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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 FROM 
 
 r-.S.f'Tnroe 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1949.H8M6 
 
 Mrs. Hallam's companion. And The Sprlni 
 
 3 1924 022 252 021 
 
rs 
 
 POPTJLAR NOVELS 
 
 BT 
 
 MES. MAKT J. HOLMES. 
 
 Tkmpbst and Sunshine. 
 English Oephans. 
 
 HOHESTBAD Oil Fl^"J>lDE. 
 
 ^Lena Rivers. 
 Meadow Brood . 
 Dora Deane. 
 Cousin Maude. 
 Marian Grey. 
 Edith Ltle. 
 Daisy Thornton. 
 Chateau d'Or. 
 
 QUEENIE HETHEBTOH. 
 
 Bessie's Fortune. 
 Maroubritb. 
 
 Darkness and Datuoht. 
 HuoH Worthinoton. 
 Cameron Pride. 
 Rose Mather. 
 Ethelyn's Mistake. 
 
 MiLBANK. 
 
 Edna Browniho. 
 West Lawn. 
 Mildred. 
 Forrest House. 
 Madeline. 
 Christuas Stories. 
 
 QRblTCHEN. 
 
 Dr. Hathern's Daughters. 
 CJVew.) 
 
 ' Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating 
 writer. Her books are always entertaining, and she 
 has the rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy 
 and afFections of her readers, and of hold- 
 ing their attention to her pages with 
 deep and absorbing interest." 
 
 Handsomely bound in cloth. Price, 81.S0 each, 
 and sent free by mail on .-eceipt of price, 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisheb 
 
 SUCCESSOR TO 
 
 G. W. OARLETON & CO., New York. 
 
Mrs. Hallam's Companion. 
 
 AND 
 
 THE SPRING FARM, 
 
 AND OTHER TALES. 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. MARY J HOLMES, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 ' TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE," " 'lENA RIVERS," " GRETCHEN," 
 
 " MARGUERITE," " DR. HATHERN'S DAUGHTERS," 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 <». 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 G. JV, Dillingham, Publisher, 
 
 MDCCCXCVL 
 
Copyright, 1896, by 
 Mus. MARY J. HOLMES. 
 
 [All rights reserved.] 
 
 
 
 
 % 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 MRS. HALLAM'S COMPANION 
 
 Chapter 
 
 I. The Hallams . 
 
 II. The Homestead . 
 
 III. Mrs. Hallam's Applicants 
 
 IV. Mrs. Fred Thurston 
 V. The Companion 
 
 Vr. On the Teutonic . 
 VII. Reginald and Phineas Jones 
 VIII. Rex at the Homestead . 
 IX. Rex Makes Discoveries 
 X. At Aix-les-Bains . 
 XL Grace Haynes 
 XII. The Night of the Opera 
 
 XIII. After the Opera . 
 
 XIV. At the Beau-Rivage . 
 XV. The Unwelcome Guest 
 
 XVI. Tangled Threads . 
 XVII. On the Sea . 
 XVIII. On Sea and Land . 
 XIX. " I, Rex, Take Thee, Bertha 
 
 Page 
 
 9 
 
 24 
 
 36 
 40 
 
 49 
 58 
 67 
 
 79 
 90 
 
 95 
 108 
 
 114 
 
 122 
 
 131 
 
 139 
 
 144 
 
 149 
 
 158 
 163 
 
 [5] 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE SPRING FARM. 
 
 Chapter 
 
 I. At the Farm House 
 n. Where Archie Was 
 
 III. Going West . 
 
 IV. On the Road . 
 V. Miss Raynor . 
 
 VI. The School Mistress 
 VII. At the Cedars 
 VIII. Max at the Cedars . 
 
 IX. " Good-Bye, Max ; Good-Bye." 
 X. At Last 
 
 Page 
 . 169 
 
 • 174 
 . 180 
 
 184 
 
 • 194 
 
 • 199 
 . 205 
 . 209 
 . 218 
 . 225 
 
 THE HEPBURN LINE. 
 
 I. My Aunts 235 
 
 II. Doris 246 
 
 III. Grantley Montague and Dorothea . . 254 
 
 IV. Aleck and Thea 268 
 
 V. Doris and the Glory Hole .... 278 
 
 VI. Morton Park 280 
 
 VII. A Soliloquy . • 291 
 
 VIII. My Cousin Grantley 293 
 
 IX. Grantley and Doris 298 
 
 X. Thea at Morton Park 307 
 
 XI. The Crisis 317 
 
 XII. The Missing Link . . ' . . . .322 
 
 XIII. The Three Brides 332 
 
 XIV. Two Years Later 336 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 MILDRED'S AMBITION. 
 
 Chapter 
 
 I. Mildred .... 
 II. At Thornton Park . 
 
 III. Incidents of Fifteen Years 
 
 IV. At the Farm House 
 V. The Bride 
 
 VI. Mrs. Giles Thornton 
 VII. Calls at the Park . 
 VIII. Mildred and her Mother . 
 IX. Gerard and his Father . 
 X. In the Cemetery 
 XI. What Followed 
 XII, Love versus Money 
 
 XIII. The Will .... 
 
 XIV. Mildred and Hugh . 
 XV. The Denouement 
 
 XVI. Sunshine After the Storm 
 
 Page 
 
 • 339 
 
 • *4S 
 
 ■ 352 
 
 • 3S« 
 
 • 36s 
 
 • 374 
 . 380 
 . 387 
 
 • 29s 
 
 • 399 
 
 • 405 
 
 • 409 
 
 • 414 
 . 418 
 
 ■ 424 
 
 • 431 
 
M ^ Cornell University 
 WB Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022252021 
 
MRS. 'HALLAM'S COMPANION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE HALLAMS. 
 
 Mrs. Carter Hallam was going to Europe, — going 
 to Aix-les Bains, — partly for the baths, which she hoped 
 would lessen her fast-increasing avoirdupois, and partly 
 to join her intimate friend, Mrs. Walker Haynes, who 
 had urged her coming and had promised to introduce 
 her to some of the best people, both English and Ameri- 
 can. This attracted Mrs. Hallam more than the baths. 
 She was anxious to know the best people, and she did 
 know a good many, although her name was not in the 
 list of the four hundred. But she meant it should be 
 there in the near future, nor did it seem unlikely that it 
 might be. There was not so great a distance between the 
 four hundred and herself, as she was now, as there had 
 been between Mrs. Carter Hallam and little Lucy Brown, 
 who used to live with her grandmother in an old yellow 
 house in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, and pick berries to 
 buy herself a pair of morocco boots. Later on, when 
 the grandmother was dead and the yellow house 
 sold, Lucy had worked first in a shoe-shop and then in 
 
 [9] 
 
10 
 
 MES. HALLAM S COMPANION. 
 
 a dry-goods store in Worcester, where, attracted by her 
 handsome face, Carter Hallam, a thriving grocer, had 
 made her his wife and mistress of a pretty little house 
 on the west side of the city. As a clerk she had often 
 waited upon the West Side ladies, whom .she admired 
 greatly, fancying she could readily distinguish them 
 from the ladies of the East Side. To marry a Hallam 
 was a great honor, but to be a West-Sider was a greater, 
 and when both came to her she nearly lost her balance, 
 'although her home was far removed from the aristo- 
 cratic quarters where the old families, the real West- 
 Siders, lived. In a way she was one of them, she 
 thought, or at least she was no longer a clerk, and she 
 began to cut her old acquaintances, while her husband 
 laughed at and ridiculed her, wondering what difference 
 it made whether one lived on the east or west side of a 
 town. He did not care whether people took him for a 
 nabob, or a fresh importation from the wild and woolly 
 We.st ; he was just Carter Hallam, a jolly, easy-going 
 fellow whom everybody knew and everybody liked. 
 He was born on a farm in Leicester, where the Hallams, 
 although comparatively poor, were held in high esteem 
 as one of the best and oldest families. At twenty-one 
 he came into the possession of a few thousand dollars 
 left him by an uncle for whom he was named, and then 
 he went to the Far West, roughing it with cowboys and 
 ranchmen, and investing his money in a gold-mine in 
 Montana and in lands still farther west. Then he re- 
 turned to Worcester, bought a small grocery, married 
 Lucy Brown, and lived quietly for a few years, when 
 suddenly one day there flashed across the wires the 
 news that his mine had proved one of the richest in 
 Montana, and his lands were worth many times what he 
 
tHE HALLAMS. 11 
 
 gave for them. He was a millionaire, with property 
 constantly rising in value, and Worcester could no 
 longer hold his ambitious wife. 
 
 It was too small a place for her, she said, for every- 
 body knew everybody else's business and history, and, 
 no matter how much she was worth, somebody was sure 
 to taunt her with having worked in a shoe-shop, if, 
 indeed, she did not hear that she had once picked ber- 
 ries to buy herself some shoes. They must go away 
 from the old life, if they wanted to be anybody. They 
 must travel and see the world, and get cultivated, and 
 know what to talk about with their equals. 
 
 So they sold the house and the grocery and traveled 
 east and west, north and south, and finally went to Eu- 
 rope, where they stayed two or three years, seeing nearly 
 everything there was to be seen, and learning a great 
 deal about ruins and statuary and pictures, in which 
 Mrs. Haliam thought herself a connoisseur, although 
 she occasionally got the Sistine Chapel and the Sistine 
 Madonna badly mixed, and talked of the Paul Belvedere, 
 a copy of which she bought at an enormous price. 
 When they returned to America Mr. Hallam was a 
 three times millionaire, for all his speculations had been 
 successful and his mine was still yielding its annual 
 harvest of gold. A handsome house on Fifth Avenue 
 in New York was bought and furnished in the most ap- 
 proved style, and then Mrs. Hallam began to consider 
 the best means of getting into society. She already 
 knew a good many New York people whom she had 
 met abroad, and whose acquaintance it was desirable to 
 continue. But she soon found that acquaintances made 
 in Paris or Rome or on the Nile were not as cordial 
 when met at home, and she was beginning to feel dis- 
 
1^ Mks. hallam's companion. 
 
 couraged, when chance threw in her way Mrs. Walker 
 Haynes, who, with the bluest of blood and the 
 smallest of purses, knew nearly every one worth know- 
 ing, and, it was hinted, would for a quid pro quo open 
 many fashionable doors to aspiring applicants who, 
 without her aid, would probably stay outside forever. 
 
 The daughter and grand-daughter and cousin of gov- 
 ernors and senators and judges, with a quiet assumption 
 of superiority which was seldom offensive to those 
 whom she wished to conciliate, she was a power in so- 
 ciety, and more quoted and courted than any woman in 
 her set. To be noticed by Mrs. Walker Haynes was 
 usually a guarantee of success, and Mrs. Hallam was 
 greatly surprised when one morning a handsome coupe 
 stopped before her door and a moment after her maid 
 brought her Mrs. Walker Haynes's card. She knew all 
 about Mrs. Walker Haynes and what she was capable 
 of doing, and in a flutter of excitement she went down 
 to meet her. Mrs. Walker Haynes, who never took 
 people up if there was anything doubtful in their ante- 
 cedents, knew all about Mrs. Hallam, even to the shoe- 
 shop and the clerkship. But she knew, too, that she 
 was perfectly respectable, with no taint whatever upon 
 her character, and that she was anxious to get into so- 
 ciety. As it chanced, Mrs. Haynes's funds were low, 
 for business was dull, as there were fewer human moths 
 than usual hovering around the social candle, and when 
 the ladies of the church which both she and Mrs. Hal- 
 lam attended met to devise ways and means for raising 
 money for some new charity, she spoke of Mrs. Hallam 
 and offered to call upon her for a subscription, if the 
 ladies wished it. They did wish it, and the next day 
 found Mrs. Haynes waiting in Mrs. Hallam's drawing- 
 
THE HALLAMS. 13 
 
 room for the appearance of its mistress, her quick-see- 
 ing eyes taking in every detail in its furnishing, and 
 deciding on the whole that it was very good. 
 
 " Some one has taste, — the upholsterer and decorator, 
 probably," she thought, as Mrs. Hallam came in, nerv- 
 ous and flurried, but at once put at ease by her visitor's 
 gracious and friendly manner. 
 
 After a few general topics and the mention of a 
 mutual friend whom Mi-s. Hallam had met in Cairo, 
 Mrs. Haynes came directly to the object of her visit, 
 apologizing first for the liberty she was taking, and 
 adding : 
 
 " But now that you are one of us in the church, I 
 thought you might like to help us, and we need it so 
 much." 
 
 Mrs. Hallam was not naturally generous where noth- 
 ing was to be gained, but Mrs. Haynes's manner, and 
 her " now you are one of us," made her so in th'is in- 
 stance, and taking the paper she wrote her name for 
 two hundred dollars, which was nearly one-fourth of the 
 desired sum. There was a gleam of humor as well as 
 of surprise in Mrs. Haynes's eyes as she read the amount, 
 but she was profuse in her thanks and expressions of 
 gratitude, and, promising to call very soon socially, she 
 took her leave with a feeling that it would pay to take 
 up Mrs. Hallam, who was really more lady-like and 
 better educated than many whom she had launched 
 upon the sea of fashion. With Mrs. Walker Haynes 
 and several millions behind her, progress was easy for 
 Mrs. Hallam, and within a year she was " quite in the 
 swim," she said to her husband, who laughed at her 
 as he had done in Worcester, and called Mrs. Haynes a 
 fraud who knew what she was about. But he gave her 
 
14 MRS. hallam's companion."" 
 
 all the money she wanted, and rather enjoyed seeing 
 her " hob-a-nob with the big bugs," as he expressed it. 
 Nothing, however, could change him, and he remained 
 the same unostentatious, popular man he had always 
 been up to the day of his death, which occurred about 
 three years before our story opens. 
 
 At that time there was living with him his nephew, 
 the son of his only brother. Jack. Reginald, — or Rex 
 as he was familiarly called, — was a young man of 
 twenty-six, with exceptionally good habits, and a few 
 days before his uncle died he said to him : 
 
 " I can trust you, Rex. You have lived with me since 
 you were fourteen, and have never once failed me. The 
 Hallams are all honest people, and you are half Hallam. 
 I have made you independent by my will, and I want 
 you to stay with your aunt and look after her affairs. 
 She is as good a woman as ever lived, but a little off on 
 fashion and fol-de-rol. Keep her as level as you can." 
 
 This Rex had tried to do, rather successfully, too, 
 except when Mrs. Walker Haynes's influence was in 
 the ascendant, when he usually succumbed to circum- 
 stances and allowed his aunt to do as she pleased. Mrs. 
 Haynes, who had profited greatly in a pecuniary way 
 from her acquaintance with Mrs. Hallam, was now in 
 Europe, and had written her friend to join her at Aix- 
 les-Bains, which she said was a charming place, full of 
 titled people both English and French, and she had the 
 entrie to the very best circles. She further added that 
 it was desirable for a lady traveling without a male 
 escort to have a companion besides a maid and courier. 
 The companion was to be found in America, the courier 
 in London, and the maid in Paris ; " after which," she 
 wrote, " you will travel tout-a-fait en princesse. The en 
 
THE HALLAMS. 15 
 
 princesse appealed to Mrs. Hallam at once as something 
 altogether applicable to Mrs. Carter Hallam of New 
 York. She was a great lady now ; Sturbridge and the 
 old yellow house and the berries and the shoe-shop 
 were more than thirty years in the past, and so covered 
 over with gold that it seemed impossible to uncover 
 them ; nor had any one tried, so far as she knew. The 
 Hallams as a family had been highly respected both in 
 Worcester and in Leicester, and she often spoke of 
 them, but never of the Browns, or of the old grand- 
 mother, and she was glad she had no near relatives to in- 
 trude themselves upon her and make her ashamed. She 
 was very fond and very proud of Reginald, who was to 
 her like a son, and who with the integrity and common 
 sense of the Hallams had also inherited the innate re- 
 finement and kindly courtesy of his mother, a Bostonian 
 and the daughter of a clergyman. As a rule she con- 
 sulted him about everything, and after she received 
 Mrs. Haynes's letter she showed it to him and asked his 
 advice in the matter of a companion. 
 
 " I think she would be a nuisance and frightfully in 
 your way at times, but if Mrs. Haynes says you must 
 have one, it's all right, so go ahead," Rex replied, and 
 his aunt continued : 
 
 " But how am I to find what I want ? I am so easily 
 imposed upon, and I will not have one from the city. 
 She would expect too much and make herself too famil- 
 
 r. I must h-ave one from the country." 
 
 ' Advertise, then, and they'll come round you like 
 jes around honey," Rex said, and to this suggestion his 
 aunt at once acceded, asking him to write the advertise- 
 ment, which she dictated, with so many conditions and 
 requirements that Rex exclaimed, " Hold on there. 
 
16 MEs. hallam's companion. 
 
 You will insist next that they subscribe to the 
 Thirty-Nine Articles, besides believing in foreordination 
 and everything in the Westminster Catechism. You 
 are demanding impossibilities and giving too little in 
 return. Three hundred dollars for perfection ! I should 
 say offer five hundred. ' The higher-priced the better ' 
 is Mrs. Walker Haynes's motto, and I am sure she will 
 think it far more tony to have an expensive appendage 
 than a cheap one. The girl will earn her money, too, 
 or I'm mistaken ; for Mrs. Haynes is sure to share her 
 services with you, as she does everything else." 
 
 He spoke laughingly, but sarcastically, for he per- 
 fectly understood Mrs. Walker Haynes, whom his out- 
 spoken uncle had called " a §f)onge and a schemer, who 
 knew how to feather her nest." Privately Rex thought 
 the same, but he did not often express these views to 
 his aunt, who at last consented to the five hundred dol- 
 lars, and Rex wrote the advertisement, which was as 
 follows : 
 
 " Wanted, 
 
 " A companion for a lady who is going abroad. One 
 from the country, between twenty and twenty-five, pre- 
 ferred. She must be a good accountant, a good reader, 
 and a good seamstress. She must also have a sufficient 
 knowledge of French to understand the language and 
 make herself understood. To such a young lady five 
 hundred dollars a year will be given, and all expenses 
 paid. Address, 
 
 " Mrs. Carter Hallam, 
 
 " No. — Fifth Avenue, New York.' 
 
 When Rex read this to his aunt, she said : 
 " Yes, that will do ; but don't 5'ou think it just as well 
 to say youn^ person instead oi young lady ? ' 
 
THE HALI.AMS. 17 
 
 " No, I don't," Rex answered, promptly. " You want 
 a lady, and not a person, as you understand the word, 
 and I wouldn't begin by insulting her." 
 
 So the " lady " was allowed to stand, and then, with- 
 out his aunt's knowledge, Rex a^ded : 
 
 " Those applying will please send their photographs." 
 
 " I should like to see the look of astonishment on 
 aunt's face when the pictures come pouring in. There 
 will be scores of them, the offer is so good," Rex 
 thought, as he folded the advertisement and left the 
 house. 
 
 That night, when dinner was over, he said to his 
 aunt : " I have a project in mind which I wish to tell 
 you about." 
 
 Mrs. Hallam gave a little shrug of annoyance. Her 
 husband had been full of projects, most of which she 
 had disapproved, as she probably should this of Rex, 
 who continued : 
 
 " I am thinking of buying a place in the c6untry, — 
 the real country, I mean, — where the houses are old- 
 fashioned and far apart, and there are woods and ponds 
 and brooks and things." 
 
 " And pray what would you do with- such a place ?" 
 Mrs. Hallam asked. 
 
 Rex replied, " I'd make it into a fancy farm and fill it 
 with blooded stock, hunting-horses, and dogs. I'd keep 
 the old house intact so far as architecture is concerned, 
 and fit it up as a kind of bachelor's hall, where I can 
 have a lot of fellows in the summer and fall, and hunt 
 and fish and have a glorious time. Ladies will not be 
 excluded, of course, and when you are fagged out with 
 Saratoga and Newport I shall invite you, and possibly 
 Mrs. Haynes and Grace, down to see the fox-hunts I 
 
18 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 mean to have, just as they do in the Genesee Valley. 
 Won't it be fun ?" 
 
 Rex was eloquent on the subject of his fancy farm. 
 He was very fond of the country, although he really 
 knew but little about it, as he was born in New York, 
 and had lived there all his life with the exception of two 
 years spent at the South with his mother's brother and 
 four years at Yale. His aunt, on the contrary, detested 
 the country, with its woods, and ponds, and brooks, and 
 old-fashioned houses, and she felt very little interest in 
 Rex's fancy farm and fox-hunts, which she looked upon 
 as wholly visionary. She asked him, however, where 
 the farm was, and he replied : 
 
 " You see, Marks, who is in the office with me, has a 
 client who owns a mortgage on some old homestead 
 among the hills in Massachusetts. This mortgage, 
 which has changed hands two or three times and been 
 renewed once or twice, comes due in October, and 
 Marks says there is not much probability that the old 
 man.-t-I believe he is quite old, — can pay it, and the 
 place will be sold at auction. I can, of course, wait and 
 bid it off cheap, as farms are not in great demand in 
 that vicinit)' ; but I don't like to do that. I'd rather 
 buy it outright, giving the old fellow more than it is 
 worth rather than less. Marks says it is a rambling old 
 house, with three or four gables, and stands on a hill- 
 side with a fine view of the surrounding country. The 
 woods are full of pleasant drives, and ponds where the 
 
 ■'lite lilies grow and where I can fish and have some 
 
 nail boats." 
 ' But where is it ? In what town, I mean ?" Mrs. 
 Ilallam asked, with a slight tremor in her voice, which, 
 liowever, Rex did not nptip§ ^g he answered ; 
 
THE HALLAM8. 19 
 
 " I don't remember where Marks's client said it was, 
 but I have his letter. Let me see." And, taking the 
 letter from his pocket, he glanced at it a moment, and 
 then said, "It is in Leicester, and not more than five or 
 six miles from the city of Worcester and Lake Quin- 
 sigamond, where I mean to have a yacht and call it the 
 Lucy Hallam for you. Why, auntie, it has just occurred 
 to me that you once lived in Worcester, and Uncle Hal- 
 lam, too, and that he and father were born in Leicester. 
 Were you ever there, — at the house where father was 
 born, I mean ? But of course you have been." 
 
 Rex had risen to his feet and stood leaning on the 
 mantel and looking at his aunt with an eager, expectant 
 expression on his face. She was pale to her lips as she 
 replied : 
 
 " Yes, I was there just after I was married. Your 
 uncle drove me out one afternoon to see the place. 
 Strangers were -living there then, for his father and 
 mother were dead. He was as country mad as you are, 
 and actually went down upon his knees before the old 
 well-sweep and bucket." 
 
 " I don't blame him. I believe I'd do the same," Rex 
 replied, and then went on questioning her rapidly. 
 " What was- the house like ? Had it a big chimney in 
 the centre ?" 
 
 Mrs. Hallam said it had. 
 
 " Wide fireplaces ?" 
 
 " Rather wide, — yes." 
 
 " Kitchen fireplace, with a crane ?" 
 
 " I don't know, but most likely." 
 
 " Little window-panes, and deep window-seats?" 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 " Bigf iron door-latches instead of kaobs ?" 
 
20 MRS. hallam's oompanioh, 
 
 " Yes, and a brass knocker." 
 
 " Slanting roof, or high ?" 
 
 " It was a high gabled roof, — three or four gables, and 
 must have been rather pretentious when it was new. 
 
 " Rex," — and Mrs. Hallam's voice trembled percept- 
 ibly, — " the gables and the situation overlooking the 
 valley make me think that the place you have in view 
 is possibly your father's old home." 
 
 " By Jove," Rex exclaimed, " wouldn't that be jolly ! 
 I believe I'd give a thousand dollars extra for the sake 
 of having the old homestead for my own. I wonder 
 who the old chap is who lives there. I mean to go 
 down and see for myself as soon as I return from 
 Chicago and we get the lawsuit off our hands which is " 
 taking all Marks's time and mine." 
 
 Mrs. Hallam did not say what she thought, for she 
 knew there was not much use in opposing Rex, but in 
 her heart she did not approve of bringing the long- 
 buried past up to the present, which was so different. 
 The Homestead was well enough, and Leicester was 
 well enough, for Hallam had been an honored name in 
 the neighborhood, and Rex would be honored, too, as a 
 scion of the family ; but it was too near Worcester and 
 the shoe-shop and the store and the people who had 
 known her as a working-girl, and who would be sure to 
 renew the acquaintance if she were to go there. She 
 had no relatives to trouble her, unless it were a certain 
 Phineas Jones, who was so far removed that she could 
 scarcely call him a relative. But if he were living he 
 would certainly find her if she ventured near him, and 
 cousin her, as he used to do in Worcester, where he was 
 continually calling upon her after her marriage and re- 
 minding her of spelling-schools and singing-schools and 
 
THE HALLAMS. si 
 
 Circuses which he said he had attended with her. How 
 distasteful it all was, and how she shrank from every- 
 thing pertaining to her early life, which seemed so far 
 away that she sometimes half persuaded herself it had 
 never been ! 
 
 And yet her talk with Rex about the old Homestead 
 on the hill had stirred her strangely, and that night, 
 long after her usual hour for retiring, she sat by her 
 window looking out upon the great cit)', whose many 
 lights,, shining like stars through the fog and rain, she 
 scarcely saw at all. Her thoughts had gone back thirty 
 years to an October day just after her return from her 
 wedding-trip to Niagara, when her husband had driven 
 her into the country to visit his old home. How happy 
 he had been, and how vividly she could recall the 
 expression on his face when he caught sight of the red 
 gables'and the well-sweep where she told Reginald he 
 had gone down upon his knees. There had been a 
 similar expression on Rex's face that evening when he 
 talked of his fancy farm, and Rex was in appearance 
 much like what her handsome young husband had been 
 that lovely autumn day, when a purple haze was rest- 
 ing on the hills and the air was soft and warm as 
 summer. He had taken her first to the woods and 
 shown her where he and his brother Jack had set their 
 traps for the woodchucks and snared the partridges in 
 the fall and hunted for the trailing arbutus and the 
 sassafras in the spring ; then to the old cider-mill at the 
 end of the lane, and to the hill where they had their 
 slide in winter, and to the barn, where they had a swing, 
 and to the brook in -the orchard, where they had a 
 water-wheel ; then to the well, where he drew up the 
 bucket, and, poising it upon the curb, stooped to drink 
 
52 MKS. 
 
 from it, asking her to do the same and see if she evet 
 quaffed a sweeter draught ; but she was afraid of 
 wetting her dress, and had drawn back, saying she was 
 not thirsty. Strangers occupied the house, but permis- 
 sion was given them to go over it, and he had taken her 
 through all the rooms, showing her where he and Jack 
 and Annie were born, and where the latter had died 
 when a little child of eight ; then to the garret, where 
 they used to spread the hickory-nuts and butternuts to 
 dry, and down to the cellar, where the apples and cider 
 were stored. He was like a school-boy in his eagerness 
 to explain everything, while she was bored to death and 
 heard with dismay his proposition to drive two or three 
 miles farther to the Greenville cemetery, where the 
 Hallams for many generations back had been buried. 
 There was a host of them, and some of the head-stones 
 were sunken and mouldy with age and half fallen down, 
 while the lettering upon them was almost illegible. 
 
 " I wonder whose this is ?" he said, as he went down 
 upon the ground to decipher the date of the oldest one. 
 " I can't make it out, except that it is seventeen hun- 
 dred and something. He must have been an old 
 settler," he continued, as he arose and brushed a patch 
 of dirt from his trousers with his silk handkerchief. 
 Then, glancing at her as she stood listlessly leaning 
 against a stone, he said, " Why, Lucy, you look tired. 
 Are you ?" 
 
 " No, not very," she answered, a little pettishly ; 
 " but I don't think it very exhilarating business for a 
 bride to be visiting the graves of her husband's an- 
 cestors." 
 
 He did not hunt for any more dates after that, but, 
 gathering a few wild flowers growing in the tall grass. 
 
TfiE HAtLAMS. 23 
 
 he laid them upon his nlothef*s grave and Annie's, and, 
 going out to the carriage standing by the gate, drove 
 back to Worcester through a lottg stretch of woods, 
 Where the road was lined on either side with sumachs 
 and berry-bushes and clumps of bitter-sweet, and there 
 was no sign of life except When a blackbird flew from 
 one tree to another, or a squirrel showed its bushy tail 
 upon the wall. He thought it delightful, and said that 
 it was the pleasantest drive in the neighborhood and 
 one which he had often taken with Jack when they 
 were boys ; but she thought it horribly lonesome and 
 poky, and was glad when they struck the pavement of 
 the town. 
 
 " Carter always liked the country," she said to herself 
 when her reverie came to an end, and she left her seat 
 by the window ; " and Rex is just like him, and will 
 buy that place if he can, and I shall have to go there as 
 hostess and be called upon by a lot of old women in 
 sun-bonnets and blanket shawls, who will call me Lucy 
 Ann and say, ' You remember me, don't you ? I was 
 Mary Jane Smith ; I worked in the shoe-shop with you 
 years ago.' And Phineas Jones will turn up, with his 
 cousining and dreadful reminiscences. Ah me, what a 
 pity one could not be born without antecedents !" 
 
^i MBS. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 It Stood at the end of a grasfsy avenue or lane a little 
 distance from the electric road between Worcester and 
 Spencer, its outside chimneys covered with -woodbine 
 and its sharp gables distinctly visible as the cars wound 
 up the steep Leicester hill. Just what its age was no 
 one knew exactly. Relic-hunters who revel in antiqui- 
 ties put it at one hundred and fifty. But the oldest in- 
 habitant in the town, who was an authority for every- 
 thing ancient, said that when he was a small boy it was 
 comparatively new, and considered very fine on account 
 of its gables and brass knocker, and, as he was ninety- 
 five or six, the house was probably over a hundred. 
 It was built by a retired sea-captain from Boston, and 
 after his death it changed hands several times until it 
 was bought by the Hallams, who lived there so long 
 and were so highly esteemed that it came to bear their 
 name, and was known as the Hallam Homestead. After 
 the death of Carter Hallam's father it was occupied by 
 different parties, and finally became the property of a 
 Mr. Leighton, who rather late in life had married a girl 
 from Georgia, where he had been for a time a teacher. 
 Naturally scholarly and fond of books, he would have 
 preferred teaching, but his young wife, accustomed 
 to plantation life, said she should be happier in the 
 country, and so he bought the Homestead arid com- 
 menced farming, with very little knowledge of what 
 ought to be done and very little means with which to 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 25 
 
 do it. Under such circumstances he naturally grew 
 poorer every year, while his wife's artistic tastes did not 
 help the matter. Remembering her father's plantation 
 with its handsome grounds and gardens, she instituted 
 numerous changes in and about the house, which made 
 it more attractive, but did not add to its value. The 
 big chimney was taken down and others built upon 
 the outside, after the Southern style. A wide hall was 
 put through the centre where the chimney had been ; 
 a broad double piazza was built in front, while the 
 ground was terraced down to the orchard below, where 
 a rustic bridge was thrown across the little brook where 
 Carter and Jack Hallam had built their water-wheel. 
 Other changes the ambitious little Georgian was con- 
 templating, when she died suddenly and was carried 
 back to sleep under her native pines, leaving her hus- 
 band utterly crushed at his loss, with the care of two 
 little girls, Dorcas and Bertha, and a mortgage of two 
 thousand dollars upon his farm. For some years h? 
 scrambled on as best he could with hired help, giving 
 all his leisure time to educating and training his daugh- 
 ters, who were as unlike each other as two sisters well 
 could be. Dorcas, the elder, was fair and blue-eyed, 
 and round and short and matter-of-fact, caring more 
 for the farm and the house than for books, while 
 Bertha was just the opposite, and, with her soft brown 
 hair, bright eyes, brilliant complexion, and graceful, 
 slender figure, was the exact counterpart of her beau- 
 tiful Southern mother when she first came to the Home- 
 stead ; but otherwise she was like her father, caring 
 more for books than for the details of every-day life. 
 
 " Dorcas is to be housekeeper, and I the wage-earner, 
 to help pay off the mortgage which troubles father so 
 
26 MES. HALLAm's COAtPANtOjr. ♦ 
 
 much," she said, and when she was through school she 
 became book-keeper for the firm of Swartz & Co., of 
 Boston, with a salary of four hundred dollars a year. 
 Dorcas, who was two years older, remained at home as 
 housekeeper. And a very thrifty one she made, seeinjj 
 to everything and doing everything, from making but- 
 ter to making bed.s, for she kept no help. The money 
 thus saved was put carefully by towards paying the 
 mortgage coming due in October. By the closest econ- 
 omy it had been reduced from two thousand to one 
 thousand, and both Dorcas and Bertha were straining 
 every nerve to increase the fund which was to liquidate 
 the debt. 
 
 It was not very often that Bertha indulged in the 
 luxury of coming home, for even that expense was 
 something, and every dollar helped. But on the Sat- 
 urday following the appearance of Mrs. Hallara's 
 advertisement in the New York Herald she was coming 
 to spend Sunday for the first time in several weeks. 
 These visits were great events at the Homestead, and 
 Dorcas was up as soon as the first robin chirped in his 
 nest in the big apple-tree which shaded the rear of the 
 house and was now odorous and beautiful with its clus- 
 ters of pink-and-white blossoms. There was churning to 
 do that morning, and butter to get oft to market, be- 
 sides the usual Saturday's cleaning and baking, which 
 included all Bertha's favorite dishes. There was 
 Bertha's room to be gone over with broom and duster, 
 and all the vases and handleless pitchers to be filled 
 with daffies and tulips and great bunches of apple- 
 blossoms and a clump or two of the trailing arbutus 
 which had lingered late in the woods. But Dorcas's 
 work was one of love ; if she were tired she scarcely 
 
•rilE HOMBSTEAD. 2? 
 
 thought of it at all, and kept steadily on until every- 
 thing was done. In her afternoon gown and white 
 apron she sat down to rest awhile on the piazza over- 
 looking the valley, thinking as she did so what a lovely 
 place it was, with its large, sunny rooms, wide hall, and 
 fine view, and how dreadful it would be to lose it. 
 
 " Five hundred dollars more we must have, and where 
 it is to come from I do not know. Bertha always says 
 something will turn up, but I am not so hopeful," she 
 said, sadly. Then, glancing at the clock, she saw that 
 it was nearly time for the car which would bring her 
 sister from the Worcester station. " I'll go out to the 
 cross-road and meet her," she thought, just as she heard 
 the sharp clang of the bell and saw the trolley-pole as 
 it came up the hill. A moment more, and Bertha 
 alighted and came rapidly towards her. 
 
 " You dear old Dor, I'm so glad to see you and be 
 home again," Bertha said, giving up her satchel and 
 umbrella and putting her arm caressingly around 
 Dorcas's neck as she walked, for she was much the 
 taller of the two. 
 
 It was a lovely May afternoon, and the place was at 
 its best in the warm sunlight, with the fresh green 
 grass and the early flowers and the apple orchard full 
 of blossoms which filled the air with perfume. 
 
 " Oh, this is delightful, and it is so good to get away 
 from that close office and breathe this pure air," Bertha 
 said, as she went from room to room, and then out 
 upon the piazza, where she stood taking in deep inhala- 
 tions and' seeming to Dorcas to grow brighter and 
 fresher with each one. " Where is father ?" she asked 
 at last. 
 
 " Here, daughter," was answered, as Mr. Leighton, 
 
2!? Mrs. hallam's ooiii'ANloif. 
 
 who had been to the village, came through a. reaf 
 door. 
 
 He was a tall, spare man, with snowy hair and a 
 stoop in his shoulders, which told o£ many years of 
 hard work. But the refinement in his manner and the 
 gentleness in his face were indicative of good breeding, 
 and a life somewhat different from that which he now 
 led. 
 
 Bertha was at his side in a moment, and had him 
 down in a rocking-chair, and was sitting on an arm of 
 it, brushing the thin hair back from his forehead, while 
 she looked anxiously into his face, which wore a more 
 troubled expression than usual, although he evidently 
 tried to hide it. 
 
 " What is it, father ? Are you very tired .?" she asked, 
 at last, and he replied : 
 
 " No, daughter, not very ; and if I were the sight of 
 you would rest me." 
 
 Catching sight of the corner of an envelope in his 
 vest pocket, with a woman's quick intuition, she guessed 
 that it had something to'do with his sadness. 
 
 " You have a letter. Is there anything in it about 
 that hateful mortgage ?" she said. 
 
 " It is all about the mortgage. There's a way to get 
 rid of it," he answered, while his voice trembled, and 
 something in his eyes, as he looked into Bertha's, made 
 her shiver a little ; but she kissed him lovingly, and 
 said very low : 
 
 " Yes, father. I know there is a way," her lips quiv- 
 ering as she said it, and a lump rising in her throat as 
 if she were smothering. 
 
 " Will you read the letter ?" he asked, and she an- 
 swered : 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 29 
 
 " Not now ; let us have supper first. I am nearly- 
 famished, and long to get at Dor's rolls and broiled 
 chicken, which 1 smelled before I left the car at the 
 cross-roads." 
 
 She was very gay all through the supper, although a 
 close observer might have seen a cloud cross her bright 
 face occasionally, and a look of pain and preoccupation 
 in her eyes ; but she laughed and chatted merrily, 
 asking about the neighbors and the farm, and when 
 supper was over helped Dorcas with her dishes and the 
 evening work, sang snatches of the last opera, and told 
 her sister about the new bell skirt just coming into 
 fashion, and how she could cut over her old ones like 
 it. When everything was done she seemed to nerve 
 herself to some great effort, and, going to her father 
 said : 
 
 "Now for the letter. From whom is it ?" 
 
 " Gorham, the man who holds the mortgage," Mr. 
 Leighton replied. 
 
 " Oh-h, Gorham !" and Bertha's voice was full of in- 
 tense relief. " I thought perhaps it was but no 
 
 matter, that will come later. Let us hear what Mr. 
 Gorham has to say. He cannot foreclose till October, 
 anyhow." 
 
 "And not then, if we de. what he proposes. This is 
 it," Mr. Leighton said, as he began to read the letter, 
 which was as follows : 
 
 " Brooklyn, N. Y., May — , i8 — . 
 " Mr. Leighton : 
 
 " Dear Sir, — A gentleman in New York wishes to 
 purchase a farm in the country, where he can spend a 
 part of the summer and autumn, fishing and fox hunt- 
 ing and so on. From what he has heard of your place 
 
30 MKS. hallam's companion. 
 
 and the woods around it, he thinks it will suit him ex- 
 actly, and in the course of a few weeks proposes to go 
 out and see it. As he has ample means, he will un- 
 doubtedly pay you a good price, cash down, and that 
 will relieve you of all trouble with- the mortgage. I 
 still think I must have my money iu October, as I have 
 promised it elsewhere. 
 
 " Very truly, 
 
 "John Gorham." 
 
 " Well ?" Mr. Leighton said, as he finished reading the 
 letter, and looked inquiringly at his daughters. 
 
 Bertha, who was very pale, was the first to speak. 
 " Do you want to leave the old home ?" she asked, and 
 her father replied, in a choking voice, " No, oh, no. I 
 have lived here twenty-seven years, and know every 
 rock and tree and shrub, and love them all. I brought 
 your mother here- a bride and a slip of a girl like you, 
 who are so much like her that sometimes when I see 
 you flitting around and hear your voice I think for a 
 moment she has come back to me again. You were 
 both born here. Your mother died here, and here I 
 want to die. But what is the use of prolonging the 
 struggle ? I have raked and scraped and saved in 
 every possible way to pay the debt contracted so long 
 ago, the interest of which has eaten up all my profits, 
 and I have got -within five hundred dollars of it, but do 
 not see how I can get any further. I may sell a few 
 apples and some hay, but I'll never borrow another 
 dollar, and if this New York chap offers a good price 
 we'd better sell. Dorcas and I can rent a few rooms 
 somewhere in Boston, maybe, and we shall all be to- 
 gether till I die, which, please God, will not be very 
 long." 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 31 
 
 His face was white, with a tired, discouraged lonk 
 upon it pitiful to see, while Dorcas, who cried tasiiy, 
 was sobbing- aloud. But Bertha's eyes were round and 
 bright and dry, and there was a ring in her voice as 
 she said, " You will not die, and you will not sell the 
 place. Horses and dogs and fox-hunts, indeed ! I'd 
 like to see that New-Yorker plunging through the 
 fields and farms with his horses and hounds,, for that is 
 what fox-hunting means. He would be mobbed in no 
 time. Who is he, I wonder? I should like to meet 
 him and give him a piece of my mind." 
 
 She was getting excited, and her cheeks were scarlet 
 as she kissed her father again and said, " Write and tell 
 that New-Yorker to stay where he is, and take his foxes 
 to some other farm. He cannot have ours, nor any one 
 else. Micawber-like, I believe something will turn up ; 
 I am sure of it ; only give me time." 
 
 Then, rising from her chair, she went swiftly out into 
 the twilight, and, crossing the road, ran down the ter- 
 race to a bit of broken wall, where she sat down and 
 watched the night gathering on the distant hills and 
 over the woods, and fought the battle which more than 
 one unselfish woman has fought, — a battle between in- 
 clination and what seemed to be duty. If she chose, 
 she could save the farm with a word and make her 
 father's last days free from care. There was a hand- 
 some house in Boston of which she might be mistress 
 any day, with plenty of money at her command to do 
 with as she pleased. But the owner was old compared 
 to herself, forty at least, and growing bald ; he called 
 her Berthy, and was not at all like the ideal she had in 
 her mind of the man whom she could love, — who was 
 really more like one who inight hunt foxes aqd ride his 
 
32 MKs. hallam's companion. 
 
 horses through the fields, while she rode by his side, 
 than like the commonplace Mr. Sinclair, who had asked 
 her twice to be his wife. At her last refusal only a few 
 days ago he had said he should not give her up yet, but 
 should write her father for his co-operation, and it was 
 from him she feared the New York letter had come 
 when she saw it in her father's pocket. She knew he 
 was honorable and upright and would be kind and gen- 
 erous to her and her family, but she had dreamed of a 
 different love, and she could not listen to his suit unless 
 it were to save the old home for her father and Dorcas. 
 
 For a time she sat weighing in the balance her love 
 for them and her love for herself, while darkness deep- 
 ened around her and the air grew heavy with the scent 
 of the apple-blossoms and the grove of pine-trees not 
 far away ; yet she was no nearer a decision than when 
 she first sat down. It was strange that in the midst of 
 her intense thinking, the baying of hounds, the tramp 
 of horses' feet, and the shout of many voices should 
 ring in her ears so distinctly that once, as some bushes 
 stirred near her, she turned, half expecting to see the 
 hunted fox fleeing for his life, and, with an impulse to 
 save him from his pursuers, put out both her hands. 
 
 " This is a queer sort of hallucination, and it comes 
 from that New York letter," she thought, just as from 
 under a cloud where it had been hidden the new moon 
 sailed out to the right of her. Bertha was not super- 
 stitious, but, like many others, she clung to some of the 
 traditions of her childhood, and the new moon seen 
 over the right shoulder was one of them. She always 
 framed a wish when she saw it, and she did so now, 
 involuntarily repeating the words she had so often used 
 when a child ; 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 33 
 
 " New moon, new moon, listen to me, 
 And grant the boon I ask of thee," 
 
 and then, almost as seriously as if it were a prayer, she 
 wished that something might occur to keep the home 
 for her father and herself from Mr. Sinclair. 
 
 " I don't believe much in the new moon, it has cheated 
 me so often ; but I do believe in presentiments, and I 
 have one that something will turn up. I'll wait awhile 
 and see," she said, as the silvery crescent was lost again 
 under a cloud. Beginning to feel a little chilly, she 
 went back to the house, where she found her father 
 reading his evening paper. 
 
 This reminded her of a New York Herald she had 
 bought on the car of a little newsboy, whose ragged 
 coat and pleasant face had decided her to refuse the 
 chocolates offered her by a larger boy and take the 
 . paper instead. It was lying on the table, where she had 
 put it when she first came in. Taking it up, she sat down 
 and opened it. Glancing from page to page, she finally 
 reached the advertisements, and her eye fell upon that 
 of Mrs. Hallam. 
 
 " Oh, father, Dorcas, I told you something would tarn 
 up, and there has ! Listen !" and she read the adver- 
 tisement aloud. " The very thing I most desired has 
 come. I have always wanted to go to Europe, but 
 never thought I could, on account of the expense, and 
 here it is, all paid, and five hundred dollars besides. 
 That will save the place. I did not wish the new moon 
 for nothing. Something has turned up." 
 
 " But, Bertha," said the more practical Dorcas, " what 
 reason have you to think -you will get the situation? 
 
34 MEs. hallam's comvanion. 
 
 There are probably more than five hundred applicants 
 for it, — one for each dollar." 
 
 " I know I shall. I feel it as I have felt other things 
 which have come to me. Theosophic presentiments I 
 call them." 
 
 Dorcas went on : "And if it does come, I don't see 
 how it will help the mortgage due in October. You 
 will not get your pay in advance, and possibly not until . 
 the end of the year." 
 
 " I shall borrow the money and - give my note," 
 Bertha answered, promptly. " Anybody will trust me. 
 Swartz & Co. will, anyway, knowing that I shall come 
 back and work it out if Mrs. Hallam fails me. By the 
 way, that is the name of the people who lived here years 
 ago. Perhaps Mrs. Carter belongs to the family. Do 
 you know where they are, father ?" 
 
 Mr. Leighton said he did not. He thought, however, 
 they were all dead, while Dorcas asked, " If you are 
 willing to borrow money of Swartz & Co., why don't 
 you try Cousin Louie, and pay her in installments .?" 
 
 " Cousin Louie !" Bertha repeated. " That would be 
 borrowing of her proud husband, Fred Thurston, who, 
 since I have been a bread-winner, never sees me in the 
 street if he can help it. I'd take in washing before I'd 
 ask a favor of him. My heart is set upon Europe, if 
 Mrs. Hallam will have me, and you do not oppose me 
 too strongly." 
 
 " But I must oppose you," her father said ; and then 
 followed a long and earnest discussion between Mr. 
 Leighton, Dorcas, and Bertha, the result of which was 
 that Bertha was to wait a few days and consider the 
 matter before writing to Mrs. Hallam. 
 
 That night, however, after her father had retired, she 
 
THE HOMESTEAD. 35 
 
 dashed off a rough draught of what she meant to say 
 and submitted it to Dorcas for approval. It was as 
 follows : 
 
 " Mrs. Hallam : 
 
 " Madam, — I have seen your advertisement for a com- 
 panion, and shall be glad of the situation. My name is 
 Bertha Leigh ton. I am twenty-two years old, and was 
 graduated at the Charlestown Seminary three years 
 ago. I am called a good reader, and ought to be a good 
 accountant, as for two years I have been bookkeeper 
 in the firm of Swartz & Co., Boston. I am not very 
 hand)' with my needle, for want of practice, but can 
 soon learn. While in school 1 took lessons in French 
 of a native teacher, who complimented my pronuncia- 
 tion and quickness to comprehend. Consequently I 
 think I shall find no difficulty in understanding the 
 language after a little and making myself understood. 
 I enclose my photograph, which flatters me somewhat. 
 My address is 
 
 " Bertha Leighton, 
 
 " No. — Derring St., Boston, Mass." 
 
 " I think it covers the whole business," Bertha said 
 to Dorcas, who objected to one point. " The photo- 
 graph does not flatter you," she said, while Bertha 
 insisted that it did, as it represented a much more 
 stylish-looking young woman than Mrs. Carter Hallam's 
 companion ought to be. " I wonder what sort of 
 woman she is? I somehow fancy she is a snob," she 
 said ; " but, snob me all she pleases, she cannot keep 
 me from seeing Europe, and I don't believe she will try 
 to cheat me out of my wages." 
 
36 MKs. hallam's companion. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MRS. hallam's applicants. 
 
 Several days after Mrs. Hallam's advertisement ap- 
 peared in the papers, Reginald, who had been away on 
 business, returned, and found his aunt in her room 
 struggling frantically with piles of letters and photo- 
 graphs and with a very worried and excited look on her 
 face. 
 
 " Oh, Rex,'' she cried, as he came in, " I am so glad 
 you have come, for I am nearly wild. Only think ! 
 seventy applicants, and as many photographs ! What 
 possessed them to send their pictures ?" 
 
 Rex kept his own counsel, but gave a low whistle as 
 he glanced at the pile which filled the table. 
 
 " Got enough for an album, haven't you } How do 
 they look as a whole ?" he asked. 
 
 " I don't know, and I don't care. Such a time as I 
 have had reading their letters, and such recommenda- 
 tions as most of them give of themselves, telling me 
 what reverses of fortune they have suffered, what 
 church they belong to, and how long they have taught 
 in Sunday-school, and all that, as if I cared. But I have 
 decided which to choose ; her letter came this morning, 
 with one other, — the last of the lot, I trust. I like her 
 because she writes so plainly and sensibly and seems 
 so truthful. She says she is not a good seamstre.ss 
 and that her picture flatters her, while most of the 
 others say their pictures are not good. Then .she is so 
 respectful and simply addresses me as ' Madam,' while 
 
MRS. ha.lla.m's applicants. 37 
 
 all the others dear me. If there is anything I like, it is 
 respect in a servant." 
 
 "Thunder, auntie! you don't call your companion a 
 servant, do you ?" Rex exclaimed, but his aunt only re- 
 plied by passing him Bertha's letter. " She writes well. 
 How does she look ?" he asked. 
 
 " Here she is." And his aunt gave him the photo- 
 graph of a short, sleepy-looking girl, with little or no 
 expression in her face or eyes, and an unmistakable 
 second-class air generally. 
 
 " Oh, horrors !" Rex exclaimed. " This girl never 
 wrote that letter. Why, she simpers and squints and is 
 positively ugly. There must be some mistake, and you 
 have mixed things dreadfully." 
 
 " No, I haven't," Mrs. Hallam persisted. " I was 
 very careful to keep the photographs and letters to- 
 gether as they came. This is Bertha Leighton's, sure, 
 and she says it flatters her." 
 
 " What must the original be !" Rex groaned. 
 
 His aunt continued, " I'd rather she'd be plain than 
 good-looking. I don't want her attracting attention 
 and looking in the glass half the time. Mrs. Haynes 
 always said, ' Get plain girls by all means, in prefer- 
 ence to pretty ones with airs and hangers-on.' " 
 
 " All right, if Mrs. Haynes says so," Rex answered, 
 with a shrug of his shoulders, as he put down the photo- 
 graph of the girl he called Squint-Eye, and began care- 
 lessly to look at the others. 
 
 " Oh-h !" he said, catching up Bertha's picture. " This 
 is something like it. By Jove, she's a stunner. Why 
 don't you take her ? What splendid eyes she has, and 
 how she carries herself !" 
 
 " Read her letter," his aunt said, handing him a note 
 
38 MES. hallam's companion. 
 
 in which, among other things, the writer, who gave her 
 name as Rose Arabella Jefferson, and claimed relation- 
 ship with Thomas Jefferson, Joe Jefferson and Jefferson 
 Davis, said she was a member in good standing of the 
 First Baptist Church, and spelled Baptist with two b 's. 
 There were also other mistakes in orthography, besides ^ 
 some in grammar, and Rex dropped it in disgust, but 
 held fast to the photograph, whose piquant face, bright, 
 laughing eyes, and graceful poise of head and shoulders 
 attracted him greatly. 
 
 " Rose Ai-abella Jefferson," he began, " blood rela- 
 tion of Joe Jefferson, Thomas Jefferson, and Jefferson 
 Davis, and member in good standing in the First Bap- 
 tist Church, spelled with a /5 in the middle, you never 
 wrote that letter, I know ; and if you did, your blue 
 blood ought to atone for a few lapses in grammar and 
 spelling. I am sure Mrs.. Walker Haynes would think 
 so. Take her, auntie, and run the risk. She is from 
 the country, where you said your companion must hail 
 from, while Squint-Eye is from Boston, with no ances- 
 try, no religion, and probably the embodiment of clubs 
 and societies and leagues and women's rights and 
 Christian Science and the Lord knows what. Take 
 Rose Arabella." 
 
 But Mrs. Hallarn was firm. Rose Arabella was quite 
 too good-looking, and Boston was country compared with 
 New York. " Squint-Eye " was her choice, provided her 
 employers spoke well of her ; and she asked Rex to 
 write to Boston and make inquiries of Swartz & Co., 
 concerning Miss Leighton. 
 
 " Not if I know myself," Rex answered. " I will do 
 everything reasonable, but I draw the line on turning 
 detective and prying into any girl's character. 
 
MkS. HALLAm'IS AfrPLlCANTS. 39 
 
 He was firm on this point, and Mrs. Hallam wrote 
 herself to Swartz & Co., and then proceeded to tear up 
 and bum the numerous letters and photographs filling 
 her table. Rose Arabella Jefferson, however, was not 
 among them, for she, with other pretty girls, some 
 personal friends and some strangers, was adorning 
 Rex's looking-glass, where it was greatly admired by 
 the housemaid as Mr. Reginald's latest fancy. 
 
 A few days later Mrs. Hallam said to Rex, " I have 
 heard from Swartz & Co., and they speak in the high- 
 est terms of Miss Leighton. I wish you would write 
 for me and tell her I have decided to take her, and that 
 she is to come to me on Friday, June — , as the Teutonic 
 sails the next morning." 
 
 Reginald did as he was requested, thinking the while 
 how much he would rather be writing to Rose Ara- 
 bella, Babiist and all, than to Bertha Leighton. But 
 there was no help for it ; Bertha was his aunt's choice, 
 and was to be her companion instead of his, he reflected, 
 as he directed the letter, which he posted on his way 
 down town. The next day he started for the West on 
 business for the law firm, promising his aunt that if 
 possible he would return in time to see her off ; "and 
 then," he added, " I am going to Leicester to look after 
 my fancy farm." 
 
4:0 MKS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MRS. FRED THURSTON. 
 
 Bertha waited anxiously for an answer to her letter ; 
 •when it did not come she grew very nervous and rest- 
 less, and began to lose faith in the new moon and her 
 theosophical presentiments, as she called her convic- 
 tions of what was coming to pass. A feeling of dread 
 began also to haunt her lest, after all, the man with the 
 bald head, who called her Berthy, might be the only 
 alternative to save the homestead from the auctioneer's 
 hammer. But the letter came at last and changed her 
 whole future. There was an interview with her em- 
 ployers, who, having received Mrs. Hallam's letter of 
 inquiry, were not surprised. Although sorry to part 
 with her, they readily agreed to advance whatever 
 money should be needed in October, without other 
 security than her note, which she was to leave with her 
 father. 
 
 There was another interview with Mr. Sinclair, who^ 
 at its close had a very sorry look on his face and a sus- 
 picion of suppressed tears in his voice as he said, " It is 
 hard to give you up, and I could have made you so 
 happy, and your father, too. Good-bye, and God bless 
 you. Mrs. Thurston will be disappointed. Her heart 
 was quite set upon having you for a neighbor, as you 
 would be if you were my wife. Good-bye." 
 
 The Mrs. Thurston alluded to was Bertha's cousin 
 Louie, from the South, who, four years before had spent 
 part of a summer at the Homestead. She had then 
 
Mrs. FfeEt) tHOKSTOM. 41 
 
 gone to Newport, where she captured Fred Tharston, a 
 Boston millionaire, who made love to her hotly for one 
 month, married her the next, swore at her the next, and 
 in a quiet but decided manner had tyrannized over and 
 bullied her ever since. But he gave her all the money 
 J she wanted, and, as that was the principal thing for 
 which she married him, she bore her lot bravely, be- 
 came in time a butterfly of fashion, and laughed and 
 danc,ed and dressed, and went to lunches and teas and re- 
 ceptions and dinners and balls, taking stimulants to keep 
 her up before she went, and bromide, or chloral, or sul- 
 fonal, to make her sleep when she came home. But all 
 this told upon her at last, and after four years of it she 
 began to droop, with a consciousness that something 
 was sapping her strength -and stealing all her vitality. 
 " Nervous prostration," the physician called it, recom- 
 mending a change of air and scene, and, as a trip to 
 Europe had long been contemplated by Mr. Thurston, 
 he had finally decided upon a summer in Switzerland, 
 and was to sail some time in July. Mrs. Thurston was 
 very fond of her relatives at the Homestead, and espe- 
 cially of Bertha, who when she was first married was a 
 pupil in Charlestown Seminary and spent nearly every 
 Sunday with her. After a while, however, and for no 
 reason whatever except that on one or two occasions he 
 had shown his frightful temper before her, Mr. Thurs- 
 ton conceived a dislike for Bertha and forbade Louie's 
 inviting her so often to his house, saying he did not 
 marry her poor relations. This put an end to any close 
 intimacy between the cousins, and although Bertha 
 called occasionally she seldom met Louie's husband, who, 
 after she entered the employment of Swartz & Co., rarely 
 recognized her in the street. Bread-winners were far 
 
43 MRS. HALLAm's COMPAKIOIf. 
 
 beneath his notice, and Bertha was a sore point between 
 him and his wife, who loved her cousin with the devotion 
 of a sister and often wrote, begging her to come, if only 
 for an hour. 
 
 But Bertha was too proud to trespass where the mas- 
 ter did not want her, and it was many weeks since they 
 had met. She must go now and say good-bye. And 
 after Mr. Sinclair left her she walked along Common- 
 wealth Avenue to her cousin's elegant house, which 
 stood side by side with one equally handsome, of which 
 she had just refused to be mistress. But she scarcely 
 glanced at it, or, if she did, it was with no feeling of re- 
 gret as she ran up the steps.and rang the bell. 
 
 Mrs. Thurston was at home and alone, the servant 
 said, and Bertha, who went up unannounced, found her 
 in her pleasant morning room, lying' on a couch in the 
 midst of a pile of cushions, with a very tired look upon 
 her lovely face. 
 
 " Oh, Bertha," she exclaimed, springing up with out- 
 stretched hands, as her cousin came in, " I am so glad 
 to see you ! Where have you kept yourself so long ? 
 And when are you coming to be my neighbor ? I saw 
 Mr. Sinclair last week, and he still had hopes." 
 
 Bertha replied by telling ^what the reader already 
 knows, and adding that she had come to say good-bye, 
 as she was to sail in two weeks. 
 
 "Oh, how could you refuse him, and he so kind and 
 good, and so fond of you ?" Louie said. 
 
 Bertha, between whom and her cousin there were no 
 domestic secrets, replied : 
 
 " Because I do not love him, and never can, good and 
 kind as I know him to be. With your experience, 
 would you advise me to marry for money ?" 
 
MRS. FKED THUE8T0N. 43 
 
 Instantly a shadow came over Louie's [tace, and she 
 hesitated a little before she answered : 
 
 " Yes, and no ; all depends upon the man, and 
 whether you loved some one else. If you knew he 
 would swear at you, and call you names, and storm be- 
 fore the servants, and throw things, — not at you, per- 
 haps, but at the side of the house, — I should say no, 
 decidedly ; but if he were kind, and good, and generous, 
 like Charlie Sinclair, I should say yes. I did so want 
 you for my neighbor. Can't you reconsider ? Who is 
 Mrs. Hallam, I wonder ? I know some Hallams, or a 
 Hallam, — Reginald. He lives in New York, and it 
 seems to me his aunt's name is Mrs. Carter Hallam. 
 Let me tell you about him. I feel like talking of the 
 old life in Florida, which seems so long ago." 
 
 She was reclining again among the cushions, with one 
 arm under her head, a far-away look in her eyes, and a 
 tone in her voice as if she were talking to herself rather 
 than to Bertha. 
 
 " You know my father lived in Florida," she began, 
 " not far from Tallahassee, and your mother lived over 
 the line in Georgia. Our place was called Magnolia 
 Grove, and there were oleanders and yellow jasmine 
 and Cherokee roses everywhere. This morning when I 
 was so tired and felt that life was not worth the living, I 
 fancied I was in my old home again, and I smelled the 
 orange-blossoms and saw the magnolias which bordered 
 the avenue to our house, fifty or more, in full bloom, 
 and Rex and I were playing under them. His uncle's 
 plantation joined ours, and when his mother died in 
 Boston he came to live with her brother at Grassy 
 Spring. He was twelve and I was nine, and I had never 
 played with any boy before except the negroes, and we 
 
4:4: Mes- hallam's companion. 
 
 were so fond of each other. He called me his little 
 sweetheart, and said he was going to marry me when 
 he was older. When he was fourteen, his uncle on his 
 father's side, a Mr. Hallam, from New York, sent for 
 him, and he went away, promising to come back again 
 when he was a man. "We wrote to each other a few 
 times, just boy and girl letters, you know. He called 
 me Dear Louie and I called him Dear Rex, and then, I 
 hardly know why, that chapter of my life closed, never 
 to be reopened. Grandfather, who owned Magnolia 
 Grove, lost nearly everything during the war, so that 
 father, who took the place after him, was comparatively 
 poor, and when he died we were poorer still, mother 
 and I, and had to sell the plantation and move to Tal- 
 lahassee, where we kept boarders, — people from the 
 North, mostly, who came there for the winter. I was 
 sixteen then, and I tried to help mother all I could. I 
 dusted the rooms, and washed the glass and china, and _ 
 did a lot of things I never thought I'd have to do. 
 When I was eighteen Rex Hallam came to Jacksonville 
 and ran over to see us. If he had been handsome as a 
 boy of fourteen, he was still handsomer as a man of 
 twenty-one, with what in a woman would be called a 
 sweet graciousness of manner which won all hearts to 
 him ; but as he is a man I will drop the sweet and say 
 that he was kind alike to everybpdy, old and young, 
 rich and poor, and had the peculiar gift of making 
 every woman think she was especially pleasing to him, 
 whether she were married or single, pretty or other- 
 wise. He stopped with us a week, and because I was 
 so proud and rebellious against our changed circum- 
 stances, and so ashamed to have him find me dusting 
 and washing dishes, I was cold and stiff towards him, 
 
MKS. FRED THUK8T0N. 4:5 
 
 and our old relations were not altogether resumed, 
 although he was very kind. Sometimes for fun he 
 helped me dust, and once he wiped the dishes for me 
 and broke a china teapot, and then he went away and I 
 never saw him again till last summer, when I met him 
 at Saratoga. Fred, who was with him in college, intro- 
 duced us to each other, supposing we were strangers. 
 You ought to have seen the look of surprise on Rex's 
 face when Fred said, ' This is my wife.' 
 
 " 'Why, Louie,' he exclaimed, ' I don't need an intro- 
 duction to you ;' then to my husband, ' We are old 
 friends, Louie and I ;' and we told him of our early 
 acquaintance. 
 
 " For a wonder, Fred did not seem a bit jealous of 
 him, although savage if another man looked at me. 
 Nor had he any cause, for Rex's manner was just like a 
 brother's, but oh, such a brother ! and I was so happy 
 the two weeks he was there. We drove and rode and 
 danced and talked together, and never but once did he 
 refer to the past. Then, in his deep, musical voice, the 
 most musical I ever head in a man, he said, ' I thought 
 you were going to wait for me,' and I answered, ' I did 
 wait, and you never came.' 
 
 " That was all ; but the night before he went away 
 he was in our room and asked for my photograph, 
 which was lying upon the table. He had quite a col- 
 lection, he said, and would like to add mine to it, and I 
 gave it to him. Fred knew it and was willing, but since 
 then, when he is in one of his moods, he taunts me 
 with it, and says he knew I was in love with Rex all the 
 time, — that he saw it in my face, and that Rex saw it, 
 too, and despised me for it while pretending to admire 
 me, and because he knew Rex despised me and he could 
 
46 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 trust him, he allowed me full liberty just to see how 
 far I would go and not compromise my.self. I do not 
 believe it of Rex : he never despised any woman ; but 
 it is hard to hear such things, and sometimes when Fred 
 is worse than usual and I have borne all I can bear, I 
 go away and cry, with an intense longing for some- 
 thing different, which might perhaps have come to me 
 if I had waited, and I hear Rex's boyish voice just as it 
 sounded under the magnolias in Florida, where we 
 played together and pelted each other with the white 
 petals strewing the ground. 
 
 " I am not false to Fred in telling this to you, who 
 know about my domestic life, which, after all, has 
 some sunshine in it. Fred is not always cross. Every 
 one has a good and a bad side, a Jekyll and Hyde, you 
 know, and if Fred has more Hyde than Jekyll, it is not 
 his fault, perhaps. I try him in many ways. He says 
 I am a fool, and that I only care for his money, and if 
 he gives me all I want I ought to be satisfied. Just now 
 he is very good, — so good, in fact, that I wonder if he 
 isn't going to die. I believe he thinks I am, I am so 
 weak and tired. I have not told you, have I, that we, too, 
 are going to Europe before long ? Switzerland is our 
 objective point, but if I can I will persuade Fred to go 
 to Aix, where you will be. That will be jolly. I won- 
 der if your Mrs. Hallam can be Rex's aunt." 
 
 " Did you ever see her ?" Bertha asked, and Louie re- 
 plied : 
 
 " Only in the distance. She was in Saratoga with 
 him, but at another hotel. I heard she was a very swell 
 woman with piles of money, and that when young she 
 had made shoes and worked in a factory, or some- 
 thing." 
 
MES. FEED THURSTON. 4:7 
 
 " How shocking !" Bertha said, laughingly, and Louie 
 rejoined : 
 
 " Don't be sarcastic. You know I don't care what 
 she used to do. Why should I, when I have dusted and 
 washed dishes myself, and waited on a lot of Northern 
 boarders, with my proud Southern blood in hot rebel- 
 lion against it ? If Mrs. Hallam made shoes or cloth, 
 what does it matter, so long as she is rich now and in 
 the best society ? She is no blood relation to Rex, who 
 is a gentleman by birth and nature both. I hope Mrs. 
 Carter is his aunt, for then you will see him ; and if 
 you do, tell him I am your cousin, but not how wretched 
 I am. He saw a little in Saratoga, but not much, for 
 Fred was very guarded. Hark ! I believe I hear him 
 coming." 
 
 There was a bright flush on her cheeks as she started 
 up and began to smooth the folds of her dress and to 
 arrange her hair. 
 
 " Fred does not like to see me tumbled," she said, just 
 as the portiere was drawn aside and her husband en- 
 tered the room. 
 
 He was a tall and rather fine-looking man of thirty, 
 with large, fierce black eyes and an expression on his 
 face and about his mouth indicative of an indomitable 
 will and a temper hard to meet. He had come in, he 
 said, to take Louie for a drive, as the day was fine and 
 the air would do her good ; and he was so gracious to 
 Bertha that she felt sure the Jekyll mood was in the 
 ascendant. He asked her if she was still with Swartz 
 & Co., and listened with some interest while Louie told 
 him of her engagement with Mrs. Carter Hallam, and 
 when she asked if that lady was Rex's aunt, he replied 
 
4:8 MK8. hallam's companion. 
 
 that she was, adding that Rex's uncle had adopted him 
 as a son and had left a large fortune. 
 
 Then, turning to Bertha, he said, "I congratulate you 
 on your prospective acquaintance with Rex Hallam. 
 He is very susceptible to female charms, and quite 
 indiscriminate in his attentions. Every woman, old or 
 young, is apt to think he is in love with her." 
 
 He spoke sarcastically, with a meaning look at his 
 wife, whose face was scarlet. Bertha was angry, and, 
 with a proud inclination of her head, said to him : 
 
 " It is not likely that I shall see much of Mr. Regi- 
 nald Hallam. Why should I, when I am only his 
 aunt's hired companion, and have few charms to attract 
 him ?" 
 
 " I am not so sure of that," Fred said, struck as he had 
 never been before with Bertha's beauty, as she stood 
 confronting him. 
 
 She was a magnificent-looking girl, who, given a 
 chance, would throw Louie quite in the shade, he 
 thought, and under the fascination of her beauty he 
 became more gracious than ever, and asked her to drive 
 with them and return to lunch. 
 
 " Oh, do," Louie said. " It is ages since you were 
 here." 
 
 But Bertha declined, as she had shopping to do, and 
 in the afternoon was going home to stay until it was 
 time to report herself to Mrs. Hallam. Then, bidding 
 them good-bye, she left the house and went rapidly ^ 
 down the avenue. ' 
 
THE COMPANION. 49 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE COMPANTON. 
 
 Bertha kept up very bravely when she said good-bye 
 to her father and Dorcas and started alone for New 
 York ; but there was a horrid sense of loneliness and 
 homesickness in her heart when at about six in the 
 afternoon she rang the bell of No. — Fifth Avenue, 
 looking in her sailor hat and tailor-made gown and 
 Eton jacket of dark blue serge more like the daughter 
 of the house than like a hired companion. Peters, the 
 colored man who opened the door, mistook her for an 
 acquaintance, and was very deferential in his manner, 
 while he waited for her card. By mistake her cards 
 were in her trunk, and she said to him, " Tell Mrs. 
 Hallam that Miss Leighton is here. She is expecting 
 me. 
 
 Mrs. Hallam's servants usually managed to know the 
 most of their mistress's business, for, although she pro- 
 fessed to keep them at a distance, she was at times 
 quite confidential, and they all knew that a Miss Leigh- 
 ton was to accompany her abroad as a companion. So 
 when Peters heard the name he changed his intention 
 to usher her into the reception-room, and, seating her 
 in the hall, went for a maid, who took her to a room on 
 the fourth floor back and told her that Mrs. Hallam had 
 just gone in to dinner with some friends and would not 
 be at liberty to see her for two or three hours. 
 
 " But she is expecting you," she said, " and has given 
 orders that yon can have your dinner served here, or 
 
50 MBS. hallam's companion. • 
 
 if you choose, you can dine with Mrs. Flagg, the house- 
 keeper, in her room in the front basement. I should go 
 there, if I were you. You'll find it pleasanter and 
 cooler than up here under the roof." 
 
 Bertha preferred the housekeeper's room, to which 
 she was taken by the maid. Mrs. Flagg was a kind- 
 hearted, friendly woman, who, with the quick instincts 
 of her class, recognized Bertha as a lady and treated 
 her accordingly. She had lived with the Hallams 
 many years, and, with a natural pride in the family, 
 talked a good deal of her mistress's wealth and position, 
 but more of Mr. Reginald, who had a pleasant word for 
 everybody, high or low, rich or poor. 
 
 " Mrs. Hallam is not exactly that way," she said, " and 
 sometimes snubs folks beneath her ; but I've heard Mr. 
 Reginald tell her that civil words don't cost anything, 
 and the higher up you are and the surer of yourself the 
 better you can afford to be polite to every one ; that a 
 gold piece is none the less gold because there is a lot of 
 copper pennies in the purse with it, nor a real lady any 
 the less a lady because she is kind of chummy with her 
 inferiors. He's great on comparisons." 
 
 As Bertha made no comment, she continued, " He's 
 Mrs. Hallam's nephew, or rather her husband's, but 
 the same as her son ;" adding that she was sorry he was 
 not at home, as she'd like Miss Leighton to see him. 
 
 When dinner was over she offered to take Bertha 
 back to her room, and as they passed an open door on 
 the third floor she stopped a moment and said, " This is 
 Mr. Reginald's room. Would you like to go in ?" 
 
 Bertha did not care particularly about it, but as Mrs. 
 Flagg stepped inside, she followed her. Just then some 
 one frotp the hall galled to Mrs, Flag^, and, excusing 
 
THE COMPANION. 61 
 
 herself for a moment, she went out, leaving Bertha 
 alone. It was a luxuriously furnished apartment, with 
 signs of masculine ownership everywhere, but what 
 attracted Bertha most was a large mirror which, in a 
 Florentine frame, covered the entire chimney above the 
 mantel and was ornamented with photographs on all its 
 four sides. There were photographs of personal friends 
 and prominent artists, authors, actors, opera-singers, 
 and ballet-dancers, with a few of .horses and dogs, 
 divided into groups, with a blank space between. 
 Bertha had no difficulty in deciding which were his 
 friends, for there confronting her, with her sunny smile 
 and laughing blue eyes, was Louie's pictitre given to 
 him at Saratoga, and placed by the side of a sweet- 
 faced, refined-looking woman wearing a rather old-style 
 dress, who, Bertha fancied, might be his mother. 
 
 " How lovely Louie is," she thought, " and what a 
 different life hers would have been had her friendship 
 for Reginald Hallam ripened into love, as it ought to 
 have done !" Then, casting her eyes upon another 
 group, she started violently as she saw herself tucked in 
 between a rope-walker and a ballet-dancer. " What 
 does it mean ? and how did my picture get here ?" she 
 exclaimed, taking it from the frame and wondering still 
 more when she read upon it, " Rose Arabella Jefferson, 
 Scotsburg." 
 
 " Rose Arabella Jefferson !" she repeated. " Who is 
 she ? and how came her name on my picture ? and how 
 came my picture in Rex Hallam 's possession ?" Then, 
 remembering that she had sent it by request to Mrs. 
 Hallam, she guessed how Rex came by it, and felt a 
 little thrill of pride that he had liked it well enough to 
 give it a place in his collection^ even if it were in cooj- 
 
52 MKS. hallam's companion. 
 
 pany with ballet-girls. " But it shall not stay there," 
 she thought. " I'll put it next to Louie's, and let him 
 wonder who changed it, if he ever notices the change." 
 
 Mrs. Flagg was coming, and, hastily putting the 
 photograph between Louie's and that of a woman who 
 she afterwards found was Mrs. Carter Hallam, she went ^ 
 out to meet the housekeeper, whom she followed to her 
 room. 
 
 " You will not be afraid, as the servants all sleep up 
 here. We have six besides the coachman," Mrs. Flagg 
 said as she bade her good-night. 
 
 " Six servants besides the coachman and housekeeper ! 
 I make the ninth, for I dare say I am little more than 
 that in my lady's estimation," Bertha thought, as she 
 sat alone, watching the minute-hand of the clock creep- 
 ing slowly round, and wondering when the grand din- 
 ner would be over and Mrs. Hallam ready to receive 
 her. Then, lest the lump in her throat should get the 
 mastery, she began to walk up and down her rather 
 small quarters, to look out of the window upon the 
 roofs of the houses, and to count the chimneys and 
 spires in the distance. 
 
 It was very different from the lookout at home, with 
 its long stretch of wooded hills, its green fields and 
 meadows and grassy lane. Once her tears were threat- 
 ening every moment to start, when a maid 'appeared 
 and said her mistress was at liberty to see her. With a 
 beating heart and heightened color, Bertha followed 
 her to the boudoir, where, in amber satin and diamonds 
 Mrs. Hallam was waiting, herself somewhat flurried 
 and nervous and doubtful how to conduct herself dur- 
 ing the interview. She was always a little uncertain 
 bQW to maintain adignitj^ worthy of Mrs, Carter Hallanj 
 
THB COMPANION. 63 
 
 under all circumstances, for, although she had been in 
 society so long and had seen herself quoted and her 
 
 I dinners and receptions described so often, she was not 
 yet quite sure of herself, nor had she learned the truth 
 of Rex's theory that gold was not the less gold because 
 in the same purse with pennies. She had never for- 
 gotten the shoe-shop and the barefoot girl picking 
 berries, with all the other humble surroundings of her 
 childhood, and because she had not she felt it incumbent 
 upon her to try to prove that she was and always had 
 been what she seemed to be, a leader of fashion, with 
 millions at her command. To compass this she as- 
 sumed an air of haughty superiority towards those whom 
 she thought her inferiors. She had never hired a com- 
 panion, and in the absence of her mentor, Mrs. Walker 
 Haynes, she did not know exactly how to treat one. 
 Had she asked Rex, he would have said, " Treat her 
 as you would any other young lady." But Rex 
 held some very ultra views,' and was not to be trusted 
 implicitly. Fortunately, however, a guest at dinner 
 had helped her greatly by recounting her own exper- 
 ience with a companion who was always getting out of 
 her place, and who finally ran off with a French count at 
 Trouville, where they were spending the summer. 
 " I began wrong," the lady said. " I was too familiar 
 
 ' at first, and made too much of her because she was edu- 
 cated and superior to her class." 
 
 Acting upon this intimation, Mrs. Hallam decided to 
 commence right. Remembering the picture which Rex 
 called Squint-Eye, she had no fear that the original 
 would ever run off with a French count, but she might 
 have to be put down, and she would begin by sitting 
 down to receive her. " Standing will make her too 
 
54 iiES. hallam's companion. 
 
 much my equal," she thought, aud, adjusting the folds 
 of her satin gown and assuming an expression which 
 she meant to be very cold and distant, she glanced up 
 carelessly, but still a little nervously, as she heard the 
 sound of footsteps and knew there was some one at the 
 door. She was expecting a very ordinary-looking per- 
 son, with wide mouth, half-closed eyes, and light hair, 
 and when she saw a tall, graceful girl, with dark hair 
 and eyes, brilliant color, and an air decidedly patrician, 
 as Mrs. Walker Haynes would say, she was startled out 
 of her dignity, and involuntarily rose to her feet and 
 half extended her hand. Then, remembering herself, 
 she dropped it, and said, stammeringly, " Oh, are you 
 Miss Leigh ton ?" 
 
 " Yes, madam. You were expecting me, were you 
 not ?" Bertha answered, her voice clear and steady, 
 with no sound of timidity or awe in it. 
 
 " Why, yes ; that is — sit down, please. There is 
 some mistake," Mrs. Hallam faltered. " You are not 
 like your photograph, or the one I took for you. They 
 must have gotten mixed, as Rex said they did. He in- 
 sisted that your letter did not belong to what I said was 
 your photograph and which he called Squint-Eye." 
 
 Here it occurred to Mrs. Hallam that she was not 
 commencing right at all,— that she was quite too com- 
 municative to a girl who looked fully equal to running 
 off with a duke, if she chose, and who must be kept 
 down. But she explained about the letters and the 
 photographs until Bertha had a tolerably correct idea 
 of the mistake and laughed heartily over it. It was a 
 very merry, musical laugh, in which Mrs. Hallam joined 
 for a moment. Then, resuming her haughty manner, 
 
tUE eoMPAijfoif. 55 
 
 she plied Bertha with questions, saying to her first, 
 " Your home is in Boston, I believe ?" 
 
 " Oh, no," Bertha replied. " My home is in Leicester, 
 where I was born." 
 
 " In Leicester !" Mrs. Hallam replied, her voice in- 
 dicative of surprise and disapprobation, " You wrote 
 me from Boston. Why did you do that ?" 
 
 Bertha explained why, and Mrs. Hallam asked next 
 If she lived in the village or the country. 
 
 " In the country, on a farm," Bertha answered, won- 
 dering at Mrs. Hallam's evident annoyance at finding 
 that she came from Leicester instead of Boston. 
 
 It had not before occurred to her to connect the 
 Homestead with Mrs. Carter Hallam, but it came to her 
 now, and at a venture she said, " Our place is called 
 the Hallam Homestead, named for a family who lived 
 there many years ago." 
 
 She was looking curiously at Mrs. Hallam, whose face 
 was crimson at first and then grew pale, but who for a 
 moment made no reply. Here was a complication, — 
 Leicester, and perhaps the old life, brought home to her 
 by the original of the picture so much admired by Rex, 
 who had it in mind to buy the old Homestead, and was 
 sure to admire the girl when he saw her, as he would, 
 for he was coming to Aix-les-Bains some time during 
 the summer. If Mrs. Hallam could have found an ex- 
 cuse for it, she would have dismissed Bertha at once. 
 But there was none. She was there, and she must keep 
 her, and perhaps it might be well to be frank with her 
 to a certain extent. So she said at last, " My husband's 
 family once lived in Leicester, — presumably on your 
 father's farm. That was years ago, before I was mar- 
 ried. My nephew, Mr. Reginald " (she laid much 
 
56 MKS. hallam'8 companion. 
 
 stress on the Mr., as if to impress Bertha with the dis- 
 tance there was between them), has, I believe, some 
 quixotic notion about buying the old place. Is it for 
 sale ?" 
 
 The fire which flashed into Bertha's eyes and the hot 
 color which stained her cheeks startled Mrs. Hallam, 
 who was not prepared for Bertha's excitement as she 
 replied, " For sale ! Never ! There is a mortgage of 
 long standing on it, but it will be paid in the fall. I 
 am going with you to earn the money to pay it. Noth- 
 ing else would take me from father and Dorcas so long. 
 We heard there was a New York man wishing to buy 
 it, but he may as well think of buying the Coliseum as 
 our home. Tell him so, please, for me. Hallam Home- 
 stead is not for sale." 
 
 As she talked, Bertha grew each moment more earn- 
 est and excited and beautiful, with the tears shining in 
 her eyes and the bright color on her cheeks. Mrs. Hal- 
 lam was not a hard woman, nor a bad woman ; she was 
 simply calloused over with false ideas of caste and posi- 
 tion, which prompted her to restrain her real nature 
 whenever it asserted itself, as it was doing now. Some- 
 thing about Bertha fascinated and interested her, bring- 
 ing back the long ago, with the odor of the pines, the 
 perfume of the pond-lilies, and the early days of her 
 married life. But this feeling soon passed. Habit is 
 everything, and she had been the fashionable Mrs. 
 Carter Hallam so long that it would take more than a 
 memory of the past to change her. She must maintain 
 her dignity, and not give way to sentiment, and she was 
 soon herself, cold and distant, with her chin in the air, 
 where she usually carried it when talking to those 
 whom she wished to impress with her superiority, 
 
THE COlIPANlON. 57 
 
 For some time longer she talked to Bertha, and 
 learned as much of her history as Bertha chose to tell. 
 Her mother was born in Georgia, she said ; her father 
 in Boston. He was a Yale graduate, and fonder of 
 books than of farming. They were poor, keeping no ser- 
 vants ; Dorcas, her only sister, kept the house, while she 
 did what she could to help pay expenses and lessen the 
 mortgage on the farm. All this Bertha told readily 
 enough, with no thought of shame for her poverty. 
 She saw that Mrs. Hallam was impressed with the 
 Southern mother and scholarly father, and once she 
 thought to speak of her cousin, Mrs. Louie, but did not, 
 and here she possibly made a mistake, for Mrs. Hallam 
 had a great respect for family connections, as that was 
 what she lacked. She had heard of Mrs. Fred Thurs- 
 ton, as had every frequenter of Saratoga and Newport, 
 and once at the former place she had seen her driving 
 in her husband's stylish turnout with Reginald at her 
 side. He was very attentive to the beauty whom he 
 had known at the South, and Mrs. Hallam had once or 
 twice intimated to him that she, too, would like to meet 
 her, but he had not acted upon the hint, and she had 
 left Saratoga without accomplishing her object. Had 
 Bertha told of 'the relationship between herself and 
 Louie, it might have made some difference in her rela- 
 tions with her employer. But she did not, and after a 
 little further catechising Mrs. Hallam dismissed her, 
 saying, " As the ship sails at nine, it will be necessary 
 to rise very early ; so I will bid you good-night." 
 
 The next morning Bertha breakfasted with Mrs. 
 Flagg, who told her that, as a friend was to accompany 
 Mrs. Hallam in her coupe to the ship, she was to go in 
 a Street car, with a maid to show her the way. 
 
58 MRS. HaLLam's coiiPAifloN. 
 
 " Evidently I am a hired servant and nothing more," 
 Bertha thought ; " but I can e^ndure even that for the 
 sake of Europe and five hundred dollars." And, bid- 
 ding good-bye to Mrs. Flagg, she was soon on her way 
 to the Teutonic. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ON THE TEUTONIC. 
 
 Bertha found Mrs. Hallam in her state-room, which 
 was one of the largest and most expensive on the ship. 
 With her were three or four ladies who were there to 
 say good-bye, all talking together and offering advice 
 in case of sickness, while Mrs. Hallam fanned herself 
 vigorously, as the morning was very hot. 
 
 " Are you not taking a maid ?" one of the ladies 
 asked, and Mrs. Hallam replied that Mrs. Haynes ad- 
 vised her to get one in Paris, adding, " 1 have a young 
 girl as companion, and I'm sure I don't know where 
 she is. She ought to be here by this time. I dare say 
 she will be more trouble than good. She seems quite 
 the fine lady. I hardly know what I am to do with 
 her." 
 
 " Keep her in her place," was the prompt advice of a 
 little, common-looking woman, who was once a nursery 
 governess, but was now a millionaire, and perfectly 
 competent to advise as to the proper treatment of a 
 companion. 
 
 Just then Bertha appeared, and was stared at by the 
 ladies, who took no further notice of her. 
 
ON THE TEtJTOmOi S& 
 
 " I am glad you've got here at last. What kept you 
 so long ?" Mrs. Hallam asked, a little petulantly, while 
 Bertha replied that she had been detained by a block in 
 the street cars, and asked if there Was anything she 
 could do. 
 
 "Yes," Mrs. Hallam answered. " I wish you would 
 open my sea trunk and satchel, and get out my wrap- 
 per, and shawl, and cushion, and toilet articles, and 
 salts, and camphor. I am sure to be sick the minute we 
 get out to sea." And handing her keys to Bertha, she 
 went with her friends outside, where the crowd was 
 increasing every moment. 
 
 The passenger list was full, and every passenger had 
 at least half a dozen acquaintances to see him off, so 
 that by the time Bertha had arranged Mrs. Hallam's 
 belongings, and gone out on deck, there was hardly 
 standing room. Finding a seat near the purser's office, 
 she sat down and watched the surging mass of human 
 beings, jostling, pushing, crowding each other, the con- 
 fusion reaching its climax when the order came for the 
 ship to be cleared of all visitors. Then for a time they 
 stood so thickly around her that she could see nothing 
 and hear nothing but a confused babel of voices, until 
 suddenly there was a break in the ranks, and a tall 
 young man, who had been fighting his way to the plank, 
 pitched headlong against her with such force that she 
 fell from the seat, losing her hat in the fall, and strik- 
 ing her forehead on a sharp point near her. 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; are you much hurt ? I am so 
 sorry, but I could not help it, they pushed me so in this 
 infernal crowd. Let me help you up," a pleasant, manly 
 voice, full of concern, said to her, while two strong 
 hands lifted her to her feet, and on to the seat where 
 
60 MSB. HALLAm's C0Mi*ASl0N. 
 
 she had been sitting. " You are safe here, unless some 
 other blunderhead knocks you down again," the young 
 man continued, as he managed to pick up her hat. 
 " Some wretch has stepped on it, but I think I can 
 doctor it into shape," he said, giving it a twist or two, 
 and then putting it very carefully on Bertha's head 
 hind side before. "There ! It is all right, I think, 
 though, upon my soul, it does seem a little askew," he 
 added, looking for the first time fully at Bertha, who 
 was holding her hand to her forehead, where a big 
 bump was beginning to show. 
 
 Her hand hid a portion of her face, but she smiled 
 brightly and gratefully upon the stranger, whose man- 
 ner was so friendly and whose brown eyes seen through 
 his glasses looked so kindly at her. 
 
 " By Jove, you are hurt," he continued, " and I did it. 
 I can't help you, as I've got to go, but my aunt is on 
 board, — Mrs. Carter Hallam ; find her, and tell her that 
 her awkward nephew came near knocking your brains 
 out. She has every kind of drug and lotion imaginable, 
 from morphine to Pond's extract, and is sure to find 
 something for that bump. And now I must go or be 
 carried off." 
 
 He gave another twist to her hat and offered her his 
 hand, and then ran down the plank to the wharf, where 
 with hundreds of others, he stood, waving his hat and 
 cane to his friends on the ship, which began to move 
 slowly from the dock. He was so tall that Bertha 
 could see him distinctly, and she stood watching him 
 and him alone, until he was a speck in the distance. 
 Then, with a feeling of loneliness, she started for her 
 state-room, where Mrs. Hallam, who had preceded her 
 was looking rather cross and doing her best to be sick 
 
ON THE TEtTTONIO. 61 
 
 although as yet there was scarcely any motion to the 
 vessel. 
 
 Reginald, whose train was late, had hurried at once 
 to the ship, which he reached in time to see his aun^ 
 for a few moments only. Her last friend had said good- 
 bye, and she was feeling very forlorn, and wondering 
 where Bertha could be, when he came rushing up, 
 bringing so much life and sunshine and magnetism 
 with him that Mrs. Hallam began to feel doubly for- 
 lorn as she wondered what she should do without 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, Rex," she said, laying her head on his arm and 
 beginning to cry a little, " I am so glad you have come, 
 and I wish 3'ou were going with me. I fear I have 
 made a mistake starting off alone. I don't know at all 
 how to take care of myself." 
 
 Rex smoothed her hair, patted her hand, soothed her 
 as well as he could, and told her he was sure she would 
 get on well enough and that he would certainly join her 
 in August. 
 
 " Where is Miss Leighton ? Hasn't she put in an 
 appearance ?" he asked, and his aunt replied, with a lit- 
 tle asperity of manner : 
 
 " Yes ; she came last night, and she seems a high and 
 mighty sort of damsel. I am disappointed, and afraid I 
 shall have trouble with her." 
 
 " Sit down on her if she gets too high and mighty," 
 Rex said, laughingly, while his aunt was debating the 
 propriety of telling him of the mistake and who Bertha 
 was. 
 
 " I don't believe I will. He will find it out soon 
 enough," she thought, just as the last warning to leave 
 
62 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 the boat was given, an-d with a hurried good-bye Rex 
 left her, saying, as he did so : 
 
 " I'll look a bit among the crowd, and if I find your 
 squint-eyed damsel I'll send her to you. I shall know 
 her in a minute." 
 
 Here was a good chance to explain, but Mrs. Hallam 
 let it pass, and Rex went his way, searching here and 
 there- for a light-haired, weak-eyed woman answering to 
 her photograph. 
 
 But he did not find her, and ran instead against 
 Bertha, with no suspicion that she was the girl he had 
 told his aunt to sit on, and for whom that lady waited 
 rather impatiently after the ship was cleared. 
 
 " Oh !" she said, as Bertha came in. " I have been 
 waiting for you some time. Did you have friends to say 
 good-bye to ? Give me my salts, please, and camphor, 
 and fan, and a pillow, and close that shutter. I don't 
 want the herd looking in upon me ; nor do I think this 
 room so very desirable, with all the people passing and 
 repassing. I told Rex so, and he said nobody wanted 
 to see me in my night-cap. He was here to say good-bye. 
 His train got in just in time." 
 
 Bertha closed the shutters and brought a pillow and 
 fan and the camphor and salts, and then bathed the 
 bruise on her forehead, which was increasing in size and 
 finally attracted Mrs. Hallam's attention. 
 
 " Are you hurt ?" she asked, and Bertha replied, " I 
 was knocked down in the crowd by a young man who 
 told me he had an aunt, a Mrs. Hallam, on board. I 
 suppose he must have been your nephew." 
 
 " Did you tell him who you were ?" Mrs. Hallam 
 asked, with a shake of her head and disapproval in her 
 voice, 
 
ON THE TEUTONIC. 63 
 
 " No, madam," Bertha replied. " He was trying to 
 apologize for what he had done, and spoke to me of you 
 as one to whom I could go for help if I was badly hurt." 
 
 " Yes, that is like Reginald, — thinking of everything," 
 Mrs. Hallam said. After a moment she added, " He 
 has lived with me since he was a boy, and is the same 
 as a son. He will join me in Aix-les-Bains in August. 
 Miss Grace Haynes is there, and I don't mind telling 
 you, as you will probably see for yourself, that I think 
 there is a sort of understanding between him and her. 
 Nothing would please me better." 
 
 " There ! I have headed off any idea she might pos- 
 sibly have with regard to Rex, who is so democratic and 
 was so struck with her photograph, while she, — well, 
 there is something in her eyes and the lofty way she 
 carries her head and shoulders that I don't like ; it looks 
 too much like equality, and I am afraid I may have to 
 sit on her, as Rex bade me do," was Mrs. Hallam's 
 mental comment, as she adjusted herself upon her couch 
 and issued her numerous orders. 
 
 For three days she stayed in her state-room, not 
 because she was actually sea-sick, but because she 
 feared she would be. To lie perfectly quiet in her berth 
 until she was accustomed to the motion of the vessel 
 was the advice given her by one of her friends, and as 
 far as possible she followed it, while Bertha was kept in 
 constant attendance, reading to her, brushing her hair, 
 bathing her head, opening and shutting the windows, 
 and taking messages to those of her acquaintances able 
 to be on deck. The sea was rather rough for June, but 
 Bertha was not at all affected by it, and the only incon- 
 venience she suffered was want of sufficient exercise and 
 fy§§h ^ir, Early in the rnornjng, while Mrs. Hfillati} 
 
64: MRS. hallam's companiok. 
 
 slept, she was free to go on deck, and again late in the 
 evening, after the lady had retired for the night. These 
 walks, with going to her meals, were the only recrea- 
 tion or change she had, and she was beginning to droop 
 a little, when at last Mrs. Hallam declared herself able 
 to go upon deck, where, by the aid of means which 
 seldom fail, she managed to gain possession of the sun- 
 niest and most sheltered spot, which she held in spite of 
 the protestations of another party who claimed the 
 place on the ground of first occupancy. She was Mrs. 
 Carter Hallam, and she kept the field until a vacancy 
 occurred in the vicinity of some people whom to know, 
 if possible, was desirable. Then she moved, and had 
 her reward in being told by one of the magnates that 
 it was a fine day and the ship was making good time. 
 
 Every morning Bertha brought her rugs and wraps 
 and cushions and umbrella, and after seeing her com- 
 fortably adjusted sat down at a respectful distance and 
 waited for orders, which were far more frequent than 
 was necessary. No one spoke to her, although many 
 curious and admiring glances were cast at the bright, 
 handsome girl who seemed quite as much a lady as her 
 mistress, but who was performing the duties of a maid 
 and was put down upon the passenger-list as Mrs. Hail- 
 lam's companion. As it chanced, there was a royal 
 personage on board, and one day when standing near 
 Bertha, who was watching a steamer just appearing 
 upon the horizon, he addressed some remark to her, and 
 then, attracted by something in her face, or manner, or 
 both, continued to talk with her, until Mrs. Hallam's 
 peremptory voice called out : 
 
 " Bertha, I want you. Don't you see my rug is fall- 
 ing off ?" 
 
ON THE TEUTONIC. 65 
 
 There was a questioning glance at the girl thus bid- 
 den and at the woman who bade her, and then, lifting 
 his hat politely to the former, the stranger walked away, 
 while Bertha went to Mrs. Hallam, who said to her 
 sharply : 
 
 " I wonder at your presumption ; but possibly you did 
 not know to whom you were talking ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I did," Bertha replied. " It was the prince. 
 He speaks English fluently, and I found him very agree- 
 able." 
 
 She was apparently as unconcerned as if it had been 
 the habit of her life to consort with royalty, and Mrs. 
 Hallam looked at her wonderingly, conscious in her 
 narrow soul of an increased feeling of respect for the 
 girl whom a prince had honored with his notice and 
 who took it so coolly and naturally. But she did not 
 abate her requirements or exactions in the least. On 
 the contrary, it seemed as if she increased them. But 
 Bertha bore it all patiently, performing every task 
 imposed upon her as if it were a pleasure, and 
 never giving any sign of fatigue, although in reality 
 she was never so tired in her life as when at last they 
 sailed up the Mersey and into the docks at Liverpool. 
 
 At Queenstown she sent off a letter to Dorcas, in 
 which, after speaking of her arrival in New York and 
 the voyage in general, she wrote, " I hardly know what 
 to say of Mrs. Hallam until I have seen more of her. 
 She is a great lady, and great ladies need a great deal 
 of waiting upon, and the greater thej' are the greater 
 their need. There must be something Shylocky in her 
 nature, and, as she gives me a big salary, she means to 
 have her pound of flesh. I am down on the passenger 
 list as her companion, but it should be maid, as I am 
 
66 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 really that. But when we reach Paris there will be a 
 change, as she is to have a French maid there. It will 
 surprise 3'ou, as it did me, to know that she belongs to 
 the Hallams for whom the Homestead was named and 
 who father thought were all dead. Her husband was 
 born there. Where she came from I do not know. 
 She is very reticent on that point. I shouldn't be sur- 
 prised if she once worked in a factory, she is so particu- 
 lar to have her position recognized. Such a scramble 
 as she had to get to the captain's table ; though what 
 good that does I cannot guess, inasmuch as he is seldom 
 there himself. I am at Nobody's table, and like it, be- 
 cause I am a nobody. 
 
 " Do you remember the letter father had, saying that 
 some New Yorker wanted to buy our farm and was 
 coming to look at it ? That New Yorker is cousin 
 Louie's Reginald Hallam, of whom I told you, and Mrs. 
 Carter's nephew ; not in the least like her, I fancy, 
 although I have only had the pleasure of being knocked 
 down by him on the ship. But he was not to blame. 
 The crowd pushed him against me with such force that 
 I fell off the seat and nearly broke my head. My hat 
 was crushed out of all shape, and he made it worse trying 
 to twist it back. He was kindness itself, and his brown 
 eyes full of concern as they looked at me through the 
 clearest pair of rimless glasses I ever saw. He did not 
 know who I was, of course, but I am sure he would 
 have been just as kind if be 'had. I can understand 
 Louie's infatuation for him, and why his aunt adores 
 him. 
 
 " But what nonsense to be writing with Queenstown 
 in sight, and this letter must be finished to send off. I 
 am half ashamed of what I have said of Mrs, Hallam. 
 
KEGINALir AND PHINEAS JONES. 67 
 
 who when she forgets what a grand lady she is, can be 
 very nice, and I really think she likes me a little. 
 
 " And now I must close, with more love for you and 
 father than can be carried in a hundred letters. Will 
 write again from Paris. Good-bye, good-bye. 
 
 " Bertha. 
 
 " P. S. I told you that if a New Yorker came to buy 
 the farm you were to shut the door in his face. But 
 you may as well let him in." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 REGINALD AND PHINEAS JONES. 
 
 After bidding his aunt good-bye, Reginald went 
 home for a few moments, and then to his office, where 
 he met for the first time Mr. Gorham, the owner of the 
 Leighton mortgage, and learned that the place was 
 really where his father used to live and that the Home- 
 stead was named for the Flallams. This increased his 
 desire to own it, and, as there was still time to catch 
 the next train for Boston, he started for the depot and 
 was soon on his way to "Worcester, where he arrived 
 about four in the afternoon. Wishing to make some 
 inquiries as to the best means of reaching Leicester, 
 he went to a hotel, where he found no one in the of- 
 fice besides the clerk except a tall, spare man, with 
 long, light hair tinged with gray, and shrewdness and 
 
bo MRS. HALLAM S COMPANION. 
 
 curiosity written all over his good-humored face. He 
 wore a linen duster, with no collar, and only an apology 
 for a handkerchief twisted around his neck. Tipping 
 back in one chair, with his feet in another, he was 
 taking frequent and most unsuccessful aims at a cuspi- 
 dor about six feet from him. 
 
 " Good-afternoon," he said, removing his feet from 
 the chair for a moment, but soon putting them back, as 
 he asked if Reginald had just come from the train, and 
 whether from the East or the West. Then he told him 
 it was an all-fired hot day, that it looked like thunder in 
 the west, and he shouldn't wonder if they got a heavy 
 shower before night. 
 
 To all this Reginald assented, and then went to the 
 desk to register, while the stranger, on pretense of look- 
 ing at something in the street, also arose and sauntered 
 to the door, managing to glance at the register and see 
 the name just written there. 
 
 Resuming his seat and inviting Rex to take a chair 
 near him, he began : " I b'lieve you're from New York. 
 I thought so the minute you came in. I have traveled 
 from Dan to Beersheba, and been through the war, — • 
 was a corp'ral there, — and I generally spot you fellows 
 when I first put my eye on you. I am Phineas Jones, — 
 Phin for short. I hain't any.real profession, but am 
 jack at all trades and good at jione. Ever}'body knows 
 nie in these parts, and I know everybody." 
 
 Rex, who began to be greatly amused with this queer 
 specimen, bowed an acknowledgment of the honor of 
 knowing Mr. Jones, who said, "Be you acquainted in 
 Worcester ?" 
 
 " Not at all. Was never here before," was Rex's re- 
 ply, and Phineas continued ; Slow old place, some 
 
feEUlNALb AND t-HINEAS JONES. 69 
 
 think, but I like it. Full of nice folks of all sorts, with 
 clubs, and lodges, and societies, and no end of squab- 
 bles about temperance and city officers and all thai. 
 As for music, — ray land, I'd smile to see any place hold 
 a candle to us. Had all the crack singers here, even co 
 the diver.'' 
 
 Rex, who had listened rather indifferently to Phineas's 
 laudations of Worcester, now asked if he knew much of 
 the adjoining towns, — Leicester, for instance. 
 
 " Wa-all, I'd smile," Phineas replied, with a fierce as- 
 sault upon the cuspidor. "Yes, I would smile if I didn't 
 know Leicester. Why, I was born there, and it's always 
 been my native town, except two or three years in Stur- 
 bridge, when I was a shaver, and the time I was to the 
 war and travelin' round. Pleasant town, but dull, — 
 with no steam cars nigher than Rochdale or Worcester. 
 Got stages and an electric car to Spencer ; — run every 
 half-hour. Think of goin' there ?" 
 
 Rex said he did, and asked the best way of getting 
 there. 
 
 "Wa-all, there's four ways, — the stage, but that's 
 gone ; hire a team aiid drive out, — that's expensive ; 
 take the steam cars for Rochdale, or Jamesville, and then 
 drive out, — that's expensive, too ; or take the electric, 
 which is cheaper, and pleasanter, and quicker. Know 
 anybody in Leicester ?" 
 
 Rex said he didn't, and asked if Phineas knew a place 
 called Hallam Homestead. 
 
 " Wa-all, I'd smile if I didn't," Phineas replied. 
 " Why, I've worked in hayin'-time six or seven sum- 
 mers for Square Leighton. He was 'lected justice of 
 the peace twelve or fifteen years ago, and I call him 
 Square yet, as a title seems to suit him, he's so different- 
 
To 
 
 lookin' from most farmers,— kind of high-toued, you- 
 know. Ort to have been an aristocrat. As to the Hal- 
 lams, who used to own the place, I've heard of 'em ever 
 since I was knee-high ; I was acquainted with Carter ; 
 first-rate feller. By the way, your name is Hallara. 
 Any kin ?" 
 
 Rex explained his relationship to the Hallams, while 
 the smile habitual to Phineas's face, and which, with the 
 expressions he used so often, had given him the sobri- 
 quet of Smiling Phin, broadened into a loud laugh of 
 genuine delight and surprise, and, springing up, he 
 grasped Rex's hand, exclaiming : " This beats the 
 Dutch ! I'm glad to see you, I be. I thought you was 
 all dead when Carter died. There's a pile of you in the 
 old Greenville graveyard. Why, you 'n' I must be con- 
 nected." 
 
 Rex looked at him wonderingly, while he went on : 
 '• You see, Carter Hallam's wife was Lucy Ann Brown, 
 and her great-grandmother and my great-grandfather 
 were half brother and sister. Now, what relation be I 
 to Lucy Ann, or to you ?" 
 
 Rex confessed his inability to trace so remote a rela- 
 tionship on so hot a day, and Phineas rejoined : 
 
 "'Tain't very near, that's a fact, but we're related, 
 though I never thought Lucy Ann hankered much for 
 my society. I used to call her cousin, which made her 
 mad. She was a handsome girl when she clerked it 
 here in Worcester and roped Carter in. A high stepper, 
 -T-turned up her nose when I ast her for her company. 
 That's when she was bindin' shoes, before she knew 
 Carter. I don't s'pose I could touch her now with a ten- 
 foot pole, though I b'lieve I'll call the fust time I'm in 
 
REGINAtI) AUD tHlNEAS JONES. 71 
 
 New York, if you'll give me your number. Blood is 
 blood. How is the old lady ?" 
 
 Here was a chance for Rex to inquire into his aunt's 
 antecedents, of which he knew little, as she was very 
 reticent with regard to her early life. He knew that 
 she was an orphan and had no near relatives, and that 
 she had once lived in Worcester, and that was all. The 
 clerkship and the shoe-binding were news to him ; he 
 did not even know before that she was Lucy Ann, as 
 she had long ago dropped the Ann as too plebian ; but, 
 with the delicacy of a true gentleman, he would not ask 
 a question of this man, who, he was sure, would tell all 
 he knew and a great deal more, if urged. 
 
 '' I wonder what Aunt Lucy would say to being 
 visited and cousined by this Yankee, who calls her an 
 old lady ?" he thought, as he said that she was very well 
 and had just sailed for Europe, adding that she was 
 still handsome and very young-looking. 
 
 "You don't say !" Phineas exclaimed, and began at 
 once to calculate her age, basing his data on a spelling- 
 school in Sturbridge when she was twelve years old and 
 had spelled him down, a circus in Fiskdale which she 
 had attended with him when she was fifteen, and the 
 time when he had asked for her company in Worcester. 
 Naturally, he made her several years older than she 
 really was. 
 
 But she was not there to protest, and Rex did not 
 care. He was more interested in his projected purchase 
 than in his aunt's age, and he asked if the Hallam 
 farm were good or bad. 
 
 " Wa-all, 'taint neither," Phineas replied. " You see, 
 it's pretty much run down for want of means and man- 
 agement. The Square ain't no kind of a farmer, and 
 
'12 MRS. hai.lam's companion. 
 
 never was, and he didn't ort to be one, but his wife per- 
 suaded him. My land, how a woman can twist a man 
 round her fingers, especially if she's kittenish and 
 pretty and soft-spoken, as the Square's wife was. She 
 was from Georgy, and nothin' would do but she must 
 live on a farm and have it fixed up as nigh like her 
 father's plantation as she could. She took down the big 
 chimbleys and built some outside, — queer-lookin' till the 
 woodbine run up and covered 'em clear to the top, and 
 now they're pretty. She made a bath-room out of the 
 but'try, and a but'try out of the meal-room. She 
 couldn't have niggers, nor, of course, nigger cabins, but 
 she got him to build a lot of other out-houses, which 
 cost a sight, — stables, and a dog-kennel." 
 
 " Dog-kennels !" Rex interrupted, feeling more de- 
 sirous than ever for a place with kennels already in it. 
 " How large are they ?" 
 
 "There ain't but one," Phineas said, " and that ain't 
 there now. It was turned into a pig-pen long ago, for 
 the Square can't abide dogs ; but there's a hen-house, 
 and smoke-house, and ice-house, and house over the 
 well, and flower-garden with box borders, and yard ter- 
 raced down to the orchard, with brick walls and steps, 
 and a dammed brook " 
 
 " A what ?" Reginald asked, in astonishment. 
 
 " Wa-all, I should smile if you thought I meant dis- 
 respect for the Bible ; I didn't. I'm a church member 
 — a Free Methodist and class-leader, and great on ex- 
 hortin' and experiencin', they say. I don't swear 
 You spelt the word wrong, with an « instead of 'two m's 
 that's what's the matter. That's the word your aunt 
 Lucy Ann spelt me down on at the spellin'-school. We 
 two stood up longest and were tryin' for the medal. I was 
 
SE&lNALt) AND PHINEAS JONESi t3 
 
 tnore used to the word with an n in it than I am now, and 
 got beat. What I mean about the brook is that it runs 
 acrost the road into the orchard, and Mis' Leighton had 
 it dammed up with boards and stones to make a water- 
 fall, with a rustic bridge below it, and a butternut tree 
 and a seat under it, where you can set and view nature. 
 But bless your soul, such things don't pay, and if Mis' 
 Leighton had lived she'd of ruined the Square teetotally. 
 but she died, poor thing, and the Square's hair turned 
 white in six months." 
 
 "What family has Mr. Leighton?" Rex asked, and 
 Phineas replied : 
 
 "Two girls, that's all ; one handsome as blazes, like 
 her mother, and the other — wa'all, she is nice-lookin', 
 with a motherly, venerable kind of face that everybody 
 
 trusts. She stays to hum, Dorcas does, while " 
 
 Here he was interrupted by Rex, who, more intei'ested 
 just then in the farm than in the girls, asked if it was 
 for sale. 
 
 " For sale ?" Phineas replied. "I'd smile to see the 
 Square sell his farm, though he owes a pile on it ; bor- 
 rovvs of Peter to pay Paul, you know, and so keeps a- 
 goin' ; but I don't believe he'd sell for love nor money." 
 
 " Not if he could get cash down and, say, a thousand 
 more than it is worth ?" Rex suggested. 
 
 Staggered by the thousand dollars, which seemed like 
 a fortune to one who had never had more than a few 
 hundred at a time in his life, Phineas gasped : 
 
 " One thousand extry I Wa-all, I swan, a thousand 
 extry would tempt some men to sell their souls ; but I 
 don't know about it fetchin' the Square. Think of 
 buyin' it ?" 
 
 Rex said he did. 
 
74 Me8. hallam's companion. 
 
 " For yoiifself ?" 
 
 " Yes, for myself." 
 
 " You goin' to turn farmer ?" and Phineas looked him 
 over from head to foot. " Wa-all, if that ain't curi's. 
 I'd smile to see you, or one of your New York dudes, 
 a-farmin' it, with your high collars, your long coats and 
 wide trouses and yaller shoes and canes and eye-glasses, 
 and hands that never done a stroke of hard work in 
 your lives. Yes, I would." 
 
 Rex had never felt so small in his life as when 
 Phineas was drawing a picture he recognized as toler- 
 ably correct of most of his class, and he half wished his 
 collar was a trifie lower and his coat a little shorter, 
 but he laughed good-humoredly and said, " I am afraid 
 we do seem a useless lot to you, and I suppose we might 
 wear older-fashioned clothes, but I can't help the 
 glasses. I couldn't see across the street without them." 
 
 "I want to know," Phineas said. "Wa-all, they ain't 
 bad on you, they're so clear and hain't no rims to speak 
 of. They make you look like a literary feller, or more 
 like a minister. Be j-ou a professor ?" 
 
 Rex flushed a little at the close questioning, expect- 
 ing to be asked next how much he was worth and 
 where his money was invested, but he answered 
 honestly, " I wish I could say 5'es, but I can't." 
 
 " What a pity ! Come to one of our meetin's, and 
 we'll convert you in no time. What persuasion be 
 you ?" 
 
 Reginald said he was an Episcopalian, and Phineas's 
 face fell. He hadn't much faith in Episcopalians, think- 
 ing their service was mere form, with nothing in it 
 which he could enjoy, except that he did not have to 
 sit still long enough to get sleepy, and there were so 
 
REGINALD AND PHINEAS JONES. 75 
 
 many places where he could come in strong with an 
 Amen, as he always did. This opinion, however, he 
 did not express to Reginald. He merely said, " Wa-all, 
 there's good folks in every church. I do b'lieve the 
 Square is pious, and he's a 'Piscopal. Took it from his 
 Georgy wife, who had a good many other fads. You 
 have a good face, like all the Hallams, and I b'lieve 
 they died in the faith. Says so, anyway, on their tomb- 
 stones ; but monuments lie as well as obituaries. But 
 I ain't a-goin' to discuss religious tenants, though I'm 
 fust-rate at it, they say. I want to know what you 
 want of a farm ?" 
 
 Rex told him that he had long wished for a place in 
 the country, where he could spend a part of each year 
 with a few congenial friends, hunting and fishing and 
 boating, and from what he had heard of the Home- 
 stead, he thought it would just suit him, there were so 
 many hills and woods and ponds around it. 
 
 " Are there pleasant drives ?" he asked, and Phineas 
 replied : 
 
 " Tip-top, the city-folks think. Woods full of roads 
 leading nowhere except to some old house a hundred 
 years old or more, and the older they be the better the 
 city folks like 'em. Why, they actu'lly go into the gar- 
 rets and buy up old spinning-wheels and desks and 
 chairs ; and, my land, they're crazy over tall clocks." 
 
 Rex did not care much for the furniture of the old 
 garrets unless it should happen to belong to the Hal- 
 lams, and he asked next if there were foxes in the 
 woods, and if he could get up a hunt with dogs and 
 horses. 
 
 Phineas did not smile, but laughed long and loud, 
 and deluged the cuspidor, before he replied : 
 
7S mks. 
 
 " Wa-all, if I won't give up ! A fox hunt, with 
 hounds and horses, tearin' through the folks's fields and 
 gardens ! Why, you'd be mobbed. You'd be tarred 
 and feathered. You'd be rid on a rail." 
 
 "But," Rex exclaimed, I should keep on my own 
 premises. A man has a right to do what he pleases 
 with his own," a remark which so affected Phineas that 
 he doubled up with laughter, as he said : , 
 
 " That's so ; but, bless your soul, the Homestead 
 farm ain't big enough for a hunt. It takes acres and 
 acres for that, and if you had 'em the foxes wouldn't 
 stop to ask if it's your premises or somebody else's. 
 They ain't likely to take to the open if they can help it, 
 but with the dogs to their heels and widder Brady's 
 garden right before 'em they'd make a run for it. Her 
 farm jines the Homestead, and 'twould be good as a 
 circus to see the hounds teai-in' up her sage and her 
 gooseberries and her voilets. She'd be out with brooms 
 and mops and pokers ; and, besides that, the Leicester 
 women would be up in arms and say 'twas cruel for a 
 lot of men to hunt a poor fox to death just for fun. 
 They are great on Bergh, Leicester women are, and 
 they might arrest you." 
 
 Reginald saw his fox hunts fading into air, and was 
 about to ask what there was in the woods which he 
 could hunt without fear of the widow Brady or the 
 Bergh ladies of the town, when Phineas sprang up, ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 " Hullo ! there's the Square now. I saw him in town 
 this mornin' about some plasterin' I ort to have done 
 six weeks ago." 
 
 And he darted from the door, while Rex, looking 
 from the window, saw an old horse drawing an old 
 
EEGINALD AND PHINEA8 JONES. 77 
 
 buggy in which sat an old man, evidently intent upon 
 avoiding a street-car rapidly approaching him, while 
 Phineas was making frantic efforts to stop him. But a 
 car from an opposite direction and a carriage blocked 
 his way, and by the time these had passed the old man 
 and buggy were too far up the street for him to be 
 heard or to overtake them. 
 
 " I'm awful sorry," he said, as he returned to the hotel. 
 " He was alone, and you could of rid with him as well 
 as not and saved your fare." 
 
 Rex thanked him for his kind intentions, but said he 
 did not mind the fare in the least and preferred the 
 electric car. Then, as he wished to look about the city 
 a little, he bade good-bye to Phineas, who accompanied 
 him to the door, and said : " Mabby you'd better men- 
 tion my name to the Square as a surety that you're all 
 right. He hain't traveled as much as I have, nor seen 
 as many swells like you, and he might take you for a 
 confidence-man." 
 
 Rex promised to make use of his new friend if he 
 found it necessary, and walked away, while Phineas 
 looked after him admiringly, thinking, "That's a fine 
 chap ; not a bit stuck up. Glad I've met him, for now 
 I shall visit Lucy Ann when she comes home. He's a 
 little off, though, on his farm and his fox-hunts." 
 
 Meanwhile, Reginald walked through several streets, 
 and at last found himself in the vicinity of the electric 
 car, which he took for Leicester. It was a pleasant 
 ride, and he enjoyed it immensely, especially after they 
 were out in the country and began to climb the long 
 hill. At his request he was put down at the cross-road 
 and the gabled house pointed out to him. Very eagerly 
 he looked about him as he went slowly up the avenue 
 
78 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 or lane bordered with cherry-trees on one side, and on 
 the other commanding an unobstructed view of the 
 country for miles around, with its valleys and thickly 
 wooded hills. 
 
 " This is charming," he said, as he turned his attention 
 next to the house and its surroundings. 
 
 How quiet and pleasant it looked, with its gables and 
 picturesque chimneys under the shadow of the big 
 apple-tree in the rear and the big elm in the front ! He 
 could see the out-butldings of which Phineas had told 
 him, — the well-house, the hen-house, the smoke-house, 
 the ice-house and stable, — and could hear the faint sound 
 of the brook in the orchard falling over the dam into 
 the basin below. 
 
 " I wish I had lived here when a boy, as my father 
 and uncle did," he thought, just as a few big drops of 
 rain fell upon the grass, and he noticed for the first 
 time how black it was overhead, and how threatening 
 were the clouds rolling up so fast from the west. 
 
 It had been thundering at intervals ever since he left 
 Worcester, and in the sultry air there was that stillness 
 which portends the coming of a severe storm. But he 
 had paid no attention to it, and now he did not hasten 
 his steps until there came a deafening crash of thunder, 
 followed instantaneously by a drenching downpour of 
 rain, which seemed to come in sheets rather than in 
 drops, and he knew that in a few minutes he would be 
 wet through, as his coat was rather thin and he had no 
 umbrella. He was still some little distance from the 
 house, but by running swiftly he was soon under the 
 shelter of the piazza, and knocking at the door, with a 
 hope that it might be opened by the girl who Phineas 
 had said " was handsome as blazes," 
 
EEX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 79 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 REX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 
 
 The day had been longer and lonelier to Dorcas than 
 the previous one, for then she had gone with Bertha to 
 the train in Worcester, and after saying good-bye, had 
 done some shopping in town and made a few calls be- 
 fore returning home. She had then busied herself with 
 clearing up Bertha's room, which was not an altogether 
 easy task. Bertha was never as orderly as her sister, 
 and, in the confusion of packing, her room was in a 
 worse condition than usual. But to clear it up was a 
 labor of love, over which Dorcas lingered as long as 
 possible. Then when all was done and she had closed 
 the shutters and dropped the shades, she knelt by the 
 white bed and amid a rain of tears prayed God to pro- 
 tect the dear sister on sea and land and bring her safely 
 back to the home which was so desolate without her. 
 That was yesterday ; but to-day there had been com- 
 paratively nothing to do, for after an early breakfast 
 her father had started for Boylston, hoping to collect a 
 debt which had long been due and the payment of 
 which would help towards the mortgage. After he 
 had gone and her morning work was done, Dorcas sat 
 down alone in the great, lonely house and began to cry, 
 wondering what she should do to pass the long hours 
 before her father's return. 
 
 " I wish I had Bertha's room to straighten up again," 
 she thought. " Any way I'll go and look at it." And, 
 firying her eyes, she went up to the room, which seemed 
 
80 MBS. hallam's companion. 
 
 so dark and close and gloomy that she opened the 
 windows and threw back the blinds, letting in the full 
 sunlight and warm summer air. " She was fond of air 
 and sunshine," she said to herself, remembering the 
 many times they had differed on that point, she insist- 
 ing that so much sun faded the carpets, and Bertha 
 insisting that she would have it, carpets or no carpets. 
 Bertha was fond of flowers, too, and in their season kept 
 the house full of them. This Dorcas also remembered, 
 and, going to the garden, she gathered great clusters of 
 roses and white lilies, which she arranged in two 
 bouquets, putting one on the bureau and the other on 
 the deep window-seat, where Bertha nsed to sit so often 
 when at home, and where one of her favorite books was 
 lying, with her work-basket and a bit of embroidery she 
 had played at doing. The book and the basket Dorcas 
 had left on the window-seat with something of the feel- 
 ing which prompts us to keep the rooms of our dead as 
 they left them. At the side of the bed and partly under 
 it she had found a pair of half-worn slippers, which 
 Bertha was in the habit of wearing at night while un- 
 dressing, and these she had also left, they looked so 
 much like Bertha, with their worn toes and high French 
 heels. Now as she saw them she thought to put them 
 away, but decided to leave them, as it was not likely 
 any one would occupy the room in Bertha's absence. 
 
 " There, it looks more cheerful now," she said, sur- 
 veying the apartment with its sunlight and flowers. 
 Then, going down-stairs she whiled away the hours as 
 best she could until it was time to prepare supper for 
 her father, whose coming she watched for anxiously, 
 hoping he would reach home before the storm which 
 was fast gathering in the west and sending oyt flashes 
 
EEX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 81 
 
 of lightning, with angry growls of thunder. " He will 
 be hungry and tired, and I mean to give him his favor- 
 ite dishes," .she thought, as she busied herself in the 
 kitchen. With a view to make his home-coming as 
 pleasant as possible, she laid the table with the best 
 cloth and napkins and the gilt band china, used only on 
 great occasions, and put on a plate for Bertha, and a 
 bowl of roses in the centre, with one or two buds at each 
 plate, " Now, that looks nice," she thought, surveying 
 her work, with a good deal of satisfaction, " and father 
 will be pleased. I wish he would come. How. black 
 the sky is getting, and how angry the clouds look !" 
 Then she thought of Bertha on the sea, and wondered 
 if the storm would reach her, and was silently praying 
 that it would not, when she saw old Bush and the buggy 
 pass the windows, and in a few moments her father 
 came in looking very pale and tired. He had had a 
 long ride for nothing, as the man who owed him could 
 not pay, but he brightened at once when he saw the 
 attractive tea-table and divined why all the best things 
 were out. 
 
 " You are a good girl, Dorcas, and I don't know what 
 I should do without you now," he said, stroking Dorcas's 
 hair caressingly, and adding, " Now let us have supper, 
 I am hungry as a bear, as Bertha would say." 
 
 Dorcas started to leave the room just as she heard the 
 sound of the bell and knew the electric car was coming 
 up the hill. Though she had seen it so many times, she 
 always stopped to look at it, and she stopped now and 
 saw Reginald alight from it and saw the conductor 
 point towards their house as if directing him to it. 
 " Who can it be ?" she thought, calling her father to the 
 window, where they both stood watching the sti-anger 
 
82 MES. hallam's companion. 
 
 as he came slowly along the avenue. " How queerly he 
 acts, stopping so much to look around ! Don't he know 
 it is beginning to rain ?" she said, just as the crash and 
 downpour came which sent Rex flying towards the 
 house. 
 
 "Oh, father !" Dorcas exclaimed, clutching his arm, 
 "don't you know, Mr. Gorham wrote that the New 
 Yorker who wanted to buy our farm might come to 
 look at it ? I believe this is he. What shall we do with 
 him ? Bertha told us to shut the door in his face." 
 
 " You would hardly keep a dog out in a storm like 
 this. Why, I can't see across the road. I never knew 
 it rain so fast," Mr. Leigh ton replied, as Rex's knock 
 sounded on the door, which Dorcas opened just as a 
 vivid flash of lightning lit up the sky and was followed 
 instantaneously by a deafening peal of thunder and a 
 dash of rain which swept half-way down the hall. 
 
 " Oh, my !" Dorcas said, holding back her dress ; and 
 " Great Scott !" Rex exclaimed, as he sprang inside and 
 helped her close the door. Then, turning to her, he 
 said, with a smile which disarmed her at once of any 
 prejudice she might have against him, " I beg your 
 pardon for coming in so unceremoniously. 1 should 
 have been drenched in another minute. Does Mr. 
 Leighton live here ?" 
 
 Dorcas said he did, and, opening a door to her right, 
 bade him enter. Glancing in, Rex felt sure it was the 
 best room, and drew back, saying, apologetically, " I 
 am not fit to go in there, or indeed to go anywhere. I 
 believe I am wet to the skin. Look," and he pointed to 
 the little puddles of water which had dripped from his 
 coat and were running over the floor. 
 
 His concern was so genuine, and the eyes so kind 
 
EEX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 83 
 
 which looked at Dorcas, that he did not seem like a 
 stranger, and she said to him, " 1 should say yon were 
 wet. You'd better take off your coat and let me dry it 
 by the kitchen fire or you will take cold." 
 
 " She is a motherly little girl, as Phineas Jones said," 
 Rex thought, feeling sure that this was not the one 
 who was " handsome as blazes," but the nice one, who 
 thought of everything, and if his first smile had not 
 won her his second would have done so, as he said, 
 " Thanks. You are very kind, but I'll not trouble you 
 to do that, and perhaps I'd better introduce myself. I 
 am Reginald Hallam, from New York, and my father 
 used to live here." 
 
 " Oh-h !" Dorcas exclaimed, her fear of the dreaded 
 stranger who was coming to buy their farm vanishing 
 at once, while she wondered in a vague way where she 
 had heard the name before, but did not associate it 
 with Louie Thurston's hero, of whom Bertha had told 
 her. 
 
 He was one of the Hallams, of whom the old people 
 in town thought so much, and it was natural that he 
 should wish to see the old Homestead. At this point 
 Mr. Leighton came into the hall and was introduced to 
 the stranger, whom he welcomed cordially, while 
 Dorcas, with her hospitable instincts in full play, again 
 insisted that he should remove his wet coat and shoes 
 before he took cold. 
 
 "They are a little damp, that's a fact ; but what can 
 I do without them ?" Reginald replied, beginning to feel 
 very uncomfortable, and knowing that in all probability 
 a sore throat would be the result of his bath. 
 
 " I'll tell you," Dorcas said, looking at her father. 
 " He Qan wear the dressing-gown and slippers Bertha 
 
84 MES. hallam's companion. 
 
 gave you last Christmas." And before Rex could stop 
 her she was off up-stairs in her father's bedroom, from 
 which she returned with a pair of Turkish slippers and 
 a soft gray cashmere dressing-gown with dark-blue vel- 
 vet collar and cuffs. 
 
 " Father never wore them but a few times ; he says 
 they are too fine," she said to Rex, who, much against 
 his will, soon found himself arrayed in Mr. Leighton's 
 gown and slippers, while Dorcas carried his wet coat and 
 shoes in triumph to the kitchen fire. 
 
 " Well, this is a lark," Rex thought as he caught sight 
 of himself in the glass. " I wonder what Phineas Jones 
 would say if he knew that instead of being taken for a 
 confidence man I'm received as a son and a brother and 
 dressed up in ' the Square's ' best clothes." 
 
 Supper was ready by this time, and without any de- 
 mur, which he knew would be useless. Rex sat down to 
 the table which Dorcas had made so pretty, rejoicing 
 .now that she had done so, wondering if their guest 
 would notice it, and feeling glad that he was in Bertha's 
 chair. He did notice everything, and especially the 
 flowers and the extra seat, which he occupied, and which 
 he knew was not put there for him, but probably for 
 the handsome girl, who would come in when the storm 
 was over, and he found himself thinking more of her 
 than of the blessing which Mr. Leighton asked so rev- 
 erently, adding a petition that God would care for the 
 loved one wherever and in whatever danger she might 
 be. 
 
 "Maybe that's the girl; but where the dickens can 
 she be that she's in danger ?" Rex thought, just as a 
 clap of thunder louder than any whichhad preceded 
 
EEX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 85 
 
 it shook the house and made Dorcas turn pale as she 
 said to her father : 
 
 •• Oh, do you suppose it will reach her ?" 
 
 " I think not," Mr. Leighton replied ; then turning to 
 Rex, he said, " My youngest daughter, Bertha, is on the 
 sea, — sailed on the Teutonic this morning, — and Dorcas 
 is afraid the storm may reach her." 
 
 "Sailed this morning on the Teutonic!" Rex re- 
 peated. " So did my aunt, Mrs. Carter Hallam." 
 
 " Mrs. Carter Hallam !" and Dorcas set down her cup 
 of tea with such force that some of it was spilled upon the 
 snowy cloth. " Why, that is the name of the lady with 
 whom Bertha has gone as companion." 
 
 " It was Rex's turn now to be surprised, and explana- 
 tions followed. 
 
 " I supposed all the Hallams of Leicester were dead, 
 and never thought of associating Mrs. Carter with 
 them," Mr. Leighton said, while Rex in turn explained 
 that as Miss Leighton's letter had been written in Bos- 
 ton and he had addressed her there for his aunt it did 
 not occur to him that her home was here at the Home- 
 stead. 
 
 " Did you see her on the ship, and was she well ?" 
 Dorcas asked, and he replied that, as he reached the 
 steamer only in time to say good-bye to his aunt, he did 
 not see Miss Leighton, but he knew she was there and 
 presumably well. 
 
 " I am sorry now that I did not meet her," he added, 
 looking more closely at Dorcas than he had done before, 
 and trying to trace some resemblance between her and 
 the photograph he had dubbed Squint- Eye. 
 
 But there was none, and he felt a good deal puzzled, 
 wondering what Phineas meant by calling Dorcas 
 
86 MRS.- IIAIXAM S COMPANION. 
 
 " handsome as blazes." She must be the one referred 
 to, for no human being could ever accuse Squint-Eye of 
 any degree of beauty. And yet how the father and sis- 
 ter loved her, and how the old man's voice trembled 
 when he spoke of her, always with pride it seemed to 
 Rex, who began at last himself to feel a good deal of 
 interest in her. He knew now that he was occupying 
 her seat, and that the rose-bud he had fastened in his 
 button-hole was put there for her, and he hoped his 
 aunt would treat her well. 
 
 " I mean to write and give her some points, for there's 
 no guessing what Mrs. Walker Haynes may put her up 
 to do," he thought, just as he caught the name of 
 Phineas and heard Mr. Leighton saying to Dorcas : 
 
 " I saw him this morning, and he thinks he will get 
 up in the course of a week and do the plastering." 
 
 " Not before a week I How provoking !" Dorcas re- 
 plied, while Rex ventured to say : 
 
 " Are you speaking of Phineas Jones ? I made his 
 acquaintance this morning, or rather he made mine. 
 Quite a character, isn't he ?" 
 
 " I should say he was," Dorcas replied, while her 
 father rejoined : 
 
 " Everybody knows Phineas, and everybody likes 
 him. He is nobody's enemy but his own, and shiftless- 
 ness is his great fault. He can do almost everything, 
 and do it well, too. He'll work a few weeks, — maybe a 
 few months, — and then lie idle, visiting and talking, till 
 he has spent all he earned. He knows everybody's 
 business and history, and will sacrifice everything for 
 his friends. He attends every camp- meeting he can 
 hear of, and is apt to lose his balance and have what he 
 calls the power. He comes here quite often, and is 
 
KKX AT THE HOMESTEAD. 87 
 
 very handy in fixing up. I've got a little job waiting 
 for him now, where the plastering fell off in the front 
 chamber, and I dare say it will continue -to wait. But 
 I like the fellow, and am sorry for him. I don't know 
 that he has a relative in the world." 
 
 Rex could have told of his Aunt Lucy, and that 
 through her, Phineas claimed relationship to himself, 
 but concluded not to open up a subject which he knew 
 would be obnoxious to his aunt. Supper was now over, 
 but the rain was still falling heavily, and when Rex 
 asked how far it was to the hotel, both Mr. Leighton 
 and Dorcas invited him so cordially to spend the night 
 with them, that he decided to do so, and then began to 
 wonder how he should broach the real object of his 
 visit. From all Phineas had told him, and from what 
 he had seen of Mr. Leighton, he began to be doubtful of 
 success, but it was worth trying for, and he was ready 
 to offer fifteen hundred dollars extra, if necessary. His 
 coat and shoes were dry by this time, and habited in 
 them he felt more like himself, and after Dorcas had 
 removed her apron, showing that her evening work was 
 done, and had taken her seat near her father, he said : 
 
 " By the way, did Mr. Gorham ever write to you that 
 a New Yorker would like to buy your farm ?'' 
 
 "Yes," Mr. Leighton replied, and Rex continued : 
 " I am the man, and that is my business here." 
 " Oh !" and Dorcas moved uneasily in her chair, 
 while her father answered, " I thought so." 
 
 Then there was a silence, which Rex finally broke, 
 telling why he wanted that particular farm and what he 
 was willing to give for it, knowing before he finished 
 that he had failed. The farm was not for sale, except 
 tinder compulsion, which Mr. Leighton hoped might be 
 
88 MRS. IIALLAMS COMVANtOJf. 
 
 avoided, explaining matters so minutely that Rex had a 
 tolerably accurate knowledge of the state of affairs and 
 knew why the. daughter had gone abroad as his aunt's 
 companion, in preference to remaining in the employ of 
 Swartz & Co. 
 
 " Confound it, if I hadn't insisted upon aunt's offering 
 five hundred instead of three hundred, as she proposed 
 doing. Bertha would not have gone, and I might have 
 got the place," he thought. 
 
 Mr. Leighton continued, " I think it would kill me 
 to lose the home where I have lived so long, but if it 
 must be sold, I'd rather you should have it than any one 
 I know, and if worst comes to worst, and anything hap- 
 pens to Bertha, I'll let you know in time to buy it."~ 
 
 He looked so white and his voice shook so as he talked 
 that Rex felt his castles and fox-hunts all crumbling 
 together, and, with his usual impulsiveness, began to 
 wonder if Mr. Leighton w.ould accept aid from him in 
 case of an emergency. It was nearly ten o'clock by this 
 time, and Mr. Leighton said, " I suppose this is early for 
 city folks, but in the country we retire early, and I am 
 tired. We always have prayers at night. Bring the 
 books, daughter, and we'll sing the 267th hymn." 
 
 Dorcas did as she was bidden, and, offering a Hymnal 
 to Rex, opened an old-fashioned piano and began to play 
 and sing, accompanied by her father, whose trembling 
 voice quavered along until he reached the words, — 
 
 " Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee 
 For those in peril on the sea." 
 
 Then he broke down entirely, while Dorcas soon fol- 
 lowed, and Rex was left to finish alone, which he did 
 
KeX at the HOMESTEAt). 89 
 
 without the slightest hesitancy. He had a rich tenor 
 voice ; taking up the air where Dorcas dropped it, he 
 sang the hymn to the end, while Mr. Leighton stood 
 with closed eyes and a rapt expression on his face. 
 
 " I wish Bertha could hear that. Let us pray," he 
 said, when the song was ended, and, before he quite 
 knew what he was doing. Rex found himself on his 
 knees, listening to Mr. Leighton's fervent prayer, which 
 closed with the petition for the safety of those upon the 
 deep. S 
 
 As Rex had told Phineas Jones, he was not a profes- 
 sor, and he did not call himself a very religious man. He 
 attended church every Sunday morning with his aunt, 
 went through the services reverently, and listened to 
 the sermon attentively, but not all the splendors of St. 
 Thomas's Church had ever impressed him as did that 
 simple, homely service in the farm-house among the 
 Leicester hills, where his " Amen " to the prayer for 
 those upon the sea was loud and distinct, and included 
 in it not only his annt and Bertha, but also the girl 
 whom he had knocked down, who seemed to haunt him 
 strangely. 
 
 " If I were to have much of this, Phineas would not be 
 obliged to take me to one of his meetings to convert 
 me," he thought, as he arose from his knees and signi- 
 fied his readiness to retire. 
 
90 ME8. hallam's companion. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 REX MAKES DISCOVERIES. 
 
 It was Mr. Leightou who conducted Rex to his sleep- 
 ing-room, saying, as he put the lamp down upon the 
 dressing-bureau : " There's a big patch of plaster off in 
 the best chamber, where the girls put company, so you 
 are to sleep in here. This is Bertha's room." 
 
 Rex became interested immediately. To occupy a 
 young girl's room, even if that girl were Squint-Eye, 
 was a novel experience, and after Mr. Leighton had said 
 good-night he began to look about with a good deal of 
 curiosity. Everything was plain, but neat and dainty, 
 from the pretty matting and soft fur rug on the floor, to 
 the bed which looked like a white pin-cushion, with its 
 snowy counterpane and fluted pillow-shams. 
 
 " It is just the room a nice kind of a girl would be 
 apt to have, and it doesn't seem as if a great, hulking 
 fellow like me ought to be in it," he said, fancying he 
 could detect a faint perfume such as he knew some girls 
 affected. " I think, though, it's the roses and lilies. I 
 don't believe SquintrEye goes in for Lubin and Pinaud 
 and such like," he thought, just as he caught sight of the 
 slippers, which Dorcas had forgotten to remove when 
 she arranged the room for him. 
 
 " Halloo ! here are Cinderella's shoes, as I live," he 
 said, taking one of them up and handling it gingerly as if 
 afraid he should break it. " French heels ; and, by Jove, 
 she's got a small foot, and a well-shaped one, too. I 
 wouldn't have thought that of Squint-Eye," he said, 
 
REX MAKES DISCOVERIES. 91 
 
 with a feeling that the girl he called Squint-Eye had 
 no right either in the room or in the slipper, which he 
 put down carefully, and then continued his investiga- 
 ^tions, coming next to the window-seat, where the work- 
 basket and book were lying. " Embroiders, I see. 
 Wouldn't be a woman if she didn't," he said, as he 
 glanced at the bit of fancy work left in the basket. 
 Then his eye caught the book, which he took up and 
 saw was a volume of Tennyson, which showed a 
 good deal of usage. " Poetical, too ! Wouldn't have 
 thought that of her, either. She doesn't look it." Then 
 turning to the fly-leaf, he read, " Bertha Leighton. 
 From her cousin Louie. Christmas, i8— ." 
 
 " By George," he exclaimed, "that is Louie Thurs- 
 ton's handwriting. Not quite as scrawly as it was 
 when we wrote the girl and boy letters to each other, 
 but the counterpart of the note she sent me last sum- 
 mer in Saratoga, asking me to ride with her and Fred. 
 And she calls herself cousin to this Bertha ! I remem- 
 ber now she ouce told me she had some relatives North. 
 They must be these Leightons, and I have come here to 
 find them and aunt's'companion too. Truly the world 
 is very small. Poor little Louie ! I don't believe she 
 is happy. No woman could be that with Fred, if he is 
 my friend. Poor little Louie !" 
 
 There was a world of pathos and pity in Rex's voice 
 as he said, " Poor little Louie !" and stood looking at 
 her handwriting and thinking of the beautiful girl whom 
 he might perhaps have won for his own. But if any 
 regret for what might have been mingled with his 
 thoughts, he gave no sign of it, except that the expres- 
 sion of his face was a shade more serious as he put the 
 book back in its place and prepared for bed, where h? 
 
92 Mrs. aallam's companion. 
 
 lay awake a long time, thinking of Louie, and Squint- 
 Eye, and the girl he had knocked down on the ship, and 
 Rose Arabella Jefferson, whose face was the last he re- 
 membered before going to sleep. 
 
 The next morning was bright and fair, with no trace 
 of the storm visible except in the freshened foliage and 
 the puddles of water standing here and there iiithe road, 
 and Rex, as he looked from his window upon the green 
 hills and valleys, felt a pang of disappointment that the 
 place he so coveted could never be his. Breakfast was 
 waiting when he went down to the dining-room, and 
 while at the table he spoke of Louie and asked if she 
 were not a cousin. 
 
 " Oh, yes," Dorcas said, quickly, a little proud of this 
 grand relation. " Louie's mother and ours were sisters. 
 She told Bertha she knew you. Isn't she lovely ?" 
 
 Rex said she was lovely, and that he had known her 
 since she was a child, and had been in college with her 
 husband. Then he changed the conversation by inquir- 
 ing about the livery-stables in town. He would like, 
 he said, to drive about the neighborhood a little before 
 returning to New York, and see the old cemetery 
 where so many Hallams were buried. 
 
 " Horses enough, but you've got to walk into town to 
 get them. If old Bush will answer your purpose you 
 are quite welcome to him," Mr. Leighton said. 
 
 " Thanks," Rex replied. " I am already indebted to 
 you for so much that I may as well be indebted fot 
 more. I will take old Bush, and perhaps Miss Leigh- 
 ton will go with me as a guide." 
 
 This Dorcas was quite willing to do, and the two were 
 soon driving together through the leafy woods and 
 pleasant roads and past the old houses, where the 
 
EEX MAKES DISCOTEEIES. 93 
 
 people came to the dooi-s and windows to see what fine 
 gentleman Dorcas Leighton had with her. Every one 
 whom they met spoke to Dorcas and inquired for 
 Bertha, in whom all seemed greatly interested. 
 
 " Your sister must be very popular. This is the 
 thirteenth person who has stopped you to ask for her," 
 Rex said, as an old Scotchman finished his inquiries by 
 saying, " She's a bonnie lassie, God bless her." 
 
 " She is popular, and deservedly so. I wish you 
 knew her," was Dorcas's reply ; and then as a convic- 
 tion, born he knew not when or wh)', kept increasing in 
 Rex's mind, he asked, "Would you mind telling me 
 how she looks ? Is she dark or fair ? tall or short } fat 
 or lean ? 
 
 Dorcas answered unhesitatingly, " She is very beau- 
 tiful, — neither fat nor lean, tail nor short, dark nor fair, 
 but just right." 
 
 " Oh-h !" and Rex drew a long breath, as Dorcas went 
 on : " She has a lovely complexion, with brilliant color, 
 perfect features, reddish-brown hair with glints of gold 
 in it in the sunlight, and the handsomest eyes you ever 
 saw, — large and bright and almost black at times when 
 she is excited or pleased, — long lashes, and carries her- 
 self like a queen." 
 
 " Oh-h !" Rex said again, knowing that Rose Arabella 
 Jefferson had fallen from her pedestal of beauty and 
 was really the Squint-Eye of whom he had thought so 
 derisively. " Have you a photograph of her ?" he asked, 
 and Dorcas replied that she had and would show it to 
 him if he liked. 
 
 They had now reached home, and, bringing out an old 
 and well-filled album, Dorcas pointed to a photograph 
 which R,ex recognized as a facsirnile of the one his ^unl; 
 
94 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 had insisted belonged to Miss Jefferson. He could not 
 account for the peculiar sensations which swept over 
 him and kept deepening in intensity as he looked at the 
 face which attracted him more now than when he be- 
 lieved it that of Rose Arabella of Scotsburg. 
 
 " I wish you would let me have this. I am a regular 
 photo-fiend, — have a stack of them at home, and would 
 like mightily to add this to the lot," he said, remember- 
 ing that the one he had was defaced with Rose Ara- 
 bella's name. 
 
 But Dorcas declined. " Bertha would not like it," 
 she said, taking the album from him quickly, as if she 
 read his thoughts and feared lest he would take the 
 picture v/hether she were willing or not. 
 
 It was now time for Rex to go, if he would catch the 
 next car for Worcester. After thanking Mr. Leighton 
 and Dorcas for their hospitality and telling them to be 
 sure and let him know whenever they came to New 
 York, so that he might return their kindness, he bade 
 them good-bye, with a feeling that although he had lost 
 his fancy farm and fox hunts, he had gained two valua- 
 ble friends. 
 
 "They are about the nicest people I ever met," he 
 said, as he walked down the avenue. " Couldn't have 
 done more if I had been related. I ought to have told 
 them to come straight to our house if they were 
 ever in New York, and I would if it were mine. But 
 Aunt Lucy wouldn't like it. I wonder she didn't tell 
 me about the mistake in the photographs when I was 
 on the ship. Maybe she didn't think of it, I saw her so 
 short a time.. I remember, though, that she did say 
 that Miss Leighton was rather too high and mighty, 
 3.nd, by George, I told her to sit down on her ! I Aave 
 
AT AIX-LES-BAINS. 95 
 
 made a mess of it ; but I will write at once and go over 
 sooner than I intended, for there is no telling what 
 Mrs. Haynes may put my aunt up to do. I will not 
 have that girl snubbed ; and if I find them at it, 
 
 I'll " 
 
 Here he gave an energetic flourish of his cane in the 
 air to attract the conductor of the fast-coming car, and 
 posterity will never know what he intended doing to 
 his aunt and Mrs. Walker Haynes, if he found them 
 snubbing that girl. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AT AIX-LES-BAINS. 
 
 There was a stop of a few days at the Metropole in 
 London, where Mrs. Hallam engaged a courier ; there 
 was another stop at the Grand in Paris, where a ladies' 
 maid was secured ; and, thus equipped, Mrs. Haliam 
 felt that she was indeed traveling en prince as she 
 journeyed on to Aix, where Mrs. Walker Haynes met 
 her at the station with a very handsome turnout, which 
 was afterwards included in Mrs Hallam's bill. 
 
 " I knew you would not care to go in the 'bus with 
 your servants, so I ventured to order the carriage for 
 you," she said, as they wound up the steep hill to the 
 Hotel Splendide. 
 
 Then she told what she had done for her friend's com- 
 fort and the pleasure it had been to do it, notwithstand- 
 ing all the trouble and annoyance she had been 
 
96 MRS. HALLiM's COMPANION. 
 
 subjected to. The season was at its height, and all the 
 hotels were crowded, especially the Splendide. A 
 grande duchesse with her suite occupied the guest- 
 rooms on the first floor ; the King of Greece had all the 
 second floor south of the main entrance ; while English, 
 Jews, Spaniards, Greeks, and Russians had the rooms 
 at the other end of the hall ; consequently Mrs. Hallam 
 must be content with the third floor, where a salon and 
 a bedchamber, with balcony attached, had been re- 
 served for her. She had found the most trouble with 
 the salon, she said, as a French countess was determined 
 to have it, and she had secured it only by engaging it 
 at once two weeks ago and promising more per day 
 than the countess was willing to give for it. As it had 
 to be paid for whether occupied or not, she had taken 
 the liberty to use it herself, knowing her friend would 
 not care. Mrs. Hallam didn't care, even when later on 
 she found that the salon had been accredited to her 
 since she first wrote to Mrs. Haynes that she was com- 
 ing and asked her to secure rooms. She was accus- 
 tomed to being fleeced by Mrs. Haynes, whom Rex 
 called a second Becky Sharp. The salon business being 
 settled, Mrs. Haynes ventured farther and said that as 
 she had been obliged to dismiss her maid and had had 
 so much trouble to fill her place she had finally decided 
 to wait until her friend came, when possibly the services 
 of one maid would answer for both ladies. 
 
 " Gracie prefers to wait upon herself," she continued, 
 " but I find it convenient at times to have some one do 
 my hair and lay out my dresses and go with me to the 
 baths, which I take about ten ; you, no doubt, who have 
 plenty of money, will go down early in one of those 
 goyer^d chairs which two men bring to your room, 
 
AT AIX-LES-BAINS. 9Y 
 
 It is a most comfortable way of doing, as you are 
 wrapped in a blanket quite en deshabille and put into a 
 chair, the curtains are dropped, and you are taken to 
 the bath and back in time for your first dejeuner, and are 
 all through with the baths early and can enjoy yourself 
 the rest of the day. It is rather expensive, of course, 
 and I cannot afford it, but all who can, do. The Scran- 
 toms from New York, the Montgomerys from Boston, 
 the Harwoods from London, and old Lady Gresham, all 
 go down that way ; quite a high-toned procession, 
 which some impertinent American girls try to kodak. 
 I shall introduce you to these people. They know you 
 are coming, and 3'ou are sure to like them." 
 
 Mrs. Haynes knew just what chord to touch with her 
 ambitious friend, who was as clay in her hands. By 
 the time the hotel was reached it had been arranged 
 that she was not only to continue to use the salon, but 
 was also welcome to the services of Mrs. Hallam's maid, 
 Celine, and her courier, Browne, and possibly her com- 
 panion, although on this point she was doubtful, as the 
 girl had a mind of her own and was not easily man- 
 aged. 
 
 " I saw that in her face the moment I looked at her, 
 and thought she might give you trouble. She really 
 looked as if she expected me to speak to her. Who is 
 she 1" Mrs. Haynes asked, and very briefly Mrs. Hallam 
 told all she knew of her,— of the mistake in the photo- 
 graphs, of Reginald's admiration of the one which was 
 really Bertha's, and of his encounter with her on the 
 ship. 
 
 " Hm ; yes," Mrs, Walker rejoined, reflectively, and 
 in an instant her tactics were resolved upon. 
 
 Possessed of a, large amount of worldly wisdom and 
 
98 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 foresight, she boasted that she could read the end from 
 the beginning, and on this occasion her quick instincts 
 told her that, given a chance, this hired companion 
 might come between her and her plan of marrying her 
 daughter Grace to Rex Hallam, who was every way 
 desirable as a son-in-law. She had seen enough of him 
 to know that if he cared for a girl it would make no dif- 
 ference whether she were a wage-earner or the daughter 
 of a duke, and Bertha might prove a formidable rival. 
 He had admired her photograph and been kind to her 
 on the boat, and when he met her again there was no 
 knowing what complications might arise if, as was most 
 probable, Bertha herself were artful and ambitious. 
 And so, for no reason whatever except her own petty 
 jealousy, she conceived a most unreasonable dislike for 
 the girl ; and when Mrs. Haynes was unreasonable she 
 sometimes was guilty of acts of which she was afterwards 
 ashamed. 
 
 Arrived at the hotel, which the 'bus had reached 
 before her, she said to Bertha, who was standing near 
 the door, '' Take your mistress's bag and shawl up to 
 the third floor, No. — , and wait there for us." 
 
 Bertha knew it was Celine's place to do this, but that 
 demoiselle, who thus far had not proved the treasure 
 .she was represented to be, had found an acquaintance, 
 to whom she was talking so volubly that she did not 
 observe the entrance of her party until Bertha was half- 
 way up the three flights of stairs, with Mrs. Hallam's 
 bag and wrap as well as her o'vn. "The service at the 
 Splendide was not the best, and those who would wait 
 upon themselves were welcome to do so, and Bertha toiled 
 on with her arms full, while Mrs. Hallam and Mrs. 
 
AT AIX-LES-BAINS. 99 
 
 Haynes took the little coop of a lift and ascended very- 
 leisurely. 
 
 " This is your room. I hope you will like it," Mrs. 
 Haynes said, stopping at the open door of a large, airy 
 room, with a broad window opening upon a balcony, 
 where a comfortable easy-chair was standing. Mrs. 
 Hallam sank into it at once, admiring the view and 
 pleased with everything. The clerk at the office had 
 handed her a letter which had come in the morning 
 mail. It was from Rex, and 'was full of his visit to the 
 Homestead, the kindness he had received from Mr. 
 Leighton and Dorcas, and tlie discovery he had made 
 with regard to Bertha. 
 
 " I wonder you didn't tell rae on the ship that I was 
 right and you wrong," he wrote. " You did say, though, 
 that she was high and mighty, audi told yon to sit on her. 
 But don't you do it ! She is a lady by birth and educa- 
 tion, and I want you to treat her kindly and not let Mrs. 
 Haynes bamboozle you into snubbing her because she is 
 your companion. I sha'n't li'ce it if you do, for it will be 
 an insult to the Leightons and a shame to us." Then 
 he added, " At the hotel in Worcester I fell in with a 
 fellow who claimed to be a fortieth cousin of yours, 
 Phineas Jones. Do you remember him ? Great char- 
 acter. Called you cousin Lucy Ann, — said you spelled 
 him down at a spelling-match on the word ' dammed,' 
 and that he was going to call when you got home. I 
 didn't give him our address." 
 
 After reading this the viev/ from the balcony did not 
 look so charming or the sunlight so bright, and there 
 was a shadow on Mrs. Hallam's face caused not so much 
 by what Rex had written of the Homestead as by his 
 encounter with Phineas Jones, her abomination. Why 
 
100 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 had he, of all possible persons, turned up ? And what 
 else had he told Rex of her besides the spelling 
 episode ? Everything, probably, and more than every- 
 thing, for she remembered well Phineas's loquacity, 
 which sometimes carried him into fiction. And he 
 talked of calling upon her, too ! " The wretch !" she 
 said, crushing the letter in her hands, as she would have 
 liked to crush the offending Phineas. 
 
 " No bad news, I hope ?" Mrs. Haynes said, stepping 
 upon the balcony and noting the change in her friend's 
 expression. 
 
 Mrs. Hallam, who would have died sooner than tell 
 of Phineas Jones, answered, " Oh, no. Rex has been 
 to the Homestead and found out about Bertha, over 
 whom he is wilder than ever, saying I must be kind to 
 her and all that ; as if I would be anything else." 
 
 " Hm ; yes," Mrs. Haynes replied, an expression which 
 always meant a great deal with her, and which in this 
 case meant a greater dislike to Bertha and a firmer 
 resolve to humiliate her. 
 
 It was beginning to grow dark by this time. Re- 
 entering her room, Mrs. Hallam asked, " Where is 
 Celine ? I want her to open my trunk and get out a 
 cooler dress ; this is so hot and dusty." 
 
 But Celine was not forthcoming, and Bertha was 
 summoned in her place. At the Metropole Bertha had 
 occupied a stuffy little room looking into a court, while 
 at the Grand in Paris she had slept in what she called a 
 closet, so that now she felt as if in Paradise when she 
 took possession of her room, which, if small and at the 
 rear, looked "out upon grass and flowers and the tal] 
 hills which encircle Aix on all sides. 
 
 " This is delightful," she thought, as she leaned from 
 
AT AlX-LES-BAlMa. 101 
 
 the window inhaling the perfume of the flowers and 
 drinking in tiie sweet, pure air which swept down the 
 green hill-side, where vines and fruits were growing. 
 She, too, had found a letter waiting for her from 
 Dorcas, who detailed every particular of Reginald's 
 visit to the Homestead, and dwelt at some length upon 
 his evident admiration of Bertha's photograph and his 
 desire to have it. 
 
 " I don't pretend to have your psychological presenti- 
 ments," Dorcas wrote, " but if I had I should say that 
 Mr. Hallam would admire you when he sees you quite 
 as much as he did your picture, and 1 know you will 
 like him. You cannot help it. He will join you before 
 long." 
 
 Bertha knew better than Dorcas that she should like 
 Rex Hallam, and something told her that her life after 
 he came would be different from what it was now. For 
 Mrs. Hallam she had but little respect, she was so 
 thorouglrly selfish and exacting, but she did not dislike 
 her with the dislike she had conceived in a moment for 
 Mrs. Haynes, in whom she had intuitively recognized a 
 foe, who would tyrannize over and humiliate her worse 
 than her employer. During her climb upstairs she had 
 resolved upon her course of conduct towards the lady 
 should she attempt to browbeat her. 
 
 " I will do my best to please Mrs. Hallam, but I will 
 not be subject to that woman," she thought, just as 
 some one knocked, and in response to her " Come in," 
 Mrs. Haynes appeared, saying, " Leighton, Mrs. Hal- 
 lam wants you." 
 
 " Madam, if you are speaking to me, I am Miss Leigh- 
 ton," Bertha said, while her eyes flashed so angrily that 
 for a moment Mrs, Haynes lost her self command and* 
 
102 MES. hallam's companion. 
 
 stammered an apology, saying she was so accustomed 
 to hearing the English employees called by their last 
 names that she had inadvertently acquired the habit. 
 
 There was a haughty inclination of Bertha's head in 
 token that she accepted the apology, and then the two, 
 between whom there was now war, went to Mrs. Hal- 
 lam's room, where Bertha unlocked a trunk and took 
 out a fresher dress. While she was doing this, Mrs. 
 Hallam again stepped out upon the balcony with Mrs. 
 Haynes, who said ; 
 
 " It is too late for table-d'hdte, but I have ordered a 
 nice little extra dinner for you and me, to be served in 
 our salon. I thought you'd like it better there the first 
 night. Grace has- dined and gone to the Casino with a 
 party of English, who have rooms under us. The king 
 is to be there." 
 
 " Do you know him well ?" Mrs. Hallam asked, pleased 
 at the possibility of hobnobbing with royalty. 
 
 " Ye-es — no-o. Well, he has bowed to me, but I have 
 not exactly spoken to him yet," was Mrs. Haynes's re- 
 ply, and then she went on hurriedly, " I have engaged 
 seats for lunch and dinner for you, Grace and'mj^self 
 in the salle-a-manger, near Lady Gresham's party, and 
 also a small table in a corner of the breakfast-room 
 where we can be quite private and take our coffee to- 
 gether, when you do not care to have it in your salon. 
 Grace insists upon going down in the morning, and of 
 course, I must go with her." 
 
 "You are very kind," Mrs. Hallam said, thinking 
 how nice it was to have all care taken from her, while 
 Mrs. Haynes continued : 
 
 " Your servants take their meals in the servants' 
 hall. Celine will naturally prefer to sit with her own 
 
AT AIX-LES-BAINS. 103 
 
 people, and if you like I will arrange to have places re- 
 served with the English for your courier and — and " 
 
 She hesitated a little, until Mrs. Hallam said, in some 
 surprise : 
 
 " Do you mean Miss Leighton ?" 
 
 Then she went on. " Yes, the courier and MisS 
 Leighton ; he seems a very respectable man, — quite 
 superior to his class." 
 
 Here was a turn in affairs for which even Mrs. Hal- 
 lam was not prepared. Heretofore Bertha had taken 
 her meals with her, nor had she thought of a change ; 
 but if Mrs. Walker Haynes saw fit to make one, it must 
 be right. Still, there was Rex to be considered. 
 Would he think this was treating Bertha as she should 
 be treated ? She was afraid not, and she said, hesitat- 
 ingly, " Yes, but I am not sure Reginald would like it." 
 
 " What has he to do with it, pray ?" Mrs. Haynes 
 asked, quickly. 
 
 Mrs. Hallam replied, " Her family was very nice to 
 him, and 3'ou know he wrote me to treat her kindly. I 
 don't think he would like to find her in the servants' 
 hall." 
 
 This was the first sign of rebellion Mrs. Haynes had 
 ever seen in her friend, and she met it promptly. 
 
 " I do not see how you can do differently, if you ad- 
 here to the customs of those with whom you wish to 
 associate. Several English families have had com- 
 panions, or governesses, or seamstresses, or something, 
 and they have always gone to the servants' hall. Lady 
 Gresham has one there now. Miss Leighton may be 
 all Reginald thinks she is, but if she puts herself in the 
 position of an employee she must expect an employee's, 
 fare, and not thrust herself upon first-class people. 
 
104 Mrs. hallam's companion. 
 
 You will only pay second-class for her if she goes 
 there." 
 
 Lady Gresham and the English and paying second- 
 class were influencing Mrs. Hallam mightily, but a 
 dread of Rex, who when roused in the cause of oppres- 
 sion would not be pleasant to meet, kept her hesitating, 
 until Bertha herself settled the matter. She had heard 
 the conversation, although it had been carried on in low 
 tones and sometimes in whispers. At first she resolved 
 that rather than submit to this indignity she would give 
 up her position and go home ; then, remembering what 
 Mrs. Hallam had said of Reginald, who was sure to be 
 angry if he found her thus humiliated, she began to 
 change her mind. 
 
 " I'll do it," she thought, while the absurdity of the 
 thing grew upon her so fast that it began at last to look 
 like a huge joke which she might perhaps enjoy. 
 Going to the door, she said, while a proud smile played 
 over her face, "Ladies, I could not help hearing what 
 you said, and as Mrs. Hallam seems undecided in the 
 matter 1 will decide for her, and go to the servants' 
 hall, which I prefer. I have tried first-class people, and 
 would like a chance to try the second." 
 
 She looked like a young queen as she stood in the 
 doorway, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing 
 with excitement, and Mrs. Haynes felt that for once she 
 had met a foe worthy of her. 
 
 "Yes, that will be best, and I dare say you will find 
 it very comfortable," Mrs. Hallam said, admiring the 
 girl as. she had never admired her before, and thinking 
 that before Rex came she would manage to make a 
 change. 
 
 That night, however, she had Bertha's dinner sent to 
 
At aiX-les-baii^s. 105 
 
 her room, and also made arrangements to have her 
 coffee served there in the morning, so it was not until 
 lunch that she had her first experience as second-class. 
 The hall, which was not used for the servants of the 
 house, who had their meals elsewhere, was a long room 
 on the ground-floor, and there she found assembled a 
 mixed company of nurses, maids, couriers, and valets, 
 all talking together in a babel of tongues, English, 
 French, German, Italian, Russian, and Greek, and all so 
 earnest that they did not see the graceful young woman 
 who, with a heightened color and eyes which shone like 
 stars as they took in the scene, walked to the only va- 
 cant seat she saw, which was evidently intended for her, 
 as it was next the courier Browne. But when they did 
 see her they became as silent as if the king himself had 
 come into their midst, while Browne rose to his feet, 
 and with a respectful bow held her chair for her until 
 she was seated, and then asked what he should order for 
 her. Browne, who was a respectable middle-aged man 
 and had traveled extensively with both English and 
 Americans, liad seen that Bertha was superior to her 
 employer, and had shown her many little attentions in 
 a respectful way. He had heard from Celine that she 
 was coming to the second salon, and resented it more, 
 if possible, than Bertha herself, resolving to constitute 
 himself her protector and shield her from every possi- 
 ble annoyance. This she saw at once, and smiled grate- 
 fully upon him. No one spoke to her, and silence 
 reigned as she finished her lunch and then left the room 
 with a bow in which all felt they were included. 
 
 " By Jove, Browne, who is that person, and how came 
 she here ? She looks like a lady," asked an English 
 valet, while two or three Frenchmen nearly lost their 
 
106 MRS. HALLAM S COMPANION. 
 
 balance with their fierce gesticulations, asthey clamored 
 to know who the grande mademoiselle was. 
 
 Striking his fist upon the table to enforce silence, 
 Browne .said : 
 
 " She is a Miss Leighton, from America, and far 
 more a lady than many of the bediamonded and be- 
 satined trash above us. She is in my party as madam's 
 companion, and whoever is guilty of the least imperti- 
 nence towards her in word or look will answer for it to 
 me ; to me, do you understand ?" And he turned 
 fiercely towards a wicked-looking little Frenchman, 
 whose bad eyes had rested too boldly aud too admir- 
 ingly upon the girl. 
 
 Mon Dieu, out, out, out !" the man replied, and then in 
 broken, English asked, " Why comes she here, if she be 
 a lady ?" 
 
 It was Celine who answered for Browne : 
 
 " Because her mistress is a cat, a na-sty old cat, — as 
 the English say. And there is a pair of them. I heard 
 them last night saying she must be put down, and they 
 have put her down here. I hate them, and mine most 
 of all. She tries to get me cheap. She keeps me fly- 
 fly. She gives me no pourboires . She sleeps me in a 
 dog-kennel. Bah ! I stay not, if good chance come. 
 L Amlricaiiie hundred times more lady." 
 
 This voluble speech, which was interpreted by one to 
 another until all had a tolerably correct idea of it, did 
 not diminish the interest in Bertha, to whom after this 
 every possible respect was paid, the men always rising 
 with Browne when she entered the dining-hall and 
 remaining standing until she was seated. Bertha was 
 human, and such homage could not help pleasing her, 
 although it came from those whose language she could 
 
AT AIX-LES-BAINS. 107 
 
 not understand, afid who by birth and education were 
 greatly her inferiors. It was something to be the object 
 of so much respect, and when, warmed by the bright 
 smile she always gave them, the Greeks, and the 
 Russians, and the Italians, not only rose when she 
 entered the hall, but also when she passed them outside, 
 if they chanced to be sitting, she felt that her life had 
 some compensations, if it were one of drudgery and 
 menial service. 
 
 True to her threat, Celine left when a more desirable 
 situation offered, and Mrs. Hallam did not fill her place. 
 " No need of, it, so long as you have Miss Leighton and 
 pay her what you do," Mrs. Haynes said ; and so it 
 came about that Bertha found herself companion in 
 name only and waiting-maid in earnest, walking de- 
 murely by the covered chair which each morning took 
 Mrs. Hallam to her bath, combing that lady's hair, 
 mending and brushing her clothes, carrying messages, 
 doing far more than Celine had done, and doing it so 
 uncomplainingly that both Mrs. Hallam and Mrs. 
 Haynes wondered at her. At last, however, when asked 
 to accompany Mrs. Haynes to the bath, she rebelled. 
 To serve her in that way was impossible, and she an- 
 swered civilly, but decidedly, " No, Mrs. Hallam. I 
 have done and will do whatever you require for your- 
 self, but for Mrs. Haynes, nothing.' She never spares an 
 opportunity to humiliate me. I will not attend her to 
 her bath. I will give up my place first." That settled 
 it, and Bertha was never again asked to wait upon Mrs. 
 Haynes. 
 
108 MKs. hallam's companion. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 GRACE HAYNES. 
 
 " Bravo, Miss Leighton ! I did not suppose there was 
 so much spirit in you, when I saw 3'ou darning madam's 
 stockings and buttoning her boots. You are a brick 
 and positively I admire you. Neither mamma nor Mrs 
 Hallam needs any one to go with them, any more than 
 the sea needs water. But it is English, you know, to 
 have au attendant, and such an attendant, too, as you. 
 Yes, I admire you ! I respect you ! Our door was open, 
 and I heard what you said ; so did mamma, and she is 
 furious ; but I am glad to see one woman assert her 
 rights." 
 
 It was Grace Haynes, who, coming from her bedroom, 
 joined Bertha, as she was walking rapidly down the hall 
 and said all this to her. Bertha had been nearly two 
 weeks at Aix, and, although she had scarcely exchanged 
 a word with Grace, she had often seen her, and remem- 
 bering what Mrs. Hallam had said of her and Reginald, 
 had looked at her rather critically. She was very thin 
 and wiry, with a pale face, yellow hair worn short, large 
 blue eyes, and a nose inclined to an upward curve. 
 She was a kind-hearted, good-natured girl, of a pro- 
 nounced type both in dress and manner and speech. 
 She believed in a little slang, she said, because it gave a 
 point to conversation, and she adored baccarat and 
 rouge-et-noir, and a lot more things which her mother 
 thought highly improper. She had heard all that her 
 mother said of Bertha, and, quick to discriminate, she 
 
GEACE HATNES. 109 
 
 had seen how infinitely superior she was to Mrs. Hallam 
 and had felt drawn to her, but was too much absorbed 
 in her own matters to have any time for a stranger. 
 She was a natural flirt, and, although so plain, always 
 managed to have, as she said, two or three idiots 
 dangling on her string. Just now it was a young Eng- 
 lishman, the grandson of old Lady Gresham, whom she 
 had upon her string, greatly to the disgust of her mother, 
 with whom she was not often in perfect accord. 
 
 Linking her arm in Bertha's as they went down the 
 stairs, she continued, " Are you going to walk ? I am, 
 ■up the hill. Come with me. I've been dying to talk to 
 you ever since you came, but have been so engaged, and 
 you are always so busy with madam since Celine went 
 away. Good pious work you must find it waiting on 
 madam and mamma both ! I don't see how you do it so 
 sweetly. You must have a great deal of what they 
 call inward and spiritual grace. I wish you'd give me 
 some." 
 
 Grace was the first girl of her own age and nation who 
 had spoken to Bertha since she left America, and she 
 responded readily to the friendly advance. 
 
 "I don't believe I have any inward and spiritual 
 grace to spare," she said. " I only do what I hired out 
 to do. You know I must earn my wages." 
 
 " Yes," Grace answered, " I know, and I wish I could 
 earn wages, too. It would be infinitely more respect- 
 able than the way we get our money." 
 
 " How do you get it ?" Bertha asked, and Grace re- 
 plied, " Don't you know? You have certainly heard of 
 high-born English dames who, for a consideration, un- 
 dertake to hoist ambitious Americans into society .'" 
 
 Bertha bad heard of such things, and Grace con- 
 
110 MK8. HALLAM'S companion. 
 
 tinuecl, " Well, that is what mamma does at home on a 
 smaller scale ; and she succeeds, too. Everj'body 
 knows Mrs. Walker Haynes, with blood so blue that 
 indigo is pale beside it, and if she pulls a string for a 
 puppet to dance, all the other puppets dance in unison. 
 Sometimes she chaperons a party of young ladies, but as 
 these give her a good deal of trouble, she prefers people 
 like Mrs. Hallam, who without her would never get 
 into society. Society ! I hate the word, with all it in- 
 volves. Do you see that colt over there ?" and she 
 pointed to a young horse in an adjoining field. " Well, 
 I am like that colt, kicking up its heels in a perfect 
 abandon of freedom. But harness it to a cart, with 
 thills and lines and straps and reins, and then apply the 
 whip, won't it rebel with all its might ? And if it gets 
 its feet over the traces and breaks in the dash-board 
 who can blame it ? I'm just like that colt. I hate that 
 old- go-giggle called society, which says you mustn't do 
 this and you must do that because it is or is not proper 
 and Mrs. Grundy would be shocked. I like to shock 
 her, and I'd rather take boarders than live as we do 
 now. I'd do anything to earn money. That's why I 
 play at baccarat." 
 
 " Baccarat !" Bertha repeated, with a little start. ■ 
 " Yes, baccarat. Don't try to pull away from me. I 
 felt you," Grace said, holding Bertha closer by the arm. 
 " You are Massachusetts born and have a lot of Mas- 
 sachusetts notions, of course, and I respect you for it, 
 but I am Bohemian through and through. Wasn't born 
 anywhere in particular, and have been in your so-called 
 first society all my life and detest it. We have a little 
 income, and could live in the country with one servant 
 comfortably, as so many people do ; but that would not 
 
GRACE HATNES. . Ill 
 
 suit mamrna, and so we go from pillar to post and live 
 on other people, until I am ashamed. I am successful 
 at baccarat. They say the old jjent who tempted Eve 
 helps new beginners at cards, and I believe he helps me, 
 I win so often. I know it isn't good form, but what can 
 I do ? If I don't play baccarat there's nothing left for 
 me but to marry, and that I never shall." 
 
 "Why not ?" Bertha asked, becoming more and more 
 interested in the strange girl talking so confidentially 
 to her. 
 
 " Why not ?" Grace repeated. " That shows that you 
 are not in it,— the swim, I mean. Don't you know that 
 few young men nowadays can afford to marry a poor 
 girl and support her in her extravagance and laziness .' 
 She must. have money to get any kind of a show, and 
 that I haven't, — nor beauty either, like you, whose face 
 is worth a fortune. Don't say it isn't ; don't fib," she 
 continued, as Bertha tried to speak. " You know you 
 are beautiful, with a grande-duchesse air which makes 
 everybody turn to look at you, even the king. I saw 
 him, and I've seen those Russians and Greeks, who are 
 here with some high cockalorums, take off their hats 
 when you came near them. Celine told me how they all 
 stand up when you enter the salk-a-manger. I call that 
 genuine homage, which I'd give a good deal to have." 
 
 She had let go Bertha's arm and was walking a little 
 in advance, when she stopped suddenly, and, turning 
 round, said, " I wonder what you will think of Rex 
 Hallam." 
 
 Bertha made no reply, and she went on : "I know 
 I am talking queerly, but I must let myself out to some 
 one. Rex is coming before long, and you will know 
 then, if you dpa't now, that mamma is moving heaven 
 
112 MKS. hallam's companion. 
 
 and earth to make a match between us ; but she never 
 will. I am not his style, and he is far more likely to 
 marry you than me. I have known him for years, and 
 could get up a real liking for him if it would be of any 
 use, but it wouldn't. He doesn't want a washed-out, 
 yellow-haired girl like me. Nobody does, unless it's 
 Jack Travis, old Lady Gresham's grandson, with no 
 prospects and only a hundred pounds a year and an 
 orange grove in Florida, which he never saw, and which 
 yields nothing, for want of proper attention. He says 
 he would like to go out there and rough it ; that he does 
 not like being tied to his grandmother's apron-strings ; 
 and that, give him a chance, he would gladly work. I 
 have two hundred dollars a year more. Do you think 
 we could live on that and the climate ?" 
 
 They had been retracing their steps, and were near 
 the hotel, where they met the young Englishman in 
 question, evideritly looking for Miss Haynes. He was 
 a shambling, loose-jointed young man, but he had a 
 good face, and there was a ring in his voice which Ber- 
 tha liked, as he spoke first to Grace and then to herself, 
 as Grace presented him to her. Knowing that as a 
 third party she was in the way. Bertha left them and 
 went into the hotel, while they went down into the town, 
 where they stayed so long that Lady Gresham and Mrs. 
 Haynes began to get anxious as to their whereabouts. ^ 
 Both ladies knew of the intimacy between the young 
 people, and both heartily disapproved of it. Under 
 some circumstances Mrs. Haynes would have been de- 
 lighted to have for a son-in-law Lady Gresham's grand- 
 son. But she prized money more than a title, and one 
 hundred pounds a year with a doubtful orange grove in 
 Florida did not commend themselves to her, while Lady 
 
GEACH HAYNES. 113 
 
 Gresham, although very gracious to Mrs. Haynes, 
 because it was not in her nature to be otherwise to any 
 one, did not like the fast American girl, who wore her 
 hair short, carried her hands in her pockets like a man, 
 and believed in women's rights. If Jack were insane 
 enough to marry her she would wash her hands of him 
 and send him off to that orange grove, where she had 
 heard there was a little dilapidated house in which he 
 could try to live on the climate and one hundred a year. 
 Some such thoughts as these were passing through 
 Lady Gresham's mind, while Mrs. Haynes was thinking 
 of Grace's perversity in encouraging young Travis, and 
 of Reginald Hallam, from whom Mrs. Hallam had that 
 morning had a letter and who was coming to Aix earlier 
 than he had intended doing. Nearly all his friends 
 were out of town, he wrote, and the house was so lonely 
 without his aunt that she might expect him within two 
 or three weeks at the farthest. He did not say what 
 steamer he should take, but, as ten days had elapsed 
 since his letter was written, Mrs! Hallam said she should 
 not be surprised to see him at any time, and her face 
 wore an air of pleased expectancy at the pro.spect of 
 having Rex with her once more. But a thought of Ber- 
 tha brought a cloud upon it at once. She had intended 
 removing her from the second-class salle-a-manger be- 
 fore Rex came, but did not know how to manage it. 
 
 "The girl seems contented enough," she thought, 
 •' and I hear has a great deal of attention there, — in 
 fact, is quite like a queen among her subjects ; so I 
 guess I'll let it run, and if Rex flares up I'll trust Mrs. 
 Haynes \o help me out of it, as she gjot me into it," 
 
114 MKS. hallam's companion. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE OPERA. 
 
 It was getting rather dull at the Hotel Splendide. 
 The novelty of having a king in their midst, who went 
 about unattended in citizen's dress, and bowed to all 
 who looked as if they wished him to bow to them, was 
 wearing off, and he could go in and out as often as he 
 liked without being followed or stared at. The grand 
 duchess, too, whose apartments were screened from 
 the great unwashed, had had her Sunday dinner-party, 
 with scions of French royalty in the Bourbon line for 
 her guests, and a band of music outside. The woman 
 from Chicago, who had flirted so outrageously with her 
 eyes with the Russian, while his little wife sat by smil- 
 ing placidly and suspecting no evil because the 
 Chicagoan professed to speak no language but English, 
 of which her husband did not understand a word, bad 
 departed for other fields. The French count, who had 
 beaten his American bride of three weeks' standing, 
 had also gone, and the hotel had subsided into a state 
 of great respectability and circumspection. 
 
 " Positively we are stagnating, with nothing to gossip 
 about except Jack and myself, and nothing going on in 
 town," Grace Haynes said to Bertha, with whom she 
 continued on the most friendly terms. 
 
 But the stagnation came to an end and the town 
 woke up when it was known that Miss Sanderson from 
 San Francisco was to appear in opera at the Casino. 
 Everybody had heard of the young prima donna, an(} 
 
THE NIGHT OF THE OPERA. 115 
 
 all were anxious to see her. Mrs. Hallam took a box 
 for Mrs. Haynes, Grace, and herself, but, although 
 there was plenty of room, Bertha was not included in 
 the party. Nearly all the guests were going from the 
 third floor, which would thus be left entirely to the 
 servants, and Mrs. Hallam, who was always suspecting 
 foreigners of pilfering from her, did not dare leave 
 her rooms alone, so Rertba must stay and watch them. 
 She had done this before when Mrs. Hallam was at the 
 Casino, but to-night it seemed particularly hard, as she 
 wished to see Miss Sanderson so much that she would 
 willingly have stood in the rear seats near the door, 
 where a crowd always congregated. But there was no 
 help for it, and after seeing Mrs. Hallam and her party 
 off she went into the salon, and, taking an easy-chair 
 and a book, sat down to enjoy the quiet and the rest. 
 She was very tired, for Mrs. Hallam had kept her un- 
 usually busy that day, arranging the dress she was going 
 to wear, and sending her twice down the long, steep 
 hill into the town in quest of something needed for her 
 toilet. It was very still in and around the hotel, and at 
 last, overcome by fatigue and drowsiness. Bertha's book 
 dropped into her lap and she fell asleep with her head 
 thrown back against the cushioned chair and one hand 
 resting on its arm. Had she tried she could not have 
 chosen a more graceful position, or one which showed 
 her face and figure to better advantage, and so thought 
 Rex Hallam, when, fifteen or twenty minutes later, he 
 stepped into the room and stood looking at her. 
 
 Ever since his visit to the Homestead he had found 
 his thoughts constantly turning to Aix-Ies-Bains, and had 
 made up his mind to go on a certain ship, when he acci- 
 dentally met Fred Thurston, who was stoppiiig in New 
 
116 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 York for two or three days before sailing. There was 
 an invitation to dinner at the Windsor, and as a result 
 Rex pkcked his trunk, and, securing a vacant berth, 
 sailed for Havre with the Thurstons a week earlier than 
 he had expected to sail. Fred was sick all the voyage 
 and kept his berth, but Louie seemed perfectly well, and 
 had never been so happy since she was a child play- 
 ing with Rex under the magnolias in Florida as she 
 was now, walking and talking with him upon the deck, 
 where, with her piquant, childish beauty, she attracted 
 a great deal of attention and provoked some comment 
 from the censorious when it was known that she had a 
 husband sick in his berth. -But Louie was guiltless of 
 any intentional wrong-doing. She had said to Bertha 
 in Boston, that she believed Fred was going to die, he 
 was so good ; and, with a few exceptions, when the 
 Hyde nature was in the ascendant, he had kept good 
 ever since. He had urged Rex's going with them quite 
 as strongly as Louie,- and when he found himself 
 unable to stay on deck, he had bidden Louie go and en- 
 joy herself, saying, however : 
 
 " I know what a flirt you are, but I can trust Rex 
 Hallam, on whom your doll beauty has never made an 
 impression and never will ; so go and be happy with 
 him." 
 
 This was not a pleasant thing to say, but it was like 
 Fred Thurston to say it, and he looked curiously at 
 Louie to see how it would affect her. There was a flush 
 on her face for a moment, while the tears sprang to her 
 eyes. But she was of too sunny a disposition to be mis- 
 erable long, and, thinking to herself, "Just for this 
 one week I will be happy," she tied on her pretty sea- 
 cloak and hood, and went on deck, and was happy a§ a, 
 
THE NIGHT OF THE OPEEA. 117 
 
 child when something it has lost and mourned is found 
 again. At Paris they separated, the Thurstons going on 
 to Switzerland, and Rex to Aix-les-Bains, laden with 
 messages of love to Bertha, who had been the principal 
 subject of Louie's talk during the voyage. In a burst 
 of confidence Rex had told her of. Rose Arabella Jef- 
 ferson's photograph, and Louie had laughed merrily 
 over the mistake, saying : 
 
 " You will find Bertha handsomer than her picture. 
 I think you will fall in love with her ; and — if — you — 
 
 do " she spoke the last words verj' slowly, while 
 
 shadow after shadow flitted over her face as if she were 
 fighting some battle with herself ; then, with a bright 
 smile, she added, " I shall be glad." 
 
 Rex's journey from Paris to Aix was accomplished 
 without any worse mishap than a detention of the train 
 for three hours or more, so that it was not until his aunt 
 had been gone some time that he reached the hotel, 
 where he was told that Mrs. Hallam and party were at 
 the Casino. 
 
 " I suppose she has a salon. I will go there and wait 
 till she returns," Rex said, and then followed a servant 
 up-stairs and along the hall in the direction of the 
 salon. 
 
 He had expected to find it locked, and was rather sur- 
 [ji-ised when he saw the open door and the light inside, 
 and still more surprised as he entered the room to find 
 a young lady so fast asleep that his coming did not dis- 
 turb her. He readily guessed who she was, and for a 
 moment stood looking at her admiringly, noting every 
 point of beauty from the long lashes shading her cheeks 
 to the white hand resting upon the arm of the chair. 
 
 " Phineas was right. She is handsome as blazes, but 
 
11^ MBS. HALLAm's companion. 
 
 I don't think it is quite the thing for me to stand star- 
 ing at her this way. It is taking an unfair advantage of 
 her. I must present myself properly," he thought, and, 
 stepping into the hall, he knocked rather loudly upon 
 the door. 
 
 Bertha awoke with a start and sprang to her feet in 
 some alarm as, in response to her " Entrez," a tall young 
 man stepped into the room and stood confronting her 
 with a good deal of assurance. 
 
 " You must have made a mistake, sir. This is Mrs. 
 Hallam's salon," she said, rather haughtily, while Rex 
 replied : 
 
 " Yes, I know it. Mrs. Hallam is my aunt, and you 
 must be Miss Leighton." 
 
 "Oh !" Bertha exclaimed, her attitude changing at 
 once, as she recognized the stranger. " Your aunt is 
 expecting you, but not quite so soon. She will be very 
 sorry not to have been here to meet you. She has gone 
 to the opera. Miss Sanderson is in town.'' 
 
 " So they told me at the office," Rex said, explaining 
 that he had crossed a little sooner than he had intended, 
 but did not telegraph his aunt, as he wished to surprise 
 her. He then added, "I am too late for dinner, but I 
 suppose I can have my supper up here, which will be 
 better than climbing the three flights of stairs again. 
 That scoop of an elevator has gone ashore for repairs, 
 and I had to walk up." 
 
 Ringing the bell, he ordered his supper, while Bertha 
 started to leave the salon, saying she hoped he would 
 make himself comfortable until his aunt returned. 
 
 "Don't go," he said, stepping between her and the 
 door to detain her. " Stay and keep me company. I 
 have been shut up in a close railway carriage all day 
 
THE NIGHT OF THE OPERA. 119 
 
 with French and Germans, and am dying to talk to 
 some one who speaks English." 
 
 He made her sit down in the chair from which she 
 had risen when he came in, and, drawing another near 
 to her, said, " You do not seem like a stranger, but 
 rather like an old acquaintance. Why, for a whole 
 week I have heard of little else but you." 
 
 " Of me !" Bertha said, in surprise. 
 
 He replied, " I crossed with Mr. and Mrs. Fred 
 Thurston. She, I believe, is your cousin, and was never 
 tired of talking of you, and has sent more love to you 
 than one man ought to carry for some one else." 
 
 " Cousin Louie ! Yes, I knew she was coming about 
 this time. And 3'ou crossed with her ?" Bertha said, 
 thinking what a fine-looking man he was, while there 
 came to her mind what Louie had said of his gracious- 
 ness of manner, which made every woman think she 
 was especially pleasing to him, whether she were old or 
 young, pretty or plain, rich or poor. He talked so 
 easily and pleasantly and familiarly that it was difficult 
 to think of him as a stranger, and she was not sorry 
 that he had bidden her stay. 
 
 When supper was on the table he looked it over a 
 moment, and then said to the waiter, " Bring dishes 
 and napkins enough for two ;" then to Bertha, "If I re- 
 member the table d'Mtes abroad, they are not of a 
 nature to make one refuse supper at ten o'clock ; so I 
 hope you are ready to join me." 
 
 Bertha had been treated as second-class so long that 
 she had almost come to believe she was second-class, and 
 the idea of sitting down to supper with Rex Hallam in 
 his aunt's salon took her breath away. 
 
 " Don't refuse," he continued. " It will be so much 
 
120 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 jollier than eating alone, and I want you to pour my 
 coffee." 
 
 He brought her a chair, and before she realized what 
 she was doing she found herself sitting opposite him 
 quite enfamille, and chatting as familiarly as if she had 
 known him all her life. He told her of his visit to the 
 Homestead, his drive with Dorcas, and his meeting with 
 Phineas Jones, over which she laughed merrily, feeling 
 that America was not nearly so far away as it had 
 seemed before he came. When supper was over and 
 the table cleared, he began to talk of books and pic- 
 tures, finding that as a rule they liked the same authors 
 and admired the same artists. 
 
 " By the way,'' he said, suddenly, " why are you not 
 at the opera with my aunt ? Are you not fond of 
 music ?" 
 
 " Yes, very," Bertha replied, " but some one must stay 
 with the rooms. Mrs. Hallam is afraid to leave them 
 alone." 
 
 " Ah, yes. Afraid somebody will steal her diamonds, 
 which she keeps doubly and trebly locked, first in a 
 padded box, then in her trunk, and last in her room. 
 Well, I am glad for my sake that you didn't go. But 
 isn't it rather close up here ? Suppose we go down. 
 It's a glorious moonlight night, and there must be a 
 piazza somewhere." 
 
 Bertha thought of the broad, vine-wreathed piazza, 
 with its eas)'-chairs, where it would be delightful to sit 
 with Reginald Hallam, but she must not leave her post, 
 and she said so. 
 
 " Oh, I see ; another case of the boy on the burning 
 deck," Rex said, laughing. " I suppose j'ou are right ; 
 but I never had much patience with that boy. I 
 
THE NIGHT OF THE OPEKA. 121 
 
 shouldn't have stayed till I was blown higher than a 
 kite, but should have run with the first snifE of fire. 
 You think I'd better go down ? Not a bit of it ; if you 
 stay here, I shall. It can't be long now before they 
 come. Zounds ! I beg your pardon. Until I said they, I 
 had forgotten to inquire for Mrs. Haynes and Grace. 
 They are well, I suppose, and with my aunt .?" 
 
 Bertha said they were, and Rex continued : 
 
 " Grace and I are great friends. She's a little pecu- 
 liar, — wants to vote, and all that sort of thing, — but I 
 like her immensely.'' 
 
 Then he talked on indifferent subjects until Mrs. Hal- 
 lam was heard coming along the hall, panting and talk- 
 ing loudly, and evidently out of humor. The elevator, 
 which Rex said had been drawn off for repairs, was 
 still off, and she had been obliged to walk up the stairs, 
 and didn't like it. Bertha had risen to her feet as soon 
 as she heard her voice, while Rex, too, rose and stood 
 behind her in the shadow, so his aunt did not see him as 
 she entered the room, and, sinking into the nearest 
 chair, said, irritably : 
 
 " Hurry and help me off with my things. I'm half 
 dead. Whew ! Isn't that lamp smoking ? How it 
 smells here ! Open another window. The lift is not 
 running, and I had to walk up the stairs," 
 
 " I knew it stopped earlier in the evening, but sup- 
 posed it was running now. I am very sorry," Bertha 
 said, and Mrs. Hallam continued : 
 
 " You ought to have found out and been down there 
 to help me up." 
 
 " I didn't come any too soon," Rex thought, stepping 
 out from the shadow, and saying, in his cheery voice, 
 " Halloo, auntie ! All tuckered out, aren't you, with 
 
122 Uns. HALLAlt's COMPANION. 
 
 those horrible stairs ! I tried them, and they took the 
 wind out of me." 
 
 " Oh, Rex, Rex !" Mrs. Hallara cried, throwing her 
 arms around the tall young man, who bent over her and 
 returned her caresses, while he explained that he did 
 not telegraph, as he wished to surprise her, and that he 
 had reached the hotel half an hour or so after she 
 left it. 
 
 " Why didn't you come at once to the Casino ? There 
 was plenty of room in our box, and you must have been 
 so dull here." 
 
 Rex replied : " Not at all dull, with Miss Leighton 
 for company. I ordered my supper up here and had 
 her join me. So you see I have made myself quite at 
 home." 
 
 " I see," Mrs. Hallam said, with a tone in her voice 
 and a shutting together of her lips which Bertha under- 
 stood perfectly. 
 
 She had gathered up Mrs. Hallam's mantle and bon- 
 net and opera-glass and fan and gloves by this time ; 
 and, knowing she was no longer needed, she left the 
 room just as Mrs. Haynes and Grace, who had heard 
 Rex's voice, entered it. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AFTER THE OPERA. 
 
 The ladies slept late the next morning, and Rex 
 breakfasted alone and then went to the salon to meet 
 his aunt, as he had promised to do the night before,' It 
 
awer the oPeka. 123 
 
 was rather tiresome waiting, and he found himself 
 wishing Bertha would come in, and wondering where 
 she was. As a young man of position and wealth and 
 unexceptionable habits, he was a genefal favorite with 
 the ladies, and many a mother Would gladly have 
 captured him for her daughter, while the daughter 
 would not have said no if asked to be his wife. This 
 he knew perfectly well, but, he said, the daughters didn't 
 fill the bill. He wanted a real girl, not a made-up one, 
 with powdered face, bleached hair, belladonna eyes, 
 and all the obnoxious habits so fast stealing ifito the 
 best society. Little Louie Thurston had touched his 
 boyish fancy, and he admired her more than any other 
 woman he had ever met ; Grace Haynes amused and 
 interested him ; but neither she nor Louie posse'ssed 
 the qualities with which he had endowed his ideal wife, 
 who, he had come to believe, did not exist. Thus far 
 everything connected with Bertha Leighton had inter- 
 ested him greatly, and the two hours he had spent 
 alone with her had deepened that interest. She was 
 beautiful, agreeable, and real, he believed, with some- 
 thing fresh and bright and original about her. He was 
 anxious to see her again, and was thinking of going 
 down to the piazza, hoping to find her there, when his 
 aunt appeared, and for the next hour he sat with her, 
 telling her of their friends in New York and of his visit 
 to the Homestead, where he had been so hospitably 
 entertained and made so many discoveries with regard 
 to Bertha. 
 
 " She is a great favorite in Leicester," he said, " and 
 I think you have a treasure." 
 
 "Yes, she serves me very well," Mrs. Hallam replied, 
 and then changed the conversation, just as Grace 
 
124 Mfts. SaLlam's companion. 
 
 knocked at the door, saying she was going for a walk 
 into town, and asking if Rex would like to go with 
 her, 
 
 It was a long ramble they had together, while Grace 
 told him of her acquaintances in Aix, and especially of 
 the young Englishman, Jack Travis, and the Florida 
 orange grove on which he had sunk a thousand dollars 
 with no return. 
 
 " Tell him to quit sinking, and go and see to it him- 
 self," Rex said. " Living in England or at the North 
 and sending money South to be used on a grove, is 
 much like a woman trying to keep house successfully 
 by sitting in her chamber and issuing her orders through 
 a speaking tube, instead of going to the kitchen herself 
 to see what is being done there." 
 
 Rex's illustrations were rather peculiar, but they 
 were sensible. Grace understood this one perfectly, 
 and began to revolve in her mind the feasibility of ad- 
 vising Jack to .go to Florida and attend to his business 
 himself, instead of talking through a tube. Then she 
 spoke of Bertha, and was at once conscious of an air of 
 increased interest in Reginald, as she told him how 
 much she liked the girl and how .strangely he seemed to 
 be mixed up with her. 
 
 " You see, Mrs. Hallam tells mamma everything, 
 and so I know all about Rose Arabella Jefferson's pic- 
 ture. I nearly fell out of my chair when I heard about 
 it ; and I know, too, about your knocking Miss Leigh- 
 ton down on the Teutonic " 
 
 " Wha-at !" Rex exclaimed ; " was that Ber — Miss 
 Leighton, I mean ?" 
 
 " Certainly that was Bertha. You may as well call 
 her that when with me," Grace replied. " I knew you 
 
AFTER THE OPERA. 125 
 
 would admire her. You can't help it. I am glad you 
 have come, and I hope you will rectify a lot of things." 
 
 Rex looked at her inquiringly, but before he could 
 ask what she meant, they turned a corner and came 
 upon Jack Travis, who joined them, and on hearing 
 that Rex was from New York began to ask after his 
 orange grove, as if he thought Reginald passed it 
 daily on his way to his business. 
 
 " What a stupid you are !" Grace said. " Mr. Hallam 
 never saw an orange grove in his life. Why, you could 
 put three or four United Kingdoms into the space 
 between New York and Florida." 
 
 " Reely ! How very extraordinary !" the young 
 Englishman said, utterly unable to comprehend the 
 vastness of America, towards which he was beginning 
 to turn his thoughts as a place where he might possibly 
 live on seven hundred dollars a year with Grace to 
 manage it and him. 
 
 When they reached the hotel it was lunch-time, ai)d 
 after a few touches to his toilet Rex started for the 
 salle-a-manger, thinking that now he should see 
 Bertha, in whom he felt a still greater interest since 
 learning that it was she to whom he had given the 
 black eye on the Teutonic. " The hand of fate is cer- 
 tainly in it," he thought, without exactly knowing what 
 the it referred to. Mrs. Hallam and Mrs. Haynes and 
 Grace were already at the table when he entered the 
 room and was shown to the only vacant seat, between 
 his aunt and Grace. 
 
 " This must be Miss Leighton's place," he said, stand- 
 ing by the chair. " 1 do not wish to keep her from her 
 accustomed seat. Where is she?" and he looked up and 
 dowii both sides of the long table, bqt did not gee her, 
 
126 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 > 
 
 " Where is she?" he asked again, and his aunt replied 
 " She is not coming to-day. Sit down, and I will 
 explain after lunch." 
 
 " What is there to explain ?" he thought, as he sat 
 down and glanced first at his aunt's worried face, then 
 at Grace, and then at Mrs. Haynes. 
 
 Then an idea occurred to him which almost made him 
 jump from his chair. He said to Grace : 
 
 " Does Miss Leighton lunch in her room ?" 
 
 " Oh, no," Grace replied. 
 
 " Doesn't she come here ?" he persisted. 
 
 " Your aunt will explain. I would rather not," Grace 
 said. 
 
 There was something wrong. Rex was sure, and he 
 finished lunch before the others and left the salon just 
 in time to see Bertha half-way up the second flight of 
 stairs. Bounding up two steps at a time, he soon stood 
 beside her, with his hand on her arm to help her up the 
 next flight. 
 
 " I have not seen you this morning. Where have 
 you kept yourself?" he asked, and she replied : 
 
 " I have been busy in your aunt's room." 
 
 " Where is her maid ?" was his next question, and 
 Bertha answered : 
 
 " She has been gone some time." 
 
 " Andyou fill her place ?" 
 
 " I do what Mrs. Hallam wishes me to." 
 
 " Why were you not at lunch .'" 
 
 " I have been to lunch." 
 
 " You have ! Where ?" 
 
 " Where I always take it." 
 
 " And where is that ?" 
 
 There wa§ something in Rex's voice and manner 
 
ABTKE THE OPERA. 127 
 
 which told Bertha that he was not to be trifled with, 
 and she replied, " I take my meals in the servants' hall, 
 or rather with the maids and nurses and couriers. It is 
 not bad when you are accustomed to it," she added, as 
 she saw the blackness on Reginald's face and the wrath 
 in his eyes. They had now reached the door of Mrs. 
 Hallam's room, and Mrs. Hallam was just leaving the 
 elevator in company with Mrs. Haynes, who very wisely 
 went into her own apartment and left her friend to 
 meet the storm alone. 
 
 And a fierce storm it was. At its close Mrs. Hallam 
 was in tears, and Rex was striding up and down the 
 salon like an enraged lion. Mrs. Hallam had tried to 
 apologize and explain, telling how respectful all the 
 couriers and valets were, how much less it cost, and that 
 Mrs. Haynes said the English sent their companions 
 there, and governesses too, sometimes. Rex did not 
 care a picayune for what the English did ; he almost 
 swore about Mrs. Haynes, whose handiwork he recog- 
 nized ; he scorned the idea of its costing less, and said 
 that unless Bertha were at once treated as an equal in 
 every respect he would either leave the hotel or join 
 her in the second-class salon and see for himself whether 
 those rascally Russians and Turks and Frenchmen 
 looked at her as they had no business to look. 
 
 At this point Bertha, who had no suspicion of what was 
 taking place in the salon, and who wished to speak to 
 Mrs. Hallam, knocked at the door. Rex opened it with 
 the intention of sending the intruder away, but when he 
 saw Bertha he bade her come in, and, standing with his 
 back against the door, went over the" whole matter 
 again and told her she was to join them at dinner. 
 
 ♦' And if there is no place for you at my aiint's end of 
 
128 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 the table there is at the other, and I shall sit there with 
 you," he said. 
 
 He had settled everything satisfactorily, he thought, 
 when a fresh difficulty arose with Bertha herself. She 
 had listened in surprise to Rex, and smiled gratefully 
 upon him through the tears she could not repress, but 
 she said, " I cannot tell you how much I thank you for 
 your sympathy and kind intentions. But really I am 
 not unhappy in the servants' hall, nor have I received 
 the slightest discourtesy. Browne, our courier, has 
 stood between me and everything which might have 
 been unpleasant, and I have quite a liking for my com- 
 panions. And," — here her face hardened and her eyes 
 grew very dark, — " nothing can induce me to join your 
 party as you propose while Mrs. Haynes is in it. She 
 has worried and insulted me from the moment she saw 
 me. She suggested and urged my going to the ser- 
 vants' hall against your aunt's wishes, and has never let 
 an opportunity pass to make me feel my subordinate 
 position. I like Miss Haynes very miich, but her mother 
 
 " there was a toss of Bertha's head indicative of 
 
 her opinion of the mother, an opinion which Rex fully 
 shared, and if he could he would have turned Mrs. 
 Haynes from the hotel bag and baggage. 
 
 But this was impossible. He could neither dislodge 
 her nor move Bertha from her decision, which he under- 
 stood and respected. But he could take her and his 
 aunt away from Aix and commence life under different 
 auspices in some other place. He had promised to join 
 a party of friends at Chamonix, and he would go there 
 at once, and then find some quiet, restful place in Switz- 
 erland, from which excursions could be made and where 
 bis aurit covjld join hirn with Bertha, This was his plan. 
 
AFTKB THE OPERA. 129 
 
 which met with Mrs. Hallam's approval. She was get- 
 ting tired of Aix, and a little tired, too, of Mrs. Haynes, 
 who had not helped her into society as much as she 
 had expected. Lady Gresham, though civil, evidently 
 shunned the party, presumably because of Grace's flirta- 
 tion with Jack, while very few desirable people were on 
 terms of intimacy with her, and the undesirable she 
 would not notice. In fresh fields, however, with Rex, 
 who took precedence everywhere, she should do better, 
 and she was quite willing to go wherever and whenever 
 he chose. That night at dinner she told Mrs. Haynes 
 her plans, and that Rex was to leave the next day for 
 Chamonix. 
 
 " So soon .' I am surprised, and sorry, too ; Grace 
 has anticipated your coming so much and planned so 
 many things to do when you came. She will be so dis- 
 appointed. Can't we persuade you to stop a few days 
 at least ?" Mrs. Haynes said, leaning forward and look- 
 ing at Rex with a very appealing face, while Grace 
 stepped on her foot and. whispered to her : 
 
 " For heaven's sake, don't throw me at Rex Hallam's 
 head, and make him more disgusted with us than he is 
 already." 
 
 The next morning Rex brought his aunt a little, 
 black-eyed French girl, Eloise, whom lie had found in 
 town, and who had once or twice served in the capacity 
 of maid. He had made the bargain with her himself, 
 and such a bargain as he felt sure would ensure her stay 
 in his aunt's service, no matter what was put upon her. 
 He had also enumerated many of the duties the girl 
 was expected to perform, and among them was waiting 
 upon Miss Leigh ton equally with his aunt. He laid 
 great stress upon this, and, in order to secure Eloise'^ 
 
130 MKS. hallam's companion. 
 
 respect for Bertha, he insisted if the latter would not go 
 to the same table with Mrs. Haynes she should take her 
 meals in the salon. To this Bertha reluctantly con- 
 sented, and at dinner she found herself installed in soli- 
 tary state in the handsome salon and served like a 
 young empress by the obsequious waiter, who, "having 
 seen the color of Reginald's gold, was all attention to 
 Mademoiselle. It was a great change, and in her loneli- 
 ness she half wished herself back with her heterogeneous 
 companions, who had amused and interested her, and 
 to some of whom she was really attached. But just as 
 dessert was served Rex came in and joined her, and 
 everything was changed, for there was no mistaking the 
 interest he was beginning to feel in her ; it showed it- 
 self in ways which never fail to reach a woman's heart. 
 At his aunt's earnest entreaty he had decided to spend 
 another night at Aix, but he left the next morning with 
 instructions that Mrs. Hallam should be ready to join 
 him whenever he wrote her to do so. 
 
 "And mind," he said, laying a hand on each of her 
 shoulders, " don't you bring Mrs. Haynes with-you, for 
 I will not have her. Pension her off, if you want to, 
 and I will pay the bill ; but leave her here," 
 
AT THE BEAU-RITAGE. 131 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 AT THE BEAU-RIVAGE. 
 
 " Beau-Rivage, Ouchy, Switzerland, August 4, 18 — . 
 " To Miss Bertha Leighton, Hotel Splendide, 
 
 Aix-les-Bains, Savoie. 
 " Fred is dying, and I am ill in bed. Come at once. 
 
 " Louie Thurston." 
 
 This was the telegram which Bertha received about 
 a week after Rex's departure for Chamonix, and within 
 an hour of its receipt her trunk was packed an-d she 
 was ready for the first train which would take her to 
 Ouchy. Mrs. Hallam had made no objection to her go- 
 ing, but, on the contrary, seemed rather relieved than 
 otherwise, for since the revolution which Rex had 
 brought about she hardly knew what to do with Bertha. 
 The maid Eloise had proved a treasure, and under the 
 combined effects of ^Q'k.'s pourboire and Rex's instruc- 
 tions, had devoted herself so assiduously to both Mrs. 
 Hallam and Bertha that it was difficult to tell which 
 she was serving most. But she ignored Mrs. Haynes 
 entirely, saying that Monsieur's orders were for his 
 Madame and his Mademoiselle, and she should recog- 
 nize the rights of no third party until he told her to do 
 so. In compliance with Rex's wishes, very decidedly 
 expressed, Mrs. Hallam now took all her meals in the 
 salon with Bertha, but they were rather dreary affairs, 
 and, although sorry for the cause, both were glad when 
 an opportunity came for a change. 
 
132 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 "Certainly it is your duty to go," Mrs. Hallam said^ 
 when Bertha handed her the telegram, while Mrs. 
 Haynes also warmly approved of the plan, and both 
 expressed surprise that Bertha had never told them o£ 
 her relationship to Mrs. Fred Thurston. 
 
 They knew Mrs. Fred was a power in society, and 
 Mrs. Haynes had met her once or twice and through a 
 friend had managed to attend a reception at her house, 
 which she described as magnificent. To be Mrs. Fred 
 Thurston's cousin was to be somebody, and both Mrs. 
 Hallam and Mrs. Haynes became suddenly interested 
 in Bertha, the latter offering her advice with regard to 
 the journey, while the former suggested the propriety 
 of sending Browne as an escort. But Bertha declined 
 the offer. She could speak the language fluently and 
 would have no difficulty whatever in finding her way to 
 Ouchy, she said, but she thanked the ladies for their 
 solicitude and parted with them, apparently, on the 
 most amicable terms. Grace accompanied her to the 
 station, and while waiting for the train said to her con- 
 fidentially, " I expect there will be a bigger earthquake 
 b5'e-and-bye than Rex got up on your account. Jack and 
 I are engaged. I made up my mind last night to take 
 the great, good-natured, awkward fellow and run my 
 chance on seven hundred dollars a year. It will come 
 off early in the autumn, and we shall go-.to Florida and 
 see what we can do with that orange-grove. Jack will 
 have to work, and so shall I, and I shall like it and he 
 won't, but I shall keep him at it, trust me. Can you 
 imagine mother's disgust when I tell her ? She really 
 thinks that I have a chance with Rex. But that is 
 folly. Play your cards well, I think you hold 3 lor? 
 
AT THE BEAtr-EIVAG«4 133 
 
 hand. There^s your train. Write when you get there, 
 Good-bye." 
 
 There was a friendly parting, a rush through the 
 gate for the carriages, a slamming of doors, and then 
 the train sped on its way, bearing Bertha to a new 
 phase of life in Ouchy. 
 
 Thurston had been sick all the voyage, and instead of 
 resting in Paris, as Rex had advised him and Louie had 
 entreated him to do, he had started at once for Geneva 
 and taken a severe cold on the night train. Arrived at 
 the Beau-Rivage in Ouchy, he refused to see a physician 
 until his wife came down with nervous prostration and 
 one was called for her. Louie had had rather a hard 
 time after Rex left her in Paris, for, as if to make amends 
 for his Jekyll mood on the ship, her husband was un- 
 usually unreasonable, and worried her so with sarcasm 
 and taunts and ridicule that her heart was very sore 
 when she reached Ouchy. The excitement of the voy- 
 age, with Reginald as her constant companion, was 
 over, and she must again take up the old life, which 
 seemed drearier than ever because everything and 
 everybody were so strange, and she found herself con- 
 stantly longing for somebody to speak a kind and sym- 
 pathetic word to her. In this condition of things it was 
 not strange that she succumbed at last to the extreme 
 nervous depression which had affected her in Boston, 
 and which was now so intensified that she could scarcely 
 lift her head from the pillow. 
 
 " I am only tired," she said to the physician, a kind, 
 fatherly old man, who asked her what was the matter. 
 " Only tired of life, which is not worth the living." 
 And her sad blue eyes looked up so pathetically into his 
 face that the doctor felt moved with a great pity for this 
 
134 Mes. hallam's companion. 
 
 young, beautiful woman, surrounded with every luxury 
 money could buy, but wliose face and words told a 
 Story he could not understand until called to prescribe 
 for her husband ; and then he knew. 
 
 Thurston had made a fight against the illness which 
 was stealing over him and which he swore he would 
 defy. Drugs and doctors were for silly women like 
 Louie, who must be amused, he said, but he would have 
 none of them. " Only exert your will and you can 
 cheat Death himself," was his favorite saying, and he 
 exerted his will, and went to Chillon, rowed on the lake 
 in the moonlight, took a Turkish bath, and next day 
 had a chill, which lasted so long and left him so weak 
 that he consented to see the doctor, but raved like a 
 madman when told that he must go to bed and stay 
 there if he wished to save his life. 
 
 " I don't know that I care particularly about it. I 
 haven't found it so very jolly," he said ; then, after a 
 moment, he added, with a bitter laugh, " Tell my wife 
 I am likely to shufHe off this mortal coil, and see how it 
 affects her." 
 
 He was either crazy, or a brute, or both, the doctor 
 thought, but he made him go to bed, .secured the best 
 nurse he could find, and was there early the next morn- 
 ing to see how his patient fared. He found him so 
 much worse that when he went to Louie he asked if she 
 had any friends near who could come to her, saying, 
 " If you have, send for them at once." 
 
 Louie was in a state where nothing startled her, and 
 without opening her eyes she said, ''Am I going to 
 die ?" 
 
 " No," was the doctor's reply, and she continued, " Is 
 my husband ?" 
 
AT THE BEAtr-SrVAOE. 135 
 
 " I hope not, but he is very ill and growing steadily 
 worse. Have you any friend who will come to you ?" 
 
 " Yes, — my cousin, Miss Leighton, at Aix," Louie 
 answered ; and she dictated the telegram, which the 
 doctor wrote after asking if she had no male friend. 
 
 For a moment she hesitated, thinking of Reginald, 
 who would surely come if bidden, and be so strong and 
 helpful.' But that would not do ; and she answered, 
 " There is no one. Bertha can do everything." 
 
 So Bertha was summoned, and the day after the 
 receipt of the telegram she was at the Beau-Rivage, 
 feeling that she had not come too soon when she saw 
 how utterly prostrated Louie was, and how excited and 
 unmanageable Thurston was becoming under the com- 
 bined effects of fever and his dislike of his nurse, who 
 could not speak a word of English, while he could un- 
 derstand very little French. Frequent altercations 
 were the result, and when Bertha entered the sick-room 
 there was a fierce battle of words going on between the 
 two, Victoire trying to make the patient take his medi- 
 cine, while Fred sat bolt upright in bed, the perspira- 
 tion rolling down his face as he fought against the glass 
 and hurled at the half-crazed Frenchman every oppro- 
 brious epithet in the English language. As Bertha 
 appeared the battle ceased, but not until the glass with 
 its contents was on the floor, where Thurston had 
 struck it from Victoire's hand. 
 
 " Ah, Bertha," he gasped, as he sank exhausted upon 
 his pillow, " did you drop from heaven, or where ? and 
 won't you tell this idiot that it is not time to take my 
 medicine ? I know, for I have it written down in good 
 English. Blast that French language, which nobody 
 
13G itEs. 
 
 can understand ! I doubt if they do themselves, the 
 gabbling fools, with their Jiarleys and we-we's.'' 
 
 It did not take Bertha long to bring order out of con- 
 fusion. She was a natural nurse, and when the doctor 
 came and she proposed to take Vicloire's place until a 
 more suitable man was found, her offer was accepted. 
 But it was no easy task she had assumed, and after two 
 days and nights, during which she was only relieved for 
 a few hours by John, Thurston's valet, when sleep was 
 absolutely necessary, she was thoroughly worn out. 
 Leaving the sick man in charge of John, she started for 
 a ramble through the grounds, hoping that the air and 
 exercise would rest and strengthen her. The Thurston 
 rooms were at the rear of a long hall on the second 
 floor, and, as the other end was somewhat in shadow, 
 she only knew that some one was advancing towards 
 her as she went rapidly down the corridor. Nor did 
 she look up until a voice which sent a thrill through 
 every nerve said to her, " Good-afternoon, Miss Leigh- 
 ton. Don't you know me ?" Then she stopped sud- 
 denly, while a cry of delight escaped her, as she gave 
 both her hands into the warm, strong ones of Rex 
 Hallam, who held them fast while he questioned her 
 rapidly and told her how he chanced to be there. He 
 had joined his party at Chamonix, where they had 
 stayed for several days, crossing the Mer-de-Glace and 
 making other excursions among the mountains and 
 glaciers. He had then made a flying trip to Interlaken, 
 Lucerne, and Geneva, in quest of the place to which he 
 meant to remove his aunt, and had finally thought of 
 Ouchy, where he knew the Thurstons were, and to 
 which he had come in a boat from Geneva. Learning 
 at the office of his friend's illness, he had started at once 
 
AT *Hfe JBEAtT-ElVAGBi, 13? 
 
 tor his room, meeting on the way with Bertha, whose 
 presence there he did not suspect. While he talked he 
 led her near to a window, where the light fell full upon 
 her face, showing him how pale and tired it was. 
 
 " This will not do," he said, when he had heaid her 
 story. " I am glad I have come to relieve you. I shall 
 write to Aix to-day that I am going to stay here, where 
 I can be of service to Fred and Louie, and to you too. 
 You will not go back, of course, while your cousin needs 
 you. And now go out into the sunshine, and bye-and- 
 bye I'll find you somewhere in the grounds." 
 
 He had taken matters into his own hands in his mas- 
 terful way, and Bertha felt how delightful it was to have 
 some one to lean upon, and that one Rex Hallam, whose 
 voice was so full of sympathy, whose eyes looked at her 
 so kindly, and whose hands held hers so long and 
 seemed so unwilling to release them. With a blush she 
 withdrew them from his clasp. Leaving her at last, he 
 walked down the hall, entering Louie's room first and 
 finding her asleep, with her maid in charge. For a 
 moment he stood looking at her white, wan face, which 
 touched him more than her fair beauty had ever done, 
 for on it he could read the story of her life, and a great 
 pity welled up in his heart for the girl who seemed so 
 like a lovely flower broken on its stem. 
 
 " Poor little Louie !" he said, involuntarily, and at 
 the sound of his voice Louie awoke, recognizing him at 
 once, and exclaiming : 
 
 " Oh, Rex ! I was dreaming of you and the magnolias. 
 I am so glad you are here ! You will stay, won't you ? 
 I am afraid Fred is going to die, he is so bad, and then 
 what shall I do ?" 
 
 She gave him her hand, which he did not hold as long 
 
138 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 as he had held Bertha's, nor did the holding it affect 
 him the same. Bertha's had been warm and full of life, 
 with something electrical in their touch, which sent the 
 blood bounding through his veins and made him long 
 to kiss them, as well as the bright face raised so eagerly 
 to his. Louie's hand was thin and clammy, and so 
 small that he could have crushed it easily, as he raised 
 it to his lips with the freedom of an old-time friend, 
 and just as he would have done had Fred himself been 
 present. He told her he should stay as long as he was 
 needed, and after a few moments went to see her hus- 
 band, who was beginning to grow restless and to fret 
 at Bertha's absence. But at sight of Reginald his mood 
 changed, and he exclaimed joyfully : 
 
 " Rex, old boy, I wonder if you know how glad I am 
 to see you. I do believe I shall get well now you are 
 here, though I am having a big tussle with some con- 
 founded thing, — typhoid, the doctor calls it ; but doc- 
 tors are fools. How did you happen to drop down 
 here ?" 
 
 Rex told him how he chanced to be there, and that 
 he was going to stay, and then, excusing himself, went 
 in quest of Bertha, whom he found sitting upon a rus- 
 tic seat which was partially concealed by a clump of 
 shrubbery. It was a glorious afternoon, and Rex, who 
 was very fond of boating, proposed a row upon the lake, 
 to which Bertha consented. 
 
 " I have had too many races with Harvard not to 
 know how to manage the oars myself," he said, as he 
 handed Bertha into the boat, and dismissing the boy, 
 pushed off from the shore. 
 
 It was a delightful hour they spent together gliding 
 over the smooth waters of the lake, and in that time they 
 
Thm ttnwelcome gttest, iSd 
 
 became better acquainted than many people do in years. 
 There was no coquetry nor sham in Bertha's nature, 
 while Rex was so open and frank, and they had so much 
 in common to talk about, that restraint was impossible 
 between them. Poor Rose Arabella Jefferson was dis- 
 cussed and laughed over. Rex declaring his intention to 
 find her some time, if he made a pilgrimage to Scots- 
 burg on purpose. Then he spoke of the encounter on 
 the ship, and said : 
 
 " I can't tell you how many times I have thought of 
 that girl before I knew it was you, or how I have 
 wanted to see her and apologize properly for my awk- 
 wardness. Something seems to be drawing us together 
 strangely." Then he spoke again of his visit to the 
 Homestead, while Bertha became wonderfully animated 
 as she talked of her home, and Rex, watching her, felt 
 that he had never seen so beautiful a face as hers, or 
 listened to a sweeter voice. " I wonder if I am really 
 falling in love," he thought, as he helped her from the 
 boat, while she was conscious of some subtle change 
 wrought in her during that hour on Lake Geneva, and 
 felt that life would never be to her again exactly what 
 it had been. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE UNWELCOME GUEST. 
 
 Thurston was very ill with typhoid fever, which held 
 high carnival with him physically, but left him mentally 
 untouched. One afternoon, the fifth after Rex's arrival. 
 
liO MRS. BtALLAM's COMPANION, 
 
 the two were alone, and for some time Fred lay witli 
 his eyes closed and an expression of intense thought 
 upon his face. Then, turning suddenly to Rex, he said, 
 " Sit close to me. I want to tell you something." 
 
 Rex drew his chair to the bedside, and Fred con- 
 tinued, " That idiot of a doctor has the same as told me 
 I am going to die, and, though I don't believe him, I 
 can't help feeling a little anxious about it, and I want 
 you to help me get ready." 
 
 " Certainly," Rex answered, with a gasp, entirely 
 misunderstanding Fred's meaning, and wishing the 
 task of getting his friend ready to die had devolved on 
 some one else. " We hope to pull you through, but it 
 is always well to be prepared for death, and I'll help 
 you all I can. I'm afraid, though, you have called upon 
 a poor stick. I might say the Lord's Prayer with you, 
 or, better yet," and Rex grew quite cheerful, " there's 
 a young American clergyman in the hotel. I will bring 
 him to see you. - He'll know just what to say." 
 
 " Thunder !" Fred exclaimed, so energetically that 
 Rex started from his chair. " Don't be a fool. I shall 
 die as I have lived, and if there is a hereafter, which I 
 doubt, I shall take my chance with the rest. I don't 
 want your clergy round me, though I wouldn't object 
 to hearing you say, ' Our Father.' It would be rather 
 jolly. I used to know it v/ith a lot of other things, but 
 I quit it long ago, — left all the praying to Louie, who 
 goes on her knees regularly night and morning in 
 spite of my ridicule. Once, when she was posing beau- 
 tifully, with her long, white dressing-gown spread out 
 a yard or so on the floor, I walked over it on purpose 
 to irritate- her, but didn't succeed. I never did succeed 
 very well with Louie. But it is more my fault than 
 
THE UNWELOOMK GTJEST. lil 
 
 hers, although I was fonder of her than she ever knew. 
 She never pretended to love me. She told me she 
 didn't when she promised to marry me, and when I 
 asked her if any one stood between us she said no, but 
 added that there was somebody for whom she could 
 have cared a great deal if he had cared for her. I did 
 not ask her who it was, but I think I know, and she 
 would have been much happier with him than with me. 
 Poor Louie ! maybe she will have a chance yet ; and-ii. 
 she does I am willing." 
 
 His bright, feverish eyes were fixed curiously on Rex, 
 as he went on, " It's for Louie and her matters I want 
 help, not for my soul ; that's all right, if I have one. 
 Louie is a child in experience, and you must see to her 
 when I am gone, and stand by her till she goes home. 
 There'll be an awful row with the landlord, and no end 
 of expense, and a terrible muss to get me to America. 
 My man, John, will take what there is left of me to 
 Mount Auburn, if you start him right. Louie can't go, 
 and you must stay with her and Bertha. If Mrs. 
 Grundy kicks up a row about your chaperoning a hand- 
 some girl and a pretty young widow, — and, by Jove, 
 Louie will be that, — bring your aunt to the rescue ; 
 that will make it square. And now about my will. I 
 made one last summer, and left everything to Louie on 
 condition that she did not marry again. That was non- 
 sense. She will marry if the right man offers ; — wild 
 horses can't hold her ; and I want you to draw up 
 another will, with no conditions, giving a few thousands 
 to the Fresh Air Fund and the Humane Society. That 
 will please Louie. She's great on children and horses. 
 What is it about a mortgage on old man Leighton's 
 farm ? Louie wanted me to pay it and keep Bertha 
 
142 MKs. hali.am's companion. 
 
 from going out to service, as she called it. But I was in 
 one of my moods, and swore I wouldn't. I am sorry 
 now I didn't. Maybe I have a soul, after all, and that 
 is what is nagging me so when I think of the past. I 
 wish I knew how much the mortgage was." 
 
 " I know ; I can tell you," Rex said, with a great deal 
 of animation, as he proceeded to narrate the particulars 
 of the mortgage and his visit to the Homestead, while 
 Fred listened intently. 
 
 " Ho-ho," he said, with a laugh, when Rex had fin- 
 ished. " Is that the way the wind blows ? I thought 
 maybe — but never mind. Five hundred, is it ? I'll 
 make it a thousand, payable to Bertha at once. You'll 
 find writing-materials in the desk by the window. And 
 hurry up ; I'm getting infernally tired." 
 
 It did not take long to make the will, and when it 
 was finished. Rex and Mr. Thurston's valet John and 
 Louie's maid Martha, all Americans, witnessed it. 
 After that Fred, who was greatly exhausted, fell into a 
 heavy sleep, and when he awoke Bertha was alone with 
 him. He seemed very feverish, and asked for water, 
 which she gave him, and then bathed his forehead and 
 hands, while he said to her faintly, " You are a trump. 
 I wish I'd made it two thousand instead of one ; but 
 Louie will make it right. Poor Louie ! she's going to 
 be so disappointed. It's a big joke on her. I wonder 
 how she will take it." 
 
 Bertha had no idea what he meant, and made no re- 
 ply, while he continued, " Say, how does a fellow feel 
 when he has a soul >" 
 
 Bertha felt sure now that he was delirious, but before 
 she could answer he went on, " I never thought I had 
 one, but maybe I have. I feel so sorry for a lot of 
 
THE UNWELCOME GTTEST. 143 
 
 tilings, and mostly about Louie. Tell her so when I am 
 dead. Tell her I wasn't half as bad a sort as she 
 thought. It will be like her to swathe herself in crape, 
 with a veil which sweeps the ground. Tell her not to. 
 Black will not become her. Think of Louie in a 
 widow's cap !" 
 
 Weak as he was, he laughed aloud at the thought of 
 it, and then began to talk of the prayer which had " for- 
 give" in it, and which Rex was to say with him. 
 
 " Do you know it ?" he asked, and, with her heart 
 swelling in her throat. Bertha answered that she did, 
 and asked if she should say it. 
 
 He nodded, and Rex, who at that moment came un- 
 observed to the door, never forgot the picture of the 
 kneeling girl and the wistful, pathetic expression on the 
 face of the dying man as he tried to say the words 
 which had once been familiar to him. 
 
 " Amen ! So be it ! Finis ! I guess that makes it 
 about square. Tell Louie I prayed," he whispered, 
 faintly, and never spoke again until the early morning 
 sunlight was shining on the lake and the hills of Savoy, 
 when he started suddenly and called, " Louie, Louie ! 
 Where ^e you ? I can't find you. Oh, Louie, come to 
 me." 
 
 But Louie was asleep in her room across the long 
 salon, and when, an hour later, she awoke, Bertha told 
 her that her husband was dead. 
 
144 MKS. hallam's companion. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 TANGLED THREADS. 
 
 As Thurston had predicted, there was a great deal of 
 trouble and no end o£ expense ; but Rex attended to 
 everything, while Bertha devoted herself to Louie, who 
 had gone from one hysterical paroxysm into another 
 until she was weaker and more helpless than she had 
 ever been, but not too weak to talk continually of Fred, 
 who, one would suppose, had been the tenderest of hus- 
 bands. All she had suffered at his hands was forgotten, 
 wiped out by the message he had left for her and by 
 knowing that his last thoughts had been of her. But 
 she spurned the idea of not wearing black, and insisted 
 that boxes of mourning dresses and bonnets, and caps 
 should be sent to her on approbation from Geneva and 
 Lausanne, until her room looked like a bazaar of crape, 
 ' and not only Bertha and Martha, the maid, but Rex 
 was more than once called in for an opinion as to what 
 would be most suitable. It was rather a peculiar posi- 
 tion in which Rex found himself, — two young ladies on 
 his hands, with one of whom he was in love, while the 
 other would unquestionably be in love with him as soon 
 as her first burst of grief was over and she had settled 
 the details of her wardrobe. But he did not mind it; 
 in fact, he found it delightful to be associated daily with 
 Bertha, and to be constantly applied to for sympathy 
 and advice by Louie, who treated him with the freedom 
 and confidence of a sister, and he would not have 
 
TANGLED THREADS. Ii5 
 
 thought of a change, if Bertha had not suggested it. 
 She had been told of the bequest which secured the 
 Homestead from sale and made it no longer necessary 
 for her to return to Mrs. Hallam, and she wrote at once 
 asking to be released from her engagement, but saying 
 she would keep it if her services were still desired. 
 
 It was a very gracious reply which Mrs. Hallam re- 
 turned to her, freeing her from all obligations to her- 
 self, while something in the tone of the letter made 
 Bertha suspect that all was not as rose-colored at Aix as 
 it had been, and that Mrs. Hallam would be glad to 
 make one of the party at Ouchy. This she said to Rex, 
 suggesting that he should invite his aunt to join them, 
 and urging so strongly the propriety of either bringing 
 her to him, or going himself to her, that he finally 
 wrote to his aunt to come to him, and immediately re- 
 ceived a reply that she would be with him the next 
 day. Rex met her at the station in Lausanne, and 
 Bertha received her at the hotel as deferentially and 
 respectfully as if she were still her hired companion, a 
 condition which Mrs. Hallam had made up her mind to 
 ignore, especially as it no longer existed between them. 
 Taking both Bertha's hands in hers, she kissed her 
 effusively and told her how much better she was look- 
 ing since she left Aix. 
 
 " And no wonder," she said. " The air there was not 
 good, and either that or something made me very 
 nervouf5, so that I did things for which I am sorry, and 
 which I hope you will forget." 
 
 This was a great concession which Bertha received 
 graciously, and the two were on the best of terms when 
 they entered Louie's room. Louie had improved 
 rapidly during' the week, and was sitting in an easy- 
 
146 MKs. hallam's companion. 
 
 chair by the window, clad in a most becoming tea- 
 gown fashioned at Worth's for the first stages of deep 
 mourning, and looking more like a girl of eighteen 
 than a widow of twenty-five. Notwithstanding her 
 husband's assertion that black would not become her, 
 she had never been half so lovely as she was in her 
 weeds, and her face was never so fair as when framed 
 in her little crepe bonnet and widow's cap, which sat so 
 jauntily on her golden hair. " Dazzlingly beautiful and 
 altogether irresistible," was Mrs. Hallam's opinion as 
 the days went by, and Louie grew more and more 
 cheerful and sometimes forgot to put Fred's photograph 
 under her pillow, and began to talk less of him and 
 more to Rex, whose attentions she claimed with an air 
 of ownership which would have amused Bertha if she 
 could have put from her the harrowing thought of 
 what might be a year hence, when the grave at Mount 
 Auburn was not as new, or Louie's loss as fresh, as they 
 were now. 
 
 " He cannot help loving her," she would say to her- 
 self, " and I ought to be glad to have her happy with 
 him." 
 
 But she was not glad, and it showed in her face, whose 
 expression Rex could not understand. Louie's was one 
 of those natures which, without meaning to be selfish, 
 make everything subservient to them. She was always 
 the centre about which others revolved, and Rex was 
 her willing slave, partly because of Thurston's dying 
 charge, and partly because he could not resist her pretty 
 appealing ways, and would not if he could. But he 
 never dreamed of associating his devotion to her with 
 Bertha's growing reserve. She was his real queen, 
 without whom his life at Ouchy would have been very 
 
TANGLED THREADS. 147 
 
 irksome, and wben she suggested going home, as Dorcas 
 had written urging her to do, he protested against it 
 almost as strenuously as Louie. She must stay, both 
 said, until she had seen something of Europe besides 
 Aix and Ouchy. So she stayed, and they spent Sep- 
 tember at Intei-laken and Lucerne, October in Paris, 
 and November at the Italian lakes, where she received 
 a letter from Grace, written in New York and signed 
 " Grace Haynes Travis." 
 
 " We were married yesterday," she wrote, " and 
 to-morrow we start for our Florida cabin and orange- 
 grove, near Orlando, where so many English people 
 have settled. Mother gave in handsomely at the last, 
 when she found there was no help for it, and I actually 
 won over Lady Gresham, who used to think me a Hot- 
 tentot, and always spoke of me as ' that dreadful Ameri- 
 can girl.' She invited mother and me to her country 
 house, The Limes, near London, and suggested that 
 Jack and I be married there. But I preferred New 
 York ; so she gave us her blessing and a thousand 
 pounds, and mother. Jack, and I sailed three weeks ago 
 in the Umbria. When are you coming home ? and how 
 is that pretty little Mrs. Thurston ? I saw her once, and 
 thought her very lovely, with that sweet, clinging, help- 
 less manner which takes with men wonderfully. I have 
 heard that she was an old flame of Rex Hallam's, or 
 rather a young one, but I'll trust you to win him, 
 although as a widow she is dangerous ; so, in the words 
 of the immortal Weller, I warn you, ' Bevare of vid- 
 ders.' " 
 
 There was much more in the same strain, and Bertha 
 laughed over it, but felt a pang for which she hated her- 
 gelf every time she looked at Jl,ouie, whose beauty aqd 
 
148 MBS. HALLAm's OOMrAKION. 
 
 grace drew about her many admirers besides Rex, in 
 spite of her black dress and her frequent allusions to 
 " dear Fred, whose grave was so far away." She was 
 growing stronger every day, and when in December Rex 
 received a letter from his partner saying that his pres- 
 ence in New York was rather necessary, she declared 
 herself equal to the journey, and said that if Rex went 
 she should go too. Consequently the ist of January 
 found them all in London, where they were to spend a 
 few days, and where Rex brought his aunt a letter, 
 addressed, bottom side up, to " Mrs. Lucy Ann Hallam, 
 Care of Brown, Shipley & Co., London. Post Restant." 
 
 There was a gleam of humor in Rex's eyes as he 
 handed the missive to his aunt, whose face grew dark 
 as she studied the outside, and darker still at the inside, 
 which was wonderful in composition and orthography. 
 Phineas Jones had been sent out to Scotland by an old 
 man who had some property there and who knew he 
 could trust Phineas to look after it and bring him back 
 the rental, which he had found it hard to collect. After 
 transacting his business, Phineas had decided to travel 
 a little and "get cultivated up, so that his cousin Lucy 
 Ann shouldn't be ashamed of him." Had he known 
 where she was, he would have joined her, but, as he did 
 not he wrote her a letter, which had in it a great deal 
 about Sturbridge and the old yellow house and the huck- 
 leberry pasture and the circus and the spelling-school, all 
 of which filled Mrs. Hallam with disgust. She was his 
 only blood kin extant, he said, and he yearned to see 
 her, "but supposed he must wait till she was back in New 
 York, when he should pay his respects to her at once. 
 And she wouldn't be ashamed of him, either. He knew 
 Wlj^t was what, and bad hob-^-nobb^d with nobility, 
 
ON THE SEA. I4:d 
 
 wlio took A sight of notice of him. He was going to 
 sail the loth in the Germanic, he said, and if she'd let 
 him know when she was coming home he'd be in New 
 York on the wharf to meet her. 
 
 As it chanced, the Germanic was the boat in which 
 the Hallam party had taken passage for the loth, but 
 Mrs. Hallam suddenly discovered that she had not seen 
 enough of London ; Rex could go, if he must, but she 
 should wait for the next boat of the same line. Rex 
 had no suspicion as to the real reason for her change of 
 mind, and, as a week or two could make but little dif- 
 ference in the business calling him home, he stayed, 
 and when the next boat of the White Star line sailed out 
 of the docks of Liverpool it carried the party of four : 
 Louie, limp and tearful as she thought of her husband 
 who had been with her when she crossed before ; Mrs. 
 Hallam, excited and nervous, half expecting to see 
 Phineas pounce upon her, and haunted with a presenti- 
 ment that he was somewhere on the ship ; and Rex, 
 with Bertha, hunting for the spot where he had first 
 seen her and knocked her down. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 ON THE SEA. 
 
 It was splendid weather for a few days, and no one 
 thought of being sea-sick, except Mrs. Hallam, who 
 kept her room, partly because she thought she must, 
 and partly because she could not shake off the feeling 
 
150 MEs. hallAm's fcoMPANiOfi. 
 
 that Phineas was on board. She had read the few 
 names on the passenger-list, but his was not among 
 them, nor did she expect to find it, as he had sailed two 
 weeks before. Still, she would neither go on deck nor 
 into the dining-saloon, and without being really ill, kept 
 her berth and was waited upon by Eloise, who was ac- 
 companying her home. Louie, who was still delicate 
 and who always shrank from cold, stayed mostly in the 
 salon. But the briny, bracing sea air suited Bertha, and 
 for several hours each day she tvalked the deck with 
 Rex, whose arm was sometimes thrown around her 
 when the ship gave a great lurch, or when on turning a 
 corner they met the wind fiill in their faces. Then 
 there were the moonlight nights, when the air was full of 
 frost and the waves were like burnished silver, and in 
 her sealskin coat and cap, which Louie had bought for 
 her in Geneva, Bertha was never tired of walking and 
 never thought of the cold, for, if the exercise had not 
 kept her warm, the light which shone upon her from 
 Rex's eyes when she met their gaze would have done 
 so. Perhaps he looked the same at Louie, — very likely 
 he did, — but for the present he was hers alone, and she 
 was supremely happy while the fine, warm weather 
 lasted and with it tlie companionship on deck. But 
 suddenly there came a change. 
 
 Along the western coast of the Atlantic a wild storm 
 had been raging, and when it subsided there it swept 
 towards the east, gathering force as it went, and, joined 
 by the angry winds from every point of the compass, it 
 was almost a cyclone when it reached the Teutonic. 
 But the great ship met it bravely, mounting wave after 
 wave like a feather, then plunging down into the green 
 depths below, then rising again and shaking off the 
 
0» THi5 Sea. 151 
 
 water as if the boiling sea were a mere plaything and the 
 storm gotten np for its pastime. The passengers, who 
 were told that there was no real danger, kept up their 
 courage while the day lasted, but when the night cam6 
 on and the darkness grew deeper in the salon, where 
 nearly all were assembled, many a face grew white 
 with fear as they listened to the howling of the wind 
 and the roaring of the sea, while wave after wave 
 struck the ship, which sometimes seemed to stand still, 
 and then, trembling in every joint, rose up to meet the 
 angry waves which beat upon it with such tremendous 
 force. 
 
 Early in the day Louie bad taken to her bed, where 
 she lay sobbing bitterly, while Bertha tried to comfort 
 her. As the darkness was increasing and the noise 
 overhead grew more and more deafening, Rex brought 
 his aunt to the salon, where, like many of the others, 
 she sat down upon the floor, clinging to one of the 
 chairs for support. Then he went to Louie and asked 
 if he should not take her there too. 
 
 " No, no ! oh, no !" she moaned. " I'd rather die 
 here, if you will stay with me." 
 
 Just then a roll of the ship sent her out upon the 
 floor, where every movable thing in the room had gone 
 before her. After that she made no further resistance, 
 but suffered Bertha to wrap her waterproof around her, 
 and was then carried by Rex and deposited upon one 
 end of a table, where she lay, too much frightened to 
 move, with Rex supporting her on one side and Bertha 
 on the other. And still the storm raged on, and the 
 white faces grew whiter as the question was asked, 
 " What will the end be ?" In every heart there was a 
 prayer, and Rex's mind went back to that night at the 
 
15^ MKS. HALLAM's COMPANIOlf. 
 
 Homestead and the prayers for those in peril on the 
 deep. Were they praying now, and would their prayers 
 avail, or would the sad news go to them that their 
 loved one was lying far down in the depths of the sea ? 
 "Oh, if I could save her !" he thought, moving his 
 hand along upon the table until it touched and held 
 hers in a firm clasp which seemed to say, " For life or 
 death you are mine." 
 
 Just then Louie began to shiver, and moaned that 
 she was cold. 
 
 " Wait a minute, darling," Bertha said, " and I will 
 bring you a blanket from our state-room, if I can get 
 there." 
 
 This was no easy task, for the ship was plunging 
 fearfully, and always at an angle which made walking 
 difficult. Twice Bertha fell upon her knees, and once 
 struck her head against the side of the passage, but she 
 reached the room at last, and, securing the blanket, was 
 turning to retrace her steps, when a wave heavier than 
 any which had preceded it struck the vessel, which 
 reeled with what one of the sailors called a double X, 
 pitching and rolling sidewise and endwise and corner- 
 wise all at once. To stand was impossible, and with a 
 cry Bertha fell forward into the arms of Rex Hallam. 
 
 " Rex !" she said, involuntarily, and " Bertha !" he 
 replied, showering kisses upon her face, down which 
 the tears were running like rain. 
 
 She had been gone so long that he had become 
 alarmed at her absence, and with great difficulty had 
 made his way to the state-room, which he reached in 
 time to save her from a heavy fall. Both were thrown 
 upon the lounge under the window, where they sat for 
 a moment, breathless and forgetful of their danger. 
 
6H the' sea. 153 
 
 Bertha was the first to speak, saying she must go to 
 Louie, but Rex held her fast, and, steadying himself as 
 best he could, drew her face close to his, and said, 
 " This is not a time for love-making, but I may never 
 have another chance, and, if we must die, death will be 
 robbed of half its terrors if you are with me, my dar- 
 ling, my queen, whom I believe 1 have loved ever since 
 I saw your photograph and thought it was poor Rose 
 Arabella Jefferson." 
 
 He could not repress a smile at the remembrance of 
 that scion of the Jeffersons, but Bertha did not see it. 
 Her head was lying upon his breast, and he was hold- 
 ing to the side of the door to keep from being thrown 
 upon the floor as he urged his suit and then waited for 
 her answer. Against the windows and the dead-lights 
 the waves were dashing furiously, while overhead was 
 a roar like heavy cannonading, mingled with the hoarse 
 shouts of voices calling through the storm. But Rex 
 heard Bertha's answer, and at the peril of his limbs 
 folded her in his arms and said, " Now we live or die 
 together ; and I think that we shall live." 
 
 Naturally they forgot the blanket and everything else 
 as they groped their way back to the door of the salon, 
 where Rex stopped suddenly at the sound of a voice 
 heard distinctly enough for him to know that some one 
 was praying loudly and earnestly, and to know, too, 
 who it was whose clear, nasal tones could be heard 
 , above the din without. 
 
 "Phineas Jones!" he exclaimed. "Great Caesar! 
 how came he here ?" And he struggled in with Bertha 
 to get nearer to him." 
 
 Phineas had been very ill in Liverpool, and when the 
 Germanic lefi he was still in bed, and was obliged tp 
 
154 Mfis. hallam's companion. 
 
 wait two weeks longer, when he took passage on the 
 same ship with Mrs. Hallam. Even then he was so 
 weak that he did not make up his mind to go until an 
 hour before the ship sailed. As there were few pas^ 
 sengers, he had no difficulty in securing a berth, where 
 during the first days of the voyage he lay horribly sea- 
 sick and did not know who were on board. He had 
 been too late for his name to be included in the passen- 
 ger-list, and it was not until the day of the storm that 
 he learned that Mrs. Hallam and Rex and Bertha were 
 on the ship. To find them at once was his first impulse^ 
 but when the cyclone struck the boat it struck him, too, 
 with a fresh attack of sea-sickness, from which he did 
 not rally until night, when he would not be longer 
 restrained. Something told him, he said, that Lucy Ann 
 needed him, — in fact, that they all needed him in the 
 cabin, and he was going there. And he went, nearly 
 breaking his neck. Entering the salon on his hands and 
 knees, he made his way to the end of the table on which 
 Louie lay, and near which Mrs. Hallam was clinging 
 desperately to a chair as she crouched upon the floor. 
 It was at this moment that the double X which had sent 
 Bertha into Rex's arms struck the ship, eliciting shrieks 
 of terror from the passengers, who felt that the end had 
 come. Steadying himself against a corner of the table, 
 Phineas called out, in a loud, penetrating voice : 
 
 " Silence ! This is no time to scream and cry. It is 
 action you want. Pray to be delivered, as Jonah did. 
 The captain and crew are doing their level best on deck. 
 Let us do ours here, and don't you worry. We shall be 
 heard. The Master who stilled the storm on Galilee is 
 in this boat, and not asleep, either, in the hindermost 
 part. If He was, no human could get to Him, with the 
 
otf THi: sfiA, 155 
 
 ship nearly bottom side up. He is in our liiidst. I 
 know it, I feel it ; and you who are too scart to pray, 
 and you who don't know how, listen to me. Let us 
 pray." 
 
 The effect was electric, and every head was bowed as 
 Phineas began the most remarkable prayer which was 
 ever offered on shipboard. He was in deadly earnest, 
 and, fired with the fervor and eloquence which made 
 him so noted as a class-leader, he informed the Lord of 
 the condition they were in and instructed Him how to 
 improve it. Galilee, he said, was nothing to the Atlantic 
 when on a tear as it was now, but the voice which had 
 quieted the waters of Tiberias could stop this uproar. 
 He presumed some of them ought to be drowned, he 
 said, but they didn't want to be, and were going to do 
 better. Then he confessed every possible sin which 
 might have been committed by the passengers, who, 
 according to his statement, were about the wickedest 
 lot, take them as a whole, that ever crossed the 
 ocean. There were exceptions, of course. There were 
 near and dear friends of his, and one blood kin, on 
 board, for whom he especially asked aid. He had not 
 looked upon the face of his kinswoman for years, but he 
 had never forgotten the sweet counsel they took together 
 when children in Sturbridge, and he would have her 
 saved any way. Like himself, she was old and stricken 
 in years, but " 
 
 " Horrible !" came in muffled tones from something 
 at his feet, and, looking down, he saw the bundle of 
 shawls, which, in its excitement, had loosened its hold 
 on the chair and was rolling down the inclined plane 
 towards the centre of the room. 
 
 Reaching out his long arm, he pulled it back, and, 
 
166 MttS. flAtLA.M*S CoMPANi6M. 
 
 putting his foot against it, went on with what was no\V 
 a prayer of thanksgiving. Those who have been in a 
 storna at sea like the one I am describing, will remem- 
 ber how quick they were to detect a change for the 
 better, as the blows upon the ship became less frequent 
 and heavy and the noise overhead began to subside. 
 
 Phineas was the first to notice it, and, with his foot 
 still firmly planted against the struggling bundle to 
 keep it in place, he exclaimed, in a voice which was 
 almost a shriek : 
 
 " We are saved ! We are saved ! Don't you feel it ? 
 Don't you hear it ?" 
 
 They did hear it and feel it, and with glad hearts re- 
 sponded to the words of thanksgiving which Phineas 
 poured forth, sa3'ing the answer to his prayer had come 
 sooner than he expected, and acknowledging that his 
 faith had been weak as watei". Then he promised a 
 forsaking of their sins, and a life more consistent with 
 the doctrine they professed, for them all, adapting him- 
 self as nearly as he could to the forms of worship familiar 
 to the different denominations he knew must be assem- 
 bled there. For the Presbyterians there was a men- 
 tion made of foreordination and the Westminster Cate- 
 chism, for the Baptists, immersion, for the Methodists, 
 sanctification, for the Roman Catholics, the Blessed 
 Virgin ; but he forgot the Episcopalians, until, remem- 
 bering, with a.start. Rex and Lucy Ann, he wound up 
 with : 
 
 " From pride, vainglory and hypocrisy, good Lord 
 deliver us. Amen." 
 
 The simple earnestness of the man so impressed his 
 hearers that no one thought of smiling at his ludicrous 
 language, and when the danger was really over and 
 
ON THE SEA. 157 
 
 they could stand upon their feet, they crowded around 
 him as if he had been their deliverer from deadly peril, 
 while Rex introduced him as his particular friend. 
 This stamped him as somebody, and he at once became 
 a sort of lion. We are all more or less susceptible to 
 flattery, and Phineas was not an exception ; he received 
 the attentions with a very satisfied air, thinking- to him- 
 self that if his recent prayers had so impressed them, 
 what would they say if they could hear him when fully 
 under way at a camp-meeting ? 
 
 " Where's your aunt?" he asked Rex, suddenly, while 
 Rex looked round for her, but could not find her. 
 
 More dead than alive, Mrs. Hallam had clung to the 
 chair in momentary expectation of going down, never 
 to rise again, and in that awful hour it seemed to her 
 that everything connected with her life had passed be- 
 fore her. The old, yellow house, the grandmother to 
 whom she had not always been kind, the early friends 
 of whom she had been ashamed, the husband she 
 had loved, but whom she had tried so often, all stood 
 out so vividly that it seemed as if she could touch 
 them. 
 
 " Everything bad, — nothing good. May God forgive 
 it all !" she whispered more than once, as she lay wait- 
 ing for the end and shuddering as she thought of the 
 dark, cold waters so soon to engulf her. 
 
 In this state of mind she became conscious that some 
 one was standing so close to her that his boots held 
 down a portion other dress, but she did not mind it, for 
 at that moment Phineas began his prayer, to which 
 she listened intently. She knew it was an illiterate 
 man, that his boots were coarse, that his clothes were 
 saturated with m odor of cheap tobacco, and that h§ 
 
158 MES. hai^lam's companion. 
 
 belonged to a class which she despised because she had 
 once been of it. But as he prayed she felt, as she had 
 never felt before, the Presence he said was there with 
 him, and thought nothing of his class, or his tobacco, 
 or his boots. He was a saint, until he spoke of Stur- 
 bridge and his blood kin who was old and stricken in 
 years. Then she knew who the saint was, and as soon 
 as it was possible to do so she escaped to her state-room, 
 where Rex found her in a state of great nervous ex- 
 citement. She could not and would not see Phineas 
 that night, she said. Possibly she might be equal to it 
 in the morning. With that message Phineas, who was 
 hovering around her door, was obliged to be content, 
 but before he retired, every one with whom he talked 
 knew that Mrs. Hallam was his cousin Lucy Ann, 
 whom he used to know in Sturbridge when she was a 
 girl. 
 
 CHAPTER XVni. 
 
 ON SEA AND LAND. 
 
 Naturally the captain and officers made light of the 
 storm after it was over, citing, as a proof that it was 
 not so very severe, the fact that within four hours after 
 it began to subside the ship was sailing smoothly over 
 a comparatively calm sea, on which the moon and stars 
 were shining as brightly as if it had not so recently 
 been stirred to its depths. The deck had been cleared, 
 and, after seeing Louie in her berth. Bertha went up to 
 join Rex, who wa§ waiting for h^r. AU the past peril 
 
ON SEA AND LAND. 159 
 
 was forgotten in the joy of their perfect love, and they 
 had so much to talk about and so many plans for the 
 future to discuss that the midnight bells sounded be- 
 fore they separated. 
 
 " It is not very long till morning, when I shall see 
 you again, nor long before you will be all my own," 
 Rex said, holding her in his arms and kissing her many 
 times before he let her go. 
 
 She found Louie asleep, and when next morning 
 Bertha arose as the first gong sounded, Louie was still 
 sleeping, exhausted with the excitement of the previous 
 day. She was evidently dreaming, for there was a 
 smile on her lips which moved once with some word 
 Bertha could not catch, although it sounded like 
 " Rex." 
 
 " I wonder if she cares very much for him," Bertha 
 thought, with a twinge of pain. " If she does, I cannot 
 give him up, for he is mine, — my Rex." 
 
 She repeated the name aloud, lingering over it as if 
 the sound were very pleasant to her, and just then 
 Louie's blue eyes opened and looked inquiringly at 
 her. , 
 
 " What is it about Rex ?" she asked, smiling up at 
 Bertha in that pretty, innocent way which children 
 have of smiling when waking from sleep. " Has he 
 been to inquire for me ?" she continued ; and, feeling 
 that she could no longer put it off, Bertha knelt beside 
 ler and told her a story which made the bright color 
 fade from Louie's face and her lips quiver in a grieved 
 kind of way as she listened to it. 
 
 When it was finished she did not say a word, except 
 to ask if it was not very cold. 
 
 "I am all in a shiver. I think I will not get up. Tell 
 
160 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 Martha not to come to me. I do not want any break- 
 fast," she said, as she turned her face to the wall. 
 
 For a moment Bertha lingered, perplexed and pained, 
 — then started to leave the room. 
 
 " Wait," Louie called, faintly, and when Bertha went 
 to her she flung her arms around her neck and said, 
 with a sob, " I am glad for you, and I know you will be 
 happy. Tell Rex I congratulate him. And now go and 
 don't come back for ever so long. I am tired and want 
 to sleep." 
 
 When she was alone, the little woman buried her face 
 in the pillows and cried like a child, trying to believe 
 she was crying for her husband, but failing dismally. 
 It was for Rex, whom she had held dearer than she 
 knew, and whom she had lost. But with all her weak- 
 ness Louie had a good deal of common sense, which 
 soon came to her aid. " This is absurd, — crying for one 
 who does not care for me except as a friend. I'll be a 
 woman, and not a baby," she thought, as she rung for 
 Martha to come and dress her. An hour later she sur- 
 prised Bertha and Rex, who were sitting on a seat at 
 the head of the stairs, with a rug thrown across their 
 laps, concealing the hands clasped so tightly beneath it. 
 Nothing could have been sweeter than her manner as 
 she congratulated Rex verbally, and then, sitting down 
 by them, began to plan the grand wedding she would 
 give them if they would wait until poor Fred had been 
 dead a little longer, say a year. 
 
 Rex had his own ideas about the wedding and wait- 
 ing, but he did not express them then. He had settled 
 in his own mind when he should take Bertha, and that 
 it would be from the old house in which he began to 
 have a feeling of ownership, 
 
ON SEA AND LAND. 161 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Hallam had consented to see 
 Phineas, whom Rex took to her state-room. What 
 passed at the interview no one knew. It did not last 
 long, and at its close Mrs. Hallam had a nervous head- 
 ache and Phineas's face wore a troubled and puzzled 
 expression. He would never have known Lucy Ann, 
 she had altered so, he said. Not grown old, as he sup- 
 posed she would, but different somehow. He guessed 
 she was tuckered out with fright and the storm. She'd 
 be better when she got home, and then they'd have a 
 good set-to, talking of the old times. He was going to 
 visit her a few days. 
 
 This accounted for her headache which lasted the 
 rest of the voyage, so that she did not appear again un- 
 til they were at the dock in New York. Handing her 
 keys to Rex, she said, " See to my trunks, and for 
 heaven's sake keep that man from coming to the house, 
 if you have to strangle him." 
 
 She was among the first to leave the ship, and was 
 driving rapidly home, while Phineas was squabbling 
 with a custom-house officer over some jewelry he had 
 bought in Edinburgh as a present for Dorcas, and an 
 overcoat in London for -Mr. Leighton, and which he had 
 conscientiously declared. 
 
 "I'm a class-leader," he said, "and I'd smile to see 
 me lie, and when they asked me if I had any presents I 
 told 'm 5'es, a coat for the 'Square, and some cangorras 
 for Dorcas, and I swan if they didn't make me trot 'em 
 out and pay duty, too ; and they let more'n fifty trunks 
 full of women's clothes go through for nothin'. I seen 
 'm. Where's Lucy Ann ? I was goin' with her," he 
 said to Rex. who corJd have enlightened him with re- 
 
162 MRS. hallam's companion. 
 
 gard to the women's clothes which " went through for 
 nothin'," but didn't. 
 
 " Mr. Jones," he said, buttonholing him familiarly as 
 they walked out of the custom-house, " my aunt has 
 gone home. She is not feeling well at all, and, as the 
 house is not quite in running order, I do not think 
 you'd better go there now. I'll take you to dine at my 
 club, or, better yet, to the Waldorf, where Mrs. Thurs- 
 ton and Miss Leigh ton are to stop, and to-morrow we 
 will all go on together, for I'm to see Mrs. Thurston 
 home to Boston, and on my way back shall stop at the 
 Homestead. I am to marry Miss Bertha." 
 
 "You be ! Well, I'm glad on't ; but I do want to see 
 Lucy Ann's house, and I sha'n't make an atom of 
 trouble. She expects me," Phineas said, and Rex re- 
 plied, " I hardly think she does. Indeed, I know she 
 doesn't, and I wouldn't go if I were you." 
 
 Gradually the truth began to dawn upon Phineas, 
 and there was a pathos in his voice and a moisture in 
 his eyes as he said, " Is Lucy Ann ashamed oi me ? I 
 wouldn't have believed it, and she my only kin. I'd go 
 through fire and water to serve her. Tell her so, and 
 God bless her.'' 
 
 Rex felt a great pity for the simple-hearted man to 
 whom the glories of a dinner at the Waldorf did not 
 quite atone for the loss of Lucy Ann, whom he spoke of 
 again when after dinner Rex went with him to the hotel, 
 where he was to spend the night. 
 
 " I'm an awkward critter, I know," he said, " and not 
 used to the ways of high society, but I'm respectable, 
 and my heart is as big as an ox." 
 
 Nothing, however, rested long on Phineas's mind, and 
 the next morning be was cheerful ag ever when he 
 
" r, EEX, TAKE THEE, BEETHA." 163 
 
 met his friends at the station, and committed the un- 
 wonted extravagance of taking a chair with them in a 
 parlor car, saying as he seated himself that he'd nevey 
 been in one before, and that he found it tip-top. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 "l, REX, TAKE THEE, BERTHA." 
 
 The words were said in the old Homestead about a 
 year from the time when we first saw Bertha walking 
 along the lane to meet her sister and holding in her hand 
 the newspaper which had been the means of her meet- 
 ing with Rex Hallam. The May day had been perfect 
 then, and it was perfect now. The air was odorous with 
 the perfume of the pines and the apple-blossoms, and 
 the country seemed as fresh and fair as when it first 
 came from the hands of its Creator. The bequest 
 which Fred had made to Bertha, and which he wished 
 he had doubled, had been quadrupled by Louie, who, 
 when Bertha declined to take so much, had urged it 
 upon her as a bridal present in advance. With that 
 understanding Bertha had accepted it, and several 
 changes had been made in the Homestead, both outside 
 and in. Bertha's room, however, where Rex had once 
 slept, remained intact. This he insisted upon, and it 
 was in this room that he received his bride from the 
 hands of her bridesmaids. It was a very quiet affair, 
 with only a few intimate friends from Worcester and 
 Leicester, and Mrs. Hallam from New York. Bertha 
 
164 MRS. halt.am's companion. 
 
 had suggested inviting Mrs. Haynes, but Rex vetoed 
 that decidedly. She had been the direct cause of so much 
 humiliation to Bertha that he did not care to keep 
 her acquaintance, he said. .But Mrs. Haynes had no 
 intention to be ignored by the future Mrs. Rex Hal- 
 lam, and one of the handsomest presents Bertha received 
 came from her, with a note of congratulation. Louie 
 and Phineas were master and mistress of ceremonies, 
 Louie inside and Phineas outside, where he insisted 
 upon caring for the horses of those who drove from 
 Worcester and the village. 
 
 He'd " smile if he couldn't do it up ship-shape," he 
 said, and he came at an early hour, gorgeous in swallow- 
 tail coat, white vest, stove-pipe hat, and an immense 
 amount of shirt-front, ornamented with Rhine-stone 
 studs. In his ignorance he did not know that a dress- 
 coat was not just as suitable for morning as evening 
 and had bought one second-hand at a clothing-store in 
 Boston. He wanted to make a good impression on 
 Lucy Ann, he said to Grace, who had been at the Home- 
 stead two or three days, and who, declaring him a most 
 delicious specimen, had hobnobbed with him quite 
 familiarl}'. She told him she had no doubt he would 
 impress Lucy Ann ; and he did, for she came near faint- 
 ing when he presented himself to her, asking what she 
 thought of his outfit, and how it would " do for high." 
 She wanted to tell him that he would look far better in 
 his every-day clothes than in that costume, but restrained 
 herself and made some non-committal reply. Since 
 meeting him on the ship she had had time to reflect 
 that no one whose opinion was really worth caring for 
 would think less of her because of her relatives, and she 
 was a little ashamed of her treatment of him. Perhaps, 
 
" 1, tSEX, TAKi! THEK, EEETSA."' lC8 
 
 too, she was softened by the sight of the old homestead, 
 which had been her husband's home, or Grace Travis's 
 avowal that she wished she had just such a dear codger 
 of a cousin, might have had some effect in making her 
 civil and even gracious to the man who, without the 
 least resentment for her former slight of him, " Cousin 
 Lucy Ann "-ed her continually and led her up to salute 
 the bride after the ceremony was over. 
 
 There was a wedding breakfast, superintended by 
 Louie, who, if she felt any regret for the might-have- 
 been, did not show it, and was bright and merry as a 
 bird, talking a little of Fred and a great deal of Charlie 
 Sinclair, whom business kept from the wedding and 
 whose lovely present she had helped select. The wed- 
 ding trip was to extend beyond the Rockies as far as 
 Tacoma, and to include the Fair in Chicago on the 
 homeward journey. The remainder of the summer 
 was to be spent at the Homestead, where Rex could 
 hunt and fish and row to his heart's content, if he could 
 not have a fox-hunt. Both he and Bertha wished a 
 home of their own in New York, but Mrs. Hallam 
 begged so hard for them to stay with her for a year at 
 least that they consented to do so. 
 
 "You may be the mistress, or the daughter of the 
 house, as you please, only stay with me," Mrs. Hallam 
 said to Bertha, of whom she seemed very fond. 
 
 Evidently she was on her best behavior, and during 
 the f6w days she stayed at the Homestead she quite won 
 the hearts of both Mr. Leighton and Dorcas, and greatly 
 delighted Phineas by asking him to spend the second 
 week in July with her. In this she was politic and 
 managing. She knew he was bound to come some time, 
 and, knowing that the most of her calling aquaintance 
 
166 Miss. hallam's companion. 
 
 would be out of town in July, she fixed his visit at 
 that time, making him understand that he could not 
 prolong it, as she was to join Rex and Bertha in Chicago 
 on the 15th. Had he been going to visit the queen, 
 Phineas could not have been more elated or have talked 
 more about it. 
 
 " I hope I sha'n't mortify Lucy Ann to death," he said, 
 and when in June Louie came for a few days to the 
 Homestead, he asked her to give him some points in eti- 
 quette, which he wrote down and studied diligently, till 
 he considered himself quite equal to cope with any diffi- 
 culty, and at the appointed time packed his dress-suit 
 and started for New York. 
 
 This was Monday, and on Saturday Dorcas was sur- 
 prised to see him walking up the avenue from the car. 
 
 He'd had a tip-top time, he said, and Lucy Ann did 
 all she could to make it pleasant. 
 
 " But, my !" he added, " it was so lonesome and 
 grand and stiff ; and didn't Lucy Ann put on the 
 style ! But I studied my notes, and held my own pretty 
 well. I don't think I made more than three or foxir 
 blunders. I reached out and got a piece of bread with 
 my fork, and saw a thunder-cloud on Lucy Ann's face ; 
 and I put on my dress-suit one'morning to drive to the 
 Park, but took it off quicker when Lucy Ann saw it. 
 Dre.ss-coats ain't the thing in the morning, it seems. 
 I guess they ain't the thing for me anywhere. But my 
 third blunder was wustof all, though I don't understand 
 it. Between you 'n' I, I don't believe Lucy Ann has 
 much company, for not a livin' soul come to the house 
 while I was there, except one woman with two men in 
 tall boots drivin' her. Lucy Ann was out and the nig- 
 ger was out, and I went to the door to save the girls 
 
" I, eeX, taki! thee, bertha." 16? 
 
 from runnin' up and down stairs so much. I told her 
 Mis' Hallam wa'n't to home, and I rather urged her to 
 come in and take a chair, she looked so kind of disap- 
 pointed and tired, and curi's, too, I thought, as if she 
 wondered who I was ; so I said, ' I'm Mis' Hallam's 
 cousin. You better come in and rest. She'll be home 
 pretty soon.' 
 
 " ' Thanks,' she said, in a queer kind of way, and 
 handed me a card for Lucy Ann, who was tearin' when 
 I told her what I'd done. It was the servants' business 
 to wait on the door when Peters was out, she said, and 
 on no account was I to ask any one in if she wasn't 
 there. That ain't my idea of hospitality. Is't yours ?" 
 
 Dorcas laughed, and said she supposed city ways 
 were not exactly like those of the country. Phineas 
 guessed they wasn't, and he was glad to get where he 
 could tip back in his chair if he wanted to, and eat with 
 his knife, and ask a friend to come in and sit down. 
 
 A few days later Dorcas and her father, with Louie, 
 started for Chicago to join the Hallams. For four 
 weeks they reveled in the wonders of the beautiful 
 White City. After that Mrs. Hallam returned to her 
 lonely house in New York, while Rex and Bertha and 
 Louie went back to the old Homestead. There they 
 spent the remainder of the summer, and there Bertha 
 lingered until the hazy light of October was beginning 
 to hang over the New England hills and the autumnal 
 tints to .show in the woods. Then Rex, who had spent 
 every Sunday there, took her to her new home, where 
 her reception was very different from what it had been 
 on her first arrival. Then she was only a hired com- 
 panion, dining with the housekeeper and waiting on 
 the fourth floor back for her employer to give her an 
 
i6S MES. HAIXAm's OOMPANlolf. 
 
 audience. Now ■she was a petted bride, the daughtet 
 of the house, with full authority to go where she pleased, 
 do what she pleased, and make any change she pleased, 
 from the drawing-room to the handsome suite which 
 had been fitted up for her. But she made no change, 
 except in Rex's sleeping-apartment, where she did 
 take the pictures of ballet-dancers, rope-walkers, and 
 sporting men from the mirror-frame, and substi- 
 tuted in their place those of her father, Dorcas, and 
 Grace. She would have liked to remove her own 
 picture, with " Rose Arabella Jefferson " written upon 
 it, but Rex interfered. It seemed to him, he said, a 
 connecting link between his bachelor life and the great 
 joy which had come to him, and it should stay there. 
 Rose Arabella and all. 
 
 Mr. Leighton and Dorcas have twice visited Bertha 
 in her home, and been happy there because she was so 
 happy. But both were glad to go back to the old house 
 tinder the apple-trees and the country life which they 
 like best. Bertha, on the contrary, takes readily to the 
 ways of the great city, although she cares but little for 
 the fashionable society that is so eager to take her up, 
 and prefers the companionship of her husband and the 
 quiet of her home to the gayest assemblage in New 
 York. Occasionally however, she may be seen at some 
 afternoon tea, or dinner, or reception, where Mrs. 
 Hallam is proud to introduce her as "my nephew's 
 wife," while Mrs. Walker Haynes, always politic and 
 persistent, speaks of her as " my friend, that charming 
 Mrs. Reginald Hallam. " 
 
THE SPRING FARM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AT THE FARM HOUSE. 
 
 It was a very pleasant, homelike old farmhouse, 
 standing among the New England hills, with the sum- 
 mer sunshine falling upon it, and the summer air, 
 sweet with the perfume of roses and June pinks, filling 
 the wide hall and great square rooms, where, on the 
 morning when our story opens, the utmost confusion 
 prevailed. Carpets were up ; curtains were down ; 
 huge boxes were standing everywhere, while into them 
 two men and a boy were packing the furniture scat- 
 tered promiscuously around, for on the morrow the 
 family, who had owned and occupied the house so long, 
 were to leave the premises and seek another home in the 
 little village about two miles away. In one of the 
 lower rooms in the wing to the right, where the sun- 
 shine was the brightest and the rose scented air the 
 sweetest, a white-faced woman lay upon a couch looking 
 at and listening to a lady who sat talking to her, with 
 
 [169] 
 
170 ♦THK spring FAElf. 
 
 money and pride and selfishness stamped upon her aS 
 plainly as if the words had been placarded upon her 
 back. The lady was Mrs. Marshall-More, of Boston, 
 whose handsome country house was not far from the 
 red farm-house, which, with its rich, well-cultivated 
 acres, had, by the foreclosure of a mortgage she held 
 upon it, recently come into her possession, or rather 
 into that of her half brother, who had bidden it off for 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Marshall-More had once been plain Mrs. John 
 More, but since her husband's death, she had prefixed 
 her maiden name, with a hyphen to the More, making 
 herself Mrs. Marshall-More, which, she thought, had a 
 very aristocratic look and sound. She was a great lady 
 in her own immediate circle of friends in the city, and 
 a greater lady in Merrivale, where she passed her sum- 
 mers, and her manner toward the little woman on the 
 couch was one of infinite superiority and patronage, 
 mingled with a show of interest and pity. She had 
 driven to the farmhouse that morning, ostensibly to 
 say good-bye to the family, but really to go over the 
 place which she had coveted so long as a most desir- 
 able adjunct to her possessions. What she was saying 
 to the white-faced woman in the widow's cap was 
 this : 
 
 " I aril very sorry for you, Mrs. Graham, and I hope 
 you do not blame me for foreclosing the mortgage. I 
 had to have the money, for Archie's college expenses 
 will be very heavy, and then I am going to Europe this 
 summer, and I did not care to draw from my other in- 
 vestments." 
 
 " Oh, no, I blame no one, but it is very hard all the 
 same to leave the old home where I have been so 
 
AT THE PAEM HOTISIS. 171 
 
 happy," Mrs. Graham replied, and Mrs. Marshall-More 
 went on : "I am glad to hear you say so, for the Mer- 
 rivale people have been very ill-natured about it and I 
 have heard more than once that I hastened the fore- 
 closure and intend to tear down the old house and 
 build a cottage, which is false." 
 
 To this Mrs. Graliam made no reply, and Mrs. Mar- 
 shall-More continued : 
 
 " You will be much better off in the village than in 
 this great rambling house, and your children will find 
 employment there. Maude must be eighteen, and 
 ought to be a great help to you. I hear she is a senti- 
 mental dreamer, living mostly in the clouds with people 
 only known to herself, and perhaps she needed this 
 change to rouse her to the realities of life." 
 
 " Maude is the dearest girl in the world," was the 
 mother's quick protest against what seemed like disap- 
 probation of her daughter. 
 
 " Yes, of course," was Mrs. Marshall-More's response. 
 " Maude is a nice girl and a pretty girl and will be a 
 great conifort to you when she wakes up to the fact 
 that life is earnest and not all a dream, and in time you 
 will be quite as happy in your new home as you could be 
 here, where it must be very dreary in the winter, when 
 the snow-drifts are piled up to the very window ledges, 
 and the wind screams at you through every crevice." 
 
 " Oh-h," Mrs. Graham said, with a shudder, her 
 thoughts going back to the day when the blinding snow 
 had come down in great billows upon the newly-made 
 grave in which she left her husband, and went back 
 alone to the desolate home where he would never come 
 ^^in. 
 
 It had been so terrible and sudden, his going from 
 
173 MtE SPElNG FAKM- 
 
 her. Well in the morning, and dead at night ; killed 
 by a locomotive and brought to her so mangled that she 
 Could never have recognized him as her husband. Peo- 
 ple had called him over-generous and extravagant, and 
 perhaps he was, but the money he spent so lavishly was 
 always for others, and not for himself, and as the holder 
 of the heavy mortgage on his farm had been content 
 with the interest and never pressed his claim, he had 
 made no effort to lessen it, even after he knew it passed 
 into the hands of Mrs. Marshall-More, who had often 
 expressed a wish to own the place known as the Spring 
 Farm, and so-called from the numerous springs upon 
 it. She would fill it with her city friends and set up 
 quite an English establishment, she said ; and now it 
 was hers, to all intents and purposes, for though the 
 deed was in her brother's name, it was understood that 
 she was mistress. of the place and could do what she 
 liked with it. Of the real owner. Max Gordon, her half- 
 brother, little was known, except the fact that he was 
 very wealthy and had for years been engaged to a lady 
 who, by a fall from a horse, had been crippled for life. 
 It was also rumored that the lady had insisted upon re- 
 leasing lier lover from his engagement, but he had re- 
 fused to be released, and still clung to the hope that she 
 would eventually recover. Just where he was at pres- 
 ent, nobody knew. He seldom visited his sister, al- 
 though she was very proud of him and very fond of 
 talking of her brother Max, who, she said, was so gen- 
 erous and good, although a little queer. He had bidden 
 off the Spring Farm because she asked him to do so, and 
 a few thousand dollars more or less were nothing to 
 him ; then, telling her to do what she liked with it, he 
 had gone his way, while poor Lucy Graham's heart was 
 
AT THE FAEM HOUSE. 173 
 
 breaking at the thought of leaving the home which her 
 husband had made so beautiful for her. An old- 
 fashioned place, it is true, but one of those old-fashioned 
 places to which our memory clings fondl}', and our 
 thoughts go back with an intense longing years after 
 the flowers we have watered are dead, and the shrubs 
 we have planted are trees pointing to the sky. A great 
 square house, with a wing on either side, a wide hall 
 through the center and a fireplace in every room. A 
 well-kept lawn in front, dotted with shade trees and 
 flowering shrubs, and on one side of it a running brook, 
 fed by a spring on the hillside to the west ; borders and 
 beds and mounds of flowers ; — tulips and roses and 
 pansies and pinks and peoniet; and lilies and geraniums 
 and verbenas, each blossoming in its turn and making 
 the garden and grounds a. picture of beauty all the 
 summer long. No wonder that Lucy Graham loved it 
 • nd shrank from leaving it, and shrank, too, from Mrs. 
 Marshall-More's attempts at consolation, saying only 
 when that lady arose to go, " It was kind in you to come 
 and I thank you for it ; but just now my heart aches 
 too hard to be comforted. Good-bye." 
 
 " Good-bye, I shall call when you get settled in town, 
 and if I can be of any service to you I will gladly do 
 so," Mrs. Marshall-More said, as she left the room and 
 went out to her carriage, where she stood for a moment 
 looking up and down the road, and saying to herself, 
 " Where can Archie be ?" 
 
174 THE SPBING FARM. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHERE ARCHIE WAS. 
 
 A LONG lane wound away to the westward across a 
 strip of land called the mowing lot, through a bit of 
 woods and on to a grassy hillside, where, under the 
 shade of a butternut tree, a pair of fat, sleek oxen were 
 standing with a look of content in their large, bright 
 eyes as if well pleased with this unwonted freedom 
 from the plough and the cart. Against the side of one 
 of them a young girl was leaning, with her arm thrown 
 across its neck and her hand caressing the long, white 
 hornof the dumb creature which seemed to enjoy it. The 
 girl was Maude Graham, and she made a very pretty 
 picture as she stood there with her short, brown hair 
 curling in soft rings about her forehead ; her dark blue 
 eyes, her bright, glowing face, and a mouth which 
 looked as if made for kisses and sweetness rather than 
 the angry words she was hurling at the young man, or 
 boy, for he was only twenty, who stood before her. 
 
 "Archie More," she was saying, " I don't think it very 
 nice in you to talk to me in that patronizing kind of 
 way, as if you were so much my superior in everything, 
 and trying to convince me that it is nothing for us to 
 give up the dear old place where every stone and stump 
 means somebody to me, for I know them all and have 
 talked with them all, and called them by name, just as 
 I know all the maiden ferns and water lilies and where 
 the earliest arbqtus blossoms in the spring. Oh, Archie, 
 how can I leave Spring Farm and never come back 
 
WIIKUE AKOHIE WAS. 175 
 
 again ! I think I hate you all for taking it from us, and 
 especially your uncle Max." 
 
 Here she broke down entirely, and laying her face 
 on the shining coat of the ox began to cry as if her heart 
 would break, while Archie looked at her in real distress 
 wondering what he should say. H€ was a city-bred 
 young man, with a handsome, boyish face, and in a way 
 very fond of Maude, whom he had known ever since he 
 was thirteen and she eleven, and he first came to Mer- 
 rivale to spend the summer. They had played and 
 fished together in the brook, and rowed together on the 
 pond and quarreled and made up, and latterly they had 
 flirted a little, too, although Archie was careful that the 
 flirting should not go too far, for he felt that there 
 was a vast difference between Archie More, son of Mrs. 
 Marshall-More, and Maude Graham, daughter of a 
 country farmer. And still he thought her the sweetest, 
 prettiest girl he had ever seen, & jolly lot he called her, 
 and he writhed under her bitter words, and when she 
 cried he tried to comfort her and explain matters as 
 best he could. Rut Maude was not to be appeased. 
 She had felt all the time that the place need not have 
 been sold, that it was a hasty thing, and though she did 
 not blame Archie, she was very sore against Mrs. Mar- 
 shall-More and her brother, and her only answer to all 
 Archie could say, was : 
 
 " You needn't talk. I hate you all, and your uncle 
 Max the most, and if I ever see him I'll tell him so, and 
 if I don't you may tell him for me." 
 
 Archie could keep silent and hear his mother blamed 
 and himself, but he roused in defense of his uncle Max. 
 
 " Hate ray uncle Max," he exclaimed. " Why, he is 
 the begt man th^t pyer lived, and the kindest. He 
 
176 THE 8PEING FARM. 
 
 knew nothing of you, or how you'd feel, when he bought 
 the place ; if he had he wouldn't have done it ; and if 
 he could see you now, crying on that ox's neck, he would 
 give it back to you. That would be just like him." 
 
 " As if I'd take it," Maud said, scornfully, as she lifted 
 up her head and dashed the tears from her eyes with a 
 rapid movement of both hands. " No, Archie More, I 
 shall never take Spring Farm as a gift from any one, 
 much less from your uncle Max ; but I shall buy it of 
 him some day if he keeps it long enough." 
 
 " You ?" Archie asked, and Maude replied, " Yes, I, 
 why not ? I know I am poor now, but I shall not 
 alway be so. People call me crazy, a dreamer, a crank, 
 and' all that, because they canuot see what I see ; the 
 people who are with me always, my friends ; and I 
 know their names and how they look and where they 
 live ; Mrs. Kimbrick, with her fifty daughters, all Eliza 
 Anns, and Mrs. Webster, with her fifty daughters, all 
 Ann Elizas, and Angeline Mason, who comes and talks 
 to me in the twilight, wearing a yellow dress ; they are 
 real to me as you are, and do you think I am crazy and 
 a crank because of that ?" 
 
 Archie said he didn't, but he looked a little suspici- 
 ously at the girl standing there so erect, her eyes shin- 
 ing with a strange light as she talked to him of things 
 he could not understand. He had heard of this Mrs. 
 Kimbrick and Mrs. Webster before, with their fifty 
 daughters each, and had thought Maude queer, to say 
 the least. He was sure of it now as she went on : 
 
 " Is the earth crazy because there is in it a little 
 acorn which you can't see, but which is still there, 
 maturing and taking root for the grand old oak, whose 
 branches will one day give shelter to many a tired 
 
WHERE ARCHIE WAS. 177 
 
 head ? Of course not ; neither am I, and some time 
 these brain children, or brain seeds, call them what you 
 like, will take shape and grow, and the world will hear 
 of them, and of me ; and you and your mother will be 
 proud to say you knew me once, when the people praise 
 the book I am going to write." 
 
 " A book !" and Archie laughed incredulously, it 
 seemed so absurd that little Maude Graham should ever 
 become an author of whom the world would hear. 
 
 "Yes," she answered him decidedly. "A book! 
 Why not ? it is in me ; it has been there always, and I 
 can no more help writing it than you can help doing, — 
 well, nothing, as you always have. Yes, I shall write a 
 book, and you will read it, Archie More, and thousands 
 more, too ; and I shall put Spring Farm in it, and you, 
 and your uncle Max. I think I shall make him the 
 villain." 
 
 She was very hard upon poor Max, whose only 
 offense was that he had bidden off Spring Farm to 
 please his sister, but Archie was ready to defend him 
 again. 
 
 " If you knew uncle Max," he said, "you would make 
 him your hero instead of your villain, for a better man 
 never lived. He is kindness itself and the soul of honor. 
 Why, when he was very young he was engaged to a 
 girl who fell from a horse and broke her leg, or her 
 neck, or her back, I've forgotten which. Anyhow, she 
 cannot walk and has to be wheeled in a chair, but Max 
 sticks to her like a burr, because he thinks he ought. I 
 am sure I hope he will never marry her." 
 
 " Why not ?" Maude asked, and he replied : 
 
 •' Because, you see. Max has a heap of money, and if 
 
178 THE SPRING FAKM. 
 
 he never marries and I outlive him, some of it will come 
 to me. Money is a good thing, I tell j'ou." 
 
 " I didn't suppose you as mean as that, Archie More ! 
 and I hope Mr. Max will marry that .broken-backed 
 woman, and that she will live a thousand years ! Yes, 
 I do !" 
 
 The last three words were emphasized with so vig- 
 orous blows on the back of the ox, that he started away 
 suddenly, and Maude would have fallen if Archie had 
 not caught her in his arms. 
 
 " Now, Maude," he said, as he held her for a moment 
 closely to him, " don't let's quarrel any more. I'm 
 going away to-morrow to the Adirondacks, then in the 
 fall to college, and may not see you again for a long 
 time ; but I sha'n't forget you. I like you the best of 
 any girl in the world ; I do, upon my honor." 
 
 " No, you don't. I know exactly what you think of 
 me, and always have, but it does not matter now," 
 Maude answered vehemently. " You are going your 
 way, and I am going mine, and the two ways will never 
 meet." 
 
 And so, quarreling and making up, but making up 
 rather more than they quarreled, the two went slowly 
 alo\ig the gravelly lane until they reached the house 
 where Mrs. Marshall-More was standing with a very 
 ;evere look upon her face, as she said to her son : 
 
 " Do you know how long you have kept me waiting ?" 
 
 Then to Maude : 
 
 " Been crying ? I am sorry you take it so hard. Be^ 
 lieve me, you will be better off in the village. Neither 
 your mother nor you could run the farm, and you will 
 find some employment there. I hear that Mrs. Nipe is 
 YV'anting an apprentice and that she will give stjj^lj 
 
WHERTS ABCHIE WAS. 179 
 
 wages at first, which is not usual with dressmakers. 
 You'd better apply at once." 
 
 "Thank you," Maude answered quickly. " I do not 
 think I shall learn dressmaking," and Maude looked at 
 the lady as proudly as a queen might look upon her 
 subject. " Mrs. More, do you think your brother would 
 promise to keep Spring Farm until I can buy it back ?" 
 she continued. 
 
 The idea that Maude Graham could ever buy Spring 
 Farm was so preposterous that Mrs. Marshall-More 
 laughed immoderately, as she replied, " Perhaps so. I 
 will ask him ; or you can do it yourself. I don't know 
 where he is now. I seldom do know, but anything ad- 
 dressed to his club, No. , Street, Boston, will 
 
 reach him in time. And now we must go. Good-bye." 
 
 She offered the tips of her fingers to the girl who just 
 touched them, and then giving her hand to Archie said, 
 " Good-bye, Archie, I am sorry we quarreled so, and I 
 did not mean half I said to you. I hope you will forget 
 it. Good-bye ; I may never see you again." 
 
 If Archie had dared he would have kissed the face 
 which had never looked so sweet to him as now ; but 
 his mother's eyes were upon him and so he only said 
 " Good-bye," and took his seat in the carriage with a. 
 feeling that something which had been very dear had 
 dropped out of his lif^. 
 
180 THE BPBING FABM. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 GOING WEST. 
 
 It was a very plain but pretty little cottage of which 
 Mrs. Graham took possession with her children, Maude 
 and John, who was two years younger than his sister. 
 As most of the furniture had been sold it did not take 
 them long to settle, and then the question arose as to 
 how they were to live. A thousand dollars was all they 
 had in the world, and these Mrs. Graham placed in the 
 savings bank against a time of greater need, hoping 
 that, as her friends assured her, something would turn 
 up. " If there was anything I could do, I would do it 
 so willingly," Maude was constantly saying to herself, 
 while busy with the household duties which now fell to 
 her lot and to which she was unaccustomed. During 
 her father's life two strong German girls had been em- 
 ployed in the house and Maude had been as tenderly 
 and delicately reared as are the daughters of million- 
 aires. But now everything was changed, and those 
 who had known her only as an idle dreamer and de- 
 vourer of books, were astonished at the energy and cap- 
 ability which she developed. But these did not under- 
 stand the girl or know that all the stronger part of her 
 nature had been called into being by the exigencies of 
 the case. Maude's love for her mother was deep and 
 unselfish, and for her sake she tried to make the most 
 and the best of everything. Stifling with a smile born 
 of a sob all her longings for the past, she turned her 
 thoughts steadily to the one purpose of her life, — buy- 
 
GOING WEST. 181 
 
 mg Spring Farm back ! But how ? The book she was 
 going to write did not seem quite so certain now. Her 
 brain children had turned traitors and flown away from 
 the sweeping, dusting, dishwashing and bedmaking 
 which fell to her lot and which she did with a song on 
 her lips lest her mother should detect the heartache 
 which was always with her, even when her face was the 
 brightest and her song the sweetest. She had written 
 to Archie's uncle without a suspicion that she did not 
 know his real name. As he was a brother of Mrs. 
 More, whose maiden name was Marshall, his must be 
 Marshall too, she reasoned, forgetting to have heard 
 that Mrs. More was only a half-sister and that there had 
 been two fathers. Of course, he was Max Marshall, 
 and she addressed him as follows : 
 
 " Merrivale, July — , i8 — . 
 " Mr. Max Marshall : 
 " Dear Sir, — I am Maude Graham, and you bought 
 my old home, Spring Farm, and it nearly broke my 
 own and mamma's heart to have it'sold. I don't blame 
 you much now for buying it, but I did once, and I said 
 some hard things about you to Archie More, your 
 nephew, which he may repeat to you. But I was 
 angry then at him and everybody, and I am sorry that 
 I said them. I am only eighteen and very poor, but I 
 shall be rich some day, — I am sure of it, — and able to 
 buy Spring Farm, and I want you to keep it for me and 
 not sell it to any one else. It may be years, but the 
 day will come when I shall have the money of my own. 
 Will you keep the place till then ? I think I shall be 
 happier and have more courage to work if you write 
 and say you will. 
 
 "Yours truly, "-Maude Graham." 
 
 After this letter was sent and before she had reason 
 
182 tsb sPking farm. 
 
 to expect an answer, Maude began to look for it, but 
 none came, and the summer stretched on into August 
 and the house at Spring Farm was shut up, for Mrs. 
 Marshall-More was in Europe, and Maude's great 
 anxiety was to find something to do for her own and 
 her mother's support. Miss Nipe, the dressmaker, 
 would give her a dollar a week while she was learning 
 the trade, and this, with the three dollars per week 
 which her brother John was earning in a grocery store, 
 would be better than nothing, and she was seriously 
 ■considering the matter, when a letter from her mother's 
 brother, who lived " out West," as that portion of New 
 York between the Cayuga Bridge and Buffalo was then 
 called, changed the whole aspect of her affairs and 
 forged the first link in the chain of her destiny. He 
 could not take his sister and her children into his own 
 large family, he wrote, but he had a plan to propose 
 which, he thought, would prove advantageous to 
 Maude, if her mother approved of it and would spare 
 her from home. About six miles from his place was a 
 school, which his daughter had taught for two years, 
 but as she was about to be married, the position was 
 open to Maude at four dollars a week and her board, 
 provided she would take it. 
 
 " Maude is rather young, I know," Mr. Ailing wrote in- 
 conclusion, " but no younger than Annie was when she 
 began to teach, so her age need not stand in the way, if 
 she chooses to come. The country will seem new and 
 strange to her ; there are still log-houses in the Bush 
 district ; indeed, the school-house is built of logs and 
 the people ride in lumber wagons and are not like 
 Bostonians or New Yorkers, but they are very kind, 
 
eoiNG West. 183 
 
 aiid Mdude will get accustomed to them in time. My 
 advice is that she accept." 
 
 At first Mrs Graham refused to let her young daugh» 
 ter go so far from home, but Maude was persistent and 
 eager. Log-houses and lumber wagons had no terrors 
 for her. Indeed, they were rather attractions than 
 otherwise, and fired her imagination, which began at 
 once to people those houses of the olden time with the 
 Kimbricks and the Websters, who had forsaken her so 
 long. Four dollars a week seemed a fortune to her, 
 and she would save it all, she said, and send it to her 
 mother, who unwillingly consented at last and fortu- 
 nately found a gentleman in town who was going to 
 Chicago and would take charge of Maude as far as 
 Canandaigua, where she was to leave the train and 
 finish her journey by stage. But on the evening of the 
 day before the one when Maude was to start, the gentle- 
 man received word that his son was very ill in Port- 
 land and required his immediate presence. 
 
 " I can go alone," Maude said courageously, though 
 with a little sinking of the heart. " No one will 
 harm me. Crossing the river at Albany is the worst, 
 but I can do as the rest do, and after that I do not leave 
 the car again until we reach Canandaigua." 
 
 "Don't feel so badly, mamma," she continued, wind- 
 ing her arms around her mother's neck and kissing 
 away her tears. " I am not afraid, and don't you know 
 how often you have said that God cared for the father- 
 less, and I am that, and I shall ask Him all the time I 
 afh in the car to take care of me, and He will answer. 
 He will hear. I'm not a child. I am eighteen in the 
 Bible and a great deal older than that since father died. 
 Don't cry, darling mamma, and make it harder for 
 
184 THE SPKING SAElrf. 
 
 me. I must go to-morrow, for school begins next 
 Monday." 
 
 So, for her daughter's sake, Mrs. Graham tried to be 
 calm, and Maude's little hair trunk was packed with the 
 garments, in each of which was folded a mother's 
 prayer for the safety of her child ; and the morning 
 came, and the ticket was bought, and the condiictor, 
 with whom Mrs. Graham had a slight acquintance, 
 promised to see to the little girl as far as Albany, where 
 he would put her in charge of the man who took his 
 place. Then the good-byes were said and the train 
 moved on past the village on the hillside, past the dear 
 old Spring Farm which she looked at through blinding 
 tears as long as a tree-top was in sight, past the grave- 
 yard where her father was lying, past the meadows and 
 woods and hills she loved so well, and on towards the 
 new country and the new life of which she knew so 
 little. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ON THE ROAD. 
 
 Those were the days when the Boston train west- 
 ward-bound moved at a snail's pace compared with 
 what it does now, and twenty-four hours instead of 
 twelve were required for the trip from Merrivale to 
 Canandaigua, so that the afternoon was drawing to a 
 close when the cars stopped in Greenbush and the pas- 
 sengers alighted and rushed for the boat which was to 
 take them across the river. This, and re-checking her 
 
ON THK ROAD. 185 
 
 trur.k, was what Maude dreaded the most, and her face 
 was very white and scared and her heart beating vio- 
 lently as she followed the crowd, wondering if she 
 should ever find her trunk among all that pile of bag- 
 gage they were handling so roughly, and if it would be 
 smashed to pieces when she did, and if she should get 
 into the right car, or be carried somewhere else. She 
 had lost sight of the conductor. Her head was begin- 
 ning to ache, and there was a lump in her throat 
 every time she thought of her mother and John, who 
 would soon be taking their simple evening meal and 
 talking of her. 
 
 " I wonder if I can bear it," she said to herself, as she 
 sat in the cabin the very image of despair, clasping her 
 hand-bag tightly and looking anxiously at the people 
 around her as if in search of some friendly face, which 
 she could trust. 
 
 She had heard so much before leaving home of 
 wolves in sheep's or rather men's clothing, who infest 
 railway trains, ready to pounce upon any unsuspecting 
 girl who chanced to fall in their way, and had been so 
 much afraid that some of the wolves might be on her 
 train, lying in wait for her, that she had resolutely kept 
 her head turned to the window all the time with a 
 prayer in her heart that God would let no one speak to 
 and frighten her. And thus far no one had spoken to 
 her, except the conductor, but God must have deserted 
 her now, for just as they were reaching the opposite 
 shore, a gentleman, who had been watching her ever 
 since she crouched down in the shadowy corner, and 
 who had seen her wipe the tears away more than once, 
 came up to her and said, " Are you alone, and can I do 
 anything for you ?" 
 
186 THE Spring farm. 
 
 " Yes, — no ; oh, I don't know," Maude gasped as she 
 clutched her bag, in which was her purse, more tightly, 
 and looked up at the face above her. 
 
 It was such a pleasant face, and the voice was so kind 
 and reassuring, that she forgot the wolves and might 
 have given him her bag, purse, check and all, if the con- 
 ductor had not just then appeared and taken her in 
 charge. Lifting his hat politely the stranger walked 
 away, while Maude went to identify her trunk. 
 
 " Will you take a sleeper ?" the conductor asked. 
 
 And she replied : " Oh, no. I can't afford that."- 
 
 So he found her a whole seat in the common car, and 
 telling her he would speak of her to the new conductor, 
 bade her good-bye, and she was left alone. 
 
 Very nervously she watched her fellow passengers as 
 they came hurrying in, — men, mostly, it seemed to her, 
 — rough-looking men, too, for there had been a horse- 
 race that day at a point on the Harlem road, and they 
 were returning from it. Occasionally some one of them 
 stopped and looked at the girl in black, who sat so 
 straight and still, with her hand-bag held down upon 
 the vacant seat beside her as if to keep it intact. But 
 no one offered to take it, and Maude breathed more 
 freely as the crowded train moved slowly from the 
 depot. After a little the new conductor came and spoke 
 to her and looked at her ticket and went out, and then 
 she was really alone. New England, with its rocks and 
 hills and mountains, was behind her. Mother, and 
 John, and home were far away, and the lump in her 
 throat grew larger, and there crept over her such a 
 sense of dreariness and home-sickness, that she would 
 have cried outright if she dared to. ^JThere were only 
 six women in the car besides herself, All the rest were 
 
ON THE ROAO. 187 
 
 Wolves ; she felt sure of that, they talked and laughed so 
 lou37'and spit so much tobacco-juice. They were so 
 different from the stranger on the boat, she thought, 
 wondering who he was and where he had gone. How 
 pleasantly he had spoken to her, and how she wished 
 ■ She got no further, for a voice said to her : 
 
 " Can I sit by you ? Every other seat is taken." 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes. I am so glad," Maude exclaimed in- 
 voluntarily in her delight at recognizing the stranger, 
 and springing to her feet she offered liim the seat next 
 to the window. 
 
 " Oh, no," he said, with a smile which would have 
 won the confidence of any girl. "Keep that yourself. 
 You will be more comfortable there. Are you going 
 to ride all night ?" 
 
 ■' Yes, I am going to Canandaigua," she replied. 
 
 " To Canandaigua !" he repeated, looking at her a 
 little curiohsly ; but he asked no more questions then, 
 and busied himself with adjusting his bag and his large 
 traveling shawl, which last he put on the back of the 
 seat, more behind Maude than himself. 
 
 Then he took out a magazine, while Maude watched 
 him furtively, thinking him the finest looking man she 
 had ever seen, except her father, of whom, in his man- 
 ner, he reminded her a little. Not nearly so old, cer- 
 tainly, as her father, and not young like Archie either, 
 for there were a few threads of grey in his mustache 
 and in his brown hair which had a trick of curling 
 slightly at the ends under his soft felt hat. Who was 
 he ? she wondered. The initials on his satchel were 
 " M. G.," but that told her nothing. How she hoped he 
 was going as far as she was, she felt so safe with him, 
 
188 THIS SPRING fAEM. 
 
 and at last, as the darkness increased and he shut up 
 his book, she ventured to ask : 
 
 " Are you going far ?" 
 
 "Yes," he replied, with a twiukle of humor in his 
 blue eyes, "and if none of these men get out, I am 
 afraid I shall have to claim your forbearance all night, 
 but I will make myself as small as possible. Look," 
 and with a laugh he drew himself close to the arm of 
 the seat, leaving quite a space between them ; but he 
 did not tell her that he had engaged a berth in the 
 sleeper, which he had abandoned when he found her 
 there alone, with that set of roughs, whose character he 
 knew. 
 
 " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of 
 these ye have done it unto me," would surely be said to 
 him some day, for he was always giving the cup of 
 water, even to those who did not know they were thirst- 
 ing until after they had drunk of what he offered them. 
 Once he brought Maude some water in a little glass 
 tumbler, which he took from his satchel, and once he 
 offered her an apple which she declined lest she should 
 seem too forward ; then, as the hours crept on and her 
 eyelids began to droop, he folded his shawl carefully 
 and made her let him put it behind her head, suggest- 
 ing that she remove her hat, as she would rest more 
 comfortably without it. 
 
 "Now sleep quietly," he said, and as if there were 
 something mesmeric in his voice, Maude went to sleep 
 at once and dreamed she was at home with her mother 
 beside her, occasionally fixing the pillow under her 
 head and covering her with something which added to 
 her comfort. 
 
 It was the stranger's light overcoat which, as the Sep- 
 
ON THE EOAD. 189 
 
 tember night grew cold and chill, he put over the girl, 
 whose upturned face he had studied as intently as she 
 had studied his. About seven o'clock the conductor 
 came in, lantern in hand, and as its rays fell upon the 
 stranger, he said, " Hello, Gordon, you here ? 1 thought 
 you were in the sleeper. On guard, I see, as usual. 
 Who is the lamb this time ?" 
 
 " I don't know ; do you ?" the man called Gordon re- 
 plied. 
 
 " No," the conductor said, turning his light full upon 
 Maude; then, "Why, it's a little girl the Boston con- 
 ductor put in my care ; but she's safer with you. Comes 
 from the mountains somewhere, I believe. Guess she is 
 going to seek her fortune. She ought to find it, with 
 that face. Isn't she pretty ?" and he glanced admiringly 
 at the sweet young face now turned to one side, with 
 one hand under the flushed cheek and the short rings 
 of damp hair ctirling round her forehead. 
 
 "Yes, very," Gordon replied, moving uneasily and 
 finally holding a newspaper between Maude and the 
 conductor's lantern, for it did not seem right to him 
 that any eyes except those of a near friend should take 
 this advantage of a sleeping girl. 
 
 The conductor passed on, and then Gordon fell asleep 
 until they reached a way station, where the sudden 
 stopping of a train roused him to consciousness, and a 
 moment after he was confronted by a young man, who, 
 at sight of him, stopped short and exclaimed : 
 
 " Max Gordon, as I live ! I've hunted creation over 
 for you and given you up. Where have you been and 
 why weren't you at Long Branch, as you said you'd b^ 
 when you wrote me to join you therp ?" 
 
190 THE SPRING FARM. 
 
 " Got tired of it, you were so long coming-, so I went 
 to the Adirondacks with Archie." 
 
 " Did you bring me any letters ?" Max replied, and 
 • his friend continued, " Yes, a cart load. Six, any way,'' 
 and he began to take them from his side pocket. "One, 
 two, three, four, five ; there's another somewhere. Oh, 
 here 'tis," he said, taking out the sixth, which looked 
 rather soiled and worn. " I suppose it's for )'ou," he 
 continued, " although it's directed to Mr. Max Marshall, 
 Esq., and is in a school-girl's handwriting. It came 
 long ago, and we chaps puzzled over it a good while ; 
 then, as no one appeared to claim it, and it was mailed 
 at Merrivale, where your sister spends her summers, I 
 ventured to bring it with the rest. If you were not 
 such a saint I'd say you had been imposing a false 
 name upon some innocent country girl, and, by George, 
 I believe she's here now with your ulster over her ! 
 Running off with her, eh .' What will Miss Ra5?nor 
 say ?" he went on, as his eyes fell upon Maude, who 
 just then stirred in her sleep and murmured softly 
 " Our Father, who art in Heaven." 
 
 She was at home in her little white-curtained bed- 
 room, kneeling with her mother and saying her nightly 
 prayer, and, involuntarily, both the young men bowed 
 their heads as if receiving a benediction. 
 
 "I think, Dick, that your vile insinuation is an- 
 swered," Max said, and Dick rejoined, " Yes, I beg your 
 pardon. Under your protection, I s'pose. Well, she's 
 safe ; but I must be finding that berth of mine. Will 
 see you in the morning. Good-night." 
 
 He left the car, while Max Gordon tried to read his 
 letters as best he could by the dim light near him. 
 One was from his sister, one from Archie, three oq 
 
ON THE EOAD. 191 
 
 business, while the last puzzled him a little, and he held 
 it awhile as if uncertain as to his right to open it. 
 
 " It must be for me," he said at last, and breaking the 
 seal he read Maude's letter to him, unconscious that 
 Maude was sleeping there beside him. 
 
 Indeed, he had never heard of Maude Graham before, 
 and had scarcely given a thought to the former owners 
 of Spring Farm. His sister had a mortgage upon it ; 
 the man was dead ; the place must be sold, and Mrs. 
 More asked him to buy it ; that was all he knew when 
 he bid it off. 
 
 " Poor little girl," he said to himself. " If I had known 
 about you, I don't believe I'd have bought the place. 
 There was no necessity to foreclose, I am sure ; but it 
 was just like Angie ; and what must this Maude think of 
 me not to have answered her letter. I am so sorry ;" 
 and his sorrow manifested itself in an increased atten- 
 tion to the girl, over whom he adjusted his ulster more 
 carefully, for the air in the car was growing very damp 
 and chilly. 
 
 It was broad daylight when Maude awoke, starting 
 up with a smile on her face and reminding Max of some 
 lovely child when first aroused from sleep. 
 
 "Why, I have slept all night," she exclaimed, as she 
 tossed back her wavy hair ; " and you have given me 
 your shawl and ulster, too," she added, with a blush 
 which made her face, as Max, thought, the prettiest he 
 had ever seen. 
 
 Who was she, he wondered, and once he thought to 
 ask her the question direct ; then he tried by a little 
 finessing to find out who she was and where she came 
 from, but Maude's mother had so strongly impressed it 
 Vipon her not to bf ^t all communicative \o strangers, 
 
192 THE SPRING FARM. 
 
 that she was wholly non-committal even while suspect- 
 ing his design, and when at last Canandaigua was 
 reached he knew no more of her history than when he 
 first saw her, white and trembling on the boat. She 
 was going to take the Genesee stage, she said, and ex- 
 pected her uncle to meet her at Oak Corners in Rich-' 
 land. 
 
 " Why, that is funny," he said. " If it were not that 
 a carriage is to meet me, I should still be your fellow- 
 traveler, for my route lies that way." 
 
 And then he did ask her uncle's name. She surel)' 
 might tell him so much, Maude thought, and replied : 
 
 " Captain James Ailing, my mother's brother." 
 
 Her name was not Ailing, then, and reflecting that 
 now he knew who her uncle was he could probably 
 trace her, Max saw her into the stage, and taking her 
 ungloved hand in his held it perhaps a trifle longer than 
 he would have done if it had not been so very soft 
 and white and pretty, and rested so confidingly in his, 
 while she thanked him for his kindness. Then the 
 stage drove away, while he stood watching it, and won- 
 dering why the morning was not quite so bright as it 
 had been an hour ago, and why he had not asked her 
 point-blank who she was, or had been so stupid as not 
 to give her his card. 
 
 " Max Gordon, you certainly are getting into your 
 dotage," he said to himself. " A man of your age to be 
 so interested in a little unknown girl ! What would 
 Grace say ? Poor Grace. I wonder if I shall find her 
 improved, and why she has buried herself in this part 
 of the country." 
 
 As he entered the hotel a thought of Maude Graham's 
 
ON THE EOAD. 193 
 
 letter came to his mind, and calling for pen and paper he 
 dashed off the following : 
 
 " Canandaigua, September — , i8 — . 
 " Miss Maude Graham, — Your letter did not reach 
 me until last night, when it was brought me by a friend. 
 I have not been in Boston since the first of last July, 
 and the reason it was not forwarded to me is that you 
 addressed it wrong, and they were in doubt as to its 
 owner. My name is Gordon, not Marshall, as you sup- 
 posed, and I am very sorry for your sake and your 
 mother's that I ever bought Spring Farm. Had I 
 known what I do now I should not have done so. But 
 it is too late, and I can only promise to keep it as you 
 wish until you can buy it back. You are a brave little 
 girl and Twill sell it to you cheap. I should very much 
 like to know you, and when I am again in Merrivale I 
 shall call upon you and your mother, if she will let me. 
 " With kind regards to her I am 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " Max Gordon." 
 
 The letter finished, he folded and directed it to Miss 
 Maude Graham, Merrivale, Mass., while she for whom 
 it was intended was huddled up in one corner of the 
 crowded stage and going on as fast as four fleet horses 
 could take her towards Oak Corners and the friends 
 awaiting'her there. Thus strangely do two lives some- 
 times meet and cross each other and then drift widely 
 apart ; but not forever, in this instance, let us hope. 
 
194 THE SFEING FAKM. 
 
 CHAPTER V.- 
 
 MISS RAYNOR. 
 
 About a mile from Laurel Hill, a little village in 
 Richland, was an eminence, or plateau, from the top of 
 which one could see for miles the rich, well-cultivated 
 farms in which the town abounded, the wooded hills and 
 the deep gorges all slanting down to a common centre, 
 the pretty little lake, lying as in the bottom of a basin, 
 with its clear waters sparkling in the sunshine. And 
 here, just on the top of the plateau, where the view was 
 the finest, an eccentric old bachelor, Paul Raynor, had 
 a few years before our story opens, built himself a home 
 after his own peculiar ideas of architecture, but which, 
 when finished and furnished, was a most delightful 
 place, especially in the summer when the flowers and 
 shrubs, of which there was a great profusion, were in 
 blossom, and the wide lawn in front of the house was 
 like a piece of velvet. Here for two years Paul Raynor 
 had lived quite en prince, and then, sickening with what 
 he knew to be a fatal disease, he had sent for his invalid 
 sister Grace, who came and stayed with him to the last, 
 finding after he was dead that all his property had been 
 left to her, with a request that she would make the 
 Cedars, as the place was called, her home for a portion 
 of the time at least. And so, though city bred and city 
 born, Grace had staid on for nearly a year, leading a 
 lonely life, for she knew but few of her neighbors, while 
 her crippled condition prevented her from mingling at 
 all in the society she was so well fitted to adorn. As 
 
MISS KAYNOE. 195 
 
 the reader will have guessed, Grace Raynor was the girl, 
 or rather woman, for she was over thirty now, to whom 
 Max Gordon had devoted the years of his early man- 
 hood, in the vain hope that some time she would be 
 cured and become his wife. A few days before the one 
 appointed for her bridal she had been thrown from her 
 horse and had injured her spine so badly that for 
 months she suffered such agony that her beautiful hair 
 turned white ; then the pain ceased suddenly, but left 
 her no power to move her lower limbs, and she had 
 never walked since and never would. But through all 
 the long years Max had clung to her with a devotion 
 born first of his intense love for her and later of his 
 sense of honor which would make him loyal to her even 
 to the grave. Knowing how domestic he was in his 
 tastes and how happy he would be with wife and chil- 
 dren, Grace had insisted that he should leave her and 
 seek some other love. But his answer was always the 
 same. " No, Grace, I am bound to you just as strongly 
 as if the clergyman had made us one, and will marry 
 you any day you will say the word. Your lameness is 
 nothing so long as your soul is left untouched, and your 
 face, too," he would sometimes add, kissing fondly the 
 lovely face which, with each year, seemed to grow love- 
 lier, and from which the snowy hair did not in the least 
 detract. 
 
 But Grace knew better than to inflict herself upon 
 him, and held fast to her resolve, even while her whole 
 being went out to him with an intense longing for his 
 constant love and companionship. Especially was this 
 the case at the Cedars, where she found herself very 
 lonely, notwithstanding the beauty of the place and its 
 sitiiatipn. 
 
196 ' THE SPRING FARM. 
 
 " If he asks me again, shall I refuse ?" she said to her- 
 self on the September morning when Maude Graham 
 was alighting from the dusty stage at Oak Corners, two 
 miles away, and the carriage sent for Max was only an 
 hour behind. 
 
 How pretty she was in the dainty white dress, with a 
 'shawl of scarlet wool wrapped around her, as she sat in 
 her wheel chair on the "broad piazza, which commanded 
 a view of the lake and the green hills bej'ond. Not 
 fresh and bright and glowing as Maude, who was like 
 an opening rose with the early dew upon it, but more 
 like a pale water lily just beginning to droop, though 
 very sweet and lovely still. There was a faint tinge of 
 color in her cheek as she leaned her head against the 
 cushions of her chair and wondered if she should find 
 Max the same ardent lover as ever, ready to take her to 
 his arras at any cost, or had he, duri.ig the past year, 
 seen some other face fairer and younger than her own. 
 
 " I shall know in a moment if he is changed ever so 
 little," she thought, and although she did not mean to 
 be selfish, and would at any moment have given him up 
 and made no sign, there was a throb of pain in her 
 heart as she tried to think what life would be without 
 Max to love her. " I should die," she whispered, "and 
 please God, I shall die before many years and leave my 
 boy free." 
 
 He was her boy still, just as young and handsome as 
 he had been thirteen years ago, when he lifted her so 
 tenderly from the ground and she felt his tears upon 
 her forehead as she writhed in her fearful pain. And 
 now when at last he came and put his arms around her 
 and took her face between his hands and looked fondly 
 into it as he questioned ber of her health, she feU that 
 
MISS KA.YNOK. 19? 
 
 he was unchanged, and thanked her Father for it. He 
 was delighted with everything, and sat by her until 
 after lunch, which was served on the piazza, and asked 
 her of her life there and the people in the neighborhood, 
 and finally if she knew of a Capt. Ailing. 
 
 " Capt. Ailing," she replied ; " why, yes. He lives 
 on a farm about two miles from here and we buy 
 our hone)' from him. A very respectable man, I think, 
 although I have no acquaintance with the family. Why 
 do you ask ?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing ; only there was a girl on the train with 
 me who told me she was his niece," Max answered in- 
 differently, with a vigorous puff at his cigar, which 
 Grace always insisted he should smoke in her presence. 
 " She was very pretty and very young. I should like to 
 see her again," he added, more to himself than to Grace, 
 wjio, without knowing why, felt suddenly as if a cloud 
 had crept across her sky. 
 
 Jealousy had no part in Grace's nature, nor was she 
 jealous of this young, pretty girl whom Max would like 
 to see again, and to prove that she was not she asked 
 many questions about her and said she would try and 
 find out who she was, and that she presumed she had 
 come to attend the wedding of Capt. Alling's daughter, 
 who was soon to be married. 'This seemed very prob- 
 able, and no more was said of Maude until the afternoon 
 of the day following, whicii was Sunday. Then, after 
 Max returned from church and they were seated at 
 dinner he said abruptly, "I saw her again." 
 
 " Saw whom ?" Grace asked, and he replied, " My 
 little girl of the train. She was at church with her 
 uncle's family. A rather ordinary lot I thought them, 
 
198 THE SPRtNG tAKil. 
 
 but she looked as sweet as a June pink. You know 
 they are my favorite flowers." 
 
 " Yes," Grace answered slowly, while again a breath 
 of cold air seemed to blow over her and make her draw 
 her shawl more closely around her. 
 
 But Max did not suspect it, and pared a peach for her 
 and helped her to grapes, and after dinner wheeled her 
 for an hour on the broad plateau, stooping over her 
 once and caressing her white hair, which he told her 
 was very becoming, and saying no more of the girl seen 
 in church that morning. The Allings had been late 
 and the rector was reading the first lesson when they 
 came in, father and mother and two healthy, buxom 
 girls, followed by Maude, who, in her black dress 
 looked taller and slimmer than he had thought her in 
 the car, and prettier, too, with the brilliant color on her 
 cheeks and the sparkle in the eyes which met his with 
 such glad surprise in them that he felt something stir in 
 his heart different from anything he had' felt since he 
 and Grace were young. The Allings occupied a pew in 
 front of him and on the side, so that he could look at 
 and study Maude's face, which he did far more than he 
 listened to the sermon. And she knew he was looking 
 at her, too, and always blushed when she met his earn- 
 est gaze. As they were leaving the church he managed 
 to get near her, and said, " I hope you are quite well 
 after your long journey, Miss ." 
 
 '' Graham,'' she -answered, involuntarily, but so low 
 that he only caught the first syllable and thought that 
 she said Grey. 
 
 She was Miss Grey, then, and with this bit of infor- 
 mation he was obliged to be content. Twice during the 
 week he rode past the Ailing house, hoping to see the 
 
•TBB SCHOOL MISTEKSS. 199 
 
 eyes which had flashed so brightly upon him on the 
 porch of the church, and never dreaming of the hot tears 
 of homesickness they were weeping in the log school 
 house of the Bush district, where poor Maude was so 
 desolate and lonely. If he had, he might, perhaps, 
 have gone there and tried to comfort her, so greatly was 
 he interested in her, and so much was she in his mind. 
 He stayed at the Cedars several days, and then find- 
 ing it a little tiresome said good-bye to Grace and went 
 his way again, leaving her with a vague consciousness 
 that something had come between them ; a shadow 
 no larger than a man's hand, it is true, but still a 
 shadow, and as she watched him going down the walk 
 she whispered sadly, " Max is slipping from me," 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE SCHOOL MISTRESS. 
 
 The setting sun of a raw January afternoon was shin- 
 ing into the dingy school-room where Maude sat by the 
 iron-rusted box stove, with her feet on the hearth, read- 
 ing a note which had been brought to her just before 
 the close of school by a man who had been to the post- 
 office in the village at the foot of the lake. It was 
 nearly four months since she first crossed the threshold 
 of the log school-house, taking in at a glance the whole 
 dreariness of her surroundings, and feeling for the mo- 
 ment that she could not endure it. But she was some- 
 what accustomed to it now, and not half so much afraid 
 
500 *BE SPfelKG fAEM. 
 
 of the tall girls and boys, her scholars, as she had been 
 at first, while the latter were wholly devoted to her and 
 not a little proud of their " young school ma'am," as 
 they called her. Everybody was kind to her, and she 
 had not found " boarding round " so very dreadful after 
 all, for the fatted calf was always killed for her, and 
 the best dishes brought out, while it was seldom that 
 she was called upon to share her sleeping room with 
 more than one member of the family. And still there 
 was ever present with her a longing for her mother and 
 for Johnnie and a life more congenial to her tastes. 
 Dreaming was out of the question now, and the book 
 which was to make her famous and buy back the old 
 home seemed very far in the future. Just how 
 large a portion of her thoughts was given to Max Gor- 
 don it was difficult to say. She had felt a thrill of joy 
 when she saw him in church, and a little proud, too, it 
 may be, of his notice of her. Very minutely her 
 cousins had questioned her with regard to her acquaint- 
 ance with him, deploring her stupidity in not having 
 ascertained who he was. A relative, most likely, of 
 Miss Raynor, in whose pew he sat, they concluded, and 
 they told their cousin of the lady at the Cedars, Grace 
 Raynor, who could not walk a step, but was wheeled in 
 a chair, sometimes by a maid and sometimes by a man. 
 The lady par excellence of the neighborhood she seemed 
 to be, and Maude found herself greatly interested in her 
 and in everything pertaining to her. Twice she had 
 been through the grounds, which were open to the pub- 
 lic, and had seen Grace both times in the distance, once 
 sitting in her chair upon the piazza, and once being 
 wheeled in the woods by her man-servant, Tom. But 
 beyond this she had not advanced, and nothing could be 
 
farther from her thoughts than the idea that she would 
 ever be anything to the lady of the Cedars. Max Gor- 
 don's letter had been forwarded to her .from Merrivale, 
 but had created no suspicion in her mind that he and 
 her friend of the train were one. She had thought it a 
 little strange that he should have been in Canandaigua 
 the very day that she arrived there, and wished she 
 might have seen him, but the truth never dawned upon 
 her until some time in December, when her mother 
 wrote to her that he had called to see them, expressing 
 much regret at Maude's absence, and when told where 
 she was apd when she went, exclaiming with energy, 
 as he sprang to his feet, " Why, madam, your daitghter 
 was with me in the train, — a little blue-eyed, brown- 
 haired girl in black, who said she was Captain Alling's 
 niece.'' 
 
 " He seemed greatly excited," Mrs. Graham wrote, 
 " and regretted that he did not know who you were. 
 He got an idea somehow that your name was Grey, and 
 said he received your letter with you asleep beside him. 
 He is a splendid looking man, with the pleasantest eyes 
 and the kindest voice I ever heard or saw." 
 
 " Ye-es," Maude said slowly, as she recalled the voice 
 which had spoken so kindly to her, and the eyes which 
 had looked so pleasantly into her own. " And that was 
 Max Gordon ! He was going to the Cedars, and Miss 
 Raynor is the girl for whom he has lived single all 
 these years. Oh-h !" 
 
 She was conscious of a vague regret that her stranger 
 friend was the betrothed husband of Grace Raynor, 
 who, at that very time, was thinking of her and fight- 
 ing down a feeling as near to jealousy as it was possible 
 for her to harbor. In the same mail with Maude's let- 
 
202 Me BPKiNG VAKJi. 
 
 ter from her mother there had come to the Cedars one 
 from Max, who said that he had discovered who was 
 his compagnon da voyage. 
 
 " She is teaching somewhere in your town," he wrote 
 "and I judge is not very happy there. Can't you do 
 something for her, Grace ? It has occurred to me that 
 to have a girl like her about you would do you a great 
 deal of good. We are both getting on in 3'ears, and 
 need something young to keep us from growing old, and 
 you might make her your companion. She is very 
 pretty, with a soft, cultivated voice, and must be a good 
 reader. Think of it, and if you decide to do it, inquire 
 for her at Captain Alling's. Her name is- Maude Gra- 
 ham. Yours lovingly, 
 
 " Max." 
 
 This was Max's letter, which Grace read as she sat in 
 her cosy sitting-room with every luxury around her 
 which money could buy, from the hot house roses on the 
 stand beside her to the costly rug on which her chair 
 was standing in the ruddy glow of the cheerful grate 
 fire. And as she read it she felt again the cold breath 
 which had swept over her when Max was telling her of 
 the young girl who had interested him so much. And 
 in a way Grace, too, had interested herself in Maude, 
 and through her maid had ascertained who she was, and 
 that she was teaching in the southern part of the town. 
 And there her interest had ceased. But it revived 
 again on the receipt of Max's letter and she said, " I 
 must see this girl first and know what she is like. A 
 woman can judge a woman better than a man, but I 
 wish Max had not said what he did about our growing 
 old. Am I greatly changed, I wonder ?" 
 
tHE SdfiOOL MiSTfeES^. 20'j 
 
 She could manage her chair herself in the house, and 
 wheeling it before a long mirror, she leaned eagerly 
 forward and examined the face reflected there. A pale, 
 sweet face, framed in masses of snow white hair, which 
 rather added to its youthful appearance than detracted 
 from it, although she did not think so. She had been 
 so proud of her golden hair, and the bitterest tears she 
 had ever sbed had been for the change in it. 
 
 " It's my hair," she whispered sadly, — " hair which 
 belongs to a woman of sixty, rather than thirty-three, 
 and there is a tired look about my eyes and month. 
 
 Yes, I am growing old, oh. Max ," and the slender 
 
 fingers were pressed over the beautiful blue eyes 
 where the tears came so fast. " Yes, I'll see the girl," 
 she said, " and if I like her face, I'll take her to please 
 him." 
 
 She knew there was to be an illumination on Christ- 
 mas Eve in the church on Laurel Hill, and that Maude 
 Graham was to sing a Christmas anthem alone. 
 
 I'll go, and hear, and see," she decided, and when the 
 evening came Grace was there in the Raynor pew listen- 
 ing while Maude Graham sang, her bright face glowing 
 with excitement and her full, rich voice rising higher 
 and higher, clearer and clearer, tintil it filled the church 
 as it had never been filled before, and thrilled every 
 nerve of the woman watching her so intently. 
 
 " Yes, she is pretty and good, too ; I cannot be de- 
 ceived in that face," she said to herself, and when, 
 after the services were over and Maude came up the 
 aisle past the pew where she was sitting; she put out 
 her hand and said, " Come here, my dear, and let me 
 thank you for the pleasure you have given me. You 
 have a wonderful voice and some time you must come 
 
204: TitE sfEir^G tfARM. 
 
 and sing to me. 1 am Miss Raynor, and you are Maude 
 Graham." 
 
 This was their introduction to each other, and that 
 night Maud dreamed of the lovely face which had 
 smiled upon her, and the voice, which had spoken so 
 kindlj' to her. 
 
 Two weeks afterwards Grace's note was brought to 
 her and she read it with her feet upon the stove hearth 
 and the low January sun shining in upon her. 
 
 Miss Raynor wanted her for a companion and friend, 
 to read and sing to and soothe her in the hours of lan- 
 guor and depression, which were many. 
 
 " I am lonely," she wrote, " and, as you know, wholly 
 incapacitated from mingling with the world, and I want 
 some one with me different from my maid. Will you 
 come to me, Miss Graham ? I will try to make you 
 happy. If money is any object I will give you twice as 
 much as you are now receiving, whatever that may be. 
 Think of it and let me know your decision soon. 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 " Grace Raynor. 
 
 " Oh," Maude cried. " Eight dollars a week and a 
 home at the Cedars, instead of four dollars a week and 
 boarding around. Of course I will go, though not till 
 my present engagement expires. This will not be until 
 some time in March," and she began to wonder if she 
 could endure it so long, and, now that the pressure was 
 lifting, how she had ever borne it at all. 
 
 But whatever may be the nature of our surroundings, 
 time passes quickly, and leaves behind a sense of nearly 
 as much pleasure as pain, and when at last the closing 
 day of school came, it was with genuine feelings of re- 
 
AT THE CEDAE8. 205 
 
 gret that Maude said good-bye to the pupils she had 
 learned to love and the pati'ons who had been so kind 
 to her. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AT THE CEDARS. 
 
 It had cost Grace a struggle before she decided to 
 take Maude as her companion, and she had been driven 
 past the little log house among the hills and through 
 the Bush district, that she might judge for herself of 
 the girl's surroundings. The day was raw and bluster- 
 ing, and great banks of snow were piled against the 
 fences and lay heaped up in the road unbroken save by 
 a foot path made by the children's feet, 
 
 " And it is through this she walks in the morning, 
 and then sits all day in that dingy room. I don't be- 
 lieve I should like it," Grace thought, and that night 
 she wrote to Maude, offering her a situation with her- 
 self. 
 
 And now, on a lovely morning in April, when the 
 crocuses and snowdrops were just beginning to blos- 
 som, she sat waiting for her, wondering if she had 
 done well or ill for herself. She had seen Maude and 
 talked with her, for the latter had called at the Cedars 
 and spent an hour or more, and Grace had learned 
 much from her of her former life and of Spring Farm, 
 which she was going to buy back. Max's name, how- 
 ever, was not mentioned, although he was constantly 
 in the minds of both, and Grace wa§ wondering if he 
 
206 THE BPE7NG FARM. 
 
 would come oftener to the Cedars if Maude were there. 
 She could not be jealous of the girl, and yet the idea 
 had taken possession of her that she was bringing her 
 to the Cedars for Max rather than for herself, and this 
 detracted a little from her pleasure when she began to 
 fit up the room her companion was to occupy. Such a 
 pretty room it was, just over her own, with a bow win- 
 dow looking across the valley where the lake lay sleep- 
 ing, and on to the hills and the log school-house which, 
 had it been higher, might have been seen above the 
 woods which surrounded it. A room all pink and 
 white, with roses and lilies everywhere, and a bright 
 fire in the grate before which a willow chair was stand- 
 ing and a Maltese kitten sleeping when Maude was ush- 
 ered into it by Jane, Miss Raynor's maid. 
 
 "Oh, it is so lovely," Maude thought, as she looked 
 about her, wondering if it were not a dream from which 
 she should presently awake. 
 
 But it was no dream, and as the days went on it came 
 to be real to her, and she was conscious of a deep and 
 growing affection for the woman who was always so 
 kind to her and who treated her like an equal rather 
 than a hired companion. Together they read and 
 talked of the books which Maude liked best, and 
 gradually Grace learned of the dream life Maude had 
 led before coming to Richland, and of the people who 
 had deserted her among the hills, but who in this more 
 congenial atmosphere came trooping back, legions of 
 them, and crowding her brain until she had to tell of 
 them, and of the two lives she was living, the ideal and 
 the real. She was sitting on a stool at Grace's feet, 
 with her face flushed with excitement as she talked of 
 the Kimbricks, and Websters, and Angeline Mason, who 
 
AT THE CEDARS. 207 
 
 were all with her now as they had been at home, and 
 all as real to her as Miss Ray nor was herself. Laying 
 her hand upon the girl's brown curls, Grace said, half 
 laughingly, "And so you are going to write a book. 
 Well, I believe all girls have some such aspiration. I 
 had it once, but it was swallowed up by a stronger, 
 deeper feeling, which absorbed my whole being." 
 
 Here Grace's voice trembled a little as she leaned 
 back in her chair and seemed to be thinking. Then, 
 rousing herself, she asked stiddenly, " How old are 
 you, Maude ?" 
 
 " Nineteen this month," was Maude's reply, and 
 Grace went on : "Just my age when the great sorrow 
 came. That was fourteen years ago next June. I am 
 thirty-three, and Max is thirty-seven." 
 
 She said this last more to herself than to Maude, who 
 started slightly, for this was the first time his name had 
 been mentioned since she came to the Cedars. 
 
 After a moment Grace continued : " I have never 
 spoken to you of Mr. Gordon, although I know you have 
 met him. You were with him on the train from Albany 
 to Canandaigua ; he told me of you." 
 
 " He did !" Maude exclaimed, with a ring in her voice 
 which made Grace's heart beat a little fastel:, but she 
 went calmly on : 
 
 " Yes ; he was greatly interested in you, although he 
 did not then know who you were ; but he knows now. 
 He is coming- here soon. We have been engaged ever 
 since I was seventeen and he was twenty-one ; fourteen 
 years ago the 20th of June we were to have been 
 married. Everything was ready ; my bridal dress and 
 veil had been brought home, and I tried them on one 
 morning to see how I looked in them. I was beautiful, 
 
208 THE SPRING- FARM. 
 
 Max said, and I think he told the truth ; for a woman 
 may certainly know whether the face she sees in the 
 mirror be pretty or not, and the picture I saw was very 
 fair, while he, who stood beside me, was splendid in his 
 young manhood. How I loved him ; more, I fear, than 
 1 loved God, and for that I was punished, — oh, so dread- 
 fully punished. We rode together that afternoon. Max 
 and I, and I was wondering if there were ever a girl as 
 happy as myself, and pitying the women I met because 
 they had no Max beside them, when suddenly my horse 
 reared, frightened by a dog, and I was thrown upon a 
 sharp curb-stone. Of the months of agony which 
 followed I cannot tell you, except that I prayed to die 
 and so be rid of pain. The injury was in my spine, and 
 I have never walked in all the fourteen years since. 
 Max has been true to me, and would have married me 
 had I allowed it. But I cannot burden him with a 
 cripple, and sometimes I wish, or think I do, that he 
 would find some one younger, fairer than I am, on whom 
 to lavish his love. He would make a wife so happy. 
 And yet it would be hard for me, I love him so much. 
 Oh, Max ; I don't believe he knows how dear he is to 
 me." 
 
 She w^ crying softly now, and Maude was crying, 
 too ; and as she smoothed the snow-white hair and 
 kissed the brow on which lines were beginning to show, 
 she said : 
 
 " He will never find a sweeter face than yours." 
 To her Max Gordon now was only the betrothed hus- 
 band of her mistress, and still she found herself looking 
 forward to his visit with a keen interest, wondering 
 what he would say to her, and if his eyes would kindle 
 at sight of her as they had done when she saw him in. 
 
MAX AT THK CEDAES. 209 
 
 the church at Laurel Hill. He was to come on the 
 2oth, the anniversary of the day which was to have been 
 his bridal day, and when the morning came, Grace said 
 to Maude : 
 
 " I'd like to wear my wedding gown ; do you think it 
 would be too much like Dickens' Miss Havershaw ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," Maude answered, quickly, feeling that 
 faded satin and lace of fourteen years' standing would 
 be sadly out of place. "You are lovely in those light 
 gowns you wear so much," she said. 
 
 So Grace wore the dress which Maude selected for 
 her ; a soft, woolen fabric of a creamy tint, with a blue 
 shawl, the color of her eyes, thrown around her, and a 
 bunch of June pinks, Max's favorite flowers, at her belt, 
 Then, when she was ready, Maude wheeled her out to 
 the piazza, where they waited for their visitor. 
 
 CHAPTER Viri. 
 
 MAX AT THE CEDARS. 
 
 The train was late that morning and lunch was nearly 
 ready before they saw the open carriage turn into the 
 grounds, with Max standing up in it and waving his hat 
 to them. 
 
 " Oh, Maude," Grace said, " I would give all I am 
 worth to go and meet him. Isn't he handsome and 
 grand, my Max I" she continued, as if she would assert 
 her right to him and hold it against the world. 
 
 But Maude did not he^r her, for as Max alighted frotn 
 
210 THE SPRING FAKM. 
 
 the carriage and came eagerly forward, she stole away, 
 feeling that it was not for her to witness the meeting of 
 the lovers. 
 
 " Dear Max, you are not changed, are you ?" Grace 
 cried, extending her arms to him, with the effort to rise 
 which she involuntarily made so often, and which was 
 pitiful to see. 
 
 " Changed, darling ? How could I change in less 
 than a year ?" Max answered, as he drew her face down 
 to his bosom and stroked her hair. 
 
 Grace was not thinking of a physical change. Indeed 
 she did not know what she did mean, for she was not 
 herself conscious how strong an idea had taken posses- 
 sion of her that she was losing Max. But with him 
 there beside her, her morbid fears vanished, and letting 
 her head rest upon his arm, she said : 
 
 " I don't know, Max, only things come back to me to- 
 day and I am thinking of fourteen years ago and that I 
 am fourteen years older than I was then, and crippled 
 and helpless and faded, while you are young as ever. 
 Oh, Max, stay by me till the last. It will not be for 
 long. I am growing so tired and sad." 
 
 Grace hardly knew what she was saying, or why, as 
 she said it, Maude Graham's face, young and fair 'and 
 fresh, seemed to come between herself and Max, any 
 more than he could have told why he was so vaguely 
 wondering what had become of the girl in black, whom 
 he had seen in the distance quite as soon as he had seen 
 the woman in the chair. During his journey Grace and 
 Maude had been pretty equally in his mind, and he was 
 conscious of the feeling that the Cedars held an added 
 attraction for him because the latter was there ; and 
 now, when he began to have a faint perception of 
 
MAX AT THE CEDAKS. 211 
 
 Grace's meaning, though he did not associate it with 
 Maude, he felt half guilty because he had for a moment 
 thought any place where Grace was could be made 
 pleasanter than she could make it. Taking her face 
 between his hands he looked at it more closely, noticing 
 with a pang that it had grown thinner and paler and 
 that there were lines about the eyes and the mouth, 
 while the blue veins stood out full and distinct upon the 
 forehead. Was she slowly fading ? he asked himself, 
 resolving that nothing should be lacking on his part to 
 prove that she was just as dear to him as in the days 
 when they were young and the future bright before 
 them. He did not even speak of Maude until he saw 
 her in the distance, trying to train a refractory honey- 
 suckle over a tall frame. Then he said : 
 
 " Is that Miss Graham, and do you like her as well as 
 ever ?" 
 
 " Yes, better and better every day," was Grace's re- 
 ply. " It was a little awkward at first to hav'e a stran- 
 ger with me continually, but I am accustomed to her 
 now, and couldn't part with her. She is very dear to 
 me," she continued, while Max listened and watched 
 the girl, moving about so gracefully, and once showing 
 her arms to the elbows as her wide sleeves fell back in 
 her efforts to reach the top of the frame. 
 
 " She oughtn't to do that," Grace said. "She is not 
 tall enough. Go arid help her. Max," and nothing loth. 
 Max went along the terrace to where Maude was stand- 
 ing, her face flushed with exercise as she gave him her 
 hand and said, " Good-morning, Mr. Gordon. I am 
 Maude Graham. Perhaps you remember me." 
 
 " How could I forget you," sprang to Max's lips, but 
 hf .^ai<i iqstead, " Goo<i-n}ormng, Miss Graham, I have 
 
212 THE SPRING FARM. 
 
 come to help you. Miss Raynor thinks it is bad for 
 your heart to reach so high." 
 
 Maude could have told him that her heart had not 
 beaten one half as fast while reaching up as it was 
 beating now, with him there beside her holding the vine 
 while she tied it to its place, his hand touching hers and 
 his arm once thrown out to keep her from fallingas 
 she stumbled backward. It took a long time to fix that 
 honeysuckle, and Max had leisure to tell Maude of a 
 call made upon her mother only a week before. 
 
 " Spring Farm is looking its loveliest, with the roses 
 and lilies in bloom," he said, " and Angle, my sister, is 
 enjoying it immensely. She has filled the house with 
 her city friends and has made some changes, of which I 
 think you would approve. Your mother does, but 
 when she wanted to cut down that apple tree in the 
 corner I would not let her do it. You remember it, 
 don't you ?" 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Gordon," Maude exclaimed, " don't let 
 her touch that tree. My play-house was under it, and 
 there the people used to come to see me." 
 
 He did not know who the people were, for he had 
 never heard of Maude's brain children, — the Kimbricks 
 and the Websters, — and could hardly have understood 
 if he had ; but Maude's voice was very pathetic and the 
 eyes which looked at him were full of tears, moving him 
 strangely and making him very earnest in his manner 
 as he assured her that every tree and shrub should be 
 kept intact for her. 
 
 " You know you are going to buy it back," he con- 
 tinued laughingly, as they walked slowly toward the 
 house where Grace was waiting to be taken in to lunch. 
 
 " yes, and I sU^U <Jo it, too. You will see ; it may be 
 
itAl At TfiE OEDAES. §1§ 
 
 many years, but I trust you to keep it for me," Maude 
 said, and he replied, " You may trust me with anything, 
 and I shall not disappoint you." 
 
 The talk by the honeysuckle was one of many 
 which took place while Max was at the Cedars, for 
 Grace was too unselfish to keep him chained to her side, 
 and insisted that he should enjoy what there was to en- 
 joy in the way of rides and drives in the neighborhood, 
 and as she could not often go with him she sent Maude 
 in her stead, even though she knew the danger there 
 was in it, for she was not insensible to Max's admiration 
 for the girl, or Maude's interest in him. 
 
 " If Max is true to me to the last, and he will be, it is 
 all I ask," she thought, and gave no sign of the ache in 
 her heart, when she saw him going from her with 
 Maude and felt that it was in more senses than one. 
 " If he is happy, I am happy, too, she would say to her- 
 self, as she sat alone hour after hour, while Max and 
 Maude explored the country in every direction. 
 
 Sometimes they drove together, but oftener rode, for 
 Maude was a fine horsewoman and never looked better 
 than when on horseback, in the becoming habit which 
 Grace had given her and which fitted her admirably. 
 Together they went through the pleasant Richland 
 woods, where the grass was like a mossy carpet beneath 
 their horses' hoofs, and the singing of the birds and the 
 brook was the only sound which broke the summer still- 
 ness, then again they galloped over the hills and round 
 the lake, and once through the Bush district, up to the 
 little log house which Max expressed a wish to see. It 
 was past the hour for school. Teacher and scholars 
 had gone home, and tying their horses to the fence they 
 went into the dingy room and sat down side by side 
 
2l4 THE SPRING FAfiM. 
 
 upon one of the wooden benches, and just where a tay 
 of sunlight fell upon Maude's face and hair, for she had 
 removed her hat and was fanning herself with it. She 
 was very beautiful, with that halo around her head, 
 Max thought, as he sat watching and listening to her, 
 as in answer to his question, " How could you endure it 
 here ?" she told him of her terrible homesickness dur- 
 ing the first weeks of her life as a school-teacher. 
 
 " I longed so for mother and Johnnie," she said, " and 
 'was always thinking of them, and the dear old home, 
 and — and sometimes — of you, too, before I received 
 your letter." 
 
 " Of me !'' Max said, moving a little nearer to her, 
 while she went on : 
 
 " Yes, I've wanted to tell you how angry I was be- 
 cause }'ou bought our home. I wrote you something 
 about it, you remember, but I did not tell you half how 
 bitter I felt. I know now you were not to blame, but I 
 did not think ,so then, and said some harsh things of you 
 to Archie ; perhaps he told you. I said he might. Did 
 he?" 
 
 " No," Max answered, playing idly with the riding 
 whip Maude held in her hand. " No, Archie has only 
 told me pleasant things of you. T think he is very fond 
 of you," and he looked straight into Maude's face, wait- 
 ing for her reply. 
 
 It was surely nothing to him whether Archie were 
 fond of Maude, or she were fond of Archie, and yet her 
 answer was very reassuring and lifted from his .heart a 
 little shadow resting there. 
 
 " Yes," Maude said, without the slightest change in 
 voice or expression. " Archie and l! are good ffiends. 
 J have known him and played with .-jjipi, and quarreled 
 
MAX AT We oedaks. 215 
 
 ^ith him ever since I was a child, so that he seems 
 more like a brother than anything else." 
 
 " Oh, ye-es," Max resumed, with a feeling of relief, as 
 he let his arm rest on the high desk behind her, so that 
 if she moved ever so little it would touch her. 
 
 There was in Max's mind no thought of love-making. 
 Indeed, he did not know that he was thinking of any- 
 thing except the lovely picture the young girl made 
 with the sunlight playing on her hair and the shy look 
 in her eyes as, in a pretty, apologetic way she told him 
 how she had disliked him and credited him with all the 
 trouble which had come upon them since her father's 
 death. 
 
 " Why, I thought I hated you," she said with energy. 
 
 " Hated me ! Oh, Maude, you don't hate me now, I 
 hope; — I could not bear that," Max said, letting the whip 
 fall and taking Maude's hand in his, as he said again, 
 '' You don't hate me now ?" 
 
 " No, no ; oh, no. I — oh, Mr. Gordon," Maude began, 
 but stopped abruptly, startled by something in the eyes 
 of the man, who had never called her Maude before, 
 and whqse voice had never sounded as it did now, mak- 
 ing every, nerve thrill with a sudden joy, all the sweeter, 
 perhaps,: because she knew it must not be. 
 
 Wrenching her hand from his and springing to her 
 feet she said, " It is growing late, and Miss Raynor is 
 waiting for us. Have you forgotten her ?" 
 
 He had forgotten her for one delirious moment, but 
 she carne back to him with a throb of pain and self-re- 
 proach that he had allowed himself to swerve in the 
 slightest degree from his loyalty to her. 
 
 " tam not a man, but a traitor," he said to himself, 
 
216 THB SPRING fAKM. 
 
 as he helped Maude into her saddle and then vaulted 
 into his own. 
 
 The ride home was a comparatively silent one, for 
 both knew that they had not been quite true to the 
 woman who welcomed them back so sweetly and asked 
 so many questions about their ride and what they had 
 seen. Poor Grace ; she did not in the least understand 
 why Maiide lavished so much attention upon her that 
 evening, or why Max lingered longer than usual at her 
 side, or why his voice was so tender and loving, when 
 he at last said good-night and went to his own room, 
 and the self-castigation which he knew awaited him 
 there. 
 
 " I was a villain," he said, as he recalled that little 
 episode in the school-house, when to have put his arm 
 around Maude Graham and held her for a moment, 
 would have been like heaven to him. " I was false to 
 Grace, although I did not mean it, and, God helping 
 me, I will never be so again." Then, as he remem- 
 bered the expression of the eyes which had looked up 
 so shyly at him, he said aloud, " Could I win her,. were 
 I free ? But that is impossible. May God forgive me 
 for the thought. Oh, why has Grace thrown her so 
 much in my way? She surely is to blame for that, 
 
 while I well, I am a fool, and a knave, and a 
 
 sneak." 
 
 He called himself a great many hard' names that 
 night, and registered a vow that so long as Grace lived, 
 and he said he hoped she would live forever, he would 
 be true to her no matter how strong the temptation 
 placed in his way. It was a fierce battle Max fought, but 
 he came off conqueror, and the meeting between him- 
 self and Maude next morning was as natural as if to 
 
Max at TilE CKl)AKg. Si? 
 
 neither of them had ever come a moment when they had 
 a glimpse of the happiness which, under other circuit- 
 stances, might perhaps have been theirs. Maude, too, 
 had had her hours of remorse and contrition and close 
 questioning as to the cause of the strange joy which 
 had thrilled every nerve when Max Gordon called her 
 Maude and asked her if she hated him. 
 
 "Hate him! Never !" she thought; "but I have 
 been false to the truest, best woman that ever lived. 
 She trusted her lover to me, and " 
 
 She did not quite know what she had done, but what- 
 ever it was it should not be repeated. There were to 
 be no more rides, or drives, or talks alone with Max. 
 And when next day Grace suggested that she go with 
 him to an adjoining town where a fair was to be held, 
 she took refuge in a headache and insisted that Grace 
 should go herself, while Max, too, encouraged it, and 
 tried to believe that he was just as happy with her be- 
 side him as he would have been with the young girl 
 who brought a cushion for her mistress' back and ad- 
 justed her shawl about her shoulders and arranged her 
 bonnet strings, and then, kissing her fondly, said, "I 
 am so glad that you are going instead of myself." 
 
 This was for the benefit of Max, at whom she nodded 
 a little defiantly, and who understood her meaning as 
 well as if she had put it into words. Everything was 
 over between them, and he accepted the situation, and 
 during the remainder of his stay at the Cedars, devoted 
 himself to Grace with an assiduity worthy of the most 
 ardent lover. He even remained longer than he had 
 intended doing, for Grace was loth to let him go, and 
 the soft haze of early September was beginning to 
 ghow on the Richland hills when he at last said good- 
 
218 *rME si^ttitfG i-AteM, 
 
 bye, promising to come again at Christmas, if it were 
 possible to do so. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GOOD-BYE, MAX ; GOOD-BYE. 
 
 It was a cold, stormy afternoon in March. The 
 thermometer marked six below zero, and the snow 
 which had fallen the day before was tossed by the wind 
 in great white clouds, which sifted through every crevice 
 of the house at the Cedars, and beat against the window 
 from which Maude Graham was looking anxiously out 
 into the storm for the carriage which had been sent to 
 meet the train in which Max Gordon was expected. He 
 had not kept his promise to be with Grace at Christmas. 
 An important law-suit had detained him, and as it would 
 be necessary for him to go to London immediately after 
 its close, he could ,not tell just when he would be at the 
 Cedars again. j. 
 
 All through the autumn Grace had. been failing, while 
 a cold, taken in November,, had left her with a cough, 
 which clung to her.persistentJy. Still she kept up, 
 looking forward to the holidays. When Max would be 
 with her. But when she found he was not coming she 
 lost all courage, and Maude was alarmed to see how 
 rapidly she failed. Nearly all the day she lay upon the 
 couch in her bedroom, while Maude read or sang to her 
 or talked, with her of the book which had actually been 
 commenced, and in which Grace was almost as much 
 
&OOD-BYe MAX ; GOOD-BTl!. 2l9 
 
 interested as Maude herself. Grace was a careful and 
 discriminating critic, and if Maude were ever a success 
 she would owe much of it to the kind friend whose sym- 
 pathy and advice were so invaluable. A portion of 
 every day she wrote, and every evening read what she 
 had written, to Grace, who smiled as she recognized 
 Max Gordon in the hero and knew that Maude was 
 weaving tlie tale mostly from her own experience. 
 Even the Bush district and its people furnished material 
 for the plot, and more than one boy and girl who had 
 called Maude schoolma'am figured in its pages, while 
 Grace was everywhere, permeating the whole with her 
 sweetness and purity. 
 
 " I shall dedicate it to you,'' Maude said to her one 
 day, and Grace replied : 
 
 " That will be kind ; but I shall not be here to see it, 
 for before your book is published I shall be lying under 
 the flowers in Mt. Auburn. I want you to take me 
 there, if Max is not here to do it." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Raynor," Maude cried, dropping her MS. 
 and sinking upon her knees beside the couch where 
 Grace was lying, " you must not talk that way. You 
 are not going to die. I can't lose 3'ou, the dearest friend 
 I ever had. What should I do without you, and what 
 would M.ax Gordon do ?" 
 
 At the rpention of Max's name a faint smile played 
 around Grace's white lips, and lifting her thin hand she 
 laid it caressingly upon the girl's brown hair as she 
 said : 
 
 , " Max will be sorry for awhile, but after a time there 
 will be a change, and I shall be only a memory. Tell 
 him I was willing, and that although it was hard at first 
 it was easy at the last." 
 
226 *aK S^KINCJ t"AKil. 
 
 What did she mean ? Maude asked herself, while hei 
 thoughts went back to that summer afternoon in the log 
 school-house on the hill, when Max Gordon's eyes and 
 voice had in them a tone and look born of more than 
 mere friendship. Did Grace know ? Had she guessed 
 the truth ? Maude wondered, as, conscience-stricken, - 
 she laid her burning cheek against the pale one upon the 
 pillow. There was silence a moment, and when Grace 
 spoke again she said : 
 
 " It is nearly time for Max to be starting for Europe, 
 or I should send for him to come, I wish so much to see 
 him once more before I die." 
 
 " Do you think a hundred trips to Europe would keep 
 him from you if he knew you wanted him ?" Maude 
 asked, and Grace replied : 
 
 " Perhaps not. I don't know. I only wish he were 
 here." 
 
 This was the last of February, and after that Grace 
 failed so fast, that with the hope that it might reach 
 him before he sailed, Maude wrote to Max, telling him 
 to come at once, if he would see Grace before she died. 
 She knew about how long it would take her letter to 
 reach him and how long for him to come, allowing for 
 no delays, and on the morning of the first day when 
 she could by any chance expect him, she sent the car- 
 riage to the Canandaigua station, and then air through 
 the hours of the long, dreary day, she sat by Grace's 
 bedside, watching with a sinking heart the pallor on 
 her lips and brow, and the look she could not mistake 
 deepening on her face. 
 
 "Whafif she should die before he gets here, or what 
 if he should not come at all ?" she thought, as the hours 
 went by. 
 
GOOD-BYE max'; GOOD-BTE. 221 
 
 She was more afraid of the latter, and when she saw 
 the carriage coming up the avenue she strained her 
 e3'es through the blinding snow to see if he were in it. 
 When he came before he had stood up and waved 
 his hat to them, but there was no token now to tell if 
 he were there, and she waited breathlessly until the 
 carriage stopped before the side entrance, knowing then 
 for sure that he had come. 
 
 "Thank God !" she cried, as she went out to meet 
 him, bursting into tears as she said to him, " I am so 
 glad, and so will Miss Raynor be. She does not know 
 that I wrote you. I didn't tell her, for fear you wouldn't 
 come." 
 
 She had given him her hand and he was holding it 
 fast as she led him into the hall. She did not ask him 
 when or where he received her letter. She only helped 
 him off with his coat, and made him sit down by the 
 fire while she told him how rapidly Grace had failed 
 and how little hope there was that she would ever 
 recover. 
 
 " You will help her, if anything can. I am going to 
 prepare her now," she said, and, going out, she left him 
 there alone. 
 
 He had been very sorry himself that he could not 
 keep his promise at Christmas, and had tried to find a 
 few days in which to visit the Cedars between the close 
 of the suit and his departure for England. But he 
 could not, and his passage was taken and his luggage 
 on the ship, which was to sail early in the morning, 
 when, about six o'clock in the evening, Maude's letter 
 was brought to him, changing his plans at once. Grace 
 was dying, — the woman he had loved so long, and 
 although thousand§ of dollars depended upon his keep- 
 
223 . THE SPRING FAKM. 
 
 ing his appointment in London, he must lose it all, and 
 go to her. Sending for his luggage, and writing a few 
 letters of explanation, the next morning found him on 
 his wa)^ to the Cedars, which he reached on the day 
 when Maude expected him. 
 
 She had left Grace asleep when she went to meet 
 Max, but on re-entering her room found her awake and 
 leaning on her elbow in the attitude of intense listening. 
 
 " Oh, Maude," she said, " was it a dream, or did I 
 hear Max speaking to you in the hall ? Tell me is he 
 here ?" 
 
 " Yes, he is here. I sent for him and he came," 
 Maude replied, while Grace fell back upon her pillow, 
 whispering faintly : 
 
 " Bring him at once." 
 
 " Come," Maude said to Max, who followed her to 
 the sick room, where she left him alone with Grace. 
 
 He stayed by her all that night and the day following, 
 in order to give Maude the rest she heeded, but when 
 the second night came they kept the watch together, he 
 on one side of the bed, and she upon the other, with 
 ' their eyes fixed upon the white, pinched face where the 
 shadow of death was settling. For several hours Grace 
 slept quietly. Then, just as the gray daylight was be- 
 ginning to show itself in the corners of the room, she 
 awoke and asked : 
 
 " Where is Max ?" 
 
 " Here, darling," was his response, as he bent over 
 her and kissed her lips. 
 
 " I think it has grown cold and dark, for I can't see 
 you," she said, groping for his hand, which she held 
 tightly between her own as she went on : "I have been 
 dreaming, Max, — such a pleasant dream, for I wag 
 
GOOD-BYE MAX ; GOOD-BYE. 223 
 
 j'oung again, — young as Maude, and wore my bridal 
 dress, just as I did that day wiien you said I was so 
 pretty. Do you remember it ? Tliat was years ago, — 
 oh ! so many, — and I am getting old ; we both are grow- 
 ing old. You said so in your letter. But Maude is 
 young, and in my dream she wore the bridal dress at the 
 last, and I saw my own grave, with you beside it and 
 Maude, and both so sorry because- I was dead. But it 
 is better so, and I am glad to die and be at rest. If I 
 could be what I once was, oh ! how I should cling to 
 life ! For I love you so much ! Oh, Max, do you know, 
 can you guess how I have loved' you all these years, and 
 what it has cost me to give you up?" 
 
 Max's only answer was the hot tears he dropped upon 
 her face as she went on : " You will not forget me, 
 that I know ; but some time, — yes, some time, — and 
 when it comes, remember I was willing. I told Maude 
 so. Where is she ?" 
 
 " Here !" and Maude knelt, sobbing, by the dying 
 woman, who went on : " She has been everything to 
 me. Max, and I love her next to you. God bless you 
 both ! And if, in the Heaven I am going to, I can 
 watch over you, I will do it, and be often, often with 
 you, when you think I'm far away. Who was it said 
 that? I read it long ago. But things are going from me, 
 and Heaven is very near, and the Saviour is with me, — 
 closer, nearer than j'ou are, Max ; and the other world 
 is just in sight, where I soon shall be, free from pain, 
 with my poor, crippled feet all strong and well, like 
 Maude's. Dear Maude ! tell her how I loved her ; tell 
 her " 
 
 Here her voice grew indistinct, and for a few mo- 
 ments she seemed to be sleeping ; then, suddenly, open- 
 
224 THE SPRING FARM. 
 
 ing her eyes wide, she exclaimed, as an expression of joy 
 broke over her face : " It is here, — the glory which 
 shineth as the noonday. In another moment I shall be 
 walking the golden streets. Good-bye, Max ; good- 
 bye." 
 
 Grace was dead, and Maude made her ready for the 
 coffin, her tears falling like rain upon the shrivelled feet 
 and on the waxen hands which she folded over the pulse- 
 less bosom, placing in them the flowers her mistress had 
 loved best in life. She was to be buried in Mt. Auburn, 
 and Maude went with the remains to Boston, as Grace 
 had requested her to do, caring nothing because Mrs. 
 Marshall- More hinted broadly at the impropriety of the 
 act, wondering how she could have done it. 
 
 " She did it at Grace's request, and to please me," 
 Max said ; and that silenced the lad)', who was afraid of 
 her brother, and a little afraid of Maude, who did 
 not seem quite the girl she had last seen in Merrivale. 
 
 " What will you do now ? Go back to your teach- 
 ing ?" she asked, after the funeral was over. 
 
 " I shall go home to mother," Maude replied, and 
 that afternoon she took the train for Merrivale, accom- 
 panied by Max, who was going on to New York, and 
 thence to keep his appointment in London. 
 
 Few were the words spoken between them during the 
 journey, and those mostly of the dead woman lying 
 under the snow at Mt. Auburn ; but when Merrivale 
 was reached. Max took the girl's hands and pressed 
 them hard as he called* her a second time by her name. 
 
 " God bless you, Maude, for all you were to Grace. 
 When I can I will write to you. Good-bye." 
 
 Only for a moment the train stopped at the station, 
 and then it moved swiftly on, leaving Maude standing 
 
AT LAST. 225 
 
 upon the platform with her mother and John, while 
 Max resumed his seat, and pulling his hat over his eyes, 
 never spoke again until New York was reached. A 
 week later and a ship of the Cunard line was plowing 
 the ocean to the eastward, and Max Gordon was among 
 the passengers, silent and abstracted, with a bitter 
 sense of loneliness and pain in his heart as he thought 
 of the living and the dead he was leaving behind, — 
 Grace, who was to have been his bride, dead in all her 
 sweetness and beauty, and Maude, who was nothing to 
 him but a delicious memory, alive in all her freshness 
 and youthful bloom. He could hardly tell of which he 
 thought the more, Grace or Maude. Both seemed ever 
 present with him, and it was many a day before he 
 could rid himself of the fancy that two faces were close 
 against his own, one cold and dead, as he had seen it 
 last, with the snowy hair about the brow and a smile of 
 perfect peace upon the lips which had never said aught 
 but words of love to him, — the other glowing with life 
 and girlish beauty, as it had looked at him in the gath- 
 ering darkness when he stood upon the car step and 
 waved it his good-bye. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 Five years had passed since Grace was laid in her 
 grave in Mt. Auburn, and Max was still abroad, lead- 
 ing that kind of Bohemian life which many Americans 
 lead in Europe, when there is nothing to call them 
 
226 THE SPRING FARM. 
 
 home. And to himself Max often said there was noth- 
 ing to call him home, but as often as he said it a throb 
 of pain belied his words, for he knew that across the 
 sea was a face and voice he was longing to see and 
 hear again, a face which now visited him in his dreams 
 quite as often as that of his dead love, and which he 
 always saw as it had looked at him that summer after- 
 noon in the log house among the Richland hills, with 
 the sunlight falling upon the rings of hair, and lending 
 a warmer tint to the glowing cheeks. Delicious as was 
 the memory of that afternoon, it had been the means of 
 keeping Max abroad during all these years, for, in the' 
 morbid state of mind into which he had fallen after 
 Grace's death, he felt that he must do penance for hav- 
 ing allowed himself for a moment to forget her, who 
 had believed in him so fully. 
 
 " Grace trusted me, and I was false to her and will 
 punish myself for it, even if by the means I lose all that 
 now makes life seem desirable," he thought. 
 
 And so he staid on and on, year after year, knowing 
 always just where Maude was and what she was doing, 
 for Archie kept him informed. Occasionally he wrote 
 to her himself, — pleasant, chatty letters, which had in 
 them a great deal of Grace, — his lost darling, he called 
 her, — and a little of the places he was visiting. Occa- 
 sionally, too, Maude wrote to him, her letters full of 
 Grace, with a little of her life in Merrivale, for she was 
 with her_mother now, and had been since MissRaynor's 
 death. A codicil to Grace's will, bequeathing her a few 
 thousand^ollars, made it unnecessary for her to earn 
 her own livelihood. Indeed, she might have bought 
 Spring Farm, if she had liked ; but this she would not 
 do. The money given for that must be earned by her- 
 
AT LAST. 227 
 
 self, paid by the book she was writing, and which, after 
 it'was finished and published, and after a few savage 
 criticisms by some dyspeptic critics, who saw no good 
 in it, began to be read, then to be talked about, then to 
 sell, — until finally it became the rage and was found in 
 every book store, and railway car, and on almost every 
 parlor table in New England, while the young authoress 
 was spoken of as " a star which at one flight had soared 
 to the zenith of literary fame," and this from the very 
 pens which at first had denounced " Sunny Bank " as a 
 milk-and- watery effort, not worth the paper on which it 
 was written. 
 
 All Mrs. Marshall-More's guests at Spring Farm read 
 it, and Mrs. Marshall-More and Archie read it, too, and 
 both went down to congratulate the author upon her 
 success, the latter saying to her, when they were alone : 
 
 *' I say, Maude, your prophecy came true. You told 
 me you'd write a book which every one would read, and 
 which would make mother proud to say she knew you, 
 and, by Jove, you have done it. \You ought to hear her 
 talk to some of the Boston people about Miss Graham, 
 the authoress. You'd suppose you'd been her dearest 
 friend. I wonder what Uncle Max will say ? I told 
 you you would make him your hero, and you have. I 
 recognized him at once ; but the heroine is more like 
 Grace than you. I am going to send it to him." 
 
 And the next steamer which sailed from New York 
 for Europe carried with it Maude's book, directed to 
 Max Gordon, who read it at one sitting in a sunny nook 
 of the Colosseum, where he spent a great part of his 
 time. Grace was in it, and he was in it, too, he was 
 sure, and, reading between the lines what a stranger 
 could not read, he felt when he had finished it that in 
 
228 THE SPEING FAEM. 
 
 the passionate love of the heroine for the hero he heard 
 Maude calling to him to come back to the happiness 
 there was still for him. 
 
 " And I will go," he said. " Five years of penance 
 have atoned for five minutes of forgetfulness, and Grace 
 would bid nie go, if she coTild, for she foresaw what 
 would be, and told me she was willing." 
 
 With Max to will was to do, and among the list of 
 passengers who sailed from Liverpool, March 20th, 
 18 — , was the name of Maxwell Gordon, Boston, Mass. 
 
 It was the 2d of April, and a lovely morning, with 
 skies as blue and air as soft and warm as in the later 
 days of May. Spring Farm, for the season, was looking 
 its loveliest, for Mrs. Marshall-More had lavished fabu- 
 lous sums of money upon it, until she had very nearly 
 transformedit into what she meant it shouldbe, an Eng- 
 lish Park. She knew that Maude had once expressed 
 her intention to buy it back some day, but this she was 
 sure she could never do, and if she could Max would 
 never sell it, and if he would she would never let him. 
 So, with all these never s to reassure her,, she went on 
 year after 5'ear improving and beautiTying the place until 
 it was worth far more than when it came into her hands, 
 and she was contemplating still greater improvements 
 during the coming summer, when Max suddenly walked 
 in upon her, and announced his intention of going to 
 Merrivale the next day. 
 
 " But where will you stay ? Both houses are closed 
 only the one at Spring Farm has in it an old couple — 
 Mr. and Mrs. Martin — who look after it in the winter," 
 she said, and Max replied ; 
 
AT tAgt. 229 
 
 " I will stay at Spring Farm with the Martins. I 
 want to see the place." And the next day found him 
 there, occupying the room which, by a little skillful 
 questioning of Mrs. Martin, he learned had been Maude's 
 when her father owned the farm. 
 
 Miss Graham was home, she said, and at once launched 
 out into praises of the young authoress of whom Merri- 
 vale was so proud. 
 
 " And to think," she said, " that she was born here in 
 this very house ! It seems so queer." 
 
 " And is the house more honored now than when she 
 was simple Maude Graham ?" Max asked, and the old 
 lady replied : 
 
 " To be sure it is. Any house can have a baby born 
 in it, but not every one an authoress !" and with that 
 she bustled off to see about supper for her guest. 
 
 Max was up early the next morning, wondering how 
 soon it would be proper for him to call upon Maude. 
 He had no thought that she would come to him, and 
 was somewhat surprised when just after breakfast her 
 card was brought up by Mrs. Martin, who said she was 
 in the parlor. Maude had heard of his arrival from Mr. 
 Martin, who had stopped at the cottage the previous 
 night on his way to the village. 
 
 " Mr. Gordon in town ! I supposed he was in 
 Europe !" she exclaimed, feeling herself grow hot and 
 cold and faint as she thought of Max Gordon being so 
 near to her. 
 
 That very afternoon she had received the first 
 check from her publisher, and been delighted with the 
 amount, so much more than she had expected. There 
 was enough to buy Spring Farm, if Max did not ask too 
 much, and she resolved to write to him at once and ask 
 
230 THE SPEtNG FARM. 
 
 his price. But that was not necessary now, for he was 
 here and she should see him face to face, and the next 
 morning she started for Spring: Farm immediately after 
 their breakfast, which was never served very early. 
 
 " Will he find me greatly changed, I wonder,'' she 
 thought, as she sat waiting for him, her heart beating so 
 rapidly that she could scarcely speak when at last he 
 came and stood before her, the same man she had 
 parted from five years before save that he seemed a lit- 
 tle older, with a look of weariness in his eyes. 
 
 But that lifted the moment they rested upon her. 
 
 " Oh, Maude," was all he could say, as he looked into 
 the face he had seen so often in his dreams, though 
 never as beautiful as it was now. " Maude," he began 
 at last, " I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you 
 again, or how glad I am for your success. I read the 
 book in Rome. Archie sent it to me, and T have come 
 to congratulate you." 
 
 He was talking so fast and pressing her hands so hard 
 that he almost took her breath away. But she released 
 herself from him, and, determining to have the business 
 off her mind as soon as possible, began abruptly : 
 
 " I was surprised to hear of your arrival, and glad, 
 too, as it saves me the trouble of writing you. I can 
 buy Spring Farm now. You know you promised to 
 keep it for me. What is your price ?" 
 
 " How much can you give ?" Max asked ; and without 
 stopping to consider the strangeness of the question, 
 Maude told hirn frankly the size of the check she had 
 received, and asked if it were enough. 
 
 " No, Maude," Max said, and over the face looking so 
 anxiously at him there fell a cloud of disappointment as 
 Maude replied : 
 
At la St. 231 
 
 '' is it much more you ask ?" 
 
 "Yes, a great deal more," and Max seated himself 
 beside her upon the sofa, for she was now silting down ; 
 " but I think you can arrange it. Don't look so sorry. 
 It is you I want, not your money. Will you give me 
 yourself in return for Spring Farm ?" 
 
 He had her hands again, but she drew them from 
 him, and covering her face with them, began to cry, 
 while he went on : 
 
 " Five years is a long time to wait for one we love, 
 and I have waited that length of time, with thoughts of 
 you in my heart, almost as much as thoughts of Grace, 
 whom I loved dearly while she lived. But she is dead, 
 and could she speak she would bid you grant me the 
 happiness I have been denied so many years. I think 
 she knew it would come some day. I am sure she did^ 
 and she told me she was willing. I did not mean to ask 
 you quite so soon, but the sight of you, and the 
 belief that you care for me as I care for you, has made 
 me forget all the proprieties, and I cannot recall my 
 words, so I ask you again to be my wife, to give me 
 yourself as the price of Spring Farm, which shall be 
 your home as long as you choose to make it so: Will 
 you, Maude ? I have come thousands of miles for your 
 answer, which must not be no." 
 
 What else he said, or what she said, it is not necessary 
 for the reader to know ; only this, that when the two 
 walked back to the cottage Maude said to her mother, 
 " I am to marry Mr. Gordon in June, and you will spend 
 the summer in our old home, and John will go to college 
 in the fall." 
 
 It was very bad taste in Max to select the 20th of 
 June for his wedding day, and she should suppose he 
 
232 THE SPElSft FARM. 
 
 would remember twenty years ago, when Grace Raynor 
 was to have been his bride, Mrs. Marshall-More. said to 
 Archie, when commenting upon her iDrother's approach- 
 ing marriage, which did not altogether please her. She 
 would far rather that he should remain single, for 
 Archie's sate and her own. And still it was some com- 
 fort that she was to have for her sister one so famous as 
 Maude was getting to be. Sn she went up to Merrivale 
 early in June and opened her own house, and patronized 
 Maude and Mrs. Graham, (and made many suggestions 
 with regard to the wedding, which she would have had 
 very fine and elaborate had they allowed it. But 
 Maude's preference was for a quiet affair, with only a 
 few of her more intimate friends present. And she had 
 her wayj Archie was there, of course, and made him- 
 self master of ceremonies. He had received the news of 
 Maude's engagement with a keener pang of regret than 
 he had thought it possible for him to feel,- and suddenly 
 woke up to a consciousness that he had always had a 
 greater liking for Maude than he supposed. But it was 
 too late now, and casting his regrets to the winds he 
 made the best of it, and was apparently the gaj'est of 
 all the guests who, on the morning of the 20th of June, 
 assembled in Mrs. Graham's parlor, where Max and 
 Maude were made one. 
 
 Aunt Maude, Archie called her, as he kissed her and 
 asked if she remembered the time she cried on the neck 
 of the brown ox, and declared her hatred of Max and all 
 his relations. 
 
 " But I did not know him then ; did I, Max?" Maude 
 said ; and the bright face she lifted to her husband told 
 that she was far from hating him now. 
 
 There was a short trip to the West and a flying visit 
 
AT LAS'f. 233 
 
 to Richland and the Cedars, so fraught with memories 
 of the past and of Grace, whose grave on the wedding 
 day had been one mass of flowers which Max had 
 ordered put there. " Her wedding garment," he said 
 to Maude, to whom he told what he had done. " She 
 seems very near to me now, and I am sure she is glad." 
 
 It was a lovely July day, when Max and Maude re- 
 turned from their bridal journey and took possession of 
 the old home at Spring Farm, where Mrs. Graham met 
 them with a very different expression upon her face 
 from what it wore when we first saw her there years 
 ago. The place was hers again, to enjoy as long as she 
 lived ; and if it had been beautiful when she left it, she 
 found it far more so now, for Mrs. Marshall-More's im- 
 provements, for which Max's money had paid, were 
 mostly in good taste, and never had the grounds looked 
 better than when Max and Maude drove into them on 
 this July afternoon. Although a little past their prime, 
 there were roses everywhere, and the grassy walks, 
 which Mrs. More had substituted in place of gravel, 
 were freshly cut, and smooth and soft as velvet, while 
 the old-fashioned flowers Maude loved so well, were fill- 
 ing the air with their perfume, and the birds in the 
 maple tree seemed carolling a welcome to the bride 
 so full were they of song. 
 
 And here we shall leave her, happy in her old home 
 and in her husband's love, which is more to her than all 
 the world beside. Whether she will ever write another 
 book we do not know, probably she will, for where the 
 brain seeds have taken root it is hard to dislodge them, 
 
234 THK SPRING FARM. 
 
 and Maude often hears around her the voices of new 
 ideal friends, to whom she may some time be compelled 
 to g-ive shape and name, as she did to the friends of hei? 
 childhood. 
 
THE HEPBURN LINE. 
 
 CHAPTER I.— Doris's Story. 
 
 MY AUNTS. 
 
 I HAD come from my mother's burial to the rector's 
 house, where I was to stay until it should be known 
 what disposition would be made of me by my father's 
 aunts, the Misses Morton, who lived at Morton Park, 
 near Versailles, Kentucky. Of these aunts I knew 
 little, except that there were three of them now, but 
 there had been four, and my great-grandfather, an ec- 
 centric old man, had called them respectively, Keziah, 
 Desire, Maria and Beriah which odd names he had 
 shortened into Kizzy and Dizzy, Rier and Brier. My 
 father, who had lived with them when a boy, had often 
 talked of Morton Park, and once when he was telling 
 me of the grand old house, with its wide piazza and 
 Corinthian pillars, its handsome grounds and the troop 
 of blacks ready to come at his call, I had asked him 
 why he didn't go back there, saying I should like it 
 better than our small cottage, where there were no 
 grounds and no Corinthian pillars and no blacks to wait 
 
 [235] 
 
236 THE SKPBURN LINE. 
 
 upou US. For a moment he did not answer, but glanced 
 at my mother with a look of unutterable tenderness, 
 then, drawing us both closely to him, he said, " If I go 
 there I must leave you behind ; and I would rather 
 have mamma and you than all the blacks and Corinthian 
 pillars in the world." 
 
 Although very young, I felt intuitively that Morton 
 Park was not a pleasant topic of conversation, and I 
 rarely spoke of it to him after that, but I often thought 
 of it, with its Corinthian pillars for which I had a great 
 reverence, and of the blacks, and the maple-trees, and 
 the solid silver from which my aunts dined every day, 
 and wondered when they were so rich why we were so 
 poor and why my father worked as hard as I knew he 
 did, for he often lay upon the couch, saying he was 
 tired, and looking very pale about his mouth, with a 
 bright red spot on either cheek. I heard some one call 
 these spots " the hectic," but did not know what this 
 meant until later on, when he stayed in bed all the time 
 and the doctor said he was dying with quick consump- 
 tion. Then there came a day when I was called from 
 school and hurried home to find him dead, — my hand- 
 some young father, who had always been so loving to 
 me, and whose last wocds were, " Tell little Doris to be 
 a good girl and kind to her mother. God bless her !" 
 
 The blow was so sudden that for a time my mother 
 -seemed stunned and incapable of action, but she was 
 roused at last by a letter from my Aunt Keziah, to whom 
 she had written after my father's death. I say a letter, 
 but it was only an envelope containing a check for a 
 hundred dollars and a slip of paper with the words, 
 " For Gerold's child," and when my mother saw it there 
 was a look on her face which I had never seen before, 
 
MT AUNTS. 237 
 
 and I think her first impulse was to tear up the check, 
 but, reflecting that it was not hers to destroy, she only 
 burned the paper and put the money in the bank for 
 me, and then went bravely to work to earn her living 
 and mine, sometimes taking boarders, sometimes going 
 out to nurse sick people, and at last doing dressmaking 
 at home and succeeding so well that I never knew what 
 real poverty was, and was as happy and free from care 
 as children usually are. 
 
 My father had been an artist, painting landscapes and 
 portraits when he could find sale for them, and, when 
 he could not, painting houses, barns and fences, for 
 although he had been reared in the midst of luxury, and, 
 as I now know, belonged to one of the best families in 
 Kentucky, he held that all kinds of labor, if necessary, 
 were honorable, and was not ashamed to stand in his 
 overalls side by side with men who in birth and educa- 
 tion were greatly his inferiors. At the time of his 
 death he had in his studio a few pictures which had not 
 been sold. Among them was a small one of the house 
 in Morton Park, with its huge white pillars and tall trees 
 in front, and one or two negroes playing under the 
 trees. This I claimed for my own, and also another, 
 which was a. picture of his four aunts taken in a group 
 in what seemed to be a summer-house. "The Quar- 
 tette," he called it, and I had watched him with a great 
 deal of interest as he brought into seeming real life the 
 four faces so unlike each other. Aunt Kizzy, stern and 
 severe and prim, with a cap on her head after the Eng- 
 lish style, which she affected because her grandfather 
 was English, — Aunt Dizzy, who was very pretty and 
 very youthfully dressed, with flowers in her hair, — Aunt 
 Rier, a gentle, matronly woman, with a fat baby in her 
 
238 THE HEPBURN LINE. 
 
 lap which I did not think particularly good-looking, — 
 and Aunt Brier, with a sweet face like a Madonna and 
 a far-away look in her soft gray eyes which reminded 
 one of Evangeline. Behind the four was my father, 
 leaning over Aunt Rier and holding a rose before the 
 baby, who was trying to reach it. The picture fas- 
 cinated me greatly, and when I heard it was to be sold, 
 with whatever other effects there were in the studio, I 
 begged to keep it. But my mother said No, with the 
 same look on her face which I had seen when she 
 burned Aunt Kizzy's letter. And so it was sold to a 
 gentleman from Boston, who was spending the summer 
 in Meadowbrook, and I thought no more of it until years 
 after, wheii it was brought to my mind in a most unex- 
 pected manner. 
 
 I was ten when I lost my father, and fourteen when 
 my mother, too, died suddenly, and I was alone, with no 
 home except the one the rector kindl)' offered me until 
 something should be heard from my aums. My mother 
 had seemed so well and active, and, with her brilliant 
 color and beautiful blue eyes and chestnut hair which 
 lay in soft waves all over her head, had been so pretty 
 and young and girlish-looking, that it was hard to be- 
 lieve her dead, and the hearts of few girls of fourteen 
 have ever been wrung with such anguish as I felt when, 
 after her funeral, I lay down upon a bed in the rectory 
 and sobbed myself into a disturbed sleep, from which I 
 was roused by the sound of voices in the adjoining room, 
 where a neighbor was talking with Mrs. Wilmot, the 
 rector's wife, of me and my future. 
 
 " Her aunts will have to do something now. They 
 will be ashamed not to. Do j'ou know why they have 
 so persistently ignored Mr. and Mrs. Gerold Morton ?" 
 
MY AUNTS. 
 
 239 
 
 It was Mrs. Smith, the neighbor, who asVed the ques- 
 tion, and Mrs. Wilmot replied, " I know but little, as 
 Mrs. Morton was very reticent upon the subject. I 
 think, however, that the aunts were angry because 
 G-erold, who had always lived with them, made what 
 theythought a misalliance by marrying the daughter 
 of the woman with whom he boarded when in college. 
 They had in mind another match for him, and when he 
 disappointed them, they refused to recognize his wife 
 or to see him again." 
 
 " But did he have nothing from his father ? I thought 
 the Mortons were very rich," Mrs. Smith said, and Mrs. 
 Wilmot answered her, " Nothing at ail, for his father, 
 too, had married against the wishes of his father, a very 
 hard and strange man, I imagine, who promptly disin- 
 herited his son. But when the young wife died at the 
 birth of her child, the aunts took the little boy Gerold 
 and brought him up as their own. I do tiot at all un- 
 derstand it, but I believe the Morton estate is held by a 
 long lease and will eventually pass from the family 
 unless some one of them marries somebody in the fam- 
 ily of the old man who gave the lease." 
 
 " They seem to be given to misalliances," Mrs. Smith 
 rejoined ; "but if they could have seen Gerold's wife 
 they must have loved her, she was so sweet and pretty. 
 Doris is like her. She will be a beautiful woman, and 
 her face alone should commend her to her aunts." 
 
 No girl of fourteen can hear unmoved that she is 
 lovely, and, although I was hot with indignation at my 
 aunts for their treatment of my father and their con- 
 tempt for my mother, I was conscious of a stir of grati- 
 fication, and as I went to the wash-stand to bathe my 
 burning for^fjead I ^laripec] at myself in the mirror. 
 
240 THE HEPBURN LINE. 
 
 My face was swollen with weeping, and my eyes were 
 very red, with dark circles around them, but they were 
 like my mother's, and my hair was like hers, too, and 
 there was an expression about my mouth which brought 
 her back to me. I was like my mother, and I was glad 
 she had left me her heritage of beauty, although I cared 
 but little whether it commended me to my aunts or 
 not, as I meant to keep aloof from them, if possible. I 
 could take care of myself, I thought, and any hardship 
 would be preferable to living with them, even should 
 they wish to have me do so, which was doubtful. 
 
 To Mrs. Wilmot 1 said nothing of what I had over- 
 heard, but waited in some anxiety for Aunt Kizzy's 
 letter, which came about two weeks after my mother's 
 death. It was directed to Mr. Wilmot, and was as 
 follows : 
 
 "Morton Park, September lo, i8^. 
 " Rev. J. S. Wilmot : 
 
 " Dear Sir, — Your letter is received, and I have de- 
 layed my reply until we could give our careful consid- 
 eration as to what to do, or rather how to do it. We 
 have, of course, no option in the matter as \.o what \.o 
 do, for naturally we must care for Gerold's daughter, 
 but we shall do it in the way most agreeable to ourselves. 
 As you will have inferred, we are all elderly people, 
 and I am old. I shall be sixty next January. Miss 
 Desire, my sister, is forty-seven. (Between her and my- 
 self there were two boys who died in infancy.) Maria, 
 my second sister, would, if living, be forty-five, and 
 Beriah is nearly thirty-eight. Thus, you see, we are no 
 longer young, but are just quiet people, with our habits 
 too firmly fixed to have them broken in upon by a girl 
 who probably talks slang and would fill the house with 
 noise and chatter, singing at most inopportune mo- 
 ments, banging the doors, pulling the books from th^ 
 
MY AUNTS. 241 
 
 shelves and the chairs into the middle of the rooms, and 
 upsetting things generally. No, we couldn't bear it, 
 and just the thought of it has given me a chill. 
 
 " We expect to educate the girl, — Doris, I think you 
 called her, — but it must be at the North. It there is a 
 good school in Meadowbrook, perhaps it will be well 
 for her to remain there for a while, and if you choose to 
 retain her in your family you will be suitably remuner- 
 ated for all the expense and trouble. When she is 
 older I shall place her in some institution where she 
 will receive a thorough education, besides learning the 
 customs of good society. After that we may bring her 
 to Morton Park. For the present, however, I prefer 
 that she should remain with you, for, as you are a 
 clergyman, you will attend to her moral training and 
 see that she is staunch and true in every respect. I hate 
 deception of all kinds, and I wish her to learn the 
 Lord's Prayer and the Ten Commandments and the 
 Creed, and to bo confirmed at the proper age. She is 
 about ten now, is she not ? 
 
 " Enclosed you will find a check sufficient, I think, for 
 the present necessities. If more is needed, it will be 
 sent. Please let me know if there is a good school in 
 Meadowbrook, and if there is none, will you kindly re- 
 commend one which you think suitable ? 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " Miss Keziah Morton." 
 
 This was the letter which I read, looking over Mr, 
 Wilmot's shoulder, and growing more and more angry 
 as I read, it was so heartless and cold, with no word of 
 real interest or sympathy for me, who was merely a 
 burden which must be carried, whether she were will- 
 ing or not. 
 
 " I'll never accept a penny from her," I exclaimed, 
 "and you may tell her so. I'd rather scrub than be 
 dependent upon these proud relatives, who evidently 
 think me a heathen. The Lord's Prayer, indeed ! and 
 
242 THE HKPBTJEN LINE. 
 
 I fourteen years old ! I wonder if she thinks I know 
 how to read !" 
 
 I was very defiant and determined, but after a little I 
 grew calmer, and as the graded school in Meadowbrook, 
 which r had always attended, was excellent of its kind, 
 and the Wilmots were glad to have me with them, I 
 consented at last that a letter to that effect should be 
 forwarded to Kentucky. But when Mr. Wilmot sug- 
 gested that I, too, should write and thank ray aunt for 
 her kindness, I stoutly refused. I was not thankful, I 
 said, neither did I think her kind as I understood kind- 
 ness, and I could not tell a lie. Later, however, it 
 occurred to me that as she had said she wished me to be 
 true and staunch, and that she hated deception, it might 
 be well to let her know just how I felt towards her, so 
 as not to occupy a false position in the future. Accord- 
 ingly I wrote a letter, of which the following is a copy : 
 
 " Meadowbrook, Mass., September — , i8 — . 
 " Miss Keziah Morton : 
 
 " Dear Madam, — Mr. Wilmot has told j'ou that there 
 is a good school in Meadowbrook and that he is glad to 
 .keep me in his family. He wished me also to thank }-ou 
 for your kindness in furnishing the means for my educa- 
 tion, and if I really felt thankful I would do so. But I 
 don't, and I cannot pretend to be grateful, for I do not 
 think your offer was made in kindness, but because, as 
 you said in your letter, you had no option except to 
 care for me. You said, too, that you did not like decep- 
 tion of any kind, and I think I'd better tell you how I 
 feel about accepting help from you. Since my mother 
 died I have accidentally heard how you treated her and 
 neglected my father because of her, and naturally I am 
 indignant, for a sweeter, lovelier woman than my 
 mother never lived. When she died and left me alone, 
 there was a leaning in my heart towards you and the 
 
MY AUNTS. 243 
 
 other aunts, because you were the only relatives I have 
 in the world, and if you had shown the least sympathy 
 for nne I could have loved you so much. But iti your 
 letter you never said one word of pity or comfort. You 
 offered to educate me, that was all. But I prefer to 
 care for myself, and I can do it, too. I am fourteen, 
 and can earn my own living. I can make dresses, as 
 mother did after father died, or I can do second work 
 until I have enough to pay for my schooling. And I 
 would rather do it than be indebted to any one, and if, 
 when you get this, you think best to change your mind, 
 I shall be glad. But if you do not, I shall try to 
 improve every moment and get a thorough education as 
 soon as po.ssible, and when I can I shall pay you every 
 dollar you expend for me, and you need have no fears 
 that I shall ever disgrace my father's name, or you 
 either. 
 
 " I used to think that I should' like to see Morton 
 Park, as it was once my father's home, but since read- 
 ing your'letter I have no desire to go there and bang 
 doors, and pull the books from the shelves, arid sing, 
 whether invited to or not, and shock you with slang. I 
 suppose I do use some, — all the girls do, and example is 
 contagious, — and I am fond of singing, and would like 
 nothing better than to take lessons in vocal and instru- 
 mental music, but I am not quite a heathen, and can 
 hardly remember when I did not know the Lord's 
 Prayer, and Ten Commandments, and Creed. But I 
 have not been confirmed, and do not intend to be until 
 I am a great deal better than I am now, for I believe 
 there is something necessary to confirmation besides 
 mere intellectual knowledge. Father and mother 
 taught me that, and they were true Christians. 
 
 " Father used sometimes to tell me of his home and 
 his aunts, who weie kind to him, and so, perhaps, you 
 would like to know how peacefully he died, and how 
 handsome he was in his cofiSn, just as if he were asleep. 
 But mother was lovelier still, with such a sweet smile on 
 her face, and her dear little hands folded upon her 
 bosom, There were needle-pricks an4 marks of the 
 
244 THE HEPBURN LINK. 
 
 hard work she had done on her fingers, but I covered 
 them with great bunches of the white pond-lilies she 
 loved so much, and then kissed her good-bye forever, 
 with a feeling that my heart was broken ; and, oh, it 
 aches so now when I remember that in all the world 
 there is no one who cares for me, or on whom I have 
 any claim. 
 
 " I don't know why I have written this to you, who, 
 of course, have no interest in it, but guess I did it 
 because I am sure you once loved father a little. I do 
 not expect you to love me, but if I can ever be of any 
 service to you I will, for father's sake ; and something' 
 tells me that in the future, I don't know when or how, I 
 shall bring you some good. Until then adieu. 
 
 " Doris Morton." 
 
 I knew this was not the kind of letter which a girl of 
 fourteen should send to a woman of sixty, but I was 
 indignant and hot-headed and young, and felt that in 
 some way I was avenging my mother's wrongs, and so 
 the letter was sent, unknown to the Wilmots, and I 
 waited anxiously for the result. But there was none, so 
 far as I knew. Aunt Kizzy did not answer it, and in 
 her letter to Mr. Wilmot she made no reference to it. 
 She merely said she was glad I was to live in a clergy- 
 man's family tinder religious influence, and added that 
 if I had a good voice and he thought it desirable I was 
 to have instruction in both vocal and instrumental 
 music. 
 
 It did not occur to me to connect this with anything 
 I had written, but I was very glad, for I was passion- 
 ately fond of music, as I was of books generally. And 
 so for two years I was a pupil in the High School in 
 Meadowbrook, passing from one grade to another, until 
 at last I was graduated with all the honors which such 
 an institution could give, 
 
My aunts. 245 
 
 During this time not a word had ever been written to 
 me by my aunts. The bills had been regularly paid 
 through Mr. Wilmot, to whom Aunt Kizzy's letters 
 were addressed, and at the end of every quarter a report 
 of my standing in scholarship and deportment had been 
 forwarded to Kentucky. And that was all I knew of 
 my relatives, who might have been Kamschatkans for 
 anything they were to me. 
 
 About six months before I was graduated, Mr. Wil- 
 mot was told that I was to be sent to Madame De 
 Moisiere's School in Boston, and then, three mouths 
 later, without any reason for the change, I learned that 
 I was to go to Wellesley, provided I could pass the nec- 
 essary examination. Of this I had no fears, but the 
 change disappointed me greatly, as I had heard glowing- 
 accounts of Madame De Moisiere's School from a girl 
 friend who had been there, and at first I rebelled against 
 Wellesley, which I fancied meant nothing but hard 
 study, with little recreation. But there was no help for 
 it. Aunt Keziah's law was the law of the Medes and 
 Persians, and one morning in September I said good- 
 bye to Meadowbrook and started for Wellesley, which 
 seemed to me then a kind of intellectual prison. 
 
246 THE HEPBURN LINE. 
 
 CHAPTER II.— Beriah's story. 
 
 DORIS. 
 
 Morton Park, June — , 18 — . 
 Ten o'clock at night, and I have brought out my old 
 book for a little chat. I am sure I don't know why I 
 continue to write in my journal, when 1 am nearly 
 forty years old, unless it is because I began it nine- 
 teen years ago, on the day after I said good-bye to Tom 
 forever and felt that my heart was broken. It was 
 just such a moonlight night as this when we walked 
 under the elms in the Park and he told me I was a 
 coward, because I would not brave Kizzy's wrath and 
 marry out of the " accursed Hepburn line," as he called 
 it. Well, I was afraid of Kizzy, and shrank from all 
 the bitterness and trouble which has come to us 
 through that Hepburn line. First, there was my 
 brother Douglas, twent5'-five years older than I am, 
 who, because he married the girl he loved, instead of 
 the one he didn't, was sent adrift without a dollar. 
 Why didn't my father, I wonder, marry into the line 
 himself, and so save all this trouble ? Probably be- 
 cause he was so far removed from the crisis now so 
 fast approaching, that he ventured to take my mother, 
 to whom he was always tender and loving, showing 
 that there was kindness in his nature, although he 
 could be so hard on Douglas and the dear little wife 
 who died when Gerold was born. Then came the ter- 
 rible time when both my father and mother were 
 swept away on the same day by the cholera, and six 
 
DORIS. 24? 
 
 ffioilths after Douglas died, and his boy Gerold came to 
 live with us. He was two years my senior, and more 
 like my brother than my nephew, and I loved him 
 dearly and spoke up for him when Kizzy turned him 
 out, just as Douglas had been turned out before him. 
 Had I dared I would have written to him and assured 
 him of my love, but I could not, so great was my dread 
 of Keziah, who exercises a kind of hypnotic power 
 over us all. She tried to keep Desire from the man of 
 her choice, and might have succeeded, if death had not 
 forestalled her. She sent Tom away from me, and 
 only yielded to Maria, who had a will as strong as her 
 own and married whom she pleased. But she, too, died 
 just after her husband, who was shot in the battle of 
 Fredericksburgh, and we have no one left but her boy 
 Grant, who is almost as dear to me as Gerold was. 
 
 Grant is a young man now, and I trust he will marry 
 Dorothea, and so break the evil spell which that old 
 man must have put upon us when to the long lease of 
 ninety years given to my grandfather he tacked that 
 strange condition that if before the expiration of the 
 lease a direct heir of Joseph Morton, of Woodford 
 County, Kentucky, married a direct heir of Amos Hep- 
 burn, of Keswick, England, only half the value of the 
 property leased should revert to the Hepburn heir, 
 while the other half should remain in the Morton 
 family. If no such marriage has taken place, uniting 
 the houses of Morton and Hepburn, then the entire 
 property goes to the direct heir of the Hepburns. I 
 believe I have stated it as it is worded in that old yel- 
 low document which Keziah keeps in the family Bible 
 and reads every day with a growing dread of what will 
 goon befall us unless Grant marries Dorothea, who, so 
 
248 THE mcPBTTEN LINE. 
 
 far as we know, stands first in the Hepburn line, and to 
 whom the Morton estate will go if it passes from our 
 hands. 
 
 I have sometimes doubted if that clause would stand 
 the test of law, and have said so to Keziah, suggesting 
 to her to take advice on the subject. But she treated 
 my suggestion with scorn, charging me with wishing to 
 be dishonest, and saying that even if it were illegal it 
 was the request of Amos Hepburn, and father had in- 
 stilled it into her mind that a dead man's wish was law, 
 and she should abide by it. Neither would she allow 
 me to ask any legal advice, or talk about the matter to 
 any one. 
 
 " It is our own business," she said, " and if we choose 
 to give up our home it concerns no one but ourselves." 
 
 But she does not expect to give it up, for our hopes 
 are centred on Grant's marrying Dorothea ; and as one 
 means of accomplishing this end he must be kept from 
 Doris and all knowledge of her. 
 
 Poor little orphaned Doris ! I wonder what she is 
 like, and why Keziah is so hard upon her ! She is not 
 to blame because her father married the daughter of 
 his landlady, whom Keziah Calls a cook. How well I 
 recall a morning two or three years ago when, at the 
 tick of the clock announcing eight, Kizzy and Dizzy 
 and I marched solemnly down to breakfast just as we 
 have done for the last twenty years and shall for twenty 
 (tnore if we live so long, Keziah first in her black dress 
 and lace cap, with her keys jingling at her side, Desire 
 next, in her white gown and blue ribbons, which she 
 will wear until she is seventy, and I, in my chintz 
 wrapper of lavender and white, colors which Tom said 
 were becoming to me and which I usually select. I 
 
DoKis. 249 
 
 Can hear the swish of our skirts on the stairs, and see 
 the round table with its china and glass and flowers, 
 and old Abe, the butler, bringing in the coffee and 
 toast, and a letter for Keziah, who read it twice, and 
 then, folding it very deliberately, said, " Gerold's widow 
 is dead and has left a little girl, and a Rev. Mr. Wil- 
 piot has written to know what is to be done with her." 
 
 " Oh, bring her here, by all means !" both Dizzy and 
 I exclaimed in a breath, while Keziah's face, which is 
 always severe and stern, grew more so as she replied, 
 in the tone from which there is no appeal, " She will 
 stay where she is, if there is a decent school there. I 
 shall educate her, of course ; there is no alternative ; 
 but she cannot come here until she is sufficiently culti- 
 vated not to mortify us with her bad manners, as blood 
 will tell. I have never forgiven her mother for marry- 
 ing Gerold, and I cannot yet forgive this girl for be- 
 ing that woman's daughter." 
 
 Both Desire and myself knew how useless it was to 
 combat Keziah when her mind was made up. So we 
 said nothing more about the child, and kept as much as 
 possible out of Keziah's way, for when she is disturbed 
 she is not a pleasant person to meet in a tete-a-tete. We 
 knew she wrote to Mr. Wilmot, and that he replied, 
 and then, two days after, when we went down to 
 breakfast, we found another letter for Keziah. It was 
 from Doris, and Keziah read it aloud, while her voice 
 and hands shook with wrath, and Desire and I ex- 
 changed glances of satisfaction and touched each other 
 slyly with our feet in token of sympathy with the child, 
 who dared write thus to one who had ruled us so 
 long that we submitted to her now without a protest. 
 It was a very saucy letter, but it showed the mettle of 
 
250 THE HEtBtTKN LINE. 
 
 the girl, and I respected her for it, and my heart went 
 out to her with a great pity when she said, " If you had 
 shown the least sympathy for me I could have loved 
 you so much, but you did not. You offered to care for 
 me because you felt that you must, but you never sent 
 me one word of pity or comfort." 
 
 " Oh, Keziah," I exclaimed at this point, " is that true J", 
 Did you write to Mr. Wilmot and say no word to the 
 child ?" 
 
 " I never say what I do not feel," was Keziah's answer, 
 as she read on, and when she had finished the letter 
 she added, " She is an ungrateful girl, fitter for a dress- 
 maker or maid, no doubt, than for anything higher. But 
 she is a Morton, and must not be suffered to do a 
 menial's work. I shall educate her in my own way, but 
 shall not recognize her socially until I know the kind of 
 woman into which she develops. Neither must you 
 waste any sentimentality upon her, or make any ad- 
 vances in the. shape of letters, for I will not have it. 
 ■' Let her stand alone awhile. She seems to be equal to it. 
 
 And " here she hesitated, while her pale cheek 
 
 flushed a little, as she continued, " she is older than I 
 supposed. She is fourteen, — very pretty, or beautiful, 
 I think Mr. Wilmot said, and that does not commend 
 her to me. You know how susceptible Grant is to 
 beauty, and there must be nomore mistakes. The time 
 is too short for that. Grant is going to Andover, 
 which is not far from Meadowbrook, and if he knew of 
 this girl, who is his second cousin, nothing could keep 
 him from seeing her, and there is no telling what com- 
 plications might arise, for she is undoubtedly designing 
 like her mother, who won Gerold from the woman he 
 should have married. Consequently you are to say 
 
fiOEis. 251 
 
 nothing to Grant of this girl ; then, if he chances to 
 meet her and trouble comes of it, I shall know the hand 
 of fate is in it." 
 
 " But, Keziah," I remonstrated, " j'ou surely cannot 
 expect that Grant will never know anything^ of Doris ? 
 That is preposterous !" 
 
 " He need know nothing of her until matters are ar- 
 ranged between him and Dorothea, who is only fifteen 
 now, while he is eighteen, — both too young as yet for an 
 engagement. But it must be. It shall be !" 
 
 She spoke with great energy, and we, who knew her 
 so well, felt sure that it would be, and knew that so far 
 as Grant or any of us were concerned, Doris was to re- 
 main a myth until such time as Keziah chose to bring 
 her home. But if we could not speak of her to Grant, 
 Desire and I talked of her often between ourselves, 
 and two or three times I began a letter to he'r, but al- 
 ways burned it, so great was my fear of Keziah's dis- 
 pleasure should she find it out. We knew the girl was 
 well cared for and happy, and that she stood high in all 
 her classes, for the very best of reports came regularly 
 from her teachers, both with regard to deportment and 
 to scholarship. Perhaps I am wrong, but I cannot help 
 thinking that Keziah would have been better pleased if 
 some fault had been found in order to confirm her 
 theory that blood will tell. But there has been none, 
 and she was graduated with honor at the High School 
 in Meadowbrdok, and every arrangement was made for 
 her to go to Madame De Moisiere's school in Boston, 
 where she particularly wished to go, when suddenly 
 Keziah changed her mind in favor of Wellesley, where 
 Doris did not wish to go. " She is bitterly disappointed, 
 and I shall be glad if you can think best to adhere to 
 
252 THE HEPBURN LtNE, 
 
 yonr first plan," Mr. Wilmot wrote, bnt did not tnove 
 Keziah a whit. It was either Wellesley or some out-of- 
 the-way place in Maine, which I do not recall. Doris 
 has chosen Wellesley, of course, while Dizzy and I have 
 put our wits to work to find the cause of the change, 
 and I think we have found it. Dorothea has suddenly 
 made up her mind to go to Madame De Moisiere. 
 
 " I don't care for books, any way," she wrote. " I am a 
 dunce, and everybody knows it and seems to like me 
 just as well. But old Gardy thinks I ought to go some- 
 where to be finished, and so I have chosen De Moisiere, 
 where I expect to have no end of fun provided I can 
 hoodwink the teachers, and 1 think I can. Besides, 
 as you may suspect, the fact that Grant has finished 
 Andover and is now in Harvard has a good deal to do 
 with my choice, for he will call upon me, of course. I 
 shall be so proud of him, as I hear he is very popular, 
 and all the girls will be green with envy !" 
 
 " The dear rattle-brained child," Keziah said, chuck- 
 ling over the letter, as she would not have chuckled if it 
 had been from Doris, — " the dear rattle-brained child ! 
 Of course Grant must call, and I shall write to the pro- 
 fessors, giving my permission, and to Madame asking 
 her to allow him to see her." 
 
 Poor, innocent Kizzy ! It is so many years since she 
 was at boarding-school, where she was kept behind bars 
 and bolts, and she knows so little how fast the world 
 has moved since then, that she really believes young 
 people are kept as closely now as they were forty years 
 ago. What would she say if she knew how many times 
 Grant was at Madame's while he was at Andover and 
 during his first year at Harvard, and how many flirta- 
 tions he has had with the girls, whom he calls a jolly 
 
D0EI8. 253 
 
 lot. All this he confided to Dizzy and myself, when at 
 the vacation he came home, fresh and breezy and full 
 of fun and frolic and noise, making our quiet house re- 
 sound with his college songs and Harvard yells, which 
 I think are hideous, and rather fast, if not low. But 
 Kizzy never utters a word of protest, and pays without 
 questioning the enormous bills sent to her, and seems 
 gratified to know that his rooms are as handsome and 
 his turnout as fine as any in Cambridge. 
 
 Grant has the first place in Kizzy's heart, and Doro- 
 thea the next, and because she is going to Madame De 
 Moisiere, Doris must not go, for naturally she would 
 fall in with Dorothea, and through her with Grant, who 
 would not be insensible to his pretty cousin's charms, 
 and who would resent his having been kept from her 
 so long. Mr. Wilmot has written that she is exceed- 
 ingly beautiful, with a manner which attracts every one, 
 while some of her teachers have written the same. 
 Dorothea, on the contrary, is rather plain. " Ugly as a 
 hedge fence," Grant once said of her in a fit of pique, 
 declaring that if he ever married, it would be to a pretty 
 face. And so he must not see Doris until he is en- 
 gaged to Dorothea, as it seems likely he soon will be, 
 and Doris is going to Wellesley, where Kizzy thinks 
 Grant has never been and never can go without her 
 permission ! Deluded Kizzy ! Grant knows at least a 
 dozen' Wellesley girls, each one of whom he designates 
 a brick. Will he find Doris, I wonder } I cannot help 
 hoping so. Ah, well, the world is a queer mixture, and 
 nous vei-rons. 
 
 It is gi-owing late, and everybody in and around the 
 house is asleep, except myself and Nero, the watch-dog, 
 who is fiercely baying the moori or barking at some 
 
254 THE HKPBUEN LINE. 
 
 thieving negro stealing our eggs or chickens. The 
 clock is striking twelve, and I must say good-night to 
 my journal and to Tom, if he is still alive, and to dear 
 little Doris : so leaning from my window into the cool 
 night air, I will kiss my hand to the north and south 
 and east and west, and say God bless them both, where- 
 ever they are. 
 
 CHAPTER III.— Doris's Story. 
 
 GRANTLEY MONTAGUE AND DOROTHEA. 
 
 It was a lovely morning in September when, with 
 Lucy Pierce, a girl friend, I took the train for Boston, 
 where I was to spend the night with Lucy's aunt, who 
 lived there, and the next day go to Wellesley. Soon 
 after we were seated, a 3-oung man who had formerly 
 lived in Meadowbrook, but was now a clerk in some 
 house in Chicago and was going to Boston on business, 
 entered the car, and after the first greetings were over, 
 said to us, " I savf you get in at Meadowbrook, and 
 have come to speak with you and have a little rest. 
 The through sleeper from Chicago and Cincinnati is half 
 full of school girls and Harvard boys, who have 
 kept up such a row. Why, it was after twelve last 
 night before they gave us a chance to sleep. They are 
 ha 'ing a concert now, and a girl from Cincinnati, whom 
 they call Thea, and who seems to be the ringleader, is 
 playing the banjo, while another shakes a tambourine, 
 and a tall fellow from Kentucky, whom they call Gen- 
 eral Grant, is whistling an sccompaninaent, I rather 
 
QEANTLEY MONTAGUE AND DOROTHEA. 255 
 
 think Miss Thea is pretty far gone with the general, the 
 way she turns her great black eyes on him, and I 
 wouldn't wonder if he were a little mashed on her, 
 although she is not what I call pretty. And yet she 
 has a face which one would look at twice, and like it 
 better the second time than the first ; and, by Jove, she 
 handles that banjo well. I wish you could see her." 
 
 When we reached Worcester, where we were to stop 
 a few minutes, Lucy and I went into the sleeper, from 
 which many of the passengers had alighted, leaving it 
 free to the girls and the Harvards, who were enjoying 
 themselves to their utmost. The concert was at its 
 height, banjo and tambourine-players and whistler all 
 doing their best, and it must be confessed that the best 
 was very good. Thea was evidently the centre of at- 
 traction, as, with her hat off and her curly bangs 
 pushed back from her forehead, her while fingers swept 
 the strings of the banjo with a certain inimitable grace, 
 and her brilliant, laughing eyes looked up to the young 
 man, who was bending over her with his back to me so 
 I could not see his face. I only knew he was tall and 
 broad-shouldered, with light brown hair which curled 
 at the ends, and that his appearance was that of one 
 bred in a city, who has never done anything in his life 
 but enjoy himself. And still he fascinated me almost 
 as much as Thea, who, as I passed her, said to him, with 
 a soft Southern accent, " For shame, Grant, — to make 
 so horrid a discord ! I believe you did it on purpose, 
 and I shall not play any more. The concert is ended ; 
 pass rotjnd the hat ;" and, dropping her banjo on her 
 lap and running her fingers through her short hair 
 until it stood up all over her head, she leaned back as if 
 exhausted and fanned herself with her sailor hat With 
 
256 THE HEPBUEN LINE. 
 
 the exception of her eyes and hair, she was not pretty 
 in the usual acceptation of the term. But, as young 
 Herring had said, one would turn to look at her twice 
 and like her better the second time than the first, for 
 there was an irresistible charm in her manner and smile 
 and voice, which to me seemed better than mere beauty 
 of feature and complexion. 
 
 When he reached the depot in Boston I saw her 
 again, and then thought her very pretty as she stood 
 upon the platform, taking her numerous parcels from 
 " General " Grant, with whom she was gayly chatter- 
 ing. 
 
 "Now mind you come soon. I shall be so homesick 
 till I see you. I am half homesick now," she said, 
 brushing a tear, either real or feigned, from her eyes. 
 
 " But suppose they won't let me call ? They are 
 awfully stiff when they get their backs up, and they 
 are not very fond of me," the young man said, and she 
 replied, "Oh, they will, for your aunt and Gardy are 
 going to write and ask permission for me to see you, so 
 that is fixed. Au revoir." And, kissing her fingers to 
 him, she followed her companions, while Grant went to 
 look for his baggage. 
 
 He had been standing with his back to me, but as he 
 turned I saw his face distinctly and started involuntarily 
 with the thought that I had seen him before, or some- 
 body like him. Surely there was something familiar 
 about him, and the memory of my dead father came 
 back to me and was associated with this young man 
 thoughts of whom clung to me persistently, until the 
 strangeness and novelty of Wellesley drove him and 
 Thea from my mind for a time. 
 
 Of my student life at Wellesley, I shall say but little 
 
GRANTLEY MONTAGUE AND DOROTHEA. 257 
 
 except that as a student I was contented and happy. 1 
 loved study for its own sake, and no task was too long, 
 no lesson too hard, for me to master. I stood high in 
 all my classes, and was popular with my teachers and 
 the few girls whom I chose as my friends. And still 
 there was constantly with me a feeling of unrest, — a 
 longing for something I could not have. Mordecai sat 
 in the gate, and my Mordecai was the restrictions v/ith 
 which my Aunt Keziah hedged me round, not only in a 
 letter written to my teachers, but in one which she sent 
 to me when I had been in Wellesley three or four weeks. 
 I was not expecting it, and at the sight of. her hand- 
 writing my heart gave a great bound, for she was my 
 blood relation, and although I had no reason to love 
 her, I had more than once found myself wishing for 
 some recognition from her. At last it had come, I 
 thought, and with moist eyes and trembling hands I 
 opened the letter, which was as follows : 
 
 " Dear Doris, — It has come to my knowledge that a 
 great deal more license is allowed to young people than 
 in my day, and that young men sometimes call upon 
 or manage to see school-girls without the permission of 
 their parents or guardians. This is very reprehensible, 
 and something I cannot sanction. I am at a great ex- 
 pense for your education, in order that you may do 
 credit to your father's name, and I wish you to devote 
 your entire energies and thoughts to your books, and 
 on no account to receive calls or attentions of any kind 
 from any one, and especially a Harvard student. My 
 orders are strict in this respect, and I Imve communi- 
 cated thera to your Principal. You can, if accompanied 
 by a teacher, go occasionally to a concert or a lecture in 
 Boston, but, as a rule you are better in the building, 
 and must have nothing to do with the Harvarders. 
 Your past record is good and I expect your future tQ 
 
258 THE HEPBURN LINE. 
 
 be the same, and shall be pleased accordingly. I shall 
 
 send your quarter's spending money to Miss , who 
 
 will give it to yon as you need it, and I do this because 
 I hear that girls at school are sometimes given to buy- 
 ing candy by the box, — French candy, too, — and sweets 
 by the jar, and to having spreads, whatever these may 
 be. But you can afEord none of these extravagancies, 
 and, lest you should be tempted to indulge in them, I 
 have removed the possibility from your way by giving 
 
 j'our allowance to Miss , and I wish you to keep an 
 
 account of all your little incidental expenses, and send 
 it to me with the quarterly reports of your standing. 
 
 " I have arranged with the Wilmots for you to spend 
 your vacations with them. But when your education 
 is finished, if your record is as good as it has been, you 
 will come to us, of course, if we have a home for you to 
 come to. There is a dark cloud hanging over us, and 
 whether it will burst or not I cannot tell. If it does, 
 you may be obliged to earn your own living, and hence 
 the necessity for you to get a thorough education. I am 
 thankful to say that, for people of our years, your aunts 
 and myself are in comfortable health. If you wish to 
 write me occasionally and tell me of your life at Welles- 
 ley, you can do so, but you must not expect prompt re- 
 plies, as people at my time of life are not given to vol- 
 uminous correspondence. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " Keziah Morton." 
 
 I had opened the letter with eager anticipations of 
 what it might contain, but when I finished it my heart 
 ' was hardening with a sense of the injustice done me by 
 treating me as if I were a little child, who could not bes- 
 trusted with my own pocket money, and who was tq 
 give an account for every penny spent, from a postage 
 stamp to a car fare. And this at first hurt me worse 
 than the other restrictions. I did not know much about;. 
 |he Harvard boys or spreads, an4 J did not gare espe^ 
 
GRANTLEY MONTAGUE AND DOKOTHEA. 259 
 
 cially for French candy and sweets, but now that they 
 were so summarily forbidden, I began to want them and 
 to rebel against the chains which bound me, and as the 
 weeks and months went on, I became more and more 
 conscious of a feeling of desolation and loneliness, which 
 at times made me verj' unhappy. In Meadowbrook I 
 had been so kindly cared for by the Wilmots that, ex- 
 cept for the sense of loss when I thought of my mother, 
 I had not fully realized how alone I was in the world ; 
 but at Wellesle)', wlien I heard my companions talk of 
 their homes and saw their delight when letters came to 
 them from father or mother or brothers or sisters, I 
 used to go away and cry with an intense longing for the 
 love of some one of my own kindred and friends. I had 
 no letters from home and no home to go to during the 
 vacations except that of the Wilmots, who always made 
 me welcome. I stood alone, a sort oi goody-goody, as the 
 girls called me when I resisted their entreaties to join 
 in violation of the rules. I took no part in what Aunt 
 Keziah called spreads. I seldom saw a Harvard stu- 
 dent, but heard a good deal about them and learned 
 that they were not the monsters Aunt Kizzy thought 
 them to be. 
 
 My room-mate, Mabel Stearns, had a brother in 
 Harvard, whose intimate friend was called General 
 Grant, but whose real name was Grantley Montague, 
 Mabel said, adding that he was a Kentuckian and be- 
 longed to a very aristocratic family. He was reported 
 to be rich, spending his money freely, and while always 
 managing to have his lessons and stand well with the 
 professors, still arranging to have a hand in every bit 
 of fun and frolic that came in his way. I heard, too, of 
 Dorothea IJaynes, who was at Madame De Mosiere's, 
 
260 THE HEPBURN LINE. 
 
 She was a great heiress and an orphan, and lived in Cin- 
 cinnati with her guardian, whom she called old Gardy, 
 who gave her all the money she wanted, and whose 
 instructions were that, as she was delicate, she was not 
 to have too many lessons or study too hard. Like 
 Grantley Montague, she was very popular, and no one 
 h^d so many callers from Harvard. Prominent among 
 these was Grantley Montague, who was very lover-like 
 in his attentions. Happy Dorothea Haynes, I thought, 
 envying her for her money, — which was not doled out 
 to her in quarters and halves, — envying her for her 
 freedom, and envying her most for her acquaintance 
 with Grantley Montague, who occupied much of my 
 thoughts, but who seemed as far removed from me as 
 the planets from the earth. 
 
 I never went anywhere, except occasionally to a con- 
 cert, or a lecture, and to church. I seldom saw anyone 
 except the teachers and students around me, and 
 although I was very fond of my book.s, time dragged 
 rather monotonously with me until I had been at 
 Wellesley about two and a half years, when Mabel who 
 had spent Sunday in Boston came back on Monday 
 radiant and full of news which she hastened to com- 
 municate. Grantley Montague and her brother Fred 
 were soon to give a tea-party under the auspices of her 
 married sister, who lived in Cambridge, and who was 
 to be assisted by two or three other ladies. I had heard 
 of these receptions, where Thea Haynes usually figured 
 so prominently in wonderful costumes, but if any wish 
 that I might have part in them ever entered my mind, 
 it was quickly smothered, for such things were not for 
 me, fettered as I was by my aunt Keziah's orders, which 
 were not relapsed in the least, although I was now nine- 
 
OEANTLKY MONTAGUK AND BOEOTHEA. 261 
 
 teen years of age. How then was I surprised and 
 delighted' when with Mabel's invitation there came one 
 for me ! It was through her influence, I knew, but I 
 was invited, and for a few moments I was happier than 
 I had ever been in my life. Then came the thought 
 expressed in words, " Can I go ?" 
 
 " Certainly," Mabel said ; " you have only to write 
 your aunt, who will say yes at once, if you tell her how 
 much you desire it, and Miss will give her permis- 
 sion gladly, for you are the model scholar. You never 
 get into scrapes, and have scarcely had an outing 
 except a few stupid lectures or concerts with a teacher 
 tacked on, and I don't believe you have spoken to a 
 Harvarder since you have been here. Of course she 
 will let you go ; if she don't, she's an old she-dragon. 
 Write to her at once, and blarney her a little, if neces- 
 sary." 
 
 I did not know how to blarney, and I was horribly 
 afraid of the she-dragon, as Mabel called her, but I 
 wrote her that day, telling her what I wanted, and how 
 much pleasure it would give me to go. It was the first 
 favor I had asked, I said, and I had tried so hard to' do 
 what I thought would please her, that I hoped she 
 would grant it, and, as there was not very much time 
 for delay, would she please telegraph her answer ? I 
 signed myself, "Your affectionate niece, Doris Morton," 
 and then waited, anxiously, for a reply. I knew about 
 how long it took for a letter to reach Morton Park, and 
 on the fourth day after mine was sent I grew so nervous 
 that I could scarcely eat or keep my mind upon my les- 
 sons. Encouraged by Mabel, I had come to think it 
 quite sure that my aunt would consent, and had tried 
 on my two evening dresses to see which was the more 
 
562 *riIIC HEPBURN LINK. 
 
 becoming to me, crimson surah with creamy trimmings, 
 or cream-colored cashmere with crimson trimmings. 
 Mabel decided for the cashmere, which, she said, soft- 
 ened my brilliant color, and I sewed a bit of lace into 
 the neck and fastened a bow of ribbon a little more se- 
 curely, and was smoothing the folds of the dress and 
 wondering what Grantley Montagiie would think of it 
 and me, when there was a knock at my door and a tele- 
 gram was handed me. I think the sight of one of 
 those yellow missives quickens the pulse of every one, 
 and for a moment my heart beat so fast that I could 
 scarcely stand. I was alone, for Mabel had gone out, 
 and, dropping into a chair, I opened the envelope with 
 hands which shook as if I were in a chill. Then every- 
 thing swam before my eyes and grew misty, except the 
 one word No, which stamped itself upon my brain so 
 indelibly that I see it now as distinctly as I saw it then, 
 and I feel again the pang of disappointment and the 
 sensation as if my heart were beating in my throat and 
 choking me to death. I remember trying to cry, with a 
 thought that tears might remove the pressure in my 
 head, which was like a band of steel. But I could not, 
 and for a few moments I sat staring at the word No, 
 which for a time turned me into stone. Then I arose 
 and hung up the dress I was not to wear, and put away 
 the long gloves I had bought to go with it, and was 
 standing by the window, looking drearily out upon the 
 wintry sky, when Mabel came in, full of excitement and 
 loaded with parcels. 
 
 She had been shopping in Boston, and she displa3'ed 
 one after another the slippers and fan and handkerchief- 
 she had bought for the great occasion of which she had 
 heard so much. Grantley Montague, she said, was 
 
&KAl»TtEY MONTAGtTE AiJD DOEOTHiHA. ^6S 
 
 Sparing no pains to make it the very finest affair of the 
 season, and Thea Haynes was having a wonderful cos- 
 tume made, although she already had a dozen Paris 
 gowns in her wardrobe. Then, as I did not enter very 
 heartily into her talk, she suddenly stopped, and, look- 
 ing me in the face, exclaimed, " What is it, Dorey ? 
 Has the answer come ?" 
 
 I nodded, and spying the dispatch on the table, she 
 snatched it up and read No, and then began pirouetting 
 wildly around the room, with exclamations not very 
 complimentary to my aunt. 
 
 " The vile old cat !" she said. " What does she mean 
 by treating you so, and you the model who never do 
 anything out of the way, and have never been known 
 to join in the least bit of a lark ? But I would spite the 
 hateful old woman. I'd be bad if I were you. Suppose 
 you jump out of the window to-night, or do something 
 to assert your rights. Will you ? A lot of us will 
 help." 
 
 She had expressed aloud much that had passed through 
 my mind during the -last hour. What was the use of 
 being a goody-goody, as I was so often called ? Why not 
 be a bady-bady and taste forbidden fruit for once ? I had 
 asked myself, half resolving to throw off all restraint 
 and see how bad I could be. But when I thought of my 
 teachers, who trusted me and whom I loved, and more 
 than all when I remembered my dead mother's words, 
 "If your aunts care for you, respect their wishes as j^ou 
 would mine," my mood changed. I would do right 
 whatever came ; and I said so to Mabel, who called me 
 a milksop and sundry other names equally expres- 
 sive, and declared she would not tell me a thing about 
 the reception. But I knew she would, and she did, and 
 
264: THE HKPBUEN tiNll. 
 
 for days after it I heard of little else than ^& perfectly 
 elegant affair. 
 
 " Such beautiful rooms," she said, " with so many- 
 pictures, and among them such a funny one of four old 
 women sitting in a row, like owls on a pole, with a 
 moon-faced baby in the lap. of one of them, and a 
 young man behind them. It has a magnificent frame, 
 and I meant to have asked its history, but forgot it, 
 there was so much else to look at." 
 
 I wonder now that I did not think of my father's pic- 
 ture of his four aunts, which was sold to a Boston dealer 
 years before ; but I did not, and Mabel rattled on, tell- 
 ing me of the guests, and the dresses, especially that of 
 Thea Haynes, which she did not like ; it was too low in 
 front and too low in the back, and fitted her form too 
 closely, and the sleeves were too short for her thin 
 arms. 
 
 " But then it was all right because it was Thea 
 Haynes, and she is very nice and agreeable and striking, 
 with winning manners and a sweet voice," she said. 
 " Everybody was ready to bow down to her, except 
 Grantley Montague, who was just as polite to one as to 
 another, and who sometimes seemed annoyed at the way 
 she monopolized him, as if he were her special property. 
 I am so sorry you were not there, as you would have 
 thrown her quite in the shade, for you are a thousand 
 times handsomer than she." 
 
 This was of course flattering to my vanity, but it did 
 not remove the feeling of disappointment, which lasted 
 for a long time and was not greatly lessened when 
 about a week after the reception I received from Aunt 
 Keziah a letter which I knew was meant to be concilia- 
 tory. She was sorry, she said, to have to refuse the first 
 
GftANTLlir iioNtAGtJE aUD boEOTSEA. 265 
 
 favor I had ever asked, but she had good reasons, which 
 she might some time see fit to tell me, and then she 
 referred again to a shadow which was hanging over the 
 family, and which made her morbid, she supposed. I 
 had no idea what the shadow was, or what connection 
 it had with my going to Grantley Montague's re- 
 ception, but I was glad she was making even a slight 
 apology for what seemed to me so unjust. She was 
 much pleased with the good reports of me, she said, and 
 if I liked I might attend a famous opera which she 
 heard was soon to be in Boston, and I could have one 
 of those long wraps trimmed with fur such as young 
 girls wore to evening entertainments, and a new silk 
 dress, if I needed it.- That was very kind, and Mabel, 
 to whom I showed the letter, declared that the dragon 
 must have met with a change of heart. 
 
 " I'd go to the opera," she said, " and I'd have the 
 wrap trimmed with light fur, and the gown a grayish 
 blue, just the color of your eyes when you are excited. 
 There are some lovely patterns at Jordan & Marsh's, 
 and sister Clara will help you pick it out, and we'll have 
 a box and go with Clara, and I'll do your hair beauti- 
 fully, and you'll see how many glasses will be leveled 
 at you." 
 
 Mabel was always comforting and enthusiastic, and I 
 began to feel a good deal of interest in the box and the 
 dress and the wrap and the opera, which I enjoyed im- 
 mensely, and where so many glasses were turned to- 
 wards me that ray cheeks burned as if I were a culprit 
 caught in some wrong act. But there was something 
 lacking, and that was Grantley Montague, whom I fully 
 expected to see. Neither he nor Thea was there, and 
 I heard afterwards that she was ill with a cold and had 
 
26^ TBI! HEPBttEN ZMt. 
 
 written a pathetic note, begging him not to go and en- 
 joy himself when she was feeling so badly and crying 
 on her ,pillow, with her nose a sight to behold. Mabel's 
 brother, who reported this to her, added that when 
 Grantley read the note he gave a mild little swear and 
 Said he reckoned he should go if he liked. But he 
 didn't, and I neither saw him then, nor any time after- 
 wards, except in the distance, during my stay at Wel- 
 lesley. 
 
 He was graduated the next summer, and left for 
 Kentucky, with the reputation of a fair scholar and a 
 first rate fellow who had spent quite a fortune during 
 his college course. Thea Haynes also left Madame's, 
 where she said she had learned nothing, generously ad- 
 ding, however, that it was not the fault of her teachers, 
 but because she didn't try. Some time during the next 
 autumn I heard that she had gone to Europe with her 
 guardian and maid and a middle-aged governess who 
 acted as chaperon, and that Grantley Montague was 
 soon to join her in a trip to Egypt. After that I knew no 
 more of them except as Mabel occasionally told me what 
 she heard from her brother, who had also left Harvard 
 and was in San Francisco. To him Grantley wrote in 
 February that he was with the Haynes party, which 
 had been increased by a second or third cousin of 
 Thea's, a certain Aleck Grady, who was a crank, and 
 perfectly daft on the subject of a family tree and the 
 missing link in the Hepburn line. 
 
 " If he finds the missing link," Fred wrote to his 
 .sister, " Grant says it will take quite a fortune from 
 Thea, or himself, or both ; and he seems to be a little 
 anxious about the link which Aleck Grady is trying to 
 
ftftANTLHY MONTAGUIS ANt) bofeOTHEA. 26? 
 
 find. I don't know what it means. Think I'll ask him 
 to explain more definitely when I write him again." 
 
 Neither Mabel nor I could hazard a guess with regard 
 to the missing link or the Hepburn line, and I .soon for- 
 got them entirely in the excitement of preparing for my 
 graduation, which was not very far away. I had hoped 
 that one of my aunts at least would be present, and had 
 written to that effect to Aunt Keziah, telling her how 
 lonely it would be for me with no relative present, and 
 how earnestly I wished that either she or Aunt Desire 
 or Aunt Beriah would come. I even went so far as to 
 thank her for all she had done for me and to tell her 
 how sorry I was for the saucy letter I wrote to her six 
 years ago. I had often wanted to do this, but had 
 never quite made up my mind to it until now, when I 
 hoped it might bring me a favorable response. But I 
 was mistaken. 
 
 It was not possible for herself or either of her sisters 
 to come so far, she wrote. She appreciated my wish to 
 have her there, she said, and did not esteem me less for 
 it. But it could not be. She enclosed money for my 
 graduating dress, and also for my traveling expenses, 
 for after a brief rest in Meadowbrook I was going to 
 Morton Park, in charge of a merchant from Frankfort, 
 who would be in New York in July and would meet me 
 in Albany. And so, with no relative present to encour- 
 age me or be proud of me, I received my diploma and 
 more flowers than I knew what to do with, and compli- 
 ments enough to turn my head, and then, amid tears 
 and kisses and good wishes, bade, farewell to my girl 
 friends and teachers, one of whom said to me at parting : 
 " If all our pupils were like you, Wellesley would be a 
 Paradise." 
 
2(58 tHlS HEtBCTKN 'LINE. 
 
 A model in every respect they called me, and it \va9 
 with quite a high opinion of myself that I went to 
 Meadowbrook, where I spent a week, and then, bidding 
 a tearful good-bye to the friends who had been so kind 
 to me, I joined Mr. Jones at Albany, and was soon on 
 my way to Kentucky. 
 
 CHAPTER IV.— Grantley Montague's Story. 
 
 ALECK AND THEA. 
 
 Hotel Chapman, Florence, April — , i8 — . 
 Nearly everybody keeps a diary at some time in his 
 life, I think. Aunt Brier does, I know, and Thea, and 
 Aleck, — confound him, with his Hepburn lines and mis- 
 sing links ! — and so I may as well be in fashion and 
 commence one, even if I tear it up, as I probably shall. 
 Well, here we are in Florence, and likely to be until 
 Thea is able to travel. Why did she go tearing around 
 Rome night and day in all sorts of weather, spooning it 
 in the Coliseum by moonlight and declaring she was oh, 
 so hot, when my teeth were chattering with cold, and I 
 could see nothingin the beauty she raved about but some 
 old broken walls and arches, with shadows here and 
 there, which did not look half as pretty as the shadows 
 in the park at home ? Europe hasn't panned out exactly 
 as I thought it would, and I am getting confoundedly 
 bored. Thea is nice, of course, — too nice, in fact, — but 
 a fellow does not want to be compelled to marry a girl 
 any way. He'd rather have some choice in the matter, 
 
ALECK AND THEA. 269 
 
 which I haven't had ; but I like Thea immensely, and 
 we are engaged. 
 
 There, I've blurted it out, and it looks first-rate on 
 paper, too. Yes, we are engaged, and this is how it 
 happened. Ever since I was knee-high Aunt Keziah 
 has dinged it into me that I must marry Thea, or her 
 heart would be broken, and the Mortons beggared. I 
 wish old Amos Hepburn's hand had been paralyzed 
 before he added to that long lease a condition which has 
 brought grief to my Uncle Douglas and cousin Gerold, 
 who married an actress, or a cook, or something, because 
 he loved her more than he did money. By George, I 
 respect him for his independence, and wish I were more 
 like him, and not a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow who 
 does not know how to do a single useful thing or to earn 
 a dollar. 
 
 Well, the time is drawing near for that lease to ex- 
 pire, and unless a direct heir of Joseph Morton, my 
 great-grandfather, marries a direct heir of Amos Hep- 
 burn, the entire Morton estate will revert to the Hep- 
 burn heir. Now, I am a direct heir of Joseph Morton, 
 and Thea is old Hepburn's direct heir, which means, ac- 
 cording to the way it was explained in the lease, that 
 she is the eldest child, whether son or daughter, of the 
 eldest child, and so on back to the beginning, when there 
 were three daughters of old Amos. Thea comes from 
 the second of these daughters, for where the first one 
 is the Lord only knows. Aleck Grady descends from 
 old Amos's third daughter, and has no chance while 
 Thea lives. Nor does he pretend to want any, as he has 
 money errough of his own. He joined our party unin- 
 vited in Egypt, and has bored us to death with his 
 family tree, and the missing link, which link mean^ 
 
270 THE HEPBUKN LINE. 
 
 the eldest daughter of old Hepburn, of whom noth- 
 ing- is known after a certain date. And it is she and 
 her descendants, if there are any, he is trying to 
 hunt up. He is a shrewd fellow, and a kind of quack 
 lawyer, too, and once told me that he did not think the 
 long lease would hold water a minute in the United 
 States, and asked if Aunt Keziah had consulted a first- 
 class lawyer, and when I told him that she had not, — 
 that it had been a rule in our family not to talk about 
 the lease to any one until compelled to do so, and that 
 even if she knew the document was invalid she would 
 consider herself bound in honor to respect it as her 
 father had done before her and enjoined her to do, — 
 he shrugged his shoulders and said, " Chaciin a son goitt j 
 but I should dispute that lease inch by inch, and beat 
 the Hepburns too." 
 
 "Why, then," I asked, " are you so anxious to find the 
 missing link, as you call it? I always supposed that for 
 some reason you wanted to throw Thea out of the 
 property." 
 
 With that insinuating smile of his which Thea thinks 
 so winning and I think so disgusting, he replied, "My 
 dear fellow, how you mistake me ! I don't care a picay- 
 une who gets the Morton money, if you are fools enough 
 to give it up. But I do care for my ancestors ; in fact, 
 I have a real affection for my great-aunt Octavia, and 
 am most anxious to know what became of her and her 
 progeny. I have her as far as New York, where all 
 trace of her is lost. Would you like to see the family 
 tree .?" 
 
 As I had seen it half a dozen times and knew exactly 
 where Octavia failed to connect, I declined, and then 
 the- conversation turned upon Thea, who, Aleck said. 
 
ALECK AND THEA. 271 
 
 was a very nice girl, but a little too fast, and had about 
 her too much gush and too much powder to suit him. 
 It was strange why girls would gush and giggle and 
 plaster their faces with cosmetics and blacken their eye- 
 brows until they looked like women of the town, he said, 
 appealing to me for confirmation of his opinion. I had 
 more than half suspected him of designs on Thea, and 
 I flamed up at once in her defense, telling him she 
 neither gushed, nor powdered, nor blackened-, — three 
 lies, as I knew, — but I was angry, and when, with that 
 imperturbable good humor which never fails him, he 
 continued : " Don't get so mad, I beg. I am older than 
 you, and know human nature better than you do, and I 
 know you pretty well. Why, I've made you quite a 
 study. Thea, in spite of her powder and gush, is a 
 splendid girl, and will make a good wife to the man she 
 loves and who loves her, but she is not your ideal, and 
 pardon me for suggesting that I don't believe that you 
 would marry her if it were not for that clause about the 
 eldest heir, which I don't think is worth the paper it is 
 written on," — I could have knocked him down, he was 
 so cool and patronizing, and was also telling me a good 
 deal of truth. But I would not admit it, and insisted 
 that I would marry Thea if there had never been any 
 Hepburn line and she had not a dollar in the world. 
 
 " Why don't you propose, then, and done with it ? 
 She is dying to have you," he said, and I declared I 
 would, and that night I asked her to be my wife, and I 
 have not regretted it either, although I know she is not 
 my ideal. 
 
 But who is my ideal, and where is she, if I have one ? 
 I am sure I don't know, unless it is the owner of a face: 
 which I have seen but twice, but which comes back ta 
 
272 THE HEPBURN LINE. 
 
 me over and over again, and which I would not forget 
 if I could, and could not if I would. The first time I 
 saw it was at a concert in Boston, not long before I left 
 college. I was in the dress-circle, and diagonally to my 
 right was an immense bonnet or hat which hid half the 
 audience from me. Late in the evening it moved, and 
 I saw beyond it a face which has haunted me ever 
 since. It was that of a young and beautiful girl, who I 
 instinctively felt belonged to a type entirely different 
 from the class of girls whom I had known while at Har- 
 vard, and who, without being exactly fast in the worst 
 acceptation of the term, had come so near the boundary- 
 line between propriety and impropriety that it was dif- 
 ficult to tell on which side they stood. But this girl was 
 different, with her deep-blue eyes and her wavy hair 
 which I was sure had never come in contact with the 
 hot curling-tongs, as Thea's does, while her complex- 
 ion, which reminded me of the roses and lilies in Aunt 
 Keziah's garden, owed none of its brilliancy to cosmet- 
 ics, as Aleck says most complexions do. She was real, 
 and inexpressibly lovely, especially when she smiled, as 
 she sometimes did upon the lady who sat beside her, 
 and who might have been her mother, or her chaperon, 
 or some elderly relative. When the concert was over I 
 hurried out, hoping to get near her, but she was lost in 
 the crowd, and I only saw her once again, three weeks 
 later, in an open street-car going in the opposite direc- 
 tion from the one in which I was seated. In her hand 
 she held a paper parcel, which made me think she might 
 possibly be a seamstress or a saleslady, and I spent a 
 great deal of time haunting the establishments in Boston 
 which employed girls as clerks, but I never found her, 
 por heard of her. She certainly was not at Moisiere's 
 
ALECK ANH THKA. 273 
 
 and I don't think she was at Wellesley, as I am sure I 
 should have heard of her through Fred, who had a sister 
 there. Once I thought I would tell him about her, but 
 was kept from doing so by a wish to discover her myself, 
 and when discovered to keep her to myself. But I have 
 never seen her since the day she went riding so serenely 
 past me, unconscious of the admiration and strange 
 emotions she was exciting in me. Who was she, I won- 
 der ; and shall I ever see her again ? It is not likely ; 
 and if I do, what can it matter to me, now that I am 
 engaged to Thea ? 
 
 In her letter of congratulation Aunt Keziab, who was 
 wild with delight, wrote to me that nothing could make 
 her so happy as my marriage with Thea, and that she 
 knew I would keep my promise, no matter whom I 
 might meet, for no one 'of Morton blood ever proved 
 untrue to the woman he loved. Of course I shall prove 
 true ; and who is there to meet, unless it is my Lost 
 Star, as I call her, for whom I believe I am as persist- 
 ently searching as Aleck is for the missing link, for I 
 never see a group of young American girls that I do 
 not manage to get near enough to see if she is among 
 them, and I never see a head of chestnut-brown hair set 
 on shoulders just as hers was that I don't follow it until 
 I see the face, which as yet has not been hers. And in 
 this I am not disloyal to Thea, whom I love better than 
 any girl 1 have ever known, and whom I will make 
 happy, if possible. She has been ill now nearly four 
 weeks, but in a few days we hope to move on to Paris, 
 where we shall stay until June, then go to Switzerland, 
 and some time in the autumn sail for home, and the 
 aunts who have vied with each other in spoiling me and 
 are the dearest aunts in the world, although so unlike 
 
-274 THE HEPBURN IJNE. 
 
 each other, — Aunt Keziah, with her iron will but really 
 kind heart, Aunt Dizzy, with her invalid airs and pretty 
 youthful ways which suit her so well in spite of her 
 years, and Aunt Brier, whose name is a misnomer, she 
 is so soft and gentle, with nothing scratchy about her, 
 and who has such a sad, sweet face, with a look in her 
 brown eyes as if she were always waiting or listening 
 for something. I believe she has a history, and that it 
 is in some way connected with that queer chap, Bey 
 Atkins they called him, whose dress was half Oriental 
 and half European, and whom I met at Shepheard's in 
 Cairo. I first saw him the night after our return from 
 the trip up the Nile. He registered just after I had 
 written the names. of our party, at which he looked a 
 long time, and then fairly shadowed me until he had a 
 chance to speak to me alone. It was after dinner, and 
 we were sitting near each other in front of the hotel, 
 when he began to talk to me, and in an inconceivably 
 short space of time had learned who I was, and where 
 I lived, and about my aunts, in whom. he seemed so 
 greatly interested, especially Aunt Brier, that I finally 
 asked if he had ever been to Morton Park. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, knocking the ashes from his 
 cigar and leaning back in the bamboo chair in the 
 graceful, lounging way he has, — " yes, years ago I was 
 in Versailles and visited at Morton Park. Your aunt 
 Beriah and I were great friends. Tell her when yoii 
 go home that you saw Tom Atkins in Cairo, and that 
 he has become a kind of wandering Ishmael and wears 
 
 a red fez and white flannel suit. Tell her, too " but 
 
 here he stopped suddenly, and, rising, went into the 
 Street, where his dragoman was holding the white 
 
DOEIS AND THE QLORT HOLE. 275 
 
 donkey he always rode, sometimes alone and sometimes 
 with a little girl beside him, who called him father. 
 
 Of course, then, he is married, and his wife must be 
 an Arab, for the child was certainly of that race, with 
 her great dark eyes and her tawny hair all in a tangle. 
 I meant to ask him about her, but when next day I 
 inquired for him, I was told that he had gone to his 
 home near Alexandria, where, I dare say, there is a 
 host of little Arabs, and a woman with a veil stretched 
 across her nose, whom he calls his wife. 
 
 Alas for Aunt Brier if my conjecture is right ! 
 
 CHAPTER v.— Beriah's Story. 
 
 DORIS AND THE GLORY HOLE. 
 
 It is a long time since I have opened my journal, for 
 there is so little to record. Life at Morton Park goes 
 on in the same monotonous routine, with no change 
 except of servants, of which we have had a sufficiency 
 ever since the negroes became " ekels," as our last im- 
 portation from Louisville, who rejoiced in the high- 
 sounding name of Helena Maude, informed us they 
 were. Such things make Keziah furious, for she is a 
 regular fire-eater, but I shall admit their equality pro- 
 vided they spare my best bonnet and do not insist upon 
 putting their knives into our butter. Helena Maude is 
 a pretty good girl, afid when some of her friends come 
 to the front door and ask if Miss Smithson lives here I 
 tell them yes, and send them round to the cabins an^ 
 
276 THE HEPBUEN LINE. 
 
 say nothing to Keziah, who for the last few weeks has 
 been wholly absorbed in other matters than colored 
 gentry. 
 
 Doris is coming home to-morrow, and just the 
 thought of it makes me so nervous with gladness that I 
 can scarcely write legibly. I think it was a struggle for 
 Keziah to consent to her coming, and she only did so 
 after she heard Grant was engaged to Dorothea. I 
 never saw Keziah as happy as she was upon the receipt 
 of Grant's letter, for his marriage with Dorothea means 
 keeping our old home, and she allowed Helena Maude 
 to whistle " Marching Through Georgia" as she cleared 
 the table, and did not reprove her. It was soon after 
 this that she announced her intention to bring Doris to 
 Morton Park after her graduation, and that night Dizzy 
 and I held a kind of jubilee in our sitting-room, we were 
 so glad that at last Gerold's daughter was coming to 
 her father's old home. 
 
 We need young blood here to keep us from stagnat- 
 ing, andalthough Grantley will be with us in the autumn, 
 and possibly Dorothea, we know what they are, and are 
 anxious for something new and fresh and pretty like 
 Doris. I have a photograph of her, and it stands before 
 me as I write, a picture of a wondrously beautiful 
 young girl, with great earnest eyes confronting mine 
 so steadfastly, and masses of soft, natural curls all over 
 her head after the fashion of the present day. I know 
 they are natural, although Keziah says they are the re- 
 sult of hot tongs, and that she shall stop it at once, for 
 she will not have the gas turned on half the time 
 while the irons are heating. That is Dorothea's style ; 
 but she is in the Hepburn line, and is to rparry GrOTt, 
 vvhich makes a difference. 
 
bORig AND THE &LOKf HOt^. 2?? 
 
 Doris sent such a nice letter to Keziah, asking pardon 
 for the saucy things she wrote to her years ago, and 
 begging that some one of us would come to see her 
 graduated. How I wanted to go ! but Keziah said we 
 could not afford it, as she intended buying a new up- 
 right Steinway in place of the old spindle-legged thing 
 on which she used to thrum when a girl. We have 
 heard that Doris is a fine musician, but Keziah will not 
 admit that the piano was bought for her. Dorothea 
 will visit us in the autumn, she says, and she wishes to 
 make it as pleasant as possible for her. Dizzy and I 
 both know what Dorothea's playing is like, and that it 
 does not matter much whether it is on a Steinway or a 
 tin pan, but we are glad for something modern in our 
 ancient drawing-room, where every article of furniture 
 is nearly as old as I am, and where the new Steinway is 
 now standing with one of Keziah's shawls thrown over 
 it to keep it from the dust. 
 
 For once in our lives Dizzy and I have waged a 
 fierce battle with Keziah, who came off victor as usual. 
 The battle was over Doris's room, which Keziah thinks 
 is of little consequence. Looking at our house from 
 the outside, one would say it was large enough to ac- 
 commodate a dozen school-girls ; but looks are decep- 
 tive, and it seems it can hardly accommodate one. 
 There is a broad piazza in front, and through the centre 
 a long and wide hall, after the fashion of most Southern 
 houses. On the south side of the hall are the drawing- 
 room and sitting-room, with fireplaces in each. On the 
 north side are the dining-room and Keziah's sleeping- 
 room, where she usually sits and receives her intimate 
 friends. On the floor above are also four rooms, — 
 Dizzy's and mine, which open together on the north sid^ 
 
5Y8 'tMb HEPBURN tlNlii 
 
 of the hall,, and on the other side &rantie}-'s, and the 
 guest-room, which has not been occupied in fifteen years, 
 for when Dorothea is here she has always had a cot in 
 my room or Dizzy's. At the end of the hall is a small 
 room, ten by twelve perhaps, and communicating with 
 the guest-chamber, for which it was orginally intended 
 as a dressing-room, but which we use as a store-room 
 for a most heterogeneous mass of rubbish, such as 
 broken chairs and stands and trunks and chests, and old 
 clothes and warming-pans and water-bags and Grant- 
 ley's fishing-tackle. The Glory Hole, we call it, though 
 what the name has to do with the room I have no idea. 
 There is a tradition that Gerold, when he first looked 
 into it, exclaimed, " Oh, glory, what a hole !" and hence 
 the name, which clung to it. even after it was cleared of 
 its rubbish for him, for he once occupied it when a little 
 boy, and now it is to be his daughter's. 
 
 Dizzy and I pleaded for the large guest-chamber, but 
 Keziah said that was reserved for Dorothea who, as an 
 engaged young lady, was too old to sleep in a cot. And 
 nothing we could say was of any avail to turn her from 
 her purpose. The Glory Hole was good enough for 
 the daughter of a cook, she said, and so the room has 
 been emptied of its contents, and, except that it is so 
 small, it is quite presentable, with its matting and mus- 
 lin hangings and willow chair and table by the window, 
 under which there is a box of flowers, as one often sees 
 in London. Just where she will put her trunk or hang 
 her dresses I don't know, — possibly in my closet,, which 
 is large enough for us both. She will be here to-mor- 
 row afternoon, and Keziah is nearly ill with dread of 
 her coming, and worrying as to what she will be like, 
 and whether she will bring a banjo, and worst of all, if 
 
boRia And the &loey hole. S7d 
 
 she will want to ride a bicycle ! This bicycle-riding is 
 in Kizzy's mind the most disreputable thing a womati 
 can do, and the sight of a girl on a wheel; or a boy 
 either, for that matter, is like a red flag to a bull) 
 especially since the riders have taken to the sidewalkSi 
 She will never turn out, she declareSj and I have seen 
 her stand like a rock and face the enemy bearing down 
 upon her, and once she raised her umbrella with a hisS 
 and a shoo, as if she were Bearing chickens, I dare say 
 Thea will have one as soon as she lands in America, 
 but for Doris there are no bicycles, or banjoes, or hot 
 irons, — nothing but the Glory Hole. Poor little Doris ! 
 I hope she will be happy with us, and I know I am 
 glad because she is coming. So few have ever come 
 home to make me glad, and the one who could make 
 me the gladdest will never come again, for somewhere 
 in the wide world the sun is shining on his grave, I am 
 sure, or he would come back to me, and I should bid 
 him stay, or rather go with him, whether to the sands of 
 Arabia or to the shores of the Arctic Sea. My hair is 
 growing gray, the bloom has faded from my cheek, and 
 I shall be forty-four my next birthday, and it is 
 twenty-four years since I saw Tom ; but a woman's 
 love at forty-four is just as strong, I think, as a girl's 
 at twenty, and there is scarcely a night that I do not 
 hear in my dreams the peculiar whistle with which he 
 used to summon me to our trysting-place after Kizzy 
 had forbidden him the house, and I see again his great, 
 dark eyes full of entreaty and love, and hear his voice 
 urging me to do what, if it were to do over again, I 
 would do. That is an odilly-worded sentence ; but I 
 am too tired to change it, and will close my journal 
 •until after I have seen Doris. 
 
280 THE HEPBrBN LlNil. 
 
 CHAPTER VI.— Doris's Story. 
 
 MORTON PARK. 
 
 I HAVE been here four weeks, and begin to feel quite 
 like the daughter of the house, with some exceptions. 
 I am in love with Aunt Beriah, very intimate with 
 Aunt Desire, and not as much in awe of Aunt Keziah 
 as I was at first. It was a lovely afternoon when the 
 coach from Frankfort set me down at the gate to the 
 Morton grounds, where a little, brown-eyed, brown- 
 haired lady was waiting for me. She had one of the 
 sweetest faces I ever saw, and one of the sweetest 
 voices, too, as she came towards me, holding out both 
 her soft white hands, and saying to me, " I am sure you 
 are Doris, and I am your aunt Beriah. Welcome to 
 Morton Park !" 
 
 It was not so much what she said as the way she said 
 it, which stirred me so strangely. It was the first word 
 of affection I had heard from my own kin since my 
 mother died, and, taking her hands in mine, I kissed 
 them passionately, and cried like a child. I think she 
 cried a little, too, but am not sure. I only know that 
 she put her arm around my neck and said, soothingly, 
 "There, there, dear. Don't cry, when I am so glad." 
 
 Then taking my bag and umbrella, she gave them to 
 a colored girl, whom she called Vine, and who, after 
 bobbing me a courtesy, disappeared through the gate- 
 way. 
 
 " It is not far, and I thought you would like to walk," 
 Aunt Brier said, leading the way, while I followed her 
 
into the park, at the rear of which stood the house, with 
 its white walls and Corinthian pillars, looking so cool 
 and pleasant in the midst of grass and flowers and 
 maples and elms, with an immense hawthorn-tree in 
 full bloom. 
 
 " Oh, this is lovely, and just as papa told me it was," 
 I exclaimed, and then, stopping short. Aunt Brier drew 
 me close to her, and scrutinizing me earnestly, said, 
 with a tremor in her voice, " Yes, Gerold told you of his 
 old home. I was so fond of him. We were like brother 
 and sister, and I was so sorry when he died. You are 
 not as much like him as I fancied you were from your 
 photograph." 
 
 " No .''" I said, interrogatively, wondering if she were 
 disappointed in me ; but she soon set me right on that 
 point b)'' saying, " Gerold was good-looking, but you 
 are beautiful " 
 
 I had been told that so often, and I knew it so well 
 without being told, that I did not feel at all elated. I 
 was only glad that she liked my looks, and replied, 
 " And you are lovely, and so young, too. My great 
 aunt ought to look older." 
 
 She smiled at that, and said, " I am nearly forty- 
 four, and feel sometimes as if I were a hundred. But 
 there is Kizzy on the piazza. I think we'd better hurry. 
 She does not like to wait for anything." 
 
 I had never really known what fear of any person 
 was, but I felt it now, and my heart beat violently as I 
 hastened my steps towards the spot where Aunt Keziah 
 stood, stiff and tall and straight, and looking very im- 
 posing in her black silk gown and lace cap set on a 
 smooth band of false hair, a bunch of keys dangling at 
 Jier belt, and a dainty hemstitched handkerchief clasped 
 
•28^ *fii! feEitfetJElf LINE. 
 
 in her hands. In spite of her sixty odd years, she Was 
 a handsome woman to look at, with her shoulders 
 thrown back and her chin in the air as if she were on 
 the alert and the defensive. Her features were clearly 
 cut, her face smooth and pale, while her bright black 
 eyes seemed to look me through as they traveled rapidly 
 from my hat to my boots and back again, evidently 
 taking in every detail of my dress, and resting finally 
 on my face with what seemed to be disapproval. 
 
 " How do you do. Miss Doris ?" she said, with a quick 
 shutting together of her thin lips, and without the 
 shadow of a smile. 
 
 I had cried when Aunt Brier spoke to me, but I did 
 not want to cry now, for something of the woman's na- 
 ture must have communicated itself to mine and frozen 
 me into a figure as hard and stifif as she was. It was a 
 trick of mine to imitate any motion or gesture which 
 struck me forcibly, and I involuntarily threw my shoul- 
 ders back and my chin in the air, and gave her two fin- 
 gers just as she had given me, and told her I was quite 
 well, and hoped she was the same. For a moment she 
 looked at me curiously, while it seemed to me that her 
 features did relax a little as she asked if I were not very 
 tired with the journey and the dusty ride in the coach 
 from Frankfort. 
 
 " It always upsets tne," she said, suggesting that I go 
 at once to my room and rest until dinner, which would 
 be served sharp at six, " and," she added, " we never 
 wait for meals ; breakfast at half-past seven in the sum- 
 mer, lunch at half-past twelve, dinner at six." 
 
 Then she made a stately bow, and I felt that I was 
 dismissed from her presence, and started to follow 
 Aunt Beriah into the hall just as two negroes came up 
 
MoRTOlt PARk. 28^ 
 
 tfae walk bringing one of my trunks, which had been 
 deposited at the entrance to the park. 
 
 " Mass'r Hin ton's man done fotchin' t'other trunk on 
 his barrer," the taller negro said, in response to a look of 
 inquiry he must have seen on my face, and instantly 
 Aunt Kizzy's lips came together just as they had done 
 when she said, " How do you do, Miss Doris ?" 
 
 "Two trunks ?" she asked, in a tone which told me 
 that I had brought altogether too much luggage. 
 
 "Yes," I replied, stopping until the negroes came up 
 the steps. " Perhaps I ought to have brought but one, 
 but I have so many books and things, and, besides, one 
 trunk was father's and -one mother's, and I could not 
 give either up. This was father s, which he said you 
 gave him when he went to college. See, here is his 
 name." And I pointed to "Gerald Morton, Versailles, 
 Ky.," on the end of the stout leather trunk, which had 
 withstood the wear of years. 
 
 " Yes, I remember it," she said, in a voice so changed 
 and with so different an expression on her face that I 
 scarcely knew her as she bent over the trunk, which she 
 touched caressingl)' with her hand. " You have kept it 
 well," she continued ; then, to the negroes, " Take it up- 
 stairs, and mind you don't mar the wall nor the ban- 
 isters. Look sharp, now." 
 
 " Mass'r Hinton's man " had arrived with the wheel- 
 barrow and the other trunk, a huge Saratoga, with 
 mother's name upon it, " Doris Morton, New Haven, 
 Ct," but this Aunt Keziah did not touch. Indeed, it 
 seemed to me that she recoiled from it, and there was 
 an added severity in her tone as she told the man to be 
 careful, and chided him for cutting up the gravel with 
 the wheelbarrow. 
 
2^4 The; iiEPBtJRif Lttja. 
 
 " I's couldn't tote it, missis ; it's too heavy," he said, 
 as he waited for one of the other blacks to help him 
 take it up the stairs. 
 
 I had reached the upper hall and was standing by the 
 door of my room, while Aunt Beriah said, apologet- 
 ically, " I am sorry it is so small : perhaps we can 
 change it bye-and-bye." 
 
 It was really a very pretty room, but quite too small 
 for my trunks unless I moved out either the bedstead, 
 or the bureau, or the washstand, and, as I could not 
 well dispense with either of these, I looked rather rue- 
 fully at ray aunt, who said, " There is a big closet in my 
 room where you can hang your dresses and put both 
 your trunks when they are unpacked." And that was 
 where I did put them, but not until after two days, for 
 I awoke the next morning with the worst headache I 
 ever had in my life, and which, I suppose, was induced 
 by the long and rapid journey from Meadowbrook, 
 added to homesickness and crying myself to sleep. I 
 could not even sit up, and was compelled to keep my 
 room, where Aunt Beriah nursed me so tenderly and 
 lovingly, while Aunt Kizzy came three times a day to 
 ask how I was, and where I first saw my aunt Desire, 
 who had been suffering with neuralgia and was not 
 present at dinner on the night of my arrival. She sent 
 me her love, however, and the next day came into my 
 room, languid and graceful, with a pretty air of invalid- 
 ism about her, and a good deal of powder on her face, 
 reminding me of a beautiful ball-dress, which has done 
 service through several seasons and been turned 
 and made over and freshened up until it looks almost 
 as well as new. Her dress, of some soft, cream -colored 
 material was artistically draped around her fine figure 
 
MORTON PABK. 2S5 
 
 and fastened on the left side with a ribbon bow of baby 
 blue, and her fair hair, in which there was very little 
 gray, was worn low on her neck in a large, flat knot, 
 from which a few curls were escaping and adding to her 
 youthful appearance. If I had not known that she was 
 over fifty, I might, in my darkened room, easily have 
 mistaken her for a young girl, and I told her so when 
 after kissing me and telling me who she was, she sank 
 into the rocking-chair and asked me if she looked at all 
 as I thought she would. 
 
 With a merry laugh, which showed her white, even 
 teeth, she said, " I like that. I like to look young, if I 
 am fifty, which I will confess to you just because Kizzy 
 will be sure to tell you ; otherwise, torture could not 
 wring it from me. A woman is as old as she feels, and 
 I feel about twenty-five. Nor do I think it is necessary 
 to blurt out my age all the time, as Kizzy does. It's no 
 crime to be old, but public opinion and women them- 
 selves have made it so. Let two of them get to saying 
 nasty things about a third, and they are sure to add 
 several years to her age, while even men call a girl right 
 old before she is thirty, and doesn't that prove that 
 although age may be honorable it is not desirable, and 
 should be fought against as long as possible ? And I 
 intend to fight it, too, and thus far have succeeded 
 pretty well, or should, if it were not for .Kizzy, who 
 has the most aggravating way of saying to me, 'You 
 ought not to do so at your time of life,' and ' at your 
 age,' as if I were a hundred." 
 
 I listened to her in amazement and admiration too. 
 She was so pretty and graceful and earnest that al- 
 though I thought her rather silly, and wished that in 
 her fight against time she did not make up quite go 
 
286 THE HEPBXJEN LINE. 
 
 much as I knew she did, I was greatly drawn towards 
 her, and for a while forgot my headache as she told me 
 of her ailments, which were legion, and with which 
 Aunt Kizzy had little sympathy. " Kizzy thinks all one 
 has to do is to exercise his will and make an effort, as 
 Mrs. Chick insisted poor Fanny should do in ' Dombey 
 and Son,' " she said, and then went on to give me 
 glimpses of their family life and bits of family history, 
 all of which were, of course, very interesting to me. 
 Aunt Brier, I heard, had been engaged, when young, to 
 a very fine young man, but Aunt Kizzy broke up the 
 match because she wished Beriah to marry some one in 
 the Hepburn line, which was frightfully tangled up 
 with the Morton line. 
 
 " It would take too long to explain the tangle," .she 
 said, " and so I shall not try. It estranged your father 
 from us, and his father before him, because each took 
 the woman of his choice in spite of the line." 
 
 Then she told me of her own dead love, to whose 
 memory she had been faithful thirty years, and who so 
 often visited her in her dreams that he was as much a 
 reality now as the day he died. 
 
 "And that is why I try to keep young, for where he 
 has gone they know no lapse of time, and if he can see 
 me, as I believe he can, I do not want to look old to 
 him," she said, with a pathetic sob, while her white 
 hands worked nervously. 
 
 Then she told me that 1 was in the Glory Hole, which 
 my father had so named, and told me, too, that she and 
 Beriah had fought for the larger room, but had given 
 in to Kizzy, as they always did. 
 
 " I believe she has an invisible cat-o'-nine-tails which 
 makes us all afraid of her," she added ; " but, really, 
 
MORTON PARK. 287 
 
 when you get down to the kernel it is good as gold, and 
 you can get there if you try, Don't seem afraid of her, 
 or fond of her, either. She hates gush, and she hates 
 cowardice and deceit ; but she adores manner and eti- 
 quette as she knew it forty years ago, and dislikes every- 
 thing modern and new." 
 
 She did not tell me all this at one sitting, for she 
 came to see me twice during the two days I kept my 
 bed, and at each visit told me so much that I felt pretty 
 well informed with regard to the family history, and 
 began to lose my dread of Aunt Keziah and to feel less 
 nervous when I heard her quick step and sharp voice 
 in the hall. I knew she meant to be kind, and knew, too, 
 that she was watching me curiously and trying to make 
 up her mind as to what manner of creature I was, and 
 whether I was feigning sickness or not. As she had 
 never had a hard headache in her life, she did not know 
 how to sympathize with one who had, and at the close 
 of the second day she made me understand that mine 
 had lasted long enough and that all I required now was 
 an effort and fresh air, and that she should expect me 
 down to breakfast the next morning. And as I was 
 better, I made the effort, and at precisely half-past 
 seven followed my three aunts down the stairs in a me- 
 thodical, military kind of way, which reminded me of 
 the school in Meadowbrook, where we used to march to 
 " the sound of a drum and a leader's call of " Left, right ; 
 left, right," Aunt Kizzy in this case being the leader 
 and putting her foot down with an energy which 
 marked all her movements. 
 
 The table was laid with great care, and Aunt Keziah 
 said grace with her eyes open and upon black Tom, who 
 was slyly purloining a lump of sugar from the bowl on 
 
288 THE HEPBUEN LINE. 
 
 the sideboard, and who nearly choked himself in his ef- 
 forts to swallow it in time for his Amen, which was very 
 audible and made me laugh in spite of my fear of Aunt 
 Kizzy. When breakfast was over I was invited into her 
 room, where I underwent a rigid cross-examination as 
 to what I had learned at school, as well as done and left 
 undone. I was also told what I could do and not do at 
 Morton Park. There was a new Stein way in the 
 drawing-room, on which I could practice each daj' from 
 nine to ten and from three to four, but at no other time 
 unless specially invited. Nor was I to sing unless asked 
 to do so, while humming to myself was out of the ques- 
 tion, as something very reprehensible. I was never to 
 cross my feet when I sat down, nor lean back in my 
 chair, nor put my hands upon the table, and above all 
 things she hoped I did not whistle, and had not acquired 
 a taste for banjoes and bicycles, as she heard some 
 young ladies had. 
 
 With her sharp eyes upon me I was forced to confess 
 that I could whistle a little and play the banjo, and 
 had only been kept from buying one by lack of 
 means, and also that when in Meadowbrook I had tried 
 to ride a wheel. 
 
 " A Morton on a wheel and playing a banjo !" she 
 exclaimed, in horror. "Surely, surely, you did not in- 
 herit this low taste from your father's family. It is 
 not the Morton blood which whistles and rides on 
 wheels. It is your " 
 
 Something in my face must have checked her, for she 
 stopped suddenly and stared at me, while I said, 
 "Aunt Kizzy, I know you mean my mother, and I want 
 to tell you now that in every respect she was my 
 father's equal, and was the sweetest, loveliest woman I 
 
MOKTON PARK. 289 
 
 ever saw, and my father was so fond of her. I know 
 you were angry because he married her, and you were 
 very unjust to her, but she never said a word against 
 you, and now she is dead I will hear nothing against 
 her. She was my mother, and I am more like her than 
 like the Mortons, and I am glad of it." 
 
 This was not very respectful language, I knew, and I 
 half expected her to box my ears, but she did nothing 
 of the kind, and it seemed to me as if her expression 
 softened towards me as she went on asking questions 
 about other and different matters, and finally dismissed 
 me with the advice that I should lie down awhile, as I 
 looked pale and tired. That was four weeks ago, and 
 since that time I have learned to know her better, and 
 have found many good points which I admire. She has 
 never mentioned my mother to me since that day, but 
 has asked me many questions about my father and our 
 home in Meadowbrook. In most things, too, I have my 
 own way and am very happy, for Aunt Keziah has with- 
 drawn some of her restrictions. I practice now when I 
 like, and sing when I please, and even hum a little to 
 myself, and once, when she was gone, 1 whistled " Annie 
 Rooney " to my own accompaniment, with Aunts Dizzy 
 and Brier for audience. I have seen a good many of the 
 Versailles people, and have had compliments enough 
 on my beauty to turn any girl's head. I have learned 
 every nook and corner of the house and park, and be- 
 come quite attached to my Glory Hole, which I really 
 prefer to the great room adjoining it, with its high-post 
 bedstead and canopy, and its stiff mahogany furniture, 
 which Aunt Kizzy says is nearly a hundred years old, 
 
 It looks a thousand, as does the furniture in the next 
 room beyond, whiQh puzzles me a little, it smells so like 
 
290 THE HISPBURN LINE. 
 
 a man, and a young man, too. By this I mean that 
 there is in it a decided odor of tobacco and cigars, and 
 the leather-covered easy-chair looks to me as if some 
 man had often lounged in it, while I know there are a 
 smoking-jacket and a pair of men's slippers there. 
 
 Funny that such things should be in this house of the 
 Vestal Virgins, as I call them, and bye-and-bye I shall 
 get to be one, I suppose, and tend the sacred fires, and 
 go on errands of mercy, unless, indeed, I fall in love and 
 am buried alive, as were the erring Vestals of old, which 
 God forbid. 
 
 I wish that room did not bother me as it does. I 
 think it is kept locked most of the time, but two days 
 ago I saw Rache cleaning it, and walked in, as a matter 
 of course, and smelled the cigars, and saw the jacket 
 and the slippers in the closet, and asked Rache whose 
 room it was. She stammers a little, and I could not 
 quite make out what she said ; and just as I was going 
 to repeat my question Aunt Kizzy appeared and with a 
 gesture of her hand waived me from the room, which 
 remains to me as much a mystery as ever. I could, of 
 course, ask one or all of my auuts about it, but by some 
 intuition I seem to know that they do not care to talk 
 about it. Indeed, I have felt ever since I have been here 
 that there is something they are keeping from me, and 
 I believe it is connected with this room, which may 
 have been my father's, or grandfather's, or great-grand- 
 father's, although the smell is very much like the cigars 
 of the Harvard boys, and that smoking-jacket had a 
 modern look. But, whatever the mystery is, I mean in. 
 time to find it out. 
 
A SOLILOQUY. 291 
 
 CHAPTER VII.— Keziah's Story 
 
 A SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Doris is here, and has been for four weeks, and in 
 spite of myself I am drawn to her more and more every- 
 day. I did not want her to come, and I meant to be 
 cold and distant to her, but when she looked at me with 
 something in her blue eyes like Gerold, I began to 
 soften, while the sight of Gerold's trunk unnerved me 
 wholly. I gave it to him Vv'hen he first went away to 
 college, and I remember so well how pleased he was, 
 and how he put his arms around me and kissed me, as 
 he thanked me for it; and said, "Auntie, the trunk is so 
 big that I shall not bring it home at my vacations, but 
 leave it in New Haven. So when you see it again it 
 will be full of honors, and I shall be an A. B., of whom 
 you will be so proud." 
 
 God forgive me if I have done wrong ; that was 
 twenty-five years ago, and Gerold is dead, and his trunk 
 was brought back to me by his daughter, whose face is 
 not his face, although very, very beautiful. I acknowl- 
 edge that to myself, and rebel against it a little, as I 
 mentally contrast it with Dorothea's and wonder what 
 Grant will think of it. I have surely done well to keep 
 him from all knowledge of her until he was engaged to 
 Dorothea, and even now I tremble a little for the result 
 when he is thrown in contact with her every day, for 
 aside from her wonderful beauty there is a grace and 
 charm about her that Dorothea lacks, and had I seen 
 her before she came here I should have kept her at the 
 
292 THE HKPBUEN LINE. 
 
 North until after Grant's marriage, which I mean shall 
 take place as early as Christmas. 
 
 He is coming home sooner than I expected ; indeed 
 he sails in two or three days, and I must tell her at 
 once that she has a cousin, and in some way put her on 
 her honor not to try to attract him. It is a difficult thing 
 to do, for the girl has a spirit of her own, and there is 
 sometimes a flash in her eyes which I do not like to 
 meet. I saw it first when I said something derogatory 
 of her mother. How her eyes blazed, and how grand 
 she was in her defense, and how I respected her for it ! 
 
 Ah me, that Hepburn lease ! What mischief it has 
 wrought, and how the ghosts of the past haunt me at 
 times, when I remember the stand I have taken to save 
 our house from ruin ! Beriah says I am a monomaniac 
 on the subject, and also that she doubts the validity of 
 the lease. But that does not matter. My father bade 
 me respect Amos Hepburn's wishes, and I shall, to the 
 letter, if Grant does not marry Dorothea. 
 
 I must stop now and superintend the opening of a 
 box which by some mistake Grant left at Cambridge and 
 did not think necessary to have forwarded to us until 
 recently, when he gave orders to have it sent us by 
 express. It has in it a little of everything, he wrote, 
 and among the rest a picture which he thinks will in- 
 terest and puzzle us as it has him. I hear Tom ham- 
 njering at the box, and must go and see to it. 
 
My cousin GKANTLIiT. ^93 
 
 CHAPTER VIII.— Doris's Story. 
 
 MY COUSIN GRANTLEY. 
 
 I HAVE solved the mystery of that room with the 
 smell of cigars and the smoking-jacket. It does belong 
 to a man, and that man is Grantley Montague, and 
 Grantley Montague is my second cousin. Aunt Kizzy 
 told me all about him this morning, and I am still so 
 dazed and bewildered and glad and indignant that I can 
 scarcely write connectedly about it. Why was the 
 knowledge that Grant was my cousin kept from me so 
 long, and from him, too, as he is still as ignorant as I 
 was a few hours ago .' Aunt Kizzy's explanation was 
 very lame. She said if he had known that he had a 
 cousin at Wellesley when he was in Harvard, nothing 
 could have kept him from seeing me so often that we 
 should both have been interrupted in our studies, — that 
 she did not approve of students visiting the girls while 
 they were in school, — and that she hardly knew why 
 she did not tell me as soon as I came here. This was 
 not very satisfactory, and I believe there is something 
 behind ; but when I appealed to Aunts Dizzy and 
 Beriah, and said I was hurt and angry. Aunt Brier did 
 not answer at all, but Aunt Dizzy said, " I don't blame 
 you, and I'd have told you long ago if I had not been 
 so afraid of Kizzy ;" and that is all I could get from 
 her. 
 
 But I know now that Grant is my cousin ; and this is 
 how it happened. This morning, as I was crossing the 
 back piazza, I saw Tom opening a box which had come 
 
S94 THlc HirtBiTKN Llsffi. 
 
 by expfess and which Aunt Kizzy was superintending', 
 Taking a seat on the side piazza, I thought no more 
 about it until I heard Aunt Kizzy say, very hurriedly 
 and excitedly, " Go, boy, and call Miss Desire and Miss 
 Beriah, — quick,'' and a moment after I heard them both 
 exclaim, and caught the sound of my father's name, Ger- 
 old. Then I arose, and, going around the corner, saw 
 them bending over a picture which I recognized at once, 
 and in a moment I was kneeling by it and kissing it as I 
 would have kissed my father's hand had it suddenly 
 been reached to me. 
 
 " Oh, the picture !" I cried. " It is my father's ; he 
 painted if. I saw him do it. He said it was a picture 
 of his aunties, and this is himself. Dear father !" 
 And I touched the face of the young man who was 
 standing behind the woman with the bab}' in her lap. 
 
 Aunt Kizzy was very white, and her voice shook as 
 she asked me to explain, which I did rapidly and clearly, 
 telling all I knew of the picture, which had been sold 
 to some gentleman from Boston for fifty dollars. 
 
 " And," I added, " that fifty dollars went to pay his 
 funeral expenses, poor dear father. He was ill so 
 long, and we were so poor." 
 
 I was crying, and in fact we were all crying together, 
 Aunt Kizzy the hardest of all, so that the hemstitched 
 handkerchief sh& always carried so gingerly was quite 
 moist and limp. I was the first to recover myself, and 
 asked : 
 
 " How did it get here ? Whose box is this ?" 
 
 "Our nephew's, Grantley Montague, who was grad- 
 uated at Harvard last year and is now in Europe. He 
 left this box in Cambridge by mistake, and it was not 
 sent to us until yesterday. We are expecting him 
 
MY COTJStlSf GfeANTLBT. ^95 
 
 home in a short time. He must have bought the pic- 
 ture for its resemblance to us, although he could not 
 haye known that it was painted for us/' 
 
 It was Aunt Kizzy who told me this very rapidly, &g 
 if anxious to get it off her mind, and I noticed that she 
 did not look at me as she spoke, and that she seemed 
 embarrassed and anxious to avoid my gaze. 
 
 " GrantFey Montague, — your nephew ! Then he is 
 my cousin !" I exclaimed, while every particular con- 
 nected with the young man came back to me, and none 
 more distinctly than the telegram, No, sent in response 
 to my request that I might attend his tea-party. 
 
 I know that my eyes were flashing as they confronted 
 Aunt Kizzy, who stammered out : 
 
 "Youf second cousin, — yes. Did you happen to see 
 him while at Wellesley ?" 
 
 She was trying to be very cool, but I was terribly ex- 
 cited, and, losing all fear of her, replied : 
 
 " No ; you took good care that I should meet no Har- 
 vard boys ; but I saw Grantley Montague once on the 
 train, and I heard so much about him, but I never 
 dreamed he was my cousin. If I had, nothing would 
 have kept me from him. Did he know I was there ?" 
 
 " He knows nothing of you whatever," Aunt Kizzy 
 said. " I did not think it best he should as jt might 
 have interfered with the studies of you both. He i§ 
 coming soon, and you will of course make his acquaint- 
 ance." 
 
 I was sitting upon the box and crying bitterly, not 
 only for the humiliation and injustice done to me, but 
 from a sense of all I had lost by not knowing that 
 Grantley was my cousin. 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me ?" I said, when she asked 
 
296 TfiE HEPBURN LINEi 
 
 why I cried. " It would have made me so happy, and I 
 have been so lonely at times, with no one of my own 
 blood to care for me, and I should have been so proud 
 of him ; and when he invited me to his party, why 
 didn't you let me go ? I did everything to please you. 
 You did nothing to please me !" 
 
 I must have been hysterical, for my voice sounded 
 very loud and unnatural as I reproached her, while she 
 tried to soothe me and explain. But I would not be 
 soothed, and kept on crying until I could cry no longer, 
 and still, in the midst of my pain, I was conscious of a 
 great joy welling up in my heart, as I reflected that 
 Graniley was my cousin, and that I should soon see him 
 in spite of Aunt Kizzy, who, I think, was really sorry 
 for me and did not resent what I said to her. She had 
 me in her room for an hour after lunch, and tried to 
 smooth the matter over. 
 
 " You are very pretty," she said, " and Grant is very 
 susceptible to a pretty face, and if he had seen yours he 
 might have paid you attentions which would have 
 turned your head, and perhaps have done you harm 
 as they would have meant nothing. They couldn't 
 mean anything ; they must mean nothing." 
 
 She was getting more and more excited, and began 
 to walk the floor as she went on : 
 
 " I may as well tell you that I dread his coming. He 
 is very magnetic, — with something about him which 
 attracts every one. Your father had it, and your grand- 
 father before him, and Grant has it, and you will be in- 
 fluenced by it, but it must not be. Oh, why did I let 
 you come here, with your fatal beauty, which is sure to 
 work us evil ? or, having come, why are you not in the 
 Hepburn line ?" 
 
MY COTtStN G&ANfLET. 297 
 
 I thought she had gone crazy, and stared at her wori- 
 deringly as she continued : 
 
 " I can't explain now what I mean, except that Grant 
 must marry money, and you have none. You have only 
 your beauty, which is sure to impress him, but it must 
 not be. Promise me, Doris, to be discreet, and not try 
 to attract him, — not try to win his love." 
 
 "Aunt Keziah ! What do you take me for!" lex- 
 claimed, indignantly, and she replied : 
 
 " Forgive me ; I hardly know what I am saying ; 
 only it must not be. You must not mar my scheme, 
 though if you were in the line, I'd 'accept you so gladly 
 as Grantley's wife." And then, to my utter amazement, 
 she stooped aad kissed me, for the first time since I had 
 known her. 
 
 A great deal more she said to me, and when the inter- 
 view was over, there was on my mind a confused im- 
 pression that I was not to interfere with her plan of 
 marrying Grantley to a rich wife, — Dorothea Haynes, 
 probably, although no mention was made of her, — and 
 also that I was to treat him very coldly and not in any 
 way try to attract him. The idea was so ludicrous that 
 after a little it rather amused than displeased me, but 
 did not in the least lessen my desire to see the j-oung 
 man who had been the lion at Harvard, and whom I 
 had seen in the car whistling an accompaniment to 
 Dorothea's banjo. 
 
 I have told Aunts Desire and Beriah of that incident, 
 and of nearly all I had heard with regard to Grantley 
 and Dorothea, but the only comment they made was 
 that they had known Miss Haynes since she was a child, 
 that she had visited at Morton Park, and would proba- 
 bly come there again in the autumn. Once I thought 
 
298 THE HEPfitJEN LlNfi. 
 
 to ask if she were engaged to Grantley, but the wall of 
 reserve which they manage to throw about them when 
 the occasion requires it, kept me silent, and I can only 
 speculate upon it and anticipate the time when I shall 
 stand face to face with Grantley Montague. 
 
 CHAPTER IX.— The Author's Story. 
 
 GRANTLEY AND DORIS. 
 
 It was one of those lovely summer days, neither too 
 hot nor too cold, which sometimes occur in Kentucky 
 even in August. The grounds at Morton Park were 
 looking their best, for there had been a heavy shower 
 the previous night, and since sunrise three negroes had 
 been busy mowing and rolling and pritning and weed- 
 ing until there was scarcely a twig or dead leaf to be 
 seen upon the velvet lawn, while the air was sweet with 
 the odor of the flowers in the beds and on the broad 
 borders. Mas'r Grantley was expected home on the 
 morrow, and that was incentive enough for the blacks 
 to do their best, for the negroes worshiped their young 
 master, who, while maintaining a proper dignity of 
 manner, was always kind and considerate and even 
 familiar with them to a certain extent. Within doors 
 everything was also ready for the young man. Keziah 
 had indulged in a new cap, Dizzy in a pretty tea-gown, 
 while Beriah had spent her surplus money for a new fur 
 rug for Grant's room, which had been made very bright 
 and attractive with the decorations which had come 
 
GKANTLET AND DOEIS. 
 
 ^99 
 
 with the picture in the box from Cambridge. As for 
 Doris, she had nothing new, nor did she need anything, 
 and she made a very pretty picture in her simple muslin 
 dress and big garden-hat, when about four o'clock she 
 took a book and sauntered down to a summer-house in 
 the rear of the grounds, near the little gate which 
 opened upon the turnpike and was seldom used except 
 when some one of the family wished to go out that way 
 to call upon a neighbor or meet the stage. 
 
 Taking a seat in the arbor, Doris was soon so absorbed 
 in her book as not to hear the stage from Frankfort 
 when it stopped at the gate, or to see the tall young 
 man with satchel in one hand and light walking-cane 
 in the other who came up the walk at a rapid rate and 
 quickened his steps when he caught a glimpse of a light 
 dress among the green of the summer-house. Grantley, 
 who had been spending a little time with Dorothea at 
 Wilmot Terrace, which was a mile or more out of Cin- 
 cinnati, had not intended to come home until the next 
 day, but there had suddenly come over .him an intense 
 longing to see his aunts and the old place, which he 
 could not resist, while, to say the truth, he was getting 
 a little tired of constant companionship with Dorothea 
 and wished to get away from her and rest. It was all 
 very well, he said to himself, to be kissed and caressed 
 and made much of by a nice girl for a while, but there 
 was such a thing as too much of it, and a fellow would 
 rather do some of the love-making himself. Dorothea 
 was all right, of course, and he liked her better than 
 any girl he had ever seen, although she was not his 
 ideal, which he should never find. He had given that 
 up, and the Lost Star did not now flit across his memory 
 as often as formerly, although he had not forgotten hei^, 
 
800 TBE HEffiUKN LINJ!. 
 
 and still saw at times the face which had shone upon 
 him for a brief moment and then been lost, as he 
 believed, forever. He was not, however, thinking of it 
 now, when, wishing to surprise his aunts, he dismounted 
 from the stage at the gate and came hurrying up the 
 walk, — the short cut to the house. Catching sight of 
 Doris's dress, and thinking it was his aunt Desire, he 
 called out in his loud, cheery voice,. " Hello, Aunt 
 Dizzy ! You look just like a young girl in that blue 
 gown and big hat with poppies on it. Are you glad to 
 see me ?" 
 
 In an instant Doris was on her feet and confronting 
 him with the bright color staining her cheeks and a 
 kindling light in her blue eyes as she went forward to 
 meet him. She knew who it was, and, with a bright 
 smile which made his heart beat rapidly, she offered 
 him her hand and said, " I am not your aunt Dizzy, but 
 if you are Grantley Montague I am your cousin, Doris 
 Morton, — Gerald Morton's daughter, — and 1 am very 
 glad to see you." 
 
 For the first time in his life Grantley's speech forsook 
 him. Here was his Lost Star, declaring herself to be 
 his cousin ! What did it mean ? Dropping his satchel 
 and taking off his soft hat, with which he fanned him- 
 self furiously, .he exclaimed, " Great Scott ! My cousin 
 Doris ! Gerold Morton's daughter ! I don't under- 
 stand you. I never knew he had a daughter, or much 
 about him any way. Where have you kept yourself, 
 that I have never seen or heard of you, and why 
 haven't my aunts told me of you ?" 
 
 He had her hand in his, as he led her back to the 
 summer-house, while she said to him. " A part of the 
 time I have been at Wellesley. I was there when you 
 
GEANTLBT AND D0EI8. 301 
 
 were at Harvard, and used to hear a great deal of you, 
 although I never dreamed you were ray cousin till I 
 came here." 
 
 This took his breath away, and, sitting down beside 
 her, he plied her with questions until he knew all that 
 she knew of her past and why they had been kept apart 
 so long. 
 
 " By Jove, I don't like it," he said. " Why, if I had 
 known 3'ou were at Wellesley I should have spent half 
 my time on the road between there and Harvard " 
 
 "And the other half between Harvard and Madame 
 De Moisiere's J" Doris said, archly, as she moved a little 
 from him, for he had a hand on her shoulder now. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" he asked, quickly, while 
 something of the light faded from his eyes, and the 
 eagerness from his voice. 
 
 " I heard a great deal about you from different 
 sources, and about Miss Haynes, too ; and I once saw 
 you with her in the train whistling an accompaniment 
 to her banjo," Doris replied. 
 
 "The dickens you did !" Grant said, dropping Doris's 
 hand, which be had held so closely. 
 
 It is a strange thing to say of an engaged young man 
 that the mention of his betrothed was like a breath of 
 cold wind chilling him suddenly, but it was so in Grant's 
 case. With the Lost Star sitting by him, he had'l^^a, 
 moment forgotten Dorothea, whose farewell kiss was 
 only a few hours old. 
 
 " The dickens you did ! Well, I suppose you thought 
 me an idiot ; but what did you think of Dorothea ?" he 
 asked, and Doris replied : 
 
 " I thought her very nice, and wished I might know 
 
302 THE HEPBURN LINE. 
 
 her, for I felt sure I should like her. And she is coming 
 to Morton Park in the autumn. Aunt Brier told me. 
 
 " Yes, I believe she is to visit us then," Grant said, 
 without a great deal of enthusiasm, and then, changing 
 the conversation, he began to ask about his aunts, and 
 what Doris thought of them, and if she were happy with 
 them, and when she first heard he was her cousin, and 
 how. 
 
 She told him of the box and the picture which had led 
 to the disclosure, and which she had recognized at once. 
 
 "And your father was the artist !" he exclaimed. 
 "By Jove, that's funny! How things come round! 
 I found it in a dealer's shop and bought it because it 
 looked so much like my aunts, although I did not really 
 suppose they were the originals, as I never remembered 
 them as they are on the canvas. And that moon-faced 
 baby was meant for me, was it ? What did you think 
 of him ?" 
 
 " I didn't think him very interesting," Doris replied ; 
 and then they both laughed, and said the- pleasant 
 nothings which two young people who are pleased with 
 each other are apt to say, and on the strength of their 
 cousinship becatne so confidential and familiar that at 
 the end of half an hour Doris felt that she had known 
 Grant all her life, while he could scarcely have told how 
 he did feel. 
 
 Doris's beauty, freshness, and vivacity, so different 
 from what he had been accustomed to in the class of 
 girls he had known, charmed and intoxicated him, 
 while the fact that she was his cousin and the Lost Star 
 bewildered and confused him ; and added to this was a 
 feeling of indignation that he had so long been kept in 
 ignorance of her existence. 
 
GRANTLEY A.ND DOKIS. 303 
 
 " I don't like it in Aunt Kizzy, and I mean to tell her 
 so," he said, at last, as he rose to his feet, and, picking 
 up his satchel, went striding up the walk towards the 
 house, with Doris at his side. 
 
 It was now nearly six o'clock, and Aunt Kizzy was 
 adjusting her cap and giving sundry other touches to 
 her toilet preparatory to dinner, when, glancing from 
 her window, she saw the young couple as they emerged 
 from a side path, Doris with her sun-hat in her hand 
 and her hair blowing about her glowing face, which was 
 lifted towards Grant, who was looking down at her and 
 talking rapidly. Miss Kizzy knew Doris was pretty, 
 but never had the girl's beauty struck her as it did now, 
 when she saw her with Grant and felt an indefinable 
 foreboding that the Hepburn line was in danger. 
 
 " Doris is a flirt, and Grant is no better, and I'll send 
 for Dorothea at once. There is no need to wait until 
 autumn," she said to herself, as she went down stairs 
 and out upon the piazza, where Beriah and Desire were 
 already, for both had seen him from the parlor and had 
 hurried out to meet him. 
 
 " Hello, hello, hello," he said to each of the three 
 aunts, as he kissed them affectionately. " I know you 
 didn't expect me," he continued, as, with the trio cling- 
 ing to him and making much of him, he went into the 
 house, — " I know you didn't expect me so soon, but the 
 fact is I was homesick and wished to see you all and so 
 I came. I hope you are glad. And, I say, why in the 
 name of all that is good didn't you ever tell me I had a 
 cousin, — and at Wellesley, too ? And why did you never 
 tell me more of Cousin Gerold, who, it seems, painted that 
 picture of you all ? It's awfully queer. Hello, Tom, how 
 
304 THE HBPBURN LINE. 
 
 d'ye ?" he added, as a woolly head appeared in the door- 
 way and a grinning negro answered : 
 
 " Jes' tol'able, thanky, Mas'r Grant. How d'ye yoit- 
 self ?" 
 
 Keziah was evidently very glad of this diversion, 
 which turned the conversation away from Doris, who 
 had remained outside, with a feeling that for the pres- 
 ent the aunts must have Grant to themselves. How 
 handsome and bright and magnetic he was, and how 
 gay he made the dinner with his jokes and merry 
 laugh ! Once, however, it seemed to Doris that a 
 shadow flitted across his face, and that was when Miss 
 Keziah asked after Dorothea. 
 
 " Oh, she's right well," he answered, indifferently, 
 and when his aunt continued : 
 
 " Didn't she hate to have you leave so abruptly ?" he 
 replied, laughingly : 
 
 " She paid me the compliment of saying so, but I 
 reckon Aleck Grady will console her for awhile." 
 
 " Who is Aleck Grady ?" Miss Morton asked, and 
 Grant replied : 
 
 " Have I never written you about Aleck Grady ? A 
 good fellow enough, but an awful bore, and a second 
 cousin of Thea's, who joined us in Egypt and has been 
 with us ever since." 
 
 Beriah had heard of him, but Miss Morton could not 
 recall him, and continued to ask questions about him as 
 if she scented danger from him as well as from Doris. 
 Was he in the Hepburn line and really Thea's cousin, 
 and did she like him ? 
 
 At the mention of the Hepburn line Grant's face 
 clouded, and he answered rather stiffly : 
 
 " He is in the Hepburn line, one degree remove^ 
 
GRANTLET AND DORIS. 305 
 
 from Thea, and he is hunting for a missing link, which, 
 if found, will knock Thea into a cocked hat." 
 
 Miss Morton knew about the missing link herself ; 
 indeed, she had once tried to trace it, but had given it up 
 with the conviction that it was extinct, and if she 
 thought so, why, then, it was so, and Aleck Grady would 
 never find it. But he might be dangerous elsewhere, 
 and she repeated her question as to whether Thea liked 
 him or not. 
 
 " I dare say, — as her cousin," Grant replied, adding, 
 with a view to tease his aunt, " and she may get up a 
 warmer feeling, for there is no guessing what will hap- 
 pen when a young man is teaching a girl to ride a 
 bicycle, as he is teaching Thea." 
 
 " Ride a bicycle ! Thea on a bicycle ! Thea astride 
 of a wheel !" Miss Morton exclaimed, horrified and 
 aghast at the idea. 
 
 Was the world all topsy-turvy, or had she lived so 
 ■long out of it that she had lost her balance and fallen 
 off ? She did not know, and she looked very white and 
 worried, while Grant laughed at her distress and told 
 her how picturesque Thea looked in her blue gown and 
 red shoes and jockey cap, adding : 
 
 " And she rides well, too, which is more than can be 
 said of all the girls. But it is of no use to kick at the 
 bicycles ; they have come to stay, and I mean to get 
 Doris one as soon as I can. She must not be left out in 
 the cold when Thea and I go racing down the turnpike. 
 She will be splendid on a wheel." 
 
 "God forbid!" came with a gasp from the highly 
 scandalized lady, while Doris's eyes shone with a won- 
 derful brilliancy as they looked their thanks at Grant. 
 
 ■^ith a view to change the conversation, Beriah began 
 
306 THE RKPBIIEN LINE. 
 
 to question Grant of his trip to Egypt, without a sus- 
 picion of the deep waters into which she was sailing. 
 After describing some of the excursions on the donkeys, 
 Grant suddenly exclaimed : 
 
 " By the way, Aunt Brier, I met an old acquaintance 
 of yours in Cairo, Tom Atkins, who said he used to visit 
 Morton Park. Do you remember him ?" 
 
 Beriah was white to the roots of her hair, and her 
 hand shook so that her coffee was spilled upon the dam- 
 ask cloth as she answered, faintly : 
 
 "Tom Atkins .' yes, I remember him." 
 
 It was Keziah who came to the rescue now by giving 
 the signal to leave the table, and so put an end for the 
 time being to the conversation concerning Tom Atkins ; 
 but that evening, after most of the family had retired, 
 as Grant sat smoking in the moonlight at the end of the 
 piazza, a slender figure clad in a gray wrapper with a 
 white scarf on her head stole up to him and said, very 
 softly and sadly : 
 
 "Now, Grant, tell me about Tom." 
 
 Grant told her all he knew, and that night Beriah 
 wrote in her diary as follows : 
 
 " Tom is alive, and wears a fez and a white flannel 
 suit, and has a little, dark-eyed, tawny-haired girl whom 
 he calls Zaidee. Of course there is or has been an 
 Oriental wife, and Tom is as much lost to me as if he 
 were sleeping in his grave. I am glad he is alive, and 
 think I am glad because of the little girl Zaidee. It i.s 
 a pretty name, and if she were motherless I know I 
 could love her dearly for Tom's sake, but such happi- 
 pess js not for aie. Ah, well, God knows best," 
 
THEA AT MOliTON PAEK. 307 
 
 CHAPTER X.— Doris's Story. 
 
 THEA AT MORTON PARK. 
 
 Thea is here, and has brought her wheel and her 
 banjo and her pet dog, besides three trunks of clothes. 
 The dog, whom she calls Cheek, has conceived an unac- 
 countable dislike to Aunt Kizzy, at whom he barks so 
 furiously whenever she is in sight that Thea keeps him 
 tied in her room except when she takes him into the 
 grounds for exercise. Even then he is on the lookout 
 for the enemy, and once made a fierce charge at her 
 shawl, which she had left in the summer house and 
 which was not rescued from him until one or two rents 
 had been made in it. Thea laughs, and calls him a bad 
 boy, and puts her arms around Aunt Kizzy's neck and 
 kisses her and tells her she will send Cheek home as 
 soon as she gets a chance, and then she sings " Ta-ra- 
 ra-boom-de-ay," which she says is all the rage, and she 
 dances the skirt dance with Grant, to whom she is teach- 
 ing a new step, which shows her pretty feet and ankles 
 and consists mostly of " one-two-three-kick." And they 
 do kick, or Grant does, so high that Aunt Kizzy asks in 
 alarm if that is quite proper, and then Thea kisses her 
 again and calls her " an unsophisticated old darling who 
 doesn't know the ways of the world and must be taught." 
 Her banjo lies round anywhere and everywhere, just as 
 do her hat and her gloves and parasol, and Aunt Kizzy, 
 who is so particular with me, never sa5's a word, but 
 herself picks up after the disorderly girl, who, with 
 Grant, has turned the house upside dowri and filled it 
 
308 THE HEPBURN LINR. 
 
 with laughter and frolic. Her wheel stays-at night in a 
 little room at the end of the piazza, with Grant's, for he 
 has one, and with Thea he goes scurrying through the 
 town, sometimes in the street and sometimes on the 
 sidewalk, to the terror of the pedestrians. Thea has 
 already knocked down two negroes and run into the stall 
 of an old apple-woman, who would have brought a suit 
 if Aunt Kizzy had not paid the damages claimed. 
 
 What do I think of Thea ? I love her, and have loved 
 her from the moment she came up to nie so cordially 
 and called me Cousin Doris, and told me Grant had 
 written her all about me, and that because I was at 
 Morton Park she had come earlier than she had intended 
 doing, and had left her old Gardy and Aleck Grady dis- 
 consolate. " But," she added, quickly : " Aleck is com- 
 ing soon, and then it will be jolly with four of us. Grant 
 and you, Aleck and me, and, if we can't paint the town 
 red my name is not Thea." 
 
 1 don't suppose she is really pretty, except her eyes, 
 which are lovely, but her voice is so sweet and her man- 
 ners so soft and kittenish and pleasing that you never 
 stop to think if she is handsome, but take her as she is 
 and find her charming. She occupies the guest-room 
 of course, and I share it with her, for she insisted at 
 once that my cot be moved in there, so we could " talk 
 nights as late as we pleased." Aunt Kizzy, who does 
 not believe in talking late, and always knocks on the 
 wall if she hears me move in the Glory Hole after half- 
 past nine, objected at first, saying it was more proper 
 for young girls to room alone, but Thea told her that 
 propriety had gone out of fashion with a lot of other 
 stuff, and insisted, until the Glory Hole was abandoned 
 ^nd used only for toilet-purposeg, 
 
THeA at MORtON t>AEt. S09 
 
 "Just what it was intended for," Thea said, "and the 
 idea of penning you up there is ridiculous. I know 
 Aunt Kizzy, as I always call her, and know exactly how 
 to manage her." 
 
 And she does manage her beautifully, while I look on 
 amazed. The first night after her arrival she invited 
 me into her room, where I found her habited in a crim- 
 son dressing-gown, with her hair, which had grown very 
 long, rippling down her back, and a silver-mounted 
 brush in one hand and a hand-glass in the other. There 
 was a light-wood fire on the hearth, for it was raining 
 heavily, and the house was damp and chilly. Drawing 
 a settee rocker before the fire, she made me sit down 
 close by her, and, putting her arm around me and lay- 
 ing my head on her shoulder, she said, " Now, Chickie, — 
 or rather Softie, which suits you better, as you seem just 
 like the kind of girls who are softies, — now let's talk." 
 
 " But," I objected, " Aunt Kizzy's room is just below, 
 and it's nearly ten o'clock, and she will hear us and rap." 
 
 " Let her rap ! I am not afraid of Aunt Kizzy. She 
 never raps me ; and if you are so awfully particular, 
 we'll whisper, while I tell you all my secrets, and you 
 tell me yours,— about the boys, I mean. Girls don't 
 count. Tell me of the fellows, and the scrapes you got 
 into at school." 
 
 It was in vain that I protested that I had no secrets 
 and knew nothing about fellows or scrapes. She knew 
 better, she said, for no girl could go through any school 
 and not know something about them unless she were a 
 greater softie than I looked to be. 
 
 " I was always getting into a scrape, or out of one," 
 she said, " and it was such fun. Why, I never learned 
 a blessed thing, — ^I didn't go to learn, and 1 kept the 
 
310 THE HEPBURN LINE, 
 
 teachers so stirred tip that their lives were a burden to 
 them, and I know they must have made a special thank- 
 offering to some missionary fund when I left. And yet 
 I know they liked me in spite of my pranks. And to 
 think you were stuffing your head with knowledge at 
 Wellesley all the time, and I never knew it, nor Grant 
 either ! I tell you he don't like it any better than I do. 
 And Aunt Kizzy's excuse, that you would have 
 neglected your studies if j'ou had known he was at 
 Harvard, is all rubbish. That was not the reason. Do 
 you know what the real one was ?" 
 
 I said I did not, and with a little laugh she continued, 
 " You are a softie, sure enough ;'' then, pushing me a 
 little from her, she regarded me attentively a moment, 
 and continued, " Do you know how very, very beautiful 
 you are ?" 
 
 I might have disclaimed such knowledge, if some- 
 thing in her bright, searching eyes had not wrung the 
 truth in part from me, and made me answer, " I have 
 been told so a few times." 
 
 " Of course you have," she replied. Who told you ?" 
 
 " Oh, the girls at Wellesle}'," I answered, beginning 
 to feel uneasy under the fii^e of her eyes. 
 
 '' Humbug !" she exclaimed. " I tell you, girls don't 
 count. I mean boys. What boy has told you }'ou were 
 handsome? Has Grant ? Honor bright, has Grant ?" 
 
 The question was so sudden that I was taken quite 
 aback, while conscious guilt, if I can call it that, added 
 to my embarrassment. It was three weeks since Grant 
 came home, and in that time Vv'e had made rapid strides 
 towards something warmer than friendship. We had 
 ridden and driven together for miles around the country, 
 had played and sung together, and walked together 
 
TfiEA AT MORTON PARK. 311 
 
 through the spacious grounds, and once when we sat in 
 the summer-house and I had told him of my father's 
 and mother's death and my life in Meadowbrook and 
 Wellesley, and how lonely I had sometimes been be- 
 cause no one cared for me, he had put his arm around 
 me, and, kissing my forehead, had said, " Poor little 
 Dorey ! I wish I had known you were at Wellesley. 
 You should never have been lonely ;'' and then he told 
 rhe that he had seen me twice in Boston, once at a con- 
 cert and once in a street-car, and had never forgotten 
 my face, which he thought beautiful, and that he had 
 called me his Lost Star, whom he had looked for so long 
 and found at last. And as he talked I had listened with 
 a heart so full of happiness that I could not speak, 
 although with the happiness there was a pang of re- 
 morse when I remembered what Aunt Keziah had said 
 about my not trying to win Grant's love. And I was 
 not trying ; the fault, if there were any, was on his side, 
 and probably he meant nothing At all events, the 
 scene in the summer-house was not repeated, and I 
 fancied that Grant's manner after it was somewhat con- 
 strained, as if he were a little sorry. But he had kissed 
 me and told me I was beautiful, and when Thea put the 
 question to me direct, I stammered out at last, " Ye-es, 
 Grant thinks I am handsome." 
 
 " Of course he does. How can he help it ? And I 
 don't mind, even if we are engaged." 
 
 "Engaged !" I repeated, and drew back from her a 
 little, for, although I had suspected the engagement, I 
 had never been able to draw from my aunts any allusion 
 to it or admission of it, and I had almost made myself 
 believe that there was none. 
 
 But I knew it now, and for a moment I felt as if I 
 
Sl2 THE niCPBUEN LINM. 
 
 were smothering, while Thea regarded me curiously, but 
 with no jealousy or anger in her gaze. 
 
 " You are surprised," she said at last. " Has neither 
 of the aunts told you ?" 
 
 " No," I replied, " they have not, but I have some- 
 times suspected it. And I have reason to think that 
 such a marriage would please Aunt Kizzy very much. 
 Let me congratulate you." 
 
 " You needn't," she said, a little stiffly. " It is all a 
 made-up affair. Shall I tell you about myself ?" And,, 
 drawing me close to her again, she told me that at a 
 very early age she became an orphan, with a large for- 
 tune as a certainty when she was twenty-one, as she 
 would be at Christmais, and another fortune coming to 
 her in the spring, if she did not marry Grant, and half 
 in case she did. " It's an awful muddle," she continued, 
 "and you can't understand it. I don't either, except 
 that one of my ancestors; old Amos Hepburn, of Kes- 
 wick, England, made a queer will, or condition, or 
 something, by which the Mortons will lose their home 
 unless I marry Grant, which is not a bad thing to do. 
 I have known him all my life, and like him so much ; 
 and it is not a bad thing for him to marry me, either. 
 Better do that than lose his home." 
 
 " Would he marry you just for money .'" I asked, 
 while the spot on my forehead, which he had kissed, 
 burned so that I thought she must see it. 
 
 But she was brushing her long hair and twisting it 
 into braids, and did not look at me as she went on 
 rapidly : " No, I don't think he would marry me for my 
 money unless he liked me some. Aleck wouldn't, and 
 Grant thinks himself vastlj' superior to Aleck, whom he 
 calls a bore and a crank ; and perhaps he is, but he is 
 
tfiEA AT MORTON tAKtL. 313 
 
 Very nice, — not handsome like Grant, and not like hina 
 in anything. He has reddish hair, and freckles on his 
 nose, and big hands, and wears awful baggy clothes, 
 and scolds me a good deal, which Grant never does, and 
 tells me I am fast and slangy, and that I powder too 
 much. He is my second cousin, you know, and stands 
 next to me in the Hepburn line, and if I should die he 
 would come in for the Morton estate, unless he finds 
 the missing link, as he calls it, which is ahead of us 
 both. I am sure you will like him, and I shall be so 
 glad when he comes. I am not half as silly with him 
 as I am without him, because I am a little afraid of him, 
 and I miss him so much." 
 
 As I knew nothing of Aleck, I did not reply, and 
 after a moment, during which she finished braiding her 
 hair and began to do up her bangs in curl-papers, she 
 said, abruptly, " Why don't you speak ? Don't you 
 tumble ?" 
 
 " What do you mean ?" I asked, and with very expres- 
 sive gestures of her hands, which she had learned 
 abroad, she exclaimed, " Now, you are not so big a 
 softie as not to know what tumble means, and you have 
 been graduated at Wellesley, too ! You are greener 
 than I thought, and I give it up. But you just wait 
 till I have coached you awhile, and you'll know what 
 tumble means, and a good many more things of which 
 you never dreamed." 
 
 I said I did not like slang, — in short, that I detested 
 it, — and we were having rather a spirited discussion on 
 the subject, and Thea was talking in anything but a 
 whisper, when suddenly there came a tremendous knock 
 on the door, which in response to Thea's prompt 
 " Entrez " opened wide and disclosed to view the awful 
 
314 THE HEPBUESr LtNft. 
 
 presence of Aunt Kizzy in her night cap, without hef 
 false piece, felt slippers on her feet, a candle in her 
 hand, and a look of stern disapproval on her face as-she 
 addressed herself to me, asking if I knew how late it 
 was, and why I was keeping Thea up. 
 
 " She is not keeping me up. I am keeping her. I 
 asked her to come in here, and when she said we should 
 disturb you I told her we would whisper, and we have 
 until I was stupid enough to forget myself. I'm 
 awfully sorry, but Doris is not to blame," Thea ex- 
 plained, generously defending me against Aunt Kizzy, 
 towards whom she moved with a graceful, gliding step, 
 adding, as she put her arm around her neck, " Now go 
 back to bed, that's a dear, and Doris shall go too, and 
 we'll never disturb you again. I wonder if you know 
 how funny you look without your hair !" 
 
 I had never suspected Aunt Kizzy of caring much 
 for her personal appearance, but at the mention of her 
 hair she quickly put her hand to her head with a de- 
 precatory look on her face, and without another word 
 walked away, while Thea threw herself into a chair, 
 shaking with laughter and declaring that it was a lark 
 worthy of De Moisiere. 
 
 Four weeks have passed since I made my last entry in 
 my journal, and so much has happened in that time 
 that I feel as if I were years older than I was when 
 Thea came, and, as she expressed it, " took me in hand." 
 I am certainly a great deal wiser than I was, but am 
 neither the better nor the happier for it, and although 
 I know now what tumble means, and all the flirtation 
 signs, and a great deal more besides, I detest it all, and 
 
THEA AT MORtOIf PASK. 316 
 
 cannot help feeling that the girl who practices such 
 things has lost something from her womanhood which 
 good men prize. Old-maidish Thea calls me, and says 
 I shall never be anything but a softie. And still we are 
 great friends, for no one can help loving her, she is so 
 bright and gay and kind. As for Grant, he puzzles me. 
 I have tried to be distant towards him since Thea told 
 me of her engagement, and once I spoke of it to him 
 and asked why he did not tell me himself. I never 
 knew before that Grant could scowl, as he did when he 
 replied, "Oh, bother! there are some things a fellow 
 does not care to talk about, and this is one of them. 
 You and Thea gossip together quite too much." 
 
 After that I didn't speak to Grant for two whole days. 
 But he made it up the third day in the summer-house 
 where he had kissed me once, and would have kissed 
 me again, but for an accident. 
 
 " Doris," he said, as he took my face between his 
 hands and bent his own so close to it that I felt his 
 breath on my cheek, — " Doris, don't quarrel with me. 
 I can't bear it. I " 
 
 What more he would have said I do not know, as 
 j usl then we heard Thea's voice near by calling to Aleck 
 Grady, who has been in town three weeks, stopping at 
 the hotel, but spending most of his time at Morton 
 Park, and I like him very much. He seems very plain- 
 looking at first, but after you know him you forget his 
 hair and his freckles and his hands and general awk- 
 wardness, and think only how thoroughly good-natured 
 and kind and considerate he is, with a heap of common 
 sense. Thea is not quite the same when he is with us. 
 She is more quiet and ladylike, and do,es not use so 
 much slang, and acts rather queer, it seems to me. 
 
316 thb! hePbdriJ Lmiil. 
 
 Indeed, the three of them act queer, and I feel queef 
 and unhappy, although I seem to be so gay, and the 
 house and grounds resound with laughter and merri- 
 ment all day long. Aleck comes early, and always 
 stays to lunch, if invited, as he often is by Thea, but 
 never by Aunt Kizzy, who has grown haggard and thin 
 and finds a great deal of fault with me because, as she 
 says, I am flirting with Grant and trying to win him 
 from Thea. 
 
 It is false. I am not flirting with Grant. I am not 
 trying to win him from Thea, but rather to keep out of 
 his way, which I cannot do, for he is alwa5's at my side, 
 and when we go for a walk, or a ride, or a drive, it is 
 Aleck and Thea first, and necessarily Grant is left for 
 me, and, what is very strange, he seems to like it, while 
 
 I Oh, whither am I drifting, and what shall I do ? 
 
 I know now all about the Morton lease and the Hep- 
 burn line, for Aunt Kizzy has told me, and with tears 
 streaming down her cheeks has begged me not to be 
 her ruin. And I will not, even if I should love Grant 
 far more than I do now, and should feel surer than I 
 do that he loves me and would gladly be free from 
 Thea, who laughs and .sings and dances as gayly as if 
 there were no troubled hearts around her, while Aleck 
 watches her and Grant and me with a quizzical look on 
 his face which makes me furious at times. He has 
 talked to me about the missing link and the family 
 tree, which he offered to show me, but I declined, and 
 said impatiently that I had heard enough about old 
 Amos Hepburn and that wretched condition, and wished 
 both had been in the bottom of the sea before they had 
 done so much mischief. With a good-humored laugh 
 he put up his family tree and told me not to be so hard 
 
THE OEISIS. 317 
 
 on his poor old ancestor, saying he did not think either 
 he or his condition would harm the Mortons much. 
 
 I don't know what he meant, and I don't know any- 
 thing except that I am miserable, and Grant is equally 
 so, and I do not dare stay alone with him a moment, or 
 look in his eyes for fear of what I may see there, or he 
 may see in mine. 
 
 Alas for us both, and alas for the Hepburn line ! 
 
 CHAPTER XL— The Author's Story. 
 
 THE CRISIS. 
 
 It came sooner than the two who were watching the 
 progress of affairs expected it, and the two were Kizzy 
 and Dizzy. The first was looking at what she could not 
 help, with a feeling like death in her heart, while the 
 latter felt her youth come back to her as she saw one by 
 one the signs she had once known so well. She knew 
 what Grant's failure to marry Thea meant to them. 
 But she did not worry about it. With all her fear of 
 Keziah, she had a great respect for and confidence in 
 her, and was sure she would manage somehow, no mat- 
 ter whom Grant married. And so in her white gown 
 and blue ribbons she sat upon the wide piazza day after 
 day, and smiled upon the young people, who, recogniz- 
 ing an ally in her, made her a sort of queen around 
 whose throne they gathered, all longing to tell her 
 their secret, except Doris, who, hearing so often from 
 her Aunt Keziah that she was the cause of all the 
 trouble, was very unhappy, and kept away from Grant 
 
318 THE HEPBC7EN LINE. 
 
 as much as possible. But he found her one afternoon 
 in the summer-house looking so inexpressibly sweet, 
 and pathetic, too, with the traces of tears on her face, 
 that, without a thought of the consequences, he sat 
 down beside her, and, putting his arms around her, 
 said : 
 
 " My poor little darling, what is the matter, and why 
 do you try to avoid me as you do ?" 
 
 There was nothing of the coquette about Doris, and 
 at the sound of Grant's voice speaking to her as he did, 
 and the touch of his hand which had taken hers and was 
 carrying it to his lips, she laid her head on his shoulder 
 and sobbed : 
 
 " Oh, Grant, I can't bear it. Aunt Kizzy scolds me 
 so, and I — I can't help it, and I'm going to Meadow- 
 brook to teach or do something, where I shall not 
 trouble any one again." 
 
 " No, Doris,'' Grant said, in a voice more earnest and 
 decided than any she had ever heard from him. " You 
 are not going away from me. You are mine and I in- 
 tend to keep you. I will play a hj-pocrite's part no 
 longer. I love you, and I do not love Thea as a man 
 ought to love the girl he makes his wife, nor as she de- 
 serves to be loved ; and even if you refuse me I shall 
 not marry her. It would be a great sin to take her 
 when my whole soul was longing for another." 
 
 "Grant, are you crazy? Don't you know you must 
 marry Thea ? Have you forgotten the Hepburn line ?" 
 Doris said, lifting her head from his shoulder and turn- 
 ing towards him a face which, although bathed in tears, 
 was radiant with the light of a great joy. 
 
 Had Grant been in the habit of swearing, he would 
 
THE CRISIS. 319 
 
 probably have consigned the Hepburn line to perdition. 
 As it was, he said : 
 
 " Confound the Hepburn line ! Enough have been 
 made miserable on account of it, and I don't propose to 
 be added to the number, nor do I believe much in it, 
 either. Aleck does not believe in it at all, and we are 
 going to look up the law without Aunt Kizzy's knowl- 
 edge. She is so cursed proud and reticent, too, or she 
 would have found out for herself before this time 
 whether we are likely to be beggared or not. And 
 even if the lease holds good, don't you suppose that a 
 great strapping fellow like me can take care of himself 
 and four women ?" 
 
 As he had never yet done anything but spend money, 
 it seemed doubtful to Doris whether he could do any- 
 thing or not. But she did not care. The fact that he 
 loved her, that he held her in his arms and was cover- 
 ing her face with kisses, was enough for the present, 
 and for a few moments Aunt Kizzy's wrath and the 
 Hepburn line were forgotten, while she abandoned 
 herself to her great happiness. Then she remembered, 
 and, releasing herself from Grant, stood up before him 
 and told him that it could not be. 
 
 " I am not ashamed to confess that I love you," she 
 said, " and the knowing that you love me will always 
 make me happier. But you are bound to Thea, and I 
 will never separate you from her or bring ruin upon 
 your family. I will go away, as I said, and never come 
 again until you and Thea are married." 
 
 She was backing from the summer-house as she 
 talked, and so absorbed were she and Grant both that 
 neither saw nor heard anything until, having reached 
 the door, Doris backed into Thea'g arms, 
 
320 THK HEPBURN LINK. 
 
 " Hello !" was her characteristic exclamation, as she 
 looked curiously at Doris and then at Grant, who, 
 greatly confused, had risen to his feet, " And so I 
 have caught you," she continued, " and I suppose you 
 think I am angry ; but I am not. I am glad, as it 
 makes easier what I am going to tell you. Sit down, 
 Grant, and hear me," she continued authoritatively, as 
 she saw him moving towards the doorway, opposite to 
 where she stood, still holding Doris tightly. " Sit 
 down, and let's have it out, like sensible people who 
 have been mistaken and discovered their mistake in 
 time. I know you love Doris, and I know she loves 
 you, and she just suits you, for she is beautiful and 
 sweet and fresh, while I am neither ; I am homel)-, 
 and fast, and slangy, and sometimes loud and for- 
 ward." 
 
 " Oh, Thea, Thea, you are not all this," Doris cried. ' 
 
 But Thea went on : " Yes, I am ; Aleck says so, and 
 he knows, and that is why I like him so much. He tells 
 me my faults straight out, which Grant never did. He 
 simply endured me because he felt that he must, until he 
 saw you, and then it was not in the nature of things 
 that I could keep him any longer. I have seen it, and 
 so has Aleck ; and this morning, under the great elm 
 in the far part of the grounds, we came to an under- 
 standing, and I told the great, awkward, ugly Aleck 
 that I loved him better than I ever loved Grant ; and I 
 do,— I do !" 
 
 She was half crying, and breathing hard, and with 
 each breath was severing some link which had bound 
 her to Grant, who for once .felt as awkward as Aleck 
 himself, and stood abashed before the young girl wha 
 was PO boldly declaring her preference for another. 
 
THE CKIS18. 321 
 
 What could he say ? he asked himself. He surely could 
 not remonstrate with her, or protest against what would 
 make him so happy, and so he kept silent, while brushing 
 the tears from her eyes, she continued, " I don't know 
 when it began, or how, only it did begin, and now I 
 don't care how ugly he is, nor how big his feet and 
 hands are. He is just as good as he can be, and I am go- 
 ing to marry him. There !" 
 
 She stopped, quite out of breath, and looked at Doris, 
 whose face was very white, and whose voice trembled 
 as she said : 
 
 "But, Thea, have you forgotten the lease f 
 
 " The lease !" Thea repeated, bitterly. " I hate the 
 very name. It has worked so much mischief, and all for 
 nothing, Aleck says, and he knows, and don't believe it 
 would stand a moment, and if it does we have arranged 
 for it, and should the Morton , estate ever come to me 
 through Aunt Kizzy's foolish insistence, I shall deed it 
 straight back to her, or to you and Grant, which will be 
 better. It is time old Amos Hepburn was euchred, and 
 I am glad to do it. Such ti'ouble as he has brought to 
 your grandfather, your father, and to me, thrusting me 
 upon one who did not care a dime for me !" 
 
 " Thea, Thea, you are mistaken. I did care for you 
 imtil I saw Doris, and I care for you yet," Grant said, 
 and Thea replied : 
 
 "In a way, yes. But you were driven to it by Aunt 
 Kizzy, and so was I. Why, I do not remember a time 
 when I did not think I was to marry you, and once I 
 liked the idea, too, and threw myself at your head, and 
 appropriated you in a way which makes me ashamed 
 when I remember it. Aleck has told me, and he knows, 
 and will keep tne straight, while you would have let me 
 
322 THE HEPBTTRN LINE, 
 
 run wild, and from a bold, pert, slangy girl I should have 
 degenerated into a coarse, second-class woman, with 
 only money and the Morton name to keep me up. You 
 and Doris exactly suit each other, and your lives will 
 glide along withoiit a ripple, while Aleck's and mine 
 will be stormy at times, for he has a will and I have a 
 temper, but the making up will be grand, and that I 
 should never have known with 3'ou. I am going to tell 
 Aunt Kizzy now, and have it over. So, Grant, let's say 
 good-bye to all there has been between us, and if you 
 want to kiss me once in memory of the past you can do 
 so. Doris will not mind." 
 
 There was something very pathetic in Thea's manner 
 as she lifted her face for the kiss which was to part her 
 and Grant forever, and for an instant her arms clung 
 tightly around his neck as if the olden love were dying 
 hard in spite of what she had said of Aleck ; then with- 
 out a word she went swiftly up the walk, leaving Grant 
 and Doris alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XII.— Doris's Story. 
 
 THE MISSING LINK. 
 
 How can I write when my heart is so full that it 
 seems as if it would burst with its load of surprise and 
 happiness ? Grant and I are engaged, and so are Thea 
 and Aleck, and of the two I believe Thea is happier 
 than I, who am still so stunned that I can scarcely real- 
 ize what a few hours have brought to me, — Grant, and 
 —and— a fortune ! And this is how it happened. 
 
THi; MISSING LINK. 323 
 
 Grant was saying things to me which I thought he 
 ought not to say, when Thea came suddenly upon us 
 and told us she loved Aleck better than she did Grant, 
 whom she transferred to me in a rather bewildering 
 fashion, while I accepted him on condition that Aunt 
 Kizzy gave her consent. She did not appear at dinner 
 that night, and the next morning she was suffering from 
 a severe headache and kept her room, but sent word 
 that she would see Thea and Grant after breakfast. 
 This left me to Aleck, who came early and asked me to 
 go with him to the summer-house, where we could "talk 
 over the row," as he expressed it. Love had certainly 
 wrought a great change in him, softening and refining 
 his rugged features until he seemed almost handsome 
 as he talked to me of Thea, whom he had fancied from 
 the time he first saw her. 
 
 " She is full of faults, I kiiow," he said, " but I believe I 
 love her the better for them, as they will add variety to 
 our lives. She and Grant would have stagnated, as he 
 did not care enough for her to oppose her in any way. 
 Theirs would have been a marriage of convenience ; 
 ours will be one of love." 
 
 And then he drifted off to the Morton lease and Hep- 
 burn line and family tree. 
 
 " You have never seen it, I believe," he said, taking 
 from his pocket a sheet of foolscap and spreading it out 
 upon his lap. He had offered to show it to me before, 
 but I had declined examining it. Now, however, I af- 
 fected to be interested, and glanced indifferently at the 
 sheet, with its queer looking diagrams and rows of 
 names, which he called branches of the Hepburn tree. 
 " I have not made it out quite ship-shape, like one I saw 
 in London lately," he said, taking out his pencil and 
 
324 THE HKPBUKN LINE. 
 
 pointing to the name which headed the list, " bui I 
 think you will understand it. You have no idea what 
 a fascination there has been to me in hunting up my 
 ancestors and wondering what manner of people they 
 were. First, here is Amos Hepburn, the old curmudgeon 
 who leased that property to your grandfather ninety 
 years ago. He married Dorothea Foster, and had three 
 daughters, Octavia, Agrippina, and Poppsea." 
 
 " Octavia, Agrippina, and Poppasa," I exclaimed. 
 " What could have induced him to give these names to 
 his daughters ?" 
 
 " Classical taste, I suppose," Aleck said. " No doubt 
 the old gentleman was fond of Roman history, and the 
 names took his fancy. If he had had a son he would 
 probably have called him Nero. Poppasa, the young- 
 est, is my maternal ancestress. I inherit my beauty 
 from her." 
 
 Here he laughed heartily, and- then went on : 
 
 " Agrippina, the second daughter, was Thea's great- 
 grandmother, and called no doubt after the good Agrip- 
 pina, and not the bad one, who had that ducking in the 
 sea at the hands of her precious son. As to the eldest 
 daughter, she ought to have felt honored to be named 
 for the poor little abused Empress Octavia ; and then it 
 is a pretty name." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," I said, " and it is my middle name, 
 which my grandmother and my great-grandmother bore 
 before me." 
 
 "That's odd," he rejoined, looking curiously at me. 
 " Yes, very odd. Suppose we go over Thea's branch 
 of the tree first, as that is the oldest line to which a 
 direct heir can be found, and consequently gives her the 
 Mortotj estE^te, First, Agrippina Hepbqrn married JohR 
 
TI-IK MISSING LINK. S25 
 
 Austin, and had one child, Charlotte Poppsea, whcf 
 married Tom Haynes, and bore him one daughter, 
 Sophia, and two sons, James and John. This John, by 
 the way, I have heard, was the young man whom Miss 
 Keziah wished your Aunt Beriah to marry, and failing 
 in that she wished your father to marry Sophia. But 
 neither plan worked, for both died, and James married 
 Victoria Snead, of Louisville, and had one daughter, 
 Dorothea Victoria, otherwise Thea, my promised wife, 
 and the great-great-grandaughter of old Amos Hepburn. 
 As I, although several years older than Thea, am in the 
 third and youngest branch of the tree, I have no claim 
 on the Morton estate ; neither would Thea have, if I 
 could find the missing link in the first and oldest branch, 
 that of Octavia, who was married in Port Rush, Ireland, 
 to Mr. McMahon, and had twins, Augustus Octavius, 
 and Octavia Augusta. You see she, too, was cla.ssically 
 inclined, like her father. Well, Augustus Octavius 
 died, and Octavia Augusta married Henry Gale, a hat- 
 ter, in Leamington, England, and emigrated to America 
 in 1 8 — , and settled in New York, where all trace of her 
 is los-t. Nor can I by any possible means find anything 
 about her, except that Henry Gale died, but whether he 
 left children I do not know. Presumably he did, and 
 their descendants would be the real heirs to the Morton 
 property, if that clause holds good. Do you see the 
 point ? or, as Thea would say, do you tumble ?" 
 
 He repeated his question in a louder tone, as I did 
 not answer him, but sat staring at the unfinished branch 
 of the Hepburn tree. I did tumble nearly off the seat, 
 and only kept myself from doing so entirely by clutch- 
 ing Aleck's arm and holding it so tightly that he winced 
 
S26 THE HEfBtJRN MNE. 
 
 a. little as he moved away from tne, and said : " What's 
 the matter? Has something stung you ?" 
 
 " No," I replied, with a gasp, and a feeling that I was 
 choking, or fainting, or both. 
 
 I had followed him closely through Agrippina's line, 
 and had felt a little bored when he began on Octavia's, 
 but only for an instant, and then I was all attention, and 
 felt my blood prickling in my veins and saw rings of fire 
 dancing before my e}'es, as I glanced at the names, as 
 familiar to me as old friends. 
 
 " Aleck," I whispered, for I could not speak aloud, 
 " these are all my ancestors, I am sure, for do you think 
 it possible for two Octavias and two McMahons to have 
 been married in Port Rush and had twins whom they 
 called Octavia Augusta and Augustus Octavius, and for 
 Augustus to die and Octavia to marry a Mr. Gale, a hat- 
 ter, in Leamington, and emigrate to New York ?" 
 
 It was Aleck's turn now to stare and turn pale, as he 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "I mean," I said, "that my great-grandmother's 
 name was Octavia, but I never heard that it was also 
 Hepburn, or if I did I have forgotten it. I know, 
 though, that she married a McMahon and lived at Port 
 Rush. I know, too, that Mrs. McMahon had twins, 
 whose names were Augustus Octavius and Octavia 
 Augusta. Augustus died, but Octavia, who was my 
 grandmother, first married a Mr. Gale, a hatter, in 
 Leamington, and then came to New York, where he 
 died. She then went to Boston, married Charles Wil- 
 son, and moved to Nev/ Haven, where my mother, 
 Dorothea Augusta, was born, and where she married 
 my father. I have a record of it in an old English 
 
•rail MtssiSG LiKK. S27 
 
 book, which, after my grandmother's death, was sent to 
 my mother with some other thmgs." 
 
 " Eureka ! I have found the missing link, and you ari 
 it! Hurrah !" Aleck exclaimed, springing to hi^ feet 
 and catching me up as if I had been a feather's weight. 
 " I was never more surprised in my life, or glad either. 
 To think here is the link right in Miss Kizzy's hands ! 
 Wouldn't she have torn her hair if Grant had married 
 Thea ? By Jove, it would have been a joke, and a sort 
 of retributive justice, too. I must tell her myself. But 
 first let's be perfectly sure. You spoke of a record. 
 Do you happen to have it with you ?" 
 
 "Yes, in my trunk," Isaid, and, excusing myself for 
 a few moments, I flew to the house, and soon returned 
 with what had originally been a blank-book and which 
 my grandmother had used for many purposes, such as 
 recording family expenses, names of people who had 
 boarded with her, and when they came, what they paid 
 her, and when they left ; dates, too, of various events in 
 her life, together with receipts for cooking ; and pinned 
 to the last page was an old yellow sheet of foolscap, 
 with the name of a Leamington bookseller just discerni- 
 ble upon it. On this sheet were records in two or three 
 diflfereut handwritings. The first was the birth in 
 Leamington of Augustus Octavius and Octavia Au- 
 gusta, children of Patrick and Octavia McMahon, who 
 were married in Port Rush, April loth, i8 — . Then fol- 
 lowed the death of Augustus and the marriage of Octa- 
 via to William Gale, of Leamington. Then, in my 
 grandmother's handwriting, the death of Mr. Gale in 
 New York, followed by a masculine hand, presumably 
 that of my grandfather, Charles Wilson, who married 
 Mrs, Octavia Gale in Boston, and to whom my mother, 
 
§28 TbB HEi'BttEN ttSfi. 
 
 Dorothea Augusta, was born in New Haven. I rerflem- 
 ber perfectly well seeing my mother record the date of 
 her marriage with my father and of my birth on the 
 sheet of foolscap after it came to her with the other 
 papers from my grandmother, but when or why it was 
 pinned into the blank-book I could not tell. I only 
 knew it was there, and that I had kept the book, which 
 I now handed to Aleck, whose face wore a puzzled look 
 as, opening it at random, he began to read a receipt for 
 ginger snaps. 
 
 " What the dickens has this to do with Caesar Augus- 
 tus and Augustus Caesar ?" he asked, while I showed 
 him the sheet of paper, which he read very attentively 
 twice, and compared with his family tree. " You are 
 the Link, and no mistake !" he said. " Everything fits 
 to a T, as far as my tree goes. Of course it will have to 
 be proven, but that is easily done by beginning at this 
 end and working back to where the branch failed to 
 connect. And now I am going to tell Miss Morton and 
 Grant. Will you come with me ?" 
 
 "No," I replied, feeling that I had not strength to 
 walk to the house. 
 
 I was so confused and stunned and weak that I could 
 only sit still and think of nothing until Grant's arms 
 were around me and he was covering my face with 
 kisses and calling me his darling. 
 
 " Aleck has told us the strangest story," he said, " and 
 I am so glad for you, and glad that I asked you to be 
 my wife before I heard it, as you know it is yourself I 
 want, and not what you may or may not bring me. 
 Aunt Kizzy is in an awful collapse, — fainted dead away 
 when she heard it." 
 
 " Oh, Grant, how could you leave her and come to 
 
*HE Mt8Slil& LWK. 329 
 
 hie ?" I asked, reproachfully, and he replied, " Because 
 I could do no good. There were Aunts Dizzy and Brier, 
 and Thea, and Aleck, and Vine, all throwing water and 
 camphor and vinegar in her face, until she looked like 
 a drowned rat. So I came out and left them." 
 
 " But I must go to her," I said, and with Grant's arm 
 around me I went slowly to the house and into the 
 room where Aunt Kizzy lay among her pillows, with an 
 expression on her face such as I had never seen before. 
 It was not anger, but rather one of intense relief, as 
 if the tension of years had given way and left every 
 nerve quivering from the long strain, but painless and 
 restful. Thea was fanning her ; Aunt Brier was bath- 
 ing her forehead with cologne ; Aunt Dizzy was arrang- 
 ing her false piece, which was somewhat awry ; while 
 Aleck was still energetically explaining his family tree 
 and comparing it with the paper I had given him. At 
 sight of me Aunt Kizzy's eyes grew blacker than their 
 wont, while something like a smile flitted across her 
 face as she said, " This is a strange story I have heard, 
 and it will of course have to be proved." 
 
 " A task I take upon myself," Aleck interrupted, and 
 she went on to catechise me rather sharply with regard 
 to my ancestors. 
 
 " It is strange that your father did not find it out, if 
 he saw this paper." 
 
 " He did not see it, for it was not sent to us until after 
 his death," I said, while Aunt Dizzy rejoined, " And if 
 he had it would have conveyed no meaning to him, as I 
 do not suppose he ever troubled himself to trace the 
 Hepburn line to its beginning or knew that Mrs. 
 McMahou was a Hepburn. I have no idea what my 
 great-grandmother's name was before she was married. 
 
830 THE HKtBtJEN LtNE. 
 
 For me, I need no confirmation whatever, but accept 
 Doris as I have always accepted her, a dear little girl 
 whose coming to us has brought a blessing' with it, and 
 although I am very fond of Thea, and should have 
 loved her as Grant's wife, I am still very glad it is to 
 be Doris." 
 
 She was standing by me now, with her hand on my 
 shoulder, while Aunt Brier and Thea both came to my 
 side, the latter throwing her arms around my neck and 
 saying, " And I am glad it is Doris, and that the Hep- 
 burn line is torn into shreds. I believe I hate that old 
 Amos, who, by the way, is as much your ancestor as 
 mine, for we are cousins, you know." 
 
 She kissed me lovingly, and, putting my hand in 
 Aunt Zizzy's, said to her, " Aren't you glad it is 
 Doris ?" 
 
 Then Aunt Kizzy did a most extraordinary thing for 
 her. She drew me close to her and cried like a child. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I am glad it is Doris, and sorry 
 that I have been so hard with everybody, first with 
 Beriah, and then with Gerold, whom I loved as if he 
 had been my own son, and who it seems married into 
 the Hepburn line and I did not know it. And I have 
 loved you, too, Doris, more than you guess, notwith- 
 standing I have seemed so cross and cold and crabbed. 
 I have been a monomaniac on the subject of the Hep- 
 burn lease. Can you forgive me ?" 
 
 I could easily answer that question, for with her first 
 kind word all the ill feeling I had ever cherished against 
 her was swept away, and, putting my face to hers, I 
 kissed her more than once, in token of peace between us. 
 
 That afternoon Aleck started North with his family 
 tree and my family record, and, beginning at the date 
 
•THE MlSStNG LINK, 3S1 
 
 of my mother's marriage, worked backward until the 
 branch which had been broken with the Gales in New 
 York was united with the Wilsons of New Haven, 
 " making a beautiful whole," as he wrote in a letter to 
 Thea, who was to me like a dear sister, and who, with 
 her perfect tact, treated Grant as if they had never 
 been more to each other than friends. Those were very 
 happy days which followed, and now, instead of being 
 the least, I think X am the most considered of all in the 
 household, and in her grave way Aunt Kizzy pets me 
 more than any one else, except, of course. Grant, whose 
 love grows stronger every day, until I sometimes 
 tremble with fear lest my happiness may not last. We 
 are to be married at Christmas time, and are going 
 abroad, and whether I shall ever write again in this 
 journal I cannot tell. Years hence I may perhaps look 
 at it and think how foolish I was ever to have kept it at 
 all. There is Grant calling me to try a new wheel he 
 has bought for me, and I must go. I.can ride a wheel 
 now, or do anything I like, and Aunt Kizzy does not 
 object. But I don't think 1 care to do many things, and, 
 except to please Grant, I do not care much for a wheel, 
 being still, as Thea says, something of a so/tie. 
 
33i2 THE HEPBURN LIKE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII.— Aunt Desire's Storv. 
 
 THE THREE BRIDES. 
 
 I AM too old now to commence a diary ; but the 
 house is so lonely with only Keziah and myself in it 
 that I must do something, and so I will record briefly 
 the events of the last few weeks, or rather months, 
 since the astounding disclosure that Doris and not Thea 
 was the direct heir in the Hepburn line. Nothing ever 
 broke Keziah up like that, transforming .her whole 
 nature and making her quite like other people and so 
 fond of Doris that she could scarcely bear to have her 
 out of sight a moment, and when Grant and Doris were 
 married and gone she cried like a baby, although some 
 of her tears, let us hope, were for Beriah, who will not 
 come back to live with us again, while Doris will. 
 
 And right here let me speak of Beriah's little 
 romance, which has ended so happily. Years ago she 
 loved Tom Atkins, but Kizzy separated them, in the 
 hope that Brier would marry John Haynes, of the 
 Hepburn line, as possibly she might have done, for she 
 was mortally afraid of Kizz)'. But John had the good 
 taste to die, and Brier remained in single blessedness 
 until she was past forty, when Tom, who she supposed 
 was dead, turned up unexpectedly in Cairo. Grant, who 
 was there at the time, made his acquaintance and 
 brought a message from him to Brier, who, after receiv- 
 ing it, never seemed herself, but sat for hours with her 
 hands folded and a look on her face as if listening or 
 waiting for some one, who came at last. 
 
THE THREE BEIDKS. 333 
 
 It was in November, and the maple-leaves were drift- 
 ing down in great piles of scarlet in the park, and in 
 the woods there was the sound of dropping nuts, and on 
 the hills a smoky light, telling of " the melancholy days, 
 the saddest of the year." But with us there was any- 
 thing but sadness, for two brides-elect were in the 
 house, Doris and Thea, who were to be married at 
 Christmas, and whose trousseaus were making in Frank- 
 fort and Versailles. Thea had expressed a wish to be 
 married at Morton Park on the same day with Doris, 
 and, as her guardian did not object, she was staying 
 with us altogether, while Aleck came every day. So 
 we had a good deal of love-making, and the doors which 
 used to be shut promptly at half-past nine were left 
 open for the young people, who, in different parts of 
 the grounds, or piazza, told over and over again the old 
 story which, no matter how many times it is told, is 
 ever new to her who hears and him who tells it. 
 
 One morning when Aleck came as usual, he said to 
 Grant, " By the way, do you remember that chap, half 
 Arab and half American, whom we met in Cairo ? At- 
 kins was the name. Well, he arrived at the hotel last 
 night, with that wild-eyed little girl and two Arabian 
 servants, one for him, one for the child. He used to 
 know some of your people, and is coming this morning 
 to call, with his little girl, who is not bad-looking in her 
 English dress." 
 
 We had just come from breakfast, and were sitting 
 on the piazza. Grant with Doris, and Brier with that 
 preoccupied look on her face which it had worn so long. 
 But her expression changed suddenly as Aleck talked, 
 and it seemed to me I could see the years roll off from 
 her, leaving l^^r j^oung again ; and she was certainly 
 
334 THE HEPBUEN LINE. 
 
 very pretty when two hours later, in her gray serge 
 gown with its trimmings of navy blue, and her brown 
 hair, just tinged with white, waving softl)' around her 
 forehead, she went down to meet Tom Atkins, from 
 whom she parted more than twenty years ago. We had 
 him to lunch and we had him to dinner, and we had 
 him finally almost as much as we did Aleck, and I could 
 scarcely walk in any direction that I did not see a pair 
 of lovers, half hidden by shrub or tree. 
 
 " 'Pears like dey's a love-makin' from mornin' till 
 night, an' de o.le ones is wuss dan de young," I heard 
 Adam say to Vine, and I fully concurred with him, for, 
 as if he would make up for lost time, Tom could not go 
 near Brier without taking her hand or putting his arm 
 around her. 
 
 Just what he said to her of the past I know not, 
 except that he told her of dreary wanderings in foreign 
 lands, of utter indifference as to whether he lived or 
 died, until in Athens he met a pretty Greek, whom, 
 under a sudden impulse, he made his wife, and who 
 died when their little Zaidee was born, twelve years 
 ago. After that he spent most of his time in Egypt, 
 where he has a palatial home near Alexandria, with at 
 least a dozen servants. Last winter he chanced to 
 meet Grant at Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo, and, learning 
 from him that Beriah was still unmarried, he decided 
 to come home, and, if he found her as unchanged in 
 her feelings as he was, he would ask her a second time 
 to be his wife. So he came, and the vows of old were 
 renewed, and little Zaidee stayed with us altogether, so 
 as to get acquainted with her new mamma that was to 
 be. She is a shy, timid child, who has been thrown 
 mostly with Arabs and Egyptians, but she is very 
 
THE THEEE BRIDES. 335 
 
 affectionate, and her love for Beriah was touching in its 
 intensity. 
 
 When Thea heard of the engagement she begged for 
 a triple wedding, and carried her point, as she nsnally 
 does. " A blow-out, too," she said she wanted, as she 
 should never marry but once, and a blow-out we had, 
 with four hundred invitations, and people from Cincin- 
 nati, Lexington, Louisville, Frankfort, and Versailles. 
 There were lanterns on all the trees in the park, and 
 fireworks on the lawn, and two bands in different parts 
 of the grounds, and the place looked the next morning 
 as if a cyclone or the battle of Gettysburg had swept 
 over it. The brides were lovely, although Doris, of 
 course, bore off the palm for beauty, but Thea was ex- 
 ceedingly pretty, while Beriah reminded me of a Ma- 
 donna, she looked so sweet and saintly, as she stood by 
 Tom, who, the moment the ceremony was over, just 
 took her in his arms and hugged her before us all 
 Zaidee was her bridesmaid, while Kizzy was Doris's 
 and I was Thea's, and in my cream-colored silk looked, 
 they said, nearly as young as the girls. 
 
 The next morning the newly-married people left en 
 route for Europe, and the last we heard from them they 
 were at Brindisi, waiting for the Hydaspes, which was 
 to take them to Alexandria. Doris will come back to 
 live with us again in the autumn, but Brier never, and 
 when I think of that, and remember all she was to me, 
 and her patience and gentleness and unselfishness, 
 there is a bitter pain in my heart, and my tears fall so 
 fast tliat I have blurred this sheet so that no one but 
 myself can read it. I am glad she has Tom at last, al- 
 though her going from us makes me so lonely and sad 
 and brings back the dreary past and all I lost when 
 
336 THE HKPBUEN LINE. 
 
 Henry died. But some time, and that not very far in 
 the future, I shall meet my love, dead now so many, 
 years that, counting by them I am old, but; reckoned 
 by my feelings, I am still young as he was when he 
 died, and as he will be when he welcomes nie inside the 
 gate of the celestial city, and says to nie in the voice I 
 remember so well, " I am waiting for you, darling, and 
 now come rest awhile before I show 3'ou some of the 
 glories of the heavenly world, and the people who are 
 here, Douglas, and Maria, and Gerold, and all the rest 
 who loved you on earth, and who love you still with a 
 more perfect love, because born of the Master whose 
 name is love eternal." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV.— Doris's Story. 
 
 TWO YEARS LATER. 
 
 It is just two years since that triple wedding, when 
 six people were made as happy as it is possible to be in 
 this world. Aunt Brier and Mr. Atkins, Aleck and Thea, 
 and Grant and myself, on whom no shadow has fallen 
 since I became Grant's wife and basked in the fullness 
 of his love, which grows stronger and more tender as 
 the days go on. He is now studying hard in a law-office 
 in town, determined to fit himself for something useful, 
 and if possible atone for the selfish, useless life he led 
 before we were married. We spent a year abroad, 
 going everywhere with Aleck and Thea, and staying a 
 few we^ks in Mr, Atkins's elegant villa near Alexandria, 
 
TWO YEARS I.ATKR. 337 
 
 where everything is done in the most luxurious and Ori- 
 ental manner, and Aunt Brier was a very queen among 
 her subjects. When the year of travel was ended we 
 came back to Morton Park, where a royal welcome 
 awaited us, and where Aunt Kizzy took me in her arms 
 and cried over me a little and then led me to my room, 
 or rather rooms, one of which was the Glory Hole, 
 which had been fitted up as a boudoir, or dressing-room, 
 while the large, airy chamber adjacent, where Thea 
 used to sleep, had also been thoroughly repaired and 
 refurnished, and was given to us in place of Grant's old 
 room. 
 
 And here this Christmas morning I am finishing my 
 journal, in which I have recorded so much of my life, — 
 more, in fact, than I care to read. I wish 1 had left out 
 a good deal about Aunt Kizzy. She is greatly changed 
 from the grim woman who held me at arm's length 
 when I first came from school, and of whom I stood in 
 fear. We have talked that all over, and made it up, and 
 every day she gives me some new proof of her affection. 
 But the greatest transformation in her came some weeks 
 ago, with the advent of a little boy, who is sleeping in 
 his crib, with a yellow-turbaned negress keeping watch 
 over him. Aunt Kizzy calls herself his grandmother, and 
 tends him more, if possible, than the nurse. Grant la- 
 ments that it is not a girl, so as to bear some one or two 
 of the queer names of its ancestors. But I am glad it is 
 a boy, and next Sunday it will be christened Gerold 
 Douglas, for my father and grandfather, and Aleck and 
 Thea will stand for it. They have bought a beautiful 
 place a little out of town and have settled down into a 
 regular Darby and Joan, wholly satisfied with each 
 Oth?r an4 lacking- nothing to make them perfectly 
 
338 THE HEPBURN LINE. 
 
 happy. Aunt Brier and Mr. Atkins are also here, stay- 
 ing in the house until spring, when they will build on a 
 part of the Morton estate which Mr. Atkins has bought 
 of Grant. Oriental life did not suit Aunt Brier, and, as 
 her slighest wish is sacred to her husband, he has 
 brought her to her old home, where, when Aleck and 
 Thea are with us, we make a very merry party, talking 
 of all we have seen in Europe, and sometimes of the 
 Hepburn line, which Aleck says I straightened, — always 
 insisting, however, that it did not need straightening, 
 and that the obnoxious clause in the lease would never 
 have stood the test of the law. Whether it would or not, 
 I do not know, as we have never inquired. 
 
MILDRED'S AMBITION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MILDRED. 
 
 The time was a hot morning in July, the place one of 
 those little mountain towns between Albany and Pitts- 
 field, and the scene opens in a farm-house kitchen, 
 where Mildred Leach was seated upon the doorstep 
 shelling peas, with her feet braced against the door- 
 jamb to keep her baby brother, who was creeping on the 
 floor, from tumbling out, and her little sister Bessie, 
 who was standing outside, from coming in. On the bed 
 in a room off the kitchen- Mildred's mother was lying 
 with a headache, and both the kitchen and the bed-room 
 smelled of camphor and vinegar, and the vegetables 
 which were cooking on the stove and filling the house 
 with the odor which made the girl faint and sick, as she 
 leaned against the door-post and longed, as she always was 
 longing, for some change in her monotonous life. Of 
 the world outside the mountain town where she was 
 born she knew very little, and that little she had learned 
 from Hugh McGregor, the village doctor's son, who 
 
S40 mildrisd's ambitiou. 
 
 had been away to school, and seen the President and 
 New York and a Cunarder as it came sailing up the har- 
 bor. On his return home Hugh had narrated his 
 adventures to Mildred, who listened with kindling eyes 
 and flushed cheeks, exclaiming, when he finished, 
 " Oh ! if I could see all that ; and I will some day. I 
 shall not stay forever in old Rocky Point. I hate it." 
 
 Mildred was only thirteen, and not pretty, as girls 
 usually are at that age. She was thin and sallow, and 
 her great brown eyes were too large for her face, and 
 her thick curly hair too heavy for her head. A mop her 
 brother Tom called it, when trying to tease her ; and 
 Mildred hated her hair and hated herself whenever she 
 looked in the ten by twelve glass in her room, and 
 never dreamed of the wonderful beauty which later on 
 she would develop, when her face and form were 
 rounded out, her sallow complexion cleared, and her 
 hair subdued and softened into a mass of waves and 
 curls. Her father, John Leach, was a poor farmer, who, 
 although he owned the house in which he lived, to- 
 gether with a few acres of stony land around it, was in 
 one sense a tenant of Mr. Giles Thornton, the propri- 
 etor of Thornton Park, for he rented land enough of 
 him to eke out his slender income. To Mildred, Thorn- 
 ton Park was a Paradise, and nothing she had ever read 
 or heard of equaled it in her estimation, and many a 
 night when she should have been asleep she stood at 
 her window, looking off in the distance at the turrets 
 and towers of the beautiful place which elicited admira- 
 tion from people much older than herself. To live 
 there would be perfect bliss, she thought, even though 
 she were as great an invalid as its mistress, and as sickly 
 an4 helpless as littl? Alice, the only daughter of the. 
 
klLDKED. §41 
 
 house. Against her own humble surroundings Mildred 
 was in hot rebellion, and was always planning for im- 
 provement and change, not only for herself, but for her 
 family, whom she loved devotedly, and to whom she 
 was giving all the strength of her young life. Mrs. 
 Leach was a martjT to headaches, which frequently 
 kept her in bed for days, during which time the care 
 and the work fell upon Mildred, whose shoulders were 
 too slender for the burden they bore. 
 
 " But it will be different some time," she was think- 
 ing on that hot July morning when she sat shelling 
 peas, sometimes kissing Charlie, whose fat hands were 
 either making havoc with the pods or pulling her hair, 
 and sometimes scolding Bessie for chewing her bonnet 
 strings and soiling her clean apron. 
 
 " You must look nice when Mrs. Thornton goes by," 
 she said, for Mrs. Thornton was expected from New 
 York that day, and Mildred was watching for the return 
 of the carriage, which half an hour before had passed 
 on its way to the station. 
 
 And very soon it came in sight, — a handsome 
 barouche, drawn by two shining black horses, with a 
 long-coated driver on the box, and Mr. and Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton and the two children inside, — Gerard, a dark, hand- 
 some boy of eleven, and Alice, a sickly little girl, with 
 some spinal trouble which kept her from walking or 
 playing as other children did. Leaning back upon 
 cushions was Mrs. Thornton, — her face very pale, and 
 her eyes closed, while opposite her, with his gold-headed 
 cane in his hand, was Mr. Thornton, — a tall, handsome 
 man who carried himself as grandly as if the blood of a 
 hundred kings was flowing in his veins. He did not see 
 the children on the doorsteps, until Gerard, in response 
 
S4r2 MILUKEd's AMBITIOM. 
 
 to a nod from Mildred, lifted his cap, while Alice leaned 
 eagerly forward and said, " Look, mamma, there's Milly 
 and Bessie and the baby. Hello, Milly. I've corned 
 back ;" then he said quickly, " AUie, be quiet ; and you 
 Gerard, why do you lift your cap to such people .' It's 
 not necessary ;" and in these few words was embodied 
 the character of the man. 
 
 Courteous to his equals, but proud and haughty to 
 his inferiors, with an implicit belief in the Thorntons 
 and no belief at all in such people as the Leaches, or in- 
 deed in many of the citizens of Rocky Point, where he 
 owned, or held mortgages on, half the smaller premises. 
 The world was made for him, and he was Giles Thorn- 
 ton, of English extraction on his father's side and 
 Southern blood on his mother's, and in his pride and 
 pomposity he went on past the old red farm-house, 
 while Mildred sat for a moment looking after the car- 
 riage and envying its occupants. 
 
 "Oh, if I were rich, like Mrs. Thornton, and could 
 wear silks and jewels ; and I will, some day,'' she said, 
 with a far-off look in her eyes, as if she were seeing the 
 future and what it held for her. " Yes, I will be rich, 
 no matter what it costs," she continued, "and people 
 shall envy me, and I'll make father and mother so 
 happy ? and you, Charlie " 
 
 Here she stopped, and parting the curls from her 
 baby brother's brow, looked earnestly into his blue eyes ; 
 then went on, " you shall have a golden crown, and you, 
 Bessie darling, shall have,— shall have, — Gerard Thorn- 
 ton himself, if you want him." 
 
 "And I lame Alice?" asked a. cheery voice, as there 
 bounded into the kitchen a ten year old lad, who, with 
 
MiLi)KEi3. S4S 
 
 his naked feet, sunny face and torn straw hat, might 
 have stood for Whittier's barefoot boy. 
 
 "Oh, Tom," Mildred cried, "I'm glad you've Come; 
 Won't you pick Up the pods while t get the peas into 
 the pot? It's almost noon, and I've got the table to 
 set." 
 
 Before Tom could reply, another voice called out, 
 " You have given Gerard to Bessie and Alice to Toin ; 
 how what am I to have^ Miss Prophetess .'" 
 
 The speaker was a fair-haired yotith of seventfefeti> 
 With a Slight Scotch accent and a frank, open, genial 
 face, such as strangers always trust. He had stopped a 
 moment at the corner of the house to pick a rose for 
 Mildred, and hearing her prophecies, sauntered leisurely 
 to the doorstep, where he sat down, and fanning himself 
 with his big hat, asked what she had for him. 
 
 " Nothing, Hugh McGregor," Mildred replied, with a 
 little flush on her cheek. " Nothing but that ;" and she 
 tossed him a peapod she had picked from the floor. 
 
 " Thanks," Hugh said, catching the pod in his hand. 
 " There are two peas in it yet, a big and a little one. I 
 am the big, you are the little, and I'm going to keep 
 them and see which hardens first, you or I." 
 
 "What a fool you are," Mildred said, with increased 
 color on her cheek, while Hugh pocketed the pod and 
 went on : "A crown for Charlie, Gerard for Bessie, 
 Allie for Tom, a peapod for me, and what for you, my 
 darling ?" 
 
 " I am not your darling," Mildred answered quickly ; 
 "and I'm going to be, — mistress of Thornton Park," 
 she added, after a little hesitancy, while Hugh rejoined : 
 "As you have given Gerard to Bessie, I don't see how 
 you'll bring it about, unless Mrs. Thornton dies, a 
 
344 ittLDRED's AkBITION. 
 
 thing not unlikely, and you marry that big-feeling tnatt, 
 whom you say you hate because he turned you from his 
 premises. Have you forgotten that ?" 
 
 Mildred had not forgotten it, and her face was scar- 
 let as she recalled the time the past summer when, 
 wishing to buy a dress for Charlie, then six months old, 
 she had gone into one of Mr. Thornton's pastures after 
 huckleberries, which grew there so abundantly, and 
 which found a ready market at the groceries in town. 
 In Rocky Point, berries were considered public prop- 
 erty, and she had no thought that she was trespassing 
 until a voice close to her said, " What are you doing 
 here ? Begone, before I have you arrested." 
 
 In great alarm Mildred had seized her ten quart pail, 
 which was nearly full, and hurried away, never ventur- 
 ing again upon the forbidden ground. 
 
 "Yes, I remember it," she said, "but that wouldn't 
 keep me from being mistress of the Park, if I had a 
 chance and he wasn't there. Wouldn't I make a good 
 one ?" 
 
 " Ye-es," Hugh answered slowly, as he looked her 
 over from her head to her feet. " But you'll have to 
 grow taller and fill out some, and do something with 
 that snarly pate of yours, which looks this morning like 
 an oven broom," and with this thrust at her bushy hair 
 Hugh disappeared from the door just in time to escape 
 the dipper of water which went splashing after him. 
 
 " Oven broom, indeed !" Mildred said indignantly, 
 with a pull at the broom ; " I wonder if I am to blame 
 for my hair. 'I hate it !" 
 
 This was Mildred's favorite expression, and there 
 were but few things to which she had not applied it. 
 But most of all she hated her humble home and the 
 
AT TSOENTOlf pask. 345 
 
 boiled dinner she put upon the table just as the clock 
 struck twelve, wondering as she did so if they knew 
 what such a dish was at Thornton Park, and what they 
 were having there that day. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AT THORNTON PARK. 
 
 Meanwhile the barouche had stopped under the 
 grand archway at the side entrance of the Park house, 
 where a host of servants was in waiting ; the butler, 
 the housekeeper, the cook, the laundress, the maids, the 
 gardener and groom and several more, for, aping his 
 English ancestry and the custom of his mother's South- 
 ern home before the war, Mr. Thornton kept about him 
 a retinue of servants with whom he was very popular. 
 He paid them well and fed them well, and while re- 
 quiring from them the utmost deference, was kind in 
 every way, and they came crowding around him with 
 words of welcome and offers of assistance. Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton went at once to her room, while Alice was taken 
 possession of by her nurse, who had come from the city 
 the night before, and who soon had her charge in a 
 little willow carriage, drawing her around the grounds. 
 Gerard, who was a quiet, studious boy, went to the 
 library, while Mr. Thornton, after seeing that his wife 
 was comfortable, joined his little daughter, whose love 
 for her country home he knew, and to whom he said, 
 " I suppose you are quite happy now ?" 
 
S4:6 MttbftED's AMBtTloN. 
 
 "Yes, papa," she replied, " only I want somebody to 
 play with me. Ann is too big. I want Milly Leach. 
 She was so nice to me last summer. Can't I have her, 
 papa ?" 
 
 For Alice to want a thing was for her to have it, if 
 possession were possible, and her father answered her : 
 
 " Yes, daughter, you shall have her," without knowing 
 at all who Milly Leach was. But Alice explained that 
 she was the girl who lived in the little red house where 
 Ann had often taken her the summer before to play 
 with Tom and Bessie. And so it came about that Ann 
 was sent that afternoon to the farm house with a request 
 from Mr. Thornton that Mildred should come for the 
 summer and amuse his daughter. Three dollars a week 
 was the remuneration offered, for he always held out a 
 golden bait when the fish was doubtful, as he 
 thought it might be in this case. Mrs. Leach was 
 better, and sitting up while Mildred combed and brushed 
 the hair much like her own, except that it was softer 
 and smoother, because it had more care and there was 
 less of it. 
 
 " Oh, mother," she cried, when Ann made her 
 errand known, " can't I go ? Three dollars a week ! 
 Only think, what a lot ; and I'll give it all to you, and 
 you can get that pretty French calico at Mr. Overton's 
 store. May I go ?" 
 
 " Who will do the work when I'm sick ?" Mrs. Leach 
 asked, herself a good deal moved by the three dollars a 
 week, which seemed a fortune to her. 
 
 " I guess they'll let me come home when you have 
 a headache," Milly pleaded, and on this condition it 
 was finally arranged that she should go to the Park for 
 a time at least, and two days after we saw her shelling 
 
AT tflOfeNtoN t-ARg. S4? 
 
 p6aS and lotlging for a change, the change came and 
 she started out on her career in her best gingham dress 
 dnd white apron, With her small satchel of clothes in her 
 hand and a great lump in her throat as she kissed her 
 mother and Bessie and Charlie, and would have kissed 
 Tom if he had not disappeared with a don't-care air 
 and a watery look in his eyes, which he wiped with his 
 checked shirt sleeve, and then, boy-like, threw a green 
 apple after his sister, hiding behind the tree when she 
 looked around to see whence it came. 
 
 It was a lovely morning, and Thornton Park lay fair 
 and beautiful in the distance as she walked rapidly on 
 until a familiar whistle stopped her and she saw Hugh 
 hurrying across the fields and waving his hat to her. 
 
 " Hello !" he said, as he came to her side, " I nearly 
 broke my neck to catch you. And so you are 
 going to be a hired girl. Let me carry that satchel," 
 and he took it from her while she answered hotly, '' I 
 ain't a hired girl. I'm Allie's little friend ; that's what 
 she said when she came with Ann last night and we 
 made the bargain, and I'm to have three dollars a 
 week." 
 
 "Three dollars a week! That is big," Hugh said, 
 staggered a little at the price. " But, I say, don't go so 
 fast. Let's sit down awhile and talk ;" and seating him- 
 self upon a log, with Mildred beside him and the 
 satchel at his feet, he went on : " Milly, I don't want 
 you to go to Thornton Park. Won't you give it up ? 
 Seems as if I was losing you." 
 
 " You never had me to lose," was the girl's reply, and 
 Hugh continued : 
 
 " That's so ; but I mean that I like you better than any 
 
348 lIILtoEfeD's AMElTiOlf. 
 
 girl I ever knew ; like you just as I should my sister if 
 I had one." 
 
 Here Milly elevated her eyebrows a little, while 
 Hugh went on : " And I don't want you to go to that 
 fine place and learn to despise us all, and the old home 
 by the brook." 
 
 " I shall never do that, for I love father and mother 
 and Tom and Bessie and Charlie better than I do my- 
 self. I'd die for them, but I do hate the old house 
 and the poverty and work, and I mean to be a grand 
 lady and rich, and then I'll help them all, and you, too, 
 if you'll let me." 
 
 " I don't need your help, and I don't want to see you 
 a grand lady, and I don't want you to be snubbed by 
 that proud Thornton," Hugh replied, and Milly 
 answered quickly, with short, emphatic nods of. her 
 head : 
 
 " I sha'n't be snubbed by him, for if he sasses me I 
 shall sass him. I've made up my mind to that." 
 
 " And when you do may I be there to hear ; but you 
 are a brick, any way," was Hugh's laughing rejoinder, 
 and as Milly had risen to her feet, he, too, arose, and 
 taking up the satchel walked with her to the Park gate, 
 where he said good-bye, but called to her after a min- 
 ute, " 1 say, Milly, I have that pea-pod yet, and you are 
 beginning to wilt, but I am as plump as ever." 
 
 " Pshaw !" was Mildred's scornful reply, as she hur- 
 ried on through the Park, while Hugh walked slowly 
 down the road, wishing he had money and could give 
 it all to Milly. 
 
 "But I shall never be rich," he said to himself, " even 
 if I'm a lawyer as I mean to be, for only dishonest law- 
 
AT THOENTON PARK. 349 
 
 yers make money, they say, and I sha'n't be a cheat if I 
 never make a cent." 
 
 Meanwhile Milly had reached the house, which had 
 always impressed her with a good deal of awe, it was so 
 stately and grand. Going up to the front door she was 
 about to ring, when the same voice which had ordered 
 her from the berry pasture, said to her rather sharply : 
 
 " What are you doing here, little girl ?" 
 
 " I'm Mildred Leach, and I've come to be Allie's 
 little friend," Mildred answered, facing the speaker 
 squarely, with her satchel in both hands. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I know, but go to the side door, and say 
 Miss Alice instead of Allie," Mr. Thornton replied as he 
 began to puff at his cigar. 
 
 Here was sass at the outset, and remembering her 
 promise to Hugh, Milly gave a vigorous pull at the bell, 
 saying as she did so : 
 
 " I sha'n't call her Miss, and I shall go into the front 
 door, or I sha'n't stay. I ain't dirt !" 
 
 This speech was so astounding and unexpected, that 
 instead of resenting it, Mr. Thornton laughed aloud, 
 and as a servant just then came to the door, he saun- 
 tered away, saying to himself : 
 
 " Plucky, by Jove ; but if she suits Allie, I don't 
 care." 
 
 If Mr. Thornton had a redeeming trait it was his love 
 for his wife and children, especially little Alice, for 
 whom he would sacrifice everything, even his pride, 
 which is saying a great deal, and when, an hour later, he 
 found her in the Park with Mildred at her side making 
 dandelion curls for her, he was very gracious and 
 friendly, asking her how old she was, and giving her 
 numerous cjiarges with regard to his daughter, Tbeu 
 
350 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 he went away, while Mildred looked admiringly after 
 him, thinking how handsome he was in his city clothes, 
 and how different he was from her father. 
 
 " It's because he's rich and has money. I mean to 
 have some, too," she thought, and with the seeds of 
 ambition taking deeper and deeper root, she began her 
 life at Thornton Park, where she soon became a great 
 favorite, not only with Alice, but with Mrs. Thornton, 
 to whom she was almost as necessary as to Alice her- 
 self. 
 
 Regularly every Saturday night her three dollars 
 were paid to her, and as regularly every Sunday morn- 
 ing she took them home, where they were very accept- 
 able, for Mr. Leach had not the least idea of thrift, and 
 his daughter's wages tided over many an ugly gap in 
 the household economy. Mrs. Leach had the French 
 calico gown, and Charlie a pair of red shoes, and Bessie 
 a new white frock, and Tom a new straw hat, but for 
 all that they missed Mildred everywhere, she was so 
 helpful and willing, even when rebelling most against 
 her condition, and when in September Mrs. Thornton 
 proposed that she should go with them to New York, 
 Mrs. Leach refused so decidedly that the wages were 
 at once doubled, and six dollars a week offered in place 
 of three. Money was nothing to Mrs. Thornton, and as 
 what she set her mind upon she usually managed to get, 
 she succeeded in this, and when in October the family 
 returned to the city, Mildred went with them, very 
 smart in the new suit Mrs. Thornton had given her, 
 and very red about the eyes from the tears she had 
 shed when saying good-bye to her home. 
 
 " If I'd known I should feel this way, I believe I 
 wouldn't have gone," she had thoug;ht, as she wept 
 
AT THOENTON PAEK. 351 
 
 from room to room with Charlie in her arms, Bes- 
 sie holding her hand, and Tom following in the rear, 
 whistling "The girl I left behind me," and trying to 
 seem very brave. 
 
 On a bench by the brook which ran back of the house 
 Mildred at last sat down with Charlie in her lap, and 
 looking at the water running so fast at her feet, won- 
 dered if she should ever see it again, and where Hugh 
 was that he did not come to say good-bye. She had a 
 little package for him, and when at last he appeared, 
 and leaping across the brook, sat down beside her, she 
 gave it to him, and said with a forced laugh : 
 
 "A splint from the oven broom. You used to ask 
 for one, and here 'tis." 
 
 He knew what she meant, and opening the paper saw 
 one of her dark curls. 
 
 " Thanks, Milly," he said, with a lump in his throat. 
 " I'll keep it, and the peas, too, till yoti come back. 
 When will that be ?" 
 
 " I don't know ; next summer, most likely ; though 
 perhaps I shall stay away until I'm such a fine lady that 
 you won't know me. I'm to study with Allie's gover- 
 ness and learn everything, so as to teach some time," she 
 said. 
 
 " Here's the carriage," Tom called round the corner, 
 and kissing Charlie and Bessie and Tom, who did not 
 resist her now, and crying on her mother's neck, and 
 wringing her father's hard hand and saying good-bye to 
 Hugh, she went out from the home where for many a 
 Jong year she was not seen again, 
 
352 Mildred's ambition, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 INCIDENTS OF FIFTEEN YEARS. 
 
 At first the inmates of the farmhouse missed the 
 young girl sadly ; but they gradually learned to get on 
 very well without her, and when in the spring word came 
 that Mrs. Thornton was going to Europe and wished 
 to take Mildred with her, offering as an inducement a 
 sum far beyond what they knew the girl's services were 
 worth, and when Mildred, too, joined her entreaties with 
 Mrs. Thornton's, telling of the advantage the foreign 
 life would be to her, as she was to share in Alice's 
 instruction, the father and mother consented, with no 
 thought, however, that she would not return within the 
 year. When Hugh heard of it he went alone into the 
 woods, and sitting down near the chestnut tree, where 
 'he and Milly had of ten 'gathered the brown nuts to- 
 gether, thought the matter out in his plain, practical 
 way. 
 
 " That ends it with Milly," he said. " Europe will 
 turn her head, and if she ever comes home she wHl 
 despise us more than ever and me most of all, with my 
 gawky manners and big hands and feet." 
 
 Then, taking from his pocket a little box, he opened 
 it carefully, and removing a fold of paper looked wist- 
 fully at the contents. A curl of dark-brown hair and a 
 gray pod with two peas inside, — one shriveled and 
 harder than the other, and as it seemed to him harder 
 and more shriveled than when he last looked at it. 
 
 « It's just as I thought it would be," he said, " She 
 
INCIDENTS OF FIFTEEN YEARS. 353 
 
 will grow away from me with her French and German 
 and foreign ways, unless I grow with her," and for the 
 first time in his life Hugh felt the stirring of a genuine 
 and laudable ambition. " T will make something of 
 myself," he said. " I have it in me, I know." 
 
 The curl and the peas were put away, and from that 
 time forward Hugh's career was onward and upward, 
 first to school in Pittsfield, then to college at Amherst, 
 then to a law office in Albany, and then ten years later 
 back to Rocky Point, where he devoted himself to his 
 profession and won golden laurels as the most honora- 
 ble and prominent lawyer in all the mountain district. 
 Rocky Point had had a boom in the meantime, and now 
 spread itself over the hillside and across the pasture 
 land, almost to the red farm house which stood by the 
 running brook, its exterior a little changed, as blinds 
 had been added and an extra room with a bow window, 
 which looked toward the village and the brook. And 
 here on summer mornings fifteen years after Mildred 
 went away a pale-faced woman sat, with her hair now 
 white as snow, combed smoothly back from her brow, 
 her hands folded on her lap, and her eyes turned towards 
 the window through which she knew the sun was shin- 
 ing brightly, although she could not see it, for Mrs. 
 Leach was blind. Headache and hereditary disease had 
 done their work, and when her husband died she could 
 not see his face, on which her tears fell so fast. For 
 more than two years he had been lying in the cemetery 
 up the mountain road, and beside his grave was another 
 and a shorter one, nearly level with the ground, for it 
 was twelve years since Charlie died and won the golden 
 crown which Milly had promised him that day when th^ 
 spirit of prophecy vvas upon her, 
 
354 Mildred's ambition; 
 
 During all these years Mildred had never come back 
 to the old home which bore so many proofs of her lov- 
 ing remembrance, for every dollar she could spare from 
 her liberal allowance was sent to her people. Mrs. 
 Thornton had died in Paris, where Alice was so far 
 cured of her spinal trouble that only a slight limp told 
 that she had ever been lame. At the time" of Mrs. 
 Thornton's death there was staying in the same hotel 
 an English lady, a widow, who had recently lost her 
 only daughter, a girl about Mildred's age, with some- 
 thing of Mildred's look in her eyes. To this lady, 
 whose name was Mrs. Gardner, Mildred had in her 
 helpful way rendered many little services and made 
 herself so agreeable that when Mrs. Thornton died 
 the lady offered to take her as her companion and pos- 
 sibly adopted daughter, if the girl proved all she hoped 
 she might. When this proposal was made to Mr. 
 Thornton he neither assented nor objected. The girl 
 could do as she pleased, he said, and as she pleased to 
 go she went, sorry to leave Alice, but glad to escape 
 from the father, whose utter indifference and apparent 
 forgetfulness of her presence in his family, had chafed 
 and offended her. Rude he had never been to her, but 
 she might have been a mere machine, so far as he had 
 any interest in or care for her. She was simply a ser- 
 vant, whose name he scarcely remembered, and of 
 whose family he knew very little when Mrs. Gardner 
 questioned him of them. 
 
 " Very poor and very common ; such as would be 
 called peasantry on the continent," he said, and Mil- 
 dred, who accidentally overheard the remark, felt the 
 hot blood stain her face and throb through her veins as 
 .^he registered a vow that this proud, cold man, who 
 
IN0IDENT8 OF FIFTEEN TEAKS. 355 
 
 likened her to a peasant, should some day hold a differ- 
 ent opinion of her. 
 
 She was nearly fifteen now, and older than her years 
 with her besetting sin, ambition, intensified by her, life 
 abroad, and as she saw, in the position which Mrs. 
 Gardner offered her an added round to the ladder she 
 was climbing, she took it unhesitatingly, and went with 
 her to Switzerland, from which place she wrote to her 
 mother, asking pardon if she had done wrong, and en- 
 closing fifty pounds' which she had been saving for her. 
 
 " Taken the bits in her teeth," was Hugh's comment, 
 when he heard of it, while Mr. and Mrs. Leach 
 mourned over their wayward daughter, whose loving 
 letters, however, and substantial gifts made some 
 amends for her protracted absence. 
 
 She had gone with Mr.s. Gardner as a companion, but 
 grew so rapidly into favor that the lady began at last 
 to call her daughter, and when she found that her 
 middle name was Frances, to address her as Fanny, the 
 name of the little girl she had lost, and to register her 
 as Miss Gardner. To this Mildred at first objected as- 
 something not quite honorable, but when she saw how 
 much more attention Fanny Gardner received than 
 Mildred Leach had done, she gave up the point, and 
 became so accustothed to her new name that the sound 
 3f the old would have seemed strange to her had she 
 heard it spoken. Of the change, however, she never 
 told her mother, and seldom said much of Mrs. Gardner, 
 except that she was kind and rich and handsome, with 
 many suitors for her hand, and when at last she wrote 
 that the lady had married a Mr. Harwood, and spoke of 
 her ever after as Mrs. Harwood, the name Gardner 
 passed in time entirely from the minds of both Mr. and 
 
356 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 Mrs. Leach, who, being very human, began to feel a 
 pride in the fact that they had a daughter abroad, 
 who was growing into a fine lady and could speak both 
 German and French. 
 
 From point to point Mildred traveled with the Har- 
 woods, passing always as Mrs. Harwood's adopted 
 daughter, which she was to all intents and purposes. 
 And in a way she was very happy, although at times 
 there came over her such a longing for home that she 
 was half resolved to give up all her grandeur and go 
 back to the life she had so detested. They were at a 
 villa on the Rhine, not very far from Constance, when 
 she heard of Charlie's death, and burying her face in 
 the soft grass of the terrace she sobbed as if her heart 
 were broken. 
 
 " Oh, Charlie," she moaned, " dead, and I not there 
 to see you. I never dreamed that you would die ; and 
 I meant to do so much for you when you were older. 
 I wish I had never left you, Charlie, my darling." 
 
 Could Mildred have had her way she would have gone 
 home then, but Mrs. Harwood would not permit it, and 
 so the years went on until in Egypt she heard of her 
 father's death, and that her mother was blind. It was 
 Tom who wrote her the news, which he did not break 
 very gently, for in a way he resented his sister's long 
 absence, and let her know that he did. 
 
 " Not that we really need you," he wrote, " for Bessie 
 sees to the house, which is fixed up a good deal, thanks 
 to you and mother's Uncle Silas. Did you ever hear of 
 him ? I scarcely had until he died last year and left us 
 five thousand dollars, which makes us quite rich, We 
 have some blinds and a new room with a bay window 
 and a girl to do the work ; so, j^ou s^e, we are very fine, 
 
INCIDENTS OF FIFTEEN TEAES. SSt 
 
 but mother is always fretting for you, and more since 
 she was blind, lamenting that she can never see your 
 face again. Should we know you, I wonder ? I guess 
 not, it is so long since you went away, thirteen years. 
 Wh}'-, you are twenty-six ! Almost an old maid, and I 
 suppose an awful swell, with your French and German 
 and Italian. Bessie can speak French a little. She is 
 eighteen, and the handsomest girl you ever saw, unless 
 it is Alice Thornton, whose back is straight as a string. 
 She comes to Thornton Park every summer with Ger- 
 ard, and when she isn't here with Bessie, Bessie is there 
 with her. Mr. Thornton is in town sometimes, high and 
 mighty as ever, with a face as black as thunder when 
 he sees Gerard talking French to Bessie, for it was of 
 him she learned.it. I have been away to the Academy 
 several quarters, and would like to go to college, but 
 shall have to give that up, now father is dead. Did I 
 tell you I was reading law with Hugh ? He is a big 
 man every way, stands six feet in his slippers, and head 
 and shoulders above every lawyer in these parts. Why, 
 they sometimes send for him to go to Albany to try a 
 suit. I used to think he was sweet on you, but he has 
 not mentioned you for a longtime, except when mother 
 got blind, and then he said, ' Milly ought to be here.' 
 But don't fret ; we get along well enough, and you 
 wouldn't be happy with us. " Yours, 
 
 " Tom." 
 
 When Mildred read this letter she made'up her mind 
 to go home at any cost, and would have done so, if on 
 her return from Naples she had not been stricken down 
 with a malarial fever, which kept her an invalid for 
 months, and when she recovered from it there had come 
 
358 mildeed's ambition. 
 
 into her life a new excitement which absorbed every 
 other thought, and led finally to a result without which 
 this story would never have been written. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AT THE FARM HOUSE. 
 
 It was fifteen years since Milly Leach sat shelling 
 peas on the doorstep where now two young girls were 
 sitting, one listening to and the other reading a letter 
 which evidently excited and agitated her greatly. It 
 was as follows : 
 
 " Langham's, London, May — , i8 — . 
 
 " Dear Alice, — " You will probably be surprised to 
 hear that I am going to be married to a Miss Fanny Gard- 
 ner, whom I first met in Florence. She is twenty-seven 
 or twenty-eight, and the most beautiful woman I ever 
 saw, and good as she is beautiful. You are sure to like 
 her. The ceremony takes place at church in Lon- 
 don, and after the wedding breakfast at her mother's 
 town house we shall go for a short time to Wales and 
 Ireland and then sail for home. 
 
 " I suppose you and Gerard are at the Park, or will 
 be soon, and I want you to see that everything is in 
 order. We s'hall occupy the suite of rooms on the south 
 side of the house instead of the east, and I'd like to have 
 them refurnished throughout, and will leave everything 
 to your good taste, only suggesting that although Miss 
 Gardner's hair is rather a peculiar color, — golden brown, 
 some might call it, — she is not a blonde ; neither is she 
 
AT THE VAHM HOTISE. 359 
 
 a brunette ; and such tints as soft French grays and 
 pinks will suit her better than blue. The wedding day- 
 is fixed for June — . Shall telegraph as soon as we 
 reach New York, and possibly write you before. 
 " Your loving father, 
 
 "Giles Thornton." 
 
 " Oh — h," and the girl who was listening drew a long 
 breath. " Oh — h ! Going to be married, — to Fanny 
 Gardner. That's a pretty name. She's English, I sup- 
 pose. I guess you'll like her ;" and Bessie put her hand, 
 half pityingly, half caressingly upon the arm of her 
 friend, down whose cheeks two great tears were rolling. 
 
 "Yes, "Alice replied; "but it is so sudden, and I'm 
 thinking of mother. I wonder what Gerard will say. 
 There he is now. Oh, Gerard," she called, as a young 
 man came through the gate and seating himself upon a 
 lower step took Bessie's hand in his and held it while 
 the bright blush on her lovely face told what he was to 
 her. 
 
 " What's the matter, Allie ?" he said to his sister, 
 " You look solemn as a graveyard." 
 
 " Papa is going to be married," Alice replied, with a 
 sob. 
 
 " Wha — at !" and Gerard started to his feet. " Father 
 married ! Why, he is nearly fifty years old. Let me 
 see," — and taking the letter from Alice he read it aloud, 
 commenting as he read.' " Twenty-seven or twenty- 
 eight ; not much older than I am, for I am twenty-five ; 
 quite too young for me to call her mother. ' The most 
 beautiful woman I ever saw.' He must he hard hit. 
 
 * Ceremony takes place ' Why, girls, it's to-day ! 
 
 It's past. I congratulate you, Allie, on a stepmother 
 
360 
 
 and here's to her health from her son ;" and stooping 
 over Beesie he kissed her before she could remonstrate. 
 
 Just then Hugh McGregor came up the walk, and 
 taking off his straw hat wiped the perspiration from 
 his face, while he stood for a moment surveying the 
 group before him with a quizzical smile upon his lips. 
 Ffteen years had changed Hugh from the tall, awk- 
 ward boy of seventeen into the taller, less awkward 
 man of thirty-two, who, having mingled a good deal 
 with the world, had acquired much of the ease and 
 polish which such mingling brings. Handsome he 
 could not be called ; there was too much of the rugged 
 Scotch in him for that, but he had something better 
 than beauty in his frank, honest face and kindly blue 
 eyes, which bespoke the man who could be trusted to 
 the death and never betray the trust. He, too, had 
 received a letter from Mr. Thornton, whose business in 
 Rocky Point he had in charge, and after reading it had 
 gone to Thornton Park with the news. Finding both 
 Alice and Gerard absent, he had followed on to the 
 farm house where he was sure they were. 
 
 " I see you know it," he said, pointing to the letter in 
 Gerard's hand. I have heard from your father and 
 came to tell you. Did you suspect this at all ?" 
 
 " No," Alice replied ; " he has never written a word of 
 any Miss Gardner. I wonder who she is." 
 
 " I don't know," Hugh answered slowly, while there 
 swept over him the same sensation he had experienced 
 when he first saw the name in Mr. Thornton's letter. 
 
 It did not seem quite new, and he repeated it over 
 and over again but did not associate it with Mildred 
 although she was often in his mind, more as a pleasant 
 memory now, perhaps, for the feelings of the man were 
 
AT THE FARM HOUSE. 361 
 
 not quite what the boy's had been, and in one sense 
 Milly had dropped out of his life. When she first went 
 away, and he was in school, everything was done with 
 a direct reference to making of himself something of 
 which Milly would be proud when she came back. 
 But Milly had not come back, and the years had crept 
 on and he was a man honored among men, and in his 
 busy life had but little leisure for thought beyond his 
 business. It was seldom now that he looked at the 
 dark brown curl, or the little pea in the pod, hard as 
 a bullet, and shriveled almost to nothing. But when 
 he did he always thought of the summer day years 
 ago and the young girl on the steps and the sound of 
 the brook gurgling over the stones as it ran under the 
 little bridge. And it all came back to him now, with 
 news of Mr. Thornton's bride, though why it should he 
 could not tell. He only knew that Milly was haunting 
 him that morning with strange persistency, and his first 
 question to Bessie was," When did you hear from your 
 sister ?" 
 
 " Last night. She is in London, or was, — but wrote 
 she was going on a journey and then was coming home. 
 I shall believe that when I see her. Mother has the let- 
 ter, and will be glad to see you," was Bessie's reply, 
 and Hugh went into the pleasant, sunny room where 
 the blind woman was sitting, with her hands folded on 
 her lap and a listening expression on her face. 
 
 " Oh, Hugh," she exclaimed, " I am glad you have 
 come. I want to talk to you." 
 
 Straightening her widow's cap, which was a little 
 awry, as deftly as a woman could have done, he sat down 
 beside her, while she continued, as she drew a letter 
 from her bosom, where she always kept Milly's last. 
 
362 mildeed's ambitioiiT. 
 
 " I heard from Milly last night. I am afraid she is not 
 happy, but she is coming home by and by. She says so. 
 Read it, please." 
 Taking the letter he began to read : 
 
 " London, May — , i8 — . 
 
 " Darlin<j Mother : — " I am in London, but shall not 
 stay long, for I am going on a journey, and it may be 
 weeks, if not months, before I can write you again. But 
 don't worry. If anything happens to me you will know 
 it. I am quite well and — oh, mother, I never loved you 
 as I do now or needed your prayers so much. Pray for 
 me. I can't pray for myself, but I'd give half my life 
 to put my arms around your neck and look into your 
 dear, blind eyes, which, if they could see, would not know 
 me, I am so changed. My hair fell out when I was so 
 sick in Naples, and is not the same color it used to be. 
 Everything is different. Oh, if I could see you, and I 
 shall in the fall, if I live. 
 
 " Give my love to Tom and Be.ssie, and tell Hugh, 
 
 No, don't tell him anything. God bless you, darling 
 mother. Good-bye. 
 
 " From 
 
 " Mildred F. Leach." 
 
 Hugh's face was a study as he read this letter, which 
 sounded like a cry for help from an aching heart. Was 
 Milly unhappy, and if so, why ? he asked himself as he 
 still held the letter with his eyes fixed upon the words 
 
 " Tell Hugh No, don't tell him anything." Did they 
 
 mean that in her trouble she had for a moment turned 
 to him, he wondered, but quickly put that thought 
 aside. She had been too long silent to think of him 
 now ; and he was content that it should be so. Hislik- 
 ing for her had been but a boy's fancy for a little girl, 
 
AT THE FAEM HOUSE. 363 
 
 he reasoned, atid yet, as he held the letter in his hand, 
 it seemed to bring Milly very near to him, and he saw 
 her plainly as she looked when entering Thornton Park 
 that morning so long ago. " I felt I was losing her 
 then. I am sure of it now," he was thinking, when Mrs. 
 Leach asked what he thought of Milly's letter, and 
 where he supposed she was going, and what ailed her. 
 
 Hugh was Mrs. Leach's confidant and oracle, whom 
 she consulted on all occasions, and Tom himself was no 
 kinder or tenderer in his manner to her than this big- 
 hearted Scotchman, who soothed and comforted her now 
 just as he always did, and then, without returning to the 
 young people by the door he went out through the long 
 window of Mrs. Leach's room and off across the fields 
 to the woods on the mountain side, where he sat down 
 upon a rocky ledge to rest, wondering why the day was 
 so oppressive, and why the words " Tell Hugh " should 
 affect him so strangely, and why Mildred seemed so 
 near to him that once he put up his hand with a feeling 
 that he should touch her little hard, brown hand, 
 browned and hardened with the work she hated so 
 much. It was not often that he indulged in sentiment 
 of this kind, but the spell was on him, and he sat bound 
 by it until the whistle from the large shop had called 
 the workmen from their dinners. Then he arose and 
 went down the mountain road to his office, saying to 
 himself : " I wonder where she is to-day, when I am so 
 impressed with a sense of her nearness that I believe 
 she is thinking of me," and with this comforting assur- 
 ance, Hugh was very patient and kind to the old woman 
 whose will he had changed a dozen times, and who 
 came to have it changed again, without a thought of 
 offering him any remuneration for his trouble. 
 
364 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 Meantime the group by the door had been joined by 
 Tom, who had grown into just the kind of man Whit- 
 tier's barefoot boy would have grown into if he had 
 grown at all, — a frank, sunny-faced young man, whom 
 every old woman and young girl liked, and whom one 
 young girl loved with all the intensity of her nature, 
 caring nothing that he was poor and one whom her 
 proud father would scorn as a son-in-law. They were 
 not exactly engaged, — for Alice said her father must be 
 consulted first, and they were waiting for him, while 
 Gerard, who could wait for nothing where Bessie was 
 concerned, was drinking his fill of love in her blue eyes, 
 with no thought or care as to whether his father would 
 oppose him or not. 
 
 " Hello, you are all here," Tom said, as he came 
 round the corner and laid his hand on Allie's shoulder ; 
 then, glancing at her face, he continued : " Why, you've 
 been crying. What's the matter, Allie ?" 
 
 " Oh, Tom, papa is married to-day, — to Fanny Gard- 
 ner, an English girl with golden-brown hair and only 
 twenty-eight years old and very handsome, he says. I 
 know I shall hate her," Alice sobbed, while Tom burst 
 into a merry laugh. 
 
 " Your father married to a girl with golden-brown 
 hair, which should be gray to match his, — that is a 
 shame, by Jove. But, I say, Allie, I'm glad of it, for 
 with a young wife at Thornton Park, you will be de trap, 
 don't you see ?" And just as Gerard had done to Bes- 
 sie so Tom did to Alice — kissed her pale face, with his 
 best wishes to the bride, who was discussed pretty 
 freely, from her name to the furniture of her room 
 which was to harmonize with the complexion of one 
 
THE BRIDIE. 365 
 
 ■who was neither a blond nor a brunette, but very beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 For the next few weeks there was a great deal of 
 bustle and excitement at Thornton Park, where Bessie 
 went every day to talk over and assist in the arrange- 
 ment of the bridal rooms, which were just completed 
 when there came a telegram from New York saying 
 that the newly married pair had arrived and would be 
 home the following day. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 A CuNARD steamer had landed its living freight at 
 the wharf, where there was the usual scramble and con- 
 fusion, as trunks and boxes were opened and angry, ex- 
 cited women confronted with their spoils by relentless 
 custom house officers, bent upon doing their duty, unless 
 stopped by the means so frequently employed upon 
 such occasions. Outside the long building stood an 
 open carriage in which a lady sat, very simply but ele- 
 gautly attired, with money, and Paris, and Worth show- 
 ing in every article of her dress, from her round hat to 
 her dainty boots, which could not be called small, for 
 the feet they covered harmonized with the lady herself, 
 who was tall and well proportioned, with a splendidly 
 developed figure, on which anything looked well. There 
 was a brilliant color in her cheeks, and her brown eyes 
 were large and bright and beautiful, but very sad as 
 
366 mildked's ambition. 
 
 they looked upon the scenes around her without seem- 
 ing to see anything. Nor did their expression change 
 when she was joined by an elderly man, who, taking 
 his seat beside her, said first to the driver : 
 
 "To the Windsor," and then to her, "I was longer 
 than I thought I should be ; those rascally officers gave 
 me a world of trouble, but we shall soon be at the hotel 
 now. Are you very tired ?" 
 
 The question was asked very tenderly, for Giles 
 Thornton was greatly in love with his bride of a few- 
 weeks. He had first met her in Florence, where she 
 was recovering from the long illness which had lasted 
 for months and made her weak as a child and almost as 
 helpless. During her sickness her hair had fallen out,, 
 and owing to some unusual freak of nature it had come in 
 much lighter than it was before and not so curly, al- 
 though it still lay in wavy masses upon her head, and 
 here and there coiled itself into rings around her fore- 
 head. The Harwoods were staying at the same hotel 
 with Mr. Thornton, and it was in the Boboli Gardens 
 that he first met her as she was being wheeled in an 
 invalid chair by her attendant. 
 
 " Will he know me ?" was her first thought when he 
 was presented to her. 
 
 But there was no fear of that, for Mildred Leach had 
 passed as wholly out of his mind as if he had never 
 seen her, and if she had not there was no danger of his 
 recognizing the girl who had been his daughter's com- 
 panion in this lovely woman whose voice and manner 
 and appearance were indicative of the refinement and 
 cultivation to which for years she had been accustomed. 
 To him she was Miss Gardner, an English girl, and 
 during the half hour he walked by her chair in the gar- 
 
THE BEIDE. 367 
 
 dens, he felt his heart throb as it had never throbbed 
 since he buried his wife. He had loved her devotedly 
 and had never thought to fill her place until now when 
 love did its work at first sight, and when two weeks 
 later the Harwoods left Florence for Venice and Switz- 
 erland, he was with them, to all intents and purposes 
 Mildred's lover, although he had not openly announced 
 himself as such. 
 
 To Mrs. HarwQod Mildred had said, " Don't tell him 
 who I am. I prefer to do that when the time conies. 
 I am going to punish him for calling my father a peas- 
 ant when you inquired about him. I heard him. I 
 have not forgotton." 
 
 And so Mr. Thornton went blindly to his fate, which 
 came one day in Ouchy in the grounds of the Beau 
 Rivage, where Mildred was sitting alone, with her eyes 
 fixed upon the lake and the mountains beyond, and her 
 thoughts back in the old farm house, with her mother 
 and Bessie and Tom and Hugh, of whom she had not 
 heard a word for months. 
 
 " He has forgotten me," she said to herself, " and 
 why shouldn't he? I was never much to him, and 
 yet " 
 
 She did not get any farther, for there was a footstep 
 near ; some one was coming, and in a moment Mr. 
 Thornton said to her, " Alone, Miss Gardner, and 
 dreaming ? May I dispel the dream and sit beside you 
 a moment ?" 
 
 Mildred knew then what was before her, as well as 
 she did half an hour later, during which time Giles 
 Thornton had laid himself and his fortune at her feet, 
 and what was harder than all to meet, had made her be- 
 lieve that h? loy^d h^r, She knew that he admired her, 
 
368 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 but she had not counted upon his love, which moved 
 her a little, for Mr. Thornton was not a man to whom 
 one could listen quietly when he was in earnest and re- 
 solved to carrj' his point, and for an instant Mildred 
 wavered. It was something to be Mrs. Giles Thornton, 
 of Thornton Park, and ought to satisfy her ambition. 
 With all her beauty and social advantages, she as yet 
 had received no eligible offer. It was known that she 
 had no money, and only an Italian count and the young- 
 est son of an English earl had asked her hand in mar- 
 riage. But both were poor, and one almost an imbecile, 
 from whom she shrank in disgust. Mr. Thornton was 
 different ; he was a gentleman of wealth and position, 
 and as his wife she would for a part of the year live 
 near her family. But with the thought of them there 
 came the memory of an overgrown, awkward boy, 
 whose feet and hands were so big that he never knew 
 what to do with them, but whose heart was so much 
 bigger than his feet and hands, that it bore down the 
 scale and Mr. Thornton's chance was lost for the time 
 being. 
 
 " Hugh may never be anything to me," she thought, 
 "but I must see him before I give myself to any one." 
 
 Then turning to Mr. Thornton, she said, " I thank 
 you for your offer, which I believe is sincere, and that 
 makes it harder for me to tell you what I must. Do 
 you remember a girl, Mildred Leach, who was your 
 daughter's little friend, as she called herself, for she 
 was as proud as you, and would not be a maid ?" 
 
 " Ye-es," Mr. Thornton stammered, as he looked 
 wistfully into the beautiful face confroftting him so 
 steadily. " I had forgotton her entirely, but I remem- 
 ber now. She left us to go with an English lady, ^ 
 
THE BEIDE. 369 
 
 Mrs. Gardner. Why, that is Mrs. Harwood, — and, — and, 
 — oh, you are not she !" 
 
 " Yes, I am," was Mildred's reply, and then very 
 rapidly she told her story, not omitting her having over- 
 heard him liken her parents to peasants when speaking 
 of them to Mrs. Gardner. " I determined then, she 
 said, " that if possible I would one day humble your 
 pride, but if I have done so, it has not given nie the 
 satisfaction I thought it would, and I am sorry to cause 
 you pain, for I believe you were in earnest when you 
 asked me to be your wife, which I can never be." 
 
 "No," he answered slowly, like one who had received 
 a blow from which he could not at once recover. " No, 
 you can never be my wife ; Mildred Leach ; it does not 
 seem possible." 
 
 Then he arose and walked rapidly away, and when 
 the evening boat left Ouchy for Geneva he was on it, 
 going he cared but little where, if by going he could 
 forget the past as connected with Mildred Leach. 
 
 " I cannot marry her famil)'," he said many times dur- 
 ing the next few months, when he was wandering every- 
 where and vainly trying to forget her, for always before 
 him was the face he had never admired so much as 
 when he last saw it, flushed and pale by turns, with a 
 wondrous light in the brown eyes where tears were 
 gathering. " If it were not for her family, or if I could 
 separate her from them, I would not give her up," he 
 had often thought when in the following May he met 
 her again at the Grand Hotel in Paris, where the Har- 
 woods were stopping. 
 
 He could not tell what it was which impressed him 
 with the idea that she had changed her mind, as she 
 game forwai"d to rpeet him, saying she was i^lad to see 
 
370 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 him, and adding that Mr. and Mrs. Harwood had gone 
 to the opera. She seemed very quiet and absent 
 minded at first, and then rousing herself, said to him 
 abruptly, " You did not stop long enough in Ouehy for 
 me to inquire after my family. You must have seen 
 them often since I left home." 
 
 " Yes,^ — no," he answered in some embarrassment ; 
 " I have of course been to Thornton Park, but I do not 
 remember much about them. I believe your father 
 rents, or did rent, some land of me, but am not sure, as 
 my agent attends to all that." 
 
 "My father is dead," Mildred answered so sharply as 
 to make him jump and color painfully, as if gitilty of a 
 misdemeanor in not knowing that her father was dead. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I am very sorry. I, — yes, — am 
 very sorry," he began ; but she cut him short by say- 
 ing, " Do you know Hugh McGregor ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. I know him well," and Mr. Thornton 
 brightened perceptibly. " He is my lawyer, and at- 
 tends to all my business in Rocky Point ; a fine fellow, 
 — a very fine fellow. Do you know him ?" 
 
 " Yes," Mildred replied, while her breath came heav- 
 ily, " I know him, and I hear he is to marry my sister 
 Bessie." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," and as if memory had suddenly come 
 back to him, Mr. Thornton seemed immensely relieved. 
 " I remember now, — Bessie Leach ; that's the girl I 
 have sometimes seen with Alice. Gerard taught her 
 French, — a very pretty girl. And Mr. McGregor is en- 
 gaged to her ? I am very glad. Any girl might be 
 proud to marry him." 
 
 Mildred made no reply to this, and Mr. Thornton 
 never guessed the dreary emptiness of her soul as she 
 
THE BRIDE. 371 
 
 sat with her hands clasped tightly together, thinking of 
 the man whom any girl would be proud to marry. A 
 few months before she would have said that he was 
 nothing more to her than the friend of her childhood, 
 but she had recently learned her mistake, and that 
 the thought of seeing him again was one of the pleas- 
 antest anticipations of her home going. There had 
 come to the hotel a Mr. and Mrs. Hayford from Amer- 
 ica, who sometimes spent their summers at Rocky 
 Point, where Mrs. Hayford was once a teacher. As 
 Mildred had been her pupil, she remembered her at 
 once, after hearing the name, and would have intro- 
 duced herself but for a conversation accidentally over- 
 heard between Mrs. Hayford and a friend who had also 
 been at Rocky Point, and to whom she was retailing 
 the news, first of New York and then of Rocky Point, 
 where she had spent a few days in April prior to sail- 
 ing. 
 
 " Do you remember that Hercules of a lawyer, Hugh 
 McGregor, whom you admired so much ?" was asked. 
 " They say he is engaged to Bessie Leach, a girl much 
 younger than himself, but very pretty, — beautiful, in 
 fact, and 
 
 Mildred heard no more, but hurried away, with an 
 ache in her heart that she could not quite define. Tom 
 had intimated that Gerard was interested in Bessie, and 
 now Hugh was engaged to her. Well, it was all right, 
 she said, and would not admit to herself how hard the 
 blow had struck her and how she smarted under it. 
 And it was just when the smart was at its keenest that 
 Mr. Thornton came again across her path, more in love, 
 if possible, than ever, and more intent upon making her 
 jjis wife. He had fought a desperate battle with his 
 
372 milt)ked's ambition. 
 
 pride and had conquered it, and within twenty-four hours 
 after meeting her in Paris, she had promised to marry 
 him, and when her pledge was given she was conscious 
 of a feeling of quiet and content which she had scarcely 
 hoped for. In his character as lover Mr. Thornton did 
 not seem at all like the man she had feared in her 
 childhood, nor if he felt it did he gave the slightest 
 sign that he was stooping from his high position. She 
 had been very frank with him and had made no pre- 
 tension of love. " I will be true to you," she said, " and 
 try to please you in everything. I am tired of the aim- 
 less life I have led so many years, and I think Mrs. 
 Harwood is a little tired of me too. She says I ought 
 to have married long ago, but I could not marry a fool 
 even if he had a title. I shall be so glad to go home to 
 my friends, although I am so changed they will never 
 know me." 
 
 Then she added laughingly : " Wouldn't it be great 
 fun not to write them who I am and see if they will 
 recognize me ?" 
 
 She did not really mean what she said, or guess that 
 it harmonized perfectly with a plan which Mr. Thornton 
 had in mind, and was resolved to carry out, if possible. 
 If he could have had his wish he would not have gone 
 to Rocky Point at. all, but his children were there and 
 Mildred's heart was set upon it, and he must meet the 
 difficulty in some way. He could marry Mildred, but 
 not her family, and he shrank from the intimacy which 
 must necessarily exist between the Park and the farm 
 house when it was known who his wife was. In his 
 estimation the Leaches were nobodies, and he could not 
 have them running in and out of Iiis house and treating 
 bin} with the familiarity of a son and brother, as he wag 
 
The BRing. 873 
 
 3nre they would do If he did not stop it. If Mildred 
 would consent to remain incognito while at the Park 
 the annoyance would be prevented, and this consent 
 he tried to gain by many specious arguments. His 
 real reason, he knew, must be kept from sight, and so 
 he asked it as a personal favor, saying it would please 
 him very much and be a kind of excitement for her. 
 
 " Possibly you will be recognized," he saii ; '' and if 
 so, all right ; if not, we will tell them jus"; before we 
 go to New York in the autumn and enjoy their sur- 
 prise.'' 
 
 He did not add that, once away from Rocky Point, it 
 would probably be long before he took her there again. 
 He only talked of the plan as a joke, which Mildred did 
 not quite see. She was willing to keep the secret until 
 she met them, but to keep it longer was absurd and 
 foolish, she said, and involved a deception, which she 
 abhorred. 
 
 " I accepted you partly that I might be near them 
 and see them every day," she said, "and am longing to 
 throw my arms around mother's neck and tell her I have 
 come back." 
 
 "And so you shall in time, but humor my whim for 
 once. You will not be sorry," Mr. Thornton pleaded, 
 and Mildred consented at last, and felt in a measure 
 repaid when she saw how happy it made Mr. Thornton, 
 whose real motive she did not guess. 
 
 This was the last of April, and six weeks later Mil- 
 dred was Mrs. Giles Thornton, traveling through Scot- 
 land and Wales and trying to believe herself happy iu 
 her husband's love and the costly gifts he lavished 
 upon her. She had been courted and admired as Fanny 
 Gardner, but the deference paid her now and -her inde- 
 
374 MtLDRTCD's ■ AMBITIOT^. 
 
 pendence were very sweet to her, and if she could have 
 forgotten Hugh and been permitted to make herself 
 known to her family, she would have been content at 
 least on the morning when she left New York and 
 started for Thornton Park. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MRS. GILES THORNTON. 
 
 She was very lovely in all the fullness of her matured 
 beauty as she stepped from the train at Rocky Point, 
 and with her large bright eyes swept the crowd of 
 carious people gathered to see her, not one of whom 
 she recognized. A handsome open carriage from Brew- 
 ster's, sent up a few days before for this occasion, was 
 waiting for them, and with a half bow to those who 
 ventured to salute her husband, Mildred seated herself 
 in it and was driven through the well-remerabered 
 street, her heart beating so loudly that she could hear 
 it distinctly as she drew near the top of the hill from 
 which she knew she would see her old home and pos- 
 sibly her mother. And when the hill top was reached 
 and she saw the house with its doors opened wide, and 
 from the upper window of what had been hers and 
 Bessie's room a muslin curtain blowing in and out, she 
 grew so white that her husband laid his hand on hers, 
 and said, " Don't take it so hard, darling. You are do- 
 ing it to please me." 
 
 " Yes, but it seems as if I must stop here," she an- 
 
MES., GILES THOEKTON. 375 
 
 swered faintly as she leaned foward to look at the house 
 around which there was no sign of life, or stir, except 
 the moving of the curtain and the gambols of two kit- 
 tens playing in the doorway where Mildred half ex- 
 pected to meet the glance of Bessie's blue eyes and see 
 the gleam of Charlie's golden hair. 
 
 But Charlie was lying on the mountain side, and 
 Bessie, although out of sight, was watching the carriage 
 and the beautiful stranger in whom she saw no trace of 
 her sister. 
 
 " I've seen her," Bessie said, as she went into her 
 mother's room, " and she is very lovely, with such a 
 bright color on her cheeks. And so young to be Mr. 
 Thornton's wife ! I wonder if she loves him. I 
 couldn't." 
 
 " No. I suppose you prefer Gerard," Mrs. Leach re- 
 plied, while Bessie answered blushingly, " Of course I 
 do. Poor Gerard ! How angry his father will be when 
 he knows about Tom and me, too. Gerard was going 
 to tell him at once, but I persuaded him to wait until 
 the honeymoon was over. Just two months I'll give 
 him, and during that time I mean to cultivate Mrs. 
 Thornton and get her on my side. 1 hope she is not 
 proud like him. She did not look so." 
 
 Bessie had been at the Park that morning helping 
 Alice give the last touches to the rooms intended for 
 the bride. These had been finished in the tints which 
 Mr. Thornton had prescribed. Everything was new, 
 from the carpets on the floors to the lace-canopied bed- 
 stead of brass. There were flowers everywhere in great 
 profusion, roses mostly of every variety, and in a glass 
 on a bracket in a corner, Bessie had put a bunch of 
 June pinks from her own garden, explaining to Alice 
 
376 Mildred's ambitioN: 
 
 that her mother had sent them to the bride, as they 
 were her favorite flowers and would make the rooms so 
 sweet. Everything was finished at last, and after 
 Bessie was gone Alice had nothing to do but to wait 
 for the coming of the carriage which she soon saw en- 
 tering the Park. Mildred's face was very white and her 
 voice trembled as she saw Alice in the distance and 
 said, " I can't bear it. I came near shrieking to the old 
 home that I was Mildred. I must tell Alice. I cannot 
 be so hypocritical. There is no reason for it." 
 
 " No, no," and Mr. Thornton spoke a little sternlv. 
 " It is too late now, and you have promised. I wish it 
 and have my reason. Ah, here we are, and there are 
 Alice and Gerard." 
 
 They had stopped under the great archway at the 
 side entrance where Gerard and Alice were waiting for 
 them and scanning the bride curiously as she alighted 
 and their father presented her to them, — not as their 
 mother, but as " Mrs. Thornton, my wife." 
 
 All Mildred's color had come back and her face was 
 glowing with excitement as she took Alice's hand • then 
 unable to control herself, she threw her arms around 
 the neck of the astonished girl and burst into a flood of 
 tears, while Mr. Thornton looked on in dismay, dread- 
 ing what might follow. He was himself beginning to 
 think it a verj'- foolish and unnatural thing to try to 
 keep his wife's identity from her people, but he was not 
 a man to give up easily, and once in a dilemma of his 
 own making he would stay in it at any cost. 
 
 " She is very tired and must go to her room," he said 
 to his daughter, who was crying herself, and holding 
 Mildred's hands in her own. 
 
 Had Mildred tried she could have done nothing bet- 
 
Mrs. GILES THORNTON. 37? 
 
 ter for her cause than she had done. Alice had been 
 very doubtful as to whether she should like her new 
 mother or not, but something in the eyes which looked 
 so appealingly into hers, .and in the tears she felt upon 
 her cheek, and the clasp of the arms around the neck, 
 disarmed all prejudice and made of her a friend at 
 once. As for Gerard, he had never meant to be any- 
 thing but friendly, and when the scene between the two 
 ladies was over he came forward with the slow, quiet 
 manner natural to him and said, " Now it is my turn to 
 welcome Mrs. Thornton, who does not look as if she 
 could have for a son a great six-footer like me. But I'll 
 call you mother, if you say so." 
 
 " No, don't," Mildred answered, flashing on him a 
 smile which made his heart beat rapidly and brought a 
 thought of Bessie, who sometimes smiled like that. 
 
 Leading the way to Mildred's rooms, Alice said, as 
 she threw open the door, " I hope you will like them." 
 
 " Like them ! They are perfect," was Mildred's 
 answer, as she walked through the apartments, feeling 
 that it must be a dream from which she would bye-and- 
 bye awaken. " And so many roses," she said, stopping 
 here and there over a bowl or cluster of them imtil, 
 guided by the perfume, she came upon the pinks her 
 mother had sent to her. 
 
 Taking up the glass she held it for an instant while 
 Alice said, " June pinks, perhaps you do not have them 
 in England. They are old-fashioned flowers, but very 
 sweet. A friend of mine, Bessie Leach, brought them 
 for you from her mother, who is blind." 
 
 There was a low cry and a crash as the finger-glass 
 fell to the floor and Mildred sank into the nearest 
 
S78 MilMjed's ambition- 
 
 chair, white as ashes, with a look in her eyes which 
 startled and frightened Alice. 
 
 " It is the heat and fatigue of the voyage. I was very 
 seasick," Mildred said, trying to smile and recover her- 
 self, while Alice went for a towel to wipe up the water 
 trickling over the carpet, and wondering if Mrs. 
 Thornton was given to faintings and hysterics like 
 this. 
 
 " She don't look like it," she thought, as she picked 
 up and carried out the bits of glass and the pinks which 
 had done the mischief. 
 
 When lunch was served Mildred was too ill to go 
 down. A severe headache had come on, and for a time 
 Alice sat by her couch bathing her forehead and brush- 
 ing her hair, which was more a mottled than golden 
 brown, for it was darker in some places than others, es- 
 pecially when seen in certain lights and shadows. But 
 this only added to its beauty, and Alice ran her fingers 
 through the shining mass, admiring the color and the 
 texture and admiring the woman generally and an- 
 swering the many questions which were asked her. 
 Hungry at heart to hear something of her family, 
 Mildred said to her, " Tell me of your friends. Have 
 you any here ? Girl friends, I mean." 
 
 " Only one with whom I am intimate," Alice replied, 
 and then as girls will she went off into rhapsodies over 
 Bessie Leach, and in a burst of confidence concluded 
 by saying, " You must not tell papa, for he is not to 
 know it yet, but Bessie is to be my sister. She is to 
 marry Gerard." 
 
 " Marry Gerard !" and Mildred raised herself upon 
 her elbow and shedding her heavy hair back from her 
 face stared at Alice with an expression in her eyes 
 
Mrs. GILES Thornton. 379 
 
 which the girl could not understand, and which made 
 her wonder if her stepmother, too, wei'e as proud as 
 her father and would resent Gerard's choice. 
 
 This called forth another eulogy upon Bessie's beauty 
 and sweetness, with many injunctions that Mildred 
 should not repeat to her husband what had been told 
 her. 
 
 " Nobody knows it for certain but Mr. McGregor and 
 ourselves," she added, and then, turning her face away 
 so that it could not be seen, Mildred said, " Mr. Mc- 
 Gregor ? That is your father's attorney. Is he a 
 married man ?" 
 
 The question was a singular one, but Alice was not 
 quick to suspect, and answered laughingly, " Hugh 
 McGregor married ! Why, I don't suppose he has ever 
 looked twice at any girl. He is a confirmed old 
 bachelor, but 'very nice. Father thinks the world of 
 him." 
 
 '' Yes, oh, yes," Mildred moaned, as she clasped her 
 hands over her forehead where the pain was so intense. 
 
 " You are worse. You are white as a sheet ; let me 
 call papa," Alice cried, alarmed at the look of anguish 
 in the dark eyes and the gray pallor of the face which 
 seemed to have grown pinched and thin in a moment. 
 
 But her husband was the last person whom Mildred 
 wished to see then, and detaining Alice she said, " Don't 
 call him, please. It will soon pass off, and don't think 
 me ungrateful, either, but I'd rather be alone for a while. 
 I ma}' sleep and that will do me good." 
 
 And so, after darkening the room, Alice went out 
 and left the wretched woman alone in her grief and 
 pain. 
 
 " Mrs. Hayford was mistaken. Hugh is not engaged 
 
380 MitDEED's AMBtTloM. 
 
 to Bessie, and I am Mrs. Giles Thornton," she said, a 
 little bitterl}'. " My ambition ought to be satisfied. I 
 have made my own bed and must lie in it, and go on ly- 
 ing, too !" 
 
 She smiled faintly at her own joke and then con- 
 tinued : " If I had only resisted and come back Mil- 
 dred Leach ! But it is now too late, and Hugh will 
 always despise me for the deception. Oh, Hugh !" 
 
 There was a spasmodic wringing of the hands, and 
 then, as if ashamed of herself Mildred said, " I must 
 not, will not be faithless to my husband, who loves me, 
 I know, and I will be worthy of his love and make him 
 happy, so help me Heaven !" 
 
 The vow was made and Mildred would keep it to the 
 death. The might have been, which has broken so 
 many hearts when the knowledge came too late, was 
 put away and buried deep down in the inmost recesses 
 of her soul, and when two hours later she awoke from a 
 refreshing sleep and found her husband sitting by her, 
 she put her hand in his just as she had never put it be- 
 fore, and did not shrink from him when he stooped down 
 to caress her. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CALLS AT THE PARK. 
 
 It was early the next morning when Mildred arose 
 and stepping out upon the balcony looked toward the 
 town which had changed so much since she was there 
 last. Across the noisy little river which went dashing 
 
CALLS AT THE PARK. 381 
 
 along in its rocky bed at the foot of the mountain, one 
 or two tall stacks of manufactories were belching forth 
 their smoke, while new churches and hotels and villas 
 dotted what had been pasture lands when she went 
 away. Standing upon tiptoe she could see the chimney 
 top of her old home, and just over it, up the mountain 
 road, the evergreens in the cemetery where her father 
 and Charlie were lying. 
 
 "I'll go there some day alone and find their graves," 
 she was thinking when her husband joined her. 
 
 " I am sure you are better, you look so fresh and 
 bright ; but it is time you were getting ready for break- 
 fast," he said, as he gave her a little caress. 
 
 And Mildred was very bright when she at last went 
 with her husband to the breakfast room, a half-opened 
 rose which he had gathered for her at her throat, and 
 another at her belt. It was her first appearance at her 
 own table, and Mr. Thornton led her proudly to her 
 seat behind the coflEee urn and looked at her admiringly 
 while she assumed the role of mistress as naturally as if 
 she had all her life been accustomed to her present sur- 
 roundings. Alice had kissed her effusively as she came 
 in, hoping she was quite well and thinking her more 
 beautiful than on the previous day. Gerard, who was 
 less demonstrative but more observant than his sis- 
 ter, greeted her cordially and then sat watching her, 
 curious and puzzled by something in her face or 
 manner or voice which seemed familiar to him. 
 
 " She is dazzlingly lovely. I wonder how Bessie will 
 look beside her," he thought, as after breakfast he 
 started for the farm house as was his daily custom. 
 
 It was very warm that morning and Mildred had 
 seated herself with a book upon the shaded balcony 
 
382 MILDRED' S AMBITION. 
 
 opening from her room, when word was brought her 
 that her husband wished to see her on the front piazza. 
 
 " There's a gentleman with him, — Mr. McGregoi-," the 
 servant said, and Mildred felt as if her heart had sud- 
 denly risen in her throat, making her choke and gasp 
 for breath. 
 
 She knew he would come some time, but had not ex- 
 pected him so soon, and she shook like a leaf as she 
 stood a moment before her rnirror. 
 
 " He will never know me,'' she said, as side by side 
 with the reflection of herself she saw the girl of fifteen 
 years ago ; sallow and thin and slight, with eyes too big 
 for her face, and hair too heavy for her head ; the girl 
 with the faded calico dress and high-necked apron, 
 who seemed to walk beside her as she descended the 
 broad staircase and went through the hall and out upon 
 the piazza, where she heard her husband's voice, and 
 Hugh's. 
 
 " I came on business, and intended calling later, but 
 I shall be glad to see Mrs. Thornton," she heard him 
 say, and then the smothered, choking sensation left her, 
 and, with a little unconscious nod to the other Mildred 
 at her side, she whispered : 
 
 " I shall pull through." 
 
 Hugh was standing half way down the piazza, lean- 
 ing against a column, with his straw hat in his hand, 
 fanning himself, just as she had seen him do a hundred 
 times when they were boy and girl together, and he 
 was looking at the shadowy Mildred at her side just as 
 he now looked at her, the tall, elegant, perfectly self- 
 possessed woman, coming slowly towards him, every 
 movement graceful, and every action that of one sure 
 pf herself, and accustomed to the admiration she saw 14 
 
CALLS AT THE PARK. 383 
 
 his eyes, — the same kind, honest blue eyes which she 
 remembered so well, but which had in them no sign of 
 recognition as he came forward to meet her, and offer- 
 ing her his hand, welcomed her to Rocky Point, " and 
 America," he added, while a blood-red stain crept up 
 from her neck to her ear as she felt the deception she 
 was allowing. Hugh was not as polished as Mr. Thorn- 
 ton, nor were his clothes as faultless and fashionable, 
 but he was every whit a gentleman, and looked it, too, 
 as he stood for a moment talking to Mildred in the 
 voice she knew so well and which had grown richer and 
 deeper with the lapse of time, and moved her strangely 
 as she listened to it again. 
 
 " I think I should have known him anywhere," she 
 thought, as she answered his remarks, her own voice, in 
 which the English accent was predominant, steady and 
 firm, but having in it occasionally a tone which made 
 Hugh start a little, it was so like something he had 
 heard before, but could not define. 
 
 There was nothing in this English woman, as he be- 
 lieved her to be, which could remind him of Mildred 
 Leach, who was never once in his mind during the few 
 minutes he was talking with her. And still she puz- 
 zled him, and all that morning, after his return to his 
 ofSce, her lovely face and especially her e)'es haunted 
 him and looked at him from every paper and book he 
 touched, and he heard the tone, which had struck him 
 as familiar, calling to him everywhere, and bringing at 
 last a thought of Mildred Leach and the July morning 
 when she had shelled her peas by the door, and given 
 him a pod as a souvenir. Where was she now, he won- 
 dered, and would she come back in the autumn ? Prob- 
 ably not. She had held out similar promises before 
 
384 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 only to break them. She was weaned entirely from all 
 her old associations, and it did not matter, he said to 
 himself, wondering, as he often did, why he had so long 
 kept in his mind the little wayward girl, who had never 
 done anything but tease and worry him, and tell him of 
 the great things she meant to do. 
 
 "She has been a long time doing it, unless she calls 
 a life of dependence a great thing," he said, and then 
 his thoughts drifted to Thornton Park and the bride, 
 who was troubled with no more calls that day, and so 
 had time to rest and go about her handsome house and 
 grounds, much handsomer than when she first rang 
 the front door bell and was told to go to the side en- 
 trance by the man who was her husband now, and 
 prouder of her than of all his other surroundings. 
 
 The next day there were many visitors at the Park, 
 mostly strangers to Mildred, although a few of them had 
 been known to her in childhood, but like Hugh, they 
 saw no resemblance in her to the " oldest Leach girl," 
 as she was called by the neighbors who remembered 
 her. Of the bride there was but one verdict, " The most 
 elegant and agreeable woman that has ever been in 
 Rocky Point," was said of her by all, for Mildred, while 
 beariHg her.self like a princess, was so gracious and 
 friendly that she took every heart by storm. 
 
 It was late in the day when Bessie started to make 
 her call with Tom. Dinner was over and Mildred, who, 
 with her husband and Gerard and Alice, was sitting 
 upon the piazza, saw them as they turned an angle in 
 the shrubbery and came up the avenue. 
 
 " Oh, there's Bessie, Allie cried, springing to her 
 feet, while Mildred's heart began to beat wildly as she 
 glanced at Mr. Thornton, on whese brovv ther? was ^ 
 
CALLS AT THE PAEK. 385 
 
 dark frown, the first she had seen since she was his 
 wife, and this quieted her at once, for she readily- 
 guessed its cause. She knew he had not married her 
 family, a«d had begun to suspect that he meant to keep 
 her from them as much as possible. 
 
 " But he cannot do it," she thought, and turning to 
 him she said in a low tone, " They are mine ; my own 
 flesh and blood, and for my sake treat them politely. 
 It is the first favor I have asked of you." 
 
 There was something in her eyes which made him 
 think she might be dangerous if roused, and for aught 
 he knew she might bring the whole family there to live, 
 or leave him for them, and swallowing his pride, he 
 went forward to meet his visitors with so much cordial- 
 ity that Tom, who had never received the slightest 
 civility from the great man, thought, to himself, " By 
 Jove, she's made him over." 
 
 " My wife, Mrs. Thornton ; Miss Leach and Mr. 
 Leach," Mr. Thornton said, and Mildred's hand, cold 
 and nerveless, was taken by a hand as white and soft as 
 her own, while Bessie's blue eyes looked . curiously at 
 her, and Bessie was saying the commonplace things 
 which strangers say to each other. 
 
 " How lovely she is," Mildred thought, hardly able to 
 restrain herself from folding the sunny, bright-faced 
 girl in her arms and sobbing and crying over her. 
 
 But Tom was speaking to her now, and she was con- 
 scious of a feeling of pride as she looked at the tall, 
 handsome, manly fellow, and knew he was her brother. 
 Tom was like his mother, and Bessie like her father, 
 while Mildred was like neither, and one could scarcely 
 have .seen any resemblance between them as they sat 
 talking together until the moon came up over the hill 
 
386 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 and it was time to go. Bessie had devoted herself to 
 Mildred, who fascinated her greatly, and who bad 
 adroitly led her to talk of herself and her home and her 
 mother. Mildred spoke of the pinks, her voice trem- 
 bling as she sent her thanks and love to the blind woman 
 whom she was soon coming to see. 
 
 " Oh, I'm so glad," Bessie exclaimed, in her impulsive 
 way, " and mother will be glad too. She sent the pinks 
 because they are her favorite flowers and she says they 
 remind her of Milly, who used to love them so much ; 
 that's my sister, who has been abroad many years. I 
 scarcely remember her at all." 
 
 " Oh," came like a moan from Mildred, who felt as if 
 a blow had struck her heart, it throbbed so painfully at 
 the mention of her old name by the sister who did not 
 know her, and for an instant she was tempted to 
 scream out the truth and bring the foolish farce to an 
 end. 
 
 Then she felt her husband's hand on her arm and 
 the power of his will overmastering her, and keeping 
 her quiet. But she was glad when the interview was 
 over and she was free to go by herself and sob out her 
 anguish and shame and regret that she had ever lent 
 herself to this deception. Of the two, Bessie and Tom, 
 she had felt more drawn tov/ard the latter, of whom any 
 sister might be proud, and when bidding him good- 
 night she had held his hand with a pressure which sur- 
 prised him, while her lips quivered and her eyes had in 
 them a wistful Jook, as if she were longing to say, " Oh, 
 Tom ; my brother." And Tom had felt the magrfetism 
 of her eyes and manner, and he said to Alice, who, with 
 Gerard, walked with them to the Park gate, " I say, 
 Allie, your stepmother is a stunner, and no mistake, 
 
MILDRED AND HEK MOTHKE. 387 
 
 and I do believe she took a fancy to me. Why, I 
 actually thought she squeezed my hand a little, and she 
 looked as if she'd like to kiss me. It wouldn't hurt me 
 much to kiss her." 
 
 " Oh, Tom ; and right before AUie," Bessie said 
 laughingly, and Tom replied, " Can't a fellow fall in 
 love with his stepmother-in-law, if he wants to ? " and 
 the arm he had thrown around Alice tightened its hold 
 upon her. 
 
 Here they all laughed together and went on freely 
 discussing the woman, who, on her knees in her room 
 was praying to be forgiven for the lie she was living, 
 and for strength to meet her mother, as that would be 
 the hardest ordeal of all. Once .she resolved to defy 
 her husband and proclaim her identity, but gave that 
 up with the thought that it was not very long until Sep- 
 tember, and she would wait at least until she had seen 
 her mother. 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 MILDRED AND HER MOTHER. 
 
 It was several days before Mildred went to the farm 
 house, from which her husband would have kept her 
 altogether if he could have done so. His determination 
 to separate her as much as possible from her family had 
 been constantly increasing since his return, and he had 
 fully made up hfs mind to leave Rocky Point by the 
 first of September and advertise the Park for sale, thus 
 
388 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 cutting off all chance for intimacy in the future when it 
 was kuown who she was. She could do for her family 
 all she pleased, he thought, but she must not be inti- 
 mate with them, and on his way to the house, for he 
 drove her there himself, he reminded her again of her 
 promise, saying to her very kindly, as he helped her to 
 alight : 
 
 " I can trust you, Milly, and am sorry for you, for I 
 know it will be hard to meet your mother and keep 
 silence." 
 
 It was harder than Mildred herself had anticipated, 
 for the sight of the familiar place, the walk, the garden, 
 and the brook, where she had waded barefoot many a 
 time in summer and drawn her sled in winter with 
 Hugh at her side, nearly unmanned her, and every nerve 
 was quivering as she rang the bell in the door of the 
 little, square entry, with the steep, narrow stairs winding 
 up to the chambers above. It was Bessie who answered 
 the ring, blushing when she saw her visitor and apolo- 
 gizing for her appearance. The hired girl was gone for 
 a day or two, leaving her maid of all work, and as this 
 was baking day she was deep in the mysteries of pastry 
 and bread, with her long, bib apron on and her hands 
 covered with flour. 
 
 " Nevermind me," Mildred said, as she took in the 
 situation. " It was thoughtless in me to come in the 
 morning. Please keep to your work while I talk with 
 your mother. I will call upon you seme other time. 
 Oh, Gerard, you here ?" she continued, as through the 
 door opening into the kitchen she, saw the young man 
 seated by the table pitting cherries which Bessie was 
 to make into pies. " That's right ; help all you can," 
 she added with a smile, glad he was there, as it would 
 
MILiJEED AND fiJEK MOTHER. 389 
 
 leave her aloneand freer with her mother, whom she 
 found in the bright, sunny room, built partly with the 
 money she had sent. 
 
 Mrs. Leach was always very neat and clean, but this 
 morning she was particularly so, in her black cam- 
 bric dress and spotless white apron, with the widow's 
 cap resting on her snowy hair. Her hands were folded 
 together, and she was leaning back in her chair as if 
 asleep, when Mildred's voice roused her, aad a moment 
 after Bessie said : 
 
 " Here, mother, is Mrs. Thornton, and as I am so busy 
 I will leave her with you for a little while." 
 
 Suddenly, as if she had been shot, Mrs. Leach started 
 forward, and rubbing her eyes, in which there was an 
 eager, expectant look, said : 
 
 " I must have been dozing, for I dreamed that Milly 
 had come and I heard her voice in the kitchen. Mis' 
 Thornton here, did you say ? I am very proud to meet 
 her ;" and the hands were outstretched, groping in the 
 helpless way habitual with the blind. And Mildred 
 took the hands in hers and drawing a chair to her 
 mother's side sat down so close to her that Mrs. Leach 
 felt her hot breath stir her hair and knew she was being 
 looked at very closely. But how closely she did not 
 dream, for Mildred's soul was in her eyes, which scanned 
 the worn face where suffering and sorrow had left their 
 impress. And what a sad, sweet face it was, so sweet 
 and sad that Mildred involuntarily took it between her 
 hands and kissed it passionately ; then, unable to con- 
 trol herself, she laid her head on her mother's bosom 
 and sobbed like a little child. 
 
 " What is it ? Oh, Mrs. Thornton, you scare me. 
 What makes you cry so } Who are you ?" Mrs. Leach 
 
390 mildeed's ambitioh. 
 
 said, excitedly, for she was frightened by the strange 
 conduct of her visitor. 
 
 " You must excuse me," Mildred said, lifting up her 
 head. " The sight of you unnerved me, for my,— my 
 mother is blind ?" 
 
 She did not at all mean to say what she knew would 
 involve more deception of a certain kind, but' she had 
 said it and could not take it back, and it was a sufficient 
 explanation of her emotion to Mrs. Leach, who said : 
 
 " Your mother blind ! Dear, — dear, — how did it hap- 
 pen, and has she been so long ? Where does she live, 
 and how could she bear to have you leave her ? Dear, 
 dear !" 
 
 " Don't talk of her now, please. I can't bear it," Mil- 
 dred replied, and thinking to herself, " Homesick, poor 
 thing," Mrs. Leach, whose ideas of the world were nar- 
 rowed to her own immediate surroundings, began to 
 talk of herself and her family in a desultory kind of 
 way, while Mildred listened with a feeling of half won- 
 der, half pain; 
 
 All her associations while with Mrs. Harwood had 
 been with highly-cultivated people, and in one sense her 
 mother was new to lier and she realized as she had never 
 done before how different she was from Mr. Thornton 
 and herself. " But she is my mother, and nothing can 
 change my love for her,'' she thought, as she studied 
 her and the room, which was cozy and bright, though 
 very plainly furnished as compared with the elegant 
 boudoir where she had made her own toilet. There 
 was the tall clock in the corner which had ticked away 
 the hours and days she once thought so dreary and 
 lonely ; the desk between the windows, where her 
 father used to keep his papers, aad his old, worn pocket 
 
MILDEED AND HEE MOTHEIt. 391 
 
 book, in which there was never much money, and on 
 the bed in another corner was a patchwork quilt, a few 
 blocks of which Mildred had pieced herself, recognizing 
 them now with a start and a throb of pain as she saw in 
 two of them bits of the frock she had bought for Charlie 
 with the berries picked in her husband's pasture. She 
 had been turned out then as a trespasser where she was 
 mistress now, and there were diamonds on her white 
 hands, which had once washed potatoes for dinner, her 
 special abomination, and her gown had cost more than 
 all her mother's wardrobe. And there she sat in a kind 
 of dream, while the other Mildred of years ago sat close 
 beside her, confusing and bewildering her, so that she 
 hardly heard half her mother was saying about Tom 
 and Bessie, the dearest children in the world. But 
 when at last her own name was mentioned she started 
 and was herself again, and listened as her mother 
 went on : 
 
 " I've another girl, Mildred by name, but I call her 
 Millv. She's been in Europe for years, and has been 
 ever5'where and speaks French and German, and writes 
 such beautiful letters." 
 
 She was evidently very proud of her absent daughter, 
 and the lady beside her, whose pallid face she could not 
 see, clasped her hands and held her breath as she con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " I never s'posed she'd stay so long when she went 
 away, or I couldn't let her go ; but somehow or other 
 she's staid on and on till she's been gone many a year ; 
 many a year has Milly been gone, fifteen years come 
 fall, and now 'tain't likely I should know her, if I could 
 see. You won't be offended, Mis' Thornton, if I say that 
 something about you makes me think of Milly ; some- 
 
392 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 thing in your voice at first, and you laid your head on 
 my necls and cried just as she used to when things 
 went wrong and fretted her, which they mostly did, for 
 she wasn't meant to be poor, and was always wantin' to 
 be rich and grand. I guess she is grand now she's been 
 in foreign places so much, but she's comin' home in the 
 fall ; she wrote me so in her last letter. You'll call on 
 her, won't you ?" 
 
 " Yes," Mildred stammered, scarcely able to keep her- 
 self from crying out : " Oh, mother, I have come. I 
 am Milly," but a thought of her husband restrained 
 her, and thinking how she would make amends in the 
 future, when freed from her promise of secrecy, she lis- 
 tened again, while her mother talked of her father and 
 Charlie, and lastly of Hugh McGregor, who was a great 
 favorite with the old lady. 
 
 "Jest like my own boy," Mrs. Leach said, "and so 
 kind to Tom. He lent him money to go to school, and 
 helps him a sight in his law books, and helps on the 
 farm, too, when he gets time, which is not often, for 
 Hugh is a first-rate lawyer and pleads at the bar like a 
 judge. I believe he's comin'. Yes, I hear his step," 
 and her face lighted up as Hugh appeared in the open 
 door. 
 
 " Good morning, Mrs. Leach," he called cheerily. " I 
 beg your pardon, good morning, Mrs. Thornton," and he 
 bowed deferentially to the lady as he came in with a 
 cluster of lovely ro.ses, which he laid in Mrs. Leach's 
 lap, saying, " Here are some of Milly's roses. They 
 opened this morning and I brought them to you. Shall 
 I give one to Mrs. Thornton ?" 
 
 "Yes, do; the fairest and best. I think she must be 
 like them, though I can't see her," Mrs. Leach replied, 
 
MlI,DKl!!b AND HER MOTHEJS. 393 
 
 and selecting one of the finest, Hugh offered it to Mil- 
 dred, whose cheeks rivaled it in color, as she held it 
 near them to inhale its perfume. 
 
 It was of the variety known as " Souvenir d'un Ami," 
 and the original stock had been bought by Mrs. Leach 
 two or three years before with some money sent her by 
 Mildred, whose name she had given to the rose. This 
 she explained to Mildred, adding that Mr. McGregor 
 was so fond of the rose that he had taken a slip from 
 her garden and planted it under his office window. 
 
 "He calls it Milly's rose," she added, "for he and 
 Milly were great friends, as children. Hugh, ain't there 
 something about Mis' Thornton that makes you think 
 of Milly ?" 
 
 Mildred's face was scarlet, but she tried to hide it by 
 bending her head very low as she fastened the rose to 
 the bosom of her dress, while Hugh answered laugh- 
 ingly, " Why, no. Milly was small and thin, and a child 
 
 when we saw her, while Mrs. Thornton is " here 
 
 he stopped, confused and uncertain as to what he ought 
 to say next. But when Mildred's eyes flashed upon him 
 expectantly, he added very gallantly, " Mrs. Thornton is 
 more like Milly's roses." 
 
 " Thank you for the compliment, Mr. McGregor. I 
 will remember it and keep Milly's rose, too," Mildred 
 said, with a little dash of coquetry, and a ring in her 
 voice which made Hugh think of the Mill}' who, he sup- 
 posed, was thousands of miles away. 
 
 Just then there was the sound of wheels stopping be- 
 fore the house, and Gerard, with his apron still tied 
 around his neck, for he was not yet through with his 
 culinary duties, came to the door, saying, " Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton, father is waiting for you." 
 
394 MlLt)EED*S AilElflOS. 
 
 " Yes, I'll be there directly," Mildred replied, rising 
 hurriedly to say good-bye, and giving her hand to her 
 mother, who fondled it a moment and then said to her, 
 " Your hands are soft as a baby's, and there are 
 many rings on your fingers. I think I know how they 
 look, and I have felt your hair, but not your face. Tom 
 and Bessie say it is handsome. Would you mind my 
 feeling it ? That's my way of seeing." 
 
 Mildred was glad that Hugh had stepped in to the 
 next room and could not see her agitation, as she knelt 
 beside the blind woman, whose hands moved slowly 
 over her face and then up to her hair, where they rested 
 a moment as if in benediction, while she said, " You are 
 lovely, I am sure, and good, too, and your poor blind 
 mother must miss you so much. Didn't she hate to 
 part with you ?" 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes, and my heart is aching for her. Please 
 bless me as if you were my mother and I your daughter 
 Milly," was Mildred's sobbing reply, her tears falling 
 like rain as the shaking hands pressed heavily upon her 
 bowed head, while the plaintive voice said slowlj', "God 
 bless you, child, and make you happy with your hus- 
 band, and comfort your poor mother while you are 
 away from her. Amen." 
 
 " Will you tell Mrs. Thornton I am in a hurry ?" 
 Mr. Thornton said to Bessie, loudly enough for Mildred 
 to hear, and wiping her tears away, she went out 
 through the side door where her husband was standing, 
 with a frown upon his face, caused not so much by her 
 delay as by the glimpse he was sure he had caught of 
 his son, in the kitchen, with a checked apron tied round 
 his neck and a big cherry stain on his forehead. 
 
 Nor did the sight of his wife's flushed cheeks and red 
 
OftteAfeb AND Mt8 KATHEE. , 395 
 
 eyes help to restore his equanimity, and although he 
 said nothing then, Mildred felt that he was displeased, 
 as he helped her into the phaeton and took his seat be- 
 side her. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 GERARD AND HIS FATHKR. 
 
 Gathering up the reins and driving very slowly, he 
 began : 
 
 " Was that Gerard whom I saw tricked out as a kitchen 
 cook ?" 
 
 " Gerard was there. Yes,'' Mildred answered, and he 
 continued in that cool, determined tone which means 
 more than words themselves, " Is he often there ? Is 
 he interested in your sister ? If he is, it must stop. I 
 tell you it must stop," he added more emphatically as 
 
 his wife made no reply. "I married you because " 
 
 he paused a moment and looked at the woman sitting at 
 his side in all her glowing beauty, and then went on in 
 a softer tone, — " because I loved you more than I loved 
 my pride, which, however, is so great, that it will not 
 quietly submit to my son's marrying your sister." 
 
 " Does he intpnd to?" Mildred asked so coolly that 
 it exasperated him, and he replied, " He will not with 
 my consent, and he will hardly dare do so without it. 
 Why, he has scarcely a dollar of his own, and no busi- 
 ness either. More's the pity, or he wouldn't be caper- 
 ing round a kitchen in an old woman's apron." 
 
 " I think it was Bessie's," Mildred said quietly, and 
 
396 MILBEBd's AMBITIOi}. 
 
 angrier than ever, her husband continued. "You told 
 me in Paris that your sister was engaged to Mr. Me-' 
 Gregor." 
 
 " It was a mistake," Mildred said, her heart beat- 
 ing heavily as she thought of all the mistake had done 
 for her. 
 
 " Yes," Mr. Thornton repeated, " I ventured to rally 
 Hugh a little this morning, and he denied -the story 
 while something in his manner aroused a suspicion 
 which the sight of Gerard confirmed. What was he 
 doing there ?" 
 
 " Pitting cherries for Bessie," Mildred said with pro- 
 voking calmness, and he continued, " I tell you it shall 
 
 not be. Gerard Thornton must look " here he 
 
 stopped, not quite willing to finish the sentence, which 
 Milly, however, finished for him — "must look higher 
 than Bessie Leach ?" 
 
 "Yes, that's what I mean, although I might not have 
 said it, for I do not wish to wound you unnecessarily ; 
 but I tell you again it must not be, and you are not to 
 encourage it, or encourage so much visiting between 
 my children and the Leach's. Why, that girl, — Bessie, 
 I think is her name, — is at the Park half the time. 
 Heavens ! What would it be if they knew who you 
 were ! I was wise to do as I did, but I am sorry I came 
 here at all, and I mean to return to New York earlier 
 than I intended, and if necessary, sell the place. That 
 will break up the whole business." 
 
 To this Mildred made no reply, but sat thinking, with 
 a growing conviction that she now knew her husband's 
 real reason for wishing to keep her identity a secret 
 during their stay at the Park. It was to prevent the 
 intimacy which he knew would ensue between her and 
 
GBRARD AND HIS FATHER. 397 
 
 her family, if they knew who she was, and with all the 
 strength of her will she rebelled against it. " I will 
 not encourage the young people, but he shall not keep 
 me from my mother," she thought, and the face at which 
 her husband looked a little curiously as he helped her 
 from the phaeton, had in it an expression he did not 
 understand. 
 
 " I believe she's got a good deal of the old Harry in 
 her after all, but I shall be firm," he thought, as he 
 drove to the stable and gave his horse to the groom. 
 
 Lunch was nearly over when Gerard appeared, the 
 cherry stains washed from his face, but showing con- 
 spicuously on his nails and the tips of his fingers, from 
 which he had tried in vain to remove them. 
 
 " Why, Gerard, what have you been doing to your 
 hands ?" Alice asked, and with an amused look at Mil- 
 dred, he replied, " Stoning cherries with them," while 
 his father hastily left the table. 
 
 " Gerard," he said, pausing a moment in the doorway, 
 " Come to the library after lunch. I want to see you." 
 
 " Yes, sir," Gerard answered, feeling as certain then 
 of what was coming as he did twenty minutes later when 
 his father asked abruptly, '' How old are you ?" 
 
 " Twenty-five last May." 
 
 " Twenty-five, — yes ; and been graduated three years, 
 and no business yet. Nothing to do but wear a kitchen 
 apron and stone cherries for Bessie Leach. I saw you. 
 I don't like it, and as soon as we are in New York I 
 shall find something for you to do." 
 
 At the mention of Bessie, Gerard had stiffened, for 
 his father's tone was offensive. But his answer was re- 
 spectful : "L shall be glad of something to do, sir, al- 
 though I do not think myself altogether to blame for 
 
398 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 having been an idler so long. When I left college you 
 know I was in so bad health that you and the doctor 
 both, fearing I had inherited my mother's malady, pre- 
 scribed perfect rest and quiet for a long time. But I 
 am strong now and will do anything you think best. I 
 prefer law, and would' like to go into Mr. McGregor's 
 office. I can get on faster there than in New York." 
 
 " Yes, and see Bessie Leach oftener," Mr. Thornton 
 began angrily. " I tell you I will not have it. The girl 
 is well enough and pretty enough, but I won't have it, 
 and if you are getting too much interested in her, quit 
 her at once." 
 
 " Quit Bessie !" Gerard said. " Quit Bessie ! Never ! 
 She has promised to be my wife !" 
 
 " Your wife !" Mr. Thornton repeated, aghast with 
 anger and surprise, for he never dreamed matters had 
 gone so far. 
 
 " Yes, my wife. I was only watting for you to know 
 her better to tell you of our engagement," Gerard re- 
 plied, and then for half an hour, Mildred, who was in 
 her room over the library, heard the sound of excited 
 voices, — Gerard's low and determined, and his father's 
 louder and quite as decided. 
 
 And when the interview was over, and her husband 
 came up to her, he said : 
 
 " I am very sorry, my darling, because, in a way, the 
 trouble touches you through your sister ; but you must 
 see that it is not a suitable match for my son. She is not 
 you, and has not had your advantages. She is a plain 
 country girl, and if Gerard persists in marr)'ing her 
 he will have no help from me, either before or after my 
 death." 
 
IN THE CEMETEET. 399 
 
 " You mean you will disinherit him ?" Mildred asked, 
 and he replied : 
 
 " Yes, just that ; and I have told him so, and given 
 him the summer in which to make up his mind. He 
 has some Quixotic idea of studying law with McGregor, 
 which will of course keep him here after we have gone. 
 I don't intend to live in a quarrel, and shall say no more 
 to him on the subject, or try to control his'actions in 
 any way. If he goes with us to New York, all right ; 
 and if he chooses to stay here, I shall know what to do." 
 
 A slight inclination of Mildred's head was her only 
 reply, until her husband said : 
 
 " Do you think Bessie would marry him if she knew 
 he was penniless ?" 
 
 And then she answered proudly: "I do," and left 
 the room, saying to herself as she went out into the 
 beautiful grounds, whose beauty she did not see : 
 " What will he do when he hears of Alice and Tom ? 
 Three Leaches instead of one. Poor Tom ! Poor Bes- 
 sie ! And I am powerless to help them." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 IN THE CEMETERY. 
 
 As Mr. Thornton had said, he did not like to live in a 
 quarrel, and after his interview with his son, he tried to 
 appear just as he had done before, and when Bessie 
 came to the Park, as she often did, he treated her civ- 
 illy, and jnsfo^ibly found himself admiring her beauty 
 
400 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 and grace, and thinking to himself, " If she had money 
 she might do." 
 
 Upon Mildred he laid no restrictions with regard to 
 her intercourse with her family, feeling intuitively that 
 they would not be heeded. And thus she was free to 
 see her mother as often as she liked, and it was re- 
 marked by the villagers that the proud mistress of 
 Thornton Park went more frequently to the farmhouse 
 than anywhere else. Many a morning she spent in the 
 pleasant room, listening while her mother talked, mostly 
 of Mildred, whose long silence was beginning to trouble 
 her. 
 
 " It is weeks since I heard from her. She said in her 
 last letter it might be some time before she wrote again, 
 but I am getting anxious," she would say, while Mil- 
 dred comforted her with the assurance that no news 
 was good news, and that perhaps her daughter was in- 
 tending to surprise her by coming upon her unexpect- 
 edly some day. 
 
 " I am certain of it ; I am something of a prophet, 
 and I know Milly will come ;" she would say, as she 
 smoothed her mother's snowy hair, or caressed her 
 worn face, which always lighted up with gladness when 
 she came, and grew sadder when she went away. 
 
 By some strange coincidence, it frequently happened 
 that Hugh called upon Mrs. Leach when Mildred was 
 there, and always stopped to talk with her. But Mil- 
 dred was never quite at ease with him. Her eyes never 
 met his squarely, while her brilliant color came and 
 went as rapidly as if she were a shy school-girl con- 
 fronted with her master instead of the elegant Mrs. 
 Thornton, whose beauty was the theme of every 
 tongue, stirring even him a little, but bringing nq 
 
IN THE CEMETERY. 401 
 
 thought of Mildred, of whom he sometimes spoke to 
 her mother. As yet Milly had found no chance to visit 
 her father's and Charlie's graves, which she knew she 
 could find without difficulty, as her mother had told her 
 of the headstones which Tom had put there in the 
 spring. But she was only biding her time, and one 
 afternoon in August, when she had been in Rocky 
 Point six weeks or more, she drove up the mountain 
 road to call upon some New Yorkers who were stopping 
 at the new hotel. It was late when she left the hotel, 
 and the full moon was just rising as she reached the 
 entrance to the cemetery on her return home. Calling 
 to the driver to let her alight, she bade him go on 
 and leave her, saying she preferred to walk, as the 
 evening was so fine. Mildred had already won the 
 reputation among her servants of being rather eccen- 
 tric, and thinking this one of her cranks, the man drove 
 on, while she went into the grounds, where the dead 
 were lying, the headstones gleaming white through the 
 clump of firs and evergreens which grew so thickly as 
 to conceal many of them from view, and to hide com- 
 pletely the figure of a man seated in the shadow of one 
 of them not very far from the graves to which she was 
 making her way. Hugh had also been up the mountain 
 road on foot, and coming back had struck into the 
 cemetery as a shouter route home. As he was tired and 
 the night very warm, he sat down in an armchair 
 under a thick pine, whose shadow screened him from 
 observation, but did not prevent his outlook upon the 
 scene around him. He had heard the sound of wheels 
 stopping near the gate, but he thought no more of it 
 until he saw Mildred coming slowly across the yard 
 diagonally from the gate, holding up her skirts, for the 
 
402 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 dew was beginning to fall, and making, as it seemed to 
 him, for the very spot where he was sitting. At first 
 he did not recognize her, but when removing her hat as 
 if its weight oppressed her she suddenly raised her head 
 so that the moonlight fell upon her face, he started in sur- 
 prise, and wondered why she was there. Whose grave 
 had she come to find ? Some one's, evidently, for she 
 was looking carefully about her, and afraid to startle 
 her, Hugh sat still and watched, a feeling like night- 
 mare stealing over him as she entered the little enclos- 
 ure where the Leaches were buried. He could see the 
 two stones distinctly, and he could see and hear her, 
 too, as leaning upon the taller and bending low so that 
 her eyes were on a level with the lettering, she said, as 
 if reading. "John Leach, and Charlie ; these are the 
 graves. Oh, father ! oh, Charlie ! do you know I have 
 come back after so many years only to find you dead ? 
 And I loved you so much. Oh, Charlie, my baby 
 brother !" 
 
 Here her voice was choked with sobs, and Hugh 
 could hear no more, but he felt as if the weight of 
 many tons was holding him down and making him 
 powerless to speak or move, had he wished to do so. 
 And so he sat riveted to the spot, looking at the woman 
 with a feeling half akin to terror and doubt, as to 
 whether it were her ghost, or Mildred herself weeping 
 over her dead. As her smothered sobs met his ear and 
 he thought he heard his own name, he softly whispered, 
 " Milly," and stretched his arms towards her, but let 
 them drop again at his side and watched the strange 
 scene to its close. Once Mildred seemed to be praying, 
 for siie knelt upon the grass, with her face on her 
 father's grave, and he beard the word " Forgive," 
 
IN THE CEMETERY. 403 
 
 Then she arose and waited slowly back to the road, 
 wher^ she was lost to view. As long as he could see the 
 flutter of her white dress Hugh looked after her, and 
 when it disappeared from sight he felt for a few mo- 
 ments as if losing his consciousness, so great was the 
 shock upon his nervous system. Mrs. Thornton was 
 Mildred Leach, — the girl he knew now he had never 
 given tip, and whose coming in the autumn he had been 
 looking forward to with so much pleasure. She had 
 come, and .she was another man's wife, and what was 
 worse than all she was keeping her identity from her 
 friends and daily living a lie. Did her husband know 
 it, or was he, too, deceived ? 
 
 " Probably," Hugh said, with a feeling for an instant 
 as if he hated her for the deception. But that soon 
 passed away, and he tried to make himself believe that 
 it was a hallucination of his brain and he had not seen 
 her by those two graves. He would examine them and 
 see, for if a form of flesh and blood had been there the 
 long, damp grass would be trampled down in places. 
 It was trampled down, and in the hollow between the 
 graves a small, white object was lying. 
 
 " Her handkerchief. She has been here," he whis- 
 pered, as he stooped to pick it up. " If her name is on it 
 I shall know for sure " 
 
 There was a name upon it, but so faiptly traced that 
 he could not read it in the moonlight, which was now 
 obscured by clouds. A storm was rising, and hastening 
 his steps towards home he was soon in his own room and 
 alone to think it out. Taking the handkerchief from 
 his pocket, he held it to the light and read " M. F. 
 Thornton." There could be no mistake. It was Mrs. 
 Thornton he had seen in the cemetery, but was it Mil- 
 
404 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 dred ? " M. F.," he repeated aloud, remembering sud- 
 denly that Mildred's name was Mildred Frances, which 
 would correspond with the initials. 
 
 " It is Milly," he continued, " but why this deception? 
 Is she ashamed to have her family claim her ? Ashamed 
 to have her husband know who she was ; and did she 
 pass for Fanny Gardner in Europe ?" 
 
 Again a feeling of resentment and hatred came over 
 him, but passed quickly, for although he might despise 
 and condemn, he could not hate her. She had been 
 too much to him in his boyhood, and thoughts of her had 
 influenced every action of his life thus far. Just what 
 he had expected, if he had expected anything, he did not 
 know, but whatever it was, it was cruelly swept away. 
 He had lost her absolutely, for when his respect for her 
 was gone, she was gone forever, and laying his head 
 upon the table he wrestled for a few moments with his 
 grief and loss, as strong men sometimes wrestle with a 
 great and bitter pain. 
 
 " If .she were dead," he said, " it would not be so hard 
 to bear. But to see her the beautiful woman she is, — 
 to know she is Mildred and makes no sign even to her 
 poor, blind mother, is terrible." 
 
 He was walking the floor now, with Milly's handker- 
 chief held tightly in his hands, wondering what he 
 should do with it. 
 
 " I'll keep it," he said. "It is all I have left other 
 except the lock of hair and the peas she gave to me. 
 What a fool I was in tho.se days," and he laughed as he 
 recalled the morning when Milly threw him the pod 
 which he had not seen in a year. 
 
 But he brought it out now, and laughed again when 
 he saw how bard and shriveled were both the peas. 
 
What folloWko. 406 
 
 " Stony and hard like her. I believe I'll throw them 
 away and end the tomfoolery," he said. 
 
 But he put them back in the box, which he called a 
 little grave, and took up next the curl of tangled hair, 
 comparing its color in his mind with Mrs. Thornton's 
 hair, which, from its peculiar, mottled appearance, had 
 attracted his notice. How had she changed it, he won- 
 dered, and then remembering to have heard of dyes, to 
 which silly, fashionable women sometimes resorted, he 
 was sure that he hated her, and putting the box away 
 went to bed with that thought uppermost in his mind, 
 but with Milly's handkerchief folded under his pillow. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 WHAT FOLLOWED. 
 
 When Hugh awoke the next morning it was with a 
 confused idea that something had gone out of his life 
 and left it a blank, and he asked himself what it was 
 and why he was feeling so badly. But memory soon 
 brought back a recollection of the secret he held and 
 ,vould hold to the end, for he had no intention of betray- 
 ing Mildred or charging her with deception, if, indeed, 
 he ever spoke to her again. He had no desire to do so, 
 he thought, and then it came to him suddenly that there 
 was to be a grand party at Thornton Park that night, 
 and that he had ordered a dress suit for the occasion. 
 
 " But I shall not go," he said to himself, as he made 
 his hurried toilet. " I could not bear to see Milly 
 
4:06 MiLDfiEo's AiiBiTIOlt. 
 
 tricked out in the gewgaws and jewels for which she 
 sold herself." 
 
 And firm in this resolution, he went about his usual 
 duties in his office, clinching his fist and setting his 
 teeth when .several times during the day he heard Tom 
 Leach talking eagerly of the party, which he expected 
 to enjoy so much. Tom did not ask if Hugh was going, 
 expecting it as a matter of course, and Hugh kept his 
 own counsel, and was silent and moody and even cross 
 for him, and at about four o'clock sat down to write his 
 regret. Then, greatly to his surprise, he found how 
 much he really wanted to see Mildred once more and 
 study her in the new character she had assumed. 
 
 " I shall not talk with her and I don't know that I 
 shall touch her hand, but I am half inclined to go," he 
 thought, and tearing up bis regret, he decided to wait 
 awhile and see ; and as a result of waiting and seeing, 
 nine o'clock found him walking up the broad avenue to 
 the house, which was ablaze with light from attic to 
 basement, and filled with guests, who crowded the par- 
 lors and halls and stairways, so that it was some little 
 time before he could fight his way to the dressing-room, 
 which was full of young men and old men in high col- 
 lars, low vests and swallow-tails, many of them very red 
 in the face and out of breath with their frantic efforts 
 to fit gloves a size too small to hands unused to them, 
 for fashionable parties like this were very rare in Rocky 
 Point. 
 
 Mildred had not wished it, as she shrank from .society 
 rather than courted it, but Gerard and Alice were anx- 
 ious for it, and Mr. Thornton willing, and under the 
 supervision of his children cards were sent to so many 
 that the proud man grew hot and cold by turns as he 
 
What followed. 407 
 
 thought of having his sacred precincts invaded by Tom, 
 Dick and Harry, and the rest of them, as he designated 
 the class of people whom he neither knew, nor cared to 
 know. But Alice and Gerard knew them, and they 
 were all there, Tom and Bessie with the rest, Tom by 
 far the handsomest young man of all the young men, 
 and the one most at his ease, while Bessie, in her pretty 
 muslin dress, with only flowers for ornament, would 
 have been the belle of the evening, but for the hostess, 
 whose brilliant beauty, heightened by the appliances of 
 dress, which so well. became her fine figure, dazzled 
 every one as she stood by her husband's side in her gown 
 of creamy satin and lace, with diamonds flashing on her 
 white neck and arms and gleaming in her hair. How 
 queenly she was, with no trace of the storm which had 
 swept over her the previous night, and Hugh, when he 
 descended the stairs and first caught sight of her, 
 stopped a few moments, and leaning against the railing, 
 watched her receiving her guests with a smile on her 
 lips and a look in her eyes which he remembered now 
 so well, and wondered he had not recognized before. 
 And as he looked there came up before him another 
 Milly than this one with the jewels and satin and lace, 
 a Milly with tangled hair and calico frock and ginghani 
 apron, shelling her peas in the doorway and predicting 
 that she would some day be the mistress of Thornton 
 Park. She was there now, and no grand duchess born 
 to the purple could have filled the- position better. 
 
 " Thornton chose well, if he only knew it," Hugh 
 thought, and, mustering all his courage he at last went 
 forward to greet the lady. And when she offered het 
 hand to him he took it in spite of his determination not 
 to do so, and looked into her eyes, which kindled at first 
 
40S Mildred's ameiTiON. 
 
 with a strange light, while in his there was an answei*- , 
 ing gleam, so that neither would have been surprised to/ 
 have heard the names Milly and Hugh simultaneously 
 spoken. But no such catastrophe occurred, and after a 
 few commonplaces Hugh passed on and did not go near 
 her again until, at a comparatively early hour, when he 
 came to say good night. 
 
 Mildred had removed her glove to change the posi- 
 tion of a ring which cut her finger, and was about put- 
 ting it on again when Hugh came up, thinking that 
 at the risk of seeming rude he would not again take 
 the hand which had sent such a thrill through him 
 when earlier in the evening he held it for an instant. 
 But the sight of it, bare and white and soft as a 
 piece of satin, unnerved him and he grasped it tightly, 
 while he made his adieus, noting as he did so the 
 troubled expression of her face as she looked curiously 
 at him. 
 
 " Does she suspect I know her ?" he thought as he 
 went from the house, but not to his home. 
 
 It was a beautiful August night, and finding a seat in 
 the shrubbery where he could not be seen, he sat there 
 in the moonlight while one after another carriages and 
 people on foot went past him, and finally, as the lights 
 were being put out, Tom Leach came airily down the 
 walk, singing softly. " Oh, don't you remember sweet 
 Alice, Ben Bolt ? Sweet Alice, with hair so brown." 
 
 " Tom's done for," Hugh thought, little dreaming how 
 thoroughly he was done for in more respects than one. 
 
LoVE tEEStJS MOljElf. 409 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 LOVE VERSUS MONEY. 
 
 Tom had been the last to leave the house, for he had 
 lingered awhile to talk to Alice, with whom he was 
 standing in the conservatory, partially concealed by 
 some tall vases and shrubSj-when Mr. Thornton chanced 
 that way. Thinking his guests all gone and hearing 
 the murmur of voices, he stopped just in time to see 
 Tom's arm around his daughter's waist and to hear a 
 sound the meaning of which he could not mistake, as 
 the young man's face came in close proximity to that of 
 his daughter. To say that he was astonished is saying 
 very little. He was horrified and disgusted, and so 
 indignant that his first impulse was to collar the auda- 
 cious Tom and hurl him through the window. But not 
 wishing a scene before the servants, he restrained him- 
 self, and went quietly away, with much the same feel- 
 ing which prompted Csesar to say, " Et tu. Brute!" 
 Since his interview with his son he had never men- 
 tioned Bessie's name to him, or raised any objection to 
 her coming to his house as often as she liked. But he 
 had watched her closely, and had been insensibly 
 softened by her girlish beauty and quiet grace of man- 
 ner. There was nothing of the plebeian in her appear- 
 ance, and he was beginning to think that if Gerard's 
 heart were set upon her, rather than have a bitter 
 quarrel he might possibly consent to the marriage, 
 although it was not at all what he desired. The young 
 couple could live at the Park hquse, and in the spring 
 
410 MlI,DEEi)'s AMBITION. 
 
 he would go abroad for an indefinite length of time, and 
 thus separate himself and wife entirely from her family. 
 In Europe, with her refinement and money, Alice 
 would make a grand match and possibly marry 
 an earl, for titles, he knew, could be bought, and he 
 had the means to buy them. With a daughter who was 
 My Lady, and a son-in-law who was My Lord, he could 
 afford to have a Leach for his daughter-in-law, and 
 Gerard's star was rising when he came so unexpectedly 
 upon a scene which at once changed him from a relent- 
 ing father into a hard, determined man, whom nothing 
 could move. 
 
 Mildred was asleep when he went to his room, but 
 had she been awake he would have said nothing to her. 
 His wrath was reserved for his daughter, who poured 
 his cofJee for him next morning, as Mildred had a head- 
 ache, and was not out of her bed. Gerard, too, was ab- 
 sent, and the meal was a very silent, cheerless one, for 
 Alice felt that something was the matter and trembled 
 when, after it was over, her father asked herto step into 
 the library, as he wished to speak with her alone. 
 
 " Alice," he began, " I want to know the meaning of 
 what r saw last night ?" 
 
 " What did you see ?" she asked, her heart beating 
 rapidly but bravely as she resolved to stand by Tom. 
 
 " I am no spy on other people's actions, but I was 
 passing the conservatory and saw Tom Leach kiss you, 
 and I think, yes, I'm very sure you kissed him back ; at 
 all events yon laid your head on his shoulder in a very 
 disreputable way, and I want to know what it means." 
 
 Alice, who had some of her father's nature, was calm 
 and defiant in a moment. The word disreputable had 
 
LOVE VERSUS MONEY. 411 
 
 roused her, and her answer rang out clear and distinct, 
 " It means that Tom and I are engaged." 
 
 " Engaged ! You engaged to Tom Leach !" Mr. 
 Thornton exclaimed, putting as much contempt into his 
 voice as it was possible to do. " Engaged to Tom Leach ! 
 Then you are no daughter of mine." 
 
 Mr. Thornton had never liked Tom, whose frank, as- 
 sured manner towards him was more like that of an equal 
 than an inferior, and for a moment he felt that he would 
 rather see Alice dead than married to him. Just then 
 Gerard came to the door, but was about to withdraw 
 when his father called him in and said inquiringly, 
 " Your sister tells me she is engaged to Tom Leach. 
 Did you know it ?" 
 
 " Yes, I imagined something of the kind," was Ge- 
 rard's reply, as he crossed over to his sister and stood 
 protectingly by her .side, while his father, forgetting his 
 softened feelings towards Bessie, went on : " And 
 you ? I gave you time to consider your choice. Have 
 you done so ?" 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " And it is ?" 
 
 " To marry Bessie," was Gerard's answer, while 
 Alice's came with it : " And Lshall marry Tom." 
 
 Such opposition from both his children roused Mr. 
 Thornton to fury, and his look was the look of a mad- 
 man, as he said, "That is your decision. Then hear 
 mine. I shall disinherit you both ! I can't take away 
 from you the few thousands your mother left yon, but I 
 can do as I like with my own. Now, what will you 
 do?" 
 
 " Marry Bessie." 
 
 " Marry Tom," came simultaneously from the young 
 
412 
 
 rebels, and with the words, " So be it," their father left 
 the room, and a few minutes Jater they saw him gallop- 
 i ing rapidly down the avenue in the direction of the 
 town. 
 
 He did not return to lunch, and when he came in to 
 dinner he seemed very absent-minded and only volun- 
 teered the remark that he was going to New York the 
 next day to see that their house was made ready for 
 them within a week. As Mildred's headache was un- 
 usually severe she had kept her bed the entire day and 
 knew nothing of the trouble until just at twilight, when 
 Alice, who felt that she must talk to some one, crept up 
 to her, and laying her head on the pillow beside her, 
 told of her father's anger and threat and asked if she 
 thought he would carry it out. 
 
 " No," Mildred answered. " He will think better of 
 it, I am sure," and Alice continued, " Not that I care 
 for myself, but I wanted to help Tom." 
 
 " Do you love him so much that you cannot give him 
 up ?" Mildred asked. 
 
 " Love him ! Why, I would rather be poor and work 
 for my living with Tom, than have all the world with- 
 out him," Alice replied, while the hand on her head 
 pressed a little heavily as she went on : " Papa is so 
 proud. You don't know how contemptuously he says 
 those Leaches, as if they were too low for anything, and 
 
 all because they happen to be poor, and because 
 
 Did I ever tell you that Bessie's sister Mildred, who has 
 been so long in Europe, was once, — not exactly a ser- 
 vant in our family, for she took care of me, — my little 
 friend, I called her, and was very fond of her. But I 
 suppose father does not wish Gerard and me to marrv 
 
LOVE VEESTJS MONET. 413 
 
 into her family Are you crying ?" Alice asked sud- 
 denly, as she heard what sounded like a sob. 
 
 "Yes, — no, — I don't know. I wish I could help you, 
 but I can't," Mildred answered, while the tears rolled 
 down her cheeks like rain. 
 
 Every word concerning her family and herself had 
 been like a stab to her, and she felt how bitterly she 
 was being punished for her deception. Once she de- 
 cided to tell Alice the truth, and might have done so if 
 she had not heard her husband's step outside the door. 
 That broke up the conference between herself and 
 Alice, who imraediatety left the room. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Thornton started for New 
 York, where he was absent for three or four days, and 
 when he returned he complained of a headache and 
 pain in all parts of his body. He had taken a severe 
 cold, he said, and went at once to his bed, which he 
 never left again, for the cold proved to be a fever, which 
 assumed the typhoid form, with its attendant delirium, 
 and for two weeks Mildred watched over and cared for 
 him with all the devotion of a true and loving wife. 
 True she had always been, and but for one memory 
 might have been loving, too, for Mr. Thornton had been 
 kind and indulgent to her, and she repaid him with 
 everj' possible care and attention. He always knew her 
 in his wildest fits of delirium, and would smile when she 
 laid her cool hand on his hot head, and sometimes whis- 
 per her name. Gerard and Alice he never knew, al- 
 though he often talked of them, asking where they were, 
 and once, during a partially lucid interval, when alone 
 with Mildred, he said to her, "Tell the children I was 
 very angry, but I am sorry, and I me^n to ipake it 
 right." 
 
414 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 " I am sure you do," Mildred replied, little guessing 
 what he meant, as his mind began to wander again, and 
 he only said, "Yes, — all right, and you will see to it. 
 All right, — all right." 
 
 And these were the last words he ever spoke, for on 
 the fourteenth day after his return from New York, he 
 died, with Mildred bending over him and Mildred's 
 hand in his. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 When Mr. Thornton left Gerard and Alice after his 
 threat of disinheritance, he went straight to the office of 
 Hugh McGregor, and asking to see him alone, an- 
 nounced his intention of making his will. 
 
 " It's time I did it,!' he said with a little langh, and 
 then as Hugh seated himself at his table, he dictated as 
 follows : 
 
 To a few charitable institutions in New York he gave 
 a certain sum ; to his children, Gerard and Alice, a 
 thousand dollars each, and the rest of his property he 
 gave unconditionally to his beloved wife, Mildred 
 F. Thornton. 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Thornton," Hugh said, looking up 
 curiously from the paper on which he was writing 
 " isn't this a strange thing you are doing, giving every- 
 thing to your wife, and nothing to your children. Does 
 she know, — does she desire it ?" 
 
 " She knows nothing, but I do. I know my own busi- 
 
THE WILL. 415 
 
 ness. Please go on. Write what I tell you," Mr. Thorn- 
 ton answered impatiently, and without further protest 
 Hugh wrote the will, which was to make Mildred the 
 richest woman in the county, his hand trembling a lit- 
 tle as he wrote Mildred F., and thought to himself, 
 " That is Milly's name. She did not deceive him there. 
 Does he know the rest ?" 
 
 "You must have three witnesses," he said, when the 
 legal instrument was drawn up. 
 
 " Tom Leach is in the next room. I saw him. He 
 will do for one," Mr. Thornton said, with a grim smile, 
 as he thought what a ghastly joke it would be for Tom 
 to witness a will which cut Alice off with a mere pit- 
 tance. ■" Have him in." 
 
 So Tom was called, together with another man who 
 had just entered the office. A stiff bow was Mr. Thorn- 
 ton's only greeting to Tom, who listened while the 
 usual formula was gone through with, and then signing 
 his name, Thomas J. Leach, went back to his books, 
 with no suspicion as to what the will contained or how 
 it would affect him. 
 
 " I will keep the paper myself," Mr. Thornton said, 
 taking it from Hugh, with some shadowy idea in his 
 brain that it might be well to have it handy in case he 
 changed his mind and wished to destroy it. 
 
 But death came too soon for that, and when he died 
 his will was lying among his papers in his private 
 drawer, where it was found by Gerard, who without 
 opening it, carried it to Mildred. There had been a 
 funeral befitting Mr. Thornton's position and wealth, 
 and he had been taken to Greenwood and laid beside 
 his first wife, and after a few days spent in New York 
 the family came back to their country home, which they 
 
416 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 preferred to the city. Bessie, Tom and Hugh met 
 them at the station, the heairt of the latter beating rap- 
 idly when he saw Mildred in her widow's weeds, and 
 helping her alight from the train, he went with her to 
 her carriage, and telling her he should call in a few 
 days on business, bowed a liitle stififly and walked 
 away. 
 
 Since drawing the will he had been growing very 
 hard towards Mildred, whose identity he did not believe 
 her husband knew, else he had not married her, and 
 as he went back to his office after meeting her at the 
 station he wondered what Gerard would think of the 
 will, half hoping he would contest it, and wondering 
 how long before something would be said of it to him. 
 It was not long, for the second day after his return from 
 New York, Gerard found it and took it to Mildred. 
 
 " Father's will," he said, with a sinking sensation, as 
 if he already saw the shadow on his life. 
 
 Mildred took the paper rather indifferently, but her 
 face blanched as she read it, and her words came slowly 
 and thick as she said, " Oh, Gerard, I am so sorry, but 
 he did not mean it to stand, and it shall not. Read it." 
 
 Taking it from her, Gerard read with a face almost 
 as white as hers, but with a different expression upon 
 it. She was sorry and astonished, while he was resent- 
 ful and angry at the man whose dead hand was striking 
 him so hard. But he was too proud to show what he 
 really felt, and said composedly, " I am not surprised. 
 He threatened to disinherit us unless we gave up Bessie 
 and Tom, and he has done so. It's all right. I have 
 something from mother and I shall be as^ad to work 
 for Bessie as Tom will be to work for Alice. It's not 
 the money I care for so much as the feeling which 
 
THE WILL. 417 
 
 prompted the act, and, by George," he continued, as he 
 glanced for the first time at the signatures, Henry Boyd, 
 Thomas J. Leach, Hugh McGregor, "if he didn't get 
 Tom to sign Alice's death warrant. That is the mean- 
 est of all." 
 
 What more he would have said was cut short by the 
 violent fit of hysterics into which Mildred went for the 
 first time in her life. And she did not come out of it 
 easily either, but sobbed and cried convulsively all the 
 morning, and in the afternoon kept her room, seeing no 
 one but Alice, who clung to her as fondly as if she had 
 been her own mother. Alice had heard of the will with 
 a good deal of composure, for she was just the age and 
 temperament to think that a life of poverty, if shared 
 with the man she loved, was not so very hard, and be- 
 sides she had in her own right seven hundred dollars a 
 year, which was something, she reasoned, and she took 
 her loss quite philosophically, and tried to comfort Mil- 
 dred, whose distress she could not understand. Mil- 
 dred knew by the handwriting that Hugh had drawn 
 the will, and after passing a sleepless night she arose 
 early the next morning, weak in body but strong in her 
 resolve to right the wrong which had been done to 
 Gerard and Alice. 
 
 " I am going to see Mr. McGregor," she said to them 
 when breakfast was over, and an hour or two later hei 
 carriage was brought out, and the coachman ordered to 
 drive her to Hugh's office and leave her there. 
 
418 mildked's ambition. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MILDRED AND HUGH. 
 
 Tom was at work that morning on the farm, and as 
 the other clerk was taking a holiday, Hugh was alone 
 when he received his visitor, whose appearance there 
 surprised him, and at whom he looked curiously, her 
 face was so white and her eyes, swollen with weeping, 
 so unnaturally large and bright. But she was very calm, 
 and taking the seat he offered, and throwing back the 
 heavy veil whose length swept the floor as she sat, she 
 began at once by saying : 
 
 " You drew my husband's will ?" 
 
 " Yes, I drew it," he answered curtly, and not at all 
 prepared for her next question, which seemed to ar- 
 raign him as a culprit. 
 
 " Why did you do it ?" and there wa-s a ring in her 
 voice he could not understand. 
 
 " Why did I do it ?" he repeated. " Don't you know 
 that lawyers usually follow their client's wishes in mak- 
 ing their wills ?" 
 
 "Yes, but you might have dissuaded him from it, 
 You knew it was wrong." 
 
 •' You don't like it then ?" he asked, but repented the 
 question when he saw the effect upon her. 
 
 Rising to her feet and tugging at her bonnet strings 
 as if they choked her, she looked steadily at him and 
 said : 
 
 " Don't like it ? Wliat do you take me fof ? No, I 
 
MILDRED AKD HUGH. 419 
 
 don't like it, and if I had found it first, I think, — I am 
 sure I should have torn it to pieces." 
 
 She had her bonnet off, and was tossing it toward the 
 table as if its weight oppressed her. But it fell upon 
 the fioor, where it might have lain if Hugh had not 
 picked it up, carefully and gingerly, as if half afraid 
 of this mass of crape. But it was Milly's bonnet, 
 and he brushed a bit of dust from the veil, and held it 
 in his hand, while she pushed back her hair from her 
 forehead, and wiping away the drops of perspiration 
 standing there went on : 
 
 " Do you know why he made such a will ?" 
 
 " I confess 1 do not. I expressed my surprise at the 
 time, but he was not a man to be turned from his pur- 
 pose when once his mind was made up. May / ask why 
 he did it i"" Hugh said, and Mildred replied : 
 
 " Yes ; — he was angry with Gerard and Alice, because 
 of — of — Tom and Bessie Leach. The young people are 
 engaged and he accidentally found it out." 
 
 " Yes, I see ; — he thought a Thornton too good to 
 marry a Leach. Do you share his opinion ?" Hugh 
 asked, while the blood came surging back to Mildred's 
 white face in a great red wave, but left it again, except 
 in two round spots which burned on either cheek. 
 
 Hugh was torturing her cruelly, and she wrung her 
 hands, but did not answer his question directly. She 
 only said, as she took the will from her pocket and held 
 it towards him, " It is all right ? It is legally exe- 
 cuted ?" 
 
 " Yes, it is all right." 
 
 "And it gives everything to me to do with as I 
 please ?" 
 
 " yes, it gives everything to you to do with as you 
 
420 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 please. You are a very rich woman, Mrs. Thornton, 
 and I congratulate you." 
 
 His tone was sarcastic in the extreme, and stung 
 Mildred so deeply that she forgot herself, and going a 
 step nearer to him cried out, " Oh, Hugh, why are you 
 so hard upon me ? Why do you hate me so ? Don't 
 you know who I am ?" 
 
 Hugh had not expected this, for he had no idea that 
 Mildred would ever tell who she was, and the sound of 
 his name, spoken as she used to speak it when excited, 
 moved him strangely. He was still holding her black 
 bonnet, the long veil of which had become twisted 
 around his boot, and without answering her at once he 
 stooped to unwind it and then put the bonnet from him 
 upon the table as if it had been a barrier between him 
 and the woman, whose eyes were upon him. 
 
 " Yes," he said at last, very slowly, for he was afraid 
 his voice might tremble, " You are Mrs. Thornton now ; 
 but you were Mildred Leach." 
 
 " Oh, Hugh, I am so glad !" Mildred cried, as she 
 sank into her chair, and covering her face with her 
 hands, sobbed like a child, while Hugh stood looking at 
 her, wondering what he ought to do, or say, and wishing 
 she would speak first. But she did not, and at last he 
 said : 
 
 " Mrs. Thornton, you have often puzzled me with a 
 likeness to somebody seen before I met you. But I had 
 no suspicion of the truth until I saw you in the cemetery 
 at your father's grave. I am no eavesdropper, but was 
 so placed that I had to see and hear, and I knew then 
 that you were Mildred, come back to us, not as we 
 
 hoped you would come, but " 
 
 His voice was getting shaky, and he stopped a 
 
moment to recover himself. Then, taking from his side 
 pocket the handkerchief he had carried with him since 
 the night he found it, he passed it to her, saying : 
 
 " I picked it up after you left the yard. Have you 
 missed it ?" 
 
 " Yes, — no. I don't remember," she replied, taking 
 the handkerchief, and drying her eyes with it. Then, 
 looking up at Hugh, while the first smile she had known 
 since her husband died broke over her face, she con- 
 tinued : " I am glad you know me ; I have wanted to 
 tell you and mother and everybody. The deception 
 was terrible to me, but I had promised and must keep 
 my word." 
 
 " Then Mr. Thornton knew ? You did not deceive 
 him ?" Hugh asked, conscious of a great revulsion of 
 feeling towards the woman he had believed so steeped 
 in hypocrisy. 
 
 " Deceive him ?" Mildred said, in some surprise. 
 " Never, — in any single thing. I am innocent there. 
 Let me explain how it happened, and you will tell the 
 others, for I can never do it but once. I am so tired. 
 You don't know how tired," and she put her hands to 
 her face, which was white as marble, as she commenced 
 the story which the reader already know.s, telling it 
 rapidly, blaming herself more than she deserved and 
 softening as much as possible her husband's share in 
 the matter-: 
 
 " He was very proud, you know," she said, " and the 
 Leaches were like the ground beneath his feet. But he 
 loved me. I am sure of that, and he was always kind 
 and good, and tried to make up for the burden he had 
 imposed upon me. Yes, my husband loved me, know- 
 ing I was a Leach." 
 
422 Mildred's aJubwios. 
 
 " And you loved him ?" Hugh asted, regretting the 
 words the moment they had passed his lips, and regret- 
 ting them more when he saw their effect upon Mildred. 
 
 Drawing herself up, she replied : 
 
 " Whether I loved him or not does not matter to you, 
 or any one else. He was my husband, and I did my 
 duty by him, and he was satisfied. If I could have for- 
 gotten I should have been happy, and I tell you truly I 
 am sorry he is dead, and if I could I'd bring him back 
 to-day." 
 
 She was now putting on the bonnet which made her 
 a widow again, and' made her face so deathly white that 
 Hugh was frightened and said to her : 
 
 " Forgive me, Mrs. Thornton. It was rude in me to 
 ask that question. Forget it, I beg of you. You are 
 very pale. Can I do anything for you ?" 
 
 " No," she answered, faintly. " I am only tired, that's 
 all, and I must get this business settled before I can 
 rest. I have come to give the money back to Gerard 
 and Alice, and you must help me do it." 
 
 " I don't quite understand you," Hugh said. " Do you 
 mean to give away the fortune your husband left you ?" 
 
 " Yes, every farthing of it, I can never use it. It 
 would not be right for me to keep it. He was angry 
 when he made that will. He Jid not mean it, and had 
 he lived he would have changed it. That was what 
 troubled him when he was ill and he tried to tell me 
 about it," and very briefly she repeated what her hus- 
 band had said to her of his children. 
 
 " I did not understand him then, but I do now. He 
 knew I would do right ; he trusted me," she continued, 
 her tears falling so fast as almost to choke her utter- 
 ance. 
 
MlLftfiED AND HPoa. 423 
 
 " But," said Hugh, " why give it all ? If Mr. Thorn- 
 ton had made his will under different conditions, he 
 would have remembered you. Why not divide equally ? 
 Why leave yourself penniless ?" 
 
 " I shall not be penniless," Mildred replied. " When 
 I was married Mr. Thornton gave me fifteen thousand 
 dollars for my own. This I shall keep. It will support 
 mother and me, for I am going back to her as soon as 
 all is known. And you will help me ? You will tell 
 mother and Bessie and Tom, and everybody, and you 
 will be my friend, just for a little while, for the sake of 
 the days when we played together ?" 
 
 Her lips were quivering and her eyes were full of 
 tears as she made this appeal, which no man could have 
 withstood, much less Hugh, who would have faced the 
 cannon's mouth for her then, so great was his sympathy 
 for her. 
 
 " Yes, I will do all you wish, but not to-day. The 
 will must be proved first, and you are too tired. I will 
 see to it at once, and then if you still are of the same 
 mind as now I am at your service. Perhaps it will be 
 better to say nothing for a few days." 
 
 " Yes, better so, — you — know — best — stand — by — me, 
 — Hugh," Mildred said, very slowly, as she leaned back 
 in her chair and closed her eyes in the weary way of a 
 child going to sleep. 
 
 Hugh thought she was going to faint, her face was so 
 pinched and gray, and he said, excitedly : 
 
 " Mildred, Mildred, rouse yourself. You must not 
 faint here. I don't know what to do with people who 
 faint. You must go home at once. Your carriage is 
 gone but I see a cab coming. I will call it for you." 
 
 Darting to the door, he signaled the cab, to which he 
 
4:H MiLDRIilj's A>fBlTtOHr. 
 
 half led, half carried Mildred, who seemed very weak 
 and was shaking with cold. Rallying a little, she said 
 to him : 
 
 " Thank you, Hugh. I'd better go home. I am get- 
 ting worse very fast and everything is black. Is it 
 growing dark ?" 
 
 This was alarming. He could not let her go alone, 
 and springing in beside her, Hugh bade the cabman 
 drive with all possible speed to the Park and then go 
 for a physician. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE DENOUEMENT. 
 
 Nothing could have happened better for Mildred and 
 her cause than the long and dangerous illness which 
 followed that visit to Hugh's office. It was early Sep- 
 tember then, but the cold November rain was beating 
 against the windows of her room when at last she was 
 able to sit up and carry out her purpose. She had been 
 very ill, first with the fever taken from her husband, 
 and then with nervous prostration, harder to bear than 
 the fever, for then she had known nothing of what was 
 passing around her, or whose were the voices speaking 
 so lovingly to her, or whose the hands ministering to 
 her so tenderly, Bessie, who called her sister, and Alice, 
 who was scarcely less anxious and attentive than Bessie 
 herself. She did not even know the white-haired 
 woman who sat by her day after day, with her blind 
 
t'flK DteNOTTEHEN*. 425 
 
 eyes turned toward the tossing, moaning, babbling 
 figure on tlie bed, whose talk was always of the past, 
 when she was a girl and lived at home, and bathed her 
 mother's head and cooked the dinner and scolded Tom 
 and Bessie and kissed and petted Charlie. Of Hugh 
 she seldom spoke, and when she did it was in the old, 
 teasing way, calling him a red-haired Scotchman and 
 laughing at his big hands and feet. To all intents and 
 purposes she was the Mildred whom we first saw shell- 
 ing peas in the doorway, and the names of her husband 
 and Gerard and Alice never passed her lips. Every 
 morning and evening Hugh walked up the avenue, and 
 ringing the bell asked, " How is Mrs. Thornton ?" Then 
 he would walk back again with an abstracted look upon 
 his face, which to a close observer would have told of 
 the fear tugging at his heart. The possibility that Mil- 
 dred could ever be anything to him, if she lived, did not 
 once enter his mind, but he did not want her to die, 
 and the man who had seldom prayed before, now 
 learned to pray earnestly for Mildred's life, as many 
 others were doing. 
 
 Hugh had done his work well, and told Mildred's 
 story, first to her mother, Bessie and Tom, then to 
 Gerard and Alice, and then to everybody, giving it, how- 
 ever, a different coloring from what Mildred had done. 
 She had softened her husband's part in the matter and 
 magnified her own, while he passed very lightly over 
 hers, and dwelt at length upon the pride and arrogance 
 of the man who, to keep her family aloof, wrung from 
 her a promise, given unguardedly and repented of so 
 bitterly. Thus the sympathy of the people was all with 
 Mildred, who, as the lady of Thornton Park, had won 
 their good opinion by her kindness and gentleness, and 
 
426 mildeed's ambitioM. 
 
 gracious, familiar manner. That she was Mrs. Giles 
 Thornton did not harm her at all, for money and posi- 
 tion are a mighty power, and the interest in, and sym- 
 pathy for her were quite as great, if not greater, than 
 would have been the case if it were plain Mildred Leach 
 for whom each Sunday prayers were said in the churches 
 and for whom inquiries were made each day until the 
 glad news went through the town that the crisis was 
 past and she would live. Hugh was alone in his office 
 when the little boy who brought him the morning paper 
 said, as he threw it in, " Mis' Thornton's better. She 
 knows her marm, and the doctor says she'll git well." 
 Then he passed on, leaving Hugh alone with the good 
 news. 
 
 "Thank God,— thank God," he said. " I couldn't let 
 Milly die," and when a few minutes later one of his 
 clerks came into the front office, he heard his chief in 
 the next room whistling Annie Laurie, and said to 
 himself, with a little nod, " I guess she's better." 
 
 It had been a very difficult task to tell Mildred's 
 story to Mrs. Leach and Tom and Bessie, but Hugh 
 had done it so well that the shock was not as great as 
 he had feared it might be. As was natural, Mrs. Leach 
 was the most afifected of the three, and within an hour 
 was at Mildred's bedside, calling her Milly and daugh- 
 ter and kissing the hot lips which gave back no answer- 
 ing sign, for Mildred never knew her, nor any one, 
 until a morning in October, when, waking suddenly 
 from along, refreshing sleep, she looked curiously about 
 her, and saw the blind woman sitting just where she 
 had sat for days and days and would have sat for nights 
 had she been permitted to do so. Now she was 
 partially asleep, but the words " Mother, are you here ?" 
 
TSK DElfOlfEMENT. 427 
 
 foused her, and in an instant Mildred was in her 
 mother's arms, begging for the pardon which was not 
 long withheld. 
 
 " Oh, Milly, my child, how could you see me blind 
 and not tell me who you were ?" were the only words of 
 reproof the mother ever uttered ; then all was joy and 
 peace, and Mildred's face shone with the light of a great 
 gladness, when Tom and Bessie came in to see her, 
 both very kind and both a little constrained in their 
 manner towards her, for neither could make it quite 
 seem as if she were their sister. 
 
 Gerard and Alice took it more naturally, and after a 
 few days matters adjusted themselves, and as no word 
 was said of the past Mildred began to recover her 
 strength, which, however, came back slowly, so that it 
 was November before she was able to see Hugh in her 
 boudoir, where Tom carried her in his arms, saying, as 
 he put her down in her easy chair, " Are you sure you 
 are strong enough for it .-'" 
 
 " Yes," she answered, eagerly. " I can't put it off 
 any longer. I shall never rest until it is done. Tell 
 Hugh I am ready." 
 
 Tom had only a vague idea of what she wished to do, 
 but knew that it had some connection with her husband's 
 will, the nature of which he had been told by Gerard. 
 
 *' She'll never let that stand a minute after she gets 
 well," Tom had said, but he never guessed that she 
 meant to give up the whole. 
 
 Hugh, who had been sent for that morning, came at 
 once, and found himself trembling in every nerve as he 
 followed Tom to the room where Mildred was waiting 
 for him. He had not seen her during her sickness, and 
 he was not prepared to find her so white and thin and 
 
428 ittLDEED's AMBITioifi 
 
 §till sd exquisitely lovely as she looked with tier ey6^ 
 so large and bright, and the smile of welcome on her 
 face as she gave him her hand and said, "We must 
 finish that business now, and then I can get well. Sup- 
 pose I had died, and the money had gone from Gerard 
 and Alice." 
 
 " I think it would have come back to them all the 
 same," Hugh replied, sitting down beside her, and 
 wondering why the sight of her affected him so 
 strangely. 
 
 But she did not give him much time to think, and 
 plunging at once into business, told him that she wished 
 to give everything to Gerard and Alice, dividing it 
 equally between them. 
 
 " You know exactly what my husband had and where 
 it was invested," she said, " and you must divide it to 
 the best of your ability, giving to each an equal share 
 in the Park, for I think they will both live here. I wish 
 them to do it, for then we shall all be near each other. 
 I shall live with mother and try to atone for the wrong 
 I have done. I have enough to keep us in comfort, and 
 shall not take a cent of what was left me in the will." 
 
 This was her decision, from which nothing could 
 move her, and when at last Hugh left her she had 
 signed away over a million of dollars and felt the richer 
 for it, nor could Gerard and Alice induce her to take 
 back any part of it after they were told what she had 
 done. 
 
 " Don't worry me," she said to them. " It seemed to 
 me a kind of atonement to do it, and I am so happy, and 
 I am sure your father would approve of it if he could 
 know about it." 
 
 After that Mildred's recovery was rapid, and on the 
 
THE DENOUEMENT. 4:29 
 
 first day of the new year she went back to the farm- 
 house to live, notwithstanding the earnest entreaties of 
 Gerard and Alice that she should stay with them until 
 Tom and Bessie came, for it, was decided that the four 
 should, for a time at least, live together at the Park. 
 But Mildred was firm. 
 
 " Mother needs me," she said, " and is happier when 
 I am with her. I pan see that she is failing. I shall 
 not have her long, and while she lives I shall try to 
 make up to her for all the selfish years when I was 
 away, seeking my own pleasure and forgetting hers." 
 
 And Mildred kept her word and was everything to 
 her mother, who lived to see, or rather hear, the double 
 wedding, which took place at St. Jude's one morning in 
 September, little more than a year after Mr. Thornton's 
 death. The church was full and there was scarcely a 
 dry eye in it as Mildred led her blind mother up the 
 aisle, and laid her hand upon Bessie's arm in response 
 to the question, " Who giveth this woman to be married 
 to this man ?" It was Mildred who gave Alice away, 
 and who three weeks later received the young people 
 when they came home from their wedding journey, 
 seeming and looking much like her old self as she did 
 the honors of the house where she had once been mis- 
 tress, and joining heartily in their happiness, laugh- 
 ingly returned Tom's badinage when he called her his 
 stepmother-in-law. Then, when the festivities were 
 over, she went back to her mother, whom she cared for 
 so tenderly that her life was prolonged for more than a 
 year, and the chimes in the old church belfry were ring- 
 ingfor a Saviour born, when she at last died in Mildred's 
 arms, with Mildred's name upon her lips and a blessing 
 for the beloved daughter who had been so much to her. 
 
430 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 The night before she died Mildred was alone with her 
 for several hours, and bending over her she said, " I 
 want to hear you say again that you forgive me for the 
 waywardness which kept me from you so long, and my 
 deception when I came back. I am so sorry, mother." 
 
 " Forgive you ?" her mother said, her blind eyes trying 
 to pierce the darkness and look into the face so close to 
 hers. " I have nothing to forgive. I understand it all, 
 and since you came back to me you have been the dear- 
 est child a mother ever had. Don't cry so, Milly," and 
 the shaky hand wiped away the tears which fell so fast, 
 as Mildred went on : 
 
 " I don't know whether the saints at rest ever think 
 of those they have left behind ; but if they do, and 
 father asks for me, tell him how sorry I am, and tell 
 Charlie how I loved him, and how much I meant to do 
 for him when I went away." 
 
 " I'll tell them. Don't cry," came faintly from the 
 dying woman, who said but little more until the dawn 
 was breaking, and she heard in the distance the sound 
 of the chimes ringing in the Christmas morn. Then, 
 lifting her head from Mildred's arm, she cried joy- 
 fully : 
 
 " The bells, — the bells, — the Christmas bells. I am 
 glad to go on his birthday. Good-bye, Milly. God 
 bless you ; don't cry." 
 
 Thej' buried her by her husband and Charlie, and 
 then Mildred was all alone, except for the one servant 
 she kept. Bessie and Alice would gladly have had her 
 at the Park, but she resisted all their entreaties and 
 gave no sign of the terrible loneliness which oppressed 
 her as day affer day she lived her solitary life, which, 
 for the first week or two, was seldoio enlivened by the 
 
80NSHINE AFTER THE STORM. 431 
 
 presence of any one except Gerard and Tom, who each 
 day plowed their way through the heavy drifts of snow 
 which were piled high above the fence tops. A terrible 
 storm was raging on the mountains, and Rocky Point 
 felt it in all its fury. The trains were stop^jed, — the 
 roads were blocked, — communication between neigh- 
 bor and neighbor was cut off, and though many would 
 gladly have done so, few could visit the lonely woman, 
 who sat all day wiere she could look out toward the 
 graves on whicli she knew the snow was drifting, and 
 who at night sat motionless by the fire, living over the 
 past and shrinking from the future which lay so drear- 
 ily before her. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SUNSHINE AFTER THE STORM. 
 
 It was the last day, or rather the last night of the 
 Storm. The wind had subsided, and when the sun went 
 down there was in the west a tinge of red as a promise 
 of a fair to-morrow. But to Mildred there seemed no 
 to-morrow better than to-day had been, and when after 
 her early tea she sat down in her little sitting-room, 
 there came over her such a sense of dreariness and pain 
 as she had never before experienced. Once she thought 
 of her husband, who had been so kind to her, and whis- 
 pered sadly : 
 
 " I might have learned to love him, but he is dead 
 and goijg ; ^yerybocjy is gone who cared for pie, Even 
 
433 Mildred's ambition. 
 
 Hugh has disappointed me," and although she did not 
 realize it this thought was perhaps the saddest of all. 
 Hugh had disappointed her. During the two years 
 since her return to the farm house, she had seen but 
 little of him, for it was seldom that he called, and when 
 he did it was upon her mother, not herself. 
 
 But he had not forgotten her, and there was scarcely 
 a waking hour of his life that she was not in his mind, 
 and often when he was busiest with his clients, who 
 were increasing rapidly, he saw in the papers he was 
 drawing up for them, her face as it had looked at him 
 when she said : 
 
 " Oh, Hugh, don't you know me ?" He was angry 
 with her then, and his heart was full of bitterness to- 
 wards her for her deception. But that was gone long 
 ago, and he was only biding his time to speak. 
 
 " While her mother lives she will not leave her," he 
 said ; but her mother was dead, and he could wait no 
 longer. " I must be decent, and not go the very first 
 day after the funeral," he thought, a little glad of the 
 storm which kept every one indoors. 
 
 But it was over now, and wrapping his overcoat 
 around him, and pulling his fur cap over his ears he 
 went striding through the snow to the farm house, 
 which he reached just as Mildred was so absorbed in 
 her thoughts that she did not hear the door opened by 
 her maid, or know that he was there until he came 
 into the room and was .standing upon the hearth rug 
 before her. Then, with the cry, " Oh, Hugh, is it you ? I 
 am glad you have come. It is so lonesome," she sprang 
 up and offered him her hand, while he looked at her 
 with a feeling of regret that he had not come before. 
 He did not sit down beside her, but opposite, where he 
 
SUNSHINE AFTER THE STORM. 433 
 
 could see her as they talked on indifferent subjects, — the 
 storm, — the trains delayed, — the wires down, — the dam- 
 age done in town, — and the prospect of a fair day 
 to-morrow. Then there was silence between them and 
 Mildred got up and raked the fire in the grate and 
 brushed the hearth with a little broom in the corner, 
 while Hugh watched her, and when she was through 
 took the poker himself and attacked the fire, which was 
 doing very well. 
 
 " I like to poke the fire," he said, while Mildred re- 
 plied, " So. do I ;" and then there was silence again, un- 
 til Hugh burst out : 
 
 " I say, Milly, how much longer am I to wait ?" 
 
 " Wha — at .'" Mildred replied, a faint flush tinging 
 her face. 
 
 "How much longer am I to wait?" he repeated,, 
 and she answered, " Wait for what ?" 
 
 " For you," and Hugh arose and went and stood over 
 her as he continued : " Do you know how old I am ?" 
 
 Her face was scarlet now, but she answered laugh- 
 ingly, " I am thirty. You used to be four years older 
 than myself, which makes you thirty-four." 
 
 " Yes," he said. " As time goes I am thirty-four, but 
 measured by my feelings it is a himdred years since 
 that morning when I saw you going through the Park 
 gate and felt that I had lost you, as I knew I had after- 
 wards, and never more so than when I'saw you in the 
 cemetery and knew who you were." 
 
 " Why are you reminding me of all this ? Don't you 
 know how it hurts ? I know you despised me then, and 
 must despise me now," Mildred said, with anguish in 
 her tones as she, too, rose from her chair and stood 
 ^part from him. 
 
434 mildeed's ambition. 
 
 " I did despise you then, it's true," Hugh replied, 
 "and tried to think I hated you, not so much for deceiv- 
 ing lis as for deceiving your husband,- as I believed you 
 must have done ; but I know better now. Your record 
 has not been stainless, Milly, and I would rather have 
 you as you were seventeen years ago on the summer 
 morning when you were a little girl of thirteen shelling 
 peas and prophesying that you would one day be the 
 mistress of Thornton Park. You have been its mis- 
 tress, and I am sorry for that, but nothing can kill my 
 love, which commenced in my boyhood, when you made 
 fun of my hands and feet and brogue and called me 
 freckled and awkward, and then atoned for it all by 
 some look in your bright eyes which said you did not 
 mean it. I am awkward still, but the freaks and the 
 brogue are gone, and I have come to ask you to be my 
 wife, — not to-morrow, but some time next spring, when 
 everything is beginning new. Will you, Milly ? I will 
 try and make you happy, even if I have but little 
 money. 
 
 " Oh, Hugh ! What do I care for money. I hate 
 it I'- 
 ll was the old Mildred who spoke in the old familiar 
 words, which Hugh remembered so-well, but it was the 
 new Mildred who, when he held his arms towards her, 
 saying " Come," went gladly into them, as a tired child 
 goes to its mother. 
 
 It was late that night when Hugh left his promised 
 bride, for there was much to talk about, and all the in- 
 cidents of their childhood to be lived over again, Hugh 
 telling of the lock of hair and the pea-pod he had kept 
 with the peas, hard as bullets now, especially the 
 gmaller one, whjch be called Mildred, 
 
SUNSHINE AFTKE THE STOKM. 435 
 
 " But, do you know, I really think it has recently be- 
 giin to change," Hugh said, " and I shall not be sur- 
 prised to find it soft again " 
 
 " Just as I am to let you see how much I love you," 
 Mildred said, as she laid her beautiful head upon his 
 arm, and told him of the rumor of his engagement to 
 Bessie, which had been the means of making her Mrs. 
 Thornton. 
 
 " That was the only secret I had from my husband," 
 she said. " I told him everything else, and he took me 
 knowing it all, and I believe he loved me, too. He 
 was very kind to me, — and " 
 
 She meant to be loyal to her husband, and would 
 have said more, if Hugh had not stopped her mouth in 
 a most effective way. No man cares to hear the 
 woman who has just promised to marry him talk 
 about her dead husband, and Hugh was not an excep- 
 tion. 
 
 " Yes, darling, I know," he said. " But let's bury 
 the past. You are mine nov; ; all mine." 
 
 Hugh might be awkward and shy in many things, 
 but he was not at all shy or awkward in love-making 
 when once the ice was broken. He had waited for 
 Mildred seventeen years, and he meant to make the 
 most of her now, and he stayed so long that she at last 
 bade him go, and pointed to the clock just striking the 
 hour of midnight. 
 
 No one seemed surprised when told of the engage- 
 ment. It was what everybody expected, and what 
 should have been long ago, and what would have been, 
 if Mildred had staid at home, instead of going off to 
 Europe. Congratulations came from every quarter and 
 jipne were more sincere than thgse from the young 
 
436 mildkkd's ambition. 
 
 people at the Park, who wanted to make a grand wed- 
 ding. To this Hugh did not object, for in his heart was 
 the shadow of a wish to see Mildred again as he saw 
 her that*hight at the party in jewels and satins and lace. 
 But she vetoed it at once. A widow had no business 
 with orange blossoms, she said, and besides that she 
 was too old, and Hugh was old, too, and she should be 
 married quietly in church, in a plain gray traveling 
 dress and bonnet. And she was married thus on a 
 lovely morning in June, when the roses were in full 
 bloom, and the church was full of flowers, and people, 
 too, — for everybody was there to see the bride, who 
 went in Mildred Thornton and came out Mildred Mc- 
 Gregor. 
 
 And now there is little more to tell. It is three years 
 since that wedding day, and Hugh and Mildred live in 
 the red farm house, which is scarcely a farm house now, 
 it has been so enlarged and changed, with its pointed 
 roofs and bow windows and balconies. Brook Cottage 
 they call it, and across the brook in the rear there is a 
 rustic bridge leading to the meadow, where Mr. Leach's 
 cows used to feed, but which now is a garden, or 
 pleasure ground, not so large, but quite as pretty as the 
 Park, and every fine afternoon at the hour when Hugh 
 is expected from his office, Mildred walks through the 
 grounds, leading by the hand a little golden-haired boy, 
 whom she calls Charlie for the baby brother who died 
 and whom he greatly resembles. And when at last 
 Hugh comes, the three go back together, Hugh's arm 
 around Milly's waist and his boy upon his shoulder. 
 They are not rich and never will be, but they are very 
 happy in each other's love, and no shadow, however 
 small, ever rests on Milly's still lovely face, save when 
 
SUNSHINE AFTEE THE STOKM. 437 
 
 she recalls the mad ambition and discontent which 
 came so near wrecking her life. 
 
 In the Park three children play, Giles and Fanny, 
 who belong to the Thorntons, and a second Mildred 
 Leach, who belongs to Tom and Alice. 
 
 One picture more, and then we leave them forever 
 near the spot where we first saw them. Gerard and 
 Bessie, — Alice and Tom, — have come to the cottage at 
 the close of a warm July afternoon, and are grouped 
 around the door, where Mildred sits, with the sunlight 
 falling on her hair, a bunch of sweet peas pinned upon 
 her bosom, and the light of a great joy in her eyes as 
 she watches Hugh swinging the four children in a 
 hammock, and says to Bessie "I never thought I could 
 be as happy as I am now. God has been very good to 
 me. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 Love (L'Amour)— English Translation from Michelet's famous French work i 50 
 
 Woman (La Femme) — The Sequel to *' L' Amour.'* Do. Do. i m 
 
 Verdant Green — A racy English college story. With 200 comic illustrations i 5a 
 
 Doctor Antonio — By Ru ffini , „ 
 
 Beatrice Cenci — From the Italian ; , cq 
 
 Josh billings. His Complete Writings— With Biography, Steel Portrait, and too III. 2 00 
 
 Artemas Ward. Complete Comic Writings— With Biography, Portrait, and 50 111... i 5a 
 
 Children's Fairy Geography— With hundreds of beauiiful Illustrations i oa 
 
 All the books on this jist are handsomely printed and bound In cloth, sdd 
 everywhere, and by mail, postage free, on receipt of price by 
 
 *fci* 
 
 Q. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher, 
 
 33 WEST 23d STREET, NEW YORIC 
 
G. W, DILLINGHAM CO.'S. PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 Out of India— Rudyard Kipling.. $i 50 
 The King of Alberia- Jpy L. D. . 1 50 
 Fort Reno— By Mrs. D. B. Dyer., i 00 
 
 Lady Olivia — By Col. Kalkncr i 00 
 
 White Rosed Memphis Do... 100 
 Red Rose of Savannah— A. S. M i 00 
 The Pink Rokc of Mexico. Bo. i 00 
 Yellow RoseofNewOrleans. " i 00 
 
 It's a W»y Love Has 25 
 
 Zarailla — By Beulah 50 
 
 Florine 50 
 
 Smact Sayings of Children — ^Paul i 00 
 
 tirazy History of the U. S 50 
 
 Rocks and Shoals— Swi^er '!;o 
 
 The Wages of Sin 50 
 
 ■Idwymon — By Fred*kA. Randle,. 150 
 The Disagreeable Man— A.S.M. 73 
 DurArtistin Spain, etc.— Carleton i 00 
 Dawn to Noon — By Violet Fane, i 50 
 Constance's Fate. Do , i 50 
 
 Missing Chord— Lucy Dillingham z 25 
 
 Ronbar— By R.S. Dement i .so 
 
 A Manless World— Yourell '75 
 
 Journey to Mars— Pope i 50 
 
 The Dissolution — Dandelyon i 00 
 
 Lion Jfack-^By P. T. Bamum i 50 
 
 Jack in the Jungle, Do 150 
 
 Dick Broadnead. Do 15:^ 
 
 Red Birds Christmas Story,Ho:mes i 00 
 
 Flashes from "Ouida" 125 
 
 Private LettersofaFrenchWoman 75 
 Passion's Dream— W.BoydSample 75 
 The Arrows of Love— L.Daiutrey 75 
 
 Eighty-Seven Kisses— By? 75 
 
 Treasur;^ of Knowledge i 00 
 
 Mrs. Spriggins — Widow Hedott, . . 25 
 Phemie Frost— Ann S. Stephens., i go 
 Disagreeable Woman — Starr — 75 
 The Story of a Day in London. < 25 
 Lone Ranch — By MayneReid.... i 50 
 The Train Boy — Horatio Alger. . . , i 25 
 
 Dan» The Detective — Alger 125 
 
 Death Blow to Spiritualism 50 
 
 The Sale of Mrs. Adral — Costello 50 
 The W ew Adam and £v«— Todd. 50 
 BottcTU Facts in Spiritualism., z 50 
 The MysteryofCentra'iPark— Bly 50 
 Debatable Land — R. Dale Owen, a 00 
 Threading My Way. Do. . i 50 
 Princess Nourmahal — Geo. Sand x 50 
 
 Galliano's Wooing — Stebbins 125 
 
 Stories about Doctors —JefFreson i 50 
 Stories about Lawyers Do. z 50 
 
 Doctor Antonio— By Ruffini i 50 
 
 Beatrice Cenci — From theltEiIian . i 50 
 
 The Story of Mary i 50 
 
 Madame— By Frank Lee Benedict z 50 
 A Late Remorse. Dc x 50 
 
 Hammer and Anvil. IV. S S^ 
 
 Her Friend Laurence^ Do. c 50 
 
 L*Assommoir — Zola's great nov^^. i 00 
 
 Iffisoellaneons Works* 
 
 Mignonnette — By Sangr^e $z ocJ 
 
 Jessica— By Mrs. W. H. White.... i 50 
 Women of To-day. ^Do. ...,.Z50 
 The Baroness — joaqain Miller. .^';x 50 
 One Fair Woman. iJo, ...'.150 
 TheBurnhams— Mrs.G E.Stewalrt 2 co 
 Bugene Ridgewood— Paul James z 50' 
 Braxton's Bar — R. M. Daggett... i 50] 
 Miss Beck— By Tilbury Holt... .1 5cJ 
 
 A Wayward Life i 00 
 
 Winning Winds — Emerson. 1 50' 
 
 The Fallen Pillar Saint— Beht... z 25! 
 
 An Krra -d Girl— Johnson , . .i". z 50] 
 
 AskHer,Manl Ask Herf.,.„.. x 50 
 Hidden Power— T.H.Tibbies.... j sS 
 Parson Thorne — E.M.Buckingham z 5^ 
 
 Errors — By Ruth Carter >* ji 50 
 
 The Abbess of Jouarre — Renan..,,|T oo| 
 Bulwer's Letters to Kis Wife,.ja 00, 
 Sense — A serious book. Pomeroy, 
 
 Gold Dust Do. 
 
 Our Saturday Nights.. Do. 
 N onsense — A comic book Do. 
 Brick Dust. Do. Do. 
 
 Home Harmonies. ... Do, 
 
 Vesta Vane— By L. King, R , i 50J 
 
 Kimball's Novels — 6 vols. PerVoL z 
 Warwicl- ^M. T. Walwor-t; , z 
 
 -I 50 
 "SO 
 4 50, 
 
 :^ So| 
 t S« 
 
 Hotspur 
 Lulu. 
 Storm cliif. 
 Delaplalne* 
 Bt rerly. 
 Zahara. 
 
 Do. 
 Do. 
 Do. 
 I? J. 
 Do. 
 Do. 
 
 The Darlingj of an Empire , 
 
 Clip Her Wing, or Let HerSoai 
 Nina's Peril — By Mrs. Miller. ...'i^. 
 Marguerite's Journal — y'or Girlsr^i 50' 
 Orpheus C. Kerr— Fourvols.inon^ ' 
 Pertect Gentleman — Lockwood;^"S 25! 
 Purple and Fine Linen — Fawcet^z 50' 
 Pauline's Trial— L.D. Courtneyt^^i 50' 
 
 Tancredi— Dr. E. A.Wood ..*. i 50 
 
 Measm^for Measure— Stanley,, z 50 
 A Marvelous Coincidence.......... 50 
 
 Two Men of the World — Bate&.>^ 50 
 A God of Gotham — Bascom.., ... 50 
 Congressman John— MacCar&y 50 
 
 So Runs the world Away 5c 
 
 Birds of a Feather — Sothem... ,...jt 50 
 Every Man His Own Doctor.... -a 00 
 Professional Criminals — Byrnes .5 qo 
 Heart Hungry.Mrs. Westmoreland z sA 
 Clifford Troupe. Do. ■ 50I 
 
 Price of a Life— R. F. Stureis.... 1 50] 
 
 Marston Hall— L, Ella Byid. z 50! 
 
 Conquered- By a New Author. . . , ii[ 50I 
 Talea from the Popular Operas x sd. 
 The Fall of Kilman Kon.. ..:.... z 5a 
 San Miniato— Mrs. C.V. Hampton 5< 
 All for Her— A Tale of New Yhrk. z y