Can the old love?
page: (TitlePage) [View Page (TitlePage) ] CAN THE OLD LOVE? A NOVEL. BY ZADEL BARNES BUDDINGTON. WITH ILL US7RA TIONS. "And now he rests:, his greatness and his sweetness No more shall seem at strife; And death has moulded into calm completeness The statue of his life. But round his grave are quietude and beauty, And the sweet heaven above, - The fitting symbols of a life of duty Transfigured into love." WHTTIER. J Beautiful in her holy peace, as one Who stands at evening when the work is done, Glorified in the setting of the sun! WHTTIER. BO- I ON : JAMES R. OSGOOD,AND COMPANY, (LAT' TICjNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co.) I87I. page: 0[View Page 0] Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, By JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., In the/Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Boston: Stereotyped andprinted by Rand, A very, & Frye. TOR those who know themselves to be travelling down the hill of Life, it may be a consolation to remember that old hearts need not be cold ones; To remember, tlat beyond the faltering step, and fading eye, and trembling hand, and gray hair fluttering in the evening wind, and the abrupt yawning of the inevitable grave, -lies the fair, free Hereafter of Eternal Youth, wherein all souls shall find what life and light and love do fully mean. Z. B. B. MAY 20, 1871. ' page: 0 (Table of Contents) [View Page 0 (Table of Contents) ] CONTENTS. PART FIRST. A Sou,'s TEST P a. A "UDIE DE CHANGARNIER 59 PART THRD. THE WEDDING-GIFT. --THE ASYUM . .82 82 PART FOURTH. FATIII AND I)AUGTER . .104 PART FIFTH. MrIIrE "A SKS TlHE QULESTION " . . 133 PART SIXTH. AliNfxi:,'s LVE ir . . 150 PART SEVENTH. "ADY HOPE'S ANSWER . . . 1" page: 0-9[View Page 0-9] CAN THE OLD LOVE?' PART FIRST. A SOUL'S TEST. O Love! sweet, sweet, thy summer-dream; But deathly bitter was the waking: O Heaven! hast thou a peace supreme Enough to pay a heart for breaking? A PRETTY rural English town in Hertfordshire, about two o'clock in the afternoon of a pleas- ant day in May. Scene, - Hath- win Lodge. Nicholas Hathwin pushed back the paper upon the dining-table, rose, and, spreading his shoulders with a deep breath, stood for a moment with one hand in his pocket, the other absently finger- ing a vest-button. Nelly Hathwin, his eldest daugh- ter, sat near the window, plaiting a ruffle. She was, perhaps, twen- ty years old; very plain -looking, freckled immoderately, with sandy hair, scarcely any eyebrows, and eyes so pale as to be but indefi- nitely discernible across the room. She was exactly one of those persons people think they may do or say any thing before, - as if they were posts. Nevertheless, though quite un- suspected of all, and hardly under- stood by herself, she had a fine, poetic temperament, an intellect above the common-place, and a depth of sensibility little less than an affliction to one whose cold, irresponsive manners, and person- al uncomeliness, commended her neither to interest nor considera- tion. Only a keen eye would detect thet endowments within that quiet, almost expressionless exterior; and Nelly Hathwin did not often come within' the range of a really keen eye. Such an eye would have seen something in the way in which, as her father rose, she stopped plaiting, and, without look- ing up, seemed to expect and await. "Nelly," said he presently, hav- ing looked at his watch. "Yes, father." "I suppose, of course, every thing is ready?" "I think so." "She'll be here now very soon." "Yes, sir." He walked round the room once, stopping near Nelly's chair. 9 page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] "She'll be hungry," said he. 1 "She's very fond of nice little things, - dainties, some kind of I light confection now "- '1 There are fresh tarts: Lily i is very fond of those," said Nelly slowly. "Cook has made other things; and I have made some light tea-cakes myself,--a kind that Lily particularly likes." 'P She did not tell him, that, had matters waited for this late pater- nal suggestion, it would have been too late for action upon it. She spoke as though her prepara- tions had been in consequence of his inquiries. He put his hand on' her head, passing it once or twice over her hair. ' That's right, Nelly: you are a good girl." A brief mist, neither seen nor suspected, gathered in Nelly's eyes. He went out of the room, but turned in the door. ";I wish we had asked Alfred Hurst!" he said. "I am always twice as glad when he is glad with me." "CHe is here." "What! You asked him?" "No, sir; but he passed the window, while you have been " - Nicholas Hathwin did not wait, but crossed the hall, and into the draw- ing-room. There, in its deep bow- window, and quietly fingering the polished leaf of a lemon-tree, stood a man, - not exactly a usual sort of a man, yet of an unusualness not patent as such to the majority of observers. His 'name was Alfred Hurst. He was a robust Englishman sixty- three years old; by three of them Nicholas Hathwin's senior. Hurst had amassed a fortune large even for a prosperous Englishman, hav- ing been a business-man of good abilities and of notable industry and integrity: in all other respects, self-supposed and world-supposed to be phlegmatic, prosaic, and com- mon-place. He began life as a poor lad, and wrought his own success. To do this, he had to be what is most comprehensively meant by the word "busy." His boyhood knew nothing of the amenities of life; his youth, nothing of its romance. At the age ,of twenty-three, he chanced to be courted by a woman a dozen years his senior. Con- fronted by this new question; cal- culating its pros and cons with a simple pure-mindedness only equalled by his social ignorance. and inexperience ; reflecting briefly in a clear, business-like manner, that marriage was a very general occurrence, and therefore, perhaps, a permissible speculation,-he mar- ried this lady, who proved herself an irreproachable British matron and a first-class housekeeper, an af- fectionate but entirely dispassion- ate wife. She never became a mother, which was a blessing, whether rec- ognized or not., Granting that children should be born only of true marriage, this well-disposed ; household was, as it should have been, childless. Having byv nature a fine constitu- tion, and being of simple, temper- - ate habits, Alfred Hurst was per- fectly hale, mature instead of old, and straight and stalwart as a "Christopher North." Having retired on his fortune, he has for a year or two pursued a desultory study of the Flora, -a revived taste of early boyhood. All plants and flowers are companions to him. Older than Hathwin, he looks much younger; but Hathwin is a widower, and the older for this, because he loved,--indeed, in a somewhat selfish, exacting fashion, - idolized, the wife he has lost. Hurst and Hathwin have been friends from childhood, - a queer friendship, yet a real, not to say a warm one; and the two families have been for years comparatively near, and, asregards the gentlemen, intimate neighbors. "Now, I take, this kindly!" exclaimed Hathwin demonstra- tively, seizing Hurst's hand. 6 "With a very vicious squeeze, though," said Hurst literally with a short, pleasant--laugh. "What have I done?" "Done! Brought the last thing necessary--not the least, though - for a complete Hathwin holiday. You remembered it, I know you did, for al you look I Jack the dull boy. " "Remember what?" "Don't you, now, really?" per- sisted Hathwin. "I haven't an idea what you mean!" Hathwin looked a little vexed. "It's only the other day I read you a part of her letter, Hurst. Lily, my daughter, my youngest, returns to-day." "To be sure! - I recollect per- fectly. I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Hurst, adding, "I have never been a father, you know; and that must be my excuse." "I'll forgive you on that score," said Hathwin cordially; " for I do think the husband that's not a father is the saddest dog on earth, though I never could make you see it. But, Hurst, I want you to love my little girl; to care for her coming: every thing was always better, old boy, when you had a part in it." Hathwin's demonstrativeness, meaning not necessarily either more or less than Hurst's tranquil bear- ing, impressed Hurst always with a self-reproaching idea of his own coldness. He was, perhaps, only generous to his friend, but was ignorantly unjust to himself: he had been so all his life. He looked from the window a moment in si- lence, thinking to this effect, - "I take myself to be a sort of hu- man log, Hathwin; but I feel what you say: I thank you for it." Turan- ing round, he said aloud,- "I never'romped with but one child in my life, Nikko,; and that was your Lily." "She's grown a bit, the sweet hussy! since you've seenwher," said Hathwin; " but I'll, warrant her for a romp with you this very day." Hurst smiled, still fingering among the lemon-leaves. Hath- win, leaning back in a huge arm- chair, raised his arms, and put his hands together just back of his head. "Upon my life, I wish you had page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] a son! '" suddenly burst out Hath- win from a short revery. "I should have guessed your wish in favor of a daughter for me." Hathwin laughed. "I've never satisfactorily made up my mind as to whether you are most a very slow, or most a very sly, old fellow." "No?" "No, you six feet of old inno- cence! I was thinking of my Lily, and wishing you had a son - as like yourself as possible - to wed her one of these days." "I should say 'one of these days' in a very future sense," slow- ly replied Hurst. "As for a son- if I had one, I'd try to do my best by himl; but it would be journey- work, I fancy, and besides "- "Perhaps you wouldn't choose my Lily for a daughter-in-law," said Hathwin, speaking hastily fronm a streak of snobbishness, which was the tnost palpable flaw in his char- acter, and which nursed more sharp speeches, and uttered more little- lesses, than all the rest of the man. "But mind you, man, she's fit for a lord: she's pretty, by Jove! -- as pretty as e'er a lass in England, and mannered like a lady born. She's herrmother's like right over again." Here the man changed for the better again with mercu- rial quickness. Barring all that, I tell you a son of yours, if only you had one, would be my mind's husband for her; and I'd pit him against you to be of the same mind with me. I doubt I'm not so much out of place match-making for my own lass, who has no mother to manage for her, and who has but a thistledown's pate of her own on such matters just yet." "No: I shouldn't choose her, Nikko," said Hurst stoutly, when his friend paused. "My son, if I had one, should choose for himself; and I dare swear I'd be kind to the woman -your lass, or another's - he chose to make my daughter. But what I'm thinking most is, that your Lily is very little and young for these thoughts of yours."' "Little and young,"' echoed Hathwin, - "well, yes; young, but not quite a baby; has left off pinafores. Why! she's all of six- teen, and very forward for her age, taller than Nelly, and - When can you have seen her last?" "I don't know really. I don't recollect that I've seen her since she's been at school," said Hurst slowly. "I know you've been to see her, - some of you, - and she's been at home once or twice; but I was away. Now I think of it, I guess I haven't seen her at all since she's been at school, -a matter of two years or a little over "- "Three, - all of three years!" interrupted Hathwin, thinking with a proud twinkle in his eyes of the a change in Lily, and the brightness of the transformation that would presently dawn upon. his staid , friend. u"I remember the very last time 3 I did see her," continued Hurst, i smiling. "She chased me round and : round your lawn, because, in lifting her down from the fence, I elum- r sily tumbled her sash." '"Just like her! She's a fine spirit, - more like me there, than her mother. She'd be even with you to-day, I dare say, if you gave her occasion." "That only seems yesterday," Hurst went on. "I'll heartily allow to you, Nikko, she was pretty, very. But I could have taken her up on one hand, and room to spare: I can't think of her as you "- At this instant, in the doorway, directly' opposite Hurst, a young girl appeared, passed swiftly to the arm-chair, and dropped two little hands down snugly upon Nicho- las Hathwin's eyes. A percepti- ble start ran through Hathwin's body, and his face rippled an over; but he sat submitting to the blind- folding without speaking. Eyes of a dark blue flashed happy mischief at Hurst: a head all of a bright silky quiver of hair was shaken at him warningly. "Well, Lily," said Hathwin at length, with actually a tremble in his voice, i" how long do you think; I can stand this?" ] The- slight, lovely figure swung round into his lap with the grace i of a swaying willow-branch. - "Good! You guessed me: now I you may see." "Guessed you! monstrous pro- E found that! Who else would have 3 the impudence to put my eyes t out?"' ' They took a long embrace, sup- plemented by several shorter ones, e and kissed each other, between I brief but full sentences of greet- a ing, with mutual satisfaction. c Hurst looked on, not smiling, c e not speaking, but missing nothing, i of what passed., The scene was 1 quite novel to him. Presently Hathwin looked up. He was not only proud, but ex- ' tremely fond, of Lily; and, in the light and beauty of this feeling, he looked a handsome man. "I say, Hurst, -- room on your hand, and to spare,' eh? Stand up, Lily darling. Little; isn't she?': r He laughed as Lily Hathwinl reared herself with a rustle of soft draperies. "By Jove! Tall as--taller than her own father!" "No: I should say just your height; and you are a short man," said Hurst very quietly. Lily Hathwin-who remembered her father's old friend very well; and remembered the days. when she had romped with him, clamber- ing all over her patient, taciturn, but strong and gentle playfellow; and knew, without remembering, that he was old, older than her father - gazed at him very archly, pointing with one finger. "Papa, I thought that was an- image of Uncle Hurst. He hasn't spoken before since I came into the room." "Because he thought you were a baby," laughed Hathwin; ,and you've struck him dumb with all these added inches of pretty wo- manhood." Hurst remaining silent, with an expression of countenance which Hathwin attributed to surprise, - as delightful to himself as it was confounding to his friend,- he ex- claimed, - page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] "Come, take her on your hand, Alf, and kiss her good-day in, the name of Lang Syne. I'll let thee once. Hast thou on a sash, lass? Well, hit him - but kindly - if he tumbles it." And Hathwin laughed with a mirthful mixture of feeling, till the tears stood in his eyes. Hurst, still silent, looked stea- dily, not as if he wished to look, but more as if he could not choose but look, at Lily. She, nothing abashed, stepped forward, and, with childlike directness, put a hand on each of Hurst's shoulders, and raised her head to be kissed. Hurst's hands were lightly fold- ed behind hiim as Lily advanced: he did not bring them forward, but involuntarily locked them together. He bent his head at her touch: his gray eyes, for a silent instant look- ing deeply into hers, brought a soft flicker of color into Lily's face. He kissed her once quickly, and again, as she drew her hands from his shoulders, not so quickly. From this second' kiss he raised himself abruptly. Lily turned again gayly to her father. Much and volubly occupied with each other, neither chanced to see the face of Alfred Hurst as he bent again 'intently over the leaves of the lemon-tree. A minute later, Lily Hathwin put her land lightly on Alfred Hurst's arm. "Didn't you promise me?" she exclaimed. "I tell her, promises made to little bits of girls don't mean any thing," said Hathwin. '"She's teasing for a horse, so quick; and says you told her, long ago, you'd teach her to ride if I'd get her a horse." "Didn't you?" persisted Lily. Yes." "There! I guess it's only naughty papas that fib to little girls. You meant it too ; didn't you?" "Yes." "There, papa " "Yes with a long face, Lily. Look at him! He's sorry as can be he ever said or meant " - "I'll teach Miss Hathwin with pleasure, Nikko," Hurst broke in earnestly, " if you wish, and if she "- 1"Pray, Miss Hathwin, make your best courtesy," was her father's laughing interruption. "Now, man, what's the use? . She is young, if she isn't as little as you thought, and not a whit changed at heart; are you, lass? And she's just Lily to you and me ; and so don't begin wrong, but take up old times where you left 'em. She's never proper- ly Miss Hathwin, anyway, till Nel- ly's married; and, for all she looks like a young elm, she's just my own little lass yet: so, if there's nothing amiss in my Lily," clap- , ping Hurst's shoulder, and with a laugh at his own simple wit, " don't try to be making her a miss." t "If you- don't like me tall, un- L cle, why, then, I'm sorry I'm so tall, and I'd be shorter if I could. "i You are not tall," said Hurst literally, and smiling with an air ) of less constraint, " and you are very r well as you are; only you are grown. s I recall you as a little girl: in fact, L I should not have known you." "I should have known you," de- murely. "You and papa don't grow old a bit, - not since I can 'remember.". "Like enough; for we'd grown to be about as old as we could- hadn't we, Alf-before we had this blossom put into the button- hole of our old age.?' "I like old men," heartily re- spondedl Lily; " that is, nice kind ones, like you and papa," with a smile beginning to creep round the corners of her mouth, "who try all they can to make young people happy." "A wheedling, coaxing, cajoling set: that's what women-folk are," laugrhed Hathwin. "But it's not art: it's born in 'em." "4 And you know you like to be teased." '"For a horse? -It's likely! Do now, prithee, tease thy old, father for a horse. Not above ten minutes in the house she's been out of for a year, and begging for a horse!" "I'd wait a month, papa " - "Would you, indeed! A filial marvel!" "Only I'd be an old story then, and you'd, maybe, deny me." "Ay, perhaps." "And why?" "I can't say for my life, unless I for the pleasure of being teased." "Papa, you're cruel!" ] "Ay: so must a wise father be to a foolish child." L 1 N"Not above ten minutes' - 1 it's half an hour, though - in the 1 house, and you refuse my first re- 1 quest." This, hanging upon him ( - beseechingly, yet with an air of ; iadive coquetry. I Your son - if you had one should have her this day for the tasking," said Hathwin to Hurst, with a look full of sparkling, father- ly pleasure, that belied his words. "What's not worth entreating is not worth bestowing," said Lily quickly. "Applicable to horse-begging?" chuckled Hathwin. "Papa, dear, good, darling papa, I'll go down on my knees -men like to be knelt to " "Where didst find out that?" said Hathwin sharply. "I didn't find it out " demurely. "Only, in hooks, good papas never hold out against kneeling daugh- ters." "So: don't they? What do bad papas do?" "They stamp, and say ' Never! ' and ' Begone, degenerate!' " said Lily, acting it out with foot and voice and frown. "Monstrous, to be sure I Am I a good papa?" "Oh, yes! - the very good-est." "Kneel and see." Down went Lily like a snowfall, clasped her hands, - "Please, pa, buy me a horse?" 6"Never!" roared Hathwin with a stamp; and then instantly gath- ered her up with laughter and kisses. Not a word more was said about the horse; but Lily knew it would be purchased. It was quite true that her father liked to be teased, but equally true that Lily never entreated him in vain. Nellie came page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] in and sat a while, listening atten- r tively to the conversation, but g never speaking unless addressed. s Lily Hathwin skipped from top- ic to topic, after the manner of a c happy-hearted girl just home from I school. She had not any of that U conscious air which so diminishes s personal beauty: at least, in its ef- fect. She was artlessly free from c art, full of fine thoughts, - some, formed, and some forming, - warm d and true-hearted, childlike without I being childish, winning in manner, j fluent in speech. She was emi- t nently lovely in character and per- son, - one of that type charming e to both sexes; loved by men pas- i sionately, by women tenderly. She fascinated every one. Nelly would willingly have died for her. Of all these gifts, Lily was, not exactly unconscious, but rather modestly, gratefully, aware of them. Though not out of her knowledge, they were not ordina- rily in her thoughts. This beautiful modesty of charac- ' ter was the essence of the fascination she exhaled rather than exerted; and this same modesty, more than any other quality or fact, blinded her, and misled another, in an in- stance momentous to both, as will in due time be seen. Spoon after Nelly came in, Hurst werit away. Hathwin urged and Lily pleaded with him to remain, if only to sup with them; but he went. HMathwin Lodge was an unpre- tentious but pretty little home- stead, with a smooth lawn rolling down to the west, where the road ran north and south,'and a large garden wicketed off from the south side of the lawn. After tea, the Hathwins came out upon the lawn, Lily leaning on her father, Nelly walking near. The sun had set; but there was still a warm light lying on the hills. "You'll be lonesome here in the country, I'm afraid, with only quiet Nelly and me after such gay school- days," Hathwin was saying; when Lily broke away from him with a joyous exclamatiop, running down toward the gate. Alfred Hurst was coming, mount- ed on one fine giorse and leading another by the bridle. "Why, man!" exclaimed Hath- win. "Nikko, may she mount? ' said Hurst, laying one hand on the side-saddle of the riderless horse, and looking at Hathwin eagerly. "t She never sat a horse in her - life," said Hathwin, patting its dark arching neck. "You'd be afraid, -Lily." ("No, no! Give me your hand, ; papa: help me up." "My hand!" laughed Hathwin. i 4"It's Hurst's has Iroom for you - and to spare :' I'll give you a shoul- 1 der " - "Wait, please," said Hurst has- ,t tily, and looking at Lily. "Your d dress would be soiled: haven't you 1, a , e 'I'd never have thought you were so quick," said Hathwin pe- !- culiarly, staring up at his friend i- with a broad roguish smile. g Hurst looked up the lawn with- d out reply; and Lily, following his eye, clapped her hands. Nelly, whom no one had missed, was hur- ryingr toward them with a hat and a darkl skirt. The latter she fast- ened about her sister's waist; and Lily affectionately kissed her. i; You're a good girl, Nelly,-- a good girl," said Hathwin : he never called her lass. "If there's ever a thing wanted, Hurst, she knows it, and finds it before the want is felt." Nelly looked up once quickly to Hurst's face. He was dismount- ing, and now came to Lily, looking at no one else. She put her foot in his hand, and vaulted into the saddle Ias if it had been a customa- ry thing. "Bravo! lass," said Hathwin, smnoothing her skirt; "and now what next?" "I'm not a mite .afraid," said Lily, the deep bloom of pleasant excitement glowing in her cheeks. She ran her fingers through the glossy mane with a half-subdued, eager smile. t"What's to be done now, good lmaster of the horse? To sit a horse is not to ride it." "If you'll trust her with me for an hour, Nikko " - "Half an hour's enough atfirst." "Well, if you'll give 'her. to me half an hour"- "As I'd be glad to give her to your son for life, I'm sure I can spare her to your son's father for a matter of thirty minutes," laughed Hathwin. They started slowly. "We'll wait here to see you come back, lass;" which they did almost be- , fore they had gone six paces. Lily - wanted Nelly to see if her skirt [ wasn't wound over her foot in the ' -stirrup. This slight delay gave Hathwin, who was a very wag at heart, time t to go round to the other side of ' Hurst's horse. "I say, man," he muttered. (I can't forgive your looking a dozen years the younger, and for being straighter and handsomer and all: it's not bechming to your dotage. There's one thing I'd not have you forget, -you're older than I, three fat years older." And he slapped Hurst's thigh as they start- ed off again. Hurst walked the horses up the knoll, descending which, the riders were out of sight. "It is so kind of you, uncle!" began Lily, looking up at her com- panion. "Do you sit easily?" said Hurst with a grave smile. "Oh, yes! I don't believe you need to lead her;" then, after a, pause, " mayn't we go a little faster?" He obeyed her wish; and for some minutes they were too busy with the lesson for conversation. At length he reined in the horses. "Let me see your hand," he said. She gave it. "This won't do: they will be raw. Try to hold your rein more. lightly." "I ought to have waited, and& dressed myself properly," said Lily,. examining the palm fretted to a. deep pink. "Put on this," giving her one of page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] his gloves. "It's too big, of course, but better than none." They went it on a little. "Uncle, will you really like to ' teach me wheln papa cgets me a i horse?" ,'. Yes." "'Yes, really, surely?" -He bowed lhis head, smilincg. "Well, t then, say ' Yes, Lily.' " "Yes,- Lily," said lie. IIow oftelrf may I, -- how often I would it be best, to take the les- i sons.?" "I should thillk every day when the weather is falir: short rides, of course(, at first." "e And when dlo you think I shall know how well enoughllrl to start off by myself?" ' Not - not for some time," said Hurst slowly. When thcy came back to Hath- win Lodge, her father was still at the gate; but Nelly had gone in. "Well, lass?" 'O papa! it's so delightful! Uncle says I'm to go every day." "Does lhe? does lie? Which is father, I wonder," lltughed Hath- win. "Not I," said H-Iurst quickly, with an uniconscious blush lost. to view in the twilight. Hath win put out his hands as Lily freed her foot from the stirrup; but Hurst, alighting, stepped between, took Lily in his arms, and set her down gently by her father's side. "Done like a young beau, I vow! only full slowly, full slow- ly," said Hathwin, grimacing at his friend. "I've heard imy mother say it isn't good for girls to jump." h011" said Hathwin dryly. "Good loy als always mind theiri mothers" - "Papa," 1)rolke in Lily, who was petting the horse she had been riding, " get nie one as much like this as you cais.- She's as easy as a iocking-clhaiir." Before her fatlher could reply, Hurst took the bridle, and, placing it in Lily's hand, gently closed her fincers over it. Lily felt the mean-. inclr of his manner, and looked up in qtuick, grateftul sulrprlise. Hurst sprang' upon the other horse as if to depart; blut IIathwin's lhand was on th bits. "VlWhat, man!" lhe exclaimed. ct Only this," said Ilurst, con- strained to speak, and speaking - as one so constrainled, - " if you [ please, Nikko, the horse is Lily's." i Vllhy!' but-- it's the mare, - your faLvorite ' " "I --I've no use for her." ! "( No use for her ." echoed Hath- win. S Please,"' simply repeated - Hurst, with wonlerful urgency in the one word. Lily stepped for- , ward. o "- take it,"' slhe said, face and n vooice sweet with feeling: "I could r not refuse a gift so given." She r, reached for his hand, and kissed it k with childlike grace. n "Thank you!" said Hurst quickly, but they knew better I 'than to think unkindly, and, wheel- r- ing his horse, he rode away. it "He's a trump!" ejaculated Hathwin, -" a trump. Why, lass, it's one of the finest mares in all Hertfordclhire! Given all in a min- ute, with a thorough English open- handness, to pleasure my -lass for my sake. And I was short with hinm once this very day.'" The horse was given into the care of Robert the man-servant; L,ily going with him herself as far as the stable, which had been with- out a recgular tenant since the old family horse died a year before. As for Alfred Hurst, lhe rode home slowly in the gathering night, a straight, shapely, vigorous man, and yet an old man, it can't be denied,-an old man who had lived almnost the allotted years of life; yet havingr what an old nman seldom has, and what many a young man is without, - a virgin heart full of the pure sleeping passion of youth, the thousand . thought - vitalizing tendernesses i that man feels only for woman. Turn a bright, exhaustless rill ( over a parched field, and who shall tell what may blossom there? ( The desert of many yesterdays ( floral in a single day, And the 1 earth is not more responsive than t the human heart. For the heart to have its first 1 awakening in old age ':'rare t and strange, yet possible,%nd, in the case of Alfred Hurst, a t verity. Of what is called a slow h nature (the kind capable of deep- k est convulsion, but oftenest escap- 1 ing, ignition), he had taken life as si a matter of course; worked hard fa and married young, as matters p of course , had lived quietly, faith- a fully, and simply, with his quiet, V "faithful, and simple-souled wife, i- as a matter of course,-a life of L- probity and great industry, turning r neither to the right nor the left; h devoid of passion, impulse, or er- rantry of any 'sort whatever; its e one aesthetic expression a vital ; though quiet friendship for Hath- r win, beginning, like hiis love of - plants, in boyhood, and, like that, [ keeping the journey of life with him. He had supposed, again as a matter of course, that he -loved his wife; but he had no idea of love. He had read not two novels in his life, and those with distaste, not comprehending love as therein por- trayed. Yet his minds was not commonplace, only it was of that type that stagnates without love, and with it is wondrously vivified. Of love as a ruling passion that could submerge the soul, - casting it down nameless gulfs, or lifting it stainless to heaven's very thresh- old, - he had not the faintest con- ception. And now his soul was entering these waters, -the direst or the sweetest that overflow the heart,--only entering, but cer- tain not to turn back. He had met pretty girls and lovely women. Why had none of them been able to disturb the calm? Why does the manll'beloved of a true and tender woman -turn from her, and put his very soul in the keeping of one faithless and shal- low? Why does the woman offered such a. love let it slip through her fatally foolish fingers, that she may pick' up eagerly a heart that is but a bawhle to what she casts away? Why do we pass in awful uncon- page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] sciousness the mates of our souls, st and give blind welcome to antag- tl onisms? There might be put a h thousand such questions, to which replies would hurrw; some wholly a senseless; some sou{nding and con- L fident; some glanced with truth: b but for their answers they have 1 always waited; they wait still. r Alfi'ed Hurst had never felt love; v and now, riding home slowly, igno- I rant of the breaking dawn within a him, he carried to his lips again + and again the hand that Lily had kissed in her gentle gratitude. 1 The test of love is the supreme C proof of the soul, and we shall see E how his soul was proved. ] That evening, as he was sitting with his wife, both a dapper and dumpy little old lady, who nodded drowsily over her evening amuse- ment of worsted, the ball rolled from her lap half-way across the carpet. Hurst promptly picked it up, and returned it to her. A little thing to do; only, ordinarily, he would have done nothing of the sort. He would not have seen the occasion for the act, much less the act it- self; and 1now he did it without thinking about it, as if it were habit. He was kind and obliging; but voluntary attentiveness had not been one of his graces: and so -this thing, so little in itself, was a big matter, full of significance. Mrs. Hurst--in her second- childhood -was, it, must be con- fessed, beyond the reach of surprise, of which she had never been keenly susceptible in her brightest days; else she might, under the circum- stances, have marvelled a little at the grace and unusualness of her husband's action. Several fair days passed away; and May was merged in June. Lily Hathwin had a handsome black riding-habit; and the riding- lessons had prospered. She seemed native to the saddle; and Hurst was at Hathwin Lodge more than he was at home. He was there almost every day,-often for the whole day. It came about naturally, as naturally and even as inevitably as the flowing into one of two streams plunging from opposite hills into the same valley. Hathwin invited him, overflowed I him with cordial hospitality. His [ great satisfaction in Hurst's socie- - ty was manifest even to Hurst. I Hathwin, idolizing his lovely child, e wanted his admiration shared by t Hurst, and, as it were, claimed in- e cense for her from his friend. Cer- e tainly he got with largess what he ;. claimed, and never guessed it was n other than an old man's partial ;- fondness for an affectionate and Lt pretty child. e As Hurst's whole manner to Lily was really an expression of absorb- Lt ing:.tlve, it will be declared im- )t probable that Hathwin should be ;o so blind. But, that improbabilities is have been facts, no thinker, no ob- server, can deny. Hathwin never, I- then or afterward, guessed the a- truth. Though generally quick- e, witted, he was not critically ob- ly servant; and Hurst's manner was s; peculiarly sedate: and then the n- old, particularly those who have had their youth when young, do not readily fancy the old can be what is called-in love. Hathwin's blindness, and, as a consequence, Hurst's questionable security, lay also, as so many of life's worst blindnesses do,in a deep, hlabitual selfishness, which did not let Hathwin look far outside of his own joys, or within them, closely, at their sources. His habit of rail- lery often brought him close upon the secret, which was the burning life and unrecogniized charm of those early summer-days; but he knew it not. He did it as a child steps idly, laggingly, over a spot a hair's weight more would crumble into an abyss. Lily Hathwin's manner to Hurst -delicate yet familiar, caressing, confidirg-- unconsciously complet- ed his captivity; and his beha- vior to her seemed so much a part as it were of her father's fondness, so associated with it, that she never thought of it out of that connec- tion. Only one of the little coterie, not even excepting Hurst, saw this family intimacy in its true light. Nelly Hathwin, with a perspicacity and an interest that were not sus- pected, and with a tender despond- ency as little divined, compre- hended the state of things, and appreciated the hearts around her ; with silent, sorrowful expectancy. For the rest, it was a solitary neiglhborhood, a little heaven on ( earth; being sans gossips and sans s scandal. One day, Lily Hathwin rode out i by herself in the morning, taking ] , the road lying through a romantic bit of country called Brierlane. It was her favorite ride, winding, ,and nearly level for miles; rising at length over a rocky eminence called Brierlane*Height, whence a lovely and extended view could be enjoyed. In high spirits she gave Meg free rein, urging her to her boldest pace. Reaching the Height, she reined the animal upon its haunches, and then penitently patted it for the short caprice. Removing. her hat, she pushed back her bright hair, inhaling with zest the light breeze flying toward and past her from the south. Hathwin Lodge looked a white dot in the green distance; and, beyond, the dim blue undulatiions of a mountainous horizon framed the view they limited. Laying the rein across Meg's neck, Lily, with a gentle smile, and soft rising flush, drew a pic- ture from her bosom, at which she gazed as one lost in its contempla- tion. The quick tramp of a, met- tlesome horse broke in upon the stillness; and Lily, startled, yet ex- pecting Hurst, thrust the picture hastily within her , bodice, and, glancing down the northern slope, saw, not Hurst, but a lady, ap- proaching rapidly. She was so near, that Lily turned Meg about, and stood at one side of the road, which was narrow and sidling, to let her pass. The stran- ger acknowledged the courtesy with a bow, and was passing on, when, looking a second time at Lily, she drew rein. Her green page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] habit of lustrous velvet fitted her well, and she was nobly formed, though more petite than Lily. Her face was brilliant exceedingly; and her hair, of deep burnished auburn, curled, not the conven- tional curl, but in large glossy rings, self-looped in each other with an intimate luxuriance defi- ant of art. C"I think I never met a lady- rider on this road before," said the stranger. ' I never came so far alone," said Lily. "It is a little lonely, but beauti- ful, and quite safe, I imagine." "Oh! I'm not afraid. Meg would take me away from danger, like the wind." "And there is no danger unless your horse is freakish." "She has no freaks only when I put them into her," said Lily, laugrh- ing, " as, when I came up the pitch, I nearly overset her." "1 It's a fine animal." ("Yes," said Lily with a little touch of pride: " good judgles have called it as fine as there is in Hert- fordshire. But yours, madam, is finer: it is larger; and, though I don't know much about what papa calls the good points of a horse, it has a very proud, high-spirited look." "I'm not a madam,'" was the stranger's reply, very gently spo:- ken: "I'm only a girl like your- self." "You look - no, you don't; but you seem older," said Lily with admiring' curiosity, so very evident, that; the stranger smiled. "I am Helen Hope "- "Lady Hope of Castle Thorn- leigh?" cried Lily eagerly. Foi reply the stranger pointed with her riding-whip, where in the north-west, a few miles distant, could be seen the towers of Thorn- leigh, one of the finest old castles in England. "It's a beautiful place, I know," said Lily, adding quicklly, "4 my name is Lily Hathwin: that white spot yonder is Hathwin Lodge ; not a grand home like yours, but I'm happy in it." Both girls looked over the view for' a few moments in silence ; Lady Hope transferring her gaze to Lily's face, while the latter was still look- ing'i away. Each admired the other, and felt strongly a mutual attraction. , Lily, thoutgh she would not be the one to suggest it, knew no reason why they shoutl not be- come acquaintances and friends. At Castle Thornleigh, Lily Hathwin would not be considered an eligible friend for Lady Hope, as the latter knew; and she hlad too much delicacy to seek a fiiend- ship, which, however faithfully and frankly she returned it, she could not screen from the condescension and obtrusive patronage of her family; for, though a patrician, Lady Hope had the nobility of nature, not of caste. So the natu- ral wish felt by both, expressed by neither, dropped, as wishes so often do, into the long list of the " might have beens." "e Were you returning?" asked Lady Helen. "It is time I ought," said Lily; adding, as they rode down the southern slope, '"I've heard of you often." DIVERGING PATHS. "Have you?" "And always in one way." "As how?" "As the most beautiful lady in the kingdom; and it's true I " cried Lily with enthusiasm. Lady Hope blushed with a mingled but swiftly. page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] fading expression of pain and pleas- are. "I must divide that compliment 1 with you, Miss Hathwin," she made haste to say: "I must -in honor and in truth. Do you rec- 1 ornize that horseman coming?" ( "That? - that is my uncle: at 1 least, not really my uncle, but i papa's old friend; and I've always 1 called him uncle." j (4' He looks a stately gentleman, and he rides well,-lremarkably: well." . "( WeV ride together a great deal: i hetaughtme. And Meg--justlook i at her! I can hardly hold her in: i she'd tear away-to meet him if I ' wouldl let her." "And our ways part here," said' Lsady H-Iope, pointing to a fork in the road leadintg to the left. She looked gravely at Lily with a searching directness. "Well shall meet again, perhaps," Lily ventured with a wistful gaze. "Perlltaps, said Lady Hope. She llld withdrawn the glove of her rilght hand, and now stretched it, across to Lily. Lily did the same. "I'fm glad you are happy in your simple ]home, Lily Hathwin: it is better than to be unhappy, or, I -will say, ill at ease, in a grand one. G(obd-by!" Lily was silent, touched, as the young. and kind-hearted can be, even at only a suspected pain. ]Lady Hope wore in her bosom a cluster of two unusually fine moss- rose buds. She took them out, severed them, and gave one, the ]handsomest, to Lily; replaced the other with'a grave yet charming smile, and rode away without ano- ther word. This brief interview was made up far more of what was silently felt and subtilely appreciated than of what was spoken; land it had made a sweet and singularly-lasting impression upon them both: yet they met as they had parted,- once for all. Lily HaLthwin never saw Lady Hope again ; but this episode, a flash of seeming chance across the path of one generation, broadened, in a third, into the ricll friendship it foreshadowed, as the voice call- ing among the fabled hlls, re- ceived its echo-answer after the slow lapse of a century. Lily Hathwin rode slowly for- ward, restraining MAeg's impatience. "That was. Lady -Helen Hope," said Lily, without lookincg up, as was her wont when Hturst joined her. ' I did not know you knew her." "I don't." "Lily, what is the matter?" speaking slowly, and leaning a little forward ta examine her flushed face. "I don't know: I like her ever so much! See what a lovely bud she gave me!" looking up at Hurst with eyes that had gathered tears, though none had fallen. EHurst took her hand, held it a mo- ment, as if studying the flower closely, then gave it back, and , said, - "Give Meg the rein, and let us see which first wins Brierlane stile." Lily waited only to fasten the rosebud on her breast, and then sped away. Lightly gaining the stile, which was but half a mile dis- tant, she checked Meg, and tossed a laugh of triumph at Hurst. who lost victory by only a few paces. "6 That is better, much," said he, smiling gravely. "Now take e down, please, - I'm tired of Meg, - and we'll get a bunch of mere-moss here in the wood for Nelly." Hurst tied the bridles to the stile, and lifted -Lily down. "I don't like to see you grieved," he said, still keeping one arm I around her. There was agitation s in his voice and manner, yet so ' repressed, Lily did not observe it. J She laughied softly, and kissed him. y "It's a darling old uncle! that's I what it is." c IInllst stooped suddenly, and, I rising, put Iis hand in his breast. "I'm gladl I'vemet hler, and I t wish I could see her often!" pur- t sued Lily, who had gathered her riding-slkirt over lher arm. s "The fact is, uncle," said she suddenly, "I believe I'm lone- some." "I shouldn't suppose you could of be," said Hurst, after he had looked away for a moment, and then down at her with a singular light in his esjes. "A graceless speech, I own," a she replied, seeing, but misunder- w standing, this expression,-- when I have you and papa thinking for m me and doing for Ale all the time, H and Nelly - Nell is very good: I he find some sign of her thought of fa, me almost every hour in the day." to 1n "That's not what I meant," said le Hurst bluntly. S- "Vhat, then, I wonder." d "I can't understand your be- o ing lonely when you can always have." , "Well?" "What I'm having now," said - Hurst. t She caught his meaning, but a coquettishly persisted,- "' What are you having now?" "Lily's company." "Bravo! That's the very pret- tiest thing you ever said to me. But "--with an arch smile, ,Atd saucy lifting of the blue eyes - "you lack practice: I thought you'd never get it out! After all, you have a great deal of Lily's com- pany, sir, such as it is, and I won- der at your liking it; for I find Lily tiresome, tiresome, tiresome." Just beyond them stood a soli- tary sycamore, with green inviting turf beneath. "Why can't we sit down?" she asked : " there's a nice place." For answer, Hurst took off his riding-cape, and spread it for her. After commenting on the beauty of the scene, they sat for a little while in silence. "What is it you want, Lily?" said Hurst at length. "Not any thing before dinner, and then -an appetite," she replied with mock stupidity. "No! But I mean what would make you content, happy, in life?" He spoke gravely; and Lily leaned her head upon his shoulder, her face in profile, and her fair hair tossed to his lips in the frolic page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] breeze. A shadow stole over her features,- a shadow, enhancing its gentle charm. "I don't know, I wish I did! I I haven't a trouble, nor a pain, nor a care. But it's a fact, I feel as if I'd like to change places withll- Meg, for instance." "To try the taste of oats?" "Yes, and the sting of the lash, --a change, even if a sharp one. I'm discontented!" How long have you felt like this?" asked Hurst with the grav- ity of a physician. "Not long. It's a novelty, un- cle. Wh/at can there have been in my meeting witlh Lady Hope to make me feel so?" "What did she say to you?" Nothingr ; the merest common- place, and very kindly said: yet, in some way, she made me feel little and triflinrg. I don't under- ;stand it." Neither dil Hurst. His active and hitherto sentinmentless life liha no experience which told him how an aimless, drifting life- ever so innocent-luight be thrilled at even brief colntact with a life !nstinct with purpose. "How would you like your life to be?" said IIurst, recurring after a brief silence to his former ques- tion. Well!" said Lily after a pause, "I'll tell you, if I can discover myself. I'd like a beautiful home somewhere, - in France, I think, - with plenty of money and lots of friends. You and papa and Nelly first, and then ever so many more besides I " "4 And dresses and jewelry, I suppose," said Hurst, smiling, and filling the pause. "I Yes, and pictures and books, - I like poetry, but novels best,- and a splendid garden a dozen times as large as ours, full of all the rarest, oddest, prettiest, and ugliest plants for you to go nosing in when you were tired - of what you like so well now." 4"Lily!" "Sir?" "' Well, what else?" "Oh, well! I'd have to be good to the poor, I suppose," she said laughing, "' that's what the hero- ines are in books: so I could have a lane of cottages in some cosey, out-of-the-way place. They must all have white porches, and vines climbing up over them: you'd take care of that; and I'd pick out nice, deserving, faultless families. There should be a blind girl, or a poor cripple with beautiful eyes, or a bedridden nmamlna, - somlething the matter with her spine. And I'd take them soup and warm clothes for winter, and Sunday-school books and umbrellas: that's the way they do it in novels." "And is that all?" "Yes! No! I've left 'out the gypsy," laughed Lily, beginning to be animated with her own play- ful picture, --" a ,gypsy in a red cloak, with black eyes, and bliack hair, and straight as a poplar "- "What's the gypsy for?" 4"Why, to tell my fortune I She'll steal upon me in the wood, or pop at me from the garden- shrubbery; and I'll cross her palm # with silver: and she'll tell me I'm rich, and shall be poor, and prom- ise me goo d luck and bad luck, and an enemy in my dearest friend, and a-a lot of mysterious stuff, that'll scare me most to death. There's allnost always a gypsy in an1 interlesting novel. Do you like novels?" "I never read any,--not that I relmember." Lily ran over a list of the cur- rent novels of the day. Hurst shook his head. "What! Not ' Mysteries of Udolpllo?" if No." "Nor 4 Castle of Otranto '?" ; No." ' "I Evelina '?" ' No. " "But you've read ' Sir Charles Grandison '?" "No," said Hurst, as if he felt ashamled, and casting about in his mill for llhis reading-achievements. "I once had ' Amelia,' and I re- member quite well reading of 4 The Cocklane Ghost;' though, to say truth"- Lily burst out laugh- ing. "Ol, hlow funny hohow odd! Pa 1a, lhas read them all, -- those I i sDoke of, - and-ever so many more. 1 He lilkes them almost as well as I 1 do." , ( "- I sIppose I could read them," said Huist dloubtfully and slowly. s "I should think so, if you could r reLad so many of those musty old a things ab. out trees and weeds." t They fell into one of the abrupt silences of intimate companionship, s Hurst holding one of her hands, k l while, with her riding-whip in the - other, Lily beat the turf with an , idle, intermittent motion. After a , while she raised her head, and, , turning to face Hurst, showed a countenance of changed mood, L lighted and suffused as he had I never seen it. "Uncle, you put mle a question I in good faith, and I ouglht to have answered it so. That is not, after all, the life I really long for; or it is only the outside of it. Be- sides, I said I had no trouble." Hurst took her other hand. 4"Have you trouble, Lily?" his voice, always peculiarly earnest, a shade heavier than it had been. "Not trouble, exactly; but I I don't know- how to tell it," with a deep blush that would have told a world to any other eyes than those eagerly regarding her. A little 'coaxing, a tactful ques- tion'or two, would have won full confession from the bashful pause. Hurst knew nothing of such fi- nesse. He waited silently, Jis long- ing for her confidence veiled in the habitual patience of his manner. "I've thought I would tell you - ask your advice. I don't like speaking to papa,-- not yet; but - but I'll wait till another time," with a helpless, confused cadence. "When you will," was Hurst's simple reply, rising as she rose. He meant much; he meant literally and fully his words: but Lily thought him indifferent. "Poor Meg is lunching from the stile," she said; " and we'll hardly be home in time for ours." page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] She selected, and Hurst pulled, a bright bunch of the moss; and then I remounting, they rode toward Hathwin Lodge, - Lily more ] thoughtful, and Hurst even less talkative, than usual. "Oh! where is my rose?"Lily cried out as they reached home. Hurst looked up. 1 "You had it in your bosom." "I know --I thought I fixed it securely." "It must have shaken out in your race." "C Too bad! I'm so sorry I I was going to keep it." ' "Shall I turn back and look for it?" said Hurst, watching her countenance curiously, and even turning his horse. "Oh, no, no! Thank you, un- cle; but you shame me with kind- ness. Besides, you couldnot find it." "Do you care?" "Not - not very much. I would rather you had it, though, than to have lost it so. It's your favorite flower; and so I'm punished like a selfish thing for not giving it you in the first place." Hurst held his right hand in the breast of his coat. He looked at her a moment irresolutely, then withdrew his hand with the miss- ing bud in it. OC O uncle!" ' You dropped it at the stile," he said, holding it out to her. 'That's more like papa than you," she laughed. "- I wouldn't have believed it of you!" "Will you have it?" said lie. ,' Will you have it?V" she arch- ly replied. "Will you give it to me?" said he, laying it in her lap, and looking up at her. She laid it back in his hand. "As a reward for your honesty," with a droll smile. "Willingly?" "If I did not, where would be the grace of giving?" He went in with her, staying just long enough to watch for a chance, which she gave him while seeking Nelly with the moss, to select and take unseen a little volume from Hathwin's well- stocked library. It was "Evelina." With this he went away. On arriving home, he went to his chamber, and laid carefully away, as if it had been a living thing, the little moss-rosebud. Love that is evinced in this man- ner, that in solitude expresses it- self with delicacy,- is genuine, and the richest gift in the power of man or woman. Had any one surprised him thus treasuring the flower, it would probably have startled him into a semi or complete conscious- ness of the nature of the act. But no one seeing him, in a sense he did not see himself. Love has a period - long or short, as nature and circumstance determine - of unconsciousness, - ' a state, that, compared with the in- tense consciousness into which it i merges, may be called love's som- b nambulism. ,Hurst was yet in this condition. He loved Lily without distinctly - thinking that he did so. It changed him, not manifestly so much, as essentially. All the best part of his really fine and strong nature was awalkenin in the charm, of Lily's influence; yet he- noted not the chainge. His mind blossomed all over with manly graces of character, that haad never been guessed, and that evinced( themselves through his un- demonstrative temperament, - not directly, so muchl as in subtile per- sonal fascinations, feltI without being traced to their source. He drank deeply of life's choi- cest intoxication, and wist not yet the name of the elixir, or what hand held the cup. And Lily Hathwin was yet but a very girl, as will have been seen. She never talked profoundly; she spread no intellectual net in which to mesh a strong spirit: but she was young, artless, loving, unde- filed. She was what Tennyson's verse affirms is "worth a hundred coats-of-larms,"- "A simple maiden in her flower," She was also beautiful as a dream of beauty, and, more than all, was vested fully with the charm of mod- est womanhood. That night,-with labor, char- acteristic patience, some interest, and occasional susceptibility of a charm deep though undefined,- Hurst read "Evelina." Witlh him the hours of love's somnambulism were nearly num- bered. A day or two later, Lily, not feel- ing well, and yet not thinking her- self ill, lay curled up on a wide seat of an old arbor in the garden-; and there Hurst, searching for her. found her. His interest in plants - which Lily shared, not specially from de- fined taste for such a study, but from friendly sympathy, and the re- ceptive quickness of the growing mind to grasp not only according to its natural bent, but at what circum- stance puts in -its path - brougrht them often together in the large old garden of Hathwin Lodge. This was the one diversion of which Hathwin was impatient. He cared not a rush for tree or flower, but did care for compan- ionship, and amusement for, each passing hour. Lily's presence and fondling satisfied him at all times, covering all wants. Next to these came whist and piquet, whioh Hurst played well, and Lily tolera- bly. Next to these, an easy amble of an hour or so, when the sun was getting low; and, it may be added, a good meal luxuriously served, suited him at any time, and he sat long at table. He was too fat for hearty exercise, too indolent for intellectual exertion. After dinner, he usually dozed a while; and then Lily would go into the garden with book or work, or empty-handed, and with Hurst, or alone, as it hap- pened. "I looked in at the window," said Hurst, "and, seeing Nikko asleep, came right here, pretty sure of finding you." "Yes: pa's dozing-time is our garden-time pretty regularly now." "Lily, guess what I've been doing? page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] "Are you sure it's worth a guess?" "1 Try and see." Lily looked at him inquisitively. "; Well, sit down then: you're too tall to be guessed at comfort- ably standing." He sat down, smiling. "How many times must I guess before you'll tell? and what will you give me if I guess right first?" with a languid smile and an indo- lent archness that were very capti- vating. "Whatever you wish," said Hurst with unusual haste. "But you won'.t guess right, - certainly not at first." "Reading a novel," said she promptly, naming the last thing she would really suspect, and striking home with one of those careless infallibilities of guess- work we can all of us remember. Hurst's extreme surprise revealed the hit; and Lily's delighted laugh completed his confusion. "Who told you? You saw "- 1"Nobody; and I didn't see!" ex- claimed Lily. "But, O uncle! tell me all about it. What have you read? and how came you to read it?" 1"Eveliina." "You have! Really and truly?" "Ay, really." "Didn't you like it? Wasn't it fascinating?" "Some; I liked it," said Hurst, giving his impressions with effort. "c I could not get on well with that C Madame Duval;' and I didn't like all the mistakes and messes - that didn't amount to any thing- Evelina was all the time getting into, or being got into." "Good!" exclaimed Lily with eyes brimming mischief. "Read another, uncle." "Whyy?" "So's to tell me all about it afterward. It's capital! I wish I had caught you at it! How you must have labored! You got through it by the sweat of your brow. Now, confess, uncle, wasn't that about the way of it?" "You look pale: are you ill?" said Hurst, regarding her atten- tively, without heeding her last remark. "Oh!" said Lily, subsiding with a sigh, "I've a headache,- a cross old dizzy pain." "I thought as much," laying his hand gently on her forehead: " like those you had when a child?" "Do you remember them? and how sick I used to be?" "I remember it well," in a low voice. 4"And how I used to make you carry me, until I should have thought you'd have wanted to drop me- anywhere? and rock me to sleep, too, sometimes?" , I remember; and you used to wake up fresh as dew." "What a ;little tyrant! ' Twas nice to be little, though. How cool your hand is!" 4"Lily, it's too hot out here for you, " said Hurst leaning forward. "Will you come in and let me rock you to sleep?" "Uncle!" "No, tell me frankly; do tell me I Would you like it?" Lily's eyes filled; partly with the pain, partly with childlike pleasure (at the idea, and from a sense of weariness it heightened. "Yes, uncle. Then -I would; but it's so babyish of me!- I'm ashamed "- "No : why shllould you be?" he intoe'lupted. "I cmn lold you as well as when you. were a child or if not as well, yet still vely well. Come, you will let me: I can't bear t-o see yro0 in pain." "I should like it of all things inll the world," said Lily, all the play somelow fiallen out of her sweet, plaintive voice. (I But I'm too big, I know I am ; and it would 1)e so selfish! I was that enough as a child." For answer, Hurst raised her gently, and, passiing his arm around her waist, they left the arbor. He removed his broad-brimmed Ilat, and h1eld it to shade her from the hot sun till. the threshold of thc lodge was passed. Placing her in a cllhair in the drawingl-room, he went for La glass of water. There was no one in the dining-room; but he found what he wanted, and brouglht and held it to her lips. Lily swallowed a little of it eager- ly, lint leaned back, pale and trem- s lling. The pain had much in- creased; and she made no attempt to speak. -When he put down the goblet, and lifted her easily and strongly, t instelad, of the gentle resistance ] he more than half expected, she yielded passively; throwing one arm around his neck, and laying, her head upon his breast with a i deep sigh, and one faint, sweet smile as her eyes wearily closed. In the adjoining bedroom, the door of which was partly open, Nicholas Hath win was still enjoy- ing his after-dinner nap, as his audible breathn(g testified. Hurst walked slowly baok and forth the long room. His step was even, sure, and without jar. For his strength, it was not, a burden that lie carried ; but after a little, as she seemed to be asleep, he sat down, in the rocking-chair, thinkinlg it woulld be easier for her. IHe made the change carefully, and she did not seem to be aware of it, only her head slipped a little back upon his slhoulder, so that the rosy lips, and fair, sleeping eface, were very near his own. Slowly, -almost imperceptibly, rocking to and fro, Hurst, sat look- ing down at Lily. She liad on a blue dress, the loose sleeve falling back from the 16iely arm lying over his shoulder. Her golden hair, in moist rings over her forehead, rolled away from her flushed checle. He saw the pulse pluncging at fever-heat in her soft, white throat, and that throat merging with infinite grace into a bosom as lovely as it was guileless. Her breath was on bis cheek: nothing could be sweeter, more captivating, than this listless grace, eloquent of such pure1, affec- tionate trust; and all this name- less, penetrating charm he held within his arms. A tumult rose within him, unde- fined, but growing, and gathering its confused forces,--a whirl and page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] hurry of. mind; a deep, tender, and o strong desire, long felt, but sud- t denly leaping to the surface of his s thought. His heart doubled its s vibrations, and sent over his strong, grave features the light s and the warm suffusion, of love's dawning consciousness. i At this instant he was aware of a step ; more by its pausing than by its sound. He looked up, and 1 saw Nelly Hathwin just within the door, fixedly regarding him. Once, those pale eyes, even when, as now, full of divination and re- gretful conviction, would have told him nothing: but his own eyes were grown keener; and with inward shock he knew not only the secret of his own heart, but that it was in Nelly Hathwin's keeping. All this transpired in a look,--the look of an instant. Nelly came near softly. " She has one of her headaches," she whispered: t' I know the look. I was afraid she would; for she didn't waken feeling well this morning." Hurst, sensible of new and strong embarrassment, knew not what to say: he sighed involunta- rily and heavily. "How long has she been asleep? ' "Only a little while,- a very few minutes." "She must be very heavy "- ,' I don't feel her weight; and I do not like to change her position for fear of waking her: sleep will do- her so much good I " "She will not waken easily. These headaches-- she's not had one for so long, I was in hopes they were outgrown - always stupefy her.. She will drowse sometimes for hours." There was a rustle and a succes- sion of yawns in the next room. "There, father is rousing," said Nelly. "I'll speak to him, and you can lay her down on his bed." Nicholas Hathwin appeared in the doorway as she spoke. He was about to exclaim in his usual boisterous, jovial fashion, when Nelly's wirning motion of the hand prevented. He came forward hastily and heavily, yet quietly for limr; and catching sight of Lily's face and their grave looks,- "Good God! she's not ill?" he exclaimed. "( One of her headaches," said Nelly. "She's too heavy for Mr. Hurst, this hot day; and I'll smooth up your bed for her." "Too heavy!" echoed Hathwin: "not if she likes to be held so; is she, Alf? She always did like cuddling, poor darling!" bending over her, - " a baby yet, sweet lass, ; for all she's a woman grown." -Nelly beckoned from the bedroom- door; and Hurst rose. i "It's like old times; isn't it?" said Hathwin." She'd never have y other than you, when you were to be had, I remember. She takes these bad heads from her mother. I She hasn't had one for a long time : n the heat, it's likely." " He staid behind in the draw- ing-room; and Nelly did not follow r. Hurst to the bedside. There he d laid! her down, hating with all' his heart to yield her so. Lily did not awake at the change; but, as he softly drew her arm from his neck, she sighed a sigh that was half a moan. Hurst leaned over and kissed her once, twice, fervently. Had the house fallen around -him, he would not have turned till he had so caressed her. Re-entering the drawing-room, I-athwin proposed piquet: but Hurst excused himself; and, as he looked pale and tired, Hathwin suffered him to go without over- urging., The sun, though several hours past meridian, shone with lit- tle less heat than -at noon: but Alfred Hurst spurred his hiorse over the open country without feeling or heeding the heat; and, when he reached home, the pant- : ing animal was in a lather, -a thing the groom had never known to happen before to a beast in his quiet, patient master's care. Hurst went at once to his own room, and shut himself in. , He ,was now perfectly aware of lhis passioll for Lily Hathwin, and, in the light of that revelation, astonished at his previous blind- ness. And being very ignorant of such inatters, having neither experiencet of his own nor of others to enlight- en him, and recalling Lily's lovely, frank, affectionate ways, he fell t into the singular yet natural error s of believing that she loved him in o return; prrhaps not consciously, i but still really. ] Oh, what have I done!" he a cried out within himself. "I have s been a villain: no - worse, a fool I " 8 He stretched himself on the bed, with his face in his hands. "Deeper than written scroll The colors of the soul." He who had found it dull work to read a novel was living-within himself love's burning tragedy. He felt a tumultuous happiness and an excess of misery. His emotions overwhelmed him; they. rushed upon him in a thousand phases of the one central feeling. He thought of his wife, and could have groaned aloud. His wife! - with an irre- sistible shudder of helpless loath- ing he thought of her. Old, less than childish, charm- less in person, faded in mind, im- becile, chattering, inane, and yet - his wife! And then of Lily. Young, beautiful, supreme in the graces of an innocent and peculiarly loving nature ; childhood's linger- ing artlessness not lost, but most captivatingly blended with all the glory of attractions of her dawning womanhood. And, so thinking of her, he trembled through all his stalwart frame. When all is said,--though in trenchant words of flame, with whatever of the breath and essence of eloquence and fervid apprecia-; tion,--still ever beyond it all, subtile, deep, exquisitely tender,. and truly beggaring all description, is this wonderful inthralment of love, at once the highest freedom and the closest bondage of the soul. : This man groaned over the later page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] ness of the heavenly revelation. i Suffering from one of Nature's re- E taliations, with all his soul he op- prosed her inevitable revenge. He mourned alternately,- over his lost youth, with thoug hts that reached ;after it like prayers, - and that, in i his old ace, his heart should have proved itself so young. He recalled the past two :months, and glowed over the de- tails of its intimate, sweet com- panionship; simple, natural, com- mon-place, almost without incident, but to him all, and in that all much; content, solace, expectancy, an- swered by new perennial delight, eventful as the movement of an epic; a cup running over with per- fect wine; a hymn breathed into the calm beauty of a golden even- ing by a soul in joy. Hurst lay a long time on his face, buried in these last sweet reflec- tions, reviewing all that he could recall of the hours passed with Lily; how she looked; what she said and what she wore; all her 8v/pretty, varying, arch, expressive ways; her manifest fondqess for him (and his heart swelled high at this thought) ; how she dawned upon him like a fair vision the day of her return from school. I-e remembered exactly the thrill, which then he had not un- derstood, of her hands upon his shoulder, when she came to him so natively for that first kiss, while he stood dumbly gazing at her by the lemon-tree: he seemed even to per- ceive the aroma of the fragrant leaves he had abused in the ab- straction of that moment. Now it was a sudden glimpse of her, radi' ant-eyed, with glistening, tumbled curls, borne toward him upon flying Meg, his gift---how sweetly she re- ceived it! And now, of all memories the most precious, it was Lily lying in his arms, wanting his care, wind- ing her warm, white arm around his neck, and smiling at him lov- ingly through all the growing lancuor of her pain, and sleeping on his heart as if it were her home. Woulld God it were! Late twilight filled the room with shadows before Hurst arose.. He heard the supper-bell, but did not heed, walking with bowed head to and fro the room, with his usual steady, sturdy grace a little shaken 'by his trouble. Soon lhe threw back his head; and his walk grew more rapid. Why not try all for love, and count the world well lost? -"We can go away," he thought. "Now blessings. on my long, toil- some life, because of its hard gains! I have wealth to realize her every wish. She shall have but to name, and I will bestow. We will :go far away. But will she go? Ay, sure- ly, if she loves. Would not I go any-whither to be with her? And who is robbed in our going, as I am robbed if we are kept apart!" A certain violence grew upon him; a wild desire shone in his i eye; a vehement breathing shook his chest. "Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful I My own Lily, to wear in my ; bosom, to have a right to hold upon my heart, and subdue all her pain, ; as I did this day. -Oh to have a right over her, the nearest, the tenderest, the right beyond all question,-to love, to worship, to serve, as I would serve her daily, hourily, most lovingly; the right of gift; .the gift myself, meagre enough, but all, all hers. "But after all to have no right in it, to halve dishonest joy in her! She, so sweet to possess,-a stolen possession,- soiled by what should do her higrhest honor, stained in iman's sight by my lovingr her, stained in her own if she yield to me. How can it be, when I love her so, --love her so truly? ' So swe-et to think of! so full of what seems right! And can it be other than right to love her, and, loving, to long for her? "Oh to have her mine! Wrong^, wicked, damnable! and yet ;so dear, so sweet, so more than th things to be desired! Ah, what shall I do! I cannot tear myself I from you Lily: I cannot! feel i you still--the winding of your arm 1 around my neck, your bosom press- I ing softly upon my, heart, your curls winding over my fingers- r clinging to me. Your breath is I sweet. Oh! hold me fast. This is a the purchase of all! I would not t lbe free,--not . to escape eternal t misery!" a I-e stopped, trembling, in the complete control of his passionate f love-dream. Into it broke the sound s of his own name. "Alfied, Alfred!" spoken with- out the door in a tone both gentle and querulous. A cold dew broke s over his forehead, and a paleness spread over the fever of his face. n "Alfred, are you there?" I "Do you want me?" at length ' in a hoarse whisper. "Oh! you are there. Let me in! ; Will you let me in?" He opened the door, and his wife came in, stopping just within thee threshold, and peering about in the dimness with a puzzled, foolish look. " Wond ered you weren't at tea. You sick?" "No.' - "Look so," peering closely into his face. "Sh---! there comes Ka- ty! Shut the door. I don't like her following me around all the time, so officious!" "You had better go down," said Hurst, not ungently; but suffering put a hard sound in his voice. "Katy, you had better see your mistress down." "Yes, sir," said the girl, who car- ried a light. "She don't often be uneasy-like, sir ; but she missed you uncommon at table, and wouldn't hardly eat, sir. Come, missis I " "Let me alone, Katy I mind your manners, will you? I'll came when I please! I don't see "- pausing a moment, and evidently losing the thought. She looked from one to the other, and then, advancing, laid a hand on Hurst's arm. "Why weren't you at supper, Al- fred? There! I knew there was something I wanted to say." "I couldn't be." "Couldn't you?" "No." Very literally and sadly spoken. "Well, then, I s'pose--but it made me feel bad. Did--couldn't. page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] eat, was lonesome." And tears'an actually began trickling down her ch faded cheeks. Touched inexpressibly, Hurst motioned the maid away, and dried w llis wife's tears with his own hand- th kerchief. c Come," said he, "I will go st down with you." He did so, sitting with a sad fr patience that would have made the w coldest heart ache to see, through o-1 a tedious half-hour, answering her ir half-fond, half-petulant, rambling d questions, while she slowly mum- cd bled her food, and finally dozed b away. Then, leaving, her with her maid, he returned supperless to his cham- c ber. There, thinking of his wife s mwith a sad mixture of deep loath- I ing and mournful pity, he leaned his arms upon the table, and bowed 1 his head upon them. s A noble heart in spite of its i dark chaos. Without sleep, without peace, I without rest, the long night wore away. Morningc came, and he had made no decision beyond this:, he would not go. to Hathwin Lodge that dlay. He pledged himself to noth- ing more than that day's solitude ; fand that pledgre, which perhaps he would, and perhaps would not, have :iept if left to himself, was -broken for him by circumstances. He had scarcely bathed and dressed, remloving so far as he could, the traces of his vigil, when Nicho- las Hathwin made his appear- a1ce. , What, not eaten yet, manl and the sun looking down thy chimney!" (c Have you breakfasted?" "Ay, an hour sooner than my wont, and good two hours sooner than I wanted," laughed Hathwin. But the rule of women-folk's a stiff one sometimes." Entering the breakfast-room, the fragrance of coffee struck Hurst with a sudden faintness; but he overcame it. He had tasted noth- inog since noon of the previous day, an irregularity of which he could not remember he had ever been guilty before. "You'll take coffee?" said Hurst. t"I don't mind if I do. No cream, a bit of ice, and a pound of sugar, or thereabouts. How's Mrs. IHurst?" I "Not quite in her usual health 1 last night, and not up yet; is she?" said Hurst, turning to the wait- s ing-maid. "She's sleepin' hearty, sir, and , passed a good night: so Katy says, e isir. She was uncommon worrisome, though, yesterday, sir. She " e '"That will do," said Hurst. d iHPe was eating a piece of dry it toast and a savory bit of fried sole, i- when he stopped, and said abrupt- 3; ly,- e "hNikko, what brought you so re early? Any thing wrong?" n fi; Ay: a nurse wanted, if that's wrong," laughed Hathwin. "I id wondereed you hadn't asked me Ild of my errand. I'm not so fond o- of scouring the country in a broil- tr- ing sun; but when I must do a thing, why, I'm a genius at doing n I it quick and in the best manner. A Least done, soonest ended! So here's to my own health, as being the worthiest fellow in the present company." Drinking his coffee. "Nikko!" That's me." "Are you sick at the lodge?" " lAm I sick?" repeated Hath- win in a jocose, teasing humor. "Nayiy: I'm sound from top to toe." "Is any one ill?" entreated Hurst, lacking nerve to speak Lily's na the Lor. "Ay: the Lord Mayor of Lun- nun is, or was, most likely, before he died; and now the worms are sick where he lies, else they've no sense in their stomachs. And now I think of it," with great pretence of unlimited frankness, "6 Nelly has a pain in her face. Why, man!" laughing gleefully at Hurst's too evident distress, ' how backward thou art! Why not ask me straight- forwardly what's plainly trembling on thy tongue, How's my lass Lily?" ," How is she?" "Which she?" "Lily!" exclaimed Hurst at length with a sort of desperate calmness. "' Don't bother me, Nik- ko! Is she ill?" "Bless my bones! To see your color coming and quitting, one would think it was your daughter, and not mine. Would I be ranting this way if my Lily was down- right ill?" "But you said a nurse was wanted." "So there is,--a nurse six feet higl, and a matter of an inch or two clapped on because Nature Ikindly thought to make up in height what was lacking in sense. Shle's not ill," speaking more grave- ly, " but not well, and sort of down- hearted,-what I call hysterical. And she wants you: that's the long and short of it. 'Uncle, uncle, uncle! ' that's her plaining. So I rode over, as I couldn't bear to have her mourning for what could be had so cheaply." , There was a glisten of feeling in his eyes, that took away any sting there might have been in his regard- less humor. Hurst looked down at his plate, forcing himself to sit quietly a few moments, and to seem to eat. Then he rose, ordered his horse, and rode over to Hathwin Lodge with his friend. He rode fast, much faster than suited Hathwin's talkative mood, and managed to keep just far enough in advance to escape Hath- win's intrusive tongue. Whatever his thoughts and emotions, he said not a- word during the ride, and from the silent self-communing entered the lodge with a step and mien steady as usual, or changed, if changed at all, only in being more taciturn. Nelly met him in the drawing- room-door. She would have led him at once into the bedroom ; but he sat down, drawing a chair for her by his side, "How is she?" he asked. ', In some pain with her head yet, and very, very nervous, excit- able." "Do you fear that she will be ill, - seriously ill?" "No: I think it will be all right page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] in a day or two, or a few days. i She is not having it so hard as at ( some times." "4 Nikko - your father-says she e asks for me?" ("Yes, she asks for you: to be y frank, she cried for you this morn- E ing. She weeps easily in these at- tacks; but it quite upset father." He was silent. During this brief colloquy, he had put his questions slowly, looking at Nelly steadily., He wished to convey to her, that if hle loved Lily, and would take loving care of her, and was glad to 'be so claimed by her, yet that under that roof, and so trusted, he would forget nothing which the highest honor should remember. Once he would not have thought of conveying any meaning to Nelly HaI;hwin by any subtile method. Now, watching her first confused and. troubled gaze, seeing it slowly but certainly change into full rec- ognition of his meaning, he knew himself understood, and was cheer- ed and strengthened by the silent compact. He went in alone to Lily. She was lying almost exactly as he had left her, only the bed was freshly mad:le, and there were more pillows around her; and, instead of the pretty blue dress, she was envelop- ed in a wrapper of the same color. He stood a moment watching her before she opened her eyes. There was a gleam of wildness in the first look, fading almost before it could be noticed. He leaned over, samil- ing. '"I knew you'd come," she said, winding her arms around his neck in a languid caress, though a loving one. "Come nearer, can't you? I want to kiss you," closing her eyes wearily, -even as their lips met. It took courage to rise im- mediately from that kiss. He drew a chair to the bedside. "What shall I do for you, Lily? I am here to do whatever you' wish." "I don't know what I want," she murmured; "not much, I guess, only to have you here. I'm so accustomed to you, uncle!" lay- ing one arm along his, with the hand upon his shoulder. He did not trust himself to speak, but only took her other hand in his. "I was cross to papa, this morn- ing. I'm sorry I was cross to dear papa; but I'm so babyish! He fiets me so youi can't think, be- ing sorry about my head; and asks me i f I'm better - if I'm better- if I'm better. Oh, dear!" her chin trembled, and tears filled he-r eyes. Alfred Hurst knew 'nothing whatever of such nervousness as this; but there is nothing like love to supply, with intuitions broader than- any tact, all lack of expe- rience in this direction. "Let me hold you a while," he said: "it will be a change, and will give you rest." He took her in his arms ; and she nestled to him, but looked up with a start as Nicholas Hathwin appeared in the' doorway. L Is she better, my pretty lass?" - he said, in what he meant for a whisper, coming forward. Lily covered her eyes with one : hand. "It's papa, isn't it?" she whis- pered, with breath and pulse in- creasing so rapidly that Hurst was alarmed. "It frightens me," she exclaimned: "he looks-so- large!" She broke into a scream, and would have sprung from his arms; but he held her fast. Hath- win retreated a little., "She'll be over it soon," said he in a lower voice: "she's always a bit flighty when she's ill. Her mother "- "Go please, Nikko," said Hurst, gently but urgently, as he felt the nervous shudders begin to creep over Lily again. "I'm sure I can .put her to sleep." "So am I, man," said Hathwin, going, but with a droll mixture of humor, jealousy, anxiety, and grat- itude, in his parting speech; "for you're stupid enough to put a lark asleep in the morning; and tall enough and lank enough to carry twice your weight, and never know it, because you're twice as stupid as a man half your size should be. And if she likes you best sick, it's only a sickly fancy; for she's fondest of me when she's well: and I can hold her on the tip of my knees before dinner; though I've no lap for my poor lass when she's ill, and I'm glad thou hlast." It was not ten minutes after they were alone before Lily was sleeping. For the first half-hour, her rest was confused and broken; but soon it was manifestly refresh- ] inl, deep, seemingly dreamless, with even, regular breathing. So it remained into the afternoon. Nicholas came in softly, and looked at her, whispering his wonder at Hurst's endurance; for he sat mo- tionless, save only when Lily's movements indicated the need of some slight change, and then he cautiously accommodated himself to it. Nelly came in also, with a cup of coffee for Hurst, and a broiled fowl, which was cold before Lily's position was such that he could have one hand at liberty to eat it. He ate slowly and -cautiously, but with zest, and ate it all, and could remember no meal in his life which compared with it. In mid- afternoon, Lily awoke, refreshed and perceptibly better, and smiled to find herself in her "'clild's place," as she called it; and insist- ed upon being returned to the bed. Hurst, thougrh weary and half paralyzed, laid her down reluc- tantly, his whole face suffusing with pleasure at her whispered- thanks. He went, at her request, and rode Memg for a mile or so and back, and, returning, sat by Lily till Nelly came in to arrange her for the night; and, this done, re-as- sumed his office, passing his hands over her forehead with a firm touch, regular and gentle. Under this treatment she was soon asleep; and then Hurst went home. There all was as usual; his wife well, and already retired, and the house only open for him. That night he slept well, Nature repaying him for his uniform obe- dience to her. Lily Hathwin was ill for a week. Her illness was of that class of page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] nervous disorders not unusual at ii her age; appearing almost without n premonition; not dangerous unless 1 ignorantly aggravated, but involv- t ing curious prostration of mind i: and body while it lasted. Phy- a sicians are constantly confronted v with such cases: the wisest are t puzzl].ed by them; and the most t candid confess it. Hurst was daily at Hathwin N Lodge. ] Lily, too much under the domin- ion of illness to realize her exac- tion, claimed him, and depended i upon him almost entirely; and he was only too willing, too delighted, to be so claimed. She improved manifestly in his care; and at the end of a week was rapidly con- valescing. The secret of Hurst's success in combatinc her ailment, and of Lily's dependence on him, was simple enough, and yet a secret to themn all. Any physician--certain- ly any one of the present day- would have readily understood the ,matter. Nelly, with all her unlguessed mental gifts and emotional respon- siveness, spoke and acted through a sluggish and heavy personality, against which the capricious agi- tation of sickness struck only to recoil, and fret itself anew. Nicholas Hathwin brought into Lily's presence a constantly vary- ing, affectionate fume of anxiety, which kept Lily in an. equally per- petual unrest. Alfred Hurst, strong in mind, sound and vigorous in body,.and equable in temperament, abounded in pure personal magnetism, -the medicine Lily needed. Health of nerve opposed to disorder of nerve: this alone had been sufficient, even if his care - instinct with his love, and in all its little details the for- ward pupil of that love -had been the nursing of a friend instead of the assiduity of a lover. That week's vicgil in the sick-room was kept by Alfred Hurst with a peculiar' courage, the touchstone of his character. Much alone with Lily, and often for an hour or more at a time, there were opportunities which any man in the plenitude of love's tender passion must have felt as strong temptations to familiarity of caress, which even the censorious would hardly have condemned under the circumstances; but he never trans- gressed beyond the line he would have observed in Nelly's presence. There was temptation of the strongest, and resistance of the closest; each proving him pure manly. One day, when lhe came in, Lily complained of an increase of pain in her temples. Hurst pushed aside t the pillows, and, taking their place, , drew ler hr head upon'his breast, and - passed his hands over her hair and ) forehead till she fell asleep. Gradually her head slipped back ) upon his shoulder. Suffering had - given place to a faint smile, as of , a pleasant dream. The graceful - helplessness of her slumber, the sweet expression of her lovely face, 1, appealed to him powerfully. 1 He saw that one little hand,* d I clasped carelessly about the neck of ! r her wrapper, had, in the change of position, drawn its loose fold'away unduly. The upper outline of a bosom exquisitely fair, rising and falling with her gentle breathing, riveted his eye. To bury his face in that warm, white nest of purity, how instant the wish! how overwhelling! and how natural that it should be both! Nature clamored for her wish, assertingc its innocence. No one would ever know, - no one save himself. If it is of first value -to a man to be true in his own eyes, he is safe. A tear rolled down ,his cheek, seldom, indeed, wetted in that way. He turned away his face, sighing heavily, and drew a corner of the lirght coverlet over the innocent revelation. Though prude and anchorite might ignorantly despise him for the struggle, far purer than they might envy him his victory. The week wore away,- a mem- orable week for Hurst. His worst enemy - ingenious in the conception of torture, and in complete control of his destiny-- could not have chosen for himn cir- cumstances more prolific of tor- ment. And his truest friend - inspired by clearest intuitions, and with like supremacy of his fate - could not have crowded a week with deeper delight. In this kind of crucible the soul often comes to vital decisions un- consciously. It has secrets from itself, divulging only when occasion is imperative. F Hurst thought he did not see his r way one step in advance: yet he t was far on the road he was certain I to pursue; and a goal was shaped , whither he would ultimately arrive. Hurst's was one of those na- , tures redundantly strong, that, L when once awakened, are far more I desirous tol give than to receive, and can cover any lack of receiving , by their own generous giving. Lily's helplessness, the simple childlike dependence of her sick- ness, enhanced her charm for him. It heightened his devotion, and se- cured his heart irrevocably, where a heart less largely, unselfishly lov- ing, would have faltered, and per- haps have failed entirely. It was a singular fact, a nibble for metaphysicians, that, in the abundance of the present, Hurst should have felt at times, even poignantly, the loneliness and emp- tiness of his past life, which had not seemed lonely or empty in the passing. It was the second day of Lily's being about the house once more (the weather being excessively warm, she had not yet ventured into the open heat), when Hurst came in just before supper was served. Lily ran to him. c Here he is!" she cried. "4 Just in time, my true friend, my loyal ally!" hanging on his arm laugh- ingly, but with a changing color and brilliancy of eye that spoke of her late illness. "What is it?" said Hurst, pass- ing his arm round her waist. "Hout, man I cried Hathwin page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] with his usual crisp humor, though his eye sparkled welcome. "Al- H ways nigh, like the Evil One, when ir thou'rt spoken of, and not wanted." fc "4 We are trying to persuade Lily to. wait till to-morrow before she goes out," said Nelly by way of cc explahnation. h "Anid I've forbade her to set foot over the threshold," said Hath- te win, with an air intimating Hurst's n special rule was over. c "And I do so want to feel Meg h under me once more!" fentreated " Lily. "It wouldn't hurt me a bit; t would it, uncle?" ' , "Really, Nikko, I don't think "- 1 Hurst,began hesitatingly. t "( Wlho ever accused you of C thinking? Not'I," dryly interposed t Hathwin. I Lily, you'd be willing to let the f first ride be short, and to'let me E hold the bridle? Meg is feeling very gay, so little used," asked Hurst in I a low voice, looking down at her. I "Oh1, yes! any thing, uncle, just 1 to be in the open air, and feel myself t on Meg's back again." She pressed her cheek in his hand with an arch smile and a whispered, "I knew you'd :fix it!" "May she, Nikko?" "May she?" mockingly imitated Hathwin, --" ay! may she truckle to, you, and flout her o^vn father! That's your bill for your double service of doqctor and nurse. I'll be hanged if I'll cash it!" "Payme in driblets, Nikko," said Hurst urgently, yet smiling, "and do let her go! I'll not let Meg out of a walk, and we'll not be over ten minutes gone." "Well, lass, have your way," said Hathwin, loath, in fact, to have his importuning over, but at heart fondly anxious for her. pleasure. "Kiss me for a good papa." "Two now, and twenty when I come back," said Lily, throwing her arms around his neck. Hathwin's eyes glistened with tenderness; yet in the same mo- ment his unquenchable raillery conquered his tongue. Looking at his friend over Lily's bright head, "I'll get you up a card, Alf, some- thing in this style: ' Alfred Hurst, M D.; which means 3luch of a Dunce, Merry Devil, llodest Doc- tor, and f/ild -Dosing, all in one. Charges only a farthing for a pa- tient, with . patience waits for a patient, and patiently waits for the farthing.' Courage, thou'lt get a, penny yet." That day closedlwith a series of brilliant thunder-showers; and the next proved one of the finest of the season, without excess of heat; airy without the rudeness of a breeze, fresh and clear as the dewi- est of daisies. About noon, Hurst appeared at Hathwin Lodge, and found that Nelly had gone up the Brierlane road on one of the solitary ram- bles which she sometimes took. ! Hathwin had tried to keep Lily 3 company, but had fallen asleep 1 doing it, and lay back in the lap of a lazy-chair, snorincg. I Lily, sitting practically alone, 1 with hands listlessly folded, did t not know of Hurst's comingl till he r stood in the doorway. She sprang up quiclly yet softly, lest she should disturb her father. Lang',uor was lost in lively pleasure, and the change was unfortunately eloquent to Hurst. "Shall we go into the garden?" he' whispered. "Yes: every thingo will be lovelv after the shower, and it will all look new to me. It seems a month since I was in it!" Hurst was silent; his heart plun- ging at her words, and the whirl of thoughts they stirred. Y"You are just as good as good can be, uncle," Lily said as they were going down the lawn. 'Why am I?" "Oh! because you give me so much of your time, and take such care of me. You're kindia an own uncle. Don't you wish you were my uncle?" "No!" said Hurst abruptly, al- ] most sharply; adding, hastily, "I don't see why playing it isn't as i well. as being it." "As well for me, and better, for i you, you thinlk," said Lily, laugh- ( ing. "And I've nothing else or better x to do with my time," he said " so t there's no merit, and no thanks due." They waliked among the garden- 1 paths, tallking of the flowers, and upon indifferent topics. Lily, taken s up with what she said, and yet n imore with thouhts she did not speak, did not notice her compan- p ion particularly, or she might have wondered at his manner. c: He answered her in monosylla- ^ bles; but that was not unusual. 't But the long, ardent gaze, from n4 ' which he only occasionally turned, , as if putting force upon himself to 7 do so, would have puzzled her at least, had she fairly mnet it. He ' felt the hurry and vehemence of inward agitation, and thought, with , a deep sigh and a sense of coming- I conflict, that it would be well for i him, and well for her, if he could. that moment, be transported far - away from: her side. "You are tired," he said sudden- ly, feeling her lean more heavily I upon his aram. "I get tired easily yet," she an- swered, smiling; " but I don't want to go in -not yet." "There is no need," he replied eagerly; , it's but a few steps to the arbor." And thither they went. "Try your old pillow : it will be easier for you," he said, drawing her head gently upon his shoulder. "I'll soon be strong enough to ride Meg as well as ever, I hope." "And, now you manage her so well, you can go at any time: you do not need any more lessons." "'No-but it would be dull without them; that is, without my teacher." "Would it! Is that true, Lily?" He spoke with haste, unable to keep Iris emotion quite out of his voice. He was frightened at him- self,--at what he had said, and the manner of it. Lily raised her head quickly, putting a hand on each shoulder. "' True,' uncle?" she ex- claimed with affectionate surprise, which re-assured while it vaguely troubled him. "It would be abomi- nable in me if it were not. I tell page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] you what it is, uncle: you are just tired out taking care of me. A " selfish girl!-that's what I am. Why haven't you told me better? You s shall go home,--not now," with an arch smile,--" but pretty soon, by ii and by, and stay away from us a e week, a whole week, and get rested." It trembled on his lips to ex- t claim, "No rest for me away from you!"But he did not quite forget 1 himself; he did not quite forget I her. "'It would not take me a E week," he said at length; "and. I am not so tired as you think." I No: are you sure? But you've grown pale, lost flesh "- i "' If I have,- but I did not know i it,-- it s being in doors more than usual, has clone it. There was-- there awas no labor in the little care I've given you-- none." "For all you make so light of it, I know- better how kind, how good and kind, you've been; and I wish I could give you something, a nice present,- something you'd really like to keep for my sake. But i don't know what it would be. There's only this," she added, kiss- ing him in a manner infinitely sweet and innocent; "and that won't keep." Hurst felt as if his very soul were slipping out from his will- into her keeping. He looked down, taking some of her curls in ain unsteady hand. Mastering himself, with a great effort he said,- "One' of these- would you part with one?" "Select one," she instantly re- plied; " and don't I wish it was gold " "I can't select," he said slowly. "Give me any one of them." "Have you a knife, uncle? You shall have it noiv." He produced a knife, and open- ing it, "That's the keenest edge." She severed one close to the left temple. "It's the prettiest one of the lot," she said, smiling, laying it in his hand. "It isn't gold, but it is golden." "Gold could not buy it," in a low voice he said. She smiled a little gravely, look- ing at the curl, lifting it ring from ring, and letting it fall again. "Do you mourn it?".he asked. "No, no, indeed! I was only thinking." "A sad thought, judging by your looks." "I was thinking of one of my old schoolmates just then, Mehit- able Gray; not a pretty name, I but we called her Hetty, and I liked her very much, - best of any girl in school. What made me - think of her, she asked for one of L my curls one day; and then, when w I was going to cut it, she wouldn't let me." "(' Why?" L "She said she should only feel bad when she saw it, and she could r remember me without it: she a wasn't a happy girl." "What Was the reason?" i "Pretty much every thing. She had lost her papa and mamma just - before she came to school, and she s hadn't. any home in particular; so she staid at school, vacations and all. And then she taught some of the classes, to help pay for her tui- tion;- and so some of the girls looked down on her." "Not Lily?" "No: I hope it would not be like me," earnestly. "And then her only brother died; and she has no sisters." "Poor girl!" said Hurst feel- ingly. "You would say so, indeed, if you could see her,-so pretty and- so lonely, and working so hard. And then, the hardest of all, the gentleman she was engaged to -- and she loved him dearly-- left her all at once, and married one of the very .girls that had laughed and sneered at Hetty the most." "That was cruel and cowardly." "And the girl-her name was Harriet - went up to Hetty, right out openly before the other girls, and asked Hetty to the wedding, just for mockery." "Shame on her!" said Hurst, drawing, his arm more closely about Lily. "And poor Hetty! We all looked at her - we couldn't help it, you know: and she turned white; but she thanked Harriet, and wished her happiness, and then, in a moment, went quietly out of the room."' "Poor, brave girl!" said Hurst. "It must have been very moving to you, who knew her sad his- tory." "I felt so bad for her, it made me cry," said Lily. ," And even Har- riet seemed to feel it a little ; for she said, if she had known just how, Hetty would have taken it, she wouldn't have said it." "What became of this Hetty?" "She was at school when I came away; but she's not a pupil any longer: she's a teacher now. And the girls all love her, and treat her better, now Harriet is married and gone away. I've always planned to have Hetty live with me, some time, when I have a home of my own." A short pause. "She gave me some advice--a sort of warning when I came away." W"What was it?" "I was talking with her about that very thing, - having her live with me some day; and she thanked me, and looked pleased. But she said, - just at the last,- 'Don't trust a young man, Lily; not soon, not readily. Keep your heart your Own as long as you can, and you may escape what I have suffered,--the misery of having your heart, your best possession, given back to you carelessly, as a thing scarce worth returning.' " Hurst did not speak: he had caught sight of tears in Lily's eyes; and his bosom heaved with thoughts he dared not utter, and that yet were dangerously near to being spoken. If only the thoughts in Lily's mind--which he learned after- ward - could then have been fully known to him, it would perhaps have been no better, and perhaps no worse. As it was, Lily's recital, sugges- tive in itself, related in a manner both artless and feelings misled Hurst further than ever as to page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] the- nature of Lily's affection for 1 him. "' God keep every, all, hard fate from you," he murmured. Ah, if 1 he could have looked forward-- years beyond his own grave-- to the darkness of the path which led: to hers! His voice, unusually fervent, reached Lily through those un- spoken thoughts, but for which she could hardly longer have remained wholly blind to the nature of his emotion. Her heart, tenderly aglow with a secret he could not suspect, an l generously penetrated by the un- merited sorrow of her friend, was open to such an impassioned-tone, and responded quickly, - ^ "Dear uncle, do you then think so much of your wilful, selfish, lonely Lily?" She put her arms around his neck, hiding her face in his bosom. A moment more, and she would have confided to him the bashful secret, that more than once had trembled on her lips. A moment more, and he must have poured into her keeping all the passionate love and struggling misery of his heart. That moment he did not risk. He rose instantly, breaking away from her clinglincg arms. Silent and pale, he leaned a moment against the arbor entrance, cover- ing his eyes with one haind. "What is it?" said Lily anx- iously, after a moment of inactive surprise. She took his hand caress- ingly in hers, vaiting for him to speak. She saw with alarm that he seemed to make vain efforts to do so. "I will call papa!" she exclaimed. Hurst motioned her back. "It was a sudden, sharp pain," he said at length ; and she would not have known his voice. "I- I have felt it more than once." He raised his head, but did not look directly at her. "I will talke your advice. I had better go home." "Come in then now, can you? You look so ill." After a few steps, he regained color, in a measure, and walked steadily; but Lily was struck with the fixed ghastliness of his looks. , Uncle," as Robert came up with the horse, ," you are not fit to go by yourself. If you can wait, I'll be ready in an instant; and rMeg and I will see you hole ; or papa, if you'd rather;. or Robert, here." 'He vaulted into the saddle, but with a feebleness of action so dif- ferent from his usual vigorous grace, that Lily saw it with a pang. He observ;ed the look. ";Don't fret," he said: "; a night's rest will put me right." "I ope so," she replied affec- tionately. "Are you sure you are quite able to get home alone? ' "Quite," he replied. "Lily, you ought to go in: " this last in a pe-cu- liar low voice, and looking straight ahead. "I will, at once, when you are gone." "I am going now. Good-by!" "Not good-by," she answered quickly, "but good-night, - the ; very best night, and sweet sleep, for the dearest. uncle in the world; and uncle, if you're ill, --I hope you won't be, - but if you are, I'll come and nurse you well." Slmiling, she put up her hland. Then he looked down at her. The sunset flush upon her lifted face relit her golden hair, and seemed to dash a sort of radi- ance upon her. He took her hand in a vehement pressure that nearly made her cry out, released it, and rode quickly away. Once, fromn the brow of the hill, lhe lookedl back. Lily, still watching him, waved her hllandkerchief. He answered with his hand, and then rode out of sight. That night, Robert, return- ing from the village, brought let- ters. Among them, one each for Lily Hathwin and her father, su- perscribed in the same hand, and bearing the impress of a French coat-of-arms on the seal. Hathwin read his, and, a rare oc- currence, held his peace; but Lily talled about lers, with Nelly, for halfl the nighlt. Hurst passed a sad night, wake- ful and alone, thrilled with mem- ories to whose store he might no longer dare to add, torturepd by wishes he could not subdue, and which seemed only to gather force and tenderness from the effort to ( subdue them. A night of struggle, of the kind a that sometimes strengthens, often- I er devastates, and that always t claims of the body full usury for N the soul's victory or defeat. For ( five days he compelled himself- for I it was compulsion--to stay away r from Hathwin Lodge. I The morning of the first day, Hathwin called, specially commis- sioned by Lily to inquire after Hurst's health, specially commis- sioned by himself to confide to Hurst a matter on which he want- ed advice (not, by any means, with a fixed determination to be guided by it), which concerned Lily, and would involve Hurst's perusal of that letter from France. He came, in vain. Hurst was gone " som'eres over country," so said the groom; and, to the inquiry for his health, " ma' happen' a bit grun, but main well and hearty." So Hathwin returned to. the lodge, as hard pressed with his secret as his communicative nature knew how to endure. The fourth day of Hurst's- ab- sence from the lodge, just after his return from a long and hard ride, chancing to look from his window, he saw Lily Hathwin, her father, and a young stranger, all on horseback, coming up the drive. Much agitated at the sight, Hurst could not immediately de- termine what to do. In -the mean time, he watched them, himself out of view. Who could the stranger be? A handsome young fellow, with dark eyes and hair, and features slightly Roman, as Hurst could see; not any one he had ever met. Hathwin rode a little in advance i; the stranger next to Lily, with whom he seemed to be in animated converse. They passed the deep portico of the front entrance, and rode toward the left wing, as if with the intention of exhibiting page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] some of the fine points of the old h family seat. si Taking advantage of this unex- it pected movement, Hurst went n down and out, and, to say truth, i( deliberately hid himself in a clump of shrubbery, which the riding- h party were pretty sure not to at- E tempt. It is possible that Hurst i would have received Hathwin and t Lily: indeed, he could l1rdly have 1 denied himself; but a meeting with I a stranger he could not brook. He saw them dismount, and go i in, and, after a time, come forth: Hathwin impatient, and loudly ex- pressing it; and Lily -his heart leaped at the sight--looking dis- appointed ; the stranger courteous- ly regretful, but not wretched, as how could he be, with the privilege: of placing Lily in the saddle? He did it with a cultivated grace of manner which smote Hurst dimly with the hitherto unknown pang of jealousy, and was paid therefor with a smile that made Hurst grind his teeth. Hurst watched them away, de- vouring Lily with hungry eyes so long as a glimpse of her remained ; and then he went in, miserable at the success of his evasion. The stranger had left his card, - M. Louis de Changcarnier. Hurst puzzled over this for a time in. silence; but, of course, it afforded no enlightenment. These four miserable days Hurst had passed mostly in the saddle. Literally, he knew not what to do with himself. He dared not go near Lily. He knew not how he had been able to break away from her. It had been so nearly impos- sible to do it, that he remembered it as an escape for which he could not be too thankful, and, paradox- ically, could not be thankful at all. There was nothing for which he longed so much as to unburden his heart to her. There was noth- ing which he dreaded so much as the possibility, the probability, of his doing so, if he were to meet her any more as he had done. He loved Lily Hlathwin as a man with a whole and healthy heart inevitably loves, desiring to belong to her he loves; but he loved her unselfishly. He had in those four days - outwardly event- less, inwardly full of tumult- -so far won the victory, that he was resolved Lily should not know of his love for her. In those long, dismal, heedlessly- rapid rides, he had suffered and thought not all in vain, since he had met, resisted, and vanquished all idea of a dishonest happiness wikh Lily. Nor was this a slim victory, when it is remembered that ihe still believed he had already ; won, or could easily win, Lily's heart. He had reflected in bitter- h ness of soul, and with less than justice to himself, how little of life, joy, or companionship suited a to her age, he could hope to bring t to her, even if she would guiltily e take him. c And, even if lie were free to marry her, how selfish it would be o in him to seek to win her before o she could reasonably be expected e to know her own heart! And n again: even if fairly and honorably won, how terrible it would be if she should come to find her heart was neither in his nor her own keeping, but in that of some man, her mate in youth and graces, and perhaps ardently in love with her! What temptation for her I and what infi- nite wretchedness for himself! He thought also of Nicholas Hathwin's hospitality; of the friendship between them, the established relationship of years; and of the trust, without flaw, Without shadow of doubting, which his friend had manifested in him from first to last. He had sinnedi against this in thought; but, God helping him, he would keep ; from it in deed. These thoughts, with constant i changes, and variety of recurrence, were the sum of his solitary mus- ings; and how full they were of c effort, of victory, and defeat, and a lonely suffering, words uncounted E could not tell: experience only I can fill out this picture. a A hundred ,imes a day on the point of seeking Lily; casting c hope, faitlh, patience, honor, every t thingg, to the winds, that he might g hold her next his heart, and tell u her how dear she had become. a A hundred times a day fighting h back and tearing down the tender, a irresistible longincg; in aninward, a hand - to-hand conflict crushing se himself with himself in silent self- q mastery; and the battle, if never quite lost, never staying won. w That night, after Lily's coming sc and going without seeing, him, his st soul was again a prey to all these m fluctuations. oJ re .o e He saw no way out of his dis- s tress, no end to the struggle: the g, sight of Lily had thrown down e every defence, and undermined his s very will to resist. The crisis of , t his test was upon him; -he lay - broad awake: thought, exhausted by emotion, was no longer consec- s utive, no longer conscious. 3 Seemingly, to himself, without aim, without anchor, he drifted through several hours of existence; , but now was the price of his war- Lfare paid. In this darkness without a ray, his soul subtilely fashioned its new impenetrable armor. He rose in the morning, tired and sad (it could not be other- wise), but victor at last, and know- ing himself such.' Loving Lily, it was not in him to change in that, but with the love of renunciation for truth's sake and honor's sake,-a man's pas- sionate love, purged of all im- purity; his pain, his joy, and his armor. In the afternoon of this fifth day of exile, Hurst set out for Hath- win Lodge. He had resolved to go upon a journey; thus to break up for a time, in what would seem a natural and adequate manner, his intimacy with the Hathwins, and, when he returned, to so- arrange it, that he would really seem too occupied for long or fre- quent visits. As he rode over the familiar way, all things looked fair, but in some way indefinably changed and strange to him, as if he were no more a part of them. The change,. of course, was within himself:. but page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] he did not philosophize; he only'w felt its pensive charm. or Lily Hathwin saw him from her al chamber-window, and went out to fir meet him. He flushed at sight of w her, but smiled, greeting her with s( so much, at least, of his usual gen- h tle ease, that she noticed no change In in his manner. "Robert, Robert!," she called: b "come and take uncle's horse. p Truant!" she added, giving her hand as he alighted,- -" a naughty d truant uncle: that's what it is! s We've missed you so! and we've a wanted to see you so much!" I Hurst noticed the mingled im- patience and constraint of her E manner, and the expression of I trouble in her voice and features. ( He felt it much. "What is the matter?" he asked. c"I want to see you by yourself before you go in," she said with hesitation; and then, abruptly, "Have you been ill? They told us you were not; but you "- "They told you right: I've only been busy, and have done some hard riding. Where shall we go?" ," Let us go into the garden first, if you don't mind, it's so quiet and pleasant there, and I've so much to say!" lHer voice faltered. Hurst stood a moment, irresolute, desir- ing and dreading that talk in the garden with Lily. His pause was brief as it was involuntary; and he had already turned with her toward the garden-wicket, when Lily spoke her natural construction of his de- lay by saying,- "Nelly is busy just now, and won't mind your not coming in at once; and papa is gone --gone away. I'll tell you where," with a fiery blush, " when I get to it. I only wish you had come an hour or two sooner; and I wish you had been at home yesterday, " sighing heavi- ly. They were approaching the ar- bor; but Hurst stopped several paces short of it. "It is pleasant here:: will this do?" he said, pointing to a rustic seat beneath a solitary ash, -seat and tree within an enclosure of blooming shrubbery. They sat down, and there fell some minutes of silence; Hurst nerving himself to meet her confi- dence, whatever it might be, and Lily seeming at a bashful loss how to begin. She hung her head, and trifled with the rings on her fingers. Hurst's countenance changed as he watched her lovely, downcast face. A tender strength and a strong tenderness lighted his fine features into beauty. "You may tell me any thing," ' he said. "You may open your , heart to me without fear." I She took his hand impulsively. ) "I know it," she said, "' and - and t I don't see why it is so hard to be- - gin. Before you came, I thought e I should tell you all in a minute. I s wish I had told you before I! and e I have been near to telling you d twice. Do you relmember that day e under the tree by Brierlane stile?" 3- Yes," after a pause'filled very differently from what she imagined. d "I wanted to tell you then. I almost did: why didn't you make me?" "How could' I make you?" "If you had just said a word, or asked a question, as if you cared "- "I did care." "You didn't look so. Meg nib- bling, at the stile looked more in- quisitive than you; andt so I couldn't." "I did care,"' he repeated; ," but I thought you would tell me if you wished." "Well, that was one time; and the other time was when you were here last, - that day in the arbor, you know. I think I should cer- tainly have told you then if " - "And the third time is now; is it not?" For answer Lily took from her pocket a picture, which she handed to Hurst. He recognized at once its likeness to the young stranger whom he had seen yesterday with the Hathwins. "M. de Changarnier!" she said with a deep breath. "Why! how did you know?'" exclaimed Lily, taken by surprise, and beautifully blushing beneath his gaze. "People have guessed as well as that," he said, covering his blu-nder with evasion; and then adding frankly, , I saw him, -I saw you all." "You, you saw us I and would not receive us!" cried Lily with a reproach in voice and glance that inexpressibly pained him. "Believe me, it was not that a I would not: there were- reasons, good reasons, why I could not. No, 1 'no! do not ask me for them; only believe that-that I wanted to see you, and let it pass. You do not get on fast in your "- "Uncle!" said Lily hastily, trembling, blushing, sighing, and with tears in her eyes. "I -I want you to help me: I'm sure you can if anybody. Papa will listen to you. I did not think he was, could be, so, so hard to me." All his resolution was for a mo- ment swept into dimness at sight of her tears: for one moment, it was hardly possible for him to keep from manifesting himself her lover. But the moment passed; and he was able to entreat her confidence gently as any other friend might have done; or, if his voice was not quite steady, she was too pre-occu- pied to notice. "' Only tell me how I can help you, and I will with all my heart." "It's about him, about Louis," she said, partly hiding her suffused face upon his shoulder. "I met with him while I was away at school, and we grew acquainted, and " - She paused, and he could feel her trembling: and he per- ceived - with what tender admira- tion, and what unspeakable sinking of the heart! - how timid a pure young girl's first love may be. He took up her broken sentence. "And grew to be friends," he said in a very gentle voice, and with a white face she did not see. "Yes, we grew to be friends. He was very kind to me. We did not see many gentlemen at school, you know; but he owned the school (the property, I mean), and used to page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] be at the receptions, and sometimes '- came into the class; and he - he I looked at me so, it touched me very v much. He was in mourning, and I a heard he had lost some near rela- tive; and he had such a sad look, t as if he felt alone in the world. f I was so sorry for him!" She paused a moment without looking up, and then went on again 1 in the same soft, subdued voice,- I don't know how it did be- gin.- I didn't see him often, - not so very often, and hardly ever alone ; but he has the gentlest man- ners, and says so much just by his I manner. And pretty soon he wrote me letters; and I answered them. He had a little cousin at school; and she took my letters to him, and brought his to me; and she never told, and nobody knew any thing about it; and papa says it was very wrong, and --and improper. But, I uncle, I couldn't help it, and it didn't seem improper; and, besides, ' I didn't thinkl any thing about its being proper or not." She was so long silent, that he forced himself to say, - "Well?" "And so you see - I can't tell all-- every thing,; only it went on - that is, we corresponded all my; last year at school; and, just before I came home, he wrote me, asking me to be his wife." She began trembling again. "And you replied?" "I wrote to him that --I wrote that I loved him; and papa says it was bold and forward. Was it bold, do you think, uncle?" Hurriedly, "I did not mean it so, --it was just true, and what could I say? I did love him; and there was nothing else to say when he asked me that." There was a firmness and modes- ty beautiful to see in the flushed face, not yet lifted, but not quite hidden from Hurst. He tightened his arm around her. , What could you say, indeed, but what was true?" he said in a I very low voice, quite steadily; " and it was pure modest: I am sure of I that." She drew his hand to her cheek, and kissed and held it there. I "So, when I came home, after a time I told Nelly all about it; and she was very good to me. She thought I had better tell papa ; but i you don't know how hard that was for me, - harder a great deal than to tell you; because I could not help a feeling that he would be a little hard, and perhaps laugh at me, as , if it was all a silly fancy; and I knew you would not." She paused, and softly kissed his hand, and put it to her cheek again. "I don't know why I should i have felt so, when papa has al- r' ways been so kind: he is very kind, 3 but he did laugh at me, - I couldn't , hardly bear it; and. he seemed i vexed. You see, Louis wrote to me under cover to Nelly, and it all made her uneasy about me; and I she advised me to write and ask a Ihim to apply directly to papa. And s I so I did; and he wrote, and pa did "not say a word to me about the , letter, when I feel so anxious and unhappy too. But he wrote for Louis to come and see him; and Louis accepted. We rgot the let- ter, saying he was on the way, within a few hours of us, - that night, the last time you were here; and he came the next day ; and now he is gone again. Papa went to the village with him." ".Well?" "Papa likes him very much in- deed, and so does Nelly; but I don't quite understand it myself, only I know it is about Louis's property. It's a beautiful old place, and the De Changlarniers have always lived there; but Louis's elder brother, who is dead, - that's why he wore mournincg; and he was very fond of him. too, - this brother led a wild life, and spent a great deal of money, and got into debt, until ath the property was involved some- how,-- I don't understand how, - but in all sorts of entanglements." Hurst's grave face began to wear a look of singular attention. "And papa says he is a 'poor rich young man ;' and that, although he likes him well, it is not the sort, of man he will let me marry. He says we should be unhappy, and told Louis - poor Louis looked so angry, you can't think - that he would soongrow tired of me when he found that I was a burden," the soft voice a little indignant here; "but I'm not afraid to be poor; and Louis is not afraid; and I don't think I would be a burden." "Of course your father came to some arrangement before " - "Before' Louis went away,- yes." And then it further appeared that Hathwin had declared he could not portion Lily: being able to give her only what Madame de lChangarnier would consider a month's pin-money for her son's bride; and, characteristically, no one should snub his daughter but himself. As the young man wVas poor, - by his own showing pretty hopelessly ;o,-Hathwin thought it- right to say "No "at once, but had finally granted to the young man's eloquent urgency, that when he should have cleared, or partially cleared, the Changarnier estates of their present obligations, and so proved himself likely to wholly liquidate the debts of his brother's leaving, he - Hathwin - would reconsider the case. Until then, there must be no engagement, no,. correspondence. "If anybody can make papa yield ever so little to us, it'is you, uncle. It isn't the waiting, -I care about that, only for Louis's sake; but the uncertainty, and not to see him at all, and to have no letters. I've been so unhappy I - and now I feel so much better for having told you: it comforts me, -you always do." It was sweet and it was bitter to be of such comfort to her; and it gave him strength, not only for the moment, but for the noble, brave, unselfish purpose shaping in his mind. It was this that made you ill," he said suddenly, with strange thoughts of that sick-room where he had known no thought but her page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] "I have been so unhappy I " she repeated. f The state of Alfred Hurst's mind during this recital was one of 3 scarcely less-bewilderment and suf- t fering than that from which he 1 came to seek and bid farewell to 1 the Hathwins. There was added- not only the sharp thrusts of natu- ral and inevitable jealousy, but the ; pang of a peculiar humiliation in seeing how mistaken he had i been in his flattering construction 1 of her ingenuously sweet manner to him. He wondered at himself 1 -oh! with what a heavy pain in 1 the wonder --that he could have so deceived himself, that he I should have indulged so blindly the fancy that he could be any young girl's ideal of a lover; and he recalled, with shudderings of's soul, how near he had been to an avowal of his love: an avowal that could have won into that beloved young face no reciprocity, but only a pale shock of horror, which never again could have grown back into its present sweet, affectionate trust. Thank God! he had not thrown away that treasure. And now there was an unhoped-for possibili- ty for the expression of his love, -an expression which she would never know, but which should none the less surround her with blessings as real as the love was true. His heart was very full. "Lily," he said at length, pa- tience and sweetness in his voice, 4' don't be unhappy any more; I will see your father. It will all end well and happily, I feel sure." She nestled to him with a grate- ful murmur. After a longer pause," Lily, will you go in now, and send your sis- ter to me here - not immediately, but in a few minutes: I wish a little time." They both rose. "Can you be content to trust your father's old friend?" "And mine!" she cried; "my very best in the world." She threw her arms around his neck, pressing her warm cheek to his: the action of a loving child, full of the grace of a tender woman. A trembling ran through his frame; it was all that he could do to keep from clasping her to him: but he dared not; and he held his hands behind him, passionately clinched, and in silence let her go from him up the garden-path. Then he sat down, exhausted in mind and body. It was not many minutes before he saw Nelly coming towards him. He motioned to a place beside him without speaking. Nelly was the first to break silence ; for he sat be- side her, the one sharer in his se- cret, in evidently great though controlled agitation. "Lily has told me of her con- versation with you, and that you wished to see me," she said. "1 Yes: she lias been telling me of what has passed;" and he leaned his head wearily on his hand. "Has Nikko returned?" "Not yet: he will hardly be back before night." ; "Will you tell me -you have seen him, have talked with him- your opinion of this young man?" "He is quite young, - scarcely more than twenty,- and very handsome "- "Yes, " sharply, "I know; but his character: I want to know about that, if you can tell me. Is he fit--suitable to make Lily happy?" "He seems a good young man, a gentleman unmistakably, and devoted to my sister. Of course, the acquaintance of a day or two is not very extended knowledge; but my father has formed a high opinion of him." Hurst remained a long time si- lent, looking down upon the ground with a sad, grave fixedness, and a look of loss and mourning; all of which had been kept so bravely back from Lily's eyes. Had he known all that was trans- piring in the heart beating within three paces of his own, he would not have so released his features. 4 I have been thinking of taking a journey," he said at last. "In fact, I came here to-day to bid you all good-by. I can, on my jour- ney, without inconvenience, visit this young man's estates, and ex- amnine into their condition." He looked up, and took, rather absently than otherwise, one of Nelly's hands. "You can do me a great favor," he said: " will you-?" "If I can, yes." "You can easily: it is only that you will give me a letter of intro- i duction to M. de Changarnier. Put I me in under an assumed name, if : you feel confidence in me enough to do so; and also, you will please make no mention of it, of the let- ter, or of my going there, to any one." He laid her hand down on the bench, as if he didn't know he had held it. "I will do that," she said. "Thank ybu. I think it pos- sible," Hurst continued, " that some of the debts contracted by the elder brother may have been cancelled without the knowledge of the younger brother, and he may think himself under obligation to pay more than'is legally 'or honor- ably due." He paused, looking away with what seemed an inten- tional avoidance of her eye. "4 Per- haps -it may prove that a little experience is all that is necessary to reduce what may seem difficul- ties, to his unaided inexperience, to real trifles." Then, with a hasty, husky ac- cent, "I want her to be happy." Coloring deeply, he turned and looked straight in Nelly's face. She returned his gaze with eyes that seemed to penetrate his thought, - a look that he met for a moment in silence; and then with a sudden, passionate outhurst: - "I am rich and childless: I may surely do what I will with my own." Nelly bowed her head. "Nelly," with a sound of dry gasping that would not be kept down, "I will trust you, I know I may; and besides," bitterly, "what is there to trust? You know that I love her. And the strangeness, the misery of it, is I never knew any - page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] thing about love till she came home; and now it comes to me too late for any thing but torment, useless long- ing." He stopped with a sort of gasp. "I am not a man of many words; but love, as I have under- stood it, felt it, suffered it, means giving all, and counts all giving as naught." Nelly's low voice broke in upon the pause, - "If you will feel it any comfort, believe that I have felt for you, and that I honor you." She held out her hand, - a trembling hand, - unused to obeying impulse. "You are a true friend, a good woman, Nelly Hathwin; but wait till you know all before you put your clean hand in mine. I will not buy even a friend with their good opinion undeserved. There has been a time (it is past, thank God!) when I was sorely tempted - so tempted, that I hardly under- stand my own escape - to try and win Lily to go away with me, and count it worth the cost of all duty and honoi: so I was a knave. I thought, - you will hardly believe it; but she was so sweet and ten- der in all her charming manner! - I thought I -might so win her, that she loved, or could soon be won to love me; and there I was a fool, - knave and fool!"-- he groaned. i"And to stumble upon this happiness (for there has been mad, passionate joy in it) and this misery in my old age, within sight of my grave!" Nelly held one hand over her eyes, and put the other over his as it lay clinched upon the seat. He sighed heavily, loosed his hand, and took hers within it, this time not unheedfully. "Thank you!" he said. "You are kind and patient; I shall not forget. In time, your goodness, your trust, will be a comfort to me. I see," he added after a pause, in a voice no longer violent, but broken and sad, "she has found the love which will make her happy. God bless her in it! For the want of what I have in abun- dance, her joy shall neither be lost nor delayed. But I wish not that she should ever know it: give mne. your pledge for that." "I will tell no one: I will keep it in my own grateful heart. Let me thank you ; believe that I do thank you for Lily's sake." He rose, and she also, standing a little apart from him, quite pale. He took her hand once more, and drew nearer to her. i' It is the only way that I could bear Lily's tlianks," he said; then bowing his head, and almost in a whisper, " think of me, kind fiiend, as having pure joy, grateful joy, in being able to shape my darling's future according to the dearest wish of her own heart." He held her hand a moment in a silence that was full, though silence, and then, turning, went away. That night, when it was late, Hurst went to his wife's room, where he usually made inquiry of her maid before retiring. A light was burning dimly, and work lay on a little table as if just put down: probably the girl had gone down to the kitchen. He went up to the bedside, and leaned over. He could not hear her breath; and so he gently, very gently, touched the aged, childish face, - touched it, and started back, and brought the light with trembling hand. She was quite dead, in an easy attitude, with a peaceful settling of all the lines and features into death's solemn calm. An hour or two later, when the short flurry over an event long expected was past, and when the necessary details were completed, Hurst dismissed his household, and sat beside the bed, where lay all that was' left of one who had waik- c ed by his side, the companion of : his pilgrimage, for forty years,- - companion and stranger! j They had walked together as husband and wife for forty years, A in peace, but not in love ; and their lives had never touched. There was deep bitterness in i the reflection. I He was alone and old; growing i old how fast, within the last few E score of hours! i Alone and old, by the side of c dumb death and the ghost of a c life that seemed as dumb and dead i a loss; and the night waned into a morning, e Is it not a good prayer to pray f that God may in his good time v remember such solitary vigils, since p God alone can know of them? h Alfred Hurst went on his jour- ney; but first he parted with the M Hathwins, and for a moment held a: Lily in his arms alone. He told b: d her nothing of his plans, only that, ,r for a time, he was going away. He y said not whither; but at parting, h while her pretty golden head was d lying on his breast in the old con- hi fiding, nestling way, he said, - e You will be happy, Lily: all a will come right. Believe in me, s and do not forget me. , I am an old i man, - an old man and alone, and shall soon. pass from sight; but' 3 keep me in your memory for a lit- r tle, only for a little time, my dar- 3 ling." Lily sobbed, and clung to him; I and he kissed her twice, there by I the very lemon-tree where he had stood when she had first kissed him in the flush of the bloom and beauty that had been so new and fatally sweet to him. He kissed and blessed her, and went his lonely way. He visited Lily's lover at the Chateau de Changarnier, and, com- ing from Nelly Hathwin, found welcome and trust. He examined into the condition of the estate, and was able, without absolutely impoverishing himself, to clear it of all obligations. This was not done without arousing Louis's sus- picions: but he was inexperienced, and no financier; and Hurst suc- ceeded in allaying them, at least for the time, which was all that was necessary. And then he de- parted farther, on a journey that had but the aim of a voluntary exile. He went, a solitary man, at whom many turned again to look, as if touched by some invisible blessing when he passed. I' page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] One morning late in the follow- co, ing year, when Lily de Changar- a 1 nier was writing happy letters from ev her new home and life in France, re] a letter came to Hathwin Lodge. ca A letter for Nelly Hathwinll, an which Nelly, reading and sinking ea down beside her bed, wept and th prayed over as if her hidden heart - would break. It said,- er "Will you come and see an old t man die? A. H." h She went at once, and so did Nicholas Hathwin; but the latter a did not go often: it grieved him to h; see the change in his stalwart tl friend; and he didn't like to feel E miserable. Hurst was ill of a s( feyer contracted somewhere in his wanderings, and which, when he i1 felt it really had its grasp on n him, brought him again to his de- serted home. t He was not far from the close s when Nelly received the eloquent c line; and she found him wasted,- ill, indeed, but with a tranquil 1 peace upon him. ' Let me stay here," she had i said; and, with a feeble smile, he had replied,-- "If you will'be so good." One day,--the last of a week of her faithful watching,- at dusk, and as she sat beside him, he said,- , Lily gave me a curl: I have worn it. When I am gone, will you take it before others can find it? I should like to wear it to the last: it is all I have ; but then you will take care of it." Again he broke the long silence: "There is no deprivation to be compared with the deprivation of a love that lives unanswered. In every other line, work well done repa)- self' but this cannot; be- causi ,ou see, it depends upon another, not on yourself. Here earth fails, and heaven alone - if there is a heaven: I hope there is -holds compensation." He put his wasted hands togeth- er : the action was like a supplica- tion. Nelly's head sank low upon her bosom. "There cannot, I think," after a pause, he feebly continued," ever have been a lonelier life than t the one of which you, my friend, 1 niy kind friend, my last friend, will a soon see the close." s His patient eyes seemed search- e ing into the unknown,that mo- a ment by moment drew so near. "Would you - would you like to think you had been loved by e some one, by any one, whom you it did not yourself care about? Would you like to know it, if you il had won it, where--where-- you"-- She stopped, tears roll- ,d ing down her cheeks. ie He did not see the tears: sick- ness and death had made his deep eyes dim.. of "I would indeed!" he said, k, 'with a fleeting energy in his voice. - "I would be glad to think one ve heart in all earth's millions had ou been mine; to think I had been t? dear,--for my own sake, I mean,- st: been loved as I loved, as I love rill her." Nelly leaned over him close, and ,e: whispered-in his ear. There was be a start, a faint, sweet smile, a- tightening of the. band over hers, and death swooped down, and carved its image in that tender smile. In a plain locket-case of quaint Eastern mechanism, hung about his neck by a silken cord, she found the golden curl, and put with it some of the fine silver-hair lying on the still temples. In that same hour, her sweet beauty made sacred in the pale charm of great peril, safely passed, Lily de Chan- garnier lay smiling at her first- born ; and her young huhsband, with tears in his dark eyes, was thank- ing God for the new life safely won, and for the other more pre- cious life preserved. For these two, - happy love, true union, ad the welcome advent of an infant life; and for Nelly Hathwin, sit- ting alone where death lay in the mortal guise of the newly-risen one, a kiss, taken from dead lips, which, living, had never touched her owi : nor did love's silent hero- ism complain of its late and mea, gre portion. And for Hurst- In the end, surely it shall be seen that God is not partial, nor the unequal Dispenser of life's issues. We speak of eventful lives. Some are crowded with tangible events, unusual happenings; and these are always prominent before th/world. There are yet other lives, -distinguished by no outward sign, taken up, lived, and quietly laid down, almost without human cognizance, that yet are some- times, with a deep significance, the most eventful lives on earth. Which signifies most, that won- derful things shall happen to the body, or to one's personal estate? or that the heart shall break un- seen? or that the sotul shall walk in the hottest fury of fires invis- ible, -and walk so bravely, pure- ly, that it shall escape the scent of flame? Sang Bernard de Morlas, Monk of Cluni, - "Brief life is here our portion, Brief sorrow, short-lived care: The life that knows no ending, The tearless life, is there. There nothing can be feeble; There none can ever mourn; There nothing is divided; There nothing can be torn: And after fleshly scandal, And after this world's night, And after storm and whirlwind, Is calm and joy and light." The Celestial Country. page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] PART SECOND. "UCIE DE CHANGARNIER. a That loss is common would not make My own less bitter; rather more: Too common I Never morning wore To evening but some heart did break. - TENNYSON. To feel, although no tongue can prove, f That every cloud that spreads above, And veileth love, itself is love. TENNYSON. A LARGE garden, where broad sweeps of noble lawn, star- red by blossoming parterres, flame- { touched by groups of blooming shrubs, slipped imperceptibly into wooded shadows. There is a little girl, flowers tan- gled among her flossy curls, walk- ing down the gravel-path. She is fresh from depredations: her little hands, also the skirt of her dress, which is fine, but torn and soiled, are full of her bright-hued plun- der. A trail of brier follows her, caught in the dainty ruffle of her dress. The path is descending; and the sun casts her shadow long and black before her. She comes beneath -the luxuriant laburnums that interlace above her, and looks earnestly around. "Oh, you! There you are!" she exclaims, discovering a large burnished shell hanging on nearly a level with her head. She looks at it steadfastly with breath a little hastened. "'Ma bonne Elise has told me of you," speaking as if to another child. "She says my papa sent you from the big, monsous sea. You are to sing like the waves (that's what Elise says), till my papa comes home again." The child pauses a moment, fin- gering her flowers absently. "She says you've got a secret in you. Whatever anybody's said when they choked and drownded is in you somewheres. I shouldn't like that," musingly; " but she says, if I put my ear close at you, I can hear how the water sounds, wishing and washing round the ship, where my papa is. And what's more, shell, she says, if I've been very good, perhaps you'd let me hear papa talking too." She steps nearer, looking at the huge handsome shell, as if it were indeed a sentient secret-holder of the sea. She speaks more hurried- ly, and with a touch of French in her haste; but she has an English ' mother, and is taught to speak i English haoitually. r - And I have been good, - tres s bon as any thing,- and talked true, and, and - doucement. Chere ma- man says lies are wicked; and Elise says I am so, lolud; and she don't like me to pick the flowers 'cause I get stains all on me: but I do, waglyre' Elise. Elle est vilaine!" shalkin, her flowers, and pouting }her under-lip. She puts her. ear to the shell, risingT onl tiptoe, and listens with awe and tender longing; for she has clearly in her childish filial fan- cy the image of the noble man who is so tall, and wears stars and hand- some ribbons on his breast, and who is her papa. She listens for one moment, two, three. What it is that faint, imprisoned murmur-- of which the bonne has prattled so unwisely and so mauch-- bears to the listening child ; why it is it fills her tender, sensitive imaginings with hopes and fears theyond her understanding, yet vaguely, shudderingly felt; and why such sweet, sad sounds, and b)eautiful, tragic, fragmentary : scenes, half strange and half famil- iar, throng upon her oppressed and wounded mind,- the child can nev- er tell; but she feels it all, and sinks E upon the ground. Her flowers roll ( down beside her, while she sobs c and shivers, covering her face with bler hands and some of her bright i tunmbled hair. s "Eh! Mademoiselle Lucie?" t It is' the bonne standing over e her, with her hands outspread, all h the slim fingers separated in French fi astonishment, which becomes dis- t 'gust as the child springs up. "Eh I a bad, dirty little lady t] Chut! What will maman say? I - : Such a frock I Such hair! O ma- e demoiselle, when I fixed you so t beautiful! C'est horrible!" e "OElise!" says the child, clutch- , ing the bonne's elaborate apron, - ' "I heard the shell, Elise I " with X such a face and such a tone, that the bonne crosses herself hurriedly, , and carries the little one straight t to the drawing-room of the chd- teau, and the lap of its mother. "The shell, madame," says Elise, , putting her hands into the pockets of her apron in a way to push up her slim shoulders,-- mademoi- selle has been listening to the shell." 6"What nonsense!" in a sweet voice; while a soft hand puts back the child's hair, and fragrant lips kiss the little face all over. "Elise, don't tell the child any more idle stories!" Then childhood, which (though it has a deep heart, sometimes a very deep heart, O fathers and mothers!) is mercurial, is soon consoled. It is a warm August day. The sun has passed beyond the south- ern angle; and through the long drawing-room of the Chateau de Changarnier a mellow shadowiness is diffused. The same little girl is standing midway, on a slender por- table flight of steps; her round elbows leaning upon the console, her chin in her palms, and her eyes fixed with inquisitive gravity upon the chess-men there set out. They are carved to a marvel by the uttermost Chinese ingenuity. The polished mirror above the page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] console has in it, also, a lovely ai child-statue and miraculous chess- ai men. The art-germ in the soul of tl the child is deeply pleased and rE stirred with the pantomimic won- p; der. tl In, at the window, at first very VV very faintly, comes the sound of martial music: its increasing swell is so gradual, it blends with the tl child's ideal fancies, and makes not ii one ripple of disturbance in her a smoothly-flowing mood. As it dies away again, the bright head r droops, and the lids half close in c the lightest slumber, as if sleep I held over her -a half-lifted veil. s Some one crosses the warm t shadow of the room. "Lucie!" i The child starts up with a cry 1 of joy : and in the mirror the child's I statue has turned, anal shows a nest of golden curls; while the little arms are thrown around the bend- ing neck of a bright, handsome boy; and the trembling lips, crying with passionate fondness, " 0 Louis, Louis!" are pressed by lips as beardless as her own. Louis is her only brother, - very kind to, very fond of her, - home from his first abs-nce. It is vacation at the Academie Militaire. Upon one shoulder her little fin- gers meet and interlace; while upon the other she is borne away, her cheek against his temple. He is her saint, her god: her heart is full; she weeps in silent joy. A group of happy days succeed; but this one --with its untold child-dreams before the mirror, over the party- colored, sculptured chess-men, the air-borne strains of distant music, and the half-slumber broken by the strong and sweet surprise-- remains apart and perfect, like the painting of a golden dream on the sunlit panel of a phantom wall. Through the mullioned window, the sunlight, subdued only by fall- ing gossamer curtains, floods the antique turret-chamber. It is Lucie's room; and Lucie's mother has been there for an hour, chatting with the child, who is painting in water-colors, for which she shows talent and decided taste ; though there have been but nine summers of bloom and beauty for its development. They hlave been talking of papa, whose strong dark 3 face on canvas hangs just over ; Lucie's bed. ,' You think he will come this time?" i "( Yes: I think we may expect ! him this time positively; but not ) for weeks yet," with a sigh. s The child lays down her brush. S "O mamma! it has been such a , long time!" 3 "Yes; a long time, my little one, 3 -a sad, long time, to be without papa! But when a. man devotes L- himself to public interests, to pub- n lie good, he is not less good, my or darling, but likely to be personally is less the husband and the father." I Though it has been often and p often in the lonely heart of the is mother, it is the first time the child is has heard this thought expressed. y- She is thinking of it earnestly, le when the mother, looking from the window, starts slightly, saying, with surprise, - "A cale'che, my dear, just driving under the porte cochere : I expect no one to-day." A maid brings a card, at which the mother glances. "4 Remain here, my child!" she says almost sternly as she leaves the room. The maid follows at a discreet distance, but leans inquisitively over the balustrade to listen. The lady greets her visitors, two courtly gentlemen, in the vestibule be- neath. She is well controlled, but very pale, and receives them stand- ing. The maid hears her say in quite a strange voice, rapidly, - "You bring bad news: tell me at once." "Pardon me, madame," says one with hesitation. i "Dieu me pardonne, madame; vmais M. de Changarnier," says the I other. ] "Yes, yes!" looking from one to the other, and laying one hand E upon her bosom. "Oui, madame, I am most un- e happy, grieved excessively, to be the 1 messager de malheur. Je n'aipasle E courage " - "You have to tell me?"- in a c voice of agonized patience, as if X she Wvouldl encourage them. "Madame, have you heard noth- I ing?" , "Non, madame?. " echoes the other anxiously. "Is he dead?" she asks at last, with an effort. d "Ah5, Dieu! oui, it is spoken, y mais maladroitement. BMas! ma ce i dame, il est mort," stammers the one. : "Dear madame, it is too true," ; confirms the other. This much the maid hears, and hurries wildly back to little Lucie's chamber. There sits the child, whose few moments of -solitude have been given to her father' pic- ture. It is very '[like, and her gaze is wistful; for she loves him much, and remembers him well. A great many thoughts crowd into this gentle contemplation; and thus, for the shock that is coming, a great sharpness is unconsciously prepared. "O mademoiselle!" screams the maid in her heedless tremors. "Qu'est-ce?" cries the child. "The men in the hall! 0 Dieu! that Jean should let them in I They have killed your papa, -the good M. de ChangarnierI He is dead: they say so; they have done it!" The child grasps at her, and says gaspingly,- "Stop! taisez! It is a lie I 0O est maman ,where is she?" Her heart stops while she is speaking: she hears the maid scream again; but it sounds far off. The picture of her father oscillates, bends to- ward her, and flees suddenly away. Hours afterward, she hears the physician talking with her pale, heroic mother. "It is more than a common faint- ing-fit, monsieur?" '"Oui, certainement! ChOere ma- dame, you are so brave, I may tell you: it is a form of maladie du coeur.' page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] VT "' Dangerous, fatal?" g ,' Cela depend-- She may live c to be a hundred,- with care, with b care; but she may die at any t time: shocks are to be avoided." a A pause, during which the phy- s sician seemns expecting, in his defe- t rential wayl that madame has more e to say, but needs a little time. f 'i Then am I to understand it is i liable to be sudden, without warn- ing?" The physician slowly bends his i head. "That is the nature of this peculiar form. But do not be troubled too greatly, madame. It may be a long time averted,-- may, even, never occur." When he is gone at last, and mamma is bending over her, Lucie opens her :eyes with a faint smile, and says 'between her mother's trembling Irisses,- "You rhave Louis and me, dear mamma." But then, or later, she says not a word of having heard about the maladie du coeur. Six years subsequently, at a pensionnat not more than a dozen miles from the Chdteau de Chan- garnier, there was in attendance a young lady-pupil, very fair, and particularly beloved. Her figure was well rounded, even plump ; yet there was about her' an indefinable fragility. The young demoiselles of the pensionnat had received a special command to treat Mademoi- selle Luecie with consideration and gentleness; but they did so invol- untarily. It was after class-time; and a group of young girls were loun- gingo about one of the window-seats, chatting gayly, and crunching bon-. bons. The preceptress was still at the desk, but too much engaged to attend to the girlish jargon. The settinc sun, filtering, through the trees in the school-garden, show- ered their bright heads with beamy flecks. They were talking in this manner: "Say, Rosalie: were you ever in love?" It is a young English girl who asks. "Oh, dear, yes!--in a way, a dozen times," was the reply with white shrugging shoulders. "Ah! like that, yes; but I mean the grande passion." "O girls!l Do but look at her!" said Rosalie, turning sharply upon tilhe questioner. "The jolie Anylaise is talking of love in dead earnest. Quel yeux!" "Who is it? his name? Tell us, tell us!" in chorus. Grace May- lie, the jolie Anglaise, was silent. "Look how she reddens!" (' It is the baron, who comes to X the receptions. Stupid afftairs i those receptions! I have seen him - make eyes at her," said one. I "But he is old; he is ugly. [ Bah " said another. e "Girls, girls! he has money. t Money buys these," said a third, 3 holding up a bon-bon between s thumb and finger, "and these," a tossing her ear-rings, andt twirling ,- her bracelets, "and dresses and d horses and carriages, an estab- - lishment!" '" O Genevieve! are dresses a and money and rings all you care i- for?" "Chut! little Anglaise. I tell you, girls, your jeune homme is horrid. He balks, and don't mind AT THP PENSIONNAT. hysterics; obut an old man," clasp- ing her pulpy little hands theatri- cally, - - he is nice. You can man- age him, and he will keep out of one's way. One may flirt one's self to death! Marry the baron, Mademoiselle Maylie." "I should think one cannot have une grande passion for an old man," said Lucie de Clhangarnier. "G 'est vrai!" cried Rosalie; page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] "4 and an old man, Genevieve, gets I older, and wants you hanging over him all the time. He drivels and drools; he is abominable, bete! But I'll tell you who is Ilademoi- selle 1-aylie's penchant., It is M. de Trrcville!" "He is magnifique!" exclaimed Geneviove. "You are wrong!" cried the jolie Anglaise in the midst of va- rying exclamationi. "He never looked at me: he admires, lie adores, Iademoiselle Lucie. You are stu- pids!" "Mademoiselle Iucie!" And they all turned, but gently, to the fragile one. ' You'll get nothing from her," said Grace. "She does not talk of love; she is never silly." '; Madame la prceeptrice," said a maid, with a card upon a salver. She waited by the desk; and rude Genevieve was immediately peep- ing over her shoulder. Observing her, thell preceptress said with a gentle push,- "Back to your place, mademoi- selle!" "i Un grand yentilhomme!" cried the giddy one, rejoining the group, "I for one of us: guess for whom!" "For which of us? Oh, you teasing Genevieve!" "I'll tell for the rest of your beon-bons, Rosalie." Rosalie peeps into the paper, and sees there are not many. c Here, then ; but you are a pig! Now tell." * "Genevieve pointed at IXucie; and the preceptress said,-- , Mademoiselle Lucie de Chan- garnier, go immediately to the south class: you have a visitor." Genevieve squinted at Lucie, and said in a loud whisper, "I know him. Un petit viellot!" throwing up her hands with a ma- licious smile, mais ele;gant!" With lifted brows, "Girls, it is "-- "Who? who?"- "The baron, Wilhelm von Neufstein!" All this as heard by the youngcr maiden of fifteen, who, though she was often gay, was never frivolous. Though the youngest among them, she was by nature more pro- found than her mates, by expe- rience more thoughtful and sedate. She entered' the little class; and there in the middle of the room, awaiting her, stood an old gentle- man,-old truly, but with a dis- tinguished face over which played a beautiful smilc as lie took her hands in his. She looked up at him inquiringly. "' Mademoiselle, I am froml your mother; that is, not now, not im- mediately from the chdteau: but I have for some time had her per- mission to address you, toask if you will be my wife, if you will give me the honor of being your husband." "Do not speak,- not just yet, dear mademoiselle. I was happy in being the intimate friend of your noble father: your estimable moth- er honors me with her regard, her codnfidence. I would endeavor to deserve to obtain yours. 'Why do you tremble? I would be very good to you, my child." She -was touched inexpressibly by his manner, which she felt to be sincere and tender as it seemed. "I am unable to answer you as I ought," she said. "Do you speak to me by my mother's wish, or by her permission only?" "Bv both, mademoiselle; but it is left with you - entirely with you - to make answer. Your mother would have prepared you; but I prayed her not. It is a pleasure to me to make my own appeal in per- son, and to trust wholly to your in- gelnuousniess." She was silent so long, with such a changing countenance, that he satid at length, - "You understand that I come to' you because I love you?" "Yes, monsieur, if you tell me "I do, my child, and therefore you mlay trust me: all that I ask is, that you will endeavor to dis- cover, if you can--if it will be possible to return my affection." This was spoken so gently, even diffidently, that moved by an im- pulse too new to question, but all I beautiful and pure, she leaned her a head upon his bosom. "It seems to me it would not be ( difficult to love you." He folded t her in his arms. Did he think she s would not so have met a youthful f lover? and did he gather confi- A dence from the thought? He y pressed a kiss upon her golden a blead. Then she looked up, and 1 said with beating heart,- c "But I am not fit to be your wife. 1 You have no child - if you would c let me be your child - I should I be better, infinitely, as your child." t C If there was some reproach in this, she did not mean it; and he knew she did not. "For the present, be it so," , spoken gravely, after a silence. "Perhaps it will be best. At least, I will take my answer from your heart; but do not give it now, - not irrevocably now." But in her heart the answer was irrevocable, and she knew it. Dur- ing that summer, there liad been visitors at the chdteau. There came with Brother Louis, for a brief visit, a handsome young American, whom he had met abroad, and-whom he .greatly ad- mired. It was thus that Lucie de Changarnier met her fate in meet- ing M. Paul Lillinor. She would never be the bairon's wife. She sat thinking where the stately, kind old gentleman left her, recalling with swift, warm blushes the noble, youthful shape, the' earnest voice, and pleasant glances of the young American. These were all, but these had made two captives; for love knows how to make silence eloquent and full of caresses; and glances are the shining bridges over which it hurries from the eyes to the heart. She sat silent and solitary in the class. It was her first offer of marriage, and she was very young. She felt no elation; yet the sense of being approved and chosen was passing sweet. To have felt the gentle friendliness of that old man's love was to feel less alone, and, somehow, worthier of that other love she ,cherished. There had been nothing in this in- terview with the baron in com- page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] monl with the schoolroom-scene from which she came; yet ever after, when this first tender of a good man's love was remembered (and it had its certain place among her best memories), she saw her giddy mates, and heard their idle chattering. Thus that with noth- ing in itself to make it memorable was linked to the solemn, sweet, and unforgotten hour which fol- lowed, by the indissoluble fetter of association. The moon is an artist who de- lights upon the solid and real to paint the illusiveand aerial. The heavy masonry of the chdteau,- which showed impregnable and stern by day, - by night and moon- light, with silvered angles, and but- tresses bathed in tintless flames, seemed an uncertain fabric based on vague shadows, as on clouds. The moon enhances, by soft reve- lations, emerging from the obscure. This is her inimitable art; and the turret-chamber lay within the charm. Lucie was not asleep. She had not yet been sleeping, though midnight sounded from the chapel- clock. She was vaguely conscious of an unusual stir about the chd- teau, but was so full of her own thoughts, she did not attend to the fact. There was a happy restless- ness upon her: she was mentally repeating parts of a recent letter from Louis. She had it by heart; but, a word or two refusing to be recalled, she rose, and relighted the candle. She glanced down the page scrawled over in Louis's bold and heedless hand,- "I must not close before telling you I am just in receipt of another letter from M. Lillinor, whom I like so much! He writes that it is inexpedient for him to travel this season: so we shall not see him unless we go to America, which he hopes we will. Since meeting us, he has taken pains to make the ac- quaintance of our mother's only sister, who lives in his native town, and writes that she is 'very inter- esting,' but not half so ' charming' as our ' lovely mother!' (Palaver; and lie expects me to repeat it to her.) I should think not, my dear, begging my Aunt Russell's pardon. And then, my darling sister, he goes on to confess, that when he was calling upon Aunt Russell, and while speaking of us, - of you par- ticularly, - she showed him one of * your pictures like the last you had taken; and he had the effrontery to take it away with him. He ab- solutely would not give it up, and told Aunt Russell so;- and she, woman-fashion, put up with his impertinence, and permitted it. So he has your picture, my dear (I can imagine how very angry you are looking), and will, very likely, be sending you one of himself. Mind you burn it up! And, if you write me that you are annoyed, I will call him out 1 O Lucie souci, what do you think of it? Entre nous -but don't tell dear maman, or all the powder is soak- ed -he is the best fellow in the world; not a bit of a stilt, though he is an American and I had a thousand times rather have you be Madame Lucie Lillinor than Baroness Lucie de Changarnier von Neufstein! By George! my dear, a long handle to one's name don't signify in love, I should thinkl; not half so much as money; and M. Lillinor has that; though I bet you would have him without a sou, you brazen thing! But if Tyou -- Surely some one turned the handle of the door. Palpitating, Lucie turned her flushed and )eaming face, while she pushed the unfolded letter hastily back into the drawer. Watching, she perceived the handle was being very softly released. She was there in a moment, with the door opened. Some one was gliding down the passage. "Stay! Is it you, Coralie?" "' Yes, it is I; but, if mademoi- selle will excuse me, I am in haste." "What haste? Stay a moment, Coralie!" this decidedly; and the maid came back, but reluctantly.: She was completely dressed, and . exhibited signs 'of excitement, which did not escape Lucie's no- tice. "' Why are you so mysterious, 1 Coralie? And have you not been to i bed at all, that you are dressed?" "Oh, oui! mademoiselle, I have ( been to bed; that is - I have not I disroble--I have such headache! It has been so foolish of me to t leave my vinaigrette in the room 1 of Elise! Mais eef mademoiselle E will have le plaisir to reol-inquish d me;" with ill-concealed stress. s "Elise's room!" said Lucie g scrutinizingly. "You make a fi r strange detour for that purpose, y Coralie. You were at the door of e Pere Dou6y's room. Is he here?" a "Was I? vraiment, dear made- ; moiselle. It is my poor head." ih "And Elise's room is here, next t to my chamber, as you must know; F besides, Coralie," somewhat severe- ly, "though I am sorry for your B head, you do very wrong to risk , awaking mamma by leaving her I bed-chamber at such an hour: her health, as you know, is delicate in A the extreme." "Dear mademoiselle, I will go rback this moment, so still,--silence, , as one leetle mouse." She turned awsay hurriedly, for she had heard a stealthy step: 'so, also, had Lucie, who suffered her to escape, with a feint at yawning, saying carelessly, - "What! without your vinai- grette?" But she received no answer, nor expected one, knowing that Cora- he was just beyond the first angle in the passage, and that she was whispering with some one. Pres- ently they passed her door, which Lucie held closed, without permit- ting the catch to slip into its place. She had already put out the light. Coralie carried a candle; and sha- dow would best suit Lucie's pur- ,ipose. The door thus held re-open- ed soundlessly. Down the passage they went, Coralie whispering soft- ly but volubly, and Pere Dou6y's handsome head and broad shoul- ders bending slightly forward in sharp outline. They passed to- gether into the apartment assigned for the occupancy of the priest page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] during his occasional visits to the' chdteau, and which, from this cour- tesy of years, had long been des- ignated as Pdre Dou6y's cham- ber. Lucie's father was- a Papist; but her mother was' English, and an incorruptible Protestant. Pere Dou6y, who came and went but seldom during the first years of her, mother's widowhood, had been a frequent visitor of late, since her mother's health had so alarmingly failed. He had come and gone, unan- nounced, - a privileged hooded apparition, who filled Lucie with dread and mistrust, treating her ever with a notice, which, though it was courtly, was curiously, and, seemingly, studiously devoid of deference. He had been received privately by Madrame de Changarnier, with whom he held long conferences. Lucie, who sometimes met him coming from these, had more than once observed--before being her- self perceived- a dark determina- tion, a look both cold and angered; all lost in the impassible at sight of her, and had found her mother with an unabated dignity upon her, but dispirited and pale. Lucie had heard, or been told, that the Church was deeply dis- pleased to find, at M. de Changar- nier's death, that all his, magnifi- cent property was indisputably at his widow's command. But Pa- pacy is not the less powerful that it is patient, and bides its time. All these things rushed into Lu- cie's mind while she hastily as- sumed a morning-robe, and glidedl into the hall. She felt certain that an inimical and potent influence was brooding over her home. She feared she knew not what, and feared the more from want of knowledge. 'Her bare white feet scarce touched the floor, and left no sound as she flew through the long passage, and down the stairs, clinging to the baluster for an instant at the foot, her heart was boulndifg so. In a few "moments she reached her mother's apartment. The door resisted, being fastened from with- in, but was immediately opened by- Elise. "Mademoiselle!" cried her maid, in evident surprise and consterna- tion. "Ah, Dieu! but you may not come in." And tried to close the door. In that instant, Lucie saw her mother, half drooped upon some cushions, alive, but scarcely life- like. She put Elise aside, less with a light push than with a look and a high bearing that were irre- sistible. "You here, Elise! and mamma there!" With an instant's irresolute pause, Elise glanced about her, then sped away. "( Lock the doors, my child: I must have a few moments alone with you," said Madame de Chan- garnier in a feeble voice. With trembling fingers, Lucie obeyed, then, turning, said eagerly in her old, fond, childish way,-- "O mamma! What is it? what is all this?" "First you must be calm, my dear child! You have a -it does not answer -it is not well for you to be so shocked and so excited." "M amma, It am firm,--like stone, if you will. I am guarded: I know about the maladie du "Who has told you?" "No one. I learned it at the very time. O my dearest mamma, not such a look as that! It has been best; and it has never trou- bled me to know it --never. And, oh! tell me, - I have never asked Syou before,--but why is Pre Dou y here so much of late? And why to-night? And who has put you in this dreadful state? Elise and Coralie are both up and dressed: you have been ill; you look- worse, and it has been kept from me!" "There is. not an instant for these tears," tenderly said Madame de Changarnier. "I have much to: tell you in little. If I could speak but one word in answer to your i questions, that word should be I Papacy. Papacy is fanaticism; ( and fanaticism is absolute unscru- E pulousness, - my breath is short." I "Lean-upon me: so, mamma." l "It is easier. What a soft shoul- ] der my darling girl has " mur- o mured the invalid. "I should have c confided in you eventually, Lucie; ] but it seemed not yet necessary. I s dreaded to make you anxious: to- x night precipitates. The Church e knows I cannot long remain, and seeks to secure to itself all, --the y chdteau for a convent; and you, my children, to be cut off with a - r mere nominal annuity, scarcely any 3 thing." I "Robbery!" cried'Lucie. "Yes; and I have yielded noth- ing,' only in honor of your dear papa, who treated Pere Douby with great distinction; anudfor the sake of Louis's prospects, I have forborne giving offence when it could be avoided." a "And have submitted daily, al- most hourly, to the persecutions of P6re Dou6y." "He is but the agent of the Church "- "Et le diable! Mamma, I can- not' bear to think of it: they are killing you by inches." "No!" cried Madame de Chan- garnier earnestly. "Don't allow yourself to think that: it will avail nothing, and torture you need- lessly. - But I wish you to under- stand my position, and so more ex- actly your own position; ,-such as it is likely to be. Though I have been much annoyed, not until to- night has my liberty been inter- fered with. I did not wish to re- ceive Pre Dou6y at this hour,- so unseasonable, -- but yielded to his excessive urgency. I have dis- covered positively to-night -what I have long suspected - that Elise and Coralie are tools and spies in- directly in the pay of the Church. I more tlhan suspect," with a faint smile, " that they were selected./for- me, when I fancied I was myself engaging their services." "How do you know? - why do; you think all this?" "I will tell you. P6re Douf6y - this is only one of my late causes page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] for suspicion - pressed for an audi- ence on the pretext that he had im- portant communications to make concerning Louis. On being admit- ted, he openly insisted upon being put in possession of my private papers." I "O mamma!" "I refused him indignantly, and sent for you. I sent by Elise; and he forbade her in my presence. She obeyed him with an ungcrate- ful readiness. I then sent Coralie; and he likewise countermanded that order." "And Coralie?" "Impudently courtesied, and kept her place." "Dear mamma! And what did you do then?" "I fainted, I suppose. It was lmuch like it: I felt a str'ange whirl, and lost some moments which fol- 'lowed. I confess to you I feel much worse. You have been brave always; be so, my darling, until the last." "It is murder! O my God! it is downrigllt murder;" cried Lucie. "Madame, my daughter!"It is the priest's voice to be heard dis- tinctly at the door. "Begone!" cried Lucie impetu- ously; but she paused, listening to her mother's slow whisper. "Be quiet. They have probably been listening: they must not be angered. Papacy is not unscrupu- lousness only, it ispower," with an expression giving deep signifi- cance to her words. "Answer him!" "My mother hears -you, PNre Dou6y; " this after a moment, re- luctantly. "My daughter, it would be well that you should command Made- moiselle Lucie to admit me." Then Madame de Changarnier herself replied, -- "I am obliged to exclude you for a brief interval, when, if' able, I will again receive you." It was silent without. "I will never open the door!" whispered Lucie vehemently. "4 Yes, you will, my child. It is not fear which actuates mle, unless, indeed, for my children; but it is expedient to endure and conciliate. What more I have to say must be, said quickly. Draw nearer; for this must not be overheard. The papers which he desires are in the hands of Baron Von Neufstein. Noble man! He is not the less your friend and mine because you cannot be his wife. I wished yonur marriage with him for reasons con- cerning your safety -if your heart had %been inclined. I was fain to leave you in a good husband's pro- tection. But he will do all that a true friend-- He knows my wish- es, and will attend to every thing. If you are but discreet, you will have nothing to fear. I have mat- ed," with a sudden thrill of strength in the failing voice, " the priest's craft and determination with cool English sense and discre- tion, and a will as little flinching. Every thing has been secretly trans- acted, and awaits only the signature of my death. "My wish is, that you go to America. Louis will go also, I think. The chdteau, the estate, belongs to the baron ; the proceeds of the transfer are, or soon will be, inl the hands of an American house, you will be told. You will grieve to part from your homle; but it was the best, the only thing which could be done. Here, in posses- sion, you would' be in peril,--in varied, in formidable peril." "Don't lose one breath in ex- plaining your motives, in defend- ing, your actions to me, you 'poor, brave, pale mamma. As for the chalteau," with a smothered sob,- "what will it be to me, or to Louis, when you are not here?" "Dear child, you must' not grieve long: you will be happy, happier in America. There will be search for my papers to-night: it is already begun. I am here. upon these cushions, because he insisted upon an examination of my bed; and I hardly know what to apprehend from their disap- pointment." ' i "Oh, if Louis were only here!" was Lucie's despairing whisper. ] H-e will be: I have sent a message by Jean." f ' When?" "This evening, early. I felt I ( can hardly tell how, only most i strangely. I feared it might be death. I sent Jean for Louis." r "You did not tellime you thought a so. I would have remained with I you: you would then have had i. some one besides false servants I -4and a wicked priest." h "I thought to leave you a few t hours of repose; and it might not fi be necessary. I did not foresee o I, P6re Douey's visit. Lucie, are you s falling? What is this?" "O mother! it is dying: I see, , that it is so." "It feels like dying. It is not t painful: perhaps it will not be just i yet. I could wish to see Louis." "O mother! tell me, have I been i a comfort to you?" "Sweet child, yes, yes! you and Louis both, unspeakable." "Let me give you something. , Your cordial is almost within reach. , If you will loose my hand, darling * mother, for just a moment: it may not be death." "It is; but it is quite painless: do not stir." There Was a pause; then she leaned gently forward, and said aloud, in a hollow voice, "Unfasten the door, my child." Lucie staggered to do this sol- emn bidding; sank again upon the cushions; lifted her mother's head upon her bosom; gazed into the soft, dark eyes, which still had love in them. "Still without pain?" she whis- pered. "Yes; and almost there," with failing voice and fading smile. Coralie and Elise hovered offi- ciously around the group. The mutual gaze was unbroken. "My daughter, I have to com- municate that which requires the absence of Mademoiselle Lucie." He has not seen the face of the invalid: between it and him are Lucie's noble head and veiling hair. Madame de Changamier turned her face slightly inward: from her pale lips blood flowed over Lucie's bosom. There was a page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] prolonged, gentle sigh: all heard it. Once the idol of an old man's young heart. So died Lily de Changarnier, - in the midst of sad anxieties and touching desolation, -for whom, in her happy girl- hood, Alfred Hurst had suffered more than death. Lucie lifted her face: it was colorless, with a smile upon it: at which the maids crossed them- selves. Her eyes, which had a burning light, turned full upon P6re Douby. "Monsieur, you have to deal with her daughter. She is beyond you." The, heavy day was breaking. Lucie heard the sound of horse's hoofs, and stood, deathly pale, at the window, looking down the winding path by which Louis was expected. She was very quiet, thinking of their /mother -not as dead, but as released. She knew well that her mother's persecutions had been other and greater than she had revealed. She would not rehearse troubles and dangers which could only serve to harrow Lucie's mind unavailingly: but' the importance of the steps she had taken; the sale of the estate, which she must so naturally havedesired her chil- dren to enjoy; the solemnity and urgency of her advice and warning, --gave the discriminating girl a very near comprehension of the truth. As Louis came in sight, she could see, even at that distance, the filial dread upon his face. He saw Lucie, and spurred his reeking horse. When close by the pillars of the porte coche're, Pere Douey's dark figure emerged from the shadow of an angle. Was it that the horse plunged or stumbled? It might have mattered much that it should do either, at that speed, and close upon those massive steps; but Louis's haste made of it an ad- vantage. Hesprang to Lucie's side, and held her to his heart, with no heed for the grave greeting of the priest. The groom led the limping horse away in silence. "Sweet sister, is there no one here with you?" whispered Louis, as, still partially embraced, they walked with hesitating steps to- ward the chamber of death. "Grace Maylie will be here soon," with a steadiness that sur- prised him. ' "Brother, did you observe P6re Douey y?" iThey were at the chamber-door; and Louis, entering, made no an- swer. He leaned over the beloved, fair face: great sighs began to struggle in his breast. With her arm around his neck, Lucie whis- pered brokenly, - "She said - almost her last words - you were her uinspeak- able comfort." Then he broke down utterly: tears rained upon the features which, in their beautiful peace, were so unlike his pale despair. "Sweet words'! Sweet lips that spoke them! My mother, my mother!. O Lucie! we have lost all. And is it really so?' No word for me, not one, sweet moth- er? nor smile? - never again?" Inarticulate with grief, half stretched upon the silent form, he still cluing to and wrung his sister's hand. The knowledge of the per- secution which her mother had enduredl was like a wall of ice over the hot flood of grief in Lu- cie's heart; but she trembled in the waves of Louis's sorrow and sympathy. A yielding warmth swelled in her heart, and filled her eyes. PNre Douey entered the room; and she felt herself turned to stone again. "Forbear, Louis: dear Louis, we are not alone." "Let me entreat you to moder- ate the violence of your grief, my son." "My son I " cried Louis, starting up wildly: "let no one ever call me that again." "Your speech is intemperate; but much is to be overlooked. When you can demean yourself more calmly, I have matters of ilm- portance to commnunicate." E "Nothing," cried Louis, "is z importan t to me any more. Go, 1 will you: we are orphans; we want z to be alone." This passionately; for the cool E 'voice and business deportment of N the priest chafed his wounded soul. "DDuty is the orphan's first right. It is by her desire that I would d speak with you; at her instance' that I am to check you in the natural but weak desire to feed a your grief -in seclusion." "Brother; do not believe him! t Mamma gave no commission to him," cried unguarded Luoie; her a f' hand still in her brother's, her im- 3 passioned eyes fastened upon the 3 priest's immobile countenance. "Since you will not leave us," L exclaimed Louis, who, though he had not much heeded his sister's , words, had never liked PNre Dou- 5Ly, and liked him now intensely less, " at least, we will not wrangle here!" He kissed. Lucie twice, then flung out of the chamber, brush- ing Pcre Dou6y's saintly garments as he passed. The two left, re- mained looking at each other; and, being alone with Lucie, the priest withdrew his mask a little further. Into the lines and muscles of his face, like creatures loosed from a leash, rushed a dark throng of emotions. He was pale even to the lips in this deliberate bath of pas- sion. "Girl, have a care of your in- solence I " She was still, but not from fear: she was fighting with the courage and defiance she knew it would be well to check. He, pointed to a slender vase. "If I. press that in my thumb and finger, it will break. Be- ware of my thumb and finger I " "I would beware of you as of any thing evil I " "And as of any thing power- ful " "I am not in your power I " "Bold girl, bold fool rather I you know little of the size of the trap you are in, or of the sharp teeth it has." "You give the Church a fine alias, when you call it a trap. But page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] I am not in it: I am a Protestant. You have nothing to do with me." She felt her cheeks flush fierily. Her spirit rose revolting with every moment of his presence. She felt, that, if she remained long with this man, she should fling discretion to the winds. As for him, instead of gathering wrath, he smiled with strange meaning; and some of it was new to her, and crept into his looks with her rising color. "I have much to do with you, and you with me," stepping nearer, - " two or three questions to ask, which you will answer, if you value your own or your brother's wel- fare." "I cannot prevent your ques- tions: you cannot compel my an- swers. Your threats- I despise them!" "Do you know where are kept the late Madame de Changarnier's papers?" "I will not tell you." "I ask you where they are." "And I will not tell you." A pause. He came nearer, and gazed more peculiarly, and less guardedly still. In an indescriba- ble manner it conveyed irritation and insult. "You think yourself brave and powerful! I do not fear you. I have better strength and courage than yours, and better cause for them. I will tell you nothing, in- solent inquisitor!" 1"Any other pretty name to give me?" "And murderer!" Her nostrils dilated: and, even while a tender quiver of pain broke the firm line of her mouth, her un--- quailing eye lent force to the accu- sation. Pere Douey set one hand upon her shoulder with a grip that sank into her tender flesh. "Keep that tongue and that temper for the pleasant time when we shall settle our accounts," in a rapid, heavy whisper that was like a hot gasp in her face; " for that time will come. I have seen flesh as tender as this, and as much alive, picked from the bones it clung to, and found it pastime. You have been in my way, you are in my way, and are such a fool as not to know, in saying that, I but pronounce your doom. Heads as haughty as yours have been footstools for the feet of prests! You call hard names; and liXs as sweet and daring have sucke esi- lence in the dust!" "I am indeed young, Pere Dou- 4y, but neither the child nor fool for which you take me. I have read history: I know the horrors with which you basely threaten me have been, --and worse. I have been to Avignon! I know of the Chamber of Torture, of the dun- geons of the Inquisition! They are the names of dead evils. Their day is past. The time is gone when such violence, such inhulllan outrage, in the name of religion, can be enacted, - when even such, only less wicked, persecution as this saint endured from you can be with safety attempted." t"Foolish girl! I, who can bear pain, and look on pain unmoved, find myself still soft enough to pity your exceeding folly. Yet I ought not to be surprised, when the polity of our Church can lull wise heads of men into a false se- curity, that a girl's curled pate should not- withstand, 'holding only what is poured therein. You echo a popular sentiment, which we ourselves build up. The Inqui- sition dead! It is only more secret. I say not one idle word to you, and I spealk plainly, -for a pur- pose. Tell me of the papers, an- swer the questions I shall ask, alld I will neither molest you nor your brother. .Refuse at your peril!," He released her shoulder, and folded his arms, standingl in front of her, but a pace removed. She , was quite pale : it would be' diffi- cult to say whether his words had struck her with conviction, doubt, or fear. She attempted to pass hiln; but he put out an arm. "Your answer?" She shook her head in decided negation, waiting, half chilled, the expected outhurst. Instead of fury, the priest regarded her with a smile. "Be it so. You are not the first foolish woman who has lived; nor will you be the first who repents lher folly. AMademoiselle Lucie, you are very fair. Is there no young lover who has told you so?" The sudden change in his voice and manner appalled even Lucie's resolute heart. "Pere Dou6y, I will retire." "When you have kissed me, mademoiselle." Lucie retreated. "This," lay- ing her hand gently on the still. t breast of the dead; " should screen I me from violence, from insult." "Ay: as you told me last night, , she is beyond me:, you are not. I * will take the kiss." Lucie gazed at him in abhor- I reilce. "I am temperate, even in re- venge: I will ask but one now," significantly. He advanced; and Lucie stood palpitating, and at bay; when he turned, hearing his name. Coralie stood in the doorway. They ex- changed glances of intelligence; and Pelre Douey retired with Co- ralie. Lucie, left alone in the dese- crated chamber, sank almong the cushions of her mother's favorite couch, and Iburied herself in deep reflection as to her present and future course. She was convinced the priest's threats were not all idle; that danger threatened her- self and her brother: but, beyond this, she felt confused, uncertain, insecure. How long she remained thus lost in the bitter incoherence of her thoughts she never knew. She was roused by a loud outcry. She ran out quickly: Elise joined her, full of exclamation. But Lucie asked nothing, hurrying, as- by instinct, to the spot, where, on the pavement beneath the broad south- ern windows, lay Louis de Chan- garnier. He was. surrounded by the kitchen servants: faithful Jean was putting his hands beneath the bruised -head; and PNre Dou6y, authoritatively checking all action, was bending over the motionless form. After a few seconds he rose in grave silence. page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] "He is dead?" asked Lucie, who held the hands, already violet- tipped, in hers. "Yes, my child," said the priest, as in a voice of deep compassion. "He must have fallen from the castellated platform," turning to the servants. "Cook said something passed the window like a cloud or a blanket," said one of the men-ser- vants. "He must have gone out from mademoiselle's window: that opens on the platform," said Elise; who spoke, after exchanging swift, furtive glances with the priest. "He tore up the stairs like one crazed," said the same man-ser- vant. "And now, I remember, he took the direction of the made- moiselle,- of the young mistress's chamber." "It's grief that's killed him, poor young gentleman, - grief for dear, beautiful madame: so kind she was I and them two so fond!" sobbed the cook. Lucie had risen, but tottered so, that Jean, who was nearest, threw out anr arm respectfully to stay her. Jean had said nothing,: he was looking with strange earnest- ness at the young face on the pavement, with the life smitten out of its youth. The gardener, with the assist- ance of two others, bore the re- mains into the chdteau, under the direction of Pere Doudy, who dis- missed the other domestics with a wave of his powerful arm, and slowly entered the chdteau without looking behind him. 6 ' @ "Events hurry upon me!" sighed Lucie, who was stunned, but turned gropingly to follow. "Madame, dear mademoiselle, for God's sake, can you turn inlto the chapel with me for a moment?" said Jean. "Stop! What is that?." grasp- ing his arm. Screams from within the chUteau, reached them. "It is Coralie --in hysterics- well she may be," cried Jean. 1"O madame! make haste,-come, come!" But a few steps, and they turned into the shadowed aisle. ' Speak here, Jean," said Lucie winding her arms about a slender pillar, against which she pressed her tem- ples. "Mother is dead; Louis is dead: what more can there be?" "O madame, the most of all, and the worst of all! You heard them talking: the young master went up to your chamber. I was in the recess at the end of the gal- lery; and I saw him go, wringing his hands: and he went into your chamber; and he was that busy with his grief, he never closed the door. And, after a little, I saw Coralie go slipping to the door, and stand there, whist and sly, peeping in, and holding her breath like a cat. I had a mind to speak; but, on a sudden, she darted away, soft and swift as the wind. Then, while I stood a bit, thinking,-- not minding about it; for she always had them prying, flighty, twitch- ing ways, - the two came along." "Who?" cried Lucie, starting away from the pillar. "Coralie and the sneaking priest. Madame your mother had talked with me; and I knew a great deal of matters and things; and I knew what a priest was. T!hey'll do that they put their minds to, ma- demoiselle; and they'll do it more clean and sure, and more secret, than any other kind of knave." O Jean, be quick!' "I'm coming to it. Being as I was, in shadow, and they were so busy fibblin-fabblin, they didn't see me; and so I followed them. They just peeped and listened at the door, and then went in and shut it softly." Lucie clasped the pillar once more,--an image of supreme sus- pense. "And then I listened, and I heard them talking; but not a word could I catch till they drew near the door. And I thought I was caught; but they stopped just short of it, and I heard him say, ' It's but the work of a moment: the occasion is made to our hand.' She mut- tered something; but she was sob- bing-like, and I couldn't make it out. And he seemed hushing her, and spoke lower himself: so I only got a few words, about 'the Church commanding,' and ' absoo- lution.' Then I suspected there was some bad mischief meant; and for a moment my head whirled itlh the thought of it. But when I recovered, and had my hand on the door, out she flew with a great scream that rang through all the place. He was muttering N her, and holding her dress, as she would I have broken away. As they went i opposite to me, and were so full of I their own doings, they didn't see I me, though I was rooted to the r spot. I could not have moved an inch to save my life while they two were in sight. At last he said something that hushed her, and let her go down a side-passage, and turned into his own room without once looking around. I ran down; and, by that, every one was out upon the pavement where he lay. O my dear young mistress I they pushed him off, or startled him: they, between 'em, did it, somehow. They want the land, the money, every thing; and they will have it. These are evil days, and "- A shadow fell along the aisle, midway between them and the altar.- It had entered from the little oratorio in the rear. Lucie, observing this shadow, looked up slowly to the substance, and beheld PNre Dou6y fixedly regarding them. It did not move her: beyond a certain limit, shocks cannot be mul- tiplied. Unto these three --dumb and statued, as if they were but lifelike portions of the sculpture of the place - Elise appeared. "O mademoiselle! - rmadam, I mean,--I have been searching for you everywhere. They are ran- sacking the chateau; and cook is sure you have gone and drowned yourself. Monsieur le docteur is here; the beautiful Demoiselle Maylie is dying of grief about you; and Baron Von Neufstein" - she stopped abruptly, perceiving PNre Douey. "Your pardon, holy father." page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] Lucie heard. The names of friends penetrated her desolation, " and did what accumulated woes c could not. She sank without a I word, helplessly, at Jean's feet. s For hours and hours, that pass with si the lagging step of years, there v are Grace Maylie's loving arms around her, Grace'1i Maylie's bosom n beneath her throbbing head, Grace a Maylie's hands upon her laboring o heart. Sympathy and suffering, y each unalloyed. a t ,' Beloved mademoiselle, I have influence and power ; but they can 1 only serve you in rapid action. You must go to America. If you remain here, it must be as mistress E of the chdteau. I should feel bound i to undo the work of your moth- I er, and re-instate you. You would \ then be subject to annoyances, 1 to conflicts and trials unsuited: to your tender years, your in- experience, to a pertinacity inimi- cal to your peace. Every arrange- lment is made with madame your aunt; your passage is spoken. your attendants are ready.,- I have been able to obey your mother in every particular. You seem to wish to go ; and yet, my child, it is evident to me you seek delay.;' Then Lucie related the fearful revelation made by Jean. The baron listened in astonishment and doubt. He was old and tole- rant; and living in it, breathing in it, was tainted with that deep in- credulity which always dwells close to established error. His doubt spoke in the question, - "Where is Jean?" "God knows 1 " sighed Lucie. "PNre Douey overheard us in the chapel! I was taken ill, you know. I cannot make out that any one has seen or heard any thing of Jean since. Doubtless he' is another victim." "Your sorroyv misleads you, dear mademoiselle. Old servants are apt to be garrulous, and are fond of excitements. He wrought upon your already sorely-distressed im- agination, and then fled in alarm at the consequences.' "Ah, that is because you do not know Jean!" said Lucie. i Have you questioned Coralie? ' "Corahe was taken away in strong hysterics. The doctor ad- vised change of scene; said she was one of the extra-excitable and superstitious class. Guilt was the matter, I firmly believe; and I have no doubt"-- i' So far from agreeing with you in your unfortunate suspicions, my dear child, I cannot think there has been any crime connected with your calamities. I know that your estate is coveted bly the Church, and rthat it would compass its wishes by every fair means, - perhaps by ; some that would not seemr to us so perfectly legitimate; and that such I a state of things must often be an n annoyance amounting to a sort of t persecution. It is a mistakel - zeal, which we -ought not to per- a mit ourselves to judge too se- - verely, but from which obedience e to your mother's wishes will re- t move you." Lucy looked at him earnestly a moment in silence, and then re- peated the particulars of her moth- er's last hours, and of her own soli- tary interview with Pgre Dou6y subsequently. Shockedand-grieved, the good old man replied, - "If such things are true, and I cannot doubt you, my poor child, how much you have, had to endure! But haste is now your absolute necessity. Nothing whatever can be done about Louis's death; noth- ing could be done with Coralie; Jean is not likely to b6 found. There must be personal animosity, private cupidity, at the bottom of this. I cannot believe the Church ,as cognizant of or sanctioning the conduct of P8re Doudy; but he is an enemy you cannot afford to de- spise. I will assist you to the limit of my power; and so," more slowly and sadly, "I put from me the hope and the dream that have long made a lonely old man's life sweet. When you have made your home in a foreign land,--God make it a bright and happy one!--let it be pleasant to you sometimes to remember how an old man could love." The waves of the sea, - shining in the sun, in the moon, lost in fog, and washing the shores of of 'America. Thus the fugitive orphan re- members the voyage from the Old World to the New. page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] PART THRD. THE WEDDING-GIFT. -THE ASYUM. For one shall grasp, and one resign; One drink life's rue, and one its wine: i And God shall make the balance good. J. G. WHTTIER. ] /\ UNT NELLY," softly I "A whispered at the chamber- door. "Come in, love: I'mnot asleep." "( Why, aunt! Not in bed yet? I hope you've not staid up" - "It's just as well, Lucie. I waited for you; but I preferred it. It has not been long to me. It will be very much longer when you are quite gone, dear." Mrs. Russell's hair, sandy when she was young, is white now, and has a lustre it did not own in youth. Her face, too, is fairer, and the freckles less distinct: in- deed, no one who had known her as Nelly Hathwin would have im- agined for her so comely a middle age. And with years and fulness of inward experience has come a certain fluency of speech, a possi- bility of expression for thought and feeling, which enables her to do more justice to the soul within her, changing and softening her 82 manners into a quiet grace and harmony of which her girlhood gave no promise. "It will only be for a little while, you know," said Lucie. "You'll have just about time enough to get nicely rested before we come back. Does it seem to you, aunt, as if I was to be married in the morn- ing?" "Yes. I have had a dream while I have been sitting here, that makes it seem quite real. You and Paul sat near the window, just beneath; did you not? I did not hear a word you said, but I could hearyour voices; and there came to me two other voices,--ghosts of voices, Lucie, - that I heard years and years ago." "I like your dream," said Lucie , softly, with hushed manner, flow- ing into her aunt's mood. "Tell r it all to me. Whose voices did - you hear?" "They were the voices of young s lovers, like you and Paul. And L presently I saw you come out into - the moonlight in the garden; and t Paul plucked a rose, and kissed it, and held it to your lips; and you i took it, and placed it in your r bosom." Lucie drooped her head so that her chin just touched the white petals. " I thought you were in bed," she said, but not as one dis- pleased. 4"And, as I looked at you and Paul, I saw two other figures come out from the roof-shadow, and, in the soft light of a harvest-moon, walk up and down an English lawn together." "An English lawn I " said Lucie, with a quickness in her voice. "And these two were walking miles and miles away from you and Paul; and yet you two seemed far and dim, and they seemed near. I saw them stop, and stand em- braced, while the roof-shadow grew longer in the waning moon. And then I heard Paul's voice,--it sounded far away, -' Good-night,' and yours,' Good-night, dear Paul:' but still I saw these other two, not you and Paul, come glidincg back into the roof-shadow ; and then the shadow and the English lawn were just our garden-path, and you were standling in it all alone." "It was papa and mamma," said Lucie, pleased and touched with the graphic memory of her aunt. "Yes: it was Lily and Louis! I lhave almost the same as seen theml in my thoughts to-night; and it malrkes it seem very much as though you would be married in the morn- ing, dear." "It seems very solemn to me, without father or mother, in a strange land; and I am so young. But I do not feel afraid," fold- incg her hands over her bosom. "I have a feeling that Paul will take good care of me; that I shall never feel alone. And, aunt, let me just say, to-night, while we are here to- gether, - and it seems a sort of an- swer to your dream, - how much I feel your love and kindness. It has made me - not forget my mother; but it has kept me from feeling the loss as " - "Lucie," in a voice rich with feeling, " don't thank me, dear.- I understand; and it is all right and sweet between us. There is no ,debt, certainly not, from you to me. But let me ask you a question, - and you will answer frankly, - has it been no surprise, no pain to you, that, among all the bridal- presents of these few weeks past, there have been none from me?" "Yes; I have been surprised, but no pain, not a shadow. I needed nothing of the kind; and all the presents in the world 'could not make me more certain of-- of what you will not let me thank you for." "I had a reason, a wish,--a strange one, perhaps, but very strong with me. I have a gift for you, a little thing, -a trinket for any value in itself, - but more to me than aught or all else that is mine. I wished to give you this only, at this time: there will be other times for costher gifts." She held the quaint locket which she had taken years before from the dead breast of Alfred Hurst. "I am not well, you know; and there cannot be so very long a time before me: and I wished that you should have this. I have worn it for, years. You may not care to wear it; it is not elegant: but you I I page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] will keep it for my sake, I am cer- r tain." I "W Whose hair?" said Lucie, in a voice that showed her heart was full. "f Let me fasten it about your' neck, dear. Wear it this night, and afterward regard only your own wish in the matter. The golden curl is your own dear mother's hair. The soft gray. lock is that of a man, - a very noble man," a sweet strength in the voice, though it shook a little, -" who loved her with his whole soul. To- night I have added a very little of my own: it lies beneath the other 'two: you would hardly discern it; but it is there." Lucie laid her' hand over the locket, lifting her eyes with a look that was better than thanks, as, if the gift, and the manner of the giving, had made it precious to her. The look and action won from hey aunt's heart what else might have renmained unspoken. "iMy dear, I will tell you the rest. I did not tell her, your dear mother: it would only have grieved her gentle heart. But I am will- ing, - I feel as if I would like to have you know; and it will not pass flrom you to ,any one." She paused an instant, lifting the lock- et from Lucie's breast. "This noble man whose gray hair is here - he loved your moth- er. No one that could have known all could lhave wondered at it: I did not. She was so sweet and beautiful herself, and fond of him, and with him' much. But she never knew he loved her so ; alnd he was good to her in a way she never knew: but I knew. He died; and she never knew he died with her in his heart. I knew, - and all the time I loved him." She laid back the locket, and took Lucie's hands. "No one'could love 1him, and then forget to love him." She wrung Lucie's hands, and let them go, and she was very pale; but for the rest, she was controlled and still, and soon the paleness passed. "That is all." She leaned and kissed the locket, and then Lucie tenderly on lip and cheek andt brow, as if she breathed a conse- cration in the lingerinpg caress. "Aunt Nelly is quite, quite content," she added, answering the gentle interest and compassion in Lucie's eyes. "See, it is almost morning. Good-night, clear, and God bless Paul Lillinor's wife!" The window of Mrs. Chauncey Lane's sitting-room opened upon the handsomest street in A--- ; only a narrow strip of rich lawn lying between. In this window, one pleasant June morning, sat Mrs. Chauncey Lane, a newly-married, oldish bride, very youthful in man- ner and dress, and her visitor, Aliss Jane Lillinor, spinster in every shade of her mental composition, fibre of her plhysical mechanism, and thread of her prim attire. iLook, Jane! There is your brother!" "Um!" said, or rather breathed, Miss Lillinor, slowly leaning for- ward. "And his sweet wife. How per- fectly lovely she is!" drawled Mrs. Lane, with an affectation of great softness and sensibility, the less no- ticeable from there being nothing natural and unstudied about her with which it could be contrasted. "i How long is it, since they were married?" Mrs. Lane knew perfectly well rwhen Paul Lillinor was married, having thought to be the bride her- self. Beyond her own wishes, she liad no occasion whatever for such an expectation, but being perse- verincg, hopeful, and obtuse, had certainly entertained it with rare relapses of doubt, not qnly after the advent in town of Lucie de Changanther, French orphan and leiress, -unto whom, as every one perceived, Paul Lillinor impet- uously gave his soul in keeping, - but up to the very date of the cards to the wedding-reception. Tlen, indeed, Harriet Graham gave up hope and pursuit, and, in hler first mortified surprise, betrayed something of her, disappointment to Paul's sister. Miss Lillinor, aturally open-minded and sincere, -yet much subjugated by certain notions of social caste, - divided between personal disrelish for Miss Graham and a high opinion of her social position,- was, in turn, sur- prised into a half-expression of quasi-sympathy for her friend. Ob- viously neither could desire to keep the topic warm; and now, as Mrs. Lane, - wife of a wealthy and hghly esteemed ex-member of Congress, -she who had been Miss Graham chose to ignore the - unsuccessful penchant of her past by carelessly lavish praise of her t fair rival, and the putting of that -very naive question to Miss Lilli- , nor. The latter drew herself up, r and looked hard at Mrs. Lane. Guided by a knowledge of this lit- a tie circumstance, Mrs. Lane thought it wise to look fixedly at the pretty 1 phaeton rolling toward them.' "Five years, Harriet," spoken - with severe conciseness. e "Dear me! An age! And I they say they are as much in love - as ever. I have heard that she I idolizes Paul." 3 "She likes him well enough." "And Paul worships her: so 3 people say." I "He likes her well enough. They ain't pagans!" "Oh, dear, no, Jane! What a , horrid word! No, one means that isort of thing. But I forget you have no patience with romance; L and a wife - that is, a bride - quite lives in romance. Every l thing seems so different, so sweet- ly cllangoed, since Chauncey and I became attached." "A-chuh!" breathed her com-- panion, so threateningly, that Mrs. Lane hastened to add adroitly, "But you, dear Jane, have imtel- lectual resources, and a strength of mind quite beyond poor me. Oh, what a lovely robe she has on! And they are looking at nothing in the world but one another, as if they were but this moment mar- ried." She tossed her handkerchief. The bit of lace-edged foam caught Paul's eye. page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] "Look, Lucie!" said Paul, "Har- ii riet and Jane! What occult attraction, impossible to guess, cements that very unaccountableji friendship?" c "Nothingc more mysterious than s habit, I imagine," was the reply c in a, slightly French accent, as his wife leaned forward to return the v salutations. Miss Lillinor, jerklinc her head, a and poking her long arm at them ( in angular imitation of Mrs. Lane's t airy manner, looked and smiledll most graciously. If there was any thing in the world profoundly ad-, I mired by Miss Lillinor, it was what she called intellect; if there was any I thintg of which she had no clear! opinions, no consecutive ideas, it! was intellect; if there was any, thing of which she did believe herself to be well endoyved, it was intellect. Mrs. Lane's re- mark had put heri in her best humor. The restless ponies, curbed for the moment, hastened on. It was hardly to be wondered at if Paul tvas very much in love with' his wife. She was fragile, with an exquisitely fair face, whose fine outlines and tints wore the hicgh dual charm of intelligence and ingenuousness. She reclined by his side in the low carriage, in a cloudy garb of a lavender tint, trimmed only with a delicate relief of lace. "You really wish, you think you are prepared, to go?" asked Paul, as they drew near a diver- gence of the street. ".,Quite prepared; and I do wish it much. If it should prove to be my Grace Maylie "- "Her identity with this poor insane girl could not give you any comfort, Lucie; and you see the superintendent informs you the case is deemed a hopeless one." "But, Paul, I want to know: I want certainty about it," said his wife, pressing her hand upon his arm. "If this poor girl be not my Grace, it will be of harm to no one that I should for one moment have seen her; and, if it is my Grace, how much I may be able to do for her! If you had known her, you would feel so much!--so differ- ently! She was such a good girl! and so pretty! They thought her so handsome, at the pensionnat they called her the jolie Anylaise. I have told you how she came to me when mother died. She was with me through that terrible day when I was made so suddenly alone in the worll." She paused a moment thoughtfully. "How loing aco it seems! and how far away, my 1 beautiful France!" 1 i "Lucie, you would lik to return I to France?" said Paul quickly., 3 "You are " "1 "Perfectly happy with you 1 anywhere,"' she said not only with y her lips, but with her serene eyes. a!"But you remember France, ;, you love the old home: you would f not be Lucie if you did not. And l our little Aimge, you would like k to see her flitting about in the d rooms and in the gardens of the r-' Chdteau de Changarnier." She caught her, breath with h sparkling eyes. "I love you, Paul!" "I don't see how I can help' it," replied Paul delightedly; " lbut whcie first, Queen of Hearts,-- France or the Asylum?" ' Lucie laughed gayly, shaking a quantity of golden hair. "I wonder if you mean it. Tell me Paul, seriously, will you - would you like to go?" "To speak truth, not to be out- donce by the Father of my Country, to avow myself candidly, to unbo- som myself of a dismal confession, I will go as you ask me; but I don't like, I abominate, asylums!" "Paul!" with a petuInitly play- ful movement, essentially feminine, "you know I mean France!" "You mean France? Then it will certainly be done; but you will have to polish me up a little in 'allonging and marshonging.' " And Paul, who never discovered a wish of his wife's that lhe did not seek to fulfil, revolved the matter in his mind, and put it through detailed review. Meantime, Lucie yielded to rev- ery, her chin resting upon the lace at her throat. Pictures of the past like dream-paintings, tones of now silent voices like dream- music, floated through her mus- ilgs. "My dear, I have it all planned," said Paul suddenly. Lucie lifted her head a little, be- wildered. "Lucie, you haven't spoken for the last half-hour." "I have been travelling." "And are not yet returned. Your eyes apparently do not see any thing on this continent. I've been driving out with a lay-figure." Lucie collected herself. "I am here now, Paul, and-looking at you. What have you planned?" "Early in the fall, say in a month or six weeks, we will go to France, - you and Aime and I." Lucie smiled; but there were tears in her eyes. "My own love, why do you look so sad? I thought you would have been pleased." "I am, and I shall be. Nothing would give me more pleasure: it is so good and kind of you to think of it!" "And yet you do not look glad, Lucie." "It will soon pass. I have been dreaming of old days. Sadness, you know, comes very close to some of our sweetest pleasures." "I understand you, my darling," said Paul, leaning a little in front of her. i"I could wish it were not so. You infect me with your tear- ful eyes. Sometimes, in the midst of my perfect joy in you, in the freest hour, I am shot through with a sudden, vivid thought of life without you, a fear unbidden and unbearable." "Are you, Paul? you need not," with a bright, sweet smile. "I am quite well. Look at me, how fat I am!" "Monstrous!" said Paul stoop- ing quickly. "Why, what " "I would kiss you if, the world- took fire the next moment," he said, and was as good as his word. "' A kiss is not quite so inflamma- page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] ble as that!" exclaimed Lucie as p soon as she could speak. it "Your cheeks confute you. a Here we are at the asylum," turn- ing his horses. a And if any one saw you do I that, Paul, they will think I am g bringing you here as a patient, and t that I am justified." ' i "I'll justify you again, my clear, if you wish," as they entered the i grounds. "What do you say to ^ that for a structure?" as they rolled up the drive towards the ] front entrance. i Lucie looked at it with grave 1 scrutiny. 1 "It looks very solid, and larger v than I thought; but it is very grim and bare: it is even more gaunt than the college." "Lucie, the stanch old blocks of Alma Mater would groan upon their mortared seams " - "Don't be grandiloquent, Paul; but confess, though it may be ar- chitecturally correct and practical, this is a very bleak and naked building." "It has a you'd-better-not-come- in, and you-sha'n't-get-out-if-you- do sort of an expression. But what better can you expect of a mad- house, my dear? Its 'external as- pect expresses very much of its real inner sentiments, I fancy; and there is at least no hypocrisy in that. The grounds are better,- large, and sufficiently inartificial." "Yes; and, belonging to any other institution, they would really be attractive." "Prejudice." " Association, rather. If only the patients might roam here at will, it would seem as if cure might be a natural sequence." 1"Yes, if insanity were a mild and tractable disorder,--more a harmless want of brains than a dan- gerous muddle of brains. Your thought is charitable, but in effect impracticable." "I realize that, or at least accept it, because I lack lknowledge to warrant a counter-assertion." Paul sprang out and fastened the ponies, then lifted Lucie to the ground. "We may be here some time," he said; " and I will have the ponies taken to the stable,'they are ,so restless about standing in harness." They entered the reception- room, and, sending cards by the maid, were almost immediately waited upon by the superintend- ent. "Are we to be put off with an * attendant, as visitors usually are, , or are we to have the pleasure of I your company?" asked Paul of the superintendent, as they passed into - the main hall. "Fortunately, I am just now at t leisure, and will go the rounds - with you ; but, if it will be no an- - noyance, I will take one of the s girls with me. She will attend to 1 the little details of unlocking and 1 relocking the doors, &c." "Oh! certainly," said Paul. "I suppose, Lucie, now you are here, y you will wish to look over the y place?" "There will be plenty of time before attending to the special ob- e ject of your visit," said the super- ilntendent, " as I understand one of the women is just at present oc- cupied with Grace Maylie." "I would prefer to look about a little," said Lucie rather hurried- ly. Shle had endured so many shocks, that she had lost faith in, and fear of, the sudden fatality of that maladie dn ceur wlich was so positively foretold; yet her heart was thulpipn g so oppressively, that in memllory of that warning, which, at least, she did not slight, she felt she would like to gain a little time. Paul drew her hand within his arm. "Mrs. Lillinor is a very deter- miined character," he said. "' Hith- erlto it has hardly been safe to mention insanity or an asylum in her hearing. The whole subject has been horrible to her; but now she develops full-grown intentions of quite a contrary nature." "Indeed?" said the superintend- ent, with an inquisitive side-glance at Lucie. Tle single word is put as a question sugg'estive of interest, bIut is also a refusal to commit him- self ig'orantly. "Yes," said Pautl; "I have no doubt she could pass examina- tion already on the subject of the asylum reyimne. You have been writing pretty notes between you; ald, now that you have her inside these- grim walls, you will doubt- less take care that she sees so much misery, that her tender heart, connivinug with her golden head, will plan such Lady Bountiful de- signs as will result in my financial ruin." "Not so bad as that; are we, Mrs. Lillinor?" said the superin- tendent, with two slow syllables of a laugh: " not so bad as that," set- ting his flaccid lips in what seemed a painful effort to keep them in place. He had a cleanly, slim person, and tolerable manners; but his proximity annoyed and op- pressed Lucie. While, under a strong sense of constraint, she was thinking what she would reply, or if she would reply at al}, her hus- band bridged the gap, - "The world is so full of queer- ness, and of the oddest, queerest kind of people, that, after all, I should suppose the puzzle would, often be to determine who are the insane." The superintendent produced two other slow pieces of a laurph. "Science, Mr. Lillinor, reduces all puzzles. The study of the vari- ous phases of mental malady is ex- cessively entertaining, and can, in its deductions, be reduced to mathematical certainty. It is- this is the music-room, or chapel, - what you please; organ, you see -it is a study that so emblraces,"- spreading his bony fingers, and bringing his hands together con vex- ly, - " all mental- a - metempsy- chosis, that mistakes are impossi- ble. Seats here for all the patients. Large windows, views in three di- rections; 'morning and evening prayers held here. What is it, madam? Do the patients enjoy music? Oh! immensely. It is a great sanitary auxiliary; many of them discover great talent at prayer. The institution depends largely upon the devotional and page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] aesthetic elements for the recovery ( of its patients." E He has so far taken the gauge c of his visitors as to perceive that 1 this would be the sort of thing to say. 'I "( They cannot, of course, be all convened?" asked Lucie. "1 Oh, no, madami! not at any one time; but all whose conduct or condition makes it possible. Yet all derive, at least, a partial benefit from the exercises held here; for the organ penetrates to all parts of the building." "Poor souls," sighed Lucie, pic- turing to herself the solitary cell, or the strong-room, where wild rav- ings are soothed or altogether stilled by the gentle spell of music. "I feel that I could play all day, and day after day, through, all mny life," turning to her husband, " if I knew it was dissipating the saddest, of all darkness." "That would not be well: it would not at all do," said the super- intendent, very literally; "though it is a most humane wish, madam: there mnust be discipline and- and system." "There must be method, not only in madness, but in dealing with mad- ness," broke in Paul. "' The Prince of Denmark was right, Lucie: there are more things in heaven and earth than you have dreamed of in your philosophy." After a little consideration, the superintendent decided that Paul was complimentary; and said, as he ushered them into the library, "Quite true, Mr. Lillinor, and very much to the point. Allow me to call your attention to a very hand- some complete edition of Shak- speare, in several volumes, - a gift to the institution ; and I have been surprised to see how eagerly 'it is 1read by a majority of the patients. This floor is apportioned to im- proved patients; though, contrary to our custom, owing to the present incompleteness of our building ac- commodations, there are one or two here, who, though indurable, are quite harmless,- medre vagarists; those who are nearly well, whom we hope soon to return to their friends, are upon the floor above."' Lucie turned the leaves of a magazine while the superintendent was speaking, and took a searching( though shy survey of the inmates of the room. Upon a lounge lay a long, thin man, who might not have looked wild, but that he was frightfully pale, and had an earnest- ness of expression, that, in action, would have been vehemence. The moment her glance fell upon him, she would have been glad to look away; but she did not. 1"That is a 'curious case," ob- served the superintendent, perceiv- ing the object of her attention; " a case peculiarly appealing to the sympathy of the female heart, Mr. Lillinor." That nightmare on the lounge?" saidl Paul; "it appeals powerfully to my legs. If it were not for Lucie, I should assert my I better part of valor,' and run all the way home." "Paul! the doctor will thinkl you have no heart. BuA he has the best that beats; he speaks , lightly to hide that he feels deeply. Do tell me more about i, sir." As she asked this question - so low, however, that it could nqt be overheard - the pale man, who. had not looked up or seemed to notice them, rose langucidly, and passed into the hall. Lucie breathed more freely. t"Well, it is a case of disappoint- ment in love; as genuine a case, madam, as ever fell under my no- tice. Not that the lady was unkind; but she, died "- 1"Which was about the unkind- est thing she could do, " murmured Paul. Lucie twisted a bit of his arm between her thumb and fin- ger. "He is now perfectly harmless, though at first he was passionate in tlhe extreme. It is, in fact, mono- mania,- curable, we hope. The lady to whom he was engaged, a really very lovely, estimable person, I am told, died very suddenly, just on the eve of their marriage; and, when he was informed of it, he was rav- ing immediately. If his excitable temperament had been understood, (nd a proper tact employed in com- munication of the sad tidings, such a catastrophe might have been avertedl; but these things are lit- tle understood outside the faculty. Insanity is often precipitated by the ignorance and indiscretion of the victim's friends, who mean thq very b)est - how is that?" - to thelmat- ron, who appeared in the doorway. "Excuse me ;" and he stepped aside for an instant. "I find. the institution rather long-winded," whispered Paul. "I think it is very interesting," said Lucie sweetly, but a little re- provingly. "Pray, examine my eyes," said Paul gravely. "How do I look?" Lucie stared. "Because, though, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I have never been in- sane, my dear,--I shouldn't won- der if incipient 'metempsychosis' --I believe that is the unpardon- able word,- "Oh, hush, Paul!" "--might be about to develop its latent characteristics. The time and occasion are made to hand,--a fact which Would not escape the strong sense of propri- ety, and the fitness of things, for which I am distinguished." Here Paul indulged in an absurd grimace, - apparently as initiatory practice, - made and ended with a surprising control of the facial muscles. Lucie laughed, which was what her husband wanted. The superintendent was returning. "There comes Limber-jaw," whispered Paul disrespectfully. "Now for the first paroxysm. I have a very curious sensation " - "Sorry to be called away; but Janet "--beckoning to the attend- ant who carried the keys - "will attend you durirng my brief ab- sence. Slight disturbance in the first ward." "In which case," murmured Paul, as the superintendent hast- ened away, "I will considerately postpone the ' little disturbance' I had purposed in this ward." "Do be serious!"Lucie man- aged to say, as they passed out of page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] the library into the long hall. At the very door, an old woman in a scant black dress, with a knot of gray hair fastened grotesquely at the top of her head, rose from a forml, and courtesied. Paull returnled the salute, not the least in mockery, though it had that look. ," Ah, sir! these are strange days," said the old lady, with an air and accent of great satisfaction, accoln- panied incongrurouslylby a glance of I aversion at the attendant. "Yes, madam," said Paul very readily, - " the most remarkable I lave known j' Janet, a little in advance, looked desirous of proceeding; perceiving lwhch, Lucie moved slowly down the hall, momently expecting Paul to rejoin. them. The old lady looked .after them with a very knowing twist upon her withered features, dropped a slow courtesy in evident burlesque, then, turning to Paul, moved nearer to the win- dow, and said with an air of great mystery, "You see, sir, a curious thing happened to me. Can you keep a secret, - a great secret?" eying Paul with an inquisitive shrewd- ness that quite dazzled him. Paul bowed. "Sir, you would never have guessed this place was a palace,- built 'for a palace! Now, would you?" "I certainly should not," Paul began; but, perceiving this reply was not quite what was expected, hastened to add, " but I have seen palaces not so large." "' Well, sir, I believe you. Not so large? HoI " with disdain. "I should think not! Well, this was intended for Marie Antoinette, or," Nwith momentary bewilderment, - "But, no, I am positive it was for Antoinette; and I was to be her maid, - her. first maid-in-waiting," smoothingT her apron with deep pride. "Don't go yet, sir," fancy- ing Paul was making off. "But they killed her instead," venting a spasm of little dabs upon his arm in a highly impressive manner, - "killed her: at least they every one of 'emn tell me she is dead. What do you think, sir?" again with the intent, suspicious shrewd- ness. "I haven't a doubt of it, madam. She, is dead unquestionably." "And buried?" with an air as if subtle importance attached to this query. "And buried; very completely; some time since." "Well -that's bad," musingly; then with volubility, " but you will remember, sir, this is a palace re- ally; though they call ita -a hos- pital, and they keep me here a prisoner! And they only let in light-headed folks, for fear I shall be discovered and rescued, you know. They are proud of me, sir, - proud of me. Don't you believe it?" with sharpness. "I have no reason to disbelieve it," said Paul quite sadly. This did not please the old lady. "I know it!" she exclaimed, raising her voice, "She " with a slight shove of her foot, curiously expressive of scorn, ---" she told me so. She said it was quite a grand thing to have Marie Antoinette's lady-in-waiting in the hospital; but I'd have to I wait' a good while, she said: that's her impudence, hateful thing! Hum-hum-choo- choo-hum," softly rocking herself to and fro on the window-seat. "It's a palace, you remember, and you'll never tell?" "No," said Paul, anxious to get away, but feeling a little difficulty about it, and glad to see that his wife and the, girl were coming back. page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] 6"Is that your wife?" demanded 1 the old lady. I t"Yes, madam, what " - "Pooh! Don't tell her," cried the poor old lady. . Bristling like a i grimalkin, and scowling at Janet, she courtesied abruptly, and turned ( away at their approach. "' Come down this way, Paul," said his wife. "I thought you would follow." "So I would if I had known how." "Visitors gets on the best to take little or no notice of the patients," observed Janet rather sourly. "But a lady, madam," replied Paul, staring with demure defer- ence' directly in the flat, shallow eyes of their attendant, - " it is not so easy to break away from a lady who manifestly wishes to detain you: at least I have not the kind of experience that makes it easy." At this instant, Lucie involunta- rily grasped his arm. The man whose appearance had riveted her attention in the library was pass- ing them, his hands folded behind himn, his melancholy eyes on va- cancy. "What is his name, - that pale man who just passed?" "Allan Dana, ma'am ; and quite a sad case he is: perhaps the super- inteident has told you?" "Yes, something of it." "He has an idea the lady he was going to have married is not dead at all. He thinks 'she's hidden away somewheres, purposely kept from him. He 'isn't the least trouble at all, and is quite the gen- tleman. This is the reception-par- lor, where the patients receive their friends," throwing open the door. Paul and Lucie entered a pleas-, ant, sparely-furnished room. Two chatting women, curled up vis-a-vis on a lounge near one window, regarded them askance briefly.; then continued their prattle in lowered voices. Paul glanced around, then leaned over his wife. "If any of these noble dames should address me as Louis XVI.," he whispered, " don't presume to contradict: I shall inevitably en- deavor to support the character.", Tlen, crossing the room to an un- occupied window, he placed him- self like a wax figure looking out. In a rocking-chair sat a young wolman, habited in a calico loose- dress. Her hair, which was dark and fine, by no means had the most made of it, but was put back in straight and compact fashion. With .each hand she grasped a side of the chair, which she rocked with a broken, rapid motion. Her parted lips emitted a low, sad moaring: her whole appearance was one of deep distress. 7 "Poor woman!" soely said- Lu- cie, stopping in front of her. "She! She's a deal of botler, ma'am," said Janet. "1 She never stops that noise day or night, unless she's sleepin'; and she makes it in her sleep mostly: it's the tiiesomest thing I ever knew." "She looks very unhappy: poor, L poor thing!" "Well, ma'am, I pitied her my- self in the beginnin'; but you can't please her no way. If any thing was a-hurtin' her, there would be -some reason in it." "; But you can't expect reason fromr a poor creature that is crazed!" "Law, ma'am, she's not so crazy but she could stop ,that moo-ooing all the timne; and every thing in the world's done for her too." "She looks very unhappy," re- peated Lucie. "It's enough to make her so, - the noise she keeps up: it wears the life of me. Why, ma'am, crazy folks are just like children: they need a spankin' now and then to keep 'eml straight, and make 'em mind their ways." "What is she saying?" Lucie had caught a word or two from the suffeirer, who did not appear in the least to notice them. "She's afraid of being put in a black hole, ma'am. She imagines she is in one most of the time." "I wish I could do something for her." "'Twould cure you of the wish, ift you could be with her for a while, ma'am!" Janet took hold of the poor creature's shoulder. 1"Can't ye stop that noise? Here's a lady and gentleman to hear ye--for shame!" Then, in a lower voice; but Lucie heard,* "Hold yer tongue, or ye shall be put in the black blole: d'ye hear?" "HHow can you speak so to her? It is cruel!" cried Lucie. "C)0 ma'am! it don't make a mite of difference: she don't mind any thin' that's said to her: it's like. f *A fact. ] ' water in a sieve." Janet stood aloof as she spoke, and looked ill pleased. At this moment the su- perintendent entered. "Ah, madam! so you have found her already? Sorry to have been detained. I did not suppose she would have been brought down quite so soon: is it the person?" Lucie looked from the superin- tendent to Paul, who had ap-- proached: her color fluctuated. "Is that?"-, :r ' Grace Maylie, madam? Yes.. I see it is not the person. I am distressed at your disappointment; but the description you gave "- "O sir!" exclaimed Lucie, with sighs that threatened to be sobs, "I am not disappointed: I am only relieved and- and surprised "-- "Her mind was fully made up to the discovery of an old friend in this poor woman," said Paul. "The age, name, and general de- scription, remarkably accorded. But she is not really in the least like Mrs. Lillinor's friend, - a very interesting young lady, of whom my wife lost sight about the time of our marriage. Come, Lucie, you look very tired, and your ob- ject is attained. Had we not bet- ter go?" Lucie stood irresolute, regarding Grace, who was not Grace, with a gaze of deep commiseration. She felt some touch of self-reproach at the relief a mere matter of identity conveyed, in the presence of a dis- tress it could not change or miti- gate. "Wait a moment, Paul; I would like to speak a kind word to her, page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] poor girl, if only for her name's sake." The two men withdrew a step, while Lucie bent down and gently tried to unclasp the thin, rigid fin- gers. There was a momentary re- sistance; but something in Lucie's face or voice caught and fixed the sad, roving eyes. She ceased rocking, and yielded her hand pas- sively. "Your name is Grace? I had a very dear fiiend of that name." Lucie was gently passing one soft hand over the cold one she held. Grace ceased moaning. "6 I do not live very far away. I could come and see you sometimes, if you would like it?" Grace looked very hard at her questioner, and with a distraught wistfulness that put a mist in Lu- cie's eyes. She was silent; and Grace began to rock and moan, but became attentive again at Lucie's voice, which said far more than her simple words. "I will bring you flowers, if you like them; and do you like music? Would you like a little music-box that would make it any time?" Grace looked down at Lucie's hand, and then up into Lucie's eyes, and smiled. It was but the beginning of a smile, soon fading out. She drew her hand away, and the rocling and moaning were taken up once more. "Madam," said the superintend- ent, as Lucie rose, " it may seem a Flight thing to you, but it is really an important discovery, that her attention should have been fastened for a moment. It is what we have hitherto tried to do in vain. It is evident to me that her thoughts were actually arrested, and their current for the moment changed. It is a most hopeful symptom; if you were to see her occasionally" - "I could not consent," interrupt- ed Paul very decidedly. "My wife's health is tolerably good; but her nerves are very sensitive, and her constitution fracgile." "Paul! the matter is, my nerves have nothing to spend themselves upon. Do let me hear what he has to say." "It is nothing, madam, as your husband objects; and I would not have suggested it, only for the very great interest you seemed to feel." '"But what is it, sir? Could I do her any good?" "Judging from the effect you were able to produce to-day, there might be every thing to hope for her recovery, from an occasional interview. You please her fancy ; and it is from a judicious humoring and controlling of their fancies that -but I do not at all wonder at Mr. Lillinor's unwillingness; and, indeed, after what he has said, I should dislike assuming even the light responsibility of consenting to such a thing." "I trust you will not think me. too particular, sir," said Paul; "but I could not at all entertain the idea for you, Lucie. Upon re- flection, you will agree with me, I am certain." "It seems a very slight thing to L do, and a very great result to be hoped," Lucie earnestly replied. "I feel, and never so strongly as now, that I lead an idle, unthinking life; and that is an. ungrateful life, Paul." "At least, we will not decide now: it grieves me to deny you any thiing," in a very low voice. "I know it, dear; and we will put the matter by for the present. I want nothing so much just now as to be at home acgain with you and Aime." She looked up with her brightest smile. To the clay of his death, Paul never forgot that smile. As they passed into the hall, Paul, who was lookingr inward at liis wife, jostled against Allan Dana, who at that instant was pa- cingi by the door. "Pray excuse me," Paul ex- claimed, then turned to adjust the light mantle upon Lucie's shoul- ders. The man paused, and looked up wearily, as in some grave acknowl- edgment of the apology. His black, hollow eyes fell on Lucie, and filled with, sudden flamne. Lucie was looking at her watch, and did not see his gaze; Janet had gone on before them; and the superintendent was awkwardly twistincg Up a tendril that drooped I too far from a hanging basket. I Daina passed his hand over his fore- { head, and went on; and the warn- 3 ing of that look escaped all eyes 1 that could have understood its - im- i port. He went but a few steps before i lihe turned, his whole aspect fear- 1 fully changed. His face and pos- E ture were much the same: head i 7 ' drooped, and hands linked behind him. But, instead of being lightly clasped, those hands were locked so that the joints and knuckles were whitened in the tension. His breath was short, his cheeks glow- ing, and his eyes were fixed on one figure of the three who moved be- fore him down the hall. To the left there was a very small room, used as a sewing-room by whoever was in attendance in that ward. It had no bed in it; only a light-stand, a chair or two, and a bird-cage. The door stood ajar; and, as it was against the rules to absolutely leave a room without locking the door, the superintendent passed it with a mere glance, supposing it to be occupied. "As I was saying, madam, the uses and abuses of amusement and recreation for the insane form a most curious and really engrossing study in themselves. There are scarcely ever any two patients who can be treated, denied, or indulged alike. You can easily imagipe how this one feature of the matter must complicate our duties." "Yes," said Paul; " and- if any one ever connects themselves of- ficially with an insane asylum from disinterested motives, it seems to me it must be from the really most unquestionably philan- thropic state of mind under the sun. I might stand it upon occa- sion, and for a reason; but it would irretrievably stupefy me to be in the midst of their gibberish?.nd grimaces day after day. Why, sir, if I but look at a distorted face, I page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] presently find myself imitating it 1 to the best of my ability; and where should I be in a month of' such involuntary practice?" ( At that moment, Lucie turned and z looked behind her. She stopped motionless, with one low cry that struck an instant horror to their hearts. She had only turned I to meet those flaming eyes, to fall into that grasp of steel. If she could have known it was love's madiness, mistaking her for its lost idol, her noble courage might not have so utterly forsaken her. He lifted her gently; but, to those who beheld it, he seemed to up- tear her from the floor. In a mo- ment he was in the, little sewing- 4 room, and had set his back against the door, with Lucie still pressed against his plunging heart. In. the next instant, Paul, as mad to look upon as Allan Dana, had set his shoulder against the door. The superintendent issued a few quick orders to the appalled Janet, who sped away to do his bidd ing. Then he seized Paul, and tried to force him from the door. Paul struck at him with fury when he felt his hands upon his arms. '"For God's sake, " he gasped, "help me to open this door. Lucie, I will be with you in one moment, darling!" and he sobbed inar- ticulately, still striving at the door. "Hear me, sir!'? cried the super- intendent: "- his strength is thrice yours; you cannot open the door alone, I have sent for assistance. You endanger her life by your persistence. If you would save her life, her life, - do you hear me? -you must be guided by me." Something of these words pen- etrated the unhappy husband's anguish. He desisted, shaking in every limb. "ILucie, Lucie! Why do'es she not answer me, sir? She is dead! He has had time to kill her a dozen times." "t No: she is only in a swoon; and you have every reason to be thankful, thankful for that. I have strong hopes to rescue her before consciousness returns; only you must help, and not hinder, as you are doing." This very sternly. Struggling with himself, Paul grew perfectly white. What shall I do? Help you! In God's name, give me something to do." "Mr. Lillinor," said the super- intendent very solemnly, "it is hard, I know; but you mzust be quiet, and endure with more calm- ness.: she will require your sup- port. Every thing that man can do shall be done, but you may not force a madman when he has the advantage; he must be pacified. Dana is usually very manageable: I have every hope for the best; only " (severely) " you must control yourself: your violence may give ine more than my hands full with these outside." As he ceased, the matron and *I Janet, accompanied by the assist- ant physician and two other men, came rapidly upon the scene of action. The latter were carrying : a set of portable steps. Paul's D eyes fell upon the new-comers with a look long to be remem- bered. "It is my wife in there, --my dear wife!' " he exclaimed, tears, of whllich he seemed unconscious, roll- ing- down his cheeks. He said not Ia word more, but covered his face, lealnillg argainst the wall. TThey s;w lhis shoulders rise and fall, in strong' silent convulsion, but dared offer nlo sympathy to grief and fear so overwhelming. The superintendent, quickly mounltingi the steps, tore out the ventilator over the door, it being fortunatelv of light materials, andi the gal thus made was sufficient to admit of!his introducing his head. IIt saw at a glance the position of things. Dana stood braced against the door: he had not relinquished Lucie, -\whose head had fallen back upoIn his arms. He was covering the fair cheek and throat, thus ex- c posed, withgentle but most ardent kisses. The superintendent began 1 to comprehend the case. f "Courage, man, courage!" h e a said to Paul,mwho cdidn't look up: f "1no harm is done, and none will 1 I)e attempted. It only requires t time and management." fl He explained the matter to the n assistant physician. They were in f doubt as to what course would be most expedient. Their numbers t] were sufficient to force the door, v wlich had no inside fastening be- ai yonrd the catch and the poor mad- i iman's back; but it was impossible to tell to what extreme he might v ble driven by such an attempt. tl The assistant physician was of the opinion that smooth measures a- would suffice, as he had always, noticed that Dana was particularly y susceptible of any conciliatory or f strailghtforward approach. "He will listen to reason, I think." "Do you go up and try," said the superintendent. The doctor immediately com- plied. When he had looked down into the little room, and scanned its unusual occupants: "Allan!" spo- T ken calmly and softly. When the name was repeated, ,r Allan looked up and laughed. I It would have been a happy, al- , most, a sane face, if there had not been such tumult in it. "Allan, you know me?" "J Ay, surely, Dr. Blair. See, I knew they lied; and now I've found her! ' "Whom have you found?" soothingly. "Nettie, Nettie, my own dar- ling girl, who was stolen and kept from me; " and he looked very dark again. ;' I wouldn't harm her, not for worlds ; but, if they try to get her away, you may tell them, doc- tor, I'll set my teeth in her sweet flesh, and suck her true heart into mine." He dropped his menacing face slowly. "Is that your Nettie?"-asked the doctor in quite a bold, pleasant voice. "I should like to make her acquaintance, of all things in the world." Allan looked up at him keenly, very keenly; and the doctor bore the scrutiny with a genial smile. "Allan, did I ever tell you a lie?" "No, indeed, doctor, not you." page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] "Wmell, then, I do want to see' a your Nettie : will you let me in?" hi Allan looked troubled, then sly. p "No, you don't! They want to t get her away again; that's what n you're at: no, you don't!" h "t Allan, if you let me in, no one shall come with me; and I will not t; lay a finger on her without your will. You may trust me. I never p deceived you, and I will not now." a "* Come on then," after a pause. q The doctor glided down the stairs, U "Let no one stir to follow me. r Whe:na I raise my voice very loud, ' then enter." This in a rapid, im- f perative whisper. The door was opened slowly and grudgcingly, and reclosed the ] instant the doctor's entrance was s effectled. "What were you whispering - about?" asked Dana suspiciously: "I heard whispering." "]Is that your Nettie?"as in eadger admiration. "Why, Allan, she is very pretty, --rather pale though, isn't she?" "And she has not spoken yet," said Allan, with some disturbance; "but I think it's the surprise and joy. She'll speak, presently; won't you, darling? Doctor, why do they want to get her away from me?" "If they really did wish to, it would be very cruel," replied the doctor; " there has been some mistake: but, Allan, you will not need to be violent, whatever hap- pens; for I will stand by you, and help you keep what belongs to you." t' Will you, doctor? Well, that's what I call being a good fellow,- an out-and-out good fellow." As his eye fell again upon Lucie, a puzzled look grew in his face. t"Somehow she doesn't look just natural, not just like herself in her sleep." "What is the color of your Net- tie's hair, Allan?" "Brown, almost black," was the prompt reply, gazing very earnestly at the doctor; "and she had a queenly look: if ,she would wake up, you should see, - tall, al- most as tall. as I am," proudly. The doctor had an honest, manly face, and at this moment it was gentle as a woman's. "Allan, am I your friend, or not? Look at me closely, and see if I speak the truth or not. I tell you solemnly I will speak only the truth, - no false word. That is a little and fragile form, not queenly, that lies upon your bosom; that is light, i yellow hair that falls over your , arm; it is not black, -look, Al- lan!"But Allan did not once look down at what he held. He looked ' at the doctor steadfastly. . A light ; and a hope and a great joy died i out of his face as he gazed. A t trembling seized him, and his arms y relaxed in their embrace. He leaned forward as if he could no it longer support his own weight. e "NIoble fellow!" said the doo- e tor in a loud voice, receiving the At light burden from Allan's failing )- arms. d The doctor passed her quickly ;o into the arms of the superintend- ent, who had entered followed by 's others. The doctor did not take his, eye from Allan, who leaned heavily against the wall, as one lost. Lu- cie's mantle and part of her hair obscured her face. "4 Get her awav at once, and him" he said, referring to Paul: II my influence, which is beyond my hope, may not last a moment." 'The superintendent flew down tlhe hall with Lucie; the matron followed, dragging Paul, who seemed unable at first to compre- hend that his wife was rescued un- harmed, and that haste was yet necessary. They entered the parlor below just as the superintendent was ris- ing from Lucie's prostrate formn. He had laid her upon a sofa, and hald put back the mantle and the beautiful hair. He had examinedt the pulse, and had listened at the heart. That gentle heart was still. The disease which had witlistood the shocks of grief and love had yielded to the sharp and instant spasm of fear. He took a step or two toward Paul, and then he stopped; he was. at a loss how to communicate that rlich to the husband would seem incommunicable. Paul looked at him, then passed and knelt by Lucie; HeI took her hand, and touched her forehead. "Cold!" he said in a very low voice ; then hle gathered her gently in his arms, and sat down, tottering as he did so. He looked at the matron and at the superintendent; he pulled at his throat once or twice. "Get-something--to take us home.- will you?" he said; then he looked down and spoke no more. Not his own with the gay horses, but a close carriage belonging to the establishment, was brought around to the door. When it was announced, the doctor, who had but just left poor Allan Dana, offered to take Lucie, or to assist; but Paul strode by hiln through the hall alone, more ut- terly alone for what he carried in his arms. He entered the carriage, followed by Dr. Blair. He was silent all the way to his broken home; and the doctor made no at- tempt to force his unnatural calm. The news had been sent before them, and the town already knew it. Alighting, the doctor threw openl the gate, and Paul passed as one who would walk through or over any thing, substance as readily as shadow. He went up the steps; on the top one stood little Aim4e, a 'lovely child, dimpled, flushed, and beaming with welcome., For some reason, no one had told the little one. "Is that mamima? What have you got, papa?" As for Paul, when lhe saw her, he stopped -he had not once thought of her-stone still for a moment, then staggered and trem- bled. The doctor reached for Lu- cie's silent form ; Paul yielded her with a great sob, and caught up Aimre. He shut himself into a room with her. The doctor gave his burden to womanly care, and stood listening at the door. At first there were cries and sobs - the man's and the child's - pitiful to' hear; then subdued moans; and these checked, as if page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] listening to the child's soft, broken' prattling, mixed with long childish sighs. Turning away slowly, Dr. Blair entered the room where Lucy now lay, still in her lavender dress, fit- ting exquisitely the shapely, breath- less figure. The dress was a recent gift from Paul, worn for the first time; how little could either of them have imagined it would have been the last! How unwittingly, with what light and happy, hope- ful thoughts, Paul had chosen, and purchased his darling's shroud! The servants were in the room, weeping about her, grieving and praising her in that broken, un- studied speech that'is always so eloquent, beihig so sincere. Paul's sister sat looking on, weeping si- lently, quite shaken out of all her little formal airs and stilted, prag- matic ways. " I 011! how was it, doctor?" she asked hoarsely, as he came in. "Poor Dana was entirely blame- less," said Dr. Blair in a low voice, after relating the particulars: " un- fortmunately for her, there must have been somlething in look or voice or manners, or very probably in her gait, that called- up the image of one he had loved so deeply. It was a fatal, fatal frenzy, that might have been so harmless; but it could not be foreseen. God knows, we all regret it scarely more unavail- ingly than deeply." "Poor, dear, sweet thing!" whimpered Mrs. Chauncey Lanej coming out of the corner of a sofa. "O doctor! can it be? It is not more than an hour or two since that sweet, beautiful creature was bowing and smiling at me from her pretty phaeton. O Jane! you know I spoke of how lovely she looked in that sweet robe,; poor thing! and to be fi'ightened to death, - ho-w dreadful!?' "Frightened to death!" echoedl the doctor : " that is the very sadc truth, madam ;, but let Ime entreat; you will not put it quite in thatl way, not in the hearing of her near mourners. " He turned toward the pale, quiet object of all this misery. L"How very fair she is!" he 1mur- mured: "I am more gladc than I call say, that her face wears no expres- sion of the great shock that there was every reason to fear would( be ineffaceably imprinted. All is peace here. Her moment of pain was short: let that be your com- fort." He touched reverently the white forehead and the golden hair. "Her fine brow is unruffled: here is neither trouble nor sorrow nor care," he murmured, as if to himself; " so beautiful, so young, to be done with the world. She was very much beloved, I have heard." "O sir!" sobbed Jane, "in- deed she was. Thoughtful and patient and sweet, I know; for I crossed her many a time, but never had an ill word nor a lofty look. Who could help loving her? I couldn't, though I tried, at first, thinking she was but a child, and had bewitched Paul; but, though she looked to be a child, sweet dar- ling! she knew more than many a head that's gray, and did more with those soft, pretty bits of hands, - more that was loving and good and useful"- Jane broke down, burying her face in her handkerchief. "I don't know as it- will be pleasing to you; but it seems to me I should find comfort in it under the same circumstances," said the doctor, after a pause. "At all events, I will tell you, all this sad- ness has resulted wholly in good for poor Allan Dana. I left him (quite rational, though only vaguely understanding what had happened. There may be intervals of the re- turn of his malady; but I think he will recover fully, - in time, of course." Mrs. Lane dropped her babyish underlip, and stared at the doctor. "How very interesting and sin- gular! I never heard any thing so melancholy and so romantic." "Do be still, Harriet: I can't bear it! I'm sure, doctor, I don't wish the man any ill ;,but I can't look at her, and care for his getting any be'tter, --it costs too much: and, oh, doctor! what shall I do with Paul? He loved her so, he held his own soul to be a less thing than she. I had just one glimpse of his face coming up the walk?' "You can only let him alone," said the doctor, gently and compas- sionately. "But you may thank God for the child. All that can be done for him, the little one will do." page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] PART , FOURTH. FATHER AND DAUGHTER. Death i thou art welcome to the husk Wherein thine empty triumph lies; Grave I thou art but the moment's dusk, Dispelled by the eternal skies. P EOPLE said a great deal about Paul Lillinor's loss, and spec- ulated much upon his grief. The beauty and youth of Lucie; the rare grace of her character, which had been more felt than understood; then unusual manner of her death, in connection with certain vague detached accounts of her early his- tory, seeming, as if a French ro- mance stepping from its pages had written " finis " tragically in their midst; the beauty of little Aime -with its indescribable, yet marked, unlikeness to that of other children; the wealth and position of the young widower, - these all con- spired to prolong the interest uni- versally felt in the event. As a matter of course, Gossip revelled decorously, but devour- ingly. Who has not noticed her funereal propriety, how absolute it is! Prima donna of the difficult gamut of the affections! by what unexceptionable gradations she sounds the heavy bass of sympa- 104 thy; the slow chromatic notes of consolation; the still, ascending tones of admonition, suggestive insinuation, and increasing cheer, - until she trills away, with inimi- table verve, among the high half- notes of lively speculation. At weddings she is festal, though with a pensive moderation, as if remembering the vanity, of all earthly hopes, and the fleeting nature of all earthly joys. In social scandal, she is the incarnation and the mouth-piece of, modesty attacked, virtue and truth outraged! She is loud, as such noble qualities naturally are. But a ripe grief, that may not be controlled, a new-made grave, leaving a gap in some wounded hearts far wider than it makes in mother earth,- though often and often filled almost as soon, as ea- sily, as paltrily, - these are her specialities. She has also a famous way of settling family difficulties and com- plications, particularly such as are brought about by death. Let us then, reader, sit down at her feet and hearken:- "I should not in the least won- der if he died of grief, poor man! Such a heavy blow, and so sudden, and such a dreadful way for her to die! and they say he is quite bro- ken down. Chlos carried him oys- ters-to-day noon, cooked beauti- fully. I was there, and it was revivin' just to smell 'em; and he couldn't touch one, poor soul: no doubt he has his fears for her eter- nal happiness, - ushered without a moment's warning into the pres- ence of her Maker! And such a young giddy thing too, how awful, to be sure!" "But, Gossip, though you' take your posthumous gauge of char- acter with keen fidelity, I must admit, do you mean to intimate, that God, the loving Fatheri-has some special awfulness in store for 'young and giddy' souls ,whom chance or Fate, obedient however to his holy will, you say, pitch into his immediate presence?" But Gossip went on, without mind- ing us at all,- "She was French, you know, and a prettyish, lively, good-natured little thing; but then, we all know what triflincg, vain, immoral, at- loose-ends sort of folks the French are, -quite scandalous really, and so impetuous and unreasonable, you know! They say she would go to the asylum, although Mr. Lillinor was very much opposed, as if he had a presentiment, --people do have them, you know; but go she would, and so came by her death, poor thing!" "Really, madam, is not this a little hard? People do go to such places, and do good in going. If we. should ever be so unfortunate -as to have relatives become insane, what would be the result if "- "How very unreasonable and absurd you are!" quoth Gossip startlingly; " of course I don't mean that sort of thing. If by any dis- pensation of Providence, to which, as Christians, we ought to submit, our relatives or friends become in- sane, of course we myust go to see them ;but that's not the question. A wife should obey her husband: she gets into hot water if she don't. To be sure, she may do what she can to influence him too her way of thinking ; but, having tried and failed in that, she should yield, -yielding is not only a wife's duty, but her privilege." "O Gossip! what a wife you would have made! But are you sure you are correct? I think there was no contest of will in the mat- ter." "You think! well, - that's too good I I believe, my dear sir, that my authority is quite correct. It is very generally conceded to be so. B. told me that C. told her that D. told C. that A. told D. that Ja- net something--the girl at the asylum,-heard Mr. Lillinor re- proving his wife for her obstinacy." Here Gossip swept me with a glance that seemed very overpow- eringly to add, "What can you say to that?" But as I was not through with it, but floundering somewhere hopelessly between A. and. C. and D., I didn't try to say any thing. So Gossip, satisfied and smiling, hurried on. "I am very, very sorry for him: I don't believe any one can feel for page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] him more than I do," wiping her I eyes. "But it all comes of his going E out of his way, and turning his r back on all his old friends, to l marry that little French chit of a 1 thing. They are not like anybody else; and they can't act like any- body else; and it's my belief they can't die like other folks." "But she lad an English moth- er; and her aunt, - your neighbor Russell "- "That's all very well; but her aunt isn't her niece, I should say. And her mother went to France if she was English ; and I guess, when people go to France to live, they do as the Romans do," triumphant- ly. "I never saw any thing very much out of the Way in her, I'm sure; only that she didn't, stay in France, where she belonged, and where she might have lived for- ever, or at least as long as any- body need to; and then Paul would have married from among the nice, sensible girls he has known all his life." (Gossip has. known him all her life! ) "But he'll marry, of course, some time, and very soon, it's likely: young men always do. But what's to be done with that poor child in the mean time I'm siure it's hard telling. She's a mere baby; only four years old!" Gossip considers this matter with a sense of heavy responsibility. "If it was a boy, he'd get on well enough (boys always tumble up somehow ) ; but, being a girl, it's out of the question. What does a man know about a girl?" ( O perspicacious Gossip!) "She must have a matron, or a housekeeper, or a governess, else she'll grow up a perfect tom-boy; and he would never see it. Girls make witchwork with their fa- thers." "Her Aunt Russell," we just venture to hint, when Gossip takes us up with a sniff that puts us out entirely. "Aunt Russell, indeed! wasting away in that great house alone! She'll follow her niece very soon; poor old thing!" Life is a book which each must translate for himself, and which none cmay read by the translation of another. Paul Lillinor was thirty years old. The volume of life had come into his hands gilt-edged, gold- clasped, and richly bound. He had himself unclasped it, and looked, perhaps, upon the titlepage. Love, lightly fluttering its first chapters, dipping her glowing fin- gers in the rainbow tints of hope, had written promises. Now, Sor- ,. row leaned upon him heavily, hold- ing the book broad open, and writ- , ing where the vellum was color- : less and gray, death, separation, 3 desolation, -heads of chapters, L which, in the inappeasable hunger I of the heart, Paul must read, and r read alone, and read continually. s He grieved for his wife not as T men generally grieve, but as one , here and there does sometimes s grieve for what they had held , closest. Lucie's death could scarcely have a wrought a greater change for her ) than it wrought for Paul in his a whole nature. His heart was bro- ken as completely as ever a poor human body was broken on the wheel; but such breaking was life-giving instead of deathful. It was the auto-da-fe of the soul, by which his spiritual nature silently attained a high and rare unfolding. Paul was not a common man; tlhoulgh he had lived, and might yet have lived, a common life, - a life of refined indulgence, free from vices, free from pettiness, but too free froml effort. Lucie had divined hilm, and knew him much better than he knew himself; but a diffi- dent humility had withheld her from directly assailing that inaction of his nobler nature of which she lhad been aware. He had a pleasant temper, only lightly touched with sarcasm ; a keen, mirth-loving sense of the ludicrous, dulling a little his per- ception of 'the pathetic or pro- found ; was -a catholic and thor- ough student, yet, from habit, a desultory thinker. Beneath all this was something more,' some- thng better, deserving of scope and perpeetuity. Grief ploughed this substratum; and love vivified the deep furrows into wondrous bloozm. Little Aime was in good hands: it will be seen that this was so. I mean not to say, and let it not be snaid, that even the best of fathers can quite fill a good mother's place; but Paul in his lonely suffering did his loving best, and it was well with. the child. When Clara Farley, a young and quite pretty girl, who had been a protegEe of Lucie's, came to live ' with the Lillinors, and take care of Aim4e, some one presently intimat- ed to Paul that Gossip had her ; lips pursed, and her brows arched in a very portentous manner. Paul assented with that weary dis- dain the pure-minded are apt to feel when society insists upon cer- tain cautions and observances, of which the pure feel they have no need, and of which they would fain not be reminded. He had ex- perienced, faithful servants; but for peace' sake, for form's sake, and because he could readily comply; and, most of all, because he would not have Lucie's memory seem - to receive the 'least slight from the conduct of her unchangeable mourner, he engaged Mrs. Bent as housekeeper. Gossip thought Jane Lillinor's place was with her brother, and even ventured to suggest as much to Jaone. "Paul and I are well enough," had been Jane's stanch reply. "We are the best of friends; but we don't quite get on like turtle- doves. Not that there is any thing in the world he wouldn't do for me, or I for him. And I'm fond of him, and proud of him, and all that, and sorry for him, too, poor fellow! But, too much shaken up together, we should act like Sedlitz-powders; and" (with such very shrewd eyes as rather made Gossip look about her) "I've dis- covered that even husbands and wives who must live together lead a cat-and-dog's quarrel of a life so often, that I've. made up my mind if they - with love and kisses page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] and honeymoon to start on - can't get along, brothers and sisters who haven't any such outfit better not try." Thereupon Gossip went away, and said significantly,- "It is, after all, quite as well that Jane doesn't go to live with her brother ; for although it would seem so proper and natural, she is so very peculiar, and so set in her way, and, although she is not exactly ill-tempered, has such a sharp, ' discouraging sort of a way with her, that, though she means well, it is altogether best; and Paul has behaved very wisely." Such a variety of shrug and wink and accent Gossip uses in her speech! 4"The Clara Farley business is, I'm much afraid, a foolish step. Such a mere child to be thrown with that handsome young widower! But she's artful, too, I dare say; and a mall in love or in grief--it's all the same - is so much putty for a woman to dent with her fingers. But, now that he has Mrs. Bent, it's more-as it should be; and I think I'll just say. a word to her, -just hint that such a young thing will need looking after. Dear, dear! what a strange world this is! and what strange people, in it to be sure! and how thankful I am I'm not like some of 'em!" One October afternoon, Paul came home about sunset, and, catching up Aime in the hall, car- ried her into the sitting-room, which opened to the west. It was a pleasant room, with long windows to the floor, pictures, books, and music, and with that air of being constantly used and enjoyed with- out which'no room is hole-like. It was flooded with the sunset flush, through which Paul walked slowly back and forth with Aimnee on his bosom, just smiling gravely in greeting to Clara Farley, who sat at the piano, playing some flowing pensive music, not strong or ,marked enough to rouse, but sweet enough to soothe, and blend with revery. Clara played on, and Paul fell into step with the music; Iand so the time passed until the fl ush faded out of the west, and the calm evening set in. Paul sat down near the window, still carry- ing Aime, who was drowsy, though not quite asleep ; while Clara, near the piano, which had been silent for some minutes, sat like one for- gotten. in the gathering gloom. She could see Paul very dis- tinctly. His attitude was that of deep reflection, - the large head a littler drooped, the profile in stern repose. She studied him minutely and at leisure; for the window still revealed him clearly, while she was scarcely -discernible in shadow. Even if he were to look around, he would be unable to read her face. She was but eighteen, and quite alone in the world, - from a certain quiescence of manner and tempera- ment more alone than even orphlans generally are; for those who keep unobtrusively -out of the world's way the world is apt to forget and let alone. She had two elements of strength, - conscientiousness, and a great capacity for affection. Otherwise she was but an ordi- inary, gentle girl, obliging, pliable, impressible, and much ignorant of some of the conventionalities of life. She lhad never .learned any of the fashionable shame which would teach her to ignore, conceal, or deny any deep emotion, because it was such. She had not learned to blush for any natural movement of her heart; though a modest sen- silility was, ever ready to quicken the current of her blood and the tint of her cheek. She did not study herself at all, it was not in her nature ; and so she did not at first know why she was so happy talling care of Aimuee, and living With Paul. She had loved Lucie warmly, and mourned her sincere- ly ; yet never in her life had she b)een so happy as in these four months since Lucie's death. Paul was kind to lier, and espe- cially considerate: he was too much the gentleman to be otherwise. Beyond this, his soul was wrapped up in liis loss and in his child, to whom it seemedl as if in voice, in glance, in manner,' and in constant thoughtfulness, he felt himself to be consecrated. It had perhaps been ill judged, his selection of Clara Farley for his child's teacher and companion; though scarce another would have been as suitable, as far as'Aime was concerned. Paul was so little vain, so wholly sorrowing, that, knowing Clara's fitness for the position, he took no thought of her youth and loneliness,' in their relation to his winning beauty of character and person., He never thought how she would naturally admire and pity, and then as in- evitably love him. It was dope, however; and as love's sorrow, as well as love's joy, is good for the heart that receives it purely, it was, perhaps, not ultimately to be regretted. While Clara sat watching Paul, forgetful of every thing but the loving thoughts and emotions that stirred her gentle heart, the house- keeper entered, and, turning on the gas, surprised poor Clara's un- guarded face with its brightly, flushed cheeks and tearful eyes. Mrs. Bent looked at her hard; and, having taken in the position of things, - "Pray, excuse me, sir," with disagreeable stress ; " but supper is waiting, and I relied upon Miss Farley's telling me when you were in: but perhaps she did not know. Oh! you are here Miss, Farley!" ' At which Clara stared, knowing Mrs. Bent had seen her in the first place. "I have been in some time," said Paul' quite carelessly. "Come, Aime, wake up, darling; supper is ready, I hope it has not put you out, Mrs. Bent." "Me! Oh, no, sir! not at all, if it has been as agreeable to you; " at which Paul might have wondered, had he not been entertained by Aimbe's very wide-eyed protest,- "I'm not asleep, papa; I've known every single minute of the time. Now let's have supper: there's tarts, and I like 'em." That same evening, Clara had been but a few moments retired to her chamber, when there came a page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] knock at the door. When she opened it, to her surprise, in walked Mrs. Bent. "I'm glad you are not gone to bed, Miss Farley, as I've got a little something on my mind to say to you; and I'd rather say it to-night, and be done with it. i never like to go to bed with any thing on my mind." "Will you have a chair, please?" said Clara, much puzzled, and a lit- tle uncomfortable. "Guess I will, as it's easier sit- tin' than standin'. Sit down yer- self, won't yer?" which Clara did very much as if she wouldn't have ventured, without permission. "You see, Miss Farley, young people, especially those wlho have not got ally fathers and mothers to do it for 'cm, and more especially if they are girls, need some one to take 'em a little in hand, and cau- tion 'em when they are likely to get into any little difficulty, on account of - not knowin' what's afore 'erm in life. I presume you guess what I'm a comin' to?" "No: Mrs. Bent, I don't know what you mean ; only you seem to think I am in fault or in danger in some way. What is it you think I have done?" "' It would be as pretty again in you not to do like that," said Mrs. Bent insinuatingly; "of course I know you're not so ignorant as you pretend; folks don't blush as you've been doin' every minute since I come in, when they don't klnow what's meant." Clara' was naturally timid; but she was also frank, and hated of all things to be thought hypocriti- cal. "Indeed, Mrs. Bent," she burst out with some indignation, "I'm not pretending; and I would be glad if you would speak out plain. How can I help blushiTng, to De looked at and treated so strange- ly?" "Very well, Miss Farley," said doggedl Mrs. Bent, no whit con- vinced. "If you wish plain spealk- ing, it's your own choice, not mine. I'm not fonld of beatin' round the bush myself; but I haed a notion to spare your feelings, which I find are tougher than I expected. You're young to be so thick-skin- ned-; but I should suppose, even if you don't mind what otler follks say, you would care a little for the opinion of Mr. Lillinor." "Mr. Lillinor's opinion!" echoed Clara faintly, "I do care for it; I have done nothing to forfeit it. " "Perlhaps not;. and then, again, perhaps you may. Whlen a girl sets her cap for a young: widower, and his wife, poor thingl, scarce cold in her grave "- "Mrs. Bent!" " Through whose means it was that any notice ever came to be taken of her, and when, ulnder cov- er of bein' so miighty fonrd of hs little child, she makes such a dead set at him, that everybody sees what she's after, why, it stan's to reason the gentleman will come to see it himself; or if lie's too'full of thoughts of one that's gone, to take thought for what's doin' unl- der his very nose by, some who are not so faithful to them that's gone, why, he may'have some good friend to tell him." Clara sat with her hands cover- ingl her face; and, however hard she strove to control it, was in such evident distress, that Mrs. Bent relented somewhat, in her own fashion, which, in its different way, was quite in. keeping with the otler fashion of her first attack. ,' Now, don't take on, Miss Far- ley. If it's been wrong, it's better to be found out thhan to have it go on till worse might come of it; and I'm actin' as your fiiend, as you'll come to see some, time or 'nuther, if you can't now. Why, Mr. Lillinor'd no more think of marryin' you, than the unlikeliest' thing you could imagine: with his property and persition, and after marryin' into that grand French family, he'll look higher yet, and not lower, when he comes .to think of takin' a wife. "But you see, Miss .Farley, livin' in the same house with him 1 as you are, he might come to take N a sort of passin' fancy,--not the 1 sort that's good for honest girls, -- and what's to become of ye then? t Ycer don't klnow nothin' of the ( arts of men; and thouglh Mr. Lil- t linor docs seem a model young man, thllere's no knowin'-- natur's natur, f especially the natur of a man, - s and the best of folks change "- Mrs. Bent stopped involuntarily; s for Clara rose suddenly to her feet, I and, thoughl tears were on her t cheleks, she loolsked far from being f as subdued as Mrs. Bent expected. m IIumiliated and deeply pained, she t did look; but the housekeeper did c not read the expression rightly, through the hot indignation that now overswept all. "I've heard enough," cried Clara. "I will not hear a word against him : so good and noble as he is, Mrs. Bent; for you to speak of him like -that "- with a dry gasp. "High and mighty! so I'm to be accused of speakin' ill of him by a chit like you? when I've only come to show you how far he is above such a presumin' miss, and to warn you " - "Warn me of myself, MArs. Bent, all you think fit, if-,if you please ; but I'll not take a warning against, him fromn any-one. I do not believe he ever did, or could, harbor a thought, that, if I knew it, would sink me in my own esteem. He is as far above that, as you say he is above me, and which I don't deny; but it is for other reasons than you put. It is because le is good and true and wise, and-and every way so superior and worthy of the best, that he is above me, as I know full well. You have borrowed trouble in--in coming to me. He doesn't think of me: he- never thinks of me at all." Clara's voice was uneven and faltering, her bosom heaving with struggling sobs; and her last words were uttered with an accent of de- spair she could not quite suppress. But she was too pretty, and, at this moment, too well able to de- fend ..herself, to appease Mrs. Bent, who might otherwise have hesi- tated to put her next pert and cruel question. page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] "Well, Miss Farley, you do seem I mighty certain of his thoughts; and I guess you are about right in sup- i posin' he doesn't think of you. I should say it was highly probable his mind was not on you, when he has only to pick and choose, as you say, from the best; but can you say as much for yourself? If you can answer that, why, then there'll .be no more to be said, and I can wish you a good-night with a clear conscience." She rose and stood with her hands on the back of the chair, looking at 'Clara, who had remain- ed standing, and who now looked down without reply, increased con- fusion manifesting itself in her whole appearance. "Well, well, it would seem I've not been so far out of the way, Miss Farley, as I'm free to con- clude, since you don't make no denial: and if you hadn't a been so touchy, I'd be willin' to give you some good advice; for I've lioticed, as a general thing, a man likes fiuit better when he's got to reach after it and pick it than when it drops at his feet, and he can have or kick it away, without any trouble. And, to my way o' thinkin', a girl ought to wait till she's asked, before she takes a likin'; an' to-be takin' ad- vantage of a man's kindness, and his sorrow for them that's dead, when his heart 'ud naterally be soft, by setting a cap for him, and when his friends has other views, most likely, why, it's not the thing, Miss Farley: it ain't grateful, and it ain't modest." "If--if you really believe - if i you really think so meanly of me, Mrs. Bent, I am glad,--I mean, it is best that I should know it. As for the-the low accusation you bring against me, do you think I would stoop to deny it, or to reply to such-such? Go!" with a sud- den motion of her hand toward the door, as much the impulse of her feverish desire to be alone as of her natural indigynatibn. "No need to be uncivil, as I was goin' in a moment. If you're as quick in this as you are iii most things, I'll say that for you, Miss Farley, you'll take a firiendly hint, and nobody'll be the wiser. I've meant no offence: but the best in- tentions gets misjudgcoed ; land why should I escape? and I wish you c a pleasant sleep, I'm sure." After waiting a moment, in vain, for a reply, Mrs. Bent went away with the quiet conscience she promised herself, but not quite at her ease, thinking of, the possible ways in which .Miss Flarley might act upon the " friendly hint." Poor Clara, left to herself at last, found it the worst of company to be in. Flushed and palpitating, shle threw herself upon the bed, her ears ting- ling from the rude and coarse attack, her torn heart shrinking away from that secret image of itself, so suddenly and ruthlessly , exposed. Did she love him? Oh, 3 yes, yes! she admitted, with hot I blushes, buried in the pillow. Had she been artfully seeking to attract his attention and win his love? I No, no. She had never moved a finger to attract him; she had fnever even thought of his love, only as being given to his beauti- ful young wife who was gone. She lad only pitied him, wept some- times for his loneliness, and striven with all her heart to make his sad- dened home more cheerful to him, and been glad to see that some- times, in some small degree, she had succeeded. And if, as she now knew, in do- ing this she had learned to love him, how could- she help it? He was lovable, and she loved him. It was knowledge at once inex- orable and sweet. But she would go away; she would not remain to be complained of to Mr. Lillinor for loving him! Nor could she subject herself to that petty surveillance of which she had been so offensively assured. She passed an unhappy night, with only a short slumber just at dawnl; bnt she was risen at the usual hour, and ready to dress Aiml6e. The latter slept in the same room with her father: it was his wish; and he himself nightly rolled'& her little Ibed up by the side of his own. As Paul retired late, anld rose early, he was never in his I chamber at hours requiring^Clara's 1 services for Aime, though it was 1 in the pleasant and commodious anteroom, into which it opened, that Aime's toilet was custom- f arily: performed. Clara had fre- quently been into Paul's room to t waken the child; but this morning she could not bring herself to pass t the door. She waited in the ante- t room with burning cheeks, and s finally called to AimBe, who came flying in, her long night-dress trip- o 8 ping her little feet. She ran up to Clara, standing in the window. "Why didn't you come for me: "I like it better?" Clara kissed her, but dressed her quickly in a silent fashion, new to the little one, who prattled away without much minding, until Clara began to comb the sleep-disordered curls. "Ow-o-O!" "Do I hurt you, darling?" said Clara, startled out of her abstrac- tion. "It's all wats'-nests, and pulls dweffly," sighed Aime, rubbing her head. Lookingr, in the glass, she saw that Clara was lookingu down at her with eyes full of tears. She turned, and put her little soft hands on Clara's cheeks. 4 I say, wha's matter? Is strub- ble 'bout suffin?" in the sweetest coaxing tone, at which Clara broke down, and, taking Aime in her ,arms, sighed and sobbed as if her heart would break. The child did not cry, though her eyes filled ; but she watched Clara closely. And when the latter, struggling with her feelings, raised her head and tried to smile, Aime put up one hand, and, touching Clara's throat, said softly, - "Feel better, when bunch goes away." Claralaughed hysterically. "Who told you about a bunch?" "Has bunches self, sometimes : they's worser'n snarls and wats'- nests. Please fin'sh my hair, eff so fast; I want to go to papa." Clara was rolling the last curl over her finger before she could page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] manage to say, in a tolerably stea- i dy voice,- "Aime, would you be sorry, much, if I hgd to go away?" Aim 6e's was but a baby's face, and t yet a self-controlled one, as stand-- s ing in the door, with quivering lip, 1 she replied,- "Aime don't like such asks as s that," and then shot away throughll the hall and down the wide stair- case. Paul heard the child's step, 1 and stood at the foot waiting for her to spring into his arms. He wiped her cheek, down which a single tear was stealing. "Dew on my morning-glory? Has my little one been crying?"' "Yes - no. Only but little, - she has." "Who?" "Farley; and she don't like me any more. She wants go way, eff so far - and she cried like effthlling, and oh, papa; don't let her go!" "Where is she?" "Up in ant'room, looking outer winder." Paul carried Aime into the sit- ting-room, and placed her on the lounge. "Wait here for me, my love."9 (- Yes," said Aim6le soberly, and with the air of thinking herself im- mensely trusted. "Papa!" Paul turned in t;lle doorway. "CGonter get Farley?" ' "' You should say bliss Farley." "Name ain't AMiss: name's Clara, - says I may call her Clara." 4' Say Clara, then, - not Far- ley; that is rude." "Gonter getter?" persisted Aime, adroitly avoidinc the point at issue; but Paul was gone. He went directly to the ante- room, where Clara, standing' in th'e window, turned athis entrance, surprise and deep confusion man- tlincg her features at silght of him. "\ My little Aime tells me, that something is wrong with you, and I see that she is right," said Paul; and Clara began to tremble so visi- bly, that he took her hand, and pIlaced her on the sofa by his side. h"Is Aimdl e to blame? Has she been naullhty ?" Clara, who felt desperate, and longed. to sink into the earth, and yet, by love's strange contradiction, felt happyl , - happy to be sitting so beside him, - only shook her head. "If you could look upon me as your friiend," Paul went on, "I Twould endeavor to be such, I assure you. We have become at- tachedl to you, Aiimdie and I; and we would make your home with us a happy one, if possible. It cannot le," after a pause, and speaking with effort, " such a home, even with our best efforts, as my wife mnade. She was fond of you, and you confided in her. Wholn she cared for cannot be indifferent to me. Try to transfer a little of that trust "- A iMr. Lillinor," exclaimed Clara, through her tears, "I do trust you perfectly ; and you will believe me when I tell you, I have not a thouglht that I would disown, or try to hide from her, if she were only here." These last words, in their deep despondency and longing, were so expressive of the constant feelings in his heart, that Paul felt unable to reply at once. He leaned his head upon his hand. "i I do believe you," he said at lenrth, " andi am thankful: it is a gz1reat comfort to me, that one, lov- ingl and beloved by her, should have the care of the one treasure left. Do inot leave us, unless there is some reason really imperative; and I hope there is none." b O sir, I wish you were a wo- man!" cried poor Clara' "Think me so for the time be- ing, or ratther think nothing aboutt it. 13eing a man, I need not be less human, less friendly, or less kind." His voice and look-were fiull of the gentlest encouragement. "I am afraid I ougllt to go away," she said at last, venturing one glance at his face, and feeling her heart bound -at the kind gaze -she met. "Do you wish to go?" "; Oh, no!" with a long breath. "You are sure you do not wish to go?" "I could. not wish it: I have never been so happy as here." "Then why do you think you must go? 1How very timid you are!" observing the color, as it went and came rapidly, in her face. He took her hand, to reassure her. Are the servants neglectful? I I-Has any one annoyed you?" "Mr. Lillinor, may I tell you?" i "I think you may." "Any thing?" "Certainly." ! "'And you will not think the i less of me?" very earnestly. s "I do not fear to have any rea- SOll." 3 "If I did not tell you, perhaps they would?" t "Very likely," said Paul, near t to smiling, and without suspicion * of the truth. "And truth is best, even when it is hard,- is it not?" "Much the best," said Paul gravely, wondering at the gather- ingl excitement of her face. "And when I have told you, sir, will you tell me what you think, and bid me what to do?" "I will give you the best and truest advice of which I am capa- ble; and, if I can be of use, I will serve you faithfully." "Then, sir, - Mrs. Bent came to my room last night, and- said, -- oh, how shall I tell it! please don't look at me, - that I was, - that the y all thought I was trying to make you care for me." Paul started. "'My dear girl! It was very wrong in her. I am glad you have told me." Paul was looking very stern. "And that I was improper and ungrateful and artful, and that I only pretended to love Aime." Clara covered her burning face. "Don't grieve : it shall not lhap- pen again," said Paul. "This is not enough to make it rirght for you to go away, if this is all. Is it?" Clara shook her head. "What more? Tell me all: we have agreed that truth is the best." Clara raised her head, and took her hands from her flushed face, as if by force. "I said I would tell you all the- page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] truth, and why should I not?" she murmured, looking down. "I am all alone in the world, with no friend, if you are not my friend; and I think, I am afraid I ought to go away, because--I will speak to you as I would speak to her," with growing hurry and trepidation, H Ilow could I help it? and I did not know it till last night. She told me, not in just the words, but she meant it, that I was too fond of you. And it is true: I do care for you ; but I did not know or think, oh, I hiad not one such thought! not as she said. Mr. Lillinor, don't you believe me?" 4 "My poor girl, yes!" in a low voice. "And you have been so good to me; no one was ever so good to me as you and she have been. How could I help feeling it,and loving you both for it. And I shall never forget how you said my being here had been a comfort to you. I shall be thankful all my days for that; and I shall never, never forget any of my being here." Her voice sank to a whis- per and she would have risen, but Paul detained her. "Wait, dear friend: you shall always be my dear friend while I live. I. have something to say in reply to your generous, your love- ly confession. I feel myself cleep- ly to blame. Give me yet a few moments." Clara sat trembling and silent, but her painful embarrassment was gone. She had told him: he knew all that was in her heart, and had not blamed or thought the less of her. There had been something extremely painful to Paul in the thoughts which would naturally rise from such a conversation. The love, the memory,'the very name, of Lucie were sacredly dear and inviolate to him; but he could not prevent careless speculation from clustering about them. It was already busy about his wound, sug- -gesting this and that one for her vacant place, not seeing that to him her memory filled it as lo -living woman could. Yet he would have been not more, but less, than man, if Clara's ingenuous confession had not touched him nearly. \ Here was a fair and gentle girl, igood, worthy of esteem and trust, and her guileless heart was in his keeping; and he sadly needed what this young heart's love would bring him; and for Aime it would be the daily, womanly love and care and presence she would so much need. What should he do? What could he give her in re- turn? A home, where she should. be no more as a fiiendless orphan; care, protection, and, in time, a cer- tain fondness ; but never more than the rind of an affection which cen- tred round the core of imperisba- ble experiences in which she had, could have, no part. Perhaps she might be happy so; but who can tell? A woman's heart is quick to know and feel, even the subtlest deceit and concealment in the heart of him she loves. A heart full for a heart full. This is love's only truth and only I safety. Less than this is love's direst sorrow and danger. "I am to blame," he repeated, still with his eyes shaded by one hand. "I should have been more considerate, and you might have been spared all tlis perplexity and pain. It is too late for regret. I will do what I can to repair. I will speak to you as frankly as you hlave spoken to 'me; and I am glad that you have so spoken. I am pl'oudc of your trust, and grateful for your love; nor. would I lose it, only for your own sake I would hope to have it change in its na- ture. Not in its purity and inno- cence, for I hold it to be pure and blameless. How could you be blamed for loving what to you was lovely? I thank you for it; and might well think the better of my- self for having inspired it. " Tears rolled down Clara's cheeks, (iland dropped upon his hand, which still held he lis. "Do not weep or grieve. Be- lieve me, if I thought of marriage, if'I could think of it, I should conme to you with such thoughts sooner than to any woman living. I honor no one so much, and -I think more highly of you for the sweet trust you have manifested. You must be always glad that you did trust me ; but it would be fallse and wrong in me, and most un- worthy of your trust, if I could take such advantage of your good- ness, and my own loneliness, as marriage between us would be. I do not say this because I believe you have expected or thought of such a thing. I believe you, just: as you have shown yourself to me ; but it is best that we should be i fully understood by each other. It 3 is due to your generous avowal, to 3 know something of my hleart. I cannot ever marry, I cannot ever love with all my heart, other than Lucie." Paul was quite pale, and his last words barely audible. After a pause, "You will accept this and believe it. What others think, who judge differently and in other ways than mine, need not matter to us. It would be best, I am sorry to believe, that you should go from us for a while, but I do not fear it will need to be always; and, Clara, I am your friend from this hour,-your faithful fiiend and guardian. Your welfare shall be my interest. Come to me in any difficulty, always, as you calme to- day; do this, and the end of our friendship need not be in this world." He rose, and she also, trembling, downcast, and struggling to speak. "Look at me, my fiiend," he said gently -" let there be no sha- dow between us. Life is so full of shadows, that we should let in sun- light where we may. Your pain reproaches me, and I wish to be forgiven,-to know that I shall be held " "As my friend and guardian," said Clara quickly, in a soft, grate- ful voice, lifting her tearful eyes. Paul, holdincg her hand, met this eloquent and timid gaze. "Thank you," he said feelingly: "it is a pledge." And, after an instant of irresolution that was hardly conscious, he had kissed, her and gone away. Wise or unwise, it was a manly impulse to which he page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] ---- - v S .... had yielded in that kiss, and at least it could not be mistaken. In a few days the change was brougTht about in such a way as to spare and soothe Clara's feelings greatly. Paul actually made her his ward, and sent her away to an excellent school, very grateful, if not quite lhappy. Against Clara's departure Ainm/eo protested stoutly and persistently; and, ,though controlled by events, was by no nmeans amenable in spirit. She disliked channge, and was tenacious in her attachments. She was to have a-new governess, and mentally resolved on warfare to the knife. A middle-aged lady, perfectly re- spectable, and irresistibly damping in her general appearance and man- ner:, was to be the new governess. Paul had put the matter in his sister's hands; and Jane's selection was certainly characteristic and ju- dicious. MAiss Cullen was a nlot a well-educated lady, but a i well- instructed person, with red hair, rather dry and thin ; a freckled face, with a chllubiness about the jaw and chin, as if the flesh which be- longed on the temples and cheek- bones had subsided in some for- mer flaccid state, and could not get back again. She had pale green eyes, and usually appeared in dress- es where larcge dark spots stared out of a white ground, or white spots stared out of some dark ground. Aime's eyes became large staring dots in a white ground when she first beheld Miss Cullen. "Here is your little charge," Paul had said, and discreetly left them alone. "How old are you, dear?" be- gan Miss Cullen. "Funny eyes you got, ain't yer?" observed Aime. "Colne here, and tell me your name," persuasively. "I All eyes,- dress and effthing." "Tut, tut! It isn't proper for little girls to speak so to their eld- ers and superiors." "4 What's a spearer?" atten- tively. "Su-pe-ri-or. I'm one to you." "Oh!" said Aimce, unenlight- ened, but a little staggered. "I can1't p'nounce that, 'stoo long. Do you know French?" "What do you know about French?" . "Oh, lots! Effthing, most. I know dog and kitty and horse, - ceat, that's kitty ; and shane, that's Fido - "We will stick to English for the present," said the governess, falling on Aime's volubility like a wet cloth, not relishing the turn the catechism was taking. So Aime bent over her primer; but after a moment looked up furtive- ly, and demanded, - "Spots on face, - all spatters, - what makes 'em?" "What is that?" pointing at a letter, and pricking it rather hard. "That? Oh! that's - s," consid- ering very much at her leisure, andt then looking up again: " they's on yer nose to6; be they sore? Can't you wipe 'emr off?" "Miss Aime, what letter is that?" "It's a ugly letter: I don' no what 'tis;" then seizing the book suddenly, "Chlo' knows, - Chlo'll tell," away she flew. In spite of these slight irregcular- ities, for a few days things passed onl smoothly enough. Aime, though wilful, was sweet- tempered and engaging,; and Miss Cldllen, who was slow in all things, was slow to wrath with her deter- mineld -and naive interlocutor. But AMiss Cullen had will and a sullen temper, and was gradually arriving, to a state of mind in which she would be lilely to manifest them toward her pupil. Paul had stipulated that Aime slhould not be confined to any em- )loyment more than half an hour at a time, and not more than three hoursin the day. She was to take a daily ride with Miss Cullen, and a daily walk also when the latter felt able to attend her; for the rest, Paul chose to leave the manage- nment in detail to Miss Cullen. One morningr, withn five min- utes of the end of the first half-hour, Ailm6e who Lhad been particularly restless, and, as a consequence, par- ticularly trying, sprang up, drop- ping her book, and oversetting liMiss Cullen's sewing-basket. "It's a old nasty lesson,--long as never!" she cried; but, seeing the mischief she had wrought, stooped to remedyit with a quick sense of her impropriety. "Didn't imean ter, 'onsly'n truly," she had begun to say, when a shower of smart slaps brught her to her feet. "You, you, struck me," gasped the child. "Of course'I did, and you richly deserved it," growled Miss Cullen, bending over the scattered spoils. "You little hussy, did you think I'd always put up with your carry- ings on?" "I hate you!" again gasped Aime, and with an expression of face thoroughly exasperating to Miss Cullen, who caught the child in both hands, and shook her till her teeth chattered. "Stand there!" she said, setting Aime in the middle of the floor. Having righted the sewiug--basktet, she turned again to the culprit. Aime stood precisely vllere she had been dropped. In her eyes, dry and sparkling, in her blazingi cheeks, in her uneven breathing, in her whole tiny, defiant person, was an intensity of expression and repression such as few children ever manifest. Resolution and fire in opponent or victim are the acme' of aggravation to sullen, intract- able natures. Miss Cullen was trembling under this aggravation as she viewed Ainome. "Say you are sorry," in an ac- cent, that, without being loud, was furious. "Do you hear? Say you are sorry." "I ain't sorry." Another slap that left the finger- marks livid for an instant, and then in deeper crimson, and made the- sturdy little figure reel. "You'll stand there till you are. Here, open your mouth!"Aime, perceiving that it would be forced open if she did not comply, drop- ped her chin a little. A short, thick ruler, a badge of office with * t* page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] which Miss Cullen had deemed it necessary to be provided, she now put roughly between the child's teeth. "' Bite that until you're in a better temper," she said. Turning away, she had not re- seated herself before the ruler was deliberately dropped; and, at the same moment, Mrs. Bent, who had been listening, put her head in at the door. Aime was a house- favorite; every one in it loved her; and, moreover, Miss Cullen and Mrs. Bent were just two antagon- isms. "Why, what's the matter with the child?" said Mrs. Bent. "Nothing but sheer ugliness, inarm," replied Miss Cullen tartly. C She's been a bad, naughty girl; and slhe knows it." 'V Why-ee, my little sweeting, what have you been doing to the lady?" said Mrs. Bent, with equiv- ocal accent. 'C Tell me all about it; that's a dear." "Really, Mrs. Bent, excuse me; but Miss Aime, I believe, is in my care, and I don't require your very obliging services. " Plain, pale, and irate, the gov- erness looked; quite complacent, and provokingly cool, the house- keoper looked, as she replied, ' The child is not strong ; and I'm much mistaken if you hain't been hadtliln' of her pretty rough. I quite regrlet it, dear Miss Cullen, but I do feel bound to speak to Mr. Lillinor." "Go away, Bent!" said Aime in a low voice, seepling to wish for no ally. And Mrs. Bent went away; and, 'finding Mr. Lillinor in the library, gave him a spirited account of proceedings in the sitting-room, whither he immediately hastened. As he came in, Miss Cullen, only further exacerbated by the inter- vention of Mrs. Bent, was trying to press the ruler between Aimie's teeth, which she refused to part, holding her lips as firmly pressed as she was able. Miss Cullen was so anglrily in- 'tent, she did not hear Paul's en- trance; but Alniec saw him, and the bright color died out of her face. "What is the trouble here?" asked Paul politely; abut he lifted Aime, who seemed as if she could no longer stand. She slipped her little arms around his neck, and clung to him, shaking, and gasping "Take me away, papa." 'i Has she been naughty, Miss Cullen? What are these? ' ob- serving the livid lines upon her cheek. "But I see what they are. This could hardly have been neces- sary, I think. ," Well, certainly, sir, if you take sides with ller, there'll be little use in lly saying any thing." "TWe will not talk about taking sides, if you please. What has she done?" "She's been very naughty and provoking, sir. You'd hardly think how pert she is; tumbling over my work-basket and all, and then telling me to my face she's not sorry, and tlhat she hates me." "Aime!" very gravely and sorrowfully spoken. "Are you sorry, papa?" softly whispered in his neck. "Yes, very, to have my little daughter behave so ill." She struggled in his arms, "Let me down, please?" He set her down gently; gentle- ness was in all, his ways toward her. She picked up the ruler, and went to Miss Cullen. - The tears, which anger and violence had not stirred in their wells, were stealinog down her poor little disfigured cheeks. "I'm sorry now,--put it in, please, - I'll holdit." She totter- ed so that Paul quickly lifted her again. "If youl will forgive her, Miss Cullen, I will take her away now?" "Of course I'll bverlook it, if she'll try to be a better child," re-: plied the governess ungraciously. f She did not at all appreciate the i g'race and beauty of the child's action, and wrathhad by no means i suthsided in the gubernatorial bosom1. To and fio in the hall, Paul car- ried Aime, her swollen cheek 1 pressed against his. Soon her lit- I tle breast heaved less tumultuous- 1y-. He carried her up stairs, and 1: laid her on his own bed, drew some i: lig'ht coverinl over her, and stood f for a moment watching her slum- d ber, broken still by struggling siglhs; then he went down to the g governess once more. He paid her a handsome advance, A alld dismissed her courteously but fi quiite positively. ir "I am sorry that she should be w naughty, and that you should be b: annoyed," he said; 1" but I am cer- in le tain your management is unsuited to her disposition. Of course, my t object in engaging your services was the good of my child. If they 3- do not seem to me to subserve that i end, I have no option but to seek d elsewhere. She di'd wrong, what- 3, ever her excuse or provocation; and t she knows I think so. But I think g she atoned for it, especially con- 1 sidering the severity of the punish- ment you thought best to inflict." "Severity? Lord, sir, I only - boxed her ears, and " - r Lost your temper. In my opinion, no one is fit to have the 3 care of a child who cannbot control both temper and prejudice, and who does not know that the head, at least, is, or ought to be, sacred from all violence. To beat a child about the head and face is brutal- ity, from which I would save all children if I could, and from which I am bound to protect my own." When Aime awaked, her father was lying beside her. "O papa!" creeping fondly into his arms, "if you teached me I'd be good." "And so I will, my darling, my little one," whispered Paul, strain- ing her to his heart. "It shall be father and daughter, - father and daughter to the end." Miss Cullen was the last of the governesses. Henceforth the current of Aime's childhood flowed peace- fully enough. It is true, she fell into the trench where the drain was beingf laid, whence she scram- bled almost miraculously, and, fly- ing to the kitchen, displayed mud page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] and bruises to the culinary trium- ri virate who always made much of h her disasters, and believed, with k Aime's deep approval, in the sove- ir reign sanitary properties of tarts and jam. t She saved her peach and plum- g stones for daily skirmishes about c the well, the last few feet of which v were blasted from solid rock, v dropping them singly from her l apron among the men in its murky c depth; and shouting with glee at ( the hot emanations of Irish jargon that ensued. r One day, shortly after one of . these exploits, the young, rogue stood at a little distance from the f brink of the well speculatinog upon l the ominous silence, when she was startled by the appearance of the frowsy head of one of her victims emlerging from the well. "Jest wait tell I catch a holt av ye!" cried the exasperated Irish- ma1n. c 3Bedad! I'll gev yer hayre a twast thin!" t"Pooh!" said Aimn6e wickedly, delighted at the approach of, a crisis, 'c pooh! you wouldn't darster ' twast' it." Slhe retreated slowly toward the culinary stronghold. "Wouldn't I thin? wait a bit ye squairmin jade tell I get a bit av ut widin me fainger; I'm aiger for it." He swung himself from the tub and jogcged heavily toward Aime, menacing her with his clumpy fist. The child gyrated around him at a safe distance, in a lithe and bewil- dering manner, screaming " aiger I aiger!" in blithesome mockery, till the Irishman became really infu- riated; and Aimne, just eluding his clumsy grasp, darted into the kitchen, none too soon to escape his inconsiderate wrath. Aiimde tried the esculent proper- ties, not only of every thing that grew, but of nearly every thing that crawled. She insisted upon fish- wornis as "nice, if thley dli'l't widdle so," and had tried squash- bugs, but " di'n't like 'ell," - dis- daininig information, and adhering only to the fiat of experience. She climlbed trees expertly, no matter what difficulties certain slil and branchless trunks presented; came down hand over hand, with a quick accuracy, that might have ruffledl the self-confidence of thle nimblest squirrel; fell once, and "nearly knocked herself into next week," as Mrs. Bent said, with the hearty vexation into which solici- ' tude is so cfUeerly apt to changle, - upon the unexpectedly assured t safety of its object. Aime appeared on the ridcge- , pole of the carriage-house, tossing a her hat by its strings in vaunfting r of her achievement, - was seen to y suddenly disappear, and was found all right, much scratched andi mo- it derately rueful, in some predestined it bushes. r "Lors!" said the cook, a jolly negress, who took every thing with b a rollicking, unquestioning faitlh, e, most exasperating to the practi- t. cal housekeeper, --"Lors, missus, a spec's she's all right; won't nuffin 1- hurt her. Spec's de Lord set dem rI bushes just dar, to growed an' ill catch Miss Aime." a- ;"If she believe's what she says, what an absurd old fool she is!" muttered Mrs. Bent, examin- ing the torn pinafore which had survived this occasion, and not tthflinking to be heard. "Lors, missus, don't yer mind ole Chlo," showing every ivory in the- most perfect good humor; "spec's de Lord cars for chil'en, an'fools too." Whatever mnay be thought of Chloe's happy philosophy, the samlle elasticity and wri(-ggle that broughlt Ailn6e into these and a thousand other mishaps, servped to fish her out of them in triumph. With all her " tantrums " and wil- fulness, she was happy and hearty and robust, and grew apace. She loved her father devotedly; obeyed him implicitly, not his word llone, but his meaning ; never, un- der any. circumstances, told a lie or mlang'led the truth. Thus she w\as trusted and beloved; and this trust and love kept her worthy 1and ever worthier. Perhaps her worst fIault was an inconsiderate- ness or haste of speech and manner, whch, in connection with her naturali impetuosity of temper, alnd from being so allied to her highest virtue, truthfulness, was the more difficult of guidance and I restraint. An episode occurrling i n lher tenth year--and presently to I be narrated - will illustrate. She rode, walked, read, studied, ] anld, in a word, intimately lived with i her father, from the date of MAiss a Cullen's exodus. AimSe had nat- 1 ural grace and courtesy of spirit; i but from Paul, who was that ex- c ceptional character, the gentle- f man, she acquired the knowledge c and the habits of 'its outward ex- pression. These served her well on most occasions; but, under sur- prises of feeling, she was apt to give herselfinecessity for apology. When Aime was ten years old, Mrs. Chauncey Lane had been for two years a widow, and certain early designs and hopes with reference to Paul, reviving in her mind, manifested themselves in a pe- culiarity of manner toward Paul which may be described, as seem- ing to intilmate an early under- standing of a tender nature between them, which was capable of re- suscitation; and by an interest for. Aime, more extravagantly than lucidly expressed, she sometimes amused, but always bored Paul, who managed to see very little of her. Aime had heard the matter discussed in the kitchen, where Mrs, Lane's manceuvring was talked over with that latitude and absence of all gloves characteristic of kitchen councils generally. She gathered with a bright child's quickness that Mrs. Lane was sup- posed to harbor maternal inclina- tions in her (Aime's) behalf ; and from not liking her in the first place, fell into headlong detestation, that boded ill for the widow's gentle plans. One morning Aime was in the library with her father: it was their favorite room. Lessons were ended; and Paul had his darling in his lap, her soft rosy cheeks in his caress- ing hands. There was an absolute confidence between them, - a con- fidence never broken, never even dangerously strained. page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] "She was only fifteen, Aime, 1 and very beautiful," Paul was E saying: " in five years you will' be as old. I saw her at a fine old ] chateau, the heritage of a line of Louis de Changarniers. When you a are fifteen, my darling, you shall go l to France, and see the place. Shall ] you like it?" "O0 papa! I wish I could squeeze the years up, and have it be to-. 1 day." "She stood in one of the garden-; paths, when I came up with her I only brother, - your Uncle Louis, I who died so young. We were only boys, though. we were well-grown ; and she seemed like a little girl to me, so shy and fair, and simply: dressed." "What did she have on? I want to see just how she looked," asked. Aime, her dreamy eyes following her father's memories. "Onily a white dress in full, soft folds, with a blue half-bodice, over which her golden hair fell so bright- ly. You have her hair exactly, Aimfe." Aime drew some of the thick curling masses through her hand slowly, trailing it across the collar of his coat. Paul's eyes fill- ed, remembering that other gold- en head, so often pillowed there. "Tell me more," said Aime, still caressing the hair. "Did you love mamma right off, when you saw her in the pretty garden?" "I had been at court, Aime, and had seen a great deal of beau- ty and dress and fashion; and girls of fifteen, of whom I felt almost afraid, they seemed so self- possessed, so certain of them- selves." "Proud, stuck-up fussy, things, I suppose." "Foolish and vain and worldly," answered Paul; "t but they were much as they were taught to be, my child." 4"And mamma?" "Was of another nature; sweet, beautiful, modest; gentle, woman- ly, and true; all that could will and hold my love, and spur me to be worthy of hers. Oh, my little one!" Aimbfe slipped her arms about his neck: he often wore, and al- ways liked to feel, this living neck- lace. "Papa, you said we should get through here in a few years, and then find mammna, and stay with her always, ever after." "We shall find her, God will- ing." "Of course God will be willing, else what did he let you find her here for?" logically asserted Aime; "and don't feel bad, dear papa, not so bad: it makes me acllhe." "Sweet heart," said Paul, and held her a little while closely in silence. "She had white roses in her hair, the last evening of my stay at the chateau ; and I begged Louis to ask for one of them for me, and L she leaned over the table and hand- ed it to me herself." "Did you keep it?" 6"Yes: I have it now in the little 1 drawer of my private desk, where ; I keep every thing she ever gave - me, only the best gift of all, which I carry in my heart always, and in imy arms every day." Another silence broken by Aime. "Papa, I don't ever want any other almllllllma." Pa)ul started: Aime slipped from Ihis lmees, and brougrht a volume fromnll the Abbotsford edition of Wa- verley. She opened to a picture O,f Alllne of Gierstein. "Is that like mamma? It seems as if I relemembered her like that."' It was a gentle face and graceful figure, yet spiritedl; and there was something which Paul recognized, - very slight; yet it would have remlinded him of Lucie. Aime, watchintg him intently, pushed the lbook away. 'Papa, we love mamma, don't we?" "We love mamma," was the low answer, as he rose with her in his arms, and went into the halll. Not many minutes after, when Paul hlad gone away, Mrs. Chaun- cey Lane was announced, and slhown into the parlor, where Aimie stood, looking from the win- dow. She was still thinking of her fair young mother, when she heard her visitor's name. , A flush -stole over her face, and she did not im- miediately look around. "' You sweet child!" began Mrs. lane; " all alone this charming morning? Are you quite well, my love?" "I am very well, thank you." "And how is papa?" with most insinuating cadence. "/Mr. Lillinor is very well." "Mr. Lillinor! Why, bless me I do you call your pa Mr.?" "I don't, but other people do. Shall I call Mrs. Bent?" "Oh, dear, no! Mrs. Bent is well enough, but I came to see you," persuasively. "What lovely hair!" Lputting out one tightly-gloved hand. "You musn't touch it," said Aime instantly, her eyes filling with love, anger, and suspicion. "It is like mamma's." "And musn't it be touched, be- cause it's like mamma's? How very romantic!" humoring, with- out in the least understanding, the child: " but positively, you don't look quite well; come and take an airing with me, won't you dear?" "No, thank you," replied Aime very coldly, retreating. "I'll ask Mrs. Bent if you mayn't," persisted the obtuse lady, opening the door into the sitting- room. "This little darling is so much alone, Mrs. Bent, I called to take her out with me. You'll give her to me for an hour, won't you?" "She can go, certainly, if she likes," said Mrs. Bent, coming into the parlor with some silver in her hand, which she was rubbing. Aime said nothing. "She is so much alone, poor lit- tle dear," repeated Mrs. Lane. "I feel so sorry for her, motherless darling! if only Mr. Lillinor would marry again, it would be better for him, and the very best and hap- piest thing in the world for her. Don't you think so, dear Mrs. Bent?" "Waal, I should think so, gin'- rally," replied the housekeeper; page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] '"but they do get on beautifully together, she and her papa, and per- haps a new mamma mightn't"-- "I don't like you, and I won't go to ride with you!" cried Aime, coming passionately forward. "I've got a mamma, and I love her! You're a bad woman; you're a -a manoeuvrer; I heard them say so; and you want to be my - my mam- ma! And I don't like you, and I won't have you! Papa loves mamn- ma too; we talk of her, and we love her, always, ever and ever-; go away!" setting down her foot. "There is but one for my mamnma, there is but one!" in a vehement tone of grief, reproach, and long- ing, that petrified her listeners. She put her hands before her face, and fled out of the room. Mrs. Lane went away; and for a time, at least, hler visits to the Lillinors were rare. Aime knew perfectly, if she liad been right in her thoughts, she had been wronrg in the manner of their expression, and accordingly wrote the following characteristic apology, which she prevailed upon Mrs. Benlt to carry to Mrs. Lane:- '"I was rude to you, and I am sorry; but I meant all I said." The years passed'on. "An idle, unthinking life is an unglrateful life," Lucie had said; andt Paul carried these words in his heart, antd into his life, and made of them a vital remembrance. He was de- voted to his child, but not the less because he looked about him in the world, and took thought of his kind. He studied the social and political economies,' not only of his own, but of foreign governments, pursuing his studies more particu- larly in directions which woul(d throw the fullest light upon the re- ligious impressions and movements of all ages. He had a definite oD- ject, inspired by his knowledgle of Lucie's sufferings in those last days ,at the Chfateau de Changarnicr, but shaped and matured by the pure conviction and invincible earnest- ness, without which no work can be of worth. As she grew older, Aime ac- companied him in his acquirements and in the labors into which they merged; not prominently before the worldl, but there Was a home- side to his labors, with whichl Aime's thought and hand were famliliar. Paul worked as well as thought, and his work was love; but that which built up the spiritual pulled down the physical, and hs health began visibly to fiail. "What does it matter,' he said, speaking to Aime, " since the body is needed, and intended only to push on the spirit? Thlere is one thing which I have wished to feel, - that the world was better for my having been in it. I have held that ambition." "And realized it, papa, surlely. I cannot answer for your previous badness," archly; "4 but 0you haxlVe been doing good, and nothing blut good, ever since I can reluember." "Daughter," laying his white hand upon her bright hair, "if I have been often sorrowful, I have never been comfortless." I "And your book is done at last, papa, and done well. You have told me, that you feel it is well done, and I do wonder if anybody will ever guess the labor of it, or what is better yet, and what makes me feel so glad and proud," her eyes filling, " if they will ever guess, as I, have seen, the patience and the love of it? And you need va- cation ; I consequentementally,' it's wel I'm fifteen, anld that we are to take thhat trip to France." This long-promised tour had oft-, en been discussed ; and prepara- tions for it were now nearly com- pleted. The day was set for the "th of October, and Aimze would enter her sixteenth year during tlhe voyage. One afternoon, as shle was re- tulrningr from making some farewell calls, Aime met two gentlemen, one of whom she lnew, and with whom she exchanged greetings. The appearance of the other was so unusual, that she found herself thinking of it as she passed on. He was fine-looking, but wore an expression of sorrowful reserve, so great as to distinguish it, in that particular, from any face she had ever seen. She reached home, and, turning in at the gate, observed with some surprise that the stran- gelr was just behind her. Wonder- ing who and what he could be, She was about entering the house when he spoke. "Miss Lillinor?" She looked around: they were standing upon the broad step of the portico; and she was again much impressed with his appear- ance, and betrayed the fact in her ingenuous gaze, J "You wish to see my father, sir? I doubt if he is at home; but if you will walk in, sir, I will see. He bowed, following her with- out other reply. When she had ushered him into the large south parlor, and was retiring, he spoke again. "If you please, H- I do not wish to see your father that is; he would not wish to see me." "Sir!" '"I have perhaps done wrong; but I wished much to see you, and, though I ought to do so,'I dread giving my name." Aimd6- sat down. "Be seated, sir. If you have somethiing un- pleasant to tell us, it is better to tell me than my father. He is not well." Though there might be im- propriety in granting audience to a nameless stranger, he was so entirely courteous, so ill at ease, so earnest, that Aime was guided by these, rather than by conven- tionality. i"Thank you," said the stranger; "but I am not tired, and I would rather stand, much rather stand here. I bring no ill news." He- paused, looking at her with such steadfast, mournful eyes, that Lu- cie involuntarily exclaimed, - "Can I do any thing for you, sir?" "Much-. And I am here to ask it." He passed his hand wearily over his forehead. "I knew your mother; that is, I saw her once. Have you a picttire of her, one that you would be willing to show to a stranger? I entreat to see it." page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] This spoken so urgently that Lu- cie rose, and crossed the hall. "This way," she said in a low voice. She felt the strangeness of the proceeding; but she felt also as if she could do no other than comply. Entering the sitting-room, she pointed to a delicate painting. "' That is of my mother, the work of a French artist, shortly before she came to this country." The stranger looked long at the gillish, yet eminently noble coun- tenance. "Strange, to be so lifferent, and yet so like!" in a deep voice. "You resemble your mother, yet you have not the likeness." They returned to the parlor. "I thank you," he said, convey- ing much expression to the simple form. Aime bowed; for she was at a loss, and sat down again, wonder- ing and silent. He stood a few moments at a little distance from her, his hands lightly clasped be- hind hiim, his head bowed upon his breast. "Madam, I was once in great misery, very great, God knows,- lost in it," again passing his hand over his forehead, ain action that seemed habitual. "I reached out in my unhappiness for a passing brightness, that I thought was mine. I thought it was mine," plaintively; " and I brought death and misery to others. I did not mean it. I had " "Oh!"cried Aimne, springing to her feet, "you, you are Allan Dana "I "Here to ask your forgiveness, Give it me, won't you? I want it, I must have it." Aime had never heard a voice, at once so vehement' and so con- trolled. "I forgive you, sir; indeed, I know well you were not to blame: but--but you should not have come ; and' oh, sir, go away, do! I would not, for worlds, have my father meet you!" "Why not, Aime?" - Paul's voice; and Paul standing in the doorway, leaning against the cas- ing. Allan Dana looked from one to the other, and drooped his head. "It was wrong for me to come," he said sadly; "but I did not think. I cannot keep- but one thought at a time; and I did not think in coming for the word I wanted so much to hear I should be giving fresh offence. I will go." Paul put out his hand. ' "Do not shun or fear or dis- like me, Allan Dana. I am glad God gave you back your reason." At these words the stranger was dumb. He looked at Paul's ex- tended hand. "Why do you hold that out to' me?" he asked at length, in husky tones. "For you to take with my for- giveness, since you wish for it; but there is no wrong between us, Allan Dana, and nothing to be for- given. It was one of those strange accidents, which God permits: I do not think he wills them." "Where is the difference?" cried the other, in a startling voice. "If God is almighty, I would rather he willed my misery than he should let me drift upon it, trapped un- ON CANVAS AND IN FLESH. awares. Sir, you are a good man. I never thought to takel your hand, -to have it offered me!" e 9 "'Tis but a small grace; don't make too much of it. Friend, I am older than you; let me say, it is better sorrow should soften the heart than make it bitter. We have both known sorrow; but we * k page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] are nearer to what we loved, nearer by many years, than when our grief was new."' Paul's voice changed a little, he paused, and seemed about to turn away; then, wrin- ing the other's hand, "God send you peace! Tell me, is there any thing I can do for youl9 " I Papa," said Aime, much moved, "' we have so many pic- tures:. could you give him one? I think he would like it bet- ter than any thing else in the world." "Wait," answered Paul, and went out slowly. He returned with a simall case in his hand, which he gave un- opened to Allan. The latter re- ceived it with emotion. 1"My heart is full, let me go." "Go then, as one comforted," replied Paul, leaning slightly upon Aimce: " here are no thoulghts of you but kind ones." Allan looked at the father and daughter, standing thus torgether a little aloof from "m, but with only gentleness and benediction in their gaze : his look was that of prayer, - of grateful adieu. Hte went away in silence, and thev saw him no more. "What glorious Septelmber even- ings! I could wish'we were ereoing earlier. Papa, you look so grave, are 3you feeling well as usual to- niglht?" They were in the library, and it w as. in the evening after Allan, I)ana,'s departure. "Pllhysically quite," said Paul. But retrospection is upon me. Past scenes and past emotions re- turn clearly. Keep that position, Aimie: in this dim light you seerm wonderfully like your mother."' Aime was couched upon the steps of the oriel window, her hair touched with light, her face with shadow. "I only hope some one will ever love me as you have loved mam- ma." "Some one ought to." "I hope he will be like you, papa." Paul smiled. "I predict he will be very different; but I hope he is a great way off yet. We have been lovers' so long, Aimnie, you must be true to papa a little whle longer." Aimf6e reached for his hand. "I shall never care for any one as I care for you." "The promlise of a heart-whole maiden," said Paul; but after a pause, "Aimuee, our old original plan cannot quite be carried out. I wanted you to see the chlateau as it was in your mother's day; but, as it is a convent at last, there will be some changes,- - many, I am afraid." "You will not like that?" "I shall not like it; and thlose changes least of any. But chang'e, in one way or another, is an old acquaintance of mine; I amn pre- pared for it: besides, I feel as if I should try her in that solemn way, whllich will once for all make lesser chang'es of no moment." After some minutes of silence, - "( Papa, does the doctor say you are so very ill?" 4"No ; and, to speak truth, I am not ill in the way physicians can understand or treat. It is wear, liand a kind of inanition of the heart. I have never shut my lleart fromi you, Aime; and you, who have Deen the brightness, will not sl rink fi'om the sadness of my life." Aime altered her posit-ion, so that she could rest her head, upon his shoulder. ", Tell me all, papa: it will be so much the more 'of you to keep." Her voice was slightly clhanged, ultt hlad lost none of its steady stlrength. "I You must keep this," said Paul, "thait you have been a blessed dailghlter to me, a blessed daughter all these lonely years ; but though I have had you with me, who have bmen my joy and comfort, and my great support, and though she has been with me in a way, in God's waytt, all these years, I have had a lhunger night and day; a hunger to ltave hei with me, to touch and kiss and lhold her, as of old. Night and day, and years of nights and dlays like these,- they wear the heart away. Almost with her dyinrg words she taught me a les- son, how to spend my life so that it should be a grateful, not a grace- less one. Lucie, I have tried!" He said this as if he were quite alone; but he had so lived with Ihis child, that she had never been a restraint; ; and these quiet conver- sations they so often held were, many times, the rapt monologue through which the father's inmost heart was uttered to his loving, listening child. , "I told you I should like those : changes least of any, - those which make a' convent of the dear old chdteau. I have held aloof from creeds and sects and dogmas, with charity for all and partisan- ship for none. My conscience must go with my hand and voice; and no creed has ever won my con- science or my faith. So men have called me infidel: but I have loved God and done his work, so far as I have been able to conceive of it; and whatever I have done, has been done with my whole heart. "All these questions are yet be- fore you, my child. I have never pushed them upon you. Despise no source of knowledge, and then do the best you, know. I bid you no further than tlhis. Perhaps you will find comfort and safety where I found it not, and see truth where my eyes were dim. "It was the kind Baron von Neufstein who bought it of your mother, and the Church bought it of his heirs. Pgre Dou6y, of whom I have told you, your grandmoth- er's persecutor, and your mother's enemy, has charge of the convent. If you meet him, you will see a man whose unscrupulous schemes, failing only to involve your moth- er's safety and honor, seem at, last crowned with success. "I have no doubt he hated your mother bitterly. Such natures hate what thdy cannot daunt; and, though but a fiagile girl, she had an unquailing spirit, and told him such bold, unpleasant truths, in her defenceless courage, as 'must have struck him with that inward hu- miliation which the best of us find page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] it hard to forgive. I told you I had held aloof from creeds; but I have fought one creed, as you "THE WAVVES CAUGHT AND TOSSED THE ROSY FLUSH AM1ONG THErI." knlow. It has been myv life fight, in the interests of humanity." He was thinlking of his book, the conscientious labor of years, Iwhich was to be published while lhe was abroad. "It has made you some bitter enemies, papa; but I have gloried in your steadfastness." "And I, loving peace, have al- ways said in my heart, Let me not die without enemies; for who works for the ignorant and oppressed makes enemies in proportion to his truth and fixedness." "Papa, it has been a good work, and others will press it on. You have told me, many times, that no effort on the side of truth could be lost." "And it cannot. It is the one thing surle, absolutely, of worthy harvest. But they who sow, full often, -are not in at the reaping." "But they have their harvest, dear papa;." "Ay! in another field they have it." It was the, 14th of October, and friends stood in the harbor watch- ing the great ship sail 'away. With Paul and AimPe were goin(g Clara Farley and her husband; and tlhese were making some necessary arran(ements in the state-rooms below. Paul and Aime were to- gether upon the deck. The breeze blew upon them so strongly, that Paul lifted his long travelling mantle about Aime. Her hat was off, and her magnifi- cent hair in frolic with the breeze. Slie leaned /her head upon his shoulder, and watched the familiar sh1ore recede. Their faces were turned from all on the vessel: they seemed alone upon the ocean. "Farewell, America!" said Paul; " farewell, dear home!" Aime lifted her dark eyes slow- ly. "Father, you will come back with me?" He held her closely, but made no reply, gazing away throughl sea and air. The sun was going r down , and the leaping waves caught and tossed the rosy flush among them. "It has been a sweet life, Aime, with all its paint and loss and long- ing ; a rich sweet life, my darling child, - But now I do begin to feel As if for me a heavenly meal Were mak'ing; As if my heart would soon be fed, As if between me and my dead Were only sleep and waking." A long pause; and a red beam shimmers over her golden head, and rests on Paul's white forehead. She wound the other, arm about him. "Come life or death or change, it is father and daughter to the end." Paul was looking up, but his gaze slowly fell at these words. Ailm6e's face was hidden on his breast. "Yes: it is father and daughter to the end," he said. The red beam faded out, and the waves wyere tossing shadows now; and the night, with stars and still- ness, came down upon the ocean. page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] PART FIFTH. Atiii ASb Irillu' QUESTION. If, after absence, friends can meet As if they ne'er had parted, Eacil gives the other proof most sweet, That eachl has been true-hearted. A N abundance of wavy blonde lair, parting, in a delicately- defined line, above a forehead full and finely shaped; large, well-set gray eyes, shaded by lashes nearly black, and toned by the peculiar sweep of somewhat heavy dark eye-brows; a passable nose; a mouth whose definite curves de- noted great possible strength, but whose prevailing expression was sweetness; a handsome chin, with charaoter and charm about it; throat and shoulders nobly mould- ed; a; figure tall, and carried along by its owner with an undu- lating movement, as if she stepped to music others did not hear. This, reader, is a faithful pen- picture of Aime Lillinor at the age of nineteen. Please imagine her in pale blue drapery, her golden hair massed in a net, and bound with a blue fillet; for, in this becoming apparel, one soft August mlorning, she stood knock- ing at; a door, one of many that opened into the public hall of a 19 hotel. In answer to her summons, a little maid appeared. "O Miss Lillinor!" she ex- claimed, "Lady Hope said I must excuse her to everybody else." A lady-below the medium heicht- came forward from a win- dow-recess.' This was Lady Helen Hope, an English gentlewoman, about sixty years old. Her form, so slight as to be almost fairy-like, was a marvel of grace and fine proportion; and her movements combined the lithe pliancy of girl- hood with the pervading 'charm as indefinable as it is inseparable from the sweet dignity of mature womanhood. But for the whiteness of her shining hair, and but for the impress, indelible upon her fea- tures, of an eventful life ,heroically lived, -but for these, it might seem that eternal youth had sworn fealty at the shrine of Lady Helen Hope. "I expected, you, Aime," said Lady Helen; and in the voice soft, yet powerful, Nature had set char- acter to fitting music. "Lady Helen!" cried Aimne dimpulsively, taking the little hands in hers, "you are the dearest, loveliest woman in the world! If all. Women, in growing, old, could only grow beautiful as you have done! I am so' thankful I ever met you, I coxildn't do without you. Do you remember our first meeting at Florence? If papa had not been so ill, you would nev-er have looked at us as you passed. I was frightened, for I liad never seen papa so ill; and I renimember, as if it were yesterday, howr your voice --so gentle and strong it sounded - smote through me, and calmed my fears. -I never !eard a voice. like it: you put us riglht in a lmolent. I set a mark uDoni that day" - ";Take breath, Aimce," said Lady Ilope, smiling; then, turn- ing to her maid, "You may be excused for the present, Mary, but see that we are not disturbed." When left alone, the two women emllraced with a -sudden move- mnent, mutual and tender; for they loved each other. Tllen Aime sat down at Lady Helen's feet, crossing her arms upon her friend's lap, and the two loolked at one another silently a -lwhile, with unmasked faces, wherein thought and emotion teleg'raphed without restraint. "Nearly two years since we parted,"' said Aimne musingly; ")ut while I look at you, Lady Hielen, the lonesome gap seems filli1g' up. Strange, that I do not feel any necessity of beginning our acquaintance over again! Most persons, parted so long, would meet with some formality; but I feel we meet without one back- ward step." "It is because we -do meet," said LadX Hope. "We do not throw up between us a semblance of something not ourselves. At least I do not; but you drag in, my rank, which, though it, has served me well with fools' and Lfoes, you know I would have for- gotten between us." "Well," archly replied Aime, "I. dragged it in to see if you would take notice; and I should have felt badly enough if you had not.". "You are the same Aime, not a whit less mischievous; but, if truth must be told, more"-she stopped. "More what? ' asked Aime. "You need not hesitate, I always liked the truth from you: you have a way of making unpleasant truths palatable." "I shall not finish the sen- tence ; " and Lady Hope laughed at the conscious flush which deepened ulnder the penetrating gaze. "You did not expect an unpleasant truth, and shall lose the compliment for your insincerity." "You are just the same, Helen," then, with a sudden change from arch to grave, " you chided me with being a poor correspondent; but, after parting with you, my dark days came upon me, and I did not feel like writing, though I could have talked with you. But there are some things I want you to know." "Go on, Aime: your father seemed to me so peculiarly noble and calm, that I have longed to hear definitely the manner of his page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] death. Wherever and however it E happened, I have been sure there was triumph and beauty in it." "After papa and I left Florence, : we visited the Clateau de Chllan- garnier., ,my mother's birthplace and home. Helen, it was perfectly lovely, and I cannot tell you how it affected me to be there with papa. The outwardl changes were not so ccreat as lie expected. I .vas glad of that. He would not go in, for it woulll be so much made over and alteredl; and, thouglh he was so feeble and unfit to be alone, lie beggcred me to leave him in the gar- dens a little while. -"I had no thought, I do not tlink he thoulght, it was so near; iut it was wlhatt he would have chosen,- that lhas been pleasant to remem- ber. Thllough unwilling to leave him, I went in with the Lady Su- perior. "Thle nuns' parlor was what had been the bed-cllamber of my grand- mother,' Madame de Changarnier. I felt so strangely to be there, in my own sweet mothdr's home, and on the very spot where violence and insult had been offered hler by tlhe power now ruling there, that I made little or no attempt at con- versation, though the Superior was courteous and attentive. I longed to see my imother's turret chamber ; but, as it was cut up into four little rooms, it was as well I did not. It would not have looked at all as it did in her time. "I looked from the broad window where she stood when Uncle Louis rode u]p to find himself an orphan, and whence could be seen the very stones where he lay bruised and dying so soon after. O Helen! I felt it such an ill-fated, fatal place, for all its beauty. I think our American gardens are picturesque, and well kept as a rule, anti some of them grand elough ; my own was always bDea- tiful to me: but there is something of newness and crudity here, or else lly prejudices find it. But there was an antique, large splen- dor about those gardens at the chllteau. They seemed to be one harmonious design ; not a mere se- ries of floral or' foliar sucggestions, but their artistic culmintion. "Just in front of this broad window, though some ways doiwni upon the lawn, was a very curious trellis, embowered in white roses, then in profuse bloom. The trellis was so constructed, that, when the roses were in bloom, the whole re- sembledL strikingly a group of statuary; and all this consumall te art was but the exterior of a small arbor. While the abbess was de- scribing this and other things to me, a bevy of girls, dressed mostly in white, came out of the chaplel, a little to our left: they were very merry, and had a curious mixture of the decorous and volatile in their appearance. "At the samle instant, two gen- tlemen left the statuesque arbor; andl, at their approach, the girls,who were some young novices recently admlitted, huddlecd together, and seemed for a moment uncertain whether to re-einter the, chapel, or retire within the chateau. De- ciding upon the former course, they disappeared within the chap- el, - the samle where mamma and her faithful old Jean were sur- prised by Pare ,Douay's sly en- trance. '," Who are those gentleen? I asked ; for I was mnuch struck with their appearance. One wore a trfavelling siuit, and by his gaze and gestures was evidently a stranger to the place. The other, who walked a little in advance, wore an ecclesilastical dress, and had an air antd mien of very great dignity and power." "It was Pere Douoey, " exclaimed Lady Hope. '"Yes, it was Pere Douay. And I felt a strongg and wicked feeling as I gazed at hiln, when the abbess liad mentioned his name. I felt a mixture of hate and lolathing and admiration: it was positive pain; for lie did move like a prince. There was notling of the stereo- typled nmonk about hm; nothng servile, absject, or self-crucified. He was tall, and, thou(gh past mid- dlle age, as unbent as a pine. His face and figure showed him a man who knew experimentally of the good tilings, - the Church-taboed good things of this world. But I doubt not he was gifted with craft enlough to affect, without suffering, tlhe ricgors of his faith. "The longer I looked at him, the more I felt as if I must go down, and, with all my heart, chal- lenge and, repulse him; then I thought of my father wandering in the gardens, meeting perhaps this ancient foe! I told the ab- bess, very abruptly I imagine, that I must at once rejoin my father; and away I hurried, scarcely wait- ing her attendance. In the v'esti- bule, I nearly ran agaiist PNre Douey and the stranger. Both covered my impetuosity with cour- teous apologies; and then one of them immediately said, address- ing the abbess, that a gentleman was lying dead in the arbor. "She must have made some sign to them: at all events, Pere Douby came toward me. I don't know Vwhat he would have said, or whetlher he would have touched me; but I thoughht of my mother, of every thing connected with this nan's evil influence over her fam- ily and its fortunes, and I felt it as a deep exasperation of my grief, that he should tell me of my father's death. "I turned upon him as he ap- proached. At sight of my face the abbess tlhrew up her hands, and the stranger looked at me in a in a way that I shall, never for. get, though I thoughti nothing of it then. I put both hands upon Pdre Douoy's broad chest. ' Did he die as natural a death as my Uncle Louis? '" "O Aimble! did you say that?" "Yes, I did. But it was only in a whisper,' though I twanted to shout. My heart choke'd me, so I could hardly be articulate even in -whispers. As for him, he grew pale, though otherwise hIis features did not change. ' It is Lucie de Changarnier's daughter that asks you,' I'said; and then, with all my might, I pushed him back, and'ran out; but I heard the stranger say, page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] ' It is my country-woman;' and he followed me, reaching the arbor almost as soon as I did." Aime sat for a few moments in grave silence. "He was quite dead," she said at length, steadily; " lying in an easy, restful, position. One hand, in which was a cluster of the white roses, such as were my mother's first bashful gift to him, was under his cheek, and the light breeze fluttered their fragrant pet- als against his lips. You can see how there would be one thought of gladness in my grief; but of that I will say no more. "The stranger was very kind to me, and I have no doubt it was owing to the care and expedition he used that I was spared annoyance, or perhaps danger, from the priest." "You were imprudent, Aime." "But I don't repent it. I know it was imprudent, but there is solid, human satisfaction in remembering it; and I only hope the old cha- teau will echo my words to him, and haunt him continually. "Papa ]lad projected a still far- ther tour: of course it was out of the question for me, without him. I had a sufficient party; for Clara and her husband were ready to go to the ends of the earth with me : but I wanted to come home,--I was sick for home. In less than a week after papa's death; we were home- ward bound.' The stranger, with the assistance of Clara's husband, managed every thing for me in the most perfect manner, and only left our party on board vessel. He did not sail with us: he was, coming to America later. And so my father's grave is here, in his own country, by the side of my moth- er's." "And how fares it with your father's book?" asked Lady Hope after a pause. "' That, though it has been pub- lished, is yet in a kind of abeyance. It is such a fearless exposition of such a powerful system, papa expected there would be difficulty; and though a few thousand copies were sold, upon his death it was suppressed. Just how, I do not know. The publishers intimated that it did not sell well, and would be a pecuniary loss, which they did nbot wish to risk. But that was all false, as papa held him- self liable for failure. A friend- has told me that the publishers were threatened, and successfully intimidated from its further publi- cation, and that nearly all the cop- ies sold had afterward, or at the time, been bought up by a few in- dividuals who were acting merely as agents for parties who did not choose to appear in the matter. "I Nevertheless, a certain triumph attended even this suppressed pub- lication. A fews of our leading journals go't hold of it, and gave it a noble approbation. They praised its fidelity to fact, its logical pro- fundity, its manifest research, and seemed to recognize with an appre- ciation very precious to me, the pure and broad philanthropy which characterized it as a purpose and as a work. Helen, I did feel as if I wanted papa to see how some, at least, justly estimated him. o, However, it is not going to end so. The matter is now in the ,hands of one who will push it further; and papa's book shall be, heard, though it may wait a lit- tle." I amL heartily glad to hear it; for every fresh start which truth can malke, and for all brave, vigor- ous support it can obtain, I rejoice thlloroughly." "o Look at me, Helen! Tell me what you see in my face. Do you see a life-crisis impending, or a blank?" and locking her fingers, she threw back her head for the scrutiny. Lady Hope looked, hers eyes fixed, their gaze piercing. At tiines a stern shade darkened in them, but oftenest they softened, and then the light and charm in thelm was wonderful. "Yes," she answered, breaking the silence: " there is a crisis near; I should think it very near. Yet it is not- past, for your eyes are more full of expectation than of retrospection. There is'something new all through your face, not wholly baffling to me. Aime," mlore hurriedly, " what is it? You ltave come to tell me?" "Yes, I have come to tell you," said Aime slowly; "( and oh, how glad I amn you are come, at last, to )be told! AMy heart is full, and to you only can H- O Helen! you,r- true eyes will read me right- ly. You will show me to myself, you w-ill clear my doubts, you will invigorate and uplift me." She covered her drooping, blush- ing face with her hands. i, - Lady Hope laid one hand light- ly on the bowed head and golden hair. Presently Aime looked up, and began speaking again gravely, but with a curious haste, as though she qould hardly force words to the pace of her thoughts. "You know, Helen, that my Aunt Jane Lillinor is the only near relative I have left in the world; and, according to papa's wish, I re- main with her till I marry. My Aunt Russel, whom I liked exceed- ingly, died several years before papa and I went abroad. Aunt Jane is a good woman; but we are not of a kind, we don't suit. "She seems, I think, quite hap- py and comfortable, living with me; only I can see I am a constant per- plexity to her, - because - be- cause I can't make myself over after the patteres, of a mould she thinks her brother's daughter should have been run in. And it's queer too, Helen; for she complains of hin in a strain twin to her com- plaint of me. But then it's noth- ing serious ever: we get on very iwell. ! ' As I am known to be wealthy, of course I have plenty of young lady friends and young gentlemen acquaintances, and. among them are many I like very well, but not one with whom I can talk as I feel capable of talking; not one of whom I can make a friend, 'Whatever by that holy name The angels comprehend '- None whom I can take as a confi- dante, and be, as here with you, just simply myself. Papa spoiled page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] me for idle, careless living. Not but that they are as good, capable, worthy, as I am, or more so; but I do not get at them, or they do not get at me. "Then they do not seem to recog- nize the existence of some things in which I believe with all my heart. They talk as if tenderness, constancy, love, were nonsense,-- romantic sentiment; as if truth meant expediency, and fiiendship was a high-flown name for social relations, based on selfish interests, policy, and prudence. "Helen! I do not believe these things; I rebel against them: yet I see around me continually char- acters shaped by these ideas, lives manifestly guided by them; and I am disgusted and depressed. I have three things to cheer me: first, my noble father's memory, the dear, old, brave, working life I led with him; then I know that we, Helen, are friends,- I would trust you to the ends of the earth, and under any circumstances." Andcl the third?" asked Lady I-ope. "Tle third," returned Aime, flushing, but not veiling her clear eyes, "is a new friend I have found, -a man, Helen, an old man, - old compared with me. Tell me, Helen, for you are old, can the old love?" An instant rush of color envel- oped with a soft bright, flame the face of Lady Hope. Pain, sur- prise, pathos, and some strange triumph, were visible in her eyes and her trembling, tender mouth; inwrought with all, a more subtle expression, sweet, yet inexplica- ble. Aime amazed, sat silent and repentant; but the mute revela- tion, though it did not wholly vanish, became intangible, and Lady Hope spoke. "Do not reproach yourself, Aime. You surprised me; you brushed close to a secret, but you could not know. Besides, I am not offended: no other could have made the thrust and wounded me so little. Your question I will answer simply, - yes, the old can love. Another tiule I will answer you at greater length. Tell me more now of your new friend." "I must tell you, Helen, he is not only my friend, but my lover." She paused meditatively. "I will first give you the list of facts," she resumed. -Ie is the stranger of whom I have been telling you, who was so kind to mne at the con- vent, and afterward, until we sailed for America. His nanme is Robert Granger: he is fifty-two years ol(d, and is an experiencedl ma;l of the world. He has mloney and social positidn, and has been the object of matrimonial manoeu- vring. "From the very beginning of our acquaintance, he has si)ngled me out in a special anc mlarkled manner. A few weeks siiceo, he asked me to be his wife; and I toldl him, in reply, that I had one dear firiend then on the ocean, whomln I must consult before I could give any definite answer; and wlhen I told him that Lady Hope was that friend, he said, 'I am not only willing, but anxious, that you. should confide the matter to her in the fullest, freest manner. You need lkeep notliing from her that you know or think or have heard of me, or that I have told'you Iabout myself. I could not name to you a judge more competent or more pure-minded than Lady I-Hope.' "You see, Helen, I remember his exact, words; and when I asked wliat he would think if you de- cided lagainst him, he replied quite gravely, ' I1 any case, Lady lIopoe is more fit to judge for your goodl than I am, though I will not say thltt I should patiently fabide by a fiat against me.' He does not claim acquaintance or friend- ship with you, but says he has lheardl much of you, and once had the plleasure of meeting you ablro iad. Now, Helen, question nme. Your questions will Ibest find oult whiat is left untold." "At your bidcling, then, I will question you," said Lady Hope; "but I must hatve your face and your eyes turnled fairly to mnine: your eyes will have their part in your responses." "I promise to answer you," said Aimiie, smiling friankly, through her blushes, " every question you ask, and1 eyes as well as tongue shall be at 5your mercy." "Tell me, then, something you left out of your narrative of ' facts: ' do you love this man?" "Yes." "You are sure you know what love is, and, knowing, are sure you love this man?" "Quite."' And face and eyes were eloquent in affirmation. "t Will you describe him to me?" asked Lady Hope, after a brief si- lence: "I recollect him, but I would like to see how love will paint his portrait. You touched it very lightly in your account of that first meeting at the clateau." ' "You set me a task that I like very well,"'na'ively i'eplied Aimiee : my brushes are ready, and. colors mixed. He is broad and muscular, not tall, but a very good height. You smile, Helen, but I will not be abashed. I do not' think he is handsome, at least he is not called so ; but, though he looks older than lie is, he is not plain. He is good, or fine looking, rather. His hair is touched with gray; but lhe has a quantity of it, and it is dark, with an odd, wavy line running through it. His eyes are a warm shade of dark brown, very expressive, bright, and of the kind that I call-search- ing. A stern, rather than a gentle eye, yet-capable of emitting rays" - She paused an instant. "' Helen, your own eyes, at this moment, are not more kind, more sweet to look in, than his can be." "True artist!" said Lady Hope, tenderly smiling. 1' You paint con amore. You enjoy your picture as it takes shape from your fancy. Your voice caresses as softly, as it describes smoothly. I see that you spoke what you knew when you said that you loved. You love, my child,"' speaking' in "tones wherein sympathy contended with something less evident; " you love with ardor and purity: it is yet page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] for you to reveal if you love 'with your judgment. I think I can im- agine his person distinctly. What of his mind?" "His person seems to me the best expression of his mind. You will say that is true of all persons, and that it is not definite. But how shall I make it clear? It seems to me more especially expres- sive than in most cases. He is proud, but as frank as proud, and that is as evident in him when he is silent as when he speaks. "There are no concealnents about him; that is, none that would implicate his sincerity or truth in any way,; and that was one of the first things I recognized and liked in him. But he is not an open book, whom any, or many, can read; and I like that too. He has trav- elled, studied, read, and to some purpose; he is informed and ma- tured; he is courteous and gentle- manly, - somewhat rare character- istics, for which you knowI have keen appreciation." "Is his character a strong one?" asked Lady Hope. "You aver brilliant endowments, but have you discovered any welaknesses?". "Yes, to both questions," an- swered Aime ingenuously. "I think he is strong in many ways, noble ways too; but he has some weaknesses, perhaps many, but I mean I know of some." "You shall first give me the sum of his strength." "You look at lme more brightly than you did, Helen: I shall take it that my lover is meeting with your approval." "Your account is, on the whole, a prepossessing one," was the smil- ing reply; " but the verdict is not yet in." "In the first place," Aime went on, "he looks- strong. There is not a weak line in his face ; and faces de not lie, though eyes may read mistakingly. Then I read the signs of strength in what he avorvs, as in what he conceals, and "-- with an utterance more soft and shy -"h;is strength is somletling which I feel as well as discern. It is communicated to me in his pres- ence. I feel that kind of reliance and trust which cdoes not wountd self-reliance, and which answers na- turally and spontaneoulsy to trust- worthiness; and is not trustworthi- ness the best kind of strength?" "Yes," earnestly responded La- dy Hope: " to be trustwortly is certainly to be stroncg, with a strength which comprehends the highest types of couraoe, sweet- ness, and truth. If you estimate him correctly, your reasoning is faultless; but the weaknesses?" "Those I can make more palpa- ble to you; and do you know I am1 glad he has some, else where would be my kinship with him? Yet," she added seriously, " thougll so far away from it, I like to imaginle, and try for or toward the best, the highest.' And am I not right to believe, to expect, thiat we shall help each other forward? Weak- ness number one, or the one I first noticed, is his temper. It is not a gentle temper. He can be unjust- ly, bitterly angry ( and, at such mo- ments, he can hurl words from his lips, and sparks from his eyes, in a very hot fashion. But he is very quickly over it, my grave Helen; and his sense, of justice is keen, as his temper is warm. ;I see you think this is a weakness, but he strives with it bravely; besides, Helen," she added archly, "I have reflected that my own temper is particularly placable, and I think self-control is one of my character- istics; do not you?" "That you understand and man- age, Aime, very well, I will ad- mit," said Lady Hope: '"but you are not inane or phlegmatic ; you are sensitive, and your temper is not lamb-like. How, if ' words' and 'sparks' were hurled at you?" "I s1hall hope they will not be." "i But if they are?" persisted Latdy Hope. \ "Then I will try, by being mis- tress of myself, to help him to be master of himself. - Loving each other as we do, is it an impossible realization?" 4; Indeed, no," said Lady Helen, looking with admiration into the proud young face, the lovely ques- tioning eyes humid with emotion: "I can conceive it to be an easy task, an exceedingly pleasant, per- fectly possible attainment. -"Yet experience destroys the bright picture with equally possible shladows. If only all depended on you; but I will not croak. Your soul is not one to I fear its fate too nluchll.' "Shall I tell you?" she added, after a pause: " yes, I will tell you what I thought when you put your last question. Yours is one of the most purely intellectual faces I ever saw, Aim4e. In repose it is thought and refinement itself; just now, when you looked at me, I wished that I was an artist, a master, to paint you well. In your face, intellectuality and love were as one thing, an ideal combination rarely realized. It is seldom that a face even hints it. In yours it was not a hint, it was a revelation. And these two, Aime " (in a voice that gathered earnestness and im- pressiveness), " these two, intellec- tuality and love, though so many blindly judge them to be incompati- ble, are mnates. Nature unites them; and, once wedded, nothing, can divorce them. Each commu- nicates to the other the elements of imperishability." Lady Hope paused; and her eyes had a look, solemn, far away, and not easily penetrable. Aime waited for the look to return to her, and then said, smiling queer- ly, - "' It is pleasant to have my two dearest friends so kindly agreed about me." "So my comments are second- hand: your Robert has said the same thing to you? Well, I am not surprised. To have been wor- thy to attract you, he must have been deep enough to see, and fond enough to have uttered, a truth so manifest. Does the list of weak- nesses begin and end with one?" "I think I have told the worst, Helen; he has others. He has some vanity, though I would rather call it a proper consciousness of his page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] capacities. He is, at least he says he is, selfish. I cannot say, but I have known him act unselfishly. He is peculiar: I have turned but few leaves in the book of his life; but I have seen that on some there is dark writing, - yet I do not shrink, because I think him essen- tially true." "A good anchor- for faith," said Lady Hope attentively; ' but,. Aim(ee, has he told you the princi- pal facts or acts of his life? and of what cllaracter are they?" Aime dropped her head: it was but for an instant. "I cannot answer this as fully as you would wish," she said, "be- cause I have not yet listened to many details. He speaks harshly of himself and his past life. He would have told me every thing, if I had let him. But such pain andt shame and sadness came in his face, that I could not bear to look on it; and I stopped him before he could begin. ' You should know, I must tell you, it is rilght,' he per- sistedl: but I replied, ' It is not for what you have been, but for what you are, thhat I love you ; for what you are in yourself, and for what you are to mle.'" "And did he leave it there?" "No," cried Aimeae: "h le said, ' You must know before I will take answer. Fearing to lose your love minght make a coward of me, but that it is impossible to cheat your generosity. If you come to me, it must be after your pure eyes have read the soiled pages of a life, not giftless, but in many senses wasted. Then if you can pardon, trust, love '- And O Helen! if I had never cared for him before, I should have loved him then, when I saw the love and the eacer trium- phant light burnincg up through the humiliation and regret in his eyes." "4 He is right!" exclaimed Lady Hope emphatically: "I honor lhm for it; and, where there is room to honor, there is hope 'for every thing. Do not check him, when he next attempts to open the past to you. Let him reveal all: no matter how painful, it is best. Do you not see, that, because his sense of honor pushes him to the avowal, he will rise in making it? ]Besides, to know his past, to walk with him, through the retrospect of his temptations, weaknesses, strutgles, will be to understand sides of his nature, and phases of his character, that would otherwise eventually baffle and torment you because you have not the clew. "-lThrough a knowledge of his past, youlwill hold keys to all his future. Happy for you both, that lie chooses, trustingly, to put these keys in your hands! And you have little idea how many contill- gencies- may arise which will be powerless to pain you, if your knowledge of the past is as com- prehensive as your confidence is entire, but which might break your peace, and destroy your hap- piness, if his revelations had not prepared you." c"But I am willing to take him for what he is," urged Aimbe, "in spite of the past; and to ask of that past, would seem to be wish- ing that he should humble himself to me." ,4 Listen!" said Lady Helen im;r pressively. "Let him tell you all. Let not tenderness or false delicacy check one detail of the recital. Do this. Hereafter you will re- joice. It will build up a faith between you that nothing can as- sail. Do you not wish to know him as he is, to love him for what he is, not for an unbased, untested fancy, that intimacy would dispel, leaving you wretched? His past is in his present. What he has been is woven with what he is. Yet I think you need not fear. "There are some loathsome vices to which society is wont to lend the gloss of silence; when to ignore them, is to encourage them. I have lived to learn, that the world regards no woman as too pure, too fair, to fitly accept for a husband a man whose life and en- ergies have been wasted in sensual indulgences, in licentious excesses, if only he can endow her with wealth and position. It is thought to be an even barter, a fair ex- change. You, AimBe, must not give yourself to such a fate. "Yet my judgment shall not be harsh or one-sided. I know that the whiteness of victorious experience is pu rer than the white- ness of untried innocence; pos- sibly his -recital may reveal to you some of that purer whiteness. If he has sinned and repented, through repentance he has risen. If he has been tempted, and has conquered, through conquering he has laid hold of strength; and 10 : strength so attained makes clean a hand that was polluted.' "' We think an infant's .soul is pure ; but such purity has no com- parison with the stainlessness of a soul, which, having sinned and seeing the smirch, cleanses itself through the resolution of suffer- ing." "I feared," said Aime, after a thoughtful pause, 4' that you would not understand how I should love a man so much older. Every one seems to wonder, and I believe mercenary motives are imputed to, both of us." "No," said Lady Hope. "I am not in the least surprised." "Are you sorry? Do you wish it were otherwise?" "I cannot say," with gentle se- riousness. "My wishes and feel- ings are hardly defined to myself. At the first glance, it would seem more usual, more natural, that some 'younger man should have won your love. It would seem that youth should mate with youth. You are now nearly twenty. When you are fifty, in the prime of middle age, ten years younger than I am now, he, if living, will be eighty-two. In a great major- ity of cases, to be eighty-two is to be helpless, imbecile." Lady Helen paused; but Aimbe remaining silent, she resumed,- "Young as you are, Aime, you are thoughtful, reflective. You have considered these very possibil- ities of which I speak. Tell me what answer you have brought to, them." And, in the face of the querist, page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] some complex feeling was appar- ent. "Hear my answer!" exultantly cried Aimbe ; and, turning more fully upon her companion eyes whose soft deptlhs were lit and beaming, she repeated, evidently from some cherislhed emory,-- "' No soul can die. It may sink, but it must rise. It may seemz lost, but it will be found. It thinks and loves; and these things preserve, expand, perfect it. Lilce tlought and love, it is imperishable. What I love is not the b)ody, though the body is dear because of what I love. I love a soul. If fate, mllis- chance, or age shalKl cloud this soul, or veil it from me, shall I folrget this soul is in that' cloud, behind that veil? 'Shall patience be too small, and time too great, To yait the ligli unfolding of its fate? Because the present hour is overcast, Shall memory fiail to tell mle of the past? Shall gloom I cannot pierce, or bars I can- not rend, Teach me that basest lesson, to forret a friend? Nay! Tlough thy framle is worn with years lwhose lengthened roll Smites with the sadd(est silence thy illm- prisoned soull:. Yet do I love, remenzbering; and await the day, When from thyl livilng soul, true mate to minle, Touched' by the tender hand of Love di- ville, Its brittle cell of dust shath, crumbling, fall awav.'" Before Aillmee concluded, Lady Helen hadl buried her face in her hands, and now she did not change the attitude or speak. Her breath- q. ing was irregular and labored like that of one in pain. 4"Dear . Helen, what have I done?" asked Aime anxiously. Lady Helen dropped her hands, and, taking those of Aime in a trembling grasp, exclaimed, "Where did you find what 3o7u have repeated? Of whom did you learn it?" 4c Why, it was among the books you sent me! Was it not meant for me to see?" "I am glad it fell into your hands. No: it was not intended for any eyes ; not that ithllas impor- tance :for any one, but it was the expression of private personal feel- in, and oJne does not like such thin"gs exposed. Aimne, have you tlhe papler? Have you kept it?" "Of course I kept it. I keeD every scra p I get frolm you, and I liked this so muchll "- "You have not shown it, you will not show it; and you will de.- stroy it, or return it to me?" asked Lady Hope eagerly. -"If you wish it, yes; but may I not colpy it into my own hand? I hlave shown it only to Roobert, Land I will not show it again." "You showed it to Robert! What did he say?" "I remember -now tihat his re- mark was a singular one. He rea1l it twice, the second tilme thought- fully,and said he would have at- tributed those lines to you, no nmat- ter where he mi ght have found themn or who mighlt have claimed them." And Aimlee looked inlquiringly; Jbut Iady Helen's only answer was a peculiar, half-checked smile. "Helen!" after a short pause, "you. haven't told me if the an- swer is a good one." c It would not be an aniswerL tlhat all could safely- make: all would not feel the truth that is in it, or be equal1 to the strain of liv- ill, 1 up to that truth," said Lady lejle] slowly thlnd gravely. lltBt, Ainmde, there is truth in it; and thlere are souls that have lived such truth. I xyill not say your soul is not sucli an one. It is an utmost test of love; yet to real love what test is great?" Slie paused, with the fair-off look tliat so qftcn canme in her eyes; thcln she resluned, with mnuch ear- lnesthess alnd deliberation, -- - "Yet in such cases, while one r \waits the elancilpation which death alon-e canl bring, thlere are the inex- pr 1e-ssible sweet stores of memolry: a faiithlful heart can live oin such recollections. And beyond death is, we kinolw, firuition, culminatioln, the futhless of recoimpense e" "Helen!" after a lushed mo- mlellt or t wo, 'lwhat a life you. must liave lived I I am not imper- tinenlt, not seeling to know ; but the thougtht is at times so forced uto()l iii. When you are speak- illg, you often look as if your eyes to(uthced remote distances. From this 1room and all that is in 'it, c'vcnAimele, you seeml quite rapt awayl, and your voice grows mlore' pelletraltillg, as if you thoughllt to be heard by one far off." "We do not know," -said Lady lHope, pursuing her thoughts in the same absorbed manner, - "we do lnbt know what we can do till we , attempt, what we can resist till - we are tried, what we can endure till our burdens find our shoulders. * Faith, courage, love, and hope are strong' within you. They kilindle your eye, and hurry your pulses. You are ready to dare the battle of life; you are almost ready to invite trial and suffering, that you 1ay taste the victories of which you feel so sure; and,- Aime, you are young," - -with a tender, com- passionate accent. "Ah! I re- member how it seemed to be young!" "Would you hlave me then wAholly distrust myself?" with a troubled gaze. "No, no!" was the earnest re- ply,: still trust yourself; but, if you would have this trust prove a sufficient safeguard, found it se- curely, instead of taking it for granted; then you may -act fear- lessly, and be able to trust yourself to the end." "In some lives, Aime, there come hlours, crises, so unlooked for, fi'aughlt w\ith] complications so un- precedented, tlihat .even the soul that has truly measured its powers, and kept 1,ure faith with itself, c1an barely meet the test, and tlhat throuogh struggle so fierce that its triumlphl is a treumblilg one. If such nmoments find a soul un"guard- ed, faith, hope, love, and truth itself, are whelhned and swept away, as without the warning of fan instanit." It was upon pale, but earnest and lofty features that Aime looked, when she again quoted, softly and questioningly, "' No page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] soul can die: it may sink, but it must rise; it may seem lost, but it will be found.'" "That is true, Aime. I thank God I can feel it to be true; but it is better not to sink so far that one can only rise through dis- may. and anguish inconceivable, and through self-doubtings which are in themselves humiliations." After one of those long silences which friends feel free to keep or break at will, Aime said,- "When I told you that I feared you would think it strange I should care for a man so much older than myself, you said you were not sur- prised at all; yet you say it is not the most natural thing to expect." "But you are not usual," re- turned Lady Helen: "yours is an exceptional case. Your father was a remarkable man, - a genius, though not a widely appreciated one. You are emphatically his child: you were his pet always, but his companion and confident also. The care, affection, and companionship of such a man, valuable to any one, has been priceless to such a nature as yours. Then his few intimate friends were men and women of his stamp, and with these you have been thrown from infancy. Your nurture has been peculiarly suited to you; your education has been liberal, extensive even. It is not difficult to see why most young men should fail to attract a woman of your maturity. . I am not speak- ing scornfully of young men; but not one young man in a thousand would be at all suited to you. There would be too great disparity in gifts and in cultivation." "Well, Helen," said Aime, after a pause, the warm light deepening in. her eyes, " you have not yet told me what you think of my lover." "I will admit that your judg- ment seems to have had some voice in your choice; but," smiling, ' I shall want to see and hear andc know more, before I commit imy- self. Some things you have told me, please me very much: you have seen that, your eyes have held mine in inquisition. But, Aime, you look very meek: you ask my advice, and are as deferen- tial and sincere as heart could wish; how if finally I should disapprove, tell me, would you give up your lover?" Aime pondered a few moments, then said, "If you could not ap- prove, I should be unhappy aborlt it, - I should really; but, Helen, I'm quite sure I do not mean to give him up." Lady Helen's only reply was a laugh, full of merry sarcasm; and, after a puzzled moment, Aime heartily joined her. "Droll, isn't itf? Seeking ad- vice one is certain to disregard if it is unfavorable." "6 It is the way with three-quar- ters of the advice giving and tak- ing in this world." "But, at least, I value yours, Helen, enough to earnestly wish it may be favorable." "I know, I understand; and I do you no injustice. You and Robert both must come and see me often: you I shall look for daily. Let us return as nearly as we can into the old pleasant routine we fell into abroad. What is it, Mary?" to the maid who handed hler a card. '"Admit him: it is 1Mr. Granger, Aime." "Yes he said he would call for me," returned Aime ; and imme- diately she began blushing fierily, as she had not in all her talk about him. Lady Hope rose, and went for- ward to meet her visitor; Aime following slowly, and pausing just behind her friend. The description which Aime had given, though so likely to be partial, was even less than a faith- ful portrait of the man who now stood before them; since it scarcely prepared one for a face so distin- guished, or a presence so stately. Not tall, yet with a bearing that was commanding, without being too self-conscious, and with fea- tures striking in themselves, and harmonizing singularly with the character they revealed, resulting in a tout-ensemble that could well dispense with the hues and out- lines of youth. Bending his head to her, the light which Aime had said made his eyes " sweet to look in " shone upon her; but the impassioned ray vanished as his eye met Lady Hope's. "I am sincerely glad to meet you again, Mr. Granger," said Lady Helen, giving him her hand; "feel- ings of a very tender interest to moe," glancing meaningly at Aime, "attend this resuming of an ac- quaintance formed - formed under strange circumstances; " and the look the two exchanged arrested Aime's wondering attention. "t I trust, Lady Hope," returned Mr. Granger in a heavy, musical bass, "' that one sad recollection will not irrevocably prejudice you against me. I desire, I entreat, the honor of a renewed acquaintance with you;" and, relinquishing her hand, he drew Aime's within his arm. He had spoken with stress, and with sincere deference and courte- sy; but Lady Heler merely, bowed in reply, and with an air of ab- sence and perplexity amounting to confusion. There was an in- stant's awkward pause, when Lady Helen, recollecting herself, raised her eyes, and, smiling frankly, said, - "You must excuse me, Mr. Granger, and you too, Aime. I mean no affront, no incivility; yet I must confess to an inhospita- ble pre-occupation that looks like both: you will forgive it in a friend," emphasizing the word, with a gentle glance at-Mr. Gran- ger, " and I will make all the amends in my power. Come, you shall remain to lunch with me." "No," said Aime quickly: ' I have been with you ever so long, and talked you most to death, and Robert shall punish me by taking me away at once." "Punish you!" echoed Lady Hope, smiling. - Perhaps Lady Hope will join us in our ride," suggested Mr. Granger to Aime. page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] "' Thank you;, not to-day," said Lady Hope, as Aime seconded the invitation. "You forget," she added, turning more especially to Aimede, and flushing curiously as she spoke, "my invalid is with me, and I leave'but very seldoin, - and then for a little while at a time."' "Oh, that dear old gentleman, with the beautiful face, - really beautiful, Robert, - and the long- est, whitest beard I ever saw! but I thought - I heard " "Yes," replied Lady Helen; "he was worse for a time. He is so feeble, I do not wish to leave him," glancing at the closed door of an adjoining room. "You will let me see him when I come again, won't you?" said Aimre. "I do want to show him to Robert." "Yes, I think so, if it is best; if he seems able." And Lady Hope spoke so wearily, 'that Mr. Granger drew Aime away. * "Come," said lie gently: "I think your friend is tired." Aime, looking searchingly at Lady Helen, seemed for 'the first time struck with a certain change in her. "Helen, I believe you are not well: youa do not look well Or strong as you did abroad." Lady Helen smiled, a very tenl der smile, as Aime bent to re- ceive her kiss; then she turned, and with the lovely expression still lighting her features, and giv- ing her hand to Mr. Granger, said so softly that he only caught the words, - "My friend, you' shall be wel- come for her sake: I hope you will merit to be so for your own." He bowed, returning her gaze with one as steady, serious, and almost as gentle. He was about to reply; but, reading more in- tently the expression of her face, he simply said "Good-by;" and they were gone. PART SIXTH. AIMEllE'S LOVER. I will cding to the hand of the angel of Good, Till the demons of Evil are slain; 1 w-ill strive. ts mlen strive oil a field of blood, To sh;tteur the fillc?, and shelter the true: Thus8 will 1 strive, O Love I tO ward you, Made patient and pure through pain. "OM II, here you arL l'I sai( Miss Jane Lillinor, bIrealkinr in upcn the 'solitude wlvich Ailnme h1ad been quietly enjoying,. "I've been looking for you this whole blessed mornin;. I've been throughl this very room three times if I have once; and I dare to say ,you have been curled up in that great ark of a clair all the time." "TFatteuil, auntie," said Aime demurely. "Well, I call it a chair, and an arlk at that!' exclaimed Miss Lilli- nor. "What's the use of giving it that outlandish name? I don't know French,- never did, - and don't want to: it's a miserable, unsatis;factory, unfinished, shiftless sort of lingo, in my opinion. Pho- tool!" taking breath with a dis- dainful sniff. "Won't you sit down, auntie?" softly inquired the niece. "Well, I rather think I shall: you don't suppose I've been hunting you up all this while for nothing; and if you'd just as soon get your- self out of that snarl, and put your feet on the floor, like other young ladies, it would suit me better, and I should have some hopes of get- ting mny ideas into talking order. Where on earth you contrive to put your legs and feet, so as to make such a little heap of yourself, I can't imagine; but I'm certain of one thing, - it will ruin your con- stitution and your shape if you don't break yourself of it. What do you suppose your stomach "- "I suppose it is, or ouglht to be, very well content," said Aime, "for it had a delightful breakfast this morning. The toast was of a heavenly brown, the coffee baffles description, and the muffins - ah, when I recall them I'm speeeh- less!'"- "Then I wish you had some more of them now," ejaculated Miss Lillinor grimly: ( the effect of memory is not as strong as I could wish." Aime smiled, checked the smile with a yawn, covered, the yawn with a tress of bright hair and a white hand, then rising, and gently shaking herself, assumed, with a lazy grace, the lady-like position 151 page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] her aunt had requested. Slightly 8 bending her head with saucy defer- ence,- "Permit me to placate my be- loved household Penates," she be- gan - "' Stuff and nonsense!" snorted Aunt Jane: '"I've come to talk, and not to fiddle-faddle." "Dear aunt," replied Aime, "I only wanted to compliment you; but, unlike the rest of our sex, you have no vanity, and I must subdue my enthusiasm. I have changed the position which you thought unsuited to young lady- hood, and I am now ready to give you the most absolute attention." "You are a very good sort of girl when you choose to be," said Aunt Jane, with less acerbity: " it really is a pity," she added, scan- ning her niece, '" that you should be so full of oddities; for instance, when you have ally thing to say, if you could only talk right straight along, in a plain, common-sense way, so that I could understand you,--but no: every thiing must be wrapped up in no end of words, till I'm downright bewildered." Aimbe raised her hands in comic dleplecation, but kept silence, with laughing eyes. GrAfter all," resumed her aunt, "I suppose I ought not to blame you: you are just like your fatier. Paul never was sensible with me three minutes at a time in his life. He alwayt made me feel that lie was laughingc at me, though I nev- er, for the life of me, could tell why; for he was plausible enough, and I cannot say but that. he was always polite and kind, Yes: he was a very good brother, consider- ing; but mortal odd and perplexing, there's no denying that." Aime raised her eyes to the picture under which her aunt was sitting,- a portrait of Paul Lilli- nor, simply the head and shoulders, life-size, faithful as a likeness, ex- quisite as a painting. When her eyes fell, the soft dancing light that had made them so merry had vanished: they seemed darker and more steady, as she again turned them upon her aunt. The change, though slight, was yet so palpable that Miss Jane Lillinor quickly perceived it. She was not a timid or sensitive woman, but she stood in unconfessed awe of her niece; and while treating her, in general, with the greatest freedom, trusting to the elastic, enduring good-nature which Aimeo uniformly main- tained, yet- Miss Lillinor observed, without at all comprehending, the approach of moods in which Aimce was neither to be trifled with nor encroached upon. To these moods, Miss Lillinor offered that tribute of deference instinctively paid by an inferior nature to a superior. "You are so good at guessing, I suppose you know well enough what I want to speak to you about?" questioned Aunt Jane in a doubtful tone. "I have not the slightest idea," returned Aimue,; "only I can see this much, aunt, that it is something you think- will be disagreeable to me, or you would not be so long coming to it." "Well, I never did shirk any thing I thought to be my duty," said Aunt Jane, with an air of braced resignation; " and I do think I ought to speak to you about this : who is to talk to you, or set you right when you are wrong, if I don't?-all the near relation you have got in the world. Dear, dear! in my young days, an own aunt was thought to be of more account than - " "If you please, aunt," inter- rupted Aime, "you grow porten- tous faster than I grow patient." "Considering all the talk there is about them," blurted out Aunt Jane, "don't you think you are too intimate with "- Aime leaned forward, no longer negligent. "With whom?" she asked ab- ruptly. "Now, don't get excited," cried' Aunt Lillinor. "You know, my dear niece, I only ask you for your own good, --for your own good, my dear,-aand I don't say you are. I only ask you if you don't think you are a little too intimate with - with that lady, - that strange English woman who is stopping at the Clavering House, - her name is gone from me? and don't you think you see too much of that oldish gentleman, who comes here so often lately?" "These two persons of whom you wish to speak to me," said Aime slowly, but in a particularly clear voice, ' are named respec- tively, Lady Helen Hope and Hon. Robert Granger. You know nothing about them. However, I will hear what you have to say, since you speak from what you conceive to be a sense of duty." "I wish, my dear," said Aunt Jane deprecatingly, "that you could take a bit of advice, now and then, instead of being so set in your own way: it is so im- portant for a young woman, with your brilliant prospects, to form only desirable acquaintances; but you are so unsuspecting, my dear, and so headlong in -your friend- ships: if you happen to take a fancy, you do not seem to care who a person is, or where they come from, or what their reputa- tion is: and you drive and walk and exchange visits with them, never thinking what may be said; though I will say this much for that Lady Hope, she seems to know better than to attempt to come here." "Will you explain to me pre- cisely what you mean?" said' Aime, drawing her breath with a haste at variance with the meas- ured tone in which she spoke. "If you are as ignorant as you seem," returned her aunt with some irritability, " it must be your own fault; for every one is talking about it, and wondering at you for taking so much notice of her." "' Every one,' generally means some one in particular," said Aimbe ; " and ' it' is an indefinite subject: you will have to be more explicit." "Mrs. Lane was here only yes- terday," Aunt Lillinor replied. "You know the Lanes are first- class people, and would be likely to know the truth; and she quite page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] frightened me by what she said. She begged me to use my influence with you; and said, that though all who knew you admired you, and were ready to make great allowances for your youth and inexperience, still, it was likely to be very prejudicial to your reputation and prospects, if your name was constantly coupled with that of a titled adventuress, an outcast from good society, as everybody knew Lady Hope was." e Aimefe had sat so quietly, with drooped eyelids, that her aunt was encouraged to speak more freely than she would sometimes have ventured to do. "Did Mrs. Lane mention any definite cause why Lady Hope merited social condemnatioll?" asked Aime, toyin(g with the tassels of her morningc-robe. "She says it's no secret that she has for years lived openly with her paramour, in defiance of all decen- cy; and that she came to this country trusting that evil report would not follow her so far, and hoping to be received for some- thing better than she was. And Mrs. Lane says that her guilty lover followed her, or came with her, and that he was taken ill there at the hotel, in Lady Hope's own rooms, and could not be removed; and so it has all come out, just as such evil doings ought to." "And. because of these things, which you have heard, and which you tell so glibly,?" said Aimoe, now raising eyes which literally flamed, "6 you would have me turn my back upon her, as the rest of the kind and virtluous do." She rose, stretching her arms before her, lacing her fingers, and turning the palms of her hands outw'ard, an attitude which she habitually assumed when roused, -and roused she was, as her whole figure attested, erect, de- fiant, scornful, with a sort of in- dicnant shudder trembling through her, a visible tumult heaving her lovely bosom. ," Aunt, I have listpened as pa- tiently as ever you could desire to this vile scandal. If lmy thoughts could take effect, that gossiDiur woman who has, filled your head with these abominable lies would this moment be Jiterally lulver- ized." She paused pantinglly, then hur- ried on, never once raisingll her voice, but speaking with a, contin- ual increase. of concentration and rapidity, - "If I could bring myllself to do it, I might abuse Mrs. La1ne in kind, as she has vituperated that loveliest of women ; but she is not worth it, nor will I stoop to requite her meanness, but I will set you right. And, oh, I feel ashalmedto think any one belonging to me hlas lent an ear to such cruel, baseless calumnies! Prejudiced as you are, I think you would only need to see Lady Hope face to face, to feel in your inmost heart ashamed of your credulity, and to feel that nothing impure could be truly spoken of her. It is true she has differences with some of ,her relations; but, if that be in itself a sufficient foundation for slander, l,1io shall escape? People in faimi- lies are as different, and as often unconrenial, as people outside of relationship. 4"The sick gentleman whom she is nursing has been for years an invalid, and for a long time has beeii under her care. I don't know that lie is or is not related to her. I don't care to know : it is enough that I know her. Her paramnour! It exhausts my pa- tience to but think of the word in connection with her! If pity, charity, purity, do not rise up in defence of this lonely woman, a stralnger and a foreigner, why, common sense should - overtur'n such reports. The poor gentle- man has been for years an inmbe- cile, and almost absolutely help- less.. If ever again Mrs. Lane says a word to you against Lady Hope, tell her from me, that it is the privilege of the pure to be- lieve in the existence of purity, and that I heartily wish her the enjoyment of that privilege." Aime walked the length of the room once or twice, and then came back to her aunt, who sat in para- lyzed silence. "Aunt, if Mrs. Lane, if any- body or everybody, slandered you, and tried to injure you, and to wain me against you "- "Dear me!" ejaculated Miss Lillinor, in some alarm. "Would you think I ought to turn against you, and cast you off, because others did? Would you expect it of me?" "But I am your own aunt," be- gan Miss Lillinor, dimly seeing the drift of the question. "Yes; and my own friend is my own friend," cried Aime. Be sure I would not desert you thourgh the world pointed scorn at you, but be also sure I will not de- sert the sweetest firiend woman ever had. It is your great excuse that you do not know Lady Hope. I will not attempt to describe her; but I would cheerfully forego my acquaintance with the whole list of fashionables who flatter me as an heiress, rather than lose one tithe of the love and the pure guiidance which Lady Hope's fiiendship gives me. I value a pure name, but a pure character still more; and of the latter no one can rob me: it is in my own keep- incg; and if to love LadlyHope-, and cherish her friendship, was to yield up my good name, I would do it without a moment's hesitancy. Do you believe me?" Aime bent toward her aunt an indomitable face, over whose pale- ness the soft glow of some strong resolve was slowly rising. ," Yes, I believe you," said the aunt reluctantly. "Paul was des- perately wilful,- there was no turning him; and you are as like as two peas." "Then," said Aime, " you will see how useless it must be to malign Lady Hope to me, and will spare yourself the trouble, and me the pain. Such power and influence as I have in society, I will use ,as effectually as may be to put down these shameless rumors. I will page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] certainly try, and I think I may hope to succeed." She began walking the room slowly, with drooped head, then, turning again to her aunt:- "You have not performed your whole duty," she said with a slight smile; " you mentioned Mr. Gran- ger?" "Dear me! I had almost for- gotten," cried Aunt Lillinor; "you quite put it out of my head, with your " - "Passion, auntie, speak out! I am quite willing to own I have been, still am, in a passion; but then I haven't hurt you ; I never hurt you, auntie. I have kept it all here and here," laying her hand lightly, first on her eyes, and then on her bosom; " though I gave it a little freedom, a justifiable license here," touching her lips. "I don't know as it will be of any use to say any more to you," began the aunt, fixing a very per- plexed gaze on her niece. "Courage! auntie who never shirked a duty; " and the speaker's lip curled with an unmirthful smile., "Well, they say that Mr. Gran- ger," began Aunt Jane- "'They say' is Mrs. Lane, is it not?" interrupted Aime. "1 Mrs. Lane told me," said Aunt Jane; "but she says everybody says just the same,--that Mr. Granger's no better than he should be; that he is not so rich as people suppose; and that he is well known to be a regular Lovelace, -though dear knows what that is, but I am sure it is something very terrible, by the way she looked." "I can imagine her look exact- ly," muttered Aimnee, with the ut- most disdain. "She is one of those persons who can make their eyes speak as foully as their tongues." "But, my dear Aime, you must consider," entreated her aunt: "Mrs. Lane says that they say he is too familiar with Lady Hope now that her -her friend is sick; and that he boasts that he knew her very intimately abroad, and that"- "Stop!" exclaimed Aime: ." I will not hear another word, now nor ever." She unclasped her trembling fingers, and buried them deeply in the velvet of the chair by which she paused. "Never repeat to me another word that odious woman says: if you do, I will personally forbid her my house. No wonder that a woman who sees a Lovelace in every man she meets is incapa- ble of comprehending the exist- ence of Clarissas among women. Aunt, it is a mystery to me how you can listen to such a creature," she continued, speaking more gen- tly, yet with emphasis: "if she could bring proofs, in black and white, of all she alleges, it would still be unpalatable enough; but to ramble about, unearthing all kinds of rumors, with such a relish for the filthiest! An idle, careless gossip is unbearable enough; but this woman is incarnate malice, diligently spreading scandal, and then watching greedily for others to reap the harvests of misery she sOWS." :'My dear Aime, how dread- fully you do run -on!" cried Miss Lillinor aghast: " why, I never saw any harm in Mrs. Lane; she likes to talk, but so do " - ,' Aunt, you don't discriminate," returned Aime: "you mistake Mrs. Lane for a gossip merely. A careless tongue is bad enough - the harm it can do and the pain it is sure to give are great; but when the tongue is animated by a heart full of malice, and petty jealousies and envies, low motives and a cor- respondingly low gauge of the inotives of others, then the harm accruing is not to be calculated. No single engine of destruction ever invented bears any compari- son, in its capacities for mischief and suffering, with a tongue that is glib with malice." She paused a moment, her face austere, her eye indignant. "Poor aunt,"' she .resumed, "you seem horrified: it is because you do not understand. I do not hold your views of many things; we cannot think together; we must be content to disagree, as we cer- tainly do very widely, only I can- not consent to heair this sort of thing again, - the anger and the disgust all together really make me feel ill. My dear aunt," half kneelingc and taking Miss Lillinor's hand, " you must consider your duty in this respect done for all time. Lady Hope is my dearest friend; her friendship is in every way an honor to me: and as for Mr. Granger," her face and voice softening, "he does come here rather often I confess; but then as I invite him, and rather like to have him come, what can you ex- pect? And that makes me think he will be here this evening to spend a good long time with me. I shall receive him in my library, and see him alone. If only your friend Mrs. Lane knew of this, you would be assured of my elopement or abduction before morning." "I wish Paul were alive to look after you," cried her aunt, in some distress; "but then there would only be two of you." "' I shall go now," said Aimoe, 6" and order the horses for a drive; and, if human eloquence can avail, I shall persuade my Helen to ac- company me, and if I can find Mr. Granger anywhere," with a roguish laugh, "I will beseech him to join us, and then I will pass and repass the windtows of that Mrs. Lane "- "Dear, dear!" exclaimed the poor aunt, quite helplessly. "4 Don't you be distressed," re- turned Aime less mockingly: " it is very plain to me, auntie, that you haven't more than two pair of eyes. Why, if I offered the fourth seat to her, she would accept it delightedly: she would fawn upon Lady Hope, and coquet with Mr.' Granger, in the most fulsome man- ner. She is a wily snake, auntie; and you are as dear, good, in- nocent, unsuspecting turtle-dove. Really, aunt, you can trust me," still sweetly, but with added dig- nity. "I shall do nothing either wrong or absurd; but I shall not give up my friends, and I will yet teach that woman a lesson. Be- sides, you ought to like Mr. page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] Granger if only from motives of gratitude: for I assure you he is quite struck with you; at any rate, he has hinted to me that he should consider it an honor to be on more intimate terms with you."' Aime stooped, and, giving her aunt a hasty kiss, left that good lady in a state of comical bewilder- ment. Some hours later, Aime, still in her riding-dress, though she had been some minutes returned from her drive, entered her aunt's apartment, and, laying a bundle in her lap,- ("You have a weakness for pur- ple and fine linen, auntie," she said.. "Here is no purple, but linen enough to keep you making collars, cuffs, and chllemisettes for a twelvemonth to come, and of a distractingly delicAte texture and finish. Ali!"- walking the room in excited yet inward soliloquy, scarcely heeding the voluble thanks with which her aunt was examin- incg her linen present. Ah!" she thought, "1I met that woman, and I gave her the lesson I said she should have. Still, triumph, a just, a righteous triumph, the sense of purity vindi- cated, of innocence established, of evil thwarted, seem just at this moment scant recompense for the intense unpleasantness, the sense of internal turmoil, I have under- gone. I do so loathe the nature of this woman. I lhave a sort of con- sciousness that I oulght to pity-her. Charity alnd compassion remind me that I cannot know how this na- ture came about; through what channels of misguided thought and f abnormal feeling; through what 3 hidden complication of sources the , stream of life flowed to the incar- L nation of an individuality so de-, s testable to me. But I am so personal in my feelings, I can do r nothing by halves. I abhor only, I where I should also pity. I am ready to crush, because of evil, in- 'ste ad of to uplift in hope of good. I O father! beloved, dear friend of all my life," pausing before his picture, her heart thrilled with im- passioned memories, "if you were but still with me! Futile regret, ceaseless longing, profound loneli- ness, fill the place you left vacant; yet I think you must still love, still sometimes think of, your daughlter: you loved me not so long, ,so ten- derly, to soon forret me, even in the joys of perfect emancipation. I can but repent of error, stlive to conquer faults I so plainly see in myself, and through repentance and self-abasement press on to better things. Born and brougllt up' under preciselythe same circum- stances, should I have been any better thhan this woman whom I am so heartily despisinog?" "Goodness sakes, Aime," scaid Aunt Lillinor at last, looking up from her linen, "you do not ap- pear to have heard a word I have been saying to you: I have been thanking you over and over again; it really is a most generous pres- ent." "I knew itf would please, andl you know you are welcome," re- turned Aime, approaching heI aunt; adding abruptly, "As you will be likely to hear of it in other ways, and as I am the best author- ity, I may as well tell you, auntie, that I met Mrs. Lane." SLANDER REPU!T SIED. "O Aime! what did you say to her?" interrupted her aunt. i' I didn't intend to say any thingc to her, but, on second' thouhts, I concluded I would settle the mat- ter at once," returned Aime; "and so I stopped the carriage, though we had passed her, and, bidding pny friends wait for me a page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] few moments, I joined her. She turned upon me in her most ex- tralvagant manner. ' Dearest Miss Lillinor,' said she, ' what a pleas- ure! but you are keeping that be-ootiful Lady Hope waiting, and Mr. Granger, such a handsome man, so distingue. You fortunate girl! you are always to be found- with the most eligible and attract- ive people. But no wonder, you are so attractive and charming your- self! It is on the principle of the old saying, "' Birds of a feather, flock together."' She paused; for, dull. as she is, she perceived from my manner that something was amiss. "'T Thank you, Mrs. Lane, for your elegant compliment,' I replied. I accept it, though I am aware that in your mind it places me on terms of equality with " a libertine and an adventuress." ' " "' Dear, dear!"exclaimed Aunt Jane, speechless except for her fa- vorite ejaculation. 6"She was absolutely pale with dismay," continued Aime; " and, to speak the truth, I enjoyed her confusion. I turned about to re- join my friends; but thinking it best to treat the matter with some- thing better than. mere sarcasm: ' Mrs. Lane, I wish from my heart that, slander was a pillory offence: it is the one crime, yes, I call it crime, for which I would advo- cate the necessity of capital pun- ishment,' I said. I I am willing to take no especial steps in this mat- ter, beyond refuting every word that I hear of this miserable slan- der, provided you will also retract it wherever you have spread it. You may do, it in the way that is the easiest, most convenient, and least wounding to your pride; but I am resolved it shall,be done. If you acquiesce, I shall overlook: what has been, as far as I am able. If not, I deny your acquaintance from this day.' She protested in the most abject manner; and with tears in her eyes, but they were tears of affright, that she had spoken with the best intentions, and from' the best authorities, &c. ' Madam!' said I, cutting her words short, ' you have cruelly slandered two among my most honored friends, and I am not the one pa- tiently or quietly to bear it. Your disposition and your motives I un- derstand so well that no explana- tion of them is necessary, only undo your work as far as such work can be undone.' " "And what reply did she make? ' asked Aunt Jane, who had listened to Aimbe with a nearly equal min- gling of curiosity and amazement. "She promised the most imme- diate and full obedience to my wishes," answered Aimbe. "' Her pnanner and her words had that slavish submission characteristic of all cowards brought to bay. I re- joined my friends, leaving her still vowing and protesting, and hating me, I doubt not, as heartily as she feared me." Aime paused with a reflective look. "I triumphed, but there was no sweetness in it: the woman was no better, no purer,-- she will n ot repair from repentance; fear will actuate, and the lowest kind of fear." Then, shrugging her shoulders, and giving herself a comical shake all over,- 4"There, I have put the whole thing from me, and I wish I may never hear or think of it again," she said, while her usual arch brightness of expression returned to her face. "I am going to my toilette, and shall make myself just as capti- vating as possible: art and nature ,shall combine to serve me." Later in the summer twilight, Aime came gliding down the broad staircase, and paused a mo- ment at the drawing-room door, which stood ajar. "Aunt," she said, "Mr. Gran- ger will soon be here: tell him, he will find me in the library, and you will excuse me to any other call- ers this evening." Enterins the library, which was her favorite resort, associated as it was with the happy hours passed there in her beloved father's socie- ty, she lighted the gas, leaving it turned down quite low. It was a small but very pleasant room: the north and west sides were entirely covered with books; on the south side was a small but elegant cabi- net-organ, and, from the top of that to the ceiling, books again. On the east side a large oriel window, its base a foot and a half or more from the floor of the room. A thick, yielding cushion covered the floor of this window, the. uphol- stery of that, and throughout the room, of brilliant, yet delicate, shades of- green and gold. There were two steps of ascent to this lovely recess, guarded, as it were, at each end by an exquisite marble statuette, Paul's gift to her abroad. On the ceiling of the window, which was of some fine wood, highly finished, had been painted a mellow mid-summer landscape; a grateful surprise for the dreamy glances of any one who should re- cline in imaginative mood beneath. On the east side, to the right of the window, hung a large picture, an Italian landscape scene, by an unknown but genuine artist. When night and moonlight had fairly come, Robert Granger opened the library-door, and, closing it gently behind him, stood silently, a mo- ment, looking and listening. Com- ing from the bright sitting-robm into this soft obscurity, he could discern no one, but was certain Aime was there. Toward him, from the window, came a tall wraith in voluminous, filmy white. In her hair, which caught a faint lustre from the dim- ly -burning chandelier, clustered some lovely half-blown rose-buds. This figure paused directly in front of him, and simply said, - "Robert." It was not a question, it was an assertion and a welcome. "Let me raise the light for a moment," he said, reaching for and gathering one of her hands in his, while, with the other, he turned on the full blaze. "I wish," he con- tinued, gently drawing her toward him, " to assure myself -of the na- ture of this apparition. ' Am I a *man'? Ay, and a bold one, who page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] dare look on that which might ap- pal the Devil!' And what should more appal him than a face and form like this? Is not darkness annihilated by light? Is not death routed by life? Is not evil van- quished by good? Would not the Devil -prince and boon compan- ion of evil, darkness, and death -- shudder away from the beaming presence of life, ligllt, and love? Aime! and is it Aime?" gazing, with changeful expression, yet steadfastly, at her. "( She is still, and oh, how fair! Delicate and debonaire. Did she: speak? I heard my name uttered so softly, or was it my fancy cheat- ing me with a vagary of the breeze? Is she not the mist-like evolution, from the 'silken, sad, uncertain rustling of yon spectral curtain'? Should I move,--or breathe too loudly, - will she not resolve herself into a floating fold of lace once more?" "Tell ime, Robert," said Aime, gently, " of what are you thinking? You banter me, very poetically,I admit, but you are in no bantering mnood. There is in your words a veini of sad and desperate feeling'. I am accustomed, somewhat, to read your face: this glare of gas, which convinces you I am no ghost, exposes you to my scrutiny also." She samiled archly, but with grave, questioning eyes. "What is it, * Robert,-- what are the thoughts at this moment in your mind?" "At this moment, Aime Lilli- nor, I am thinking how beautiful you are. Nay, having asked the question, receive graciously the true answer. All see your beauty: you are aware of it yourself. But, with me, it is not only seeing, not only admiring, I am enthralled. I confess to you, Aimle, that the mere sicght of you, every movement you make, the flowing of your dress, the outlines of your form, the turn of your spirited features, the sound. of your voice, all that lbelongs to your person and pres- ence, so subtly expressive of -a na- ture pure and rare, realize to me my most ideal conceptions of the beautiful and true. To-night, 'Aimce, I feel the complete spell of your loveliness, - through the fair frame is seen the shining soul, - it is like pain. To know myself, and to rec6gnize you, is over- whelming to me; for to-ligh rlt I claim or resign you,--to-night, Aime, you must linow me for what I am. Glamoui4rmiiust be dis- pelled : can love survive?" Releasing her hand, he turned away abruptly, with a heavy sigh. Rememberinlg Lady Helen's advice, so impressively delivered, and upon which she had resolved to act, Aime checked the generous pro- test that had hitherto been her- answer to anv hint of this nature. For a monient she was silent, tlhen, darkening the room once more, moved through its soft shadows to where Robert was sitting, his head drooped upon his chest, his eyes shaded by one hand. She drew forward a hassock, and half-sitting, half-kneeling upon it at his feet, - "Robert," she said, taking in both of hers the hand which rested on his knee, "I will hear what you have to tell me, since you wish, and think it best. But will you not remember while you are talk- ing- that it is a friend who is lis- tening? a friend, Robert, most ' tender when you most suffer." lie returned the pressure of her little hands. "How stranyge it is, Aimle! the revolution you have wroughtl in me! The hlabits of my thought, the very texture and current of my mind, seem changed since I have known you. Once, the task I have set myself to-niglht would sctrcely hlave cost me a blush. But you, Aime, all unconsciously to yor'self, and throurgh beillng simlply womanly, have shown- me to myself as nothing else could do. All, how you have humbled me! I have read myself in the mirror of a pure woman's eyes: no glass like that for telling a man the truth, and the impression once received is ineffaceable." After a slight pause, he resum- ed, -- "The history of my youth is summed up in a few words. I have told you that my mother died when I was very young, though1 I can remember her; and, since I have met you, the recollection of her has ( been more frequent and distinct ill my mind. She was highly intel- 1 lectual, and very lovely in temper t and person. I have every reason t to believe that my father devotedly loved her, and that he would have c been a very different person had d she been spared to him. He never alluded to her except in terms of v i the utmost tenderness, amounting , even to reverence. He once said i to me, that, could he have believed - that she was a type of womanhood, - rather than an exception to her tsex, the world would have been another place to him, and life a r very different existence. 1"My father was a man not easily understood, yet very generally ad- mired. He was, at heart, a misan- , thrope and a cynic, yet so courtly and attractive in his manners as to be a social favorite, especially among the young, with wholm he was more genial and genuine: un- principled and determined, he was what is termed ' successful with women.' That, AimSe, has been one of my boasts." He looked at her with a coun- tenance expressive of shame and bitterness, yet with a tender, com- passionate gaze. Her eyes were veiled, 'but the sweet face was neither drooped nor averted. He longred to kiss her, to gather her closely to him; but at that moment he would not. "Up to the date of his death, which occurred when I was forty years old, I lived in almost daily companionship with my fatlher. His versatile talents, his strength of mind, his really great acquire- ments, were my admiration. I loved him, his presence had a sin- gular charm for me, and I knew that I was all the world to him. " Of course, the effect upon me, of the companionship and confi- dence of a man of such peculiar personal and mental endowments, was incalculable. Much, very page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] much, of it was for good. I was stimulated thereby to self-develop- ment, and to attainments I might otherwise never have attempted. It might have been wholly for good, had his views of life and its pur- poses, and his ideas of the manly and womanly natures, been differ- ent. But he had no belief in im- mortality, at least none in an indi- vidual existence after death, and, what I have found to be an almost necessary concomitant, no faith in high purposes, or in incorrupti- bility of motive and endeavor. On this point we always differed; but his influencee weakened my convic- tions and fettered my reason. '"I loved him deeply, I missed him profoundly. If my mother had lived, how different every thing had been for him and for me! God is indeed inscrutable. "In his scepticism, he was per- fectly sincere; in my faith, I was equally so. I think it must have been some element transmitted to me from my mother's nature, that made me in this respect so dis- tinctly different from my father. At the age of nineteen, I was a comparatively innocent boy, but from habit rather than principle. I studied with a constancy and en- thusiasm that threatened to affect my health. My father peremptori- ly checked this course, and took me travelling with him. "This changed the whole tenor of my life. I still read and studied; but the first self-consciousness of manhood had burst upon me, and I sought variety of pursuit. No all-enveloping purity of a mother's love to reveal the germs of evil and good within me, - all-powerful to guard from, the evil, all-potent to develop the good! "My nature was an earnest one, and I was in danger of pushing to excess whatever I entered into at all. I tried almost every form of pleasure that presented itself, yet I was never a debauchee. Wine was not one of my temptations. The wine of life flowed within me, a full and generous tide. "At the age of twenty-one, I met with a girl whom I will call Blanche Allayne. With a strange headlong precipitancy, I fell in love with this girl. I loved her with fervor and a self-abnegation, amounting to infatuation. Yet I remember the sentiment now with 'a feeling of self-respect. The pas- sion I entertained for her would have been impossible to a really corrupt nature. 4"She was older than I, - lively, fascinating, good-natured; but not, overburdened with head or heart. In short, she was an engaging, ex- perienced flirt, who trifled with me, as she had with others, for her own amusement merely. Never shall I forget what I felt, when I discov- the fact, that, instead of reaching her heart, I had merely afforded her pastime. She made no attempt to disguise her deliberate coquetry, but dismissed me with graceful, smiling ease. "I left her presence, sensible of but one wish,- to obtain absolute solitude. I penetrated into some lonely woods, and there gave my- ;self up to the tumult I had till then held in abeyance. I cursed and raved, in such an agony of mixed emotion as completely exhausted my strength. I never fully recol- lected all I had done; but when I at last arose to return home, I vacantly observed, what I after- ward vividly remembered, that the ground looked as it might have done from the pawings of a horse in its death-agonies. "Upon one thing I 'had deter- mined: I would one day be re- venged upon Blanche ; and this bit- ter feelingii was harbored, though in a less degree, toward all women. I met them with distrust, I did not respect them. Woman, as such, had sunk immeasurably in my es- timation. You must remember, Aime, that, though I had predilec- tions towards good, I had no rooted faith in any thing, no experience of womanly character or worth which might have successfully op- posed the license of thought and action into which the faithless current of my life now set. An only child, who barely remembered that once he had a good mother; treated with unquestioning in- dulgence, left utterly to my own guidance; surrounded by the sub- tle, impalpable, but potent influ- ence of a life and character which denied the existence of any perma- lnent or intrinsic good, - these things are my only excuse and pal- liation. "Until I met with one woman, of whom I shall presently speak to you, I had no faith in, no knowl- edge of, innate virtue and purity of soul. The best part of myself was dead unto myself. I thank God the day for awakening. came." He paused, his brows knitted in gloomy recollection; glancing but a moment at Aime, he proceed- ed, -- "I entered into, and acted more fully upon, my father's views, or at least I thought I did; yet in this I was in some degree a con- tradiction to myself. I never at- tempted, I never could bring my- self to attempt, a liaison with a woman of unstained reputation; yet I was unable to explain what withheld me. If I knew that a woman had taken the first step downward, then I was ready to help her farther. But to the first false step, I could not bring my- self to lead her. "With perverse instinct, I avoid- ed places and assemblages where I should unquestionably have met with good women, whose influence would have been soothing, redeem- ing, and productive of wholesome re-action. From the lowest of your sex I turned with ,repulsion. It was with that large class of women of doubtful reputation, not wholly within, yet not wholly discarded from, the pale of good society, that I mingled. Yet I scrupled not to do my part in hurrying these toward that deeper degradation from which I held myself aloof." He stopped with a start; for he felt, with an exquisite mingling of sorrow and joy, that warm tears were falling on his hand. He bent forward, speaking low, in excite- ment that would hardly be re- pressed, page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] "Why is it that you. weep Aime? Why not spurn my hand, and turn from me? I could not reproach. - "To no one could vice be 5more repulsive than to you; to no one could such a recital be more revolt- ing. Yet you weep, and cling to my hand, gently, yet fast. "Sweet, tender soul! If love could make me so, I should be fit witlh all my sins to kiss away your tears." After a short silence, he re- sumed, - "Though I had frequent com- bats with better feelings, which strove to assert themselves, still, neither my actions nor views were materially changed. I was much struck by a remark which my father made to me whenI was about thirty years old. ' I had again met Blanche Allayne. I had reached and won what little heart she possessed, only to treat it with disdain. Throurgh me, as far as her shallow nature was capable, she reaped the tempest she had sown. But it was a mean revenge, an ignoble recompense; it recoiled upon me, degrading me in my own sight. "I narrated something of the circumstances to my father, in connection with one or two other facts, not creditable to me. "'"If it were me,' he said, fixing upon me a serious and earnest gaze, ' it would- be of no moment, except for its possible inexpedi- ency; for Ido not look to a here- after. But if I held your views, Robert, it would be an impossi- bility for me to lead such a life as you do; or, for that matter, I may say, such a life as I have led my- self. If I thought I should go from death into the presence of Elinor, my shame, my regret, would not be endurable. In the light of her eyes, in that proof of immortality, my past life would be to me a blunder of crushing magni- tude; yet you expect one day to enter the presence of Tyour moth- er t!" "t These words, uttered in an un- usual and solemn manlner, shocked me inexpressibly, nor could I drive them from my mind. Later in that same year he died. He had been to me all that was of home or love in life; and, goaded by intense loneliness, I left home to beguile myself with the inci- dents and change of travel. Af- ter objectless wandering for some years, I arrived in -London at a time when a piece of scandal of more than ordinary interest was being revived in the polite circles of that city. A very beautiful and ac- complished lady, a queen in socie- ty, had taken a step for which all her friends and kindred had re- pudiated her. She had left the city in company with a gentleman of broken fortunes, whose intellect, though naturally brilliant, had been impaired by accident or disease. They were livingt together abro6ad, though not united in marriage. The event had transpired solne years previously; but, as she had remained in the greatest seclusion, the interest in the matter had waned, until it was excited and increased by her sudden re-appear- ance in Paris in company with the gentleman, who was a confirmed invalid. "( It was at IParis, soon after this, that I first met her. You have already guessed that it was Lady Hope. "4All sorts of rumors were rife about her; but her appearance and mananers were such as to secure the involuntary respect of all but the vulgar and obtuse. From such she sometimes suffered excessive annoyance; but she had an ad- mlirable presence .and a superlative dilgnity, that carried her through all. "So unlike all 'other women I had nmet, she riveted my attention. When in her presence, I felt certain that her lifeS, like her countenance, was pure and taintless. When away, constantly hearing her men- tioned with coarse allusions weak- ened this, instinctive conviction, wlhich, unhappily, could find no support from my reflections on my own personal experiences. To know myself vile, was to doubt purity in another. That, Aime, js one of the most deadly wages of sin." BIending forward, he put his right hand over her's, in a. way that strangely conveyed to her the de- spairinlg feeling that prompted it. "Aime, say to me one word before I go farther, - something that shall make me feel less abso- lutely sunk in your dsteem. I feel, oh, how poignantly! that the life I am describing to you, yes, and the man who could lead it, must Ibe abhorrent to you. At this mo- ment you are asking yourself what it is that you have loved! You are thinking -how black the abyss which you have un'warily ap- proached! Your face is pale and shocked; and it is I, who love you, who have wrought the change. A little while since, it was all bloom and smiles ; now blight and silence have fallen on it. Yet .speak, Aime, if but to give me courage; for I have yet worse to relate. I see, I see," watching her trem- bling lips; "you cannot! Lift your eyes ; let them for one moment rain heavenly compassionl on me." His voice was indescribably be- seeching, full of entreaty that knew not how to be denied. She raised her eyes, but dropped them ere he could fully catch their expression. ' Robert," she said, with a touch- ing effort at calmness that cut him to the heart, " until your story is done, do not think of me. I am hurt,--I am grieved," pressing her hands involuntarily together; "but not alienated. What I loved in you before ybu began, still ex- ists; so also," dropping her voice to a whisper, " does my love." He bent over and strained her to his heart; the impulse was not to be resisted; but he released her almost instantly, covering his face with his hands, and remain- ed for a few moments quite still, though she could distinctly feel the shuddering sob which possessed his frame. At length he resumed:- "I come to that part of my sto- ry of which I am myself the most page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] ashamed; which will shock you the most, and for which I have never been fully able to account, even to myself. "I sought Lady Hope's society, I was with her whenever it was practicable, I felt toward her as it seemed to me I should have felt toward my own mother. Her tal- ents and her conversational powers, her every word and action, so vi- talized by the exquisite purity of her nature, - but I need not de- scribe her to you, who know and lore her by virtue of a character as much above me as hers." He drew his hand-from Aime's, arose, and walked the length of the room, twisting his fingers to- gether as in a spasm of painful recollection. Then coming back to her, - 40 Aimne! how I, wish that this one thing had not been, need not be told you," he said; t" would you believe, that thus thrown with such a woman, honored by her kindness, lifted by her influence, so that my whole, better nature was sensibly awakening within me, I yet had time and inclination "- with strong self-disdain -" to en- gage the interest of a young girl in her employ, with the intention of assailing her innocence? Never in my whole life had I been lifted so high, or meditated falling so low! "Guilty in thought, yet I was saved the guilt of action. Lady Hope penetrated my designs. The girl was quietly sent to the care of some person Lady Hope trusted. "This transpired, Aime, only about six months before I met you at the Doudy Convent. "Had Lady Hope then shut her- herself from me, as she had the most undoubted right and occasion to do, I cannot say what would have become of me." , He paused, walking the room slowly. "But no! She taught me higher phases of the womanly nature than I had yet conceived. "She sent me an especial invi- tation to attend her. "When I came, she saw me alone, and received me with the words, - * "' Robert, I cannot tell you how you have grieved me!' "Her voice was very gentle, her eyelashes wet with tears. Struck to the heart, I gazed at the woman whose hospitality and noble trust I had so signally insulted. I gazed in silence impossible for me to break. What had I to say for myself? And those gentle words were her sole allusion to the shameful inten- tion she had frustrated. She mo- tioned me to a seat. "' I have seen so much good in you,' were her next words, ' that I would help you toward that of which I believe you to be capable. Robert, I still have faith in you,' and she extended her hand to me. "Oh, how the words and the ac- tion overwhelmed me! "She then confided to me the story of her life. Ere she had con- cluded, I realized fully her purpose in doing so. Well might she di- vine that such a record Would at once rebuke and inspire me, such a confidence elevate me I, When she had finished, she arose and caime toward me, taking me by the hand. 1"Now, Robert, my friend,' said she, ' we will part. You have your way to go, and your work to do; and I shall remember you with faith and hope.' Those were her words; but, Aimse, I cannot .do justice to the beauty and feeling of her manner, which made me feel, far more than her words, that, in spite of all, she believed I had a better nature, a nature worth caring for. "H left her at once in silence: for I was unable to utter a wortd; yet I thought she must see and feel that she had reached my heart." He ceased, and Aime rose as he came toward her. He stood, awaiting her words. He asked no question, put forth no plea, his whole soul in his eyes as he gazed at her. She- stood, thrilled and excited, yet collected. She raised her eyes to his, and, oh, how sweet the light that shone upon him! She reached for his hands, and, drawing them about her waist, enclosed herself within them. "You said, that, to-night, you would claim or resign me," she whispered; " but I will not be re- signed." He folded her silently to his heart, in a strong yet trembling embrace. He had not expected a different decree; but he knew that he deserved a different one, and he was overcome. He sat down, and drew her gently to his side. Torn by remorse, pierced by regrets, sensible as never before, of the base perversion and dread waste of powers whose scope was so broad, and whose achievement should have been so lofty; the black retrospect more terribly clear, contrasted with the pureness of this other life'he sought to blend with his own; he was smitten through and through with the ten- der love, the pure compassion, that, while it deplored the sin and stain, perceived the good, trusted it, clung to it, and voluntarily wrapped itself about his scarred and suffer- 'ing soul, claiming therein a dwell- ing-place. The powers of his being were in strong uprising. His conscience suffered agonies. Every atom of good was resurrected, and that which had been germinal blos- somed into resolve. It was an ex- perience unutterable, an hour ever memorable. Love is penetrant, prescient, intuitive. The idea of perfect love explains the idea of omni- science. With her head resting on his shoulder, where she could dis- tinctly hear the tumultuous beat- ings of his heart,' Aime divined the silent conflict, and clung to him the more closely. After a long si- lence, he suddenly bent his head, and kissed her ardently. He had ar- rived at that point in his thoughts, when the dominant idea was his unfitness and unworthiness toward her. By his fond caresses, he in- stinctively sought to re-assure him- self, and soothe his inward pain. He had not uttered a syllable, yet page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] she, raising her head, spoke in an- swer to his thought. "Do not think of that, Robert," she whispered; " through all your silence I have been with you. I have followed your thoughts, I know what you have been feeling. Pain has lent strength to purpose. The tide of your b)eing sets strong- ly toward good. You will neither drift nor turn away from it or from me. Why should you shrink from me? Do not: it hurts me. I am not so very good but that you call help me to be better. There is a line of Victor Hugo that comes to me with prophetic force,' An awakened conscience is greatness of soul.' Robert, don't think your- self unworthy. You have suffered from the profoundest lack of nur- ture and love, yet you have never wholly lost sight of the light ; into which, grasping at the hand of love, you have'-dragged yourself, triumphant. Robert, you are bet- ter than I: mny lot has been shelter Land protection; my purity is -but an untried thing"- He stopped her with kisses, say- i'ng huskily, "' Don't, don't, my darling!" "Robert, I am so glad you have told me. I feel now as if your heart and. your life were really mine, and a part of mine."- "Yet had you known all this ' before we met, would you ever have loved me?" "I cannot tell; for then I should only have known the bad, but now I know the good also,-the good that I have learned to love; and that is not less real, less true, because of what. you have told me to-night., O Robert! did you think if Helen, who is so good, so true, would believe in you, and trust you, I, who love you so, would do less?" "Aime, if more women would condemn evil as sincerely, yet en- courage good so tenderly, as you and your Helen do, there would be more men worthy of such women as you." After another long, happy, yet thoughtful silence, Aimec spoke again. "Lady Hope does good to every one who comes within her influ- ence. I should like to live such a life as that. It is not enougli for me to be happy myself: I long to help others less favored. I am in dan- ger of -a too idly happy life with you; unworthy of my sweet moth- er, unworthy of my dear, most no- ble father, unworthy you. Don't let me, Robert." She paused, vish- ing to express a thought and pur- pose which yet she did not wish wholly to reveal. "If I could only help some of those poor women, whom every- body condemns, wisely help them, there might be cases where .noble hearts could be reached, and great abilities saved, to high account. Robert, truly, I would be glad to work for that." He raised her face, and looked gently but most searchingly in her eyes. "And so wipe out some of my darkest memories, by cancelling some of my heaviest obligations!" Ihe said. "I have read your thoughts aright, -your pure, good, loving thoulgh]ts." "Aime," after another silence, , though you have said little or nothingt about it, I know that your heart has been distressed by what I lave told you. Just now, knov- ing that I, too, suffer, your gen- erous love is uppermost; but to- night, when I leave you, to-mor- row, when I ami not near, when you reason morg dispassionately, reflect more calmly, - how will it be then? "f You will review my life as I confided it to you, and will won- der that you could, for a moment, lie in my arms, or rest upon my heart.' The history of to-night,. the emotions of this hour, will wear a different look by morning light, will sound differently in the car of solitude. "Do not fear that for a moment I misjudge you. You are not im- pure, to, be attracted by the reck- less dissipation I have unfolded to you. Villany receives no varnish in your eyes ,because its guise was gallantry. Nor are you self-right- eous, fancying that your purity and goodness are sufficient for us both; nor are you morbid, deluding your- self with the idea that what is vile becomes pure by mere contact with )urity. "You. are not thinking to marry me to reclaim me: you know bet- ter than this. You know that whatever of good I attain must lhave its source from within me, and be reached by my own efforts. You do hope to help and strength- en me in the work I only can do by the full sympathy of your love. You love and accept me because in your eyes I seem worthy the love and the acceptance. God helping me, I will become so in my own sight; and he has given me the first, best help, in your love. "Aime, if, after reflection, your heart turns fromn the idea of mar- riage with me, you will tell me frankly?" "Robert, I can promise you that, yet I wish you had not the feeling that prompted you to ask. I wish -you woulct feel suire, - sure of my love." "My darling, I do, I do!" he whisperedl; " but I feel the injus- tice, I do feel the injustice, I shall do you. This once, let me express how deeply I feel the difference between what I am and what I might have become, between what your chosen husband is, and what-2 he might have been and should be I The thought is an immense regret that fills my heart with bitterness, but with a salu- tary pain that I will not wish or try to forget. It shall help to bet- ter things." He rose, lifting her to her feet, and led her to the oriel, and put- ting aside the curtains, they stood bathed in moonlight. With his arim around her waist, he once more drew her head upon his shoulder, with the face upturned. He looked at her as at something priceless. All the emotions of the evening swelled in his breast, and culminated in his intensely earnest gaze. page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] He spoke, his deep voice trem- bling. - "Life with you, Aime, is a prospect so sweet, it thrills me with dear and noble hopes. Give me your hand, love; lay it so, where you can feel my heart beat to the words I say. I vow to you now, and before God's unseen yet near altar, - I vow to you my life, love, fidelity, the best efforts of my mind, the truest service of my heart. Your steps are sure to be in the right way. Where I cannot go WITH you, I will follow humbly." PART SEVENTH. "ADY HOPE'S ANSWER. Thus, folded-in each other's arms, Each, truly to the other given ; 'Tis best of earth,- and all of heaven; And change or death are vain alarms. But, oh, this hour unspeakable will fly I Stern Duty's gulf of time and space Already sunders this embrace, Already veil. thy lovelit face; Farewell is uttered in thy brimming eye, While on thy lips these noble accents lie, -'/: "If unto death is love and strife, f Yet after death is love and life." NE soft September evening, Aime came over to Lady Hope's rooms, urged by an unusual longing for her companionship. "I feel, not exactly sad, but oppressed," she said, in reply to Lady Helen's greeting. "I have come to you because I wanted to, but also because I couldn't help it. Robert is coming to see me to- night, but not until late; and I left word for him that he would find me here. If you don't want me, you can send me back, but I think I should disobey you if you did.") "4 Were you ever unwelcome?" asked Lady Helen, taking Aime's shawl. "And I ought to be glad, regu- larly, outrageously jolly. What a medley of contraries we humans are, Helen! Robert is taking hold of papa's book in as thorough and earnest a fashion as even papa him- self could wish. Robert says he will examine the ground, and make sure of every step necessary to sue- cessful publication. He says he looks upon it as a work given to him to do from me, and that it shall be his work until it is papa's triumph, as fully as it ought to be." "1 That's nobly said I " 4"Of course, said like Robert Now, Helen, having told you about the book, expect nothing more of me to-night. Only let me lie around here somewhere, and look at you occasionally, and have my sulk out comfortably." 6 "It suits me very well, Aime, that you are taciturn, as I see you are by the curious look in your eyes. I am in a talking mood: you shall be treated to a mono- logue. Aime!!" she exclaimed, as, shawl in hand, she retreated a step or two, and surveyed her friend, "' dress is an art which you seem perfectly to understand. You are just exquisite in that rose- color: it is a tint with depth as well as brightness. I think I never saw you in mixed colors, nor would page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] they suit you; all about you should be harmonious and " - "Youtr ladyship is eloquent," said Aime, half mockingly, half listlessly. "You dress in perfect taste yourself. There! I mean as much as you did, but I don't feel like spinning it out." Lady Hope smiled to herself queerly. "Come," she said, "we will sit here by the window where I can see if lie should be restless," glancing throurh the open door to the bed in the adjoining room. "Sitting' here, I can see if he stirs, and shall know if he calls, and so my mind will be at ease. "Do you remember, Aime, you once asked me a strange question, If the old could love? Well, you ihave had a man's answer: I. will give you a woman's. All, now lips smnile,' and eyes sparkle! You have of late been too steadily ab- sorbed with your own personal in- terests. You shall have a change: you shall come out of youre present, and enter into my past for a while." Lady Helen leaned her head upon her hand, while Aime set- tled herself inl her favorite atti- tude, with her arms crossed upon her friend's, lap. "Can you imagine me at the age of twenty?" presently said Lady Helen. "AMy hair, which has so lonig been white, was then of a warm chestnut shade, and would endure no confinement, curling to the very crown of my head in a I wilful, irregular fashion. My fea- tures and figure were much as they ] are now, only, in your fancy, which ( is a vivid one, you must obliterate I i the lines of experience and care, and clothe me in the hues and con- ' tours of early youth and. exuberant health. "I was a very happy girl, but neither volatile nor tlouoghtless, as from my quick temper and un- failing animation I was often sup- posed to be. To be equable and uniformly sedate is the world's idea of a reasoning, contemplative mind. The world is often, often mistaken. There is a full length portrait of me at this age, in a dress of black velvet. I think you would recognize -it unless it has been destroyed : it would not be valued now as once. When you go abroad with RoDert, he will be certain to take you there. Certain portions of Castle Thornleigh are shown to visitors. The family por- trait gallery is one: if the picture still hanrgs there, you will hIear it spoken of as ' Fairy Hope.' I was so little and lithe that I -received that name, and during my girlhood was oftener called ' Fairy' thlan ' Helen.' The picture has always borne that name." "O Helen! you speak so mourn- fully, as if you were talking of an- other existenice." "And so I am, Aime: I have long been in another world; nor shall I in this life ever see the faces or the home of my girlhood again. Once I might haLve had,a friend of my own age, - one of the love- liest girls I ever saw. Singular, I never saw her but once, yet never have forgotten her, though I do not even rememnber her name. I don't know why I recall it just at this moment so vividly," with a sort of speculative gaze at Aime's upturned face. "I met her out riding. We were both mounted, both about of an age, -sixteen, if I recollect; we met on a hill overlooking a grand sweep of country; we were to- gether perhaps five minutes in all, met and parted strangers,--I would have been glad to hlave had it otherwise. She hadl the most beautiful, ingenuous, innocent face I ever saw: I have never seen its like. 'Tis only an isolated mem- ory, having no connection with any subsequent experience." Lady Hope was speaking of that time when she had met Aime's English grandmother, lovely Lily Hathwin, on Brierlane height,- met and parted with so little that seemed noteworthy, yet a meeting. and partitng memorlable to each. Lady Hope had . no idea that she was speaking to the grand-daughter of the fair girl she remembered so well, and whose ' hand she had clasped for one moment with such kindly feeling that it had never been forgotten; neither did Aimre guess that she was seeing a glimpse of her grandmother's early girl- hood. Her mind conceived a pic- ture of the two girls on horseback; one was of Lady Hope in her bril- liant youth, the other of a pretty stranger,--the dim unrecognized portrait of her own grandmother. A chance word would have reveal- ed this fact, which would have been so full of pleasantness to both; but the word did not chance to be said, and they never guessed the truth. Joys, both great and small, are often approached thus closely, and yet missed: it is well that fate sometimes plays us, by way of just balance, the same trick with. sorrows. "Ah, well! that is past, long past, and other things step in be- tween. So near the end of my journey; for the whole journey of life is but a short once, and for me the close must be now almost within sight, - so near the end, I can recall, with some degree of calmness, events' and feelingrs which have caused me unalleviaLted anguish." Lady Helen paused, in pensive reverie. Suddenly grasping Aim- ee's hands, she exclaimed, - "Should you tarry in London, ask Robert to take you to see my sister Katherine, Lady Stanley. 'Her health has always been deli- cate: she never leqaves home, and sees but very few visitors, -no strangers; but she will see you, com- ing from me. You must tell her that, say just these words, -'Fairy Hope always carried in her in- most heart the face, the voice, the love, of her dear Kathie, the friend and sister of her life.' My sister Katherine has never swerved from me: she5 always loved and believed in me, and found means, thoulgh at but long intervals, to let me know it. If I might only see her again once more; but no! not here; " and Lady Helen's voice sank in a quiv- ering sigh. "I believe prolixity is a failing peculiar to the old," she resumed, smiling rather sadly, " though to a stranger I could be consecutive page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] and concise enough. But I have a way of giving my thoughts to you in the shape and order they take upon themselves. The differ- ence is like that between the canal and the brook. One flows accord- ing to rule, and under restraint; the other Ripples, dances, or is still, Fettered by no other will Than its own inconstant mood; Tameless thing of solitude." "And I like the brook best, Helen." "Well, then, brook it shall be," replied Lady Helen; " but we will go back toward its source." '"When I was twenty, in the summer of that year, there hap- pened unto me a new experience. I discovered that a young man who was not of us, though much with us, was very dear to me. He was a delicate youth, of versatile talent, who had made himself in various ways so indispensable to my father, that he almost lived with us. "Philip Hastings was about twenty-three years old; could draw, paint, read, and compose, both music and verses, and all with skill and facility remarkable in one so young. He was of plebeian birth, and poor, but not servile; and was one to keenly feel the defi- nite, though polite distance, which was maintained toward him in our family circle. "4 He was entertaining as well as useful, but was paid for being so; and no friendship was offered, no claims to it acknowleged: ours was a haughty family. I saw, him fre- quently, though seldom to speak with him, beyond a few courteous words of greeting or parting. I was romantic and imaginative. To me he was a sort of Raffaelle, - a ' mute Milton.' The thought of him came to be constantly present in my mind ; yet with all my gaye- ty I was so reticent, that such a state of things was not suspected, except by one person,- a' domi- nant spirit in our family,' and by nature a spy. '4 One day, wandering into the portrait gallery, I surprised Philip, standing before the ' Fairy Hope' of which I have told you. It had arrived but a few days previously. His reverie was so deep, that he did not hear my step till I reached him. He turned suddenly. I think it flashed through the mind of each that we had never been alone be- fore. As he turned toward me, his appearance and manner im- pressed me powerfully. His cheeks- were brilliantly flushed, the deep hue occasionally tinting for an in- stant his pale forehead; his dark bright eyes bent upon me, beneath tear-wet lashes, were full ofimpas- sioned feeling. His sweet yet me- lancholy mouth gave to his face an expression of reserve, that was at once winning yet baffling. , Up to this moment it had never presented itself distinctly to my mind; but now I knew that I loved, and I saw also that I was beloved. Surprise, joy, a perfect hurry of bashful emotion, sent the blood from my heart to my face. My breath was quickened, my cheeks in a blaze. H He was no presumer; but my confusioon tlrilled him with encour- agement. He threw his arms around me with tender vehemence, and kissed me. At first I offered no resistance, borne away by his feelings and my cown. Then I struggiled to free myself; but his clasp, though tender, was like iron: ily efforts had not the slightest effect, nor did he seem to be aware of them. "Then came a most eloquent avowal of love: it swept over me like a torrent, with an ardor that abashed while it delighted me. He besought, and I gave, an answering confession, though shyly and brief- ly enough. For a few blissful, in- considerate moments, each sufficed to the other, - the world was noulght." Lady Helen paused, passing her hand slowly over her forehead. "iIMy head rested on his shoul- der, his arms still held me in the embrace which he had not once unloosed, when I was suddenly struck with the fragile, unearthly look of the noble young face bend- ing' over me. I was about to speak of it, when my own name, called in severe accents, startled us asunder; but a few paces from us stood my Aunt NMarion, the reigning will at Castle Thlornleigh, and the only truly unkind heart in my home. "It was a rude interruption to that tender trance of' love's youngo dre(am.' Philip stood silent, pale, but not daunted. For me it was a moment of intense mental excite- 12 ment: a whirl of thought, rushed through my mind,- not confused- ly, - all was electrically clear. I saw at once that this was the end. He would be banished, harshly, irrevocably;. I be reprimanded and watched. Entire separation must supervene. "6 My aunt had a cold eye, like steel, gleaming and incisive. I raised my hand toward her with involuntary repulsion, passing her with defiant glance as I hurried to Philip's side. For a moment, a dimness obscured my eyes, but I grasped his hands. I thought now only of him. Poor things: how we trembled! "' You will be sent away,' I whispered. 'Do not wait for it; do not brave my father's anger. There is no help: we shall not meet.' He stopped me with a kiss, a quivering caress, that went to my heart. "' Remember that I loved you.' With these words he wrenched himself away, and was gone. "My aunt then turned to me: but no matter, it is bitter even now to recall. I broke away from her, with my hands to my ears. Reaching my own room, I sat down in that dangerous state where physical lethargy is combined with extreme mental activity. But that day's ordeal was not closed: I was summoned to a family con- clave. '"To question and rebuke, I was alike silent. I was thought to be sullen: I was simply crushed. I heard, without any power of heed- ing, until I perceived that my Aunt page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] Marion was giving, for purposes best known to herself, a false im- pression, to the effect that I had been intruded upon, and over- borne by surprise and persuasion: that love was entirely upon the young man's side; and that I was to blame only for not more quickly repelling his advances. "I rose, grasping at my chair as I did so. I ever loved the truth; it asserted itself even through that distressing apathy. 6' No, no!' I cried, in a voice that startled them. ' I love him: I told him so.' Then I sank down, - nothing more could be got from me. My sister Kathie seized and tenderly claspeid my hand. Sweet sister! ever sweet and kind to me. I gave back no pressure, volition was gone. But I remembered it afterward: I never forgot it. Ah, how fieshly and clearly all this comes back to me!" "What happened next?" eagerly questioned Aime. "' A tedious time followed," said Lady Helen, in a musing tone: "I suffered very much, and my suf- fering was augmented by being pent within my own, bosom. My father was angry for a little while, and then whollly forgot it, absorbed in his own affairs. My mother pitied and loved me; but she was a frail invalid, a nervous sufferer, of a submissive, pliant disposition, constantly apprehensive of Aunt Marion, to whose arrogant sway everybody and every thing yield- ed; though from this subjection I should except myself, and Kathie, whose silent sympathy was of more aid and comfort than any other thing. 6 She had a sweet, appreciative nature, and much quiet strength of character. The lonely pressu're which I was enduring would prob- ably have induced me to make a confidante of her, but that she was too young, and I was peculiarly reticent. I never asked for hin ; and he was never mentioned to me, until about three months after we parted, when, one day, my aunt knocked at my chamber, where Kathie and I were sitting together. She was quietly occupied with some light needlework; I, with my weary head resting on my hand, was looking from the window over the wide valley which spread itself far below the eminence on which Castle Thornleigh stood. "My aunt glanced at Kathie, with a moment's hesitation, then fixed her cold eye upon me. ' I have come to impart a piece of news, which I regret to suppose will. have some interest for you, though, it is to be hoped, not much.' "I lifted my head, and half rose, but sat downn again in silence. Kathie dropped her work, but did not speak." , , We have just received intel- ligence,' my aunt resumed, that your fathei's copyist, the young man who behaved so disgracefully that your father was obliged to ex- pel him from his employ'-- She paused, and handed to me a letter which sh, had brought with her. pointing to a particular passage. I involuntarily motioned it away. " ' Ah,-well!' she said; with a curious intonation,' I will read it to you. It is from our own physi- cian, brought by an errand-boy.' She glanced over a part of it, and then read. 'I regret to say that young Hastings is dead,--died last evening. It will -hardly be a matter of surprise to you, as you know the critical condition -in which he was found, before leav- ing the castle, some months since.' "I rose, grasping at Kathie, who had sprung to my side: her looks arrested me, even then. She was always pale; but now, framed in her heavy black hair, her face was like wrought marble. There was a look of courage -not a flash that would die, but a flame that would .live - in the eyes that she turned upon Aunt Marion. "' The latter approached me. Kathie put out her slender hand, and pushed her forcibly back. "You cold, cruel heart!' she cried. ' Could no one but you be found to tell my sister this? ' "I heard this. I saw my aunt retreat, aghast Then life and con- sciousness slipped away from me.' "'But was it true? Was he really dead?" asked Aime, in a low voice, as Lady Hope ceased speakinig. "Yes: his pain was over sooner than mine. I came to conscious- ness, still in my chamber, with only Kathie's dear face bending over me. I had no regular illness; but for ai long time my health was del- icate, my spirits fluctuating. I was easily startled or overcome. "It was a weary time of acute, silent suffering. My heart is a most tenacious one; yet, after the first, I was glad for Mnz. It was a relief to me to think of Philip as beyond suffering. Had he lived, and had we been mutually con- stant, it could have brought us lit- tle but ubnhappiness. My father would never have consented to our union; and, had I married in oppo- sition to his wishes, love would have been the sole dowry I could have brought to a husband himself penniless. A selfish, inconsider- ate consummation, I was not for a moment tempted to bring about. "From Kathie, and from our physician, who told me that Philip was a consumptive by inherit7 ance, and that, even under the most favorable circumstances, an early death must have been his lot, I gathered the details of his ill- ness and last hours. For the first time, I learned that he had been taken from the castle, in an insen- sible condition, the very day of our parting in the portrait-gallery. "My aunt had speedily informed my father of the scene she had in- terrupted. Though less implaca- ble than my aunt, he was of proud and hasty temper, and sought young Hastings's room at once. Hie found the young man sitting by the table, his head bent forward upon his hand. "My father began in a high voice to upbraid, but, approaching, percived that Hastings was un- conscious,- a handkerchief satu- rated with blood in his nerveless hand. My aunt had a sort of tem- porary ambulance prepared, and page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] without consulting my father, or any one, had him removed to the village. The physician admitted to me, though reluctantly, that this removal hastened the inevita- ble. Philip's last words, ' Remem- bei that I loved you,' and the heart- penetrating look which accompa- nied them, now appeared to me in the light of a last farewell, of which he had been sadly conscious." Lady Hope, raising her head, drew a long breath. "Most people, Aim(e, would consider this the story of an un- fortunate attachment; would think it a misfortune that we had ever met, a calamity that we should have loved. I did not think so : I do not now think so. His disease and almost consequent poverty were misfortunes. The cold, un- sympathetic harshness dealt to both were unfortunate for both. We ought never to have married, but we should have come to see it. The rapid progress of his malady would have revealed to us our sor- row; would have been more gen- tle, more natural, more endurable, than Aunt Marion's hard-hearted interference. Severity was not re- quired; death was surely inexor- able enough,- and the love was en- tirely a blessing. It was true; it was worthy. Suich love is gain: no circumstances can ever convert it into loss." Lady Hope rose, and went into the inner room. She leaned over the bed a moment, then raising the lid of a box, took thence a folded paper, and returned to Aime. t Suffering is unwelcome to us, Aime; most so to the inexperi- enced, who know not what use to make of it. If it is the result of sin, it is a healthy, just curator; but if it comes to us from no fault of our own, and cannot be sinless- ly averted, then it is a divine guest, whose tender hand, leading us through veiled ways, shall open to us the ' holy of holies' of the hu- man heart. From that period of early sorrow, I learned one lesson: wherever and however, thou shalt find it, deal gently with the heart that loves."9 The deep reflective light ill Aimes eyes, as her friend ceased speaking, gave place to an eager, questioning gaze. "Ah, what begging eyes you have!" said Lady Hope, laughing softly. "You do not speak; but, with such a talking look, -there is no merit in silence. You shall be satisfied, if to give the story of my life into your keeping will satisfy you lj You will not be excluded from a confidence that has been given to your Robert. "Well, the story of the ten years following Philip's death is quickly told. For the first year, Kathie and I were inseparable: we walked, rode, studied, and room- ed together. The latter chlane Kathie brought about, in quiet but persistent opposition to Aunt Marion, who professed to think it would foster a morbid sentimen- tality in one or both of us. "We grew into an understand- ing of each other's character, of which tender love for, and abiding faith in, each other, was the firmly rooted out-growth. To study we applied ourselves with devotion. My father was lavish in expendi- ture: we were supplied with good masters, and every advantage ne- cessary to the most liberal educa- tion. "At the end of this first year my health was nearly restored, while Kathie, always delicate, be- came more drooping. Our sum- mers were passed in the lovely, and, to me, ever-welcome seclusion of Castle Thornleigh; our winters in London gayety. While at an evening party, which, though not yet i out,' Katherine attended with us, she suddenly fainted away, and was with much difficulty re- stored to animation. We were greatly alarmed, and with reason, as the event proved; for she never wholly recovered. The physician was puzzled, and non-committal ac- cordingly; but advised her removal to the quiet of Castle Thortnleigh, as soon as her condition would per- mit. "After some weeks, she became so much better that she could move languidly from room to room through the castle, and sometimes even -ilto the gardens for a little way. In my studies she could no longer be my coimpanion; but my leisure was devoted to her, and, through the medium of conversa- tion and reading, I was able to im- part much to her. "For two'winter seasons follow- i ing, I was permitted to remain away from London to share the solitude of Castle Thornleigh with her. She objected, in the most earnest, unselfish manner: but I knew that my presence gave her comfort, and even delight; and the sacrifice was a slight one to me, but it was another matter to my family. As the winter season came again, my father and my aunt insisted upon my return to society. Preparations had been decided upon; and my aunt came into the room, where Kathie and I were sitting, to ask me some questions about my wardrobe, which was to be unusually ele- gant. I again protested against going. "' You are young, and much too handsome to remain secluded,' said my aunt- 'you are much formed within the last year or two. Your manners, when you choose, are graceful, your conversation bril- liant, and your accomplishments are well known. Your place is in society. If you were an invalid, without beauty, I would not urge the matter.', In this unfeeling manner did she allude to poor Kathie's condition. ' But as it is,' nodding her head, and surveying me, as if summing up the statis- tics of my charms, and spe- culating upon their availability, 'you will marry. You will be a new sensation in the- London circles, and can choose front the highest.' "'If my father commands it, I must go,' I exclaimed. "' But the motives you assign, I despise.' My aunt smiled coldly: she always affected to be amused rather than offended by resistance from me. page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] "' Your violence is unladylike,': she said, 'besides being quite un- necessary; for the only objection you have made to going is removed. The doctor consents to, and ap- proves of, Katherine's going with you. 1"So at length it was more pleas- antly settled than I had hoped. Durinrg that season Kathie, who was unable to go out, but some- times in company with my mother received visitors, met with Lord Georgce Stanley. He was a really fine young man, and with him it was a case of love at first sight. It was generally looked upon as an unaccountable ' conquest:' but it was no matter of surprise to me; for I Kathie, though not brilliant, was really lovely, and, to those who could rightly approach her, exqui- sitely attractive. "He offered himself, was accept- ed, and they were quietly married; remaining in London, as Kathie's delicate health required. the care of able physicians. Under ordina- ry circumstances the marriage of the younger sister, before the pros- pects of the elder were settled, would have been opposed. But Aunt Marion, though vexed at my spinsterhood, considered it the chance of a lifetime for Kathie. "I was now twenty-four'. Six more years passed away. At first, Castle Thornleigh was very lonely to me without Kathie, its sympa- thizin, spirit; but in the summers I pursued my studies with renewed ardor, breaking away from them only for long rides on horseback, -a groom always accompanying me, but so far behind as not to dis- turb my solitude.. The winter sea- sons were passed in London, from whose gay, social whirl I could at any time seek haven in Kathie's happy home. "Most flattering court was paid me, who was' the acknowiedged- star of the exclusive aristocratic circles to which our family be- longced. I had suitors, but I ac- cepted none. Aunt Marion was' vexed, but she ceased to attempt to coerce me. Both my beauty and my popularity increased, rather than waned; and in this I could see she took comfort. I formed pleas- ing friendships among men and among women, but my heart re- mained wholly my own. It was not that I cherished Philip's mem- ory in a way to preclude the possi- bility of another love. No: that memory was warm and fresh, but it enlarged rather than contracted my heart. "I was very lonely, Aime. I recognized in my own nature great capacities for loving ; and these ma- tured capacities filled me with a restless, longing, homeless feeling. It was .the woman within me,- tired of solitude, fit for companion- ship, and craving the'close kinship which only love can bring. "Every man and woman who reach maturity meet this compre- hensive want, face to face, in the inner temple of the soul. Happy they who are worthy of the con- sciousness, and pure enough to see, that through afiswering this high- est demand of Nature, comes also the completest fulfilment of our b'eing! At times, a deep discour- agement oppressed me, when I was tempted to cheat- myself into sup- posingr some specially agreeable fiienclship was, or might become, something more. But truth, and some subtly warninC sense of dan- (er, Cver roused themselves in time to save me from that dread mistake. Better true and lonely, than per- jured and self-betraved. "But there came another time. In the winter when I was thirty years old, there came a time when my nature was stirred, when the long-waiting quiet was rent away, and a sweet, all-conquering tumult took my heart captive." A rich glow kindled in Lady Hope's usually pale cheek, and her breath came With gentle, yet per- ceptible haste. "One night, - it was in Lon- clon, - TI was sitting with my sister Kathie, to stay with whom I had remained away from a brilliant re- ception, when Lord Stanley unex- pectedly entered. His. manner was full of animation, as he hurried to his wife. "' My dear,' he said, ' I have come back to tell you how much I regret that you cannot be with me this evening, of all evenings in the world. And you, Helen, you ought to be there: there would then be one man and one woman in the room.' "I rose, thrilled with an unac- countable, strange expectancy." "' George! What is it?' cried IKathie," looking from one to the other. "You must ask Helen,' said he, looking at me with smiling perplex- ity: ' she looks as if I were about to pronounce her fate. There was such a crowd about him, it was with difficulty I could get word with him; but he promised to come in with me, a few mo- ments, when I return, so we shall be most favored of all.' ' ' But George, you have not told us of whom you are speaking; I never knew you so disconnected,' began Kathie. "' An electric sympathy should tell you,' said Lord Stanley, laugh- ing. ' Wife of my soul! I speak of Eadmer Chanconi, the dearest 'friend I have in the world, except- ing only thee.' tC Again he looked strangely at me, and, bending over, he whis- pered, to Kathie, ' It flashes upon me, that he is just the man, of all in the world, for our difficult Hel- en.' "This whisper was not meant for my' ears, but I heard every word. But I heard as one who heard not. I was in a state not to be described, which had, in my ex- perience, no precedent. The name was new to me. I had certainly never heard it before; yet the mo- ment it was spoken, it seemed to me as if the searching, the grcasp- ing, the questioning of my whole life, had suddenly been answered. Eadmer Chanconi! the sound ling- ered in my ear; my heart recieved it with profound vibration. "Lord Stanley was gone: I was again alone with Kathie. She. did not speak, but turned the leaves of the book in her lap, without page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] raising her glance to mine. ,Ours was that perfect intimacy, which neither had ever transgressed by intrusion. I stood motionless for what seemed a long time; then, re- covering something of my equa- nimity, I retiredInto an adjoining room, where the gas was burning low. "As I moved, the slight rustling of my dress- sounded in my ears like a roar. I sat down, covering my face with my hands. . I asked myself vaguely, what was the mat- ter; but the question was followed by no solution. "My excitement was extreme. without outward demonstration, yet violent. It was like being in- undated: it- seemed to reach a defi- nite climax, then gradually, stead- ily, like an inundation, it, subsided. I was once more calm, yet I was lilke another person. Weariness, despondency, loneliness, - these familiars to whom I had long been accustomed,--had departed from te. They could no longer have shelter in my heart, which seemed to me like a guest-chamber, swept and garlanded,- for whom? Through my frame, my pulses, as if in answer, beat gentle, invisible jubilees of welcome." Lady Hope raised her head: her glowing eyes rested upon Aime. "This that I am telling you, Aime, is true, though it may strike you as unreal and incredible. Then I thought it an experience as exceptional as it was unaccount- able. "Now, though I think it to be unusual, I do not think it so rare as to be exceptional. The very same thing may never have occurred to any one; yet similar experiences, equally inexplicable, do occur more frequently than most imagine. But taking place within the soul, belonging exclusively to it, and not being externally manifest, they do not challenge inquiry. I rose to walk the room once or twice be- fore rejoining my sister. As I did so, I heard the voice of Lord Stan- ley. He was presenting a gentle- man to my Sister Kathie, as I en- teqed; and, turning at once to ne, - "' Allow me also to present you to Lady Hope, Eadmer, - Mr. Chanconi.' Then, with a smile, ' Sister Helen is a very inaccessible person, Eadmer: you may thank me and my friendship for you, - they procure you what otherwise you might sigh for in vain.' "Lord Stanley had placed my hand in that of his friend. Instead of taking it for a moment, and then releasing it, his fingers closed over it firmly. He made some courtly reply to Lord Stanley, who, smiling, turned away, to answer some re- mark of his wife. At that mo- moment, I looked up and our eyes met. I might have said that our souls met; for so it appeared to me. Never had I encountered such a gaze. I felt that strange emotion once more coming over me like a flood. In a very low voice, I re- peated, it seemed to me without volition, the words that were sounding in my heart, - "' Eadmer; Eadmer Chanconi I' "His eyes, at once the most pure, the most impassioned eyes I had ever seen, kindled as he caught the accent. "How? Do you then know me?' he asked in a soft, excited whisper. "Lord Stanley turned again towards us. I drew my hand for- cibly away; forcibly, for he actu- ally clung to it, and I also fdlt un- willing to withdraw it. "'lMr. Chanconi,' said Kathie, ' I feel that I ought to make you all the amends in my power for Lord Stanley's selfishness, in drllag- ging you away from your friends and before supper was served, as he tells me, particularly as he was selfish partly for my sake ;' and she invited us to a little table, where some light refreshments had just been placed. "Then followed a conversation, lively and genial, in which my part was wholly mechanical. I tried to follow what was said: it was use- less. I was conscious, at times, of Kathie's close observation; but it did not annoy me. I was more profoundly conscious of the eyes I had met, and the voice I was hearing. It suddenly seemed to me that I must get away. I wanted to shut myself in my own room, and see if I could find one Helen Hope, whom once I had known. "I often passed the night at Lord Stanley's; but now I pre- ferred returning to the hotel. Whenever I returned alone, I rode; when Lord Stanley was at home, and could go with me, I usually preferred to walk. To-night I would do so. "' Kathie, I must wish you good- night,' said I, rising. "' So soon!' said Lord Stanley-; but, at a glance from Kathie, ' will you ride, sister?' "' Thank you, no! I will walk.' "The guest had been silent: now, turning to me, he spoke, - "' If you will permit me, Lady Hope, ani'd if my friends will ex- cuse me, I would like to attend you.' "I bowed. Lord Stanley began a hospitable protest. ' "Mr. Chanconi would not offer to go, if he really preferred to stay,' said Kathie quickly. ' Have you not always told me, George, that the trait you most admired in your friend was his undeviating adhe- rence to the truth? And did he not say he would like to go?' "I retired for a moment; and, coming back, shawled and veiled,- 6"' No!' I heard Kathie say. ' You shall stay here with me, George: I'm lonesome.' "He had offered to accompany us; and Kathie had prevented. Out in the starlight, my hand oin his arm, my veil drawn over my glowing' cheeks, I asked myself whither I was going : it did not seem to me that I'knew.. "' Are you strong and well? Are you an English walker?' asked my companion. "Yes.' "' Do you care to go. at once to, the hotel?' "I did not reply. W "' The direct way is short ; page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] will you go by a longer route? Would you like to?' "1 To this I assented, and we walked on a few steps in silence. Then he stopped, taking both my hands in his:- he was trembling; his clasp revealed tlhat. " It seems to me I am walking in a dream,' said he. ' And I feel - what is it? how is it? Are we acquainted? Have we met be- fore? ' He spoke with entreaty. 6"I felt restored to myself: the strange bewilderment which had assailed me now possessed him. I put my hand on his arm libghtly,- "' 4 Let us go on, I said.' "After a few moments, he spoke again, more tranquilly: with a voice full of earnest sweetness, he repeated, - "c ; What is it? There is some- thing inexplicable to me. Some- thing, I cannot even say what, but it is like a profound assurance of great good ; as if the air held a chorus of sweet voices, and throb- bed with the lname of friend.' "' And while you are speaking,' cried I,' I am feeling so strangely; I wish I could express it. I ask myself if this is. Helen IIope, - she who is wont to be calm enotugh, sir, and cold and dull an d sad. Aind by my own question, I am self- confused, and get no reply. You ouglht to seem a stranrerl to me, but I do not feel you so.' H6 -How am I to account for this?' said he quickly. ' You do not seem to me a stranger. Your name, Helen: it seems as if I must call you by that- why do you start?' ' ' Because you re hearse my own thoughts. I have been several times' upon the point of calling you Eadmer, easily, readily, as if I had known you all my life; but that ' - "' But what?' said he; and then we both laug'hed, yet not lightly. I felt that he frequently looked down at my falce, but the veil must have baffled his scrutiny. Neither of us spoke agmain until we were drawing near the hotel. Then said my companion, - ' Lady HHope, something has happened to me to-night wholly new and unaccountable. I shall look for a solution; I shall find it: then will you permit me to speak of this strange experience, and will you also tell me w]lhat you find? for in this you hlave been with me.' "' Yes,' I answered, as in the semi-consciousness of a dream. "One part of it is already clear to me,' he continued, in a repressed voice. ' We are friends, unaltera- bly friends; we can never be strangers: give me your hand ; is it not so? ' "I gave limy hand, and, removing my veil, looked up at him. I said again, ' Yes.' Then I went in. "My aunt rwas waiting for me. ' You are late!' she exclaimed. ' Did you walk?' ' Yes.' "' Then whiy didn't Lord Stan- ley come in?' "' I don't know, I said, drawing off my gloves slowly. "' Didn't he come with you? she asked. "' No.' "' Do you mean to tell me you came alone?' said my aunt, in- amazement. "' Alone!' I repeated. ' No.' "My aunt took hold of my arm rather savagely. "' Helen Hope, Tyou appear to have lost your senses! IVho came hoime with you? Or have you b)een racing the streets by yourself, that you have such a wild, blowsy look?' "I looked at her, endeavoring to collect myself. "' Eadmller Chanconi,' I an- swered. "' Ah!' she said, drawing her brelath, 4 Eadmer Chanconi!' nod- dling to herself. I turned to go to llmy room. "t Helen! ' she called after me. I looked back. ' Eadmer Chanconi is a fascinating man, - dangerous- ly so,' with her cold, shrewd smile. 'It is as well for you to know he has a wife.' ' This-intelligenle produced no effect. I went to my room: my maid was in waiting. I dismissed her; and, undressing myself, I crept into bed. For a little while I lay awake, but, it seemed to me, neith- er thinking nor feeling. Then I sank into profound slumber." As Lady Hope ceased speaking, Aime drew a long breath. "I never in all my life heard tany thing so strange, so wonder- ful!" she exclaimed. "It was more wonderful in ex- perience than in the telling," said Lady Hope. '4 But I must hasten, or your Robert will be here, and, now that I have begun, I want to finish. I waked, the next morn- ing, refreshed, and radiant; that is the word most nearly expressive of my state of body and mind. I breakfasted, and hastened to Lord Stanley's. I was shown ilmmedi- ately to my sister's room, where she sat, taking a late cup of choco- late. Lord Stanley was out. Kathie rose, as I threw aside my veil. She took both my hands, staring at me a moment with amazement. "' Dear, magnificent Helen!' she exclaimed, kissing me affec- tionately. . What eyes! what col- or! what. an air! And what a strange look you have! I never saw you like this, Helen! ' "'Because,' said I, speaklng with difficulty, 'you never saw me.' I threw my arms around her. ' Dear Kathie!' I cried, ' I donll't know what it means: but it is as if I had all my life been asleep; and now I have awaked.' 6"Her look became intuitive and penetrating. '" Who has awakened you? ' she asked, with a troubled voice. "' Who?' said I: ' Eadmer Chan- coni I' And my voice astonished me: it was full of exultation. She sat down, covering her sweet face for a moment in dismay. I unfas- tened and laid aside my shawl, and then sat down beside her. Pres- ently, in grave, loving accents, - "Helen,' she said, ' Eadmer is one of George's best friends,- h-is dearest friend, I may say. A re- markable man, and, what is better still, a good and noble man, But I must tell you; you ought to know ' - page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] "' That he has a wife,' I inter- rupted calmly. ' Yes: Aunt Mar- ion told me that last night.' I felt that Kathie was surprised. "He came back here last night,' she said, without looking up: 'he said he wished to be- come intimately acquainted with you, that he should ask you for the privilege, but that he earnest- ly desired our sanction and appro- val; that it was known he was in- timate with George; and, as you were my sister, he could meet you here more frequently than under any other circumstances, and so neither excite curiosity nor risk re- mark, as, for your sake, he would avoid doing. We were both pleased with his frankness, and delighted, because'- she glanced up at me hesitatingly. "4 I heard what George whis- pered to you about us last evening,' I said., answering the look. "' I am sorry,' she said, drop- ping her eyes; then, after a mo- ment, he next threw us into amazement by saying that he had a wife, - had been married several years. "Why, then, do you seelk my sister's acquaintance?"I could not help asking him. i"For a rea- son," he said, " that I cannot ex- plain; for it is not clearly explained to myself. But George," he ex- claimed, turning to my husband, "you know me, you can trust mb6: tell me, can you not'?" extending his hand. George took the hand, and looked earnestly at his friend. I waited, almost breathless, for his answer. It came at last,-"Yes, Eadmer, I do and can trust you." Then I said, or rather it seemed as if something made me say, I do and can trust Helen." They both looked at me, and smiled at my emphasis. Eadmer took my hand, and thanked me. "But," said I, "I will not conceal from you that all this troubles me. What will come of it? I am not afraid you will either of you do wrong, but that you are preparing unhappi- ness for each other, unnecessarily preparing it. You are both already dangerously interested in one an- other."--"Interested, yes!" he re- plied; " dangerously, no!"--' And. now, Helen,' she said, suddenly raising eyes heavy with, tears, ' you confirm my fears : you speak and look,-there is but one inter- pretation ;' and she put her loving arms around me. "' I could have masked it if I would,' I replied; ' but I was will- ing, Kathie, that you should see. Look at me, dear sister: it is true I love him; heart andr soul have gone out to him. Do not grieve; you need not: I glory in it.' "She looked at me with fond admiration, with deep sadness. I would change this. 'I Kathie,' said I proudly, ' tell me, do you take back what you said of me last night? Do you distrust? ' "' No, no; not in the least,' she answered quickly. ' But I have wished for you a happy marriage. You are peculiarly fitted; now it cannot .be : you will not love again, not ever like this. I feel it; and this must be fruitless, vain.' "' Not so,' I eri'ed; and now I knelt down before her, drawing her hands away from her tearful face. ' Kathie,' I said solemnly, ' for years I have wanted this very thing that has come to me; I have liked many, loved none. I have had such hunger, such loneliness, beyond your divining, beyond my telling. I have put my hand down in my own heart, to the sealed fountain. But not at my will, not at my touch, would the sweet waters flow. They waited for an- other hand: now it is done; through the heart that was arid and desolate flows the released and vivifying stream.' I paused for a moment, voice failing me, then I hurried on. ' Wish it not to be otherwise; and of what avail to wish? not again can it be crowd- ed back to its source. "Sister, it was a hidden spring, covered from sight. I, only, heard its murmuring. Now it is a flood, controlled by limits which God alone can fix. It is his law that is at work within me. I am not afraid: I am- glad, I exult! ' "I leaned my face forward on her lap, and for a little while there was silence between us. "' Helen,' said Kathie at length, 'I stand aside: I see it is not for z me or for any to meddle here. But z let me relieve my mind to you a little. I do not clearly see how it is to be. He has a wife: that must i not for a moment be forgotten; yet f you will' - "' Listen, Kathie,' I interrupted: i 'you tell me that he has a wife, s and that I must not overlook her 1 right, forget her claim. I will not. How long will he be here? ' "' His wife's health is delicate, and she remains at home in her mother's care. He is here on busi- ness which will detain him a few weeks only; then he will return to her.' "' Could I have known before- hand,' I said, ' that he was mar- ried, and what meeting him would be to me and to him, for he loves me 1' and here my voice was tri- umphant, I could not help it, - ' could I have known this, Kathie, I would not have met him. First, because a vow is sacred; and he has vowed himself to his wife. Secondly, because I think it will be harder to return to her and be her husband, knowing and lov- ing me: I would have spared him by hiding away from him. For myself, it is better as it is, - much better. I welcome all the pain, struggle, that may come of it. I have had apathy; I will try life I "' But you see, I did not know, I could not be forewarned. That we met was not our fault, not our doing. Nor could we help what the meeting has been to us. Ka- thie, you do not know all: some time I will tell you; now I can- not. Only, believe me, if it were a fancy, an impression merely, I would return to Castle Thornleigh till he should be gone. But it is not fancy: it is love, - real, power- ful, inevitable. "'Now, Kathie, my sister, let us be left to work it out for our- selves. We already love: let us become acquainted with what we page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] love. In a few weeks, you say, he will go; in the mean time, each will look into the heart, penetrate the thought, divine the character, of the other. Then, when we must part, each will have an expe- rience to cherish in which the other has a share. Each will have memories, preciots, tangible, sa- cred, that will make farewell en- durable, and separation possible. "' If we parted now, both would be torn with an unsettled conflict. But, Kathie, I shall take nothing firom his wife that she could ever gain, nothing that could be hers; nor shall he linger a day from home and wife because of me.' "Kathie regarded me with di- lated eyes. "' How strangely you speak! for him as positively as for your- self,' she said. "' Because I have received au- thority,' said I quickly. ' But, sister, do you consent to my wish- es?' "'Yes,' kissing me, but with a perplexed gravity of look that made me say, - t' 'If it is -to be grief or trouble to you, Kathie, I will return to Castle Thornleigh. I will not for- get the rights or the comfort of any one.' "4 I had risen: she rose also, and put her arms around me. "Dear Helen,' she said,' Ido not wholly know your nature: it is a greater one than mine, - a full, many-sided one. You have been many times enigmatical to me; never more so, perhaps, than now. But this much I do understand: I know you to be good and true and pure. Under just such circum- stances, I would withhold from most any other woman the consent you ask. I would resolutely op- pose her purpose. I would intimi- date her, if possible, from daring an ordeal whose complications and whose consequences could not be foreseeable. But with you it is different. I feel, without clearly understanding, that the rules suit- ed to the crises of most lives are not shaped to this crisis in yours. Looking into your strong, tender eyes, my Helen, I am strang'ely comforted with a conviction that you are not in danger. I trust you, Helen.' -' You will tell your hus- band,' said I, after a silent, grateful gaze, ' how it is, and is to be. He will not misjudge. You and he are the salt of the earth.' "After a little while, I left her. I went into the study which held Lord Stanley's large, compendious library.: I toyed with the boolks: I did not care to read, or even to think much; I existed, it seem- ed to me, for the first time." "I wish," said Aime, as Lady Hope paused, "' that you would de- scribe him to me. I long to be able to picture him to myself." Lady Helen unfastened the brooch at her throat. "You have often wondered about this odd piece of jewelry, Aime," she said: "I have seen you observe it curiously, more than once." It presented a plain, oval, con- vex surface of gold, richly chased. This flew up, as Lady Helen pressed : a spring. Within was an ivory painting. Aime, gazing, held her breath. It was indeed a wonder- ful countenance. A man's face; a large head; the dark hair curling dense, yet silky, over a wi4e fore- he-ad, with full brows and temples. Eyes soft as velvet, yet lustrous and piercing. Grace and strength had guided the chiselling of the cheek and chin; but the mouth especially threw over the whole face a charm not to be conveyed in words. Looking at this mouth, one micght feel certain that the eyes above would be trustful and tender. As Aimoe looked, her eyes began to fill. She gave it back silently. "Did this man also die'?" was the thouglht, in her mind. "As for his person, I will only tell you what the picture cannot," resumled Lady Hope. "' -He was tall, broad-shouldered, with fine physical development of figure. Well, those few weeks went by quickly. We saw much of each other. In pub- lic, no onel would lhave gathered from de anor demeanor that we were intimate acquaintances; but in the quiet seclusion of Lady Stanley's home we passed many hours alone together. Oh, what hours!"Seem- inrr to have become oblivious of her listener,- Lady Hope threw back her head, threading her fing ers nervously through her thick whte hair. "Sometimes we rode together, sometimes we walked, but oftenest we met in the evening. The study was the place we liked the best; and Kathie almost always left; us there by ourselves. But whether we rode or walked, read or or were silent, it was ever li beings who had become one. There was no barrier between us: the thought of each was clear to the other. Emotion met unfailingly with response. There was no occasion to speak of love: we moved in its atmosplere. "But we ma de haste to perfect between us such an interchange of thought, opinion, wish, and aspira- tion as should abide with us when we should be sundered. "Neither spoke this to the other in so many words; yet such an agreement, thourgh tacit, was mu- tually, intuitively made'. ' Tocgether we entered into, a field of experience,-- new to each, infinitely beautiful, - belongTing to us alone; something whiph nei- ther life nor death nor circumstance could plunder or change. "Aime, it certainly would not answer for society to follow our example. I It is not best to despise langer, or court temptation. I do not claim that we did right; though then, certain of his character andl of my own, I felt no doubt. I did not imagine that a course could be immoral, or even questionable, if the feelingls actuating , it were pure and true. And I can truly affirm, that so far as Vwe two were concerned, there tWas not an action, thoughlt, or feeling, nori la word spoken, which the whole world milght not have known without damage to the most unsullied cog- nizance. But we do not live in a world where we have a right to. enact isolation, - to live without page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] re to the possible influence a t of our lives. "This we forgot; and, but that this period of my life was never known out- side of Kathie's family, I do not know for what suffering and wrong-doing I might now feel myself to be heavily responsible. Too often, in the very pride of strength, by our actions - safe for us perhaps-- we inconsiderately tempt and ensnare the weak. We have no right to do this. The strong are safe only in being hum- ble, and the weak are safe in the humility of the strong. I could not let this part of my story pass without showing you my thought, lest your sympathy and your faith in me should mislead you into ap- proving what I myself condemn; though at the time I was uncon- scious of error. "One evening he came in early. "' I thought to be here a week or two longer, Lady Stanley,' he said: ' but I must go to Sudbury at once; my wife's mother is ill, and my wife has sent for me.' "' You will return? ' asked Ka- thie. "' No!' he answered : "the busi- ness upon which I came is nearly concluded, and Lord Stanley kind- ly offers to take the rest off my hands.' "' When must you go?' asked Kathie. "'I To-morrow morning, by first train.' "There was a moment's silence : I heard Kathie's dress rustle. "'l Helen is in the study,' she said. I was there, and had heard every word. He came in, closing the door behind him. I sat looking down upon my clasped hands, una- -ble to speak. He came to me at once, dropping upon on'e knee, and covering my hands with his. They were supple hands, large and shapely. The touch thrilled me; the flesh seemed intelligent. A sympathetic quiver ran through the four hands that clung togeth- er so tenderly, so desperately. "' We wept, both of us, passion- ately, and in silence. Presently he said, but it was in a whisper, - "'Helen, you know what you have been to me, what you are; but yet let me tell you, it will be a, comfort to me, O you, glorious, noble, good, true woman! I thank God that I have known you. My whole heart is one voice of thanks for the boon of your blessed love. Oh! how can I tell you what it is. you have done for me? What words could tell? Every thing good in me is quickened: I am strength- ened and upheld. I go back to my wife. Before I met you, I had grown weary of her, impatient of the unequal tie. Now I go back, sent by you, not in words, but out of your brave, true spirit, to atone for impatience and neglect, to adhere to duty as never before. She is good, gentle, childlike. Marriage with her was a mistake; from her it can be hidden. But one need to suffer, it shall be me. "' And what gives me strength for this supreme trial, my Helen? What but this love which we have found together, which came to us with the first clasp of our hands, the first gaze into each other's eyes, - your dear love, which is in itself the. highest challenge to honor and duty which my soul could receive.' "This he said, with many breaks, in accents that shook my heart, covering my h1ands at times with tears and kisses. "' But Helen, if you should suf- fer; if you should regret '- I put my hand upon Ilis mouth, I drew my breath with difficulty : it seem- ed as if ny life were departing. "' Suffer! yes,' I whispered,' and willingly. We have not loved, neither shall we grieve, alone. No sorrow can be like the joy; and the joy 1 keep with me. It is thine, it is mine! Regret? Ead- mer, I would blot out all the thirty v years before we met, rather than i lose or forget one hour which you ] have shared. Good, and nothing t but good, have you brought me: i you tell me it has beern the same to E you. I ask for nothing more." F l e gathered me in his arms. t Hours passed: "'we spoke but little, and that brokenly. It was many t times only 'f1Helen,' and 'Eadmer,' in whispers that seemed failh to fix forever the beloved sound. a "At last the time came for him i to leave me. A calm seemed to a fall upon us for a moment, as if a s6me unseen strength-giving pr6s- n ence hovered near. I was little: o he lifted me fi'om the floor, and thus, gently gathered to his breast, 1) he held me under the subdued gas- in gleam. He was pale, - death could o0 not be paler, - but, oh,.how strong, cc how brave, how true he looked! 's the tender mouth trembling, but n set also in the lines of courage I o "Helen,' he murmured, ' what L1 will you say? How, bid me de- part? Give me my watchword, - , something that shall carry with it , ever. the look of your eyes, the 1 sound of your voice. My Helen! speak our farewell.' "' Between us now must lie b time, distance, and death,' I an- sweredl; and my voice was full and natural. 'Let us each do what we find to do; working with pure Ipur')ose to give cheer and strength to every soul whose path crosses ours; giving to duty ever its guise of blessedness. And thus, through this dear love, which we glory in, which has brought to us only good, and oh, how much! '-here voice failed me; but thinking of him, looking into the eyes, which, in- tensely fixed on me, were drinking in every feature, expression, word, as one looks. on the dying, I strug- gled on, 'Thus shall we be still together, never really separate.' ' And after death?' he whis- pered, "'And after death ' I cried, ' then it will be tAis,' throwing my arms around his neck, I and this, Eadmer,' kissing him again and: again; ' and only joy to us forever; and to no one pain, because lhere- neither sin nor wrong had part, in our love.' "fHe gathered me to him so tigiht- ly, it was as if it were but one heart instead of two beating against each other as if they must burst the. confines of flesh. "' My Helen, my Helen '" in a page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] suffocated voice; then still hold- ing me thus, he raised one arm, 'Thy blessing, O my God! thy blessing for two souls torn asun- der, that in thy sight are as one! ' 1"In a moment more he was gone." For a little while Lady Hope was silent. She did not feel the tears that were falling on her hand. She did not even look at Aimnee; but presently,.in an altered voice, she resumed, - "Fifteen years passed away. In all that time we never met, nor did we write to one another. It was not altogether chance. Through Kathie and George we each learned something of the other's where- abouts and welfare, and thus mu- tually avoided a meeting which would only have been a parting. This picture, which I have shown you, he sent to me very soon : I also sent him one of myself. In this long silence and separation, there was pain hard to be borne, and struggle, weary, strenuous, but ever victorious. There was never regret, never a wish to escape the suffering by faint-hearted will- ingness to forget the joy. "And in all this time, change never touched our love ; only the blessed change of greater and higher growth. '"And we did what fell to us to do with all our hearts, - each cheered with silent, faithful thought of the other. "One day Kathie wrote me that Mrs. Chanconi was dead; and thien again, a little later, that Ead- mer was ill. "Then I longed to go to him, - suspense tugged at my heart- strings; but he was, not danger- ously ill, only worn out with ten- der, unwearied watching over his sick wife. "He. had kind nurses and the. best of care; and I waited. "But this waiting was longer than the fifteen years., He recov- ered slowly. Three months had elapsed, when one day I received this letter, the first and only one." Lady Hope gave Aime the let- ter. "MY BELOVED,--I live; for love conquers even death. I am coming to you. After fifteen years, the day has come in which I can write these blessed words. Within the week I shall be in London. O Helen, Helen! I wanted to write you a long let- ter: these words, I am coming to you, my Helen, say it all. "Unchangeably, EADME'R. "P. S. - I had folded this up to send; but something came upon me suddenly, as if all would not be as it seems, but it must. How timid is love, -love that has suf- fered! I will hasten to you. " E. C." "I was at Castle Thornleigh I when I received this letter: the next night I was in London. Lord Stanley had received a line saying that Eadmer would arrive the day following. Kathie was very anxious about me: she had read the letter; she knew the postscript was in my mind. "I was quiet. and collected, but I expected, I was braced: I did not know why. I was conscious, through all, of profoundjoy at the tlought of meeting my own once lore. "' The day came and the hour." Lady Helen drew away the hands which Aime had been soft- ly holding, and tightly locked them. "Kathie and I were at the win- dow ; the street below was crowded unusually; it was some gala-day. "'He is come; there they are!' cried Kathie exultantly. I looked also, and saw the glorious eyes; the smiling mouth. In the same instant I was glad, and my heart grew cold. There was a locking of wheels anmong the vehicles,- unruly horses,-- drunken drivers. Lord Stanley sprang out of the cab. Eadlmer attempted to follow: but the cab lurching violently for- ward and to one side, he was throw:n. I sat down, hlolding my head between my llands.. Kathe had fainted. "They brought him in; and I received the bruised and bleedingl head in my arms. This was the meeting. Closed eyes to my lov- ing gaze; pale lips to my varlm kisses. Ah!" said Lady Hope, in a deep voice, pressing her clasped hands upon her heart, " let me hasten. 'It was not death, but it was an injury that caused a long ill- ness; and when the body recov- ered, the memory was gone, the mind impaired. It would never return, the doctor said; or, if it ever did, it would be a sure warn- ing of near dissolution. Aime," with one dry, gasping sob, pointing , to the inner room, 4"My Eadlmer lies there! I pray God he may remember me before he dies!" "That is why, when I looked at the picture, I thought I had some- where seen the face," murmured Aime. "Though memory had fled, love had survived,--no injury could quench that. He wanted no one near him but me, - me he wanted always. You will see, Aime, we could not be married; bIut he Was mine and I was his, - none other's. I would not desert him, and so I declared myself. My fair name was dear to me: it is dear to all women, as the visible warrant of pulity of character. I shrank from the coarseness of the scandal I must dare. If my family, who klnew me pure, had been true to me, the world would have been lenient. But I was designed by interested parties for a splendid marriage. Prospects were offered me wlhich the world considered even exceptionally brilliant. 4"Only my co-operation was want- ing to complete the'wishes of all. That I. should sweep aside the combined advantages of riches and distinction, that I might keep truth with myself and to another, -was a Quixotic infatuation, not to be tolerated. "Relatives and friends alike turned from me, utterly and bit- page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] terly repudiating me. Only Kathie remained true. I took Eadmer away with me among strangers. I have passed heavy hours. How could it be otherwise? Exile, not only from a home anld from friends I tenderly loved, bult even from that social life for which, by nature and culture, I was fitted. The burden of ostracism is the most oppressive that can be cast upon us by our kind. But to merit it, whether we receive it or not, is far worse; and here was my comfort. I merited it not. I was clingincg to that duty of my life which was manifestly first and highest. I have never wearied,- never regretted. I loved Eaidmer: I still love him, never less, always more. "He is hidden fromn me; but he * lives, and will be restored to me, after death, surely." She dropped her face in. her hands. Aimue leaned forward, and kissed those I hands silently. The coming o'f Robert was the first break in that silence. "' To-night I think I will not see him," said Lady Hope, enter- ing the inner room. In a moment she returned. "Robert! Aimeie!" she said, taling in hers a hand of each, "what shall I say to you? I feel as if I must say somethilngr for you never to forget.' "Ah, well! There is nothing better, nothing beyond this: love one another." She raised her face. Robert bent his stately head, and tenderly lissed her. She held Aime for a mo- ment in a close embrace. "Good-night, my dear ones! good-night." As Lady Hope turned again to the inner room, she heard her name spoken in clear, startling accents. "Helen!" In a moment she was standing over the bed. "Yes, Eadmer, I am here." "But I cannot see you clearly." "That is because the rooin is dark but I am here." "Why do you tremble, my Helen?" he asked, after- another pause. "Because I am so glad to have you with me. Eadmer, it fills my heart." "Yes," said he gravely: " ow, after fifteen years, how blessed to be once more together! Helen!" in quick, electric accents, "get a light: I must see you!" With swift thought and action, she caught a veil, and threw it over her white hair, then, raising the light, returned to him. Her heart sank within her. Would lie see the room? would he inquire? "God help me! God help us both!" she murmured. 1lBut lie gazed only at her with sweet,'brifght, loving( intelligence. Lady Helen pressed her faded cheek arainst his. Besides tlhe fulness of love, there was in her heart the fulness of gratitude. "Helen, we did well to part; but, oh! lihow hard, hard, hard, it was! Now we do well to meet. This being with you once more, there is no Jlaw in it, it is all blessed. Helen, silent one! are you glad?" "C Glad? O Eadmer! I do not remember that I ever had any pain, any care. Sorrow is a dream," with deep cadence; HELEN AND EADMhER. "Iove and re-union, these only are real. Speak again, quick: I starve for your voice." "Sorrow a dream, love? It was / a tworking dream, that built for us, with bleeding hands, the white, white home of love." "True, my Eadmer: the hands bled, and the heart bled, and the feet bled-; but now I do not feel it page: 198[View Page 198] any more. I cannot remember the seeming of it. Eadmer, are you happy.?" "Absolutely!" "And I too," she said, kissing him soft, hurried kisses. "' Why do you sigh so heavily? is it pain?" "Pain is a name. It has no meaning for me any more. But I do feel a little weary. You know I have been ill. My heart is wake- ful, but my head drowses. Kiss me, dear love! I shall waken, - soon." She leaned over him, holding the tender dying gaze till the lids closed, and the hand that had grasped hers, in those brief mo- ments of return to love and life, relaxed its hold. He slept be- neath the gray veil of death, and the wakening was painless and "soon!" Lady Helen drooped down beside him, her task was done. A strange gasping seized her: it lasted but a little while. She raised her head a moment, and glanced around the room, - a look full of qgietude and farewell! Then she turned once -more toward him. She took one hand in hers; and over the two hands thus clasped, as she sank down, fell her loosened and still wavy white hair. "Go not too fast," she murmur- ed, her cheek turned inward upon his breast. "I want your arm around me, and your heart to mine. It is a deep, cold tide, I have been told; but I do not find it so, and I am iot afraid with you. A strange way,- where we have never been; but we go together, so it is warm and bright!" There were no more words. There were moans, of which the dim walls of that earthly chamber kept no record, - moans, and a few, low, patient sighs, merged in silence here, in eternal exultation beyond! Thus, in the bright beams of the next morning, the joy of their new morning seeming to spread some- thing of its glory over their pale features, they were found by Robert and Aime! They went out with drooping heads, hand in hand, carrying in their hearts, and into all their future lives, the most blessed in- spiration of faithful living, loving, and dying.
