back to-night, then."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE CHENOWORTHS. 
 
 TAMSIN and her sister ran down the hill, crossed 
 the pike, and walked along the middle of the 
 road which led toward their back-street residence. 
 Some dogs jumped out of the enclosures around 
 large houses and barked at them. Though there 
 was little traffic on the old canal at that time, Tillie 
 was moved to point at a light far off floating se- 
 renely through the fog and say, " There goes a 
 boat." 
 
 " Tisn't !" observed Tamsin, hugging her shawl ; 
 " must be a lantern around the tavern." 
 
 They came to their home, standing dejected, un- 
 painted, and humble in a wilderness of dried corn- 
 stalks which rustled sadly in every breath of air, 
 their dull bleached outlines suggesting ranks of 
 diminutive ghosts. 
 
 Tamsin opened the door and looked in at a 
 scene she had never loved. The interior was bare 
 and coarse and smelled of onions. There was the 
 open fire, but its light was dull. Her mother sat 
 mending stockings by a tallow candle ; her father 
 stooped over the hearth smoking. He was a de-
 
 THE CHENOWORTHS. 15 
 
 cent old man who seemed to have given his family 
 up as a hard problem. Sarah Jane sat there hold- 
 ing her baby. Arthur had come in, and John and 
 George had for once forborne to go down town, 
 and were growling at each other. All, excepting 
 Sarah Jane, looked clay-colored and bleached, as 
 if the weather had held them at its mercy for gen- 
 erations. 
 
 Tamsin disliked her family. She had no filial 
 affection for her parents. Their apathy and gen- 
 eral thriftlessness roused unexpressed indignation 
 in her. She felt her existence as an indignity 
 which they had cast upon her. She compared 
 them with people whom she considered admirable, 
 and silently hated them. She hated the two lazy 
 boys who crowded her in the humble house. Her 
 scorn was of the high-bred sort which shows no 
 outward sign but indifference. When they ate 
 their food she despised their loud chewing, their 
 greedy dipping into dishes. When they lounged 
 down town with their hands in their pockets she 
 despised them for following the gypsy instincts of 
 their blood, and avoiding, or accomplishing nothing 
 by, labor. She was a magazine of silent rebellions 
 and hatreds. No empress ever had a mightier 
 pride or stronger will. The spirit which her peo- 
 ple had lacked for generations was perhaps con- 
 centrated in her. She resented all her conditions 
 of life. Under its pressure she was old. In a less
 
 l6 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 aggressive way, she was as cynical as Timon. A 
 reticent and dignity-loving nature thus became se- 
 cretive. But, while silently denying the stock from 
 which she sprang, this girl had been known to 
 scratch her school-fellows for disrespect toward 
 the name of Chenoworth. It seemed to her secret 
 consciousness the last humiliation of all that folks 
 should ever know how she despised the Cheno- 
 worths herself. There was vast endurance in her. 
 Natural girlish delicacy and sensitiveness, which in 
 her were extreme, had long since protected them- 
 selves by a thick shell. At that time she had no 
 room for more than one strong affection : she loved 
 her youngest sister, and she loved nothing else. 
 
 Tillie pulled off her hood and approached the 
 fire, but Tamsin merely stood and announced that 
 she was going back. 
 
 " I wouldn't work for them proud things," said 
 Sarah Jane, who had an aquiline nose and lines 
 which made a triangle of her chin. 
 
 Mrs. Chenoworth had nothing to say : her 
 children always did as they pleased. She looked 
 up, and observing that her nephew Arthur was 
 about to leave the house also, suggested plain- 
 tively, " Stay longer, Arter." 
 
 "I guess I'll walk along a piece with Tamsin," 
 said Arthur. 
 
 " I guess you won't!" retorted Tamsin scornfully. 
 " I don't want you along of me."
 
 THE CHENOWORTHS. \>j 
 
 " You'll get over your spiteful ways, miss," re- 
 marked Sarah Jane, " when you've seen the trouble 
 I've seen." 
 
 Tillie clasped the black-eyed alien round the 
 waist, and they looked most confidingly into each 
 other's eyes. 
 
 "Come up to-morrow," said Tamsin. 
 
 " I will," replied Tillie. 
 
 " Don't kick the kivver off to-night. You might 
 git a bad sore throat again." 
 
 " Then mammy'd make me poultice it," laughed 
 Tillie. 
 
 " I s'pose," remarked Arthur as he left the door 
 behind Tamsin, " you wouldn't have anything 
 against me walkin' on the other side of the road 
 from you if I's goin' the same way ?" 
 
 She did not reply or wait to see which side he 
 chose. Her shawled head flitted away from him, 
 though he could hear heavy shoes beating the 
 snow till their rush died in the distance. 
 
 As Tamsin ran up the hill the oldest of the 
 young-lady guests was holding a skein of yarn for 
 Aunt Sally to wind, and saying, while Captain 
 Mills and the girls were occupied with themselves, 
 that she did wish Aunt Sally would tell her some 
 of her recollections or experiences. The girls had 
 said she knew charming Irish fairy-stories. 
 
 " The wee folk," said Aunt Sally, pulling off a 
 long thread.
 
 jg CRAQUE-0'-DOOM.> 
 
 Yes, but Miss Rhoda Jones preferred to hear 
 about real folks, the people in this little town, for 
 instance. Mrs. Teagarden must know all about 
 them, their peculiarities and trials and unwritten 
 histories. 
 
 Aunt Sally knew that Miss Jones was what is 
 called a " writer," and that this was a hook thrown 
 out for a good catch of "material;" but she in- 
 clined toward furnishing material. She was con- 
 vinced that if she had not lived a busy practical 
 life she would have been literary herself. Andrew 
 Jackson Davis and Mrs. Cora L. V. Hatch were 
 dearer to her because they " wrote." There had 
 been one lovely school-girl niece in the family. 
 Captain Tom's sister, who died at her blossoming, 
 but whose poems were turning yellow in Aunt 
 Sally's treasure-box. How could she look other- 
 wise than affectionately on an author, when her 
 namesake-girl had been prevented only by death 
 from taking the lead in letters ? 
 
 " Well," said Aunt Sally, with an energetic pre- 
 liminary twist of the mouth, " most of the trials 
 of the people about here are caused, as they 
 usually are, I have observed, by their own thrift- 
 lessness or carelessness. The Cheno worth girls 
 came in here awhile ago, and I was reading 
 Andrew Jackson Davis's book : someway, I got 
 to thinking of the strength of hereditary tenden- 
 cies."
 
 THE CHENOWORTHS. ig 
 
 " Chenoworth ?" questioned Miss Jones as she 
 turned her head for the .passage of the yarn. 
 " That's rather a pretty name, much higher- 
 sounding than Jones." 
 
 " The people who know them wouldn't say so," 
 continued Aunt Sally, always with the beneficent 
 twitching. " It's a name that means around here 
 everything base and good-for-nothing. I have 
 known the Chenoworths from rny childhood, and 
 I never saw one of them amount to anything, ex- 
 cept one that died in Tom's company during the 
 war, and he was a notorious thief before he 'listed. 
 But it's a shame to bring up charges against the 
 country's dead," Aunt Sally admonished herself 
 solemnly. " He was sent home in his box after 
 Lookout Mountain : Tom saw that he was sent 
 home." 
 
 " There are girls in the family, you said ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes : there is a large connection of them, 
 all about alike, except that the younger ones 
 seem to grow worse than the old ones. I heard it 
 said there was a solid county of them in Tennes- 
 see before they moved to Ohio. Always living 
 from hand to mouth, the men usually with no 
 trades or business of any kind, and the women 
 struggling to support prolific families." 
 
 " Poor things !" 
 
 " Yes, indeed ! Such people are always multi- 
 plying their helpless offspring. I have thought
 
 20 CKAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 sometimes Tamsin might turn out a little different 
 from the rest, and I do what I can for her and en- 
 courage her; but," the old lady paused in her 
 winding to say impressively, " hereditary tenden- 
 cies are stronger than life itself. Her history was 
 all written down before she was born." 
 
 " Tamsin ?" murmured Miss Jones. 
 
 " Yes. She was here with her little sister awhile 
 ago. I feel sorry for that girl. Nobody knows 
 any harm of her, but what good can she ever 
 come to?" 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " The name of the family will drag her down. 
 Good blood," said Aunt Sally, who saw it coursing 
 gently through the thin veins on her very round 
 and handsome wrist, " is the best inheritance a 
 child can have. But where a stock has sunk be- 
 low respectability as far back as you can trace it, 
 what can you expect of it ?" 
 
 " How old is this Tamsin ?" 
 
 " About fifteen or sixteen, I should think." 
 
 " Pretty ?" 
 
 " Not to my notion. She had a sister who was 
 called rather pretty, Sarah Jane. Sarah Jane 
 went up to the capital to learn millinery, and she's 
 just home with a child in her arms, trying to give 
 it away to somebody to raise, I hear. There was 
 poor Mary. She was the oldest girl of the set, 
 and she did real well for a while. One of our rich
 
 THE CHENOWOR7HS. 2 l 
 
 farmers' wives took her and made a daughter of 
 her; and I have always thought it was fate against 
 the poor child, and not her fault, that she didn't do 
 better. The family she lived with made every- 
 thing of her. Mary was good-looking, that is, 
 as near good-looking as I ever saw a Chenoworth. 
 She had a beau, and I think he disappointed her. 
 It would have been a fine match for her, and she 
 certainly loved him. But he went off, and she 
 turned and married one of her trifling cousins : 
 the Chenoworths intermarry to that degree it 
 seems as if they can't mate with anybody outside 
 of their own stock. So there the poor thing is, 
 tied down for life, with half a dozen miserable 
 little ones to follow her around and no living pro- 
 vided for them. The farmer's family were so in- 
 dignant at her throwing herself away that they 
 would have nothing to do with her." 
 
 "Poor thing!" 
 
 " Yes. And there was the oldest, Sam. He 
 married Mary Mann. He was a poor half-witted 
 thing, and she lived a jade's life; and finally she 
 took poison one night, and he lay there drunk be- 
 side her, and she told him what she had done and 
 begged him to help her. While she groaned and 
 cried, ' Well,' said he, 'you oughtn't to took it!' 
 and went to sleep. When he waked in the morn- 
 ing she was cold." 
 
 Miss Jones hid her face on her arm. She saw
 
 2 2 CRA Q UE- ff-DO OM. 
 
 the dying and helpless woman, and felt the tragedy 
 through every nerve. 
 
 " The second boy is in the county jail for steal- 
 ing, and the two young ones are common loafers. 
 Old Mr. Chenoworth is a harmless creature, so far 
 as I know, and his wife doesn't seem to be a lazy 
 woman, but probably in the generation before him 
 are to be found the seeds which ripened in this." 
 The chronicler ended with a meditative twitch of 
 her mouth. 
 
 " That poor girl !" mused the other. 
 
 " Tamsin ? Sometimes, I think there is some- 
 thing in Tamsin." 
 
 " Why couldn't she study? Why couldn't she 
 make a woman of herself?" 
 
 Aunt Sally shook her wise head : " It isn't in 
 the stock to take to education : they are all ig- 
 norant. Once in a while I send a copy of the 
 Banner of Light there, but I doubt if any of them 
 read it." 
 
 " Or if she had some talent that would lift her 
 up?" 
 
 " Tamsin hasn't any gifts out of the common, 
 that I ever heard of. She's just a good ordinary 
 girl." 
 
 Rhoda Jones shook her head slowly, having this 
 melancholy figure in her mind: "It is like living 
 under some crushing weight, or in swamps where 
 the live-oak moss would make one want to com-
 
 THE CHENOWORTHS. 2 $ 
 
 mit suicide, worse than being a homeless and 
 kinless orphan. If she were an orphan without 
 relatives, somebody would take pity on her, but, 
 as she has too many relatives, they despise her." 
 
 " She'll probably marry her cousin Arthur, a 
 hulk of a fellow; but he hasn't much harm in him 
 or anything else. Some one told me he was 
 hanging after her. And she'll go the way of the 
 rest of them." 
 
 The dining-room door, which had stood ajar, 
 moved silently back, and Tamsin came in with her 
 shawl around her shoulders.
 
 24 CX A Q UE- ff-D OO.lf. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "SEEDS OF TIME." 
 
 BOTH speakers looked at her with a start, but 
 Tamsin's face gave no sign of what she had heard. 
 She did not meet their eyes, but went and sat down 
 some distance from them in the unconscious dig- 
 nity of loneliness. Rather than have them know 
 that she had heard and was tormented by this 
 formulated statement from other tongues of her 
 own nebulous convictions, she would have hugged 
 her blistering shame in secrecy if it killed her. 
 
 Aunt Sally felt disturbed, and the fountain of 
 her kindness flowed : " Come nearer to the fire, 
 Tamsin. Ain't you cold?" 
 
 " No, ma'am." 
 
 " Is it thawing out- doors?" inquired Miss Rho- 
 da, wishing to open communication between this 
 girl and herself. 
 
 "Toler'ble soft." She sat as immovable as an 
 Indian, her eyelids lowered. 
 
 Rhoda scanned her with two or three keen 
 looks, and, finding this scrutiny apparently unno- 
 ticed, studied her with a silent gaze, turning her 
 skein-supporting hands now to this side, now to
 
 "SEEDS OF TIME." 2 $ 
 
 that. " There is great force in her," thought Miss 
 Jones, " an individuality which is going to assert 
 itself. She looks good : the oval of her cheeks is 
 splendid. How do people who rarely have enough 
 to eat get up that curve and rich olive color ? Black 
 eyebrows and eyelashes and light hair ! A reticent 
 expression, but one, also, that seems to be absorb- 
 ing everything around." 
 
 Aunt Sally wound the last end of yarn upon her 
 ball. " Now, Tamsin," said she, rising, " you come 
 with me up-stairs, and I'll show you what to do 
 there." 
 
 Captain Mills and the girls were very merry in 
 the other parlor, and after gazing at the fire awhile 
 Miss Rhoda joined them. At eleven o'clock he 
 bade them good-night. 
 
 Aunt Sally always retired at nine, after ordering 
 breakfast and seeing to the fastening of all the 
 doors. She left Tamsin the choice of going to 
 bed at that time or sitting up until the young la- 
 dies had gone, to see that the fires were well down 
 and read Andrew Jackson Davis. Tamsin took 
 her place with no light but that of the grate, and 
 without Andrew Jackson Davis, on a small sofa 
 beside the arch connecting the parlors, where the 
 group of young ladies could not see her. Her ob- 
 ject was to look at them as much as she pleased. 
 As to their talk, she did not think of overhearing 
 it, yet when she began to notice it she listened 
 B 3
 
 2 6 CA'AQUE- O'-DOOM. 
 
 keenly. Jennie Mills, who was really a beautiful 
 brown girl, pleased her eye. Louise Latta. a very 
 sweet-natured blonde, was pronounced by Tamsin 
 the image of pride, because she had pretty airs and 
 turns of the head and a fine clock-stockinged and 
 slippered foot resting on the fender. The Cheno- 
 worth doubted not they all three considered her as 
 the dirt under their soles. She put out her own 
 foot and looked furtively at it. The leather was 
 heavy around its shape, and that looked big com- 
 pared to the one on the fender. Jennie Mills threw 
 up her hands to exclaim, " Oh, girls !" and Tamsin 
 looked at her own hands, not white and sparkling 
 with ornaments, but chapped and red. More at- 
 tractive to her than the others was Rhoda Jones, 
 the wearer of the pearl-gray dress, who had played 
 the piano. How wonderful it must be to play the 
 piano ! She seemed to be a person who could do 
 anything she wished. 
 
 Tamsin tried to detect how the other two " did" 
 their hair. There they all three sat toasting them- 
 selves by the deeply-red fire, saying they must go 
 to bed, but lingering to tell a story or a joke. 
 What good times rich folks' girls had ! 
 
 " If we go up-stairs," said Jennie^ " there are 
 only the registers, and of course the furnace-fire 
 must be low : so let's bask as long as we can. Oh, 
 how I should love to spend every winter in Florida ! 
 Cold weathei kills me."
 
 "SEEDS OF TIME." 2 ? 
 
 " You ought to marry a Southerner, Jen," sug- 
 gested Louise. 
 
 "And have the yellow fever every summer? 
 You horrid thing!" 
 
 " Oh, you could spend the summers with us." 
 
 " How silly you girls would be to think of 
 marrying at your age !" exclaimed Rhoda. 
 
 " We don't think of it : it's the farthest possible 
 thing from our thoughts. But look here, Rhoda 
 Jones : we're twenty-two, that is, I am, and Lou 
 is going to be soon. Gracious ! we're pretty near 
 old maids!" 
 
 " Old maids," said Rhoda scornfully, " are things 
 of the past." 
 
 " I know they are," said Louise : " they feel it 
 themselves." 
 
 " No, they don't. Come to that, I'm one." 
 
 " You don't look a day older than we do, 
 Rhode." 
 
 " Why, certainly I do ! I've years of experience 
 and thought that you don't know anything about. 
 But I tell you the scarecrow old maid is a thing of 
 the past : it was set up to frighten silly women 
 away from the fields of independence. The woman 
 of to-day, when she gets ready to marry, marries, and 
 it doesn't make any difference to her whether she's 
 twenty-five or a hundred. We don't live in the 
 hard conditions that our grandmothers lived in. 
 We aren't old at forty any more; our bodies ripen
 
 2 8 CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 
 
 on instead of withering. We learn how to take 
 care of them and how to bring ourselves in happy 
 relations to society, and we get a few dabs of art- 
 knowledge; and literature is a mighty preservative 
 of the tissues. When I was fifteen I was a skinny 
 little thing; but look here." She held up one 
 half-revealed plump arm, and her face seemed to 
 sparkle. " I just learned how to live, and I'm 
 going to live all over, every faculty of me as 
 many days as are granted." 
 
 " Now, come, Rhode," coaxed Jennie, catching 
 the uplifted hand : " do tell us if there's anything 
 in this splendid turquoise ring." 
 
 " My finger, as you see." 
 
 " If / were engaged," remarked Louise in an 
 injured tone, " and, mind, I don't say I ain't, but 
 I should tell my friends about it some time, espe- 
 cially my real old friends." 
 
 " Well, you two ancient goddesses " 
 
 " Ah, Rhoda, you are !" 
 
 " Of course I am. Because I expect to be mar- 
 ried before very long." 
 
 The other girls uttered little squalls and crowded 
 closer to her : " Oh, tell us all about it. Is he light 
 or dark? Is he real fascinating? Oh, what is his 
 name ? Is it Smith ? Is it some gentleman where 
 you are living now? Oh, Rhoda Jones, to think 
 we have known you all our lives and don't know 
 who you are going to marry !"
 
 "SEEDS OF TIME." 2 C) 
 
 " I meant to tell you when I got around to it. 
 Why, what's the use of making such a fuss about 
 it ? Marriage is only an incident in men's lives, 
 an important one, of course, and why should it 
 be more in ours?" 
 
 " Mercy, Rhode ! you're getting to be strong- 
 minded. But, oh, do tell us his name !" 
 
 " His name is Mr. Burns." 
 
 " Burns ? That sounds nice." 
 
 " Of course it does : it is nice. I shan't be 
 Burne-Jones, but Jones-Burns. He is a most 
 agreeable old gentleman." 
 
 " Old !" Both girls emitted a low shriek. 
 
 " Why, certainly ! You don't think I would 
 marry a boy, do you ? Don't you know I'm 
 thirty ? but I think I shall stay twenty-nine until 
 after the wedding, not that I am afraid of thirty, 
 but twenty-nine seems a more interesting age to 
 be married at. Yes, and the top of his head is 
 bald." 
 
 "Bald!" Both girls emitted another choral 
 shriek. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't make a fuss. He has a very 
 nice fringe above his ears and around the back of 
 his head." 
 
 " And is he rich ?" 
 
 " Yes, of course he is rich. Do you think I 
 have been poor and deserving all my life to bestow 
 myself on a poverty-stricken husband at last?" 
 3*
 
 30 CRAQVE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 Tamsin was listening intently to these revelations 
 from a higher sphere. She leaned farther forward 
 to ponder on the speaker. Was that proud, com- 
 manding, well-dressed girl poor? Here she was, 
 a guest in a rich man's house and going to marry 
 another rich man. The Chenoworth division of 
 all society was simply into rich and poor. The 
 rich were favored in every way; the poor were 
 necessarily down-trodden. How, then, was that 
 girl different from Tamsin Chenoworth, being poor, 
 according to her own testimony ? In a dim way 
 Tamsin comprehended that there was a strong in- 
 dividual spirit in that pearl-colored figure, and that 
 ( education was a species of riches. ' Her mental re- 
 ceptiveness was roused to the fullest action. Rhocla 
 loomed before her suddenly a vast example. What 
 Rhoda said became seed, which she strewed plen- 
 teously without knowing it. 
 
 " I used to think," exclaimed Jennie, " that you 
 and Cousin Tom might make a match some 
 time." 
 
 " Captain Tom ? I don't see how you could 
 think that, when we've always been such excellent 
 friends." 
 
 Louise looked up from the grate with a pensive 
 expression : " Are you very much in love ?" 
 
 " With my future prospects ? Yes, I am. I'm 
 going to have everything I ever wanted, and a 
 comfortable husband who knows my untamed
 
 "SEEDS OF TIME." 3! 
 
 ways and won't thwart me." Rhoda took out a 
 great many hair-pins and let her mass of hair come 
 down to her waist while she declaimed to the two 
 fair faces near her. " If there is anything on earth 
 I am sick and tired of, it is all this nonsense about 
 sentiment. Now, there you sit, both of you, 
 stuffed full of love-stories without a grain of prac- 
 tical sense in one of them, expecting a knight, if 
 only in the shape of dear, simple Davy Crockett, 
 to ride up and carry you off. When you see that 
 very excellent backwoods play it has literary 
 merits don't your heart-strings ring to Davy's 
 rough rendering of ' Young Lochinvar' ? ' I want 
 my bride,' says the knight. 'Git out!' says the 
 dad. ' Whoop !' says the knight ; and he disap- 
 pears from the scene with the willing young 
 lady. That's all very entertaining, but /like civil- 
 ization. Not to put too fine a point on it, I like 
 luxury." 
 
 So did Tamsin, though she had never defined her 
 delight in beautiful and sumptuous surroundings. 
 
 "And I can't do without it," continued Rhoda. 
 " I like the things money will buy, and I've never 
 had enough to buy them. In the Middle Ages, 
 when everybody was fighting against everybody 
 else, the strongest baron was the safest man to 
 have for a husband. Money is the feudal power 
 to-day ; the strongest baron now is the man who 
 can make the most money."
 
 3 2 CRA Q UE- ff-DO OM. 
 
 " I should be afraid to marry for money," sighed 
 Jennie. Her thoughts flew to a very handsome 
 youth in her father's law-office. 
 
 " You'd a great deal better be afraid to marry 
 without it." 
 
 " But is it quite right?" murmured Louise. 
 
 "You've been reading Miss Mulock's novels," 
 puffed Rhoda scornfully. " I haven't a bit of 
 patience with that woman. She harps on the 
 same old silly string year after year, and you girls 
 listen and weep and long for an impecunious young 
 man on the altar of whose fortunes you can make 
 a sacrifice of your youth and comfort. Don't you 
 know that the key-note of the times is not senti- 
 ment, but practical sense ? Just after the war, 
 when the country was wrought to a high pitch of 
 nerves, current literature overflowed with self-sac- 
 rifice. According to that showing, and current 
 literature ought to be a good reflection of the 
 times, everybody was running around trying to 
 outdo his neighbor in the broken-heart and self- 
 renunciation business. One heroine gave up her 
 lover to a friend who fancied him ; another sacri- 
 ficed her future prospects to nurse somebody. All 
 that sort of thing was ' noble.' I think it was 
 mawkish. It isn't natural and human. I am a 
 healthy, selfish girl, not mean or unjust, but 1 
 have had some sharp, and even cruel, experiences. 
 I know to my own satisfaction that poverty causes
 
 "SEEDS OF TIME." 
 
 33 
 
 more evil than perhaps anything else in the world, 
 and that easy circumstances are a great nourisher 
 of the virtues. Why should I let my own obser- 
 vations go for nothing and take the dictum of 
 sentimentalists who have no gauge for my individ- 
 ual life ? Ah ! dear Charles Lamb!" mused Rhoda, 
 leaning forward and resting her elbow on her knee. 
 " He told the truth, for he had felt the pinch : 
 ' Goodly legs and shoulders of mutton, exhil- 
 arating cordials, books, pictures, the opportunities 
 of seeing foreign countries, independence, heart's 
 ease, a man's own time to himself, are not muck, 
 however we may be pleased to scandalize with that 
 appellation the faithful metal that provides them 
 for us." 
 
 " Oh, my ! I should hate to be real poor and 
 nobody at all, and have no parties or dresses or 
 good times," exclaimed Jennie. 
 
 " So should I," murmured Louise. " But then 
 I should hate to marry a man I didn't like at all." 
 
 " The man I am going to marry," said Rhoda, 
 tossing her head back and winding her hair in a 
 knot, " I do decidedly like. As to being in love 
 with him, I am not a bit so ; that would be very 
 disagreeable and give him an advantage over me. 
 Besides, love is a fleeting quality, while you can 
 put your hand on abundant means and always find 
 them there. I have been desperately in love " 
 
 " Oh, Rhoda !"
 
 34 CKAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 " And desperately disgusted with it ; while I 
 find that comfort never disgusts me. I like power 
 and a good position." 
 
 (" I'd like such things too," thought Tamsin.) 
 
 " And I like travel and culture. It is very kind 
 of this excellent man to lift the burden of life from 
 me and give me the delicious sensation of not 
 having to slave for an actual living, though, of 
 course, I've always tried to get a full life. I ex- 
 pect him to have faults, and acknowledge it is not 
 agreeable to hear him drinking as if his oesophagus 
 was outside instead of inside his throat, and smack- 
 ing his mouth at table. Still, I can forgive him 
 that. A man whom I doted on might let me carry 
 my own packages or pierce me with unmerited 
 reproaches. My observation is that men can be 
 very tyrannical and abusive toward the women 
 of their families." 
 
 (" Oh, can't they, though !" muttered Tamsin, 
 breathing through closed teeth.) 
 
 "Therefore I want to protect myself as much as 
 possible from the miseries of matrimony. A girl 
 of my acquaintance married for love, pure and 
 simple and plenty of it. She expected too much. 
 She took a very fair young man and spoiled him 
 with flattery and free service, and exacted no cour- 
 tesy, no respect, no delicate consideration, in return, 
 nothing but his protested love. The last time I 
 saw her she was a faded, jaded creature, effervescing
 
 "SEEDS OF TIME." 
 
 35 
 
 sourly at the world, pinched by a paltry income, 
 while her dear lord rode high and free, enjoying 
 life in his own way, though doubtless loving her 
 still. You see, love-matches are just as apt to 
 turn out badly as any other kind." 
 
 " I shall be afraid ever to marry anybody if you 
 don't quit saying such dreadful things," exclaimed 
 the brunette. 
 
 " That won't hurt you," said Rhoda sagely as 
 she rose. And, laughing, she added, " What a 
 gallop I have been taking on one of my hobbies !" 
 
 " And you haven't told us a word about your 
 wedding-trip or what things you are going to 
 have !" 
 
 " Oh, I am promised the foreign tour. As to 
 my wardrobe, I shall have to do as well as I can : 
 in my case, you know, there is no rich relation to 
 insist on decorating the sacrifice. I rather like 
 the situation : it would gall me to owe a trosseau 
 to parties not responsible for me. When we arrive 
 at Paris, I think I shall have been married long 
 enough to warrant my accepting a dress or two 
 from my husband if he insists. He is very gen- 
 erous, and would load me with gorgeous presents 
 now if I would allow it." 
 
 " I should allow it," exclaimed Jennie. " You 
 make me perfectly green with envy." 
 
 " Me too," chimed Louise as heartily. " Oh, 
 Rhoda, can't you find each of us a nice old gen-
 
 36 CRAQUE-&-DOOM, 
 
 tleman with that pretty fringe above his ears and 
 plenty of money ?" 
 
 " This is what I will do, girls : when we come 
 back and are settled down, I'll have you to spend 
 several months with me. It's a very gay little 
 city ; you can have germans and rides and parties 
 to your hearts' content." 
 
 Both girls clapped their hands lightly with 
 quick enthusiasm. 
 
 " We must go to bed now," declared Jennie. 
 "It's getting near the witching hour, and I am 
 such a coward ! There isn't a soul up in the house 
 except ourselves." 
 
 They gathered up as many of their belongings 
 as they had scattered about, and Jennie blew out 
 all the candles except one, which she transferred 
 to a china candlestick to light the way. In its 
 rather feeble company, and encircled by an outer 
 rim of darkness which it could not pierce, the girls 
 tiptoed through the hall and up-stairs, seeing long 
 distorted spectres of themselves stretching up the 
 walls. 
 
 When the noise of their closing doors came to 
 Tamsin's ears through the deep stillness, she 
 slipped into the front parlor and stooped down 
 before the remaining coals. Like an automaton 
 she took the shovel and heaped ashes upon their 
 trembling light. Fire has the color and the mo- 
 tion of a living thing. Tamsin hung over it vyith
 
 "SEEDS OF TIME:' 27 
 
 a sensuous pleasure in its beauty. Every point 
 where a violet flame reared suddenly from the red- 
 hot bed received a benediction of ashes. Her 
 hand forgot its mechanical business. " You 
 needn't think you are going to be slighted," said 
 Tamsin, talking to a little coal gazing reproach- 
 fully at her through a hole in the ashes. " Here's 
 a good lot for you, enough to wrap yourself up in 
 all night. Every feller will be served alike. Now, 
 you're winter wheat that's sowed in the fall and 
 comes up in the spring. The grain's all buried 
 deep ; dirt's over top of it. Folks couldn't tell 
 the's so much seed kivvered here ready to sprout."
 
 38 CRAQUE~O'-DOOM. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PREPARATION. 
 
 Two or three busy days passed rapidly by. 
 The whole village of Barnet knew there was to be 
 a party given in honor of the young-lady guests at 
 the Hill-house. There could be no loftier pinnacle 
 of festivity. Like every country town over fifty 
 years old. Barnet had its solid people who formed 
 its society, people whose goods increased with 
 every generation, who lived in time-tinted, hospit- 
 able-looking homesteads, sent their sons to college, 
 their daughters to seminaries, and loved to prove 
 to all strangers that they were not a whit behind 
 the age. In such mature villages you find, in- 
 stead of the provincial manners you have a right 
 to look for, a jealous conformity to what these vil- 
 lages consider city life. But while the citizen is a 
 free agent, with his own set, perhaps his club or 
 several clubs, and his amusements, aside from the 
 serious business of life, the villager is hampered 
 by a heavy etiquette and a servile imitation of what 
 he considers standard models. 
 
 The Barnet girls were preparing for the party 
 with delight ; the young gentlemen were also a,n-
 
 PREPARATION. 30 
 
 ticipating, according to their several temperaments, 
 the pleasure or terror of a white-glove assembly in 
 a community averse to dancing and card-playing 
 It is true that the very flower of Barnet societ) 
 patronized the great yearly ball at the tavern 
 which celebrated Washington's birthday; but gen- 
 erally sentiment was against such frivolity, and 
 ministers about that time waxed very warm in de- 
 nouncing the pleasures of sin which are for a 
 season, and indulgent parents felt compunction 
 that their pretty girls or spirited boys succeeded 
 in gaining permission to partake of this exhilar- 
 ating wickedness. 
 
 Barnet was not intellectual, but it had long 
 since discarded the plays and marching chants 
 which belong to primitive society. At its fashion- 
 able assemblies it stood up straight and conversed 
 with miserable effort, or promenaded, or listened 
 with hypocritical enjoyment to piano-playing. 
 
 But very cheerful preparations were going for- 
 ward at the dwelling which had been locally 
 known as "the Hill-house" ever since the Mills's 
 grandfather built it there to be away from the 
 fumes of his distillery, which, half a mile distant, 
 had discharged slops into the canal at its side and 
 vast clouds of blackness from its monumental 
 chimney into the sky. The silent distillery at this 
 date leaned as if it meditated making a noise in 
 the world yet by coming down with all its bulk
 
 4Q CKAQUE- O'-DOOJf. 
 
 into the canal ; the street leading toward it, which 
 in earlier days had creaked with loads of grain, 
 was still called the " cinder-road," and owed its 
 hardness to ancient ashes from the distillery ; the 
 chimney stood as inflexible as the shaft of Bunker 
 Hill. But the Mills barely deigned to own it now, 
 and perhaps felt no gratitude toward the venerable 
 edifice for the fortune it had given them. 
 
 Wax candles, multiplying themselves thousands 
 of times in pendants and looking-glasses, shone all 
 over the Hill-house. They were a light peculiar 
 to that homestead, whose venerable mistress dis- 
 liked modern lamps and the smell of oil. The 
 Mills had always afiforded wax candles. Aunt 
 Sally moulded dozens of them after the best recipe 
 known to man, which could be found only in her 
 recipe-book on the page with spring beer and 
 mince-pies. The faces of her neighbors and neigh- 
 bors' children never appeared so pleasing as when 
 swimming in the mild radiance which wax lights 
 alone can shed. If the candles ran down or sput- 
 tered though hers seldom did or pointed length- 
 ening spires of wick knobbed with " letters" for 
 the young people to take off on their fingers, that 
 was the nature of candles. One branch of Neal's 
 business on company-nights was to tiptoe around 
 at least once with the silver snuffers and tray and 
 snuff all the candles. 
 
 A house prepared for guests seems tQ sjt smiling
 
 PR EPA R A TION. 4 1 
 
 expectantly while it listens for the first arrival. 
 The piano is open ; doors or curtains are drawn 
 back that parlors and library may meet hospit- 
 ably together ; the dressing-rooms are warm and 
 light; the fires are banks of burning color; the 
 flowers are as fresh as the first girl in white who 
 bends her neck to smell them. Our familiar haunts 
 are not ours for the time ; they belong to the 
 genius of Hospitality, and we are merely its pur- 
 veyors. 
 
 Precisely at half-past seven o'clock Aunt Sally 
 left her last order with Neal and turned toward her 
 own room to put on the black brocade and lace 
 bosom-piece which all Barnet honored. She was 
 a most capable hostess, and her face shone in the 
 glory of its white hair and benevolence. It was 
 never a weariness to her to have guests in the 
 house ; and guests were there constantly. Jennie 
 Mills or any other cousin felt privileged to bring 
 troops of friends at all times, and the captain had 
 constant satellites, old comrades, new and odd 
 acquaintances, sporting gentlemen who came to 
 hunt with him in the season. 
 
 " Tamsin," said Aunt Sally, looking at the girl 
 and remembering how rapidly and willingly she 
 had worked, " I should have let you run home to 
 change your dress before it got dark. But Tillie 
 is here ; you can take her for company." 
 
 Tamsin stood still, looking at the Jong and glit- 
 4*
 
 42 CRAQUE-Cr-DOOM. 
 
 taring table in the dining-room. " They won't 
 mind me," she muttered. 
 
 " Remember not to stay long," admonished Aunt 
 Sally. 
 
 Tamsin looked up in real anguish : " Do I have 
 to?" 
 
 " Have to what, child ?" 
 
 " Put on something else." 
 
 " Why, that dress is dirty." 
 
 " I know't," fingering the threadbare cotton 
 folds with a trembling touch and speaking in a 
 whisper. " I thought I'd git time to run home 
 and wash and iron it ; but I didn't." Her fingers 
 tightened and twitched the faded thing. 
 
 " Haven't you any other dress ?" 
 
 " No, 'm," fiercely, as if the confession were torn 
 from her. 
 
 " I wish I had known it," said Aunt Sally, push- 
 ing up her glasses. " I wanted you to help pass 
 the supper. Why, that's too bad, Tamsin ! You 
 ought to have bought yourself a dress with the 
 last money I paid you. Let me see : when was 
 that ?" 
 
 " Father wanted it," Chenoworth's daughter 
 deigned to add, with her eyes on the floor. 
 
 " Well, I'm sorry," said the fair old lady kindly, 
 and she went up-stairs with the benevolent inten- 
 tion of speaking to one of the girls in behalf of 
 her humble Cinderella.
 
 PREPARA 770 AT. 
 
 43 
 
 Tamsin stood still, fingering the old dress, her 
 olive face heated and her mouth curved down in 
 scorn. " It's always going to be so, it's always 
 going to be so !" that strong spirit which ground 
 her down mocked in her ear ; upon which her own 
 spirit defiantly retorted, " It isn't ! it shan't." 
 
 Nobody would ever learn from her own lips that 
 her father was in the habit of borrowing whatever 
 she could earn and charging up her board and 
 lodging to her as repayment. If the old man sus- 
 pected himself of meanness, he silenced that sus- 
 picion by pointing to the fact that he had a large 
 family to support and somebody must support it. 
 One or two small producers fare badly among half 
 a dozen non-producers. 
 
 " I wanted to git Tillie a dress, daddy," Tamsin 
 had petitioned on the last occasion. 
 
 " Dresses is all vanity," said the old man. 
 
 " And I'm nearly naked myself." 
 
 " Well, where's corn-meal and side-meat to come 
 from, and all the sugar that you eat up, if so much 
 money has to be spent on clothes ?" 
 
 " Why don't the boys work ? Why don't you 
 make 'em work at something ?" she cried fiercely ; 
 at which the old man had growled helplessly and 
 put her earnings in his pocket. 
 
 " I might 'a lied and hid it," whispered Tamsin, 
 winking back a glare of tears which made the few 
 lights in the dining-room each put a nimbus over
 
 44 CRAQUE-CP-DOOM. 
 
 its white length. " Then me and Tillie needn't be 
 shamed as bad as we are. But somehow I never 
 do: I always give it to him. And folks believe I 
 don't care how I look. Folks don't know what 
 you're thinking about." To keep folks from even 
 suspecting, she changed the expression of her face 
 the instant the kitchen-door opened, and looked to 
 see Neal enter in his best black coat and air of 
 politest superiority. " I hate niggers !" she hissed 
 under her breath. " They feel so smart when 
 they've got plenty to eat and to wear and a nice 
 house to live in." 
 
 But it was Tillie who came in and ran up to put 
 her arms around her elder's waist. Every curve 
 in Tamsin's face became maternal and tender. 
 She smoothed the flaxen poll. " I hain't seen 
 ye for so long," said Tillie. 
 
 " Did you miss me, honey?" 
 
 "Yes; I don't like to git shut of ye." 
 
 " What they doin' down there ?" 
 
 " Nothin' Sary Jane's baby ain't very well." 
 
 "You might 'a come up and stayed with me 
 awhile yesterday." 
 
 " I hate to stan' round in the way. When Aunt 
 Sally Teagard' saw me comin' in awhile ago, 
 'peared like she'd think my room was better than 
 my comp'ny." 
 
 Tamsin laughed and rocked the wide-mouthed 
 little creature to and fro in her arms as they stood :
 
 PREPARATIOA'. 45 
 
 " 'Most anybody'd think that of such rag-bags as 
 you and me. Oh, honey, how I wish I was rich ! 
 If I was, I'd give you everything heart could 
 wish." 
 
 " We're poor," said Tillie lightly, but with con- 
 viction. " We won't never be rich." 
 
 " Sometimes I b'lieve I will" stated Tamsin with 
 fierce energy. " There'll be some chance. I'd 
 take you off, honey, to see everything in the world. 
 You wouldn't have to stick in the mud here. Fine 
 dresses ! A 'cordion to play on !" 
 
 " Oh, Tarn, would you git me a 'cordion ?" 
 
 " The finest kind of a one." 
 
 "I'd play it and knock the tunes while I's 
 a-playin'." Tillie began to shuffle her feet and 
 spread her hands with an imaginary accordion be- 
 tween them. 
 
 " And decenter shoes than you ever had on 
 your feet yit," added Tamsin savagely. " What 
 would you like to have the best of anything 
 now?" 
 
 " All the good cake I could eat, iced thick," re- 
 plied Tillie, gazing on the glittering table. 
 
 Tamsin rocked her to and fro : " Oh ! And 
 we've got to go into my bedroom and stay hid." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " Because I ain't fit to be seen. You don't look 
 so bad, but I do." 
 
 Tillie looked grave. Her guardian cast about
 
 46 CRAQUE-V-DOOM. 
 
 mentally for cheerful entertainment with which to 
 pass those hours that the guests would spend in 
 gayety. 
 
 " And Mis' Teagard' needs me to help pass the 
 supper, too ! But you can say all your hymns 
 out of your little pink book to me settin' there in 
 the dark together." 
 
 Tillie assented dubiously and suggested as a 
 specimen, " I thank the goodness and the grace." 
 She moreover plunged at once into the recitation, 
 knocking the time with her head instead of her 
 feet : " I've said ' I thank the goodness and the 
 grace' more times 'n I've got hairs in my head, 
 Tamsin : 
 
 " I thank the goodness and the grace 
 Which on my birth have smiled, 
 And made me in this happy place 
 A happy Christian child. 
 
 " I was not born, as thousands are, 
 
 Where God is never known, 
 And taught to pray a useless prayer 
 To blocks of wood and stone. 
 
 " I was not born without a home, 
 
 Or, in some broken shed, 
 A gypsy baby, taught to roam 
 And steal my daily bread." 
 
 (" You was born pretty nigh as bad off, though," 
 said Tamsin under her breath.)
 
 PREP A RA TION. 47 
 
 " My God, I thank Thee, who hast planned 
 
 A better lot for me, , 
 
 And placed me in this happy land, 
 Where I can hear of Thee." 
 
 " Tamsin !" It was Miss Jones looking out 
 from the parlor. She was in a loose cashmere 
 dressing-gown, but her hair was elaborately fin- 
 ished. " Will you come up to my room and 
 bring your little sister if you want to to help me 
 a minute?"
 
 48 C/tA QVE-O'-DO OM. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN ARRIVAL. 
 
 THIS was Rhoda Jones's device for playing a 
 brief part as godmother. Aunt Sally had gone to 
 the girls to have her lace bosom-piece set straight 
 and mention Tamsin's predicament. " If I had 
 known it in time," she said with a sympathetic 
 twist of her mouth, " I could have provided some- 
 thing for her to put on. There are several good 
 calicoes of mine she could have, but they would 
 need a considerable amount of taking in." 
 
 " Haven't I got something ?" cried Jennie Mills 
 through a mouthful of dangerous pins and a 
 checked laugh as she manipulated the lace on the 
 old lady's noble shoulders. 
 
 " You leave it to me," called Rhoda from across 
 the hall. " Your girl down-stairs, Mrs. Teagarden, 
 is one of the royal personages in disguise who are 
 sensitive to all approach. She will have to be sur- 
 prised into raiment not her own, or she will not 
 put it on." 
 
 " Tamsin is a good, quiet girl," said Aunt Sally ; 
 " but you don't know the Chenoworths." 
 
 "She is f the revolt of the Chenoworths,") ex-
 
 AN ARRIVAL. 
 
 49 
 
 pounded Rhoda, appearing at the door. " I 
 haven't had my eyes on her nearly a week for 
 nothing." 
 
 " You have such queer ideas, Rhoda !" laughed 
 Louise, looking back from her dressing-glass, in 
 which a glorious blond head was being con- 
 structed. " Give Rhoda a stump and an old woman 
 with a blackberry basket, with a little patch of sky 
 overhead and a bit of woods at the back, and she'll 
 get a story out of it, when I couldn't put it into a 
 decent pencil-sketch. Oh, where is that powder- 
 puff?" 
 
 " That's because you draw so abominably," ex- 
 claimed Jennie. 
 
 " I'll draw a ribbon out of my box for Tamsin, 
 at any rate. Here's one." 
 
 " Gracious ! she can't dress herself in one ribbon. 
 I might give her my black cashmere, Aunt Sally. 
 She's larger than Louise, but she's about my 
 height." 
 
 " Janet," said Aunt Sally, " don't say another 
 word about it. Your black cashmere is nearly 
 new, and your father and mother would have a 
 fine opinion of me if I encouraged you in such ex- 
 travagant generosity." 
 
 " But you will need her." 
 
 " I think I can manage with Neal. And the 
 young gentlemen are always very forward to 
 assist." 
 
 c d 5
 
 jj O CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 " There goes Rhoda down-stairs," said Louise, 
 setting a knot of ribbon in her hair where it would 
 do most damage to beholders. 
 
 And very shortly Rhoda returned up the back 
 stairway with two other pairs of feet following her. 
 She shut her door, murmuring, " This must be a 
 close seance. Other mediums even the most 
 noble might spoil the communication." 
 
 Tamsin waited, erect and folding her arms, with- 
 out betraying that she tingled in her raiment be- 
 side this wealthier poor girl's fine half-toilet. Tillie 
 sat down on a cane-chair by the corner of the 
 open fire and curled her rough-shod feet out of 
 sight. 
 
 " The others are over there together," said Miss 
 Jones, unfastening her wrapper, " having no end 
 of fun while they dress. So I thought of you, 
 Tamsin, and wondered if you would sew -that 
 white frill under the edge of my velvet train for 
 me. There are needle and thread and thimble. 
 Just baste it, pretty strongly, though : I haven't 
 any doubt some masculine hoof will be set through 
 it. The girls are going to look like angels. Have 
 you seen their dresses ?" 
 
 " No," replied Tamsin, bending her head over 
 the sewing. 
 
 " I keep pretty steadily to black and rich, heavy 
 things. They are less expensive in the long run. 
 Louise is going to be a fluff of lavender-color with
 
 AN ARRIVAL. 5 j 
 
 a fashionable name, further neutralized by lots of 
 lace. Jennie is going to be a blaze in the land- 
 scape : she has a scarlet satin that makes her look 
 like a dream of Egypt." 
 
 Tamsin actually felt no sting in these things, 
 told to her as to any young girl. She glanced up 
 at Rhoda Jones, and half smiled with interest. 
 
 Rhoda paused in the occupation of pencilling 
 her eyebrows to laugh back. " They were always 
 so pale," she explained. " Not black and straight, 
 like yours." 
 
 Tamsin brushed the back of her hand across 
 one eyebrow with a hasty gesture. She rose up 
 with her little task completed. 
 
 " Ever so many thanks. Now I wish you'd put 
 on this black skirt and red basque and little red 
 cap, will you. I have a great fancy to see how 
 you'd look in them." 
 
 She brought the garments out of a wardrobe. 
 The skirt was cashmere ; the jacket and tasselled 
 cap were velveteen. They were full of sandal- 
 wood odor. 
 
 " Now, don't refuse," begged Rhoda. " I don't 
 mind telling you I made these things over for you 
 myself since I first saw you." 
 
 " Made 'em for me ?" 
 
 " Yes ; you're picturesque, and they'll make you 
 look more so. You can afford to put on odd 
 things : all girls of your style can. The cap and
 
 52 CRAQUE-CT-DOOM. 
 
 jacket I had for some private theatricals. I be- 
 lieve they will fit you to a dot." 
 
 " Oh, dress up in them, Tamsie !" put in Tillie. 
 
 "Do!" said Rhoda, turning from her dressing 
 to extend her large beautiful arms in argument. 
 44 Why shouldn't you make yourself fair to look 
 upon, as well as any other girl ? And those 
 things are yours ; I fixed them for you." 
 
 Tamsin took up one piece after the other. Tillie 
 came to look around her elbow. 
 
 " And you'd better hurry, my dear," said Rhoda. 
 " Oh, I nearly forgot: here are a pair of low shoes 
 and scarlet stockings which go with that dress." 
 
 " I'm very much obleeged." Tamsin spoke the 
 words slowly, as if she were struggling against the 
 gifts. 
 
 " Not a bit. I'm obliged to you for helping 
 me." 
 
 " I don't see how you come to fix 'em for 
 me ?" with a slight upward inflection of her 
 voice. 
 
 Rhoda came forward laughing, but as if she did 
 not observe the hesitation and trembling of this 
 chrysalis woman. To Tamsin her manner seemed 
 completely charming. It was neither too reserved 
 nor too familiar. It conferred kindness as a matter 
 of course, and started an exhilaration like joy 
 through veins accustomed to torpor. 
 
 Without a word of warning Rhcda powdered
 
 AN ARRIVAL. 53 
 
 the flaxen hair and olive face, and Tamsin sub- 
 mitted, laughing with her. 
 
 About ten minutes thereafter there was the noise 
 of a vehicle in front of the house, and in due sea- 
 son the door-bell rang. 
 
 " Now, there are the Balls," exclaimed Aunt 
 Sally, bustling out of the chamber where Louise 
 and Jennie had impressed her willing hands in 
 their service : " they always drive in early. I 
 wonder if Tom is down-stairs ? Make haste, 
 girls, and tell Miss Rhoda to hurry down." She 
 looked over the stairway. " Where's Neal ? Why 
 doesn't he answer the door?" 
 
 " I'll answer it," said a figure hurrying forward 
 from the back stairs. " Shall I ?" 
 
 " Why, Tamsin Chenoworth !" exclaimed Aunt 
 Sally, bringing her glasses to bear. " Who on 
 earth did fix you up in that kind of a way ?" 
 
 " Don't I look right ?" 
 
 " Why, yes, you do. You look real well, con- 
 sidering," said Aunt Sally with discretion. She 
 followed the figure down-stairs with her eyes be- 
 fore turning to descend by the back way. 
 
 The bell rang again. Tamsin opened the door 
 wide and looked out at night. The hall-lights 
 were behind her. She saw nobody, and heard 
 only the soughing of the wind in the evergreens. 
 
 Suddenly, it seemed at her feet, a voice spoke, 
 and she saw a man's head on the top step as if it 
 S*
 
 54 CRAQUE-Cf-DOOM. 
 
 had just emerged from the shadow where the bell- 
 handle was. There seemed to be a very little ex- 
 cepting the head, and it was all muffled up. But 
 the face was raised to this picture of a black-eyed, 
 light-haired girl in scarlet and black and black- 
 lace frills, slim in figure, beautifully oval in face. 
 
 Tamsin looked down at the head without utter- 
 ing a sound. She was terrified, but with instinctive 
 compassion betrayed no terror. 
 
 " This is Captain Mills's residence ?" The head's 
 voice was pleasing and mellow rather than heavy 
 and masculine. 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Is he at home ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. Will you come in ?" 
 
 He did not see the pallor around her mouth as 
 he grasped the side of the door and swung him- 
 self up into the hall. Whatever his length of 
 limb may have been, it was concealed by a tiny 
 ulster. The top of his head was not on a level 
 with Tamsin's waist when he pulled his cap off. 
 He drew a card from some inner pocket and 
 handed it up to Tamsin. It bore the name of 
 " Isaac Sutton." She closed the door, and was 
 directing him toward the open parlor, when Cap- 
 tain Mills came into the hall, exclaiming, " Why, 
 Craque-o'-Doom, how are you? Come in, old fel- 
 low, come in !"
 
 " 75T.V T HE HORRIBLE .?' 
 
 55 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "ISN'T HE HORRIBLE?" 
 
 IT looked very grotesque to see Captain Mills 
 and the mite to whom he was obliged to stoop, 
 shaking hands. They went into the front parlor. 
 
 " I made use of your general invitation to drop 
 down on you for what they call the holidays," said 
 the mellow voice near the floor. " I wanted to get 
 away from the people, and from the hubbub they 
 make at this time of the year." 
 
 Captain Mills seemed to feel his height an en- 
 cumbrance as he pushed a chair near the hearth. 
 But he took another himself, and this brought his 
 head nearer to a level with that of his visitor, who 
 climbed dexterously into place and stuck a pair of 
 small shoe-soles toward the fire. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad you're here," said Captain Tom 
 heartily. " But I'm afraid you've dropped down 
 right upon a hubbub. There's going to be a party 
 in the house to-night." 
 
 "A party?" The tone expressed unmistakable 
 disgust. 
 
 " Yes. Given for some young ladies. a cousin 
 of mine and her friends."
 
 tj 6 CRA Q UE- V-DO OM. 
 
 11 Young ladies ?" Distress was added to the 
 disgust. " Come, Tom, I must get out of this. I 
 don't see how I got the idea that you lived like a 
 Crusoe because you were a bachelor, but that seems 
 to be the impression I labored under." 
 
 " You shall not stir a step," exclaimed Captain 
 Mills, putting his hand on the figure. " A few 
 neighbors shan't frighten a man's choice spirits 
 out of his house. If you don't want to partake of 
 the festivities " 
 
 " Your pardon, Tom. Look at me !" 
 
 Captain Mills did so almost affectionately, and 
 without removing his hand. 
 
 " If you don't want to be tormented with people," 
 he continued, " you can adjourn to your room, and 
 as soon as I can disappear we will hold a session 
 of our own with closed doors." 
 
 " That will do very well. There are the young 
 ladies though," reflectively. " I wish I always 
 wish I had Gyges's ring." 
 
 " Pooh ! Three first-rate, comfortable girls. And 
 here's my aunt, Mrs. Teagarden. Allow me. My 
 friend Mr. Sutton, Aunt Sally." 
 
 Captain Mills half arose; the dwarf bent his 
 large head with beautiful deference. Aunt Sally 
 made the old-time courtesy and came forward to 
 receive Thomas's friend. Her mouth twitched 
 spasmodically as she brought her glasses to bear 
 upon him, but she was charming, and took his
 
 " ISN' T HE HORRIBLE >" 57 
 
 hand, giving it a stately shake : " We are very glad 
 to see you, Mr. Sutton. I have heard Thomas 
 speak about you. Did you find it cold driving, 
 from the railroad ?" 
 
 "That reminds me," interrupted the captain: 
 " have you got your own rig with you ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I usually take it," replied the other half 
 dejectedly. " It's my trap," he explained to Aunt 
 Sally. " I ship the whole thing when I travel, be- 
 cause there is less risk about it than in trusting 
 myself to chance." 
 
 " Your trap ?" said Aunt Sally. " Yes, Thomas 
 sometimes hunts, but he uses guns ; though the 
 very sight of a musket makes me feel sad since the 
 war." 
 
 A smile appeared on the strange face, now 
 flushed with fire-heat: "I mean my carriage. It 
 is a snug one, built on purpose for me, and with it 
 I bring a horse and a coachman." 
 
 " Neal will show them the way to the stable," 
 said Captain Mills. 
 
 " They have gone to your hotel. I saw by the 
 light that you were at home : so I gave my man 
 directions before coming in." 
 
 " Where is Neal, aunt ? He must go after them. 
 Lots of empty stalls here, Craque-o'-Doom, and 
 room in the carriage-house. It wasn't kind of you 
 to doubt it." 
 
 " Well, when a man has to carry his house on
 
 58 CRAQUE-CT-DOOM. 
 
 his back, he ought to hesitate about encumbering 
 his friends with it. My valises were put inside the 
 gate." 
 
 " Here is Neal," exclaimed Aunt Sally, per- 
 ceiving him in the vista. " Neal !" She moved 
 toward him with a crackle and swish of the rich 
 brocade. " Go out and bring the valises that were 
 left by the gate, and then you must hurry down to 
 the tavern and tell this gentleman's man that he is 
 to put up here with the horse and buggy. Tamsin 
 can mind the door until you get back." 
 
 "And, aunt," called Captain Mills, as Neal's un- 
 willing feet went through the hall, "let us have a 
 room 'right away." He rose, for Neal's exit was 
 forestalled by a ring at the door-bell, the first 
 arrival. 
 
 The dwarf got down from his seat and sauntered 
 behind a large chair, while the people who entered 
 were ushered to dressing-rooms. 
 
 Aunt Sally then led the way up the cleared 
 stairs, while Captain Mills stayed below to receive 
 the guests. She was flurried, and conscious of a 
 spider-like creature climbing rapidly behind hei, 
 and positive she could not have borne to see him 
 climb ahead of her ; so she did not see a beautiful 
 dark head stretching out above to peep down, or a 
 timorous blond one appearing behind that. 
 
 "Isn't he horrible ?" whispered Jennie. 
 
 " Oh ! oh !" whispered Louise.
 
 "ISN'T HE HORRIBLE r 59 
 
 In turning a bend of the stairs, the dwarf gave 
 them a swift look. His face, seen dimly, expressed 
 neither pain nor resentment. He was accustomed 
 to such words. 
 
 Rhoda Jones's hand, put out of her room, pulled 
 them both into it. 
 
 " Oh, I hope he didn't hear me !" exclaimed 
 Jennie when the door was shut ; " but he makes 
 my flesh creep." 
 
 "Of course he heard you," said Rhoda. "And 
 what a mass of nerves and anguish such a creature 
 must be !" 
 
 " Well, I can't help it. I never saw anything so 
 horrible in my life !"
 
 60 CRA QUE-O-'DO OM. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A NABOB. 
 
 WITHIN an hour the latest guests had arrived, 
 and the three girls were in various part:; of the 
 buzzing parlors, making themselves agreeable to 
 the flower of Barnet society. Louise promenaded 
 on the arm of an elderly gentleman, while half the 
 matrons dissected her dress ; Jennie had drawn 
 around herself a court of airy young ladies and ad- 
 miring young gentlemen ; and Rhoda Jones was 
 trying to make life less excruciating to a youth of 
 twenty, with a large Adam's apple and a blushing 
 countenance, who had the reputation in Barnet of 
 being " smart." 
 
 Everybody talked with strained gayety, as poor 
 human nature, gentle as well as simple, always will 
 do on festive occasions, excepting some quiet 
 women who got behind tables and buried them- 
 selves in photograph-albums or stereoscopic views 
 until they were marshalled out by Aunt Sally and 
 catechised about the health of all their distant 
 relatives and the best method of making black- 
 berry-balsam. 
 
 There were two or three young girls who would
 
 A NABOB. 6j 
 
 evermore remember this event as their first party, 
 and who hung protectingly to each other, tittering 
 and squeezing each other's fingers at unspoken 
 jokes and mutual understandings. They were 
 afraid to cross the room without their arms inter- 
 laced, and were so desperately anxious to behave 
 correctly that they stumbled and overturned things 
 with their elbows, and very much desired to take 
 off" their hands and feet and float. The " town 
 girls" were constantly watched by them. They 
 admired Louise and Jennie with all their souls, but 
 Rhoda Jones, so approachable that she considered 
 herself quite Bohemian, was an awful mystery to 
 them. They told each other in thrilling whispers 
 that she " wrote," and they both envied and ridi- 
 culed the temerity of the young man with the 
 Adam's apple, who stood up grasping the lapels of 
 his coat and talked his intelligent talk to her. If 
 she looked toward them, they were desperately 
 afraid she saw something about them to impale and 
 hold up before the public. They promenaded the 
 halls, and were after a while overwhelmed to find 
 themselves on the arms of their elder sisters' cava- 
 liers, who took them up in a patronizing, paternal 
 way wholly delightful. When Tamsin Chenovvorth 
 was helping to pass refreshments, these young 
 girls, her contemporaries, pitied her because she 
 could not sit on the stairs with an elderly beau to 
 fan her and hold her plate, or they would have
 
 62 CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 pitied her if they had considered her worth the 
 trouble. 
 
 Before supper was served, however, Captain 
 Mills made his way slowly, past groups with whom 
 he stopped to chat, to Rhoda, and offered her his 
 arm, saying, " I'd like to consult with you a 
 minute, if you can excuse yourself." 
 
 "About what?" she inquired, moving away 
 with him. 
 
 " I hope I didn't break in on anything very in- 
 teresting?" 
 
 " Why, yes, you did. You took me away from 
 an altar where clouds of incense have been rising 
 to my delighted nose. Don't you call it interesting 
 to be gazed upon as a goddess, when you know 
 that hard work and plenty of it is the law of your 
 life." 
 
 " Very interesting," laughed the captain. " You're 
 quite a lion down here, you know." 
 
 " And what a comfort that is, when I consider 
 that I am a mere lamb in Park Row and Madison 
 Square ! The gentleman from whom you took 
 me was discoursing the sweetest flattery, without a 
 suspicion that I have had a book published for 
 which I never got a cent of royalty." They both 
 laughed as they entered the dining-room. 
 
 Tillie Chenoworth was sitting there, with her 
 feet curled under her, by the fire, listening to the 
 buzz of society. Tamsin stood beside her, with
 
 A NABOB 63 
 
 one hand on her shoulder. They were quite at 
 the other end of the room. 
 
 " What has been done to that girl ?" said Cap- 
 tain Tom, looking at her shapely back, as he 
 paused beside the table. 
 
 " Oh, she has merely put on a bright kerchief 
 and washed her face, as Fanchon did," said Rhoda. 
 " Men will always notice a woman's new gear 
 either in effect or detail. Did you ever feel in- 
 terest enough in that girl to draw her out and see 
 whether she has a thinking, sensitive nature ?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know," returned Captain Tom 
 drolly. They were speaking in a low tone, so that 
 their voices reached Tamsin as a heavy murmur. 
 " Your speaking of Fanchon reminds me that I 
 gave her that book to read once, the English ver- 
 sion of it. She was dusting the books and look- 
 ing into them. I picked up ' The Cricket,' and 
 said I, ' Here, Tamsin, here's something you will 
 like. It's about a smart little girl who made a 
 woman of herself She took the book, and I went 
 on elaborating : ' It's been made into a play and 
 put on the stage, and it's quite popular. People 
 like to see a poor girl come out at the top of the 
 heap.' " 
 
 " And what did she say ?" inquired Rhoda, smil- 
 ing slowly. 
 
 " Well, she read it when she got time, and when 
 I thought of it I asked her how she liked it. The
 
 64 CRAQUE-Cf-DOOM. 
 
 girl has brilliant eyes, you know. She looked 
 down and answered, 'Very well ;' then she looked 
 up with a sort of flash, and said,' I don't think that 
 Cricket had much spunk, or she wouldn't let 'em 
 see when she felt bad." 
 
 Rhoda nodded her head several times. The 
 scarlet bodice stood in relief against, the black 
 mantel. Tillie stirred restlessly, and said in an 
 undertone, feeling for the hand on her shoulder, 
 " Tamsie, when we goin' to have some cake ?" 
 
 " Soon's they have supper." 
 
 " Will you gimme a piece of that one all over 
 flowers?" the wide mouth showing its pink gums. 
 
 "Yes, honey, if Mis' Teagard' lets me." 
 
 " They're goin' to begin now, ain't they?" 
 
 " Not till about 'leven." 
 
 " But them ones is goin' to begin." 
 
 Tamsin looked over her shoulder at the host 
 and his companion. 
 
 " I brought you on purpose," said Captain Tom 
 to Rhoda, " to have a tray of something he would 
 like fixed up for him. I thought you'd be the 
 most likely person to hit off his fancy." 
 
 " Much obliged for the compliment. Do you 
 know what he ordinarily prefers ?" 
 
 " No, I don't think I do. Somehow, I can't re- 
 call him eating. But he's a hearty fellow, too. 
 He was up on the Canadian rivers last summer 
 with several of us."
 
 A NABOB. 65 
 
 " What ! that little creature ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Tom. " I suppose I got used to his 
 being little. He is as swift and active as a bird." 
 
 " The girls were peeping at him when he went 
 up-stairs." As she talked, Rhoda selected a bit 
 here and a bit there and covered one of the ready 
 salvers. " Jennie said he was horrible." 
 
 " Craque-o'-Doom isn't horrible : I don't find 
 him so. He seemed queer at first. But men 
 aren't so particular as women. The camping- 
 party I met him with all voted him first-class." 
 
 " Craque-o'-Doom ! That isn't his name ?" 
 
 " His name's Sutton. I don't know how he got 
 the other, but that's what he's called. I do hope 
 you'll be good to him while he's here : he'll be apt 
 to take to you. And he's a rare gentleman : 
 there's something delicate and fine about his na- 
 ture. It is like a woman's ; and yet, deformed as 
 he is, I never thought him effeminate." 
 
 " I am anxious to meet him : I always like new 
 experiences and unusual people. Won't he be 
 visible this evening at all ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed," exclaimed Tom. " Come up- 
 stairs now. He and I have been having a good 
 talk ever since I got away from the crowd." 
 
 " So I will. Tamsin, is the coffee made ?" 
 
 Tamsin came up the room to Rhoda and paused 
 beside the tray. " I don't think it is yit," she 
 replied. " Do you want it right away?" 
 e 6*
 
 66 CRAQlE-ff-nOOM. 
 
 " We're going to carry some supper to the gen- 
 tleman up-stairs. Yes, he will want coffee, of 
 course. Captain Tom, have you got a little pre- 
 served ginger? This tray looks rather tempting. 
 We'll take it ourselves." 
 
 " Of course we will," said Tom : " Craque-o'- 
 Doom will appreciate that. Ginger-root ? Yes, 
 Tamsin, isn't there a pot or two of preserved 
 ginger in any of the closets ? Aunt Sally would 
 know." 
 
 " I know what you want," said Tamsin, stop- 
 ping on her way to the kitchen: "as soon as I 
 tell Ann Maria you want the coffee made, I'll 
 get it." 
 
 Rhoda looked after her approvingly : " That girl 
 has great adaptability. She has improved within 
 two or three days. Do you know I'm interested 
 in her ? She silently attracts me." 
 
 "Does she?" said Tom, smiling. "She's an 
 odd creature. Aunt Sally's had her about the 
 house a great deal, and I've tried to encourage 
 her, but I never could make her out." 
 
 " She'll surprise you some time if the sun ever 
 shines upon her. That girl's frozen by her circum- 
 stances. She feels nothing but the pinch, and 
 thinks nothing but rebellion. Let her be thawed 
 and fostered, and she will reveal herself in a way 
 you will be far from despising." 
 
 " I hope I'm far from despising any woman."
 
 A NABOB. 67 
 
 Rhoda looked up with an admiring expression : 
 " You're such a man as women cannot help ap- 
 proving of. Certainly you are far from despising 
 any woman. You're a universal Wing over them ! 
 We're waiting for that ginger, aren't we ? I won- 
 der if your friend likes it ?" 
 
 " He probably does. In his camp-stores he had 
 all manner of odd foreign stuff. He has queer 
 tastes, and gratifies them to the utmost." 
 
 " He must be a nabob. This is it. Thanks." 
 Rhoda received the ginger-pot from Tamsin's 
 hand. Tamsin hesitated for further directions on 
 the edge of the conference. 
 
 " He ?" replied Tom. " Craque-o'-Doom is 
 worth his hundred thousands. He has a lovely 
 place down at Svvampscott, they told me, sum- 
 mer-place, and a rich old den up the North River. 
 He's rich as a lord, and it's a good thing for him." 
 
 " Of course it is." 
 
 " He has bonds and stocks, and I don't know 
 what all. His family was a first-rate one, too, 
 but I believe they are all dead except himself. 
 He's desperately fond of music. / think he's a 
 sort of a genius. Oh, you'll find him out by 
 degrees. I don't know how he gets on with 
 ladies : he doesn't like to show himself. But I 
 have seen him endure staring and remarks in 
 perfect silence." 
 
 " Take the salver now," said Rhoda, " and we
 
 68 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 will go up the back stairway. Tamsin, as soon as 
 the coffee is done, bring a hot cup of it, with cream 
 and sugar, on another salver, please." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 "WHY DON'T YOU SHUDDER?" 
 
 AFTER the captain and Miss Rhoda had gone 
 up-stairs, Tamsin stood beside her sister, looking 
 into the fire. Tillie's face was scorched by the 
 pleasant heat. She leaned sleepily on the back 
 of her chair, untroubled by her elder's train of 
 thought. 
 
 Tamsin lifted one of the claw- like fists from her 
 sister's lap and looked at it. 
 
 " They're clean," pleaded Tillie thickly. 
 
 " I know it," said Tamsin. Her palm wandered 
 over the sharp protuberances of Tillie's little 
 shoulder-blades. "You're made straight, ain't 
 you ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Tillie. " So're you." 
 
 " Do I look tall ? Do I look like other folks ?" 
 
 " Yes, and you look pretty," added Tillie. 
 
 " Did you see the little man that Mis' Teagarden 
 took up-stairs ?"
 
 "WHY DON'T YOU SHUDDER?" 69 
 
 " Uh-huh !" grunted Tillie affirmatively. '' I 
 was in the hall, lookin' for you to come back. It 
 scar't me so I run to your room and jumped under 
 the bed." 
 
 " Did he look ugly ?" 
 
 " Oh, he looked orful ! He walked along this 
 way." The supple child dropped from her chair, 
 doubled herself up, and danced across the floor 
 with her legs half abbreviated. Tamsin watched 
 her without comment. The effort was exhaust- 
 ing : so Tillie returned in the natural manner to 
 her chair. 
 
 " Would you like me," said Tamsin, " if I was 
 that way?" 
 
 " No," returned the little one with frank deci- 
 sion ; " I'd run from ye like a white-head. Every- 
 body would." 
 
 " But if I had lots of money and could give 
 you everything you wanted, and was that way, 
 wouldn't you like me at all ?" 
 
 " No ; that wouldn't make no difference," ex- 
 plained Tillie. " I'd run from ye all the same." 
 
 Tamsin's eyes filled with anguish. She stooped 
 over her sister and looked into the light, laughing 
 eyes. 
 
 Tillie gave her a bony little hug : " You ain't all 
 hunched up, Tammie." 
 
 " But I might 'a been !" 
 
 Tillie drew her lips together over her gums,
 
 7Q CKA Q UE- a -DO OM. 
 
 and was settling against Tamsin to meditate com- 
 fortably on such a possibility, when the elder put 
 her by : " I must take that coffee up-stairs." She 
 put the necessary things on a salver, went into 
 the kitchen, and returned past Tillie with fragrant 
 steam issuing from a cup of Dresden china. She 
 had daringly taken one of Aunt Sally's treasures 
 for the service of the dwarf. If that heavy Dres- 
 den cup and saucer got broken, Tamsin Cheno- 
 worth dared not think of the consequences. 
 
 " I thought it over," announced Tillie. " If 
 'twas you, Tarn, I don't b'lieve I'd run from ye. 
 But" Tillie shook her forefinger impressively 
 " I don't want to see that chap up-stairs no more" 
 
 The captain and Rhoda had been hurriedly de- 
 manded down-stairs. When Tamsin turned the 
 knob of the chamber-door after knocking, she was 
 surprised to find only the occupant. He sat com- 
 fortably before the fire, buried in an easy-chair, a 
 table at his side holding the salver Tom had 
 brought. The room, like all the other rooms in 
 house, was spacious and high, yet he, a mote of 
 humanity, remained its principal point. A Persian 
 rug worn silky smooth trailed across his lap, con- 
 cealing the lower part of his body: it was a con- 
 stant habit of his to drape himself thus. His 
 blond head had a square massive look, and his 
 neck was strong and cleanly smooth as tinted 
 ivory.
 
 "WHY DON'T YOU SHUDDER?" j\ 
 
 Tamsin saw his entire face for the first time. It 
 was not weazen and shrunken, but ample, deli- 
 cately featured, with a luminous expression. He 
 wore a close-trimmed moustache ; the head tilted 
 back against the stuffed chair had an actual manly 
 beauty of its own, which was multiplied when he 
 turned his glance toward the girl. His eyes were 
 very gray, with a velvet quality hard to describe. 
 They were large and set wide apart under brows 
 so full of expression that their slightest motion 
 changed the whole face. He looked at Tamsin, 
 and she paused inside the door with the coffee- 
 tray. 
 
 Their steady gazing on each other was first re- 
 alized by the dwarf. He smiled, parting his lips 
 over teeth as fine and clear as polished shells. 
 " Well ?" said he with an interrogative accent. 
 
 Tamsin approached and set down his coffee, re- 
 arranging the other salver afterward, so that every- 
 thing was within his reach. Having done so, she 
 again met his eyes, resting one hand on the table 
 and placing the other behind her. Her whole ap- 
 pearance, was innocent and fascinating. She felt 
 herself in an atmosphere which gave her peculiar 
 ease, as if she had mental lungs inhaling and ex- 
 haling an air full of scents and hints and influences 
 of some higher world. The same feeling had 
 struck her on early summer mornings when a 
 branch of wild roses shook dew in her face, or on
 
 j2 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 winter evenings when the sun left a warm red bar 
 above snow-fields and skeleton woods. Of this sen- 
 sation Tamsin would probably never speak to any 
 other palpitating soul. It was her glimpse of im- 
 mortality, her recognition of the fact, " I have lived 
 heretofore in other conditions than this, and I shall 
 live again in glory now unknown to me." Her 
 face had no self-consciousness : she was for the 
 time without personality. 
 
 The deformed man said suddenly, the words 
 sounding strange to his own ears and as if spoken 
 by some one else, " You don't shudder at sight of 
 me. I believe most women do ; but you do not. 
 Why don't you ?" 
 
 " I don't see no reason to," said Tamsin slowly, 
 as if weighing her convictions. Taking her hand 
 from the table, she turned and went out of the 
 room, but put back her head to inquire, " Is there 
 anything else, sir?" 
 
 " No, thank you. This is abundance, more 
 than I could have asked."
 
 THE FLIGHT OF A WHITE-HEAD. 73 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF A WHITE- HEAD. 
 
 BEFORE the young ladies came down to their 
 late breakfast next morning the captain and his 
 friend had breakfasted and started for a short 
 drive in the latter's carriage. This snug vehicle 
 was of the coupe pattern, with steps particularly 
 adapted to a gentleman whose legs were only a 
 couple of spans long. The padded interior had a 
 smell of wild flowers. 
 
 " Drive us up the pike," said Tom to the stolid 
 coachman. " On the ridge you can get a good 
 view of our village, Craque-o'-Doom. It isn't 
 what it once was. The bisection of the National 
 Road and Ohio Canal made this place, and the in- 
 crease of railway-traffic everywhere else killed it. 
 We have warehouses, flour-mills, and distilleries 
 standing empty and idle. That pile yonder be- 
 longs to our family. My father let the business 
 die out, and I don't think that I should ever care 
 to revive it, if circumstances were ever so favor- 
 able." 
 
 " What occupation do you claim for yourself?" 
 said Craque-o'-Doom, lowering the window to get 
 at the pleasant winter air. 
 D 7
 
 74 CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 
 
 " Well, I'm that lazy dog a gentleman farmer. 
 When I came home from college I was full of 
 enthusiasm about law. I began to read ; but 
 about that time the war broke out, and after my 
 four years' service I found the old estate running 
 to seed, and settled down to improve it. In va- 
 rious ways I've been improving it ever since, 
 experiments here and fertilizers there, study of 
 crops and soils, and all that coquetting with labor 
 which the out-and-out farmer despises. If I had 
 nothing, I should be considered half a loafer ; but, 
 as I'm tolerably well-to-do, my neighbors think 
 I can afford to loiter." 
 
 They heard the spat of boot-soles on the flinty 
 pike behind them, for that hard-grained thorough- 
 fare clove through snow when all the by-roads 
 were covered. 
 
 "If I had been allowed to choose a career," said 
 the dwarf, " I should have chosen something that 
 would bring oratory into play. I can't imagine 
 anything greater than standing before an assembly 
 and shaping its opinions." 
 
 The spat of boot-soles now overtook the car- 
 riage, and a crew of five or six small boys ran 
 along on each side of it. " That's him !" panted 
 one. " Here he is, on this side! He aint no big- 
 ger'n a baby !" 
 
 44 L,emtne see," struggled another, with curiosity 
 as callous as if the dwarf had been beyond sight
 
 THE 1- LIGHT OF A WHITE-HEAD. 
 
 75 
 
 and hearing. " He's got arms, 'cause I see his 
 hand. What show does he travel with ?" 
 
 "Lookout!" panted the others in warning to 
 this bold youth, who seemed about to climb upon 
 the step : " he might shy somethin' at ye. Them 
 kind is bad when they get their tempers up." 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom laughed, but Tom, in high dis- 
 pleasure, opened the window beside him. " Boys," 
 cried he severely, " get away from this carriage, or 
 I'll have you all locked in the calaboose. I'll take 
 clown the names of every one of you. Don't you 
 know any better than to annoy a gentleman in this 
 way ?" 
 
 They fell back, somewhat abashed, but one said, 
 " Then you orter take down Billy Mac's name too. 
 He's up behind, peepin* through the curtain." 
 
 Captain Mills struck back at the curtain, but at 
 the same instant heard a thud of some one drop- 
 ping on the pike. " The little scoundrels !" he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " Don't mind it," said Craque-o'-Doom. " I 
 have had time enough to grow accustomed to my 
 notoriety." 
 
 Captain Mills put his head out of the window 
 and directed the driver to turn into a by-street : 
 "They will find it isn't so easy to follow us along 
 the soft roads." He looked back, and saw the 
 boys reluctantly giving up their chase. They 
 seemed aggrieved and disconcerted, and from
 
 76 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 among them came a well-aimed snow-ball, out 
 of the arc of whose descent Captain Tom dodged 
 into the carriage. 
 
 The winter landscape looked desolate. They 
 crossed from one street to another. Detached 
 from other houses and standing among the skele- 
 tons of last year's cornstalks was one house which 
 Craque-o'-Doom pointed out as embodying his idea 
 of all that was dismal. "Though, with appropriate 
 hollyhocks and sunflowers and climbing plants, it 
 might look better in summer," said he. " But 
 the sodden door-yard and bleak background are 
 enough to give a mere passer the blue devils. 
 How do people support life in such places, I 
 wonder ?" 
 
 " Oh, that place !" replied Captain Mills. " That's 
 where Tamsin lives, Tamsin Chenoworth, the girl 
 my aunt has with her up at our house." 
 
 " She opened the door when I arrived ?" 
 
 " Maybe she did." 
 
 " And brought up my coffee last evening?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " So she lives there ? Your aunt has her en- 
 gaged as a servant?" 
 
 " Well, no. We are afraid of that word around 
 here, Craque-o'-Doom. I can call my biack man 
 my servant, but we have to be careful how we 
 apply the term to whites in a rural community." 
 
 " Domestic, then ?"
 
 THE FLIGHT OF A WHITE. HEAD. 
 
 77 
 
 " Not exactly. Aunt Sally has her about the 
 house frequently, and takes some interest in her. 
 She belongs to a miserable family, and seems to 
 have rather more to her than the rest of them. 
 Miss Jones has taken a fancy to her, too." 
 
 They had passed the house, when they saw an 
 old man picking his way along fence-corners, car- 
 rying a chair on his shoulder. He looked up with 
 a dull eye. 
 
 " How d' do, Mr. Chenoworth ?" saluted Captain 
 Mills good-naturedly. " That's the girl's father," 
 he explained to Craque-o'-Doom. " The old fel- 
 low mends chairs, when he can get them to mend. 
 He has a prodigious family, and a family connec- 
 tion that ramifies through our lowest population. 
 When I was younger I used to have romantic ideas 
 about digging up and fertilizing this lower stratum, 
 but I've come to the conclusion that the best thing 
 you can do with such people is to let them alone." 
 
 " Entirely ?" 
 
 " No. I throw jobs in their way when I have 
 any, but I don't intrude my advice or expect them 
 to have the political intelligence they ought to 
 have, considering they are in numbers sufficient 
 to control the vote of the township." 
 
 " The women of any kind of barbarians always 
 have to suffer. Did you ever think of that when 
 you let such old patriarchs of misery as that one 
 we just passed gang their ain gait?"
 
 78 CRAQUE -O" DOO.V. 
 
 " Well, what can I do for their women ? I tell 
 you, Craque-o'-Doom, these poor devils whom we 
 pity have a strong aristocratic tang. There's that 
 girl Tamsin Chenoworth, for instance : she's as 
 proud as a queen in her way. She looks at you 
 furtively and suspiciously; her dignity is not to be 
 jarred by any fatherly encouragement or advice. 
 I'm as free with my old neighbors as any man can 
 be, yet I couldn't say to her, ' Tamsin, you had 
 better take this course, or that.' If she goes to the 
 dogs, as one of her sisters has been doing, or breaks 
 out with the family weakness for stealing, it isn't my 
 fault ; I can't help it. But at present she's a very 
 good girl, and my aunt takes an interest in her." 
 
 They returned home long before the mid-day din- 
 ner. The young ladies were lounging in the back 
 parlor, in Watteau gowns and easy slippers. Jennie 
 lay on a sofa, with yards of garnet cashmere trail- 
 ing over her feet ; Louise had an easy-chair and a 
 hassock, a novel and an amethyst-colored shawl ; 
 but Rhoda Jones rocked vigorously, stopping at 
 intervals to scribble with a pencil on paper held 
 by a reporter's clip which lay in her lap. " I'm 
 just taking down some impressions," she had con- 
 descended to explain to the girls, who regarded 
 her performance with a mixture of amusement and 
 dread : they were afraid the remorseless spider in 
 her head might at any time rush out to seize upon 
 and make meat of them. They had seen her dem-
 
 THE FLIGHT OF A WHITE-HEAD. 
 
 79 
 
 onstrate that material is material, even if you find 
 it in your blood-relations. 
 
 " If you take down impressions of me," requested 
 Louise, " make me immensely stylish. I've always 
 wanted so much more style than I have. You 
 might pile up my blond tresses and leave out the 
 switches and top friz. I want a good many lovers, 
 because they're rather scarce in real life." 
 
 " I don't," murmured Jennie ; " I want just one, 
 as handsome as he can be, with blue eyes, and 
 golden hair, and a moustache the same color, that 
 droops down to his chin, and long white hands. 
 And he must dance just elegantly, and be three 
 or four years older than myself. He'd always 
 have to wear nice boots, and those lovely round 
 coats without any tails to 'em." 
 
 "And probably he could make the money to 
 buy them just about as well as you could," said 
 Rhoda. 
 
 " Oh, of course he'd be wealthy and polished." 
 
 "The gold-locked men out West, three or four 
 years your seniors, usually have the polish which 
 grinding for a living gives them, and the wealth of 
 hope. They have their fortunes to make, and if they 
 dance themselves into fashionable society, usually 
 dance into debt too. ' Swing low, sweet chariot.' 
 Men are strong, plodding fellows. Women don't 
 marry angels any more. It made a great fuss 
 before the Flood."
 
 go CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 
 
 Tom Mills's voice and one much mellower than 
 his were heard in the front hall, together with a 
 tramping and lighter patting of feet. The captain 
 and his friend were taking off their wraps. 
 
 " My gracious!" exclaimed Louise, starting up. 
 Jennie kicked her train off her feet to make a dart 
 for the dining-room. 
 
 " Sit down !" said Rhoda Jones menacingly. 
 " You shan't run away. I could shake you both !" 
 
 " I shall die if I have to look at him," pleaded 
 Jennie. " He turns me positively faint." 
 
 " I don't care if he does," said Rhoda : " he's 
 your cousin's guest, and you are bound to receive 
 him." 
 
 " He isn't my cousin's guest," began Louise, 
 when a door opened, and Tom entered with the 
 dwarf. 
 
 He made his good-morning bow to Rhoda, and 
 was presented to the younger girls. They sat in 
 embarrassment, looking down at the toes of their 
 slippers. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom found a ready place on a low 
 hassock at one side of the fire : it spared him the 
 confusion of having to scale a chair. His body 
 tapered abruptly from shoulders to feet ; his arms 
 were rather long. In a gentleman's business- or 
 morning-suit he appeared a masquerading child, 
 while sitting still or until he turned his mature 
 face towards the beholder. When he walked,
 
 THE FLIGHT OF A WHITE-HEAD. gl 
 
 however, his short legs and small feet seemed 
 hardly capable of carrying his upper bulk. He 
 did not in the least expect any attention, and his 
 manner was modest but self-respecting. 
 
 Rhoda noticed how fresh a tinge the ride had 
 given his face. She put the reporter's clip aside, 
 and cast a warning look at the two girls, who in 
 their turn cast pleading looks at Tom. 
 
 Tom felt complacent about his own inches, but 
 he could see no reason why any woman should 
 not find Craque-o'-Doom agreeable society. He 
 stood by the mantel and warmed his feet. 
 
 " Did you have a nice ride?" inquired Rhoda. 
 
 " We had a royal progress," laughed Craque-o'- 
 Doom : " the populace followed us." 
 
 "A lot of the town boys," explained Captain 
 Mills, with a lingering shade of annoyance. " They 
 tagged the carriage as if we'd a live boa-constrictor 
 or an ape inside." 
 
 Louise telegraphed by a look to Jennie her con- 
 currence with the boys' opinion. But Jennie was 
 scanning the little man's face with astonishment 
 that she could do so without screaming. It was 
 rather a pleasant sight than otherwise. 
 
 " You couldn't put any heroism in the hero of 
 such a scene, could you, Miss Jones ?" said he. 
 " I understand you are one of those fortunate peo- 
 ple who go about making mental photographs for 
 reproduction in letters."
 
 8 2 CRA QUE-G'-DOOM. 
 
 " Do you call that fortunate ? Why, I have often 
 thought my lot a miserable one. If you would 
 only be kind enough to say you envy me, now !" 
 
 " Certainly I envy you such resources." 
 
 " Good! I always wanted to be envied. It has 
 been my dream to stalk about the world so fortu- 
 nate and immaculate that everybody who saw me 
 should turn fairly green. To that end, I am always 
 magnifying my good luck and concealing my 
 crosses. But don't ask me to have any opinions 
 about heroism : I don't think I like it. It's a 
 strained, uncomfortable effect ; it's stagey. He- 
 roic people seem to stand under colored or calcium 
 lights in a tableau with the curtain just going 
 down." 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom laughed. 
 
 "Ah, I like such things!" exclaimed Jennie 
 spontaneously. 
 
 The dwarf half turned his face toward her with 
 respectful attention. But Louise, with nervous 
 precipitation, sprang up and begged Captain Mills 
 to come into the other parlor and try a duet with 
 her. 
 
 " Craque-o'-Doom plays capitally," exclaimed 
 Tom, moved by the obtuse zeal of his sex. 
 " Come on, old man, and give the girls some 
 music." 
 
 " If the}- will remain seated here and not watch 
 my contortions at the piano," he icplied, with a
 
 THE FLIGHT OF A WHITE-HEAD. 83 
 
 delicacy which touched Louise, " perhaps I can 
 entertain them." 
 
 " Please do," murmured the young ladies. 
 
 " But we may applaud ?" said Rhoda. 
 
 " I am not accustomed to applause," replied the 
 dwarf, smiling, as he rose. 
 
 Tom and he went in to the piano, and they 
 heard him rolling a hassock to the piano-stool 
 and saying, " I have to mount these revolving 
 light-houses carefully, you know." Then the keys 
 responded to such a touch as had never before vis- 
 ited them. He began playing a movement from 
 Liszt's " Tarantella." 
 
 " I don't know what that is," murmured Jennie. 
 But Rhoda Jones sat rapt. His execution was 
 wonderfully brilliant, yet of so sympathetic a qual- 
 ity that a listener was always strangely moved 
 by it. 
 
 Tom stood, with one hand on his hip, at the end 
 of the piano, and watched the dwarf's lithe, float- 
 ing ringers with interest. He would have pre- 
 ferred a good tune to which he could pat his toe 
 in accompaniment, but it gratified him to see a 
 little monstrosity like Craque-o'-Doom so well up 
 in a higher kind of gymnastics. It escaped his 
 observation that Tamsin Chenoworth's younger 
 sister was at the long veranda-window flattening 
 her cheek against the glass in a vain effort to see 
 who could be creating such sounds within.
 
 34 CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 When the selection was finished, a feverish 
 hand-clapping in the back parlor succeeded. 
 
 " I shall not touch that piano again while I am 
 here," said Rhoda decidedly. 
 
 " Isn't it queer he can play so ?" whispered 
 Louise. 
 
 As Tom moved out of the way, Tillie, on the 
 veranda, got a look at the dwarf wriggling off the 
 piano-stool. She gave a jump which landed her 
 in the path, took to her heels, and banged the 
 gate behind her in a mad flight toward home.
 
 "GIVE ME YOUR HAND." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "GIVE ME YOUR HAND." 
 
 A WINTER thaw made Barnet the most dismal 
 place on earth. The pike stood up like a cause- 
 way between sluggish streams of water. A land- 
 scape of mud and fog, through which the canal 
 crept like a yellow snake, cheered the looker-out. 
 A smell of stables, of fat burnt half a mile away, 
 and an all-prevailing odor of old clothes, invaded 
 the most unlikely places. Drip, drip, drip, all day 
 and all night long, the rain splashed from the 
 eaves. And there was no pleasure in a heaped-up 
 fire, for it suffocated. The homesteads looked 
 draggled, and smoke trailed along the ground, 
 leaving a sediment of soot on fence and despon- 
 dent tree. Every umbrella perambulating the 
 streets as if under protest said to every other um- 
 brella it met, propelled by a pair of high boots 
 with pantaloons stuck in them, " Well, what do 
 you think of this weather ?" Trains three miles 
 away could be plainly heard breathing, and their 
 whistles seemed shrieking in people's front yards. 
 
 The young ladies at the Hill-house tried to 
 return their calls before the date of their depar- 
 
 8
 
 86 CRAQ UE- O" DO O.M. 
 
 ture, but after one or two attempts came driving 
 home with flecks of mud on their faces. Barnet 
 streets were bottomless. Tom could not take his 
 deformed friend out to see his barns, or his vine- 
 yard on the side-hill, without the risk of swamp- 
 ing him in mud. The most reliable spots of soil 
 had grown strangely spongy, and pools stood on 
 flat surfaces. 
 
 The first day of this weather the inmates of the 
 house laudably attempted to amuse each other, but 
 after that there was a natural falling away into 
 groups of one or two. The girls lounged in 
 Rhoda's room, where there was an open fire, de- 
 claring that the register in their own apartment 
 was more than they could endure. Rhoda shut 
 herself in the small library, which was little more 
 than an alcove off the back parlor, and entered 
 upon inky mysteries which she called blocking 
 out a short sketch. Captain Mills and his friend 
 had each other for constant company. 
 
 Tom was obliged to ride away late on an after- 
 noon to attend to some urgent business. " If we 
 could take any kind of a vehicle, I would ask you 
 to go along," he said ruefully : " the drive might 
 be better than moping in the house, though I don't 
 relish the prospect. You'll have to try and amuse 
 yourself. I guess the girls have all taken to 
 novels." 
 
 " Don't be disturbed about me," said Craque-o'-
 
 "GIVE ME YOUR I/AND:' 8/ 
 
 Doom. " Though I like your society, as you 
 know, I'm accustomed to having a great deal of 
 my own. A fellow of my sort studies his re- 
 sources. Do you think I shall disturb anybody if 
 I thump the piano softly?" 
 
 " Not a bit : they enjoy your playing." 
 
 " I don't mean to play, but to see what you have 
 in your collection of music." 
 
 " You won't find anything to your taste," ex- 
 claimed Captain Tom. " The fact is, we ain't 
 musical .down here. The girls may have brought 
 some new pieces, but that old yellow pile all be- 
 longed to my sister. I used to like her playing, 
 but I didn't know anything about it. Well, I have 
 to be off." 
 
 " I hope you'll have a pleasant ride." 
 
 Tom twisted his face : " That can't be done 
 along the bank of a yellow ditch oozing with 
 slush." 
 
 " Tamsin," said Aunt Sally to her young hand- 
 maid, " here's a new calico dress-pattern I've had 
 around the house since last summer, but never 
 made up. That's Merrimac print, and will wash 
 and wear well. This sack and skirt you've got on 
 is too good to wear about your work in the morn- 
 ings. You ought to have a calico ; and now, while 
 there's nothing doing, we'll cut this out and begin 
 to make it up for you." 
 
 Tamsin's face, richer in its tones and softer in its
 
 38 CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 lines than it had been a week before, grew warm 
 with a flush singularly veiled by its transparent 
 olive skin. She said slowly, " I'm much obliged. 
 If you will let it go on my wages " 
 
 " Now, nonsense !" exclaimed Aunt Sally. " I 
 shan't do anything of the kind. It's stuff I've had 
 about the house, and it'll make you a good dress : 
 so say no more about it, but let us get to work." 
 
 The capable old lady got out her lap board and 
 shears : she had a poor opinion of anything not 
 cut on her lap-board. She cut out a yoke for the 
 calico dress. It was to be gathered full into a belt, 
 hang straight without an overskirt, and have a 
 ruffle around the bottom. That was the way they 
 cut calico dresses just after the war, and Aunt Sally 
 saw no occasion for changing such an excellent 
 fashion, if the girls in town did rig themselves out 
 and cut good cloth to silly waste. Tamsin, on her 
 part, accustomed to the more ancient cutting of 
 her mother, who made even Tillie look like a 
 small but unrevised edition of our pioneer grand- 
 mothers, found the fashion of her new calico pleas- 
 ing to her sight. She dimly foresaw the effect on 
 a pliant figure, and stitched awkwardly at the 
 gathers while Aunt Sally sewed the long seams 
 on her old Wheeler & Wilson, the first machine 
 which had ever come into Barnet. 
 
 Over its clatter, minor and major chords, swell- 
 ing and receding, came through the dining-room
 
 GIVE ME \OUR HAND." 
 
 8 9 
 
 door with the regular lap of the tide. This music 
 stirred queer sensations in Tamsin ; she half re- 
 sented being so moved. Time and circumstances 
 melted from around her ; she was in a great city, 
 in a musky atmosphere, living with intense eager- 
 ness and delight. Or some dormant unknown 
 power within herself half awoke and muttered 
 inaudible promises about her future. 
 
 The sewing-machine clattered on until, all the 
 long -seams being done, Aunt Sally took off her 
 spectacles. " You can go right ahead with your 
 work, Tamsin," said she. " I must have my nap 
 before tea-time. There was a remarkable piece in 
 my Banner of Light I wanted to glance at, too." 
 She added afterward, from the back parlor, " Tam- 
 sin, come in here with your work, and see that 
 this fire doesn't go down. I told Neal to let the 
 furnace die out; but we must have some heat in 
 the rooms this damp weather." 
 
 Tamsin brought her sewing to the grate. She 
 sat there alone. The eaves dripped, and the woods 
 tore rags of cloud which scudded over them. 
 Craque-o'-Doom played softly, as if he were whis- 
 pering to the piano. The thread knotted as if it 
 knew it was in a Chenoworth's fingers, and as fast 
 as she conquered one knot another harder one 
 challenged her. She forgot the sound of the 
 piano, and was not conscious of any changes in 
 the room, until, looking up vaguely disturbed, she 
 8*
 
 cp CRA Q UE- O'-DOOM. 
 
 saw the dwarf sitting down on a hassock at the 
 opposite side of the fire. 
 
 Neither party gave any sign of having noticed 
 the other. Craque-o'-Doom warmed his delicate 
 hands at the blaze: he loved fire, and huddled 
 toward it as toward a companion. The coals mur- 
 mured faintly in their self-communing way, and 
 occasionally a bit of slate cracked in the heat and 
 popped over the bars, as if entirely dissenting from 
 what it heard around it. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom looked at the girl's bowed face 
 and motionless eyelids. Her hand went to and 
 fro, drawing a long thread : it was a red hand. 
 Her posture was one of reticence and repose. 
 
 " I saw your father this morning," said Craque- 
 o'-Doom. 
 
 Tamsin raised her head, her black eyes seeming 
 to shoot out in her face. She did not speak, but 
 looked thoroughly on the defensive. 
 
 The dwarf rested his gaze on her : " He is an 
 old man, and appears as if life had not used him 
 kindly." This mellow voice seemed to be making 
 tender excuses for the old Chenoworth's thriftless- 
 ness. "There is a large family of you?" 
 
 Tamsin replied, under constraint, " Yes." 
 
 " What are you going to do?" Here again he 
 touched her bruises with a delicate hand. He 
 assumed that she meant to do something in the 
 world.
 
 "GIVE ME YOUR 
 
 y- 
 
 " I don't know," said Tamsin slowly and grop- 
 ingly. They still looked straight at each other. 
 She added, "Something forTillie, my little sister." 
 
 " You love Tillie ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Tamsin. But the change in her 
 face made him pore over it. 
 
 " Don't you love your father and all your 
 family ?" 
 
 Her face became opaque again, just as cloud 
 grows dense over a breaking through of light. 
 " No : I hate 'em," she said deliberately, as if 
 having made up her mind to this confidence. 
 
 He appeared to weigh the statement. " I have 
 no family," he said wistfully. " If I had a father, 
 I think I could love him." 
 
 " Yes," assented Tamsin, " because he wouldn't 
 be good-for-nothing." She rose up suddenly, 
 startled by the loss of her self-control and life-long 
 reticence. The calico and scissors fell from her 
 lap. " What makes me talk this way to you ?" she 
 said under her breath. 
 
 " Sit down," said Craque-o'-Doom. His eyes 
 were lambent ; his face worked. Tamsin sat down, 
 and reached to gather her materials again. He 
 sprang and picked them up for her. " How like a 
 frog I move !" he muttered, looking up at the 
 woman's perplexing face, and, turning, he walked 
 across the room, then came back and stood before 
 her. " Did you ever see anything more ridiculous
 
 Q 2 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 than the figure I cut ?" he asked. The girl did not 
 reply. She looked at him. He put his hand out 
 and seized hers with a grip : " There ! Does your 
 flesh creep, child ?" 
 
 She certainly recoiled, with that glow under the 
 skin which was her habit in blushing. Still, the 
 recoil was not of a quality which expressed utter 
 aversion. He locked his nervous fingers about 
 the hand. " I am going to do so strange a thing ! 
 Child, you are miserable; I can do so much for 
 you. Give me this hand, marry me ! I can see 
 great possibilities in you. You shall have a full 
 life. Why need you live like a slave, when I can 
 open such advantages to you ?" He dropped her 
 hand : there was the sound of running feet coming 
 down the front stairway. Tamsin moved quickly 
 toward the dining-room door. " If you can con- 
 sent to what I have asked," said Craque-o'-Doom 
 distinctly but guardedly, as she turned her cheek 
 over her shoulder, taking one more frightened 
 glance at him, " reach out your hand toward me." 
 
 She disappeared through the door. The supple 
 red hand lingered on the knob, was thrust sud- 
 denly toward him, and withdrawn just as one of 
 the young ladies came into the parlor.
 
 THEIR PLANS. 03 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THEIR PLANS. 
 
 RHODA JONES was the first of the household to 
 draw with appreciation toward the hearth-flame as 
 dusk set in. Neal had remembered the fire which 
 Tamsin had deserted ; it glowed up to the chini- 
 ney, and its glimmering cheered Captain Tom 
 when he rode by to the stables. 
 
 When he entered the room, Rhoda was basking 
 there, alone, as she supposed ; but while Tom 
 was turning himself and putting a boot-heel on 
 the fender, Craque-o'-Doom let himself down from 
 a sofa at the other end of the parlor and ap- 
 proached them. 
 
 " I didn't know anybody was about," said Rhoda 
 with a start. " It's so dusky back there !" 
 
 " And I start out of the dusk like a spider out of 
 a web and sling myself off on an invisible thread." 
 He leaned against the mantel, opposite Captain 
 Mills, who immediately felt gigantic, and said so. 
 
 " I feel myself turn into a sort of Gulliver when 
 he is by," said Rhoda. " It seems as if he were 
 the proper size, and all the rest of us monstrous 
 growths." 
 
 " You are very kind people," said Craque-o'-
 
 94 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 Doom: "I'm sure you do your best to consider 
 me human." He laughed. " But I am about to 
 tell you something which will shake your faith in 
 me as a model pigmy." He braced himself against 
 the mantel and looked up at Tom, as if dreading 
 that veteran's hard sense and practical force. 
 
 " If I am de trop " said Rhoda, half rising. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom motioned her back into her 
 seat: "Not at all, Miss Jones. I really think I 
 want the support of your presence. Tom, when 
 we were roughing it up in Canada, did you ever 
 think I was soft-headed ?" 
 
 " Why, no ! What do you mean by ' soft- 
 headed' ? " 
 
 " I mean liable to turn fool. I've expected to 
 have a lonesome life of it, and prepared myself. 
 I give you my word of honor, I never thought of 
 marrying till I came here. Richard isn't the shape 
 to attract, and, in face of this truth, I never have 
 done any woman the dishonor to think that my 
 money might buy her ; but not two hours ago I 
 asked a woman to marry me." 
 
 "The dickens you did!" exclaimed Captain 
 Mills, aghast. " Well, that was better than slump- 
 ing along a dirty canal-bank in the rain. What 
 did she say ?" 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom folded his arms : " She didn't 
 refuse. Miss Jones, I want you to tell me candidly 
 if I am taking unfair advantage of that girl."
 
 THEIR PLANS. 
 
 95 
 
 " What girl ?" interposed Tom. " You're taking 
 unfair advantage of me. I don't get hold of the 
 thing at all. You say you've proposed seriously 
 to marry somebody ?" 
 
 " She has a struggle before her for the bare 
 means of life," continued the dwarf, still address- 
 ing Rhoda, and keeping a check on himself. 
 " Every circumstance is against her. I could give 
 her education, travel, refining surroundings. I 
 feel certain she could be developed into a remark- 
 able woman." 
 
 " So do I," coincided Rhoda. " It's Tamsin," 
 she said, nodding her head toward Captain Mills. 
 
 He put his hands in his pockets and walked 
 across the room whistling. 
 
 " Now, do you think it would be an unnatural 
 and horrible thing to to I've been puzzling. 
 Perhaps I took an unfair advantage of the lonely 
 child. She touches me so," pleaded the dwarf. 
 " Miss Jones, I can't tell how she moves me. She 
 is a mere unformed child : I have thought I might 
 educate her and leave her free. But that wouldn't 
 do, that wouldn't do. Besides " He paused, 
 and broke out with a half-fierce exclamation : " I 
 want her ! Do you see me ? She has no horror 
 of my shape. Isn't it wonderful there should be a 
 woman who can look at me without shuddering? 
 Come back, Tom : I'm not going to be sentimental 
 any further than this." Captain Mills approached
 
 96 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 the fire with his face awry. " So, you see, I'm 
 afraid my selfishness is going to take undue ad- 
 vantage of her. But now tell me honestly, both of 
 you: if I make her my wife only in name, and 
 give her the opportunities she ought to have, and 
 when she is a woman let her choose A great 
 many things might happen, my death, you know, 
 in case she elected not to " He looked down 
 at his hands, as though he held his ravelled sen- 
 tences hopelessly there. 
 
 " Craque-o'-Doom," said Tom, resting one palm 
 on the wall above the mantel, like a man bracing 
 the established order of things, " I'm afraid you're 
 going to make a confounded fool of yourself. 
 Excuse me, Miss Rhoda. Now, what under the 
 heavens can you want of that girl ?" 
 
 " Captain Mills," put in Rhoda decidedly, " I 
 think the whole thing's splendid. I never should 
 have thought of it ; but it's like a fairy-story for 
 Tamsin." 
 
 " For Tamsin ? Oh, yes ! But see here, now. 
 Here's a man, he has money, education, and 
 talents enough to balance his deformity, and he's 
 going to pick up one of our Chenoworths ! Why, 
 Craque-o'-Doom, they're low: they couldn't ap- 
 preciate the barest idea of yours, and they'd all 
 prey on you like rats. I don't say but the girl's a 
 good girl " 
 
 " She is," pronounced the dwarf, frowning.
 
 THEIR PLANS. 97 
 
 " But she's not your equal, and never will be." 
 
 " You don't know that," said Rhoda. 
 
 "Pshaw!" growled the captain. "Why, I'm 
 thunderstruck ! Marry, man, if you want to, of 
 course : you don't have to ask my advice ; but I 
 do hate to see you stoop down to the gutter. Oh, 
 yes, she'd take you : I don't doubt it for a minute. 
 Why shouldn't she f But after you'd mismatched 
 yourself, what then? Good Lord, boy! you 
 ought to see the whole tribe of Chenoworths ! 
 A pretty connection they will be. Because you 
 are unfortunate in one single particular, there's no 
 use in throwing yourself away entirely." 
 
 " Tom, I don't expect you to see the thing as I 
 do, and a man of my sort must necessarily suffer 
 more crosses than anybody else." The dwarf's 
 nostrils flared, and the clear white of his face be- 
 came more apparent. " I simply beg of you to 
 forbear with me. I cannot explain to you how I 
 am impelled to this thing, nor how I regard this 
 young lady, with all her drawbacks." 
 
 " This young lady" Rhoda patted her palms 
 together. 
 
 Tom stooped over the hearth and offered his 
 hand to his friend. They exchanged a hearty 
 grasp. " You must pardon me, Craque-o'-Doom. 
 I don't mean to offend you : I was sort of taken 
 back. They say folks always will meddle with 
 other folks' marriages. I won't say another word." 
 
 E f 9
 
 9 g CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 
 
 "But what are your plans?" inquired Rhoda 
 with energetic interest. 
 
 The dwarf replied to her inquiry with a puzzled 
 face : " I haven't any. Must I make plans ?" 
 
 " Certainly. I am going to be married, and I 
 have lots of plans. Are you going to take charge 
 of the child soon, or let her be as she is awhile?" 
 
 "Soon, I should think, if she is willing." 
 
 Tom groaned. Both looked up at him. " I 
 didn't say anything," said he. 
 
 "You didn't make half so much fuss over my 
 prospective taking off," said Rhoda, shaking her 
 head at him. 
 
 " The whole thing is so new to me," pleaded the 
 dwarf. " I don't know what is best for her. I 
 never had much experience with women." 
 
 " You'll have to ask her father, you know," 
 mentioned Captain Mills, pulling down the ends 
 of his moustache. 
 
 " Of course," said Craque-o'-Doom with child- 
 like simplicity. But his eyes still turned to Rhoda 
 for counsel. " If that odd preliminary which you 
 call getting married were over," he continued, " I 
 think I should like to put her to some good schoo 1 
 of your choosing, right away." 
 
 Miss Jones inwardly ejaculated over the weak- 
 ness and helplessness which men are constantly 
 revealing between the joints of their noble armor. 
 Craque-o'-Doom had impressed her as a condensed
 
 THEIR PLANS. gy 
 
 man of fine quality : he ought to come out a bold 
 cavalier under circumstances which belittled his 
 brethren. " Well, but that 'odd preliminary' re- 
 quires consideration. You have to prepare for 
 it; you have to set a day, and get the legal 
 papers and a minister; the friends of the contract- 
 ing parties must be consulted, unless you steal 
 your bride away, as the Romans despoiled the 
 Sabines." 
 
 The dwarf pressed his handkerchief to his fore- 
 head : " I wouldn't do that, of course. I should 
 want to take her honorably and deliberately into 
 my care." 
 
 " Now you're talking sense," exclaimed the cap- 
 tain. " Give yourself time ; deliberate over it. 
 Tamsin's not much more than a child, as you say. 
 Six months from now, if'you insist on making a 
 match of it, will do well enough." 
 
 " But meantime she ought to be improving her- 
 self." 
 
 " Oh, she won't do any worse than she's been 
 doing." 
 
 " You would counsel me to let her lose six 
 months of her best time ?" 
 
 " I'm not saying anything, mind. Why, man, 
 you act as if she were a suddenly discovered gem 
 whom nobody could properly set but yourself!" 
 
 " You never thought of setting her or bringing 
 out her brilliancy, did you ?"
 
 IOO CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 
 
 " No, I never did : the Chenoworths are too 
 many for me. If I began that sort of thing, I'd 
 never get to the end of it" 
 
 " What you have to do," exclaimed Rhoda with 
 a slight tinge of impatience, " is to consult Tamsin 
 and see what she wishes." 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom folded and unfolded his arms 
 and braced himself more firmly against the mantel : 
 " Miss Jones, you are very kind, and you know a 
 young girl better than I do. Perhaps, after all, I 
 have presumed in taking a mere -motion of hers 
 for a consent which I very much desired. If you 
 would see her " 
 
 " Tamsin never has much to say for herself," 
 corroborated Tom in a relieved tone. " If you 
 had a downright talk with her, Miss Rhoda " 
 
 " I'd try to make her appreciate the position," 
 said Rhoda. 
 
 A tinkle at the farther end of the room, followed 
 by the mild outblooming of a wax light, another 
 and another, called their attention to Tamsin light- 
 ing the three-branched candlestick on a table. 
 Aunt Sally had sent her down by way of the front 
 stairway to supply Neal's place while he went on 
 an errand. The group remained silent while she 
 wheeled the table forward. She then carried a 
 taper to the candlestick at each end of the mantel. 
 
 Both men looked at her as she stood on the rug 
 extending her arm.
 
 THEIR PLANS. IO 1 
 
 "We were just talking about you, Tamsin," 
 said Captain Mills. " You'd better leave the light- 
 ing up to somebody else : these two want to say 
 something to you." 
 
 "Now, if that isn't just like a man!" thought 
 Rhoda. " He puts things in a jumble and expects 
 somebody else to get them out." 
 
 Having touched the candles, Tamsin threw her 
 burnt taper into the grate. She stood with her 
 eyes down, visibly quivering. 
 
 "Sit down," said Miss Jones, drawing her to a 
 convenient chair. " Don't be alarmed by this sol- 
 emn fuss: it's in the masculine nature to be pom- 
 pous and cumbersome. Captain Mills merely 
 wanted to congratulate you. Mr. Sutton has been 
 telling us, you see. I congratulate you with all 
 my heart: I think it's wonderful and delightful. 
 You're quite the heroine of a fairy-story. While 
 I consider fairies things of the imagination, and 
 sentiment quite out of place in this present world, 
 there's some sentiment or witchery in this which 
 I appreciate." While Rhoda rattled ahead, the 
 younger girl was gazing at her with piteous appeal, 
 as if in a torment she could not express, and the 
 dwarf in some pliant and bewildered mood strange 
 to his experience, waiting to be placed or guided. 
 " Captain Mills, you haven't taken Tamsin by 
 the hand and congratulated her formally, however 
 you may have done with Mr. Sutton." 
 
 9*
 
 102 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 The captain took Tamsin's motionless hand and 
 congratulated her, with helpless grooves in his 
 cheeks. She made no response. 
 
 " And now," said Rhoda, seizing her wrist in a 
 confidential way, " Mr. Sutton says he will see 
 your family at once." 
 
 Tamsin winced. Rhoda felt it, and patted her 
 hand caressingly. 
 
 " If you wish it," said Craque-o'-Doom, gazing 
 on her averted face, " if you wish to to come into 
 my care. If you do not, my child, I will think 
 nothing of the little sign you were so kind as to 
 give me. It would be my desire to take you away 
 with me immediately and place you where you 
 could be educated under the oversight of a lady 
 like Miss Jones. But if you would rather take six- 
 months to think about it, I will leave at once and 
 wait. Or I will go and never come back again, if 
 you say so." 
 
 Tamsin sat like a stone figure. 
 
 ' " Well, Tamsin ?" said Captain Mills interrog- 
 atively. He felt strained and annoyed. 
 
 It was a surprise to see Tamsin turn toward 
 him. She looked up his length and dwelt on his 
 lace ; then she looked at her wooer. He was 
 turning whiter every moment. " I could go now,' 1 
 she said " But there's Tillie." 
 
 " You can hsve her with you," said Cracjue-g'* 
 Doom,
 
 THEIK PLANS. 
 
 103 
 
 Rhoda noticed a tremor pass through the wrist 
 she held. 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " I thank you" said the dwarf. He shaded his 
 face with his hand. " You can have your sister 
 with you in everything," he continued, " and give 
 her whatever you wish." 
 
 "Thank you," whispered Tamsin, again. 
 
 " You see, I don't want to make you unhappy 
 in any way," explained Craque-o'-Doom. 
 
 Tamsin looked into the fire. 
 
 " Now, Tamsin ' said Aunt Sally, entering 
 from the dining-room. " Why, here you all are 
 around the fire. Tamsin ?" She put on her glasses 
 and looked at them with a puzzled face. 
 
 " We're going to part with Tamsin, aunt," said 
 Tom, wheeling slowly. " My friend here proposes 
 to marry her and send her to school." 
 
 Aunt Sally stared at every one in turn : " Who ? 
 Mr. Sutton? Going to marry Tamsin ?'' The 
 unnatural ness of such a match rendered her speech- 
 less. She said no more, but went to the table, and, 
 taking up Andrew Jackson Davis, began to turn 
 the leaves with an air of intense preoccupation 
 and interest. 
 
 The clock ticked very loud. But Rhoda kept 
 on patting and stroking that poor hand which wa.<$ 
 being given away under general disapproval.
 
 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 TILLIE. 
 
 IT was the very next forenoon that old Mr. 
 Chenoworth was surprised by a call from the 
 dwarf. He was hammering at a chair-bottom. 
 The naked floor showed a stain or two of grease, 
 trodden into it by careless feet around the break- 
 fast-table ; his wife sat mending variegated trou- 
 sers ; Sarah Jane, with her sickly baby on her hip, 
 trailed disconsolately about at some domestic task; 
 ridges of dry mud stood on the rough boards ; a 
 sobbing stick of wood on the rusty fire-irons sent 
 out puffs of smoke at the old man, as if to further 
 cure his dry, shrivelled skin. 
 
 Tillie leaned against the unpainted strip which 
 served as window-sill, in one of her rare quiet 
 moods. Her eyes looked deep, and her lips 
 moved occasionally as she told some story to her- 
 self or repeated odd scraps and words which the 
 outside world suggested to her. " I see a horse 
 and buggy comin'," droned Tillie. " It's Tamsin, 
 comin' to take me to a picnic 'way up in the clouds. 
 We'll wear dresses that hang out behind us ever 
 so, like them girls up at Mills's. We'll have tur-
 
 TILL IE. IO ,j 
 
 key and cake and ice-cream. Here's the carriage. 
 Stop, carriage, and let me git in. It is a-stoppin'!" 
 concluded the child in astonishment. "Daddy, 
 the's somebody come." 
 
 " It's just Arter," said Sarah Jane : " I saw him 
 crossin' the common." 
 
 " 'Tain't, either. Oh, my ! let me git under the 
 bed ! It's that little bit of a man, mammy ! He's 
 comin' into our house !" 
 
 Out of the mud-splashed coupe Craque-o'- 
 Doom descended to the gate, and made his way 
 with difficulty on chips and bits of board to the 
 door-step. 
 
 " You open the door, Sary Jane," said Mrs. 
 Chenovvorth when his rap was heard. " Come 
 out from behind my cheer, Tillie. Nobody ain't 
 goin' to hurt you. How simple you are !" 
 
 The old man suspended his chair-mending as 
 Sarah Jane opened the door and stood with her 
 baby on her hip. The dwarf lifted his hat : " Is 
 Mr. Chenoworth at home?" 
 
 "Yes; he's here. Will you come in?" He 
 came in, and Tillie disappeared behind her mother. 
 
 To a suitor of his organization, the place was 
 most trying. These untutored people looked at 
 him as if he had been a strange, harmless reptile. 
 Sarah Jane's baby began to cry, and she felt war- 
 ranted to assure it audibly, " Hush, you little cross- 
 patch ! 'Twon't hurt ye !"
 
 10 6 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 Tom had offered to come with his friend, but 
 Craque-o'-Doom spared him. 
 
 " Are you Mr. Chenoworth ?" said the dwarf, ad- 
 dressing the old man. " Yes, I remember your face : 
 I saw you passing along the road a few days ago." 
 
 The chair-maker dropped his under jaw and 
 peered round-eyed through his spectacles. To 
 hear of a dwarf is one thing ; to see him striding 
 on span-long legs before you is another. 
 
 " Set a cheer, Sary Jane," said Mrs. Chenoworth 
 in a doubtful tone ; but their visitor scaled it 
 dexterously. 
 
 " It's very muddy weather," volunteered Sarah 
 Jane in addition. She wanted people to know she 
 had been away from Barnet and knew how to act 
 in company, if she was unfortunate. 
 
 " Yes, the road is bad," said Craque-o'-Doom. 
 He saw the smoke-grimed walls, the dull, poverty- 
 tried faces." Tillie peeped cautiously around the 
 legs of her mother's chair, and he saw her. 
 
 " That's my baby," said Mrs. Chenoworth, with 
 a diffident cough and toothless smile. " She's 
 afeard." 
 
 " Don't be afraid of me, Tillie," begged Craque- 
 o'-Doom with a thread of pain in his voice. But 
 Tillie quite disappeared and stuffed herself under 
 the chair-seat. His actually knowing her name 
 was so uncanny ! " Come out and talk to me. 
 I've brought you a message from Tamsin,"
 
 TILLIE. I07 
 
 Tillie ruminated before she looked cautiously at 
 him again. He sat quite still and harmless; his 
 legs hung down a very little distance, but his face, 
 though it wore an anxious look, rather won on 
 her favor. 
 
 " Tillie," said Sarah Jane, " if you don't come 
 out o' there, I'll pull ye out, or git Arter to. 
 Folks '11 think you ain't learnt no manners." 
 
 The hulking cousin had just entered through 
 the back door. He was a domestic loafer, who 
 preferred a kindred fireside to the down-town 
 store-counters. After a prolonged gaze at Craque- 
 o'-Doom, he took a seat by the chimney, and sat 
 evidently congratulating himself on being there 
 for the occasion. 
 
 "What word did she send?" inquired Tillie, 
 popping her head wearily around the chair. 
 
 " She would like to have you come and take 
 hold of my hand." 
 
 " I can't do that, ary time." 
 
 " You mustn't mind what she says," observed 
 Mrs. Chenoworth, with an apologetic glimmer on 
 her face. " We've humored Tillie so much she's 
 spilet." 
 
 Mr. Chenoworth had been wondering what this 
 visit meant. He now made a motion as if he in- 
 tended to resume his chair-mending, but checked 
 himself and hospitably requested Arter to give that 
 'ere stick of wood a kick and make it burn better.
 
 Io g CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 Arter kicked it with a boot very much out of repair, 
 and upset one of the andirons, righted it with his 
 calloused hand, and jumped at the burn, grinning 
 around on the other inmates as he rubbed and 
 nursed his hand on his knee. 
 
 How cloddish and unsavory poor Tamsin's 
 people were ! They seemed to have neither the 
 instinctive method of brutes nor the reasoning fore- 
 thought of man. 
 
 " I came to speak to you about your daughter 
 Tamsin, Mr. Chenoworth," said the dwarf. 
 
 The old man made a grimace by twisting up one 
 side of his cheek, which he scratched with dirty 
 nails. " What's she been doin' ?" he inquired dis- 
 consolately. 
 
 " Nothing, except making friends who esteem 
 her." Craque-o'-Doom's refined face put on an ap- 
 pealing expression. He felt more distressed and 
 at a greater disadvantage than ever before in his 
 life. " I want to marry her and take her away 
 with me, if you consent to it." 
 
 Mr. Chenoworth bent forward, puckering his 
 tufted gray brows. He gave a half-humorous 
 chuckle : " Sho, now ! You don't want to git 
 married? What do you want to git morried for?" 
 
 " I am wealthy," the dwarf continued, his steel- 
 gray eyes glowing with white heat : " I can give 
 her every luxury and advantage, with the only 
 drawback that you see, a deformed husband. She
 
 T1LL1E. 
 
 IO9 
 
 has signified her willingness to take me, but of 
 course I want the sanction of her parents." 
 
 For the first time in his existence, Craque-o'- 
 Doom felt the arrogant power of money. " I am 
 wealthy" swept over his listeners like a wave which 
 returned to him bearing a full freight of deference. 
 
 " Tamsin's a good girl," murmured Mrs. Cheno- 
 worth. 
 
 " She is, madam. And I will do everything in 
 my power to make such a woman of her as you 
 will be proud of." 
 
 Sarah Jane's face puckered with a spasm of envy. 
 She shook the whimpering baby. Arter, with 
 the mouth and eyes of a fish, sat devouring this 
 astounding scene. 
 
 " How much might you be worth, Mister ?" 
 
 inquired the old man, affecting a cautious tone. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Craque-o'-Doom, 
 taking a card-case from an inner pocket. " Here 
 is my name and address : in my confusion at first 
 I forgot to introduce myself. You can make in- 
 quiries about me of Captain Mills, one of your most 
 reliable "neighbors." 
 
 " Yes," replied the old man, nervously doubling 
 the pasteboard with his fingers, while his mind 
 staggered beneath this new weight of courtesy, " I 
 knowed who you was, and that you b'longed up 
 at the Hill-house. The boys they seed you ; Tillie 
 she seed you, too. I s'pose it's all right." 
 
 10
 
 HO CRAQUE-ff-DOO.M. 
 
 "As to the question you asked," continued 
 Craque-o'-Doom, " I have property amounting to 
 several hundred thousand dollars, and I have a 
 good head for managing it." 
 
 Mrs. Chenoworth had dropped her sewing and 
 leaned her head to one side. The old man gave a 
 gasp and swallowed : " Sho ! Did you make all 
 that in the show-business ?" 
 
 " I never was in any show-business. I inherited 
 it from my father." 
 
 Mr. Chenoworth stared in a trance of astonish- 
 ment that so much wealth should be not only 
 within hearing distance, but on the border of his 
 family. 
 
 " Well, what is your answer ?" said the dwarf, 
 anxious to bring this conference to a close. 
 
 " Oh, I s'pose it's all right. Ain't it, mammy ?" 
 responded the old man with an affected indifference 
 not to be found outside of the poor-white type. 
 
 " I hain't no objections," said Mrs. Chenoworth 
 in a quavering, deferential tone. " The children 
 gener'ly does as they want to." 
 
 " Thanks ! Then I may marry your daughter 
 from your house? I prefer, on all accounts, to 
 take her directly from her own home." All eyes 
 roamed about the place and came back to Craque- 
 o'-Doom. Queer as his figure was, he looked so 
 daintily foreign to such surroundings that an em- 
 barrassed silence followed. " I think it only
 
 TILLIE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 proper," he added, " that her own parents and 
 home should give her to me." 
 
 Mrs. Chenoworth was touched, and wiped one 
 eye with the back of her finger : " You and her 
 can git married here if you want to. But you're 
 used to so much better things than poor folks 
 has !" 
 
 " That will make no difference whatever." 
 Craque-o'-Doom moved to descend from his 
 chair, when Tillie advanced and stood within a 
 few feet of him. She had gradually crept out of 
 her concealment and stretched her thin neck after 
 every item of the conversation. He waited, and 
 smiled kindly into her pale-blue eyes : " Will you 
 shake hands with me when I am your brother?" 
 
 " You ain't a-goin' to be my brother," resisted 
 Tillie. " You're too little." She puckered her 
 face and drew a sob. 
 
 " Tut-tut !" said the old father sharply. 
 
 " But you may go with Tamsin, and she will 
 give you everything in the world you want. Look 
 at me, Tillie : am I so frightful to you ?" 
 
 " You don't look as bad as ye did at first. But 
 I don't want you to git married to Tamsin. Her 
 and me is such friends ! She could marry her 
 sister." The Chenoworth idea of intermarriage 
 appeared to have no limit in Tillie's view. 
 
 " But wouldn't you like to have Tamsin go to 
 school and learn everything?"
 
 ! ! 2 CRA Q UE- a -DOOM. 
 
 " To play music ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And to dance like them girls up there?" 
 
 " Yes. And grow so beautiful and know so 
 much that you would be proud of her?" He 
 drew his pictures for the child with a wistful, 
 patient tenderness to which she insensibly re- 
 sponded, and which touched the others in different 
 ways. Arter sulked forward with forearms on his 
 knees ; poor Sarah Jane settled into piteous long- 
 ing; the father and mother listened in dazed and 
 stolid silence. " Wouldn't you like to see her in 
 pretty dresses riding behind fine horses, or in her 
 own house, which is very much prettier than Cap- 
 tain Mills's?" 
 
 " Yes ; I wouldn't mind that," relented Tillie. 
 " But I don't want her to git married." 
 
 " And wouldn't you like to go with her to the 
 sea-side, and have a little bathing-suit, and take 
 baths, and watch all the great people from the 
 cities in gorgeous dresses, and have a pony and 
 carriage of your own a wee pony so little you 
 could climb on him from the ground ?" 
 
 "Yes; I wouldn't mind that," admitted Tillie, 
 with a deep breath. " But she won't like me any 
 more." 
 
 " She will love you more dearly than ever ; she 
 will have more time to be with you. You may go 
 with her through her school course ; and when-
 
 TILLIE, n3 
 
 ever I send Tamsin a gift there will be one for her 
 little sister with it." 
 
 " He's a rich man," said the old father, nodding 
 to Tillie with emphasis. 
 
 The child kindled with anticipations : " And 
 will you git mammy a new coffee-pot ? The old 
 one leaks all over the stove." 
 
 " Sh !" hissed Sarah Jane, while the mother 
 wiped her eyes and laughed weakly. 
 
 " Certainly," said Craque-o'-Doom. " Ask her 
 to accept this as a present from Tamsin." He took 
 from his breast-pocket a large sealed envelope, in 
 which, before starting, he had placed a pile of 
 bank-bills with a confused desire to do something 
 for Tamsin's relatives and a fear that he could not 
 do it delicately. 
 
 Tillie approached a step nearer and took hold 
 of the envelope : " What's this here ?" 
 
 " Something which Tamsin sends your mother." 
 
 Tillie felt of it. 
 
 " Give it over to me," said old Mr. Chenoworth, 
 extending his hand. The child obeyed him. His 
 tone and his greedy motion repelled the dwarf. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom descended from his chair with 
 his hat in his hand. He did not want to see the 
 old man pry into the envelope. A sudden shudder 
 ran through him. They were all so indifferent; it 
 was like barter and sale. " Tamsin will return 
 home," he said ; " I will send her down in my
 
 CRAQUE-O-DOOM. 
 
 vehicle. I would like to have the the ceremony 
 take place two days from this time. She can make 
 any arrangements she pleases." 
 
 " I s'pose it's all right," repeated Mr. Cheno- 
 worth monotonously, rubbing and gripping the 
 envelope. He was embarrassed, but quite uncon- 
 scious of behaving in a singular manner. The 
 deformed man magnetized and overpowered him. 
 
 " She ought to be thankful the longest day she 
 lives for such a chance !" burst from Sarah Jane's 
 fountain of general injuries. " But Tamsin never 
 will : she's too big-feelin' !" 
 
 The dwarf had already reached the door. He 
 bowed himself out, apparently not hearing this 
 remark. Tillie followed. 
 
 " I don't call it much of a chance," growled 
 Arter, lifting himself after the door closed, "her 
 gittin' married to a little bit of a critter all shut up 
 together like that." 
 
 "She wouldn't have you, Arter, nohow," said 
 the old man with a hard-featured smile as he ran 
 his forefinger under the flap of the envelope. 
 
 " How much is it, daddy ?" inquired Sarah Jane. 
 She brought the baby and stood by him. Arter 
 looked on with clogged interest ; the mother left 
 her mending and approached. They counted the 
 rustling notes. 
 
 " As much as three hundred dollars !" said Sarah 
 Jane. "Tarn can have everything heart can wish,
 
 TIL LIE. n$ 
 
 an' me a-slavin' around, and this cross young-one 
 Shut up, or I'll slap ye good !" 
 
 " Tisn't the poor baby's fault that it's here, 
 Sary Jane," remonstrated her mother with plain- 
 tive resentment. 
 
 " I don't care," said Sarah Jane, crying ; " it's 
 somebody's fault that I have things so hard and 
 Tam has 'em so easy !" 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom had just leaned back in his 
 carriage, conscious that heads were staring from all 
 the little houses around, feeling an odd sickness 
 at heart, and convinced that Tatnsin Chenoworth 
 could scarcely fall into poorer hands than those 
 from which he was taking her, when a voice called 
 to him. He looked out of the coupe-window and 
 saw Tillie sitting on the gate-post. The driver 
 started. " Wait a minute," said Craque-o'-Doom. 
 
 " I said I'd thought it over," repeated Tillie, 
 " and I don't want none o' them things. I just 
 want Tamsin. I think more o' her ner anything 
 else. Ye can't have her."" 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom laughed, feeling his breath 
 come more freely. He threw a kiss at the tallow- 
 colored child as his vehicle started. 
 
 " Ph !" blew Tillie, dabbing her hand at him in 
 a resentful fashion. " You quit throwin' your old 
 kisses at me : I won't have 'em. Tamsin's my 
 sister; she ain't yours. And you can't git her 
 for kisses, neither: so you stop your old self."
 
 1 1 6 CRA Q UE- CT-DO OM. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE ODD PRELIMINARY. 
 
 PERHAPS there never was a more wretched day 
 than the one appointed for solemnizing the tie 
 which Craque-o'-Doom had called " that odd pre- 
 liminary." Mud and sky seemed longing to meet, 
 and a driving rain did its best to create such a 
 union. Smoke and draggling cloud could not be 
 distinguished. Farmers coming to the village on 
 loaded wagons were obliged to turn out of the 
 impassable roads and open ways through sodden 
 fields. The Hill-house party, having prolonged 
 their stay from a sympathetic curiosity in the 
 dwarfs wedding, were to be carried with him to 
 the railroad-station that day, a nearly impos- 
 sible journey had not the railroad intersected the 
 pike. 
 
 Of course Tamsin's preparations were small. 
 
 " If you will be so kind," said Craque-o'-Doom 
 to Rhoda, " as to take her in charge and buy her 
 a full outfit when we reach the city, I shall be 
 under further obligations." 
 
 " Don't feel distressed about any obligations," 
 urged Miss Jones : " there's nothing I delight in
 
 THE ODD PRELIMINARY. 
 
 117 
 
 more than spending money. I never had much 
 of my own to spend, and I take a savage joy in 
 getting hold of other people's and disbursing it. 
 I know just what Tamsin wants, she wants pretty 
 nearly everything, poor child ! and you may rely 
 on me to choose it for her." 
 
 Jennie and Louise convened in Rhoda's room, 
 and were anxious to do something for the bride. 
 
 " I never heard of such a match," declared Jen- 
 nie ; " but of course it's a great thing for her. Aunt 
 Sally says her sisters turned out badly : I hope 
 nothing'll happen to disappoint the poor girl. Do 
 you suppose she likes him?" 
 
 Louise shook her head very positively : " He 
 isn't bad-looking in the face, but oh. my, Jen! just 
 think of walking into church with a man whose 
 head wouldn't reach the top of the pews, and 
 everybody staring at you ! Would any amo,unt 
 of money make you do it? He can't dance. 
 She'll have to pay some attention to him. If I had 
 to sit at home alone with him and look at him a 
 whole evening, I should go out of my senses." 
 
 " So should I. But Cousin Tom is so mad 
 about it! He seems to think Mr. Craque-o'- 
 Doom, or whatever his name is, could marry a 
 princess if he wanted to. I wonder if he'll get 
 her diamonds? Oh, wouldn't she be in luck if 
 he'd die and leave her a rich widow while she's at 
 school ! It must be splendid to be a young widow
 
 I i g CRA Q UE- a -DO OM. 
 
 with lots of money! Widows are so much more 
 independent than girls." 
 
 " Well, there's nothing sentimental in that," re- 
 marked Rhoda: "still, I don't quite approve of it. 
 But you needn't go to overhauling your wardrobes. 
 We're not to sew for lamsin or bestow anything 
 upon her: she's to wear a long cloak over her red- 
 and-black dress, a felt hat, and some gloves. They're 
 my things ; and I have to take them back when she 
 gets her outfit." 
 
 " Won't she make a funny - looking bride ?" 
 mused Jennie. 
 
 " Poor child ! She's going into the care of a 
 good guardian, rather than getting married. I 
 don't think of her as a bride, but as an adopted 
 orphan starting to boarding-school." 
 
 " It's funny to watch Aunt Sally since this busi- 
 ness came on the carpet," laughed Jennie : " she's 
 so puzzled, and so kind. She doesn't know how 
 to treat Tamsin, and she looks at that little man 
 as if he were a frog going to lap in a fly and she 
 ought to drive him ofif." 
 
 Tamsin had gone home the day before her wed- 
 ding. About dusk Craque-o'-Doom drove to her 
 father's gate, but before he could alight she came 
 running out wrapped in her old faded shawl. 
 " Don't come in," she said at the carriage-door, 
 without assigning any reason for the request. Her 
 eyelids looked dark and swollen
 
 THE ODD PRELIMINARY. 
 
 " Get in the carriage, then," said he. " You 
 must not stand with the rain drizzling on you." 
 
 " I can't," said Tamsin ; " I must go straight 
 back." 
 
 With some authority he turned down the step 
 and drew her to a seat. She leaned back opposite 
 him. " I merely came to see if there was anything 
 else for me to attend to," said Craque-o'-Doom. " Is 
 there ?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Tamsin. Her throat 
 swelled, and the exclamation seemed to burst 
 from it: "Tillie can't go!" 
 
 " Can't go with you ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " They won't let her. They say she mustn't 
 leave home." She hid her face under a corner 
 of her shawl. 
 
 The dwarf's hands trembled ; but he locked 
 them together: "Poor child! that is a bitter dis- 
 appointment to you." 
 
 " I've never been away from Tillie." 
 
 He meditated in deep disquiet : " But they will 
 let her come to you often ?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " At any rate, you can come to see her as much 
 as you wish." After an instant he added, " Will 
 this make any difference about your going, my 
 child? It is not too late to drawback yet; a
 
 12 Q CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 young girl may change her mind at the last min- 
 ute in such an important step. Speak out." 
 
 Tamsin put down her shawl. " No, it won't 
 make any difference," she said. 
 
 The dwarf gripped his hands together. 
 
 She descended the step to go into the house, he 
 helping her. The old shawl caught on a projec- 
 tion, and while he was loosening it he broke a bit 
 of the fringe off: this he clutched under his nails 
 into his palm. " I shall come for you at ten in the 
 morning," said he. 
 
 At ten on that dark, ugly wedding-day, there- 
 fore, the coupe stood at Chenoworth's gate, and 
 Tom and Rhoda dismounted with Craque-o'- 
 Doom. The neighborhood was agog. 
 
 Within, the preacher then stationed with Barnet 
 Methodist Church waited the bridegroom's party. 
 The room had been cleaned ; a pleasant odor of 
 coffee came from the kitchen. Sarah Jane con- 
 ducted the party into the single other apartment to 
 lay off their wrappings on a bed where her baby 
 was asleep. Tamsin sat here, away from the fire, 
 holding Tillie on her lap. The child's face was 
 hid in Tamsin's neck. When Craque-o'-Doom 
 approached them the little one looked up and 
 kicked backward viciously at him. 
 
 Captain Mills made an uneasy attempt to be 
 pleasant with old Mr. Chenoworth, who had shaved 
 and looked more cured about the skin than ever.
 
 THE ODD PRELIMINARY. I2 1 
 
 in spite of some bleeding cuts. The mother had 
 a clean white cloth folded kerchief-wise about 
 her shoulders ; Mary and her half-dozen squalid 
 children were there, sitting in a sallow row, all 
 alike excepting in size ; Arter peeped in from the 
 kitchen, scowling at everything he saw. The dom- 
 icile had taken on a very perceptible air of im- 
 portance : everybody in the street knew that Tarn- 
 sin was marrying a man rolling in wealth. Some 
 neighbors reprehended the match : they would not 
 on any account see their daughters tied to such a 
 sight as that dwarf. Others hoped Tamsin might 
 never come to grief for jumping at money that 
 way : Mary and Sarah Jane had both had their 
 come-downs : Tamsin wasn't the first Chenoworth 
 that left the family to do better and had to come 
 back to it. 
 
 There was a gang of her kindred in the kitchen, 
 collected to eat at the wedding-feast, but not on 
 any account would they show themselves to the 
 fine people, though their noses and eyes lined the 
 door-crack to get a glimpse of the dwarf. 
 
 "They're waitin' on ye, Tamsin," said Mrs. 
 Chenoworth, looking into the bedroom. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom stood at a front window, but 
 on hearing this he approached. The girl put her 
 sister down. Tillie turned her face to the wall, 
 and refused to look. 
 
 The two went into the general room, where the 
 
 F II
 
 j 2 2 CRA Q UE- O'-DO OM. 
 
 minister stood, and Tom and Rhoda were ner- 
 vously trying to converse, while Mary jerked her 
 sharp, haggard face at her whispering offspring 
 and motioned the yellow cousin she had married 
 back into the kitchen. 
 
 Tom turned his face away from the pair when 
 they were seated side by side : this unusual posi- 
 tion was an accident. Tamsin sank into a chair, 
 and Craque-o'-Doom took his place near her. 
 When the ceremony was finished, Rhoda inter- 
 vened between the bride and a rather pompous 
 parade of congratulations from her friends. Coffee 
 and some other refreshments came in, served in a 
 glaring new set of stone-ware china, interspersed 
 among which was a cracked plate or two of the 
 old stock. 
 
 Then Tamsin had her wraps on. She was not 
 troubled with luggage. She shook hands with all 
 her people, the women kissing her and Mrs. 
 Chenoworth wiping her own eyes with a plaintive 
 gesture. None of them approached Craque-o'- 
 Doom. Tillie made a plunge, and was held to the 
 poor bride's breast until her wail ings were some- 
 what quieted. She took refuge with her mother, 
 and the party drove away. 
 
 Tom Mills had insisted on giving them a second 
 breakfast at his house, but there was only time to 
 reach the station in good season for the train. 
 Jennie and Louise, who were waiting at home, saw
 
 THE ODD PRELIMINARY. 
 
 123 
 
 the carriage wallow out of the by-road and turn 
 east on the turnpike, and, somewhat disappointed, 
 hastened their own preparations for departure. 
 Neal drove the Mills carriage on the sweep, and 
 they embraced Aunt Sally in farewell. The old 
 lady looked sadly through her glasses at such a 
 wedding-day, but she did not neglect, at the last 
 moment, to tuck two or three Banners of Light 
 into the girls' lunch-basket. 
 
 Both carriages arrived at the station in a pour 
 from the trailing skies. There was no awkward 
 waiting about, for the train came just as the party 
 got their tickets and checks ready. 
 
 Tom stood on the platform under an umbrella 
 after he had helped the girls embark and taken 
 charge of Craque-o'-Doom's horse and carriage, 
 which the driver was to bring with him in a car 
 chartered for that purpose, attached to a train 
 which followed this one. 
 
 They were all seated in the parlor-car. The 
 dwarf waved his hand as he glided past, and Tom 
 stood looking after him, saying aloud, " Poor, 
 poor, poor fellow !"
 
 ! 24 CRAQUE- W-DOOM. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " BUT AFTERWARD." 
 
 IT was ten o'clock on the next night but one 
 when Rhoda Jones led her charge to their joint 
 sleeping-room in a hotel. They had been travel- 
 ling a day and a night. Louise Latta and Jennie 
 Mills left the party at a certain junction to take 
 their own road homeward, which was very short. 
 They escaped the all-night smothering in poorly- 
 ventilated berths, though they breathed a couple 
 of sighs in losing sight of Rhoda and Tamsin and 
 the dwarf and the parlor-car. 
 
 Tamsin paused in front of the open fire, a very 
 special apartment had been prepared for them, 
 but Rhoda moved briskly around, taking off her 
 wraps and opening her travelling-bags. She got 
 out two dressing-sacks covered with little tabs of 
 ribbon and lace, and, having made herself as cosey 
 as possible, took the silent girl in hand. " You're 
 fearfully tired," said Rhoda. 
 
 Tamsin looked dazed. 
 
 " Now shake yourself a little, and come here to 
 this wash-stand and get a few of the cinders out of 
 your ears, and put on this sack. You don't know
 
 "BUT AFTERWARD." 
 
 125 
 
 how it will freshen you up. The private supper 
 Mr. Sutton ordered will be served in our parlor 
 pretty soon." 
 
 " I ain't hungry," murmured Tamsin. 
 
 " Aren't you ? I am, ferociously." Rhoda 
 was unwrapping and doing her up in the dressing- 
 sack while she talked. It was a cream-colored 
 fabric, and instantly improved on the effect pro- 
 duced by the poor bride's scarlet waist. 
 
 "Tamsin," said Miss Jones positively, "you're 
 going to make a striking woman. I never saw 
 any one change with clothes as you do. Oh, 
 shan't we have you looking delightful ! You can 
 have things a little bit nicer than most school- 
 girls, on account of your position, and in a little 
 while you will learn to demand this or that as your 
 irreversible right. How adaptable human beings 
 are ! Does this roar and tumult confuse you ?" 
 
 " I think it does, some." 
 
 " Well, you'll get over that, and love a city as 
 much as I do." 
 
 " I think I should like it." 
 
 " Certainly. We'll take a carriage and shop for 
 dear life for you all this week." 
 
 The private supper was served up very soon. 
 Craque-o'-Doom was so good a traveller that his 
 short bridal trip had produced little effect on him. 
 He was merry with Rhoda. Tamsin sat straight 
 and frightened in her chair, picking up bits of 
 u*
 
 1 26 CRAQUE- ff -DOOM. 
 
 strange sumptuous food as if she could not hazard 
 swallowing. The dwarf watched her with quick 
 sweeping looks. 
 
 " She is very tired," said Rhoda. " All this ex- 
 perience is so strange to her." 
 
 " You must both sleep late in the morning," he 
 replied. " My man will arrive with the carriage 
 some time to-night : he had a telegram ready for 
 me here. The carriage will be at your disposal 
 as soon as you want it." 
 
 " Oh," exclaimed Miss Jones in ecstasy, " I am 
 more than compensated for having to be content 
 with a slim outfit when / get married. Tamsin, 
 the next time you do your spring shopping you 
 will snub my memory, for I am going to be such 
 a despot !" 
 
 The dwarf bade them good-night when they 
 rose to go back to their room. He got down 
 from his chair and bowed to Rhoda. Then he 
 took Tamsin's hand and kissed it. She stood like 
 a statue. Rhoda saw the wistful, dog-like loyalty 
 of his eyes as he lifted them to the slim-figured 
 girl, but she did not observe any tremor run 
 through that figure. " Is there anything " he 
 inquired, hesitating to finish the sentence. " Are 
 you feeling well, my child ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied the low voice. 
 
 " Tell me what it is," he persisted. 
 
 Rhoda withdrew and closed the door after her.
 
 't/T AFTERWARD? 
 
 127 
 
 The dwarf drew his wife toward a chair. She 
 sat down trembling, with one hand locked tight 
 over the other. Her eyes were fixed on the floor; 
 a full tear slid from each and coursed over her 
 face. 
 
 " My little one," said the man, with the anguish 
 of a mother in his voice, " are you wretched ? Oh, 
 I cannot bear that ! I will go out of the hotel to 
 some other place. You regret it, don't you ?" He 
 spoke this with a downward affirmative accent. 
 
 " No," said Tamsin, hurriedly. She managed 
 to raise her swimming eyes and encounter his. 
 " It's Tillie." 
 
 With a cautious and delicate gesture he took up 
 her right hand and began to smooth and pat it : 
 " Are you afraid she is ill ? You want your sister, 
 poor child !" 
 
 " It's strange being so far from Tillie," she mur- 
 mured, making her muscles tense in her efforts to 
 regain composure. 
 
 " If I could bring her to you this instant you 
 should have her. Don't hate me for making you 
 so lonely, will you ?" 
 
 Tamsin looked down at the light-expanded face. 
 Then her eyes sought the floor, and the flush 
 under her skin appeared for an instant. She be- 
 came quiet, and Craque-o'-Doom scarcely noticed 
 that she made no reply to his appeal. " I'll send 
 a telegram to Captain Mills," he proposed, " be-
 
 128 CRAQUE-<y-DOOM. 
 
 fore I go to bed, and early to-morrow you can 
 have news direct from Tillie. You go to bed and 
 sleep soundly. Trust me to look after your happi- 
 ness a little." 
 
 He led her to her room-door, and put her inside 
 with another " good-night." It was she who was 
 protected and led, though she towered above him so. 
 
 Rhoda had already sat down to toast her slip- 
 pers: she motioned Tamsin to draw to the hearth. 
 Tamsin sat down. So wide was the gap between 
 her present and past life that it did not seem 
 strange to be sitting on terms of perfect equality 
 with a woman who but a short time ago had 
 seemed so far above her. 
 
 " That man is a gentleman, if there ever was one 
 on this earth !" exclaimed Rhoda. " Tamsin, 
 you're the luckiest girl I ever saw ; and the world 
 has been perused by me considerably, my dear. I 
 know it has hard, hideous, inhuman aspects which 
 no amount of philosophy can gloss over. It very 
 seldom turns out that Fortune is so kind to those 
 thrown completely on her mercy. Mr. Sutton 
 knows more than you or I can ever grasp ; yet see 
 how modest he is. I do hope you'll make him 
 happy." 
 
 Tamsin sat with her hands locked. 
 
 " Of course your first duty is to make the very 
 most and best of your school advantages ; which 
 I know you'll do. And I want to give you a hint.
 
 AFTERWARD? 
 
 I2 9 
 
 You're so very quiet there'll be plenty of girls who 
 will try to run over you : don't you allow it first 
 or last. Assert yourself. With so many blessings, 
 all you have to do is to hold your own. But at 
 the same time, Tamsin, if you would try to make 
 yourself popular, you know, friendly among the 
 girls, you'll get along much better, and it will be 
 pleasanter for you than if you are too reserved. 
 Well, I didn't intend to give you a lecture. The 
 position of duenna seems naturally to fit me." 
 Rhoda laughed and shifted her feet. " When / 
 started to boarding-school I was a skinny, shabby 
 orphan ; my dresses were calico or cheap delaine ; 
 these abundant locks were shingled close to my 
 skull. I must have looked like a resolute death's- 
 head or a knowledge-smitten scarecrow. I taught 
 some of the primary fry and let it go on my own 
 tuition : this contributed to age me. When spring 
 and commencement fever came, my agony was 
 dreadful. Ah ! the poor little short stories I wrote ' 
 at dead of night by a smoky lamp while my room- 
 mate snored, the heart-beats with which I sent 
 them off" in hopes of raising cash for a cheap 
 spring outfit, the despair with which I received 
 half or two-thirds of them back and saw my out- 
 fit dwindle to a pair of shoes and a hat !" Rhoda 
 unloosened her hair and pulled it down around 
 her half exultantly. " Slowly, slowly I had to 
 conquer all these things. Even youth and passa-
 
 CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 ble good looks never came to me until I was more 
 than twenty-five. Who was there except mysell 
 to have a vital interest in my success or failure? 
 Nobody. That skinny waif might have died and 
 only a few kind strangers would have moistened 
 her with a tear. I think it has made me very prac- 
 tical : I used to be no end of sentimental. But my 
 Will has grown so it has to be spelled with a cap- 
 ital W, and I have a confidence in myself which 
 must seem dreadful to you. The world is all be- 
 fore me now. At an age when most women 
 are buried in family cares I shall go sailing into 
 broader life a princess ; the way will expand, ex- 
 pand, expand. But you, Tamsin, see how much 
 happier is your lot. In the dawn of your girlhood, 
 just as you have begun to feel the edge of circum- 
 stance and necessity, here comes a kind and pow- 
 erful guardian, who will lift you over everything 
 which hurt and hardened me, who will be sunshine 
 and rain, earth and air, to bring you into blossom ; 
 and he asks nothing but the privilege of taking 
 care of you." 
 
 Tamsin got up and walked across the room. 
 Rhoda turned to look after her : " Am I worry 
 ing you, my dear? We must go to bed." 
 
 " I heard you talking," said Tamsin, wheeling 
 and coming back, " the first evening at Mills's." 
 She stretched her arms straight down before her 
 with the fingers locked. Her face had an unusual
 
 "BUT AFTERWARD." j^l 
 
 pallor which seemed the culmination of a paleness 
 of several days' growth. 
 
 " The first evening?" repeated Rhoda, puzzled. 
 "What was I saying? Some nonsense to the 
 girls, probably." 
 
 " It was to them, about getting married." 
 
 " Oh !" said Rhoda, with a sensation like a sting, 
 though that puzzled her also. " Did I say any- 
 thing which stayed in your mind afterward, Tam- 
 sin?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, it wasn't very silly, whatever it was. I 
 will uphold my own tenets." 
 
 " I thought at first " pursued Tamsin, hesitat- 
 ing. Then she took another tack : " It was about 
 money." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I remember. Where were you ?" 
 
 " In the other room. And I sort of made up 
 my mind. But afterward -" She broke off there, 
 as if there were no open communication between 
 herself and Rhoda or what she had begun to say 
 would not bear telling. 
 
 " Well, what afterward ? Upon my word ! is 
 that you sobbing ?" Rhoda sprang up and ran to 
 her as she turned her back. " Tamsin, this will 
 never do. You must get into bed this moment. 
 Poor girl ! you are worn out with excitement and 
 travel. In the morning it will be very different 
 with you."
 
 CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 "ARE YOU HAPPIER NOW?" 
 
 IN the morning it was very different with her. 
 The wondrous advantages of her position began to 
 unfold themselves to Tamsin. In the first place, 
 with the very late breakfast came in a telegram 
 from Captain Mills, stating that Tillie was evi- 
 dently in better health than usual : she was at the 
 Hill-house, while Tom telegraphed, showing with 
 satisfaction a fine large doll Tamsin had left to 
 console her. 
 
 " Why, I didn't leave her any doll !" murmured 
 Tamsin to Rhoda. She was beaming with a new 
 sense of power and conquest over time and space. 
 
 " Don't you see he did it ?" exclaimed Rhoda 
 between her sips of coffee. " He got the biggest 
 wax baby Barnet afforded, and had me send it to 
 your mother in your name. I do adore considera- 
 tion in little things : it's much likelier to produce 
 happiness than this everlasting silly cooing, ' Do 
 you love me better than anybody else ?' Give me 
 the man who will look after my comfort and heart's 
 ease. Instead of talking vapor, people about to 
 marry ought to attend to substance, and ask sen-
 
 "ARE YOU HAPPIER NOW?" 
 
 133 
 
 sibly, 'Are you certain you can always support me 
 in comfort?' and, ' Do you require as much society 
 as I do ?' ' What are your views about a wife's 
 regular allowance ?' ' Is your temper surly or 
 quick ?' ' What do you like to eat ?' and, ' How 
 many poor relations have you that will expect 
 assistance?' A fair understanding on all such 
 points will give the firmest of foundations for 
 mutual good will." 
 
 Tamsin heard with a slight tinge under the skin, 
 and Rhoda ceased suddenly, reflecting that the 
 clause about poor relations was rather ill-timed. 
 She was surprised that she did not get on to 
 greater intimacy with Tamsin. Docile as the girl 
 appeared, she was insulated behind a barrier which 
 Rhoda could not pierce. 
 
 When they dressed for their shopping-tour, 
 Tamsin seemed passively grateful for the little ex- 
 tra touches Rhoda bestowed upon her, but her reti- 
 cence never quite disappeared. Before the day 
 was over, however, an unusual exhilaration grew 
 in her. 
 
 " Now, this is New York," said Rhoda, as their 
 coupe turned away from the hotel. " Isn't it im- 
 mense ? The roar and glory always raise me to 
 the seventh heaven. You'll have to find it all 
 out by degrees. As you're to go to school and 
 have your future home in and about the city, I 
 shan't waste my breath describing things to you
 
 134 CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 
 
 that you'll soon know as well as I do. At pres- 
 ent our interests lie in the direction of shopping; 
 and we can get anything under the sun in New 
 York, and have I dare not say how many hun- 
 dred dollars in this pocket to do it with. Oh, 
 shan't we be bowed to and worshipped to-day ? 
 Won't the clerks run out with bundles to our 
 carriage and hold the door open ? the very 
 wretches who have lorded it over me when I 
 meekly purchased of them a few scant yards of 
 cashmere." 
 
 As Rhoda had to buy material for her own out- 
 fit as well as Tamsin's, the task occupied them full 
 a week. During this time, at the dwari's urgent 
 request, Miss Jones stayed at the hotel as one of 
 his party, to be Tamsin's companion, instead of 
 returning to her boarding-house. Tamsin was 
 gloved, booted, slippered ; women were constantly 
 bringing her things to try on ; she was driving o'ut 
 to be fitted ; and presently, as if by magic, she 
 found herself in a dull bronze suit of silk so rich 
 and soft the mere touch of it delighted her, with 
 nothing to relieve the shade in hat, gloves, or wrap 
 except a bunch of red roses close by her neck. 
 She saw herself in one of the many mirrors with 
 which the hotel increased and reflected its mag- 
 nificence. Her black eyes scintillated in a face 
 which was slowly to lose the dulness of its pallor 
 and grow transparent. Hot baths, abundant food,
 
 "ARE YOU II APPIER NOW?" ^5 
 
 and exhilaration were changing her, and she recog- 
 nized it when she saw herself dressed. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom drove with the girls, after the 
 first fury of their shopping was over, and showed 
 Tamsin wonders which she had never dreamed of 
 in her previous life. Sometimes her mind reeled 
 dizzily, had she ever been that miserable girl in 
 Barnet? and again, in the midst of a keen de- 
 light, a pang struck through her breast that she 
 should enjoy so much while Tillie lived like a clod. 
 She saw one play : this was a few evenings before 
 she entered school and began the serious business 
 of improvement. It was the dwarf's good fortune 
 to be able to present first to her imagination Neil- 
 son's matchless Juliet. They took a box. Craque- 
 o'-Doom had never been able to meet the gaze of 
 a large assembly of people in the body of the thea- 
 tre. He sat behind the two girls, smiling to him- 
 self at Tamsin's quiet excitement. She had already 
 a well-bred air. Rhoda had initiated her into some 
 style of hair-dressing which made her head a 
 pretty study. She looked back occasionally at 
 Craque-o'-Doom, parting her lips with a smile at 
 once timid and grateful. 
 
 " Are you a little happier now ?" he inquired. 
 
 " Yes," replied Tamsin. She turned immedi- 
 ately to watch the great curtain which still shut 
 away from her an unknown world. The house 
 was crowded; the gas-lights were multiplied by
 
 CRAQUE-CT-DOOM. 
 
 mirrors and prisms; the perfume from her own 
 drapery filled her with dreamy delight. How 
 many beautiful and grand people there were in the 
 world ! Rhoda saw acquaintances to whom she 
 bowed. A little bell rang ; the orchestra, almost 
 at her feet, startled her with a blare of music. 
 What it was, and why they played it, she did not 
 know, but it stormed her heart : she trembled with 
 positive rapture. Then the great curtain began to 
 rise. She watched that miracle until voices re- 
 called her eyes, and, behold ! on the stage there 
 were two women, a lady and her servant, 
 dressed in some queer fashion which made both 
 stately. And in a short time there came running 
 in one of the loveliest women this earth has ever 
 borne, whose crimson mouth seemed strangely 
 made of ripples or scallops. The people made 
 thunder with their hands, for this was Neilson. 
 Tamsin now seemed to live in the body of this 
 fair woman. She loved with her, despaired with 
 her, hung over the morning balcony after her de- 
 parting husband with her, and died and was laid in 
 the Capulets' tomb. She did not know it was over, 
 and believed there must be a better ending, when 
 Craque-o'-Doom was reaching to fold her wraps 
 around her. She turned her swimming eyes to his. 
 " My dear !" he whispered. The crowd in the 
 theatre was surging out, and one or two lights 
 were shut off " We will read the play together
 
 "ARE YOU HAPPIER NOW?" 
 
 137 
 
 some time," he added more quietly. " Has it 
 made you feel unhappy ?" 
 
 " No," said Tamsin, " not that. I'm glad I saw 
 it." She was not excited to chatter as they drove 
 back to the hotel ; she did not say it was splendid 
 or perfectly gorgeous : Tamsin always had more 
 thoughts than words. 
 
 Rhoda was heartily enthusiastic over the Juliet, 
 but she had a great many absurd things to say 
 about Capulet's ball and the red-and-green ladies 
 who danced the minuet in back ranks : " The poor 
 wretches always get themselves up in segments 
 of glaring colors ; at the very best they look like 
 figures heaped out of strawberry, pistache, and 
 lemon ice-creams. Their trains don't train right; 
 and how insolent the star's perfection seems, throw- 
 ing their poor defects into such prominence ! A 
 real poor stock actress or actor must have the sad- 
 dest life on earth, I mean one without any talent 
 for rising. Imagine that tawdry flock going off 
 the stage into the wings : they pick up their sorry 
 trains ; no maid waits for them ; that thunder of 
 applause is for the star. The public must seem a 
 many-headed monster ; and the wind is so cold in 
 the wings, the tackle and pulleys overhead so 
 ghastly !" 
 
 " But, on the other hand, look at the triumph 
 of such a Juliet," said Craque-o'-Doom : " she is 
 the actual moist flame that Shakespeare presents 
 12*
 
 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 to our imagination. We do not want to see her 
 in any other shape." 
 
 "That's just it: her one triumph is the defeat 
 of a thousand others. And the world doesn't care 
 a straw for people who fail or make a sorry fight 
 of it, in any place. Come to that, we're all down- 
 right savages at heart : whoever can get ahead of 
 us becomes our idol and chief; whoever happens 
 to fall underfoot we do not scruple to tramp on. 
 If he doesn't like it, he hasn't any business to 
 stay there." 
 
 " Fortunately, you are not as fierce as your 
 philosophy, Miss Rhoda." 
 
 " It isn't my philosophy ; it's my observation : 
 facts are facts." 
 
 Tamsin looked out of the window as their car- 
 riage moved between two rows of gigantic build- 
 ings. She was in a luxurious position : what 
 Rhoda Jones said sounded like a painful truth 
 which she had known in some former world. 
 
 During all this time that Tamsin was being pre- 
 pared for school, the school was being selected 
 and prepared for her. To the lady-principal Tarn- 
 sin's position and characteristics were explained. 
 It was considered best by all parties that she 
 should enter school as Tamsin Sutton, a young 
 girl under the care of a guardian, since she was 
 nothing more, and it was neither necessary nor
 
 "ARE YOU HAPPIER NOW? 
 
 139 
 
 advisable to explain her true relation to Mr. Sutton 
 to a couple of hundred young ladies from all parts 
 of the country. Tamsin herself was not likely to 
 make confidences. 
 
 " Unless she falls desperately in love with some 
 class-mate," said Rhoda to Craque-o'-Doom, " her 
 reserve will be pierced by nobody. I think she 
 likes me very much ; still, she has never poured 
 any confidences into my ear." 
 
 The dwarf paled a very little : " But there is no 
 danger of that sort of thing. The pupils are all 
 young ladies." 
 
 " Oh, well, that's what I mean, of course. Girls 
 sometimes have desperate sentiments for each 
 other, and bill and coo, and die of jealousy, and 
 go through all the nonsense. I fell in love with 
 the gymnastic teacher when I was at boarding- 
 school. She was the.homeliest and leanest French- 
 woman you ever saw, and, as I was very miserable 
 anyhow, I contrived to howl myself into quite a 
 frenzy whenever I fell the least under her dis- 
 pleasure. It's in many young girls to take such 
 morbid fancies ; and there's really no great harm 
 about it. It's only their modest, roundabout way 
 of worshipping man ; they are reprehended for 
 thinking about him while at school, so they adore 
 his reflected and refined image." 
 
 " I don't think I should like it in this child's 
 case," said Craque-o'-Doom.
 
 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 " She mayn't be of the doting sort at all. So.ne- 
 times I think she is a person who will have only 
 one or two strong affections in her life. But she's 
 so young yet : you can't tell what she will be." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FURTHER ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 THE day before Tamsin entered school, Craque- 
 o'-Doom drove her out in the afternoon with no 
 companion besides himself. He sat opposite to 
 her in the coupe, glancing over her figure occa- 
 sionally. She was his study. His expressive 
 eyes brightened or gloomed when he fixed them 
 on her. Wherever he was seated now, the Persian 
 drapery trailed from his lap : once he had seen 
 her look at his feet. 
 
 Tamsin did not know where they were going. 
 Each day of her life was now a new pleasure. 
 She was about to enjoy something, and leaned 
 back in quiet anticipation. 
 
 " Would you like to pick up a few little things 
 for Tillie ?" he inquired. 
 
 " For Tillie ?" Radiance appeared to stream 
 from her face and fall across his eyes. " I wrote
 
 FURTHER ACQUAINTANCE. \^\ 
 
 her a letter," she continued in a tremulous, eager 
 way which was so confiding that the dwarfs heart 
 swelled within him ; " I told her how I was getting 
 along. She would like it so much." 
 
 " I wish she could be with you. But the next 
 best thing is to send her something. Here !" 
 Craque-o'-Doom signalled to his man to stop. 
 " I believe this is a place where you can get made- 
 up knick-knacks for little girls. Are you afraid to 
 go in alone and buy?" He took a porte-monnaie 
 from his breast-pocket and transferred it to her 
 hand. 
 
 No; Tamsin had grown bold during her shop- 
 ping experience. She had been treated obse- 
 quiously : what was there to be afraid of? Craque- 
 o'-Doom waited for her in the carriage. She 
 appreciated silently his kindness in letting her 
 shop unassisted for Tillie. She knew what to 
 buy. Presently the packages came pouring out, 
 large and small, round and square. In due time 
 came Tamsin herself, in a still, white transport 
 of joy. 
 
 " Have you got everything you want here ?" in- 
 quired Craque-o'-Doom. 
 
 " Yes." As they drove on she looked up at him 
 and broke the paper at the corner of one package. 
 " It's a blue wool sack : it ties with a ribbon under 
 her chin. I used to want one for her : she takes 
 cold so easy."
 
 I4 2 CRAQUE-CP-DOOM. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom admired the sack, and she went 
 on unfolding every purchase, until the merchan- 
 dise was piled all around them. There were dresses 
 of various kinds, undergarments, hosier)', handker- 
 chiefs, and even collarettes. 
 
 " Tillie would look nice," she continued, in an 
 eager maternal tone, " if she was dressed like the 
 little girls at the hotel." 
 
 " Of course she would," said Craque-o'-Doom. 
 " She looks nice anyhow." 
 
 Tamsin threw her eyes up at him with an abso- 
 lute sparkling ; her lips trembled. " You are good 
 to me," she said in a sort of explosive burst. 
 
 " Am I good to you ? I want to be, God 
 knows I do! Tamsin, will you promise me one 
 thing? Always tell me what is in your mind. 
 Don't keep any secret from me, will you, my 
 child ?" 
 
 She started, the color appearing under her skin, 
 but it died away, and she replied steadily, " No, 
 sir ; I will tell you everything." 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom drew a long free breath. He 
 looked over the confusion of dry-goods and paper. 
 " People may think we are peddling," said he ; 
 " but no matter. Now, don't you want shoes, and 
 gloves, and millinery, and such things ? And then 
 a fancy toy or two ?" 
 
 " I told her once," pursued Tamsin in a confiden- 
 tial strain which made his heart yearn over her, as
 
 FURTHER ACQUAINTANCE. 143 
 
 she smiled and refolded the blue sack, " that when 
 I got rich I'd give her fine shoes and everything 
 that heart could wish ; but I never thought then 
 And a 'cordion ! I told her I'd get her a 'cor- 
 dion." 
 
 The dwarf leaned against his cushion as if sud- 
 denly tired. Still, not one whit of interest de- 
 parted from his smile. " She must have them," he 
 said. "But we shall have to take a much longer 
 drive to find the accordion. We can have a box 
 packed and started by express to Tillie this very 
 evening." 
 
 Again the carriage was stopped, and again Tarn- 
 sin ran across the sidewalk to make purchases. 
 There was a girlish alertness and spring in her 
 gait which Craque-o'-Doom did not fail to mark, 
 yet he put one hand over his eyes and crouched 
 back as if he were hurt. " ' I told her when I got 
 rich/ " he repeated. " What's going to become of 
 me if she doesn't grow to like me ? I expect too 
 much." 
 
 Tamsin came out, followed by some delightful 
 shoes. There was a high-laced pair for every day, 
 and kid button boots for Sunday; also some soft 
 slippers, " for when she don't feel like going out- 
 doors, "said Tamsin, and substantial rubber boots: 
 " I never saw such things before ; but the man said 
 they would keep her from all damp, and she will 
 run out in wet weather."
 
 CRAQUE- a -DOOM. 
 
 " Would you like to get something for your 
 mother and father?" inquired the dwarf. " While 
 we are about it, we can pick up something for 
 them." 
 
 Tamsin considered ; her face grew heated. She 
 cast a piteous look at him, and said, as if con- 
 strained to speak so by her promise of confiding 
 everything to him, " Maybe we better, or they 
 might take Tillie's things from her." 
 
 "They wouldn't do that?" 
 
 Tamsin turned her head impressively from side 
 to side. " But you've give me so much," she 
 said. 
 
 " Very little, my dear. And, come to think of 
 it, there is something I have neglected to give you, 
 and which we must drive to Tiffany's for this very 
 afternoon. Miss Rhoda says a school-girl should 
 not have a great deal of jewelry ; but you were 
 married without a ring, and I have not given you 
 one yet." 
 
 He alighted from the carriage when they reached 
 the gorgeous shop, and made his way with Tam- 
 sin between passers-by. When people turned to 
 stare at him and direct each other's attention as to 
 a rare spider or a painted savage who could not 
 understand their language, he looked at Tamsin 
 with a quick, jealous sweep of the eye : the effect 
 on her was not discernible. 
 
 She stood beside Craque-o'-Doom when he was
 
 FURTHER ACQUAINTANCE. 145 
 
 mounted upon a chair, and pored over the array 
 of precious stones spread before them with a sen- 
 suous delight which he keenly noted : for the first 
 time in her life the diamond threw its glamour over 
 her eyes. She took her glove off, and he put a 
 blazing stone on her finger; the red hand which 
 recently was fit only for plunging into any rough 
 use already showed a fairer surface. 
 
 They drove home about dusk. Tamsin was in a 
 gale of delighted excitement. She could not eat 
 her dinner until all her purchases were fondled 
 over again, the accordion especially commended 
 to Rhoda's notice, and the whole boxed and 
 started on the road to Tillie. 
 
 " I never saw Tamsin in such rapture," said 
 Rhoda. 
 
 " She does seem happy," said Craque-o'-Doom. 
 He was sitting in a large chair, leaning his head 
 upon his hand. His eyes were of a paler gray 
 than usual, and looked bleached like ashes. 
 
 " Now you be careful of that magnificent soli- 
 taire," impressed Rhoda, shaking a finger at Tam- 
 sin. " Two or three dozen girls will want to try 
 it on or wear it a little while, or borrow it to 
 receive a call in. I never lost any solitaires while 
 I was at school, but I can foresee the danger of 
 it. It's something remarkable for a girl of your 
 age to possess." 
 
 Tamsin held one hand in the other and looked 
 o k 13
 
 CRAQUE-0-DOOM. 
 
 at it ; her glance then moved to the turquoise on 
 Rhoda's finger. Little as she knew of precious 
 stones, the difference was apparent to her. Her 
 face filled with a triumph which was really arro- 
 gant. "A little while ago," she said, punctuating 
 her sentences with the pauses peculiar to herself, 
 " I hadn't but one old dress." 
 
 " Don't!" exclaimed the dwarf, turning his head 
 aside. 
 
 Tamsin started. She turned her eyes upon him 
 with a glance which Rhoda saw, but he did not.
 
 "HE IS TALL." ^7 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 "HE is TALL." 
 
 WHEN Tamsin disappeared within the walls of 
 her boarding-school, Rhoda went over to Brook- 
 lyn, and was so busy that she called only once or 
 twice before her marriage. The first time she 
 called, Tamsin looked depressed and tired. On 
 the next occasion, however, she was found in good 
 spirits, eagerly interested in her studies. She had 
 been promoted in her classes : she was learning 
 music and French. " Isn't it strange the French 
 people talk that all the time?" said Tamsin. 
 " Mademoiselle got very mad at me because I 
 thought it was funny they had the Testament 
 printed in French." She was girlish and com- 
 municative. A shell comb was tipped in her hair 
 behind one ear, giving her a coquettish look. The 
 airs and blandishments of admiring school-mates 
 had evidently been added to her own manner. 
 
 " Your position is perfectly pleasant and easy, 
 isn't it?" demanded Miss Jones, twining a lock of 
 hair on the girl's forehead with matronly touch. 
 
 "Oh, yes! I am beginning algebra, and I can't 
 get it straight yet. Everything is nice : I feel like 
 I had always been here."
 
 CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 " You are improving, I can see. How often 
 does Mr. Sutton come ?" 
 
 " Twice a week, regular." 
 
 " Regularly," amended Rhoda. 
 
 " Regularly," accepted Tamsin without change 
 or shade. " And then other times he takes me 
 to ride. We go all through the Park on nice 
 days." 
 
 " Oh, you lucky girl, to have such life drop into 
 your hands, when I had to slave for so many 
 toughening years before my deliverer appeared ! 
 But, Tamsin, we expect to sail next week." 
 
 " Do you ? And are you going to have a big 
 wedding ?" 
 
 " On the contrary, the ceremony will be very 
 quietly performed at the house of a distant relative 
 of mine in Buffalo. Mr. Burns lives in Buffalo ; he 
 has only time to run up for me before the day set, 
 or I would let you see him. I sent an invitation 
 to Mr. Sutton, but he declined, for you and him- 
 self both : he didn't think it best to take you out 
 of school." 
 
 Tamsin had looked half frightened. With a re- 
 assured countenance she said, " I don't want to 
 see strange people yet." 
 
 Rhoda laughed : " I don't know what ordeal 
 could be more trying than the strange people of a 
 boarding-school. But you are used to the girls 
 now."
 
 IS TALL." 
 
 149 
 
 " Yes, now I am. At first " she paused " at 
 first they whispered about .me." 
 
 " Oh, that's nothing. Did you snub a few of 
 them, as I recommended ?" 
 
 " I said something," asserted Tamsin. She ex- 
 amined Rhoda as if in doubt whether to lay the 
 communication at her mercy or not. 
 
 " What did you say ?" 
 
 " There were some girls," ventured Tamsin, 
 " that always watched out of the windows when 
 he came to take me riding, and they would cough 
 and laugh." 
 
 " Green with envy," said Rhoda. 
 
 " And when he came to call they would go 
 through the reception-room with their music- 
 books, when they didn't practise there at all." 
 
 " I know the breed," remarked Rhoda. 
 
 " They put pictures in my books, pictures 
 without Pictures that hadn't any legs." 
 
 Rhoda curled her lip. 
 
 " They couldn't find out if he was any relation : 
 so one day before chapel services they sat just 
 back of me and sang under their breath, 
 
 " ' Here sits Miss Tamsin Sutton, 
 Who goes to ride with a button !' 
 
 And I just turned around, "said Tamsin sonorously, 
 
 scowling as in past life she had scowled at Captain 
 
 Mills's high-minded negro, "and looked square in 
 
 13*
 
 CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 
 
 their faces. I said, ' You are the buttons. He's 
 tall ; he's tall as the hills.' " 
 
 Rhoda applauded with her palms. She drew in 
 a quick breath and looked keenly at Craque-o'- 
 Doom's champion. The young girl's face was 
 filled with color, but she adjusted her hair with a 
 nervous motion and changed the subject. During 
 the rest of the interview she had an uneasy air, as 
 if this confidential burst had surprised and discon- 
 certed herself. 
 
 When Rhoda parted from her at the door she 
 kissed the ripening olive cheek : " This is the first 
 time I ever kissed you, Tamsin." 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 " And the last time I bestow a maiden lady's 
 caress on you : on the next occasion it will be a 
 matron's. Do you like to be kissed ?" 
 
 " I used to like to have Tillie." 
 
 " Didn't you ever kiss Mr. Sutton ?" 
 
 The girl colored up to the soft rings of hair 
 which she was learning to train over her forehead. 
 Rhoda felt as if she had outraged the delicacy of 
 a child, and went away provoked with herself. 
 
 On the day Rhoda sailed, Craque-o'-Doom took 
 Tamsin to the wharf to see her off She told them 
 a great deal about her wedding in a few minutes, 
 and introduced Mr. Burns, a portly, cheerful, 
 rather elderly gentleman, who was easily put out 
 of breath and planted his hand on his hip to pant.
 
 "// /s TALL:' ^ 
 
 He seemed prepared for Craque-o'-Doom, but 
 eyed him with covert curiosity. Several friends 
 accompanied them, and a number of Rhoda's city 
 acquaintances were there. 
 
 The mighty steamship was ready to part from 
 her moorings ; Tamsin sat in her carriage shaken 
 with admiring awe of it. She got down at the 
 last minute to run to Rhoda again, where that 
 animated young lady was divided between her 
 clinging friends and her hastening spouse. She 
 gave her hand for another last squeeze to Tamsin. 
 
 " I never thanked you," said Tamsin without 
 preface or explanation. " I thank you now." 
 
 Mrs. Burns had this pleasant assurance to carry 
 with her when she was wiping some moist emotion 
 from her eyes as they steamed down the bay. 
 
 Her husband stood at the rail beside her. 
 " Come, Rhoda," said he, swelling his chest con- 
 solingly. 
 
 " Oh, I ain't doing anything but enjoying the 
 luxurious sensation of having friends. There isn't 
 anything more delightful in this world than part- 
 ing with your friends when you start on a long 
 journey : it brings out all their good points ; they 
 open their hearts more in a brief minute than they 
 have done before in years, and, no matter how 
 stupid you may have thought them, their interest 
 in you endears them to that degree that you are 
 ready to fall upon their bosoms, but are caught
 
 I ij 2 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM, 
 
 away just in time to preserve the situation, to 
 sort of crystallize it, you know." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Burns, smiling applause, as he 
 always did at her sayings. 
 
 " Even little Tamsin expressed herself unusually. 
 Don't you think she's rather pretty ? the girl 
 with black eyes and light hair who spoke to me 
 last." 
 
 " Yes. The one you said was married to the 
 dwarf. Oh, yes ! He's a dreadful figure, though." 
 
 " But he's wonderful. If I hadn't seen him I 
 shouldn't believe there was such a person alive. 
 He seems so knightly and upright: he is as gentle 
 as a well-bred woman ; yet I haven't any doubt 
 there's tremendous passionate force in him." 
 
 " Yes ; that's what you told me about him 
 before. It's a pity he's such an unfortunate 
 shape." 
 
 " Now, see here," said Rhoda, making the wind 
 an excuse for hooking her forefinger through one 
 of Mr. Burns's button-holes : " that man, and that 
 girl he married to educate, have exercised me 
 a great deal. I keep observing them, and some- 
 times I actually believe they are in love with each 
 other in ways wholly peculiar to themselves." 
 
 Mr. Burns humored the idea with a laugh. 
 " She can't think much of that little dwarf," he 
 said. " A woman wants a man of good appear- 
 ance, portly physique. Especially a pretty young
 
 "HE IS TALL" 
 
 153 
 
 woman." He looked at Rhoda, and she looked at 
 him. 
 
 " If you are going to talk and look that way, 
 everybody on board will know we are just mar- 
 ried. Scowl a little bit, do ! I've thought it was 
 foolish for brides to object to appear as brides, but 
 it does make one feel silly." 
 
 While Navesink was disappearing from their 
 eyes, the dwarf, who had left Tamsin at her school, 
 was curled up behind his paper in an alcove of his 
 hotel. He pulled down his moustache and gnawed 
 at it. Some men near him, unconscious of his 
 presence, were talking about him, and he had no 
 choice but to hear what they said : 
 
 " That queer object you saw come into the ves- 
 tibule a while ago ? Why, that's Sutton, the 
 dwarf. He has a pile of money. He always 
 stops here, and he's been in town quite a while. 
 Seems to have picked up a pretty young girl 
 somewhere and married her, and he's got her at 
 school up town, and stays here to hang around 
 her." 
 
 " Dotes on her, does he ?" 
 
 " I s'pose so." 
 
 " She can't dote on him particularly." 
 
 " I don't know about that : he's very wealthy." 
 
 Both men laughed as they moved away. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom kept pulling down his mous- 
 tache. " I am making a fool of myself," he
 
 1 5 4 CRA Q UE- ff-DO OM. 
 
 whispered. " If I persecute her by ' hanging 
 around,' she'll grow to despise me. I'd better 
 go up river to-morrow and see how things are 
 getting on at home." He decided to take the 
 afternoon train, the river was not yet open to 
 navigation, but he had time to see Tamsin in 
 the morning. 
 
 She came to the reception-room from a recita- 
 tion. The dwarf was huddled on a sofa, his rug 
 trailing to the floor. He had not slept very well, 
 but if Tamsin noticed that he was pale she did 
 not speak of it. After she gave him her hand, 
 which he kissed, she sat down on a chair some 
 distance away. Her eyes were sparkling. She 
 fixed them on the floor, and then said steadily, 
 " Comment vous portez-vous, monsieur ?" 
 
 " Eh bien ! Good ! And are you getting on 
 to the ' carpenter' and the ' bread' business, and 
 ' the sister-in-law of my brother,' and the rest of 
 it?" 
 
 Tamsin passed over his sarcasm. " I got a 
 letter from Tillie," she remarked. " That's five. 
 She makes Mary write them." 
 
 "And how is Tillie?" 
 
 " She's well. She sent you her very best re- 
 spects, too." 
 
 " Much obliged." 
 
 " She did. And she likes the things so much ! 
 She's written two letters about the things."
 
 "f/K fs TALL:' ^5 
 
 " Never mind the things. Do you think so 
 much of things, Tamsin ?" 
 
 She looked at him and showed a distinct dimple 
 at one corner of her mouth. She had been learn- 
 ing to laugh. " Yes, I do love nice things. Why 
 don't you notice my apron ? I made it myself. 
 All of them are getting to wear lace aprons in the 
 morning. I made it out of some lace Miss Rhoda 
 bought for me." 
 
 " Do you want any pin-money now, any money 
 to spend for little necessaries, I mean ?" 
 
 " I have a great lot yet that you gave me when 
 I first came here." 
 
 " You're not an extravagant child at all. Well, 
 when you want anything you must write me." 
 
 " What for ? Can't I tell you when I see you ?" 
 
 " I am going home, up the North River, this 
 afternoon, and may not see you again for some 
 time." 
 
 Tamsin twisted meshes in her lace apron. She 
 had certainly thawed from her former Indian-like 
 stoicism. " I thought you would live here," she 
 observed. 
 
 " No ; I have only stayed to see you well accus- 
 tomed to your new life. You are comfortable here, 
 aren't you ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " And you will write to me, and tell me how you 
 get on, and about your daily life, won't you ?"
 
 1 5 6 CRA Q UE- V-D O OM. 
 
 11 I can't write a real pretty letter." 
 
 " Any letter will be pretty to me. How often 
 shall I write to you ?" 
 
 She lifted her eyes and dropped them again 
 shyly : " I don't know." 
 
 " My child," with a sting of pain in his tone, 
 " don't you care to hear from me ?" 
 
 Tamsin started and turned her face aside. 
 When she did look at him, it was with reproach- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 " Forgive me !" exclaimed the dwarf. " You 
 don't know how I hate to leave you." 
 
 " What makes you go, then ?" 
 
 " Because I ought to. Tamsin, come here to 
 me, will you ?" 
 
 She rose and walked slowly to his side. 
 
 " Will you stoop down where I can look in your 
 eyes ?" 
 
 She settled slowly on one knee. Her whole 
 body was in a tremor. He put out his hand and 
 tilted her head up. 
 
 " Don't look down at the deformed part of me : 
 look in my face. My little one, how lovely you 
 are growing ! How old are you now ?" 
 
 " Seventeen next month." 
 
 " And I am in my thirties !" 
 
 An unaccountable silence fell between them. 
 He had taken his hand away from her head. He 
 now put it reverently back, drew her a little nearer,
 
 "HE IS TALL." 
 
 157 
 
 and kissed her forehead. With a strong recoil 
 Tamsin sprung up and flew from the room. 
 
 The dwarf whitened even across his lips : " My 
 God ! And I have grown to love her with all my 
 strength and life !" 
 
 The clock could scarcely have marked three 
 minutes' interval when Tamsin came back cau- 
 tiously, guilty-looking and flushed. But Craque 
 o'-Doom had already gone. She could do nothing 
 but lock her hands and stare at the corner of the 
 sofa where he had sat.
 
 1 58 CRAQUE-a -DOOM. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom to Tamsin. 
 
 COLD SPRINGS ON HUDSON, April 12. 
 
 MY DEAR CHILD, Pardon me for frightening 
 you just as I came away. I am not very well 
 accustomed to women : they have always seemed 
 divine beings literally above my level, except the 
 excellent Dutchwoman who, with her son, daughter, 
 and husband, keeps the machinery of my house 
 going. 
 
 You notice I do not call it home, though it is 
 the dearest spot in the world, and one made by 
 Nature so picturesque th& it seems new and wonder- 
 ful every day in the year. There is no use telling 
 you about the Highlands: you must see them for 
 yourself. The whole length of this river is dear to 
 me. The homestead is a very old place ; part of 
 it is built of stone and dates from the early days of 
 New Amsterdam, which was the ancient name for 
 New York. This is an inconvenient part, with 
 queer windows, and doors that open at the top 
 while they remain closed at the bottom, because 
 they are sliced in two across the middle. Addi-
 
 L&TT&RS. 
 
 tions have been built at various times : my father 
 built the last. Altogether, they make an irregular, 
 towered, ivy-eaten, bay-windowed, pillared pile of 
 house so big I feel lost like a mite in it. 
 
 Pretty soon it will be fine enough to boat on the 
 river. I have always rowed and yachted a great 
 deal. The " Drew" and " Powell" two fine 
 steamers will begin to make regular trips near 
 your vacation-time. If you like to come up and 
 bring some of your chums, the house may seem 
 more like home. Any changes you would like to 
 have made in the furniture I will attend to in good 
 time. Enclosed is a diagram of the principal 
 rooms, with a short description of their contents. 
 
 Don't, however, let me be selfish and rule your 
 wishes. If you would like to go back to Ohio for 
 the summer, tell me frankly. But perhaps they 
 will let Tillie come and spend the summer with 
 you. 
 
 Yours as always, J. S. 
 
 Tamsin to Craqtte-rf-Doom. 
 
 AT SCHOOL, April 16. 
 
 DEAR FRIEND, I got your letter. You are so 
 kind to me that I lie awake to think about it. 
 After you were gone I cried till I was nearly sick. 
 Of course that was foolish, for you put me here to 
 improve myself, and I am improving all the time. 
 You must excuse me for not being able to write a
 
 I 60 CRA QUE- CT-DOOM. 
 
 beautiful letter. I practise a great deal writing my 
 exercises, but my hand trembles when I go to 
 write to you, and will not let me do my very best 
 Some of my letters to Tillie look a good deal 
 nicer. 
 
 One of the girls and I have been reading Tenny- 
 son's " Idyls of the King." I like Enid best. She 
 is a Boston girl (the one I am reading with, I 
 mean), and knows a great deal. She says every 
 minute of our time ought to be spent in progress- 
 ing ; but we eat chocolate caramels when it isn't 
 our turn to read. We are taking a course in the 
 poets as a rest from study. She says she adores 
 Schiller (I think that's the way to spell it), and we 
 are going to read something by a man named 
 Goaty or Gaiety, I can't remember which. There 
 is a great deal to learn. I used to love to read at 
 Captain Mills's house, but I had no idea how many 
 books there are in the world. 
 
 I got some new gloves for Easter ; they are the 
 color of very pale flag-lilies. The people in Bar- 
 net didn't do anything but color eggs on Easter. 
 I used to color them with calico rags for Tillie. 
 This Easter Sunday we went to church, and they 
 had very beautiful music and flowers. Life seems 
 very different to me from what it used to. 
 
 Your house must be very nice. I don't see how 
 anything could be nicer. If Tillie could come too, 
 I should love to see it. This girl that I go with
 
 LETTERS. j6i 
 
 (Sarah Davidge) might like to come too. A good 
 many of the others have not got what I call good 
 manners. 
 
 This is a long letter. 
 
 TAMSIN. 
 
 P.S. I wrote it over two or three times, but 
 every time it gets blotted, or something. 
 
 Craque-d -Doom to Tamsin. 
 
 COLD SPRINGS ON HUDSON, April 19. 
 
 MY DEAREST CHILD, Your pretty little letter 
 did me a world of good. Why should you make 
 excuses for a graceful hand and an original way 
 of expressing yourself? I have it in my breast- 
 pocket, with some English violets from the green- 
 house shut in it. The very first letter you ever 
 wrote me ! It was only too short. I wanted to 
 hear more of your reading, and your young friend, 
 the Easter eggs you used to color for Tillie, and 
 the pale Easter gloves you chose to feel the warmth 
 of your innocent hands in devotion. 
 
 My little one, I hated myself when I read that 
 you had cried, " cried till you were nearly sick." 
 I must have shocked you. I forgot myself, or 
 rather I thought only of myself. But let us not 
 talk of it any more. In time I shall learn how best 
 to make you understand what your happiness is to 
 me. I send by express some books from the library 
 / 14*
 
 CRAQUE-CT-DOOM. 
 
 you may like to read. The Keats I read and marked 
 long ago when I was a lonesome boy, before I knew 
 you were in the world or would ever come to me. 
 But I leave it as it was. Perhaps you had better 
 not share this book with the Boston young lady. 
 
 The hills are beginning to put on such an ex- 
 quisite green ! Your vacation begins the first week 
 in June ; it is now nearly May. There is more than 
 a month to wait. I have considerable business to 
 attend to : perhaps it will be necessary for me to 
 run down to the city by the end of this week. As 
 I have a regular arrangement with the Hudson 
 River road in winter and the steamer-men in sum- 
 mer to ship my carriage with myself every time I 
 go down, I might call and take you to ride, unless 
 something interferes. 
 
 We have a good boat-house and several skififs. 
 I will have them overhauled at once, painted, and 
 a pair of oars made especially for a lady to handle. 
 
 Write to me so I can get your answer by the 
 day after to-morrow. My business in New York 
 is very pressing. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 P.S. Do you think that is a funny name ? I 
 gave it to myself when a boy, because it seemed 
 appropriate that a little monster should have a 
 little monstrous name. Would you mind calling 
 me Craque-o'-Doom instead of " Friend" ?
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 163 
 
 Note from Craque-o -Doom to Tamsin. 
 
 23 April, IN THE CARRIAGE. 
 
 My DEAR CHILD, I write this on a scrap from 
 my note-book. Not receiving the early reply I 
 craved, but having a half-hour to spare, I have 
 called, but find you out. It is a disappointment to 
 me. They told me you were very well. Thank 
 God for that ! Please write to me as soon as you 
 have time. 
 
 Yours as always, 
 
 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 Tamsin to Craque-o' -Doom. 
 
 AT SCHOOL, April 22. 
 
 DEAR CRAQUE-O'-DOOM, It is a funny name, 
 but funny names are the nicest. I meant to write 
 last evening, but it was reception-night, and of 
 course I could not be let alone. Sarah Davidge 
 had some friends coming to see her, and she would 
 have me go with her. They always dance on 
 reception-nights, because Madame says we must 
 learn how to appear in society. I fixed Sarah 
 Davidge's hair like mine. She is a little near- 
 sighted, but looks very smart. I like to see peo- 
 ple hang eye-glasses around their necks. We 
 wore our long black silk trains. Ever so many 
 girls have wanted to try my ring on, but I never 
 would let one of them touch it. It always looks
 
 CRA Q UE- O"-D O OM. 
 
 beautiful. I love beautiful things so much I have 
 a perfect passion for them. Sarah's friends were 
 nice ; I danced with her cousin three times. Did 
 you know I had learned how to waltz ? It is so 
 easy ! I am in raptures when I waltz. Madame 
 would not let me dance any more with Sarah's 
 cousin : she was very smooth and nice, but gave 
 me a look, and I had to talk with some old ladies. 
 I would love to get a chance some time to dance 
 all I want to. I was crazy to learn : nobody ever 
 knew how bad I've wanted to dance ; and the waltz 
 is the cream of it all. In Barnet they had balls, 
 but of course I never saw them. I saw Captain 
 Mills's cousin and Miss Latta waltz, and it seemed 
 as if I must know how. 
 
 You will think I am very frivolous. It is differ- 
 ent with me from what it used to be, I feel so light 
 and happy; but I am trying to get on in all my 
 studies. They seem to think I am smart here. It 
 is not like Barnet. 
 
 I will try to get this letter to you in time. 
 Please call : we can have such a nice ride. I want 
 to see you. 
 
 Truly, 
 
 TAMSIN. 
 
 P.S. You didn't say what day or what hour.
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 I6 5 
 
 On a scrap of paper thrust into the same envelope, 
 
 April 23. 
 
 Oh, what do you think of me ! I supposed I 
 had mailed this letter, and here it lies among my 
 writing-paper ! And this afternoon I was out for 
 the tiniest little bit with Sarah Davidge and the 
 French teacher, because it was such a lovely day, 
 and Saturday, and you came and went away while 
 I was gone. I thought you would send me word 
 just when you would be here. Why didn't you? 
 I watched for you all day Friday. Shall I always 
 be doing things that look ungrateful and mean ? 
 Now you won't have time to come down again for 
 ever so long, I know. I would like to put some- 
 thing on the corner of the paper, but you might 
 think it very silly. Besides, you must be very 
 mad at me. 
 
 TAMSIN. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom to Tamsin. 
 
 COLD SPRINGS ON HUDSON, April 25. 
 MY DEAR CHILD, Never mind : it was my 
 fault; I should have telegraphed. No, I do not 
 think I can come down again immediately : some 
 time next month, perhaps. Besides making some 
 spring repairs and improvements on the estate and 
 keeping various business interests well in hand, I
 
 166 CKAQUE-a-DOO.M. 
 
 have just been mapping out a course of hard read- 
 ing for myself. You see, your industry has had 
 its effect on me. 
 
 But let me beg one thing of you, little one : 
 never again, by word or look or deed, signify that 
 you feel " gratitude" toward me. It causes rne ex- 
 quisite torture. Consider my possessions yours 
 by right, as they are. 
 
 It must indeed be delightful to waltz. I can 
 understand the feeling you describe: I have it in 
 my wrists, and my floor is the piano key-board. 
 Since coming home, I have written a little piece 
 of music for you : I tried to put in the song of a 
 bird down in our orchard. The birds are nearly 
 all here. Enclosed find a rough draft of it. I 
 have had headache, which may account for my 
 making a poorer-looking musical score than I 
 usually pride myself on doing. Have you heard 
 yet from Mrs. Burns? 
 
 Put that something " on the corner of the paper," 
 my child. Why should I think anything you do 
 silly? Did you not leave your beloved little 
 sister and come bravely away with me, an almost 
 entire stranger, submit yourself to my guidance, 
 and enter a school of other strangers having no 
 one but me, a queer, perhaps unwholesome, sort 
 of man, to whom you could appeal for sympathy 
 and home affection ? I am very glad you have 
 made appreciative friends. Miss Davidge's cousin
 
 LETTERS. 167 
 
 has my thanks yes, my warm thanks for giving 
 you pleasure. If you would like to include your 
 new acquaintances in the party for this summer, 
 do so. 
 
 But write me another little letter as soon as you 
 can. No matter how busy I may be, they are so 
 welcome. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 Craque-c? -Doom to Captain Mills. 
 (A letter which was not sent.) 
 
 COLD SPRINGS ON HUDSON, May i. 
 
 DEAR TOM, With the awful example before me 
 of many unhappy wretches who have written con- 
 fidential letters and afterward had them exposed 
 to an amused public by death of the confidant or 
 unforeseen circumstances, I am about to unload 
 my soul upon you, and get in return the consola- 
 tion that you " told me so." 
 
 But it's not going to turn out as you told me. 
 You ought to see her now, Tom : there isn't her 
 match in the world. You would hardly believe 
 two or three months could make such a difference. 
 She's all sorts of ways, bewitching, grave, child- 
 ish, womanly. It is delightful torture to watch 
 her unfold. But she will never care for me. I 
 went down to the city a few days ago to see her,
 
 the errand was purely a pilgrimage to her, and 
 she was out. They told me in what direction she 
 had gone, and I made my man drive miles on the 
 chance of catching one glimpse of her face. You 
 don't know anything about it, Tom. 
 
 And of course the young fellows will admire 
 her. I think she regards me as if I were her 
 father. God knows, no father ever carried a baby 
 in his heart as I carry her. 
 
 I've been trying to study hard and master this 
 fever. Nothing of the sort ever happened to me 
 before. I never gave rein to it. And I didn't con- 
 sider the danger of giving way to this. 
 
 Tom, I'm going to send her out to Barnet for 
 the summer. I had intended to bring her home 
 with a lot of young friends to amuse her ; but I 
 cannot stand it. My heart's pretty nearly starved ; 
 I should make a fool of myself. She's too young 
 to understand that I want her all to myself. I 
 didn't know what the effect would be on me ; but 
 if I had known, it would have been just the same. 
 What I have to do, though, is to act merely as her 
 kind guardian and keep my own feelings down. 
 Tom, I want your aunt to take her in as a boarder 
 while she's in Barnet. I know the favor I ask, but 
 she can't stop down at that place where her people 
 live. You don't know how necessary beautiful 
 surroundings are to her. She is devoted to her 
 little sister. Do me the favor, Tom, and demand
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 169 
 
 anything of me you please. And, while she is 
 there, guard her like the apple of your eye. My 
 God ! what should I do if she were to be taken 
 from me ? It will be torment to have her trusted 
 to a railway-train. But she will get tired of me if 
 I follow her around. I'm off for another strength- 
 ening summer among the lakes. I've got to be a 
 man. The principal of the school has strict orders 
 to telegraph me if she has the slightest indispo- 
 sition of any kind. I have one of the maid-ser- 
 vants down there in my pay to wait on her with 
 extra pains. 
 
 You ought to see the pretty little letters she 
 writes, Tom. No man ever will see them, but it 
 might be a pleasure to any one to do so. I be- 
 lieve I loved her the first minute her black eyes 
 met mine. It ought to be enough for me if I can 
 make up to her for the privations she suffered be- 
 fore I found her. 
 
 You were all wrong in your predictions. What- 
 ever the tribe from which she sprung may be, she 
 is delicate, sparkling, upright, beauty-loving. In 
 fibre she is a lady ; in mind, a swift-moving, power- 
 ful essence. But what is the use of going on like 
 this to you f 
 
 I hope you won't forget, when that brother of 
 hers comes out of his confinement, to do as I 
 asked you to do for him. As he is young, and it 
 was only petit misdemeanor, a good start and a
 
 CRAQUE-V-DOOM. 
 
 little encouragement may bring him up. He cer- 
 tainly showed enterprise by getting into such a 
 scrape. 
 
 Please present my compliments to Mrs. Tea- 
 garden, and, if you can, ease my bosom with an 
 early reply. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom to Captain Mills. 
 (The letter which was sent.) 
 
 COLD SPRINGS ON HUDSON, May i. 
 
 DEAR TOM, I want to ask a great favor of you. 
 Will you receive my wife into your house as a 
 boarder during the summer ? I find I must have 
 another Canadian bout, and, besides, it does not 
 seem advisable to bring her home yet; and she 
 wants to see her little sister. I know it is asking 
 a great favor of your aunt and yourself: in return 
 you may demand anything you wish of me. I 
 shall feel so comfortable and safe about her if I 
 know she is in the companionship of your ex- 
 cellent aunt. And it will be impossible for her 
 to stop with her people ; I couldn't allow that. 
 She is abundantly fulfilling the promise I saw in 
 her. 
 
 By the way, whenever that unfortunate fellow I
 
 LETTERS. 171 
 
 spoke to you about is set at liberty, be sure to 
 notify me. A little lift may do wonders for him. 
 Excuse brevity. You know I am always 
 Heartily yours, 
 
 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 P.S. How about Canada for you this summer? 
 
 Telegram from Captain Mills to Craque-d'-Doom. 
 
 Just starting for Denver. But it will be all right 
 Send her. 
 
 TOM.
 
 172 CRAQUE-a-Df)OM. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 RETURN OF A NATIVE. 
 
 TAMSIN came to Barnet early in June. Her trip 
 was easy and delightful. Craque-o'-Doom him- 
 self saw her put in a palace-car, from which she 
 did not have to stir until she reached the junction 
 of the Barnet road with the trunk line on which 
 she travelled. The railway-people were feed to 
 make her safety and comfort their particular study. 
 Craque-o'-Doom had thought seriously of sending 
 a maid with her; but the difficulty of finding a 
 suitable person, and the disinclination of Tamsin 
 herself to appear before her townspeople so at- 
 tended, had caused him to give up the idea. 
 
 " They'd make fun of me," said Tamsin. "They 
 all remember how I used to look. And then there 
 
 are father's folks " It was not necessary for 
 
 her to explain the incongruity. 
 
 " I see," said Craque-o'-Doom. He had delayed 
 his own trip until she was safely started. Tom 
 Mills was to meet her at the station and telegraph 
 her arrival. 
 
 She parted from him in the gayest spirits. She 
 had come away from Barnet in storm and misery,
 
 RETURN OF A NATIVE. 
 
 173 
 
 like a prisoner, pitied in a way that galled her 
 more than her proud nature would ever own ; she 
 was going back like a princess, guarded and 
 tended, covered with splendor, and having the 
 prestige of a great reserve power. The sensitive 
 deformed man told this to himself very minutely. 
 He added that she was young and rebounding 
 from the former heavy pressure on her life. And 
 she was just out of school : there must be some- 
 thing unwholesome and abnormal in any girl who 
 would not be merry when just out of school. 
 
 Still, her gay nods to him from the open car- 
 window jarred him. He sat in the carriage some 
 distance away: he dared not risk boarding the 
 train or crossing the many tracks. Now he saw 
 her, and now a thousand objects crowded between. 
 He wished she had not looked so exhilarated, and 
 was in torment lest some accident should happen 
 before she reached even Philadelphia. She started 
 just before sunset. He thought of the run across 
 the mountains. When the train was actually gone, 
 he drove away, his head sunk on his breast and 
 his face drawn. Oh, to tower up among other 
 men ! " If I had been a big animal and tyrannized 
 over her a little, maybe she wouldn't have lost 
 sight of me so gayly. How easy it was to per- 
 suade her to go away instead of coming to Cold 
 Springs with me ! Yet I didn't give her any 
 choice, either. I wrote that she might go to 
 15*
 
 1 74 ckA Q VE- ct-no OA/. 
 
 Barnet, for I felt obliged to take another rough 
 Northern trip this summer. Miss Rhoda said she 
 was likely to form but two or three strong attach- 
 ments in her life." 
 
 He looked at the seat opposite him, the car- 
 riage, although of the coupe pattern, had ben 
 built to carry four, and thought of her shopping 
 for Tillie and her remarks about Sarah Davidge 
 when driving to the train. 
 
 "Are you disappointed at not bringing your 
 chum to Cold Springs this June?" Craque-o'- 
 Doom had inquired. 
 
 "What chum ?" said Tamsin. 
 
 "This Miss Davidge you write to me about." 
 He knew every name her pen had traced. 
 
 " No. I don't like her so very well." 
 
 " Why, I thought you two were banded for 
 mutual improvement?" 
 
 Tamsin studied the toe of her boot. " Sarah 
 Davidge is a nice girl," she conceded, " but I don't 
 like to hear people always talking about belonging 
 to a good family." 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom smiled under his moustache. 
 
 Tamsin, still studying the toe of her boot, con- 
 tinued : " And it makes me mad to hear any one 
 say folks out West are all heathens." 
 
 " I am to understand, then, that you have had 
 some slight disagreements with Miss Davidge?" 
 
 " Oh, no : we're good enough friends. I like
 
 RETVRN OF A NATIVE. 
 
 175 
 
 her the best of any of the girls. She can't help 
 her airs " 
 
 It appeared that no strong attachment had been 
 formed for Miss Davidge. 
 
 " But this summer," muttered the lonely dwarf, 
 " will be a blooming season for her, an impres- 
 sionable May-time. Still, in Barnet she will not 
 be thrown with anybody likely to attract her, un 
 less the Millses have extraordinary guests. But 
 she is by nature a high and mighty aristocrat : I 
 really think few people could please her. Torn 
 must make faithful reports to me : I shan't be able 
 to stand it if he doesn't." 
 
 Very different was the expression of Tamsin's 
 face when she arrived late in the pleasant afternoon 
 at Barnet station ; she was the only passenger for 
 that place. Captain Mills was on the platform ; 
 at a little distance the Mills carriage waited, and 
 by the captain's side stood a gawky child craning 
 her eager neck at all the car-windows. 
 
 With a start of delight this child felt herself 
 seized ; she recognized the soft touch before she 
 could turn and see that a pretty young lady had 
 descended from the last car instead of from the 
 baggage-van, which Tillie thought as desirable a 
 vehicle as any. The object which did come down 
 from the baggage-van was a huge Saratoga trunk. 
 
 Captain Mills touched his hat and took the
 
 CRAQUE-Cf-DOOM. 
 
 hand which Tamsin gave him for an instant across 
 Tillie's shoulder. She gave him barely a glance ; 
 there was such gladness in her face as she rocked 
 the little sister to and fro in their old way! The 
 train glided off, and Neal, on his driver's seat, rolled 
 a white eye at the pair; but Tamsin did not know 
 it, or that Captain Mills wanted the check for her 
 baggage. 
 
 "My! ain't you some!" exclaimed Tillie when 
 they had kissed. 
 
 " Why, you've grown taller !" said Tamsin. 
 
 "Course I have. Daddy says I grow like an 
 evil weed." Her coral expanse of lips and rows 
 of little teeth glistened. 
 
 " You've been well all the time, haven't you ?" 
 
 " Had a tech of aygur once, that's all. Oh, 
 Tarn, you do look so pretty!" 
 
 " Do I ?" 
 
 " Yes, you do." 
 
 " I didn't think you'd be here to meet me." 
 
 " I'd 'a come," said Tillie, " if I'd had to foot it; 
 but Tom Mills he told me I might git in and ride 
 with him." 
 
 Tamsin looked up toward Captain Mills with an 
 expression of gratitude, and he took the opportu- 
 nity of asking for her check. She groped in her 
 porte-monnaie for it, and reached it toward him 
 with one arm while she held Tiljie to her with the 
 other. He went into the station. " Are they all
 
 RETURN OF A NATIVE. 
 
 well down at father's ?" inquired the new-comer 
 with sudden recollection. 
 
 " Toler'ble. You knowed Sarah Jane and 
 Arter'd got married, didn't you ?" 
 
 " Sarah Jane and Arter !" Tamsin's eyes di- 
 lated. The corners of her mouth drew down with 
 a scornful spasm. This facial comment was the 
 only one she ever made upon this typical Cheno- 
 worth match. Tillie understood, but it was all a 
 matter of indifference to her. She took no care 
 about the doings of her relatives, excepting this 
 sister. " When did they get married ?" inquired 
 Tamsin. 
 
 " Well, it was a couple of weeks ago. I thought 
 I wrote you about it ; but I guess Mary took 
 that letter down to her house and stuck it in 
 the winder, and I forgot to put it in the post- 
 office." 
 
 Tamsin looked somewhat graver : the scent of 
 the old atmosphere had come to her nostrils. She 
 shuddered as if it had been an odor of death. 
 
 " Ain't ye glad to git back ?" said Tillie. 
 
 " I'm glad to have hold of you again, honey. 
 But I don't like Barnet." 
 
 " Them's better places where you've been ?" 
 
 " Oh, lovely places ! You've got on one of the 
 dresses I sent. And the shoes : let me see your 
 shoes." 
 
 Tillie exhibited her boot and a lank length of
 
 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 ankle : " Yes, these is some of the things. Oh, 
 but the 'cordion ! that was the nicest !" 
 
 "Did you like it?" 
 
 " I guess I did ! Tam, I can play ' Mary to the 
 Saviour's Tomb,' and ' Greenville,' and ' Father in 
 a Promised Land,' and ' Pop goes the Weasel,' and 
 a whole lot o' tunes, on it a'ready." The eager 
 quiver of the child's body was checked as if by a 
 galvanic jerk. She looked up at her senior, re- 
 minded of what was proper to the occasion, and 
 inquired agedly, " How's that man o' yourn, any- 
 how ?" 
 
 Tamsin shook with laughter. 
 
 "There ain't nothin' funny in that, is there?" 
 urged Tillie. 
 
 " Not very. He's well, and sent his love to 
 you." 
 
 " I don't believe," observed Tillie, weighing the 
 matter, " that he's half as mean as I thought he 
 was at first. He's a real good kind of a feller." 
 
 Captain Mills, having seen Tamsin's trunk put 
 into the daily baggage-wagon which ran to Barnet, 
 now came up to help her into the carriage. She 
 nodded slightly to Neal as she ascended the step. 
 He made a most obsequious bow to her, but as he 
 drove he did not fail to roll the whites of his eyes 
 back at her occasionally. She had risen to the 
 plane of grandeur which his race reveres, and was 
 no longer a Chenoworth. Still, he could not rec-
 
 RETURN OF A NATIVE. 
 
 179 
 
 oncile himself to the change ; and Tillie Cheno- 
 worth sat beside this new lady : he disapproved of 
 Tillie as strongly as ever. 
 
 Captain Mills, who occupied the front seat with 
 Neal, turned round and chatted with Tamsin. 
 He was under some constraint, but that wore off. 
 She looked ripe and girlish in her close-fitting 
 travelling suit, and her former awe of him as a 
 great man was gone : both these circumstances 
 placed her at an advantage. He inquired about 
 Craque-o'-Doom, and noticed the smoother modu- 
 lations of her voice. He told her of some changes 
 in Barnet, and meanwhile was carrying on a sepa- 
 rate train of thought based on his observations of 
 her. She did not appear the same person he had 
 once identified as Tamsin Chenoworth. That a 
 few months could make such changes was miracu- 
 lous. Either he had never known the girl, or 
 girls were capable of being rapidly made over. 
 He had expected her to put on exuberant airs in 
 dress and manner and talk of nothing but " our 
 school" and " the girls," higher mathematics, and 
 her most intimate friends among the " seniors." 
 Boarding-school young ladies always did so : no 
 creatures on earth are more stuffed with a sense 
 of their own importance. But she was not raw 
 and rasping : the change had struck through her 
 entire nature. It might not be a disagreeable job 
 to watch over her welfare, as he had promised
 
 CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom he would do, feeling at the time 
 he was the best-natured victim that insinuating 
 fellow ever took in. 
 
 They drove along the pike, meeting the sunset 
 face to face. Tamsin held up one gloved hand 
 to shield her eyes. When they entered Barnet, 
 how small the canal-bridge looked, how shabby 
 the warehouses rising from the water-edge, how 
 mean the stores, how pitiful the one or two blocks 
 of brick pavement! She noticed these things si- 
 lently, bending her head with a mere smile when 
 Captain Mills inquired if Barnet did not appear in- 
 significant after New York. 
 
 " But as natives we ought to feel an attachment 
 for Barnet," said he. 
 
 " It looks best in summer," she observed. The 
 woods on its northwest quarter were glorious in foli- 
 age. " We'll go to the woods to-morrow, Tillie." 
 
 " Me and Mary's young uns has been all over 
 them woods since the hossy-boys was in blossom," 
 exclaimed Tillie. " Oh, it's pretty up the slope a 
 ways ! Do you mind when you and me used to 
 go elderberry-pickin', Tarn ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly I do, along the canal." 
 
 " And we was 'fraid and hid ourselves in the 
 bushes when boats went past, 'fraid the boatmen 
 'ud sass us. You wouldn't be afraid now : would 
 you ?" This was affirmed rather than asked. 
 
 Captain Mills smiled.
 
 RETURN OF A NATIVE. \%i 
 
 "Why wouldn't I?" asked Tamsin. She held 
 one of Tillie's claws on her lap. 
 
 The child, somewhat at a loss, looked deferen- 
 tially at her and tried to explain : " Oh, "cause 
 You ain't the same like you was then." 
 
 " What is there different about me ?" 
 
 " Well, you ain't "fraid." 
 
 " You think I'm very bold now?" 
 
 " You've been away," proceeded Tillie, clearing 
 the matter up entirely, " and learnt proper'' Tamsin 
 and the captain laughed : even Neal grinned as he 
 turned his horses toward the Hill-house. 
 
 " But I thought you's comin' home!" ex- 
 claimed the child, gripping both hands around her 
 sister's arm, as she saw the carriage thus turn its 
 back on the Chenoworth quarter. 
 
 Tamsin took the arm away and put it around her. 
 " You are to stay up here with me," she said, " be- 
 cause there is more room than at father's. I shall 
 be with you just as much. I will go there too. 
 Mr. Sutton arranged it with Captain Mills. Didn't 
 he, Captain Mills ?" 
 
 " That's the understanding," replied the host. 
 
 " And I told you in my letter." 
 
 Tillie readjusted facts in her mind. While thus 
 occupied, it occurred to her, " You don't call him 
 Tom Mills no more." 
 
 " Of course not," said Tamsin, reddening. 
 
 " You used to." 
 
 16
 
 1 8 2 CRA Q UE- O'-D O OM. 
 
 " I have learned not to take such liberties." 
 
 " Don't mention it," said Tom Mills, smiling. 
 He looked up toward the house. Tamsin was 
 quite rosy. 
 
 " You says ' father/ too, instead o' ' daddy,'" ru- 
 minated Tillie. " Ain't you goin' to say ' mammy' 
 and ' daddy' any more ?" 
 
 " I hope not." 
 
 " Is it 'cause you're too proud ?" 
 
 " I don't think I'm any prouder than I always 
 was." 
 
 "They said you'd git reel stuck-up. I don't 
 think you are, though. You've just learnt proper. 
 My !" meditated Tillie, shaking her head, " how 
 proper you have learnt !" 
 
 When they paused on the drive beside the Hill- 
 house, Aunt Sally Teagarden, with a white kerchief 
 tied hastily over her head, came out, a little flurried 
 and unsettled in her manner. She did not know 
 just how to receive her former handmaid, of whose 
 new connection she disapproved while having the 
 girl's welfare at heart. The humdrum life at Bar- 
 net had produced few changes : she was astounded 
 to see coming out of the carriage such a refined, 
 pretty creature. 
 
 " Why, Mrs !" exclaimed Aunt Sally. " Why, 
 Miss ! Why !" There she checked herself, 
 to stand in fine dignity and put forth the good old 
 formula, " How do you do ?"
 
 YOUR WEDDIN'-EXPENSES." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " YOUR WEDDIN '-EXPENSES." 
 
 IN a day's time Aunt Sally had fallen into very 
 pleasant relations with Tamsin, and existence at 
 the Hill house moved in its usual comfortable 
 groove. Tillie sat at the tea-table, and slept with 
 her sister in one of the spacious front guest-rooms. 
 She accepted all changes with the heedless adapta- 
 bility of childhood. 
 
 The next morning, when they started down hill, 
 she skipped beside Tamsin, delighted only to have 
 her near, and certain that the neighbors and towns- 
 people gazed because they were delighted too. In 
 the back street there was a long gauntlet of hum- 
 ble doors framing stolid women. Some nodded 
 distantly in reply to Tamsin's greeting and noted 
 the style of her dress and extravagance of her 
 parasol and low shoes; others disappeared just 
 as she came by, and took refuge behind window- 
 blinds, as if they could not stand such refulgent 
 prosperity ; while a few came out to their gates 
 and shook hands stiffly, talking up to her in a 
 way to make her feel they were just as good as 
 she was, and that she had not been " well off"
 
 184 CRAQUE-CT-DOOAt. 
 
 such a very long time herself. These shades of 
 social sentiment were lost on Tillie : she was pa- 
 rading her sister. It occurred to her several times 
 to call attention to the trappings Tamsin carried, 
 but they were merely incidental in her eyes. 
 
 "Ain't this a pretty dress she's got on, Mis' 
 Flowers !" exclaimed Tillie to a dishevelled 
 woman who stood with her hands on her hips 
 and several of her dirty buds around her. Tam- 
 sin, while talking a moment to the mother, was 
 recognizing for the first time the piggish comeli- 
 ness there is about children who wallow. 
 
 Tillie's exuberance amused her, but it had a 
 chilling effect on Mrs. Flowers. " Balls's girls 
 has all got dresses somethin' like that," she ob- 
 served. "What fer goods is it?" 
 
 " Silk," replied Tillie, rubbing the fabric between 
 her finger and thumb. "Ain't it silk, Tamsie?" 
 
 " Never mind," said Tamsin. 
 
 "But ain't it silk?" 
 
 " I thought 'twas callyco," said Mrs. Flowers : 
 " the figger's like it." 
 
 At the Chenoworth gate a curious neighbor was 
 talking with Sarah Jane beside a pail of water which 
 seemed destined to no further use in the world than 
 reflecting stalks of flowering currant by the fence. 
 The doors stood open : the premises were alert 
 with a summer look. The front windows were 
 heavy with vines, the dry walk bordered by prim-
 
 " YOUR WEDDIW -EXPENSES." ^5 
 
 roses and four-o'clocks and all that old-fashioned 
 treasury of flowers. 
 
 Tamsin saw her mother hoeing in the garden ; 
 the ancient cornstalks were gone, and lines of ten- 
 der ones appeared in their places. 
 
 " I s'posed you'd be above comin' here," said 
 Sarah Jane as the neighbor stood aside to let 
 Tamsin enter the gate. It was a new neighbor, 
 one of the many floaters of the back street, and 
 Tamsin did not know her. 
 
 The sisters took each other's hands. It was a 
 singular greeting, kindly indifference appearing on 
 one side and suppressed resentment on the other. 
 
 " Is father in the garden, too ?" inquired Tamsin. 
 
 " No ; he's down town. One of Mary's young 
 uns can run and tell him you're here." 
 
 " Never mind. I can see him soon, anyhow. 
 Where is Mary ?" 
 
 " She's washin' fer Mis' Ewing to-day." The 
 neighbor took up her water-pail and moved away, 
 while Sarah Jane walked beside her sister to the 
 garden. 
 
 It was Tillie who caught the old mother around 
 the waist and turned her remonstrating sun-bonnet 
 toward Tamsin. 
 
 "My sakes alive!" complained Mrs. Cheno- 
 worth ; " if you don't quit a-scarin' me that way, 
 Tillie, I'll fetch you such a rap Why, is that 
 Tamsin ? No, 'tain't." 
 
 1 6*
 
 1 86 CRA Q UE- O'-DO OM. 
 
 " Yes, it is, mother." The daughter put her 
 arms up and kissed the old mouth ; yet, in doing 
 so, she was conscious of a blank and aching feel- 
 ing in her bosom. 
 
 Mrs. Chenovvorth was not especially glad to see 
 her. They seemed to be a race without emotions. 
 " Don't step on that tater-hill," she said, and set 
 her sun-bonnet straight on her head. " Well, we 
 heard you got here last night. Come into the 
 house." They all wended their way thither. 
 
 " Everybody is well ?" inquired Tamsin. 
 
 " Middlin'. How's your man?" 
 
 " Well, thank you." 
 
 They entered the low door, and when Mrs. 
 Chenoworth had selected the particular split- 
 bottomed chair she wished Tamsin to sit in, it 
 occurred to her to remark, " Sary Jane 'and Arter 
 they've made a match." 
 
 " So Tillie told me." 
 
 Sarah Jane put her apron to her eyes ; her face 
 reddened violently. 
 
 " I hope you'll be happy," said Tamsin. 
 
 " Oh, I'll bet you do ! with a great big lazy 
 hulk like him on my hands! You could always 
 have things your own way, and I may take up 
 with your leavin's." 
 
 Tamsin looked at her with mild compassion ; 
 " You needn't have married him." 
 
 " I thought mebby he'd fetch in somethin'," ex-
 
 YOUR WEDDIN'-EXPKNSES." 
 
 I8 7 
 
 plained Sarah Jane, crying ; " but he ain't done a 
 lick o' work since ; and when he has a job he 
 won't stick to it. And there's that baby." 
 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 " It's asleep," snapped Sarah Jane. " I couldn't 
 git nobody to take it, and it a-hinderin' me from 
 doin' any good for myself. Arter he talked around 
 and talked around till I went and had him ; and 
 now what have I come to !" 
 
 Mrs. Chenoworth drew a deep sigh. Every new 
 complication in her family brought her greater 
 resignation : it was the natural lot of woman to 
 suffer. But she turned toward Tamsin with a 
 strange look. Tamsin scarcely belonged to her. 
 " Things is different with you," she said. 
 
 " Yes, they are different." 
 
 Tamsin felt a sudden thrill through her bosom 
 as she spoke. She saw a bland, gray-eyed head 
 standing out on the air with no appendage of de- 
 formed body. He had saved her from this misery 
 of race, before which she could still only sit help- 
 less. The fine aroma of his spirit came to her in 
 his absence : he would have made the world dif- 
 ferent to her even had he been poor. ; 
 
 A tramping on the step and a shadow darkening 
 the door caused her to look up and see her father 
 The old man was grayer and more hairy ; he wore 
 goggles over his eyes to protect them from sun- 
 glare, and a coat so tattered and patched it was
 
 188 CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 
 
 hard to tell what color it had faded and degener- 
 ated from. Tamsin knew of old her father's tastes 
 in raiment : no matter how many whole garments 
 he had, he wore most and enjoyed himself best in 
 tatters. He made rather a loud demonstration 
 over her, and smacked her cheek with a kiss. 
 John and George appeared also, and shook her 
 glove with clumsy hands. 
 
 While she talked with her family she kept look- 
 ing round with the old astonishment at their ways 
 and habits of thought, and that aversion toward 
 them which had been born in her was only tem- 
 pered by pity. She did not like them ; formerly 
 she had loathed them. The feeling was lessened, 
 not because they had gained upon her affections, 
 but because she had a scope and a world no longer 
 bound by them. 
 
 With Tillie all to herself in the woods it was 
 different. The summer was young with them. 
 Every smell was pungent: the earth and grass 
 still had an odor that one sucked in with all one's 
 lungs. Both girls knew a hollow in the woody 
 hill which rose west of Barnet. Tillie carried her 
 instrument, and they went there and sat on a log 
 so crusted with moss and reduced from fibre by 
 Nature's alchemy that it was scarcely stronger 
 than a heap of dust and gave way in places to the 
 treading foot or leaning hand. It was a bank of 
 many tiny moss-cups. Tamsin and Tillie had sat
 
 " YOUR WEDDING-EXPENSES." 
 
 on that log every summer for years. The woods 
 dimmed the daylight all around them. Far off 
 they could hear the rumble of vehicles on the 
 pike. 
 
 When Tamsin settled herself, the little one 
 kicked a space clear of last year's leaves, and, 
 patting the turf with her feet, played all her tunes. 
 The tree-trunks echoed the music. When she 
 finally placed the accordion on the log and climbed 
 up between it and Tamsin, her face was damp 
 with exertion, and she lifted the bottom of her 
 dress to wipe her neck. 
 
 " What a smart little girl I've got !" said the 
 elder, putting her arms around the child. 
 
 " I learnt 'em nearly all myself. Just ketched 
 'em by ear." 
 
 " When you come to stay with me you can have 
 a piano to play on." 
 
 " That'd be pretty nice," conceded Tillie ; " but I 
 don't see how a feller can help likin' the 'cordion 
 best. It's so little : you can carry it round and 
 hug it. Gne of Mary's young uns come nigh 
 pickin' a hole in it. My ! what'd I done with that 
 young un if it had !" 
 
 " Honey " began Tamsin. 
 
 "I like to hear that!" exclaimed the child; 
 " sounds like you used to talk. I expect my talk 
 does seem awful to you, Tarn." 
 
 " I never found any fault with you, dear "
 
 CRAQUE-Cf-DOOM. 
 
 " I know you don't ; but you've learnt proper 
 and I ain't. I'm goin' to begin to, though." 
 
 Tamsin laughed and rocked the flaxen head. 
 " We're sisters," she said, " real sisters." 
 
 Tillie admitted it as they rocked. " Mary and 
 Sary Jane's sisters, too," she added. " I like Mary 
 better'n I do Sary Jane ; but I don't like nobody 
 half as well as I do you, Tam, daddy nor mammy, 
 nor nobody." (" Father nor mother," she tried 
 under her breath.) " Not father, nor mother, nor 
 nobody. I did miss you so. Now, don't you 
 laugh if I tell you somethin', will ye?" She tilted 
 her head and challenged Tamsin with her light- 
 blue eyes : the iris was very clear and pure. 
 
 " Of course not," promised Tamsin. 
 
 " I did feel that bad, and I'd wake up in the 
 night and couldn't go to sleep, when you first 
 went away. The only thing that done me any 
 good was, I'd pat my piller, this way, like it was 
 your face, and say, ' Place hands, place hands !' " 
 This was Tillie's individual and peculiar caress. 
 She meant by it blessing and benediction. 
 
 Tamsin suddenly put her handkerchief to her face. 
 
 " You ain't laughin', are you ?" 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 " Are ye cryin' ? Don't cry, Tam." 
 
 " Oh, honey," said Tamsin, devouring this merry 
 little face with eyes which dilated while she gazed, 
 " what shall I ever do without you ?"
 
 YOUR WEDDING-EXPENSES." 
 
 191 
 
 " There's your man," suggested Tillie. " You 
 think a heap of him, don't you ?" 
 
 The warmth deepened under Tamsin's skin. 
 She looked wistfully at the child, but made no 
 reply. 
 
 " I don't think much o' men. I don't never in- 
 tend to git married. Mary and Sary Jane has^got 
 their come-uppance gittin' married. And you've 
 got such a funny-lookin' man, Tarn." 
 
 " You don't know him, dear. If you saw how 
 kind and fine he is " 
 
 " Yes, he is a reel clever feller. I think con- 
 sider'ble of that 'cordion." 
 
 " And didn't you like the dresses and all the 
 rest?" 
 
 " Yes, I was very well pleased. And I like the 
 new things you brought me when you come. 
 But I was spited about that blue sack." 
 
 " Why, I thought you were pleased with it." 
 
 " I was, I tell ye. But Mary she had to bony 
 it for one of her young uns, and she kep' a-borryin' 
 it till they had it there all the time. I didn't min' 
 her havin' whatever else she wanted ; but that blue 
 sack, it was a spite for it to be took." 
 
 " I'll get you another, a prettier one." 
 
 " If you do," advised Tillie sagely, " git one 
 apiece for all the connections first." 
 
 Coming home, they passed Mary's house. She 
 lived in what was known'as the " nigger quarters,"
 
 CRAQUE-V-DOOM. 
 
 several colored families holding sway thereabouts. 
 The voices of their noisy progeny could always be 
 heard, singing, crying, or quarrelling, but their 
 gardens were marvellous, even in pastoral Barnet. 
 
 Tamsin and Tillie stopped at Mary's fence. She 
 was weeding her onion-bed, but came forward, 
 pulling down her sleeves. Her hands had that 
 shrunken look which parboiling in soap-suds 
 gives ; her dress hung lank about her, and half 
 the slats were out of the limpest sun-bonnet that 
 ever hung over a dejected woman's face. Still, 
 and in spite of her humiliations and incapacities, 
 there was always a remnant of dignity about 
 Mary. Tamsin took her hands and reached over 
 the fence to kiss her, touched by this sister as she 
 had never been before. 
 
 " How are you ?" 
 
 " Tol'able, thank you. You look real well." 
 
 " I am well. Where are the children ?" 
 
 "Some's along where he's a-ditchin', and I don't 
 know where the boys are. That's Jinnie hidin' 
 behind the ker'n'-bushes. Come here, Jinnie, and 
 see Aunt Tamsin." 
 
 "Yes, come," called Tamsin. But the white- 
 headed child merely peeped, and refused to appear. 
 
 Tamsin looked over her sister's drawn and 
 pinched face, still keeping a hand on her arm 
 as both of them leaned on the fence. " You're 
 tired, aren't you, Mary?"
 
 " YOUR WEDDIN '-EXPENSES." ig$ 
 
 "Yes: I' been washin' for Mis' Ewin'. I just 
 got done a little while ago, and thought I could 
 weed some before he wanted his supper." She 
 avoided Tamsin's eyes, and gazed rather on her 
 hands or dress or Tillie's clothing, with that ner- 
 vous attempt at self-possession which is so painful 
 to see in a woman who carries her broken pride 
 through her misfortunes. 
 
 " I am coming to see you some afternoon," sa'd 
 Tamsin. 
 
 " Do," said Mary stiffly. " You're goin' to stay 
 up at Mills's, ain't you ? We heard you was." 
 
 " Yes : Mr. Sutton got them to board me." 
 
 " I thought 'twasn't likely he'd want you to stay 
 at daddy's, where they're so crowded." 
 
 Tamsin decided that Mary had some sense, and 
 in this respect differed from Sarah Jane. 
 
 " If you want to talk proper, Mary," expostulated 
 Tillie, " don't say ' daddy' : it's ' father.' Tarn says 
 ' father.' " 
 
 Mary's face grew hot, but she replied, " My 
 proper days is past, Tillie. I ain't tryin' no more. 
 Tamsin'll have to learn for the whole family." 
 
 " Tillie will make everybody laugh at me," ex- 
 postulated Tamsin. " She asked Mrs. Flowers to 
 look at my dress, and she acts as if I came out for 
 a show. That isn't proper, honey." 
 
 " Well," said Tillie, twisting herself, " you can't 
 expect me to learn everything proper right off." 
 i 17
 
 CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 The very first ripe currants were on the tea-table 
 at the Hill-house. Neal stood by the sideboard, 
 in his old place, ready to start at a motion from 
 his mistress ; but, before it was time to change 
 plates in the simple country tea, he had an oppor- 
 tunity to ruminate long and deeply on the promo- 
 tion of Chenoworth's Damsel. He saw her sitting 
 up there as fresh as a rose, acting the lady ; a few 
 months before she was an odd-job girl, whose pp- 
 sition he considered far less dignified than that of 
 a regular servant. His master looked at her, too, 
 seeing with constant surprise her many small 
 stylish ways. Her flesh had a warm under-tint 
 which it had lacked in her days of precarious 
 side-meat. 
 
 When Tamsin had been home a few days, old 
 Mr. Chenoworth came slouching up to the Hill- 
 house one morning, looking about him in every 
 direction, with his lips drooping apart. The cook 
 happened to be in the garden with Aunt Sally, 
 and Neal busy on the vineyard slope, so there 
 was nobody about the great drowsing house ex- 
 cept Tamsin and Captain Mills. The latter had 
 just come in and thrown himself on a sofa in the 
 back parlor. Tamsin was in the library, writing a 
 letter. 
 
 The old man went cautiously around the house, 
 and, returning to the side-porch on the east side, 
 stepped up and knocked. Tamsin saw him through
 
 " YOUR WEDDIN'-EXPENSES." ig$ 
 
 a window. The door was open, and she reached 
 it before Captain Mills had lifted his drowsy 
 length. 
 
 " Won't you come in, father?" 
 
 " I hain't got time. I wanted to speak to ye a 
 minute." 
 
 "IsTillie sick?" 
 
 " No. She ain't been from here more'n half an 
 hour. I've got to go over to Norwalk to-morrow, 
 there's some things for me to settle over there. 
 I want you to lend me five or ten dollars." 
 
 " Yes," said Tamsin. 
 
 He had spoken low, and Captain Mills's indiffer- 
 ent ear did not make out the request. Tamsin 
 went to her room and brought him what he asked 
 for. It was money given to her to spend as she 
 pleased. She smiled as she came down-stairs: 
 history was repeating itself, -he still wanted her 
 wages. 
 
 " I'll give it back as soon as I git it," he prom- 
 ised. 
 
 " Oh, never mind, father." 
 
 At least four times during the summer he made 
 excursions to Norwalk, and each time borrowed a 
 similar sum. Since he could no longer charge up 
 board and lodging against her, he had no resource 
 but to borrow. When the season was quite over, 
 it may be mentioned here, old Mr. Chenoworth 
 fully cancelled these loans. He saw Tamsin, and
 
 !g6 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 said to her, " Tarn, that money that I got of 
 you" 
 
 " Never mind it, father. It's all Mr. Button's, 
 and he would want you to keep it." 
 
 " But I borrowed it. I'll let it go against your 
 weddin'-expenses. That was some expense, but I 
 didn't charge it up agin you at the time." 
 
 When she came in from the veranda on this first 
 occasion, Captain Mills, lounging against the sofa- 
 pillow, inquired, " Was that your father?" 
 
 " Yes : he's gone now." 
 
 Tom had guessed her errand up-stairs. " Did 
 you know that your husband pays him a regular 
 allowance ?" 
 
 " No," said Tamsin with a start.
 
 A BROTHER. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A BROTHER. 
 
 THE ladies of Barnet, especially the young and 
 recently-married ladies, all called on Tamsin. 
 They had considered the matter well. It was a 
 concession not so much to her altered prospects as 
 to the Mills family, with whom she was staying. 
 The Millses had been respectable ever since Barnet 
 was a town : they had been looked up to, and 
 would probably be looked up to while time en- 
 dured. Tamsin had made a queer though ad- 
 vantageous match. She might prosper, or her 
 new-found glories might melt : Barnet knew 
 nothing about that, but as long as the Millses 
 countenanced her advancement it was bound to 
 do so. 
 
 The young ladies compared their impressions of 
 her : they had known absolutely nothing of her in 
 her former state except an old shawl and a pair 
 of cowhide shoes plodding across the commons. 
 Their opinions of her were various : one was 
 charmed with her, but another despised a girl who 
 would live in comfort and even luxury while her 
 family struggled in poverty. How Tamsin was to 
 17*
 
 CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 renovate the whole Chenoworth tribe this right- 
 minded critic did not suggest. Some thought she 
 made herself ridiculous, coming back where her 
 miserable origin was known ; and a few said she 
 was a Chenoworth, and, generally speaking, that 
 was enough for them to know. Still, outward 
 deference of manner was not wanting, and Aunt 
 Sally many times during the summer put on her 
 cream-colored poplin, which gave her the stately 
 expansiveness of a beautiful white elephant, and 
 went with Tamsin hither and thither to tea at 
 houses the outside of which had formerly been 
 as awful as temples to Chenoworth's daughter. 
 Sarah Jane stood at the gate to watch her favored 
 sister's progress, or had spies out along the pike 
 to report where Tamsin had been most recently 
 honored, and Sarah Jane's sun-bonnet made fre- 
 quent journeys across the dog-pound to bu/.z at 
 Mary's tired ear the inequality of fortune. Mary 
 expected no more good in the world : she had 
 long ago received her final surprise. But Sarah 
 Jane was of opinion that if Tamsin Chenoworth 
 was even the ghost of a sister she would divide 
 the dwarf up in some way among the family, or 
 make him at least demand that invitations should 
 be extended to all the younger branches. 
 
 In return for all this entertainment Aunt Sally 
 gave a mighty and solemn tea, to which all of fe- 
 male Barnet drew nigh who were considered within
 
 A BROTHER. 
 
 the pale of society. And here was crowning cause 
 for complaint. Sarah Jane went up and sat in the 
 Mills's kitchen and complained to the cook. Her 
 feelings were so outraged she wished a variety of 
 calamities upon her sister. That Tamsin had not 
 the inviting of -the guests was a fact which in no 
 wise mollified her; that Tamsin might be wearied 
 by their society was what Sarah Jane could not 
 conceive of. There sat that girl, reared like a god- 
 dess above her own kin : either she had no busi- 
 ness in her position or the Chenoworths had no 
 business in theirs. Sarah Jane was in the liveliest 
 sense a communist. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom's letters were very odd and de- 
 lightful. He wrote about nothing but his adven- 
 tures. He enclosed some epistles from Rhoda 
 Burns, written to Tamsin and himself both : she 
 had a great many clever things to say about things 
 abroad ; and these two remote streams flowed 
 through Tamsin's mind, clearing it of a great deal 
 of perplexity. Considering herself only a simple 
 girl, she sometimes pored over her husband's let- 
 ters with awe. 
 
 Jennie Mills and Louise Latta, with a following 
 of young gentlemen and young ladies, came down 
 and took the house by storm. These were days 
 of immense activity, although the July heats were 
 come. There was a lawn-party, and endless games 
 of croquet, rides, a little languid dancing, and a
 
 2QO CRA Q UE- O'-DO OM. 
 
 picnic, in which Barnet turned out all its muslin 
 and best cake and came home soaked with the 
 usual thunder-shower. It was about this time that 
 Captain Mills began to devote himself to Tamsin. 
 He had been very kind to. her all summer, in a 
 guardian-like way ; but, with so many young men 
 around, he felt it his duty, as the elderly, non- 
 marrying man of the flock, to escort Craque-o'- 
 Doom's young wife. The young men in round 
 coats and straw hats were not inclined to neglect 
 her; they had heard her story from Jennie and 
 Louise ; they saw her and approved of her. But 
 on every occasion when a straw hat threw itself 
 down to fan a pleasant heated face by Tamsin's 
 side, Tom Mills's cooler, smooth-shaven counte- 
 nance appeared as a balance of power. 
 
 Jennie and Louise met Tamsin upon their own 
 plane. They were delighted with her, and bor- 
 rowed half her things, freely bestowing their own 
 upon her in return. This house-stirring had a 
 beneficent influence on her. All her girlish spirits 
 were aroused. She talked, and waltzed, and played 
 croquet. Tom Mills frequently stood and looked 
 at her. Her very flesh quivered with life: she 
 was lovely and dangerous, far more so than the 
 lighter girls : they could charm, but she had an in- 
 dividuality which could entangle itself in the mi- 
 nutest fibres of a man's nature. Captain Tom 
 thought this dumbly, feeling a sample of the tingle
 
 A BROTHER. 2OI 
 
 himself. It caused him to mutter again, " Poor 
 Craque-o'-Doom !" and thereafter lose himself in 
 astonishment at the change which had come over 
 his compassion for his friend. On the occasion of 
 the dwarf's marriage he had pitied the poor fellow 
 for having taken a wife immeasurably beneath him: 
 he pitied the same man now for the disadvantages 
 which must hold him forever beneath this beauti- 
 ful wife. 
 
 It troubled Tom after the boys and girls were 
 gone. He smoked a great many cigars. He was 
 a hardened old bachelor himself, but could foresee 
 how it would end. By the time she was through 
 school she would be ready for gay society, and 
 gay society she would have. No dwarf could 
 deny her anything. How she would sail and 
 sparkle, while Craque-o'-Doom ambled slowly 
 along underneath, watching her flight ! Just when 
 she was at her best, somebody, Tom dreaded to 
 think there were such scoundrels, but some fellow 
 would sever the last thread that bound her to 
 Craque-o'-Doom ; then these new-fangled notions 
 about divorce, and all that sort of thing; darkness, 
 trouble, Craque-o'-Doom desolated. 
 
 But she seemed very happy at receiving the 
 dwarf's letters ; she read bits of them to Tillie, 
 who hung around her constantly, and to Captain 
 Tom. She devoted certain days to writing, and 
 sent out large packets.
 
 2Q2 CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 " Distance lends enchantment," thought the 
 captain. 
 
 Her brother came home from jail, and made the 
 round of the family to greet everybody. He had 
 not a prepossessing countenance, and was much 
 soured against society. The poor boy knew that 
 things had gone against him, and, conscious of 
 guilt, he was ready for new mischief. Tamsin had 
 seen Sam : she had exchanged salutations with all 
 her cousins, including Arter, who shambled out 
 of her way as quickly as he possibly could, ex- 
 pressing injury in every line of his slouch. She 
 had sought them more than they had sought her, 
 though she felt an indifference toward them which 
 was tinctured with no feeling but pain. But Jess 
 came defiantly to see her. He slammed Mills's 
 front gate. Sarah Jane was with him, and the 
 least liberal guardian of Barnet society was just 
 leaving the house. It was a sultry sunset. Tam- 
 sin was languid with the heat of the day. Aunt 
 Sally stood in the shade, talking with her neigh- 
 bor, and Captain Mills had just sauntered up with 
 his cigar. He had on a dressing-gown, and looked 
 effeminate in the eyes of Jess Chenoworth. 
 
 " Here's your brother come to see you," said 
 Sarah Jane aggressively to Tamsin. " He's just 
 as good as them that's so big-feelin', if he has been 
 in jail." 
 
 The neighbor looked upon this family group
 
 A BROTHER. 
 
 203 
 
 with extreme disfavor. She confined her remain- 
 ing remarks to Aunt Sally, and, after listening inci- 
 dentally to what the group said, went away and 
 told how disgraceful it was. 
 
 Tamsin took Jess's hand and said, " How do 
 you do ?" She looked pained. Tom Mills ached 
 at the sight of her face. 
 
 " I didn't suppose you'd come to see me, so I 
 thought I'd come to see you," said Jess, with a 
 hard laugh and an air of braving it out. Yet she 
 had a certain effect upon him which no female 
 relative had produced before. 
 
 " You ought to come," said Tamsin. " I ought 
 to see you." 
 
 " He's your own brother," repeated Sarah Jane, 
 as if she were thrusting the fact down Tamsin's 
 throat. 
 
 "Yes, he is," said Tamsin. "Poor boy!" she 
 added, with a choke in her voice. 
 
 " I don't want no water-works turned on," said 
 Jess, with an airy wave of his head. " The women," 
 he remarked to Captain Mills, " al'ays takes every 
 excuse they can for cryin'." 
 
 " I want to talk with you, Jess," said Tom Mills, 
 turning to saunter around the house and indicating 
 that he wished to be followed, " about your pros- 
 pects." 
 
 Jess went with the captain. " I hain't got any 
 prospecks," said he in a jocose tone. " The'
 
 204 CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 
 
 hain't any millionaire been runnin' after me since 
 I come out." 
 
 " There's a man, not exactly a millionaire, but 
 still with some means," said Tom, as they mounted 
 the east veranda by themselves, " who offers to 
 give you a handsome start, for the sake of your 
 sister, if you will try to make a man of yourself." 
 
 Tamsin sat on the door-step in silence. Aunt 
 Sally had gone to oversee the milking. The sun 
 was down, but the burning was not yet drawn out 
 of the day. Sarah Jane sat on the lowest step : 
 her sun-bonnet was in her lap, but her aquiline 
 face was overhung with shreds of hair. Tamsin 
 never said much to her, but seemed to overwhelm 
 her with silence. Sarah Jane had broken out for 
 a minute or two with hysterical complaints, but 
 the black-eyed sphinx upon the top step was ap- 
 parently stone-cold and deaf to them. " You don't 
 seem to think nothin' of your own folks," said 
 Sarah Jane; " everybody else is more account to 
 you than them that's kin, only Tillie. You don't 
 act with no natural feelin's." 
 
 The upbraiding might have passed Tamsin's 
 cheeks like the evening wind. Her hands were 
 folded in her lap, and she looked steadily down 
 the hill. 
 
 Sarah Jane dug her shoe into the gravel at the 
 foot of the step. Dusk sifted thicker and thicker 
 through the air, and finally Jess came round the
 
 A BR OTHER. 2O5 
 
 house, and the sister who had come with him got 
 up and joined him. " Good-evenin', Tarn," said 
 Sarah Jane with asperity. 
 
 " Good-evening," responded Tamsin. 
 
 Jess paused, with his hat pulled forward and his 
 hands in his pockets. " That was toler'ble clever 
 of your man," he said to Tamsin. 
 
 " What was ?" 
 
 " He's goin' to stake me up for a new deal at 
 somethin'. Tom Mills says he thought I'd turn 
 out first-rate if he gave me a start. You tell him 
 thanky, will ye?" 
 
 " Yes," said Tamsin. She added spontaneously, 
 " He is good." 
 
 " Consider'ble better'n some whole men I've 
 knowed," pronounced Jess. 
 
 " I bet you never put him up to it," said Sarah 
 Jane to Tamsin. 
 
 They went away talking in an eager, sad duet : 
 the eager tones were Jess's, the plaintive ones 
 Sarah Jane's. 
 
 There was a whippoorwill singing in one of the 
 large trees beside the drive. The gurgle in his 
 throat which precedes his cry could be distinctly 
 heard. The barn-yard calves were complaining 
 of their evening banishment from their mothers, 
 with that lonesome, November-like cadence which 
 always suggests thinning trees and a sharp wind 
 around corners. But the summer night was deli- 
 
 18
 
 CRAQUE-&-DOOM. 
 
 cious ; it did not even lack a full moon. Far down 
 the pike, the Barnet brass-band was blaring at 
 great Apollo to strike the lyre ; the one ice-cream 
 saloon was doing a rushing business, for a great 
 many promenading couples made the evening fes- 
 tive. 
 
 Aunt Sally saw the mantel-clock point to nine, 
 and took her bed-room candle. " Is Tamsin up- 
 stairs, Thomas ?" she inquired as she passed the 
 small library-door, within which her nephew was 
 smoking in the moonlight. 
 
 " I don't know. Probably she is." 
 
 " Be sure to fasten the front door when you go." 
 
 " Certainly," said Tom. 
 
 With Andrew Jackson Davis under her arm and 
 her candle paling in the moonlight, Aunt Sally 
 went up-stairs. 
 
 When Captain Tom had smoked his cigar out, 
 he got up and sauntered through the parlors, giv- 
 ing no sign of what was in his mind or how he 
 meant to occupy the rest of the evening. In the 
 middle of the front parlor he stood still. " Tam- 
 sin," he said, with an indefinite sting of pain in the 
 word. He saw her lying face downward on a sofa, 
 her white dress rising and falling in long breaths 
 around the shoulders. She stirred, keeping the 
 back of one hand over her eyes. " What's the 
 matter ?" begged Captain Tom, seating himself on 
 a chair by her head. He rested his arm on the
 
 A R OTHER. 2O? 
 
 back and leaned toward her with what he thought 
 a very paternal air. " What are you crying about 
 here alone?" 
 
 For answer she broke into a fresh sob. 
 
 " My heavens !" said Tom, with a pang in his 
 breast. " Who has hurt you ?" He reassuringly 
 took the hand from her eyes and held and patted 
 it. It was warm and soft, and while he held it he 
 began to tremble. " Can't you tell me ?" he mur- 
 mured, modulating his voice so that it soundec] 
 strange to himself. " Do you feel badly about 
 your brother ?" He raised her to a sitting posture 
 and saw her rested comfortably against the back 
 of the sofa. With fatherly care he put a footstool 
 to her feet, and then resumed his chair, reaching 
 for her hands with an unaccountable impulse to 
 draw her close to him. 
 
 Tamsin looked into his kind eyes and revealed 
 a new phase of herself. The silent stoic and the 
 budding young lady were gone. She was a spirit 
 struggling with the problems of her own being, 
 but a very pretty, warm, distracting spirit, con- 
 scious or unconscious of her power. " I never did 
 like them," she confessed. " I can't do it. Tillie 
 is the only one who seems related to me. It is 
 horrible to feel so. When I looked at him, I 
 thought of the brothers who came to see the girls 
 at school. I should like to have a brother of that 
 kind. He makes my flesh creep. I do not love
 
 2 o8 CRA QUE-O'-DO OM. 
 
 my father and mother. If they were dead I could 
 not cry one true tear. If Sam and Sarah Jane and 
 all the rest except Tillie were to die, I should 
 not miss them at all." 
 
 Tom kept patting and soothing her hand. 
 
 "You never heard of anybody that way, did 
 you ?" inquired Tamsin. 
 
 " Oh, yes : very few brothers and sisters are so 
 closely united as Tillie and you are." 
 
 " But why don't I care for the rest of them ?" 
 
 " Natural antagonism," explained Captain Tom. 
 " There are no points of sympathy between you. 
 You are as different as if you came of other blood. 
 It is useless to make yourself unhappy about it." 
 
 Tamsin rested against the back of the sofa and 
 thought. " I wish," she said sincerely, " that I 
 had only had one sister, and that Tillie, and only 
 one brother, and that you." 
 
 Tom Mills started up and walked to the other 
 side of the room. 
 
 Tamsin looked after him : " Have I made you 
 mad ?" 
 
 " No," said Tom, returning. His eyes had a 
 singular glow. " All my life I have missed my 
 sister." 
 
 " It would have been so nice," continued Tarn- 
 sin. " Before Mr. Sutton came I used to want to 
 be related to you, and after he came I wanted it 
 more than ever. What makes your hand so cold?"
 
 A BROTHER. 2(X) 
 
 "Is it cold?" murmured the captain, looking at 
 it stupidly. " That must be because it has always 
 missed a little hand like this." 
 
 " I used to watch you, and be afraid of you." 
 
 " Afraid of me ! Why ?" 
 
 " You seemed my idea of a gentleman ; and I 
 What was I ?" 
 
 " Always a rare girl, if I had had the wit to notice 
 it," said Tom with some bitterness. 
 
 " I always loved to be here," still ruminated 
 Tamsin. " Why can't people pick their relations ? 
 I would have picked you from the very start. I 
 hope you ain't provoked because I feel so ?" 
 
 " No no heaven knows !" 
 
 " Home !" her eyes wandered around the moon- 
 lit walls. "And I never could help calling her 
 Aunt Sally ; and you " She turned her eyes 
 back laughing to his face. 
 
 He was as white as a statue ; his jet moustache 
 added ghastliness to his face. He gripped her 
 hand in palm and fingers which were jetting with 
 blood hot from his heart. 
 
 " What's the matter ?" asked Tamsin, startled, 
 as he drew himself away from her and rose up, 
 turning his back. 
 
 " Nothing," replied Captain Mills, huskily. 
 
 Almost as soon as he had spoken, there were 
 feet on the door-steps and feet in the hall, a swish 
 of clothes, the cough of a man, the sound of a 
 o 18*
 
 2io CRAQUE-ff-DOOM. 
 
 mellow voice which made Tom Mills want to stab 
 himself, and of Rhoda Burns, exclaiming, " Who 
 is in here having such a remarkably cosey little 
 tete-a-tete that carriages rolling up and people 
 arriving fail to disturb it?" 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 TWO MEN. 
 
 TAMSIN rose and met the party with agitation. 
 She kissed Rhoda, took Mr. Burns's hand, and, last, 
 stood like a young giantess with her hands in 
 Craque-o'-Doom 's. 
 
 Tom made a great stir about getting lights. But 
 Neal and the cook were out making calls, and the 
 matches eluded him. " I had some in the library 
 a little while ago, but don't know where I put 
 them," said he. And he shook hands all around 
 the group with a manner very different from his 
 usual beneficent one. 
 
 "Never mind candles," said Rhoda: "they just 
 draw bugs to bang against the screens or sail in at 
 the door and land down your back. You seemed 
 to be getting on charmingly without illumination 
 when we came in." 
 
 " Yes," said Tamsin. " I hate lights in summer.
 
 TWO MEN. 211 
 
 I sat on the step till long after the moon came 
 up." 
 
 Thought Mrs. Burns to herself, " I wonder how 
 long this philandering has been going on? And 
 Tom Mills, of all men ! I never saw him look so 
 agitated. Hasn't she a particle of sense ? [.could 
 shake her!" 
 
 They were grouped in seats, in and out of the 
 moonshine. Rhoda unfastened her hat and scarf; 
 the two gentlemen sat with their hats in their 
 hands. 
 
 " Did you send your carriage to the stables ?" 
 inquired Tom. 
 
 " I didn't bring mine this time," said Craque-o'- 
 Doom. " We came in a conveyance from the sta- 
 tion. Mr. and Mrs. Burns whirled me out here 
 without any warning." 
 
 " Yes," said Rhoda ; " we stumbled on him roast- 
 ing in New York City, just by accident, at his 
 favorite hotel." 
 
 " It's very hot in town," remarked Mr. Burns. 
 He fanned his face with his handkerchief, as if the 
 recollection overpowered him. 
 
 " But I thought you were in Canada for the sum- 
 mer, Craque-o'-Doom ?" said Tom. 
 
 " I got tired of it sooner than I did last 
 year." 
 
 " You didn't say a word about leaving in your 
 last letter," said Tamsin. She had resumed her
 
 2 1 2 CRA Q UE- &-D O OM. 
 
 seat on the sofa, and Rhoda was sitting in the chair 
 Tom had occupied. 
 
 " No ; I took a sudden fancy to run out here. 
 Then I changed my mind and sent the carriage 
 back. Then I met Mr. and Mrs. Burns, and we 
 concluded to make a flying visit to Barnet and 
 take you back with us to the sea-shore for the rest 
 of the summer." 
 
 " I had a little matter of business West," mur- 
 mured Mr. Burns, to explain his concurrence in 
 such eccentric proceedings. " I have to go on to 
 Chicago." 
 
 " Don't say flying visit," urged Tom in a nerve- 
 less voice. 
 
 " Come with us to Svvampscott, Tom," said 
 Craque-o'-Doom. And Rhoda turned sharply 
 round and looked at him. " Mr. Burns has prom- 
 ised us as much time as he can spare during the 
 rest of the summer. We can make a comfortable 
 party." 
 
 " Fifth wheel to a coach," said Tom. " Bach- 
 elors are always in the way. Louise and Jennie 
 have just made us a visit," he continued, address- 
 ing Rhoda. 
 
 "I wish they had extended it; only we might 
 tax your aunt's housekeeping pretty heavily. You 
 haven't told me how she is, or even noticed that I 
 am just back from the grand tour." 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Sally is always well," said Tom.
 
 TWO MEN. 
 
 213 
 
 "And you must remember I am just a provincial 
 farmer, blind to the splendors of travel. Provin- 
 cial is the word, isn't it, Mr. Burns?" 
 
 Mr. Burns laughed and rubbed his hands. " Yes, 
 that's the word. Pretty good sort of word ; but I 
 don't like it myself. I don't like New York airs." 
 
 " I do," said Rhoda. " I like everything that 
 suggests magnificence. If you will own to being 
 provincial, I will glory in being cosmopolitan. 
 We have had sumptuous times, haven't we, Mr. 
 Burns ?" 
 
 " Very," he responded. 
 
 " My head is stuffed full. I am richer by a 
 grand division and many hundred years. Is that 
 your aunt Sally coming down-stairs ?" 
 
 It was Aunt Sally, in an immense wrapper. 
 Her light sleep had been broken. She welcomed 
 everybody, and had lights burning all over the 
 house, and June-bugs bumping against them, and 
 a hearty supper set out, and all the travellers' 
 wants attended to, before the minute-hand on the 
 French clock had passed three characters. 
 
 " Tamsin," said Mrs. Burns, coming into her 
 young friend's virgin chamber when every inmate 
 was supposed to be retiring, " have you said a word 
 to Mr. Sutton this evening?" 
 
 " Of course I have." Tamsin had a downcast 
 expression. She had her light hair around the 
 shoulders of a very pretty tinted peignoir, and was
 
 2 1 4 CRAQUE- &-DOOM. 
 
 brushing industriously. Rhoda also had her hail 
 down and plied a vigorous brush. " Do you think 
 we shall really go to-morrow ?" 
 
 " Of course. It's time, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Then I wish Tillie had stayed here to-night. 
 She has slept with me every night but this since I 
 came back. She took a freak to stay at home to- 
 night." 
 
 " Have you had a pleasant summer ?" 
 
 " Oh, such a pleasant one ! I have had her with 
 me so much. The other day we went out to the 
 grave-yard, and sat in the grass and talked as we 
 used to do when we were children." 
 
 " Children ! what are you now ?" sniffed Mrs. 
 Burns. " That must have been very cheerful." 
 
 " It was. I wish she was here." 
 
 " Tamsin," said Rhoda boldly, " what were 
 you and Captain Mills doing when we came 
 in?" 
 
 " Doing ?" The girl raised her black eyes as if 
 with a sudden effort at recollection. " Why, talk- 
 ing, of course." 
 
 " What tender subject occupied you ?" 
 
 " I shan't tell you," replied Tamsin, after turning 
 the matter over in her mind. " I don't have to 
 tell everybody how I feel." 
 
 Rhoda sat down by her and put a hand on her 
 lap. The girl's eyes met hers with great wistful- 
 ness : the oval face looked so innocent. " She is
 
 TWO MEX. 215 
 
 the slyest flirt I ever saw," thought Rhoda, " or 
 else the most guileless of women." 
 
 " You delicious young fiend !" she exclaimed, 
 " I am equally divided whether to shake you or 
 fall upon you and devour you with kisses. Have 
 you been making fools of any men this summer? 
 Not to mince matters, have you transfixed this 
 silly old Tom Mills, with his white poll and black 
 moustache and years of what ought to be discre- 
 tion ?" 
 
 Tamsin pushed back her hair and flashed a 
 glance at Rhoda which was actually haughty. 
 " I'm married !" she said, as if this were a sufficient 
 reminder. 
 
 " Yes, I know you are ; but how are you to 
 realize it, living as you do? And plenty of mar- 
 ried women flirt, you will find as you go on." 
 
 " If you think that," said Tamsin, retiring an 
 inch from Rhoda, evidently smarting with a new 
 sting which neutralized the old, " I don't care what 
 you know. My brother got out of jail. You 
 don't know how I feel." 
 
 " My dear !" exclaimed Rhoda affectionately. 
 
 " I wished I had had a brother like Captain 
 Mills. He has always been a nice man. I want," 
 she burst out passionately, " I do want nice rela- 
 tions !" And, turning her back on Rhoda, she hid 
 her head in a pillow. 
 
 Mrs. Burns was about to begin a dissertation on
 
 2 i6 CRAQUE-CT-DOOM. 
 
 the ridiculous folly of that platonism between the 
 sexes known as " brothering" and " sistering" 
 each other, but the door opened without warning, 
 and Tillie came in. She had reached the front 
 door just as Aunt Sally was herself locking it for 
 the night. Her hair was damp with dew : the 
 odors of hay-fields and sweet sod were suggested 
 by her untrammelled presence. 
 
 " I couldn't stay away, Tarn," said the child. 
 She gave a " How do you do ?" to the new lady, 
 and huddled on the bed by her sister. 
 
 " They are a couple of Phcebe-birds," thought 
 Rhoda as she retired. " I'm not half as brilliant 
 in the management of human nature as I thought 
 I was." 
 
 Meanwhile, Captain Tom was crouching against 
 the mantel in Craque-o'-Doom's room. The dwarf 
 was half lying on the bed, with a pillow under his 
 elbow. " Is that all ?" said he. 
 
 " I think it's enough," said Tom. " I give you 
 my word I behaved like a man and a gentleman 
 till to-night. I'm growing daft in my mature years. 
 When I came in and found her crying, you can't 
 picture my sensations." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I can." 
 
 " I had an affair once that I thought would keep 
 me from ever thinking of a woman again." 
 
 The dwarf looked up with interest. 
 
 " She died. I expected to live a bachelor, and
 
 TWO MEN. 
 
 217 
 
 have never since thought of myself as a marrying 
 man. It sounds odd : I don't speak of it, for people 
 would consider it ridiculous. I can see how I came 
 to make such an ass of myself to-night. All sum- 
 mer this one has been thrown on my care ; I 
 watched her, and studied her, and grew to her, as 
 you might say." 
 
 " Yes ; that's where I was wrong. It was my 
 fault," said the dwarf. 
 
 " How did you know I had such a weak spot?" 
 continued Tom. " Throw the blame on me, where 
 it belongs. All at once I came upon her sobbing 
 as if her heart would break, I know all her draw- 
 backs Oh, heavens! how a man's heart will 
 yearn !" 
 
 " Yes, how it will yearn !" breathed the dwarf, 
 covering his face with hands which had grown 
 almost gaunt. 
 
 "So I said, and did what I told you, and half 
 compromised her in your eyes and the eyes of the 
 other two." 
 
 When the dwarf had been silent a minute he 
 seemed to have collected his forces, and said, 
 "Tom, I hope you won't mind my saying I think 
 of her and not of you ?" 
 
 " Certainly not. What consideration do I 
 merit?" 
 
 " You are a good fellow, and I have liked you 
 well, and taxed your friendship more than I ought 
 K 19
 
 2i8 CRAQUE-0--DOOM. 
 
 to have done. But, Tom, I could willingly stran- 
 gle you where her happiness is involved. The 
 great question with me is, Does she love you ?" 
 
 " No, she doesn't. Of course not." 
 
 "Tom, she has known you all her life. You 
 were, as she said, her idea of a gentleman. Be- 
 sides, you are a man to match with a beautiful, 
 perfectly-made woman. What am I ? A twist of 
 nature, a man-monkey, whose most dignified ges- 
 ture is ridiculous. I have been struggling against 
 the tide. I have believed it possible for her to care 
 for me : I don't believe it any more. Why, her re- 
 pugnance overcame her so she ran from me, once ! 
 Her affections and they are strong in proportion 
 to the narrow scope they take are bound around 
 this place and you. You must take her; and, by 
 God ! if you ever make her unhappy I will shoot 
 you with my own hands !" 
 
 " Old fellow, you can shoot me and welcome. I 
 couldn't feel much worse than I do. But exercise 
 a little common sense. One man doesn't marry 
 another man's wife in this country, no matter 
 how much he may have courted her," the captain 
 sneered down at himself. 
 
 " She isn't any more my wife than she is yours. 
 I gave her the protection of my name and guar- 
 dianship, and she's nothing but my ward. In these 
 days it won't be hard to cut the slim legal tie which 
 binds us together. You may remember I mentioned
 
 TWO MEN. 
 
 219 
 
 some such possible emergency when I first spoke 
 about taking her. You can marry her and make 
 her happy. If any odium attaches to her, it will 
 be, like the rest of her drawbacks, her misfortune 
 and not her fault. Confound you ! why didn't you 
 think of giving her a chance ?" 
 
 " Why didn't I ? I'm a pretty kind of a fellow 
 for a man to resign in favor of, ain't I ? Now, you 
 listen to me :" Tom approached and sat on the 
 bed. " You're working yourself to a high pitch for 
 nothing." 
 
 "Are you going to say you wouldn't have her?" 
 Craque-o'-Doom's eyes narrowed themselves to 
 fierce gray slits. 
 
 " Have her ? you don't want to make a fool of 
 yourself, asking me that? I tell you, she crept in 
 on me unawares. You ought to slap my face for 
 it, but I love her. A man can't say more than 
 that, if he's a man with red blood in his body. 
 What does a man generally want to do when such 
 a thing happens to him ? But she wouldn't have 
 me, even if all was fair and open. She was as cool 
 as a mermaid. She thinks I'm a good old fellow 
 trustworthy in the main and would make a cred- 
 itable relation ; and that's all she thinks about me." 
 
 " You held her hands ?" said Craque-o'-Doom. 
 
 " Yes, and she wondered that mine were cold 
 and trembling, and was as much moved as if I 
 had been my aunt Sally."
 
 22O CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 " But she didn't run from you ; she confided in 
 you." 
 
 " Yes, I happened to be handy when she was in 
 a troubled mood. Now, don't take this matter 
 with so much confounded seriousness : I have 
 been a fool, and have got to smart many a day 
 for my folly. She is an innocent child who has 
 been drawn into an absurd situation without reali- 
 zing it. That's all there is about it." 
 
 " Tom," said Craque-o'-Doom, still pursuing his 
 own train of thought, " come down to Swampscott 
 with us." 
 
 Captain Tom laughed, but looked at him sadly: 
 " I'm going to start for the Pacific coast as soon 
 as you folks are gone." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " For medicine. I've meant to go a long time, 
 and this furnishes the occasion." 
 
 " Will your aunt go?" 
 
 " If I can persuade her. I think she has some 
 relations in San Francisco, a brother-in-law's 
 family. We've often talked of the trip, and there's 
 no time like the present." 
 
 " Tom, bless you, old fellow !" said Craque-o'- 
 Doom. After a space he added, " I owe you this 
 much, anyhow. If there's a turn in my favor 
 within six months, I'll let you know by telegraph ; 
 if there isn't by the end of that time, we'll meet 
 somewhere and settle the thing."
 
 TWO MEN. 221 
 
 " That's all nonsense !" said Tom. " Don't talk 
 so crazy, boy. You've changed since last year." 
 
 "Yes, I have. I can't stand this much longer. 
 It has been a hard mill. A lifetime of prepara- 
 tion for a lonely middle and old age has been de- 
 stroyed in a few months. I had no idea this sort 
 of feeling could work on a man so." 
 
 " I'd better say good-night," said Captain Tom. 
 
 " Well, good-night." 
 
 The two men did an unpremeditated thing. 
 Opening their arms, they hugged one another for 
 one silent instant, and then parted, half shame- 
 faced.
 
 222 CJtA Q U&- V-DO OM. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " PLACE HANDS." 
 
 THE party started next afternoon, and again 
 Tillie stood on the platform beside Captain Mills. 
 Her father had refused, with the stubbornness of 
 an unreasonable old man, to let her go with Tam- 
 sin for even a month's stay beside the water. 
 Tillie took occasion this time to very scantily 
 commend the dwarf. " You're a pretty nice kind 
 of a feller," she said, looking into his face with un- 
 terrified eyes. They stood quite on a level when 
 he had his hat on. 
 
 " I thank my little sister for that," he replied, 
 with a bow, which caused Tillie to put her hand 
 before her mouth and laugh and take some unseen 
 confidante into the joke : " Ho ! he called me his 
 little sister !" 
 
 Tamsin stood on the back platform and ex- 
 changed signals with the lank light child until 
 what had been Tillie became a mere speck beside 
 a toadstool station and then went out in the dazzle 
 of the afternoon sun. 
 
 The dwarf's party found but an uncanny coast 
 when they arrived at his summer cottage. There
 
 "PLACE HANDS." 
 
 was no storm, but a sullen fit of rainy weather set 
 in, stinging the sea with perpetual javelins, the 
 handles of which barred distant views. The east 
 wind prevailed, and they had two dismal August 
 weeks, soaked with fog, very salt, wherein the 
 roar of the sea only tempted man to suicide. It 
 was too chilly to bathe ; there were no chances to 
 make excursions ; fires could not drive out the 
 dampness. A great many nice people in cottages 
 round about rolled themselves up in rugs and hi- 
 bernated, while others prepared to go back to town 
 a full month earlier than usual. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom tried a piano he had in the 
 house, but the strings were all rusted ; it was 
 horribly out of tune. Instead of seeking the 
 society of the ladies, he stayed a great deal by 
 himself, pressing and classifying sea-weeds which 
 his man brought him from the sand, a tall ser- 
 vant, who went and came under an umbrella and 
 looked as if life were not worth living when the 
 umbrella occasionally turned wrong side out. 
 
 Rhoda wrote letters to her husband in Chicago, 
 and was in a craze over house-furnishing. Tamsin 
 sat with her before the fire, holding a book, and 
 they had long woman-talks, which began and 
 ended nowhere and were like the foam left by the 
 out-crawling tide, they only marked the hours. 
 " I never saw such weather," said Rhoda, " or 
 knew the fall to threaten so early. The papers
 
 224 CRAQUE-O'-DOOM. 
 
 say it is just as bad inland, and clear out West. 
 We had better pick up and leave. Mr. Sutton is 
 moping himself to death. Don't you see he is ?" 
 
 " He looks paler than he did last spring," said 
 Tamsin. She fixed her black eyes seriously on 
 the fire. " He studies a great deal. All the time 
 he is learning something new." 
 
 " His health may be failing," said Rhoda. 
 
 " Why, how can that be?" exclaimed Tamsin. 
 " He never has a doctor. He is not sick." 
 
 " He is not particularly well," said Rhoda sagely. 
 " Men have the instincts of wild creatures when 
 anything ails them : they mope by themselves and 
 ' act injured."' 
 
 There came a day on which the sun showed a 
 watery eye and the sea looked a shade lighter. 
 
 " Maybe we can go somewhere to-day without 
 getting soaked," exclaimed Tamsin. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom handed her a letter from the 
 package the tall servant brought in : " And here's 
 a letter from Tillie, too." 
 
 It was Mary's hand, of course. Mary was 
 Tillie's amanuensis. Craque-o'-Doom examined 
 his mail, and Rhoda was tearing the wrappers 
 from hers. Neither of them observed her eyes 
 dilate or her free hand lift and clinch itself. 
 " Oh !" she cried, " oh ! oh ! oh !" each scream 
 becoming more piercing. "She is dead They 
 have buried her in the ground !" So, tottering
 
 PLACE HAXDS." 
 
 225 
 
 toward the dwarf, Tamsin fell down with her arm 
 across his knees. She had not fainted. They got 
 her up, and she sat ghastly and shaking in a large 
 chair. Craque-o'-Doom rubbed her hands, while 
 Rhoda bathed her face. Her screams still rang 
 through the house, though they told her it could 
 not be true, and the man whose heart she pierced 
 talked wildly to her. 
 
 Tamsin was like a giantess in her grief. She 
 pushed her comforters aside and writhed about the 
 room, supported by Rhoda against her will, with 
 her hair streaming around her face. Craque-o'- 
 Doom huddled at the chimney-side, straightening 
 the letter out and trying to read it. He felt numb, 
 and so widely separated from her now that he 
 dared not offer her one word. Rhoda got her to 
 her own room, and was busy over her for a long 
 time. Finally, Craque-o'-Doom looked up, aware 
 that Rhoda stood on the hearth-rug, pale and 
 troubled in expression. " It must be true," said 
 he, indicating the paper he held. " What can I 
 do? I feel dazed." 
 
 " Yes, it's true. From what she has been re- 
 peating over and over I know the contents of the 
 letter. It's come upon her in the cruellest way." 
 
 " Is she any better ?" 
 
 " She's unconscious, and will be better. I have 
 her under the influence of chloral." 
 
 " I'd better telegraph to some responsible per-
 
 226 CRAQUE-CP-DOOM. 
 
 son in Barnet," said the dwarf. " Tom and his 
 aunt are gone. If they had been there it wouldn't 
 have come to her in this way." 
 
 " No, indeed," affirmed Rhoda. 
 
 " You see I can't shield her from a single 
 trouble." His head dropped on his breast. 
 " She'll hate me. Sometimes I think it was for 
 Tillie " 
 
 " Don't say it," entreated Rhoda, putting a hand 
 on his shoulder. " After you send this telegram, 
 I think you had better have treatment similar to 
 Tamsin's and go to bed." 
 
 " If you will take care of her," he said with 
 quick resolution, "I will go to Barnet myself, and 
 if they won't let me bring the body away, I may 
 pick up some kind of consolation for her." 
 
 " Don't you do it. Was there ever such a man ! I 
 wish Mr. Burns were here, to make you be quiet." 
 
 " I don't want to be quiet. You'll let me know 
 if she falls ill, won't you ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but she won't be seriously sick : she's 
 strong. It's the effect of the shock." 
 
 " If I could have seen the letter first, and pre- 
 pared her." 
 
 " Yes, if you could surround her by a medium 
 through which no pain could pass, if you could 
 make an out-and-out goddess of her. Mr. Sutton, 
 Claude Melnottes are charming on the stage, but 
 in real life they are painful."
 
 "PLACE HANDS." 22? 
 
 " Grotesque, you mean, in my shape. Well, 
 good friend, don't mind me." 
 
 He left the room, and Rhoda in her turn 
 picked up Mary Chenoworth's letter. It was 
 brief enough, written in a delicate, half-formed 
 hand, and frequently misspelled : 
 
 " DEAR SISTER I take up my pen to tell you 
 death has Entered since you left Tillie died the 
 day befour yesterday and we buried her to-day 
 She got sore Throat after you left and it run on to 
 Dipthery the weather being so bad that the first 
 thing I knowed they sent for me Tillie is dying 
 She died very easy at the last though Suffering 
 much before and she wanted you Sary Jane said 
 the Whole time Pap sayed they did not know 
 where to Write to you for sertain and nobody 
 thout she would die She plaid her cordeon the 
 very day she died the deer Innocent the very last 
 Thing she done was to slick her piller and whisper 
 Place Hands 
 
 " You must excuse my writing I ain't the scribe 
 I used to be and my eyes ache and Smart 
 
 " Tamsin I wish he had let her go with you It 
 mite not have happened but God knows Jess is 
 doing reel well now We buried her in her White 
 dress you give her O Tamsin i know what your 
 Feeling will be for she was deer to you 
 
 " Respectfuly your sister, MARY,"
 
 228 CRAQUE-V-DOOM. 
 
 Tamsin woke in the night and sobbed with her 
 first conscious breath. A night-lamp was shaded 
 near her head. She heard the boom of the sea, 
 and her imagination threw up like a mirage over 
 her trouble a vision of schooners poised on the 
 water as if it were a wall hemming in the land. 
 
 Rhoda appeared beside her as soon as she made 
 a sound, changed the cloths on her head, and said, 
 " My dear, you must take another spoonful of this 
 liquid." 
 
 Tamsin took it and looked all about the room 
 with her heavy eyes. 
 
 " He's gone," said Rhoda. 
 
 The patient seemed to drag her eyes to her 
 nurse's face. "Where?" 
 
 " To Ohio. To do anything he can that will be 
 a comfort to you." 
 
 " I wanted," said Tamsin, swooning under the 
 strong sleeping-mixture, " I wanted "
 
 "YOU OUGHT TO KNOW: 1 
 
 229 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 "YOU OUGHT TO KNOW." 
 
 IT was full two weeks afterward that the dwarf 
 sat at home before a library-table covered with 
 books and papers. He did indeed seem lost in 
 the square, stately room. There was hardly a stir 
 of life about the premises. From his windows he 
 could see the hills standing as companions to him 
 in that dear fellowship hills always extend toward 
 us, and a blue corner of the North River across 
 which a long tow of barges and flats was moving 
 up-stream. The afternoon was nearly gone : 
 Craque-o'-Doom worked as if bent on accomplish- 
 ing a certain task in a limited time. His temples 
 were sunken : the luminous quality of his com- 
 plexion had never been so apparent. His feet 
 rested on a very high hassock under the table, 
 and perhaps, with his mind absorbed by the prob- 
 lems which occupy higher grades of intellect, he 
 forgot during half an hour that he was not as 
 other men. 
 
 H had come directly home from Barnet instead 
 of going back to Tamsin, and asked no explana- 
 tion of himself for doing so. She was to enter 
 30
 
 230 CRA Q V - O'-DO OM. 
 
 school the first week in September. Mrs. Burns 
 stayed on with her, and reported frequently to him, 
 encouraging him to think that time would rapidly 
 heal the grief of such a young creature. 
 
 From Tamsin he got no message at all. But he 
 had written her a long letter full of the minutest 
 items concerning Tillie. Old Mr. Chenoworth had 
 not allowed him to remove the body: he had 
 therefore ornamented that plot in Barnet grave- 
 yard with everything he could devise. He had 
 ordered a small monument, and drawn the design 
 himself, the child's accordion, with a branch of 
 wild-brier thrown across it, and he enclosed a 
 draft of it to Tamsin. He had even been woman- 
 ish enough to pick some clay from Tillie's hillock 
 before it was sodded and send that. All the kind 
 things the neighbors had to say about the child's 
 last days were retailed by him, and her mother's 
 account was minutely repeated. He had nothing 
 to say, however, of the inconveniences and painful 
 curiosity he had had to encounter in that small 
 place, without a friend or acquaintance, while gath- 
 ering these consolations for her, or of the cruel 
 stupidity of her family, and the general opinion 
 that they had let the child die from ignorant neg- 
 lect. He did not tell her that her father had com- 
 fortably reckoned " he hadn't no money to waste 
 in such tomfoolery," when asked why he did not 
 telegraph for Tamsin. Neither did he mention
 
 "YOU OUGHT TO KNOW." 23! 
 
 Sarah Jane's criticism of the accordion and brier 
 branch and her loud preference for a little lamb on 
 the monument, such as most well-to-do Barnet 
 families displayed on their children's mortuary tab- 
 lets. He spared her the news that Jess, perhaps 
 overcome by the family bereavement, had broken 
 bounds again and was out of prison on the dwarf's 
 bail, determined to go West when he got through 
 with his last difficulty, and find more scope or 
 something worse. But, on the other hand, he did 
 not forget Mary's tearful recital, and he beautified 
 her in her humble state. He had talked with 
 Mary in her own house, while her tow-headed 
 children peeped round the door-post at him and 
 dared one another to approach nearer. Never in 
 her life had she felt herself so appreciated or 
 touched the edge of a human soul that could so 
 widen the world for her. 
 
 The dwarf had agreed with Mrs. Burns that 
 Tamsin must go back to school as soon as possi- 
 ble : her mind ought to be occupied. 
 
 But, if any of these things rose to the surface 
 of his thoughts, he pushed them under. Some 
 wagons rattled along the road, and he heard the 
 five-o'clock train from New York roaring at the 
 base of the hills. Through open windows came 
 in that sun-soaked smell of grass and shrubs which 
 seems to be their grateful offering for a fine day. 
 This was a very handsome, comfortable, dull old
 
 232 CRAQUE-0-DOOll. 
 
 place. Now a shutter cracked sharply, it is 
 strange how many sympathetic noises there are in 
 wood, as if uttering an exclamation of relief that 
 the sun no longer blistered it ; and now the double 
 gates at the end of the avenue clicked, and the 
 gardener probably moved away through the grass 
 to his tool-house. 
 
 There were a great many neighbors bound to 
 the dwarf by old family ties, but, living by him- 
 self, he had few visitors. It was with some amaze- 
 ment, therefore, after being startled by these various 
 hints of outside life, that he looked up and saw a 
 woman coming into the room from the outer hall. 
 But, when the face became Tamsin's, the air thick- 
 ened before his eyes, and he did not speak a 
 word. 
 
 Tarn sin approached the table. She was in black 
 clothes : her eyes looked sunken, yet the livid 
 spaces around them brought out their power the 
 more. She halted, then came on, resting her hand 
 on the table as she had done the night they first 
 met. And the dwarf looked at her without having 
 a word, until it seemed to him an eternity passed 
 between them. " I've come," said Tamsin. And 
 she still looked at him with that in her eyes 
 which made his pulses all seem beating in his 
 head. 
 
 " Yes," he finally uttered. " Sit down, my child. 
 You may take this chair." He pushed it back
 
 "YOU OUGHT TO KNOW." 233 
 
 from the table and held to the arms. " I'm dizzy," 
 said the dwarf. " These papers have bothered 
 me." So he remained seated, and Tamsin stood 
 still, folding corners of his manuscript over and 
 over. 
 
 " Did you come alone?" he inquired. 
 
 " Yes : Mrs. Burns has gone home. She left me 
 at school." 
 
 " And how did you get here from the station ?" 
 
 " I asked the way and walked." 
 
 " Sit down ; sit down here." The dwarf drew 
 out the hassock, and Tamsin sat down, literally at 
 his feet. 
 
 He unfastened her hat and wrap and laid them 
 on the table and began taking off her gloves : 
 " Crape from head to foot. How unhappy my 
 little one is ! So many times I have thought what 
 your coming to this house. would be; and you 
 come alone, without any glad welcome, to the 
 man who has failed to make you happy ! You got 
 the letter and the little box?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Is there anything else on earth that I can do ?" 
 
 " Yes," burst passionately from her lips : " yes, 
 there is." 
 
 " Tell me what." 
 
 The young creature bent her head forward and 
 rested it on the arm of his chair. She looked very 
 
 young and dependent " I can't," she said. 
 20*
 
 234 CRAQUE-V-DOOM. 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom lifted her face up, saying 
 sternly, " You must !" 
 
 Tamsin began to cry. She was so weak that 
 her sobs became hysterical cries, and the dwarf 
 was in a frenzy. He reached for his table-bell : 
 " You must have something. They ought to bring 
 you some food." 
 
 " I don't want it. I can't can't can't stand 
 this !" With a shaking hand he smoothed her 
 hair back from her burning forehead and rested 
 her against his arm until she grew quieter. Gradu- 
 ally her head dropped backward and she fixed her 
 eyes on his : " Before Tillie died I could stand it. 
 She loved me so much, and I had so many things 
 to learn. Now I can't stand it. You have been 
 better than an angel to me. You have done every- 
 thing kind." 
 
 " Speak out," said Craque-o'-Doom, his ears 
 ringing with strange noises. 
 
 " I can't ! I never could talk. But " She 
 pressed her palms together in supplication. 
 
 " Do you mean," said the dwarf slowly, seeming 
 to expand while he spoke, " that you want to stay 
 here with me ?" 
 
 Her face steeped itself in color. 
 
 " Oh, Tamsin ! What makes you tremble, little 
 one ?" 
 
 " I don't know," she whispered piteously, reach- 
 ing her hands toward his shoulders ; " do you ?"
 
 "YOU OUGHT TO KNOW." 235 
 
 For the first time in his life -he held his wife 
 against his face and breast. The throbbing of her 
 pulses talked to him. They told him she was 
 young and proud and full of virgin timidity ; but 
 they also told him another secret, which never let 
 him doubt his possession of her again. " Is it 
 possible," he said, breaking the silence of the room, 
 " that henceforward this lonesome house will be 
 full of you ? Is it possible that in spite of my 
 deformity you love me ?" 
 
 " You ought to know," said Tatnsin. " Didn't 
 I marry you ? It was from the very first. I never 
 cared for anybody but Tillie before. But you 
 wanted me just to improve myself. And I acted 
 so foolish about things." She dropped brief sen- 
 tence after sentence, sometimes catching her voice 
 in her throat. A listener two yards away could 
 not have distinguished the words. " When I car- 
 ried that coffee into your room, you seemed differ- 
 ent from all the people I ever dreamed of. Some- 
 times I have been very mad and very hurt. You 
 would go off other places where you could not see 
 me. Then I would act as if I did not care. What 
 was I, compared to a man like you ? I was a poor 
 miserable girl. If I had been related to the Millses 
 I shouldn't have felt so badly. You were better 
 to father's than I ever was. You aren't like I am. 
 I'll try to be better. I'll try for Tillie's sake. Tillie 
 knew. I told her in her ear one night when I was
 
 236 CRAQUE-a-DOOM. 
 
 crying. The little dear hugged me. Once Mrs. 
 Burns was saying it was such a good match for 
 me. She made me feel sick. I began to tell her 
 but I couldn't." 
 
 The dwarf kept smoothing her head with a 
 gloating leonine touch. He scarcely noticed that 
 he wa^ doing so. His eyes brooded over her with 
 that expression of blessing which we see in the 
 eyes of pictured saints. " But isn't my deformity 
 ever repulsive to you, my darling?" 
 
 " No ; I don't think about that." 
 
 " Such excuses for legs, that lower me in the 
 world almost among creeping things." 
 
 Tamsin looked indignant. " You seem real 
 tall," she said. 
 
 " Do I seem tall to you ? Haven't you felt like 
 laughing at me when I waddled about, looking 
 as if my body had been telescoped in a railroad 
 accident, for instance ? You can't enjoy gazing 
 down a couple of feet or so on your husband and 
 overhearing remarks which may be made at any 
 time." 
 
 " I don't care what they say," his wife exclaimed 
 in a candid gush of words. " It's because they want 
 you themselves and can't get you, or don't know 
 how to appreciate a man. I think you're beau- 
 tiful !" 
 
 Craque-o'-Doom laughed so heartily and so 
 long that the house echoed in astonishment
 
 "YOU OUGHT TO KNOW." 
 
 237 
 
 " Poor deluded child !" said he, but immediately 
 afterward hid his face in her hair and shook with 
 a heart-quaking sob. Having got the better of 
 that, he raised his head and laughed again. " Be- 
 fore we ring the bell and order a great dinner and 
 make an occasion of my wife's coming home, I 
 must send the news to Tom." 
 
 " What for?" inquired Tamsin. 
 
 " Because I agreed to telegraph the event to 
 him. And I didn't think it would be so soon." 
 His eye searched the littered table for a despatch- 
 blank. Tamsin handed him the required slip, pen 
 and ink, and his tablets. With his hand poised 
 to write, he exclaimed, looking down the oval 
 of her cheek, " Your school ! I had forgotten 
 that." 
 
 " Can't I go on here?" 
 
 " Certainly you can. Under my own eye." 
 
 The despatch said, 
 
 " DEAR TOM, My wife and I are at home to- 
 gether at last. Congratulate us. 
 
 " CRAQUE-O'-DOOM." 
 
 To which Captain Mills, in a few days, responded 
 from the Pacific coast, 
 
 " Heaven bless you both ! 
 
 "TOM."
 
 238 rf CRAQUE-O"-DOOM. 
 
 It may be added as a postscript to this tale that 
 a little more than two years later Captain Mills 
 replied to another message with a duplicate of the 
 above telegram, and an addition. 
 
 " Heaven bless you both, and Miss Craque-o'- 
 Doom also. I send cup marked ' Tillie.' 
 
 " TOM." 
 
 THE END.
 
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 Nor does the story reflect favorably upon the continued refusal of 
 the English officials either to make or receive further reports 
 upon, or, in any way, or upon any grounds whatever, entertain 
 new evidence in the case. The trials of the Ameriqan heiress who 
 marries the English Duke for his title, affords both warning to the 
 adventuresome, and encouragement to the more prudent a:id 
 patriotic among our daughters. The phase of hereditary insanity 
 which manifests itself in every member of a family, and that in 
 only one characteristic strait, namely, suicide, is strange and 
 affords an incentive to profitable thought and study. 
 
 "Dramatic situations, crime and virtue, plot, dialogue and dis- 
 criptions, combine to make this book fascinating." 
 
 (71
 
 TALES OF SOLDIERS ATJD CIVILIANS. 
 
 By AMBROSE BIEKCE. i2ino.\ joo //.; paper, jo 
 
 cents.; cloth, $1.00. 
 
 a *T*HE most competent critics declare it ['Tales o Soldiers and 
 A Civilians'] a greater book than ' The Red Badge of Cour- 
 age." 'Tales of Soldiers and Civilians' is an extraordinary book. 
 The abuse it will receive from those who are not competent to 
 appreciate its extraordinary power will be as gratifying to the auth- 
 Dr as will be the praise it certainly will receive from those who are." 
 
 SUNSET PASS; Or, Running the Gaunlet Through 
 
 Apache Land. 
 
 By CAPT. CHARLES KING, i2mo.\ 203 pp.; (illus- 
 trated), paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $soo. 
 
 u 'T* HERE is no better writer of realistic military fiction from a 
 'Far \Vest' point of view than ("apt King, who was an 
 officer of the U. S. Cavalry, and of Artillery. He knows whereof he 
 writes. ' Sunset Pass ' is a typical spirited story ; one that is en- 
 joyable by young and old. Th'J book is illustrated with about 
 twenty full-page pictures." 
 
 A DEBT OF HONOR. 
 
 By MABEL COLLINS, izmo. 220 pp.; paper, jo 
 
 cents ; cloth, $ i.oo. 
 
 "T^EPTH of feeling, subtlety of analysis, and character study, 
 "^ > ^ qualities and exercises essential in a literary theosophist, 
 and in which this authoress excels, render good service to her pen 
 in the field of fiction. Her novel 'A Debt of Honor,' a new edition 
 of which is issued in paper covers, is, it maybe said, her best book. 
 .Smiles and tears commingle and chase each other in its pages and 
 reflect themselves in the faces of its readers." 
 
 AS THE WIND BLOWS. 
 
 A .V.'zv/, by ELEANOR MERRON. i2io.; 320 pp.; 
 paper, jo cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
 
 it r |T*HIS book is issued in paper covers for the first time. The 
 volume tells the story of the lives of several young women 
 of exemplary character, also that of others of the reverse, all of 
 whose lives are tossed hither and thither by circumstances, or fate, 
 whatever that may beormean, even as theautumnal leaves are scat- 
 tered by the winds. The male characters of the story are alike conspic- 
 uous for their vicissitudinous experiences, and it is both interesting 
 and educating to watch them closely. The book is suggestive, and 
 thought inspiring and the interest of the story is powerful and strong." 
 
 (8)
 
 Secret of IHarcissc. 
 
 A Romance. 7>V EDMUND GOSSE, author of " Gossip 
 in a Library," "On Viol and Flute, 1 '' etc. \2.mo, cloth, gilt 
 $1.00. 
 
 " A ROMANCE of the sixteenth century. The time and scene admit 
 '* of a high degree of color; and this the author has given his story. 
 Its literary excellence is exceptional." Boston Courier. 
 
 "A story not only cleverly imagined but carefully worked out. It 
 has mediaeval colorings, dark shadows, and vivid flashes. The Secret 
 of Narcisse is a little masterpiece . " New York Times. 
 
 ZTbe penance of jportia 
 
 By 7 ASM A, author of " Uncle Piper of Piper's Hill," 
 "A Sydney Sovereign," etc. Belniore Series, paper yx.\ 
 also, \2nio, cloth $I.OO. 
 
 "'"THE new novel by 'Tasma' is thoroughly readable; it has the freedom 
 * and breadth of touch that prove the author has seen and known 
 thj world beyond the sound of the bells of her native town. The theme 
 of the novel is serious, but quite within the scope of the material of 
 fiction; it is treated with a light and skilful hand, and it fully attains 
 effectiveness and interest." Boston Literary World. 
 
 of a 1Robofc\>* 
 
 By GEORGE GROSSMITH and WEEDON GROS- 
 SMITH. Illustrated, 121110, cloth $1.00; paper 50^. 
 
 ""THE humor which enlivens the faithful record of the sayings and doings f 
 and no less the emotions, of Mr. Charles Footer is irresistible, and 
 the book furnishes some very bright and lively reading for Summer days. 
 Mr. Grossmith's mirth, as all the theatre-going world knows, is very 
 contagious, and Weedon Grossmith's nimble pencil is aptness itself 
 in catching his brother's subtle humor. There is not a dull page in th 
 book,
 
 flDr. Witt's Mibow. 
 
 A Frivolous Tah- By ANTHONY HOPE, author of 
 " Th* Prisoner oj Ztvttfa," ' ' Father Stafford," etc. I2mo, 
 cloth $i oo ; pap^r 500. 
 
 " ' A/T R ' * Viif3 iviti<ni > is - i:i truth a brilliant little tale. This com- 
 *** mendation is justified by a style at oncceasy and terse, by t'vj wit 
 of the dialogue, and by the good humor of the satire " Loncrn T.ntcs. 
 
 "The climax of the story is full of the charm of the unexpected. 
 The characters are neatly sketched and the author's dialogue is cri. p and 
 pointed. Altogether, this lively and piquant story is gocd reading " 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 "The manner is ahviys that of comedy, and while the intrigue is 
 closely knit, the book is most enjoyable for its delightful characters of 
 men and women of the world. From first to la^t the story is keenly and 
 quietly amusing." Scotsman. 
 
 1bo\x> Xifcc a Moman. 
 
 By FLORENCE MARRYAT, author of " There is 
 Death," " The Risen Dead," etc. \2rno, cloth $1.00 ; pa 
 
 " T TOW Like a Woman is a story without other purpose than the legit- 
 ^ Imate one in fiction, to delight and amuse the reader. It makes 
 most acceptable summer novel, the plot being interesting and the story 
 delightfully written. It narrates the history of a charming but wayward 
 heiress ward though only in name to two old titled guardians, one of 
 whom is a source of worry to the young lady. This guardian resorts to 
 all sorts of manoeuvres to keep the heroine in check and above all to 
 prevent her from marrying, as he fears she will do, beneath her. But the 
 young lady has a will of her own, and when she meets her fate, sets every- 
 one at defiance in gratifying her own taste and predilection in a lover. 
 The lover is an artist, but presumably of no family, and the heroine has 
 herself a rooted dislike of a mesalliance, which causes her to play fa^t 
 and loose with her own feelings. The latter, however, happily asse. t them- 
 selves, and in the proper direction, and the story closes delightfully, the 
 artist turning out to be of good birth, and the equal socially of the 
 heroine he marries. "
 
 <$>f tbc Worto, 
 
 By MRS. FORRESTER, author of " Dearest," etc. \2rno, 
 do h Si.oo; paper 50* . 
 
 '"TTHE subject of Mrs. Forrester's new novel is hardly original; but 
 the book is pleasantly written, and occasionally shows signs of 
 delicate observation. The machinations of a society siren, the perils of ths 
 honorable young man whom she had jilted on account of his poverty in 
 days gone by, but had not forgotten, his final recognition of her worth- 
 lessness, and the triumph of a charming young girl, are familiar themes 
 enough. They are set forth in this instance with a certain charm and 
 freshness. Mrs. Forrester shows to advantage when dealing with simple, 
 honest, and upright people, who, however, are not so easily made inter- 
 esting as our author contrives to make them interesting." The Athen- 
 
 By the same Auth^/'. 
 
 Nearest 
 
 By MRS. FORRESTER, author of " Of the 
 Worldly." I2mo, cloth $I.OO ; paper 50^. 
 
 A SIMPLE delightful story, which may confidently be commended to 
 ** every novel reader. It is written in the sprightly manner and with 
 the enchaining qualities characteristic of its popular authoress. 
 
 Dearest is a novel in Mrs. Forrester's earlier and better manner. The 
 story, which is simply and naturally told, narrates the experiences of a 
 young girl in subjection to an obnoxious governess and to a mother who 
 favors her elder daughters and treats the defiant one harshly. The young 
 girl's cause is taken up by a step -brother whom the mother fears, and a 
 new governess comes upon the scene to make interesting complications 
 in the family circle and change the situation of the once hapless but now 
 triumphant Cinderella. Dearest is one of the most charming novels of 
 the day, and is sure to win its way to success. 
 
 Gbe Wrono bat Mae 2>one. 
 
 By F. W. ROBINSOA', Author of " The Keeper of the 
 Keys," " Our Erring Brother, etc. Belmore Series, fafif 
 $oc; also, I2tno, doth $i oo. 
 
 " '"THIS story of an elderly man's love which turns out happily in the end. 
 is related with the skill of a practiced writer of fiction, and the 
 
 interest is well sustained throughout. The characters are naturally pre- 
 
 sented and the incidents are ^citing without being over-sensational." 
 
 Boston Gazette,
 
 l* (Brace. 
 
 By W. E. MORRIS, author of " M,itrimony t " " No Name," 
 eic. i2/>u>, doth, ornaic-itial, Sl.oo ; paper $Oc. 
 
 \4f* NORRIS has never had a happier thought for a novel, nor worked 
 ' out his Idei mo. e felicitously, than in this bright story. 
 His Grit, V ^icverly written, and is a thoroughly picturesque and spark* 
 ling nove. 
 
 Salamni&c. 
 
 3r GLSTASE FLAUBERT. Englished by M. French 
 Shelusu. Illustrated. I2mo, t folk $1.2$ ; paper yac. 
 
 "THE fascination ha^ long been acknowledged of that masterpiece of 
 * French historic realism, Flaubert's Salaminbo. M. Duruy, the great 
 y'rench historian and miniate, of education, has warmly eulogized the 
 work and admitted the fidelity vith which the novelist nas delineated the 
 period. The story deals with Cai chage at the time of the First Punic War, 
 with the sensuously depicted daugluir of Hamilcar, the great Carthagenian 
 General, with the revolt of the barba. '-a soldiery who were employed as 
 mercenaries against the Roman legions, xx 1 . .vuh the defiled shrines of 
 Phoenician gods and their votaries. 
 
 Cower of Safcbeo. 
 
 By "OUIDA," author of " Two *it '_ W^oih-n Shots," etc. 
 \2ti>, cloth $1 .00 ; paper 50^. 
 
 \17HEN "Ouida" cares to step aside from he. beaten track, no one 
 * can write a prettier story, or one more overhow'ing with love and 
 tenderness. T'Ju- Tower of Taddeo is in her lx?st manner, the manner 
 that gave us Ht-of, I'ipistrello, and A Leaf in the Sty fin. It is a pathetic 
 story of an old bookseller who, having no idea of money, gathers treasures 
 of old books, which, with the extravagance of an ungrateful and wild son, 
 ruins him. He has a daughter who lives, loves and cares for him. who 
 becomes betrothed to a poor artist. It is a story of simple, trusting 
 ignorance on the one hand, and grasping dishonesty on the other, and 
 while for so simple a tale, without dramatic interesf, it is rather long 
 drawn out, it is a beautiful story and written as only a writer like Ouida 
 can write.
 
 ZTbc R> nfcaib's Club. 
 
 .ffy /. ZANGWILL, author of "The Master," " The 
 Bachelor's Club" " The Big Bow Mystery, " etc. With 
 illustrations . \2rno, cloth, ornamental, $1.25 ; paper 50*. 
 
 HTHE author, Israel Zangwill, is recognized as one of the most promising 
 * young writers of the day a new Disraeli in the boldness a:.d 
 brilliancy of his fancy. The book is profusely and handsomely iilustraied 
 by F. H. Townsend, and is one of the most delicious literary conceits of 
 recent years. The story of The Old Maid's Club, which is indeed 
 intended to be a club ot young, beautiiul, and wealthy women the cold- 
 blooded austerity of its exclusiveness, its inflexible conditions of member- 
 ship, its relentless by-laws, the thrilling adventures which overtake its 
 would-be members, its extraordinary ending the story of these must be 
 studied at length in the book itself, which is absolutely unique in its way. 
 
 Experiences of a Xafcp 1belp. 
 
 By JOHN STRANGE WINTER, author of "Bootless 
 Baby ," " Regimental Legends" "Army Tales" etc. I2mo, 
 doth $1.00 ; paper $oc. 
 
 '""THE heroine, who tells the story, is admirably depicted, and the 
 * characters throughout are drawn with skill and a keen knowledge 
 of the lighter phases of human nature. It is the best and the most 
 ambitious of its author's novels." Boston Gazette. 
 
 jfor tbe Sake of tbe Jfamity. 
 
 By MA Y CROMMELIX, author of'' Goblin Gold," ' Tht 
 Freaks r-f Lady Fortune" etc. \2nio. cloth $1.00; pa pel 
 
 y*. 
 
 "A SIMPLE, unaffected novel in these days of sensational rubbish is 
 ** refreshing. This tale of English life is of that description ; the plot 
 is well constructed the character-drawing good, and the diction excellent. " 
 Detroit Commercial Advertiser.
 
 c Ibcritagc of tbc Ikurts. 
 
 From the Nonoegian of BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSOX, 
 with introduction by E~dmund Gosse. \2rno, cloth $1.00 ; 
 fa per 5 or. 
 
 ' : A POWERFUL as well as a fascinating book. The mere outline of the 
 ** story can give no idea of the subtle psychology, of the descriptive 
 force, of the underlying poetry which it contains." Fall Mall Gazette. 
 
 T'le H.-ritage of the Kurts can hardly be said to b; pleasant reading. 
 It is a grim story, full of dark shadows that form the setting of strong 
 -ituatior.s vividly and realistically portrayed. The motive of the story 
 v ins to be to trace the influence of heredity, and this is done with great 
 power and an infinite knowledge of human nature as exemplified in a 
 variety of strongly conceived characters under the influence of environ- 
 ment. The novel makes large demands upon the reader's attention, which 
 is amply repaid by the author's marvellous powers of description and 
 dramatic skill in the working out of the plot. 
 
 A Satirical Study. By PERCY WHITE, editor of London 
 "Public Opinion." I2mo, cloth $1.00 ; paper 50*-. 
 " A CLEVER, amusing, but audacious book." London Times. 
 
 ** " Bright, fresh, vigorous in action, and told with a wealth of incident 
 and humor." London Literary World. 
 
 4 'The book teems with smart sayings and graphic characterizations, 
 And cannot fail to make a mark among the cleverest novels of the year." 
 London Daily Telegraph. 
 
 " This is distinctly a book to be read. It has quite a new flavor in 
 fiction. As a study of a snob, it merits a place beside the ever fresh 
 pictures of Tnackeray. " 
 
 Gbe 1Rew IRector. 
 
 By STANLEY J. WEYMAN, author of "A Gentleman 
 of France ," etc. \2rno, cloth $l.oo ; paper 5OC. 
 
 A CLERICAL comedy of errors, told with all the liveliness and literary 
 "* skill of this clever new writer. 
 
 " The N<rw Rector is well written, and in every essential feature very 
 readable even charming in its characterizations and descriptions. The 
 portraiture of the young rector is excellent, the difficulties he encounters 
 and overcomes are quite interesting ; the gosfip is clean, and the lov 
 scenes are conceived in good taste." Church Union.
 
 a OLittlc Moribund. 
 
 By L. C. ELLSWORTH, author of " Furor* Amati," etc. 
 etc. Ilmo, paper 50*. 
 
 American Authors' Series. 
 
 ' ""PHIS is a novel well entitled to place in the front rank of current imag- 
 * inative literature. There is not an uninteresting paragraph within 
 the covers of the book, the story being told with a charming grace of 
 "iction, and the characters are attractive by reason of their naturalness." 
 Brooklyn Standard Union. 
 
 of SolMers anfc Civilians, 
 
 By AMBROSE BIERCE. izmo, cloth $i .00 ; paper yx. 
 American Authors' Series. 
 
 A COLLECTION of weird, pathetic, and blood-curdling stories that will 
 ** be read with avidity not only by the seekers after novelty, but by the 
 more critical readers who appreciate literary merit. Mr. Bierce has no 
 peer in his peculiar vein of satire, and his works will undoubtedly be- 
 come classic. 
 
 Cbe Commodore's Bau^bters. 
 
 From the Norwegian of JONAS LIE, with introduction by 
 Edmund Gosse, author of " Tht Secret of Narcisse," etc. 
 I2mo, cloth $1.00 ; paper ysc. 
 
 A REALLY delightful novel of domestic life in Scandinavia. It is the 
 ' * antithesis of the psychological stories and dramas we have been 
 taught to look for in such Norwegian writers as Bjornson and Ibsen. 
 It has a simple but most interesting plot, and is naturally told. It portrays 
 'he home life of an old Commodore's family at a Norway seaport and 
 naval station a life of quiet incidents, chequered love-making, and 
 thwarted ambitions. The characters are capitally drawn and enchain the 
 interest of the reader. The ending is sad, but consistent with the purpoao 
 be clever novelist has had in view.
 
 Strutbers ; anb tbc Coined of tbc Abashed 
 fBMtsicians. 
 
 By ANNA BOWMAN DODD, author of "Three Normandy 
 Inns" etc. \2ino, cloth $1.00; or in fafet , illuminated cor,r 
 
 " A STORY of Anglomania and of lord hunting, with a fresh and 
 ** charming treatment. '' A r . Y, Sun. 
 
 "An entertaining satire on New York society aspirations, and a 
 charniing study of a wife who passes through a trying social ordeal, while 
 her husband aspires to become an Anglo-American aristocrat." 
 
 princes of peele. 
 
 By WILLIAM WESTALL, author of "The Old Factory ," 
 " The Phantom City," etc. \2tno, flo'h, ornamental Si. GO; 
 paper 50^. 
 
 JV/lR. WILLIAM \\ESTALL has won for himself as a story-teller a 
 * * position which is peculiarly his own ; few romance writers of the day 
 are equally successful in developing plots at once natural, effective and 
 strong. The I'rincts of Pet le is a tale of English domestic life, abounding 
 in dramatic situations, and full of movement and life. There are several 
 exciting sporting scenes, and the denouement takes place on the battlefield 
 of Gettysburg. 
 
 T1u>uand. New Revised Edition of 
 
 Gbc Xittlc Minister. 
 
 By y. M. BARRIE. Cloth tl.2$\ paper 50*-. Century S,~ries, 
 cloth, gilt top, without illustrations, 75 tt-nls. /'/ o 11 IIKV 
 plates, with ten full-page illustrations, and containing i/u 
 author s latest corrections and revisions. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 AMERICAN PUBLISHERS CORPORATION 
 310-318 SIXTH AVKM K
 
 000 034 070