MILLER OF SILCOTT MILL.

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy,
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady."

A YOUNG man was walking briskly along a country road, whistling softly to himself, and in every movement of his tall and well-shaped form, displaying an ease and grace which capricious Nature sometimes bestows upon her favorites, and which, in spite of his country-made clothes, gave him the air of a somebody, although he could boast of no prouder a title than that of the Miller of Silcott Mill. He was twenty-four years old, and in the fever of that youthful disorder—first love. On that very afternoon he had closed the purchase of forty acres adjoining his mill tract; and he was confident and elated at the thought of the advantages which this additional land would bring to him.

He could now go to Lydia Croft, and ask her to be his wife. At home, in his mother's desk, lay the savings of three years—three years of economy! Might he not be excused for feeling satisfied at so fair a commencement?

He had associated in his toil one dear end; he could now say to Lydia: "Here is a home which, if humble, is at least my own. I have won it for you; come and help me to enjoy it."

He stopped for a moment on the brow of the hill, whence he could see the winding creek which fed his mill, and the glitter of the placid water in the mill-pond. The halo of the bright autumn day still lingered on the earth, and Allan Cairn thought that he had never seen the sunset so glorious, nor felt the air so light and free. His own silent delight lent to Nature a deeper charm; and a sweet sympathy with all created things breathed through his soul as he took his way to Croft farm. To his impatient longing it seemed a weary way across the meadow and through the bit of wood which separated it from the house. At last it came in view, and then the garden; and standing there at the low gate was Lydia Croft, smiling and looking so beautiful, that Allan could find no words to express his joy, when she held out her hand to him and said:

"I was just wishing for somebody to talk to, Allan. I am so glad that you have come."

"Are you, Liddy?" he answered, looking at her, oh! so tenderly.

He could find nothing better to say as he leaned on the low gate looking at her standing there in the garden walk.

There was a happy light in her eyes which he believed had been kindled at sight of him; and his own grew soft and tender, as she came and rested her arm on the gate, quite close to his. "O Allan," she said, "I've had such a time with Sarah, and grandfather seems ailing these few days! Dear me! I wish—I wish"——

"What, Liddy?" and he laid his hand upon her arm, which was so round and comely in its tight-fitting sleeve. "Shall I guess what you wish, and go in and tell your grandfather that you are willing to be my wife?"

She neither blushed nor looked embarrassed at this plain way of putting things, but laughed gayly as she answered:

"We are growing too old now, Allan, to keep up this nonsense. Don't look so dreadfully in earnest, or I shall begin to think that you are silly enough to remember that you once promised to supply me with seed-cakes all my life, and that you feel in honor bound to keep to your word."

"So I do—so I do, darling. Can't you guess what I came up for to-night? We have loved each other all our lives, and now, Liddy, I can offer you something better than seed-cakes. The mill is all my own, and the forty acres of timber, and"——

She drew her hand away, and said in a strange, hard tone: "I don't know what has come over you to-night, Allan!" She resented his having taken for granted that she was willing to be his wife for the asking—she resented his confident manner; and for the first time, she thought him tiresome and disagreeable. Silcott Mill!—the very thought of it sickened her heart. Had Allan witnessed the answering smile with which she had met Roger Amerland's graceful greeting some half hour before—had he seen her eyes following him as he rode away, or heard the low sigh, more tender than sad, that she breathed as he passed from her view, he would have now understood her repugnance to the idea of becoming his wife, and living at Silcott Mill.

One of those sudden revolutions which pass in the depths of the soul, changing in a moment the current of one's life, giving birth to new hopes, and crushing out preconceived ideas of happiness, had swept over Lydia. She felt that there was no going back—no possibility that it could ever be different with her; and Allan failed to read aright the expression on her face—failed to see that she did not love him.

He had passed through all the stages of "puppy love;" had carried a lock of her hair next his heart; had helped her with her lessons at the village school, and jealously protected her from contact with the rough country boys, who were inclined to bestow their clumsy attentions upon the pretty little English girl. The period of seed-cakes had been succeeded by that of romance; and rose-colored notes, containing verses which did not always rhyme, found their way to the farm-house, and were read in secret by Miss Croft—flattering her vanity perhaps, but never touching her heart. As Allan ripened into manhood, his passion took stronger hold upon his deep, earnest nature. He had gone on loving Lydia, never admitting for a moment the possibility of her ever being any body else's wife; and waiting patiently until he could honorably come forward, and ask her to share his home.

Lydia had walked a little way up the garden-path, and he called to her, beseeching her to come back and hear what he had to say.

"Please say good-night, Allan; it is growing chilly out here, and grandfather will be wanting his tea."

In a moment he was by her side. "Liddy," he said in a low, pained voice, "you don't mean to slight me?"

"Why will you not let things be as they have always been between us?"

"Then," he answered, "I must go on loving you. Have you not known all this time how very dear you are to me?"

She looked at him for a moment, her large brown eyes growing sorrowful at the pain in his voice.

"Allan," she said quite humbly, for she felt that she was treating him badly, "if I could make myself other than I am, I would gladly do so. Do believe me, Allan, when I say that I have never wilfully deceived you. There was a time when I might have given you a different answer—when I better deserved your love than I do to-night. There is no one on earth for whom I care so much as I do for you except grandfather."

This was a terrible and sudden descent from the heights of a first grande passion, and a few hot tears coursed down his cheeks as he said, letting go her hand, which he had held firmly clasped in his: "I see that I have been making a fool of myself, loving you all these years, and never finding out my mistake until to-night. You can go now, and tell your grandfather that you have rejected an honest man's love." He turned abruptly from her, brushing away with an angry gesture the tears which dimmed his eyes. There was nothing to be ashamed of in those tears; for they sprang from a fresh, untainted heart. Years afterwards a man may look back to an hour like this, and regret what he has lost. Not the woman, perhaps, but the power which has gone from him with his youth—the power of loving for love's sake.

The stars were glimmering out one by one in the clear blue vault above him, as Allan Cairn went down the road which led to Silcott Mill. He was struggling bravely with this, his first hard, bitter trial; there was to him a sad and suggestive contrast between the time that was, and to-night—between the hopeful buoyancy of that afternoon and the despondency of the present—between the zest which had gone out of his life and the cold, hard feeling which was creeping into his heart.

"She needn't know anything about it," he thought, as he opened the cottage door, and entered the bright, cheerful kitchen where his mother was busy preparing the evening repast.

Mary Cairn knew that something was amiss with Allan; the premonition of her love warned her to speak tenderly to him—to minister to him with silent, patient waiting; not to worry him with questions or force from him the cause of his trouble. She could wait: it would all come in good time. She believed that her great love would find out a remedy for his pain. Ah! trusting woman! She could go on kneading up the soft dough, rolling it out, and shaping it into round biscuits, just as if her child were not sitting there, with his head bowed, and his hands folded across his breast, battling with disappointment and wounded pride.

WHEN the table was set out with its snowy napery and old-fashioned silver—when the crisp biscuits were withdrawn from the oven, Mrs. Cairn touched Allan on the shoulder and said:

"Supper is ready, my son."

They were simple words, but there was a tender tone in the voice which told him more. She might have said that life was not all made up of Lydia Croft's love; that there were better things which he might have for the seeking; but she merely said: "Supper is ready, my son,"—supper which she had prepared with her own hands, sweet and wholesome and dainty.

The very sight of her dear face bending over him was strengthening and refreshing. This, at least, was no mistake—this love growing out of the close tie which bound them together, pure and strong and faithful—the very essence of God's own love, which is distilled into a mother's heart in all its divine perfection—this was his.

He rose and seated himself at the little round table, where since his childhood he had sat tête-à-tête with his mother, and when she handed him his cup of coffee, he said, assuming an interest which he did not feel:

"Mother, I have been to Baywood this afternoon, and Mr. Fenton has agreed to let us have the forty acres. He will be here to-morrow morning."

She knew that he had been at Croft farm; but she answered as though she believed him to be wholly occupied with the addition of these forty acres to their pretty mill tract.

She knew that he had thought of Lydia Croft, even in this—that for her sake, he had saved and pinched in order to make the purchase of this land.

Mrs. Cairn was one of those women who hide under a calm and dignified exterior a depth of feeling and an earnestness of purpose, joined to a deep sense of religious responsibility, which had enabled her to bear with patient resignation the sorrows and privations consequent upon poverty and the peculiarly painful circumstances, which had brought her from her New England home to take up her abode in the village of Fentonville.

She lived much after the fashion of her own people, doing her own work with the wonderful skill of the Northern housewife, and maintaining about her the beauty of order, and that atmosphere of purity, which cleanliness invariably lends even to the poorest and most humble home. Her small income was paid to her quarterly, though Mr. Meadows, the lawyer; and he had been heard to say that he considered it barely sufficient for her support. The abnegation which had enabled her to put all thought of self out of the way of what she thought to be her duty, her strict economy and rigid firmness in carrying out her purposes, had early impressed her son with profound respect for his mother's character. With strangers she was somewhat reserved and reticent; but Mary Cairn well knew how to say a word of comfort, or to confer a kind action with sweetest grace. Except on errands of mercy, she rarely left her home; and she never spoke of her own affairs as most women are apt to do; so that although she had lived in Fentonville for sixteen years, very little was known of her history. Great, therefore, was the surprise of the neighbors when she offered to purchase Silcott Mill, and when the bargain was concluded; they were still more astonished to know that she had paid down the cash, and quietly taken possession, seeming thoroughly to understand what she was about, and even making some improvement on the old way of managing things which had brought a steady increase of custom to the mill.

When Allan was old enough to take charge of the business, he found a pretty little sum laid by, and plenty of hard work before him. He had learned all that the village schoolmaster could teach him, and Mrs. Cairn said that this was quite enough.

"He must make as much out of it as he can," she replied to Mr. Meadows, when he urged her to send Allan to college. "He has had a fair starting: it is for him to win the race. If he has the right kind of sense, he does not need Latin and Greek to help him to use it."

She was a strong believer in self help; and was convinced that she was doing the best thing for her child, when she placed him in a position where success was mainly dependent upon his industry and sound judgment. She believed that if he made a successful miller, he might from that humble beginning reach better things; and often said to him in her homely way, "That bread of one's own earning was sweeter than any other."

Circumstance had shut out from Mrs. Cairn's life much of the sweetness which comes from the interchange of kindly sympathies; and her heart, bereft of every other affection, had poured out the wealth of its strong love upon her son, until her own being seemed merged into his. She thought for him, she planned for him; and in that inner life, over which her reserve had drawn an impenetrable veil, lay a high ambition—a reaching after those glorious prizes which she so sorely coveted for him, and which she determined to help him to win. Quiet, gentle Mary Cairn! Mr. Fenton little suspected, when on the following morning he called to see her, that under her calm bearing was the germ of a hope which was to grow into an absorbing purpose; and that the woman who stood before him, tall and elegant, in spite of the simplicity of her dark calico dress, with her handsome face so unmoved as she bargained with him, her clear blue eyes looking steadily into his, while she held in one slender hand the purse which contained the price of the land—was winning her first victory, was laying the corner-stone of that edifice which her hopes had reared in the future, and to which every action of her life had tended towards its completion. He would have wondered at this woman who had the temerity to set herself against the rough current of the world, and ascribed to her a sort of amabilis insania, had he known to what a height her ambition had climbed for the young miller of Silcott Mill, whom he considered a quiet, steady lad, honest and industrious, and handsome—yes, handsome, as his own brother Reginald had been at his age, and of whom, strange to say, Allan Cairn often reminded him. Mr. Fenton's eye wandered over the well-ordered, tastefully arranged room, and resting on the lovely face of Mrs. Cairn, he said:

"You have the best forty acres in the county, Mrs. Cairn; I scarcely think I would have parted with them so readily to any one but yourself."

"You are very kind to say so, Mr. Fenton," she replied, coloring slightly. "I must confess that the disappointment would have been sore to me had you refused to sell. It seems properly to belong to the mill; and it is so conveniently situated for the timber. I have been told that it did once comprise a part of the mill tract."

A look of annoyance passed over the countenance of Mr. Fenton as he answered: "You have been correctly informed, madam. It did once belong to David Silcott, but he disposed of it to me, and afterwards acted in bad faith. Law and justice, however, were on my side. I did not take an inch more than was my right; but the consequences of human actions are uncertain: no one can calculate their results, or feel sure of the ultimate success of their plans. I look back now with something akin to regret to the issue of my proceedings against Silcott; but he brought about the trouble himself. You have probably heard something of this matter?" he added inquiringly.

"Indeed sir," she answered, "until this moment I have never heard the subject mentioned. Pray believe me, when I say that my interest in Silcott Mill dates only from to-day."

"I might have known better," he said quite gently, "than to have suspected you of idle curiosity. You are one of those rare women who are satisfied to remain within the narrow circle of their own duties. Pardon me, madam, for supposing that you feel some interest in what concerns me; but," he added more earnestly, "should you ever hear that Ralph Fenton has been hard or unjust in his dealings with David Silcott, promise him that you will allow him the opportunity of justifying himself."

"It would be very hard for me to believe but that you are the best and most generous of men, Mr. Fenton," she answered, frankly extending her hand to him. "I make the promise, but I scarcely think that I shall ever need to remember it, or to require its fulfilment."

"Thanks, dear madam," he said, rising from his chair. "Will you tell Allan that I will be able to get him the contract for lumber for the new courthouse? He has the timber just at hand; not a tree has been felled since the land came into my possession."

"It will be good news to him," answered Mrs. Cairn. "This is only one of the many kindnesses for which we have to thank you, my dear sir."

Mr. Fenton, like all timid men, disliked thanks, and extending his hand, which Mrs. Cairn warmly grasped, he hurried away.

Mrs. Cairn stood for a moment beside the table which held her desk, looking down absently at the paper, which she put away carefully in the secret drawer. The forty acres were Allan's now, and she smiled contentedly at the thought.

AMONG those who came to Georgia, in 1736, with Oglethorpe, was Sir Reginald Fenton. A spirit of adventure had led him to follow the example of his illustrious friend, and the fair prospects which smiled upon him in this sunny land induced him to make it his home.

When the colonists were safely sheltered under the royal care, with their liberties and privileges well secured to them, then Sir Reginald cleared away the primeval forest, and raised a goodly mansion in the midst of gardens gay with flowering shrubs, and bethought him of his fair cousin, Alice Hamilton, to whom he had been betrothed for so many long years. Faithful and true she left her English home—not without regret—and returned with him to America to found a family, the sole representative of which I am about to present more formally to my reader.

Ralph Fenton was an old bachelor of eccentric habits, leading a solitary life at Baywood, his ancestral home, which was situated just a mile east of Fentonville, a town founded by Sir Reginald, which for some cause had never increased beyond the size of a respectable village.

Perhaps the pertinacity with which the family clung to Old World prejudices and customs had something to do with their want of popularity with the people among whom they lived; for although they had never failed in any of the duties incumbent upon their station, yet they possessed the usual concomitant of great family pretentions—pride—which they manifested perhaps too frequently in their intercourse with their more democratic neighbors.

Ralph Fenton had never tried to combat the popular feeling; on the contrary, his retired habits and unsocial mode of life had gone far to render him personally disliked by people who resented his morbid indifference to public affairs, and a seclusion which shut them out from any opportunity of prying into his own.

He possessed neither the finely marked features which had distinguished the Fentons, nor their lofty stature; but if Nature had deprived him of these characteristics of his race, she had amply made up to him for this neglect, by bestowing upon him a full share of pride, and a strong, unswerving will. After an absence of several years—during which time nothing was known of his whereabouts, beyond the fact that he had suddenly left Oxford, whither he had been sent to complete his education—he returned to Baywood, to find his mother dead, and Mr. Meadows managing the estate. Since then he had lived alone in the great desolate house; rarely leaving it unless business required his presence elsewhere.

Strange stores went abroad with regard to the habits of the recluse; and gossip was not backward in attributing to him practices which savored strongly of the mediæval faith in astrology and alchemy. Ralph Fenton, with his thin dark face and black hair, which he wore of unusual length, looked not unlike one of those weird searchers after the philosopher's stone; and his habits were calculated to arouse suspicion, which fructifies so abundantly, that the smallest seed dropped upon good ground is quite sufficient to raise up a tree, whose branches will overshadow many good and noble deeds. The fruit of this tree is exceedingly sweet, and gossip fattens upon it.

Mr. Fenton was a deep thinker and a close observer of Nature, with just a leaven of superstition in his composition, which caused him to follow a few peculiar if not absurd practices, which were looked upon by the ignorant with feelings of awe, nearly akin to fear.

He was accounted a close man, because he did not keep up the state and ceremonial which were the natural adjuncts of his wealth and station; but his wants were simple, and habits engendered by years of solitude had grown so tenacious, that they clung to him like a second nature. Long after the lights in the village had been extinguished for the night, a lamp might have been seen burning in an upper chamber at Baywood, until the dawn came creeping over the earth, its gray light entering through the curtainless windows, and falling upon the wan, weary face of the watcher. He was no alchemist, not even a deep student. He was inveterately, idiosyncratically miserable. Sleep fled from him, resisting the soothing persuasion of the ordinary anæsthetics to lure it to his weary frame. At home or abroad he had woven around him an atmosphere of solitude, and intrenched himself behind a barricade of shy reserve which few ever had the courage to attack, and none ever thoroughly demolished. In his youth he had given promise of excellence in the paths of learning, which had led his doating mother to look forward to his attaining individual position, independent of the high birth and wealth which would naturally bring to him the homage of the world.

With a nature constitutionally proud and shy, and an original bias toward melancholy, he easily found arguments by which to justify his abandonment of the world, and his relinquishment of a career which it had once been his ambition to follow. His disposition was naturally mild, and his manner winning, whenever he chose to throw off his habitual reserve. With the tact of a delicate refinement, he knew how to bestow favors without wounding the pride of the recipient or parading his generosity before the world. Thus it happened that much of the good which he did was hidden away among the treasures which "neither moth nor rust doth corrupt," while the salient points of his character stood out in bold relief, in full view of the world's uncharitableness.

A light frost silvered the lawn, and the morning air was sharp enough to make an overcoat comfortable. Mr. Fenton opened the house door, and stood on the piazza, watching a huge mock-orange tree which stood on the right of the house. He was evidently disappointed, for he turned away with a look of dissatisfaction on his face, and was about to re-enter the house, when he espied a woman coming up the avenue.

"I warrant yonder woman is the bearer of ill-tidings," he thought, as he descended the steps and stood with his head uncovered, awaiting her approach. He noticed her light step and the swaying of her tall, graceful figure, but the face was hidden by a sun-bonnet.

"Mr. Fenton," she said, catching her breath, and speaking in low, hurried tones, as she extended her hand to him, "Grandfather is ill; he has asked for you repeatedly during the night, and the doctor has sent me to tell you. Will you go to him, sir?" she added, pushing back her bonnet, and revealing the lovely face of Lydia Croft.

She stood in the full light of the sun, and as the bonnet fell back upon her shoulders, Mr. Fenton noticed the luxuriance of her bright hair, and the pleading look in her large, handsome eyes. The sharp morning air had given her cheek a bright rose hue, but the intent and somewhat astonished gaze of Mr. Fenton deepened it into crimson.

"Who are you, my dear?" he exclaimed with so strange an eagerness, that the girl, mistaking his manner for displeasure, answered warmly, with a touch of hauteur in her tone:

"It cannot matter to you, sir, who I am; since I have delivered my message, I will wish you good-morning."

"Surely," thought he, "this fair girl cannot be Silas Croft's granddaughter, but rather some highborn dame, who has just stepped out of her hoops and farthingales; or she might be Lady Mabel herself, for there is a strange look of the old portrait about her."

He walked after her, and touching her on the arm, said: "Pardon me, young lady, if I have been rude. You must make some allowance for an old bachelor, who has never before seen so fair a vision within his solitary grounds. Your face is strangely familiar to me, and yet I cannot remember where I have seen you."

"I have been in Fentonville all my life," she answered, smiling, and completely mollified by Mr. Fenton's gallant speech, "at least since I was a baby. You have seen me, sir, many, many times before; only," she added archly, "my face has been hidden under this becoming head-gear" (touching her sunbonnet), "and it is hardly probable that even had it been otherwise you would have noticed me."

"I think I should have noticed you anywhere," he said, in his most winning manner, "and if you will do me the honor of coming to see my portraits, I will show you one to which you bear a striking likeness—that of Lady Mabel Fenton, whose husband followed the fortunes of the unfortunate Charles I., and was killed at Naseby. Ah! my garrulity has detained you, when you are probably longing to get back to your grandfather."

"Yes," she said, "I must go back to him, and yet it is pleasant to talk to you, sir; but he will be wanting me, and I ought not to stay away from him, for he is all that I have in this world."

Her voice trembled, and she bit her lip to keep back the rising tears.

"I will go immediately, my poor child," said Mr. Fenton, "as soon as my horse is saddled. For many years I have not walked, else it would give me great pleasure to accompany you; I am ashamed to say that the stables of Baywood are now almost empty. The coach horses have been long dead, and I have never replaced them."

"Oh! I always walk," exclaimed Lydia, feeling that this was intended as an apology. "It is no distance from here to grandfather's."

He walked with her to the end of the avenue and held open the gate for her. As she went out into the road, she hesitated for a moment. "It is nearer that way," she thought, and turned into a path which diverged from the main road, and led to a ford just above the mill of Silcott Creek. A rude bridge, fashioned out of a fallen tree, crossed the creek a little higher up than the ford. The frost that covered its surface rendered it wet and slippery, and Lydia hesitated for a moment, looking dubiously down at the cold bright water below.

"I must try it at any rate," she thought. Her sun-bonnet hung on her arm, for she had taken it off the better to see about her, and she certainly looked her very best, as she stood there hesitating about going forward.

"By George! a well-shaped foot and ankle!" thought Roger Amerland, as he emerged from the woods, his gun on his shoulder and a well-filled game-bag at his side.

"You are not going to venture across that slippery log, Miss Croft? How fortunate, that for once in my life I have happened to be in the right place at the right time! Do let me assist you;" and leaning his gun against a tree, he advanced and offered her his hand.

"I thank you, sir," she said, when they had safely reached the other side. "Good-morning. I must hurry on, for grandfather is sick, and will be wanting me."

"I am so sorry," answered Amerland, with a tone which plainly said that he was not the least concerned about Silas Croft, but he showed no intention of turning back, and walked along by Lydia's side, looking at her fresh young face, with its delicate rounded outlines, with evident pleasure.

"Ah! pray don't put on your bonnet, Miss Croft. Just wait until we get out of the woods: there's not enough sun to hurt you, and it is so pleasant to look at you."

The girl's cheek deepened in hue, and she kept the odious bonnet dangling from her arm, as she listened to Amerland, who talked in his easy, charming way, with just enough empressement in his manner to convince Lydia that he found her society very agreeable. As she gave him her hand at parting, his experience told him that she was rather sorry that the walk through the wood had not been longer; and he was not a man to forego the pleasure which this knowledge gave him. His parting words were just a little more tender than he had intended them to be, and their eyes met only for an instant; but the girl carried away with her the memory of that look, and as she walked on at a rapid pace, her face beaming with a strange new happiness; she saw Allan Cairn standing within the meadow inclosure, and knew that he had witnessed her parting with Amerland.

THE farm of Silas Croft lay about a quarter of a mile from Fentonville; and although it was an upland place, and the land less productive than the alluvial of the river bottoms, yet, under his management, it had always yielded a fair crop of corn and cotton, and boasted the finest peaches and pears in the whole country. The house, of the plainest and most humble architecture, was constructed of unpainted boards, and was only saved from being absolutely forlorn in its appearance by a rude porch, over which masses of climbing roses and honeysuckle wandered in uncontrolled luxuriance. A well-kept garden, now gay with late-blooming roses, and bright chrysanthemums, filled the space between the house and the road, from which it was separated by a rude fence. On the left of the garden, and bordering the road, was the orchard, now bare and leafless; and beyond were the winter pastures, where the cows were treading out the damp fragrance of the yielding earth, and cropping the tender green blades of oats.

"I'm glad you've come at last," she said, with a touch of acerbity in her manner. "Your grandfather has been that restless, that I thought he would go off before you got back."

"Is he worse?" cried the girl, looking eagerly into her face. "O Sarah! do you think that he is going to die?"

Something like pity came into the woman's face, as she marked Lydia's distress, and she answered:

"It's not for me to say, Lydia; you had better go in and see him, while I get your breakfast ready. You must be hungry after your long walk. Stay," she continued, as Lydia turned to enter the house, "is Mr. Fenton coming?"

"Yes, but what makes you look so strange, Sarah—what has Mr. Fenton to do with us?"

"Your grandfather knows best what he wants with him. I don't pry into his affairs, though I've lived with him ever since he brought you to this country, sixteen years coming next midsummer. I'm no better than a servant, Lydia: what should I know about your grandfather's business!"

Sarah turned abruptly, and walked into the house, going immediately to the kitchen, while Lydia proceeded to her grandfather's room. The old man breathed painfully, and his face, which in health had been full and florid, looked pale and sunken. Lydia approached the bed, and the physician, who had had his hand on the pulse of the invalid, moved away, and stood looking out of the window. Lydia stooped over him for a moment, looking tenderly at his poor wan face, and said in a low, caressing tone: "Grandfather, I have come back. Mr. Fenton will be here directly. You feel better, don't you?"

He looked at her with a long, wistful glance, and murmured: "Poor little Lydia!" Then his mind wandered, and he muttered names which were strange to Lydia's ear. She stood stroking his large brown hand, which had grown so cold and clammy, and the tears, which she could no longer repress, fell unheeded upon it. Sarah came in and said a few whispered words to the physician. He approached the bed, and looked earnestly at the patient.

"Mr. Croft," he cried, in so loud a tone that it startled Lydia, and aroused the old man from the stupor into which he was gradually falling, "Mr. Fenton is here: shall I ask him to come in?"

The heavy eyes unclosed, and the patient made an affirmative sign, looking at the same time uneasily at Lydia.

"Miss Lydia," said the doctor, "you must get your breakfast; you look tired. Grandfather will do very well until you come back." And taking her hand, he gently forced her from the bedside. Mr. Fenton was standing in the hall, and as Lydia followed Sarah into the kitchen, the doctor said to him:

"The old man is sinking fast, sir—a fatal case of pneumonia. I much fear that the stupor, which in these cases precedes death, will prevent him from making a disclosure to you which is evidently preying upon his mind. I have gathered this much from his wanderings, for his mind has not been quite clear since yesterday. I will see that no one intrudes upon you during the interview. These country people, with the very kindest of intentions, are terribly in the way in a sick-room. Just see those half-dozen women coming up the garden path! Poor Lydia!"

Silas Croft, by the exercise of that powerful will which had always characterized him as the firmest, some said the most obstinate, of men, had, with a mighty effort, shaken off the encroaching stupor, which was fast binding his senses, and roused himself for the coming interview. Mr. Fenton kindly pressed his hand, and sat down beside him.

"My time is short, Mr. Fenton," the old man said. "I'm glad that you have come. God help me to say to you what must be said before I go." He paused, and closed his eyes (Mr. Fenton thought in prayer); then looking steadily at him, he said:

"You do not remember me?"

"Remember you!" exclaimed Mr. Fenton; "surely, my good friend, your honest face, which for so many years I have seen about Fentonville, is not so easily forgotten."

"It was not in Fentonville that you saw me for the first time. See here! Ralph Fenton," he added in a hoarse whisper; and tearing open his shirt, he exposed to view a long, cicatrized wound across the chest—an ugly, livid gash. "Do you remember this?"

Mr. Fenton rose from his seat, and bending over the old man, looked long and intently upon his face, his own working with an emotion which had taken away the power of speech. "Oh, my God!" he thought, "can it be that I have suffered twenty years of remorse for a crime of which I am innocent! Tell me, old man," he said at last, "tell me, are you the father of Rose Maybin?"

"Aye," he answered, "I am her father. Twenty years—yes, twenty years ago, I met you one summer night within my garden enclosure. I would have killed you there, if your youth and your Oxford training had not served you in good stead. As it was, you left me for dead. She—give me some water." When he had moistened his parched lips and throat, he continued: "She, when she knew that I would not die, fled from me, and a year afterwards, when one morning at sunrise I opened the house door, I found a child there; and pinned to its little frock was a slip of paper, with a few tear-stained lines written with a pencil. I remember each word: 'Father, don't be angry any longer with me; you will never see me again. Take care of my child. Her name is Lydia. You will let her bear it, because it was my mother's. The man whom you would have killed is not her father. He is innocent.' I did not believe her. I thought that she was trying to deceive me in order to shield you from my vengeance. Your infernal plans had been so well laid, that you escaped me, when my hot wrath would have been satisfied with nothing less than your life. To this day I am ignorant of my child's fate; but I discovered that you were an American; that you were rich and proud; and I followed you here, that in the place of your birth, amongst your own race, I might avenge the wrongs of my child. I have waited," he continued, in a husky tone, which betokened fast-failing strength, "for sixteen years, to watch that slow and sure vengeance which God calls his own. I have watched you, a poor, broken man, bearing the load of a double crime, and growing prematurely old, under the gnawings of an upbraiding conscience, and the sting of a baffled ambition. I have bided my time—I have been patient. I have kept back from you the knowledge of Lydia's birth, lest your lonely life might have been made less desolate by the knowledge that this fair child belonged to you. She, too, has suffered; for I have seen her chafing against the shackles of the sort of servitude which is the fate of those who are born in our class. It does not do to graft a stock like mine upon yours, Ralph Fenton; no good can come of it. You have been the curse of my life. God help me to forgive you!"

Drops of agony stood on Mr. Fenton's brow, and his face was scarcely less altered than the dying man's, as he rose painfully from his seat. The quick, hard breathing of the patient, the vacant stare in his eyes, convinced him that it was too late to speak, and he turned and left the room.

The physician met him in the hall; and seeing his condition was about to offer assistance, when Mr. Fenton waved him off, merely saying: "I think, sir, that you are wanted in there," pointing to the room where the sick man lay.

He rode away to Baywood, there to hide his misery—to ponder the bitter past, and to remember that the fair young creature, whom on that very morning he had likened to Lady Mabel Fenton, was in reality of his own blood.

Bon sang ne peut mentir.

SARAH HOPE was a tall, thin woman about fifty years of age, with an angular form, and a face which might have been carved from stone for all that its hard lines expressed of human feeling. The deep furrows about the mouth and eyes, and the vertical wrinkles between the brows, gave her a look of premature age, and an expression which argued strongly against the placidity of her temper. Sixteen years before the commencement of this narrative she had come to Fentonville with Silas Croft; and during this time she had made no friends, and, as she boasted, no enemies. Her quiet and unobtrusive manner, her reticence, and the severity of her deportment toward mankind, had effectually baffled the curiosity of the neighbors. She had at once defined her position in the family of her employer, by saying that she was a servant, liberally paid to take care of his orphan grandchild, and to superintend his house.

The orthodox Baptists—who composed the larger portion of the inhabitants of Fentonville—could never thoroughly forgive her unswerving allegiance to the Roman Catholic faith, and her unconcealed contempt for doctrines which she unhesitatingly rejected, because they were not taught by Mother Church. Through all weather she never failed to attend mass at the chapel in the neighboring town, which she reached by means of the railroad, rising before daylight in order to catch the train, and returning after dark. Sundays at Croft farm were rather dull for Lydia. Her grandfather belonged to the church of England, because his forefathers had done so before him; and perhaps for the same reason, opposed what he called Popery with all the strength of his stern will. Lydia had grown to womanhood with the most vague ideas of all matters pertaining to religious faith. Her grandfather had taught her the church catechism, and Sarah had striven in her hard way to imbue her with her own faith in the Virgin and Saints; so between the two, the poor girl was sorely perplexed to know whether Sarah, who gave herself so much pains to hear mass on Sundays, or her grandfather, who rarely went to church, was adopting the means to attain an end, which she thought scarcely so well worth gaining, since old Mrs. Stebbins, their nearest neighbor, had told her "that heaven was a place where those who died in a state of grace, brought about by immersion and the proper hearing of Brother Long's sermons, were to become angels and glorify God through all eternity, by playing upon golden harps and singing hymns."

Lydia's experience of these nasal performances—for she had several times accompanied Mrs. Stebbins bins to the Baptist chapel—gave her but little desire to hear them repeated throughout eternity; so she wandered helplessly in a maze of difficulties, and grew up with most undefined ideas of those mysterious truths, which when taught in childhood take deep root upon the unquestioning mind; but if left to later years are hard to digest, unless faith leads the soul heavenward, and humility teaches it its utter incapability to take care of itself. Sarah, in her cold, undemonstrative way, was kind to Lydia; and the girl never having known a better love, grew to look upon her with the affection which springs so readily from the hearts of children towards those who are daily associated with them, and administer to their many wants. When years before, Silas Maybin had found himself with his daughter's helpless infant upon his hands, he naturally looked about him for some one to take charge of her. Sarah Hope had gone into service at a neighboring farmhouse about three weeks after the finding of the child; and when she heard of Silas Maybin's trouble, she offered to accompany him to America, satisfying him as to her good character, and demanding moderate wages in return for her services and a home, which she said was her chief object in accepting the situation. They had lived together since that time, Sarah gradually obtaining over Silas that subtle influence which a persistent and watchful course of conduct, and a consistent carrying out of her own principles, will enable a woman to obtain over a man, be his own disposition ever so much inclined to resist domestic tyranny. Sarah was consulted about every thing—the management of the farm as well as about the housekeeping. There was only one cause of difference between them; and that was the opposition of Silas to what he was pleased to call Sarah's Popish practices. She wisely kept silent and pursued her own way, well knowing that Silas was so thoroughly uncomfortable when she was absent of Sundays, that he saw her return with infinite satisfaction, and ate his warm dinner on Monday, with a thankfulness enhanced by the memory of Sunday's cold joint.

On the rare occasions when Father Hubert came to Fentonville to look after his little flock there, Silas was wont to absent himself from the house; nor did he make his appearance again, until he knew the good man to be well on his way to the railroad station.

Sarah was apt on these occasions to wear a stony aspect, which chilled and awed poor Silas; and to take him up most roundly if he had the temerity to touch upon the worthy Father's visit, for she strongly suspected him of taking a malicious pleasure in depreciating the good qualities of the holy man, and in holding up to ridicule his rotund figure and rosy face.

As Lydia grew older, she began to observe Sarah more closely, and she discovered that in spite of her long residence at Croft farm and her faithfulness in the discharge of her duties, she had some interest entirely apart from them—a secret which she guarded with jealous care. Lydia knew that she sent off money at intervals, and that she received letters which did not come through the post-office.

For a few weeks previous to the illness of Silas, Sarah had been evidently ill at ease, and when the old man asked to have Mr. Fenton summoned, her pale and agitated face would at any other time have aroused the attention of Lydia, but her grandfather's condition was a natural cause of grief and anxiety, and Sarah's uneasiness and apparent sorrow created no suspicion in her mind.

It was nearly midnight, and all that was left of the sturdy old farmer lay in the front room, whither they had taken him to await that last solemn carrying forth—that putting away of the natural body, which to those who survive so hard and bitter a trial, even when faith penetrates the dread portals of the grave, and sees in the casting off of the mortal shell but the perfection of God's wisdom and the fulfilment of His promises.

Lydia had gone to her room to lie down, but she tossed restlessly on her bed, and finally grew so nervous that she rose, and wrapping herself in a thick shawl, she crept softly down stairs, intending to go and watch beside her grandfather.

There was something appalling to this young creature in the unbroken stillness which reigned throughout the house. For the first time she had been brought face to face with death, and so great had been the shock to her, that she felt stunned as if by some sudden blow, and did not yet realize the extent of her own great loss. She knew that her grandfather had gone from her to that far-off mysterious land, of which, try as she would, she could form no definite idea. She grieved for him, that he would no longer walk out in the sunny fields or through the rich pastures, where the full-uddered cows grazed on the sweet tender blades which he had so carefully provided for them. He would never again watch the swelling buds or see the opening blossoms on his peach and apple trees. Never, never again would she go with him to see the young lambs and the broods of chirruping chickens, and the great new barn, now filled with the late harvest—the last—oh! the last that grandfather would ever help to gather; and Lydia wept as only the young can weep—those melting, tender tears of a regret which they believe will be eternal.

She did not know of that other life reaching into the mysteries of Eternity, which is to mortal life as the plant is to the seed, which rises from the earth and lifts its head, crowned with the glory of its bright-hued leaves and flowers, toward heaven, whence it derives its strength and beauty. Slowly she descended the stairs, treading lightly, as though fearing to disturb the deep sleep of him she loved so well. On reaching the hall, she observed a light coming from under the door of the room which had been her grandfather's sleeping apartment.

"Who can be there?" she thought; and moved by an irresistible curiosity, she entered a pantry, which had been cut off from the back piazza, the window of which opened into her grandfather's room. Before this window a calico curtain hung, and drawing it a little aside, she could see distinctly into the room. Sarah was there, stooping over an old desk which contained her grandfather's papers. Her face was turned towards Lydia, and every lineament was so dreadfully changed, that the girl shrank back lest those horror-stricken eyes should discover her place of concealment. The woman had placed a candle on the table; its light fell upon a miniature which she held in her hand. She trembled violently as she looked upon the picture, and her lips moved as though she spoke; but no sound reached Lydia. Suddenly the miniature was slipped into her pocket, and she went on searching among the papers, raising her head occasionally as if to listen. Finally a packet was drawn forth, tied with a black ribbon, and opening it she proceeded to examine its contents. A long curl of pale golden hair fell from a time-stained paper; this she put back, seeming to shudder as she touched it. Several letters were hastily opened and refolded, and drawing a scrap of paper from her pocket, she slipped it among them; then tying them up with the black ribbon, replaced them in the desk. When the desk was locked, she secured the key in the upper drawer of a bureau which stood between the windows, and moved towards the door; but a sudden terror seemed to take possession of her, and she stood with dilated eyes and parted lips staring at the bed on which the old man had died.

Lydia watched her with blanched face and shaking limbs. She knew now that this woman, so long united to her by the ties of association—sometimes she had thought of affection—was separated from her by this act of treachery, and that never again could they be reunited. She saw her stealing forth with the dread of discovery on her face, extinguishing the candle, and cautiously closing the door behind her.

"What has she done?" thought Lydia—"what was the paper which she put into the packet—whose was the miniature at sight of which her face had blanched? She has a secret then—a secret which she has not guarded so well, since I have discovered its existence."

She realized now what the loss of her grandfather was to her—now, for the first time, she understood the desolateness of her condition. Sarah had stood to her in lieu of a mother; a cold, hard substitute for that love which comes nearer in its completeness than any other to the divine devotion of the Man God. This love, Lydia had never known, and thus, she had accepted the conscientious discharge of duty, the unvarying attention to her wants, the unsympathizing companionship of Sarah, for much more than it was worth. Her heart, for want of a better support, had clung to this woman, with a feeling so nearly allied to affection, that the pain which she now felt was all the more hard to bear. She sat in the cold dark pantry until her limbs grew stiff, and her teeth chattered—until the crowing of the cock and the bustle in the barn-yard warned her to seek her room at once, in order to avoid discovery.

Long weeping and violent agitation had brought exhaustion, and throwing herself upon her bed she fell into a troubled slumber, from which she was awakened some hours afterwards by Sarah.

Lydia opened her eyes to see Sarah's livid face bending over her, and to feel her hand upon her arm. She shrank away, with a feeling of repugnance, and said in sharp, fretful tones:

"O Sarah! do leave me in peace."

"You had better get up," was the snappish answer: "breakfast is ready, and there are a lot of people to eat it. I want you to come down and help me."

Lydia rose, and without looking at Sarah proceeded to bathe her swollen face, and to arrange her disordered dress.

"You seem to be dazed this morning, Lydia. Whatever are you doing putting on your blue merino, with your grandfather—God rest his soul—lying dead down stairs?"

"You were in a hurry to get me that horrid black dress," she answered. "Please don't stand looking at me, Sarah. I will put it on, and go down stairs; only I wish I was dead, like grandfather—indeed, indeed I do!"

She threw herself weeping on the side of the bed. Sarah lingered for a moment. Something like pity came into her eyes, as she looked at the orphan girl; but she was dumb, as the remembrance of her night's work struck her—"What if Lydia knew?"

THROUGH the long hours of the night, the solitary man at Baywood paced his chamber. The revelation of Silas Croft had opened memory's gates; and one by one the dramatis personæ came forth, to play their part in the catastrophe which had marred his life. For years a foul suspicion had proved a demon of unrest to him. Put it away as he would, it ever thrust its presence upon him, haunting him through the night, and going forth with him when he wandered through the sunlit glades of the forest, or sat down on some grassy knoll, whence he could watch the busy creatures of Nature's realm, and indulge, unseen by mortal eye, in those long reveries which made up to him for the absence of social intercourse. The circle of his sympathies had grown narrower, as he withdrew himself from the outer world; and his original constitutional bias had developed into a nervous idiosyncrasy, which rendered him utterly miserable at the thought of having a beautiful young woman left upon his hands. Years before, he had fled from Oxford with, as he believed, the curse of Cain upon his head. He had sworn a rash oath to one very dear to him, and taken upon himself the opprobrium of a reckless crime. All through his life he had filled a place which did not belong to him; and now he was called upon to acknowledge a tie which would bring shame upon Lydia Croft, and stamp him with the odious character of the seducer.

Pondering his strange dilemma, he finally determined that any conclusion would be premature until he knew the contents of the old farmer's will. "Heaven spare me," he muttered, "from the lash of evil tongues. I am no coward, yet I fear, not for myself alone, but for that fair young life, which may be saddened in its morning; but poor are they that have not patience. I will wait; perhaps for her sake the old man has spared me."

It was nearly six o'clock when a gentle tap at the door aroused him from his painful thoughts, and drawing back the bolt he admitted an elderly mulatto woman, bringing a cup of black coffee on a small silver salver.

"Oh, Mas Ralph!" she said in that tone of affectionate familiarity, then so common with the family servants at the South, "You've been sitting up again; for there's your bed, jest as I left it when I fixed it at sundown. You haven't as much as put your head on the pillow."

"Don't worry, Selina," he answered, wearily; "give me the coffee."

" 'Deed Mas Ralph," she said, placing the cup on the table before him, "I wish you was more like other folks. Poor Mistress used to say that you was the solemnest baby she ever saw, and you was always a queerish child."

"And now, Selina," he said, looking up with his own peculiar smile, "I am a good-for-nothing old man, living for no earthly good that I can see."

"Don't say that, Mas Ralph, I knows better. There's many a one about here as would feel your loss. White and black knows where to come in a pinch. With your sittings up, and tobacco, and strong coffee, you'll kill yourself: the more's the pity."

"Death doesn't come as easily as you think, Selina. He's fickle in his humors, and generally takes those who are least willing to answer his summons. We will talk no more of this, Selina. It is not a cheerful subject. Have my breakfast served at nine. I must go over to Croft farm at ten for the funeral."

The faithful woman lingered for a moment, as if she was half inclined to say something more; but wisely reading the face of her ever-patient master, and seeing there a relapse into that profound thought which she called "absent-mindedness," forbore any farther conversation, contenting herself with a few consolatory ejaculations as she went down stairs.

"I'm sorry, anyhow, for Lydia Croft," she said, as she entered the kitchen. "No one will ever make me believe that that sour-faced Sarah Hope ain't a vixen."

"She is perlite to colored folks," put in old Gabriel, who, fallen from the high estate of butler, was now the only man-servant at Baywood, and served as groom, gardener, and waiter, even taking his turn in the kitchen when Selina had one of her "bad turns," as he termed the acute rheumatism, which often confined the old woman to her bed. "She's perlite to colored folks, and don't confound the Fenton niggers wid de trash what don't know no manners."

"It ain't hard to blow smoke into your eyes, Gabriel. Menfolks is all jest like you; a little soft soder will bring 'em round, jest as quick as old Brutus runs to the trough when his vittals is ready."

"You'se down upon menfolks, Selina; but I'll say agin, dat Mrs. Hope knows a colored gentleman when she sees him."

"O Lord!" came from Selina, in a tone of the most aggravating incredulity, as she left the kitchen.

"Women is women," muttered Gabriel, as he polished his master's boots; "white or black, dey's all got de same aggravating nature."

IT was freezing hard outside, and the rain-drops were converted into icicles as they fell clinging to the house eaves, and rattling against the kitchen windows, where Lydia and Sarah sat before a huge fire which illuminated the room. The tins and coppers burnished to the last degree of polish, by Sarah's untiring hands, glittered on the shelves; the old eight-day clock ticked in the corner, the parrot sat silent on his perch, and the leathern chair of the old farmer stood in its accustomed place. His hat hung on a peg behind the door, his pipe and tobacco-box lay on the mantle-shelf. Lydia's eyes wandered lovingly over these familiar objects, and rested, while dimmed with tears, upon the old chair where for so many years her grandfather had sat by the fireside, listening to her as she read passages from some old English author, which he had selected for her edification; or more frequently with closed eyes and clasped hands, dozing, as she thought, after the fatigue of the day. Lydia's face was very pale, but touchingly lovely in the grief which softened it into unwonted gentleness. The clinking of Sarah's knitting needles seemed to be a sort of accompaniment to her thoughts, for she glanced from time to time at Lydia, who sat unmindful of her presence, absorbed in her own sad reverie.

Sarah snapped her needles together as she put the last stitch in the heel of her stocking, and when she had laid her knitting away in the cupboard, she proceeded to hang the tea-kettle on the old-fashioned pot-hook, which was suspended in the chimney. Just then the crunching of footsteps was heard on the frozen surface of the garden path, followed by a quick sharp rap on the front door.

"Gracious goodness," exclaimed Sarah, "whoever is it coming here at this hour and in such weather? I don't care to be opening the door, with we two lone women in the house. God protect us! tramps may be about."

"For shame, Sarah," said Lydia; "you left your tramps behind you in England. When did you ever see a beggar in Fentonville? Grandfather never refused hospitality, and surely on such a night as this you would not turn a belated traveller from the door."

"It was different when your grandfather was here. There's the silver spoons and money, for all that I know about the house, and you going to open the door, that we may be robbed and murdered. Lydia, Lydia, come back," she cried in abject terror, as the girl left the kitchen and unbolted the house door.

A tall man, muffled in an overall and comforter stood with the sleet beating against him. As he took off his hat, Lydia at once recognized Allan Cairn.

"Come in, Allan," she said, her voice betraying her satisfaction at seeing him. "How good of you to come up on such a night!"

As he took the chair which she offered him, close beside the glowing fire, his eyes rested for a moment upon her, and meeting his glance she blushed deeply, remembering their last parting, and feeling keenly Allan's generosity in coming to her in her troubles.

Sarah's eyes were watchful as she moved about, preparing the supper. As she glanced from one to the other of the young people, she seemed to be comparing their features, and when at last she went into the pantry, her hands lingered over the bread which she was cutting, and her thoughts ran thus: "It is not the first time that I have seen it. The hair and eyes, the comely nose, the curved upper lip, the rounded chin; only his is square, and his lips are fuller. Who ever saw a miller with such hands! No wonder old Tim Blakely took him for one of the fine folks staying with the Earles, and asked him, 'Where mought be Allan Cairn, as he had come a sharp spell to bring his corn to mill?' No wonder, when they heard it down at the tavern, that they enjoyed the joke, and have ever since called him the 'Gentleman Miller.' "

In the meanwhile Allan was talking to Lydia in a low quiet tone, leading her away from her immediate sorrow, and striving to interest her in the meagre village gossip, which, contrary to his wont, he was retailing for her amusement.

The comfortable meal prepared by Sarah was finished, and Allan and Lydia drew up their chairs nearer to the cheerful blaze, for the storm without was raging with redoubled violence.

"Mother thought that you might be lonesome tonight, Liddy; so I came up to stay in case you want me."

"O Allan!" exclaimed the girl in a low, earnest tone, "I cannot tell you how much I thank you. I am indeed very lonely here; I dread the nights beyond anything."

The mystery surrounding Sarah had impressed her imagination with a thousand vague fears, and the scene of the previous night grew weird and unreal, as she thought of it now in the bright warm kitchen; yet one glance at the pale, hard face and the restless eyes convinced her that Sarah was suffering the pangs of an uneasy conscience. The mask of deceit which she had worn so long had fallen, and Lydia saw her as she was. The reality was there, in Sarah's presence. The feeling of attachment which long association and the absence of other ties had created, had from its want of genuineness and reciprocity been suddenly converted into a repugnance to the woman which rendered her society utterly unendurable to her. Thus when Allan spoke of staying at the farm, she felt an absolute relief, and received his proposition with a satisfaction so evident, that Sarah attributed it to a motive altogether foreign to the real one, and thought that Lydia was well content to pass the long evening in company with the handsome miller of Silcott Mill. When they parted for the night, Sarah was somewhat doubtful of her surmises; for she had not surprised a word or glance between the young people which might be construed into a warmer feeling than that of friendship.

To one of them at least this restraint had been a hard trial, and Lydia knowing this, thought of Allan with a tender admiration, which would have gone far to console him, as he lay awake thinking of his hard fate.

Before Lydia went to sleep that night, she drew the bolt of the door which communicated with Sarah's room. A precaution prompted by the fear that the woman might visit her during the night. She felt an uncontrollable horror at the idea of Sarah's pale face and restless eyes, looking upon her while she slept; for it was no unusual thing for her to come into her room after she was in bed, to see if the candle had been extinguished, having a nervous dread of fire.

Lydia lay awake agitated by the thoughts which her forlorn situation, and her suspicion of Sarah's treachery, rendered unutterably painful. On one thing she was quite resolved—and that was, to part from Sarah; rather to give up the farm, and go out to make her own living—she as yet had not the vaguest idea of how this was to be done—than to have a companionship forced upon her, which would entail the suffering which a candid nature must endure, when it is driven to practise a certain deception toward another, from motives of generous forbearance. Lydia determined to keep silent: she owed Sarah this much. "She has been cold and hard," she thought, "but never neglectful of me." Thus she fell asleep, believing in her ignorance that she was free to do as she pleased—that she could at will shake off the trammels which had become too heavy for her to bear, and seek freedom in that world, of which her imagination had formed so alluring a picture.

WHEN Sarah came down at half-past five, she found her fire blazing and the tea-kettle making that pleasant music which is so suggestive of comfort. Allan stood warming his hands by the fire, and bade her good-morning without noticing her look of astonishment.

"Did I ever expect that you were going to do this, Mr. Cairn! Holy Mother!" she exclaimed, approaching her blue nose dangerously near the leaping flames, "I am not ungrateful, for somehow I'm not myself quite this morning."

"Don't bother about being grateful to me, Mrs. Hope," Allan said. "I have done this for mother ever since I was ten years old. I shouldn't know what to do with myself after five o'clock if there was not some work ready for me."

"Really, Mr. Cairn," answered Sarah, giving him one of her peculiar sidelong glances, "if I might be so bold as to say so, I wonder that a born lady like your mother—for I know what a lady is—should worrit herself with doing her own work when she could so easily get help."

"My mother has some peculiar fancies, Mrs. Hope, one of which is to do her own work, and to believe that she thus spares herself from much vexation."

"I don't know but that she is right about that," answered Sarah, now thoroughly warmed, and tying on her white apron, preparatory to getting breakfast. "I've found that a pair of hands and a willing spirit are the best of servants; not but that I am one myself," she added, assuming her usual guarded manner, "and have been paid regular for my services by poor Mr. Croft, God rest his soul!"

She turned abruptly from him, and busied herself with the preparations for breakfast. "What a companion for poor Lydia!" thought Allan; "She looks like a walking embodiment of Duty of the sternest and most uncompromising order. She has about as much sympathy in her nature as an Egyptian mummy, and is evidently walking to heaven over ploughshares. I wouldn't be surprised, were the truth known, if the Eumenides were not constantly whipping her up with the lash of an accusing conscience. By Jove! she is always glancing askant, as if she expected to see the hand-writing on the wall." His reflections were cut short by the entrance of Lydia. How he longed to chafe those small hands, blue with cold, that were hovering over the fire—to put his strong arms about the slender, shivering from of this poor lonely girl! "But I'm not a fine gentleman," he thought, biting his lip; "I don't know how to cut out my phrases after the most approved drawing-room style. I don't wear lavender gloves and carry a scented cambric handkerchief. What chance has a rough fellow like me against a coxcomb, who falls in readily with their sensibilities and their taste, and can spend his time in the sort of frippery talk that woman like?"

He had worked himself into a decidedly bad humor, and when Lydia looked at him she was struck with the unpleasant expression which marred his handsome face. "Allan," she said, "are you angry with any one?"

"With no one but myself," he answered, "for being a fool; for I have been indulging in thoughts which, to say the least of them, are unworthy of a generous man. I should almost accuse myself of breaking the tenth commandment, if the lurking vanity, which is hidden away somewhere in my nature, did not spring forth and assert my right to some of those good things, to the possession of which I was just now giving an undue importance."

"I don't quite understand you, Allan."

"Perhaps not: how could you? A woman has nothing to do but to take the good as it comes to her; her individuality is merged into that of another, as soon as her affections are interested; while with a man it is different: he has in the outset a great deal to do with the making of his own life, especially," he added somewhat bitterly, "when he has been born in a station which leaves him a long way to climb before he reaches the topmost round of the ladder, and steps into that enchanted circle which is known as 'the world.' A man has to struggle with the antagonism of opposing elements—to know when to lay hold of the chances of preferment, and to maintain himself consistently, when he has achieved a step toward success. He has to work out with his own hands the hard problem of life. I am speaking of myself; some have it all worked out at their hand—the difficulties all smoothed out for them. These are the kind of people who know how to please women."

"Allan," exclaimed Lydia, "I never heard you say such things before; those bitter words are not like you. Truly your own mother is a living proof of what a woman may do, when she has the power of choosing something better for herself. The world of which you speak has its fascination for us, who are shut out from it; but I don't know, after all, whether it is right to strive for its favor. I have many idle fancies; my inclinations are all against my hard, unlovely life, and the positive ugliness of my surroundings. I am discontented, because I cannot get beautiful things that suit my fancy. I abhor the coarseness of my dress; I shudder at the dull routine of homely duties, which grow more distasteful day by day; I long for something better, Allan: and yet I am ashamed of myself when I think of your mother—how she has submitted without murmuring to her homely life; but she has lived for an object—she has you, Allan. It is so very different."

"Do you think that I am worthy of all that she has done for me, Lydia? Would you think so if I were to tell you that I am dissatisfied and discontented—that the miller of Silcott Mill is weary of the motion of his water-wheel—is sick of the work which that mother has struggled so hard to make light for him? Will you think better of me if I tell you, that since yesterday I have been repining because God has not created me with the attributes of that sleek animal called a fine gentleman?"

He looked full in her face as he said this, and the blush which suffused the girl's cheek told him that he was understood.

"I know of what you are thinking," she said; "but I am very sure no one who loves you, Allan, would have you changed from what you are. If I did not believe you to be generous and noble-hearted, I could not say to you now that, friendless and alone, I must go from this place to seek that something better for which my soul craves, and that I rely upon you to help me."

"Lydia," he answered, "I will do anything that you ask me: only do not make it too hard for me. Will you not think of what I have said to you—will you not try to like me ever so little? Perhaps in time even Silcott Mill may seem a paradise to me."

"Allan," she said, casting down her eyes, "don't make me sorry that I have asked your help."

Sarah coming in with the pail of new milk, put an end to all further conversation, by asking Lydia to take the biscuit from the oven.

After breakfast Allan went away. He stopped at the cottage to say good-morning to his mother before going to the mill. As he kissed her he said: "I have a favor to ask of you, mother."

"What is it, my son?"

"It is to help Lydia Croft; she is sadly in need of a friend."

"Advice is but a poor chattel if it does not happen to go to the right market, my son. Do you think that Lydia Croft is likely to abide by my counsel?"

"Only try, mother; just let her see a glimpse of your real nature. Give her the least bit of your sweet motherly love, and I am sure you will never have conferred a truer charity."

"How he loves her!" she murmured as she watched Allan's receding figure; "how he loves her!"

THE storm of the previous night had been succeeded by a clear cold day with a cutting wind, which caused Lawyer Meadows many an uncomfortable moment during his ride to Baywood, whither he was bound, to see Mr. Fenton on most important business. So he said, when Mrs. Meadows urged the danger of exposing his precious health to the inclemency of so rough a day.

Mr. Fenton was seated in his library—the only room beside his bedroom, which he occupied in all the great dreary house—and was somewhat startled when Gabriel announced Mr. Meadows. The visits of this gentleman to Baywood had always been of a strictly professional nature, and more than once Mr. Fenton had found himself overcome by the lawyer's subtle arguments. He was conscious that the following of his advice had not always led to results altogether advantageous to himself; while he was fully aware that he had been instrumental in placing Mr. Meadows in the enviable position of a prosperous man. Indeed, in practical matters Mr. Fenton did not always see farther than his nose; and Mr. Meadows, with a sagacity peculiar to his profession, knew how to profit by the blunders of his client. He was about fifty years of age, with a clean shaven, ruddy face, an embonpoint which did credit to Mrs. Meadow's housekeeping, and an eye which looked at you with an appeal in its depths, to which inexperience was apt to yield, especially when to it was added a pleasant and deep-toned voice, and a manner which could easily be mistaken for cordial affability. For many years he had been the adviser of Mrs. Fenton, and after her death he had continued to manage the estate. When at last the heir came to claim his own, he found it no very difficult matter to satisfy him with regard to the faithfulness of his stewardship, and he had continued to act as his legal adviser, drawing a yearly income of no small amount from the liberality of his client.

When he was seated, and under the influence of the fire, his countenance had expanded into its usual bland urbanity; he drew off his riding gloves, rubbed the palms of his large white hands softly together, and turning to Mr. Fenton said:

"I have a very extraordinary communication to make to you, sir. I came up myself, taking for granted that you might need my services, and perhaps," he added somewhat hesitatingly, "professional advice."

Mr. Fenton sat bolt-upright in his chair, perhaps a shade paler, and with a look of such eager expectancy in his face, that the inquisitive mind of the lawyer was at once aroused to a suspicion that his client had been expecting news of some kind. Perceiving that Mr. Fenton was waiting for him to proceed, he said:

"You will be as much surprised as I was, sir, when I heard from Mr. Sealey this morning, that, with the exception of a legacy to Sarah Hope, you are the sole legatee of Silas Croft, and the guardian of his granddaughter."

"Good God!" exclaimed Mr. Fenton, springing to his feet, "there must be some mistake about this, Meadows! The old man was mad; he could not otherwise have done this foul wrong to his grandchild."

"I think, sir," insinuated Mr. Meadows, "that there was a good deal of method in his madness. This will is dated back six years, is duly signed and witnessed, and I think that I never knew a man less liable to err in a matter of judgment than Silas Croft. In leaving you his property—which does not amount to enough to make any very considerable addition to your already large estate—he insures a guardian for his granddaughter, and at once places her in a position of dependence toward you, which compels a certain course of action on your part—a compulsory acceptance of the charge, which may or may not be agreeable to you."

Mr. Meadows was not quite sure that his remarks had fallen on an attentive ear, as Mr. Fenton had reseated himself, and seemed lost in thoughts of a most harrowing nature; for a deathly pallor had overspread his face and his hands shook as if with cold. Mr. Meadows watched him with increasing curiosity. Here was a mystery to solve. People who had been living under his eye—whom he had looked upon, the one as an eccentric recluse, the other as a bullet-headed old Englishman, concerned only about his calves and his crops—had actually dared to practise a sort of deception toward him, which he resented as wounding to his professional perspicuity and vanity, and calculated to lower his self-complacency in no small degree; for he prided himself on knowing the household history of most of his clients, who composed the greater part of the county families.

He had hitherto looked upon the present possessor of Baywood with just the slight shade of contempt which a man is apt to feel for another whom he has outwitted, never taking into account the facile victory which legal chicanery, joined to a not over-scrupulous use of those means, which, noxious in themselves, are frequently applied, without danger of discovery or disgrace, to a man whom a superior sense of honor, and total absence of duplicity, render absolutely incapable of entertaining suspicion.

Suddenly Mr. Fenton looked up. "Meadows," said he, "I believe, in an affair like this, that your head is clearer than mine. Is there no means of getting around this foolish old man's will, so that the girl may keep the money?"

"It is just that, sir, which puzzles me. Why old Croft should have left his grandchild penniless, and you his heir, is a question which I am not prepared to resolve. The fact of his bequest is indisputable; and the singular conditions of the will entail upon you the retention of the property; for with an insight into your nature, for which I did not give him credit, he has touched the delicate sensibility, sir, which renders you so peculiarly susceptible of feelings of pity. Leaving the orphan girl to your care, destitute of the means of living, he appeals to that chivalric honor which has always distinguished your race. He well knew that Ralph Fenton would never allow her to feel the want of a protector."

"Then I am to understand that I am de facto the legal guardian of this young lady, and that I stand towards her in the enviable light of a robber."

"My dear sir," exclaimed the lawyer, "you take the matter too seriously! I cannot altogether agree with your view of the case. There are certainly circumstances connected with it of which I am ignorant; indeed, so extraordinary a departure from a natural course would suggest a motive more powerful than the one which I at first attributed to the old man."

He had made a mistake, for Mr. Fenton, rising, and standing with his back to the fire, assumed an air of dignity, which at times transformed his usual manner into that of a man conscious that he possessed a certain power; and looking at the lawyer with his searching eyes he said:

"We will confine ourselves, sir, to strictly professional matters. With the motives which induced Mr. Croft to burden me with this charge, I cannot imagine that you have anything to do. I have my own reasons for accepting the guardianship of Miss Croft—reasons sufficiently potent to overcome my natural aversion to the assumption of duties which may break upon my bachelor habits, and render it necessary for me to change my mode of living."

Mr. Meadows had risen, feeling that he had been virtually dismissed; but he took his departure with a strong impression on his mind that there was something to discover. "When a shy man like Mr. Fenton asserts himself," he thought, "he must be roused by some powerful emotion;" and irritated by the itching of his curiosity, he rode on to Croft farm, hoping to draw something from Sarah Hope, which might give him a clue to the mystery which seemed suddenly to surround Ralph Fenton.

When he knocked at the door of the farm-house it was opened by Sarah, who informed him that Miss Croft was from home.

"If you will be so good, I will come in and warm myself. We have had an ugly spell for November, Mrs. Hope," he said in his most insinuating manner.

Sarah opened the door wide enough to admit his portly figure—for she had a way of standing on guard behind it, permitting the visitor the gratification of seeing the end of her nose, and a glimpse of her black head-band—and invited him to enter the kitchen.

"Begging your pardon, sir, for asking you into such a place; but it's that cold, and things is so upset that I can't keep up two fires; and so lonesome, that I don't care to do much about the house."

Mr. Meadows had seated himself in the arm-chair, close beside the fire, and stretching out his feet to warm them, settled himself comfortably, and commenced those soothing manipulations, which seemed to assist him greatly in the arrangement of his ideas.

Sarah, as was her wont, proceeded with her bread-making. "Idle hands," she said, "always helped a glib tongue."

"I suppose Mr. Sealey has been up this morning, Mrs. Hope," said the lawyer, watching Sarah's lank figure as it swayed backward and forward over the bread-trough.

She turned sharply around as she answered:

"Yes, Mr. Sealey has been here; and if you're come on law business, I'm sorry Lydia ain't here. I am nothing better than a servant, and I hope I know my place."

"The old fool is not inclined to be communicative," thought Mr. Meadows.

"I'm sure," said he, "Mr. Croft has behaved most handsomely to you. He has left you more independent than his own granddaughter."

"I'm not unthankful," said Sarah, "but I can't say but that I've worked faithful for what I've got. I'm a lone woman, sir, and not as young as I might be; but strong and able to do, which I will call your attention to the things about this kitchen, sir, which is as clean as clean can make them."

Saying this, she applied herself vigorously to the dough, raising it up and slapping it down, thrusting her knuckles into the yielding mass, and plunging her hand into the flour—all in such rapid succession, that Mr. Meadows was quite out of breath with watching her.

This woman's impassibility, argued Mr. Meadows, is not natural: her reticence is the result of a long system of concealment—that she has her secret, I feel perfectly convinced. If I can surprise her into an admission, I may be able to gain some insight into this curious affair.

"I think I remember hearing Mr. Croft say that Oxford was your native place, Mrs. Hope. You probably knew the Fentons,—your father kept a shop, you see I am well informed—Reginald and Ralph. Strange that nothing has ever been heard of the oldest Fenton."

Her face was ashen as she turned and looked at her interlocutor; but from a long habit of self-control she had acquired the faculty of keeping her mind always on the alert toward an especial result.

"I'm here, sir, sixteen years coming next midsummer; and I'm free to say as that I've never meddled in other people's business, and asked no questions about my betters and as to who was at Oxford or who was not; and I've done my duty by Lydia Croft, as why shouldn't I, when I've been paid regular?"

"You certainly were from Oxford," persisted Mr. Meadows.

"Well, and if I was," replied Sarah, "there's many a honest woman as is obliged to leave her country; and I was offered a home, and the best wages."

"That's all very true," exclaimed Mr. Meadows. "I suppose you know something about the parents of Miss Croft. It is not likely that you have lived so long with the old man without finding out something concerning his family."

Sarah had turned her back to him, and was again occupied with her work. He could not see the trembling hands, and the white, scared face. Nettled at her silence he rose to take leave, inwardly resolving to circumvent her caution, by means which he had hitherto found infallible.

She followed him to the front door, and looking after him as he walked down the garden path, she muttered: "I'm not as blind as a post, Lawyer Meadows. I wish you joy of all that you've got out of me by questioning."

LYDIA left the farm immediately after breakfast to go down to Mrs. Cairn, and as she picked her way through mud and slush, she perceived a man on horseback coming from the opposite direction. Her face was concealed by a sun-bonnet, over which she had thrown a green barège veil; so that although she recognized Mr. Sealey—a young lawyer who had settled in Fentonville, hoping to pick up the crumbs that the rich Mr. Meadows might occasionally let fall—she knew that she had passed unobserved by him.

He was then on his way to the farm—of this Lydia felt sure; but she experienced no curiosity to know his errand. She hoped in her heart that the farm and all the bother of it had been left to Sarah. Her grandfather had saved money; and she thought of this with satisfaction. "I may live where I choose," she muttered, "away from Sarah." And then, by the aid of her youthful imagination, she raised an airy castle to fair proportions, and proceeded to people it with ladies and gentlemen—just such people as Miss Earle and Mr. Amerland: her experience went no further.

What infinite satisfaction it gave her to know that she looked like a lady—that she possessed that air indescribable yet sufficiently obvious to mark the possessor as belonging to that favored class, of which she knew so little.

She asked herself why she had been kept in ignorance of her birth? Why her grandfather had never restrained those tendencies toward luxury and fastidiousness of taste, which, in a girl of her class, were certainly reprehensible, from the fact that their indulgence was dangerous, and their attainment, through legitimate means, highly improbable? Why had she been kept apart from the companions which the village society afforded, and why did her heart beat now with such wild throbs of gratified vanity at the remembrance of Mr. Fenton's words, when he compared her to Lady Mabel Fenton, whose portrait he had promised to show her?

A sudden splash created a revulsion of feeling which recalled her to the painful reality of being very muddy, and not at all like Lady Mabel now, in her bedraggled skirts and limp sun bonnet. She was painfully conscious of cutting a sorry figure when the Earle carriage passed by, just as she was turning into Mrs. Cairn's gate. Light laughter smote upon her ear, in the gay tones of a voice which she knew were borne away by the rapid movement of the carriage. She thought of her homely lot with a feeling nearly akin to disgust. A sickening sense of discouragement came over her as she acknowledged that this might be the nearest approach which she might ever have to that beautiful life, which seemed now, more than ever, so very far away. The welcome of Mrs. Cairn acted like a tonic upon her disordered imagination, and brought her back somewhat suddenly from the unhealthy condition into which useless repining had thrown her.

"You are in a sad plight, my child!" exclaimed Mrs. Cairn; "do come in and dry yourself." She assisted Lydia to take off her heavy blanket shawl, and, going into her bedroom, brought thence a pair of slippers, dainty enough to be worn by Miss Earle herself—so Lydia thought. When the wet shoes were drawn off, Mrs. Cairn declared that the stockings, too, must be changed.

"Take them off, Lydia; I will supply you with a dry pair."

The slender white foot with its arched instep was not lost upon Mrs. Cairn; and then her eyes wandered over the graceful stooping figure, and rested on the wealth of blonde hair, which lay low in a huge coil of plaits on the white neck.

As Lydia raised her head she surprised a look of tenderness on Mrs. Cairn's face, which to her, at least, was new; and thus encouraged, she said, in a voice trembling with suppressed emotion:

"Mrs. Cairn, I am so very friendless, that in my sore distress I have come to you, although"—and the crimson flush which suffused her cheek told the rest.

"Never heed that, my dear," said Mrs. Cairn; "put your mind at ease about my feelings toward you. I am not so foolish as to owe you a grudge because you are not in love with Allan."

"But I do like him, Mrs. Cairn," cried Lydia, aghast at her plain way of dealing with so delicate a subject. "I like Allan better than any one in this world, only I don't"——

"Only you don't love him. I see no crime in that, Lydia. Perhaps it is far better that you have answered him so frankly. I, at least, thank you for it. Allan has never told me; but I am good at guessing. A young man who has his way to make, and only his brains to aid him, is better without a wife—at least," she added, "such a wife as you would be to him. I do not mean to pain you, my dear, but I do not think that you would be satisfied with the homely surroundings which he could give you; and that, perhaps, later, you might both find that you had made a mistake. Believe me, Lydia, there is no greater human misery than wedded infelicity."

"Then," answered Lydia, a little more cheerfully, "you really are not angry with me, and I may speak to you, hoping that you will give me what I so sorely need—a little comfort and advice."

Mrs. Cairn sat down beside her, and looking earnestly at her for a moment, answered:

"I am not much given to professions, Lydia, and I am apt to deal with the truth in a downright, honest way—just as I clean a room, going about in all the corners and hidden places. So I like to seek out the lurking deceit and self-love which too often blinds us, when a question arises in our mind which it requires a little rough dealing with ourselves to answer. Have you considered well what you are about to ask of me—are you sure that my plain talk is exactly what you want?"

"I hardly understand you, Mrs. Cairn. I have come presuming perhaps a little too much upon your kindness, and I think that I understand myself well enough to be sure that I shall feel very much obliged to you for anything in the way of advice, which would make things a little clearer for me."

"Then, my dear," answered Mrs. Cairn, gently, "you must tell me what troubles you, and I will try to help you."

Lydia looked down with an air of embarrassed perplexity on her face, which Mrs. Cairn well understood. "She does not intend to be open with me," she thought; "there is something which she is keeping back."

Finally, Lydia looked up and said: "Everything is changed since grandfather died. I have come to ask you about going away. I cannot stay at the farm with Sarah. Don't ask me why, dear Mrs. Cairn!" she added excitedly, remarking the look of astonished inquiry in Mrs. Cairn's face; "I cannot tell you—only I must go away, and I want you to help me."

"You want me to help you to go away from your home and friends—you have come to me, Lydia Croft, to aid you in taking a step of which I must wholly disapprove?"

"Oh! you are altogether mistaken," cried the girl. "I know you think me capable of wishing to avoid the duties of my station—of attempting to make a step beyond the confines of that narrow world, which is but a prison for those who like myself have imagined something better and higher. I confess that my life is irksome to me, because it does not half satisfy me; but it is not altogether because I am not brave enough to meet it that I wish to leave the farm. I hope with all my heart that grandfather has left it to Sarah. If I have a little money I think I might go away a prepare myself for a governess."

"I am altogether perplexed, Lydia," answered Mrs. Cairn; "your confidence is but partially given. You must have some powerful reason for wishing to separate yourself from the woman who has stood in the place of a mother to you, since your babyhood. Sarah Hope bears an irreproachable character, and enjoyed your grandfather's confidence. Your natural feeling toward her should be one of affection, and it strikes me that your late bereavement ought to unite you more closely; therefore I am the more astonished at your evident repugnance to remain with her, and feel convinced that your feeling towards her is the result of a sudden revulsion, which is yet too recent for you to reason calmly about it. There is another question, my dear, which may bear seriously upon your future plans. Do you know what disposition your grandfather has made of his property, and whom he has appointed as your guardian?"

Lydia opened her eyes with childish astonishment, "I did not really think of that. Would my guardian necessarily have the power of controlling me, as well as my money?"

"Most undoubtedly." answered Mrs. Cairn. "I am very sure that your grandfather has acted wisely in the disposition which he has made of you; and as you have asked my advice, I will tell you, my child, that any course which you may pursue independent of his expressed wishes will be undutiful and unwise. Youth is apt to question the wisdom of old age; its conclusions are drawn from arguments which are as unsound as they are fallacious. Inexperience takes no account of the caution and prudence which the old are better able to exercise, because they have gone over the ground and are looking back. Their wisdom is hardly bough, Lydia; and we are sadly mistaken when we allow our impulses to sway our actions in opposition to their better judgement. Believe me, my dear, grandfather has done the best for you."

Lydia left Mrs. Cairn sadly bewildered and perplexed. "Mrs. Cairn is certainly right," she thought, "I am bound to respect grandfather's wishes; only I hope he has not made it too hard for me."

She was fighting the hard battle between duty and inclination, with the weak weapons which youth wields but awkwardly when its eyes are blinded by the light of brighter prospects, and its heart half yearns to throw away its arms and give up the contest.

When she reached the farm Sarah had already prepared the noonday meal, and was sitting, in her usual rigid uprightness, beside the fire, waiting for her.

"Only to look at your feet, Lydia!" she exclaimed, as the girl stepped lightly across the floor, leaving on its spotless surface a small track of mud, which moved Sarah to that peculiar state of nervous irritability which she called "being riled." "Only to look at your feet, and I just through cleaning up between times, when I wasn't opening the front door."

"You have had visitors, then?" said Lydia, drawing off her wet shoes and putting her feet into the slippers which Sarah had placed on the hearth to warm for her. She was used to these little attentions from Sarah, and took them as a matter of course.

"Yes," answered Sarah, "and there's a note for you which old Gabriel brought from Baywood." She rose, and taking the note from the mantle-shelf gave it to Lydia. Lydia's hand shook slightly as she broke the seal which bore the Fenton arms, and her face brightened perceptibly as she read the contents. Replacing it in the envelope, she sat looking into the fire, quite oblivious of Sarah's inquiring looks. Mr. Fenton had asked her to come on the morrow to Baywood. "I will show you," he said, "the portrait of the Lady Mabel Fenton, and I have a communication to make which I hope may not be altogether disagreeable to you."

"How delightful!" she thought. "I am really to see this Lady Mabel, whom I resemble. I can judge then how jewels and lace would become me. What can he have to tell me?"

She looked up and found Sarah's eyes fixed upon her, and her cheek crimsoned with the shame of having indulged in the unworthy triumph of gratified vanity and in anticipations of a vague and unreal nature, made up pretty much of those unhealthy longings of which Mrs. Cairn had so strongly disapproved.

"The note is from Mr. Fenton, Sarah; he wants me to go up there."

The woman moved uneasily upon her chair, and let her ball of yarn roll away under the kitchen table. When she had recovered it, she quietly put away her knitting, and went about arranging the dinner on the table, as if Lydia's remark had been unheeded.

Lydia watched her with curious scrutiny. "I wish I knew," she said to herself, "what dreadful secret this woman is keeping."

"Dinner is ready, Lydia," Sarah said with a snap; "the bread is sad enough, as who could do their work with the comings and goings of people as has been here to-day asking after you, and you gone I don't know where, when you should have answered them yourself?"

"Do be a little more explicit, Sarah. What do people want with me? One would suppose, from the way you talk, that the house had been regularly besieged."

"As sure it would have been," she answered, "if I had not set my face against answering questions."

"Do you mean to say that you won't answer me?" said Lydia somewhat warmly.

"I mean that you can hear all that is to be told to you from Lawyer Sealey; and I hope I know how to mind my own business and to keep in my place, which your grandfather never found fault with me, being a woman of good character, and to be trusted, as no one can deny, when they see the plates and dishes as I have handled, and not so much as one, out of the dozen missing; and the house linen as is washed and mended, not speaking of the jars of preserves and pickles."

Lydia was used to Sarah's voluble summings up of her own qualifications, and rather suspected that they served as a sort of chevaux-de-frise with which she kept herself in a continual state of defence; for as soon as she was required to make a direct answer to a question to which it did not suit her to give a reply, she took refuge behind her defences, and flourished her trumpet, defying any one to attack her.

"You can tell me who has been here, Sarah," said Lydia. "I don't care to know what they came for."

"As I shouldn't tell you if I knew, which I hope I know my place better than to be prying into lawyers' business, and me a poor servant, as has been remembered, which I make free to tell you, but nothing more. Lawyer Meadows and Lawyer Sealey has been here." Saying this she turned to resume her work, her face assuming that stony fixedness of expression which warned Lydia that further questioning would be useless.

THE long afternoon was drawing to a close. Lydia stood by the window watching the crimson glow in the west, which gave promise of the coming of the frost-king, when his great rival should have left the earth to his iron rule. She had turned her back upon the homely kitchen, and was wandering far away into the enchanted land of imagination—into a world, all of her own creating, where she was figuring as one of the principal characters, decked out in satin and filmy lace, with the delicate odor of refinement clinging about her, and a cavalier as handsome as was her favorite hero, the master of Ravenswood, swearing eternal fealty to her charms. She put her fingers into her ears to keep out the clinking of Sarah's knitting needles, and as she dreamed, as only the young can dream, dealing with impossibilities with a confidence which converted them into possibilities greatly dependent upon her own actions to become certainties, she saw Roger Amerland fastening his horse before the gate, and when he perceived her, taking off his hat and saluting her with a grace which seemed to her incomparable. She turned from the window, her face suffused with blushes and lighted up with the genuine pleasure which Roger's coming gave her, and which she was far too much a child of nature to think of attempting to conceal.

"There it is again," said Sarah, as Roger's knock resounded through the house; "I'm worn off my feet with these comings and goings."

A moment after the young man entered the room, and Lydia stood timid and confused, too vividly conscious of the contrast which she presented to Miss Earle, to receive him with the ease and freedom from awkwardness which usually distinguished her manner. He greeted her with a subdued warmth, which, with an expression of earnest sympathy softening his handsome face, was just the manner to please the poor desolate girl.

"Ah! this is a pleasant place," he said, drawing his chair near to Lydia's—near enough for that indescribable odor of perfumed kids, fine linen, and good cigars to penetrate her senses. "You don't know how glad I am that you permitted me to come in. I was afraid that my visit might be indiscreet; but I really wanted so much to see you."

"I scarcely think that it can ever be very indiscreet to be kind; and I'm sure, Mr. Amerland, that I consider it very kind in you to have come."

"Then you are really glad to see me, Miss Lydia, and I may stay a little while with you?"

He was answered by a look which she gave him—a look which amply repaid him for his cold ride, and set at rest any little qualms of conscience that he might have suffered with regard to this unprotected girl. "It is frightfully dull up there at the Earles'," he continued. "People grow so stupid, when they see each other for three weeks at a time."

"It seems to me," answered Lydia, "that three weeks is a short time in which to weary of nice people. I don't think that I should be tired in three years, of such people as you—I mean," she added blushing scarlet—"of the people who stay at the Earles'."

"You are right," he said, bending toward her, and speaking in that low, sweet voice, which he modulated with practised skill—"you are right to change your sentence. The people at the Earles' are a great deal nicer than I am; indeed," he added laughingly, "there is a certain lady there, who would tell you to have nothing to do with me."

"And do you think," exclaimed Lydia, looking at him with the clear gaze of a child—"do you think that I would mind her? I choose to judge for myself, and so far, I like you well enough."

"Do you?" he said, thoroughly enjoying the ingenuousness of the girl; "then I shall try to make you like me better—as well as I like you."

"I don't often have people to tell me that they like me."

"Indeed! You can't mean to say that I am the first man who has told you so."

"Oh!" she said looking away from him, with heightened color, "there is a difference between liking and loving."

"So there is," answered Roger:

" 'Were there nothing else
For which to praise the heavens but only love,
That only love were cause enough for praise.'

Some day you will understand what I mean; but that ancient dame over there seems to be watching me, as if she strongly suspects me of a design upon the silver spoons."

Lydia laughed as she glanced at Sarah, whose face was set in its most impassible expression; only the eyes were wandering continually toward the young couple, who, it must be confessed, were an agreeable sight, making a graceful picture, with the old time-stained kitchen for the background. Sarah probably saw only a foolish girl listening to the deceitful words of a fine gentleman; and in her eyes he was like all the rest of his kind. Perhaps she was not far wrong.

Is the conquest of women the object for which some men are created? If so, Roger Amerland had certainly most successfully followed his vocation. He was twenty-seven, with a person so eminently handsome that few were found to dispute his claims to an Apollo-like beauty, although his detractors—and who is so fortunate as to be without them—attributed to him some of the peculiar characteristics of another heathen deity, which consisted in an eloquent tongue, a ready wit, and a dexterity in purloining the property of other people—a trait to which husbands particularly objected, and which, on more than one occasion had created what the French call mauvais sang between himself and these much-injured individuals. The truth is, that Roger Amerland had been in no end of scrapes, ever since his naissante moustache had, while yet he was under the surveillance of Alma Mater, made him irresistible to impressionable young ladies. He possessed that charming versatility of talent which rendered him an agreeable addition to any society, and upon the whole was rather petted by a world which, on ordinary occasions, was indulgently disposed toward him. His motive in coming to see Lydia, I'm afraid, was a purely selfish one. He was not particularly interested in the people at the Earles', and had thought of a visit to the farm as a diversion which he did not hesitate to give himself.

"It's worth while to watch her surprise and unconcealed pleasure at words that are nothing but words, unless—and, by George! it might turn out a little unpleasant for her—she is simple enough to take them in earnest."

Sarah let fall her ball of yarn, and Roger restored it to her with a bow, which she acknowledged with a sniff and a toss of the head, which she intended to cover the embarrassment that she felt as the recipient of so unusual a courtesy.

"I will see if I cannot mollify this old woman," he thought, drawing his chair a little nearer to her.

"I hope you are not offended at my coming so soon, Mrs. Hope. I acknowledge that I have run the risk of displeasing you, and deserve to be sent away; but if you only knew how much I am enjoying myself I'm sure you would forgive me."

Sarah was so much taken by surprise at this speech, into which Roger had thrown his most winning manner, that she actually colored under the glance, that had seldom failed of its effect, and moving uneasily upon her chair, she answered:

"It's not of such as me, sir, that you ask forgiveness. I'm sure, as far as I am concerned, you're welcome. I'm nothing but a servant, sir, and know my place, I hope, though trusted by him as is gone."

"Good God!" thought Roger, "is she going to cry?" But Sarah was rarely given to such weakness. Her eyes were as dry as if they were made of glass.

"Mrs. Hope," he said, much relieved, "I'm sure no one looks upon you as a servant. I have heard that Mr. Croft confided greatly in you; and, if I may venture to say so, you do yourself much injustice by assuming a humility which does not rightly belong to you. As the protector of Miss Croft you have my sincere respect, and I feel bound to ask your permission to repeat my visit."

"Are you trying to make a fool of me?" exclaimed Sarah; "my permission, indeed! when I've told you that I'm nothing but a servant. I don't interfere with Lydia's goings and comings; she's her own mistress, free to see whoever she pleases, though it's few enough fine gentlemen as has ever come here; and," she muttered in an undertone, "it's for no good, I'll be bound, that such as you come philandering after a girl like that."

"Confound her," thought Roger, "she's as hard as adamant. I won't waste another minute on her;" and turning to Lydia he saw a gleam of mischievous satisfaction in her eye, for she had greatly enjoyed the passage of arms between Sarah and her visitor, and knew that he had come off second best.

"Sarah so thoroughly enjoys the idea of being thought a servant, Mr. Amerland—although she was never treated like one by my grandfather—that I always humor her by accepting her services without remonstrance. Won't you make some tea, Sarah?" turning to the irate dame, who was knitting fiercely. "It is so cold that I'm sure Mr. Amerland would like a cup."

Without vouchsafing an answer, Sarah hung on the tea-kettle, and then went into the pantry to prepare bread and butter. Roger gave a sigh of relief, and advanced his chair nearer to Lydia.

"How pleasant it must be for you to live with a woman like that! You cannot pass your life here?" he said interrogatively.

"If I thought it possible that I should be obliged to live on in this dreary way," she answered, "I would rather die."

Roger looked at her with genuine surprise. The vehemence of her manner, and the expression of her face, were a revelation to him.

"Don't speak of dying," he said, in low, earnest tones; "I can't imagine any combination of circumstances which would make it agreeable to me; and I certainly cannot associate so lugubrious an idea with a presence which is the very embodiment of a beautiful life."

"A beautiful life," answered the girl. "Oh, how I long for a beautiful life! mine is so utterly wanting in all that makes living worth while."

Roger was so near her now that the perfume of her hair came over his senses; her soft breath touched his cheek, inebriating him to the point of making him forget that he had come here merely pour passer le temps, and that Lydia belonged to that class which furnishes to men like him the amusement of an hour—the means of killing the time of which they find it so hard to rid themselves.

"Lydia" he whispered, "I will not have you talk so—worth while to live! you cannot mean what you say. Have you ever thought that your life might make a great difference to some one—some one who would be very unhappy without you?"

Was her dream about to be realized? Could it be possible that this man had come to rescue her—yes, rescue her, from the hard, dreary life that she was leading? She raised her eyes, and for a minute met the passionate glance of Roger Amerland. He was earnest enough now—

"How might a man not wander from his wits,
Pierced through with eyes,"

and such eyes as Lydia Croft's; but Sarah came in with a clatter of plates. Tea, and bread and butter—alas! it is what we all have to come to, and Roger and Lydia accepted, perhaps a little unthankfully, these good gifts, for which old Mr. Croft had been in the habit of devoutly thanking God, before partaking of them. When the tea-things were taken away, Roger lingered, talking to Lydia, and growing each moment more reluctant to part from her. The clock struck half-past eight. "So late!" he cried, "and I promised to play whist to-night with Mrs. Earle. Say that I may come back again, Lydia," he said, looking into her eyes, and pressing the hand which she had given him.

"Why should not you?" she answered; "am I not alone—worse than alone? It was kind in you to have come to-night."

"Kind," he said; "perhaps I have not been kind to you. Good-by, Lydia;" and he went away, leaving the girl in a sort of delicious trance, with a look of ineffable satisfaction on her face, which did not escape Sarah when she came back into the kitchen, and from which she augured no good.

MR. FENTON had given Selina orders, when she came in with his coffee at six o'clock, to open the west rooms, and uncover the pictures.

"Light a fire, Selina, for those rooms must be damp as well as cold, they have been so long shut up; and have something nice for lunch, served as my mother used to have it. I hope you have not quite forgotten her ways."

Selina was thrown into a state of curious excitement which rendered her mute, and only when she was well out of her master's presence did she give vent to her pent-up astonishment.

"Well well!" she cried, "what's up now with Mas Ralph? The drawing-rooms opened, and the pictures uncovered, fires lighted, and the old chany! Who's a coming, I wonder? Maybe old Miss Farrel, who hasn't been here sence mistress died—or, God Lord! he ain't a going to get married." The idea seemed at once startling and ludicrous, and she laughed as she went down the stairs.

The two old servants carried out their master's orders with a zeal which soon transformed the dreary old house into something like its pristine luxurious aspect. The crimson and gilding of the drawing-room shone out in the rays of the bright winter sunshine that came in through the curtainless windows, and the crackling logs sent out a pleasant heat, which gave an atmosphere of genial comfort to the rooms.

About ten o'clock Mr. Fenton, dressed with unusual care, went out on the piazza, which ran the whole length of the house, and walking up and down its length, turned frequently to look in the direction whence his expected guest should come. At last Lydia appeared, her tall, mourning-draped figure standing out clear in the golden brightness of the sunshine. She walked briskly forward, and as Mr. Fenton advanced to meet her, he said, taking her hand with a shade of embarrassment in his manner, which was not unusual with him in the presence of women:

"I have claimed your promise, Miss Croft, perhaps sooner than you expected; but I wished to be the first to acquaint you with the change in our relations to one another."

She looked at him with evident surprise, as she answered: "I do not quite understand you, sir."

"Come in and warm yourself, and then I will try to make it plainer to you."

He assisted her to remove her ugly blanket shawl, and when the mourning bonnet, which she wore now in lieu of the sun-bonnet, was hung on the hat-rack they entered the library, Mr. Fenton, in a timid, awkward way, giving her his arm. As she stood warming herself by the fire, he gave her a long, searching scrutiny. Now he knew why his heart had warmed toward her in their first interview. There was no mistaking those features—that tall and graceful form, and the peculiarly beautiful hands, which were a distinctive mark of the Fentons. "How have I lived all these years," he thought, "with this fair child so near to me, without suspecting her existence!"

An uncomfortable fit of shyness seized him as he looked at her, and his preconceived plan of informing her without demur of the position in which he stood toward her, vanished. How could he address her with the commonplace indifference which he felt was really the only safe and proper manner of entering upon a subject, which in all its bearings might prove an awkward one for discussion? He made several turns about the room, while her eyes, wandering over the carved furniture and the paintings which hung on the walls, did not take in the nervous movements of the master of (to her) this luxurious apartment. Suddenly, Mr. Fenton stopped before her, and said:

"I promised to show you my portraits; will you come with me now?"

"Thank you," she answered, rising. "I have thought a great deal about Lady Mabel since you told me that I look like her."

They crossed the wide hall, and entered the drawing-rooms. Lydia gave an expression of surprised delight at the sight which met her eyes. She had seen nothing better than Mrs. Cairn's pretty parlor—she did not know that people, out of books, really possessed these beautiful things. Was this the dawning of the new life of which she had dreamed? Then, as a sickening contrast to this bright picture, the homely kitchen at Croft farm and Sarah's uncomely figure rose up before her—the ugliness of her life appeared tenfold more hideous, the hardness of her lot almost insufferable. She longed to turn away from the mockery of this alluring luxury—to go back to the farm and—die—no: Roger would come again; "but I am not of his class—no more like a fine lady—Miss Earle for instance—than is Croft farm like this beautiful place." As a direct contradiction to this discouraging conclusion she raised her eyes, and caught sight of herself in the mirror between the windows. For the first time she saw her full-length figure, and stopping involuntarily, she stood, eagerly scanning the beauty which had burst like a vision upon her.

"You did not know it, my dear," said Mr. Fenton, who had seen with delight her innocent admiration of her own loveliness. Lydia blushed scarlet, and casting down her eyes answered:

"I did not know that I looked like that, sir, and I'm not sure whether it is better for me to be handsomer than most of the girls of my station. If I was like Lucy Withers, sir, I would be happier."

"I don't believe I have the pleasure of knowing that young lady," said Mr. Fenton, "but I take for granted that she is a striking contrast to yourself. You need not wish to be other than you are, Lydia. Shall we talk a little, or will you see Lady Mabel first?"

"Oh! let me see the portrait, sir," she answered eagerly.

Mr. Fenton led the way into the adjoining room, and there, in the best possible light, hung the portrait of the Cavalier's wife. Lydia gazed breathlessly upon the face of the beautiful woman, in which there seemed to be something strangely familiar to her—a likeness of feature and coloring—but oh, how different the expression! The soft brown eyes seemed to look far away into the future, which was looming up so darkly before her; the face in its exquisite beauty was overshadowed by an air of indescribable sadness, which the genius of the great master had so perfectly depicted, that no one could look upon her without divining that capability of sorrow, which hangs like a doom over those rare creatures whom God sometimes places on this earth perhaps to give us a faint semblance of those higher, purer beings, with whom He surrounds Himself.

"It is a Vandyck," said Mr. Fenton, "and was taken soon after her marriage. It is said that she wore that dress for the first time when she was presented to Queen Henriette, and that the Duke of Buckingham was so deeply smitten with her charms, that he sought an introduction to her, and bestowed the most marked attentions upon her in public, finally exciting the suspicion of her husband, who believed her guilty of wishing to attract the powerful nobleman. They parted, and she retired to the country, where she lived in the deepest privacy, lamenting her husband's unjust judgment, and sending him letters from time to time, full of wifely submission and devotion. They were reconciled after Buckingham's death, but only to be again separated; for the affairs of King Charles were becoming every day more complicated, and when he erected his standard at Nottingham, Sir Phillip Moreland—such was the name of Lady Mabel's husband—joined his royal master; and from that time until his death he saw his wife but at long and rare intervals. On the night before she received the tidings of his death, she dreamed that she heard his voice crying out piteously for water; and, guided by the sound, she reached the battlefield, a silver tankard in her hand filled from a spring that gurgled out from beneath a moss-grown stone. With the cries of the wounded and dying ringing in her ears, she sought in vain for him whose voice had called her, and she awoke, only to have to horror confirmed by the messenger who had arrived while she slept. From that day she fell into a settled melancholy, which ended in a total aberration of her reason, and a year afterwards she was carried to the family vault in Staffordshire. I have told you a sad story, my dear; I believe I rather love to linger over it, sad as it is. There is a strong affinity, I think, between the character of Lady Mabel and that of the beautiful Panthea, wife of Abradâtes, an Assyrian Prince. Xenophon relates it in his 'Cyropædia'—of course you have never read it, my dear —I have always thought of it as a beautiful conception of post-nuptial passion. Then," he continued, turning to the portrait of a pale, sad looking woman, "that is my mother."

Lydia saw at a glance that the man beside her had inherited his mother's physique, but her curiosity was excited by another portrait which hung beside hers—that of a youth with a clear-cut, handsome face, and an eye that seemed to flash back into hers the look of admiration which she gave him.

"You have not told me who this is, sir," she said, pointing to the picture.

"That is my brother, Lydia, or was, I should have said—for he is dead."

"How strangely like Allan Cairn!" the girl thought, as she followed Mr. Fenton into the front room, where she seated herself in the chair which he placed for her. He drew another close beside her, and sinking into it, gave a sigh as if of exhaustion, and was quite silent for several minutes; then, speaking very slowly and with evident embarrassment, he said:

"Lydia, do you know why I have sent for you?"

"No," she answered, looking uneasily at him.

"Then I must tell you. Your grandfather has made a singular will. To you it must seem unjust. I am your guardian, my dear; and he has left to me the bulk of his property."

"Has he left me nothing?" she cried, clasping her hands together in an agony of surprise and grief.

"Nothing," answered Mr. Fenton, "in one sense of the word—everything as I understand it. Do you comprehend, my poor child?" he added, taking her cold trembling hand within his own,—"do you comprehend all that I can do for you?"

"No," she answered; "I only understand that I am a beggar. O grandfather!" she cried, bursting into tears, "I thought that you loved me!"

"And so he did," said Mr. Fenton, "so he did. Do you suppose that your grandfather was not doing what he thought best for you? Are you so fond of Croft farm that you are not willing to leave there—will you not accept the brighter lot which, as my protégée, I can offer you? Lydia," he continued, with a tender pathos which struck upon her heart as never voice had done before, "will you come to make my life less desolate—will you share my home?"

"Do you mean to ask me to live here?" she exclaimed,—"here at Baywood?"

"Yes, my child; I mean this to be your home in future. No one will ever claim your right to it; for I am a desolate man, well-nigh fallen into that state into which loneliness and misery are apt to drive one. Come and help me to live, dear; perhaps I may yet learn to look upon life as a blessing."

Lydia sat with a bewildered look on her face, trying to grasp the idea of the strange and wonderful change which was dawning for her. Mr. Fenton, thinking that her hesitancy augured a disinclination to accept what she might consider in the light of a charity, said:

"It is the only reparation that I can make to you, Lydia—the only just explanation of your grandfather's intentions. I know his reasons for what he has done, and I think he has acted wisely. Your relations toward me are not those of dependence; for what is nominally mine, is really yours. With a farsighted policy your grandfather has chosen me as your protector; for devoid of all ties, and not naturally of a cold or unsympathetic disposition, he had judged rightly that I would accept the charge with something like gratitude. Believe me, dear, when I tell you that at this moment I consider myself a very fortunate man, and that I shall esteem it a very great happiness to have you come to me."

The dread of having her near him had vanished; her helplessness, her youth, and her rare beauty had worked a miracle, and drawn forth the hidden treasures of love and tenderness, long buried beneath the ruins of shattered hopes and bitter disappointments.

She turned to him, poor, lonely child, and, with eyes dim with tears, looked upon his kind face, as if to satisfy herself that she might rely upon his words; then, with an impulse of gratitude and joy which she could not find words to express, she raised the thin white hand which held hers, and pressed it warmly to her lips. Oh! how he longed to take her in his arms and return that caress which brought a new life into his heart—how he longed to tell her how good a right she had to his love and protection! But no, he dared not infringe upon the sacred trust reposed in him—he dared not forget that she must never be other in the eyes of the world than Lydia Croft, the farmer's granddaughter.

With a calmness which he was far from feeling, he spoke to her of the arrangements which he intended to make for her comfort. "The old house will be cheerful once more, with your dear young face in it, but I'm afraid that I am a sad bungler, and I think I had better see good Mrs. Cairn. Yes, I am quite sure that her advice is what I want. She will set things right for me." "Now dear," he added, rising, and still keeping her hand within his own, "come and get some lunch. Selina, I'm sure, has done her best to give you a good opinion of her housekeeping."

They found the table spread in the library with an unsparing lavishness, which called up a smile to Mr. Fenton's face. Gabriel, in his best coat and white cravat, stood behind his master's chair, his face clouded with a shade of disappointment that no more distinguished guest was to be the recipient of this unusual hospitality. "All the trouble of rubbin' up dat silver and washin' up de old chany, jest for Lydia Croft," he thought, as his master with grave courtesy served the blushing girl to the dainty chicken salad, which Selina prided herself on preparing.

The lunch was over, and Lydia stood in bonnet and shawl, ready to set out on her return to the farm. "I am going to walk with you as far as Mrs. Cairn's, Lydia," Mr. Fenton said. "Gabriel will send my horse after me; for, as I have before told you, I am but a poor pedestrian."

"Shall we go by the mill, sir?" asked Lydia. "It is much nearer, only there is a log to cross."

"Let us go that way by all means," he answered, and they walked along under the arching trees, with the midday sun glancing through the foliage, making bright patches of light on the forest path. "Ah! there are holly berries," exclaimed Mr. Fenton—"holly berries and Christmas! Selina will tell you how my mother kept that day. We used to be very merry at Baywood long years ago."

"Grandfather loved to have holly about at Christmas," said Lydia. "I always decorated the house; and Sarah made the plum-pudding. Poor grandfather!"

"No doubt you feel his loss most severely, my dear; and if Mrs. Hope's presence will be of comfort to you, she might come to Baywood—at least for a time."

"Oh, no, no," exclaimed Lydia with so excited a manner, that Mr. Fenton looked at her in astonishment. "I might as well tell you at once, sir, that had I been forced to remain at the farm with Sarah, I should have run away, I'm sure I should."

"The woman is perhaps a little vixenish," thought this simple man, whose experience of women went little farther than Selina, whose manner was apt at times to be portentous of a wordy tempest; and though the storm never burst in her master's presence, it was very sure to fall upon the much-suffering Gabriel.

As they passed the mill Allan came out; for it was about his dinner hour, and he was putting on his coat preparatory to going home. When he saw Mr. Fenton and Lydia he advanced quickly to meet them, not a little surprised at seeing them together.

"How are you, sir?" he said, extending his hand to Mr. Fenton; and then, with a perceptible change of manner, he spoke to Lydia: "I am glad to see you out; a walk on such a day as this will do you good."

"I've been to Baywood," she answered, simply. "Shall I tell Allan, sir?" turning to Mr. Fenton.

"As you please, my dear," he answered: "I see no reason why every one in Fentonville should not know that I am your guardian."

"Really, sir," exclaimed Allan; "how fortunate for Lydia! My wishes, in this, at least," he continued, looking at the girl, who was walking with downcast eyes, "have been fulfilled."

"You do me great honor, Allan. I hardly thought that you or any one else would consider that the young lady had fallen into good hands."

"If they do not think so, sir," cried Lydia, warmly, "it is because they cannot understand you. I hate the stupidity of these people, and their pretensions, which are the result of their ignorance."

"Lydia, Lydia," said Allan, "you forget that we belong to the same class, and that if people are ignorant, they are only the more to be pitied."

"Don't go off on your high horse, Allan, you know that poor grandfather used to call you a radical."

"Yes, in England I suppose my opinions would be called by that name; but I don't believe in the rabidus furor of politicians. I do think, however, that every man is, in a measure, responsible for the welfare of his fellow-beings; and that what the apostle says about every man's 'proving his own work,' is very good advice."

"But, Allan," said Mr. Fenton, "what good would it do to tell old Berry Williams that he cultivates his farm on a bad plan? or that, if he attended less to polities and more to his family, they would not be the worthless lot that they are? As an American citizen, he looks upon himself as a being to be envied by every other nationality; and he is but a type of the class of men who utterly oppose reform, and religiously believe that all men were created equal, and with unalienable rights."

"And men of this class, sir, do the harm," answered Allan. "I have heard my mother say, that in the matter of thrift economy, the New Englanders are far ahead of our people; and yet our resources are, I think, superior to theirs. I will give you my mother as an example, sir; for I am proud of her:" and his face expressed eloquently the sincerity of his words. "See what she has accomplished with means which another woman would scarcely have considered sufficient to buy her gowns."

"Your mother, Allan, is an exceptional woman—an admirable example of what a woman may do. I trust so much in her clear, prudent way of seeing things, that I am going to her now for a little advice. But here we are; will you walk on with Lydia, while I say a word to her?"

"MY dear madam," said Mr. Fenton, "I have come to ask a few minutes' conversation with you, and have sent Allan on with Lydia in order to have you all to myself."

"I am quite at your service, sir," she answered, offering him a chair, with a shade of embarrassment in her manner.

"I suppose you have heard of Silas Croft's extraordinary will. As if I wanted more money! But the girl, Mrs. Cairn—Lydia—I am not so ill pleased as you would suppose."

"You quite bewilder me, sir," said Mrs. Cairn, "and are taking for granted that I am acquainted with the purport of Mr. Croft's will."

"I thought by this time that every one in Fentonville was discussing the old man's folly in leaving the girl to my care. I am well aware, madam, that I am looked upon by the majority of persons as an eccentric recluse; but by those whom a fair degree of common-sense has taught that a man may be somewhat different from the generality of his kind without necessarily transgressing the laws of God, I hope that my lonely habits are looked upon more as the result of the peculiar circumstances which have governed my life, than of the idiotical superstition of which people accuse me."

"Half of the folly which is committed in this world is the result of a want of common-sense," answered Mrs. Cairn. "Old Mr. Croft, however, possessed an unusual share of it, and understood very well what he was about, when he left Lydia to your care. She is in person and manners far above the station in which she was born. To look at her, one would scarcely take her to be the granddaughter of an humble farmer. I believe that the change in her position which her relations to you must naturally create, will operate most fortunately in her favor. She is not a girl to accept things as they come; she has a strong will of her own, and I think through life she will be very apt to struggle against whatever may oppose the accomplishment of her wishes. A will in a woman, Mr. Fenton, is dangerous, unless she knows how to curb it; for my part, I believe that there are but two successful remedies for it—the influence of religion, or the subjugation of love."

"So you think she has a strong will, Mrs. Cairn. Well, I do not so much object to it, provided it does not rise up in opposition to what are called the proprieties of life, or seriously interfere with her welfare. She is certainly a very beautiful girl, and as you say, bears no trace of her humble parentage. I am foolish enough to believe that I can do something toward making this young creature happy, and I have come to ask your advice about the changes which I must make in my household, in order to receive her at Baywood."

"At Baywood!" exclaimed Mrs. Cairn, "are you going to have her at Baywood, Mr. Fenton?"

"And why not?" he asked.

"Why not? why, she is a young woman, sir—a stranger to you. Do you not see that it would not exactly do to take her to live with you, unless," she added, "an older woman goes too, as governess or companion?"

"I knew it, madam," he exclaimed somewhat exultingly, "I knew that you would help me out of my dilemma. Of course you take the proper view of things, and I like your plain manner of dealing with them. With a sincere desire to do what is right and proper, I find that I have, as usual, allowed my impulse to run away with my reason, and I have forgotten that all the world does not look at matters from my own arbitrary standard."

"You have done me the honor, sir, to come to me for advice, and I have told you plainly that it will never do to take Lydia to Baywood alone. Consider, sir, that the change for her is very great—the transition from Croft farm to Baywood, the prestige of your protection, and the importance which the surroundings of wealth will give her, may—I do not say that they will—but they may, if she is left to her own guidance, operate most unfortunately against her; whereas, guided by a more mature experience, and influenced by a cultivated and refined companion, her inborn aspirations after a higher and better life will naturally ally themselves to immediate sympathy with the influences which surround her."

"How clear you make it all to me!" said Mr. Fenton. "I am anxious, most anxious, that this young girl should enjoy all the advantages which would have been hers by right if—" and he became painfully embarrassed, "if she were really connected to me by ties of consanguinity. Will you, dear madam, increase my obligation by making some inquiry for the sort of person we need. I proposed that Mrs. Hope should accompany Lydia to Baywood, but her evident repugnance to the idea somewhat startled me."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Cairn. "Then I am not mistaken in supposing that Lydia has taken a most unaccountable dislike to her. She is a strange, silent, and to me a repulsive woman, and I can easily imagine that her companionship would be uncongenial to a girl like Lydia. As to procuring a suitable companion for her, I don't know that there will be any great difficulty, there are so many women whom poverty drives into dependence; and now that I think of it, I would not be surprised if the very woman we seek is not staying at the Earles'. I have been told that a Mrs. Drofflum, a school friend of Miss Earle's, has been invited to remain with her until she finds some means of support. She is a widow, without children, and quite accomplished. I have heard her sing in church, and her voice is one of the most exquisite to which I have ever listened. If it is agreeable to you, sir, I will go up to see Mrs. Earle to-morrow morning, and at once let you know the result of my visit."

"Thanks, madam, many thanks," said Mr. Fenton, rising. "I fear I have trespassed upon your dinner hour, for here is Allan!"

The young man entered the room, seeming so decidedly out of humor, that his mother gave him a look of surprised inquiry, of which he took no notice until Mr. Fenton had left the house; then he said:

"I know you want to ask me what is the matter, mother. Well! as if all that has happened lately is not enough to make a man wish himself in Jericho, who, should I meet just now, riding leisurely along on his thoroughbred, but that fellow Amerland! I swear I felt like thrashing him, instead of returning the very condescending bow with which he honored me."

"Allan, my son." said Mrs. Cairn, in so grave and gentle a tone, that the young man understood how deeply she was grieved, "Allan, I have never heard you use words unworthy of you before. Can it be possible that you feel anything like envy toward Mr. Amerland—can it be possible that you covet anything which he possesses?"

"Yes, mother," he answered, with flashing eyes. "Yes, I envy him with all my heart; not his fine airs, or his handsome face—that face which women admire so much—not his wealth, but—but—oh! mother, I shall grieve you if I say it—but I do envy him that fascination which enthralls those whom he takes the trouble of noticing, and which has robbed me of Lydia's love. What chance have I—a miller—against a fine gentleman like Roger Amerland!"

"It can be no theft, my son, to take what has never been yours. Lydia Croft's beauty has turned your head. Why should you hanker after her in this way? Will you let a woman's face come between you and your duty? Will you let this girl—who after all is not the wife that I would choose for you—will you let her indifference move you to an unworthy feeling of disgust for your honest employment? And shame!—O Allan! is it shame that you feel for your humble station?"

She stood before him, looking pleadingly up into his face, her own working with an emotion which she was striving hard to conquer. Was this the result of all those long years of hard work and ungrudging self-denial? Had she carried out her own plans for her son only to see him rebelling now against the lot which—not without most fervent prayers for aid—she had chosen for him?

The young man, smarting at her words, had turned away, and, pursuing a course which I am sorry to say is usual with men when a domestic controversy becomes imminent, and peculiarly tantalizing to women, was about to leave the room, believing that to answer his mother in her excited state of feeling would be unwise. Surprised and indignant, she uttered his name in a tone which fell upon his ear with a strange, unfamiliar sound. He turned back, his firm haughty mouth quivering and his nostrils dilated as she had seen them once before, when, coming home from school one afternoon, he threw his bag of books on the floor, and declared that he would never return there. The cause of this determination he firmly refused to tell her; and for some reason best known to herself, she relaxed from her usual course of uncompromising firmness, and sent him the next day to the institution presided over by the Rev. Mr. Brownson, in whose care he remained until he was considered ready for college—he went to the mill instead. With an uncomfortable foreboding she saw the storm gathering now; and she knew that she had a man's passion to deal with. Woman-like she prepared to temporize, knowing that to conquer she must appear to yield. "Allan," she said, placing her hand upon his arm, "have I deserved this?"

"You force me to speak, mother, when I would have gone away. You use an ugly word—shame. Allan Cairn ashamed of himself! Do you know any cause for my being ashamed of my position, mother?" And he looked hard into her face, and she blanched so fearfully, that, alarmed beyond all self-control, he caught her in his arms and cried: "Forgive me, mother, forgive me; I have been cruel to you."

She drew herself away from him, and looking with her clear blue eyes into his, she said, with a slight tremor in her voice: "I know of no reason why you should be ashamed, unless it is for having asked me the question."

"I did not mean to hurt you," he said quite humbly; "won't you forgive me?"—and he kissed her.

There was something untold in the mind of each. A lurking, dangerous, unacknowledged suspicion was stealing into Allan's heart—a tormenting dread had taken possession of the mother, lest he should demand of her the secret which she was withholding from him. "He has a right to know—and yet, O God!" she murmured, when in the privacy of her chamber she wept tears, wrung from her by the strength of her sufferings—"yet I dare not trouble his young life; I dare not bring upon him the misery which the knowledge of my past history must entail. O Allan, my darling, darling boy, how the sin of another has blighted your mother's life! But I will not let it trouble yours. I will wait—perhaps in God's good time the wrong may be repaired;" and she thought of the words of St. James:

"Behold the husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth; and hath long patience for it, until he receive the early and latter rain. Be ye also patient."

"Yes," she thought, "I will be patient."

MISS SIBYL, dere's a lady what wants to see you in de parlor," said a bright mulatto boy about ten years of age, dressed in a tight-fitting jacket of blue cloth trimmed with brass buttons, and wearing altogether the well-fed, sleek look of a household pet, which in truth he was. On this occasion he had admitted Mrs. Cairn, and although she had distinctly asked for Mrs. Earle, he saw fit to call Miss Sibyl.

"Who is it, Chris?" asked Miss Earle without raising her head from her writing.

"It's Miss Cairn, ma'am, what libs at de Silcott Creek Mill."

"Indeed! are you quite sure. Chris? for I am very, very busy, and if it was any one else I should ask mamma to see her; but Mrs. Cairn is a rare visitor, and so different from other people that it is a real treat to talk to her." The last words were said to herself, as she closed her desk and turned for a moment to look at herself in the mirror over the mantle.

"Sibyl Earle," she said aloud, "you would have been a much better looking woman if two inches more of height had been spared to you and not so liberal an allowance of mouth; if—if—" she laughed, displaying a row of white perfect teeth, "the world is all made up of ifs, and, if I wasn't Sibyl Earle, well, I would just have been some one else—a Fiji princess perhaps."

"O Sibyl!" said a voice coming from the depths of an easy chair in the recess of the window, "what a silly darling you are! If I did not know you better I should say that you were fishing for compliments, my nut-brown maid."

"Sabrina," answered Sibyl, putting a hair pin into the thick coil of glossy hair at the back of her head, "why are you always putting my complexion en evidence, when you know how intensely I admire blondes. The lily in a woman's face, and a golden sheen in her hair, to speak after the manner of young women who write novels. Do see that Chris doesn't meddle with my writing things," she added, giving a last touch to her hair; "there, I think I will do:" and she laughed softly to herself as she left the room.

When she was gone, the woman who had been seated in the arm-chair rose, and walked over to the fireplace. As she stood with one foot on the fender, looking down into the glowing coals, her side face, which was in strong relief, bore a striking resemblance to the profiles which children are so fond of making on their slates—the sharp-pointed chin, the depressed mouth, and prominent nose. As she turned to watch the twirlings of a tame squirrel in his cage, Roger Amerland, who was standing outside of the French window, caught a full view of her face and figure. "She hasn't a decent feature in her face," he thought, "not even good eyes. Those broad cheek bones, with the sharp nose between, hovering over that sunken mouth, are certainly violent deviations from the rules of beauty. Yet Nature, following her invariable rule, has given her a pretty round figure, dimpled hands, and that marvellous witchery—some call it fascination—which makes her one of the pleasantest women to whom I have ever talked. Even with that odious profile, shocking every preconceived idea of womanly comeliness before his eyes, a man falls into liking her."

He tapped on the glass, and with a little start of surprise she looked up, smiling and bowing to him. She unfastened the window, and he came into the room, bright and handsome, bringing with him the radiance which hangs like a halo around young manhood, in the strength and beauty of its perfect day. He wore a velveteen shooting jacket and cap, and his game-bag was filled with poor crushed ducks, all the green and gold in their feathers dulled by ugly red stains, so suggestive of their violent end.

"Are my boots very dirty?" he said, looking down at the pretty bright carpet, "it is all your fault; I wouldn't have come through the window, if I hadn't seen you standing here alone."

"You flatter me, Mr. Amerland," she answered in a deprecatory tone. "Why should you use the persiflage of the world to me?—you know you expected to find Sibyl Earle here. She has gone to the parlor to see the mother of the handsome miller of Silcott Mill."

"The mother of that conceited fellow," cried Roger, "who bowed to me yesterday with an air which plainly said, "I would much rather cut your throat?' "

"Sibyl is quite enthusiastic about the mother," answered Mrs. Drofflum. "She is much more reticent about the son's perfections."

"I don't think she would hesitate to express an opinion if she had formed one. I heard her say the other day that she was dying to meet this gentleman miller. You know the Earles have only lately come here. Mr. Earle bought the place while his wife and daughter were in Europe."

"Last year was a sad, sad one to me, Mr. Amerland;" and the widow—for such she was—glanced down at her mourning dress, heavy with bands of crape. "I knew nothing of the return of the family until Sibyl, dear girl, sent for me. I daily thank God that He has left so much of His image in His creatures."

"There you but do justice to Miss Earle," said Roger. "I think she is noble and generous beyond any woman I ever knew."

"I am glad that you so thoroughly appreciate dear Sibyl. I never feel my inferiority so painfully as when I am in her presence. I am fearfully weak and dependent upon others, quite unhappy indeed," she added, looking up at him, "if I do not feel that I inspire some little interest in those around me."

Roger winced a little, but after his wont with women replied bravely: "Do you ever doubt, Mrs. Drofflum, your power to inspire interest—perhaps something more:" and he looked at her with eyes that had a trick of growing terribly earnest.

"That something more can never, never be for me," she said, casting down her eyes and smoothing with her white hands the crape trimming on her sleeve. "My heart is buried with those whom God had seen fit to take away from me. I have no right to complain; ought I not rather to be willing to accept thankfully this simple answer to my prayers for the salvation of my soul?"

"I don't see that very clearly," said Roger; "but I suppose you know best about these things. It strikes me that I shouldn't exactly relish sackcloth and ashes, and walking over ploughshares, and that sort of thing. Good people would call your remarks edifying, but indeed I would rather talk about something else. I fear that I hanker after the flesh-pots of Egypt."

"Don't speak so lightly, I beseech you," she said in a low voice, laying her hand upon his arm. It was certainly a very pretty little hand, and somehow it was imprisoned in Roger's, and his head bent over it for a moment. Was it a kiss? Chris thought so, for his eye had been applied to the key-hole, and having been gratified by the sight of Mr. Amerland's gallantry to the widow, he darted off just in time to escape detection. Sibyl came out of the parlor, and seeing him innocently engaged in polishing the doorknobs, sent him to tell her mother that she was wanted. Mrs. Earle received the message with a fretful comment upon Sibyl's thoughtlessness. "Why could she not have excused me, when she knows that I have one of my headaches?"

"Miss Sibyl told me to say, ma'am, as how you was wanted partickler."

"Then I suppose I must go. Susie, is my cap all right? Give me my sal-volatile, and pocket-handkerchief."

This thin, washed-out-looking woman, was the very opposite of her bright, handsome daughter. Delicate health had robbed her of every vestige of the beauty which she had once possessed, and fretfulness and repinings had given her countenance an expression of settled discontent. She had assumed prematurely the garb of an elderly woman, and looked at least ten years older than she really was. Having long given up the responsibility of living on her own account, she depended so completely upon Sibyl, that the girl came to consider that to think and act for her mother was as much her duty as to perform these functions for herself. Sibyl guarded religiously from the world the knowledge of her mother's weakness, and by her own example of deference to her opinions—which it must be confessed were more often implied than expressed—and her tenderness towards her foibles, she managed to keep up a state and dignity about the poor woman, which imposed both upon visitors and servants.

Mrs. Earle entered the parlor in her quiet, lady-like way, and greeted Mrs. Cairn, with a feeble attempt at cordiality. Sibyl had eulogized her so warmly, that of course she must be a nice person.

"Sit here, mamma," said Sibyl, pushing a fauteuil near the fire and arranging a footstool. "She is so dreadfully delicate, Mrs. Cairn, that I have to take great care of her. There, dear, now we can talk comfortably. Mrs. Cairn wishes to ask your advice—the most extraordinary thing had happened. An old farmer—an Englishman—has died and left his fortune, and his beautiful granddaughter, to that queer Mr. Fenton, of whom Mr. Amerland was telling us the other day. Now the young lady, being the protégée of Mr. Fenton, who is both rich and of good family, naturally needs a governess to polish her up a little; and—to make my story short—she is to live at Baywood, and of course propriety demands a companion. Don't you think, dear, that it would be the very thing for Sabrina?"

"Of course, my love, of course, an opportunity for securing a home. She is dreadfully poor, I believe."

"Are we not a little premature," said Mrs. Cairn, "in taking for granted that Mrs. Drofflum will be willing to accept the care of a girl who is no longer a child, possessed of a brilliant but misguided intellect, and a will which the doating fondness of her grandfather has allowed to have full sway? Her mind has sought nourishment from whatever source was most convenient. In the multiform trials of a woman's life, a vivid imagination and over-sensitiveness are certainly a disadvantage to her, unless kept within the bounds which religion and common-sense prescribe."

"Mrs. Drofflum has a peculiar fascination in her manner," answered Sibyl, "which draws young persons into confidential intercourse with her almost on first acquaintance; but I think she had better answer for herself. Excuse me while I go for her." Rising from her seat with the quick and somewhat decided manner which was peculiar to her, she said caressingly to her mother: "I hope your poor head is not so bad as to prevent your making yourself agreeable to Mrs. Cairn while I am gone. Mrs. Cairn, do tell her something about Mr. Fenton: we have heard such queer stories."

Having set the ball of conversation going for her mother, she went to call Mrs. Drofflum. As she approached the library, the sound of a brilliant finale, ending in a well-executed trill, came from the room. She smiled, a little mischievous smile, and said to herself, "Sabrina is at her old tricks: I am sure that that trill was lengthened out for Mr. Amerland's benefit; surely crape and bombazine ought to be a shield against coquetry. I'm glad that I have no designs upon the young gentleman, else I should bless Mrs. Cairn for having proposed to take her away from here." She sang in a fine clear contralto a few notes of "Ah! mon fils." "It is safer to give warning of my approach," she thought, as she opened the door.

"Ah! Mr. Amerland, what luck? You are back early; the ducks must have been shy this morning."

"On the contrary, Miss Earle, I never met more accommodating ducks: they allowed themselves to be killed so rapidly that my bag was soon filled, and I grew weary of my sport. I am not so sure that the gentleman miller fancies my trespassing upon his preserves."

"I feel almost tempted to answer for his generosity," said Sibyl. "It is but natural to suppose that Mr. Cairn is not unworthy of a mother who certainly is one of the most perfect women whom I have ever met. Sabrina, this lady wishes to see you. Will you come with me?"

The widow had been making bird-like trills and roulades while Sybil and Roger had been talking; she turned on the piano-stool with a look a genuine astonishment on her face, and exclaimed:

"What can she possibly want with me, Sibyl? Oh! could you not excuse me—it is so very trying to see strangers; and if this is a visite de condoléance, really I might be spared the trail."

The black-bordered handkerchief was taken out, the face assumed the expression of oppressive grief, which was de rigueur in a woman so recently bereaved; and Sibyl, understanding perfectly what she was expected to do, urged and pleaded, and finally ended by telling Mrs. Drofflum that Mrs. Cairn's visit was purely on business, and that it would be greatly to her advantage to see her.

"Then I'm sure I ought to go: don't you think so, Mr. Amerland? One must put away one's grief—hide it from the cold, unsympathizing stranger, and think of one's bread and butter."

"Now that you have arrived at so commonplace and sensible a conclusion, Sabrina," said Sibyl, "I will suggest that it is scarcely polite to keep Mrs. Cairn waiting, to say nothing of mamma, who is suffering this morning, and I am sure longs to get back to her room."

"Dear Sibyl, I would have gone at once if you had only told me. Mr. Amerland, another time I will sing you the Ave Maris Stella."

Roger opened the door for them, and as they passed out, he watched the two women until the parlor door closed upon them.

"Confound my nonsense," he thought, "I ought to know better by this time than to fall into any such snare. I believe in my heart that Sibyl Earle despises me, and by George, I deserve it! I am always making love to women. Cui bono? I'm sure I don't know. What would my lady mother say if she knew that old Croft's granddaughter is fast making a fool of me, and that I am succeeding most beautifully in getting myself heartily despised by Miss Earle, who, by Jove, I admire and respect, and know to be superior, and that kind of thing. But somehow I can't get on with her, and would as soon think of trying to make love to the old lady, as to attempt to be sweet upon Sibyl."

"I AM very, very grateful, madam. One so sorely tried as I have been, must look forward to a home as to a haven of rest. If Mr. Fenton will do me the honor of calling, I think we will understand each other ever so much better." So spoke Mrs. Drofflum to Mrs. Cairn, throwing into her words a warmth and earnestness which she rightly calculated would go far towards helping Mrs. Cairn to form a favorable opinion of her.

"I will give him your message," answered Mrs. Cairn; "it is easy dealing with a man like Mr. Fenton. I think, madam, that your greatest difficulty lies with your future pupil."

"Ah," answered the widow, "life, at least to me, has not been so easy that I should shrink now from a task which may prove onerous. I trust in God," she added, with beautiful fervor, "to help me over the rough steps of this new and untrodden path."

Mrs. Cairn was not an impulsive woman; and her manner, gentle and dignified in the extreme, was just a little repelling to Mrs. Drofflum's expansive piety. She rarely spoke of herself, and, though deeply imbued with religious faith, she abstained from any expression of her own feelings; judging truly, that in a matter of religious belief the daily living goes farther than the most eloquent words. "To impress one with the truth of our own convictions," she said, "we must live up to them, rather than talk about them."

Mr. Fenton called the next day; and going through all of her paces for his benefit, Mrs. Drofflum succeeded in impressing the good gentleman with a high opinion of his protégée's future companion; and it is needless to say how she congratulated herself upon having passed so triumphantly through the ordeal, and taken the first steps toward an end, which, since the beginning of her interview with Mr. Fenton, she had clearly set before herself.

It was settled that on the morrow she was to go to Croft farm with Sibyl to see Lydia. "She is so recently bereaved, poor girl," said Miss Earle, "that I should not wonder if our visit would be a real pleasure to her; she must be so terribly forlorn. I confess to a very great desire to see her; for Mr. Amerland has described her with eloquent praise, and I am quite prepared to find a real beauty."

"I am sure that you will not be disappointed, Miss Earle," said Amerland. "Titian would have delighted in her coloring, and in her abundant gold-tinted hair. Heaven has been prodigal of its gifts to this girl; and although a Hebe in the delicacy of the flesh tints, and the freshness and healthfulness which make it a perfect luxury to the eye to dwell upon her, she possesses the lithe and supple form of Diana, and a grace which I have seldom seen equalled."

"Good heavens!" cried Sibyl, in mock dismay; "what a summing up of perfections! You know that I am terribly critical, Mr. Amerland; and I am very much afraid that I shall pull down your goddess from her pedestal, and discover that, after all, she is only a bit of bright-hued flesh of the English country-girl type."

Amerland colored perceptibly under this raillery, and replied with a dash of sarcasm in his tone:

"You will judge her, then, after the fashion of women, Miss Earle; it is their wont to pull each other to pieces."

"Thank you, Mr. Amerland, in the name of the sex, for your good opinion. I am not apt to fit caps to my head which belong to other people. When you know me better, you will scarcely ascribe a feeling to me which I consider degrading, either to man or woman. There is a littleness in envy which belongs only to a superficial mind, unprovided with strength in itself, and languishing in the penury of its ideas."

"Forgive me, Miss Earle," Amerland exclaimed, thoroughly ashamed of himself, for allowing his temper to make him unjust toward Sibyl; "forgive me. I am a brute for having said what I did, to you, of all others; for I, at least, know you well enough to have discovered that you are thoroughly generous!"

"And forgiving," she added, extending her hand to him. "Let us make up and be friends, as the children say."

"With all my heart," Amerland said, earnestly; "I wish you would be my friend, Miss Earle."

"Why not?" she said. "I could never understand that friendship, as I comprehend it, should not exist between a man and woman who thoroughly respect each other, and who are safe from the danger of—of"——

"Of falling in love," Amerland added: "is that what you were going to say? You are at least candid."

"And if I were not," she said, looking at him with her clear brown eyes, "could I accept your offer of friendship? Is not candor one of the concomitant qualities of that union which is strong, from the very fact that truth and good faith rivet the bond; and passion, with its blind folly, is banished from the compact?"

Amerland did not answer this woman, with her clear, practical way of dealing with things; it was a new study to him. He was irritated at her coolness, and he felt in some degree injured in his vanity—that she could so completely set aside the possibility of their ever being anything more to each other than mere friends:

"We move, my friend,
At no man's beck; but know ourselves and thee."

"That describes Sibyl Earle," he thought; "she is totally impervious to the d——d nonsense in which other women are so willing to believe."

Sibyl was pulling away the dead leaves from the geranium which stood in the window. Suddenly Amerland saw her start and grow deathly pale. He followed the direction of her eyes, and perceived a carriage dashing up the avenue, drawn by a pair of thoroughbred horses, whose pointed ears, he knew, were worth at least a hundred dollars apiece. The appointments were perfect, and the tall mulatto coachman was one of the finest specimens of his race. The carriage stopped; a half-dozen servants rushed forward to open the door; and the portly, but elegant figure of a gentleman wearing a fur-trimmed overcoat stepped out.

Sibyl had merely said, "It is papa," and then she went out into the hall. The elegant gentleman kissed her on the forehead, the long perfumed moustache barely touching the polished skin, with an "Ah! Sibyl, how do you do; and Mrs. Earle is not nervous, I hope?"

"Mamma is as well as usual," Sibyl replied. "Pray be kind to her, papa."

"Nonsense," he said, a look of annoyance and disgust clouding his face. "I will go to my room at once; when I am a little rested I will see your mother. For God's sake guard against hysterics! I am not equal to a scene after my long ride; and see, Sibyl, that Martin comes to me for orders about dinner—I am deuced hungry. Tell him to bring up some brandy to my dressing-room—and, by the way, is young Amerland here?"

"Yes," answered Sibyl, "he has been here for three weeks."

"And you find him perfectly charming, as the women say. Tall and handsome and accomplished, and that sort of thing; eh, Sibyl?"

She flushed, as she answered: "Papa, you have forgotten that the servants are within hearing. My opinion of Mr. Amerland can be of no earthly importance."

He gave her a look, which was anything but loving, as he said:

"So in this, as in all other matters, you set yourself up against me, Sibyl. By God," he added, "don't you know why Amerland came down here?"

"No," she answered, "no more than he does; for I believe him utterly incapable of lending himself to any scheme. Mr. Amerland has come here because he was invited; and has stayed, I suppose, because he finds it agreeable to do so."

"You are not a bad-looking girl, Sibyl," he answered, looking down upon her face, which was dyed with bright carnation, while her eyes shot forth a light, kindled by shame and indignation. Unfortunately Sibyl Earle knew her father, and knowing him, she had long since ceased to believe in him. "You are not a bad looking girl; and a man must be deuced hard to please if he does not like you; and then you are an Earle, every inch of you; none of the namby-pamby nonsense of the Churchills about you."

"God help me!" murmured Sibyl, as she turned away. "Poor mamma! I had hoped that she would have been left in peace a little longer."

Mr. J. St. George Earle—as he was fond of signing himself—was by no means so uncommon a character as to render a description of him absolutely necessary; but for the honor of mankind, it is yet rare enough to cause us to pause for a moment. There are such men in the world, who go through it with so judicious a regard for appearances, and so mindful of the rules prescribed for the regulation of their deportment before society, as to blind it completely with regard to their real character, the grosser elements of which are kept assiduously in the background; well concealed behind the gloss of a superficial elegance and refinement, and held in reserve for the especial benefit of wife, children, and servants, whom they unmercifully subjugate, by the force of their ungovernable selfishness and ill-temper. Such a man has been known to keep his wife and children awake during hours of the night, while he railed and swore at the maid-servant, whom he called up from her slumbers, to remake his bed; and he would issue from his dressing in the morning, fresh from the hands of his valet, suave and smiling, greeting his guests at the breakfast table with graceful courtesy, blandly inquiring how his dear wife had passed the night, and bestowing his fatherly blessing upon his daughters with so apt an imitation of sincerity as to impose for the time being upon the wretched girls themselves.

"If papa would only show us his good side a little oftener," they were wont to say, "we could love him so fondly;" but one glance at the poor, weak, downtrodden mother would chase away the delusion, and bring back the memory of scenes, which revealed him, as he really was—an imperious, selfish, unprincipled brute.

Mr. St. George Earle was admired and sought after in the world, that saw only his good side, drank his wine, smoked his cigars, and enjoyed his money, which coming from his wife he considered legitimate plunder. He squandered with a lavish hand the large patrimony which had been Miss Churchill's greatest attraction when, some twenty-two years before, he, a penniless adventurer, had succeeded in marrying her. The poor lady pinched and saved candle ends, while her lord kept his thoroughbreds and his suite of apartments in the city, not unfrequently absenting himself for months—and truth to say these months were the only comfortable ones which Mrs. Earle and Sibyl ever knew—and then falling upon them unexpectedly, spreading something akin to terror throughout the house. The modern Bluebeard doesn't hang up his headless wife in a blue closet, but he kills her as surely, by a process of slow torture—a grinding out of her life, for which he compensates her after death by an elaborate tombstone, and the recognition of virtues which he ignored during her lifetime.

Sibyl stood between the ill-sorted couple, sheltering the poor, weak mother, with her strong, self-reliant power, from the tyranny which, since her early married life, had rendered Mrs. Earle a slave—a willing slave, some said; for her love for her husband had withstood a long course of cruelty and neglect, and her admiration for him was as genuine as in the first years of their marriage. It is true that she was very much afraid of him; and this noble man knew how to turn her fear to his advantage when his depleted purse required filling. Mrs. Earle was mistress of her own fortune, and Mr. Earle was her master; so, cela va sans dire, she was bullied out of it, and had already signed away a great portion of her wealth.

The poor woman had already heard from Chris of her husband's arrival; and when Sibyl entered the room she stood up, pale and trembling, with eyes that asked for confirmation of the tidings.

"Yes, mamma, papa has come. He looks well; and has inquired for you. Do calm yourself, and let me arrange your hair, and put on the pretty cap which you received the other day."

"Sibyl, it is of no use; I will stay just as I am. I will not go through the mockery of trying to adorn my poor wan face, from which the beauty has too surely fled. Let there be plain dealing between us, dear. You know as well as I do why your father has come back so suddenly."

"O mamma," cried Sibyl, "do you think it is that? The last draft was so large!"

"Possible, Sibyl? Yes, it is quite possible. Oh that I could be firm!" she exclaimed. "I ought to think of you, my darling;" and then she fell to weeping, much to Sibyl's annoyance; for she remembered her father's words, and knew what would be the consequence to her mother should he find her in tears. Between entreating and caressing, she finally succeeded in calming her, and even persuaded her to don the new cap, declaring that she looked lovely; so that when Mr. Earle entered the room, he found his wife prepared to receive his cold salutation, with her usual meek thankfulness. For purposes best known to himself, he was unwontedly gracious. On occasion, this admirable personage could draw from the poor wife a look which showed him but too plainly that his slave was ready to fall down and kiss the hand which, with exquisite grace, he offered her, when, the interview concluded, he proposed to conduct her to the drawing-room. Descending the stairs he said to her in a tone of indulgent compassion: "Poor Caroline! you must try to grow stronger. The Virginia Springs next summer; or what do you say to some of the German spas?"

She did not answer. "To what purpose?" she said to herself; "even did I wish to go, where would the money come from?"

They entered the drawing-room, the well-preserved, elegant man of fashion contrasting most advantageously with the aged-looking wife. His greeting to Mrs. Drofflum and Roger Amerland was perfect; and during dinner, which was served with unusual ceremony, his guests were surprised and charmed with his conversation, which, enlivened by humor, and flowing from a well-cultivated and brilliant mind, polished and refined by travel and long intercourse with the best society, was well calculated to enchain the attention, and interest his listeners.

"O Sibyl! your father is delightful, with his air de prince," exclaimed Mrs. Drofflum, when the ladies had returned to the drawing-room. "How you must enjoy going into society with him!"

"It is a pleasure which I have yet to enjoy," said Sibyl, turning and taking up her worsted work.

"Indeed, you surprise me. I thought that you went out a great deal when you were abroad."

"So I did; but it was not with papa. I was introduced by my aunt while he was travelling in the East; and then he returned home several months before we did."

Her tone and manner gave little encouragement to Mrs. Drofflum to continue the conversation; and with perfect tact she at once understood that she was to ask no more questions. When the gentlemen came in, Amerland asked for music; and Mr. Earle, taking his place beside the piano, revealed a wonderful knowledge of the art, talking in most approved dilettante style of operas and oratorios, of tenors and prima-donnas; and finally, turning over the leaves of the music-book, he pointed with his well-shaped finger to the magnificent duo in the third act of Meyerbeer's Huguenots, and said to Mrs. Drofflum:

"Shall we try this, madame?"

"Do you sing, Mr. Earle? Oh how delightful! I have so longed for some one to sing with me!" And they sang, the rich basso of Mr. Earle mingling with the pure clear soprano of Mrs. Drofflum, whose vocalization was perfectly free from effort—so gracefully spontaneous, as to create those deliciously pleasurable emotions which are more easily felt than described. Sibyl was too true a lover of music not to enjoy the performance: but poor Mrs. Earle was tantalized by the remembrance of certain little unpleasantnesses, resulting from her husband's too great fondness for music and prima-donnas; and she resented, in her feeble way, his singing with Mrs. Drofflum:

"God only knows what it may lead to," she thought; and as soon as the duo was ended, she said to Sibyl, wishing to draw the widow from the piano—

"Are you going to Croft farm to-morrow, Sibyl?"

"Yes, mamma, Sabrina and I have planned to go there after breakfast."

"I so much wish to see my future pupil, dear Mrs. Earle, that I hope you will spare me Sibyl for a short time. I am so, so grateful, for this unexpected relief. You don't know, Mr. Earle, how kind every one has been to me, and how greatly Sibyl's sympathy has aided me."

"I am sure that my daughter knows how to make our home the home of our friends," answered Mr. Earl,—"emphatically a refuge for one, who—permit me to say it, madame—is created of every creature's best."

Mrs. Drofflum colored perceptibly, and Sibyl rose and went over to where her mother was sitting.

"Will you go to your room, mamma?" she said; "you are not well, and late hours do not suit you."

"Yes, I am very tired, Sibyl—weary, weary," she murmured.

Amerland had been ostensibly occupied with a book, but in reality he was studying this family group, and to use his own language, he had "learned a thing or two," and felt heartily ashamed of himself for having nibbled at Sabrina Drofflum's bait. She is throwing out her line for Earle, in spite of poor dear Mrs. Earle, and darling Sibyl. She is evidently ready to divide what is "undividable, incorporate."

Mrs. Drofflum followed Mrs. Earle and Sibyl, and the two gentlemen went to Mr. Earle's sitting-room, where, till a late hour, they sat talking over their European experiences.

"He is a deuced agreeable man," thought Amerland, when they parted for the night; "but I am not a nursing baby, and I know that—

'There is no vice so simple, but assumes
Some mark of virtue on its outward parts.'

Earle has played the deuce with that poor wife of his; and his daughter, if I am not much mistaken, understands him most thoroughly. The sooner Mme. la veuve is out of the house, the better for the poor ailing woman, up-stairs."

IT was about ten o'clock when Lydia, weary with Sarah's ill-humor, and longing to get out into the clear, bright sunshine, took her sun-bonnet from the hook behind the kitchen door, intending to go down to the brook which, running along the base of the hill on which the house stood, and meandering between its grass-covered banks, went,

"With many a silvery water-break
Above its golden gravel."

unpausing in its rippling course until it mingled with Silcott Creek. Lydia had improvised a seat at the foot of a willow, and in the balmy summer days she loved to sit there, out of reach of Sarah's tongue, and away from the sights and sounds which were so distasteful to her. Here, through the fairy halls conjured by youth's enchantment, the dramatis personæ of her dreams lived and moved. She had peopled the sunlit glades with knights, and ladies fair, and often she listened for a "sudden sound of hoofs," and longed to see a Prince Geraint,

Since last there, the realization of her dream had come. No knight in flashing steel or waving plume, but one with tender voice and pleading eyes, and oh! so fair to look upon. The glamour of this strange new joy hung about her now, as she fastened her shawl, and tied the strings of her sun-bonnet. The farm and Sarah, and everything that she hated, were forgotten, when the spell was suddenly dissolved, and Sarah's sharp dissonant voice was heard calling her.

"Lydia, Lydia, you had better be making yourself tidy, instead of standing there, when there's a carriage before the gate, and fine people a-getting out."

The shawl and sun-bonnet were hastily thrown aside, and Lydia rushed up to her room, going straight to the little square looking-glass and smoothing the vagrant, rippling hair, which, in spite of comb and hair-pins, was always breaking loose and wandering into stray curls, which Sarah termed "untidy."

She fastened her best collar with a coral brooch which her grandfather had given her, and which looked sadly out of keeping with the black merino, that clung in scant folds about her tall figure. With heightened color and tremulous haste she went down the stairs, and found two ladies—one of whom she recognized as Miss Earle—standing in the hall. Sibyl saluted Lydia with easy grace, and then presented Mrs. Drofflum. The poor girl was covered with confusion at the thought of asking them into the kitchen. The front room was cold and dreary, and had not been opened since her grandfather died. "What shall I do? what shall I do?" she inwardly exclaimed, when Sarah came to the rescue, by throwing open the kitchen door, and with a stiff courtesy and a salutatory motion of her head, invited them to enter.

"Will you please to walk in? there's no better place to ask you into. With the cold and loneliness and me to do everything, one fire is as much as I can attend to."

"Why, it is a delightful place," gushed forth Mrs. Drofflum—"a real farm-kitchen, just like those we read about. You are English, Mrs. Hope? Yes, one can see at a glance that your housekeeping is not after the fashion of this country."

Sarah, taken at her most vulnerable point, was completely mollified, and with a manner very nearly approaching to graciousness, she retired to the pantry, "upon hospitable thoughts intent," determining farther to impress this "real lady" with her skill in housewifery by preparing a lunch.

Sibyl, in the meantime, had been talking to Lydia, and sincerely enjoying her fresh loveliness. She was devoid of personal vanity—a rare thing in a woman—and above the meanness of envy; she could, therefore cordially praise the beauty of others of her sex, and accord to them the good qualities which, somehow, she was sure to discover.

Sibyl thought now of the superb corporeal type of Titian's women; but the large soft eyes and the noble expression of the delicate face idealized the form and saved it from the vulgarity which belongs to mere animal beauty.

Having set herself right with Sarah, Mrs. Drofflum, with a winning smile, prepared to do the same thing with Lydia. Despite the vagueness and incompleteness of a first impression, it is singular how often afterwards, even when closer association has somewhat obliterated it, we feel a return of those emotions which we experienced when first thrown in contact with certain persons.

Lydia felt for a moment an absolute repulsion to Mrs. Drofflum; and that lady understood, on her part, that to conciliate Miss Croft she must put forth those pattes de velours, which upon occasion she handled with so dexterous a skill. "She dislikes me," she thought, as Lydia gave her a look de haut en bas, as expressive as it was uncivil.

"Miss Croft," she said, "I hope you will accept our visit this morning just as it is meant. Mr. Fenton has told me a great deal about you, and I am ever so sorry that I did not know how lonely you were here."

"I am not surprised," answered Lydia, "that you paid little heed to a girl like me. Mr. Fenton himself was ignorant of my existence until I was sent to fetch him for grandfather. Since then, things have changed somewhat, and I suppose it is as his ward that you have come to see me."

There was a bitterness in this speech which betrayed to her visitors a sort of defiant pride, which rebelled against what she supposed to be condescension on their part. She was evidently not willing to give them credit for the real kindness which actuated their visit.

With quick sympathy Sibyl comprehended that Lydia's proud sensitiveness was warring against her inclination to be pleased at their visit, and that she resented their tardy recognition of her claims to their notice; so, with genuine good nature, she said: "I am almost a stranger in the county, Miss Croft, having only lately come to live at the Forest. Pray, believe me, when I say that I do really regret having been so long deprived of the pleasure of knowing you. The Forest was dreadfully lonely before Mrs. Drofflum and Mr. Amerland came to us. May I not hope that we may see a good deal of each other and be very good friends; and I will be really obliged to you if you will initiate me into the mysteries of these beautiful forest depths."

"With all my heart," answered Lydia; "there's scarcely a forest path in all the country round with which I am not familiar. I never had any other playfellow than Porpax; he scared up the rabbits, while I hunted in the tall grass for partridge eggs, or climbed the trees to look for young birds. Sarah scolded me dreadfully about my torn dresses and soiled stockings, but grandfather said that it did not matter—that girls ought to catch the sun-tints. He never thought of freckles or sunburn, but praised my red cheeks, when after a long ramble Porpax and I would come home at noon to eat Sarah's good dinner, with an appetite which would have shocked you delicate ladies."

Her face was all aglow, and the reserve of her manner had given place to an ease and frankness which delighted Sibyl.

Mrs. Drofflum sat watching the girl. "Now or never," she thought. "Sibyl has won her to her natural manner; my task is harder, for I feel that she does not fancy me, and it is all important that she should. Mr. Fenton expressly stated that my engagement would depend upon the young lady. I have no taste for tucking up my skirts and wearing heavy shoes, as Sybil does. The woods are all very well for an Orlando and a Rosalind; or for this girl, who is a charming hoyden—really deliciously fresh. Ah! Roger has been here, and what is the usual consequence of his visits? I warrant she is romantic, and Roger Amerland is just the man to fill out a young woman's picture of a hero." Turning to Lydia, she said:

"Shall I tell you, Miss Croft, who first spoke to me of you, and why I have been silently examining you all this while, giving Sibyl the opportunity of ingratiating herself with you, while I was left in the background?"

"If you know Allan Cairn," answered Lydia, "he is very apt to have spoken of me."

"Oh! the miller of Silcott Mill! He is not the only person I think, Miss Croft, who admires you."

Lydia knew that it was Roger; but she could not speak of him, with this woman's keen eye upon her. "I am a poor hand at guessing," she said, "although it would not take me long to run over the list of my acquaintances. Grandfather kept me very much at home."

"But I'm sure you know Mr. Amerland, for he told us that we would find a Hebe or a Diana—which was it, Sibyl?—at the farm; and I am not disappointed. Miss Croft has only to don the Cretan hunting shoes, to arm herself with quiver and spear, and to call her faithful Porpax, to complete the personation of the goddess."

"Sabrina, how can you?" whispered Sibyl in a low voice, indignant that she should use such flattery to win Lydia's favor, and judging from the hue on her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes that it was not unpleasing to her. To do the girl justice, she little heeded Mrs. Drofflum's words. Roger had spoken of her to his friends; he had thought of her, and the light in her eyes was but the unspoken joy in her heart. All things were bright now; even Mrs. Drofflum's plain face seemed to have received the reflection of her own beaming countenance.

She chatted gayly, revealing to them the riches of her fresh young mind. She knew nothing of the rules which govern young ladies brought up under the eye of a governess or in the genteel precincts of a boarding-school; she was ignorant of the "prunes and prisms" business, and had escaped the vulgar gentility which is so often found in girls of her class. Lydia sought the light, and in these longings which had rendered her discontented with her lot, she had but yielded to the artistic perception which gave a dangerous zest to those enchanting dreams, which made up so large a portion of her lonely life.

Now that the fairy godmother, in the shape of Mr. Fenton, had come to take her away from the chimney-corner in Sarah's kitchen, she was ready to accept any help which would fit her for her new life, and make her worthy of Roger's love—for it had come to this. The girl, with her strong, passionate nature, loved the young man. Henceforth her life was bound to his. Her love had sprung into being, full and strong, knowing no puerile infancy, no gradual awakening.

Sarah's entrance with a clean table-cloth on her arm, and a pile of plates in her hands, was a comfortable diversion to Mrs. Drofflum; for that lady, affecting a great deal of sentiment, was none the less appreciative of the sensible pleasure which a good meal affords. Sarah, stiffened into a painful rigidity by the addition of a highly starched cambric neck handkerchief, moved about in angles, setting the results of her handiwork upon the table—a bowl of frothy whipped cream; a dish of chicken-salad, made of the remains of yesterday's capon; a plate of light, puffy rolls, which were in process of baking when the visitors came in; sliced ham; a roll of yellow butter, and preserves ad libitum.

"If I had only known about your coming," she said, "I would have made cake; but it's little use a wasting flour and eggs for Lydia. Shall I draw you a cup of tea, ma'am?" she added, addressing Mrs. Drofflum.

"Oh! I couldn't think of giving any more trouble," exclaimed that lady, though inwardly longing for the beverage, of which she was inordinately fond.

"Trouble!" answered Sarah; "I'd scorn to think of trouble when I was serving ladies. It's not many I've had the luck to serve since I came to this country, which I have no right to complain: for I've had a good home, and wages regular; and I've been remembered by him as is gone, though the comings and goings as has been in this house since he died have well-nigh upset me, and Lydia on the go, and me to do the work."

"Sarah," cried Lydia, thoroughly annoyed, "won't you give the tea? I'm sure it is drawn."

"As if I shouldn't know when tea is drawed, Lydia, and me been making it this sixteen years for your grandfather."

"Your rolls are excellent, Mrs. Hope," said Sibyl; "our cook never succeeds in making them so light."

"As how should she," snapped Sarah, "if she is a nigger? They have no rules or measures, but just throw everything in haphazard, which I shouldn't say, miss, if I hadn't tried a dozen times to find out from old Mrs. Stebbins' cook how to make gumbo. I gave Porpax all that I made after her directions, and I had to go and watch her do it, before I could get into the way of making it; and after all," she added with a sniff, "it's to my thinking a nasty mess—neither meat nor drink."

"What!" exclaimed Sibyl, "gumbo a nasty mess! Why, this is positive treason to our Southern American taste. Do come some day to the Forest, and taste some of Félicie's making."

"Thanking you kindly," said Sarah; "it's not after eating and drinking that I'm a hankering. A little more tea, ma'am?" to Mrs. Drofflum. "Lydia, whatever are you doing, not to help the cream in the gilt saucers."

Poor Lydia was quite unconscious of the error which she had committed. Sarah's talk had a peculiarly irritating effect upon her, and Sibyl, seeing this, hastened the end of the repast.

"You will come to see me, Miss Croft," she said, as they were putting on their wrappings.

"Oh yes," answered Lydia, "I will come; I will be so glad to see you again."

"And what shall I say to Mr. Fenton?" cried Mrs. Drofflum; "decidedly I fear that you will not want me at Baywood:" and she added inwardly, "I know that this is a case of antipatica at first sight, but I do not despair of overcoming it."

"At Baywood," exclaimed Lydia,—"are you going to stay there?"

"That depends entirely upon you, Miss Croft. Your guardian—that kind, excellent Mr. Fenton—thinks that my poor attainments may be put to some use for you. I do hope, dear Miss Croft," and she laid her hand caressingly upon Lydia's arm, "that we shall get on comfortably together, with study and music, and pleasant talks; don't you think it will be ever so nice?"

"Are you to teach me," asked Lydia, as flush of pleasure suffusing her cheeks; "am I really to learn music? Oh! I am so glad! and I will tell Mr. Fenton that I shall like to have you."

"Let me ask one little favor of you, dear Miss Croft," whispered Mrs. Drofflum, pressing her hand at parting: "Try to like me. I shall be too, too sad, if you do not let me enjoy your confidence, and feel that I am of real use to you."

She did not wait to see the effect of her words on Lydia; but as she threw herself back on the luxurious carriage cushions, she felt quite satisfied that Baywood would be her home, at least for a while. "Yes," she said to herself, "I'm sure to go there now, and I can never be so foolish as to let this opportunity slip. Baywood is worth winning."

A DULL, gray morning, with the mist lying low over the valley, and a drooping disconsolateness pervading everything. The old cock gave out a few hoarse notes, as he strutted in front of his harem, indicative of his dissatisfaction with things in general, but especially with the condition of his own bedraggled plumage; but with exemplary resignation, and a praiseworthy desire to make the best of things, he snatched the largest grains out of the generous handfuls which Allan threw from his basket, leaving his wives to squabble over his leavings.

"Selfish glutton," said Allan, chasing him away; "and yet," he thought, "he is but carrying out that inhumanity which strength almost always exercises toward weakness. It is glorious to be strong; mere physical strength is, in itself, a boon for which to be thankful," and he stretched out his brawny arms as though to test their sinew and muscle. "A blacksmith can boast as well as I," he continued, "if that is all; but, oh! for the power which elevates man beyond mediocrity—that halting ground of the weak. What are these vague longings which disturb my peace? Perhaps they are but Nature's suggestions, waiting circumstance and opportunity to make them plainer. Opportunity! is it in watching the wheel go round, with the everlasting din and clatter in my ears, that I will find it? When it comes will I know how to take hold of it with a firm grip? or will I do, as so many have done before me, let it slip through my fingers, and be left to curse my bad luck for the rest of my life? A man may turn his mind toward some special result, if he has his intellect under absolute control, directing its faculties toward a fixed end; and if he knows his strong and weak points, and has patience to wait, I think he is pretty apt in the long run to win. Now, more than ever before, I feel the spur of ambition goading me, while the heavy yoke keeps my head to the ground. Perhaps one of these days I shall claim something more from Mr. Roger Amerland than a supercilious stare." He looked as if he would have liked to crush the bestower of it out of existence. Surely this was not the end of his aspirations—to crush Roger Amerland; but Allan was ready to cry out with the dusky Moor:

"But there, where I have garner'd up my heart,
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!"

It was hard, and he cried out in his heart: "I wish to God I had never set eyes upon her!"

"Mas Allan, you ma say as how de milk is biled, and de coffee is ready, and please, sir, does you 'member de picayune you bin promise me dat time?" and a small black boy took off his hat as he spoke, giving his right foot a scrape on the ground, which his mother had taught him was the height of good manners.

"You little beggar," said Allan, smiling good-humoredly, "that picayune is like the 'widow's cruise,'—as fast as one goes out of your pocket another gets in."

"I done hear mistiss tell 'bout dat, sir; but it wasn't picayunes, 'twas meal. Thankee, sir," and with another scrape and a pull at his forelock he started off; but with a quick movement of his head he turned, glanced at Allan's face, and running back said:

"Oh! mas Allan, I seed lots of quality folks agoing into de house at Croft farm yesterday. I was drivin' de cows to pasture, and I jest run 'cross de field to see the carriage and de hosses."

"You little villain," said Allan, "mind your cows, and keep a still tongue, or else one of these nights you'll be taken away by that black gentleman with a tail and a club foot, whose portrait you may see in your mistress' bible."

The boy grinned, and ran off, executing in the exuberance of his spirits some marvellous pigeon-wings and double-shuffles. He was a chattel of old Mrs. Stebbins, who doated upon his sleek black face and white shining teeth. Since he had been large enough to carry a bucket he had taken milk to Mrs. Cairn, morning and evening, and that lady, sharing Mrs. Stebbins' partiality for the little fellow, had attempted to initiate him into the mysteries of the spelling-book. Unfortunately for his future career he failed to master them. The wheel of fortune has revolved many times since that epoch, and Jake, to his own honest surprise, has found himself waving the star-spangled banner from the topmost spoke. The little drawback of not knowing exactly what he is about, is of the slightest possible consequence, since large-hearted philanthropists are ever at hand to supply his deficiencies and profit by his good-natured ignorance.

"Our debts, our careful wives, our children and our sins, lay on whom?—we must bear them all. O, hard condition!"

Pardon me, dear reader, for this little digression. Those who suffer must sometimes give voice to their complaints.

Mrs. Cairn had not seen Allan since her visit to the Earles. He had been away up the country on business, and only returned the night before, too late to see her; so while he ate his breakfast she opened her budget of news to him.

"I've been to the Earles, Allan, since you went away," said she.

"What could have taken you there, mother? Not surely the desire of making their acquaintance."

"No, my son; I never seek strangers; more especially those whose wealth and station are so superior to my own; for in making an advance to them I lose somewhat of my own self-respect and independence. Mr. Fenton is anxious to secure Mrs. Drofflum as governess for Lydia Croft—companion, perhaps, would better express the relation which she is to bear toward her. It was to oblige Mr. Fenton that I sought an interview with this lady. Do you know that Lydia goes at once to Baywood?"

"Eh!" exclaimed Allan, "to Baywood, to be converted into a fine lady."

"A fine lady, in one sense of the word, my son, I sincerely wish her to be. As Mr. Fenton's ward, she will occupy a position which entitles her to be received in the best circles of society. You must see, Allan, that her unformed manners and her entire freedom from that restraint which good society imposes, would make her remarkable, and unfit to mingle with the polite world."

"Her free, delightful ways make her the more charming. If she sometimes appears brusque, it is only because she has not yet learned to be deceitful. What will become of that fresh originality of thought which she expresses in her own quaint way? O, mother, it is not wise to transplant this wild flower into a hot-bed!"

"My son, when will you learn to be reasonable? Do you not see that she will soon be beyond your reach? What have you to offer in exchange for the fortune which in all probability will some day be hers?"

"Nothing, but a miller's dusty coat," he said with bitterness; "but the world is wide, mother, and a man must be a poor creature who cannot make himself worthy of a woman—I mean who cannot raise himself to a position which would warrant him in asking her to be his wife. As to wealth, there are so many ways of making it, that I do not despair, although it now seems to be a long way off; but I have no time for speculation and must be going. I have a lot of lumber to deliver this morning, and Jack is busy with the grinding. Take care of yourself, dear," he added, kissing her. "Why will you worry so about the work? Do get some one to help you."

"Some one to look after, you mean, dear. Ah, no! work is good for me, and as it is for you, I should be jealous of other hands performing it. But, Allan, I have told you nothing about Miss Earle."

"Well, I suppose she gave you the tips of her fingers, and looked horrified at the cut of your gown."

"You are quite mistaken, for she did not seem to remark my old-fashioned clothes, and was charmingly cordial and natural. With the exception of her eyes, she has little pretension to beauty; but there is a look of moral healthfulness about her, which, in my eyes, is exceedingly refreshing, and far better than straight-cut features and a rose-and-lily complexion."

"Good-by, mother," cried Allan. He was sensitive about rose-and-lily complexions, and thought that his mother intended to depreciate Lydia's beauty. He strode away through the dull gray mist which hung over the damp earth. A group of chattering rice-birds clustered on the bare limbs of a giant pine that stood by the road-side, stripped of its bark and glistening needles, dying by slow degrees, but mighty in its bare majesty—raising aloft its discrowned head, as if protesting to heaven against the cruelty of man, whose sharp axe had cut deep into its life, severing the rich resinous veins, through which that life was gradually ebbing. Allan paused for a moment. "You must come down, old fellow," he muttered; "it seems hard when you have been here so long. You certainly have the right of pre-emption to the soil on which you stand; but some of these windy nights you will fall across the road, shivering and moaning in your death agony, and crushing some unfortunate beast that has gone to you for shelter against the storm."

As he walked on and drew nearer to the mill the sound of Jack's voice, raised to a pitch of extreme exasperation, broke upon his ear. A few strides more brought him to the scene of altercation, where the burly young giant stood glowering fiercely down upon a squirming little figure, attired in a suit of bright blue cloth, with a profuse display of brass buttons.

"What's up, Jack?" shouted Allan.

"Why this little varmint has come nigh a shooting of me. Confound your yaller skin," he said, shaking the boy until his teeth chattered, "if I ever catch you about here again I'll take the hide off of you."

Seeing deliverance in the face of Allan, the prisoner set up a howl, which ended in a piteous petition for release and forgiveness. "I was jest a trying of Mr. Amerland's gun, sir. I bet with Jake Stebbins that I'd kill a crow with her, sir; and oh! mister, I didn't go to hit you, and please not to tell on me, for mammy will hide me as sure as I'm born; and Miss Sibyl won't give me the knife what she promised me for Christmas."

"So you are one of the Earle niggers," cried Jack, giving him a parting shake, "dressed up like white folks. Mind, if I catch you agin, I'll spile your fine clothes a bit."

"Come, Jack," said Allan, "You've frightened the child into repentance. I'll warrant you he will never venture within the reach of your grip again. Where is the gun?" he added. turning to the boy, who was ready to use his feet in flight.

"I drap't it in de bush, sir."

"Bring it to me."

The trembling culprit found the weapon, and handed it to Allan.

"Go home," he said; "I'll see that you are not punished. Be off. I'll not trust you with the gun again."

The little yellow face was raised to Allan's with a scared appealing look in the black eyes.

"I'se afraid to go back, sir, without the gun. Mr. Amerland is mighty careful wid it, and if he misses it I'll catch the devil. Please, sir, won't you come wid me jest to speak to Miss Sibyl? Mammy'll find it out if you don't; she is always a speering around."

Allan hesitated for a moment; the boy's earnest face sought out the ready sympathy in his heart. He did not much believe in the efficacy of the rod. "The moral effect is bad," he said; "a child grows to fear the physical pain; but does it teach him to understand the evil of his transgression? As soon as the smart of the switch is off, he is apt to forget it. Does a child accustomed to be whipped fear to do wrong because he understands the evil of wrong-doing, or does the animal dread of pain check him? Lessons of morality applied in this way are apt to take but little hold upon his volatile thoughts. His reasoning powers must be exercised—his heart must be touched—he must know why his fault deserves punishment, before the punishment can correct it."

"I'se Chris, sir," the child said; "I waits on ole Mistess and Miss Sibyl; and dey's good to me, dey is."

Allan looked at his watch. "I have a half hour to spare; come along, I'll take you home. Jack, I will be back in time to see Mr. Moore."

"Well, well, if I ain't beat all hollow!" exclaimed Jack, looking after Allan's retreating figure.

THE Forest, as Mr. Earle had named his place, was situated on a table-land, sloping gently toward the valley, through which Silcott Creek wound its way. He had enclosed an area round the house, creating a thickly wooded park, irregular in its outlines of natural groves and thick copses. The timber had been cut away at various points, creating charming vistas, through which the hills beyond, with their fringe of rich foliage, stood out clear against the background of the sky. A winding road led to the house, which was unpretending in its architecture, and built much after the fashion of all Southern country-houses. With questionable taste its former owner had added a portico, supported by huge Corinthian columns, which gave the house the appearance of having been built as an appendage to the portico. An extensive flower-garden surrounded it, and orchards and vineries extended for some distance back of it.

Allan had not been within the enclosure since the place had passed into the possession of the Earles; but he was familiar with every nook and corner of the woods which now comprised the park, and being hurried, he cut across, coming out near the house, just where an osage-orange hedge bounded the flower-garden.

"How that hedge has grown!" he exclaimed. "I haven't time to go around," and with a vigorous bound he found himself on the other side; with a good deal of scrambling and a few scratches Chris got over, but not before Allan had become aware that his feat had been witnessed by a young lady in a brown dress and garden hat. They looked at each other for a moment, and then a simultaneous burst of laughter echoed through the garden. Hers was clear and low; and controlling herself almost immediately, she looked the inquiry which her lips were reluctant to form. Allan, with heightened color, hastened to account for his intrusion; and while he spoke Sibyl had time to examine his physique, and to take in all that was expressed in that finely cut patrician face, to which the length of limb and strong broad shoulders seemed naturally to belong. He wore his working clothes of corduroy; but the keen woman's eye detected the fineness of the snowy linen at his throat, and then fell upon his well-shaped hands, brown with the sun tan, but with nails as delicate and well cared for as a woman's. "He is every inch a man," she thought; "I wonder whether this is the miller of Silcott Mill."

"I have come to plead for this little culprit," Allan said, laying his hand on Chris' shoulder; "his fault, has, I think, been already sufficiently punished, and I crave his forgiveness, trusting to your influence to prevent a recurrence of it. I have taken for granted that I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Earle."

"You are quite right," answered Sibyl, "and you came for his sake, sir? You have given yourself all this trouble for Chris?"

"I came," said Allan, "because I believe the boy is really sorry for his fault, and that children are more easily governed by kindness than severity. I wanted to put him in your hands, and I am very sure that you will know what is best for him."

"Oh! Miss Sibyl," broke in Chris, "for God's sake please, ma'am, don't tell mammy."

"Silence, naughty boy! how little you deserve the kindness which this gentleman has shown you. Go at once and put the gun in its place. I know quite well how very disobedient you have been."

The child ran off, well assured that for this time at least, he would escape mammy's hiding.

"Will you permit me to ask, sir, to whom I am indebted for this obligation?"

"My name is Cairn," answered Allan, simply, "Allan Cairn, miller of Silcott Mill."

"Oh," answered Sibyl, coloring, for all this time she had been quite sure to whom she was speaking, "I have had the pleasure of making your mother's acquaintance. Pray remember me to her, and if to-morrow is propitious I shall fulfil my promise of going to see her."

"My mother was speaking of you this morning; I am most fortunate so soon to have had occasion to test the truthfulness of her impressions. We are plain people, Miss Earle, and not given to flattery, therefore you may believe me when I say that I consider myself honored by your very kind reception. I must crave your pardon for the uncommon method which I took of entering your premises."

"Most heartily granted," said Sibyl, gayly; "allow me to show you a more convenient exit, Mr. Cairn. Ah! there is the sun!—a few straggling rays, but a promise of better things."

As she spoke they moved side by side along the garden path, the man, whom Mr. Earle would have in all probability termed "a low fellow," looking down upon Sibyl's bright face, remembering what his mother had said about its "moral healthfulness."

"You have made many improvements here, Miss Earle," he said; "I scarcely recognize the place. This garden is truly the 'decorated border-land between man's home and Nature's broad domains.' A good idea to have inclosed that bit of forest"—pointing to the park—"the timber is magnificent—the finest growth about here. I have often thought what a paradise a rich man might make of this place. I do not pretend to the affectation of despising riches, Miss Earle, and I cannot exactly see how a man can be truly happy without them. Do not understand me to mean that I consider riches an absolute good; there are many cases when they are quite the contrary; but, generally speaking, I think a man must be better for the power which they give him—power which, if rightly used, makes him a prince amongst his fellows. It is said that it is hard for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of Heaven; how much harder then is it for a poor devil who is so taken up with the labor of getting his daily bread that he has no time to find out the road which is to take him there? Do you not understand me, when your eye follows that handsome slope, with Silcott Creek winding at its base, and you feel that it is all your own?"

"But I almost envy you, Mr. Cairn, the possession of that picturesque mill. Do you remember Wilhelm Muller's Wanderschaft?

" 'To wander is the miller's joy,
To wander;
What kind of miller must he be
Who never yearned to wander free,
To wander.' "

"That's just it," said Allan; "there's not a day of my life that I don't yearn to wander—to go out into the world, which God has made for man, reaping my share—for I feel sure that I have one—of the good things which may be had, if one only goes the right way about getting them."

"And just now I was envying you your miller's life! It seems to me that there is a great deal in the freedom and independence of such a life to commend it."

"But not enough to satisfy," said Allan; "I mean," he added, "that I am an ungrateful fellow, and have grown restless."

Quoted Sibyl:

Ah, Mr. Cairn, I don't believe in restlessness. It isn't a good help to fortune; and don't you think," she said, looking at him with her honest brown eyes, "that a man may do a great deal in his own sphere, especially in a country like this, where honest labor proves no impediment to a man's obtaining whatever reward his merit deserves?"

"I believe," he said, startling Sibyl by his earnestness, "that a man encouraged by you could do a great deal; but good-by, Miss Earle, I have to thank you for being very kind."

They shook hands, and Allan passed through the wicket in the hedge, leaving Sibyl almost as much astonished as if she had met a prince in disguise. As she watched him moving with easy grace along the forest path, the color on her cheek deepened, and she realized that she had been talking to this young man with a freedom which only acquaintance would have warranted.

"I wonder what papa would say," thought she, "if he knew that Allan Cairn had been here. How he detests people whom he considers beneath his social strata! At any rate I have passed a pleasant half-hour, and I have not been disappointed in the miller of Silcott Mill." She went back to the house smiling softly to herself.

A WEEK had passed, and Mr. Earle still lingered at the Forest. Poor Mrs. Earle had taken to her bed. The duets were too much for her weak nerves, and she sought refuge from her annoyance in one of those attacks of nervous despondency and migraine which was particularly trying to Sibyl. Mrs. Drofflum was assiduous in her inquiries and kind messages, which she left at the door of the sick-room, Mrs. Earle having given orders that no one but Sibyl was to be admitted. Mr. Earle contented himself with his daughter's account of her mother's condition.

"Poor Caroline is always so dreadfully nervous when the time for my departure approaches," he said to Mrs. Drofflum, "that I abstain from going to her."

He had wrung from her the money to buy the solitaire ring which he intended to present to Mme. B—— on her benefit night, barely leaving sufficient to pay some of his most pressing bills on account, "just to quiet the rascals," he said; and now that he had gone through his repertoire with Mrs. Drofflum, he began to grow weary of her trills and roulades, to say nothing of the incredulity with which he listened to those beautiful sentiments of an exalted piety which she threw in, doubtless as a sort of balance against the immense amount of flirtation which she carried on.

Sibyl was restless and anxious, worried about her mother and indignant at her father, whom she had long since lost the power of regarding with filial respect. Love him—she never had; for he had considered her coming into the world as an especial outrage to himself, and had bestowed so little attention on her infancy that she resented his neglect with a burning sense of injustice, which grew into reserve and mistrust that were strengthened into positive dislike by his ill-treatment of her mother.

Roger Amerland's presence was another source of disquiet, and her father's words had raised a thousand perplexing doubts in her mind. Mr. Earle's hints were pregnant with meaning; and Sibyl's upright, honest nature shrank from the idea of her father having inveigled the young man to his house with a design which outraged hospitality. She believed that Roger had no other motive in coming to the Forest than the expressed one of having yielded to Mr. Earle's pressing invitation, and his mother's warmly expressed desire.

"Why does he linger? Surely not for my sake," thought Sibyl. "Thank God his handsome person is nothing to me; and I am not the sort of woman to attract him. Sabrina—no, no. He has wearied of her inconstancy. She has thought it better worth her while to smile upon the elegant St. George Earle. Poor, poor mamma! I wish Sabrina was away, her nature baffles me. I cannot understand her, and yet she has done nothing that openly deserves blame. Cautious as she is fascinating, playing off her piety against her love of admiration, and she is so plausible! How can I ever tell her that she is making mischief? I have it. I will go to Mrs. Cairn, perhaps she can hasten her departure, and when at Baywood she may be content to fulfil her duty and employ her energies in some nobler way than that of troubling other people's lives. I'm afraid of what I have done; I have recommended Sabrina to a position of great responsibility, and do I thoroughly trust her? Is it possible to simulate piety, to trifle with God? No, no, no. I am wrong to suspect her. Her nature is so different from mine; it is obvious that I am no fit judge of her motives."

But half satisfied with her reasoning she went to her mother's room. Treading lightly over the thick Brussels carpet, she approached the bed where Mrs. Earle lay with closed eyes, really changed the daughter thought when she bent over her, imprinting a soft kiss upon her brow.

"Dear mamma, won't you try to get up. Let me make you comfortable in your easy-chair beside the window. Why shut out the beautiful bright day? It is quite like spring. Won't you, darling—just for my sake?"

"Sibyl," she faintly answered, "dear child, leave me in peace. My head is very bad; I don't think that I have the strength to make any exertion."

"You never will be better, mamma, unless you summon some courage to your aid. I'm going to ask a favor of you. I want very much to go out for a walk; but I will not leave you in this dismal room making yourself miserable with your thoughts. I have placed your easy-chair by the window, just where you can see the men at work in the flower-garden. Now, there's a dear, good mamma; let me call Susie."

Mrs. Earle yielded, as she was always apt to do when Sibyl pleaded. The change from the bedroom to the bright, cheerful sitting-room, redolent of the violets which Sibyl had gathered and placed with japonicas in dishes filled with moss, and tempered to a genial warmth by the crackling cedar logs which were glowing in the wide chimney, was at once refreshing to the invalid. Sibyl placed a table near her chair, with some new magazines and late newspapers, and charging Susie to have the beef-broth ready exactly at twelve o'clock, she kissed her mother, promising to be back before she would need her again, and left the room.

The brown dress did service on all walking excursions. To-day she knotted a bright crimson ribbon at her throat, and put on a jaunty beaver hat, ornamented with a black plume. Her small, well-shaped feet were freely exposed to view, shod with stout English walking shoes; and her crimson petticoat, with its fluted flounce, just showed below the brown skirt, which was draped above it. This costume was considered by the country ladies as most eccentric, to say the least of it; and Miss Earle was strongly suspected of masculine propensities because she did not take her walks in long skirts and a bonnet. It is always dangerous to be among the first to suggest to people that their own ideas are not the best in matters of dress, as well as in more important affairs. An innovation is rarely looked upon with favor; prejudice in most instances warring against common-sense. Sibyl laughed at the staring country people, and gave but little heed to the surprised looks of the ladies whom she sometimes met riding in their carriages, while she walked along the rough country road with Chris for a companion.

"I do believe, mamma," said she, after one of these encounters, "that they suspect me of carrying a cigar-case in my pocket. Innovators must always expect to suffer the sneers and gibes of those who are obstinate to yield their opinions, and I am perfectly willing to be called 'that queer Miss Earle,' rather than give up my comfortable walking costume, which I have no doubt will one day come into vogue, and be followed with as little discrimination as to appropriateness as is exercised to-day in the ridiculous length of skirt which permits of little distinction between a court dress and a walking costume."

The day was clear and bright—a winter day, but one of those which in the Southern land come to bear Spring's promise and cheat us into the belief that the "folded leaf was being wooed from out the bud." Sibyl summoned Chris, and when he came with his little yellow face gleaming with delight, she said to him:

"Can you show me the way by which Mr. Cairn came yesterday, Chris?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, "I'll take you to the creek as straight as a bee; but you got to cross a log, Miss Sibyl."

"Well," she answered, "I will venture even to risk the danger of falling into the creek, provided I reach Mrs. Cairn's by the nearest way."

The path wound down the hill, descending gradually through the wood into the valley, where the damp fragrance indicated the proximity of water. Silcott Creek above the mill was broad and shallow, unless swollen by rain, when it became a formidable barrier. Rude logs had been thrown across, where the country people and negroes were in the habit of crossing; and before Mr. Earle had bought the Forest this had been a favorite route to Fentonville, as it was nearer than to go around by the public road.

Sibyl lingered for a moment in this sylvan spot, listening to the music of the water as it glided in and out amongst the twisted roots, and over its pebbly bed. She was not romantic; on the contrary, she was said to be most essentially practical, and, to tell the truth, she was thinking now more of the young miller who watched the water-wheel at the mill below than of the sweetness that could grow out of this beautiful solitude. Yet few could draw more exquisite pleasure from nature than Sibyl Earle. She possessed both sense and imagination, and used the faculties which God had given her to see and appreciate the beauty of this world, fashioned by his wisdom, and lovely as only divine love could make it—"a great rolling energy, full of health, love, and hope, and fortitude and endeavor." Her enjoyment was of that deep and quiet sort which does not express itself in rapturous words, and people with far less artistic appreciation of the beautiful in art and nature often accused her of a want of feeling.

"If you listen, Miss Sibyl," said Chris, "you will hear de water; de mill is jest down there."

Sibyl could hear the fall of the water over the mill-dam; and far-off voices seemed to mingle with its splash. She stood with her head slightly bent forward, and over her face had come a soft yearning look—a wistful tenderness which expressed itself in a single sigh. This sigh seemed to arouse her, for suddenly resuming her usual bright cheerfulness she said to herself: "Sibyl Earle, I am ashamed of you; what business have you to be growing sentimental? 'To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together, nowadays. The more the pity that some honest neighbors will not make them friends.' Come, Chris, we have lingered here long enough; let us hurry on."

A short walk brought them to the road which led to Mrs. Cairn's cottage; and soon Sibyl was unfastening the gate which opened into the garden. The cottage nestled modestly beneath the spreading branches of an enormous live-oak tree. A neat white fence surrounded the enclosure, which contained a flower and vegetable garden, and there was an orchard which extended back of the house. The gravelled path which led to the door was carefully rolled, and a rustic bench, contrived out of twisted roots, stood beneath the tree. The flower-garden on the right of the house was small, but exquisitely contrived for effect. Sibyl stood for a moment to admire the grouping.

"These people," she thought, "have never been beyond this stupid village, and yet their æsthetic taste has created something which far surpasses the studied efforts of professional gardeners; that gnarled trunk, unsightly in itself, has been made beautiful by the graceful vines which twine their tendrils about it—and there stands the most glorious japonica tree that I have ever seen. Yes, I may say a tree, for its waxy flowers almost touch the low cottage roof."

Mrs. Cairn had espied her visitor, and came toward her smiling with pleased satisfaction at the young girl's evident admiration of her much-prized garden.

"Ah, Mrs. Cairn," said Sibyl, extending her hand, "you will pardon me for lingering in this sweet place."

"Most readily," answered Mrs. Cairn, "I am glad that you like it; but pray come in, Miss Earle; you have had a long walk."

Sibyl followed her through the little porch into a parlor, which had evidently been arranged by the same taste which had designed the flower-garden. A long room, with a French window at the end, through which the sunshine came, giving life and color to the geraniums which grew luxuriantly in pots on a rustic stand. Hanging book-shelves; comfortable, low, chintz-covered chairs; a footstool here and there; an old-fashioned Brussels carpet, rich and warm-toned; brass andirons in which one could see his own distorted likeness, so polished was their surface, a few pieces of old china, and everywhere dried grasses, flowers, and ferns. Not an article of luxury, nothing which, taken by itself, was of any particular value; but the tout ensemble perfect, the harmony complete. Mrs. Cairn had succeeded in making her room comfortable and home-like, a place where one could feel the delicious ease of rest; the very opposite of that chilling sensation which comes over us when we enter the cold, gaunt, staring drawing-rooms, where the upholstery is always en évidence, and the price most palpably before us.

Sibyl saw and comprehended at a glance, nor was she surprised, the woman and her surroundings were so perfectly in accord.

"How pretty a place!" she exclaimed, sinking into a chair.

"I am well content," answered Mrs. Cairn; "it is the work of our own hands—Allan's and mine; and I don't believe that things bought out of the superfluous abundance of a heavy purse ever give half the pleasure, which those earned by labor, and contrived by taste, moderated by the necessity of a strict economy, procure for us."

"I have seen many palaces abroad," said Sibyl, "many drawing-rooms at home, but in all there has been to me a sense of uncomfortable splendor, a want of that something which makes this the most pleasant room that in my life I have ever seen."

They fell into a train of talk where each unconsciously revealed the depths of a nature peculiarly sympathetic to the other. There was a certain softness and sensibility about Mrs. Cairn, which, as Allan said, she brought out only on rare occasions; but when it came it irradiated like sunshine. Sibyl felt this now, and almost forgetting her errand she chatted on until the sight of Chris, galloping up and down the garden path with the huge yard dog after him, recalled her to the necessity of accomplishing the purpose of her visit. She adroitly turned the conversation, and when Mrs. Cairn asked if it was settled about Mrs. Drofflum, she answered:

"I think so, quite settled. We called to see Miss Croft a few days ago. She is certainly a beautiful creature, Mrs. Cairn."

"Yes, Lydia is uncommonly well-looking and attractive," and Sibyl thought that just the ghost of a sigh followed her remark. With a woman's quick intuition she saw that Mrs. Cairn had some cause of uneasiness, and at once jumped at a conclusion. What more natural, she thought, than that Allan Cairn should love this girl; but the mother thinks that this thing will not be good for him. "When does Miss Croft go to Baywood?" inquired Sibyl.

"The day after to-morrow; and, by the way, I have a note for Mrs. Drofflum, which I will take the liberty of asking you to deliver. I wrote it this morning, intending to get Jack Strong to take it up. Mr. Fenton would like Mrs. Drofflum to go over to-morrow, in order to get things settled before Lydia goes. He is strangely infatuated about the girl, and is receiving her with all the attention which would be her due were she one of his own blood. I do not altogether understand it, unless I attribute it to a chivalric adoration for her youth and beauty, and that exquisite delicacy of sentiment which Mr. Fenton possesses in so high a degree."

Sibyl's countenance had brightened perceptibly, and Mrs. Cairn in her turn guessed that Mrs. Drofflum's departure from the Forest was in some way desirable to her.

"You know, Mrs. Cairn," Sibyl said, seeing the look of inquiry in her face, "that mamma is so very delicate and nervous that she does not always desire the presence of strangers, and Sabrina is not one of her favorites; she bears an unreasonable dislike to her, growing out of her own feeble condition. I must be very candid, my dear madam, on this matter. Mrs. Drofflum, as far as I Know—we were at school together—is a perfectly correct woman, and conscientiously pious. I will, however, admit that she is not without a certain coquetry, which arises perhaps out of the knowledge of her own powers of fascination, which her vanity sometimes leads her to exercise to the very borders of propriety." Sibyl was thinking of her father, and spoke more earnestly than she had intended.

"This is certainly objectionable," answered Mrs. Cairn, "but if she is conscientious—which seems to me somewhat incompatible with a vain desire to please men—her duty to Lydia may prove a safeguard to her, and restrain the natural bent of her nature. Mr. Fenton, I think, is quite secure from all feminine wiles."

"Indeed, Mrs. Cairn," said Sibyl warmly, "I could not give my sanction to Sabrina's undertaking the charge of Miss Croft, if I really believed her unworthy. The knowledge which I possess of her character justifies me in saying this."

Sibyl was thoroughly sincere in her opinion—mistaken as it afterwards proved to be—and impressed Mrs. Cairn with a belief in Mrs. Drofflum's purity of purpose. We must confess that she gave her the benefit of that charity which "covers a multitude of sins."

After a delicate lunch and an examination of the flower-garden, Sibyl took leave of Mrs. Cairn. Her liking was fast ripening into friendship for this quiet, unpresuming woman, whose superiority so far transcended that of any woman whom she had ever known. Occupied with her thoughts, she walked along the forest path unheedful of the antics of Chris, who, in the exuberance of childish spirits, was capering behind her, imitating the paces of a horse with wonderful accuracy. As she turned into the park she caught sight of two figures walking beneath the trees, secure, as they evidently thought, from all observation. Sibyl stood still for a moment, her face white with anger; for she had recognized her father and Mrs. Drofflum. "Is this innocent flirtation," she thought. "I will not have mamma insulted in this way—she must go away. As to papa"—and a bitter smile crossed her lips—"I understand quite well that Monseigneur s'amuse."

"MORN, in the white wake of the morning star, came furrowing all the orient into gold," when Roger Amerland, equipped for hunting, cautiously emerged from the house, and whistling to his dog started off at a rapid pace toward the mill. There was an eagerness in his manner which the expectation of sport could scarcely have aroused, and much to Bess' disappointment, who ran hither and thither trying in vain to draw her master's attention, he passed on, leaving the ducks unharmed, and proceeded in the direction of Croft farm. He chose a path trodden out by the cows, where they came down to the creek to drink; and he knew it astonishingly well considering the short time he had been in the neighborhood. He leaped across the babbling brook, which gave its tiny help to Silcott Creek, scattering the dew from the downy seed-spikes of the golden rod, and crushing the dry stalks of the weeds, which winter had robbed of their verdure. A flight of wild pigeons swooping through the woods would at any other time have kindled his ardor as a sportsman, but now he stood watching a path that wound around the hill. "I must see her once more," he muttered, "once more, before she goes to Baywood. Here we are safe from the prying eyes of Sarah Hope. It's all wrong, I know; but I love her. Oh! there you are, my darling," he cried, springing forward as Lydia appeared, looking rather pale in the chill morning air until Roger's words called the color to her cheeks. His arm was about her as they stood, both so young, so beautiful, and so hopeful, with the morning sun shining upon them, glorifying their happiness with its first clear rays, and tinging Lydia's beauty with rare touches of color.

"Oh, my darling, my darling, I was so afraid that you would not come. I thought the long night would never pass away, so anxious was I for the morning which was to bring you to me."

"I love the night," said Lydia, "because I dream of you,—such pleasant dreams; but, Roger"—timidly she spoke his name—"you are going away just when I want you most."

"Yes, dear, I am going because I must; but I will not be unhappy. I shall have your love always with me."

He had taken her face in both of his hands, and was looking straight into her eyes. Their lips met while yet the softly spoken words rested on them.

"Lydia," said Roger, "we must take all the sweetness we can out of these few stolen minutes. It is so hard to leave you, darling, and I shall not see you again for so many long months. Will you think of me, will you live but for me? Don't cry, darling, I will come back, so help me God! I will come back to you."

"Roger," exclaimed Lydia, with passionate earnestness, "if I thought that you would not, I would die. Sarah told me last night that you were making a fool of me, and that you would forget me as soon as I was out of sight."

"She is a mischievous old fool," answered Roger. "I'm glad that you are going away from her. By the by, I hear that Mrs. Drofflum is to be your companion at Baywood. I don't altogether like it, Lydia." He remembered now with something like compunction his having yielded to the wiles of this siren; and although he meant nothing, even while kissing her white hand, yet an uncomfortable sensation passed over him now at the thought that Lydia might hear of the tender passages which, until Mr. Earle's arrival, had helped him to pass away the time.

"I don't think that I shall ever thoroughly like her; but she is to help me in my studies, and you know," she added, blushing painfully, "that I am very ignorant."

"Ignorant," answered Roger, "yes, of the accomplishments which boarding-school misses acquire, and which are more often an infliction than a pleasure to society; but your grandfather has guided you into unfrequented paths, and you have found therein riches which embellish you, darling, far more in my eyes than the shallow graces of those women whom the world call accomplished."

"But yet, Roger," answered Lydia, "if I am wanting in these things the world would call me ignorant; and you might some day think that the farmer's granddaughter was not fit to mingle with those delightful people whom you know."

"When you know them as well as I do, darling, you will understand that I love you just because you are not like them. Lydia! my beautiful lily! I have never loved any one before;" and then, conscience-stricken at this monstrously false assertion, he added; "no, as God is my witness, not as I love you."

He was thoroughly sincere in this assertion. Lydia's beauty and artless grace had taken hold upon his naturally tender and enthusiastic nature; and he was ready now to commit any folly for her sake.

"Lydia," he cried, taking her in his arms, and kissing her, "you are everything to me—you are never, never to doubt me, and you will be glad when I come back again, eh! my sweet one?"

"Ask the earth if it is glad for the sunshine," she answered. "Oh! I wish that I might tell grandfather; but perhaps he knows," she added, looking up reverently.

Here the cloven foot showed itself, and Roger hastened to impress upon her the necessity of secrecy; "Grandfather is not here, dear, so we will keep our love all to ourselves; no one need divine our sweet secret."

A startled look in Lydia's eyes, and a slight shudder, as the village wife who cries; "I shudder, some one steps across my grave."

She answered, "I will not deny you this, Roger;" but her heart whispered, "Why does he ask me?" Roger saw her uneasiness, and with a subtle sophistry, clothed in burning, tender words, he reassured her, and the moment came for them to part. These partings are the same all the world over. A loving woman sees her lover depart with tender regret; but she feels no shade of mistrust, no pang of jealous apprehension. The best part of her being has gone forth with him, and she dreams of no possible unfaithfulness to this sacred trust. With man it is different; many things enter into his life apart from his love. He can put it aside, and with no very severe pangs of conscience commit a certain species of unfaithfulness toward the being whom he has sworn ever to cherish.

"One kiss more, Lydia, my precious one—just one more," said the young man, drawing her to him as she was turning to depart.

"Roger, say again that you love me. Your words will help me to live until you come back again."

"Yes—a thousand times yes. I love you, Lydia; I love you."

"God help me," he exclaimed as she disappeared from his view. "Lydia, my love, my love, they shall not part us!"

IT was the month of June—June decked out in gay attire, bright with a thousand hues, merry with the songs of birds, and the whirr of gossamer wings flitting through the balmy air. Baywood had put on a new aspect. The house had been thoroughly renovated, the flower-garden restored, the lawn newly planted in grass that was green and tender, not yet fit for the scythe, and on the broad, rolled carriage-way the marks of wheels were visible.

Mr. Fenton stood on the piazza, looking with eager expectation toward the public road, which was visible from the house. Ever and anon he drew out his watch to mark the slow progress of the minute-hand—slow, for he was expecting Lydia, who had been absent for five months. The lonely man yearned for the companionship of the young creature whom he had taken into his heart, bestowing upon her the wealth of an unselfish love.

Mrs. Drofflum had persuaded him that it was absolutely necessary to give Lydia the benefit of the best masters.

"You should send her to New Orleans, sir, where the taste for music has reached a high degree of cultivation. Lydia's voice is very fine—a full, rich, mezzo-soprano—and a season of opera will be of infinite benefit to her."

She prevailed of course. A letter was despatched to a cousin of Mr. Fenton's, a lady of wealth and high fashion, and in due time her polite answer was received, expressing her delight at the idea of receiving dear Ralph's protégée and her governess; for having passed into the sober realms of middle age she was quite alive to the advantage of having a beautiful girl to chaperon, who added to her personal charms the prestige of being the reputed heiress of one of the richest men in the South. Mrs. Leigh's pains were not lost upon Lydia. With wonderful facility she fell into the ways of the world of fashion, wore her toilettes with inimitable style, and was quite free from the gaucherie of the country girl. "Indeed, Ralph," wrote Mrs. Leigh, "if you were any one else but your dear, honest self, I would suspect that a nearer tie binds you to this charming girl than that of guardian. It is a little singular, isn't it, that the granddaughter of an English farmer should possess the distinctive marks of good blood, and—don't think me ridiculous—a remarkable likeness to the Fentons? Did you never see how like she is to your poor sister Amelia? but I forget, you were away when Amelia grew up beautiful—yet scarcely more so than is Lydia Croft."

Mr. Fenton was secretly pleased. "She is like the Fentons," he said to himself—"the handsome Fentons—not like me, of course."

He went eagerly to work at repairing and beautifying his house, and personally superintended the workmen, lest they should not carry out his plans. Gabriel and Selina were reinforced with an efficient corps of assistants; a handsome carriage stood in the coach-house, and the deserted stable was gay once more with the merry whistle of the groom who had charge of the blooded bays. All was in readiness for Lydia—her home—as Mr. Fenton loved to call it.

As he stood on the steps of the piazza, his eyes involuntarily turned toward the mock-orange tree.

"I saw them this morning," he said to himself, "they flew toward the rising sun; and yet I remember the evil omen which presaged Lydia's first appearance here."

A shade passed over his face as he remembered this. For years his actions had been governed in some measure by the flight of the sparrows which built their nest in the great mock-orange tree. His lonely life and engendered a superstitious observance of certain actions on the part of those birds; and his bright faculties were under the thraldom of his belief in their unerring fidelity in giving him warning of the approach of danger or misfortune.

The sound of wheels, the thud of the horses' hoofs aroused him. He saw the great gate opened by the boy stationed there for the purpose; and in a few moments he had forgotten his speculations, which belonged more properly to the dark ages, and was pressing Lydia in his arms.

"I'm so glad to come back," she said caressingly.

"And I am glad to have you here once more, my dear," he said, looking admiringly at the transformed girl.

Mrs. Drofflum came in for her share of welcome, and then the trio proceeded into the house, where a regular handshaking with the servants, headed by Gabriel and Selina, took place in the hall. Mrs. Drofflum was not long in noticing the wonderful changes which had been wrought during their absence, and she fell at once into enthusiastic praise of Mr. Fenton's generosity and good taste.

"Nothing could be more charming than this room," she said, as they stood on the threshold of a small octagon-shaped apartment, fitted up in blue.

"This is my Lydia's morning room," said Mr. Fenton.

Touched beyond expression at the thoughtful tenderness manifested in every detail of this pretty place, overjoyed to be back again at Baywood, and not altogether as happy as she used to be, Lydia, with brimming eyes, gently raised the hand which she held in her clasp to her lips, and said:

"Dear Uncle Ralph."

Scarcely were the words uttered than she repented of having uttered them; for Mr. Fenton had grown suddenly pale, and the hand which she held trembled as he looked keenly at her.

"I beg your pardon," she said, wounded to the quick.

"On the contrary," he answered, recovering himself and drawing her toward him, "it is for me to ask forgiveness. Remember, dear child, how long it is since I have heard myself called by that familiar name—not since my sister's little Alfred used to romp with me under these old trees. He lies out there"—pointing to the family burial-place—"with the rest of them. Oh! I am fortunate to have you my dear—see I am foolish enough to cry over you."

She saw the tears that dimmed his fine dark eyes, and kissing him murmured: "You are not angry with me then, and I may call you Uncle Ralph?"

"Yes, call me Uncle Ralph, if you will, my child."

Since their parting, seven months before, Lydia had heard nothing of Roger Amerland, except indeed that he was in Europe, whither he had gone with his mother. The new life which had opened before her, with its triumphs and temptations, was not without its dangerous attractions; but she was true to her love, and never swerved for one moment from her allegiance to Roger Amerland, preserving intact that faith in him which had grown into her heart with the knowledge of his love for her. She was sorely tried, poor child, as the time for their meeting passed without a sign from him, and now summer was in the heyday of her luxuriant life, and still he came not.

Mrs. Cairn heard of Lydia's return with something like a pang. During the weary dulness of the winter her life had not been altogether comfortable with Allan, for he had grown taciturn and sometimes moody; and his mother suffered, not knowing exactly how to relieve him of his trouble, for he never spoke of Lydia. After a great deal of womanly manœuvring she succeeded in getting him to take part in the political meetings which were held at Fentonville; and when the young miller's bold words were listened to with attention; when his terse and clear arguments went home to the hearts of the people; when at last he was spoken of as a rising man, then the fond woman saw visions of future triumphs, and she listened to the music of the water-wheel, hearing in its monotonous whirl the untiring movement, the constant patient working that was to bring her dreams to their realization. On the afternoon of Lydia's arrival Allan had gone to the railroad station, not expecting to see her—for he knew nothing of her movements—but merely to pass away a dull half hour at that period of the day when work was over, and men love to congregate about public places. He was standing with some other young men on the platform when the whistle of the locomotive was heard, and at the same time a light and graceful Berline drawn by a pair of beautiful bays drove up.

"By George!" said young Sealey, the lawyer, "there's something new. It belongs to the Earles of course."

"Not so fast Mr. Sealey," said the baggage-master, "I seed another name on that there carriage when it come up last week. 'Twas on the night train, and that's how everybody in Fentonville don't know that Mr. Fenton has got a new carriage."

"Whew!" exclaimed the landlord of the hotel. "I'm a thinking that the old fellow is about losing of his senses—that is the little he's got to part with—a making of all this fuss about Lydia Croft, who's no better than my Sally Ann, for all she's got a new carriage to ride in."

"Come, Mr. Squeers," said the baggage-master, "you mustn't be jealous of your betters. Old Croft left Lydia a good bit of money; or if he didn't it's all the same, Mr. Fenton has got a plenty; and folks say as how he doats upon her. If she is a masterful sort of girl and don't speak much to such as you and me, well, I guess she's got a right to do as she pleases, for she is the beauty of the whole county, and the state, too, I'll bet; I never seed the likes of her. That fine chap who was a staying at Earle's last winter thought so too."

Allan heard all this in silence. His heart beat thick with an emotion which he did not wish the prying eyes of these gossips to discover, and he said not a word until Squeers, looking at him, remarked:

"I'll be blasted, Cairn, if you don't look as if you wanted to pitch into somebody."

"Then," answered Allen sharply, "you are forewarned."

He moved away as the cars came up, and stood apart, watching the passengers alight. A woman fashionably dressed in black, her face covered with a thick crape veil, was followed by a tall, elegant young creature, so completely transformed, that Allan drew in his breath hard, as if he was hurt.

"Is that Lydia," he thought, "that fine lady, who steps so daintily through the gaping crowd, bowing slightly to Mr. Sealey, but ignoring completely the rest of the men?"

She threw back her veil when she was seated in the carriage, and he saw the fresh beauty of her face, a shade paler perhaps than in the old farm days; but oh, so lovely!

"She is not the Lydia who used to scour the woods with poor Porpax, but a high-bred woman, fit now for Mr. Roger Amerland to visit openly."

He had known of Roger's visits to Lydia, and had more than once seen them walking together, talking as only lovers talk; and he had distrusted the young man accordingly. As he saw her borne away toward the home which was now hers, a bitter oath burst from him.

"My mother is right," he thought. "I ought to be ashamed of myself to be pining after another man's love!"

He walked on alone, avoiding the company of Sealey, by saying that he was going directly home, and did not intend to stop at the club room.

"I say, Cairn," cried Sealey, turning back after they had parted, "Silcott was down to see me yesterday about that mill tract. I'm afraid he's going to be troublesome. He's hunted up evidence to prove that the title under which Mr. Fenton got it isn't worth a cent."

"He can hunt up what he pleases," answered Allan, "they have already been to law about it, and the case was decided in favor of Mr. Fenton; at any rate, we've paid down our money for it, and it would be a d—— hard case if my mother was to lose the land."

"So it would—so it would," said Sealey. "I only thought I'd let you know about it; you might need legal advice."

"When I do, Sealey, I hope you will be able to give it," answered Allan, who perceived by the young man's manner, and thick speech, that he was under the influence of liquor. With an uncomfortable sense of coming trouble, Allan said good-night, and turned homeward.

As he walked on in the gathering gloom, torturing himself with vain and bitter longings, going over again the agony of his disappointment, and at last cursing himself for a weak fool, a pleasant voice struck upon his ear, and Sibyl Earle stood before him, holding out her hand.

"Miss Earle," he exclaimed, "I was not expecting to see you."

"It is late for me to be out," she answered, "but I could entrust no one with my errand. My mother is ill, and I came to ask Mrs. Cairn to come to her."

Even in the fading light, Allan saw that she was changed. "You are not going on alone?" he said, strangely moved by her tone and manner. "Pray, Miss Earle, permit me to see you home."

"I shall be very glad of your company, Mr. Cairn," she said quite simply. "I do not fancy going through the wood alone."

Allan walked on by her side, and the same feeling of reliance in this woman came over him which he had experienced at their first meeting. He had scarcely thought of her since. The Earles had been away, and he had been absorbed in business and politics; and his mother—fearing perhaps to irritate him—had never mentioned Sibyl's name, although she had more than once received bright chatty letters from her, which she would have loved to read to him.

As they crossed the bridge Allan held her hand, for it was now almost dark. There was no quiver in the firm grasp of her fingers; no young ladyish terror in crossing the log under which the swollen creek was rushing. As they emerged into the clearer space where the undergrowth had been cut away, Sibyl uttered an exclamation of surprise, not unmingled with terror, as she drew nearer to Allan.

"I'm sure I saw a figure moving among those trees; there it is again!"

Allan caught a glimpse of the receding form, as it moved rapidly away in the direction of the public road.

"Some negro," he said, "going to the village. Do take my arm, Miss Earle, the walking is rough here.

"I am quite sure, Mr. Cairn," she answered, "that the man is white; he was near enough to us when I first saw him to make me certain of this."

"At any rate I am here to protect you, and this prowling fellow need give you no uneasiness."

"I don't think that I could very well be afraid with you," she said, looking admiringly up at his stalwart figure.

Allan was pleased at the words; the very idea of her depending upon him was comforting to his sore heart; he had felt so desolate and forlorn before meeting her.

When they reached the house Sibyl urged him to enter; but he resisted her persuasion, wishing her good-night and promising that his mother would come up early in the morning. She stood pressing her hands tightly together, watching him as he walked rapidly away. A cry went out of her heart toward him—a cry for help in her great trouble—not a cri d'amour, for she did not confess to herself that she loved him, she only felt that she needed the help which his strong, courageous nature could give her.

"Ah, me," she murmured, "his pride will not permit him to cross our threshold, and yet I feel honored by his friendship. Is a man's worth to be tested by his dollars and cents; is Allan Cairn less thoroughly a gentleman because he earns his bread by honest labor?"

Take care, take care, Sibyl Earle; you are treading upon dangerous ground; you are tampering with the prejudices of your class, upsetting the arbitrary laws of the world in which you live, and daring to find out for yourself that a man may be what it is his will to be.

WHEN Sibyl entered the hall she was startled by the sound of stifled sobs, and soon perceived, by the light of the hanging lamp, the form of Chris huddled into a heap on the stairs. This was no unusual occurrence, for "mammy's" discipline was very apt to be followed by an appeal to Sibyl's sympathies, and as she placed her hand upon his head she said:

"What have you been doing, Chris, to get into trouble while I was away?"

"Nothin' 'tall, Miss Sibyl; only look here;" and he raised his face, which was covered with blood, flowing freely from a deep cut over the eye.

"Who has done this, my boy?" she said, in a voice hoarse with horror and indignation.

"Master has come home," he whispered, "and oh, Miss Sibyl! he jest hit me for nothin' 'tall, 'cause I was standing by Madam's door. He said as how I was listening to carry news to you."

Sibyl, with every vestige of color gone from her face, sank down beside the child, overwhelmed by the violence of her emotions. She knew now that the hour of her direst calamity was at hand; and with a superhuman effort she strove to collect her thoughts, and to overcome the weakness which had seized her.

A light foot-fall descended the stairs, and Susie, Mrs. Earle's maid, took hold of Chris, exclaiming, as she saw his blood stained face:

"Good Lord! who's been beating you? Oh! Miss Sibyl, don't, take on so; don't, for God's sake!"

"Susie, help this poor child to my room, and dress his wound."

"Yes, miss," answered the woman; "but you are not well yourself. Stop, Miss Sibyl," she cried, seeing her young mistress about to mount the stairs; "stop, for the Lord's sake;" and she caught her hand, forcibly detaining her.

"Susie," exclaimed Sibyl, now strong with the thought of her mother, "what do you mean by detaining me in this way?"

"Dear Miss Sibyl," answered the faithful creature, "I've got something to tell you. Come into the dining-room, just one minute; there's a good, darling child!"

Sibyl suffered herself to be led into the room, and drank the glass of wine which Susie poured out for her. Chris had followed, and, crouching down by her side, was stanching his blood with her fine cambric handkerchief.

"Susie," cried Sibyl, "why don't you speak?"

The woman went to the door and turned the key; then, bending over her young mistress, she whispered in her ear: "Master has come; and oh! Miss Sibyl, don't you go near him. I was down at Mrs. Stebbins' a getting some fresh butter for madam,—for she fancies hers—and as I was a coming back, after I crossed the creek, I seed two men walking ahead of me. 'Twas just about sundown. I says to myself: 'Them ain't none of the Fentonville folks; for I know pretty well all of the people about here.' They was a talking in a low voice, when all of a suddent, the taller one raised his cane as if about to strike the smaller one. He swore a dreadful oath, and I knew it was your father's voice. I hid myself behind a tree, for I was scared out of my wits. He went on toward the house, while the other man turned back. I saw him as he passed—a pale, down-faced-looking creature; his eyes seemed to be looking everywhere at once. I didn't move until he was out of sight; then I remembered madam, and ran toward the house. I went in the back way, dropped my butter in the pantry, and went upstairs. As I got near the door of madam's room I knew master's voice, and I dared not go in. I heard a low moan, a few words, and then—I can't tell you what happened; for master came out, pushed me roughly into the room, and said: 'Go to the puling creature.' Stop, Miss Sibyl, you must wait; you must not go," she cried, as Sibyl sprang from her chair.

"Susie, you have the worst to tell me, I must go to mamma; why do you keep me from her? Open the door, I command you."

"Oh! Miss Sibyl," moaned the woman; "I am doing for the best—indeed I am—don't go upstairs, not yet, not yet, my poor, poor child!"

Sibyl had unlocked the door, and fear lending her strength, she flew upstairs, Susie and Chris following her.

She found the outer door of her mother's room locked; but turning into the ante-chamber, which served as a dressing-room, she passed quickly into the apartment. At one glance she took in the horrible spectacle. Mrs. Earle lay on the floor, her ghastly face set and rigid, the eyes staring with dreadful fixedness at the child, whom she had left in so sudden and awful a manner.

"He's killed her—he's killed her," she cried, kneeling beside the unfortunate woman, and striving to raise the inanimate body in her arms. "Susie, why do you leave mamma lying here? Oh, this is cruel, cruel! Susie, help me to do something for her," she added, as the woman stood in mute grief, looking at the pitiful sight.

"God Almighty be my witness, Miss Sibyl, I've done all that I could. Mary and Francis are in the other room, and Ben has gone for the doctor. We mustn't touch her, Miss Sibyl, until he comes. Poor mistress," she said, kneeling and taking the cold limp hand in her own brown palm. "You're better off than you was in this world of trouble. Miss Sibyl, I may as well tell you that no doctor can help her. God has been merciful to her; and you and me, that loved her, ought to rejoice that she has gone to glory. Yes, glory be to God! who gives rest to his saints;" and then she fell to weeping and moaning with the vehemence which characterizes her race. Faithful and devoted were those old servants of the Southern planter! Their religious belief was as simple as it was exalted, enabling them to live in communion with a God to whom they clung with the ardent loving trust of children.

A few hours later Mrs. Earle lay straight and rigid on her bed, in the awful silence of the death chamber, unbroken save by the ticking of the clock on the mantel. White drapery covered pictures and furniture; the paraphernalia of death replaced every token of life. Sibyl sat by the window looking out into the summer night; myriads of stars flecked the blue vault above her, and the earth, clothed in the richness of its summer garb, sent forth a thousand perfumes on the soft air. Sibyl was thinking—as we are all apt to do when some dear one has been taken from us—of the days long gone by, of the untold tenderness of that mother who had lavished the wealth of her love upon her.

Oh! how sweet is retrospection when it calls up from the shadowy past memories which awaken the purest and best of which our nature is capable! Living over again the years of her short life, Sibyl came to a period when its bitterness was almost unbearable—when she saw her mother's gentle spirit crushed, and her intellect weakened by constant and cruel persecution. A burning indignation moved her as she thought of the last crowning outrage; and a fear, more terrible than anything that she had yet experienced, took possession of her as she reflected upon her future. Happily for Sibyl she had learned, through the long years of her attendance upon her mother, the power of suffering, the control of her own thoughts, which after all is a conquest, the greatest perhaps that a mortal can achieve; and she turned back now from the impervious darkness into which they were leading her, and fixed them upon the momentous question of duty, which her courageous heart had no idea of shirking. Unselfishness had blossomed out of the sterility of her past life, and what she had given to her mother was rendered back to her now tenfold in those graces which sweeten and brighten life, overflowing the heart with kindness, which, welling over, enriches and beautifies all with which it comes in contact. Her strength was in herself. Never once did Sibyl Earle imagine that there was any one who could help her. If such a longing had ever come over her, it was on the evening before, when she had watched Allan Cairn as he moved away in the shadow of the gloaming. Some hidden weakness and revealed itself—some undefined longing for sympathy, which she did not at all understand, and which she banished now with the bitter, bitter knowledge, that the man who had stirred the hidden depths of her heart was bound to another woman in the thraldom of a love which left him no thought for her.

Suddenly the sharp report of a pistol broke upon the quiet of the night, sending a thrill of terror through her heart. In an instant she was out of the room; and then without a thought for herself she descended the stairs, and passed swiftly along the hall until she came to a small apartment which her father used as a smoking-room. The door was closed, but she unhesitatingly turned the knob, and entering, saw Mr. Earle standing in the middle of the room, his disordered dress and bloated countenance attesting but too truly that the elegant gentleman had fallen into evil ways. He held a pistol in his hand, and the room smelled strongly of gunpowder. One glance at his disturbed countenance convinced Sibyl that he had just passed through some terrible emotion. The sight of her had a peculiar effect upon him; laying the pistol on the table, he folded his hands behind him, and all the craven malignity of his nature expressed itself in the smile which distorted his face.

"So you have deigned to come to me, Miss Earle," he said. "A pretty welcome I've had. Did the noise of the pistol frighten you, my dear? It was only a little mishap which might have deprived you of your father. Click! and it's all over—eh, my dear! the damned worry of living like a dog, with your creditors always at your heels, and women's confounded nonsense"——

"Stop, sir," cried Sibyl; "don't speak of my mother; I cannot bear it."

"The deuce you can't," he growled. "Do you know that we are in a devil of a fix, Miss Earle? I've come back afoot, like a cursed beggar—carriage and horses gone—the Forest mortgaged to its full value, and, but for this," drawing a paper from his pocket, "I shouldn't have enough left to buy a cigar. Your mother has given me an order on Meadows for the money which is to come to her from old Mrs. Severne's estate. I hope she's better of the hysterics which she fell into after this act of generosity. What do you mean, Sibyl, by standing there looking at me with a face like stone? Can't you speak? Do you hear?" he cried, raising his voice to a pitch of menace, and advancing a step toward her.

"Yes, I hear you," she answered; "hear me now. She of whom you speak so lightly is beyond the reach of any further wrong. My mother is dead;" and she realized, as she uttered the words, that he who stood before her now was as guilty of her death as though he had actually plunged a dagger into her breast. "My mother is dead," she said again, as if trying to accustom herself to the horrible meaning of the words.

Mr. Earle, who was an arrant coward at heart, as all of his kind are, experienced a sense of keen alarm, which blanched his bloated face to a deathly hue.

"I had nothing to do with it," he muttered. "She's been dying these eight years; and it's just like my luck to have come here at the wrong time. I had nothing to do with it," he cried in a frenzy, taking Sibyl by the arm and shaking her until her superb hair, loosened from its confinement, fell about her shoulders. "Say, if you dare, that you think so!"

"You are my father, sir; do not by your violence make me forget it."

"A damned undutiful daughter you are, to be coming here at this hour of the night to accuse me."

"God forbid that I should make an accusation against you. Let me go, sir; you are hurting me—let me go."

He removed his hand from her arm; there was something in her face which warned him to try her no further. Her sense of duty had so far restrained the burning words of indignant reproach which were ready to burst forth; she turned, and fled from the temptation of cursing the half-drunken wretch who, alas! was her father. As she passed out into the hall she saw that the front door was open; and a man's tall figure intercepted the moon's rays that came creeping over the polished floor of the porch. He heard her footsteps, and he went to her and quietly took her hand.

"Miss Earle," he said, drawing her toward the open door, "mother is there," pointing to the room above, "you are faint; come for a moment into the air."

Sibyl yielded, feeling a strange sense of comfort come over her, as she looked up into Allan Cairn's grave face, every line of which expressed the sympathy which he so deeply felt for her. He drew a rustic chair a little out of the moonlight, and she sank into it, exhausted, and sobbing in that low suppressed way which is so agonizing for a man to witness. As he looked upon this young girl, whom he had known so short a time ago, happy, as he believed, with all the good gifts of fortune, he could scarcely realize that the pale suffering face upon which he was gazing could be the same which had greeted him with smiles so bright and full of genial kindness. They were silent, while the whip-poor-will sent out its clear, sad notes from its haunts about the creek. The inexpressible beauty of the summer night grew painful to Sibyl, as she looked out upon a scene which contrasted so bitterly with her own misery.

"How fair a world is this!" she said, "and God's creatures suffer most when Nature mocks them with such beauty as this."

"Is it not rather a solace?" answered Allan. "I think that one can scarcely be hopelessly miserable when the voice of God comes in the stillness of the summer night, telling us in language which we must be strangely dull if we cannot understand, how much we are to Him, since He has made all this for our happiness. A keen perception of the beautiful in Nature goes far to reconcile one to many of the uncomfortable conditions of living."

"Ah!" said Sibyl, "this thing of living under certain circumstances is hard enough. However fair the world, it is but a dreary place to a woman like me."

Allan wished to comfort her, and yet he felt a strange reluctance to say the words, a sort of uneasy consciousness that at this moment there was an awakening in his heart, which was irreconcilable with that sense of consistency which he, in his stern probity, considered essential to an upright and honest purpose. He believed that his love for Lydia, unrequited though it was, was a sort of barrier against any tenderness toward another woman, a sort of infidelity toward her, the thought of which gave him pain; but as he looked down in Sibyl's pale face, he thought that there was something in it which would outlast many a fairer one, a beauty which would grow with her years, crowning even her old age with its halo—that beauty which is beyond art, dependent neither upon color nor contour, the beauty of expressed purity—the divine light of a noble soul.

He was startled by the opening of a door, and the sound of unsteady footsteps coming through the hall. Before Sibyl could warn Allan of his approach, Mr. Earle came out on the porch. Allan comprehended at once all that was expressed in Sibyl's face, as she murmured: "Oh, papa!"

Stepping from out of the shadow, and bowing, he said:

"I must apologize to you, Mr. Earle, for being here at this unusual hour. I accompanied my mother, and, while waiting for her, Miss Earle has been good enough to make me feel that my presence is not an intrusion."

"Ah, indeed! 'Miss Earle has been good enough,' but may I, sir, her father, take the liberty of inquiring whom I have the pleasure of addressing?"

St. George Earle was speaking now du haut de sa grandeur, although he was obliged to cling to balustrade for support.

Allan, irritated at the insolence of his tone, replied: "I am Allan Cairn, sir, and can boast of no better passport to your favor than that of being, I hope, an honest miller."

"Permit me, sir, to congratulate you upon possessing a quality which, joined to honesty, may lead to fortune—that of audacity."

"Are you aware, sir," said Allan hotly, "that your words are offensive?"

"I claim the right, sir," answered Mr. Earle, "the right which every gentleman possesses, of choosing my own company. I look upon your being here, sir, as an intrusion, an intrusion upon the sacred privacy of an afflicted family."

"Papa," cried Sibyl, losing her self-control, which up to this moment she had preserved, "we are honored by Mr. Cairn's presence. He is too generous," she added, laying her hand on Allan's arm, "to resent the indignity which you have put upon him. For my sake, Mr. Cairn, forget this dreadful scene. Do you not see," she whispered, "how it is?"

Allan took her hand for a moment within his own, and bending over her, he said: "Be comforted, dear Miss Earle. You may need a friend; do not forget that I am ready to serve you truly and faithfully. Good-night."

The moonlight fell full upon Allan's face as he spoke, and Mr. Earle, who had fallen against the column of the porch, straightened himself by a surprising effort, and looking with imbecile curiosity into the young man's face, exclaimed: "By George! I have it now; Reginald Fenton himself, in the flesh, as I live! Young man, do you happen to know who your father was?"

The words fell with a crushing blow upon Allan. How many times had this sickening question come up to him, tormenting him almost into a frenzy with the hideous doubts which it aroused? How many times had he determined to break through his mother's strange silence, and demand from her what he had every right to know; and here was this man adding to his insults by a question which carried in its meaning the foulest aspersion which a man can suffer—that which falls upon his mother's good name. Quivering with anger, his eyes flaming, and his face blanched, Allan made one step toward Mr. Earle; he might have struck him in his blind fury, had not Sibyl raised her hands entreatingly.

"Miss Earle," he said, overcoming by a mighty effort the strong emotion which swayed him like a reed, "you must acknowledge that I have been sorely tried. Pray let me see you under my mother's protection before I go. I cannot leave you here."

But Mr. Earle, waving him aside, and almost losing his equilibrium, offered his arm to Sibyl. "I will see you to your apartment, my daughter. If this fellow insists upon staying on my premises, I will—call Reuben—to—put him—out."

Allan heard something about the "sacred privacy of home invaded by scoundrels, and the high responsibility of shielding his daughter from adventurers;" but an entreating look from Sibyl caused him to turn away; and he remembered long afterwards the prayer which he read in that sweet, suffering face.

THE frogs kept up their discordant concert, an owl hooted from the top of a pine that waved in unison with its giant brethren, creating a solemn dirge—swelling and dying away in sighing cadences—making the night so mournfully sad that Allan's heart grew heavier as he listened to the wonderful rhythm.

He sat beside the placid mill-pond under the clear moon, his face resting on his hands, his eyes staring straight before him, looking into vacancy. He was young, in the heyday of life—he had fed the fire of his ambition with fresh hopes and earnest purpose—he was strong to do—courageous to suffer, but oh! the agony that shook him now, the dull, heavy pain at his heart!

He chafed—as the young always do—at the slowness of his progress, and the unsatisfying monotony of his life. He did not yet see the lessons of patience and self-restraint which he was daily learning from the very monotony and dulness which he found so wearisome—he did not see that while others were outstripping in the race, he was picking up the golden apples. He asked himself now what availed this struggle for the prize of distinction. "How dare I," he muttered, "go among men and lift up my head with the best of them. I am a lie, a sham, a deceit. Allan Cairn doesn't even know that he honestly bears his name." At this moment the fiend of suspicion entered his heart—a blind unreasoning wrath burned and scathed his soul, chasing thence his faith in her whom he had looked upon as the purest of her sex. For a moment Allan Cairn entertained the possibility of his mother's shame; but God has implanted into the hearts of men—I do not speak of those abortions of nature that sometimes blacken the face of the earth—a feeling which often becomes a religion, an exalted reverence for the being to whom they owe their life; and often the greater debt of training which prepares them to battle successfully with the evils that, whatever may be their station, are continually cropping out. The mother sees in the babe the embryo man—the little, formless, shapeless lump out of which she must fashion the future man. Stroke by stroke she patiently works on, always striving to reach that ideal which she has conceived. Hers is a progressive love, expanding under repeated disappointments, springing forth into purer, higher flights the more its sympathies are drawn upon, the greater the stress laid on its patient faithfulness. Before a child has established its relations with the actual world of men, it has the experience of that mysterious sympathy which exists, unknown to itself, between the being whom it calls mother and its own heart. This invisible influence unfolds itself at the least token of alarm—takes up its stand beside the tempted, and often, how often, wards off the peril which menaces the young life with deadly intention. It lives long after the dear hands are folded away in death; and is reproduced in ourselves when the wonderful mystery of creation is repeated for us; and a child lifts up its little voice, quickening our hearts with a new life—giving us a joy inexpressible, which approaches nearer to that divine ecstasy which we often try to understand—the wonderful, the deep mystery of the Incarnation.

Allan had been more intimate with his mother than boys usually are. He could never remember the time when he was not glad to get back to her after school hours, or when her voice was not the pleasantest that could greet his ear. He had grown up, as it were, leaning upon her. She was necessary to him. He had never gone through the weaning process of boarding-school; and had become strong under her care. The time had come now, she had told him, when they must change places. "I am growing weak, my son, while every day adds to your strength. Help me, as I have for twenty-four years helped you."

"I will, so help me God!" he cried, starting from his seat at the remembrance of her words. "Fool that I am! Is not the history of her daily life a surety for her blamelessness? Shall I let the words of a drunken wretch blot out my faith in her? God be my witness that I believe her to be as pure as His angels. Mother, darling mother!" and shaken by the powerful revulsion of his feelings, he bowed his head and wept, as only a strong man can weep—tears wrung from the deep agony of his soul.

The gray of the dawn came creeping over the earth; the stars faded out before the greater glory that gave birth to morning. The fresh, cool air was odorous with the spicy pine and evergreens, and Allan listened to the sounds that, far and near, stirred the new life of the day. He was about to retrace his way toward the Forest, in order to bring his mother home, for she had desired him to come for her at daylight, when he heard footsteps, and turning, saw a stranger walking briskly along in a direction opposite to that which he would have taken had he been going to the railroad. He wore spectacles, and a good deal of tawny-colored beard; a long linen duster covered his clothes so effectually that even the color of them was invisible.

On seeing Allan he seemed at first inclined to pass on without speaking; but, as if suddenly changing his mind, he turned back and said:

"Will you be good enough, sir, to direct me the nearest way to Hamilton? I am a stranger to the country, and am at a loss about the roads."

"You will have no difficulty," answered Allan, "in finding the road. When you've crossed the bridge below the mill, keep straight on until you come to Seth Martin's blacksmith shop. The road turning to the right will lead you directly to Hamilton."

The eyes of the stranger had been fixed intently upon the young man, and he said: "I am much obliged to you," in a tone so totally different from the one in which he had at first addressed him, that Allan, in his turn, looked astonished. "By George!" he thought, "putting two and two together, this fellow's being about at this early hour of the morning looks queer." Then he remembered Sibyl's declaration, that the man whom she saw the evening before was white. The stranger, marking the expressive look with which Allan regarded him, at once put himself on his guard.

"You are an early riser, sir," he said, in a bland tone. "I scarcely thought to meet any one at this hour. I consider myself fortunate, however, for I was really puzzled about the road. I have a relation living in the next county, whom I not seen for years, and, being a city man, I prefer making my journey on foot, as I am no horseman."

"I suppose you stayed at the hotel last night? Mrs. Squeers can give a clean bed and excellent coffee."

"I had the misfortune to lose my way, and making the best of an unpleasant predicament, passed the night under the stars. That will account to you for my early appearance. I was, after all, near Fentonville, if I had only known it. Thanks for your courtesy, sir. I wish you a very good-morning."

He walked away at a brisk pace, turning his head once, to find Allan gazing after him. "What deuced luck," he muttered, "to have come across that staring fellow, who must have been abroad before the birds were out. Such a night as I've had with the old woman! but I have her safe enough now. We are a nice pair, she and I; but she came down handsomely. Well for me that she did, since Earle, in spite of his promises, has done nothing. Ah! he raised his cane last night when I whispered a caution to him. He would have struck me, ha! ha! in his drunken fury. What strange fancies we sometimes take. Now I have just seen a ghost of the past, a face which brings back to me a time, long years ago, when I, a lad, stood beside a tall young man on the deck of the Australian steamer. As I looked up at him, a genuine admiration filled my heart, for in him I saw the finest type of manly beauty. I have never seen it so nearly repeated as in the person of the man from whom I have just parted."

WHEN Lydia went to live at Baywood, Mr. Fenton permitted Sarah Hope to remain at the farm, allowing her a liberal share of its profits. After a week of tormenting terrors, during which sleep fled from her eyes, and mysterious voices laughed and gibed at her from every corner of the old house, she determined to take a girl to live with her. This was a momentous question. She at once rejected the idea of a negro; and the choice among the whites was extremely limited. There were but few very poor whites about Fentonville; and most of them would have scorned the idea of placing one of their children out at service, considering that servitude brought them too nearly on a level with the negro. Sarah knew very little of the people beyond her immediate neighborhood; so, in her dilemma, she had recourse to Mrs. Stebbins.

Putting on her green sun-bonnet, she made her way one morning to the old lady's house and explained her trouble.

"Now, Mrs. Hope," said Mrs. Stebbins, taking off her spectacles, and polishing them with her pocket handkerchief, "if I was in your place I would just take my Delia. She is a handy girl, and as I raised her myself, I know that there's few that can beat her a working. She is as good as white, for all her skin is black; and I don't see as how she's responsible for that. I tell you that I don't know a more decent girl. You shake your head. Well, 'A man convinced against his will,' etc., you know, so I'll say no more about it, though I should like to find a chance of hiring her, I've got so many idle ones about me."

Dismissing the prospect of turning Delia's qualifications into a monthly advantage, she sat for several moments in profound thought. "I've got it," she said; "there's Meggs' Andy Jane; you might try her. If you want to walk down there, Jake can show you the way."

"Well, I'll just go at once," said Sarah, rising and drawing her bonnet on over her face. "It's a poor place that a decent servant girl can't be had in;" and with this gracious acknowledgment of Mrs. Stebbins' service, she strode away followed by Jake.

A little up Silcott Creek, about a quarter of a mile above the mill, and on a slight elevation, stood the log structure which had been in process of erection for the last two years, Mr. Meggs doing a little at a time, and spending the intervals hanging about the tavern down in the village. The impoverished state of the edifice, and the general air of uncomfortableness and want of order about the place were particularly discouraging to Sarah. A low snake fence inclosed the yard, which was innocent of any attempt to pervert its natural aspect. The underbrush had been cut away, and the refuse of the family wardrobe hung about like tattered banners from the low branches of the scrub-oaks which grew near the house; the fence was likewise adorned. A lye-hopper stood in one corner, a rudely constructed chicken-house in another; and, to Sarah's indignation, after scrambling over the fence she was expected to risk her neck by walking a plank which Mr. Meggs had temporarily placed against the sill of the door, intending, as he said, to make the steps "the first chance." To what period in the future he referred no one had ever been fortunate enough to discover; that "first chance" invariably lengthened itself out to one interminable interval. In the meantime the children enjoyed themselves running up and down its slippery surface; and it afforded Mrs. Meggs an opportunity of indulging in many pointed remarks about men in general, and Tom Meggs in particular. Mrs. Meggs had evidently been occupied in getting up the family linen; a strong smell of soap suds pervaded the apartment, and little rivulets of dirty water were making their way over the cracks between the planks. Seated upon an empty candle-box, she was giving nourishment to a short, chubby baby, who seemed to be struggling painfully to obtain what he wanted. Seeing her visitor, she put the baby on the floor, twisted up a wisp of sandy-colored hair and buttoned up her garment; then, remembering her manners, she put out her hand, which Sarah barely touched with the tips of her fingers, and, drawing a dilapidated rocking-chair out of the corner, invited her visitor to be seated.

Sarah thought, as she looked at Mrs. Meggs, that the woman had been very hardly treated by nature, for she had been fashioned with an utter disregard to the laws of proportion. Lank as a grayhound, she rose to a most uncomfortable height, her narrow shoulders stooping forward, and her head set on to a long scrawny neck. Her face was lighted up now with an expression of astonishment and curiosity as she said to Sarah: "Just you mind not to get your coat tail in the water. I haven't got no conveniences about me, and I jest have to take things as they come. I have been a washing here this morning."

"So I see," answered Sarah, looking aghast at the disorder and squalid poverty which was the distinctive feature in the Meggs' ménage. "It's a poor place, to be sure," she added, "but to my mind no place is so poor that it couldn't be made better by cleaning up and putting to rights."

"Well, I do declare!" cried Mrs. Meggs, "you hain't come here to talk to me about cleaning up, when I'm a slaving eternally after them six children. It's as much as any mortal can do to put bread in their mouths, and as for clothes, well, I don't know as how they've got a decent rag amongst them. Are you married?" she added, standing before Sarah with her arms akimbo.

"No," said Sarah, very shortly.

"Well, then, you don't jest know nothin'. I'm free to say that a woman with six children at her heels, and a drinking man thrown in, is about up to all she knows to keep life and soul together. There ain't a dust of meal in the house to-day. Meggs has gone down to the tavern. I didn't see him go, but I'm always pretty sure that he is skulking about there, and I had to send Jeames Robert down to the mill to beg a peck of Mr. Cairn." Sarah thought that this was a fair opportunity to put in a word, so she said:

"I was told that you had a girl who might suit me. I am alone, and I want to get a white girl to help me in the work. She will have good clothes, plenty to eat, and will learn to work. I am not given to many words; here's an opportunity to better yourself; you'll have one mouth less to feed, and I don't know but that I could let you have cold victuals now and then."

Mrs. Meggs uttered her favorite exclamation of "My sakes! I do declare!" and said slowly, as if trying to take in all the advantages included in Sarah's proposition, "and so you want Mirandy Jane?"

"Yes, in case she suits me. Is she anywhere about? I would like to see her."

Mrs. Meggs went to the back door and shouted in a shrill treble: "You, Andy Jane, come here!" Andy Jane, as she was called for short, was occupied hanging out the clothes, but upon hearing her mother's voice, and apprehending that the baby had fallen into the clothes-kettle, she flew toward the house, ran lightly up the plank, and presented herself before her future employer. Sarah's breath was taken away by the apparition of this tall girl, who seemed no way embarrassed at seeing a stranger, or concerned about her own singular appearance. Andy Jane had grown out of her dress, and its short skirt permitted, as Sarah thought, an indecent display of legs. Her light hair had been cropped short about her ears, and her face—an improvement upon her mother's—was covered with freckles; but there was an air of self-reliance about her, and a good-humored twinkle in her light blue eyes which were not lost upon Sarah. She measured the girl's height and breadth, and calculated the quantity of stuff which it would take to make her a gown. Andy Jane had taken her little brother from the floor, and was talking to him in a soft, low tone, while he wound his hands in her thick hair and crowed with delight.

"See here, girl," said Sarah, "would you like to earn wages, and have clothes to cover up your nakedness?"

"I shouldn't wonder if I did," the girl answered; "but it's of no use your coming here to make game of me; I know that nobody is a going to hire me."

"I haven't come to make game of you, and I have a mind to hire you."

"Don't you be a deceivin' of yourself about me," said Andy Jane, looking straight at her; "I don't know nothing, I don't."

"Now, Mirandy Jane, you just hush up," cried Mrs. Meggs. The vision of a few dollars coming in monthly to fill the empty meal-tub, and give her a slice of bacon to boil with her greens, was so inviting that she determined to repress Andy Jane's excess of honesty, which she considered quite out of place in a girl who hadn't a shoe to her foot, or a whole garment that she could call her own. "She's got a way of talking, ma'am, always a running down of herself, when she's as spry as can be, and do as good a day's work as I can."

Sarah had been going over mentally the chance of making a decent servant out of Andy Jane; and, although present appearances were discouraging, the remembrance of the lonely nights at the farm at once decided her to make the experiment. Andy Jane was not so much elated at her brilliant prospects as might have been expected. She loved her home, poor as it was, and as she thought of leaving little Joe her eyes filled with tears. She hugged him closer to her as she said: "If I thought I could help mammy, I shouldn't mind going for a spell; but I don't know how she's to get along without me; and who's to take care of little Joe?"

"As if Dolly wasn't big enough to mind Joe, and to work too," said Mrs. Meggs, glancing at an open-mouthed girl, who stood with a limp sun-bonnet hanging over her face, listening to the conversation, and trying to understand what it was all about.

"She is big enough," said Andy Jane, "if you can keep her out of the peanut patch."

Dolly's stained fingers and torn dress were direct proofs that the imputation of a fondness for peanuts was not altogether unfounded.

"Let me just catch her," said Mrs. Meggs, shaking her finger menacingly at Dolly. "Now, it's just this, ma'am," turning to Sarah; "I'm agreeable to your trying Andy Jane; she's got no eddication, but she's been raised honest; you needn't be a locking up nothing from her. I s'pose as how I'll have to talk Meggs into letting her go; he's kinder proud like, and stubborn enough, too, when he takes a fit. If everything turns up straight, I'll send Andy Jane up to your house to-morrow, and look here," she added, putting her face quite close to Sarah's; "don't you let Meggs know as you are to pay wages; he's sorter prying like; you understand."

"Quite," said Sarah; "I'll see that you get the money."

Things being thus settled, Sarah rose to undertake the perilous descent of the plank. Having safely reached the ground, she said "good-by" to the assembled family, and was walking away, when Andy Jane ran down the plank, and clutching her sleeve said: "I'm not a going a step, unless you promise to let me come back to see mammy and little Joe; and don't you be expecting nothing of me, I don't know nothing—I don't!"

"You shall come once a week to see your mother; and I believe you when you say you don't know nothing; none of you look as if you did. Give your skin a good soaping, and comb your hair, and come around by the back way; your legs ain't decent."

"No more'n they ain't," said the girl; "but I didn't make 'em."

She darted away, and concealing herself behind the lye-hopper, gave vent to her outraged feelings by alternately sobbing and apostrophizing the unlucky members as "nasty red things, as was only made to be the plague of my life." She stuck them out, looked at them, and then, as if exasperated beyond all self-control, she ground her heels into the ash-bed, until a perfect cloud of gray dust rose up around her. Choking and suffocated, she got up and shook herself. What effect this discipline had upon Miss Meggs, I am unable say. I can only surmise that she returned to the house in an humble frame of mind, as she said to her mother, "They are going to be covered up, and that's a blessing." After much demur Mr. Meggs condescendingly gave his sanction to the departure of his daughter from the shelter of the family roof, remarking at the time that it was as much as he could do to let her go.

"You mind, Mirandy Jane, and do credit to your family," he said, as she stood with her wardrobe tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief, ready to start for her new home. "Remember your name is Meggs, Mirandy Jane Meggs, and that you are as good as anybody, and don't you be a demeaning of yourself."

"All right," answered Andy Jane, with a face so white that every freckle stood out in bold relief. "Now, don't none of you come a nigh me, I ain't going to say good-by; I won't say a word to nobody," and making use of the obnoxious legs to good purpose she set out, Jeames Robert striding after her.

She had now been seven months with Sarah, who had fulfilled her promises to the letter. In spite of many difficulties she had managed to fashion the ignorant, uncouth girl into a respectable-looking servant, whose capability and honesty made up for much that was, in Sarah's estimation, exceedingly objectionable. Any attempt to deceive her only resulted in her employer's complete discomfiture. She had learned to dread the girl's sharpness, and to redouble her own caution with regard to certain letters which now came at regular intervals, always producing an increase of ill-humor, under which Andy Jane's patience and endurance were sorely tried. Her suffering in this respect, however, acted as a stimulant to her curiosity, and, in spite of Sarah's careful concealment, she had discovered that the woman was in daily expectation of something which she dreaded—something that kept her out of her bed at night, walking to and fro, to and fro, while her eyes glanced from side to side in a fearful, nervous way, which set the girl's hair on end, and caused her to wish herself safe at home in the trundle-bed which she had occupied width her two youngest brothers and her sister.

ANDY JANE had retired to the back porch after washing up the tea things. She did not much relish Sarah's companionship, nor did she affect the knitting work which was always on hand, whenever, as Sarah expressed it, "she was a hankering after some wickedness, just for want of something to do." She had half a mind now to run down to the pasture to get a look at Blossom's calf. The red sunset was paling into rose and violet, and as the light died out of the west, and shadows came creeping over the earth, the girl shuddered and wished herself away from Sarah and the lonely gloomy house.

"I won't see Blossom's calf to-night," she thought; "I might have been down there and back while I have been watching the sun go down. It's just about little Joe's bedtime. I wonder if mammy has any milk for him to-night. Jeames Robert didn't come up this morning, and I've had no chance to send any. Oh! if it wasn't for mammy and little Joe I'd snap my fingers at Mrs. Sarah Hope, that I would; and I wouldn't be a shaking out of my life, lying awake at night a listening to the ghosts, and a hearing of her walking up and down to keep 'em from carrying her away bodily. I don't see no good her going to what she calls 'mass;' she's always like red pepper and strong vinegar when she comes back." Miss Meggs' reflections were broken in upon by Sarah's sharp voice calling to her.

"I know it," she said, getting up from the step on which she had seated herself; "she can't let a body have a minute to herself. I'm a coming," she cried, in reply to Sarah's repeated call, and, entering the kitchen, she stood bolt upright in the middle of the floor, and said: "I'm here."

"What have I told you about wasting words, Andy Jane? Is it likely that you'd be about, without being seen, such a May-pole as you are!"

"You needn't be a calling of names. Good looks is scarce enough, and if I haven't got any, well, just the same to you."

"Andy Jane, just mind how you answer back. Don't stand and look at me; you'll be a wanting of them stockings before they're done."

"I shouldn't wonder if I did."

Taking the stockings from a basket which stood on a table, she sat down and unrolled her work. Reluctantly as she began, her fingers went deftly enough, and Sarah eyed, with something like satisfaction, the shapely length of leg which hung from the needles. These two were not wont to talk much together; they might as well have been automata, so silent were they as they worked. It was well-nigh on to nine o'clock when the girl, remembering that she had forgotten to fill the kettle, put away her work, and saying that she was going out after water, rose, and taking the bucket from the shelf left the room.

The moon had risen, and every object in the yard was quite visible. Andy Jane went straight to the well, and giving the windlass a turn, stood leaning on the curb, watching the bucket as it descended. As it struck the water a shadow fell across her view, and looking up she perceived a man standing close beside her. The shriek which she would have uttered was suppressed by his stepping forward, and quickly putting his hand over her mouth:

"Don't make a fool of yourself," he said; "I'm not going to harm you. You must answer a few questions, and then jump into the well for what I care."

Andy Jane was no coward, and possessed a degree of self-control which served her to good purpose now. She motioned to the man to remove his hand. "You needn't have come upon a person so suddint," she said, in a suppressed voice; "you scared me half to death; but you can just say want you've got to say and go about your business."

"Where did you get your manners, my lass?"

"Where you left yours," she replied; "and a poor lot they were when I picked them up. If you don't talk fast I'll go into the house."

"You'll do no such thing," he replied, "until you've answered me; I've got a little piece of advice to give you, my lass;" and he drew a pistol from his pocket, bringing it fearfully near to he now terrified girl. "Keep a still tongue about what you've seen to-night. To-morrow morning you'll just think that you've been dreaming."

"I never did you no harm," she faltered; "men don't shoot poor girls, when they haven't got as much as a gold ring on their finger."

"I don't intend to shoot you, my dear; nobody is fonder of girls than I am; but it won't do for you to be blabbing; you understand. Now you'll tell me who lives in this house?"

"Mrs. Sarah Hope, sir."

"Good; now you are to stay here while I go to speak with Mrs. Hope—particular business—secrecy necessary. Anybody else in the house?"

"No, sir."

"Where do you sleep?"

"Restless, eh? Upon consideration I'll permit you to go to your room. It isn't pleasant staying out in this lonely place at night. Can we get there without disturbing Mrs. Hope?"

"Yes," she answered, in a tone of hopeless resignation, having quite given up the idea of resisting this dreadful man.

"Then lead the way, and mind you tread like a cat."

He followed the wretched Andy Jane across the yard and into the house. The hall was quite dark, and he laid his hand upon her arm, "merely as a precaution, my dear," he whispered; "you might give me the slip." When they had mounted the stairs she stopped. "I won't budge another step," she said, "until you promise not to harm Mrs. Hope."

The moonlight came through the window at the end of the hall near which they stood, and the man saw the white, resolute face of the girl.

"By Jove!" he whispered, "you've got some pluck. I swear I'm not going to harm the woman. She is an old friend of mine, and if I choose to come and see her in this way, why it's my own affair. Mind," he added "go to sleep, and forget all about to-night."

He thrust her into the room, and putting the key on the outside locked the door; then he descended the stairs, and guided by the light that came from under the kitchen door, walked stealthily toward it.

Sarah never sat in a room after dark with the door open. She had shut it when Andy Jane went out, and lighted an extra candle.

Her knitting was on the table, and she sat rigidly erect in her chair—her keen ear had caught the sound of approaching footsteps. In the deep silence she could almost hear the breathing of the man who stood with his hand upon the lock. Where was Andy Jane that she did not come back? As the door slowly opened, her eyes were fixed with horror upon the figure which stood on the threshold, her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and she put out her hands wildly before her, as if to keep off the presence which her excited imagination had converted into a supernatural horror. Seeing her pitiable condition, the man stepped forward and said:

"Mother, don't you know me?"

She staggered to her feet, looked at him with hungry, eager eyes—scanning his strange bearded face—searching out the lineaments of the boy who, so many years before, she had sent away from her.

"I don't know you," she cried; "I don't know you."

"You don't know me?" he said, taking off the wig and false beard which he wore.

"Oh, my son, my son!" and for a moment she stood with outstretched arms, the mother's love triumphing over every other feeling; but there was no answering tenderness in the man's face, and seeing this, all her fears returned with tenfold violence, and she said in a dry, hard voice:

"What have you come for—why are you stealing into the house at night—what hindered you from coming in the day?"

"All in good time, old woman. Can't you offer a man a chair—is this the way to welcome a son who has been to the end of the world?"

She pushed a chair toward him, and said: "Don't you be trying to deceive me. You've come back for no love of me. You've come for some purpose of your own."

"And suppose I have," he said, looking straight at her. "Suppose that I am going to ask you to help me, you won't refuse, I think."

She cowered before him, twisting her long bony fingers together in a nervous, restless way.

"Come," he continued, "no nonsense, mother. I know how to keep a secret, and so do you. I haven't come all this way for nothing, and when you've given me a drink—I know old Croft kept good brandy—I'll tell you my errand."

She rose with a look on her face which would have moved a heart less hard than that of the man who sat watching her. Going into the pantry, she returned with a decanter and glass, and setting them down before him, she said: "There it is—drink, that you may have the courage to tell me what fresh misery you are bringing upon me."

"All in good time," he answered, pouring the glass half full of the raw spirits, and taking it off at a draught. "Now," he said, wiping his lips, "we will come to business: time is precious with me."

She visibly paled as he drew his chair nearer and their eyes met. "Stop," she cried, as he was about to speak; "where is the girl?"

"Oh, don't bother about her—she's out of hearing."

"God Almighty!" she exclaimed, clutching his arm, "you haven't"——

"No, I haven't' he laughed; "only locked her up; and I promise you she won't peach."

Sarah's heart was throbbing with a feeling which she did not half understand. All the long years which had passed since her parting with her boy, had only augmented her blind devotion to him. She knew him to be utterly unworthy—incapable of rendering back one iota of her affection—incapable of understanding how in the past she had sinned for him—and ready now to hold that sin over her head as a menace to extort from her the money which had been left to her by Mr. Croft. She knew that his coming boded no good for her, yet she was glad, glad in her heart to look upon this being who was her own, and yet she determined to stand firm against the weakness of letting him see it. "He has come back for no good," she repeated again and again to herself, as she looked upon his hard face, upon which there was not even the semblance of pleasure at seeing her again. "O God!" she wildly cried; "am I to suffer more severely yet for what I have done? Must my punishment come from him?" Yes, it is coming, Sarah Hope. "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord." It is coming through your own flesh and blood. He, for whom you forgot God's laws, is the instrument in His hand by which your sin will be brought home to you.

In a hard, stern way, she asked him again why he had come to her.

"Didn't your own letter bring me? Are you going to enjoy all the good things to yourself? Don't you suppose a fellow who has knocked about the world, and been pretty roughly handled sometimes, wants to be comfortable?"

"It's not for that you're come," she answered.

"Well, if I have another purpose, you are not going to prevent me from executing it. We've got to pull together, old woman; the game is not up yet."

"Speak plainly," she said; "let me know what you expect of me; I can't suffer any more than I have done. Oh, the years that I have lived upon this earth in dread! and now you have come stealing upon me, asking of me to help you—help you to do what?"

"To reap the reward of my faithfulness," he sneered. "I have brought my master back. He would never come so long as his health and intellect stood up against the pressure of his shame and remorse; but now I have things pretty much my own way. But for a damned Hindoo, who sticks to him like a leech, I would soon settle my business. He has been wandering about the East all these years, living upon a lucky strike which he made in Australia. It was only after he settled in Bombay that I accidentally discovered his real name. As his health began to fail, his restlessness and fretfulness became almost unbearable, and finally he fell into a state of settled melancholy, a sort of insanity, which left him completely in my power. From his wandering talk I gathered much of his history, and from him I learned—your secret."

Sarah sat fixed and livid before him; the horror in her face had changed into something fearful to look upon. She did not speak, she did not move; but great drops had gathered on her brow, and her teeth were pressed down upon her lip until the blood trickled from it. Her son looked at her unmoved, and continued:

"Yes, your secret and his. You helped me to find the way to you; for in spite of all your precaution one of your letters was post-marked from New Orleans. One night I had the good luck to fall in with a swell from this place. He was scattering his money pretty freely, and when he had lost to a large amount I lent him more. His obligation was heavy enough for me to get a good grip upon him, and I just divulged enough of my history to interest him and get what information out of him I could. He's in a devil of a fix, and I found that I could trust him with my plans, which I promised, if successful, should also benefit him and help him to pull through.

"Damn him! he has grown arrogant since he came here, and called me an insolent puppy to-night, raising his cane to strike me. He is growing too curious; but I have a tight grip upon him; he dare not betray me. Reginald Fenton, alias Christian Woodleigh, is now at a house thirty miles from here. He has recovered his mind in an astonishing manner since he reached America, and he obstinately refuses to make himself known to his brother. I believe he would die first; but he is a poor palsied creature, unable to walk without assistance, and up to this time I have done with him pretty much as I pleased. The confounded Hindoo has taken it into his head to suspect me of late, and he watches by his master night and day. He doesn't understand much English, and what I say to the old man is safe enough from being repeated. I would never have got him to America, but for a promise which he made me solemnly swear to fulfil, that is, to seek out a certain Mary of whom he is always speaking. I can't quite make out who she was, for, since his mind has become clearer, he has grown more cautious, and he seldom speaks. Now," he continued, "don't look like that; rouse up, and listen to me. You are to furnish me with money, for my purse is empty. I must have it to carry out my plans."

Sarah winced perceptibly, but remained silent.

"Oh, you'll give it to me," he said, quite confidently, as he drew his chair closer to hers. "If Ralph Fenton was out of the way the old man would take possession of his own; then, what would be so natural as to make a faithful servant comfortable for life? What so commendable as to place him in a position of trust—say agent or overseer. If I once get the management of those plantations, the possession of them would follow in the course of time. I know how to wait, and I have bided my time."

His eyes sparkled, and his face was lit up with a fiendish joy at the prospect of achieving his long-meditated villainy. Sarah moved her lips as if about to speak; but no sound issued from her parched throat. Her son poured out some brandy and handed it to her. She swallowed it mechanically and sank back in her chair, her eyes fixed upon his face with a look of inquiry, which plainly said "go on."

He looked at his watch, drank off another glass of brandy, and thrusting his hands in his pockets took his stand directly before her.

"Just listen, now, with all your attention, to what I am about to say. Next week Dr. Laverne will arrive in Fentonville. All the arrangements for his settling here will be made by his friend, Mr. J. St. George Earle. The proper advertisements will appear in the local paper, and I shouldn't wonder if application wasn't made to you for board. You understand? The doctor will need something to start with—a few hundreds—you've got it in the house. No nonsense," he added, seeing her hesitation.

She rose painfully from her chair, and going to a secretary unlocked it, and drew from out of a secret drawer a roll of bills. She counted three hundred dollars and put back the remainder. With trembling hands the money was delivered to the greedy wretch. "Go, now," she said, "the sooner the better. Do what you will, I cannot help it. Oh, God, the blackness of hell seems closing around me!"

She fell prone to the floor; and he, her son, stood over her, clutching the money in his hand, no sign of pity on his face, no shadow of sympathy for the poor despairing creature who had bartered her soul's welfare for love of him.

"She'll come around all right," he thought. "I don't care to have her look at me again with those stony eyes," and buttoning up his coat and resuming the wig and beard, he sprang up the stairs and turned the lock of Andy Jane's door; then with swift steps he left the house, and going a little way down the road, he turned aside, and seeking a fallen trunk, sat down to wait for dawn.

In the meantime Andy Jane, who had not been asleep during her imprisonment, availed herself of her liberty to go down stairs and see what had happened to Mrs. Hope.

She found her lying of the floor, and her first impulse was to alarm the neighbors; but a movement of the prostrate body decided her to adopt the more sensible plan of trying to restore her. A few vigorous blows on the back—such as she had been in the habit of administering to little Joe when he choked himself with roasted potato—had the desired effect. Sarah rose in a sitting position, and, seeing the girl, at once comprehended the situation.

"Give me a little help, Andy Jane; I've had a little turn. Why ain't you a bed this time of night?"

"A pretty fix you'd a been in if I hadn't come down. A nice visitor you've had, Mrs. Hope, a scaring everybody into fits. I reckon he had no good to tell of hisself."

"No more'n he hadn't," said Sarah, knowing that it was safer to fall into the girl's humor. "He's the son of a fellow-servant of mine who lives in the old country. He's in trouble and wanted money, and he has well-nigh frightened the life out of me with his drinking of brandy and his queer talk."

"Well, all I've got to say, Mrs. Hope, is, that he's the onpolitest man I ever come across, and I ain't a going to forget what he told me. Don't you say nothing more to me about him. I'm a going to forget all about to-night, and to mind what he told me. I am going to do it, and you'd jest now better get to bed and do the same."

MRS. EARLE'S funeral was over, and Sibyl had gone back to her dreary home. During the funeral ceremonies Mr. Earle had performed the part of disconsolate husband with perfect success. Allan Cairn had stood apart, watching the comédie, drawing his own conclusions, and forming an opinion which he never afterwards saw reason to retract—that is, that a man who can put on a good appearance is very apt to get credit for what he is not. No one understood this better than Mr. Earle, and in the present exigence his conduct was so genuinely in keeping with profound regret, that husbands were edified and wives comforted at the idea of this conjugal faithfulness growing more steadfast and brighter as its object was removed from the possibility of reciprocity.

As Allan and his mother were making their way out of the cemetery, Lydia left Mr. Fenton, and approaching Mrs. Cairn held out her hand, blushing vividly as she did so. Then, turning to Allan, she spoke to him in a tone full of friendliness and welcome.

"I have been intending to come and see you, Mrs. Cairn," said she; "but I have not been well since my return."

Now that the color had faded from her cheek, Mrs. Cairn saw that her complexion was of a clear transparent white, and that her face had lost its perfect contour.

"The city has not agreed with you, my dear; but country air and exercise will set you right again. Come and see me soon," she added, cordially pressing the hand of the young girl, to whom Mrs. Drofflum was making signs, as if impatient of her delay.

"Good-by, Mrs. Cairn; Allan, don't quite give me up;" and without waiting for an answer, she hurried away to join her companions, leaving mother and son walking arm in arm toward their home.

"I told you, mother, that no good would come of it," Allan said, as he held open the gate for her.

"Do you mean that Lydia is not improved?"

"I mean that with the graces of the fine lady she has lost her bloom, and that she is not happy."

"It may be, my son, that she has not found the coveted pleasures of the world all that she expected. One rarely does meet with the realization of anticipated happiness."

"I don't believe that the world has anything to do with her changed looks. A disappointment of that kind doesn't convert a robust girl into a pale, delicate-looking woman."

"At any rate," said Mrs. Cairn, "I don't see that we can do anything for her. Mrs. Drofflum told me on Sunday that they were going to visit the Ellerslies. You see that she is mingling in a world far removed from our own humble sphere."

Allan did not reply. His mother's persistence in reminding him of this was particularly irritating; so, saying that he would be back in time for tea, he turned away and walked toward the village.

That night Mrs. Drofflum made tea for Mr. Fenton. Lydia complained of a headache, and begged to be left alone. "I am good for nothing this evening, Mrs. Drofflum. I hope I may never be obliged to go to another funeral. Poor Sibyl Earle, how I pity her," said she, as she lay back upon the sofa.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Drofflum, shaking out her voluminous skirts, preparatory to going down stairs, "my heart bleeds for her. When we look at things under certain aspects how dreary seems this world. Death is always reminding us of the insidious stealthiness with which our own lives are moving onward to that last end which is the same to all. Lydia, dear, won't you try to think a little more seriously? Remember what good Mr. Leigh said last Sunday about dying well."

"I would much rather hear something about living well," said Lydia, with a movement of impatience. "Dying is a sort of interpretation of the life which we have led, and if we are careful about that, I think it is apt to be all right with us."

The widow's answer was cut short by the entrance of Selina. "Why, Miss Lydia, tea's been ready these ten minutes! Master sent me to call you."

"Mrs. Drofflum will take my place this evening, Selina. My head aches ever so badly. Don't let Uncle Ralph worry about me. To-morrow I shall be quite well again."

Selina remained with Lydia, soothing her in that quiet affectionate way which was particularly consoling. A cool linen cloth was laid upon her head; her sofa was drawn quite near the window, just where she could watch the moon rise; and her beautiful hair, unfastened, flowed upon the pillow, making a soft shining frame for her pale face. She lay so still that Selina, believing her to be asleep, left the room; but Lydia was not sleeping: one burning doubt banished rest—one hopeless, dreary thought racked her brain.

Where was Roger? Had he ceased to love her, or was he dead?

Starting from her couch she went out through the French window, and walking slowly up and down the piazza, her hands clasped above her head. Already life had grown weary to her. She sickened at the thought of the morrow, that would bring the same bitterness—the same unsatisfied yearning—that waiting which was growing more and more intolerable. She suddenly fixed her eyes upon a spot in the flower-garden, where the moonshine lay in a broad patch of light, casting a great rhododendron in deep shadow. From out of this shadow a figure had emerged, and stood looking up at her.

A low cry burst from her lips, not of terror, for the arms were outstretched to her, and a soft pleading voice fell upon her ear:

"Lydia, Lydia."

She hovered for a moment like a beautiful vision, an ecstatic joy filled her heart as she clasped her hands together murmuring:

"Oh, Roger, are you come at last!"

She went down the stairs that had been built for convenience sake at the end of the piazza, giving egress from the chambers above into the garden.

Breathless with impatience—giddy with this sudden joy—fearless of consequences, Lydia Croft went to meet her lover.

He had put her away from him for a moment, and was looking down into her face, in spite of the fitful glow on her cheek. Roger Amerland saw the change. He passed his hand caressingly over her soft hair as he said: "Tell me, darling, are you quite well?"

"Well, oh, yes! I am well now. I shall never be sick again; I am so happy!"

"You have been sick then, Lydia?"

"Yes, sick, and oh! so miserable."

"And was it for love of me, darling?" he said, in a voice of tender inquiry.

"How can you ask me, Roger?"

He had drawn her into the shadow, and could not see the ineffable smile that illumined her face; but he heard the thrill of her voice, and felt the quick beating of her heart against his. A wild desire possessed him to fly now with her—to risk everything for the sake of that love which at this moment seemed blinding him to every consequence.

"Lydia, darling, I have told you once that I have never loved a woman as I love you, and yet I have let months pass away without seeing you. I had thought that, after the fashion of women, you would have grown weary of waiting; or, suspecting my faithfulness, had cast off the memory of the vows which we plighted last autumn.

"Believe me, Lydia, when I say that all these long months I have never ceased to love you, and to think of you; but a man's life is different from a woman's. A pure love may remain intact in his heart, while he is guilty of a certain kind of unfaithfulness. Lydia, darling, though they should tell you that I have been unmindful of you, promise to trust me. Even now, when I shall have gone away, you will naturally ask yourself why I have chosen this clandestine way of seeing you? It is better that I should tell you that, for reasons which I must not explain, no other way is left open to me. There is no such thing as love without trust, Lydia; and I tell you again, that man never loved woman as I love you."

He strained her to his heart, pressing tender kisses upon her lips and brow. Was it strange that she promised all that he asked?

"Roger," she said, solemnly, "I'm not what people call religious; but I believe I love God in my own way, and I want to ask Him now to bless us. Here, in the still night, we are nearer to Him than we shall ever be in the glare of day; and if He has made us love one another, it must be good and right."

She put her arms around his neck, and drawing down his face, she murmured: "God bless you, my love."

Roger trembled in her tender clasp; his heart smote him sorely for the deed that he was doing. "Why could I not have stayed away;" he thought, "away from this terrible temptation?"

It was but a momentary remorse—a passing gleam of that light which God sends into the hearts of men, illumining them for a moment, only to leave them in greater darkness when they let it pass away. Lydia's beauty fascinated him—her artless devotion had worked a charm which held him firmly in its thrall. For once in his life he was thoroughly in earnest; if he could at that moment have followed the true inspiration of a noble love, he would have spared the helpless girl who so fondly trusted in him; but with a selfishness purely manlike, he put from him all thought of the possible consequences to Lydia of a system of concealment, which for reasons which he left unexplained he urged most earnestly.

"It will be for only a little while, darling; and remember I have come all the way from Switzerland to see you. You are to visit the Ellerslies, where I am staying. We shall see each other every day. How delightful! but if only you are prudent, my Lydia—if only you believe that my love will shelter you from all harm!"

"Oh, roger, how hard a task you set me!

"It is even harder for me than for you, Lydia. Can you think that I would insist upon secrecy were it not absolutely better for us both? Oh! my love, my love; you do not know how much I have suffered!"

She accepted his condition—gladly, proudly immolating herself for love of him. Love and faith banished doubt. They would be together at the Ellerslies—this was happiness enough for the present; and when they parted, she stole softly back to her room, and sat looking out at the night, wrapped in delightful reverie, going over again and again the sweetness of those moments spent with Roger in the garden.

Mrs. Drofflum was late coming upstairs, and exclaimed, on seeing Lydia: "How imprudent, dear, when you have been so unwell."

Lydia turned her face toward her with an expression of so absolute a happiness and content as to surprise her companion into an exclamation of wonderment.

"What have you been doing to yourself, Lydia? You look as if you had just come in at the window from some bright region where unhappiness is unknown."

"Perhaps I have," answered Lydia; "but what a time you have stayed down stairs!"

"We have been talking of you, dear; Mr. Fenton is anxious about you. I think it would please him to have you go to the Ellerslies, just for the change; he fears that you are moping here. Won't you gratify him, dear, by cheerfully acquiescing in his desire, and allow me to tell him, at breakfast to-morrow, that he may write to say, that we will accept the invitation?"

"I shall tell Uncle Ralph myself," answered Lydia, "that I have changed my mind. You may make your preparations as soon as you please."

"This is a sudden change, Lydia. To-day you protested against any more gayety; and Mr. Fenton has been seriously speaking of setting out for the Springs on your account."

"I am sure that Uncle Ralph will be better pleased when he knows that he need not leave his beloved sanctum."

Mrs. Drofflum said good-night, and left the room, not a little puzzled at the sudden change in Lydia. Her own plans were working admirably. She knew that she was gradually becoming necessary to Mr. Fenton. While avoiding officiousness, she generally managed to be in the way whenever his comfort could be enhanced by a little delicate attention. Her sparkling conversation often interrupted those sad reveries in which he was wont to indulge, drawing him out and beguiling him into discussions, in which he gave proof of a mind naturally brilliant and well provided with learning, which, in the course of his reading, he had packed away until, as he said, "it had grown mouldy for want of airing." This wonderful woman spread out her nets with so skilful a dexterity that birds were caught and fluttered in their meshes almost unconscious of their imprisonment. Old Gabriel was one of her most devoted adherents; and Selina, after vainly struggling against the power of her kind words and judiciously chosen presents, at last declared that she was "real quality," the highest encomium that she could bestow.

When, a few days later, Mrs. Drofflum leaned from the carriage to shake hands with Mr. Fenton, she ventured the slightest possible pressure of those slender fingers, and said, in a soft insinuating voice: "Dear Mr. Fenton, I shall be uneasy about you when I am away; you have a sad habit of neglecting yourself."

Mr. Fenton gave her a pleased and grateful look, which sent her away with a mind quite at rest. It seemed so easy a matter to change her position of dependence into one befitting her ambition. Sabina Drofflum already saw herself the mistress of Baywood.

A WEEK had passed since Lydia's departure, and Mr. Fenton found time hanging heavily on his hands. He had ordered his horse, intending to ride to one of his plantations, about six miles distant. As he lingered in the flower-garden, giving some directions about Lydia's geraniums, he perceived Allan Cairn walking rapidly up the avenue. Mr. Fenton advanced to meet him, remarking at the same time the careworn expression of his face.

"I am glad to see you, Allan," he said, shaking him by the hand. "You have been a rare visitor of late."

"I have been a good deal troubled, Mr. Fenton, in one way or another, and I've come up this morning to see you on important business. It can be deferred, however, sir, if you are going out."

"Lydia is away, and I don't know what to do with myself. You see that I am already spoiled. Frank, take the horse to the stable; I shall not want him to-day. Come, Allan, we had better have our talk in the library."

When they were seated near an open window, Mr. Fenton drew his chair close to Allan, and said; "I hope your trouble is not so serious, Allan, but that I may have it in my power to relieve it." He believed that the young man's trouble was about money, and generously attempted to smooth the way for him to ask for it.

Allan understood it at once, and said: "You are quite mistaken, sir. Poor as I am, I have never owed a dollar in my life; not that I would be too proud to ask you, Mr. Fenton, if I really needed that kind of help."

"Money troubles are, perhaps, the hardest of all to bear, Allan, and bring with them the bitterest mortification; but between us there need be no feeling of that sort. I have more than I need, and"——

"Would give it freely, sir, I know that; but my trouble has nothing to do with present want. It is the probability of seeing my mother robbed of her hard-earned property, sir, which has brought me to you this morning. David Silcott has brought suit against us for the forty acres, and he pretends that the sale to you can be set aside on the plea of a defective title. My opinion is that the whole thing is a piece of rascally chicanery, and that Silcott has been put up to it by Sealey."

Mr. Fenton sat silent for a moment, his indignation rendered him mute; then laying his hand on Allan's arm, he said:

"This is an affront to me, Allan; a personal affront. My honor has been impugned by the scoundrel."

He paced up and down the floor, while Allan stood watching him, suffering acutely for the generous friend whose high sense of honor and delicate susceptibility rendered him peculiarly impressionable to Silcott's treachery.

"Allan," he said, stopping before him, "the law is an engine which answers a skilful engineer, and we know not into what disagreeable dilemma it may lead us. This case was tried and decided years ago. My father bought the land from old Mrs. Silcott, David's mother. She was then a very young widow, and being needy my father gave her a good price for it. The title which she gave was considered sound. The lawyer who examined it is now dead. When David came of age, he attempted to set up a claim against me; the matter was brought to an issue, and decided in my favor. Now his baffled malice has broken out again; but I believe that there is little danger to your mother. Make your mind easy, she shall never suffer. The money is a small matter to me; but I won't see her worried. Ah! here is Meadows, how fortunate! You have come with pleasant news for me, Meadows?" he said, after the handshaking was over. "Silcott is growing restive again, eh?"

"But we'll put a bridle on him, sir, which will check his paces," said the facetious lawyer. "He hasn't in my opinion, the shadow of a chance; and even if he had, the legal advice at your disposition is, I flatter myself, somehow more to be relied upon than the unsound spurtings of an unfledged gosling like Sealey."

After some further conversation Mr. Meadows took leave, having received instructions from Mr. Fenton to spare neither pains nor money to defeat Silcott.

On the afternoon of the same day Allan went into the village, intending to visit Mr. Meadows at his office; but as he passed in front of the drug store, where the young men were in the habit of gathering after business hours, one of them, a clerk in the store, named Wilcox, called to him to stop.

"See here, Cairn, I'd like to speak to you for a minute."

They walked on together a little way, when Wilcox said: "Do you know anything of this fellow who has put up his sign down the street? Look here, have you seen this?" and he took a newspaper from his pocket.

Allan read as follows: "Dr. Laverne solicits the good-will and patronage of the citizens of Fentonville and the surrounding country. He attends particularly to the diseases of women and children, and brings the highest testimonials from abroad. He refers to Mr. St. George Earle."

"Whew! Mr. St. George Earle! Nothing can be said to that, I suppose," said Allan. "Have you seen old Dr. Bradleigh; how does he like this interloper? He is growing old, to be sure, and if this fellow is young and well-looking he may find favor with the women."

"Well, he made a pretty large bill this morning at our place. I put up the medicines myself; he paid down at once saying that being a stranger he had no right to ask credit."

"Well, I know nothing about him," said Allan. "I am going down to Mr. Meadows' office, and will drop in among you as I come back."

Dr. Laverne, whose advent had created so much stir in the quiet village, was seated in his office, gazing with profound satisfaction at the rows of bottles and pill-boxes neatly arranged on the shelves. A tow-headed boy, bearing a strong family resemblance to "Mrs. Hope's Andy Jane," as she was called in the village, was whistling disconsolately in the back yard, now and then throwing a stone at a brindle cat that sat glaring at him from a neighboring roof. Our old acquaintance Jeames Robert had, by some rare good fortune, been engaged as office boy by the new doctor; and having been promised—to him—the munificent sum of five dollars per month, at once assumed the free and confident manner of a man of means. On that very afternoon he had refused to play at marbles with his former companions, telling them, with a very high and lofty manner, that he had "his business to attend to." This praiseworthy spirit had kept him in solitary confinement in the back yard of the office, though, to tell the truth, he had been more than once sorely tempted just to go out and look at the game. As his endurance began to falter, and his weak nature to succumb to temptation, he heard the voice of his master calling "James." For a moment he was rather uncertain if it was to himself that his name was applied, but hearing it repeated he answered briskly, "Yes, sir."

"You will take my portmanteau up to Croft Farm, James, where I have engaged board; and then you may go home. Remember you are to open the office at seven o'clock sharp."

"All right, sir;" and swinging the portmanteau on his shoulder he started at a brisk pace, being anxious to reach home before dark.

As he approached the farm-house he perceived Andy Jane swinging on the gate. Her quick eyes espied him, and she ran to meet him.

"Why, Jeames Robert, whatever are you going to do with that little trunk? Oh, I reckon as you are a fetching it for the doctor as Mrs. Hope's took in to board."

"Just so, Andy Jane. It's wonderful what cute guessers gals is! I suppose you don't know as how I'm working for the doctor, and getting wages, and that this here portmanty is for him."

"And how much does he give you, Jeames Robert? You ain't a going to spend it all on yourself, Jimmy?"

"That's my own business," he answered, with an air of superiority, putting the portmanteau on the step of the porch. "Just you go in and tell Mrs. Hope as I'm here."

In a moment Sarah appeared, with a face more rigid and pale than ever. She motioned the boy to take up the portmanteau and follow her. As he put it down, the name in large white letters seemed to stare her in the face. She knew—God help her—what was coming.

"Oh!" she cried, when the boy was gone, "God is scourging me with the rod my own hand has helped to make. I must receive my punishment in silence."

"It is the best thing that you can do," said a voice behind her, and turning she saw—Dr. Laverne.

"QUEENLY, joyous, gipsy June" had passed by, giving place to brazen July. The tender leaves had deepened into hard, dust-coated green; the brilliant colors of the garden had been succeeded by faded, sun-parched hues, and the few flowers that were wooed by the night dews to unfold their petals, before noon hung their heads in melancholy limpness.

The party assembled at the Ellerslies had gone through the regular programme of country amusements, and had begun to weary of each other's society, when an arrival furnished a new topic of conversation and gave a fresh zest to the amusements which poor Miss Ellerslie racked her brain to invent for her guests. It is astonishing how ungrateful people can be when host or hostess fails to fulfil their expectations. They seem to forget that almost under any circumstances they owe a sort of obligation to their entertainer; and it is not unusual to see people leave a house where every effort has been made for their pleasure and comfort, totally oblivious of the trouble and expense which their host has borne for their sakes, and to carry away with them a sense of injury merely because they have failed to please themselves, and they consequently attribute to the entertainer some lack of hospitality of which he was perfectly innocent. I should say that, setting aside the gratification of giving pleasure—which to every generous heart yields a fruitful return—there is no worse investment than laying out your money and your pains in entertaining generally. In the long run the loss is sure to be on the side of the entertainer; for where one man is cordially pleased with your dinner, seven will go away grumbling over your menus, and cuisine, and wines. The memory of hospitality dies out so surely as the power of extending it falls away from the entertainer.

Mrs. Von Tagen, a relative of the Ellerslies, had recently arrived from abroad, and when Miss Ellerslie, at the breakfast-table, announced her expected visitor, the ladies with one accord expressed their pleasure. Visions of wonderful French millinery floated before their excited imaginations, and one or two who had contemplated shortening their stay determined now to remain.

"I believe you are acquainted with my cousin, Mr. Amerland," Miss Ellerslie said to Roger.

"Yes, I met her abroad," he answered, and shortly afterwards left the table.

Miss Timmons, a young lady of uncertain age, had resented Roger's want of appreciation for her winning charms, and was only too glad to find an opportunity of venting her ill-humor. "I shouldn't wonder", said she, "if Mr. Amerland hadn't some very good reasons for not wishing to meet Mrs. Von Tagen. Such queer things happen between people in foreign society. It is shockingly free, I am told."

Lydia heard the remark, and noted Roger's restlessness. After lingering a moment with the ladies after breakfast, he excused himself, and soon after was seen going out with his gun.

Finding it impossible to settle herself at anything, Lydia sought her room. The glamour of her love was around her, blinding her to the danger towards which she was steadily moving. The lovers had found opportunities of meeting, and Roger well knew that each one was binding the girl more fatally in the meshes of a passion which so completely absorbed her that she had ceased to reason with herself about Roger's strange caution, and the secrecy to which he had so earnestly pledged her. There was no falling off in his love for her; if anything, the flame of his passion increased, fanned nearly to madness by her beauty and trustful devotion. Now, for the first time, a distressing doubt crept into her heart. Had Roger loved this woman—perhaps he loved her now? Oh! the sharp weapon that jealously always keeps whetted for use. Lydia had worked herself almost into a fever, when a knock at the door and a voice asking permission to enter aroused her. With an effort she assumed a calm mien, and opening the door admitted Mrs. Drofflum.

"I was afraid that you were not well, Lydia, or that"——

"That what?" exclaimed Lydia. "Pray, explain yourself, Mrs. Drofflum. If you mean to say that I am tired to death of these people, and came here to get out of their way, you are quite right."

"I am really afraid that you have rendered yourself liable to remark, dear, by absenting yourself this morning. It is unfortunate that you should have left the room so soon after Mr. Amerland, Lydia," she continued, while the girl stood pale and silent before her, with just the slight dilation in the nostril which in her betokened rising anger; "do you know that your name has been associated with his, and that this morning the conversation turned upon his evident partiality for your society? Miss Timmons knows a good deal about his antecedents; and I think it my duty to warn you, before things go too far, that it is more than suspected that he was the cause of the dreadful trouble between Mrs. Carew and her husband some years ago."

"Well," said Lydia, trying hard to speak calmly, "is there anything more, Mrs. Drofflum? Why do you come to me to retail Miss Timmons' malicious stories? Do you think that I would suffer what she says to sway my opinion with regard to Mr. Amerland or any one else?"

"It is not only what she says, Lydia; but what the world also says."

"The world is an excellent authority, Mrs. Drofflum; and its whispers penetrate into the most unlikely places. Pray, don't tell me that you believe what the world says, else I might remember some curious things that I have heard in my short intercourse with it."

Mrs. Drofflum turned scarlet, and dropping her eyes before Lydia's flashing orbs, she answered with the air of an injured saint: "I have only done my duty, Miss Croft—the duty which I owe to the excellent man who has intrusted you to my care. I should be sadly wanting in faithfulness did I fail to give you warning even of a possible danger."

"Having given the warning I hope you will abstain in future from repeating Miss Timmons' remarks to me. She is a hateful, malicious creature, and I despise her most thoroughly."

Having delivered herself of this opinion in a most emphatic tone and manner, Lydia turned to look out of the window, in order to conceal the tears of vexation which were streaming from her eyes. Prudent Mrs. Drofflum quietly retired, smarting from the dart which Lydia had sent at her with so unerring an aim that it had penetrated a tender spot, proving most effectually that all the efforts which that lady had made to stifle the small voice had been futile.

Mrs. Von Tagen arrived in due time. Dinner had been ordered an hour later for her accommodation, and when she entered the drawing-room at five o'clock the guests were all assembled, and rather out of humor at the delay. Her brilliant person and charming manners at once dispelled the cloud; and after the introductions had been accomplished, Roger Amerland, much to the astonishment of Miss Timmons and the other ladies spoke to her with easy cordiality, saying as he pressed her hand: "I am delighted, madame, to meet you again."

"I am afraid, dear Mary, that I have come upon you rather suddenly," said Mrs. Von Tagen to Miss Ellerslie; "but I could manage to give you a week only; my time is so taken up, and I did not write long in advance, fearing that some unforeseen circumstance might prevent my visit."

"A week!" cried old Mr. Ellerslie, gallantly presenting his arm, to lead her to the dining-room, "only a week, and we have not seen you for four years!"

"It is a very short time, dear uncle, far too short; but I am under promise to so many friends, and I am to meet Mr. Von Tagen in New York by the end of September."

While dinner is progressing we will go back a few hours and give some account of the way in which Mr. Amerland spent his morning. About five miles from Mr. Ellerslie's place was a small public-house, kept by a Mrs. Ferguson, the widow of a Scotchman who had strayed into that part of the country with one of those instruments the music of which Leigh Hunt so aptly describes: "An air played on bagpipes," says he, "with that detestable monotonous drone of theirs for a bass, is like a tune tied to a post." The bagpipe was Mr. Ferguson's sole possession, and he must have piped to some purpose, since Miss Brown, whose father kept the inn, consented, in course of time, to become Mrs. Ferguson. Mr. Brown had been gathered to his fathers soon after the union, so that the Fergusons became possessed of the property. By a judicious course of henpecking on the part of Mrs. Ferguson, and a too free indulgence in strong drink, poor Ferguson enjoyed his good fortune for only a few short years, and then quietly slipped off the mortal coil, leaving Mrs. Ferguson to bear her loss with a resignation which was not astonishing when we remember the bagpipe and Mr. Ferguson's little peculiarities when under the influence of drink. See her, then, standing on the piazza, shading her eyes with her hands, and looking down the road. Great was her satisfaction when she saw a pedestrian, with a gun over his shoulder, toiling along under the fervid sky, and evidently bending his steps toward the welcome shade of her broad, cool piazza. The stranger stopped at the gate, and asked whether she kept dogs.

"There is no fear, sir," she cried; "the dog is chained up."

Mr. Amerland, therefore—for it was he—entered the house, and after having his questions answered in the affirmative with regard to refreshment, he seated himself, looking from time to time down the road, which ran for some distance in view.

When his repast was spread in the parlor, before proceeding to partake of it, he gave a negro boy a piece of silver, telling him to call him as soon as a carriage appeared in sight. The widow Ferguson placed before Roger a lunch fit for a king, and rejoiced exceedingly when he ordered her best brandy and praised her good cheer.

In course of time the expected carriage appeared, the jaded horses dragging it slowly through the sand. The driver sat sleepily on the box, leaving the poor animals to take their own way and make the best of the situation; and the lady who sat inside yawned from time to time, drawing out her watch every few minutes to mark the lagging hour. At sight of the inn the coachman roused up, and tightening his reins gave the horses an encouraging "Get up, dar," which seemed to put a little spirit into their movements. The lady put her head out of the window, with an expression of positive satisfaction at the prospect of stopping somewhere, and the French maid uttered a "Dieu merci."

"You did not expect to see me, Pauline," said Roger Amerland, as he assisted the elegantly attired lady to alight. "May I not hope that the pleasure is all the greater for being unexpected?"

"I am indeed very, very glad to see you, Roger; much more pleased than you can imagine; for I am heartily weary, and such an interruption to my dulness is really charming. Are you at the Ellerslies?"

"Yes," he answered; "you are thinking only of yourself; not one word about being glad on my account."

Their eyes met for a moment, and she colored slightly. "Inconstant," she said, playfully laying her small gloved hand upon his arm, "I am quite sure that you have not thought of me for these six months."

They were walking up the path which led from the gate, and Mrs. Ferguson stood radiant with smiles ready to receive them. Another lunch was ordered, and while Mrs. Von Tagen partook of peaches and cream, Roger sat beside her talking in a low earnest voice. "It was all my mother's doing, Pauline; hateful as it is to me, I cannot openly oppose her. I am utterly dependent upon her; for she possesses everything in her own right. You know how much we once cared for each other, Pauline; by those sweet memories I beseech you to keep my secret. Not a word about Andrée. Something may yet help me to get out of my mother's meshes. I love Lydia Croft, and I am determined to risk everything to win her."

"Roger," said Mrs. Von Tagen, as she rose from the table, "is there anything settled about your marriage with Andrée de Taverney; is it not too late to break with her?"

"What do you take me for?" he answered, evasively. "I tell you, Pauline, that I am in earnest when I say that Andrée de Taverney is hateful to me."

Mrs. Von Tagen, with no very rigid scruples to interfere with her good-natured desire to make things comfortable for Roger, promised all that he asked, little suspecting the misery and shame that her ready complaisance would help to bring upon one whose only fault was that she

"easily believed,
Like simple noble natures, credulous
Of what they long for."

A DELIGHTFUL week was drawing to its close. Mrs. Von Tagen had charmed away all dulness from the circle at the Ellerslies'. Faithfully did she perform her promise to Amerland, never permitting herself for a moment to relax from the formality which from the first she had maintained toward him.

Lydia and Mrs. Drofflum were to leave on the following day; the latter had written to Mr. Fenton, without Lydia's knowledge, desiring that the carriage might be sent for them, and his answer—only a few words to the effect that the carriage would be sent as desired—was scrawled in feeble pencil marks. Lydia received the announcement of their departure with a keen sense of pain at the thought of parting from Roger; otherwise she was anxious to rejoin Mr. Fenton. The intimate, close, familiar intercourse which existed between Lydia and her guardian had cemented the strong affection, which from the first moment of confidence when she intuitively comprehended his tender interest in her welfare, and knew that to him she was an object of peculiar tenderness, had sprung up in her heart, taking away its dreary loneliness, and imparting that blessed feeling of reliance and dependence which is so natural to woman.

The drawing-room was empty; the ladies were dressing for the evening, and none had yet come down. Roger Amerland entered the room, and approaching the window, stood watching the black clouds that were piled in pyramidal grandeur in the north-west. Long rolls of hoarse thunder announced one of those summer storms, when heaven's artillery clashes in rapid evolutions over the earth, and the angry clouds let loose their swift torrents.

The opening of the door caused Roger to turn with a look of eager expectancy on his face. It was only a servant bearing a letter.

"This is for you, sir," he said: "Martin brought it from the post-office."

We will take the privilege of looking over Mr. Amerland's shoulder. The handwriting is a woman's, the paper foreign, and the language French. For the benefit of our readers, we will translate it.

"Why do you linger in America, my beloved Roger? The time drags heavily in the dull, old château. I see no one but Monsieur l'Abbé, and Madame votre Mère. She says that you will soon return and speak to me of duty; but oh! I am impatient of this hard, cold advice, for love reigns supreme in my heart. Ah, your little Andrée loves you! but why repeat this? So many, many times have I said it before. I shall grow jealous, Roger, if I do not hear from you. Tu sais que depuis un an, mon cœur ne compte pas une seule minute où la trace de ton amour ne soit imprimée. Mon Dieu, que je desire te revoir, Roger! Viens donc à moi.

"ANDRÉE."

He crumpled the sheet in his hand, and proceeded to read a much longer epistle, under the same inclosure. It was written in English.

"MY DEAR SON:—

Roger ground out a fierce oath from between his teeth; but the opening door cut short the angry ejaculations. Lydia entered, looking so beautiful in a dress of India muslin, with her white arms scarce concealed beneath its fine texture, and her graceful shoulders covered with a fichu of rich Valenciennes, that, forgetting his annoyance, he started forward, thrusting—as he thought—the letters in his pocket; but in reality dropping them on the floor. His foot struck against an ottoman, which rolled over them, completely concealing them from view.

"Lydia, beloved," he said, taking her hand and fondly looking into her upturned face, "how beautiful you are to-night! Have you decked yourself for our parting?"

"Ah, Roger! going back to my home cannot mean a very long parting; but I have grown used to my happiness, and God knows how miserable I shall be without you."

"Come into the garden, love; I must speak to you alone. Here we are liable to be interrupted at any moment."

She followed him out into the gathering gloom, for the storm was coming on apace; but they heeded not the vivid flashes of lightning that shot athwart the sky: one thought occupied them both as they walked toward the summer-house, situated in a retired part of the grounds—the thought of the morrow—that morrow which would separate them.

With all his faults, the good in Roger's nature predominated over the evil. His love for Lydia was perhaps that purest and most exalted sentiment of which his nature was capable. He had invested in this sentiment the strongest affections of his heart; but this affection was not unmingled with a man-like selfishness. He was ready to commit any folly, to brave any danger, to secure to himself this young creature, who personified in flesh and blood his most enthusiastic conception of womanly perfection. With subtle sophistry he had striven to overcome the better promptings of his conscience. He was desperate at the thought of parting from Lydia; and this desperation was fast leading him to a resolve which, to his honor be it said, he had never contemplated, until by his own weakness he had involved himself in a maze of difficulties, which left no course open to him but the one from which every honorable man must shrink, unless indeed a magnanimous self-denial should overcome his inclination; and this, to a man like him, was scarcely possible. There was plainly before him one awful, uncontroverted fact—that of his marriage with Andrée de Taverney. A few months prior to his departure from Europe, he had meekly succumbed to the imperious will of his mother, and perhaps also to the haunting phantom of debt, and contracted a marriage with that young lady, who was the possessor of an immense fortune.

Unable to endure the shackles of a union which was hateful to him, and urged by the strength of a passion which dominated every other consideration, he imprudently returned to America, giving business as a pretext; and we have seen, that with unpardonable selfishness he sought in the society of Lydia, and in the delightful knowledge of her pure and unselfish love, a solace for harrowing remorse, and the galling tie of a loveless marriage.

The wind swept around the frail summer-house, unloosing long sprays of woodbine from the lattice-work, and lashing them about until the earth was covered with fallen leaves. Lydia shivered as she stepped across the threshold. The

"Powers that tend the soul,
And help it from the death that cannot die,
And save it in extremes,"

began to vex and plague her; and his words and agitated manner were not calculated to reassure her.

"Lydia," he said, "a few short hours are all that are left to me of real happiness. I cannot, will not, see it pass away without one effort to retain it. O Lydia!" he continued, taking both of her hands in his, "if I ask a sacrifice of you, it is only because I know that my love and faithfulness will repay you a thousand-fold, and that my life will not be long enough to show you my gratitude."

Lydia had grown sick and dizzy: she had a wild idea that Roger was urging her to some desperate step, but clearly she had not taken in his meaning, for she said:

"Roger, why will you not be candid with me? I hate the secresy which you have enjoined upon me. Uncle Ralph must know—Uncle Ralph must know!"

The rain was falling in a deluge, driving through the open door of the summer-house and throwing a spray over Lydia, from which Roger attempted to shield her, by taking off his coat and putting it over her shoulders.

"Lydia, Lydia, my precious darling! it will be my fault if any harm come to you. I am in the direst trouble. You will not desert me, darling—you surely will not desert me, when every hope of future happiness rests with you. What is the world to you, Lydia? how slight are the ties which bind you to it! Oh! think, think," he said, the tears actually streaming down his face, "of the desolateness of life without love—life away from each other."

Lydia was silent: no words came to her to reply to this passionate appeal.

"Lydia," cried Roger, "you hesitate; you do not love me!"

"God help me!" she said in a choking voice, drawing her hands from him. "Yes, I love you, Roger, better than my own life; but you are hard upon me. Tell me," she cried, seizing his hand with nervous force, "tell me what prevents you from openly acknowledging your love for me?"

"I will answer for Mr. Amerland, Miss Croft," said a voice proceeding from a muffled figure which stood within the door. "He had no right to use this language to you, when he is bound legally to another woman. Let me entreat you to come away with me: you must not speak another word to Roger Amerland."

There was no answer; but a choking, gurgling sound proceeded from the sinking form which Roger had caught in his arms, and he felt something warm trickling over his hands.

"Oh for the love of God, Pauline," he cried, "go for help; she is dying!"

The scream of Mrs. Von Tagen was heard in the drawing-room, and in a few moments lights glimmered through the shrubbery, and Mrs. Drofflum, in a state of wild alarm, was the first to reach the spot. She at once comprehended that Roger had been the cause of the catastrophe.

"You will be so kind, sir," she exclaimed, "as to relinquish this young lady to my care. Go away, while she is happily unconscious."

He resigned Lydia to her care, seeing perhaps the wisdom of the request; but before he left her, he kissed her with a fierce despair in his heart, and turning to Mrs. Drofflum he said:

"I defy you, madam, or any one else, to say a word against the angel who lies there. I alone am guilty. Good-by, darling; with you I leave all that is best and truest in my nature. God forgive me!"

Before the dawn he was far on his way to the city, whence he was to embark for Europe. We will now take leave of him, perhaps with just a shadow of regret, when we think of his handsome person and winning manners—of a nature so nearly capable of all that was high and noble in man, yet, from a certain moral turpitude, falling so far below the standard of true manly honor and generosity. He had not learned the grandest lesson of self-control—how in the midst of passion to subdue it within the bounds of that sublime unselfishness, which exalts the well-being of the object of our love beyond our own desires and gratifications.

SOON after Lydia and Roger left the drawing-room, Mrs. Drofflum came in, and seating herself at the piano commenced singing, in a low plaintive voice, Schubert's "Lob der thränen." Immediately after her Mrs. Von Tagen glided in, and went to the window to watch the gathering storm. The wailing cadences of the music were in perfect unison with the scene, and as she listened a sort of tender remorse crept into her heart, and by a natural connection of ideas she thought of Frederick Von Tagen. "Dear old fellow, how kind he has always been to me! Oh! I wish I could be more like Frau Von Tagen, that dear old lady, whose German notions are outraged every hour in the day by my American manners. I'm determined to cultivate contentment, and perhaps I shall yet be a good wife to Fred. I'm afraid I did not think him half so dull, until I knew Roger; and oh! I have been so weak, so foolish. This very night I will speak to him, and positively refuse to keep silent another day, unless he can prove to me that he is not engaged to Andrée. Roger Amerland, than whom no man is more naturally tender and loving, is eminently selfish from a vitiated morality and a long course of selfish indulgence. He really cannot think of marrying Lydia Croft, for Miss Simmons says that she is a nobody—a farmer's granddaughter, adopted by Mr. Fenton, who perhaps has a better right to her than any one else. She certainly has traces of blood about her, and carries herself like a queen; and as to her beauty, she's a thousand times better looking than that dark little Andrée de Taverney—just the girl to make a man commit a folly for her sake, and to take a disappointment seriously to heart. Dear me, why am I thinking now of Elaine's dismal song

'Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain;
And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain:
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I,'

Yes, I am quite determined to speak to Roger. Madame la mère should have known better than to trust him out of her sight; it would be a pity to have him commit a folly for Lydia's sake. Andrée's fortune is immense; and Roger needs every dollar of it. Thank Heaven! Miss Croft leaves to-morrow."

A bright flash, succeeded by a clap of thunder, so alarmed her, that starting back she came in contact with the ottoman, which rolling away, exposed to view the letters which Mr. Amerland believed to be safe in his pocket. Taking them from the floor, a minute's examination showed her that they were foreign, and the signature of one of them sent every trace of color from her face, and kept her for a moment in a state of bewildered astonishment, to which a genuine alarm succeeded, when she thought of the part that she had taken in Roger Amerland's villainy. "I will save her," she said to herself; "this foul wrong shall never be perpetrated. God grant that I may yet be in time!" Mrs. Drofflum was still singing. Mrs. Von Tagen tried hard to calm herself before she spoke to her:

"Have you seen Mr. Amerland this afternoon, Mrs. Drofflum?"

"Not since dinner," she answered carelessly; "he is probably with the gentlemen on the piazza."

Mrs. Von Tagen was already gone. She met a servant in the hall, who gave her a stupid reply, and telling him to go and see whether Mr. Amerland was with the gentlemen, she proceeded upstairs to Lydia's room, to find it empty.

"Is you looking for Miss Croft, ma'am?" said a maid-servant, who came in with clean towels; "cause if you is, I seed her going out jest now wid Mr. Amerland. Dey went into the garden, down by the summer-house."

Mrs. Von Tagen flew to her room. It took her but an instant to throw her waterproof over her evening dress, and taking the back stairs to avoid observation, she went out, regardless of the rain, bent only upon an errand which seemed to her each moment more urgent.

We have seen that she arrived too late to prevent the fatal misfortune to Lydia. The poor girl was carried senseless to the house, where, during the weary night, the anxious watchers waited the fiat of the physician, who, living several miles away, was detained until nearly daylight by the storm and darkness.

He pronounced the case to be hemorrhage of the lungs, caused by disease of the lungs, and brought on by some violent excitement or unusual exertion. "She has fever," he said, "and must on no account be disturbed. You have done everything that was necessary, sir," addressing Mr. Ellerslie, "and to your prompt and judicious treatment the patient may owe her life. I recommend the most perfect quiet throughout the house."

The next day the party broke up; a messenger was dispatched to Mr. Fenton; and Mrs. Drofflum, with saint-like patience, watched beside the sick girl.

"She's a model woman," said Mr. Ellerslie to his daughter. "I don't believe she closed her eyes last night, and this morning she insisted upon writing to Mr. Fenton. I am sorry for him, poor fellow! It seems that some men have luck against them. Fenton has set his heart upon this girl, and now it's ten chances to one if she ever gets over this. Perkins thinks that she has been ailing for some months. I must ask Mrs. Drofflum about it. I thought her the prettiest creature I ever laid my eyes on, when she came here."

"Papa, I'm sure her beauty has worked mischief enough. Only think of the scandal. Eliza Timmons has got hold of the whole story; and Jane says that Mr. Amerland and Miss Croft have been in the habit of meeting secretly, ever since they came here. I'm afraid that she is a treacherous, designing girl, and has been making a convenience of our house—abusing hospitality, and—"

"So, so, Mary," exclaimed the old gentleman; "I won't have you say a word against the poor girl. Amerland has acted badly—yes, I will say that he has played the rascal. I hope he will spare me the trouble of telling him so. He is only fit to live in such a place as Paris, where I suppose he picked up his morals. I don't believe in these peripatetic lovers; and damn me, Mary, I would have you more careful in future how you invite such scoundrels to my house."

"He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best;
And he whose heart beats quickest, lives the longest."

A FEW days after Allan Cairn's interview with Mr. Fenton, he was called away from home by an urgent letter from a gentleman living some twenty miles distant, requesting him to be at his house on a certain day. A political meeting had been announced, and having heard Allan speak on a former occasion, he was anxious to enlist him among the orators of the day. This very flattering invitation was submitted to Mrs. Cairn, who at once declared that Allan must go.

With what pride did she pack in his saddle-bags his finest shirt, and fold within the smallest possible compass the coat which he was to wear! With tears of joy she saw him ride away, waving his hand to her, and smiling as he disappeared from view; and then she wiped her eyes, and quietly resumed her household duties, thinking of him all the while.

The road passed directly by the Forest, and as he looked toward the house, he saw Sibyl in the garden. It was her habit to come out among the flowers in the early morning, to see what the night had done for her, and to enjoy the cool quiet which precedes the bustle of the day. He involuntarily slackened the pace of his horse, and to his astonishment saw Sibyl making a sign to him to stop as she walked rapidly down the avenue. He descended from his horse, and holding him by the bridle, advanced to meet her.

"How kind of you," he said, "to come and wish me God-speed!"

"You are going away, then?"

"Not for very long, or even very far—only to Hamilton."

"Ah!" she exclaimed, her face brightening, "I guess what for. You are going to speak at the meeting. I heard of it through Mr. Meadows, who came yesterday to see my father, and if you knew what he came to tell us, you would wonder how I can stand here now speaking calmly to you, feeling so strangely indifferent about it. People get used to misfortune—don't you think so? After the first hard blows, the sharpness of the pain is dulled; it no longer cuts to the quick, sending that agonizing thrill, which comes when it is yet new to us. Even those poor flowers, which I have so faithfully tended, are no longer mine. Mrs. Amerland has foreclosed the mortgage on the Forest, and I am homeless."

"It cannot have come to this, Miss Earle: you surely have something left?"

"Nothing but my mother's jewels, and my poor little Chris and his mother; the rest is all gone. Mr. Cairn—all gone. My great trouble must be my excuse for detaining you. I have taken much for granted in speaking so plainly to you, but I am so sorely in want of a friend, that I must put aside scruples, which some women might allow to govern them, and tell you boldly that I need your help. I must leave this place at once. My father, for some reason, has determined to remain here, Mrs. Amerland having written that we were welcome to stay until a purchaser is found; but it is no longer a home for me. I cannot," she continued in an excited way, "I must not submit to the odious companionship of such a man as Dr. Lavergne; he is intimate with my father, you understand? Oh! that I should be obliged to say this! I must do something, Mr. Cairn, and I have determined to open a school in the village,"

"What!" cried Allan. "You, Miss Earle, teaching rough country children?"

"Yes," she said. "I know it will be a bitter task; but I can do it. Difficulties do not easily frighten me. Don't try to dissuade me from it," she added, seeing a protest in Allan's face; "pray don't, I am quite decided about it; but I shall need your assistance a little in the beginning. Susie has been to Mrs. Stebbins to get board for me; it will be time enough to think of the school when you return. You see that I believe you to be my friend."

"I am so, dear Miss Earle, your true and faithful friend. I thank you for the honor you have done me, and with God's help you shall never regret having confided in me."

Their hands clasped, and their eyes met for an instant. Allan's were clear and untroubled, but full of a tender sympathy, which caused Sibyl's to sink beneath his gaze. As she walked away, she did not see that Allan was retracing his way toward home.

Mrs. Cairn was not a little surprised when he walked into the kitchen, where she was busy with the baking.

"There's nothing amiss, mother," he exclaimed, "at least not with me. I have ridden back to ask a favor of you."

"It must be something very urgent, Allan, that would cause you to lose the cool freshness of the morning for your ride."

"It is urgent, mother, I have just seen Miss Earle—she is in great distress. Her father—villain that he is—has made away with everything, and the noble girl is not wasting her time in useless repining, but has already made plans for earning her livelihood. I have come back, mother, to ask you to go up at once, and invite her to come here. You have a spare room, and although our way of living is simple enough, there is nothing in it to shock the most delicately refined. I can't think of her going to Mrs. Stebbins'."

"Nor I," said Mrs. Cairn. "I feared that great trouble was in store for her. I will go up this morning and ask her to share our home." She inwardly thought: "Ah! if Allan could learn to love this dear, sensible girl."

With a keep satisfaction in her heart, she kissed him, bidding him trust to her to make things smooth for Sibyl; and soon after he left, she went up to the Forest.

Sibyl was inexpressibly grateful to Mrs. Cairn, and unaffectedly accepted her offer, stipulating that she should be allowed to pay a monthly sum for her board, to which Mrs. Cairn assented, saying that she understood too well the unpleasantness of dependence not to appreciate the motive which prompted the request. "You will perhaps be more comfortable my dear, but I do not need it. One more can cause but little trouble to me: indeed, I believe I am very happy at the idea of having you with me." She kissed her, and left her, to commence at once preparations for her reception.

As to Sibyl, the alluring beauty of the life that her fancy pictured with this woman, whose beneficent sympathy had already taken away much of the bitterness of her hard lot, had beguiled her into forgetting the disagreeable necessity of informing her father of her determination. He made but little show of objection, manifesting so complete an indifference, that Sibyl realized, almost with horror, that between them the natural love of parent and child had been perverted into something fearfully akin to hate. Being secretly anxious to get her out of the house, Mr. Earle put no obstacle in the way of her immediate departure.

Sibyl rose the next morning, with a dull, heavy pain about the head. Finding the exertion of packing too much for her, she called Susie, giving her directions from time to time regarding the articles which, being her own, she desired to take away. Mrs. Earle's jewel case was in a drawer of her armoire, which she always kept locked. She told Susie to unlock the drawer, and bring it to her.

"How's this, Miss Sibyl? The key is in the drawer, and, oh, my God! you have been robbed," Susie cried, opening the case.

Sibyl started to her feet, holding out her hand for the case. She saw with dismay that all that was most valuable was gone. A handkerchief saturated with chloroform was found near her bed. The embroidered initials explained all. St. George Earle had robbed his daughter.

ALLAN CAIRN'S voice had been heard for the first time outside of the village in which he had passed his youth. There was much that was rough and unformed in the manner of his delivery; but his sentences were clear and lucid. Dispensing with that flimsy ornamentation of which young orators are so fond, he dealt with the important political question which agitated the public mind, with a liberality of judgment, and a commonsense view of the matter which it would have been well for his elders to have taken. He had everything in common with the greater portion of the men who were listening to him. He had entered into the business of life, and was wide-awake to the practical necessities of the times. Earnest, and with a confidence not incompatible with modesty, he looked his fellow-men straight in the face, inspiring, by his own belief in himself, and conviction in the minds of others of the wisdom and soundness of the arguments which he used in favor of the measures that he advocated.

When Allan descended from the rostrum, hands were outstretched to him, and old men with silver hair and shaking voices gave him the benediction of their approval. In this moment of his triumph the thought of his mother was paramount; but another face rose up before him—a face all beaming with joy and pride. Ah! Sibyl Earle, did you only know this, how it would lighten the burthen of your poverty and disgrace! Yes, Allan thought of her now, so brave and self-reliant, going forward unshrinkingly, to meet the trails of poverty—trials all the more hard to bear for having come suddenly upon her with unexpected bitterness, and without the mitigation which loving sympathy brings; for, courted by the world as she had been, no one had yet appeared, to show the desolate girl that it is less false and ungrateful than it is depicted. She was let alone. Perhaps it was better thus; for when misfortune places one without the charmed barrier which hems in the prosperous and wealthy, it is better to be so far removed that not even the echo of the happy voices can reach our ears. Forgetfulness is one of the least of the many faults for which society has to answer; it is merciful to the one forgotten.

About sunset, Allan set out to return to Fentonville, intending to ride by starlight in order to reach home at dawn. The dense pine forest through which he passed was traversed in various directions by roads made by the country people for their own convenience, leading in many instances to isolated dwellings, inhabited by the poorer class, who seek shade and water as the first thing to be considered in the choice of a dwelling spot. It was no wonder that, being unacquainted with the roads, and the sky becoming suddenly overcast, Allan should have lost his way. The wind came sweeping through the tall pines, and the distant roll of thunder warned him to seek shelter from the coming storm. Putting spurs to his horse, he followed at hazard a road which led him to the summit of a large hill, and to his infinite relief espied the faint glimmer of a light in the distance. Riding forward at a brisk pace, he soon drew rein in front of a large white house, which, but for the light in an upper window, seemed totally uninhabited. Opening the rickety gate, he led his horse within the inclosure, and then called to know if any one was in hearing. After a delay of several minutes, a figure was seen cautiously approaching, coming from around the corner of the house, and peering about, as if apprehending some danger.

"Can you give me shelter for to-night?" said Allan.

"You had better be moving on. There's nobody here except me, and I ain't got no place to put strangers."

He had approached near enough for Allan to discern the outlines of a dwarfish figure, with an immense hump on the back. His features were not discernible in the gathering gloom.

"What!" exclaimed Allan; "does not so large a house afford room for a benighted traveller? I do not ask you for entertainment, only for shelter. My horse can browse on the grass which he may find in the yard."

"Why can't you go on to Sam Bailey's?—he's got a plenty of room, and women folks about, and will be glad enough to get a dollar in the morning."

"Look," answered Allan, "don't you see the indications of a storm? Come, I will pay you well. I don't intend to go one step farther to-night."

After a silence of some minutes, the dwarf bade Allan in a sullen, ungracious tone to follow him. "There's a stable out here," he said, pointing to a dilapidated building to the right of the house. "You had better put your horse up, out of the weather."

By the time this was accomplished, sharp volleys of thunder rattled over their heads, while the lightning blazed across the sky, lending a momentary brightness to the gloomy scene. The dwarf led the way to the back of the house. "I don't bother about opening the front door," he said, striking a match, and lighting a piece of candle stuck in a bottle, which stood just within the hall. Allan saw by the dim light that it was wide and lofty, and that a pair of stairs ran up through the middle of it to the story above. The dwarf gave him but little time to look around, for he opened a door leading into a small apartment, which seemed formerly to have been used as a pantry; for shelves ran along its sides, filled with empty bottles, bits of broken china, and two or three dingy dish-covers. A cot bed, not particularly inviting, stood in one corner, and pointing to it the dwarf said, "You can sleep there: it's my own bed, but I can turn in anywhere."

"I will not deprive you of it," answered Allan. "I shall proceed on my way at the dawn of day; but I can't stand this stifling atmosphere," he added, starting up, and throwing open a window.

As the wind rushed in, the candle was extinguished, and they were left in darkness. At the same moment a terrific peal of thunder burst over the house, and with the din of the storm was mingled the tones of a human voice raised to its utmost pitch of terror. Allan darted forward, finding his way as well as he could in the pitchy darkness, guided by the smell of brimstone and the continued shrieks, which evidently came from above. He found the stairs, and taking two or three at a step, was soon in the upper hall. He at once comprehended the extent of the disaster. The house had been struck by lightning. From a room on the right of the hall a vivid light proceeded, and thence came the sounds of distress. A moment more, and he had dragged out the insensible form of a man. Leaving him in the hall, he returned to the burning chamber to ascertain the extent of the catastrophe. In the lurid glare he saw a dark figure moving rapidly about, collecting the various articles which were scattered around. When, with wonderful dexterity, he had secured these in a coverlet, he flew to the window, cast it into the yard below, and seizing an iron-bound box, rushed from the room. At sight of the prostrate form over which Allan was now stooping, he fell on his knees, uttering in an unknown language words of heart-rending grief and lamentation: but the fire was gaining upon them; not a moment was to be lost; and Allan motioning the strange man to assist, together they bore the insensible form down stairs, and laid it on the floor of the front porch. The dwarf, half dead with fright, came shuffling to the spot, wringing his hands, and crying out that he was utterly "done for," and never desisting until Allan sternly bade him cease his noise, asking if he intended to let the man die without an attempt to restore him.

As he spoke, the dark man rose suddenly, and with a face expressing the most intense joy, exclaimed,

"No dead, you say—no dead?"

"The man is not dead," said Allan; "there is every likelihood that he may recover; but for God's sake help me to get him out of the house: don't you see that it is burning over our heads?"

The rain was falling, and as they placed the sufferer on the grass, his head pillowed on the lap of his faithful attendant, the reviving drops feel on his face, and he gave signs of life.

Allan drew out his brandy flask and placed it to his lips. To his joy he saw him swallow a mouthful, and then feebly sigh. In the meantime the fire had made fearful progress. The fierce element defied the rain and leaped in wild fury, darting out its thousand tongues and devouring with savage joy the beams and rafters, which came down with a crash, bringing the tall chimneys with them. Soon nothing was left but a vast smouldering pile. No help had come. The nearest neighbor was five miles away and slept, perchance, all unconscious that Tim Dennison's house was burning.

In the stable, a sort of bed had been improvised for the sufferer. His devoted attendant never left his side during the night, but sat with his head resting on his breast, talking in soft low tone, sometimes in broken English, but oftener in the strange dialect in which he had a first spoken.

Tim Dennison was inconsolable for the loss of his property. "Bad luck to me!" he cried: "its all gone along with the rest—bad luck to me, for taking the fellow's money. I might ha' knowed it wasn't straight and fair!"

Although well-nigh maddened by grief and despair, yet his native cunning enabled him to give guarded answers to Allan's questions; but his explanation of the very suspicious circumstance of his having an invalid gentleman in his desolate and isolated dwelling, his sole companion a foreign servant, unused to the ways of the country and speaking but a few words of its language, was altogether confused and unsatisfactory.

"It will go hard with you, Dennison, if you conceal the truth; but what you have to do at present, is to go speedily to the nearest neighbor and seek assistance."

"I'll go fast enough," he muttered, "if that dratted pony will carry me. I can't walk, no how."

A half hour had elapsed, and Allan began to grow impatient, when he appeared, perched on the back of a nondescript-looking animal, which seemed bitterly opposed to leaving the premises. After several starts he changed his mind, backed up to the fence, and planted his feet in the earth, as if he had determined to grow there. The persuasion of a stout stick, applied with no gentle hand by Allan, at last induced him to move off, and once out into the road he trotted away with his uncouth burden.

Allan paced up and down the garden path watching the dying flames and longing earnestly for daylight. His curiosity was deeply excited, and it was with keen satisfaction that he heard—

"The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
With his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day."

He was about to inquire after the stranger, when he perceived him coming toward him, leaning on the arm of his servant.

Tall and bent with premature age, evidently suffering from ill-health, his face still bore unmistakable traces of remarkable beauty and his eye had a clear and piercing glance. With a voice of deep feeling, and a manner genuinely courteous and high-bred, he expressed his grateful thanks to Allan.

As he spoke his gaze intensified, and he seemed to be reading every lineament of the handsome young face before him. Agitated by some powerful emotion, he suddenly become silent, and but for the support of his servant, would have fallen to the ground.

"You are yet too feeble, sir, thus to excite yourself," exclaimed Allan, drawn to him by a feeling of intense sympathy. "Pray say no more; if I have rendered you a service, it was purely accidental, and I am a thousand times repaid by seeing you standing there."

"Young man," he answered, speaking slowly and painfully, "in seasons of lonely despair, I have dared to pray that I might live to see the realization of the one hope which I firmly believe has helped me to live on through many years of sorrow. At sight of you a strange and unaccountable joy has stirred my heart. Ah! demon, do not mock me again," he cried, wildly striking his forehead with his hand. "See! he laughs at my folly."

"Calm yourself, I beseech you, sir!" exclaimed Allan, leading him to a chair, which had been saved with other household chattels from the fire.

The dark man looked at Allan, put his finger to his forehead, and shook his head. "He no talk now—all right some day—soon—he find somebody," he whispered.

IN due time Tim Dennison returned, accompanied by some half-dozen men, all eager to hear Allan's story, and stimulated by a curiosity peculiar to country people, sharpened doubtless by the rare opportunities afforded them of exercising it.

A light wagon had been provided, into which the foreign servant assisted his master. He wrapped a fur-lined cloak about him, with tender solicitude for his comfort, speaking at the same time in a low, rapid manner; the words, however, seeming to make but little impression upon the listener, who submitted with gentle apathy to his care, keeping his eyes steadily away from the gaping crowd gathered about the wagon.

As the wagon was lost to view by a sudden turn in the road, Allan drew Mr. Bailey aside and said: "Can you possibly imagine under what circumstances these strangers could have found their way to this desolate spot?" He then went on to say how accident had led him to take shelter with Tim Dennison, and how reluctant the fellow had been to admit him within his house.

"Altogether a mysterious affair," answered Mr. Bailey. "Dennison is a queer chap, and doesn't enjoy the best character. About three months ago he sent away the two old negroes who lived with him, shut up his house, and disappeared. I think it pretty clearly our duty to look into the matter."

"Would it not be better to interrogate him before a magistrate? He may refuse to answer unless under compulsion."

"I perfectly agree with you," replied Mr. Bailey; "the fellow is an arrant knave, and will break faith with any one, should his ugly carcass be endangered by keeping it."

Dennison in the meantime was not so wholly occupied in gathering together the remnants of his poor possessions, as not to be aware that Allan and Mr. Bailey were discussing him, and that in all probability trouble was brewing for him. He was not therefore unprepared to hear himself roughly desired by the latter to "come away from his trash, and give some account of himself."

"See here, Tim," cried Mr. Bailey. "It's no sort of use for you to shirk. You've got yourself in a fix, and a devilish bad one, I'm afraid. There is Squire Brown just getting off his horse."

"What are you after, Mr. Bailey?" asked Dennison. "I don't rightly see what any one can say agin me, or what Squire Brown can prove."

"Then I will enlighten your mind for you," said Allan. "Under most suspicious circumstances, I found in your house last night an invalid gentleman, and an ignorant, helpless foreigner. When I applied to you for shelter, you at first absolutely refused to admit me, and when at last you reluctantly yielded to my entreaty, you placed me in a miserable closet, evidently with the intention of locking me up. But for the accident which has destroyed your house, I would have left it, ignorant that it held other inmates than myself."

"A pretty clear case," said Squire Brown, who had been attentively listening to Allan.

Dennison seeing no avenue of escape, and frightened out of his wits, for a crowd had collected about him, and he was hedged in on every side, determined to make a clear breast of it.

"Gentlemen," he said, throwing back his head, and glancing timidly around, "you all know as how I've been hard up this long time. Sence the ole 'oman died things has got worse and worse, and if I found a way to raise the wind, I can't see as how I ought to be blamed for it. I'm a going to tell you as plain as I can, how I got myself into consenting to take in them strange folks, and I hope, gentlemen, that when I've told the truth, you won't be no ways hard upon me."

"Go on," said Squire Brown, "you will have justice dealt to you."

"Well," continued Dennison, "I shut up here, and went away; for I knowed I couldn't be worse off, and I thought as how I might better myself. My mother told me once, that if ever things come to the worse with me, I was to go to Mr. Earle. She gave me his name writ on paper: here it is,"—taking the paper from a greasy pocket-book. It was passed from hand to hand, and to Allan's utter astonishment he saw the name of St. George Earle written in faded ink upon it. "Well, I went down to Fentonville, where I heard that he lived. I saw a young lady there,—he wasn't home, so she gave me his address, and I went on to Charleston, where I found him. He cursed like blazes when he saw me, but he gave me a few dollars and sent me about my business. I was obleeged to go to him agin when my money was out; and this time he did not call me an ugly dog, but said as how he had a job for me as would pay me well, provided I kept a still tongue. It was nothing more than to take care of a poor, half-crazy gentleman and his servant, who was a sort of Injun, and couldn't speak much more than half a dozen words that I could understand. I was to keep a sharp eye on both of them, and not on no account to let on that they was in my keeping. I didn't say no, you may be sure. The next morning I went to the hotel where Mr. Earle was a stopping. I didn't see him, but another gentleman gave me my first month's pay and money to buy what I wanted for housekeeping. He's the same one as come here with them—a dark-looking chap, as treats a man as cheap as dirt. I don't know his name, but he's backard and forard here, and I see the heathen servant a making of signs behind his back, as if he would like to cut his throat. He stuck close by his master while the gentleman was here, and seemed uneasy-like about the box as he hid away under the bed. Up to last night the sick gentleman 'peared to be in his right mind, and never give me the least bit of trouble. He said time and again to me, as how he was a waiting here for somebody; but, gentlemen, I never did believe as all was on the square—only you see a man must live, and I took the money. I've told you the truth. Before God, gentlemen, I didn't know no more about the matter; but I believe as how you will get hold of a rascal if you can find the chap as put these poor people in this here out-of-the-way place."

"It's my opinion," said Mr. Bailey, "that having got hold of one rascal, we won't let him go until we catch the other."

"Just so," put in Squire Brown. "See here, Tim, no harm will come to you if you are no further complicated in this villainy than your story leads us to suppose; but in the meantime I shall keep an eye upon you."

"What's this?" exclaimed Allan, picking up a card which had fallen from Tim's pocket-book. "Dr. Lavergne," in neat characters, was printed on it. Mute with surprise he held it out to Mr. Bailey. "I think, sir," he said, when that gentleman gave him a look of inquiry, "that the finding of this person's card in Tim's possession is very significant. Dr. Lavergne has but recently settled in Fentonville and his patron and friend is St. George Earle. Did the doctor give you this card, Tim?"

"He let it drop, sir, one day he was here, and I picked it up."

"Then," said Allan, "there can be no longer any doubt. Let us set out at once, gentlemen. The unfortunate victim of a designing rascal is at Mr. Bailey's. He may be in need of medical aid; at any rate, the sooner this mystery is cleared up the better for the community."

Tim Dennison, mounted on his pony, rode in the midst of the cavalcade, virtually a prisoner; and it would have been hard to find a more miserable and crestfallen object than he was.

IT was about the hour when Lydia was expected to arrive at home. Selina had been a dozen times to the piazza, looking out for the carriage. The windows were closed, and the silence which reigned throughout the house indicated an unusual state of things at Baywood. A man on horseback rode rapidly up the avenue, and going straight to the stable, gave his jaded horse in care of the groom, and then hastened to the kitchen, where the two old servants were talking in earnest tones, for once, agreeing over their mutual troubles; for the master was lying sick in his chamber above, and for the last few hours had grown so rapidly worse, that their faithful hearts were filled with anxious concern for him.

"Good Lord, Peter! what's the matter?" cried Selina; "where's Miss Lydia?"

"Selina, I've brought mighty bad news. I come to fetch master, for Miss Lydia is took awful bad. Jane told me that she didn't believe she would get through to-day. I started before light, and rode as hard as I could, but Prince had like to give out the last five miles. I've got a letter for master."

Selina had not interrupted him; now she stretched out her hand, saying: "Give it to me, Peter: I don't think master can read it, and even if he could, I don't know as how I ought to give it to him. He's sick this two days, and I've been a begging of him to send for the doctor; but he's obstinate like, and wouldn't consent. O Lord! what troubles is coming upon us! You stay here, Peter, and take a bite of something. There's cold meat in the pantry, and the pot of coffee is warm by the fire."

She went upstairs, and returned in a few minutes, with an anxious, scared face.

"As quick as you can—don't lose a minute, Peter—go for the doctor. Stop by Mrs. Cairn's, and ask her to come up. Master is getting worse. Oh! for God's sake, bring somebody to help him."

Mr. Fenton, with an obstinacy not unusual to people of his peculiar temperament, had persistently refused to see a physician. He persuaded himself that his malady could be arrested by the simple remedies suggested by Selina's experience; but for the last few hours it had alarmingly increased in violence, and he lay now in a state of great suffering, heedless of the lapse of time, and forgetting that this was the day to which he had so joyfully looked forward. Near the outer door a servant was seated, placed there to watch her master, and to call Selina, should he ask for her. An hour dragged slowly on, when at last Mrs. Cairn, accompanied by the strange doctor, entered the house. Selina met them, and poured out in a torrent of words her grief and anxiety about her master; "and that ain't all, ma'am," she added: "Miss Lydia is lying at the point of death, up at Mr. Ellerslie's."

Deeply moved, Mrs. Cairn spoke soothingly to her. "Things are rarely so bad as we imagine, Selina. Let us go at once to your master. Dr. Bradleigh is away, so I have entreated Dr. Lavergne, our new physician, to come with me. I hope, sir," she said, turning to Dr. Lavergne, "that you may find my good friend less seriously ill than Selina supposes him to be."

An expression so sinister crossed his face, that Mrs. Cairn turned again to look at him; but it was gone, and with a manner perfectly in keeping with an anxious desire to render his best services to the patient, he proceeded to the apartment of the sick man.

Mr. Fenton, who had an instinctive dislike to strangers, motioned away the doctor as he approached the bad; but Mrs. Cairn took his hand, and pressing it warmly, said: "Indeed, my good friend, you must submit to being treated. Dr. Bradleigh is away. This gentleman is a stranger, but I hope his skill may relieve your suffering. Pray take his advice."

Too weak to resist, and feeling the paroxysm of pain returning with redoubled agony, Mr. Fenton gave himself up to the tender mercies of Dr. Lavergne. The dark face grew darker, and the thin yellow hand fumbled nervously at the fastening of the medicine case. "I am lost," he said to himself, "if I fail in courage now. I have gone too far—there is no turning back." He asked for various things, and when they were brought, he was for some minutes occupied in preparing the medicine. When the glass was presented to the patient, a sudden spasm caused him to throw up his hands, and it was dashed to the floor. Mrs. Cairn wiped the liquor from the counterpane, and sent a servant for another vase. Somewhat to her surprise, she saw the doctor carefully gather up the fragments of broken glass and throw them from the window. When again he approached the patient, Mrs. Cairn, who was looking steadily at him, observed that he was laboring under some strange agitation, and that his unsteady hand had well-nigh caused the accident to occur a second time.

"The danger to my poor friend must be more imminent than I suppose; and yet it is not usual to see one to whom suffering and death grow familiar from constant contact, thus moved." Dr. Lavergne, after administering the medicine, threw out of the window the water with which he had washed the glass, which he polished with a napkin.

The premonition of evil comes to us at times with a conviction so strong, that reason fails to dissuade us from believing. Mrs. Cairn was fast growing uneasy; the confidence which she was inclined to repose in this strange man was shaken. "Allan cannot be here until to-morrow morning," she thought. "It is a weary time to wait;" and then she determined to send a messenger after Dr. Bradleigh. Acting upon this, she left the room intending to seek Gabriel, that he might at once dispatch some one in quest of the family physician.

The hall was lighted by an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling; its feeble rays scarcely penetrated into the farthest corners, which were in deep shadow. From out of this shadow a figure emerged, cautiously holding up a hand in token of silence. Mrs. Cairn at once recognized Andy Jane Meggs, whose staring eyes and colorless face, to say nothing of her torn and bedraggled clothes, and the locks of damp disordered hair hanging loose upon her neck, were calculated to arouse a suspicion, in the mind of that lady, that she had suddenly lost her senses. Panting, and catching her breath, she could scarcely articulate the words which she whispered in Mrs. Cairn's ear.

"I've got something to tell you, ma'am. I've run all the way here through the woods. If they kill me, I'm a going to tell. Oh! ma'am, I know he's in this house at this minute. Don't you let him get hold of me, and I'll tell all I know. O Lord! I've been that pestered, that I couldn't rest; but I'm a going to tell now, indeed I am."

Thoroughly frightened at the words and manner of the girl, Mrs. Cairn bade her follow her down stairs.

"Go into the library and remain there until I return," said Mrs. Cairn. "Have no fear, my poor girl: no harm shall come to you." She then proceeded to the kitchen, to dispatch a messenger after Dr. Bradleigh. Dr. Lavergne was descending the stairs as she again entered the hall.

"Ah! my dear madam," he exclaimed, with an exhibition of great concern, "I have been seeking for you. I am sorry to say that the symptoms are greatly aggravated in our patient. I must insist that the family physician be sent for. I cannot think of bearing so heavy a responsibility alone, being a stranger—you understand—rather embarrassing."

"Then, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Cairn, "you consider Mr. Fenton in peril of his life."

"It is because I entertain this fear, madam, that I insist that his own physician be sent for."

He knew full well that Dr. Bradleigh was far enough from Fentonville; and that before he could reach there, human help would little avail to save Ralph Fenton. His plans had been cunningly devised; they could hardly fail now of accomplishment. So far, everything promised well. He little thought that there, within a few feet of him, the avenger stood. The poor, uncouth servant girl, whose sharp wits even his devilish shrewdness had failed to deceive, was waiting there to tell her horrid tale.

He went out, and Mrs. Cairn entering the library, found Andy Jane in a state of terror hard to describe.

"Oh, ma'am!" she whispered, "don't for the Lord's sake let him come in. He will kill me if he do; but I am a going to tell, indeed I am."

"If I am right in supposing that you are speaking of Dr. Lavergne, I can assure you that he has left the house."

"Then, ma'am, I'm a going to speak out. You know as how I live with Mrs. Hope—and a scrimmaging kind of a life I've had with her too—but I'm a good hand at bearing, ma'am. I can bear a'most anything, till it come to a downright imposin' on to me things as I know arn't proper. This here Dr. Lavergne"—she pronounced his name as though she would like to spit it out again—"he came to our house one night—I don't rightly remember how long back—anyhow, he sneaked there in the night, threatened of my life, and locked me up. When he had been with Mrs. Hope for ever so long, he came up and let me out, and I found her a lying on the kitchen floor, dead gone away, and me that frightened that I didn't know whether to rouse the neighbors, or to try to being her around. But I did it, ma'am: she came to and made light of it; but she's never been the same since—not that she could ever be more like vinegar than she was—but there was a difference. When this doctor came to stay at the house, she took on so strange like that sometimes I thought as how she was a losing of her mind. He had a sort of a sneaking, watching way about him, and kept his eye on me that close, that I never rightly knew when it was off. Even when I was in bed, and the candle put out, I thought I could see it a peering through the keyhole; but he didn't know Andy Jane. As soon as I was sure that something was a going on, I just determined to find it out. Day before yesterday Mrs. Hope sent me down to the mill for a peck of meal. It was nigh on to sundown when I started, and by the time I got back it was candle-light; so says I, I will just steal in by the back way, and maybe I may hear something. The doctor sleeps in old Mr. Croft's room, and I never goes by there in the night if I can help it; but I saw a light, and as the window is low, I put down the bag and looked in. O ma'am! what I see almost froze the blood in my veins. There was Dr. Lavergne a-standing by the table, and Mrs. Hope, she was a-standing there too, and between them was a bowl of fresh butter. Mrs. Hope, she was a-churning when I went to mill; and I saw him with a little vial, and he dropped something out of this vial into the butter. She was white like the dead, and I heard her say, 'O God! that I should stand here and see this;' and he answered, 'Don't be such a drivelling old fool: it will be all the better for you.' Then all of the suddent I seemed to remember the face. I knew it now in spite of the whiskers and moustache; I knew it was the same face that had well-nigh scared me to death that night at the well. Oh, I knew him! Old Gabriel, he come the next day for the butter; but I was looking after the calves, and didn't see him. I was terrible oneasy when Mrs. Hope said as how Gabriel had come for the butter, and that Mr. Fenton was sick; but what was a poor girl like me, ma'am, to do? Jeames—that's my brother—he came up this evening, and told me as how Mr. Fenton was ever so bad, and that Dr. Lavergne had gone to see him. I couldn't hold back longer, ma'am; I just run all the way here, thinking as how Miss Lydia was here, and I could get to see her. I'm glad that I found you, ma'am, but I can't go back no more. They will kill me if they know as it was me that told on 'em!"

With a horror-stricken face, Mrs. Cairn has listened to Andy Jane's fearful story. She knew now that Ralph Fenton was dying—dying by the hand of the poisoner. Not a moment was to be lost, and after recommending the greatest watchfulness on the part of the servants, and leaving Andy Jane in Selina's care, she set out, followed by a stable boy carrying a lantern, to seek assistance. She first went to the mill for Jack Strong. When at last she succeeded in arousing him from his profound slumbers, he persisted in calling her Bob Stebbins, and shouted through the window that they would "get that there old 'possum before daylight." When, after some farther delay, he emerged from his apartment, and found that there was no question a 'possum hunt, he humbly excused himself to Mrs. Cairn, and expressed his readiness to follow her.

While they walked rapidly on, she related to him the extraordinary revelation of Andy Jane.

"It is all a dreadful mystery, Jack; my mind is utterly bewildered: but it is clearly my duty to go at once to Mr. Meadows, who is a magistrate, and lay the matter before him."

"I never did believe, ma'am," said Jack, "in strangers a-coming into a place, and settin' of themselves up above them as is their betters. It's mighty onlucky that Dr. Bradleigh has gone up country. I believe he might be here by to-morrow twelve o'clock anyhow, if he was sent for."

"Peter has left Baywood by this time," answered Mrs. Cairn, "but I'm afraid it may be too late."

Mr. Meadows' house was situated on the street of the village, set back in an old-fashioned garden, which was surrounded by a low, white fence. It was about half-past eleven o'clock, and as the lawyer was something of a student, Mrs. Cairn hoped to find him up. She was not mistaken; for as they walked up the garden path a light gleamed from the study window. This being low and open—for the night was warm—Mrs. Cairn at once approached it, and called to Mr. Meadows in a low clear voice. He looked up with an expression of mingled astonishment and alarm when she again repeated his name.

"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, rising, and going to the open window; "what has brought you here at this hour of the night?"

"It is I, Mr. Meadows," said Mrs. Cairn, stepping into the room: "the most urgent necessity brings me to you." She explained her errand in as few words as possible. The lawyer, shocked out of his usual bland serenity, manifested the most genuine anxiety on Mr. Fenton's account, and actually used an oath, declaring that not an hour should pass before the villain, the murderer and impostor should be in the custody of the officers of the law.

THE clock of the school-house chimed twelve, as Mrs. Cairn and Jack Strong turned their steps toward Baywood. The darkness obliged her to accept the offer of his arm, and thus guided, she managed to walk briskly onward. Little did she dream that the dark and tortuous way which she was now treading was leading her toward that goal to which, through all the long, long years, she had been looking. In the wonderful working out of our destiny, our most cherished hopes are, alas! often realized over the graves of those most dear to us. Even the horror of sudden and violent bereavement brings with it a strange solace—a satisfaction—let me write it with reluctant pen—which comes with the possession of wealth and position.

We do not admit it to ourselves: we struggle against a feeling which shames humanity; we persuade ourselves that we would have it all otherwise if we could, and yet we enter into our new life with a zest which gives the lie direct to our compunctions. Had any one whispered to Mrs. Cairn that she could ever look calmly back to the dreadful events of that night, she would have repudiated the imputation with horror, and yet, through the mysterious agency of a power which moves all things toward a sure and certain consummation, she was enabled afterwards to see that justice had been meted out to her, and to accept with thankfulness the good which grew out of evil.

A small side gate admitted them into the grounds of Baywood. Scarcely had they proceeded half way up the avenue, when the report of a shot-gun broke upon the stillness of the night; a moment after, a swiftly moving figure passed within a few feet of where they stood. Jack Strong sprang after the receding figure, but the darkness favored the fugitive, and rendered escape an easy matter. As Jack halted, hoping that the sound of the footsteps might guide him, cries of distress and terror, proceeding from the house, decided him to give up the uncertain chase, and hasten thither.

The front door stood open, and mounting the stairs, he made his way through a group of terrified servants to the apartment of Mr. Fenton. One glance at the bleeding form on the bed told of the horrible crime which had been committed. The gentle, courteous, kind-hearted Ralph Fenton lay there, foully, doubly murdered in his bed.

Mrs. Cairn stood beside the body, a fixed horror on her pale face. The inexplicable mystery involved so much that was terrible, that she turned, sickened, away from the contemplation of it, finding herself lost in a maze of futile speculation as to the motive which could have induced attempts in one night upon the life of an inoffensive gentleman.

Jack Strong, after convincing himself that life was quite extinct, and assuring Mrs. Cairn of the lamentable fact, hastened to the village with the news, and in the course of an hour, men, women and children flocked to the scene of the murder. As soon as daylight permitted, Jack Strong called the men to his assistance in searching for traces of the assassin. It was evident that he had gained the upper piazza by the stairs leading from the garden; but as a light rain had fallen during the night, no traces of footsteps were visible. While the men were eagerly bent upon discovering some clue to the villainous and audacious deed, their attention was suddenly attracted by an exclamation of triumph which burst from Jim Stebbins as he came forward, holding a small shot-gun in his hand.

Jim was a good-for-nothing fellow, who hung habitually about the mill, fishing and hunting when he was not engaged in whittling sticks. He now asserted in a very confident manner that he knew the gun. "I've seen it a hundred times, and handled it too," he said; "and if it ain't Allan Cairn's, then my eyes ain't my own."

Jack Strong walked up to him, and took it roughly from his hand. He turned deathly pale as he saw that the gun was one which Allan kept at the mill. His initials were neatly carved on the wood; there was no denying it: there they were.

"There's no mistake about this being Mr. Cairn's gun," he said; "but I take my solemn oath to God that last night, before I went to bed, I saw it in the corner where it always stands. He don't know no more about this than the child unborn. You all know as how he's been away this two days, and ought to have been here—according to what he calculated when he went way—last night."

"Just so, he ought to have been here last night. Can you inform me, Mr. Strong, why he did not come?" said Mr. Sealey.

"No, I can't," answered Jack; "but he's had some good reason for staying away, and when he does come back, he will be able to answer for himself. You just mind, sir," he added, approaching Sealey, and lowering his voice, "least said, soonest mended. I know who has been around your office lately."

Sealey changed color and shrank back, putting himself out of reach of Jack's brawny fist, and clear honest eyes.

"I will take charge of the gun," said lawyer Meadows. "One rascal has been caged to-night. Lavergne is none the less guilty, for not having drawn the trigger of that gun. Mr. Fenton's death was, I firmly believe, meditated by that villain; and if his poison was not its final cause, it is not fault of his. Were it not for the disclosure of Andy Jane Meggs, our suspicions would most naturally have alone fixed themselves upon the cowardly wretch who ended his dreadful sufferings by the bullet."

During the day that followed an intense excitement existed not only in the village, but also throughout the surrounding country. So unusual and dreadful an occurrence moved men to threats of immediate vengeance should the murderer be discovered. They left their daily avocation to flock into the village, and the jail in which Lavergne was confined was surrounded by an angry rabble, that savagely threatened to pull it down, and give him Lynch law. A posse of sheriff's officers guarded it, and Mr. Meadows addressed the crowd, telling them that while they wasted their time in useless threats, another quite as guilty was at large. "I caution you," he added most emphatically, "against entertaining unjust suspicions. A shameful rumor, which I know in my heart to be false, has gone abroad. You will regret having ever for a moment believed it. Search is being made for the murderer, and I promise you that neither pains nor money will be spared until he is found. I repeat to you now, 'judge not,' for you will be sorry to have cast a shadow upon the fair name of an innocent man."

While yet he spoke, a tumult arose in the crowd, and cries of "Who it this? what does she want?" Sarah Hope, waving her gaunt arms on high, had pushed through the mass of angry men. Her bloodshot eyes staring wildly about her—her hair, now quite white, hanging around her face, which was perfectly colorless, and emaciated to such a degree that the shrivelled skin seemed dried in to the bone.

"Let me speak," she cried, with a gesture of entreaty, "let me speak. I've come to give myself up. O sirs, have mercy on my son; mine be the blame, no his. Oh! not his! mine be the punishment. Let me go to him; I will confess everything: let me go to him; he shall not suffer alone."

She beat the air with her bony hands, she tore out handfuls of her white her, while the yelling crowd hemmed her in. "He is her son—she helped him to deceive us—she harbored the murderer, she helped to poison Mr. Fenton."

Her danger was imminent, but Mr. Meadows with a rapid movement interposed his person between the wretched woman and her enemies, and the sheriff stepping forward seized her, exclaiming: "The woman is my prisoner, and she will be dealt with according to law; any interference on the part of the crowd will be defeating the ends of justice, and I beseech and command you to retire to your homes in a quiet and orderly manner, and to allow the officers of the law to perform their duty unmolested."

A COVERED wagon journeyed slowly toward Fentonville. A cavalcade followed composed of Allan Cairn, Mr. Bailey, Tim Dennison, the deputy sheriff of T—— County, and several other men, who accompanied them from no better motive than an idle curiosity to see the dénoument of the strange affair. When within five miles of Fentonville, they were overtaken by Dr. Bradleigh and Peter, whose horses were exhausted from hard riding. Allan heard of Mr. Fenton's illness with feelings already overwrought by the excitement of the last night.

"Take my horse, Dr. Bradleigh; he is quite fresh; and for God's sake make all speed to reach our good friend. May he live at least until that wagon reaches Baywood!"

Allan, mounted on the doctor's jaded animal, naturally fell back; and so it happened that he heard from Peter of Lydia's illness, and of Mr. Fenton's desperate condition.

"It was your ma, sir, as sent me off last night. The new doctor was dar—I can't rightly 'call his name—and Selina, she said, as how master was awful bad."

"I must go on faster than at this snail's pace," cried Allan. "You lead the horse, Peter; I must get into the wagon."

In a minute more he was seated beside the driver. "I hope, sir," he said, turning to the stranger, "that you will be able to bear the motion of the wagon. We must go at a more rapid pace. It is important that I reach Baywood as early as possible."

"As you please," he answered; "every mile seems interminable to me."

Allan sat silent, save when he urged the horses to greater speed. Three days had he been away, and how pregnant of events had they been; but he little thought that he was about to meet cold looks and mistrustful avoidance from those whom he had known from his childhood; that foul suspicion had poisoned the hearts of his fellow-men and that his fair name was imperilled.

There are some truths that lie beneath the shadows, and are brought out only by the vindicating process of trial; and one of these is, that the principle of faith in our fellow-beings does not always stand the test of popular impulse, while that impulse often tends to violate our own convictions, and to condemn a man unheard, merely on hearsay. There were perhaps few persons in Fentonville who had not permitted their opinion to swerve toward the popular impression.

When they reached the road which diverged from the village, a young man, who had evidently been on the lookout, rode up to the wagon and asked to say a word in private to Allan, who immediately sprang out, telling the driver to go forward at a slower pace, and that he would soon overtake them.

The young man was Wilcox, the clerk at the drug store—a kind-hearted fellow, who from the first had stood up bravely for Allan, and been waiting for hours at this spot in order to prepare him for what he was to meet.

"Cairn," he said after informing him of what had taken place during his absence, "I'm sorry to tell you that somehow you are mixed up in this affair. I must confess that it looks ugly, for your gun did the work."

"Good God! Wilcox, do you mean to say that they suspect me of murder?"

There was in his voice the agonized thrill of one who finds that his fellow-men have judged and condemned him. His innocence cried out against the injustice.

"I know, Cairn," said Wilcox, "that you can clear yourself, and then these people will be heartily sorry and ashamed of themselves."

"Does my mother know of this, Wilcox?"

"She has been at Baywood since yesterday evening."

"Then in all likelihood she has not heard the vile rumor. I thank you from my heart, Wilcox, for your kindness. He grasped his hand for an instant, and then springing over the fence, which enclosed a field adjoining the grounds of Baywood, and taking his way directly across it, he arrived at the house a few moments in advance of the wagon.

He assisted the stranger to alight, gave him his arm, and together they entered the silent house.

Gabriel held back the door to admit them. "Old man," exclaimed the stranger, "have you no word of welcome for me? Look at me: am I then so changed?"

The old negro had drawn nearer, his lips apart, and his eyes gazing fixedly on the face of the speaker. Then raising his hand, he pointed to his forehead. "It seems to me as how I've seen that scar before. Young Mar's Reggy was kicked by a colt, but you can't be him come back from the dead?"

"Ah! poor old man. I have come back a stranger to my home; a broken, aged form, I bring back in lieu of the handsome youth you used to call Mar's Reggy."

"God be praised!" wept the old servant. "O Mar's Reggy, I thought I knowed you. Jesus, Master! I'se got no strength to bear up any more;" and he sank sobbing on the floor.

Allen drew away Mr. Fenton, as we must now call him. He led him to the library. There, amid familiar objects, with recollections thronging thickly upon him, he seemed to revive, and the joy and satisfaction of his heart overcame his bodily exhaustion.

He seized Allan's hand, and pressing it warmly, exclaimed: "You know now, sir, whom you have rescued from the flames. Here, in my own home once more—here, with every object speaking to me of that past which is separated from me by so many years of sorrow—in this room, where I saw my mother for the last time, I can better thank you for what you have done for me."

"Heaven be thanked!" answered Allan, "that you are safely home at last! But let me entreat you, sir, to calm yourself; and permit me to order something for your refreshment."

In the meantime Gabriel had recovered from his agitation, and waited at the door with Alee, the Hindoo. Allan called them in, and after seeing Mr. Fenton comfortably reposing on a sofa, he left the room to seek his mother.

Mrs. Cairn was sitting with grief-stricken face beside the window of the room in which Mr. Ralph Fenton lay. Her head was bent upon her hand, and she did not see her son until he stood close beside her. As he folded her in his arms, the pent-up tears burst forth in uncontrollable anguish, and for a few moments her sobs disturbed the silence of the death-chamber. Allan mingled his tears with hers as they stood beside all that remained to them of a good and true friend, and with renewed sorrow he saw on the rigid face the impress of the suffering which preceded death.

"Dear mother, you must not stay here. You are wanted down stairs; pray come with me." Whispering these words, he led her from the room. He paused for a moment in the hall, to enable Mrs. Cairn to recover her composure. Then, as briefly as possible, he told her of his strange adventure: how Reginald Fenton had come back, and that in his precarious condition of health the knowledge of his brother's death might prove fatal. "You see, mother, that this is a case for your ever ready sympathy and kindness, and I think your sweet ministration is more needed than medical advice; therefore, come with me to the library, where I left Mr. Fenton."

Together they went down the stairs, together they entered the room. Mr. Fenton had risen, and was standing opposite the door. At sight of Mrs. Cairn he started forward, an expression of ineffable joy suffusing his face, and with trembling, outstretched arms he cried: "Mary, Mary; at last, at last!"

"Mother, mother," whispered Allan, "he is mad."

She heard him not, but with a cry of love, which pierced Allan's heart with indescribable pain, she flew to those outstretched arms. In a moment she had gone back to the love of her youth. She heard only the voice of him who pleaded in broken tones for her forgiveness.

"Long years ago, Mary, in your home among the New England hills, I found you! Oh, how those memories come back to me!" His reason, in short-lived power, mastered his infirmity. He looked no longer the bowed invalid; but stood erect, his eye glancing with the unwonted fire of the past, his cheek suffused with the perilous flush of unnatural recovery. "Mary, beloved dear I plead the folly of an uncurbed youth: dare I confess the infidelity of which I was guilty—dare I sue for mercy at your hands, and offer up all the long years of expiation as a plea for pardon? I have prayed for this hour, Mary, this blessed hour, when I can fall at your feet, solemnly swearing that I have loved you always, and that this love has made a coward of me; for fearing to lose yours, when I failed to deserve it, I kept away, leaving you through all these long years abandoned. I have sinned toward you, my beloved, and toward our child. Oh! that thought of him has added tenfold to my anguish. Lest he should spurn me from him, let me now, in the presence of this young man (pointing to Allan), declare that you are my lawfully wedded wife. A few months before I met you, I set out with a young companion as wild and reckless as myself to make a tour through the New England States. We agreed to change names. Thus it was that I married you under the name of Osborne. I must acknowledge to you with shame my reason for doing this. I wished to conceal my marriage from my mother, intending, however, to do you justice; for I loved you with all the strength of my impassioned nature. I obtained a marriage certificate, signed with my own name before witnesses; I have it safe among my papers. O Mary, if you knew how long and vainly I have sought for you, how bitterly all these long years I have repented the follies of a misspent youth!"

Allan, who had been standing with bowed head and folded arms, now looked up, and met his mother's proud and happy eyes. "My son, my son!" she cried; "you know it now—that secret so long guarded. You know now why I dared not speak to you of your father. I thank God that he has delivered me from my burden. I thank him that I can raise up my head once more."

She drew Allan with gentle force toward his father. "My son, my darling boy, you will not be hard upon him. Reginald, this is our son. Will you not speak to him?"

He was standing where she left him. His hand was pressing his forehead, just as Allan had seen him do on the night of the fire. A look of pained perplexity furrowed his brow, and turning to Allan he appealed pitifully to him for help.

"It is gone, sir, quite gone—that beautiful dream—the demon is mocking me—hear, he laughs at my disappointment!"

Allan was just in time to catch the falling form, and bear it to the sofa. Mother and son stood, with their hands fast locked together, looking down upon the worn, handsome face. "O my boy!" the mother entreated, "let us take him to our hearts,—let us forgive him. We will not add to his misery by withholding from him the only blessing which God has spared to him—our love. Let me not have suffered in vain all these years. He is your father, and I have never ceased to love him." She sank down beside the insensible man, covering his face with kisses, and murmuring: "Reginald, Reginald, look at me, that I may tell you how freely I forgive you."

As if roused by the very power of her love, he opened his eyes, held out his feeble hand to the faithful woman, and the two were made one again.

Allan stood by and witnessed this scene, his face working with the contending emotions which it was calculated to arouse. No links of memory bound him to this man; he had listened to the bitter story of his mother's abandonment, and while his heart burned with fierce resentment, hers was softened into angelic forgiveness. With his wife's assistance, Mr. Fenton rose feebly from the sofa; seeing Allan, he said: "A stranger has been witness to our meeting, Mary, I owe to him far more than my life; for he has brought me to you. Sir," he continued, turning to Allan, "I have perhaps been wanting in courtesy to you, but this meeting has unsettled me. I have not seen my wife for over twenty years; you can understand my joy at finding her. Oh! I dare not murmur that another joy is wanting. You had a son, Mary—I have the letter telling me of his birth. I would not revive an old sorrow—he is dead perhaps; some other time we will talk of him."

"O Reginald!" she exclaimed, "are you blind, that you cannot see who is standing before you?"

"God of mercy! I see it now, I see it now!

"My son, forget your mother's wrongs, and forgive me, for I plead in her name."

Father and mother pleaded, the one with beseeching, tearful eyes, the other with words, made doubly eloquent by the tremulous tones of a broken voice. The sweetness of forgiveness entered into Allan's heart, and if a thought of the wonderful difference which his father's coming was to work in his life did not flash across his brain, if a thrill of pride did not stir his soul, then was Allan different from his fellow-men.

WHILE yet the trio lingered together, growing gradually reconciled to the suddenly revealed relationship, the sound of footsteps was heard without, and Gabriel opened the door to say that Mr. Meadows and others asked for admittance.

"Let us retire," said Mrs. Fenton—for henceforth we must call her by this name; "you must have no more excitement to-day, dear Reginald; we can make our escape through the dining-room."

"Lean on me, sir," said Allan; "you are still feeble."

Mr. Fenton turned and looked for a moment on the erect, stalwart form of the young man, his eye lingering proudly and lovingly on the handsome face, which bore on every lineament the stamp of honesty and truth. As he placed his hand on the offered arm, Allan said:

"Father, we must take good care of you now. I hope to see you well and strong once more."

"I shall have lived long enough should I die this night, since God has been so tenderly merciful to me. Now that I have looked upon the faces of my wife and my son, what more can I ask of Him?"

"To spare you to us for many long years;" saying which, Allan left him to his mother's care, and went to meet those who were growing impatient at his delay.

Mr. Meadows shook hands with him in a manner quite different from his usual formal urbanity. "Allan," he said, "I am here at the request, not only of these gentlemen"—all of whom had gone through the formality of hand-shaking—"but also on the part of every good citizen of Fentonville. Not two hours ago it would have been hard to convince any one of them that you were entirely blameless in the horrible affair of last night. Circumstances told strongly against you; and you know that popular impulse is not easily controlled. Although myself morally certain of your innocence, I found it difficult to check the unfavorable opinion which was generally entertained. Happily, Mr. Bailey has cleared you from every shadow of suspicion, and his testimony, together with that of Tim Dennison, has brought to shame those who were foremost in circulating the report against you."

"I do not wish to know who these are," answered Allan, with flashing eyes and heightened color. "It is simply incredible that people who have known me all my life should have accused me of complicity in a crime which I abhor with all my soul. Mr. Ralph Fenton' death has robbed you and me, Mr. Meadows, of a stanch and faithful friend; and I the more deeply deplore his loss, for the sake of one who comes, after the lapse of years, to seeks quiet and repose in the home of his youth. Mr. Reginald Fenton is now in this house, sir, ignorant of his brother's fate, and in a state of mental and physical weakness which will, I fear, render it unsafe to cause him any undue excitement."

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the lawyer; "this is a most remarkable thing! a wonderful coincidence. A man, after twenty years of absence, comes back to fill the place of his brother, made vacant by a violent death. Two attempts in one night upon the life of as good a man as God ever created!"

"What!" exclaimed Allan. "I do not understand, Mr. Meadows."

Wilcox, in the hurry and agitation of his interview with Allan, had not informed him of Lavergne's crime; so that until this moment he was quite ignorant that the impostor was implicated in the dark and fearful mystery.

"Lavergne has been arrested on the charge of murder by poisoning, on the testimony of Andy Jane Meggs. Mrs. Hope has voluntarily surrendered herself, testifying upon oath that she is the mother of Lavergne, and the author of the crime."

"Mr. Meadows," exclaimed Allan, "in mercy leave me. If you knew all, you would not be surprised to see me unnerved—so many sensations crowding upon one another—so many strange events compressed into so short a space of time! It seems that I have lived through a lifetime since the day before yesterday."

THE excitement about Fentonville was unabated; crowds of idle people collected around the stores and at the bar of the tavern, ready to listen to any idle tale, and doing little else from morning to night than speculating upon the result of the search for Mr. Fenton's murderer and the probability of the conviction of Lavergne and his mother; nor had the wonder run out its nine day's existence, with regard to Mr. Reginald Fenton and his acknowledgment of his wife and son. Allan, now the richest heir in the country, and bearing the proud name of Fenton, was of course an object of deep curiosity and interest, not entirely unmingled with envy; for men do not relish the sudden elevation of one whom they look upon as their equal, to a position above them. His quiet and unaffected assumption of his rights was, however, attended with so slight a change in his manner, that the most envious were disarmed, and yielded with good grace to the state of things, falling back comfortably upon the glorious prerogative of every American citizen, that of being as good as his neighbor, in his own point of view.

Constrained by a sense of duty, Mrs. Fenton had gone to Mr. Ellerslie's to see Lydia. Sibyl Earle assumed the charge of the invalid during her absence, leaving the cottage, where she was making preparation to open her school, to go and stay at Baywood.

The day was far advanced when Mrs. Fenton reached Mr. Ellerslie's house. The old gentleman was waiting to receive her, and conveyed to her, in the most delicate manner, his congratulation, at the same time deploring in earnest words the sad calamity which had fallen upon the family.

"The ways of God are inscrutable, sir," she answered. "He has brought about, through means which He alone understands, the fondest wishes of my heart. I accept the good which has come to me and to my child, while," she added, shuddering, "the loss of one who was very dear to us has thrown a dark shadow over a home which would otherwise have been a very happy one. Miss Croft is better, I hope, sir?"

"I cannot say that the danger is immediate, madam; but her condition is anything but encouraging. Her mental depression resists all the efforts of her devoted attendant, Mrs. Drofflum, and I fear that it has a very serious effect upon her disease. She expressed great anxiety to return to Baywood—talks constantly of Mr. Fenton; the fatal truth has, of course, been kept from her."

"Before going to Lydia, I must speak to Mrs. Drofflum; with your permission I will wait here for her," she said, as they entered the sitting-room.

The very soul of honesty and truth, but susceptible as most single old gentleman are to the attentions of women, and of designing widows in particular, Mr. Ellerslie was fast falling into the error—which to them is always fatal—of supposing that a woman, some twenty years his junior, was genuinely in love with him. It is pleasant to have one take your side of an argument—to listen with admirable patience to your favorite anecdote and stories, and to be on hand just when you want your slippers, or a newspaper; and none knew how to perform these offices with better grace than Mrs. Drofflum. The old gentleman had almost convinced himself that just such a mistress was absolutely needed to preside over his establishment, and in spite of Miss Ellerslie's black looks—under which it must be confessed that he felt exceedingly uncomfortable—with a temerity which is not singular in an old man whose vanity has outlived his prudence, he determined to brave his daughter, and make Mrs. Drofflum his wife. This lady on receiving Mrs. Fenton's message hastened to obey it, subduing her manner into the finest shade of becoming sorrow, which was augmented by the pains which she had taken to dispose her mourning for the very best effect. A few tears—a choking incoherence, when she alluded to Mr. Ralph Fenton—the clasping of the white hands together, and a graceful use of the black-bordered handkerchief, would have been perfect on the stage, and Mrs. Fenton, being herself incapable of insincerity, was of course deeply impressed. What then did she experience when this admirable woman related the story of Roger Amerland's love for Lydia! Never before had governess watched so strictly over her charge—never had lessons of morality and religion been more earnestly inculcated; never had virtuous indignation protested so vehemently against a villain's base designs. Mrs. Fenton would scarcely have been surprised if the very chairs and sofas had cried out in her praise; and with tearful eyes she listened to her touching anxiety for the spiritual welfare of the sick girl, deploring the dark state of her mind, and her repugnance to listen to the prayers selected for her edification. Mrs. Fenton parted with her at the door of Lydia's room. Entering softly, she paused for a moment, fearing to startle the sick girl; but she lay with closed eyes very while and still, and not until Mrs. Fenton had twice spoken her name did she open them.

"Ah! I am glad—so glad, Mrs. Cairn," she said in whispered tones. "How good of you to come to me! Is dear Uncle Ralph very much sick? You will take me to him, won't you? It will be but for a little while—I heard them say so:—

'I fain would follow love, if that could be;
I needs must follow death, who calls for me.
Call, and I follow; I follow! let me die.' "

The lines she repeated as if to herself, and then fell into a silence, which Mrs. Fenton cared not to interrupt, but Lydia caught the sorrowful look with which she regarded her.

"You are sorry for me," she continued; "see my hands, how thin they are! and my arms, which he so often compared to chiselled marble. Where is their roundness now?" The open sleeve had fallen back, exposing the emaciation so painful to see in one lately, so lately, the very picture of maiden bloom.

"Lydia, dear," said Mrs. Fenton, "our lives are in the hands of God; as long as He permits us to live, we should cherish His greatest gift, and accept from Him whatever He sees best to bestow upon us. Do not fret, my child: I know that you have been sorely tried, but in giving sway to sad thoughts and vain regrets you take away your chances for a speedy recovery."

"Oh! don't you talk to me like that: I'm sick of it! Don't blame Roger: he could not help loving me, and I loved him, oh! so dearly, so dearly! I know that I should not think of him now; but I am too weak to battle with propriety. It's of no use. I cannot undo the past. I cannot take back the love which I freely gave. Ah me! ah me!"

The handkerchief which she put to her lips was quickly stained; and Mrs. Fenton, alarmed almost beyond self-control, called to the nurse, and left the room to ask that the physician be at once recalled. Opening a door which she supposed to be that of the sitting-room, she found herself instead in a small apartment fitted up as a sort of office. As she was about to withdraw, with an excuse for her intrusion, Miss Ellerslie, who was sitting near the window, rose, and begged her to remain. She held an open letter in her hand, and as the light of the lamp fell on her face, Mrs. Fenton remarked its disturbed expression.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellerslie; I think I have mistaken the room."

"This is the place of all others, my dear madam, where you should have come, if you desire to have a private conference with the doctor. Here he is; so I will leave you together."

A half hour afterwards the doctor went up-stairs, while Mrs. Fenton sat with bowed head, trying to draw some consolation from his words, to cling to the vague possibility at which he had hinted, and at last to fall back upon the blessed knowledge that God would have the poor young thing in His care. She thought of Allan, too. How this sudden and appalling misfortune would sadden his life! She could have borne now to see him the husband of the beautiful girl, with less pain than when he was the poor miller of Silcott Mill. Her train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the sound of voices in the adjoining apartment, in tones so elevated, that to continue where she was without overhearing, would be impossible. She was therefore about to leave the room, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and Mrs. Drofflum, sobbing and wringing her hands, came in, followed by Miss Ellerslie in a towering passion.

"If you are fond of theatricals, Mrs. Fenton, I beg that you will remain," she exclaimed, looking at Mrs. Drofflum with a withering smile.

"Pray, permit me to retire, Miss Ellerslie. Any misunderstanding can better be settled between yourselves."

"Oh! I beseech you, dear Mrs. Fenton," cried Mrs. Drofflum, "to listen to me. Miss Ellerslie has thrown an imputation upon my character which must be refuted. I am alone and friendless—my sorrows should protect me from such unkindness—this garb of woe ought to appeal to a heart of stone."

"Call my heart a stone one if you wish, madam; but what you term a garb of woe loses the effect, which I sincerely believe it is put on to produce, when it is a mere disguise, beneath which your falseness and coquetry lie concealed. I am not unjust, Mrs. Fenton, and, Heaven knows! I would not be uncourteous to a guest in my father's house; but I must insist that this is an exceptional case, and that I do not outrage the laws of hospitality when I beg Mrs. Drofflum at once to leave it. Madam," she continued, growing more and more excited, "there remains but one alternative: either you leave this house without attempting to see my father, or I expose you, not only to him against whose happiness you have been plotting, but also to those whom you have so grossly deceived. My duty is very clearly before me, and I feel the less compunction in depriving Miss Croft of your services, since she expresses both in look and manner her repugnance to them."

"This is too much—too much!" cried Mrs. Drofflum. "God will help me, Miss Ellerslie, to bear the outrageous injustice of your accusations. I could explain everything, but I prefer to keep silent. One greater than I bowed His head under the lash, and though your words wound me to the quick, I will accept them as a portion of that punishment which my foolish trust in the world's kindness deserves. I know—and what comfort the thought brings to me at this cruel moment!—I know of one whose faithful heart will scorn to believe your words. Sibyl Earle will receive me."

"Miss Earle is no longer at the Forest," said Mrs. Fenton, "but is my guest. I doubt not her willingness to serve you; but things have gone ill with her of late, and I would advise you to spare her the pain of having her changed circumstances made a cause of further distress to her."

"Then another door is closed to me. Alas! my fate is a hard one. Your malice has set me adrift, Miss Ellerslie; but it will go hard with me if I do not reach port. Order the carriage as early as you please. Your poor father is truly to be pitied. At his age it must be trying to him to find a want of sympathy and kindness in his only child. You have triumphed over me, and I heartily wish that you may enjoy undisputed possession of your father's house. At your time of life, it is but natural that your habits should be fixed, and I readily understand how uncomfortable you would be with another to dispute your right to the only home which is ever likely to own you as mistress." With this last stab, which went as deep as she intended it should go, she swept out of the room, leaving her adversary decidedly uncomfortable.

"Thank Heaven she's gone!" exclaimed Miss Ellerslie. "Oh! how sorry I am, Mrs. Fenton, to have made you witness to such a scene; but indeed I have not been unjust: if you only knew——"

"We have all been deceived, Miss Ellerslie. I have often feared that her companionship was not altogether the best thing for Lydia; but I had really no very good reason for dissatisfaction, and Mr. Fenton was the one best fitted to decide in the matter."

"We must hope that women of this kind make their appearance on the earth but once in a century," said Miss Ellerslie. "I pity from my heart the men who come in her way. I don't believe that Ulysses would have escaped her, even with wax in his ears; for Thelxiepeia herself possessed no greater magic of speech, and although I think her utterly unprincipled and designing, I do not pretend to underrate her fascination and accomplishments."

We will rest content with this summing up of Mrs. Drofflum's character. Miss Ellerslie had doubtless good and sufficient reasons for the very severe measures which she had taken, but as the old gentleman was without much difficulty reconciled to his daughter's way of bringing him to his senses, we must suppose that he too coincided in this opinion. To use the widow's own words, she has in all probability "reached port," and moored alongside of an establishment, the owner of which we must hope to be too obtuse to be disturbed by his wife's little foibles.

LYDIA'S persistent desire to return to Baywood determined Mrs. Fenton to attempt her removal thither. Gently, and with many comforting words, she told her of the sad event which had deprived her of her benefactor, and, to her great surprise, after the first burst of grief, Lydia seemed to gather consolation from the fact that her beloved guardian had preceded her to that home toward which she knew that she was so rapidly journeying. The secret of this strange resignation she kept within her own heart. She scarcely understood the mystery of her great love, or its power to reconcile her to her fate. Roger's love to her was all her life, and miles of ocean were fast separating them forever; the last energy of her soul was spent in that cri d'amour which broke her heart, when she knew that he was gone back to her who had the only right to his love.

The journey back to Baywood was very trying to the sick girl; but when once more she found herself in her own chamber, surrounded by those mute objects which spoke to her so eloquently of Mr. Fenton's devotion to her, she seemed to revive somewhat, and was able to see Allan, and express her great joy in his good fortune. Sibyl was her constant attendant, and the sick chamber bore evidence of her care for the invalid's comfort and pleasure.

The unsettled state of Mr. Fenton's mind, and his feeble and ailing condition, rendered Mrs. Fenton's watchful nursing absolutely necessary. Dr. Bradleigh and Mr. Meadows were the only persons admitted to the house, and every precaution was taken to keep from the unfortunate gentleman the knowledge of his brother's tragic end. He believed him to be on a journey, from which he was constantly expecting his return. In the meantime, active measures had begun for the discovery of the murderer, and a large reward offered for his apprehension.

Jack Strong was among those who were most zealous in the search. From time to time he would disappear from the mill, remain away for a day or two, and then quietly return to his work, keeping up a profound silence, evading Allan's questions, and acting altogether in a most unwonted manner.

Sarah Hope and her son were awaiting their trial for an attempt to cause the death of Mr. Ralph Fenton by poison. Lavergne attempted an insolent bearing, and pretended indifference in order to disarm the impressions of his guilt. He stoutly denied his relationship to Sarah, and appealed to Mr. Fenton for protection. Sarah's anxiety to shield him had led her into many imprudent admissions; and Alee's evidence, given in broken English, but with an earnestness which left no doubt of his truth and devotion to his master, enabled Mr. Meadows to gather up the threads of this complicated villainy, and work out the case to his own satisfaction. It was quite clear that Mr. Ralph Fenton's death had been contemplated by Lavergne, and that his designs were in a great measure dependent upon it; but it was equally clear that the real author of the murder was unknown to him, for Sarah had been heard bitterly lamenting their share in the crime, since it would have been accomplished as surely without their intervention.

It was about the middle of September when Jack Strong again disappeared, leaving a trusty man to take his place at the mill. A few days previous, to the astonishment of every one, the young lawyer Sealey announced his intention of removing from Fentonville, giving as his reason an advantageous offer which he had received from a friend in an adjoining State. He transferred his business to a lawyer who lived a few miles in the country, who at once informed Mr. Meadows that he would act as attorney in the case of Silcott versus Fenton, which would be tried at the next term of court.

Silcott had been absent from home at the time of the murder, and his whereabouts could not be ascertained. Indeed, but few persons had given a thought to his movements, for with the generality of people he was no favorite, being a silent, morose man, uncongenial in his ways, and keeping habitually very much aloof from his neighbors. He lived in a secluded spot in the pine woods, with his aged mother as his sole companion. A negro man and his wife performed the necessary labor which his simple establishment required.

To this house Jack Strong bent his way one bright September morning.

HE rode up to the fence, fastened his horse, and seeing old Mrs. Silcott knitting in the sunshine which flooded the porch, he called loudly in order to attract her attention. She raised her head, pushed back the sun-bonnet which she wore to protect her eyes from the glare, and peered curiously at the young man.

"I s'pose you don't remember me, Mrs. Silcott," he said, extending his hand to her. "I'm Jack Strong, and I live down at Silcott Mill. Don't you know I brought you up a sack of grits last winter?"

"I don't know as I do," she answered; "I can't 'member folks as I used to; but you are welcome all the same: come in, and be seated. It's mighty lonesome for an old woman like me to be left in this way. I'm glad to see you, anyhow. I hain't spoke to a living white soul this three weeks or more."

"Mr. Silcott's not back, then?" said Jack seating himself, and tilting his chair; "he's not often so long away from home?"

"No more than he ain't," answered Mrs. Silcott. "David never was no hand to go about, 'till here lately. It seemed like he couldn't make hisself easy at home; but he never said nothing to me: he was always close in his ways, and I don't know no more than the dead where he's a gone to now."

"You don't feel noways uneasy about him, I s'pose, ma'am. He's likely took clothes with him, if he went on a journey."

"Never a rag, as I see; but he's got money, and money," she chuckled, "is a good thing to have; precious little of it have I got!"

"Then if he's got money," said the cunning fellow, "I reckon he's all right. I thought I'd come up and see if I could get a little bill settled as he owes for lumber. You couldn't pay it, I s'pose, ma'am?"

"Pay it!" she screamed; "hear that, now! The man's come up here a asking of me for money. Didn't I tell you, as how I see David a takin' of money the night he went away. I was a watching him, though he didn't know it."

"Why did he start at night, ma'am?"

"He didn't tell me nothing; he never does. Now don't you be a coming to me for money, young man. I never have none, I tell you. David's close, and his old mother is no more to him than the old mare. She eats her corn, and I gets my vittals. If you come up here to dun me, you'll get nothing for your pains."

Seeing that the old woman was working herself into a passion, he reassured her with regard to his intentions, which she evidently looked upon as hostile, and adroitly turned the conversation upon the events which had transpired at Fentonville. She listened eagerly to the recital, and seemed by no means so much horrified as a pious old lady should have been.

"It's a judgment," she croned, shaking her head; "a judgment upon them as has held up their heads too high."

"You don't think," said Jack, in an angry tone, "as how a gentleman like Mr. Fenton deserved to be shot down like a dog?"

"I don't say anything about it," she answered; "don't you be a saying as I do. I've got nothin' agin him. It's not me that ever wished him harm."

"Then somebody did," thought Jack; "the old woman is a lettin' of the cat out of the bag by degrees, and before she knows it, it will be clean gone."

"You couldn't tell me when to come up agin; we are pretty short about this time, and would like a settlement."

"As to coming up, you can do that as often as you please. It's good five mile to the mill, and as you got a creetur to ride, well just come when you feel like it. You'll find me," she said facetiously, smiling and displaying her toothless gums.

"And I'm always glad to find you, ma'am. As for the money, I don't mean to trouble you about that. I only asked, so as to find out when Mr. Silcott will likely be home."

"You know just as much about it as I do. I don't know nothing about David, nor where he's gone, nor when he's a coming. I only know he took money—he took money, and he didn't give me any."

"Well, some times as I pass along, I'll drop in. A good day to you, ma'am."

He walked a few yards, and then returned upon his steps. "You don't happen to know this, do you?" he said, drawing a knife from his pocket.

"Why it's David's knife, as I live!" she cried; "where upon airth did you find it, rustied up like that. Don't you see a D. and an S. cut on the handle? I see David a doing it: that's how I happen to know the knife. He bought it down at Seth McGill's store. I 'member it, because he brought me a new calico, and took out the knife to cut the string the bundle was tied with. He must a lost it somehow."

"Yes, I reckon he did," said Jack; "he lost it somewhere, sure. Just give him my respects when you see him, and say as how when he wants his knife, to come to the mill and he'll get it."

The next day he went to Baywood, and gained permission from Allan to absent himself for a couple of weeks or more.

"Bill Mason is as good a man to work as I am, sir, and he'll see that nothing goes wrong at the mill while I'm away."

The consent was cheerfully given, and Jack having no particular cause for haste, loitered for half an hour about the stables, giving a word of advice to the groom, and praising the horses, which he examined with unusual interest, for was he not thinking then that Allan was in reality their owner, and his honest heart exulted in the idea of what Allan Fenton might become, with all the wealth at his command. "As like as not he'll be president, and a fine one he'll make!"

As he walked leisurely along toward the great gate, which gave admittance to the stable-yard, which was separated from the servants' quarters by a picket fence overgrown with cherokee roses, he heard a clear low whistle, and then a voice calling his name.

"Who is a calling of me?" he said: "go down to the gate, if you want to see a fellow."

"Mr. Strong," said the voice on the other side of the hedge. "I want ever so bad to say a word to you. I'm Andy Jane." And off she started for the gate, reaching the place of rendezvous some minutes before the ungallant Jack.

Andy Jane had shot up into an improved image of her mother, and was what people called a lanky girl, a great want of breadth being visible about her tall figure; but good humor, and a pair of clear honest eyes, gave an attraction to her face, which was not wanting in a certain strength which proved itself in her character.

Mrs. Fenton had kept her at Baywood, intending later to turn her over to Sibyl Earle; for the present she had but light duties to perform, and her activity of mind was rather stimulated by the events through which she had lately passed, and in which she had taken so large a share. Her sharp wits, combined with accident, had given her a clue, which promised to lead to a discovery. For over a week she had been casting about in her mind the probability of finding some one who would listen to her, or give any importance to what she had to say. While hanging out towels on the opposite side of the fence, she had heard Jack's voice, and inspired with a bright idea, she put down her basket, called to him—and here she was, as red as a poppy, wiping her face with her apron, and almost sorry that she had determined to tell him, for Jack looked terribly stolid when he put out his hand, and said: "How do you do, Andy Jane?"

"O Mr. Strong," she blurted out. "I've got that on my mind as prevents me from sleeping o' nights. What I've got to tell you mayn't be worth a snap, and then again it may; so I jest want to have it out, once for all."

After this exordium, Miss Meggs waited for a token of encouragement from her listener; but Jack was notably cautious, and provokingly imperturbable in his manners. He was, moreover, strangely insensible to the weaker and gentler sex, and had never been known to express partiality toward any particular young lady, although Fentonville was not wanting in beauties. Andy Jane's spirited conduct on the occasion of Lavergne's arrest had elicited from him a few words of warm commendation; he was therefore disposed to listen to her, had he not a lurking mistrust of girls, and a strong suspicion now that he was about to be inveigled into a confidence.

"Hadn't you better tell some one else, Andy Jane?"

"That's just what I won't do, Jack Strong. You'll be sorry enough if you don't listen to me, for I shan't tell nobody else."

"Well then," he answered with an air of resignation, "just go ahead; but I tell you I'm no hand at giving advice to girls."

"You'll wait long enough before I ask you for any," said Miss Meggs with a toss of her head. "What I'm a going to tell concerns them as is far above you and me, and if it didn't, it ain't to you I'd be a coming, just you believe me, Jack Strong. You've been a going and a coming lately, a hunting for what you haven't found. I've been a doing of my work right here—only going home of Sundays—and I reckon you'd give a year's wages to know what I can tell you."

Jack's face had lost its listless indifference, and now expressed an eager curiosity. His devotion to Allan Fenton was the absorbing passion of his soul; he had grown up to look upon him as superior to any human being whom he had ever seen, and now with beating heart he said:

"Andy Jane, I know how to keep a still tongue; if what you have to tell concerns Mr. Allan's family, you've come to the right person."

"Well," said the girl, "you know as how I go home every Sunday. Last Sunday, I was about starting back, when old Amos Styles came up and asked mother to stay all night. He had been at the tavern, and was about half drunk. I said good-by to mother, and was walking away when he called to me. 'Andy Jane,' says he, 'I understand as how you've got amongst the big folks; but you see, my dear, that big or little, we all come to the same thing: for my part, I'd as soon be Amos Styles as anybody else. When I lay down to sleep, I'm not afeared that a shot will find me out—no, bless you! a poor chap like me needn't be afeared that other people's guns will be took to kill him.'

" 'What do you mean by other people's guns, Amos?' says I.

" 'Why, wasn't it Allan Cairn's—or I should say Mr. Allan Fenton's—gun as did the work, and yet he's cleared of it. Now, Andy Jane, what'll you give me to tell you what I know?'

" 'That depends upon what you have to tell,' I answered.

" 'Putting this and that together, it might be worth—let me see—well, I'll say the loan of fifty cents. You are getting wages, Andy Jane, and can let a fellow have that much.'

"I took out my purse and gave him the money.

" 'Now Amos,' I said, 'I've got another fifty. It's yours, if you will tell me all about that gun.'

"We had walked a good piece down the road; he stopped, and coming quite close to me he said:

" 'You'll not be a saying as how I told you; but I saw a man, that you know well enough, in the woods near the mill on that night. I was going to the mill, for I often sleep there. Jack had gone out and locked the door after him, so I lay down on the lumber to wait for him. It was dark, and I couldn't well make out anything; but I thought I heard footsteps, and supposing it might be Jack, I got up and went round to the door of his room. It was shut, but I saw a man moving off at a rapid pace, and being struck like, I didn't call to him. I found the door fast locked, but the window was open. Says I, this looks mighty strange, and I followed on a little way in the direction that he had taken. I heard him stumble once, and once he swore; but I had had a long tramp that day, and was tired. So I went back, and lay down again on the lumber. I sleep hard, and heard nothing of what passed in the night. The first thing I did in the morning was to measure the track. As good luck would have it, Jack had just the day before put a load of white sand under the shed, and you know the window opens on it. If it hadn't been for the shed, the rain which fell in the night would have washed out the track. I knew as soon as I saw it that it wasn't Jack's shoe that made that track—it was the foot of a much smaller man. The next thing I knew, Bill, the hired boy came a running to me, saying as how Mr. Fenton had been shot in the night. To tell you the truth, I went off that morning, because some people haven't the best opinion of me, and I don't care to be around when people's being took up for murder and such like. When I came back the day before yesterday, I heard as how it was Allan's gun that did the work. Just you see what you can make out of it, Andy Jane. I know you are a smart gal, and won't get me into trouble. Here's the measure:' and he drew a piece of string out of his pocket. I let him go on as long as he would, and then by coaxing and promising him more money, I got him to tell me who the man was that he met in the woods."

"Who was he, Andy Jane? who was this man?"

"Stoop down and I'll whisper it to you."

"I thought so," exclaimed Jack. "I've had my own opinion this long time. Don't say a word to anybody; just keep a still tongue until I come back." With this he started off, leaving the girl amazed, and doubting whether she had been altogether wise in the choice of a confidant.

TWO months had now elapsed since the incarceration of Lavergne and Sarah Hope. Sarah persistently proclaimed her relationship to Lavergne, and vehemently denied his complicity in her guilt. The poor half-crazed creature was almost sublime, when in tones of pathetic entreaty she pleaded for the wretch who had sacrificed her, and then denied her the poor satisfaction of his acknowledgment of the ties which bound him to her. Mental excitement, joined to great bodily exhaustion, rendered it more than probable that she would not be able to stand her trial; and Dr. Bradleigh, who saw her daily, endeavored to impress her with the necessity of preparation for the great change which was coming so rapidly for her.

Father Hubert had made many attempts to see her; but she had positively refused him admittance to her cell, and for reasons best known to themselves, her guardians had indulged this strange caprice. It was after a night of agonized watchfulness and pain that she asked to see her confessor. Perhaps in the darkness of that night of travail divine mercy had penetrated the heart of the poor sufferer with the first movements of contrition, which was to lead to repentance; perhaps divine pity had taken account of the great love wherewith she had loved her son, and melted the heart of stone. Father Hubert answered the summons in all haste, and the dying penitent made a full confession of her sins. There was something yet for her to do. Divine justice requires satisfaction of the sinner—the fruit of true repentance which makes him voluntarily assume penitential works. Father Hubert explained to her that without this satisfaction she could not receive absolution—reparation must be made for the transgression of the law, human and divine. Thus it was that she consented to make a public confession of her guilt, believing always that by self-accusation she could shield her wretched and ungrateful son.

When the priest left her, he went immediately to Baywood, where gently, but firmly, he insisted upon seeing Mr. Fenton.

"It is a matter which admits of no delay, madam," he said to Mrs. Fenton; "believe me that it is best that you should hear from me what in a few days must be known to the public, thus bringing to this already sorely stricken house a fresh and poignant sorrow."

"Did I not feel that you do not exaggerate the emergency," answered Mrs. Fenton, "I would never consent to expose my husband to a shock which may quite unsettle his mind. I speak plainly, for I would have you understand the fearful responsibility which you are taking upon yourself."

"Have you never remarked a want of perfect candor on the part of Mr. Fenton? Have you never suspected that some hidden motive, some powerful influence, has governed his life? Does a man make himself an alien—does he give up name and wealth—does he submit his liberty to a vile menial, without a terrible necessity? If I tell you that what I have to say to him concerns this past—if I tell you that I can in a great measure relieve him of the remorse which has maddened his life—if I say that I can lift the veil which has so long hidden the truth from him, will you believe me, and trust your husband, not to me, but to Him who tells us 'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered'?"

A few moments afterwards, Reginald Fenton was listening to the low, earnest voice of the priest, unfolding the story of his youth. It went back to a time when, young, rich, and gifted, he had reaped pleasure with a reckless hand—when he had sacrificed to equivocal enjoyments home and family ties, character, and a career which might—alas! those fatal words so often apply—have been useful and brilliant. He listened with bent head, and clasped hands to Sarah Hope's confession, which I shall give to the reader in her own words, as taken down by Father Hubert.

THE CONFESSION.

I solemnly swear, as I hope for mercy and forgiveness from God, that I am about to make a full and truthful confession of my sins.

I was born in Oxford: my father kept a haberdasher's shop, and when I came of age I waited on the customers. Our principal business was with the students, and we drove a thriving trade in gloves, cravats, fine soap, and a hundred other small things which tempted the young men to spend their money. When I was about twenty-three years of age I fell into the company of Londoner, whose good looks and captivating manners made an impression upon me; and it ended in my making a foolish marriage with a man some years younger than myself, and being turned out of my father's house. His disappointment at my father's refusal either to forgive me, or render me any assistance, turned whatever little regard he had ever had for me into indifference, and when we went up to London I found that he kept the worse company, and was often in hiding for days together. After two years of poverty and indescribable misery—abandoned with a child at the breast, and no means of getting my bread, I worked my way slowly from London to Oxford, and going down on my knees, prayed my father for help and protection. He took me in, and dying soon afterwards, left me a share in the shop; but I never prospered. My husband found me out, and extorted every cent of money that I could raise, leaving me and my child often without bread. My brother, who had conducted the business, sold out, and went to Australia. When my boy was twelve years old I endeavored to leave Oxford with the little which remained to me, but my husband finding out my intention, robbed me of the proceeds of the few household effects which I had sold, and oh! worse than all, he took my boy away with him. My situation was indeed pitiable, and I fell into a fever, through which I was nursed by some charitable people. In all this time I had heard nothing of Francis, my son—my head was well-nigh crazed about him. One night as I was going to my lodging, after a day's hard work, I met a man whose disreputable appearance caused me to stand aside in order to avoid him. To my surprise and terror he followed me, and asked me if I wasn't Sarah Bowen. On my answering in the affirmative, he handed me a dirty letter, which he told me was from my husband. Telling him to meet me in the same place the next morning, I put the letter in my pocket, and went home. I will pass over my agony, when I found that my boy, who had been innocent when he parted from me—that my boy, my darling Francis, was in prison for burglary, and would in all probability be transported. He had been the instrument of older thieves, and would receive the punishment which they deserved. A young American about this time was creating a great sensation by his extravagant mode of living, and his gallantries. He had come to Oxford, to visit a young brother who was at the University, but he spent the most of his time in driving about the country, ordering dinners for his companions regardless of cost, and spending his money as freely as a prince. It happened on one of those occasions that he saw Rose Maybin, the prettiest girl in all the country round. She was motherless, and her father, who was a well-to-do farmer doated upon her, and spoiled her accordingly. You may be sure that Rose never lacked finery to dress out her pretty figure, or a ribbon to tie up her fine hair, of which she was not a little proud. I am telling you what I heard from other persons: I did not see her until afterwards.

Young Fenton became violently enamored of the girl, and she was noways unwilling to receive the attentions of so fine a gentleman. It seems, however, that the younger brother was altogether of a different stamp, and hearing of the giddy girl's meetings with his brother, he determined to warn her of her danger. For this purpose he sought an interview with her; and at her own suggestion, it was to take place in the garden of the farm-house at night. Unfortunately, the farmer on that night was late returning from the inn, where he had been spending a convivial evening. His temper had not been improved by his potations, and when he espied a lurking figure under his daughter's window, he sprang upon it, and dealing blow after blow with his cudgel, would in all probability have killed Ralph Fenton, had he not given him a dexterous thrust with a knife which he carried about him. The aim was so sure that the farmer fell covered with blood, and as the affray had awakened the servants, Ralph fled, believing that he had killed him. The young man, after an interview with his brother, left Oxford and came to America; and it's my opinion, that for all these years he has believed himself guilty of murder. It is not the least of Reginald's sins that he allowed his brother to remain in ignorance all this time, and bound him by a foolish oath, never to divulge his connection with Rose Maybin. As the only recompense for the immense sacrifice which was demanded of him, he asked that Reginald would make the girl his wife, which the other readily consented to do. Reginald Fenton always took short cuts to get out of difficulties. In the meantime the farmer had lost his daughter; for as soon as his condition was declared to be safe, Rose went to her lover, and things were made straight by a marriage, which I know now to have been illegal, for there was another wife in America. The whole thing was a freak of young Fenton, and it was no difficult matter to deceive a girl who was blindly in love, and carried away by vanity and taste for finery. After a year, a baby was born, and Rose lost her good looks. She was sick and ailing, and her tears grew wearisome to the young man.

It was about this time that I got my husband's letter. I was desperate, and ready to do anything to save my boy, I had, through chance, been employed several times at the cottage where Rose lived, so it was quite natural for Mr. Fenton to seek me out, and offer to employ me to take charge of the poor girl and her child.

"She is fretful and troublesome," he said, "and I am deuced tired of the whole thing."

I had been there about a week when Rose disappeared. Mr. Fenton had been up to London; and he raised a terrible storm when, on his return, he found the cottage empty. He wished that he could get rid of the poor, weak creature—he wished that he had never set eyes on her.

It was then that the devil entered into me. I tempted him—yes, I did. I had found out that he had a secret; I knew that he wanted to get rid of this troublesome girl, and I bargained with him.

"Save my son," I said to him, "and I promise to rid you of Rose. He was desperate, and so was I. The compact made, he gave me money, and promised to go up to London as soon as Rose could be found. He was terribly uneasy about her, for he had kept her very close. As good luck would have it, she came back that very night, gliding in quietly, and saying that she had taken the child to her father. Mr. Fenton reproached her bitterly for breaking a promise which she had made to him, never to leave the cottage unless with him.

He went off, saying good-by quite carelessly; but he never intended to come back. He took remorse away with him; for he had deceived two trusting women—and I know that now—he had taken a mean advantage of a brother's devoted love. He thought, perhaps, to expiate his sin toward him by leaving him in quiet possession of the estate. He little knew Ralph Fenton. I am yet, however, to give you the true cause of Reginald Fenton's strange silence and long absence from his home.

Three weeks from the time of his departure, Rose died. I wrote to him that, at his instigation, I had poisoned her, and threatening that I would implicate him, and make the whole matter public, if he ever abandoned my son. I made my own terms with him.

I now solemnly swear that to carry out my designs I deceived Reginald Fenton. The ruin of his life must be laid to my charge. Rose Maybin died a natural death: you'll find the doctor's certificate among old Mr. Maybin's papers—I don't say that I wouldn't have done it, but God delivered her out of my hands. I did it for my son; God have mercy upon me! I did it for Francis. I was guilty all the same; but I tell you that I did not kill her.

I saw old Mr. Maybin's advertisement for a trusty woman to go to America. I sought the place, and obtained it. Ever since, I have watched faithfully over the child whose mother I would have murdered. My life had been one long tissue of deceit and hypocrisy. Sometimes I have hoped that God would forgive me, because I have so loved my son. Oh! for him, I have sinned—I have sinned!

What follows was drawn from her with great difficulty. She alternately denied and admitted, seeming to strive between the awful fear of injuring her son, and the still more horrible danger of dying unconfessed.

Francis Bowen had remained in the service of Mr. Fenton, and had accompanied him in all wanderings. At Bombay his mental malady appeared for the first time. It was then that Francis conceived the idea of returning to America, and placing Mr. Fenton in possession of his estates. He had become so necessary to the invalid that he little feared dismissal, and his ambition pointed to the acquiring of wealth in his own right, as the ultimate result of his plans. He told his mother of these plans. Their result is known to the reader.

Mr. Fenton was greatly afflicted at the recital. He sat with bowed head, his thin fingers working nervously at the wristband of his coat.

"Dear sir," said Father Hubert, "you ought to rejoice at the good news which I have brought. Though you have sinned, yet are you guiltless of innocent blood."

"Ah, yes! that horror is taken away from me; but oh! my brother, my brother! Am I guiltless of thy death?"

A groan burst from the wretched man, and for a few moments his deep sobs moved the good priest to tears of heartfelt sympathy; but he knew that this emotion might be fatal to him: he must be roused, his mind must be led away from the dark past to interest itself in his immediate surroundings—to see the great happiness which might yet be in store for him. He spoke to him of his noble wife. "A loving heart is always merciful," he urged. "It is rare that a repentant man seeks forgiveness in vain from a true wife." And so, when Father Hubert took his leave, he left the balm of his comforting encouragement to heal the probed heart of Reginald Fenton.

Mrs. Fenton heard the story, and with heroic self-forgetfulness, with a greatness of soul which enabled her to make forgiveness complete, she gathered the shattered fragments of her love, and saved them from the ruin of her life's dream—she gathered them tenderly together, cherishing that which was best, and casting from her the rottenness of unavailing recrimination or hard judgment. Mary Fenton, radiant with the inspiration of a great resolve, put back from her, with sublime generosity, the memory of her wrongs, and accepted the penitence which she firmly believed to be sincere and wholly pleasing to God.

Mr. Fenton, anxious to make complete reparation, expressed a desire to seek out Rose Maybin's child. Here again his wife was a saving angel to him; for she showed him that God had had this child in His care, and that through her Ralph had found a rare enjoyment, and that his last days had been gladdened by her affection. In conclusion, she said that it was far best to allow her remaining hours to pass away undisturbed. The knowledge of her parentage could avail her nothing now. She saw God's mercy in the sudden decline which would soon terminate a life, which to one of Lydia's proud spirit would have lost its charms with the sense of mortification which she could but feel when her mother's history would have been made known to her.

Allan heard with contending emotions of the tie which bound him so nearly to Lydia. His love for her had long since turned into a calmer channel; and now it was no hard matter to still his heart into the gentler throbs of fraternal devotion. A sweet face came often before him, its grave placid beauty promising in the days to come the steady brightness which dawns when the young unreasoning heart has learned to calm its fitful vagaries, and to settle into the sweeter, if not more ardent affection which increases with years, and is cemented by association, that partition of joy and sorrow which knits so closely the ties of wedded life.

Mrs. Fenton saw with joy the growing attachment of Allan for Sibyl Earle, and she believed that in time Sibyl would love him, just as a good, true woman should love the man whom she is willing to marry.

IT is easy, perhaps, to detect a man of action; but few people suspected Jack of that adhesiveness, which I do not pretend to say is a concomitant of genius, but it most certainly is of success. We have seen from the first that his suspicions rested upon David Silcott, and that circumstances gave strange evidence against the man; but the public eye had obstinately refused to see a criminal in the quiet, good-for-nothing fellow, who, if morose, had always been peaceable. Jack had kept his opinion to himself, but determined to seek him out, and to clear up the mystery which hung like a lowering cloud over the Fenton family, and gave to the ill-natured occasion to whisper dark things concerning the young man who was now the heir of Baywood. It was no hard matter to track Silcott as far as the railroad. He had been seen at a station fifteen miles beyond Fentonville, and he had taken the southward-bound train. Jack did the same. At every stopping-place he made cautious inquiries; but after a week of unremitting and vigilant search he found himself in the streets of New Orleans, stunned and bewildered by the noise and bustle, and feeling lost and uncomfortable, as he was jostled by the moving crowd, to whom he was an object of curious comment. His tall, ungainly figure, his swinging gait, the primitive cut of his garments, and his great staring blue eyes drew forth many a gibe from the unmannerly urchins, whose keen sense of humor at once seized upon the salient points of this uncouth figure, and unmercifully held them up to ridicule.

He wandered from street to street, stopping now and then to ask a question, or to gaze upon the wonders displayed in the shop windows; and so it happened that he at last came out of the ugly thoroughfare of Chartres Street, and found himself at the entrance of Jackson Square. The glowing parterres of many-hued chrysanthemums and Malmaison roses, the bosquets of ever-living verdure, and the fresh breeze blowing from the mighty river, were like gleams of paradise to poor tired Jack, who stood gazing up at the old hero, on his rampant steed, who with uplifted hat seemed to be so graciously acknowledging his mute homage. He remembered the rugged face, for he had often seen it in his school history; but his mind was sorely puzzled about the horse. " 'Tis the first I ever saw," he thought, "a standing dead still on two legs." Further criticism on the work of Mr. Mills was cut short by a sight only too common in that part of the city.

A couple of policemen were bearing a litter, on which was stretched the apparently lifeless form of a man. Jack fell in with the crowd, which followed on the heels of the policemen, and elbowed his way near enough to get a view of the ghastly face.

"Look here, mister," he exclaimed in a wild, excited tone, touching the arm of the nearest policeman; "what are you going to do with this man? I tell you I've got a claim on him, dead or alive."

He was answered with the polite and affable urbanity which distinguishes these conscientious gentlemen, and told to go about his business; but nothing daunted, the sturdy Jack followed close, and entered the station immediately behind the litter. A motley crowd stood without. Shoemakers with their awls, tailors who had forgotten to put off their thimbles, women carrying babies, and women who were shamelessly familiar with those precincts.

Under the arcade they jostled and pushed one another, craning their necks to get a view of the litter. The lithe bodies of little children worked themselves through the smallest spaces, and stood with open-mouthed curiosity gazing upon the pitiful sight. In the meantime Jack had vehemently demanded the attention of the captain of police, and finally succeeded in retaining the ear of that official until he satisfied him of the urgency of the case. The newspapers had been filled with accounts of the murder, so that the captain was familiar with its details in very particular. An affidavit was made out against David Silcott, whom the city physician pronounced to be in a critical condition, from wounds inflicted with a knife.

His purse was gone, and the natural conclusion was that robbery had been the object of the assassin.

Jack followed the wounded man to the Charity Hospital, whither he was immediately transported. He waited to hear the opinion of the surgeon who dressed the wounds, and asked permission to return in a few hours, in order to be near the patient should his strength revive sufficiently to permit him to speak.

At eight o'clock Silcott grew restless, and asked to see the physician.

"Doctor" he said, "I can't die in peace with this weight on my conscience. Send for some one who will take down what I say."

"There is a man who has just asked to be permitted to see you. He says that he knows you. Shall I call him in?"

In a few moments Jack Strong was standing beside the dying man.

"Silcott," he said, "I've come a long way to find you. If it was you as took Allan's gun from the mill, say so now, and maybe God will have mercy on you."

"I'm going fast, Jack, but I have deserved my punishment. Get some one to write down my words, and as God is my witness I will confess what I have done."

The declaration was in substance as follows:—

For years he had cherished a bitter enmity against Mr. Ralph Fenton, believing that through him he had been unjustly deprived of the mill, which was by far the most valuable part of the property left by his father. He had been persuaded by lawyers into believing that his mother's ignorance had been imposed upon, and that the title which she had given could be disputed. Long brooding over his imaginary wrongs—the contrast of his increasing poverty with Mr. Fenton's great wealth, and the growing prosperity of Allan, had engendered hate and envy, which stimulated by Sealey's advice, and nursed by a morbid bitterness often increased by the effects of opium—of which he was a habitual taker—had at last resulted in a determination to revenge himself upon Mr. Fenton. He knew nothing of Lavergne's designs; the execution of the long contemplated purpose was carried out on that particular night by the merest chance.

He had gone to the mill, as he had done many times before, for the purpose of possessing himself of Allan's gun in order to throw the suspicion of the foul act upon the young man. The absence of Jack Strong had afforded the long-desired opportunity. He found no obstacle to the execution of the dastardly act. The household being occupied with attendance upon their sick master, his approach was unobserved. He knew the house, and found his way to Mr. Fenton's room by the stairs leading from the garden. He had shot him through the window, and escaped under cover of darkness, just throwing the gun where he was sure it would be found. Scarcely had he perpetrated the act, when a horrible remorse and fear took possession of him. He fled, with no settled purpose, but the instinct of self-preservation led him to the railroad. At daylight he reached a station fifteen miles distant from Fentonville, and determined to go to New Orleans, and from thence embark for some foreign land.

On reaching the city he had repaired to the levee, and going aboard a schooner, which was making ready to sail, he bargained with the captain, perhaps too earnestly, for a passage. His guilty face may have had something to do with the refusal which he received; or more probably his cupidity restrained him from offering the sum which would have won the compliance of the captain. His ruling passion still strong enough to overbalance his prudence, he determined to spend the night among the sugar hogsheads which encumbered the wharf, rather than seek more comfortable quarters in a boarding-house.

There, in the darkness of the night, vengeance found him out. He saw it coming, and made no effort to escape. He felt the strong grip upon his throat, the gleaming knife hovered for a moment above him, and then, down, down, he sank, remembering nothing more of that awful moment but that the murderer's doom was his.

Jack was charged with an especial message to his old mother, asking her forgiveness; and as a sort of compensation for years of filial neglect, he left her a small sum which he had deposited in the bank at Hamilton. True to his generous nature, Jack Strong had Silcott decently interred at his own expense; and then, perhaps the proudest man in all the land, he sped back to Fentonville.

TO his great disgust the newspapers had forestalled him. His name had been heralded about the country, with all the cardinal virtues prefixed in superlatives, and for the first and only time in his life he found himself bearing the unenviable burden of notoriety. After a week of hand-shaking, and questioning, and seeing that his persecutors relaxed not in numbers—for the custom at the mill increased astonishingly, and it was deemed expedient to engage a new hand, as Jack was called out as many as a dozen times in the day, to tell how he had found David Silcott, and could not attend to the grinding—he seriously contemplated running away; and would most likely have been driven to this desperate step, had he not considered it his duty to attend to the mill, which Allan had entirely given up to him.

He was busy with the saw one morning, about a week after his return, when a party of gentlemen rode up. He called to Abraham, his negro assistant, to watch the sawing, and went out to meet them. Mr. Meadows, as the spokesman of the party, got off of his horse, and shaking hands with Jack, thus addressed him: "Mr. Strong,"—how he had risen in dignity: Mr. Strong,—"I am commissioned by the family of the late Mr. Ralph Fenton to pay over to you the reward which you have fairly earned. I am also to say to you, on their part, that they consider it but a poor return for the great service which you have rendered them."

Jack shut up his knife with a snap—for after his usual habit he had commenced whittling a stick. "Look here, Mr. Meadows," he said, "I didn't go all the way down to Orleans and back agin, and the mill going all to pieces while I was gone, to have such as this put upon me, sir. I didn't believe Mr. Allan would a done it—no, I didn't."

"Surely," answered Mr. Meadows, in the greatest astonishment, "surely you do not mean to refuse five hundred dollars!—every dollar of which is fairly and justly yours."

"Take it back to them as sent it, sir. There's some things as a man don't want pay for, and I would much rather you hadn't come with it, Mr. Meadows—indeed I would."

All arguments failed to convince the honest, true-hearted fellow, and when Allan on the same day sought to reason with him, he firmly refused to yield his point.

"It's of no manner of use, Mr. Allan. Just you let me keep on with my work; and don't send anybody a pestering of me with rewards, and sich like."

"Maybe I'll come a Sunday; but, Mr. Allan, I'll just say this: it's Andy Jane as ought to have the money, for she as good as told me who to look for. She's as sharp as a picket, is Andy Jane, and won't waste the money, sir. You give it to her, Mr. Allan, for her people are bad off. Old Meggs was a lying in the road last night. He's a bad lot, but the women is hard working. Give what you intended for me, to them as needs it more."

And so Miss Meggs was the recipient of the five hundred dollars. Their unlooked-for good fortune was received by the family with unrestrained demonstrations of joy, Mrs. Meggs feeling a just pride in a daughter who had so truly fulfilled her predictions.

Andy Jane's future conduct in no way disappointed those who knew her; for she at once looked about for a comfortable house with a few acres of ground. Having found one in all respects suitable, she purchased it, and removed her family thither. She bore herself with a modesty which is not always an adjunct of 'cuteness, and spoke to her former companions without that assumption of superiority which people are apt to take when they come into a fortune; in short, Andy Jane displayed the greatest prudence and good sense, and went as a servant to Miss Earle, who found her an honest and industrious girl, and an excellent manager.

James Robert was put in charge of "the farm," as he called it: and Mr. Meggs considerately dropped off one night, thus ridding his family of a terrible incubus. To the end of her life, Mrs. Meggs was fond of telling the neighbors that "they had all got up in the world off of Andy Jane's' 'cuteness."

AT this point of my story I will crave the reader's indulgence—Heaven knows how often before I may have had need of it—and unprepared as he may be for a change of scene or a transit across the Atlantic, I must beg him to accompany me to that city where Americans "most do congregate"—to Paris, the Mecca of the shoddy, who flies thither with the first successful "bulling" on Wall Street, to enter upon the joys of Elysium, and, like Æson, to find the bloom of youth and a thousand unknown delights in the enchanted life that opens before him.

Carpe diem; let us not hesitate! Here we are at the Grand Hotel; all Americans go there: but it is not at this hotel that we will learn to solve the problem of Parisian life, and after a few days we will settle ourselves in apartments—try to believe all that the white-capped concierge tells us, and "do" Paris at our leisure—Mabille, the Closerie, and a thousand other places. I will be your valet-de-place, and introduce you to the "lions," only patience, patience! We must first look up our old friend, and will go to the Café Helder, where we will most likely find him. How lucky!—there seated at a table by the open window, taking his café au lait, is Allan Fenton, the quondam miller of Silcott Mill.

I have not described my hero, as is the wont of story-tellers, but as I look at the young colosse with the fresh bloom of manhood untarnished—with the triumph of success flashing from his eyes, and his broad, white brow crowned with sunny locks—when I see him rising up, up, six feet one inches, of well put up sinew and muscle—when I watch the rare smile that lightens his face as he recognizes an old friend from home—I know that words would give you but a poor idea of Allan Fenton, refined and polished by study and contact with the world, yet having lost nothing of the sturdy honesty which distinguished him when we first knew him at Fentonville. Allan is now the owner of Baywood and its vast estates, his father having died two years ago. Mary Fenton is busy in preparation for his return to a home which she is daily beautifying, and not content with the good gifts which fortune has bestowed à pleine main upon her darling, she is still at her old trick of castle building, piling up with lavish hope the glorious edifice which is to crown her desire.

Sibyl Earle has kept on her quiet way, steadily resisting Mrs. Fenton's entreaties to give up the school—which yields her but scanty support—and share her home. She had allowed Allan to depart on his long journey, denying him the pledge which he sought from her. She was too truly loyal to accept all that he could give her while her father lived, a shame and burden—a horrid incubus that she bore with unwearying patience, but which she would never have been willing to have the man whom she loved to share with her. She knew that St. George Earle would only too readily have fastened, like the loathsome devil-fish, upon Allan, extorting untold sums for the gratification of his insatiable appetite for gaming and drink.

Lydia Croft lived but a few short weeks after the removal to Baywood. She was carried off by that implacable disease called "galloping consumption," which is the despair of medical science. Brilliant with life and health, she had been stricken by the fatal hand of death on the night when her passionate heart received its cruel wound. They laid her in the family resting-place of the Fentons. A simple cross of white marble marks her grave, bearing as its sole inscription her beautiful name, "Lydia."

Sarah, the martyr mother, died in prison. As she loved, so may mercy have been shown unto her. Happily, death spared her the horror of knowing that he for whom she had so grievously sinned—her much-loved son—was condemned to life-long imprisonment. One morning at dawn of day, his fetters clanking as he mounted into the cart, Francis Bowen was driven away to meet his doom.

The mill keeps on its steady course, the water wheel turned ever by the crystal flood as it tumbles over the dam. Jack Strong has waxed prosperous, and on more than one occasion has been seen at Sibyl's gate, talking to Andy Jane. Sibyl says, with a meaning smile, that Jack, like a prudent man, is seeking the wise woman who "buildeth her house;" and Mrs. Fenton, having plans of her own for their advancement, is quietly encouraging their awkward courtship. There is no doubt whatever but that "Barkis is willing."

While we have been taking up the thread of our story, Allan, having finished his breakfast, is walking away in deep conversation with his newly arrived friend.

"And so you saw my mother, Searing. It was kind in you to go out of your way. How is she looking?"

"She has grown stouter, and wears that look of satisfied repose which is really refreshing to those who have the happiness of sharing her society. By the way, have you heard of old Earle's death? He has had his last debauch. Poor Miss Sibyl went to him in New Orleans and nursed him like an angel. I had the good fortune to meet her as she was returning to Fentonville. It was a simple 'how do you do,' but her face told of much suffering. A man can't but feel honored in knowing such a woman—no nonsense about her, don't you know—straightforward and honest, and that sort of thing. It's a deuced shame to see her spending her life teaching dirty brats."

"By George it is!" exclaimed Allan. "You are off for Vienna to-morrow, Searing. Have you any commissions for home? I shall take the next steamer."

"Oh, no! I haven't been long enough away for the old people to feel anxious about me—shall write from Vienna. You know I'm only a poor correspondent, Fenton, and can't send Paris dresses and bonnets to my sisters. I dare say they would be better satisfied with me if I could. What say you to dinner at the Maison Dorée?"

"Mille remercîments, mon ami: I have an engagement. Shall you be at the opera to-night?"

"Yes."

"Then, au revoir."

A month later, Allan Fenton reached Baywood. After his mother's enraptured welcome and a long, long talk, he kissed her for the twentieth time, and said quietly:

"I must go to Sibyl now, mother."

"Dear, dear Sibyl," she said, with motherly tenderness, thus giving him the full sanction of her approval; for she knew what this haste meant.

Sibyl was, perhaps, the only one in the village who had not heard of Allan's arrival. Andy Jane had gone to see her mother, and she sat alone in the fading light, singing softly an old Scotch air, and feeling very lonely. She started at the sound of footsteps, and was looking anxiously toward the door when Allan entered. She made a movement forward, her face suffused with joyful welcome. Allan took both her hands in his, and looking down upon that sweet upturned face with the beautiful eyes answering the love which beamed from his, he said:

"Sibyl, darling, it is worth coming home for this."