FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA

Which have to do with many personalities and events in and aboutAvonlea, the Home of the Heroine of Green Gables, including talesof Aunt Cynthia, The Materializing of Cecil, David Spencer'sDaughter, Jane's Baby, The Failure of Robert Monroe, The Returnof Hester, The Little Brown Book of Miss Emily, Sara's Way, TheSon of Thyra Carewe, The Education of Betty, The Selflessness ofEunice Carr, The Dream-Child, The Conscience Case of David Bell, Only a Common Fellow, and finally the story of Tannis of theFlats. 

All related byL. M. MONTGOMERY

Author of "Anne of Green Gables, " "Anne of Avonlea, " "Anne of theIsland, " "Chronicles of Avonlea, " "Kilmeny of the Orchard, " etc. 

INTRODUCTION

It is no exaggeration to say that what Longfellow did for Acadia, Miss Montgomery has done for Prince Edward Island. More than amillion readers, young people as well as their parents and unclesand aunts, possess in the picture-galleries of their memories theexquisite landscapes of Avonlea, limned with as poetic a pencilas Longfellow wielded when he told the ever-moving story of GrandPre. 

Only genius of the first water has the ability to conjure up sucha character as Anne Shirley, the heroine of Miss Montgomery'sfirst novel, "Anne of Green Gables, " and to surround her withpeople so distinctive, so real, so true to psychology. Anne isas lovable a child as lives in all fiction. Natasha in CountTolstoi's great novel, "War and Peace, " dances into our ken, withsomething of the same buoyancy and naturalness; but into what acommonplace young woman she develops! Anne, whether as the gaylittle orphan in her conquest of the master and mistress ofGreen Gables, or as the maturing and self-forgetful maiden ofAvonlea, keeps up to concert-pitch in her charm and herwinsomeness. There is nothing in her to disappoint hope orimagination. 

Part of the power of Miss Montgomery--and the largest part--isdue to her skill in compounding humor and pathos. The humor ishonest and golden; it never wearies the reader; the pathos isnever sentimentalized, never degenerates into bathos, is nevermorbid. This combination holds throughout all her works, longeror shorter, and is particularly manifest in the presentcollection of fifteen short stories, which, together with thosein the first volume of the Chronicles of Avonlea, present aseries of piquant and fascinating pictures of life in PrinceEdward Island. 

The humor is shown not only in the presentation of quaint andunique characters, but also in the words which fall from theirmouths. Aunt Cynthia "always gave you the impression of afull-rigged ship coming gallantly on before a favorable wind;" nofurther description is needed--only one such personage could befound in Avonlea. You would recognize her at sight. IsmayMeade's disposition is summed up when we are told that she is"good at having presentiments--after things happen. " Whatcleverer embodiment of innate obstinacy than in IsabellaSpencer--"a wisp of a woman who looked as if a breath would swayher but was so set in her ways that a tornado would hardly havecaused her to swerve an inch from her chosen path;" or than inMrs. Eben Andrews (in "Sara's Way") who "looked like a womanwhose opinions were always very decided and warranted to wear!"

This gift of characterization in a few words is lavished also onmaterial objects, as, for instance; what more is needed todescribe the forlornness of the home from which Anne was rescuedthan the statement that even the trees around it "looked likeorphans"?

The poetic touch, too, never fails in the right place and isnever too frequently introduced in her descriptions. They throwa glamor over that Northern land which otherwise you mightimagine as rather cold and barren. What charming Springs theymust have there! One sees all the fruit-trees clad in bridalgarments of pink and white; and what a translucent sky smilesdown on the ponds and the reaches of bay and cove!

"The Eastern sky was a great arc of crystal, smitten through withauroral crimsonings. "

"She was as slim and lithe as a young white-stemmed birch-tree;her hair was like a soft dusky cloud, and her eyes were as blueas Avonlea Harbor in a fair twilight, when all the sky is a-bloomover it. "

Sentiment with a humorous touch to it prevails in the first twostories of the present book. The one relates to thedisappearance of a valuable white Persian cat with a blue spot inits tail. "Fatima" is like the apple of her eye to the rich oldaunt who leaves her with two nieces, with a stern injunction notto let her out of the house. Of course both Sue and Ismay detestcats; Ismay hates them, Sue loathes them; but Aunt Cynthia'sfavor is worth preserving. You become as much interested inFatima's fate as if she were your own pet, and the climax is noless unexpected than it is natural, especially when it is madealso the last act of a pretty comedy of love. 

Miss Montgomery delights in depicting the romantic episodeshidden in the hearts of elderly spinsters as, for instance, inthe case of Charlotte Holmes, whose maid Nancy would have sentfor the doctor and subjected her to a porous plaster whilewaiting for him, had she known that up stairs there was anote-book full of original poems. Rather than bear the stigmaof never having had a love-affair, this sentimental ladyinvents one to tell her mocking young friends. The dramatic andunexpected denouement is delightful fun. 

Another note-book reveals a deeper romance in the case of MissEmily; this is related by Anne of Green Gables, who once ortwice flashes across the scene, though for the most part herfriends and neighbors at White Sands or Newbridge or Grafton aswell as at Avonlea are the persons involved. 

In one story, the last, "Tannis of the Flats, " the secret ofElinor Blair's spinsterhood is revealed in an episode whichcarries the reader from Avonlea to Saskatchewan and shows theunselfish devotion of a half-breed Indian girl. The story isboth poignant and dramatic. Its one touch of humor is whereJerome Carey curses his fate in being compelled to live in thatdesolate land in "the picturesque language permissible in thefar Northwest. "

Self-sacrifice, as the real basis of happiness, is a favoritetheme in Miss Montgomery's fiction. It is raised to the nthpower in the story entitled, "In Her Selfless Mood, " where anugly, misshapen girl devotes her life and renounces marriage forthe sake of looking after her weak and selfish half-brother. Thesame spirit is found in "Only a Common Fellow, " who is haloedwith a certain splendor by renouncing the girl he was to marry infavor of his old rival, supposed to have been killed in France, but happily delivered from that tragic fate. 

Miss Montgomery loves to introduce a little child or a baby as asolvent of old feuds or domestic quarrels. In "The Dream Child, "a foundling boy, drifting in through a storm in a dory, saves aheart-broken mother from insanity. In "Jane's Baby, " ababy-cousin brings reconciliation between the two sisters, Rosetta and Carlotta, who had not spoken for twenty years because"the slack-twisted" Jacob married the younger of the two. 

Happiness generally lights up the end of her stories, howevertragic they may set out to be. In "The Son of His Mother, " Thyrais a stern woman, as "immovable as a stone image. " She had onlyone son, whom she worshipped; "she never wanted a daughter, butshe pitied and despised all sonless women. " She demandedabsolute obedience from Chester--not only obedience, but alsoutter affection, and she hated his dog because the boy loved him:"She could not share her love even with a dumb brute. " WhenChester falls in love, she is relentless toward the beautifulyoung girl and forces Chester to give her up. But a terriblesorrow brings the old woman and the young girl into sympathy, andunspeakable joy is born of the trial. 

Happiness also comes to "The Brother who Failed. " The Monroeshad all been successful in the eyes of the world except Robert:one is a millionaire, another a college president, another afamous singer. Robert overhears the old aunt, Isabel, call him atotal failure, but, at the family dinner, one after anotherstands up and tells how Robert's quiet influence and unselfishaid had started them in their brilliant careers, and the oldaunt, wiping the tears from her eyes, exclaims: "I guess there'sa kind of failure that's the best success. "

In one story there is an element of the supernatural, whenHester, the hard older sister, comes between Margaret and herlover and, dying, makes her promise never to become Hugh Blair'swife, but she comes back and unites them. In this, Margaret, just like the delightful Anne, lives up to the dictum that"nothing matters in all God's universe except love. " The storyof the revival at Avonlea has also a good moral. 

There is something in these continued Chronicles of Avonlea, like the delicate art which has made "Cranford" a classic: thecharacters are so homely and homelike and yet tinged withbeautiful romance! You feel that you are made familiar with areal town and its real inhabitants; you learn to love them andsympathize with them. Further Chronicles of Avonlea is a book toread; and to know. 

 NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. 

CONTENTS

 I. Aunt Cynthia's Persian Cat II. The Materializing of Cecil III. Her Father's Daughter IV. Jane's Baby V. The Dream-Child VI. The Brother Who Failed VII. The Return of Hester VIII. The Little Brown Book of Miss Emily IX. Sara's Way X. The Son of His Mother XI. The Education of Betty XII. In Her Selfless Mood XIII. The Conscience Case of David Bell XIV. Only a Common Fellow XV. Tannis of the Flats

FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA

I. AUNT CYNTHIA'S PERSIAN CAT

Max always blesses the animal when it is referred to; and I don'tdeny that things have worked together for good after all. Butwhen I think of the anguish of mind which Ismay and I underwenton account of that abominable cat, it is not a blessing thatarises uppermost in my thoughts. 

I never was fond of cats, although I admit they are well enoughin their place, and I can worry along comfortably with a nice, matronly old tabby who can take care of herself and be of someuse in the world. As for Ismay, she hates cats and always did. 

But Aunt Cynthia, who adored them, never could bring herself tounderstand that any one could possibly dislike them. She firmlybelieved that Ismay and I really liked cats deep down in ourhearts, but that, owing to some perverse twist in our moralnatures, we would not own up to it, but willfully persisted indeclaring we didn't. 

Of all cats I loathed that white Persian cat of Aunt Cynthia's. And, indeed, as we always suspected and finally proved, Auntherself looked upon the creature with more pride than affection. She would have taken ten times the comfort in a good, common pussthat she did in that spoiled beauty. But a Persian cat with arecorded pedigree and a market value of one hundred dollarstickled Aunt Cynthia's pride of possession to such an extent thatshe deluded herself into believing that the animal was really theapple of her eye. 

It had been presented to her when a kitten by a missionary nephewwho had brought it all the way home from Persia; and for the nextthree years Aunt Cynthia's household existed to wait on that cat, hand and foot. It was snow-white, with a bluish-gray spot on thetip of its tail; and it was blue-eyed and deaf and delicate. Aunt Cynthia was always worrying lest it should take cold anddie. Ismay and I used to wish that it would--we were so tired ofhearing about it and its whims. But we did not say so to AuntCynthia. She would probably never have spoken to us again andthere was no wisdom in offending Aunt Cynthia. When you have anunencumbered aunt, with a fat bank account, it is just as well tokeep on good terms with her, if you can. Besides, we reallyliked Aunt Cynthia very much--at times. Aunt Cynthia was one ofthose rather exasperating people who nag at and find fault withyou until you think you are justified in hating them, and whothen turn round and do something so really nice and kind for youthat you feel as if you were compelled to love them dutifullyinstead. 

So we listened meekly when she discoursed on Fatima--the cat'sname was Fatima--and, if it was wicked of us to wish for thelatter's decease, we were well punished for it later on. 

One day, in November, Aunt Cynthia came sailing out toSpencervale. She really came in a phaeton, drawn by a fat graypony, but somehow Aunt Cynthia always gave you the impression ofa full rigged ship coming gallantly on before a favorable wind. 

That was a Jonah day for us all through. Everything had gonewrong. Ismay had spilled grease on her velvet coat, and the fitof the new blouse I was making was hopelessly askew, and thekitchen stove smoked and the bread was sour. Moreover, HuldahJane Keyson, our tried and trusty old family nurse and cook andgeneral "boss, " had what she called the "realagy" in hershoulder; and, though Huldah Jane is as good an old creature asever lived, when she has the "realagy" other people who are inthe house want to get out of it and, if they can't, feel about ascomfortable as St. Lawrence on his gridiron. 

And on top of this came Aunt Cynthia's call and request. 

"Dear me, " said Aunt Cynthia, sniffing, "don't I smell smoke?You girls must manage your range very badly. Mine never smokes. But it is no more than one might expect when two girls try tokeep house without a man about the place. "

"We get along very well without a man about the place, " I saidloftily. Max hadn't been in for four whole days and, thoughnobody wanted to see him particularly, I couldn't help wonderingwhy. "Men are nuisances. "

"I dare say you would like to pretend you think so, " said AuntCynthia, aggravatingly. "But no woman ever does really think so, you know. I imagine that pretty Anne Shirley, who is visitingElla Kimball, doesn't. I saw her and Dr. Irving out walking thisafternoon, looking very well satisfied with themselves. If youdilly-dally much longer, Sue, you will let Max slip through yourfingers yet. "

That was a tactful thing to say to ME, who had refused Max Irvingso often that I had lost count. I was furious, and so I smiledmost sweetly on my maddening aunt. 

"Dear Aunt, how amusing of you, " I said, smoothly. "You talk asif I wanted Max. "

"So you do, " said Aunt Cynthia. 

"If so, why should I have refused him time and again?" I asked, smilingly. Right well Aunt Cynthia knew I had. Max always toldher. 

"Goodness alone knows why, " said Aunt Cynthia, "but you may do itonce too often and find yourself taken at your word. There issomething very fascinating about this Anne Shirley. "

"Indeed there is, " I assented. "She has the loveliest eyes Iever saw. She would be just the wife for Max, and I hope he willmarry her. "

"Humph, " said Aunt Cynthia. "Well, I won't entice you intotelling any more fibs. And I didn't drive out here to-day in allthis wind to talk sense into you concerning Max. I'm going toHalifax for two months and I want you to take charge of Fatimafor me, while I am away. "

"Fatima!" I exclaimed. 

"Yes. I don't dare to trust her with the servants. Mind youalways warm her milk before you give it to her, and don't on anyaccount let her run out of doors. "

I looked at Ismay and Ismay looked at me. We knew we were in forit. To refuse would mortally offend Aunt Cynthia. Besides, if Ibetrayed any unwillingness, Aunt Cynthia would be sure to put itdown to grumpiness over what she had said about Max, and rub itin for years. But I ventured to ask, "What if anything happensto her while you are away?"

"It is to prevent that, I'm leaving her with you, " said AuntCynthia. "You simply must not let anything happen to her. Itwill do you good to have a little responsibility. And you willhave a chance to find out what an adorable creature Fatima reallyis. Well, that is all settled. I'll send Fatima out to-morrow. "

"You can take care of that horrid Fatima beast yourself, " saidIsmay, when the door closed behind Aunt Cynthia. "I won't touchher with a yard-stick. You had no business to say we'd takeher. "

"Did I say we would take her?" I demanded, crossly. "AuntCynthia took our consent for granted. And you know, as well as Ido, we couldn't have refused. So what is the use of beinggrouchy?"

"If anything happens to her Aunt Cynthia will hold usresponsible, " said Ismay darkly. 

"Do you think Anne Shirley is really engaged to Gilbert Blythe?"I asked curiously. 

"I've heard that she was, " said Ismay, absently. "Does she eatanything but milk? Will it do to give her mice?"

"Oh, I guess so. But do you think Max has really fallen in lovewith her?"

"I dare say. What a relief it will be for you if he has. "

"Oh, of course, " I said, frostily. "Anne Shirley or Anne AnybodyElse, is perfectly welcome to Max if she wants him. _I_certainly do not. Ismay Meade, if that stove doesn't stopsmoking I shall fly into bits. This is a detestable day. I hatethat creature!"

"Oh, you shouldn't talk like that, when you don't even know her, "protested Ismay. "Every one says Anne Shirley is lovely--"

"I was talking about Fatima, " I cried in a rage. 

"Oh!" said Ismay. 

Ismay is stupid at times. I thought the way she said "Oh" wasinexcusably stupid. 

Fatima arrived the next day. Max brought her out in a coveredbasket, lined with padded crimson satin. Max likes cats and AuntCynthia. He explained how we were to treat Fatima and when Ismayhad gone out of the room--Ismay always went out of the room whenshe knew I particularly wanted her to remain--he proposed to meagain. Of course I said no, as usual, but I was rather pleased. Max had been proposing to me about every two months for twoyears. Sometimes, as in this case, he went three months, andthen I always wondered why. I concluded that he could not bereally interested in Anne Shirley, and I was relieved. I didn'twant to marry Max but it was pleasant and convenient to have himaround, and we would miss him dreadfully if any other girlsnapped him up. He was so useful and always willing to doanything for us--nail a shingle on the roof, drive us to town, put down carpets--in short, a very present help in all ourtroubles. 

So I just beamed on him when I said no. Max began counting onhis fingers. When he got as far as eight he shook his head andbegan over again. 

"What is it?" I asked. 

"I'm trying to count up how many times I have proposed to you, "he said. "But I can't remember whether I asked you to marry methat day we dug up the garden or not. If I did it makes--"

"No, you didn't, " I interrupted. 

"Well, that makes it eleven, " said Max reflectively. "Prettynear the limit, isn't it? My manly pride will not allow me topropose to the same girl more than twelve times. So the nexttime will be the last, Sue darling. "

"Oh, " I said, a trifle flatly. I forgot to resent his calling medarling. I wondered if things wouldn't be rather dull when Maxgave up proposing to me. It was the only excitement I had. Butof course it would be best--and he couldn't go on at it forever, so, by the way of gracefully dismissing the subject, I asked himwhat Miss Shirley was like. 

"Very sweet girl, " said Max. "You know I always admired thosegray-eyed girls with that splendid Titian hair. "

I am dark, with brown eyes. Just then I detested Max. I got upand said I was going to get some milk for Fatima. 

I found Ismay in a rage in the kitchen. She had been up in thegarret, and a mouse had run across her foot. Mice always get onIsmay's nerves. 

"We need a cat badly enough, " she fumed, "but not a useless, pampered thing, like Fatima. That garret is literally swarmingwith mice. You'll not catch me going up there again. "

Fatima did not prove such a nuisance as we had feared. HuldahJane liked her, and Ismay, in spite of her declaration that shewould have nothing to do with her, looked after her comfortscrupulously. She even used to get up in the middle of the nightand go out to see if Fatima was warm. Max came in every day and, being around, gave us good advice. 

Then one day, about three weeks after Aunt Cynthia's departure, Fatima disappeared--just simply disappeared as if she had beendissolved into thin air. We left her one afternoon, curled upasleep in her basket by the fire, under Huldah Jane's eye, whilewe went out to make a call. When we came home Fatima was gone. 

Huldah Jane wept and was as one whom the gods had made mad. Shevowed that she had never let Fatima out of her sight the wholetime, save once for three minutes when she ran up to the garretfor some summer savory. When she came back the kitchen door hadblown open and Fatima had vanished. 

Ismay and I were frantic. We ran about the garden and throughthe out-houses, and the woods behind the house, like wildcreatures, calling Fatima, but in vain. Then Ismay sat down onthe front doorsteps and cried. 

"She has got out and she'll catch her death of cold and AuntCynthia will never forgive us. "

"I'm going for Max, " I declared. So I did, through the sprucewoods and over the field as fast as my feet could carry me, thanking my stars that there was a Max to go to in such apredicament. 

Max came over and we had another search, but without result. Days passed, but we did not find Fatima. I would certainly havegone crazy had it not been for Max. He was worth his weight ingold during the awful week that followed. We did not dareadvertise, lest Aunt Cynthia should see it; but we inquired farand wide for a white Persian cat with a blue spot on its tail, and offered a reward for it; but nobody had seen it, althoughpeople kept coming to the house, night and day, with every kindof a cat in baskets, wanting to know if it was the one we hadlost. 

"We shall never see Fatima again, " I said hopelessly to Max andIsmay one afternoon. I had just turned away an old woman with abig, yellow tommy which she insisted must be ours--"cause it kemto our place, mem, a-yowling fearful, mem, and it don't belong tonobody not down Grafton way, mem. "

"I'm afraid you won't, " said Max. "She must have perished fromexposure long ere this. "

"Aunt Cynthia will never forgive us, " said Ismay, dismally. "Ihad a presentiment of trouble the moment that cat came to thishouse. "

We had never heard of this presentiment before, but Ismay is goodat having presentiments--after things happen. 

"What shall we do?" I demanded, helplessly. "Max, can't you findsome way out of this scrape for us?"

"Advertise in the Charlottetown papers for a white Persian cat, "suggested Max. "Some one may have one for sale. If so, you mustbuy it, and palm it off on your good Aunt as Fatima. She's veryshort-sighted, so it will be quite possible. "

"But Fatima has a blue spot on her tail, " I said. 

"You must advertise for a cat with a blue spot on its tail, " saidMax. 

"It will cost a pretty penny, " said Ismay dolefully. "Fatima wasvalued at one hundred dollars. "

"We must take the money we have been saving for our new furs, " Isaid sorrowfully. "There is no other way out of it. It willcost us a good deal more if we lose Aunt Cynthia's favor. She isquite capable of believing that we have made away with Fatimadeliberately and with malice aforethought. "

So we advertised. Max went to town and had the notice insertedin the most important daily. We asked any one who had a whitePersian cat, with a blue spot on the tip of its tail, to disposeof, to communicate with M. I. , care of the _Enterprise_. 

We really did not have much hope that anything would come of it, so we were surprised and delighted over the letter Max broughthome from town four days later. It was a type-written screedfrom Halifax stating that the writer had for sale a white Persiancat answering to our description. The price was a hundred andten dollars, and, if M. I. Cared to go to Halifax and inspect theanimal, it would be found at 110 Hollis Street, by inquiring for"Persian. "

"Temper your joy, my friends, " said Ismay, gloomily. "The catmay not suit. The blue spot may be too big or too small or notin the right place. I consistently refuse to believe that anygood thing can come out of this deplorable affair. "

Just at this moment there was a knock at the door and I hurriedout. The postmaster's boy was there with a telegram. I tore itopen, glanced at it, and dashed back into the room. 

"What is it now?" cried Ismay, beholding my face. 

I held out the telegram. It was from Aunt Cynthia. She hadwired us to send Fatima to Halifax by express immediately. 

For the first time Max did not seem ready to rush into the breachwith a suggestion. It was I who spoke first. 

"Max, " I said, imploringly, "you'll see us through this, won'tyou? Neither Ismay nor I can rush off to Halifax at once. Youmust go to-morrow morning. Go right to 110 Hollis Street and askfor 'Persian. ' If the cat looks enough like Fatima, buy it andtake it to Aunt Cynthia. If it doesn't--but it must! You'll go, won't you?"

"That depends, " said Max. 

I stared at him. This was so unlike Max. 

"You are sending me on a nasty errand, " he said, coolly. "How doI know that Aunt Cynthia will be deceived after all, even if shebe short-sighted. Buying a cat in a joke is a huge risk. And ifshe should see through the scheme I shall be in a pretty mess. "

"Oh, Max, " I said, on the verge of tears. 

"Of course, " said Max, looking meditatively into the fire, "if Iwere really one of the family, or had any reasonable prospect ofbeing so, I would not mind so much. It would be all in the day'swork then. But as it is--"

Ismay got up and went out of the room. 

"Oh, Max, please, " I said. 

"Will you marry me, Sue?" demanded Max sternly. "If you willagree, I'll go to Halifax and beard the lion in his denunflinchingly. If necessary, I will take a black street cat toAunt Cynthia, and swear that it is Fatima. I'll get you out ofthe scrape, if I have to prove that you never had Fatima, thatshe is safe in your possession at the present time, and thatthere never was such an animal as Fatima anyhow. I'll doanything, say anything--but it must be for my future wife. "

"Will nothing else content you?" I said helplessly. 

"Nothing. "

I thought hard. Of course Max was acting abominably--but--but--he was really a dear fellow--and this was the twelfth time--andthere was Anne Shirley! I knew in my secret soul that life wouldbe a dreadfully dismal thing if Max were not around somewhere. Besides, I would have married him long ago had not Aunt Cynthiathrown us so pointedly at each other's heads ever since he cameto Spencervale. 

"Very well, " I said crossly. 

Max left for Halifax in the morning. Next day we got a wiresaying it was all right. The evening of the following day he wasback in Spencervale. Ismay and I put him in a chair and glaredat him impatiently. 

Max began to laugh and laughed until he turned blue. 

"I am glad it is so amusing, " said Ismay severely. "If Sue and Icould see the joke it might be more so. "

"Dear little girls, have patience with me, " implored Max. "Ifyou knew what it cost me to keep a straight face in Halifax youwould forgive me for breaking out now. "

"We forgive you--but for pity's sake tell us all about it, " Icried. 

"Well, as soon as I arrived in Halifax I hurried to 110 HollisStreet, but--see here! Didn't you tell me your Aunt's addresswas 10 Pleasant Street?"

"So it is. "

"'T isn't. You look at the address on a telegram next time youget one. She went a week ago to visit another friend who livesat 110 Hollis. "

"Max!"

"It's a fact. I rang the bell, and was just going to ask themaid for 'Persian' when your Aunt Cynthia herself came throughthe hall and pounced on me. "

"'Max, ' she said, 'have you brought Fatima?'

"'No, ' I answered, trying to adjust my wits to this newdevelopment as she towed me into the library. 'No, I--I--justcame to Halifax on a little matter of business. '

"'Dear me, ' said Aunt Cynthia, crossly, 'I don't know what thosegirls mean. I wired them to send Fatima at once. And she hasnot come yet and I am expecting a call every minute from some onewho wants to buy her. '

"'Oh!' I murmured, mining deeper every minute. 

"'Yes, ' went on your aunt, 'there is an advertisement in theCharlottetown _Enterprise_ for a Persian cat, and I answered it. Fatima is really quite a charge, you know--and so apt to die andbe a dead loss, '--did your aunt mean a pun, girls?--'and so, although I am considerably attached to her, I have decided topart with her. '

"By this time I had got my second wind, and I promptly decidedthat a judicious mixture of the truth was the thing required. 

"'Well, of all the curious coincidences, ' I exclaimed. 'Why, Miss Ridley, it was I who advertised for a Persian cat--on Sue'sbehalf. She and Ismay have decided that they want a cat likeFatima for themselves. '

"You should have seen how she beamed. She said she knew youalways really liked cats, only you would never own up to it. Weclinched the dicker then and there. I passed her over yourhundred and ten dollars--she took the money without turning ahair--and now you are the joint owners of Fatima. Good luck toyour bargain!"

"Mean old thing, " sniffed Ismay. She meant Aunt Cynthia, and, remembering our shabby furs, I didn't disagree with her. 

"But there is no Fatima, " I said, dubiously. "How shall weaccount for her when Aunt Cynthia comes home?"

"Well, your aunt isn't coming home for a month yet. When shecomes you will have to tell her that the cat--is lost--but youneedn't say WHEN it happened. As for the rest, Fatima is yourproperty now, so Aunt Cynthia can't grumble. But she will have apoorer opinion than ever of your fitness to run a house alone. "

When Max left I went to the window to watch him down the path. He was really a handsome fellow, and I was proud of him. At thegate he turned to wave me good-by, and, as he did, he glancedupward. Even at that distance I saw the look of amazement on hisface. Then he came bolting back. 

"Ismay, the house is on fire!" I shrieked, as I flew to the door. 

"Sue, " cried Max, "I saw Fatima, or her ghost, at the garretwindow a moment ago!"

"Nonsense!" I cried. But Ismay was already half way up thestairs and we followed. Straight to the garret we rushed. Theresat Fatima, sleek and complacent, sunning herself in the window. 

Max laughed until the rafters rang. 

"She can't have been up here all this time, " I protested, halftearfully. "We would have heard her meowing. "

"But you didn't, " said Max. 

"She would have died of the cold, " declared Ismay. 

"But she hasn't, " said Max. 

"Or starved, " I cried. 

"The place is alive with mice, " said Max. "No, girls, there isno doubt the cat has been here the whole fortnight. She musthave followed Huldah Jane up here, unobserved, that day. It's awonder you didn't hear her crying--if she did cry. But perhapsshe didn't, and, of course, you sleep downstairs. To think younever thought of looking here for her!"

"It has cost us over a hundred dollars, " said Ismay, with amalevolent glance at the sleek Fatima. 

"It has cost me more than that, " I said, as I turned to thestairway. 

Max held me back for an instant, while Ismay and Fatima pattereddown. 

"Do you think it has cost too much, Sue?" he whispered. 

I looked at him sideways. He was really a dear. Niceness fairlyexhaled from him. 

"No-o-o, " I said, "but when we are married you will have to takecare of Fatima, _I_ won't. "

"Dear Fatima, " said Max gratefully. 

II. THE MATERALIZING OF CECIL

It had never worried me in the least that I wasn't married, although everybody in Avonlea pitied old maids; but it DID worryme, and I frankly confess it, that I had never had a chance tobe. Even Nancy, my old nurse and servant, knew that, and pitiedme for it. Nancy is an old maid herself, but she has had twoproposals. She did not accept either of them because one was awidower with seven children, and the other a very shiftless, good-for-nothing fellow; but, if anybody twitted Nancy on hersingle condition, she could point triumphantly to those two asevidence that "she could an she would. " If I had not lived allmy life in Avonlea I might have had the benefit of the doubt; butI had, and everybody knew everything about me--or thought theydid. 

I had really often wondered why nobody had ever fallen in lovewith me. I was not at all homely; indeed, years ago, GeorgeAdoniram Maybrick had written a poem addressed to me, in which hepraised my beauty quite extravagantly; that didn't mean anythingbecause George Adoniram wrote poetry to all the good-lookinggirls and never went with anybody but Flora King, who wascross-eyed and red-haired, but it proves that it was not myappearance that put me out of the running. Neither was it thefact that I wrote poetry myself--although not of GeorgeAdoniram's kind--because nobody ever knew that. When I felt itcoming on I shut myself up in my room and wrote it out in alittle blank book I kept locked up. It is nearly full now, because I have been writing poetry all my life. It is the onlything I have ever been able to keep a secret from Nancy. Nancy, in any case, has not a very high opinion of my ability to takecare of myself; but I tremble to imagine what she would think ifshe ever found out about that little book. I am convinced shewould send for the doctor post-haste and insist on mustardplasters while waiting for him. 

Nevertheless, I kept on at it, and what with my flowers and mycats and my magazines and my little book, I was really very happyand contented. But it DID sting that Adella Gilbert, across theroad, who has a drunken husband, should pity "poor Charlotte"because nobody had ever wanted her. Poor Charlotte indeed! If Ihad thrown myself at a man's head the way Adella Gilbert did at--but there, there, I must refrain from such thoughts. I must notbe uncharitable. 

The Sewing Circle met at Mary Gillespie's on my fortiethbirthday. I have given up talking about my birthdays, althoughthat little scheme is not much good in Avonlea where everybodyknows your age--or if they make a mistake it is never on the sideof youth. But Nancy, who grew accustomed to celebrating mybirthdays when I was a little girl, never gets over the habit, and I don't try to cure her, because, after all, it's nice tohave some one make a fuss over you. She brought me up mybreakfast before I got up out of bed--a concession to my lazinessthat Nancy would scorn to make on any other day of the year. Shehad cooked everything I like best, and had decorated the traywith roses from the garden and ferns from the woods behind thehouse. I enjoyed every bit of that breakfast, and then I got upand dressed, putting on my second best muslin gown. I would haveput on my really best if I had not had the fear of Nancy beforemy eyes; but I knew she would never condone THAT, even on abirthday. I watered my flowers and fed my cats, and then Ilocked myself up and wrote a poem on June. I had given upwriting birthday odes after I was thirty. 

In the afternoon I went to the Sewing Circle. When I was readyfor it I looked in my glass and wondered if I could really beforty. I was quite sure I didn't look it. My hair was brown andwavy, my cheeks were pink, and the lines could hardly be seen atall, though possibly that was because of the dim light. I alwayshave my mirror hung in the darkest corner of my room. Nancycannot imagine why. I know the lines are there, of course; butwhen they don't show very plain I forget that they are there. 

We had a large Sewing Circle, young and old alike attending. Ireally cannot say I ever enjoyed the meetings--at least not up tothat time--although I went religiously because I thought it myduty to go. The married women talked so much of their husbandsand children, and of course I had to be quiet on those topics;and the young girls talked in corner groups about their beaux, and stopped it when I joined them, as if they felt sure that anold maid who had never had a beau couldn't understand at all. Asfor the other old maids, they talked gossip about every one, andI did not like that either. I knew the minute my back was turnedthey would fasten into me and hint that I used hair-dye anddeclare it was perfectly ridiculous for a woman of FIFTY to weara pink muslin dress with lace-trimmed frills. 

There was a full attendance that day, for we were getting readyfor a sale of fancy work in aid of parsonage repairs. The younggirls were merrier and noisier than usual. Wilhelmina Mercer wasthere, and she kept them going. The Mercers were quite new toAvonlea, having come here only two months previously. 

I was sitting by the window and Wilhelmina Mercer, MaggieHenderson, Susette Cross and Georgie Hall were in a little groupjust before me. I wasn't listening to their chatter at all, butpresently Georgie exclaimed teasingly:

"Miss Charlotte is laughing at us. I suppose she thinks we areawfully silly to be talking about beaux. "

The truth was that I was simply smiling over some very prettythoughts that had come to me about the roses which were climbingover Mary Gillespie's sill. I meant to inscribe them in thelittle blank book when I went home. Georgie's speech brought meback to harsh realities with a jolt. It hurt me, as suchspeeches always did. 

"Didn't you ever have a beau, Miss Holmes?" said Wilhelminalaughingly. 

Just as it happened, a silence had fallen over the room for amoment, and everybody in it heard Wilhelmina's question. 

I really do not know what got into me and possessed me. I havenever been able to account for what I said and did, because I amnaturally a truthful person and hate all deceit. It seemed to methat I simply could not say "No" to Wilhelmina before that wholeroomful of women. It was TOO humiliating. I suppose all theprickles and stings and slurs I had endured for fifteen years onaccount of never having had a lover had what the new doctor calls"a cumulative effect" and came to a head then and there. 

"Yes, I had one once, my dear, " I said calmly. 

For once in my life I made a sensation. Every woman in that roomstopped sewing and stared at me. Most of them, I saw, didn'tbelieve me, but Wilhelmina did. Her pretty face lighted up withinterest. 

"Oh, won't you tell us about him, Miss Holmes?" she coaxed, "andwhy didn't you marry him?"

"That is right, Miss Mercer, " said Josephine Cameron, with anasty little laugh. "Make her tell. We're all interested. It'snews to us that Charlotte ever had a beau. "

If Josephine had not said that, I might not have gone on. Butshe did say it, and, moreover, I caught Mary Gillespie and AdellaGilbert exchanging significant smiles. That settled it, and mademe quite reckless. "In for a penny, in for a pound, " thought I, and I said with a pensive smile:

"Nobody here knew anything about him, and it was all long, longago. "

"What was his name?" asked Wilhelmina. 

"Cecil Fenwick, " I answered promptly. Cecil had always been myfavorite name for a man; it figured quite frequently in the blankbook. As for the Fenwick part of it, I had a bit of newspaper inmy hand, measuring a hem, with "Try Fenwick's Porous Plasters"printed across it, and I simply joined the two in sudden andirrevocable matrimony. 

"Where did you meet him?" asked Georgie. 

I hastily reviewed my past. There was only one place to locateCecil Fenwick. The only time I had ever been far enough awayfrom Avonlea in my life was when I was eighteen and had gone tovisit an aunt in New Brunswick. 

"In Blakely, New Brunswick, " I said, almost believing that I hadwhen I saw how they all took it in unsuspectingly. "I was justeighteen and he was twenty-three. "

"What did he look like?" Susette wanted to know. 

"Oh, he was very handsome. " I proceeded glibly to sketch myideal. To tell the dreadful truth, I was enjoying myself; Icould see respect dawning in those girls' eyes, and I knew that Ihad forever thrown off my reproach. Henceforth I should be awoman with a romantic past, faithful to the one love of herlife--a very, very different thing from an old maid who had neverhad a lover. 

"He was tall and dark, with lovely, curly black hair andbrilliant, piercing eyes. He had a splendid chin, and a finenose, and the most fascinating smile!"

"What was he?" asked Maggie. 

"A young lawyer, " I said, my choice of profession decided by anenlarged crayon portrait of Mary Gillespie's deceased brother onan easel before me. He had been a lawyer. 

"Why didn't you marry him?" demanded Susette. 

"We quarreled, " I answered sadly. "A terribly bitter quarrel. Oh, we were both so young and so foolish. It was my fault. Ivexed Cecil by flirting with another man"--wasn't I coming on!--"and he was jealous and angry. He went out West and never cameback. I have never seen him since, and I do not even know if heis alive. But--but--I could never care for any other man. "

"Oh, how interesting!" sighed Wilhelmina. "I do so love sad lovestories. But perhaps he will come back some day yet, MissHolmes. "

"Oh, no, never now, " I said, shaking my head. "He has forgottenall about me, I dare say. Or if he hasn't, he has never forgivenme. "

Mary Gillespie's Susan Jane announced tea at this moment, and Iwas thankful, for my imagination was giving out, and I didn'tknow what question those girls would ask next. But I feltalready a change in the mental atmosphere surrounding me, and allthrough supper I was thrilled with a secret exultation. Repentant? Ashamed? Not a bit of it! I'd have done the samething over again, and all I felt sorry for was that I hadn't doneit long ago. 

When I got home that night Nancy looked at me wonderingly, andsaid:

"You look like a girl to-night, Miss Charlotte. "

"I feel like one, " I said laughing; and I ran to my room and didwhat I had never done before--wrote a second poem in the sameday. I had to have some outlet for my feelings. I called it "InSummer Days of Long Ago, " and I worked Mary Gillespie's roses andCecil Fenwick's eyes into it, and made it so sad and reminiscentand minor-musicky that I felt perfectly happy. 

For the next two months all went well and merrily. Nobody eversaid anything more to me about Cecil Fenwick, but the girls allchattered freely to me of their little love affairs, and I becamea sort of general confidant for them. It just warmed up thecockles of my heart, and I began to enjoy the Sewing Circlefamously. I got a lot of pretty new dresses and the dearest hat, and I went everywhere I was asked and had a good time. 

But there is one thing you can be perfectly sure of. If you dowrong you are going to be punished for it sometime, somehow andsomewhere. My punishment was delayed for two months, and then itdescended on my head and I was crushed to the very dust. 

Another new family besides the Mercers had come to Avonlea in thespring--the Maxwells. There were just Mr. And Mrs. Maxwell; theywere a middle-aged couple and very well off. Mr. Maxwell hadbought the lumber mills, and they lived up at the old Spencerplace which had always been "the" place of Avonlea. They livedquietly, and Mrs. Maxwell hardly ever went anywhere because shewas delicate. She was out when I called and I was out when shereturned my call, so that I had never met her. 

It was the Sewing Circle day again--at Sarah Gardiner's thistime. I was late; everybody else was there when I arrived, andthe minute I entered the room I knew something had happened, although I couldn't imagine what. Everybody looked at me in thestrangest way. Of course, Wilhelmina Mercer was the first to sether tongue going. 

"Oh, Miss Holmes, have you seen him yet?" she exclaimed. 

"Seen whom?" I said non-excitedly, getting out my thimble andpatterns. 

"Why, Cecil Fenwick. He's here--in Avonlea--visiting his sister, Mrs. Maxwell. "

I suppose I did what they expected me to do. I droppedeverything I held, and Josephine Cameron said afterwards thatCharlotte Holmes would never be paler when she was in her coffin. If they had just known why I turned so pale!

"It's impossible!" I said blankly. 

"It's really true, " said Wilhelmina, delighted at thisdevelopment, as she supposed it, of my romance. "I was up to seeMrs. Maxwell last night, and I met him. "

"It--can't be--the same--Cecil Fenwick, " I said faintly, becauseI had to say something. 

"Oh, yes, it is. He belongs in Blakely, New Brunswick, and he'sa lawyer, and he's been out West twenty-two years. He's oh! sohandsome, and just as you described him, except that his hair isquite gray. He has never married--I asked Mrs. Maxwell--so yousee he has never forgotten you, Miss Holmes. And, oh, I believeeverything is going to come out all right. "

I couldn't exactly share her cheerful belief. Everything seemedto me to be coming out most horribly wrong. I was so mixed up Ididn't know what to do or say. I felt as if I were in a baddream--it MUST be a dream--there couldn't really be a CecilFenwick! My feelings were simply indescribable. Fortunatelyevery one put my agitation down to quite a different cause, andthey very kindly left me alone to recover myself. I shall neverforget that awful afternoon. Right after tea I excused myselfand went home as fast as I could go. There I shut myself up inmy room, but NOT to write poetry in my blank book. No, indeed!I felt in no poetical mood. 

I tried to look the facts squarely in the face. There was aCecil Fenwick, extraordinary as the coincidence was, and he washere in Avonlea. All my friends--and foes--believed that he wasthe estranged lover of my youth. If he stayed long in Avonlea, one of two things was bound to happen. He would hear the story Ihad told about him and deny it, and I would be held up to shameand derision for the rest of my natural life; or else he wouldsimply go away in ignorance, and everybody would suppose he hadforgotten me and would pity me maddeningly. The latterpossibility was bad enough, but it wasn't to be compared to theformer; and oh, how I prayed--yes, I DID pray about it--that hewould go right away. But Providence had other views for me. 

Cecil Fenwick didn't go away. He stayed right on in Avonlea, andthe Maxwells blossomed out socially in his honor and tried togive him a good time. Mrs. Maxwell gave a party for him. I gota card--but you may be very sure I didn't go, although Nancythought I was crazy not to. Then every one else gave parties inhonor of Mr. Fenwick and I was invited and never went. Wilhelmina Mercer came and pleaded and scolded and told me if Iavoided Mr. Fenwick like that he would think I still cherishedbitterness against him, and he wouldn't make any advances towardsa reconciliation. Wilhelmina means well, but she hasn't a greatdeal of sense. 

Cecil Fenwick seemed to be a great favorite with everybody, youngand old. He was very rich, too, and Wilhelmina declared thathalf the girls were after him. 

"If it wasn't for you, Miss Holmes, I believe I'd have a try forhim myself, in spite of his gray hair and quick temper--for Mrs. Maxwell says he has a pretty quick temper, but it's all over in aminute, " said Wilhelmina, half in jest and wholly in earnest. 

As for me, I gave up going out at all, even to church. I frettedand pined and lost my appetite and never wrote a line in my blankbook. Nancy was half frantic and insisted on dosing me with herfavorite patent pills. I took them meekly, because it is a wasteof time and energy to oppose Nancy, but, of course, they didn'tdo me any good. My trouble was too deep-seated for pills tocure. If ever a woman was punished for telling a lie I was thatwoman. I stopped my subscription to the _Weekly Advocate_because it still carried that wretched porous plasteradvertisement, and I couldn't bear to see it. If it hadn't beenfor that I would never have thought of Fenwick for a name, andall this trouble would have been averted. 

One evening, when I was moping in my room, Nancy came up. 

"There's a gentleman in the parlor asking for you, MissCharlotte. "

My heart gave just one horrible bounce. 

"What--sort of a gentleman, Nancy?" I faltered. 

"I think it's that Fenwick man that there's been such a timeabout, " said Nancy, who didn't know anything about my imaginaryescapades, "and he looks to be mad clean through about something, for such a scowl I never seen. "

"Tell him I'll be down directly, Nancy, " I said quite calmly. 

As soon as Nancy had clumped downstairs again I put on my lacefichu and put two hankies in my belt, for I thought I'd probablyneed more than one. Then I hunted up an old _Advocate_ forproof, and down I went to the parlor. I know exactly how acriminal feels going to execution, and I've been opposed tocapital punishment ever since. 

I opened the parlor door and went in, carefully closing it behindme, for Nancy has a deplorable habit of listening in the hall. Then my legs gave out completely, and I couldn't have walkedanother step to save my life. I just stood there, my hand on theknob, trembling like a leaf. 

A man was standing by the south window looking out; he wheeledaround as I went in, and, as Nancy said, he had a scowl on andlooked angry clear through. He was very handsome, and his grayhair gave him such a distinguished look. I recalled thisafterward, but just at the moment you may be quite sure I wasn'tthinking about it at all. 

Then all at once a strange thing happened. The scowl went rightoff his face and the anger out of his eyes. He lookedastonished, and then foolish. I saw the color creeping up intohis cheeks. As for me, I still stood there staring at him, notable to say a single word. 

"Miss Holmes, I presume, " he said at last, in a deep, thrillingvoice. "I--I--oh, confound it! I have called--I heard somefoolish stories and I came here in a rage. I've been a fool--Iknow now they weren't true. Just excuse me and I'll go away andkick myself. "

"No, " I said, finding my voice with a gasp, "you mustn't go untilyou've heard the truth. It's dreadful enough, but not asdreadful as you might otherwise think. Those--those stories--Ihave a confession to make. I did tell them, but I didn't knowthere was such a person as Cecil Fenwick in existence. "

He looked puzzled, as well he might. Then he smiled, took myhand and led me away from the door--to the knob of which I wasstill holding with all my might--to the sofa. 

"Let's sit down and talk it over 'comfy, '" he said. 

I just confessed the whole shameful business. It was terriblyhumiliating, but it served me right. I told him how people werealways twitting me for never having had a beau, and how I hadtold them I had; and then I showed him the porous plasteradvertisement. 

He heard me right through without a word, and then he threw backhis big, curly, gray head and laughed. 

"This clears up a great many mysterious hints I've been receivingever since I came to Avonlea, " he said, "and finally a Mrs. Gilbert came to my sister this afternoon with a long farrago ofnonsense about the love affair I had once had with some CharlotteHolmes here. She declared you had told her about it yourself. Iconfess I flamed up. I'm a peppery chap, and I thought--Ithought--oh, confound it, it might as well out: I thought youwere some lank old maid who was amusing herself tellingridiculous stories about me. When you came into the room I knewthat, whoever was to blame, you were not. "

"But I was, " I said ruefully. "It wasn't right of me to tellsuch a story--and it was very silly, too. But who would everhave supposed that there could be real Cecil Fenwick who hadlived in Blakely? I never heard of such a coincidence. "

"It's more than a coincidence, " said Mr. Fenwick decidedly. "It's predestination; that is what it is. And now let's forgetit and talk of something else. "

We talked of something else--or at least Mr. Fenwick did, for Iwas too ashamed to say much--so long that Nancy got restive andclumped through the hall every five minutes; but Mr. Fenwicknever took the hint. When he finally went away he asked if hemight come again. 

"It's time we made up that old quarrel, you know, " he said, laughing. 

And I, an old maid of forty, caught myself blushing like a girl. But I felt like a girl, for it was such a relief to have thatexplanation all over. I couldn't even feel angry with AdellaGilbert. She was always a mischief maker, and when a woman isborn that way she is more to be pitied than blamed. I wrote apoem in the blank book before I went to sleep; I hadn't writtenanything for a month, and it was lovely to be at it once more. 

Mr. Fenwick did come again--the very next evening, but one. Andhe came so often after that that even Nancy got resigned to him. One day I had to tell her something. I shrank from doing it, forI feared it would make her feel badly. 

"Oh, I've been expecting to hear it, " she said grimly. "I feltthe minute that man came into the house he brought trouble withhim. Well, Miss Charlotte, I wish you happiness. I don't knowhow the climate of California will agree with me, but I supposeI'll have to put up with it. "

"But, Nancy, " I said, "I can't expect you to go away out therewith me. It's too much to ask of you. "

"And where else would I be going?" demanded Nancy in genuineastonishment. "How under the canopy could you keep house withoutme? I'm not going to trust you to the mercies of a yellow Chineewith a pig-tail. Where you go I go, Miss Charlotte, and there'san end of it. "

I was very glad, for I hated to think of parting with Nancy evento go with Cecil. As for the blank book, I haven't told myhusband about it yet, but I mean to some day. And I'vesubscribed for the _Weekly Advocate_ again. 

III. HER FATHER'S DAUGHTER

"We must invite your Aunt Jane, of course, " said Mrs. Spencer. 

Rachel made a protesting movement with her large, white, shapelyhands--hands which were so different from the thin, dark, twistedones folded on the table opposite her. The difference was notcaused by hard work or the lack of it; Rachel had worked hard allher life. It was a difference inherent in temperament. TheSpencers, no matter what they did, or how hard they labored, allhad plump, smooth, white hands, with firm, supple fingers; theChiswicks, even those who toiled not, neither did they spin, hadhard, knotted, twisted ones. Moreover, the contrast went deeperthan externals, and twined itself with the innermost fibers oflife, and thought, and action. 

"I don't see why we must invite Aunt Jane, " said Rachel, with asmuch impatience as her soft, throaty voice could express. "AuntJane doesn't like me, and I don't like Aunt Jane. "

"I'm sure I don't see why you don't like her, " said Mrs. Spencer. "It's ungrateful of you. She has always been very kind to you. "

"She has always been very kind with one hand, " smiled Rachel. "Iremember the first time I ever saw Aunt Jane. I was six yearsold. She held out to me a small velvet pincushion with beads onit. And then, because I did not, in my shyness, thank her quiteas promptly as I should have done, she rapped my head with herbethimbled finger to 'teach me better manners. ' It hurthorribly--I've always had a tender head. And that has been AuntJane's way ever since. When I grew too big for the thimbletreatment she used her tongue instead--and that hurt worse. Andyou know, mother, how she used to talk about my engagement. Sheis able to spoil the whole atmosphere if she happens to come in abad humor. I don't want her. "

"She must be invited. People would talk so if she wasn't. "

"I don't see why they should. She's only my great-aunt bymarriage. I wouldn't mind in the least if people did talk. They'll talk anyway--you know that, mother. "

"Oh, we must have her, " said Mrs. Spencer, with the indifferentfinality that marked all her words and decisions--a finalityagainst which it was seldom of any avail to struggle. People, who knew, rarely attempted it; strangers occasionally did, misledby the deceit of appearances. 

Isabella Spencer was a wisp of a woman, with a pale, pretty face, uncertainly-colored, long-lashed grayish eyes, and great massesof dull, soft, silky brown hair. She had delicate aquilinefeatures and a small, babyish red mouth. She looked as if abreath would sway her. The truth was that a tornado would hardlyhave caused her to swerve an inch from her chosen path. 

For a moment Rachel looked rebellious; then she yielded, as shegenerally did in all differences of opinion with her mother. Itwas not worth while to quarrel over the comparatively unimportantmatter of Aunt Jane's invitation. A quarrel might be inevitablelater on; Rachel wanted to save all her resources for that. Shegave her shoulders a shrug, and wrote Aunt Jane's name down onthe wedding list in her large, somewhat untidy handwriting--ahandwriting which always seemed to irritate her mother. Rachelnever could understand this irritation. She could never guessthat it was because her writing looked so much like that in acertain packet of faded letters which Mrs. Spencer kept at thebottom of an old horsehair trunk in her bedroom. They werepostmarked from seaports all over the world. Mrs. Spencer neverread them or looked at them; but she remembered every dash andcurve of the handwriting. 

Isabella Spencer had overcome many things in her life by thesheer force and persistency of her will. But she could not getthe better of heredity. Rachel was her father's daughter at allpoints, and Isabella Spencer escaped hating her for it only byloving her the more fiercely because of it. Even so, there weremany times when she had to avert her eyes from Rachel's facebecause of the pang of the more subtle remembrances; and never, since her child was born, could Isabella Spencer bear to gaze onthat child's face in sleep. 

Rachel was to be married to Frank Bell in a fortnight's time. Mrs. Spencer was pleased with the match. She was very fond ofFrank, and his farm was so near to her own that she would notlose Rachel altogether. Rachel fondly believed that her motherwould not lose her at all; but Isabella Spencer, wiser by oldenexperience, knew what her daughter's marriage must mean to her, and steeled her heart to bear it with what fortitude she might. 

They were in the sitting-room, deciding on the wedding guests andother details. The September sunshine was coming in through thewaving boughs of the apple tree that grew close up to the lowwindow. The glints wavered over Rachel's face, as white as awood lily, with only a faint dream of rose in the cheeks. Shewore her sleek, golden hair in a quaint arch around it. Herforehead was very broad and white. She was fresh and young andhopeful. The mother's heart contracted in a spasm of pain as shelooked at her. How like the girl was to--to--to the Spencers!Those easy, curving outlines, those large, mirthful blue eyes, that finely molded chin! Isabella Spencer shut her lips firmlyand crushed down some unbidden, unwelcome memories. 

"There will be about sixty guests, all told, " she said, as if shewere thinking of nothing else. "We must move the furniture outof this room and set the supper-table here. The dining-room istoo small. We must borrow Mrs. Bell's forks and spoons. Sheoffered to lend them. I'd never have been willing to ask her. The damask table cloths with the ribbon pattern must be bleachedto-morrow. Nobody else in Avonlea has such tablecloths. Andwe'll put the little dining-room table on the hall landing, upstairs, for the presents. "

Rachel was not thinking about the presents, or the housewifelydetails of the wedding. Her breath was coming quicker, and thefaint blush on her smooth cheeks had deepened to crimson. Sheknew that a critical moment was approaching. With a steady handshe wrote the last name on her list and drew a line under it. 

"Well, have you finished?" asked her mother impatiently. "Handit here and let me look over it to make sure that you haven'tleft anybody out that should be in. "

Rachel passed the paper across the table in silence. The roomseemed to her to have grown very still. She could hear the fliesbuzzing on the panes, the soft purr of the wind about the loweaves and through the apple boughs, the jerky beating of her ownheart. She felt frightened and nervous, but resolute. 

Mrs. Spencer glanced down the list, murmuring the names aloud andnodding approval at each. But when she came to the last name, shedid not utter it. She cast a black glance at Rachel, and a sparkleaped up in the depths of the pale eyes. On her face wereanger, amazement, incredulity, the last predominating. 

The final name on the list of wedding guests was the name ofDavid Spencer. David Spencer lived alone in a little cottagedown at the Cove. He was a combination of sailor and fisherman. He was also Isabella Spencer's husband and Rachel's father. 

"Rachel Spencer, have you taken leave of your senses? What doyou mean by such nonsense as this?"

"I simply mean that I am going to invite my father to mywedding, " answered Rachel quietly. 

"Not in my house, " cried Mrs. Spencer, her lips as white as ifher fiery tone had scathed them. 

Rachel leaned forward, folded her large, capable handsdeliberately on the table, and gazed unflinchingly into hermother's bitter face. Her fright and nervousness were gone. Nowthat the conflict was actually on she found herself ratherenjoying it. She wondered a little at herself, and thought thatshe must be wicked. She was not given to self-analysis, or shemight have concluded that it was the sudden assertion of her ownpersonality, so long dominated by her mother's, which she wasfinding so agreeable. 

"Then there will be no wedding, mother, " she said. "Frank and Iwill simply go to the manse, be married, and go home. If Icannot invite my father to see me married, no one else shall beinvited. "

Her lips narrowed tightly. For the first time in her lifeIsabella Spencer saw a reflection of herself looking back at herfrom her daughter's face--a strange, indefinable resemblance thatwas more of soul and spirit than of flesh and blood. In spite ofher anger her heart thrilled to it. As never before, sherealized that this girl was her own and her husband's child, aliving bond between them wherein their conflicting naturesmingled and were reconciled. She realized too, that Rachel, solong sweetly meek and obedient, meant to have her own way in thiscase--and would have it. 

"I must say that I can't see why you are so set on having yourfather see you married, " she said with a bitter sneer. "HE hasnever remembered that he is your father. He cares nothing aboutyou--never did care. "

Rachel took no notice of this taunt. It had no power to hurther, its venom being neutralized by a secret knowledge of her ownin which her mother had no share. 

"Either I shall invite my father to my wedding, or I shall nothave a wedding, " she repeated steadily, adopting her mother's owneffective tactics of repetition undistracted by argument. 

"Invite him then, " snapped Mrs. Spencer, with the ungracefulanger of a woman, long accustomed to having her own way, compelled for once to yield. "It'll be like chips in porridgeanyhow--neither good nor harm. He won't come. "

Rachel made no response. Now that the battle was over, and thevictory won, she found herself tremulously on the verge of tears. She rose quickly and went upstairs to her own room, a dim littleplace shadowed by the white birches growing thickly outside--avirginal room, where everything bespoke the maiden. She lay downon the blue and white patchwork quilt on her bed, and criedsoftly and bitterly. 

Her heart, at this crisis in her life, yearned for her father, who was almost a stranger to her. She knew that her mother hadprobably spoken the truth when she said that he would not come. Rachel felt that her marriage vows would be lacking in someindefinable sacredness if her father were not by to hear themspoken. 

Twenty-five years before this, David Spencer and IsabellaChiswick had been married. Spiteful people said there could beno doubt that Isabella had married David for love, since he hadneither lands nor money to tempt her into a match of bargain andsale. David was a handsome fellow, with the blood of a seafaringrace in his veins. 

He had been a sailor, like his father and grandfather before him;but, when he married Isabella, she induced him to give up the seaand settle down with her on a snug farm her father had left her. Isabella liked farming, and loved her fertile acres and opulentorchards. She abhorred the sea and all that pertained to it, less from any dread of its dangers than from an inbred convictionthat sailors were "low" in the social scale--a species ofnecessary vagabonds. In her eyes there was a taint of disgracein such a calling. David must be transformed into a respectable, home-abiding tiller of broad lands. 

For five years all went well enough. If, at times, David'slonging for the sea troubled him, he stifled it, and listened notto its luring voice. He and Isabella were very happy; the onlydrawback to their happiness lay in the regretted fact that theywere childless. 

Then, in the sixth year, came a crisis and a change. CaptainBarrett, an old crony of David's, wanted him to go with him on avoyage as mate. At the suggestion all David's long-repressedcraving for the wide blue wastes of the ocean, and the windwhistling through the spars with the salt foam in its breath, broke forth with a passion all the more intense for that veryrepression. He must go on that voyage with James Barrett--heMUST! That over, he would be contented again; but go he must. His soul struggled within him like a fettered thing. 

Isabella opposed the scheme vehemently and unwisely, with mordantsarcasm and unjust reproaches. The latent obstinacy of David'scharacter came to the support of his longing--a longing whichIsabella, with five generations of land-loving ancestry behindher, could not understand at all. 

He was determined to go, and he told Isabella so. 

"I'm sick of plowing and milking cows, " he said hotly. 

"You mean that you are sick of a respectable life, " sneeredIsabella. 

"Perhaps, " said David, with a contemptuous shrug of hisshoulders. "Anyway, I'm going. "

"If you go on this voyage, David Spencer, you need never comeback here, " said Isabella resolutely. 

David had gone; he did not believe that she meant it. Isabellabelieved that he did not care whether she meant it or not. DavidSpencer left behind him a woman, calm outwardly, inwardly aseething volcano of anger, wounded pride, and thwarted will. 

He found precisely the same woman when he came home, tanned, joyous, tamed for a while of his _wanderlust_, ready, withsomething of real affection, to go back to the farm fields andthe stock-yard. 

Isabella met him at the door, smileless, cold-eyed, set-lipped. 

"What do you want here?" she said, in the tone she was accustomedto use to tramps and Syrian peddlers. 

"Want!" David's surprise left him at a loss for words. "Want!Why, I--I--want my wife. I've come home. "

"This is not your home. I'm no wife of yours. You made yourchoice when you went away, " Isabella had replied. Then she hadgone in, shut the door, and locked it in his face. 

David had stood there for a few minutes like a man stunned. Thenhe had turned and walked away up the lane under the birches. Hesaid nothing--then or at any other time. From that day noreference to his wife or her concerns ever crossed his lips. 

He went directly to the harbor, and shipped with Captain Barrettfor another voyage. When he came back from that in a month'stime, he bought a small house and had it hauled to the "Cove, " alonely inlet from which no other human habitation was visible. Between his sea voyages he lived there the life of a recluse;fishing and playing his violin were his only employments. Hewent nowhere and encouraged no visitors. 

Isabella Spencer also had adopted the tactics of silence. Whenthe scandalized Chiswicks, Aunt Jane at their head, tried topatch up the matter with argument and entreaty, Isabella met themstonily, seeming not to hear what they said, and making noresponse. She worsted them totally. As Aunt Jane said indisgust, "What can you do with a woman who won't even TALK?"

Five months after David Spencer had been turned from his wife'sdoor, Rachel was born. Perhaps, if David had come to them then, with due penitence and humility, Isabella's heart, softened bythe pain and joy of her long and ardently desired motherhoodmight have cast out the rankling venom of resentment that hadpoisoned it and taken him back into it. But David had not come;he gave no sign of knowing or caring that his once longed-forchild had been born. 

When Isabella was able to be about again, her pale face washarder than ever; and, had there been about her any onediscerning enough to notice it, there was a subtle change in herbearing and manner. A certain nervous expectancy, a flutteringrestlessness was gone. Isabella had ceased to hope secretly thather husband would yet come back. She had in her secret soulthought he would; and she had meant to forgive him when she hadhumbled him sufficiently, and when he had abased himself as sheconsidered he should. But now she knew that he did not mean tosue for her forgiveness; and the hate that sprang out of her oldlove was a rank and speedy and persistent growth. 

Rachel, from her earliest recollection, had been vaguelyconscious of a difference between her own life and the lives ofher playmates. For a long time it puzzled her childish brain. Finally, she reasoned it out that the difference consisted in thefact that they had fathers and she, Rachel Spencer, had none--noteven in the graveyard, as Carrie Bell and Lilian Boulter had. Why was this? Rachel went straight to her mother, put one littledimpled hand on Isabella Spencer's knee, looked up with greatsearching blue eyes, and said gravely, "Mother, why haven't I got a father like the other little girls?"

Isabella Spencer laid aside her work, took the seven year oldchild on her lap, and told her the whole story in a few directand bitter words that imprinted themselves indelibly on Rachel'sremembrance. She understood clearly and hopelessly that shecould never have a father--that, in this respect, she must alwaysbe unlike other people. 

"Your father cares nothing for you, " said Isabella Spencer inconclusion. "He never did care. You must never speak of him toanybody again. "

Rachel slipped silently from her mother's knee and ran out to theSpringtime garden with a full heart. There she criedpassionately over her mother's last words. It seemed to her aterrible thing that her father should not love her, and a cruelthing that she must never talk of him. 

Oddly enough, Rachel's sympathies were all with her father, in asfar as she could understand the old quarrel. She did not dreamof disobeying her mother and she did not disobey her. Neveragain did the child speak of her father; but Isabella had notforbidden her to think of him, and thenceforth Rachel thought ofhim constantly--so constantly that, in some strange way, heseemed to become an unguessed-of part of her inner life--theunseen, ever-present companion in all her experiences. 

She was an imaginative child, and in fancy she made theacquaintance of her father. She had never seen him, but he wasmore real to her than most of the people she had seen. He playedand talked with her as her mother never did; he walked with herin the orchard and field and garden; he sat by her pillow in thetwilight; to him she whispered secrets she told to none other. 

Once her mother asked her impatiently why she talked so much toherself. 

"I am not talking to myself. I am talking to a very dear friendof mine, " Rachel answered gravely. 

"Silly child, " laughed her mother, half tolerantly, halfdisapprovingly. 

Two years later something wonderful had happened to Rachel. Onesummer afternoon she had gone to the harbor with several of herlittle playmates. Such a jaunt was a rare treat to the child, for Isabella Spencer seldom allowed her to go from home withanybody but herself. And Isabella was not an entertainingcompanion. Rachel never particularly enjoyed an outing with hermother. 

The children wandered far along the shore; at last they came to aplace that Rachel had never seen before. It was a shallow covewhere the waters purred on the yellow sands. Beyond it, the seawas laughing and flashing and preening and alluring, like abeautiful, coquettish woman. Outside, the wind was boisterousand rollicking; here, it was reverent and gentle. A white boatwas hauled up on the skids, and there was a queer little houseclose down to the sands, like a big shell tossed up by the waves. Rachel looked on it all with secret delight; she, too, loved thelonely places of sea and shore, as her father had done. Shewanted to linger awhile in this dear spot and revel in it. 

"I'm tired, girls, " she announced. "I'm going to stay here andrest for a spell. I don't want to go to Gull Point. You go onyourselves; I'll wait for you here. "

"All alone?" asked Carrie Bell, wonderingly. 

"I'm not so afraid of being alone as some people are, " saidRachel, with dignity. 

The other girls went on, leaving Rachel sitting on the skids, inthe shadow of the big white boat. She sat there for a timedreaming happily, with her blue eyes on the far, pearly horizon, and her golden head leaning against the boat. 

Suddenly she heard a step behind her. When she turned her head aman was standing beside her, looking down at her with big, merry, blue eyes. Rachel was quite sure that she had never seen himbefore; yet those eyes seemed to her to have a strangely familiarlook. She liked him. She felt no shyness nor timidity, such asusually afflicted her in the presence of strangers. 

He was a tall, stout man, dressed in a rough fishing suit, andwearing an oilskin cap on his head. His hair was very thick andcurly and fair; his cheeks were tanned and red; his teeth, whenhe smiled, were very even and white. Rachel thought he must bequite old, because there was a good deal of gray mixed with hisfair hair. 

"Are you watching for the mermaids?" he said. 

Rachel nodded gravely. From any one else she would havescrupulously hidden such a thought. 

"Yes, I am, " she said. "Mother says there is no such thing as amermaid, but I like to think there is. Have you ever seen one?"

The big man sat down on a bleached log of driftwood and smiled ather. 

"No, I'm sorry to say that I haven't. But I have seen many othervery wonderful things. I might tell you about some of them, ifyou would come over here and sit by me. "

Rachel went unhesitatingly. When she reached him he pulled herdown on his knee, and she liked it. 

"What a nice little craft you are, " he said. "Do you suppose, now, that you could give me a kiss?"

As a rule, Rachel hated kissing. She could seldom be prevailedupon to kiss even her uncles--who knew it and liked to tease herfor kisses until they aggravated her so terribly that she toldthem she couldn't bear men. But now she promptly put her armsabout this strange man's neck and gave him a hearty smack. 

"I like you, " she said frankly. 

She felt his arms tighten suddenly about her. The blue eyeslooking into hers grew misty and very tender. Then, all at once, Rachel knew who he was. He was her father. She did not sayanything, but she laid her curly head down on his shoulder andfelt a great happiness, as of one who had come into somelonged-for haven. 

If David Spencer realized that she understood he said nothing. Instead, he began to tell her fascinating stories of far lands hehad visited, and strange things he had seen. Rachel listenedentranced, as if she were hearkening to a fairy tale. Yes, hewas just as she had dreamed him. She had always been sure hecould tell beautiful stories. 

"Come up to the house and I'll show you some pretty things, " hesaid finally. 

Then followed a wonderful hour. The little low-ceilinged room, with its square window, into which he took her, was filled withthe flotsam and jetsam of his roving life--things beautiful andodd and strange beyond all telling. The things that pleasedRachel most were two huge shells on the chimney piece--palepink shells with big crimson and purple spots. 

"Oh, I didn't know there could be such pretty things in theworld, " she exclaimed. 

"If you would like, " began the big man; then he paused for amoment. "I'll show you something prettier still. "

Rachel felt vaguely that he meant to say something else when hebegan; but she forgot to wonder what it was when she saw what hebrought out of a little corner cupboard. It was a teapot of somefine, glistening purple ware, coiled over by golden dragons withgilded claws and scales. The lid looked like a beautiful goldenflower and the handle was a coil of a dragon's tail. Rachel satand looked at it rapt-eyed. 

"That's the only thing of any value I have in the world--now, " hesaid. 

Rachel knew there was something very sad in his eyes and voice. She longed to kiss him again and comfort him. But suddenly hebegan to laugh, and then he rummaged out some goodies for her toeat, sweetmeats more delicious than she had ever imagined. Whileshe nibbled them he took down an old violin and played music thatmade her want to dance and sing. Rachel was perfectly happy. She wished she might stay forever in that low, dim room with allits treasures. 

"I see your little friends coming around the point, " he said, finally. "I suppose you must go. Put the rest of the goodies inyour pocket. "

He took her up in his arms and held her tightly against hisbreast for a single moment. She felt him kissing her hair. 

"There, run along, little girl. Good-by, " he said gently. 

"Why don't you ask me to come and see you again?" cried Rachel, half in tears. "I'm coming ANYHOW. "

"If you can come, COME, " he said. "If you don't come, I shallknow it is because you can't--and that is much to know. I'mvery, very, VERY glad, little woman, that you have come once. "

Rachel was sitting demurely on the skids when her companions cameback. They had not seen her leaving the house, and she said nota word to them of her experiences. She only smiled mysteriouslywhen they asked her if she had been lonesome. 

That night, for the first time, she mentioned her father's namein her prayers. She never forgot to do so afterwards. Shealways said, "bless mother--and father, " with an instinctivepause between the two names--a pause which indicated newrealization of the tragedy which had sundered them. And the tonein which she said "father" was softer and more tender than theone which voiced "mother. "

Rachel never visited the Cove again. Isabella Spencer discoveredthat the children had been there, and, although she knew nothingof Rachel's interview with her father, she told the child thatshe must never again go to that part of the shore. 

Rachel shed many a bitter tear in secret over this command; butshe obeyed it. Thenceforth there had been no communicationbetween her and her father, save the unworded messages of soul tosoul across whatever may divide them. 

David Spencer's invitation to his daughter's wedding was sentwith the others, and the remaining days of Rachel's maidenhoodslipped away in a whirl of preparation and excitement in whichher mother reveled, but which was distasteful to the girl. 

The wedding day came at last, breaking softly and fairly over thegreat sea in a sheen of silver and pearl and rose, a Septemberday, as mild and beautiful as June. 

The ceremony was to be performed at eight o'clock in the evening. At seven Rachel stood in her room, fully dressed and alone. Shehad no bridesmaid, and she had asked her cousins to leave her toherself in this last solemn hour of girlhood. She looked veryfair and sweet in the sunset-light that showered through thebirches. Her wedding gown was a fine, sheer organdie, simply anddaintily made. In the loose waves of her bright hair she woreher bridegroom's flowers, roses as white as a virgin's dream. She was very happy; but her happiness was faintly threaded withthe sorrow inseparable from all change. 

Presently her mother came in, carrying a small basket. 

"Here is something for you, Rachel. One of the boys from theharbor brought it up. He was bound to give it into your ownhands--said that was his orders. I just took it and sent him tothe right-about--told him I'd give it to you at once, and thatthat was all that was necessary. "

She spoke coldly. She knew quite well who had sent the basket, and she resented it; but her resentment was not quite strongenough to overcome her curiosity. She stood silently by whileRachel unpacked the basket. 

Rachel's hands trembled as she took off the cover. Two hugepink-spotted shells came first. How well she remembered them!Beneath them, carefully wrapped up in a square of foreign-looking, strangely scented silk, was the dragon teapot. She held it in herhands and gazed at it with tears gathering thickly in her eyes. 

"Your father sent that, " said Isabella Spencer with an odd soundin her voice. "I remember it well. It was among the things Ipacked up and sent after him. His father had brought it homefrom China fifty years ago, and he prized it beyond anything. They used to say it was worth a lot of money. "

"Mother, please leave me alone for a little while, " said Rachel, imploringly. She had caught sight of a little note at the bottomof the basket, and she felt that she could not read it under hermother's eyes. 

Mrs. Spencer went out with unaccustomed acquiescence, and Rachelwent quickly to the window, where she read her letter by thefading gleams of twilight. It was very brief, and the writingwas that of a man who holds a pen but seldom. 

 "My dear little girl, " it ran, "I'm sorry I can't go to your wedding. It was like you to ask me--for I know it was your doing. I wish I could see you married, but I can't go to the house I was turned out of. I hope you will be very happy. I am sending you the shells and teapot you liked so much. Do you remember that day we had such a good time? I would liked to have seen you again before you were married, but it can't be. 

 "Your loving father, "DAVID SPENCER. "

Rachel resolutely blinked away the tears that filled her eyes. Afierce desire for her father sprang up in her heart--an insistenthunger that would not be denied. She MUST see her father; sheMUST have his blessing on her new life. A sudden determinationtook possession of her whole being--a determination to sweepaside all conventionalities and objections as if they had notbeen. 

It was now almost dark. The guests would not be coming for halfan hour yet. It was only fifteen minutes' walk over the hill tothe Cove. Hastily Rachel shrouded herself in her new raincoat, and drew a dark, protecting hood over her gay head. She openedthe door and slipped noiselessly downstairs. Mrs. Spencer andher assistants were all busy in the back part of the house. In amoment Rachel was out in the dewy garden. She would go straightover the fields. Nobody would see her. 

It was quite dark when she reached the Cove. In the crystal cupof the sky over her the stars were blinking. Flying flakes offoam were scurrying over the sand like elfin things. A softlittle wind was crooning about the eaves of the little gray housewhere David Spencer was sitting, alone in the twilight, hisviolin on his knee. He had been trying to play, but could not. His heart yearned after his daughter--yes, and after along-estranged bride of his youth. His love of the sea was satedforever; his love for wife and child still cried for its ownunder all his old anger and stubbornness. 

The door opened suddenly and the very Rachel of whom he wasdreaming came suddenly in, flinging off her wraps and standingforth in her young beauty and bridal adornments, a splendidcreature, almost lighting up the gloom with her radiance. 

"Father, " she cried, brokenly, and her father's eager arms closedaround her. 

Back in the house she had left, the guests were coming to thewedding. There were jests and laughter and friendly greeting. The bridegroom came, too, a slim, dark-eyed lad who tiptoedbashfully upstairs to the spare room, from which he presentlyemerged to confront Mrs. Spencer on the landing. 

"I want to see Rachel before we go down, " he said, blushing. 

Mrs. Spencer deposited a wedding present of linen on the tablewhich was already laden with gifts, opening the door of Rachel'sroom, and called her. There was no reply; the room was dark andstill. In sudden alarm, Isabella Spencer snatched the lamp fromthe hall table and held it up. The little white room was empty. No blushing, white-clad bride tenanted it. But David Spencer'sletter was lying on the stand. She caught it up and read it. 

"Rachel is gone, " she gasped. A flash of intuition had revealedto her where and why the girl had gone. 

"Gone!" echoed Frank, his face blanching. His pallid dismayrecalled Mrs. Spencer to herself. She gave a bitter, uglylittle laugh. 

"Oh, you needn't look so scared, Frank. She hasn't run away fromyou. Hush; come in here--shut the door. Nobody must know ofthis. Nice gossip it would make! That little fool has gone tothe Cove to see her--her father. I know she has. It's just likewhat she would do. He sent her those presents--look--and thisletter. Read it. She has gone to coax him to come and see hermarried. She was crazy about it. And the minister is here andit is half-past seven. She'll ruin her dress and shoes in thedust and dew. And what if some one has seen her! Was there eversuch a little fool?"

Frank's presence of mind had returned to him. He knew all aboutRachel and her father. She had told him everything. 

"I'll go after her, " he said gently. "Get me my hat and coat. I'll slip down the back stairs and over to the Cove. "

"You must get out of the pantry window, then, " said Mrs. Spencerfirmly, mingling comedy and tragedy after her characteristicfashion. "The kitchen is full of women. I won't have this knownand talked about if it can possibly be helped. "

The bridegroom, wise beyond his years in the knowledge that itwas well to yield to women in little things, crawled obedientlyout of the pantry window and darted through the birch wood. Mrs. Spencer had stood quakingly on guard until he had disappeared. 

So Rachel had gone to her father! Like had broken the fetters ofyears and fled to like. 

"It isn't much use fighting against nature, I guess, " she thoughtgrimly. "I'm beat. He must have thought something of her, afterall, when he sent her that teapot and letter. And what does hemean about the 'day they had such a good time'? Well, it justmeans that she's been to see him before, sometime, I suppose, andkept me in ignorance of it all. "

Mrs. Spencer shut down the pantry window with a vicious thud. 

"If only she'll come quietly back with Frank in time to preventgossip I'll forgive her, " she said, as she turned to the kitchen. 

Rachel was sitting on her father's knee, with both her white armsaround his neck, when Frank came in. She sprang up, her faceflushed and appealing, her eyes bright and dewy with tears. Frank thought he had never seen her look so lovely. 

"Oh, Frank, is it very late? Oh, are you angry?" she exclaimedtimidly. 

"No, no, dear. Of course I'm not angry. But don't you thinkyou'd better come back now? It's nearly eight and everybody iswaiting. "

"I've been trying to coax father to come up and see me married, "said Rachel. "Help me, Frank. "

"You'd better come, sir, " said Frank, heartily, "I'd like it asmuch as Rachel would. "

David Spencer shook his head stubbornly. 

"No, I can't go to that house. I was locked out of it. Nevermind me. I've had my happiness in this half hour with my littlegirl. I'd like to see her married, but it isn't to be. "

"Yes, it is to be--it shall be, " said Rachel resolutely. "YouSHALL see me married. Frank, I'm going to be married here in myfather's house! That is the right place for a girl to bemarried. Go back and tell the guests so, and bring them alldown. "

Frank looked rather dismayed. David Spencer said deprecatingly:"Little girl, don't you think it would be--"

"I'm going to have my own way in this, " said Rachel, with a sortof tender finality. "Go, Frank. I'll obey you all my lifeafter, but you must do this for me. Try to understand, " sheadded beseechingly. 

"Oh, I understand, " Frank reassured her. "Besides, I think youare right. But I was thinking of your mother. She won't come. "

"Then you tell her that if she doesn't come I shan't be marriedat all, " said Rachel. She was betraying unsuspected ability tomanage people. She knew that ultimatum would urge Frank to hisbest endeavors. 

Frank, much to Mrs. Spencer's dismay, marched boldly in at thefront door upon his return. She pounced on him and whisked himout of sight into the supper room. 

"Where's Rachel? What made you come that way? Everybody sawyou!"

"It makes no difference. They will all have to know, anyway. Rachel says she is going to be married from her father's house, or not at all. I've come back to tell you so. "

Isabella's face turned crimson. 

"Rachel has gone crazy. I wash my hands of this affair. Do asyou please. Take the guests--the supper, too, if you can carryit. "

"We'll all come back here for supper, " said Frank, ignoring thesarcasm. "Come, Mrs. Spencer, let's make the best of it. "

"Do you suppose that _I_ am going to David Spencer's house?" saidIsabella Spencer violently. 

"Oh you MUST come, Mrs. Spencer, " cried poor Frank desperately. He began to fear that he would lose his bride past all finding inthis maze of triple stubbornness. "Rachel says she won't bemarried at all if you don't go, too. Think what a talk it willmake. You know she will keep her word. "

Isabella Spencer knew it. Amid all the conflict of anger andrevolt in her soul was a strong desire not to make a worsescandal than must of necessity be made. The desire subdued andtamed her, as nothing else could have done. 

"I will go, since I have to, " she said icily. "What can't becured must be endured. Go and tell them. "

Five minutes later the sixty wedding guests were all walking overthe fields to the Cove, with the minister and the bridegroom inthe front of the procession. They were too amazed even to talkabout the strange happening. Isabella Spencer walked behind, fiercely alone. 

They all crowded into the little room of the house at the Cove, and a solemn hush fell over it, broken only by the purr of thesea-wind around it and the croon of the waves on the shore. David Spencer gave his daughter away; but, when the ceremony wasconcluded, Isabella was the first to take the girl in her arms. She clasped her and kissed her, with tears streaming down herpale face, all her nature melted in a mother's tenderness. 

"Rachel! Rachel! My child, I hope and pray that you may behappy, " she said brokenly. 

In the surge of the suddenly merry crowd of well-wishers aroundthe bride and groom, Isabella was pushed back into a shadowycorner behind a heap of sails and ropes. Looking up, she foundherself crushed against David Spencer. For the first time intwenty years the eyes of husband and wife met. A strange thrillshot to Isabella's heart; she felt herself trembling. 

"Isabella. " It was David's voice in her ear--a voice full oftenderness and pleading--the voice of the young wooer of hergirlhood--"Is it too late to ask you to forgive me? I've been astubborn fool--but there hasn't been an hour in all these yearsthat I haven't thought about you and our baby and longed foryou. "

Isabella Spencer had hated this man; yet her hate had been but aparasite growth on a nobler stem, with no abiding roots of itsown. It withered under his words, and lo, there was the oldlove, fair and strong and beautiful as ever. 

"Oh--David--I--was--all--to--blame, " she murmuredbrokenly. 

Further words were lost on her husband's lips. 

When the hubbub of handshaking and congratulating had subsided, Isabella Spencer stepped out before the company. She lookedalmost girlish and bridal herself, with her flushed cheeks andbright eyes. 

"Let's go back now and have supper, and be sensible, " she saidcrisply. "Rachel, your father is coming, too. He is coming toSTAY, "--with a defiant glance around the circle. "Come, everybody. "

They went back with laughter and raillery over the quiet autumnfields, faintly silvered now by the moon that was rising over thehills. The young bride and groom lagged behind; they were veryhappy, but they were not so happy, after all, as the old brideand groom who walked swiftly in front. Isabella's hand was inher husband's and sometimes she could not see the moonlit hillsfor a mist of glorified tears. 

"David, " she whispered, as he helped her over the fence, "how canyou ever forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive, " he said. "We're only just married. Who ever heard of a bridegroom talking of forgiveness?Everything is beginning over new for us, my girl. "

IV. JANE'S BABY

Miss Rosetta Ellis, with her front hair in curl-papers, and herback hair bound with a checked apron, was out in her breezy sideyard under the firs, shaking her parlor rugs, when Mr. NathanPatterson drove in. Miss Rosetta had seen him coming down thelong red hill, but she had not supposed he would be calling atthat time of the morning. So she had not run. Miss Rosettaalways ran if anybody called and her front hair was incurl-papers; and, though the errand of the said caller might belife or death, he or she had to wait until Miss Rosetta had takenher hair out. Everybody in Avonlea knew this, because everybodyin Avonlea knew everything about everybody else. 

But Mr. Patterson had wheeled into the lane so quickly andunexpectedly that Miss Rosetta had had no time to run; so, twitching off the checked apron, she stood her ground as calmlyas might be under the disagreeable consciousness of curl-papers. 

"Good morning, Miss Ellis, " said Mr. Patterson, so somberly thatMiss Rosetta instantly felt that he was the bearer of bad news. Usually Mr. Patterson's face was as broad and beaming as aharvest moon. Now his expression was very melancholy and hisvoice positively sepulchral. 

"Good morning, " returned Miss Rosetta, crisply and cheerfully. She, at any rate, would not go into eclipse until she knew thereason therefor. "It is a fine day. "

"A very fine day, " assented Mr. Patterson, solemnly. "I havejust come from the Wheeler place, Miss Ellis, and I regret tosay--"

"Charlotte is sick!" cried Miss Rosetta, rapidly. "Charlotte hasgot another spell with her heart! I knew it! I've beenexpecting to hear it! Any woman that drives about the country asmuch as she does is liable to heart disease at any moment. _I_never go outside of my gate but I meet her gadding off somewhere. Goodness knows who looks after her place. I shouldn't like totrust as much to a hired man as she does. Well, it is very kindof you, Mr. Patterson, to put yourself out to the extent ofcalling to tell me that Charlotte is sick, but I don't really seewhy you should take so much trouble--I really don't. It doesn'tmatter to me whether Charlotte is sick or whether she isn't. YOUknow that perfectly well, Mr. Patterson, if anybody does. WhenCharlotte went and got married, on the sly, to that good-for-nothingJacob Wheeler--"

"Mrs. Wheeler is quite well, " interrupted Mr. Pattersondesperately. "Quite well. Nothing at all the matter with her, in fact. I only--"

"Then what do you mean by coming here and telling me she wasn't, and frightening me half to death?" demanded Miss Rosetta, indignantly. "My own heart isn't very strong--it runs in ourfamily--and my doctor warned me to avoid all shocks andexcitement. I don't want to be excited, Mr. Patterson. I won'tbe excited, not even if Charlotte has another spell. It'sperfectly useless for you to try to excite me, Mr. Patterson. "

"Bless the woman, I'm not trying to excite anybody!" declared Mr. Patterson in exasperation. "I merely called to tell you--"

"To tell me WHAT?" said Miss Rosetta. "How much longer do youmean to keep me in suspense, Mr. Patterson. No doubt you haveabundance of spare time, but--I--have NOT. "

"--that your sister, Mrs. Wheeler, has had a letter from a cousinof yours, and she's in Charlottetown. Mrs. Roberts, I think hername is--"

"Jane Roberts, " broke in Miss Rosetta. "Jane Ellis she was, before she was married. What was she writing to Charlotte about?Not that I want to know, of course. I'm not interested inCharlotte's correspondence, goodness knows. But if Jane hadanything in particular to write about she should have written toME. I am the oldest. Charlotte had no business to get a letterfrom Jane Roberts without consulting me. It's just like herunderhanded ways. She got married the same way. Never said aword to me about it, but just sneaked off with that unprincipledJacob Wheeler--"

"Mrs. Roberts is very ill. I understand, " persisted Mr. Patterson, nobly resolved to do what he had come to do, "dying, in fact, and--"

"Jane ill! Jane dying!" exclaimed Miss Rosetta. "Why, she wasthe healthiest girl I ever knew! But then I've never seen her, nor heard from her, since she got married fifteen years ago. Idare say her husband was a brute and neglected her, and she'spined away by slow degrees. I've no faith in husbands. Look atCharlotte! Everybody knows how Jacob Wheeler used her. To besure, she deserved it, but--"

"Mrs. Roberts' husband is dead, " said Mr. Patterson. "Died abouttwo months ago, I understand, and she has a little baby sixmonths old, and she thought perhaps Mrs. Wheeler would take itfor old times' sake--"

"Did Charlotte ask you to call and tell me this?" demanded MissRosetta eagerly. 

"No; she just told me what was in the letter. She didn't mentionyou; but I thought, perhaps, you ought to be told--"

"I knew it, " said Miss Rosetta in a tone of bitter assurance. "Icould have told you so. Charlotte wouldn't even let me know thatJane was ill. Charlotte would be afraid I would want to get thebaby, seeing that Jane and I were such intimate friends long ago. And who has a better right to it than me, I should like to know?Ain't I the oldest? And haven't I had experience in bringing upbabies? Charlotte needn't think she is going to run the affairsof our family just because she happened to get married. JacobWheeler--"

"I must be going, " said Mr. Patterson, gathering up his reinsthankfully. 

"I am much obliged to you for coming to tell me about Jane, " saidMiss Rosetta, "even though you have wasted a lot of precious timegetting it out. If it hadn't been for you I suppose I shouldnever have known it at all. As it is, I shall start for townjust as soon as I can get ready. "

"You'll have to hurry if you want to get ahead of Mrs. Wheeler, "advised Mr. Patterson. "She's packing her trunk and going onthe morning train. "

"I'll pack a valise and go on the afternoon train, " retorted MissRosetta triumphantly. "I'll show Charlotte she isn't running theEllis affairs. She married out of them into the Wheelers. Shecan attend to them. Jacob Wheeler was the most--"

But Mr. Patterson had driven away. He felt that he had done hisduty in the face of fearful odds, and he did not want to hearanything more about Jacob Wheeler. 

Rosetta Ellis and Charlotte Wheeler had not exchanged a word forten years. Before that time they had been devoted to each other, living together in the little Ellis cottage on the White Sandsroad, as they had done ever since their parents' death. Thetrouble began when Jacob Wheeler had commenced to pay attentionto Charlotte, the younger and prettier of two women who had bothceased to be either very young or very pretty. Rosetta had beenbitterly opposed to the match from the first. She vowed she hadno use for Jacob Wheeler. There were not lacking maliciouspeople to hint that this was because the aforesaid Jacob Wheelerhad selected the wrong sister upon whom to bestow his affections. Be that as it might, Miss Rosetta certainly continued to renderthe course of Jacob Wheeler's true love exceedingly rough andtumultuous. The end of it was that Charlotte had gone quietlyaway one morning and married Jacob Wheeler without Miss Rosetta'sknowing anything about it. Miss Rosetta had never forgiven herfor it, and Charlotte had never forgiven the things Rosetta hadsaid to her when she and Jacob returned to the Ellis cottage. Since then the sisters had been avowed and open foes, the onlydifference being that Miss Rosetta aired her grievances publicly, in season and out of season, while Charlotte was never heard tomention Rosetta's name. Even the death of Jacob Wheeler, fiveyears after the marriage, had not healed the breach. 

Miss Rosetta took out her curl-papers, packed her valise, andcaught the late afternoon train for Charlottetown, as she hadthreatened. All the way there she sat rigidly upright in herseat and held imaginary dialogues with Charlotte in her mind, running something like this on her part:--

"No, Charlotte Wheeler, you are not going to have Jane's baby, and you're very much mistaken if you think so. Oh, allright--we'll see! You don't know anything about babies, even ifyou are married. I do. Didn't I take William Ellis's baby, whenhis wife died? Tell me that, Charlotte Wheeler! And didn't thelittle thing thrive with me, and grow strong and healthy? Yes, even you have to admit that it did, Charlotte Wheeler. And yetyou have the presumption to think that you ought to have Jane'sbaby! Yes, it is presumption, Charlotte Wheeler. And whenWilliam Ellis got married again, and took the baby, didn't thechild cling to me and cry as if I was its real mother? You knowit did, Charlotte Wheeler. I'm going to get and keep Jane's babyin spite of you, Charlotte Wheeler, and I'd like to see you tryto prevent me--you that went and got married and never so much aslet your own sister know of it! If I had got married in such afashion, Charlotte Wheeler, I'd be ashamed to look anybody in theface for the rest of my natural life!"

Miss Rosetta was so interested in thus laying down the law toCharlotte, and in planning out the future life of Jane's baby, that she didn't find the journey to Charlottetown so long ortedious as might have been expected, considering her haste. Shesoon found her way to the house where her cousin lived. There, to her dismay and real sorrow, she learned that Mrs. Roberts haddied at four o'clock that afternoon. 

"She seemed dreadful anxious to live until she heard from some ofher folks out in Avonlea, " said the woman who gave Miss Rosettathe information. "She had written to them about her little girl. She was my sister-in-law, and she lived with me ever since herhusband died. I've done my best for her; but I've a big familyof my own and I can't see how I'm to keep the child. Poor Janelooked and longed for some one to come from Avonlea, but shecouldn't hold out. A patient, suffering creature she was!"

"I'm her cousin, " said Miss Rosetta, wiping her eyes, "and I havecome for the baby. I'll take it home with me after the funeral;and, if you please, Mrs. Gordon, let me see it right away, so itcan get accustomed to me. Poor Jane! I wish I could have gothere in time to see her, she and I were such friends long ago. We were far more intimate and confidential than ever her andCharlotte was. Charlotte knows that, too!"

The vim with which Miss Rosetta snapped this out rather amazedMrs. Gordon, who couldn't understand it at all. But she tookMiss Rosetta upstairs to the room where the baby was sleeping. 

"Oh, the little darling, " cried Miss Rosetta, all her oldmaidishness and oddity falling away from her like a garment, andall her innate and denied motherhood shining out in her face likea transforming illumination. "Oh, the sweet, dear, pretty littlething!"

The baby was a darling--a six-months' old beauty with littlegolden ringlets curling and glistening all over its tiny head. As Miss Rosetta hung over it, it opened its eyes and then heldout its tiny hands to her with a gurgle of confidence. 

"Oh, you sweetest!" said Miss Rosetta rapturously, gathering itup in her arms. "You belong to me, darling--never, never, tothat under-handed Charlotte! What is its name, Mrs. Gordon?"

"It wasn't named, " said Mrs. Gordon. "Guess you'll have to nameit yourself, Miss Ellis. "

"Camilla Jane, " said Miss Rosetta without a moment's hesitation. "Jane after its mother, of course; and I have always thoughtCamilla the prettiest name in the world. Charlotte would be sureto give it some perfectly heathenish name. I wouldn't put itpast her calling the poor innocent Mehitable. "

Miss Rosetta decided to stay in Charlottetown until after thefuneral. That night she lay with the baby on her arm, listeningwith joy to its soft little breathing. She did not sleep or wishto sleep. Her waking fancies were more alluring than any visionsof dreamland. Moreover, she gave a spice to them by occasionallysnapping some vicious sentences out loud at Charlotte. 

Miss Rosetta fully expected Charlotte along on the followingmorning and girded herself for the fray; but no Charlotteappeared. Night came; no Charlotte. Another morning and noCharlotte. Miss Rosetta was hopelessly puzzled. What hadhappened? Dear, dear, had Charlotte taken a bad heart spell, onhearing that she, Rosetta, had stolen a march on her toCharlottetown? It was quite likely. You never knew what toexpect of a woman who had married Jacob Wheeler!

The truth was, that the very evening Miss Rosetta had leftAvonlea Mrs. Jacob Wheeler's hired man had broken his leg andhad had to be conveyed to his distant home on a feather bed in anexpress wagon. Mrs. Wheeler could not leave home until she hadobtained another hired man. Consequently, it was the eveningafter the funeral when Mrs. Wheeler whisked up the steps of theGordon house and met Miss Rosetta coming out with a big whitebundle in her arms. 

The eyes of the two women met defiantly. Miss Rosetta's facewore an air of triumph, chastened by a remembrance of the funeralthat afternoon. Mrs. Wheeler's face, except for eyes, was asexpressionless as it usually was. Unlike the tall, fair, fatMiss Rosetta, Mrs. Wheeler was small and dark and thin, with aneager, careworn face. 

"How is Jane?" she said abruptly, breaking the silence of tenyears in saying it. 

"Jane is dead and buried, poor thing, " said Miss Rosetta calmly. "I am taking her baby, little Camilla Jane, home with me. "

"The baby belongs to me, " cried Mrs. Wheeler passionately. "Janewrote to me about her. Jane meant that I should have her. I'vecome for her. "

"You'll go back without her then, " said Miss Rosetta, serene inthe possession that is nine points of the law. "The child ismine, and she is going to stay mine. You can make up your mindto that, Charlotte Wheeler. A woman who eloped to get marriedisn't fit to be trusted with a baby, anyhow. Jacob Wheeler--"

But Mrs. Wheeler had rushed past into the house. Miss Rosettacomposedly stepped into the cab and drove to the station. Shefairly bridled with triumph; and underneath the triumph ran aqueer undercurrent of satisfaction over the fact that Charlottehad spoken to her at last. Miss Rosetta would not look at thissatisfaction, or give it a name, but it was there. 

Miss Rosetta arrived safely back in Avonlea with Camilla Jane andwithin ten hours everybody in the settlement knew the wholestory, and every woman who could stand on her feet had been up tothe Ellis cottage to see the baby. Mrs. Wheeler arrived hometwenty-four hours later, and silently betook herself to her farm. When her Avonlea neighbors sympathized with her in herdisappointment, she said nothing, but looked all the more darklydetermined. Also, a week later, Mr. William J. Blair, theCarmody storekeeper, had an odd tale to tell. Mrs. Wheeler hadcome to the store and bought a lot of fine flannel and muslin andvalenciennes. Now, what in the name of time, did Mrs. Wheelerwant with such stuff? Mr. William J. Blair couldn't make head ortail of it, and it worried him. Mr. Blair was so accustomed toknow what everybody bought anything for that such a mystery quiteupset him. 

Miss Rosetta had exulted in the possession of little Camilla Janefor a month, and had been so happy that she had almost given upinveighing against Charlotte. Her conversations, instead oftending always to Jacob Wheeler, now ran Camilla Janeward; andthis, folks thought, was an improvement. 

One afternoon, Miss Rosetta, leaving Camilla Jane snugly sleepingin her cradle in the kitchen, had slipped down to the bottom ofthe garden to pick her currants. The house was hidden from hersight by the copse of cherry trees, but she had left the kitchenwindow open, so that she could hear the baby if it awakened andcried. Miss Rosetta sang happily as she picked her currants. For the first time since Charlotte had married Jacob Wheeler MissRosetta felt really happy--so happy that at there was no room inher heart for bitterness. In fancy she looked forward to thecoming years, and saw Camilla Jane growing up into girlhood, fairand lovable. 

"She'll be a beauty, " reflected Miss Rosetta complacently. "Janewas a handsome girl. She shall always be dressed as nice as Ican manage it, and I'll get her an organ, and have her takepainting and music lessons. Parties, too! I'll give her a realcoming-out party when she's eighteen and the very prettiest dressthat's to be had. Dear me, I can hardly wait for her to grow up, though she's sweet enough now to make one wish she could stay ababy forever. "

When Miss Rosetta returned to the kitchen, her eyes fell on anempty cradle. Camilla Jane was gone!

Miss Rosetta promptly screamed. She understood at a glance whathad happened. Six months' old babies do not get out of theircradles and disappear through closed doors without anyassistance. 

"Charlotte has been here, " gasped Miss Rosetta. "Charlotte hasstolen Camilla Jane! I might have expected it. I might haveknown when I heard that story about her buying muslin andflannel. It's just like Charlotte to do such an underhand trick. But I'll go after her! I'll show her! She'll find out she hasgot Rosetta Ellis to deal with and no Wheeler!"

Like a frantic creature and wholly forgetting that her hair wasin curl-papers, Miss Rosetta hurried up the hill and down theshore road to the Wheeler Farm--a place she had never visited inher life before. 

The wind was off-shore and only broke the bay's surface into longsilvery ripples, and sent sheeny shadows flying out across itfrom every point and headland, like transparent wings. 

The little gray house, so close to the purring waves that instorms their spray splashed over its very doorstep, seemeddeserted. Miss Rosetta pounded lustily on the front door. Thisproducing no result, she marched around to the back door andknocked. No answer. Miss Rosetta tried the door. It waslocked. 

"Guilty conscience, " sniffed Miss Rosetta. "Well, I shall stayhere until I see that perfidious Charlotte, if I have to camp inthe yard all night. "

Miss Rosetta was quite capable of doing this, but she was sparedthe necessity; walking boldly up to the kitchen window, andpeering through it, she felt her heart swell with anger as shebeheld Charlotte sitting calmly by the table with Camilla Jane onher knee. Beside her was a befrilled and bemuslined cradle, andon a chair lay the garments in which Miss Rosetta had dressed thebaby. It was clad in an entirely new outfit, and seemed quite athome with its new possessor. It was laughing and cooing, andmaking little dabs at her with its dimpled hands. 

"Charlotte Wheeler, " cried Miss Rosetta, rapping sharply on thewindow-pane. "I've come for that child! Bring her out to me atonce--at once, I say! How dare you come to my house and steal ababy? You're no better than a common burglar. Give me CamillaJane, I say!"

Charlotte came over to the window with the baby in her arms andtriumph glittering in her eyes. 

"There is no such child as Camilla Jane here, " she said. "Thisis Barbara Jane. She belongs to me. "

With that Mrs. Wheeler pulled down the shade. 

Miss Rosetta had to go home. There was nothing else for her todo. On her way she met Mr. Patterson and told him in full thestory of her wrongs. It was all over Avonlea by night, andcreated quite a sensation. Avonlea had not had such a toothsomebit of gossip for a long time. 

Mrs. Wheeler exulted in the possession of Barbara Jane for sixweeks, during which Miss Rosetta broke her heart with lonelinessand longing, and meditated futile plots for the recovery of thebaby. It was hopeless to think of stealing it back or she wouldhave tried to. The hired man at the Wheeler place reported thatMrs. Wheeler never left it night or day for a single moment. Sheeven carried it with her when she went to milk the cows. 

"But my turn will come, " said Miss Rosetta grimly. "Camilla Janeis mine, and if she was called Barbara for a century it wouldn'talter that fact! Barbara, indeed! Why not have called herMethusaleh and have done with it?"

One afternoon in October, when Miss Rosetta was picking herapples and thinking drearily about lost Camilla Jane, a womancame running breathlessly down the hill and into the yard. MissRosetta gave an exclamation of amazement and dropped her basketof apples. Of all incredible things! The woman was Charlotte--Charlotte who had never set foot on the grounds of the Elliscottage since her marriage ten years ago, Charlotte, bare-headed, wild-eyed, distraught, wringing her hands and sobbing. 

Miss Rosetta flew to meet her. 

"You've scalded Camilla Jane to death!" she exclaimed. "I alwaysknew you would--always expected it!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, come quick, Rosetta!" gasped Charlotte. "Barbara Jane is in convulsions and I don't know what to do. Thehired man has gone for the doctor. You were the nearest, so Icame to you. Jenny White was there when they came on, so I lefther and ran. Oh, Rosetta, come, come, if you have a spark ofhumanity in you! You know what to do for convulsions--yousaved the Ellis baby when it had them. Oh, come and save BarbaraJane!"

"You mean Camilla Jane, I presume?" said Miss Rosetta firmly, inspite of her agitation. 

For a second Charlotte Wheeler hesitated. Then she saidpassionately: "Yes, yes, Camilla Jane--any name you like! Onlycome. "

Miss Rosetta went, and not a moment too soon, either. The doctorlived eight miles away and the baby was very bad. The two womenand Jenny White worked over her for hours. It was not untildark, when the baby was sleeping soundly and the doctor had gone, after telling Miss Rosetta that she had saved the child's life, that a realization of the situation came home to them. 

"Well, " said Miss Rosetta, dropping into an armchair with a longsigh of weariness, "I guess you'll admit now, Charlotte Wheeler, that you are hardly a fit person to have charge of a baby, evenif you had to go and steal it from me. I should think yourconscience would reproach you--that is, if any woman who wouldmarry Jacob Wheeler in such an underhanded fashion has a--"

"I--I wanted the baby, " sobbed Charlotte, tremulously. "I was solonely here. I didn't think it was any harm to take her, becauseJane gave her to me in her letter. But you have saved her life, Rosetta, and you--you can have her back, although it will breakmy heart to give her up. But, oh, Rosetta, won't you let me comeand see her sometimes? I love her so I can't bear to give her upentirely. "

"Charlotte, " said Miss Rosetta firmly, "the most sensible thingfor you to do is just to come back with the baby. You areworried to death trying to run this farm with the debt JacobWheeler left on it for you. Sell it, and come home with me. Andwe'll both have the baby then. "

"Oh, Rosetta, I'd love to, " faltered Charlotte. "I've--I'vewanted to be good friends with you again so much. But I thoughtyou were so hard and bitter you'd never make up. "

"Maybe I've talked too much, " conceded Miss Rosetta, "but youought to know me well enough to know I didn't mean a word of it. It was your never saying anything, no matter what I said, thatriled me up so bad. Let bygones be bygones, and come home, Charlotte. "

"I will, " said Charlotte resolutely, wiping away her tears. "I'msick of living here and putting up with hired men. I'll be realglad to go home, Rosetta, and that's the truth. I've had a hardenough time. I s'pose you'll say I deserved it; but I was fondof Jacob, and--"

"Of course, of course. Why shouldn't you be?" said Miss Rosettabriskly. "I'm sure Jacob Wheeler was a good enough soul, if hewas a little slack-twisted. I'd like to hear anybody say a wordagainst him in my presence. Look at that blessed child, Charlotte. Isn't she the sweetest thing? I'm desperate glad youare coming back home, Charlotte. I've never been able to put upa decent mess of mustard pickles since you went away, and youwere always such a hand with them! We'll be real snug and cozyagain--you and me and little Camilla Barbara Jane. "

V. THE DREAM-CHILD

A man's heart--aye, and a woman's, too--should be light in thespring. The spirit of resurrection is abroad, calling the lifeof the world out of its wintry grave, knocking with radiantfingers at the gates of its tomb. It stirs in human hearts, andmakes them glad with the old primal gladness they felt inchildhood. It quickens human souls, and brings them, if so theywill, so close to God that they may clasp hands with Him. It isa time of wonder and renewed life, and a great outward and inwardrapture, as of a young angel softly clapping his hands forcreation's joy. At least, so it should be; and so it always hadbeen with me until the spring when the dream-child first cameinto our lives. 

That year I hated the spring--I, who had always loved it so. Asboy I had loved it, and as man. All the happiness that had everbeen mine, and it was much, had come to blossom in thespringtime. It was in the spring that Josephine and I had firstloved each other, or, at least, had first come into the fullknowledge that we loved. I think that we must have loved eachother all our lives, and that each succeeding spring was a wordin the revelation of that love, not to be understood until, inthe fullness of time, the whole sentence was written out in thatmost beautiful of all beautiful springs. 

How beautiful it was! And how beautiful she was! I supposeevery lover thinks that of his lass; otherwise he is a poor sortof lover. But it was not only my eyes of love that made my dearlovely. She was slim and lithe as a young, white-stemmed birchtree; her hair was like a soft, dusky cloud; and her eyes were asblue as Avonlea harbor on a fair twilight, when all the sky isabloom over it. She had dark lashes, and a little red mouth thatquivered when she was very sad or very happy, or when she lovedvery much--quivered like a crimson rose too rudely shaken bythe wind. At such times what was a man to do save kiss it?

The next spring we were married, and I brought her home to mygray old homestead on the gray old harbor shore. A lonely placefor a young bride, said Avonlea people. Nay, it was not so. Shewas happy here, even in my absences. She loved the great, restless harbor and the vast, misty sea beyond; she loved thetides, keeping their world-old tryst with the shore, and thegulls, and the croon of the waves, and the call of the winds inthe fir woods at noon and even; she loved the moonrises and thesunsets, and the clear, calm nights when the stars seemed to havefallen into the water and to be a little dizzy from such a fall. She loved these things, even as I did. No, she was never lonelyhere then. 

The third spring came, and our boy was born. We thought we hadbeen happy before; now we knew that we had only dreamed apleasant dream of happiness, and had awakened to this exquisitereality. We thought we had loved each other before; now, as Ilooked into my wife's pale face, blanched with its baptism ofpain, and met the uplifted gaze of her blue eyes, aglow with theholy passion of motherhood, I knew we had only imagined what lovemight be. The imagination had been sweet, as the thought of therose is sweet before the bud is open; but as the rose to thethought, so was love to the imagination of it. 

"All my thoughts are poetry since baby came, " my wife said once, rapturously. 

Our boy lived for twenty months. He was a sturdy, toddlingrogue, so full of life and laughter and mischief that, when hedied, one day, after the illness of an hour, it seemed a mostabsurd thing that he should be dead--a thing I could havelaughed at, until belief forced itself into my soul like aburning, searing iron. 

I think I grieved over my little son's death as deeply andsincerely as ever man did, or could. But the heart of the fatheris not as the heart of the mother. Time brought no healing toJosephine; she fretted and pined; her cheeks lost their prettyoval, and her red mouth grew pale and drooping. 

I hoped that spring might work its miracle upon her. When thebuds swelled, and the old earth grew green in the sun, and thegulls came back to the gray harbor, whose very grayness grewgolden and mellow, I thought I should see her smile again. But, when the spring came, came the dream-child, and the fear that wasto be my companion, at bed and board, from sunsetting tosunsetting. 

One night I awakened from sleep, realizing in the moment ofawakening that I was alone. I listened to hear whether my wifewere moving about the house. I heard nothing but the littlesplash of waves on the shore below and the low moan of thedistant ocean. 

I rose and searched the house. She was not in it. I did notknow where to seek her; but, at a venture, I started along theshore. 

It was pale, fainting moonlight. The harbor looked like aphantom harbor, and the night was as still and cold and calm asthe face of a dead man. At last I saw my wife coming to me alongthe shore. When I saw her, I knew what I had feared and howgreat my fear had been. 

As she drew near, I saw that she had been crying; her face wasstained with tears, and her dark hair hung loose over hershoulders in little, glossy ringlets like a child's. She seemedto be very tired, and at intervals she wrung her small handstogether. 

She showed no surprise when she met me, but only held out herhands to me as if glad to see me. 

"I followed him--but I could not overtake him, " she said with asob. "I did my best--I hurried so; but he was always a littleway ahead. And then I lost him--and so I came back. But I didmy best--indeed I did. And oh, I am so tired!"

"Josie, dearest, what do you mean, and where have you been?" Isaid, drawing her close to me. "Why did you go out so--alone inthe night?"

She looked at me wonderingly. 

"How could I help it, David? He called me. I had to go. "

"WHO called you?"

"The child, " she answered in a whisper. "Our child, David--ourpretty boy. I awakened in the darkness and heard him calling tome down on the shore. Such a sad, little wailing cry, David, asif he were cold and lonely and wanted his mother. I hurried outto him, but I could not find him. I could only hear the call, and I followed it on and on, far down the shore. Oh, I tried sohard to overtake it, but I could not. Once I saw a little whitehand beckoning to me far ahead in the moonlight. But still Icould not go fast enough. And then the cry ceased, and I wasthere all alone on that terrible, cold, gray shore. I was sotired and I came home. But I wish I could have found him. Perhaps he does not know that I tried to. Perhaps he thinks hismother never listened to his call. Oh, I would not have himthink that. "

"You have had a bad dream, dear, " I said. I tried to say itnaturally; but it is hard for a man to speak naturally when hefeels a mortal dread striking into his very vitals with itsdeadly chill. 

"It was no dream, " she answered reproachfully. "I tell you Iheard him calling me--me, his mother. What could I do but go tohim? You cannot understand--you are only his father. It was notyou who gave him birth. It was not you who paid the price of hisdear life in pain. He would not call to you--he wanted hismother. "

I got her back to the house and to her bed, whither she wentobediently enough, and soon fell into the sleep of exhaustion. But there was no more sleep for me that night. I kept a grimvigil with dread. 

When I had married Josephine, one of those officious relativesthat are apt to buzz about a man's marriage told me that hergrandmother had been insane all the latter part of her life. Shehad grieved over the death of a favorite child until she lost hermind, and, as the first indication of it, she had sought bynights a white dream-child which always called her, so she said, and led her afar with a little, pale, beckoning hand. 

I had smiled at the story then. What had that grim old bygone todo with springtime and love and Josephine? But it came back tome now, hand in hand with my fear. Was this fate coming on mydear wife? It was too horrible for belief. She was so young, sofair, so sweet, this girl-wife of mine. It had been only a baddream, with a frightened, bewildered waking. So I tried tocomfort myself. 

When she awakened in the morning she did not speak of what hadhappened and I did not dare to. She seemed more cheerful thatday than she had been, and went about her household dutiesbriskly and skillfully. My fear lifted. I was sure now that shehad only dreamed. And I was confirmed in my hopeful belief whentwo nights had passed away uneventfully. 

Then, on the third night, he dream-child called to her again. Iwakened from a troubled doze to find her dressing herself withfeverish haste. 

"He is calling me, " she cried. "Oh, don't you hear him? Can'tyou hear him? Listen--listen--the little, lonely cry! Yes, yes, my precious, mother is coming. Wait for me. Mother is coming toher pretty boy!"

I caught her hand and let her lead me where she would. Hand inhand we followed the dream-child down the harbor shore in thatghostly, clouded moonlight. Ever, she said, the little crysounded before her. She entreated the dream-child to wait forher; she cried and implored and uttered tender mother-talk. But, at last, she ceased to hear the cry; and then, weeping, wearied, she let me lead her home again. 

What a horror brooded over that spring--that so beautiful spring!It was a time of wonder and marvel; of the soft touch of silverrain on greening fields; of the incredible delicacy of youngleaves; of blossom on the land and blossom in the sunset. Thewhole world bloomed in a flush and tremor of maiden loveliness, instinct with all the evasive, fleeting charm of spring andgirlhood and young morning. And almost every night of thiswonderful time the dream-child called his mother, and we rovedthe gray shore in quest of him. 

In the day she was herself; but, when the night fell, she wasrestless and uneasy until she heard the call. Then follow it shewould, even through storm and darkness. It was then, she said, that the cry sounded loudest and nearest, as if her pretty boywere frightened by the tempest. What wild, terrible rovings wehad, she straining forward, eager to overtake the dream-child; I, sick at heart, following, guiding, protecting, as best I could;then afterwards leading her gently home, heart-broken because shecould not reach the child. 

I bore my burden in secret, determining that gossip should notbusy itself with my wife's condition so long as I could keep itfrom becoming known. We had no near relatives--none with anyright to share any trouble--and whoso accepteth human love mustbind it to his soul with pain. 

I thought, however, that I should have medical advice, and I tookour old doctor into my confidence. He looked grave when he heardmy story. I did not like his expression nor his few guardedremarks. He said he thought human aid would avail little; shemight come all right in time; humor her, as far as possible, watch over her, protect her. He needed not to tell me THAT. 

The spring went out and summer came in--and the horror deepenedand darkened. I knew that suspicions were being whispered fromlip to lip. We had been seen on our nightly quests. Men andwomen began to look at us pityingly when we went abroad. 

One day, on a dull, drowsy afternoon, the dream-child called. Iknew then that the end was near; the end had been near in the oldgrandmother's case sixty years before when the dream-child calledin the day. The doctor looked graver than ever when I told him, and said that the time had come when I must have help in my task. I could not watch by day and night. Unless I had assistance Iwould break down. 

I did not think that I should. Love is stronger than that. Andon one thing I was determined--they should never take my wifefrom me. No restraint sterner than a husband's loving handshould ever be put upon her, my pretty, piteous darling. 

I never spoke of the dream-child to her. The doctor advisedagainst it. It would, he said, only serve to deepen thedelusion. When he hinted at an asylum I gave him a look thatwould have been a fierce word for another man. He never spoke ofit again. 

One night in August there was a dull, murky sunset after a dead, breathless day of heat, with not a wind stirring. The sea wasnot blue as a sea should be, but pink--all pink--a ghastly, staring, painted pink. I lingered on the harbor shore below thehouse until dark. The evening bells were ringing faintly andmournfully in a church across the harbor. Behind me, in thekitchen, I heard my wife singing. Sometimes now her spirits werefitfully high, and then she would sing the old songs of hergirlhood. But even in her singing was something strange, as if awailing, unearthly cry rang through it. Nothing about her wassadder than that strange singing. 

When I went back to the house the rain was beginning to fall; butthere was no wind or sound in the air--only that dismalstillness, as if the world were holding its breath in expectationof a calamity. 

Josie was standing by the window, looking out and listening. Itried to induce her to go to bed, but she only shook her head. 

"I might fall asleep and not hear him when he called, " she said. "I am always afraid to sleep now, for fear he should call and hismother fail to hear him. "

Knowing it was of no use to entreat, I sat down by the table andtried to read. Three hours passed on. When the clock struckmidnight she started up, with the wild light in her sunken blueeyes. 

"He is calling, " she cried, "calling out there in the storm. Yes, yes, sweet, I am coming!"

She opened the door and fled down the path to the shore. Isnatched a lantern from the wall, lighted it, and followed. Itwas the blackest night I was ever out in, dark with the verydarkness of death. The rain fell thickly and heavily. Iovertook Josie, caught her hand, and stumbled along in her wake, for she went with the speed and recklessness of a distraughtwoman. We moved in the little flitting circle of light shed bythe lantern. All around us and above us was a horrible, voiceless darkness, held, as it were, at bay by the friendlylight. 

"If I could only overtake him once, " moaned Josie. "If I couldjust kiss him once, and hold him close against my aching heart. This pain, that never leaves me, would leave me than. Oh, mypretty boy, wait for mother! I am coming to you. Listen, David;he cries--he cries so pitifully; listen! Can't you hear it?"

I DID hear it! Clear and distinct, out of the deadly stilldarkness before us, came a faint, wailing cry. What was it? WasI, too, going mad, or WAS there something out there--somethingthat cried and moaned--longing for human love, yet everretreating from human footsteps? I am not a superstitious man;but my nerve had been shaken by my long trial, and I was weakerthan I thought. Terror took possession of me--terror unnameable. I trembled in every limb; clammy perspiration oozed from myforehead; I was possessed by a wild impulse to turn and flee--anywhere, away from that unearthly cry. But Josephine's coldhand gripped mine firmly, and led me on. That strange cry stillrang in my ears. But it did not recede; it sounded clearer andstronger; it was a wail; but a loud, insistent wail; it wasnearer--nearer; it was in the darkness just beyond us. 

Then we came to it; a little dory had been beached on the pebblesand left there by the receding tide. There was a child in it--aboy, of perhaps two years old, who crouched in the bottom of thedory in water to his waist, his big, blue eyes wild and wide withterror, his face white and tear-stained. He wailed again when hesaw us, and held out his little hands. 

My horror fell away from me like a discarded garment. THIS childwas living. How he had come there, whence and why, I did notknow and, in my state of mind, did not question. It was no cryof parted spirit I had heard--that was enough for me. 

"Oh, the poor darling!" cried my wife. 

She stooped over the dory and lifted the baby in her arms. Hislong, fair curls fell on her shoulder; she laid her face againsthis and wrapped her shawl around him. 

"Let me carry him, dear, " I said. "He is very wet, and too heavyfor you. "

"No, no, I must carry him. My arms have been so empty--they arefull now. Oh, David, the pain at my heart has gone. He has cometo me to take the place of my own. God has sent him to me out ofthe sea. He is wet and cold and tired. Hush, sweet one, we willgo home. "

Silently I followed her home. The wind was rising, coming insudden, angry gusts; the storm was at hand, but we reachedshelter before it broke. Just as I shut our door behind us itsmote the house with the roar of a baffled beast. I thanked Godthat we were not out in it, following the dream-child. 

"You are very wet, Josie, " I said. "Go and put on dry clothes atonce. "

"The child must be looked to first, " she said firmly. "See howchilled and exhausted he is, the pretty dear. Light a firequickly, David, while I get dry things for him. "

I let her have her way. She brought out the clothes our ownchild had worn and dressed the waif in them, rubbing his chilledlimbs, brushing his wet hair, laughing over him, mothering him. She seemed like her old self. 

For my own part, I was bewildered. All the questions I had notasked before came crowding to my mind how. Whose child was this?Whence had he come? What was the meaning of it all?

He was a pretty baby, fair and plump and rosy. When he was driedand fed, he fell asleep in Josie's arms. She hung over him in apassion of delight. It was with difficulty I persuaded her toleave him long enough to change her wet clothes. She never askedwhose he might be or from where he might have come. He had beensent to her from the sea; the dream-child had led her to him;that was what she believed, and I dared not throw any doubt onthat belief. She slept that night with the baby on her arm, andin her sleep her face was the face of a girl in her youth, untroubled and unworn. 

I expected that the morrow would bring some one seeking the baby. I had come to the conclusion that he must belong to the "Cove"across the harbor, where the fishing hamlet was; and all day, while Josie laughed and played with him, I waited and listenedfor the footsteps of those who would come seeking him. But theydid not come. Day after day passed, and still they did not come. 

I was in a maze of perplexity. What should I do? I shrank fromthe thought of the boy being taken away from us. Since we hadfound him the dream-child had never called. My wife seemed tohave turned back from the dark borderland, where her feet hadstrayed to walk again with me in our own homely paths. Day andnight she was her old, bright self, happy and serene in the newmotherhood that had come to her. The only thing strange in herwas her calm acceptance of the event. She never wondered who orwhose the child might be--never seemed to fear that he would betaken from her; and she gave him our dream-child's name. 

At last, when a full week had passed, I went, in my bewilderment, to our old doctor. 

"A most extraordinary thing, " he said thoughtfully. "The child, as you say, must belong to the Spruce Cove people. Yet it is analmost unbelievable thing that there has been no search orinquiry after him. Probably there is some simple explanation ofthe mystery, however. I advise you to go over to the Cove andinquire. When you find the parents or guardians of the child, ask them to allow you to keep it for a time. It may prove yourwife's salvation. I have known such cases. Evidently on thatnight the crisis of her mental disorder was reached. A littlething might have sufficed to turn her feet either way--back toreason and sanity, or into deeper darkness. It is my belief thatthe former has occurred, and that, if she is left in undisturbedpossession of this child for a time, she will recovercompletely. "

I drove around the harbor that day with a lighter heart than Ihad hoped ever to possess again. When I reached Spruce Cove thefirst person I met was old Abel Blair. I asked him if any childwere missing from the Cove or along shore. He looked at me insurprise, shook his head, and said he had not heard of any. Itold him as much of the tale as was necessary, leaving him tothink that my wife and I had found the dory and its smallpassenger during an ordinary walk along the shore. 

"A green dory!" he exclaimed. "Ben Forbes' old green dory hasbeen missing for a week, but it was so rotten and leaky he didn'tbother looking for it. But this child, sir--it beats me. Whatmight he be like?"

I described the child as closely as possible. 

"That fits little Harry Martin to a hair, " said old Abel, perplexedly, "but, sir, it can't be. Or, if it is, there's beenfoul work somewhere. James Martin's wife died last winter, sir, and he died the next month. They left a baby and not much else. There weren't nobody to take the child but Jim's half-sister, Maggie Fleming. She lived here at the Cove, and, I'm sorry tosay, sir, she hadn't too good a name. She didn't want to bebothered with the baby, and folks say she neglected himscandalous. Well, last spring she begun talking of going away tothe States. She said a friend of hers had got her a good placein Boston, and she was going to go and take little Harry. Wesupposed it was all right. Last Saturday she went, sir. She wasgoing to walk to the station, and the last seen of her she wastrudging along the road, carrying the baby. It hasn't beenthought of since. But, sir, d'ye suppose she set that innocentchild adrift in that old leaky dory to send him to his death? Iknew Maggie was no better than she should be, but I can't believeshe was as bad as that. "

"You must come over with me and see if you can identify thechild, " I said. "If he is Harry Martin I shall keep him. Mywife has been very lonely since our baby died, and she has takena fancy to this little chap. "

When we reached my home old Abel recognized the child as HarryMartin. 

He is with us still. His baby hands led my dear wife back tohealth and happiness. Other children have come to us, she lovesthem all dearly; but the boy who bears her dead son's name is toher--aye, and to me--as dear as if she had given him birth. Hecame from the sea, and at his coming the ghostly dream-childfled, nevermore to lure my wife away from me with its excitingcry. Therefore I look upon him and love him as my first-born. 

VI. THE BROTHER WHO FAILED

The Monroe family were holding a Christmas reunion at the oldPrince Edward Island homestead at White Sands. It was the firsttime they had all been together under one roof since the death oftheir mother, thirty years before. The idea of this Christmasreunion had originated with Edith Monroe the preceding spring, during her tedious convalescence from a bad attack of pneumoniaamong strangers in an American city, where she had not been ableto fill her concert engagements, and had more spare time in whichto feel the tug of old ties and the homesick longing for her ownpeople than she had had for years. As a result, when sherecovered, she wrote to her second brother, James Monroe, wholived on the homestead; and the consequence was this gathering ofthe Monroes under the old roof-tree. Ralph Monroe for once laidaside the cares of his railroads, and the deceitfulness of hismillions, in Toronto and took the long-promised, long-deferredtrip to the homeland. Malcolm Monroe journeyed from the farwestern university of which he was president. Edith came, flushed with the triumph of her latest and most successfulconcert tour. Mrs. Woodburn, who had been Margaret Monroe, camefrom the Nova Scotia town where she lived a busy, happy life asthe wife of a rising young lawyer. James, prosperous and hearty, greeted them warmly at the old homestead whose fertile acres hadwell repaid his skillful management. 

They were a merry party, casting aside their cares and years, andharking back to joyous boyhood and girlhood once more. James hada family of rosy lads and lasses; Margaret brought her twoblue-eyed little girls; Ralph's dark, clever-looking sonaccompanied him, and Malcolm brought his, a young man with aresolute face, in which there was less of boyishness than in hisfather's, and the eyes of a keen, perhaps a hard bargainer. Thetwo cousins were the same age to a day, and it was a family jokeamong the Monroes that the stork must have mixed the babies, since Ralph's son was like Malcolm in face and brain, whileMalcolm's boy was a second edition of his uncle Ralph. 

To crown all, Aunt Isabel came, too--a talkative, clever, shrewdold lady, as young at eighty-five as she had been at thirty, thinking the Monroe stock the best in the world, and beaminglyproud of her nephews and nieces, who had gone out from thishumble, little farm to destinies of such brilliance and influencein the world beyond. 

I have forgotten Robert. Robert Monroe was apt to be forgotten. Although he was the oldest of the family, White Sands people, innaming over the various members of the Monroe family, would add, "and Robert, " in a tone of surprise over the remembrance of hisexistence. 

He lived on a poor, sandy little farm down by the shore, but hehad come up to James' place on the evening when the guestsarrived; they had all greeted him warmly and joyously, and thendid not think about him again in their laughter and conversation. Robert sat back in a corner and listened with a smile, but henever spoke. Afterwards he had slipped noiselessly away and gonehome, and nobody noticed his going. They were all gayly busyrecalling what had happened in the old times and telling what hadhappened in the new. 

Edith recounted the successes of her concert tours; Malcolmexpatiated proudly on his plans for developing his belovedcollege; Ralph described the country through which his newrailroad ran, and the difficulties he had had to overcome inconnection with it. James, aside, discussed his orchard and hiscrops with Margaret, who had not been long enough away from thefarm to lose touch with its interests. Aunt Isabel knitted andsmiled complacently on all, talking now with one, now with theother, secretly quite proud of herself that she, an old woman ofeighty-five, who had seldom been out of White Sands in her life, could discuss high finance with Ralph, and higher education withMalcolm, and hold her own with James in an argument on drainage. 

The White Sands school teacher, an arch-eyed, red-mouthed bit agirl--a Bell from Avonlea--who boarded with the James Monroes, amused herself with the boys. All were enjoying themselveshugely, so it is not to be wondered at that they did not missRobert, who had gone home early because his old housekeeper wasnervous if left alone at night. 

He came again the next afternoon. From James, in the barnyard, he learned that Malcolm and Ralph had driven to the harbor, thatMargaret and Mrs. James had gone to call on friends in Avonlea, and that Edith was walking somewhere in the woods on the hill. There was nobody in the house except Aunt Isabel and the teacher. 

"You'd better wait and stay the evening, " said James, indifferently. "They'll all be back soon. "

Robert went across the yard and sat down on the rustic bench inthe angle of the front porch. It was a fine December evening, asmild as autumn; there had been no snow, and the long fields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown and mellow. A weird, dreamy stillness had fallen upon the purple earth, the windlesswoods, the rain of the valleys, the sere meadows. Nature seemedto have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that her long, wintry slumber was coming upon her. Out to sea, a dull, redsunset faded out into somber clouds, and the ceaseless voice ofmany waters came up from the tawny shore. 

Robert rested his chin on his hand and looked across the valesand hills, where the feathery gray of leafless hardwoods wasmingled with the sturdy, unfailing green of the conebearers. Hewas a tall, bent man, with thin, gray hair, a lined face, anddeeply-set, gentle brown eyes--the eyes of one who, lookingthrough pain, sees rapture beyond. 

He felt very happy. He loved his family clannishly, and he wasrejoiced that they were all again near to him. He was proud oftheir success and fame. He was glad that James had prospered sowell of late years. There was no canker of envy or discontent inhis soul. 

He heard absently indistinct voices at the open hall window abovethe porch, where Aunt Isabel was talking to Kathleen Bell. Presently Aunt Isabel moved nearer to the window, and her wordscame down to Robert with startling clearness. 

"Yes, I can assure you, Miss Bell, that I'm real proud of mynephews and nieces. They're a smart family. They've almost alldone well, and they hadn't any of them much to begin with. Ralphhad absolutely nothing and to-day he is a millionaire. Theirfather met with so many losses, what with his ill-health and thebank failing, that he couldn't help them any. But they've allsucceeded, except poor Robert--and I must admit that he's a totalfailure. "

"Oh, no, no, " said the little teacher deprecatingly. 

"A total failure!" Aunt Isabel repeated her words emphatically. She was not going to be contradicted by anybody, least of all aBell from Avonlea. "He has been a failure since the time he wasborn. He is the first Monroe to disgrace the old stock that way. I'm sure his brothers and sisters must be dreadfully ashamed ofhim. He has lived sixty years and he hasn't done a thing worthwhile. He can't even make his farm pay. If he's kept out ofdebt it's as much as he's ever managed to do. "

"Some men can't even do that, " murmured the little schoolteacher. She was really so much in awe of this imperious, cleverold Aunt Isabel that it was positive heroism on her part toventure even this faint protest. 

"More is expected of a Monroe, " said Aunt Isabel majestically. "Robert Monroe is a failure, and that is the only name for him. "

Robert Monroe stood up below the window in a dizzy, uncertainfashion. Aunt Isabel had been speaking of him! He, Robert, wasa failure, a disgrace to his blood, of whom his nearest anddearest were ashamed! Yes, it was true; he had never realized itbefore; he had known that he could never win power or accumulateriches, but he had not thought that mattered much. Now, throughAunt Isabel's scornful eyes, he saw himself as the world sawhim--as his brothers and sisters must see him. THERE lay thesting. What the world thought of him did not matter; but thathis own should think him a failure and disgrace was agony. Hemoaned as he started to walk across the yard, only anxious tohide his pain and shame away from all human sight, and in hiseyes was the look of a gentle animal which had been stricken by acruel and unexpected blow. 

Edith Monroe, who, unaware of Robert's proximity, had beenstanding on the other side of the porch, saw that look, as hehurried past her, unseeing. A moment before her dark eyes hadbeen flashing with anger at Aunt Isabel's words; now the angerwas drowned in a sudden rush of tears. 

She took a quick step after Robert, but checked the impulse. Notthen--and not by her alone--could that deadly hurt be healed. Nay, more, Robert must never suspect that she knew of any hurt. She stood and watched him through her tears as he went awayacross the low-lying shore fields to hide his broken heart underhis own humble roof. She yearned to hurry after him and comforthim, but she knew that comfort was not what Robert needed now. Justice, and justice only, could pluck out the sting, whichotherwise must rankle to the death. 

Ralph and Malcolm were driving into the yard. Edith went over tothem. 

"Boys, " she said resolutely, "I want to have a talk with you. "

The Christmas dinner at the old homestead was a merry one. Mrs. James spread a feast that was fit for the halls of Lucullus. Laughter, jest, and repartee flew from lip to lip. Nobodyappeared to notice that Robert ate little, said nothing, and satwith his form shrinking in his shabby "best" suit, his gray headbent even lower than usual, as if desirous of avoiding allobservation. When the others spoke to him he answereddeprecatingly, and shrank still further into himself. 

Finally all had eaten all they could, and the remainder of theplum pudding was carried out. Robert gave a low sigh of relief. It was almost over. Soon he would be able to escape and hidehimself and his shame away from the mirthful eyes of these menand women who had earned the right to laugh at the world in whichtheir success gave them power and influence. He--he--only--wasa failure. 

He wondered impatiently why Mrs. James did not rise. Mrs. Jamesmerely leaned comfortably back in her chair, with the righteousexpression of one who has done her duty by her fellow creatures'palates, and looked at Malcolm. 

Malcolm rose in his place. Silence fell on the company;everybody looked suddenly alert and expectant, except Robert. Hestill sat with bowed head, wrapped in his own bitterness. 

"I have been told that I must lead off, " said Malcolm, "because Iam supposed to possess the gift of gab. But, if I do, I am notgoing to use it for any rhetorical effect to-day. Simple, earnest words must express the deepest feelings of the heart indoing justice to its own. Brothers and sisters, we meet to-dayunder our own roof-tree, surrounded by the benedictions of thepast years. Perhaps invisible guests are here--the spirits ofthose who founded this home and whose work on earth has long beenfinished. It is not amiss to hope that this is so and our familycircle made indeed complete. To each one of us who are here invisible bodily presence some measure of success has fallen; butonly one of us has been supremely successful in the only thingsthat really count--the things that count for eternity as well astime--sympathy and unselfishness and self-sacrifice. 

"I shall tell you my own story for the benefit of those who havenot heard it. When I was a lad of sixteen I started to work outmy own education. Some of you will remember that old Mr. Blairof Avonlea offered me a place in his store for the summer, atwages which would go far towards paying my expenses at thecountry academy the next winter. I went to work, eager andhopeful. All summer I tried to do my faithful best for myemployer. In September the blow fell. A sum of money wasmissing from Mr. Blair's till. I was suspected and discharged indisgrace. All my neighbors believed me guilty; even some of myown family looked upon me with suspicion--nor could I blame them, for the circumstantial evidence was strongly against me. "

Ralph and James looked ashamed; Edith and Margaret, who had notbeen born at the time referred to, lifted their faces innocently. Robert did not move or glance up. He hardly seemed to belistening. 

"I was crushed in an agony of shame and despair, " continuedMalcolm. "I believed my career was ruined. I was bent oncasting all my ambitions behind me, and going west to some placewhere nobody knew me or my disgrace. But there was one personwho believed in my innocence, who said to me, 'You shall not giveup--you shall not behave as if you were guilty. You areinnocent, and in time your innocence will be proved. Meanwhileshow yourself a man. You have nearly enough to pay your way nextwinter at the Academy. I have a little I can give to help youout. Don't give in--never give in when you have done no wrong. '

"I listened and took his advice. I went to the Academy. Mystory was there as soon as I was, and I found myself sneered atand shunned. Many a time I would have given up in despair, hadit not been for the encouragement of my counselor. He furnishedthe backbone for me. I was determined that his belief in meshould be justified. I studied hard and came out at the head ofmy class. Then there seemed to be no chance of my earning anymore money that summer. But a farmer at Newbridge, who carednothing about the character of his help, if he could get the workout of them, offered to hire me. The prospect was distastefulbut, urged by the man who believed in me, I took the place andendured the hardships. Another winter of lonely work passed atthe Academy. I won the Farrell Scholarship the last year it wasoffered, and that meant an Arts course for me. I went to RedmondCollege. My story was not openly known there, but something ofit got abroad, enough to taint my life there also with itssuspicion. But the year I graduated, Mr. Blair's nephew, who, asyou know, was the real culprit, confessed his guilt, and I wascleared before the world. Since then my career has been what iscalled a brilliant one. But"--Malcolm turned and laid his handon Robert's thin shoulder--"all of my success I owe to my brotherRobert. It is his success--not mine--and here to-day, since wehave agreed to say what is too often left to be said over acoffin lid, I thank him for all he did for me, and tell him thatthere is nothing I am more proud of and thankful for than such abrother. "

Robert had looked up at last, amazed, bewildered, incredulous. His face crimsoned as Malcolm sat down. But now Ralph wasgetting up. 

"I am no orator as Malcolm is, " he quoted gayly, "but I've got astory to tell, too, which only one of you knows. Forty yearsago, when I started in life as a business man, money wasn't soplentiful with me as it may be to-day. And I needed it badly. Achance came my way to make a pile of it. It wasn't a cleanchance. It was a dirty chance. It looked square on the surface;but, underneath, it meant trickery and roguery. I hadn't enoughperception to see that, though--I was fool enough to think it wasall right. I told Robert what I meant to do. And Robert sawclear through the outward sham to the real, hideous thingunderneath. He showed me what it meant and he gave me apreachment about a few Monroe Traditions of truth and honor. Isaw what I had been about to do as he saw it--as all good men andtrue must see it. And I vowed then and there that I'd never gointo anything that I wasn't sure was fair and square and cleanthrough and through. I've kept that vow. I am a rich man, andnot a dollar of my money is 'tainted' money. But I didn't makeit. Robert really made every cent of my money. If it hadn'tbeen for him I'd have been a poor man to-day, or behind prisonbars, as are the other men who went into that deal when I backedout. I've got a son here. I hope he'll be as clever as hisUncle Malcolm; but I hope, still more earnestly, that he'll be asgood and honorable a man as his Uncle Robert. "

By this time Robert's head was bent again, and his face buried inhis hands. 

"My turn next, " said James. "I haven't much to say--only this. After mother died I took typhoid fever. Here I was with no oneto wait on me. Robert came and nursed me. He was the mostfaithful, tender, gentle nurse ever a man had. The doctor saidRobert saved my life. I don't suppose any of the rest of us herecan say we have saved a life. "

Edith wiped away her tears and sprang up impulsively. 

"Years ago, " she said, "there was a poor, ambitious girl who hada voice. She wanted a musical education and her only apparentchance of obtaining it was to get a teacher's certificate andearn money enough to have her voice trained. She studied hard, but her brains, in mathematics at least, weren't as good as hervoice, and the time was short. She failed. She was lost indisappointment and despair, for that was the last year in whichit was possible to obtain a teacher's certificate withoutattending Queen's Academy, and she could not afford that. Thenher oldest brother came to her and told her he could spare enoughmoney to send her to the conservatory of music in Halifax for ayear. He made her take it. She never knew till long afterwardsthat he had sold the beautiful horse which he loved like a humancreature, to get the money. She went to the Halifaxconservatory. She won a musical scholarship. She has had ahappy life and a successful career. And she owes it all to herbrother Robert--"

But Edith could go no further. Her voice failed her and she satdown in tears. Margaret did not try to stand up. 

"I was only five when my mother died, " she sobbed. "Robert wasboth father and mother to me. Never had child or girl so wiseand loving a guardian as he was to me. I have never forgottenthe lessons he taught me. Whatever there is of good in my lifeor character I owe to him. I was often headstrong and willful, but he never lost patience with me. I owe everything to Robert. "

Suddenly the little teacher rose with wet eyes and crimsoncheeks. 

"I have something to say, too, " she said resolutely. "You havespoken for yourselves. I speak for the people of White Sands. There is a man in this settlement whom everybody loves. I shalltell you some of the things he has done. "

"Last fall, in an October storm, the harbor lighthouse flew aflag of distress. Only one man was brave enough to face thedanger of sailing to the lighthouse to find out what the troublewas. That was Robert Monroe. He found the keeper alone with abroken leg; and he sailed back and made--yes, MADE theunwilling and terrified doctor go with him to the lighthouse. Isaw him when he told the doctor he must go; and I tell you thatno man living could have set his will against Robert Monroe's atthat moment. 

"Four years ago old Sarah Cooper was to be taken to thepoorhouse. She was broken-hearted. One man took the poor, bed-ridden, fretful old creature into his home, paid for medicalattendance, and waited on her himself, when his housekeepercouldn't endure her tantrums and temper. Sarah Cooper died twoyears afterwards, and her latest breath was a benediction onRobert Monroe--the best man God ever made. 

"Eight years ago Jack Blewitt wanted a place. Nobody would hirehim, because his father was in the penitentiary, and some peoplethought Jack ought to be there, too. Robert Monroe hiredhim--and helped him, and kept him straight, and got him startedright--and Jack Blewitt is a hard-working, respected young manto-day, with every prospect of a useful and honorable life. There is hardly a man, woman, or child in White Sands who doesn'towe something to Robert Monroe!"

As Kathleen Bell sat down, Malcolm sprang up and held out hishands. 

"Every one of us stand up and sing Auld Lang Syne, " he cried. 

Everybody stood up and joined hands, but one did not sing. Robert Monroe stood erect, with a great radiance on his face andin his eyes. His reproach had been taken away; he was crownedamong his kindred with the beauty and blessing of sacredyesterdays. 

When the singing ceased Malcolm's stern-faced son reached overand shook Robert's hands. 

"Uncle Rob, " he said heartily, "I hope that when I'm sixty I'llbe as successful a man as you. "

"I guess, " said Aunt Isabel, aside to the little school teacher, as she wiped the tears from her keen old eyes, "that there's akind of failure that's the best success. "

VII. THE RETURN OF HESTER

Just at dusk, that evening, I had gone upstairs and put on mymuslin gown. I had been busy all day attending to the strawberrypreserving--for Mary Sloane could not be trusted with that--and Iwas a little tired, and thought it was hardly worth while tochange my dress, especially since there was nobody to see orcare, since Hester was gone. Mary Sloane did not count. 

But I did it because Hester would have cared if she had beenhere. She always liked to see me neat and dainty. So, althoughI was tired and sick at heart, I put on my pale blue muslin anddressed my hair. 

At first I did my hair up in a way I had always liked; but hadseldom worn, because Hester had disapproved of it. It became me;but I suddenly felt as if it were disloyal to her, so I took thepuffs down again and arranged my hair in the plain, old-fashionedway she had liked. My hair, though it had a good many graythreads in it, was thick and long and brown still; but that didnot matter--nothing mattered since Hester was dead and I had sentHugh Blair away for the second time. 

The Newbridge people all wondered why I had not put on mourningfor Hester. I did not tell them it was because Hester had askedme not to. Hester had never approved of mourning; she said thatif the heart did not mourn crape would not mend matters; and ifit did there was no need of the external trappings of woe. Shetold me calmly, the night before she died, to go on wearing mypretty dresses just as I had always worn them, and to make nodifference in my outward life because of her going. 

"I know there will be a difference in your inward life, " she saidwistfully. 

And oh, there was! But sometimes I wondered uneasily, feelingalmost conscience-stricken, whether it were wholly because Hesterhad left me--whether it were no partly because, for a secondtime, I had shut the door of my heart in the face of love at herbidding. 

When I had dressed I went downstairs to the front door, and saton the sandstone steps under the arch of the Virginia creeper. Iwas all alone, for Mary Sloane had gone to Avonlea. 

It was a beautiful night; the full moon was just rising over thewooded hills, and her light fell through the poplars into thegarden before me. Through an open corner on the western side Isaw the sky all silvery blue in the afterlight. The garden wasvery beautiful just then, for it was the time of the roses, andours were all out--so many of them--great pink, and red, andwhite, and yellow roses. 

Hester had loved roses and could never have enough of them. Herfavorite bush was growing by the steps, all gloried over withblossoms--white, with pale pink hearts. I gathered a cluster andpinned it loosely on my breast. But my eyes filled as I didso--I felt so very, very desolate. 

I was all alone, and it was bitter. The roses, much as I lovedthem, could not give me sufficient companionship. I wanted theclasp of a human hand, and the love-light in human eyes. Andthen I fell to thinking of Hugh, though I tried not to. 

I had always lived alone with Hester. I did not remember ourparents, who had died in my babyhood. Hester was fifteen yearsolder than I, and she had always seemed more like a mother than asister. She had been very good to me and had never denied meanything I wanted, save the one thing that mattered. 

I was twenty-five before I ever had a lover. This was not, Ithink, because I was more unattractive than other women. TheMerediths had always been the "big" family of Newbridge. Therest of the people looked up to us, because we were thegranddaughters of old Squire Meredith. The Newbridge young menwould have thought it no use to try to woo a Meredith. 

I had not a great deal of family pride, as perhaps I should beashamed to confess. I found our exalted position very lonely, and cared more for the simple joys of friendship andcompanionship which other girls had. But Hester possessed it ina double measure; she never allowed me to associate on a level ofequality with the young people of Newbridge. We must be verynice and kind and affable to them--_noblesse oblige_, as itwere--but we must never forget that we were Merediths. 

When I was twenty-five, Hugh Blair came to Newbridge, havingbought a farm near the village. He was a stranger, from LowerCarmody, and so was not imbued with any preconceptions ofMeredith superiority. In his eyes I was just a girl likeothers--a girl to be wooed and won by any man of clean life andhonest heart. I met him at a little Sunday-School picnic over atAvonlea, which I attended because of my class. I thought himvery handsome and manly. He talked to me a great deal, and atlast he drove me home. The next Sunday evening he walked up fromchurch with me. 

Hester was away, or, of course, this would never have happened. She had gone for a month's visit to distant friends. 

In that month I lived a lifetime. Hugh Blair courted me as theother girls in Newbridge were courted. He took me out drivingand came to see me in the evenings, which we spent for the mostpart in the garden. I did not like the stately gloom andformality of our old Meredith parlor, and Hugh never seemed tofeel at ease there. His broad shoulders and hearty laughter wereoddly out of place among our faded, old-maidish furnishings. 

Mary Sloane was very much pleased at Hugh's visit. She hadalways resented the fact that I had never had a "beau, " seemingto think it reflected some slight or disparagement upon me. Shedid all she could to encourage him. 

But when Hester returned and found out about Hugh she was veryangry--and grieved, which hurt me far more. She told me that Ihad forgotten myself and that Hugh's visits must cease. 

I had never been afraid of Hester before, but I was afraid of herthen. I yielded. Perhaps it was very weak of me, but then I wasalways weak. I think that was why Hugh's strength had appealedso to me. I needed love and protection. Hester, strong andself-sufficient, had never felt such a need. She could notunderstand. Oh, how contemptuous she was. 

I told Hugh timidly that Hester did not approve of our friendshipand that it must end. He took it quietly enough, and went away. I thought he did not care much, and the thought selfishly made myown heartache worse. I was very unhappy for a long time, but Itried not to let Hester see it, and I don't think she did. Shewas not very discerning in some things. 

After a time I got over it; that is, the heartache ceased to acheall the time. But things were never quite the same again. Lifealways seemed rather dreary and empty, in spite of Hester and myroses and my Sunday-School. 

I supposed that Hugh Blair would find him a wife elsewhere, buthe did not. The years went by and we never met, although I sawhim often at church. At such times Hester always watched me veryclosely, but there was no need of her to do so. Hugh made noattempt to meet me, or speak with me, and I would not havepermitted it if he had. But my heart always yearned after him. I was selfishly glad he had not married, because if he had Icould not have thought and dreamed of him--it would have beenwrong. Perhaps, as it was, it was foolish; but it seemed to methat I must have something, if only foolish dreams, to fill mylife. 

At first there was only pain in the thought of him, butafterwards a faint, misty little pleasure crept in, like a miragefrom a land of lost delight. 

Ten years slipped away thus. And then Hester died. Her illnesswas sudden and short; but, before she died, she asked me topromise that I would never marry Hugh Blair. 

She had not mentioned his name for years. I thought she hadforgotten all about him. 

"Oh, dear sister, is there any need of such a promise?" I asked, weeping. "Hugh Blair does not want to marry me now. He neverwill again. "

"He has never married--he has not forgotten you, " she saidfiercely. "I could not rest in my grave if I thought you woulddisgrace your family by marrying beneath you. Promise me, Margaret. "

I promised. I would have promised anything in my power to makeher dying pillow easier. Besides, what did it matter? I wassure that Hugh would never think of me again. 

She smiled when she heard me, and pressed my hand. 

"Good little sister--that is right. You were always a good girl, Margaret--good and obedient, though a little sentimental andfoolish in some ways. You are like our mother--she was alwaysweak and loving. I took after the Merediths. "

She did, indeed. Even in her coffin her dark, handsome featurespreserved their expression of pride and determination. Somehow, that last look of her dead face remained in my memory, blottingout the real affection and gentleness which her living face hadalmost always shown me. This distressed me, but I could not helpit. I wished to think of her as kind and loving, but I couldremember only the pride and coldness with which she had crushedout my new-born happiness. Yet I felt no anger or resentmenttowards her for what she had done. I knew she had meant it forthe best--my best. It was only that she was mistaken. 

And then, a month after she had died, Hugh Blair came to me andasked me to be his wife. He said he had always loved me, andcould never love any other woman. 

All my old love for him reawakened. I wanted to say yes--to feelhis strong arms about me, and the warmth of his love enfoldingand guarding me. In my weakness I yearned for his strength. 

But there was my promise to Hester--that promise give by herdeathbed. I could not break it, and I told him so. It was thehardest thing I had ever done. 

He did not go away quietly this time. He pleaded and reasonedand reproached. Every word of his hurt me like a knife-thrust. But I could not break my promise to the dead. If Hester had beenliving I would have braved her wrath and her estrangement andgone to him. But she was dead and I could not do it. 

Finally he went away in grief and anger. That was three weeksago--and now I sat alone in the moonlit rose-garden and wept forhim. But after a time my tears dried and a very strange feelingcame over me. I felt calm and happy, as if some wonderful loveand tenderness were very near me. 

And now comes the strange part of my story--the part which willnot, I suppose, be believed. If it were not for one thing Ithink I should hardly believe it myself. I should feel temptedto think I had dreamed it. But because of that one thing I knowit was real. The night was very calm and still. Not a breath ofwind stirred. The moonshine was the brightest I had ever seen. In the middle of the garden, where the shadow of the poplars didnot fall, it was almost as bright as day. One could have readfine print. There was still a little rose glow in the west, andover the airy boughs of the tall poplars one or two large, brightstars were shining. The air was sweet with a hush of dreams, andthe world was so lovely that I held my breath over its beauty. 

Then, all at once, down at the far end of the garden, I saw awoman walking. I thought at first that it must be Mary Sloane;but, as she crossed a moonlit path, I saw it was not our oldservant's stout, homely figure. This woman was tall and erect. 

Although no suspicion of the truth came to me, something abouther reminded me of Hester. Even so had Hester liked to wanderabout the garden in the twilight. I had seen her thus a thousandtimes. 

I wondered who the woman could be. Some neighbor, of course. But what a strange way for her to come! She walked up the gardenslowly in the poplar shade. Now and then she stooped, as if tocaress a flower, but she plucked none. Half way up she out in tothe moonlight and walked across the plot of grass in the centerof the garden. My heart gave a great throb and I stood up. Shewas quite near to me now--and I saw that it was Hester. 

I can hardly say just what my feelings were at this moment. Iknow that I was not surprised. I was frightened and yet I wasnot frightened. Something in me shrank back in a sickeningterror; but _I_, the real I, was not frightened. I knew thatthis was my sister, and that there could be no reason why Ishould be frightened of her, because she loved me still, as shehad always done. Further than this I was not conscious of anycoherent thought, either of wonder or attempt at reasoning. 

Hester paused when she came to within a few steps of me. In themoonlight I saw her face quite plainly. It wore an expression Ihad never before seen on it--a humble, wistful, tender look. Often in life Hester had looked lovingly, even tenderly, upon me;but always, as it were, through a mask of pride and sternness. This was gone now, and I felt nearer to her than ever before. Iknew suddenly that she understood me. And then thehalf-conscious awe and terror some part of me had felt vanished, and I only realized that Hester was here, and that there was noterrible gulf of change between us. 

Hester beckoned to me and said, "Come. "

I stood up and followed her out of the garden. We walked side byside down our lane, under the willows and out to the road, whichlay long and still in that bright, calm moonshine. I felt as ifI were in a dream, moving at the bidding of a will not my own, which I could not have disputed even if I had wished to do so. But I did not wish it; I had only the feeling of a strange, boundless content. 

We went down the road between the growths of young fir thatbordered it. I smelled their balsam as we passed, and noticedhow clearly and darkly their pointed tops came out against thesky. I heard the tread of my own feet on little twigs and plantsin our way, and the trail of my dress over the grass; but Hestermoved noiselessly. 

Then we went through the Avenue--that stretch of road under theapple trees that Anne Shirley, over at Avonlea, calls "The WhiteWay of Delight. " It was almost dark here; and yet I could seeHester's face just as plainly as if the moon were shining on it;and whenever I looked at her she was always looking at me withthat strangely gentle smile on her lips. 

Just as we passed out of the Avenue, James Trent overtook us, driving. It seems to me that our feelings at a given moment areseldom what we would expect them to be. I simply felt annoyedthat James Trent, the most notorious gossip in Newbridge, shouldhave seen me walking with Hester. In a flash I anticipated allthe annoyance of it; he would talk of the matter far and wide. 

But James Trent merely nodded and called out, "Howdy, Miss Margaret. Taking a moonlight stroll by yourself?Lovely night, ain't it?"

Just then his horse suddenly swerved, as if startled, and brokeinto a gallop. They whirled around the curve of the road in aninstant. I felt relieved, but puzzled. JAMES TRENT HAD NOT SEENHESTER. 

Down over the hill was Hugh Blair's place. When we came to it, Hester turned in at the gate. Then, for the first time, Iunderstood why she had come back, and a blinding flash of joybroke over my soul. I stopped and looked at her. Her deep eyesgazed into mine, but she did not speak. 

We went on. Hugh's house lay before us in the moonlight, grownover by a tangle of vines. His garden was on our right, a quaintspot, full of old-fashioned flowers growing in a sort ofdisorderly sweetness. I trod on a bed of mint, and the spice ofit floated up to me like the incense of some strange, sacred, solemn ceremonial. I felt unspeakably happy and blessed. 

When we came to the door Hester said, "Knock, Margaret. "

I rapped gently. In a moment, Hugh opened it. Then thathappened by which, in after days, I was to know that this strangething was no dream or fancy of mine. Hugh looked not at me, butpast me. 

"Hester!" he exclaimed, with human fear and horror in his voice. 

He leaned against the door-post, the big, strong fellow, trembling from head to foot. 

"I have learned, " said Hester, "that nothing matters in all God'suniverse, except love. There is no pride where I have been, andno false ideals. "

Hugh and I looked into each other's eyes, wondering, and then weknew that we were alone. 

VIII. THE LITTLE BROWN BOOK OF MISS EMILY

The first summer Mr. Irving and Miss Lavendar--Diana and I couldnever call her anything else, even after she was married--were atEcho Lodge after their marriage, both Diana and I spent a greatdeal of time with them. We became acquainted with many of theGrafton people whom we had not known before, and among others, the family of Mr. Mack Leith. We often went up to the Leiths inthe evening to play croquet. Millie and Margaret Leith were verynice girls, and the boys were nice, too. Indeed, we liked everyone in the family, except poor old Miss Emily Leith. We triedhard enough to like her, because she seemed to like Diana and mevery much, and always wanted to sit with us and talk to us, whenwe would much rather have been somewhere else. We often felt agood deal of impatience at these times, but I am very glad tothink now that we never showed it. 

In a way, we felt sorry for Miss Emily. She was Mr. Leith'sold-maid sister and she was not of much importance in thehousehold. But, though we felt sorry for her, we couldn't likeher. She really was fussy and meddlesome; she liked to poke afinger into every one's pie, and she was not at all tactful. Then, too, she had a sarcastic tongue, and seemed to feel bittertowards all the young folks and their love affairs. Diana and Ithought this was because she had never had a lover of her own. 

Somehow, it seemed impossible to think of lovers in connectionwith Miss Emily. She was short and stout and pudgy, with a faceso round and fat and red that it seemed quite featureless; andher hair was scanty and gray. She walked with a waddle, justlike Mrs. Rachel Lynde, and she was always rather short ofbreath. It was hard to believe Miss Emily had ever been young;yet old Mr. Murray, who lived next door to the Leiths, not onlyexpected us to believe it, but assured us that she had been verypretty. 

"THAT, at least, is impossible, " said Diana to me. 

And then, one day, Miss Emily died. I'm afraid no one was verysorry. It seems to me a most dreadful thing to go out of theworld and leave not one person behind to be sorry because youhave gone. Miss Emily was dead and buried before Diana and Iheard of it at all. The first I knew of it was when I came homefrom Orchard Slope one day and found a queer, shabby little blackhorsehair trunk, all studded with brass nails, on the floor of myroom at Green Gables. Marilla told me that Jack Leith hadbrought it over, and said that it had belonged to Miss Emily andthat, when she was dying, she asked them to send it to me. 

"But what is in it? And what am I to do with it?" I asked inbewilderment. 

"There was nothing said about what you were to do with it. Jacksaid they didn't know what was in it, and hadn't looked into it, seeing that it was your property. It seems a rather queerproceeding--but you're always getting mixed up in queerproceedings, Anne. As for what is in it, the easiest way to findout, I reckon, is to open it and see. The key is tied to it. Jack said Miss Emily said she wanted you to have it because sheloved you and saw her lost youth in you. I guess she was a bitdelirious at the last and wandered a good deal. She said shewanted you 'to understand her. ' "

I ran over to Orchard Slope and asked Diana to come over andexamine the trunk with me. I hadn't received any instructionsabout keeping its contents secret and I knew Miss Emily wouldn'tmind Diana knowing about them, whatever they were. 

It was a cool, gray afternoon and we got back to Green Gablesjust as the rain was beginning to fall. When we went up to myroom the wind was rising and whistling through the boughs of thebig old Snow Queen outside of my window. Diana was excited, and, I really believe, a little bit frightened. 

We opened the old trunk. It was very small, and there wasnothing in it but a big cardboard box. The box was tied up andthe knots sealed with wax. We lifted it out and untied it. Itouched Diana's fingers as we did it, and both of us exclaimed atonce, "How cold your hand is!"

In the box was a quaint, pretty, old-fashioned gown, not at allfaded, made of blue muslin, with a little darker blue flower init. Under it we found a sash, a yellowed feather fan, and anenvelope full of withered flowers. At the bottom of the box wasa little brown book. 

It was small and thin, like a girl's exercise book, with leavesthat had once been blue and pink, but were now quite faded, andstained in places. On the fly leaf was written, in a verydelicate hand, "Emily Margaret Leith, " and the same writingcovered the first few pages of the book. The rest were notwritten on at all. We sat there on the floor, Diana and I, andread the little book together, while the rain thudded against thewindow panes. 

 June 19, 18--

 I came to-day to spend a while with Aunt Margaret in Charlottetown. It is so pretty here, where she lives--and ever so much nicer than on the farm at home. I have no cows to milk here or pigs to feed. Aunt Margaret has given me such a lovely blue muslin dress, and I am to have it made to wear at a garden party out at Brighton next week. I never had a muslin dress before--nothing but ugly prints and dark woolens. I wish we were rich, like Aunt Margaret. Aunt Margaret laughed when I said this, and declared she would give all her wealth for my youth and beauty and light-heartedness. I am only eighteen and I know I am very merry but I wonder if I am really pretty. It seems to me that I am when I look in Aunt Margaret's beautiful mirrors. They make me look very different from the old cracked one in my room at home which always twisted my face and turned me green. But Aunt Margaret spoiled her compliment by telling me I look exactly as she did at my age. If I thought I'd ever look as Aunt Margaret does now, I don't know what I'd do. She is so fat and red. 

 June 29. 

 Last week I went to the garden party and I met a young man called Paul Osborne. He is a young artist from Montreal who is boarding over at Heppoch. He is the handsomest man I have ever seen--very tall and slender, with dreamy, dark eyes and a pale, clever face. I have not been able to keep from thinking about him ever since, and to-day he came over here and asked if he could paint me. I felt very much flattered and so pleased when Aunt Margaret gave him permission. He says he wants to paint me as "Spring, " standing under the poplars where a fine rain of sunshine falls through. I am to wear my blue muslin gown and a wreath of flowers on my hair. He says I have such beautiful hair. He has never seen any of such a real pale gold. Somehow it seems even prettier than ever to me since he praised it. 

 I had a letter from home to-day. Ma says the blue hen stole her nest and came off with fourteen chickens, and that pa has sold the little spotted calf. Somehow those things don't interest me like they once did. 

 July 9. 

 The picture is coming on very well, Mr. Osborne says. I know he is making me look far too pretty in it, although her persists in saying he can't do me justice. He is going to send it to some great exhibition when finished, but he says he will make a little water-color copy for me. 

 He comes every day to paint and we talk a great deal and he reads me lovely things out of his books. I don't understand them all, but I try to, and he explains them so nicely and is so patient with my stupidity. And he says any one with my eyes and hair and coloring does not need to be clever. He says I have the sweetest, merriest laugh in the world. But I will not write down all the compliments he has paid me. I dare say he does not mean them at all. 

 In the evening we stroll among the spruces or sit on the bench under the acacia tree. Sometimes we don't talk at all, but I never find the time long. Indeed, the minutes just seem to fly--and then the moon will come up, round and red, over the harbor and Mr. Osborne will sigh and say he supposes it is time for him to go. 

 July 24. 

 I am so happy. I am frightened at my happiness. Oh, I didn't think life could ever be so beautiful for me as it is!

 Paul loves me! He told me so to-night as we walked by the harbor and watched the sunset, and he asked me to be his wife. I have cared for him ever since I met him, but I am afraid I am not clever and well-educated enough for a wife for Paul. Because, of course, I'm only an ignorant little country girl and have lived all my life on a farm. Why, my hands are quite rough yet from the work I've done. But Paul just laughed when I said so, and took my hands and kissed them. Then he looked into my eyes and laughed again, because I couldn't hide from him how much I loved him. 

 We are to be married next spring and Paul says he will take me to Europe. That will be very nice, but nothing matters so long as I am with him. 

 Paul's people are very wealthy and his mother and sisters are very fashionable. I am frightened of them, but I did not tell Paul so because I think it would hurt him and oh, I wouldn't do that for the world. 

 There is nothing I wouldn't suffer if it would do him any good. I never thought any one could feel so. I used to think if I loved anybody I would want him to do everything for me and wait on me as if I were a princess. But that is not the way at all. Love makes you very humble and you want to do everything yourself for the one you love. 

 August 10. 

 Paul went home to-day. Oh, it is so terrible! I don't know how I can bear to live even for a little while without him. But this is silly of me, because I know he has to go and he will write often and come to me often. But, still, it is so lonesome. I didn't cry when he left me because I wanted him to remember me smiling in the way he liked best, but I have been crying ever since and I can't stop, no matter how hard I try. We have had such a beautiful fortnight. Every day seemed dearer and happier than the last, and now it is ended and I feel as if it could never be the same again. Oh, I am very foolish--but I love him so dearly and if I were to lose his love I know I would die. 

 August 17. 

 I think my heart is dead. But no, it can't be, for it aches too much. 

 Paul's mother came here to see me to-day. She was not angry or disagreeable. I wouldn't have been so frightened of her if she had been. As it was, I felt that I couldn't say a word. She is very beautiful and stately and wonderful, with a low, cold voice and proud, dark eyes. Her face is like Paul's but without the loveableness of his. 

 She talked to me for a long time and she said terrible things--terrible, because I knew they were all true. I seemed to see everything through her eyes. She said that Paul was infatuated with my youth and beauty but that it would not last and what else I to give him? She said Paul must marry a woman of his own class, who could do honor to his fame and position. She said that he was very talented and had a great career before him, but that if he married me it would ruin his life. 

 I saw it all, just as she explained it out, and I told her at last that I would not marry Paul, and she might tell him so. But she smiled and said I must tell him myself, because he would not believe any one else. I could have begged her to spare me that, but I knew it would be of no use. I do not think she has any pity or mercy for any one. Besides, what she said was quite true. 

 When she thanked me for being so REASONABLE I told her I was not doing it to please her, but for Paul's sake, because I would not spoil his life, and that I would always hate her. She smiled again and went away. 

 Oh, how can I bear it? I did not know any one could suffer like this!

 August 18. 

 I have done it. I wrote to Paul to-day. I knew I must tell him by letter, because I could never make him believe it face to face. I was afraid I could not even do it by letter. I suppose a clever woman easily could, but I am so stupid. I wrote a great many letters and tore them up, because I felt sure they wouldn't convince Paul. At last I got one that I thought would do. I knew I must make it seems as if I were very frivolous and heartless, or he would never believe. I spelled some words wrong and put in some mistakes of grammar on purpose. I told him I had just been flirting with him, and that I had another fellow at home I liked better. I said FELLOW because I knew it would disgust him. I said that it was only because he was rich that I was tempted to marry him. 

 I thought would my heart would break while I was writing those dreadful falsehoods. But it was for his sake, because I must not spoil his life. His mother told me I would be a millstone around his neck. I love Paul so much that I would do anything rather than be that. It would be easy to die for him, but I don't see how I can go on living. I think my letter will convince Paul. 

I suppose it convinced Paul, because there was no further entryin the little brown book. When we had finished it the tears wererunning down both our faces. 

"Oh, poor, dear Miss Emily, " sobbed Diana. "I'm so sorry I everthought her funny and meddlesome. "

"She was good and strong and brave, " I said. "I could never havebeen as unselfish as she was. "

I thought of Whittier's lines, "The outward, wayward life we see The hidden springs we may not know. "

At the back of the little brown book we found a faded water-colorsketch of a young girl--such a slim, pretty little thing, withbig blue eyes and lovely, long, rippling golden hair. PaulOsborne's name was written in faded ink across the corner. 

We put everything back in the box. Then we sat for a long timeby my window in silence and thought of many things, until therainy twilight came down and blotted out the world. 

IX. SARA'S WAY

The warm June sunshine was coming down through the trees, whitewith the virginal bloom of apple-blossoms, and through theshining panes, making a tremulous mosaic upon Mrs. Eben Andrews'spotless kitchen floor. Through the open door, a wind, fragrantfrom long wanderings over orchards and clover meadows, driftedin, and, from the window, Mrs. Eben and her guest could look downover a long, misty valley sloping to a sparkling sea. 

Mrs. Jonas Andrews was spending the afternoon with hersister-in-law. She was a big, sonsy woman, with full-blown peonycheeks and large, dreamy, brown eyes. When she had been a slim, pink-and-white girl those eyes had been very romantic. Now theywere so out of keeping with the rest of her appearance as to beludicrous. 

Mrs. Eben, sitting at the other end of the small tea-table thatwas drawn up against the window, was a thin little woman, with avery sharp nose and light, faded blue eyes. She looked like awoman whose opinions were always very decided and warranted towear. 

"How does Sara like teaching at Newbridge?" asked Mrs. Jonas, helping herself a second time to Mrs. Eben's matchless blackfruit cake, and thereby bestowing a subtle compliment which Mrs. Eben did not fail to appreciate. 

"Well, I guess she likes it pretty well--better than down atWhite Sands, anyway, " answered Mrs. Eben. "Yes, I may say itsuits her. Of course it's a long walk there and back. I thinkit would have been wiser for her to keep on boarding atMorrison's, as she did all winter, but Sara is bound to be homeall she can. And I must say the walk seems to agree with her. "

"I was down to see Jonas' aunt at Newbridge last night, " saidMrs. Jonas, "and she said she'd heard that Sara had made up hermind to take Lige Baxter at last, and that they were to bemarried in the fall. She asked me if it was true. I said Ididn't know, but I hoped to mercy it was. Now, is it, Louisa?"

"Not a word of it, " said Mrs. Eben sorrowfully. "Sara hasn't anymore notion of taking Lige than ever she had. I'm sure it's notMY fault. I've talked and argued till I'm tired. I declare toyou, Amelia, I am terribly disappointed. I'd set my heart onSara's marrying Lige--and now to think she won't!"

"She is a very foolish girl, " said Mrs. Jonas, judicially. "IfLige Baxter isn't good enough for her, who is?"

"And he's so well off, " said Mrs. Eben, "and does such a goodbusiness, and is well spoken of by every one. And that lovelynew house of his at Newbridge, with bay windows and hardwoodfloors! I've dreamed and dreamed of seeing Sara there asmistress. "

"Maybe you'll see her there yet, " said Mrs. Jonas, who alwaystook a hopeful view of everything, even of Sara's contrariness. But she felt discouraged, too. Well, she had done her best. 

If Lige Baxter's broth was spoiled it was not for lack of cooks. Every Andrews in Avonlea had been trying for two years to bringabout a match between him and Sara, and Mrs. Jonas had borne herpart valiantly. 

Mrs. Eben's despondent reply was cut short by the appearance ofSara herself. The girl stood for a moment in the doorway andlooked with a faintly amused air at her aunts. She knew quitewell that they had been discussing her, for Mrs. Jonas, whocarried her conscience in her face, looked guilty, and Mrs. Ebenhad not been able wholly to banish her aggrieved expression. 

Sara put away her books, kissed Mrs. Jonas' rosy cheek, and satdown at the table. Mrs. Eben brought her some fresh tea, somehot rolls, and a little jelly-pot of the apricot preserves Saraliked, and she cut some more fruit cake for her in moist plummyslices. She might be out of patience with Sara's "contrariness, "but she spoiled and petted her for all that, for the girl was thevery core of her childless heart. 

Sara Andrews was not, strictly speaking, pretty; but there wasthat about her which made people look at her twice. She was verydark, with a rich, dusky sort of darkness, her deep eyes werevelvety brown, and her lips and cheeks were crimson. 

She ate her rolls and preserves with a healthy appetite, sharpened by her long walk from Newbridge, and told amusinglittle stories of her day's work that made the two older womenshake with laughter, and exchange shy glances of pride over hercleverness. 

When tea was over she poured the remaining contents of the creamjug into a saucer. 

"I must feed my pussy, " she said as she left the room. 

"That girl beats me, " said Mrs. Eben with a sigh of perplexity. "You know that black cat we've had for two years? Eben and Ihave always made a lot of him, but Sara seemed to have a disliketo him. Never a peaceful nap under the stove could he have whenSara was home--out he must go. Well, a little spell ago he gothis leg broke accidentally and we thought he'd have to be killed. But Sara wouldn't hear of it. She got splints and set his legjust as knacky, and bandaged it up, and she has tended him like asick baby ever since. He's just about well now, and he lives inclover, that cat does. It's just her way. There's them sickchickens she's been doctoring for a week, giving them pills andthings!

"And she thinks more of that wretched-looking calf that gotpoisoned with paris green than of all the other stock on theplace. "

As the summer wore away, Mrs. Eben tried to reconcile herself tothe destruction of her air castles. But she scolded Saraconsiderably. 

"Sara, why don't you like Lige? I'm sure he is a model youngman. "

"I don't like model young men, " answered Sara impatiently. "AndI really think I hate Lige Baxter. He has always been held up tome as such a paragon. I'm tired of hearing about all hisperfections. I know them all off by heart. He doesn't drink, hedoesn't smoke, he doesn't steal, he doesn't tell fibs, he neverloses his temper, he doesn't swear, and he goes to churchregularly. Such a faultless creature as that would certainly geton my nerves. No, no, you'll have to pick out another mistressfor your new house at the Bridge, Aunt Louisa. "

When the apple trees, that had been pink and white in June, wererusset and bronze in October, Mrs. Eben had a quilting. Thequilt was of the "Rising Star" pattern, which was considered inAvonlea to be very handsome. Mrs. Eben had intended it for partof Sara's "setting out, " and, while she sewed the red-and-whitediamonds together, she had regaled her fancy by imagining she sawit spread out on the spare-room bed of the house at Newbridge, with herself laying her bonnet and shawl on it when she went tosee Sara. Those bright visions had faded with the appleblossoms, and Mrs. Eben hardly had the heart to finish the quiltat all. 

The quilting came off on Saturday afternoon, when Sara could behome from school. All Mrs. Eben's particular friends were rangedaround the quilt, and tongues and fingers flew. Sara flittedabout, helping her aunt with the supper preparations. She was inthe room, getting the custard dishes out of the cupboard, whenMrs. George Pye arrived. 

Mrs. George had a genius for being late. She was later thanusual to-day, and she looked excited. Every woman around the"Rising Star" felt that Mrs. George had some news worth listeningto, and there was an expectant silence while she pulled out herchair and settled herself at the quilt. 

She was a tall, thin woman with a long pale face and liquid greeneyes. As she looked around the circle she had the air of a catdaintily licking its chops over some titbit. 

"I suppose, " she said, "that you have heard the news?"

She knew perfectly well that they had not. Every other woman atthe frame stopped quilting. Mrs. Eben came to the door with apan of puffy, smoking-hot soda biscuits in her hand. Sarastopped counting the custard dishes, and turned herripely-colored face over her shoulder. Even the black cat, ather feet, ceased preening his fur. Mrs. George felt that theundivided attention of her audience was hers. 

"Baxter Brothers have failed, " she said, her green eyes shootingout flashes of light. "Failed DISGRACEFULLY!"

She paused for a moment; but, since her hearers were as yetspeechless from surprise, she went on. 

"George came home from Newbridge, just before I left, with thenews. You could have knocked me down with a feather. I shouldhave thought that firm was as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar!But they're ruined--absolutely ruined. Louisa, dear, can youfind me a good needle?"

"Louisa, dear, " had set her biscuits down with a sharp thud, reckless of results. A sharp, metallic tinkle sounded at thecloset where Sara had struck the edge of her tray against ashelf. The sound seemed to loosen the paralyzed tongues, andeverybody began talking and exclaiming at once. Clear and shrillabove the confusion rose Mrs. George Pye's voice. 

"Yes, indeed, you may well say so. It IS disgraceful. And tothink how everybody trusted them! George will lose considerableby the crash, and so will a good many folks. Everything willhave to go--Peter Baxter's farm and Lige's grand new house. Mrs. Peter won't carry her head so high after this, I'll be bound. George saw Lige at the Bridge, and he said he looked dreadful cutup and ashamed. "

"Who, or what's to blame for the failure?" asked Mrs. RachelLynde sharply. She did not like Mrs. George Pye. 

"There are a dozen different stories on the go, " was the reply. "As far as George could make out, Peter Baxter has beenspeculating with other folks' money, and this is the result. Everybody always suspected that Peter was crooked; but you'd havethought that Lige would have kept him straight. HE had alwayssuch a reputation for saintliness. "

"I don't suppose Lige knew anything about it, " said Mrs. Rachelindignantly. 

"Well, he'd ought to, then. If he isn't a knave he's a fool, "said Mrs. Harmon Andrews, who had formerly been among hiswarmest partisans. "He should have kept watch on Peter and foundout how the business was being run. Well, Sara, you were thelevel-headest of us all--I'll admit that now. A nice mess itwould be if you were married or engaged to Lige, and him leftwithout a cent--even if he can clear his character!"

"There is a good deal of talk about Peter, and swindling, and alawsuit, " said Mrs. George Pye, quilting industriously. "Most ofthe Newbridge folks think it's all Peter's fault, and that Ligeisn't to blame. But you can't tell. I dare say Lige is as deepin the mire as Peter. He was always a little too good to bewholesome, _I_ thought. "

There was a clink of glass at the cupboard, as Sara set the traydown. She came forward and stood behind Mrs. Rachel Lynde'schair, resting her shapely hands on that lady's broad shoulders. Her face was very pale, but her flashing eyes sought and faceddefiantly Mrs. George Pye's cat-like orbs. Her voice quiveredwith passion and contempt. 

"You'll all have a fling at Lige Baxter, now that he's down. Youcouldn't say enough in his praise, once. I'll not stand by andhear it hinted that Lige Baxter is a swindler. You all knowperfectly well that Lige is as honest as the day, if he IS sounfortunate as to have an unprincipled brother. You, Mrs. Pye, know it better than any one, yet you come here and run him downthe minute he's in trouble. If there's another word said hereagainst Lige Baxter I'll leave the room and the house till you'regone, every one of you. "

She flashed a glance around the quilt that cowed the gossips. Even Mrs. George Pye's eyes flickered and waned and quailed. Nothing more was said until Sara had picked up her glasses andmarched from the room. Even then they dared not speak above awhisper. Mrs. Pye, alone, smarting from snub, ventured toejaculate, "Pity save us!" as Sara slammed the door. 

For the next fortnight gossip and rumor held high carnival inAvonlea and Newbridge, and Mrs. Eben grew to dread the sight of avisitor. 

"They're bound to talk about the Baxter failure and criticizeLige, " she deplored to Mrs. Jonas. "And it riles Sara up soterrible. She used to declare that she hated Lige, and now shewon't listen to a word against him. Not that I say any, myself. I'm sorry for him, and I believe he's done his best. But I can'tstop other people from talking. "

One evening Harmon Andrews came in with a fresh budget of news. 

"The Baxter business is pretty near wound up at last, " he said, as he lighted his pipe. "Peter has got his lawsuits settled andhas hushed up the talk about swindling, somehow. Trust him forslipping out of a scrape clean and clever. He don't seem to worryany, but Lige looks like a walking skeleton. Some folks pityhim, but I say he should have kept the run of things better andnot have trusted everything to Peter. I hear he's going out Westin the Spring, to take up land in Alberta and try his hand atfarming. Best thing he can do, I guess. Folks hereabouts havehad enough of the Baxter breed. Newbridge will be well rid ofthem. "

Sara, who had been sitting in the dark corner by the stove, suddenly stood up, letting the black cat slip from her lap to thefloor. Mrs. Eben glanced at her apprehensively, for she wasafraid the girl was going to break out in a tirade against thecomplacent Harmon. 

But Sara only walked fiercely out of the kitchen, with a sound asif she were struggling for breath. In the hall she snatched ascarf from the wall, flung open the front door, and rushed downthe lane in the chill, pure air of the autumn twilight. Herheart was throbbing with the pity she always felt for bruised andbaited creatures. 

On and on she went heedlessly, intent only on walking away herpain, over gray, brooding fields and winding slopes, and alongthe skirts of ruinous, dusky pine woods, curtained with fine spunpurple gloom. Her dress brushed against the brittle grasses andsere ferns, and the moist night wind, loosed from wild places faraway, blew her hair about her face. 

At last she came to a little rustic gate, leading into a shadowywood-lane. The gate was bound with willow withes, and, as Sarafumbled vainly at them with her chilled hands, a man's firm stepcame up behind her, and Lige Baxter's hand closed over her's. 

"Oh, Lige!" she said, with something like a sob. 

He opened the gate and drew her through. She left her hand inhis, as they walked through the lane where lissome boughs ofyoung saplings flicked against their heads, and the air waswildly sweet with the woodsy odors. 

"It's a long while since I've seen you, Lige, " Sara said at last. 

Lige looked wistfully down at her through the gloom. 

"Yes, it seems very long to me, Sara. But I didn't think you'dcare to see me, after what you said last spring. And you knowthings have been going against me. People have said hard things. I've been unfortunate, Sara, and may be too easy-going, but I'vebeen honest. Don't believe folks if they tell you I wasn't. "

"Indeed, I never did--not for a minute!" fired Sara. 

"I'm glad of that. I'm going away, later on. I felt bad enoughwhen you refused to marry me, Sara; but it's well that youdidn't. I'm man enough to be thankful my troubles don't fall onyou. "

Sara stopped and turned to him. Beyond them the lane opened intoa field and a clear lake of crocus sky cast a dim light into theshadow where they stood. Above it was a new moon, like agleaming silver scimitar. Sara saw it was over her leftshoulder, and she saw Lige's face above her, tender and troubled. 

"Lige, " she said softly, "do you love me still?"

"You know I do, " said Lige sadly. 

That was all Sara wanted. With a quick movement she nestled intohis arms, and laid her warm, tear-wet cheek against his cold one. 

When the amazing rumor that Sara was going to marry Lige Baxter, and go out West with him, circulated through the Andrews clan, hands were lifted and heads were shaken. Mrs. Jonas puffed andpanted up the hill to learn if it were true. She found Mrs. Ebenstitching for dear life on an "Irish Chain" quilt, while Sara wassewing the diamonds on another "Rising Star" with a martyr-likeexpression on her face. Sara hated patchwork above everythingelse, but Mrs. Eben was mistress up to a certain point. 

"You'll have to make that quilt, Sara Andrews. If you're goingto live out on those prairies, you'll need piles of quilts, andyou shall have them if I sew my fingers to the bone. But you'llhave to help make them. "

And Sara had to. 

When Mrs. Jonas came, Mrs. Eben sent Sara off to the post-officeto get her out of the way. 

"I suppose it's true, this time?" said Mrs. Jonas. 

"Yes, indeed, " said Mrs. Eben briskly. "Sara is set on it. Thereis no use trying to move her--you know that--so I've justconcluded to make the best of it. I'm no turn-coat. Lige Baxteris Lige Baxter still, neither more nor less. I've always saidhe's a fine young man, and I say so still. After all, he andSara won't be any poorer than Eben and I were when we startedout. "

Mrs. Jonas heaved a sigh of relief. 

"I'm real glad you take that view of it, Louisa. I'm notdispleased, either, although Mrs. Harmon would take my head offif she heard me say so. I always liked Lige. But I must say I'mamazed, too, after the way Sara used to rail at him. "

"Well, we might have expected it, " said Mrs. Eben sagely. "Itwas always Sara's way. When any creature got sick or unfortunateshe seemed to take it right into her heart. So you may say LigeBaxter's failure was a success after all. "

X. THE SON OF HIS MOTHER

Thyra Carewe was waiting for Chester to come home. She sat by thewest window of the kitchen, looking out into the gathering of theshadows with the expectant immovability that characterized her. She never twitched or fidgeted. Into whatever she did she putthe whole force of her nature. If it was sitting still, she satstill. 

"A stone image would be twitchedly beside Thyra, " said Mrs. Cynthia White, her neighbor across the lane. "It gets on mynerves, the way she sits at that window sometimes, with no moremotion than a statue and her great eyes burning down the lane. When I read the commandment, 'Thou shalt have no other godsbefore me, ' I declare I always think of Thyra. She worships thatson of hers far ahead of her Creator. She'll be punished for ityet. "

Mrs. White was watching Thyra now, knitting furiously, as shewatched, in order to lose no time. Thyra's hands were foldedidly in her lap. She had not moved a muscle since she sat down. Mrs. White complained it gave her the weeps. 

"It doesn't seem natural to see a woman sit so still, " she said. "Sometimes the thought comes to me, 'what if she's had a stroke, like her old Uncle Horatio, and is sitting there stone dead!' "

The evening was cold and autumnal. There was a fiery red spotout at sea, where the sun had set, and, above it, over a chill, clear, saffron sky, were reefs of purple-black clouds. Theriver, below the Carewe homestead, was livid. Beyond it, the seawas dark and brooding. It was an evening to make most peopleshiver and forebode an early winter; but Thyra loved it, as sheloved all stern, harshly beautiful things. She would not light alamp because it would blot out the savage grandeur of sea andsky. It was better to wait in the darkness until Chester camehome. 

He was late to-night. She thought he had been detained over-timeat the harbor, but she was not anxious. He would come straighthome to her as soon as his business was completed--of that shefelt sure. Her thoughts went out along the bleak harbor road tomeet him. She could see him plainly, coming with his free stridethrough the sandy hollows and over the windy hills, in the harsh, cold light of that forbidding sunset, strong and handsome in hiscomely youth, with her own deeply cleft chin and his father'sdark gray, straightforward eyes. No other woman in Avonlea had ason like hers--her only one. In his brief absences she yearnedafter him with a maternal passion that had in it something ofphysical pain, so intense was it. She thought of Cynthia White, knitting across the road, with contemptuous pity. That woman hadno son--nothing but pale-faced girls. Thyra had never wanted adaughter, but she pitied and despised all sonless women. 

Chester's dog whined suddenly and piercingly on the doorstepoutside. He was tired of the cold stone and wanted his warmcorner behind the stove. Thyra smiled grimly when she heard him. She had no intention of letting him in. She said she had alwaysdisliked dogs, but the truth, although she would not glance atit, was that she hated the animal because Chester loved him. Shecould not share his love with even a dumb brute. She loved noliving creature in the world but her son, and fiercely demanded alike concentrated affection from him. Hence it pleased her tohear his dog whine. 

It was now quite dark; the stars had begun to shine out over theshorn harvest fields, and Chester had not come. Across the laneCynthia White had pulled down her blind, in despair ofout-watching Thyra, and had lighted a lamp. Lively shadows oflittle girl-shapes passed and repassed on the pale oblong oflight. They made Thyra conscious of her exceeding loneliness. She had just decided that she would walk down the lane and waitfor Chester on the bridge, when a thunderous knock came at theeast kitchen door. 

She recognized August Vorst's knock and lighted a lamp in nogreat haste, for she did not like him. He was a gossip and Thyrahated gossip, in man or woman. But August was privileged. 

She carried the lamp in her hand, when she went to the door, andits upward-striking light gave her face a ghastly appearance. She did not mean to ask August in, but he pushed past hercheerfully, not waiting to be invited. He was a midget of a man, lame of foot and hunched of back, with a white, boyish face, despite his middle age and deep-set, malicious black eyes. 

He pulled a crumpled newspaper from his pocket and handed it toThyra. He was the unofficial mail-carrier of Avonlea. Most ofthe people gave him a trifle for bringing their letters andpapers from the office. He earned small sums in various otherways, and so contrived to keep the life in his stunted body. There was always venom in August's gossip. It was said that hemade more mischief in Avonlea in a day than was made otherwise ina year, but people tolerated him by reason of his infirmity. Tobe sure, it was the tolerance they gave to inferior creatures, and August felt this. Perhaps it accounted for a good deal ofhis malignity. He hated most those who were kindest to him, and, of these, Thyra Carewe above all. He hated Chester, too, as hehated strong, shapely creatures. His time had come at last towound them both, and his exultation shone through his crookedbody and pinched features like an illuminating lamp. Thyraperceived it and vaguely felt something antagonistic in it. Shepointed to the rocking-chair, as she might have pointed out a matto a dog. 

August crawled into it and smiled. He was going to make herwrithe presently, this woman who looked down upon him as somevenomous creeping thing she disdained to crush with her foot. 

"Did you see anything of Chester on the road?" asked Thyra, giving August the very opening he desired. "He went to theharbor after tea to see Joe Raymond about the loan of his boat, but it's the time he should be back. I can't think what keepsthe boy. "

"Just what keeps most men--leaving out creatures like me--at sometime or other in their lives. A girl--a pretty girl, Thyra. Itpleases me to look at her. Even a hunchback can use his eyes, eh? Oh, she's a rare one!"

"What is the man talking about?" said Thyra wonderingly. 

"Damaris Garland, to be sure. Chester's down at Tom Blair's now, talking to her--and looking more than his tongue says, too, ofthat you may be sure. Well, well, we were all young once, Thyra--all young once, even crooked little August Vorst. Eh, now?"

"What do you mean?" said Thyra. 

She had sat down in a chair before him, with her hands folded inher lap. Her face, always pale, had not changed; but her lipswere curiously white. August Vorst saw this and it pleased him. Also, her eyes were worth looking at, if you liked to hurtpeople--and that was the only pleasure August took in life. Hewould drink this delightful cup of revenge for her long years ofdisdainful kindness--ah, he would drink it slowly to prolong itssweetness. Sip by sip--he rubbed his long, thin, white handstogether--sip by sip, tasting each mouthful. 

"Eh, now? You know well enough, Thyra. "

"I know nothing of what you would be at, August Vorst. You speakof my son and Damaris--was that the name?--Damaris Garland as ifthey were something to each other. I ask you what you mean byit?"

"Tut, tut, Thyra, nothing very terrible. There's no need to looklike that about it. Young men will be young men to the end oftime, and there's no harm in Chester's liking to look at a lass, eh, now? Or in talking to her either? The little baggage, withthe red lips of her! She and Chester will make a pretty pair. He's not so ill-looking for a man, Thyra. "

"I am not a very patient woman, August, " said Thyra coldly. "Ihave asked you what you mean, and I want a straight answer. IsChester down at Tom Blair's while I have been sitting here, alone, waiting for him?"

August nodded. He saw that it would not be wise to trifle longerwith Thyra. 

"That he is. I was there before I came here. He and Damariswere sitting in a corner by themselves, and very well-satisfiedthey seemed to be with each other. Tut, tut, Thyra, don't takethe news so. I thought you knew. It's no secret that Chesterhas been going after Damaris ever since she came here. But whatthen? You can't tie him to your apron strings forever, woman. He'll be finding a mate for himself, as he should. Seeing thathe's straight and well-shaped, no doubt Damaris will look withfavor on him. Old Martha Blair declares the girl loves himbetter than her eyes. "

Thyra made a sound like a strangled moan in the middle ofAugust's speech. She heard the rest of it immovably. When itcame to an end she stood and looked down upon him in a way thatsilenced him. 

"You've told the news you came to tell, and gloated over it, andnow get you gone, " she said slowly. 

"Now, Thyra, " he began, but she interrupted him threateningly. 

"Get you gone, I say! And you need not bring my mail here anylonger. I want no more of your misshapen body and lyingtongue!"

August went, but at the door he turned for a parting stab. 

"My tongue is not a lying one, Mrs. Carewe. I've told you thetruth, as all Avonlea knows it. Chester is mad about DamarisGarland. It's no wonder I thought you knew what all thesettlement can see. But you're such a jealous, odd body, Isuppose the boy hid it from you for fear you'd go into a tantrum. As for me, I'll not forget that you've turned me from your doorbecause I chanced to bring you news you'd no fancy for. "

Thyra did not answer him. When the door closed behind him shelocked it and blew out the light. Then she threw herself facedownward on the sofa and burst into wild tears. Her very soulached. She wept as tempestuously and unreasoningly as youthweeps, although she was not young. It seemed as if she wasafraid to stop weeping lest she should go mad thinking. But, after a time, tears failed her, and she began bitterly to goover, word by word, what August Vorst had said. 

That her son should ever cast eyes of love on any girl wassomething Thyra had never thought about. She would not believeit possible that he should love any one but herself, who lovedhim so much. And now the possibility invaded her mind as subtlyand coldly and remorselessly as a sea-fog stealing landward. 

Chester had been born to her at an age when most women areletting their children slip from them into the world, with somenatural tears and heartaches, but content to let them go, afterenjoying their sweetest years. Thyra's late-come motherhood wasall the more intense and passionate because of its very lateness. She had been very ill when her son was born, and had lainhelpless for long weeks, during which other women had tended herbaby for her. She had never been able to forgive them for this. 

Her husband had died before Chester was a year old. She had laidtheir son in his dying arms and received him back again with alast benediction. To Thyra that moment had something of asacrament in it. It was as if the child had been doubly given toher, with a right to him solely that nothing could take away ortranscend. 

Marrying! She had never thought of it in connection with him. He did not come of a marrying race. His father had been sixtywhen he had married her, Thyra Lincoln, likewise well on in life. Few of the Lincolns or Carewes had married young, many not atall. And, to her, Chester was her baby still. He belongedsolely to her. 

And now another woman had dared to look upon him with eyes oflove. Damaris Garland! Thyra now remembered seeing her. Shewas a new-comer in Avonlea, having come to live with her uncleand aunt after the death of her mother. Thyra had met her on thebridge one day a month previously. Yes, a man might think shewas pretty--a low-browed girl, with a wave of reddish-gold hair, and crimson lips blossoming out against the strange, milk-whiteness of her skin. Her eyes, too--Thyra recalled them--hazel in tint, deep, and laughter-brimmed. 

The girl had gone past her with a smile that brought out manydimples. There was a certain insolent quality in her beauty, asif it flaunted itself somewhat too defiantly in the beholder'seye. Thyra had turned and looked after the lithe, youngcreature, wondering who she might be. 

And to-night, while she, his mother, waited for him in darknessand loneliness, he was down at Blair's, talking to this girl! Heloved her; and it was past doubt that she loved him. The thoughtwas more bitter than death to Thyra. That she should dare! Heranger was all against the girl. She had laid a snare to getChester and he, like a fool, was entangled in it, thinking, man-fashion, only of her great eyes and red lips. Thyra thoughtsavagely of Damaris' beauty. 

"She shall not have him, " she said, with slow emphasis. "I willnever give him up to any other woman, and, least of all, to her. She would leave me no place in his heart at all--me, his mother, who almost died to give him life. He belongs to me! Let herlook for the son of some other woman--some woman who has manysons. She shall not have my only one!"

She got up, wrapped a shawl about her head, and went out into thedarkly golden evening. The clouds had cleared away, and the moonwas shining. The air was chill, with a bell-like clearness. Thealders by the river rustled eerily as she walked by them and outupon the bridge. Here she paced up and down, peering withtroubled eyes along the road beyond, or leaning over the rail, looking at the sparkling silver ribbon of moonlight thatgarlanded the waters. Late travelers passed her, and wondered ather presence and mien. Carl White saw her, and told his wifeabout her when he got home. 

"Striding to and fro over the bridge like mad! At first Ithought it was old, crazy May Blair. What do you suppose she wasdoing down there at this hour of the night?"

"Watching for Ches, no doubt, " said Cynthia. "He ain't home yet. Likely he's snug at Blairs'. I do wonder if Thyra suspicionsthat he goes after Damaris. I've never dared to hint it to her. She'd be as liable to fly at me, tooth and claw, as not. "

"Well, she picks out a precious queer night for moon-gazing, "said Carl, who was a jolly soul and took life as he found it. "It's bitter cold--there'll be a hard frost. It's a pity shecan't get it grained into her that the boy is grown up and musthave his fling like the other lads. She'll go out of her mindyet, like her old grandmother Lincoln, if she doesn't ease up. I've a notion to go down to the bridge and reason a bit withher. "

"Indeed, and you'll do no such thing!" cried Cynthia. "ThyraCarewe is best left alone, if she is in a tantrum. She's like noother woman in Avonlea--or out of it. I'd as soon meddle with atiger as her, if she's rampaging about Chester. I don't envyDamaris Garland her life if she goes in there. Thyra'd soonerstrangle her than not, I guess. "

"You women are all terrible hard on Thyra, " said Carl, good-naturedly. He had been in love with Thyra, himself, longago, and he still liked her in a friendly fashion. He alwaysstood up for her when the Avonlea women ran her down. He felttroubled about her all night, recalling her as she paced thebridge. He wished he had gone back, in spite of Cynthia. 

When Chester came home he met his mother on the bridge. In thefaint, yet penetrating, moonlight they looked curiously alike, but Chester had the milder face. He was very handsome. Even inthe seething of her pain and jealousy Thyra yearned over hisbeauty. She would have liked to put up her hands and caress hisface, but her voice was very hard when she asked him where he hadbeen so late. 

"I called in at Tom Blair's on my way home from the harbor, " heanswered, trying to walk on. But she held him back by his arm. 

"Did you go there to see Damaris?" she demanded fiercely. 

Chester was uncomfortable. Much as he loved his mother, he felt, and always had felt, an awe of her and an impatient dislike ofher dramatic ways of speaking and acting. He reflected, resentfully, that no other young man in Avonlea, who had beenpaying a friendly call, would be met by his mother at midnightand held up in such tragic fashion to account for himself. Hetried vainly to loosen her hold upon his arm, but he understoodquite well that he must give her an answer. Being strictlystraight-forward by nature and upbringing, he told the truth, albeit with more anger in his tone than he had ever shown to hismother before. 

"Yes, " he said shortly. 

Thyra released his arm, and struck her hands together with asharp cry. There was a savage note in it. She could have slainDamaris Garland at that moment. 

"Don't go on so, mother, " said Chester, impatiently. "Come inout of the cold. It isn't fit for you to be here. Who has beentampering with you? What if I did go to see Damaris?"

"Oh--oh--oh!" cried Thyra. "I was waiting for you--alone--andyou were thinking only of her! Chester, answer me--do you loveher?"

The blood rolled rapidly over the boy's face. He mutteredsomething and tried to pass on, but she caught him again. Heforced himself to speak gently. 

"What if I do, mother?" It wouldn't be such a dreadful thing, would it?"

"And me? And me?" cried Thyra. "What am I to you, then?"

"You are my mother. I wouldn't love you any the less because Icared for another, too. "

"I won't have you love another, " she cried. "I want all yourlove--all! What's that baby-face to you, compared to yourmother? I have the best right to you. I won't give you up. "

Chester realized that there was no arguing with such a mood. Hewalked on, resolved to set the matter aside until she might bemore reasonable. But Thyra would not have it so. She followedon after him, under the alders that crowded over the lane. 

"Promise me that you'll not go there again, " she entreated. "Promise me that you'll give her up. "

"I can't promise such a thing, " he cried angrily. 

His anger hurt her worse than a blow, but she did not flinch. 

"You're not engaged to her?" she cried out. 

"Now, mother, be quiet. All the settlement will hear you. Whydo you object to Damaris? You don't know how sweet she is. Whenyou know her--"

"I will never know her!" cried Thyra furiously. "And she shallnot have you! She shall not, Chester!"

He made no answer. She suddenly broke into tears and loud sobs. Touched with remorse, he stopped and put his arms about her. 

"Mother, mother, don't! I can't bear to see you cry so. But, indeed, you are unreasonable. Didn't you ever think the timewould come when I would want to marry, like other men?"

"No, no! And I will not have it--I cannot bear it, Chester. Youmust promise not to go to see her again. I won't go into thehouse this night until you do. I'll stay out here in the bittercold until you promise to put her out of your thoughts. "

"That's beyond my power, mother. Oh, mother, you're making ithard for me. Come in, come in! You're shivering with cold now. You'll be sick. "

"Not a step will I stir till you promise. Say you won't go tosee that girl any more, and there's nothing I won't do for you. But if you put her before me, I'll not go in--I never will goin. "

With most women this would have been an empty threat; but it wasnot so with Thyra, and Chester knew it. He knew she would keepher word. And he feared more than that. In this frenzy of herswhat might she not do? She came of a strange breed, as had beensaid disapprovingly when Luke Carewe married her. There was astrain of insanity in the Lincolns. A Lincoln woman had drownedherself once. Chester thought of the river, and grew sick withfright. For a moment even his passion for Damaris weakenedbefore the older tie. 

"Mother, calm yourself. Oh, surely there's no need of all this!Let us wait until to-morrow, and talk it over then. I'll hearall you have to say. Come in, dear. "

Thyra loosened her arms from about him, and stepped back into amoon-lit space. Looking at him tragically, she extended her armsand spoke slowly and solemnly. 

"Chester, choose between us. If you choose her, I shall go fromyou to-night, and you will never see me again!"

"Mother!"

"Choose!" she reiterated, fiercely. 

He felt her long ascendancy. Its influence was not to be shakenoff in a moment. In all his life he had never disobeyed her. Besides, with it all, he loved her more deeply andunderstandingly than most sons love their mothers. He realizedthat, since she would have it so, his choice was alreadymade--or, rather that he had no choice. 

"Have your way, " he said sullenly. 

She ran to him and caught him to her heart. In the reaction ofher feeling she was half laughing, half crying. All was wellagain--all would be well; she never doubted this, for she knew hewould keep his ungracious promise sacredly. 

"Oh, my son, my son, " she murmured, "you'd have sent me to mydeath if you had chosen otherwise. But now you are mine again!"

She did not heed that he was sullen--that he resented herunjustice with all her own intensity. She did not heed hissilence as they went into the house together. Strangely enough, she slept well and soundly that night. Not until many days hadpassed did she understand that, though Chester might keep hispromise in the letter, it was beyond his power to keep it in thespirit. She had taken him from Damaris Garland; but she had notwon him back to herself. He could never be wholly her son again. There was a barrier between them which not all her passionatelove could break down. Chester was gravely kind to her, for itwas not in his nature to remain sullen long, or visit his ownunhappiness upon another's head; besides, he understood herexacting affection, even in its injustice, and it has beenwell-said that to understand is to forgive. But he avoided her, and she knew it. The flame of her anger burned bitterly towardsDamaris. 

"He thinks of her all the time, " she moaned to herself. "He'llcome to hate me yet, I fear, because it's I who made him give herup. But I'd rather even that than share him with another woman. Oh, my son, my son!"

She knew that Damaris was suffering, too. The girl's wan facetold that when she met her. But this pleased Thyra. It easedthe ache in her bitter heart to know that pain was gnawing atDamaris' also. 

Chester was absent from home very often now. He spent much ofhis spare time at the harbor, consorting with Joe Raymond andothers of that ilk, who were but sorry associates for him, Avonlea people thought. 

In late November he and Joe started for a trip down the coast inthe latter's boat. Thyra protested against it, but Chesterlaughed at her alarm. 

Thyra saw him go with a heart sick from fear. She hated the sea, and was afraid of it at any time; but, most of all, in thistreacherous month, with its sudden, wild gales. 

Chester had been fond of the sea from boyhood. She had alwaystried to stifle this fondness and break off his associations withthe harbor fishermen, who liked to lure the high-spirited boy outwith them on fishing expeditions. But her power over him wasgone now. 

After Chester's departure she was restless and miserable, wandering from window to window to scan the dour, unsmiling sky. Carl White, dropping in to pay a call, was alarmed when he heardthat Chester had gone with Joe, and had not tact enough toconceal his alarm from Thyra. 

"'T isn't safe this time of year, " he said. "Folks expect nobetter from that reckless, harum-scarum Joe Raymond. He'll drownhimself some day, there's nothing surer. This mad freak ofstarting off down the shore in November is just of a piece withhis usual performances. But you shouldn't have let Chester go, Thyra. "

"I couldn't prevent him. Say what I could, he would go. Helaughed when I spoke of danger. Oh, he's changed from what hewas! I know who has wrought the change, and I hate her for it!"

Carl shrugged his fat shoulders. He knew quite well that Thyrawas at the bottom of the sudden coldness between Chester Careweand Damaris Garland, about which Avonlea gossip was busyingitself. He pitied Thyra, too. She had aged rapidly the pastmonth. 

"You're too hard on Chester, Thyra. He's out of leading-stringsnow, or should be. You must just let me take an old friend'sprivilege, and tell you that you're taking the wrong way withhim. You're too jealous and exacting, Thyra. "

"You don't know anything about it. You have never had a son, "said Thyra, cruelly enough, for she knew that Carl's sonlessnesswas a rankling thorn in his mind. "You don't know what it is topour out your love on one human being, and have it flung back inyour face!"

Carl could not cope with Thyra's moods. He had never understoodher, even in his youth. Now he went home, still shrugging hisshoulders, and thinking that it was a good thing Thyra had notlooked on him with favor in the old days. Cynthia was mucheasier to get along with. 

More than Thyra looked anxiously to sea and sky that night inAvonlea. Damaris Garland listened to the smothered roar of theAtlantic in the murky northeast with a prescience of comingdisaster. Friendly longshoremen shook their heads and said thatChes and Joe would better have kept to good, dry land. 

"It's sorry work joking with a November gale, " said Abel Blair. He was an old man and, in his life, had seen some sad thingsalong the shore. 

Thyra could not sleep that night. When the gale came shriekingup the river, and struck the house, she got out of bed anddressed herself. The wind screamed like a ravening beast at herwindow. All night she wandered to and fro in the house, goingfrom room to room, now wringing her hands with loud outcries, nowpraying below her breath with white lips, now listening in dumbmisery to the fury of the storm. 

The wind raged all the next day; but spent itself in thefollowing night, and the second morning was calm and fair. Theeastern sky was a great arc of crystal, smitten through withauroral crimsonings. Thyra, looking from her kitchen window, sawa group of men on the bridge. They were talking to Carl White, with looks and gestures directed towards the Carewe house. 

She went out and down to them. None of these who saw her white, rigid face that day ever forgot the sight. 

"You have news for me, " she said. 

They looked at each other, each man mutely imploring his neighborto speak. 

"You need not fear to tell me, " said Thyra calmly. "I know whatyou have come to say. My son is drowned. "

"We don't know THAT, Mrs. Carewe, " said Abel Blair quickly. "Wehaven't got the worst to tell you--there's hope yet. But JoeRaymond's boat was found last night, stranded bottom up, on theBlue Point sand shore, forty miles down the coast. "

"Don't look like that, Thyra, " said Carl White pityingly. "Theymay have escaped--they may have been picked up. "

Thyra looked at him with dull eyes. 

"You know they have not. Not one of you has any hope. I have noson. The sea has taken him from me--my bonny baby!"

She turned and went back to her desolate home. None dared tofollow her. Carl White went home and sent his wife over to her. 

Cynthia found Thyra sitting in her accustomed chair. Her handslay, palms upward, on her lap. Her eyes were dry and burning. She met Cynthia's compassionate look with a fearful smile. 

"Long ago, Cynthia White, " she said slowly, "you were vexed withme one day, and you told me that God would punish me yet, becauseI made an idol of my son, and set it up in His place. Do youremember? Your word was a true one. God saw that I lovedChester too much, and He meant to take him from me. I thwartedone way when I made him give up Damaris. But one can't fightagainst the Almighty. It was decreed that I must lose him--ifnot in one way, then in another. He has been taken from meutterly. I shall not even have his grave to tend, Cynthia. "

"As near to a mad woman as anything you ever saw, with her awfuleyes, " Cynthia told Carl, afterwards. But she did not say sothere. Although she was a shallow, commonplace soul, she had hershare of womanly sympathy, and her own life had not been freefrom suffering. It taught her the right thing to do now. Shesat down by the stricken creature and put her arms about her, while she gathered the cold hands in her own warm clasp. Thetears filled her big, blue eyes and her voice trembled as shesaid:

"Thyra, I'm sorry for you. I--I--lost a child once--my littlefirst-born. And Chester was a dear, good lad. "

For a moment Thyra strained her small, tense body away fromCynthia's embrace. Then she shuddered and cried out. The tearscame, and she wept her agony out on the other woman's breast. 

As the ill news spread, other Avonlea women kept dropping in allthrough the day to condole with Thyra. Many of them came in realsympathy, but some out of mere curiosity to see how she took it. Thyra knew this, but she did not resent it, as she would oncehave done. She listened very quietly to all the halting effortsat consolation, and the little platitudes with which they stroveto cover the nakedness of bereavement. 

When darkness came Cynthia said she must go home, but would sendone of her girls over for the night. 

"You won't feel like staying alone, " she said. 

Thyra looked up steadily. 

"No. But I want you to send for Damaris Garland. "

"Damaris Garland!" Cynthia repeated the name as if disbelievingher own ears. There was never any knowing what whim Thyra mighttake, but Cynthia had not expected this. 

"Yes. Tell her I want her--tell her she must come. She musthate me bitterly; but I am punished enough to satisfy even herhate. Tell her to come to me for Chester's sake. "

Cynthia did as she was bid, she sent her daughter, Jeanette, forDamaris. Then she waited. No matter what duties were callingfor her at home she must see the interview between Thyra andDamaris. Her curiosity would be the last thing to fail CynthiaWhite. She had done very well all day; but it would be askingtoo much of her to expect that she would consider the meeting ofthese two women sacred from her eyes. 

She half believed that Damaris would refuse to come. But Damariscame. Jeanette brought her in amid the fiery glow of a Novembersunset. Thyra stood up, and for a moment they looked at eachother. 

The insolence of Damaris' beauty was gone. Her eyes were dulland heavy with weeping, her lips were pale, and her face had lostits laughter and dimples. Only her hair, escaping from the shawlshe had cast around it, gushed forth in warm splendor in thesunset light, and framed her wan face like the aureole of aMadonna. Thyra looked upon her with a shock of remorse. Thiswas not the radiant creature she had met on the bridge thatsummer afternoon. This--this--was HER work. She held out herarms. 

"Oh, Damaris, forgive me. We both loved him--that must be a bondbetween us for life. "

Damaris came forward and threw her arms about the older woman, lifting her face. As their lips met even Cynthia White realizedthat she had no business there. She vented the irritation of herembarrassment on the innocent Jeanette. 

"Come away, " she whispered crossly. "Can't you see we're notwanted here?"

She drew Jeanette out, leaving Thyra rocking Damaris in her arms, and crooning over her like a mother over her child. 

When December had grown old Damaris was still with Thyra. It wasunderstood that she was to remain there for the winter, at least. Thyra could not bear her to be out of her sight. They talkedconstantly about Chester; Thyra confessed all her anger andhatred. Damaris had forgiven her; but Thyra could never forgiveherself. She was greatly changed, and had grown very gentle andtender. She even sent for August Vorst and begged him to pardonher for the way she had spoken to him. 

Winter came late that year, and the season was a very open one. There was no snow on the ground and, a month after Joe Raymond'sboat had been cast up on the Blue Point sand shore, Thyra, wandering about in her garden, found some pansies blooming undertheir tangled leaves. She was picking them for Damaris when sheheard a buggy rumble over the bridge and drive up the White lane, hidden from her sight by the alders and firs. A few minuteslater Carl and Cynthia came hastily across their yard under thehuge balm-of-gileads. Carl's face was flushed, and his big bodyquivered with excitement. Cynthia ran behind him, with tearsrolling down her face. 

Thyra felt herself growing sick with fear. Had anything happenedto Damaris? A glimpse of the girl, sewing by an upper window ofthe house, reassured her. 

"Oh, Thyra, Thyra!" gasped Cynthia. 

"Can you stand some good news, Thyra?" asked Carl, in a tremblingvoice. "Very, very good news!"

Thyra looked wildly from one to the other. 

"There's but one thing you would dare to call good news to me, "she cried. "Is it about--about--"

"Chester! Yes, it's about Chester! Thyra, he is alive--he'ssafe--he and Joe, both of them, thank God! Cynthia, catch her!"

"No, I am not going to faint, " said Thyra, steadying herself byCynthia's shoulder. "My son alive! How did you hear? How didit happen? Where has he been?"

"I heard it down at the harbor, Thyra. Mike McCready's vessel, the _Nora Lee_, was just in from the Magdalens. Ches and Joe gotcapsized the night of the storm, but they hung on to their boatsomehow, and at daybreak they were picked up by the _Nora Lee_, bound for Quebec. But she was damaged by the storm and blownclear out of her course. Had to put into the Magdalens forrepairs, and has been there ever since. The cable to the islandswas out of order, and no vessels call there this time of year formails. If it hadn't been an extra open season the _Nora Lee_wouldn't have got away, but would have had to stay there tillspring. You never saw such rejoicing as there was this morningat the harbor, when the _Nora Lee_ came in, flying flags at themast head. "

"And Chester--where is he?" demanded Thyra. 

Carl and Cynthia looked at each other. 

"Well, Thyra, " said the latter, "the fact is, he's over there inour yard this blessed minute. Carl brought him home from theharbor, but I wouldn't let him come over until we had preparedyou for it. He's waiting for you there. "

Thyra made a quick step in the direction of the gate. Then sheturned, with a little of the glow dying out of her face. 

"No, there's one has a better right to go to him first. I canatone to him--thank God, I can atone to him!"

She went into the house and called Damaris. As the girl camedown the stairs Thyra held out her hands with a wonderful lightof joy and renunciation on her face. 

"Damaris, " she said, "Chester has come back to us--the sea hasgiven him back to us. He is over at Carl White's house. Go tohim, my daughter, and bring him to me!"

XI. THE EDUCATION OF BETTY

When Sara Currie married Jack Churchill I was broken-hearted... Orbelieved myself to be so, which, in a boy of twenty-two, amountsto pretty much the same thing. Not that I took the world into myconfidence; that was never the Douglas way, and I held myself inhonor bound to live up to the family traditions. I thought, then, that nobody but Sara knew; but I dare say, now, that Jackknew it also, for I don't think Sara could have helped tellinghim. If he did know, however, he did not let me see that he did, and never insulted me by any implied sympathy; on the contrary, he asked me to be his best man. Jack was always a thoroughbred. 

I was best man. Jack and I had always been bosom friends, and, although I had lost my sweetheart, I did not intend to lose myfriend into the bargain. Sara had made a wise choice, for Jackwas twice the man I was; he had had to work for his living, whichperhaps accounts for it. 

So I danced at Sara's wedding as if my heart were as light as myheels; but, after she and Jack had settled down at Glenby Iclosed The Maples and went abroad... Being, as I have hinted, oneof those unfortunate mortals who need consult nothing but theirown whims in the matter of time and money. I stayed away for tenyears, during which The Maples was given over to moths and rust, while I enjoyed life elsewhere. I did enjoy it hugely, butalways under protest, for I felt that a broken-hearted man oughtnot to enjoy himself as I did. It jarred on my sense of fitness, and I tried to moderate my zest, and think more of the past thanI did. It was no use; the present insisted on being intrusiveand pleasant; as for the future... Well, there was no future. 

Then Jack Churchill, poor fellow, died. A year after his death, I went home and again asked Sara to marry me, as in duty bound. Sara again declined, alleging that her heart was buried in Jack'sgrave, or words to that effect. I found that it did not muchmatter... Of course, at thirty-two one does not take these thingsto heart as at twenty-two. I had enough to occupy me in gettingThe Maples into working order, and beginning to educate Betty. 

Betty was Sara's ten year-old daughter, and she had beenthoroughly spoiled. That is to say, she had been allowed her ownway in everything and, having inherited her father's outdoortastes, had simply run wild. She was a thorough tomboy, a thin, scrawny little thing with a trace of Sara's beauty. Betty tookafter her father's dark, tall race and, on the occasion of myfirst introduction to her, seemed to be all legs and neck. Therewere points about her, though, which I considered promising. Shehad fine, almond-shaped, hazel eyes, the smallest and mostshapely hands and feet I ever saw, and two enormous braids ofthick, nut-brown hair. 

For Jack's sake I decided to bring his daughter up properly. Sara couldn't do it, and didn't try. I saw that, if somebodydidn't take Betty in hand, wisely and firmly, she would certainlybe ruined. There seemed to be nobody except myself at allinterested in the matter, so I determined to see what an oldbachelor could do as regards bringing up a girl in the way sheshould go. I might have been her father; as it was, her fatherhad been my best friend. Who had a better right to watch overhis daughter? I determined to be a father to Betty, and do allfor her that the most devoted parent could do. It was, self-evidently, my duty. 

I told Sara I was going to take Betty in hand. Sara sighed oneof the plaintive little sighs which I had once thought socharming, but now, to my surprise, found faintly irritating, andsaid that she would be very much obliged if I would. 

"I feel that I am not able to cope with the problem of Betty'seducation, Stephen, " she admitted, "Betty is a strangechild... All Churchill. Her poor father indulged her ineverything, and she has a will of her own, I assure you. I havereally no control over her, whatever. She does as she pleases, and is ruining her complexion by running and galloping out ofdoors the whole time. Not that she had much complexion to startwith. The Churchills never had, you know. "... Sara cast acomplacent glance at her delicately tinted reflection in themirror.... "I tried to make Betty wear a sunbonnet this summer, but I might as well have talked to the wind. "

A vision of Betty in a sunbonnet presented itself to my mind, andafforded me so much amusement that I was grateful to Sara forhaving furnished it. I rewarded her with a compliment. 

"It is to be regretted that Betty has not inherited her mother'scharming color, " I said, "but we must do the best we can for herunder her limitations. She may have improved vastly by the timeshe has grown up. And, at least, we must make a lady of her; sheis a most alarming tomboy at present, but there is good materialto work upon... There must be, in the Churchill and Currieblend. But even the best material may be spoiled by unwisehandling. I think I can promise you that I will not spoil it. Ifeel that Betty is my vocation; and I shall set myself up as arival of Wordsworth's 'nature, ' of whose methods I have alwayshad a decided distrust, in spite of his insidious verses. "

Sara did not understand me in the least; but, then, she did notpretend to. 

"I confide Betty's education entirely to you, Stephen, " she said, with another plaintive sigh. "I feel sure I could not put itinto better hands. You have always been a person who could bethoroughly depended on. "

Well, that was something by way of reward for a life-longdevotion. I felt that I was satisfied with my position asunofficial advisor-in-chief to Sara and self-appointed guardianof Betty. I also felt that, for the furtherance of the cause Ihad taken to heart, it was a good thing that Sara had againrefused to marry me. I had a sixth sense which informed me thata staid old family friend might succeed with Betty where astepfather would have signally failed. Betty's loyalty to herfather's memory was passionate, and vehement; she would view hissupplanter with resentment and distrust; but his old familiarcomrade was a person to be taken to her heart. 

Fortunately for the success of my enterprise, Betty liked me. She told me this with the same engaging candor she would haveused in informing me that she hated me, if she had happened totake a bias in that direction, saying frankly:

"You are one of the very nicest old folks I know, Stephen. Yes, you are a ripping good fellow!"

This made my task a comparatively easy one; I sometimes shudderto think what it might have been if Betty had not thought I was a"ripping good fellow. " I should have stuck to it, because thatis my way; but Betty would have made my life a misery to me. Shehad startling capacities for tormenting people when she chose toexert them; I certainly should not have liked to be numberedamong Betty's foes. 

I rode over to Glenby the next morning after my paternalinterview with Sara, intending to have a frank talk with Bettyand lay the foundations of a good understanding on both sides. Betty was a sharp child, with a disconcerting knack of seeingstraight through grindstones; she would certainly perceive andprobably resent any underhanded management. I thought it best totell her plainly that I was going to look after her. 

When, however, I encountered Betty, tearing madly down the beechavenue with a couple of dogs, her loosened hair streaming behindher like a banner of independence, and had lifted her, hatlessand breathless, up before me on my mare, I found that Sara hadsaved me the trouble of an explanation. 

"Mother says you are going to take charge of my education, Stephen, " said Betty, as soon as she could speak. "I'm glad, because I think that, for an old person, you have a good deal ofsense. I suppose my education has to be seen to, some time orother, and I'd rather you'd do it than anybody else I know. "

"Thank you, Betty, " I said gravely. "I hope I shall deserve yourgood opinion of my sense. I shall expect you to do as I tellyou, and be guided by my advice in everything. "

"Yes, I will, " said Betty, "because I'm sure you won't tell me todo anything I'd really hate to do. You won't shut me up in aroom and make me sew, will you? Because I won't do it. "

I assured her I would not. 

"Nor send me to a boarding-school, " pursued Betty. "Mother'salways threatening to send me to one. I suppose she would havedone it before this, only she knew I'd run away. You won't sendme to a boarding-school, will you, Stephen? Because I won't go. "

"No, " I said obligingly. "I won't. I should never dream ofcooping a wild little thing, like you, up in a boarding-school. You'd fret your heart out like a caged skylark. "

"I know you and I are going to get along together splendidly, Stephen, " said Betty, rubbing her brown cheek chummily against myshoulder. "You are so good at understanding. Very few peopleare. Even dad darling didn't understand. He let me do just as Iwanted to, just because I wanted to, not because he reallyunderstood that I couldn't be tame and play with dolls. I hatedolls! Real live babies are jolly; but dogs and horses are everso much nicer than dolls. "

"But you must have lessons, Betty. I shall select your teachersand superintend your studies, and I shall expect you to do mecredit along that line, as well as along all others. "

"I'll try, honest and true, Stephen, " declared Betty. And shekept her word. 

At first I looked upon Betty's education as a duty; in a veryshort time it had become a pleasure... The deepest and mostabiding interest of my life. As I had premised, Betty was goodmaterial, and responded to my training with gratifyingplasticity. Day by day, week by week, month by month, hercharacter and temperament unfolded naturally under my watchfuleye. It was like beholding the gradual development of some rareflower in one's garden. A little checking and pruning here, acareful training of shoot and tendril there, and, lo, the rewardof grace and symmetry!

Betty grew up as I would have wished Jack Churchill's girl togrow--spirited and proud, with the fine spirit and gracious prideof pure womanhood, loyal and loving, with the loyalty and love ofa frank and unspoiled nature; true to her heart's core, hatingfalsehood and sham--as crystal-clear a mirror of maidenhood asever man looked into and saw himself reflected back in such ahalo as made him ashamed of not being more worthy of it. Bettywas kind enough to say that I had taught her everything she knew. But what had she not taught me? If there were a debt between us, it was on my side. 

Sara was fairly well satisfied. It was not my fault that Bettywas not better looking, she said. I had certainly doneeverything for her mind and character that could be done. Sara'smanner implied that these unimportant details did not count formuch, balanced against the lack of a pink-and-white skin anddimpled elbows; but she was generous enough not to blame me. 

"When Betty is twenty-five, " I said patiently--I had grown usedto speaking patiently to Sara--"she will be a magnificent woman--far handsomer than you ever were, Sara, in your pinkest andwhitest prime. Where are your eyes, my dear lady, that you can'tsee the promise of loveliness in Betty?"

"Betty is seventeen, and she is as lanky and brown as ever shewas, " sighed Sara. "When I was seventeen I was the belle of thecounty and had had five proposals. I don't believe the thoughtof a lover has ever entered Betty's head. "

"I hope not, " I said shortly. Somehow, I did not like thesuggestion. "Betty is a child yet. For pity's sake, Sara, don'tgo putting nonsensical ideas into her head. "

"I'm afraid I can't, " mourned Sara, as if it were something to beregretted. "You have filled it too full of books and things likethat. I've every confidence in your judgment, Stephen--andreally you've done wonders with Betty. But don't you thinkyou've made her rather too clever? Men don't like women who aretoo clever. Her poor father, now--he always said that a womanwho liked books better than beaux was an unnatural creature. "

I didn't believe Jack had ever said anything so foolish. Saraimagined things. But I resented the aspersion ofblue-stockingness cast on Betty. 

"When the time comes for Betty to be interested in beaux, " I saidseverely, "she will probably give them all due attention. Justat present her head is a great deal better filled with books thanwith silly premature fancies and sentimentalities. I'm acritical old fellow--but I'm satisfied with Betty, Sara--perfectly satisfied. "

Sara sighed. 

"Oh, I dare say she is all right, Stephen. And I'm reallygrateful to you. I'm sure I could have done nothing at all withher. It's not your fault, of course, --but I can't help wishingshe were a little more like other girls. "

I galloped away from Glenby in a rage. What a blessing Sara hadnot married me in my absurd youth! She would have driven me wildwith her sighs and her obtuseness and her everlastingpink-and-whiteness. But there--there--there--gently! She was asweet, good-hearted little woman; she had made Jack happy; andshe had contrived, heaven only knew how, to bring a rare creaturelike Betty into the world. For that, much might be forgiven her. By the time I reached The Maples and had flung myself down in anold, kinky, comfortable chair in my library I had forgiven herand was even paying her the compliment of thinking seriously overwhat she had said. 

Was Betty really unlike other girls? That is to say, unlike themin any respect wherein she should resemble them? I did not wishthis; although I was a crusty old bachelor I approved of girls, holding them the sweetest things the good God has made. I wantedBetty to have her full complement of girlhood in all its best andhighest manifestation. Was there anything lacking?

I observed Betty very closely during the next week or so, ridingover to Glenby every day and riding back at night, meditatingupon my observations. Eventually I concluded to do what I hadnever thought myself in the least likely to do. I would sendBetty to a boarding-school for a year. It was necessary that sheshould learn how to live with other girls. 

I went over to Glenby the next day and found Betty under thebeeches on the lawn, just back from a canter. She was sitting onthe dappled mare I had given her on her last birthday, and waslaughing at the antics of her rejoicing dogs around her. Ilooked at her with much pleasure; it gladdened me to see howmuch, nay, how totally a child she still was, despite herChurchill height. Her hair, under her velvet cap, still hungover her shoulders in the same thick plaits; her face had thefirm leanness of early youth, but its curves were very fine anddelicate. The brown skin, that worried Sara so, was flushedthrough with dusky color from her gallop; her long, dark eyeswere filled with the beautiful unconsciousness of childhood. More than all, the soul in her was still the soul of a child. Ifound myself wishing that it could always remain so. But I knewit could not; the woman must blossom out some day; it was my dutyto see that the flower fulfilled the promise of the bud. 

When I told Betty that she must go away to a school for a year, she shrugged, frowned and consented. Betty had learned that shemust consent to what I decreed, even when my decrees were opposedto her likings, as she had once fondly believed they never wouldbe. But Betty had acquired confidence in me to the beautifulextent of acquiescing in everything I commanded. 

"I'll go, of course, since you wish it, Stephen, " she said. "Butwhy do you want me to go? You must have a reason--you alwayshave a reason for anything you do. What is it?"

"That is for you to find out, Betty, " I said. "By the time youcome back you will have discovered it, I think. If not, it willnot have proved itself a good reason and shall be forgotten. "

When Betty went away I bade her good-by without burdening herwith any useless words of advice. 

"Write to me every week, and remember that you are BettyChurchill, " I said. 

Betty was standing on the steps above, among her dogs. She camedown a step and put her arms about my neck. 

"I'll remember that you are my friend and that I must live up toyou, " she said. "Good-by, Stephen. "

She kissed me two or three times--good, hearty smacks! did I notsay she was still a child?--and stood waving her hand to me as Irode away. I looked back at the end of the avenue and saw herstanding there, short-skirted and hatless, fronting the loweringsun with those fearless eyes of hers. So I looked my last on thechild Betty. 

That was a lonely year. My occupation was gone and I began tofear that I had outlived my usefulness. Life seemed flat, stale, and unprofitable. Betty's weekly letters were all that lent itany savor. They were spicy and piquant enough. Betty wasdiscovered to have unsuspected talents in the epistolary line. At first she was dolefully homesick, and begged me to let hercome home. When I refused--it was amazingly hard to refuse--shesulked through three letters, then cheered up and began to enjoyherself. But it was nearly the end of the year when she wrote:

"I've found out why you sent me here, Stephen--and I'm glad youdid. "

I had to be away from home on unavoidable business the day Bettyreturned to Glenby. But the next afternoon I went over. I foundBetty out and Sara in. The latter was beaming. Betty was somuch improved, she declared delightedly. I would hardly know"the dear child. "

This alarmed me terribly. What on earth had they done to Betty?I found that she had gone up to the pineland for a walk, andthither I betook myself speedily. When I saw her coming down along, golden-brown alley I stepped behind a tree to watch her--Iwished to see her, myself unseen. As she drew near I gazed ather with pride, and admiration and amazement--and, under it all, a strange, dreadful, heart-sinking, which I could not understandand which I had never in all my life experienced before--no, noteven when Sara had refused me. 

Betty was a woman! Not by virtue of the simple white dress thatclung to her tall, slender figure, revealing lines of exquisitegrace and litheness; not by virtue of the glossy masses of darkbrown hair heaped high on her head and held there in wonderfulshining coils; not by virtue of added softness of curve anddaintiness of outline; not because of all these, but because ofthe dream and wonder and seeking in her eyes. She was a woman, looking, all unconscious of her quest, for love. 

The understanding of the change in her came home to me with ashock that must have left me, I think, something white about thelips. I was glad. She was what I had wished her to become. ButI wanted the child Betty back; this womanly Betty seemed far awayfrom me. 

I stepped out into the path and she saw me, with a brightening ofher whole face. She did not rush forward and fling herself intomy arms as she would have done a year ago; but she came towardsme swiftly, holding out her hand. I had thought her slightlypale when I had first seen her; but now I concluded I had beenmistaken, for there was a wonderful sunrise of color in her face. I took her hand--there were no kisses this time. 

"Welcome home, Betty, " I said. 

"Oh, Stephen, it is so good to be back, " she breathed, her eyesshining. 

She did not say it was good to see me again, as I had hoped shewould do. Indeed, after the first minute of greeting, she seemeda trifle cool and distant. We walked for an hour in the pinewood and talked. Betty was brilliant, witty, self-possessed, altogether charming. I thought her perfect and yet my heartached. What a glorious young thing she was, in that splendidyouth of hers! What a prize for some lucky man--confound theobtrusive thought! No doubt we should soon be overrun at Glenbywith lovers. I should stumble over some forlorn youth at everystep! Well, what of it? Betty would marry, of course. It wouldbe my duty to see that she got a good husband, worthy of her asmen go. I thought I preferred the old duty of superintending herstudies. But there, it was all the same thing--merely apost-graduate course in applied knowledge. When she began tolearn life's greatest lesson of love, I, the tried and true oldfamily friend and mentor, must be on hand to see that the teacherwas what I would have him be, even as I had formerly selected herinstructor in French and botany. Then, and not until then, wouldBetty's education be complete. 

I rode home very soberly. When I reached The Maples I did what Ihad not done for years... Looked critically at myself in themirror. The realization that I had grown older came home to mewith a new and unpleasant force. There were marked lines on mylean face, and silver glints in the dark hair over my temples. When Betty was ten she had thought me "an old person. " Now, ateighteen, she probably thought me a veritable ancient of days. Pshaw, what did it matter? And yet... I thought of her as I hadseen her, standing under the pines, and something cold andpainful laid its hand on my heart. 

My premonitions as to lovers proved correct. Glenby was sooninfested with them. Heaven knows where they all came from. Ihad not supposed there was a quarter as many young men in thewhole county; but there they were. Sara was in the seventhheaven of delight. Was not Betty at last a belle? As for theproposals... Well, Betty never counted her scalps in public; butevery once in a while a visiting youth dropped out and was seenno more at Glenby. One could guess what that meant. 

Betty apparently enjoyed all this. I grieve to say that she wasa bit of a coquette. I tried to cure her of this serious defect, but for once I found that I had undertaken something I could notaccomplish. In vain I lectured, Betty only laughed; in vain Igravely rebuked, Betty only flirted more vivaciously than before. Men might come and men might go, but Betty went on forever. Iendured this sort of thing for a year and then I decided that itwas time to interfere seriously. I must find a husband forBetty... My fatherly duty would not be fulfilled until Ihad... Nor, indeed, my duty to society. She was not a safe personto have running at large. 

None of the men who haunted Glenby was good enough for her. Idecided that my nephew, Frank, would do very well. He was acapital young fellow, handsome, clean-souled, and whole-hearted. From a worldly point of view he was what Sara would have termedan excellent match; he had money, social standing and a risingreputation as a clever young lawyer. Yes, he should have Betty, confound him!

They had never met. I set the wheels going at once. The soonerall the fuss was over the better. I hated fuss and there wasbound to be a good deal of it. But I went about the businesslike an accomplished matchmaker. I invited Frank to visit TheMaples and, before he came, I talked much... But not too much... Ofhim to Betty, mingling judicious praise and still more judiciousblame together. Women never like a paragon. Betty heard me withmore gravity than she usually accorded to my dissertations onyoung men. She even condescended to ask several questions abouthim. This I thought a good sign. 

To Frank I had said not a word about Betty; when he came to TheMaples I took him over to Glenby and, coming upon Betty wanderingabout among the beeches in the sunset, I introduced him withoutany warning. 

He would have been more than mortal if he had not fallen in lovewith her upon the spot. It was not in the heart of man to resisther... That dainty, alluring bit of womanhood. She was all inwhite, with flowers in her hair, and, for a moment, I could havemurdered Frank or any other man who dared to commit the sacrilegeof loving her. 

Then I pulled myself together and left them alone. I might havegone in and talked to Sara... Two old folks gently reviewingtheir youth while the young folks courted outside... But I didnot. I prowled about the pine wood, and tried to forget howblithe and handsome that curly-headed boy, Frank, was, and what aflash had sprung into his eyes when he had seen Betty. Well, what of it? Was not that what I had brought him there for? Andwas I not pleased at the success of my scheme? Certainly I was!Delighted!

Next day Frank went to Glenby without even making the poorpretense of asking me to accompany him. I spent the time of hisabsence overseeing the construction of a new greenhouse I washaving built. I was conscientious in my supervision; but I feltno interest in it. The place was intended for roses, and rosesmade me think of the pale yellow ones Betty had worn at herbreast one evening the week before, when, all lovers beingunaccountably absent, we had wandered together under the pinesand talked as in the old days before her young womanhood and mygray hairs had risen up to divide us. She had dropped a rose onthe brown floor, and I had sneaked back, after I had left her thehouse, to get it, before I went home. I had it now in mypocket-book. Confound it, mightn't a future uncle cherish afamily affection for his prospective niece?

Frank's wooing seemed to prosper. The other young sparks, whohad haunted Glenby, faded away after his advent. Betty treatedhim with most encouraging sweetness; Sara smiled on him; I stoodin the background, like a benevolent god of the machine, andflattered myself that I pulled the strings. 

At the end of a month something went wrong. Frank came home fromGlenby one day in the dumps, and moped for two whole days. Irode down myself on the third. I had not gone much to Glenbythat month; but, if there were trouble Bettyward, it was my dutyto make smooth the rough places. 

As usual, I found Betty in the pineland. I thought she lookedrather pale and dull... Fretting about Frank no doubt. Shebrightened up when she saw me, evidently expecting that I hadcome to straighten matters out; but she pretended to be haughtyand indifferent. 

"I am glad you haven't forgotten us altogether, Stephen, " shesaid coolly. "You haven't been down for a week. "

"I'm flattered that you noticed it, " I said, sitting down on afallen tree and looking up at her as she stood, tall and lithe, against an old pine, with her eyes averted. "I shouldn't havesupposed you'd want an old fogy like myself poking about andspoiling the idyllic moments of love's young dream. "

"Why do you always speak of yourself as old?" said Betty, crossly, ignoring my reference to Frank. 

"Because I am old, my dear. Witness these gray hairs. "

I pushed up my hat to show them the more recklessly. 

Betty barely glanced at them. 

"You have just enough to give you a distinguished look, " shesaid, "and you are only forty. A man is in his prime at forty. He never has any sense until he is forty--and sometimes hedoesn't seem to have any even then, " she concluded impertinently. 

My heart beat. Did Betty suspect? Was that last sentence meantto inform me that she was aware of my secret folly, and laughedat it?

"I came over to see what has gone wrong between you and Frank, " Isaid gravely. 

Betty bit her lips. 

"Nothing, " she said. 

"Betty, " I said reproachfully, "I brought you up... Or endeavoredto bring you up... To speak the truth, the whole truth, andnothing but the truth. Don't tell me I have failed. I'll giveyou another chance. Have you quarreled with Frank?"

"No, " said the maddening Betty, "HE quarreled with me. He wentaway in a temper and I do not care if he never comes back!"

I shook my head. 

"This won't do, Betty. As your old family friend I still claimthe right to scold you until you have a husband to do thescolding. You mustn't torment Frank. He is too fine a fellow. You must marry him, Betty. "

"Must I?" said Betty, a dusky red flaming out on her cheek. Sheturned her eyes on me in a most disconcerting fashion. "Do YOUwish me to marry Frank, Stephen?"

Betty had a wretched habit of emphasizing pronouns in a fashioncalculated to rattle anybody. 

"Yes, I do wish it, because I think it will be best for you, " Ireplied, without looking at her. "You must marry some time, Betty, and Frank is the only man I know to whom I could trustyou. As your guardian, I have an interest in seeing you well andwisely settled for life. You have always taken my advice andobeyed my wishes; and you've always found my way the best, inthe long run, haven't you, Betty? You won't prove rebelliousnow, I'm sure. You know quite well that I am advising you foryour own good. Frank is a splendid young fellow, who loves youwith all his heart. Marry him, Betty. Mind, I don't COMMAND. Ihave no right to do that, and you are too old to be orderedabout, if I had. But I wish and advise it. Isn't that enough, Betty?"

I had been looking away from her all the time I was talking, gazing determinedly down a sunlit vista of pines. Every word Isaid seemed to tear my heart, and come from my lips stained withlife-blood. Yes, Betty should marry Frank! But, good God, whatwould become of me!

Betty left her station under the pine tree, and walked around meuntil she got right in front of my face. I couldn't help lookingat her, for if I moved my eyes she moved too. There was nothingmeek or submissive about her; her head was held high, her eyeswere blazing, and her cheeks were crimson. But her words weremeek enough. 

"I will marry Frank if you wish it, Stephen, " she said. "You aremy friend. I have never crossed your wishes, and, as you say, Ihave never regretted being guided by them. I will do exactly asyou wish in this case also, I promise you that. But, in sosolemn a question, I must be very certain what you DO wish. There must be no doubt in my mind or heart. Look me squarely inthe eyes, Stephen--as you haven't done once to-day, no, nor oncesince I came home from school--and, so looking, tell me that youwish me to marry Frank Douglas and I will do it! DO you, Stephen?"

I had to look her in the eyes, since nothing else would do her;and, as I did so, all the might of manhood in me rose up in hotrevolt against the lie I would have told her. That unfaltering, impelling gaze of hers drew the truth from my lips in spite ofmyself. 

"No, I don't wish you to marry Frank Douglas, a thousand timesno!" I said passionately. "I don't wish you to marry any man onearth but myself. I love you--I love you, Betty. You are dearerto me than life--dearer to me than my own happiness. It was yourhappiness I thought of--and so I asked you to marry Frank becauseI believed he would make you a happy woman. That is all!"

Betty's defiance went from her like a flame blown out. Sheturned away and drooped her proud head. 

"It could not have made me a happy woman to marry one man, lovinganother, " she said, in a whisper. 

I got up and went over to her. 

"Betty, whom do you love?" I asked, also in a whisper. 

"You, " she murmured meekly--oh, so meekly, my proud little girl!

"Betty, " I said brokenly, "I'm old--too old for you--I'm morethan twenty years your senior--I'm--"

"Oh!" Betty wheeled around on me and stamped her foot. "Don'tmention your age to me again. I don't care if you're as old asMethuselah. But I'm not going to coax you to marry me, sir! Ifyou won't, I'll never marry anybody--I'll live and die an oldmaid. You can please yourself, of course!"

She turned away, half-laughing, half-crying; but I caught her inmy arms and crushed her sweet lips against mine. 

"Betty, I'm the happiest man in the world--and I was the mostmiserable when I came here. "

"You deserved to be, " said Betty cruelly. "I'm glad you were. Any man as stupid as you deserves to be unhappy. What do youthink I felt like, loving you with all my heart, and seeing yousimply throwing me at another man's head. Why, I've always lovedyou, Stephen; but I didn't know it until I went to thatdetestable school. Then I found out--and I thought that was whyyou had sent me. But, when I came home, you almost broke myheart. That was why I flirted so with all those poor, nice boys--I wanted to hurt you but I never thought I succeeded. You justwent on being FATHERLY. Then, when you brought Frank here, Ialmost gave up hope; and I tried to make up my mind to marry him;I should have done it if you had insisted. But I had to have onemore try for happiness first. I had just one little hope toinspire me with sufficient boldness. I saw you, that night, whenyou came back here and picked up my rose! I had come back, myself, to be alone and unhappy. "

"It is the most wonderful thing that ever happened--that youshould love me, " I said. 

"It's not--I couldn't help it, " said Betty, nestling her brownhead on my shoulder. "You taught me everything else, Stephen, sonobody but you could teach me how to love. You've made athorough thing of educating me. "

"When will you marry me, Betty?" I asked. 

"As soon as I can fully forgive you for trying to make me marrysomebody else, " said Betty. 

It was rather hard lines on Frank, when you come to think of it. But, such is the selfishness of human nature that we didn't thinkmuch about Frank. The young fellow behaved like the Douglas hewas. Went a little white about the lips when I told him, wishedme all happiness, and went quietly away, "gentleman unafraid. "

He has since married and is, I understand, very happy. Not ashappy as I am, of course; that is impossible, because there isonly one Betty in the world, and she is my wife. 

XII. IN HER SELFLESS MOOD

The raw wind of an early May evening was puffing in and out thecurtains of the room where Naomi Holland lay dying. The air wasmoist and chill, but the sick woman would not have the windowclosed. 

"I can't get my breath if you shut everything up so tight, " shesaid. "Whatever comes, I ain't going to be smothered to death, Car'line Holland. "

Outside of the window grew a cherry tree, powdered with moistbuds with the promise of blossoms she would not live to see. Between its boughs she saw a crystal cup of sky over hills thatwere growing dim and purple. The outside air was full of sweet, wholesome springtime sounds that drifted in fitfully. There werevoices and whistles in the barnyard, and now and then faintlaughter. A bird alighted for a moment on a cherry bough, andtwittered restlessly. Naomi knew that white mists were hoveringin the silent hollows, that the maple at the gate wore a mistyblossom red, and that violet stars were shining bluely on thebrooklands. 

The room was a small, plain one. The floor was bare, save for acouple of braided rugs, the plaster discolored, the walls dingyand glaring. There had never been much beauty in Naomi Holland'senvironment, and, now that she was dying, there was even less. 

At the open window a boy of about ten years was leaning out overthe sill and whistling. He was tall for his age, andbeautiful--the hair a rich auburn with a glistening curl in it, skin very white and warm-tinted, eyes small and of a greenishblue, with dilated pupils and long lashes. He had a weak chin, and a full, sullen mouth. 

The bed was in the corner farthest from the window; on it thesick woman, in spite of the pain that was her portioncontinually, was lying as quiet and motionless as she had doneever since she had lain down upon it for the last time. NaomiHolland never complained; when the agony was at its worst, sheshut her teeth more firmly over her bloodless lip, and her greatblack eyes glared at the blank wall before in a way that gave herattendants what they called "the creeps, " but no word or moanescaped her. 

Between the paroxysms she kept up her keen interest in the lifethat went on about her. Nothing escaped her sharp, alert eyesand ears. This evening she lay spent on the crumpled pillows;she had had a bad spell in the afternoon and it had left her veryweak. In the dim light her extremely long face lookedcorpse-like already. Her black hair lay in a heavy braid overthe pillow and down the counterpane. It was all that was left ofher beauty, and she took a fierce joy in it. Those long, glistening, sinuous tresses must be combed and braided every day, no matter what came. 

A girl of fourteen was curled up on a chair at the head of thebed, with her head resting on the pillow. The boy at the windowwas her half-brother; but, between Christopher Holland and EuniceCarr, not the slightest resemblance existed. 

Presently the sibilant silence was broken by a low, half-strangled sob. The sick woman, who had been watching awhite evening star through the cherry boughs, turned impatientlyat the sound. 

"I wish you'd get over that, Eunice, " she said sharply. "I don'twant any one crying over me until I'm dead; and then you'll haveplenty else to do, most likely. If it wasn't for Christopher Iwouldn't be anyways unwilling to die. When one has had such alife as I've had, there isn't much in death to be afraid of. Only, a body would like to go right off, and not die by inches, like this. 'Tain't fair!"

She snapped out the last sentence as if addressing some unseen, tyrannical presence; her voice, at least, had not weakened, butwas as clear and incisive as ever. The boy at the window stoppedwhistling, and the girl silently wiped her eyes on her fadedgingham apron. 

Naomi drew her own hair over her lips, and kissed it. 

"You'll never have hair like that, Eunice, " she said. "It doesseem most too pretty to bury, doesn't it? Mind you see that itis fixed nice when I'm laid out. Comb it right up on my head andbraid it there. "

A sound, such as might be wrung from a suffering animal, camefrom the girl, but at the same moment the door opened and a womanentered. 

"Chris, " she said sharply, "you get right off for the cows, youlazy little scamp! You knew right well you had to go for them, and here you've been idling, and me looking high and low for you. Make haste now; it's ridiculous late. "

The boy pulled in his head and scowled at his aunt, but he darednot disobey, and went out slowly with a sulky mutter. 

His aunt subdued a movement, that might have developed into asound box on his ears, with a rather frightened glance at thebed. Naomi Holland was spent and dying, but her temper was stilla thing to hold in dread, and her sister-in-law did not choose torouse it by slapping Christopher. To her and her co-nurse thespasms of rage, which the sick woman sometimes had, seemed topartake of the nature of devil possession. The last one, onlythree days before, had been provoked by Christopher's complaintof some real or fancied ill-treatment from his aunt, and thelatter had no mind to bring on another. She went over to thebed, and straightened the clothes. 

"Sarah and I are going out to milk, Naomi, Eunice will stay withyou. She can run for us if you feel another spell coming on. "

Naomi Holland looked up at her sister-in-law with something likemalicious enjoyment. 

"I ain't going to have any more spells, Car'line Anne. I'm goingto die to-night. But you needn't hurry milking for that, at all. I'll take my time. "

She liked to see the alarm that came over the other woman's face. It was richly worth while to scare Caroline Holland like that. 

"Are you feeling worse, Naomi?" asked the latter shakily. "Ifyou are I'll send for Charles to go for the doctor. "

"No, you won't. What good can the doctor do me? I don't wanteither his or Charles' permission to die. You can go and milk atyour ease. I won't die till you're done--I won't deprive you ofthe pleasure of seeing me. "

Mrs. Holland shut her lips and went out of the room with amartyr-like expression. In some ways Naomi Holland was not anexacting patient, but she took her satisfaction out in thebiting, malicious speeches she never failed to make. Even on herdeath-bed her hostility to her sister-in-law had to find vent. 

Outside, at the steps, Sarah Spencer was waiting, with the milkpails over her arm. Sarah Spencer had no fixed abiding place, but was always to be found where there was illness. Herexperience, and an utter lack of nerves, made her a good nurse. She was a tall, homely woman with iron gray hair and a linedface. Beside her, the trim little Caroline Anne, with her lightstep and round, apple-red face, looked almost girlish. 

The two women walked to the barnyard, discussing Naomi inundertones as they went. The house they had left behind grewvery still. 

In Naomi Holland's room the shadows were gathering. Eunicetimidly bent over her mother. 

"Ma, do you want the light lit?"

"No, I'm watching that star just below the big cherry bough. I'll see it set behind the hill. I've seen it there, off and on, for twelve years, and now I'm taking a good-by look at it. Iwant you to keep still, too. I've got a few things to thinkover, and I don't want to be disturbed. "

The girl lifted herself about noiselessly and locked her handsover the bed-post. Then she laid her face down on them, bitingat them silently until the marks of her teeth showed whiteagainst their red roughness. 

Naomi Holland did not notice her. She was looking steadfastly atthe great, pearl-like sparkle in the faint-hued sky. When itfinally disappeared from her vision she struck her long, thinhands together twice, and a terrible expression came over herface for a moment. But, when she spoke, her voice was quitecalm. 

"You can light the candle now, Eunice. Put it up on the shelfhere, where it won't shine in my eyes. And then sit down on thefoot of the bed where I can see you. I've got something to sayto you. "

Eunice obeyed her noiselessly. As the pallid light shot up, itrevealed the child plainly. She was thin and ill-formed--oneshoulder being slightly higher than the other. She was dark, like her mother, but her features were irregular, and her hairfell in straggling, dim locks about her face. Her eyes were adark brown, and over one was the slanting red scar of a birthmark. 

Naomi Holland looked at her with the contempt she had never madeany pretense of concealing. The girl was bone of her bone andflesh of her flesh, but she had never loved her; all the motherlove in her had been lavished on her son. 

When Eunice had placed the candle on the shelf and drawn down theugly blue paper blinds, shutting out the strips of violet skywhere a score of glimmering points were now visible, she sat downon the foot of the bed, facing her mother. 

"The door is shut, is it, Eunice?"

Eunice nodded. 

"Because I don't want Car'line or any one else peeking andharking to what I've got to say. She's out milking now, and Imust make the most of the chance. Eunice, I'm going to die, and... "

"Ma!"

"There now, no taking on! You knew it had to come sometime soon. I haven't the strength to talk much, so I want you just to bequiet and listen. I ain't feeling any pain now, so I can thinkand talk pretty clear. Are you listening, Eunice?"

"Yes, ma. "

"Mind you are. It's about Christopher. It hasn't been out of mymind since I laid down here. I've fought for a year to live, onhis account, and it ain't any use. I must just die and leavehim, and I don't know what he'll do. It's dreadful to think of. "

She paused, and struck her shrunken hand sharply against thetable. 

"If he was bigger and could look out for himself it wouldn't beso bad. But he is only a little fellow, and Car'line hates him. You'll both have to live with her until you're grown up. She'llput on him and abuse him. He's like his father in some ways;he's got a temper and he is stubborn. He'll never get on withCar'line. Now, Eunice, I'm going to get you to promise to takemy place with Christopher when I'm dead, as far as you can. You've got to; it's your duty. But I want you to promise. "

"I will, ma, " whispered the girl solemnly. 

"You haven't much force--you never had. If you was smart, youcould do a lot for him. But you'll have to do your best. I wantyou to promise me faithfully that you'll stand by him and protecthim--that you won't let people impose on him; that you'll neverdesert him as long as he needs you, no matter what comes. Eunice, promise me this!"

In her excitement the sick woman raised herself up in the bed, and clutched the girl's thin arm. Her eyes were blazing and twoscarlet spots glowed in her thin cheeks. 

Eunice's face was white and tense. She clasped her hands as onein prayer. 

"Mother, I promise it!"

Naomi relaxed her grip on the girl's arm and sank back exhaustedon the pillow. A death-like look came over her face as theexcitement faded. 

"My mind is easier now. But if I could only have lived anotheryear or two! And I hate Car'line--hate her! Eunice, don't youever let her abuse my boy! If she did, or if you neglected him, I'd come back from my grave to you! As for the property, thingswill be pretty straight. I've seen to that. There'll be nosquabbling and doing Christopher out of his rights. He's to havethe farm as soon as he's old enough to work it, and he's toprovide for you. And, Eunice, remember what you've promised!"

Outside, in the thickly gathering dusk, Caroline Holland andSarah Spencer were at the dairy, straining the milk intocreamers, for which Christopher was sullenly pumping water. Thehouse was far from the road, up to which a long red lane led;across the field was the old Holland homestead where Carolinelived; her unmarried sister-in-law, Electa Holland, kept housefor her while she waited on Naomi. 

It was her night to go home and sleep, but Naomi's words hauntedher, although she believed they were born of pure"cantankerousness. "

"You'd better go in and look at her, Sarah, " she said, as sherinsed out the pails. "If you think I'd better stay hereto-night, I will. If the woman was like anybody else a bodywould know what to do; but, if she thought she could scare us bysaying she was going to die, she'd say it. "

When Sarah went in, the sick room was very quiet. In heropinion, Naomi was no worse than usual, and she told Caroline so;but the latter felt vaguely uneasy and concluded to stay. 

Naomi was as cool and defiant as customary. She made them bringChristopher in to say good-night and had him lifted up on the bedto kiss her. Then she held him back and looked at himadmiringly--at the bright curls and rosy cheeks and round, firmlimbs. The boy was uncomfortable under her gaze and squirmedhastily down. Her eyes followed him greedily, as he went out. When the door closed behind him, she groaned. Sarah Spencer wasstartled. She had never heard Naomi Holland groan since she hadcome to wait on her. 

"Are you feeling any worse, Naomi? Is the pain coming back?"

"No. Go and tell Car'line to give Christopher some of that grapejelly on his bread before he goes to bed. She'll find it in thecupboard under the stairs. "

Presently the house grew very still. Caroline had dropped asleepon the sitting-room lounge, across the hall. Sarah Spencernodded over her knitting by the table in the sick room. She hadtold Eunice to go to bed, but the child refused. She still sathuddled up on the foot of the bed, watching her mother's faceintently. Naomi appeared to sleep. The candle burned long, andthe wick was crowned by a little cap of fiery red that seemed towatch Eunice like some impish goblin. The wavering light castgrotesque shadows of Sarah Spencer's head on the wall. The thincurtains at the window wavered to and fro, as if shaken byghostly hands. 

At midnight Naomi Holland opened her eyes. The child she hadnever loved was the only one to go with her to the brink of theUnseen. 

"Eunice--remember!"

It was the faintest whisper. The soul, passing over thethreshold of another life, strained back to its only earthly tie. A quiver passed over the long, pallid face. 

A horrible scream rang through the silent house. Sarah Spencersprang out of her doze in consternation, and gazed blankly at theshrieking child. Caroline came hurrying in with distended eyes. On the bed Naomi Holland lay dead. 

In the room where she had died Naomi Holland lay in her coffin. It was dim and hushed; but, in the rest of the house, thepreparations for the funeral were being hurried on. Through itall Eunice moved, calm and silent. Since her one wild spasm ofscreaming by her mother's death-bed she had shed no tear, givenno sign of grief. Perhaps, as her mother had said, she had notime. There was Christopher to be looked after. The boy's griefwas stormy and uncontrolled. He had cried until he was utterlyexhausted. It was Eunice who soothed him, coaxed him to eat, kept him constantly by her. At night she took him to her ownroom and watched over him while he slept. 

When the funeral was over the household furniture was packed awayor sold. The house was locked up and the farm rented. There wasnowhere for the children to go, save to their uncle's. CarolineHolland did not want them, but, having to take them, she grimlymade up her mind to do what she considered her duty by them. Shehad five children of her own and between them and Christopher astanding feud had existed from the time he could walk. 

She had never liked Naomi. Few people did. Benjamin Holland hadnot married until late in life, and his wife had declared war onhis family at sight. She was a stranger in Avonlea, --a widow, with a three year-old child. She made few friends, as somepeople always asserted that she was not in her right mind. 

Within a year of her second marriage Christopher was born, andfrom the hour of his birth his mother had worshiped him blindly. He was her only solace. For him she toiled and pinched andsaved. Benjamin Holland had not been "fore-handed" when shemarried him; but, when he died, six years after his marriage, hewas a well-to-do man. 

Naomi made no pretense of mourning for him. It was an opensecret that they had quarreled like the proverbial cat and dog. Charles Holland and his wife had naturally sided with Benjamin, and Naomi fought her battles single-handed. After her husband'sdeath, she managed to farm alone, and made it pay. When themysterious malady which was to end her life first seized on hershe fought against it with all the strength and stubbornness ofher strong and stubborn nature. Her will won for her an addedyear of life, and then she had to yield. She tasted all thebitterness of death the day on which she lay down on her bed, andsaw her enemy come in to rule her house. 

But Caroline Holland was not a bad or unkind woman. True, shedid not love Naomi or her children; but the woman was dying andmust be looked after for the sake of common humanity. Carolinethought she had done well by her sister-in-law. 

When the red clay was heaped over Naomi's grave in the Avonleaburying ground, Caroline took Eunice and Christopher home withher. Christopher did not want to go; it was Eunice whoreconciled him. He clung to her with an exacting affection bornof loneliness and grief. 

In the days that followed Caroline Holland was obliged to confessto herself that there would have been no doing anything withChristopher had it not been for Eunice. The boy was sullen andobstinate, but his sister had an unfailing influence over him. 

In Charles Holland's household no one was allowed to eat thebread of idleness. His own children were all girls, andChristopher came in handy as a chore boy. He was made towork--perhaps too hard. But Eunice helped him, and did half hiswork for him when nobody knew. When he quarreled with hiscousins, she took his part; whenever possible she took on herselfthe blame and punishment of his misdeeds. 

Electa Holland was Charles' unmarried sister. She had kept housefor Benjamin until he married; then Naomi had bundled her out. Electa had never forgiven her for it. Her hatred passed on toNaomi's children. In a hundred petty ways she revenged herselfon them. For herself, Eunice bore it patiently; but it was adifferent matter when it touched Christopher. 

Once Electa boxed Christopher's ears. Eunice, who was knittingby the table, stood up. A resemblance to her mother, neverbefore visible, came out in her face like a brand. She liftedher hand and slapped Electa's cheek deliberately twice, leaving adull red mark where she struck. 

"If you ever strike my brother again, " she said, slowly andvindictively, "I will slap your face every time you do. You haveno right to touch him. "

"My patience, what a fury!" said Electa. "Naomi Holland'll neverbe dead as long as you're alive!"

She told Charles of the affair and Eunice was severely punished. But Electa never interfered with Christopher again. 

All the discordant elements in the Holland household could notprevent the children from growing up. It was a consummationwhich the harrassed Caroline devoutly wished. When ChristopherHolland was seventeen he was a man grown--a big, strappingfellow. His childish beauty had coarsened, but he was thoughthandsome by many. 

He took charge of his mother's farm then, and the brother andsister began their new life together in the long-unoccupiedhouse. There were few regrets on either side when they leftCharles Holland's roof. In her secret heart Eunice felt anunspeakable relief. 

Christopher had been "hard to manage, " as his uncle said, in thelast year. He was getting into the habit of keeping late hoursand doubtful company. This always provoked an explosion of wrathfrom Charles Holland, and the conflicts between him and hisnephew were frequent and bitter. 

For four years after their return home Eunice had a hard andanxious life. Christopher was idle and dissipated. Most peopleregarded him as a worthless fellow, and his uncle washed hishands of him utterly. Only Eunice never failed him; she neverreproached or railed; she worked like a slave to keep thingstogether. Eventually her patience prevailed. Christopher, to agreat extent, reformed and worked harder. He was never unkind toEunice, even in his rages. It was not in him to appreciate orreturn her devotion; but his tolerant acceptance of it was hersolace. 

When Eunice was twenty-eight, Edward Bell wanted to marry her. He was a plain, middle-aged widower with four children; but, asCaroline did not fail to remind her, Eunice herself was not forevery market, and the former did her best to make the match. Shemight have succeeded had it not been for Christopher. When he, in spite of Caroline's skillful management, got an inkling ofwhat was going on, he flew into a true Holland rage. If Eunicemarried and left him--he would sell the farm and go to the Devilby way of the Klondike. He could not, and would not, do withouther. No arrangement suggested by Caroline availed to pacify him, and, in the end, Eunice refused to marry Edward Bell. She couldnot leave Christopher, she said simply, and in this she stoodrock-firm. Caroline could not budge her an inch. 

"You're a fool, Eunice, " she said, when she was obliged to giveup in despair. "It's not likely you'll ever have another chance. As for Chris, in a year or two he'll be marrying himself, andwhere will you be then? You'll find your nose nicely out ofjoint when he brings a wife in here. "

The shaft went home. Eunice's lips turned white. But she said, faintly, "The house is big enough for us both, if he does. "

Caroline sniffed. 

"Maybe so. You'll find out. However, there's no use talking. You're as set as your mother was, and nothing would ever budgeher an inch. I only hope you won't be sorry for it. "

When three more years had passed Christopher began to courtVictoria Pye. The affair went on for some time before eitherEunice or the Hollands go wind of it. When they did there was anexplosion. Between the Hollands and the Pyes, root and branch, existed a feud that dated back for three generations. That theoriginal cause of the quarrel was totally forgotten did notmatter; it was matter of family pride that a Holland should haveno dealings with a Pye. 

When Christopher flew so openly in the face of this cherishedhatred, there could be nothing less than consternation. CharlesHolland broke through his determination to have nothing to dowith Christopher, to remonstrate. Caroline went to Eunice in asmuch of a splutter as if Christopher had been her own brother. 

Eunice did not care a row of pins for the Holland-Pye feud. Victoria was to her what any other girl, upon whom Christophercast eyes of love, would have been--a supplanter. For the firsttime in her life she was torn with passionate jealousy; existencebecame a nightmare to her. Urged on by Caroline, and her ownpain, she ventured to remonstrate with Christopher, also. Shehad expected a burst of rage, but he was surprisinglygood-natured. He seemed even amused. 

"What have you got against Victoria?" he asked, tolerantly. 

Eunice had no answer ready. It was true that nothing could besaid against the girl. She felt helpless and baffled. Christopher laughed at her silence. 

"I guess you're a little jealous, " he said. "You must haveexpected I would get married some time. This house is big enoughfor us all. You'd better look at the matter sensibly, Eunice. Don't let Charles and Caroline put nonsense into your head. Aman must marry to please himself. "

Christopher was out late that night. Eunice waited up for him, as she always did. It was a chilly spring evening, reminding herof the night her mother had died. The kitchen was in spotlessorder, and she sat down on a stiff-backed chair by the window towait for her brother. 

She did not want a light. The moonlight fell in with faintillumination. Outside, the wind was blowing over a bed ofnew-sprung mint in the garden, and was suggestively fragrant. Itwas a very old-fashioned garden, full of perennials Naomi Hollandhad planted long ago. Eunice always kept it primly neat. Shehad been working in it that day, and felt tired. 

She was all alone in the house and the loneliness filled her witha faint dread. She had tried all that day to reconcile herselfto Christopher's marriage, and had partially succeeded. She toldherself that she could still watch over him and care for hiscomfort. She would even try to love Victoria; after all, itmight be pleasant to have another woman in the house. So, sitting there, she fed her hungry soul with these husks ofcomfort. 

When she heard Christopher's step she moved about quickly to geta light. He frowned when he saw her; he had always resented hersitting up for him. He sat down by the stove and took off hisboots, while Eunice got a lunch for him. After he had eaten itin silence he made no move to go to bed. A chill, premonitoryfear crept over Eunice. It did not surprise her at all whenChristopher finally said, abruptly, "Eunice, I've a notion to getmarried this spring. "

Eunice clasped her hands together under the table. It was whatshe had been expecting. She said so, in a monotonous voice. 

"We must make some arrangement for--for you, Eunice, " Christopherwent on, in a hurried, hesitant way, keeping his eyes riveteddoggedly on his plate. "Victoria doesn't exactly like--well, shethinks it's better for young married folks to begin life bythemselves, and I guess she's about right. You wouldn't find itcomfortable, anyhow, having to step back to second place afterbeing mistress here so long. "

Eunice tried to speak, but only an indistinct murmur came fromher bloodless lips. The sound made Christopher look up. Something in her face irritated him. He pushed back his chairimpatiently. 

"Now, Eunice, don't go taking on. It won't be any use. Look atthis business in a sensible way. I'm fond of you, and all that, but a man is bound to consider his wife first. I'll provide foryou comfortably. "

"Do you mean to say that your wife is going to turn me out?"Eunice gasped, rather than spoke, the words. 

Christopher drew his reddish brows together. 

"I just mean that Victoria says she won't marry me if she has tolive with you. She's afraid of you. I told her you wouldn'tinterfere with her, but she wasn't satisfied. It's your ownfault, Eunice. You've always been so queer and close that peoplethink you're an awful crank. Victoria's young and lively, andyou and she wouldn't get on at all. There isn't any question ofturning you out. I'll build a little house for you somewhere, and you'll be a great deal better off there than you would behere. So don't make a fuss. "

Eunice did not look as if she were going to make a fuss. She satas if turned to stone, her hands lying palm upward in her lap. Christopher got up, hugely relieved that the dreaded explanationwas over. 

"Guess I'll go to bed. You'd better have gone long ago. It'sall nonsense, this waiting up for me. "

When he had gone Eunice drew a long, sobbing breath and lookedabout her like a dazed soul. All the sorrow of her life was asnothing to the desolation that assailed her now. 

She rose and, with uncertain footsteps, passed out through thehall and into the room where her mother died. She had alwayskept it locked and undisturbed; it was arranged just as NaomiHolland had left it. Eunice tottered to the bed and sat down onit. 

She recalled the promise she had made to her mother in that veryroom. Was the power to keep it to be wrested from her? Was sheto be driven from her home and parted from the only creature shehad on earth to love? And would Christopher allow it, after allher sacrifices for him? Aye, that he would! He cared more forthat black-eyed, waxen-faced girl at the old Pye place than forhis own kin. Eunice put her hands over her dry, burning eyes andgroaned aloud. 

Caroline Holland had her hour of triumph over Eunice when sheheard it all. To one of her nature there was no pleasure sosweet as that of saying, "I told you so. " Having said it, however, she offered Eunice a home. Electa Holland was dead, andEunice might fill her place very acceptably, if she would. 

"You can't go off and live by yourself, " Caroline told her. "It's all nonsense to talk of such a thing. We will give you ahome, if Christopher is going to turn you out. You were always afool, Eunice, to pet and pamper him as you've done. This is thethanks you get for it--turned out like a dog for his fine wife'swhim! I only wish your mother was alive!"

It was probably the first time Caroline had ever wished this. She had flown at Christopher like a fury about the matter, andhad been rudely insulted for her pains. Christopher had told herto mind her own business. 

When Caroline cooled down she made some arrangements with him, toall of which Eunice listlessly assented. She did not care whatbecame of her. When Christopher Holland brought Victoria asmistress to the house where his mother had toiled, and suffered, and ruled with her rod of iron, Eunice was gone. In CharlesHolland's household she took Electa's place--an unpaid upperservant. 

Charles and Caroline were kind enough to her, and there wasplenty to do. For five years her dull, colorless life went on, during which time she never crossed the threshold of the housewhere Victoria Holland ruled with a sway as absolute as Naomi'shad been. Caroline's curiosity led her, after her first angerhad cooled, to make occasional calls, the observations of whichshe faithfully reported to Eunice. The latter never betrayed anyinterest in them, save once. This was when Caroline came homefull of the news that Victoria had had the room where Naomi diedopened up, and showily furnished as a parlor. Then Eunice'ssallow face crimsoned, and her eyes flashed, over thedesecration. But no word of comment or complaint ever crossedher lips. 

She knew, as every one else knew, that the glamor soon went fromChristopher Holland's married life. The marriage proved anunhappy one. Not unnaturally, although unjustly, Eunice blamedVictoria for this, and hated her more than ever for it. 

Christopher seldom came to Charles' house. Possibly he feltashamed. He had grown into a morose, silent man, at home andabroad. It was said he had gone back to his old drinking habits. 

One fall Victoria Holland went to town to visit her marriedsister. She took their only child with her. In her absenceChristopher kept house for himself. 

It was a fall long remembered in Avonlea. With the dropping ofthe leaves, and the shortening of the dreary days, the shadow ofa fear fell over the land. Charles Holland brought the fatefulnews home one night. 

"There's smallpox in Charlottetown--five or six cases. Came inone of the vessels. There was a concert, and a sailor from oneof the ships was there, and took sick the next day. "

This was alarming enough. Charlottetown was not so very far awayand considerable traffic went on between it and the north shoredistricts. 

When Caroline recounted the concert story to Christopher the nextmorning his ruddy face turned quite pale. He opened his lips asif to speak, then closed them again. They were sitting in thekitchen; Caroline had run over to return some tea she hadborrowed, and, incidentally, to see what she could of Victoria'shousekeeping in her absence. Her eyes had been busy while hertongue ran on, so she did not notice the man's pallor andsilence. 

"How long does it take for smallpox to develop after one has beenexposed to it?" he asked abruptly, when Caroline rose to go. 

"Ten to fourteen days, I calc'late, " was her answer. "I must seeabout having the girls vaccinated right off. It'll likelyspread. When do you expect Victoria home?"

"When she's ready to come, whenever that will be, " was the gruffresponse. 

A week later Caroline said to Eunice, "Whatever's gotChristopher? He hasn't been out anywhere for ages--just hangsround home the whole time. It's something new for him. I s'posethe place is so quiet, now Madam Victoria's away, that he canfind some rest for his soul. I believe I'll run over aftermilking and see how he's getting on. You might as well come, too, Eunice. "

Eunice shook her head. She had all her mother's obstinacy, anddarken Victoria's door she would not. She went on patientlydarning socks, sitting at the west window, which was her favoriteposition--perhaps because she could look from it across thesloping field and past the crescent curve of maple grove to herlost home. 

After milking, Caroline threw a shawl over her head and ranacross the field. The house looked lonely and deserted. As shefumbled at the latch of the gate the kitchen door opened, andChristopher Holland appeared on the threshold. 

"Don't come any farther, " he called. 

Caroline fell back in blank astonishment. Was this some more ofVictoria's work?

"I ain't an agent for the smallpox, " she called back viciously. 

Christopher did not heed her. 

"Will you go home and ask uncle if he'll go, or send for DoctorSpencer? He's the smallpox doctor. I'm sick. "

Caroline felt a thrill of dismay and fear. She faltered a fewsteps backward. 

"Sick? What's the matter with you?"

"I was in Charlottetown that night, and went to the concert. That sailor sat right beside me. I thought at the time he lookedsick. It was just twelve days ago. I've felt bad all dayyesterday and to-day. Send for the doctor. Don't come near thehouse, or let any one else come near. "

He went in and shut the door. Caroline stood for a few momentsin an almost ludicrous panic. Then she turned and ran, as if forher life, across the field. Eunice saw her coming and met her atthe door. 

"Mercy on us!" gasped Caroline. "Christopher's sick and hethinks he's got the smallpox. Where's Charles?"

Eunice tottered back against the door. Her hand went up to herside in a way that had been getting very common with her of late. Even in the midst of her excitement Caroline noticed it. 

"Eunice, what makes you do that every time anything startlesyou?" she asked sharply. "Is it anything about your heart?"

"I don't--know. A little pain--it's gone now. Did you say thatChristopher has--the smallpox?"

"Well, he says so himself, and it's more than likely, consideringthe circumstances. I declare, I never got such a turn in mylife. It's a dreadful thing. I must find Charles atonce--there'll be a hundred things to do. "

Eunice hardly heard her. Her mind was centered upon one idea. Christopher was ill--alone--she must go to him. It did notmatter what his disease was. When Caroline came in from herbreathless expedition to the barn, she found Eunice standing bythe table, with her hat and shawl on, tying up a parcel. 

"Eunice! Where on earth are you going?"

"Over home, " said Eunice. "If Christopher is going to be ill hemust be nursed, and I'm the one to do it. He ought to be seen toright away. "

"Eunice Carr! Have you gone clean out of your senses? It's thesmallpox--the smallpox! If he's got it he'll have to be takento the smallpox hospital in town. You shan't stir a step to goto that house!"

"I will. " Eunice faced her excited aunt quietly. The oddresemblance to her mother, which only came out in moments ofgreat tension, was plainly visible. "He shan't go to thehospital--they never get proper attention there. You needn't tryto stop me. It won't put you or your family in any danger. "

Caroline fell helplessly into a chair. She felt that it would beof no use to argue with a woman so determined. She wishedCharles was there. But Charles had already gone, post-haste, forthe doctor. 

With a firm step, Eunice went across the field foot-path she hadnot trodden for so long. She felt no fear--rather a sort ofelation. Christopher needed her once more; the interloper whohad come between them was not there. As she walked through thefrosty twilight she thought of the promise made to Naomi Holland, years ago. 

Christopher saw her coming and waved her back. 

"Don't come any nearer, Eunice. Didn't Caroline tell you? I'mtaking smallpox. "

Eunice did not pause. She went boldly through the yard and upthe porch steps. He retreated before her and held the door. 

"Eunice, you're crazy, girl! Go home, before it's too late. "

Eunice pushed open the door resolutely and went in. 

"It's too late now. I'm here, and I mean to stay and nurse you, if it's the smallpox you've got. Maybe it's not. Just now, whena person has a finger-ache, he thinks it's smallpox. Anyhow, whatever it is, you ought to be in bed and looked after. You'llcatch cold. Let me get a light and have a look at you. "

Christopher had sunk into a chair. His natural selfishnessreasserted itself, and he made no further effort to dissuadeEunice. She got a lamp and set it on the table by him, while shescrutinized his face closely. 

"You look feverish. What do you feel like? When did you takesick?"

"Yesterday afternoon. I have chills and hot spells and pains inmy back. Eunice, do you think it's really smallpox? And will Idie?"

He caught her hands, and looked imploringly up at her, as a childmight have done. Eunice felt a wave of love and tenderness sweepwarmly over her starved heart. 

"Don't worry. Lots of people recover from smallpox if they'reproperly nursed, and you'll be that, for I'll see to it. Charleshas gone for the doctor, and we'll know when he comes. You mustgo straight to bed. "

She took off her hat and shawl, and hung them up. She felt asmuch at home as if she had never been away. She had got back toher kingdom, and there was none to dispute it with her. When Dr. Spencer and old Giles Blewett, who had had smallpox in his youth, came, two hours later, they found Eunice in serene charge. Thehouse was in order and reeking of disinfectants. Victoria's finefurniture and fixings were being bundled out of the parlor. There was no bedroom downstairs, and, if Christopher was going tobe ill, he must be installed there. 

The doctor looked grave. 

"I don't like it, " he said, "but I'm not quite sure yet. If itis smallpox the eruption will probably by out by morning. I mustadmit he has most of the symptoms. Will you have him taken tothe hospital?"

"No, " said Eunice, decisively. "I'll nurse him myself. I'm notafraid and I'm well and strong. "

"Very well. You've been vaccinated lately?"

"Yes. "

"Well, nothing more can be done at present. You may as well liedown for a while and save your strength. "

But Eunice could not do that. There was too much to attend to. She went out to the hall and threw up the window. Down below, ata safe distance, Charles Holland was waiting. The cold wind blewup to Eunice the odor of the disinfectants with which he hadsteeped himself. 

"What does the doctor say?" he shouted. 

"He thinks it's the smallpox. Have you sent word to Victoria?"

"Yes, Jim Blewett drove into town and told her. She'll stay withher sister till it is over. Of course it's the best thing forher to do. She's terribly frightened. "

Eunice's lip curled contemptuously. To her, a wife who coulddesert her husband, no matter what disease he had, was anincomprehensible creature. But it was better so; she would haveChristopher all to herself. 

The night was long and wearisome, but the morning came all toosoon for the dread certainty it brought. The doctor pronouncedthe case smallpox. Eunice had hoped against hope, but now, knowing the worst, she was very calm and resolute. 

By noon the fateful yellow flag was flying over the house, andall arrangements had been made. Caroline was to do the necessarycooking, and Charles was to bring the food and leave it in theyard. Old Giles Blewett was to come every day and attend to thestock, as well as help Eunice with the sick man; and the long, hard fight with death began. 

It was a hard fight, indeed. Christopher Holland, in theclutches of the loathsome disease, was an object from which hisnearest and dearest might have been pardoned for shrinking. ButEunice never faltered; she never left her post. Sometimes shedozed in a chair by the bed, but she never lay down. Herendurance was something wonderful, her patience and tendernessalmost superhuman. To and fro she went, in noiseless ministry, as the long, dreadful days wore away, with a quiet smile on herlips, and in her dark, sorrowful eyes the rapt look of a picturedsaint in some dim cathedral niche. For her there was no worldoutside the bare room where lay the repulsive object she loved. 

One day the doctor looked very grave. He had grown well-hardenedto pitiful scenes in his life-time; but he shrunk from tellingEunice that her brother could not live. He had never seen suchdevotion as hers. It seemed brutal to tell her that it had beenin vain. 

But Eunice had seen it for herself. She took it very calmly, thedoctor thought. And she had her reward at last--such as it was. She thought it amply sufficient. 

One night Christopher Holland opened his swollen eyes as she bentover him. They were alone in the old house. It was rainingoutside, and the drops rattled noisily on the panes. 

Christopher smiled at his sister with parched lips, and put out afeeble hand toward her. 

"Eunice, " he said faintly, "you've been the best sister ever aman had. I haven't treated you right; but you've stood by me tothe last. Tell Victoria--tell her--to be good to you--"

His voice died away into an inarticulate murmur. Eunice Carr wasalone with her dead. 

They buried Christopher Holland in haste and privacy the nextday. The doctor disinfected the house, and Eunice was to staythere alone until it might be safe to make other arrangements. She had not shed a tear; the doctor thought she was a rather oddperson, but he had a great admiration for her. He told her shewas the best nurse he had ever seen. To Eunice, praise or blamemattered nothing. Something in her life had snapped--some vitalinterest had departed. She wondered how she could live throughthe dreary, coming years. 

Late that night she went into the room where her mother andbrother had died. The window was open and the cold, pure air wasgrateful to her after the drug-laden atmosphere she had breathedso long. She knelt down by the stripped bed. 

"Mother, " she said aloud, "I have kept my promise. "

When she tried to rise, long after, she staggered and fell acrossthe bed, with her hand pressed on her heart. Old Giles Blewettfound her there in the morning. There was a smile on her face. 

XIII. THE CONSCIENCE CASE OF DAVID BELL

Eben Bell came in with an armful of wood and banged it cheerfullydown in the box behind the glowing Waterloo stove, which wascoloring the heart of the little kitchen's gloom with tremulous, rose-red whirls of light. 

"There, sis, that's the last chore on my list. Bob's milking. Nothing more for me to do but put on my white collar for meeting. Avonlea is more than lively since the evangelist came, ain't it, though!"

Mollie Bell nodded. She was curling her hair before the tinymirror that hung on the whitewashed wall and distorted her round, pink-and-white face into a grotesque caricature. 

"Wonder who'll stand up to-night, " said Eben reflectively, sitting down on the edge of the wood-box. "There ain't manysinners left in Avonlea--only a few hardened chaps like myself. "

"You shouldn't talk like that, " said Mollie rebukingly. "What iffather heard you?"

"Father wouldn't hear me if I shouted it in his ear, " returnedEben. "He goes around, these days, like a man in a dream and amighty bad dream at that. Father has always been a good man. What's the matter with him?"

"I don't know, " said Mollie, dropping her voice. "Mother isdreadfully worried over him. And everybody is talking, Eb. Itjust makes me squirm. Flora Jane Fletcher asked me last nightwhy father never testified, and him one of the elders. She saidthe minister was perplexed about it. I felt my face gettingred. "

"Why didn't you tell her it was no business of hers?" said Ebenangrily. "Old Flora Jane had better mind her own business. "

"But all the folks are talking about it, Eb. And mother isfretting her heart out over it. Father has never acted likehimself since these meetings began. He just goes there nightafter night, and sits like a mummy, with his head down. Andalmost everybody else in Avonlea has testified. "

"Oh, no, there's lots haven't, " said Eben. "Matthew Cuthbertnever has, nor Uncle Elisha, nor any of the Whites. "

"But everybody knows they don't believe in getting up andtestifying, so nobody wonders when they don't. Besides, " Mollielaughed--"Matthew could never get a word out in public, if he didbelieve in it. He'd be too shy. But, " she added with a sigh, "it isn't that way with father. He believes in testimony, sopeople wonder why he doesn't get up. Why, even old Josiah Sloanegets up every night. "

"With his whiskers sticking out every which way, and his hairditto, " interjected the graceless Eben. 

"When the minister calls for testimonials and all the folks lookat our pew, I feel ready to sink through the floor for shame, "sighed Mollie. "If father would get up just once!"

Miriam Bell entered the kitchen. She was ready for the meeting, to which Major Spencer was to take her. She was a tall, palegirl, with a serious face, and dark, thoughtful eyes, totallyunlike Mollie. She had "come under conviction" during themeetings, and had stood up for prayer and testimony severaltimes. The evangelist thought her very spiritual. She heardMollie's concluding sentence and spoke reprovingly. 

"You shouldn't criticize your father, Mollie. It isn't for youto judge him. "

Eben had hastily slipped out. He was afraid Miriam would begintalking religion to him if he stayed. He had with difficultyescaped from an exhortation by Robert in the cow-stable. Therewas no peace in Avonlea for the unregenerate, he reflected. Robert and Miriam had both "come out, " and Mollie was hovering onthe brink. 

"Dad and I are the black sheep of the family, " he said, with alaugh, for which he at once felt guilty. Eben had been broughtup with a strict reverence for all religious matters. On thesurface he might sometimes laugh at them, but the deeps troubledhim whenever he did so. 

Indoors, Miriam touched her younger sister's shoulder and lookedat her affectionately. 

"Won't you decide to-night, Mollie?" she asked, in a voicetremulous with emotion. 

Mollie crimsoned and turned her face away uncomfortably. She didnot know what answer to make, and was glad that a jingle of bellsoutside saved her the necessity of replying. 

"There's your beau, Miriam, " she said, as she darted into thesitting room. 

Soon after, Eben brought the family pung and his chubby red mareto the door for Mollie. He had not as yet attained to thedignity of a cutter of his own. That was for his elder brother, Robert, who presently came out in his new fur coat and drovedashingly away with bells and glitter. 

"Thinks he's the people, " remarked Eben, with a fraternal grin. 

The rich winter twilight was purpling over the white world asthey drove down the lane under the over-arching wild cherry treesthat glittered with gemmy hoar-frost. The snow creaked andcrisped under the runners. A shrill wind was keening in theleafless dogwoods. Over the trees the sky was a dome of silver, with a lucent star or two on the slope of the west. Earth-starsgleamed warmly out here and there, where homesteads were tuckedsnugly away in their orchards or groves of birch. 

"The church will be jammed to-night, " said Eben. "It's so finethat folks will come from near and far. Guess it'll beexciting. "

"If only father would testify!" sighed Mollie, from the bottom ofthe pung, where she was snuggled amid furs and straw. "Miriamcan say what she likes, but I do feels as if we were alldisgraced. It sends a creep all over me to hear Mr. Bentley say, 'Now, isn't there one more to say a word for Jesus?' and lookright over at father. "

Eben flicked his mare with his whip, and she broke into a trot. The silence was filled with a faint, fairy-like melody from afardown the road where a pungful of young folks from White Sandswere singing hymns on their way to meeting. 

"Look here, Mollie, " said Eben awkwardly at last, "are you goingto stand up for prayers to-night?"

"I--I can't as long as father acts this way, " answered Mollie, ina choked voice. "I--I want to, Eb, and Mirry and Bob want me to, but I can't. I do hope that the evangelist won't come and talkto me special to-night. I always feels as if I was being pulledtwo different ways, when he does. "

Back in the kitchen at home Mrs. Bell was waiting for her husbandto bring the horse to the door. She was a slight, dark-eyedlittle woman, with thin, vivid-red cheeks. From out of theswathings in which she had wrapped her bonnet, her face gleamedsad and troubled. Now and then she sighed heavily. 

The cat came to her from under the stove, languidly stretchinghimself, and yawning until all the red cavern of his mouth andthroat was revealed. At the moment he had an uncanny resemblanceto Elder Joseph Blewett of White Sands--Roaring Joe, theirreverent boys called him--when he grew excited and shouted. Mrs. Bell saw it--and then reproached herself for the sacrilege. 

"But it's no wonder I've wicked thoughts, " she said, wearily. "I'm that worried I ain't rightly myself. If he would only tellme what the trouble is, maybe I could help him. At any rate, I'dKNOW. It hurts me so to see him going about, day after day, withhis head hanging and that look on his face, as if he hadsomething fearful on his conscience--him that never harmed aliving soul. And then the way he groans and mutters in hissleep! He has always lived a just, upright life. He hasn't noright to go on like this, disgracing his family. "

Mrs. Bell's angry sob was cut short by the sleigh at the door. Her husband poked in his busy, iron-gray head and said, "Now, mother. " He helped her into the sleigh, tucked the rugs warmlyaround her, and put a hot brick at her feet. His solicitude hurther. It was all for her material comfort. It did not matter tohim what mental agony she might suffer over his strange attitude. For the first time in their married life Mary Bell feltresentment against her husband. 

They drove along in silence, past the snow-powdered hedges ofspruce, and under the arches of the forest roadways. They werelate, and a great stillness was over all the land. David Bellnever spoke. All his usual cheerful talkativeness haddisappeared since the revival meetings had begun in Avonlea. From the first he had gone about as a man over whom some strangedoom is impending, seemingly oblivious to all that might be saidor thought of him in his own family or in the church. Mary Bellthought she would go out of her mind if her husband continued toact in this way. Her reflections were bitter and rebellious asthey sped along through the glittering night of the winter'sprime. 

"I don't get one bit of good out of the meetings, " she thoughtresentfully. "There ain't any peace or joy for me, not even intestifying myself, when David sits there like a stick or stone. If he'd been opposed to the revivalist coming here, like oldUncle Jerry, or if he didn't believe in public testimony, Iwouldn't mind. I'd understand. But, as it is, I feel dreadfulhumiliated. "

Revival meetings had never been held in Avonlea before. "Uncle"Jerry MacPherson, who was the supreme local authority in churchmatters, taking precedence of even the minister, had beenuncompromisingly opposed to them. He was a stern, deeplyreligious Scotchman, with a horror of the emotional form ofreligion. As long as Uncle Jerry's spare, ascetic form anddeeply-graved square-jawed face filled his accustomed corner bythe northwest window of Avonlea church no revivalist mightventure therein, although the majority of the congregation, including the minister, would have welcomed one warmly. 

But now Uncle Jerry was sleeping peacefully under the tangledgrasses and white snows of the burying ground, and, if deadpeople ever do turn in their graves, Uncle Jerry might well haveturned in his when the revivalist came to Avonlea church, andthere followed the emotional services, public testimonies, andreligious excitement which the old man's sturdy soul had alwaysabhorred. 

Avonlea was a good field for an evangelist. The Rev. GeoffreyMountain, who came to assist the Avonlea minister in revivifyingthe dry bones thereof, knew this and reveled in the knowledge. It was not often that such a virgin parish could be foundnowadays, with scores of impressionable, unspoiled souls on whichfervid oratory could play skillfully, as a master on a mightyorgan, until every note in them thrilled to life and utterance. The Rev. Geoffrey Mountain was a good man; of the earth, earthy, to be sure, but with an unquestionable sincerity of belief andpurpose which went far to counterbalance the sensationalism ofsome of his methods. 

He was large and handsome, with a marvelously sweet and winningvoice--a voice that could melt into irresistible tenderness, orswell into sonorous appeal and condemnation, or ring like atrumpet calling to battle. 

His frequent grammatical errors, and lapses into vulgarity, counted for nothing against its charm, and the most commonplacewords in the world would have borrowed much of the power of realoratory from its magic. He knew its value and used iteffectively--perhaps even ostentatiously. 

Geoffrey Mountain's religion and methods, like the man himself, were showy, but, of their kind, sincere, and, though the good heaccomplished might not be unmixed, it was a quantity to bereckoned with. 

So the Rev. Geoffrey Mountain came to Avonlea, conquering and toconquer. Night after night the church was crowded with eagerlisteners, who hung breathlessly on his words and wept andthrilled and exulted as he willed. Into many young souls hisappeals and warnings burned their way, and each night they rosefor prayer in response to his invitation. Older Christians, too, took on a new lease of intensity, and even the unregenerate andthe scoffers found a certain fascination in the meetings. Threading through it all, for old and young, converted andunconverted, was an unacknowledged feeling for religiousdissipation. Avonlea was a quiet place, --and the revivalmeetings were lively. 

When David and Mary Bell reached the church the services hadbegun, and they heard the refrain of a hallelujah hymn as theywere crossing Harmon Andrews' field. David Bell left his wife atthe platform and drove to the horse-shed. 

Mrs. Bell unwound the scarf from her bonnet and shook the frostcrystals from it. In the porch Flora Jane Fletcher and hersister, Mrs. Harmon Andrews, were talking in low whispers. Presently Flora Jane put out her lank, cashmere-gloved hand andplucked Mrs. Bell's shawl. 

"Mary, is the elder going to testify to-night?" she asked, in ashrill whisper. 

Mrs. Bell winced. She would have given much to be able to answer"Yes, " but she had to say stiffly, "I don't know. "

Flora Jane lifted her chin. 

"Well, Mrs. Bell, I only asked because every one thinks it isstrange he doesn't--and an elder, of all people. It looks as ifhe didn't think himself a Christian, you know. Of course, we allknow better, but it LOOKS that way. If I was you, I'd tell himfolks was talking about it. Mr. Bentley says it is hinderingthe full success of the meetings. "

Mrs. Bell turned on her tormentor in swift anger. She mightresent her husband's strange behavior herself, but nobody elseshould dare to criticize him to her. 

"I don't think you need to worry yourself about the elder, FloraJane, " she said bitingly. "Maybe 'tisn't the best Christiansthat do the most talking about it always. I guess, as far asliving up to his profession goes, the elder will compare prettyfavorably with Levi Boulter, who gets up and testifies everynight, and cheats the very eye-teeth out of people in thedaytime. "

Levi Boulter was a middle-aged widower, with a large family, whowas supposed to have cast a matrimonial eye Flora Janeward. Theuse of his name was an effective thrust on Mrs. Bell's part, andsilenced Flora Jane. Too angry for speech she seized hersister's arm and hurried her into church. 

But her victory could not remove from Mary Bell's soul the stingimplanted there by Flora Jane's words. When her husband came upto the platform she put her hand on his snowy arm appealingly. 

"Oh, David, won't you get up to-night? I do feel so dreadfulbad--folks are talking so--I just feel humiliated. "

David Bell hung his head like a shamed schoolboy. 

"I can't, Mary, " he said huskily. "'Tain't no use to pester me. "

"You don't care for my feelings, " said his wife bitterly. "AndMollie won't come out because you're acting so. You're keepingher back from salvation. And you're hindering the success of therevival--Mr. Bentley says so. "

David Bell groaned. This sign of suffering wrung his wife'sheart. With quick contrition she whispered, "There, never mind, David. I oughtn't to have spoken to you so. You know your duty best. Let's go in. "

"Wait. " His voice was imploring. 

"Mary, is it true that Mollie won't come out because of me? Am Istanding in my child's light?"

"I--don't--know. I guess not. Mollie's just a foolish younggirl yet. Never mind--come in. "

He followed her dejectedly in, and up the aisle to their pew inthe center of the church. The building was warm and crowded. The pastor was reading the Bible lesson for the evening. In thechoir, behind him, David Bell saw Mollie's girlish face, tingedwith a troubled seriousness. His own wind-ruddy face and bushygray eyebrows worked convulsively with his inward throes. A sighthat was almost a groan burst from him. 

"I'll have to do it, " he said to himself in agony. 

When several more hymns had been sung, and late arrivals began topack the aisles, the evangelist arose. His style for the eveningwas the tender, the pleading, the solemn. He modulated his tonesto marvelous sweetness, and sent them thrillingly over thebreathless pews, entangling the hearts and souls of his listenersin a mesh of subtle emotion. Many of the women began to crysoftly. Fervent amens broke from some of the members. When theevangelist sat down, after a closing appeal which, in its way, was a masterpiece, an audible sigh of relieved tension passedlike a wave over the audience. 

After prayer the pastor made the usual request that, if any ofthose present wished to come out on the side of Christ, theywould signify the wish by rising for a moment in their places. After a brief interval, a pale boy under the gallery rose, followed by an old man at the top of the church. A frightened, sweet-faced child of twelve got tremblingly upon her feet, and adramatic thrill passed over the congregation when her mothersuddenly stood up beside her. The evangelist's "Thank God" washearty and insistent. 

David Bell looked almost imploringly at Mollie; but she kept herseat, with downcast eyes. Over in the big square "stone pew" hesaw Eben bending forward, with his elbows on his knees, gazingfrowningly at the floor. 

"I'm a stumbling block to them both, " he thought bitterly. 

A hymn was sung and prayer offered for those under conviction. Then testimonies were called for. The evangelist asked for themin tones which made it seem a personal request to every one inthat building. 

Many testimonies followed, each infused with the personality ofthe giver. Most of them were brief and stereotyped. Finally apause ensued. The evangelist swept the pews with his kindlingeyes and exclaimed, appealingly, "Has EVERY Christian in this church to-night spoken a word forhis Master?"

There were many who had not testified, but every eye in thebuilding followed the pastor's accusing glance to the Bell pew. Mollie crimsoned with shame. Mrs. Bell cowered visibly. 

Although everybody looked thus at David Bell, nobody now expectedhim to testify. When he rose to his feet, a murmur of surprisepassed over the audience, followed by a silence so complete as tobe terrible. To David Bell it seemed to possess the awe of finaljudgment. 

Twice he opened his lips, and tried vainly to speak. The thirdtime he succeeded; but his voice sounded strangely in his ownears. He gripped the back of the pew before him with his knottyhands, and fixed his eyes unseeingly on the Christian Endeavorpledge that hung over the heads of the choir. 

"Brethren and sisters, " he said hoarsely, "before I can say aword of Christian testimony here to-night I've got something toconfess. It's been lying hard and heavy on my conscience eversince these meetings begun. As long as I kept silence about it Icouldn't get up and bear witness for Christ. Many of you haveexpected me to do it. Maybe I've been a stumbling block to someof you. This season of revival has brought no blessing to mebecause of my sin, which I repented of, but tried to conceal. There has been a spiritual darkness over me. 

"Friends and neighbors, I have always been held by you as anhonest man. It was the shame of having you know I was not whichhas kept me back from open confession and testimony. Just aforethese meetings commenced I come home from town one night andfound that somebody had passed a counterfeit ten-dollar bill onme. Then Satan entered into me and possessed me. When Mrs. Rachel Lynde come next day, collecting for foreign missions, Igive her that ten dollar bill. She never knowed the difference, and sent it away with the rest. But I knew I'd done a mean andsinful thing. I couldn't drive it out of my thoughts. A fewdays afterwards I went down to Mrs. Rachel's and give her tengood dollars for the fund. I told her I had come to theconclusion I ought to give more than ten dollars, out of myabundance, to the Lord. That was a lie. Mrs. Lynde thought Iwas a generous man, and I felt ashamed to look her in the face. But I'd done what I could to right the wrong, and I thought itwould be all right. But it wasn't. I've never known a minute'speace of mind or conscience since. I tried to cheat the Lord, and then tried to patch it up by doing something that redoundedto my worldly credit. When these meetings begun, and everybodyexpected me to testify, I couldn't do it. It would have seemedlike blasphemy. And I couldn't endure the thought of tellingwhat I'd done, either. I argued it all out a thousand times thatI hadn't done any real harm after all, but it was no use. I'vebeen so wrapped up in my own brooding and misery that I didn'trealize I was inflicting suffering on those dear to me by myconduct, and, maybe, holding some of them back from the paths ofsalvation. But my eyes have been opened to this to-night, andthe Lord has given me strength to confess my sin and glorify Hisholy name. "

The broken tones ceased, and David Bell sat down, wiping thegreat drops of perspiration from his brow. To a man of histraining, and cast of thought, no ordeal could be more terriblethan that through which he had just passed. But underneath theturmoil of his emotion he felt a great calm and peace, threadedwith the exultation of a hard-won spiritual victory. 

Over the church was a solemn hush. The evangelist's "amen" wasnot spoken with his usual unctuous fervor, but very gently andreverently. In spite of his coarse fiber, he could appreciatethe nobility behind such a confession as this, and the deeps ofstern suffering it sounded. 

Before the last prayer the pastor paused and looked around. 

"Is there yet one, " he asked gently, "who wishes to be especiallyremembered in our concluding prayer?"

For a moment nobody moved. Then Mollie Bell stood up in thechoir seat, and, down by the stove, Eben, his flushed, boyishface held high, rose sturdily to his feet in the midst of hiscompanions. 

"Thank God, " whispered Mary Bell. 

"Amen, " said her husband huskily. 

"Let us pray, " said Mr. Bentley. 

XIV. ONLY A COMMON FELLOW

On my dearie's wedding morning I wakened early and went to herroom. Long and long ago she had made me promise that I would bethe one to wake her on the morning of her wedding day. 

"You were the first to take me in your arms when I came into theworld, Aunt Rachel, " she had said, "and I want you to be thefirst to greet me on that wonderful day. "

But that was long ago, and now my heart foreboded that therewould be no need of wakening her. And there was not. She waslying there awake, very quiet, with her hand under her cheek, andher big blue eyes fixed on the window, through which a pale, dulllight was creeping in--a joyless light it was, and enough to makea body shiver. I felt more like weeping than rejoicing, and myheart took to aching when I saw her there so white and patient, more like a girl who was waiting for a winding-sheet than for abridal veil. But she smiled brave-like, when I sat down on herbed and took her hand. 

"You look as if you haven't slept all night, dearie, " I said. 

"I didn't--not a great deal, " she answered me. "But the nightdidn't seem long; no, it seemed too short. I was thinking of agreat many things. What time is it, Aunt Rachel?"

"Five o'clock. "

"Then in six hours more--"

She suddenly sat up in her bed, her great, thick rope of brownhair falling over her white shoulders, and flung her arms aboutme, and burst into tears on my old breast. I petted and soothedher, and said not a word; and, after a while, she stopped crying;but she still sat with her head so that I couldn't see her face. 

"We didn't think it would be like this once, did we, AuntRachel?" she said, very softly. 

"It shouldn't be like this, now, " I said. I had to say it. Inever could hide the thought of that marriage, and I couldn'tpretend to. It was all her stepmother's doings--right well Iknew that. My dearie would never have taken Mark Foster else. 

"Don't let us talk of that, " she said, soft and beseeching, justthe same way she used to speak when she was a baby-child andwanted to coax me into something. "Let us talk about the olddays--and HIM. "

"I don't see much use in talking of HIM, when you're going tomarry Mark Foster to-day, " I said. 

But she put her hand on my mouth. 

"It's for the last time, Aunt Rachel. After to-day I can nevertalk of him, or even think of him. It's four years since he wentaway. Do you remember how he looked, Aunt Rachel?"

"I mind well enough, I reckon, " I said, kind of curt-like. And Idid. Owen Blair hadn't a face a body could forget--that longface of his with its clean color and its eyes made to look loveinto a woman's. When I thought of Mark Foster's sallow skin andlank jaws I felt sick-like. Not that Mark was ugly--he was justa common-looking fellow. 

"He was so handsome, wasn't he, Aunt Rachel?" my dearie went on, in that patient voice of hers. "So tall and strong and handsome. I wish we hadn't parted in anger. It was so foolish of us toquarrel. But it would have been all right if he had lived tocome back. I know it would have been all right. I know hedidn't carry any bitterness against me to his death. I thoughtonce, Aunt Rachel, that I would go through life true to him, andthen, over on the other side, I'd meet him just as before, allhis and his only. But it isn't to be. "

"Thanks to your stepma's wheedling and Mark Foster's scheming, "said I. 

"No, Mark didn't scheme, " she said patiently. "Don't be unjustto Mark, Aunt Rachel. He has been very good and kind. "

"He's as stupid as an owlet and as stubborn as Solomon's mule, " Isaid, for I WOULD say it. "He's just a common fellow, and yet hethinks he's good enough for my beauty. "

"Don't talk about Mark, " she pleaded again. "I mean to be agood, faithful wife to him. But I'm my own woman yet--YET--forjust a few more sweet hours, and I want to give them to HIM. Thelast hours of my maidenhood--they must belong to HIM. "

So she talked of him, me sitting there and holding her, with herlovely hair hanging down over my arm, and my heart aching so forher that it hurt bitter. She didn't feel as bad as I did, because she'd made up her mind what to do and was resigned. Shewas going to marry Mark Foster, but her heart was in France, inthat grave nobody knew of, where the Huns had buried OwenBlair--if they had buried him at all. And she went over all theyhad been to each other, since they were mites of babies, going toschool together and meaning, even then, to be married when theygrew up; and the first words of love he'd said to her, and whatshe'd dreamed and hoped for. The only thing she didn't bring upwas the time he thrashed Mark Foster for bringing her apples. She never mentioned Mark's name; it was all Owen--Owen--and howhe looked, and what might have been, if he hadn't gone off to theawful war and got shot. And there was me, holding her andlistening to it all, and her stepma sleeping sound and triumphantin the next room. 

When she had talked it all out she lay down on her pillow again. I got up and went downstairs to light the fire. I felt terribleold and tired. My feet seemed to drag, and the tears kept comingto my eyes, though I tried to keep them away, for well I knew itwas a bad omen to be weeping on a wedding day. 

Before long Isabella Clark came down; bright and pleased-lookingenough, SHE was. I'd never liked Isabella, from the dayPhillippa's father brought her here; and I liked her less thanever this morning. She was one of your sly, deep women, alwayssmiling smooth, and scheming underneath it. I'll say it for her, though, she had been good to Phillippa; but it was her doingsthat my dearie was to marry Mark Foster that day. 

"Up betimes, Rachel, " she said, smiling and speaking me fair, asshe always did, and hating me in her heart, as I well knew. "That is right, for we'll have plenty to do to-day. A weddingmakes lots of work. "

"Not this sort of a wedding, " I said, sour-like. "I don't callit a wedding when two people get married and sneak off as if theywere ashamed of it--as well they might be in this case. "

"It was Phillippa's own wish that all should be very quiet, " saidIsabella, as smooth as cream. "You know I'd have given her a bigwedding, if she'd wanted it. "

"Oh, it's better quiet, " I said. "The fewer to see Phillippamarry a man like Mark Foster the better. "

"Mark Foster is a good man, Rachel. "

"No good man would be content to buy a girl as he's boughtPhillippa, " I said, determined to give it in to her. "He's acommon fellow, not fit for my dearie to wipe her feet on. It'swell that her mother didn't live to see this day; but this daywould never have come, if she'd lived. "

"I dare say Phillippa's mother would have remembered that MarkFoster is very well off, quite as readily as worse people, " saidIsabella, a little spitefully. 

I liked her better when she was spiteful than when she wassmooth. I didn't feel so scared of her then. 

The marriage was to be at eleven o'clock, and, at nine, I went upto help Phillippa dress. She was no fussy bride, caring muchwhat she looked like. If Owen had been the bridegroom it wouldhave been different. Nothing would have pleased her then; butnow it was only just "That will do very well, Aunt Rachel, "without even glancing at it. 

Still, nothing could prevent her from looking lovely when she wasdressed. My dearie would have been a beauty in a beggarmaid'srags. In her white dress and veil she was as fair as a queen. And she was as good as she was pretty. It was the right sort ofgoodness, too, with just enough spice of original sin in it tokeep it from spoiling by reason of over-sweetness. 

Then she sent me out. 

"I want to be alone my last hour, " she said. "Kiss me, AuntRachel--MOTHER Rachel. "

When I'd gone down, crying like the old fool I was, I heard a rapat the door. My first thought was to go out and send Isabella toit, for I supposed it was Mark Foster, come ahead of time, andsmall stomach I had for seeing him. I fall trembling, even yet, when I think, "What if I had sent Isabella to that door?"

But go I did, and opened it, defiant-like, kind of hoping it wasMark Foster to see the tears on my face. I opened it--andstaggered back like I'd got a blow. 

"Owen! Lord ha' mercy on us! Owen!" I said, just like that, going cold all over, for it's the truth that I thought it was hisspirit come back to forbid that unholy marriage. 

But he sprang right in, and caught my wrinkled old hands in agrasp that was of flesh and blood. 

"Aunt Rachel, I'm not too late?" he said, savage-like. "Tell meI'm in time. "

I looked up at him, standing over me there, tall and handsome, nochange in him except he was so brown and had a little white scaron his forehead; and, though I couldn't understand at all, beingall bewildered-like, I felt a great deep thankfulness. 

"No, you're not too late, " I said. 

"Thank God, " said he, under his breath. And then he pulled meinto the parlor and shut the door. 

"They told me at the station that Phillippa was to be married toMark Foster to-day. I couldn't believe it, but I came here asfast as horse-flesh could bring me. Aunt Rachel, it can't betrue! She can't care for Mark Foster, even if she had forgottenme!"

"It's true enough that she is to marry Mark, " I said, half-laughing, half-crying, "but she doesn't care for him. Everybeat of her heart is for you. It's all her stepma's doings. Mark has got a mortgage on the place, and he told Isabella Clarkthat, if Phillippa would marry him, he'd burn the mortgage, and, if she wouldn't, he'd foreclose. Phillippa is sacrificingherself to save her stepma for her dead father's sake. It's allyour fault, " I cried, getting over my bewilderment. "We thoughtyou were dead. Why didn't you come home when you were alive?Why didn't you write?"

"I DID write, after I got out of the hospital, several times, " hesaid, "and never a word in answer, Aunt Rachel. What was I tothink when Phillippa wouldn't answer my letters?"

"She never got one, " I cried. "She wept her sweet eyes out overyou. SOMEBODY must have got those letters. "

And I knew then, and I know now, though never a shadow of proofhave I, that Isabella Clark had got them--and kept them. Thatwoman would stick at nothing. 

"Well, we'll sift that matter some other time, " said Owenimpatiently. "There are other things to think of now. I mustsee Phillippa. "

"I'll manage it for you, " I said eagerly; but, just as I spoke, the door opened and Isabella and Mark came in. Never shall Iforget the look on Isabella's face. I almost felt sorry for her. She turned sickly yellow and her eyes went wild; they werelooking at the downfall of all her schemes and hopes. I didn'tlook at Mark Foster, at first, and, when I did, there wasn'tanything to see. His face was just as sallow and wooden as ever;he looked undersized and common beside Owen. Nobody'd ever havepicked him out for a bridegroom. 

Owen spoke first. 

"I want to see Phillippa, " he said, as if it were but yesterdaythat he had gone away. 

All Isabella's smoothness and policy had dropped away from her, and the real woman stood there, plotting and unscrupulous, as I'dalways know her. 

"You can't see her, " she said desperate-like. "She doesn't wantto see you. You went and left her and never wrote, and she knewyou weren't worth fretting over, and she has learned to care fora better man. "

"I DID write and I think you know that better than most folks, "said Owen, trying hard to speak quiet. "As for the rest, I'm notgoing to discuss it with you. When I hear from Phillippa's ownlips that she cares for another man I'll believe it--and notbefore. "

"You'll never hear it from her lips, " said I. 

Isabella gave me a venomous look. 

"You'll not see Phillippa until she is a better man's wife, " shesaid stubbornly, "and I order you to leave my house, Owen Blair!"

"No!"

It was Mark Foster who spoke. He hadn't said a word; but he cameforward now, and stood before Owen. Such a difference as therewas between them! But he looked Owen right in the face, quiet-like, and Owen glared back in fury. 

"Will it satisfy you, Owen, if Phillippa comes down here andchooses between us?"

"Yes, it will, " said Owen. 

Mark Foster turned to me. 

"Go and bring her down, " said he. 

Isabella, judging Phillippa by herself, gave a little moan ofdespair, and Owen, blinded by love and hope, thought his causewas won. But I knew my dearie too well to be glad, and MarkFoster did, too, and I hated him for it. 

I went up to my dearie's room, all pale and shaking. When I wentin she came to meet me, like a girl going to meet death. 

"Is--it--time?" she said, with her hands locked tight together. 

I said not a word, hoping that the unlooked-for sight of Owenwould break down her resolution. I just held out my hand to her, and led her downstairs. She clung to me and her hands were ascold as snow. When I opened the parlor door I stood back, andpushed her in before me. 

She just cried, "Owen!" and shook so that I put my arms about herto steady her. 

Owen made a step towards her, his face and eyes all aflame withhis love and longing, but Mark barred his way. 

"Wait till she has made her choice, " he said, and then he turnedto Phillippa. I couldn't see my dearie's face, but I could seeMark's, and there wasn't a spark of feeling in it. Behind it wasIsabella's, all pinched and gray. 

"Phillippa, " said Mark, "Owen Blair has come back. He says hehas never forgotten you, and that he wrote to you several times. I have told him that you have promised me, but I leave youfreedom of choice. Which of us will you marry, Phillippa?"

My dearie stood straight up and the trembling left her. Shestepped back, and I could see her face, white as the dead, butcalm and resolved. 

"I have promised to marry you, Mark, and I will keep my word, "she said. 

The color came back to Isabella Clark's face; but Mark's did notchange. 

"Phillippa, " said Owen, and the pain in his voice made my oldheart ache bitterer than ever, "have you ceased to love me?"

My dearie would have been more than human, if she could haveresisted the pleading in his tone. She said no word, but justlooked at him for a moment. We all saw the look; her whole soul, full of love for Owen, showed out in it. Then she turned andstood by Mark. 

Owen never said a word. He went as white as death, and startedfor the door. But again Mark Foster put himself in the way. 

"Wait, " he said. "She has made her choice, as I knew she would;but I have yet to make mine. And I choose to marry no womanwhose love belongs to another living man. Phillippa, I thoughtOwen Blair was dead, and I believed that, when you were my wife, I could win your love. But I love you too well to make youmiserable. Go to the man you love--you are free!"

"And what is to become of me?" wailed Isabella. 

"Oh, you!--I had forgotten about you, " said Mark, kind ofweary-like. He took a paper from his pocket, and dropped it inthe grate. "There is the mortgage. That is all you care about, I think. Good-morning. "

He went out. He was only a common fellow, but, somehow, justthen he looked every inch the gentleman. I would have gone afterhim and said something but--the look on his face--no, it was notime for my foolish old words!

Phillippa was crying, with her head on Owen's shoulder. IsabellaClark waited to see the mortgage burned up, and then she came tome in the hall, all smooth and smiling again. 

"Really, it's all very romantic, isn't it? I suppose it's betteras it is, all things considered. Mark behaved splendidly, didn'the? Not many men would have done as he did. "

For once in my life I agreed with Isabella. But I felt likehaving a good cry over it all--and I had it. I was glad for mydearie's sake and Owen's; but Mark Foster had paid the price oftheir joy, and I knew it had beggared him of happiness for life. 

XV. TANNIS OF THE FLATS

Few people in Avonlea could understand why Elinor Blair had nevermarried. She had been one of the most beautiful girls in ourpart of the Island and, as a woman of fifty, she was still veryattractive. In her youth she had had ever so many beaux, as weof our generation well remembered; but, after her return fromvisiting her brother Tom in the Canadian Northwest, more thantwenty-five years ago, she had seemed to withdraw within herself, keeping all men at a safe, though friendly, distance. She hadbeen a gay, laughing girl when she went West; she came back quietand serious, with a shadowed look in her eyes which time couldnot quite succeed in blotting out. 

Elinor had never talked much about her visit, except to describethe scenery and the life, which in that day was rough indeed. Not even to me, who had grown up next door to her and who hadalways seemed more a sister than a friend, did she speak of otherthan the merest commonplaces. But when Tom Blair made a flyingtrip back home, some ten years later, there were one or two of usto whom he related the story of Jerome Carey, --a story revealingonly too well the reason for Elinor's sad eyes and utterindifference to masculine attentions. I can recall almost hisexact words and the inflections of his voice, and I remember, too, that it seemed to me a far cry from the tranquil, pleasantscene before us, on that lovely summer day, to the elemental lifeof the Flats. 

The Flats was a forlorn little trading station fifteen miles upthe river from Prince Albert, with a scanty population ofhalf-breeds and three white men. When Jerome Carey was sent totake charge of the telegraph office there, he cursed his fate inthe picturesque language permissible in the far Northwest. 

Not that Carey was a profane man, even as men go in the West. Hewas an English gentleman, and he kept both his life and hisvocabulary pretty clean. But--the Flats!

Outside of the ragged cluster of log shacks, which comprised thesettlement, there was always a shifting fringe of teepees wherethe Indians, who drifted down from the Reservation, camped withtheir dogs and squaws and papooses. There are standpoints fromwhich Indians are interesting, but they cannot be said to offercongenial social attractions. For three weeks after Carey wentto the Flats he was lonelier than he had ever imagined itpossible to be, even in the Great Lone Land. If it had not beenfor teaching Paul Dumont the telegraphic code, Carey believed hewould have been driven to suicide in self-defense. 

The telegraphic importance of the Flats consisted in the factthat it was the starting point of three telegraph lines to remotetrading posts up North. Not many messages came therefrom, butthe few that did come generally amounted to something worthwhile. Days and even weeks would pass without a single one beingclicked to the Flats. Carey was debarred from talking over thewires to the Prince Albert man for the reason that they were onofficially bad terms. He blamed the latter for his transfer tothe Flats. 

Carey slept in a loft over the office, and got his meals as JoeEsquint's, across the "street. " Joe Esquint's wife was a goodcook, as cooks go among the breeds, and Carey soon became a greatpet of hers. Carey had a habit of becoming a pet with women. Hehad the "way" that has to be born in a man and can never beacquired. Besides, he was as handsome as clean-cut features, deep-set, dark-blue eyes, fair curls and six feet of muscle couldmake him. Mrs. Joe Esquint thought that his mustache was themost wonderfully beautiful thing, in its line, that she had everseen. 

Fortunately, Mrs. Joe was so old and fat and ugly that even themalicious and inveterate gossip of skulking breeds and Indians, squatting over teepee fires, could not hint at anythingquestionable in the relations between her and Carey. But it wasa different matter with Tannis Dumont. 

Tannis came home from the academy at Prince Albert early in July, when Carey had been at the Flats a month and had exhausted allthe few novelties of his position. Paul Dumont had alreadybecome so expert at the code that his mistakes no longer affordedCarey any fun, and the latter was getting desperate. He hadserious intentions of throwing up the business altogether, andbetaking himself to an Alberta ranch, where at least one wouldhave the excitement of roping horses. When he saw Tannis Dumonthe thought he would hang on awhile longer, anyway. 

Tannis was the daughter of old Auguste Dumont, who kept the onesmall store at the Flats, lived in the one frame house that theplace boasted, and was reputed to be worth an amount of moneywhich, in half-breed eyes, was a colossal fortune. Old Augustewas black and ugly and notoriously bad-tempered. But Tannis wasa beauty. 

Tannis' great-grandmother had been a Cree squaw who married aFrench trapper. The son of this union became in due time thefather of Auguste Dumont. Auguste married a woman whose motherwas a French half-breed and whose father was a pure-bred HighlandScotchman. The result of this atrocious mixture was itsjustification--Tannis of the Flats--who looked as if all theblood of all the Howards might be running in her veins. 

But, after all, the dominant current in those same veins was fromthe race of plain and prairie. The practiced eye detected it inthe slender stateliness of carriage, in the graceful, yetvoluptuous, curves of the lithe body, in the smallness anddelicacy of hand and foot, in the purple sheen onstraight-falling masses of blue-black hair, and, more than allelse, in the long, dark eye, full and soft, yet alight with aslumbering fire. France, too, was responsible for somewhat inTannis. It gave her a light step in place of the stealthyhalf-breed shuffle, it arched her red upper lip into a moretremulous bow, it lent a note of laughter to her voice and asprightlier wit to her tongue. As for her red-headed Scotchgrandfather, he had bequeathed her a somewhat whiter skin andruddier bloom than is usually found in the breeds. 

Old Auguste was mightily proud of Tannis. He sent her to schoolfor four years in Prince Albert, bound that his girl should havethe best. A High School course and considerable mingling in thesocial life of the town--for old Auguste was a man to beconciliated by astute politicians, since he controlled some twoor three hundred half-breed votes--sent Tannis home to the Flatswith a very thin, but very deceptive, veneer of culture andcivilization overlying the primitive passions and ideas of hernature. 

Carey saw only the beauty and the veneer. He made the mistake ofthinking that Tannis was what she seemed to be--a fairlywell-educated, up-to-date young woman with whom a friendlyflirtation was just what it was with white womankind--thepleasant amusement of an hour or season. It was a mistake--avery big mistake. Tannis understood something of piano playing, something less of grammar and Latin, and something less still ofsocial prevarications. But she understood absolutely nothing offlirtation. You can never get an Indian to see the sense ofPlatonics. 

Carey found the Flats quite tolerable after the homecoming ofTannis. He soon fell into the habit of dropping into the Dumonthouse to spend the evening, talking with Tannis in theparlor--which apartment was amazingly well done for a place likethe Flats--Tannis had not studied Prince Albert parlors fouryears for nothing--or playing violin and piano duets with her. When music and conversation palled, they went for long gallopsover the prairies together. Tannis rode to perfection, andmanaged her bad-tempered brute of a pony with a skill and gracethat made Carey applaud her. She was glorious on horseback. 

Sometimes he grew tired of the prairies and then he and Tannispaddled themselves over the river in Nitchie Joe's dug-out, andlanded on the old trail that struck straight into the wooded beltof the Saskatchewan valley, leading north to trading posts on thefrontier of civilization. There they rambled under huge pines, hoary with the age of centuries, and Carey talked to Tannis aboutEngland and quoted poetry to her. Tannis liked poetry; she hadstudied it at school, and understood it fairly well. But onceshe told Carey that she thought it a long, round-about way ofsaying what you could say just as well in about a dozen plainwords. Carey laughed. He liked to evoke those little speechesof hers. They sounded very clever, dropping from such arched, ripely-tinted lips. 

If you had told Carey that he was playing with fire he would havelaughed at you. In the first place he was not in the slightestdegree in love with Tannis--he merely admired and liked her. Inthe second place, it never occurred to him that Tannis might bein love with him. Why, he had never attempted any love-makingwith her! And, above all, he was obsessed with that aforesaidfatal idea that Tannis was like the women he had associated withall his life, in reality as well as in appearance. He did notknow enough of the racial characteristics to understand. 

But, if Carey thought his relationship with Tannis was that offriendship merely, he was the only one at the Flats who did thinkso. All the half-breeds and quarter-breeds and any-fractionalbreeds there believed that he meant to marry Tannis. There wouldhave been nothing surprising to them in that. They did not knowthat Carey's second cousin was a baronet, and they would not haveunderstood that it need make any difference, if they had. Theythought that rich old Auguste's heiress, who had been to schoolfor four years in Prince Albert, was a catch for anybody. 

Old Auguste himself shrugged his shoulders over it and waswell-pleased enough. An Englishman was a prize by way of ahusband for a half-breed girl, even if he were only a telegraphoperator. Young Paul Dumont worshipped Carey, and thehalf-Scotch mother, who might have understood, was dead. In allthe Flats there were but two people who disapproved of the matchthey thought an assured thing. One of these was the littlepriest, Father Gabriel. He liked Tannis, and he liked Carey; buthe shook his head dubiously when he heard the gossip of theshacks and teepees. Religions might mingle, but the differentbloods--ah, it was not the right thing! Tannis was a good girl, and a beautiful one; but she was no fit mate for the fair, thorough-bred Englishman. Father Gabriel wished fervently thatJerome Carey might soon be transferred elsewhere. He even wentto Prince Albert and did a little wire-pulling on his ownaccount, but nothing came of it. He was on the wrong side ofpolitics. 

The other malcontent was Lazarre Mérimée, a lazy, besotted French half-breed, who was, after his fashion, in lovewith Tannis. He could never have got her, and he knew it--oldAuguste and young Paul would have incontinently riddled him withbullets had he ventured near the house as a suitor, --but he hatedCarey none the less, and watched for a chance to do him anill-turn. There is no worse enemy in all the world than ahalf-breed. Your true Indian is bad enough, but his diluteddescendant is ten times worse. 

As for Tannis, she loved Carey with all her heart, and that wasall there was about it. 

If Elinor Blair had never gone to Prince Albert there is noknowing what might have happened, after all. Carey, so powerfulin propinquity, might even have ended by learning to love Tannisand marrying her, to his own worldly undoing. But Elinor did goto Prince Albert, and her going ended all things for Tannis ofthe Flats. 

Carey met her one evening in September, when he had ridden intotown to attend a dance, leaving Paul Dumont in charge of thetelegraph office. Elinor had just arrived in Prince Albert on avisit to Tom, to which she had been looking forward during thefive years since he had married and moved out West from Avonlea. As I have already said, she was very beautiful at that time, andCarey fell in love with her at the first moment of their meeting. 

During the next three weeks he went to town nine times and calledat the Dumonts' only once. There were no more rides and walkswith Tannis. This was not intentional neglect on his part. Hehad simply forgotten all about her. The breeds surmised alover's quarrel, but Tannis understood. There was another womanback there in town. 

It would be quite impossible to put on paper any adequate idea ofher emotions at this stage. One night, she followed Carey whenhe went to Prince Albert, riding out of earshot, behind him onher plains pony, but keeping him in sight. Lazarre, in a fit ofjealousy, had followed Tannis, spying on her until she startedback to the Flats. After that he watched both Carey and Tannisincessantly, and months later had told Tom all he had learnedthrough his low sneaking. 

Tannis trailed Carey to the Blair house, on the bluffs above thetown, and saw him tie his horse at the gate and enter. She, too, tied her pony to a poplar, lower down, and then crept stealthilythrough the willows at the side of the house until she was closeto the windows. Through one of them she could see Carey andElinor. The half-breed girl crouched down in the shadow andglared at her rival. She saw the pretty, fair-tinted face, thefluffy coronal of golden hair, the blue, laughing eyes of thewoman whom Jerome Carey loved, and she realized very plainly thatthere was nothing left to hope for. She, Tannis of the Flats, could never compete with that other. It was well to know somuch, at least. 

After a time, she crept softly away, loosed her pony, and lashedhim mercilessly with her whip through the streets of the town andout the long, dusty river trail. A man turned and looked afterher as she tore past a brightly lighted store on Water Street. 

"That was Tannis of the Flats, " he said to a companion. "She wasin town last winter, going to school--a beauty and a bit of thedevil, like all those breed girls. What in thunder is she ridinglike that for?"

One day, a fortnight later, Carey went over the river alone for aramble up the northern trail, and an undisturbed dream of Elinor. When he came back Tannis was standing at the canoe landing, undera pine tree, in a rain of finely sifted sunlight. She waswaiting for him and she said, with any preface:

"Mr. Carey, why do you never come to see me, now?"

Carey flushed like any girl. Her tone and look made him feelvery uncomfortable. He remembered, self-reproachfully, that hemust have seemed very neglectful, and he stammered somethingabout having been busy. 

"Not very busy, " said Tannis, with her terrible directness. "Itis not that. It is because you are going to Prince Albert to seea white woman!"

Even in his embarrassment Carey noted that this was the firsttime he had ever heard Tannis use the expression, "a whitewoman, " or any other that would indicate her sense of adifference between herself and the dominant race. He understood, at the same moment, that this girl was not to be trifledwith--that she would have the truth out of him, first or last. But he felt indescribably foolish. 

"I suppose so, " he answered lamely. 

"And what about me?" asked Tannis. 

When you come to think of it, this was an embarrassing question, especially for Carey, who had believed that Tannis understood thegame, and played it for its own sake, as he did. 

"I don't understand you, Tannis, " he said hurriedly. 

"You have made me love you, " said Tannis. 

The words sound flat enough on paper. They did not sound flat toTom, as repeated by Lazarre, and they sounded anything but flatto Carey, hurled at him as they were by a woman trembling withall the passions of her savage ancestry. Tannis had justifiedher criticism of poetry. She had said her half-dozen words, instinct with all the despair and pain and wild appeal that allthe poetry in the world had ever expressed. 

They made Carey feel like a scoundrel. All at once he realizedhow impossible it would be to explain matters to Tannis, and thathe would make a still bigger fool of himself, if he tried. 

"I am very sorry, " he stammered, like a whipped schoolboy. 

"It is no matter, " interrupted Tannis violently. "Whatdifference does it make about me--a half-breed girl? We breedgirls are only born to amuse the white men. That is so--is itnot? Then, when they are tired of us, they push us aside and goback to their own kind. Oh, it is very well. But I will notforget--my father and brother will not forget. They will makeyou sorry to some purpose!"

She turned, and stalked away to her canoe. He waited under thepines until she crossed the river; then he, too, went miserablyhome. What a mess he had contrived to make of things! PoorTannis! How handsome she had looked in her fury--and how muchlike a squaw! The racial marks always come out plainly under thestress of emotion, as Tom noted later. 

Her threat did not disturb him. If young Paul and old Augustemade things unpleasant for him, he thought himself more than amatch for them. It was the thought of the suffering he hadbrought upon Tannis that worried him. He had not, to be sure, been a villain; but he had been a fool, and that is almost asbad, under some circumstances. 

The Dumonts, however, did not trouble him. After all, Tannis'four years in Prince Albert had not been altogether wasted. Sheknew that white girls did not mix their male relatives up in avendetta when a man ceased calling on them--and she had nothingelse to complain of that could be put in words. After somereflection she concluded to hold her tongue. She even laughedwhen old Auguste asked her what was up between her and herfellow, and said she had grown tired of him. Old Augusteshrugged his shoulders resignedly. It was just as well, maybe. Those English sons-in-law sometimes gave themselves too manyairs. 

So Carey rode often to town and Tannis bided her time, andplotted futile schemes of revenge, and Lazarre Merimee scowledand got drunk--and life went on at the Flats as usual, untilthe last week in October, when a big wind and rainstorm sweptover the northland. 

It was a bad night. The wires were down between the Flats andPrince Albert and all communication with the outside world wascut off. Over at Joe Esquint's the breeds were having a carousein honor of Joe's birthday. Paul Dumont had gone over, and Careywas alone in the office, smoking lazily and dreaming of Elinor. 

Suddenly, above the plash of rain and whistle of wind, he heardoutcries in the street. Running to the door he was met by Mrs. Joe Esquint, who grasped him breathlessly. 

"Meestair Carey--come quick! Lazarre, he kill Paul--they fight!"

Carey, with a smothered oath, rushed across the street. He hadbeen afraid of something of the sort, and had advised Paul not togo, for those half-breed carouses almost always ended in a freefight. He burst into the kitchen at Joe Esquint's, to find acircle of mute spectators ranged around the room and Paul andLazarre in a clinch in the center. Carey was relieved to find itwas only an affair of fists. He promptly hurled himself at thecombatants and dragged Paul away, while Mrs. Joe Esquint--Joehimself being dead-drunk in a corner--flung her fat arms aboutLazarre and held him back. 

"Stop this, " said Carey sternly. 

"Let me get at him, " foamed Paul. "He insulted my sister. Hesaid that you--let me get at him!"

He could not writhe free from Carey's iron grip. Lazarre, with asnarl like a wolf, sent Mrs. Joe spinning, and rushed at Paul. Carey struck out as best he could, and Lazarre went reeling backagainst the table. It went over with a crash and the light wentout!

Mrs. Joe's shrieks might have brought the roof down. In theconfusion that ensued, two pistol shots rang out sharply. Therewas a cry, a groan, a fall--then a rush for the door. When Mrs. Joe Esquint's sister-in-law, Marie, dashed in with another lamp, Mrs. Joe was still shrieking, Paul Dumont was leaning sicklyagainst the wall with a dangling arm, and Carey lay face downwardon the floor, with blood trickling from under him. 

Marie Esquint was a woman of nerve. She told Mrs. Joe to shutup, and she turned Carey over. He was conscious, but seemeddazed and could not help himself. Marie put a coat under hishead, told Paul to lie down on the bench, ordered Mrs. Joe to geta bed ready, and went for the doctor. It happened that there wasa doctor at the Flats that night--a Prince Albert man who hadbeen up at the Reservation, fixing up some sick Indians, and hadbeen stormstaid at old Auguste's on his way back. 

Marie soon returned with the doctor, old Auguste, and Tannis. Carey was carried in and laid on Mrs. Esquint's bed. The doctormade a brief examination, while Mrs. Joe sat on the floor andhowled at the top of her lungs. Then he shook his head. 

"Shot in the back, " he said briefly. 

"How long?" asked Carey, understanding. 

"Perhaps till morning, " answered the doctor. Mrs. Joe gave alouder howl than ever at this, and Tannis came and stood by thebed. The doctor, knowing that he could do nothing for Carey, hurried into the kitchen to attend to Paul, who had a badlyshattered arm, and Marie went with him. 

Carey looked stupidly at Tannis. 

"Send for her, " he said. 

Tannis smiled cruelly. 

"There is no way. The wires are down, and there is no man at theFlats who will go to town to-night, " she answered. 

"My God, I MUST see her before I die, " burst out Careypleadingly. "Where is Father Gabriel? HE will go. "

"The priest went to town last night and has not come back, " saidTannis. 

Carey groaned and shut his eyes. If Father Gabriel was away, there was indeed no one to go. Old Auguste and the doctor couldnot leave Paul and he knew well that no breed of them all at theFlats would turn out on such a night, even if they were not, oneand all, mortally scared of being mixed up in the law and justicethat would be sure to follow the affair. He must die withoutseeing Elinor. 

Tannis looked inscrutably down on the pale face on Mrs. JoeEsquint's dirty pillows. Her immobile features gave no sign ofthe conflict raging within her. After a short space she turnedand went out, shutting the door softly on the wounded man andMrs. Joe, whose howls had now simmered down to whines. In thenext room, Paul was crying out with pain as the doctor worked onhis arm, but Tannis did not go to him. Instead, she slipped outand hurried down the stormy street to old Auguste's stable. Fiveminutes later she was galloping down the black, wind-lashed rivertrail, on her way to town, to bring Elinor Blair to her lover'sdeathbed. 

I hold that no woman ever did anything more unselfish than thisdeed of Tannis! For the sake of love she put under her feet thejealousy and hatred that had clamored at her heart. She held, not only revenge, but the dearer joy of watching by Carey to thelast, in the hollow of her hand, and she cast both away that theman she loved might draw his dying breath somewhat easier. In awhite woman the deed would have been merely commendable. InTannis of the Flats, with her ancestry and tradition, it waslofty self-sacrifice. 

It was eight o'clock when Tannis left the Flats; it was ten whenshe drew bridle before the house on the bluff. Elinor wasregaling Tom and his wife with Avonlea gossip when the maid cameto the door. 

"Pleas'm, there's a breed girl out on the verandah and she'sasking for Miss Blair. "

Elinor went out wonderingly, followed by Tom. Tannis, whip inhand, stood by the open door, with the stormy night behind her, and the warm ruby light of the hall lamp showering over her whiteface and the long rope of drenched hair that fell from her barehead. She looked wild enough. 

"Jerome Carey was shot in a quarrel at Joe Esquint's to-night, "she said. "He is dying--he wants you--I have come for you. "

Elinor gave a little cry, and steadied herself on Tom's shoulder. Tom said he knew he made some exclamation of horror. He hadnever approved of Carey's attentions to Elinor, but such news wasenough to shock anybody. He was determined, however, that Elinorshould not go out in such a night and to such a scene, and toldTannis so in no uncertain terms. 

"I came through the storm, " said Tannis, contemptuously. "Cannotshe do as much for him as I can?"

The good, old Island blood in Elinor's veins showed to somepurpose. "Yes, " she answered firmly. "No, Tom, don't object--Imust go. Get my horse--and your own. "

Ten minutes later three riders galloped down the bluff road andtook the river trail. Fortunately the wind was at their backsand the worst of the storm was over. Still, it was a wild, blackride enough. Tom rode, cursing softly under his breath. He didnot like the whole thing--Carey done to death in some lowhalf-breed shack, this handsome, sullen girl coming as hismessenger, this nightmare ride, through wind and rain. It allsavored too much of melodrama, even for the Northland, wherepeople still did things in a primitive way. He heartily wishedElinor had never left Avonlea. 

It was past twelve when they reached the Flats. Tannis was theonly one who seemed to be able to think coherently. It was shewho told Tom where to take the horses and then led Elinor to theroom where Carey was dying. The doctor was sitting by thebedside and Mrs. Joe was curled up in a corner, sniffling toherself. Tannis took her by the shoulder and turned her, nonetoo gently, out of the room. The doctor, understanding, left atonce. As Tannis shut the door she saw Elinor sink on her kneesby the bed, and Carey's trembling hand go out to her head. 

Tannis sat down on the floor outside of the door and wrappedherself up in a shawl Marie Esquint had dropped. In thatattitude she looked exactly like a squaw, and all comers andgoers, even old Auguste, who was hunting for her, thought she wasone, and left her undisturbed. She watched there until dawn camewhitely up over the prairies and Jerome Carey died. She knewwhen it happened by Elinor's cry. 

Tannis sprang up and rushed in. She was too late for even aparting look. 

The girl took Carey's hand in hers, and turned to the weepingElinor with a cold dignity. 

"Now go, " she said. "You had him in life to the very last. Heis mine now. "

"There must be some arrangements made, " faltered Elinor. 

"My father and brother will make all arrangements, as you callthem, " said Tannis steadily. "He had no near relatives in theworld--none at all in Canada--he told me so. You may send out aProtestant minister from town, if you like; but he will be buriedhere at the Flats and his grave with be mine--all mine! Go!"

And Elinor, reluctant, sorrowful, yet swayed by a will and anemotion stronger than her own, went slowly out, leaving Tannis ofthe Flats alone with her dead.